Tick Tacodon

The ride in the elevator is filled with the cluttering ambience of stray chairs and the screeching of cables. 

The red number in the corner climbs as the Traveler ascends—descends?—the floors of the Upturned Hotel. It dings with every new level of the ridiculously tall building. A few stray chairs that they threw into the elevator rattle slightly as it goes. The Traveler sits on one of them as they wait until the inevitable time when the elevator abruptly stops upon another dangerous floor. They cradle the bulky, greenly lit phone in their hands, glancing down at it. Watching the number of floors tick by proves to invite more thought than they prefer. Aside from the ambient sounds of wood and metal and thick cables, the Traveler finds it too quiet. They can hear air in their ears—or whatever they’re hearing out of. Despite being terrifying, facing the monsters (sorry, other guests) of the hotel is better than this silence. At least, they make little clicks or gurgles or growls. It’s more noise. The noisier, the better. It’s quiet. The Traveler’s leg starts bouncing as the silence continues. It’s not enough. 

A sudden ringing from the phone startles the Traveler, but they sigh in relief. At least with the phone, they always know who it is. Ikabod is the only one who calls them. They press the squarish answer button as the elevator rattles on. 

“Sir, how is your stay so far? Would you rate it five stars or one?” Ikabod’s voice comes through, along with his face on the small screen. 

Again, they wonder, Why’s he so insistent on ratings?

“Uh…five?” they answer, unsure if Ik would hang up if they said otherwise. 

“Oh, I’m glad, sir! Say, what would you say is your favorite part of the Upturned Hotel?”

“The elevator,” the Traveler deadpans.

“Ha! Your jokes never cease to amuse me, sir.”

There’s laughter on the other end of the line, before, “Truly a comedian. Though, your file says you had a job as a cowboy, so I don’t know how you’d be an actual comedian. Maybe it’s some untapped potential, or—!”

“Ik,” they interrupt, not unkindly. 

“Yes, sir?”

“What’s it like in the lobby?”

“Oh, uh, quiet, I suppose. The door’s still rotating awfully fast. I need to fix that when I find time to.”

“Didn't you mention a storm earlier?”

“Yes, I did, sir! It’s…well, it’s still going. I haven’t seen any lightning flash in quite some time, so that’s a good sign!”

The conversation slowly eases the Traveler’s shoulders as they talk. Hearing Ik’s voice brings a sense of calm in the air. Maybe it’s because he’s the only other person—besides some weirdo who keeps calling him by saying ‘alow, alow’—or it’s because his voice reminds the Traveler they aren’t entirely alone. Not in an eerie way that the mannequins or Lawrence cause, nor in the way the little Gigglers create. It’s more like talking to a peer, or a friend, or…just someone else. Throughout this entire hellish adventure, having Ikabod around has been helpful. More or less, at least. 

The elevator continues to rattle on. The Traveler’s leg keeps bouncing as they sit idly by. The Traveler fidgets with their hat as they try to think of more conversation topics. 

“You seem quiet, sir. I know I’m usually the one talking, but, uh…you’re more quiet than normal,” the Traveler stops fidgeting with their hat as soon as Ik’s voice comes back through the phone. 

“Ik?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Have you ever seen the stars before?”

There’s a brief pause, and they can spot Ik glancing away for a moment, “Yes, I have.”

“Which ones?”

“Oh, just stars. Nothing worthy of conversation—”

“Please?”

“...sir?”

“Just—talk about them? Please?”

A nod and a sigh, “Alright, sir, by your request.”

A prickly part of the Traveler’s ashy chest settles slightly. It gets easier to sit in their rattling chair in the rattling elevator. They don’t feel the need to look at the number of floors. 

“I remember seeing a really bright one,” Ik begins, tapping a finger on his circular chin. “I don’t know the name of it, but I could always see it anywhere I went. Sometimes, I swear it felt like it was following me around.” 

The Traveler nods along, confident Ikabod could see them in his many microscopic cameras. 

“I had a friend who loved the constellations, and she’d tell me about them.” A wistful look appears in his eyes, but they don’t comment on it. “She’d tell me their names, what they’re named after…I don’t think I ever remembered what she called them, though. I do remember her favorites.”

The Traveler leans back in their chair, relaxing. The cables screech as the elevator continues through floors and floors and floors. 

“She really liked the crow one! Which was very fitting for her, since she also really liked birds. I bet she was named after a bird. Right? Might’ve been, oh…uh…”

What kind of parent names their child after a fucking bird?

“Maybe it wasn’t a bird. I, uh, don’t quite remember what her name was…oh, well! She taught me a lot about the stars and different birds. Wasn’t very social at parties, though.”

Another nod as Ik continues. The Traveler thumbs the side of the phone, noting how smooth and sharply angled it is. 

“I’m afraid I don't know a lot about the stars, sir. I do apologize—oh, wait! Sir, do you like poetry, by chance?”

The Traveler blinks at the change of subject.

They shrug, “I guess?”

“Good enough for me! I know this poem about the stars—well, a part of it, at least. I don’t remember the name, or who wrote it, or most of the poem. However, if you like stars, you’ll like the part I do remember! Would you like to hear it?”

“Sure, wouldn’t hurt.”

“It wouldn’t, sir. Not unless I wrote it down on paper, rolled it up, and hit you with it!” 

A light chuckle bubble out of the Traveler at that. Ik seems to smile at the sound, mirroring it. They wonder when the last time Ik laughed was. 

“Okay, it goes like this: ‘death of a planet, so full of life. Birth of a star, stories yet to begin.’”

As Ik recites the little stanza of the poem, the Traveler closes their eyes to listen. It’s nice. It doesn’t make much sense, but it’s nice. They’re not one for poetry usually, but hearing it from Ikabod makes it better. 

“‘Life of a sun, burning for all but its own.’”

The Traveler loved the sun, back on Earth. It was warm. Can they remember what ‘warm’ feels like? Can ash feel heat? Can ash feel cold?

“‘Cries of a moon, forgotten amongst myths lost.’” 

What have they lost? What memories have been lost alongside the way they died? What will they lose as they continue on in the afterlife?

“That’s all I remember. Did you like it, sir?”

The Traveler opens their eyes, feeling more relaxed than they’d been in a while. 

“Yeah, it was nice. Thank you, Ik.”