Happy Birthday!
Apr. 29th, 2008 11:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
turpsHappy birthday, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wistful_fever. I hope it's fantastic for you. turloughishere. I hope you have a great day, with lots of Lancecat cuddles and happy things.
Turlough, behind the cut is a snippet from a bigger universe. Sort of Bob in Space. Sorry it couldn't be longer.
Bob scowled as he pushed his way into the skywalk tube, arms close to his body, projecting serious keep-away vibes in an attempt to retain his own space.
It didn’t work. Hands brushed against his back, tentacles trailed against his ankles, but worst of all, it was hot, the air thick with damp heat. The twin suns high overhead, bleaching out colours and washing everything in a blinding headache-inducing light.
Bob ran his fingers around his collar and wiped at his forehead. This was his idea of hell, trapped in these endless rat-runs with multiple strangers. All he wanted to do was get back to The Love and Death and take off, back to the solitude of space.
He kept walking forward, urged on by the something that had compelled him to land. An itch in his fingers, an awareness that something was wrong. It had been intensifying by the day and driving him quietly insane.
“Watch it,” Bob snarled, glaring at the rossbot that barged past, its face set in the familiar none-expression. They were one of the things Bob hated the most about this place, that and a thousand other things. He bunched up his hands and shoved them deep in his pockets, concentrating on walking and not the bodies that pressed close from all sides. Because if he did that he’d end up throwing punches and that would be bad. He already had a reputation, being banned from another planet wouldn’t help that at all.
The tube was heading toward the outskirts of the city. Bob looked down at the roofs of buildings and watched the mini-crafts that ferried the rich and the powerful. There was no walking through tubes for them. Before Bob would have raged with at that injustice. Now he just looked away. Too burned out to think about anything but getting through another day.
It was easier that way.
“Five minutes and I turn back,” Bob muttered to himself, and his skin itched in response.
He didn’t stop at five, or ten, or an hour. He kept going, pulled forward by some instinct that intensified with each step. Finally though, when his clothes were drenched through with sweat and the crowds had finally diminished, peeling away into side tubes that slanted toward the ground, Bob knew he’d arrived.
It felt like his blood was bubbling underneath his skin, and Bob dug his finger nails into his palms, focussing on the sting as he branched away from the main tube, entering one that was smaller, rougher, the sides coated with grime. He walked down, knees buckling with the increasing gravity, and when he finally stepped outside, he staggered, hissing at the heat when he instinctively reached toward the outer tube wall.
Breathing hard, he narrowed his eyes and shaded his face as he looked around. He was standing close to a building, the clear tube arching gracefully above its metal roof and dark walls.
At first it seemed abandoned, but as Bob listened, he could feel a beat. It travelled through his feet, his legs, circled his belly and seeped into his bones. It frightened him like nothing had done before, because as much as he wanted to retreat, he knew he wouldn’t.
He couldn’t.
Taking a deep breathe, Bob walked forward, relived when the beat abruptly stopped. A door opened at his approach, exposing a long hall. Plasma screens lined the walls, some cracked, the others stuck on an endless loop, advertising bands that had surely been disbanded years before. The Rocking Robots, Spaceman, Fish Out of Water. Captured images advertising their songs to an audience of none.
Bob ran his finger over one of the screens, then jumped, his heart racing when the beat began again. It was louder now. Slower. More. It washed over Bob, making him grit his teeth against the vibrations that shuddered through his body.
Hand resting against the stunner tucked against his hip, Bob forced himself to move, pushing through the throbbing sound, past abandoned terminals and dusty couches that lined the walls. Another door scraped open – nails against a rusty floor – and finally, he knew he’d arrived.
The room was cavernous, empty space with two bars at either side, a stage at the far end. Bottles lay on their sides, liquid spilled in dark pools and the air was thick with the scent of alcohol, sickly sweetness mixed with the underlying decay.
Feet sticking to the floor, Bob slowly walked forward, cringing against the sound that filled the room. Then froze in place when he saw something move. A shift in the shadows on the stage.
Immediately Bob drew his stunner, holding it easily as he inched forward, never looking away from those moving shadows. He was half way across the room when he realised it was a humanoid. One curled forward on its knees, back bowed and hair falling to the floor.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Bob said, projecting his voice over the constant beat.
The humanoid – the man – looked up then, and for an instant hope was apparent in the curve of his smile, the way he straightened, hands flying through the air. Then his hands dropped, his shoulders slumped, misery apparent as he looked at Bob and said, slowly, “shoot me, I don’t care.”
His voice was little more than a rasp, blood flecking his lips with each word. Bob dropped his hand.
“I don’t think so.” He stopped at the front of the stage, looked up at the man who’d moved back to his previous position, looking toward the ground as if Bob wasn’t there at all. “Can’t you stop that sound?”
“No.” The man looked up through his hair, his eyes gleaming and ringed with red. “It’s guiding them back.”
Which would make no sense at all, but something had pulled Bob here, to this place, this man. Despite his instincts screaming, flee, he pushed his stunner back in its holster and said, “who?”
The man pushed back his hair, and his lips were nothing but a thin line speckled with blood. It was obvious each word hurt, but he looked at Bob, reached out before dropping his hand. “They took them. We used to sing and they came and took them away. My brother. My band.”
Bob didn’t ask who. This area of space was rife with renegades who thought nothing of trading with humanoid lives. If anything he wondered why this one had escaped.
“I was pulled into the crowd, they saved me.” The man coughed and blood dripped between his fingers as he said, savagely. “I hate them for that.”
Bob could understand, he’d lost his crew too.
“So you stayed here and sent out a signal?” Bob pinched his nose. His head was aching and that was after mere minutes. “How long?”
At first Bob thought the question hadn’t been understood, then the man pushed himself up and crawled toward a portable terminal. He pressed a button, and in a whine of noise, a curtain of light shimmered across the back of the stage, scored over and over with black lines.
“Each one is a day.” The man dropped the terminal and looked back at Bob. “The sound, it’s theirs. Mikey’s bass, Matt’s drums, Frank and Ray’s guitars. I mixed it together, they’ll know, they’ll follow it home.”
Bob looked at the light, made horrific with countless dark lines, and hated himself before he even said the words. “Do you really think they’ll come back? It’s been years.”
“They’re my band..” The man glared and pulled himself to his feet. He looked proud, sure. “When my voice comes back I’ll sing. They’ll hear.”
In that moment Bob could almost believe. Except he’d seen too much, survived too often, and knew the only miracles were the ones you engineered for yourself. Which is why he took that final step forward, knowing why he was here.
“I think you need to come with me.”
“They’ll come back.” Voice faltering, the man looked at Bob. “They will.”
“Or we could find them.” Bob held out his hand. “I’m Bob, I’ve a small craft and a lot of free time.
A hesitation, then, hopeful. “Gerard, and I’ve no way to pay.”
Bob sighed, already suspecting as much. Still, as Gerard grasped his hand, his fingers tightening around Bob’s own, he knew this was what he was supposed to do.
The fearsome Bob Bryar, picking up strays and going off to find more. Sometimes he couldn’t believe that this was his life. He tugged gently and didn’t look away when Gerard smiled slightly, his lips cracking even more.
Neither looked back as they walked away.
wistful_fever. I hope it's fantastic for you. turloughishere. I hope you have a great day, with lots of Lancecat cuddles and happy things.Turlough, behind the cut is a snippet from a bigger universe. Sort of Bob in Space. Sorry it couldn't be longer.
Bob scowled as he pushed his way into the skywalk tube, arms close to his body, projecting serious keep-away vibes in an attempt to retain his own space.
It didn’t work. Hands brushed against his back, tentacles trailed against his ankles, but worst of all, it was hot, the air thick with damp heat. The twin suns high overhead, bleaching out colours and washing everything in a blinding headache-inducing light.
Bob ran his fingers around his collar and wiped at his forehead. This was his idea of hell, trapped in these endless rat-runs with multiple strangers. All he wanted to do was get back to The Love and Death and take off, back to the solitude of space.
He kept walking forward, urged on by the something that had compelled him to land. An itch in his fingers, an awareness that something was wrong. It had been intensifying by the day and driving him quietly insane.
“Watch it,” Bob snarled, glaring at the rossbot that barged past, its face set in the familiar none-expression. They were one of the things Bob hated the most about this place, that and a thousand other things. He bunched up his hands and shoved them deep in his pockets, concentrating on walking and not the bodies that pressed close from all sides. Because if he did that he’d end up throwing punches and that would be bad. He already had a reputation, being banned from another planet wouldn’t help that at all.
The tube was heading toward the outskirts of the city. Bob looked down at the roofs of buildings and watched the mini-crafts that ferried the rich and the powerful. There was no walking through tubes for them. Before Bob would have raged with at that injustice. Now he just looked away. Too burned out to think about anything but getting through another day.
It was easier that way.
“Five minutes and I turn back,” Bob muttered to himself, and his skin itched in response.
He didn’t stop at five, or ten, or an hour. He kept going, pulled forward by some instinct that intensified with each step. Finally though, when his clothes were drenched through with sweat and the crowds had finally diminished, peeling away into side tubes that slanted toward the ground, Bob knew he’d arrived.
It felt like his blood was bubbling underneath his skin, and Bob dug his finger nails into his palms, focussing on the sting as he branched away from the main tube, entering one that was smaller, rougher, the sides coated with grime. He walked down, knees buckling with the increasing gravity, and when he finally stepped outside, he staggered, hissing at the heat when he instinctively reached toward the outer tube wall.
Breathing hard, he narrowed his eyes and shaded his face as he looked around. He was standing close to a building, the clear tube arching gracefully above its metal roof and dark walls.
At first it seemed abandoned, but as Bob listened, he could feel a beat. It travelled through his feet, his legs, circled his belly and seeped into his bones. It frightened him like nothing had done before, because as much as he wanted to retreat, he knew he wouldn’t.
He couldn’t.
Taking a deep breathe, Bob walked forward, relived when the beat abruptly stopped. A door opened at his approach, exposing a long hall. Plasma screens lined the walls, some cracked, the others stuck on an endless loop, advertising bands that had surely been disbanded years before. The Rocking Robots, Spaceman, Fish Out of Water. Captured images advertising their songs to an audience of none.
Bob ran his finger over one of the screens, then jumped, his heart racing when the beat began again. It was louder now. Slower. More. It washed over Bob, making him grit his teeth against the vibrations that shuddered through his body.
Hand resting against the stunner tucked against his hip, Bob forced himself to move, pushing through the throbbing sound, past abandoned terminals and dusty couches that lined the walls. Another door scraped open – nails against a rusty floor – and finally, he knew he’d arrived.
The room was cavernous, empty space with two bars at either side, a stage at the far end. Bottles lay on their sides, liquid spilled in dark pools and the air was thick with the scent of alcohol, sickly sweetness mixed with the underlying decay.
Feet sticking to the floor, Bob slowly walked forward, cringing against the sound that filled the room. Then froze in place when he saw something move. A shift in the shadows on the stage.
Immediately Bob drew his stunner, holding it easily as he inched forward, never looking away from those moving shadows. He was half way across the room when he realised it was a humanoid. One curled forward on its knees, back bowed and hair falling to the floor.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Bob said, projecting his voice over the constant beat.
The humanoid – the man – looked up then, and for an instant hope was apparent in the curve of his smile, the way he straightened, hands flying through the air. Then his hands dropped, his shoulders slumped, misery apparent as he looked at Bob and said, slowly, “shoot me, I don’t care.”
His voice was little more than a rasp, blood flecking his lips with each word. Bob dropped his hand.
“I don’t think so.” He stopped at the front of the stage, looked up at the man who’d moved back to his previous position, looking toward the ground as if Bob wasn’t there at all. “Can’t you stop that sound?”
“No.” The man looked up through his hair, his eyes gleaming and ringed with red. “It’s guiding them back.”
Which would make no sense at all, but something had pulled Bob here, to this place, this man. Despite his instincts screaming, flee, he pushed his stunner back in its holster and said, “who?”
The man pushed back his hair, and his lips were nothing but a thin line speckled with blood. It was obvious each word hurt, but he looked at Bob, reached out before dropping his hand. “They took them. We used to sing and they came and took them away. My brother. My band.”
Bob didn’t ask who. This area of space was rife with renegades who thought nothing of trading with humanoid lives. If anything he wondered why this one had escaped.
“I was pulled into the crowd, they saved me.” The man coughed and blood dripped between his fingers as he said, savagely. “I hate them for that.”
Bob could understand, he’d lost his crew too.
“So you stayed here and sent out a signal?” Bob pinched his nose. His head was aching and that was after mere minutes. “How long?”
At first Bob thought the question hadn’t been understood, then the man pushed himself up and crawled toward a portable terminal. He pressed a button, and in a whine of noise, a curtain of light shimmered across the back of the stage, scored over and over with black lines.
“Each one is a day.” The man dropped the terminal and looked back at Bob. “The sound, it’s theirs. Mikey’s bass, Matt’s drums, Frank and Ray’s guitars. I mixed it together, they’ll know, they’ll follow it home.”
Bob looked at the light, made horrific with countless dark lines, and hated himself before he even said the words. “Do you really think they’ll come back? It’s been years.”
“They’re my band..” The man glared and pulled himself to his feet. He looked proud, sure. “When my voice comes back I’ll sing. They’ll hear.”
In that moment Bob could almost believe. Except he’d seen too much, survived too often, and knew the only miracles were the ones you engineered for yourself. Which is why he took that final step forward, knowing why he was here.
“I think you need to come with me.”
“They’ll come back.” Voice faltering, the man looked at Bob. “They will.”
“Or we could find them.” Bob held out his hand. “I’m Bob, I’ve a small craft and a lot of free time.
A hesitation, then, hopeful. “Gerard, and I’ve no way to pay.”
Bob sighed, already suspecting as much. Still, as Gerard grasped his hand, his fingers tightening around Bob’s own, he knew this was what he was supposed to do.
The fearsome Bob Bryar, picking up strays and going off to find more. Sometimes he couldn’t believe that this was his life. He tugged gently and didn’t look away when Gerard smiled slightly, his lips cracking even more.
Neither looked back as they walked away.
