[Location] Metior Tram Line
He can't sleep, and normally Paul would put on some music and read, or clean, or work on something in the birdhouse that needs doing. But at the moment all his projects are halfway to completion waiting weigh-ins from others, and the place is spotless, and he doesn't care to read for pleasure in Taxon.
And he doesn't have his music.
He goes for a walk and a smoke, despite it being bitterly chill out at night right now. The trams are running-- always running-- but almost empty at this hour, a few Extras who apparently comprise the City's 'night shift' going to and from jobs that don't really accomplish anything as near as he can tell.
He gets on Metior and rides it for an hour, falling half-asleep at points with his cheek slumped against the cold glass and the black night beyond it. In the daytime he can't get away with smoking on the tram, the Extra conductor always starts clearing his throat and Paul's mindful of that Sheriff asshole now, who knows what they'd take as a serious fucking offense. But the car's almost empty and nobody says shit so he smokes.
The aliens are getting better with faking life, he thinks sleepily, or he's getting jaded to Taxon. One of the two. The other occupant in the car is a young Latina woman in a sweatsuit with a pink hoodie, okay face but fanfuckingtastic body, tired look around the eyes he remembers really, really well.
Riding the subway in New York at this time of the night and the girls, the dancers, getting off their shifts and coming home on the sub tired like she's tired, smelling of cigarettes and alcohol from the clubs. They've got all the details almost right, he thinks as he watches her from eight seats away. Big hoop earrings. Cigarette burn on the cuff of the sweatsuit. Her high heels sticking out of her purse, the comfortable trainers on her feet right now instead.
He leans back and closes his eyes. Doesn't think he falls asleep-- doesn't think so, it's only a second-- but when he opens them again the woman is gone. And the tram is still.
He sits up, staring around him with a sense of disorientation. The tram lighting flickers, and he frowns, stares out the window to judge where in the city he is-- he knows Metior's stops now by sight, even in the dark, but.... whatever's out there is no part of the city he recognizes. An empty street. Not a tram stop.
Hey, partner. You awright there, man?
He nearly gives himself whiplash looking behind him. There's a man in the very back, in the corner where it's dark, where the lights aren't shining. A tall man in a long duster, tow-headed, but he knows it's not Wyatt Cain.
"Frank," he says, thickly, his voice is not quite cooperating.
The figure in the corner raises a hand as if to touch the brim of an imaginary hat, nods. Maybe he's smiling.
There's at least ten feet between them and several chairs and it's dark in the corner. Paul's glad of that. He does not want to be able to see Frank's torso. He does not want to be able to see if it's got way the fuck too many bullet holes in it.
He's suddenly seized with a paranoiac's vision that comes out of nowhere-- that he will analyze later, warily, because for fuck's sake he's a forensics specialist and of all the things that could possibly freak him out blood is not one of them-- but in this moment it is, because the image that fills Paul Smecker's mind is the blood pooling in the corner where Frank sits, and trickling along the rubber runners on the tram floor towards Paul's own feet, slowly and inexorably.
The tram suddenly lurches back into life and Paul has to grab at the seat in front of him for his balance. The lights flicker once again, and the inside of the tram is plunged into total darkness.
Hey, partner, says the voice again, and there's the rustle of a long coat as the man in the corner gets up, and starts coming closer. Been a long time since you been to see me, buddy.
The tram is moving through the dark, running with no lights on, he can feel the sway and the back and forth of the car, and he can hear Frank Langley settling into the seat behind his, the sounds of denim and canvas and the distant scent of cheap godawful Texas cigarillos.
You said every year, Smecker. You've been late. Ain't no way to treat a friend. So much for semper fi, huh?
The train jerks to a stop and the lights come back on and Paul is up and on his feet like an electric shock had hit. He actually goes over the seat in front of him on his way to the door, rams his hand down on the panel to open it, and nearly loses a button off his coat in his haste to get back outside, out of the tram, out and away from Frank.
The platform is one he's been on many times, one of the major Central ones. The inside of the tram is lit up, normal lights, every corner bright.
There's nobody in there. Not a single solitary soul.
And he doesn't have his music.
He goes for a walk and a smoke, despite it being bitterly chill out at night right now. The trams are running-- always running-- but almost empty at this hour, a few Extras who apparently comprise the City's 'night shift' going to and from jobs that don't really accomplish anything as near as he can tell.
He gets on Metior and rides it for an hour, falling half-asleep at points with his cheek slumped against the cold glass and the black night beyond it. In the daytime he can't get away with smoking on the tram, the Extra conductor always starts clearing his throat and Paul's mindful of that Sheriff asshole now, who knows what they'd take as a serious fucking offense. But the car's almost empty and nobody says shit so he smokes.
The aliens are getting better with faking life, he thinks sleepily, or he's getting jaded to Taxon. One of the two. The other occupant in the car is a young Latina woman in a sweatsuit with a pink hoodie, okay face but fanfuckingtastic body, tired look around the eyes he remembers really, really well.
Riding the subway in New York at this time of the night and the girls, the dancers, getting off their shifts and coming home on the sub tired like she's tired, smelling of cigarettes and alcohol from the clubs. They've got all the details almost right, he thinks as he watches her from eight seats away. Big hoop earrings. Cigarette burn on the cuff of the sweatsuit. Her high heels sticking out of her purse, the comfortable trainers on her feet right now instead.
He leans back and closes his eyes. Doesn't think he falls asleep-- doesn't think so, it's only a second-- but when he opens them again the woman is gone. And the tram is still.
He sits up, staring around him with a sense of disorientation. The tram lighting flickers, and he frowns, stares out the window to judge where in the city he is-- he knows Metior's stops now by sight, even in the dark, but.... whatever's out there is no part of the city he recognizes. An empty street. Not a tram stop.
Hey, partner. You awright there, man?
He nearly gives himself whiplash looking behind him. There's a man in the very back, in the corner where it's dark, where the lights aren't shining. A tall man in a long duster, tow-headed, but he knows it's not Wyatt Cain.
"Frank," he says, thickly, his voice is not quite cooperating.
The figure in the corner raises a hand as if to touch the brim of an imaginary hat, nods. Maybe he's smiling.
There's at least ten feet between them and several chairs and it's dark in the corner. Paul's glad of that. He does not want to be able to see Frank's torso. He does not want to be able to see if it's got way the fuck too many bullet holes in it.
He's suddenly seized with a paranoiac's vision that comes out of nowhere-- that he will analyze later, warily, because for fuck's sake he's a forensics specialist and of all the things that could possibly freak him out blood is not one of them-- but in this moment it is, because the image that fills Paul Smecker's mind is the blood pooling in the corner where Frank sits, and trickling along the rubber runners on the tram floor towards Paul's own feet, slowly and inexorably.
The tram suddenly lurches back into life and Paul has to grab at the seat in front of him for his balance. The lights flicker once again, and the inside of the tram is plunged into total darkness.
Hey, partner, says the voice again, and there's the rustle of a long coat as the man in the corner gets up, and starts coming closer. Been a long time since you been to see me, buddy.
The tram is moving through the dark, running with no lights on, he can feel the sway and the back and forth of the car, and he can hear Frank Langley settling into the seat behind his, the sounds of denim and canvas and the distant scent of cheap godawful Texas cigarillos.
You said every year, Smecker. You've been late. Ain't no way to treat a friend. So much for semper fi, huh?
The train jerks to a stop and the lights come back on and Paul is up and on his feet like an electric shock had hit. He actually goes over the seat in front of him on his way to the door, rams his hand down on the panel to open it, and nearly loses a button off his coat in his haste to get back outside, out of the tram, out and away from Frank.
The platform is one he's been on many times, one of the major Central ones. The inside of the tram is lit up, normal lights, every corner bright.
There's nobody in there. Not a single solitary soul.