Chapter Text
i. not far from here, you see me crack - like a bone , like a bone - I'm so breakable
She doesn’t sleep in her cabin. When it’s time to seek out a moment’s rest, she goes to the bridge. She curls up in the co-pilot’s seat, watching the lights dance across the HUD as Joker helms the ship. He doesn’t ask why she’s there; he knows. Or he thinks he does. This isn’t her ship, her crew, her home. She’s woken up to find everything she knows has changed. She’s looking for comfort, for familiarity, for someplace safe. So EDI locks the door to the bridge, and Joker chatters aimlessly until she drifts off, exhausted by the enormous weight that seems to rest eternally on her shoulders.
He thinks he knows. They all think they know. And they’re all partially right.
She claims the passing stars give off too much light, and thanks Joker when he closes the shutters and dims his console. He knows the routine, and she’s grateful for it – grateful that she doesn’t have to ask. But the light doesn’t bother her; the way she lives – lived – meant she had to be able to sleep anywhere, anytime, to ward off fatigue. Now? Now she feels helpless, weak, victimized by the nightmares that plague her, and she hasn’t truly slept since waking up in a Cerberus lab.
She wonders if they know how she died. They must not, she thinks – surely even Cerberus isn’t so cruel. They must think she died in the explosion, in the blast or from debris. They must think she died instantly.
They must not know about the suit rupture. About the ripping pain as the air was pulled from her lungs. About the sharp, tearing sting as she froze in the armour meant to keep her safe. They must not know that she suffocated among the stars, watching the corpse of her home – broken, like herself, into so many pieces – drift off in silence to settle in the nothingness. They must not know that she died slowly, achingly, torturously in the stillness of space.
If they had, they would never have built a massive fucking window above her bed. Would they?