Chaos Intrepid: In Her Shoes

Prompt the Sixth : The Waiting Game

The Waiting Game

Well, he thought as the pounding in his head began to clear, this was different. Not that he knew quite what was different. It was dark. Very dark.

Chaos lifted his head slowly, trying to figure out what was nagging at him and make sense of where he was. The dark seemed impenetrable, not even blinking alleviated it.

Had he been that drunk last night?

The last thing he remembered was sitting at his desk, beer in hand, with the computer, wishing he could take back what he’d written about Tilly and hating that all he could hear was their conversation, her disappointment. And then blank. He didn’t remember drinking anything else… but what could explain the fact that it was like he blinked then woke up in this absolute pitch.

He groaned, moving to his side so that he could sit up. Dull throbbing spliced down his side. It felt like he’d been stuffed into a crate and transported along the world’s bumpiest road. Every bone seemed to crick, each muscle to strain. He forced himself to think about where he could be.  Under his hands the floor seemed to be rough wood, the grains of which he could feel but the accompanying chill that race down his back made no sense. He reached out in front of him and the same wood met his touch, vertical this time.

Perhaps he was right about the crate.

But upwards there was only the dark, his fingers stretching into blankness.

Pressing his hands into the wall, he slowly began to edge himself upright. In the back of his mind, he could make out a noise but it didn’t fit with anything that his poor hearing could understand. It was staccato, out of place, the sort of noise he didn’t want to believe was human because it was so desperately sad.

And there was a clinking sound. Metallic footfalls.

A light blazed suddenly, sending him sprawling to the floor as his hands lost grip on the wall. Then there was excited gibberish. The guttural, Germanic kind, and he was being grabbed from all sides, his head wrenched back, his mouth stuffed with something thick and woollen. It was too late that realised what was happening, the shock snapping as he tried to writhe away from the hands that restrained him. But he wriggled in earnest, trying to spit the gag out. A fist slammed into his kidney. He felt everything inside him explode, doubling, curling and muted.

The men around him, he couldn’t tell their number, there were so many masks. And his eyes watered. Burned.

A jerk and he realised his right arm was free, flailing, lashing out at anyone coming too close. There was an oomph. He must have struck one.

“Stop this!” demanded a voice that clearly knew how to give orders.

Unfortunately for them both, Chaos wasn’t that guy.

“My Intrepid, if you do not desist…”

Why should he listen though. He tuned it out to spend time on the fight. But with his bruises and the high chance that his kidney might fail, he had every reason to fight.

It didn’t matter that they were both English. He still did it.

“Desist!”


*

Chaos groaned. Waking up again this time with the worst headache he could remember.

There was a noise, the same one he thought, but to his left this time. As he slowly began to roll onto his side again. This time, he wasn’t alone.

A young woman: slim, dark, and full of surprises..

Startled, he began to reply but her eyes weren’t looking at him.

She seemed so young.

He wanted to tell her something, anything that might make her laugh. Like the time he was given a gagging order from the Telegraph after he reported a little too much information on a current investigation. It was before he became a blogger, before he became Chaos Intrepid, before people started treating him like some cross between a martyr and a pariah because of his leg and the still obvious difficulties he had with his hearing at times.

In that dark, damp room, waiting for something to happen, he realised… it wasn’t just a girl but Rosalie. Her eyes were dulled with pain, face determined.

He wanted to tell her about the way he was interviewed for his Telegraph job. How his final meeting before he dropped out could have gone so much better but it wouldn’t have been nearly so fun. Andhe desperately want to reveal her dirty little secret. there were three men. Old men. Old wrinkly men with hair that receded so far back he wondered if it grew the wrong way down their necks. 

“Boy, you’re a talented writer.”

“But you’re temperamental with the quality of your work.”

“It’s quite out of place.”

“Until you return to active reporting in the news, you will be our… guest… here. Of course.”

He'd been so angry. Frustrated. Disappointed. He didn't get the system. He felt the super injunction like lead weights to his feet whilst learning how to swim.

This was no different, he tried to emphasise.

But still Rosalie Harris stared into space, eyes drifting slowly open and shut.

He wanted to tell the founder. That his acting isn’t that good and Salmond can keep his dicided are nurturing with this movement.

Chaos wanted to tell her all the jokes, especially the ones she’d use for costas.

Instead, he tried to get her attention but her gaze was so vacant.

Sitting back, he began to plot. Knowing only that the kind of deadness behind her eyes was not the sign of good things to come. And escape was their best plot so far.

Trying to grin through the gage, he reached out with his leg towards her, nudging the unhappy woman with his feet.

Her eyes turned to him but were dead and cold inside.

They had to escape.

He had to find a plan.

Word Count: 979