nathan drake (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sicparvasmagna) wrote2016-06-18 01:09 am
sicparvasmagna) wrote2016-06-18 01:09 am
Entry tags:
June 20 - Open
It's not like he hasn't thought about him. Nate's pretty sure that he'll think of Sam in one way or another every day for the rest of his life, but the pain is something that's more or less distant now, something he learned how to handle. He doesn't know when it happened but somewhere along the way the ache in his chest dulled and he learned how to think about Sam without wanting to die with him. A lot of that is because of Sully, and Nate doesn't want to think about where he would have ended up if it wasn't for his friend.
That job had gone so impossibly wrong, worse than anything Nate has ever pulled, but it was more than ten years ago and he's moved on. Or he thought he had.
Nate's been researching almost nonstop since he turned up in this city, and he feels like today he's on his way to a breakthrough. If he was back home he'd be back halfway across that desert by now, certain that he was starting to work out exactly where to find the location of the city. He doesn't know what's persuaded him to keep looking even while he's stuck here, but he's been hunting that treasure for twenty years and it's not an easy thing to just let go of.
He's been locked away in a back room of the library surrounded by old books all day and he's parched. He could probably make it home, he thinks, but there's a vending machine on his way and it's all too easy to just stop and get a bottle of water. He's finished half of it in a couple of swallows when suddenly he pauses, the bottle to his lips.
There's no way.
Nate hasn't seen his brother in ten years but there's no mistaking him. There's no way he could possibly be in this city, but Nate is running after him before he even really registers it, the bottle slipping from his fingers to splash across the sidewalk.
"Sam!" he yells, but Sam doesn't stop, breaking into a run himself. Nate follows, racing him around a corner, before he comes skidding to a halt. A little way down the street he can see him, his brother backed up against a wall, but three guards are closing in. Nate blinks, and he recognises the faces, the uniforms, even years later. The scene in front of him is different to the way he remembers it, but he knows how it will end anyway. One of the guards shouts something in Spanish and Nate flinches as Sam puts his hands up behind his head.
"Sam!" he calls again, and this time his brother turns to look at him. Nate meets his eyes for a second and then the shot rings out, and suddenly Nate is in his twenties again, watching his brother die. Sam coughs up blood and staggers once, twice, and Nate lunges forward. The guards have vanished again and that doesn't make any sense but he doesn't care, running forward and skidding painfully to his knees on the pavement.
"Nathan," Sam says, and this time there's no rooftop, no fall. Last time he'd run because his brother was dead and Rafe convinced Nate not to die with him, but this time there's no one to drag him back, no way to turn away from his brother bleeding out on the ground in front of him.
"Shit, Sam, don't." His hands are moving, trying to staunch the blood, but he already knows there's no point. He doesn't know how it's possible but somehow his brother has turned up in this goddamn city only to die on him all over again.
That job had gone so impossibly wrong, worse than anything Nate has ever pulled, but it was more than ten years ago and he's moved on. Or he thought he had.
Nate's been researching almost nonstop since he turned up in this city, and he feels like today he's on his way to a breakthrough. If he was back home he'd be back halfway across that desert by now, certain that he was starting to work out exactly where to find the location of the city. He doesn't know what's persuaded him to keep looking even while he's stuck here, but he's been hunting that treasure for twenty years and it's not an easy thing to just let go of.
He's been locked away in a back room of the library surrounded by old books all day and he's parched. He could probably make it home, he thinks, but there's a vending machine on his way and it's all too easy to just stop and get a bottle of water. He's finished half of it in a couple of swallows when suddenly he pauses, the bottle to his lips.
There's no way.
Nate hasn't seen his brother in ten years but there's no mistaking him. There's no way he could possibly be in this city, but Nate is running after him before he even really registers it, the bottle slipping from his fingers to splash across the sidewalk.
"Sam!" he yells, but Sam doesn't stop, breaking into a run himself. Nate follows, racing him around a corner, before he comes skidding to a halt. A little way down the street he can see him, his brother backed up against a wall, but three guards are closing in. Nate blinks, and he recognises the faces, the uniforms, even years later. The scene in front of him is different to the way he remembers it, but he knows how it will end anyway. One of the guards shouts something in Spanish and Nate flinches as Sam puts his hands up behind his head.
"Sam!" he calls again, and this time his brother turns to look at him. Nate meets his eyes for a second and then the shot rings out, and suddenly Nate is in his twenties again, watching his brother die. Sam coughs up blood and staggers once, twice, and Nate lunges forward. The guards have vanished again and that doesn't make any sense but he doesn't care, running forward and skidding painfully to his knees on the pavement.
"Nathan," Sam says, and this time there's no rooftop, no fall. Last time he'd run because his brother was dead and Rafe convinced Nate not to die with him, but this time there's no one to drag him back, no way to turn away from his brother bleeding out on the ground in front of him.
"Shit, Sam, don't." His hands are moving, trying to staunch the blood, but he already knows there's no point. He doesn't know how it's possible but somehow his brother has turned up in this goddamn city only to die on him all over again.
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You don't see him.
She doesn't. She only sees Nate, hunched on the ground, his shoulders sloped in defeat, talking about an invisible brother. There was a man who frequented a pub Lila used to go to on occasion back in her London. The others had called him Mad Martin because he used to talk to himself, or talk to you like you were someone else entirely. They hadn't been wrong, calling him mad, but he'd been nothing like Nate. She can't imagine this man turning into anything like old Martin.
"Maybe you just need some sleep," Lila says, an unusual gentleness in her voice. "Or you've had a few too many beers?"
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"I haven't been drinking," he tells her, shaking his head. He focuses his gaze on Lila, and the more he concentrates on anything else, the more Sam starts to fade again. He's not here, that much is clear. Whatever Nate is seeing, Sam was never really here. He died on a job ten years ago, Nate knows that, saw it. He hates this fucking city.
"This city is driving me off the deep end," he tells her, rubbing a hand over his face.
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