Title: Headcase, Chapter 1

Author: digitalruki

Rating: PG

Characters: Glitch, later Glitch/DG

Summary: Somehow, Glitch went from being brainless to being a half-wit. Somehow.

Author's Note & Disclaimer: I don't own Tin Man. Any feedback on this fic would be most welcome.

-0-

The first thing he remembers is a rough hand at his back, shoving him violently forward down a dim passage. He stumbles. The hand yanks at the collar of his...his coat, he is...pulled to his feet. The passage grows brighter. His eyelids flutter as the light becomes almost unbearable

Eyes blinking back tears, brow furrowed, quivering lips whispered "My angel, my light"

A final shove, his world spins, his feet are swept from under him, his cheek makes contact with something sandy and hard. The ground. Outside. A gruff voice

called, "To our right-hand man," and then raised his glass in a toast

yells something he can't understand. He lifts himself slowly to his feet, his limbs sore from some marathon he can't remember running, he finds that his throat is dry when he tries to cry out in pain, and the only sound is cloth against skin, boots against gravel, and a deafening wind against his back.

And the tinkling of metal against metal, somewhere above his brow, like the link of a chain hitting the cuff that binds a criminal to his cage

spinning fast and freely on their little toes

The sound of boots against gravel, wind against cloth against skin, following the sweeping shape of his own shadow as it staggers further and further away from the light of the sun.

He is a man, as far as he can tell, but beyond that he's not sure of anything.

-0-

He is walking. He must walk, for it is only when he walks that his head will leave him in peace. He is fleeing from the ghostly whisper that seems to come from all directions even when he is alone.

When his body can't go on, his legs give out from under him. But before he can even hit the ground, he spasms. His body can't take not being upright. He can't see his shadow, he doesn't know where he is--whether he's up or down. His breath quickens, his throat closes up. Fear-stricken and exhausted, he wills his legs to support him, to carry his weight just a little farther, just a little farther, just a little farther.

Each night, when his shadow disappears, he tries to rest, but still his is restless, he can't bear to stop moving. So he simply rocks in place, sometimes leaning against a tree for support, trying to concentrate enough to hear where the whispers are coming from. What are they saying? But he is always distracted by something, the wind, rustling of leaves, the howl of some creature. Then dawn comes and it is a relief, for now he needs only think of putting one foot in front of the other, again and again.

One night while he is sitting by the fire of a small gypsy camp, an old woman comes to give him a blanket. She holds it out for him to take, but he can only stare at it. Frowning, she throws the cloth around his shoulders. "If you know enough to eat and sleep, you should know when to accept another person's kindness," she says crossly, and wanders back to her tent.

Maybe it's the warmth of the wool on his back, but his eyes begin to shine in realization. It is as if the fire has spread to the empty hole of his mind.

He doesn't remember when he stopped moving, but for a moment he is at peace. He can't feel his feet until something makes him twitch, and a rush of sensation flies through him as he realizes he's on his back. He springs to his knees, his legs curling to the side as if expecting to find a ledge to drop off of, and that's strange. He half expects to be... somewhere, and for a moment, he is almost concerned that the place he finds himself in is unfamiliar.

That night, thought grows like roots under the dark soil, unseen, ready to sprout with the rising of the sun.

-0-

The next morning, the old woman wakes up to find the headcase framed in the entrance to her tent, holding the re-folded blanket in his arms. She shifts to see him more clearly, and the sound of shuffling blankets draws his attention. His face flickers to life like light refracting inside a prism.

He blinks, aware, more now than he can ever remember, of the other person. He knows that the blanket he holds belongs to her, and while he's not too sure on the details of how he came to aquire it, he knows when to return something that's been borrowed.

He walks over slowly, as if he has to stop and remember what he was doing with each step, and holds out the blanket in front of her. She raises her arms and grasps the bundle gingerly. He opens his mouth to speak, but is stopped again. The old woman can see the words caught in his throat, formless, aching to be spoken.

"Thank you," she utters, in part to show her gratitude, in part to hope he can learn by example.

"Thank you," he mimics, meeting her gaze again. He attempts a smile but quickly drops his head to the ground. The old woman draws back the covers and pulls herself to her feet, quietly, careful not to rouse her tentmates.

"Sit," she commands, indicating the bed. As she shuffles around the tent, she watches him out of the corner of her eye, seeing him hesitate at first. Finally, he whisks the tails of his coat gracefully out behind him as he settles on the low cot. The gesture seems oddly practiced for someone who can't even cross a room without stopping several times to check himself. Indeed, once he settles, he looks around in bewilderment, as if wondering how the cieling suddenly grew so high.

How can a man live without his brain? Logically, it's impossible, but things in the O.Z. don't always run on logic. Sometimes they run on magic.

The old woman has lived a long life and witnessed many unexplainable events. She's not one to ignore something strange simply because she doesn't understand it. And this man is the veritable mascot for abnormality. She can't help but ponder what in his past life drove the villianous matriarchy to saw open his skull. And she can't help wonder wether he will ever regain some part of himself.

He is unsure, innocent, but not without the capacity to observe and learn. Was his brain once so massive that removing part of it has only temporarily hampered him? Or is his heart so profound that he has no use for his mind?

As he tentatively runs his fingers in circles across the soft yarns of her bedspread, she pours two cups of coffee.

This time, when she offers him the steaming cup, he raises his arms to take it.