Yesterday's Gone: Season One

too sweet. Sickly sweet. John preferred the dusk of depression. The shell’s emotions were murky and though it pretended to be strong, it was weak. Weaker than the child had been. That weakness coupled with a desire to cling to his own darkness is what made it so easy for It to summon John out of the hotel and to infiltrate.  
    “John, it’s time to go.”
    It was the woman, Mary, still standing in the doorway after waking him. She was eager to leave, and was hurrying everyone along, even though it had been she who caused them all to stay behind in the first place, at least according to the sharp memory in the shell’s bank. But that was the thing about these human’s memories: constant prejudice made them impossible to trust.  
    The rat dog snarled.  
    Growl....Growl....Growl....
    John looked at the filthy four-legged rat with two narrowed slits of brewing hate, then turned his attention to the woman.  
    “You sure everything’s okay?” she repeated.  
    “Yes,” John nodded. “I’m ready to go , too. It’s been a long few days.”
    He got out of bed and followed Mary downstairs and into the lobby where all the others were standing around. John sorted through the memories he’d collected from both John and Paola, so he could relate to each of the humans in an appropriate manner.
    The dangerous one, Desmond, was speaking with the man-child, Jimmy. Both wore the loathsome look of concern, making them look even more like the weak, pathetic creatures they were. They were discussing him, or at least the shell that was once the man John, their conversation a miserable blend of worry and disquiet. John wished his shell wasn’t so limited. It could not hear thoughts, nor could it even hear the wide spectrum of sounds that It could normally hear in its native form. John wondered how humans had gotten as far as they had with such limitations.
    The dangerous one nodded, slapped the man-child on the shoulder, then headed toward the lobby doors. The man-child headed toward John .  
    John’s shell was suddenly hot. Scorching. It looked at the shell’s limbs but they weren’t burning, weren’t even red, even though they felt like they were on fire. It wondered if this was a normal condition humans all shared or if it was some sort of limitation to inhabiting their shells. Whatever the case, John was not pleased with yet another limitation. But It would have to continue inhabiting this shell, or another, if it were going to fulfill its destiny.
    “Sorry about last night,” the man-child said to John . “I was out of line.”
    John filed through a sliding bank of the shell’s possible responses.  
    Fuck you, and the horse you rode in on.  
    You’re just a kid; you don’t know anything.
    It’s fine, Jimmy . Let’s just get going. You were only trying to help.  
    Thanks, Jimmy. Everyone needs me. Thanks a lot for helping me see that.  
    Though John was all but evicted from his mind, It could still access how John would respond to stimulus. It was intrigued that John would have probably throttled his instincts, choosing what he should say, rather than what he wanted to.
    How weak, pathetic, and temporary. Thoughts built from bent willow could barely stand against a breathing wind. This species deserved its departure.
    “Thanks, Jimmy. Everyone needs me. Thanks a lot for helping me see that.”  
    John smiled, keeping his nature buried, though he could tell that the man-child felt a bristle at the base of his neck.  
    “Thanks for saying that, man. Really. I appreciate it,” Jimmy said with a nervous grin. “You know I’ve nothing but respect; I just want us all to get along. And it kills me to see you throwing down shots like you were last night. Reminds me of my Uncle Micky, and believe me, you start drinking like Uncle Micky, nothing ends well.”
    John stared at the man-boy, transfixed. He should have been filing through verbal records so he could fill the air with blather, but he had wandered down an unexpected memory.  
    The shell is just a boy. His father is drinking. His eyes are red and hair a mess. The woman beside him, the shell’s mother, is holding her nose.  
    The atmosphere is lead. The sorrow thick. Air sour.  
    “Hey Jimmy,” Desmond said, approaching from behind. “I need you on the second floor while we start moving out. Eyes out the window, okay.”
    Growl....BarkBarkBarkBark...Growl... The dog was barking.  
    The dog could see that John was not himself. Fortunately,