Re: the empty and the console
Was he? Was he alright?
No. He'd been hit, and he knew why. He had exposed himself to the snipers, stood in front of the window, and not even noticed as the curtain of fog rolled back and revealed them both. There were penalties for slowing down long enough to think. There was pain in feeling out the seam of knowing and not knowing with his fingers. There were fatal consequences.
He touched his own heart, and his fingers, flickering faster, came away with blood already dried. The wound had already happened, so this was not fresh. Unlike the man beside him, he'd bled out a very long time ago.
He turned to look at his companion. It hurt, but the fear was gone, which was better. There was no room for him to feel those things.
"When you're alive, you get to bleed," he said. The cigarette was smoldering down to a string of ashes on the floor, and, unexpectedly, he clapped a hand on the visitor's shoulder. The bullet had wiped away pain, or the desire to know anything, but he still wanted to offer some comfort. There was punishment in wondering too much, and he thought, maybe that thought was something worth hanging onto after this dream, something worth knowing in the waking world. He knew he was glad that the man he didn't know could have his heart on his sleeve, and could bleed.
He didn't dive for cover. He stayed on his knees, illumined by the light from the window, an obstacle to its penetration of the room. As he spoke, a pair of scarlet dots appeared on the side of his head.