Once Upon A Time

CHAPTER THREE

“Doctor Tompson?”, a hand was placed onto his shoulder, the voice cutting through each and every layer of the nerves.

John staggered backwards, staring directly ahead of him to the source of the contact, the fingers wrapped around the wine broken free of their indoctrinated grasp, liquid pouring down his silken shirt and glass spewing shards of its former glory all over the flooring.

“Oh...”, he looked down his now stained shirt and looked over his female companion.

“Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry.”

He excused himself and rushed his way over to the shared bathrooms, his hands shaking wildly as he mulled over a paranoid thought – where is Mikael?

Schollman had opened up to him a few weeks ago after the first time a larger group had successfully traversed backwards in time to the Atlantis building site – there had always been problems with transporting more than a handful of organic matter and it had called for celebration; the cogs had all turned at once and this had meant years of work was fast tracked to weeks. Many, more efficient builders from the present could be transported at once, along with food and water, instead of relying on imports and unreliable staff from the past – a full compliment of present staff could finally eat and sleep at the site, which was much more than the five or so staff per day they had minus food, water and electricity.

It had been surprising for John that a man with such an ego would open up, but he'd only seen Mikael that drunk once since first meeting him three years ago in a grimy strip joint after shortly losing his wife. He'd said 'someone is following me, John'.

It was met with a genuine concern and curiosity until he opened up further: 'I'm sure of it. Every night I stop at the site or even walk my way home, it's like there's an extra shadow behind me, trailing my every move. Always there. I can't eat or sleep – I feel lethargic all the time – it makes me so nervous.'

John hadn't taken him as seriously since that; had told Schollman that it was his overworked imagination, that they'd both been so engrossed in work since being given the green light to make the project a reality that he was probably just thinking things and believing he was seeing those thoughts. That it happened all the time to people who were under that much pressure, nothing to worry about.

They hadn't been real 'friends' long enough to warrant John trying to open up to him more, he'd felt like a dick now, guilty that he hadn't take his colleague more seriously. For the past couple of nights John had felt himself being followed and watched; that uneasy and bottomless pit in his stomach turning over with the notion that things just aren't as they appear, that they aren't right.

The catalyst had been last night, when Mikael had leant in close to shake his hand and hastily shoved a note into his pocket, whispering to him nothing else as he leant towards him but 'read it when you are alone. Make sure you are alone.', and had rushed off in a storm, as if it would be the last time they would have ever met together. It bothered him at the time, but he was too tired to read it that night. Besides, Schollman was eccentric and volatile when working on his notes and theories - after the no-show at the staff briefing and now at the formal dinner, it had crashed down onto him that Mikael could be in a genuine danger. His mind flashed to the note he'd been given, it was still sitting crumpled in his coat pocket, waiting to be read. to be picked at. He was alone in the bathroom with nothing but the cold air biting at his clammy hands and the paranoid thoughts of his stressed psyche.

-

Leala grimaced at the thought of wading through the crowds of the rich and elite that had managed to congregate and pack tightly together in such a small space. People just weren't her 'thing', let alone amongst such arrogance, self-importance and pretentiousness.

The enhancer she'd taken was still in full swing, but had started the slow and hellish descent of wearing off, the after-effects giving her a splitting headache and barely able to concentrate. Her senses drifted from being super-sensitive to dull; the overpowering smell of gaudy skin balms and repugnant sweat mingled in the musk of stale air, bitter cigar smoke overpriced liquors made her have to hold her breath. She held her head in her palm and closed her eyes.

“I need to get out of here for five minutes.”

“The blue stuff, huh?” Wilks chipped back.

“Something like that.”

She felt like she was going to puke, again. She looked around for the bathroom across the crowded hall, the ceiling lights shining with a vindictive intensity into her eyes. The edges of her vision blurred, shifting in and out of focus. She couldn't deal with so many people packed into one tight space at the best of times, her nerves had long since been shot. She took in a deep breath, steadied herself and pushed her way through the crowds, stumbling to the bathroom. The aftermath of her short-lived affair with the blue cocaine had begun to take its toll.

She'd managed to stomp her way into the bathroom without causing too much of a scene. The doors flung open as she breezed towards the sinks and turned on the taps. Leala transfixed her glare onto the image staring back at her in the mirror as the water flowed over her hands. The flavour of stale urine did not escape her as she cupped her hands and splashed water onto her face and traced droplets through her matted hair.

Even in this void bathroom she could not escape the life around her. She let her fingers run over her face as she inspected herself and stopped at the very edges of her mouth. With a feint touch, the fingers explored the applications of make up which covered the thick and angry pink-white welts forming curves from each edge of her lips to form a twisted smile where her grim expression should have remained. The images of the scars on her face were broken when she'd tuned in to the sound of raspy, wheezing breaths. Her attention shifted back into the bathroom as she flicked her wrists to disperse the water clinging to her pale skin. She braced herself as she was snapped back into responsibility, into reality.

“Sir, are you okay?” She half-asked, half-shouted without taking her blank stare away from the mirror. The sound had turned into a wet gargling.

Great. Main course: piss; with a side order of vomit.

She heard no response. Her first thought was that someone had had a little too much of the free bubble to drink. But then it hit her.