A/N: I know what I write about their past is mostly trivial and seems of no relevance, but my excuse is character development. Yep, I'll stick with that. Thank you to those that reviewed.
Disclaimer: Tomb Raider and its characters are the property of Simon West, Paramount Pictures and Eidos Interactive. This story is strictly for my own personal pleasure. Any similarities between this story's plot and any others is purely coincidental. No plagiarism is intended.
Chapter Six: Images.
Essex, 1992.
Lara and Alex sat on the wall outside Eric's house, watching some of the younger kids playing football in the field in the middle of Eric's estate. It was a blistering day, one of the hottest of the century ( the hottest not being until 2003, braking all records in England and reducing London to a sweltering haze, almost opaque due to the humidity of the air), and even the most cold blooded of people were decked out in shorts and t-shirts. Wearing what was soon to be his typical Dig attire- The tan khaki shorts, white sleeveless t-shirt and tan vest- Alex swung his legs, rhythmically beating them against the wall as Lara finished eating the wrap she had gotten at the petrol station on the way to Eric's house. Crumpling up the paper and shoving it into a pocket of Alex's shorts, Lara dusted of her hands and jumped off the wall.
"Where you going?" he craned his neck to follow her path up Eric's driveway. "You just gonna ignore me?" She lifted a hand and knocked on the door. A flutter of the curtain, and Eric opened the door.
"Hmm? Oh, hey guys." Shutting the door behind him, he rummaged in his pockets, only now checking that he had the keys. After being reprimanded by Lara for keeping them waiting, he made his way to the truck sitting in front of Alex. His father owned it, and reaching inside the back, he pulled out a couple of large crates and some left over carpet. "We better get started, it starts in three hours".
It was currently ten o'clock. There was another, smaller field surrounded by hedges on two sides on the far right of the estate, where the Westfields concert was to be held. It was nothing near as big as it sounds. A few bands from the local area would play- really just mess around, as there was no set list or anything. Whether you could play or not you still got to go on the soon to be made make-shift stage and- ah- contribute to the entertainment. Anyone with nothing else to do would show up. It was supposed to be some kind of charity event, a bunch of Eric's friends were selling various chocolate bars and an assortment of toys in aid of a children's hospital.
Making their way down the road leading to the field, they were accosted by an eight year old on a bicycle, one of Eric's minions, who attempted to crash into Eric in a game of chicken. Both lost, as they both moved out of the way. Reaching the expanse of grass, they deposited the items on the part closest to the road. Placing the crates in the rough formation of a stage, they tried to tackle the problem of getting the carpet to stick to the wood. Like all of the best laid plans, it should have been already catered for. Unfortunately, this was a bunch of unorganised teenagers, two of which had only been informed the day before of the event. Eric's friends had arrived, and were currently trying to set the stands, but all they had were some rickety, disused tables.
"You got any staples?" Alex asked, now that Lara had decided to sit quietly by to laugh and criticise their lack of planning and coordination. Eric got up to get the staple gun from his father's truck. On returning, they both struggled to staple the edges of the carpet, which had grown stiff from its prone position. When they began work on the last corner, Lara pointed out that the other corners were curling up, wrenching the staples from the wood.
When at last they had figured out a way of keeping the carpet cinched to the wood (a bunch of staples and a few bricks on each corner did the trick), some people began to arrive. Alex wondered off with a drummer to help him set up a- as he put it- super kit ( two bass drums, more cymbals than necessary and a few toms shy of every one in the phone book). Lara met up with Reg and Michael, Eric went to try and coax some half decent tables out of the neighbours.
When things were finally underway, Alex was drumming to Metallica- any excuse to pick up sticks- with Reg on guitar making a slight fool of himself, and two other people of no importance. Handing over the kit to another drummer after finishing up the song, he then realised he had lost the plastic tip of one of his metal drumsticks. Pleading Lara's help, they- or rather she- found the tip under the stage and they decided to leave the estate.
They walked along the pavement by the main road, knocking shoulders to see who would talk first.
Dressed in a navy suit and tie, white shirt underneath, Alex made his way down the narrow tunnel. The earthen walls slightly soaked with water led him to believe he was deep underground. There was no breeze, and the air was stale and still, meaning he was far from the entrance- or exit. Torches were placed intermittently on either wall. Looking up, the ceiling was bare save for a few signs of insect life. The stone slabs beneath his feet, however, were marked with glyphs that were familiar, and yet not so. It gave him an uncomfortable feeling. He was dimly aware of how inappropriate it was to be wearing suit. It didn't occur to him to wonder how he got there, or why.
The tunnel began to narrow, and the feeling of claustrophobia began to set in. Stooping soon became necessary, and just before he had to crawl on his hands and knees the tunnel suddenly widened out into a small cavern. Four torches, larger than those along the tunnel walls, were placed at the 'Corners' of the circular cavern. Taking one from its post on the wall, he was drawn to the side directly across from the opening. What he saw was a contradiction in more ways than he could fully grasp.
There was a detail from the Maya Codex Cospi, preserved today in Bologna. It only showed a portion of the Codex, the part which is sometimes known in some archaeological books as the 'Cosmic conflict'. The planet Venus, Tlauixcalpantecuhtli, is depicted attacking an ocelot warrior. Its spear has pierced the warrior's heart. Records like these were left by Spanish priests and travellers and constitute the earliest ethnographic accounts of the descendants of the great prehispanic civilizations of the Americas. A codex in a cave did not make sense. These were not made by the Mayas, but rather those that conquered them.
Holding the flickering flame up against the wall, it began to flicker and change before his very eyes. It changed slowly at first, showing different parts of different codices. It sped up as it began to show images of hieroglyphs and statues that Alex didn't recognize. The flashing images become more and more erratic before finally flickering out and settling on one image….
Alex's flat, present.
Early morning light filtered through the crack in the faded green curtains, refracting as it glanced off the glass coffee table. Something stirred under the cocoon of bed clothes centred on the bed. An arm reached out to shut off the irritating alarm, a high pitched beep over riding the noise of early-morning rush hour. Shadows flashed across the room with each large vehicle that passed by on the busy high road. Alex still couldn't figure out why apartments on a main street were so expensive. The night club a few doors down, grinding out a monotonous beat at all hours of the night and into the wee hours of the morning, coupled with the constant traffic outside should have detracted its value. After fumbling for a few seconds the alarm was shut off, leaving the room sounding empty. Alex groaned, kicking the blankets to the floor. They landed silently in a heap at the foot of the bed.
Running a hand through his hair, Alex tried to recall the dream that had left a light sheen of sweat on his skin. It came back in startling detail, all except the last scene, which refused to fully materialise in his mind. Glancing at the clock, he made to get ready to head to Lara's.
Twenty minutes later and he was dressed in a suit very like the one in his dream, mocrowaved coffee in hand. Glimpsing himself in the mirror above the unused fire place, he concluded that this was yet again the work of the infamous subconscious, blood-traitor to the cause. A worthy foe, it had bested Alex more times than he cared to admit. He put down the coffee cup and narrowed his eyes at the image reflected on the antique mirror, deciding that this either forebode good things to come or the equivalent of the down after a rush of adrenaline. Correcting his collar and shaking out the cuffs of his shirt with a flick of his wrist, Alex grabbed his briefcase and the keys he had left on the coffee table. He locked up and hastened over to the white Ford Granada sitting idle in the small residents only car park on the corner.
A/N: I will have to alter facts in the course of the story, but I'll try and keep it as right as possible. Thank you for taking the time to read.
Kai.