Sing Off-Key
A professor, an undergraduate, and a kid struggle to get by when the Heartless destroy their world. Etc., et al. R&R.
Yes, the summary is short. It also doesn't beat around the bush.
This fic probably won't be getting very many reviews, and I'm okay with that. I'm writing it mostly for myself. I figured I'd post it here, anyway. The title comes from With a Little Help from my Friends, originally of the Beatles, I think.
The plot is meant to fit into, not interrupt, the canon of the games. Thusly there will be far more interaction with more minor canon characters than with Sora, or Donald and Goofy.
I don't own Kingdom Hearts.
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Internet, cell phones, land lines, television, and radio were all out. Even the walkie-talkie Greer found just had static, on all frequencies. The electricity was shot and the sky outside was swirling in aberrant colors; the wind was strong enough to throw someone off their feet if they weren't careful.
Those black, bulb-eyed creatures were everywhere.
"Two things I'd like: An iPod and a drink," Greer said, sat down on the University's Chemistry building Emergency Exit stairwell and bent her knees up underneath her chin. She slumped against the wall, and seemed barely willing to hold herself up.
The older man opposite her, on the landing, was an aged professor called Nickolas Underwood. He had all the trappings thereof minus a bow tie, plus a sweater vest, and was standing, leaning against the wall because he couldn't calm down enough to sit. He was smoking a cigarette.
"Why an iPod?" he asked.
Greer shrugged.
"It'd be nice to have some music."
Underwood nodded. The two sat in silence, until out of the blue Greer jumped up and walked off into the darkness.
She came back a little later, visibly agitated.
"What do these lab junkies live on? I couldn't find a vending machine anywhere," Greer said, after she had accepted Underwood's offer of a cigarette. She didn't habitually smoke herself, and that was clear by the way she reacted to the sensation of smoke in her lungs—which is to say she reacted almost violently, before she got the hang of it. Puff, then breathe.
She had learned cigarette etiquette from movies, sat there with the cigarette held between her index and middle fingers, and flicked the ashes with her thumb.
Underwood shrugged.
"I know that there isn't any food allowed in the labs," he said. "Concerns about chemical contamination. Now that I think about it I think smoking down here might be dangerous; who knows what sort of chemicals they might have been working with."
"But they should have at least a coke machine," Greer insisted, and exhaled a thin line of smoke that twisted off into the shadows; she did not bother to hide the grossed out look on her face. The taste of it was faintly dirty and totally unromantic. It was a distraction. "Somewhere, y'know."
"I'm not sure that you should spend so much time looking for one," Underwood said. "I think it would be a better idea for us to stick together."
"Let's split up, gang! Velma, you go with Shaggy and Scooby so me and Daphne can screw in the closet," Greer said, and Underwood found himself staring at her, stunned, wondering if he had just been crudely mocked. Regardless, he already felt insulted. She gave a spare, staccato giggle—then coughed out smoke. "I always wanted to say that out loud. Awkward, yeah..."
Underwood, who decided this student had less decorum than she immediately appeared to posses, sighed. But Greer couldn't let it end there.
"You'd think that they'd eventually start working with statistics; after a million fake ghosts you'd think one of 'em would be jaded."
"If that had happened, then there would have been no point to the show."
"Touché. Where's the kid?" Greer tapped ashes off her cigarette, put it between her lips, and stood up. She staggered tiredly but regained her balance.
"Sleeping in the lounge. I checked on her a few minutes before you came back." He was sure that he could have heard if anything was wrong. This basement floor of the building was entombing and silent.
"I wish I could sleep," Greer sighed, and walked into the study lounge. It was dark, of course, though there were flashlights set up at various points, all balanced upright, with their light bouncing off the ceiling and spreading some livable glow. There were couches and some plush chairs, a television and an electric fireplace, but no windows or vending machines.
The little girl was curled up on one of the couches, thumb locked in her mouth.
'Motherly instincts' meant nil to Greer who sat down in a slightly remote chair and stared at the child as if she were a particularly traumatizing Cabbage Patch Kid.
"I feel sorry for 'er," Greer said, as Underwood walked in, too, and shut the door to the lounge. "Worst I had to worry about as a kid was whether pulling the cat's tail would get me bit. Or hoping the Chicken McNuggets were wet..."
"Did he ever bite you?"
Greer gave a halfhearted shrug.
"Not that I remember. When she was old she kinda did if you petted her too much, but she was blind and didn't have the jaw strength to do anything, anyway."
"My son used to eat the dog biscuits," Underwood said, and a pained look crossed his face. He hadn't been able to get a hold of either his daughter or his sons or their spouses all day. He had talked to his sister, but that was hours ago.
Greer looked at him. The sympathy and personal worry was beyond what she knew how to express. Words failed Underwood, too, and he lapsed into silence.
She abruptly sniffed, and put a hand at the bridge of her nose. Underwood winced, and before he could say anything the young woman darted to her feet and was out the door. He could hear her sobbing before she found the bathroom at the end of the hall.
The little girl had woken up, and she sat up. She made no sound. Underwood looked at her and wondered if he should try to talk to her...
"Hey...mister? Can I call my mommy?"
When Greer came back a long time later and sat in an upright fetal position, in her seat, her eyes were red and puffy, but she seemed to have gotten control of herself.
Underwood had been teaching the little girl Go Fish because he didn't know what else to do. Someone had left a pack of cards under a desk. The images on the faces were vaguely objectionable, but she hadn't seemed to notice them.
"How many piercings do you have?" the professor asked, trying to distract her with anything. Clearly sticking holes in herself was an interest and probably had positive associations.
Greer gave him a funny look.
"Eleven," she said matter-of-factly. "And a tattoo."
"Where?"
"Uh...ten in my ears, one in my belly button."
"Where's the tattoo?"
"Back of my neck," she said, and her expression made it clear she found his questions strange, and maybe a little intrusive. It was likely she just wasn't used to discussing it out of its usual context (among impressed like-minded people, for instance)—especially with someone of his generation. Didn't she know "his generation" gave rise to the Hell's Angels and Woodstock? Hers didn't invent anything, just commercialized it. They could barely do more than recycle clothes from thirty years ago on the strip.
"Is there any room left in your ears to hear?" Underwood said lightly, and Greer froze for an awkward moment before she laughed.
"Don't ask my dad, he'd say no." But her choice of words was utterly sobering.
"I'm thirsty," the little girl mumbled.
"Water fountain's out," Greer said, sighed, and got to her feet.
"Where are you going?" Underwood asked.
"Got to try and find that vending machine," Greer said. "Kid's thirsty."
"Greer, there are no vending machines in this building," Underwood replied firmly. "Sit down. I would prefer it if you didn't keep taking off. It's dangerous."
She did not care that she was breaching polite boundaries when she told him to shut up. Underwood stood up and took a hold of Greer's shoulders.
"Sit down. We've got to think rationally."
"I'm—I can't!" Greer snapped, and shrugged off his hands with a violent jerk.
"We're all in one piece. That counts. Calm down," Underwood said, and directed the young woman back to the chair she had been sitting in. She acquiesced with reluctant compliance. "Do you know how to play Go Fish?"
"I used to," Greer said in monotone.
"Well...relearn it," Underwood replied, and gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. He dealt the cards under conspicuous quietness.
Thirty minutes later and the little girl—named Jo—was either having a remarkable streak of luck or Greer had yet dismally failed to remember how to play Go Fish, and Underwood was playing nice with both of them.
"If this had been intended to cheer me up, it sucks," Greer said, bent over the back of her chair, one arm propped up and leaned against her chin. They had moved the chairs into a tight ring around a small side table upon which was the deck.
A few rounds ago, Underwood had gone off himself (to prevent Greer doing it), letting her and Jo play by themselves, and managed to pick the lock of an office door Greer hadn't been able to force open, where he found half a case of Miller Lite, a few sodas and bottles of water, and some snack food. He brought them back and Greer gave him a blank, quasi-embarrassed look.
Have one, he had said, and put a beer beside Greer's shoulder.
She didn't need to be told twice, but as she took it she smiled and asked if he minded corrupting a minor. Underwood asked, without being humorous, if this was really her first time to drink beer.
Jo had Fanta Orange and Animal Crackers.
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"Look what I found!"
"What is that?" Underwood asked, standing up. He had just finished teaching Jo to make card castles, and the little girl was fascinated. This time Underwood hadn't been able to intervene before Greer ran off in a neurotic, claustrophobic fit, but now she sounded happier.
Greer walked in with a Monopoly board, Harley Davidson edition and well-loved, balanced on top of pillows from the first floor lounge. This was an advancement from five hours ago, when she would not go anywhere near windows where those Creatures see her.
"I used my compact," she said, as Underwood stared at her with sharp suspicion. "I think if they'd seen me they'd be here already. Y'know?"
"Your compact?"
"Mirror," she said. "Compact mirror? To look around corners 'n stuff."
"And you saw none of them?"
Greer shifted, and licked her lips.
"I don't think they saw me."
Underwood swore, something he hadn't done profusely since 1962, and got up. Greer looked like she'd been physically struck, and almost recoiled as the professor propelled her towards the hall, making sure to keep an eye on Jo with her cards.
"You don't think they saw you," he said, "Does that mean they did, or they didn't?"
"Well...I...well..."
"Greer," he said, in a distinct condescending hiss. "Yes or no. It's a simple question."
"Yes. But I—"
"But?"
Greer wasn't given the chance to answer, because down the hall a faint, fluid pop whirr preceded the jittery appearance of a twin pair of bright, bulbous yellow eyes in the shadows.
Underwood gasped and grabbed Greer's shoulder. The young woman was frozen in place, and she was trembling. The board game and pillows fell from her arms.
"Go!"
"Go where!"
Underwood darted into the lounge and grabbed Jo. Greer was shrinking back from the creature, who had been joined by more of its kind, including a huge, fat one with a vest. Their numbers were growing in the dark.
"Hold onto this!" Underwood ordered, the voice coming back to him from years ago. He threw a flashlight at Greer.
Greer fumbled but got a good grip on it, and turned around sharply as one jumped at her; her fist smashed into its smooth, mouthless face and it plopped to the floor.
"Holy shit!" she shrieked, and Underwood dragged her by the wrist, Jo under his other arm. "Where are we going!"
Like he knew!
Elevators were gone with the power and anyway were too small and enclosed; stairwells were narrow and dangerous—that didn't leave him with too many options.
Greer jerked out of his grip, and the professor turned sharply.
"What are you—"
He didn't finish that question. Greer reached for a long, metal lab instrument on a lab trolley and swung it at the nearest creatures that were leaping for them. The bright-eyed monsters went bouncing off the walls like ping pong balls, and one or two poofed out of sight entirely.
Then she turned around again and they continued running.
"Where the hell did these things come from!" Greer gasped. "And what the hell is going on!"
"Keep running!"
"I'm trying, dammit!"
Underwood turned sharply at the main Chem building staircase but stopped short when those creatures appeared in considerable number. Greer hesitated before coming forward and swinging the baton like a bat; when one of them latched on to her arm she screamed and threw it into the wall.
"Keep moving!" Underwood said, darting past Greer, who kicked another one and swore again. She followed the professor up to the first floor, the ground floor.
"Where are we—"
The windows were blown out on that floor, and it was considerably lighter. Greer used both the butt end of the flashlight and the metal instrument to smash her way through the creatures, and Underwood, who had one arm tied up with Jo, had one arm free and his legs to knock them away.
"We're going outside," Underwood said sharply. "Move!"
"Outside—uh—"
"Move!"
Greer snapped to it, bolting towards the double doors at the end of the hall, and throwing herself through them. The wind outside was chilly and sharp, and she stumbled in it, so did Underwood, who was just a few feet behind her.
Underwood glanced around. My God, he thought, the world's in pieces...all shattered...
Jo was screaming, Greer was frozen.
"Keep going!" Underwood shouted, and Greer snapped her attention back to the present.
"It's all—it's all—" she stammered. She ran. Underwood was lagging, starting to feel his arthritis something awful, and Jo was becoming too heavy. "There's nowhere to go!"
He glanced at Greer sharply; the student had white-knuckled grips on her weapons, and her face was chalk-white.
"Keep going!" he ordered, ducking, and shaking off one or two of the black twitchy creatures. They skirted a rift in the ground with no apparent bottom; it extended on into inky blackness. Overhead the sky was violent and dark gray, with eerie blue lightning. The moon, just barely visible between a break in the clouds, was mostly dissolved, but a dim red in color.
The wind was a worse adversary than the creatures outside, because once it picked up their apparently lighter bodies were taken up in it and tossed.
"Greer, front and center!" The arthritis—the kid—he was nearly an octogenarian—he was in remarkable shape, but this was obscene.
"Where the hell are we going!"
"Just—keep—moving!" It was the only thing they could do. Go to where, Underwood had no idea: but staying put wouldn't work, either.
"I'm tired," Greer complained, but threw herself at the mass of creatures which came up to meet them, grasping. They were not necessarily singularly aggressive creatures, but most of their strength came in swarms.
All around them, darkness was pooling and ripping at the fabric of the very ground beneath them. Underwood could feel the concrete sidewalk become soft under his heels. There were growing masses of globular, smoky darkness near his shoulder, and on impulse he put his hand out to it. It felt like cool, still air—and his hand extended into where a building should have been.
"It's getting thick, but," Underwood muttered. "Greer! Pay attention!"
Greer's energy was waning fast; the young woman was moving in wide, inefficient and desperate thrashes. She jumped, and ducked when one airborne creature ducked for her, dressed, bizzarely, in a pocket protected polo and horn rims. An odd heart-shaped symbol was on the book bag—strange, and now wasn't the time—
"Hand!" he shouted, and grappled for Greer's wrist.
"Um—what the hell!" she shouted over the wind.
"Close your eyes!" He readjusted his grip on Jo, and thought a rare and fervent prayer. If he'd had a hand free he would have crossed himself.
"I don't—"
He shoved the girl, hard, with all his weight. She fell back and let out a startled shriek, which hit his ears so hard he wanted to smack her mouth off. They fell through the darkness in the ground.
Greer's screaming was muffled in the darkness and Underwood shouted back, Don't you dare let go. Instead of letting go, she turned her wrist and grabbed his, digging in her fingernails for extra grip. The screaming quieted to sniveling.
There were no creatures here, and it was quiet. There was no wind, either. If Greer was calm, she would see—
"We're slowing down," Greer's voice said, wavering and weak.
And so they were. What for?
"We're upside down," she added quietly, and though in the darkness there should have been no real sense of up and down, Underwood had the same feeling.
Jo's grip had seemingly fused her into his side, but she had stopped screaming.
"I don't want to fall on my head," Greer continued, sounding so emotionally exhausted that it reminded Underwood of how much he was running off adrenaline and very rusty conditioning.
"You're going to need to take Jo," he said. His voice was modulated and calming—had to be, because otherwise Greer would lose it completely. They couldn't afford that. "Greer, I need you to calm down. Can you do that for me? Breathe."
"It's getting lighter," she whispered.
"Concentrate on the sound of my voice, Greer."
"But we're getting closer to the bottom!"
"Shhh. Don't think about that right now," he said. And maybe that's all just an illusion. There was no bottom that he could see. "Greer, are you listening to me?"
"Yeah..."
"We'll swing our feet around, okay? Do you swim?"
"...I can swim..."
"Alright, then. Like we're underwater; that's how we'll get ourselves right-side-up. Slowly, now—"
With an awkward sort of heave, leaning hard back on his upper body, swinging the legs forward, Underwood's and Greer's bodies rotated into a relatively upright position—or what they felt was an upright position. Perhaps it was simply a side effect of diving into the darkness headfirst.
And suddenly they were on solid ground—or, they had stopped. There didn't appear to be a solid, flat surface they were standing on; Underwood had gone up the CN Tower in the late 80's, and it wasn't quite comparable. The three were in soft grayish relief, directly underlit, but the source was indeterminable. On all sides was blackness.
Underwood handed Jo over to Greer; who situated the little girl on her back.
"Are we dead," she asked, in such a flat voice that it was unintentionally funny. He chuckled.
"Limbo, maybe," he said. "I don't think this is a place we know how to describe. We fell down; but..."
"This isn't...yeah," Greer sighed. She bounced Jo higher on her back. "Wh—hey, are you okay?" Her voice rose with increased worry when Underwood seemed to physically remember, instantaneously, that he was in a world of pain and weariness. His limbs felt like fire and he was becoming lightheaded.
"I'm an old man," he muttered in a deadpan tone.
"Hey—hey, wait! Don't—you can't pass out on me, man!"
Am I passing out? The light's gone...
"Shit—geddown, kid—hey!—"
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I hope there aren't any grammatical mistakes...I read it like...three times, read it all the way through, so maybe I've just been looking at it too long. Fuck. Maybe I'm just tired of looking at it and editing it ad nauseam.
If you've got any questions, go ahead and ask.