he can’t remember the last time he was so desperate to just go home and sleep. it’s almost six, it’s friday, he doesn't even have to look at the articulation designs for the new project until next monday and he’s just tired. the pressure headache is already building when he gets onto the train, brushing past someone dithering in the aisle to sit down in the last free seat. jacket safely stuffed into his backpack, check - backpack secured between his feet, also check. he shuts his eyes, tips his head back, the image of the exhausted wage slave. something about today just feels wrong, and the strange sense of something ominous round the corner has max just wanting to doze off until his stop.

it takes five minutes to realise that the headache is getting worse. much, much worse, with that creeping tingle of anxiety down the back of his neck that comes with the prying fingers of forces trying to push their way into his mind. the weird icy chill is just getting worse.

immediately he’s sitting up straight. the pain is making it more difficult - he can feel it swelling, now, the nails-on-chalkboard sort of migraine, but he’d have to be in a sorry state indeed to miss the intrusion. it’s like picking up a thread on the ground and following it to its source - faster than is exactly cautious, but it's not like he ever cares about caution - and when he comes up short on the source it’s only moments later. he blinks, frowns.

really?

the guy looks weird, sure, but not exactly like he’s trying a mass-scale psionic incursion.

he extends his own thread of power, probing, inquiring into the most superficial, shallow level of consciousness for immediate answer. what exactly are you doing, huh, dude?


eldritch