Flying Blind
by Reetchick


Warning: bad language.
Setting: about ten minutes into "Sen Too"



This whole ďWay of the ShamanĒ thing has been a fucking joke, man. I donít even know why I believed it when it happened. Itís not like I speak Quechua, and Jim was so upset Ė for all I could tell, Incacha gave us some kind of deathbed benediction.

Shit, that makes more sense than giving me the sum total of his spiritual powers and wisdom. Me, the guy heís known for, what, twenty minutes in his whole life? Right.

Hell. I have to admit, though, it got me all worked up. I spent hours - weeks worth of hours digging through stacks of dusty old books, scouring the net, looking for details or hints or clues about Shamanism.

I found a hell of a lot of stuff, too; after all that research, I could probably teach a course on it. You name it, Iíve read about it. Trance states. Altered consciousness. Shamanic ecstasy. Spirit visions, trials of the heart. Deaths and rebirths, both the spiritual and the physical kind.

Yeah, right.

Jimís the only one around here having visions Ė shit, he was just telling me about another one, another fucking jaguar, before Simon bullied me out of that hospital room.

Me? Nothing. Not so much as a flicker.

Jim gets two spirit animals, and I donít even have, like, a spirit insect. I gotta tell you, when he first said something about his latest vision, my heart kinda jumped into my throat.

For a second, just a second, I thought maybe it was Ė well. Mine. Not that I know why heíd have seen it first, and it sure as hell doesnít matter now. Itís not mine.

Itís not like Iím asking to have a conversation with my totem on the spirit plane or anything. One little vision would be nice, though. Something to let me know Iím doing okay. That Iím not totally screwing this Sentinel thing up, that Iím doing some good here.

That Iím helping. That Jim - you know. Needs me.

And, yeah, Simon told me Iím appreciated, but heís not really the one I need to hear it from, you know?

Anyway, there it is. Iím a little angry, a lot unhappy, and thereís not one goddamn person I can talk to about this. Jimís the only one I could even consider discussing this shaman thing with, but, well. He needs his rest, not my insecurities.

My head is either in the clouds or up my ass, and neither one is helping Jim. This is most definitely counterproductive. Time to let go of the negativity, Sandburg, and get back to work.




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