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[personal profile] wonder_city
Am trying to hit a deadline, so there will be a bit more of Tom, Christopher, and the Dean for you in the near future. Hope you continue to enjoy our diversion!

It was a subway. It reminded Tom, who had grown up in Boston, of the MBTA, except that it was cleaner. Much cleaner. She marveled at how they could possibly keep something made of this much white tile, pale concrete, and bright, primary-colored trim this clean.

“This reminds me of IKEA for some reason,” said Christopher, staring around.

Tom restrained herself from scanning the tracks for rats.

The Dean looked at this bright, clean, glassy, empty subway station and its blazing fluorescent tubes with disfavor. “I suppose it’s no good asking where we’re going?”

“Grimm, of course,” said the saturnine man. “It’s the only place She can’t reach you.”

Tom, who had previously been skeptical about such florid literary devices as you could HEAR the capital letters in the way he pronounced the words, resignedly had to admit that yes, it was indeed possible to pronounce capital letters.

The Dean said, “If you think Godmother can’t reach--”

The black-clad man whirled around (his long and pointy sleeves floating dramatically behind him) and flung the Dean against the nearest glass-brick wall, one hand over her mouth. “Don’t even say that Name!”

Christopher gasped audibly. Even Tom waited for some sort of explosion.

The Dean reached up and removed the hand which was covering her mouth, all the while regarding the black-haired man as though he were committing lese majesty.

He was unaffected. "She has listening devices everywhere. She might even be able to listen through me. Do not say her name.”

For a moment Tom thought the Dean might roll her eyes. But she didn’t, merely eeled around her interlocutor (Tom admired her underdone pantomime regarding the man’s bad breath) and brushed herself off. “Very well,” she said after a silence which went on at least one hundred and fifty percent too long.

The saturnine man said, “As long as you understand me,” and pressed the top of a short pillar Tom had thought was decoration. A set of pastel holographic controls sprang into life and he selected some of them.

Christopher let out his breath. He and Tom looked at one another.

A train glided up, silently, brightly, and hissed open its doors in a most inviting manner.

Christopher looked at Tom. Tom looked at the Dean. The Dean, without looking at their quondam rescuer, marched aboard the train and sat down on one of the blue velvet seats, crossing her legs and folding her arms.

The inside of the train was panelled in wood (or fake wood?) and brass, with a sort-of Oriental carpeting. Elaborate Art Nouveau swirls bracketed the windows, which flickered not with the landscape, but with moving, silent advertisements in a language Tom could not read. The pictures were lovely, though.

Christopher, who sat next to Tom, across from the Dean, said nervously, “How long do you think it will take?”

“Not long,” said the saturnine man, gloomily, to an advertisement that wanted him to try a pastel-colored candy capable of transporting a young blond couple to the Alps, where they apparently broke into song, experienced spontaneous rains of flowers, and chased mountain goats and each other. One corner of his mouth turned down in an experienced sneer. “Thank... thank everything.”

The Dean tipped her head back and gazed at the roof of the carriage, which had brass-trimmed hanging chandeliers and a smaller set of animated advertisements. “Are all the trains in working order?”

“As far as I know. Why?” asked their guide, suspiciously. The advertisement beside him now thought he might enjoy pink wine and a hot tub.

“That’s a little surprising, given the situation in Grimm,” said the Dean. “Doesn’t Herself want to limit contact?”

“That,” said their guide, shooting a sideways glower at the advertisement, which changed instantly to a scene of puppies surrounded by fresh white towels, “is not an issue. The trains only operate when Guests are present.”

The Dean said, slowly, “So that means that if Herself notices that the trains are operating... which she cannot fail to do...”

Tom felt her face go cold with horror, even though she was not yet sure who “Herself” was. “She’ll know exactly where we are!”

Christopher gripped the armrests of his blue velvet seat and shot a pleading look at their guide. The window behind him was now displaying a beauty shot of a little Germanic village, with dancing citizens in green skirts and lederhosen.

“Well,” said the saturnine man resignedly. “that would be one of my fatal flaws. I never do think a plan through completely.”

That was the moment, naturally, when the train crashed.

Date: 2012-09-20 07:46 am (UTC)
kore: (Default)
From: [personal profile] kore
LOVE the Dean. Love.

Date: 2012-10-23 11:01 pm (UTC)
the_leaky_pen: (Default)
From: [personal profile] the_leaky_pen
I'm deeply impressed by her and am enjoying the saturnine man entirely. :D


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