Blink (Billy Hargrove x OC)

#1 Origins

▶️ Like a Rolling Stone by Bob Dylan

My first major blink was completely on accident.

Looking back, I'm pretty sure the scientist monitoring me wanted me to blink into the picture of the room that hung invitingly on the cork board, and not the postcard of the Big Ben. But for some reason, that clock captured my attention and wouldn't let go. For some reason, as I approached the corkboard, I focused on that strange structure.

Once I closed my eyelashes over my blue eyes and opened them, I was there. I was in the room, by the big clock. And it wasn't not just huge, it was enormous. The room was bigger than any room I'd ever been in. It was huge.

*

Suddenly, I'm young again, about five years old.

There's a blue ceiling above me that stretches for forever and lots of little buildings. And people, there's so many people around. They talk funny.

I look around, afraid and slightly dizzy. I actually feel quite dizzy.

I sit down on the ground, dazed. Fear starts to rise up in me, I don't like the number of people around me.

Through the hustle and bustle of regular life, no one saw me blink. The people around were too busy, too engaged in their own activities, worried about their own lives, to notice the little girl appear out of midair.

No one saw me blink.

No one, but one.

That's how I met Tom. He was the only one to notice me blink into that crowded plaza. He stalked over to my crying and nearly sick form, and extended a hand. I looked up at the owner of the hand, with slight confusion. I don't know this man. Maybe he's a new scientist. I took it, for some reason, because he reminded me of Papa.

"Papa?" I asked him.

"Bloody hell, I ain't your 'Papa', come on." His eyes darted left and right, he lifted me up dragged me away, and I unsteadily followed, having no understanding of the stranger danger concept.

Thankfully, Tom was nothing like Papa.

Tom was...eccentric to say the least and a total anarchist and conspiracy theorist to say the most. He said that Seven wasn't a real name and I must be an angel sent down from the heavens and if I didn't age that surely must mean I'm an angel. I aged, of course, but the name still stuck. I was behind, language and writing wise, so Tom taught me how to speak and write with eloquence. He taught me the ways of the world, about the system and about the anarchist group he ran with. I became quite the little anarchist because of it. He taught me about Bob Dylan, the king, who he loved, and he'd blast the music all throughout the apartment as we sung along. He taught me how to use my voice as one of my greatest weapons. He taught me not to be afraid of anything. And Tom taught me another thing. He taught me how to steal.

"Blink left, blink right, orient. Blink, orient, blink, orient. It's always important to stay still in your surroundings and scan, observe for a second so you don't cause chaos. It's like super speed but better." He said to me.

"Super...speed?" I asked, shortly after Tom rescued me off the streets.

"Ah, don't worry about it. Soon I'll have you all caught up. What do you want for dinner?" He asks. I looked at him blankly.

"How about some fish and chips?"

I tilt my head.

"You don't know what that is do you?" He sighs.

I shake my head.

"Bloody Americans, can't believe you don't know..." he muttered to himself as he walked around the kitchen of his dingy apartment.