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He already regretted his decision to come to the residence of the suspect. Everything about the building made him uneasy. The damp air, the harsh smell of chemicals assaulting his senses with sharpness that scraped at his throat, like a clawed beast, making his lungs twist, squeezing a wheezing cough from within. Warped corridors seemingly stretched for miles, as doors flickered before hazel eyes, straining them to the point of tearing up, rough fingers quickly wiping the moisture, leaving him to stare and search for the right number, written in rust on a top of crimson wood.
His need for a statement was far more important than his need for comfort. A word from Michael Shelley, ex archival assistant, was worth its weight in gold. Any information, any description of work made by Gertrude would surely create a new lead, new idea for a small pattern of suspects. He just needed to pry for it, twist the man's tongue enough to let something new drip past his lips. It worked the last time of Michaels visit, he warned Jon, warned the entire institute about Prentices' pre-planned attack. Even though the words of warning sounded like disembodied mumbling of a man gone mad. But if Jon was honest, madness was a few steps away from a mess of a drugged mind belonging to Shelley.
He took a deep breath, face wrinkled in disgust as a sharp smell of gasoline seeped under one of the doors in a thick puff of smoke. A shaking hand, gloved in burnt skin, quickly pressed a scarf to his nose in a futile attempt to savor himself from smells of unknown substances. Clanking of his heels made his heart race, throwing him into cold sweat. Yellow walls suffocated the last bits of air left within the space. Booming of music, screams of people and barking of dogs rang in his ears as numbers got closer and closer. Each door became more disheveled, and graffitis scattered around the hallways in neon splashes of color, slowly growing into strange silhouettes that curved in on themselves. His teeth clicked as a piece of glass cracked under his shoe, his eyes settled on the trash that lay on the floor in such an array of colors, that it looked like an art piece, rather than a clump of garbage. Something sparkled on the surface of a can that rolled with each small gust of air. The holographic hue of the substance looked too familiar, ringing in his ears as a distant memory of mayhem unleashed upon city streets. It made hairs on the back of his neck stand up, as the realization creeped in and attacked him with a new wave of anxiety, making his movements stiffer and rougher with each thought.
Twisting deceit was so close he could practically breathe it in if he inhaled too hard. He knew that it would've been a better idea to wear a hazmat suit, or any protective equipment better than a wool scarf and a pair of cheap knitted gloves when visiting contaminated buildings. But he still came there, rocking the most absorbent and clingy cloth known to a man. The Spiral knew how to make something that would keep addicts in their clutches for a while. It knew that it was better to make something addictive so easy in consumption that it wouldn't take time to consume it fully. Just a touch of sweaty skin, a small swipe on the surface of the lips, or a quick inhale. That was enough for the dust to cling, dissolve into your system, possibly contaminating your surroundings, putting everyone at risk. He saw reports of families, small apartments, entire facilities going down because of it. One bag was enough to destroy dozens of lives. Such power was scattered all around, it made him tremble, as he just realized the extent of the situation, of possible missteps. But he still decided to push through.
Fixing the scarf on his face he got closer to the door completely covered in paint, stickers and doodles. His hand hesitated before pressing on the doorbell, hearing no sound behind the walls. He waited, nervously tapping his foot trying to calm his nerves, eventually deciding to knock. But the action didn't seem to provoke any movement from the resident. Archivist slowly rubbed his nose bridge,as disappointment in his own expectation radiated through his tired eyes. To trust an addict, a bloody dealer, and to expect him to live in an apartment rented years before. Stupidity at its finest, naivety of a newborn, but it kept him still and quiet, like he was caught on a hook. Waiting. Listening. Attention dulled down the buzzing sound of the apartment complex, making tiniest sounds up close much more noticeable. Whistle of wind, clanking of a can and barely noticeable rustle behind the crimson wood. He heard a slight click of a lock, eyes snapping to a golden handle slowly turning just to open up a small gap behind the door.
His blood ran cold. The eyes that met him made his insides writhe in panic as any coherent thought in his mind froze out of sheer disturbance. Amusement was crinkling the dark skin underneath dilated pupils, eyes bright in the shadows, forming an image of smile invisible to the eye. Ex-assistant poked his head out more, a frizzled mess of curls joined the chaos of color for just a second, before he fully disappeared inside with no word said, leaving the door open for the long awaited Archivist. And like a victim of anglerfish, Jon followed him, even though every inch of his body screamed to get away, to run. He took a deep breath, though the air he swallowed was hot and disgustingly moist.
A single step brought him out of the cacophony of colors, textures and sounds to a heavy darkness, filled with nothing but a white noise of washing machine. Its loud thuds banged across his temple with ferocity of scorned drummer, drawing most of his attention to the flickering light of the washroom. Trash and clothing scattered across the room, forming shadowy clumps haphazardly thrown on the floor. The soft shine of glittering substance danced on the surfaces of furniture and walls, it made him hold his breath more often, as the thin layer of wool was pressed closer and closer to his face. He heard the creaking sound of dozens of rusted springs, as a grotesquely thin form of a man settled right in the middle, petting the old fabric with newfound interest.
"Hello, Archivist." Michael dragged every syllable as a smile of amusement stretched across his face, scraping his teeth as something seized his muscles for a second before releasing him with a breath. "Nice to see you again." Michaels eyes kept an uncomfortable amount of eye contact with Jon, but his eyes never seemed to fully focus as his pupils constricted and dilated at different pace each. A giggle formed in ex-assistants lungs and Jon's eyes saw every move of Michaels ribcage, as it passed upward settling in his throat and releasing with a sound that scraped at his mind like rusty nails on a glass.
"You too." All that was mustered by him, as his eyes ran around the room, his attention seemingly unable to settle no matter how much effort he put into it. His hands trembled as his fingers fidgeted with every breath taken.
"Take a seat, won't you? It doesn't seem comfortable to stand for this long, Archivist." He smiles wider, hands brushing a place but further from itself.
Jon blinked at the question, eyes glued to the seat, as small specks scattered with bits of dust at the movement of a pale hand. His mind kept repeating the threat of ingestion, rewinding and looping it like a broken record. Its edge dulled with each repetition. Anxiety melting away as he looked at the man, the soft sparkles and the scattered piles that moved with each unconscious step taken by him. Within seconds he was by Michaels side, his stare connecting with an unfocused gaze of blue eyes. Michaels soft smile spread wider, his fingers running the distance between them just to touch the texture of a fold poking under his knee. He giggled like a child, satisfied by satiated curiosity. The question that lingered escaped into the air with a slow hum of his words.
"What is the purpose of your visit?" Fingers crawl up his knee slowly making their way towards his lap, palm going up his thigh as small specks smear underneath it in a streak of iridescent glitter, it's magenta hue ringing alarms in his head, but his eyes still connecting back to the soft hazy eyes of a man before him.
"I wanted answers. I wanted…to know about..about." Words would splatter against the silence as he could not for the life of his remember the questions he ever so diligently memorized days, weeks, before this meeting. It felt like a betrayal, a stab in the back delivered by his own reflection. "What did you do? What, what does all of this mean? The Archive, The Spiral, Fairchilds, Lightner, Jane…I want to know." His breath hitched at last, as his eyes circled the room settling on a strangely familiar pile by his side of the sofa.
Michaels hand went up, gently stroking the fabric of his coat, as his other arm released Jonathan's grip on the scarf that was pressed into his face. His chest rose and fell as a soft chuckle made its way out of his mouth, sounding more like a cough than a laugh. Pale fingers entangled with his own, seeming like they belonged to a ghost in contrast with dark and warm toned skin. The shimmer on it spread with a soft touch of moist skin, as the hand on his chest left to help the strange ritual, pulling his sleeve and grazing fingertips along the puffy scar left by an unfortunate encounter. The deceit scattered and seeped into his system, dilated his eyes and made his head spin, as his body melted into the stiff cushions and unbearably gentle touch.
"I wouldn't know, Archivist. And if I were you, I would stop this silly game before you will reach its miserable end." Words Michael says are quiet and slow. His attention is way out of place to focus and feel alarmed at their meaning as his eyes still follow the pile, each one of its slight movements. The curves of its shape, the slight rise and fall and glint of its dark eyes in the shadows. He knows who this is, he knows who this pile was before, but he doesn't remember the name tied to the expression he can barely remember.
Michaels hands gently stroke his cheek, as the man's body is pressed flush against his side. He can feel breathing against his face, he can taste the sweet taste of Michaels breath so close to him. People who used Deceit always smelled sweet, like sugar coated ashes, like delusion at its finest. They smelled sweet as their minds gave way, slowly melting as time went by, as the shimmer spread eating away at the city with newfound fury. Autopsies smelled like opening a box of chocolates, cremations spread a nauseating smell of apple pies, and morgues became a hellscape of a candy shop. He saw it all, he breathed it. But no matter how badly the rot ate away the flesh, no matter how gruesomely the withdrawals contorted the human nature, no matter how it replaced the regular with complete and utter madness. No matter what, he couldn't resist its allure.
His head softly nuzzled into a shoulder, as women's hands played with his hair, curling each strand onto each unaffected finger. She laughed, her voice familiar to the point of causing pain, her eyes still a part of a pile that he was slowly melting into. Her name was at the tip of his tongue. As an ambitious smile curled her lips, her hazel eyes gazed at Michael with the same empty look. It looked similar to the face she made on her resume. Helen Richardson was a career woman at some point of her miserable life.
It clicked.
Bubbling in the pit of his stomach it almost spilled over into a fit of choking noises as he felt like bile was about to spill all over. But all that escaped his throat was a laugh, maniacal and strange, it scraped his throat raw. It felt euphoric, making him melt into a pile more and more as both Michael and Helen slowly joined his fit, and their laughs echoed in giggles and chuckles, hysterical cackles and choked up sobs of laughter spread across the rooms, emanating from piles and piles of semi-conscious bodies. It struck him with fear, but as he felt the warmth of bodies beside him, as Michael's face softly nuzzled into the top of his head and Helen gently embraced his side, the feeling became constant but grounded. It made him numb. It made him forget. The only thing he could do is be worried about something he couldn't recall, and the only thing he could see were silhouettes of unknown creatures so similar to bodies he saw, to stories he heard, to horrors he lived through.
Knock broke the cycle.
Dozens of eyes followed the source, the wooden door, which hid away the light from the corridors. Knocking ran around the room, faces shifted with new emotions. Fear, irritation, excitement, need, boredom, indifference. Different colors on different faces, with the dull glow of something beneath the eyes being the only thing uniting them all.
Michael stood up, making slow steps towards the door. He fiddled with locks, opened it just a slightest bit, bright light hitting those unfortunate laying on the floor. Second later the door opened fully letting a new face painted with anger. They made their way through piles, shocked gaze wandering over bodies and their state. When their eyes settled on him it felt like they found a target. They walked towards him, hands balled into fists, trembling with something trying to escape from their lips. Aggression seeping from every movement made Michael and Helen tense up. As the man approached Jon Michael began to stunt his anger, his hand slipped over toned back, gently grazing clothed shoulder with a soft touch, a soft smile still present as his head slowly fell upon the other one.
"Someone's friend is really cranky today." A finger circled a spiral on the man's chest as he took a deep breath, and slowly relaxed his hands before gently pushing Michaels poking hand away from himself.
"A bit. Just don't like my roommate getting blasted without my supervision. Ya know, first time nanny duties." He nodded towards Jonathan, the movement overwhelmed him with a familiar sense of annoyance and irritation.
"Oh, don't be such a downer. It's good stuff and he is alright. Plus he is a big boy, right? " Helen giggled right into Jon's ear before her head fell into his lap.
"Yeah, but I better not leave him alone. God knows what he might do. Plus, my boss is gonna rip ass if I don't get him back." The man adjusts his mask and goggles. The gear seems funny so Jon laughs.
"Leaving this soon? But we just started." Michael drapes himself all over the man, hands involuntarily inching towards exposed skin, just for them to get softly papped away. "And how do we know if we can trust you…what was it?"
"You can. Jon knows me, we work together." Tim looks at Jon one more time, eyes desperate for any answer. Without it he just spills something with a sudden flare of confidence. "I know someone from here too. His name is Gabriel, I was at his clay exhibition around…two years ago?" He squints his eyes as if trying to aim at a target in a game of darts.
"Oh, OH! Tim Stoker! I know that one!" Helen laughed as she pointed her finger at Tim, smile ecstatic. Tim's eyes were wide, as his hands trembled slightly.
"Quick one! Well I guess we know our buddy." Michael smeared shimmer all over strangely mat skin of Tim's sideburns, face turning from jolly to threatening."And we hope our friend will be alright by his side."
Helen nods, falling on the floor and barely lifting herself into upright position. Jon tries getting up, but he wobbles just sitting with his back straight. Tim breathes out, getting closer just to sling Jon's arm over his shoulder and starting to lift him up to assist him in walking.
"Safe driving, buddies." Both Helen and Michael wave as they leave the building, a threat ever so present as they make their way out of the building and into a car. As they drive away from the district they stop somewhere not even passing the border, settling in a hotel where Jon falls asleep as Tim begins a cleanup according to protocol.
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Jon wakes up as a sudden blast of cold water hits his face with a wrath of a man scorned. He shouts arms raised, as his body shakes from cold, mind completely awake and aware, as he sees a positively piseed off face of his coworker.
"Are you bloody insane?!" Jon shouts as a sudden hosing down stops after a few seconds of his screams.
"Are you bloody sober?" Tim asks in a mocking tone before blasting him one more time and setting the showerhead down to look at him with irritation. "It would be a bummer to blast your stupid face again."
"I am, in fact, sober, Tim. But thank you for your concern." He wipes water from his face, scanning the surrounding space of a hotel shower.
His eyes stop at Tim who looks like a crime scene cleaner, all geared up, in a flimsy hazmat suit, two layers of gloves and a godawful mask. It made Jon chuckle, which in turn made Tim clutch the showerhead closer to himself. Tension was sudden, Jon lifted his arms in surrender.
"I'm sober, I swear! You just look funny."
"Try cleaning an entire car full of protocol violations. And then yourself. And then the mess left by your idiot boss. Without looking like a buffoon. Then we'll talk, Jonny boy." His words sound bitter, but Jon doesn't judge, considering the size of eyebags blooming blue underneath his coworkers eyes.
"By the way, cleaning yourself is still on the table. If you want to go home of course. If you don't, I'll gladly notify Elias about your sudden week off or of your…gasp! Sudden resignation?!"
"You wish." Jon throws a soaked shoe in the general direction of Tim, but the man quickly dodges the hit and points to the missed throw.
"I do. And this is, another, bloody, violation." He leaves and closes the bathroom door in a smear of a second as another shoe flies and hits the door with a loud bang.