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clocketpatch) wrote2013-01-17 10:27 am
City of Waiting Part VI
The Centurion in the Park
New York, 1965
Memories weren't to be trusted. They faded. They changed. They crystallized. Eventually, their minor detours from reality became romping big holidays. Rory's memories were like well-worn photographs, but the trouble was he had no photographs. It was like photocopies of photocopies, except, without the original to compare, how would he know when things were getting blurry?
It'd been nearly two years.
Which wasn't much, compared to what he'd waited before. But each month could've been a century. It felt the same. Not all bad. Some bright in the dark. Some new friends. A bit of work to give it purpose. But he still felt like he was sleeping-walking.
11:05. Five minutes past shift change.
Rory Williams showered at work. The hospital change room smelled of sweat and cigarette smoke, but it also guaranteed warm water and saved on his bill at the rooming house. There were risks involved. He had scars. He had stories to explain them, but so far no one had asked. Not at work anyway. In Leadworth, there would have been questions. Here, everyone was too tired, too busy with their own lives, too well trained in the art of pretending not to see. They might notice, but they wouldn't ask.
Rory still had stories to cover every mark. He'd spent enough time undercover to know the value in having a story even if it was never used.
The steam rose around him as he scrubbed away the sweat of another twelve hour shift. He used a terry cloth and a hard, white bar of soap. He shaved with a cheap blade and nicked his cheek. That cut, at least, wouldn't need a complicated explanation.
Some scars were old, remnants of his old life, his real life with the Doctor and Amy. They had been picked up on dozens of worlds, dozens of random points in history. At least one had been caused by a bomb, and that was his story, if anyone asked: I was home on leave and a bomb hit. I have no family left. I came to America to start a new life and to forget.
He turned off the water, but the steam remained. Others were coming off shift and he wasn't alone. The tiles were slick and grubby underfoot and he was surprised that he hadn't caught some kind of foot fungus yet. He grabbed his towel and ignored the presence of his co-workers as they ignored him.
Some scars were fresh. Some bruises were fresher. If anyone asked, he had been mugged. If anyone asked, he was studying martial arts to defend himself against future attacks. If anyone asked, his instructor was a bit too eager. If anyone asked, he had lies.
No one asked.
Rory Williams changed into loose slacks and a button-up shirt that badly needed an iron. He packed his scrubs and left the hospital. Rats scuttled in the shadows as he waited for the late train back to his room. The stagnant draft which signalled the train's arrival was like and unlike the Underground back home. Sometimes, Rory would loses himself in that draft and forget where he was, but not often. He'd never been much for the tube. He still didn't like being underground for long periods of time.
The train was nearly empty – a few others coming off late shifts, an old man in a suit softly singing to himself, a woman with too much make-up who was standing even though most of the benches were free. Rory was glad for the seat. He ached. He missed the days when his daily commute had been in a fast red car. The days when the stench of urine and stale cigarettes didn't follow him everywhere he went. The train went around a corner and the standing woman shifted her grip on the bar so she leaned over Rory, smiling. He averted his eyes.
"Hey, mister," she said.
No eye contact. No eye contact.
The woman swore at him and made her way, hand over hand, to the next passenger. Maybe, in another life, Rory would've had words for her. A bit of comfort, or something. He wasn't sure. The old man kept humming. The notes mingled with the rumble-clack of the train. Rory felt his eyes drifting shut.
He snapped them open. Asleep on the subway was a good way to get mugged.
He reached his stop. The woman had some choice words for him as he exited the car. No eye contact. Avoid. Ignore. Rory climbed out onto the street. The warm, moistness of the late summer night greeted him with all of its unique smells (mostly more urine and cigarettes with a whiff of car exhaust) and sounds: Sirens, cars, late night pedestrians with their eyes trained on the pavement. Rory walked the block and a half back to his rooming house. Let himself in.
The smells of the street followed him in and up the stairs, mingling in the hallways with ethnic cooking, cats (even though it was no pets allowed and there wasn't a single one in the building to Rory's knowledge), unwashed socks, and cheap cologne. The smell only dissipated when Rory let himself into his room.
It was a minimalist cell.
This was a place that had been rented out to a long succession of down-on-their-luck single men. Any attempt to add personality was resisted by the blank, stained wall, the sagging bed, the scratched dresser. The floor boards creaked. The lamp on the dresser had a chipped, blue ceramic base and no shade. A pedestal sink stood in the corner under a hook which might've once held a mirror. The toilet was outside the room, down the hall and to the left.
In theory, cooking in-room was against the rules. In practice, as long as the rent came in and you didn't burn down the building no one cared.
Rory's kitchen consisted of a hot plate, a rat-proof box of dried goods, a bowl, a saucepot, some cutlery, and a chipped mug. Rory took the sauce pot off the dresser, filled it with water from the sink, and put it on the hot pot to boil.
He was off work. It was time for work.
Rory stripped in the dull, flickering lamp light. His window didn't close quite right and the constant draft made the thin curtain dance. More light came from the street lights and cars outside than from the pathetic bulb on his dresser. Rory rubbed ligament on his aching muscles, popped a few tablets he'd swiped from the hospital, and retrieved his costume from under the bed.
Some of it had come from various second hand and curio shops, but Rory had hand-made most of the outfit. For a few months he'd stretched his income to include studio time with a blacksmith – an actual blacksmith – he'd discovered who worked just outside the city. The man had been lost for words at Rory's ability to bend metal and had even offered him a few commissions. Rory had turned him down:
He'd put his nausea in the studio down to the loud clangs of tools and the hot smell of burning metal, but the truth was that going even that far outside of the city gave him a god-awful headache. He'd done what he needed to do and left. Shield, breastplate, leg and wrist guards. Sword.They were heavy, crudely wrought, familiar and good.
The room didn't have a mirror, but Rory had worn this outfit for centuries. He didn't need a reflective surface to check that he had the buckles right. He tightened leather laces, pulled his mantle over his shoulders, fastened the clip which held it in place over his shoulder. He strapped on his belt and blade. He had a special pouch to hold his pens.
By the time he finished dressing, the water in the pot threatened to boil over. Rory turned off the hotplate. He opened the rat box and grabbed a tea bag, a bit of bread, a bruised apple, and some prepackaged, neon orange things that tasted like off-brand Cheetos. It wasn't the best meal, but it was quick and it wouldn't weigh him down. When he'd finished, Rory carefully washed his mug and bowl. He put on his trench coat to cover the centurion outfit.
It was too hot for the long coat, but no one ever commented. Rory headed for the Park. He liked to do his work in the wilderness, such as it was. He walked quickly. No one stood in his path.
Sometimes Rory wondered how long it could go on, this weird double life. He told himself that he was putting on a display big enough for the Doctor and Amy to notice and track. He told himself that he needed the distraction. He told himself that he needed something familiar to stay sane. He told himself that he was helping people. He told himself that he was getting revenge.
He didn't really know. Maybe he'd just read too many comics as a child. Maybe he'd finally cracked under the strain of everything. Trapped in the past. Again. The fates hated Rory Williams.
It was stupid. Objectively, he knew that. He was risking his life. He was risking being arrested. He was risking being deported, which would be worse than death since he couldn't leave this godforsaken city without getting a migraine to kill an elephant.
He tried not to go intentionally looking for trouble. Mostly, he'd sit in the Rambles in a half-doze pretending that he was several thousand miles and a dozen centuries distant keeping up a vigil for his wife which had a clear and defined ending. He didn't need to go looking for trouble. The tally marks he wrote on his arms told him that trouble found him, every night, even if he didn't go looking for it.
And then there was the other stuff. The unintentional rescues. He'd hear people needing help and all the cynicism of the big city still hadn't beaten out that essential Rory-ness. If he heard someone being mugged, or dragged into the bushes against their will, well –
He did have a sword.
A rustle in the trees caught Rory's attention. He came fully awake, hearing voicse approaching his hiding spot. A woman screamed. Rory saw a flash of steel through the branches. A knife. A man. The man told the woman that he never paid prostitutes. He told her to get down on the dry, grass-strewn lawn, hike up her dress, and be happy if he didn't slit her throat. The woman was crying. Rory's hand tightened on the hilt of his short sword. He lunged through the undergrowth.
In a clearing in the middle of the Central Park Rambles, Rory Williams found a tall man with spikey brown hair brandishing a knife at a middle-aged woman in a short skirt. The woman had red hair. The man had a hand clenched around her wrist. For the first time in several years, Rory was completely honest with himself – <i>this</i> was why he'd been running around in the small hours of the morning in a ridiculous get-up, risking everything. Because he'd known, right from the beginning, that if he put on the outfit and stood guard that only one inevitable conclusion could result.
The fates hated Rory Williams, but, occasionally, they gave him a break.
Rory stalked towards the thug. He was an avenging spirit stepping out of the past. He was the Last Centurion. He was grim and determined and he wouldn't take no for an answer. The thug looked nervous, as well he should, because, if he didn't obey, Rory Williams would not be responsible for his actions.
The Last Centurion spoke:
"Unhand. My. Wife."
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Some beta-ish comments:
Sometimes, Rory would loses himself in that draft and forget where he was, but not often.
Either Rory would lose himself or Rory loses himself - but not a mixture of both!
put it on the hot pot to boil.
plate not pot
Rory rubbed ligament on his aching muscles,
linament not ligament
hearing voicse approaching his hiding spot.
voices
< i>this
not sure why but that italicising hasn't worked... (You hadn't left a space - I did that to show what I was commenting on, or it'd be italicised.)
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