The Space In Between

Hushed Whispers (Part 3)

"Okay".

Omega's voice called to him through the curtain. Although the word itself signalled permission to enter, its tone seemed to carry another message entirely.
Quiet and tight. Irritated and yet despondent. It said 'yes', but also 'no'. It said 'please come near', but also 'not too close'.

A single word, yet a thousand meanings.

Hunter had no idea what to make of it.

Ascending the ladder, he tugged the curtain aside to see Omega in her freshly pressed pyjamas, settling herself onto the cushioned floor of the Gunner's mount. She lay on her back, hands resting on her stomach, and gazed up at the ceiling, her face a blank mask.

Hunter took the blanket piled at her feet and drew it over her, up to her shoulders. She didn't move. She didn't snuggle into it. She just let it happen.

"Alright. Got everything you need?" he asked her softly, smoothing down its edges and tucking them around her.

Without a word, Omega inclined her head, never once breaking eye contact with whatever-it-was she was so determinedly staring at. Even though he was leaning over her, she refused to look at him. Hunter frowned.

Something was definitely not quite right.

To the unwary observer, she may have appeared as still and placid as petrified stone. But Hunter knew differently. No. She was utterly buzzing. Vibrating against the ship with barely contained potential energy, like a tightly coiled spring, ready to snap at any disturbance. The disparity between what he could see and what he could feel was unsettling; almost like sea sickness, his mind threatened queasiness in favour of accepting the mixed signals.

Defaulting to his typical tactics, Hunter scoured the scene for clues, attempting to read her like foreign terrain he needed to navigate.

The first thing he noticed was that her posture was all wrong; very rarely did she sleep on her back like this, stiff and rigid like a board. Usually, she was either curled up or sprawled out like a Tooka in the sun. Speaking of which...something else was missing from the picture. Glancing up, he found both Lula and her Trooper doll resting against the base of the Gunner's chair, untouched and unasked for. That was wrong too.

And there was more. A slight...puffy, darkness around her eyes, like the gathering of storm clouds. And although they looked dull and sullen, they also glistened, like dew sparkling on the ashen leaves of a plant already perished. As if detecting his scrutiny, she shut them, denying him whatever evidence she clearly knew was there.

Hunter sat back, bewildered, feeling lost in enemy territory; a sensation entirely unknown to him. Enhanced as he was, all the signs were clear as day, but they were forming a track he couldn't figure out how to follow. A slow burn of frustration rose in his chest like reflux. He felt utterly incompetent. And he despised it.

He was the squadron leader. He was supposed to know what to do. With his brothers, the right words, the right gestures, they always came so easily.
Why would this be any different?

Hunter's keen eyes caught sight of her lower lip as it quivered. It was so subtle, so minute. Like the ripple of a single rain drop landing in a vast ocean. Suddenly compelled by some unfamiliar instinct, Hunter reached forward and slowly combed his fingers through her hair.

He blinked, surprising himself by it. He had never done that to anyone before. But, it felt right.

For a split second, she leaned ever-so-slightly into his touch, but then her eyebrows pinched upwards, as if to paradoxically communicate pain. Abruptly, she twisted away from him, tossing onto her side. Horrified, Hunter yanked his hand away, afraid he may have accidentally harmed her somehow.