London calling

[the_subjunctive]

It was all there open before him. Possibility. Change. The future. Oxford. Everything hung in the balance while he sat around waiting for the post. Dakin scuffed his foot absently at the floor, a bit upset when it didn't leave a mark. He wasn't planning on being at Cutler's for much longer, but it would still be nice to know that he had made

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[turnedtoproust]

God forgive him, but he's been needing something to go to church for and ever since the snow (and London, hot on its heels) blanketed the immediate surroundings, Scripps has been off-balance and in need of something to settle the nerves. His clothes are gone, replaced by the fripperies and to-dos of a bygone era and now, here he stands, snowball in hand and eyeing what must surely be Dakin or a reasonable facsimile.

It is, then, in his need of sin and his boredom and his nerves jangling, that he allows the snowball to fly swift and sure until it lands upon its target -- dead-centre and aiming for the back of the would-be-Dakin's neck.

[the_subjunctive]

Already confused and caught off balance as he was, a snowball to the back of the neck did not help the situation in the slightest. Dakin gave a shocked gasp as the missile hit, one hand reaching round to dig snow out of his collar while the other quickly went to grab some snow to form a weapon of his own. It was more out of instinct than anything else, the memories of a hundred snowy childhood battlefronts rising to the surface, though upon turning he never actually threw anything back at his attacker. Instead he simply stared at Scripps, or -more accurately- he stared at Scripps's clothing. It was far, far easier to focus on that then on any of the other strange things around him.

"What are you wearing?"

[turnedtoproust]

Scripps nearly bursts out into laughter as he approaches and kindly takes the snowball from Dakin's hand in order to possess it himself. "Oh, now, don't give me that look, it's all I've been left with. You've missed it. This place went from tropical paradise to frosty Victorian London overnight and took all my things with it," he says, searching over Dakin's face. "It really is you, then?"

[the_subjunctive]

"Of course it's me," Dakin said, giving Scripps a look that clearly implied what he thought of his friend's mental state. Nevermind the fact that if the whole thing was, as he was beginning to suspect, a hallucination then he himself should have been the one getting his head examined. "What are you on about?"

[patriotqueen]

Winter, Guy thought disdainfully as he put on another pair of socks over the ones he was already wearing. Winter on a tropical island - there were supposed to be perks, he thought as he tied the scarf around his neck and put on his thick navy coat. There were no perks; there was only Siberia. He put on his hat, lit a warming cigarette and - ready to face the cold - ventured outside.

The boy didn't appear in front of him, as such, but wearing those clothes and that expression on his face, it was clear enough that he had just arrived.

"Not hell as such, no, but close," he said with a smile.

[the_subjunctive]

"Well, it's not Sheffield either, so that must be a plus," Dakin said, immediately going for a quick remark to cover some of his confusion. That at least was easier to disguise than the fact that he was fast discovering that the Cutler's Grammar School uniform was not near warm enough for the climate in his new surroundings.

"So, what is this not quite hell, then?" Dakin buried his hands in his trouser pockets, going for nonchalant, but also trying to keep them warm. "Other than a very convincing hallucination, of course."

[patriotqueen]

"This - contrary to what the Siberian cold might lead you to believe - is a tropical island. It does this every December. Yesterday the weather was pleasantly scorching; come midnight bloody place decides to freeze off our collective balls and related appendages,” Guy said, pleasantly enough.

“Either way, you’re not hallucinating. This is very real - whatever ‘real’ truly means. Some people feel very philosophical about this place, but I tend to summarize this island’s tantrums as deliberate buggery. New year is nice though; free drinks,” he added thoughtfully.

“I’ll give you the lecture,” he said, and began in a sing-song voice. “Some new arrivals like to be informed that this is a wonderful community of about two-hundred people, who all arrived as you have and who make due to create a pleasing and comfortable society. Breakfast, lunch and dinner are served in the building behind me, where you will also find clothes and assorted entertainments. Pub’s down that way. School’s down that way. Questions?”

[the_subjunctive]

Dakin had listened to the man's speech without comment, one eyebrow raised in an expression of bemused disbelief. It was all a bit much to take in, especially when issuing cheerfully from the mouth of a man who looked like he might be a seedy stock character from a thirties film set in the Victorian period.

"All right then, I've got a question. If this is a tropical island why does it look like a BBC Dickens adaptation?"

[makemaps]

Okay, so, it's not like I never curse - I totally fucking curse - but everything's weird already with the snow and I'm sort of shuffling with my hands in my pockets and the weird boots on and, when he says it, it stands out. I left my head and study him for a moment.

"Yeah?"

[the_subjunctive]

Dakin looked at the oddly attired boy. Stared at him really, too shocked to even begin to process how cold it was. He didn't look like any of the boys at Cutler's, he wasn't dressed like any of the boys at Cutler's, yet there he was in decidedly old-fashioned clothing, responding to his swearing with a decidedly modern 'yeah'.

"What happened to the school?"

[makemaps]

I don't think he's that much older than me. Maybe. It's kind of difficult to tell. I'm wrapped in a coat that feels like it's three times too big for me. I cock my head and watch him for a moment.

"Went the same way as the Brooklyn Bridge, probably."

[the_subjunctive]

Dakin stood silently for a moment or so, clearly thinking things over. After a while he dug a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. There was a sort of illicit thrill to it, being able to light up in his uniform like that, book bag still slung over his shoulder. Even though he clearly wasn't in school anymore he couldn't help half expecting Felix to come swooping down out of nowhere to put a stop to it.

"So where am I, then?" He offered the pack to the other boy as he spoke, looking his surrounding over more closely.