Not so broken-hearted (2D/STYLO) Chapter 3
(A/N: Once again, I'm trying hard. I have lots of stuff flying around in my head and I'm backed up with ...well, mostly procrastination, but you get the point.)
2D once again was startled to wakeness, this time by being tapped on the shoulder by a police officer. The man, looking in his forties, stood over him, dressed in a dusty brown uniform and numerous brassy medals and badges, his patrol car humming quietly behind him.
When 2D opened his dark eyes, the older man was visibly startled. As was the younger man, who defensively held up his hands in front of his face, his jump so great that his smiley faced mask fell from the top of his head to hang around his neck. "D-don't kill me, I swear, it was all an accident!" Stu blurted.
The officer raised his eyebrows, confused. "Son, why are you here? Did you drink last night?" 2D slowly lowered his arms, though still visibly shaken. "N-no sir, I have no place to go.." he stopped himself. What would happen to him if he told the truth? Could it be worse than lying? He made a shot in the dark.
"I'm homeless...I was kidnapped years ago, no idea in bloody hell where I was.." he bitterly mumbled. He even surprised himself with how solemnly the statement presented itself. The policeman crouched down so they were on eye level, looking at him seriously. "Son, how old are you?" This prompted him to bite his lip and search in his thoughts. "What year is it...? I-I...I can't remember.."
At this, the strange man had a noticeable change of heart in his eyes; where moments ago laid suspicion, now rested a vengeful thirst for resolution. This was a dangerous mystery, and Stuart could tell from the look in his eyes that the officer cared enough to help him. He suddenly felt like he was staring into the eyes of a concerned family member instead of an accusatory stranger.
"Son, you got gas?" The officer gestured to the Stylo, and 2D nodded. "Fire 'er up and follow me. I'll drive right slow, we're not in a hurry." The officer gave a gentle smile, which 2D heavy-heartedly tried to reciprocate, on the verge of tears. He realised it was going to be an extremely hard journey to any kind of normal life. If that would ever happen for him. But this was his chance, and he had to take it.
Igniting the Stylo's engine, he paused for a moment, hands on the wheel, sighing. "We're on the way, lov-" he stopped. What was he about to say? No. He was alone in a car. An object without feeling whose sole purpose was to transport human beings, one of which he was. However he felt a strong connection. Especially in the case of being treated in subhuman manners.
As he fought back the flashbacks of his brutal treatment, he let tears freely roll. Because it wouldn't matter; no one was here to beat him for "not being strong," and crying. He silently followed the officer in his automobile, feeling disconnected once again. Even though a cheerful sun shone down on him, warming him, he felt cold. Trauma wasn't an easy hurdle. And today, he let himself fall. Maybe tomorrow he would, too. Maybe the next day he'd get up. But today, he was on the floor.
2D sat in a basic wooden chair, whose comfortableness he didn't much care about. Patiently sitting across a small table from him was the officer who picked him up, a Mr. Tyndall, who was a considerate man who had served for over nineteen years as a policeman and had seen just about everything else. The room they were in was simple. Beige carpet with a pink, oval-shaped rug on the opposite side of the room near a window on the wall to 2D's left. A TV, a disused old radio, and the mostly-empty bookshelf it sat on were the only things other than the table and chair in the room.
The smell of cheap air freshener drifted here and there. Mr. Tyndall shuffled some papers around, probably concerning protocol, and neatly laid them down by a notepad and pen. "We'll take this slowly. I know you must feel really bad." 2D nodded, politely folding his hands on the table. He was willing to cooperate if it meant survival.
"Okay, this is really easy. What's your name, and do you know your birthday?" 2D eagerly nodded. "S-stuart Pot, and.. me birthday's may the twenty-third, nineteen-seventy.. eight." The other man scribbled some notes. "Well, Stuart. .congratulations. You turn 36 next month!" At this, his heart sank. It had been so long ago that he got dragged into this mess. Funnily enough, he got hit by a car at the start and now a car was carrying him out of this mess.
2D's mind wandered back to earlier, and he pushed the thoughts back. It was all coincidence. Really, some sore luck if you asked him. "Okay, Stuart. Where did you live before you were kidnapped?" 'D shook. "I-I'm f-from England. Y-you won't deport me will you? He might get me back," he blubbered, perceivably shrinking in his chair. The thought of Murdoc's survival and his own recapture terrified him beyond end.
"No, not at all, not if we can figure this out. I'll see to it. Have you had any sort of citizenship here in the US before, any kind of connection that would land you here?" The story was beginning to boil in 2D's head– rather, he felt none of it plausible. Suddenly, he took a drastic move. "I-I have to tell you the whole story..I know it's gonna sound like a lie.." from there, he began with his childhood. From his accident and run-in with defective meds to the current point in time.
Sometimes Mr. Tyndall would ask him to slow down, or explain things, or repeat something. 2D more than happily obliged. He omitted a lot of details, but none that were important to his safety. When he was through, the police officer left him to go and discuss the issue at hand with some of his coworkers and make some calls.
Alone in the little room, 2D decided to get up and look around. Upon examination, the bookshelf yielded little of interest, including works like a transcription of Shakespeare's "Othello" and a small, worn book entitled "Why do I feel bad when I say No?", obviously the psychology enthusiast's midday snack. Walking over to the window, he leaned his hands against the cool glass, looking out at his Camaro parked out in a patch of white gravel next to Mr. Tyndall's black and white patrol car, presumably some 90's-era Ford.
The auto's strong profile stood out against the mixture of flat land and rolling hills, looking almost vengeful. The vigilant sentinel was posted silent, a unique feeling coming from it. Was 2D going crazy? Maybe he was just becoming over attached. He thoughtfully furrowed his brow and sighed, staring out the window. He wanted to be out there. He didn't know why. He just wanted to curl up in the backseat of the beast and sleep forever. He needed to feel safe.
Just as he began easing out of his thoughts, Mr. Tyndall softly inquired, "Feeling lost?" 2D glanced to him and back to the Stylo dolefully before walking back to the little wooden chair and sitting down. "I'm just gone. Gone from earth, it feels like. Nothing's real." Mr. Tyndall nodded at this, understanding wholly. "I've felt that way before. I have good news, if it helps."
Stuart hopefully looked up at the older man. He felt like he was a child looking for approval and assistance from his parents again. Without a word from the young man, the policeman went on to describe how they would be able to obtain his documents and direct him on his way to a new life. Mr. Tyndall told 2D that, if he could bear sleeping in the Stylo next to the police station for a few nights, he'd be put up in a temporary place to live. Everything began to fall into place.
That night, 2D got the best sleep he'd had in years. He wasn't still, but he wasn't restless. Every night for the next few days he'd wake up before dawn, anxious, watching the horizon for his demonic captor's vindictive arrival. The thought of being captured haunted him over and over, mind still returning to the time when he was an undersea captive.
One morning, 2D woke before dawn, as usual. Nervous eyes scanned everything around him, until they settled on the Keyboard he'd gotten some four or five days ago. He pondered how he could forget such a thing he used to passionately practice with for hours on end and perform with ardor not many players could muster.
Taking the little Casio from the backseat, 2D switched it on. He began to roll out the notes to "Stylo", singing along, beginning softly and then becoming louder:
Overload, overload, overload
Comin' up to the overload
Oh Stylo,
Go forth blossom in your soul
When you know your heart is light,
Electric is the love
When the mako flies
Up from the bottom in your eyes,
Then I know the twilight skies
Are not so broken-hearted
...
He trailed off for a minute, yawning awkwardly. He resumed singing, a bit louder.
Sing yourself
Out of depression, rise above
If I know your heart..
Electric is the love...
He trailed again, thinking about the feeling of safety and nigh-companionship that that automobile gave him, and how happy he felt to be around it. Switching the keyboard off, he hunched his shoulders and looked down at the keyboard with reticence on mind at best. He was crazy. 'I'm not one of th-those..' he silently mused.
His eyes looked up at the Stylo's steering wheel, then wandered over the gauges and the shifter, the stereo and the seats. Every detail stood out vividly familiar to him, even in such dim light. Looking around, he saw nobody moving about, nobody bothering with the start of the day, and decided to hastily retire again, placing the Casio in the backseat and leaning his seat back all the way and curling up on his side, quickly nodding off again. He wanted nothing of the sort on his mind for the following day.
Faint beeping and the bittersweet, sterile and unmistakable smell of a hospital wafted into sore nostrils. Eyelids became a stinging blanket of sandpaper to hetero-chromic eyes and strange languages scrambled themselves around the spinning room.
"¡Él vive, vengan aquí! Necesitamos ayuda, ¡ahora!" The words sounded familiar. He'd heard them before.
Had he finally gone to hell?
The world disappeared again as his vision went black. The last thing he heard was the accelerated beeping from something he wished would just stop. There was no point to it anyways.
(A/N: this one's a shortie, I know. I'm trying to write while I have inspiration. Believe me, it flows at the most unfortunate times. It's currently midnight as this is written. Go me.)
(A/N update: I tried to upload this morning, but my tablet refused to paste my text. Sorry!)