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bluezoneFour cases of beer, a bet, and a dare. That was how it all started.
The beer had been Tecate and it'd been bought by someone's older brother, since not a one of them was older than seventeen. The bet had been that the Heat wouldn't win against OKC, and in fact would lose by at least fifteen points. The dare had been at the discretion of the winner. Aomine had had way too many of the beers, had claimed that Miami would win, and had scoffed at the idea that any dare would be too tough for him to see through.
A day later, while still nursing the worst kind of hangover, he was cursing himself, his asshole friends, and the fucking failure of the Heat defense for his current situation.
All-Saints Psychiatric Hospital hadn't been a hospital since the 50s; supposedly it'd just been records storage before finally being shuttered for good sometime in the 1980s. Now, it was a derelict ghost sitting on the edge of new suburban sprawl, it's crumbling facade obscured by trees, an overpass, a hill, and distance. Once you got past the high fence and heavy, bolted gate, you might as well have been in another world, one overrun with grass, weeds, twisted shrubs, and patchy trees. There'd been a cobblestone drive, once, now a river of potholes and ugly, standing water, and there'd been a grand entryway with stone steps and metal handrails, all of it twisted and crumbling now, reduced to crumbling concrete and rebar.
Inside, it's a fucking tomb. It's cracked tile and peeling wallpaper with long streaks of black mold; it's graffiti and broken glass, and rotted doors hanging off rusted hinges; it's a single, abandoned hospital bed, it's padding slashed open, laying on its side near a set of doors that says OFFICES. It's utter silence, except for a faraway dripping and Aomine's own pounding heart.
He just has to go to the second landing. The stairs off the main atrium were secure and sound, he'd been told, and there was an observation deck up top that looked down on the dusty, cracked reception desks. All he had to do was walk up, take a few selfies, make a video shot down the long, dark hallway toward the first ward, and then get the fuck out.
His hand tight around the smartphone in his pocket, Aomine hustled toward the grand, wide stairs littered with leaves and garbage, and pretended that he wasn't fucking terrified.
At the very least, it was still daylight outside; it was 10 AM on a balmy Saturday in Spring.
The beer had been Tecate and it'd been bought by someone's older brother, since not a one of them was older than seventeen. The bet had been that the Heat wouldn't win against OKC, and in fact would lose by at least fifteen points. The dare had been at the discretion of the winner. Aomine had had way too many of the beers, had claimed that Miami would win, and had scoffed at the idea that any dare would be too tough for him to see through.
A day later, while still nursing the worst kind of hangover, he was cursing himself, his asshole friends, and the fucking failure of the Heat defense for his current situation.
All-Saints Psychiatric Hospital hadn't been a hospital since the 50s; supposedly it'd just been records storage before finally being shuttered for good sometime in the 1980s. Now, it was a derelict ghost sitting on the edge of new suburban sprawl, it's crumbling facade obscured by trees, an overpass, a hill, and distance. Once you got past the high fence and heavy, bolted gate, you might as well have been in another world, one overrun with grass, weeds, twisted shrubs, and patchy trees. There'd been a cobblestone drive, once, now a river of potholes and ugly, standing water, and there'd been a grand entryway with stone steps and metal handrails, all of it twisted and crumbling now, reduced to crumbling concrete and rebar.
Inside, it's a fucking tomb. It's cracked tile and peeling wallpaper with long streaks of black mold; it's graffiti and broken glass, and rotted doors hanging off rusted hinges; it's a single, abandoned hospital bed, it's padding slashed open, laying on its side near a set of doors that says OFFICES. It's utter silence, except for a faraway dripping and Aomine's own pounding heart.
He just has to go to the second landing. The stairs off the main atrium were secure and sound, he'd been told, and there was an observation deck up top that looked down on the dusty, cracked reception desks. All he had to do was walk up, take a few selfies, make a video shot down the long, dark hallway toward the first ward, and then get the fuck out.
His hand tight around the smartphone in his pocket, Aomine hustled toward the grand, wide stairs littered with leaves and garbage, and pretended that he wasn't fucking terrified.
At the very least, it was still daylight outside; it was 10 AM on a balmy Saturday in Spring.
no subject
Date: 2018-07-26 03:09 am (UTC)Someone she would have died for.
"Daiki?" Her voice was uncertain. Floating.
The world around them faded-and it was them. Lia was still in his arms, still with her skirt hiked around her legs. The walls crumbled, the paint peeled. The plumbing of the room creaked and groaned and broke, but no water came pouring out.
And Lia's uniform, blue and white and so crisp, bloomed red. Blood spilled down the front of it, hot and sticky and so bright as sunlight streamed in a broken wall. She gasped at him, stumbling away, seemingly reappearing in the room he was in, her hand pressed desperately over her chest though he could see right through her.
no subject
Date: 2018-07-27 02:06 am (UTC)There was a miserable pop in his ears, one that was strong enough to make his vision blur, and then Aomine fell forward in a heap, his knees hitting cracked tile hard enough to scrape through jeans and into his skin. He was only able to save his head by flinging his arms out at the last second, gaining likewise cuts across his palms and staring down at a cluttered, dusty, moldy floor, the remains of what had been, many years ago, a bathroom.
He sucked in a harsh, terrified breath. He jerked his head up and--
Saw her.
He saw her.
The world had changed again but she was still there and there was so much blood that his gut twisted sickness gathering in his throat. "Fuck, Lia - "
Aomine shoved himself up. He saw at a glance that he was dressed again, right back into the clothes he started this all in, but his skin was clammy with sweat and the region of his thighs felt damp and overly warm. Shit, had he come here? How much of it was real? How much of it wasn't?
Fuck, there was so much blood.
He reached for her hand, groping at her, shock and desperation alive in his eyes. "Shit, Lia!"
no subject
Date: 2018-08-01 03:21 am (UTC)In Lia's hand was a little locket. One side had the face of a young man, blond, handsome. On the other side was a baby. "Find her." Over and over, all over the walls, whispered. Find her find her findherfindherfindher."
Then it was gone. The blood and woman both disappeared and there was nothing. The deafening sound was replaced with the chirp of birds and cicadas as late afternoon fell around the crumbling, half abandoned asylum.
The walls were still peeling and half gone. The stairs were creaking like someone was running up and down them. The sunlight had gotten weaker; it wasn't overhead enough to be bright. But, it seemed for the time, that Aomine was alone.
no subject
Date: 2018-08-10 04:36 pm (UTC)He expected something more to happen. Some other sign.
None came.
After an age, Aomine hung his head, and pressed one hand against his face. Damn. Damn it. "God - " His hand shook, his fingers curling into a shivering fist. "God damn it!!"
Pounding his fist against the floor only made his hand hurt. But the pain helped to wake him up, helped to remind him that this was real, that this was where he was supposed to be, and before was...something else. Not real, but not nothing. He gulped in stale air, his eyes burning from dust and emotion, and then slapped his palms onto the broken tiles and shoved himself up.
Find her. The woman with blood like a flower on her chest.
In Aomine's mind was something he had all but forgotten: his phone. It had fallen from his jacket during that very first episode, back in what would be his 'room'. Wandering around the hospital was stupid, pointless; he could search for days, weeks, and find nothing, because nobody else had found anything. If they had, Lia wouldn't be...here. Somehow. It made sense in his head. But if he could get to his phone, he could search for this place, for her name, for anything at all he recognized from those times he had slipped into the past, or whatever it was. With names and dates, or blueprints, or something, he would have a better idea of where to look.
His steps were fast and heavy on rotted floorboards, following his memory to take him back to his room.