pullmeoutalive | log > for lack of a better place to do so

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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?

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A map. This would have all been solved hours ago, if she had just remembered to grab a map from the apartment. She'd had the thought, of course, but had been in such a daze that morning, that she'd snatched up the nearest crinkly sheet of paper and prayed it was the right one. As luck would have it... it wasn't, and now she was staring down at an old essay she'd written way back in the fifth grade.

If that wasn't a sign to work on cleaning and organizing her place, she wasn't sure what was. But that could wait; for now, her first and utmost priority was to find the source of the disturbance that had jolted her from a nap twenty minutes ago, deal with it if necessary, and go back to her coffee.

Her senses hadn't been much help, either. "By the mall" only told her so much. Which mall? And where was it? For that matter, where was she? She had thought there was one close to where she lived, but maybe she'd taken one turn too many.

Saga unzipped her jacket, already starting to feel a little overheated despite the thin material. If she kept walking, she'd find it eventually...

... Or him, as the case seemed to be. The man was alone, which in itself was odd, but then again, this city wasn't quite as bustling as its neighboring ones.

Deciding there was no polite way to say, "Hello, are you a disturbance?", the young woman squared her shoulders and stepped closer.

"Hey. Can I help you with something?"

Alabaster angled his head slightly, fixing the girl with his gaze over the circular rims of his glasses. She was obviously a native of this place, if her odd clothing and accent were any indication - American, he noted. Interesting.

He must look a sight, having stepped right out of Victorian England to... well, to wherever he was. Black jacket, longer than the usual fare, buttoned all the way up to his throat; black bowler, slightly askew atop his dark waves; dark glasses perched on a soot-marked face that seemed to bear a permanent five o'clock shadow. All he needed now, he mused, was a cane or an umbrella to really look like a stereotypical Englishman - albeit a slightly dirty one.

Returning his watch to its proper place, he regarded her flatly. He wasn't easy to read on the best of days, and being somewhere strange, under equally strange circumstances, made him reluctant to show more than he had to.

"That depends," he remarked, tone as flat as his gaze. "I seem to have taken a wrong turn somewhere."

And now the disturbance was acting wary-- not that Saga could fault him, considering the situation. She would have behaved exactly the same-- perhaps with a bit more friendliness-- had she "taken a wrong turn".

Well, she amended, given her extraordinary ability to get lost in food aisles, maybe not. There was only so much sympathizing she could do when a wrong turn led to diapers instead of canned tomato soup, and not to a different street corner. Maybe it was just the city himself that had him confused; his accent led her to believe he wasn't even from this country..

His accent also led her to believe that the man was some distant relative of the chimney sweep from Mary Poppins. Tall, sooty-face, distinct features underneath the soot, dark hair, funny hat-- she honestly wouldn't have been surprised if he'd hopped onto a roof and started singing.

"You're right, that does depend." As if trying to prove that she wasn't a threat (unless she absolutely had to be), Saga held up her hands, palms-up, and shrugged. "Where are you trying to go?"

The answer to that question took no great thought. "Home," came the reply. Though, that in itself wasn't much of an answer, so he amended, "Back to Whitechapel. London." His gaze flicked to her upturned hands - clearly a gesture meant to show him she meant no harm, though ironic in that he usually did the same thing before gutting a person.

Sliding the glasses back up the bridge of his nose to their proper place, he angled his head again, this time looking past the girl and to the surrounding buildings. "If I may, where am I?" His eyes drifted to her again. "And who are you?" Usually in the presence of a lady, he would follow at least the most basic rules of courtesy - it was unbecoming of an English gentleman such as he to do otherwise. But, at least for the moment, he saw no reason to tip his hat to someone who very well could be his abductor.

That confirmed the British suspicion, along with her initial theory. Either this man was just as inept with directions as she was, or he'd arrived through methods other than the standard ones for travel. That meant that could have been due to his own abilities, or...

If there's another rune around here, I swear...

Realizing that she should probably stop staring at him as if he'd just teleported in from another country, the brunette sighed and mustered a weak, apologetic smile. "If you're from London, you took more than just one wrong turn. This is Massachusetts, and I'm Saga Laskaris." She crinkled her nose slightly, then added in a tone that indicated she'd done this more than once, "Yes, it's my real name, yes, I know it's weird, yes, it's nice to meet you, and no, I have no involvement with the circus."

Oh, but she was amusing. Perhaps he could afford her come courtesy after all - and if it came down to it that she was responsible for his appearance in... Massachusetts, then he would just have to kill her with courtesy as well. If not, then better to make an ally of her. She seemed to be a native of this place and her knowledge could be invaluable. He smirked - very slightly - and removed his glasses, tucking them in a pocket. "I've no room to talk about names." That much, at least, was true. Not that he despised his name, exactly, but it was unusual enough to garner an odd look or seven.

His initial wariness seemingly gone - or at least well hidden - he removed his hat and swept into a short bow. "Alabaster Donohue, at your service."

So she'd met another smooth one. Unable to mask a flash of surprise at his sudden formality, Saga did her best to respond with an impromptu curtsy, her mind working furiously all the while. The first hurdle-- exchanging greetings and introductions-- had been cleared, but now came the most difficult part: ascertaining that he'd been brought here through some form of magic, and acting to correct it. Performing those tasks while reassuring him that she was completely sane would be something to strive towards too.

"All right, Mr. Donohue." Better to play it safe for the time being, and drop formalities later. "I may be able to help you, but you may have to be... a little open-minded. Do you mind telling me what you can remember up to the point where you... took a wrong turn?"

The scene played over in his mind - He'd found himself in one of Whitechapel's less than savory neighborhoods. All dirt and grime, and ill-repaired towers jutting out of the ground at odd angles, their support beams forming a forest of steel and rust. Through which slipped someone he'd been chasing, a boy. A gangly thing that hadn't quite grown into his limbs yet - thirteen at the very oldest. Still, child or not, he was an agent of Winfred Bailey, one of the chief conspirators in the foolish plan to overthrow the Gods of Whitechapel. This boy was a runner, a messenger, and intercepting him was vital - Grandfather Clock wouldn't send Alabaster out on a trivial errand. (Such things were better suited to the Gold Cloaks, anyway. Lesser agents of his God.)

So, at the bidding of Grandfather Clock, Alabaster gave chase. The iron jungle had thinned slightly, and given way to platforms. He remembered the boy clambering up support beams, and hopping from platform to platform in hopes of gaining distance. This had annoyed him. So, he'd drawn the single-shot pistol he usually kept on his person and shot the boy the second he'd landed on an adjacent platform. He didn't kill him, certainly, but incapacitated him enough for Alabaster to make his own way over. The poor urchin would have done well to stay in a crowded area, it would have been less painful for him.

He then scaled a support beam, which inexplicably gave under his weight. Thinking back, it seemed impossible. Those beams were as old as Whitechapel itself, there was no way they would break under weight as insignificant as his own. Nevertheless, the beam had groaned and bowed, and finally broke... depositing him on this city street. He supposed he should be grateful for that much, since, had he remained in Whitechapel, he'd have long since fallen to his doom.

He related all this to the girl in the barest of details - leaving out most of the violence and mayhem, and talk of rebellions. No need to frighten the poor thing, especially if he wished to stay on her good side. The important parts - the faulty beam, the platforms, falling - remained more-or-less in tact. "...And here I am," he finished. As an afterthought, he added, "I suppose 'taken a wrong turn' was a bit of an understatement."

"Just a bit." Saga gave him her best sympathetic smile-- which turned out to be more genuine than she would have liked. "Ordinarily, I'd say falling from a broken beam would lead to a concussion or some broken bones, and I'm impressed that you managed to land on your feet, but falling in Whitechapel shouldn't mean landing in Holyoke."

She folded her arms across her chest, glancing down at the silver bracelet that adorned her left wrist. Only eleven of the charms attached to it were gold, while the rest were still a tarnished silver. "If it's only a matter of traveling, then it's simple enough to get you a plane ticket." An expensive one, but details could come later. "However, if you don't mind me saying, if you can't pinpoint exactly how you got here, the same thing could very well happen again."

"Falling from that beam would have lead to death," he remarked. Whitechapel was an elevated city - the remnants of its early days lost in the smog and ash, hundreds and hundreds of feet below. When the towers of Whitechapel rose to their now tremendous heights, most of the streets went with them. "Landing here is probably preferable, though I would like to get back." Again, almost out of habit, he fished the sliver pocket watch from its resting place. The clock itself seemed to be working (though whether or not the time was correct remained to be seen). He frowned slightly, as though hopping that in the time he hadn't been watching, Grandfather Clock would have somehow conveyed that He was still watching. He was still there. No such luck.

Again, Alabaster angled his head, this time curiously. One dark eyebrow rose, ever slight, as he regarded her. "What's a... "plane"?"

"Oh, it's a machine, it flies--"

Wait.

Strange man, fine.

Strange man from a different country-- different continent-- a little more unusual, but also fine.

Strange man from a different time? Now things had shot way past "fine" and were making their home at "more than problematic". But she might be overthinking things. Surely there was someone out there who didn't know what a plane was, despite their usefulness. Someone who stayed inside all day long and never watched television, for example. But someone who did that probably didn't go sprinting about on beams.

"Mr. Donohue." Now looking at him with a pensive frown, Saga braced herself. "What do you think the date is?"

Well now, there was an odd question.

Still, he complied - not willing to admit that the thought had fleetingly crossed his own mind. This architecture, and the girl's style of dress were, after all, unlike anything he'd ever seen or read about. But Grandfather Clock taught logic, precision, linear time, and to think - even for a moment - that he had somehow ended up in a time other than his own was blasphemy. "November 7th, 1891." There was that curious arch of an eyebrow again. "Why?"

If Saga hadn't been disconcerted before, this new information did the trick quite nicely. She'd dealt with all sorts of unusual things from the earliest moment she could remember; having tea parties with the translucent former owners of the house when she was six had never fazed her, so why should some guy from the nineteenth century throw her off so suddenly?

"It's November 7th," she mumbled, wearily pressing her wrist to her forehead. "2011."

He stared at her, very blatantly shocked. It was quite possibly the biggest expression to cross his face in years, but he just couldn't help it. 2011? There was no way- how was that even possible? What of Whitechapel, then? Was it still standing, or had the revolutionaries won? They'd certainly had time to, and as much as he didn't want to think that he alone made the difference between defeat or victory, he was still a key player. The proverbial ace up Grandfather Clock's sleeve---

Wait. Calm down, Alabaster, he told himself. This girl had promised to help him, and he certainly hoped that she could. His city - and above all his God - needed him. This girl, if she was indeed the key and not her abductor, was his only available hope.

Silence. Well, that was better than immediate denial and protesting; that made it easier for both of them, which wasn't saying much. There would still be a lot that had to be said and done before Alabaster would be allowed to return-- and hopefully in one piece.

Saga glanced down at the ground, searching for any hints, and coming up with nothing. Not about to admit defeat, however, she merely rolled her shoulders back and lifted her head to look at the unintentional time-traveler. There was definitely a rune involved, so there was no way she could walk away from him now, even if she wanted to. And she'd made a promise to her grandmother: she would only use her ability to help others.

There was no helping it.

"The only way I can help you," she stated flatly, "is to learn more about you and where you're from. I'll also need you to keep everything you learn about me entirely to yourself. If you can't agree to that, I'm afraid you'll have to handle things on your own."

"If what you say is true," he cast a meaningful glance and the steel-and-glass buildings, before landing it on her. "Which I'm inclined to believe it is, then it seems I have no choice but to agree." He paused for a moment, thinking. When he did speak, his tone was careful, steady, but hinting at what may lie ahead for this girl who claimed she needed to know more about him and his origins, "I will warn you though, Whitechapel is not a pretty place, and its people are even less so." He shifted his gaze slightly, catching her eyes with his own. "Myself included."

"Got it." Saga didn't have to think or even hesitate long enough to mull over what his steady gaze was trying to convey. She'd had her share of experiences with others who could be called "less than savory" on good days and, just as she had no reason to doubt this man's warning, she also had no reason to balk just because of that.

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind," she added, turning away to retrace her steps. "For the time being, please come with me. I'll explain what I can somewhere that's not so open."

Perhaps there was more to this girl than met the eye. He almost wondered if she dealt with this sort of thing often - she certainly seemed to act that way. That also had him wondering if others from Whitechapel have hopped here before. He half looked behind him, thinking dimly back to the boy he'd left bleeding on the platforms in the smoke. Unless someone happened by (which was unlikely), or he appeared here (not quite as unlikely as the former), he'd probably bleed to death. What a horrible waste, he mused. Grandfather Clock wouldn't be pleased with him.

Providing he returned to Whitechapel at all.

Putting his hands in his pockets, he fell in-step with Saga. "I assume, then, that you live here." Idle conversation was not something that he enjoyed or tolerated, let alone started, but information was key, and to gain it without being outright demanding or threatening, he would resort to chit-chat.

She was going through the locations of all of her notes, starting with the ones on Thurisaz-- under the toaster, and she'd have to relocate them before the old thing fried itself out and set them aflame-- and continuing with the family tree spawned from Zeus' trysts alone-- it was simultaneously impressive and disturbing-- and Saga would have kept silently listing them, until her new companion decided to be more conversational than he'd first appeared.

"You're right," she replied, then amended a split-second later, "this particular city though, not too long. It's only been about a year. Still, I guess that's more than you can say, huh?"

If there was something to be said for Saga's sense of direction (other than that it was pretty lousy), it was that she never forgot how to get home. Her feet would wind up taking her there, almost unconsciously.

The girl almost seemed distracted now, even if she did enjoy the occasional bit of chatter. She'd have some researching to do, but to do that would be rude to her guest... hopefully he'd be understanding. For the time being, she'd just do what she always did.

"So, are you a coffee or a tea person? Cider, maybe?"

"More than I can say indeed," came the reply. Alabaster watched her as they walked - she seemed to be thinking of something. He couldn't fault her for that. If she was intent on getting him home, then he was more than content to allow her the time and space to suss things out. All this messing with time and place stuff seemed to be complicated - at least enough so that he didn't dare try to figure it out. No doubt undoing whatever had been done would be complicated as well, perhaps even more so.

When she inquired about his drink preferences, he quirked an eyebrow, glancing at her sidelong. "Tea. What else would you expect of an English gentleman?"

"... Tea," Saga admitted with a rueful laugh, "but I thought I'd ask first, just to make sure. It's never a good idea to assume anything." Truer words had never been spoken-- she was living proof of that, and that wasn't even taking the rest of her family into consideration. And now she was going to reveal more than she was usually comfortable with to a man who was almost a total stranger. But what choice did she have? It wasn't like anyone in Whitechapel was going to care about who this Saga Laskaris really was, if Alabaster even spoke of his experience.

She finally stopped in front of a faded brick building, digging her key out of her jacket pocket and unlocking the freshly painted white door (the only new part of the outside) with a loud click.

"It's a little messy," she warned Alabaster, stepping inside. "But I wasn't expecting company-- Duff, I'm back! Behave yourself, all right?"

As if in response, there was an audible clink and a spoon skidded across the cluttered table visible from the entryway. To most normal people, they wouldn't have seen who was responsible, but to those with enough spiritual ability, the fluffy black tom now pawing at the spoon was hard to miss.

The rest of the apartment was kept reasonably tidy, with stacks of books propped against one wall and a few more adorning the white couch and keeping the spoon company on the table. Three maps hung on the remaining walls, along with some paintings of bright, swirling colors and a picture or two, and no less than eight clocks inhabited every other room of the place.

A shame, then, that Alabaster himself didn't possess so much as a scrap of spiritual ability. He stared at the spoon, moving of its own accord - at least to his eyes, with an expression somewhere between slightly confused, and slightly amused. The words slipped out before he could stop them, "...You have a pet spoon?" An odd notion, yes, but it was the first one that came to his mind.

Regardless of her choice in pets, or how she acquired them, for that matter, he couldn't fault someone with so many clocks. (Though, the digital ones elicited something of a double-take from him.) He was at home with the sound of ticking. Grandfather Clock's own church, the Church of Measured Time, was wall-to-wall clocks, all ticking in perfect, glorious unison.

The curious inquiry earned Alabaster yet another laugh, although this one was more amused than embarrassed. "Not exactly, but if we're going to start somewhere, I suppose Duff is as good a place to begin as any."

Saga approached the table, beckoning the other closer. "Here..." She held out her hand, seemingly over an empty space, but in actuality, her palm was hovering just over the cat's head. "Put your hand under mine; he'll make himself solid for a bit."

With a low grumble, Duff twitched his tail, but obligingly held still. If Alabaster was willing enough to follow Saga's request, his hand would be greeted by soft fur and a small, cold and questing nose.

He obliged, slipping his own dirty, calloused hand under hers - and certainly got something other than he'd been expecting. Both of his eyebrows rose, and he looked from the table to the girl and back again. "A cat," he said after a moment. "An invisible cat." Most flesh-and-blood animals didn't last long in Whitechapel, though he'd seen a fair few in the city's early days. Clickrats, Clicker Hounds, mechanical spiders, and the like were animals he was used to. This, however, was something entirely new.

He supposed he might as well become accustomed to being surprised like this. This was only the beginning, after all.

"To be entirely truthful, he's only invisible because he wore out his nine lives-- he's more like ninety now." Saga tilted her head, unable to resist adding, "I'm surprised Mr. Donohue. I'm sure most people would have taken this a lot harder than you are." This was spoken from experience yet again, as her first home had been sold to her parents because the former owners had been afraid of poltergeists. Those wicked fiends had turned out to be the old couple that had first owned the place, and the cat who'd belonged to them. Why he had followed her to Massachusetts was something she had yet to figure out, but had already decided not to question.

"So then, let's begin." Turning to a sheaf of papers placed on a nearby chair, Saga gathered them up, set them on the table, and began rummaging about in tea canisters. "Are you familiar at all with Greek or Norse mythology?"

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