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The world around them was quiet, save for the occasional breeze that blew weakly across the highway. It half-heartedly picked up little puffs of dust, carried them for a moment, and then dropped them again before they’d been truly displaced. Setting sun reflected in the air, and across the dull metal of the camper van’s body. It gave the entire area a copper, dreamlike tint.
"You’re not human, are you?" John had asked. Completely calm and casual, as if he'd been talking about the weather, or wondering what to do for breakfast the next morning.
"The man I'm partnering you with. He doesn't have an ability." Fitzgerald had explained the situation with a knowing laugh. John hadn't been sure what to make of that. Perhaps an armed mercenary? A smooth-talking negotiator?
He'd had a hunch of his wrongness when he’d first met the man. Howard Phillips Lovecraft hadn't carried any weapons, and his form had seemed far too gaunt to be hiding much raw strength.
But only once they'd gone into battle, had it been truly confirmed.
Like a scab he couldn’t quite leave alone, John had been picking at the issue ever since. As he spent time with Lovecraft, little bits of information and observations came together. They turned into evidence. The evidence compiled itself into a question. For a long time he’d held the question there, fully formed in his mind, waiting for the right moment to ask it. And now, his words hung in the air, waiting for an answer.
Lovecraft was quiet with thought. For several moments, he had no reply. Then he blinked. Slowly, not unlike a lizard. John thought about how forced certain movements seemed on Lovecraft. Movements that ought to appear natural.
“No.” he stated. And then, after a pause where a breath ought to go, but didn’t: "I am not human."
Subtlety was also an undeniably human thing, wasn’t it?
Silence fell again. John lit a cigarette and leaned back against the truck. Lovecraft continued to stand, motionlessly. The wind was too weak to pass around the barrier of the van, but parts of his coat and hair fluttered as if they’d been caught in the breeze anyways.
“That thing you turned into. When we were fighting one time? Is that what you really look like?” John had taken the information given to him, processed it with what he already knew, and now, in between breaths of smoke, every word that left his mouth was measured and careful.
This time the silence of thought was shorter.
“No.” Lovecraft said again. “However... It is similar.”
John waited for him to continue, alternately watching Lovecraft’s face and gazing past it into the distance. There were no cars on the highway.
By the time he’d finished his cigarette and snuffed it out under his boot, it was obvious that no more information would be forthcoming.
His curiosity got the better of his politeness and common sense, so he pushed a little farther anyways. “Can I see it?”
"You wouldn't survive," Lovecraft said, his voice very cold and very absolute.
John made a sound of irritation and ran his hand through his hair like he was hoping he might find the words to a better argument there. “What makes you so sure?”
“No human has ever survived.”
With that bluntness, the conversation ended again. John scuffed at the dirt with his foot, creased his cap in his hands, restless. He knew he couldn’t argue with that kind of calm certainty, but he wanted to.
“Show me your other form then. The one I’ve seen before.” His memories of the incident were faint, but he knew that other form hadn’t harmed him. Certainly, their enemies had run screaming and found themselves crushed like insects. But John had stood next to Lovecraft, blood running in rivulets down his neck, the adrenaline of the conflict racing through his body, making him unafraid.
Lovecraft was cautious. Thoughtful, tentative.
"Are you certain?" He asked.
"Yes. Show me." At some point, the question of whether or not it was a good idea had become irrelevant. John had to have this. He had to. He knew that if he left things as they were, he’d lie awake for the rest of the night, wondering about what could have happened, but didn't.
Lovecraft didn’t argue further. He nodded. Tentacles unfolded from every part of him. Now that John could watch his partner instead of their enemies, the sheer wrongness of what he was seeing made his every hair stand on end.
Something in him wanted to yell out, to shout for Lovecraft to stop, but instead, he breathed in and pushed that impulse down.
Lovecraft let out a deep, guttural sigh. A sound of comfort. Or perhaps it was a laugh. The sound of an incomprehensible beast obliging to the selfish fascination of a human.
Then everything about the person John knew was gone. All that remained was a writhing thing. It was still vaguely humanoid, but any semblance of actual humanity had vanished completely.
It was strong. It was raw and powerful and so unbelievably strong that John could barely stomach to look at it fully. He felt that if he were somehow able to take it all in, he might burst. But an irrational feeling kept him from turning away. It said that even if he tried to escape, the beast existed all around him. It would be wherever his gaze fell.
With that revelation, his legs seemed to lose the will to work and his knees hit the ground heavily. He barely noticed. If the impact hurt, the pain failed to register.
"Oh god." he whispered with amazement. Some part of him struggled in a vague search for better words, but came up empty. Distractedly, he repeated himself instead.
“Oh god.”
Mixed in with the fear, behind the truly soul-crushing terror, he couldn't stop thinking about how lucky he was, getting to see this amazing being that most of the world didn't even know existed.
Even as his body tensed in fear and his nails dug sharply into the palms of his hands, he made himself keep observing the thing. He forced himself to take in its sheer size. The way it towered over the car, supported by a mass of fleshy tentacles - undulating slowly, as if sensing the air.
His eyes briefly followed the movement of the appendages, trying and failing to find the spot where one limb ended and another began. But it seemed as if the more he looked, the less he understood, and the greater the throbbing pressure in his head became, until his entire body felt like it was being crushed. Deeper in, glassy orbs that might have been eyes shone out, but fear seized him heavily, and he had to look away.
He stared downwards, taking shaky breaths and trying to calm himself. He told himself that he was being weak, that he ought to be stronger than this, but it had no effect. The air seemed to get colder and colder, until his lungs burned with every inhalation.
The inky tentacles were all around him now, and he knew he couldn’t escape. One of them brushed against his back, and he felt himself retch. He saw his hands underneath him, trembling and covered with dust. They dug helplessly into the ground. He was going to die. He knew that with absolute certainty.
He screamed.
And then everything shattered.
The night air was cool but pleasant. The earth under him was solid and warm from the heat of the day. The sun had set behind the horizon, and with it, the golden twilight had faded. The stars shone. The moon was in a mundane shape that was neither full nor new nor crescent. Lovecraft stood over him, reaching out to help John up. On the road, a car sped past and illuminated them both in a flash of headlights.
Lovecraft’s hand was cold. Icy cold. John took it, and pulled himself up, standing on unsteady legs. He looked at Lovecraft, and Lovecraft met his gaze. Silence hung in the air for a long moment, until John eventually spoke.
"Thank you," he said. He meant it, but even to his own ears, the words sounded forced. "Thank you for showing me that, Howard." The name felt unnecessarily tacked on. They were both fully aware now. The human called Howard did not exist, and never had.