This has been a long time in coming, I'm sorry to say.
((OOC Comments Welcome))
Zach was on his way back to harass the artist, Isaac Mendez. Even if this guy didn't know it; he could paint the future. That was nothing to be taken lightly. And if he could, in fact, paint the future then Zach needed answers. To questions like: what the fuck was happening to the time-space continuum? And: why the fuck was an alternate version of his best friend's boyfriend running around without being able to see or hear in this reality? No matter what Peter and Claire said, Zach knew it had to do with alternate universes, dimensions.. planes. They were seeing things that shouldn't be there, interacting with themselves from different points in time. It was all very messy; very.. dangerous. And Zach was going to get to the bottom of it, even if he had to buy Mr Mendez a year's supply of cereal.
And that was when it happened. Right there, on the street.. reality began to collapse around him. As if the sky itself was falling on his head. He wrapped his coat around himself tighter as if it could protect him, staring up at the cloudy winterscape. New York was so incredibly grey, greyer than anyone claimed even. And it only seemed to grow darker, casting angry shadows around him as he lost his footing, taking a wobbly step to try and brace himself; yelping when he stepped in a patch of ice instead. Jello mirrored his cry, but the dog sounded very far away, and when he was able to look down, he saw only black.
Where was he? What was happening to him? Pulling out his cell, he dialed trusty number two. He would have to change that to number one, he thought idly--he had set Peter's number over Lance's as a joke, but right now it wasn't seeming so funny. Even less so when the phone fell from his fingertips, falling endlessly through the dark.
Not even Claire could help him, and it was a terrifying thought as the city was swallowed before his eyes by inky black. It seemed to hover all around him, not quite tangible and yet still eerily opaque; thick as fog. He was in trouble, that much he knew. And completely alone.
The next thing he knew, a new landscape was forming--springing from the boundless nothingness that threatened to lose him as it had lost his home: New York, and his only tie to it: Claire. Clinging only to his will to live, he dared not make any noise even as he collided with the ground, his shoulder lighting up in excruciating pain.
Stumbling to his feet, he realized his coat seemed much too thick--it was much warmer here, though it was still chilly. He heard voices and feet, maybe even a few horses, gods help him, approaching swiftly. Heart rate speeding up to near-rodent equivalence, he searched the vicinity for somewhere to hide. Inconveniently enough, there didn't seem to be any such place in this large open space he seemed to find himself in.
Zach heard a voice from just beyond his field of vision, and he did his best to scramble beneath a tree as the horse and human feet grew nearer.
Another voice called out, his tone incredulous though Zach could not understand the language. He recognized it as being of Romantic origin, but that was about as far as his expertise went, unfortunately.
The first man spoke again, an obvious frown in his voice.
Zach prayed to whoever was listening just not to let these guys see him. His gut told him this was trouble even though he had no way of knowing just where in time or space he was, in all reality. That was when the first man stepped into the clearing, followed by two small ponies, one with a rider and one loaded with supplies. He was wishing he hadn't slept through World History so that their armor and manner might tell him something about... when he was.
The guy on the horse made an observation, pointing in his direction. He was practically shaking, which he realized with even more of a start, would only help them further with his location.
Thankfully, the other guy seemed to dismiss the man's obvious distress at Zach's presence.
Just don't notice, he begged, a single bead of sweat running down his face as the footsteps grew closer still. Fuck. He let out a sharp hiss of pain as his injured shoulder collided with the treetrunk.
They saw him then.
In a moment Zach barely saw anyway--his eyes were shut for most of it--strong arms hoisted him up onto the horse's back and started demanding things of him in a completely foreign tongue.
He shook his head, eyes finally focusing on the mans face--wide with fear. They seemed to be important people going from their obviously expensive dress, and the clothing was modern enough that this had to be at least within... the same millenium? Okay, Zachary, not helping. Attempting to express that he did not understand their language with a bit of broken English and a lot of hand gestures, he found himself being swept off as their apparent captive--the only word he had caught thus far.
For a long time, they rode along this way until Zach was nearly lulled to sleep by the rhythmic rocking of the horse. And how ironic was it that Jamie couldn't get him on a horse, but here he was in pre-Modern America (maybe?) being captured by strange, European... explorers? When they finally reached their destination, he was jarred awake by the sudden movement and being prodded to stand.
Yeah, he was officially in trouble.
He was led to a small cell by swordpoint, and he had to keep reminding himself to breathe. This couldn't really be happening. This was a dream, some sort of outlandish fabrication of his less-than-stable imagination. Reaching down to pinch himself on the arm--the motion was misconstrued as a threat, and he was swiftly incapacitated.
He fell into black for the second time that day.
Zach came to with a grunt, rubbing his head as he blinked bleary eyes against the dim, and yet seemingly too-harsh lighting. He was startled to find himself in a small, cave-like room shutting him in with a large metal grate. He heard a sharp, metallic sound growing closer, pounding torturously in his head as he tried to stand.
He was going to die here, alone. In this foreign place; this unfamiliar era...
And then the man started speaking, and he realized.. Spanish? It was odd-sounding whatever it was, and certainly not something he recognized. Perhaps an older dialect..? He didn't know Spanish, but he was familiar with it, and this sounded similar. Maybe he could make another word or two out, but most of it was all gibberish to him.
“Who are you?” he asked softly, breathlessly. He needed water.
The man stared at him for a moment, and Zach could have sworn he could see the cogs turning under those red curls.
“Christophorus Columbus,” he said after a minute, looking nowhere near as badass as Zach would have thought crazy Spaniards.. Italians, whatever.. might.
No Way.
But it was the truth. This was really.. Chris... Columbus. The guy who supposedly discovered America by, essentially, annihilating the Indians. Holy shit. 1492.
Zach nodded his understanding, trying to dredge up what little Spanish he knew.
“Agua?” he asked hopefully, coughing after the barely croaked-out word.
Begrudgingly, Columbus rose, raising a very red eyebrow as he ordered a man to fetch him some water. No fucking way anyone would ever believe him that this was happening right now. He didn't even believe it.
Then the man was asking him more questions he had no chance of understanding, and then the other guy was walking in, dragging his feet, the water he was carrying spilling out onto the floor. His precious agua; life, spilling over concrete.. and Chris smacked the guy. Upside the head.
Well, shit.
Columbus took the container somewhat forcefully, inadvertently splashing some more at Zach's feet, who winced in reaction. The man flashed him a knowing look, crossing the room on silent feet before leaning down to tip the bucket to Zach's lips. He drank thankfully, trying to take the container from him, but he found that to be an impossibility.
So this guy was a genocidal fucker.. and he was sketchy. Great. Now what?
Before he could be screamed at any further in an unintelligible language he had a sense was not even pure Spanish, another voice was calling for Chris... some sort of situation, apparently.
The famous explorer looked from the source of the voice to Zach, gesturing for him to follow. This did not bode well with his Mommy senses, but he scrambled to rise anyway as he suspected the repercussions for disobeying would most likely be worse.
He amused himself by trying to understand Columbus' men's colloquialisms. He was failing horribly, but it was distracting him [enough] from what could be his own impending doom.
Don't even think that, Zachary. Stay positive.
But it was hard... 500 years and gods knew how many miles away from home. Well, at least he hadn't had to ride on that horse again. They had had him walk this time around, thank goodness.
Oh snap.
When he looked up, there was an Indian.. a chief, to be more specific, and... those weren't blankets the men were carrying. Couldn't be. Fuck. The one thing he remembered from class, and it had to be this? He tried to skirt away, stay as far back from the cloth as possible.
Smallpox was airbourne. That he also remembered. And now chief-guy was gesturing for him to come forward. Zach shook his head, and tried to back up--found that a few swords were obstructing him. He gulped, thinking out his options.
So what are my choices? Death or... death?
He could move forward and get a lethal virus, or he could move backward and get driven through with a sword. He realized something then; he had a very good chance of dying before he technically existed.
--
Meanwhile, Jello was wondering the streets of New York, perhaps looking for his owner. He found another familiar face instead.
--
A few days later found Zachary Teller, holed up in the cargo bay of the Pinta. At least, it could have been the Pinta, he didn't even know anymore. As the tribe of Taino Indians hacked and coughed around him, he tried his best to keep back, but that was truly impossible by now. They were disease ridden, and surely it was only a matter of time before he shared this with them. They begged him with their eyes to join them; to become family and be close while they still had breath, but he was far too frightened.
He knew it didn't matter now anyway, but he couldn't bring himself to approach the dying people. He had read about this... slept on the very pages where the words were written in indifferent, unemotional boldface type. Meaningless, arbitrary statistics about these people he was packed in a tiny space with.
Two dead now, he didn't even know what of. One was a child. That was the first day he started noticing the splotches on his skin. Was it smallpox? Or perhaps.. something more menacing?
..Or worse still, a harmless discoloration.
More days went by, until he lost count; until the number of dead could have easily equaled the number of days, or even surpassed it. He knew there was something severely not right when he began to bleed, for seemingly no reason at all.
That was generally not a good sign was it? That was the day, he joined the mass, huddling for warmth as the winter came.. again, for him. For the first time this year for all the others. He wished he could speak to these wonderful souls, without a language barrier. But all he could do was find things, and that was useless here.
He wondered where Claire was, wondered if the fact that he was stuck here was indicative of time breaking further or if it had sealed around him. Would his small, nonincidental presence have any effect? Would he become part of the statistic he himself had studied? The thought would have disturbed him merely a week earlier, but now.. now it was almost humorous.
Zach grew worse, as dying people do. He thought of Claire and of Lance.. All was always forgiven in these final breaths, wasn't it? He doubted it mattered, but forgiveness was forthcoming despite the realization. Another young girl dead and he knew.. knew he wasn't long for this. Couldn't take one more...
He had to be next. There was no other way.
Lying in his own blood, although in such a tight space one could never be sure... Zach decided, quite lucidly, that this would be the last time he shut his eyes.
--
Back in New York, as in all places, people were living--going about their days. But people were also dying, by the thousands. Dropping off the edge of the earth as well as just plain.. being sick and not getting over it. Being mugged... killed for drugs or sex or merely, nothing at all.
So no one would notice, except for perhaps a tiny canine, one extra body in the street. One more life stopped dead, and without any real care.
Zachary K. Teller
1988-2006
Zach was on his way back to harass the artist, Isaac Mendez. Even if this guy didn't know it; he could paint the future. That was nothing to be taken lightly. And if he could, in fact, paint the future then Zach needed answers. To questions like: what the fuck was happening to the time-space continuum? And: why the fuck was an alternate version of his best friend's boyfriend running around without being able to see or hear in this reality? No matter what Peter and Claire said, Zach knew it had to do with alternate universes, dimensions.. planes. They were seeing things that shouldn't be there, interacting with themselves from different points in time. It was all very messy; very.. dangerous. And Zach was going to get to the bottom of it, even if he had to buy Mr Mendez a year's supply of cereal.
And that was when it happened. Right there, on the street.. reality began to collapse around him. As if the sky itself was falling on his head. He wrapped his coat around himself tighter as if it could protect him, staring up at the cloudy winterscape. New York was so incredibly grey, greyer than anyone claimed even. And it only seemed to grow darker, casting angry shadows around him as he lost his footing, taking a wobbly step to try and brace himself; yelping when he stepped in a patch of ice instead. Jello mirrored his cry, but the dog sounded very far away, and when he was able to look down, he saw only black.
Where was he? What was happening to him? Pulling out his cell, he dialed trusty number two. He would have to change that to number one, he thought idly--he had set Peter's number over Lance's as a joke, but right now it wasn't seeming so funny. Even less so when the phone fell from his fingertips, falling endlessly through the dark.
Not even Claire could help him, and it was a terrifying thought as the city was swallowed before his eyes by inky black. It seemed to hover all around him, not quite tangible and yet still eerily opaque; thick as fog. He was in trouble, that much he knew. And completely alone.
The next thing he knew, a new landscape was forming--springing from the boundless nothingness that threatened to lose him as it had lost his home: New York, and his only tie to it: Claire. Clinging only to his will to live, he dared not make any noise even as he collided with the ground, his shoulder lighting up in excruciating pain.
Stumbling to his feet, he realized his coat seemed much too thick--it was much warmer here, though it was still chilly. He heard voices and feet, maybe even a few horses, gods help him, approaching swiftly. Heart rate speeding up to near-rodent equivalence, he searched the vicinity for somewhere to hide. Inconveniently enough, there didn't seem to be any such place in this large open space he seemed to find himself in.
Zach heard a voice from just beyond his field of vision, and he did his best to scramble beneath a tree as the horse and human feet grew nearer.
Another voice called out, his tone incredulous though Zach could not understand the language. He recognized it as being of Romantic origin, but that was about as far as his expertise went, unfortunately.
The first man spoke again, an obvious frown in his voice.
Zach prayed to whoever was listening just not to let these guys see him. His gut told him this was trouble even though he had no way of knowing just where in time or space he was, in all reality. That was when the first man stepped into the clearing, followed by two small ponies, one with a rider and one loaded with supplies. He was wishing he hadn't slept through World History so that their armor and manner might tell him something about... when he was.
The guy on the horse made an observation, pointing in his direction. He was practically shaking, which he realized with even more of a start, would only help them further with his location.
Thankfully, the other guy seemed to dismiss the man's obvious distress at Zach's presence.
Just don't notice, he begged, a single bead of sweat running down his face as the footsteps grew closer still. Fuck. He let out a sharp hiss of pain as his injured shoulder collided with the treetrunk.
They saw him then.
In a moment Zach barely saw anyway--his eyes were shut for most of it--strong arms hoisted him up onto the horse's back and started demanding things of him in a completely foreign tongue.
He shook his head, eyes finally focusing on the mans face--wide with fear. They seemed to be important people going from their obviously expensive dress, and the clothing was modern enough that this had to be at least within... the same millenium? Okay, Zachary, not helping. Attempting to express that he did not understand their language with a bit of broken English and a lot of hand gestures, he found himself being swept off as their apparent captive--the only word he had caught thus far.
For a long time, they rode along this way until Zach was nearly lulled to sleep by the rhythmic rocking of the horse. And how ironic was it that Jamie couldn't get him on a horse, but here he was in pre-Modern America (maybe?) being captured by strange, European... explorers? When they finally reached their destination, he was jarred awake by the sudden movement and being prodded to stand.
Yeah, he was officially in trouble.
He was led to a small cell by swordpoint, and he had to keep reminding himself to breathe. This couldn't really be happening. This was a dream, some sort of outlandish fabrication of his less-than-stable imagination. Reaching down to pinch himself on the arm--the motion was misconstrued as a threat, and he was swiftly incapacitated.
He fell into black for the second time that day.
Zach came to with a grunt, rubbing his head as he blinked bleary eyes against the dim, and yet seemingly too-harsh lighting. He was startled to find himself in a small, cave-like room shutting him in with a large metal grate. He heard a sharp, metallic sound growing closer, pounding torturously in his head as he tried to stand.
He was going to die here, alone. In this foreign place; this unfamiliar era...
And then the man started speaking, and he realized.. Spanish? It was odd-sounding whatever it was, and certainly not something he recognized. Perhaps an older dialect..? He didn't know Spanish, but he was familiar with it, and this sounded similar. Maybe he could make another word or two out, but most of it was all gibberish to him.
“Who are you?” he asked softly, breathlessly. He needed water.
The man stared at him for a moment, and Zach could have sworn he could see the cogs turning under those red curls.
“Christophorus Columbus,” he said after a minute, looking nowhere near as badass as Zach would have thought crazy Spaniards.. Italians, whatever.. might.
No Way.
But it was the truth. This was really.. Chris... Columbus. The guy who supposedly discovered America by, essentially, annihilating the Indians. Holy shit. 1492.
Zach nodded his understanding, trying to dredge up what little Spanish he knew.
“Agua?” he asked hopefully, coughing after the barely croaked-out word.
Begrudgingly, Columbus rose, raising a very red eyebrow as he ordered a man to fetch him some water. No fucking way anyone would ever believe him that this was happening right now. He didn't even believe it.
Then the man was asking him more questions he had no chance of understanding, and then the other guy was walking in, dragging his feet, the water he was carrying spilling out onto the floor. His precious agua; life, spilling over concrete.. and Chris smacked the guy. Upside the head.
Well, shit.
Columbus took the container somewhat forcefully, inadvertently splashing some more at Zach's feet, who winced in reaction. The man flashed him a knowing look, crossing the room on silent feet before leaning down to tip the bucket to Zach's lips. He drank thankfully, trying to take the container from him, but he found that to be an impossibility.
So this guy was a genocidal fucker.. and he was sketchy. Great. Now what?
Before he could be screamed at any further in an unintelligible language he had a sense was not even pure Spanish, another voice was calling for Chris... some sort of situation, apparently.
The famous explorer looked from the source of the voice to Zach, gesturing for him to follow. This did not bode well with his Mommy senses, but he scrambled to rise anyway as he suspected the repercussions for disobeying would most likely be worse.
He amused himself by trying to understand Columbus' men's colloquialisms. He was failing horribly, but it was distracting him [enough] from what could be his own impending doom.
Don't even think that, Zachary. Stay positive.
But it was hard... 500 years and gods knew how many miles away from home. Well, at least he hadn't had to ride on that horse again. They had had him walk this time around, thank goodness.
Oh snap.
When he looked up, there was an Indian.. a chief, to be more specific, and... those weren't blankets the men were carrying. Couldn't be. Fuck. The one thing he remembered from class, and it had to be this? He tried to skirt away, stay as far back from the cloth as possible.
Smallpox was airbourne. That he also remembered. And now chief-guy was gesturing for him to come forward. Zach shook his head, and tried to back up--found that a few swords were obstructing him. He gulped, thinking out his options.
So what are my choices? Death or... death?
He could move forward and get a lethal virus, or he could move backward and get driven through with a sword. He realized something then; he had a very good chance of dying before he technically existed.
--
Meanwhile, Jello was wondering the streets of New York, perhaps looking for his owner. He found another familiar face instead.
--
A few days later found Zachary Teller, holed up in the cargo bay of the Pinta. At least, it could have been the Pinta, he didn't even know anymore. As the tribe of Taino Indians hacked and coughed around him, he tried his best to keep back, but that was truly impossible by now. They were disease ridden, and surely it was only a matter of time before he shared this with them. They begged him with their eyes to join them; to become family and be close while they still had breath, but he was far too frightened.
He knew it didn't matter now anyway, but he couldn't bring himself to approach the dying people. He had read about this... slept on the very pages where the words were written in indifferent, unemotional boldface type. Meaningless, arbitrary statistics about these people he was packed in a tiny space with.
Two dead now, he didn't even know what of. One was a child. That was the first day he started noticing the splotches on his skin. Was it smallpox? Or perhaps.. something more menacing?
..Or worse still, a harmless discoloration.
More days went by, until he lost count; until the number of dead could have easily equaled the number of days, or even surpassed it. He knew there was something severely not right when he began to bleed, for seemingly no reason at all.
That was generally not a good sign was it? That was the day, he joined the mass, huddling for warmth as the winter came.. again, for him. For the first time this year for all the others. He wished he could speak to these wonderful souls, without a language barrier. But all he could do was find things, and that was useless here.
He wondered where Claire was, wondered if the fact that he was stuck here was indicative of time breaking further or if it had sealed around him. Would his small, nonincidental presence have any effect? Would he become part of the statistic he himself had studied? The thought would have disturbed him merely a week earlier, but now.. now it was almost humorous.
Zach grew worse, as dying people do. He thought of Claire and of Lance.. All was always forgiven in these final breaths, wasn't it? He doubted it mattered, but forgiveness was forthcoming despite the realization. Another young girl dead and he knew.. knew he wasn't long for this. Couldn't take one more...
He had to be next. There was no other way.
Lying in his own blood, although in such a tight space one could never be sure... Zach decided, quite lucidly, that this would be the last time he shut his eyes.
--
Back in New York, as in all places, people were living--going about their days. But people were also dying, by the thousands. Dropping off the edge of the earth as well as just plain.. being sick and not getting over it. Being mugged... killed for drugs or sex or merely, nothing at all.
So no one would notice, except for perhaps a tiny canine, one extra body in the street. One more life stopped dead, and without any real care.
Zachary K. Teller
1988-2006