Chapter Text
―room?
Light assaults the backs of his eyelids, scattering into a haze of red and orange in his vision. The last remnant of whatever thought his predecessor had flittering away, leaving nothing but nausea sloshing around in his borrowed stomach. He’s steeped in it, the unmistakable and incomparable post-dive sensation; skin revolting against its temporary passenger.
At least whatever Irumi he’d overtaken had had the decency to pass out on tile rather than asphalt or concrete or cement (or in one dive―a piss-soaked bush), the cold ceramic was doing wonders at keeping him tethered to the body he’d been thrust into.
Where was he now? Possibility diving was, on principle, always a gamble―the astrophysical equivalent to rolling the dice over and over just to see what new combinations would arise, sending him from Irumi Kojima to Irumi Kojima until he…well, he didn’t quite know how this would end, did he? Only one person had ever made it back to their own universe from a possibility dive and even then she’d wasted no time in disappearing somewhere in the Northwest Territories, taking her and her success into the wilderness. Then came Hazel (MIA), then Grenwich (MIA), then Li (MIA), then Coot (MIA), and now Irumi Kojima (unauthorized), the latest link on a chain of failure, cracks his eye open, wincing at the sterile shine on the tiles―a bathroom floor.
He pulls himself to his knees, pausing briefly when the sudden movement threatens to bowl him over again. He must’ve caught this possibilities’ Irumi more than a little unaware, his body half-tucked into a stall with his pants around his ankles. Poor man. Well, at least he’d managed his business first.
The artificial smell of lavender and lemon just barely covers the stale odor of the bathroom, really it only succeeded in aggravating his building headache.
The bathroom itself had all the personality of a wet blanket―plain white tile, a large mirror (scratched to hell with tags and other signatures), and a row of sinks with matching soap dispensers (all empty); as standard a bathroom could be, giving him no hint to where he was or what to expect beyond the swinging door. When he finally finds himself in the mirror he sees what he always sees―his face. Almost.
There was always a moment of deja-vu whenever he saw himself like this, a misplaced recognition of himself and the body around him, this new almost-Irumi. The same high cheekbones, the same eye color, the same scowl but in clothes he would never wear, with hair he’d never let get as long as it had. Almost-Irumi.
When he slips a seeking hand beneath his collar, the raised edges of his burn greet him, marking this body as his- for now.
He steps back from the countertop, stretching his fingers to study the way the tendons move beneath and the skin moves with it. He notices: Nails, painted black (chipped) and…was that―yes it was. A tattoo on his left middle finger, Layla in looping script.
Well, sorry, Layla. He promises to return your brother/friend/loved one as soon as this universe gives him an exit.
The swinging door groans when he pushes past it and into the darkened hallway outside of it dotted with fake plants and faded posters that beg of him to KEEP TRACK OF YOUR BELONGINGS; SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING beside maps of multicolored lines pointing from everywhere to everything. A train station, maybe? Or some kind of rest stop?
His flip-flops clap-clap against the cheap-looking linoleum, dragging him out of the dimly lit side hall and into the drab grey of the building proper. It’s a cramped space, any available real estate already taken up by rows of seating or rotating displays harboring brightly colored pamphlets. The air still hangs heavy with ‘lavender’-and-’lemon’. Tinny muzak playing from a single speaker tucked in the rafters between fans is drowned by the sheets of rain rattling the windows surrounding them.
The three teenagers in the corner laugh and it echoes everywhere. Somewhere outside an engine growls to life, sputters, dies. Irumi goes deeper.
It is a bus station. A very sad bus station with a dripping ceiling, largely empty beside the teenagers and two others, though none of them pay him any mind as he stands aimlessly half-in the doorway.
This is new. This is quiet. His dives seemingly enjoyed placing him in media res so to speak but…this was a bus station. There was no speech or ceremony or performance he was now on the hook for. It was raining, it was a bit chilly inside, that’s all.
Then, right on cue. His constant:
“Excuse me, sir!”
What Irumi doesn’t do at the sound of that soft timbre is flinch, what he does is come when called. Even knowing what awaits him behind the front desk there’s still a twinge in his chest when he sees him, smiling and waving, holding a slip of paper.
Danny looks the way he always does, in every world, in every possibility. It’s torture, Irumi loves him.
He’s drowning on dry land, he flounders like he always flounders to separate this Danny from His Danny. The proper placement, the genuine article; His Danny.
…if he can still call any Danny ‘his’ at all, that is.
The man in front of him was not his fiancé or his ex or his anything, this was a stranger.
“Okey dokey.” he beams once Irumi draws close enough, “Welcome back, okay, good news―I think we’ve got it all sorted now!” he thumbs his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, “I hope the toilets didn’t give you too much trouble, it’s a mess in there, I know.”
“N-No, no, it’s-” he clears his throat. Embarrassing, stop embarrassing yourself, “it was perfectly serviceable. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Confusion passes over Danny’s face, there. Then gone again, usurped by a warm smile, “Don’t sweat it, really. I mean,” he gestures to the building at large, “not much else for me to do, is there?” he smiles again, bright and disarming. Irumi smiles back, something fluttering back to life in his chest, “Anywho―here’s your new ticket.”
The paper he hands him is warm. On it, his name is printed in the top corner: IRUMI KINCAID.
Kincaid??
“It leaves for Mother-Have-Mercy in about three hours so you’ll be a smidge late but-! You’ll definitely be home for dinner!”
Mother-Have-Mercy? Where the hell was that? Was that an American city? He’s never heard of it before. Was he in America? Why was Danny in America??
“D...Dinner?”
Danny blinks, “Your anniversary dinner, right? It’s tonight?”
Anniversary?? “Our anniversary…?”
He blinks again, a line appearing between his brow, “With…your wife?” he points to his own left middle finger, “Layla?”
“My wha― ?!” The double doors slamming open blessedly interrupt his floundering, ushering in a gust of frigid air and two new bodies; a woman and a teenager beside, soaked through with rain. The woman’s hair is a flare against the bland architecture, trailing behind her in a red smear as she and the teenager approach the counter.
“Hey.” the woman cuts in, her voice raspy and thick. She spares a glance to Irumi as she surreptitiously stubs out a cigarette on the underside of the counter, “Sorry.” back to Danny, “You know if there’s a mechanic close by? One that can tow?”
Danny grimaces, twirling errant braids around his fingers. Irumi just stops himself from leaning forward to secure them. “Hm, not off the top of my head...” he pouts apologetically, “though, I can look some up if you want to have a seat?”
The teenager, half-drowned and furious at her side, scoffs, “Are you serious?”
The woman settles a hand on his shoulder, dragging him back, “Ignore him. Thanks.” she steps away, affording Irumi one last look, “All yours.”
Then it was just the two of them again, looking at each other.
Irumi: “That―”
Danny: “I―”
Irumi and Danny: “No, you go ahead.”
They laugh, Danny hiding behind his hand and Irumi desperately wishing he wouldn’t or―if he simply had to― that he’d put them somewhere else.
“It’s been a weird one today all around.” he sighs, eyes sparkling, “I mean, the storm’s really screwing the pooch here if you pardon my language. Look: Those two―” he surreptitiously points to the two that’d been there when Irumi first arrived, the girl with the phone and the rain-watcher, “the rain’s delayed their bus six hours .”
He whistles, “Six?”
“Six!” he nods now toward the trio of teenagers snickering in the corner, “And, listen―those three, they’re on a school trip, yeah? Tell me why the bus left without them!”
“Damn, seriously?”
“I know! Poor kids.” he leans in, dropping his voice to a whisper, “I kind of gave them the okay to ‘borrow’ whatever they’d like from the snack room,” he taps the side of his nose, “don’t tell my manager.”
He crosses his heart, “Not a word.”
“I knew I could trust you, Mr…?”
“Oh!” he outstretches his hand, “Irumi.”
Danny takes it, his hand engulfing his. “Danny.”
(And if he holds on for a moment longer than necessary, who would say? He so rarely got to do this, the last three Dannys had come and gone so quickly they’d hardly noticed Irumi was even there. This Danny was here, he was solid, he’d kept his birthmark and Irumi loved him desperately for it.)
Then, “I can help who’s next!”
Irumi jolts, suddenly reminded of his body and excruciatingly pathetic it was being. Here he was―a stranger, a married stranger at that, making eyes and holding a bus station attendant’s hand. He imagines the true Irumi Kincaid throttling him. Danny, for his part, looks entirely unphased, flashing his smile now to the person behind him.
He struggles, “Uh,” just leave, shut your mouth and leave! Don’t make this any more awkward than it already is! “Yeah, um, have a good one. Thanks for the, um, the ticket.”
“My pleasure!” his face betrays no deeper meaning, no deeper affection, he looks happy to be out of the conversation with the weird man in cargo shorts. “Have a great day, okay?”
“Yeah. O-” he stumbles into the commuter behind him, “Okay.” he turns to the commuter with a paltry, “Apologies.”
The commuter blinks the largest eyes Irumi’s ever seen, “Oh, gosh,” she says, hands fisted into the folds of the hoodie she’s drowning in, “Mr. Kojima, it’s...I…”
Danny prompts again, “Next?”
She scurries forward, abandoning whatever she’d been trying to say. “Yes! Yes! Coming!!”
Well and truly out of the conversation now, he escapes to the first chair he sees, slumping over himself in front of the woman and the teenager. Forget dignity, it was already all squandered at Danny’s feet. Nothing counted here, he could take peace in that, maybe. Any second now he’d feel that tug in the core of him and be sent round the carousel again, borrowing some other Irumi Kincaid né Kojima to make a fool of himself in front of some other Danny Jefferson-never-Kojima. And that was that. Forever. His role as an eternal scheduling error.
Even spiraling is inconveniencing him, every second punctuated with tap-tap-tapping. The courtesy of the teen’s waterlogged shoes he sees, when he draws his eyes up to find the noise. He’s a one-man drumline, his fingers rattling against the armrests in time with his foot against the floor; the woman next to him sits loose with her arms crossed and the half-smoked cigarette now tucked behind her ear, head hung low. Though still, Irumi can see the line of tension running through her, ruining her attempts at feigning sleep―that and she keeps sneaking glances through her lashes at her…son…? Her ward…? Far be it from Irumi to critique familial structures but the idea of considering the woman his mother just felt wrong, them looking completely dissimilar notwithstanding. Either way, they clearly knew each other: The scrappy oversized flannel the teenager wore matched the pattern of patches sewn into the woman’s jeans and both of their bags' straps were hooked around his bouncing ankle.
Speaking of, that tapping sound is really getting annoying.
“Excus―” he starts, and before he can get the word out the teenager’s eyes are on him. Even with his left eye drifting, the glare is devastating. Well- it’s meant to be devastating. “What.”
Irumi has seen the emptiness of space, the nothing and the everything. Irumi is thirty-seven years old, he can handle an angsty teenager, “You’re tapping.”
“I’m what?” he taps faster. Taptaptaptaptap.
“Very funny.”
“What?” taptaptaptaptaptap.
“I’m letting you know that it can be annoying to some people.”
“Not” taptaptap “you, though?”
The woman beside him rouses, swatting him in the back of his head, “Joey. Stop.”
“What- he can stare at us like a freak but I can’t move my own leg?”
Oh, Christ, he’d been staring? He had, hadn’t he. He’d been so obviously staring. Instantly, guilty, and god the kid sees, his eyes go elsewhere.
“Don’t be stupid, you know that wasn’t what you were doing.”
Another masterful social exchange! Great, great job!
“I was moving my leg, why the hell is that―”
He has to say something. He does, raising his hands in surrender, “It’s fine! He’s fine.” the two look at him, almost more irritated for having interrupted their shouting, “I wasn’t―I was not thinking about where I was looking. I apologize.” for the second time in as many minutes he’s offering his hand, “Irumi Ko-uh-Kincaid.” neither say anything. Irumi thinks about drowning himself outside then stops thinking about that. “...You two are having car trouble?”
The woman speaks after a moment longer. "Arlo." she doesn't shake his hand, "You a mechanic?"
“Ah-” he looks down at the outfit Irumi Kincaid had willingly put on, “No.”
“Shame.” she kisses the back of her teeth, briefly reaching for the cigarette before seemingly remembering where they are, “Suspension’s shot. We hit trouble off I-70. Some debris left in the road.”
She says it plainly enough, in near monotone even, yet still Irumi gets the immediate sense that he’s missing something. Though with the way the kid, Joey, is burning a hole in the side of his head, he doubts any questions from him would be taken with grace.
“Hm, bad luck.” he says instead.
“Don’t I know it.” her gaze drifts around the room, “Hell of a place to have it in, too. I reckon this is the most people we’ve seen in the last eighteen hours.”
Joey jumps, “Do you have a phone charger?”
“Do I-? No, I…” now that he’s thinking about it, where was Irumi Kincaid’s phone, where was his luggage? There should be luggage, right? He couldn’t have planned on wearing flip-flops at his anniversary dinner. Could he? God, please let him not have to also worry about stolen luggage of all things. “I have no idea where my bags are actually. I’m realizing.”
An answer comes from further down the row of chairs, heralded by a long suffering sigh. “The bus you missed." the one on the phone drawls, a thousand insults rendered in a few words, “The bus that left with your luggage. Same thing that ticket man said the first hundred times you asked.” she’s drier than the Sahara. It’d save time if she’d swung a cleaver into him. “Clean your ears out.”
Indignation rises.
What did she know? That wasn’t even his fault! How was he supposed to know he’d be shunted into a moron husband who missed buses and left himself stranded in flip-flops!? Irumi Kincaid being an idiot wasn’t his problem. He was the youngest Pilot Captain the CSDC had ever seen, he’d changed the world forever; this girl was a twenty-something in a leaking bus station. What in the world did she know! “Yes, thank you . It must’ve slipped my mind.”
Whatever reaction he’d hoped for, a blatant and shameless rolling of her eyes was not it. If he ever got the chance, he was going to strangle Irumi Kincaid with a pull cord.
Oblivious to his spiraling, Joey leans over, “Do you have a phone charger?”
She waggles her own phone, attached to its own charger, a hot pink cord longer than Irumi is tall, “Not one to share.”
“Goddammit…” the kid mutters, earning a swift clap to the back of his head from Arlo.
The girl’s friend raps against the glass, perpetually coated in a sheet of drops, “It’s raining quite a bit, yes?” they note, more formally than their basketball shorts and bleach-stained hoodie might’ve suggested, “Is that normal for here?”
Nobody answers. They brighten and there’s…something about their face? “We’re all new?” It’s gone the minute he notices.
“Val, leave those poor people alone.”
“It’s the Plains.” Arlo replies despite, “It doesn’t rain all year, then it drowns you in a day.” she exhales in a way Irumi takes as a laugh, “We just caught it at a bad time.”
Joey scoffs, “What?? Why do you just know that?”
She shrugs, “I grew up a couple hours out from here.”
“Whoa, really?” he sits up, as if trying to see if he can spot her hometown from his seat, “Could we go?”
“Weren’t you just on my ass about wasting time?”
“Yeah, five minutes ago―that’s forever.”
As the four begin talking amongst themselves, trading mishaps that led them right here to these rainy Plains, Irumi’s attention begins to drift further and further away from them.
He’s deep into a staring contest with plastic ficus guarding the back exit before he realizes what he’s doing― again.
Here's the Solution: In a very concrete way he knew that the people that lived and moved in every Possibility he found himself in were just as whole and complete as him.
But then, the Problem: Making himself believe it.
He could manage only maybe one or two short bursts of interaction before the absurdity of his situation once again colored everything in a layer of unreality. Everything was strange and unimportant. These were worlds never meant for him, with histories and ways of being similarly yet so completely alien to him. Fake people with real faces.
And sometimes someone in them looked like Danny.
That was the point of it: There was Danny (and Danny and Danny and-), then there was everyone else. It was horrible of him to think like that, he knew. It was horrible to steal away some other person’s life and play pretend in their skin even if only for a few hours; but then again, it was horrible for this to be his life. So maybe the whole thing was a wash.
Still, an embarrassed guilt simmers at the edge of his awareness. These were people, that was a fact.
The four of them now laughing at a joke Irumi had no part in, the three teens in the corner not-so-subtly eyeing them, people.
The big-eyed commuter from the line, now suddenly in front of him-
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kojima.”
A person.
He inhales sharply, “Uh? Wh-What? I didn’t―could you say that again?”
The commuter’s already wide eyes widen even further, “Oh, no! Did I wake you up?” she squats down, eyes never leaving his face as her body moves smoothly. He’s reminded suddenly of a marionette doll. “I thought you were awake! Well―” she nods toward Arlo, Joey, and the two friends, “They filmed a tv show here, yeah? Something about a doctor? Or maybe a scientist? It matters, I think, but not a lot. Anyways- And yet. They filmed a tv show here but only one episode because the actor playing the cowboy fell off a tractor and lost his hand and this was a story about a cowboy with two, so they buried the cameras and the cowboy.” she blinks, once. Sticks her hand out seemingly as an afterthought, “I’m Osgood.”
Irumi’s ears are ringing. “Excuse me?”
“That was the joke you missed.” she shrugs, “I didn’t think it was very funny.”
?? “Okay.”
“I wanted to apologize to you, though, Mr. Kojima.”
“Irumi, please.” he can already feel a headache brewing, “You have nothing to apologize for. I ran into you, I was distracted. We can forget it.”
For some reason, this worsens the kicked puppy look written across her face, “Yeah, but you were talking to Danny…”
! “D-...Danny?”
“I really wouldn’t have if it’d been up to me, I swear.” she tilts her head to the side, “But I was already in line so it was…you know…
I go where I’m pointed.”
Patience is draining from him, “What…you said something about Danny?”
Osgood sighs, “So I know to talk to him, I have to interrupt you―that’s what I’m here for, you know? I cut off your conversation. I interrupt you so you’ll go sit with Arlo and Joey, who’ll yell at you for being neurotic and obvious,” (“Huh?!”) “then comes Val and Clementine, and after that Alana and her friends; I exit stage right and go..” she falters, “I go. That’s it. That’s the point of me in this one. That’s all I’m for. I don’t even get a body this time, just these words. I’ve never been around this many people in my life and I, ha , I can’t even see them!
I think I’m rambling…
I don’t know what to do here. It’s not fair what it’s doing to you- to, to us. None of it is, obv-obviously, but making you relive it…it’s not right. But at least, you know, I thought that―hey! He gets to talk to Danny! And there I go, interrupting you.”
“What are you―”
“It’s real to us and it matters to us. I took something from you and I’m so sorry for that, Mr. Kojima. Irumi. Danny’s your husband and I―”
Somehow this, out of every non-sequitur and inanity thrown at him, this is what sends the alarm bells going. He sits up sharply and Osgood flinches back as if struck, falling on her behind with a yelp. Irumi cringes, waiting for an outside comment that never comes; the others aren’t even looking in their direction when he checks, blissfully unaware of his unfolding panic.
“ We ―!” were never married! He doesn’t say, I stalled and stalled and stalled! Instead, he forces himself to settle back into his chair. Going into this a stammering mess was useless, she was already doing enough stammering for the both of them. “Who are you?”
“...I’m Osgood?” she says, looking around like he was the confusing one here, “De los Santos?” then, brow furrowing, “No. Delos. No space.”
“Are you with the CSDC?”
“CSD―wha?”
“The Canadian Spa…” his train of thought stalls, now that he’s really looking at her. He’d seen all types of people walk through the committee's door but none of them like Osgood, wide-eyed and completely dry despite the storm raging outside. It feels wrong to even consider it, that she’s from a world he knows. “You’re not from the CSDC.”
She shakes her head, the long twintails framing her face sway, “I’m not from here. None of us are. This is just for fun,” she answers, then, adding innocently, “What’s a Canadian?”
Irumi’s mind goes entirely blank for one perfect second.
Okay. Time for a course correction, he’s spent long enough entertaining this nonsense as is. It wasn’t even his problem because he was not Irumi Kojima, not here; here, he was Irumi Kincaid, caught in a rainstorm, an idiot, and late for dinner.
“I’m having dinner with my wife Layla tonight.” he relays once he’s gathered himself enough to speak, flashing his ticket, “I’m going to Mother-Have-Mercy,” god, where is-? He checks, “New Orleans and I missed my bus earlier, due to my obvious neuroses. Thank you for the concern, but I’m fine. I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
She’s frowning at him. “You don’t have to do this. You can say it, nothing will happen, I swear. He’s your husband.” she cocks her head to the side, as if listening, “Or no?”
What is with this guy?! “No. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
With nothing on his person to pointedly ignore her with, he’s left to physically turn away to escape the conversation, hyper-aware of the way her eyes follow him. Beneath his clothes, his burn tingles from the attention, from his collar to his rib, unconcerned with the impossibility of this Osgood person knowing it exists in the first place.
Somehow, he knows she does anyway.
Osgood stands, readjusting the bulky headphones she’s wearing, “I…” the line of her mouth wavers, “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’ll leave you alone now.”
Thank Christ for that.
She’s barely a meter away before pausing, her head tilted now toward the wall of windows. A motionless moment of standing passes before: “No, I don’t have a phone charger. Why?”
“Hey-o, headphones!” Joey calls barely a second later, he and Arlo having moved to fill in the seats next to the girl and her friend, “Phone charger. Got one?”
“Oh.” Osgood gasps softly, “I see.” then louder, “I don’t have a phone!”
Joey throws his hands up in exasperation, “Joseph and María, are we in Amish country or something??”
She presses on toward the group at large like a lamb to slaughter, hands clenched at her sides and eyes skirting every which way even as she sits down.
They make eye contact, the overhead lights leave a spot of white in her pupils. Irumi looks away.
He needs to get out of here.
This possibility was proving increasingly problematic. All the ones previous had been more than direct―a moment of panic, a peek at Danny, then gone; this one was lingering in a way that felt very…purposeful. What was he doing here? What were any of them doing here? These were strange people and it was raining in the Plains.
He looks. Danny isn’t at the front desk anymore.
When the three teenagers from the corner hustle by him to join, he doesn’t startle, taking their “Pardon us, sir!” “‘Scuse man, passing by!” “My bad.” in turn.
“Ummm, hi,” the smallest of the trio titters, hands folded in front of her sensible outfit, “we heard you’re looking for a charger? Uh- I swear we weren’t eavesdropping but―”
“We were eavesdropping.” the other girl interjects, much to the apparent horror of the first.
“We felt left out!” the boy grins, as the first girl continues to flounder.
Call it a hunch, but he’d bet one of them is named Alana.
One of the possible Alanas points at Joey, “What phone do you have?”
With all he knows about the kid being his audacity, it’s a little surprising to see him shy away from the three. He’s grimacing when he shows them his phone which the three seem completely unbothered by. The boy’s grin redoubles, the light glints off the chip in his front tooth, “So sick. Check this out, it’s gonna blow your mind.”
The first girl, face still a deep red, slips a bulky tote from her shoulder which, sure enough, has the name Alana Rosewood written on it in stark black marker. When she unzips it, a sea of white cords spill forth, “I think it’s this one.” Alana looks away, bashful, “But I don’t know, take whatever, it’s okay!”
Joey’s brow pinches together, “What?? Why the hell do you have this many chargers?”
“My mom likes to be thorough.” she jiggles the bag, “I have a battery pack too if you need one,”
The boy adds, “And the Constitution.”
The girl follows, “And the Holy Grail.”
Alana flushes further, “She’s very thorough!”
The three laugh, falling into each other while Joey fishes out a charger and a bird-patterned battery pack. “...thanks.” Arlo knocks his shoulder, “What!”
Ignoring him, Arlo addresses the newcomers, “You three here alone?” she spots the roller bag, the duffle bag, and the large backpack they respectively carry, “Spring break trip?”
(Joey says: “It’s October??”)
“Nah, wilder. So get this―” the boy stops, freezing mid-sentence to address the girls, “―should I tell it or you guys?”
“We’ll split it.” the other girl shrugs, spots of rain still dapple her headscarf, “You first, then me, then Rosewood.”
“Ummmm,” her gaze bounces between the few people in front of her, “August can take my part…”
“No way!”
“Rosewood, please? I like the way you tell it better than him.”
If it’s even possible, she grows even more flustered at this comment from the headscarf girl, nodding upanddownandupand downandup.
“AAAnyway-!” August waves his hands around as he talks, “Get this. Our school’s theater program got sent to Nationals this year―because we’re literally awesome―and we sweep, right? First, second, third, fourth―all of that, you wouldn’t believe it. You’d be like whoa!” Good god, this kid is loud. “So we’re getting ready today to take our spoils back home to beautiful Pierresait, then, disaster …” he mimes handing a mic to the headscarf girl, “Dora?”
The girl, Dora, takes the ‘mic’ with a flat expression, “The power’s out at the airport, every flight totally cancelled. But, like, we only had the budget for a four-day trip so our director’s, like, freaking out on us so he goes: We’ll just take a bus to the next airport! Like, onwards, Champions!” she shakes her fist, “So, whatever, right? We all get dropped off here for the bus to the next random airport that’s an hour away and everything’s going fine because we got a new flight and the bus is, like, right there but―I don’t know if you guys realized but the stupid speakers are broken. ” the accused speakers in their bolts say nothing, “Like??”
“We got left behind.” Alana rounds off sheepishly, “We were in the washroom and our teacher didn’t realize we weren’t, ah, on the, um, the bus.”
“All three of you in the bathroom?” Arlo’s raised eyebrow is accusing.
“The lights.” “There’s really nice lighting in there.” “We were taking pictures in the cool lighting.”
They speak as a single organism, a chorus of teenage babble. In total acceptance of their marooning.
Accepting this, the older woman leans forward, bracing against her knees, "Is someone coming to pick y’all up?”
“Oh, no sweat, we good.” August waves her off, “We’ve got a new bus, a new flight, aaaanddd…” he whoops, “Bow, wow, wow― Fiftyyyy dollarssss!”
“Rosewood’s mom tore them a new one so now they’re paying for our ‘emotional damages’.” Dora’s air-quotes are accented by the heavy gold jewelry she wears that chime with each collision. “Free fifty bucks.”
“Fifty free dollars!!”
For as pleased Dora and August appear, Alana herself doesn’t seem to share the same enthusiasm, busying herself with staring a hole into the ground.
( Joey’s leg is going again. “When is that guy going to tell us where a goddamn mechanic is?”
“Easy, kid.”)
The three take the last few seats in the row, the girls ending up filling the buffer seats between himself and Osgood and August sitting next to Joey, much to his obvious chagrin.
Irumi really should leave.
“Whatchu guys need a mechanic for?” August pulls a pouch of sour candy from his coat, tilting it toward his sulking neighbor, “Want one?”
Arlo not-so-subtly elbows Joey into action, breezing past the teen’s withering look. “Our car shit the bed.” he says, looking anywhere but August, his thousand-watt smile, or the bag of our candy he jiggles at the edge of his vision. “I don’t like sour candy.”
“Joey- since when?” Arlo takes some from the bag for her…co-pilot?
Val raises their hand next, “I’ll take a candy!”
“Oh!” Osgood follows their lead, “Me too! Only-y, only if you want to, August.”
He does want to, apparently, seeing as he tosses the bag with no warning the moment the two ask. Disaster is narrowly avoided by Val, snapping it out of the air before the rest of them can finish shouting at the teenager for throwing it.
From the saved bag, they pull a few from the bag for themself then offer a handful to Osgood, her eyes wide, dazzled apparently by this small show of athleticism.
August’s claps are just as loud as the rest of him. “Nice save, dude!”
“Don’t go throwing things at people!” Val’s friend (What had Osgood called her? Cleo? Clara? Clementine?) points a devastating finger at him, “Did your mama raise you in a barn?”
“Basically. Michigan.”
Cleo-Clara-Clementine scoffs almost good-naturedly, “Boy, bye.” she steals a gelatin worm from Val’s hand, “Bad news about the road trip, though, right? Think you’ll still make it to Grace Pointe?”
“We will.”
Arlo shrugs, “We’ll try.”
Joey exhales through his teeth, eyeing Arlo through his messy fringe. “We will.”
Arlo shakes her head once, firmly. The message is clear. Not here.
Unaware of the conversation happening beneath her own, Clementine heaves a sigh, kicking her feet onto Val’s lap, “Ugh, I wish we had time for a vacation.”
“Is this not vacation?” their partner hikes up the cuffs of their sweatshirt, folding the right side twice to account for its abrupt end just below the elbow.
“Val, girl, no, this is work. Stupid, poorly planned, unbelievably useless work.”
“I’ve been enjoying myself!”
“You’d have fun watching paint dry.” she jokes, poking Val in their rib with the tip of her fuzzy pink slippers.
Val bats it away, smiling (and…there is something…) “It’s quiet. We haven’t had much quiet, Clem.”
She rolls her eyes heavily, she really does have a knack for it. Never before had Irumi felt the insult in an eyeroll as potently as this, it’s a genuine talent. “Don’t jinx it.”
“What was the job?” Dora asks once Val hands the bag of candy back over to her.
“Our gallery is involved in an exhibition here!” they exclaim, at odds with the annoyance written clear across Clem’s face. “We were chosen as ambassadors!”
Their friend blows a raspberry, “Chosen? Ha!” she tosses her hair back in a fan of orange, “They sent us hoping we’d screw it enough that they’d finally lose our number.”
Val scratches at the scruff on their jawline, smiling still, “Mission accomplished!”
Alana’s confusion is blantant, “Why would you want that?”
“It’s some rich asshole’s gallery” (“Clem!” Val admonishes, gesturing futilely to the teenagers listening.) “and even if fine art is rich assholes all the way down— this rich asshole is about as useful as a hole in a bucket. It wasn’t even a gallery—it was his basement! His stupid tacky rich guy basement. And the only guests let in were his other rich asshole friends!” Irumi can almost picture the rich asshole, painted clearly by Clem’s animosity. “We got sent because MOCAA figured the only thing that’d get him to stop calling us is if he saw who it was he was calling.”
“MOCAA?”
“Museum of Contemporary Art, Greater Agnes.” the two answer with polar opposite tones, “The ‘G’ is silent.”
Osgood squints, the look of confusion transferring from Alana to her, “Why would he stop calling after seeing you? You’re nice people.”
“Girl…” Clem squints in kind, “it’s the Plains, he’s old money rich and we’re…” she waves a hand over her and Val’s faces, making her point obvious.
To everyone but Osgood evidently.
“And we’re…?” she tilts her head to the side, which she seems to do often, doing nothing to lessen the clueless air about her.
“Girl.”
“I am?”
“What?”
“Oh!!” she exclaims, as if suddenly getting it, “You mean-“
She points at her own eyes, then she points below them.
Another nonsense gesture, another bizarre non sequitur. Still though, Irumi feels a chill run up his spine; still though, the two anti-ambassadors sit back straight in their seats.
“What.” Clem’s acrylic nails clack against the seat, she swings her legs off Val, who sits motionlessly. All eyes on Osgood.
“What.” They say.
Osgood gets that damned look again, like everyone else is misunderstanding her.
She points at her own eyes. “Right.” She points below them. “There.
“Can no one else see?” When nobody rushes to agree nor admonish her, she―shock and horror―turns to him. “Mr. Kojima?”
It’s jarring to suddenly have complete attention turned to him, having remained on the fringes for so long. Being faced with all of them only heightens the sharp unreality rattling in his skull. These were strange people. What was he doing here?
“Don’t involve me in this.” the plea is involuntary. It’s just that he’s still sitting here. It’s just that he wants to leave, he’s been trying to leave, and yet he’s still sitting here. What the hell is he doing here?
Joey’s shout is a shadow, “What the hell is goi― ACHK!”
They all jump at his scream, the sound reverberating sharply off the walls and thundering with the continuing rain.
“Dude!” “What was that!?” “Why!?”
“Joey.” Arlo slips out of her seat and takes a knee at Joey’s side, “Hey.” he doesn’t answer, scrambling for something buried under his mop of hair. She grabs his shoulder and shakes it, “Hey!”
He pulls free something wired and shoves it into Arlo’s palm, shaking his head fervently, “Take it!”
“Your-?” she inspects the object, “Joey, why?” he isn’t looking at her, eyes screwed shut, “Joey! Jo―” she stops, groaning, “He can’t…”
“I-I-Is he okay?” Alana is sandwiched to Dora’s side, all the color drained from her face.
Arlo swings her head over, the concern Irumi’d seen smoothed over into a stable neutrality once she’s facing Alana and Dora. “He’s fine.” she He just can’t hear me.”
“He can’t?!”
She turns her hand toward the rest of them, Joey’s hearing aid dangling from her fingers.
When she turns back, she jostles Joey’s shoulder again to draw his wide cockeyed stare. She holds up the hearing aid to its owner, enunciating clearly, “Why?”
“¡¡Dios mío, it screamed in my ear!!” Joey snaps, speaking louder than before. He pushes Arlo’s hand away when she reoffers it to him, “¡No Mames! Fuck!”
“Joey!” she chides, “Jesus, kid, language!”
“Stop talking so fa―Language?! I just got my fucking ear blown out!”
“Joey…”
August studies the device in Arlo’s hand, “What could make it do that? Is it broken?”
“Don't look it.” she turns it over, “He’s mentioned something ‘bout magnets before, though, they can set it on the fritz if he gets too close to ‘em. So if any of y’all are carrying loose magnets…”
An uneasy laugh floats around the group at Arlo’s insinuation, though Irumi does find himself looking over at Osgood regardless, half expecting her to start suddenly producing magnets from her pocket. She doesn’t do that, occupied as she is with staring out the window and into the rain.
Joey flinches again, Arlo redoubles her attention. “Okay. Okay. It's gone.” she secretes the hearing aid in her jacket, “Joey- hey.” he’s got his eyes closed again. “Goddamn.”
“Arlo, I think it’s a thing.” he blurts out in a single breath.
“Kid, what do yo—“
“A-a paracosm thing. It’s, it’s…it’s ringing… Ah! ”
Osgood says, “Oh, no.”
Forget it. Irumi stands from his own chair and joins Arlo kneeling, “What’s wrong with him?”
His wording may be a bit off judging by the brief flash of irritation across Arlo’s face, “I don’t know. He gets- he has these episodes sometimes. I don’t-” Joey’s gasp of pain completely derails her, “- you know what a paracosm is? Ever heard of one?”
“I’m not familiar.”
She kisses the back of her teeth, briefly reaching again for the tucked away cigarette, “God, okay. It’s, it’s some conspiracy theory bull he believes, it doesn’t matter, forget I said anything.”
“Arlo.” he places Irumi Kincaid’s hand on her shoulder, it feels like holding nothing at all, “If there’s something you’re not telling me because you think it is too fantastical or improbable for me or anyone here to believe; please reconsider.”
Her eyes narrow, “I don’t even know who you are, man.”
“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine?”
They narrow further, “You first.”
He probably should’ve seen this coming, she was a serious woman and he was a grown man in tie-dye.
“Uh,” Osgood’s voice was a warning signal, “I-I think we all need to get out of here.”
She speaks like she’s afraid to be interrupted at any second, scrambling out of her seat and moving to usher them away.
For once, Irumi’s on the level, “I agree. Something isn’t right.” he stands as well, “We need to leave, pick a direction and run. As long as we’re far away from each other.
Whatever remained of the buoyant atmosphere drains away as a hush falls over the room and, damn it all to hell, Osgood looks confused. “Wait- What are you talking about, Mr. Kojima?”
The groan that rips from his throat is guttural, “No, what are you talking about, Osgood?”
She points to the storm outside and the shadow lurking closer, ever closer, “I’m talking about the monster!”