In the Bingo Hall

Uncle Bernard sees Bruce snoring away on one of the sofas, and is immediately conflicted. One, there's a certain uncley-nodule, somewhere in his brain that is immediately trying to throw a metaphorical blanket over the snoozing chef. That poses the next problem.

Uncle Bernard cannot get past Bruce as a member of staff. Staff exist to service. Him, mainly. But youse lots as well. And the next conflict? Well, Bernard's belly is rumbling. It's nigh on breakfast, and Bruce doesn't appear to be frying sausages at the mo'.

Uncle Bernard notes that Brucey ain't grilling sausages, or sauteeing them, or broiling them, or even boiling them in a pot. Nor is he grilling bacon, tomatoes and boudin noir, he's not deep-frying hash browns and frying mushrooms, there's no fried eggs on the go.

Uncle Bernard can't get past the thought that Bruce hasn't got a pot of beans bubbling away, isn't making a bubble-&-squeak or sauteed potatoes, that there's no fried bread or even TOAST or marmalade. Where's the scrambled eggs? The kedgeree? Kippers? Pancakes?

Uncle Bernard has, somehow, worked himself into an absolute state of apoplexy. He BOOTS Bruce out of his slumber, “COME ON YOU BUGGER! BREAKFAST SHOULD BE SERVED IN TEN MINUTES! IT'S GOING TO BE LATE! HOW I KNOW IT! I'VE BEEN- WORK- sleeping -ING HARD!”

Uncle Bernard just knows he's going to have to settle for a bowl of Frosties again. It's simply not good enough. He'll have to have words with Althea and Johnson; see if they can't sort out this farrago betwixt 'em.

sometime later

calliaphone is carried into the Bingo Hall on the back of a jokerbot. She is sound asleep, but still somehow clinging to a flask of Knockando with one hand, and to the 'bot's neck with the other arm.

calliaphone, in turn, is clung to, by a little metal ballerina in a mesh tutu who is seated on her shoulder.

calliaphone continues sleeping as her ol'friend deposits her onto a sofa. Coppelia clambers into her lap, and soon the engineer and the mechanical dancer are both curled up together. One in need of a bath, the other a polish. But both safe and sound.

and awhile after that

Johnson patters in, rubbing at her face and yawning. Mmmn. Offices. Bernard said- something. Down the stairs. Offices. Something. Damn it, she hasn't even had breakfast. “Damn it, I haven't even had breakfast,” Johnson complains to the threadbare sofa, the one next to the battered plaid armchair. “I can't administer- administrate- administrator this clan until I've had something in me.”

Johnson looks at the sofa. The sofa refuses to look at her. Johnson sighs. “Once again,” she says. “I haven't even had breakfast.” She waits.

Johnson looks at the sofa, arms crossed. The sofa looks back at her, stitches split.

Johnson narrows her eyes.

Johnson waits. There is a pregnant silence.

Johnson continues to wait, her lips pressing thinner and thinner and thinner until suddenly, she whirls around and bellows, “AHA. THERE YOU ARE, BASTARD-” and leaps onto a small, nondescript-looking couch in the corner, bashing the paisley pillows with Johnsonesque fervour and cries of, “ IN DISGUISE, WERE YOU? THOUGHT YOU'D SWITCH PLACES OVERNIGHT, HM?” Springs shriek in protest as she galumphs on her knees across the spine, hideous purple sofa-covers buckling in agony beneath her bucking boots.

Johnson whales away at the unfortunate couch for a little while until it and she both collapse in a wail of sproings and kdooofths and stuffing billows everywhere like a small, grubby snowstorm. “HAD ENOUGH?” Johnson's face bawls, rising from the maelstrom of paisley like a wrathful goddess from the depths of a wine-dark sea. “ARE YOU GOING TO GIVE ME BREAKFAST OR NOT.”

Johnson waits, buried chin-deep in furnishings. Silence waits, swirling through the grubby drift of snow. The threadbare sofa opposite waits, stitches unravelling further. And then, a small click and a tinkling from somewhere in the bowels of the Hall.

Johnson relaxes. The stuffingsnow snows. And through the grubby blizzard a small figure makes itself apparent, trudging through the drifts like a lonely old man on a cold winter's night. It's even carrying a lantern.

Johnson sits up, shaking her coat free from an enormous fall of dandruffish grey. “About time,” she says, cheerful as anything now that she can practically taste the bacon. “Thank you. Very kind.” And through the couches a lone figure comes, approaching Johnson with a stride as steady as the tray balanced on an upraised hand. A lone figure in a black coat, a fedora cocked over the face, black gloves to the elbow. The figure lowers the tray tenderly onto Johnson's lap, as tenderly as if it held a newborn.

Johnson beams. “I'll do up the couch so well you won't even recognise it,” she says. “You are a lifesaver. Thanks, mate.” Before her, the dark figure bows. It turns and strides back into the lessening stuffingstorm and vanishes from view.

Johnson looks down at her tray, covered with a sturdy piece of russet leather. “I remember that,” she murmurs as the stuffing eventually settles around her feet. She sweeps it off and folds the leather drape back. “That was Tuesday.”

Johnson closes her eyes and inhales. “Perfect,” she whispers. “Always perfect.” Polished fork, polished knife. Plate still hot. Food still sizzling gently, steam curling up to wreath the zombie girl's face in a bouquet to die for. Johnson smiles.

Johnson eats.

Johnson puts down the fork, the knife, resting them gently against the edge of the cooling plate. She licks the shine of grease from her lips and then, light as light itself, re-drapes the leather over it all.

Kestrel is leaning against the banisters, lazy, listening. Politeness calls for her to wait a few minutes, allow time for her to eat. And then “y'know, food never appears like that when I call it - nifty little talent you've got there.”

Johnson stands. Johnson blinks. It's- oh, it's a trilby, not a fedora, and what's more, it's a Kestrel and not a stranger wreathed in mystery and the colour black. “S'not me,” she says cheerfully- extremely cheerfully. Food is Johnson's one addiction. “S'the couch.”

Johnson stands. She turns and lifts the vaguely-intact paisley thing she was sitting on, the remains of a seat cushion, and lowers the tray into the hollow. Smiling, she puts the seat cushion back over and presses down, presses down, presses down hard.

Johnson for a moment presses both fists down upon the cushion as if she were smothering something. There's a nasty twist to her mouth and her fists are greyer than usual when she brings them back up, flicking her fingers out.

Kestrel steps closer with the intent to watch, the hope to better see, then almost treads back again at Johnson's expression. Surprise turns to thoughtfulness, confusion fading.

Johnson stands a moment, looking down at the couch. And then she turns back to Kestrel in a swirl of quick limbs and her smile is wide, wide, wide. “Mornin', Kes! How are you?”

Kestrel has learnt how to deal with odd things. One needs to learn, or ignore, or gleefully go with it, in these parts. “The couch called the food?” she surmises, voice amused.

Johnson shrugs a shoulder. “It does that. There's this- trigger- bell- thing, not sure what. I was bouncing across the couches one day, and something pinged on one of the couches and whatshisname dude in black came out and gave me breakfast.”

Kestrel tilts her head slightly, left'n'right, dispelling sleep. “I'm alright. Been thinkin, searching, the usual stuff. And yourself, you look quite chipper, dontcha?” this said with more of a smile than wryness.

Johnson beams. “I've had breakfast! This is always a reason to be chipper!” She schleps through the stuffing drift towards the stairs, shaking her coat out, and then trots the final few to loop an arm around Kestrel's shoulders in a brief hug.

Kestrel replies to the first part with a simplequiet “oh,” submitting to - and returning - the hug with good grace. “Yes, that is a good reason to be chipper. Warm, full tummy, and a full day ahead of you - any plans?”

Johnson says, tone confiding, “I figured out the rest, after a while. The couch is a bit- odd. Changes upholstery sometimes. But I re-upholster it myself every time I have breakfast, y'know, as payment, and they seem to be happy with that.”

Johnson hesitates. Something is bouncing round the excited bayonet of her head, and clanging alarm bells every time it whacks against the edge of her skull. “Um,” she says. “Plans.” And then, “I may have to do some paperwork.”

Kestrel seems to understand more at that little explanation, but no more comprehension makes itself known on her face. “That's very kind of them,” she suggests politely, although not too sure of who they are.

Johnson's cheeriness is fading fast, reality pulling her eyes back to something more grey, more here. Even if here is also the land of green flashiness. Memory is returning, and with memory, Bernard. And- and Bernard in slippers. Saying something.

Kestrel latches onto the change in tone, eyebrow arched, voice lapsing into quiet for a moment. Then two questions of the single words “plans?” and “paperwork?”

Johnson flaps a hand, vague and dismissive. She's never been too sure of who they are either. “I have the feeling it's poisoned or something. Some things taste more almondy than they should. No, Kes- paperwork. And- Bernard.”

Johnson hesitates again. “Bernard's paperwork.” she says, and then- “GERM's paperwork. Um.”

Kestrel quickly realises, expression passing through the extensive realm of guilt to sheer surprise and then, eventually, delight. “Oh, but that's wonderful! The paperwork less so, of course, but I've been hearing things and I saw the note and-”

Kestrel settles on a mostly triumphant, “you're the new administrator, aren't you.” The rest is sympathy.

Johnson is beginning to quail inside at the sympathy in Kestrel's tone. This- could be bad. This could be very bad. “Yes,” she says, voice cracking only the slightest bit at the end. This could be very bad indeed. “How bad is it.”

Kestrel decides to be honest. As much as she knows, which isn't much, and maybe not the full story because, well, they might still be looking for them. “No-one knows what happened to the last chap. We-” Kestrel goes for frankness. Vague, vague, frankness. “We framed him for something.” Then a helpful addition, “racketeering, see.” And hastily recovering, “thing is, he was out to get us. And not a very savoury character. You'll be fine. You're nice.”

Johnson's fingers curl into brief fists, the lingering aftereffects of- something. “Oh.” A quick flick out, and she shoves her hands into her pockets. “Um.” Crap. “So. where'm I supposed to be doin' all this stuff, then? I've not seen much paper around.”

Kestrel recalls a list of guidelines in Central, someone who looked like they knew what they were doing. And another time, amusing footage which dear misery guts played to her in exchange for- a favour. Kestrel says, uncertain, “Merlin might know where some of the paper is - paper for paperwork. Haven't seen her around all that much lately, though. And Ebenezer - I think he's ours, GERM's, every thursday or something? for the paperwork. To help with it.”

Johnson nods. She knows about Ebenezer. She will be depending on Ebenezer the way one depends on the tensile strength of a piece of rope when one is dangled above shark-infested blood-murking waters. “Bernard said… somewhere downstairs…” she offers.

Kestrel glances, all thought and thoughtfulness, from door to door to stairs. “Well, to be utterly frank with you, I haven't the slightest where anything lies in this gargantuan excuse for a laybyrinth these days. Not anymore.

Johnson nods. “Same.” Perks up. “I have a ball of string?” The eyes are sliding towards the door.

Kestrel twists a grin of reminiscence and wryness. “Good plan! I've got the sword-” taptap of fingertip on scabbard ”-and you've got the string, what could possibly go wrong.“

Johnson winces. That is not a way to begin. “Everything,” she says quickly. “Everything could go wrong. Life could go wrong. The world. We could all die. More times. Than we already do.” And then also loud and clear- “Lots of things could go wrong.”

Kestrel puts a hand on each shoulder, eyes positively gleaming. “Oh, but don't you see? What worth is risk-taking when you only take the small ones? - none at all. At times you've just got to start an expedition that way. World, I challenge you.”

Johnson puts a hand to her forehead. “World,” she mumbles, a thumb swinging over her shoulder- “she challenged you.” Johnson just hopes she isn't caught in the fallout.

Kestrel ponders, shifts a hand from shoulder to hand to tug. Below the stairs, with a “Yes, I do.

Johnson is tugged. Out comes the ball of string, an end is quickly knotted around a door handle, and then, for extra safety, Calliaphone's left foot, and the red tape unravels. Away they go, into the subterranean depths of- of The Bingo Hall.

Kestrel half-supports a Johnson out into the jungle; Kes is herself half-supported. As they pass, a ball of red string is collected, untied from callia's foot, shoved into green-suede pocket before the door swings open - they step out - and it shuts.

Below Stairs

Johnson sneaks in and looks about. Bruce ain't here. Hmn. She don't even know if Bruce knows her. Now which room… a quick stab of a bitten finger, and Johnson lurches in a random direction. THROUGH A DOOR!

Kestrel has not eaten, not for hours or days or possibly a week. No rumble comes from this stomach - but it is empty, and she does pause, beside a tray of pastries, to snatch a few up in carefulnimble fingers. “Are you alright, Johnson?”

Johnson lets the red yarn spool through her fingers. “Mmmhm.” A glance at the pastries, and then she passes them by. The taste of almond is still at the back of her teeth. Stays for hours. “I've- been here before. Where's Bruce?”

Kestrel casts a glance over her shoulder, twisting slightly to do so. “Cig break,” she suggests around a mouthful of flaky croissant. “Or looking at naughty magazines again. I thought that'd be Bernard, but the old fella always feigns ignorance.”

Kestrel swallows, brushes a sleeve across her mouth. “Onward?” she queries, with a tilt-of-head towards the closest of doors, the third on that wall. “Think it might be that one.” The one through which drifts the faintest smell of brownies.

Kestrel settles back slightly against the worksurface, taking up a third pastry on second- or perhaps third-thought, perusing a nearby open and rather floury cookbook with an expression of absentmindedness.

Johnson considers. For someone who is bent on Challenging the World, Kestrel seems remarkably laid-back. “Mmmn. Okay.” She snags Kestrel by the elbow and follows the chocolate-drift.

Kestrel is of the belief that if the world wants to challenge her back, it can darn well do so when she's relaxing and nibbling on third breakfast.

Kestrel, snagged, allows her legs to fall into the pattern of stumble-follow-tread-tread-tread. Onward to the staff quarters!

Staff Quarters

Johnson blinks. Wh- dear god, there's the faint drift of a very pungent perfume from one corner, and the smell of industrial-strength bleach from another. Panicking, Johnson bolts through the first door she comes to.

Johnson tows Kestrel through, nose raised. A pause. I've been here before. “I've been here before,” she says. “I recognise the smell.” The distinct waft of Lilith's B.O, mixed with horribly the deliciousness of melting chocolate. And underneath it all, bleach.

Kestrel has been spending time near squat hole, recently; she stands behind, or is held there, rather, expectant and curious as the sniffer-girl sniffs. “You must know the way from here then, mustn't you.”

Johnson: shakes her head. “I went in- there. Left a note for Althea.” Under the first door, the smell of chocolate curls upwards, strong and stronger than the smell of smoked sausage, bleach and B.O.

Kestrel knows not the way. Neckcranes, chin resting briefly on shoulder as eyes flit from door to door. She, too, has explored this area of the hall in the past. She, however, has little memory of this place. “You lead the way, missus.”

Johnson shakes her head. “Lilith's place is here,” she says darkly. “And you're the one who wants to challenge the world.” A hand reaches up to tug on the brown hair, lightly, and then Johnson slips an arm behind and Kes is suddenly in front.

Kestrel props herself up on one leg, other one set to amiable tapping, arms now crossed and rested. “Mmhmm, I am. And I have. And now just have to find the opportunities to let it, no?”

Kestrel grins, quick and sharp. “In which case we should be searching broom cupboards, not Lilith's rooms.” And with no explanation - nor any plan of one - she tugs, spins, takes a hand and strides kitchenwards again.

Johnson blinks as she is towed back. Away from chocolate. “But-”

Below Stairs

Kestrel has a hand that is tugging, tugging like a girl with one aim - to tug. The furthest door calls eyes and attention, and foot-course is altered with a skip and step and Kestrel tugs Johnson onwards to the last door. “Thissun looks promising.”

Johnson is tugged. “Okay!” Cheerful.

The Pigeon Holes

Johnson: stumbles through the door ahead of Kestrel and then windmills backwards, clutching at the doorpost. “GRIEF.”

Kestrel allows the towed one a little rest, here, dropping her hand as she skids to a stop near the door. “Pigeon holes!” she cries, delightedly. “That's the way. Well, to the pigeon holes. We're meant to check them daily, y'know.”

Kestrel pauses, allowing a moment of quiet - except it's not quiet. There are sounds here, sounds familiar and reminding of times she'd rather forget. A harsher word than usual slips out, glance darted sideways. “Johnson?”

Johnson grabs onto Kestrel's arm. “Don't- stop, hold on-” and she staggers forward with the impact of the other girl, and goes skidding on a form- across the sea of forms, scribbled notes, post-its, envelopes and abandoned letters of complaint.

Kestrel holds onto the arm with a fury, slipping backwards and landing with a bump of bum on forms. Kes isn't as heavy as she used to be. But she still trusts herself as an anchor, perhaps unwisely.

Johnson yelps. The sound is muffled by the sleeting of white noise, papers and papers and papers whispering among themselves at the intrusion. No-one has disturbed them for days. Weeks. Months. Forms ruffle, rustle, and as Johnson scrabbles, skidding, clinging to Kestrel's arm, she starts to- sink.

Kestrel faces a similar problem. And now she yanks back from the grasp, surprise coming out as a doglike yelp.

Kestrel curses again, hand going to belt - thrusting through letters and forms, slow as sand - pulling out the cane. With a clickclickclick it extends, to five feet then longer.

Johnson begins to bellow in earnest. “KESTREL, WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON.” She grabs again for the arm, struggles, is pulled like quicksand with an elephant deeper. And Johnson has never been particularly elephantine. “Keshowfardowndoesthisgo.”

Kestrel calls, panicked, “This is what you're meant to do with quicksand, isn't it?” And the cane is balanced on the surface of the mess, head tilted backward with a grin out-of-place.

Kestrel knows that you're meant to get yourself out first - then help the other. Crevices - what was it he said about crevices. Let me know what they are, and I'll jump in after you. Sometimes you've gotta be stupid.

2010-11-04 08:46:03: Kestrel: : is this now. The cane is pulled up again, one end held and the other shoved - almost painfully - in the direction of zombie-hand. “GRAB.” she demands. “Grab hold, woman, and don't let go whatever you do.”

Johnson wails, thrashing and flailing and occasionally yelping. Papercuts! Papercuts! “I've never been in- quicksand- PAPERCUTS- I DIDN'T CHALLENGE YOU, WORLD. WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TOoooooooooo-” and the paper sleets quietly across the surface.

Kestrel grins, and oh how she grins. Because this isn't life or death here - it never is, though people might pretend otherwise. But this is life or life-buried-beneath-paperwork, and that is a very real risk, and she is grinning.

Kestrel moves one arm slowly, then another. She's up to her shoulders now, nearly, the sheer mass of the paper sucking at her limbs and pulling deeper - though slower. Kes is in the shallows, eyes searching in the deeps.

Johnson is gone. Somewhere. The grubby scribbled sea rolls gently, a fair ocean in summer under blue skies, forms undulating across the room like waves of white water. They lap at the door, dog-eared and tender, peeling away, flowing, following invisible tides.

Kestrel yells out the name. “Johnson!” And again - “Johnson!” and there is an arm where the woman just disappeared, and she is searching.

Kestrel didn't expect the currents. Didn't plan for them. And she is grinning, dogear to dogear as the paper wins, drifts over, buries as if with a snowdrift. And beneath the paper-

Johnson is swimming, deep beneath paper. The eyes are closed and there is an occasional silent cry of papercuts- papercuts- through closed lips, the throat moving. She is glad for the length of her coat, glad that it covers lots, glad that suede don't cut easy.

Kestrel: sinks less like a fish, more like a feather in water. In honey - or treacle. With every movement she stirs up the paper, and drops, and with every struggle she bursts an air bubble - and breathes, for a moment. Breathes deep, breathes long.

Johnson is glad she doesn't need to breathe. Glad her hands were reinforced with varnish by Whistle. Glad she's a zombie. Glad she doesn't have blood in her veins anymore or else all these bloody forms would be bloody forms.

Johnson swims deeper, instead of upwards, ignoring the slashes to the face, the thousand minute chips of skin, slicesliceslice. She don't scar. She don't bleed. She only peels, shreds, loses skin. But the forms aren't happy, it seems.

Johnson: : is glad that Kes is there, somewhere up. Johnson has a habit of getting out of things relatively unbroken because she has good people around. And Kes is good people. Underneath the dark mass of paper, the weight on her body- paper weighs-

Johnson pushes through currents, tides, swirling maelstroms of paper and is deeply glad Kes is good people, and up there somewhere, and possibly near that damned ball of yarn.

Johnson may or may not still be holding a ball of yarn. It may or may not still be unravelling. Whether it's red and whether it's still whole is unknown to her, under the weight of paper, in the dark behind her own eyes, but it's something.

Johnson decides it's as close to leaving a blood-trail for Kes to follow as she can manage, and swims blindly down.

Kestrel turns slowly, blood thrumming in her ears. And her skin is tough, scarred, and only her hands and mouth are uncovered; hair splays - tangles - over her ears. And the rest, the rest is pain incomparable.

Kestrel sees nothing. The mask is on, pressed up against her face, but eyes are closed; soft paper would still prick the insides of her eyelids. she turns like a slow-motion cat in freefall, blood rushing to her head - and there

Kestrel finds string - and tugs it, and it is taut, squashed around the dense paper. Almost too dense. She squirms - a snake through hands, chest tight, and she perseveres.

Johnson swims and sinks and sinks and swims. Her bones are creaking. She can feel it- getting deep, getting close. Close to- there.

Johnson's hand is almost numb, on the edge of numb. Her face is unfeelable- it's passed the pain threshhold, her improbable nerves have shut themselves off after too much onslaught, too much skin lost. But she spreads the fingers, feels the flatness.

Johnson presses. It's unyielding, feels like- like flagstone, possibly, against the varnish of her fingertips- the soreness- the ache of the cold. Paper is warmth. And Johnson wonders what would happen if someone struck a match and dropped it in on top.

Kestrel: turns, she turns and turns - so slowly - and slower now, and the letters are packed tighter, and she can't breathe. All the air is gone now - and every movement is difficult, and she hangs onto the string and continues.

Kestrel shifts, bit by bit. And drops - inch by inch. Slowly, slower, slowest, and stops.

Johnson decides she likes the idea of matches. Turning, she drops a booted foot to the floor, sinks, crouches, and then pushes. Begins to count.

Johnson butterflies through, slowly, with effort. One. Two. Three. Armstrokes, how many of them, how long to reach the top. The pressure tells her where the top is, the lightening, the rain of cuts on her face- her bones have stopped creaking. Twelve. Thirteen.

Kestrel: : is trapped - a bug squashed between pages. Or a character, or a scene, or a poem. She counts each one, hoping.

Johnson's hands go entirely numb, but just before they do she feels- round, thin, thread. Yarn. Thick to the hand, rough-spun, all the lumps in it. She knows the yarn, she spun it. Her first attempt. Before her hands lose feeling, Johnson leans forward, fumbles, and clamps her mouth over. Slips it in between her teeth and strokes, slower, up to the surface, her lips sliding raw up the stretch of yarn, wool shedding into her mouth, around her face, feeling it spool through her teeth.

Johnson counts. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-thr-

The thread in her mouth stops spooling. For some reason. It's stuck. At something. Johnson can't budge her head further up the string anymore.

Kestrel feels movement - a shifting between her. A shivering of the twine, jerked here, pulled there - then stopped. Someone's coming up between her - she's got to move. A surge of effort, a shifting upwards. And another.

Johnson knocks her head against the stuck bit, tongue between her teeth feeling at the yarn in her mouth, the only things that can feel, the things on the inside, the things not susceptible to vicious paper seas.

Why does the paper hate me?

Kestrel would call out, but her throat's tight. Squashed. Her air is precious - saved. The musty pockets are barely enough, not enough to fill her aching lungs. And her chest is tight, her eyes are blind, her hands protest, she moves.

2010-11-04 09:31:15: Johnson: : changes her mind as she jerks her head again and the yarn slips smoothly through, gritting between her teeth with the taste of wool, oil, fur.

What does the paper want? Is she really anthropomorphizing paper? Jumping into a pit of sharp forms would, Johnson: : rationalises, get you at least slightly papercut. But this much? And- and since when has paper ever been a sea? Paper sits, paper sits thick like books, paper moves only on the surface when the wind blows, light as light.

Johnson: : counts. Twenty four. Twenty five. Twenty six.

Paper does not have currents. Paper does not swell with tides, paper does not whirlpool. And yet this does. Or did- she's not sure now, since all her pain-receptors are dead.

Kestrel knows paper. She knows its fold, its heft, its promise. Blank sheets - marred sheets, torn sheets, cut sheets. And decorated ones - ruined? made beautiful? She knows paper, but this isn't like paper. This is alive.

Kestrel squirms, wriggles, and it's easier now, and her fingers brush… her fingers brush air, emptiness. And there it is, her head breaks the surface, and her lungs inflate to a rush of dust-filled, dank, stagnant-'til-today air.

Kestrel tilts her head back now, with a gentle thock as it rests against something hard - the door's open, her head's on the threshold. Her cane - stowed, automatically, back in her belt. And her chest aches, and she gasps out “Johnson?”

Johnson strokes, numbly, mechanically, feeling the rub of her skin on the inside of the suede coat, skin against lining. That she can still feel, and that she counts with.

Twenty seven. Twenty eight. Twenty nine. She has a scalp, she has arms, legs, a chest.

Johnson: : also has a neck. Thank God her collar was buttoned high today. Thank God it was cold. She has no face, she has no hands, and some of her wrist. That she can cope with.

Thirty. Thirty one. Thirty tw- and the pressure is gone from the neck of the coat.

Johnson can't feel paper against the push of her cap. Johnson's mouth presses against the string, and, carefully, cautiously, opens. Air, on the inside of her mouth, on her tongue. Air. “Kes? Kes. You there?”

Johnson says this, rather muzzily through a mouthful of yarn, and then thrashes up again as she feels the yarn sliding back up through her mouth. Stay afloat. “Kes- where-”

Kestrel has sense - enough sense to answer. “Hi, Johnson.” No you look awful, because her eyes are still shut. Looking for peace. But a hand is held out, in the direction of the voice, in hope of a hand to tug. “You in one piece?”

Johnson smiles around the yarn. There are things to hear again, things to hear that aren't just the inimitable, irrevocable quiet, the quiet susurrus of paper on paper on paper, shushing, shushing, shushing. Deep seas are silent, she knows this. But paper-

Johnson grips the yarn in her teeth for leverage, says around it- “I can't tell, but my limbs are all attached- yourself?”- paper seas are noisy seas.

Kestrel drops the hand again, considering. Then feeling - chin, mouth, forehead's covered, limbs are aching but fine, hands- will be fine. “Alright. Hurts to breathe, a little, but it's bearable.”

Johnson risks opening one eye, and then another. Kestrel, with a hand held out. Kestrel looks bloody about the mouth, bloody about the chin. “Oh, Kestrel.”

Johnson watches Kes drop the hand, and winces at the tiny streaks of red, flaming along the skin. “Paper cuts are stupid. I suggest we get ourselves out of this and go lie down.”

Johnson thrashes again as she feels the yarn slipping across her tongue, and- seeing the doorway close- makes for it. Narrows her eyes against the sleeting of paper, the skid of forms across the surface. One smacks her in the face. She shakes it off- and Johnson glimpses words, blue pen, black pen, tipsy writing-

rekwesting a chikin and zmobi ghoate, pleese

-and sighs through her nose. That looks like a Calli form. She is going to have to read these.

Johnson: : thumps both arms down against the doorway. “Shuffle over, Miss I'm-Bleeding-Over-My-Mask.” She can feel the flooring through her elbows, the solidity through the soft suede of her coat. Thank God for her coat. “Let's get out of here.”

Kestrel mmns agreement, scruntinising the other's expression for a moment as she shuffles over to one side. “Yeah, we need to get you seen to - I'll catch in a moment, maybe get yourself something to eat in the kitchen?”

Johnson mphhhs. “Me seen to? You seen to. M'a zombie, losing skin ain't an issue.” She's seen her hands. They're scratched up but they were varnished. Her face- her face wasn't varnished. She's lost skin alright. “Scarring is bad. Don't spoil the face.”

Johnson points a scratchy hand at Kestrel and repeats- “Don't spoil the face. Specially when you can heal. C'mon.” She heaves herself up, knees catching for purchase on the tiles, crawling out of the deadmass, the morass of forms.

Kestrel shrugs, reaching into the bag-on-her-lap for two flasks: one, she swigs from, whiskey cheap but strong enough to sear the back of your throat; the second is clear, and the fumes sting.

Kestrel explains, “vodka,” as she keeps a careful eye on the woman, ready to help. Half is poured out - on chin, cheeks and around her mouth, on hands at last. There's an audible hiss of pain, bitten back as a grimace.

Kestrel offers both flasks, then explains further. “Scarring- well, eventually - sooner or later - everything that c'n get scarred will. Whereas you, missy - I say we need the hospital tent for this one.”

Kestrel reconsiders the widom of offering - when the metal bites into her raw fingertips - and sets them both on a mostly steady patch of paper. Two gloves are produced, black leather with metal studs on the knuckles.

Johnson blinks, impressed by the gloves. “Goth biker chic.” She reaches for the vodka and is unable to pick it up. Hands like blocks. She sighs. “Halp. Please.” A pause. “But not on the paper. We don't need to make it all more flammable.”

Kestrel nods, drops the flasks into the top of her bag for easy heaving, takes both hands with care in those gloves ones - and tugs, gentle, firm, back through to the kitchen.

Johnson eyes the vodka streaming off Kes's cheeks, trickling down her chin. Dampening the papers beneath with a pinkening run of liquid. “And, you're going to need more than just an antiseptic. Some kind of- unguent. Salve. Thing.” Hesitation. “I have some-” Johnson's face falls slightly- “In my pockets.” Which she can't reach. Because she can't feel anything with her hands. Yet.

Kestrel nods, both at the compliment and at the offer. “Kitchen,” she decides, piling things into bag and tugging bag onto shoulder - then taking an arm with care, rising to her feet, leading forwards.

Johnson is tugged through and follows as her arm jerks. She can feels muscles pull. The skin feels nothing. One last glance at the quiet sea of forms- and, enough. I'll be back for you later. Armed.

Below Stairs

Kestrel drops her bag to the floor here, reaching inside again for the two flasks - both of which she passes back to Johnson in black-leather-glov'd hands. “Drink,” she says firmly. “I'll make tea.”

Kestrel does so. Kettle on to boil, teabag in pot, full-fat milk from the fridge and sugar cubes in a dainty little bowl edged with a pattern of orchids. All assembled, on a tray, with biscuit-packets open and half-finished by the side.

Johnson is too busy watching the tea-making to drink any such thing. Besides, the bottles are clamped in her arms, the suede holding them still. “Tea,” she says happily. Tea is the panacea for all ills.

Kestrel quickly realises the problem, too. With her own cup lifted a mere inch from the tray, she pauses, queries, “milk, sugar?” the biscuit-dunking will have to wait. Tea comes first.

Johnson beams. “Milk. Three sugars. Please.” Heaped sugars. Heapedheapedheaped sugars.

Kestrel: : gathers the 'heaped' part from the positively beaming tone, and obliges, sliding the mug over with a questioning tilt of the head. “Need a hand with it?”

Johnson shakes her own head. “S'okay. I've functioned with block-hands before, I can do simple things like drink. Unscrewing lids, however, is beyond me.” She lowers the two flasks to the counter and takes the mug in clumsy unfeeling hands. Drinks.

Kestrel: leans over, dutifully - carefully - unscrewing the two lids. “Vodka,” point “whiskey,” point.

Johnson looks up from the steaming heat of her cup, tea dribbling out her mouth and sliding down her chin without her noticing. “Oh. Um. If I put the tea down for a moment, can you chuck the vodka on my face and hands? While I can't feel a thing?”

Johnson adds- “No whiskey, thanks. I just need a couple hours for the numb to wear off. Might go take a nap or summat.” She eyeballs Kes. “After we take you to a medtent.”

Kestrel snorts, quite unladylike and graceless, gesturing for her to put the cup down. As soon as she does - splsh goes the vodka, eyes averted as it begins to trickle down. “Engh - sorry, that must sting. Med tent, sure, but I'll promise nothing.”

Johnson mphsh through the vodka, shaking her head so the droplets go everywhere. “Don't sting. I can't feel a thing in my face,” she say cheerfully. “It'll be like this for a bit. Pain threshhold went over. Nerves cut off after a certain point.”

Johnson puts her face to the cup and tips it over, drinking and spilling the rest, sweet and sticky and hot, all over her chin. “Euck,” she murmurs, as it starts leaking down her collar. “I can feel that. I spilled it, didn't I.” She straightens.

Kestrel nods silent agreement, packing up the now-empty cups and teapot and stuff and shoving them all - more gently than her hurriedness implies - into the sink. “C'mon, then. Let's go see to my hands and your face.”

Kestrel then reaches into her pocket for the inevitable handkerchief - when it comes out empty, she pauses, brow furrowed, and nabs a few squares of kitchen towel. “Here.”

Johnson tilts her head, offering an arm, her hand hanging loose. “C'mon. Medtent. Promises I don't need, I just need to make sure your face don't rot off. I'm not bringing you to the next meeting of the non-decomp league. You're living.”

Kestrel smirks, mopping up the spill as best as possible. “Alrighty, then - the medtent.” And off they go. Or more likely, shamble. Out into the big wide jungle with careful pain-drunk aim for the tent itself.

<note>Part the Second

The Index</note>