Baby, baby, baby!
The number you have dialled has not been recognised, please hang-up and dial again. The number you have dialled has not been
..
The syringe did a casual half-somersault as it made its way from hand to floor as the world ceased its relentless journey towards reality.
Silently he chided himself, how could a 40 year old man be behaving and feeling like a ten year old? But then today was the day he got his son back, if only for a few weeks and it was difficult for his feelings to decide who should be the father and who should be the son. Either way it didnt really matter he reminded himself as he bumped his way through the crowd at Paragon airport, just a few minutes longer and yet another years worth of feeling completely lost would be over.
Oooooooooooooh no, why, why, why? she slurred.
Its always this way, she should have remembered the old motto, never trust a drug dealer offering cheap drugs.
I must have been really desperate to take this [censored]; she thought; and I even had enough to pay for some good stuff, but no the Hellion didnt have any good stuff, only this amazing buzzing stuff going cheap.
dial again. The number you have dialled has not
ADAM!!!! he shouted.
The young boy looked to his father, who was currently jostling for position in the crowd on the other side of the security barrier, a relived grin spread over the boys face ignited by the excitement which was plain to see in his fathers face.
The hug lasted a long time, all gentle strength and loving suffocation, both father and son were moved to tears just like any other daily reunion at one of the worlds busiest airports.
And heres your daughter sir, safe and sound. announced a flight attendant who presence would not have otherwise been registered.
Sorry miss but I dont have a daughter, you have the wrong father. He shot back.
There was a moments silence, as a young four year old girl clung even tighter to the attendant before Adam offhandedly drop the bombshell; Daddy this is Rachel shes my sister.
.. recognised, please hang up and dial again. The number
Over the years the message and the hopelessness that it conveyed had stayed the same, only the voice, the wording and the tone in which it was delivered had altered.
True enough there had been times when the wasnt even a message, but then during the Rikti Invasion of 02 there hadnt been any power with which to recharge the phone anyways so the point was mute.
Now the voice was feminine, clam and relaxing even if the mantra it called out was anything but.
A memory forced its way into her mind, as it always did, as it always will, wanted or unwanted it cared not. A small girl of eight picking her time to sneak into her fathers study, climbing up onto his leather office chair and copy down the number from a supposedly well hidden dairy.
Adam failed to sit on the chair in the hallway in the way only 10 year olds can. In other words being physically in touch with the chair but without actually committing to the act of sitting, a sort of constant dance of energetic shuffling and pure stubbornness.
Rachel, clung to a rag doll and sat sullenly on the chair next to him, head slightly bowed taking no interest in anything outside of herself, like some still from an art house black and white movie.
Inside the office he discussed her.
So what your saying is? he asked.
We have tried everything to locate your ex-wife and Rachels biological father. The authorities in the UK have been very committed and have exhausted every avenue to reunite Rachel with any of her biological family. They even engaged the services of a mask, but to no avail. No trace of your ex-wife or her partner can be found since they dropped off your son and Rachel at check-in. explained an official.
Exasperation, maybe even with a hint of desperation he asked So?
Look Mr Johnson, can I call you David? No okay, well Mr Johnson lets be honest what would be best in the interest of Rachel? To be separated from her brother, sent back to the UK and placed in a orphanage until, or more likely if a couple decide to adopt her or
.; he left the rest hanging in space.
Shes not my daughter, shes not even an American citizen.
Its only paperwork Mr Johnson. Paperwork which in this case the state department would look very favourably on.
One last desperate shot in the dark before the inevitable; And theres still no answer from her mobile?
Three things assaulted her senses, in which order they attacked she neither knew or cared, they all hurt and they all awoke her from her chemical death. There was the light, sunlight probably, there was the smell, the rank smell of days old vomit and finally the beginning of silence.
has not be said the mobile as it ended its life.
Stupidly she pulled back the cover, stupidly because the pain from the light only intensified. On some distant planet which was her consciousness she realised that the cover was in fact the rag of cloth that had been used to block the broken window in the basement into which she had crawled.
Well what a waste of money that turned out to be, she thought to herself, no fun, no buzz, not even the occasional flicking image of another world dancing around her head. Just days, actually was it days or was it a day or even an hour or two, could even have been a few minutes ago she took the stuff.
No, no it had been dark when she crawled into the basement to jack up she remembered.
Right then four armoured metal beasts in human form came through the basement wall. Alarmingly there was no sound, there should have been there looked to be enough happening for to be some. She was either deaf or.
Ah good maybe now its starting she mumbled.
Just as fast as they came, they disappeared into a blur of Santa.
Erm? she doubted her hallucination which wasnt exactly an unfamiliar occurrence, yes that was, is Santa.
A moments peace, as if the world had decided to stop turning for a second to allow the rest of us to catch up before the giant Santa in front of her said; Are you alright mademoiselle?
This struck her as unpleasant, for some unknown and unconscious reason a French Santa disturbed her. Santa not French.
Qui.
Speak English Santa.
Erm, qui I am speaking anglais am I not mademoiselle?
The hallucination stabilized itself a little bit more, Santa seems to be missing something, namely elves, reindeer, his furry hat and more to the point his hohoho. Santa seemed in fact to be wearing a red lycra bodysuit, a cape and seemed to have a (now this bit was a stroke of genius-like deductive power to workout even if she did admit it herself) French Canadian accent.
Mademoiselle, come with me to safety, aye?
Jigsaws are not supposed to solve themselves, so It can be quite unnerving when all the pieces come together. Now she had to pat herself on the back on how well she adjusted, going from hallucination to reality in less than a nanosecond can be quite traumatic. But when youve jacked up an unknown drug on the say so of some drug dealer you decided to trust even though everything in the world pointed to you not doing so and that drug causes you to feel like youve died so many times that the shock of death has becomes quite boring, then realising that all that you think of as an hallucination is in fact reality is a piece of cake.
A couple of dry gulps of the vomit laced stale air later and she managed a complete sentence No I dont think I will be going with you.
Now the pseudo-Santa stood there with a befuddled expression, all 7ft 2 inches of him, all lord knows how many pounds, dressed up in his one piece bright red bodysuit from toes to neck, cut off just below the shoulders to show off his mass of extremely large and well formed muscles. Long pure white hair and long beard framing an otherwise youthful and soft face only added to the complete Santa experience. Although the dyed leather weight lifters belt and flowing ¾ length cape didnt exactly look very christmasy, as neither did the big white outline of the maple leaf on his chest.
Why not?
Oo I can hear now. She noted.
She also finally noted her surroundings, through a fine haze of brick dust which was making its way to the floor after the intrusion of the four human/robot/beasts. Daylight certainly didnt do the basement any favours she decided, if one could see the moisture content of the air she would have probably reached for an aqualung. Dirt and shadows mixed merrily in every space and her current resting place was only differentiated from the rest of the room buy the cardboard and newspaper nest she had created, take possession of.
The pool of dried, drying and fresh vomit stretched for what seemed like miles. It didnt take an experience surveyor to estimate that she had thrown up more than she had eaten or drunk in the last year.
Odd she thought as she gave it nothing more than a seconds thought, before she turned her mind to more pressing issues like why was everything making sense?
The clarity of thought she was currently experiencing, coupled with the level of intellect she was attaining were well above there normal standards, she hadnt been, nor wanted to be this awake since the Rikti, it was almost as if she had never taken drugs, gone to school and been a good little child all her life. How pathetic!
Now if only she could get her body to actually do the things her mind was telling her she was capable of shed be happier.
I mean how difficult is standing up really? she thought as she just about managed to sit upright.
Your White Bear aint ya she stated, Good now go away.
But they came for you.
No they didnt
I followed for hours, they came here, all that is here is you. It struck White Bear that logic and reason were of no use to him at this time, but failed to come up with some other strategy.
Go away your making my head hurt more.
I offer safety, qui?
You couldnt live in the Gish for more than a week before White Bear popped into your field of view. He was THE hero, everyplace has one, a few places have more than one, very few places have none, there like a rash. Hed moved here from Montreal just after 02, he took to the Gish like a thousand do-gooders before him. But he has super powers and even worse a past that made him even more of a do-gooder than the average do-gooder.
The local community sheets and websites were full of him, how wonderful he was when he pummelled some gangs, how marvellous he was when he broke up some gang fights, how heroic he was when he saved someone from a Circle of Thorns sacrifice.
Within a year of him adopting the Gish hed formed the Gish Athletic Club with the sole aim of helping young kids in the Gish start out right and not fall into the hands of the gangs, the grip of drugs or the spells of the weirdos. How dull, how annoying, how truly boring.
She lay back down and fell to slumber as the hero considered his options before deciding to leave her there and to go as silently as he came.
That's a pretty awful cost. Imagination is what makes the game more fun for me,
