|-@SILVERBOWANDARROW-|
Art was jolted out of the unreality of his half-dozing dreams by a cacophonous rattle that shook him down to his bones. For a moment of unthinking terror, it was another earthquake fit to bring the entire complex down around his ears; then, like the mirage of a nightmare, it disappeared. Art remembered himself; his room with the peeling paint, the low hum of his computers, and the rattling resolved itself into the 9:13 train begrudgingly trundling towards the city center. The spasm of sympathetic nerves nonetheless had him curling up into a ball, overwhelmed by the noise and light, until all 9 cars passed away like a mirage.
Only when the roar had passed could Art begin to think and to wonder. His head was throbbing like he'd downed half a liter of vodka the previous night. Everything was too loud and too bright, the edges of things sharp enough to cut his perception. He was assaulted by sound–outside and two floors down the kebab merchant was arguing on the phone in Pashto. As soon as that was processed, his sense of smell did not so much assault him as mug him in an alley with a cudgel. For a moment, all he could do was moan and struggle through the swamp of sweat, stale takeout, and computer cleaner, desperately trying to breathe through his mouth and figure out what had happened.
The previous night, his hazy memory supplied, there had been an earthquake. He had been walking home from Bitsui's and finishing a job. Then right when the earthquake hit he'd opened a file–
His head throbbed, and Art groaned once again. Everything was too much, too loud, but how? He hadn't had anything to drink, and he couldn't remember hitting his head. Even if he had...Art looked up and winced at the brightness, the sonic assault. How was it so bright that he could pick out every detail of his room, illuminated only by the dull green lights of his computer? How could he hear the kebab merchant's conversation and count the cars of passing trains?
Art had only barely adjusted to consciousness when there was a deafening banging on his door. "Art! Get out here, you asshole! You might have slipped in under my nose last night but there's no earthquake now!"
Art groaned anew, covering his ears. Mateo growled at him through the door. "I know you're in there, and I'm not leaving until you get me the rent so I can fix my fucking cab. Now, Art!"
The payment had gone through, Art remembered with a start. He reached for his bedside table for the phone on instinct only to find it absent. Realizing he was still in yesterday's clothes, Art pawed for his pockets and pulled out his phone only to drop it with a yelp as a sharp pain seared his palm. The base of his phone was burning hot–burning hot, but for some reason not burning. Surveying the device with confusion, Art gingerly prodded the cool edges of his phone, then the power button. It immediately came on with no indication of heat damaging the fragile internal components. He opened his banking app after the requisite three passwords and shamefacedly sent the payment plus an extra hundred dollars, wincing with every bang on the door of his room.
"Art, I'm gonna ki–" Art opened the door, and Mateo's fist descended into its absence too quickly to stop, moving straight for Art's nose. His eyes widened, and reflex took over for the first time since he was a teenager. His head shifted back, seemingly of its own accord, and Mateo's fist passed him by with less than an inch to spare.
"It's done," Art said without preamble. "I've sent it, plus a hundred for the delay."
Mateo blinked at him, seemingly unsure of how to respond to nearly punching someone in the face and being given exactly what he had demanded. "What?"
"The rent. I sent it, plus a hundred for being late. I really didn't mean it and got paid last night. It uh. Won't happen again" Feeling distinctly uncomfortable with this uncharacteristic display of sincerity, Art added on: "Dick."
