Title: Headcase, Chapter 4

Author: digitalruki

Rating: PG

Characters: Glitch

Summary: "It's very nice to meet you, Mister..." The horse, seemingly flustered, doesn't respond. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry, " says Glitch, "Is it Mrs.?"

Author's Note & Disclaimer: I don't own Tin Man. Sorry this took so long!! (Even though I have no idea if anyone was waiting for it.) I've been rather under the weather so I just had no energy to write until now. Any feedback on this fic would be most welcome.

-0-

He has been travelling east, following a scent that he can't smell towards something he couldn't recognize if he saw it. The farther he walks the more he wonders what on earth he's doing. The closer he comes, the greater his mind wants to break away. But the body carries onward.

When he steps onto the main street of Brewertown, Glitch wonders if he has reached the end of his journey. The town is set directly in his path, and a strange air surrounds it. He doesn't know exactly how he knows, but he can feel a connection to it, somehow, like he's been here before.

Children scurry home, and the townsfolk watch the strange man wander through the streets from their front windows. The people of Brewertown might have come into contact with headcases in the past, but this man is not like any half-brained fool they've ever met. A headcase, they know, is a ghost of a man, without creativity or free will. But they notice that his manner is varied, as if he keeps changing his mind about how he should walk. A headcase does not have any sense of direction or the passage of time. But they see that when he reaches the center of town, he turns to look behind him, as if to see how far he's come.

One building in particular grabs Glitch's attention. The lights are what he first notices. They are brighter than any other home's, all twinkling under a glowing sign above the front door reading "Poppy's Bar & Inn."

He hears voices and the sounds of metal and glass. In the twilight each window flickers with an inner warmth. His shadow stretches out in front of him, the dark shape melting into the inky recesses of the structure. It seems to be a gathering place of some kind, and so he gathers his thoughts and walks up to it.

Carriages and horses fan out around the perimeter. Some of the animals turn their tired heads towards him as he walks gingerly up the steps. He stops to bow to the closest horse.

"It's very nice to meet you, Mister..." The horse, seemingly flustered, doesn't respond. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry, " says Glitch, "Is it Mrs.?"

"You can chat her up all night, doll," calls a honeyed voice from the direction of the front doors. Glitch turns to see a rosy, robust woman, smudged and sooty apron tied about her waist. "But I can guarantee you won't get anything out of her." She's smiling at him, but her eyes are so scrunched up that she doesn't look real. He finds himself shuffling back down the steps nervously. After all, even if he is a grown man, he's only ever spoken to four people (that he can recall) and he's just remembered that women seem to frighten him.

Having decided that a porch and five stairs is a reasonable distance between him and the lady, he bows again. But he has no idea what he's supposed to say.

In the silence that stretches, he hears the woman's breath catch. He looks up quickly to see what's wrong. He can see her eyes now, dark and round, and a sadness that illustrates how he must appear; a man who's lost his mind.

"Oh," she breathes quietly. Still looking at his forehead. She turns, as if he isn't even there, and walks back inside.

And that image, of a sad face turning away from him, is too familiar, and now he can recall every time someone on the street or passing him on the road has done the same thing. He hadn't even noticed it then, how he was viewed. This is the other half of the curse, he muses. Not only can he not see anything, but no-one can see him. For the first time, he begins to realize how terribly alone he's been.

Seemingly, for much longer than he can remember.

The congregation inside is bustling and lively and not lonely at all, and he wants it so badly, wants that feeling inside of him, that his feet are carrying him through the doors before he can think twice. As the scene hits him, he wonders if it will be anything like the balls he can sometimes see himself whirling through.

But no, this is a party unlike any he's ever, ever seen. For one thing, it looks like he isn't welcome, because as soon as he sets foot by the bar he starts to feel a lot of eyes on him, and when he looks over his shoulder he sees the the men playing cards and the men drinking and the men arguing all look at him. Or, he supposes, at the stigma on his forehead.

A hand on his shoulder, and suddenly most of the eyes shuffle back to their own business. His gaze turns to follow the arm up along a purple sleeve and smudged apron, to the round, dark eyes of the rosy woman from before. She's not looking straight at him still, but directly through him, with a stern disposition, at all men who would like to oppose his being here. He's her guest.

As the noise rises again, she focuses on him, and he tries to smile. Stepping back a little, he bows once more. "Thank you," he says.

"Now listen, honey, if you can understand me," she says sternly, grabbing his cheeks. Yes, this is a bit closer than he's comfortable with. No, he might not remember what she's about to say. But her voice sounds like she's yelling to him from across a roaring river, telling him how to cross. So he tries his best.

The woman declares, "No-one in my bar gets service unless they got a name. I've dealt with your kind before, and I ain't in the mood for mind games." Glitch makes the connection without even having to mull over it, because he already made a note somewhere when he wasn't paying attention to himself that this bar-and-inn belong to someone.

"Poppy," he says. She opens her mouth to reply but stops, having just been addressed. At least, Glitch hopes this is the case, and continues. "Er, I mean, Glitch. Is, um. My name. But I was just guessing at yours. Miss Poppy, I presume? The name on the sign--" he gestures towards the front door, "Outside."

She bites her bottom lip, raising her eyebrows. "The sign?" she finally manages, looking over her shoulder, as if hoping to see an explanation. This motion requires her to remove her hands from his face. Glitch is a little relieved. After all, he doesn't seem to like to touched. Finding no tricks, Poppy turns back to him. "Yes, I'm Poppy." She shakes her head a little, and smiles. "Glitch...was it?"

"It's very nice to meet you, Miss Poppy. But, you see," says Glitch, and he hopes honesty is the best course, "I don't remember what my real name is, on account of, well..." His hand floats above the zipper, and he shrugs. "You wouldn't happen to...recognize me, would you?"

Poppy whirls around behind the bar, grabbing a glass. "Never seen you in these parts. What can I get you?" she asks, shaking the glass. Glitch holds up his hands apologetically, changes his mind and rests them on the bar counter.

"I don't drink, at least I don't know if I do, so I better not," he reasons. She shrugs and pulls a bottle of red liquid out from under the counter. "And I, uh, have no...money."

"Have some cranberry juice, then." She slides the full glass under his nose. It glimmers in the candlelight, so appealingly. "I can see you aren't the richest of fellows. But you sure speak clearer than most of the men here."

As he reaches for the glass, he can feel her watching him carefully. Seeing what he does. He tries to remember if there is anything he's forgetting, comes up blank, and takes a sip.

"Strangest thing I ever saw," Poppy exclaims, slamming the cork back into the juice bottle. "A headcase with a mind of his own."

Swallowing the sweet, tangy liquid, Glitch muses, "I don't believe it would be...accurate to call it my own mind. Or rather, this...conscious state I'm in. That is--"

"Harry! Come see this!" Poppy waves over one of the men playing cards, a fellow as hairy as his namesake. He steps around behind the bar to stand beside Poppy, resting his arm around her shoulders. She turns back to Glitch. "Say your name again, doll."

Unfortunately, he's in mid-gulp, so when he tries to say "Glitch," again, cranberry juice spills all down the front of his shirt. Harry and Polly roar with laughter.

He starts over. "It's Glitch," he says, wiping his mouth. "Not 'honey', or 'doll'," he adds. He's not trying to rude, he's just worried that maybe she's forgotten it already. It wasn't more than a few minutes ago she wasn't acknowledging him at all.

"What's wrong with me, anyway?" he thinks aloud.

Poppy stops laughing. Harry, too. They both look worried. He realizes he's talking to himself again. It's frustrating. Sometimes his brain won't move at all, but sometimes it moves so fast he can barely keep up. What was the question?

"I'm a headcase," he answers himself. He slides his glass over a foot or so, creating a thin pool of moisture on the bar surface. He doodles indescribable shapes in it, and all the while he speaks haltingly. "My brain was removed because, presumably, I did something...wrong. Or I--" he clasps his cranium at this point, "--knew something, and did you know...a person is...clinically dead when brain function ceases?"

Poppy can't seem to find anything to say to that. She looks to Harry, then to her front door. Finally, she just whispers, "Dead?"

Harry smiles, sadness and humor in his voice. "You must have just forgot."

Glitch tries to make out what he's drawn on the counter. "What did I forget?" He mumbles, transfixed. What does that shape look like?

"That you were dead," Harry finishes, laughing. He reaches over the counter to slap his shoulder. Glitch stops the motion by reflex, doesn't even notice, because he's drawn something on the counter.

Fading as the water evaporates, is a pair of eyes, and the letter L. Eyes, eyes...He touches his own eyes. "What did I forget?" he repeats. He looks up at the pair, his hand still gripping Harry's, and Poppy's biting her lip again. Her dress is a light purple.

No. It's lavender. A color he could never forget. These eyes...they're lavender, too.

"Miss Poppy, " he says, releasing Harry's arm. He tries to smile reassuringly. Hopefully he had something along the lines of charm in his former life.

Poppy smiles, nodding. "Yes?"

Oh, good, he got it right. "Have you ever met anyone with lavender eyes?"

Poppy and Harry chuckle. "There's only one person in the O.Z. with eyes that color, darlin."

For some reason, he knows he should know who that person is, but he can't recall. "Who?" he asks,

"Well--" and she leans in close, as if it's a secret, "The Queen."