Gosh, I need a life.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Shades of London.

Disconnected

Rory Deveaux was going mad. Crazy. Or so she thought. That was the only thing that made complete sense; the only thing that could explain what was wrong and what to do about it.

The farther away she was from London, the longer she was away from London, the more she began to doubt her own version of the story. Shades? What Shades? They were never mentioned on the news. Maybe the policeman and his fellow officers were just assigned to her for her sake, and were nothing more than normal humans.

The Ripper was occasionally mentioned, but real life – daily life – was taking television back. The wound was healing. Soon it would just be a thin scar; it would simply be a thin reminder of dim memories.

Her life boat was the power to terminate ghosts. That was the only thing that kept her tethered to the true story; the real story that sounded fictional. She didn't even mean to terminate them.

She only wanted someone who understood.

She was slowly beginning to stay inside more and more. School was to start up again soon, and she had finished her summer work too quickly. She tried to read, tried to show an interest in things, but no matter what, she always saw the Shades.

It made no sense, really.

Okay, the man had black hair. So what? So what if the parts peeking out from under his helmet were slightly curly? So what if his build was similar to the policeman's back in London? He was not that certain one. Her hopes had been so high in that one moment, and then they had been killed just as quickly in the next.

Passing by a field where some men were playing football, she could have sworn that she saw a familiar athletic build and heard the male's voice. She did more than a double-take; she doubled back and stood there for possibly ten minutes until she had to jump to the side to avoid a clumsy bicyclist.

And then, at the café, there was a girl with razor-sharp hair with a cherry red streak. Or so she thought. But, that had to be her. There was no mistaking the confident voice, or the "yeah" put at the end of her sentences.

Right?

At night, she would imagine that they were watching over her; sort of like Shades by day and angels by night. Or something along those lines.

She would stare at her phone, and try to recall one of their numbers. The policeman's was her main priority. He was a mentor of sorts; he would know what to do. All three of their numbers were erased while she was asleep in a hospital bed. It had killed her to consider the option that one of them had removed the numbers that would've saved her now.

She just needed one reply. One word. A single, "Stop, Rory," would be fine. A "This isn't safe, Rory," or a "You promised, Rory," or just something.

As hard as she could, she just could not remember a single digit until she was going through her old Wexford things. In her "Further Maths" binder was a number scrawled in black pen on a scrap of lined notebook paper. It had been shoved into the back.

She almost began bawling. She gingerly picked it up and, with the other hand, reached for her cell. She carefully typed in the number, her fingers shaking, and held the phone up to her ear.

This was the moment of truth. Either she was crazy, or she wasn't.

The phone rang, and rang, and rang. She begged for him to pick up, for somebody to pick up; she even begged for voicemail. What if the number had been disconnected? What if she had typed in the wrong number? What if she was, in fact, going as mad as the policeman? More so? What if-

A tear of relief and despair slipped down her cheek as it went to voicemail. When the beep went off, only then did it occur to her that she had no idea of what to say.

"St-Stephen?" she took a shaky breath. "Callum? Boo? Any-anybody? Look, I know I promised…But, I found this number that Stephen gave me back – back when I was being questioned…You know when," she looked up to the ceiling.

"Please pick up. Call me back. Something. I feel like I'm going crazy, and I have no idea of what to do. I'm terminating ghosts on touch, and I just-" she broke off. "Just need you guys." The call ended when the message became too long.

She tried to breathe, but her lungs just wouldn't accept the air and she gasped; she buried her head in her hands and let out a loud sob.


A train ride, a Tube ride, and a bit of walking away, three people sat gathered around a mobile phone that was set on 'speaker.' One was suddenly fascinated by his fingers, another was wiping at her eyes, and the third was intently staring at the phone.

He slowly reached out and ended the message just as it was repeating with Rory's quiet sniffling loud in the silence. "I just got that a few minutes ago."

"Stephen," the girl said, "we have got to do something."

"You know I would if I knew what to do," he bitterly replied, glancing at her.

Callum thought something over a moment before speaking. "She said that she can terminate ghosts on touch, right?"

"How does that even-?" Boo said.

"Who knows," Stephen said, "but, yes. Correct."

"You can talk to our supervisors; convince them that we need her here as a weapon," Callum shrugged. "It might work."

Stephen's gaze fell on the phone again, the screen now dark. "Possibly."

Welp. I made myself sad. Thanks for reading! -MythScavenger