The next day is a day of travel. Arashk spends it more or less bored out of his skull.
They've been on the move since late last night and he doesn't even get out of bed till nearly noon, but less than half an hour later he's ready to beat his head against the wall. Being alone with his thoughts is the last thing he wants.
After making himself some toast, he casts his eyes about the apartment in search of something to do. He skims over the sight of Livia's copy of The Princess Bride lying on his dresser, the drawer that contains those cheap old video games he got unbearably bored with in a matter of a couple weeks, and his eyes land inevitably on the sketchpad by his bedside lamp.
He sighs softly, and climbs onto his bed to pick it up. Mostly he's doodled people, food, and movie characters in improbable situations—his personal favorite so far is an image of that dinosaur from Land Before Time leaping out of an exploding helicopter. It's almost full, at this point. He counts seven pages out of fifty that haven't been used.
Very suddenly, it hits him that he should be using those pages. For insurance. He's forgotten his own name and the names of all the people closest to him. There is a very decent chance that "Arthur Loriss," a name he absolutely cannot afford to let go of, is going to slip out of his head at some point in the very near future.
"Idiot," he whispers to himself in disbelief, and immediately flips to the first blank page, but his hand stops short, pencil tip trembling against the paper.
The Master's no fool. He checks this place, probably extremely thoroughly. The only way to keep this paper safe is to carry it on his person at all times—that shouldn't be too much of a problem. But… the Master removed that slip of paper with Arashk's name on it from his dresser, which means he's on the lookout for any attempts Arashk makes to remind himself of anything. And if he comes in here as often as Arashk suspects he does, he knows how many pages were in this sketchbook. And if any of them are unaccounted for… Arashk is sure he's capable of at least piecing together that his fortuneteller is in some way breaking the "Don't do anything I wouldn't like" rule.
He retrieves a Sharpie from his nightstand drawer, darts to his trash can, fishes out a slightly used napkin that he threw in there just last night, and scrawls "Arthur Loriss" across the center of it.
Immediately he releases a silent sigh of relief. It would have just figured if the name had escaped him in his last mad dash to make a note of it for himself. Thank goodness it's in writing now.
He holds the napkin at arm's length, examining it, wondering if there's anything else he should write in that blank space. Nothing springs immediately to mind.
A slight chill passes over him, and he shivers and glances over at his heater, wondering if it's broken. He realizes, though, that it's been pretty warm lately, and it really shouldn't be chilly… and… and this particular chill is not the kind he'd suffer by reason of a broken heater.
Arashk looks down, and his hand is gripping the marker, and it's moving, only he hasn't been telling it to, and there's an image on the napkin, almost photorealistic, and the sight combined with the realization of how it got there is so unexpected and frankly alarming that he releases a loud, shuddering gasp, and flings the marker across the room. It hits the wall and falls down to the chasm of despair that is the crack between any dresser and the wall it's pushed against. He automatically scrambles backwards a bit, staring at that napkin like it's a huge cockroach that found its way onto his bed.
Only it's not a cockroach. It's not repulsive. It's exactly the opposite that's the problem. The longer he stares at that napkin, the further forward he leans, trying to see better, because he has never produced a drawing this professional. The details are incredible, especially considering the medium—he's never exactly seen a plaque at an art museum reading "Sharpie on napkin."
He stares at his hands for a moment. They're shaking slightly, just from the shock of it, but on the whole they look quite unremarkable. These are not artist's hands.
He didn't do this.
Finally he swallows, gathering himself, and reaches forward, picking up the napkin to conduct a more thorough examination. The image is of a man's face, and aside from the deep twinkle that conveys both wisdom and kindness in his eyes—how the hell do you even convey that in a Sharpie drawing—a slightly longer nose and more pronounced cheekbones, and darker bags under his eyes, it's a face he's seen before.
It was the first face he saw after waking up in the back of a truck on that lonely road all that time ago.
He shuts his eyes and breathes out slowly, gripping the napkin tight, as if to keep it from vanishing into thin air. What does this mean? Since when was drawing detailed images of what appears to be a relative of his current archenemy one of the abilities in his psychic arsenal? Maybe… maybe it's just a manifestation of one of the abilities he already knew he had. Okay. So he didn't draw this. But somebody did.
His eyes snap open.
He's let ghosts in before. Maybe a third of the times they show up in his tent, they ask to speak through him, and usually he says no. Taking a message ought to be enough, and he's already got enough crazy crap going on in his head; he doesn't need to surrender control of his body as well. But there have been times, like when that young woman came in on the first anniversary of her husband's death, or when that preteen boy was on the verge of tears at the prospect of talking to his late father one last time, or when that bratty girl who kept complaining about how lame his act was turned out to have a deceased aunt who wanted to speak to her about something trivial—and what a laugh he had at that later—that he acquiesced. His system is not a consistent one; sometimes it just feels more right or more acceptable than other times, based almost as much on how good a day he's having as it is on the gravity of the client's specific situation.
A ghost has never been able to get in without his permission before. Theories fly through his head, about how this particular scenario didn't require a very profound level of control, how this is personal for him so maybe he was giving permission subconsciously somehow, but he supposes it hardly matters, because he is sure now that this is what happened.
The implications of the involvement of ghosts hit him like a physical punch to the gut. Or, more aptly, like all his insides suddenly turning to ice.
This is confirmation. Confirmation of what he would have been a fool not to consider before now, but what he wouldn't, couldn't, let himself spend too much thought on. He couldn't afford the distraction the fear would bring.
In this moment, Arashk is sure that if he doesn't get out of here, he is going to die.
He's on the pier. The one so close to the house where he grew up. The one where his then-girlfriend almost died and then dumped him. The one where he and his best friend used to hang out so often, before… before he was here. The one where his father still frequently fishes.
The one where he's fishing even now, right in front of him. Arashk gets as up close and personal as he can, but he still doesn't have much control over his vantage point in these dreams. That's okay. He's near enough to see the whites of his eyes and the details on his godawful shirt.
It's a familiar scene, and he's already experienced enough visions similar to this to span a couple hours total, probably. Sometimes his dad has fishing buddies with him, sometimes he's alone but encounters somebody he knows, sometimes he just alternates between sitting and standing for the entirety of what Arashk sees, silent, expression impassive, never cracking a smile.
Arashk wonders if his father typically is this unemotive during the fishing time he claims to enjoy so much, or if this is a new development since he disappeared.
The sun is bright, but the air is pleasantly mild, at least for… Damn. He was about to name his hometown, he knows it, it was on the tip of his tongue… Whatever. At least for wherever this is. There are gulls everywhere and the air smells like that awesome sandwich place two hundred feet away. Arashk draws a deep breath as a gentle breeze passes through him.
He doesn't remember what it's called, but he won't forget how it feels.
Arashk doesn't know how much time goes by just watching his dad sit there patiently, every so often reeling in a bit. The vision must be speeding things up, like it always does when not much is happening—he's just not sure to what degree. But the rate of passing time snaps back to normal when a man approaches his father from the side.
"Anything?" his father asks without even looking up.
Arashk recognizes the man. It's the gruff detective he used to work with all the time. He almost senses his name, he thinks… It starts with… an L?
The man starts talking, and Arashk quickly abandons the futile endeavor. He knows how this ends. He might come close to remembering, but by the end of the day, once again he'll have no flipping clue.
He can still hope at least one of them calls the other by name, though. Then he can enjoy knowing at least until he wakes up. The names usually stick around till then.
"You know if there were anything you'd be notified immediately by phone," the detective says quietly.
Arashk has seen variations of this exchange before. The detective is showing extraordinary patience by saying these words so calmly. Considering his past experiences with the guy, anyway.
His father lets out a shuddering sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What is it then?"
"Chief still has your check from two weeks ago," the detective answers, voice still soft. "You haven't come in to collect it. I just got off and she said you weren't answering your phone. I thought I might find you here."
His father pauses, and draws his cellphone from his pocket. His features shift slightly to convey apparently genuine surprise as he places it back into its pocket and returns his gaze to the ocean ahead of him, saying only, "It's dead."
The detective fixes him with a severe stare, which his father resolutely ignores. And it's all just so typical.
They stay there, the detective eventually turning to face the ocean, for at least a few minutes of silence. Arashk has to admit surprise. It's definitely out of character for both of them. Dammit guys, I don't look forward to these vision things to see you acting like gal pals. Be your grouchy selves.
The detective rubs the back of his head, and it seems to Arashk he's about to leave. "Well," he starts to say, just as a lure—one of his dad's favorites, Arashk is pretty sure—falls out of the man's tackle box and skitters a bit across the wood floor of the pier before going still. This strikes Arashk as odd; there's not really any wind.
His dad stands up to retrieve it, as it's passed out of his reach. The detective is in the middle of a sentence as he straightens up, something about that paycheck, when a shot rings through the air and blood explodes from his dad's shoulder.
A collective gasp and cries of alarm rise from the crowd on the pier, and most of them duck or even throw themselves entirely to the floor. The lure goes flying from his dad's fingers as he staggers backwards, crashing into the wooden rail. Arashk can only watch in horror as the wood splinters beneath his weight, giving way, and with nothing but thin air separating him from the ocean below, his father falls backward and plunges down to the water. In the last moments that his face is visible, the panic lighting his eyes is crystal clear. And then he's out of sight.
"Henry!" the detective shouts, already shedding his jacket, and normally Arashk would be snapping to attention at that, trying to focus on storing it in his long-term memory, but in this moment, he doesn't need it. The man is just his father. Just Dad.
A sizeable splash sounds somewhere below them.
"Call 911," the detective commands the people nearest him, who already have their phones out. Without waiting to see if they comply, and leaving behind his jacket, shoes, and socks in a pile on the wood, he leaps off the pier and descends to the water in a graceful swan dive that Arashk would give a 9 if he weren't so petrified with fear.
The next several seconds of silence are the worst. He tries to propel his vision-self to the edge of the pier to watch the surface of the water, but it's a lengthy process, and he spends the time cursing himself for not practicing this with greater urgency earlier on. Some part of him has the presence of mind to wonder why he's not where the action's at, because that's where he usually automatically finds himself. As this thought passes through his mind, he reaches the edge, and hovers between the splintered edges of the rail to peer downwards. He realizes then that the edge of the pier is not, in fact, where the action is at. He can't see a thing from here.
Just as his heart seizes up with fear at this realization, he finds himself surrounded by water. Muffled screams are all around him, rising upwards in flurries of bubbles, and terrified faces fill his vision. The water rushes around him in constant motion and they're both kicking as hard as they can but something is wrong, something is so wrong, and Arashk tastes salt and iron as his father's blood pours out of him in clouds only to be quickly dispelled by the limbs thrashing frantically through the water, and the water's everywhere, and the bubbles are rapidly dying down in frequency, and the light is fading—
He wakes up to a loud shout, and sits up in bed, his mind going in a million different directions. The shout belonged to him. His heart is beating harder than it should be. The sound of a knock on wood echoes around him. His cheeks are damp. He thinks that's on him, but it takes a moment to get through the gut reaction of equating the salty tears to ocean water. Even now gulls squawk overhead.
"Arashk?" comes Livia's voice from his door. He stares at it, watching the shadow move back and forth across the spyhole, shoulders heaving. Trying to regulate his breathing. Trying to compose himself. Trying to calm down. Calm. Compose.
Calm. Compose.
He grips the corners of his sheets so hard his knuckles turn white.
"Arashk? You okay in there?"
Calm.
His dad screaming, air bubbles exploding from his mouth and flying upwards.
Four impatient pounds at the door.
The detective, his friend, holding his father under the arms and kicking desperately, face turned towards the wavering sun.
Calm.
"I heard a yell. Are you all right?"
Calm
He can't be calm that really happened or will happen and he can't do a damn thing about it—
"Arashk, answer the door!"
He should get that. He really should.
His feet hit the floor and he immediately collapses under his own weight. Oh yeah… he has to hold himself up. How do you do that again?
He lurches to a standing position, and he's wobbly, but it'll do for now. He stumbles to the door, horrible screams stifled by water still ringing in his ears so he can't hear and he can't think, and he grasps the already jiggling doorknob, twists, and pulls.
Livia's concerned expression evolves quickly into alarm as she sees him, and she stretches her hand out as if to comfort him, but pulls it back again, remembering. Her voice echoes in his head under the screams, which are only now starting to fade, and he can't tell what she says but he can take a guess, so he says, "Yeah," he's fine, and sure it's a lie, and she'd never believe it, but it's the only option he sees right now.
He must have done a better job pretending to be fine than he thought, because she just looks uncertain now. She's slightly hoisting up a grocery bag he didn't notice her holding before, so he reaches out and takes it, and she lets him.
A few more words are said, one of which is probably "Thanks" and another of which might be a word of farewell, and he slams the door shut, turns around, slams his back against it, and sinks to the floor, dropping the bag and immediately forgetting it.
There was more. He didn't see how it ended. He missed something.
He ignores the fact that these are nothing more than baseless assumptions, and he is absolutely denying the existence of the possibility that they're incorrect. That there wasn't any more. That that actually was the end.
Metal explodes before his eyes and a sharp pain flares up in his wrist. He grabs at that wrist with the opposite hand, gasping. Yes, of course, the car engine explosion that briefly hospitalized his best friend and his girlfriend, the one he ultimately brought about because he was asking just a few too many questions—
Terrence probably never intended to stay quiet about his little misadventure in the storage area. In all likelihood he did it with the best intentions.
And in response, the Master commissioned somebody to shoot his dad.
Arashk grits his teeth, rubs roughly at his eyes, grabs two handfuls of his too-long hair. He could tell by the aura hanging over the dream that it hasn't actually happened yet—and that makes it ten times worse. Is there anything he can do to stop it? What if Terrence hasn't said anything yet?
Something deep inside him coming from a place he doesn't understand tells him that no matter what he does now, it's too late.
He stretches his arms out in front of him and rests his forehead against the carpet. Useless ass psychic powers. They tell him about this now, when he can't do anything about it—why couldn't they warn him before he opened that door that Terrence was outside? Better yet, why didn't he use his brain for one goddamn second and check to see that the coast was clear before swinging that door open wide like a complete idiot?
He tells himself there's no point to questions like this. But what else is there? What else could he possibly do that bears some resemblance to productivity? If he could go seek out Terrence right now and flat out beg him not to mention his supposed vision-induced sleepwalking episodes he would, but he's come to trust his psychic senses just as much as he trusts his mundane ones, and he's as certain as he'd be if he had seen it for himself that it's too late. There's nothing to stop the endless flood of self-accusations and lamentations and… and…
That son of a bitch put a bullet in his dad.
Arashk leaps to his feet, fists balled up, and kicks the wall with all the force he can muster, leaving a sizeable depression at knee height. As he does, gunfire bursts in his mind, and he clutches his head.
Where was the shooter? It's probably foolish to hope that anyone saw him, or maybe her, but… but maybe if he can have the same dream again, he can start to figure out which direction the bullet came from?
And he can see how it ends.
Arashk returns to his bed, throwing the covers over himself and squeezing his eyes shut, ignoring the fact that it's 11 in the morning and by this point he's as wide awake as he's ever going to be. He forces himself to go still, trying to call to mind all the mind-clearing exercises he always meant to practice but was always thinking too much do so.
It's not two minutes later that something starts tugging at his mind. He's burrowed underneath the blanket now, and though his eyes remain shut, he furrows his brow. There's something he should be looking at right now. Something close by.
Heaving a dramatic sigh, he crawls out from under the blanket and onto the floor, pulling himself to a standing positon and walking automatically to his door before he even thinks about what he's doing. When he stops, he's standing right over the grocery bag that is still sitting by his door.
He stares down at it. Though it is by all appearances just another bag of snacks Livia brought him no matter how many times he's told her he can't reimburse her, his psychic senses are tingling, telling him it's somehow more significant than it seems. Tentatively he kneels down and pulls it open, and starts removing its contents.
First are two Lunchables packets—which he gets pretty excited about despite himself—and then a six pack of chocolate pudding. Next a small bag of Funyuns that it looks like she got from a vending machine. And at the bottom of the bag lies something that catches him by surprise—or would, if he weren't expecting the unexpected.
It's a small book, maybe 150 pages, leather bound, with red binding and a cover that bears a design like a leafy vine framing the edges. It vaguely reminds him of the tattoo on his arm. On the front, obscuring the title, is a bright pink Post-It note.
He knows as soon as he sees it, maybe a second or two before, what it means.
Being careful not to touch the book itself just yet, he removes the sticky note. Underneath he sees the title—it's a collection of some of Kipling's works. He turns his attention to the note: Loriss loaned this to me last week. He thinks I have it, and won't be asking for it back for at least that long. I hope it helps.
He notes that she didn't address it or sign it. He supposes there was no reason to, especially in light of their recent conversation.
What's way more interesting is how she got it.
Loriss loaned her a book? She already freaking had this when they talked two days ago. He supposes she meant to surprise him. Or maybe she needed time alone to think about whether she actually wanted to go along with his plan and hand over somebody else's belongings to an unhinged coworker. But never mind that—even without psychic powers it's guessable that this is not an uncommon occurrence. Suddenly he flashes back to their conversation.
"And make sure Art has no reason to suspect it's been taken."
Art. She called him Art.
He lent her a book. Presumably this isn't the first time he's done so.
They're… they're friends?
Arashk blinks, trying to process this. First of all, God it feels good to figure something out the old way again. Secondly: they're friends. Nobody Arashk has spoken to knows a thing about the guy, but apparently Livia is on book-borrowing terms with him.
What absolute dumb luck.
Of course, that's only if this item is of the right type.
He didn't explain to Liv the system of psychic item classification. There wasn't really a reason to—probably trying to put it all into words wouldn't be good for anything more than confusing her, and anyway, he told her all she needed to know: it had to be an item of emotional value to Loriss. And as it turns out, she's more familiar with the guy than it ever occurred to Arashk to guess, so she ought to have pretty reliable guesses on what is meaningful to him and what isn't.
Arashk's hand stalls right above the little book. There's something wrong with this situation. How easy it was—if this works. Somebody made a grave error somewhere along the way to make this possible, and probably doesn't realize it yet. All he can do is hope and pray that it wasn't somebody on his side.
Before he can find another reason to keep himself from finding out what he has to find out no matter how afraid he is, he lays his hand on the cover of the book.
Against all odds, and in spite of everything, a grin curves his mouth.
