[ There's a shout on his lips the second Mace disappears from view. It doesn't make it much farther than that. By the time Mace is upright again looking out the window, Ian is gone. It's too fast, it's almost instantaneous, there before he fell and not there after, not even in the distance. There's nobody, no footsteps, no blue masks, no doctors in the trees.
Nothing but a scattered trail of supplies leading toward the woods, random haphazard distances between things dropped like a hole cut into a bag of grain, dragged out for yards and leaving seeds to mark the way. His bag. A can. Instant coffee. A screwdriver. A rumpled blanket. His robe.
He's pulled back with that same sucking force as he'd been ripped from the airlock. It's exactly the same feeling, with the air ripped from his lungs and the devastating certainty he's going to die. The cabin rushes away from him - or so it looks like from his perspective - followed by trees shooting by on either side. Branches whipping against his bare back, snapping thorns and twigs and leaves until he's deep, dark, who knows how far away from everything.
(From Mace.)
It lasts until his back slams into a tree, then abruptly stops to allow him to crumple to the ground gasping ineffectually. The wind knocked out of him. Black spotting his vision.
When he finally pulls down a wheezing gulp of air, when he finally recovers and stands, he's surrounded by fog, fucking naked, alone. ]
no subject
Nothing but a scattered trail of supplies leading toward the woods, random haphazard distances between things dropped like a hole cut into a bag of grain, dragged out for yards and leaving seeds to mark the way. His bag. A can. Instant coffee. A screwdriver. A rumpled blanket. His robe.
He's pulled back with that same sucking force as he'd been ripped from the airlock. It's exactly the same feeling, with the air ripped from his lungs and the devastating certainty he's going to die. The cabin rushes away from him - or so it looks like from his perspective - followed by trees shooting by on either side. Branches whipping against his bare back, snapping thorns and twigs and leaves until he's deep, dark, who knows how far away from everything.
(From Mace.)
It lasts until his back slams into a tree, then abruptly stops to allow him to crumple to the ground gasping ineffectually. The wind knocked out of him. Black spotting his vision.
When he finally pulls down a wheezing gulp of air, when he finally recovers and stands, he's surrounded by fog, fucking naked, alone. ]