Do Over, Chapter One
Jan. 3rd, 2005 09:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
caitriOne
November, 1995
The first thing about waking up was the shock at how
much everything hurt: every muscle in my body twinged like
I'd been slammed into a wall. Repeatedly. The second thing
about waking up, when I prized my eyes open to identify
what was making the persistent chirrup noise somewhere
around my ear, was bewilderment.
What was this Hello Kitty alarm clock, and how had
it gotten into my apartment?
Don't get me wrong, I am as fond of retro manga
felines as the next bitter secret ops agent, but really,
what the hell?
That was the moment I realized something was wrong.
Well, when it really hit me, I mean, I got the wrong
feeling from the pain zinging throughout my body, but
what brought the whole situation home was that I was
not in my familiar, cozy nest of blankets and crumpled
documents (which when I awoke would soon be in a cozy
nest of shreds), but in a twin-sized bunk that looked
quite a lot like the bed I'd had as a teenager. As did,
when I had wakened fully, the rest of the room (decorated
like my teenage self would have decorated, as opposed to
the room looking like a bed...there's a reason I don't
like writing field reports and more to that reason than
me just not liking to rehash things, okay?).
In the blink of my highly-trained and artificially-
enhanced eyes, I took in the old _White Fang_ (young
Ethan Hawke!) and _X-Men_ (X-Men!) posters, the frayed
quilt, the thick-framed glasses by the bedside. Very
school days. My high school days. When I was as far from
me as I could ever have been.
This meant one of two things.
Either
A) the emergency experiment (codenamed WellsOne)
to send me back in time in order to prevent a
bloody political disaster that made the Jack Ryan
novels look like the jokes they were had worked,
or
B) the last twenty years had all been an astonishingly
detailed dream, and I was not in fact an embittered
thirty-five year old secret agent with a chip on her
shoulder the size of Ground Zero but a fifteen year old
with an overly-elaborate imagination and some deeply
disturbed hormones.
And off the top of my head, I couldn't really say which
was worse.
November, 1995
The first thing about waking up was the shock at how
much everything hurt: every muscle in my body twinged like
I'd been slammed into a wall. Repeatedly. The second thing
about waking up, when I prized my eyes open to identify
what was making the persistent chirrup noise somewhere
around my ear, was bewilderment.
What was this Hello Kitty alarm clock, and how had
it gotten into my apartment?
Don't get me wrong, I am as fond of retro manga
felines as the next bitter secret ops agent, but really,
what the hell?
That was the moment I realized something was wrong.
Well, when it really hit me, I mean, I got the wrong
feeling from the pain zinging throughout my body, but
what brought the whole situation home was that I was
not in my familiar, cozy nest of blankets and crumpled
documents (which when I awoke would soon be in a cozy
nest of shreds), but in a twin-sized bunk that looked
quite a lot like the bed I'd had as a teenager. As did,
when I had wakened fully, the rest of the room (decorated
like my teenage self would have decorated, as opposed to
the room looking like a bed...there's a reason I don't
like writing field reports and more to that reason than
me just not liking to rehash things, okay?).
In the blink of my highly-trained and artificially-
enhanced eyes, I took in the old _White Fang_ (young
Ethan Hawke!) and _X-Men_ (X-Men!) posters, the frayed
quilt, the thick-framed glasses by the bedside. Very
school days. My high school days. When I was as far from
me as I could ever have been.
This meant one of two things.
Either
A) the emergency experiment (codenamed WellsOne)
to send me back in time in order to prevent a
bloody political disaster that made the Jack Ryan
novels look like the jokes they were had worked,
or
B) the last twenty years had all been an astonishingly
detailed dream, and I was not in fact an embittered
thirty-five year old secret agent with a chip on her
shoulder the size of Ground Zero but a fifteen year old
with an overly-elaborate imagination and some deeply
disturbed hormones.
And off the top of my head, I couldn't really say which
was worse.
