Author's note:
So I'm glad so many people read chapter one - not so impressed with the number or reviews - which is zero :( I know you might not be bothered but it really does make a massive difference. And I know I'm now probably getting on your nerves with this but please consider it at least?
Anyway, this is a slightly darker scene - I promise there will be actual interaction soon!
I know it's slightly shorter but Ch3 is long and it seemed appropriate to break here.
Anyway, enjoy!
In his dream, John was in a nest. It was huge, and full of twigs and feathers. Everything was an ashy grey, and he couldn't move from where he was. The feathers kept falling around him, and he started to panic, coughing, and kicking below himself, trying to get a purchase on something. He felt the old pain shoot up his leg, but when he looked down, some kind of dog or something was biting it, trying to pull him down, out of his nest. He grabbed frantically at the nest around him, but it crumbled, snapping, breaking, and then he saw that they weren't sticks, but bones, and there was something rushing at him out of the dark –
He jerked awake, gasping, his breath shaking. Looking around did not help to reassure him. He was in some kind of surgery, there were racks of drugs, and a panel displaying CAT scans, various braces and splints hung on the wall above a large refrigerator.
He was sitting in a hospital bed, but he wasn't in a hospital. Fluorescent lights above him bathed the area in a sickly green glow, and the smell of bleach burned into his chest, making him wince.
He could move about – just – but all his attempts seemed clumsy, slow, and he fell back against the bed as his attempts left him exhausted.
He heard a door open behind him, and then close. He didn't hear footsteps, but a pale, slender hand reached around the back of the bed to touch his throat, the other joining it to hold his head still. The touch was cold and alien, and although there was very little pressure, he found himself completely paralysed, the reflexes to tell him to flinch away simply not happening.
A cool breath passed through his hair, and his spine prickled. He swallowed, attempting to clear his throat to speak, but as he did so he felt the numbing of an alcohol prep wipe on his neck, and before he could force a word out, a needle poured a chill into his body. It was over in a second, and he tried to move away, but those hands held him in place by the fingertips. He tried to speak, but he couldn't form his words properly, and he just stammered. The right hand shifted, dragging gently across John's neck, feeling like electricity, and vanished, returning to press a soft cotton wool ball to the spot where the needle had slid under his skin. He tried to twist around to look at his captor, but the movement made the world jolt, and he felt sick, retching, slowly tipping his weight forward, against the restraints, until he realised there were no restraints, he was just fighting his own body which wasn't doing what he told it to. He eventually got his head resting on his knees, closing his eyes, feeling the chair tilt under him as the movement made him slide off the chair, but as he did, those hands returned, steady and firm, pulling him back into the chair.
He stared up at the green light and groaned as a multi-coloured cloud crowded into his vision, and he passed out.
When he awoke, again, his head was working properly. On closer inspection, it was clear the room wasn't a hospital. There was wallpaper – brown with a fleur-de-lis pattern, and a picture rail. The must still be in the house he had found.
Slowly, he got up out of the chair. It looked a bit like a dentist's chair, but – dirtier.
He shuddered, moving to the racks of bottles on the wall, reading the labels. Some names jumped out at him – pentylenetetrazol, better known as Metrozol, Thorazine, Diazepam, Chlorpromazine, fluoxetine hydrochloride – Prozac – Seroxat… He swallowed as his throat dried up. These were all mind-altering drugs, some used to treat depression, some schizophrenia – well, that would explain why he was so incapacitated before.
He turned, as he heard a noise, as if something heavy had been dropped. He swiftly found the door, which was unlocked, and shut it behind him. The greenish light continued along an old, unevenly floored corridor. There were stairs on his left, also painted brown, and he grabbed the handrail, suddenly feeling dizzy. There was a door on his right, and one directly in front of him, which he lurched for, releasing the handrail. As his fingers grazed it, something sharp bit into his neck on the right, and a hand clamped around his arm, so he didn't fall and break what he assumed was a hypodermic.
He twisted as he landed, and looked up, trying to see who his attacker was. As the electric haze swam in again, he saw a pair of ice-blue eyes boring into him, and then he was gone.
The bleach in his throat woke him again. The now familiar surroundings came into focus, and he scanned them for any change. There was now some distillation apparatus set up on a bench in front of him, and some of the bottles were missing.
He could move around, and didn't seem to have any kind of mental impairment. As he stood, the blood rushed to his head and he had to steady himself against the back of the chair.
He was, again, alone in the room, and so he made his way towards the door. Looking up and down the corridor, he saw no-one. He looked back into the room, searching for anything he could use as a weapon. Seeing a needle on a trolley, he grabbed it, ripping it out of it's sterile packaging , putting two more in his pocket.
"Stealing equipment?"
He span around, holding the needle out. He couldn't see anyone.
"Where are you?" He shouted, hearing his voice tremble a little and hating himself for it.
"Irrelevant. Where do you think you are?" The voice was rich and deep, and somehow expressive and distant at the same time.. John span around, looking for the source.
"What do you want?" he said, more calmly. He could do hostage negotiation – though he'd never had to do it as the actual hostage. "We can help you – I don't have much, but I can give you what I-"
The voice gave a rich, but also mirthless laugh that echoed strangely, filling the room. The hairs on the back of John's neck rose, and he could feel his heart thumping viciously against his ribs.
"I don't want money," the voice chuckled, then turned cold again, "Now tell me where. You. Are."
Best to comply. The man was obviously on a power trip, doing this for the knowledge that he had John trapped.
"I'm on Baker Street."
"Impressive. Do you use narcotics of any kind?"
Then again, maybe he was just insane.
"Look, just tell me what you're doing. I can help-"
"Oh, you already are." The voice seemed to curl around John like smoke, and his ears rang, blocking out any other noise. Then it came, like a whisper, right next to his ear, "It's an experiment, John."
He was plunged, into darkness.