Alsatian Island
TNPer
- Pronouns
- he/his
- TNP Nation
- Alsatian Island
29 October, 2009
Edward Hill Building
Gordon Hall
Lorestead of Sutton, north Osynstry
Henry woke to the sound of banging. That same bloody racket. Exasperated, he checked his phone to get the time. 04:30. Fucking hell, this hall.
Barely composing himself, he slumped his way, slamming the door a little too hard. An exasperated neighbour, presumably mature, shouted something along the lines of "Shut the fuck up, it's midnight." No it wasn't, and that's ironic, he thought. He was almost in a mind to just slam it a second time for good measure, but brought himself round.
He didn't really have to find where the banging was coming from - after all, anyone within a fifteen kilometre radius was going to woken up. Down the stairs he went.
Literally.
--
"You okay, mate?" A raspy, slightly tired voice rang in his ears slightly as he came to. It had an accent, but he wasn't quite sure where it came from. Not really in much pain, but certainly realising how dark it was when he'd headed down. A few too many ciders, he mused.
"Hello?" Respond, thought Henry, unless you want him to think you're either unconscious or just a bit stupid. "Right, uh, who're you?", he spluttered out, a metallic taste in his mouth.
"Clearly in a good mood, aren't you?" Too many fucking questions. Before he could muster a sarcastic grunt, a second response from the figure - "I'm Aneirin. Nice to meet you... I think." So that's where his accent was from - a Merthman.
Composing himself slightly, he noted the same banging. "These... fucking..." Henry was stopped momentarily; "yes, I know. That's why I came down, too, noticed you a little... out of it in this here footwell." He noticed Aneirin's hand outstretched, so almost reluctantly pulled himself up with the aid of this friendly Western stranger. His manners finally caught up with him. "Uh... hey, thanks. I'm Henry." He outstretched his other hand briefly, before realising that he was still holding Aneirin's other one. Embarrassed, he pulled back slightly - but accompanied with a slight chuckle, Aneirin's hand gripper his and shook both firmly, as if some kind of cryptic handshake was happening.
The darkness concealed who they were, but Henry's recovering eyesight told him that this Aneirin was maybe five, ten centimetres taller, and had red hair he could describe as "nearly wavy".
"Thanks, I've never really noticed it was like that." Henry realised he'd said that out loud, while still shaking the boy's two hands. Positively mortified, Henry withdrew, a fleeting mumble of "Come on with", and off to the source of Henry's trip down here they went.
"So, you're also in Gordon Hall?" Aneurin blurted, briskly walking to catch up.
"Yeah." Still a little cold, Henry thought to himself. Didn't help that the dark greystone-clad corridor was hardly the most uplifting at this time of year, but that's Sutton for you - so, he followed it up. "What're you here studying?" His mouth still felt slightly... uncomfortable. Though, falling down a set of thinly carpeted stone stairs meant that frankly he was grateful that that's all that was wrong.
"Politics."
Henry let that hang like the bad fart it was. Politics student? Sutton student like him? That stank of independent schooler, the remaining vestiges of privilege in this place. "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I've went to an independent. You're also wrong. Lived my life in Strantglade. Went to the worst performing school in the entire island, some say. The only advantage I had back there was at least you could walk around at night without being freezing cold."
"Can't relate to that. Up from Shefforth. It's bloody cold there - this is positively warm." Enjoying the sudden warmth of the conversation, he continued: "I've taken Law-"
They reached the door. The two of them both knocked on it, sharing a sheepish glance at each other's impulsivity. They both shuddered when the music became twice as loud as the door opened.
A moment of awkward silence. Well, not silence, the music was still blaring, but still.
"COULD YOU TURN THAT DOWN?"
A second moment, punctuated by a "WHAT?". Henry was the next to speak. "TURN THAT FUCKING RACKET OFF! IT'S FOUR THIRTY AT NIGHT!" A few passerbys, including one particularly disgruntled professor, stopped momentarily, before walking on having noticed the two boys addressing the issue.
A second "WHAT?!", followed by the music being turned down substantially. "What'd you say?", rang from inside the room. A singular voice.
They walked in, completely uninvited, expecting a whole gathering. Instead, one boy, his hair jet black, clad in a Black Rose t-shirt with similarly dark posters dotted all around the dorm, sat there waiting almost politely.
Aneirin began, sitting down. "Well... we came down to ask whether you could turn down that music, but-"
"Yes, I heard."
A third moment. "Why'd you need your music on like that anyway?"
Henry realised he'd been stood, completely still, just awkwardly looking on the two of them, so sat on down next to them. Thinking of what to follow Aneirin with, an astute response came:
"Yeah?"
The boy just slightly shifted away from Aneirin, almost intimidated. "Because... I don't know what to do. I've been here four weeks with these, uh, speakers and... I swear I've not said a word to anyone. Any student, anyway. Combined the two, so to speak. Seems to have worked-" Almost insulted by his own perceived slight, he stopped abruptly.
Henry found himself suddenly saying "Hey, that's fine... I felt the same. I honestly think the same way. I've been just studying for the month. I'd struggle to remember anything I've done." So much for collegiate spirit, he thought. Freshers' Week came and went, the loud ones partnered up and everyone else just sort of did their thing. Since then, he'd virtually spoken to nobody, bar the occasional faux pas or "what's due, when?". And lectures. The Overlaw this, the Revolution that, early courts this, Bournism that - it all moulds into one when you're not filling the gaps.
Aneirin began again. "Well, we're here now. And neither of us are getting back to sleep. It's got to be five o'clock by now." Both looked at Henry, reminding him that he'd been a bit... bloodied. And he'd been out of it for probably a half hour. Facing away from Henry, Aneirin questioned again, "So what's your name?"
"James."
"Well, nice to meet you, James. I'm Aneirin. This here's Henry."
James sat up slightly, his eyes seeming to lift slightly. "So, what're we doing for the rest of the night?", gesturing almost unconsciously toward the console taking pride of place in the room.
The afternoon before...
Hashire South Constituency Offices
Landing, Oaksbeck, east Osynstry
Tharbjorn packed up his notes, into a clearly oversized briefcase. A sharp glance followed an employee's discretionary "Living in the 1900s, are we?", he shifted through the paper. Surely there'd be something positive.
Let's start with a friendly. The Atlish Times. Hmmm... ah, there.
Not the best. Hey, maybe the Herald would be kind for once-
That's it! Ring up the man who caused it!
Shoving the papers extremely neatly away, he rang up Isaac. Isaac Harding would know what to do, surely, improve his image. He remembered back to the inaugural Atlish Times headline, "Government to lurch right - will they make sure not to fall off the fiscal cliff?" - not the bold and modern start he'd hoped for.
No answer. For fuck's sake. Yes, you're retired, he thought, doesn't mean you have to cut off from all contact!
Slightly dejected, he leant over a constituency worker's shoulder. Was that... the Daily Herald website? "Get off that. Come on. Read a proper fucking newspaper. You're all ridiculous." A hasty click, and Tharbjorn stopped looming, instead walking out, completely forgetting his briefcase.
Edward Hill Building
Gordon Hall
Lorestead of Sutton, north Osynstry
Henry woke to the sound of banging. That same bloody racket. Exasperated, he checked his phone to get the time. 04:30. Fucking hell, this hall.
Barely composing himself, he slumped his way, slamming the door a little too hard. An exasperated neighbour, presumably mature, shouted something along the lines of "Shut the fuck up, it's midnight." No it wasn't, and that's ironic, he thought. He was almost in a mind to just slam it a second time for good measure, but brought himself round.
He didn't really have to find where the banging was coming from - after all, anyone within a fifteen kilometre radius was going to woken up. Down the stairs he went.
Literally.
--
"You okay, mate?" A raspy, slightly tired voice rang in his ears slightly as he came to. It had an accent, but he wasn't quite sure where it came from. Not really in much pain, but certainly realising how dark it was when he'd headed down. A few too many ciders, he mused.
"Hello?" Respond, thought Henry, unless you want him to think you're either unconscious or just a bit stupid. "Right, uh, who're you?", he spluttered out, a metallic taste in his mouth.
"Clearly in a good mood, aren't you?" Too many fucking questions. Before he could muster a sarcastic grunt, a second response from the figure - "I'm Aneirin. Nice to meet you... I think." So that's where his accent was from - a Merthman.
Composing himself slightly, he noted the same banging. "These... fucking..." Henry was stopped momentarily; "yes, I know. That's why I came down, too, noticed you a little... out of it in this here footwell." He noticed Aneirin's hand outstretched, so almost reluctantly pulled himself up with the aid of this friendly Western stranger. His manners finally caught up with him. "Uh... hey, thanks. I'm Henry." He outstretched his other hand briefly, before realising that he was still holding Aneirin's other one. Embarrassed, he pulled back slightly - but accompanied with a slight chuckle, Aneirin's hand gripper his and shook both firmly, as if some kind of cryptic handshake was happening.
The darkness concealed who they were, but Henry's recovering eyesight told him that this Aneirin was maybe five, ten centimetres taller, and had red hair he could describe as "nearly wavy".
"Thanks, I've never really noticed it was like that." Henry realised he'd said that out loud, while still shaking the boy's two hands. Positively mortified, Henry withdrew, a fleeting mumble of "Come on with", and off to the source of Henry's trip down here they went.
"So, you're also in Gordon Hall?" Aneurin blurted, briskly walking to catch up.
"Yeah." Still a little cold, Henry thought to himself. Didn't help that the dark greystone-clad corridor was hardly the most uplifting at this time of year, but that's Sutton for you - so, he followed it up. "What're you here studying?" His mouth still felt slightly... uncomfortable. Though, falling down a set of thinly carpeted stone stairs meant that frankly he was grateful that that's all that was wrong.
"Politics."
Henry let that hang like the bad fart it was. Politics student? Sutton student like him? That stank of independent schooler, the remaining vestiges of privilege in this place. "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I've went to an independent. You're also wrong. Lived my life in Strantglade. Went to the worst performing school in the entire island, some say. The only advantage I had back there was at least you could walk around at night without being freezing cold."
"Can't relate to that. Up from Shefforth. It's bloody cold there - this is positively warm." Enjoying the sudden warmth of the conversation, he continued: "I've taken Law-"
They reached the door. The two of them both knocked on it, sharing a sheepish glance at each other's impulsivity. They both shuddered when the music became twice as loud as the door opened.
A moment of awkward silence. Well, not silence, the music was still blaring, but still.
"COULD YOU TURN THAT DOWN?"
A second moment, punctuated by a "WHAT?". Henry was the next to speak. "TURN THAT FUCKING RACKET OFF! IT'S FOUR THIRTY AT NIGHT!" A few passerbys, including one particularly disgruntled professor, stopped momentarily, before walking on having noticed the two boys addressing the issue.
A second "WHAT?!", followed by the music being turned down substantially. "What'd you say?", rang from inside the room. A singular voice.
They walked in, completely uninvited, expecting a whole gathering. Instead, one boy, his hair jet black, clad in a Black Rose t-shirt with similarly dark posters dotted all around the dorm, sat there waiting almost politely.
Aneirin began, sitting down. "Well... we came down to ask whether you could turn down that music, but-"
"Yes, I heard."
A third moment. "Why'd you need your music on like that anyway?"
Henry realised he'd been stood, completely still, just awkwardly looking on the two of them, so sat on down next to them. Thinking of what to follow Aneirin with, an astute response came:
"Yeah?"
The boy just slightly shifted away from Aneirin, almost intimidated. "Because... I don't know what to do. I've been here four weeks with these, uh, speakers and... I swear I've not said a word to anyone. Any student, anyway. Combined the two, so to speak. Seems to have worked-" Almost insulted by his own perceived slight, he stopped abruptly.
Henry found himself suddenly saying "Hey, that's fine... I felt the same. I honestly think the same way. I've been just studying for the month. I'd struggle to remember anything I've done." So much for collegiate spirit, he thought. Freshers' Week came and went, the loud ones partnered up and everyone else just sort of did their thing. Since then, he'd virtually spoken to nobody, bar the occasional faux pas or "what's due, when?". And lectures. The Overlaw this, the Revolution that, early courts this, Bournism that - it all moulds into one when you're not filling the gaps.
Aneirin began again. "Well, we're here now. And neither of us are getting back to sleep. It's got to be five o'clock by now." Both looked at Henry, reminding him that he'd been a bit... bloodied. And he'd been out of it for probably a half hour. Facing away from Henry, Aneirin questioned again, "So what's your name?"
"James."
"Well, nice to meet you, James. I'm Aneirin. This here's Henry."
James sat up slightly, his eyes seeming to lift slightly. "So, what're we doing for the rest of the night?", gesturing almost unconsciously toward the console taking pride of place in the room.
The afternoon before...
Hashire South Constituency Offices
Landing, Oaksbeck, east Osynstry
Tharbjorn packed up his notes, into a clearly oversized briefcase. A sharp glance followed an employee's discretionary "Living in the 1900s, are we?", he shifted through the paper. Surely there'd be something positive.
Let's start with a friendly. The Atlish Times. Hmmm... ah, there.
Is the new Conservative image too extreme for forward-facing Esthursia?
Not the best. Hey, maybe the Herald would be kind for once-
"Terrible Tharbjorn" wreaking havoc on public sector, say trade unions
Not quite. What is it with this bloody country and trade unions? You modernise transport? Strike. You don't hand teachers an umpteen percent pay rise? Strike. You dare sack a few tens of thousands of-okay, fair enough on that one. It wasn't his fault, he mused silently, inflation doing its thing.That's it! Ring up the man who caused it!
Shoving the papers extremely neatly away, he rang up Isaac. Isaac Harding would know what to do, surely, improve his image. He remembered back to the inaugural Atlish Times headline, "Government to lurch right - will they make sure not to fall off the fiscal cliff?" - not the bold and modern start he'd hoped for.
No answer. For fuck's sake. Yes, you're retired, he thought, doesn't mean you have to cut off from all contact!
Slightly dejected, he leant over a constituency worker's shoulder. Was that... the Daily Herald website? "Get off that. Come on. Read a proper fucking newspaper. You're all ridiculous." A hasty click, and Tharbjorn stopped looming, instead walking out, completely forgetting his briefcase.