[Sodium_noir] Hell is Other People

[Jennie Teakle]

Sinclair Party
Jack & Christine


[Jack]
In the garden, in the present moment, Jack staggers away from  
Christine.  “No... no...no...”  He is mumbling, not seeing her, and  
retreats until his leg bumps into the bench.  It’s enough to throw  
off what little balance he still possesses and he falls to the  
ground.  The alcohol numbs whatever pain he might have felt and his  
arms flails out as if to keep someone at bay.

[Christine]
Christine is too shaken to do anything but cling to the rail and  
watch. She feels like she just escaped a nightmare, dragging herself  
out by pure force of will.  But Jack is still trapped within it. Not  
a nightmare, thinks Christine bleakly. A memory. Something bad;  
something too terrible to share. Not that she had been willing to  
share it with him . . .

Christine closes her eyes and her hands clench into fists by her  
side. She wishes she could deny it all; shut everyone out. All the  
despair and the ugliness and the unforgiveable hands that Fate,  
smiling like a shark,  deals out. It's so fucking random! There is  
neither justice nor reason in any of it. The Innocent and Good - and  
even the just plain Ordinary - get no better breaks than the Wicked.  
Shit happens and there is no one sitting on high to give a damn. For  
Jack right now, there is just Christine. Reluctant, useless observer  
as he writhes in the taloned grip of his own past. Her 'gift'. What  
fucking good is it? She can See but she can't do anything about it.   
All she can do is share the horror.

I can't take it any more, thinks Christine. Had it with the Seer gig.  
I'm out of here.

  She opens her eyes, turns for the door. Hesitates. Looks at Jack.

It isn't about you, stupid girl.

A memory of her own, like a slap in the face. The voice of the Sybil,  
dark in her cave. An old, old woman bleached ashen and dried to husks.

Christine breathes in shakily. Then slowly, she climbs the few steps  
to Jack and kneels close beside him. She reaches out to touch the  
hand with which he is still fending off the terrible thing that  
happened . . .  a few days ago? A few years? Christine doesn't know.  
But obviously not long enough ago to have lost it's devastating  
power. Christine has to grit her teeth and her will to do it, but she  
grabs Jack's uninjured hand, capturing it firmly.

"It's alright," she murmurs, "it isn't happening to you now. It's  
done and gone. Let it go. For your own sake, please . . . let it go."

Jack stares at Christine and, for a moment, doesn’t recognize her.   
In the next moment, he knows he’s sitting on his butt on very cold  
ground outside a very posh palace where he clearly doesn’t belong,  
sitting next to a lovely, red-haired girl who’s saved his worthless  
skin and with whom he’s just shared the worst memory of his very  
brief human life.  His horrified expression fades away, replaced by a  
crooked half-smile.  “Okay, that’s the second time I dragged you into  
my the labyrinth of my addled brain.  Really sorry. Really.”  He  
grabs the bench and manages, after two or three feeble attempts, to  
get to his feet.  His facade is one of nonchalance, as if the shared  
nightmare never happened.  “This can mean only one thing - I have  
most definitely NOT consumed enough alcohol.”  Jack is now beaming at  
Christine as he tries to re-wrap his hand.  “This needs to be covered  
much better.  Sorry to not be in better control of it, darl...oh,  
sorry... not going to say that anymore. ‘Scuse me.”

(Christine)
Christine watches Jack determinedly regain his composure, pulling it  
together like a pro. By the time he's struggled to his feet, his  
public face is nearly perfect. No strings, no seams. Now you just  
look at the smile and the charmingly normal facade and it's  
convincing enough to hide the tightrope he's walking and just how far  
and dark the fall is. But, even drunk, Christine has good eyes.  
Question is, what's best? Measure the murky depths or help him keep  
his balance on the wire strung across?

(Jack)
Having gained a bit more control of his limbs, he offers Christine  
his arm. “I think it’s time we left for greener pastures, don’t you?”

[Christine]
  Still kneeling, she stares up at Jack and his offered arm. Several  
observations present themselves. Belatedly.

"That wasn't me. Was it?" she says. "I touched your hand just then,  
nothing bled through. Plus, I'm not throwing up on your shoes.  
So . .  the vision of your past didn't come courtesy of my splendid  
'gift'." Christine pauses, thinking, her gaze drifts to the uncoiling  
bandage and the blood that still ribbons his hand. "You did  
that . . . your blood. Your power. That's what you meant?"

(Jack)
Jack’s eyes take on a gleam that’s part mischief and part guilt, with  
just a hint of pride.  He gives up on the fumbling attempt to wrap  
his hand and, instead, closes his eyes for a moment, concentrating.   
He opens them again, and presents his open palm to Christine.

“And you’re the first to see it.”  In the center of Jack’s right palm  
is a symbol, carved neatly into the flesh.  It had been bleeding  
profusely, but now the blood is congealed and the wound closed.  Its  
outline is clearly visible - a triangle, with an upside-down cross  
exiting its base.

(Christine)
Christine stares at the disfigurement, brows puckered, horrified.  
Fascinated. Suddenly, it's all too weird and Christine begins to  
laugh, helpless and slightly hysterical. "You bleed and I puke and  
Shazam!" she snorts. "Oh, my God! And here's me with delusions of  
Seer!" Christine breaks off, howls with laughter. It's so exquisitely  
awful and ludicrous, the whole thing. It takes a moment for her to  
regain speech enough to say, "Sorry, not funny. But . . . oh Christ!  
Y'know, at the same time, it really is! Magic! And I'm such a screw- 
up. And, Jesus! So are you! Man, we suck! " Still giggling weakly,  
she wipes her eyes, remembering at the last minute to do so  
carefully. "Oh fuck! Mascara!" she adds. She takes Jack's arm and  
scrambles ungracefully to standing. Just about. She turns her face up  
for scrutiny, her expression all anxious entreaty. "Please tell me I  
don't look like a panda!"

(Jack)
Jack snickers, weaving slightly.  “We don’t suck.  We’ve only been  
doing this magic for.... what?  A day or two? Did yours come with an  
instruction manual?  ‘Cause mine didn’t.  I know what these things  
are supposed to do.  Clearly don’t know how the fuck to control them  
yet.  So... I beg to differ.  We are not screw-ups, merely  
apprentices trying to be masters.”  He pauses, looking quite  
impressed with the inebriated profundity of that last remark.   
“And... you do NOT look like a panda.  I would tell you if you did,  
believe me. I don’t drink with pandas.  Never have.”

(Christine)
"Thank God and, hey," a new thought occurs to Christine, temporarily  
more important than mascara. "Y'know, I haven't Seen a goddamn thing  
since the cab . . . since before I started to drink. I mean seriously  
drink." Christine's expression is now arrested, on the edge of a  
blinding realisation. "You think alcohol might block the Sight?" she  
asks. New resolve enters her face, her jaw tightens. "I may need to  
explore that idea further. In a bar. Greener pastures?  
Absofuckinglutely."

(Jack)
He ponders this as seriously as the booze allows.  “I have no fucking  
clue.  Not enough evidence to support the theory. Further  
experimenting is in order.  Let’s go, missy.”


Tag/TBC? Hell with it who cares? :-D

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