The End is Never Final
folder
S through Z › SeaQuest
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
37
Views:
1,526
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
S through Z › SeaQuest
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
37
Views:
1,526
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own SeaQuest DSV, and I do not make any money from this writing.
Chapter Three
A much younger man once told a U.E.O. lecture class that life wasn’t all about protocol and operations manuals, to make a career, a successful career, a lot more rode on gut feeling than any U.E.O propaganda was going to admit. Now, he sits in a chair, his grandson playing near his feet, trying to ignore a belly full of gut feeling.
For the last few days everything has been loaded with it. At first age had him thinking it was heartburn, but heartburn doesn’t force old men to think that a sub is in trouble just by the way that a blond boy hunches over a video game; every cry of triumph when a mutated bug went down bringing the ghostly whispers of another.
“The seaQuest needs its Captain.”
The voice drives him from his thoughts. He stops the gentle sway of the chair and peers at the boy hunched at his feet. The boy’s favourite green t-shirt (“Look at the dead bugs on it! Thanks Grandpa, this is the coolest) is gone, a well-worn baseball jersey in its place. The boy is gone as well. The blond hair remains, but the eyes are much older…and familiar. He looks up at him and as a lopsided grin clicks in place, the vague familiarity turns into clear recognition.
“Did ya hear me or are you going deaf in your old age?”
“Lucas! What is going on? Where’s Michael?”
“Your grandson’s fine. That’s not important.”
“What are you doing here?” The old man voice is gone and in its place there is the voice of command. “What is going on?”
“I already told you!” His voice is thick with impatience and when he speaks again, his words are slower as if he is speaking to a small child, “The seaQuest needs you.” He gestures towards the cabin door, “But don’t take my word for it.”
Bridger drags himself to the door, dread crawling up his balls. The door is thrown open by an unseen force before he even frees his hand to touch the wood. He is greeted, not by horror but by the normal sight of his own beach. A breath drags deep in his lungs and, when he releases it, he hears the distant sounds of familiar clicks and whistles.
“Darwin!” He races towards the sight, hearing the sounds of Lucas running behind him. “Darwin!”
When he reaches his destination, his fingers reach out to pat his friend. Lucas’ hands join his, rubbing the dolphin. After a moment, Lucas draws his hands away. A noise on the beach diverting his attention with a speed normally reserved for video game reaction time. This is no game and a shadow of worry replaces the joy that had been there throughout much of their brief conversation.
“Captain, I-I have to go now.”
Lucas backs away from his friends, moving towards open water. Darwin makes no move to swim out after him, even as his head disappears under the deceptively calm waters. Bridger rushes out to help, convinced that his young friend is drowning keeping him from discovering the origin of the scraping noise that recently started on the beach.
“Lucas!”
He dives down, eyes scanning but finding nothing. He resurfaces, gasping for breath and pushing away the hair the ocean had pasted in front of his eyes. One deep breath and then another, preparing himself to dive again.
He dives. The time, hands clench on a head full of thick blond hair and he drags the mess after him to the surface. They reach air together, threading water and doing everything to keep Lucas’ head afloat. Lucas’ head eventually finds a niche, resting on Bridger’s left shoulder and from the angle; Bridger can see enough to realize that this thing on him isn’t Lucas anymore.
The blond hair belongs to his grandson. Eyes glazed and staring, framed by dark blue circles. As he watches, his own eyes bulging with horror, Michael’s tongue, small and bluish, pokes out of his slack mouth. Indistinguishable words form (hi gramps did you miss me huh i'm your dead grandson by the way i know where my daddy is and he’s dead too…everybody is dead…everyone you love).
(this is not happening this is not happening thisisnothappening)
The old bladder finally lets go. Michael’s spread fingers reach up, touching one aged and stubbled cheek. The touch is lovingly brutal and he feels his eyes snap shut against the unwanted caress, as if denial has the power to eradicate.
“Nathan Bridger,” the voice is rusted, as though the vocal cords were thickly coated with drying blood.
(Grandpa, wake up”)
His mind is reeling, however, the caress is gone and he is lulled into a sense of security by the absence of rotting breath on his face (not to mention that wet heaviness between his thighs, that’s gone too). He opens his eyes.
“I had to wake you up.” The boy is standing over him, looking every inch like his lost father. Except for the expression, where he rarely had to deal with Robert’s fears, this boy was clearly upset; the brow furrowed in a way modern childhood never intended. Eyes wide with concern (but sane thank god they’re sane), “You were moaning…Grandpa, is everything alright?”
For the last few days everything has been loaded with it. At first age had him thinking it was heartburn, but heartburn doesn’t force old men to think that a sub is in trouble just by the way that a blond boy hunches over a video game; every cry of triumph when a mutated bug went down bringing the ghostly whispers of another.
“The seaQuest needs its Captain.”
The voice drives him from his thoughts. He stops the gentle sway of the chair and peers at the boy hunched at his feet. The boy’s favourite green t-shirt (“Look at the dead bugs on it! Thanks Grandpa, this is the coolest) is gone, a well-worn baseball jersey in its place. The boy is gone as well. The blond hair remains, but the eyes are much older…and familiar. He looks up at him and as a lopsided grin clicks in place, the vague familiarity turns into clear recognition.
“Did ya hear me or are you going deaf in your old age?”
“Lucas! What is going on? Where’s Michael?”
“Your grandson’s fine. That’s not important.”
“What are you doing here?” The old man voice is gone and in its place there is the voice of command. “What is going on?”
“I already told you!” His voice is thick with impatience and when he speaks again, his words are slower as if he is speaking to a small child, “The seaQuest needs you.” He gestures towards the cabin door, “But don’t take my word for it.”
Bridger drags himself to the door, dread crawling up his balls. The door is thrown open by an unseen force before he even frees his hand to touch the wood. He is greeted, not by horror but by the normal sight of his own beach. A breath drags deep in his lungs and, when he releases it, he hears the distant sounds of familiar clicks and whistles.
“Darwin!” He races towards the sight, hearing the sounds of Lucas running behind him. “Darwin!”
When he reaches his destination, his fingers reach out to pat his friend. Lucas’ hands join his, rubbing the dolphin. After a moment, Lucas draws his hands away. A noise on the beach diverting his attention with a speed normally reserved for video game reaction time. This is no game and a shadow of worry replaces the joy that had been there throughout much of their brief conversation.
“Captain, I-I have to go now.”
Lucas backs away from his friends, moving towards open water. Darwin makes no move to swim out after him, even as his head disappears under the deceptively calm waters. Bridger rushes out to help, convinced that his young friend is drowning keeping him from discovering the origin of the scraping noise that recently started on the beach.
“Lucas!”
He dives down, eyes scanning but finding nothing. He resurfaces, gasping for breath and pushing away the hair the ocean had pasted in front of his eyes. One deep breath and then another, preparing himself to dive again.
He dives. The time, hands clench on a head full of thick blond hair and he drags the mess after him to the surface. They reach air together, threading water and doing everything to keep Lucas’ head afloat. Lucas’ head eventually finds a niche, resting on Bridger’s left shoulder and from the angle; Bridger can see enough to realize that this thing on him isn’t Lucas anymore.
The blond hair belongs to his grandson. Eyes glazed and staring, framed by dark blue circles. As he watches, his own eyes bulging with horror, Michael’s tongue, small and bluish, pokes out of his slack mouth. Indistinguishable words form (hi gramps did you miss me huh i'm your dead grandson by the way i know where my daddy is and he’s dead too…everybody is dead…everyone you love).
(this is not happening this is not happening thisisnothappening)
The old bladder finally lets go. Michael’s spread fingers reach up, touching one aged and stubbled cheek. The touch is lovingly brutal and he feels his eyes snap shut against the unwanted caress, as if denial has the power to eradicate.
“Nathan Bridger,” the voice is rusted, as though the vocal cords were thickly coated with drying blood.
(Grandpa, wake up”)
His mind is reeling, however, the caress is gone and he is lulled into a sense of security by the absence of rotting breath on his face (not to mention that wet heaviness between his thighs, that’s gone too). He opens his eyes.
“I had to wake you up.” The boy is standing over him, looking every inch like his lost father. Except for the expression, where he rarely had to deal with Robert’s fears, this boy was clearly upset; the brow furrowed in a way modern childhood never intended. Eyes wide with concern (but sane thank god they’re sane), “You were moaning…Grandpa, is everything alright?”