nomorekaraoke | 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

sunnydalealum

Before long the girl returns, with a very small, very old woman leaning heavily on her arm.

The old woman is dressed in a black silk robe, woven with a mulberry-leaf pattern in gold thread, in which she seems to huddle. Her white hair is elaborately coiled, pinned with two long black-lacquered sticks, each ornamented with a tiny cluster of opals. She leans on a dark polished walking stick as well as on her granddaughter's arm, and lowers herself to sit in the dark-red leather armchair with some difficulty.

The granddaughter fades quietly back to stand by the door, silent and unobtrusive. Madame Chen raises her head to peer at her visitor with disconcertingly bright black eyes.

From:

nomorekaraoke

Disconcerting would be the perfect word to summarize the last few weeks. To be scrutinized so openly, well, he wouldn't call it 'icing' on the cake. More like something crawling, something burrowing beneath his skin to gnaw at the very core of him.

Why does he keep taking off his sunglasses?

"Madame." Perhaps this token of respect tells more of how uncomfortable he is than anything else. Maybe he just knows to respect his elders.

From:

sunnydalealum

And oh, she is definitely his elder; she projects a sense of being older than pretty much everyone.

She leans forward, hands folded over the head of her walking stick, and says a few words in -- well, presumably in Chinese; it's not English.

"My grandmother says you are here to bottle a dream," Miss Chen translates quietly.

From:

nomorekaraoke

"I am," he replies, and his voice seems too loud in this strange, otherworldly room. Whether he found it strange and otherworldly before the grand old dame entered, he couldn't say. But that's beside the point. He's here, he's brought everything, and his insides are knotting themselves into teeny little Gordian knots, and he's got the sinking feeling this little lady here will cut them all in half.

He meets her eyes as squarely as he is able. "I got your name from Alcina."

From:

sunnydalealum

The old woman nods at the name, and speaks again.

"Yes, she knows," the granddaughter translates. "She says you should have the necessary components for the spell."

From:

nomorekaraoke

Lorne nods, looking down as he fetches the spell scroll and the Oneiros bottle from what seems to be the lining of his coat - he knows to appreciate hidden compartments, no matter what the context. The items resting carefully in the palms of his hands like he's seen people do in many a Chinese flick (the scroll held feather light by his thumbs, the bottle lying in the not quite steady cradle of his fingers) he holds them out for Madame Chen.

He bows his head, just the once, then looks up, almost in trepidation. These are very deep waters for someone like him; what he's become.

From:

sunnydalealum

Madame Chen meets his eyes, then reaches out one withered claw and plucks the scroll delicately from his hands.

Another few words, translated near-simultaneously by the granddaughter. "She will study the spell first to make certain there are no mistakes."

Pause. "She asks if while you are waiting, you wish to consult the Song Oracle."

From:

nomorekaraoke

Another nod, more out of the fact his throat's gone dry as the Sahara than any modicum of unspoken respect. But, mid-clearing his throat, he almost chokes. Song Oracle? Of all the oracular wannabes and is-bes out there, he's never heard of a Song Oracle. ...aside from himself, of course, and not even he quite matches the title.

"The Song Oracle?" For someone who always has something to say even if it isn't the right thing, finding oneself speechless is a most disconcerting event. "No. Thank you, but no. I'm good."

He knows better than to let just anyone equalize his kbps.

From:

sunnydalealum

The dry, considering look Madame Chen gives him makes it clear that his reaction has not gone unnoticed.

She goes back to studying the scroll.

After a few moments of silence, she lowers it to her lap and looks up again.

"The spell is accurate. She is ready if you are."

From:

nomorekaraoke

He isn't. He hasn't been ready since before he made the plunge. He'll never be ready, but the need far outranks the fear, and that's why he's going to go through with this. He hasn't come this far to back out, no matter how greedy and filthy it makes him to pay for this, this, this guilty pleasure.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

He tenses, forcing his hands not to grip at the silky, worn cushions brushing his fingertips. This is it. This is what he's waited for, for weeks. It's finally gonna happen.

From:

sunnydalealum

She nods, and that bright gaze pierces him again.

"You must open the Oneiros bottle, and hold it between your hands. Do not release it until the last of the light has faded."

From:

nomorekaraoke

He swallows, dryly, slightly painfully, and does as told. He can be a good boy, when warranted.

It was just big enough for Alcina to hold it comfortably in her hand, just a touch too small, perhaps. For Lorne, once his fingers are wrapped around the seemingly fragile piece of archane art, not even a single little bit of it's visible. He doesn't know if that's good or bad - isn't sure he should care so much.

"Like this?"

From:

sunnydalealum

"Like that."

The old woman regards him over the scroll spread out across her lap, her hands poised and steady, her back straight.

"Now, concentrate on the dream you wish to store. Hold it in your mind as you hold the bottle in your hands. Once the spell has begun, you must not release either one until it's finished. You must not rise from your seat, and you must not speak. Do you understand?"

From:

nomorekaraoke

Those Gordian knots made of his insides just waiting to be cut in half? He can hear a blade being unsheathed, he'll swear it on anyone's grave including his own.

He nods mutely; his grip tightening by tiny little increments for every condition stated.

He closes his eyes, because it feels like the thing to do, and thinks back on the dream in question. It has scarcely left his mind since the two nights in question, it isn't a difficult thing to ask of him. He takes a deep breath, remembers the warmth, the overwhelming sensuality of it. The comfort of being held, the complete lack of demands and pressure and stress, the... He thinks it might be how it feels to be loved.

From:

sunnydalealum

The old woman's voice begins chanting quietly, and the bottle goes warm in his hands.

If he opens his eyes, he'll see a soft white glow emanating from between his fingers, casting bars of shadow on the walls, the furniture, the spellcaster's face as her voice sinks to a coaxing whisper.

From:

nomorekaraoke

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.

From:

sunnydalealum

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.

From:

nomorekaraoke

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?~~

From:

sunnydalealum

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.

From:

nomorekaraoke

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.

From:

sunnydalealum

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.

From:

nomorekaraoke

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?"

From:

sunnydalealum

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

"She asks if you're all right."

From:

nomorekaraoke

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."

From:

sunnydalealum

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."

From:

nomorekaraoke

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.

From:

sunnydalealum

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."

From:

nomorekaraoke

"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.

From:

sunnydalealum

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.

From:

nomorekaraoke

"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.

From:

sunnydalealum

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."