"I claim not to have controlled events, but confess plainly that events have controlled me."
In Grant Park, there is a large statue of Abraham Lincoln. It's this massive, imposing bronze thing, showing our sixteenth President in repose, in a chair, looking very stern. It's near the lake. It's actually one of two statues of Lincoln in the city of Chicago created by Augustus Saint-Gaudens; the second, sensibly, is in Lincoln Park.
Rachel Conway doesn't actually know all of that. Not just yet. She doesn't know there's another statue. She doesn't know this is Grant Park. Hell, she doesn't even know she's in Chicago.
She does know this is Abraham Lincoln, because, hello, who wouldn't know Abraham Lincoln when they're looking up at his face? Besides, the statue looks a lot like the one inside the Lincoln Memorial, which she saw in person several times for the few months she lived in Washington, DC.
And she knows this statue is bronze, because her butt is cold. Because she is, inexplicably, perched on the Great Emancipator's left knee.
If she could remember just how in the hell this came to pass? It'd be totally awesome.
But, alas, it's not to be. She remembers tossing and turning in bed. Strange dreams with a sense of fear and foreboding, of frightening events taking place just beyond the grasp of her comprehension. She doesn't remember details, only the lingering unease they've left her.
The dreams were so vivid, so rattling, that at first, she assumes she's merely caught up in another. But the chill of the air, and of Lincoln's bony and bronze knee beneath her, are just a bit too real. She reaches up, flicking a fingernail against the late President's cheek, and is met with a resounding sound of keratin on metal.
"...Sorry, dude," she murmurs, stroking the spot with her fingertips. "That was totally rude, please forgive me, I, like, didn't mean any disrespect."
She sighs. Not only is the statue apparently real, and not only have her dreams apparently faded, and not only has she somehow apparently left her apartment and wound up on this dead bronze dude's knee... but now she's talking to him.
She's almost afraid to ask herself how much weirder this night could get.
Rachel Conway doesn't actually know all of that. Not just yet. She doesn't know there's another statue. She doesn't know this is Grant Park. Hell, she doesn't even know she's in Chicago.
She does know this is Abraham Lincoln, because, hello, who wouldn't know Abraham Lincoln when they're looking up at his face? Besides, the statue looks a lot like the one inside the Lincoln Memorial, which she saw in person several times for the few months she lived in Washington, DC.
And she knows this statue is bronze, because her butt is cold. Because she is, inexplicably, perched on the Great Emancipator's left knee.
If she could remember just how in the hell this came to pass? It'd be totally awesome.
But, alas, it's not to be. She remembers tossing and turning in bed. Strange dreams with a sense of fear and foreboding, of frightening events taking place just beyond the grasp of her comprehension. She doesn't remember details, only the lingering unease they've left her.
The dreams were so vivid, so rattling, that at first, she assumes she's merely caught up in another. But the chill of the air, and of Lincoln's bony and bronze knee beneath her, are just a bit too real. She reaches up, flicking a fingernail against the late President's cheek, and is met with a resounding sound of keratin on metal.
"...Sorry, dude," she murmurs, stroking the spot with her fingertips. "That was totally rude, please forgive me, I, like, didn't mean any disrespect."
She sighs. Not only is the statue apparently real, and not only have her dreams apparently faded, and not only has she somehow apparently left her apartment and wound up on this dead bronze dude's knee... but now she's talking to him.
She's almost afraid to ask herself how much weirder this night could get.