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Something is hanging over Vessel like a shroud, and III is growing a bit worried about it.
It feels like a charge in the air, the world tensing and coiling up before it strikes out. Vessel's been quiet, which is not unusual, but it's charged too. His gaze flicks to empty corners and into shadowed spaces often, too often, as though he's sure something will be looking back.
(III has looked too, when Vessel moves on; he hasn't seen anything yet either, and he isn't sure if that's good or not.)
(a thought, troubled: if Vessel does see something, what is he going to do about it?)
It's skirting the edges between late night and early morning when III leaves his hotel room for ice and a snack; this is yet another of so many different hotel stops that he's given up trying to keep track of them. II has said before that the cities blur together, one massive strip of sprawl that he can't tell apart anymore. IV offers no opinions aside from a shrug, and keeps his thoughts to himself. Vessel…well. Any time Vessel offers up his own thoughts on things unprompted is a win, in III's opinion. Vessel holds them dear and even now hedges a bit when he shares them, and III sees the effort it takes him to not say sorry or I guess or I mean, I don't know, but…
(III, who will pester II and IV at the least provocation, never pesters Vessel. He waits, and listens, and takes what Vessel says into account. III thinks – believes – that this is appreciated.)
III walks down the corridor towards the niche that hosts the ice machine, the instant coffee maker, and the overpriced vending machine for the hotel floor. The machines all ring like a chorus of tinnitus, the motion sensor overhead flicking on and adding its own thin whine. III knocks the empty ice bucket against his hip, a hollow thunk, thunk punctuating the noise as he studies sandwiches perched on the edge of expiration. When the slow shadow of a body cuts over his reflection in the vending machine window, III doesn't pay much attention. He doubts he's the only person up at odd hours, and they don't bother him.
A second pass of blurred body and shadow, however, does draw his eye.
They move too quickly for details to register, and they don't stay behind him. They move on past the little room, steps oddly quiet.
III knocks the bucket against his hip again: thunk, thunk, thunk. There's only the sound of machines running, the rhythmic noise III makes filling the corners that electric buzzing misses.
(He recalls Vessel hours prior, looking down the hall with mouth set and eyes riveted, searching for something that wasn't there.)
(The thunk of the ice bucket on III's hip loses rhythm and he feels a sting of nervousness, though he can't say why.)
No. No, this is dumb, and he's hungry. He needs ice, he wants a sandwich, and he'll get both. Then it's back to his room with nothing and no one troubling him, as he's done a thousand times prior and will do a thousand times more.
The vending machine spits a sandwich into the catch tray with a soft thud that feels too loud to III. The rattle and crash of ice into the bucket seems like it should wake everyone on the floor. III, who is usually untroubled by the dark and the quiet and the liminal space of a hotel at two in the morning, doesn't allow himself to hurry back down the hall.
He's almost home free back in his room, palming his key over the door's electric lock, when shadows pass over him again.
(A feeling he doesn't expect and doesn't know what to make of, drifting over him: mist finer than a veil against the back of his neck.)
III turns on his heel, "You want something? " on the tip of his tongue.
The hall is empty, and III is alone.
III turns back to his door very fast and shoulders it open.
"Nah. Nah, nah. No thanks, no thank you," he says, quickly and quietly. They're haunted enough, him and II and IV and Vessel. Vessel's got enough haunting around him to fill a graveyard twice over – sometimes these things happen, and III's seen enough weird shit to know when to leave it the fuck alone. He's slipped back into his room, sets the bucket aside on the TV stand as he passes by it, and tears the sandwich's cellophane wrap with his teeth. He keeps his back to the door and stands by the broad window on the room's opposite side, twitching back a curtain so he can eat and look at the empty street below and–
The door rattles.
III slowly looks over his shoulder. Water beads on the door, weeps down in streaks that soak into the carpeting. III swallows hard, mouth dry enough that the bit of sandwich threatens to stick in his throat.
(He thinks of Vessel, watchful and quieter than usual, staring into dark spaces. Looking for something that did not want to give itself away.)
III wishes, profoundly, that he had just stayed in bed. He tosses the sandwich with a crinkle of cellophane onto the coffee table by the window. He waits, skin prickling with nervous energy, as if the soft noise will give him away. And that's a stupid thought, isn't it? He's already been made. Whatever's pissing water down his door knows he's awake, knows that he knows they're out there.
(He was out in the hall, alone, with these things.)
(Where is Vessel, who knows how to watch, who knows what to look for, who has been so quiet lately and won't say why and shit what does he know that he hasn't told the others– )
III turns fully, faces the door. It doesn't rattle again but the flow of water has turned from thin streaks into a curtain, coursing over the wood, soaking into the carpet with a stain spreading forward like it's crawling towards him.
"Go away," III mutters, very quiet. "Go away, go away. "
He considers his options, which are none at all: his phone is next to his bed, the screen glaring at him with an empty battery icon like an epitaph.
(III stares at it; five minutes ago he was sighing as it died, throwing it on the charger, thinking: damn, I still need ice.)
No phone. No exit out. Only the door weeping water, soaking into the thin hotel carpeting and crawling closer and closer. If he jumps onto the bed to wait this out, will the water ooze up into the sheets, following him to higher ground? III moves towards the bed, ready to test the theory, when the door rattles again.
"Come on," III protests, pressing back against the ice-cold glass of the window. "Come on. Seriously? You wanna do this?"
It apparently does. The door rattles a third time, harder.
Fine.
Fucking fine.
With the fierce confidence of a terrible decision, III crosses the room and steps into the water soaking the carpet, shit it's cold hissed under his breath as it pools under his feet, and III grabs the door handle and pulls the damned thing open.
The hall is empty, the carpet dry on the other side. There's nothing outside but quiet and the hum of lights and the rattle of the ice machine as it spits fresh ice into the bin, a sharp staccato rattle that almost makes III jump out of his skin.
III closes the door and turns, and finds himself in a vast dark.
(Oh.)
(Well.)
"Shit."
III presses his back against the door and the door is a wall of stone, wet and cold. He's not dreaming. He knows he isn't. His bare feet are freezing on the stone floor, and water drips like sparks of ice on to his head from the ceiling. III looks up and gets a drop in his eye for the trouble. He rubs at it, staring up one-eyed: there is an aureole effect overhead, light dancing in the dark.
There is a new set of options. Stay and wait, or walk and try to leave. III turns, runs his hand over the wall again. It stays a wall, no seams anywhere to fit fingernails in and try to pry open.
Water splatters on him, soaking into his shirt, scratching down his chest and arms in stripes of ice. His feet ache and burn with cold on the stone floor.
"Okay," III says. "Okay, okay."
There's no point staying in a dead end. III pads away from the wall and into the dark. He can't see where the light is coming from; the hazy, colorless curtains of it turn to spiraling currents, following after III. He thinks of nothing except the next step forward, and the next. He doesn't think of how the water that drips on him won't dry off, sticking to his skin like glaze ice. He doesn't think of how cold he is, and how much colder he's going to get.
He doesn't think about Vessel looking for things like he's worried they're following him.
(Only him?)
Water drips into III's hair, on his face, down his back; he stops only once to try and rub it away from his arms. It forms a coating cold under his palms, spreading as water spreads and beading over skin, but it won't come off it won't come off.
"Okay," III repeats, because he can't bear the sound of dripping water anymore. "Okay, it's okay."
(it isn't.)
"Keep going. Keep going, there's a way out."
(what if there's not?)
"Cross that bridge when we get there. C'mon. It's okay."
(why didn't Vessel tell them something was wrong does he even know is he afraid something like this would happen)
III crosses his wet arms over his chest, trying to keep warmth in. His breath isn't fogging, he notices. Maybe that's important.
He's not sure how long he's been walking or how far he managed to get before things change. Something coarse and prickling is underfoot and III's steps slide in cold sand, prints welling up with water when he stumbles back. It's a sight better than stone and III doesn't question it. He hurries deeper into the dark, not questioning the expanse of space around him either, or the light that eddies and spirals above him in waterless currents, or the constant drip drip drip of water that sticks to him and is soaking him to the bone.
When he collides with another wall it knocks III backwards, feet skidding over sand and scraping skin as he hits the ground. His head rings from the impact and III sits up, curling up into himself with a hand pressed to his face, checking for a bloody nose.
The wall moves with a rustle of fabric. Fingertips slide under III's chin, skin soft but cold, and tilt his head back. III looks up.
A face…and a face, and a face, are all turned down towards him. They are framed with fine, dark hair that drifts and moves like seagrass, skin bleached-bone white and shadowed blue. III looks for eyes to meet his but there are only strips of gauze, hiding them from sight.
III recoils and pushes himself over the ground, palms scraping on sand, heels driving in and leaving divots as he tries to flee. The thing stands and III's heart drops into his stomach; it's enormous, a giant, three-headed and four-armed, one step forward closing the space he's put between them until it's leaning down and grabbing him by the fucking ANKLE–
"NO! "
The sharpness of it, the horror, makes the giant pause. It's silent, staring blindly down at him.
(III's heart is going to give out, if this thing doesn't kill him the terror of it will finish the job fuck oh fuck why did he leave his room why didn't Vessel– why didn't Vessel – what could Vessel even do about this?)
The hand around III's ankle, large enough to palm his head with room to spare, very gently lets go.
III pulls his legs in so quickly his knees slam against his collarbone. Making himself small feels like a terrible idea, but what difference does it make? This thing is going to be bigger than him no matter what. As it takes a step back and sinks down to its knees, those three faces turned to him still, III watches it mimic him: hunching forward, heads pushing down protectively. A pair of arms braces against the ground. Another pair hugs around itself, one hand mirroring how III grabs at his shoulder, fingers digging into skin.
"Sorry," III blurts, nerves rattling the words out of him. "The yelling. Sorry for the yelling. Rude. I was rude. Bit freaked out, you know? You know. Lot of shit happening. I'm just….I'm gonna go, yeah? I'm gonna go. Sorry. Thank you, I – thank you? Fuck, I–"
Wait.
The word isn't spoken but felt in III's blood, all the water in his body pulled into an alien current. III's breath sucks in like he's drowning, a last gasp that scrapes down his throat. The water on his skin beads into mandala patterns, dancing echoes of waitwaitwaitwaitwait.
His mouth opens, moves; no sound escapes.
The giant leans in, pulls itself on hands and knees to close the space between them again. III grabs at his throat, mouth still moving. Water spirals in his veins, his tissues, his bones, mirroring the patterns flexing over his skin.
(what's happening what's happening what's happening)
A hand brushes his cheek, catching his head as III's body goes slack and he falls backwards.
Water drips down from the light-dancing dark, paints over III's face, blurs his eyes. He rasps a sound around wait even as it numbs his tongue, trying to speak.
Quiet.
A scraping in the dark, breath echoing hollow and muffled. III recognizes the sound: breath hobbled by a mask over nose and mouth, keeping exhalations penned in.
(vessel please god let it be vessel the water in III won't stop moving it's not supposed to move like this vessel please vessel find him find him find–)
Another hand, very carefully, rests over III's mouth. He can't speak aloud but it's enough of a warning, even as quiet twines in III's brain with wait.
The breathing is coming closer, and with it comes the sound of metal sliding oil-slick and smooth over metal. Another, rougher noise of dragging, the ground reverberating.
III has enough control over himself to move his eyes. He looks into the dark past ribboning aureole light, sees a flat face pocked with empty sockets, hanging low. It's crowned with a plume of feathers or horsehair bundled together in a centurion crest, bobbing with each lurching step. Its body is skeletal, muscled, metal, flesh.
One arm is locked straight behind it, hand around the haft of a war hammer. The blunt claw drags in the sand, pulled along with terrible effort.
(good fucking Christ)
III's eyes flick to his captor. Two faces are turned towards the centurion; one watches him, a finger pressed to its lips.
Quiet.
III closes his eyes, very tightly.
It takes an eternity before the scraping fades away. The water in III is vibrating, wait and quiet etched into every molecule.
Look at me.
III's staring up before he realizes his eyes are open. Three faces are much too close to his, drifting hair brushing against his cheeks. His fingers dig into the sand, water welling up in the channels.
Are you afraid?
III glares, hoping what the fuck do you think can be conveyed by gaze alone. The three faces share the same expression, a complicated twist of the mouth fighting between exasperation and amusement. III drags in another breath as quiet withdraws, as wait fades. He wants this thing to let him go, for its currents to let him surface, but he is still caught up inside it.
If I let you go, will you listen to me?
(what choice does he have, he's in a pit of horror with a walking metal skeleton.)
He nods, keeping his frustrated fear to himself. The current does not recede entirely, but III regains enough of himself to sit up on his own. He shudders, feeling like his soul is readjusting in his flesh. He bares his teeth at the feeling: he wants to scratch but is unsure if it itches over his skin or inside his cells.
"Okay," he says. His voice rasps as though he's been screaming. "I've had enough now. Let me go back."
You shouldn't be here at all.
"I'm aware," III snaps. "But thank you for…God, should I even be thanking you? What was that? What are you? Is this–"
(A thought, much delayed by fear and horror: where does Vessel go, when Sleep calls him?)
III feels his heart sink even lower, flickering in anxious palpitation. "Where's Vessel? Is he here?"
No.
"The hell d'you mean, no? This is his gig, not mine. The, the… this. " III gestures wildly; his hand disturbs hazy light, sends it spinning like silt billowing in water. "I signed up for a lot, alright? I know I did. But not this. I don't talk to the thing in charge."
You speak to Vessel. One is no different than the other. Flesh meeting spirit meeting bone, blood into aether. The mouthpiece retains the words, feeds sight into distant eyes.
"...sorry, what?"
No reply. III's captor – rescuer? – draws away and pulls him up with it. One face looks up, another to the left, another to III.
No lessons taught here, at least not to you, or meant for you, it says, contemplating. No bargains begged for. No thoughts wandering into a god's mouth, no answers coerced by chains. You are not supposed to be here.
III is going to get a fucking migraine.
"I know," he says, forcing each word out with all the patience and courtesy he can dredge up. "Will you please. Let me. Go back. To my room."
Three mouths twitching again; a sardonic smile across three faces, pushed away.
You lack a certain quality of awe.
III raises his arms, drops them again. "What d'you want from me, a hosanna? Ves is the poet. I'm just the fuckin' bassist."
A hand raises to one face, presses against lips to stifle laughter. The echoes of the stifled sound escape from two other mouths in a lilt. All at once III's horror-shortened temper fizzles out. This thing, whatever it is, helped him. Probably saved his life, though if he'll be living much longer is yet to be determined.
"I…sorry. I'm sorry." III crosses his arms over his chest again, realizing he's still cold, still wet. His hands sting where the sand scraped his fingers and palms. "Was it you, back in the hall? You and…and the other one?"
Yes. I followed after.
"And the water? The knocking?"
A warning. Drawing you towards one fearful thing, to keep another from finding you.
"Right. The other one…" III looks into the dark, waits to see that flat face with its neat rows of empty eye sockets staring back, to hear the drag of the hammer. "What does it want?"
A tripartite sigh, weary and heavy. Too many conclaves between worshiper and god, opening and closing the doors. Whispering through the walls. Things hear and want answers of their own.
III's quiet, picking apart the answer from the crypticism. "Wait. Wait, hang on. Did Sleep do this? Did Sleep want this?"
A face turns to III in genuine incredulity. Do you think I understand a god?
"I mean, aren't you…" III pauses. "Alright, fair. I dunno if Vessel gets it either, it's a whole thing with him. But, I mean, is this going to keep happening now? Things knocking on the walls and trying to get to him?"
It has happened before. There is no reason it won't again. A sigh, rippling in an arc from mouth to mouth to mouth, catching in a grimace. Some want answers more than others. Parts and pieces of the vessel that poured them out of itself.
"Ah. Cool. That's…" III trails off as a noise catches his attention; he shrinks down, pressing a hand to his mouth. It is the scraping sound again, metal dragging through sand. His rescuer goes statue-still, heads tilting towards the dark.
(a smell like rust, like neglect, like dust clinging in a throat to choke away breath.)
(steps scraping, scraping, scraping.)
A plate metal face silhouetted in the misty light, taking them both by surprise.
No voice but a toneless ringing like metal striking metal, reverberating: III gasps in something close to pain, the question slamming into his brain like rail spikes, words layering upon words heavy as lead.
and who are you
to hide answers from me?
third vessel, lost vessel, unwitting vessel,
you will give me what you know.
"I can't," III says; the spikes twist, the hammer of the new voice beating them down deeper. "Fuck, I'm not– I'm not hiding anything, I'm NOT!"
III's driven to his knees; the dark is shaking, the world is convulsing. Water falls and falls on him and it's a drenching storm and III tries to shelter in it, hands pressed to his ears.
(spikes on spikes, hammer blows driving down the demand for answers he doesn't have, to questions he doesn't understand, what does it want how can it think it will get answers this way)
(where is the other one, why isn't it helping him?)
But then –
Water, falling.
Water, drumming words into III's skull, vibrating in his cells, whispering in his nerves.
Run.
Run, and don't look back.
Run? III can barely breathe, barely think; how is he going to run? He curls in on himself and the deluge whips at him, trying to force him away. It builds into a flood then a roar pressure and cold and –
RUN.
A breathless, terrible moment of pressure, compacting down. It doesn't hurt, surely it's supposed to hurt, no one can survive this, III tries to scream for help but there is only –
Silence.
Weightless silence, perfect cold. The spikes pry loose from III's brain and his hands fall away from his ears, slow against the resistance of water: the dark is gone, the centurion with its voice like a hammer gone. His rescuer, gone. Only water, everywhere.
III thrashes in the middle of an ocean and swims up – up? Is there up, or down? He doesn't know which way to go, there's no light, no surface. Only the blue murk of empty water.
Empty, surely, but for III. A scrap of flotsam caught in a current he doesn't belong in.
III swims in what he thinks could be up, long after he should have drowned. He swims and god this is it this is hell this is a trap he'll never escape how does Vessel bear it how does he bear it
To III's left, something moves, draws closer, squints.
An eye.
It's an eye.
A pupil constricts; it is not black, but the color of absence.
You, Sleep says, should not be here.
The world contracts, twists apart, and III lands hard on the floor of his hotel room. He wheezes as the air's knocked out of him, a feeling like he's been kicked in the head throbbing from his temples down into the base of his neck.
"Ow. Ow, ow. Christ, what... " Clarity follows the shock of falling out of bed; one leg is tangled in sheets, the other bent at an uncomfortable angle. III groans and pulls himself free, sits up. He takes a deep breath and coughs as air reacquaints itself with his lungs, drawing him further awake.
Dawn cuts through the parted curtains across the room. Light hits III's eyes and he winces, pulls himself up onto the bed's edge. His head buzzes with the pain of impact, but as he searches for damage he sighs with relief; he must have just missed hitting the nightstand on the way down.
"Fuckin'... alright, good morning." Underneath the pain is the sick, cold feeling of a nightmare receding. Dark and cold stone and…III shakes his aching head again, hard. A chill shudders over him and he doesn't notice the trails of water like glaze ice thawing, dripping off him, drying into nothing.
His phone hit the floor too; III hisses between his teeth, flipping it over, sighs with relief at the unbroken screen. His alarm doesn't go off for another twenty minutes, if the clock's to be trusted. III crawls back under the covers and pulls them over his head. The headache is fading, and III is mostly sure he didn't hit the floor hard enough for a concussion. He closes his eyes again, exhausted despite himself.
He dozes, and half-dreams again of freezing water, of ringing metal, of an eye that will not stop watching him.
When the alarm goes off and jolts III awake again, it pushes the dream away; he rises with regret, sore in every muscle but unsure why. If he's subdued from exhaustion the rest of the day he doesn't think much about it, gradually thawing back into the solidity of reality. It was only a nightmare, after all.
And all day, he doesn't notice Vessel watching him, troubled, as water drips off the edges of III's shadow.