Character: Haywire (Gen)
Summary: Haywire had known it from the beginning, from the first time he laid eyes on him.
Author’s Notes: Written for pbreak_drabbles Challenge #11 again, “Episode 122: Flight”. Also for philosophy_20, where I claimed the General Series. This is for prompt #12, "6th Sense."
He was up to something.
Haywire had known it from the beginning, from the first time he laid eyes on him. On that man whose eyes saw clear down inside of him, forcing his “self” to scramble into the corners and hide. That man with the body painted in frozen time.
That soft voice—later hard-edged and mean—hadn’t fooled him. He’d known. And he’d sought, charted, analyzed and reworked through the pathway calling from that skin.
The blanket had lifted when that man—Michael—had forced his meds out, his tranquilizing poison. Now the world was sharper, louder, busy/hurried/shifting/slipping strangeness. He’d been off the pills for days now, waiting… watching. So many voices were in his head: “Patoshik? Hey”, “Come here,” “I see you, see you,” and “Soon, soon, starlight America breaking forward, soon.”
Haywire moved carefully through melting hallways, past the Eagle crouching in his cell. His eyes burned from the constant task of looking. Too late, the clock muttered. Just wait, said the face locked in wood-grain on the table.
So bright—so crowded. Too many people and thoughts and flowing/shivering ideas and lessons. Such a struggle to concentrate on which parts were real. He would gaze through the window that smelled like angry-basement-closet, finding the owner of those pictures that pulled him into the blazing Truth.
The image of Michael—striking, white and vengeful—lingered at the corners of his vision, until the night it went vivid and especially clear.
He followed. He ducked and lurked behind and around as he trailed Michael’s oddly-focused group. When he announced himself, the flurry of menacing eyes leaped down into his stomach to rupture him from within. But he stood firm—this mystery was the strongest thing to call to him in years, and he would not let it go so easily.
Breaking-iron-window-crash, then scurrying through the heavy, dangerous air. They ran-ran-scramble-ran to the vehicle just under an arch. In-wait-keys?-out-rifle-rifle-engine-sto
He wandered through fields where color rose and crashed in waves as his feet swish-swished through the listening grass. A light beckoned, curled toward him and around him, pulling him to a doorway that sang like cicadas. Inside, movement lured him like a thread. It was a bicycle, shiny and ever-changing. Its wheels spun under the hands of a child. He wanted—took—as motion echoed to the side of his vision.
He caught himself in the mirror, his head unguarded-- exposed. He forced a helmet on, to keep himself inside and everything else out. Taking the bicycle, he rode off into the night.
Secret gleaming bushes and trees waltzed in the wind by the picket-fence-glow running beside him. He could taste the future, satin-black and salty. It flowed like star-cloth swimming around and above.
The air spoke to him, swept him into the sky, while the earth swirled and dipped down below. He breathed in blue and birdsongs, laughing to himself as he teetered into whisper-soft freedom.
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