(no subject)
All the little angels rise up, rise up, rise up...
He hears the song before he can figure anything else out, like where he is, what he's doing and what's going on. All he knows is the song. That damn song. He does not know what memories it's supposed to stir up, but whenever it follows him, there's an ache deep in his chest that tells him that they are not pleasant memories. His eyes snap open. He is leaning against the barricade.
The people are singing.
He gets to his feet and looks warily around him. No one meets his eyes but a dwarf in a modest leather skirt, an axe hanging from one hand and the other planted firmly on her waist. "You there," he says, "What's going on?" He can feel himself trembling.
The dwarf crinkles her brows at him. She looks like all dwarfs do, with little space between her beard, eyebrows and hair, but he can tell she's a woman. He's learned to tell, over the years. "Sir?"
He steadies himself with one hand and checks himself once over to make sure he's in his proper uniform, badge and all and tries to stop himself from trembling. He feels hot. His joints ache.
"Sir, you're shaking."
"I am not. Tell me what's going on. Tell me who's in charge here."
The dwarf widens her eyes in surprise. "Why sir," she says, "you are. Are you feeling all right?"
"Fine!" He takes a deep breath and steadies himself once more, a steady cast upon his worn features. "I'm fine. Just tell me what's--oh, don't tell me it's those bloody zombies again."
"I take offense to that! Great offense!" A man separates himself from the crowd. His skin is ashen with just a shade of green, and the stitches that decorate him make it abundantly clear that he is a zombie. His pinky is hanging off by a single stitch, but Vimes decides against pointing this particular detail out.
Vimes stares blearily at the zombie and peers at the assortment of species collected behind the barricade. It's like the godsdamn multispecies circle. Trolls are guarding the small entrances, gargoyles are keeping watch, dwarfs are irritably swinging their axes around, gnomes are surreptitiously eating dropped bits of food from off the ground and there are more than a few vampires scattered about the place.
Something bad must have happened to get all these different species together and cooperating, particularly the dwarfs and the trolls. Though he can't tell, he's certain that there are one or two werewolves in their midst from the way a few of the stronger looking individuals keep on baring their teeth at the vampires.
He ignores the zombie and claps his hands. "All right, you mob, listen up! I want--"
"We're not a mob!"
"I take offense to that, bein' called a mob, I'm not part of no mob--"
"A gathering, that's more like it."
"I can't be having with being in a mob, if this is a mob I want no part in it, I tell you, no part..."
Vimes grits his teeth. He's not in Edensphere anymore. This is how normal people act. "Shut up!" He roars. "What I was saying is that I want a full report on the situation and what exactly you people want."
There is silence for a moment until a troll steps forward, knuckles scraping on the ground. "Dere's a great big hole in der square," he says mournfully. "People are inside. We're protectin' our kin from whatever's in dere. No one else is doin' anything. Everyone's scared. It aagragaah."
Vimes takes a moment to translate. "I see."
"Der troll gangs are not happy," the troll continues. "Dey assembling der drums for gahanka."
"And once you hear that, you're dead," Vimes says grimly, then turns to the crowd. "Is this true?" He asks, and scans the crowd only to see everyone nodding and holding their weapons a little closer to themselves. Now he realizes that these aren't the actions of a group who is looking for revolution. They are simply looking for protection as they fear the unknown. And to bolster their spirits, they sing songs about angels. Of those who are dead. It is not a reassuring thing.
"Has anyone tried talking to the people?" He asks.
"Isn't that a job for someone official?" An older woman says, holding her young daughters close to her.
"Official," Vimes repeats. "Ah. That's me, isn't it? Sounds like a job for wizards to me, but I'll see what I can do, but I need someone to show me the way. And if I come back to any of you brawling amongst yourselves... let's say I'd better not come back to you misbehaving. Come on, now! A volunteer?"
The dwarf who he first spoke to glances warily around her, hands trembling, and then steps forward. "I will, sir. Follow me."
When he steps from out of the barricade, he can see why the people of the city were paralyzed with fright. The sun hangs low and red, half obscured by the dark storm clouds threatening to cover what little light remains. Behind the clouds and the sun is a smattering of darkness stronger than what can occur naturally, like some mighty god had grabbed a handful of gravel and splashed it across the heavens. The silence that permeates the world is far more disturbing than anything else. Vimes knows what it should sound like. There should be gossip amongst the merchants, clanging from blacksmiths, the steady beat of a butcher's knife on meat from the slaughterhouse.
Instead, there is only the footsteps of himself and his companion. The dwarf mumbles something in dwarfish quietly, and Vimes can only just make out a few rather foul curse words.
"The dwarfs aren't happy either, sir," the dwarf whispers. "They don't trust a hole that opens up out of nowhere. They're worried about their mines."
"I bet they are. The dwarfs and the trolls... gods, if both of them come out here in a fighting mood, there will be a bloodbath."
She mutters again in that hushed voice of hers in dwarfish, the guttural consonants rubbing off each other and giving Vimes the impression of great displeasure. His mouth moves as he translates. "Let's see... darkness not.... ah. You don't like how dark it is now, is that it?"
"It's unnatural, sir. I'm a dwarf. I can read natural dark, but I can't read this."
She finally leads him to the square, and he peers down into the gaping hole. Some people say that within the Disc, there is fire. It is not the case here. The hole is rimmed with soft leaves and the innards are overwhelmingly green. "Looks like bloody magic to me, that's why it's unnatural," he murmurs, then shouts into the hole. There is no response.
"The wizards are on it," the dwarf says, and points to a collection of men in pointy hats just around the corner. "It's closing up, sir! You didn't need to do anything here."
"Closing it? Doesn't that mean that they're trapped?"
"Sir?"
"I should at least take a look." He leans in closer. Something about it looks familiar, but he can't quite put his finger on it.
"It's closing now, sir. Let's go home and forget about it. No one was able to come up here anyway, though they tried."
Home. Yes, that's what he wants to do. Going home sounds good right now. Things will be clearer afterwards.
But he hears familiar voices from the hole, and they cry out, as if in pain. He can hear a child's voice. He doesn't hesitate. "I can't. Not if it means not doing my damndest to help. I'll be back."
He doesn't think he will, but he shuts his eyes tightly and steps into the abyss anyway. Above him, the hole closes. In another universe, he might have turned around and went home and would be happier for it, but he's made his decision. He lands heavily on the ground and scans the area.
There are buildings scattered everywhere, but they're corroded and quickly breaking down. Now that the hole has been closed, the sky is a great, bleak thing, not the sort of night you can adjust your eyes to, nor the brightness of morning but a bitter shade of grey that obscures the sight and dims the spirits. Similarly to Ankh-Morpork, there are barricades, but they are made out of ruined buildings, not stacked pieces of furniture. Like Ankh Morpork, it is silent, but it is not from a lack of people. There is a breathless sort of tension in the air. He knows there are people around, but they are hidden by the shadows. Something bad is happening here. People do not learn how to hide so efficiently unless there is something terrible to hide from.
Something yanks him behind one of the buildings. Someone. He turns his head only to see Ghost staring him in the eye, but then again, it's not Ghost. He remembers how old Ghost had looked, how tired all this time, but not like this. Never like this. Now he looks defeated, and it's a terrible thing to behold. Vimes feels an ache in his chest looking at it, a weight in his stomach realizing that this is the face he expects to see on old soldiers, the sort that have lost more comrades to a sword than to old age.
"Took you long enough, old man," he says.
Vimes peers behind Ghost only to lay his eyes on other familiar faces. Wolverine is sitting there, shoulders hunched. There is a hole in each of his knuckles. Elsa as well, a bloodied plaster over her nose. West is sitting quietly over a book, a pallor to her green skin. Scales leans against the corner, gazing vacantly at the sky. He cannot tell what deformity Scales may be harbouring, for he is cloaked from head to toe in heavy brown material.
This is the land of the disappeared, he realizes. The land of the forgotten. His blood runs cold.
"What's going on here? What is this place?"
"We're not in the Tree anymore. No one's watching us. We can say whatever the hell we want." He laughs. It is an unpleasant sound. "Not that it makes a difference."
"Then why are you living like this, why are you--"
Wolverine speaks, though he doesn't look up from his knuckles. Vimes is glad. He does not wish to see what horrors lurk within his eyes. "It's a goddamn mess here. When we came, others were already in power."
West speaks next, voice brittle and angry. He can see the rage rolling like the tide within her. "Didn't you say good people weren't ever leaders? It turns out you were right. Still against revolutions, Stoneface? I'm sure everyone in Edensphere was very happy when some of these people disappeared. Did you ever think about where exactly they went?"
Vimes' blood runs cold.
"I didn't..." He wants to say more, to make excuses, to tell them that he thinks of them often. He can't. He doesn't think of them as often as he should.
"Yeah," Ghost says. "That's right you didn't. Nobody ever does, so now it's our problem. And now it's yours. Didn't you say a bunch of bullshit about protecting people? Does that just stop when you can't see them anymore?"
Vimes wants to speak, to defend himself, to apologize but his tongue lays useless and thick in his mouth. Ghost grabs his shoulders. "You promised to protect my sister, didn't you? Do you break your promises right when you can't be held for them anymore? Blood heard you talking from up there. She went to go get you. What are you going to do about it?"
Inside, the Beast rages. It is nigh impossible to describe the Beast, but if he tried, he would describe it as heat enveloping his body, as rage overcoming his brain, as an inexhaustible urge to destroy what is in his path in an effort to rid the land of all that is bad. It roars in his mind, but he does not let it out, not yet. Not even for this. Before they can say another word, he leaps to his feet and runs, though he doesn't know where to go. As he sprints past, he sees others by the barricades. He never forgot about them. He simply found it easier not to think about them. Fallen, East, Honour, Skulls, Tatsu, Nothlit, Trust, Truth... the list is longer than he'd like to admit, and even though he only sees them for a moment, they are in bad shape. He can see it.
He follows glimpses of pink. He knows that it could be a trap if anyone detests him enough to trap him, but he is beyond caring. All he knows is that inside him, the Beast howls, and he needs to see his little girl in front of him, safe and sound. He fears that it is too late.
The flashes of pink send him into a freezer.
Fenrir, Praise, Apostle and Zombie are sitting inside. Fenrir is perched upon smaller freezer, and there is a small hand sticking out of it, one Vimes doesn't dare look at for more than a second. There are headless bodies hung from the ceiling, like sacks of meat. Vimes prays that he does not know who any of them once were. Zombie stares with those dead eyes of his, and Praise's fingers skim the handle of the knife sticking in his boot. Vimes pants. He doesn't know what he's doing here. What he needs to do. His feet slide on the ice below, but when he looks down, he belatedly realizes that the ice is, in fact, blood frozen over. The cold should have sapped out the smell, but he can smell it anyway. It infiltrates his nose, rises through his sinuses, gets trapped inside his head.
Fenrir daintily steps off of the freezer and adjusts the delicate silver crown perched on his head. "Oh? What do you plan to do?"
Who is Sam Vimes? The law. But the law doesn't apply here. Who is Sam Vimes without the law? He is the beast. He knows this, and in that moment, he knows what to do. He unsheaths his sword and yanks off his badge. It echoes as it hits the floor.
"I plan to kill you," he says, and then he wakes up.