Mina Roth’s eyes fly open with a start, as though someone had popped a balloon in her ear. She lies there for a few seconds, gasping, before sitting up abruptly and scanning the room with narrowed eyes. After a quick glance, she leans back, and lets out a sigh of relief. Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary. Her tiny, book-crammed apartment is silent in the weak, grey, morning half-light. Well, silent save for Ant’s snoring in the next room. Mina’s brow furrows in frustration. Wasn’t him, then. But that reminds me...
“Anthony! ANT!” she calls, still half-asleep herself. “You gotta get up now, it’s morning.” A groan is her only reply. Her little brother is categorically not a morning person.
But then Ant is forgotten again, left in the wake of the dream that left Mina beached in her bed. She rubs her temples tiredly, and combs down her fringe. The dreams - they’re back. Stronger than ever. She frowns, forehead settling back into its premature worry-lines already. But...something has changed...
She pays the thought no heed, though, and she chides herself for thinking, however fleetingly, that her dreams contained any real significance. They were only dreams, after all. Random firings of one’s brain during REM sleep. Meaningless, right? Thinking dreams have meaning. What’s next, ghosts? Psychic abilities? Please. I’ll stick with science.
But despite these comforting thoughts, Mina just can’t shake off the dream. Rattling off her usual rebuttals isn’t as effective as it once was, and truthfully it scares her a little. If I don’t have science, then...what do I have? The dream haunts her thoughts as she swings her legs out of bed and picks her way to the miniscule kitchen, trying not to step on any of the books strewn in piles over the threadbare carpet.
Will Heidel tentatively opens one eye. The sunlight streaming through the crack in the curtains stabs her straight in the socket, and she groans unhappily. It’s morning. Ugh. Scratching at her hastily dyed hair – purple this week, she remembers through a fog of morning brain – Will rolls over and yawns a yawn that cracks her jaw. She lazily reaches out a hand to check her clock, but yanks it back abruptly when she finds bare flesh instead of a messy bedside table.
Her reaction is electrifying. Both eyes fly open like blinds, and she, too, sits up abruptly. Half of her is shocked by the sight of this latest morning surprise – wow, is my taste in dudes really that bad when I’m drunk? Gotta stop picking up bikers from the Leatherbacks, they’re ugly as all hell – but half of her is still caught up in her stupid pastel dream. Another one, the same as last time but...different, somehow. Will tries to think about this, but finds pain in the way. A lot of pain.
She holds her head in her hands and mutters “Holy mother of God, what a hangover.” Her leg hurts too, but that’s normal. That’s to be expected. It’s hurt every morning for the last...ooh, four years. She scowls, lifts her head, and shakes away the pain (and painful memories) – but then thinks better of it. “Ah! Shit!” Shaking her head makes it feel like it’s full of nasty little porcupines, sticking their spines into her brain just for some sick kicks. She gently drops her poor, spike-infested head back to her hands and groans. Stupid alcohol. No, not stupid alcohol. Stupid hangover.
The guy next to Will doesn’t even stir when she flicks back the covers and limps slowly towards the vile-smelling bathroom.
Jane Tamahara examines her tired-looking reflection. “Ugh,” she mutters to herself, pulling at the near-nonexistent bags under her stunningly blue eyes. “Morning face. Disgusting.” She allows herself a delicate yawn as she extracts her bulging makeup bag from the top drawer, its contents threatening to spill themselves all over the counter. As Jane unzips it, her fingers fumble a little in her eagerness to wash away the ugliness. She lays out her tools with the precision of a surgeon and then launches herself into the lengthy process of applying her face, resolving to make herself look good enough to see the light of day.
Forty minutes and several bottles of concealer later, her lashes are blackened and lengthened, her almond-shaped eyes carefully outlined, her skin exfoliated, toned, moisturized and powdered. Her lips are glossy, her “problem areas” are coated with concealer, and her cheekbones are in the process of being subtly highlighted with rouge. Jane finishes her delicate task, and smiles proudly at herself in the mirror. “A true artiste, darling!” she whispers to herself. “Now, to deal with this...thing.” Her hands flutter anxiously towards her wavy black hair, and she resists the urge to scowl at it. (Scowlers get premature wrinkles, whispers an evil little voice in the back of her mind.) But she can’t afford to consider her face at this late hour - her natural coiffure is so very far from perfection... She slides the second drawer open, and reverently lifts out her most essential beauty accessory.
Jane plugs it in, and waits for it to heat up, humming a little. Then her mind switches back on, and she pauses for a second, resisting the urge to frown again. Now, where was that tune from? It’s just a simple little ten-note thing, really, but it seems to stir up memories. Memories of...birds? Horses? It had something to do with her dream, she knows that, but she can’t for the life of her remember what it was. She’s sure she’s had that dream before, though...
But the light on her straightener is on by now, and her eyes light up with it. She reaches for it, and begins to inch her way towards perfection. Curls simply won’t do, she thinks as she stares at her reflection.
Anne Douglas grimaces as she slips on her high heels in preparation for work. They’re black and shiny, with stiletto heels so sharp she feels like she could probably stab someone’s eye out with them. Privately, she thinks they’re the silliest shoes she’s ever had to wear, but Benny insists upon all his secretaries wearing them. And when Benny insists, things happen. No matter that Anne’s feet have all but lost feeling by the end of the day – if she’s looking nice for her employer, that’s apparently all that matters.
Anne looks at herself in the full-length mirror next to her front door. Black heels, black stockings, black skirt. Red blouse, but black jacket. A pin in the shape of a tiny red apple is on the lapel, but she removes it. Very reluctantly. Benny doesn’t like “excess decoration”. Just excess height, apparently. It doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference that Anne feels safer with that tiny apple with her – she must not have it on show. So, with a certain sense of smugness at one-upping Benny ‘The Lech’ Jones, she slips the little bauble into her pocket. No rule against that, is there? she thinks triumphantly.
But her triumph wanes as she meets her own green gaze in the mirror. A strong-jawed, lightly tanned face looks back at her, topped by a blonde chignon. The woman in the mirror is impeccably made up, but looks...sad. Drawn. She looks out of place, even here, in what is supposed to be her home. Anne squeezes her eyes shut. It’s those stupid dreams, that’s what it is, she thinks angrily to herself. Those dreams are what’s making me so unhappy. Pastel animals, magic...how dumb can you get? It’s those dreams, that’s all. That’s all.
But deep down, Anne knows that she’s lying to herself, and that just makes her feel worse. There are already enough lies in my life without adding to the pile.
Suddenly she turns from the mirror, unable to bear her own gaze anymore. She grabs her keys from the bowl, throws open the door, and storms into the weak October sunshine, hating the lies more with every concrete-clicking step her hateful heels take.
Caraway McGraw giggles as the overenthusiastic puppy tries to leap up to her face. “Ginger, no. Down, silly.” she chides in a gentle voice. She squats down and scratches behind its velvety-soft ears, and its chocolate brown eyes melt under her touch. She knows precisely which places get the itchiest, and scratches them in just the right way. The dog rolls over onto its back in ecstasy, and Carrie crouches down to rub its belly. “Oh, you’re a good dog, aren’t you, Ginger?” she smiles. “Yes, you are. And you’re going to go back to your family today! Isn’t that nice? I bet you miss them, yes you do. A pet hotel isn’t a home, you know, much as I-“
“Yeah, yeah, he’s a good dog alright. But let me tell you, he is not a clean one.” Carrie lets out a little yelp at this new voice and leaps around to face the door in one twisting jump. Her eyes are wide and startled, like that of a doe, and they only calm a little when they take in who, exactly, is there.
“Morning, Carrie,” says the petite woman. She is almost the polar opposite of Carrie – she is short and curvy where Caraway is tall and lanky, her eyes are deep brown where Carrie’s are greenish-blue, her hair is a mass of blonde curls instead of Carrie’s straight chestnut pelt. She leans against the doorframe like she owns the place – which, quite frankly, she almost does.
Carrie crosses her arms over her chest in an unconsciously defensive posture and ducks her head. “Good morning, Angelica,” she whispers, almost inaudibly. Her hair swings over her face, and she is grateful for the barrier. Despite being nearly a foot taller than the blonde, Caraway is terrified of her. She hunches her shoulders, barely realizing she’s doing it.
“Anyway, like I was saying, he’s not exactly naturally clean. That pup is, I swear, the messiest, most destructive dog we’ve had here in years. You know he chewed through five chewtoys? FIVE! They’re all totally ripped to shreds. I know they’re meant to be chewed and all, but come on! Honestly, I just don’t know how one tiny dog can cause that much mess in three days! It’s like...” She waves her hand, searching for the right word. “...like a talent. It’s an irritating talent, though.” Angelica pauses in her tirade for a second and looks hopefully at Carrie for a response.
But the tall woman just ducks her head further and squeaks. She wants to speak, really she does, but she feels like her own throat is conspiring to choke her, and it’s all she can do to simply keep breathing.
Angelica takes in her employer’s posture and sighs. She levers herself upright, turns, and strides towards her place at the check-in desk, calling over her shoulder “Remember, Carrie, the Shanks are picking up Ginger at three. You might want to make sure he’s ready.”
Carrie glances through her shield of hair and raises a hand in acknowledgement, but Angelica isn’t looking at her anymore. The hand slowly lowers, and she sighs. That was pathetic. I’m pathetic, she thinks bitterly. And to think...that’s how I react to the human I trust the most out of anyone. Now that’s sad.
The sun outside suddenly cuts through the cloud, and shines a weak ray through the dusty window. For a second, Carrie is hit with déjà vu. She freezes, struggling to place its source. Wait...my dream...sun? Shining? Something like that...
But before she can place exactly what that sunbeam reminds her of, she hears a whimper, and looks down into the sad, chocolaty eyes of the dog. It whimpers again and presses itself against her ankle. She shakes off her dream immediately, all her attention focused on the animal that needs her. Caraway reaches down and picks the little dog up, swinging it into her arms and holding it tight. “C’mon, let’s get you ready to go home,” she whispers into its fur, eyes filling with tears.
“He...Hello?” Florence Sullivan’s usually loud and cheerful voice seems to fade into the background, muffled. She wanders through unfamiliar, bright corridors, unusually subdued, rubbing her arms in an attempt to stifle the goosebumps that appear there in spite of herself. “Is...anyone there? Hello?” She wants her voice to be strong, but it wavers a little on the last syllable. She curses herself for it, seeing as how Venice isn’t there to do it for her. Flo scans her surroundings for the thousandth time, but nothing seems to have changed since the last time. She thinks she’s in a castle, but it’s hard to be sure – everything seems to glow so brightly it’s hard to make out shapes. But she squints her sky-blue eyes against the light, and seems to see massive doors, delicately arched and curlicued windows and some sort of rugs hanging on the walls. No...no, not rugs. Tapestries, that’s the word.
But, strangely enough, it is the carpet that convinces her of her regal surroundings. The other things could just be her eyes playing tricks on her, but the luxuriant feeling of her feet sinking into the carpet is impossible to fake. It’s like stepping into a soft, dry bath, and the tips of the carpet come close to brushing her ankles.
So now she has an idea of the kind of place she’s in. And a fat lot of good it does me, she thinks angrily to herself. How am I supposed to find my way out if I’m somewhere I’ve never been? But she tucks away the bad thoughts under her natural good humor and does the only thing she can – she wanders. She pads up the corridor, eyes beginning to ache and water from the light, and tries every door she comes to. Each one is locked, and as she makes her way up the corridor her mood begins to slip.
Oh geez, I’m becoming Venice, she thinks wildly. I’m always the happy twin, and she’s always the grumpy one, only now I’m getting grumpy, so that means I must be her and she’s me and maybe we’re all one person her thoughts become disjointed and more incoherent as her round face gets paler and hopes of escaping get fainter and each door is steadfastly locked, locked, locked, and if that’s the way things are now then maybe I don’t exist anymore because Florence Sullivan is never, never, under any circumstances- her hand tries a handle and for once the door opens. She shuts her eyes in a wave of relief, and comes close to a sob. She doesn’t know why her emotions are so near to the surface – maybe it’s the light? But she shoves that thought aside too, and pushes the door open the rest of the way. She wanders inside...and is immediately forced to shut her eyes all the way, the light in this room is just so blinding. But her eyelids seem useless – this light just seeps through them as though they were glass. She tries covering her eyes with her clenched fists, but it seeps through there, too. The watering from her eyes has increased to a steady stream of prickling tears, and she can feel the light on her face like it has weight. Her entire face bunches up in an effort to protect her eyes.
She is just on the verge of running from that harsh light when a voice halts her. It is the sort of voice that seems to belong in this castle of brightness – regal, feminine, wise; young but oh, so very old. It says just one word, in a tone that Florence is shocked to realize is almost tentative – “Pinkie?”
Flo halts. Her eyes are still stinging, but her ears are working just fine. She hopes. She clears her throat, licks the salty tears off her lips and calls “No...um, Your Majesty.” She doesn’t know why she says this, but it feels right. Whoever or whatever it is she’s speaking to, it is the sort of thing that needs respect. She hooks one ankle behind the other in a kind of awkward half-curtsey and continues.
“I’m Florence. Florence Sullivan? My sister’s Venice Sullivan, but I don’t know where she is right now. Normally she’s always with me even when she’s angry at me, which is often, but I haven’t seen her since I got here, wherever ‘here’ is – I’m really confused, actually. Cause usually when we go somewhere I know how and why we got there but I just seemed to randomly show up here, which normally wouldn’t be out of character because I am pretty random sometimes but I do like to know where I am and not just randomly show up in fancy castles. And I’ve had a bunch of dreams that kinda feel similar to this – in fact, they’ve all been pretty much the same dream – but let me tell you, I have never ever EVER been to a place like this in any of them. I mean, they were all set in a tiny little village as far as I can remember. It was really outdoorsy and there were a bunch of animals there so it couldn’t have been a city or a castle, and I know cause I live in one – a city, that is, not a castle - and it’s kinda depressing, which a castle wouldn’t be. This castle is waaaaay too fancy to be the same place as wherever my other dreams were, plus it’s much bigger and easier-to-get-lost-in even if it is really, really shiny and glowy and stuff, which the town definitely wasn’t – um, not that your castle’s not nice or anything, because it is! Um, Your Highness. Ma’am.” She falters to a stop, biting her tongue in disgust. There I go again, Motormouth Sullivan, always ready with a monologue, she thinks to herself spitefully. Then she is struck with a chill – there goes Venice again...
But the voice simply lets out a good-natured chuckle and begins to speak again, and as Flo listens she realizes it’s coming from the centre of that harsh light. “Well, Florence Sullivan, you have something of the Element of Laughter about you. And anypony only knows that laughter is what we need here the most, especially in times like these.” There is a sigh, and it is so full of sadness that Flo feels her own sky-blue eyes well up in response. Tears of sadness this time, not just light-tears. The voice continues, seeming to gain strength. “Florence Sullivan, you are not here without reason. You are needed – needed desperately. Evil is afoot, and if my feelings are correct, I do not have much time left to me. I have a task for you, and for the sake of the fate of this land it is imperative that you listen, and listen well.”
Flo feels herself nodding almost without realizing it. Anything, anything for this regal, beautiful voice. Her eyes have been shut during this whole exchange, but now she summons her courage and opens them the tiniest crack she can. The light seems to scratch at her eyes like a cat, but she braves the pain and looks to the source of the light. At first she sees nothing, and the urge to close her eyes again is immense...but then a slightly brighter figure appears, silhouetted in the awful brightness. It spreads two whiter-than-white wings wide, and Flo is awestruck.
The voice intones, “Florence Sullivan – FIND THEM. Find your fellow Elements. Find the five, and reunite, and together you will travel where no one has gone before, and accomplish things undreamed of. You are the only one who will listen. We need you. I need you. Find them! Find them...” Her words roll richly through the room, echoing and echoing, but seeming to gain strength as they go instead of weakening. Florence feels she will be deafened as well as blinded, and she snaps her eyes shut and claps her hands over her ears and sinks down into the soft, soft carpet. She curls into a ball and rocks gently as the words vibrate through her lungs, through her brain, through her heart.
FIND THEM
And Florence Sullivan sits up in bed with a gasp. She is back in her dingy little apartment, with Venice already awake in the other bed, and everything is outwardly as it should be. But this morning is different. Something in her has changed, and it solidifies into a hard nub of determination as she shoves off her blanket, rolls out of bed and tucks her strawberry-blonde curls behind her ears. She has a mission now, a mission beyond paying rent and throwing parties and trying not to let the city eat her alive. She has to find them.
But her resolve wavers for a moment as she wonders...who, exactly, is ‘them’?
