nomorekaraoke | All or Nothing

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All or Nothing

When it comes down to the bare essentials, as it were, we're all creatures of habit. So, after some diligent perusal of the names on the list Alcina gave him, Lorne picked out familiar ground. China Town; the address just a few twists and turns from his favorite place to find a nice chai latte on a Sunday evening. Not like he goes out much, but he tries not to lose touch with the world outside his vagrant club.

So, here he is, standing outside an unremarkable door in a similarly unremarkable alley, lit only by the colorful neon signs of the busy street around the corner. Not very illuminating, those things.

He isn't sure what's worse, the bamboo rug in front of the door, saying "WELCOME" in entirely too elaborately 'Oriental' letters (because there's kitsch, and then there's kitsch), or the fact he's come to China Town to have his procedure done.

Well. Here goes. He presses his thumb pad to the bright red button, and somewhere deep within the confines of this little unremarkable building, a bell chimes.

He just hopes it isn't Lo Pan answering the door. Because yikes, wouldn't that be awkward.

...He's spent too much time at Milliways.

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You never know what's going to hit you the hardest before you actually find yourself in that moment where everything changes. For Lorne, it isn't the old woman, nor her brittle little voice reciting the words on the piece of parchment. It isn't the fireworks. It's the warmth that has his eyes shooting wide open, big as saucers. It takes him by such sudden, inescapable surprise he almost drops the bottle. But he doesn't. His fingers grip tighter, and he gasps. It's so warm.

His heart's racing, going staccato on him, caught in a crescendo that threatens to drown out everything else. He'd get out of there faster than anyone could say 'panic' if he could move one muscle. But he can't. So he won't. He won't back out. He won't. He needs this.

The chant rises gradually, from a whisper to a commanding shout, louder and clearer than anything that cracked old voice should be able to produce, and the light slowly brightens in response.

And then changes.

It's not the bottle glowing anymore; the light's pouring from the palms of his hands, pouring through the fragile ivory and horn. There's a surface line visible through the bottle now, gradually rising as though ... well, exactly. As though it's being filled.

It's still warm, but there's a pulling sensation to it now, a drawing forth of something. Some part of him.

It's getting harder and harder to focus on the dream, as if it's being forcibly drawn out of him - and isn't that what is really happening - and for a moment, panic strikes. He's losing it, he's giving it up, how could bottling something so elusive ever work? This isn't happening, it's a scam, it's razor blades, spider legs slicing his vertebrae to pieces--

Shh.

He gasps, closing his eyes. Breathes in, deeply. Warmth. He feels warm, and for just a split second, he can feel arms sliding around his torso.

Shh.

He can feel the small bottle draw it in, all of it, and it's okay. He'll be fine. He won't fall. He won't lose anything but the bad dreams, not even as the sensations fade until he can't feel the arms, the hands ghosting over his face anymore. He feels suddenly dizzy, and he wonders if it's over. ~~So soon? Already? Is it over yet?~~

Madame Chen's voice has sunk to a creaky murmur again, and one bony hand reaches out to pick up the stopper from where it lies on the table. She holds it poised, hovering just over the mouth of the little bottle, and with the last few syllables she pushes the stopper in.

Her hand flicks up again almost immediately, in a warning gesture, as though to remind him not to move yet; the bottle is still glowing.

Slowly, slowly, the glow fades. She sinks back into her chair, seeming almost to shrink, to diminish back into a frail old woman.

He cringes at the unexpected touch, and his eyes fly open, brief and professional though it is. It's solid, tangible, a whole host of other things his dream isn't. Not anymore.

He doesn't dare close his eyes anymore, not even when the entire ambiance of the room starts to change back to what it was, or something like it.

Slowly, oh so slowly, his eyes flutter, locking on the stoppered little bottle. It's like a beacon. Shimmery promise of a safe haven, that's what it is.

He looks to Madame Chen, and can't help but feel slightly awed, and more. Formidable. Now, that's a good word for what she is. Then, trying to seek out the young woman in the slightly unfocused darkness of the room; he needs to know if it's okay for him to move yet, to do something other than gasp for breath every fifteen seconds.

The last of the glow is gone. Madame Chen raises her head, and speaks a few husky words.

"She says you may speak now," says the young woman quietly.

He hasn't the faintest idea what to say. Even if he did, he has a sinking feeling he couldn't get much out, unless unintelligible noises is one's choice of preferred lingo.

But overall, he feels...good. Relieved. He's learned the hard way not to trust magic, but this feels like it might just have worked out fine. For one, it didn't knock him out cold and leave him waking up tied and muzzled. Not that that scenario can't be nice, on occasion, but... Yeah. Wandering thoughts; it's something he does when he doesn't quite know what to do with himself.

"It's over?" His voice isn't much louder than a whisper, and he clears his throat when realizing this. "Is it...done?"

She nods, and says something else with a questioning look.

"She asks if you're all right."

Oops. Caught in the act of losing his cool. Only one thing to do about that, really, and that's putting the mask back on in one not so fell...something. 'Swoop' might roll off the tongue all nice and neat, but it isn't quite the think tank train he wants to hop onto.

"Sure I am." He smiles, recovering as if by a snap of his fingers. "Fine and dandy, even. Thank you, Madame Chen."

She studies him again, then speaks -- a long sentence this time, translated near-simultaneously by the granddaughter.

"You are welcome, she says. And she warns you to guard the bottle carefully for your own safety, and never to let it out of your possession while your dream is still within it, no matter how many times you sell a breath of the contents."

Sell it? Sell his dream? He couldn't possibly-- How could anyone--?

But things aren't ever as simple as they seem, and come to think of it, this must be a lucrative business the likes of which Hell would love to have shares in.

He nods, just the once and slowly. "What happens if it slips out of my hands, if you follow my drift?"

He isn't sure he wants to know.

The old woman makes a small shrug as she replies, spreading one hand palm up.

"You may know what can happen if someone obtains a piece of your hair, or a sample of your blood? This is similar. Not a safe risk."

"Right." Duh. Why didn't he think of that?

Lorne immediately writes a mental note to himself. It goes a little something like this:

Dear self,

Please keep your noggin squarely on top of your shoulder-padded shoulders, okay? Thanks. Buh-bye now.

Yours truly,

Me

Yes. He might've known. "I see. Well, I--" Ahem. "I won't hog any more of your time, ladies. You've been a grand help. How much do I owe you?"

He hates talking about money - it's so...distasteful.

Apparently Madame Chen feels the same way; she makes a small irritated noise and a motion as though brushing away a fly, and the granddaughter steps forward. "If you'll come with me, Mr. Green?"

The money, apparently, is her job. She names a figure quietly, while leading him back toward the front door.

"Naturally," he replies, giving Madame Chen a smile and his hands pressed together, the tips of his index fingers touching his lips. Then, after tucking away the bottle in the breast pocket of his shirt, he gathers his things and follows the younger woman.

"Thank you." He pays her in silence, head spinning as what he's just done starts sinking in.

Or maybe 'starts' is the wrong word for it. 'Hits rock bottom' is more like it.

"Thank you," again murmured quietly as he gets dressed and steps back out into the alley. It isn't much busier now than when he arrived, but the bustle and commotion makes it feel like he's stepped into a completely different world. Maybe he'll just go have one of his usuals at Cheng's Tea House, even if it isn't Sunday evening.

Yes. Yes, that's what he'll do. In a moment. Once his heart stops threatening to throttle him sideways.

The old woman sits unmoving in the armchair, hands folded over the top of her cane again and chin resting on her bony knuckles, eyes half closed.

"Jeannie," she says, without turning to look; her granddaughter's feet make no sound on the carpet, but she doesn't need to see the girl to know she's back.

"Yes, popo?"

"You got your iPod, honey girl? Come sit." She points with her chin to the couch opposite her. "I want a reading for our last customer."

Jeannie sits down, drawing out the music player and holding it between her hands. "Anything in particular, popo? Past, present, future?"

"Just a general reading. Present." There's almost no trace of accent to her English. There shouldn't be; she's third-generation American, and what accent she has is more her father's San Francisco cadence than anything else. "Why he came here. What he goes home to now." She rests her chin on her hands again, and listens.

The girl nods, closes her eyes to concentrate -- none of the usual Song Oracle flourishes this time, just closes her eyes -- and moves her thumb to touch the Play control. There's a pause, and then the music begins, soft mournful guitar in a minor key. After another moment a woman's voice comes in: Hello, hello, hello, is there anybody home? / I only called to say I'm sorry...

When the last notes of the song die away, Madame Chen doesn't move.

"I thought so," she says softly, finally. "Poor boy. Oh, poor boy."

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((No, no, this is an awesome little twist. Mweeeeheehee >:D))

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