Work Text:
The door clicked shut behind him, the lock turning over with a clean metallic thunk. Liu dropped his coat onto the floor rather than hang it, body feeling like it was being cooked in an oven. Either nerves or from how fast he sped walked his way to his shitty motel room. The stolen Note 4 was already in his hand, warm from his pocket. The old Samsung B3310 whatever was on the table, its once-white plastic yellowed with age, the keypad worn smooth in places where his thumbs had danced across it too many times, the letters rubbed off from years of continuous use. He sat down cross-legged on the chair, surrounded by cables, half-used cigarette packs, and the low static hum of his motel room.
Transferring files from an ancient brick to a newer, if still outdated, phone was a Frankenstein effort. He jerry-rigged a connection using an adapter that had no business working and a data transfer app someone in a defunct subreddit swore by. Clicking the right buttons, and he was now at the mercy that the two phones would transfer everything clean and easy. The process was slow. Primitive. But it was working.
Seemingly hours of waiting, Liu distracted himself by standing by the window and lighting a cig. The poisonous smog was familiar, even if it did hurt his chest. He did just smoke one when he got out of the store. A brief thought reared into his head, if he should try to quit smoking or not. It would be a bit too late, wouldn't it? Smoking sense he was 10 or something, body already rotting itself into a toxic sludge, mind filled with a cacophony of voices he could and tried not to understand. What would be the point of getting off it - making himself healthier? He can't get healthier.
He is stuck as he is.
He looked down at the progress bar.
97%.
Liu didn’t breathe as it hit 100%.
The Note 4 vibrated gently on the desk. He immediately opened the gallery, jaw tight, shoulders stiff. One by one, he scrolled.
The first photo was a blurry shot of an overexposed street, the kind you take without meaning to. Accidental art. He barely remembers taking it. Maybe it was his old neighborhood street. He swiped again. A selfie, poorly lit, taken in a school bathroom with dreary eggshell white walls.
Jeff’s head was in frame, giving the camera a middle finger with a snickering grin.
Liu’s eyes were soft and tired looking, doing that thing with his mouth where he smiled like he didn’t trust it to stay.
A video auto-played. Wind. A train approaching from the horizon. Their voices in the background, muffled by the primitive phone microphone it was taken with.
“Dude, get the whole engine - no, no, from the front, it’s cooler.”
Jeff’s voice. Alive. Tangible.
Liu’s own laughter layered underneath it.
Another video. A mourning dove hopping along a railing. The younger Liu filming, voice quiet and oddly reverent.
“Little guy’s just vibing,” he whispered. There was a small grunt and what sounded like to be the sound of someone hitting fabric.
“Don't scare it, Jeff.”
Swipe. A skateboard trick attempt.
The camera jerks as Jeff fumbles the landing and hits the pavement with a grunt, knee scrapping against the concrete.
The camera dips. Liu’s soft, breathy muffled snicker in the mic.
“Shut up, man,” Jeff muttered in the video.
Liu paused it there.
Hand halfway to his mouth, his lips quivered slightly, fingers curling against his jaw as if trying to press the sound back into his skin. His shoulders shook.
It hurt. That kind of slow, thick ache that settled deep in the chest like bad weather. He stayed like that for a while, letting the silence hang around him, letting video play itself out in grainy video and compressed audio.
The files weren't corrupted. That's all that mattered.