In the Year of the Cat (Queen or Freddie Mercury Fanfic)

4. Aw, Dang

"What the heck was that?" I shouted.  "Dr. K?"

No answer.  In fact, no sound whatsoever.  Utter silence.

I fumbled around blindly for the red button, the white light having borrowed my sight.  But the comm link at my side was no longer there. 

It took a moment for the spots to fade from my eyes. Once they did, I saw the screens still were black, and T-Rod apparently was down for the count.  I was engulfed in darkness.

I wasn't even sitting in the chair anymore.  I felt around to find I was kneeling against the floor and the walls had closed in tighter. 

"Dr. K?" my voice quivered.  "Anyone?"

My numb fingers slowly regained their touch (why were my senses so late in reacting?).  I was kneeling against carpeting.  There were fabrics hanging low over my head which I discovered when I tried standing up.  My heart skipped a beat.  Since when was there anything soft inside T-Rod?  I ran my hands against the walls.  The screens, too, had vanished, and the sterile cold chrome had roughened, so I seemed to be touching ordinary walls like those within a house.

To no one in particular, I whispered, "Where am I?"

I looked at my necklace, which was glowing red.

Oh. Crap. 

T-Rod worked.

But they were trying to get me out!  They said it had a few bugs to work out!  What happened?  Is this what would transpire if T-Rod malfunctioned? 

And a little more importantly, WHERE WAS I?

I tried to calm myself down before I full-blown panicked.  And at this rate, a meltdown wasn't too far away.  Okay, think, Julia.  Think.  Use that noggin you're so proud of.  You're obviously in a traditional building with traditional doors.  Look for a knob!

"I'm going crazy.  I swear I'm losing my mind," I muttered as first I felt around for cracks along the bottom.  I found one and had to swallow my joyous cry.  A few feet up was the brass knob.  I turned it in triumph.

Something was pushed up against it- something heavy, like a trunk.  Frustrated and confused, I threw my weight upon the door, forced it open, and fell out face forward in the process.

I got up and looked about.  I was in a nicely decorated bedroom, the walls a soft jade green.  The room was dim, the curtains drawn, a four-post bed standing beneath the window. 

"I don't like this," I said aloud. "Not one bit.  Dr. K, turn that light blue soon.  Better yet, let's go green and get me out of here."

I took a step back and nearly tripped over the trunk again.  Angrily, I drew my foot back to kick it. 

And a split second before my foot connected with the case, three things occurred to me.

First, that I was not alone in the house, or apartment, or whatever the heck this was; as if from below I heard voices, male voices, speaking to one another in an unmistakable British lilt.  Strange male voices, and I a strange young girl. 

Second, that there was a little orange tabby cat sitting in the doorway, watching me with an expression that seemed to ask "What do you think you're doing?"

Third, that I saw the writing, the names, upon the trunk.  The word itself, which began with a Q, would have been shock-inducing enough, if not for that instantly recognizable crest emblazoned on the trunk's front.

Too late I tried to stop my foot's collision with the trunk.

BAM!

The voices halted a moment.