for writers_muses 118.6: Pied Piper
He's 19 years old and sitting in a booth in a bar in Boeshane. It's not the place it used to be. Not the place he remembers from his childhood; the place where he'd hide in the sand dunes and play games with his father and brother. A lot has changed since then. Since the creatures came. He has had to grow up too soon.
He's been to war. By the age of seventeen he'd seen his friends killed in front of him. It was never what he expected his life would be. He always thought maybe he'd work in the clockwork factory with his dad, or if he was lucky he'd get to fly a ship. If he was really lucky. But he gave up on luck a long time ago.
And now, here he is, home again. But it doesn't feel like home any more, and he isn't sure what's left here for him.
He sits in the bar with a glass in his hand, and he looks into it and at the residue of dried wine on the rim as though the stains might tell him something. As though they might be able to guide him and tell him which path he should take.
He's been offered jobs since he got back. So many were pleased to see him return. The boy that left had become a man and he thinks he ought to be proud of that. But he's not, not really. If it's a victory, it's an empty one. Work in factories or in high class businesses. Once he might have jumped at the chance for any of them, but now they all seemed hollow. Not enough. But what could be enough?
Tonight he'll go and see Starling, he thinks, he's spent his last few nights with him and why not? It's something. And though it might not be meaningful, it passes the time. Maybe that's enough.
If he's honest with himself, he doesn't think it is.
He drains the contents of his glass, and as he tips it the liquid washes away those stains he'd been so ardently observing. They can't give him answers or make his decisions for him, only he can do that.
He doesn't like thinking like this because what good does thinking do? He's already sure that he's a doing man, not a thinking man. He'd rather do what he's good at, and he was sure thinking wasn't it. And even if he was, what good would it do to sit and ponder on life. No, he'd rather be with Starling, or maybe Kerri. At least that's something he could understand.
He's all but ready to leave, his jacket pulled up over his shoulders, but that's when he sees the man.
He doesn't look as though he belongs there, and that alone is strange. Boeshane is hardly a tourist spot. They don't really get visitors that aren't family, and everyone in Boeshane knows each other. It's a community, or it was once. Maybe that's just another change he missed. Like the collapsing of the Balderan Tower or the building of the monstrosity in its place.
The man seems to look around like he's looking for someone and he wonders who. He looks interesting. The sort of man he likes to look at. Intriguing, though he's not sure why.
He immediately decides he's attractive, and that if the man should find himself lonely that night, he'll gladly rectify it. The man is attractive, though he dresses like that isn't important, or as if he just doesn't care.
He wonders why. Wonders what the story is. There's always a story, he's sure of that.
But why should he care about some strangers story?
He looks away from the man and back to his glass and he's disappointed that it's empty. He'd buy another but his money is running low and he has no idea when he'll get more. He knows that if he tries it wouldn't be too much effort to refill his glass without parting with credits, but then he could only rely on the charity of others for so long, and sometimes the pity in peoples eyes could get too much. The people who used to know his father, who thought he was such a nice young boy. He's changed since then.
With his eyes focussed once again on the lines of his glass he doesn't notice when the man approaches with a glass in each hand and occupies the seat opposite him in the booth. One glass is pushed over to him, and he supposes that's enough to suggest where this meeting might go.
He smirks at him and nods.
He asks him if he's from out of town, as though he doesn't already know the answer, and the man confirms, albeit with some ambiguity.
From the new vantage point he can get a better look at the man. All tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, bowtie and thin braces over a shirt he's really not too fond of.
The man laughs as he tells him he looks like he's on his way to a costume party. He thinks the man is humouring him, but he's not sure why he should think that.
He wonders if he should try and talk to him? Maybe try and flirt with him? But no, he's not that good at flirting. It's a skill he's not acquired. Maybe he'd make time for it. Didn't have much else but time now. Not until he found a direction at least. But then he doesn't really expect he'll ever be any sort of virtuoso when it comes to that, no matter how much time he has.
He's about to speak, but the man speaks first and it's almost a relief. The man's voice sounds foreign, and he wonders where he's from. He expects he'll ask him.
He doesn't though, because the man produces a leaflet and pushes it to him over the table. Their fingers touch for a moment and the man seems to falter as they do. He wants to ask why but something stops him, as though the answer would be too personal, though he has no idea why it would be, or how it could be.
The leaflet is glossy and overdone, telling of The Time Agency, a new organisation. He's never heard of them before but he thinks it sounds magnificent.
As he reads over it the man tells him he should join. It makes him laugh, but the man just repeats his sentiment. Repeats with an almost fierceness that he doesn't understand.
He tells the man he's heard of time travel, but he had no idea they could harness it like this. He has to hold back from talking about the essays he wrote on the subject while at school. He's sure the man wouldn't care.
When he looks up the man smiles at him as though he understands. And something more than that. Something that looks like it could be fond. The man must have taken quite the shine to him.
The man tells him to keep the leaflet and he nods and says he will. He doesn't intend to do anything with it, of course.
They talk and it's strange. It feels like talking to an old friend. The man seems to know him and after a while and a few more glasses of wine he asks if he does. But the man says no.
But he tells him he will. And he smiles as he says it.
He supposes the man means to hint at the way the evening will conclude.
Hours later and he's clouded by the wine. The man seems to have gone unaffected though. He's not sure he's ever met a man with such a tolerance. He tells him he's impressed and it causes another one of those smiles that seems to say something he can't quite read. As though the man is speaking a language he doesn't understand.
The man reminds him about the Time Agency again, and it makes him laugh. He asks the man why he thinks he should apply and the man tells him he'd be good for it. That it could be good for him. He shoves the leaflet into his pocket, folded and crumpled, and he nods to him and says he'll think about it.
He points out that the man doesn't even know him, so why should he think it would be good for him? But the man simply tells him he's a good judge of character as though he should just accept that. He's not sure why he should be so easily placated, but somehow he is. Something in his voice or something in his eyes. He trusts the man, though trust doesn't come easy.
He offers to fetch the next drink, because the man has bought too many, and the man agrees. At the bar he waits and wonders about the man. He thinks he likes him and he realises it's been quite a while since he's really liked someone. Starling seems less appealing now.
New glasses in hand he turns back to the man but as he sees the table he sees it vacant. The man has gone and as he looks around, he doesn't know where. He doesn't see the man looking at him from the doorway or whispering goodbye to a name he doesn't recognise. And he doesn't recognise the grinding sound of the unfamiliar engines that can be heard above the din of conversation in the bar.
He goes home alone and falls asleep hazed enough from wine not to remember most of the conversation from the night. He tries not to remember his disappointment on missing a man he thinks he might have liked to have known.
Three weeks later a folded and crumpled leaflet falls from a discarded pair of trousers.
A leaflet for the Time Agency.
The day after, he gives them a call.
Muse: Captain Jack Harkness
Fandom: Doctor Who/Torchwood
Word count: 1671
He's been to war. By the age of seventeen he'd seen his friends killed in front of him. It was never what he expected his life would be. He always thought maybe he'd work in the clockwork factory with his dad, or if he was lucky he'd get to fly a ship. If he was really lucky. But he gave up on luck a long time ago.
And now, here he is, home again. But it doesn't feel like home any more, and he isn't sure what's left here for him.
He sits in the bar with a glass in his hand, and he looks into it and at the residue of dried wine on the rim as though the stains might tell him something. As though they might be able to guide him and tell him which path he should take.
He's been offered jobs since he got back. So many were pleased to see him return. The boy that left had become a man and he thinks he ought to be proud of that. But he's not, not really. If it's a victory, it's an empty one. Work in factories or in high class businesses. Once he might have jumped at the chance for any of them, but now they all seemed hollow. Not enough. But what could be enough?
Tonight he'll go and see Starling, he thinks, he's spent his last few nights with him and why not? It's something. And though it might not be meaningful, it passes the time. Maybe that's enough.
If he's honest with himself, he doesn't think it is.
He drains the contents of his glass, and as he tips it the liquid washes away those stains he'd been so ardently observing. They can't give him answers or make his decisions for him, only he can do that.
He doesn't like thinking like this because what good does thinking do? He's already sure that he's a doing man, not a thinking man. He'd rather do what he's good at, and he was sure thinking wasn't it. And even if he was, what good would it do to sit and ponder on life. No, he'd rather be with Starling, or maybe Kerri. At least that's something he could understand.
He's all but ready to leave, his jacket pulled up over his shoulders, but that's when he sees the man.
He doesn't look as though he belongs there, and that alone is strange. Boeshane is hardly a tourist spot. They don't really get visitors that aren't family, and everyone in Boeshane knows each other. It's a community, or it was once. Maybe that's just another change he missed. Like the collapsing of the Balderan Tower or the building of the monstrosity in its place.
The man seems to look around like he's looking for someone and he wonders who. He looks interesting. The sort of man he likes to look at. Intriguing, though he's not sure why.
He immediately decides he's attractive, and that if the man should find himself lonely that night, he'll gladly rectify it. The man is attractive, though he dresses like that isn't important, or as if he just doesn't care.
He wonders why. Wonders what the story is. There's always a story, he's sure of that.
But why should he care about some strangers story?
He looks away from the man and back to his glass and he's disappointed that it's empty. He'd buy another but his money is running low and he has no idea when he'll get more. He knows that if he tries it wouldn't be too much effort to refill his glass without parting with credits, but then he could only rely on the charity of others for so long, and sometimes the pity in peoples eyes could get too much. The people who used to know his father, who thought he was such a nice young boy. He's changed since then.
With his eyes focussed once again on the lines of his glass he doesn't notice when the man approaches with a glass in each hand and occupies the seat opposite him in the booth. One glass is pushed over to him, and he supposes that's enough to suggest where this meeting might go.
He smirks at him and nods.
He asks him if he's from out of town, as though he doesn't already know the answer, and the man confirms, albeit with some ambiguity.
From the new vantage point he can get a better look at the man. All tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, bowtie and thin braces over a shirt he's really not too fond of.
The man laughs as he tells him he looks like he's on his way to a costume party. He thinks the man is humouring him, but he's not sure why he should think that.
He wonders if he should try and talk to him? Maybe try and flirt with him? But no, he's not that good at flirting. It's a skill he's not acquired. Maybe he'd make time for it. Didn't have much else but time now. Not until he found a direction at least. But then he doesn't really expect he'll ever be any sort of virtuoso when it comes to that, no matter how much time he has.
He's about to speak, but the man speaks first and it's almost a relief. The man's voice sounds foreign, and he wonders where he's from. He expects he'll ask him.
He doesn't though, because the man produces a leaflet and pushes it to him over the table. Their fingers touch for a moment and the man seems to falter as they do. He wants to ask why but something stops him, as though the answer would be too personal, though he has no idea why it would be, or how it could be.
The leaflet is glossy and overdone, telling of The Time Agency, a new organisation. He's never heard of them before but he thinks it sounds magnificent.
As he reads over it the man tells him he should join. It makes him laugh, but the man just repeats his sentiment. Repeats with an almost fierceness that he doesn't understand.
He tells the man he's heard of time travel, but he had no idea they could harness it like this. He has to hold back from talking about the essays he wrote on the subject while at school. He's sure the man wouldn't care.
When he looks up the man smiles at him as though he understands. And something more than that. Something that looks like it could be fond. The man must have taken quite the shine to him.
The man tells him to keep the leaflet and he nods and says he will. He doesn't intend to do anything with it, of course.
They talk and it's strange. It feels like talking to an old friend. The man seems to know him and after a while and a few more glasses of wine he asks if he does. But the man says no.
But he tells him he will. And he smiles as he says it.
He supposes the man means to hint at the way the evening will conclude.
Hours later and he's clouded by the wine. The man seems to have gone unaffected though. He's not sure he's ever met a man with such a tolerance. He tells him he's impressed and it causes another one of those smiles that seems to say something he can't quite read. As though the man is speaking a language he doesn't understand.
The man reminds him about the Time Agency again, and it makes him laugh. He asks the man why he thinks he should apply and the man tells him he'd be good for it. That it could be good for him. He shoves the leaflet into his pocket, folded and crumpled, and he nods to him and says he'll think about it.
He points out that the man doesn't even know him, so why should he think it would be good for him? But the man simply tells him he's a good judge of character as though he should just accept that. He's not sure why he should be so easily placated, but somehow he is. Something in his voice or something in his eyes. He trusts the man, though trust doesn't come easy.
He offers to fetch the next drink, because the man has bought too many, and the man agrees. At the bar he waits and wonders about the man. He thinks he likes him and he realises it's been quite a while since he's really liked someone. Starling seems less appealing now.
New glasses in hand he turns back to the man but as he sees the table he sees it vacant. The man has gone and as he looks around, he doesn't know where. He doesn't see the man looking at him from the doorway or whispering goodbye to a name he doesn't recognise. And he doesn't recognise the grinding sound of the unfamiliar engines that can be heard above the din of conversation in the bar.
He goes home alone and falls asleep hazed enough from wine not to remember most of the conversation from the night. He tries not to remember his disappointment on missing a man he thinks he might have liked to have known.
Three weeks later a folded and crumpled leaflet falls from a discarded pair of trousers.
A leaflet for the Time Agency.
The day after, he gives them a call.
Muse: Captain Jack Harkness
Fandom: Doctor Who/Torchwood
Word count: 1671