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ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: something resembling attention-span? - Diary of a Necromancer
Excuse me, I'm making perfect sense, you're just not keeping up
robling_t
robling_t
ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: something resembling attention-span?
Um, well, yes, at least eight months is better than nine, I guess? And I do swear that a certain reference has been in this section or thereabouts since Muse decided to take this @!##$ing road-trip in the first place lo these couple of years ago now, and not marking recent events as it may now appear. (There was originally another one in a sequence cut from the outset of the trip, which may give one some indication of how much bloody rewriting this stretch has undergone throughout and just why it's been taking so long to get these segments released.) Anyway, for the couple of you who haven't died of old age waiting yet:



***

I know why Jason has looked at every item in the duty-free. I can't say I've not succumbed to the same impulse, reading and re-reading the label on a bottle of gin as if I've any intention of purchasing it. But finally we've both run dry of excuses to stall about, and have to settle up at the till. Poppies in the corner of the banknote. I want to say something about Vimy Ridge, but I suspect that would be weird.

The queue at the crossing isn't so much a queue as an international tailback, trapped high above the water with naught to distract ourselves from the possibility of swiftly impending doom but nervous bickering about the radio. "If we're about to have the Aladdin Sane argument again I'm turning this psychotic break around and going straight home," Jason says, putting his head down on the steering-wheel.

Graveyards, whistling past. (And I don't know where he even found that many Best Of Queen tapes in this day and age.) I don't dare hope for a repeat of the ease with which we'd slipped across the border before, passport from the seat of Empire and the assurance that we weren't transporting anything that could be used as a weapon all that that official had needed to wave us in with a trusting smile. Psychic paper, Jason said, and we laughed ourselves sick. It doesn't seem quite so humourous now, facing down the other side of the equation.

(I could lie. I could charm my way past any human gatekeeper, leaving them with only the fleeting impression of a well-spoken word. It's the sort of thing Cecily would do, wafting through the world on a self-righteous whim and the devil take whomever the motorcar's number-plates were registered to. Her rationales for shoplifting could fill volumes.)

We've crept up to the point of reckoning. Depressingly permanent temporary bollarding everywhere; "Act... um, as normal as either of us can ever manage," Jason advises as he guides the car to the station, and the waiting guard.

It's as well that what happened between us happened, no ravening urge to resolve the issue bodily rearing its hungry head. I steel myself to parrot the phrases Max had advised, the ever-tightening noose of security requirements flitting through my fevered imagining. Questioning. Digital fingerprints. Photographs.

But she looks at my documents, and then at me, and handing them back with a wilting smile of exhausted but professional courtesy opens the barrier. Welcome home, gentlemen.

We're all the way onto the motorway proper before it catches up to me, and when it does I suddenly can't stop shaking. Jason pulls off to the shoulder until the fit subsides, then wordlessly merges the vehicle back into the stream of traffic. And only says, a few miles later, instead of that was easier than I thought, or roll down the window more if you're going to be sick:

"Back to that same old place?"

Two more days on the motorway have never been a more confusing prospect.

Tags:
feeling: frustrated frustrated

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Comments
ashnistrike From: ashnistrike Date: March 12th, 2016 07:38 pm (UTC) (permalink this entry)
Oh, Trevor ... Poor emo pony. Poor confused emo pony.

-Nameseeker
robling_t From: robling_t Date: March 16th, 2016 02:33 am (UTC) (permalink this entry)
When you can't even decide whether you want to get back in badly enough to eat the border guards...
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