...What had happened last night? Was it only last night? He couldn't recall. There had been so many different things; words and lights and the double-meanings in even innocent-sounding exclamations of surprise or distress... There had been lots and lots of black, he recalled. Tattered black lace, hanging in sad shreds from shoulders and arms, like ruined bat's-wings.... Black cotton, faded to funny purple-grey, torn deliberately or accidentally, here and there touched by some odd logo or catchphrase...
Black silk, shimmering with that strange, almost unearthly matte gleam- which, in itself, was a contradiction. Matte objects don't gleam, that's why they're called 'matte'.
Dro's head hurt. Black nylon, sheer, some worked with spiderweb patterns, patches of pale, smooth flesh flashing in the smoky air- some girl wearing far too much eyeliner for his taste had giggled at his shyness and pressed... what? A cool brown bottle, beaded with condensation and no label. His left hand ached faintly, and he cracked one greyish hazel eye to look... A brassy bottle cap was clutched in his fingers. Interesting....
Bottle cap... He'd found a bottle-opener, when he was smaller... He thought he still had it, but it was a lot more pleasant to lie here and try to reconstruct the events of the recent past. There had been leather, too, with its own peculiar scent added to the mishmash already present.
Incense, carried in on the various fibers that swaddled the rest of the...people that had been there. The laughing girl had been cloves and jasmine and something he didn't know, something that made his nose wrinkle and conjured up pictures of -very- dirty socks mouldering and polluting good clean humus. He hadn't wanted to offend her, though, so he hadn't said anything...
There was the one that had convinced his cronies to leave him, Dro, alone, whose words had carried underpinnings of fear, sadness and a great sizzling anger... Oddly enough, he'd been wearing lighter scents- a bit of lemon, maybe vanilla, almonds...? It was rather blurry, now. Cigarette smoke had dulled a lot of the smells, as well as the -sense- of smell, for a lot of the ebbing and flowing crowd. Sad...
Dro frowned as he tried to move his head. His cheek -was- stuck to the surface he was lying on, he was a little too warm, and his neck was protesting that he'd slept on it strangely. He didn't recall making his way back to his nest in the dress shop, so he must not have gone there... He blinked, trying to identify objects in the small slice of room that was visible to him over the edge of a fuzzy pink blanket... Oh, drat, his eyes were getting -worse-...
He couldn't do it. He was still so tired, and this strange, heavy pain made him just want to hide under the blanket that covered him 'til he felt better. With a soft sigh, he closed his less-than-helpful eyes and listened. The soft thrumming of a refrigeration unit...a faint gurgling as the hot water pipe cooled and contracted, or maybe it was a drain...and nothing else. He was alone, and if he had his druthers, he wouldn't be. What was he going to do -now-?
And speaking of doing things... Had he done the unthinkable last night and gotten drunk, and then... Well, maybe drunk. There was a reason not to do that, Dro, you idiot.... He knew. Not the least of which was that then you didn't end up lost in a strange city, in someone else's dwelling, not knowing the rules about touching their stuff.
He gingerly peeled his face away from the clingy, hot surface below it and gently brought his left hand up to touch it... Smooth, soft... Leather, maybe, or a leather-like substance. The young man props himself up on his right elbow, ignoring the protestation of the muscles in his neck, and peered at the bottle cap again.
Oh. It was -his- bottle cap... A strange talisman, to be certain, but he recognized the worn spots and the narrow scratch that had been there since the day he'd found it. Why wasn't in his pocket, where it belonged? Slowly, slowly he pushed the coverlet away from his face and himself away from the couch-cushion. Ooogh... Positional vertigo sank its teeth into him and true darkness swirled through the fuzziness of his vision, liberally laced with bright white sparks... Dro gasps, throwing his arms wide for balance and striving to keep his breathing even...
A few moments and several panicky heartbeats later, he was sitting upright, head lolling on the back of the couch, eyes squeezed shut against the influx of light, though the ivory-coloured Venetian blinds were not only drawn but turned to keep as much light out as possible.
Liquid, a pale yellow in some cases, honey-dark, like purest amber, like that display in that museum shop he'd stared at for long minutes, until the man had come back for him with a growl.... He'd had far more than he should have, and he hadn't even liked the way it tasted all that much. Well, he'd managed to attain an upright position... He tried to find a pocket to put the golden lid that he held into and failed. His pants were missing! This was just -great-...
He whimpered softly as he forced himself to sit up and look around the room. -There- they were, folded neatly and resting on the coffee table, along with his socks, sweater, and gloves. Socks...? He wiggled his toes, then carefully unfolded his legs, planting his feet on the floor. The carpet was of a moderate nap, so he decided that this place, whether it was apartment, house or hole in the ground, must not be in that part of town spoken of with such contempt... Or maybe it was. He didn't know, and wasn't really interested in finding out... Hunching over his knees, he braces his elbows on his quadriceps and crosses his wrists, staring blankly at the floor between his feet.
Well... He didn't -feel- any different, so he must have been successful in fending off those people that had been chatting to him with nothingness in their words and a certain set of hunger to their voices. Maybe the giggling young woman had taken him home... Idly wondering what time it was, he straightened and stretched, his breath catching as aches made themselves known. Dancing... There had been a new band there, and the guys outside had been eager to see them... Enthusiasm -was- contagious. Huh.
It had been somewhat painful- Only 'somewhat', Drocalen? Okay, so it'd hurt like hell to listen to the band... And offers of pain remedies had come from all sides, hadn't they? Yes... Damnation, he was lucky. Maybe he could just use whoever this was' phone and call Them, ask them to come get him, and never budge from their sight again. Besides, what if She was worried about him? Yeah, right. Like She'd even noticed him... Sighing loudly, he leaned over and pulled his clothes closer to himself, finally noticing a note lying on his gloves.
'Kid- Help yourself to anything in the 'fridge, I'm gone for the day. Be a little more careful, next time, I wouldn't want to meet you at work. -Rick'
Not that he could understand a single word. Oh, he could pick out a letter here and there, but that was about as useful to him as a screen door on a submarine. Oh well, maybe it'd come in handy later. He folded it carefully and poked both the piece of paper and the bottle cap into the left front pocket of his jeans, then picked up his socks. Socks... Yet one more of his idiosyncrasies.
Insight into your psyche, a few bucks or a clean pair of socks, whichever you had handiest. Someone had taken to calling him 'Socks', but he didn't remember who, at the moment. It wasn't all that important... He dresses haltingly, almost falling over when he stands, the dizziness grabbing at him again. Almost incongruously, his stomach growled. Food would be nice... But he should probably go. No telling when the owner of this place would be coming back...
Where were his shoes? It was too dangerous to go barefoot through alleys, therefore he had to have been wearing his shoes when he was brought here... Orangey streetlights, buzzing faintly, sliding by in liquidy stripes, charcoal and kohl and glittering green eyes- How -had- he ended up here? He was tired of wondering that. It wasn't going to be answered any time soon- I didn't-! He sucks in another sharp breath, dropping back onto the couch, the ringing of the phone having startled the exclamation out of him. What if it was The Owner, wanting to check up on him, make sure he wasn't pinching the silver? It could just as easily be a vacuum-cleaner salesman, though... The safest bet was to just sit still, holding his breath and waiting for the electronic trilling to stop.
Electronic... There wasn't a single human element to be found in the sound, which comforted him, to some extent. He'd managed to build a small (read: 3 'cards) collection of electronically generated music, which had lulled him to sleep many a time... Deep, dreamless slumber, free of everything that could be heard or seen by whatever bit of him was in charge of those things... And They'd made him leave them behind. Correction, The Man had impressed upon him the need for stealth and haste, and as The Woman wasn't there to persuade Him otherwise, so he'd left them. All he'd needed to do was just grab the tattered backpack...
More like holes held together by fabric, rough, mudstained blue fabric, it -had- been big enough to hold his few vitally important possessions. Maybe he could convince Them, or at least The Woman, to let him go back to the alley and get it from its hiding place, provided it was still there. He thought it probably was, since the crevice he'd hidden the bag in wasn't readily noticeable, no matter where you stood.
Having made up his mind to get his stuff back, he rises again and looks around the room. A living-room, containing the couch that he'd slept most of the day away upon, the coffee table, an entertainment center- Cartoons! (that though was squashed almost as it occurred.) -a wide arch leading into the kitchen/dining room and a hall leading elsewhere. Front door, probably, as well as bath- and bed- rooms, he speculated. It was decorated in awfully light and neutral tones for the dwelling of someone that had been in that scummy little hole-in-the-wall, last night.
What was that word he'd heard, not only there, but in TOSCH? Slumming, slummer.... But 'slums' was generally used to describe the places that -Dro- lived in... Or used to. Or Something. The table in the dining room was piled high with papers and books, as were most of the visible counters in the kitchen. The young man, still unsteady and -very- nearsighted, made his way to the table, curiosity and caution warring in his mind.
Oh, good! Pictures. One large volume was opened to a diagram of the human heart, penciled notes scattered across the margins. There were copies of the diagram spread atop the other stacks of stuff, some copies with the various sectors labeled and colored... There was another book, but it was opened to a section of nothing but words. Too bad. This must be a doctor's or a student's residence... If it was a doctor... No. Dro ran a hand through sweaty hair and remembered the stories he'd heard about Rensie's sudden disappearance...
Some doctor had come across her when she was having one of her spells, babbling endlessly about blood and the end of civilization as one knows it, and they'd taken her in... He missed her, sometimes. Shaking his head to chase away those thoughts worked- a sharp pain curling up the back of his skull and digging into his back teeth via his sinuses made him forget about pretty much everything, for a little bit.
That was interesting... When he opened his eyes again, he could see more clearly... All the way to the other side of the room. Thank goodness... He hadn't relished the idea of stumbling down the sidewalk, unable to see anything unless it was two or three inches from his nose. -Definitely- time to see at least an opthamologist....
...Maybe. He didn't have all that much money... But then, Those People, in that hall... They'd wanted him to stick around for more tests and things. He still wasn't certain as to -why- he'd been dragged along on this venture... It was probably time to catch up with The Man and The Woman. They were going to be really upset with him, no doubt... He walked shakily down the hall, discovering that it did indeed lead to the front door, and there were his shoes. Grand....
Someone had stepped on his foot, another kicked him in the shin, three more were jostling and shoving at him with shoulder and elbows. They thought this was -fun-? They did, to a point. There was a blissful intimacy as they inflicted a real, physical pain on one another, one that chased away the phantomlike, invisible hurt on the inside. It was the same thing that was making the two pale vocalists on stage scream and howl, their bodies twisting with the rhythms that the other three band members were pulling out of some little tortured spots in their souls...
Dro blinked again, recalling himself to the present. -That- explained the bruises and the pain as he knelt to tie the scruffy sneakers. Reason 457.3657 NOT to get drunk: It apparently messes with your memory, Dro. Gee, I hadn't noticed... He climbed to his feet and leaned against the wall for a minute or thirty-seven, waiting for the whirl and tilt of the world to slow.
He examined the locks on the door before he opened it. Except for the one on the handle itself, he couldn't set the other two without a key, which he didn't have. Fairly certain the patron saint of fools and mostly-innocents was watching, he sent up a half-formed prayer and slipped out of the house... Er, apartment. He was now standing in a hallway that gave off less 'money!' vibes than the place he'd just been in.
Left? Right? Stairs? Elevator? He didn't want to have to decide all of these things. Resting his head against the wood behind him, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the bottle cap again. Heads, left, tails, right... Flip... the catch, and- Right it was. He glanced over his shoulder as he started down the sedate hallway, noting the number of the door.
1017... How did floor-numbering work? Oh, yes. That was the seventeenth apartment on the tenth floor... He stopped his drift and blinked a few more times. "Seventeen? This is one big building..." A soft whistle later and he's resumed his journey.
Another intersection, another choice... A sign, with red letters and an arrow under them, suggested he make a left. Dro squinted and looked that way, deciding that the hall terminated in the blurred area beyond the limits of his sight. He -hated- being this myopic, but as the right-hand section looked as promising, he didn't see that he had that much of a choice. Left it was...
Ah-ha! The door to the stairway was this way. Good... The young man's strangely colored eyes watered as he stepped through the door and into an airy stairwell, flooded with golden, late-afternoon light. Good as it was for the potted plants on the landing, it made him rather miserable at the moment. Dro sighs again, dabs at his face with his sleeve, and wraps a hand around the sunwarmed railing, edging ever-so-carefully downwards.
He stopped a few steps down from the landing and raised his face to the sun, basking in the light and heat. Strangely enough, it seemed to help... It at least acclimated his eyes a bit, so that he could watch where he put his feet without peering through narrowed eyes. At the next landing, he pushed past the broad leaves of whatever vegetation resided in the planter and studied the indistinct streets below. He was on the outside corner of the building, then, and there were a couple of cars parked below.
Someone with a small child or a dog was strolling along the far sidewalk. Looking up, across the city, he cursed his failing vision again before reminding himself that he was lucky, sort of. He -could- have to make his living by looking at things... Snorting at the thin comfort, he pushes away from the cool glass and continues down the stairs.
The stairs were so nice and quiet... The far-off whirring of ventilation equipment startled him slightly as he paused on the 7th floor landing, the cool breeze that followed soon after washing over him and making him smile a bit. There wasn't really any need to be wearing his sweater... Mumbling to himself about his idiocy, he pulled the dark red shirt over his head, shook it out, and tied the arms loosely about his waist.
There... A door opened somewhere above him, and footsteps clattered downwards, moving towards him. Normally, he'd have ignored them and gone on his way in a calm manner... Right now, though, they struck a discordant note in his chest and sent him scuttling towards ground level at a pace that was perhaps a trifle too quick.
"Damn!" The words was squeaked out as the terrazzo flooring caught the toe of one sneaker and caused him to stumble. Dro caught the railing with both hands, remaining upright through sheer will, or so it seemed. Pain exploded through his head, setting off brilliant flashes of pure white among the roiling black that the dizziness brought back with a vengeance.
Stumbling along the road in this condition could be rather dangerous, he mulled absently. The footsteps above him had disappeared with another door-opening-and-closing sound, so the boy sank onto the steps, shivering, panting, and still clinging to the handrail.
Hauling himself to his feet, Dro pondered his predicament. Maybe he should go back upstairs and just wait outside the door 'til the man that had brought him home last night came back... What made him so sure, all of a sudden, that it was a man that had brought him home?
Green eyes, glimmering in the dark, anger and fear lacing his words to the crowd that were circling the skinny youngster like sharks flocking around a wounded seal, making feints to see if it was actually to eat.... Dro shuddered as he remembered the murmur under the voices and music, the -tasty- -fresh meat- -home with me- -new face, nice face, wonder what he'd sound like- swirling around and overwhelming him.
He'd bumped his head trying to hide under the dark bartop, behind his stool, away from the eyes and and the music and the smoke- Finally, his body remembered that it didn't function so well without oxygen. Another sharp gasp and Dro's dull brownish-green eyes flew open, taking in the building across the street, reminding him that he was -here-, -now-, and perfectly safe.
His legs were trembling, and his grip felt tenuous... He decided to just sit down and rest for a few minutes, just sit and breathe and look out on the rest of the city that he could see, and vowing to never EVER accept the offer of a drink again, no matter how badly it hurt otherwise.
He was still amazed and annoyed that he'd done so in the first place. And now he was cold again. he just wanted to be curled up somewhere warm, with the white noise of Resistor, or maybe Plainsnake, wrapping around him and deadening him to the world... Or the world to him, however it worked.
Shivering again, his thoughts woolly and distorted, he wraps his arms around his legs and buries his face against his knees. Why him? He hadn't -asked- to be like this... Who had his parents been, then, to produce such offspring? The same plaintive query of every apparent orphan.
The Woman had had a note of secrets and curiosity when she'd last talked to him... They knew something about him, and They didn't seem inclined to share. No matter, really, at this rate it seemed unlikely he'd ever see any of them again. That thought made him feel like crying, or maybe it was just the leftover alcohol in his system, messing with the rest of his thought processes.
Sitting around feeling sorry for yourself was a good way to waste a lot of time and put you into situations you probably didn't want to end up in. Sighing yet again, the young man struggles to his feet again and starts down the stairs again, moving one foot, then place the other beside it before moving on to the next step, much like a toddler does.
The ground floor at last.... He pushes the door open, spilling out into the lobby of the building. Nominally appointed with a few couches and wingback chairs, as well as a fireplace that looked decidedly fake, and empty. Where -was- everyone? Probably out playing in the sunshine.
Dro shrugs, meandering over to the nearest couch. He just needed to sit down for a little bit, rest his poor eyes... He sank onto the cushions that smelled of dust and stale smoke, frowning at the difference between this sofa and the one he'd left the fluffy pink throw wadded up on upstairs... But still, it was softer than the floor had been, so he closed his eyes, just for a moment....
...and promptly fell into a fitful sleep.