by White, Ben
"—could be AMAZING right? SO awesome!"
Zack's voice cut into Imogen's head as she became aware of something nearby—she wasn't wearing her glasses and anything more than a dozen metres away was blurry, so she wandered away from her brother and towards the makeshift stage she'd noticed. In the centre of the stage, against the wide corridor's wall, was a large television screen with some kind of anime battle scene playing on it—all fast cuts and exaggerated reaction shots from the characters. There was no sound; with the noise of the crowds it would've been pointless to even try. There weren't even speakers on the stage. There were, however, five girls, all of them dressed in sprawling, elaborately gothic dresses that looked more like small towers than clothing.
"Oh!" Zack's high voice was an unpleasant interruption to Imogen's quiet. "Are you looking at the KokenKo cosplayers?"
"No."
"You could dress up like that, you'd look great—I bet you'd like the anime, too! It's called Koken-Hime Kokoto except everyone calls it KokenKo and it's about girls who are actually ancient towers and one of them can put her hands through the ground and then they come up again really far away and one can make the ground fly around and hit people and Reiko—she's my favourite—is really cool and tough and she can make holes and hit people through them! And they're all sisters except Reiko is actually only a half-sister because she's kind of half-evil except not really—"
One of the tower girls had noticed Imogen's attention and gave her a smile and a little wave. Imogen turned away, her hand around Zack's upper arm.
"Ow!"
"Next area."
"But—"
"We're getting through this stupid thing as fast as possible. Next area."
The next area turned out to be a wide room filled with weirdness—in general the costumes had seemed alien and discomforting to Imogen, but here they took on a whole other level of insanity.
"Whoa ... Imogen, do you see that guy? Do you see him?"
'That guy' was dressed in ragged, grey clothing covered in dirt and blood, his face a mass of gorey scratches, his eyes blank white. He shambled along aimlessly, pausing to sniff the air every few steps.
"That costume is WAY too good," Zack said. "I don't even wanna get NEAR him!"
"Mm," said Imogen. There was a familiar emptiness building in her chest and her palms were itching badly.
"And check that out, that devil—look at his horns, wow! Imogen, look! Oh, and wooooow, that bug guy ..."
Imogen had noticed a large banner hanging over a stage, proclaiming 'COSPLAY COMPETITION!!!' in bold Comic Sans. She shuddered quietly.
"Come on, next area—"
"Noooo I wanna look more pleeeeease—"
"Ugh." Imogen scowled in irritated disgust at her brother's whining. "Just come on. You can look while we get out of here."
Zack pouted, but he dutifully followed along behind his sister as she picked her way through the costumed crowds.
"Slow down! I can't look properly if you walk so fast!"
Imogen shook her head, but she did slow her pace a little—walking so fast was hazardous in any case, she'd almost clipped her head against a baseball player's bat a few seconds earlier.
"I wish I was wearing something like these guys," she heard Zack say, his voice low and distant. "I look so sucky."
Imogen said nothing. Despite herself, she was staring around just as much as her brother, although with approximately five billion times more restraint—she caught sight of the zombie cosplayer sniffing hungrily at an angel girl, her expression one of delighted horror. Nearby, a pair of young men standing arm-in-arm watched with aloof amusement, both dressed in elegant evening wear with white and gold masks and long black dress canes. As a tall girl wearing a bulky but smooth suit of plastic orange armour walked by, they both bowed to her in unison. She returned the bow smoothly, her smile calm and cool behind the green visor of her helmet.
More than costumes, Imogen thought. Masks.
There was a wide hallway leading away from the cosplay area, free of booths and relatively quiet—and, most importantly, with benches against the walls.
"Okay, Zachary. Time for a break. You sit here and wait while—"
Imogen's expression changed as she realised her brother wasn't behind her—or anywhere in sight, for that matter. She drew in a deep breath, sighed it out, then muttered 'whatever' and turned away—before a familiar tone of high whining caught her ear.
Off the corridor Imogen was in was another narrower one—booths lined both sides, giving just a metre of clearance down the middle. There was an air of intense purpose about the place—not much movement, just geeks of both sexes standing and staring down at the comics on display, the occasional muttered transaction sounding over the studied silence.
And, of course, the sound of Zack protesting some great injustice. Imogen stared down the gauntlet of tight-pressed people, wondering if just abandoning her brother to his fate might be an option.
"—just get lost, what are you even doing here?"
"I'm allowed to be here! There's no sign saying 'no kids'!"
Zack was half-surrounded by a small group, none of them in costume. One of them, a young man with a v-cut dreadhawk, spoke:
"This stuff isn't for you. Get out of here."
"Yeah, what the hell, kid?" said another. "What the hell were you thinking?"
"What's going on here?"
Zack and the group of older comic fans looked up at the flat voice. Imogen stood nearby, arms crossed tight across her chest, looking at them through her violet-streaked hair.
"This kid's—"
"That kid's my brother."
"This is the doujin hall," one of the fans said, a girl with her blonde hair in long pigtails. "It's not for kids."
Imogen's face was blank. "Doujin?"
"Sex comics," explained another fan, with a sneer. Imogen frowned.
"Huh?"
"Look," said yet another fan, tall and skinny with floppy black hair. He thrust a comic towards Imogen, who regarded it with suspicion—and then disgust, as she realised what the cover depicted.
"Oh, what?" she said, before turning on her brother. "Zack, what are you doing looking at this crap?"
"Hey!" said the pigtailed girl. "It's not crap!"
"I don't look at the ... at those ones!" Zack protested. "I really don't, honestly, I REALLY don't! They're not all like that!"
"That doesn't matter," said the oldest of the group, a man probably in his early thirties. "You shouldn't be here."
"Yeah, what are you?" said the fan with the dreadhawk. "Like eight?"
"I'm twelve!" Zack said. "Well, nearly! And ... and ... and why are YOU here?"
The tall skinny fan snorted. "Nice comeback, Pajama Man. You learn that at baby school?"
"This is like watching monkeys fling their crap at each other," Imogen muttered. "Zack, get somewhere that isn't filled with disgusting yet oddly intriguing porn. Come on, go!"
Zack shot his sister a wounded look, but he did as she said, heading towards the hallway with the benches. Imogen took a breath, half-glanced at the group of fans, then turned and followed her brother. The fans watched her go, but none of them said anything.
"Imogen, PLEASE don't—oof—"
Imogen had shoved her brother down onto a bench.
"Stay," she muttered, already turning to leave.
"Where are you—"
"Shut up and stay."
"You're going to smoke—"
"I said shut up, Zack," Imogen said, stopping and looking back at her brother. "Do as I tell you or I'm dragging you home right now."
Zack put his hands in his lap. "Okay," he said, his voice quiet. "I'll be good. I'll just ... read."
"Fine. Whatever. Just don't move."
Zack got out his phone as Imogen stalked off, looking for anything resembling 'outside'. There weren't even any windows in this part of the complex, but after five minutes of random corner-turning Imogen spotted a blue and white sign that
read 'OUTLOOK'. Following the direction it indicated took her along corridors and up stairs and along more corridors—free of booths, apparently the convention was only on the lower levels—and around corners and again up a final set of broad white stairs, the corridors here wider and brighter than those below, with tall glass windows looking out onto a wide expanse of gleaming white. Even the carpet was nicer, dark blue and soft beneath Imogen's boots.
"'Outlook', huh," she muttered, as she pushed open the glass door leading out. The wind hit her instantly, warm and strong, blowing her hair back into her mouth. Making little 'puh, puh' noises as she spat her hair out, Imogen walked forward—the outside area was huge, ridiculously huge, made up of a plane of pure white that gleamed in the sunlight. It took half a minute to walk to the edge, tall panels of perfectly clear perspex stopping the foolish and unobservant from simply walking off. Although the perspex was thick and well-anchored, it still gave Imogen a chill to see the edge just drop away as it did. Below was the oceanfront promenade, filled with people contentedly strolling, sitting, or leaning against the balustrades and gazing at the view—something that Imogen also spent a few moments doing. She'd never seen the ocean so deeply blue and sparkling clear.
"Gorgeous, isn't it?"
Imogen glanced to her side—there was an old man there, wearing an old-fashioned brown suit and a sharp brown hat, gazing out with misty eyes. He turned to smile at her, then returned to the view. There were others out here, too—dozens, actually, spread all along the edge. Imogen had felt pleasantly alone upon first coming onto the outlook but this feeling now disappeared, replaced with a fresh awareness of the yawing emptiness in her lungs. She'd let the view distract her from her cigarette, but now was the time to indulge.
It was windy out near the edge, and it wasn't much better near the wide glass windows looking back into the hallway, but further on from that the building continued to stretch up into the blue of the sky. Here the side was white in colour, with a wide blue stripe curving its way along halfway up, ebbing and flowing with a series of 'ripples'—no doubt designed for their aesthetic quality, but they were also perfect for keeping the wind from blowing out the lighter's flame before Imogen could touch it to the end of her cigarette. With a pinched expression of intense concentration, Imogen sucked in the first blissful lungful of smoke. For as long as she could she held it inside, then she blew it out with a long, deep, satisfied 'aaaah'. With a sensation that was as close to happiness as she could hope for, Imogen spent a few pleasant minutes in the non-time of smoking, nothing to worry about except drawing out the experience for as long as possible. She managed to get an inch of ash balanced on the end of her cigarette before it crumbled and fell, and as she tapped the remainder onto the ground it was with almost perfect timing that the roar of a cheer came from inside the building. Some kind of show, she thought. Zack better not be there. Her cigarette was already half-gone now, despite her efforts to smoke it as slowly as possible, and she idly considered having a second as she gazed at the white of the outlook. Like a wing, she thought. Like a wing out the side of the building. If this wind gets stronger the whole thing could take off.
She was just taking another puff of her cigarette when something odd struck her—the cheer from before hadn't stopped. In fact, it was louder than ever and continuing to grow in strength. They're really getting worked up in there, Imogen thought, before shuddering at the mental image of a roomful of excited, unwashed geeks. Better to be out here.
Except the cheering was really getting loud now, impossibly loud, there was no way it could be coming from inside—and it wasn't, it wasn't coming from inside, it was coming from somewhere ...
No.
Not somewhere.
Everywhere.
Imogen became aware of shouts, above the sound of cheering, from the other people on the outlook—from this distance they were blurred, but it was clear they were excited about something. Most of them were against the perspex barrier, and some seemed to be pointing. Trying to see better, Imogen walked out of her shelter—and gasped in pain as her hair whipped against her face and her clothes rippled around her, hot wind harsh against her skin, her cigarette ripped from her fingers in an instant. It had only been a few minutes since she'd scuttled into the shelter, it seemed impossible for the wind to have gathered so much strength in such a short time, but—
Imogen pushed her hair away from her eyes and held it, unmoving, unbreathing—because it wasn't possible, there's no way what she'd just seen had happened—but even as she stared in horrified shock another person disappeared, just vanished from the furthest end of the outlook, and another, and another, and the people closer to her were no longer shouting, no longer pointing; now they were screaming, now they were running, and now Imogen saw what was happening, she saw everything, she watched as a desperately running woman was picked up and thrown against the side of the building by some hideous unseen force, no sound of impact audible over the painfully loud roaring of the wind—Imogen stumbled back, clawing desperately for the solidity of the building but it gave no relief, no reassurance, the smooth surface shaking violently beneath her hands, just as unstable and chaotic and terrifying as everything in the world had now become—Imogen's scream was lost in the roar of the wind as a boneless mass slammed wetly into the building above and then she couldn't scream, couldn't do anything, her body was no longer hers to control, and for the slightest of instants there was a freeing sensation of weightlessness before impossible pressure and a hideous shrieking surrounded her ...
And then there was nothing.
That creaking noise was back again. The irregularity was the worst thing about it, one time short, one time long, this time it cut itself off with an abrupt shriek, this time it drew its death out over long, lonely seconds, screeching mournfully as its life ebbed to a final halt.
Except it wasn't final. Because moments later the creaking was back again—no, 'creaking' was too weak, even 'screeching' was lacking, it could be that the word didn't exist to accurately describe this noise, except perhaps for 'horrible'.
Imogen wasn't sure how long it took her to move her arm. Doing so involved some intense negotiations, but finally her rebellious limb got the message, and she reached up to put her hand over her ear.
Except she didn't. Her arm was behaving, but there was still something stopping her from moving it. And pressure. And darkness.
I can't see, Imogen thought. I've gone blind.
Such a realisation should have been accompanied by shock, panic, frenzied screaming, any of a dozen different reactions. 'Calm acceptance' was not what Imogen would've expected of herself, but apparently today was a day for surprises.
Slowly, Imogen became aware of something else that could be considered positive; the creaking seemed to have stopped. It was silent now. All she could hear was her own wheezing breath. There was pressure from all around, especially against her legs.
I'm not blind, Imogen thought. I've been buried alive.
Again, this realisation was accompanied by a calmness that Imogen found quietly impressive. She turned her attention to an important question:
What am I buried in?
There was a pleasant clinking noise as Imogen tried an experimental wriggle—whatever it was wasn't a solid mass, but rather a collection of angular blocks. One was poking her in the small of her back, quite painfully now that she had noticed it, and she tried to shift position to—
"Oh," Imogen said out loud, immediately regretting this as one of the angular blocks tipped into her mouth. She spat and moved her head, scrunching her shoulders up to dislodge more of the blocks with further pleasant clinking sounds, and light hit her in the face.
Things became a little clearer.
This building is made of that 'smart' material, Imogen thought, as she blinked up at the crumbled remains of the building's side. At least this part of it is. I read that thing about it last month. What was it called? BioCrete!tm, that was it. Doesn't all fall down in one big deadly mass
. Breaks away gradually, piece by piece. Strong but light. Easily dug through by survivors or rescuers.
I should be able to get myself out of this.
With a little more wriggling and a small amount of muttering, Imogen managed to work her head and one shoulder free of the pile—several blocks hit her in the face while she worked, but they were little more than an annoyance.
"Okay," she murmured, as she looked blearily around. She seemed to be stuck in a large pile of the blocks, a few metres above the ground, her head sticking out of the vaguely triangular heap in a way that would have probably amused a casual onlooker, if said casual onlooker had a somewhat sardonic sense of humour and a love of the ridiculous. Imogen was surprised at just how high the heap was—from this angle it was hard to judge, but it seemed to stretch up for least half a dozen metres. Despite this, the pressure was easily bearable, not much more than being pinned by someone near her own weight. Breathing wasn't as easy as it could've been, but she was in no danger of suffocation or death-by-crushing. Past the white blocks the sky was deep, deep blue, even deeper than it had been earlier in the day—earlier, Imogen thought, how long was I unconscious for? It must have been at least an hour—oh my god, what happened to the roof?
It was gone. No, not gone—from this awkward angle it was hard to see, but Imogen could make out some blurred red lines criss-crossing where the white roof had once been. The supports, Imogen thought. The plates attached to them were ripped away by the wind, but the underlying supports remain. They're so thin! How could they support anything? More 'smart' material, 'more with less', like this BioCrete!tm that I'm covered in. There's solid ground near the building, just a few metres but that's enough to walk on, to get back to the entrance, to get back inside and try to get out of here.