(no subject)
This was a request from blinkytreefrog. I hope it's okay. :)
Title: Getting Darker Now
Author: Flannery
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Sometimes I refer to him as My Andrew, but he isn't really.
Summary: Andrew is very, very lost.
Notes: blinkytreefrog requested "Andrew ficlet! With him stuck in some dangerous/angsty situation while sent off to do something for the Watcher's council!" So, warning for angst and danger, and general spookiness.
* * *
“Help me!”
Andrew’s cry was swallowed by the darkness.
“Drat,” he said, softer. There wasn’t so much as an echo, but that didn’t surprise him, as there hadn’t been so much as an echo for the hour (or more? - it was impossible to tell) he’d been shouting.
Blackness surrounded him, heavy, like a wool blanket. Andrew took small steps forward, hands straight out ahead of him, groping for a wall or furniture or anything solid. Five minutes of walking yielded no results, and, most alarmingly, no wall.
“This is really weird,” he told the dark. He took a deep breath and shouted, “Giles! I’m lost!”
Curiosity at first had overshadowed Andrew’s fear. Once inside the doorway, he’d found himself looking at a small closet-like space. Toward the back, he thought he could make out the shapes of stacked objects: boxes, folded clothing, the occasional brassy glint of something metal. He’d stepped inside. The door hadn’t shut behind him - the door had ceased to be behind him.
Nothing had come of the objects he’d seen. It had, seemingly, been only the ghost of past junk.
Stupid junk, thought Andrew.
Logic told him that there had to be an exit from the strange room. If it was a room - Andrew figured he couldn’t exactly label it as such, as he hadn’t yet found a single wall and couldn’t even say for certain whether there was a ceiling overhead. There was only darkness, so thick it devoured his words.
Stupid Giles. Stupid mysterious room. Stupid England.
Oh yes, stupid England. Nothing like this ever happened in Sunnydale.
How he missed Sunnydale! Sunnydale had demons - good, predictable demons! He knew demons. He was familiar with evil of demonic origin. Whether it came from earth or a hellish other dimension (or, as Andrew liked to call them, Demonsions), he was confident that he could sort out the species and weaknesses and help, with Giles and the Slayers, banish it or kill it or whatever.
England, in contrast, was less about demons and more about ancient evil of human origin. Ghosts weren’t like demons; ghosts weren’t so classifiable and ghosts existed somewhere outside mortal comprehension. Little concrete records existed about spectral abnormalities - even less since the Council building had been blown apart. They were working with limited resources on troubles that made Andrew feel out of his element, and more than a little spooked.
His problem with supernatural England wasn't exactly about ghosts -- it was about the unclassifiable components, the imprints of anguish or anger that scarred the atmosphere and had been festering in place since pre-Roman times, or Victorian alleys that could appear inexplicably and swallow anyone that walked down its stone streets.
Demons made sense. England did not.
“Giles!” Andrew’s voice rasped with the force of his shout.
Nothing.
He turned quickly to his left and ran, ran as fast he could, blindly, desperately. Andrew’s breath left him before he could find an end to the space, but he kept going until he couldn’t run any more.
Panting, his lungs and his hope raw, Andrew slumped to the floor. He supposed he should feel fortunate there was a floor, but he was finding it difficult to feel fortunate for anything. This was bizarre beyond Andrew’s experience. He was terrified, and not afraid to admit he was terrified. At this point, Andrew would’ve cut off his own finger in exchange for being back in his bed. If only he could! If only he could trade something - anything, whatever! - for an end to this emptiness!
He’d never subscribed to any religion; being a sometimes-summoner of demons required one to not give more to one deity than to any other, as it could cause conflict with localized beliefs. Now, Andrew wished he had a god to which he could pray. It would give him a sense of control; it would alleviate the sense of helplessness.
All he wanted was to be heard.
“Help me!” Cried Andrew, but not as loudly as he’d yelled earlier.
It was like shouting underwater.
It was no use.
This was all Giles’s fault. That doorway, Andrew, the one that opened up overnight in the upstairs corridor, next to the girls’ rooms; would you mind investigating? Well, thought Andrew, he minded now!
“Oh, like I wouldn’t have gone in anyway,” amended Andrew, aloud, unheard.
He recalled again the Victorian alleyway in London. The Watchers Council - which was, at present, Giles and himself - had been unable to come up with a why for the strange alley, or even a how to explain its appearance. In fact, all they’d been able to figure out for sure was the what, and the answer to that was: “strange alley that pops up for no apparent reason and then disappears after someone’s walked down it.”
Giles had used considerably more words in his final report, and Andrew wished he’d paid more attention.
It occured to Andrew that he'd perhaps walked into a room much like the alley, and had been swallowed by some spectral building. This wasn’t an encouraging thought at all; not only did there appear to be no way out, but Andrew was now fairly certain that there was, actually, no way out at all.
Andrew wasn’t only lost, he was lost forever.
Andrew would die in this darkness.
There was a pressure in his sinuses, and tears stung at his eyes. When he blinked, they rolled down his cheeks, and that in turn became a wet, sniffling sob. He couldn't hold onto hope or the shreds of bravery any longer. Lost to crying, he collapsed on his side and let emotion take him.
“I give up!” He called, and shook with a hard sob.
“Give up,” he repeated quietly.
Laying flat on his belly, Andrew pressed his wet face into his crossed arms, and gave up.
* * *
Title: Getting Darker Now
Author: Flannery
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Sometimes I refer to him as My Andrew, but he isn't really.
Summary: Andrew is very, very lost.
Notes: blinkytreefrog requested "Andrew ficlet! With him stuck in some dangerous/angsty situation while sent off to do something for the Watcher's council!" So, warning for angst and danger, and general spookiness.
* * *
“Help me!”
Andrew’s cry was swallowed by the darkness.
“Drat,” he said, softer. There wasn’t so much as an echo, but that didn’t surprise him, as there hadn’t been so much as an echo for the hour (or more? - it was impossible to tell) he’d been shouting.
Blackness surrounded him, heavy, like a wool blanket. Andrew took small steps forward, hands straight out ahead of him, groping for a wall or furniture or anything solid. Five minutes of walking yielded no results, and, most alarmingly, no wall.
“This is really weird,” he told the dark. He took a deep breath and shouted, “Giles! I’m lost!”
Curiosity at first had overshadowed Andrew’s fear. Once inside the doorway, he’d found himself looking at a small closet-like space. Toward the back, he thought he could make out the shapes of stacked objects: boxes, folded clothing, the occasional brassy glint of something metal. He’d stepped inside. The door hadn’t shut behind him - the door had ceased to be behind him.
Nothing had come of the objects he’d seen. It had, seemingly, been only the ghost of past junk.
Stupid junk, thought Andrew.
Logic told him that there had to be an exit from the strange room. If it was a room - Andrew figured he couldn’t exactly label it as such, as he hadn’t yet found a single wall and couldn’t even say for certain whether there was a ceiling overhead. There was only darkness, so thick it devoured his words.
Stupid Giles. Stupid mysterious room. Stupid England.
Oh yes, stupid England. Nothing like this ever happened in Sunnydale.
How he missed Sunnydale! Sunnydale had demons - good, predictable demons! He knew demons. He was familiar with evil of demonic origin. Whether it came from earth or a hellish other dimension (or, as Andrew liked to call them, Demonsions), he was confident that he could sort out the species and weaknesses and help, with Giles and the Slayers, banish it or kill it or whatever.
England, in contrast, was less about demons and more about ancient evil of human origin. Ghosts weren’t like demons; ghosts weren’t so classifiable and ghosts existed somewhere outside mortal comprehension. Little concrete records existed about spectral abnormalities - even less since the Council building had been blown apart. They were working with limited resources on troubles that made Andrew feel out of his element, and more than a little spooked.
His problem with supernatural England wasn't exactly about ghosts -- it was about the unclassifiable components, the imprints of anguish or anger that scarred the atmosphere and had been festering in place since pre-Roman times, or Victorian alleys that could appear inexplicably and swallow anyone that walked down its stone streets.
Demons made sense. England did not.
“Giles!” Andrew’s voice rasped with the force of his shout.
Nothing.
He turned quickly to his left and ran, ran as fast he could, blindly, desperately. Andrew’s breath left him before he could find an end to the space, but he kept going until he couldn’t run any more.
Panting, his lungs and his hope raw, Andrew slumped to the floor. He supposed he should feel fortunate there was a floor, but he was finding it difficult to feel fortunate for anything. This was bizarre beyond Andrew’s experience. He was terrified, and not afraid to admit he was terrified. At this point, Andrew would’ve cut off his own finger in exchange for being back in his bed. If only he could! If only he could trade something - anything, whatever! - for an end to this emptiness!
He’d never subscribed to any religion; being a sometimes-summoner of demons required one to not give more to one deity than to any other, as it could cause conflict with localized beliefs. Now, Andrew wished he had a god to which he could pray. It would give him a sense of control; it would alleviate the sense of helplessness.
All he wanted was to be heard.
“Help me!” Cried Andrew, but not as loudly as he’d yelled earlier.
It was like shouting underwater.
It was no use.
This was all Giles’s fault. That doorway, Andrew, the one that opened up overnight in the upstairs corridor, next to the girls’ rooms; would you mind investigating? Well, thought Andrew, he minded now!
“Oh, like I wouldn’t have gone in anyway,” amended Andrew, aloud, unheard.
He recalled again the Victorian alleyway in London. The Watchers Council - which was, at present, Giles and himself - had been unable to come up with a why for the strange alley, or even a how to explain its appearance. In fact, all they’d been able to figure out for sure was the what, and the answer to that was: “strange alley that pops up for no apparent reason and then disappears after someone’s walked down it.”
Giles had used considerably more words in his final report, and Andrew wished he’d paid more attention.
It occured to Andrew that he'd perhaps walked into a room much like the alley, and had been swallowed by some spectral building. This wasn’t an encouraging thought at all; not only did there appear to be no way out, but Andrew was now fairly certain that there was, actually, no way out at all.
Andrew wasn’t only lost, he was lost forever.
Andrew would die in this darkness.
There was a pressure in his sinuses, and tears stung at his eyes. When he blinked, they rolled down his cheeks, and that in turn became a wet, sniffling sob. He couldn't hold onto hope or the shreds of bravery any longer. Lost to crying, he collapsed on his side and let emotion take him.
“I give up!” He called, and shook with a hard sob.
“Give up,” he repeated quietly.
Laying flat on his belly, Andrew pressed his wet face into his crossed arms, and gave up.
* * *