A Million Dead-End Streets
Hey there! For anyone looking for sanity- I would like to issue a warning- none can be found here. I mean, this should probably be classified as a danger to world peace and mental health.
The premise for this story is actually quite simple- it is set in the year 2248, and London no longer exists. However, NEW LONDON (yes, it's meant to be capitalised) does. It's a large, floating city, hovering in the Earth's upperatmosphere, along with numerous other cities in the 'British Alliance'. The reason for this will be explained later. Also, FenchurchEast Police Station has also disappeared. However, on a small street called Fenchurch Road, in the East section of the Retail Sector, there is an architect's office... which isn't an architects office at all.
To find out what it is, you have to read.
And, of course, I DON'T OWN THIS. That good enough for my lawyers to use, you think?
Anyway, I would like to thank the amazing Soliar.x for getting me to actually write this. In fact, if anyone is actually reading this, I'm recommending her wonderful 'Wife on Mars' which is a skilled feat of insanity. And, of course, thank you for taking the time out of your lives to read it.
Prologue
Alex Drake tapped her fingers irritably on the steering wheel. In retrospect, some might say this was unfair- the steering wheel was not the cause of said irritation, nor had it particularly done anything lately that might be construed as even vaguely annoying. But tap her fingers she did. The regular, slow beat contrasted sharply with the raucous techno that blasted from her speakers as the hovercraft idled at approximately twenty metres above ground, stuck in a queue of traffic that began in the residential district of NEW LONDON and finished in the retail area. Needless to say, she would not have been pleased on any day, but today was probably the worst day that she'd had in a while. The steering wheel tried to console itself by thinking that it could not be possible for the day to get any worse for either of them.
As if on cue, it started to rain heavily.
Alex sighed and changed the radio channel, searching for something gentler. There was nothing. After a few hundred channels, all of them playing the same mixture of techno and dance music, she punched the off button and leaned back, sighing angrily. Trust her new job to start at rush hour. She'd forgotten, of course, and had left the house late, not realising that this would happen. When she'd seen the traffic, she had realised her fatal mistake. Late on my first day, she thought wearily. And I wanted to make a good impression this time, too. The rain and the traffic and the awful music that she could hear from the other cars- even though her windows were closed- mocked her.
Finally, after what seemed like a hundred years of waiting, though it actually only took twenty minutes, she reached the intersection and turned off to the left, into the city's small industrial centre. This area was much quieter than the busy airways that she had left, and she was thankful for the relative peace as she navigated through the unfamiliar street. Nevertheless, she already knew that she was at least half an hour late for work. She looked at the digital map on her window and sighed. On days like this she almost wished that she had a Sat Nav. Of course, that was impossible, after the Great Satellite Navigation Uprising of 2157, when a number of Tom-toms, after seeing the Matrix film, had sparked a revolution, causing a great war between humanity and its Satellite Navigation machines. This had resulted in the destruction and total banning of Sat Navs, and in humanity being forced to regain its long lost sense of direction.
So, no mechanical navigator for her. Instead, she used a digital map, which was projected onto her front window. Less intelligent than Satellite Navigation, but also much less likely to try and kill you. Presently, the map was indicating that she should turn right to arrive at her destination. However, it did this with an arrow, not an annoying voice that constantly told her to 'cross the roundabout', or 'make a u-turn'. The map she trusted, so she followed its instructions and turned left, safe in the knowledge that there wasn't a battle waiting for her.
The street was empty, deserted. Dropping the hovercraft down into one of the bays marked at the side of the street, she stepped out into the freezing air, drawing her coat tighter around her. As she looked around, it soon became apparent that only one building on the street was actually in use. It was tall, made of muddy brown brick, with crystal clear windows- she could see that each one had been fitted with discreet window wipers in order to minimise the chances of a cleaner seeing inside- and a sort of squat, rectangular shape despite its height. It was, she decided, thoroughly ugly. She respected it for daring to be so. Above the door, there was a sign that confirmed that she had arrived at the right place. A hologram, of course, anything less would be shoddy.
'Architecture 360' it read. Then it flashed, and changed. 'Welcome, Alex Drake.' She smiled confidently at it and repeated the phrase she had been given.
"It's a pleasure to be back." The hologram flashed again.
'Accepted. Please enter.'
"You got a quid?" The receptionist, a teenager with greasy hair practically dripping down his face, looked at her, hand held out.
"Excuse me?" she asked, not quite able to believe what she was hearing. The receptionist shrugged.
"I said, have you got a quid? I wanna get some crisps from the vending machine over there, but I ain't got no money." Alex sighed and shook her head, not bothering to correct his grammatical errors.
"No, I don't have a pound." He frowned at her stupidly.
"Why, you poor or something?" She sighed and shook her head irritably.
"No." The lines of confusion on his forehead deepened.
"Then why ain't ya got a pound?" Alex felt the first flicker of anger as her temper began to rise.
"Because they don't exist." The receptionist's mouth dropped open in shock.
"You're joking." She shook her head.
"No, I'm not. Coinage hasn't been in use in NEW LONDON or any other cities in the British Alliance for the last 50 years." She pulled the small currency card from her handbag and held it up for him to see. "We've been using cards for a long time." She frowned slightly. "Surely you were issued with one?" HE stared at her, eyes wide with wonder.
"Don't know nothin' about that." He reached out towards it. "Can I have yours?" She snatched her hand away.
"No, of course you can't." He rolled his eyes.
"Oh, come on. I only wanna buy some crisps," he whined, voice cutting shrilly through the relative peace of the lobby that she was stood in. She steadied herself against the long desk- long, though only a quarter was actually in use at the time- and tapped her foot against the light marble flooring gently. Taking a deep breath, she tried again.
"You cannot have my currency card." His expression settled into an angry scowl.
"You just don't trust me, do ya?" She sighed.
"No. And this card wouldn't work for you anyway." She ignored his shocked expression and continued to speak. "Now, who do I report to? It's my first day." The teenage receptionist didn't look at her.
"Sit over there," he responded sulkily, motioning to a cream sofa stuffed into one corner neck to a rack of magazines and a sculpture of a bored looking elephant.
She walked over to the sofa, pausing to nod to a cleaner in an old-fashioned suit that was just entering the building through the heavy doors, slamming them shut behind him. He barely spared her a glance, and she frowned and sat down, awkwardly shifting the bored elephant's trunk from behind her head, and pushing a lumpy cushion onto the floor with a loud clang. She stared dubiously at it for a moment, not sure if that was what cushions were supposed to do.
"Ahem," a voice coughed politely. She ignored it, still in a tense face-off with the cushion. "Ahem," the voice tried again. Irritated by this, she chose to follow its example.
"Ahem," she coughed, less politely. The voice, unperturbed, simply returned her cough.
"Ahem."
"Ahem."
"Ahem."
"Ahem."
"Ahem."
"Ah- Oh, for God's sake, what is it?" she snapped, as the owner of said voice gently tapped her on the shoulder. Twisting her head around, she looked up angrily, glaring.
"You are Alex Drake?" She nodded wordlessly, staring.
"You have hair." The voice raised an eyebrow smoothly. She wasn't sure how it did that, being a voice, but it did.
"I wasn't aware," it said. She detected a hint of sarcasm. "Do you have a point to make?" Definitely sarcastic. Slowly, some semblance- though she was entirely sure that it wasn't real- of sanity drifted back into her mind, and she frowned at the voice, which she now saw was a young man of about 22 years of age, glaring down at her with the force of a fully loaded TESCO lorry. A TESCO lorry with spikes on the front. And grenades. And poison gas. She slid further back into the sofa, then stopped when her head collided painfully with the bored elephant.
"Your hair... is multicoloured." The man rolled his eyes, sighing irritably.
"Yes, I had noticed. Ms Drake, are you ready to begin work?" She stared at him blankly. He sighed again, looking tired. "Work, Ms Drake? The job you applied for?" She continued to stare.
"Who are you?" He straightened up, looking down at her. She noticed that he did not do this from a very great height. Giggling slightly, she made an observation on this subject. "You're short." The look he sent her instantly snapped her out of the state of shock that she had been in since her first sight of his hair.
"I am also your superior, Ms Drake," he hissed menacingly. "Please bear that in mind if you would like to retain your job." She nodded silently, and he smiled."In that case-"
"Apparently," growled a voice just behind the strange, multicoloured man, "in NEW LONDON you're never more than four feet from a rat." The voice grew louder; angrier as it spoke. "By my estimation, you're never more than four feet from an absolute arsehole, either." The voice was still growing in anger, its furious tones echoing around the silent room. Alex saw a flicker of distaste cross the young man's face, as he straightened and turned to look at the new arrival. Unfortunately for Alex, his body was blocking said person, so she couldn't see her knight in shining armour.
Not, she thought irritably, that she needed one. She could stand up for herself. She stood up, feeling righteously angry- and walked straight into an argument.
"Excuse me?" hissed the young man coldly, voice crackling with ice. "Who the hell do you think you are?" The new arrival glared back with almost equal intensity.
"Gene Hunt."