Whumptober #3, #4 + #5
Oct. 5th, 2023 04:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rosanicusThese are more like sections of unwritten epics than standalone stories but believe me: I have so many WIPs that adding these to the pile would be calamitous in the extreme.
No. 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”
Journal | Solitary Confinement | “Make it stop.”
Biggles wished – not for the first time – for his watch. He leaned back against the wall of his cell and gazed up at the ceiling, featureless with the exception of a large, spreading patch of damp in the opposing corner.
He thought it had been at least two or three days since he was brought to this place. It was longer than he’d expected to remain here, whether Algy stormed in or held back and approached with more caution. The window was his one guide when it came to keeping time; he could now almost make out the slit of the waning moon through the narrow pane.
A light doze overtook him. It was difficult to concentrate in such a place on one’s own; Biggles had been alone many times in his life but rarely while so definitively trapped in one place. It gave him the feeling of a caged animal, such that he had to physically resist the urge to pace. It would do him no good, anyway. On his first day he’d traced out the dimensions of the cell as he searched for any useful detritus or convenient secret passages (neither had been forthcoming) and estimated the breadth of the space to be no more than three or four yards.
He blinked awake from his doze some time later. A change became immediately apparent – the cell was pitch black. Biggles swallowed heavily. He did not like the evidence that someone must have been in with him while he slept, whether the trays of bread and water inside the barred door or - in this case - of the window pane which had been painted over in a thick coat of black. He only knew this last detail because, when he groped his way over to the far wall, he could smell the paint.
Scratching the paint with a fingernail yielded little. Biggles supposed that the exterior wall had been shielded in some way as well – this was a tactic he hadn’t anticipated. His last few days had been punctuated with visits by his captors, eager to find out what Biggles knew of their operation and where exactly he had come by his information, with little success. Clearly they were changing tactics.
Biggles had never thought much about his feelings on darkness. It was inconvenient to be stuck in it, as a rule, and flying at night was much more dangerous than the day without good guide lights. On the other hand, some of his most successful missions from both wars and his work afterwards were flown under cover of night. During his childhood he had feared the dark more for the animals which might be hidden beneath the cover of the jungle than for the quality of the darkness itself.
Now, however, with darkness pressing in on him and no obvious escape nearby, Biggles felt the ancient fear resurge in his chest.
No. 4: “I see the danger, It’s written there in your eyes.”
Cattle Prod | Shock | “You in there?”
London was a strange place to live. Erich had never considered it overmuch before, when he had expected to spend what remained of his life as he had spent the past few decades -- living out of a suitcase, never staying in any one place too long. His most permanent base had been the sofa in his sister's living room, which was only comfortable to Erich because he had long ago learned to sleep on any surface.
And so having a permanent residence -- or as permanent as anything could be anymore, he supposed -- was a shock, as well as a novelty. The flat he had found to rent was similarly novel. There was indoor plumbing with hot water as well as an electric hob in the kitchen; Erich had been informed that these were 'mod-cons' by Raymond, who had failed to explain what the term itself meant. The walls were painted in a colour which while not particularly pretty was at least inoffensive. It had come unfurnished, and while Erich saved his income from translation work for a sofa he was forced to eat his meals sat on a folding chair that had been left behind by a previous tenant.
The fireplace was electric. Erich had discovered this early on and narrowly avoided being electrocuted while replacing the fuse in the plug. It left his sitting room pleasantly warm in the evenings. He had come into the habit of sitting on the hearthrug before it with the small pile of books he took from the library each week. There wasn't yet the money for a record player, so he made do with his imagination.
Besides these simple pleasures, Erich found it difficult to grow more familiar with this new home. He lay awake into the early hours of each morning, the sound of cars and the smell of smog his only company. Each morning he rose with the sun and made breakfast, which he ate while sitting in the folding chair, and washed his crockery in the sink. His work was done primarily in the folding chair at the small desk that Raymond had provided along with his offer of a job.
It had been two months since his arrival in London. It was grating to know that, for all his progress, Erich was still waiting for one particular knock on his door.
No. 5: “You better pray I don't get up this time around.”
Debris | Pinned Down | “It's broken.”
Pain losts its meaning after a while. Algy had known this for much of his life; he thought that he was usually quite philosophical about it. There had been multiple occasions on which he'd been injured and fought through it.
This time, he was less interested in the pain than he'd expected he would be. He'd never seen the inside of an engine block from this angle before; he tried to crane his neck and felt more annoyance than agony.
His leg didn't hurt anymore, at least. He had looked at it when he first surfaced from the black fog he'd fallen into after the crash, and had to turn his head to the side to vomit at the sight of it. There was little to be gained from looking again, for all that he found his eyes drifting downwards again and again.
The sounds of the Terai were almost comforting. He imagined himself as the dinner of some poor leopard on the run from poachers, or being dragged half-sensible to the den of a tiger. He found the stories Biggles had told him of his childhood in India growing more vivid as the hours passed and the night darkened.
No. 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”
Journal | Solitary Confinement | “Make it stop.”
Biggles wished – not for the first time – for his watch. He leaned back against the wall of his cell and gazed up at the ceiling, featureless with the exception of a large, spreading patch of damp in the opposing corner.
He thought it had been at least two or three days since he was brought to this place. It was longer than he’d expected to remain here, whether Algy stormed in or held back and approached with more caution. The window was his one guide when it came to keeping time; he could now almost make out the slit of the waning moon through the narrow pane.
A light doze overtook him. It was difficult to concentrate in such a place on one’s own; Biggles had been alone many times in his life but rarely while so definitively trapped in one place. It gave him the feeling of a caged animal, such that he had to physically resist the urge to pace. It would do him no good, anyway. On his first day he’d traced out the dimensions of the cell as he searched for any useful detritus or convenient secret passages (neither had been forthcoming) and estimated the breadth of the space to be no more than three or four yards.
He blinked awake from his doze some time later. A change became immediately apparent – the cell was pitch black. Biggles swallowed heavily. He did not like the evidence that someone must have been in with him while he slept, whether the trays of bread and water inside the barred door or - in this case - of the window pane which had been painted over in a thick coat of black. He only knew this last detail because, when he groped his way over to the far wall, he could smell the paint.
Scratching the paint with a fingernail yielded little. Biggles supposed that the exterior wall had been shielded in some way as well – this was a tactic he hadn’t anticipated. His last few days had been punctuated with visits by his captors, eager to find out what Biggles knew of their operation and where exactly he had come by his information, with little success. Clearly they were changing tactics.
Biggles had never thought much about his feelings on darkness. It was inconvenient to be stuck in it, as a rule, and flying at night was much more dangerous than the day without good guide lights. On the other hand, some of his most successful missions from both wars and his work afterwards were flown under cover of night. During his childhood he had feared the dark more for the animals which might be hidden beneath the cover of the jungle than for the quality of the darkness itself.
Now, however, with darkness pressing in on him and no obvious escape nearby, Biggles felt the ancient fear resurge in his chest.
No. 4: “I see the danger, It’s written there in your eyes.”
Cattle Prod | Shock | “You in there?”
London was a strange place to live. Erich had never considered it overmuch before, when he had expected to spend what remained of his life as he had spent the past few decades -- living out of a suitcase, never staying in any one place too long. His most permanent base had been the sofa in his sister's living room, which was only comfortable to Erich because he had long ago learned to sleep on any surface.
And so having a permanent residence -- or as permanent as anything could be anymore, he supposed -- was a shock, as well as a novelty. The flat he had found to rent was similarly novel. There was indoor plumbing with hot water as well as an electric hob in the kitchen; Erich had been informed that these were 'mod-cons' by Raymond, who had failed to explain what the term itself meant. The walls were painted in a colour which while not particularly pretty was at least inoffensive. It had come unfurnished, and while Erich saved his income from translation work for a sofa he was forced to eat his meals sat on a folding chair that had been left behind by a previous tenant.
The fireplace was electric. Erich had discovered this early on and narrowly avoided being electrocuted while replacing the fuse in the plug. It left his sitting room pleasantly warm in the evenings. He had come into the habit of sitting on the hearthrug before it with the small pile of books he took from the library each week. There wasn't yet the money for a record player, so he made do with his imagination.
Besides these simple pleasures, Erich found it difficult to grow more familiar with this new home. He lay awake into the early hours of each morning, the sound of cars and the smell of smog his only company. Each morning he rose with the sun and made breakfast, which he ate while sitting in the folding chair, and washed his crockery in the sink. His work was done primarily in the folding chair at the small desk that Raymond had provided along with his offer of a job.
It had been two months since his arrival in London. It was grating to know that, for all his progress, Erich was still waiting for one particular knock on his door.
No. 5: “You better pray I don't get up this time around.”
Debris | Pinned Down | “It's broken.”
Pain losts its meaning after a while. Algy had known this for much of his life; he thought that he was usually quite philosophical about it. There had been multiple occasions on which he'd been injured and fought through it.
This time, he was less interested in the pain than he'd expected he would be. He'd never seen the inside of an engine block from this angle before; he tried to crane his neck and felt more annoyance than agony.
His leg didn't hurt anymore, at least. He had looked at it when he first surfaced from the black fog he'd fallen into after the crash, and had to turn his head to the side to vomit at the sight of it. There was little to be gained from looking again, for all that he found his eyes drifting downwards again and again.
The sounds of the Terai were almost comforting. He imagined himself as the dinner of some poor leopard on the run from poachers, or being dragged half-sensible to the den of a tiger. He found the stories Biggles had told him of his childhood in India growing more vivid as the hours passed and the night darkened.
no subject
Date: 2023-10-05 06:17 pm (UTC)And EvS, settled in London with all mod cons - but no visit from Biggles </3 And ALGY OH NO. Looking at the engine block from this angle AAAAA ;_;