And so they were back. Though of course they hadn't moved. The information of their whereabouts had been temporarily blocked from their minds, in the same way that the fish had not been revealed to them, and they'd been refused existence of the room. In essence it was brainwash but what was inflicting it? What was placing that knowledge - whether truth or lies - into their brains? Eliphia and Wesley had talked about it many times and were now almost certain that they could beat it.
When you look at a photograph, you're immediately flooded with memories of when it was taken. It happens with words too. When you say 'factory', you immediately picture a squalid lump of cement, with turret funnels protruding high into the sky, clouds of pollutant steam being born and unleashed into the world like a pet monster. Therefore, if they combined memory and images, they only had to associate a word -which had its own image - and an image with a memory.
For example: The memory to be preserved was Eliphia walking to school. She associated the image of litter with the memory. She wrote litter on her arm. When she looked at the word litter, she saw litter, then jumped to the litter on the way to her school.
So, to remember that a room existed beyond that door - the one where they'd been "convinced" it did not exist, just before they'd all met up - they remembered the room they'd started in. They concentrated on that and wrote 'room' with a pen in Wesley's pocket onto their forearms. They hadn't blinked as they stared at it and the struggle made their veins pop with effort to simply remember the concept of 'room'. Worrying what this meant the sinister power contained within the murky clouds of the ... room ... was capable of, they had felt their victory hollow.
They didn't know what they'd have to remember but they were confident something would be "convinced" out of them. They relayed their instructions to everyone else ... and those were the last words they smoke in that place.
Once again they plummeted through a tunnel of semi-consciousness and aroused in a café. It was night time but the darkness outside was halted at the window. Chairs slid in and out from tables and plates clattered like castanets. They were sat at a square table with two chairs to an edge.
"Where are we?" Mr. Tumnus asked. Thankfully his clothes had teleported along with him and were now stretched uncomfortably across his form.
The group collectively shrugged, except for one member.
"Chicago," Wesley murmured, "I'm home."
Eliphia could sense that Wesley had tensed up. His muscles were raised about a centimetre from where they'd lay, relaxed, in the flesh of his forearm. Eliphia placed a hand on his arm and rapped out a simple rhythm on it with her fingers. Yet Wesley did not seem to notice. Bones jutted out of his neck and his head trembled with the effort of staying still when he so obviously wanted to stand up.
They were approached by a rotund man with a flabby face and puffing breath. His skin was coloured a deep, luscious violet, as if he'd only just completed the London Marathon. The veins on his arms and face were criss-crossed in a network of pink zig-zags, each line perhaps the width of a spider's leg. His eyes popped out of his head like an impaled pig's when he laid eyes on Wesley.
"Wes?" he shook his head, "Why, I've not seen you since you gave that Janice a talking to. I didn't even have the chance to congratulate you, eh? That woman's needed putting in her place since the day she tapped her little infant foot and demanded a feeding."
"Thanks, I guess, Carl," Wesley almost choked with nerves.
"So where've you been? And who're all your friends? May I say those three gents do look a great deal like you," Carl furrowed his brow.
"Well..." Wesley attempted.
A startlingly accurate American accent sprang from Brian's lips, "We're his brothers."
"You never mentioned them, Wes," Carl tutted, "How negligent of you!"
"Sorry," Wesley muttered.
Carl took their orders and fussed a great deal over Tara, Joanne, Jan and Eliphia, whom Brian had gone on to list as 'cousins'. After a greasy burger and some fat chips, they were ready to move on.
When you look at a photograph, you're immediately flooded with memories of when it was taken. It happens with words too. When you say 'factory', you immediately picture a squalid lump of cement, with turret funnels protruding high into the sky, clouds of pollutant steam being born and unleashed into the world like a pet monster. Therefore, if they combined memory and images, they only had to associate a word -which had its own image - and an image with a memory.
For example: The memory to be preserved was Eliphia walking to school. She associated the image of litter with the memory. She wrote litter on her arm. When she looked at the word litter, she saw litter, then jumped to the litter on the way to her school.
So, to remember that a room existed beyond that door - the one where they'd been "convinced" it did not exist, just before they'd all met up - they remembered the room they'd started in. They concentrated on that and wrote 'room' with a pen in Wesley's pocket onto their forearms. They hadn't blinked as they stared at it and the struggle made their veins pop with effort to simply remember the concept of 'room'. Worrying what this meant the sinister power contained within the murky clouds of the ... room ... was capable of, they had felt their victory hollow.
They didn't know what they'd have to remember but they were confident something would be "convinced" out of them. They relayed their instructions to everyone else ... and those were the last words they smoke in that place.
Once again they plummeted through a tunnel of semi-consciousness and aroused in a café. It was night time but the darkness outside was halted at the window. Chairs slid in and out from tables and plates clattered like castanets. They were sat at a square table with two chairs to an edge.
"Where are we?" Mr. Tumnus asked. Thankfully his clothes had teleported along with him and were now stretched uncomfortably across his form.
The group collectively shrugged, except for one member.
"Chicago," Wesley murmured, "I'm home."
Eliphia could sense that Wesley had tensed up. His muscles were raised about a centimetre from where they'd lay, relaxed, in the flesh of his forearm. Eliphia placed a hand on his arm and rapped out a simple rhythm on it with her fingers. Yet Wesley did not seem to notice. Bones jutted out of his neck and his head trembled with the effort of staying still when he so obviously wanted to stand up.
They were approached by a rotund man with a flabby face and puffing breath. His skin was coloured a deep, luscious violet, as if he'd only just completed the London Marathon. The veins on his arms and face were criss-crossed in a network of pink zig-zags, each line perhaps the width of a spider's leg. His eyes popped out of his head like an impaled pig's when he laid eyes on Wesley.
"Wes?" he shook his head, "Why, I've not seen you since you gave that Janice a talking to. I didn't even have the chance to congratulate you, eh? That woman's needed putting in her place since the day she tapped her little infant foot and demanded a feeding."
"Thanks, I guess, Carl," Wesley almost choked with nerves.
"So where've you been? And who're all your friends? May I say those three gents do look a great deal like you," Carl furrowed his brow.
"Well..." Wesley attempted.
A startlingly accurate American accent sprang from Brian's lips, "We're his brothers."
"You never mentioned them, Wes," Carl tutted, "How negligent of you!"
"Sorry," Wesley muttered.
Carl took their orders and fussed a great deal over Tara, Joanne, Jan and Eliphia, whom Brian had gone on to list as 'cousins'. After a greasy burger and some fat chips, they were ready to move on.
