Chapter Text
There were three things you were certain about. One, your head was throbbing and your ears still roared from the explosion of sound and light. Two, you and your clothes were decidedly soaked, so you must have been lying in a puddle of water. And three, there was a smooth weight in the palm of your hand, and that weight was from a small orange gem that you couldn’t for the questionable life of you understand why you were still holding.
With a groan, you finally cracked open your eyes, squinting slightly as the light hit your still sensitive retinas. It must have been sunset wherever you were if the orange glow of the sky were any indication. You sat up, annoyed at the water dripping down your neck, arms, and back, your boots beyond soaked, but that annoyance was soon replaced by something akin to shock and horror.
All around you, stretching to the horizon and most likely beyond, like a mirror, was the smooth glassy surface of water, reflecting the orange hues of the sky above. Where you sat, it wasn’t much more than a few inches deep, neither cool nor warm, but a chill ran down your spine all the same.
You looked down at the small lobular gem in your hand ruefully. You had no idea what happened or where you were, but you knew it, whatever it was, had something to with your current predicament.
Almost on instinct, you slipped it into the pocket of your jeans, stood, and began walking, heedless of your direction because it all looked the same, no matter which way you turned.
Make the four things you were sure of. You were also completely fucked.
Earlier
As you pulled your beat up 1990 Dodge Caravan into the turfstone drive you let out a sigh of relief. Sr. Paredes was your last stop of the day, and the only stop you ever looked forward too, and not just because he was at the end of your route.
The sickly sweet scent of the mountain laurels blooming near the low wooden fence that enclosed the small yard clashed oddly with the persistent plume from your van’s exhaust pipes. Like so many of the houses in the surrounding neighborhood, it was limestone affair, yellowed with time and lichens, its red tin roof rusting in places. The sidewalk was crowded with prickly pears and agaves, and the skeleton of an old cenizo stood twisted and dejected in front of the small porch.
Taking another indulgent glance around the small yard with no small amount of envy, you opened the sliding door to your back seat and dug out his meal and cold bottle of fruit juice from the cooler before walking up the short sidewalk to his door.
As if he had already been waiting for your knock, Sr. Paredes opened his front door almost immediately, the frigid air from within, laced with the scent of menthol, rushing out as you stepped inside.
“How are you today, Y/N? Keeping out of trouble?” He asked as he wheeled himself inside toward the living room as you followed, a polite smile on your lips.
“Well, I kind of have to, or it’s off to jail with me,” your laugh was almost genuine as you responded. He was well aware of your run-in with the law that had landed you with this volunteering gig with Meals on Wheels. And while he did not judge, he also did not hold back on teasing you. “What about you, old man? Still kickin,’ or kickin’ the bucket?”
He laughed, his voice gritty with age, as he rolled his wheelchair into his adjoining study, “Kickin’ your ass as best as I can all things considered.”
You finally let out a rare full bellied laugh at that. There was a reason he was your favorite.
And it wasn’t that you hated volunteering, it’s just that the element of choice had been removed for you and it, therefore, felt like an obligation...so not really like volunteering after all. But for whatever the reason, in the past few months of dropping off meals with the program, this old geezer had somehow weaseled his way into your heart.
“You know, I could always swing by in the mornings with breakfast for you,” you called from the kitchen as you set his meal down on the table.
You heard a distant and dismissive “Bah, don’t trouble yourself.”
“I mean it. My neighbor makes menudo every Saturday, and it’s to die for. And I myself make a mean quiche,” you called into the other room, arranging his meal onto a chipped porcelain plate. He was your only stop that got such attentive care.
“Quiche? You mean that weird egg pie?” He asked, rolling back into the kitchen.
“I mean, that’s not how I would have phrased it, but yeah, I guess. I make weird egg pie that tastes like heaven,” you smiled despite yourself.
“You’re a sweet girl, but you don’t need to do all that. Besides, I like my morning Cheerios just fine,” he spoke softly, patting you on the top of your hand.
You scoffed in disagreement as he continued speaking, “But I do have something that might interest you here. I know you like looking at old things,” he looked up at you expectantly, and you nodded encouragingly. “Well, my youngest daughter went down to Matamoros to visit my brother and his family. She’s still down there visiting for the rest of the spring. And she’s mailing me a package of old keepsakes from the family that I thought you might like to look at.”
You nodded your head, “You know me, the older and creepier, the better.”
“I knew there was a reason you took a liking to me,” he grinned up at you.
You rolled your eyes playfully, “Well, where is it? Maybe I can poke around while you’re eating?”
Sr. Paredes looked up at you ruefully as though you’d found the catch, “Only if you’re able to get it from the post office tomorrow. I must have been napping when they tried to deliver it, and now they’re holding it for pickup.” He extended his frail hand up, holding a post office slip in his bony fingers.
You gave him a reassuring smile, “That’s a small price to pay for getting to dig through your stuff.” And you took the slip from him. “Well, I guess I’d better be off. Need to feed myself after all.”
“Yes, yes. Have a good night, and enjoy your egg pie,” he said, a youthful glint peeking out in his ancient and dulling eyes.
“Ahw, c’mon, old man. You know I eat other things, right?”
You weren’t sure how long you’d been walking or how far. All you knew was that you felt like you weren’t moving, like you were walking in place on a treadmill, a very wet treadmill. The dull sound of the water splashing at your feet seemed to not carry as though you were in an anechoic chamber rather than a wide open plain of water. And every now and then, you would slip and stumble on the smooth gray stones at your feet, polished by time and water, that covered the ground beneath the water as you sloshed unproductively though the shallow and endless sea.
And for all the water, there was not another living thing to be found, not a fish, not a fly, not even a plant. Just you. Another chill ran down your spine, and you shook your head to rid yourself of that thought and that eerie sense of aloneness.
You looked down at your watch futilely again, which was no longer ticking in this strange place and gave you no assistance in determining what time it was or how long you’d been at it. The weird thing was that you could have as easily thought you had been walking for days, months, or years as easily as you could have thought it seconds.
And still you walked.
And walked.
And walked.
And maybe it was that the shock of your beyond strange circumstances, but your mind was beginning to compensate for the utter lack of environmental stimulus, churning through feverish thoughts at a feverish pace.
Where the fuck were you? How the fuck did you get here? What the fuck was going on? Were you in a hospital having a crazy coma dream? Were you dead and this was some middle ground between heaven and hell? And what was that orange gem in your pocket? And more importantly, what connection did it have to this current predicament?
And still, like a migratory mammal, fueled more by an inexplicable and instinctual urge than sentient thought, still you walked.
“No, mom, I’m not done with my community service. I’ve still got like five months left. Ah! Damn it!” Your elbow slammed into the door jamb with a sharp crunch, your phone balanced between your cheek and shoulder, a large canvas bag of groceries in the other.
“What was that about?” Your mother’s irritated voice crackled from your phone.
“I bumped my elbow, no big deal,” you rolled your eyes as you locked your door behind you and set your groceries on the cracked tile counter of your kitchen.
“Well, then there’s no need to cuss about it.” You bit back an impatient groan as she continued, “Anyway. Five months? That long still? Well, I hope you’re happy with yourself.”
That groan could no longer be held back, “What. Just say what you wanna say. I know you want to, so let’s not hold back, shall we?” You knew what was coming. This conversation seemed to come back time and time again, like a nest of cockroaches or herpes. You couldn’t tell which; both seemed apt.
“You have ruined the whole rest of your life, Y/N.” And there it was, the truth, no holding back. Without another thought, you pulled the bottle of red wine out of your grocery bag and began rummaging around for your wine key as your mother continued her lecture.
“You committed a felony. A felony! And you only barely missed jail time because of a technicality. You have no savings because of all the legal fees, and you’re working in a dead end gig because you got fired from your job at the library. Just what exactly is the rest of your life supposed to look like now?”
And there it was, the question that stumped you as much as it infuriated you. So you did what you did best, you deflected from it while tending to your own hurt and anger, “Oh please. You never cared about that job until I lost it! You thought it was a step down and, I quote, ‘as worthless as the entire public library system itself.’”
“Well, it was better than what you’re doing now. A private investigator? You’ll never make it as a PI, not with a felony on your record,” she spat as you finished screwing the wine key into the cork, pulling it out with a hollow pop.
“As I have said before, my sentence was deferred, so there’s no felony charge on my record yet. And I’ll have you know that I have had several successful clients already. There’s easy money in catching cheating spouses and men skipping out on alimony,” you finished your sentence with a long swig of the ruby wine.
You could hear her breathing deeply on the other end of the line, no doubt trying to keep from yelling, “That’s not a life, Y/N.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose as you sunk down onto your ratty couch and kicked off your boots, “No, it’s not your life; it’s mine, and unlike you, I’m changing my fate.” You sighed and took another drink, “Look, I don’t want to talk about this. Can I— I’ll call you this weekend, ‘kay?”
There was a pregnant pause and the sound of your mother letting out a sigh of her own, “Fine.”
You hesitated, waiting for further response, but when none came, you huffed, “Okay, then,” still no response, “Bye.”
“Goodnight, Y/N,” she replied, disappointment clearly audible through the poor cell reception before the line went silent.
You threw your phone down on the couch with another sigh, pulling your laptop into your lap, settling in for another late night of tracking down an enterprising teenager with a penchant for stolen iPhones. Easy money.
And in the morning, you’d head over to the Post Office to get Sr. Paredes package.
That was it. You were finally going crazy. Either you were having some kind of conniption and hallucinating or you were actually finally able to measure your progress in the barren water. Barely visible against the seemingly endless twilight horizon you could finally make out the blurry outline of…something. You allowed yourself the wistful hope that it would be dry land, and with it some sign of life besides yourself.
Days. Months. Seconds. Years. It was all the same to you as you walked and walked and the smudge on the horizon grew larger and sharper.
If you squinted, you thought you could almost hear the sounds of water lapping gently at a shore or something in the distance.
If you squinted even harder, you could almost make out the barely defined edges of something standing tall against the flat water, almost see ripples disrupting its mirrored surface.
Still you got closer and closer.
There was a red roof, yellowing stone walls, and in the corner of the porch under the eaves, the twisted bare bark of a dead cenizo.
What the ever living fuck.
You stopped your sloshingly slow steps, rubbed your eyes, and craned your neck closer to see if you were really seeing what you thought you were seeing.
Plain as day—even if day seemed like a nebulous concept in this perpetually orange world—you could see Sr. Paredes’ house, the water reaching just below the top step of his porch.
Your legs seemed to move of their own accord now, one foot stumbling in front of the other until you found yourself standing in front of the porch. Warily, fearful that this really was just a hallucination, you placed one foot on the lower step, still submerged under the calm water. Then the next and the next until your foot was hovering and dripping over the dry surface of the porch. And with a deep breath you stepped.
You were on the porch. Every line of mortar on the wall of the house, every uneven slab of limestone was exactly as you remembered it. How was his house here in the strange world?
You turned around, looking behind you for the first time, and all the way to the horizon stretched the endless expanse of orange water reflecting that same orange sky. Yet when you turned back, you were staring at the splintering oak door, the faded brass door handle, the cracked and yellow plastic button of the doorbell.
How was this possible? What? Just What?
Almost out of muscle memory, you reached out with your index finger and pressed the button, but the bell didn’t ring. Feeling at the end of your rope and beyond social mores, you opened the door just a crack, grateful it wasn’t locked.
“Sr. Paredes?” You called weakly, your voice groggy from disuse. Clearing your throat, you called out more loudly and clearly again, but your voice seemed to not carry in the still air of the house which decidedly lacked that pervasive odor of menthol.
Timidly, you stepped into the house, feeling less than guilty about the water squelching in your boots and onto the rough wood floors because even though this looked exactly like Sr. Paredes’ house, it was off. This was a good copy, but not a perfect one. There were no sounds of him wheeling into the kitchen, no sound of his scratchy, used voice, no staticky radio playing conjunto hits from at least forty years ago.
If this wasn’t the uncanny valley, you didn’t know what was.
Your fight or flight response on the verge of being triggered, you began boldly walking from room to room, yelling his name loudly but with no response. When you flicked on his dusty old radio, it was unresponsive. The TV wouldn’t turn on and neither would his lamps, the only light coming from outside through the ratty lace curtains on his windows.
But before any real panic could set in, the dim orange light filtering through the curtains began to fade and flicker as though a cloud had drifted in front of this world’s non-existent sun. Running to the nearest window, you ripped the curtains aside, peering out at the sight the met your eyes.
From the sky, for as far as you could see, was falling snow, but snow was white and this was a dark, ashy gray.
And then everything went black and blank.
There were three things you were certain about. One, your head and mind felt heavy and cottony, like you were waking up from a long, disorienting nap on a lazy afternoon. Two, you and your clothes were decidedly dry; in fact, they were quite comfortably nestled in what felt like a soft bed. And three, there was no gem in your hand, nor a gem in your pocket, nor pockets in your clothes, which had been replaced by a thing cotton robe.
With a groan, you finally cracked open your eyes, squinting slightly as the bright fluorescent light hit your still sensitive retinas. There was no water, no orange sky, no mirage like house in the distance, no ashy snow falling from the sky. Instead there was the steady beep. beep. beep. of a heart rate monitor and the white noise of electronic devices around you.
Perhaps you were in a hospital? There certainly was an IV in your arm, slowly dispensing what you assumed to be a saline solution. Perhaps you really had been in a coma dream or some other such nonsense?
As you slowly and carefully sat up in the narrow bed, a lilting female voice greeted you.
“Ah, you’re awake, Ms. Y/LN. I shall tell Mr. Stark right away. I would advise that you not get out of your bed until a doctor clears you.”
You looked around for the Irish sounding woman, but you were alone in the sterile white room. “Who said that?”
“I did, and you can call me Friday.”
You looked up and saw a small embedded speaker in the ceiling, but there were no cameras that you could see. Who was Friday and how did she know that you had awoken?
Too tired to ask further and too jaded from your time in the orange world to care about being confused, you sank back into your bed. Friday? Mr. Stark? Who cared? As long as your hospital bills weren’t too high, you were just happy that it was all over, that it had all just been a dream.
But then two men with almost matching goatees stepped into your room, one wearing a long red cape, and you couldn’t help the sudden sensation of déjà vu when you looked at his pointed face peering out over his high collars.
And yet another chill ran down your spine when you looked at his feet, which were levitating a few inches from the ground.
That was decidedly not normal.