@smugliar asked: "I'd love to blame this on a mass hallucination caused by inhaling volcanic gas, but we both know that's bullshit." aw2 starters || accepting
Wouldn't be the weirdest explanation he's heard for... well, for anything, really. The mundane is so much easier to believe, to compartmentalize, to accept. Everyone wants to blame haunted houses on carbon monoxide poisoning because that doesn't fundamentally alter your perception of reality.
The thing is that this guy hasn't seemed bothered by the notion that he'd skipped from one reality to another until now. When they found him in the motel he'd been casual about the circumstances, then apparently relieved when they pulled him out of the Oceanview and into the Oldest House. From what Miles gathered from the preliminary notes, the man has some understanding of shifting planes and alternate dimensions. He'd been lost -- trapped -- in another one, a darker one, and now he's here. That should be an improvement, and he'd been acting like it was one around the other agents and scientists until Miles entered the small interrogation room.
Interview room. Interrogation feels too pointed, too accusatory, even if the space is set up like every crappy procedural cop drama known to man. An ergonomic metal table and chairs. Obnoxious fluorescent lights. One-way glass off to the side. Except instead of officers and lawyers there's a slew of labcoats and clipboards on the other side, and the whole space is lined with Black Rock, and the light source isn't entirely identifiable. Still, he doesn't want to think of this guy like a criminal -- even if the way he's looking at Miles borders on twitchy. There's an easygoing persona about him, but the way his eyes keep darting across Miles' face suggests he's searching for something and coming up short.
That, and he said Miles' name the minute he walked in. Like it was a question. Like he recognized him. Not in a way that asked you must be but in a way that said is that really you?
Miles has let him do most of the talking. It's taken some prompting and persuading, and he can't fault the other for the lack of trust. He knows he hasn't gotten the full story by the time the man -- Ace Visconti, a fake name if he's ever heard one -- leans back in his seat and offers the neat little hallucinatory gas explanation, like he knows he sounds crazy and is trying to downplay it.
He's not looking at Miles anymore, but even then he's implicating him with his words. We both know that's bullshit. Like he's expecting the agent to go along with it. And the thing is, Miles almost wants to. He has half a mind to laugh like it's a joke, crack one of his own like this is a friendly conversation where he knows exactly what kind of comments he can get away with.
Do I know him? Do we know him?
The back of his skull prickles like pins and needles. That isn't a no.
"Mass hysteria's less common than you think -- real cases of it, anyway, not paranatural incidents the FBC has convinced people are all in their heads. Of course, this could all just be in your head, that's more likely than anything on a collective scale." There's humor in his tone in spite of the words themselves. He's not making light of what the other has been through, but his sense of tact is warped to say the least. "But you're right, I do know that's bullshit. Your story sounds credible to me. Fucked up, yeah, but credible." That nagging sense of recognition lingers, but he pushes it to the side, not wanting it in whatever official report comes out of this.
"So congrats for managing to dimension hop without scrambling your brain in the process. That's a rare feat around here."
