(And the boy stood, and stared at the hill. And the hill stared back.)
The world swallowed, and abruptly what had been a small locked dormitory in bustling Chicago became an uninterrupted panorama of green grass, blue sky, distant walls and castles.
Jack made no move. He had no purpose here, no direction anywhere; he watched the world as it progressed, day into night and back again, any curiosity or confusion blunted against the impregnable wall of the Chula emotion chip. Time passed. He didn't mind it.
Then the sun sunk down again, one last day in a sequence of several, and the world shifted once more.
-
This time is different.
It's the one calm thought he has before he's conscious of a spreading warmth at the back of his neck, a deep-muscle itch, and he doubles over and crashes into the wall.
The wall is bloodstained and rotting out and not a place he recognizes, but it comes with a familiar sense of dread wrapping its fingers around his hindbrain and slowly choking out the mechanical control that's been placed over his reactions. This is old, older than Time Lords, almost as old as Sifr, and dredges up memories of heavy sweeping over London and beasts with metal helms dragging themselves up from the collected recesses of universal nightmare - here he is being Judged and the casual ingenuity of the Chula won't stop that.
The itch turns into a scream, neither audible nor physical, but his hands go to the sides of his head anyway. The literal chip is eroding, its barriers failing, and on the other side of that a great mass of anger and fear and malice and contradiction clamors for access to that rational mind.
The walls are falling down.
-
Anyone who comes to Silent Hall just now will find, tucked into the palpable darkness, a single figure sitting almost in an upright foetal position in the middle of the corridor. He's sitting still, or seems to be until one comes close and can see the faint muscular tremors that come of keeping every muscle in the body tense at once. His hands are clenched over his ears; his head is down, his eyes are closed.
Behind him broods the Beast, shifting, twisting, multiple heads and too many hands pulling out of each other and sliding back in, murmuring, circling him like it'll take the scent of his soul and join the hunt.
Closer still, with application of light, one might see the trickle of blood rolling from the points where each finger digs into skin, pooling in the dip below his nose and dripping to the ground between his feet. One might also notice the line of rust originating at the base of his skull and falling down the back of his neck.
Six months to the day after Jack went to see Elashte, he's back in the Kashtta Tower. And in precisely the worst place to be.
Jack made no move. He had no purpose here, no direction anywhere; he watched the world as it progressed, day into night and back again, any curiosity or confusion blunted against the impregnable wall of the Chula emotion chip. Time passed. He didn't mind it.
Then the sun sunk down again, one last day in a sequence of several, and the world shifted once more.
-
This time is different.
It's the one calm thought he has before he's conscious of a spreading warmth at the back of his neck, a deep-muscle itch, and he doubles over and crashes into the wall.
The wall is bloodstained and rotting out and not a place he recognizes, but it comes with a familiar sense of dread wrapping its fingers around his hindbrain and slowly choking out the mechanical control that's been placed over his reactions. This is old, older than Time Lords, almost as old as Sifr, and dredges up memories of heavy sweeping over London and beasts with metal helms dragging themselves up from the collected recesses of universal nightmare - here he is being Judged and the casual ingenuity of the Chula won't stop that.
The itch turns into a scream, neither audible nor physical, but his hands go to the sides of his head anyway. The literal chip is eroding, its barriers failing, and on the other side of that a great mass of anger and fear and malice and contradiction clamors for access to that rational mind.
The walls are falling down.
-
Anyone who comes to Silent Hall just now will find, tucked into the palpable darkness, a single figure sitting almost in an upright foetal position in the middle of the corridor. He's sitting still, or seems to be until one comes close and can see the faint muscular tremors that come of keeping every muscle in the body tense at once. His hands are clenched over his ears; his head is down, his eyes are closed.
Behind him broods the Beast, shifting, twisting, multiple heads and too many hands pulling out of each other and sliding back in, murmuring, circling him like it'll take the scent of his soul and join the hunt.
Closer still, with application of light, one might see the trickle of blood rolling from the points where each finger digs into skin, pooling in the dip below his nose and dripping to the ground between his feet. One might also notice the line of rust originating at the base of his skull and falling down the back of his neck.
Six months to the day after Jack went to see Elashte, he's back in the Kashtta Tower. And in precisely the worst place to be.