03-14-2010, 03:35 PM
“Alex, wake the fuck up man, come on!” an unfamiliar voice shouted in front of him. Someone, presumably the same person who was speaking to him, shook his shoulders violently and gradually rattled him into the realm of consciousness. The unknown man continued to yell, but his voice quickly became drowned out by a mysterious and foreboding groaning and whining.
“Ah, Jesus, it’s getting worse I reckon,” the voice of a second man stated as the inexplicably loud lamenting slowly faltered into silence. Whatever the origin of the noise, they were certainly close to it. They spoke in accents that Trafford could not identify, although he was sure he had heard them before – perhaps in movies. With his interest peaked, either by the foreign dialects or the proclamation that ‘something was getting worse,’ he rolled over onto his back and propped himself up on his elbows.
“Ugh Christ, I’m up . . . I’m up,” he said through a deep yawn. Where in the hell am I? was his first thought, but he knew better than to ask it aloud. Instantly he noticed the scent of salt water and, for a moment, contemplated the possibility that he had somehow been recast in the role of ‘Captain Ace Trafford.’ But, from the looks on the men’s faces that surrounded him, their situation was much graver. “What in the hell happened? Someone die?”
He joked, unaware of their situation, and everyone cringed.
At first he had been unaware of whom he was speaking to, but as he glanced over their distinct faces, and then over the room, he seemed to remember everything; as if, once again, he had been granted knowledge that he had no business having.
Immediately he noticed that the room had no windows, and appeared to be nothing more than a small, metal box with three crowded bunks. Outside the door frame (as there was no actual door) he could hear the commotion of dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people shuffling around and conversing. He could not make out anything in particular, but the tone of their discussions sounded dramatic.
The three men who surrounded him (his two bunkmates and one who did not belong) were all dressed similar. They wore dark trousers, brown, black or grey with suspenders that were snapped tightly over their shoulders, and a dirty button-down tunic that covered an even filthier undershirt. He was adorned in equally poor clothes. The two who had already spoken were Jon and Marc, the former an Irish immigrant who had been born in Dublin but spent most of his life in Southampton, and the latter was a Scottish steel-worker who emigrated into Hampshire and had worked the docks for the majority of his adult life.
But for the life of him he could not remember where he was.
“‘Ey Alex, have ya’self a smoke,” Marc spoke, his tone was ominous, and his face was dark. He handed him a cigarette, which Trafford immediately placed in his mouth, and then lit the long, white cylinder. “This is Jack, introduce ya’self mate.”
The unknown man hopped down from the edge of the bunk and made his way across the room. He appeared to be uneasy as he walked; his medium-length, dirty-blonde locks fell over his restless countenance.
“Jack Dawson,” the man spoke and put forward his hand. Trafford moved to take the gesture, but caught himself as his extended fingers brushed upon Jack’s soft palms. His eyes widened as he struggled to recognize the name. It was from a movie but he could not place his finger on which one. And then it hit him, slamming him between the eyes like a damned train. His mouth fell ajar.
Oh shit . . .
“I-I’m Alex Trafford,” Ace stuttered as his mind raced with the new realization. He extended his hand and tried to ‘play it cool.’ Jack Dawson was, of course, a character in the movie The Titanic, and his appearance, combined with their current surroundings, could only mean one thing; he was a aboard the doomed passenger liner and, he speculated, they were in the bottom decks of the ship; they were the penniless class of unlucky bastards who had boarded the ill-fated vessel.
“Alex . . . some bad shit has happened since you went under,” John interjected as Jack began to pace uneasily around the room.
He could only guess that it had something to do with an iceberg.
Trafford rubbed his index finger and his thumb against his wrinkled forehead. His furrowed countenance matched the grave expressions of his counterparts. All four of them sat in their room, awaiting a fate that seemed both inevitable and impossible. Jon and Marc were contemplating how an ‘unsinkable ship’ had suddenly become vulnerable; Jack was somewhere in his own thoughts; and Alex was trying to come to terms with his new ‘reality.’ He had the advantage of a twenty-first century education – he knew the story of The Titanic, and, more importantly, he knew how it ended. Nearly three-quarters of the poverty-stricken families that overfilled the lower decks would perish when the ship finally surrendered to the immeasurable strength of the freezing sea. His mind was racing, searching for a solution, but he was running in quicksand and the harder he tried, the more the situation seemed doomed.
“Fuck man, I’ve got to find her,” Dawson suddenly exclaimed as his folded arms dropped against his hips and he shook his head. Without warning, he darted out of the room.
Jon was the first on his feet and, as he reached the door, Marc followed as he muttered a string of curses. Without thinking twice, Alex leapt to his feet and gave chase to the train of penniless peasants as they dashed into the hallways of the doomed masterpiece.
“Where are we going?” Trafford shouted ahead towards the other three, who were rounding a corner and seemed to be sprinting downhill. At first, Alex could not wrap his mind around such a thing – ships were supposed to be level, that’s the key to staying afloat. Then he realized that this vessel was, of course, in the process of no longer staying afloat.
“No idea, just keep up!” a voice shouted from around the bend, he thought it to be Marc’s but he could not be sure.
Everything was happening so quickly; his senses were flooded with stimulation. The sound of worn, padded soles slapping against the cold, stone tiles provided rhythm to the otherwise chaotic orchestra; the groaning of the ship rose towards the crescendo against the backdrop of panicked screaming and lamenting wails as a peculiar cocktail of saltwater, coal and impending death infiltrated his nostrils.
“Oh shit man, this is fuckin’ bad!” his other bunkmate screamed, his voice was shaking with audible fear.
“What’s fuckin’ bad, what the hell is going -,” Alex’s voice came to screeching halt as he rounded the corner. Water was slowly rising in the slanted hallway, creeping steadily towards the bunks of the lower class. It was all happening, here and now.
Jon and Marc had stopped at the edge of the water and watched as Jack swam through the darkened fluid towards yet another corner, and another hallway.
“Where is he going?” Trafford shouted, and his two companions slowly turned to face him.
“He’s headin’ toward them uppa’ decks,” Jon muttered as his eyes fell back towards the rising fluid; as the water washed over their leather-clad toes their faces told Alex all that he needed to know.
Their situation had become reality, death was actually upon them.
The light-haired psychokinetic jogged down towards the sea’s edge and the balls of his feet splashed against the freezing fluid. He grabbed both men by the arm and spun them around, his usually casual demeanor was absent; the reality of this world was unknown to him, and there was no way that he could allow himself to die here. Not after everything that he had been through as of late. There was no way he would allow that to happen.
“We need to get the hell out of here, and real fuckin’ quick too,” He stated, and they slowly nodded in agreement. Then they turned and they sprinted forward like bats out of hell.
“Help us . . . please, somebody, anybody, help us!” One desperate scream rose above the rest, although all the shouts were similar. As the three, Alex, Jon and Marc, rounded into the main corridor of The Titanic’s lower deck they set their eyes on the source of the commotion. An uncontrolled throng of men, women and children were packed into a tiny stairwell; the front of the horde was unmoving as the men at the back tried to push the group forward.
“What in the hell is goin’ on?” Marc questioned as the trio arrived at the rear of the pack. Jon and Alex shook their head in response, and each man tried to crane their necks over the rest of the crowd to try and catch a view of the front.
All they could see was a cage. And then it donned on them, they had been locked down here.
“Jesus Christ . . .” Trafford whispered as he slowly remembered scenes from the epic movie. Snap shots infiltrated his mind. Of men and women and children sitting dejectedly in their bunks as the water crested over their laps– images of lovers holding each other on their beds, crying into each other’s shoulders as they spent their last moments with one another. He clenched his eyes in an attempt to slow the flow of tears; he was reminded of Alice once again and how, outside that old witch’s castle, he had tried to hold onto her as her body faded into nothingness and ventured back towards Heaven.
“That can’t happen,” he muttered beneath his breath, vowing to make sure that his version of this dreaded tale somehow turned out differently. But what could he do? What could anyone do against such insurmountable odds? He looked around as he mulled his options, his gaze fell onto those who surrounded him – he locked eyes with mothers and fathers and daughters and sons who were beginning to succumb to the realization of their fate. Their eyes told stories that words could never describe. There was an air of hopelessness, of defeat, of surrender. He watched them, and he, in turn, felt their helplessness seep into his core. It was a feeling of rejection that he had experienced before; it was something that had defined his life.
It was penniless immigrants who surrounded him now, replacing the homeless, the drug addicts and the prostitutes of West City’s vast underbelly. They had boarded this ship with hope-filled eyes; each and every one of them had dreamed of a better and brighter future. And now it would be taken from them. It did not matter if these people were not real in the sense that he was; they were real to him, in this moment, and in this reality, they were his brothers, they were his mother – they were his kin and they were his friends. And you don’t just let those people die.
“Let’s go,” Alexander stated and grabbed Jon and Marc by the upper arm. They looked at him curiously and moved to object, but stopped when they saw the half-crazy fire of determination that burned brightly within his hazelnut eyes.
He pushed his shoulder into the crowd, and weaved amongst his poverty-stricken companions. Ignoring the complaints, and the objections, he forced his way through the horde and made his way towards the impenetrable gate. They broke against his body like waves against the headlands, or like freezing crests against the hull of a ship – only, this time, they would not infiltrate, not as the iceberg had.
As he neared the front, he could see the guards rushing past the sealed enclosure – ignoring the cries of children and the pleas of women. They had left them here to die.
Alex’s long, bony fingers wrapped around the intricate metal of the gate and he pulled his body against it. A moment later, Jon and Marc appeared at his side. They were facing the crowd, with their backs against the steel barrier, and were reassuring the wailing throng that they would help them – but without a definite plan as to how.
“Shit, Alex, how the hell we gonna get outta here?” Marc whispered in between shouts of reassurance.
Trafford wrapped his hand around the lock in order to keep the faint golden hue hidden from view. His palm was burning as he imbued his own energy into the steel. His own flesh was pressed against the heating metal. He winced and clenched his teeth, holding back cries of pain as he steeled himself against the torment.
Finally the lock was blown into nothingness by a small explosion that had been contained by his skin. He pulled back his charred, blackened hand and slipped it into his pocket – he could smell his burnt flesh and sought to hide his smoked palm from view.
“This is how,” Alex groaned through clenched teeth as he kicked the gate open. His furrowed brow encroached upon his fiery eyes as he grimaced in pain and moved through the entrance way.
If he was to survive, so would they. And if they were to die here, on this doomed vessel, then so would he.
“Ah, Jesus, it’s getting worse I reckon,” the voice of a second man stated as the inexplicably loud lamenting slowly faltered into silence. Whatever the origin of the noise, they were certainly close to it. They spoke in accents that Trafford could not identify, although he was sure he had heard them before – perhaps in movies. With his interest peaked, either by the foreign dialects or the proclamation that ‘something was getting worse,’ he rolled over onto his back and propped himself up on his elbows.
“Ugh Christ, I’m up . . . I’m up,” he said through a deep yawn. Where in the hell am I? was his first thought, but he knew better than to ask it aloud. Instantly he noticed the scent of salt water and, for a moment, contemplated the possibility that he had somehow been recast in the role of ‘Captain Ace Trafford.’ But, from the looks on the men’s faces that surrounded him, their situation was much graver. “What in the hell happened? Someone die?”
He joked, unaware of their situation, and everyone cringed.
At first he had been unaware of whom he was speaking to, but as he glanced over their distinct faces, and then over the room, he seemed to remember everything; as if, once again, he had been granted knowledge that he had no business having.
Immediately he noticed that the room had no windows, and appeared to be nothing more than a small, metal box with three crowded bunks. Outside the door frame (as there was no actual door) he could hear the commotion of dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people shuffling around and conversing. He could not make out anything in particular, but the tone of their discussions sounded dramatic.
The three men who surrounded him (his two bunkmates and one who did not belong) were all dressed similar. They wore dark trousers, brown, black or grey with suspenders that were snapped tightly over their shoulders, and a dirty button-down tunic that covered an even filthier undershirt. He was adorned in equally poor clothes. The two who had already spoken were Jon and Marc, the former an Irish immigrant who had been born in Dublin but spent most of his life in Southampton, and the latter was a Scottish steel-worker who emigrated into Hampshire and had worked the docks for the majority of his adult life.
But for the life of him he could not remember where he was.
“‘Ey Alex, have ya’self a smoke,” Marc spoke, his tone was ominous, and his face was dark. He handed him a cigarette, which Trafford immediately placed in his mouth, and then lit the long, white cylinder. “This is Jack, introduce ya’self mate.”
The unknown man hopped down from the edge of the bunk and made his way across the room. He appeared to be uneasy as he walked; his medium-length, dirty-blonde locks fell over his restless countenance.
“Jack Dawson,” the man spoke and put forward his hand. Trafford moved to take the gesture, but caught himself as his extended fingers brushed upon Jack’s soft palms. His eyes widened as he struggled to recognize the name. It was from a movie but he could not place his finger on which one. And then it hit him, slamming him between the eyes like a damned train. His mouth fell ajar.
Oh shit . . .
“I-I’m Alex Trafford,” Ace stuttered as his mind raced with the new realization. He extended his hand and tried to ‘play it cool.’ Jack Dawson was, of course, a character in the movie The Titanic, and his appearance, combined with their current surroundings, could only mean one thing; he was a aboard the doomed passenger liner and, he speculated, they were in the bottom decks of the ship; they were the penniless class of unlucky bastards who had boarded the ill-fated vessel.
“Alex . . . some bad shit has happened since you went under,” John interjected as Jack began to pace uneasily around the room.
He could only guess that it had something to do with an iceberg.
~~~*~~~
Trafford rubbed his index finger and his thumb against his wrinkled forehead. His furrowed countenance matched the grave expressions of his counterparts. All four of them sat in their room, awaiting a fate that seemed both inevitable and impossible. Jon and Marc were contemplating how an ‘unsinkable ship’ had suddenly become vulnerable; Jack was somewhere in his own thoughts; and Alex was trying to come to terms with his new ‘reality.’ He had the advantage of a twenty-first century education – he knew the story of The Titanic, and, more importantly, he knew how it ended. Nearly three-quarters of the poverty-stricken families that overfilled the lower decks would perish when the ship finally surrendered to the immeasurable strength of the freezing sea. His mind was racing, searching for a solution, but he was running in quicksand and the harder he tried, the more the situation seemed doomed.
“Fuck man, I’ve got to find her,” Dawson suddenly exclaimed as his folded arms dropped against his hips and he shook his head. Without warning, he darted out of the room.
Jon was the first on his feet and, as he reached the door, Marc followed as he muttered a string of curses. Without thinking twice, Alex leapt to his feet and gave chase to the train of penniless peasants as they dashed into the hallways of the doomed masterpiece.
“Where are we going?” Trafford shouted ahead towards the other three, who were rounding a corner and seemed to be sprinting downhill. At first, Alex could not wrap his mind around such a thing – ships were supposed to be level, that’s the key to staying afloat. Then he realized that this vessel was, of course, in the process of no longer staying afloat.
“No idea, just keep up!” a voice shouted from around the bend, he thought it to be Marc’s but he could not be sure.
Everything was happening so quickly; his senses were flooded with stimulation. The sound of worn, padded soles slapping against the cold, stone tiles provided rhythm to the otherwise chaotic orchestra; the groaning of the ship rose towards the crescendo against the backdrop of panicked screaming and lamenting wails as a peculiar cocktail of saltwater, coal and impending death infiltrated his nostrils.
“Oh shit man, this is fuckin’ bad!” his other bunkmate screamed, his voice was shaking with audible fear.
“What’s fuckin’ bad, what the hell is going -,” Alex’s voice came to screeching halt as he rounded the corner. Water was slowly rising in the slanted hallway, creeping steadily towards the bunks of the lower class. It was all happening, here and now.
Jon and Marc had stopped at the edge of the water and watched as Jack swam through the darkened fluid towards yet another corner, and another hallway.
“Where is he going?” Trafford shouted, and his two companions slowly turned to face him.
“He’s headin’ toward them uppa’ decks,” Jon muttered as his eyes fell back towards the rising fluid; as the water washed over their leather-clad toes their faces told Alex all that he needed to know.
Their situation had become reality, death was actually upon them.
The light-haired psychokinetic jogged down towards the sea’s edge and the balls of his feet splashed against the freezing fluid. He grabbed both men by the arm and spun them around, his usually casual demeanor was absent; the reality of this world was unknown to him, and there was no way that he could allow himself to die here. Not after everything that he had been through as of late. There was no way he would allow that to happen.
“We need to get the hell out of here, and real fuckin’ quick too,” He stated, and they slowly nodded in agreement. Then they turned and they sprinted forward like bats out of hell.
~~~*~~~
“Help us . . . please, somebody, anybody, help us!” One desperate scream rose above the rest, although all the shouts were similar. As the three, Alex, Jon and Marc, rounded into the main corridor of The Titanic’s lower deck they set their eyes on the source of the commotion. An uncontrolled throng of men, women and children were packed into a tiny stairwell; the front of the horde was unmoving as the men at the back tried to push the group forward.
“What in the hell is goin’ on?” Marc questioned as the trio arrived at the rear of the pack. Jon and Alex shook their head in response, and each man tried to crane their necks over the rest of the crowd to try and catch a view of the front.
All they could see was a cage. And then it donned on them, they had been locked down here.
“Jesus Christ . . .” Trafford whispered as he slowly remembered scenes from the epic movie. Snap shots infiltrated his mind. Of men and women and children sitting dejectedly in their bunks as the water crested over their laps– images of lovers holding each other on their beds, crying into each other’s shoulders as they spent their last moments with one another. He clenched his eyes in an attempt to slow the flow of tears; he was reminded of Alice once again and how, outside that old witch’s castle, he had tried to hold onto her as her body faded into nothingness and ventured back towards Heaven.
“That can’t happen,” he muttered beneath his breath, vowing to make sure that his version of this dreaded tale somehow turned out differently. But what could he do? What could anyone do against such insurmountable odds? He looked around as he mulled his options, his gaze fell onto those who surrounded him – he locked eyes with mothers and fathers and daughters and sons who were beginning to succumb to the realization of their fate. Their eyes told stories that words could never describe. There was an air of hopelessness, of defeat, of surrender. He watched them, and he, in turn, felt their helplessness seep into his core. It was a feeling of rejection that he had experienced before; it was something that had defined his life.
It was penniless immigrants who surrounded him now, replacing the homeless, the drug addicts and the prostitutes of West City’s vast underbelly. They had boarded this ship with hope-filled eyes; each and every one of them had dreamed of a better and brighter future. And now it would be taken from them. It did not matter if these people were not real in the sense that he was; they were real to him, in this moment, and in this reality, they were his brothers, they were his mother – they were his kin and they were his friends. And you don’t just let those people die.
“Let’s go,” Alexander stated and grabbed Jon and Marc by the upper arm. They looked at him curiously and moved to object, but stopped when they saw the half-crazy fire of determination that burned brightly within his hazelnut eyes.
He pushed his shoulder into the crowd, and weaved amongst his poverty-stricken companions. Ignoring the complaints, and the objections, he forced his way through the horde and made his way towards the impenetrable gate. They broke against his body like waves against the headlands, or like freezing crests against the hull of a ship – only, this time, they would not infiltrate, not as the iceberg had.
As he neared the front, he could see the guards rushing past the sealed enclosure – ignoring the cries of children and the pleas of women. They had left them here to die.
Alex’s long, bony fingers wrapped around the intricate metal of the gate and he pulled his body against it. A moment later, Jon and Marc appeared at his side. They were facing the crowd, with their backs against the steel barrier, and were reassuring the wailing throng that they would help them – but without a definite plan as to how.
“Shit, Alex, how the hell we gonna get outta here?” Marc whispered in between shouts of reassurance.
Trafford wrapped his hand around the lock in order to keep the faint golden hue hidden from view. His palm was burning as he imbued his own energy into the steel. His own flesh was pressed against the heating metal. He winced and clenched his teeth, holding back cries of pain as he steeled himself against the torment.
Finally the lock was blown into nothingness by a small explosion that had been contained by his skin. He pulled back his charred, blackened hand and slipped it into his pocket – he could smell his burnt flesh and sought to hide his smoked palm from view.
“This is how,” Alex groaned through clenched teeth as he kicked the gate open. His furrowed brow encroached upon his fiery eyes as he grimaced in pain and moved through the entrance way.
If he was to survive, so would they. And if they were to die here, on this doomed vessel, then so would he.
![[Image: alext.jpg]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v234/waffuru/alext.jpg)