[ in a surprising turn of events, just when the agent is afraid he'll be consumed too, his hand meets another. he manages to empty his throat of spores, and the hand of one who's come to meet him brushes against his cheek next. his own skin feels hot and feverish. perhaps it's a symptom of succumbence, or maybe the round moon's influence alone on him, but as disoriented as he is, the cool temperature is grounding. just not enough for recognition to flicker in his eyes as his gaze meets the other's.
what's familiar, again? what is important? the name that had rested on the tip of his tongue is gone, replaced by something else: ]
There's somewhere I have to go.
[ that's right. he was on his way somewhere. there's some place that he needed to reach. a safe place. a smile curves across his lips, strained and stressed, but a glimpse of the person he's supposed to be all the same. the city he perceives, twisted by memories that aren't his own, shudders, but he hangs tight onto what he's certain belongs to him. turns his attention away from the other, towards the chaotic thrum of people in the street. ]
West 22nd street. I shouldn't be sitting around.
[ there's an association that's tugged on in the mycelium web of choi's mind. a picture of a young man with cropped black hair and dark blue eyes. a feeling of being scolded, and the worry he knows to be behind it. but he's fine. he is. he will be. wasn't he? ]
no subject
what's familiar, again? what is important? the name that had rested on the tip of his tongue is gone, replaced by something else: ]
There's somewhere I have to go.
[ that's right. he was on his way somewhere. there's some place that he needed to reach. a safe place. a smile curves across his lips, strained and stressed, but a glimpse of the person he's supposed to be all the same. the city he perceives, twisted by memories that aren't his own, shudders, but he hangs tight onto what he's certain belongs to him. turns his attention away from the other, towards the chaotic thrum of people in the street. ]
West 22nd street. I shouldn't be sitting around.
[ there's an association that's tugged on in the mycelium web of choi's mind. a picture of a young man with cropped black hair and dark blue eyes. a feeling of being scolded, and the worry he knows to be behind it. but he's fine. he is. he will be. wasn't he? ]