Cocoon Crash Chapter 9
Apr. 9th, 2009 10:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
iceminkTitle: Cocoon Crash
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Spuffy
Summary: Set five years after "Chosen". Buffy is married and living the normal life she always wanted until one day she sees Spike's picture and realizes that normal might be overrated.
Previous chapters can be found here
Chapter 9: John Doe
It’s been a hell of a day.
So much for London bringing back any memories. Nothing seems familiar.
To make matters worse, when I showed up a few days ago, I met with a dialect expert. Fellow’s supposed to be able to pin down the neighborhood you’re from by your dialect. He had me read some sentences, then tell some stories in my own words, and just generally talk for a few hours as he recorded it all. He was supposed to analyze it and tell me where I’m from.
So I hear back from him today and what does he say? My accent is fake. Told me it didn’t quite match any modern accent. When I asked him how that was possible, he said something about my vowels being anachronistic whatever the hell that means, and the talked about some vowel shift that happened about a hundred years ago. Lots of stuff I didn’t understand. Then he tells me again that my accent is fake.
Which is ridiculous. I mean what sort of fellow wakes up in the desert with amnesia and decides to be British? And it’s not as if I didn’t try to figure out if I was a US citizen. You know someone who went native and decided to stay. But I could never find any records of me on that side of the pond.
Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I did go native. Got my accent corrupted and this dialect expert really doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
That’s when I realize it’s starting to get late. I’ve been pacing around my hotel room for hours trying to work out why nothing on this trip is going right. What I should really be doing is going out. Maybe the nightlife will bring back memories. That’s more like me anyway, and I sure as hell could use a drink.
That’s when I see something out of the corner of my eye. Just a bit of movement on the balcony. Probably just a bird, except, whatever it was, wasn’t very bird like.
So I go look.
“What the?!” I yelp startled as I open the door to the balcony. Because there she is. The looney blonde from last night, wearing her best cat burglar.
“Who the hell let you in?” I ask. Over the shock, and thinking this would be a good time to get someone fired.
“No one,” she’s a little out of breath. “I climbed. I figured you wouldn’t let me back in after last night. Which, sorry, I know I came off with a major case of the crazies.”
“Yeah, and breaking into my hotel room and pretending you climbed up here is sane?” I ask. “This is the bloody 18th floor.”
“Technically 19th, I mean there’s this whole England ground floor thing. Confused me on the way up. Luckily the couple below you was a little too. . . involved, to notice me.”
I grab her wrists. She’s wearing those fingerless gloves. “Look if you’d climbed up here your fingers would be. . .” I stop as I turn over her hands. I was going to say raw and bloody. They’re not, but they are an angry red. On the other hand it’s rather cold out here on the balcony so it could just be the cold.
And that’s when I realize that no matter how she got here, I have to invite her in. Either that or chuck her off the balcony.
“You must be freezing,” I say. I’m annoyed as soon as I do so. I didn’t mean to sound so nice and concerned. Because I’m not. She’s a loon, and I’m getting rid of her as soon as I can.
“Actually, I’m kind of hot. I mean, it is cold out, but it is a pretty big climb, and I’m a lot more out of shape than I thought. I mean I knew I was. It’s been years since I’ve done this sort of thing. Not that I usually climb buildings. I never got that. You know? Why Batman spend so much time on roofs. I mean hello? Crime happens on the street. That’s where the bad guys tend to be, not on the rooftops. Mostly pigeons on the roof tops.”
That’s when she realizes that she’s been chattering on nervously like, well, like a crazy person. At least she’s got enough left upstairs to look mildly embarrassed by it.
“Look, you need to leave,” I try and tell her gently. Tonight’s crazy is a little more endearing than the previous night’s episode, which means I need to get her out of here fast, before I do something really stupid, like offer her a drink.
“I know, and I will,” she says perfectly pleasantly. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about last night. You look just like this guy I knew in Sunnydale. That’s where I’m from,” she adds. “Well, technically L.A. but I spent a lot of years in Sunnydale. Thing is, the guy you look like, he died. He died getting me and my sister, and pretty much everyone I care about out of Sunnydale alive. At least we were pretty sure he was dead, ‘cause you know, when a whole town collapses on top of someone, you pretty much assume. . .”
She drifts away for a second, and I could almost believe her. But she’s not the first person to do their research. To connect the part of California, that I first remember, to the nearby town that was destroyed in an earthquake. Part of my curse I guess. The place that probably took my memory took all its secrets down with it.
“I can’t prove it,” she continues. “That I know you. Everything that I had, it got sucked into the earth five years ago. But I am me. Buffy Summers, from L.A. and then Sunnydale. The good thing about burning down your high school gym, is that you tend to create a paper trail. Look it up, like I said, I left a pretty big paper trail in the state that survived Sunnydale. And then, you can reach me here.”
She hands me a card. It doesn’t have her name on it. It reads, “The Diana Institute” and has a phone number and address somewhere in North Yorkshire.
I’m trying to process everything. She’s definitely on her meds, or something, tonight. As much as I want to maintain the idea that she’s off her rocker and I should get rid of her, the girl that I see tonight is calm and in control. A little strange, but not scary.
Before I can ask her anything more, she turns back towards the balcony, putting on her black knit cap. “Well, that’s it I guess,” she says.
I wonder if the girl really is determined enough to try to climb down the building to prove that she didn’t get a maid to let her in. Considering she must have waited on that balcony for hours before she let me know she was there, probably.
“Woah,” I tell her grabbing her arm. “Look, I don’t care how you got up here, why don’t you use the elevator on the way down.”
She smiles. “Thanks. It is kind of cold, and I’m really not in as good shape as I used to be.”
With that she strolls out of my rooms, and what’s worse, I want to stop her. Crazy or not, she’s got to be the most interesting groupie I’ve ever met.
But I don’t. Because I don’t want to believe her, even for a little while, because it’ll just be that much worse when I find out she’s lying.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Spuffy
Summary: Set five years after "Chosen". Buffy is married and living the normal life she always wanted until one day she sees Spike's picture and realizes that normal might be overrated.
Previous chapters can be found here
Chapter 9: John Doe
It’s been a hell of a day.
So much for London bringing back any memories. Nothing seems familiar.
To make matters worse, when I showed up a few days ago, I met with a dialect expert. Fellow’s supposed to be able to pin down the neighborhood you’re from by your dialect. He had me read some sentences, then tell some stories in my own words, and just generally talk for a few hours as he recorded it all. He was supposed to analyze it and tell me where I’m from.
So I hear back from him today and what does he say? My accent is fake. Told me it didn’t quite match any modern accent. When I asked him how that was possible, he said something about my vowels being anachronistic whatever the hell that means, and the talked about some vowel shift that happened about a hundred years ago. Lots of stuff I didn’t understand. Then he tells me again that my accent is fake.
Which is ridiculous. I mean what sort of fellow wakes up in the desert with amnesia and decides to be British? And it’s not as if I didn’t try to figure out if I was a US citizen. You know someone who went native and decided to stay. But I could never find any records of me on that side of the pond.
Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I did go native. Got my accent corrupted and this dialect expert really doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
That’s when I realize it’s starting to get late. I’ve been pacing around my hotel room for hours trying to work out why nothing on this trip is going right. What I should really be doing is going out. Maybe the nightlife will bring back memories. That’s more like me anyway, and I sure as hell could use a drink.
That’s when I see something out of the corner of my eye. Just a bit of movement on the balcony. Probably just a bird, except, whatever it was, wasn’t very bird like.
So I go look.
“What the?!” I yelp startled as I open the door to the balcony. Because there she is. The looney blonde from last night, wearing her best cat burglar.
“Who the hell let you in?” I ask. Over the shock, and thinking this would be a good time to get someone fired.
“No one,” she’s a little out of breath. “I climbed. I figured you wouldn’t let me back in after last night. Which, sorry, I know I came off with a major case of the crazies.”
“Yeah, and breaking into my hotel room and pretending you climbed up here is sane?” I ask. “This is the bloody 18th floor.”
“Technically 19th, I mean there’s this whole England ground floor thing. Confused me on the way up. Luckily the couple below you was a little too. . . involved, to notice me.”
I grab her wrists. She’s wearing those fingerless gloves. “Look if you’d climbed up here your fingers would be. . .” I stop as I turn over her hands. I was going to say raw and bloody. They’re not, but they are an angry red. On the other hand it’s rather cold out here on the balcony so it could just be the cold.
And that’s when I realize that no matter how she got here, I have to invite her in. Either that or chuck her off the balcony.
“You must be freezing,” I say. I’m annoyed as soon as I do so. I didn’t mean to sound so nice and concerned. Because I’m not. She’s a loon, and I’m getting rid of her as soon as I can.
“Actually, I’m kind of hot. I mean, it is cold out, but it is a pretty big climb, and I’m a lot more out of shape than I thought. I mean I knew I was. It’s been years since I’ve done this sort of thing. Not that I usually climb buildings. I never got that. You know? Why Batman spend so much time on roofs. I mean hello? Crime happens on the street. That’s where the bad guys tend to be, not on the rooftops. Mostly pigeons on the roof tops.”
That’s when she realizes that she’s been chattering on nervously like, well, like a crazy person. At least she’s got enough left upstairs to look mildly embarrassed by it.
“Look, you need to leave,” I try and tell her gently. Tonight’s crazy is a little more endearing than the previous night’s episode, which means I need to get her out of here fast, before I do something really stupid, like offer her a drink.
“I know, and I will,” she says perfectly pleasantly. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about last night. You look just like this guy I knew in Sunnydale. That’s where I’m from,” she adds. “Well, technically L.A. but I spent a lot of years in Sunnydale. Thing is, the guy you look like, he died. He died getting me and my sister, and pretty much everyone I care about out of Sunnydale alive. At least we were pretty sure he was dead, ‘cause you know, when a whole town collapses on top of someone, you pretty much assume. . .”
She drifts away for a second, and I could almost believe her. But she’s not the first person to do their research. To connect the part of California, that I first remember, to the nearby town that was destroyed in an earthquake. Part of my curse I guess. The place that probably took my memory took all its secrets down with it.
“I can’t prove it,” she continues. “That I know you. Everything that I had, it got sucked into the earth five years ago. But I am me. Buffy Summers, from L.A. and then Sunnydale. The good thing about burning down your high school gym, is that you tend to create a paper trail. Look it up, like I said, I left a pretty big paper trail in the state that survived Sunnydale. And then, you can reach me here.”
She hands me a card. It doesn’t have her name on it. It reads, “The Diana Institute” and has a phone number and address somewhere in North Yorkshire.
I’m trying to process everything. She’s definitely on her meds, or something, tonight. As much as I want to maintain the idea that she’s off her rocker and I should get rid of her, the girl that I see tonight is calm and in control. A little strange, but not scary.
Before I can ask her anything more, she turns back towards the balcony, putting on her black knit cap. “Well, that’s it I guess,” she says.
I wonder if the girl really is determined enough to try to climb down the building to prove that she didn’t get a maid to let her in. Considering she must have waited on that balcony for hours before she let me know she was there, probably.
“Woah,” I tell her grabbing her arm. “Look, I don’t care how you got up here, why don’t you use the elevator on the way down.”
She smiles. “Thanks. It is kind of cold, and I’m really not in as good shape as I used to be.”
With that she strolls out of my rooms, and what’s worse, I want to stop her. Crazy or not, she’s got to be the most interesting groupie I’ve ever met.
But I don’t. Because I don’t want to believe her, even for a little while, because it’ll just be that much worse when I find out she’s lying.
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Date: 2009-04-12 07:22 pm (UTC)