Eerie fic, part thirteen
Title: Untitled
Author: Froodle
Disclaimer: Still not mine
Claim: Eerie Indiana
Prompt: 7, Lose
Characters: Mars, Dash, Simon
Word Count: for this part, 1597
Rating: PG13, though sadly only for language
Summary/Warning: Where else would you go searching for a lost past in Eerie? Also, not even SLIGHTLY finished.
Part Thirteen
The large steel cage of Area Four’s Claw system glided effortlessly through the air and slid into the gaping aperture in the high ceiling. Yellow-green light gave off a sickly illumination that only added to the ominous feel of the wide, dark tunnel that snaked ahead of them. The Claw made a clicker-clacking noise, much like a train going over points in the track, and they slid off into the semi-darkness.
Unlike the two Areas they had already seen, Area Four’s Claw system had evidently been designed with regard to cargo that was both alive and potentially enormous. The tunnel they travelled through easily outstripped, in both height and breadth, the reception areas and Index Rooms they had visited in Areas Two and Three.
Though the ride was infinitely more sedate and far less claustrophobic than the stomach-churning hairpin bends and deadfalls that characterised their two previous trips on the Claw network, the rush of terror that those journeys had produced seemed preferable in hindsight to the pervasive atmosphere of misery that pervaded the metal cage.
Dash cleared a space amidst the hay on the floor of the cage and began methodically emptying the contents of his pockets. Though the large pile of cards he produced numbered easily into the high hundreds, Mars had seen enough of the Time Index to know it represented only a small fraction of the records pertaining to February Second. When Dash was satisfied that no more cards remained hidden in the folds of his coat, he sat down in front of the heap and began checking them, one at a time, laying each card to one side after it was examined, his scowl deepening with each card he tossed aside.
Simon sat slumped in the corner, leaning against the metal bars, staring at nothing. He cradled his own paper-stuffed backpack on his lap, and his right hand clasped the fractured hour-glass in a white-knuckled grip. The yellow sand inside trickled inexorably upwards, impervious to the events around it. Simon’s face was a carefully-controlled mask, concealing everything, and this worried Mars far more than Dash’s thunderous expression.
“Hey buddy,” he offered, tentatively.
Simon looked at him and, with a visible effort, forced a smile which was so obviously fake that Marshall’s own facial muscles ached in sympathy.
“Hey Mars,” he replied.
Marshall scooted across the cage floor to sit beside him.
“Did you find anything?” he asked. Simon shook his head.
“I’d only just found the right Simon Holmes when Charley came and got me,” he explained. A shadow passed across his face at the mention of Charley’s name, and he fell silent. Dash paused in his work, observing them from beneath his dishevelled fringe. Mars caught his eye and nodded an acknowledgement, then gently shoulder-bumped Simon in a way that he hoped conveyed solidarity and support.
“D’you want a hand sorting those?” he offered, gesturing at the laden backpack in Simon’s lap.
Simon shook his head again. “I’d kind of like to go through them on my own,” he said.
Mars nodded and smiled a little to show he understood and that there were no hard feelings. Dash snorted.
“Don’t even think about coming anywhere near me and messing up my sorting system with your Junior Do-Gooder Helping Hands routine,” he warned Marshall.
It felt good to be back on familiar ground, even if the ground in question was the rich, fertile topsoil of Supremely Irritating Barely-Even-Semi-Teammates Giving You A Hard Time.
“Who said I was going to help you out anyways?” Marshall shot back.
“Please, I could feel your Boy Scout instincts kicking in without even looking at you,” said Dash.
Simon smiled at that; a tiny smile, to be sure, but a genuine one nonetheless, and Mars felt some of the apprehension that had been gathering in his chest dissipate. He hooked one foot around the cardboard box Radford had shoved into his arms before setting the Claws in motion and, still seated, drew it towards him. He opened it up and began removing everything from inside it. Then he slid his own backpack from his shoulders and did the same with its contents. The second backpack, the one Ginny had thrust at him shortly before their rapid departure from the Index room bordering Areas Three and Four, he left alone.
“We should probably put on these Lost tags,” he told the others. Simon took his and tied it around his wrist. Dash stayed seated and held out a hand, not deigning to look up from his cards. Marshall sighed, got to his feet and slapped one of the brown paper tags into Dash’s outstretched palm with more force than was strictly necessary, but, he felt, probably less than was deserved. The card disappeared into the recesses of the black greatcoat. Mars reclaimed his spot next to Simon, pulled the Evidence Locker’s key out from beneath his Giants sweater, and attached his own tag to the string around his neck.
Simon examined one of the bundles of clothing Radford had given them. “D’you think we should put these on too?” he asked. “We’re headed to Area Five, if it’s full of people then someone’s bound to spot us.”
“I’m not wearing that goofy outfit,” said Dash instantly. “You two losers can do what you like, but me? No way.”
“Fine,” said Marshall, untying one of the bundles. “Then you can wear your normal get-up, get captured, and enjoy being the most bad-ass-looking Code Five in the whole Bureau. I’m sure all the other Lost folk will be mega-jealous of your brilliant and stylish coolness, right up to the point where they get hungry and eat you.”
“Fuck off, Teller,” said Dash, pronouncing Marshall’s last name like it had four letters, none of which were terribly polite. Still, he took the pile of clothing Simon proffered, albeit with an extra-surly helping of his characteristic bad grace.
The wide cage, dim lighting and sedate pace of their transport combined to make it an ideal changing room, and in no time at all they had changed from their habitual outfits to the idiosyncratic garb of the Radfords. The cardigans quickly proved their worth when it emerged that the pockets were capable of storing their discarded outfits in their entirety without showing the slightest tell-tale bulge.
After he’d stored his regular clothes in a space that looked capable of holding no more than a couple of quarters and perhaps a stick of gum, Marshall turned to the rest of their inventory. The camera, notebook, partially-finished map, polaroids, pens, Band-Aids and sandwiches went in his left pocket along with his jacket, jeans and sweater. On impulse, he tried fitting the large red box that contained his new-and-improved disguise kit in there as well. Even Dash couldn’t completely hide his surprise as it slid into the small woollen cavity as easily as if it were a crumpled-up candy bar wrapper.
“Isn’t that heavy?” Simon wanted to know. Mars stood up and paced the floor of the cage experimentally. He shook his head.
“Well, you look ridiculous,” said Dash, tucking the trailing hems of his too-long dress pants into his heavy black boots.
“You could offer to carry something,” Mars replied, testily.
Dash smirked. “You just said it wasn’t heavy,” he pointed out. He examined his own cardigan thoughtfully, no doubt calculating its potential shop-lifting applications in his head.
Simon, whose tattered canvas plimsolls seemed to augment his costume where Marshall’s high-tops and Dash’s work boots served to make their outlandish getup look more bizarre than ever, slid his stolen index cards, still stuffed into a backpack, into his right pocket. Into the left went the shattered hourglass.
Dash removed his barcoded Lost tag from inside his coat and tied it around his right wrist, where it brushed up against the minus sign on the back of his hand. He tugged irritably at the cardigan sleeves, pulling them down so they fell to the second knuckle of his index fingers, completely concealing both the tag and the marks. The coat joined the rest of his every-day wear in the left cardigan pocket. He sat down again, shoving the salt-stained flag Radford had given him into the right pocket, and resumed sorting through his cards. Now, however, after he had picked each one up and examined them, they went into the pocket on his left-hand side.
Simon still showed no sign of wanting to check his own cards, so Marshall sat beside him and, retrieving Charley’s notebook from where it now lay alone at the bottom of his empty backpack, made a start on deciphering the cramped handwriting, archaic spelling and cryptic symbols that filled it. He had not managed to make sense of the first page, however, when the Claw drifted gently to a halt, then began to descend.
“Area Five,” whispered Simon, his voice an even mixture of dread and awe.
Dash shovelled the index cards that remained unexamined into his right pocket and stood. Mars and Simon did the same, Simon with his hands thrust in his pockets, Marshall unconsciously crushing the notebook in one hand while his empty backpack dangled limply from the other. He bent to pick up the second backpack, still creaking at the seams with stolen information, then stopped as the realisation hit him.
“Dash,” he said. “Get over here and take this second lot of cards.”
Dash opened his mouth to deliver an appropriately snappy rejoinder, but at that moment the cage came to a full stop on a concrete floor, and all the lights came on.
Author: Froodle
Disclaimer: Still not mine
Claim: Eerie Indiana
Prompt: 7, Lose
Characters: Mars, Dash, Simon
Word Count: for this part, 1597
Rating: PG13, though sadly only for language
Summary/Warning: Where else would you go searching for a lost past in Eerie? Also, not even SLIGHTLY finished.
Part Thirteen
The large steel cage of Area Four’s Claw system glided effortlessly through the air and slid into the gaping aperture in the high ceiling. Yellow-green light gave off a sickly illumination that only added to the ominous feel of the wide, dark tunnel that snaked ahead of them. The Claw made a clicker-clacking noise, much like a train going over points in the track, and they slid off into the semi-darkness.
Unlike the two Areas they had already seen, Area Four’s Claw system had evidently been designed with regard to cargo that was both alive and potentially enormous. The tunnel they travelled through easily outstripped, in both height and breadth, the reception areas and Index Rooms they had visited in Areas Two and Three.
Though the ride was infinitely more sedate and far less claustrophobic than the stomach-churning hairpin bends and deadfalls that characterised their two previous trips on the Claw network, the rush of terror that those journeys had produced seemed preferable in hindsight to the pervasive atmosphere of misery that pervaded the metal cage.
Dash cleared a space amidst the hay on the floor of the cage and began methodically emptying the contents of his pockets. Though the large pile of cards he produced numbered easily into the high hundreds, Mars had seen enough of the Time Index to know it represented only a small fraction of the records pertaining to February Second. When Dash was satisfied that no more cards remained hidden in the folds of his coat, he sat down in front of the heap and began checking them, one at a time, laying each card to one side after it was examined, his scowl deepening with each card he tossed aside.
Simon sat slumped in the corner, leaning against the metal bars, staring at nothing. He cradled his own paper-stuffed backpack on his lap, and his right hand clasped the fractured hour-glass in a white-knuckled grip. The yellow sand inside trickled inexorably upwards, impervious to the events around it. Simon’s face was a carefully-controlled mask, concealing everything, and this worried Mars far more than Dash’s thunderous expression.
“Hey buddy,” he offered, tentatively.
Simon looked at him and, with a visible effort, forced a smile which was so obviously fake that Marshall’s own facial muscles ached in sympathy.
“Hey Mars,” he replied.
Marshall scooted across the cage floor to sit beside him.
“Did you find anything?” he asked. Simon shook his head.
“I’d only just found the right Simon Holmes when Charley came and got me,” he explained. A shadow passed across his face at the mention of Charley’s name, and he fell silent. Dash paused in his work, observing them from beneath his dishevelled fringe. Mars caught his eye and nodded an acknowledgement, then gently shoulder-bumped Simon in a way that he hoped conveyed solidarity and support.
“D’you want a hand sorting those?” he offered, gesturing at the laden backpack in Simon’s lap.
Simon shook his head again. “I’d kind of like to go through them on my own,” he said.
Mars nodded and smiled a little to show he understood and that there were no hard feelings. Dash snorted.
“Don’t even think about coming anywhere near me and messing up my sorting system with your Junior Do-Gooder Helping Hands routine,” he warned Marshall.
It felt good to be back on familiar ground, even if the ground in question was the rich, fertile topsoil of Supremely Irritating Barely-Even-Semi-Teammates Giving You A Hard Time.
“Who said I was going to help you out anyways?” Marshall shot back.
“Please, I could feel your Boy Scout instincts kicking in without even looking at you,” said Dash.
Simon smiled at that; a tiny smile, to be sure, but a genuine one nonetheless, and Mars felt some of the apprehension that had been gathering in his chest dissipate. He hooked one foot around the cardboard box Radford had shoved into his arms before setting the Claws in motion and, still seated, drew it towards him. He opened it up and began removing everything from inside it. Then he slid his own backpack from his shoulders and did the same with its contents. The second backpack, the one Ginny had thrust at him shortly before their rapid departure from the Index room bordering Areas Three and Four, he left alone.
“We should probably put on these Lost tags,” he told the others. Simon took his and tied it around his wrist. Dash stayed seated and held out a hand, not deigning to look up from his cards. Marshall sighed, got to his feet and slapped one of the brown paper tags into Dash’s outstretched palm with more force than was strictly necessary, but, he felt, probably less than was deserved. The card disappeared into the recesses of the black greatcoat. Mars reclaimed his spot next to Simon, pulled the Evidence Locker’s key out from beneath his Giants sweater, and attached his own tag to the string around his neck.
Simon examined one of the bundles of clothing Radford had given them. “D’you think we should put these on too?” he asked. “We’re headed to Area Five, if it’s full of people then someone’s bound to spot us.”
“I’m not wearing that goofy outfit,” said Dash instantly. “You two losers can do what you like, but me? No way.”
“Fine,” said Marshall, untying one of the bundles. “Then you can wear your normal get-up, get captured, and enjoy being the most bad-ass-looking Code Five in the whole Bureau. I’m sure all the other Lost folk will be mega-jealous of your brilliant and stylish coolness, right up to the point where they get hungry and eat you.”
“Fuck off, Teller,” said Dash, pronouncing Marshall’s last name like it had four letters, none of which were terribly polite. Still, he took the pile of clothing Simon proffered, albeit with an extra-surly helping of his characteristic bad grace.
The wide cage, dim lighting and sedate pace of their transport combined to make it an ideal changing room, and in no time at all they had changed from their habitual outfits to the idiosyncratic garb of the Radfords. The cardigans quickly proved their worth when it emerged that the pockets were capable of storing their discarded outfits in their entirety without showing the slightest tell-tale bulge.
After he’d stored his regular clothes in a space that looked capable of holding no more than a couple of quarters and perhaps a stick of gum, Marshall turned to the rest of their inventory. The camera, notebook, partially-finished map, polaroids, pens, Band-Aids and sandwiches went in his left pocket along with his jacket, jeans and sweater. On impulse, he tried fitting the large red box that contained his new-and-improved disguise kit in there as well. Even Dash couldn’t completely hide his surprise as it slid into the small woollen cavity as easily as if it were a crumpled-up candy bar wrapper.
“Isn’t that heavy?” Simon wanted to know. Mars stood up and paced the floor of the cage experimentally. He shook his head.
“Well, you look ridiculous,” said Dash, tucking the trailing hems of his too-long dress pants into his heavy black boots.
“You could offer to carry something,” Mars replied, testily.
Dash smirked. “You just said it wasn’t heavy,” he pointed out. He examined his own cardigan thoughtfully, no doubt calculating its potential shop-lifting applications in his head.
Simon, whose tattered canvas plimsolls seemed to augment his costume where Marshall’s high-tops and Dash’s work boots served to make their outlandish getup look more bizarre than ever, slid his stolen index cards, still stuffed into a backpack, into his right pocket. Into the left went the shattered hourglass.
Dash removed his barcoded Lost tag from inside his coat and tied it around his right wrist, where it brushed up against the minus sign on the back of his hand. He tugged irritably at the cardigan sleeves, pulling them down so they fell to the second knuckle of his index fingers, completely concealing both the tag and the marks. The coat joined the rest of his every-day wear in the left cardigan pocket. He sat down again, shoving the salt-stained flag Radford had given him into the right pocket, and resumed sorting through his cards. Now, however, after he had picked each one up and examined them, they went into the pocket on his left-hand side.
Simon still showed no sign of wanting to check his own cards, so Marshall sat beside him and, retrieving Charley’s notebook from where it now lay alone at the bottom of his empty backpack, made a start on deciphering the cramped handwriting, archaic spelling and cryptic symbols that filled it. He had not managed to make sense of the first page, however, when the Claw drifted gently to a halt, then began to descend.
“Area Five,” whispered Simon, his voice an even mixture of dread and awe.
Dash shovelled the index cards that remained unexamined into his right pocket and stood. Mars and Simon did the same, Simon with his hands thrust in his pockets, Marshall unconsciously crushing the notebook in one hand while his empty backpack dangled limply from the other. He bent to pick up the second backpack, still creaking at the seams with stolen information, then stopped as the realisation hit him.
“Dash,” he said. “Get over here and take this second lot of cards.”
Dash opened his mouth to deliver an appropriately snappy rejoinder, but at that moment the cage came to a full stop on a concrete floor, and all the lights came on.