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cursednet2022-09-08 10:24 am
maritorious) wrote in cursednet2022-09-08 10:24 am
video | un: desdemona
[Nancy's looking a lot better since her arrival. Her black eye has faded, the cut on her lip has healed, and the damned headache is at long last gone. She sits with a straight back, and occasionally glances off-screen to make sure she's doing it right. Not like she'd really know. But it's fun, to be a part of something new like this, these video messages. These videos.
In the background, The Smiths play quietly. She takes a drink of what could be anything. It's not. It's tea. And gin.
Mostly gin.]
Hello, I'm trying this for the first time. It's all so incredibly new and exciting. [Her accent remains unchanged.]
Which is why I'd like to ask everyone something: How many of you are out of place? And how many are out of time?
I was speaking at the roller rink with Captain Bonnet and we were wondering if there were others like us here, not just dragged from a few years or across the country, but across the ocean, hundreds of years out of the past, into this ridiculous future and have no idea what cars or neon or arcades are let alone jeans.
If so, I propose we have a meeting of sorts. Try to learn all these new things together. Or if anyone is willing to explain the last two hundred years in history, I'm really curious. I know some of you are from the future future from here, but I imagine that'd be easier. [Now she feels like shes' excluding a huge chunk of the population, but come on. People like her and Stede were at a distinct disadvantage.]
Er-- My name is Nancy, and I'm from 1838 London.
In the background, The Smiths play quietly. She takes a drink of what could be anything. It's not. It's tea. And gin.
Mostly gin.]
Hello, I'm trying this for the first time. It's all so incredibly new and exciting. [Her accent remains unchanged.]
Which is why I'd like to ask everyone something: How many of you are out of place? And how many are out of time?
I was speaking at the roller rink with Captain Bonnet and we were wondering if there were others like us here, not just dragged from a few years or across the country, but across the ocean, hundreds of years out of the past, into this ridiculous future and have no idea what cars or neon or arcades are let alone jeans.
If so, I propose we have a meeting of sorts. Try to learn all these new things together. Or if anyone is willing to explain the last two hundred years in history, I'm really curious. I know some of you are from the future future from here, but I imagine that'd be easier. [Now she feels like shes' excluding a huge chunk of the population, but come on. People like her and Stede were at a distinct disadvantage.]
Er-- My name is Nancy, and I'm from 1838 London.
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It's what happens when disparate populations meet. Everyone gets sick and a whole bunch of people die because they don't have the right medicine to treat it.
You could at least narrow it down a little! Don't expect everyone to do all the work for you. Just pick something.
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To be fair, a lot of people aren't good on rolling skates.
I'm not...?
It's that I have a very long list of things I'd like to know about, and I have no idea where to start, but if I did it would probably be a very large question like What The Bloody Hell Happened In 200 Years and I don't think we have anyone here with enough patience to sit down and tell me everything, so I'm quite content with asking questions as they come up, thank you very much.
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I didn't see him on skates, he just told me he'd kept cutting himself on swords and getting stabbed. Someone needs to keep an eye on him before he sticks his hand in a light socket.
[Wait. Context.]
By the way, don't put your hands into any machines or touch stray wires without asking someone else if it's safe. Maybe you've already figured that out but I'm not sure he has.
Fine, I see what you mean. I'm no historian but if you want a few of the broad strokes I could do my best. Though it seems some people here come from places where history went differently, I think there's enough common elements between us all to try.
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No, I haven't asked, a bit too unsure. There was one machine at the rolling rink that had stuffed animals inside, but I didn't want to put my hand into the dark space. It looked a bit too much like a mouth.
Maybe there's a history book I could find. I've lots of time, don't see no reason not to try to find a library. This is all so bloody strange.
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That's probably for the best, your arm would have gotten stuck for sure. There's better stuffed animals in the mall anyhow.
I've been meaning to look at the library too. The history section is probably all right, I'm more worried about fiction. I expect it's all going to be American stuff and a few Western classics, since this isn't a very big city. Still, it can't be totally hopeless.
[Okay but also, now that they've meandered onto the subject naturally, she can't help herself—]
Although I have to ask: if you're from England in the early 1800's, have you by any chance seen the Brontë sisters? Or Mary Shelley, perhaps?
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Seen? In person? Not in a million years. I'm about as far away from the Shelleys as you can get. Never heard of the Brontës.
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Oh well, I suppose that's like asking me if I've met some dumbass pop idol. If you ever do get back home and meet them, tell them they'll be an inspiration to many future generations.
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And Wurthering Heights!
If this library isn't a total dumpster it should have them both. And if not I'll tell them to stop being cheap and order both. No one should live without the Brontës.
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I'll look for them here, I've always enjoyed reading. I tried to teach some of my brothers, but half of them could have not cared less. Their loss.
[Goodness, she hoped they were all okay. That they could get along on their own, weren't arrested- she was only thinking of Oliver.]
Unfortunately, I don't think I'll be seeing anyone if I go back home.
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[
Please excuse her extreme bias.]That doesn't surprise me, most boys are too rambunctious to appreciate the passion of literature. I'm so glad someone has taste. Modern people have all but abandoned books for cheap thrills.
Why not? Were you about to move away or something?
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That's a tragedy. I didn't have anything else, really, except the occasional night I could see a play or performance. I'd sing sometimes, at the local pub when a band would start up.
I think I was murdered.
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All of it winks out of mind at that final sentence. Fukawa reads it close. Twice, three times. Surely there's some mistake? Fine, yes, Daryl had told her about the zombies in his world, and she's already been girding herself for more supernatural stupidity, but this was beyond the pale. This Nancy person looks just peachy keen. No vamipiric pallor, no Frankenstein stitches, no lingering wounds. Nothing. In fact, she's maddeningly good looking.
Even so, a shiver runs cold down her spine. The blood had opened the door. The people were kidnapped from all over time and space.
By all rights, this girl should be long dead no matter what the method. And Fukawa shouldn't even exist.]
What makes you say a creepy thing like that? What happened?
Are you sure didn't suffer some attack and just recover here?
cw domestic abuse
Maybe he didn't kill me. But the look in his eyes... What I could see through the blood, before I woke up here. It didn't look like he meant to let me explain. There was such fury...
I don't think I would have survived. He had his club he usually used for things like that. It all happened so fast...I came home, from a meeting. A meeting with people that were sure to take the information I'd given them right to the traps. But I never mentioned Bill, never said his name. I kept him clear of any wrong doing in their eyes, but someone must have overheard and told him. I knew something was going to be wrong. I had had this feeling. For weeks. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. I was terrified. I just wanted to keep Oliver safe, away from this sort of life. I did all I could do.
I pray it is enough. That my life is forefit but that he can grow old and have a family of his own and be happy the way I never could. It's what he deserves, sweet Oliver.
It's possible, that he stopped before it ended. That I wound up here in the middle of it. But when I woke the headache I had was worse than anything I'd had before. My ribs, chest, all of me ached and my eye's still swole.
Regardless. I'm not to live much longer when I return home. That much has always been clear to me.
1/2 cw: child/domestic abuse
Because she does know what they say. There's tomes upon tomes about love gone sour, and it's usually the woman that's left kissing dirt.
Men rarely laid hands on Fukawa. They couldn't stand to, mostly. Instead it was her mothers that taught her of love's cruelties. They introduced her to the sting of knuckles, piercing shrieks. The kiss of darkness in a locked closet, days on end without food. Growing fetid, growing weaker, growing ever more sorry for living. Neither could forgive her for it; Fukawa was a flesh-bound reminder that the man they shared was a philandering shit.
She feels wretched reading this. She feels sorry for asking.
Then she gets further and suddenly the bottom drops out of her. Suddenly she doesn't feel so sorry at all. Sweet Oliver?]
aaaaand fourth walling with player permission
Are you serious?
Shut the hell up. You're not deceiving anyone! If you're going to rip off some fictional character's sob story, you could at least pick a book with some obscurity!
EVERYONE KNOWS OLIVER TWIST! IT'S LITERALLY ONE OF THE MOST FAMOUS BOOKS OF ALL TIME!!!!
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I am incredibly serious! I beg your pardon!
How in gods name do you know about Oliver? What book?
This is my life, I’m telling you!
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Next you'll tell me some mean old man named "Fagin" sent you and Bill after him. Please! I've read Charles Dickens back to back! You can't fool me!
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It ain’t a book. Ain’t some musical. It’s my life. I don’t know what to tell you to convince you otherwise. But if my life were a book, I’d find a different one to pretend from. With happy endings and princesses. It wouldn’t be this one, where I’ll be buried in an unmarked grave and forgotten!
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It does have a happy ending. Oliver gets adopted by that rich guy.
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[The tears are back, but this time of joy.] He stays with Mr. Brownlow and the Maylies? It works! Oh god in heaven thank you! it's worth it, then. whatever's happened to me. To know it worked, and that he's safe! Thank you, lady!
[But the rest of them? She's not sure she even wants to know. Dodger's off to the colonies. Oliver happy in a wealthy home that will treat him well. And her. Dead. Wasn't that enough?]
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[This is getting a little
Uh
Fukawa can't think of what to say. This level of commitment seems unnecessary. Especially at this point, the cover's been blown. Why is she still sticking to the bit?
And why would anyone pretend to be a side character who dies partway through? Nobody, no matter how delusional, would model themselves after Nancy Sikes. They'd pick Elizabeth Bennett, maybe Anna Karenina. Cleopatra. Princess Kaguya.
This is...]
Yes, he had a secret inheritance all along that he never knew about. That's why there was a resemblance between him and that portrait in Brownlow's house. It's why that guy [Fuck, what's his name? She hadn't touched the book in years.] was working with Fagin to get at Oliver. He was his brother and wanted the money for himself.
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You told me what happens to him. It's a great deal off my mind. I don't know what I would do, if he weren't safe.
Monks. The man's name is Monks, with the mark on his neck. I know him, seen him talking with Fagin. God in heaven, and I'm sure Fagin had his hand in that pot as well. Damn him to hell where he belongs with the rest of the Devils. It's better than he deserves, I'll tell you that.
I am dead, aren't I?
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Fagin does get sent to the gallows. If that helps.
[Is she seriously giving credence to this? This is absurd. Even worse than fucking zombies, or time travel, because now the rules really are all broken.
And where does that leave this weird girl? Out of place, out of time, off the page and nowhere to go? Fukawa's gut twists.]
Yes. You're dead.
[There is a slight delay.]
But that Bill guy is too. The police chase him down, and so does a mob. He dies trying to escape them.
All the wrong-doers meet terrible ends. It's a morality tale after all.
Though I always thought it was a cruel one.
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[It's more than Fagin deserved. Let him swing. For all the people he's hurt, lives he's ruined. Good. Let him rot in hell.
But the rest... the rest of it? Well. She's not surprised she's dead. But Bill.
Bill. The man she'd been in love with since she can remember. She remembers the first time she'd ever seen him, picking the pocket of someone on the street. She'd thought it was a great idea, turned to the old man closest to her, and the next thing she knew she was eating sausages and drinking gin between the two of them. She remembers smiling at him, trying so hard to win a smile from him. Remembers when he finally staked his claim, before Fagin could ruin anything.
She remembers just being with him. Laying in bed on early mornings, holding him, letting him hold her. They were perfect. He loved her, and she knew it in everything he did, even if he didn't know how to say the words.
He'd murdered her. Just like she'd always known he would. Had always hoped, in some sick strange way, that if she had to die, it would be by his hand. It all made sense now. And now, he was dead, too.
And what sort of mob, she wonders, would have cared about another dead whore?
all the wrong-doers met terrible ends.
And that meant her, too. She'd tried, but she'd never made up for what she'd done in her life.
It's a sobering thought, one she immediately drowns with more alcohol. She wants to lay down and sob, but that's not something she can do. She's never been able to. They were British, after all. Stiff upper-lip and a sniffer of brandy.
Keep calm and drink all the whiskey you can get your hands on.]
I will pray for Bill. I forgive him, hope he finds his way here one day, back to me.
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On days like this, she wonders if her true talent wasn't Fucking It All Up. Look at this here, she's done it again. The space between responses has grown, the replies tight and trite. How was she supposed to predict that Nancy was telling the truth? Anyone would have assumed the same. Anyone!
And still she's fumbled the ball. Made it all worse by opening her big, ugly mouth.
The closing words turn her gut anew. No, she can't let that stand. Her experience in love may be complicated (may exist more in the mind than in reality), but she knows one thing for certain.]
You should forget him. You're better than he is.
Like I said, I think it's a cruel story. There's a big difference between crimes of malice and crimes of hunger. It's easy for those who life comfortable lives to condemn those who don't.
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