for Zane

[the_second_noel]

The largest road of Carcosa circles downwards and inwards, as do all the other roads.

On that road, a human man wanders against the steady foot-traffic of the city's other inhabitants. He's unfed, unwashed, and unshaven, with thousand-yard eyes; he watches the others as they pass him, trying to stay focused on the here and now. Some of the creatures are less human-looking than others. Even the most humanoid among them have a quality that puts one's teeth on edge. You could almost press the visual into your skin and pinch yourself awake.

The figures are grotesque: more shapes than figures. More patterns than shapes. There's sweat in the man's eyes. He waves a hand in front of them to fend off an unseen gaze; his fingernails catch, and he pulls and keeps pulling, the images in front of him tearing away in long strips like burnt skin. It will take him a few moments to remember that this is impossible. In the meantime, he's crouched in front of a hotel wall, peeling off strips of brittle yellow wallpaper.

Comments

[the_second_noel]

Both his eyes and his nostrils widen briefly at Tom's request. He's distracted by it. He doesn't go under, despite the distraction. It's something he'll realise in a moment. Then he snatches the cigarette and glowers, thrown off balance: the King can only be trying to needle him, and he's succeeded.

It's a double-whammy, isn't it? Not just Tom's request, but also the skipped note in the back of the man's head: he's spent what feels like years spotting changes and hanging onto details (and missing them, and losing them), and now he's sure something isn't what it was, or now was what it wasn't before. Did it happen before, minutes ago, or is this the first time? It's a feeling as imprecise as deja-vu and it makes his stomach curl.

(It's strange too, though he doesn't pinpoint why: that it's like hearing a close but different cover of a song he knows well.)

He drags greedily on the cigarette, demanding calm out of it. Inside his head, he fumbles around the syllables of names that have come uncoupled from context.

Just choose one. Don't sound uncertain.

"Noel," rasps the man after a gap of time, smoke lifting out of his mouth like steam on a cold day.

[sukeltaja]

Noel doesn't sound right. Nothing sounds right right now, though, not from him, shaking hands and tired eyes and ah, that's the problem, Tom thinks suddenly. There it is. Noel's not used to this place, not yet. Noel's not used to anything other than comfort and safety and normalcy or the flipside, stranded out here all on his own without a beacon.

There's more nuance--always is, always will be--but Tom can file it down. Spin it into a script. Guide him, with a lamp and a diving suit. He needs to get him to room 665.

"I'm Tom Zane." He throws his hands up wide, cigarette in one and drink in the other like a beatified saint. "Welcome to the Oceanview Hotel. Do you like it?"

[the_second_noel]

Noel(?) gives Tom a long, searching stare. Back on Earth he was more subtle when he tried to figure out someone's angle, but there's not really a point to that here. It'd be energy wasted.

"Tryin' something new, are we," he says at last, none tone with left discomfort, doing whatever the polar opposite of the concept of yes-anding is.

...But he stands, with a grunt, because he did say he'd follow, and boy oh boy has he learned to pick his battles. His movements are small and contained, his posture closed, his head a little sunk. It's the look of a man who instinctually tries not to draw attention to himself.