The car's siren wailed, and I wanted to, as well. Who knows how much time passed? No longer was I so interested (in a politely puzzled sort of way) at how this part of the world moved. Now, bridges blurred into bridges, streets blurred into streets, and turns blurred into —
It was a thunderous physical jolt that jarred me from my stupor — a jolt so much like falling down stairs ("Her skull was fractured before she fell — “), that I know for certain that I screamed aloud.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay!” a voice soothed. “S’alright! Look!”
We had entered a crowded parking lot. Ahead, there was a large building built of glass domes and brown stone, perhaps seven or eight stories high. BBC Television Centre read proudly on its side. I twisted around in my seat. Oh. We had just gone over a speed bump.
“See? Here’s another one. I’ll take it slower.”
Brian coaxed the vehicle over the next bump. This time we did not jolt, but rocked slowly. He kept his arm on mine. My heart pounded.
We parked, I dragged myself out of my seat and walked down the sidewalk, sucking in the European air, hearing the hiss of traffic from the main road behind us. We entered this great glass dome without anyone stopping us, or questioning us.
Things in this city seem to be much huger on the inside than what they appear. This central circular block of glass, sunlight, and people was the most breathtaking thing I had ever seen. Time slowed down and I saw the Greek god of the son, Helios, staring at me from a fountain. I stared back, and for an odd moment I felt at peace.
Be strong, Little One.
Brian tugged on my arm, walking me on. I think I am going crazy.
“Where are we going?” my first words in ages.
“BBC One newsroom. Near is there.”
The dual doors of an elevator opened smoothly as we approached. I suspected it had been waiting for us. I stepped inside neatly, finding the wall as soon as possible, slumping against it.
“I need a bathroom,” I said flatly.
Once we ascended to the sixth floor, Brian pointed me to the direction of the restrooms. I staggered across snow-white carpet, and made it into the huge, white, clean and stainless steel bathrooms where I could be alone with my heaving breath.
The rows of stalls stretched on for miles upon miles — with a small American girl standing at either end, like conflicted bookends. Oh, no, those were mirrors. I stood there balanced between two worlds before I turned my head to the left, and caught sight of myself yet again, at much closer quarters.
You know those moments when you feel completely at a loss? That’s how I was. The lights in here were as hard and strong as anything you’d find at a studio set. I stepped closer to the sinks, repulsed and intrigued by my windswept hair, snarled bangs, cracked lips, greasy face. Tired. Oh, I was tired. I looked pale and stark as ever, like all the blood in —
From the look in her eyes, I don't think she realized that there was quite so much blood inside of her.
— I doubled over, and threw up. I twisted the faucet head to rinse it away, and nearly collapsed onto the sink, my coat tumbling softly to the floor.
I heard voices outside, and then I heard the bathroom door swing open, and high heels clacking on tile.
“Twenty?”
Immediately, I straightened, wiping my mouth with my sleeve, and saw her in mirror, standing behind me with a fierce expression.
It was Near, perfect Near with her tiny body and golden hair, wearing an impossible skirt and elegant pink blouse. I said she looked fierce because she always looked fierce in her broadcast-ready makeup, eyes and chin so sharply defined, but her arms were around me in a second, and she smelled like flowers.
Seeing Near in person was rather dreamlike, always. She was always on a television screen, to my perception, giving reports on happenings in the middle east, or delivering some juicy tidbit about a celebrity — yet here she was, helping me stand, picking up my coat, chiding Brian for letting me out of his sight even for just one second.
I’m fine, I wanted to tell her. I’m fine.
But I wasn’t fine until I sat in the corner of the BBC One newsroom with Brian’s overcoat slung around my shoulders, a steaming vanilla mocha in my hands from Starbucks, watching Near pace by the television sets, arguing animatedly with whoever it was on the other line.
Brian had run out to get me something to drink. He stood close to my side, eyeballing every window, every doorway in and out of the control room with a hawkish, practiced air. I tried taking a sip once, twice, then a third time of my coffee — but it was just too hot. I let it warm my hands, instead, enjoying the smell.
There was a guy my age standing with his arms folded across his chest on the other side of the control room, down a few rows of consoles. The control room was dark, so I couldn’t make out too much about him. Looked fairly skinny. He was the only one in the room not shooting me anxious, pitying glances every once in a while. He was bent over his phone, texting idly, completely absorbed in that task as though not at all interested in what's happening.
“Who’s that?” I croaked.
“Vyral. Don’t know much about him, besides he’s a former Navigator, and the Administrator wanted him here.”
“Oh,” I looked down, fussing with the lid on the Starbucks. “I was supposed to meet him today.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“And what should I be worrying about?”
Brian’s expression was grim. “Just don’t worry about it.”
I rested my head against the back of what I think was a switching board. It was live, it was whirring, and for some reason that gave me some small comfort. My phone buzzed.
DEBONAIR EN ROUTE. NEAR HAS PLAN. STANDBY.
Near had finished with her conversations seconds ago, walking back towards where I was, waving Brian away from me. She knelt, reached up, and touched my cheek with one hand.
“Twenty. You listen to me,” she said, her green eyes (they were green now; they’d be blue later) severe. “Don’t worry about your vision. Nothing is going to happen to you. Do you understand?”
But I wasn’t looking at her. I was looking past her, to Vyral, still in the corner, who I could have sworn just tried to stifle a laugh.
“I understand,” my words were tiny.
Near’s hand moved from my cheek, to my shoulder, which she gripped — hard.
“That was bullshit. Let me ask you again. Do you understand?”
“Yes!” I croaked louder, now, and for a half a second I believed it.
Brian’s phone buzzed, now. He scrolled through his messages, and then gave a sort of expectant grunt. “Debonair is on his way up. Security said he just got into the elevator.”
“Great,” Near said shortly, rising. She turned, and clicked her tongue. “Let’s hope he picks up his feet a little. We have a lot to cover, and not a lot of time to do it.”
I tried taking a sip of the mocha once more, and found it had cooled enough to make it safely down my throat ..