Bedlam - Friday

[xp_daytripper]

"To me my children," the Magician said, and he sent the strongest and bravest of his sons and daughters out to save the world, even though they were feared and hated by the ordinary people...

Close, she's so close now, chasing after images flickering like gold at the bottom of a river. Figure after figure march across the wall, each with an 'X' slashed across their stick-bodies. She has to get it all down, and then she'll be able to see. It will all make sense, finally, instead of snatches of half-formed stories, a fairy tale for the lost...

And for the hidden evil there were others, working in secret. They sought out those who hid and plotted in the shadows, behind power and influence and fear. They were dragged out into the light, their secrets exposed, kicking and screaming...

The chalk splinters with the force she's using and she gropes for another piece. Flashes of light cut through the fog in her mind, faces, voices, memories...

The Wolf. The Man in Black. The Seer and the Wordsmith and the Chaos Witch. The Diamond Queen and her Bodyguard, the Healer with her cursed heart, the Jester, the purple-haired Warrior, the Lost Girl and the Wolf's brash Apprentice. The Beautiful Monster... A tower made of glass, two houses joined together to form a home...

Her vision blurs and she swipes her hand across her eyes, leaving multicoloured streaks of chalk dust on her skin. Pressure is building in her head, a familiar sensation. Something is trying to push through, speak to her. A little more...

And the Magician's castle became a sanctuary to those who were of his blood, however distant. A place for the lost, for the hunted. A safe place, a haven a fortress, a school.

More stick figures outside a large crudely-drawn building. One girl was entirely purple, a boy a metallic-silver arm and leg. A rosy-winged angel boy, another with fangs and claws and pointed ears. One dressed from head to toe, a little black cloud hovering above his head. Another cloud, this one with a smiling face drawn on it. A shorter dark-haired girl with zig zagging bolts of electricity coming from her hands. She squints at the drawing, trying to think. Trying to remember. Why can't she remember?

The girl who had been stolen was brought to the school, to learn to be a person and not a tool. And at first she did well and made friends, made a family...

A girl with a pointy witch's hat, a broomstick, and standing next to her, the Knight and his Lady, her hair like flame, and the Knight's Squire. Then a fuzzy shape that's either a monkey or a little girl. There's movement in her peripheral, but she ignores it. She's on the brink of something, she can feel it.

But all these gifts to someone who had nothing were overwhelming and the stolen girl began to falter. One by one, she lost her gifts, her family, her friends...

Her eyes prickle and her fingers clench around the chalk, crushing it. She looks down, seizes a piece of charcoal and begins drawing in a new place, strokes frenzied and somehow desperate. There's a voice in her head, but it's not the fairy tale she's been telling, it's something else:

"Well, things are a little more complex. I mean, I've got the theory, but, you know… Teapot. Never actually seen an active mage before, but I hear there are a couple in New York with some actual power."

"Now I can die happy. Actually, it is nice to talk to someone about this stuff who's not calling themselves 'CyberGandalf357' and adding those smiley faces to the end of every conversation. The dangers of the internet and all."

"Forge does have a point. And as the resident 'academic', it will be my job to simply observe and record the results. Preferably with a digital camera and a thick sweater."

"She can be a little strident sometimes. But she did say yes, even with my math score, so that's something."

"How do you know? You don't go to my school. You don't live in my house. Your window into my life consists of weekly meetings and e-mail. So, you'll excuse me if I tell you that you really don't have either the information or the right to make that kind of statement. You've got your view of the world, and every time something doesn't fit, you start telling me why it should. But it's not that simple. You have the luxury of being able to sit in the big mansion, surrounded by your friends, and tell me what you think I ought to be doing. But I'm the one that has to live my life, and I think I might know a little more about it than you do."

"One thing I know is that you don't get to control other people to avoid getting hurt. And if all the things we're doing together is just you waiting for me to hurt you or leave, is there a point? I want to be your friend. But it hurts too much to settle for being this month's distraction instead."

No stick figure this time. She's concentrating so hard her jaw is clenched, breath hissing out between her teeth. More movement, possibly a voice, but she's too far sunk into the images unspooling behind her eyes.

The tang of smoke hit her in the hall as she left the elevator, and she wrinkled her nose. Smoke meant something wrong, and she quickened her steps, slipping in through the door left slightly ajar. Smoke, and something else, something that stirred the hairs on the back of her neck.

She only got a glimpse before her view was blocked, a flash of drying blood and bruised face and the blade held in a loosely curled hand, but the image burned itself on her brain. She backed up, hand coming up to cover her mouth. "No, he didn't, he wouldn't."

The back of her legs contacted with a side table, and there was a clatter as the framed photograph on it toppled over. The noise drew her gaze and she looked down at the picture...

"Excuse me, miss. You're under arrest for vandalism and theft. I'm afraid you'll have to come with me."

The moment stretches into timelessness, focussing on a single point - the charcoal clutched between her fingers, the lines slashed almost violently on the wall in front of her... Then a hand grips her shoulder, firmly but not painfully, and the moment, the image pops like a soap bubble, gone. She'd been so close.





PC Acland rolled his eyes slightly at his partner, taking in the sight of the girl sitting huddled in the floor, chalks and crayons and charcoal scattered around her from the boxes she'd upended. The owner of the arts supply store had called it in, an obviously homeless kid high or hallucinating who had come in and started scribbling on the walls. She hadn't responded to demands to stop and leave, muttering to herself in a nigh-incomprehensible jabber. The owner had retreated with his staff behind the counter and waited for police, the most sensible thing all 'round, really, given the circumstances. You never knew with junkies.

But looking at her, a starved scrap of a girl, blonde hair matted and dirty, dressed in a ill-fitting collection of filth-encrusted clothes too big for her, she seemed too fragile to be a threat. Disturbed, yes, with the near-frantic scrawling and muttering, oblivious to the world, but not dangerous. All they'd need to do was run her down to the nick, get her details, pass her onto Social Services. He lay a hand on the girl's shoulder when she didn't respond to his voice, intending to do just that.

She went stock-still, the charcoal in mid-stroke and then she exploded into movement and noise.

"You bastard, you fucking bastard! It's gone, you broke it, it's gone and I won't get it back, not now, not ever!" she screeched, lunging at him so suddenly he was taken off guard. Her ragged nails left bloody gouges on one freshly-shaven pink cheek before he managed to shove her away. Even then it wasn't over, manic strength driving her to kick and flail at the two of them as they tried to subdue her, all the while screaming. WPC Patel got knocked into a shelf, scattering pens and markers everywhere before Acland finally managed to catch one of the girl's stick-thin arms and twist it up her back, forcing her onto the floor. She cried out in real pain as he leaned a knee into her back and he eased off. But only slightly. His cheek hurt.

"Add assault and resist arrest to the theft and vandalism," he said grimly, continuing to hold her down with his superior weight whilst her struggles weakened. The screams were hoarse gasps now, tears streaking her face. The kid had been in the wars recently, he noted - there was a yellowing bruise on one cheek. "Calm down and come quietly and I'll let you up," he added, glancing over at Patel. "You all right, Indira?"

"Fine. She caught me off-balance, that's all, going off like that. Your face is bleeding." Patel wrenched herself upright out of the shelving, rubbing at the spot on her midsection where the girl's booted foot had landed rather firmly. "Drugs?" she suggested, already reaching for her radio to call for transport. "Looks like she's hallucinating."

"Or she's just barking. Fights well for a kid, too. Let's get her out of her and safely into a cell."

"...IC1 female, late teens, probable drug user. Over." Patel finished speaking into her radio and waited for the crackled response. "Five minutes," she informed her partner.

"Best to stay sitting on her here - I don't want to risk her scarpering," Acland said, nodding. Underneath him, the girl was still struggling feebly, calling him all sorts of names in her cracked voice.

"Here, I want that crazy cow out of here!" The owner had found his courage and was coming down to the back of the shop. "I've got customers and they don't want to see this sort of thing! And who's going to pay for all this?"

Patel moved smoothly to intercept him, keeping an eye on Acland in case his charge got loose again. It seemed unlikely, though - she was tiring, sobbing weakly into the floorboards, whimpering in the back of her throat. "You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court..." Acland began the well-known litany of the girl's legal rights, loudly enough for Patel to hear even as she was explaining procedure to the shop owner - everything by the book, that was the best way. "Anything you do say may be given in evidence." He didn't really expect a rational reply. He wasn't disappointed.

"Dust, it's all dust and ashes and cinders in my mouth and I was so close, so close. It's all come crashing down and I don't know where to look any more. The city talks to me but she's so far away and I'm lost. Lost in the dark and I can't find the light at the end of the tunnel, can't find the threads to guide me back..."

"Dust, huh? Definitely screening you for drugs," Acland muttered mostly to himself. There was movement at the door, two more uniforms pushing their way through the crowd of gawkers at the entrance. "Looks like our ride's here, love. Get you some help, yeah?." As he spoke he was cautiously loosening his grip enough to help her to her feet. She went willingly, almost hanging limply from his hold so he had to support most of her far too insubstantial weight.

"No help," she whispered as PC Rogers took her other arm with a questioning look and slightly amused grin at Acland's condition and the small stature of their suspect. "Not any more. It's all gone."

"We'll give it a try any way, won't we?" Acland replied, forcefully cheerful as they walked the girl out of the shop and into the waiting van.