He doesn't come in through a door. Not a visible one, at least, and maybe that's because he's been here this whole time, waiting in the dark, watching this stranger slumped in the chair. Stranger. He is a stranger. This Keyser Soze - forty-nine years old, tired eyes, worn hands - has never known the Nexus or never really known defeat. There's only a scar or two, the chunk off his right ring finger, the San Pedro police department fourteen years ago when he thought he was about to lose everything.
Now this.
He doesn't turn on the lights. He doesn't move. He'll let his opponent say hello to him. He'll let him squint through the dark, struggling for an answer and then maybe, maybe, he'll speak.
He can sense it, there in the darkness. His first instinct is to sniff the air, straining to catch the scent of predator or prey before he remembers himself. He's human here, this far from the Nexus, its residual energies faded days ago. Human. Vulnerable. Just like the old days.
It's terrifying.
He holds his breath now, holding still, listening to the darkness. Is that breathing? "H-hello?" he calls out timidly, his voice cracking. His eyes turn towards the faint sound, unsuccessfully trying to penetrate the darkness. "Hello? Where am I?"
"Jeffrey Levitt." It's not at all how the usual Soze says it, not a Hey Jeff, just a cold, precise threat. I know who you are. His voice is rougher with age, experience, but it still has that familiar drone. Indifference. He doesn't step from the darkness.
In the darkness, Jeff feels every drop of blood drain from his face. His eyes widen, though the darkness continues to be absolute. He knows that voice. How could he not? He heard it inside and outside his head for almost two years. And he knew it well enough to realize that this wasn't him.
"Oh my God."
His voice is shaky with fear. This wasn't the Keyser Soze from the Nexus. The one that called Jeff a friend, the one who tried to redeem himself. This was the Devil himself, come to see him.
The next time Keyser Soze visits, he turns the lights on.
They don't all flicker on with a dramatic snap. They ease on, one by one, three fluorescent bulbs down the center of the room. The low hum of the lights makes the room almost feel like an office, except for the concrete walls, floor, the lingering smell of shit and blood and piss from the countless people who have been held here before, just like Jeff is now.
Soze is wearing dark gloves today, a duffel bag in hand. With the lights on, the differences between him and the other Soze are even more obvious. There's age, obviously, but then there's the missing half of the finger on his right hand, the scar down his neck that might have been dangerous once, his hair in a smoother, more professional cut. He's wearing a suit.
"Jeff," he says, sounding almost softer. Concerned. He puts the bag down. "It's time to get up."
Jeff's face is a patchwork of color from the treatment he'd received the day before, his eye and jaw swollen and purple. His sleep is restless, and he twitches and mumbles to himself before Soze's voice stirs him. When he wakes, it's with a start, and again he's pulled painfully short as his handcuffed wrists prevent him from sitting up.
He stares at Soze, fascinated despite himself. His eyes travel over the other man slowly, taking in the haircut, the gray in his hair, the new wrinkles around the eyes, the scar, the suit, the missing finger. Finally his eyes reach the duffel bag at his feet, and he swallows, sweat breaking out on his forehead and breath quickening with fear.
He follows Jeff's eyes to the duffel bag and then - unceremoniously - picks it up again. He unzips a side pocket and removes a water bottle filled with a cloudy, colorless liquid, and then a paper cup. He puts the bag down. He pours.
"Salt water," he says, after a moment, making sure it doesn't spill as he fills the cup. "It's for the cuts in your mouth. Tastes like shit, but I'm sure it'll feel good enough."
Jeff blinks in confusion, then nods. "A-all right," he says quietly. He shrugs his shoulders, demonstrating his lack of hands at the moment. "I'll...um...need a hand." He's really not sure where Soze is going with this, but he sure as hell isn't stupid enough to question it.
If you can call eight hours early, anyway. He was planning to stay away for at least twelve, but then word got out about Jeff's behavior. We wanted to tell you sooner, one of his men said, but we couldn't reach you. They told him about how Jeff spoke in tongues, how he snarled at the air, how his personalities kept changing and how one of them sounded like it belonged to him. They didn't say it directly, of course, but they averted their eyes when they mentioned it. The sudden coldness in his eyes. The edge to his voice.
Soze arrives in time to hear the lullaby. The sound is so familiar, but it takes him a few seconds to actually recognize it. His skin crawls. Each note comes from a lifetime ago, a lifetime that doesn't belong in this room with this stranger.
He waves the guard out.
"Hello, Jeff," he says. He hasn't brought anything with him today.
He recognizes him, but not quite. He sees Keyser's face, but not the man. "Keyser," he says. Why does he sound almost relieved? He's not speaking to the man who tortured him. The tone is too familiar for that. It's almost as if he's talking to a friend. "Oh Christ, Keyser, I fucked up. I really fucked it all up. Everything's still there. Still in my head. It didn't go back."
He stops his babbling abruptly when he tries to move and find he can't. He looks at the man in front of him again, and sees his friend's face change. He pales and cringes away now, his face a mask of sheer terror. He looks at the Devil, and he sees fires of Hell behind him. He begins a stream of hysterical babble in Latin: "E-Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus s-spiritus, o-omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio i-infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu Christi..."
He tries to pretend that the familiarity in Jeff's voice doesn't bother him, but it does, just as much as the song if not more. The panicked babbling is something he's more used to, something he can expect, even if it's in another language.
An exorcism. That's nice.
He decides to wait patiently for Jeff to finish, to hear what else he has to say. Is there anything left to pick out of that brain? Is there anything worth it?
The panicked babbling goes on for some time, actually; he's got the whole thing memorized. He shrinks away when he finds it having no effect on the demon (?) in front of him. "What do you want?" he asks, shaking like a leaf. "Oh God...What do you want?"
Comments 101
He doesn't come in through a door. Not a visible one, at least, and maybe that's because he's been here this whole time, waiting in the dark, watching this stranger slumped in the chair. Stranger. He is a stranger. This Keyser Soze - forty-nine years old, tired eyes, worn hands - has never known the Nexus or never really known defeat. There's only a scar or two, the chunk off his right ring finger, the San Pedro police department fourteen years ago when he thought he was about to lose everything.
Now this.
He doesn't turn on the lights. He doesn't move. He'll let his opponent say hello to him. He'll let him squint through the dark, struggling for an answer and then maybe, maybe, he'll speak.
There is always a push and pull.
Reply
He can sense it, there in the darkness. His first instinct is to sniff the air, straining to catch the scent of predator or prey before he remembers himself. He's human here, this far from the Nexus, its residual energies faded days ago. Human. Vulnerable. Just like the old days.
It's terrifying.
He holds his breath now, holding still, listening to the darkness. Is that breathing? "H-hello?" he calls out timidly, his voice cracking. His eyes turn towards the faint sound, unsuccessfully trying to penetrate the darkness. "Hello? Where am I?"
Reply
"Are you comfortable?"
Reply
"Oh my God."
His voice is shaky with fear. This wasn't the Keyser Soze from the Nexus. The one that called Jeff a friend, the one who tried to redeem himself. This was the Devil himself, come to see him.
Reply
They don't all flicker on with a dramatic snap. They ease on, one by one, three fluorescent bulbs down the center of the room. The low hum of the lights makes the room almost feel like an office, except for the concrete walls, floor, the lingering smell of shit and blood and piss from the countless people who have been held here before, just like Jeff is now.
Soze is wearing dark gloves today, a duffel bag in hand. With the lights on, the differences between him and the other Soze are even more obvious. There's age, obviously, but then there's the missing half of the finger on his right hand, the scar down his neck that might have been dangerous once, his hair in a smoother, more professional cut. He's wearing a suit.
"Jeff," he says, sounding almost softer. Concerned. He puts the bag down. "It's time to get up."
Reply
He stares at Soze, fascinated despite himself. His eyes travel over the other man slowly, taking in the haircut, the gray in his hair, the new wrinkles around the eyes, the scar, the suit, the missing finger. Finally his eyes reach the duffel bag at his feet, and he swallows, sweat breaking out on his forehead and breath quickening with fear.
Reply
"Salt water," he says, after a moment, making sure it doesn't spill as he fills the cup. "It's for the cuts in your mouth. Tastes like shit, but I'm sure it'll feel good enough."
Reply
Jeff blinks in confusion, then nods. "A-all right," he says quietly. He shrugs his shoulders, demonstrating his lack of hands at the moment. "I'll...um...need a hand." He's really not sure where Soze is going with this, but he sure as hell isn't stupid enough to question it.
Reply
If you can call eight hours early, anyway. He was planning to stay away for at least twelve, but then word got out about Jeff's behavior. We wanted to tell you sooner, one of his men said, but we couldn't reach you. They told him about how Jeff spoke in tongues, how he snarled at the air, how his personalities kept changing and how one of them sounded like it belonged to him. They didn't say it directly, of course, but they averted their eyes when they mentioned it. The sudden coldness in his eyes. The edge to his voice.
Soze arrives in time to hear the lullaby. The sound is so familiar, but it takes him a few seconds to actually recognize it. His skin crawls. Each note comes from a lifetime ago, a lifetime that doesn't belong in this room with this stranger.
He waves the guard out.
"Hello, Jeff," he says. He hasn't brought anything with him today.
Reply
He stops his babbling abruptly when he tries to move and find he can't. He looks at the man in front of him again, and sees his friend's face change. He pales and cringes away now, his face a mask of sheer terror. He looks at the Devil, and he sees fires of Hell behind him. He begins a stream of hysterical babble in Latin: "E-Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus s-spiritus, o-omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio i-infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu Christi..."
Reply
An exorcism. That's nice.
He decides to wait patiently for Jeff to finish, to hear what else he has to say. Is there anything left to pick out of that brain? Is there anything worth it?
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