walkstheborders: (Partners)
The answering machine is not Jim's voice, but a much bouncier, upbeat one of a different man.

"You've reached Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg. We're not here right now, obviously. I can be contacted at Rainier University anthropology department. Jim can be contacted at Cascade PD, Major Crimes unit. Or you can leave a message and we'll get back to you, unless Jim accidentally deletes all the messages again."
walkstheborders: (Modern sentinel)
It might have been a dream.

He woke, but the world was faded blues and grays, like his dreams so often were. He slipped from his sleeping mat, past the tent opening and out into the jungle while the rest of the Chopec slept.

He walked deep, off paths and worn tracks and into the jungle proper, where only his machete and innate grace gave him access. Into the wilderness, the true wilderness, where it may be been decades since human foot trod.

He walked until he face a temple, ruined now but once glorious, snarling beasts framing the collapsed doorway. And still he was compelled on, by noises he could barely hear and yet were clear like an echo in his chest.

Until he saw it.

Standing in the eaves of the stones, looking into the darkness he saw the creature, primal and ancient; a muscled bulk that stood nearly as tall as he did and shifted in the darkness with near silent footfalls. It came up to the doorway, peering at him through the stones and it snarled, sharp, pointed fangs glistening too white in the faded moonlight.

He did not fear it. Anymore than he would his own reflection. He should’ve, but he couldn’t find it in him to fear.

Then it turned and walked away, long, muscled tail flicking behind it as it walked back into the darkness.

He did the same.

He walked back into the camp, to the tent he was sharing with Incacha. The shaman looked at him as he walked in, then nodded once. “The cat sees you, Sentinel.”

He woke up with the aching sense that he dreamed a memory... or it was a memory of a dream.
walkstheborders: (Zoned)
The rain was a heavy mist, faded blue and grey forest a fog about him.

What is your light?

He stood outside himself, watching himself sitting slumped against the stone ruins, eyes glassy and blank and staring, mouth slack and limbs heavy. The rain beaded on his skin, but he couldn’t feel it.

What is your light, Sentinel?

He looked about for the source of the words, the impression of words, not actual words spoken but he could hear them in his soul. His body didn’t react, and it reminded him chillingly of broken puppets and dead bodies and-


What stop your soul from darkening? What is your light?

It was almost like he didn’t feel anything at all. He saw his body but it meant nothing. He felt no water, no heartbeat. He tasted no water and smelt no forest. It was just a disconnection, hyper awareness of every little detail but so distant and drifting.

He heard a rasp.

What do you come back for?

A cough broke through. He felt it, rattling his chest, though it was his body that coughed as he watched. He felt his breath rasping in his chest. It ached. The rain was muggy, smothering and he was drowning in the air, just like-


He woke up with a start.

He could hear the steady beat of his guide’s heart, then another soft cough and moan as his breathing rattled wetly.

Silent, he slid from his bed, peering over the edge to check that he was safe, and well.

What is your light?
walkstheborders: (Listen)
Jim woke up to a world flooded with sensory data.

He could feel the silk of his boxers against his skin, a sharp contrast to the incredibly soft, four thousand count cotton sheets he was lying on. The air currents were normal, warmer up in his bedroom, cooler downstairs, all windows and doors closed and the only hint of outside the tiny gap under the front door that was a small breath of fresh, cool air.

He could smell himself faintly, sweat and soap and shampoo. There was spice in the air, last night's leftovers in the fridge still a bit too richly scented for him to cut out completely. He could smell the familiar richness of his guide downstairs, sweat and aftershave and herbs.

He didn't bother opening his eyes yet, he could already see light and shadow from his skylight telling him there was nothing moved up here, nothing visible that had changed in the shapes of his room.

Most importantly was the influx of sound. Dogs barking outside, people walking the streets, birds on the roof, the drain downstairs bubbling, a cough from two apartments over-

And the steady, even beat of Blair's heart. Everything else faded and Jim rolled over and went back to sleep without ever quite waking.

Normal was relative.
walkstheborders: (Default)
Dear Jimmy,

I know things are bad. I know you're wondering if your mother leaving was because of you and Stephen, and if your father hates you for it. You've lost a lot of important people and things feel like they're going to keep getting worse.

They'll get better, though. It might take time, but they will get better.

And more importantly, kid, you're not a freak, no matter what anyone says. One day, you'll start to believe that.

walkstheborders: (Default)
Hi. You can reach Jim's player through this post. Just leave a comment and I'll get back to you, provided that LJ doesn't eat my notifications.
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