Drabble #18

[matril]

Another busy day. I've had this idea for a drabble floating in my head for a little while, but I've hesitated to attempt it...it's rather surreal dreamscape stuff. But I'll give it a try.

Hell
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He kept his gaze on Leia till the last, when a gush of cold sent his muscles into a brutal spasm and made his vision blur. And then everything fell into darkness.

The sky was orange and metallic spires grew out of the ground like organic rust. What sort of ugly -? He reached out to touch the metal, but his hand responded so slowly he could hardly get it to stir from his side. Irritated, he tried to lift the other hand, but it, too stayed stubbornly motionless. Like he was trying to move through mud. He looked down and shouted - at least, he would have shouted if his mouth had budged open. A thick brown sludge was rising from around his feet to engulf his body, encasing his hands even as he lifted them as if to ward it off, crawling upward, pressing around his chest so he couldn't even gasp for breath, smothering his face -

The Falcon. He felt the comfortable worn seat beneath him and opened his eyes. Sure enough, he was sitting in the cockpit of his ship. Relieved, he leaned forward and checked the coordinates on the navicomp. Kessel. That was right, he had a delivery to make, and Jabba wouldn't be easy on him if - no, this was wrong. He shouldn't be on his way to Kessel, not when Leia was in trouble on Bespin - how could he have abandoned her so easily? Sure, it always used to be easy to pick up and leave, no attachments, no obligations to anyone but himself. But not this time. Not Leia. He punched in the new coordinates, but the navicomp, mockingly, still displayed the coordinates for Kessel. He swore and pounded the console with a fist. A flash of light. The Falcon shuddered as if from attack, followed by an ominous rumbling that Han knew too well. He was about to be boarded. Imperials. He stood up hastily. Had to dump the cargo. No, they were after Leia. No, Luke. Everyone was in trouble, but Han was on the other end of the galaxy. Leave the heroics to someone else. Not this time. He left the cockpit and stepped into

Hoth. So cold. His teeth chattered; he tried to wrap his arms around himself, but again they seemed to be pinned in place, half-lifted as if in fear. Snow attacked his face in furious gusts, blinding him. Where was the base? He couldn't even turn his head to look around for it; in front of him there was nothing but barren whiteness. He had never been so bothered by the cold before. Luke had it much worse, growing up on that desert wasteland of a planet. But Luke was in trouble, attacked by some snowbeast - no, lured into a trap by Vader -

Bolts of agony shot into his chest. Bespin, it must be, though everything was lit by a cold blue as if underwater. Nothing was familiar. It hardly mattered. The torture consumed him, blurring his vision into vague pricks of light. He thought he could hear Leia crying out. He wrenched his head back and forced his eyes open. There she was. Streaks of red on her face, blood-tears. He tried to call her name. Instead, a bleak laugh sprung from his throat.

You should have known, a voice was snapping at him. It might have been his own. Spend your whole life looking out for yourself, and the minute you start worrying about others, everything turns to hell.

Shut up. The floor had pulled out from beneath him, he was falling, screaming without sound. Silently he shouted against the wind that was laughing at him. Shut up! I'll do what I want. So what if it turns to hell? So what if I turn out to be a nice guy? It's worth it. It's all worth it.

He slid out of the mud, out of the snow and the water and the wind, and crashed to the floor in Jabba's palace.
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Comments

[matril.livejournal.com]

Thanks! It was kind of experimental, but I enjoyed writing it.