lady_bols: (lost)
She's dreaming again.  The difference is, she knows she's dreaming.  Not even the creative demons of her own subconscious mind could mask the ridiculousness of this little snippet.  

The first thing she becomes aware of is a tapping.  Someone's rapping their knuckles against a thick plate of glass.  It's perpetual, and incessant.  Someone is trying to get her attention.

Tap tap tap tap tap.

She can also hear Molly's voice, shouting for her.  "Mummy, come on!  You've got to get up!  Mummy, please!"

Tap tap tap tap tap... )
lady_bols: (s3 razor girl)
Getting out of the office feels good. Less stagnant. He’d say it was a chance to get away from his thoughts, but that wouldn’t be right, exactly. They go with him, just hidden a little behind the roar of the Quattro’s engine, and the prospect of a nice bit of trouble.

ANC. Bloody terrorists. He doesn’t care to think about it further than that. As they troop down wooden stairs to the drinking den, he can hear angry voice rising up to meet them. Someone’s getting called a Judas, by another person who’s bloody furious.

Tasty.

‘Are we in Dalston, or did we just take a wrong turn into Bogo-Bogo land?’

It's not the done thing to say. )
lady_bols: (s3 disbelief)
She sat at her desk, writing her notes. 

Dead copper on the news.
Dead copper in front of me.

The television cut away from the programming to a field of white noise, and of course she crossed the room to kneel in front of it.

"Is there anybody there?"

Nothing.  She kept staring.  Hoping for something.  Some clue.  She whispered quietly, as if someone might over hear.

"You know it's weird.  I can see why Sam wanted...  Why he needed to come back here.  There's something about this world, about my place in it that's important."

The television snow cleared, and she could see the silhouette of the young man in uniform, half his face a dark shadow.

"Who are you?  What do you want?  Do you want help, is that it?  I can't -- I can't help you.  I can't even help myself."  She stared at him, standing in that wide green field, his gaze impassive.  As if he was seeing her, but not somehow.

"Can you tell me what any of it means?"

The television picture reformed onto the programme, Top Gear of all things.  And the image of the Audi Quattro speeding through the snow.

She writes one final word on the page:

GENE

It all revolves around him. 




She takes a deep breath, and lets it go.  And before it's gone, there's a soft knock at the door.   This late? It couldn't be anyone else.  So she puts her notes away and looks down at her big fluffy socks.  Yeah, so much for grace and elegance, Alex.

She opens the door and steps back a little, unconsciously inviting him in.

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