Since their night-time prowl with that detective, there's been a strange itch in Morgan's mind that they hadn't been able to placate. The Diplomat had come by and most courteously taken the listening bug Morgan had cobbled together for them. There's been some amusing mass texts between their friend-slash-scientific-discovery Chain and some sort of self-styled politician, a bit of a minor storm brewing. For the most part, the station remained as frustratingly impenetrable as ever, but, as a scientist, Morgan is used to playing a long game for answers.
It wasn't any of that, though. It was something else. An itch of restlessness, of – loneliness? Perhaps the feeling came from the Typhon they inhabit, all lost and aimless without its community and its Coral. Morgan turns the feeling over in their mind, prodding at it, until finally it drives them to their feet and out the door of their room. They wander through the kitchen, unconsciously retracting the steps they took with Juno; reaching the stairs, they hesitate, and then go down rather than up. Up was thoroughly explored territory, and they might as well see how deep this place goes. If nothing else, maybe they'd see some interesting sea life.
As they descend, the natural light gets dimmer and is gradually replaced by artificial ones. Morgan makes a slow circuit of each floor, obstinately reading the residents' names, but after a while they begin just skimming them. No names they recognize, nothing that means anything to them, until -
Morgan's certain they misread.
There, on the tenth floor, plain as day. Mikhaila Ilyushin.
Morgan doesn't think. They don't stop to consider. In a sort of daze, they push on the door. It's locked. They push harder, and then they're in. There's just enough time to look around and take in the exceedingly ordinary, cautiously inhabited, and currently empty room, before a sensation begins to curl around them. It squeezes, tightly, like their own body is contracting. Like a python. Like a Phantom. Morgan doesn't even think to react, to fight it, and then -
They're in the room. The same room. But it's their own room. Back on the fifth floor. Their holophone buzzes politely at them, and Morgan lifts the glowing screen to read a reminder about trespassing being forbidden.
“Okay,” says Morgan to the little device, and gives a hoarse laugh. “Okay.”
They take a moment in front of the mirror, settling their female form into its peak of perfection, even pulling habitually at their eye to inspect its redness. Then they leave, not aimless this time, taking the elevator directly to the tenth floor and standing again before the room marked with that name. Lovely Russian name. The door is unharmed, still locked, and there's still no one inside. But Morgan's a scientist, and willing to play a long game for answers.
They sit down in front of the door, cross-legged, facing outwards, and wait.
