Subtropolis: Shadow Theatre - 7/13 (Original; ~30k words; 15+)
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For a moment, all he could see was colours: endless rippling splashes of colour, swooping and rising through the impossibly vast space, bursting in reds and blues and greens against the high beige vaults of the ceiling. Eventually, he could make out an awning here, painted back-boards there. balloons and ribbons and bunting; eventually, the crowds resolved into individuals, laughing and haggling and pushing around each other to get to bargains packed into dozens upon dozens of stalls. Occasional support struts leaped up out of the throng, but even they were not enough to mark where the halls and tunnels ended and the market began, as it sprawled out into every available space and then some, creating a thousand artificial paths and alleys, like a carnival maze.
Boston had barely gone a dozen steps from the entrance and he already wasn't sure he could find it again. He got jostled this way and that. A grizzly one eyed man tried to sell him a raven's foot on a black cord necklace; a young Indian girl scoffed at this and offered him a dazzling array of coloured scarves to try instead. He mumbled apologies, pushing away, and then jerked back as a boy barely taller than the cart he was pushing waved a handful of freshly battered lizards on sticks at him. Dodging away, he found himself pressed up against a stall covered in dark velvet, on top of which a ridiculously tall Nordic looking woman in full armour had laid out a dazzling array of glittering knives. She boomed out laughter as he pushed away through the crowd.
Finding himself next to one of the support columns, he set his back to it, resisting the push of the crowd until they started to go around him instead of trying for through, trying to get his bearings. It was a bit much when you needed a compass just to get around a bunch of shops, although, now he thought about it, he was pretty sure at least two of the stalls he'd passed would have tried to sell him one. He was actually half-considering going back to ask when the flow of the crowd parted, just for a moment, and he saw a Yankees cap he was almost certain was over a bulky jacket.
"Hey!" he called, darting that way. "Wait up!"
The moment he stepped away from the wall, the crowd closed over him. He pushed his way through the haze of sweat and perfume, barging gaps between women in feathers and men in thick coats, between boys in ballet tights and girls in expensive, pin-striped suits. The baseball cap tacked effortlessly through the oncoming populace, while Boston was shoved back again and again. It only took a couple of minutes for him to realise he'd lost the trail, and only a couple of seconds after that to realise he'd lost himself too.
"Excuse me," he said to the proprietor of the nearest stall, a large, deathly pale white woman wearing a tonne of silver piercings and thick, black makeup. "Did you see a guy go past? Wearing a Yankees--"
"You wanna buy?" she asked. "Protection amulets, going cheap. You got barter?"
"Yeah, no, I just need to find the guy I'm looking for," Boston said, trying to move away, finding her hand around his wrist before he'd even noticed her start to move. "Really."
"I have crystals for scrying and for portents," she said, leaning in. This close, the thick smell of clove cigarettes overwhelmed everything. "Or runes. Do you throw runes? You look like a runes man to me."
"I don't even know what that means," Boston said, twisting around to pull himself free. "Sorry."
"Feathers, then," she called, leaning so far over the stall he half thought she'd tumble out after him. "A weaving, to capture dreams."
"Maybe later," he said, backing away.
It was like hitting a brick wall. Heavy, mottled hands landed on his shoulder. "That's not nice," rumbled an impossibly deep voice, shoving him around. Boston got a brief impression of far more beard than one person should possibly be capable of having, before he was being shook by a doll. "People go to a lot of effort."
"I'm shu-sure she duh-does," Boston managed.
When he was let go, he stumbled back a few paces before he managed to get himself straight again, mostly because the crowd had hemmed him in too much to fall down.
"We don't like your kind in here," Beard rumbled.
"That's fine," Boston agreed. "I was already leaving. There's no need for trouble."
"There's every need," Beard said. "You insult one of us, you insult all of us."
There were laughs and roars of agreement from those around them.
"How about I buy something, yeah?" Boston said, holding his hands up calmingly.
"We definitely want to make you pay," Beard laughed, moving in closer, looming over him.
Guns weren't close quarters weapons. Boston reached for his badge instead. "You maybe want to back off a little there, big guy? I'm a police officer."
"Ooooh," someone in the audience cried. "He's a police officer."
There was another ripple of laughter. Beard grinned down at him. He had very white, very sharp teeth. "You know what we do to police officers down here?"
"Treat them courteously?" Boston offered, and now he did rest his hand on his gun. "While you're all standing here, I'm looking for someone. Big olive jacket, New York Yankees cap worn low. They might know something about a group of murders that have happened recently. You know anything about that, sir?"
Beard stared at him for a moment, bemused, and there were mocking sounds now around them. He tried to rally.
"Courteous I can do. You want a coffee? Cops like coffee, right? You know how I make coffee?" He grinned nastily. "Ask me how."
Boston considered him for a long moment before sighing and saying, "How do--"
"I grind me some beans," Beard said, lunging at him and then jerking up short when Boston's gun appeared in his hand.
"Nice reflexes," Boston said. "Now, how about you back up a step there, big guy?"
"How about you all back off?" asked an old, white woman waspishly. Her hair was so light blonde as to be almost platinum; it added an oddly patrician air to what was otherwise a rather dated, cream and beige nice-old-lady outfit. Her eyes were sharp as diamonds and just as bright.
Boston wasn't surprised when everyone did as ordered.
"Now," she said, wandering out into the middle of them. "Perhaps one of you kind gentlemen would mind explaining to me just what is happening here?"
"Ain't nothing, Ms Stone," Beard said. "Just a bit of fun."
"I do like a bit of fun." She smiled kindly up at him. He took a step back. "I don't think this is my sort of fun, though. Is it?"
"N-no ma'am," Beard said.
"No, ma'am, it is not," she agreed. "And if it's not my sort of my fun, where should it be?"
Beard's mouth worked silently. After a moment, he tried, "Not in the Common?"
She patted his arm, ignoring the way he flinched. "That's a good boy."
A pointed look dispersed the already thinning crowd, before she looked him up and down. "Well, now; and what do we have here? Are you Irish?"
"Not so far as I know," Boston said.
"I had an Irish boy once. Oh, the stamina on him; we went twice around the ring of Kerry." She smiled fondly before turning away. "Now, you put the weapon away, less you're compensating for something, and come into my office."
"Uh." Boston did as directed. "Yes, ma'am."
He followed in her footsteps as the crowds parted, with nods and "How you do, Ms Stone"s and "Evening, Mayor"s and one old guy who'd chuckled lasciviously and said "Can't keep yourself away, huh, Eliza?"
"Just like a car-wreck, Stanley," she said, smiling sweetly as she swept past.
The sign on the door identified the structure as a ticket office, although for what, Boston wasn't sure. If there had been trains here once, there were no signs of tracks. If anything, it looked more like something you might find in an old, grand theatre, though he had no idea where in this place a stage might stand out from the drama of the rest. Inside was more like a noir-era lawyer's office, all dark woods and sumptuous green leather chairs. Stone sank into one, waving him into another, tutting at the TV on her dresser.
"Councillor Cole," she said. "The great moral dictator, loving with his fists."
The sound was off. Boston read 'the strength to see it through' off the man's lips.
"What is this place?"
"It's my office," she said, and then chuckled. "Oh, the look on your face, boy. I," she leaned forward, offering him her hand, "am Mayor Eliza Stone."
"Boston," he said, shaking it. Her skin was papery; her grip sure and steady. "Officer Boston Craig. I'm sorry, Mayor of what?"
"Of the Common," she said, sitting back. "Be a dear and pour me a whiskey. There are glasses in the cupboard above the decanter."
Boston rose automatically to do so. "What's the Common? I mean, obviously, it's the stuff outside -- a black market? I'm pretty sure they're not usually this literal."
"The shadow market," she corrected. "The market that lies behind markets. You were born in this city, weren't you?"
"Yes, ma'am," Boston said, handing her the whiskey.
"Thank you." She sipped it, smiled, nodded over. "Help yourself."
"Oh, uh, no, thank you, ma'am."
"Polite boy." Stone considered him over her glass. "Have you seen it yet?"
"Seen what?"
"The shadow city," she explained. "The city that lies behind the city. The city you reach when you've fallen through all the cracks there are. Yes, you've glimpsed it. I can see it in your eyes. You've seen the terror. Are you looking for the wonder?"
"Actually," Boston said, deciding to ignore this, "I'm looking for a man. A teenager, maybe. Bulky olive jacket, wears a Yankees cap."
"Is that right?" she asked.
"He may know something about a series of murders that--"
"We know all about this," Stone interrupted. "We care for the lost."
"Then you understand why--"
"In the Common, the only law is my law; crime is what I say it is. The Common is neutral land. It's the one place in the whole city where anyone who can come is welcome -- unless they break the law."
"Your law," Boston said.
She nodded.
Boston considered her. "The people, outside? The ones who have fallen through the cracks? They're the people that are potentially in danger because of this man."
"Are you sure of that?" she asked mildly.
"No, ma'am," he admitted. "I don't know anything; but that just makes it more imperative that I find this person and talk to them."
"Do you think this is new? The harassment, the killings? These things have always gone on, Boston. You may think they are new, but I can assure you that they are old crimes. Old as Cain."
"Then it's prime time they were stopped, Mayor."
She chuckled again. "I can see why he picked you."
"Why who -- you mean, Detective Nylar?" Boston asked. Stone nodded gravely. "Okay, seriously, does everybody know everybody around here?"
"Our world does border on the," she paused for a moment, searching for a word, before settling on, "incestuous. Vincent Nylar is a man who speaks for the dead when no-one else will or can. Who do you speak for, Boston?" Stone waved this off. "No, don't answer. Just something to think about."
The pendulum clock hanging on the wall tinged brightly; a moment later, somewhere nearby, a great, deep bell tolled five times.
"If you know something," Boston tried.
"I know so, so many things," she said tiredly. "I am not the one who can help you. As a wise old man once said, trust your instincts."
Boston frowned at her. "Are you quoting Star Wars?"
Stone toasted him with her glass. "I'm sure you can find your own way out."
She turned away, a clear dismissal even before she reached for the newspaper on the desk and snapped it open. Councillor Cole stared at him from the front page, out from under a headline warning "Finish the Mission". At any moment, the man himself would probably pop out of the woodwork again, to berate him for not closing the case; or possibly for trying to close the case, he honestly had no idea.
"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am."
Boston half thought she snorted as he closed the door behind him. He wasn't sure. He was too busy being distracted by the fact that the entire market had vanished, leaving him in a large, empty, shadow filled room. Only glitter and bits of ribbon, ropes left dangling from hooks and other trash on the floor gave any indication that there had ever been anything there. When he turned back to the office, he found all the blinds closed, the lights out, and the door solidly locked. There was no sound from inside at all.
"Right, then," Boston said. "Not creepy at all."
"I dunno," said Katrina, from where she was standing right next to him. He jerked away, yelping, actually fumbling for his gun before his mind caught up with his eyes. "Talking to yourself? Going for your weapon? Abandoning your boss and running off in the middle of scintillating conversations with a smart, witty, gorgeous woman? I gotta say, you are up there on my creep meter, Red."
"Yeah, because appearing out of nowhere is so normal," Boston groused.
"Is it my fault if you don't pay attention?" she asked, grinning unrepentantly. "Come on; my cab is just outside." She nodded her head at the doors behind her.
Boston stared. "Were those there all along?"
"No, I cut them into the concrete while you weren't looking," she said, rolling her eyes. "Now, come buy me a coffee and tell me what's what."
[ Full Headers | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 | 12 | E | Read on DW ]
For a moment, all he could see was colours: endless rippling splashes of colour, swooping and rising through the impossibly vast space, bursting in reds and blues and greens against the high beige vaults of the ceiling. Eventually, he could make out an awning here, painted back-boards there. balloons and ribbons and bunting; eventually, the crowds resolved into individuals, laughing and haggling and pushing around each other to get to bargains packed into dozens upon dozens of stalls. Occasional support struts leaped up out of the throng, but even they were not enough to mark where the halls and tunnels ended and the market began, as it sprawled out into every available space and then some, creating a thousand artificial paths and alleys, like a carnival maze.
Boston had barely gone a dozen steps from the entrance and he already wasn't sure he could find it again. He got jostled this way and that. A grizzly one eyed man tried to sell him a raven's foot on a black cord necklace; a young Indian girl scoffed at this and offered him a dazzling array of coloured scarves to try instead. He mumbled apologies, pushing away, and then jerked back as a boy barely taller than the cart he was pushing waved a handful of freshly battered lizards on sticks at him. Dodging away, he found himself pressed up against a stall covered in dark velvet, on top of which a ridiculously tall Nordic looking woman in full armour had laid out a dazzling array of glittering knives. She boomed out laughter as he pushed away through the crowd.
Finding himself next to one of the support columns, he set his back to it, resisting the push of the crowd until they started to go around him instead of trying for through, trying to get his bearings. It was a bit much when you needed a compass just to get around a bunch of shops, although, now he thought about it, he was pretty sure at least two of the stalls he'd passed would have tried to sell him one. He was actually half-considering going back to ask when the flow of the crowd parted, just for a moment, and he saw a Yankees cap he was almost certain was over a bulky jacket.
"Hey!" he called, darting that way. "Wait up!"
The moment he stepped away from the wall, the crowd closed over him. He pushed his way through the haze of sweat and perfume, barging gaps between women in feathers and men in thick coats, between boys in ballet tights and girls in expensive, pin-striped suits. The baseball cap tacked effortlessly through the oncoming populace, while Boston was shoved back again and again. It only took a couple of minutes for him to realise he'd lost the trail, and only a couple of seconds after that to realise he'd lost himself too.
"Excuse me," he said to the proprietor of the nearest stall, a large, deathly pale white woman wearing a tonne of silver piercings and thick, black makeup. "Did you see a guy go past? Wearing a Yankees--"
"You wanna buy?" she asked. "Protection amulets, going cheap. You got barter?"
"Yeah, no, I just need to find the guy I'm looking for," Boston said, trying to move away, finding her hand around his wrist before he'd even noticed her start to move. "Really."
"I have crystals for scrying and for portents," she said, leaning in. This close, the thick smell of clove cigarettes overwhelmed everything. "Or runes. Do you throw runes? You look like a runes man to me."
"I don't even know what that means," Boston said, twisting around to pull himself free. "Sorry."
"Feathers, then," she called, leaning so far over the stall he half thought she'd tumble out after him. "A weaving, to capture dreams."
"Maybe later," he said, backing away.
It was like hitting a brick wall. Heavy, mottled hands landed on his shoulder. "That's not nice," rumbled an impossibly deep voice, shoving him around. Boston got a brief impression of far more beard than one person should possibly be capable of having, before he was being shook by a doll. "People go to a lot of effort."
"I'm shu-sure she duh-does," Boston managed.
When he was let go, he stumbled back a few paces before he managed to get himself straight again, mostly because the crowd had hemmed him in too much to fall down.
"We don't like your kind in here," Beard rumbled.
"That's fine," Boston agreed. "I was already leaving. There's no need for trouble."
"There's every need," Beard said. "You insult one of us, you insult all of us."
There were laughs and roars of agreement from those around them.
"How about I buy something, yeah?" Boston said, holding his hands up calmingly.
"We definitely want to make you pay," Beard laughed, moving in closer, looming over him.
Guns weren't close quarters weapons. Boston reached for his badge instead. "You maybe want to back off a little there, big guy? I'm a police officer."
"Ooooh," someone in the audience cried. "He's a police officer."
There was another ripple of laughter. Beard grinned down at him. He had very white, very sharp teeth. "You know what we do to police officers down here?"
"Treat them courteously?" Boston offered, and now he did rest his hand on his gun. "While you're all standing here, I'm looking for someone. Big olive jacket, New York Yankees cap worn low. They might know something about a group of murders that have happened recently. You know anything about that, sir?"
Beard stared at him for a moment, bemused, and there were mocking sounds now around them. He tried to rally.
"Courteous I can do. You want a coffee? Cops like coffee, right? You know how I make coffee?" He grinned nastily. "Ask me how."
Boston considered him for a long moment before sighing and saying, "How do--"
"I grind me some beans," Beard said, lunging at him and then jerking up short when Boston's gun appeared in his hand.
"Nice reflexes," Boston said. "Now, how about you back up a step there, big guy?"
"How about you all back off?" asked an old, white woman waspishly. Her hair was so light blonde as to be almost platinum; it added an oddly patrician air to what was otherwise a rather dated, cream and beige nice-old-lady outfit. Her eyes were sharp as diamonds and just as bright.
Boston wasn't surprised when everyone did as ordered.
"Now," she said, wandering out into the middle of them. "Perhaps one of you kind gentlemen would mind explaining to me just what is happening here?"
"Ain't nothing, Ms Stone," Beard said. "Just a bit of fun."
"I do like a bit of fun." She smiled kindly up at him. He took a step back. "I don't think this is my sort of fun, though. Is it?"
"N-no ma'am," Beard said.
"No, ma'am, it is not," she agreed. "And if it's not my sort of my fun, where should it be?"
Beard's mouth worked silently. After a moment, he tried, "Not in the Common?"
She patted his arm, ignoring the way he flinched. "That's a good boy."
A pointed look dispersed the already thinning crowd, before she looked him up and down. "Well, now; and what do we have here? Are you Irish?"
"Not so far as I know," Boston said.
"I had an Irish boy once. Oh, the stamina on him; we went twice around the ring of Kerry." She smiled fondly before turning away. "Now, you put the weapon away, less you're compensating for something, and come into my office."
"Uh." Boston did as directed. "Yes, ma'am."
He followed in her footsteps as the crowds parted, with nods and "How you do, Ms Stone"s and "Evening, Mayor"s and one old guy who'd chuckled lasciviously and said "Can't keep yourself away, huh, Eliza?"
"Just like a car-wreck, Stanley," she said, smiling sweetly as she swept past.
The sign on the door identified the structure as a ticket office, although for what, Boston wasn't sure. If there had been trains here once, there were no signs of tracks. If anything, it looked more like something you might find in an old, grand theatre, though he had no idea where in this place a stage might stand out from the drama of the rest. Inside was more like a noir-era lawyer's office, all dark woods and sumptuous green leather chairs. Stone sank into one, waving him into another, tutting at the TV on her dresser.
"Councillor Cole," she said. "The great moral dictator, loving with his fists."
The sound was off. Boston read 'the strength to see it through' off the man's lips.
"What is this place?"
"It's my office," she said, and then chuckled. "Oh, the look on your face, boy. I," she leaned forward, offering him her hand, "am Mayor Eliza Stone."
"Boston," he said, shaking it. Her skin was papery; her grip sure and steady. "Officer Boston Craig. I'm sorry, Mayor of what?"
"Of the Common," she said, sitting back. "Be a dear and pour me a whiskey. There are glasses in the cupboard above the decanter."
Boston rose automatically to do so. "What's the Common? I mean, obviously, it's the stuff outside -- a black market? I'm pretty sure they're not usually this literal."
"The shadow market," she corrected. "The market that lies behind markets. You were born in this city, weren't you?"
"Yes, ma'am," Boston said, handing her the whiskey.
"Thank you." She sipped it, smiled, nodded over. "Help yourself."
"Oh, uh, no, thank you, ma'am."
"Polite boy." Stone considered him over her glass. "Have you seen it yet?"
"Seen what?"
"The shadow city," she explained. "The city that lies behind the city. The city you reach when you've fallen through all the cracks there are. Yes, you've glimpsed it. I can see it in your eyes. You've seen the terror. Are you looking for the wonder?"
"Actually," Boston said, deciding to ignore this, "I'm looking for a man. A teenager, maybe. Bulky olive jacket, wears a Yankees cap."
"Is that right?" she asked.
"He may know something about a series of murders that--"
"We know all about this," Stone interrupted. "We care for the lost."
"Then you understand why--"
"In the Common, the only law is my law; crime is what I say it is. The Common is neutral land. It's the one place in the whole city where anyone who can come is welcome -- unless they break the law."
"Your law," Boston said.
She nodded.
Boston considered her. "The people, outside? The ones who have fallen through the cracks? They're the people that are potentially in danger because of this man."
"Are you sure of that?" she asked mildly.
"No, ma'am," he admitted. "I don't know anything; but that just makes it more imperative that I find this person and talk to them."
"Do you think this is new? The harassment, the killings? These things have always gone on, Boston. You may think they are new, but I can assure you that they are old crimes. Old as Cain."
"Then it's prime time they were stopped, Mayor."
She chuckled again. "I can see why he picked you."
"Why who -- you mean, Detective Nylar?" Boston asked. Stone nodded gravely. "Okay, seriously, does everybody know everybody around here?"
"Our world does border on the," she paused for a moment, searching for a word, before settling on, "incestuous. Vincent Nylar is a man who speaks for the dead when no-one else will or can. Who do you speak for, Boston?" Stone waved this off. "No, don't answer. Just something to think about."
The pendulum clock hanging on the wall tinged brightly; a moment later, somewhere nearby, a great, deep bell tolled five times.
"If you know something," Boston tried.
"I know so, so many things," she said tiredly. "I am not the one who can help you. As a wise old man once said, trust your instincts."
Boston frowned at her. "Are you quoting Star Wars?"
Stone toasted him with her glass. "I'm sure you can find your own way out."
She turned away, a clear dismissal even before she reached for the newspaper on the desk and snapped it open. Councillor Cole stared at him from the front page, out from under a headline warning "Finish the Mission". At any moment, the man himself would probably pop out of the woodwork again, to berate him for not closing the case; or possibly for trying to close the case, he honestly had no idea.
"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am."
Boston half thought she snorted as he closed the door behind him. He wasn't sure. He was too busy being distracted by the fact that the entire market had vanished, leaving him in a large, empty, shadow filled room. Only glitter and bits of ribbon, ropes left dangling from hooks and other trash on the floor gave any indication that there had ever been anything there. When he turned back to the office, he found all the blinds closed, the lights out, and the door solidly locked. There was no sound from inside at all.
"Right, then," Boston said. "Not creepy at all."
"I dunno," said Katrina, from where she was standing right next to him. He jerked away, yelping, actually fumbling for his gun before his mind caught up with his eyes. "Talking to yourself? Going for your weapon? Abandoning your boss and running off in the middle of scintillating conversations with a smart, witty, gorgeous woman? I gotta say, you are up there on my creep meter, Red."
"Yeah, because appearing out of nowhere is so normal," Boston groused.
"Is it my fault if you don't pay attention?" she asked, grinning unrepentantly. "Come on; my cab is just outside." She nodded her head at the doors behind her.
Boston stared. "Were those there all along?"
"No, I cut them into the concrete while you weren't looking," she said, rolling her eyes. "Now, come buy me a coffee and tell me what's what."
[ Full Headers | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 | 12 | E | Read on DW ]