the sleep facility - a quick fic in bite-sized bits

[wytchcroft]

one:

"Woah - hold up!"

i said, panting slightly and resting my hands on my knees. That's what they tell you, right?
If you're dizzy, feel faint, bend low and breathe slow, it's the truth i know - i remember it from... somewhere.

The wind is barely touching the sand.


"What is it?"

"Flashbacks." I could hardly hear myself, or feel the hand on my shoulder.

"That's not possible," he said.

All around us, up-ended and rotting, the hulks of great empty vessels beached like giant sea monsters whose tide had long gone out, the tall points of masts, the hollow hulls, rib cages of rusted iron, everything wavering in the white sun light.

i was mumbling something about a dream.

i think.

Two shadows, me and someone else, the vague feeling of laughter, the weight of a smile. Like the hand on my shoulder.
i had taken photographs; i loved the old abandoned docks and i was taking photographs and i was -

"That never happened."

"But i remember."

"Then be glad, hold on to that." Humouring me, was a sign of his impatience. I did my best to steady myself.

"Come on then," he said, after a while - his accent, so different to mine. It was, had always been, so hypnotic - it was almost embarrassing.

"Where are you from?" the question blurting from me.

"Scotland. I told you. Now come on, it's not clever to hang around here - and we need to move." I could feel the hand this time, surrendered to it.

"Ok."

I get myself upright, stretch out a foot and then another foot and I'm walking, I'm leaving a trail behind me in the sand. It's warm but my skin is prickled and i'm shivering.

"When we get to a good place, we'll rest, eat something, we'll need the energy - you'll feel better then, get some sugar in your blood."

That must be why i feel so confused.

I can hear the metal ships boom and crack as the sun plays on their bones.

In the shadow of one of them, just a baby boat really, we rest and eat biscuits and drink some pop from a bottle, we must have jacked a vender sometime, but i don't remember.

"I need a shot," i say quietly.

"I know," he says.

I wonder if he enjoys this, knowing, it makes him the leader, makes him the man.

"Well?"

He can tell I'm angry - but he doesn't know why. That makes him scowl.

"Ok," he says grumpily, "but we have to make them last - the next time... well you might be in some trouble before we can afford to use it."

"Whatever."

My face is under my hair.

But he doesn't need my face. He just takes out the dermic and shoots me in the head.

And he's a good shot. And it's a good shot. I can feel myself warming up instantly, feel myself coming back to life, i can feel myself remembering.

"Jay," I mumble.

"I guess," he says.

"Ali.”

"And that would be you."

His turn now. He gives himself a mem-dose without blinking. I wonder if he practised that in the mirror, or if he's really so used to it all by now.

................................... end of one


this fic was inspired by a conversation with stosha and by two specific cds
it's also a none too subtle shout out to the The Deuce Project SF Podcast and the Digital Meltdown crew.