Felt that.
The ship just took a hit. Hard one. Lights cut, deck went sideways for a second, came back. Recording held. I’m on the floor and there’s a piece of paneling near my head that wasn’t near my head a minute ago.
Shelby. Comm.
She says we’re holding. Doesn’t elaborate. Shelby doesn’t waste words on a captain who can’t help. Told me to do whatever I was doing and signed off. Good. I will.
But I want to tell you about something I felt right before the hit. Not the explosion. Before that. About a minute before.
The air changed.
Not in any way I could measure. Just — thinner. As if the room had decided it didn’t need quite so much atmosphere. My words felt different in my mouth. Lighter. The way words feel when you’re sleep-deprived and you’re not sure if you said something out loud or just thought it.
Then the hit. Then the lights. Then back to recording.
I don’t know what that thinning was. I don’t know if it’s coming back. I just know I felt it and I want it on the record in case it matters later.
Where was I. Wesley at the Guardian. Suliban swarming. The fight he wasn’t built to win.
I know what that’s like. Different war, different enemy. But I know what it feels like to be the wrong tool for what’s in front of you. The Traveler trained Wesley for perception, not combat. I was trained for combat from the time I could hold a weapon, and most days I still wasn’t the right tool either.
You go anyway. You do what’s in front of you with what you have.
That’s the only choice anyone ever gets.
Back to it.