#john x

Ep55 The One with Stoned Rafiki w/ John Xintavelonis! (AUS)

It wakes knowing nothing. A moment later, it resolves to he, but that’s all he knows. His mouth tastes like sand, and he winces, trying to get some moisture back into it dry as a bone, like the air round him.

Where the hell is he?

He raises his head and squints against sunlight bright enough to nearly stab him in the eye. He sees... a whole lot of nothing. Sand, stretching for miles to the horizon, and -

A railway line. He’s lying by a railroad. Means there’s got to be an outpost or town somewhere, though it might be the kind of walkable where he’ll thirst or starve to death before he’s halfway there. Or it might not.

He squints again at the horizon, and sees buildings. Faint and some way over the hill, but there. Look like wooden roofs.

He puts a hand on sand - Jesus that’s hot - and raises his other to - 

That’s not a hand. Or at least, not one he was born with. It shines. Dark, could be metal or mahogany. Looks like clockwork, or something like it, in the joints. Could be brass, or copper. Whatever this thing is, it’s not human.

He grabs his sleeve and pulls it up, and sees more dark brown, more metal. Engraved. He squints at what might be initials - no, those are definitely initials, in curling script.

It’s a maker’s mark.

He tries not to feel sick that he’s marked out like some cheap trinket fob watch. It means an answer, maybe.

He climbs to his feet. He hears the faint clink of metal as he goes, feels the heaviness of his leg - or his foot, maybe. His whole body feels like lead. He decides not to look at his legs, for the sake of his sanity.