Who: Jake Chambers and Niki Sanders What: A new arrival in Los Angeles Where: Random street When: Early evening Status: Incomplete ; OPEN Rating: Should be low. Some language.
It always happened like this. The pain. The loss. How the world outside his body dulled, while the world inside was expanding to a multiverse of pain.
And then, silence. Stillness. An absence of everything that was so much worse than the pain.
As he did each and every time, Jake Chambers of New York opened his mouth and screamed as life slammed back into his body. It was only a matter of seconds before his body remembered how it was supposed to behave. The painful overstimulation was gone, and the boy slowly became aware of his surroundings. There was cement under his hands. Cement. Not the blacktop from the road, or the bushes he'd rolled into after the truck had slammed into him. Cement. Like a sidewalk. Noises began to filter in as well, dimly at first, but then with increasing strength as Jake continued to rouse. Traffic. People. Lots of people.
"Roland?" The first word to leave his lips, the name of his father. The man who was truly his father. If there were people here, Roland should be here. His father, his dinh. He'd been with Roland in the Keystone world. Jake had pushed Sai King out of the path of the truck, and took the lethal force on himself.
It didn't horrify Jake as much as it would have horrified others to remember the details of his death. It was the third he could recall. But this one was different. Death was final in the Keystone world. So why was he here now? Where was he?
"Roland?" he called again, a note of uncertainty making him sound like the eleven-year-old boy he was. Not the cold and natural-born killer that he also was.
Jake shifted to his knees, sitting up. The satchel of Oriza plates was heavy against his hip. Jake wondered briefly if he'd had them when he jumped from the car. Then he just hope that the dishes had given Sai King one hell of a fucking bruise.
At his knees, Jake checked himself over. His clothing was rough doeskin, pants of the dark canvas cloth he'd gotten in the Callah. The satchel of Orizas was full, but he counted them just the same. Fifteen. He had fifteen plates. He was in an alleyway in a city, though in which universe, he didn't know. The signs he could see looked like English. Time to see if there were any Tucker Talismans or Nozz-A-Cola around.
Jake got to his feet, leaning against the wall as he moved towards the street. Familiar ground. That was all he was looking for. Anything familiar.