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"Yestermark"Written By: Asymphototropic
Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam wing. Author: Asymphototropic (attracted toward the
light, but never quite arrives there) Email: asymphototropic@aol.com Rating: NC 17 Warnings: extreme Asyness Summary: Mingling of possibilities occurs at this vortex source. Don't leave home without your Ticket firmly in your fist. Else you may never return. Pairings: 1x2 other GW characters may appear upon progression
"Yestermark " Part 1: The Mourner Wails Alone He sat upon this chair, his comfort a tangible taste that implied his existence. It was an utterly inappropriate chair, logic informed him. Sitting in an overstuffed brocade upholstered armchair next to a luxuriant potted plant. The rustle of perused newspapers in the near distance. Smoke of pipe tobacco, just a hint of aroma, drifting with a waft of baked potatoes and herb gravy. A mild clattering of domestic dishes. He felt the presence of another. For a moment, a slight body seemed next to his more-solid corporum. A form snugged comfortably against his own. A gentle, whimsical face, smiling upon a pleasant dream, smiling nestled upon his shoulder. Before he could smile in return, the sprightly form was gone. Never there. Or always. What mattered that? But he felt he ought to miss it. And so he did, with
a bitter pang of loss that nearly destroyed him where he sat. Existence
being tenuous at best. This juncture being what it was and all. He stood and stretched his cramping muscles in as polite a stance as he could assume, assuming he was in a public place. As well to assume you were in a public place until proven otherwise. He walked across a lovely wool carpet that bore an intricate pattern of leaves, vases and chirping birds. When he dug at the wool with his booted toe, however, the wool glowed impossibly, revealing a pattern of pins in a cushion. Which burned ever more brightly until they transitioned to stars. Stars carpeted upon a black velvet lawn of infinity. He rejected that notion, instead taking a firm step upon the woolen carpet, another and another. There was a bar, brightly lit, lamps shaded with green glass. Brass fixtures. Gleaming crystal decanters. A surly, burly barkeeper who possessed upcurled mustachios at his damp red upper lip. Beyond him poured a waterfall into a basin of mud, surrounded by rain forest. A small dart flew in, hit and embedded in the red mahogany of the bar surface, where it vibrated briefly. Its tip was green with poison. The bartender inched his hand away from the fixed projectile. "Drink, sir?" "Whiskey, neat." He studied the glittering amber liquid, sniffed at the warm smell. Swallowed a large gulp that was disappointing in its absence. No taste, no wet, no burn. He set the glass solidly, with a thump, upon the tooled leather surface of the bar. For a moment, the shot remained half full of fiery liquid. Then it appeared to be a small stack of straw. Then it reformed, embarrassingly enough, into a round splat of cow dung, complete with beetle rolling a wad for nest building, right along the edge of the bar, as it departed. He looked away, hoping no smell would form around the vision. "I suppose you're responsible for this mess, young sir?" the barkeep demanded gruffly. "Certainly not," Yuy replied as indignantly as he could manage, considering the prevarication. He fingered the golden chain at his neck, followed the links to the pendant that warmed a patch against his left breast. There it was then. His Ticket. The bar tender growled and pointed angrily to the framed proclamation. "NO Ticketeers To Be Served," the placard posted upon the invisible wall proclaimed. The man's face went red and juicy. Maybe he was turning
into a side of beef, lightly broiled? "We run a respectable hotel here. You'd best leave under your own steam, before I call the constable." "Very well." Yuy held both palms out in a placatory gesture. He was feeling the warmth of his Ticket now. It pulled toward a Source, and he followed the pull. A box at the wall, formed of polished wood, brass and glass. A phone upon the wall with two cheerfully brilliant silver bells twinkling there. A small four legged stool with a red velveteen cushion gracing its surface. His Ticket burned against his flesh until it entered him fully. "Have you been Away Traveling?" his lawyer asked him. "I suppose so," Yuy declared, rubbing discomfortably at the charred-feeling of his left nipple, beneath his perfect white linen shirt. "We were discussing the provisions of Jay's last will and testament," the attorney reminded him. "The Doctor is dead?" "Seemingly so, since I am revealing the provisions of his will to you." Well, Doctor Jay was bound to be dead in some Lines at this Point, he reflected. An infinite number of places in time, of course, possessed the dead body of Doctor Jay. This being merely one. "In brief, you are sole heir to his fortune. In this Line, at least." "Hn." "There is one strict proviso, however." "That being?" "You don't inherit his wealth or his property unless you hire a professional mourner to accompany his casket." Yuy started in alarm, in spite of himself. "A professional mourner? Whatever for?" "Jay states you are incapable of feeling sadness or loss, being an experienced Ticketeer. Rather whimsically, I should judge, he claims he wants someone actually to cry at his funeral." "Can such a person be found?" Yuy asked. His fine young features crumpled in perplexity. "Undoubtedly, in some Line or other. Perhaps some Traveling may be in order," the lawyer smirked, settling back in his comfortable office chair. Yuy watched as the lawyer's desk top transitioned to the leather lined bar. He struck backhanded at the shot glass. Amber liquid poured from it to tumble over the waterfall. Strands of liquid mingled, wove, braided. A braid of softly luxuriant amber hair. Swaying wickedly over the curves of someone's backside. The sprightly form again apparent. Dressed all in shabby drab. Trousers ending well above scuffed boots. The street urchin turned and winked one purple eye. A saucy expression, shaded by an ancient top hat. The long ribbon of black crape tied around the hat, the symbol of the professional mourner, declaring the boy's trade. Yuy leaped to his feet. "Wait!" he shouted eagerly. A cheerful voice, only slightly mocking rang out as it sang. "The heir takes the boy, the heir takes the boy. Heigh ho the derry oh, the heir takes the boy. The mourner stands alone, the mourner wails alone. Heigh ho the derry oh, the mourner waits alone. But not for long." With a gleeful chortle, the boy darted off across wet cobbled streets. The trailing ribbons of black crape mingled with the flying end of his whiskey colored braid. Yuy reached to feel for his Ticket, burning against
the flesh of his chest. Then he was up and off, eagerly giving chase. |
