Arashk wakes up with a terrible knot in the pit of his stomach. That's become very common, however. Like almost every morning. He's not sure if it's nightmares that he can't remember, or just the general awfulness of his life right now. At first he ignored it. But lately, he's been fanning the flames, as they prove to be effective fuel for the negative emotions he normally tries to hide and just can't ignore anymore. All manners of hatred and bitterness, directed towards one man—the one who calls himself the Master.

It's been about two weeks since the explosion, and Juliet's and Gus's injuries. Arashk has not received a single word on their progress, or even any sort of acknowledgement of the incident. He's seen the Master, sure—glimpsed him in passing, no more than twice or thrice, and at one point resolved to corner him and ask for a report. Sure it almost certainly wouldn't have been worth it, and it was probably a blessing that he was interrupted by one of the crew members—a skinny guy whose appearance broadcasts a remarkable amount of information on a daily basis, and who is constantly asking for readings because of it—before he could actually apprehend the Master, but he'd had… a feeling. Hardly airtight, but it seemed like a reasonable idea at the time to just politely ask for some kind of update.

But as it happened, he was interrupted, he has no information, and he is starting to—just a little bit—lose his mind.

He brushes his teeth, has a shower, and is silently thankful for the hundredth time that he doesn't have a mirror to look into as a reminder of his much longer than usual beard, and the strange tribal tattoo he now has stretching right across his forehead…

It's been there since shortly after the explosion. The Master appeared at his door while they were setting things up at their next site a few days afterwards, smiling pleasantly, and said with a dangerous edge to his voice, "Mr. Ronaldo, our best tattoo artist has just finished up a batch of new designs and some of them are simply to die for."

It's the only time Arashk has seen him face-to-face since the incident, and he would have loved nothing more than to grill him with questions until he had to be threatened to stop, but the Master had some guy with a clipboard standing right next to him and referring to his predicament seemed highly ill-advised. Arashk is still certain that that was planned. So he just nodded, tight-lipped, and followed the two of them to the tattoo parlor.

The Master chose the design, and the location. Arashk put any long-term ramifications out of his mind, and just sat back and let it happen, staring at the wall, clutching the thick fabric of his robe in his fists.

Livia was visibly surprised when she first saw it. Arashk just smiled dimly and said, "You like?"

He goes to get dressed. Though wearing just a vest is an option, they're over in Missouri, and winter is coming (he misses Game of Thrones… He hasn't watched TV in weeks). So he gets on a rich red robe trimmed with gold, a black turban, and two clunky black bracelets and black shoes to tie it all together.

He's given in to the Master's wishes that he'd make his wardrobe more exciting, and is still trying to convince himself that it's fun. At least he looks fabulous no matter what he wears.

As always, the only things he takes with him when he leaves to prepare the tent are two bottles of water. With the constant talking during his shifts he drinks a lot of water these days, and he gets a new supply every few days. Livia is the first person he sees on exiting the train car. She's standing a few cars away, talking to Terrence. She sees him more or less immediately, and offers a smile and a wave, both of them small. He can only find the strength to smile in return—though it doesn't reach his eyes—and heads over to his tent, head down. They have about twenty minutes before they open, but lately he's been finding that he needs more frequent changes of scenery to prevent himself from losing his mind.

His tent has gotten more and more psychic-y since he first started. After the first few shows, the Master told him that some people commented that the ambience was a bit lacking, so he gave him some incense which Arashk is now required to burn when he's doing readings. Arashk doesn't like it; it burns his nostrils and leaves him a bit lightheaded. But he's gotten used to it.

There are also a lot more candles than there were before. As in… it takes way too long to set all them up and he's already lost three to careless clients. And he's been given a "scrying pool," which is basically a fancy little bowl filled with water that he's supposed to stir and look into mysteriously, seeing images of the future. He's used it a few times now, and it's not too hard to incorporate into his routine.

Reading people has gotten so much easier with the constant practice. Sometimes it almost scares Arashk how much he can tell at a glance.

Sometimes he wonders if he'll be different when he finally comes back home.

Sometimes he wonders if he ever will.

He's been sitting in his chair, just staring ahead, lost in thought, for half an hour when his first customer walks in—a nineteen-year-old whose girlfriend just broke up with him after finding out he was cheating with two other girls. Arashk gazes into the bowl in front of him and gives a vague description of a young woman with brown hair, relying on the good chance that at least one of them was brunette. The young man seems to buy it. Arashk foretells relationship problems and advises him to get his act together. As he leaves, Arashk realizes he's unnaturally disgusted with the young man's actions, considering he wasn't a witness to them himself.

It's far from the first time that's happened. For some reason, the more readings he does, the more invested he gets in the lives of his clients. It's almost like... because it's so easy to, during the workday he bails on his own emotions and operates on borrowed ones. It's his theory, anyway.

About ten clients in, a little old lady enters the tent. As soon as she does, he's hit with a wave of cold. Only it's not like a cold breeze—it's almost like it's inside him. He rubs his arms, but it doesn't help.

"Welcome," he says with a grand gesture in his as-of-yet unidentified accent. He doesn't even have to think about using it anymore. "Why don't you sit down, Mary, and tell me…"

He trails off, trying to push down his panic. He was about to ask for her name. But. He's had hunches like that before in recent weeks, about clients' names, and a few times even turned out to be right. But he knows it's a bad idea to be vocal about it. Being wrong with the very first thing he says? Not good. But this time it wasn't even a hunch, it was just… knowledge.

The woman looks at him for a few seconds, and an impressed smile spreads over her face. She takes several seconds lowering herself into the chair and leaning her cane against the table. "That was quick. I think this'll go well."

He breathes out, making a quick shift from terror that he'd be wrong about her name to terror that he was right. How did I do that? "I reckon you are here to hear what I can tell you about your future," he says smoothly, putting on a serene expression. "Is that right?" God, how am I so good at this?

"Well, yes," she says, loosening the flowery scarf that's wrapped around her head. It seems to him that she had something else to say, but she stops herself.

He nods. "Lay your hands upon mine," he commands quietly, laying his own hands on the table, palms up. She complies, and he closes his eyes.

The typical malarkey begins pouring from his mouth—he noticed a wedding ring on her finger, and another very similar one on a chain around her neck, so she has a deceased husband, and she's not wearing glasses but she has faint marks on the bridge of her nose, so she probably likes to read—but less than a minute in, something stops him.

Not only stops him, but stops him midsentence. That's never happened to him before.

It feels like the temperature in the room drops by twenty degrees in about two seconds—but Mary seems unaffected. He draws in a light gasp of surprise, and then there is something in his mind that is not his own.

For a moment all he can do is squirm—whether on a physical level or not, he can't be sure—and just try to shake it off. These attempts consist entirely of instinctive thought processes he can't begin to keep track of and doesn't understand, but whatever it is he's doing, it doesn't seem to work. He feels something whispering. Not hears, feels. He doesn't understand the sensation, but there it is, and it's finding the cracks in whatever foreign defenses he's throwing up, and he doesn't remember the last time he was this scared.

"Let me speak to her," it says, so softly. "Let me speak to my wife."

He shakes his head violently, screwing his eyes shut. It feels like all his senses are being assaulted. The thin, papery voice, like a soft breath of wind in his ear—the cold, unlike any cold he's felt before—the horrible feeling that something is present that should not be—the tingle all up and down his spine—safe her tell Mary tell together Mortimer speak Mary let me and it's all jumbled up and he doesn't even understand what it is and he is terrified, and he can't feel his body anymore but he knows he must be shaking—

All at once, it stops.

His eyes open wide. Mary is sitting back in her chair, rubbing her wrist, a look of caution on her face as she watches him. Arashk blinks, and looks down at his hands, which are trembling slightly against the table. His mind is currently far too dedicated to its attempts to work through what just happened and prepare itself in case it happens again to spare any energy wondering how Mary's been seeing this.

Then,

"Tell her I'm safe. Tell her we'll be together again soon."

He flinches, but that's it. The voice has gone silent. All at once the presence in his mind has vanished, and of this he is somehow certain.

The next few seconds seem to stretch into long minutes. He stares at the tabletop, breathing raggedly, trying to calm his pounding heart, trying not to think about whatever the hell just happened.

The voice was clear. There can be no mistake about what it was.

But it makes no sense.

He doesn't know how long it's been when he looks up again to Mary, but she's still waiting, so it couldn't have been more than a couple of seconds. Slowly, very slowly, he raises his finger to his temple in traditional psychic detective form—though he's not sure he's ever been further from a detective than he is in this moment. "I sense a name," he says, and though he maintains eye contact, he can do nothing to keep the shudder out of his voice. "A… Mortimer."

There's no way he's invested enough to do his usual "guessing a few similar names before the right one" crap.

Mary lets out a little gasp. "Mo," she says. "Is he here?"

"He is," Arashk says, and his voice betrays him yet again. The cold has already left him almost entirely, and he is suddenly so tired. "He wants you not to worry. He says… he's safe. He says you will see each other again, very soon."

Too tired even to add a bit of embellishment.

Mary stares at him, eyes wide and brimming with tears. It suddenly registers in Arashk's mind what he's just said. He stares back at her.

Did I just tell this woman she's going to die soon?

And he begins to panic.

The Master won't like that.

Until he realizes that Mary doesn't look horrified, or upset. She's staring at him with wide eyes, and while he is sure they're reflecting more light than usual with the presence of tears, they hold no fear. Her face creases with countless smile lines as her mouth curves upward, and she presses her hand against her heart.

"He was your husband?" he asks quietly.

She clutches the ring hanging around her neck, and nods. "For sixty-two years. He passed five months ago."

He has no idea what to feel.

Relief that she's not upset… a dull terror gnawing at his mind that he resolutely refuses to pay any attention to…

He has to be alone. He avoids thinking about how the Master will take it if he closes the tent, won't take any clients, just for a few minutes…

"I'm sorry," he rasps, groping for an explanation. "I just… I have never felt such a strong message… It's a bit too much." He rubs his face with one hand. "Would you… Do you mind?"

"Not at all," she says, grasping her cane and pushing herself up, smiling widely, tears still running down her face. "Thank you, Mr. Ronaldo. Thank you so much."

With those words, she hobbles out of the tent.

Arashk didn't realize how drained and baffled and lost he felt until she's gone and his shoulders droop of their own accord, and he wraps his arms around himself and draws his knees to his chest. Tears prickle in his eyes, but none fall.

"So, I've lost my mind," he comments to the darkness, trying for nonchalance.

He thanks whatever powers may be that the darkness does not answer.