Riona (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rionaleonhart) wrote2007-07-12 08:36 am
rionaleonhart) wrote2007-07-12 08:36 am
Entry tags:
The Joys of Insanity.
Hello, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wanttobeatree! I've written your Sam-is-the-Master prompt!
This is, er, my first real Life on Mars fic, so I'm in a sort of finding-my-fandom-feet stage. Sorry if the characterisation is wonky or the writing is overly odd.
"I hear voices, Annie," he says. "In my head. The people from my home, calling me back." He pauses. "I don't know how to go back."
Annie is staring at him. He can't read the expression on her face. He's never been good at deciphering human signals, even though the understanding seems to come so naturally to everyone else.
He brings his hand down to the desk, tapping out an all-too-familiar rhythm with his fingers.
"I hear drumming."
-
There is a watch chained to the frame of the bed in his flat. He didn't notice it until he had been in this madness-inducing dream for almost three weeks (although who can tell how quickly time is passing in the real world?). It is an old-fashioned pocket watch with an intricate cover design, and sometimes he will catch sight of the chain glinting out of the corner of his eye and be suddenly reminded of handcuffs, of humiliation.
He often wonders what it looks like inside.
He has never opened it. He can't explain to himself why.
-
The drumming is louder with every passing day, with every passing hour. He thinks he might have heard it all his life. Maybe it's normal?
One day, he hunts himself down. He corners his four-year-old self down an alleyway and says, "Sam Tyler." His voice is sterner than he meant it to be; he's never been good at talking to children. "Do you hear drumming?"
"You're not supposed to be here," says the boy. He is shifting from foot to foot, twisting his hands around each other, avoiding eye contact.
Sam laughs. "I know," he says, and he cannot understand why he finds it quite as amusing as he does. "But I'm not really here."
"You're not real," says the boy, looking up into his eyes.
Sam stares at him. The boy stares back, his expression determined, and Sam is seized suddenly by a powerful, inexplicable anger.
"I am real!" he shouts, furious. "I'm the only real person here!"
The boy flees.
-
There is a graveyard not too far away, and when Sam manages to track down his four-year-old self he finds him there, sitting in front of a gravestone bearing his name. He stands there in silence for a moment, watching, before approaching him.
"I'm sorry," he says, sitting down next to him. "I shouldn't have shouted at you."
The boy doesn't answer; keeps staring at the grave. "There are two of us," he says, after a pause.
"Three," Sam says, with a slight smile. "My name's Sam Tyler, too." He lets his eyes stray over the nearby gravestones, and his breath catches. His parents' names are there, clear as the sky.
It has to be a coincidence. He's already met his parents in this time.
"No," the boy says, startling Sam out of his thoughts. "You haven't got a name."
"What are you talking about?" Sam asks, half-laughing. "Of course I've got a name."
The boy turns to regard him, very gravely. "You shouldn't be here," he says. "You'll cause a paradox."
Is this normal? Sam wonders. He hasn't spoken to many four-year-olds.
"You're not real, and I'm not real," the boy says, turning back to look at the grave. "It's not the same sort of not-real, though. He might have been real, but he's dead, so he can't help us."
It all seems very odd, Sam thinks. But this is a dream-world, after all. Why shouldn't a four-year-old philosophise?
-
One day, when Gene hits him, Sam snaps and throws him to the floor and kicks him until he is bleeding and barely conscious.
Sam spends the night throwing up.
Gene is out of commission for two days. When he returns, he congratulates Sam on finally having found a pair, then socks him in the gut.
The drums are louder than ever.
-
Three days later, Sam makes some unconvincing excuse in the middle of a murder investigation and goes straight back to the flat. He spends almost two hours fiddling uneasily with the chain of the watch. There is a voice in his head, speaking softly to him, but it's not like the echos of 2006. It is strangely familiar, but he cannot place it. It whispers things to him about time and power and somebody called the Doctor.
It says that it can take him to whatever time he wants, and he almost breaks the watch in his eagerness to open it.
The day after that, he pays a visit to the Tylers' house and finds it empty.
That night, the entire street is destroyed in a terrible fire.
-
"I want you to be my companion," he says, leaning against the frame of the door.
"Your what?" Gene demands. "Where'd you pick up that poncey accent from?"
"Haven't you ever wanted to rule the world?" he asks, casually.
Gene looks incredulously at him, then laughs. "I've got enough on my plate trying to keep this place in order, thanks."
"No?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow. "You're not tempted by the prospect of travelling in time and space? What a pity."
"You know, I reckon Crane was right about you," Gene says, squinting suspiciously at him. "You really are a looney."
"You're a creation of my mind," he says. "I should be able to make you do whatever I like." He is tapping out a four-beat rhythm on the doorframe, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on Gene.
Gene stares at him, barely aware of the fact that he has started to echo the rhythm against his leg.
"Get on your knees," the man with Sam's face says, moving closer. "There's something I want you to do for me."
wanttobeatree! I've written your Sam-is-the-Master prompt!This is, er, my first real Life on Mars fic, so I'm in a sort of finding-my-fandom-feet stage. Sorry if the characterisation is wonky or the writing is overly odd.
"I hear voices, Annie," he says. "In my head. The people from my home, calling me back." He pauses. "I don't know how to go back."
Annie is staring at him. He can't read the expression on her face. He's never been good at deciphering human signals, even though the understanding seems to come so naturally to everyone else.
He brings his hand down to the desk, tapping out an all-too-familiar rhythm with his fingers.
"I hear drumming."
There is a watch chained to the frame of the bed in his flat. He didn't notice it until he had been in this madness-inducing dream for almost three weeks (although who can tell how quickly time is passing in the real world?). It is an old-fashioned pocket watch with an intricate cover design, and sometimes he will catch sight of the chain glinting out of the corner of his eye and be suddenly reminded of handcuffs, of humiliation.
He often wonders what it looks like inside.
He has never opened it. He can't explain to himself why.
The drumming is louder with every passing day, with every passing hour. He thinks he might have heard it all his life. Maybe it's normal?
One day, he hunts himself down. He corners his four-year-old self down an alleyway and says, "Sam Tyler." His voice is sterner than he meant it to be; he's never been good at talking to children. "Do you hear drumming?"
"You're not supposed to be here," says the boy. He is shifting from foot to foot, twisting his hands around each other, avoiding eye contact.
Sam laughs. "I know," he says, and he cannot understand why he finds it quite as amusing as he does. "But I'm not really here."
"You're not real," says the boy, looking up into his eyes.
Sam stares at him. The boy stares back, his expression determined, and Sam is seized suddenly by a powerful, inexplicable anger.
"I am real!" he shouts, furious. "I'm the only real person here!"
The boy flees.
There is a graveyard not too far away, and when Sam manages to track down his four-year-old self he finds him there, sitting in front of a gravestone bearing his name. He stands there in silence for a moment, watching, before approaching him.
"I'm sorry," he says, sitting down next to him. "I shouldn't have shouted at you."
The boy doesn't answer; keeps staring at the grave. "There are two of us," he says, after a pause.
"Three," Sam says, with a slight smile. "My name's Sam Tyler, too." He lets his eyes stray over the nearby gravestones, and his breath catches. His parents' names are there, clear as the sky.
It has to be a coincidence. He's already met his parents in this time.
"No," the boy says, startling Sam out of his thoughts. "You haven't got a name."
"What are you talking about?" Sam asks, half-laughing. "Of course I've got a name."
The boy turns to regard him, very gravely. "You shouldn't be here," he says. "You'll cause a paradox."
Is this normal? Sam wonders. He hasn't spoken to many four-year-olds.
"You're not real, and I'm not real," the boy says, turning back to look at the grave. "It's not the same sort of not-real, though. He might have been real, but he's dead, so he can't help us."
It all seems very odd, Sam thinks. But this is a dream-world, after all. Why shouldn't a four-year-old philosophise?
One day, when Gene hits him, Sam snaps and throws him to the floor and kicks him until he is bleeding and barely conscious.
Sam spends the night throwing up.
Gene is out of commission for two days. When he returns, he congratulates Sam on finally having found a pair, then socks him in the gut.
The drums are louder than ever.
Three days later, Sam makes some unconvincing excuse in the middle of a murder investigation and goes straight back to the flat. He spends almost two hours fiddling uneasily with the chain of the watch. There is a voice in his head, speaking softly to him, but it's not like the echos of 2006. It is strangely familiar, but he cannot place it. It whispers things to him about time and power and somebody called the Doctor.
It says that it can take him to whatever time he wants, and he almost breaks the watch in his eagerness to open it.
The day after that, he pays a visit to the Tylers' house and finds it empty.
That night, the entire street is destroyed in a terrible fire.
"I want you to be my companion," he says, leaning against the frame of the door.
"Your what?" Gene demands. "Where'd you pick up that poncey accent from?"
"Haven't you ever wanted to rule the world?" he asks, casually.
Gene looks incredulously at him, then laughs. "I've got enough on my plate trying to keep this place in order, thanks."
"No?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow. "You're not tempted by the prospect of travelling in time and space? What a pity."
"You know, I reckon Crane was right about you," Gene says, squinting suspiciously at him. "You really are a looney."
"You're a creation of my mind," he says. "I should be able to make you do whatever I like." He is tapping out a four-beat rhythm on the doorframe, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on Gene.
Gene stares at him, barely aware of the fact that he has started to echo the rhythm against his leg.
"Get on your knees," the man with Sam's face says, moving closer. "There's something I want you to do for me."
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*gives you as much sugar and zombie porn as you could ever desire*