The Dead, The Shelled, and Those Still Breathing

[Typrop]

Freeport 11, 2200 Hours, Omicron Delta System

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Faint sensations. Breathing. Gripping something sharp and jagged tightly, to the point of pain. Fluid, running down. The weight of gravity, bearing down harder than before. Midnight air, rustling against the skin..

A sinking stomach. Immediate regret. Dread.

Then, the feeling of reality seeping back in. The faint red of station lights filtering through viewport and eyelids fills his sight as Notkin finally wakes up. Sleeping while moored to a station was not the most comfortable affair, evidenced by the cot placed in a nook beside the piloting chair. Sleeping in general wasn't especially comfortable though, as he needed to shed the one layer he relies on. After a few moments of reflexively trying to clutch to what was left of his unconsciousness, he relents, and opens his eyes, and pushes himself up into a seated position on the cot, legs crossed.

His skin is mottled from old burns, scar tissue that never quite recovered. A small frame, kept obfuscated by his suit. It was his identity, as far as anyone else was concerned. The skin-body present now, died years ago. At least, to anyone that cared.

They didn't need to see that. There was already vulnerability shown this week. A Sichel, in Minor. Confused, lost. Looking for something. A slight sense of familiarity gave way to spilling too much. Too personal, too deep.

Talking personal to people makes obligations, obligations make for things to hang over your head. Debt.

Debt creates sacrifice.

Nobody needs more sacrifice.

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