loficharm | rude awakening

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rude awakening

Martin wakes with a start and a quiet huff, not sure why. It's a little like waking up from a nightmare, only he doesn't remember what he'd been dreaming about at all — not even a sense of it. Instead, he's flooded by wakeful things: the feel of the sheets, crisp and wrong, like new, fresh sheets and not the ones with little stars on that he's had since he was practically a baby. The bed itself, much too big, the ceiling, the walls, the whole room, different, unfamiliar. Light coming in from the wrong window in the wrong place. And there's someone else here, with him, in the bed. A boy, his age, that he's never seen before.

All this happens very quickly, so quick that it isn't like he notices each of these little things independently, it's more like they flood him all at once, overwhelming and scary. The moment he realizes there's a boy beside him he sits bolt upright and flails back, kicking the sheets away with a little shriek.

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John remains silent, not trusting his voice and not wanting to burst into messy tears when that wouldn't help anything. He does manage a quick, grateful look towards Martin when he asks the questions John can't, though, about what's going to happen to them. Martin even asks a question that surprises him; John hadn't thought to wonder if the flat where they woke up was meant for them. He isn't sure he believes that, if only because he'd felt so certain that someone else was there, watching them. But it's still a good question.

If this was a story, there would be somewhere that they were supposed to go, or someone who was supposed to help them. And not just by bringing them to the nearest bloody orphanage.

He needs a moment to think, and he needs to feel less stupid, so he decides to get changed before he tries to say anything. He shoulders his way into the bathroom, which looks like one you might find at a school, with a row of stalls along one wall and sinks along the other, and trudges into the first open stall he sees. The pants he was wearing drop to the floor the moment he stops physically holding them up, and he pulls off the tent of a shirt with a quiet huff, then uses it to mop at his face for a moment.

He is not going to make a fuss. He has to be smart.

John lets the shirt drop, then starts to pull on the clothes he picked out. Martin is in the stall just next to his, and he glances down at the other boy's feet before quietly saying, "It doesn't make sense." He sniffs once, then adds, with a hint of indignation, "He didn't even answer your question. About the flat."

Martin frowns tightly when Mr. Keane doesn't answer his question about the flat, but he doesn't argue; just walks quietly with John to the toilets. John hasn't started crying, but he still seems unhappy, and Martin is, too. When he'd asked if they were going to be left here, this is what he meant. Whether or not Mr. Keane stays with them feels beside the point. Kind as he is, he can't babysit them forever.

He gets dressed quietly, relieved that the clothes he gathered do fit him reasonably well, and are a bit warmer besides; he's finally starting to feel less physically horrible, at least. And then John speaks, giving voice to the same thing that's bothering Martin, and he looks up at the stall wall between them.

"I know," he says, lowering his voice even though they're alone in here. "I don't understand." Still, though, he's not sure what it means, and he's hesitant to think Mr. Keane is intentionally leading them astray, both because he's taken care of them so far, and because he's currently all they have. "M-maybe he just doesn't know."

"He said he's been here for years," John points out as he pulls the new shirt over his head. "He should know something by now." He feels a little bad even as he says it, because Mr. Keane has been kind to them. But he doesn't think he's all wrong, either. If Mr. Keane is telling the truth about Darrow — that it just pulls people in, and that no one knows why, and that it's been happening for years and years — then John and Martin probably aren't the first children it's happened to. And the people who live here have probably come up with some way to deal with the people who just show up. Or maybe everyone who lives here got pulled in from somewhere else, but that just means they'd be extra prepared to deal with new arrivals, wouldn't they?

"Feels like there's something he's not telling us," John says after a moment. "Like he's worried it'll scare us even more, or something." Like they're not scared enough already. Just talking to Martin makes him feel a bit better, though. At least he knows Martin is coming from the same place he is.

"Yeah," Martin agrees readily, a little bolstered by their mutual determination to get to the bottom of this. He pulls on the jumper he'd picked up and tugs it down until he finally feels put together. He still needs shoes, and probably a coat, but socks are good enough for now. "And... and I don't want to stay here."

He knows they might not be able to do anything about that. But it feels good to say it aloud, so John knows it, so they can stand together if it comes down to it. He's not sure what they can do, or where they'd go instead, but... at least they can be a team.

He steps out from the stall and waits for John to join him so he can look him in the eye. "Suppose he'll tell us if we keep asking?" he says, and turns to wash his hands out of habit. He doesn't want to be obnoxious, but he does want answers.

"Me, neither," John says firmly. It's not that he wants to go back to that flat, but staying here feels wrong, too. They don't belong here. And if it was normal for children new to Darrow to end up here, Mr. Keane would've said so from the beginning, he thinks. Maybe. "If we were supposed to stay here," he ventures aloud, so Martin will hear, "you'd think Mr. Keane would've just told us, instead of—of pretending it's something he's making up as he goes."

Unless he thinks honesty would scare them. But that's not fair, either. If they've really been kidnapped by a whole city, they deserve to know what's going on.

John does up the zipper of the hoodie he'd chosen, then steps out of the stall. Martin's already waiting, and John moves to wash his hands as well as he mulls over Martin's question. "Maybe," he says, "if we ask the right way." They've both been scared, and they both still are, but he knows that you can get further, sometimes, by hiding it and not showing it. If all Mr. Keane wants to do is calm them down, of course he's going to say whatever nonsense he thinks might help.

John dries his hands, then turns to face Martin. "Look. We just have to act like we're not scared. Otherwise, he'll just try to make us feel better. Even if that means lying. Okay?" He's never really done something like this before — schemed with someone else his own age — and after an uncertain beat, he sets his jaw and holds out his hand, like they're two grown-ups making a deal.

"Okay," Martin answers after only a slight hesitation, doing his best impression of a firm nod as he takes John's hand for an equally firm shake. He's not sure how convincing he can be, especially with how obvious his fear has been up to this point. But it feels good to have a plan, and he feels better knowing he and John will be working together on it. It doesn't feel quite so much like he's being relied upon as trusted — treated like an equal, something he isn't used to. No one really talks to him like this, not even other kids his age. Maybe it's good John doesn't really know him. Maybe he can pretend, and it'll be good enough.

So concluded, they make their way back out to where Mr. Keane is still waiting. Martin clears his throat a bit timidly, more out of politeness than fear, and then he says humbly, "Thank you for the clothes, Mr. Keane," thinking perhaps they'll get better results if they show gratitude first.

John nods back, feeling a little encouraged in spite of everything. Martin and he are on the same page, if nothing else, and that's good. No matter what else happens, he's got someone on his side.

They leave the bathroom and find Mr. Keane waiting for them out in the hall. John pulls in a breath to speak, then blinks as Martin beats him to it. The thanks is probably a good idea, though, and John falters, brow furrowed. "Yes," he stiffly agrees, "thank you."

Then, refocusing on what he was meaning to say, he tips his chin up to frown at the man. "But there's something you're not telling us," he says with all the certainty he can muster, "and we don't think that's fair."

Marcus can't but smile just a little at the way John speaks to him, even though he still isn't sure if telling them the entire truth is the best option available. He's never been the best liar in the world, mostly because he's never cared to be anything but honest, even when it was brutal.

Darrow has changed him a little, but apparently not enough.

"No," he says, exhaling. "I suppose you're right, it isn't fair. If you're both absolutely sure you want to hear everything, I think we should find a quiet place where we can sit and talk. This is what you want?"

Martin glances at John, a little surprised that their plan worked — and a little nervous, too. Having confirmation that there is something they aren't being told isn't very comforting, in the end. But it's like John said: he has to act like he isn't scared. And it will be better, he thinks, to know than to be stuck wondering.

"Yes," he says with another tiny nod, trying his hardest to sound sure of himself. "It is." Although he's quite certain that without John beside him, he'd lose his nerve entirely.

... It actually worked. John exchanges a wide-eyed glance with Martin, barely able to believe it was that simple. But the surprise is followed by a little simmer of excitement: there is more to it, and Mr. Keane is going to tell them. Even if it's scary, that feels better than just stumbling along, doing whatever they're told because they don't know any better.

"Yes." His nod is more eager than Martin's. "Is there a place here where we can do that?" He figures there should be, and he's curious enough now that as long as Mr. Keane doesn't try to lead them to his car or something, he'd follow him anywhere.

"On the second floor," Marcus answers with a nod. "There are no boys or girls here of your age right now, so the dormitories are free. The littler ones stay down here on the main floor and the teenagers are on the top floor, so it's quiet on the second floor."

He heads for the stairs, then looks back at the boys. "Come on."

They're not going to like this. Hell, Marcus isn't even sure if they'll believe him, but at least he'll have told them the entire truth. They're not foolish, most children aren't, and even if they're technically not children in the same sense, they had seen there was something more. Something he was unwilling to give up.

Maybe this will make it all easier. Or maybe they'll think he's gone mad.

Martin feels a twinned sense of relief and trepidation when Mr. Keane leads them to a quiet space. He thinks he'll prefer that to all the bustle of the ground floor — of the whole day so far, really — but it also lends this whole thing a great deal of seriousness he isn't sure he likes. John seems eager, at least, and Martin follows his lead, but he fidgets and trails behind a few steps, feeling again like he wishes he could just go home where everything makes sense. Fearing that whatever Mr. Keane has to tell them, it won't be good. He certainly seems to be treating it like something very grown-up.

The second floor is a bit haunting in how quiet it is. How lonely it would be to live here, the only two children their age. He hopes it doesn't come to that. That whatever Mr. Keane has to tell them it'll offer some direction in that — or, failing that, that he and John will be able to come up with some alternative plan.

John glances at Martin again, then follows Mr. Keane up the stairs. It's both a relief and a little unnerving to get away from the bustle of the first floor, and he eyes the second with some suspicion. This is where they'd be staying, if they stayed here. A floor all to themselves would probably be better than being chucked in with a bunch of other children he's never met in his life, but he still bristles at the thought of being treated like an orphan.

Marcus leads them to what looks like a small reading area with a small couch and a chair, and John clambers onto the couch. Once Martin's settled next to him and Marcus has sat down, John prompts, "So...?"

Marcus settles down into the chair and leans his elbows on his knees and he tries to work out how best to say this. They're not going to believe him, he's already sure of that, but he'd told them he would explain the entire truth and now he has to.

Besides, he thinks he'll feel a little better having said it all.

"So," he says, then exhales. "Everything I've told you thus far is true, but there's one more thing. You both have already been in Darrow for some time already, you just don't remember it." He pauses, watching them, then continues. "Usually, you're both grown men. John, you and I are friends. You and Martin live together. You're adults."

Martin feels a brief, new surge of fear when Mr. Keane says you just don't remember it. It's like a pit opening up to swallow him whole. That's why he can't seem to remember what day it was before he slept, or the last conversation he had with his mum. He's got amnesia.

And then Mr. Keane says the next bit and Martin goes very still, blinking up at him, his thoughts tripping over themselves as he tries to make sense of it, or figure out if there's any reason he would make something up like that, or... or he doesn't know what.

You're adults.

It's impossible, right? This whole day has been impossible, but this feels... even weirder, somehow. Mr. Keane's been so kind to them and he seems honest, and he acted like this was some big secret, and it doesn't feel like lying, but...

"W-what?" he blurts eventually, unable to come up with anything better.

John scoffs, at first, pulling in a breath to say something like 'rubbish.' He was expecting something scary, but he wasn't expecting nonsense about having already lived here for a while, or normally being an adult. It's impossible.

But then he pauses, realizing with a prickle of unease that he can't really remember yesterday; not with any clarity. Maybe being drugged would make that hard, but it's not just that he can't remember what pajamas he wore before going to bed last night. He isn't even entirely sure what day of the week it's meant to be, or what month, even.

And he isn't sure he knows what impossible is, anymore. Not since that book.

"Prove it," he ends up saying, instead.

Prove it, John says and Marcus exhales, trying to work out how he might do that. It's not as if he and John have taken a load of selfies together and they're just sitting on his phone waiting to be shown. He could call Kat, he supposes, and she would corroborate his story, but there's no reason for them to believe Kat either.

He knows damn well he can't tell them about their futures. They're children, even if they're really not. Not with what he knows about John, with what he's done, the stories he's given.

In the end, he does the only thing he can think of. He takes out his phone, unlocks it and passes it over. "Go to my contacts," he says. "You'll see yourself in there, John. There's a picture in your contact. Martin, I'm sorry, I don't have your contact, you're not in there."

Martin looks at John, equal parts relieved and nervous over his skeptical, confrontational response. He feels a bit like he's floundering in the water, like if he were on his own he'd have no choice but to accept whatever answers Mr. Keane gave him, too overwhelmed and confused to argue. But John still has the presence of mind to ask practical questions, to demand proof.

Of course, that allows for Mr. Keane to offer proof, and Martin's not so sure he wants that. And he does have something to offer, though it's not really what Martin expects.

He doesn't understand what any of this means. Contacts, he says as he hands John the strange slim object pulled from his pocket. Martin leans over to stare at the thing, as Mr. Keane claims John will be able to find a picture of himself in this... what is it?

The whole face of the thing is a screen, he realizes, only he's sure Mr. Keane had just been touching it, like he'd turned it on somehow. He looks uncertainly at Mr. Keane, then at John, wondering if this is something he's seen before. He does seem very smart, but this... this feels like something out of Star Trek. It's enough that he doesn't even have time to get well and proper bogged down wondering why, if he and John supposedly... live together... Mr. Keane is friends with John but not with him.

"W-what is it?" he asks, continuing to stare at it, mystified.

John isn't really sure what he's expecting. If he thought about it, he'd realize how hard it is to prove something like that, especially without much warning. Maybe Mr. Keane could tell him something about himself that only he would know. But if he really was friends with him as an adult, would they have talked about when they were kids? Is that normal? The only thing he can think of that he wouldn't tell anyone but a friend is the book, but that doesn't mean they would've talked about it for sure.

He definitely isn't expecting Mr. Keane to pull a small, slim device out of his pocket and offer it to him. John takes it without thinking, his eyes widening at the not heavy, but still substantial weight of it resting against his palm. Almost the whole front of it glows, except for a frame around the edge, and he quickly realizes that he's looking at a screen that isn't so different from the one on his television. But the picture is bright and crisp — when he stands too close to his telly, he can see the little colored squares that make up the larger picture, and this isn't like that at all. It's also different because it's covered in fingerprints; he wasn't supposed to touch the television screen, but it's clear that this one gets prodded at all the time. Much like Mr. Keane just did, he supposes.

John knows that he and his grandmother don't have the newest things. But he doesn't think anybody in Bournemouth has something like this. It looks like the sort of thing you'd see in science fiction, not real life.

He gives the screen an uncertain poke, and nearly drops the device when the screen changes, a new image filling the frame. It's a weather report, he realizes. "Bloody hell," he whispers, forgetting himself completely.

"Shit," Marcus says, then laughs. He hadn't even considered that they wouldn't know what his phone was and he shakes his head at himself, then stands and goes around to stand beside John so he can help him navigate.

"I'm sorry, boys, I didn't even think... well, you've likely got phones of your own back at the flat where you woke up," he says, then swipes his finger up from the bottom of the screen, clearing the weather app. Although, now that he's thinking about it, that might help his case at least a little. He taps it again and the weather app returns, right near the top the little yellow words say Today in Darrow...

"We really are here," he tells them, pointing to the heading and letting them read it before he closes the app again, then pokes the app for his contacts. "Use your finger to scroll down," he says to John.

Martin gasps softly when John pokes the little screen and everything changes, a picture so bright and clear it almost hurts his eyes. He nearly gasps again when John curses, blinking at him with wide, scandalized eyes, and then when Mr. Keane curses even worse, he covers his mouth to stifle himself, going a bit pink.

He knows it's probably silly to worry about bad words at a time like this, especially when it clearly doesn't matter to Mr. Keane. Fortunately, he carries on trying to explain the strange device which is distraction enough from the rest of it.

"That's a phone?!" he exclaims in a hushed yelp, staring at the thing in shocked disbelief. That only makes it more unbelievable, he thinks. It's not even connected to anything.

Maybe that doesn't matter. He stops himself from asking more questions when Mr. Keane directs John to his 'contacts,' and Martin realizes it must be like a directory, all... in the phone itself? This is incredible, but he only feels growing trepidation as he watches John 'scroll' for his own name.

"We looked—" John starts to object, but then he cuts himself off. They certainly hadn't looked for anything like what he's holding now. He wouldn't even have thought to look for something like this. Still, with the faintest hint of a sulk — because they weren't stupid enough to not look for a phone at all — he continues, "We only found the jack. There wasn't a proper phone."

It feels like a stupid thing to say when he's holding a device that might as well be magic for how different it is to anything he's seen before. If this is what Mr. Keane thinks of as a phone, John's 'proper' one would probably seem like an outdated hunk of rubbish to him. But it's not their fault they've wound up in a world where phones are all... fancy.

He isn't quite sure what Mr. Keane means when he says to use his finger to scroll, but he doesn't want to admit to any more confusion. He looks at the screen with a small, focused frown for a moment. Touching things once seems to make them go, and he doesn't want that for any of the unfamiliar names shining up at him, so he tries more of a stroking motion, like the one Mr. Keane had used to make the weather go away, but slower. The list sort of bounces — he'd swiped the wrong way — and he switches direction, eyes widening a little as the list slowly scrolls by beneath his hand.

And there, eventually, is his own name: John Sims.

John doesn't prod it on purpose; it's more that his finger twitches in surprise. But it's enough; there's a blink as the screen highlights his name, and then a new page appears, this one, apparently, just for him. He's distantly aware that his name is there, with an unfamiliar phone number listed beneath it. But above both of those things is a small, square frame containing a photo, and John's gaze lands there and sticks.

Is that supposed to be him?

The photo is so small that even with the image as crisp as it is, he can't make out as many details as he'd like. But what he can see makes his stomach lurch. The man in the photo is much older — old enough to be friends with Mr. Keane, he supposes — with a thin face and greying hair. He has features that remind him, unnervingly, of the photos of his parents his Grandmother has: a nose like his father's, eyes like his mother's. Similar enough that the reflexive 'that can't be me' dies in his throat.

But the worst of it are the weird marks. They're all over the man's face and neck, and he squints at them for a few long, bewildered seconds before recoiling, his frown deepening. "What... are those?" he finally asks, tearing his gaze away to look up at Mr. Keane.

"Scars," Marcus answers gently. When it comes to other people in Darrow, he tries not to pry. If they have stories to tell -- though there's really no if, everyone does -- Marcus lets them tell whatever parts they would like in their own time. He may not know all the details of John's scars, but he knows enough to understand it wasn't a pleasant experience and it wasn't of the natural world, whatever caused it.

"I think you've both seen a lot of... well, very scary things in your life," he says softly. "Even before you woke up as young boys. But I also believe you saw much of it together. You helped one another, just like you're doing now."

He knows this is all frightening, probably more than they can truly understand, but he wants to remind them they aren't alone. No matter how scary it may be right now, even if they don't trust him, they have each other

There's too much to keep up with, at first. Martin's still not ready to accept this object as a phone, and he certainly can't get his head around the idea that he is supposed to have one of his own. He watches John 'scroll' through the list of names, biting back a million questions and exclamations, trying not to lean too far into the other boy's space. And then, there it is: John's name, and with the merest touch, the screen changes again, revealing more. A little picture.

John stares at it for quite some time, and Martin does too, though he's not altogether certain what to make of it. He can't tell one way or the other what John might look like when he gets old, and the picture is too small to really know. All Martin can tell is that the colouring seems right. But the man in the picture looks old and, well, sort of terrible, and Martin doesn't think it would be very nice to see a picture of yourself grown up and looking like that. For a long time John just keeps staring at it, and Martin waits, warily, for his response.

Finally he asks about the weird markings all over the man-in-the-picture's face, and Mr. Keane tells him quite plainly that they're scars. Scars? Martin struggles not to make a face. From what? But none of what Mr. Keane says answers that, and none of it is particularly comforting; it's terrifying, really, just creates more questions, and Martin feels all the more like he's standing over a deep, dark pit with no bottom. What sorts of scary things? he wants and doesn't want to ask. How did we help one another?

Are we friends?

Maybe that's a stupid question, compared to all the others he could ask. Mr. Keane said they live together. If that's true — if all of what he's said is true — then... then maybe that flat was their flat, that bed their bed. Their clothes. Their cat. Their door and their locks on it, too many locks.

Martin tries, briefly, like reaching toward a hot stove, to imagine it: that he and John are actually adults, John that man in the picture, and Martin... something. That they live together, and they sleep in the same bed (a detail that bothers him, but his thoughts keep darting fearfully away from it, like it's a secret he shouldn't know). And... and they help each other with scary things. And if John is all covered in those weird little scars, and they've been through the same things, then... then is he...?

Inwardly, Martin recoils sharply from all that, though he remains still and quiet on the outside. Retreating back out of himself, he instead becomes aware of John beside him, still silent, still staring at the photo. Martin watches him a moment, then decides firmly to put all that stuff from his mind. He's being selfish, and John's obviously upset, looking at this little picture and being told that's going to be him, and suddenly Martin wants very badly to insist that it can't be, the whole idea is preposterous, and there's no real reason to think any of it is true. But he's a bit scared to say it, both because he doesn't want to offend Mr. Keane and because he's afraid of being proven wrong.

But John did ask for proof. And maybe there's more that Mr. Keane can give them, something better than a strange, scary photo. Something easier to think about and question. Or, maybe Mr. Keane's story will come apart, and they'll find it all a lie. Martin isn't sure which would be more awful. But if it's true, and they do help each other, then... well, even if it isn't, John needs his help now.

Martin sits up straighter and looks at Mr. Keane, trying to look braver and more sure of himself than he feels.

"If all that's true," he says, his tone starting out a bit haughty and then softening almost immediately to something embarrassed and more tentative, "then... then there must be other people that know us. What do we do here? Do we... do we have jobs?"

Scars, Mr. Keane says, and John's stomach twists. It's not surprise, exactly, because he doesn't know what else they could be. But he can't imagine what would make scars like that, and he isn't sure he wants to. He doesn't want to know his life is going to leave him looking so terrible.

Mr. Keane adds the bit about Martin as if it's supposed to help, but it doesn't. John barely knows Martin, but that's only part of why he shrinks from the idea. The other reason is because Martin seems nice — nicer than John, for certain — and John has already seen scary things without him. He remembers the prickle he'd felt on the back of his neck back in that flat (their flat?), how sure he was that someone else was there, watching them, but he can't remember if Martin felt it, too, or if he was just frightened and following John's lead.

And if Martin hadn't felt it... maybe the feeling was only for him. Maybe something has noticed him, but not Martin — not yet. Maybe it would be smarter for Martin to not be friends with him, to not get noticed, to not have to help with whatever ends up leaving all those scars.

John twitches in surprise when Martin speaks, louder and more insistent than he has so far. Distantly, he thinks it's a good question, a smart one. There must be others who know them, if Mr. Keane isn't lying; they must be earning money somehow. He can't fully grasp onto his earlier curiosity, though, not when all the answers are so awful.

The little screen dims, then blackens, showing John only his own print-smudged reflection. He feels a brief surge of worry that he's somehow broken the device, but he doesn't see how he could've done, and when no scolding follows, he just passes it wordlessly back to Mr. Keane.

rude awakening

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