[ It doesn't end well. In Mako's dreams, she's conscious, stranded in the middle of an ocean with a body heavy in her arms. His last words to her are a ghost of a whisper, branded into her consciousness like a living testament -- "All I have to do is fall. Anyone can fall." His last words to her are selfish.
She twists, turns, caught in memory and nightmare, not of monsters but of loss, a painful, staggering emptiness that hollows out what's left of her heart and leaves her cold. Raleigh is unmoving in her arms and she buries a sob in his shoulder; this time he doesn't cough, doesn't strain against her and tell her she's holding on too tight. I can't feel his pulse. Help him; I can't feel his pulse.
But help doesn't come; there is radio silence on the other end and she is terribly, frightfully alone. She's lost her teacher, her father-figure -- she can't lose him, too. Not like this, not when he's the only thing she has left. Her prayers fall on deaf ears, tears burning in her eyes, on her cheeks, "Don't go. Please, don't go.", and she knows he's gone where she can't follow -- where only hours before they knew they were going to make one last stand together, to take up the fight and keep going because it's what they do as Rangers, as co-pilots, walking down the same road come hell or high water. It's the pact they've made in the Drift; they came as one, they stay as one, and now he's left without her and she wants to hit him, she wants to shake him so hard that he wakes.
But he doesn't, and Mako's sob echoes in her slumber, muffled against her pillow. Her loss turns her thoughts turbulent, chaotic, a powerful wave of profound grief washing over her consciousness because she'd lost him, she'd lost such a key part of herself and there's nothing, nothing left for her. Mako tosses and turns, and the lifeboat starts to sink beneath the waters, taking the both of them with it. She doesn't care, not when the hurt sits so deeply, so painfully in her chest. Raleigh. Raleigh, don't go. Wake up, please. Wake up, for me. ]
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[ It doesn't end well. In Mako's dreams, she's conscious, stranded in the middle of an ocean with a body heavy in her arms. His last words to her are a ghost of a whisper, branded into her consciousness like a living testament -- "All I have to do is fall. Anyone can fall." His last words to her are selfish.
She twists, turns, caught in memory and nightmare, not of monsters but of loss, a painful, staggering emptiness that hollows out what's left of her heart and leaves her cold. Raleigh is unmoving in her arms and she buries a sob in his shoulder; this time he doesn't cough, doesn't strain against her and tell her she's holding on too tight. I can't feel his pulse. Help him; I can't feel his pulse.
But help doesn't come; there is radio silence on the other end and she is terribly, frightfully alone. She's lost her teacher, her father-figure -- she can't lose him, too. Not like this, not when he's the only thing she has left. Her prayers fall on deaf ears, tears burning in her eyes, on her cheeks, "Don't go. Please, don't go.", and she knows he's gone where she can't follow -- where only hours before they knew they were going to make one last stand together, to take up the fight and keep going because it's what they do as Rangers, as co-pilots, walking down the same road come hell or high water. It's the pact they've made in the Drift; they came as one, they stay as one, and now he's left without her and she wants to hit him, she wants to shake him so hard that he wakes.
But he doesn't, and Mako's sob echoes in her slumber, muffled against her pillow. Her loss turns her thoughts turbulent, chaotic, a powerful wave of profound grief washing over her consciousness because she'd lost him, she'd lost such a key part of herself and there's nothing, nothing left for her. Mako tosses and turns, and the lifeboat starts to sink beneath the waters, taking the both of them with it. She doesn't care, not when the hurt sits so deeply, so painfully in her chest. Raleigh. Raleigh, don't go. Wake up, please. Wake up, for me. ]