- XXVI -

* * * * *
         "The party's over."
         "I don't know, I like to think that I bring the party with me wherever I go. Who wants to watch me play the Top Forty with only this spoon and a simple half filled glass of water?"
         "What do you mean?"
         "The party. You know, the one you were at. It's over. The last person just left."
         "Come on, I know somebody's got a hankering for grunge?"
         "Oh . . . yeah, I guess it would be by now."
         "Yeah, it's really funny, the last person was this guy who passed out behind the bar, I mean full face down unconscious we're talking, and he just got up and sort of staggered out the door . . . I don't think he even knew the police were there."
         "The police were there . . . what the hell . . . did anything happen, was anyone arrested, why the hell didn't you tell me . . ."
         "Geez, mellow out, don't we cover our tracks well?"
         "They were only investigating the explosion, so don't worry. All of your friends are just fine."
         "Of course if it wasn't for somebody, we wouldn't have had to cover our tracks now, hm?"
         "No . . . that's not true. You know it's not, one of them isn't fine at all. Oh God, do you know how she is, do you know?"
         "Ah . . . no change at all, as far as I can tell."
         "I said, hm?"
         "Shush . . . please don't worry, right now everything is under control. It was before we had to worry but we've got the situation stabilized."
         "But it's too late now, isn't it? I mean, the important moment, when we could have done something, that passed, right?"
         "Then do you suggest we should have given up after she had gotten drugged, simply because of a lack of foresight? Can you honestly say you should have predicted that and moved in time to stop it. Please, don't belittle your own intelligence."
         "Hell, he belittles everything else about himself, why not? Intelligence is probably starting to feel left out. Oh hell, what are we not good enough to be insulted? Fine then, pal, since if we jump in to help next time the ten foot monster jumps you."
         "Ignore him."
         "Me?"
         "Please guys, stop. Please. It's like yelling at myself in stereo, I don't . . . I don't need that right now."
         "Brooding won't make her get better faster."
         "I know, I just . . . I just need some peace and quiet right now . . . I need to think, I . . ."
         "Or you'll just stare at your coffee and try not to think about anything at all. Come on, don't try to fool something that can read the lightning in your brain . . . I keep looking for a storm and all I'm seeing are clear skies."
         "I don't . . . you don't understand, if I . . . if I start thinking about it, it's like it feeds on itself and it's all I can think about. I just go in smaller and smaller circles. And I feel . . . so empty, like I want to cry or something but . . . I don't have the energy for it."
         "Sure you do . . . where's that energy that got her to the hospital, where's the fire that threw that slimeball off of her . . . you can't just be all full of righteous rage when the situation suits it and then mope around the rest of the time, you've got to be better than . . . hey where's my coffee?"
         "Behind all those menus."
         "Oh. Oh, good. Whoa, that's quite the pile."
         "You probably shouldn't have kept making the waitress think we just sat down every five minutes or so."
         "I was thinking, you know, that maybe, that this is like after a battle, you know, where you feel like you're coming down from . . . a high, or something and nothing's as vivid and, God I hate fighting, I hate killing anything but . . ."
         "Well, the thousand dollar tip she's going to get should make up for it."
         ". . . battle it's like someone struck a match on my senses and . . . I'm alive . . . in the midst of death I'm alive but, that's not . . . here I just feel, I feel disappointed, like, I could have done more and didn't . . ."
         "Or couldn't."
         "But she still got hurt, God, she's in the goddamn hospital now . . . ah, I should be there, shouldn't I? I really should be there."
         "At the moment she's still unconscious, but if you want to go back later all you have to do is say the word and you'll be there."
         "But, how can I face her and . . . knowing that I didn't do enough, how can I look at her knowing that because I wasn't fast enough she wound up there . . ."
         "See now that's your problem, you didn't put her there, that other guy did . . . in fact you got her there faster. Doesn't that count for something? You know really there has to be a point where enough is enough . . . I mean, hell get mad at that guy for ruining your night, but don't get mad at yourself."
         "As much as I hate to agree with my brother . . . he's right. You know he's right. And yet you persist in this charade of guilt, simply because of some mistaken assumption that perfection is not something to strive for but the standard you must attain."
         "Actually, if a certain someone hadn't blown chuckles through a door, I could have brought him here and we could all have taken shots at him . . ."
         "You weren't perfect before we revealed ourselves to you, nor have you changed since . . . and yet somewhere in between this bizarre idea has struck you, an idea that you're letting run your life. Your emotions. Everything about you. Have we ever given you the impression that we expect that from you?"
         "No . . . no, you haven't . . ."
         "Though I suppose he'll heal and we can get creative then . . . hm, he's half conscious, maybe some nightmares will liven up his stay . . . nah, too cliched . . ."
         "I realized that now, now I'm representing something. Something bigger than just me or just this world or, God, it's bigger than Time even and . . . if I can't . . . if I'm not able to save my own friends then what about worlds, what about the lives that I'm going to be responsible for saving, that I'm supposed to be capable of helping . . ."
         "You do realize that microcosms don't work backwards, I hope."
         "What?"
         "Geez, everyone is mopey now, you're contagious, buddy . . . but, oh wait . . . ah, now that's a nice moment, right there. Those two really do belong together, you know."
         "It's far easier to save a million people than it is a single person. Factors become more predictable the larger your scale gets . . . for one person, there are too many variables to even begin to contend with . . ."
         "But there's just no justice sometimes, I guess. Too bad."
         "You could have saved her."
         "I can also crack the planet in half . . ."
         "Whoa, back the truck up, what the hell are you talking about? Didn't you learn your lesson from the last time you tried that . . ."
         "Don't jump in on conversations you know nothing about. Go back to rambling to yourself."
         "Heh, I should take offense to that. Except I've been listening the entire time. Nice try though, you get the home version of our exciting game just for playing."
         "You . . . you both don't understand, you're too . . . too clinical, it's all just . . . we're all the same to you."
         "Really? So my brother could have blown anybody out that door?"
         "No, that's not what I . . ."
         "Because if we're all the same then it really shouldn't matter right? Right?"
         "Goddamn it, don't twist my words, don't . . ."
         "Hell, I mean why even bother to pick a host, we'll just grab any old slob, maybe even our future rapist, since it obviously doesn't mean a damn thing . . ."
         "Shut up . . . damn you, shut the hell up . . ."
         "Listen, you know us intimately, closer than any living mortal ever will . . . but at the same time you don't know us at all . . ."
         "Enough. This isn't the time for that."
         "The boy's blocking us out, blocking out reality, if he doesn't learn now then . . ."
         "I said enough. He'll either learn, or he won't. It's not for us to forcefeed it to him."
         "God, you know, I . . . I can see that you're right, I know, I do, deep down inside, I know, but every time I try to see it your way I keep . . . I keep seeing her, just . . . lying there, all still and I . . . oh . . . oh God . . ."
         "Well, I see my opinion isn't wanted around here. Perhaps the next table over would like some outerworldly company."
         "Quiet . . . what's wrong?"
         "I almost killed him. Almost took the . . . what's happening to me, I nearly cut him in two with the sword and for a second, it seemed, it seemed like the most natural thing in the whole world. To just do it."
         "You've killed people before. Justifiably so."
         "But . . . not with the . . . sword . . ."
         "Who told him not to bring it? Who did?"
         "It's . . . it's like a symbol, of . . . of what I am and to just take it and . . . to cut someone down just . . . he wasn't even defending himself and I almost . . ."
         "Hey, if it's any consolation I don't think anyone would have blamed you . . . hell I liked that girl, I've got half a mind to go there myself and . . ."
         "Killing him with or without the sword would have had the same consequences, it's not for either of us to say whether it would have been the right thing or not . . ."
         "Come on, the bastard deserved it . . ."
         "I don't disagree with you, why do you think I did what I did?"
         "Yeah, about that . . ."
         "But, guys, it's . . . I mean how does it look, I'm the host and going around murdering people in cold blood . . ."
         "Oh believe me your blood was anything but cold in that moment . . ."
         "Stop that, that's not what I meant. How does it look?"
         "Like a man trying to protect someone he cares for very much. How would you like it to look?"
         "Gotcha there, bud."
         "But no, that's not . . . I mean, I . . ."
         "Really, you're only in competition with yourself. All those years of college have you paranoid, nobody's out there grading you. I'm not kidding."
         "Then, I . . . I am the only . . . one, aren't I?"
         "Didn't we mention this already?"
         "You're not helping . . . and yes, you are the only host."
         "Unless we've got family we don't know about. Which happens more than you might think."
         "The only one . . . I thought because you both, you both look like . . . me, but . . . why . . . why only one?"
         "Do you think we like putting even one mortal through this? You were remarkably well adjusted and once you get your head straightened out you'll be well adjusted again . . ."
         "That doesn't answer why? Why just me?"
         "Well the easy answer is that we don't need an army of you running around, that wouldn't sit too well with some of the higher ups, though we're about due to cause trouble with them soon, right?"
         "Mm . . . it's been about a million years, give or take. I suppose we should give it some thought."
         "Good, we don't want them to get too bored, the whole damn Universe gets stagnant. Goes right to pot, I tell you."
         "I can never tell when you two are . . . having some joke around me or . . . you're actually serious . . ."
         "Assume we're serious unless we're trying to be humorous. See? Simple."
         "I don't . . ."
         "But right now I'm being serious so listen . . . okay . . . you're the filter we see the world through, everything is sifted through your perceptions and in a lot of ways you define us in your all too brief tenure more than we'll ever define you."
         "That doesn't . . . there's no sense to that . . ."
         "I'm oversimplying, trust me, but . . . I thought I did a good job. You agree?"
         "You hit the essence. Which is about as good as it's going to get, unless he wants us in his head."
         "No . . . no, I don't . . ."
         "I didn't think so."
         "I just . . . I need some time to . . . to settle down, you know, God, I'm spent, I just . . . how long have we been here, it feels like forever."
         "Any moment stretched long enough can become forever. Pull it taut and only the tension will reveal that you've never left it."
         "We got trapped that way one time. Good thing is that it only takes a second to get out of. Ha. Are we going to stay here for much longer?"
         "Hm . . . that all depends on him."
         "I . . . God my back is stiff from sitting for so long . . . I think I want to stay here for a while longer, just to . . . just to get my head clear, to calm down because you're right, I'm . . . I've been reacting wrong because I'm too close . . . I really do care about her you know and seeing that it was . . ."
         "We know. You may not believe us, but we do sympathize."
         "But I do want to go back . . . just to see her, even if she's not awake . . . just to make sure she's okay . . . that's all. Can you do that?"
         "Sounds doable."
         "Good . . . in a little bit then, okay?"
         "Take your time, some of your friends are at the hospital as well . . . in case you wanted to know. But they aren't going anywhere for a while."
         "Yeah. Waiting really is hard, isn't it?"
         "It is. Probably the one aspect we all have in common."
         "Ah, it all depends on what you do with the time. Me, I'm popping out for a bit, I'll try to be back in time for the grand departure."
         "Where the hell are you going?"
         "Permission to leave, sir?"
         "Cute . . . you certainly don't need my permission. Just don't go overboard, if that's possible for you. And please don't stick me with the bill again. It does get old after a while."
         "Where he's going?"
         "Nah, the classics never age. Toodles, all, I'm off-"
         "God, why don't you two ever tell me anything?"
         "Please . . . like you're going to joyfully inform me of what happened out on the stairs between you and your attractive female friend?"
         "Ah, well, that's . . . that's different."
         "Apparently. Either way, I wouldn't worry about it, it has nothing to do with you, my brother is merely indulging in a passing whim."
         "Indulging . . . I thought all he had were passing whims."
         "Sometimes I wonder. Are you going to be okay now?"
         "Well, I . . . I still feel like garbage, like my insides are all . . . are all torn up and I can't even think about it without getting this . . . this stabbing pain in my chest . . ."
         "Perfectly natural, given the circumstances."
         "But . . . I'll be okay. In time. I will. Because, ha, I really don't have any other choice, do I?"
         "Well, you do, but I don't think it's a choice you want to make."
         "No, I don't think it is either."

* * * * *
         Bent over the sink, his cupped hands full of rubbery water, Brown wonders what the hell he's doing. The stink of liquid stained with too much chlorine batters his nostrils as he thrusts his hands toward his face, releasing the water, droplets arcing free of gravity for just one second, the world reaching out to slap him right in the face.
         "Ah . . ." he gasps, exaggerated blinking working overtime to clear his eyes, eyelashes flicking the dirt away. He shakes his head, an attempt to shake the water from his face dog style and to wake himself up. Wetting his hands again, he runs them through his hair, trying to restore some order in a country where anarchy constantly threatens to become the rule of the day. As he does so, Brown gets the chance to stare at himself in the mirror over the sink. All things told, he doesn't look bad, he hasn't really started to push the limits of how long he can go without sleep, his current record is an involuntary week, the dark patches under his eyes are only partial eclipses, the greasy texture that he feels rustling under his fingers is mostly sensation and his face hasn't started to buckle under weariness yet.
         Not like Jina's.
         He left her almost asleep, too tired to even protest his casual departure. Just going to wash up, he told her cheerfully, flashing the old Brown grin, gleaming teeth sparking out Morse code in the washed out ambiance of the waiting room. Not even his original teeth, he lost those two months into his first duty when a raider systematically snapped every one in his head. How many parts of his body tell the same story, Brown keeps expecting to stare into a mirror and see nothing but a patchwork man, fresh and smooth new skin alternating with scarred stretches screaming stories of battle. And each time he has to touch his own face, wanting to believe that the suppleness he feels under his fingertips is his actual skin and not some flesh mask stapled on, wondering perhaps if mirrors can lie. Probably, when they have a good enough reason to. Same as everyone else.
         And if Jina stared into the same mirror, would it tell her the whole story? He remembers saying something to her as he was leaving, only to find that her eyes were closed before he even reached the door. A person's face, when they're tired and about to slide off the treadmill, looks like someone went and tore out the bones underneath, there's no structure, no solidity, it's sunken and deflated, a beachball without internal air. You can almost watch it get more diminished by the second, and you have to resist the desire to run over and inject your own air, your own vitality into the person. Mouth to mouth. Brown has to suppress a smile at the sudden image of him running over to a half asleep Jina and kissing her full on the mouth. Would she even be too tired to resist? Merry Christmas, girl. It'd definitely be a present for him, too. Except he really shouldn't push his luck.
         Positioned toward the mirror, Brown makes one last attempt to straighten the aberrant strands of his hair that keep trying to defy gravity, but they just bend under the pressure of his palm and snap back to attention again. He makes a face and just sighs, turning away so at least he won't have to see it anymore. It's not like he's here to win any beauty contests. The doctors and nurses he passed in the hallways barely looked at him, he was nothing more than a grainy spectre to their busy eyes. Those who toe the line between death and life are the ones they were concerned with, someone who's erased the line completely might as well be invisible to them. What need does he have of them or they of him?
         Not that Brown minds. Hospitals have always made him slightly nervous. The illusion of cleanliness, a plaster caked over the compiled dirt and grime of humanity, festering in the walls. Even the bathroom smells too clean, passing beyond clean into a place where it's not even a smell anymore, there's no scent whatsoever. Smells are outlawed, clapped in irons and thrown into the cellar with the rest of the unwanted. Even the metal of the door feels awkward, he hesitates to even touch it, like his spotless hands are soiling it. Like a horde of cleaners are going to descend on the spot from hidden crevices and wipe it all down again, following in his footsteps, scrubbing it all away, until the walls bleed clear liquid, raw mucus seeping from scarred concrete tissue. Like they can't help it. An obsessive compulsive building. They made that mistake once, recruited someone who was borderline and when he found about the regeneration it pushed him over the edge, Brown found him curled up in the corner in a darkened room, naked and with his body bleeding from a million scrapes, all constantly healing, even as he frantically tried to sand his body down to nothing.
         And he looked at Brown and even his eyes were bloodshot, tiny cuts forming a net over the pupil, he looked at Brown and spoke in a voice that oozed desired agony, Help me. Make me stop. Help me.
         Then he started to peel the skin from his tongue, blood painting rivers down his chin. Sickened, Brown had to shoot him in the head right then. It felt like putting down a sick dog. And he called for help, waiting for the emergency team on the far side of the room, as far as he could manage, trying not to look at the gaping third eye in the man's head, red tendrils clawing at his still face. Trying not to see what it was trying to tell him, that when you uncork the bottle you're sometimes not the one who gets the wishes. Watching the hole slowly closing, praying that the team got there before he regenerated and he had to shoot him again.
         Brown doesn't even really remember how it turned out, he's not even sure why he's thinking of it now. Strange night, strange thoughts. To go with his strange, strange life. And it takes a vision seen through a prism like Jina to remind him of just how weird his life has gotten. Brown doesn't mind anymore but the sight of himself pictured through the lens of another mind, reflected in the refracted mirror of her eyes, of a man warped by the impossible, familiar enough to touch, bent by circumstance to put him a million miles away. Just another star, sending back outdated postcards, smiling faces waving in the everpresent sunshine just before someone drops the bomb. White flash. Fade to black. Real and not real. The line keeps moving. Just when you think you've pinned it down, they move it again.
         The door gives barely a squeak as he swings it open, the metal cool and bumpy against his palm. Light from the hallway stabs into his eyes, causing him to blink rapidly. Another trick they play on you. Brown's seen too much to be paranoid, there's just too much random chance circulating around, stirring up trouble. But at the same time, there's a hell of a lot of orchestrated conflict, plots baked in minds before man ever came down from the trees. He likes to think he's not at the point where he has to start planning long term. The immediacy of the present is a heady drug, a high that never wears off because it's always different, the facets face directions he can never fathom. It's something he can't get used to and never wants to, it connects him with everyone else in the world. Let immortality twist itself to suit him, he'll forge his own brand of games.
         His hand is tingling again. Brown starts off down the hallway, his boots snapping echoes off the walls. He keeps his stride purposeful, unhurried but constant, the kind that nobody ever questions. Brown has often found that if you look like you belong somewhere, regardless of how you're dressed, people will ignore you. It's only the offbeat and bizarre we focus our attention on, the mundane we might as well be blind to. His fingernails absently scratch the folds of his skin on his palm, like he's trying to drive that nagging pins and needles feeling from his hand. Like the mouth he sealed away is trying to gnaw its way loose, breathe clean air again.
         Part of him wants to whistle during his journey, but he stops himself. No need to really call attention to himself. This floor is fairly quiet, he's seen a couple of nurses flitting from room to room, hummingbirds gathering nectar for their tests, the wings never stopping. He wonders what they thought of the surprise Tristian dropped right in their laps. He almost expects to see him walk out of any of these rooms, just like he was passing through, like the room was a doorway to some other place. Tristian's a traveller in his own life, looking for a hospitable place to spend the night, his legs ever restless, his spirit pushing him on even when his body can't decide whether it wants to be bothered or not.
         Brown wants to think that Tristian is with Lena, wherever she is. But chances are the man isn't even in the hospital anymore, Brown can barely face the thought of seeing the lively girl so weak and helpless, there was a certain vulnerability to her, but it was something she understood, that she had control over and fought with. This gave her no chance and asked for no quarter, just came and took her before she even had a moment to collect her breath to scream. And to think that he was so close when it happened . . . Brown shakes himself, telling himself that madness lies that way. Tristian nearly sundered his own sanity that way, punishing himself for not being psychic. But that's the way of guilt, that stupid silly human feeling that reminds us that we're not perfect, that for all our carefully proscribed and scripted efforts to keep us and the ones we love safe, it can still sneak up and sweep our legs out from under us, causing us to hit the floor with a clenched shout, biting our lip and drawing blood. Life always gets first blood. When the doctor lifts you into the air and his gloves are stained red, life marks you then.
         He turns a corner, nodding cheerfully to the nurse at the station, who looks only slightly surprised to see him but mostly looks like she'd rather be sleeping. The lighting here is soft, green lampshades covering the bulbs set on the walls. It reminds him of a hotel, beige walls with dark trim, all right angles and a slight unavoidable dinginess that you only get when a hallway is used by hundreds of people in a day. It's all quiet now, even the air seems fresh and unused, as if he's the first person to breath here in a while. Everyone else gets oxygen but he inhales the pure stuff. He glances in the rooms as he walks, seeing sometimes drawn curtains no doubt hiding frail bodies curled in their beds like babies, sheltering themselves from the elements. We end as we begin. Brown glances in one of the doorways as he passes by and spies a middle aged woman lying on her back, head tilted slightly and mouth agape, as if trying to draw in air by osmosis. The bedsheet is covering her but even with his too quick view, her figure seems shriveled and distorted, her real body replaced by a scarecrow's when she was sleeping. Her hair is disheveled, falling haphazardly over her face, her eyes. He thinks he sees her chest faintly going up and down.
         A two second peek becomes two seconds too long when the image finally registers. Brown's neatly polished ceramic facade suffers a dry cracking and he nearly loses step. It takes an effort to keep his face pointed forward and not to pull an about face and rush back to the room. Taking a deep breath, he pulls himself together, turning yet another corner and finding himself in a lobby of sorts, windows giving him a high rise view of the street, and two elevators nestled in the wall on his right.
         Without hesitating he presses the down button firmly, casting a quick glance at the other nursing station set right across from the entrance to the floor. That nurse didn't even pay any heed to him at all, even now all he can see is the dark curls of her hair, no doubt her nose is pressed to paperwork, forms and forms and forms.
         From somewhere deep inside the bowels of the hospital, Brown thinks he hears the elevator begin to awaken, the sleeping beast riding up the shaft to swallow him. No quick monsters here though, waiting to take the elevator up here was a chore in itself and Brown isn't going to hold his breath for this one. Instead he crosses over to the window, leaning his elbows on the sill and looking out over the city. The residue of brightness is dusting the air, preparing itself for the sun's eventual return to the day, but the blotted brilliance of the streetlamps are still the only landmark to remind you that daylight even exists somewhere. They illuminate their little spaces and the few people staggering around dart from bright circle to bright circle, not willing to risk an extended stay in the jungle darkness stretching in between sanctuaries. The sill is slate, and cold. On a whim, Brown presses his fingers to the glass, immediately feeling the dry chill seeping in from the outside.
         This city hasn't changed at all. This hospital hasn't changed at all. Nor has this floor. The middle aged woman sparks in his memory again, an image kept in a dark room and suddenly revealed by the pop of a flashbulb. Brown lifts his eyes to see the buildings covering the ground below, looking like they coat the entire world. Just one city. Even the slightly dirty horizon can't seem to hold them all in. Pulling his fingers away from the glass, he leaves little ovals of condensation. They evaporate right before his eyes, melting back into the warmth of the air. The elevator still hasn't come. He wishes it would, just to get him off this floor. Any second now he expects to hear the slightly hollowed echoes of a teenage boy trying not to shout at his father. Echoes. That's all everything ever is.
         Brown knows he shouldn't have come here, not on this night, not with his worry for Lena a sodden knot in his stomach, a widening wound that even regeneration can't undo. Too many memories. His mother, afraid to go to sleep, lying in bed for hours staring at the ceiling, her eyes seemingly wet in the patchwork darkness, her tattered ribbon of a voice cajoling her son to keep talking to her, to keep her from falling asleep. But eventually exhaustion would do the work for her and Brown would stagger home, trying not to think about having to wake up in six hours to get to school, wondering how many more days of this he could take. Afraid that there might be an actual number to go with that question.
         And then came the night when the disease dissolved her mind. She babbled nonsense at him, using her own arcane language before turning away from him and whimpering softly to herself. He left her like that. The brace holding him up gave a wet snap and that was it. Brown knew then that he'd never talk to his mother again.
         Brown grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes, causing the world to twist into colors that he doesn't have names for. His vision separates, blurs and then resynchs itself, revealing the slowly evaporating night. There's nobody out there now, the whole diorama looks static, a photorealist painting of no special moment in time. Just a day in the life of a city getting ready to wake up. It may have snowed a little during the night, but he can't be sure. It's all so serene, peaceful, all the windows in the houses are dark, the streetlights stand guard against the darkness, an urban beauty is settling over it all. Brown wishes he could share this with his friends, Lena and Jina would probably cluster near the window, bantering with each other, their voices are pinballs reverberating in his head, Jina's girlish pitch matching perfectly with Lena's more measured but equally infectious tones. And Tristian, Tristian of course would keep to the other window, giving them all an indulgent smile and saying that it's all very nice, as if he's being polite, but in his eyes you'd be able to see him staring out at the sprawl of the city, maybe into the dusky sky, and dream.
         No, he shouldn't have come here. Too many ghosts trapped in the walls, spilling their sober and sometimes sad stories, transparent eyes. A night like tonight, you can see right through them. Laughter, he needs to hear honest squeals of delight, child or adult or anyone, something to invigorate him and remind him why people still bother to go on. He'd give anything to be able to tell his friends a bad joke and have them sarcastically chuckle at it, all the while giving him evil looks. But that's not going to happen now. Certainly not here. It's not banned but reduced to whispers, giggles emitted from behind fingers covering mouths, like it's something to be ashamed of.
         Here you only hear whispery breaths rustling like someone talking a walk in autumn through dry leaves. Death filtering into your lungs, molecule by molecule. His mother, prone, paralyzed by ravages of a barbarian disease gutting the proud villages in her mind, straining like something impossible heavy was sitting on her chest. Brown doesn't want to see Lena and be reminded of that, it's bad enough that he's back in this place, where five years ago he had to identify his parents' bodies before they signed the certificate and confirmed them dead. Like you're not gone before that. Like death has no meaning unless you document it.
         Brown stares once again out at the vista spread before him and wishes that his life could absorb some of that imagined peace and solitude, if only for one second. Still, he can't say that he didn't make his choices knowing what was in store for him. Or that he would make a different choice. What he said to Jina was true, he loves his work, his job, his life.
         It's only times like this when it gets hard. But that goes for all of them, in a case like this, Brown isn't special at all.
         Behind him, the ding of the elevator chime tears down his hastily erected tranquility. Inwardly sighing, he rips himself away from the beautiful view, letting the sound remind him that for all his requests for a quiet life, there are still some things that need to be done. And unfortunately, he has to do them.
         The doors are already starting to close when he reaches the elevator, apparently they aren't programmed to stay open for too long. Nearly throwing himself into the elevator, he reflects with some amusement all the times he had to do just that in order to stay alive. Those combat reflexes have some real life applications after all.
         Before the elevator can take him somewhere random, he presses the floor button, at least having the satisfaction of seeing it light up and knowing that he chose the right floor, regardless of where this actually takes him. Down, then. He settles back against the wall, next to the panel, crossing his arms behind his back and still resisting the impulse to hum a song to himself. All that music Will played, something had to get stuck in his head, it's like throwing a handful of darts at the wall, law of averages says you're going to get at least one on the board.
         Small movement on the other side of the car alerts him to the presence of someone else. Somehow Brown manages to make eye contact with a young woman in what appears to be scrubs without seeming startled or surprised. Good thing he hasn't gotten into the habit of talking to himself, vocalizing the subjects that are chasing each other around like fox hunters on the wrong scent in his head would probably be a good way to earn a visit from security.
         He gives the woman an easy smile, friendly without seeming like he's coming onto her, at least he hopes it comes across that way. Some girls take anything as a sign of flirting, but then that goes for guys as well. The girl returns the smile without really seeming to look at him, her gaze appears turned inward, she's pensive, musing on her own cadre of thoughts. Her hair is pulled back, managing the uneasy feat of being both economical and highlighting her soft features without making her face seemed stretched.
         With a drunken lurch the elevator begins the whirring descent. Brown's stomach tries to stay behind but the rest of his body convinces it to come along.
         A gentle intake of breath warns him of the incoming conversation. "Have I seen you here before?" The voice is quiet, the hint of an accent coloring the edges, touching up the black and white photograph, but still pierces the overinflated silence anyway.
         "Me?" Brown asks, placing one hand on his chest, just to make sure she's not talking about some other person in the elevator. "No, sorry," he laughs, the kind you give when someone calls your house with a wrong number, the sharing type, like you've both made the same mistake, "I'm just passing through." The silence ticks down two more floors. "Just visiting a friend."
         "Oh," she replies. Her arms are cradling what appears to be a kind of clipboard, or maybe a notebook. An intern probably, in the middle of her graveyard shift searching for some solace in conversation with someone who isn't pawing her for medication, for help, all this need pressing on her. Brown's sure that she never realized how many sick people there were in the world. He wonders what she would give to study what makes his physiology tick. She bites her lips and glances down for a moment, before looking back up at him, her head cocked slightly to the side. "I'm sorry, then, you just look very familiar."
         "It's my generic face," Brown quips, keeping his expression very steady.
         "No. No, that's not it," the girl says very seriously and he can't be sure if she's playing along or simply not wired for jokes right now. Her smooth forehead is suddenly creased in thought, like she's pondering something of utmost important. After a moment where the elevator drops two more floors, she gives a tiny shrug. Looking back at Brown, she tells him, "I hope your friend is okay."
         "Yeah . . . so do we . . ." Brown replies, ignoring the sudden urge to give in to his weariness and stretch. Letting the back of his head touch the cool metal of the elevator walls, he adds, "Honestly, it was touch and go for a bit, but . . . I think we're all right now." Even those few, vague words disturb the calm pond in his mind, sending uncomfortable ripples through his body. Brown refuses to squirm under the onslaught. It'd be like giving ground to an enemy he won't let have an inch. So much has been taken already.
         "That's good," she tells him, the conversation veering into the edge of banal, neither of them have anything to say to each other really, they're just strangers sharing the same elevator for the three minute trip, drawing some brief comfort and maybe an amusing anecdote after a rebuilding with some embellishments. Brown wonders if she's getting off at the same floor that he's getting off at. He's not really sure he wants her to, let her gradually fuzzy memories of him, the film already fading with pitiless age, be of a quiet young man riding the elevator alone one somber morning, his face imprinted with humor and a genuine sense of worry for a friend that he didn't think was going to make it for a while. Anything more than that would just spoil it for her, and Brown hates to see memories spoiled. Like food, if you leave them out for a few days without repackaging and storing, they go bad. They're not something you want anymore. The fuzzy green growth just isn't all that attractive.
         A sudden sensation of freefall rides up his spine as the floor tries to flatten him into the ceiling. He bends his knees a little to reduce the strain, hoping all his body falls back into place once the elevator stops moving. God he hates this things, and they've only gotten worse since the last time he was here. Or maybe not, he had a lot of things on his mind then, rating the quality of the elevator service probably wasn't one of them. Not that there's not a lot of thoughts trying to clog up his head now, but that's one of the beautiful things about age and experience. You learn to prioritize stuff. In this day and age, it's very much the important skill.
         An eternal second passes, though in this glorified Time capsule, the sun could rise and fall and eventually go out like a snuffed candle and he'd never know. The doors finally recede into the entryway, revealing a lobby very similar to the one he just left. Parallel evolution, it's everywhere. No escape from science.
         Brown lifts a foot to begin his step out, pausing only to incline his head and signal the girl with what he hopes in a warm but not wan smile, saying, "You have a good night."
         She returns the gesture, and her voice calls to him as he slips between the swiftly closing doors.
         "I hope he turns out all right."
         Then with a subtle roar, she's swept away.
         "I think we're too late for him," Brown replies after a moment, sticking his hands into his pockets and facing the featureless elevator door, his face eerily reflected in the polished metal, a surface not unlike liquid mercury distorting his features, warping him into something vaguely inhuman. Brown would read into that more but he never thought God was one to drop hints.
         "But . . ." and he stares at the closed doors sealing him off from the floor proper, the lights hazy wisps seemingly floating in midair, seen through frosted windows, "if the world's got any justice left, she'll be just fine."
         His words hang like fine mist in the air, carried by his spittle saturated breath. There's nobody around to hear, even though he can see shapes moving behind the doors, gliding back and forth, phantom sentries to halt his passage. A painting of something cheerfully abstract is stuck to the wall across from him, all blended colors and slashing lines, a valiant attempt to create a message of substance out of what in the end is only splattered paint on a white background. Brown can respect the effort, even if the end result just looks like an ugly picture to him. But then he never did appreciate art.
         Windows behind him offer a closer view of the city that he had seen from above. But he stays away from the windows, resisting the siren urge to go and peer out, try to pick out details, watch the clumsy patterns of the walking people, feeling like a voyeur without purpose. You can't just watch simply to watch, even the observation changes things. Physics proved that. Brown hopes that Tristian learns that finally. Given a choice between inaction and action, Brown would take the uncertainty of the latter anyday. To him, it just doesn't make any sense to do otherwise. Just the way he is, apparently. He's got a long time to figure out if he's taking the wrong approach, so there's really no hurry.
         Standing at the entrance to the floor is like facing the doors to a castle. Brown surveys it, like he's debating whether to go and scale the heights or attempt a frontal assault. So many choices. A dark shape flashes past the glass, a living shadow, no substance, just boundaries, confined to the human form, like it's some sort of curse.
         After a second he decides his course of action. He's a respectable visitor, so he'll take the front way. Besides, it's too cold to go climbing on the side of the hospital and sneak in a side window. Someone might try and shoot him down.
         The thought elicits a disbelieving grin. Sometimes Brown isn't even sure when he's kidding with himself.
         Purposefully he strides into the floor, the door making hardly a sound when he swings it open. The station is directly in front of him and a woman lifts her head up to glance at him as he enters. Out of the corner of his eye he can see a curved circle of glass hanging at an angle from the ceiling. A mirror, no doubt. The nurse can admire his firm and stately rear from that position. He has to duck his head a little to keep from laughing at that.
         Nobody says anything, though he's sure that the nurse is studying him, judging him with her eyes. He's done his best to keep his clothing neat and not appear like he just escaped from a burning building. However, Brown's found through harsh experience that you can walk into just about anywhere stark naked if you put forward the correct attitude.
         Silence curdles the air between the two of them. Doubtless she's waiting for him to state his business but Brown really has no desire to do so and no intention of letting her know. Let her think whatever the hell she wants. Fixing her with a steely gaze, he finds her own stare hardening toward him as well. The air seems to be congealing. She's about to ask him what he's doing here, he can sense it. Even the few seconds he's lingered here are too many, he should have just strode right in past her. But then she might have barked down the hall to him and demanded to know what he was doing there, daring to simply march in and stalk the halls like it's his jungle to call home. He can't have that kind of attention right now. Maybe the window would have been a better idea. Definitely be a warmer reception to be found out there.
         Then Brown remembers that he's screamed orders at beings older than the ages of everyone added together on earth, entities that could take him apart atom by atom and reorganize his physical structure into something not unlike an end table. And even though later when the magnitude of what he attempted to do would crash down on him, he would have to sit down on his bed and try to stop his hands from shaking, reach for a stiff drink that wouldn't have any effect on him, at the time it made perfect sense. Sometimes you have to damn consequences and just do what needs to be done. As a human being, he hates that aspect of his job and his life but as a soldier and commander, he knows it's necessary. As necessary as killing can be.
         The trick is to never learn to enjoy it. A certain pleasure is okay from time to time, he is only human, but when you start to pull thrills from the amorphous mass, then you've crossed the line. Gotten too close. And while Brown hates to be arrogant, this nurse isn't anything that he should be afraid of. She's nothing. A guardian that's already used up all her defenses on him, run out of spears and arrows, unsure of the usefulness of the tarnished sword she's carrying, barely able to lift the heavy point from the ground. It's shaking. He can see it.
         Her eyes blink even as his narrow and then widen again. His wipes his face clean of any expression other than a grim resolve. It's not even a battle of wills as much as Brown asserting what he's going to do.
         "Mornin'," he says, drawling his words a little, the iron core gleaming through the cushioned coating, just enough so she can see. This battle was lost before she even tried to counter. He's come too far to budge now. Brown inclines his head to the left, indicating silently the direction he's going to be heading in shortly, toward the room he needs to visit. Flattening his words out so that they'll slip through the invisible mesh cordoning off her head, he states clearly, "I'll just be a few minutes." It's not a question, he's not asking permission. He's going to go in, do what he has to do and then exit again. Let her attach whatever mystery she wants to it, that's not his concern. All that is encoded in his phrasing. Burst pipelines snaking through the air, missiles scattering distracting leaflets. The war is over. You can go home now. But it never ends.
         The nurse's eyes narrow as well, wanting to question him but unable to call forth the effort required. Horses flailing at the air before a sheer stone fortress. Brown's impenetrable, he's drawn up the drawbridge and sealed all the windows, leaving her nothing to cling to, not even a spot for a toehold. She's got no way in, and her only choice is to break off the attack while she can, or risk sliding down into the moat. And the shadows under the water are circling hungrily.
         Brown leaves her to make her own decision, nodding his head to her again, passively greeting a casual friend before spinning and striking out in his previously indicated direction. As his boots click off his steps on the polished floor, he braces himself for the ricochet of her voice to rocket down the hall after him.
         But there's only the sound of his walking, staccato birdcalls lost to eternity.
         Rooms alternate on either side like portals to other worlds. The rank smell of human waste assaults his nostrils as he passes a cart marked Soiled Linen. He tries to keep his breathing shallow, or at least vows to do so for the way back. Another window to the outside greets him at the end of the hallway, and he does feel like a commander inspecting his castle, reviewing the battlements and making sure the hordes are still at bay. Is that how all these people feel, day after day. Trapped in a house under siege, tapping on the glass just to rediscover sensation. The wardens in white with their needles and charts, roving the halls. You try to avoid eye contact, not wanting to feel the sting again. But you're here and that means they've come halfway to winning already.
         But it's not the window he's interested in, but the room next to it. Pausing at the doorway, he peeks in, pushing aside heavy folds of darkness. It's a fairly simple room, nothing extravagant, a metal bed covered in white sheets, a small table tucked into the corner, like it's trying to keep its distance, a chart stuck to the wall. A chair sits placidly in the corner nearest him. That's all the furniture, the rest is just off white walls, architecture stripped of all embellishments, four walls, a floor and a ceiling. Just a room.
         Still, the room could be empty for all he cares. The reason he's here is lying on the bed, partially shrouded by sheets, a still young man, pale and looking vaguely uncomfortable. An IV runs from his arm into a bag hanging from the top of his bed. The clear liquid inside is almost totally drained. No doubt they'll be along to change it soon. He'll have to be gone by then, no need to overstay his welcome anymore than he has to.
         The man's eyes are half closed and there's some kind of brace around his head, apparently keeping his jaw tightly shut. A tube pokes into his nose, running to a tank standing upright next to his bed.
         Brown takes a step into the room, scuffling his feet a little. It's hard to keep a grim smile off of his face. On the way here he set up a stage on an unused grassy lot in the back of his head, a rickety wooden thing but enough to let the poor players strut and rehearse how this is going to go. All the words are down on the script, pencilled in his cramped but fluid handwriting, the bouncing ball all ready to kick off the show.
         All he needs is the rest of the cast to show up.
         And here he is.
         Brown wants to say something cliche like No, please, no need to get up, but at that moment the young man's eyes flutter, opening a little, flickering over toward his visitor and then beginning to close again. Relegating Brown to dream status, it seems. Not that he can blame him either, if their positions were switched Brown would probably be in a bit of denial too.
         Then the man's eyes open wide, and Brown can almost hear the pieces snapping into place. This is no dream. This man is no figment. Even with the eyes cloudy and slightly glazed, it's like Brown can see right into his brain.
         And he knows that no introduction is necessary at all.
         "Hey there, Carl," Brown begins in a too friendly fashion, like when you're talking to someone simple. Keep all the words short, never tug the smile from your face. The only thing he's not doing is talking loud, Brown figures he'll be more effective if he keeps to an evenly level tone of voice. It'll be more frightening that way.
         "Heard you were laid up here, thought I'd stop and pay you a visit. Yes sir, nice place you got yourself here . . ." Brown remarks, sliding his hands into his pockets and making a slow circuit of the room, examining it like it was the most opulent of mansions. "All the trimmings, good service . . ." he wanders to the window, rubs the fabric of the curtains between two fingers, feeling the gritty coarseness. Letting it drop, he points at Carl, "Three square meals a day, I bet, huh?"
         Carl isn't answering, his eyes seem ready to pop out of his head and he's thrashing a little. Brown can see that he's been restrained, probably to avoid further damage to himself. What Brown saw in the parking lot was fairly messed up and while he looks better now, a lot of it was due to splattered blood, the man looks very much diminished, nearly shrunken on the sheets, like the bloodloss took part of him with it, left it there on the asphalt to be hosed away into the gutter by the maintenance crew.
         "Yeah," Brown notes, clasping his hands behind his back, sliding his feet on the floor as he paces back to the doorway, looking up at the ceiling as if expecting to find a skylight, "it's some setup you got here, Carl my boy." He stops at the head of the bed and grins wickedly down at the man, who merely stares back at him, caught in the glare of Brown's gaze. "Almost worth getting your ass kicked to get here, hm?"
         Carl makes a small noise, a muffled denial, a squeak of a protest, Brown can't tell and he really doesn't care. Taking a step to his right he reaches over and grabs the chair, dragging it across the floor over to the other end of the bed, setting it with a scraping grind so that the seat sets him right near Carl's head. The man's eyes flicker to the side, trying to keep Brown in his sight, like something terrible is going to happen if he takes his eyes off the other man for even a second. Something terrible might happen, Brown hasn't really decided yet. He's always liked to wing matters like this. Spontaneity is definitely underrated sometimes.
         "But I'm not here to talk about that," Brown continues cheerily, smoothly stepping around the back of the chair and plopping himself down so that his face hovers scant inches over Carl's. The many cuts and bruises peppering his face are clearly evident now, a map to the events of the night, showing everyone where he's been. But it takes a certain kind of cartographer to read such a topography. The doctors can't decode it, but Brown can.
         "We're going to talk about you . . ." he says, punctuating that last word with a playful poke at Carl's chest. His face scrunches up in pain but he makes no other sound. "You're probably wondering how I found you here . . . you're probably wondering what I'm doing here, more importantly, you're probably wondering what the hell I'm going to do to you."
         Brown rests his elbows on his thighs and folds his hands together. "Boy would you like to know, I'm sure. But," and he appears to reflect on this for a second, "I'm not going to tell you. Sorry," and he sounds almost contrite, even shrugging his shoulders, "that's just the way it's going to be. It's not like you're in much of a position to protest, hm?
         "So . . ." Brown continues, tapping the mattress of the bed, "let's talk about tonight," and his voice becomes even quieter, a deadly tone, "specifically, what you did." His eyes narrow, as if trying to tunnel right into Carl's brain, "Carl, I know what you did. Tristian knows. Jina knows. None of us, suffice to say, are very happy with that."
         Carl's eyes focus soberly on Brown, there's no expression that he can read there, a passive acceptance perhaps. Brown can't ever imagine how the man didn't expect to get caught. At a party like that, did he think they were all going to stay as blind as they were. Arrogance probably. The same cold arrogance that allows him to return Brown's brittle stare with a visage not unlike that of ice water rippling on a calm surface.
         "I first met Lena tonight," Brown tells him, his tone never wavering, even when the images of the girl seem to try and overwhelm his head, "and that was all it took for me to care about her. She's a great girl, a good friend, I could tell that right off the bat. A first impression like that is rare, don't get me wrong," he wags a finger at the prone man, "it doesn't happen all the time. Take you, for instance." A frozen smile spreads across his face. "I met you tonight and frankly I don't give a damn what the hell happens to you."
         Carl blinks, as if water has been splashed on his face but otherwise makes no other sound. Brown isn't sure whether he's not understanding or he's merely curious. Maybe he thinks Brown can't do anything other than sit here and lecture him. He'd be very wrong if that was his impression.
         "Is that a bit callous?" Brown remarks offhandedly. "Yeah, I'd say it is, I mean, I'm not normally like that, ask anyone I'm a sweet lad." He flashes a sickly insincere smile to prove his statement before continuing, "But I saw what you did to Lena. She's in this hospital now, fighting, all because of you." The smile has faded from his face, blown away like sand in a brisk wind. "How could you?" he asks quietly, rhetorically.
         He holds the other man's stare for a second, trying to find some sorrow or apology there glistening in those orbs. If it's there, Brown can't find it.
         "How could you?" he asks again, more intensely this time, his open hands asking questions of the air. "It wasn't even . . . you didn't even want Lena," his voice is becoming more heated, "I figured it out on the way here . . ." he's speaking in short bursts, machine gun fire strafing the trenches, "Jina went and got the drinks you messed with, it was her you wanted, wasn't it?" The lack of response is all the answer he desires. Before he walked in, he had known. "And you must have seen Lena acting strangely funny, too drunk and realized that something had gone wrong along the way . . ." Brown's voice is suddenly tight, "and yet you took her anyway. Was that to make up for the loss? Not want to let an opportunity just pass you by? Did you just pretend it was Jina . . . did you cheapen it that much more?" Brown's voice is rising, a storm choking the air, humidity a damp cloth pressing down on both of them. Somewhere a machine is beeping regularly. His breath is hissing through gritted teeth, too rapidly, it takes some effort to slow down and relax. But he can't relax. Talking is doing no good, he's not relieving pressure just creating more.
         Calm down, Joe. Just calm down.
         He bows his head, resting it on his clasped hands, taking a few deep breaths before lifting his head back up and resting his chin on those hands.
         "How much do you remember?" Brown asks deliberately. "Do you know how you got here . . ." something frightened clatters in Carl's eyes and he can almost see a familiar face reflected there, "oh you do, all right. You do." He smiles, somewhat satisfied at that. The memory appears to be causing Carl to tremble slightly, the mattress is rattling against the metal frame of the bed, a gentle tapping. For the first time, Brown wishes he could have been there to see it happen. "Good. Because I want you to remember, we protect our friends.
         "The funny thing is though," and Brown calls up a neutral smile to label his face, "I'm sure Lena won't remember any of it. She's going to wake up in a hospital and not have any idea how she got there. Just vague memories of a night forever lost to her now. Because of you. And maybe that's fair, maybe she deserves to have the bad stuff blocked out while you get to remember every sordid detail. Maybe someone could call that mercy. Or justice. Or both." Brown gives a somber shrug. "I don't know, that's not my call."
         He suddenly leans back and stretches, his arms reaching for the ceiling, his body quivering with imposed tension. Then at once he relaxes, snapping back to the same position as before, his face bearing right down on Carl. He seems to be studying the other man, who is trying not to look uncomfortable under the scrutiny, a pitiless desert sun radiating down to him in merciless waves. Carl only partially succeeds. Even that seems to be an effort. But he never turns his head away or backs down. Whatever delusion holding Carl up is strong indeed, it's gotten him this far and kept his sanity intact. Brown has no desire to drive anyone insane, no matter how deserving they are, but he very much wants to illuminate some hairline cracks that Carl might not have noticed. Just as a public service.
         "Out of curiosity," Brown comments after some calculated reflection, like they're old friends talking over coffee, "did you ever wonder what happened to the second drink? You laced two of them, did you think that Lena drank both? Did it ever occur to you while you were . . ." his voice chokes for a second and he has to bow his head and swallow before he can regain his speech. "It was me," he says, recovering, a sinister smirk flowing over his face like liquid nitrogen. "I got the other drink and drank it right down. Which was stupid of me, I let my guard down, I of all people should have known better but . . .
         "And yet . . ." he continues, smiling even broader as Carl begins to realize the implications of that, spelling it out just in case, "here I am, taking time out of my busy schedule to sit and chat with you. How about that?"
         Brown stands up suddenly, towering over this small man. "I got better," he says with obvious mirth. "And you want to know why, Carl? Because I didn't join the Army and didn't bother to write home for five years, I went somewhere else. Somewhere you can't even imagine, the only man who can even conceive of it is Tristian. And that should give you an idea of what class you're dealing with now."
         The man's eyes are very wide now and his skin has taken on the color of old milk. Brown hates the fact that a part of him is enjoying this, but has to go with it just the same.
         His fingers run along the IV line connecting the bag to the shunt in his arm. "I want you to understand something, Carl. There's nothing stopping me from killing you right now." His two fingers cup the tube, squeezing it a little. Its smooth surface barely resists the pressure of his hand. Carl tenses, seemingly straining against something. Brown keeps his voice very calm, almost detached. "I've killed people before, you know." Slowly, almost lazily he glances down at Carl. "And they'd never catch me, I could walk right out of here and out into the street and even after they found your body they'd never be able to find me."
         His smile is a razor's slash across his lips. "I don't exist anymore, Carl. I'm a nonperson, I have no house, no records, nothing to connect me to anything. They wouldn't even know where to start. I want you to know that, Carl, because I want you to know that there's nothing to stop me from doing it right now."
         Brown's hand cradles the delicate IV for a second more before letting his hand drop heavily to his side. With only the slightest of sighs, he tells the man, "But you don't deserve to die. You did a horrible thing and for every second Lena suffers, I hope to God you suffer ten more . . . but killing you isn't right. It'd be an abuse of power. And, frankly, that's why we're all in this hospital tonight."
         He pivots his body so that he's standing over the man. Carl seems oddly calm, like he's resolved himself to die anyway, still bracing himself in case Brown is only kidding. Brown's a little disappointed, he had hoped for kicking and screaming, maybe a good wetting of the pants. But the moment for that is past, Tristian's friends got to indulge in that sequence and all that's left for Brown to do is the clean up. It's not a job he particularly relishes but he's not going to shy away from it all the same. Sometimes followup can be just as satisfying in its own way.
         "But . . . whatever happens to you," Brown says softly, "I want you to remember this little talk. And what it means. Because . . . I'm not alone and it doesn't have to be me. There's a lot of us out there, and we're all faceless, Carl, we could be anywhere . . ." for effect he lets the sentence dangle, legs kicking frantically at air while the abyss beckons.
         "And we'll be watching. Count on it."
         Brown doffs an imaginary hat at Carl, shifting into a mock salute before simply stating, "You try to have a good day now," and spinning on his heel in one smooth, almost practiced motion to stride cleanly from the room, leaving only the echo of his footsteps to scatter the air.
         He immediately makes a left upon exiting the room, but only takes three steps before coming to a halt. All the noises around him are muffled, a world encased in cotton. The room directly across from him is empty, it's all gone dark. He wonders if the person was able to leave under their own power, if they've even gone that far at all. Brown's glad it's quiet, he remembers how it was one time when he was visiting his mother, someone down the hall was having a heart attack or something, and it was controlled bedlam. Doctors and nurses running all over, spitting out commands and orders in a language that he could barely even follow. Only about half of the words sounded familiar, like some weird combination of speech and slang, slapped together, evolved over time by necessity. Alarms going off, a dispassionate voice declaring a code red, Brown was almost seventeen at the time but it frightened him like he was four years old and it was thundering and lightning out. A presence was wandering the halls that night. Death's shadow kept passing over them. Like he could feel the person's life leaking out of them even through the walls.
         He shudders a little, the memory strewn in with the affairs of the night being momentarily more than he could handle. Brown's not sure how much of what he said back there he believes, he's not sure he's done anything to help at all. Not sure if anything will wind up changing. For a man like Carl, it might already be too late. But he had to try, it just had to be done. Someone had to say the words.
         "Honestly, I thought it was a little melodramatic, myself."
         Brown just about pulls a muscle trying to not leap into the air. He does wind up about four steps away from where he was standing, nearly on the opposite edge of the hallway. If he trips he'll wind up facedown on the bed in the other room. In the process he does manage to turn himself around, identifying the voice as coming somewhere from behind him.
         But all that's there is his own shadow.
         The fluorescent lighting panels from above give the hallway a washed out feel, and his shadow suffers from that, hardly being substantial at all, more wisp than wraith, exaggerating his movements with a liquid starchlike consistency.
         "People like that, you've got to be blunt, none of this dancing around your meaning that you love so."
         Two holes have appeared in his shadow where his eyes might be. Brown tenses when he sees that, not really believing his eyes. But he's starting to recognize the voice now, a raspy timelessness, archly alien and oddly familiar at the same time.
         "Just come out and say it . . ."
         A crescent shape laid on its side forms where the mouth should be. Brown has the sudden absurd thought that he's being haunted by the spectre of Gumby. The face looks too generically cheerful for the words he's hearing to be exuded from that mouth.
         ". . . if you ever even look at a girl ever again, we're going to have someone blow your brains out. Simple, right?"
         "I'm only human," Brown replies with a dismissive shrug, the phrase having more meaning right now that he ever considered it would. The fact that absurdities like this don't even surprise him anymore scares him just a little. You know you're going downhill when you start taking stuff like this for granted.
         The shadow seems to be gaining solidity, like an embossed statue on the wall of some ancient temple. The smooth shadow features are melting into finer lines, plates shifting into the contours of a real face.
         "Never give anyone room to interpret what you're saying, they always get it wrong." The form seems to be peeling itself from the wall, tendrils of shadow sticking to it. Brown wonders if his shadow will still be there when it's done. He has no desire to become Peter Pan, even if the analogy is probably more apt than he'd like to admit.
         Shimmering flickers of pale light dance around the figure as it pops clear from the wall. Tristian's face stares back at him, wearing a goofy grin like he just walked into a door and he's hoping that nobody noticed. He makes a great show of dusting himself off, hands whisking his opposite arms. Brown's struck by how sometimes they move like they're made out of rubber. But then they don't have bones, or anything solid.
         A sudden thought makes him glance down the hall but there's no movement from the nursing station. He hopes that it doesn't want to leave with him, that might raise more questions than he wants to answer.
         "It's just a matter of making life easier for yourself, really," the man finishes, giving Brown a tight smile, eyebrows going up, hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels a little. "So, how are you doing?"
         "I'm just great," Brown responds neutrally, keeping his voice low, trying to find any movement out of the corner of his eye from down the hall. "I've started to realize what a world of good a lack of sleep will do. Maybe I'll try it more often."
         "Always worked for me," the man tells him offhandedly, craning his neck around to stare into the shadows of the room Brown just vacated. Brown takes a second to glance around the man to see if his actual shadow is still there. It is, thankfully. "How's our little monster?"
         "I didn't really ask him about his health and wellbeing," Brown notes dryly, casting another look down the hallway. He doesn't like this at all, but they always do this to him. Best case scenario someone wonders how he brought a friend along, worst case the thing is making him invisible and inaudible so it looks like Brown is only talking to thin air. Which would give him a nice ticket to the psychiatric ward for the night.
         "Ah well . . . I'm sure he'll be just fine . . ." the man says, turning away like he's bored of the subject already. It seems to have no attention span at all but Brown knows by now that it's just a feint, for some reason the act appeals to its sense of humor. Brown doesn't bother to try and rationalize it anymore, these things are operating on a level he could never hope to approach. "Tristian's not in the hospital, I think you should know."
         "No?" Brown asks casually, suspecting that already but willing to take whatever information it'll choose to feed him. He really needs to talk to Tristian, the two of them probably have much to discuss. "You happen to know where he is?" Being blunt with it sometimes is the only way to get it to tell you anything, like one of those fortune teller machines, you just keep feeding quarters until you hear what you want to hear.
         "Yup, just left him," it seems distracted again, crossing over to the window and staring out. It's not making a shadow at all, unless that's some trick of the light. "He's at some diner somewhere. Nearby I guess."
         "I should probably go talk to him," Brown mutters to himself, taking a step back from the other man, who by now is staring intently into Carl's room, his face an odd amalgamation of human curiosity and alien dispassion. Like the features just don't add up. Foreign eyes, human mouth. The lines on his face aren't speaking his language.
         "Lot three, parking space number two forty three," the man says suddenly, slipping his hands into his jacket pocket.
         Brown stops in his tracks fast enough to hear his boots squeak on the floor, an animal slamming into a corner. Wincing a bit, he quickly risks a glance down the hall to see if anyone has noticed. There's no movement. But it won't be staying that way for long. "What?" he asks slowly, still trying to keep his voice level. It seems to get a kick out of trying his patience but if he gets mad this'll just take longer.
         The man pivots on his heel like someone built ball bearings into his foot, an easy smile spearing his face, not at all matching the ageless intensity of the rest of his face. "Keys are in the ignition. I hope you haven't forgotten how."
         "No . . . I . . ." Brown's used to adapting quickly to a rapidly shifting situation but this is happening too fast even for him. Even in the drowsy slowness of the hospital, life's whizzing by him. He needs a second to absorb it all.
         Fortunately time is something he has a lot of now. After what he's sure appears to be a million ridiculous expressions running amok over his face, he finally says, "I'm not even going to ask," vowing silently to just accept it. He'll yell at them later, he tells himself. Not like he's ever going to do that.
         "Oh and I was so hoping you would," the man replies with sickening glee, giving his hands a small clap together, the sound resounding like a gunshot in the liquid silence. His face switches back to an utterly serious expression, just as much a mask as all the others have been, but with a suddenness that Brown still finds unnerving. What are they like when it's just the two of them? He's not if he ever wants to know. "Go on, get out of here," he tells Brown dismissively, waving an idle hand at him, the wrist flopping up and down like it's been broken. Without another word, he then turns back to the window, apparently gazing out at the city, acting like everything else has suddenly ceased to exist for him.
         But Brown's fairly sure the man can still see him, is probably even reading his thoughts like a water logged newspaper, finding meaning in the ink washed runon print, slurred words and washedout paragraphs. God, it makes his scalp itch. However, Brown realizes that the fastest way to put an end to that sensation is to get the hell out of here. Which is exactly what Brown plans on doing.
         "Thanks, I guess . . ." Brown murmurs, backing away a few more steps before spinning and striding away as fast as he can without outright running. Something still doesn't feel right about all of this. Nothing they ever do is purely out of generosity. They're leading him around, he knows, but for what reason? Brown hates not knowing. But he hates hanging around them without Tristian even more. He can always figure it out later. And who knows, maybe for once they've just being kind.
         But he doubts that very much.
         His footsteps clatter in a steady drumbeat, tribal chants filtered through urban terrain, before fading out altogether.
         "No problem," the man says distantly, as if daydreaming along with the awakening city. Then a childish smile creases his face. "But I hope he brought gas money. Unless he doesn't want to go more than half a mile."
         His low laughter bubbles like the sound of marbles being emptied from a sack onto a wooden floor, growing louder with each successive second. The light beginning to stream through the dust smeared window from the breaking day appears to pass right through his body. The phantom of the hospital, come to pay his respects.
         "Geez, sometimes I'm just too much fun for my own good."
         And then he fades out altogether, like he's just one of the spectres haunting the city's nightly dreams.