Under Free Flag

by twillale

Chapter 1

CHAPTER I

Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast
False fires, that others may be lost.

—William Wordsworth, To the Lady Fleming

God, how I fucking hate alarms.

I don't usually resort to this kind of language, mind you. Well, okay, I do, but not out loud. Or, well, I do, but I at least try not to. Getting barely any sleep for three nights does wonders for your inhibitions on the use of expletives, though. Not that I have a lot of those, I spent virtually my whole childhood in closer proximity to sailors than any growing girl should. There was this one time in jolly old Amsterdam II when I was twelve— right, rambling; sorry, tired.

So, alarms—did I mention how much I loathe them? Any kind, really, but the ones that imply someone wants you dead are the worst ones. And pretty much every possible kind of those are clamouring for attention at the moment.

"Steady in stream, two-hundred and seventy knots!"

"Two-hundred and seventy."

"Distance to target, two clicks and closing!"

"Two clicks. Droppers ready."

I feel the seat shift as my brother leans forward in his crash harness. His voice is harsh, hoarsened by yelling orders around the clock for the past three days.

"Fire."

...and nights. Did I mention I've been awake for three nights? Sleep has been kind of a valuable commodity lately. I cast a glance at the weary man beside me, noting the bags under the eyes, the unshaven stubble. He looks like he fell out of an airlock and swam back. I almost chuckle at the mental image of Ace in the water, just barely matching the airspeed of the Trickster.

Holy crap I must be tired. Must be that I haven't slept for thr—right.

It's interesting, really. Once you've been flipping between unconsciousness and mortal terror for a few days, you start to get kind of detached from the whole 'going to die' thing. I guess humans weren't really designed for prolonged combat by hardware proxy. Who would've guessed? I disinterestedly eye the glowing mess that is the main tactical projection hovering in the middle of the bridge. Oh look, there go the droppers, whee! If I squint, they almost look like the hundred-kilogram cans of high explosive that they are rather than some kind of streamweather symbols on a freeport newscast. "Today we can expect strong winds up the Hellion passage, with intermittent bouts of freefall ballistic weaponry."

Oops, almost giggled again; focus, Eris!

Okay, all right, I've got this. Try to count the angry red distance-to-target counter to stay awake? Sounds like a plan.

"A thousand meters! Nine hundred!"

Eh, fuck. Someone else is doing it for me.

"Five! Four! Goddamnit!"

Hey, that's not a number!

"Droppers destroyed."

Shit, that's hollow. I can almost taste the despair in that voice.

Not kidding, by the way. Being preternaturally sensitive to the emotions of others isn't the fucking riot it promised to be, once people really start feeling bad about their life.

Oh well, that's why I'm sitting up here instead of waiting for death in my bunk, I guess. I try to crawl up from the slumped-down position I’ve ended up in, feeling like I'm on the downward slope of a looong night of those great martinis at the Hanged Prospector, and dredge the bottom of my tired carcass for something to give. To my surprise, I find it.

Huh, seems I’m not totally disenchanted with living yet.

I'm way too tired for this kind of shit. Need to concentrate.

Okay, deep breaths. Nurse the little flame. Let’s see: hope, and maybe a little bravado. And some defiance, yeah, defiance's good... aaand just let it all, you know, expand. Flow out, like, er—look, it's really hard to explain unless you're a Sympath yourself. If you've ever been out all day in a really bad storm and come back inside, get out of your sopping wet clothes, drag your miserable shivering self over to a warm fire and wrap yourself in a blanket... Well, it's kinda like that. Except not at all.

Whatever. It works is my point.

I let my shoulders relax—feels nice, didn't even notice all that tension—and let the warm, encouraging feeling bubble up and burst free unto the bridge. It feels... good. Like the whole room is resonating.

No giving up on me, now! We can still do this.
"No giving up on me, now! We can still do this."

It doesn't have to be fancy; in fact, simple is usually best. Not just the words: every part matters, they need all my strength now. I can feel their weary gazes through my closed eyelids, I can feel how they're looking at me, to me, greedily soaking up what little I can throw at them.

...two, one, and... Open your eyes. Look them in the face. Smile. Project.

We've done this for days, and they still haven't caught us, right?
"We've done this for days, and they still haven't caught us, right?"

I feel how my mind and body are protesting in unison, but I still push. And I can feel it work. Bilateral parasympathetic effectors, or Empath-Sympaths—like me—who can both project and perceive are really rare, but undeniably efficient. I dole out good vibes, the audience gets a rise, I catch the happy on the rebound. Once you get into a positive feedback loop, especially with a crowd, you can motivate people to do some pretty crazy stuff. Of course, that cuts both ways, so psychological self-insight and militant optimism are recommendable character traits to stave off insanity and death. ‘Know thyself’ and all that tripe.

For a while, a nice while, I just sit in the loop and enjoy myself, although I know it'll come back to bite me in the ass soon enough. I can feel my heartbeat—no, scratch that—I can feel everyone's heartbeat. The room feels bright, the air feels fresh, I feel like I'm filled with helium and about to burst out of my harness. I feel like breaking into song and okay pain, pain, pain, oh Christ that hurts, breathe and smile and don't lose them, just lean back and relax, relax, relax, ooh yeah that's it, getting better by the second, just need... to... rest a little. Okay, yeah. Okay. Breathe in, breathe out.

I open my eyes when I feel a hand on my arm. Ace is looking at me, that insipid, lopsided mixture of half a smile and half worry on his stupid, stubbly face. He squeezes my arm gently as he leans close, murmuring quietly enough not to be overheard by the bridge crew.

"You okay? Just rest, we'll be fine without you for a while."

I try to wring a final bit of acid wit to fling at my insufferable, condescending brother, but my mind is now in a state of complete rebellion against my will and refuses to play proverbial ball, so I just nod weakly and let my head hang down on my chest as blissful sleep pounces my conscious mind. Just before I fall asleep I can hear a final, quiet whisper from the general direction of the warm spot on my right arm.

"Thanks, Eri."

*

Oh fuck, I'm inside a blender. Behold, my first lucid thought!

Oh God why is the ceiling under me and why are the lights—

"—dropping fast, losing speed—"

"—hit! We took a hit, keel thruster isn’t—"

"Brace for impact in ten!"

—oh shit, I know that last one is bad! Reflexes honed by hundreds of disaster drills and more than a few real crashes kick in as I throw my hands over my head, trying my best to curl up into a ball while still strapped into the crash harness.

The last voice I hear is a familiar one, from as early as I can remember.

Oh well, as final moments go...

"Breachers! Fire!" Ace roars.

Then lightning strikes me.

Then, darkness.

*

---

Legal disclaimer: I obviously don't own My Little Pony (trademark of Hasbro) or this would be canon. All likeness to real people or characters created by other authors is entirely unintentional.

Comments

[twillale]

So, here's my little misbegotten brainchild. I won't say it isn't inspired by many other (and much greater) fics, but I still think it's turned out fairly well so far. I might be a bit biased, though. A thousand thanks to PJAbrony for editorial services rendered, getting me awesome American merchandise and just being an all-around good guy.

I enjoy being tied to the bed and whipped constructive critique, so please be absolutely brutal about feedback. I can handle it, I promise. Before you comment, an admission: I have a problem with purple (*snigger*) prose. I know. I'm seeing a therapist about it.

Oh, and if you find any typos or just plain weird sentences, please let me know about that, too. English isn't my first (or second) language, so I often overlook things that seem obvious to the native speaker.

That is all, for now. Thanks so much for showing an interest in my story!

[FinalFan]

Welp, I can't say your synopsis didn't give me fair warning. You took the Space Is An Ocean trope, took it To The Max, and then turned it Up To Eleven. I thought it was very silly in Odin Photon Sailor Starlight and I doubt I'll find your story so incredibly captivating that it overrides my disinterest in that conceit.

[Tom226]

You are actually very fluent in English I should know it's my first language, my second is le français