Cuthbert Allgood (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wise_ass) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
edge_of_forever2013-09-04 05:32 pm
wise_ass) wrote in edge_of_forever2013-09-04 05:32 pm
August 12 | 10:45 PM | The holodeck, open to everyone.
It's late, but still a fairly respectable time to be up and about. He passes a few people on his way up to the holodeck but thankfully, when he gets to the door, he finds there's nobody else in sight. He lights up a cigarette and stands in the center of the dimly lit room, a blank page waiting impassively for his command. Bert takes a long, easy breath and sighs; the cigarette smoke is toasty, familiar, divine. The first one he's had in days.
"You wouldn't happen to know Mejis, would you?" he asks. His tone is polite-- it sounds like he's already forgiven the computer for not having the first fucking clue about where Mejis is, but before he can explain himself, the room has already started coming to life.
It flickers a few times through scenes Bert's not sure he recognizes as even from his world, but when it finally settles, he finds himself standing on one of the rolling hills overlooking the little town. The oil derricks, far over the hills to his left, are backlit by a fiercely beautiful sunset. On his right he can see a wide, treeless horizon that tells him he's not far from the Clean Sea.
It must have been a market day. The people below are packing up their stalls and loading up their carts. There's a tense moment where he's terrified he'll see something, someone he'll recognize before he realizes that the computer's brought him to a Mejis about fifty years prior to his ka-tet's infamous visit.
He heads down the hill and wanders a bit, trying to stay out of people's way, but enjoying, as he usually does, the novelty of secret immersion, not even minding when a woman gives him the obligatory small-town stink eye reserved for unfamiliar, unaccompanied young men. In fact, it makes him smile. It doesn't seem to improve her opinion of him any, but he can't help it. He walks through the market with that shit-eating grin, hands stuffed in his pockets, enjoying the alien quaintness of it all with a bizarre brand of contentment he figures can only be enjoyed by holidaymakers in other worlds.
He's in another world even now, though, isn't he? The station? The idea is an uncomfortable but not unwelcome knot at the base of his skull. He's spent nearly all of his time here doing penance, even if he hasn't realized it, but the last month has actually been penance in earnest. Bert had been drinking whiskey when zombi Alain had helpfully suggested he eat a bullet to better cope with his guilt, and mayhap it was a blessing, because the stuff just hadn't tasted the same after that. Or mayhap it was his own self-pity that didn't go down sweet anymore.
Cuthbert wasn't sure what he'd expected to feel, standing in the red dirt of Lower Market, surrounded by the smells and sights and sounds he's spent the last seven or so years trying to smother from memory. And mayhap it'd be different if he'd been dropped in at the right time and seen ole Kimba Rimer or Cordelia Delgado strutting through town. Mayhap.
But right now, the air feels clean, and somewhere a hundred wheels away, Cuthbert Allgood hasn't even been born yet. He closes his eyes and lets the idea sink in.
Behind him, the holodeck door opens, and he smiles-- that wide, idiot grin that says he's actually pleased for company-- and squints to see who it is.
"Hey there," he calls out, his voice warm and animated. "Just mind the cow pies."
"You wouldn't happen to know Mejis, would you?" he asks. His tone is polite-- it sounds like he's already forgiven the computer for not having the first fucking clue about where Mejis is, but before he can explain himself, the room has already started coming to life.
It flickers a few times through scenes Bert's not sure he recognizes as even from his world, but when it finally settles, he finds himself standing on one of the rolling hills overlooking the little town. The oil derricks, far over the hills to his left, are backlit by a fiercely beautiful sunset. On his right he can see a wide, treeless horizon that tells him he's not far from the Clean Sea.
It must have been a market day. The people below are packing up their stalls and loading up their carts. There's a tense moment where he's terrified he'll see something, someone he'll recognize before he realizes that the computer's brought him to a Mejis about fifty years prior to his ka-tet's infamous visit.
He heads down the hill and wanders a bit, trying to stay out of people's way, but enjoying, as he usually does, the novelty of secret immersion, not even minding when a woman gives him the obligatory small-town stink eye reserved for unfamiliar, unaccompanied young men. In fact, it makes him smile. It doesn't seem to improve her opinion of him any, but he can't help it. He walks through the market with that shit-eating grin, hands stuffed in his pockets, enjoying the alien quaintness of it all with a bizarre brand of contentment he figures can only be enjoyed by holidaymakers in other worlds.
He's in another world even now, though, isn't he? The station? The idea is an uncomfortable but not unwelcome knot at the base of his skull. He's spent nearly all of his time here doing penance, even if he hasn't realized it, but the last month has actually been penance in earnest. Bert had been drinking whiskey when zombi Alain had helpfully suggested he eat a bullet to better cope with his guilt, and mayhap it was a blessing, because the stuff just hadn't tasted the same after that. Or mayhap it was his own self-pity that didn't go down sweet anymore.
Cuthbert wasn't sure what he'd expected to feel, standing in the red dirt of Lower Market, surrounded by the smells and sights and sounds he's spent the last seven or so years trying to smother from memory. And mayhap it'd be different if he'd been dropped in at the right time and seen ole Kimba Rimer or Cordelia Delgado strutting through town. Mayhap.
But right now, the air feels clean, and somewhere a hundred wheels away, Cuthbert Allgood hasn't even been born yet. He closes his eyes and lets the idea sink in.
Behind him, the holodeck door opens, and he smiles-- that wide, idiot grin that says he's actually pleased for company-- and squints to see who it is.
"Hey there," he calls out, his voice warm and animated. "Just mind the cow pies."
no subject
Anyway, he was feeling heavier than he wanted to. If someone had held him to his reasons for conjuring up Mejis in the first place, he'd've been pressed to admit that he'd wanted to see if it would affect him in any appreciable way. As it was, he found it had lost some of the power it had over him as an idea, even with the familiar sights and sounds and smells filling him up, even with Hambry dirt on his boots.
You were just a kid. The voice in his head was a new one that he'd been cautiously breaking in over the last few weeks; not precisely his own, but not the disheartening, fast-talking whisper that had been holding court before the incident with not-Alain, either. You were just a kid, and so was Roland. Well, as much as he ever was.
Bert pulled his eyes off the horizon and gave Boyd a belated smile, hoping he at least gave the impression he was completely present and accounted for.
"Well." He leaned up against one of the pasture posts, and took a long drag of his now stub-sized cigarette. "You going to stand there and wax philosophical or are you going to show me how it was done in Cumberland?"
He exhales the last of the smoke and grins (a slightly-less-amiable version of his standard) before grinding the butt beneath his heel.
no subject
Boyd's grin was sharp, amused and a little bit dangerous, his eyes lighting up at the dare. He wished they could have met under more authentic circumstances. Maybe upstairs, maybe in another lifetime altogether.
"Well, you got the James Dean impression down, so I'd say we're off to a fine start already."
Even if Cuthbert didn't know who James Dean was, which was likely, the boy spoke the language of trouble. The posture, the well-timed execution of the cigarette, the challenging melody of the words -- the way Boyd saw it, if you couldn't do trouble with flair, you might as well skip the whole affair. Some of his companions from upstairs would undoubtedly disagree, preferring a more bare-boned experience, but to Boyd, presentation mattered.
"This ain't Cumberland," he continued, taking a look around to demonstrate his point. "Much as I appreciate your vote of confidence, my history of small-town delinquency isn't going to give me much insight onto what passes for trouble around here." He had ideas, of course, but this wasn't his show to run. "You've set the stage, cowboy. How about you show me how it's done?"