1 Work in John Moen
"English, Colin," Nate says, because he is a horrible monstrous spoilsport and possibly because he doesn't take kindly to being woken up. Colin's hands still in mid-air, in the middle of describing an arc like the bastard child of an aleph and the infinity sign. "It's late."
"Early," Colin corrects him, ruining the frozen shape with a sharp, cheerful correction, which boils down to pointing. Putting it like that would be inelegant, though.
"I just woke up," says Nate. "You woke me up. Against my will," he adds. Colin can barely see the chemical burns on his hands as he hauls himself upright, night vision or no. "Please find it in yourself to be more comprehensible."
Colin pauses and looks to an imaginary crowd by the morning-cast blue wall. For guidance, obviously. He isn't insane; they are by no means there. "We need a name," he explains.
- Part 1 of Blood in the Thread