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Milliways infirmary, with Dejah
He counts the doors they pass through en route to the infirmary: only three, all of them unlocked. The first one leads to a room more like the party at the front of the train than the crowding at the tail -- but even that's not the right comparison, he thinks. It's crowded, yes, and noisy, but all Curtis can think is there's so much room.
People can stretch out their arms. When he and Dejah cross the floor, they can move without bumping into anyone.
The second door leads to an empty hallway, quiet but for the hum of the overhead lights. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, and with each step, thinks of anything but Wilford's voice in his ear. Take as much time as you need.
The third leads to a place so clean and white as to look alien, like the view from the Snowpiercer's windows. By then, he's leaning far more of his weight on Dejah than when they started.
People can stretch out their arms. When he and Dejah cross the floor, they can move without bumping into anyone.
The second door leads to an empty hallway, quiet but for the hum of the overhead lights. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, and with each step, thinks of anything but Wilford's voice in his ear. Take as much time as you need.
The third leads to a place so clean and white as to look alien, like the view from the Snowpiercer's windows. By then, he's leaning far more of his weight on Dejah than when they started.
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"This gets a little strange, but -- well, just -- here. Bar?"
A napkin appeared from thin air. With a room key. There were words handwritten on the napkin. Already done. Welcome, Mr. Everett. Anything else I can do for you, please feel free to ask.
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Objectively, it's not any different from the exploding stars, or that he's standing next to royalty from Mars, or...you know, every goddamn thing that's happened to him in the last half an hour. But seeing something materialize out of nothing? That's way too much like a hallucination for his comfort.
The napkin addressing him by name doesn't help a lot, either. He can see Mason again, eyes darting behind her enormous glasses, hinting at knowledge she -- and Wilford -- had no right to have.
The key feels smooth, and cold, and very real as he picks it up. 1001, reads the number tag.
"Sure," he says, blankly. "Uh. Thanks."
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"The bar is sentient, and you'll be dealing with her quite a lot, once you've settled in. And she's very much a her, so do not make the mistake of addressing her as an 'it'. Or you'll get red napkins with messages in all capital letters." She may have made that mistake once or twice. "Treat her with respect and she can answer all your questions."
She eyes the key he was given. "Would you like me to help you find your room?"
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So far, this place is big enough that he's not sure where he's going. On a train, after all, there are only two real directions: forward, or backward.
At his feet, there's a squeak! as the waitrat returns with a small paper bag.
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She stands again and catches Curtis's eye. "This way is the easiest I find. I would surmise by the room number that you're on the tenth floor."
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By this point, it's all resignation and the barest touch of dry humor. Maybe they'll run into a unicorn as Dejah takes him upstairs, just to top it all off. Who the fuck knows.
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She punches the button and the doors close. Slowly the lift begins to move. "I am on the fourteenth floor, room thirteen. If you need to contact me, just ask a rat and they'll get me a message."
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Right before the doors slide open, he catches a glimpse of his reflection.
It's a damn good thing the doors open when they do, because otherwise, he would've stayed frozen and staring.
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She casts a glance at him from the side of her eye, and takes a half step forward.
"It shouldn't be far." She slows, waiting to see if he'll follow her.
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The hall seems to stretch on forever, a new door placed every ten feet. He finds himself counting them without thinking: one, two, three --
Curtis only makes it to seven before the number 1001 catches his eye, and he stops.
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"You need to eat something, Curtis. Please."
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"I will," he says, and untucks his hand long enough to accept the bag. "Promise."
It's just -- it's one more thing, on top of a hell of a lot. Fresh food. Like the lovingly-crafted plate of sushi near the front that he couldn't bear to touch.
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"Can I get you anything else before I leave you?"
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You've done enough.
And finally, he manages a smile that's a little closer to real. "Thanks."
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"All right, then. Get some rest. I'll see you soon."
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Juggling the takeout bag into the crook of his arm, like he's bringing in a bag of groceries (hah), Curtis unlocks the door of his room and slips inside.