Tumbledown Ave. | Chapter 5
No One Can Really Be Here, Didn't They Tell You That In Sunday School? aka All Tomorrow's Parties
Agent Zinc walked right back into ARECON HQ as if nothing had happened; his files were redacted, his old partners forgotten, even the missions he had previously worked on were either deleted from record or never-having-occurred in the first instance. He wore the same pale grey suit, which accentuated the bulk of his shoulders: he looked more like an ancient pugilist than a desk-jobbing reconnaissance agent.
The entrance lobby had been recently redecorated in the style of the The Unfathomables, an architectural troop who followed the mad ramblings of one Jacob Altringham; a flowing tear-dropped shaped glass desk had computer terminals projected upon it from a crystal fractal embedded in the high, vaulting ceiling—the floor was a dichotomous cacophony of black and white squares, all of differing sizes, which gave the impression the floor undulated with each step. Many people suffered vertigo and seasickness when they entered ARECON HQ now, but Zinc - although he had worked long before this change in décor - walked up the man behind the desk with no hint of fumbled step.
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