Yet another dream log

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Yet another dream log

Who: Benton Fraser, Roy Slater, Boyd Crowder
When: Backdated to during the dream plot
Where: CANADA. Sometimes.
What: Sorry to inflict another one of these on y'all, but here is Fraser's dream post. I'm not putting any extras in, but, if you want one, feel free to tag in and I will throw one up for you!

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This is not a memory you cherish.

One of you might realize the irony later on: his name was Roy, too. Big Roy Barnes, a year older than you, but part of your tiny grade five class in Nunavut. Big Roy, terror of the schoolyard. Delmar keeps him in check when he's around, the enormous Delmar Huggins. But Delmar's often pulled out of school to work his parents' farm, and today, there's nothing between Big Roy and the rest of you.

Big Roy and his otter. His disgusting, smelly dead otter. He's learned to hide it in snowbanks until recess, so the teachers don't take it from him.

And now, recess has arrived.

Roy isn't the type of boy who makes friends easily. Most people would say he had it coming and he knows it. That's what they said every time he's been the wrong side of a fist or a foot so it was unlikely that the otter was going to be much different.

Well, they were going to talk about it longer. When he sees Barnes find his weapon of choice, he instinctively looks for help. He glares at himself when he realises he's looking for Del. Del isn't there. In his head, it's not short for Delmar, it's short for Derek, but neither of them would stand for this. They never had any respect for bullies, proper bullies, bullies who do people injury.

He sees and he knows he's going be on the wrong end again.

It's probably not the name you're expecting when he calls out to you. "Looking for someone, Ben-ton?" The name is a sing-song, a mockery. Big Roy jeers. "I'd say as your friends are gone today, but you don't have any, eh. Little freak."

It's true and it's not. Delmar is good to you, and there have been, will be, others: Innusiq and Joon in your past, Mark Smithbauer still in your future. Ray and Ray, someday. But you're not popular, and no one is coming to your aid right now.

He advances on you with the filthy otter, leering.

"I'm not the one with the otter complex, mate." That makes no sense but sticking 'complex' onto things makes it sound smart and if he's going to get beaten up, defiance is the way to go.

There is no placating a guy like this.

And indeed, he seems pretty angry about the jibe, and not only because you're standing up to him. "Oh, look at you, Homeschool, always sticking big words onto everything. You think you're better than the rest of us just 'cause your folks are a couple of old eggheads?"

He's been coming on you this whole time, and even if you'd tried to run, there aren't many places to go. This is Nunavut: it's the biggest city you've ever lived in, but it's big and empty, and the schoolyard is only surrounded by snow.

The first hit catches you in the temple and sends you to the ground, reeling. You already know the next move is to pin you down and get your coat off. He wouldn't want you to have protection, after all.

"Just you, mate, you're special."

He's been backing up, but he's not used to snow, yet he is, but it's left him now. He's mostly confused. He hits the ground hard but he's been in enough situations that he knows to scramble as fast as he can, which isn't very. Not with that ice refusing to give him traction. He almost feels betrayed by it.

Big Roy lets out a nasty laugh. "Look at little Benny Fraser, trying to run," he sneers. "Crawling back to your grandma, are you?"

And then he's on you, wrenching at your arms, yanking your thick winter coat off. The ice is like-- well, it's like damned ice soaking through your shirt, and he just grins down at you.

There are others, here, but they're watching. You're not a popular boy.

Roy struggles his best. But he doesn't call out apart from the gasps and grunts that his effort makes him do. He knows there's no one coming to help. No one ever does.

There's this to be said about getting hit by a swinging dead otter:

It hurts. A lot.

The first few blows catch you on the ribs and shoulders and don't do that much damage beyond hurting like the dickens. But it's what comes next that sears this into your mind forever -- not to mention your body: as the thing comes down, its dessicated claws catch your right shoulder and tear, instantly turning you into a bloody mess.

He cries out and he kicks out. Genuine tears in his eyes. And the next thing Roy knows he's up in his bed, his hand on the scar-that-isn't. Just a dream.

When Boyd opens his eyes, his first impressions are as follows: tight space, bright red, movement.

The rest comes a second later. He's squeezed into a narrow metal room: a control room of some kind? The outside is visible, rocketing past, covered in snow, and he probably arrives at train soon enough. Moving train.

There are three other men there, and they're all staring at him. An older man in a Mountie uniform, a bald guy with a big nose, and...

"Hello, Mr. Crowder," Benton Fraser says, in full kit -- although the top of his hat is missing, for some reason. "I didn't expect to see you here."

A train isn't the strangest place Boyd has visited lately, and the moment of disorientation passes quickly. Having all the eyeballs in the room directed at him does make him feel a bit intrusive, though.

"Constable Fraser," he greets. "What happened to your hat?"

"What?" He takes his hat off and blinks down at it, as if he'd forgotten. "Ah, yes. An incident with a low-hanging bridge." He sets the hat back on his head. He looks a little younger, maybe by a few years.

"He wasn't here before, right?" the bald man mutters, with a thick ~~Brooklyn~~ but ambiguous accent.

"No. I'm sorry, let me introduce you. This is Sergeant Buck Frobisher, RCMP. This is my partner, Raymond Vecchio, Chicago PD. Gentlemen, this is Mr. Boyd Crowder."

"Great," Vecchio says. "Hi. Can we please get back to the bomb on the train now?"

"I didn't realize bridges could do that."

But he's not surprised. Fraser seems like the kind of guy who would lose the top of his hat to a bridge in the course of duty.

Boyd nods to the people present, taking a moment to reconcile himself with the fact that he is not only on a moving train with no recollection of how he got there, but he's also surrounded by LEOs.

"There's a bomb?" he asks, perking up. Explosives, at least, are familiar territory.

"Ah, yes. Let me brief you..." ...Wait. Fraser glances at Boyd, raises a brow, and seems to decide not to ask just why he seems so interested, or why he might well be knowledgeable about bombs.

"...Let me brief you," he continues. "We are on a train carrying the entire RCMP Musical Ride to Chicago. The others have been gassed with a potent but non-fatal paralytic, and this room is armed with a pressure-sensitive explosive device. Detective Vecchio has just now informed me that the train is set to collide with another train carrying spent fuel rods from a local power plant in approximately ten minutes. I don't yet know who's done this, nor why--"

"Yes, you do," Vecchio butts in. "It was Randal K. Bolt, leading member of the white supremacist group the Fathers of Confederation. Demolitions expert, neo-Nazi, hostage-taker, real swell guy."

"No," Fraser replies peevishly. "You hadn't told me that part yet, that wasn't until later. At this point in time, I didn't know, so I can't tell him that."

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Yet another dream log

"It was an otter, I was 10, it was dead, somebody hit me with it, can we move on?" (Roy)

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"We're gonna ride forever." (Boyd)

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