Fill: Challenge #191 (Orig)

[shivver]

This is something that I've played around with, though not seriously. It's set after the main events in my origfic, and honestly, it's not likely to work in a real story, but it's fun to think about.

In my orig fic, the main characters are Kit, the human who discovers she can do magic easily and well; Alex, the keror (looks kind of like a canine-ish winged demon); and Gray, the otan (looks like a dragonborn without all the pointy bits). The creatures from the other world can transform to become human, so Alex is from the other world and is trying to fit in here, while Gray was brought up as human here and only recently discovered that he's not actually human.

The concept of this bit is that sometime after the main story, a rival mage needs to get rid of the two men, so they wipe the memory of the character and incarcerate him. It's not an actual prison, but a facility where the ultra-rich can pay to make someone they want to get rid of disappear rather than having them killed outright. The people live in this secret underground facility, where they get everything they need to live, but can't escape and have no contact with the outside world.

So, the character wakes up here, with no memory of who he is, where he is, or why he's here. And I'm calling him "the character" because if he doesn't know who he is, you shouldn't either. :)


It takes me a moment to realise that my eyes are open, because I don't remember being out, or anything before that. I feel... wrong. I'm lying on my back, on a soft bed under a blanket, staring up at a white ceiling, and it all feels wrong, like I've never done such things before. But I know I'm on a bed, and that the thing that's holding me down is called a "blanket", and that up there's a "ceiling". Why would I know that?

"Hoi, Jeff, your Sleeping Beauty's up!"

That came from a man sitting in a chair by the door, soft and grey-haired. He's snaked his head around the jamb to yell, and when he settles back, he smirks at me and returns to the novel propped in his hand.

"Not mine," comes the reply from out there somewhere, then another man walks in. This one's tall and thin, with a shock of messy blond hair, and he's carrying a plate and a glass of water. I don't know why, but my first thought is that he looks weak, easily overpowered. "No more than any other poor slob they dump here." He grins at me. "Finally awake, huh? How're you feeling?"

I sit up. My voice doesn't come on first attempt, and after coughing and a gulp from the glass he shoved in my hand, I manage to say, "I've no idea. What happened?"

"A Brit!" says the man by the door. "We haven't had a new Brit in ages. Phil'll be happy to have someone from home."

"I don't think he's allowed to," says Jeff. "He's a Scot. There's some law against liking the English." He turns back to me. "Anyway, that's pretty normal, not knowing how you got here. Let's get you settled in first and then I'll get you oriented. I'm Jeff Wilkins, and this is Morty. He doesn't like to give his last name, so don't ask."

"Last names aren't needed here," Morty growls. He's returned to his book and doesn't raise his eyes. "First names barely."

"Ignore him," Jeff suggests, but I can't. I'm watching both of them closely as well as seeking signs that others lurk beyond the door. I'm alert and observant, and I don't know why. "So, what's your name?"

I open my mouth to speak, but no name comes to mind. There's emptiness in my mind when I search for a name - not blackness, because blackness implies at least a colour, something visual to touch upon, and that's not there either. I try to think back, but there's nothing there before the soft bed, blanket, and white ceiling.

"I don't know."

"Oh, wonderful!" Morty groans, and he slaps his book shut and stomps out.

"Don't mind him. He's been here longer than any of us and seen at least two dozen of us come and go. It's not easy for anyone." Jeff pulls Morty's abandoned chair to the bed and sits. "You really can't remember?"

"No."

"What can you remember?"

"Nothing at all. Just waking up here." It's strange that admitting it isn't painful or sad, but you can't miss what you never had, right?

"Nothing from a few years back, or school, or anything? Your mom or dad, maybe?"

I shake my head.

"Well." Jeff climbs to his feet and stares down at me as he fishes a folded paper from the back pocket of his denims, which he hands to me. "To be honest, it really doesn't matter who you are, once you get to this place. We're all nobody here. But I got nothing. They brought you in with that and that's all we know."

I look at the paper, which has a scattering of squiggles on it. At my shrug, Jeff spins the paper so that the squiggles follow a line from one of my hands to the other. I shake my head.

"You can't read it?"

"I suppose not."

"You remember how to speak English but you don't remember how to read it." He sighs. "All right. Here."

He snatches the paper from me and squints at the scant scribbles. "Heart issues. Avoid anger, fear, stress, violence. Otherwise no restrictions." He tosses the paper at me. "Doesn't make sense, does it? They'll point out your heart issues, but not your memory? And no diet warnings?"

I don't really understand what it is that doesn't make sense to him. I'll have to ask him what "heart issues" means.

He hands me the plate from the nightstand next to the bed. "You must be hungry. Just some bread and butter, but when you're done, come on out and I'll cook you up something decent, and then we'll figure this out. We'll get you a name, too."

He leaves as I stare at the plate. I'm famished, but this doesn't look appetising. I'm sure that I don't eat this, normally - whatever "normal" is - but I suppose it'll have to do.

Comments

[lantairvlea]

Nicely done. I think it would work well even without your lead-up explanation.