Archive of Our Own ^beta

Isabelle sat at her desk, books littered around her, sticky notes taped haphazardly on her computer listing to-dos and reminders. Not even a slit of the dark wood didn’t have some kind of pages covering it, small print and large messy cursive was strewn on every white space.

If someone we’re too look closer – past the sleeping form and ignoring the long ebony strands that obscured the black inked pages below her – they’d see them to be small notes, of anatomy and respiratory systems alike, some pasted with crudely drawn diagrams of the eye, which would seem to the untrained viewer to be little more than an elliptical scribble overwhelmed with long fantastical words.

At first glance, again, a person may believe the dry contents to be the source of the medical students lulling to sleep, perhaps a panicked cram of information the night before an exam, and yet, they’d be most definitely wrong.

There was no exam looming beyond dusk, threatening in the early morning, nor was the work so dreary and boring that it took her to sleep. In fact, the only thing that drove the pale ebony-haired woman to research and revise to exhausted collapse was the chaos outside. The virus that ravaged those beyond her four walls, the sick, the healthy, bringing nothing but pain and fear to those who caught it and to those who haven’t.

Isabelle prided herself on her selflessness, her drive that made it impossible for her not to help someone in need – sick or not. But now, unable to do much more than a minutes walk to her local shop, all it did was make her feel hopeless.

Thus, she did what she could and in her case, that was staying up till ungodly hours studying, forcing term after term into her brain till it put it’s foot down and forced her to stop altogether. Because if she couldn’t help now, sooner or later, she could.

~~~

Isabelle’s waking was not a pleasant one, groaning as she weakly pushed her head off the desk, which uselessly flopped forward as if the knowledge from last night had physically made her brain six pounds heavier.

As Isabelle slowly pulled herself upright, flopping back into the black cushion of her desk chair, it felt as though every part of her being, down to each individual fibre begged her back into the empty abyss of unconsciousness. Tempted, her body swayed forward, attempting to lay forward once more and flop back onto the impromptu resting place of before -  but the pounding headache that throbbed rhythmically from behind her eyes to her temples told her that her muscles and brain we’re admonishing for even the thought.

Its that pain that caused Isabelle to try and pry her eyes open, not even realising they had shut in her pain addled drowsiness of disrupted sleep – her black lashes fluttering, batting like wings as if they could flap enough and pry open her lids with the sheer power of thrust alone. They, of course, didn’t do this but Isabelle did manage, (after a few moments of bribing them with the promise of soft covers and a warm bed,) her lids finally opened – revealing icy blues with the smallest flecks of green and brown swirling in them and, of course, the obligatory bloodshot pink of a late night.

This pink of which paired quite nicely with the puffy deep shadowy purple bags below them to satisfy the conventional caricature of the sleep-deprived medical student quite perfectly.

Isabelle scrubbed her hand across her face, delicate long fingers drag down and rubbing her sore temples and eyes – a massage turned rough in the uncontrolled harshness of her bodies sluggishness. When her pale fingers fell to her jowl, she made an unrestrained grunt of disgust, (still not quite awake enough to graduate to the formulation of words yet), when she peeled a post-it note off her face with a sticky sound of suction – a clear spot of drool on it that left the poor ink bleeding into a circular smudge. Crumpling it in her hands and tossing it in the (hopefully general direction) of the bin, Isabelle stood up with a slight wobble and shuffled out of her bedroom and down into the kitchen.

Shutting her eyes for but a moment, adjusting to the blinding light of the early morning, the fatigued ebony-haired woman was fully intent on grabbing a nice large steaming mug of dark coffee and starting what will be yet another empty day.

~~~

Yet, it felt as though the next time she opened them, she’d travelled through time – transported from her spot just at the top of the dark wooden stairs to a soft, plush spot on her light cream couch. ‘I must be even more tired than I thought’ Isabelle mused, rubbing her eyes lightly with her fist - careful not to irritate them in their swollen sensitivity - and bringing the mug to her lips.

Tea, she realised, sweet in citrus and a far cry from the dark bitter roast of the beverage she promised herself seemingly moments ago, but ultimately better, she supposed. Deciding that if she was tired enough to believe she’d have lapses in her memory, she was more than tired enough to be deserving of a nap.

Unconsciously, her hand reached out to the remote which was crushed into her side by the plush purple pillows that surrounded her. Tugged out of its burial with an impatient tug, her TV flashed on at the whim of the big red button she commanded.

Surprisingly, it didn’t turn on to a black screen or a message that chastised her to change it’s the channel or to remind her of an unstable connection, instead of this, without a moments hesitation, it opened to a familiar scene. Four figures conversed, or more accurately bickered, three were clearly in loathing of each other whilst one simply swooned without a single care. Sebastian, Ciel, William and Grell. She’d likely had left the TV on last night, her mind supplied behind the still present haze of her drossiness, she easily forgot small things like turning off the TV quite frequently. Especially when she got carried away in her studies.

Her rosy lips tugged at the corners at the bickering that floated from the television's speakers, a slightly lop-sided smile only smothered when she takes a long sip of delightfully steaming tea. The warming taste of which very effectively seduced her into sink deeper into the plush cushions behind her, it’s sweet liquid massaging her dry throat and heating her empty belly, cocooning in her in the heat much like the gentle kiss of sunlight and the comfort of a warm blanket on a chilly winter’s night.

It left her no choice, under its influence, her body going lax as it surrendered to it’s most innocent of desire, drifting to her side so that her head rested comfortably on the cushioned armrest, it’s softness incomparable to even the fluffiest of a thousand of feathers and most definitely a feeling she revelled in compared to the merciless solidarity of her hard oak desk that was her cradle minutes before.

Isabelle’s lashes fluttered again, but not in a feeble will to stay awake but instead a willing submission under the lulling whispers of slumber. Not even the shouts from the TV could stop the pull of sleep, the wavering cries of Grell as a fight broke out on screen, instead, it brought only an amused sleepy smile to her face, as her arms curled under her and in her moments just before her body succumbed to the warm embrace of unconsciousness, a small childish part of her, buried in the depths of her mind, spoke out into the darkness.

‘I wish I wasn’t alone.’ It said, softly, ‘I wish they were here with me.’

And then her eyes snapped open when a blinding light seared her very soul.

~~~

Isabelle curled in on herself with a hiss, burying her face back into the soft cream as she squeezed her eyes shut against the onslaught of purple dots that swam her vision and the drawn-out sting of her traumatised pupils.

When she dared to open her eyes again, peaking from the safety of darkness of the armrest, her eyes widened – revealing the entirety of her icy blues eyes even the flecks of green at her irises very edge we’re on display in pure unadulterated astonishment of the sight of four figures, collapsed on the wooden floor at her very feet.

Believing it to be a trick of the light, a freakish sleep-deprived hallucination, her disbelieving eyes snapped closed, but when they opened the next moment, they were filled with but two crimson eyes and she was ripped out of her disbelieving stupor when a gloved hand flew to her neck and pinned her back into the sofa with an almost crushing grip.

The mug she forgot she was still holding rolled out of her grip, a loud crash sharp in her ears as it shattered into millions of pieces at her feet. The feeling of the sharp ceramic, the piercing sting of it hitting her bare feet is what violently snatched her into reality. Immediately her instinct overtook her, pushing her leg up to blindly kick her attacker, though they didn’t waver when it connected not at all gently with their knee. Instead, the retaliation made the grip on her throat tighten impossibly harder, a choked wheeze escaping her parted lips as what little air left in her lungs was forced out in a crushing squeeze.

But, the sensation caused her adrenaline to course through her body, a sudden rush of strength as time seemed to slow almost imperceptibly, years of self-defence training rushed in her mind, brain desperate for something, anything to help her escape and just when she felt hopeless – the racing stopped. Her mind zeroing in on one idea and immediately, she took it into action.

Raising, her foot once more, this time aiming higher with all the strength she could muster Isabelle kicked as hard as she would ever be able to. Right into the man’s groin. The reaction was immediate, though her brain didn’t allow her for a moment to celebrate, twisting herself out of the intruders now lax grip, rolling off the sofa when he crumpled in on himself (though only slightly) at the unmatched agony, pushing herself up on to her feet – a final mad dash sprint to her front door.

It didn’t matter when the sole of her foot stepped right onto the puddle of sharp ceramic shards, nor how each of her long strides left a bloody footprint as thousands of the tiny knives buried itself into the delicate skin and muscle. All that mattered was running, fleeing, escaping - safety.

Perhaps, if she wasn’t so encompassed in the overwhelming instinct of over millions of years of predator and prey, she’d hear the outraged high-pitched cry and the sharp gasp of surprise. But, in that short time, Isabelle’s only focus was that door, that one door she was coming ever closer to.

Just as her arm outstretched, fingers splayed to grasp the shining silver handle, her mind soared and her heart lurched at how so dearly close she was to being free. But, her body flung itself back, narrowly keeping her balance and just barely keeping her fingertips when two prongs shot in front of her. Burying itself in the ironically calm blue wall beside her and blocking her only escape. Her only hopes of survival.

Pure dread and terror fills her entire soul, as her head whips around to look behind her, to follow where it released from and that moment – as she turns around time going so slow so fast, in a moment of what Isabelle believed was life or death, a gush of hatred, of determination and sheer-will, drowned her in boiling rage, she decided she was going to go down fighting.

Just as readied herself to charge, the prongs flew once more past her, retracting, but before she could even think to realise her escape was now open, the blades flew back, now burying themselves in the shirt at her shoulder and pinning her against the light blue wall. A small puff of plaster and crumbling paint telling her it was with an amount of force she’d be unable to escape from.

“There’s no point in running,” One of the intruders said, an exasperated monotone – oddly familiar - as he pushed his body weight against Isabelle. Making sure she couldn’t squirm or rip her clothes out of the grip of his death scythe. “I’m not here to reap you though if you provide no information I will. Where are we and why did you bring us here?” The demand dripped in authority, his tone harsh, angry that left her icy blues swirling in fear and a wish for mercy staring back at the green-yellow behind the dark spectacles.

Staring back at the imploring green phosphorous, reality suddenly felt like it hit her with a bucket of ice-cold freezing water.

“William?” Isabelle whispered, voice cracking in the hoarseness that followed the trauma of being choked. Emotions flew past her, drowning her like crashes in a storm, disbelief, confusion, terror, the sheer insanity of it overwhelming her.

At the sound of his name, the dark brunette’s brows furrowed instantly and deeper still when Sebastian, striding darkly to the reaper’s side – no doubt with a noticeably bruised ego – asked, “You know this human?”

But William ignored the demon, instead, he repeated his previous questions, deciding to focus on getting basic information before he questions how this human - he’s never seen once - knows his name. Punctuating each word with a forceful shake, William demanded once more, “Where are we? What year is it? How did you get us here? Answer now human or I won’t hesitate to reap your soul.”

Yet not even the blossoming pain could break Isabelle from her daze, though his commanding tone made her lips loose and her tongue honest. Despite her usual eloquence she stuttered and stopped like a dying engine, “I-Its 2020 and we’re in, uhm, London in England” A nervous laugh bubbled in her throat and fell from her lips as he pressed harder into her body, green-yellow glaring so sharp as they demanded her to continue it made her take a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself and steady her words. “And… and,” Releasing it all in one deep rushing exhale, “I have no idea how you got here.”

The reaper eyes widen, shock showing itself before he could contain it – though as soon as it appears, he stuffs it down into the dark recess of his mind, adopting his uncaring, ever unsurprised façade one more as he relinquishes his death scythe’s grip on the human. Retracting it back into itself and pushing up his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose, his ritual of composing himself.

The four all watch as the human, now no longer held by the reaper’s sharp pruner, slid down the wall and onto the cold hard wooden floor.

“Is that true Sebastian?” Ciel asks, breathless at the idea that they’d been transported, somehow unknowingly so far into the future. Turning his eyes from the woman, clearly in her early 20’s burying her head between her knees, then to his demon butler, as her gasping breaths wheezed out numbers sounded to a steady beat.

“I’m afraid so my Lord.” Crimson looking from the pitiful sight to his young master, “Though I’m sure she knows more.”

Isabelle didn’t care for the eyes that bore into her curled up form, the stench of suspicion in the air and the sickening crawl it made run down her back. Once she could count to 10 slowly, breathing in deeply without shuddering or wheezing and she felt the last tendrils of adrenaline and anxiety lose its grip and fall into the darkness of the recesses of her mind. She lifted her head, flushed pink with exertion but no longer panting, raking inky strands that clung to her face desperately back into their place. Finally feeling something resembling calm, the young student tried to pull herself up – only to fall back down with a cry.

Her right foot, throbbing steadily in agony, Isabelle realising only now that the adrenaline wasn’t there to hide the pain, she could feel the piercing of each shard, big and small in the sole of her foot, blood leaking steadily from the countless wounds, each small debris moving deeper with each movement she made.

“I can’t explain anything if I can’t even stand.” Isabelle ground out, pulling the injured foot closer to her lap, attempting to survey the damage, immediately wincing at the sight once she’s able to twist her head to the side to see the whole of it. ‘Please don’t be too deep.’ She prayed to herself silently, knowing the hospitals couldn’t possibly afford the time to help her remove them.

“She’s right. Sebastian,” Ciel called, the demon immediately turning to his young lord, recognising that firm conviction and awaiting an order. “Help her with her injuries then bring her back here. We can question her then.”

It felt odd, Isabelle decided, seeing Sebastian doing his signature kneel, bending in a bow with a gloved hand pressed to his  chest murmuring those three words, “Yes, My lord.”

Then again, it felt even odder when Sebastian picked her up, bending down to place one arm under her knees and another under her back, scooping her up into a bridal style hold. Directing Sebastian to the bathroom (where a small medkit was held) and telling the other three to sit in the living room (minding the broken ceramic of course) Isabelle decided, finally this time, today was just going to be an odd day.