DISCLAIMER AND LEGAL STUFF: Digimon: Digital Monsters and its universes are not mine; they are the property of Toei, Saban and Bandai. I've simply distorted them for my own evilishly evil designs, (bwa ha ha ha haaa! Ahem.) This fic is AU, so be warned. The inspiration for it will become clear later on. So blatantly so that I'm not even going to mention it here, as it would totally spoil the plot at this stage. Any plagiarizing will severely displease me, so also be warned on this front. An angry Scribbler is a dangerous Scribbler.
AUTHORS' NOTES: I'm back. As promised, here is the fic I said I'd release absolutely *months* ago. I'm really sorry it took so long, but I made that promise in good faith (or at least, before I got completely buried in coursework!) As it is, this is still a work in progress at the moment, but I figured I might as well release it anyway to see people's reaction. Please be nice. PLEASE!!!! I'm currently working on several different fics at once, so updates may be a little slow. To make them go faster, please review this and my other fics too. More reviews=happy Scribbler=more worky=more updates. See, there is logic in there somewhere.
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March 2002
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"Fate and Destiny" By Scribbler
Chapter One ~ "When Time Moves Slowly"
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We are condemned to kill time, thus we die bit by bit. -- Octavio Paz
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Sherlock Holmes laid on his back, staring at the stars, a thoughtful expression playing about his face. He'd been this way for some time now, the same pensive look gracing his aging features throughout. Around him, the grassy knoll on which he rested had taken on an almost ethereal air beneath the light of the moon, which hung satiated and bulbous against the rich, dark backdrop of the night-sky.
His clothes making a loud rustling in the silence that only the light of a full moon can create, Holmes rolled over and tried to wake his sleeping companion. The bundle next to him only gave a low groan, however, and curled up into an even tighter ball as a result. Holmes' expression switched to one of slight annoyance, and his nudges suddenly became a lot less gentle. With a snort, the figure beside him jolted back to reality with a bump.
Holmes whispered conspiratally, his tone somewhat introspective and brooding. "Doctor Izumi, can you do me a favour? Look straight up and tell me, what do you see?"
His redhead companion blinked, driving slumber from his dark eyes and attempting to focus on what the older man said. "What do I see?" He repeated, and then hurried on, not wishing to look like he was procrastinating. "Well.... I see stars, Holmes. Billions and billions of stars."
Doctor Izumi sensed this wasn't the answer his friend was looking for. Then, suddenly, an idea struck him. He smiled complacently, smug in the knowledge that may finally be able to demonstrate his intellect in the presence of the illustrious Sherlock Holmes, without being upstaged by his comrade. The boy only wished there could have been others to witness it instead of merely the detective and himself.
"When you think about it, it makes one feel rather insignificant, really. I mean, if there are billions of stars out there, then surely somewhere, somehow, there are other suns like ours. And if there are other suns, then surely there must be other solar systems too. And if there are both suns and solar systems, then maybe there might be life out there as well. Who knows? Perhaps there may be sentient life forms - like humans. And if there are creatures like these, then what's to stop them from maybe being more intelligent and technologically advanced than we are? For all we know, they could easily be on their way here right now, at this very moment, preparing to conquer and enslave the entire of mankind! They may be about to make all homo-sapiens number one on the menu when they turn Earth into a giant restaurant for their huge, pustule-encrusted leaders, and there wouldn't be a thing that we - or anybody else for that matter - could do to stop them! So, when one considers the possibilities, if one looks up into the heavens at eventide, then one may actually be looking upon a portent of their own doom at the hands of extraterrestrial creatures!"
Silence followed this little outburst, and after a few minutes of this Doctor Izumi began to wonder whether Holmes had even acknowledged what he'd said. Perhaps I've finally done it! The younger boy thought hopefully. Perhaps I've actually got one over on him. Maybe Sherlock's having a hard time keeping up with my razor sharp wit! Maybe....
However, the elderly gentleman then decided to turn over to look at his younger companion. A vaguely disparaging expression hovered about his visage, but when he spoke his voice was smooth, filled with the trademark ennui for which he was so famous.
"Well done, Izumi. But I'm afraid you're completely wrong."
"What?" The red haired male was incredulous. "But.... but I've done everything you ever taught me to do. I looked for the evidence, hypothesized and dictated my hypotheses accordingly. What could I possibly have done wrong?"
"Izumi, you did very well in what you observed. However, you failed to discern the most important aspect of your hypotheses." Replied Holmes in a gratingly dispassionate manner. Izumi's blood boiled at this.
"And what might that be?" He gritted, trying hard not to snap at his blasé cohort. The older man looked at his neo counterpart, eyes full of a kind of pity mixed with antipathy at his ignorance.
"Izumi, somebody's stolen our tent."
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With a cough and an ungracious amount of snorting, Izzy Izumi returned to the land of the waking with a jerk. Such a jerk, in fact, that he tumbled off the edge of the bed - which he was balanced precariously on - to land in an unceremonious heap on his bedroom floor. The teenage boy struggled for a moment, a mass of flailing limbs and duvet covers, before finally extricating himself from the ensnaring swathes, red-faced and breathless. He paused for a second, as if trying to remember where he was. All at once, an expression of sleepy comprehension spread across his pale face, and he blew a stray lock of unruly red hair from his eyes in an attempt to restore some amount of normality to his actions.
It was just a dream, he silently perceived. The inside of his mouth felt somewhat like an ashtray, and he swallowed several times in an attempt to disperse the unwanted flavour. I really shouldn't have had that cheese sandwich before I went to bed.
A large yawn proceeded to stretch Izzy's mouth to gigantic proportions, indicating that, while his brain was awake, his body wasn't so ready to return to the world yet. Slowly and deliberately, the boy extracted himself from the chaotic bedclothes, returning them haphazardly to the mattress with a quick heave. His body followed suit, flopping down with a tired sigh atop the quilt. He was too hot to bother climbing under them, which was fairly ironic since it was mid-November.
For what seemed like hours the insomnia-stricken youth lay there in that position, willing slumber to come claim his weary mind. Yet despite his efforts, he remained firmly fixed in the stifling silence of the night, the odd yawn attacking his features but doing ultimately nothing to alleviate the tiredness that beleaguered him.
Finally, with a sigh, Izzy resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't going to get to sleep any time soon. The thought of making an exodus to the kitchen downstairs briefly crossed his mind, but he immediately rejected the idea, both because he didn't particularly want another bizarre dream as the result of ingesting more disagreeable food, and also because he didn't wish to wake either of his parents. One had to pass their door in order to reach the stairs, but the way was littered with creaky floorboards, which seemed to acquire invisible loudspeakers when stepped on at night.
All the rooms in this place creak, the youth mused dumbly to himself, as he traced the contours of the headboard irksomely with his eyes. Even the bathroom squeaks.
It's probably because it's an old house, a sensible voice at the back of his mind surmised. All old buildings have one or two singularities thanks to their age. It's only natural that this one would be the same.
Izzy sighed, conscious that he was having a conversation with a voice in his head. To disperse the idea that the heat was driving him insane, the thin teen crawled off the bed and crept over to the French windows leading out onto his rather spacious loggia. Pushing them gently, he opened the door that had been left ajar earlier that evening, tiptoeing silently out onto the balcony beyond. Draping slender hands over the wrought iron railings, he allowed the cool breeze to gently caress his face and neck, revelling in the mitigating draughtiness upon his perspiration-coated brow.
Peace reigned over the ancient house. A quiescence not usually perceived by the ears of humans, so wrapped up in their own thoughts they miss the tranquillity of the world around them - especially at night. Izzy basked luxuriously in the balmy stillness, inhaling each soothing zephyr as if it were the elixir of life - which is exactly what they seemed like after the intense stuffiness of his bedroom.
He didn't know how long he stood there; such was the relaxing serenity encasing him. But when a rather noxious smell touched the inside of his nostrils the boy was abruptly returned to reality by his outraged snout. Sliding weary eyelids open - which he hadn't even realised were closed - Izzy clapped a hand over his nose and mouth in an attempt to stave off the acrid stench pervading the night air. This did little to help, however, and he coughed slightly as the offensive tang caught in his throat - only stopping when he remembered that his parents' balcony was only a few feet away, and that the window to their bedroom was also ajar.
The red haired teenager cast his dark eyes upwards, tracing the uneven shape of the hill his sprawling house rested adjacent to. Monato Research Centre loomed huge on the horizon, its appearance magnified by the multitude of sparkling stars dotted around it. The ugly building was sheathed in shadow, almost reflecting the disturbing rumours that surrounded the company itself. Izzy shivered inadvertently as his unoccupied mind idly recalled the rumours so flippantly thrown around by his classmates and elders alike.
Monato Research Corp. was a constant hot topic on any grapevine in the entire country. It was true that they dealt with genetic experiments - but after the great scientific uprising this wasn't exactly an unusual occurrence - however, the secretive nature of their work - and the Director himself - lent itself to the mind of any gossip lacking in new fodder. Numerous were the stories of bizarre activities within the huge number of Research Centres throughout the nation, often involving the enigmatic man and his reclusive private life. Most were firmly rooted in fiction, and one had to take a large pinch of salt with any rumour casually flung about as was prone in this scandal-hungry society.
Yet beneath the verbal flab, many people suspected there was a grain of truth attached to the tales of the MRC. The company was well established and highly respected in all scientific rings, but it was common knowledge of the terrible things which had been an adjunct to their rapid rise to glory.
The company itself wasn't very old - at least, not when compared to many of the other esteemed research conglomerates - but had turned out such new and innovative advances during its sixteen-year history that it had overtaken most competitors within the first few years of being established. The vast majority of citizens walking around with bionic limbs, or non-surgical cosmetic treatment, had received it from one or more of the MRC private hospitals, and there was even tell of some forms of cancer-cures spawning from MRC research programmes at centres just like the one overlooking the Izumi household.
Izzy contemplated the intimidating structure through discerning eyes. He didn't believe any of the tales concerning MRC, not that he was ever asked his opinion on such matters. He'd lived here for five months now, and still he was ignored and treated like the new kid at school, to be taunted and sneered at; left to sit alone at lunch, then return to a lonely house afterwards and be disregarded once more by his inattentive parents. Mr. And Mrs. Izumi were so busy with their own careers and social-gathering-filled existences that they had little time for their curious offspring, and most evenings Izzy could be found hunched over his computer completing yet another one of the self-imposed projects he'd created to fill his time. He didn't care though, he'd much rather be dissecting an algorithm or fresh software program then hanging out doing nothing. Or so he told himself.
Secretly, Izzy had always suspected that he'd been an accident. That his parents had never really wanted him. A nanny had been employed to look after him from birth, paid for by his parents' immense salaries, and he'd been subjected to different carers all his fifteen years. Nobody ever really concerned themselves as to what the reticent boy thought of the whole thing, and even if he had spoken out, Izzy doubted anybody would actually heed his words and make any major changes to suit him. But he was used to it. Having two lawyers as parental units, he knew this sort of thing was to be expected, and it was better he just went along with it then cause a fuss. Just like when they'd moved here, to Odaiba. The red haired boy hadn't wanted to leave his old haunts around their previous home, but his mother and father's decision to set up a legal practice at this juncture had overruled his insignificant wishes. Just like always.
Another blast of elegant fumes belched from twin titanic chimneys either side of the imposing Centre, and the dark-eyed boy wrinkled his nose at the putrid smell elicited. He still wasn't used to the stench, but he'd barely been accustomed to the noise of the airport next to their preceding dwelling before they left, nor the railway-line at the apartment before that. At least this place compensated by being spacious and sumptuous. Well.... as sumptuous as one can expect from a hundred-year-old house - though he had to admit, the garden was fairly overgrown. No gardener had been employed as of yet, since establishing the new practice had eaten almost all of his parent's time and effort. Izzy idly wondered whether they were even going to bother with such a triviality. It would be more like them to just concrete over the whole thing and have done with it. If they hadn't been so intent on moving immediately they probably would have waited until a more suitable, less neglected house came on the market, but circumstances had dictated they live here at Bluebird Hall, much to Mrs. Izumi's patent disgust.
"It's cold, it's full of damp, and my footprints leave craters in the dust!" She'd exclaimed the moment they arrived. It had taken quite a while for her husband to mollify her enough to even venture into the remaining part of the building, and the chic woman had been quick to fence off most of the construction as uninhabitable.
Izzy heaved a long sigh. It was so lonely out here, away from the rest of the town. Not that he particularly liked Odaiba - in his opinion, it was a rather poky little place full of self-opinionated, unfriendly people - but still, Bluebird Hall was very cut-off. He had to catch three buses just to get into the metropolitan area, then another two to reach the school. Some days he just didn't bother, and returned home as soon as he was sure that his parents would be gone to work. He'd nearly been caught twice, and it always resulted in detention when he couldn't explain his absence. Yet still, he kept doing it. There was nothing for him there; just endless faces which goaded him, then turned away when he tried to be sociable. Even the teachers were foul, using him as a scapegoat and target for their frustration. Ever since the new teaching reforms came in, educators had become veritable bundles of brewing dissatisfaction, and the taciturn new boy provided them with a perfect object on which to vent their resentment. Izzy was thankful that they hadn't reintroduced the cane here. They had at his last school, and he still held a thin scar on his palm where the whip-like rattan had sliced his skin. The red haired youth shuddered as he recalled the expression on the teacher's face when the scarlet line had appeared in the strike's wake. Joy, spreading across his smiling visage like a leering rash, enjoying the schoolboy's unvoiced distress as he struggled to bite his lip against the pain.
Pushing the unwelcome memories away, Izzy straightened up, hearing one or two vertebrae in his spine shift slightly with the movement. He would have drawn in a lungful of air, but the fetid perfume still hung thick and pungent on the slight breeze. Instead, he settled for a quick intake of breath, before retiring back into his bedroom once more with the intention of sleep. He had to rest. School loomed from his contemplations like a gremlin, poking at his psyche and jostling it back into bed. The teenager had skipped going today, but tomorrow he knew that his mother was expecting an important visitor at the house, so there was no chance of his missing another.
Curling up drowsily among the bedclothes, Izzy rested his head against the damp pillow. It was new, just like everything in his room. His mother had been very specific about that. All fresh furniture for the nice new house - at least, until she'd actually seen it for herself. Izzy doubted she'd ever trust an estate agent's opinion again, especially not one called 'Bernard Betterhomes'.
Considerably refreshed by his ephemeral 'jaunt', Izzy instantaneously felt his eyelids drooping, sealing up with bodily fluid ready for the slumber they so desired. A short exhalation escaped his lips unbidden. Hopefully there would be no more weird dreams this time.
The digital clock on the bedside table softly beeped the hour - 4am, but by the time it had finished droning, Izzy was already fast asleep, long shadows enacting graceful ballets across his drawn, uneasy skin.
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How long has it been now?
A day? Two days? A week?
I don't know.
I don't care either.
There are no clocks here, not that it bothers me. It's quiet without any ticking. There were too many clocks at home. Too much ticking and tocking. You can't measure life in seconds and minutes; you have to measure it in moments. Instances. That's the only way to truly live.
Not that she understands that. To her, life is nothing unless it's on a schedule, written down. Where to go, what to do, whom to see. That just doesn't work for me.
She hates it here. She hated it from the moment we arrived. Not that I blamed her then, I wasn't too keen myself. Our arrival wasn't exactly typical. Or peaceable, for that matter.
I don't remember much, just waiting at the bus stop. She was busy preening herself as usual, bragging about some guy who'd asked her out that day. I wasn't really listening; I'd heard it all before. I knew she'd be bored of him in a week, and be on to the next one. I've long since stopped learning their names; they never last long enough for me to bother.
She didn't seem to notice that I wasn't paying attention, though. I suppose she just wanted someone - anyone - to crow to, whether it be me or somebody she'd never met before. She's like that. People get drawn to her, and listen like they've been her friend all their lives, even if they only met her five minutes previous. She has that effect on people.
Not on me though. I know her too well for that.
I remember a sudden warm pain - like when you move your head too fast and the nerve in your neck gets caught. It felt like it was coming from inside my skull, in the depths of my very brain. It didn't really hurt, but it was uncomfortable, and made me feel sleepy. I recall seeing her holding her temples too, then keeling over onto the sidewalk. There was nobody around for me to call for help - not that I could. In a few seconds, all I knew was darkness.
Then I woke up here. Wherever 'here' is.
She wasn't conscious when I came to. Somebody had laid her on the bed, hair spread out around her like some beautiful corpse. Lovely, even in death.
I'm not sorry to say, I hated her for it.
The room itself isn't so bad. Square, paisley wallpaper, two beds, en suite, one door. What more can I say? It's built for living in, not enjoying. My only complaint is that there aren't any windows. The lone light comes from that naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. Artificial. Stifling. I long for true sunlight every moment of every day, but sometimes I doubt whether I'll ever see it again. Or my friends.... my REAL friends on the outside. Nobody knows what being separated from them is like. Now and then, at night, I just curl up under the blankets they gave us and cry, and cry, and cry. It's as if something's eating away at my soul, gnawing a bit more each instant we're split. I can sense them, calling out to me, but I can't answer. I can't answer from here.
The only other thing is that they put her in here too. She never stops complaining. Her voice haunts me even in sleep, echoing inside my mind until I just want to sit up and scream at her to stop it, to shut up and leave me alone. But I don't, because that's not what I do. I simply stay silent, keeping it all inside until I can go to my safe place and let it all out. My friends understand me. They ease the pain.
But now I can't get to my safe place, my haven. Now I'm trapped here.... with her. Just the two of us in this little room. Isolated.
Well, technically we're not completely alone. Sometimes people come to see us, to bring food and such like. I suppose they must be the people who kidnapped us.
Kidnapped. Such a strange, alien word. It's a word you expect to hear on the TV, or written down in a book, not in real life. Especially not when describing yourself. It's odd. Kind of surreal. Kidnapped. Abduction. Taken prisoner.
They seem quite nice - the kidnappers, I mean. Not at all like I would have expected. At first they would come into the room, try to talk to us, but she wouldn't listen. She never does. She just hurled the tray of food she'd been brought at them, screaming and shouting until they fled. She never was one for the reasonable approach. Just fly off the handle and watch the results - that's her motto. Now they never come in; just push the dishes through the flap in the door then take them back the same way later. Like a prison. A jail where they're the wardens and we're the convicts.
Sometimes I can see their faces through the opening. There's one boy with brown hair that occasionally talks to me, tries to reassure me, maybe even explain what we're doing here, why we were captured. But each time, she hears us - it's hard not to hear things since the room's only a few feet wide - and kicks up a fuss until we stop and he leaves. Then she'll turn over on her bed and face the wall, not speaking to me, until I hear her breathing become slow and regular and know that she's fallen asleep.
I can't sleep without outside noises. At home, I used to always keep the window open so I could at least feel the night air on my skin. It gave me some sort of connection, despite the smog and fumes in the atmosphere. Now I even miss them.
It's dark. Nighttime I imagine, but it's difficult to distinguish day from night in a place where you can't see the sun or moon. The only reason there's no light is that we turned the bulb off. I can hear her across the room, fidgeting and moving around beneath the flimsy coverlets. They're grey too, just like the walls. That was one of the first things she commented on when we first arrived - after she'd finished yelling, that is. Décor is her forte, but that's to be expected, considering her nature. She never sees past the superficial, never looks beyond the apparent. I think most people just attribute that as part of her charm. Just another one of her charismatic singularities, to be giggled at and passed over in favour of other, more favourable qualities.
Not me though.
Oh, God, it feels like I'm dying inside. I think I will soon. Simply shrivel up and fade away, cut off and lonely. I wish I could see the sun once more. I'd hate to die where there isn't any daylight, away from The People. My friends. I know they miss me too, but something's stopping me from answering their sorrow in here. Something I can't distinguish, let alone pierce. A cloying fog around my senses, choking me. Suffocating my link until I can't speak to them anymore.
Just her and me. Alone together in this room. The two of us.
How long has it been now?
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AUTHOR'S NOTES: So, what did you think? Good? No good? Please review. I'm a little rusty after all this time, but I'll try not to be bitter about anything. (DIE, FLAMERS!) As usual, here is my plea for illustrations for this and my other works. I'm in the process of getting some web-space, but I won't bother if I don't have anything to flesh it out with. Thanx muchly.
Scribbler -_-;;
AUTHORS' NOTES: I'm back. As promised, here is the fic I said I'd release absolutely *months* ago. I'm really sorry it took so long, but I made that promise in good faith (or at least, before I got completely buried in coursework!) As it is, this is still a work in progress at the moment, but I figured I might as well release it anyway to see people's reaction. Please be nice. PLEASE!!!! I'm currently working on several different fics at once, so updates may be a little slow. To make them go faster, please review this and my other fics too. More reviews=happy Scribbler=more worky=more updates. See, there is logic in there somewhere.
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March 2002
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"Fate and Destiny" By Scribbler
Chapter One ~ "When Time Moves Slowly"
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We are condemned to kill time, thus we die bit by bit. -- Octavio Paz
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Sherlock Holmes laid on his back, staring at the stars, a thoughtful expression playing about his face. He'd been this way for some time now, the same pensive look gracing his aging features throughout. Around him, the grassy knoll on which he rested had taken on an almost ethereal air beneath the light of the moon, which hung satiated and bulbous against the rich, dark backdrop of the night-sky.
His clothes making a loud rustling in the silence that only the light of a full moon can create, Holmes rolled over and tried to wake his sleeping companion. The bundle next to him only gave a low groan, however, and curled up into an even tighter ball as a result. Holmes' expression switched to one of slight annoyance, and his nudges suddenly became a lot less gentle. With a snort, the figure beside him jolted back to reality with a bump.
Holmes whispered conspiratally, his tone somewhat introspective and brooding. "Doctor Izumi, can you do me a favour? Look straight up and tell me, what do you see?"
His redhead companion blinked, driving slumber from his dark eyes and attempting to focus on what the older man said. "What do I see?" He repeated, and then hurried on, not wishing to look like he was procrastinating. "Well.... I see stars, Holmes. Billions and billions of stars."
Doctor Izumi sensed this wasn't the answer his friend was looking for. Then, suddenly, an idea struck him. He smiled complacently, smug in the knowledge that may finally be able to demonstrate his intellect in the presence of the illustrious Sherlock Holmes, without being upstaged by his comrade. The boy only wished there could have been others to witness it instead of merely the detective and himself.
"When you think about it, it makes one feel rather insignificant, really. I mean, if there are billions of stars out there, then surely somewhere, somehow, there are other suns like ours. And if there are other suns, then surely there must be other solar systems too. And if there are both suns and solar systems, then maybe there might be life out there as well. Who knows? Perhaps there may be sentient life forms - like humans. And if there are creatures like these, then what's to stop them from maybe being more intelligent and technologically advanced than we are? For all we know, they could easily be on their way here right now, at this very moment, preparing to conquer and enslave the entire of mankind! They may be about to make all homo-sapiens number one on the menu when they turn Earth into a giant restaurant for their huge, pustule-encrusted leaders, and there wouldn't be a thing that we - or anybody else for that matter - could do to stop them! So, when one considers the possibilities, if one looks up into the heavens at eventide, then one may actually be looking upon a portent of their own doom at the hands of extraterrestrial creatures!"
Silence followed this little outburst, and after a few minutes of this Doctor Izumi began to wonder whether Holmes had even acknowledged what he'd said. Perhaps I've finally done it! The younger boy thought hopefully. Perhaps I've actually got one over on him. Maybe Sherlock's having a hard time keeping up with my razor sharp wit! Maybe....
However, the elderly gentleman then decided to turn over to look at his younger companion. A vaguely disparaging expression hovered about his visage, but when he spoke his voice was smooth, filled with the trademark ennui for which he was so famous.
"Well done, Izumi. But I'm afraid you're completely wrong."
"What?" The red haired male was incredulous. "But.... but I've done everything you ever taught me to do. I looked for the evidence, hypothesized and dictated my hypotheses accordingly. What could I possibly have done wrong?"
"Izumi, you did very well in what you observed. However, you failed to discern the most important aspect of your hypotheses." Replied Holmes in a gratingly dispassionate manner. Izumi's blood boiled at this.
"And what might that be?" He gritted, trying hard not to snap at his blasé cohort. The older man looked at his neo counterpart, eyes full of a kind of pity mixed with antipathy at his ignorance.
"Izumi, somebody's stolen our tent."
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With a cough and an ungracious amount of snorting, Izzy Izumi returned to the land of the waking with a jerk. Such a jerk, in fact, that he tumbled off the edge of the bed - which he was balanced precariously on - to land in an unceremonious heap on his bedroom floor. The teenage boy struggled for a moment, a mass of flailing limbs and duvet covers, before finally extricating himself from the ensnaring swathes, red-faced and breathless. He paused for a second, as if trying to remember where he was. All at once, an expression of sleepy comprehension spread across his pale face, and he blew a stray lock of unruly red hair from his eyes in an attempt to restore some amount of normality to his actions.
It was just a dream, he silently perceived. The inside of his mouth felt somewhat like an ashtray, and he swallowed several times in an attempt to disperse the unwanted flavour. I really shouldn't have had that cheese sandwich before I went to bed.
A large yawn proceeded to stretch Izzy's mouth to gigantic proportions, indicating that, while his brain was awake, his body wasn't so ready to return to the world yet. Slowly and deliberately, the boy extracted himself from the chaotic bedclothes, returning them haphazardly to the mattress with a quick heave. His body followed suit, flopping down with a tired sigh atop the quilt. He was too hot to bother climbing under them, which was fairly ironic since it was mid-November.
For what seemed like hours the insomnia-stricken youth lay there in that position, willing slumber to come claim his weary mind. Yet despite his efforts, he remained firmly fixed in the stifling silence of the night, the odd yawn attacking his features but doing ultimately nothing to alleviate the tiredness that beleaguered him.
Finally, with a sigh, Izzy resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't going to get to sleep any time soon. The thought of making an exodus to the kitchen downstairs briefly crossed his mind, but he immediately rejected the idea, both because he didn't particularly want another bizarre dream as the result of ingesting more disagreeable food, and also because he didn't wish to wake either of his parents. One had to pass their door in order to reach the stairs, but the way was littered with creaky floorboards, which seemed to acquire invisible loudspeakers when stepped on at night.
All the rooms in this place creak, the youth mused dumbly to himself, as he traced the contours of the headboard irksomely with his eyes. Even the bathroom squeaks.
It's probably because it's an old house, a sensible voice at the back of his mind surmised. All old buildings have one or two singularities thanks to their age. It's only natural that this one would be the same.
Izzy sighed, conscious that he was having a conversation with a voice in his head. To disperse the idea that the heat was driving him insane, the thin teen crawled off the bed and crept over to the French windows leading out onto his rather spacious loggia. Pushing them gently, he opened the door that had been left ajar earlier that evening, tiptoeing silently out onto the balcony beyond. Draping slender hands over the wrought iron railings, he allowed the cool breeze to gently caress his face and neck, revelling in the mitigating draughtiness upon his perspiration-coated brow.
Peace reigned over the ancient house. A quiescence not usually perceived by the ears of humans, so wrapped up in their own thoughts they miss the tranquillity of the world around them - especially at night. Izzy basked luxuriously in the balmy stillness, inhaling each soothing zephyr as if it were the elixir of life - which is exactly what they seemed like after the intense stuffiness of his bedroom.
He didn't know how long he stood there; such was the relaxing serenity encasing him. But when a rather noxious smell touched the inside of his nostrils the boy was abruptly returned to reality by his outraged snout. Sliding weary eyelids open - which he hadn't even realised were closed - Izzy clapped a hand over his nose and mouth in an attempt to stave off the acrid stench pervading the night air. This did little to help, however, and he coughed slightly as the offensive tang caught in his throat - only stopping when he remembered that his parents' balcony was only a few feet away, and that the window to their bedroom was also ajar.
The red haired teenager cast his dark eyes upwards, tracing the uneven shape of the hill his sprawling house rested adjacent to. Monato Research Centre loomed huge on the horizon, its appearance magnified by the multitude of sparkling stars dotted around it. The ugly building was sheathed in shadow, almost reflecting the disturbing rumours that surrounded the company itself. Izzy shivered inadvertently as his unoccupied mind idly recalled the rumours so flippantly thrown around by his classmates and elders alike.
Monato Research Corp. was a constant hot topic on any grapevine in the entire country. It was true that they dealt with genetic experiments - but after the great scientific uprising this wasn't exactly an unusual occurrence - however, the secretive nature of their work - and the Director himself - lent itself to the mind of any gossip lacking in new fodder. Numerous were the stories of bizarre activities within the huge number of Research Centres throughout the nation, often involving the enigmatic man and his reclusive private life. Most were firmly rooted in fiction, and one had to take a large pinch of salt with any rumour casually flung about as was prone in this scandal-hungry society.
Yet beneath the verbal flab, many people suspected there was a grain of truth attached to the tales of the MRC. The company was well established and highly respected in all scientific rings, but it was common knowledge of the terrible things which had been an adjunct to their rapid rise to glory.
The company itself wasn't very old - at least, not when compared to many of the other esteemed research conglomerates - but had turned out such new and innovative advances during its sixteen-year history that it had overtaken most competitors within the first few years of being established. The vast majority of citizens walking around with bionic limbs, or non-surgical cosmetic treatment, had received it from one or more of the MRC private hospitals, and there was even tell of some forms of cancer-cures spawning from MRC research programmes at centres just like the one overlooking the Izumi household.
Izzy contemplated the intimidating structure through discerning eyes. He didn't believe any of the tales concerning MRC, not that he was ever asked his opinion on such matters. He'd lived here for five months now, and still he was ignored and treated like the new kid at school, to be taunted and sneered at; left to sit alone at lunch, then return to a lonely house afterwards and be disregarded once more by his inattentive parents. Mr. And Mrs. Izumi were so busy with their own careers and social-gathering-filled existences that they had little time for their curious offspring, and most evenings Izzy could be found hunched over his computer completing yet another one of the self-imposed projects he'd created to fill his time. He didn't care though, he'd much rather be dissecting an algorithm or fresh software program then hanging out doing nothing. Or so he told himself.
Secretly, Izzy had always suspected that he'd been an accident. That his parents had never really wanted him. A nanny had been employed to look after him from birth, paid for by his parents' immense salaries, and he'd been subjected to different carers all his fifteen years. Nobody ever really concerned themselves as to what the reticent boy thought of the whole thing, and even if he had spoken out, Izzy doubted anybody would actually heed his words and make any major changes to suit him. But he was used to it. Having two lawyers as parental units, he knew this sort of thing was to be expected, and it was better he just went along with it then cause a fuss. Just like when they'd moved here, to Odaiba. The red haired boy hadn't wanted to leave his old haunts around their previous home, but his mother and father's decision to set up a legal practice at this juncture had overruled his insignificant wishes. Just like always.
Another blast of elegant fumes belched from twin titanic chimneys either side of the imposing Centre, and the dark-eyed boy wrinkled his nose at the putrid smell elicited. He still wasn't used to the stench, but he'd barely been accustomed to the noise of the airport next to their preceding dwelling before they left, nor the railway-line at the apartment before that. At least this place compensated by being spacious and sumptuous. Well.... as sumptuous as one can expect from a hundred-year-old house - though he had to admit, the garden was fairly overgrown. No gardener had been employed as of yet, since establishing the new practice had eaten almost all of his parent's time and effort. Izzy idly wondered whether they were even going to bother with such a triviality. It would be more like them to just concrete over the whole thing and have done with it. If they hadn't been so intent on moving immediately they probably would have waited until a more suitable, less neglected house came on the market, but circumstances had dictated they live here at Bluebird Hall, much to Mrs. Izumi's patent disgust.
"It's cold, it's full of damp, and my footprints leave craters in the dust!" She'd exclaimed the moment they arrived. It had taken quite a while for her husband to mollify her enough to even venture into the remaining part of the building, and the chic woman had been quick to fence off most of the construction as uninhabitable.
Izzy heaved a long sigh. It was so lonely out here, away from the rest of the town. Not that he particularly liked Odaiba - in his opinion, it was a rather poky little place full of self-opinionated, unfriendly people - but still, Bluebird Hall was very cut-off. He had to catch three buses just to get into the metropolitan area, then another two to reach the school. Some days he just didn't bother, and returned home as soon as he was sure that his parents would be gone to work. He'd nearly been caught twice, and it always resulted in detention when he couldn't explain his absence. Yet still, he kept doing it. There was nothing for him there; just endless faces which goaded him, then turned away when he tried to be sociable. Even the teachers were foul, using him as a scapegoat and target for their frustration. Ever since the new teaching reforms came in, educators had become veritable bundles of brewing dissatisfaction, and the taciturn new boy provided them with a perfect object on which to vent their resentment. Izzy was thankful that they hadn't reintroduced the cane here. They had at his last school, and he still held a thin scar on his palm where the whip-like rattan had sliced his skin. The red haired youth shuddered as he recalled the expression on the teacher's face when the scarlet line had appeared in the strike's wake. Joy, spreading across his smiling visage like a leering rash, enjoying the schoolboy's unvoiced distress as he struggled to bite his lip against the pain.
Pushing the unwelcome memories away, Izzy straightened up, hearing one or two vertebrae in his spine shift slightly with the movement. He would have drawn in a lungful of air, but the fetid perfume still hung thick and pungent on the slight breeze. Instead, he settled for a quick intake of breath, before retiring back into his bedroom once more with the intention of sleep. He had to rest. School loomed from his contemplations like a gremlin, poking at his psyche and jostling it back into bed. The teenager had skipped going today, but tomorrow he knew that his mother was expecting an important visitor at the house, so there was no chance of his missing another.
Curling up drowsily among the bedclothes, Izzy rested his head against the damp pillow. It was new, just like everything in his room. His mother had been very specific about that. All fresh furniture for the nice new house - at least, until she'd actually seen it for herself. Izzy doubted she'd ever trust an estate agent's opinion again, especially not one called 'Bernard Betterhomes'.
Considerably refreshed by his ephemeral 'jaunt', Izzy instantaneously felt his eyelids drooping, sealing up with bodily fluid ready for the slumber they so desired. A short exhalation escaped his lips unbidden. Hopefully there would be no more weird dreams this time.
The digital clock on the bedside table softly beeped the hour - 4am, but by the time it had finished droning, Izzy was already fast asleep, long shadows enacting graceful ballets across his drawn, uneasy skin.
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How long has it been now?
A day? Two days? A week?
I don't know.
I don't care either.
There are no clocks here, not that it bothers me. It's quiet without any ticking. There were too many clocks at home. Too much ticking and tocking. You can't measure life in seconds and minutes; you have to measure it in moments. Instances. That's the only way to truly live.
Not that she understands that. To her, life is nothing unless it's on a schedule, written down. Where to go, what to do, whom to see. That just doesn't work for me.
She hates it here. She hated it from the moment we arrived. Not that I blamed her then, I wasn't too keen myself. Our arrival wasn't exactly typical. Or peaceable, for that matter.
I don't remember much, just waiting at the bus stop. She was busy preening herself as usual, bragging about some guy who'd asked her out that day. I wasn't really listening; I'd heard it all before. I knew she'd be bored of him in a week, and be on to the next one. I've long since stopped learning their names; they never last long enough for me to bother.
She didn't seem to notice that I wasn't paying attention, though. I suppose she just wanted someone - anyone - to crow to, whether it be me or somebody she'd never met before. She's like that. People get drawn to her, and listen like they've been her friend all their lives, even if they only met her five minutes previous. She has that effect on people.
Not on me though. I know her too well for that.
I remember a sudden warm pain - like when you move your head too fast and the nerve in your neck gets caught. It felt like it was coming from inside my skull, in the depths of my very brain. It didn't really hurt, but it was uncomfortable, and made me feel sleepy. I recall seeing her holding her temples too, then keeling over onto the sidewalk. There was nobody around for me to call for help - not that I could. In a few seconds, all I knew was darkness.
Then I woke up here. Wherever 'here' is.
She wasn't conscious when I came to. Somebody had laid her on the bed, hair spread out around her like some beautiful corpse. Lovely, even in death.
I'm not sorry to say, I hated her for it.
The room itself isn't so bad. Square, paisley wallpaper, two beds, en suite, one door. What more can I say? It's built for living in, not enjoying. My only complaint is that there aren't any windows. The lone light comes from that naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. Artificial. Stifling. I long for true sunlight every moment of every day, but sometimes I doubt whether I'll ever see it again. Or my friends.... my REAL friends on the outside. Nobody knows what being separated from them is like. Now and then, at night, I just curl up under the blankets they gave us and cry, and cry, and cry. It's as if something's eating away at my soul, gnawing a bit more each instant we're split. I can sense them, calling out to me, but I can't answer. I can't answer from here.
The only other thing is that they put her in here too. She never stops complaining. Her voice haunts me even in sleep, echoing inside my mind until I just want to sit up and scream at her to stop it, to shut up and leave me alone. But I don't, because that's not what I do. I simply stay silent, keeping it all inside until I can go to my safe place and let it all out. My friends understand me. They ease the pain.
But now I can't get to my safe place, my haven. Now I'm trapped here.... with her. Just the two of us in this little room. Isolated.
Well, technically we're not completely alone. Sometimes people come to see us, to bring food and such like. I suppose they must be the people who kidnapped us.
Kidnapped. Such a strange, alien word. It's a word you expect to hear on the TV, or written down in a book, not in real life. Especially not when describing yourself. It's odd. Kind of surreal. Kidnapped. Abduction. Taken prisoner.
They seem quite nice - the kidnappers, I mean. Not at all like I would have expected. At first they would come into the room, try to talk to us, but she wouldn't listen. She never does. She just hurled the tray of food she'd been brought at them, screaming and shouting until they fled. She never was one for the reasonable approach. Just fly off the handle and watch the results - that's her motto. Now they never come in; just push the dishes through the flap in the door then take them back the same way later. Like a prison. A jail where they're the wardens and we're the convicts.
Sometimes I can see their faces through the opening. There's one boy with brown hair that occasionally talks to me, tries to reassure me, maybe even explain what we're doing here, why we were captured. But each time, she hears us - it's hard not to hear things since the room's only a few feet wide - and kicks up a fuss until we stop and he leaves. Then she'll turn over on her bed and face the wall, not speaking to me, until I hear her breathing become slow and regular and know that she's fallen asleep.
I can't sleep without outside noises. At home, I used to always keep the window open so I could at least feel the night air on my skin. It gave me some sort of connection, despite the smog and fumes in the atmosphere. Now I even miss them.
It's dark. Nighttime I imagine, but it's difficult to distinguish day from night in a place where you can't see the sun or moon. The only reason there's no light is that we turned the bulb off. I can hear her across the room, fidgeting and moving around beneath the flimsy coverlets. They're grey too, just like the walls. That was one of the first things she commented on when we first arrived - after she'd finished yelling, that is. Décor is her forte, but that's to be expected, considering her nature. She never sees past the superficial, never looks beyond the apparent. I think most people just attribute that as part of her charm. Just another one of her charismatic singularities, to be giggled at and passed over in favour of other, more favourable qualities.
Not me though.
Oh, God, it feels like I'm dying inside. I think I will soon. Simply shrivel up and fade away, cut off and lonely. I wish I could see the sun once more. I'd hate to die where there isn't any daylight, away from The People. My friends. I know they miss me too, but something's stopping me from answering their sorrow in here. Something I can't distinguish, let alone pierce. A cloying fog around my senses, choking me. Suffocating my link until I can't speak to them anymore.
Just her and me. Alone together in this room. The two of us.
How long has it been now?
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AUTHOR'S NOTES: So, what did you think? Good? No good? Please review. I'm a little rusty after all this time, but I'll try not to be bitter about anything. (DIE, FLAMERS!) As usual, here is my plea for illustrations for this and my other works. I'm in the process of getting some web-space, but I won't bother if I don't have anything to flesh it out with. Thanx muchly.
Scribbler -_-;;