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[Room 1001]
For a few minutes after he closes the door, Curtis just leans against it, head tipped back, and feels the throb of his heartbeat drum all the way through his body. The key drops to the floor -- the carpeted floor, done up in impersonable shades of gray and brown -- as the takeout bag hangs slack in his hand.
Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ.
He's off the train, standing in a room easily three-quarters the size of Wilford's, with way more than just the bed he requested from Bar: there's an armchair, a TV, a window for Christ's sake. The bed has an actual wooden frame. A second door leads to something that's probably either a closet or a private bathroom. They had those in hotels, didn't they? And if there was running water downstairs, there's probably running water up here, too.
A small nightstand sits right next to the bed. Gingerly, Curtis picks his way toward it, bends to set down the bag...and finds himself continuing to fall, slow an inexorable as a toppling tree, until he hits the mattress facedown.
For days -- for years -- he's been wound into a tight knot of stress and adrenaline. (Always so tense, he hears Wilford tease, and digs his nails into the too-soft fabric as if trying to claw the memory off his brain.) The simple care Dejah displayed reached in and tugged some of the knot loose, spilling everything that's kept him upright for so long. He's so tired. God. He can't ever remember being this tired in his life.
So Curtis drags himself the rest of the way onto the bed. He closes his eyes.
It's so soft I'm gonna suffocate, he thinks right before all thought slips from his mind.
It is suffocating. The whole damn room. He wakes up as twitchy as a kronole addict, breathing sharp and shallow for reasons he can't understand...until he listens, and hears nothing, and thinks, oh, fuck.
Beams of sunlight skew across the bed as he bolts upright. The mattress has so much give to it that he almost loses his balance. With so much space, with so little sound (breathing, some distant hum, his clothes rustling against the bed, how can that possibly be all the noise in here), it's like he can't find his bearings. He may as well be standing blindfolded in a field, so vast that he could walk for miles and never reach its end.
Curtis presses his hand to his face and tries to wait for his heartbeat to ratchet down. It doesn't work. The bed stays motionless, devoid of any vibration as wheels rattle over an endless track, and his heart keeps thumping faster to compensate.
He can't do this. He can't go back like this.
He swings his legs out of bed and bolts for the door.
Downstairs feels a hell of a lot more comfortable. At least there's enough noise for Curtis to steady himself against it as he makes his way over to the bar, key clutched in his hand.
"Hey, uh." Despite Dejah's demonstration, there's no way talking to an inanimate object ever feels like normal. How do you even start with this shit? "It's me."
A napkin flowers into existence. Hello again, Mr. Everett. How can I help you?
Curtis swallows. "I need a different room," he croaks, setting the key on the bartop. "The one I've got is too big."
Oh. I'm very sorry to hear that, but I'd be happy to adjust your current room however you want.
"I need it smaller. Like, um." His left arm twinges; Curtis rubs the bandages without thinking, and immediately bites back a wince. "A lot smaller. Seriously, all I need is a bed and a bathroom. Not even a bed, could you just put a hammock on the wall or something? And no window. Not right now."
A long pause follows before the next napkin appears. Of course. Consider it done. Do you need any kind of table or chair as well?
Curtis hesitates, thinking of the soup and bread on the nightstand. It won't be the last meal he eats in private, he knows. "I guess, yeah," he says at last. "Just a small one."
Is there anything else?
"Maybe." He gnaws the inside of his cheek. "Dejah said the physics of this place get kind of weird. You think you could put the room somewhere noisier? Or make the walls thinner?"
Certainly. The nice thing about having a conversation with an inanimate object, he decides, is that there's no pity or worry in the napkins she's spitting out. And you can always request more changes at any time.
"Okay." With care, Curtis folds his hand over the key again. His pulse feels slower already. "Thanks. I mean it."
You're very welcome. And then -- damn it -- Bar adds, Be well, Curtis, like he's somebody from halfway up the train.
He doesn't even know how to answer.
When he stands in the middle of his newly configured room, stretches out his remaining arm, and turns a slow circle, his fingertips almost brush two of the walls. Eight steps take him the full length of the space. No windows anymore, as promised; no more light than one would need to comfortably go about their business.
The hammock sways as gently as the roll of the train when he sits down on it. Below, the indistinct babble of the bar filters up. From either side comes the murmur of other guests, punctuated by the occasional loud shout or laugh.
All he wanted to do for eighteen years was get to the front and kill Wilford. Live the good life, as Edgar used to say. Steak and potatoes all the time.
And now he's here, so far in front that nobody even knows about the freeze, and he can't even sleep right without pretending like he's back in the tail.
What a fucking piece of work.
With a long sigh, Curtis heaves himself the rest of the way into the hammock. For a long time after, he watches the ceiling, listening to the noise wash over him, and pictures snow drifting across the roof of Milliways.
Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ.
He's off the train, standing in a room easily three-quarters the size of Wilford's, with way more than just the bed he requested from Bar: there's an armchair, a TV, a window for Christ's sake. The bed has an actual wooden frame. A second door leads to something that's probably either a closet or a private bathroom. They had those in hotels, didn't they? And if there was running water downstairs, there's probably running water up here, too.
A small nightstand sits right next to the bed. Gingerly, Curtis picks his way toward it, bends to set down the bag...and finds himself continuing to fall, slow an inexorable as a toppling tree, until he hits the mattress facedown.
For days -- for years -- he's been wound into a tight knot of stress and adrenaline. (Always so tense, he hears Wilford tease, and digs his nails into the too-soft fabric as if trying to claw the memory off his brain.) The simple care Dejah displayed reached in and tugged some of the knot loose, spilling everything that's kept him upright for so long. He's so tired. God. He can't ever remember being this tired in his life.
So Curtis drags himself the rest of the way onto the bed. He closes his eyes.
It's so soft I'm gonna suffocate, he thinks right before all thought slips from his mind.
It is suffocating. The whole damn room. He wakes up as twitchy as a kronole addict, breathing sharp and shallow for reasons he can't understand...until he listens, and hears nothing, and thinks, oh, fuck.
Beams of sunlight skew across the bed as he bolts upright. The mattress has so much give to it that he almost loses his balance. With so much space, with so little sound (breathing, some distant hum, his clothes rustling against the bed, how can that possibly be all the noise in here), it's like he can't find his bearings. He may as well be standing blindfolded in a field, so vast that he could walk for miles and never reach its end.
Curtis presses his hand to his face and tries to wait for his heartbeat to ratchet down. It doesn't work. The bed stays motionless, devoid of any vibration as wheels rattle over an endless track, and his heart keeps thumping faster to compensate.
He can't do this. He can't go back like this.
He swings his legs out of bed and bolts for the door.
Downstairs feels a hell of a lot more comfortable. At least there's enough noise for Curtis to steady himself against it as he makes his way over to the bar, key clutched in his hand.
"Hey, uh." Despite Dejah's demonstration, there's no way talking to an inanimate object ever feels like normal. How do you even start with this shit? "It's me."
A napkin flowers into existence. Hello again, Mr. Everett. How can I help you?
Curtis swallows. "I need a different room," he croaks, setting the key on the bartop. "The one I've got is too big."
Oh. I'm very sorry to hear that, but I'd be happy to adjust your current room however you want.
"I need it smaller. Like, um." His left arm twinges; Curtis rubs the bandages without thinking, and immediately bites back a wince. "A lot smaller. Seriously, all I need is a bed and a bathroom. Not even a bed, could you just put a hammock on the wall or something? And no window. Not right now."
A long pause follows before the next napkin appears. Of course. Consider it done. Do you need any kind of table or chair as well?
Curtis hesitates, thinking of the soup and bread on the nightstand. It won't be the last meal he eats in private, he knows. "I guess, yeah," he says at last. "Just a small one."
Is there anything else?
"Maybe." He gnaws the inside of his cheek. "Dejah said the physics of this place get kind of weird. You think you could put the room somewhere noisier? Or make the walls thinner?"
Certainly. The nice thing about having a conversation with an inanimate object, he decides, is that there's no pity or worry in the napkins she's spitting out. And you can always request more changes at any time.
"Okay." With care, Curtis folds his hand over the key again. His pulse feels slower already. "Thanks. I mean it."
You're very welcome. And then -- damn it -- Bar adds, Be well, Curtis, like he's somebody from halfway up the train.
He doesn't even know how to answer.
When he stands in the middle of his newly configured room, stretches out his remaining arm, and turns a slow circle, his fingertips almost brush two of the walls. Eight steps take him the full length of the space. No windows anymore, as promised; no more light than one would need to comfortably go about their business.
The hammock sways as gently as the roll of the train when he sits down on it. Below, the indistinct babble of the bar filters up. From either side comes the murmur of other guests, punctuated by the occasional loud shout or laugh.
All he wanted to do for eighteen years was get to the front and kill Wilford. Live the good life, as Edgar used to say. Steak and potatoes all the time.
And now he's here, so far in front that nobody even knows about the freeze, and he can't even sleep right without pretending like he's back in the tail.
What a fucking piece of work.
With a long sigh, Curtis heaves himself the rest of the way into the hammock. For a long time after, he watches the ceiling, listening to the noise wash over him, and pictures snow drifting across the roof of Milliways.