Perception · Voice lines

But then the unmistakable reek of seagull shit hits you, buoyed along on the air currents, an acrid melody atop mouldering chords of wood rot and heavy fuel oil.

Nothing. Or at least, nothing in particular. As far as you're concerned, your nose seems to be purely decorative.

Sea brine, mostly. Because it's a pier.

The whole monument is covered in a thin but durable layer of oil and grime. It's obvious no one has cleaned it in years.

It's the same plaza you've been looking at for days. What do you hope to see now that you haven't before?

Perhaps you're simply imagining it, but it seems as though you're learning to pull apart the fibres of this auditory felt. You focus on one strand in particular, one that sounds very nearly human...

Truth be told, you have no idea what you're looking for. It just looks like a cord attached to a piece of metal. You pick at the colourful rubber jacketing, not sure what else to do...

No shit! How are they supposed to hear your acknowledgement over the thundering of their own rotors?

There's papers rustling in the background. She's clearing her desk, preparing to take notes.

You hear the sound of a page ripping.

You follow the man's gaze out toward the west. There, amidst the low-hanging stars, you can just make out signs of motion...

What? Where is he, then?

It looks, to your eye, like some kind of long, metallic fish, suspended beneath a number of ceiling fans...

It's a set of position lights moving in unison, like a restless constellation...

You can't see anything. But then, it's dark, and your eyes aren't the sharpest...

You look around, but you don't see anything unusual. Then again, your eyes aren't the sharpest...

You follow the man's gaze out toward the west. There, hanging some distance above the horison, you can just make out a strange silhouette...

You hear dock water quietly lapping against seaweed-slimed concrete, but definitely no ominous hums.