bastard john snow. (![]() ![]() @ 2011-06-07 18:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! narrative, john collins |
WHO: John Collins and an NPC.
WHAT: John meets his mysterious benefactor.
WHERE: Some creepy lab in some creepy part of Europe.
WHEN: Yesterday afternoon.
STATUS/RATING: Complete/PG-13 for language.
They had taken the chains from his hands and the bag from his head, but John could not help but feel leery of the man in front of him. He had, after all, drugged John and kidnapped him to god only knew where—some sterile room with too-high walls, a dark wood desk and several chairs, and, incongruously, a tea set for two. Just enough for John and his abductor. He was a man in his thirties in a pale linen suit, with slicked dark hair and smooth olive skin. He was leaning casually against the desk, his ankles crossed, fussing with a hand-rolled cigarette. His name was Sandeep. He worked for a company called Promethean Inc., and he was offering John a miracle.
Kidnapping was not the usual way to offer someone such a thing, of course; but judging by how long he had been in their van, and then in their mysterious white room, and judging by the fact that Alfred wasn't here with a strip of ammunition across his chest methodically tying this smug asshole up—they at least weren't going to kill or ransom him. Sandeep finished lighting his cigarette, shook out the match, and took a few grateful puffs.
“Nothing like a good hand-rolled fag,” he said in clipped English tones.
John's lip quirked up; a humorless smirk. “I think the common response to that, is that is what she said.”
Sandeep flashed what could only be called a pitying grin.
“That doesn't even make sense, in context, unless you've been doing something with fags your dear butler doesn't know about.”
Instantly John was on defense. “Where is he?”
Sandeep shrugged. “He's fine. Probably sipping a nice Darjeeling, if I read him right.”
John paused. “ 'Read'?” he repeated slowly.
Sandeep took a long drag and then set his cigarette down in a porcelain tray. He opened his mouth to say something, stopped, judged John for a brief moment, and then turned to the tea. “Speaking of Darjeeling—”
“I do not want your fucking tea,” John spat.
Sandeep paused, then shrugged and set the second cup down. “As you like.”
“What am I doing here?”
“Don't be obtuse, Mr. Collins. We offered you a cure, and I'm going to give it to you.”
John shifted slightly in his chair. A part of him wanted to get up, but even inside, the pull of the sun made him weak, and he wondered how long it had been since he'd had an inhibitor shot. But this man at least had some inkling of what he was, and he was likely to have taken other precautions if he was letting John go unchained. He was doubly glad he hadn't taken the tea.
Sandeep took a sip and leaned back against the desk again. “Mr. Collins, what do you know about...subconscious security?”
John stared at him.
Sandeep stared back over the rim of his teacup.
“Are you fucking kidding me,” John said. It wasn't even a question. “You bring me to this fucking labrat piece of shit hole to quote twenty-year-old movies?”
“Don't be ridiculous,” Sandeep snapped. “Do I look like a dreamwalker?”
John stood up. “I am leaving.”
“Sit,” Sandeep said, and his voice—echoed.
John sat.
“Mr. Collins,” Sandeep said calmly, and set down his tea. “I specialize in building—you might call them barriers, in the mind. I can protect from intrusions, or—” He smiled and spread his hands. “Extrusions. Keep things contained.”
“We have tried blocks before.”
“These are not your average blocks.”
John snorted. “We have tried many blocks. Did you even speak to Alfred before he cut you a check?”
Sandeep shrugged. “Don't worry, Mr. Collins. Your butler briefed me quite thoroughly before I named my criminally exorbitant fee.”
“Fucking fascinating,” John said.
The man seemed to change what he'd been planning to say, lifted a finger as if John was going anywhere, and crossed to the other side of the desk. He opened a drawer with the soft swish of a well-oiled mechanism, and John wondered if they used this room frequently, or merely kept it in peak condition for guests like himself. Out of the drawer came an intricately carved wooden box, about a foot long. Out of the box came a long, thin syringe.
The tip gleamed in the fluorescent light.
John stared at Sandeep's face. The man was gently pressing the plunger upwards, watching a thin stream of dark liquid come shooting out of the point. He looked quite calm. John could not move.
“What is that. What is that.”
“No need to repeat yourself,” Sandeep said, striding over. “I can hear perfectly well.”
“What is it.”
“It's a sedative, Mr. Collins. Relax.” Sandeep's voice echoed again, and John wanted desperately, desperately to get up—but he couldn't make himself move, couldn't control his own body—and Sandeep gently pushed the tip of the syringe into the soft flesh of his throat. His voice was already fading out of earshot, even as that echo reverbated in John's bones, in his skull, growing ever louder like an approaching wasp's nest, or a tidal wave, or a crescendo.
“Relax,” Sandeep said from somewhere far away in John's mind. “And let me do my work.”