Week 1, Title: Power
Nov. 23rd, 2016 09:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
swirlsofpurpleRidian awakens drowsily, lazily beckoning the clock to him. Nothing happens. He rubs a fist against his eyes, but the dream remains. The clock doesn’t move. He gestures towards the room in general, just to draw something- anything- to him. Still nothing. Confusion slides sharp-spiked into panic. He’s not in his room. His powers aren’t working and he doesn’t know where he is. There’s a weight around his neck. His chest clenches and his stomach drops. No. This can’t be happening. No. No. No. His hands grip fiercely at the metal band around his throat. He’s been collared.
He clamps a hand over his mouth to keep from screaming. He clamps a hand over his ears to stop the world from dribbling out. Nothing comes at his call. Nothing is here. Nothing is real.
He sits there for a while. He needs to try to escape. It’s an eventual realisation, a thought taking far longer to occur than it should. He can’t remember a time when he couldn’t use his powers. His captors clearly think this means he’s helpless without them. He’s not even tied down.
The door is locked. He can’t use his telekinesis to open it, but the knowledge remains; motions sliding tumblers into place. He just needs a little stick. He fumbles for too many moments, fingers not as dextrous as his powers are and nerves rendering them clammy.
This is stupid. What most would do is accept their fate; caught, bound, powerless. He’s going to get himself killed. For nothing. How is he going to fight if he doesn’t have his powers? He’s useless. But he can’t stop. He can’t ever stop. He needs it. He needs the drive; the thrill; the exhilaration of fighting back. He needs the joy of standing up to their oppressors and of fighting for the powered people who can’t fight for themselves. He can do this. He is not only his powers. He is strong. He has to do this.
The door opens. He slides along the corridor.
The guards grin when they see him. They’re glad for the chance to take him down now that he can’t fling them aside. His fists and feet fly in a frenzy of desperation and having nothing to lose. Pain scorches his knuckles and stomach and jaw. He runs.
*
He may rely on his powers too much but he’s been a fugitive long enough to know how to hide. He ducks down alleys, doubles back, runs into corners. He steadily forges a head start. He knows he needs a plan. Without his powers he won’t be able to evade his captors for long.
The answer lurches wild and bitter in his mind. The Sanctuary. Ridian has always held a mixture of disdain and grudging respect for the place. A place where any powered person may seek refuge. Run by Colt; a man only in it for himself; happy to take advantage of the desperate wretches landing at his door. But it’s also somewhere anyone can leave anytime and this leaves it one step above the camps in Ridian’s estimation.
He can’t risk transport which can be stopped. So he plans his path and runs.
*
His body yawns and stretches and whimpers. He needs to slow. He knows he can’t. He can feel their gazes on the back of his neck. He forces his pace. Lungs throbbing, legs singing with pain. He needs to stop. He can’t. Keep going, keep going. His body calls out to its surroundings and receives no response. He might collapse. He doesn’t. Keep moving.
The gates appear, like a mirage of heavy ornate blackness, he sobs. Pauses. Bangs on them.
A baby-faced man stumbles towards him, concern etched into the lines on his face. The gates open.
“Are you okay? Come in. Come in. I’m Colt.”
Ridian walks inside and collapses onto his knees. There’s a cool sensation in his bones; it’s relief.
His mind warns of ever-present danger. He’s not falling for Colt’s act. But he’s tired. So tired.
*
He’s still on his knees when they come to the gates. Demanding entry, demanding their prisoner.
Colt’s face holds no trace of its previous incarnation; now hard and unyielding.
“No one in this place is your concern,” Colt says, voice quietening as he continues.
The agents boisterous, snarling orders quell to nervousness under the weight of Colt’s dark steady murmurings.
Ridian is reluctantly impressed.
*
“As long as your rent is paid in full and on time you can do whatever the fuck you want,” Colt says, nonchalant, “You miss a payment, you get kicked out. I don’t give a fuck what or who is waiting for you out there.”
Ridian nods. He’s beginning to wonder whether the man has a genuine split personality.
The rent is extortionate of course. But this is only until he can find something better; i.e. get the collar off.
*
He works as a waiter at the compounds bar. He stays there most of the day and night. Falls too exhausted onto his pillow for too few hours. The shower spurts a weak stream. The lights flicker. There’s only 0.02 dollars left on the meter.
He sits at the bar after closing, drinking the patrons’ sludge-silt dregs and eating cold leftovers.
Colt says, “You’ll make more if you dance for them.”
He imagines them groping at him. These non-powered people: the most powerful of them all, crowing on how they’ve brought him low. He replies with the only thing that’s important, “I make enough to pay rent.”
*
Every moment of night he can keep his eyes open, he works at the collar. He researches and learns and endlessly runs his fingers over its grooves. But the answers are all the same. The removal will mean his death.
He sits at the bar, cigarette between his lips. Watches the smoke swirl through the air.
He contemplates leaving, can’t take this hollow complacency; this air of defeat.
“Why do you stay?” he asks.
Someone says, “It’s safe here.”
*
It is safe here. This wretched place. He’s never liked safe: safe means giving up; giving in; accepting the status quo and the meagre scraps given. But the safety is a thing to be admired. All other sanctuaries he’s heard of have either collapsed from having their so-called ‘protected’ people dragged out into the streets or had trumped up charges landed against them. And if neither of those worked sometimes they just burned the places down. It’s probably Colt’s brand of sleaze-ball ethics that’s kept this place running. Giving the ordinaries what they want in the form of dances and money.
Work and sleep and work and sleep and he’s tired. But worse, he’s bored. He needs the fight. He tries the ploys of the desperate. There are tales. Old immensely powerful people gaining the ability to use their powers despite collars. It’s a fantasy. There’s no evidence at all. He tries anyway.
He bangs at the uselessly sputtering shower. Moves across the busy bar floor. Pours and serves and drinks disgusting leftovers, all the while grasping. Day after day, pushing further and further. The search dogs every dream and every waking hour.
Endlessly reaching and finding nothing.
*
It’s impossible. But he can’t do nothing.
He spends his rent money on cheap cigarettes and good whiskey.
There are agents prowling outside. They want him. He’s more aware of them suddenly. There’s a knot in his stomach and darkness in his fists.
He strolls into Colt’s bedroom and throws a few twenties at him. It’s all he has left.
Colt smirks.
An anger awakens in Ridian and he stalks towards the bed; plants on a wide shark-grin and lies down, invading Colt’s space.
Colt laughs. “I know you’re not planning on paying your rent through trade.”
Ridian doesn’t move his body or his smile. “As if you ever would.”
“Finally figured me out then?” Colt asks.
“I haven’t spent much time thinking about it.”
“Hmm. It’s not impossible you know.”
Ridian narrows his eyes. “You going to sell me some fairytale? I get it; this place is what it needs to be to survive. That’s not a good enough excuse.”
Colt’s eyes are dark, sombre, but there’s a quirk of a smile on his lips. “True. But it’s better than nothing. There are a lot of reasons for people to leave. There’s really only one reason to stay: hope.”
Ridian barks harshly.
“It’s not a fairytale. I know for a fact that it’s possible to use powers despite being bound as you are.” Colt waves his hand and the air around his bare nape shimmers. In the next moment Ridian sees it: the dark slip of metal around Colt’s neck- a collar.
He clamps a hand over his mouth to keep from screaming. He clamps a hand over his ears to stop the world from dribbling out. Nothing comes at his call. Nothing is here. Nothing is real.
He sits there for a while. He needs to try to escape. It’s an eventual realisation, a thought taking far longer to occur than it should. He can’t remember a time when he couldn’t use his powers. His captors clearly think this means he’s helpless without them. He’s not even tied down.
The door is locked. He can’t use his telekinesis to open it, but the knowledge remains; motions sliding tumblers into place. He just needs a little stick. He fumbles for too many moments, fingers not as dextrous as his powers are and nerves rendering them clammy.
This is stupid. What most would do is accept their fate; caught, bound, powerless. He’s going to get himself killed. For nothing. How is he going to fight if he doesn’t have his powers? He’s useless. But he can’t stop. He can’t ever stop. He needs it. He needs the drive; the thrill; the exhilaration of fighting back. He needs the joy of standing up to their oppressors and of fighting for the powered people who can’t fight for themselves. He can do this. He is not only his powers. He is strong. He has to do this.
The door opens. He slides along the corridor.
The guards grin when they see him. They’re glad for the chance to take him down now that he can’t fling them aside. His fists and feet fly in a frenzy of desperation and having nothing to lose. Pain scorches his knuckles and stomach and jaw. He runs.
*
He may rely on his powers too much but he’s been a fugitive long enough to know how to hide. He ducks down alleys, doubles back, runs into corners. He steadily forges a head start. He knows he needs a plan. Without his powers he won’t be able to evade his captors for long.
The answer lurches wild and bitter in his mind. The Sanctuary. Ridian has always held a mixture of disdain and grudging respect for the place. A place where any powered person may seek refuge. Run by Colt; a man only in it for himself; happy to take advantage of the desperate wretches landing at his door. But it’s also somewhere anyone can leave anytime and this leaves it one step above the camps in Ridian’s estimation.
He can’t risk transport which can be stopped. So he plans his path and runs.
*
His body yawns and stretches and whimpers. He needs to slow. He knows he can’t. He can feel their gazes on the back of his neck. He forces his pace. Lungs throbbing, legs singing with pain. He needs to stop. He can’t. Keep going, keep going. His body calls out to its surroundings and receives no response. He might collapse. He doesn’t. Keep moving.
The gates appear, like a mirage of heavy ornate blackness, he sobs. Pauses. Bangs on them.
A baby-faced man stumbles towards him, concern etched into the lines on his face. The gates open.
“Are you okay? Come in. Come in. I’m Colt.”
Ridian walks inside and collapses onto his knees. There’s a cool sensation in his bones; it’s relief.
His mind warns of ever-present danger. He’s not falling for Colt’s act. But he’s tired. So tired.
*
He’s still on his knees when they come to the gates. Demanding entry, demanding their prisoner.
Colt’s face holds no trace of its previous incarnation; now hard and unyielding.
“No one in this place is your concern,” Colt says, voice quietening as he continues.
The agents boisterous, snarling orders quell to nervousness under the weight of Colt’s dark steady murmurings.
Ridian is reluctantly impressed.
*
“As long as your rent is paid in full and on time you can do whatever the fuck you want,” Colt says, nonchalant, “You miss a payment, you get kicked out. I don’t give a fuck what or who is waiting for you out there.”
Ridian nods. He’s beginning to wonder whether the man has a genuine split personality.
The rent is extortionate of course. But this is only until he can find something better; i.e. get the collar off.
*
He works as a waiter at the compounds bar. He stays there most of the day and night. Falls too exhausted onto his pillow for too few hours. The shower spurts a weak stream. The lights flicker. There’s only 0.02 dollars left on the meter.
He sits at the bar after closing, drinking the patrons’ sludge-silt dregs and eating cold leftovers.
Colt says, “You’ll make more if you dance for them.”
He imagines them groping at him. These non-powered people: the most powerful of them all, crowing on how they’ve brought him low. He replies with the only thing that’s important, “I make enough to pay rent.”
*
Every moment of night he can keep his eyes open, he works at the collar. He researches and learns and endlessly runs his fingers over its grooves. But the answers are all the same. The removal will mean his death.
He sits at the bar, cigarette between his lips. Watches the smoke swirl through the air.
He contemplates leaving, can’t take this hollow complacency; this air of defeat.
“Why do you stay?” he asks.
Someone says, “It’s safe here.”
*
It is safe here. This wretched place. He’s never liked safe: safe means giving up; giving in; accepting the status quo and the meagre scraps given. But the safety is a thing to be admired. All other sanctuaries he’s heard of have either collapsed from having their so-called ‘protected’ people dragged out into the streets or had trumped up charges landed against them. And if neither of those worked sometimes they just burned the places down. It’s probably Colt’s brand of sleaze-ball ethics that’s kept this place running. Giving the ordinaries what they want in the form of dances and money.
Work and sleep and work and sleep and he’s tired. But worse, he’s bored. He needs the fight. He tries the ploys of the desperate. There are tales. Old immensely powerful people gaining the ability to use their powers despite collars. It’s a fantasy. There’s no evidence at all. He tries anyway.
He bangs at the uselessly sputtering shower. Moves across the busy bar floor. Pours and serves and drinks disgusting leftovers, all the while grasping. Day after day, pushing further and further. The search dogs every dream and every waking hour.
Endlessly reaching and finding nothing.
*
It’s impossible. But he can’t do nothing.
He spends his rent money on cheap cigarettes and good whiskey.
There are agents prowling outside. They want him. He’s more aware of them suddenly. There’s a knot in his stomach and darkness in his fists.
He strolls into Colt’s bedroom and throws a few twenties at him. It’s all he has left.
Colt smirks.
An anger awakens in Ridian and he stalks towards the bed; plants on a wide shark-grin and lies down, invading Colt’s space.
Colt laughs. “I know you’re not planning on paying your rent through trade.”
Ridian doesn’t move his body or his smile. “As if you ever would.”
“Finally figured me out then?” Colt asks.
“I haven’t spent much time thinking about it.”
“Hmm. It’s not impossible you know.”
Ridian narrows his eyes. “You going to sell me some fairytale? I get it; this place is what it needs to be to survive. That’s not a good enough excuse.”
Colt’s eyes are dark, sombre, but there’s a quirk of a smile on his lips. “True. But it’s better than nothing. There are a lot of reasons for people to leave. There’s really only one reason to stay: hope.”
Ridian barks harshly.
“It’s not a fairytale. I know for a fact that it’s possible to use powers despite being bound as you are.” Colt waves his hand and the air around his bare nape shimmers. In the next moment Ridian sees it: the dark slip of metal around Colt’s neck- a collar.