[ A man with no need to sleep suffers no nightmares.
It’s a blessing, maybe. It’s one of the few good things to come out of this – that Faraday no longer sleeps and no longer dreams of blood and death. And logically speaking, it makes sense – he can’t be haunted by his old ghosts if he is one, himself.
So when the rest of the world sleeps, Faraday drifts. Wanders through the town, sometimes, taking a look at the differences all of these months have made, marks out the spots he remembers. There, where he sat with some of the town’s children, showing them magic trick after magic trick until work called him back. There, where he blew up a shed. There, where Vasquez had killed one of Bogue’s men in Faraday’s name – the man who had shot him, who had killed him slowly.
Sometimes, he blinks out of existence, goes wherever it is he goes to rest – like he’s in a separate room watching the world from a window. Aware, but not present. Like falling into a daze and waiting to be roused.
And other times, he waits around, sits in Emma’s kitchen with a deck of cards with the light of the moon to accompany him. Practice, in a way. Strengthening. Shuffling the deck with a quiet focus, like he’s learning the skill all over again – because he is. In life, manipulating the cards came as easy as breathing, but it had taken years of practice to get there. And now, slightly removed from existence as he is, it takes concentration to grasp the cards, to cut and twist the deck. Sometimes, when he loses focus, it becomes a game of fifty-two card pick up, and he grunts in frustration as he kneels down to fix his mess.
A cry pierces the silence of the house, and the cards fall through his fingers – a small, contained mess on the kitchen table. And normally Faraday would throw his hands up, frustrated to the point of banging his head against a wall, except he’s no longer there.
He appears in Emma’s room with hardly a thought. ]
Emma. Hey, Emma—
[ He steps forward, reaches out a hand to wake her – remembers what he is, and flinches back. She described it to him once, how it felt to pass through him. Like getting doused in ice water. Like feeling something crawl up your spine.
That… probably won’t help.
It’s a bad one tonight, he thinks helplessly, hovering beside her as she tosses and turns. It’s nights like these that he hates what he is, because he can’t simply just touch her, put a hand on her shoulder and end the dream with a gentle shake. He winces when she cries out again, moves forward to sit on the edge of the bed.
it is beautiful is what it is
It’s a blessing, maybe. It’s one of the few good things to come out of this – that Faraday no longer sleeps and no longer dreams of blood and death. And logically speaking, it makes sense – he can’t be haunted by his old ghosts if he is one, himself.
So when the rest of the world sleeps, Faraday drifts. Wanders through the town, sometimes, taking a look at the differences all of these months have made, marks out the spots he remembers. There, where he sat with some of the town’s children, showing them magic trick after magic trick until work called him back. There, where he blew up a shed. There, where Vasquez had killed one of Bogue’s men in Faraday’s name – the man who had shot him, who had killed him slowly.
Sometimes, he blinks out of existence, goes wherever it is he goes to rest – like he’s in a separate room watching the world from a window. Aware, but not present. Like falling into a daze and waiting to be roused.
And other times, he waits around, sits in Emma’s kitchen with a deck of cards with the light of the moon to accompany him. Practice, in a way. Strengthening. Shuffling the deck with a quiet focus, like he’s learning the skill all over again – because he is. In life, manipulating the cards came as easy as breathing, but it had taken years of practice to get there. And now, slightly removed from existence as he is, it takes concentration to grasp the cards, to cut and twist the deck. Sometimes, when he loses focus, it becomes a game of fifty-two card pick up, and he grunts in frustration as he kneels down to fix his mess.
A cry pierces the silence of the house, and the cards fall through his fingers – a small, contained mess on the kitchen table. And normally Faraday would throw his hands up, frustrated to the point of banging his head against a wall, except he’s no longer there.
He appears in Emma’s room with hardly a thought. ]
Emma. Hey, Emma—
[ He steps forward, reaches out a hand to wake her – remembers what he is, and flinches back. She described it to him once, how it felt to pass through him. Like getting doused in ice water. Like feeling something crawl up your spine.
That… probably won’t help.
It’s a bad one tonight, he thinks helplessly, hovering beside her as she tosses and turns. It’s nights like these that he hates what he is, because he can’t simply just touch her, put a hand on her shoulder and end the dream with a gentle shake. He winces when she cries out again, moves forward to sit on the edge of the bed.
Tries again, uncertain, ]
Emma, wake up. It’s— it’s just a dream.