Work Text:
Years ago.
Earl Harlan stands on the steps before the glass door. The afternoon has begun its two o’clock silence. The quietude stretches up and down the street. The summer sun bakes the concrete and stifles the singing lawns into a state of muteness.
In the modest shade of the building, Earl can see himself reflected on the surface he has just knocked upon. There are stains peeking out from the apron tucked under his arm. He shifts, better hiding it.
Stubble conquers his jaw. Dark lines haunt the bottoms of his eyelids. He looks like any other citizen in the town. Wary. Adult.
He reaches up to clatter his knuckles against the barrier again. He could defeat this building easily, but being a grown man dictates a certain level of decorum. Kicking in the glass and storming the building is simply his last resource.
A white coat fills the other side before Earl’s fingers shatter the neighborhood’s hush for a second time. In this moment, a ghost seems to lurk on the other side.
Then a single bolt unlatches and the scientist known as Carlos hovers in the doorway. “Can I help you?”
“Uh…” Earl stammers, taken back by his first close viewing of this Outsider. He’s seen the other around town, but never in this high of a definition. There is the fabled scent of lavender gum. The signature hair, short but promising in its potential of eventual growth. The strong jaw and deliciously dark complexion.
He is exactly as everyone says.
Shit.
Fortunately, Earl has a badge for speaking through shock. “Actually, I was responding to your recent inquiries regarding time and it being broken. I might have some information you’d be interested in.”
The scientist stares. Then, he smiles.
Earl directs his attention away, diverting his gaze to the dark corners of the hall behind his host. Those teeth are so perfect. They remind him of exposed bones. The coat compliments them smartly. The Scoutmaster’s tongue involuntarily shifts up to graze over the cracked teeth he had acquired from several childhood misadventures.
The town’s latest and most famous Interloper steps aside, sweeping an arm in invitation. “I really do appreciate any help I can get, Mr…”
“Harlan,” Earl starts, accepting the gesture and entering into the shelter of the building. There is little change in the temperature. The paint flakes on the walls and the doors lack the recommended number of chains and bolts, not to mention the absent barricade post that is mandatory in all establishments. He really should stop judging this stranger based upon the state of the lab he rents. “Earl Harlan. I’m a Scoutmaster. And...Cecil Palmer’s best friend.”
He doesn’t know why he says the bit about Cecil but the words don’t earn a reaction. Carlos is already moving up the hall. “Harlan...Earl. Well, thank you again, Earl. What about your experiences on time?”
“I have a bit of a...well, I don’t know what to call it. ,” Earl presses, keeping pace. “I stopped aging at nineteen and...”
They round a corner and Earl stalls in the doorway when he sees the chaos within. Carlos’ lab is cluttered with clocks. Some are smashed open. Others are missing their faces, their gears exposed and oozing. One table possesses a machine with scrolling paper, a needle swinging back and forth frantically over it. Liquids bubble in beakers on hot plates, all surfaces calcifying with rust or debris.
Carlos invades the room with purpose. “I remember being nineteen. I’m in a bit of a rush, though. You caught me just as I was stepping out. There’s a meeting and I have to take material samples at Radon Canyon.” He turns and flashes an apologetic smile. It is a stunning apologetic smile. “You know how it is,” he continues.
Earl can only nod. Cecil might be at that meeting.
“Anyhow, yes. Time is strange. The sun doesn’t come up when we predict. The hours are sometimes outpaced by minutes, and I often joke to my fellow team members that I feel as if I’ve been away from home for decades.”
Earl straightens. “I can relate. I was nineteen for...longer than a year. Decades, too, perhaps. And when I was not nineteen anymore --”
He stops as his host hefts a device in one hand. It looks heavy, despite being a simple black rectangle. He digs out a clipboard from a stack of manuals and paperwork with his other arm. Carlos juggles both with a single-minded focus, before thrusting the latter item at his guest.
“If you could jot everything down, that’d be most helpful of you. As I was saying, I really have to run. I very much appreciate your assistance in this matter. More data is always useful.”
Earl holds the item dumbly as Carlos sweeps out of the room, lugging his rectangle. “Just leave it on the desk by the clock,” he calls. “Don’t worry about locking up.”
Attached to the clipboard by a string is a pen. It hangs on the short thread as if noosed. The utensil is highly illegal. The paper is blank.
Earl shuts his eyes, still seeing the bright and perfect teeth burned against his eyelids. He is alone in the lab. The ink-laden contraband swings aimlessly off the side of the clipboard.
He wouldn’t know of what to say if he could say it.
Dear scientist: Please explain to me why my life is the way it is.
Or...
Why are you here? You’ve won over everyone else but me.
Or…
Please talk to Cecil. Tell him you’re either interested, or not…
Aware that he is being watched, Earl sets the paperwork down. Like a good Scout, he leaves no trace of his presence. His thoughts remain shielded.
He keeps his face carefully blank. Like his son’s singular expression. Perhaps it is a genetic behaviour. Unfortunately, there are no scientists who can confirm this.
He shakes his head and retreats. The other is an Interloper. Carlos will someday be gone from Night Vale, and Earl will remain. If he can’t have answers regarding his lost years, he can at least confirm that he has a future.
Carlos won’t stay.
Cecil will get over him.
Earl can still have plans.