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writing_shadows2011-09-17 06:29 pm
sotongeistooc.livejournal.com) wrote in writing_shadows2011-09-17 06:29 pm
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[Forsaken] Option 2
“Aren’t you supposed to wear high-vis?”
“Fuck off,” Si retorted, looking at the newbie like utter contempt. He’d half a mind to give him the TFL Shower, slam his head into the tunnel sidings and smear him with soot. “Down here you’re going to be black by the end of it anyway, so who gives a shit if you’re wearing high vis or not? Wanker.”
Si didn’t need a wet-behind-the-ears moron to tell him what to do. He continued walking down the tunnel, his torchbeam cutting down the passage, rats scuttling out of the way of the light. They were walking down the central track, which would have been dangerous if the electrics were running. They weren’t; 2am and the Tube had shut down for the night.
“Where are we?”
Si rolled his eyes. Fucking newbie shit. “That glow ahead? Embankment. That one behind? Temple. This is the District line.”
“So where does that go?”
Si stopped, and turned around, his leather jacket swirling around him. He’d never understand the idiots who spent most of their time above ground. The London Underground held no mystery to him, but most of the crews couldn’t read even the official tube map, let alone a TfL service map.
They weren’t even on one of the deep lines, which ran a full 30m lower than these tunnels, nuzzling the surface. Above, he knew the real world continued, people talking, chatting in bars, socialising. He’d never seen the appeal. Down here, in the silence, grime and simplicity of the Tube, the world made sense to him. Up there? He always wondered how the world functioned. He couldn’t figure it; in another life he’d have stayed up there.
But this wasn’t another life; this was the underground. He stormed forward and pointed at the junction number emblazoned on the wall. “Look at the number, fucktard. It’s AL34-877. That means… oh, why am I even bothering? It’s a service line. See how narrow the tube is? Barely enough to get a District cart through. So we use it as a shunt line. It cuts down too, gives emergency access to the deep level Piccadilly near the old Strand station.”
“So we could get down to the Piccadilly?”
”In theory,” Si replied. Not a chance they would, though. Anyone who worked the tube lines long enough learned that some of the old, abandoned stations were forsaken for a reason. You couldn’t have paid him to go into British Museum. Things lurked in the tunnels that, if you were smart, you left alone. Strand station was fine enough; but he’d seen – thought he’d seen – some strange things passing Aldwych in the past month. He couldn’t explain it, but tonight he wasn’t going down.
Enough with the talk. Si stepped forward and looked at the blown fuse box, torch settling on it. Unusually, the rats weren’t bothering the work team tonight. Usually they were everywhere, but in recent weeks they’d just…kept clear. Maybe they didn’t like his smell.
“Fuck off,” Si retorted, looking at the newbie like utter contempt. He’d half a mind to give him the TFL Shower, slam his head into the tunnel sidings and smear him with soot. “Down here you’re going to be black by the end of it anyway, so who gives a shit if you’re wearing high vis or not? Wanker.”
Si didn’t need a wet-behind-the-ears moron to tell him what to do. He continued walking down the tunnel, his torchbeam cutting down the passage, rats scuttling out of the way of the light. They were walking down the central track, which would have been dangerous if the electrics were running. They weren’t; 2am and the Tube had shut down for the night.
“Where are we?”
Si rolled his eyes. Fucking newbie shit. “That glow ahead? Embankment. That one behind? Temple. This is the District line.”
“So where does that go?”
Si stopped, and turned around, his leather jacket swirling around him. He’d never understand the idiots who spent most of their time above ground. The London Underground held no mystery to him, but most of the crews couldn’t read even the official tube map, let alone a TfL service map.
They weren’t even on one of the deep lines, which ran a full 30m lower than these tunnels, nuzzling the surface. Above, he knew the real world continued, people talking, chatting in bars, socialising. He’d never seen the appeal. Down here, in the silence, grime and simplicity of the Tube, the world made sense to him. Up there? He always wondered how the world functioned. He couldn’t figure it; in another life he’d have stayed up there.
But this wasn’t another life; this was the underground. He stormed forward and pointed at the junction number emblazoned on the wall. “Look at the number, fucktard. It’s AL34-877. That means… oh, why am I even bothering? It’s a service line. See how narrow the tube is? Barely enough to get a District cart through. So we use it as a shunt line. It cuts down too, gives emergency access to the deep level Piccadilly near the old Strand station.”
“So we could get down to the Piccadilly?”
”In theory,” Si replied. Not a chance they would, though. Anyone who worked the tube lines long enough learned that some of the old, abandoned stations were forsaken for a reason. You couldn’t have paid him to go into British Museum. Things lurked in the tunnels that, if you were smart, you left alone. Strand station was fine enough; but he’d seen – thought he’d seen – some strange things passing Aldwych in the past month. He couldn’t explain it, but tonight he wasn’t going down.
Enough with the talk. Si stepped forward and looked at the blown fuse box, torch settling on it. Unusually, the rats weren’t bothering the work team tonight. Usually they were everywhere, but in recent weeks they’d just…kept clear. Maybe they didn’t like his smell.
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