Castor el-Saeid (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
boneshaker) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bigapplesauce2014-12-15 10:13 pm
boneshaker) wrote in bigapplesauce2014-12-15 10:13 pm
Entry tags:
there is always a city, always a lighthouse, and always a man [open to multiple]
The radio crackles to life an hour before dawn. Castor's already awake, as he often is, warming leftovers on the stove. The voice on the other end is cut with static, but his ear is trained enough to make out "Dock calling Boneshaker, come in, over." He flicks the burner off and steps across his drafty little room, picking up the receiver.
"Boneshaker receiving Dock, over," he answers. His voice is low and rich. Good for the radio, Inoue told him once. It was the closest she ever came to direct praise.
"Radar's---ind of interference---your location," says the dispatcher. "Any---wh---ing on, over."
Castor frowns. The static is worse than usual. He jiggles a few knobs but it seems like something more than the usual signal problems. A glance at some of the other instruments tells him whatever's causing this is causing a systemic problem. The whole circuit seems off.
"Dock, please hold, over." He sets the receiver down and studies the readout for a second, uncomprehending. Everything's off, unsynced and inconsistent with one another. Hell.
He leans toward the window, peering into the dark. He sees thick fog against the lighted horizon, but that's not new. He reaches back for the radio.
"Dock, this is Boneshaker - I'm reading interference here but I can't see nothing, over."
"Maintain-------and we'll------ming----v------"
"Dock, come in." Castor works the radio with practiced precision, trying to retune it and receiving only long bursts of static. "Dock, I'm losing you. Come in, Dock, over."
Another long burst of static, and then nothing.
"Nice," says Castor to himself, and drops the receiver. He glances woefully at the stove, feeling his stomach growl. Soup will have to wait.
He arms himself with the handheld radio and climbs the tower to the lamp, which is still burning away. He checks over everything just to be sure, but this, at least, is operational. The most important aspect. He peers out the window, trained eye searching for ships, but the sea looks dark and empty.
He lifts the walkie to his mouth and murmurs distractedly, "Boneshaker, calling all channels, come in, over."
He waits, and receives nothing.
This isn't that unusual. There've been problems before. Storms or maintenance problems, usually, not like this, but at least it's not a wholly unfamiliar situation.
Then, without any guttering prelude, the lamp goes out. Castor jerks so sharply he drops the radio, hears it clatter and break. He swears under his breath, gropes along the wall, blind in the sudden dark, his hand grasping for the lighter. There's a fierce, unexpected howl of wind, and he stiffens and stares out the window. Nothing on the water's surface. Calm and unbroken. Not wind, then. What is he hearing?
It's over in moments.
Suddenly, suddenly, light and heat and smells and noise. Ferocious and overwhelming. He staggers and falls, landing on green grass, surrounded by trees and paved pathways and most of all people. Some are staring at him, most are wandering busily about. There's a distant roar of traffic, a sound buried deep in the recesses of his memory. He hasn't heard traffic since he was in London, so many forgotten years ago. The smells and the heat are the worst thing; he strips his heavy coat immediately, strips down to his t-shirt, though that and his trousers are both black and absorbing the sun's brutal heat with a vengeance. His feet are bare. He scrambles to get up. He stares about himself, lost and afraid.
"Boneshaker receiving Dock, over," he answers. His voice is low and rich. Good for the radio, Inoue told him once. It was the closest she ever came to direct praise.
"Radar's---ind of interference---your location," says the dispatcher. "Any---wh---ing on, over."
Castor frowns. The static is worse than usual. He jiggles a few knobs but it seems like something more than the usual signal problems. A glance at some of the other instruments tells him whatever's causing this is causing a systemic problem. The whole circuit seems off.
"Dock, please hold, over." He sets the receiver down and studies the readout for a second, uncomprehending. Everything's off, unsynced and inconsistent with one another. Hell.
He leans toward the window, peering into the dark. He sees thick fog against the lighted horizon, but that's not new. He reaches back for the radio.
"Dock, this is Boneshaker - I'm reading interference here but I can't see nothing, over."
"Maintain-------and we'll------ming----v------"
"Dock, come in." Castor works the radio with practiced precision, trying to retune it and receiving only long bursts of static. "Dock, I'm losing you. Come in, Dock, over."
Another long burst of static, and then nothing.
"Nice," says Castor to himself, and drops the receiver. He glances woefully at the stove, feeling his stomach growl. Soup will have to wait.
He arms himself with the handheld radio and climbs the tower to the lamp, which is still burning away. He checks over everything just to be sure, but this, at least, is operational. The most important aspect. He peers out the window, trained eye searching for ships, but the sea looks dark and empty.
He lifts the walkie to his mouth and murmurs distractedly, "Boneshaker, calling all channels, come in, over."
He waits, and receives nothing.
This isn't that unusual. There've been problems before. Storms or maintenance problems, usually, not like this, but at least it's not a wholly unfamiliar situation.
Then, without any guttering prelude, the lamp goes out. Castor jerks so sharply he drops the radio, hears it clatter and break. He swears under his breath, gropes along the wall, blind in the sudden dark, his hand grasping for the lighter. There's a fierce, unexpected howl of wind, and he stiffens and stares out the window. Nothing on the water's surface. Calm and unbroken. Not wind, then. What is he hearing?
It's over in moments.
Suddenly, suddenly, light and heat and smells and noise. Ferocious and overwhelming. He staggers and falls, landing on green grass, surrounded by trees and paved pathways and most of all people. Some are staring at him, most are wandering busily about. There's a distant roar of traffic, a sound buried deep in the recesses of his memory. He hasn't heard traffic since he was in London, so many forgotten years ago. The smells and the heat are the worst thing; he strips his heavy coat immediately, strips down to his t-shirt, though that and his trousers are both black and absorbing the sun's brutal heat with a vengeance. His feet are bare. He scrambles to get up. He stares about himself, lost and afraid.