I need that box. By the God that cursed me to this fruitless search I need that box.

I was born human. Some would say I still am.

Some would call me a monster.

But I need to leave now. This place I have stayed in for such time. This place of my mutilation.

A hood, a cloak. Something to cover the movement of my arms, of my legs. A balaclava, dark glasses, gloves. A monster like me cannot exist in normal society. Cannot be seen without a measure of shock.

I need to find a box. A puzzle box of all things. I need to find the human who told me about the box, and find out who told them. I will search for as long as it takes.

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A gloved hand pulled something red and white gently out of a pocket and studied it through fathomless dark glasses, before replacing it.

"A number - a phone number. I need a phone. I have to go to the surface."

The head turned to study it's surroundings. The wall opposite was curved, and formed of aging brick. Everything about the place was old; built in a time before electricity. Below that wall ran rails that were virtually rusted away - in the Spring and Autumn they were almost always covered with a layer of water, but at present they were merely damp. Strange flora grew around the walls and over the rails - the kind you can only find in the perpetual blackness and damp. The circle of light spawned by the flames contained by a large metal bin glittered over the wetness on the floor. A heap of clothes and other items was strewn in a corner of the platform, along with a smashed mirror. Following the rail either way led you into a pit of inky blackness. Though the figure knew by experience that whilst one way would lead you to the open air, the other would lead you merely to a dead end. For this was a dead platform that lay below the streets of London, and many had died at it's destruction. It had seemed safe at the time. But the Thames in the power given to her by the reign of Spring had found her way into the tunnel leading to this station; and once she had claimed her territory she wouldn't be uprooted. So this section of track and this station had been abandoned long ago - like many others.

The figure limped to the edge of the station and leapt onto the track, carrying with him an electric torch. He followed the rail towards the left and was swallowed up by the blackness.

Left alone and untended the fire wavered uncertainly, then went out, snapping the abandoned station into nothingness - returning it to it's cadaverous slumber.

The figure walked on, the sweet sound of wavelets of water moving on stone filled the musty air. The figure's shadow stalked after him, thrown into existance by the torch the figure carried. His shadow was larger than himself. As he walked a strange optical effect began to appear. A path of glittering light began to snake it's way towards him. he gradually neared it, until it shyly brushed his battered shoe, sending it shattering into a thousand dancing pieces. This section of track was covered with water, and it was a long wade to the other side. In Spring, it would have been a long swim - in bad Springs the deepest section could find itself drowned right to the roof. The figure strode into the water without hesitation, until it covered him to the waist in freezing blackness. He didn't gasp at the cold - he'd already felt the ultimate cold he could give himself too many times.

He walked in this way for a time. Whether long or short could not be determined so far beneath the light, though to any normal mortal it would have felt like a cold eternity. The water deepened to his chest, forcing him to swim for a time. The cold water made his breathing horrendous, but he was strong, and well muscled - for he'd pushed his body as far as it could go for a long time once, revelling in the white hot pain of his muscles. Until that, too had held no delight any longer.

Eventually, though, he was able to stand, then shortly after that the water grew shallow. He tripped many times then, as his legs were numb from the cold, and his one eye couldn't see through the ankle deep inky blackness that covered the rails. One of his falls caused the bone in his left leg to break.

He didn't even wince.

A sound that felt as though it had been there all the time began to make itself audible. A rushing screeching noise. The sound of the underground - as dozens of trains burrowed their way through the earth, carrying away their helpless inhabitants. THe figure followed the noise, for aeons among the twisting, turning passages, until he reached a bricked up wall. The way he'd come in - he found the hole - low down, and almost too small for a human to fit through. The figure emerged though, albeit a little bloodier, and he headed along the shining track - darting from ladder to ladder, safety to safety, until neon lights saw him.

Grasping the platform edge, the figure hoisted himself up onto the crowded platform. A few people gasped - it's not often a figure wreathed entirely in black emerges from a tunnel in the underground. Particularly not one trailing blood. They cleared a path for him as he walked his tottering walk towards the escalator of Waterloo Station.

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Nothing much really seems to happen in my stories does it? There really are abandoned stations though which I though was really cool. Although the one I described in this chapter doesn't exist in History you never know what went on during the war, etc. Also they often cover up failed things. Anywho. That'll do for now. I'm bored and it's getting dark and my dinners nearly ready.