(Untitled)

[hasnobullets]

The cane that slides against the ice is not my own. It's heavier and bulkier, with a curved hook on one end to serve as a grip. I've paid attention to the warnings -- that the weather would turn cold. That some of the topography and architecture could transform with the coming of December. But as I walk through the snowy streets of a city I do not

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[sluttylyingliar]

"Dude, I don't fucking know!" Rachel snaps, whirling around in her stupid, heavy skirts and then feeling mildly bad when she realizes it's that blind dude.

"Sorry," she huffs. "I don't know. It kind of looks like London. But old. Everyone's dressed like they're in a Dickens novel."

[hasnobullets]

But don't sound like a Dickens' novel, apparently, if my present company is anything to go by. I don't recognize the voice, but despite her tone, it's comforting enough to not be ignored that I lower my cane and try to shake off the confusion of before. Did I inadvertently just witness someone vanish from the island or is there something more nefarious at work?

"Are there any familiar structures?"

[sluttylyingliar]

"Yeah," she says, a lot more kindly as she can't imagine being blind on top of all the rest of this bullshit.

"I'm Rachel. Okay, it's London, for sure. Uh, there are some like, regular people around who won't really talk to us and then everyone from the island. How about I show you the compound? The layout of everything is kind of the same."

[hasnobullets]

From my vantage point, it is most certainly not, but I don't intend to argue, because she's just said something far more interesting.

"Regular people?"

[phoinikothrix]

Francis halts, just barely avoiding a sharp jab to his abdomen from the other man's cane.

Perhaps it's petty, now, on a day when he's awoken to find his wardrobe transformed from the random detritus he's gleaned from the clothes box to something--while laughably outdated, to be true--more cohesive and altogether more stylish, but he can't help but feel a bit of triumph at the confusion evident on the blind lawyer's face. That suit you won won't help you now, will it?, Francis thinks, nearly gloating.

"I don't know," he says instead, matching the older man's indignant confusion. "It's not the island anymore, I can tell you that much."

[hasnobullets]

The voice is young. Unfamiliar. But that he mentions the island dispels any notions I might have carried that this is some wholly different place. The warnings I'd been given hadn't said anything about a change so elaborate, though it's my understanding that this place doesn't always play by any set rules. I am not a fan of chaos. My father implored me to make something of myself, but the very reason I became a lawyer was to make sense of the world around me. This island spits in the face of order.

"I gathered that," I say. "We're in a city, or something masquerading as one, but there must be some kind of signage?"

[phoinikothrix]

"I haven't been paying attention--the fact that I woke up looking like I belong in some sort of Dickens novel took a bit larger priority," Francis replies, exasperated both at the man's logic and the fact he hadn't thought of it first. "There's an intersection just up ahead--I'll see if there are any street signs."

Francis walks the short distance to the corner, looking around for some indication of place. "It appears we're on York Road, just near Waterloo," he calls out to the other man as he returns, "which makes this London, somehow."

[hasnobullets]

"London," I say, mostly to myself. The idea would be unbelievable if I'd lived any other life but my own, but even I don't have much experience with this kind of drastic change of environment. Not when it's undoubtedly real. (Or so I think, at least. The people who disappeared before I ran into my present company might be a clue that it isn't... Or it could just be a red herring.)

I walk forward to meet my company halfway, listening to the crunch-crunch-crunch of the snow to judge the distance, and trying to use the echoes to paint a better picture in my mind of the area.

"Well, I suppose Dickens would be on theme, then. I wonder if we'll run into Scrooge."

[velation]

If waking up in a nightgown was enough to make me nervous, I can't imagine the way this sudden change would feel to someone who can't see. Matt Murdock might be indeed quite capable of finding his way around in spite of his handicap, but a sudden change of terrain is bound to leave anyone nervous. That said, I see no reason to stop walking towards him- so long as I make my voice known, that should prove to be enough.

"Me," I reply, and although there's still a hint of a tease to my voice, it's not half as sharp as I'd normally give. And we've had enough conversations for him to see that. "Welcome to Victorian London, Matt. The island has completely outdone itself this time."

[hasnobullets]

"We're in London?" I ask, deadpan, lowering my cane. Faye's voice is welcome, an assurance that I am not, in fact, going crazy, but I still can't shake my frustration. There was someone else here, I know it, but I can't bring myself to spit out the question.

"That explains the clothes, at least."

[velation]

"Some approximation," I reply, watching his cane lower and releasing a small breath that I'd apparently been holding after all. Taking the chance to step through the snow, my steps careful to avoid ice that I'm sure is just waiting underneath, I stand by his side. Close enough for him to grab my arm, if he wants, shivering a little as flakes fall against my cheeks- it's possible I should have brought a scarf. "Woke up with a tiny little map by the bed, and it seems to match a part of London, if I'm to believe the geography buffs on the island. But it never looked quite like this when I visited." I glance over at the buildings, listening to the sound of passing taxis.

"Oh," I add. "And if the word steampunk means anything to you..."

[hasnobullets]

My ears perk up when I hear something drive by; Faye's clarification helps make sense of the sound. The hot rush of steam that escapes some kind of piston and the clinking of gears as cold metal grinds against cold metal. It doesn't stop, though, leaving me to wonder just who is doing the driving.

"It gives me an idea," I admit, which might be an over-exaggeration. Now seems like a fine time to embrace hyperbole, however. "Wait-- You were given a map?"