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pullmeoutalive2009-05-18 01:19 pm
gearsof.livejournal.com) wrote in pullmeoutalive2009-05-18 01:19 pm
Entry tags:
log > for lack of a better place to do so
He had to wonder how it was that, if no one save a very, very select few could leave Whitechapel, he kept ending up elsewhere. Indeed, this wasn't the steam-driven, smog-choked section of city he called home. This was somewhere else entirely - and startlingly modern in comparison to the Victorian England he was so used to.
It was unseemly of him, but he found himself staring - tall buildings all steel and glass towered over him, and over that lay the clearest sky he'd seen in his entire life. The sun was bright, brighter that it had ever been in Whitechapel, with its constant overhang of smoke. All the better, he supposed, that he was wearing his usual attire, complete with dark glasses.
Alabaster stood alone on the street, a tall figure in smoke black stark against the clean, polished world he now found himself in. There seemed to be no one around. This city, if it was indeed a city and not some ludicrous dream, appeared to be deserted.
He reached into the pocket of his coat, fishing out a pocket watch. In this alien place, was Grandfather Clock - his God, and God over Whitechapel - still watching him through the clockface? Or had the connection been severed with his sudden disappearance?
Such things would be answered in due time, he told himself. For now, there was only the question of getting back. It wouldn't do to have Grandfather Clock's elite agent up and vanish in the middle of a rebellion, now would it?
It was unseemly of him, but he found himself staring - tall buildings all steel and glass towered over him, and over that lay the clearest sky he'd seen in his entire life. The sun was bright, brighter that it had ever been in Whitechapel, with its constant overhang of smoke. All the better, he supposed, that he was wearing his usual attire, complete with dark glasses.
Alabaster stood alone on the street, a tall figure in smoke black stark against the clean, polished world he now found himself in. There seemed to be no one around. This city, if it was indeed a city and not some ludicrous dream, appeared to be deserted.
He reached into the pocket of his coat, fishing out a pocket watch. In this alien place, was Grandfather Clock - his God, and God over Whitechapel - still watching him through the clockface? Or had the connection been severed with his sudden disappearance?
Such things would be answered in due time, he told himself. For now, there was only the question of getting back. It wouldn't do to have Grandfather Clock's elite agent up and vanish in the middle of a rebellion, now would it?
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"It's no trouble at all!" Saga was already moving, rolling up her sleeves in preparation for the approaching battle against ingredients. "If you don't mind having French Toast, anyway. It's a little holiday tradition of mine."
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"At this point, I would eat anything," he remarked. And it was true. He'd spent the last gods-knew-how-long sleeping, and his stomach wasted no time in reminding him how neglected it was. "Would you like a hand?" Or seven, as the case may be.
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"But I can certainly manage six," she went on briskly, and snagged a few more slices of bread. "In retrospect, I can say I'm glad I got used to male eating habits a long time ago."
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He leaned an elbow on the table, propping his chin up, and watching Saga cook. He was quiet for a moment, just taking in the smells (and doing his best to ignore the noises his stomach was making in response). At length, he spoke, "Saga, may I ask you a question?"
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Just in case he didn't get that, though, she amended the earlier reply with, "Sure, go ahead."