Butterflies of the Dark Star

19 (REVISED)

Click. Click. Click.

Voices came into clarity, but he sat on the couch beside her and clicked the top of his pen in consistent, methodical, comforting predictability. In a past life — in a future dream. It was a white noise among the uncertainty, though he dismissed his actions as nothing more than an infuriating, ceaseless scream.

Chaos theory, the beat of a butterfly's wing.

Click.

Blood on her hands; Neo's blood.

Responsible for the truth, unable to escape the black hole, her thoughts wandered ever closer to the event horizon. People's voices intensified but was rescue worth without him? She listened closely for the report of death, for no other survivors. One foot in the endless, starlit grave.

Admiral Mythrai's voice blurred through the cosmos, an echoing repetition.

He's... talking about the situation...

A life to flash before her.

Thuni muttered something once more about his droid, with Ulin giving a quiet, unheard response.

What?

Crimson splattered her hands, and the world flickered.

Nova opened her eyes to shattered time.

It shuddered with rippled pressure and the last remnants of crusted goop filled the corners, but whispered into a false dream — or her true awakening. Lungs expanded into her ribcage to drive the bones inside and bleed her from within, she twisted to the other desk where the clicking source continued. Labcoat red, his lips too pale and the warmth leaving his cheeks when she tried to shake him from the lethal slumber, where a metal stake tore his heart in two.

Overcrossed between two fictional realities.

He rested his pale cheek in his palm, writing on his datascroll with wavering attention on Admiral Mythrai.

Look at me. Open your eyes! Talk to me!

His eyes opened, halfway through a beautiful grey nebula and a lack of light. Unable to gaze on her failure, she shifted in her seat and tried to scratch the blood out from between her fingers. It spread on her lap and stuck to her skin, but she dragged her hands down her pants and shook her head. No. No. No. Ice cracked across her heart and she longed to tear it out herself. Words were nothing more than white noise, and the clicking of his I-pen stopped and silenced the universe. It dripped behind her ear, and she tore herself out of her sticky puddle of blood. Ignoring the confused expressions of those sitting around her, she rushed out of the briefing dome.

No, what is this? Nova drove her teeth into her nails, no longer tasting any blood but her own. What is this? Am I dead? Her feet tugged her down the eastern sector. Alarms rang in the distance, but never shattered the awakening. In slow motion film, it tried to correct itself, there was no escape. Keycard fumbling in her fingers, she drove it into the door to their room as someone's voice called her name.

He's dead. Stars, he's dead. Vomit filled her nose when she stumbled to hold onto his chair and resisted the urge to scream. Why am I here? What is happening? It spun confusion through the rest of her senses when she swiped at the creeping, nebulous tendrils at the glass, trying to break free to the mercy of the vacuum. Butterflies fluttered in the gaseous particles, and she swung when he grabbed her forearm, saying something noiseless when the alarms deafened her. Her back hit the desk in an attempt to get away from the morgue — the dead to haunt her.