[Sodium_noir] Hell is Other People

[Jennie Teakle]

Sinclair Party

Jack & Christine
Currently away with the booze fairies


> [Jack]
> “Hum?  How am I doing? Ah...”  Jack stretches his arm
> out the length along the back of the chaise, though
> not in some feeble attempt to put it around
> Christine’s shoulders (was he thinking along those
> lines?).  “I’m doin’ okay, thank you very much.  Not
> feeling any pain, that’s for fuckin’ sure.  Oh, ‘cept
> for my hand, but that’s okay now.”  He looks at
> Christine with sincerity fairly oozing from his pale
> blue eyes.  “Really.  Right as rain.”

[Christine]
Christine stares at him, hazily assessing. She remembers Aurora  
flushing out the infection that had been killing Jack but it had been  
the two mysterious healer who had breezed in and out, who had sealed  
his horrific, self inflicted wounds, accelerated the growth of new  
skin. All pretty awesome and strange. Christine remembers the scent  
of forests that had clung about the healers, the big guy in  
particular. The air in the small monkish cell had been thick suddenly  
with the perfume of life. It had made Christine feel giddy,  
overwhelmed. She doesn't understand exactly what happened but Jack  
had emerged from the experience almost whole again. Except for the  
bandage on his hand, you'd never know what a state he'd been in  
earlier this evening. Christine manages to focus on Jack's hand as it  
rests idly on the back of the seat. She is tempted, for a moment, to  
stretch out her own hand, unravel the bandage, examine the wound  
again. She remembers the shape of the mutilation when fresh, bleeding  
and oozing pus. A deliberate mark, a sigil. Self inflicted. For  
magic's sake; for power. Christine feels cold and a little nauseous.  
How long before he did that to himself again?


> [Jack]
> He leans back, considering the ill effect the sound of
> flowing water is having on his bladder.  “Who am I?  I
> have no clue.  Not supposed to remember.  And this
> guy?” Jack clutches at the lapel of his suit jacket.
> “Don’t know that either.  Some dead guy.  My name
> isn’t Jack.  Not really.  Made it up.  Well, Akril’s
> guys didn’t know much English, but they always thought
> I was clueless, so they said I didn’t know jackshit.
> Hah fucking hah.  That’s where my name came from.”
>
> Jack snickers, but it’s clear the subject isn’t all
> that funny.  “And my last name... got it off a
> mailbox.  No shit.”   He takes a pack of cigarettes
> out of his jacket pocket, placing one between his lips
> before offering one to Christine.  After lighting it,
> Jack takes a very deep draw, letting the smoke curl
> out of his nostrils.  “What happens next.  Hmmm.
> Don’t know.  We get drunk.  Or drunker.  I’m making
> this up as I go, darling.”
>
> He wrinkles up his nose.  “Christ, does it really
> matter?  Whoever had this body, he ain’t around
> anymore.  And, what I am in here...”  Jack thumps a
> finger solidly into his chest.  “Don’t know.  Only one
> who knows is Akril and he’s toast.  So... fuck it
> anyway.”

[Christine]
Christine takes a cigarette, lights it unsteadily, cupping Jack's  
wavering hand. She smokes in silence. It doesn't help with the nausea  
but it does help her nerve and give her space to think in. Thinking  
about Jack, his past as Akril Khan's slave, a spirit bound into  
stolen flesh, origins of both unknown. Unpleasantly sobering. She  
stares out at the night gardens, brilliantly lit statues and whatnots  
draw the eye, but beyond the artificial glow, the garden lies in  
shadow, hard to tell what's really there. The artful use of  
floodlights make it easy to forget that the shadows far outnumber the  
things she can see clearly.

She sighs, blowing out a stream of smoke, then flicks the cigarette  
end into the gardens, it's glowing red tip marking its arc before it  
disappears into the shadows.

"You really don't want to know?" she asks. "I wish . . . " she smiles  
twistedly, "I wish I could see your future. Or your past. But I  
can't. Already tried." She pauses, considering this irony. She has  
been unwillingly assaulted with pasts and futures, mostly of random  
strangers in the last few days but when she really wants to know, no  
visions come.  "Maybe if you change your mind, sometime, I could try  
again . . . ?"



Tag Jack







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