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 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.

Marcus takes his phone and pushes it back into his pocket, then nods in response to Martin's question. "You have other friends, certainly," he says, although he doesn't know all of them, some only by name. He hadn't really known Martin at all really, not until this morning. Even now, he doesn't think he knows him. He's just a boy, not at all the man Kat and the others know.

"A young woman from my home, actually, Katherine Rance, is very good friends with you," he says. "And she works with you at a place called The Archive. There are some other people who work there as well, a woman named Daisy, I believe, though she and I have never met."

He's seen another man in the area as well, but has never introduced himself and doesn't know his name. They're all certain to know Martin and John, however.

"If you like, I can call Kat," he offers. "She can come here."

Martin takes that in with a small frown, not really knowing what to make of it, most of his attention still on John. John hasn't said anything, which makes Martin worry, but he knows better than to pry or push. He barely knows John, no matter what Mr. Keane's told them, and much as he might like to offer some sort of comfort, he has no idea how to go about it. More than likely he'll just be annoying on top of everything else John's going through.

But this means it's still his job to answer Mr. Keane, and he's not sure how. They need to meet other people who might be able to explain things or help them figure out what to do, but he isn't sure he has a preference on how it happens. Part of him is curious to see this place where they supposedly work, though he's not sure what he'll find, or if they'll even be allowed like this. He has no idea what sort of business it's meant to be, even; he only knows 'The Archive' has got to be the boringest name for anything ever.

"I... I suppose," he says hesitantly, and then, unable to help himself even as he feels guilty for it, he gives John the gentlest nudge he can manage. "What do you think?"

John doesn't recognize the names Mr. Keane provides, but he doesn't expect to. He doesn't recognize 'The Archive,' either, though something about the name draws him out of his own anxious thoughts. He knows what an archive is, a little — like a library, but not open to everyone, and for more than just books — but calling it The Archive makes it sound like the only one in the city. It sounds... important.

Martin gives him a light nudge, and John sits up straighter, as much startled by the contact as jostled back into the moment. The little rush of adrenaline helps, though, and he looks up at Mr. Keane with a small frown. "Call her, please," he agrees. "I want to talk to her."

It's only a small part of him that still wonders if Mr. Keane is making it all up, but even if he was, it'd be hard to rope in someone else without talking to them about it beforehand. If Katherine Rance is really friends with them, maybe she'll be able to prove it more easily.

"I can put us on speaker phone," Marcus says with a nod, withdrawing the phone from his pocket again and swiping up so it opens for him after recognizing his face. He goes to his favourite contacts and presses the screen to call Kat, then hides that number pad so he can set the phone to speaker.

He has no idea what the hell he's going to say to her short of your boss and his boyfriend are children, but he doesn't think that's going to go over well with John or Martin. He's specifically left out the bit about them being boyfriends so far, not wanting to add to their stress, although they're not stupid children, he thinks they'll understand it eventually. Especially if they think on their flat for very long, which Marcus assumes has only the one bed for the two of them.

In his hand, the phone starts to ring, the sound filling the little room they're in.

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