Prompt 156.1 for oncoming_storms
Prompt 156.1
You hear one version of events about a good friend for so long, and sometimes you miss the truth when it's about to happen. Or that's the way it almost happened for me. I was so used to knowing everything that I almost missed it, and the hardest part was figuring it out far too late. So long after the fact, nothing could be resolved, nothing could be done.
It all started with a trip to New York. Hex needed a break after the terrible events that came of meeting Cromwell, and Ace could easily watch him in the streets of Manhattan. That had been a particularly terrible expedition, realizing that he'd accidentally been the cause of countless deaths, that he'd agitated Cromwell into even greater anger, into being more of a barbarian. He needed the time to himself, something- or time -simple and familiar to relax in. And I? I needed to wash the stain from my mind, the cries of many desperate souls feeling contempt and fear.
Of course, that wasn't going to be quite as easy as I first intended it to be. I, like the pompous genius that I am (this is just between me and you, paper, as no one can read my script), landed us in the aftermath of a time storm. A Draconian had been swept up and was wondering the streets of the island, and there were suspicious sightings all about. One wrong move and the people would be in an uproar, swarming with anxiety and fear of what could be lingering out there waiting to invade. It would trample what I knew of history. I sent Ace and Hex out looking for it- with spare cash in case they got hungry -and I split off to do some investigating of my own. I was talking to a peculiar, sallow, hollow-eyed man in a newspaper booth when I was approached by a very stiff gentleman.
He introduced himself to me as Mr. Green with the department of corrections, and he might know the man I was looking for. He was tall. I always notice when people are tall, because I talk to their neck-ties and his was black and narrow. Had to angle my head back to see that he was brown-headed, extraordinarily normal looking fellow. Had a bit of a mid-western American accent, a touch low. Quite similar to that of polar Gallifrey, except for the dipthongs. When he flashed his identification at me, oddly enough this utterly normal man was flashing blank paper. There were a few ah, I believe they're called "rubber-neckers" that had been dwindling after the sighting of the questionable scaled man that made a scene in public, and everyone seemed to believe there was something there, though, and his confidence in his position reinforced it. He practically exuded the feeling. I didn't say anything about it, simply smiled kindly and agreed to accompany him.
It wasn't until we were to his car, an old Ford that looked far worse on the outside than the interior (improper to that time period; it should have been from the future) that he corrected himself and gave me his true identity. He was Brigadier Kevin Brown with the Manhattan division of my old friends across the pond, UNIT. He needed to bring me in to assist him with their current case- hunting down that Draconian before he did something quite terrible.
As it turns out, the Manhattan division of UNIT was very well handled. I wasn't quite expecting them to be so friendly toward aliens; supplying them with shimmers if they had a license and reported their locations, monitoring the traffic of all extraterrestrial or radioactive goods, and steadfastly staying uninvolved in the political matters of other nations. I was a bit dumbfounded as I walked through their intake center. Clean, quick, and efficient.
I didn't know whether I liked it or not. A tad eerie, and too much organization always puts me a little off.
I went up with him to an office and had a seat, all the while trying to figure out how to get at this man's pocket so that I could get that sheet of paper. I wanted it so badly that I could taste it, but instead I settled for making little matchstick men on his desk as he informed me of the current state of affairs. Had a very dry voice, this man, earnest and blunt. Left little room for question. I probably looked as though I was ignoring him; he treated me as if I was listening anyway, which I respected. He just let me fiddle and tinker... Mostly. He did take his coffee cup back when I got a little too familiar for his liking. Didn't even look at me as he was doing so.
The photographs he handed me I glanced over. Yes, a Draconian. But it seemed that he'd found someone. That he was going to be making a deal to get off the planet, because the person he was talking to was obviously wearing a disguise- only in photographic form I couldn't tell what race they were negotiating with.
I settled back to listen some more, positioned my matchstick men around a straw-paper TARDIS, mentioned that smoking was bad for your health, but he didn't seem to care. Then I looked at the photograph on his desk, half buried under a book. Otherwise the desk was neat, but this had been- well, it was as if it was hastily hidden. Half a girl's face. Half a girl's familiar face. One that I hadn't seen in what felt like ages, and knew her to be in the company of Yrcanos. A sweet smile and eyes that magnified her determination even in that small glimpse.
"What's this? Is she a part of this?" I asked, tugging out the photograph for a better look. But he quickly clasped my wrist- firm grip for a human -and returned it.
"No," he said quickly, and almost returned to the subject at hand. But then he seemed to realize how I'd mentioned her name, the recognition had been obvious in my voice. "Why?"
"I met her once."
And then it all clicked into place. Perpugilliam Brown, and a man in charge of the Manhattan Department of UNIT, Kevin Brown. A man that would have had to forsake his family and dedicate everything to the job that was obviously required of him here, that his wife would have distanced herself from. Perhaps even telling her little girl that her father had passed on so she wouldn't be wondering why her father was never there or go looking for him. Or perhaps a woman so bitter, she wanted that father to have no part in his daughter's life.
They had that same narrowed squint, when I looked hard enough.
"Was she alive when you met her?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "She was doing quite well. Married happily."
He didn't react more than a pause. But then he slipped that picture back under the book, and his attention went back to the case file. "By the way, I felt your hand."
I laughed because, well, I'd been caught, and put his wallet on the table.
He flipped through a few more pages, reciting evidence concerning the Draconian. Then he stopped and held the manilla folder awkwardly, as if he was considering something. Picked up his wallet, removed the paper, and slid it toward me. "Carte Noire. You're good at distraction. See if you can figure out who these people are, would you?"
"I don't have to take orders from you!" I stated firmly, took that wonderful little nicknack, tucked it in my watch pocket with my fobwatch, lifted my chin, and continued. "I'm just going to do it anyway."
"You do that, Slick."
"Don't call me Slick."
"Sure, Fella."
And that is the story of how I figured out the truth when it was pointless to do so. Well... I suppose in retrospect... maybe it wasn't that pointless after all.
Character: The Seventh Doctor
Fandom: Doctor Who (and a touch of Men in Black)
Words: 1,346
Notes: *Men in Black: The Role-Playing Game released in 1997 listed the agents as carrying an item called Carte Noire, which they psychically influenced to allow the viewer to see whatever they wanted them to as identification.
*I am aware of Shell Shock, but I like this rendition of what happened better, playing off the theory that universes have convergent evolution and some events would correlate.
You hear one version of events about a good friend for so long, and sometimes you miss the truth when it's about to happen. Or that's the way it almost happened for me. I was so used to knowing everything that I almost missed it, and the hardest part was figuring it out far too late. So long after the fact, nothing could be resolved, nothing could be done.
It all started with a trip to New York. Hex needed a break after the terrible events that came of meeting Cromwell, and Ace could easily watch him in the streets of Manhattan. That had been a particularly terrible expedition, realizing that he'd accidentally been the cause of countless deaths, that he'd agitated Cromwell into even greater anger, into being more of a barbarian. He needed the time to himself, something- or time -simple and familiar to relax in. And I? I needed to wash the stain from my mind, the cries of many desperate souls feeling contempt and fear.
Of course, that wasn't going to be quite as easy as I first intended it to be. I, like the pompous genius that I am (this is just between me and you, paper, as no one can read my script), landed us in the aftermath of a time storm. A Draconian had been swept up and was wondering the streets of the island, and there were suspicious sightings all about. One wrong move and the people would be in an uproar, swarming with anxiety and fear of what could be lingering out there waiting to invade. It would trample what I knew of history. I sent Ace and Hex out looking for it- with spare cash in case they got hungry -and I split off to do some investigating of my own. I was talking to a peculiar, sallow, hollow-eyed man in a newspaper booth when I was approached by a very stiff gentleman.
He introduced himself to me as Mr. Green with the department of corrections, and he might know the man I was looking for. He was tall. I always notice when people are tall, because I talk to their neck-ties and his was black and narrow. Had to angle my head back to see that he was brown-headed, extraordinarily normal looking fellow. Had a bit of a mid-western American accent, a touch low. Quite similar to that of polar Gallifrey, except for the dipthongs. When he flashed his identification at me, oddly enough this utterly normal man was flashing blank paper. There were a few ah, I believe they're called "rubber-neckers" that had been dwindling after the sighting of the questionable scaled man that made a scene in public, and everyone seemed to believe there was something there, though, and his confidence in his position reinforced it. He practically exuded the feeling. I didn't say anything about it, simply smiled kindly and agreed to accompany him.
It wasn't until we were to his car, an old Ford that looked far worse on the outside than the interior (improper to that time period; it should have been from the future) that he corrected himself and gave me his true identity. He was Brigadier Kevin Brown with the Manhattan division of my old friends across the pond, UNIT. He needed to bring me in to assist him with their current case- hunting down that Draconian before he did something quite terrible.
As it turns out, the Manhattan division of UNIT was very well handled. I wasn't quite expecting them to be so friendly toward aliens; supplying them with shimmers if they had a license and reported their locations, monitoring the traffic of all extraterrestrial or radioactive goods, and steadfastly staying uninvolved in the political matters of other nations. I was a bit dumbfounded as I walked through their intake center. Clean, quick, and efficient.
I didn't know whether I liked it or not. A tad eerie, and too much organization always puts me a little off.
I went up with him to an office and had a seat, all the while trying to figure out how to get at this man's pocket so that I could get that sheet of paper. I wanted it so badly that I could taste it, but instead I settled for making little matchstick men on his desk as he informed me of the current state of affairs. Had a very dry voice, this man, earnest and blunt. Left little room for question. I probably looked as though I was ignoring him; he treated me as if I was listening anyway, which I respected. He just let me fiddle and tinker... Mostly. He did take his coffee cup back when I got a little too familiar for his liking. Didn't even look at me as he was doing so.
The photographs he handed me I glanced over. Yes, a Draconian. But it seemed that he'd found someone. That he was going to be making a deal to get off the planet, because the person he was talking to was obviously wearing a disguise- only in photographic form I couldn't tell what race they were negotiating with.
I settled back to listen some more, positioned my matchstick men around a straw-paper TARDIS, mentioned that smoking was bad for your health, but he didn't seem to care. Then I looked at the photograph on his desk, half buried under a book. Otherwise the desk was neat, but this had been- well, it was as if it was hastily hidden. Half a girl's face. Half a girl's familiar face. One that I hadn't seen in what felt like ages, and knew her to be in the company of Yrcanos. A sweet smile and eyes that magnified her determination even in that small glimpse.
"What's this? Is she a part of this?" I asked, tugging out the photograph for a better look. But he quickly clasped my wrist- firm grip for a human -and returned it.
"No," he said quickly, and almost returned to the subject at hand. But then he seemed to realize how I'd mentioned her name, the recognition had been obvious in my voice. "Why?"
"I met her once."
And then it all clicked into place. Perpugilliam Brown, and a man in charge of the Manhattan Department of UNIT, Kevin Brown. A man that would have had to forsake his family and dedicate everything to the job that was obviously required of him here, that his wife would have distanced herself from. Perhaps even telling her little girl that her father had passed on so she wouldn't be wondering why her father was never there or go looking for him. Or perhaps a woman so bitter, she wanted that father to have no part in his daughter's life.
They had that same narrowed squint, when I looked hard enough.
"Was she alive when you met her?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "She was doing quite well. Married happily."
He didn't react more than a pause. But then he slipped that picture back under the book, and his attention went back to the case file. "By the way, I felt your hand."
I laughed because, well, I'd been caught, and put his wallet on the table.
He flipped through a few more pages, reciting evidence concerning the Draconian. Then he stopped and held the manilla folder awkwardly, as if he was considering something. Picked up his wallet, removed the paper, and slid it toward me. "Carte Noire. You're good at distraction. See if you can figure out who these people are, would you?"
"I don't have to take orders from you!" I stated firmly, took that wonderful little nicknack, tucked it in my watch pocket with my fobwatch, lifted my chin, and continued. "I'm just going to do it anyway."
"You do that, Slick."
"Don't call me Slick."
"Sure, Fella."
And that is the story of how I figured out the truth when it was pointless to do so. Well... I suppose in retrospect... maybe it wasn't that pointless after all.
Character: The Seventh Doctor
Fandom: Doctor Who (and a touch of Men in Black)
Words: 1,346
Notes: *Men in Black: The Role-Playing Game released in 1997 listed the agents as carrying an item called Carte Noire, which they psychically influenced to allow the viewer to see whatever they wanted them to as identification.
*I am aware of Shell Shock, but I like this rendition of what happened better, playing off the theory that universes have convergent evolution and some events would correlate.