Two men staring at each other, but neither is just a man.
Our hero stands ragged and worn to the bone, his silhouette misshapen because of the intense overlay, like a shadow puppet - an audio glitch made manifestdouble exposure, an impossible inhuman being laid over his overwraught frame like the prince and the pauper were tangled in the same soul. A man and his self-proclaimed better half.
Our villain is a king to a god to a nonbeliever dressed in a black suit, the epitome of class and contrast. He hasn't touched the hero, but every dismantled corpse in the white city they stand in has felt his boredom, their blood dripping from his hands, sticking his bare feet to the floor like the visceral paint is dripping from his clothes themselves, and not by having been mopped up by them.
And he is laughing, an earworm of a cackle that roots into the mind and leaves chills in its wake.
"Oh my god, I keep forgetting to answer you!" His voice is rapid-fire, manic in a clinical sense. "What do I want? Well! Mm. Hm, hm. I wanted to meet you, Arthur. Arthur Lester. The man himself, and the voice in his head."
Arthur just sounds confused. "Why?"
The stranger starts pacing, counterclockwise to Arthur, keeping his other half on high alert. "Why? Why? Because you’ve started such a kerfuffle. The better half of your better half in there is tearing up the worlds to find a way to break you, to become whole again."
"And you’re going to help him?"
"God, no! No no no no no no. No, I wanna see how this little song plays out. I don’t have a dog in this fight. Whether or not Hastur gets his heart back: irrelevant to me. I just wanted to know what the deal was."
Arthur's confusion is practically audible. "The deal?"
"You know what?" Suddenly the bloodied stranger's voice is close - too close, whispered across the back of my neck like a predator's wet huffs, a grip on my shoulder like a bear trap threatening to snap. "I don't think this is really any of your business," he hums, polite and dismissive. "Is it, Alan?"
A flickering yellow light silhouettes two men in profile.
Click.
"Why did you say that?" asks a voice, impossibly deep.
"I don’t know," admits the English accent. "It’s just a comforting thought."
"It’s written on our lighter."
"Oh, that’s right!" A light chuckle. "That’s the one I had with me from... the office, way back when. Crazy to think it’s made it all this way. It’s not even really mine."
"No?"
"No, found it in an old desk drawer when we moved in."
"Interesting."
Click.
There's a low whistle, and a New York accent. "Goddamn. That must've cost you a pretty penny."
The second voice, deeper, Bostonian, grunts in neutral acknowledgement. "Charlie."
"Seriously, Role. It's a damn fine piece." A shift of clothing, as the two men lean - one in, one away, a step in a dance, familiar and easy. "What's it say, 'this fine piece 'f ass?"
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lestercraft) wrote2024-07-22 01:23 pm
Echo 1: CW mentions of violence
Our hero stands ragged and worn to the bone, his silhouette misshapen because of the
intense overlay, like a shadow puppet - an audio glitch made manifestdouble exposure, an impossible inhuman being laid over his overwraught frame like the prince and the pauper were tangled in the same soul. A man and his self-proclaimed better half.Our villain is
a king to a god to a nonbelieverdressed in a black suit, the epitome of class and contrast. He hasn't touched the hero, but every dismantled corpse in the white city they stand in has felt his boredom, their blood dripping from his hands, sticking his bare feet to the floor like the visceral paint is dripping from his clothes themselves, and not by having been mopped up by them.And he is laughing, an earworm of a cackle that roots into the mind and leaves chills in its wake.
"Oh my god, I keep forgetting to answer you!" His voice is rapid-fire, manic in a clinical sense. "What do I want? Well! Mm. Hm, hm. I wanted to meet you, Arthur. Arthur Lester. The man himself, and the voice in his head."
Arthur just sounds confused. "Why?"
The stranger starts pacing, counterclockwise to Arthur, keeping his other half on high alert. "Why? Why? Because you’ve started such a kerfuffle. The better half of your better half in there is tearing up the worlds to find a way to break you, to become whole again."
"And you’re going to help him?"
"God, no! No no no no no no. No, I wanna see how this little song plays out. I don’t have a dog in this fight. Whether or not Hastur gets his heart back: irrelevant to me. I just wanted to know what the deal was."
Arthur's confusion is practically audible. "The deal?"
"You know what?" Suddenly the bloodied stranger's voice is close - too close, whispered across the back of my neck like a predator's wet huffs, a grip on my shoulder like a bear trap threatening to snap. "I don't think this is really any of your business," he hums, polite and dismissive. "Is it, Alan?"
Echo 2: The Lighter (S4 spoilers?)
Click.
"Why did you say that?" asks a voice, impossibly deep.
"I don’t know," admits the English accent. "It’s just a comforting thought."
"It’s written on our lighter."
"Oh, that’s right!" A light chuckle. "That’s the one I had with me from... the office, way back when. Crazy to think it’s made it all this way. It’s not even really mine."
"No?"
"No, found it in an old desk drawer when we moved in."
"Interesting."
Click.
There's a low whistle, and a New York accent. "Goddamn. That must've cost you a pretty penny."
The second voice, deeper, Bostonian, grunts in neutral acknowledgement. "Charlie."
"Seriously, Role. It's a damn fine piece." A shift of clothing, as the two men lean - one in, one away, a step in a dance, familiar and easy. "What's it say, 'this fine piece 'f ass?"
"This too shall pass, ya bimbo."
Click-fwoosh--
And the light sparks out.