The sound of someone's voice registers, at first, only as a break in the pattern.
It's that which brings Ken up short: the awareness that something is different. It cuts through the panic that fogs his mind sudden and sharp as water dashed in the face, snapping him back to something that's almost like clarity. He knows, though the voice is familiar, it's not one of them who is calling. They have never called to him before - not even his name, for of course they know who he is. They have no need to; there is nothing they need to say.
Though the cry is only barely audible over the spit and roar of the flames, the sound of his own labored breathing, and the creaking of the catwalk Ken stops short all the same, snatching at the catwalk's handrail and suppressing a cry as his hands close around the metal. The railing is hot, and just to touch it burns his palms. He leans over all the same, eyes streaming as he peers down into the thick, choking columns of smoke, desperately searching for the source of the voice: he finds it in the form of a man, tall and - like the voice - only painfully familiar. Wiping at his eyes, Ken struggles to focus, to work out where he's seen that form before--
"Hello?" His voice sounds strange to him, high and thin and panicked. "Can you hear me, who's there?"
no subject
Date: 2010-03-26 08:26 am (UTC)It's that which brings Ken up short: the awareness that something is different. It cuts through the panic that fogs his mind sudden and sharp as water dashed in the face, snapping him back to something that's almost like clarity. He knows, though the voice is familiar, it's not one of them who is calling. They have never called to him before - not even his name, for of course they know who he is. They have no need to; there is nothing they need to say.
Though the cry is only barely audible over the spit and roar of the flames, the sound of his own labored breathing, and the creaking of the catwalk Ken stops short all the same, snatching at the catwalk's handrail and suppressing a cry as his hands close around the metal. The railing is hot, and just to touch it burns his palms. He leans over all the same, eyes streaming as he peers down into the thick, choking columns of smoke, desperately searching for the source of the voice: he finds it in the form of a man, tall and - like the voice - only painfully familiar. Wiping at his eyes, Ken struggles to focus, to work out where he's seen that form before--
"Hello?" His voice sounds strange to him, high and thin and panicked. "Can you hear me, who's there?"
What he means is help.