JAMES

Click.

Click.

Click.

Images danced across the I-Screen and moved with the speed of light. Stuck in his own dark piece of space, warmth came back with a vengeance and washed the freezing cold. Anger made him feel strong — back in control.

Unable to control anything.

Click. Click. Click.

Nothing on the screen jolted him back into autumn though he tried to crawl to the world with its frozen moments. It whispered through the past whirs of a datacam. James sunk into his pillows with his thumb against the remote's channel dial for something to feel. Something to distract him from the ember filled flames. He lifted his head from the remote when pastel colours bloomed throughout the bedroom.

Pastel...

Full of soft, painted delicacy, untouched by flames. James sat up to process what played on the screen. His ears buzzed to block the seconds while Rayan reminded him of the fragile balance. He dragged through the white noise and blank colours filled his world.

Blank and pointless.

Dull throbs bounced across his heart, but he focused on the pastel, the balance.

When did I put on a rom-com?

He pursed his lips at the cheesy images of pining love — irony. He leaned his neck into the pillows and white noise filled his head. Colours, a gentle white flowing through the world reminded him of Rayan's words.

Click. Click. Click.

News reports seared into him, and he switched back to the pastel with a fumbled hand. He rubbed his brow to wipe the heat across his eyes. Orange hues slipped through the window shutters, and he sighed, onto his stomach to ignore everything again. Into darkness, he dared to breathe and swallow the warm air. Smoke tangled from a cigar, muted and dulled.

Lead weighed him against the bed. Bark curled and cracked when he tried to find sleep. Wishful ideation overwhelmed his thoughts and burned the pastel into nothing. He huffed when a twinge of pain coursed through his lungs, but footsteps broke him from his train of freedom.

"James?" Mrs Falae asked. "It's time for your medicine."

Time meant nothing.

Mrs. Falae stood at the door with a plate of food in her hands, along with the same golden capsule. James turned over onto his back when she set the platter onto the food holder which slipped out of the bedside. "Does it still hurt to breathe?"

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

James held his breath, but released it into a heavy exhale. Hand on his chest, he longed to rip out the embers stuck to his lungs.

"A little," he admitted.

It was hard, painful, but his answer caused Mrs. Falae to drip his dose into a cup.

It never mattered.

He sipped at it. Syrup slicked down his throat and stirred ice into the heat. Mrs. Falae nodded at the assorted meat and vegetable platter, and he poked at it with his fork. He pulled it into his lap, and chewed on it, where old ash tainted everything.

"Would you like to go outside for a few minutes?"

"It's too hot," he mumbled and ate.

"It's not too hot right now," Mrs Falae pointed out with a frown. "You need fresh air, James. You haven't left the house since you got here. I won't force you, but I think it'd be good for you."

James peered at her. "What's the point?"

"There doesn't need to be a point," she pointed out with a raised eyebrow. "You can just go outside and breathe the fresh air."

James scowled and sat up to finish the rest of his assorted platter, and she smiled at him. "If you change your mind, I'll be downstairs. I need to move some stuff in the garage." Sadness filled the ice-blue, but the calm soldier never wavered.

Pastel fresh air.

He lifted himself further from the covers, where a woozy sheen flickered the I-Screen. Flutters of a flaming summer. He wobbled when he got out of bed. His knees threatened to crack apart, but he forced himself to his feet. There's no point. There's no point... He told himself as he left the bed behind. He wiped his brow. Embers flickered in the shadows. Nightmares waited for him outside, but he found them within himself.

No escape.

He groaned when the world tilted, but he held his temples and shook out the burning moments. One more shake, and he almost fell to his knees. He planted himself, braced for the larger opponent across the Starcross field. Starcross. James lifted himself up, where his shaky, blurry hands, and he rested them on the bedstand, fighting for his bearings, regaining the time he no longer had.

Tears slipped down his cheeks, but he forced it down. He knelt for the clothes Mrs. Falae brought him and brushed his fingers through the laundered, soft fabric. Rayan's jacket wrapped around the pile, and he dug his face once more for the familiar smell of a campfire instead of the scorched planet.

Kestran lavender and paint fumes drowned it out. He sat there with his face dug into Rayan's jacket. A different darkness than the pressure trapping him in bed. Hurt dug into his heart, and he hoped to tear himself away to find himself back at that campfire.

Another pointless thought.

He dropped the jacket with a sigh. New clothes in his hands, he forced himself through the ember world, grabbing his Starcross bat from the corner. He focused on the fluttered white noise against his eardrums, to block the sounds. Into the wash station, he hesitated at the golden hue which flowed through the tiles.

Gold.

Gold.

He put the clothes on the counter with his Starcross bat and moved into the shower to clean himself off. Time escaped his fingers in the blink of an eye. Free of the ice water, he put them on, relieved at the loose fitting. He wandered out of the wash station and through the long corridors of the manor.

Fresh air? The Starcross pitch always smelled like fresh dew in the morning... Jon preferred early sessions, said good practice to avoid slipping on dew... He clung onto the bannister and forced himself down each step. His voice failed him, one more practice session as he clutched the netbat close to him, a well-meaning gift.

"James?"

Her voice made him jump.

His world spun; he almost mistook her for a much taller Rayan. Back into focus, but he leaned on the wall.

"Slow down," she said with a hopeful smile. "You want to go into the backyard? I have a cooling alcove set up."

Just one more.

He followed her through the downstairs hall to the back area. On one side, a small training gym inflated one half. Benches and lifting bars sat around the octagon in organized training regimes. Led past it, he flinched when she clicked open the backdoor. Wind weaved through his clothes from the salt flats Rayan described once to him in a dream.

"It does get a little windy," she admitted as he peered into the breeze. "If you feel uncomfortable, I can take you back inside." James followed her point to a garage, protected by the knoll. "I'll be right there, okay?"

One more.

James stepped off the porch and into the grass and relished in the chilly breeze. He curled his fists around the Starcross bat and longed for another opponent, and stared out into the horizon, with the goal out of sight. Rayan's horizon. His mind pulsed with the distant cracks of the city. Another thing to escape from or beat down.

He breathed the warm touch of air and refused to flinch. His world came back into focus, where the white noise blurred into deep horns from faraway hovercars on their destinations. Across the salt flats, massive factories where Rayan solarboarded through — a troublemaker's paradise. He switched his attention to Mrs. Falae, who sorted through boxes by the shed against the porch.

Eruda glowed through the clouds, and he shivered with the memory of Rayan adding gentle, beautiful touches.

"James?" Mrs. Falae asked. "Do you want a starball?"

James returned to his netbat, then shrugged. "I'm..."

His words failed him while things breathed.

A scream tore through the world and burned it to ash.

He snapped his head to the explosive force down the long stretch of road into Irenu. Embers sprinkled over the clouds and spread the fire. His fingers dug into his netbat as he stared at the forest, stuck on the hill while fireballs danced over his head and brought painful light. Ash clutched at his lungs as he brought the netbat forward while the plumes swallowed his home. It tore through the dissonance of two worlds.

It was all he could do to dodge falling trees and branches.

To get home.

To get to his sister.

To Ava.

Ava.

Ava.

He couldn't move, but he had to or else he'd lose everything.

He gasped out with his speeding heart and drove the netbat into the rocks.

It cracked with the tree and splattered blood across the stone. Broken in two, the rest of the netbat clattered to his feet as he shambled back from the explosive city in the distance of twisted celebration.

"James," Mrs. Falae whispered, too clear against the blurred sounds of the cracked netbat, broken beyond repair. "James, look at me."

Smoke lurched in his lungs as he fought to get away from the trees and to escape a dark world. He drove his fingers into his flaming temples and tried to claw his mind free. He resisted his tears and hoped for rain. Bile rose into his throat as Mrs. Falae blocked his view of the world. "James."

Universes trembled with the force of a supernova.

Too bright.

He shrunk into himself while her words disappeared into white noise of pastel safety. She made slow motions, and she said something drowned out by his beating heart. Blood rushed through his ears.

"I'm going to put a hand on you," she told him.

James forced himself to nod, but the movement burned on his chin when she settled a hand on his shoulder, then shifted to hold him around the neck. He stood there, with his netbat torn in two, splattered with ash while she whispered, "Count to ten with me, James."

Ten. Nine. Eight. Flames. Seven. Six. Five. Falling stars, or embers?

He ran back into the house at three, straight for the washstation in the gym. He heaved the embers stuck in his throat, but nothing came past his lips. He sank in front of the bin and wanted nothing more than to freeze.

Worlds fell silent.

Mrs. Falae's pastel-coloured shadow shielded him while he heaved out his empty life.

He covered his face and sobbed when she knelt down beside him, a reflection of Rayan.

"I'm here," she whispered. "What do you need, James?"

Home. Mom. Ava. Rayan.

Autumn.

"Drink."

"Stay," Mrs. Falae instructed and left him at the bin. He curled closer to it where the sounds of the house protected him from the explosive life.

In no time at all — or stretched eons, Mrs. Falae returned with a cup and passed it to him in one smooth movement. He took it into his own trembling hands. Water slipped down his lips when he drowned the ashen tension in his throat.

Everything hurt, and he ran out of tears.

"I want to go back to my room," he mumbled.

"Okay." Mrs. Falae stood up, and he let himself be gently pulled with her. "I'll bring your evening medicine and dinner to you later."

Back into white noise, Mrs. Falae guided him up the steps into the guest room. Full of bland nothingness. He wandered to Rayan's jacket, trembling within his own soul as he picked it up, then folded it around his arms with one more breath of stale, ash-filled air. He swallowed on bile and placed it on the bedstand, out of the way of danger before crawling back into bed.

Remote in his hands, he woke up the I-Screen from its stasis. Pastel colours danced. It took a while for Mrs. Falae to leave him alone, but when she closed the door, the rest of his tears came with the thunder.

He wanted nothing more than to return to sleep.

A sleep without starbursting nightmares.