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original post here. dated 2014-01-05.

[A/N: Decided to do this “cross-post” as a recording. So it’s not technically just a cross-post, since there is now the added layer of audio.]

~

She used to think he was the dumbest, most overly trusting person she knew. It turns out that her idea of deep secret and his were just vastly different. She used to get so angry at him for telling other people the secrets she’d whisper to him, curled up together under the blankets. It never stopped her from sharing them with him, because she shared everything with him, but it was still annoying.

So she doesn’t know how to feel now. That she’s the first person he’s ever told the truth to is touching, it’s a warm feeling and an affirmation of her importance to him. That he’s been hiding this from her since the very beginning and only told her now, so late in their lives, hurts. It means that he didn’t really trust her before.

–

They find each other again, the earliest yet, and don’t notice the changes because their sight is blurred by tears of joy. He holds her close, arms wrapped around her waist, and she cradles his face in her hands. They press clumsy, eager kisses to each other’s faces, breathing each other in, sobs and laughter mingling, noses bumping. It’s messy and noisy and out of the blue and so happy it’s perfect.

He doesn’t have his beard anymore, or doesn’t have it yet, the skin under her hands smooth and soft. His hair is shorter, not the tangled, matted mess she knew. She’s heavier, or maybe he’s weaker, but the way he can’t feel her bones and the way she doesn’t seem like she’ll break with the slightest touch speaks otherwise.

It worked. It worked. Humanity is saved and those who remained had their lives torn apart, or erased, or restarted depending on who you asked. Five years in the future, they had met for the first time, fought over dwindling resources, promised the rest of their arguably short lives to each other. Then the Kronos project succeeded, and the small percentage of the population who had still been alive had woken up the next day to find that the end of the world hadn’t happened.

They knew each other as much as two people could; but they had never bothered to give each other their last names–what was the point when civilization was dead. Brief recollections of the past that was now the present, that was all they had to work with. And they finally found each other.

–

They have to prove themselves. Climb or play, those are the only options. Climb up a never ending cliff face until your arms feel like they’re falling off then keep climbing; or fall off yourself. The other choice is to play. To play a game against Death and all his friends. One game, one chance to win.

It’s not just one of them that has to do this–it’s both of them. They don’t have to speak or even look at each other to know what the other is feeling, just the tightening of their interlocked hands until they’re forced to separate.

She’s first which means the patch of earth he’s standing on shoots skywards so quickly that his shout of surprise is lost to her ears. On her other side a round table large enough for five sprouts from the ground, four of the seats already occupied. They look hungry; the cards sickeningly laid out. Climb or play.

She looks up, the pillar is too tall for her to see the top, to see him, but she knows he’s trying to see her too. He must be. He’ll have the same decision to face, after her. She chooses.

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Untitled (2015-05-11)

You are running. You are panting and there is a stitch in Your side. Your feet slap against the stones in a frantic rhythm.

Faster. Go faster.

You only have three minutes. They only gave You three minutes. That is all the time Your wish was worth. That is all the time Your life is worth.

You run faster.

“Stephanie!” You sob, eking out what is left in Your lungs.

The woman You love–the woman who You were chasing, the woman who You only have two minutes and fifteen seconds left with–turns. She is surprised to see You. She hasn’t seen You in five years.  

“Stephanie,” You say again, hands braced on Your knees as You try to catch Your breath. The bands around Your wrists are like manacles, despite their bright colors. They remind You that Your time is limited. That it is slipping away like water through Your fingers.

She looks at You with concern, and a little fear. You are sorry for frightening her, but You will say what you came here to say.

“I’m sorry,” You begin, and relief spreads across her face like a gentle wind.

“I love you,” You continue, and lightning quick, her expression turns to anger.

She readies herself to turn and walk away, but You are desperate. You stand up and reach out–but do not try to touch. You only have one minute and ten seconds left.

“I know you don’t love me any more. And I’m sorry I didn’t love you back then,” You blurt an apology again. Hoping that at least she will stay to hear You out.

She does, but the fire in her eyes remains.

“I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for loving me back then. Thank you for finding something in me that was worth loving.”

Suddenly Your heart aches; the vines of a creeping plant squeezing the life out of it. They are becoming impatient. You have thirty seconds left.

“I love you, and I am so grateful that once upon a time you loved me too. I know that nothing will come of this, but I wanted you to know–you are loved.”

She is confused; but before she can ask, They take You away.

Your body disappears. The brightly colored wrist bands are the last of You she will ever see.

~

A/N: In my mind it was connected to these posts, but it could be a stand alone. I tried to time it properly so it was three minutes exactly.

Also, obviously, I had Welcome to Nightvale on my mind.

Untitled (2015-05-08)

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Harry wakes up. Of course he does. If he didn’t, there wouldn’t be much of a story, now would there? Although, strictly speaking, it would be more accurate to say that Harry wakes up three times.

The first time is little more than his eyes blinking open for a few seconds, becoming aware of the beeping heart monitor and the blandness of his surroundings. He loses consciousness with knowledge that he is alive and in a hospital. It’s enough to give him a vague sense of hope.

The second time: he tries to breath on his own, chokes around the intubation, startles the nurse, and slips into unconsciousness before he can do much else.

The third time he wakes up properly. He also startles the nurse again. He then spends fifteen minutes sullenly sucking on ice chips while a tiny doctor scolds him. It’s not necessarily a pleasant experience, but it is very informative. He knows that following: along with a gunshot wound to the head, he had three broken ribs, major kidney damage, two stab wounds in thankfully non-vital body parts, and an entire tapestry of bruises. He is the only survivor of the Westboro church massacre.

He learns a lot of things over the next few days, but not much of it particularly helpful or comforting.

From the tiny television in the corner of his hospital room he learns that there had been a similarly strange sort of massacre on an international scale. But from the clipboard at the foot of his bed he knows that he was admitted the day before. From the John Doe filled in for name section, he didn’t have any sort of identification on him.

When he apologizes to the nurse for startling her–not just once, but twice–he learns that he speaks with an English accent. He is apparently apologetic or charming enough that she forgives him near-instantly, and brings him his things. Of which includes a broken pair of non-prescription glasses, an incredibly fancy suit, a gold-plated lighter but no cigarettes, and a fountain pen. Still no identification.

From his tiny, angry doctor he learns that the local police department were hit especially hard during the Valentine’s Day massacre. Nonetheless, there is always at least one guard–not always in uniform–sitting in the ICU waiting room, in sight of his room.

This is what he knows: He is the only survivor of the Westboro Church massacre. That, in itself, was the precursor for the Valentine’s Day massacre. He does not match any of the parishioners. He is the unknown subject of an active investigation to what could be the key to figuring out what exactly happened to make the world go homicidally insane.

His name is Harry.

He thinks he might have killed everyone in that church.

~

A/N: So I didn’t actually get to the part that I wanted to get to which is– Harry, amnesiatic criminal with a h(e)art of gold. Okay, let me explain: I’m listening to slashreport (the podcast by rageprufrock and mklutz) and there was a fic rec for a due South fic called Chicago’s Most Wanted by Speranza.

To start–I’m not in that fandom and I actually had this idea before I read the fic, solely from rageprufrock’s description of the fic. It was something along the lines of… Fraser gets amnesia and somehow comes to the conclusion that he’s a criminal mastermind. So he becomes a really fantastic, “hyper-competent” criminal and Ray Kowalski is trying to arrest him without hurting him because… well. It’s the pairing so I guess out of love.

And then I thought: Well, duh. I would like to see a Kingsman version of this.

But not like one of the lovely dark!Harry ideas I’ve read. Which, those are great, but they’re called dark!Harry for a reason. I want one in which… Harry is still a good guy but he’s a criminal. I mean, arguably, all of the Kingsman knights, being a vigilante group and all “not beholden to governments/laws,” are criminals. But I mean… I really would like for him to be still a gentleman and still a good, noble person. Of course he’s still ruthless, but it’s not unnecessary or over the top. Like more of a Leverage type of criminal than “dark.”

What I wrote isn’t necessarily the fic I want to read, but it’s the best way I could articulate myself. So it’s slightly fourth-wall breaking because parts of it is more outlining than actual prose. Also I wasn’t sure I could walk that edge between ruthless but criminal with a heart of gold… Not that I even got to that point. I guess what I wrote was the prequel to the fic I want to read…

… Aaaaaand my author’s notes are longer than the drabble. Ugh. Also, I don’t remember what the church was actually called. This was sloppy all around, I apologize.

Untitled (2015-05-03)

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The second time Joy meets Alvin, she can’t decide whether or not it’s a terrible nightmare or an elaborate ruse. Considering he thinks it’s the first time they’ve met, when in fact the first time they met he was trying to arrest her for stealing over twenty thousand dollars worth of jewelry while they were both using their alter egos, her reservation is valid. Silverfang and his vigilante friends failed in catching Jaguar that night, but that doesn’t mean Joy Guerrero has necessarily gotten off scott free.

Fortunately and yet, somehow simultaneously, unfortunately, her younger brother really is dating Alvin Chand. Which means that although she isn’t going to be arrested belatedly for her crimes, her personal and professional lives are going to intersect in rather uncomfortable ways.

“Joy,” Simon says, smiling, unaware of the inner turmoil he is causing in his older sister, “This is my boyfriend, Alvin.” Which is obvious, from the way their arms are threaded together like out of a period drama.

Alvin looks at her nervously, the same way any teenaged boy meeting his boyfriend’s family for the first time would look. Not like a vigilante trying to suss out if said family is a wanted burglar.

“It’s nice to meet you, Alvin,” She lies through her teeth, extending a hand for him to shake. And if her grip is particularly tight, then it’s just an older sister’s prerogative. She raised Simon herself, she’s allowed to be protective.

“Likewise,” Alvin responds, wincing slightly. More from a message received than from actual pain–Silverfang has super strength, Jaguar does not.

“Joy!” Simon scolds, knowing her too well, though secretly pleased enough not to do much else, “Let’s sit already,” he continues, leading the two of them to one of four table in the unimaginatively, but aptly, named Baker & Son’s Bakery and Cafe.

Mostly, the Guerrero siblings just call it the Bakery. In part, because the entire name is ridiculously redundant sounding, but also because the two of them have lived in one of the apartments in the upper floors since they were children. The Bakers are practically family.

As soon as they all sit, Aaron, the latest generation of Baker, eagerly makes his way over to them with a pad of paper and a bright purple crayon. He is four years old and his tiny apron has little cartoons of smiling cats. As it should, since Joy was the one to buy it for him as a birthday gift.

“Ms. Joy,” He beams up at her, delight obvious on his adorable face. His greeting for Simon is only slightly less bright, “Mr. Simon,” And his smile drops completely when he eyes at the third member of their party suspiciously, “Who are you?” Aaron pouts, though he’s likely aiming for a scowl.

Aaron’s father, observing from behind the counter, stifles a laugh.

“This is Alvin, my boyfriend,” Simon explains, which prompts said boyfriend to wave slightly with a slightly sheepish smile.

Aaron looks extremely skeptical, but quickly dismisses him to gaze adoringly at Joy instead.

“Are you our waiter today?” Joy asks, extremely amused by this entire exchange.

“Yes!” He chirps, pride evident on his cubbish face, “Daddy says I’m a good em-ploy-ee,” sounding out each syllable carefully.

“I’m sure you’re a big help,” She assures, Simon and even Alvin, grudgingly, making noises of agreements. Aaron’s smile really could not get any wider.

“I think I’ll have one hot chocolate and a… hm, what’s your favorite kind of muffin, Aaron?”

“Blueberry!”

“Then I’ll have one of those,” Joy responds, smile curling as Aaron’s purple crayon draws random scribbles on the notepad. Behind him, his father waves a hand in acknowledgement of the order.

“Ooh, me too. Except instead of a muffin I’d like two chocolate chip cookies, please.” Simon adds, before nudging his boyfriend’s shoulder, “What about you Alvin?”

~

A/N: This drifted away from me very quickly. Like… this is what happens when I don’t outline shit, it just goes off on a tangent and so long, goodbye, thanks for all the fish.

Untitled (2015-05-02)

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On Friday, Alex wears a white sundress to work. It’s an almost ludicrously gorgeous look. The dress is elegantly simple and highlights all of Alex’s best features: smooth dark skin, tapered waist, willowy limbs. He looks stunning. It makes Sam fall even more in love, which is impressive considering how embarrassingly in love zie was to begin with.

“I love casual Fridays,” Zie breathes out, catching it before it can become a full lovelorn sigh, for which hir station-mate charges hir a dollar. There is a jar full of ones and a fiver in the murky, disputed territory between the desks of their station. Neither of them want to claim it, because that means one of them would have to clean it.

Lee eyes hir suspiciously, before shrugging, letting the almost-transgression go, and turning back to her screen. Sam’s pretty sure she’s playing Minesweeper on her computer and just has consistently convenient timing on when to switch windows whenever their floor supervisor walks by. It’s tricks like those which make Lee the unofficial guru of their floor, and which ensures she always had food during lunch breaks even without her spending or preparing anything.

It’s rather unfortunate that Sam’s unrepentant crush on Alex had to increase today. Because while some of hir coworkers–such as Alex, and Lee in her own effortlessly fashionable high waisted jeans and floral blouse–decided to interpret casual in one way, Sam interpreted it in another. Hir sweats and ratty t-shirt seemed like a good idea at the time. By which zie means: zie had slept in and nearly been late, remembered it was casual Friday, and decided to wear hir pajamas to work.

Sam sighs.

“That’s a dollar,” Lee intones without looking away from her computer, mouse clicking away furiously. There’s no way she’s actually doing anything productive.

“That wasn’t because of him. That was because of my poor life choices!” Zie protests, rather loudly, causing everyone on their floor, including their supervisor and, oh god, Alex, to look bewildered in hir direction.

Despite Lee’s attempt to appear unfazed, Sam can see the dimple in her cheek which gives away her habit of biting her lip to prevent a smile. Sam does what any person would in the face of public embarrassment, and curls up to hide hir face from hir crush. And possibly slumps out of hir chair and onto the ground. While it doesn’t exactly cause the earth to swallow hir whole, their coworkers are mostly indifferent or desensitized to Sam’s ridiculousness, and so their attention fades away.

~

A/N: I didn’t know how to end it, or even where I wanted this to go, but I quite like it anyhow.

Untitled (2015-04-25)

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People stare at you. This is what happens when you are part of a dynasty; moreover, the only part not to contribute meaningfully in any way to said dynasty. And so you walk through the hallways, slouching along but head still held high, because sure you’re the useless one of the of the Michalis family but that still makes you a cut above the rest.

And so what? So what if two of your cousins were valedictorians, and you can hardly pass your basic chemistry classes? So what if one of your sisters is cheer captain, the other captain of whatever varsity sport the school is currently supporting, and you might be the only person to actually fail physical education? So what if your cousin, two years younger than you, not even properly a high school student yet, still has more clout in the school than you do? So what?

You’re not even the black sheep properly, because your younger sister has been in and out of detentions, suspended, threatened with expulsion (oh but never actually, because the school would never dare do that to a Michalis), and yet still manages to get looks of respect from the faculty instead of thinly veiled pity and disgust.

You’re a Michalis. It doesn’t matter if you’re the disgrace of the Michalis family. It doesn’t matter if that’s your only claim to fame. You’re a Michalis, and not even your failures can drag us down.

~

A/N: ahahaha… haha… ha… well… it started out as a sort of… be confident in yourself kind of thing? And then I was like… well… what if it weren’t? And that’s why the ending is so mean. Sort of based on real life in a very vague sense, so I guess it’s both fiction and nonfiction…

Untitled Kingsman drabble (2015-04-22)

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The king is dead.

Long live the king.

When it’s over, the Kingsman are down a king and at least four knights: Kay and Bedivere, having followed Arthur by way of exploded heads; Tristan, poisoned when he refused to join them. Galahad’s fate need not be brought up again.

Percival, at least, is alive and decidedly not evil, though Bors and Lamorak have yet to check in–whether unable or unwilling. This week has been a fucking terrible experience for all involved. If Merlin were one for tears, he’d be crying out of rage and grief and betrayal and frustration, because of course this is what he has to work with. Of course.

The king is dead.

Long live the king.

It’s not traditional, no, but nothing good about the Kingsman has been traditional lately. The good old boys have turned out to be rotten, cowards to the core, nothing like what a true knight should be. It took two rookies–one not even a real agent–to save the world, because Merlin didn’t know who else he can trust.

But Merlin is not a knight. Merlin was never a knight. Nor was he ever a king.

But Merlin was a kingmaker. And that? That’s something he can work with.

The king is dead.

Long live the king.

The Kingsman knights had originally started as freelance agents. Tailors suddenly with the means to bring about a world of peace. Or at least the means to try. They started out as servants and raised themselves up to knighthood, gradually forgetting that nobility was a matter of character not blood.

But Galahad remembered–manners maketh man, indeed. And his proposal had embodied that ideal of nobility–a pure heart, not aristocracy.

So it twists the mythos around a bit, but who is Merlin to disagree with his old friend?

Merlin was a kingmaker. And he knows who to make the king.

The king is dead.

Long live the king.

Merlin always hated that damn dog test anyway.

~
A/N: Ugh, I had these ideas but they came out all twisted in prose and I don’t know how to fix it. Also, rather shorter than I was hoping, but I wanted to get it out now.

Not that I actually want it, but this is Arthur!Eggsy basically. And he, with Merlin and Lancelot!Roxy (and I wanted to somehow include a “Guinevere” in the sense that they are in charge of PR/Finance… like… they’re the ones that actually get clients? Maybe the heiress “target” right before the train tracks test) revolutionize/fix Kingsman. I dunno.

Obviously, I watched Kingsman. I retract what I said in my last post. After having fallen into the fandom my eyes are now open. While I’m still not at multiple theater-going level of love, I’m definitely in the eagerly waiting for the DVD level.

Cross-Post: Untitled (Thurs 8 Nov)

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original here. dated 2012-11-08.

[A/N: apparently I remembered this enough to do this related drabble in January]

~

None of them know where they are when they wake up. This, at the very least, they can trust each other in. Beyond that, though, it’s every person for themselves.

Well, every pair for themselves. They’ve been instructed to create partnerships, and none of them want to end up like that poor idiot who rebelled. He had been disintegrated. All that remained of him, the two coloured wrist bands everyone had. It’s another thing they woke up to and were forced to accept. She has one blue and one green, her partner–a boy several years younger than her–has red and yellow.

He hasn’t told her his name, she hasn’t told him hers, so she supposes they’re even. She’s not sure if it’s because they’re both waiting the inevitable moment when whoever has them playing this sick game makes them turn on each other. Regardless, on the likely chance either of them dies, neither of them wants to get attached; though perhaps that’s an effort doomed to fail from the start. She calls him Robin in her head (and that one time he got hit by an opposing team’s attack).

Now they’re sitting in a rickety wooden boat in the middle of a slow moving river. She’s created a mist around them, a fog so thick even she’s having some trouble seeing him two feet away. He’s turned off the fireball in his right hand, though, just in case. No need to alert them to the enemy. Neither of them are particularly good at offensive magic–though you’d think the opposite would be true with Robin’s combination of fire and lightning. The team currently after them, on the other hand, is. She has the bleeding leg wound to prove it.

“Just a mild shock, we don’t want to hurt any of the slower ones.” She’s talking about the swans living in the reeds of the riverbanks. Vicious creatures.

He nods in agreement, but he keeps staring at her leg. His fire magic manifests as support-type skills; light, warmth, healing. Not exactly what she was hoping for when she originally created the partnership, but she doesn’t regret it.

The other team splashes noisily into the river–from what she can recall, neither of them had a blue wristband, it’s not a fake out. It’s time to spring the trap. With her left hand, the one with the green wristband, she makes the reeds and other plants along the riverbanks rustle and shake. Enough to startle the nesting swans into a confused rage. At the same time, Robin uses his yellow-encircled hand to send a shockwave along the water, hopefully stunning or paralyzing the enemies. She freezes the surface after that, enjoying the sounds of angry swans attacking their hunters.

His part complete, Robin has already begun using his right hand to burn and tear off the section of trouser fabric necessary to access the wound. Luckily it’s not too high up, but everything below her left knee has to be scrapped. Her head is spinning. She thinks it may be from blood loss. Nonetheless, she keeps using her own ability to propel the tiny boat further upstream silently.

When they first woke up, there were over one hundred of them. But once the rules were announced, and people paired up and turned on each other, their numbers swiftly dropped. She thinks there are maybe less than twenty now. To some extent, she and Robin have been lucky–with her abilities they’ve managed to hide from the majority of the fighting, with his they’ve managed to survive off the wilderness.

Neither of them have the stomach to kill someone, though it’s starting to look they’ll have to soon enough. The teams that have lasted this long do for a reason, for a reason different from hers and Robin’s.

The scent of burning flesh hits her before the sting of healing. She sucks a breath between her teeth, this is the third time in as many days she’s had to go through this. It’s for the best, though, her abilities lean towards traps and evasion–she doesn’t know much about healing. He looks worried, this is not something they need right now.

“Hey,” She’d reach out to give him a reassuring shoulder clap if she could, but one hand is in the water while the other grips tightly, white knuckled into the bench. “Hey,” she repeats, so that he’ll look her in the eye, “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise you, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you survive this. Okay?”

He doesn’t say anything. He frowns briefly, but she assumes that the grip tightening around her calf means he understands.

~

They were chosen because, apparently, all of them had some magical potential. They were obligated to participate because all of them had a wish granted. Sort of.

He wanted to know more about his mother. She had died in childbirth, something that still haunts his father though he’s always been quick to assure that it was Not Your Fault. But he doesn’t know much about his mother besides that. It’s not exactly something that has determined his life, though there’s always been that aching, isolated feeling, but he knew exactly what to ask for when the wish was offered.

He blacked out immediately after. They hadn’t even granted his wish before he woke up in this messed up tournament. They duped him. Or at least, that’s what he originally thought. But now he isn’t so sure.

Something about Batgirl–his partner has blue and green wristbands, BG (he’s always been a huge DCU fan, always assigns himself the role of Robin)– something about her makes him reconsider. She’ll say something, or make a reference, that he doesn’t quite get. It can’t be the age difference, they’re maybe only five years apart at most, but unless she’s got an obsession with the pop culture and fashion from two decades ago there’s a lot more at play here. He just can’t believe what he’s thinking.

“What did you wish for?” In between bouts of violence and running scared for their lives, there are long lulls of nothing. Conversation is one of the few things they can do to keep themselves entertained and mildly sane.

“I didn’t wish for anything.”

What?

“My sister did, but they said she was dying. They said they couldn’t grant it, so I volunteered to pay her debt. Of course, I don’t actually know if they’ll follow through since basically as soon as I volunteered I woke up here. But I assume both of them are okay.”

“Both of them?”

“Yeah, my sister and her kid. I don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl. We couldn’t get to the hospital on time, there was some sort of traffic accident, and I think also some sort of complication, but if I’m here that means they must have both made it.”

“What was your sister’s wish?” He thinks he knows the answer. He thinks his original hypothesis was wrong–he wishes his new idea is wrong too.

“For her child to live, healthy and unharmed.”

Cross-Post: Untitled (Mon 15 Oct)

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original here. dated 2012-10-16.

~

During the night I woke up three times cold, paranoid, and heart pumping with adrenaline. Each time I lay back down to sleep I decided whether or not I wanted to continue this nightmare, for surely that’s what it was. From a narrative stance, it was one of my more entertaining dreams, but experiencing it in real time was one of the worst. I kept going, because I wanted to know the ending. I kept going, because I wanted to know the beginning.

I had committed a heinous crime. I’m quite sure it involved multiple accounts of murder, for there had been flashes of gore and blood and limbs all around what looked like a police station. There were also two missing people–a police officer and his son–the public was unsure if they were alive or dead. And so was I.

In my dream, I had woken up with a head injury, amnesia, and my picture being shown on all major news channels as a dangerous fugitive. I had no idea what I had done or why I had done it. All I knew was that I was being chased, and I couldn’t be caught. It was dark, my coat covered in blood, and I didn’t know where I was or where I was going.

The dream featured a number of people from my real life, faces I had merely seen in passing and family and friends. It was interesting to see who fell on which side–the side to help me escape or the side that would turn me over to the authorities with my memories still lost.

One of my sisters, I was surprised and almost betrayed to see, was on the side of the law–hunting me down with a pair of what were her old teammates. While they had been viciously and sadistically enjoying the chase (we had never gotten along in high school), my sister seemed almost sorry for what she was doing. It wasn’t her fault: firstly, she was a bounty hunter, it was her job. But more importantly, she was my sister, if I had really become the remorseless kidnapping and murdering monster that I appeared, it was her duty to bring me in herself. She almost caught me.

I woke up; heart racing, somehow cold while still being strangled by my blankets. The white noise my roommate played, once irritating, now calmed me. I was not running for my life, lost. I wanted to know what happened next.

My childhood best friend somehow managed to find me and help, despite how disoriented and afraid and mistrusting I was. She rescued me from the metaphorical hounds at my heels, running alongside me despite the danger it must have put her in. She couldn’t fill me in much, only that I had called earlier, before I had lost my memory, asking for a favor. “Anything,” she recalled to me, “I said you could ask for anything.” But the situation looked terrible. “Anything,” she repeated.

The me that called her, that remembered, had instructed her to bring me to an inn called The Sleeping Swan. My childhood best friend had enlisted the help of her father–physically frail and elderly, but still quite the hellion–as a hilariously effective getaway driver, pushing the blue minivan to it’s limits as I changed out of bloodstained clothing in the back. The police was still on my trail, make no doubt about it, but this ridiculous minivan was a fragile bubble of relief.

Soon enough we were skidding to a stop outside of the inn. That was as far as my childhood best friend and her father went. Because that was as far as I would let them go. Thanking them again, so much; please be safe. They parroted the words back, though just as concerned if in a different way. I wondered, briefly, where my current best friend was; if she would appear at some point in this madness. We said our goodbyes, because we knew we would never see each other again.

The Sleeping Swan was simultaneously a trap and not. The phone call had been monitored, and a pair of federal agents were lying in wait for me to arrive. One of them, who I now recognize from one of my classes, was desperate for my arrest–he needed to prove himself, needed the glory from being the hero to stop the villain that I had been portrayed as. The other, based off a friend living on the floor above me, was actually there to help. Me, that is.

The common area was crowded–I must have been pulling images from movies; the rowdiness of a medieval tavern, but the design of a fairly nice hotel lobby–but I was still able to find her. Her outfit I remember clearly, because it’s one I’ve actually seen her wear: a no-nonsense black skirt suit with an electric blue, cheetah patterned scarf. She sat pristinely on a white sofa, I went to sit across from her.

She couldn’t speak for long, she told me, “My partner’s waiting for a signal, and I can’t stall forever. I have some things to give you, some details I couldn’t print out, but I’ve emailed them to a dummy account. The details are here,” She handed me a hastily scribbled card and an envelope, “The others have made it safely to the meeting point, they’re so grateful. I am, too. You’re very brave for doing this on your own, hang in there, you can do it.”

I wanted to ask her, because she seemed to know, what I had done. Why did she think was brave or even vaguely good when everyone was being told otherwise? Who were the others? But before I could, her partner stormed in and shot me with his gun.

I jolted upright, gasping, my limbs flailing out in defence. I punched the wall, my knuckles still hurt. I have read somewhere that when your sleeping pulse drops too low, your brain thinks it’s dying and so shocks you awake. I was so paranoid, so afraid, I was still feeling the effects of being hunted. I needed to know what happened next.

I was lucky he wasn’t a particularly good shot, though it still burned as it grazed my side. The other people scattered, as did the agent across from me–she couldn’t help me if she were caught or shot. I’ve always been pretty good at weaving through crowds, a trait that served me well in the dreamworld. He was larger and so couldn’t follow easily, but he was still in front of the exit, so I had to go further in. I spotted a door hidden under the stairwell everyone else was going up–so I went down.

For some reason, I knew that The Sleeping Swan was run by a pair of brothers. Their mother was the owner, a lonely and somewhat senile old lady who lived in the basement. Which is where I went. She was very nice, looked like the ladies I see everyday on my walk to school; she was willing to loan me some bandages to wrap my wounds and her sons’ clothing. She let me borrow her dinosaur of a computer, which thankfully had internet even though it must have been the slowest connection in the world.

It was so slow. Agonizingly slow. The agent chasing me had already cleared the upper levels, and I heard him questioning the brothers–it was obvious where he was headed next. It was nerve-wracking, waiting for the information I so desperately needed to load on the screen. His steps were noisy on the wooden stairs, too close! The email finally came through; luckily the message was short, but it was still the key to the papers inside the envelope I was sure. That’s when the agent came crashing through the door.

I panicked. He shot in my direction, not only missing me entirely but also hitting the old computer tower. Still panicking, I threw a quick thanks and sorry to the owner and crawled through the window at the top of the room through a lovely bed of flowers. I just barely fit; the agent wouldn’t be able to follow my route, but I still had to keep moving.

I walked for the longest time. Walked is probably the wrong word. I scurried and ducked and hid and sidled until the sun was up. Then I kept going until I got hungry. I figured a fast food restaurant would be safest, they wouldn’t pay attention to customers’ faces especially this early in the morning. I ordered a quick breakfast meal and took a seat away from the windows; multitasking by going through the envelope and eating. Some cash, a bus ticket, a map, a photo.

The photo felt familiar, a man and a boy. I wondered where I had seen it before when the news on the tiny television mounted on the wall showed the same photo in my hand. They were the missing police officer and his son. It was a story about me. It was then that I learned what I was being accused of, the footage showed the graphic and terrible remains of a police station. They had yet to identify all of the remains, they were not too sure how many victims there were. It was a bloodbath.

I didn’t understand how I could have done that. I’m squeamish and pacifistic and rather weak, to be honest. Logistically, I shouldn’t have been able to go up against what seemed like multiple trained police officers and rend them limb from limb on my own. Perhaps that was it. There were others, accomplices to my murder-spree, or perhaps I was the accomplice to their murder-spree. And what of the missing officer and his son? Why would I be given their photo, and where were they?

The employees of the fast food restaurant were starting to murmur, looking at me, at the phone. It was time to leave. Quickly, but unhurriedly. Wouldn’t want to be obvious. As I made my way down the street as subtly as I could, I noticed a hair salon. I heard sirens in the air–decision made. Five hundred, I offered, for a quick shave and a wig and discretion. They complied.

I wasn’t that far from the marked out point on the map–at the edge of the next town over, presumably the bus station for the ticket. But between there and my current location, was an empty stretch of road; pedestrians were unusual, and it was heavily monitored to prevent speeding. How would I get there without the authorities seeing me?

The answer was: I didn’t. Hesitating confusedly on a sidewalk was apparently some kind of signal for a group of armed robbers to hold me hostage in their getaway pickup truck. Forced to get into the truck’s bed, I simultaneously praised and cursed my luck–praised because, on the one hand, I was being brought to my destination. On the other hand, it was at gunpoint. In this nightmare, guns and I had an odd relationship, different from the one I have with guns in the real world. I apparently was raised being taught gun safety and care, could shoot a handgun or a rifle with ease and accuracy since my teen years, but was nonetheless scared witless of them. Just something about the look of them freaked me out and I–those were not real guns. I was being held up at fake gunpoint!

Well, in that case. I kicked a foot out towards the robber in the back with me, catching him in the ribs. Startled he dropped his fake rifle. Even if it was fake, in that I couldn’t shoot anything with it, it could still be used as a weapon. Grabbing the prop by the muzzle, I swung it at the closest of my captors who, for some reason, responded by jumping out of the truck. While we were still moving. The driver, startled, swerved and braked kicking up a cloud of dust, while the passenger turned to deal with me. I jabbed him in the face with the end of the rifle, intending to break his nose, but only succeeding in pushing his head back.

I could see the bus station not that far away, surprisingly large for a small town. I could probably run to it, if the police prioritized the robbers over the mass-murderer. Unlikely. The passenger, who I identified as a grown up version of one of my elementary school bullies, opened his door to step out. A plan forming quickly in my mind, I swung as hard as I could to knock him out; cathartic and practical. Grabbing his handgun, his very real handgun, I jumped into the cab of the truck holding the driver at gunpoint. All of this, from hostage to hostage-taker took less than two minutes. I demanded him to drive, if he knew what was good for him and his friends. He could backtrack to pick them up, if he was fast enough he might even beat the police on his trail.

“You’re crazy,” he screamed, perhaps finally recognizing me from the news or panicking at being on the other side of a gun, but obeying nonetheless. The sirens were drawing closer, the authorities no longer hesitating upon seeing two of their now-unarmed-robbers lying prone on the ground.

As we neared the bus station, I could see two police cruisers standing guard–probably the only available perimeter. Okay, plan change necessary. The driver kept going, possibly fear overruling his logic, and we were about to crash into the cruisers. I pulled the trigger, in reflex he stepped on the brake, and we skidded to a halt less than a foot in front of the shaking cops. The smoking hole in the upholstery and the gun placed strategically next to the driver would have to be enough, shoddy as it was. I opened the truck door, falling to the ground, asphalt biting into my hands. Quickly getting to my feet, I ran. Straight into the nearest cop.

I woke up again. Muscles tense, afraid but determined. There was no way I was going to just leave it there.

Strands of hair from the wig obscured my face, making me look frenzied, fearful. Excellent. “Please, he has a gun, I’m so scared,” I sobbed, laying it on thick. If I had misjudged, if they were suspicious, if they recognized me, then I had literally put myself into their hands.

Fortunately, though, they believed me. The one I had run into ushering me to sit in the back of his cruiser as his colleagues bravely, but unnecessarily, made their way around the truck with their guns at the ready. “I’m sorry, could I. Do you have any water?” He reassured me and made his way to the trunk. I just needed him preoccupied so I could make the five hundred yard dash to the bus station, he was old, embarrassingly pot-bellied–the spitting image of my former landlord–I easily outran him.

The bus station was crowded enough that I could easily hide myself amongst other people. I hid behind a fake tree, disposing of the wig, and my shirt (thankfully wearing an undershirt), and donning a pair of sunglasses poking out of someone’s bag. The bus tickets I was given specified a platform but not a time. Making my way to platform seven, I cautiously approached the driver, unsure what I would say about my flawed ticket.

An announcement went on the PA system overhead, “Attention please, do not be alarmed, we are looking for a woman…” I didn’t hear the rest of it, I froze staring at the bus driver because there was no way I could get out of this. Instead, she just smiled and gestured for me to come on board. Pressing a hand to my shoulder, she guided me up the steps, following after me. There were only seven of us on board, including the bus driver, but she started up the engine and pulled out of the station calmly and unhindered. Soon enough, we made our way out of the small town and on the open road.

I still didn’t know if I was safe or not. I curled up in my seat, cheek pressed against the window. I was so sick of this, so tired. I couldn’t keep this up.

“Are you okay?” The seat next to me creaking with someone’s weight.

“I don’t know where this bus is going,” I said. I don’t know what I’m doing, I thought.

“Does it matter? We can go wherever we want, now. Do whatever we want.”

That was a weird answer, I looked over to see a familiar teenager–the police officer’s son! “The news says you’re missing!”

“Yeah, and it also says you’re a crazy mass-murderer who somehow single-handedly tore apart fourteen people without any weapons. I know you’re pretty badass, but we helped too. I mean, thanks for taking the heat, we were worried you weren’t going to make it… are you okay?” He repeated because I was crying and now the other passengers were gathering. And I knew them, I finally knew what was happening. Because these were my friends, in my dream, the ones who I had committed some a heinous crime with and for. I spotted my current best friend, my last roommate, the barista from my local cafe, my economics professor, the bus driver now recognizable as a family friend. All of them disguised as strangers on a bus.

“Dad, come here! You’re being ungrateful,” the teenager yelled towards the man seated in the corner; the missing police officer. I turned to look as well, and someone grabbed my chin keeping my head still. Fingers tracing the sore spot on my head that I had been pushing against the cool glass, “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” And I still don’t.

Cross-Post: Untitled (Fri Mar 16)

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

original here. dated 2012-03-16

~

He’d saved her because what else could he do? He hadn’t been good enough to save his sister or his annoying brother-in-law, but the least he could do was save their daughter. His niece.

“Saved” in the loosest sense of the term. He had been too late to save her from the burning rubble costing her her legs, from the smoke inhalation that ruined her lungs, from the flames that grilled her skin and eyes. Without him, she would have had to wait another ten minutes for the fire brigade and she wouldn’t have survived that long.

Of course, without him, her pleasant childhood in the suburbs wouldn’t have been obliterated by a bomb meant to teach him a lesson.

She’s now under his guardianship; he wouldn’t abandon her again, but the agency won’t let him go either. He’s not necessarily their best nor is he irreplaceable, but it’s much easier to take care of a handicapped little girl than to find and train another loyal agent.

She grows up in that sterile room in headquarters. They give her an education but put her on media blackout. They provide rehabilitation but deny her freedom. He hates going to visit her, but he would hate himself more if he didn’t.

Then he gets shot in the chest. He’s lucky it was from a turncoat agent in headquarters, near enough to a state of the art infirmary, near enough to a genetically viable replacement heart. Lucky in the loosest sense of the term.

“They said you were going to be up and about soon,” The cardiopulmonary bypass machine is a glaringly obvious addition to her room.

“Why would you…” Because they’re not that kind of family. Because he knows that he might have saved her, but he also ruined her. Because that bomb and that fire had destroyed almost everything, her parents, her childhood, her life, her dreams (she had wanted to be an artist once, before she lost her ability to dance and her lovely voice and her love for painting). Almost everything, because it had left her heart alone.

He keeps ruining her. Now he has a heart too small, and she doesn’t have a heart at all.