Re: top of the grand staircase. [1/2]
Simon was doing an acceptable job of settling into his new home, but he could already tell Vegas wasn't for him. It was hot enough in spring that summer was bound to be miserable, even in comparison to enduring the reflected heat of the canyon streets back home in Queens. He'd traveled a lot, but he'd never stuck around the southwest for a reason.
He had taken an apartment in what wasn't the worst part of town, but certainly wasn't the best, either. The idea of living in some high rise somewhere made him deeply uncomfortable, and he was hoping it would make life more difficult for the paparazzi if he lived off the beaten path.
The past few days had been spent cleaning the place out and setting up, getting some furniture in there. The only things in the place that could be qualified as expensive were the bed and the set of speakers in the living room. He'd spent a long time sleeping on van shocks under a metal floor, or spring mattresses, or people's couches. He didn't feel too bad about getting a really comfortable bed, or a set of speakers that would let his favorite music sound exactly the way it was supposed to.
Living in a neighborhood that was slightly rougher, though, did have its downsides, like the fact that there was more crime, which meant more opportunities for the guy in his head to go apeshit and insist he intervene. Simon still wasn't talking to him, but he was starting to consider bowing on that point just to try to convince him to get his shit in order and keep his weird compulsions for saving people to himself. Simon wasn't a superhero. He was good with his fists, but so far he'd come up against three different guys, and he'd just gotten lucky that none of them had guns. How long was it going to take before his luck ran out?
The message appeared on his journal while he was sifting through old records on his bed, and it took him a few minutes to notice it. The journal was laying flat off to his side, and he'd been checking it every few minutes, watching people chatter, firing off a couple replies. The message about the hotel, though, stayed up no matter how many times he flipped the page. He slammed the journal shut. Alright. He'd bite. Maybe if he followed the program, the hotel would produce the sort of answers he'd come to Vegas looking for.
He put on a hoodie, pulled it low over his head, and walked out into the warm spring night. It took him a couple tries to get a cab, but it was better than the alternative of getting recognized on his way to the hotel. He gave the driver the cross streets, and he fingered the key in his pocket, pressing his thumb against the sculpted teeth, tracing the lines of the spider cut halfway into it.
When the cab arrived at the hotel, the driver seemed anxious to get out of the neighborhood, and genuinely surprised when Simon paid him. He could see why. The place looked haunted as fuck, and it was only the people walking past the windows inside that reassured him he'd come to the right place. The sun was almost all the way down, but there was a reddish purple haze behind the hotel, and it gave it an eerie glow.