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Sunday Evening, London Below
Somewhere under Oxford Street
There's blood on Door's hands, and none of it's hers. It's stained her clothes as well, not that you can easily tell as they're still soaking wet after pulling her brother from the pool. She'll have to change them once she's cleaned things up, but right now, she can't stop.
Can't slow down, because if she does... yes, whoever did this might find her, but worse in a way, she'll think. She'll wonder. She'll stand still for too long and see the body at the end of the greenhouse with the cloth wrapped round its throat as her mother, instead of something she has to take care of before she can pack a bag and run.
There's a scuttling sound and she spins to face it, ready for anything, as she won't be if she lets herself slow down and really comprehends what she's doing. Her boot knocks over a watering can, and a small brown rat runs out from behind it.
Door's breath catches somewhere in her ribcage; its whistles when she finally lets it out and crouches to offer her fingers to the rat. "Do you know what happened here?" she asks it. "Who did this?" Because those things, she needs to know, if she's going to live.
Whiskers twitch at her and black eyes glare. //You did, of course// it squeaks.
"I...what?"
//You're covered in their blood.//
Door stares at the rat for a moment, then down at her hands. Streaks of blood from cleaning up bodies have become rivulets, pouring down her arms, soaking her in red, spattering the floor, raining down on her boots, on the head of the rat.
"I didn't!" she says desperately. "I wasn't even here!"
//You should've been// the rat chitters angrily at her.
She wakes up cold and damp, huddled beneath a dripping sewer grate, the word No caught in her throat like it's going to choke her if she doesn't shout it out. She doesn't, it could call her death down on her to make noise right now, and yet Door hears its echo ringing off the concrete above her head. She tucks her face beneath her coat and tries to sleep again.
__
The walkway above Tower Bridge
The Floating Market's seldom held above the city; Mad Tom is out of breath by the time he's made his way up there. Searching fruitlessly among the bodies, lights and smells - less rank than usual to be sure, up here in the cold air - for the sight of a familiar coat isn't helping his mood, either.
He's muttering to himself - or perhaps to the wee invisible brownie that likes to bite him on the ear if he doesn't talk to it every so often -- and just about to slink off towards the pigeon-on-a-stick booth to steal a bite despite the supposed urgency of his mission, when there's a tap on his shoulder. He turns to see a lazy smile in a dark, dark face, a shock of bleached yellow hair crowning long black braids.
"I take it your little favour for me is done, Tom? If you've found time to come marketing again."
"Aye, it's done, and so's my debt to you." Tom glares at him. "I came here looking for you, not to sample the wares." Mad Tom never lies; he just forgets the truth sometimes.
"You owe me, Tom o'Bedlam. Straightening your coat and playing at sanity long enough to arrange some paperwork for me in London Above is hardly the worst I could've asked you to do; be thankful."
Tom's eyes widen, and he points a raggedly-chewed fingernail at the other man. "Owed. I owed you a favour, and I paid up. We're quits, you and me."
The man grins, snapping his fingers under Tom's nose. "We're quits when it's done what it was meant to, Tom. Perhaps she's dead, perhaps they'll slit her throat tomorrow. Perhaps she'll be stupid and choose to stay here, turn and fight like a cornered rat. What then? I'm out a perfectly good debt for nothing? I think not."
"You poxy bastard." Sometimes he forgets other people's truths as well. "I should've killed you in the sewers."
"Probably. You were a little busy drowning at the time, though." Long brown fingers chuck Tom under his chin. "Buck up - if she dies before she gets to me, you still get some credit for effort."
"Really?"
"Of course - the next time I need to call in a favour, I'll think of you first."
He's already walking away with a flip of his coat before Tom can spit the first curse at him, but perhaps it's best. Tom can only deal with one bark of mocking laughter at a time, and the brownie's is louder, as it's right in his ear.
___
[Cut for a bit of graphic imagery as well as length. Door won't be arriving in Fandom until Friday night; this is just a glimpse into what she is doing.]
There's blood on Door's hands, and none of it's hers. It's stained her clothes as well, not that you can easily tell as they're still soaking wet after pulling her brother from the pool. She'll have to change them once she's cleaned things up, but right now, she can't stop.
Can't slow down, because if she does... yes, whoever did this might find her, but worse in a way, she'll think. She'll wonder. She'll stand still for too long and see the body at the end of the greenhouse with the cloth wrapped round its throat as her mother, instead of something she has to take care of before she can pack a bag and run.
There's a scuttling sound and she spins to face it, ready for anything, as she won't be if she lets herself slow down and really comprehends what she's doing. Her boot knocks over a watering can, and a small brown rat runs out from behind it.
Door's breath catches somewhere in her ribcage; its whistles when she finally lets it out and crouches to offer her fingers to the rat. "Do you know what happened here?" she asks it. "Who did this?" Because those things, she needs to know, if she's going to live.
Whiskers twitch at her and black eyes glare. //You did, of course// it squeaks.
"I...what?"
//You're covered in their blood.//
Door stares at the rat for a moment, then down at her hands. Streaks of blood from cleaning up bodies have become rivulets, pouring down her arms, soaking her in red, spattering the floor, raining down on her boots, on the head of the rat.
"I didn't!" she says desperately. "I wasn't even here!"
//You should've been// the rat chitters angrily at her.
She wakes up cold and damp, huddled beneath a dripping sewer grate, the word No caught in her throat like it's going to choke her if she doesn't shout it out. She doesn't, it could call her death down on her to make noise right now, and yet Door hears its echo ringing off the concrete above her head. She tucks her face beneath her coat and tries to sleep again.
__
The walkway above Tower Bridge
The Floating Market's seldom held above the city; Mad Tom is out of breath by the time he's made his way up there. Searching fruitlessly among the bodies, lights and smells - less rank than usual to be sure, up here in the cold air - for the sight of a familiar coat isn't helping his mood, either.
He's muttering to himself - or perhaps to the wee invisible brownie that likes to bite him on the ear if he doesn't talk to it every so often -- and just about to slink off towards the pigeon-on-a-stick booth to steal a bite despite the supposed urgency of his mission, when there's a tap on his shoulder. He turns to see a lazy smile in a dark, dark face, a shock of bleached yellow hair crowning long black braids.
"I take it your little favour for me is done, Tom? If you've found time to come marketing again."
"Aye, it's done, and so's my debt to you." Tom glares at him. "I came here looking for you, not to sample the wares." Mad Tom never lies; he just forgets the truth sometimes.
"You owe me, Tom o'Bedlam. Straightening your coat and playing at sanity long enough to arrange some paperwork for me in London Above is hardly the worst I could've asked you to do; be thankful."
Tom's eyes widen, and he points a raggedly-chewed fingernail at the other man. "Owed. I owed you a favour, and I paid up. We're quits, you and me."
The man grins, snapping his fingers under Tom's nose. "We're quits when it's done what it was meant to, Tom. Perhaps she's dead, perhaps they'll slit her throat tomorrow. Perhaps she'll be stupid and choose to stay here, turn and fight like a cornered rat. What then? I'm out a perfectly good debt for nothing? I think not."
"You poxy bastard." Sometimes he forgets other people's truths as well. "I should've killed you in the sewers."
"Probably. You were a little busy drowning at the time, though." Long brown fingers chuck Tom under his chin. "Buck up - if she dies before she gets to me, you still get some credit for effort."
"Really?"
"Of course - the next time I need to call in a favour, I'll think of you first."
He's already walking away with a flip of his coat before Tom can spit the first curse at him, but perhaps it's best. Tom can only deal with one bark of mocking laughter at a time, and the brownie's is louder, as it's right in his ear.
___
[Cut for a bit of graphic imagery as well as length. Door won't be arriving in Fandom until Friday night; this is just a glimpse into what she is doing.]