x (loud) wrote in repose, @ 2019-03-26 16:59:00 |
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Entry tags: | *narrative, noah nicodemo-webster |
Narrative: Noah N
Who: Noah Nicodemo
What: narrative
Where: Noah's apartment sort of
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: Low
If someone had handed Noah a map of the Facility compound (if any even existed), he could've pointed out the exact spot Holly Webster's ass currently occupied, dude. He could've been like, left cheek, here; right cheek, here. He could even describe how flat the cot felt. Not quite uncomfortable, but, like, close enough. It was this implicit knowledge—it just was. In his head, it just came into being and he had to know it, whether he wanted to or not. Maybe that wasn't knowledge. It was just knowing. That didn't mean he'd know, like, how to get to Holly's precise coordinates (sans the map that definitely didn't exist). But, he could point it out, man. He could visualize it, like the eyes that stared blankly at the white wall of that not-cell were his own. The detachment that felt like the gathering of TV static on skin? He could feel that too. Noah white-knuckled a connection. He was worried that the moment he slipped up—the moment he took a break to piss or to rest or to even think about boiling water for ramen, something was going to happen. It wasn't like he wouldn't be able to figure it out or, like, ever get back in, but, I don't know. He was freaked out. If he had to be essentially useless, man, if he couldn't do anything but watch, he was going to watch. He was going to play witness, right? Because whatever happened to Holly last time (other Holly), wasn't happening again. It wasn't even going to come close to happening. He was working hard to maintain the connection—deliberately. To keep reaching out, a constant one-way grope out into the psychic plane of Repose, pinpointed on Holly. It took a lot out of the dude—out of Noah. This wasn't passive reception. He had to climb so far into himself that he stopped existing. He'd only done it on purpose, like, once before, and that was when Holly—the other Holly—had died, and Noah had cast himself out like a life preserver, trying to find some scrap of the dude somewhere. He did the same now, and with the same desperation. He found a white wall. He found a cot, a small room, two men and their questions. In the apartment above the ice cream store, a body laid limp and motionless in Noah's bed. Dark curls brushed at a shoulder at a heavy, awkward angle, head dropped down and eyes, although open, unfocused and unseeing. Really, if anyone happened inside, they'd think the dude on the bed was either dead or dying. He wasn't, but it was hard to tell just from looking. He wasn't even blinking. His breathing was faint, more a tremor, more a whisper. He could've been drop-kicked, handcuffed, dragged off, and he'd be none the wiser. Not for now. Because for now, man, Noah was elsewhere. |