Do you guys ever feel like everyday is so repetitive? Like everyday is the same? Following the same schedule all the time… Like what am I even doing? What’s my significance in life? Why isn’t anything interesting? What am I supposed to look forward to?
Official reports came through after a week of searching through the Arctic wreckage of Panchaea. Pritchard remembered it all so vividly. He remembered David Sarif on a gurney - in critical condition, but with some of the world’s best doctors at his behest. He remembered Malik, pulling off her helmet to reveal a face streaked in blood dirt and tears, pressing her face against his shoulder as sobs violently wracked her body. Standing with her, holding hands, watching the survivors filter in, shell-shocked crowds shuffling weakly in unison. Jensen wasn’t there. He was never there - not in the first wave, or the second, or the third. He’d never felt anything like it before, what he felt when he first realized Jensen wasn’t coming back - despair crushing his lungs, squeezing his heart, leaving him winded and dizzy. He held it together for appearance’s sake. As soon as he was alone, he cried.