Schuldig walks through districts he doesn't know, moving merely to keep from having to think about what he'll do next. He methodically smokes half a packet of cigarettes, then flattens the box, folds it with obsessive precision into a triangle and throws it away.
Finally, the land comes to an end, so he stops. Gets a can of beer – Yebichu brand – from a vending machine and leans against the chain-link fence separating a factory car park from the shoreline. He stares out at the sea.
Wet-tarmac clouds press down heavy; Schuldig feels it in the sweetly polluted air and the static that plasters his dirty hair against his skin. /Something-is-going-to-happen/. He's not sure when it was that Crawford's precognition started to rub off on him. It's nothing useful at any rate, just vague feelings that leave him twitchy and uneasy until whatever-it-was that was going to happen has happened.
He shucks his back down against the fence until he's sitting, scoring drag marks in the dirt with his tennis shoes. The sky and the sea become progressively darker until the horizon is no longer discernible. Cold now despite the oppressive humidity, Schuldig hooks a hand through the fence to remind himself he's not falling.
The pressure in his head dissipates with the rain, as the spotted dust is drummed into a slid, darker wetness. Schuldig thinks, That was it?
He laughs, stretching his lips back from his gums to suck in the wet air. It tastes of salt. Schuldig has no sense of smell, and can taste very little as a result: sweet, sour, salty, bitter. He hears thoughts better that he hears voices, he's colour blind – though that's not an issue here as this seascape could easily pass for monochrome. Schuldig squinches his eyes shut – rainwater drains from the grooves – licks his lips and laps up the storm through touch alone: his shoulder blades rubbing against the fence through his clothing; his right hand still entwined in the links, holding him up and going red then white from cold; the rainwater soaking through his jacket and trickling down his back to his waistline and at the nape of his neck until he's soaked, really soaked through and he's going to have to fucking move some time soon if he doesn't want to die of hypothermia.