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AKA - Eleanor Lamb - 02-16-2016
Bright lights are nothing new to me.
Sure. I spend most of my days locked in an office tucked in the darker, murkier corners of Hell’s Kitchen. That’s true. Sue me.
But thanks to the bling hanging from the neck of local pimps, I’m used to sparkles. There’s nothing quite like the special glimmer of a freshly spit-shined dollar sign hanging just below the obnoxious Adam’s apple of a mofo dressed like Huggy Bear from Starsky and Hutch.
The movie, I mean. So basically Snoop Dogg.
You see, my part of New York City contains all sorts of low-life punks, but most of them are super down on their luck so the glossy, showoff sons of bitches tend to stick out. I don’t handle pretentious fucks very well, so naturally their jewelry requires another little rub with a Clorox alcohol wipe after they’ve had a little run in with me. Which they usually do, one way or another. Sometimes it’s because they pissed off the wrong person, but mostly it’s just because they’re unlucky. Caught up in a Ponzi scheme they didn’t even see coming.
I see most things coming. I can only think of a few times in my life when someone has actually managed to take me by surprise. A surprise birthday party, one time—though looking back I really should’ve seen the signs—and maybe Kilgrave. Just… all of Kilgrave. Oh, and now. Definitely now.
Seriously, though: imagine the shock a person must feel to be staring at the greatest and most extravagant city in the world one second and absolutely nothing in the next. It’s more than a little disorienting, if I’m being honest with you.
Well, I guess “nothing” is a bit of an exaggeration. There’s a fountain.
…why the ever-loving fuck is there a fountain?
I’ve always possessed one of the paler complexions in the world, so maybe my threshold for things like this got fucked up a little. But I’m not joking when I say that the floor (and essentially everything else surrounding me) is totally and completely white. Like, as if the world around me had just been sloshed with a giant vat of toxic vanilla ice cream. That’d be a helluva bullshit way to get superpowers, I think. You’d be like Mint-Berry Crunch from South Park.
Clichés will be clichés, I suppose, but things are cliché for a reason, so I waste no time sliding up the sleeve of my leather jacket and pinching myself. It hurts. I go nowhere.
And immediately, I’m thinking of all the worst things, right? I died and went to heaven, which means there’s actually a heaven and now I have to pay Trish, like, my weight in cash. Except, of course, I’m dead, so how exactly am I going to do that?
There are no clouds here, though, and no glowing angels with giant, obnoxious eagle wings floating down to point me in the right direction. So where the hell am I, then? Purgatory? Some sort of other afterlife the good religions of the world could never have predicted? A giant box where my soul is trapped for eternity?
No, not trapped, I think. Something’s coming into focus far away. A gate. Several of them, actually, on all sides of me. I rotate around, taking them all in.
As my revolution finishes, I’m looking back where I started except it’s noticeably less empty than before. Some cocksucker in a suit of unfortunately sterile-looking armor is standing in front of me. He’s got that ‘legs shoulder-width apart, gun down but ready to fire’ position going, and I suddenly become aware that any direction I run is a direction with no cover whatsoever. If this guy can aim worth anything, he’ll probably gun me down within a few steps.
Of course, I don’t run.
“Yes?” I say, sliding my hands into my pockets. Act like you’re supposed to be here, Jessica. Everything is totally normal.
“Identify yourself,” the asshole drones.
Wait a second—is this one of the guys from Star Wars that can’t aim worth shit? I’m suddenly feeling much more confident about my escape chances, if so. But to be honest, I’d never really been a big Star Wars fan—I’d just seen the memes—so without being able to say for sure, I stay put. For now.
“How about you tell me your name and I keep mine to myself?”
“I go by the designation TR-8R,” the Stormtrooper responds curtly, “and I must insist on you following your orders and revealing your identity to me, prime.”
“Prime?” I wonder aloud. What the hell does that mean? All of a sudden, I remember the little glowing man that spewed some bullshit to me about a new world or whatever. Honestly, I hadn’t really had my wits about me whenever I got swept away from reality (thanks, Jack D) and so I hadn’t really retained much of what the little guy had said, but now, stuck here in the worst place ever to have a hangover, I feel much more sober and much more confused in general about what the hell words like “Omniverse” and “Omnilium” and other bullshit with the prefix “Omni” tacked on the front of it mean.
I start to make connections. This guy’s white. The creepy dude who obviously wasn’t creative enough to think up nifty names for everything in this nightmare I’m stuck in was white. This whole room is white. Maybe it’s all connected.
“I’m Jessica,” I shrug, deciding it’s no huge deal for this guy to know my name. “Do you work for Omni Whatshisfuck?”
“What? Do I work for Omni?” the trooper asks, recoiling a bit. “Um, no, not exactly—” he stammers a bit as I made my way toward him, closing the gap of empty space separating us. For a second, we both stare at each other, him through his weird little visor and me through hangover goggles. Seriously, guys, my head is pounding.
“Okay, then I don’t feel bad about this. Not that I really would anyway.”
I sock him in the jaw. Pretty hard.
Re: AKA - Eleanor Lamb - 02-17-2016
Omni said I could conjure anything I want, so I literally pull some rope out of thin air and tie Mr. TR-8R’s ankles up with it. This whole ordeal seemed like total bullshit until that happened. Now, post-magic rope, it only seems sort of like bullshit.
I know, I know. Punching the dude may have been a rash decision. But I mean, can you really blame me? I got sucked away from New York City and dropped in this random-ass extra dimension like place. Don’t get me wrong, I’m used to weird—my city did get attacked by an army of hostile extraterrestrials who got in through an interdimensional portal and everything—but this just seems excessive. So I may not exactly have all of my actions in check like normal. This is a high-stress situation, you get me?
Especially to deal with alone. Ugh, where’s Trish or Carol when you need them?
So next thing I know, I’m dragging this guy along behind me. I have to admit, the guy’s much heavier than I expected him to be. Maybe it’s all that armor. It does look like it’s made out of a material that isn’t exactly suited to travel long distances. I vaguely catch glimpses of other people hanging out at the fountain, but I tell myself not to dwell on them. Wouldn’t wanna get caught by one of TR-8R’s buddies.
Is this hurting him? I don’t really know and I don’t really care, but I can’t shake the subtle sounds of his helmeted head bopping against the super white floor of this weird, large room as he slides along behind me. I figure it can’t hurt any more than it did when I punched him in the face, so despite that little tickle in the pit of my stomach, I keep on dragging. And he keeps on bopping.
Please don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up.
“Ughhhhhh.”
Of course he fucking wakes up. The noise stops me in my tracks, and I turn around and aim his blaster rifle—which I have stolen, yes—straight for him. Killing him, I know, would solve absolutely none of my problems, but that doesn’t mean I can’t threaten him, right? I mean, how else am I supposed to get any dirt on this place?
“…ughhhhhhh,” he groans again. He sounds like me after a particularly lucrative date with one of my main men, Mr. Jim Beam. Probably has the same throbbing headache, at least. Hope he isn’t as prone to vomiting as hungover Jessica is. That would certainly make for a mess on this nice, pretty white ground. I wonder if Omni would want me to make a mop out of this omnilium shit and clean it up? In case you can’t tell, I’m not really the type of girl that revels in that kind of labor.
The guy’s tinted visor—which sort of reminds me of the windows on one of those fancy Escalades cruising through downtown Manhattan—makes it pretty hard to tell when he’s opened his eyes and really taken stock of the situation, but eventually, his body language seems to communicate that he knows he’s gotten himself into some pretty deep shit. Or, at least mildly deep shit. Well, his body language and:
“I’m in some deep shit, huh?”
“Mildly,” I snark back.
He sighs. I hate it when people sigh. It’s so defeatist. I much prefer it when people scream and kick in rage; it seems like a much more appropriate response to any given situation. But this guy, he sighs.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I ask him point-blank, shaking his gun at him. That’s threatening, right? Sure. I don’t know, I’m a fucking superpowered P.I. It’s been a while since I’ve threatened anyone with a gun. I might not have ever done it. I certainly am not keen to try it again any time soon. I barely even know how to hold the damn thing. Still, I keep demanding. I play it cool. “Right now! Or… else.”
He slides backward a little bit, fidgeting nervously. “It’s just… well, that’s kind of a big question. And doesn’t Omni explain everything to primes?”
There’s that word again, I think. “What the fuck does that mean—prime? Is everyone here not a prime?”
“Um, no,” he says as if should already know that. I don’t appreciate his tone. “I’m a secondary. You’re a prime. It just means Omni brought you here directly.” My eyes narrow on him, and I lower my gun. This information’s good enough for me to stop threatening him.
“And that gate,” I ask pointing absentmindedly with the laser rifle (laser rifle?!), “where does it go?”
I’m pointing to the one that’s literally just an archway of ice. In retrospect, I probably should have gotten directions to one that led to a more comfortable-looking place, but hey, I was in a high stress situation, can you blame me? This one’s the closest now, though, and I feel an immense desire to get the fuck out of dodge. What if one of those other guys who appeared tries to fight me? What if one of TR-8R’s friends shows up and wants him back? None of these options sound as good to me as walking into the blizzard I see just beyond the icy archway, so that’s the decision I’ve made.
Still, a little more information wouldn’t hurt.
“That goes to the Frozen Fields,” the stormtrooper explains, leaning over to get a better look at the case. My voluptuous midsection apparently is too big for him to see past. Heh, yeah right. Asshole.
“Sounds divine,” I scowl, picking up his rope and turning around, beginning to yank him across the floor once again.
“Wait—you’re taking me with you?!” he scrambles, trying his best to claw his way out of my reach. It obviously doesn’t work. Like, dude, you’re trying to play tug of war against a woman with superhuman strength and you really thought that was going to work? I’m starting to not even feel sorry for punching him anymore. I spin around, tightening my grip on the rope and drag him back toward me with just a little bit too much force.
He sails toward me, skidding along the floor of the big white place, and I have to hop to make sure he slides underneath me instead of colliding with my legs. Hopefully he’ll just stop on the other side of me—
—no, yeah, there he goes, off into the Frozen Fields, screaming his helmet off all the way.
This time, I sigh. What a douchecanoe.
Quote:To be continued in The Frozen Fields.