The lobby's a shove on your way, drab. Two rain-spattered windows, only one looking out on the street but both offering the same view: gray spilling down.
“You think this is bad, you should see the place when the lights aren't flickering.” Don glances up from his watch. “Jesus,” he says, respect leaking into his voice. He'd been talking, pitching, when it started, a clap of thunder like the sky clearing its throat. Rain drumming the building, the room's mood altered, all of them audience to the cascading water. He's been trying for impatience ever since; it's been out of reach.
Metal shrieks as the door's wrenched open. It flaps in the wind, admitting a couple thousand raindrops and a man still bowed by the weather. He coughs and stamps his feet. His hands are jammed deep in his pockets. Someone snaps at him to shut the door and as he backs away, shrugging helplessly, another sorry piece of human debris blows in. “Shut the door!”
Body caught in a flinch the man frees one hand, shows his palm to the lobby while he fumbles for the door handle. “D-don't--” They spray hissing from his fingers. Blue, pink, washed-out green. Filaments of color leaping for the ceiling, tangling in themselves on the way down. “Please,” he says. It's all over him, webbed and knotted. “Please. I'm sorry. It's harmless?”
Don shoulders past—shakes off the man's grip—and plunges into the rain. The cold's a restorative shock. He's soaked through almost instantly, drenched in the sound of the downpour. He moves hurriedly but with purpose, hat clutched to his head, until he finds an awning and a bench. He sits slumped, head tipped back. It's a minute before he plucks the strand of orange—wild as a scribble, and not the last of them—from his arm.
[canker wedge]
The lobby's a shove on your way, drab. Two rain-spattered windows, only one looking out on the street but both offering the same view: gray spilling down.
“You think this is bad, you should see the place when the lights aren't flickering.” Don glances up from his watch. “Jesus,” he says, respect leaking into his voice. He'd been talking, pitching, when it started, a clap of thunder like the sky clearing its throat. Rain drumming the building, the room's mood altered, all of them audience to the cascading water. He's been trying for impatience ever since; it's been out of reach.
Metal shrieks as the door's wrenched open. It flaps in the wind, admitting a couple thousand raindrops and a man still bowed by the weather. He coughs and stamps his feet. His hands are jammed deep in his pockets. Someone snaps at him to shut the door and as he backs away, shrugging helplessly, another sorry piece of human debris blows in. “Shut the door!”
Body caught in a flinch the man frees one hand, shows his palm to the lobby while he fumbles for the door handle. “D-don't--” They spray hissing from his fingers. Blue, pink, washed-out green. Filaments of color leaping for the ceiling, tangling in themselves on the way down. “Please,” he says. It's all over him, webbed and knotted. “Please. I'm sorry. It's harmless?”
Don shoulders past—shakes off the man's grip—and plunges into the rain. The cold's a restorative shock. He's soaked through almost instantly, drenched in the sound of the downpour. He moves hurriedly but with purpose, hat clutched to his head, until he finds an awning and a bench. He sits slumped, head tipped back. It's a minute before he plucks the strand of orange—wild as a scribble, and not the last of them—from his arm.