Hullo dear and devoted Sparks.
Many of you will have noticed that I’m late.
Again.
Sorry. Life and all that.
Also, writer’s block.
I hope this one is at least halfway up to standard. We are edging toward the end of this short chapter nine, and I am starting to get really excited about the next part. This one is just the means to get us there.
As for the story…
INDEX | Chapter 9 | Scenes 1 - 4 | Scene 5 | Scene 6 | Scene 7 | Scenes 8 & 9 | Next Scene → Coming soon.
Previously: Misty finally wakes up from her sedation and is really feeling her injuries. Hearing raised voices down the hall, she goes to investigate and comes across Luke and Logan arguing, about her.
Lukas McKeen’s Journal, 6 December 2317…
Logan’s outburst seems to have had an adverse effect on Misty. She’s taken it hard and is refusing all medication. Her fever is now uncontrollable and makes her delirious at times, though not to the extent of the first time. I am loth to leave her alone, but I have other duties.
So much about this girl is a mystery. My observations defy all logic.
Her clavicle was completely destroyed. I put as many pieces as I could back together, but I had little hope in the beginning. On any other being the inevitability of a bone marrow embolism alone would have been deadly, but her incredible physiology isolated the irreparable sections and clotted them off in minutes. And now my scans show new osteocytes forming within the clotted sections.
The leg wound was just as close a call. The bullet fragmented against her femur, into a handful of sharp shards, two of which lay millimeters from the artery. If she had kept running they would have torn through it and there wouldn’t have been any hope, but the pieces came out glowing, thoroughly saturated with energy, and disintegrated within hours, much like the walls of the manor did so many years ago, and the muscle fibers are already reforming.
This whole situation is reminiscent of her first few days with us. Her wounds back then were at least as severe as these, so a safe assumption would be that her recovery would follow the same trajectory, but this time she seems to be taking much longer to heal.
I fear it is her own energy that is hindering her recovery, which means it is beyond my capacity to influence. It would be helpful to get Logan’s input on that as well, if only he were talking to me right now.
No known technology can accurately measure repressed energetic potential or capacity. Even the Planetary Guard lacks that capability, which has saved our bacon more than once.
My spectrometer can get a reading of how much power is released directly into it, so I can measure intentional output, but not potential. Logan and others like him can sense Misty’s power, and loosely gauge a difference in power between individuals, but that’s about as good as it gets.
However, my deepest scans only show superficial concentration and flow, and what I can see is unimpressive. It’s dense, and it isn’t bleeding off the way it does with the boys, but the magnitude I can read is completely at odds with the amount of power I know she possesses. I worry that this will be a repeat of the ‘episode’ she had when she first came to us.
I have prepared as well as I may for that eventuality, but there’s no telling how it will play out if the worst should happen. I wish I had a better understanding of how that vital essence works. If I could ascertain the nature of the imbalance, I might be able to work out some kind of countermeasure, but as things stand, there are too many unknown variables.
“I’m not going near her!” Logan shouts his voice rising.
“You don’t want to be treated like a child but anyone listening at the door would think I was trying to convince a six-year-old to part with his favorite toy!”
His words burn into my heart, bumping around in my head: “She might not have killed him but she's the reason he's dead!” I wish I hadn't gone to look for them.
I throw myself down on top of the covers.
All I want to do is bury my face. I can't get his words out of my head. They stab at my heart, time and time again. Eventually, with my pillow soaked, totally exhausted, I fall into a shallow fitful sleep. Every time I wake up that night, it’s from the same dream. The memory of how Chrys died has never been so clear. Tom was the second person to die in my arms.
* * *
The next few days pass in a blur of pain and fever. I barely remember anything, except that Luke is here a lot. He tries to get me to eat. He tries to ease my suffering with medication. He holds me and tries to reassure me when it gets bad, but Logan's words stay with me. Combined with a fever that has me nearly out of my mind, confusing memory and reality, it’s as if some unseen force has robbed me of my will to live.
It feels like my insides have turned to jelly. My broken collarbone and shredded hamstring and quadriceps take second and third place in the war for my attention. I must have used more energy than I thought I did. This is much worse than it was after the demonstration, much more intense.
I open my eyes to bright morning sunlight. I am alone. Ugh, this is awful. Move. I have to move.
I force myself upright. Seeing the jug of water on the nightstand I remember how thirsty I am and drain it. How long has it been? Where is everyone?
I stand unsteadily, on the creamy carpet beside my bed, wondering if Luke is home or not. Without thinking I send out an energy pulse searching for nearby energy signatures, see a blinding flash and immediately double over clutching my head. A little energy pulse, a tiny, single burst, supposed to bounce back, echoing any energy signatures close by, unleashed a sensory cacophony of dissonant reverberations, enough to knock me flat for a full minute. Won’t be doing that again any time soon.
When I finally manage to pick myself up off of the floor, I make my way to the gym. I hardly feel my loose-boned shoulder or my leg anymore. My body hurts too much everywhere to pinpoint specific locations. I wonder if I’ll be able to swim.
* * *
The gym smells of rubber and lemon as the cleaning lady closes the door on her way out. I’ve been sitting here on the bench press for a few minutes, thinking about how my body is healing and that it seems to be taking longer than normal. I lift my arm out of the sling and roll my shoulders, testing the range of motion. It’s a little tight but not too far from normal. I know from Luke’s chatter that it’s been thirteen days now. Teag would have had me back at my training within seven. I should have been mostly whole again after ten.
Maybe it’s Luke’s makeshift medicine, he’s often muttering that this or that measure is improvised. His pain relievers do little more than make me feel foggy anyway. Maybe it’s the energy, eroding the new cells before they’ve fully formed. I’ve known all my life that I’m not like most Telerans.
I can’t stand this. My arm hurts, my leg hurts, my body is burning. I have to do something.
Before I know it I’m in plank position, with my arms straight, a little wider than shoulder-width apart. Core engaged. I can’t reliably control my own energy in the state I’m in, so I don’t bother trying to concentrate it anywhere, I just let it flow. The bones should be mostly healed, I need to keep the muscles strong, let the energy circulate. With a violently spinning head, I close my eyes, and…
Lower. Ouch. Rise. Okay, that’s easier, lower, ouch, rise. A few more. Lower. Ouch. Rise. I can do this…
After the first few the pain starts getting to me. Slowly tears start to drip from where they have run down to the tip of my nose. I stop. There is a rucksack against the wall. I fill it with weights from the bench press and sling it onto my back tightening the straps so it’s a secure fit.
I ignore the searing pain in my shoulder, the mounting tightness in my chest and continue with my pushups, despite the uncontrollable tears that run down my face and drip onto the mat. I’m feeling less and less lucid. Things are blending.
My thoughts drift, back to that night. I see Tom dying. I feel him in my arms. The pain in my shoulder only strengthens the memory. I close my eyes and the images become clearer. I hear his voice. The glinting silver moonlight and the smell of snow and blood.
He laughed. He laughed away his dying breath.
I am gasping for air now, with every rep. I don't even notice Luke's presence in the room until he touches me, jolting me back to the present. I get such a fright that I almost hit him. He backs away, looking even more startled than me, if that’s possible.
He's afraid of you, Misty. I sit up, and dizzily slip the rucksack off of my back, then hug my knees, trying to catch my breath between sobs. Luke, or two Luke’s, sit down on the mat beside me. When my vision finally clears, I can see there is no fear in his eyes. He is concerned. Those blue eyes, that rescued me on Telera, are wet, tired.
“What are you doing?” He asks me, his voice full of disappointment.
I feel so confused. I don't answer, just hug my knees more tightly and stare blankly back at him.
“Misty?” I don’t react. He stares for a minute, the blue boring into me, I feel the pressure in my skull but he isn’t strong enough, or he isn’t really trying. I close my burning eyes.
Then he has me by the shoulders. He is shaking me, trying to get my attention. I look at him. He is so close to me I can feel his breath on my face. His eyes stare back at me. They haven't changed. Still tender and loving. I hate remembering these things. These painful memories. Why didn't you leave me there?
I strike out at him and I scream, trying to push him away, but all he does is hold me closer. His arms are strong though slender. I could use energy to make him leave me, but then I realize his grip reminds me of my father's. How long has it been since I thought of you father?
A picture of his face flashes through my mind, the way I saw him last. His mouth wide open in a silent scream, his eyes just as wide and blood all over the floor and him. Kayten with the blade in her hand. The tears come freely. I don't want to fight anymore. I give in. I cry. Luke croons softly, encouraging me, and stroking my hair, holding me tenderly as I melt into his embrace. I cry as I've never cried before. I weep for my parents, for Chrys, for Tom, for Logan, for lost time, and for love and for hatred. I shed more tears for Luke, who lost a son for my sake. When my tears are exhausted, Luke picks me up and carries me off to bed and there I sleep.
The sleep is deep and dreamless, from utter exhaustion.
I don't want to wake up from it. I would been happy to die here, to never wake, but eventually I do and then I rest, allow my body to heal, and release the hurt from my mind.
Next Time: With the household still in mourning, Misty and Logan take the first steps toward finding one another again.
Thanks so much for reading! If you like, please:
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and as always, I love hearing what you think so, feel free to:
"late" implies missing someone else's deadline. Writers are Gandalfs... We finish precisely when we intend to :) remember-you are writing for you, we're just along for the ride and what a freaking ride this entry was'. I was getting Misty eyed right along with Misty, an old guys don't leak LOL
Penance-
Thank you for this...Misty needed to work thru all of her loss, which I suspect you have 'bottled' along side your character. We haven't fully felt her losses, haven't been exposed so directly and gotten to know in detail the closeness, like we have with Luke, Tom and Logan. Like Chrys, at her death we didn't understand the relationship really. Like Misty's father, we haven't been very aware of his place in her life. But we all did know Tom and his importance to Misty, and Logan and Luke! Now Luke and Misty have, in this moment, an avenue to help each other thru mutual grief filling empty spaces in each other! Only Logan is needed to close this broken circle now I think. That's what we wait for so everyone can progress toward healing and hopefully find a common purpose I think. There is a little mystery that I don't understand the importance of. Maybe nothing...but when Misty probed for energy signatures and got an unexpectedly powerful response, hmm...
Now about "to late or not to late"...Mr Poff is quite correct. You are not on-deadline to us. You set the schedule for yourself. I always thought it pretty aggressive myself. I do read other serials that publish at monthly intervals even. I will read it when you say it's ready. This one was ready, no doubt!