Hello everyone!
I'm back!
This is a short-ish piece inspired by 'The Long Walk' by Richard Bachmann. If you're familiar with it, yay! If not, I recommend waiting until the end of the fic to search it out, because it might ruin the fic otherwise.
Warnings: None in this chapter.
As always, please read and review!
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The sun crested over the top of Buckingham Palace, bathing the square underneath in a wet light. The only evidence of the light drizzle that fell earlier were the small puddles on the uneven groves of the road and the relative coolness of the air. Altogether, it made for a rare day of comfortable travel for Londoners.
Which was why there were more people than anticipated gathered on the fringes of the Palace and packed into the park flanking the palace. People were sitting on the railings and picnicking by the small stream. People were talking in hushed whispers, as if afraid to break the tension the air, and people were staring at them as if they were both jealous and thankful not to be in their position.
It made John feel slightly sick.
The man next to John straightened up from tying his laces – his shoes were not new, John noted, which was wise – and caught his eye.
"Wonderful way to start, isn't it?"
John shrugged. He would have preferred a cloudy day, when it felt like the world wasn't so insistent on pushing into his private spaces, but to each, his own.
"I'm Anderson," the stranger offered, seemingly searching for conversation.
"John. John Watson."
A huff of breath interrupted them. John looked away from Anderson to see a tall, dark-haired man glaring at them. For a moment, he forgot where he was, what he was about to do. He forgot his interrupted conversation with Anderson. He forgot to breathe.
The man was beautiful. His features were alien; too pale, his cheekbones too prominent, too visibly thin even through the dark coat that billowed around him like a cape, but he was undeniably beautiful.
He looked like he was used to being stared at, because he huffed again and said "Exchanging names, really? Do you think you're here for some dinner party?"
"That's no reason to be impolite," Anderson interjected, and John felt a slight tremor of irritation run through him. The stranger was right – this was not the time and place to be making friends. Every last one of the fifty men gathered there were his competitors, his enemies.
Cheekbones – yes, that was what John was going to call him – shrugged. "Suit yourselves. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side."
It was the most absurd proclamation John had heard in a long time. The utter confidence with which Cheekbones said it, though, stopped him from laughing out loud. Anderson fell silent beside him, and bent down to check his laces again. There would be no time to re-tie them on the road.
Somewhere in the distance, some official was calling the men to the starting line. John took the opportunity to glance around him, sizing up the competition.
There was a couple of police officers, that much he could tell; it was in their bearing, their confident pace, the way they stuck their shoulders as if to say 'the situation is under control'. There was an older man amongst them, with dark hair silvering. He looked too old for this.
On the other hand, there were some boys too, fit and lithe and nervously jovial. They looked well-fed and happy, and John wondered why they had chosen this for themselves. Courage of the young, perhaps? They were still young enough that their confidence hadn't been shattered by the harshness of life yet, so young that they still sincerely believed that they could make it.
John stopped then, and wondered why he chose the Walk if he didn't expect to make it.
Before he could answer his own question, the starting shot was fired. John took off, never to look back.
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I'm having a wee bit of difficulty with the formatting, so if anyone would care to give me a hand with that, that'd be great.