(no subject)
More AU.
Predictably, it's also doomy.
"What's the point of this?" Charles asks, watching the syringe's plunger descend. The liquid inside is clear; you could almost imagine it wasn't there at all.
"It's just a relaxant," the tech tells him. "Don't be afraid."
"I'm not," he replies automatically, eyes still on the syringe.
"Good." The tech pulls out the needle, presses a wad of cotton against the site, and pushes Charles back onto the couch. "Now just relax and listen."
Charles lays back, staring up at the ceiling, and shuts his eyes against the lights over him. He can hear his own breath, his own heartbeat, the rush of blood in his veins carrying the drug through his body.
Then he can hear the tech's heart, and the observer's, and then things open up like they never have before--
He wakes up in his room, one hand tangled in his hair, pressed against his temples. Dr. Dewey sits in the armchair across from his bed, smoking a cigarette.
"Ah, Charles." He stubs out the cigarette and leans forward. "How're you feeling?"
Charles' eyes dart to him, then fix on the shapes the smoke make as it rises and disippates. "What happened?"
"You probably know more than we do. We started the session, you closed your eyes -- and ten seconds later, you yelled and then you were out cold."
His fingers flex against his head, tight and then loose.
"Do you remember what you heard?" Dewey asks, soft, solicitous. "Or saw?"
A long silence. Charles' eyes are closed now, tight.
"Charles?"
He murmurs something. Dewey leans forward.
"I couldn't hear that, Charles."
"Everything," Charles repeats. "I could hear everything."
Lords of song and lords of stillness,
Lords of worlds both far and near,
Pride is youth's most deadly illness
Shouting over wiser fears.
In so much noise, what can you hear?
They try again, a few days later, with a different formula. Charles stays awake, this time, but not very coherent.
Too much too much there's too much student showing agitation but vitals are good God this better work is still steady but no I don't have those forms a sphere in zero gravity I know that the servants have it I am a monster of moral of the story is don't count your husband's ship comes in tonight I'll be in Amsterdam and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace yourself too much I CAN'T--
The next time, they give him a target to listen for, then give him another drug after the relaxant hits. It takes a few minutes, but -- slowly, not entirely certain -- he tells them what he hears.
There are fundamental problems with this theory, though, unless we assume that Darwinian evolution is taking some truly startling leaps. It's almost enough to make you wonder about a watchmaker.
They continue to adjust the dosages, and Charles' ability to pinpoint a person, a thought, improves. But the drugs linger in his system -- the psychedelics and dissociatives in particular -- and they give him more medication to combat the effects.
Charles has always been quiet, but his silences now sullen and distracted. His eyes flicker away from the people speaking to him, as if he's watching and listening to something completely different.
He is.
Dewey asks him about it once, and Charles looks straight at him, eyes blue and clear for a startling moment.
"You open up all the doors and tear off the locks, pry open the chinks, and then you wonder why they keep falling open. You need more mortar, doctor."
Then his eyes skitter away again, fixing on something just to the left and above Dewey's head.
"Doesn't love a wall, that wants it down . . ."
He runs a hand through his hair. "Everything yells. They don't have to yell, I, I can't hear -- the quiet places made sacred by your feet -- they built a highway there."
Then he falls silent again, eyes dull, and Dewey can't draw him out again.
Dewey's beginning to have his doubts about this project, but he keeps them to himself.
Lords of spirit, lords of time,
Lords of fire, wind, and air,
Broken eyes forget the rhyme
And music that they knew were there.
How much silence can you bear?
He wishes sometimes that Zyll or Madoc or Gaudior or the Mrs. W's would appear in his waking dreams -- someone familiar and comforting and good -- but his mind refuses to fabricate anything so real. And it doesn't make sense, because the nightmarish double vision is real, too, realer than reality, and shouldn't he be able to see something good that's just as real?
But what is real?
He's not always sure anymore.
. . . Damn, I think I broke myself with that one.
Predictably, it's also doomy.
"What's the point of this?" Charles asks, watching the syringe's plunger descend. The liquid inside is clear; you could almost imagine it wasn't there at all.
"It's just a relaxant," the tech tells him. "Don't be afraid."
"I'm not," he replies automatically, eyes still on the syringe.
"Good." The tech pulls out the needle, presses a wad of cotton against the site, and pushes Charles back onto the couch. "Now just relax and listen."
Charles lays back, staring up at the ceiling, and shuts his eyes against the lights over him. He can hear his own breath, his own heartbeat, the rush of blood in his veins carrying the drug through his body.
Then he can hear the tech's heart, and the observer's, and then things open up like they never have before--
He wakes up in his room, one hand tangled in his hair, pressed against his temples. Dr. Dewey sits in the armchair across from his bed, smoking a cigarette.
"Ah, Charles." He stubs out the cigarette and leans forward. "How're you feeling?"
Charles' eyes dart to him, then fix on the shapes the smoke make as it rises and disippates. "What happened?"
"You probably know more than we do. We started the session, you closed your eyes -- and ten seconds later, you yelled and then you were out cold."
His fingers flex against his head, tight and then loose.
"Do you remember what you heard?" Dewey asks, soft, solicitous. "Or saw?"
A long silence. Charles' eyes are closed now, tight.
"Charles?"
He murmurs something. Dewey leans forward.
"I couldn't hear that, Charles."
"Everything," Charles repeats. "I could hear everything."
Lords of song and lords of stillness,
Lords of worlds both far and near,
Pride is youth's most deadly illness
Shouting over wiser fears.
In so much noise, what can you hear?
They try again, a few days later, with a different formula. Charles stays awake, this time, but not very coherent.
Too much too much there's too much student showing agitation but vitals are good God this better work is still steady but no I don't have those forms a sphere in zero gravity I know that the servants have it I am a monster of moral of the story is don't count your husband's ship comes in tonight I'll be in Amsterdam and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace yourself too much I CAN'T--
The next time, they give him a target to listen for, then give him another drug after the relaxant hits. It takes a few minutes, but -- slowly, not entirely certain -- he tells them what he hears.
There are fundamental problems with this theory, though, unless we assume that Darwinian evolution is taking some truly startling leaps. It's almost enough to make you wonder about a watchmaker.
They continue to adjust the dosages, and Charles' ability to pinpoint a person, a thought, improves. But the drugs linger in his system -- the psychedelics and dissociatives in particular -- and they give him more medication to combat the effects.
Charles has always been quiet, but his silences now sullen and distracted. His eyes flicker away from the people speaking to him, as if he's watching and listening to something completely different.
He is.
Dewey asks him about it once, and Charles looks straight at him, eyes blue and clear for a startling moment.
"You open up all the doors and tear off the locks, pry open the chinks, and then you wonder why they keep falling open. You need more mortar, doctor."
Then his eyes skitter away again, fixing on something just to the left and above Dewey's head.
"Doesn't love a wall, that wants it down . . ."
He runs a hand through his hair. "Everything yells. They don't have to yell, I, I can't hear -- the quiet places made sacred by your feet -- they built a highway there."
Then he falls silent again, eyes dull, and Dewey can't draw him out again.
Dewey's beginning to have his doubts about this project, but he keeps them to himself.
Lords of spirit, lords of time,
Lords of fire, wind, and air,
Broken eyes forget the rhyme
And music that they knew were there.
How much silence can you bear?
He wishes sometimes that Zyll or Madoc or Gaudior or the Mrs. W's would appear in his waking dreams -- someone familiar and comforting and good -- but his mind refuses to fabricate anything so real. And it doesn't make sense, because the nightmarish double vision is real, too, realer than reality, and shouldn't he be able to see something good that's just as real?
But what is real?
He's not always sure anymore.
. . . Damn, I think I broke myself with that one.