thedeadlyhook (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thedeadlyhook) wrote2005-01-24 03:17 pm
thedeadlyhook) wrote2005-01-24 03:17 pm
Entry tags:
William Fic, Part 2
More exposition. All will become clearer as we go.
__________
The Center, Part 2
He wakes in an alley.
Or rather... it seemed like an alley, at first glance, when he opened his eyes. But it's too bright, really, for that, too full of thronging people. It surprises him only dimly, that he could be lying on the pavement in a public place, and crowds could still walk by. Hasn't he done the same, often enough, to beggars in the street? And there is something wrong with the way he feels, how he's dressed, that tells him that his situation is not normal. He did not just collapse on the way home or to work. He's--he feels numb, and chilly, like he's lain here for days. Cold. His limbs wrapped up in long sheets of leather, like a butcher's apron, work boots on his feet.
He can't remember, for the life of him, how he got here.
There's a woman, standing over him. Her jaws working, as if chewing a piece of tough meat. "You okay?" she asks, and gives him a quizzical look.
His own mouth works for a moment before he can answer her. "I-I'm not sure."
She shakes her head. Mutters something about "bad shit," which he does his best to ignore--her costume is so eclectic he has no real clue as to her status. She's wearing a gypsylike garment of black lace, long skirts sweeping the ground. Her eyes are heavily painted and jewelry weighs down her neck. For all he knows, she's a society woman on her way to some costume ball, unlikely as it seems. That idea fades, an instant later, when he manages to lever himself to his feet.
The place around him is... not familiar. More than that, it's wrong. There are lights brighter than any he's seen before, flashing colors everywhere, crowds pressing around in a confusing blur of distorted shapes. Loud rushing noises, hurtling objects in the road.
He's somewhere else. Not London. A foreign country, surely. He must have... fallen prey to kidnappers, shipped off to an unfamiliar shore. He's read of such things, but never dreamed that such could happen to him, and for a moment, he's overcome by pure despair.
Then, an instant later, he's exhilarated. There's fear, still, definitely that, but whoever his captors might be, he seems to have evaded them, escaped. His memory gives him nothing to work with at all, but surely it will come back to him, what's happened, what he's done. If anything, he feels proud--confused, but proud that whatever adversity he had to face to reach here, he's won through, still standing. And apparently on his own.
"You gonna answer that?"
The woman again. She's looking at him, still with that expression of worry.
"I'm sorry, Miss?" No idea what she's talking about. There's a shrill sound, somewhere near, teeth-rattlingly annoying, that just keeps repeating, like a muffled firehouse bell.
"Your phone? Dude, I really think you have a concussion or something," she says then, and makes a gesture at him, at his head. He lifts a hand to his forehead and it comes away bloody; further explorations show that he has trickles of blood down his neck too, and from his nose. Obviously he had to fight hard to win his freedom, and it's the strangest feeling, looking at the blood on his fingers. He's never been in a fight in his life. Not since childhood, at least, scuffles with schoolmates that ended in switchings for everyone, their bloodied noses no comparison for their sore and bleeding behinds. Now he's been in a fight and won, yet he can't remember it.
It's only when he pats down the long leather coat that he's wearing, looking for a handkerchief to wipe away the blood, that he discovers the source of the trilling sound.
A small object, of a hard material like tortoise shell. Black, like the carapace of a beetle, or the lacquer implements he's seen in exhibits from the Japans. Amazing material, really. Iridescent. And perhaps that's what this is, an Oriental box for holding a brush and ink. Then again, the buzzing sound makes him think of the insects of which the Chinese are supposed to be so fond, perhaps a cricket. But how did it come to be in his pocket? Something to do with his abduction?
He turns the object over, studies it from all sides, slides a nail along a thin seam until it opens, hands cupped around it to catch the insect as it falls out.
He nearly drops it when a voice emanates from it instead.
"Spike? What the hell's going on? Are you there?" Words tumble out of the box. He gapes at it, give it a little shake, unsure what to do. Glances at the woman still standing there, gives her a pleading look. Surely this is much of a shock to her as to him?
She sighs instead, and plucks the object from his hands. Puts it against her ear and begins to speak.
"Uh, hullo? Hey, your friend's having a seizure or something. Who, me? I'm just standing here. He's, like, bleeding and freaking out."
She is silent then, nodding. Speaks again, gives something like an address--it almost sounds like she says "King's Cross" and something about a station, but that hardly makes sense. He knows King's Cross. In London, anyway, but perhaps it's also a name used here. Wherever here is.
It occurs to him that the woman is somehow giving away his location. No clue why he's sure of this, but he is. He begins to feel very firmly that he should go.
"Wait!" she yells from behind him as he begins to edge away. "Hey, wait!"
He ignores her, and breaks into a run.
He doesn't actually expect to get far. His body hasn't felt right since he awoke, simultaneously too heavy and too light, but he's stunned by his own speed, rocketing through the swarms of people like an athlete on his fastest day. It makes no sense--he can't even feel the exertion, isn't tired. He weaves through the speeding shapes in the road without really registering what they are--odd rattling machines like train carriages, moving to and fro as if pulled at high speed by unseen cables. He's crossed into quieter areas away from the flaring lights almost faster than his own eyes can blink.
There are flashes of... well, not memory, then. Dreams. Horrible fancies. They could hardly be anything else, given what he sees--blood and carcasses and women screaming, howls of men with their throats torn out. Another woman, dressed in white, her frowning face and a voice echoing in his ears. "Your freedom is your desire," she says, and her hands are held out, palms up, like she wants to give him something, and she laughs. "Your desire is freedom. You have no choice. No escape."
Then he's on the ground again, face pushed into the soil in the middle of some park, and when he stands up again, swaying, he could almost have imagined himself, for a single brief second, to be home. If the lights weren't all wrong. And the shapes and sounds... this isn't his place. He's not dreaming. Or maybe he is. Of course. Dreaming. The kind of logic one always sees in dreams. Scenes shifting and blending and making no sense.
Which is why he doesn't bother to run again when another one of those odd conveyances appears in front of him, humming and growling like magnificent steam engine. It opens, its slick black surface not unlike the Oriental box, and a man steps out.
"You know, this is getting to be a habit," he says.
__________
The Center, Part 2
He wakes in an alley.
Or rather... it seemed like an alley, at first glance, when he opened his eyes. But it's too bright, really, for that, too full of thronging people. It surprises him only dimly, that he could be lying on the pavement in a public place, and crowds could still walk by. Hasn't he done the same, often enough, to beggars in the street? And there is something wrong with the way he feels, how he's dressed, that tells him that his situation is not normal. He did not just collapse on the way home or to work. He's--he feels numb, and chilly, like he's lain here for days. Cold. His limbs wrapped up in long sheets of leather, like a butcher's apron, work boots on his feet.
He can't remember, for the life of him, how he got here.
There's a woman, standing over him. Her jaws working, as if chewing a piece of tough meat. "You okay?" she asks, and gives him a quizzical look.
His own mouth works for a moment before he can answer her. "I-I'm not sure."
She shakes her head. Mutters something about "bad shit," which he does his best to ignore--her costume is so eclectic he has no real clue as to her status. She's wearing a gypsylike garment of black lace, long skirts sweeping the ground. Her eyes are heavily painted and jewelry weighs down her neck. For all he knows, she's a society woman on her way to some costume ball, unlikely as it seems. That idea fades, an instant later, when he manages to lever himself to his feet.
The place around him is... not familiar. More than that, it's wrong. There are lights brighter than any he's seen before, flashing colors everywhere, crowds pressing around in a confusing blur of distorted shapes. Loud rushing noises, hurtling objects in the road.
He's somewhere else. Not London. A foreign country, surely. He must have... fallen prey to kidnappers, shipped off to an unfamiliar shore. He's read of such things, but never dreamed that such could happen to him, and for a moment, he's overcome by pure despair.
Then, an instant later, he's exhilarated. There's fear, still, definitely that, but whoever his captors might be, he seems to have evaded them, escaped. His memory gives him nothing to work with at all, but surely it will come back to him, what's happened, what he's done. If anything, he feels proud--confused, but proud that whatever adversity he had to face to reach here, he's won through, still standing. And apparently on his own.
"You gonna answer that?"
The woman again. She's looking at him, still with that expression of worry.
"I'm sorry, Miss?" No idea what she's talking about. There's a shrill sound, somewhere near, teeth-rattlingly annoying, that just keeps repeating, like a muffled firehouse bell.
"Your phone? Dude, I really think you have a concussion or something," she says then, and makes a gesture at him, at his head. He lifts a hand to his forehead and it comes away bloody; further explorations show that he has trickles of blood down his neck too, and from his nose. Obviously he had to fight hard to win his freedom, and it's the strangest feeling, looking at the blood on his fingers. He's never been in a fight in his life. Not since childhood, at least, scuffles with schoolmates that ended in switchings for everyone, their bloodied noses no comparison for their sore and bleeding behinds. Now he's been in a fight and won, yet he can't remember it.
It's only when he pats down the long leather coat that he's wearing, looking for a handkerchief to wipe away the blood, that he discovers the source of the trilling sound.
A small object, of a hard material like tortoise shell. Black, like the carapace of a beetle, or the lacquer implements he's seen in exhibits from the Japans. Amazing material, really. Iridescent. And perhaps that's what this is, an Oriental box for holding a brush and ink. Then again, the buzzing sound makes him think of the insects of which the Chinese are supposed to be so fond, perhaps a cricket. But how did it come to be in his pocket? Something to do with his abduction?
He turns the object over, studies it from all sides, slides a nail along a thin seam until it opens, hands cupped around it to catch the insect as it falls out.
He nearly drops it when a voice emanates from it instead.
"Spike? What the hell's going on? Are you there?" Words tumble out of the box. He gapes at it, give it a little shake, unsure what to do. Glances at the woman still standing there, gives her a pleading look. Surely this is much of a shock to her as to him?
She sighs instead, and plucks the object from his hands. Puts it against her ear and begins to speak.
"Uh, hullo? Hey, your friend's having a seizure or something. Who, me? I'm just standing here. He's, like, bleeding and freaking out."
She is silent then, nodding. Speaks again, gives something like an address--it almost sounds like she says "King's Cross" and something about a station, but that hardly makes sense. He knows King's Cross. In London, anyway, but perhaps it's also a name used here. Wherever here is.
It occurs to him that the woman is somehow giving away his location. No clue why he's sure of this, but he is. He begins to feel very firmly that he should go.
"Wait!" she yells from behind him as he begins to edge away. "Hey, wait!"
He ignores her, and breaks into a run.
He doesn't actually expect to get far. His body hasn't felt right since he awoke, simultaneously too heavy and too light, but he's stunned by his own speed, rocketing through the swarms of people like an athlete on his fastest day. It makes no sense--he can't even feel the exertion, isn't tired. He weaves through the speeding shapes in the road without really registering what they are--odd rattling machines like train carriages, moving to and fro as if pulled at high speed by unseen cables. He's crossed into quieter areas away from the flaring lights almost faster than his own eyes can blink.
There are flashes of... well, not memory, then. Dreams. Horrible fancies. They could hardly be anything else, given what he sees--blood and carcasses and women screaming, howls of men with their throats torn out. Another woman, dressed in white, her frowning face and a voice echoing in his ears. "Your freedom is your desire," she says, and her hands are held out, palms up, like she wants to give him something, and she laughs. "Your desire is freedom. You have no choice. No escape."
Then he's on the ground again, face pushed into the soil in the middle of some park, and when he stands up again, swaying, he could almost have imagined himself, for a single brief second, to be home. If the lights weren't all wrong. And the shapes and sounds... this isn't his place. He's not dreaming. Or maybe he is. Of course. Dreaming. The kind of logic one always sees in dreams. Scenes shifting and blending and making no sense.
Which is why he doesn't bother to run again when another one of those odd conveyances appears in front of him, humming and growling like magnificent steam engine. It opens, its slick black surface not unlike the Oriental box, and a man steps out.
"You know, this is getting to be a habit," he says.