Chapter Text
Arcade-arcades-arcades, oh arcades. Was it too much to ask for children not to use the machines with their sticky sugar-coated hands? The oils from the popcorn crusting dry with whites of swirls of flavour adhesives on the handles of pinball, grips, and triggers of the zombie shooting cabinet guns and all coin receivers. How he was sick, he was sick!
A rag in his hands. Almost new and yellow wet.
Anger and dissatisfaction came easily to him now, when he couldn’t feel his obsessions being fulfilled. He speculated they were somewhat fed with his free time spent with educationally-enlightening materials he was now able to reach — with free time the lack of the school provided, how fun — but the feedback loop didn’t work, and he wasn’t sure how healthy — for a dead guy — he was.
Was he sick? Surely he was, he didn’t know how far.
“Jahaha! Let’s find a treasure!” Jack the Pirot’s face, drawn on the side of the pinball machine, was tan and happy enough that it struck similarities with his father, even without an annoying prolonged laugh, “Let’s sail the seas…”
He probably could measure his health or something, compare some strength levels or so, but he could hold a building on a bad day, and he didn’t want to attract attentions with his meddling somewhere in the docks, it would just go wrong.
“Feel the taste of the salt on your tongue! Don’t you think it’s time to go on the grand adventure with me?”
The rag was almost brown, and he might peel the paint with how hard he was scrubbing the surface of a carting wheel.
“Fucking shut up, Jack. I'll get to you in a minute.”
There were a few things in his life where it might have gone better, alas, he was dead. There was a subtle plot twist to the situation, of course, but if he was given a choice…
His choice, later — later when he should have done this, really, was to push his guts inside, staple whatever flaps of skin he could reach and ghost out of Amity.
“Open the sails, greencorn!”
Was it easy with his shattered core?
Well, no. But another option was his so-so held together body, that could bleed and leave traces, so, dismissing this option, he was left with two final choices: flying up or flying down. And flying up he did, falling ones in a while — because, of course, it was preferred to randomly losing ghostliness somewhere three miles under the ground, or better worse — losing direction.
He flew out to the highest levels of the troposphere, then stratosphere, into the piercing blue to the north and english red behind; with white haze of rippled cirrus clouds under his legs — the early cold of November, the forecast of the rain…
He flew up higher, not fully sure how far he should fly. He knew the top-level clouds rest above eight miles, and he pinged the latest ghost-radars anywhere in their town… And… oh ancients, their town, how big was it? It must be more than eight miles in diameter, right? A mile is not a lot, how far can they track him?
He wished he had listened to his parents' ramblings, he must have had, they were his main assailants.
How long has he been flying up?
Is he still flying? The change of scenery was slow, and now, over the clouds, he couldn’t really measure how high he was. It was cold. Obviously, it was cold, because he was comfortable, whatever surface damage his core had wasn’t getting worse, and his obsessions….
His obsessions that he couldn’t feel. He knew they were there — so close to space, with stars so bright just over his head, but so far from home, he must feel one or the other, but he didn’t.
Was he far? Was he far enough?
“Jahaha! Let’s find a treasure!”
The handle was scrubbed clean, and the air smelled like chemicals more than popcorn, but, again, not for a long time. With winter holidays on the nose, they are going to get swarmed this month — they were the only arcade in the district, and arcades were relatively cheap, which, considering their location in the Crime Alley, made them popular, no mind “Island of Fun” was just a front for some drug dealing.
Danny — Denny now, as Denial, which is a river in Egypt, with a wonderful second name “why’re you nosy,” — sometimes wondered how much they were worth. It must be enough, right? For a place to be held to some kind of standards.
He was getting twenty per hour with meals covered by whatever is left to be thrown away, or if the goons got a mood to share the takeout they got. Sometimes he will bring drinks to their VIP guests and get slipped a dirty hundred or two in his back pocket afterward. He got a new, personal uniform, and employees weren’t discouraged from throwing their clothing items for a Monday (their weekend) cleaning in the laundry on the other side of the street, which was also a front, but for what — he didn’t pry.
He thinks they earn enough. Or it was just him, because he usually got some extra topping for his silence.
For which he could say… He didn’t have documents, and, before meeting him, Mr. Thabolt didn’t have someone who could move freely between two zones and fucking bring a drink, or popcorn, you know, boy? My buddies are not subtle, and I don’t want some half-asses of my hook to rattle me out,” the gangster smiled. He had the build of a boxer, some ugly scars and some asian heritage that gave him a really mean stare, “So, if we have understanding, you can work here no problem.”
He sprays the glass of the pinball with some off-brand Windex. It’s green and he’s sure the chemicals has reaction with the oil remover, but he is the only one in the closing shift, and it’s been fine since he came here two months ago.
“Let’s sail the seas in search of Eldorado, the rumoured pit of gold.”
He still holds his breath while plastering himself over the board. He can’t really reach it from the side — the “Island of Fun” is stacked full with the machines, visitors elbowing each other in the back, sweat condensing on the walls and low ceilings at rush hour. He doesn’t think about the floor. They never had carpets of funny bright-y colours like in Amity, and he stopped wondering why after much too many drinks were spilled under the legs and posts of the machines, sipping into traces of wear.
Between the touting soundtracks of music there were muffled groans of pleasure. He wouldn’t have heard them if the place was not void of people, or if Mr. Thabolt cared for his privacy and shut the door, or if he was further from ViP lounge, or if he wasn’t an undead freak of nature, but he did.
“Have you heard of it? The taled freedom, and rush in the blood,” Jack Perot’s face grinned at him from the board as he sprayed it, “Everything you need is in Eldorado, greencorn! Feel the taste of the salt…”
The soap streaks reminded him of high atmospheric clouds — cirrus, cirrostratus, cirrocumulus.
Altocumulus, altostratus, nimbostratus were mid-level clouds.
And lower…
The woman moaned on the top of her lungs, pitching high, followed by the deep grunt.
… cumulus, stratus, stratocumulus, cumolonimbus.
“Jahaha! Let’s find a treasure!”
Denny was sick.