So! Decided to go on reading, did you? Thought that it was interesting enough? Thought that it was worth your time? :D Yay! I'm so glad you think so, and I hope that you have us much fun reading it as we have fun writing it. That argument that we wrote is an actual argument that we had (to the best of our rememberance) when I came to visit Jin Ah over the summer. That's right, we argue over CHOCOLATE. Not to say that chocolate isn't worth arguing over, of course. Anyway, the main character in this chapter is completely original, just so you know (that's why we're writing so much information about him). Please keep reading!
Chapter One
Once upon a time, there was a child who loved to read.
Now, that, in and of itself, was not a problem. The problem, you see, was that while he was very good at understanding words, and letters, and books, and such things, he was not nearly as good at understanding people. And while books can be very helpful, in many ways, one thing they cannot do is make you friends. And so Ridley McCoy was a very lonely child.
And he grew up a lonely teenager, and became a lonely adult, and although he still loved to read, he didn't have any more friends than he did as a child. Less, in fact, because his pet goldfish named Trevor died when he was seventeen.
Ridley McCoy worked as a teacher in a small school, and, as children so often are nowadays, most of his students had plenty of friends, but hated to read, and so he didn't understand them, and they didn't understand him, and Ridley quite often went home with a headache and had to lie down for a while. A few times it got so bad that he had to lie down for quite a bit, until he awoke in the middle of the night in a panic and remembered that he had half a class's worth of essays left to grade. At that point he would have to go grade them, running through nearly an entire box of red pens, and then would have to go lie back down with an even stronger headache than before.
In the end, he wasn't really sure why he still pursued teaching, except for maybe that small hope that he would someday meet a child who didn't seem completely hopeless to understand, and maybe he could teach to love reading.
Until that day, though, there was only one thing that kept him sane:
Ridley McCoy could fly.
He would crawl up to his roof on Sunday mornings, when he still had a bit of weekend's work to do but really, truly and seriously didn't want to do, and breathe in the rather windy air, and look out at the other rooftops, and spread his arms out dramatically, and take off, just like that. Sometimes he would see how far he could go, maybe make it to London, and look down at all of the busy people and cars and lights running about, or out at the country and see the little white dots that were sheep. Other times, he would see how high up he would go, until the air became too thin and too cold and he was just left looking down at the now suddenly rounded planet, and be free from the fear of falling. Gravity just didn't work on him for some reason, and he loved it.
Apart from his flights, though, which had grown increasingly rare over the years, there was really very little that Ridley looked forward to. He wanted something exciting in his life - something spectacular, something out of the ordinary (he didn't count flying in this, because flying might be very nice, and fun, but, it wasn't really something that he thought of as a grand adventure), something that he could talk to his coworkers about and they would look at each other and make little signs that meant, "Poor fellow, I'm afraid he's gone a bit loony..." but somewhere deep down they would be wishing they were him. He wanted something extraordinary.
And the problem with wishing is that sometimes, you get what you wish for.
It all started one winter morning, with a note that he found in his mailbox. It was addressed to him: Mr. Ridley McCoy, 1066 Wintergreen Avenue, London, England. There was no return address.
Puzzled, he took it inside and left it on his table to open later.
He forgot all about the letter until he sat back down at the table to eat his lunch. It wasn't anything particularly appetizing (horseradish and cold mustard - he was, regrettably, out of beef) and so he decided to open his letter first.
Deare Mafter Ridley McCoy,
it read.
A certayne Incydence of Fate needf you to appear at 7a, Dimwell Streete, Soho, Londonne Towne, Englande, on the forteenth houre of thif day. It wille be expectyng you promptely, fo do notte be layte. The fayte of the worlde rather depenndef on thif, Mafter McCoy, fo do not try to defy thif; you wille fimpley be brought there in any cayfe. It if fate, after all.
Yourf Refpectfully,
Agnef Nutter, Wytche.
Poftfcrypte: Iffe you shoulde telle any other humanne of thif Lettyre, expect miffpellyngs galore in alle youre ftudentf' paperf for the reste of youre Life.
For a moment, Ridley just looked at the letter. Who was Agnes Nutter? What was all this fate nonsense? And what was so important about this... place, whatever it was? It reminded him of email. There had once been a person claiming that they desperately needed his money in it. He, being rather afraid and unsure of what to do, had stopped using the computer all together. It still sat in the corner of his bedroom, unused and unkempt, collecting dust, and facing the wall. (Footnote :The first night, when it had been facing him, he could have sworn it was staring at him the entire time.)
This letter wasn't asking him for his money, but it was asking something of him, and it gave him that same afraid, unsure and very uneasy feeling that that email had given him. Especially since it was threatening him and saying that resistance was useless...
Then he looked over at the stack of essays that he still needed to grade.
He checked the time on the analog clock on the wall opposite him. 12:49. He still had time.
In a sudden burst of adventurousness, Ridley decided to fly there. It had been a while since he had attempted to climb up to his roof, and it took a bit of trying, but eventually he made it up there. It was not windy today. It was overcast and gray, in danger of snowing any minute now. The frosty air bit at his fingers, his breath came out in little white puffs, and he tightened up his coat a bit more securely around his shoulders. It was going to be a chilly flight. Without ceremony, without a sign, his feet simply lifted off of the ground. He rose higher and higher and higher, then he swooped down and suddenly he was soaring...
When he was younger, he had often worried that someone would see him, but he had grown to appreciate the human mind's ability to ignore the fantastic. It was like they had some sort of built-in sensor in their heads that would say, "Oh, look, a man flying. Clearly, that's impossible, thus there isn't really a flying man." And, strangely enough, they would believe it. Oh, occasionally there was someone who hadn't developed that sensor, but they were largely ignored. Most of them were children, who were used to seeing things that their parents couldn't, and the minority that were the adults usually went and had their story told in a tabloid next to stories about alien kidnappings and Elvis being sighted in South Dakota.
But finally Ridley was hovering over London, shivering, and clumsily took out the letter that he had concealed in his inside pocket.
Dimwell Street, Soho.
He happened to know the street, and as soon as he had found it among the dizzying map of the convoluted roads and alleys below him, he attempted indiscriminately touching down on the ground.
Unsurprisingly, he succeeded.
Brushing himself off, he walked carefully down the street (footnote: You never knew what sort of disgusting mess could be underfoot - he had stepped in what looked and smelled suspiciously like pickled ice cream once.). He wasn't sure where 7a was - he had never heard of such a number - but no doubt he could find it. It wasn't a large street.
Behind him, a little girl said, "Mama, Mama, that man was flying!"
"That's nice dear," said a distracted voice.
It wasn't long before he had found the building marked '7a'. He had to think that he wasn't overly impressed by its appearance. It looked dark and dingy, and the door hinges and knob seemed rusty and unused. It had no outward appearance of what it was meant to be, except that it was a shop. So, stuffing the letter back in his jacket pocket, he tried the door and went in.
There was a small tinkling sound to herald his arrival, but nothing as momentous or loud as he had secretly been expecting. It was a little dusty, and the bookshop smelled like old paper.
"Hello?" he called out. "Er - is anyone there?"
No response.
Puzzled, Ridley walked over to a shelf. Maybe he could find something to read while he waited for the sender of his mysterious letter.
To his surprise, most of the bookshelves were stocked with comics. They looked like rather old ones, and were in surprisingly good condition - but they didn't seem like the kind of books that would belong in that bookshelf. Ridley had never really been fond of comics, so he looked for another book. His gaze fell upon one - it was old-looking, with a leather binding.
At this point, there should have been some sort of earthquake, or some sudden kind of glow about the bookshelf, but, alas, real life rarely works the way it should. As it was, Ridley didn't feel anything at all - not even a slight chill running down his spine - until he reached out and pulled the book out of the bookshelf.
It was titled: Further Nife and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter: Concerning the Worlde that Is To Com; Ye Saga Continuef!
Agnes Nutter. There was that name again! It was eerie. And it was a book about prophecies... In that letter she had talked about fate! But where did this saga 'continue'?
"Hello?"
Ridley jumped, the book falling out of his hands. Before he could blink, though, the man behind him - well, in front of him, now - had bent and caught it.
"Dear, dear," he said, brushing some dust off of the worn leather binding. "Dropping books? I'm afraid that just won't do."
"Erk," said Ridley. "Who's Agnes Nutter?"
"Sorry, my dear?"
"Who's Agnes Nutter? Er, she, wrote me a letter, I think, and she wrote that book, too, that one that you're holding in your hand?"
"What?" the man looked down at the book he was holding. His eyes widened. "Crowley!" he yelped. "Come over here!"
No one immediately came, and Ridley was quite concerned as to who he was talking to.
"But please, could you tell me who this Agnes Nutter i-"
Suddenly, the book keeper had whipped his head around in the direction of the door. There, more floating than standing and looking rather horrifying indeed, were three strange, dark, hooded figures.
"Hello," said Ridley politely.
The other man's face was horror incarnate. "Oh no! What are you doing here!" He turned to Ridley. "Go! There's a room in the back! Now! I'll try and hold them off!"
"Er, okay, then …"
Feeling completely and utterly bewildered, Ridley found his way to the back of the store, where he walked through a small door into the store's back room. In the shop, he heard voices still saying muffled and incomprehensible things...
