By the time he woke, got knocked out, then woke again, Mayfield had felt the sunshine sizzle his face, himself tremble for tasting soil & dirt. Tried to slap himself hard in the will to wake up, in the desire to convince the world that he wasn't dead…
To say nothing of his graveyard stench and sullied clothes, where he laid had really clenched his mouth and frothed it in a lather. And once he hurried to wipe himself down, only to ruin his hands for the effort, any onlooker might've thought that he came down with rabies.
If all those weren't rude enough surprises, his brand new surroundings sure woke him up. Dozens of cars to glide, hover and weave through the air, globs of people whirring through giant glass tubes, and some strange old cartoon that he might've recognised from his own time…
The outskirts of an outstanding other world, that had him drop to his ass on those fertile fields, eyes wide in bewilderment. In every measurable sense, it was a science-fiction TV show, come to life.
"Sweet shit to sainthood… Where, and when, in the hell am I?"
For the enormous skyscrapers and busy, busy streets, he had the distinct gut feeling that the where was obvious. It was the 'when' that, thirty seconds later, had again whammed him to the grass, now orders more concerned about his future.
"Nah, pfft, tell me I'm dreamin'! Gonna close my eyes, pinch myself, and I'll be right back in my pissant little place, warmed by pools of vomit… A-one, and a-two, and a…"
The sobering reality said otherwise, as he woke in a whimper, and without his face in sick. For lack of better terms, and sure as the sunset before him, he was dead, and this was his final resting place.
Crook as Rookwood and his guts ready to trigger again, he stumbled as he made to stand, somehow sucking in several deep breaths. Apparently he kept his organs in this world, but how he'd ever clean and care for himself here…
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To the creature who laid face-first on their soil, the citizens could only stare for a moment before going about their business. Would've taken quite the grave offence to rouse them, and as it approached the city centre, flunking every big city class of etiquette, boy did it ever get one.
Needless to say, if Mayfield thought that his call-centre job gave him hell, he was about to be re-educated in Satan's upscale kitchen of Manhattan.
As he stumbled into the sidewalk, he heard those strangers sneer, shout and scream in protest, ugly glares towards him and his five fingers. Even for one already outside looking in, he hunched up feeling most unwelcome.
"The hell are you all looking at?"
Tried to merge as everyone shoved and jostled among each other, but poor timing had him disrupt foot traffic. Never a bigger no-no to commit, especially covered in bile, as he found himself ejected and shoved into the gutters. Wouldn't get a time nor day, just whispers of "fucking disgrace" and the taste of bitumen and gravel instead.
The night-time soon approached, and only a gym, seedy pool lounge, clean country-style bar and some take-out joints would keep the lights on. Just a timid shrug to give in desperation for advice, but couldn't even say a word before the customers choked and cupped their mouths, and the staff made their demands clear.
"HEY, you fuckin' bum… Get your worthless fat ass walkin' already!"
"Say one more word, and Capone here will have you shitting your own teeth!"
"Slopping spew in my store? Damned sumbitch, leave or we'll have problems, boy!"
"Take your drunken self off my establishment right now, before I call the cops!"
Nothing but gruff, pissed yells and 'escorts' off each property, as Mayfield began to grind his teeth, clench his neck and blink back tears. Not a word spoken, yet he still remained smelly, clueless, and sober to his own hopelessness.
Could feel those senses shut down again, that will to brave the shit-storm fade away. Felt himself unable to care, even when they brought out their fancy weapons that'd put the true fear of Brooklyn into anyone.
Was he wrong to just want answers? Did they think he was there to rob them blind? He knew he stank something awful, but were such first impressions THAT offensive to everyone?
Well, if he knew the true stories as opposed to watched them, maybe he'd have understood…
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As a premier hub for commerce, fashion, media and trade even in Mayfield's time, New York was the craziest city to create and leave behind a legacy. In the near thousand years since those pioneer centuries? Hopefully no intro course was needed to realise the madness to follow.
As such, first impressions DID matter, since it wasn't just convenience to avoid problems, it was often a matter of survival. From the mid-to-late 20th century, one could expect swarms of street-smart grifters, epidemic spreads of crack cocaine, and homeless drifters who had lost against the world long ago. Shell game offers, aggressive pushers and spare change beggars, all in a typical work day.
Even for those problems being put to rest, despite the wasteful Prohibitions and Wars on Drugs, such instincts and second natures stayed the same. To sort one's own life and forget the rest was to thrive, and no-one could tell them otherwise.
Hell, none knew this better than the influxes of tourists to arrive off the shores of Ellis Island. From continent to continent, they'd sail stormy seas in droves, praying they'd reach that isle of hope and tears in a first step towards grabbing that elusive American Dream.
If they and eventually their families could survive by virtue of great bravery and hard work, then why in Hell's Kitchen would they coddle or nanny anyone?
That was the creed of New York, old & new, in a nutshell… Step up, step aside, or get stepping.
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The city's latest drifter had been caught in a tailspin, the burdens of blatant threats, blistered feet and burning cramps threatening to bow his knees.
Was the dead of night, and several miles later, when he stood aside a dinky, abandoned, portholed place sandwiched between giant skyscrapers. A splintered canoe in between two cruise ships, before the shipwrecks of grimy alleyways and unpaved basketball courts.
Only one truth became clear, as he spasmed, bled and sprawled to his knees… He really had nowhere to go, no-one to turn to. He had no inkling nor idea of when he was, what he could do, and why this detour towards death hadn't ended yet. Nor did he have the food or water to push forward and find out.
This was it… This was it, the fallout of all his past choices, his scalding hot hemlock to choke on.
Felt his chest and windpipe gasp for air, a vice-like grip in his throat. This had been his whole entire life, a prodigy of being Peter Pan. One who hadn't grown, who had only bullshitted about how he could care for himself. His first hours on his first day had proven it…
Soon, a covering and fisted grab of his face, as he took in a breath, way deeper than usual…
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Didn't care for how it echoed, for how it ripped his chords apart. Against the recent years of silent suffering, it was either that, assault, or perhaps property damage. A temptation to slam his size-13 foot into anything; person or window.
Could've given the clothes on his back for his family to be here. If they knew how he laid there, curled up on concrete in flows of tears, they'd have swam the whole ocean to raise him back up.
Fates and cosmic threads had other ideas though, as instead of a shallow hole, handful of garden lime and an Ave, he got the clicks of several lights, quite the show of muttering, and finally, a middle-floor window shove…
"Whoever you are, shut the HELL up!"
The same words he once spoke, but not the same voice. Feminine, a first for him, that had him dart his eyes and fidget his feet in a scramble. Whiplash copped in his neck while he scanned for the source, only to wish he didn't once it came pounding towards him.
In light-lilac pyjamas, but by no means the delicate flower, a lady that looked his age had advanced for him, soon face-to-face before his dread of realisation. Had seen the evidence of awful sleepless nights, and could only shrivel before her bared white teeth, murderous eye and cradling fists.
Was obvious—and now for good reason—that she had no welcoming party in mind…
"Who in every God's name are you, what's with the evil eye, and WHAT IN THE HELL'S GOING ON?!"
A lethal, eager and brief whisper, as she inched just a little closer.
"I'm Leela, I'm an alien, and you woke us all up. But give me five minutes of your time…"
Just thoughts of "Wait, what?" and "The hell, an alien?" before two swift, stinging jabs cracked him on the nose.
"Oh Gods, that hurt!"
Through streaming eyes, he scrambled back, even if he knew he couldn't run. Lady probably did marathons for a warm-up. Could only resort to dodging and ducking every devastating blow he could, nerves on quite the high alert.
The ultimate lose-lose, for not only her ease of predicting and punishing his every move, but in her growing pissed enough at his resistance to seize his head, growl, and fire a cannonballing knee into his jaw.
The force could've flashed him back to childhood, of splitting his skull across steel-framed trampolines… This time only the cushioning of his chin had saved his life, dropping him to the concrete instead of outright killing him.
Less than five miserable minutes, and already a whole new definition of pain. Yup, he knew it, he was just in Hell that'd been given a fancy coat of city paint.
"Please, stop… I didn't mean to wake you, I…" A strange mumble to replace his voice.
"Left your cries of mercy late, little boy… Now for some life lessons."
"Haven't I learned enough?"
Only wordless groans as he felt himself stood up and slammed into the apartment wall, gasping all the while. No other way to go than be held still and have his face kneaded in by those fists.
Such a thunderstorm only stopped when his near-dead weight crumpled to the floor, just blood and tears to show for her work. Though she seemed content at first to admire her handiwork from afar, he could've clammed up for the sour stare towards her pyjamas…
Had gotten too close in the scuffle, and 'shared' something of his she hadn't meant to.
"You gotta be… Thanks a lot, idiot! Now I'll have to hand-wash these, as if things weren't crap enough! But hey, what do you know, your five minutes are up."
A nasty smile across her face, as he pushed up, fell over and eventually got to his knees.
"Since I'm feeling generous, here's a complimentary service of mine."
A signature roundhouse kick that fired straight into his head, which had him see more stars than the skies above, and splay out like a sandbag by the windows.
Good thing she didn't work by the hour, as she left for inside, turning with twisted lips.
"Welcome to New New York… deadbeat."
The lady's last words, not that she'd be heard. Out colder than the concrete, he found only reminders of happier times, of his family buzzing about his life. The walks, the shopping, the dinners, the games inside & out…
Never had the whole world in their hands, but it was more than most he ever knew.
Who'd have been so cruel to snatch such a life away from him, and why? Was it all his fault? Did he take so much for granted that he was beyond change, or redemption?
Ah, what did it matter anyway… Why question why everyone would sooner cave his face in?
If this was his version of Hell, then obviously his soul was better off getting used to the fact…