Monday, July 6, 5:02 AM EDT
"Do forgive me for the rude awakening," the penguin said in an exquisitely upper-class British accent, "but I urgently need to speak with you."
Okay, I'll admit it. I'm not terribly swift for the first few minutes after I wake up. Especially not at five in the morning after not nearly enough sleep. I just stared at the penguin while my mental processes tried -- and failed -- to spin up to speed.
(Alistair! Can you hear me? I'm in here!)
Imagine, if you can, a profoundly panicked soprano screeching into your ears at the top of her lungs via a set of earbuds. I don't have to imagine it -- I heard it, or thought I did. Without thinking I clamped my hands over my ears, but it did nothing to block the voice.
"Ah," the penguin said. "I would presume by your pained expression that my charge has just made her presence known."
"Your... charge," I muttered while the screeching continued. Next to me my darling wife continued snoring away, apparently undisturbed by the noise I was hearing. She's a sound sleeper, but really, that soprano should have woken her.
"Miss Raye Eileen Langley. Better known to some in her home world as Magical Princess Evangelia." As though it were a magic word, the sound of the name shut up the person making the high-pitched shrieks.
I stared at the penguin for a long, long moment, partly out of disbelief and partly because I was reveling in the return of silence inside my head. "Which would," I finally said, "make you Alistair, her mascot and adviser."
He somehow managed to look impressed at my perspicacity, which is a rather spectacular feat for a three-foot emperor penguin. "Quite."
I rolled back over onto my back again and stared at the circle of white light cast on the ceiling by my nightstand lamp. "You have got to be kidding me."
"Look," I tried explaining for the fourth time. "I don't have the time for this. I have to wake my wife up, and we both have to leave for work by six."
After rolling out of bed and just barely avoiding giving a rapidly backpedaling penguin a kick in the head, I had staggered blearily to the living room to continue a conversation I was more than half-convinced was little more than a particularly vivid dream.
Or the hallucination of a mind that had finally cracked under... um. I couldn't think of a sufficient stressor in my recent life experiences to explain a psychotic break, so I returned to the dream hypothesis.
I didn't bother trying to pinch myself -- besides my automatic aversion to acting out the cliche, I've had the (rare) lucid dream, and knew from experience it wouldn't make any difference. Then again, I haven't had a nightmare in 30-some years because I'm very good at recognizing when one was beginning and promptly forcing myself out of sleep. Which is what I tried to do.
It didn't work.
Partly this was because I was, as hard as it was to believe, actually awake. And partly this was because I had a sixteen-year-old girl in my head demanding I relay several thousand words to the penguin who was standing in the middle of my living room.
Correction, the penguin who was hopping up onto our leather couch to settle down in something approximating a sitting position. Was that even possible for a penguin? I had no idea.
I rubbed my eyes and cleared my throat while listening to my newly-acquired inner voice, then addressed the bird. "Okay. Raye wants you to know that she seems to be inside my head, and wants you to call in Sister Psyche or someone she recommends to come and get her out." I sighed. "Miss Langley," I thought as much as said out loud, "this isn't your native timeline. There's no Sister Psyche here." At least she was calming down now, not that I blame her for being a bit... excitable. If I weren't still half-asleep I might be having much the same reaction.
"I'm afraid he's correct, Raye," Alistair added from his perch on the couch. "Furthermore, I have some bad news."
I couldn't help myself. "Gil MacHeath's sudden demotion to solo act?"
At the same time inside my head, Evangelia said, (What bad news? What could be worse than being stuck inside someone else's head?)
"No." Alistair glared at me. "The unfortunate news is... well, to be quite honest, I'm not sure how to break this to you, Raye, but..." I had once described Alistair as sounding like Giles from Buffy The Vampire Slayer, which he did, somewhat. But at this moment I could almost see him looking for a pair of glasses to polish as he tried to frame this news of his. He sighed. "The simple truth is that you are a copy of the original Raye, who remains in Paragon City."
(I'm what?)
"A copy," I offered, not unkindly. "A soul print, if it helps -- a new entity based on the original Evangelia, but separate from her."
"I must say," Alistair offered in my direction, "you, sir, are taking matters quite well. Quite frankly, I was expecting denial and fear."
I shrugged. "I write this kind of stuff for fun and profit. I could probably predict the next few things that will happen based on the way stories like this usually go."
"Bob?" A sleepy-looking Peggy wobbled into the living room, tying the belt of her blue robe. "Who are you talking to?"
"Like that," I added, gesturing with a thumb over my shoulder at my wife. "Practically inevitable."
-- Bob
---------
Then the horns kicked in...
...and my shoes began to squeak.
"Do forgive me for the rude awakening," the penguin said in an exquisitely upper-class British accent, "but I urgently need to speak with you."
Okay, I'll admit it. I'm not terribly swift for the first few minutes after I wake up. Especially not at five in the morning after not nearly enough sleep. I just stared at the penguin while my mental processes tried -- and failed -- to spin up to speed.
(Alistair! Can you hear me? I'm in here!)
Imagine, if you can, a profoundly panicked soprano screeching into your ears at the top of her lungs via a set of earbuds. I don't have to imagine it -- I heard it, or thought I did. Without thinking I clamped my hands over my ears, but it did nothing to block the voice.
"Ah," the penguin said. "I would presume by your pained expression that my charge has just made her presence known."
"Your... charge," I muttered while the screeching continued. Next to me my darling wife continued snoring away, apparently undisturbed by the noise I was hearing. She's a sound sleeper, but really, that soprano should have woken her.
"Miss Raye Eileen Langley. Better known to some in her home world as Magical Princess Evangelia." As though it were a magic word, the sound of the name shut up the person making the high-pitched shrieks.
I stared at the penguin for a long, long moment, partly out of disbelief and partly because I was reveling in the return of silence inside my head. "Which would," I finally said, "make you Alistair, her mascot and adviser."
He somehow managed to look impressed at my perspicacity, which is a rather spectacular feat for a three-foot emperor penguin. "Quite."
I rolled back over onto my back again and stared at the circle of white light cast on the ceiling by my nightstand lamp. "You have got to be kidding me."
* * *
"Look," I tried explaining for the fourth time. "I don't have the time for this. I have to wake my wife up, and we both have to leave for work by six."
After rolling out of bed and just barely avoiding giving a rapidly backpedaling penguin a kick in the head, I had staggered blearily to the living room to continue a conversation I was more than half-convinced was little more than a particularly vivid dream.
Or the hallucination of a mind that had finally cracked under... um. I couldn't think of a sufficient stressor in my recent life experiences to explain a psychotic break, so I returned to the dream hypothesis.
I didn't bother trying to pinch myself -- besides my automatic aversion to acting out the cliche, I've had the (rare) lucid dream, and knew from experience it wouldn't make any difference. Then again, I haven't had a nightmare in 30-some years because I'm very good at recognizing when one was beginning and promptly forcing myself out of sleep. Which is what I tried to do.
It didn't work.
Partly this was because I was, as hard as it was to believe, actually awake. And partly this was because I had a sixteen-year-old girl in my head demanding I relay several thousand words to the penguin who was standing in the middle of my living room.
Correction, the penguin who was hopping up onto our leather couch to settle down in something approximating a sitting position. Was that even possible for a penguin? I had no idea.
I rubbed my eyes and cleared my throat while listening to my newly-acquired inner voice, then addressed the bird. "Okay. Raye wants you to know that she seems to be inside my head, and wants you to call in Sister Psyche or someone she recommends to come and get her out." I sighed. "Miss Langley," I thought as much as said out loud, "this isn't your native timeline. There's no Sister Psyche here." At least she was calming down now, not that I blame her for being a bit... excitable. If I weren't still half-asleep I might be having much the same reaction.
"I'm afraid he's correct, Raye," Alistair added from his perch on the couch. "Furthermore, I have some bad news."
I couldn't help myself. "Gil MacHeath's sudden demotion to solo act?"
At the same time inside my head, Evangelia said, (What bad news? What could be worse than being stuck inside someone else's head?)
"No." Alistair glared at me. "The unfortunate news is... well, to be quite honest, I'm not sure how to break this to you, Raye, but..." I had once described Alistair as sounding like Giles from Buffy The Vampire Slayer, which he did, somewhat. But at this moment I could almost see him looking for a pair of glasses to polish as he tried to frame this news of his. He sighed. "The simple truth is that you are a copy of the original Raye, who remains in Paragon City."
(I'm what?)
"A copy," I offered, not unkindly. "A soul print, if it helps -- a new entity based on the original Evangelia, but separate from her."
"I must say," Alistair offered in my direction, "you, sir, are taking matters quite well. Quite frankly, I was expecting denial and fear."
I shrugged. "I write this kind of stuff for fun and profit. I could probably predict the next few things that will happen based on the way stories like this usually go."
"Bob?" A sleepy-looking Peggy wobbled into the living room, tying the belt of her blue robe. "Who are you talking to?"
"Like that," I added, gesturing with a thumb over my shoulder at my wife. "Practically inevitable."
-- Bob
---------
Then the horns kicked in...
...and my shoes began to squeak.