Lexy--part deux

Also need help with a title for this piece. I think it's a prequel, in that it also has Lexy in it. Lexi? I need some consistency on how I spell his name. Err...is it wrong that my only recurring character is based on the Berkeley Springs town-cat w

 

No sense of decency.  Worse, no sense of humor.  You poison one little banquet and poof--imprisonment in the Room of Reflection.  I guess they want me to meditate on what I've done or something.

It wasn't as if it was actual poison, anyway; just an extra strength laxative to loosen up the sticks they all clearly have shoved up their--

"Lexi!" A voice fills my ears.  I turn to the door I was thrown through, only it isn't there anymore.  I'm in a blank room--not white or gray or beige or any other so-called neutral color (Since when did colors need neutrality?  Are there great prismatic wars I'm not privy to?  Is it Switzerland-colored, maybe?).  I mean actually blank.  Stare at it too long, and it's not there.  'Til you run into a wall trying to get out, I mean.

"Alexander Hummunderbrush Dayspring!" Big Boomy thinks he's so authoritative with the three-name-call.  "There are to be no tricks--your sentence will be exactly the length Her Majesty wills."
I toss off a salute, hoping whoever it is can see me.  "Yessir, your trollishness, sir!  Thank you for telling me the rules of my imprisonment, sir! I'd've never thought 'no escaping' was an obvious stipulation that was part-and-parcel to the whole involuntary containment thing, sir!"

Listen a moment--no answer. He probably left before even started talking.  I hate trolls--make a sorry audience.

I look around again, eager to drink in the visual pleasures o the Stupid Blank Empty Room of Stupid Reflection.  It's not dark, though I can't find any sources of light, and I have no idea of the size; my perspective gets all wonky.  It's like being surrounded by horizon.

I try to Shift--can't.  Figures.  Like turning into a tabby would be particularly helpful, anyway.

Fine.  They want me to "reflect" or whatever, I'll give it a go.

"I snuck laxatives into the soup of the royal banquet," I say.  I figure I'd better reflect out loud, so's they'd know I'm doing it.  "Most of the Sidhe and other nobles spend so much time talking out their asses, I figured it'd help get conversation going."

"I'm aware this punishment is probably light, considering the gravity of my dastardly deeds against the blameless and infallible Sidhe--no cold iron, no Dreamfloss, no Name Seeds, no counting every grain of sand on a beach.  Not that those are suggestions!  I am honored to be punished by one as fair and true as Her Royal Majesty, and a punishment such as this does illustrate gloriously her kind and benevolent nature."  What? No harm in a little flattery.

The room flares and I'm lifted off my feet, paralyzed, dangling in mid-air.  I'm concerned for a moment that the Room of Reflection can sense sarcasm, when a glossy black window appears in front of me, and is filled with a redhead.

She leans forward, I lean forward.  My hand moves of its own accord to my mouth as she applies lipstick.  I try to resist, to speak to her--can't.  I'm paralyzed but for the actions she does.  I blot off lipstick, purse my lips, and smile.  Pouting, I move my hand to my (my?!) breasts, adjust them matter-of-factly.  With a flick of her amber hair, she turns away and I fall to the floor.

Ooooh. "Room of Reflection."  I get it.

I look where the glossy black window, the other side of the mirror, was.  Gone--the same nondescript blankness as the rest of the room.

Okay. So.  The only way out--excepting Her Royal Majesty's dubious kindness, of course--only existed when someone looked in the mirror.  And when someone looked in the mirror, I was trapped being their reflection.  A bit tricky, that.

I start emptying my pouches and satchels and various containers of Things I Might Find Useful.  Sure, Captain Obvious the Wonder-troll or some other guard had taken my knapsack and rucksack and haversack--I do love my sacks!--but nobody ever searches me properly. They just think they do.

I stare at the items laid out on the floor.  Along with my wits, charm, and ruggedly handsome in a sort of fixer-upper kind of way good looks, I have at my disposal:

A pocketwatch that tells the time in Arcadia (half-past Rounditch)

A couple of acorns

Some hard cheese, coated in red wax

An engagement ring--I briefly consider etching the glass until I can break it, but then I remember it's only cubic zirconia.  To say nothing of the mirror-paralysis.

Some nutmeg seeds

A small satchel of dried amaranth

Another small satchel, this one of mint

An arm's length of clear Dreamfloss, needle attached

A pen that only writes the truth (pilfered it during a forced confession)

A turnip bulb

A copper disk about the size of a penny

A lighter than always lights

A very small knife that cuts any plant, but only cuts plants

Some Insane Glue (tm) ("For holding all your pieces together!!")

A glass and silver pepper-shaker--pepper still in it--I'd liberated from the banquet hall only hours (I think?) ago.

Some unknown yellowy powder

Some equally unknown seeds (but not plant seeds because I've tried cuttin' 'em with my plant knife.)

A pearl in a small phial of vinegar, corked.  (No sign of disintegration, I note.  Kinoa Tim-Tom owes me money.)

A playing card that is always exactly what I want it to be.

Two paperclips (there's always some.)

 

I experiment vaguely with the yellow powder--not flammable.  I taste some, hoping it will give me the ability to teleport or some other conveniently useful thing.  No such luck--just leaves a lingering taste of dust in my mouth.  The seeds also yield disappointing results--taste very spicy though, so I eat a little mint to wash out my mouth.

I'm tempted by the Dreamfloss, a little, but only for a moment and anyway that's not exactly something you can do to yourself.

Right. The penny it is, then.  I pup it under my tongue and await vanity.

*        *        *       *        *

A man is shaving, but he's gone before I can focus on him long enough for the disk to do its work.  I'm a bit out of practice.

It's a Penny-for-your-Thoughts; you put it under your tongue, and you can talk into the mind of anyone you want.  It works best if you know the person really well, or is in close proximity; I'm not certain if extra-dimensional space behind a mirror counts as "close."

The room gests it familiar glow again, and I'm a beautiful woman with chestnut hair and caramel skin.  (Is she beautiful?  Or are her features just similar to food and I'm hungry enough for that to matter?  Focus, Lexi.)

While she's curling those delicious-colored locks, I feel the breathless, light headed feeling of being in someone else's mind.  "Break the mirror," I manage to think, before she's startled and drops the curling iron.  She turns her back, the mirror goes blank, and I fall.

Damn.

It goes on like this for a while.  If nothing else, I've gotten quite good with the Penny.  I can hop into people's heads with barely a moment to try.  Not that it's done me much good, so far.

Deep booming baritone: "This...is God!  I command you to break this mirror as penance for your vanity!"

Charming falsetto: "Ugh, I am so ugly!  Look at those bags under my eyes. My skin is so splotchy and I'm probably fat or something right cuz girls always think they're fat.  Err...I mean...I can't stand even to look at myself!  I should just break that mirror right now."

"I feel very creative today.  Maybe I'll make a mirror-glass mosaic.  Better break the mirror and get started."
"Hmm, there's really no empirical data to support the notion that breaking mirrors is bad luck.  I should put it to the test."

"I wonder what this hairdryer will do if I swing it at that mirror."

 

Nobody seems to be buying it.  I refuse to view this as a disparaging commentary on my gift with voices.

I consider my other options--to wit: none--and shift the Penny back and forth in my mouth.

I'm putting on mascara, my face very close to a pale woman with dark hair.  She looks sad, or angry and resigned.  A man comes up behind her, grabs her arm.  My own shoulder jerks as she forces her back to him, refuses to meet his eyes.  Deliberately, she stares at her own, at mine, and just for a second, her honey-colored eyes seem to see me, to beg.

I look at the man--boyfriend, probably.  He looks taller than me, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, the kind of lumberjack-looking guy you'd expect to sell paper towels that are somehow manly.  He grabs her arm again--hard.  My face twists up again in a perfect imitation of her pain--just for a moment, and then her lips are drawn and set, a thin line of iron.  She won't give him the satisfaction of crying out.  Their mouths are moving, though I can't make out the words.  Some kind of argument, obviously.

"Look at her," I say to the man.  "She won't even look at you.  Like she thinks she's better than you."  His face does not betray him--he doesn't seem surprised at these thought that aren't his own.  Was the Penny broken?  Was I not focusing?  Or was this what he was already thinking?  "Turning her back on you--where does she get off?  You oughtta teach her a lesson, put her in her place."

He seems to nod to himself, then--

"DUCK!"

I'm blinded by a brilliant flash and feel like I'm being sucked through a straw.  The pressure is intense, but there’s no air for me to cry out.

And--they're both unconscious.  I'm standing in a storm of broken glass, in a bathroom...somewhere.  Figure it out later—I don't know how long they'll be out, or how well they'd take to a stranger in their house.

I look at the woman.  She has a bruise forming on her shoulder where he grabbed her.  There's another one, older and yellowing, along her jawline.

I kick him on the way out.  Jerk.

 

Okay. Where in the worlds am I?

 

Author's Note

I have no idea if he's going to take the girl with him. The advantage is, it can set up some expository dialogue to help explain what the hell is going on. But that may slow down pacing, and, more importantly, make Lexy seem more altruistic than he actually is.