#TFtV gideon

[tunesfromthevoid]

The old Monte Carlo parked at the outskirts of Nightvale was nothing interesting, upon first glance. Upon first glance, there was a lot of kick-up settling, the faint smell of smoke too sweet to be tobacco, and only the blinding glow of the town in the distance reflected in its mirrors.

When more closely inspected, however, there was Gideon the Biologist, leaning against his old car and listening to the radio. His leather jacket scraped against its vinyl roof as he situated himself. Schhhhk. He took a swig of his water bottle and tapped along to the muffled sound of Dancing Queen serenading him from behind the car radio. His mind wandered.

Where he wished he was right now did not have a name. It was a dusty bar downtown wherein nothing else existed, and it shrouded him in a particular shade of neon that had become endearing. Old Woman Josie would skulk around outside sometimes, and she would tell him what she had told the “radio kiddie” the day before – just in time for him to hear it on the news as she said it.

“Travellers, we are all collecting something,” her angel-friends would say. Gideon saluted them in the approved fashion every time – Ain't that the truth, he would think in response.

The scuff of his boots against low radio babble, the desert air, and the hum of a nearby non-existent electromagnetic field was strangely comforting at this moment. There, by his car, he drew crop circle shapes in the dirt with his boot: Tattoos he had thought about asking the void to give him for months now, but it was just so damn hard to decide, you know?

The air shifted; it didn't smell as salty now. His eyes moved to his arm, which he held up to the dome light: He was sweating. People never sweat out in the desert, but there it was, atop Gideon's left ulna, directly on top of his skin, nestled in the salt and sand that had started to cake onto him.

He sighed and put down his water bottle. “You feel that, friend?” he called to the approaching figure, whom he didn't think was wearing a cloak. A sizable cloud of dust flew up from under his boot as he kicked at his sand scrabbles. “The air changing. Another storm's'a brewin', eh?”