Beginning of angstverse from Zeph's POV
The man is laughing. It's a lilting, dry, yellow sort of sound that he can almost hear rasping into his ears, the man's profile dark against the pale grey marble. He doesn't actually hear a thing of that, of course, not the laughter not the clear chimes of glass against glass. Just the soft, warm breeze around him, rushing through his hair and the tall clumps of grass, whispering as it passes, a far off cry of a bird of prey somewhere above in the faded blue of the sky. Even that soon stops. The grass still moves as his breathing slows, the beat of his heart fading from his ears. It's quiet. Perfect. For a moment, the world is still and silent. For a moment, there's just the familiar, warm recoil of the gun into his shoulder. There is no shattering glass, no abrupt, guttural end to the yellowing laughter, no billowing clouds of gray dust.
He wouldn't be able to hear it, anyway.
….
New York itself is much more blue than what he remembers. The halls of the airport are sterile, white, neat square posters all lined up in a row, trying to compete for attention, touting point of view disguised as and convincing you to invest. It's but a taste of the incoming assault on the senses that is the Big Apple. It seems busy, although he knows that the line for immigration and the crowd around the baggage claim could be far, far worse. It's a workday, the middle of the month, but the hall of arrivals is still buzzing with conversation and the occasional raspy announcement across the intercom. It all bounces inside his skull, reverberating and echoing in his ears incessantly.
It's not a dusty runway, arid air stirred by the helicopter's rotor tearing at his clothes, blowing sand into his eyes. Not pleasant, but simple, and was this really any better? The sterilized hallways that smell faintly of gray dust and disinfectant, a quiet train sliding on to the platform as a generated voice announces its arrival, are they really much better than an open Afghan plain? The large metal arches soar above the platform but he largely ignores them in favor of reshouldering his bag and stepping on to the train. He doesn’t remember everything being so dreary the last time he’d come home. The rush and traffic of the lunch hour seem pointless, the people on the subway wasting their time.
There’s been no other time in his life where he wishes time could just rewind.
He wouldn't be able to hear it, anyway.
….
New York itself is much more blue than what he remembers. The halls of the airport are sterile, white, neat square posters all lined up in a row, trying to compete for attention, touting point of view disguised as and convincing you to invest. It's but a taste of the incoming assault on the senses that is the Big Apple. It seems busy, although he knows that the line for immigration and the crowd around the baggage claim could be far, far worse. It's a workday, the middle of the month, but the hall of arrivals is still buzzing with conversation and the occasional raspy announcement across the intercom. It all bounces inside his skull, reverberating and echoing in his ears incessantly.
It's not a dusty runway, arid air stirred by the helicopter's rotor tearing at his clothes, blowing sand into his eyes. Not pleasant, but simple, and was this really any better? The sterilized hallways that smell faintly of gray dust and disinfectant, a quiet train sliding on to the platform as a generated voice announces its arrival, are they really much better than an open Afghan plain? The large metal arches soar above the platform but he largely ignores them in favor of reshouldering his bag and stepping on to the train. He doesn’t remember everything being so dreary the last time he’d come home. The rush and traffic of the lunch hour seem pointless, the people on the subway wasting their time.
There’s been no other time in his life where he wishes time could just rewind.