- XXI -

* * * * *
         -hahaha.
         There's a dizzy looping feeling crashing around his head, a drunk with one leg staggering in a padded room, all swinging arms and twisted vision, the world's caught in a fishbowl. You're the fishbowl. We're all in the bowl. And there's bubbles in the bowl, steam reaching up and scraping in our nostrils, moisture caking the corrupt corners, washing it all away. It's all clean. The room refuses to stop rotating.
         He's dancing. But it's hard. Because either someone keeps altering the gravity in the room or his weight keep redistributing itself to various portions of his body, shifting when he least expects it. He's a man on a high wire, pivoting and balancing while the world lurches convincingly around him.
         And yet he's enjoying it.
         ". . . some can't stand the beauty, so they cut one ear off but you'll be okay . . ."
         Joy ripples through his entire body, rendering him a liquid parody of what he's supposed to be. There's a girl gyrating in front of him, a spacial blur, he's not sure if she's dancing with him or just in the same space, she seems to keep turning, or maybe the world keeps turning. That's the problem, isn't it? The world keeps spinning and whirling and it's only our love and desire that grounds us. Otherwise we'd sail off into space, propelled by momentum, right off the planet itself. There's a love he feels for everyone right now that's expressing itself in colors that wind and take shape, dancing with him, arms streaking against his face, bodies so close against his that he might be able to drink of them were he able and they willing. Splattered against his face with water balloons filled with a substance he can't easily name. If he could peel the grin off his face and give it to somebody special he'd do it in a second but there aren't enough smiles to go around. Everyone is being so kind, everyone is just like a friend. Only better. Because that's just the way things are. Better.
         A hand presses against him and he reels, laughing at his lack of balance even as hands support him for no other reason than because they all love him. That has to be it. There's a buzzing racing up and down his spine like a jet fighter trying to break the sound barrier, unable to take off but not willing to stop either. Even when you fail you just keep going. Someone keeps telling him that and he never listens. But he must be listening, or he wouldn't be here, he'd have given up long ago. Because he knows he's bad like that. There's no other conclusion, the drag chute isn't unfurling and so he just keeps increasing speed, skin whipping from his face, air forcing itself into his lungs, inflating them until it's almost painful. He's going to suck away the atmosphere at the rate he's going. And nobody will be able to breath. That'd just be sad. Really sad. Almost enough to make him cry. Just sit down and weep. But it won't matter.
         Because everyone cares.
         Everyone will help you.
         ". . . and you're so surprised when he doesn't run to catch your ash, everybody always want to kiss your trash . . ."
         And that's when he hears it.
         crash
         A sound. A simple sound, compressed into one dull note, reaching his ears somehow over the din of the music cocooning him. And some part of his brain is tickling with realization, because it's something he should recognize. And he's not sure why he should know it, but he does.
         ". . . but you can't help him, no one can . . ."
         It's a familiar noise. One he's lived with the past few years. One that he would recognize instantly no matter what the venue, or what shape the situation.
         ". . . and now that he knows there's nothing to get, not in this place, not in your face, will you still place your bet . . ."
         Something has exploded.
         The world flexes like a coin dropped into a fountain, concentric circles spanning his vision. His feet are moving. His feet are moving him. Some part of his mind is trying to struggle but there's an instinct at work here that goes deeper than any sense of love or fun or terror or pain. He can't seem to keep his head focused straight and yet he's still moving. The door is in sight. Some girl tries to rub against him, her smile curling into vapor even as he stands there but he brushes her aside, the sensation a million hairs ramming into his palm. He has to focus. Why? He just has to focus.
         A slit opens in the air, the door separates from the wall and he doesn't remember opening the door. But he has. And his eyes fight to fixate on a sight that his brain can't process fast enough.
         There's smoke. In the hallway. Thick and heavy smoke, the kind that takes up residence in your nostrils, your clothes, your hair and never goes away no matter how time you try to rinse it away. A constant reminder. And farther down, he can see why there's so much smoke. Answering his own unspoken question, he sees.
         And his eyes widen until they feel almost bigger than his head.
         Because there's no door down there. It's gone. Someone must have gone and taken it away. And the simplistic absurdity of that concept makes him want to laugh. Except that there's nothing funny about it. But he can't figure out why. Or what's so bad about it. Or why his hand just won't stop shaking, his entire body seems to be vibrating. And it's so warm in here.
         "What's wrong out there?"
         says a voice.
         And he quickly slams the door and goes to turn to give one of his apparently patented quips for an answer, to charm the ladies you see but the problem is that the world isn't cooperating and responding to his head and his head is just putty and everything in the world is just
         melting
         just
         melt
         and people are suddenly grabbing him and dragging him because he has no control over his limbs anymore everything is happening so fast he feels so fast and so hot like he's burning up, there's fire raging through his veins, searing and cleansing, a sensation that sends his body rigid is riding his nerves and everything is stripped bear
         and his brain is watching
         and a part is observing
         and it sits back
         and says one thing
         I've been drugged
         even as he tries to swallow his tongue and people are saying something that he can't understand because they didn't bother rebuilding his language center and all the bad stuff is being forced from his body through the pores, oozing and sweating out, coating him, making him slick
         remaking him anew
         he's nearly dropped onto a couch
         but clarity is returning to his head, the piercing pain is rendering him conscious and keeping him sane and when it all stops making sense that's when he knows that everything is normal again
         and he spasms one more time, his eyes clenching shut even as a cry ejects itself from his lips
         hands are touching him
         a cough erupts from his chest
         and he bends forward, desperately trying not to vomit, places his head in his hands
         And remembers.
         My name
         remembers
         My name is Joseph
         remembers with stabbing suddenness
         My name is Joseph Brown.
         Looking up, he finds even the drab light in the room claws his eyes. His mouth feels dry, stuffed full of cotton and his ears won't stop ringing. Brown rubs his face, feeling all the sweat making everything slick. His entire body feels soaked in alcohol, it must have come out with everything else. God, it hurts. For the first time Brown finally understands what people mean when they say they ache all over. Because that's sure as hell what he's feeling now.
         Gradually he realizes that people are standing over him. Squinting at them, everyone becomes a blur. But even blurred he can make out concern.
         "Oh hey, folks . . ." he grins weakly, waving his hand like he could scatter them with a motion, "thanks for the concern but, I just . . . you know, got a little sick for a second, that's it . . ." he shrugs, slipping into a self effacing role with more ease than he's used to, "drank a little too much it seems, but," he draws a hand sharply across the air to accent his point, "that's it for me tonight. I'm cutting myself off."
         Some people are drifting away and some are sticking around, the same kind who linger after a car accident, hoping that they might get to see one more body before the police pack the whole show up and move on down the road. Brown runs a trembling hand through tangled hair and tries to answer the questions that are peppering his mind too quickly for him to assimilate properly.
         But one incident keeps sticking out, pushing itself to the forefront ahead of everything else. The memory of black smoke and shattered metal careens into his head with reckless abandon.
         "My God," he whispers suddenly, clutching at his head. "Tristian."
         Getting to his feet too rapidly, the world tries to swim away. He grabs hold of it before it gets too far and barely regains control. There's a core of weakness radiating from the center of his body, trying to keep him down, but he tells himself that it could have been worse. At least it didn't take death to trigger it. Dying is something he can't quite get used to doing. It's not even like riding a bicycle.
         Options swarm into his head, pushing against the cotton candy that's filling his mind. Outside? No, he can't go back outside, not immediately. People might notice and he wants to check this out before it devolves any further, whatever the hell just happened. It takes a lot of effort to force his mind to think like this, all other problems not withstanding it's not what he expected to be dealing with when he got here. Wryly, he realizes he probably should have expected it, it seems to come with the territory when Tristian is involved.
         Then his smiles fades. This isn't any time for joking, something serious probably did happen and every second he wastes here is just prolonging the chances of worse crossing over into horrific.
         He has to see. He has to see what went on out there without actually going out there yet. Before someone needs to go have a cigarette or something and the herd of cats escape from their bags. Brown has a feeling that he'll have a lot of explaining to do at that point, if only to prevent panic. That's what he's really worried about, it's just the thing he's trying to avoid.
         Upstairs. The rooms upstairs have windows that overlook the parking lot in front of the building. That should do it. All he needs is a look, he's surveyed enough battlefields to be able to take all the details in very little time. So he's moving before his brain has a chance to stop him and make him consider other options, grabbing the bannister to swing himself around and rocket up the steps, doing his best to ignore the burning pounding in his legs and the tight protests of his chest. Keep pushing. Keep pushing those damn legs. What's the worst thing that'll happen, he'll die? Oh boy that's a real problem these days. Maybe it'll come in handy for once. It took long enough to work already.
         A part of him is experiencing quite a thrill at this and he marvels at that aspect of himself. But danger is tainting the air he's breathing and he can't help but feel himself trembling with anticipation, of having to formulate plans, of having to live by his wits and skill, elevating a mundane day into a thing cracked and compressed. To call it a rush would be trivializing it something fierce, it's a gateway into a life that is different from the one he used to know and something no one else will ever be able to comprehend, but it's nothing he can give up the same. And if that makes him an addict of the worst kind, then so be it, but at least he's trying to make something good out of it. And people might have been hurt now but if he can stop one more person from suffering or being injured in this swiftly escalating mess, then his work here will not only be done, but he'll be highly satisfied all the same.
         He takes the stairs two at a time, each motion pulling him further up, the party falling away from him, momentum carrying him nearly over the last step. Brown needs a short hop of a step to stop himself and he pivots on his heel at the same time. The hallway is empty, which he can only figure is good. His heart is pumping rapidly from both the exertion and the nervousness he can feel in his stomach. Brown knows people who before battle are totally calm, they would chat about recent events like it was some gathering for tea and that bloodshed and perhaps death wasn't imminent. That's not him, he has to pace and talk to himself and go over the plans in his head that he knows are perfect, all the stupid things that people do to try and take their mind off of something. Like he's doing now. By thinking about that one thing as much as humanly possible.
         Shoving all those thoughts out of his head, trying his best to not think about anything but the immediate matter at hand, Brown strides over to the doorway and before he can stop himself, steps right into the room.
         The first thing that he sees upon entering is a man standing by the window. The man's face is turned slightly toward him and he can see that it's Tristian. Which is sort of funny because Tristian isn't doing much of anything, he's got his forearm braced on the windowsill and he's leaning toward the window and peering out as if something highly interesting is happening out there.
         That's the first thing he sees.
         Like the room is undressing for him, the details reveal themselves with a mindnumbing laziness. Images resolve with a pitiful clarity. There's someone on the bed. Lying still and silent. Brown's breath catches in his throat as he thinks even in the thick darkness of the room he recognizes that person.
         "My God," he whispers, his feet shuffling forward.
         That's when he trips over a man.
         Who also turns out to be Tristian.
         "What the . . ." Brown mutters, nearly leaping backwards into the air in surprise. The other Tristian is crouched on the ground, almost in a fetal position and he doesn't seem to be moving either. There's a small sound that Brown can hear coming from him, like a constant murmuring. Or crying. He's not sure which. He doesn't know which is Tristian. Or what's even going on.
         The Tristian by the window seems to stir and turns toward him in a way that would be physically impossible if he had bones. He flashes a grin that almost glows in the dark.
         "Hey, there," the man who Brown now is very sure isn't Tristian rasps in a disarmingly friendly fashion, "I didn't know you were here too." Brown isn't sure whether to run from the room or hide his head in his hands and start to weep. The situation just got worse. Right that second he knows it did.
         "How's the party down there?" the man asks, turning away from the window and crossing the room to greet Brown. The bed is right in his path but Brown notices with a detachment that's almost scary that it doesn't stop the man at all. He just walks right through it. And Brown finds nothing wrong with that. In fact he thinks it's perfectly normal. Perhaps it is.
         But he still feels the entire situation quickly slipping out of his grasp. And it's not a feeling he likes at all.
         "What are you doing here?" he demands, speaking even more quietly now, definitely afraid that someone might walk in and see this. That's the last thing he needs right now. Someone walking in and seeing two Tristians. They'd love that. Love it so much they'd burn the entire goddamn building down just to get rid of them. But oh wait someone's already started doing that already.
         "Well, you know," the man replies, stepping past Brown and poking his head out the door like he's coming up from some sideways sewer grate, "how often do I really get to go out? I mean, really. With my busy schedule there's never any time," and the man sighs in a strangely forlorn fashion. He seems to brighten almost instantly, however, like someone flicking a light switch in his head, switches connected to emotions. Brown has to keep reminding himself that it's all theatre. This isn't a person he's dealing with here. This is something that once watched the Universe cool. "But I hear it's a happening party downstairs . . ." he's looking left and right with his head out the door like someone just set up a tennis match in the hallway. ". . . maybe, just maybe I'll go join it, I think they need a suave guy like me to get this thing going the right way, eh?" his voice seems to rebound into the hallway. Brown fights the urge to grab the man by his shoulders and drag him back into the room. But that wouldn't be smart. In fact it'd be the very opposite of smart.
         But he can't deal with this now. Bending down he leans over Tristian and taps the man on the shoulders, shaking him a little, as if trying to rattle his brains back into a functional state. His eyes are wide open and in the darkness they seem to be the only source of light. Brown counts a few seconds and doesn't seem him blink. This isn't good at all. His pupils are pinpricks of darkness.
         "Tristian . . ." he says forcefully, trying to snap the man out of it, "what the hell happened in here . . . what the hell is going on . . ."
         "Everything . . ." Tristian murmurs, and Brown can almost see the words leaking from his throat, like the last wisps of a life too far gone to care anymore.
         "What . . . Tristian, goddammit, snap out of it, what the hell are you talking about . . ."
         "Can't save anyone," he intones, dull fact resonating in his face. He shuts his eyes tightly and seems to fold deeper into himself, Brown can almost feel him growing smaller as they sit here. If he thought it would do any good he'd slap the man across the face, knock some sense into him, but Brown is fairly sure that isn't a good idea either. Just the thought of it makes his chest itch. "All of it, everything I do, there's no good . . . no good I can do . . . I thought . . ." and the shudder that erupts from the man causes Brown to jerk his hand away. "I thought that if . . . I fought hard . . . enough against . . . evil then . . ." and an unknown factor chokes his voice, "but it's no use . . ." and his words are dust and emptiness, sprinkled into the air like so much ash, "it was me . . . the whole time it was . . . just me . . ." and then Tristian trails off, like a machine slowly winding down.
         Brown shakes the man again, nearly screaming into his ear, "Dammit, Tristian, don't go away on me like this, I need your help, I need . . ." but the man says nothing, Brown can't even tell if he's breathing or not, "Tristian . . . dammit!" Brown spits out a curse and leaps to his feet, barely suppressing the desire to put his fist through the wall. Seeing Tristian like this is disturbing enough but right now he has to face facts. Brown's the only man who has a prayer of keeping all of this together. To keep it all from spinning off the edges. He has to focus. Think clearly. Think calmly.
         Standing up, he sees the person on the bed again. And remembers. And all his attempts at calm go right out the window. Before he couldn't see the face that clearly but now it's all too clear to him. Brown's feeling trapped in a dream that just keeps getting worse and worse, and he's hoping deep down inside that he's actually passed out downstairs and that this is just some grim play being performed in his head. The local brain trust. Now appearing three times a week. Show time variable. The excitement is neverending.
         "Lena . . ." he breaths, but Brown knows that she can't hear him. He's seen unconscious and he's seen comatose and he knows which one he's staring at now. Her eyes are closed, her face upturned to the ceiling, like she tried to call for help before blackness took her and spirited her mind away. For a second raw fear splits him as he tries to see if she's breathing but finally her chest rises and then falls, both so slowly. So slow. He grips her wrist, trying to find a pulse, squeezing her arm when he does find it, throbbing to a funeral march beat, as if trying to inject some life into that weak signal. Lena's skin is so warm to the touch, he expects her to burst into flame right in front of him. This isn't good. This isn't good at all.
         "What the hell happened in here?" he tries to scream it out, tries to force some authority into his voice but there's no one here who will listen to him and so he just winds up croaking it out. He can't take his eyes off of her face. The still face. It reminds him of when he last saw his mother. Before they sealed the casket and stole her from his sight forever.
         He runs a shaking hand over his face, trying to maintain some calm. Have to be calm. Brown can see why Tristian crumpled like he did, to see something like this, it must have torn his heart out and bounced it off the wall, deflecting itself right back in his face again, scrambling his head all wrong. Brown's been on battlefields where the entire world seems to be stained with blood and yet he can't keep his head on straight here. He's only human he tells himself. It's only natural to react like this. But he can't afford that, he can't afford to lose it.
         "He drugged her," a voice whispers right into his ear, tickling his eardrum painfully. Brown spins around, his arms out to push anyone back. But the only other person here is still standing in the doorway, facing him, arms crossed lackadaisically over his chest. The all too familiar face is chillingly neutral in this stripped light and Brown is reminded again that not everyone here is human.
         "What?" he finds himself whispering back, not even sure he heard it right.
         The man steps away from the door, crossing the room silently back toward the bed. His eyes seem to glitter in the darkness. "You don't listen very well," the man rasps at him. "I said he drugged her . . . I . . ." without warning he stops and peers at Brown in an almost birdlike fashion. Brown does his best to not move a muscle. Insects. It feels like insects. There are insects crawling around inside of him, a million itches that he could never hope to scratch, even if he tore into his body, bleeding fingernails covered in shards of skin, ripping and tearing and-
         And then it's over.
         Brown sags in relief even as the man smiles a little, almost boyishly. "You should know," and there's actual, bizarre humor in his voice. He's not human, goes the refrain in his head. Not human not human not human. "You got nailed with the same thing, as it turns out. Your system kicked its ass though." It wags a finger at him almost accusingly. "Now you know that wasn't too bright, was it now? You know you should never have strange drinks, hm?"
         "I'm sorry," Brown mutters without any sincerity at all. He steps forward to get a closer look at Lena, memories unravelling in his mind. The revelation explains a lot, the reason that his behavior of a while ago is so clouded with chemical haziness, his physical ordeal shortly thereafter. Much more perhaps. Looking into her drawn face, Brown sees the fate that he only bypassed through sheer luck. It's not a luck he feels he deserves but he's going to make the most of it all the same. Give others the chance that he should never have gotten. It's all he can do.
         "You should be," the man replies, equally insincere. He's not even looking at Brown anymore, but at Lena, his eyes dancing over her like she means something to him. But then he glances back at Tristian and for a second the man's thoughts are almost plain on his face.
         "Who did this?" Brown finds himself asking, hoping that it was no one he knows, realizing that the person is probably dead now anyway. The image of the sundered stairwell comes back to him.
         Surprisingly the man just shrugs, "Damned if I know," he responds, like Brown just asked him something utterly inane. "It's not like I take the time to learn everyone's name . . ." an emotion that Brown can't even comprehend seems to flash across the man's face, "but then it's not like he's in much of a position to answer me if I asked him," and the man gives a wicked grin at that, showing his teeth. His face keeps shifting emotions so quickly, like his expressions are made of soft clay and he can't decide what shape he wants to be.
         "That's another thing," Brown says sternly, trying to keep the fractured sanity of the moment from overwhelming him, pretending that it's just another mission. But it's not a mission, he knows that girl, he shared drinks with her, goddamn, he danced with her dammit. There has to be a limit to how professional he can be. "What the hell were you thinking with that little display down there? Did you think that nobody would notice?" The party has basically ended for Brown now and that makes him a bit angry. Something has to substitute for the overriding confusion and anguish he'd be feeling otherwise. He's sorry that Lena got hurt and he's sorry that Tristian is hurt too but at the same time he knows that his memories of the night will always be tainted by this conversation, this argument with a being that makes him look like an amoeba when you come down to it. There's so much it can do to Brown. All Brown has are his words. And his mind. He wants to think that it's all he needs.
         The man holds his hands up, taking a step back through the bed again, closer to the window. "Whoa, hey there, let's back the truck up and place the blame where it belongs, little soldier . . ."
         "What are you talking about . . ." Brown nearly snarls through clenched teeth. "There's a goddamn door blown off its hinges down there and you're telling me that you had nothing-"
         "I had nothing to do with it," the man nearly hisses at him and Brown immediately realizes he almost made a very big mistake. Stepping right next to the window, the man leans back against it, his ankles seeming to bend on hinges, and says, "Listen, I'll take credit where credit is due and blame . . . well blame's a different matter but honest, I'm just here for cleanup and moral support." He turns his head without moving and peers out the window. "You want someone to blame, go talk to him."
         Knowing what he's going to see, Brown goes to the window, inwardly wincing as he presses his face to the glass to stare out. It's just what he expected to see. Smoke and dirt and glass splattered all around. Someone dropped the bomb. There's blood all over. That's just what it looks like. Someone went and dropped the goddamn bomb. A sick churning sensation starts to form in his stomach. Stirring up the acid.
         And in the center of the mess, there's a lone figure standing in the swirling chaos, his posture ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back. He's walking toward something crumpled in the parking lot, something that looks to Brown's eyes broken and bloody, and his strides are even, casual, unhurried. The face is also eerily familiar.
         "Goddamn," Brown whispers, turning away from the window so he doesn't have to see anymore.
         "I know, it's pathetic right," the man says, pressing his face farther against the glass. Brown turns back briefly to see the glass bending like it's made of rubber as the man pushes his face further into it. For some reason the sight makes him queasy and he has to turn away. The man keeps talking. Brown forgot that this was the one that never shuts up. "I mean, he's always telling me, oh don't be conspicuous, keep a low profile and first chance he gets what does he do . . . I mean," and he throws his hands up into the air, exasperated, "maybe they didn't see that on Mars. Maybe. But hell, there were so many easier ways to get the job done and . . ." he lets his hands drop to his sides, sighing heavily. "I don't know, family's always a pain in the you know where. Wouldn't you say?"
         "I wouldn't know," Brown nearly snaps, checking Lean again. She does seem stabilized, but he's getting very nervous with her still here. She can't stay here, he knows that. If he can remedy one thing about this whole damned situation, he can get her the hell out of here and get her some medical help. Just to do something, to avoid this raging helplessness draining into him, standing here and talking over her like she's just some goddamn exhibit is causing small explosions of guilt in his psyche. Lena deserves better than this. Than all of this.
         Then for what feels like the sixtieth time, he remembers who the hell is with him. What they can do. Abilities that are bordered only by the farthest edges of the laws of physics. Spinning on the man, he demands, "Why the hell is she still here?"
         The man pulls his face away from the glass and gives him an odd look. "Well, you know," he says gently, "it's not like she can get up and walk away herself . . ."
         "Why the hell isn't she at the hospital?" and Brown does scream this time and if he had any sort of mad courage whatsoever, he'd grab the man by his collar and lift him up into the air and continue screaming right into his face. If he had any courage. Which at this moment he doesn't. He just knows what needs to be done. Which isn't bravery at all, doing what's expected of you is never anything special. He knows that. And he also knows that he has to get Lena the hell out of here. Now.
         The man's eyes narrow and Brown gets the utterly strange feeling he's staring right down into the base pairs that encode his genes. Change just one and it all goes to pot. Just one.
         "Let's try to keep a civil tone about us, shall we?" the man replies very evenly but Brown doesn't back down from his stare. He's not budging. Not on this. If there's one thing he knows he's right about tonight, it's this. She can't stay here. She needs a doctor and soon. And he'll scream at the god themselves if that's what it takes.
         "You can try and intimidate me all you want but that doesn't change the fact that she should be there and not here," Brown responds levelly. "And you can get her there in a second." His next sentence is drawn out, each word pronounced exactly, "Why is she still here?"
         "Because I'm not moving her until buddy boy over there on the floor gets his act together and gets off his ass and stops feeling so sorry for himself . . ." the man says, shrugging a little. "I've got her stable so she'll be fine in the meantime but she ain't going anywhere until he gets it through his head that we're not going to keep being his trump card. It's about time he learned to make some hard decisions and to operate under pressure."
         "For the love of . . . can't you pick a better time to teach this lesson-"
         "No," the man cuts him off. Brown finds his expression weirdly serious, like it doesn't belong on that face. "He's done this before, and I don't know what the hell his problem is, but he can't go around like this anymore. Something has to give."
         "You don't understand," Brown protests, feeling the argument dragging him under the surface. He's losing even as he stands there. "He has feelings for her, I mean I've only just met her and I . . ."
         "And you don't think I can sense that," the man shoots back. "I know exactly what he feels for her, I've known longer than you have . . . but what the hell good does it do when in the hour when she needs him the most he's on the ground whining like a child about how damn unfair the world is." The man gives a harsh laugh. "He thinks he's discovered something new by realizing that, but it's all never been fair. We always knew that. Now it's his turn to realize that and realize that he can start doing something about it."
         "Oh God, I don't believe . . ." Brown feels a headache starting to come on and rubs the bridge of his nose, wishing regeneration took care of those as well. Doesn't seem to be the case though. The utter ridiculousness of the situation is plunging daggers into his head. He doesn't need this. Lena definitely doesn't need this. "You don't see, it's you, it's . . . ah, goddamn . . ." he starts to go around the bed, realizing with a shock that Tristian hasn't moved an inch. He's turning into some grotesque statue right in front of his eyes, Brown almost expects to see moss growing on his back. Only a matter of time now. Moss and ivy. He wonders if Tristian even heard the conversation at all. If he even hears anything.
         "Dammit, Tristian . . ." Brown whispers, speaking right into his ear. His eyes don't stir. "I don't like what he's saying either but you can't let this shut you down . . ."
         "Look at him out there," the man is saying, mostly to himself, staring out the window again. "I swear he does all that for show because he knows I'm watching. Like, ooh look how impressive I can be, bet you can't be as scary as I am. And I want to say to him, hey, buddy, one time I was sixteen feet tall and had horns and foot long razor sharp claws . . . of course that was normal where I was so I guess it wasn't that scary . . . but that's beside the point, it just irritates me, you know, that whole god of vengeance descending from the skies bit, it's so overdone and he gets such a damn kick out of it that it makes me so sick . . . and he'll never admit that either, that's the part that . . . oh."
         The sudden shifting of tone in the man's voice makes Brown's head snap up. "What?" he asks. "What is it?"
         "That can't be good," the man is muttering, and he seems to be blending with the wall in an attempt to see better.
         "What's going on out there?" Brown asks again, going back over to the window.
         "You tell me," the man says to him, pointing at something happening outside. Brown follows the direction of the pointing finger
         and feels his heart jump.
         "Oh no," Brown gasps, already starting to move.
         "That anyone you know?" the man inquires, squinting more for show than anything else to get a look.
         But by this time Brown's already gone, having spun around, vaulted over the bed without breaking step and somehow managing to get out the door without going headfirst into the wall or apparently breaking his neck on the stairs. He's a motion blur, barely even leaving the rustling of paper or curtains in his wake.
         The man stares at the empty door, and then turns his head to look at the wall on his left, his gaze going diagonally down, as if following Brown's progress through the solid obstruction. Then, he seems to shrug, whistling to himself as he jauntily steps back over to the bed.
         Looking straight down, as if gazing through the floor and not sure how to sort out what he's seeing, he shakes his head and gives just a small laugh.
         "Humans," he chuckles, "just what are we going to do with you?"