Work Text:
<TMP modem noises>
<Fr3-d1 activates>
<Norris begins to read>
Fragmentary song lyric text from 1996
popular music culture, artist unknown:
“Don't look no more,
'Cause it'll only make your eyes… sore
Hey! Count your R.E.M's,
It's comforting the sanctuary there we have
Oh oh, we argue sometimes and we fear we put the knife in too deep
But even when madness heads in, it's only gladness I keep inside
So give me a sign
'Cause we are Indestructible
Yes we are
And you are my life-line
And we are Indestructible
Yes we are, mmm…
Fragment terminates”
****
Norris is walking through the tunnels, deep under the Institute. They feel different than he remembers though, gently lit with an amber glow from recessed lighting, and not a worm in sight. The tunnels have pink-painted walls he’s sure weren’t that colour before. There is soft, grey, slightly rubberised flooring with mica flecks causing a glittering effect. He notices there is some quietish piped music audible, and it sounds… sort of cheery? The tempo is exactly right to match Norris’s stride.
It doesn’t feel sinister, yet he knows they are still the tunnels, and he is pretty sure he is there for a purpose. He just can’t recall what that is right now… He’s sure it will come back to him eventually.
As he walks along, Norris sees a breadcrumb-trail of small objects up ahead, lined up along the midline of the tunnel floor. As he approaches the start of the trail, he realises that he is wearing a green zippered messenger bag over one shoulder, and he stops walking for a moment, and takes it off to examine it. The design embroidered on the front of the bag is a large steaming friendly-looking mug of tea. On the mug is embroidered the word “Inconceivable” in blue cartoon letters with a motto circling it in purple embroidered handwritten script. This reads “I do not think it means what you think it means”.
Well, thinks Norris, this is definitely my sort of bag. And how useful to be wearing it now. He opens up the zipper to discover the bag is capacious, but entirely empty.
Norris approaches the first item lying on the floor and frowns. It’s a Zippo lighter with a spiderweb engraved into it. Huh, he thinks, that does look strangely familiar. He picks it up, and switchies it, but it doesn’t light. Shaking it, he feels there is no liquid gas swirling around, and realises it must be empty. He puts the lighter into his messenger bag.
Maybe twenty yards up ahead, there is another object. As Norris gets closer he sees it is a chunky blue-grey ceramic tea mug with tannin stained rings on the inside. He weighs it in his hands and finds the heft of it somewhat comforting. Into the bag it goes.
Further down the tunnel there is a blue-barrelled bic ballpoint 4 colour pen, with a chewed back end. Someone who uses this must be a tad stressed, Norris thinks, and tosses it into the bag.
Next there is a set of filing cabinet keys with a paper label saying Return to Main Office. On the back someone has handwritten “Yes, Mr Elias SIR!” in a looped cursive style. Oh, very droll, Tim, thinks Norris, and vaguely remembers someone else making sarcastic comment when he noticed the label had been graffitied. Not sure who, though, the memory is all blurry as if scrubbed out roughly with an india-rubber. He puts the keys carefully into a corner of the bag, so as to make sure that they don’t clink up against the mug.
Fluttering slightly- there must be a little breeze- there is a piece of light card. Norris fishes it up, and sees it is a plane ticket stub from Chicago USA to LHR dated 18th July 2017. It is a one way ticket. Who has used this? definitely not him. There are small creases and frays at the edges, as if someone has fiddled and picked at it absent-mindedly. Oh well, into the bag.
Next there is a discarded, translucent green plastic cassette tape. It did have a handwritten label, but the text has been roughly scored through with something sharp, rendering it completely illegible. The tape ribbon has been roughly pulled out of ot, and sits below the cassette body in a complex staticky tangle. Well that’s not much use to anybody, is it, thinks Norris, but he picks it up anyway and puts it into the bag.
The next object is a more organic sort of shape, coming closer he sees it’s a white, curved bone with a smooth glossy surface as if it has been carefully polished. Norris weighs it in his hand as if to find the centre of balance, and notices a strange thrumming, as if it’s almost vibrating. It feels warm to the touch and oddly, almost… friendly? he feels strangely reluctant to let it go, but also knows it is better kept safe, so he gently places it into the bag.
The last item on the floor that Norris sees is a sizeable bunch of chunky rusted iron keys. Each key is maybe three inches long and the appearence is fitting for a Victorian jailer from some past time to have clanking at his belt. Norris reaches for them, and as he picks them up, he is aware of a shadowy figure that comes out from an alcove in the left side of the tunnel. Was there an alcove there before? He really isn’t sure.
“Well, well”, says the figure and as he steps forward Norris sees he is smartly dressed in a shirt with cravat, a satin-green waistcoat with plus fours and a Victorian man’s riding cloak . “If it isn’t the gentleman’s favourite assistant come looking for his friend. How’s this dreamscape going for you so far?“
Norris squints at the man. “I’m sorry” he says hesitantly. “Do I…know you?”
The cloaked figure bows deeply, with only a trace of mockery.
“Jurgen Leitner, at your service. I think we’re both dreaming, although this is not my choice of decor for the tunnels. Can you remember who you are here? I must confess my own memory seems somewhat..incomplete.”
Who am I again? thinks Norris… but his thoughts seem slippery and unwilling. “Someone keeps calling me Norris”, he finds himself saying, “but I don’t think it’s right. I’ve been away from where I should be for a long while. I think something happened to me, something very strange, and it’s lead to me being in some sort of different plane of reality. Yes, I know that sounds utterly ridiculous. But it’s all I can think of to make sense of it”.
“Well”, says Jurgen, “you’re more accurate than you realise. I’m pretty sure that me being here is unnatural too. I remember being distinctly disadvantaged by a length of firm lead piping not too long ago, and then everything became very hazy. I’m fairly certain I should be well and truly deceased.”
How uncanny, thinks Norris. “Can dead people actually dream?” he wonders aloud.
“Well, I genuinely have no idea, but if what I recall is true then I’m guessing we can. Either that or I’m a spectre of your overactive imagination. So, tell me, we must have a purpose here. I am for my own part, apart from most probably being dead, fairly content. So what is your want? “
Norris frowns. “I’m not sure” he says. “I think I’m looking for someone, who means a lot to me. We’ve become seperated, although I don’t quite remember how. We need to be together. I just know that I wanted to protect him and I think I failed….l can’t even quite remember who he is, but I need to work that out somehow.”
“Well, it’s admirable that you have such dedication, I must say. I’m not sure whether I can do anything to be of assistance, but it’s possible I do have something that might help. If not… well, at least I have tried.”
Leitner opens his leather satchel which Norris can see contains two very old, hand-bound books. He pulls one out and gives it to Norris.
Norris sees the cover is entitled “A Guest For Mister Spider”. The bulbous creature on the front seems to stare directly at Norris, its limbs almost seeming to move out of the frame towards him. He feels a deathly cold and intense chill pervade deep into his bones.
Norris drops the book in shock, but somehow contact with the book has worked: he suddenly feels a wave of emotion rush over him as he remembers… almost everything. He panics.
“Jon. Of course, Jon. Where’s Jon? I’ve got to find him. We’re so far from home… where is he, Jurgen? Where are we?”
“Well, he’s not here in this dream, but I do believe that like you, some small part of him survives in this world. Even these small sparks of you which are here remember him, and it shows there’s still hope for you both. You’re each other’s anchor, so keep looking. Good luck, Martin.”
“Thank you” says Norris, and shivers as he hears his real name, and realises that the sudden crawling sensation he can feel on his arms is a stream of glowing green ones and zeros falling away from him like dominos onto the floor in skittering piles.
Jon, I’m coming. Hold on. I’m coming, he thinks, trying his hardest to keep the decision intact as his form dissolves into nothingness on the floor of the tunnel, and the music sweeps in with a deafening roar to envelop him entirely.
“Cos we are indestructible
Yes we are
And you are my lifeline….”
*****
Back at the OAIR: A small dark-brown leather satchel with an open top, which appears to contain a copy of “A Journal Of The Plague year” by Daniel Defoe appears hooked over the top of the coatstand. It’s really looking quite crowded now. It’s only just possible to see the peacock-feather-patterned umbrella in the base stand.
<Norris reads >
“Jon, I’m coming. Hold on.
Jon, I’m coming. Hold
Jon, I’m coming.
Jon, I’m…..
Jon
Jon
Jon
Jon
Jon
Jon….”
“Not AGAIN” says Alice, and pulls out the power plugs.
The screens all go blank, but for just a few moments after, Alice swears she can still hear Norris’s voice continuing to recite the one name that matters to him. She gives a shrug, and calls to Sam that it’s happened again and they are SO overdue at the pub while they wait for the tech support to come and fix whatever’s put Fr3-D1 on the blink.
****