Light Ice
A Real Bastard
- Joined
- Feb 12, 2003
- Posts
- 5,397
Christian Shea
The city was dirty and everything was yellow. That was his least favorite part of Los Angeles. Everything was some shade of yellow. The stones. The sand. The dust. The evening sky. Yellow. A putrid and lifeless shade of yellow that invaded his apartment and clashed horribly with the cool tones of blue and green that decorated its walls and his furnishings. Here, just outside of North Hollywood, everything was polluted by Los Angeles' distinctively urban feel and lacked any of its ocean-side charm. Even the air had absorbed the city's stink. It'd have been tolerable if he could have tasted the ocean on it, but he couldn't.
And to make matters worse his head ached and a car alarm kept going off on the street outside.
He wanted a woman and an Advil. The small bottle on the kitchen counter produced two tablets that sated one of his needs but did nothing for the latter. For that matter, in the entirety of his apartment, there was very little to accommodate him in that regard. The address book beneath the phone was devoid of prospects and there were no numbers on his fridge. His kitchen was a bleak space. The microwave and convection oven dominated the small stretch of counter to his left while the sink gobbled up any space to the right. His cabinets were cherry and added a much needed natural feel to the space but the floor was a cheap white and black checkered linoleum that did not match.
But he loved the cabinets and the kitchen was open, extending to a small dining area and then into a spacious living area. He could have cared less about all the apartments small charms and greatest assets. He'd signed the lease because it had cherry cabinets and he liked cherry. There had been better apartments that had cheaper cabinets.
The fridge was empty still. He'd not gone shopping.
He'd not unpacked, either. The boxes lay in stacks dominating the living room that he had not touched since setting them there. They made the living room feel cramped and confined and his couch, coffee table, and entertainment cabinet ate up what was left of the space. There was scarcely room to move to the leather sofa and sit down. He'd not found any motivation to unpack anything other than his essentials. The TV was hooked up along with his wireless router. His DVD player was not even though it was neatly set within the cabinet.
The boxes were brown and white cardboard and labelled in black permanent marker. The largest of them had Books! written on them while the smallest had things like Silverware and Desk Stuff on them. He moved past them to the couch and took a seat and looked to the small coffee table for the remote to the television.
And stopped.
The coffee table was a simple cherry that matched his kitchen cabinets, entertainment center, and his small dining room table. It had a quiet and quaint class and was cluttered with what little he had unpacked. There was an outdated Sports Illustrated with Adrian Peterson on the cover, the remote control to his television, the jet-black plastic rectangle of his laptop, and the Fabrique National .45 Caliber Service Pistol with two spare magazines of 125 grain .45 Caliber tungsten cored rounds.
It was what lay beneath the pistol, sticking out slightly from the grip, that had made him stop. The card had been slipped into the Sports Illustrated and had fallen out two days before, fluttering to the neutral colored carpet of the living area to stand naked there before he'd bent to pick it up.
The corner was now protruding from the grip of his pistol and he took hold of it, pulling it free. It was a snow-white plastic card that's top-side was interrupted only by bold black letters that said Psyren in neat, professional font. The back, however, had a small square of foil that he had scratched off to reveal the redemption code and a phone number.
The instructions were in fine print along the bottom that read:
To redeem your free offer call the toll free number and when prompted enter your redemption code.
It felt anything but harmless in his hand. Infact, he didn't like to touch it at all. It reminded him of the compulsion he'd had to call the number on its back and the cold voice at the other end of the line that had thanked him for registering with Psyren. It reminded him of the soft tremor that'd run through him when he'd put the card down, listening to the plastic tick softly off the coffee table.
But he held it now and there was no tremor. Only curiosity. It was a subtle tug within his mind, fashioned in the form of unanswered questions that invaded his mind and escaped the boundaries of his rationale. He should not have cared but he did. He cared very much why the card had been slipped into his Sports Illustrated when nobody else he had known had heard of Psyren before or ever seen a similar card in their magazines. He cared, very much, why sometimes when he walked past it he got a headache.
But mostly, right now, he wondered why he was so preoccupied with a card when so much had gone terribly wrong in the last two weeks.
The thought was enough to provoke him to drop it back to the coffee table where it landed with that familiar plastic tick tick tick sound as it settled.
Sarah had left him. That much he'd expected and could not have blamed her for it. Their relationship had been solid when they'd been together. They'd simply not been together often. Work, the Navy, had a tendency to take him frequently and without much notice for weeks or months on end. She had tolerated as much as he could have asked of her before leaving a note and leaving altogether.
He'd never read it. There'd been no need.
But he'd not expected the move, the raise, or to be granted leave. Something was looming on the horizon for him and the members of his team, as surely as Sarah was gone. And so he sat now staring at the small plastic card, his thoughts quickly turning from the substantial mysteries of his life to what should have been the inconsequential mysteries of the card with frightening swiftness.
Ever since he'd called the number, yielded to the impulse, it had begun to invade his mind with increasing ease. It'd hammered away inside his mind while he went through the motions of the move, unsettling him with the power it expressed over him. He stared at the small plastic card and found himself growing to hate the look of it, the unnatural uniformity of its color and the crisp, otherworldly look to it.
He hated that he felt compelled to pick it up and turn it over in his fingers again, smoothing a thumb along its rounded corner. It was light, lighter than it should be, he realized. That unsettled him more. He found himself looking at it, suddenly quite sure it was anything other than a simple card. Could he have been compromised somehow? Could he have been made by a mole and bugged? Was it possible that his CO had some sense of the danger and attempted to move him before it happened?
He felt his thoughts run on him, suspicion blooming as he sat there on the pristine cushions of his couch in the clutter of his new living area. The fears and anxiety of it all building, rolling over him like one of those ever-expanding snowballs in kid's cartoon. His mind raced on, and on, and on until finally the phone rang and he startled.
The pistol was a familiar weight in his hand as he lifted it from the table with one hand while the other pressed a magazine into place inside the grip. The other two magazines were dropped into his coat pocket along with the card as he glanced to the kitchen.
His head throbbed fiercely, violently. Pain lacing sharp through him as he failed to stand. All at once he felt compelled to get to his feet and go to it, unable to help himself.
This is crazy. He thought.
And he attempted to ignore the phone.
But the pain doubled, and his hands began to tremble. He was glad he'd not chambered the first round in the pistol's magazine because if he had he'd have shot a hole in his floor. His strong hands had tightened inexplicably into fists, trembling fiercely as his thoughts began to turn liquid against the powerful arcs of painful lightening that shot through his mind.
And he was rising. He couldn't help it. He had to get the phone. He was certain if he didn't something terrible would happen. His head would explode, maybe. Or the car outfront with its terribly sensitive alarm might blow up and kill one of his new neighbors and they'd know it was his fault. Maybe a IC-416 Sparrow Cruise Missile loaded with an MIRV payload would accidentally launch from Russian Siberia and obliterate all of the West Coast.
But he had to get-
Ithe phone. He was aware that he was crawling somehow, maybe the click of the pistol in his hand as it slapped against the linoleum floor.
And finally he managed to pick it up. Sure, absolutely sure, that the ring cut off the moment his hand touched the plastic receiver. Dread filled him, overwhelming dread, as the room began to spin around his slumped place in his kitchen.
By the time he put it to his ear his headache was hammering to frightening heights, and his dread had turned to blind panic. The plastic touched the side of his head and he was aware it was cool and that the sound coming through the phone reminded him vaguely of a trombone being played in the comic scale.
And then the room gave a sharp lurch out of focus and he was aware of nothing.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Doctor Todd Cridge
This was not his office. Infact, this wasn't Los Angeles. This looked like the end of the world. He was in a high-rise, the remains of one. The windows were all gone, blown out, and parts of the exterior wall were torn away. It was as though some powerful explosion had gone off on every floor, particularly this one, that had ripped a great jagged hole in the building's side and left its face marred by a twisted steel scar.
I've been teleported. He thought.
But that was crazy wasn't it? He looked around and saw that this may have once been an office, though the cubicles appeared to have fallen down around him. The place hadn't seen a human in years, perhaps decades. It was impossible to tell. The dust and grit had settled on everything and in some places there was thick grime sprouting small green shoots of some kind of plant. If this wasn't the end of the world it looked like it.
I have to get out of this building. It's not safe.
But where to leave? The doors were all closed, heavy steel fire doors that he recognized quickly. The exit sign was covered with grit of some kind but he didn't need it to know that door lead to the stairs. He had to hit it twice with his shoulder to open it.
Forty-five minutes later he was at the bottom in what was once a lobby and was now under six-inches of fetid water. Wading through it was enough to finally break his stomach and for the first time since the horrors of his arrival (teleportation?) he finally yielded to the urge and vomited into the stinking pool until his stomach was empty and he was dry-wretching.
His legs ached. He noticed it more after puking his guts out. He was frightfully out of shape and took the time to look at himself now. A short, balding man whose stomach had rounded dramatically and whose paunchy color was more regular than irregular now. Fifty had not been kind to him, neither had forty for that matter. This day was taking a toll of its own. A hard one.
He still had no idea where he was.
The street was dryer once he stepped from the filth, his shoes were full of it. He could feel his feet sloshing in them.
But he was not alone here.
The man stood in the street and had a very large pistol in his hand. He had dark hair and a squared jaw, pale eyes and was extremely well-built. He was maybe 6'2" tall, a trim 190 pounds. The kind of built that spoke of a hobby of boxing, football, or running. He was strikingly handsome, something that Todd was quick to notice. He felt his blood race a bit, a familiar reaction. He fought it down. It wasn't the time or the place.
"You're not from here." The man said to him. He had a deep and assertive voice.
Todd was falling in-love.
"My name is Todd and I'm a Doctor. I..." He began.
"Transported here. From a phone?" The man asked him.
"Yes. You too?"
The man nodded a mute answer and put the pistol in the waistband of his khakis. The sky was a swirling mass of clouds and the sky was grey. The sun's light struggled through the grim charcoal-like filter and nearly added to the gloom. He was a contrast to Todd in everyway.
"I'm Christian, or Chris. Did you get a card?" The man asked him, sounding troubled.
A card. Yes, he'd gotten a card. He'd not been able to let it be far from him since he'd found it on the floor of his office. It was his turn to nod mutely.
"Where do you think we are?"
"I don't know." Todd answered. "Or even when this is. It's not Los Angeles."
Todd felt himself laugh nervously.
"You're from LA?"
"Yeah, born and raised. I live in Anaheim."
"I'd just moved there yesterday." Christian answered him.
That was cold irony. Wherever they were, Todd could feel it was dangerous. A block away one of the buildings swayed and creaked in the wind, tottering precariously. In his mind he suddenly found himself convinced that more important than where was the when.
Christian got his attention.
"There's more. Look." He lifted a hand, pointing.
And that was when Todd saw them coming, three more people turning towards them on the street. A woman lead them. He looked to Christian and saw him notice her the way that he'd hoped he hadn't.
You knew he wasn't a homo.
And so, with Christian leading, the two groups went to meet.
------------------
OOC Note - This thread is a closed, private thread. The authors welcome comments and questions via private messages.
The city was dirty and everything was yellow. That was his least favorite part of Los Angeles. Everything was some shade of yellow. The stones. The sand. The dust. The evening sky. Yellow. A putrid and lifeless shade of yellow that invaded his apartment and clashed horribly with the cool tones of blue and green that decorated its walls and his furnishings. Here, just outside of North Hollywood, everything was polluted by Los Angeles' distinctively urban feel and lacked any of its ocean-side charm. Even the air had absorbed the city's stink. It'd have been tolerable if he could have tasted the ocean on it, but he couldn't.
And to make matters worse his head ached and a car alarm kept going off on the street outside.
He wanted a woman and an Advil. The small bottle on the kitchen counter produced two tablets that sated one of his needs but did nothing for the latter. For that matter, in the entirety of his apartment, there was very little to accommodate him in that regard. The address book beneath the phone was devoid of prospects and there were no numbers on his fridge. His kitchen was a bleak space. The microwave and convection oven dominated the small stretch of counter to his left while the sink gobbled up any space to the right. His cabinets were cherry and added a much needed natural feel to the space but the floor was a cheap white and black checkered linoleum that did not match.
But he loved the cabinets and the kitchen was open, extending to a small dining area and then into a spacious living area. He could have cared less about all the apartments small charms and greatest assets. He'd signed the lease because it had cherry cabinets and he liked cherry. There had been better apartments that had cheaper cabinets.
The fridge was empty still. He'd not gone shopping.
He'd not unpacked, either. The boxes lay in stacks dominating the living room that he had not touched since setting them there. They made the living room feel cramped and confined and his couch, coffee table, and entertainment cabinet ate up what was left of the space. There was scarcely room to move to the leather sofa and sit down. He'd not found any motivation to unpack anything other than his essentials. The TV was hooked up along with his wireless router. His DVD player was not even though it was neatly set within the cabinet.
The boxes were brown and white cardboard and labelled in black permanent marker. The largest of them had Books! written on them while the smallest had things like Silverware and Desk Stuff on them. He moved past them to the couch and took a seat and looked to the small coffee table for the remote to the television.
And stopped.
The coffee table was a simple cherry that matched his kitchen cabinets, entertainment center, and his small dining room table. It had a quiet and quaint class and was cluttered with what little he had unpacked. There was an outdated Sports Illustrated with Adrian Peterson on the cover, the remote control to his television, the jet-black plastic rectangle of his laptop, and the Fabrique National .45 Caliber Service Pistol with two spare magazines of 125 grain .45 Caliber tungsten cored rounds.
It was what lay beneath the pistol, sticking out slightly from the grip, that had made him stop. The card had been slipped into the Sports Illustrated and had fallen out two days before, fluttering to the neutral colored carpet of the living area to stand naked there before he'd bent to pick it up.
The corner was now protruding from the grip of his pistol and he took hold of it, pulling it free. It was a snow-white plastic card that's top-side was interrupted only by bold black letters that said Psyren in neat, professional font. The back, however, had a small square of foil that he had scratched off to reveal the redemption code and a phone number.
The instructions were in fine print along the bottom that read:
To redeem your free offer call the toll free number and when prompted enter your redemption code.
It felt anything but harmless in his hand. Infact, he didn't like to touch it at all. It reminded him of the compulsion he'd had to call the number on its back and the cold voice at the other end of the line that had thanked him for registering with Psyren. It reminded him of the soft tremor that'd run through him when he'd put the card down, listening to the plastic tick softly off the coffee table.
But he held it now and there was no tremor. Only curiosity. It was a subtle tug within his mind, fashioned in the form of unanswered questions that invaded his mind and escaped the boundaries of his rationale. He should not have cared but he did. He cared very much why the card had been slipped into his Sports Illustrated when nobody else he had known had heard of Psyren before or ever seen a similar card in their magazines. He cared, very much, why sometimes when he walked past it he got a headache.
But mostly, right now, he wondered why he was so preoccupied with a card when so much had gone terribly wrong in the last two weeks.
The thought was enough to provoke him to drop it back to the coffee table where it landed with that familiar plastic tick tick tick sound as it settled.
Sarah had left him. That much he'd expected and could not have blamed her for it. Their relationship had been solid when they'd been together. They'd simply not been together often. Work, the Navy, had a tendency to take him frequently and without much notice for weeks or months on end. She had tolerated as much as he could have asked of her before leaving a note and leaving altogether.
He'd never read it. There'd been no need.
But he'd not expected the move, the raise, or to be granted leave. Something was looming on the horizon for him and the members of his team, as surely as Sarah was gone. And so he sat now staring at the small plastic card, his thoughts quickly turning from the substantial mysteries of his life to what should have been the inconsequential mysteries of the card with frightening swiftness.
Ever since he'd called the number, yielded to the impulse, it had begun to invade his mind with increasing ease. It'd hammered away inside his mind while he went through the motions of the move, unsettling him with the power it expressed over him. He stared at the small plastic card and found himself growing to hate the look of it, the unnatural uniformity of its color and the crisp, otherworldly look to it.
He hated that he felt compelled to pick it up and turn it over in his fingers again, smoothing a thumb along its rounded corner. It was light, lighter than it should be, he realized. That unsettled him more. He found himself looking at it, suddenly quite sure it was anything other than a simple card. Could he have been compromised somehow? Could he have been made by a mole and bugged? Was it possible that his CO had some sense of the danger and attempted to move him before it happened?
He felt his thoughts run on him, suspicion blooming as he sat there on the pristine cushions of his couch in the clutter of his new living area. The fears and anxiety of it all building, rolling over him like one of those ever-expanding snowballs in kid's cartoon. His mind raced on, and on, and on until finally the phone rang and he startled.
The pistol was a familiar weight in his hand as he lifted it from the table with one hand while the other pressed a magazine into place inside the grip. The other two magazines were dropped into his coat pocket along with the card as he glanced to the kitchen.
His head throbbed fiercely, violently. Pain lacing sharp through him as he failed to stand. All at once he felt compelled to get to his feet and go to it, unable to help himself.
This is crazy. He thought.
And he attempted to ignore the phone.
But the pain doubled, and his hands began to tremble. He was glad he'd not chambered the first round in the pistol's magazine because if he had he'd have shot a hole in his floor. His strong hands had tightened inexplicably into fists, trembling fiercely as his thoughts began to turn liquid against the powerful arcs of painful lightening that shot through his mind.
And he was rising. He couldn't help it. He had to get the phone. He was certain if he didn't something terrible would happen. His head would explode, maybe. Or the car outfront with its terribly sensitive alarm might blow up and kill one of his new neighbors and they'd know it was his fault. Maybe a IC-416 Sparrow Cruise Missile loaded with an MIRV payload would accidentally launch from Russian Siberia and obliterate all of the West Coast.
But he had to get-
Ithe phone. He was aware that he was crawling somehow, maybe the click of the pistol in his hand as it slapped against the linoleum floor.
And finally he managed to pick it up. Sure, absolutely sure, that the ring cut off the moment his hand touched the plastic receiver. Dread filled him, overwhelming dread, as the room began to spin around his slumped place in his kitchen.
By the time he put it to his ear his headache was hammering to frightening heights, and his dread had turned to blind panic. The plastic touched the side of his head and he was aware it was cool and that the sound coming through the phone reminded him vaguely of a trombone being played in the comic scale.
And then the room gave a sharp lurch out of focus and he was aware of nothing.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Doctor Todd Cridge
This was not his office. Infact, this wasn't Los Angeles. This looked like the end of the world. He was in a high-rise, the remains of one. The windows were all gone, blown out, and parts of the exterior wall were torn away. It was as though some powerful explosion had gone off on every floor, particularly this one, that had ripped a great jagged hole in the building's side and left its face marred by a twisted steel scar.
I've been teleported. He thought.
But that was crazy wasn't it? He looked around and saw that this may have once been an office, though the cubicles appeared to have fallen down around him. The place hadn't seen a human in years, perhaps decades. It was impossible to tell. The dust and grit had settled on everything and in some places there was thick grime sprouting small green shoots of some kind of plant. If this wasn't the end of the world it looked like it.
I have to get out of this building. It's not safe.
But where to leave? The doors were all closed, heavy steel fire doors that he recognized quickly. The exit sign was covered with grit of some kind but he didn't need it to know that door lead to the stairs. He had to hit it twice with his shoulder to open it.
Forty-five minutes later he was at the bottom in what was once a lobby and was now under six-inches of fetid water. Wading through it was enough to finally break his stomach and for the first time since the horrors of his arrival (teleportation?) he finally yielded to the urge and vomited into the stinking pool until his stomach was empty and he was dry-wretching.
His legs ached. He noticed it more after puking his guts out. He was frightfully out of shape and took the time to look at himself now. A short, balding man whose stomach had rounded dramatically and whose paunchy color was more regular than irregular now. Fifty had not been kind to him, neither had forty for that matter. This day was taking a toll of its own. A hard one.
He still had no idea where he was.
The street was dryer once he stepped from the filth, his shoes were full of it. He could feel his feet sloshing in them.
But he was not alone here.
The man stood in the street and had a very large pistol in his hand. He had dark hair and a squared jaw, pale eyes and was extremely well-built. He was maybe 6'2" tall, a trim 190 pounds. The kind of built that spoke of a hobby of boxing, football, or running. He was strikingly handsome, something that Todd was quick to notice. He felt his blood race a bit, a familiar reaction. He fought it down. It wasn't the time or the place.
"You're not from here." The man said to him. He had a deep and assertive voice.
Todd was falling in-love.
"My name is Todd and I'm a Doctor. I..." He began.
"Transported here. From a phone?" The man asked him.
"Yes. You too?"
The man nodded a mute answer and put the pistol in the waistband of his khakis. The sky was a swirling mass of clouds and the sky was grey. The sun's light struggled through the grim charcoal-like filter and nearly added to the gloom. He was a contrast to Todd in everyway.
"I'm Christian, or Chris. Did you get a card?" The man asked him, sounding troubled.
A card. Yes, he'd gotten a card. He'd not been able to let it be far from him since he'd found it on the floor of his office. It was his turn to nod mutely.
"Where do you think we are?"
"I don't know." Todd answered. "Or even when this is. It's not Los Angeles."
Todd felt himself laugh nervously.
"You're from LA?"
"Yeah, born and raised. I live in Anaheim."
"I'd just moved there yesterday." Christian answered him.
That was cold irony. Wherever they were, Todd could feel it was dangerous. A block away one of the buildings swayed and creaked in the wind, tottering precariously. In his mind he suddenly found himself convinced that more important than where was the when.
Christian got his attention.
"There's more. Look." He lifted a hand, pointing.
And that was when Todd saw them coming, three more people turning towards them on the street. A woman lead them. He looked to Christian and saw him notice her the way that he'd hoped he hadn't.
You knew he wasn't a homo.
And so, with Christian leading, the two groups went to meet.
------------------
OOC Note - This thread is a closed, private thread. The authors welcome comments and questions via private messages.
