Fanfare

Blink

When she wakes up, the room is dark. She lies on the bed, fully awake, and wonders where the light was coming from earlier on. She stretches her arms up and smashes them into the shelf; her hand comes away a little wet. She brings it down, touches her finger to her lips, and tastes blood. The tang of it overwhelms her senses, metallic and reminiscent of the scent of the gun oil that seems to follow Pierce everywhere. She balls her hand into a fist and reaches up warily with her uninjured hand. Her fingers brush something rough and dome-like. It takes her a moment to realise she's touching a rock. That must be where the light comes from. She remembers Pierce saying it was magic. Despite herself, she's interested. She runs her fingers over the surface. The rock seems normal enough. It's rough, a little lumpy, just a rock. There is no sign of the glow that lit the corridor, the main room, and this room when she was awake. She wonders what triggers the light to turn off and on. Immediately, her mind goes to wires. Red and blue and green and black. Wires through walls, wires connecting to metal. Mechanisms to switch things on and off, like the light switches at home, connected to the generator.

But, if Pierce is right, this has nothing to do with wires and electricity.

She sighs and brings her hand down to her side, wondering if getting up is worth it. But she can't see, and she'd rather not hit anything and injure herself further.

She blinks in the darkness. It's the kind of darkness that makes you not know whether your eyes are open or closed. She blinks a few more times, her eyes wide to prove to herself that they're open. The room has started to brighten. When she blinks again, she can see the outline of the shelf above her, the trace of a crack in the roof above, the rectangle of the door in the darkness. She looks at the light-rock; no light issues from its surface. She frowns and blinks, and the room brightens further. She can see cracks that spider-web out from the main one, tracing their way across the concrete. She can see the handle on the door, the faint trace of old paint that flakes from the edges. Everything is black and white, a strange, pale world. She blinks, and colour appears.

Startled, she shoots backward on the bed, her back pressed against the wall, neck craned so her head doesn't hit the shelf. The paint that flakes from the door is green. Underneath, the door is gunmetal grey. The bedspread beneath her hands is a dark blue, as are the sheets that peek out from the edges, disturbed by her movement. She looks to her right, at the rock; it is a dark colour, almost black, veined with white. She squints, and the white lines turn into words; Ashes to Ashes. It's written over and over and over, the words so small that she shouldn't be able to read them. But she can. She presses the fingers of her injured hand to the rock, forgetting the small cut; there is no tingle, no feeling of light as she felt it in the tunnel. It looks utterly dark. But the rest of the room is as bright as if it were day. She frowns.

She slips off the bed, and her bare feet touch the ground; she kicked off her shoes at some time while she was sleeping. She shivers as her feet touch the cool concrete and slips her boots back on, tying the laces and taking comfort in the feeling of the soft leather as it moulds to her feet. Then she sits and waits. Looks at the room around her, memorising every small detail until she's sure she could see the room with her eyes closed.

And then she turns and looks at the rock, wanting to examine it further, her legs crossed on the bed. It's still not glowing, but the room is so well lit she has to check there aren't any other lights inside; there aren't. It's not well lit. There is something insanely wrong with her eyes.

She shudders for a reason she cannot explain and turns around, swinging her legs off the bed and standing. She straightens the sheets to keep her mind off her situation. Then she sits on the ground in the back corner, beside the bed and facing the door, her knees loosely bent, her elbows on her knees. She rests her head against the wall, her hair separating her from the cool concrete. She waits.

She doesn't blink, doesn't take her eyes off the door. After a while, there is the sound of scratching, the click of a lock, and her door swings open. It's just as dark outside her door as it is inside, but she wouldn't know, because it's also just as bright. She braces herself, remembering Pierce's warning; the rebels would not be blindly trusting. She sees again the distrust in hundreds of eyes. Her fingers clutch at the ground. She blinks.