Chapter One Hundred Eleven: ‘Thy respite, embrace...’
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The Waress Tunnels were longer than Hector could have imagined. Much of the journey was spent in darkness. The headlights of all the limousines in their party often weren’t enough to reach the walls or ceiling, which gave the illusion of a pitch black night all around them. Exceptions came via the brightly lit intersections where the Tunnels crossed paths with one another, usually accompanied by some kind of refueling station or resting point. They didn’t stop at any of them, but Hector wondered what it would be like to work in such a place. He didn’t think he’d be able to handle something this isolated. More than that, though, he wondered about any poor folks who’d had their vehicles break down in here. He supposed that problem was one of the main reasons for all the rest stops, but even still. That’d suck pretty hard, he figured.
At length, they finally made it out, and even the limousine’s tinted windows were not enough to stop everyone from having to shield their eyes from the daylight. It had only been a few hours, according to Hector’s phone, but it felt like an entire night had passed.
Chergoa and Garovel never seemed to run out of things to talk about. On and on and on, they spoke, exchanging information, talking about new and old friends, discussing politics and science and history and something about a dog smoking a cigar. Hector had kind of stopped listening by that point--and so had the Elroys, by the look of it.
After a while longer, Hector managed to get a bit more sleep. When he awoke, he saw that Dimas was still awake if the dark circles under his eyes were any indication.
“...You should really get some sleep,” said Hector.
Dimas’s gaze was even more potent than usual. “I did,” he said. “For about ten minutes.”
Hector just frowned at him.
“I am not staying awake because I want to,” Dimas added. “I cannot usually sleep unless Iziol knocks me unconscious.”
“Oh,” Hector said. “What about sleeping pills?”
“...I cannot swallow pills.”
“Ah... er, don’t they make stuff you can drink?”
“...It tastes funny.”
Hector opened his mouth and then closed it again.
‘Don’t bother,’ came Iziol’s groggy voice. He stirred on Dimas’ shoulder but didn’t detach himself. ‘I told him there are different flavors, but he never listens.’