(Open) Don't you dare say his name...

[summertimeblues]

Who: Richie Tozier (summertimeblues) & you lucky guys
What: Dealing very poorly with torture, dying, and coming back to life. He didn't sign up to be Jesus
When: Mar. 25th-27th
Where: Olympia, Thesa Station, Flona Cove
Warning(s): Drug and alcohol use and abuse, mentions of gore/death/suicide, sad pod crying, icky feelings.



I: Thesa Station

[There's a relative quiet among the sleeping. It is, in effect, a graveyard. People are here to show their respects, to mourn and to yearn. Today though, wherever you might be, there's a serenade rattling the air between the glass chambers. A guitar thrum mimicked through slaps on the metal to support the rollicking vocals of Elvis Presley. Back from the dead and ready to slide and shake in those blue suede shoes.]

Spider Murphy played the tenor saxophone
Little Joe was blowin' on the slide trombone
The drummer boy from Illinois went crash, boom, bang
The whole rhythm section was the Purple Gang

Let's rock! Everybody let's rock!

[If you round the right corner, you won't find the King. But you'll find Richie Tozier, seated between in a row of about five pods: there's a handsome man in cowboy boots, a black man cut and battered and bandaged to bits, a thin mousy type with a jerry-rigged cast on his arm and rounded specs, a stunning woman whose red hair spills around her in a halo of curls, and a balding man who, even while sleeping, belies a unquantifiable charm and steadiness. He's having the time of his life with a half-finished gin bottle in one hand as the other busies itself playing drums and beats. He's pale, poorly slept if the purple punch bags under his eyes are any indication, and there's a still smoking cigarette butt laying its ash on the floor next to him. But he's seemingly in good spirits, high on the music.]

Everybody in the whole cell block
Was dancin' to the Jailhouse Ro—hey! Hey you! You know this next part, get in on it!


II: Friends in Low Places.

[The bars are that sweet shade of not-too-busy-not-too-slow. Richie slips in and out of the crowds with no difficulty and no recognition. He avoids Shades Darker (hasn't gone back to work yet), avoids places he knows. Sticking clean to the unfamiliar. This place wasn't home and even months later it was failing to pick up any kind of coziness to wilt back on.

But as determined as he is to stay solo and shrug into shadows, he can't help that rising sense of panic. Of emptiness. If he shuts his eyes too long he can hear those howling voices again. He's no man of god but those three days suspended in some ghastly in-between place have left him with doubts. There doesn't have to be a god for there to be a hell.

He doesn't want to keep marinating on it. Desperate and suddenly shaking in the hands, he moves to take a seat at the bar. Someone's just settled in and made an order. Richie slips coins on the counter.]

Make it two. Put 'em both on my tab.


III: Take out your trash

[It would have done to exercise a touch of caution. Sadly he's long since parted ways with the word for the evening. Still frightened, still angry, still too squeamish to go see the people he used to know, Richie's spent the night skipping from bar to bar. To back hall. To alley. He's had a hell of a lot to drink. Smoked something he didn't know the name of, took a couple pills that were offered with glitzy promises for whatever coin he could spare. He'd had a fair bit to spare and lord, it all flew out of his hands like your Auntie's cockatiel making a break for the open window. And he got his party, his fun and his romp and his blissful cloud of forgetfulness. For a few hours, he wasn't Richie Tozier at all. He'd drifted and wandered and basked in the blank beauty of a world he didn't comprehend.

And the journey ended with him folded up in a cobblestone alley. His head lies knocked back against the building's side, legs crooked to the side as he sleeps deep. It's frigid cold, he has the coat and gloves and boots, but passing out sometime around four am with no hurry for shelter leaves him as cold and stiff as a statue. A nasty shock for anyone taking a nighttime stroll or hustling about in the break of dawn.]


IV: Flona Cove- wildcard-ish

[Eventually, even the city itself seems to press in around him like a vice. He'd made the trip out to the Cove a few times, once with the herd for that festival and again with the two girls to check on those dead birds. The train ride over makes him smile, thinking of the way Ann and Haru had gossiped and giggled. The spark is fleeting. He exits the train in the same silent stupor he'd boarded it with.

He'll spend the day exploring. At the beach, he might take out a boat just for kicks, pretend it's January in California and he's got to hit the water before he forgets which coast he's living on. He might check out the tourist traps. Wind up in a gambling hall for shits and giggles. Or he might drift to that little cave with the cool pool, just to sit and think and fill the air with swilling smoke as he works through yet another pack for the day.]


V: Homecoming - closed to previous cr

[It takes a lot longer than he'd be proud to admit. Richie wasn't brave by nature, particularly not when it came to making the big breaks and mends. He was better at playing shit off like nothing mattered and all he cared for was getting his chucks in before meeting his Maker.

Well he went to do it didn't he? And that fucker hadn't showed. Now he's back on soil, and he's wasted a lot of time skirting the small issue of his miraculous return.

Eventually, he figures he ought to make a few rounds. House calls, then.

The knock at the door only comes after two minutes of fussing and a near abandoment of the whole plan. He'd slinked about five steps away before the guilt got the better of him and he finally could raise knuckles to the wood of that door. When it opens, he stands in the frame of it stiffly. His smile is wan and his hands stick doggedly to his pockets. He can't even use his own voice to say hello, coward that he is.]

Howdy partner.

Comments

V, as promised

[persistor]

[ Old habits keep her wary from answering the door — easier to pretend that no one's home, than to confirm whatever theories people may have about her. Her home has always been, and will continue to be, a sanctuary for her; she's had it ruined enough.

But when she's the only one home and the knock comes, there's little choice otherwise; especially when there's still people left to hear from, news she's waiting for ( waiting. It's always waiting, isn't it? ). She hesitates in front of the doorknob, but when she's met with silence, then —

Her eyes widen, almost comically. A normally unreadable, carefully masked expression cast aside for ... this. Whatever this is. A ghost? Surely not, not when he feels entirely solid and not at all like the Trace. She blinks, as if she's waiting for him disappear.

He doesn't.

It's hard to be speechless when she can't talk in the first place, but she's not sure if she'd be able to find the words in the first place. Her emotions are an ugly cocktail, each new addition somehow making less sense than the ones before ( relief, than confusion, then fury then betrayal then— ).

She springs into action, as if released from a spell, the moment he speaks. A voice unfamiliar and not at all like his own, and enough to have something inside her snap. Teeth clenched as her hand balls up.

Before reason stops her impulses, swings her fist toward his cheek. ]

Wonderful

[summertimeblues]

[If there's any doubt that the man in front of her is the real deal and not some sinister spectre, it ought to wash away in an instant. He takes the hit like a chump, wheeling back and clattering onto his rear.

As he sits in his daze, cupping the pulsing hurt, he realizes this exactly what he should have expected.]

Oh...sorry....is Boxer home? I feel like I'd last longer in the ring with that guy, no offence.

:blush:

[persistor]

[ Ah. She almost feels bad, almost, when the force knocks him backward ( another part can't help but feel almost satisfied that she's managed to do that, but that's not... a good thing, probably ). She's blinking, the aching pain in her knuckles serving as a reminder of what she's just done, except—

He opens his mouth, and the sympathy begins to dry up. Her eyebrows furrow, the tension in her jaw returning, because Richie would fucking show up at their house, after coming back from the dead, and decide to find the wittiest thing he can say right at this moment.

She wonders if she could close the door on him. If she should. If that's what she wants. Some part of her angry and spiteful, despite her best intentions, desperately wishing for the catharsis that comes with slamming a door in someone's face. Except if she were to do that — she might lose him for good.

So, Red shakes her head. Nope, not home. How convenient. She reaches a hand out for him to take, gently tugging him inside — should he take it. ]

V; hey what the fuck is this mood music

[originallutece]

[For a long few seconds, she does nothing but stare at him. She doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything. Just looks at him, with his silly voices and his sickly smile, standing there as if nothing at all had happened.]

You look awful.

[She says it coolly, but there's no heat in her gaze. She's just as exhausted as he looks, too worn down to bother with things like anger or hurt. Rosalind wears a loose top, easy to get in and out of, because her torso is all but covered in bandages. There's a long scar on her left forearm, wrist to the crook of her elbow, and there's traces of bruises and burns on what bits of bare skin he can see.]

. . . but I suppose dying will do that to a person.

[A beat. She takes a step back, implicitly inviting him in. Darwin, that little fat hippo that follows her around everywhere, is pressed up against her ankles. He's whimpering continuously, shivering and shuddering, staring mournfully up at Richie, but Rosalind ignores him.]

My offer to get drunk still stands. Though I don't know if it's quite the same in one's home. Still, I have a story I think you might appreciate once we're three drinks in.

I'm sorry....I h'yucked up...

[summertimeblues]

Do I? Looks to me like we've been getting styled at the same salon. How's Gloria? I need to book a mani-pedi one of these days, my top coat is a-chipping, my god.

[Look, he's not blind. And thanks to the numerous (if infuriatingly lacking in detail) reports, he has a better estimate of just how many people got pinched. The answer is a staggering lot. Too many. What looks shitty on Richie is the lack of sleep. The bad bad bender, the death of his appetite for food and the exponential roar of it for smokes, for booze and for little white lines. He's done worse in a few days than he has the last seven years.

But the reminders of what had been done? Those were gone. He's a blank slate now, wiped clean of that record, or else she'd be staring down some scabbed up beast, missing fingernails and torn patches of skin from wherever feather touches rubbed him too raw, sloughed the flesh off like it's the fine film off a hot chocolate.

He takes her in as she does him, and when she moves to allow him entry he's been so caught up in detailing the new scars that he nearly stumbles over the whining creature at her feet.]

What is — Jesus, did you fish that out of the Serengeti?

[Were the Orbiters playing a literal Noah's Ark? Damn.]

III. the fuck did I just listen to kabby

[almaredemptoris]

[It is a few hours later, as dawn stretches its fingers across the sky and washes the city in its rosy light, that Jean Valjean happens upon the man huddled in the alleyway. With the shroud of death weighing heavily upon his thoughts in these last few days, he first presses his fingers to the stranger's neck to ascertain whether or not it is a corpse that he has found. Relief thaws his veins upon feeling the faint pulse whimpering against his touch. Yet still the man does not stir. Hovering about him is the stench of alcohol, which answers the question of what had brought him to such a state. The next question is of how to help him. The Sanctuary lies far away in the Nobles District, and while he has his great strength on which to rely, he fears that transporting the man so great a distance would certainly draw undesired attention. His home waits nearby, but habit has him wary of revealing his residence to anybody. In the end, however, his compulsion to help outweighs his concerns of concealing himself, the necessity of which is perhaps not so imperative in this new land. So deciding, he crouches down to secure the man in his arms and hoist him over his shoulder. Under this burden, he slowly but steadily makes his way back to his apartment. When Richie gains consciousness, so like the moment when one's head bobs upward to break the water's surface and breathe in air once more, he will find himself lying in an unfamiliar bed, underneath a quilt patterned with squares of soft pink and yellow blossoms. A damp cloth has been placed against his forehead. His shoes sit beside the bed, and his jacket is draped over a wooden chair in the corner. A curtain separates this alcove of the apartment from the rest of the space. On the other side of the curtain, he will find a rather spartan living space. Aside from the cupboard that is built into the wall, and the iron stove and cramped sink that also came standard with the apartment, the furniture mainly consists of a table and a pair of chairs - one of which is currently occupied by a man who appears some fifty years of age. He himself is occupied by the book that lies open on the table, but when he hears his guest stir, his eyes lift from the page. With a cordial smile he makes to rise from his seat.] How are you feeling, monsieur? I can put on the kettle for tea, if you like.

a modern tragedy........

[summertimeblues]

[When he wakes, it's with the immediate furrowing of brows and the unhappy twist of his mouth. His head is trying to murder him all over again. His body is stiff and sore, tingling at the toes and fingers and ears like he's been fighting frostbite. Probably has, no doubt, if he can recall. He knows the time of year is a chilly one, and he knows that last night....

Where was he?

Richie opens his eyes to find himself in places unknown. A warm bed that's never seen the bare view of his ass. An unfamiliar man, sitting at a dining table. That's one of about five fixtures in the whole room. Interior decorating must not be a passion here, or maybe funds were college-kid low. He squints at the man. French accent. Unfamiliar, but congenial as he greets him.

And your date had seemed so congenial, until she got you through the door.

Richie shoots up into a sit, blanching. Sure, he'd woken up in a home and not a storage room again, there's no cuff or collar or any tether he can see. His eyes flit to the door and he sees only a standard lock.

Okay. Looking fine so far, just settle the hell down. He puts a palm to his forehead and find it peppered with sweat.]

Like a cat that's seen the underside of a tire. [God, the lights. He pushes the heels of both palms into his eyes.] Yeah, sure. I'm parched. What is...where are we?

II.

[respired]

[ Koltira's drinking the real heavy stuff. 184 proof perilous whiskey, slurped up like water. He knits his eyebrows as the bartender glances from Koltira to Richie, then shrugs, then fills two glasses. Koltira sets a hand over both, his own gaze fixed to Richie's hands. ]

Have a care, human. Not all things were made for your constitution.

[ Yours in particular, being the subtext. ]

[summertimeblues]

[It seems that wonders would never cease. That boat trip feels like eons ago. He's seen neither hide nor hair of the man since, and in truth has gotten so wound up about so much since then that the fear he'd felt that day floated to the back of his mind with no fanfare at all. Richie looks to the pale, unearthly man. Then he's laughing. Good-natured, surprised.

It's just a person. There are worse things, he'd known that before and he's damn sure of that now. He's still no enthusiast of the arcane but shit son, his reservations have been dashed down to bits.]

Well if I choke and cork it that's more for you then, isn't it? [He leans into the bar, taking the glass happily and tilting it to the man.] Long time, no see. How've you been making out?

I.

[larsenist]

[ Rockabilly is the last thing Akira expects to find up here, among the rows and rows and rows of cold sleepers. He'd only just paid a visit to his friends from home (Ryuji had ended up back here after all...), circling the rest of the stasis unit for other faces when he's distracted by the caterwauling. It's pretty impressive karaoke, he has to admit, albeit an odd choice in serenade.

...It quickly makes a lot more sense (somehow) when he reaches the source; he stops dead in his tracks, practically startled with surprise when he sees Richie. He'd expected him inside the pod, and for a moment he's too bewildered to net much else of a reaction—until he's handed the 'mic' without warning.

He balks, missing the first line of the next verse before joining in, voice soft but distinctly flat. ]

...You're the worst jailbird I ever did see.

[ (Honestly...) He doesn't even know what else to say in greeting, and settles on staring at him for a little while longer as the show goes on. ]

[summertimeblues]

[Richie's smile falters. Good cheer dimmed. It was only ever fueled by liquor and wasteful thinking anyhow. Here he was hoping to avoid the downstairs gang for a while longer. Wait until he could be sure the contents of his guts were going to stay put and he wouldn't make a damn fool of himself, wait until he could look them in the eyes without feeling that squeezing vice on his brain, his lungs.

Richie's head knocks backwards against the pod he's propped on (sorry Eds, didn't mean to disturb you) and he gives a long groan.]

You're killing me, Moptop. Don't mangle the words on purpose.

[He shuts his eyes. Pardon him, it's just a little hard to look, and his head is swollen with sweet liquor. He wasn't ready for you yet, kid, just give him a minute. Better yet give him a week.]

ii. i hate you so much kabby

[bullshitter]

Actually, dear, make it four then! Still on his tab.

[Chloe's quick to catch the bartender before they turn away to get started, even before she even spares a glance towards the new arrival. You give an inch, and they take a mile. No, it isn't as egregious as it first sounds—Chloe ordered vodka shots, and if Richie wants to get absolutely wasted as much as she does, well. Now it's a guarantee.

And, to be fair, once she spares a glance... he looks like he could use the extra drinks. Chloe leans back in her seat to properly consider him, brows raising.]

You look like someone hit you with a bus, backed over you, then dragged you along for the next ten miles.

you're a coward mickey

[summertimeblues]

[The woman takes immediate advantage of the offer. Richie gives her a look, before succumbing to a chuckle.]

Well shit, if it hadn't been for the bus I'd be fighting your request for four. You ought to thank the driver or you'd be funding your own bender.

[No explanation forthcoming. Maybe once they get the shots in their gullets. Richie salutes the bartender when the diminuitive glasses slide their way. He looks the spread over. It's a good start, but now he's curious himself.]

Bad week, or just a force of habit?

ii

[catfident]

[ Company's the last thing she expects tonight, especially company wearing a familiar face and voice, but she lets Richie slide into the seat next to her and piggyback off her drink. (Perhaps unluckily for him, it'll end up being cider, weak and not nearly enough to fight back any lingering demons.)

She raises a brow, a hint of a smile toying at her lips. ]

Making good on your offer so soon? Or did some other woman find a reason take her heel to your shin?

[ He's looking decidedly worse for the wear since the last she saw him, and for all that her voice lilts upwards with humor it doesn't take a death god to sense he's been through worse than a mere romantic tiff. ]

[summertimeblues]

My offer?

[He would have remembered promising something to a girl like this. She's beautiful, whoever she is, but her slender features and dark skin don't fit so neatly into any faces he's seen at the bar in Shades Darker, on the network, on the streets. Richie puts a hand to his mouth, brows furrowed as he tries to place her.]

Wait wait wait — you ever go by goddess?

[It would sound like a line on any other night but this time, it's a sincere question. There'd been that one on his post with the other chums after all, and he'd offered up booze then. All he'd had to go on to find the girl was typing and a username.]

ii!

[tailorable]

[ Eggsy recognises Richie immediately. His accent alone is distinct, perfect for imitation — 'course that's not what he recalls now. He thinks instead of the mission to Institute, of splitting off with Peggy to take down the security system instead of accompanying others to rescue the hostages and, finally, of regrouping outside the building. Over the din and the burning sensation skittering across his skin, someone on the hostage crew rose announced with haunting clarity, Two casualties.

And one casualty buying him a goddamn drink. ]

Thanks. [ the reply slips out, hollow and automatic. His training keeps him from looking entirely gobsmacked, but his brows still lift sharply. ] I'll get the next round.

[ As ever, he wears guard blacks, with his titchy Olympia pin on the collar. His long sleeves obscure the worst of his injuries, but his right hand appears visibly bandaged, lightly resting on the bar top. ]

[summertimeblues]

[On second glance, Richie remembers this one too — albeit under different circumstances. Never got a name, but he remembers the lock pick and the squeamish show they'd put on for the Olympian crowds. The accent too, of course. The only Brit not schooled in Cambridge or Oxford or some other hoighty-toighty upper crust establishment. Though the brow rises and he has a spare second to wonder what that look's for, the question is there and gone in a heartbeat. The drinks are accepted, company isn't spurned, and with luck he'll be losing this conversation in two hours anyhow.]

Sounds like a fair deal to me.

[Richie leans his elbows on the bar and runs his eyes over that pin, the uniform.] I hope you aren't drinking on duty, bud. City's been shaken bad these last few weeks, we can't afford to have the fuzz slacking on the job.

[He huffs, grinning bitter. There's a bandaged hand, too. Richie frowns and tilts his head.] Sore paw?

reversing V for variety, fight me. (aka rattle me if this needs changing)

[desistor]

[He'd missed the housecall by hours but gets the news through the grapevine soon after. Being well antiquated with avoidance of one's problems as an avenue for dealing with them, it'd make a hypocrite of him to be too angry with the radio silence, the vanishing act. He gets needing to work shit out on your own time. And he's a pretty patient guy by nature. ...to a point.

It doesn't take too long, once Richie re-announces himself to Red. He parks outside Richie's pad to rap his knuckles against the door. (A less-urgent mirror of however many days or weeks displaced when he came by with Akira. Less foreboding, if still going about checking for signs of life.) He'll announce himself if need be—but even if Richie's door is lacking a peephole, the cool glow of light under the door ought to be a good tipoff for who's behind it.

If (when) Richie sees fit to open the door, and carefully without fanfare—]

...Ouch.

[Sympathetically—and not just at the bruise he's likely to get for getting decked. You look like shit, Rich. (If much less so than the last time he'd seen him. A mess of burns and blood at Yusuke's side, long gone to the Country, without even the faint warbling echo of a Trace to try to wring out a goodbye.)]

This a bad time?

[He can come back later. (This is, mostly, meant to be ironic. But...y'know.)]

this will not stand

[summertimeblues]

[Jimi Hendrix might be wailing on about a Voodoo Child, voice booming from the grave and out into the hall as the door blows wide for Boxer, but the sight inside is anything but groovy. The shiner is wet (there's a pack of ice clutched in one white knuckled hand) and rosy red, swelling up over the bone of his slender cheek. He's looking like he crawled out of the coffin just yesterday. Waxen skin and blackened eyes, blinking bleary at the figure in the hall.]

...Boxer. [The specter cuts a lazy grin and leans hard on that hand nailed to the door frame. The smell releases into the hall same as the tunes, burnt leaves and something bitter. He's essentially reliving college. Throw a couple of hardcovers on the table, get a girl in gogo boots on the couch, and baby you'd have one for the yearbooks.] No time's a bad time when it's spent in good company. Isn't that right?

[He evacuates the doorway, waving the larger man in. His gait is strange. There's the lumber of a zombie to it, and yet also the floating listlessness of a ghost. Richie's pressing the ice to his head as he goes, clapping a hand to the man's shoulder.]

Real glad to see you, cuz. I'm...Jesus, your lady wasn't so sweet on me earlier. I think I spooked her. Should I have sent a card? What do you do, what's the custom when you gotta slink back to life after the funeral's done? I think I fucked it all up.

v.

[cajolery]

[ Clair doesn't know what to make of Richie when she finds him standing on the other side of the door. At first, she stands frozen, eyes wide and hand still clenched around the doorknob. She'd heard—she knew that he'd—

But here he is. It can only be him, for who else would use such a silly accent that she'd never once heard of? He looks... well. Whole. Alive. Maybe she's just hallucinating—or dreaming. Maybe the liln still runs like fire through her veins. ]

Rich?

[summertimeblues]

[She's stunned. All right. No fists this time, that's nice, thanks a million for the shiner Red. He's never looked so handsome.

And Clair herself? If she weren't pint-sized and tow-headed with a bit of that hourglass silhouette going for her, they might be twins. She's not been sleeping, that much is obvious. She's as pale as the moon and the bags under her eyes are the blackened craters.

Richie finds his feet leaden and antsy all at once. He fidgets, fingers rippling in his pockets as they fiddle with the seams within. His head bows and he graces the welcome mat with that sheepish smirk.]

This, um...it's not a bad time, is it?

i

[tricksune]

[ He'd heard rumors. Though Yusuke hadn't gone to ask the Orbiters himself, not one for prayer or higher counsel, there's word around of miracles afoot. On gut instinct, it sounds delusional, but these are a collective entity that's saved bits of civilizations across so many doomed worlds—was it so unbelievable that they might save just a few more?

Against his better judgment, he spends a night at the station, waiting and whiling the time away with JJ in front of a couple lonesome pods until they both nod off mid-conversation. It's not especially comfortable, and his awakening's a bit rude, some loud showtune bouncing off all the metal as he blinks blearily up at the ceiling.

It sounds familiar, though. The tone and timbre of anyone's voice changes when it warbles out a song, but...

Eventually, he's on his feet and floating off towards the source of the noise, bedhead tousling his usually composed appearance. He's probably just some slumping shadow in the corner of Richie's vision when he addresses him—Yusuke himself in the middle of rubbing the sleep out of one his eyes before he freezes in place.

...He wishes he knew the lyrics, because he doesn't know what to say otherwise. His mind's gone blank, so he blurts out, eloquently, ] —What?

[ Or in French: what the fuck, Richie. ]

[summertimeblues]

[The shape at the end of the row is willowy but masculine. He should have wagered a guess, but the liquor is swishing his brain meat around like ice in a cocktail. He's all dummied up, lost in his songs and the silent company of his old pals.

The singular word slices through it all like a swing from a sword. His merriment screeches to a halt, his face goes slack.

Oh, fuck. Oh god no.

Richie turns, both hands clapping to the floor to support his impression of Pisa's lopsided tower as he squints into the darkened shadows. The figure there is rumpled, shell-shocked, pale. There's a fist at his eye, scrubbing loose the crust of a good night's slumber. Had he been sleeping up here with the pods?

Dstress of a new sort strikes through him with a lightning flash. He'd done this to him, this poor kid. All Yusuke had tried to do was help and Richie had failed him. Absolutely failed. He can't remember all of it but he remembers rambling, he remembers Yusuke's mortified face, the prickling burns. The constant of the boy's shoulders under the leaking sores of his arm.

And now here he was, wailing along to invisible backing tracks from twenty five years ago and looking like a sailor gone to seed at port. The picture of a wreck. Back from the dead. His own pod's empty, that would be it there, wouldn't it? Right beside Bill's. Had the kid seen him in there?]

...Yusuke. [His drunken mind is too slow to catch up with any of the thoughts racing through his head. Clever things to say, the right things to say. All he has, all he ever has, is absolute bullshit. Richie blinks, slow and confused as if the kid's the apparition, not him.]

Whatchu doing up here? It's...god, what's the time? Fuck. I don't have my phone, I think I left it in the pad, before my date jumped me. What are you doing? Go to...go home, get to bed. It's late. I'm...

[His head rolls back. Looking the pods over.]

It's visiting hours for the damned. Sorry. Pardon the mess, I'm...not sure. What the deal is. [There's a rip through his middle. His hand leaps to his eyes, covering them, head bowed. His voice comes out craggy and weakened.] I'm sorry, kid.

stasis units.. LET ME PICK AN ICON DW

[tzaraisen]

[ Death was supposed to be the absence of all light, the end of all emotion and feeling, the last word in the final chapter of the human experience. That reality is what Percival grew to embrace as the pain of his wounds grew to great, as Jean Valjean's voice grew evermore distant and lost. This, however, was far worse than nothingness.

This must be what madness feels like: to have a thousand different voices and experiences demanding your attention until they become painfully unbearable. In The Storm, Percival feels and hears the pain and cries of countless lives lost to this... force. It hurts in a way that physical wounds could never compare, and he has neither capability nor means to cry out.

When it finally seems as though he's got something of a voice back, the world goes blindingly white.

He can breathe. That gasp of breath seems to make up for the hours, days that his body hasn't processed anything. It's painful, so painful that his vision blackens again.

When he finally comes to, the world shifts into focus.

There is someone looking back. ]

in soviet dw, icon picks you

[summertimeblues]

[When he was young, he bought the whole pie. Christ was in the crust and heaven was the cherries. You could even argue hell was getting denied a slice. Ask him a year ago and he'd have told you there was no pie to begin with.

Ask him after coming back to Derry, and he'd say he wasn't so sure. He could smell something in the oven, yes sirree, but the hows and whys were elusive as silverfish.

Ask him now...

Oh, the screaming. He had no ears but the shrieks clawed at him and tore the tympanic membrane, ripped up the canal to wail into the cochlea. Scrabbled through the shards of that snail-like coil and wiggled into the meat of the brain. If he had one left. If he had anything of his old self save for the sense of pain, the questioning, the mouthless confusion and the inability to move, to counteract, to affect the symphony of the damned singing him sweetly to madness.

Then it's quiet.

He doesn't know how long. Was it a trial? Did he pass? Is he permitted peace now?

Richie's sitting upright and staring. His sight comes back like puzzle pieces ripping up out of a jigsaw. He can hear stirring, the sounds of life. Afterlife.

The body rises and the patchy black spots retreat. The red hair hits him, long and slick but rumpled at the back, cow-licked by sleep. The king-like straightness of his jaw, his nose. He knows this man.

Richie puts his hands down. He feels cold metal. It bites at his palms as it does the flesh of his thighs, felt clear through the invalid's gown he's dressed in (not what he'd died in). The scene is unveiled through a set of blinks, tapped out like morse code. One and a two and a dash and a dot, long and short.

The station. Medical wing. They're not alone, plenty of souls sleeping under glass here, but they're both awake. Him and this man that he knows the name of, remembers the stiff line of his back and how it had curved as the joint whittled down under twirls of smoke, passed between them. His harried worry at the gala where the little girl drank to heaving dinner right back up.]

...Hiya Perce.

[Richie twists around. He's somehow swung his legs over the edge and sat around hunched over without remembering how he got that way. It's all stupefying stuff. He looks skyward and sees only the low lights stamped into metal. Dimmed for night. He falls back some into his pod. The strength has left his muscles, his mind. His hands fly to cover his eyes. He's horizontal again, pressed into the thin cotton cushion.]

I have the most...apocalyptic headache.