[At this point, there will never be some redeeming miracle that will turn Richie around on magic. For all that it's gone and saved his ass from several fires, it's also put him in the crosshairs for unprecedented agony, for confusion of the highest degree, and too many existential questions no man, priest, or imam could counter. It'd be one thing if it was just him bearing the brunt of it, but no. Everyone is being raked over the coals.
At the moment, it's playing fast and loose with secrets. Laying 'em all bare with no warning and no permissions asked. When he's jolted up and around and finds himself on the stage of some glizty affair, red curtains and Blade Runner glow from the architecture, lights built into the Art Nouveau facades, he has to cast around for an anchor. He finds it in the twinned forms of Red and Boxer, one pair at his side while their doppelgangers are harried by a quartet of slickly dressed aristocrats. He can smell the money off of them in way they hold their backs in proud lines, the haughty sneers, the way they speak.
She was supposed to be alone. For the greater good of Cloudbank.
The sword is in the wrong hands. And suddenly, Richie knows exactly when they are. Boxer's giving him a pointy look but buddy oh pal, he knows when to clam up and if there ever was a time, this must be it. He nods. Red's grabbing his wrist and yanking like he's an unruly child (if they can't find the fissure quick enough she might found out exactly how much), the white haired bitch on stage is eyeballing the past couple like they're dirt under her shoe (did they expect to leave), and the eldest man raises the microchip wonder blade, and Richie finds his head unable to turn, his eyes growing wider with horror instead of closing with prudence.]
No—
[But voiceless gasps from the future can't change the past. The sword flings.
He does shut his eyes then, turn away with his free hand clapping to his mouth as his heart thunders in the tight cage of his chest. He can hear it squelch, cut a nest for itself into that steady gut.
Then there's a flash of darkness. They're outside now, like someone spliced together the film edit wrong and cropped two scenes together that never should have met. But there's old Boxy, sitting heavy on the alley ground with a blade of how many feet standing proud in his middle like the angled hand of a clock. Time's up!
Richie can feel Red flinch next to him. Sees the old Red standing at the foot of the corpse, devasted and still as a marble statue. And Boxer's gone, not even a twitch, just the down-turned crown of his head and the arms splayed to the sides, open palmed. It looks so like a religious tableau.
His throat has thickened. The present man is standing with him, but he's looking at something too hypnotic to face reality. The sight suctions him in, draws the water from his eyes in two streams out of the corners, glimmering blue and green in the alien light of the electric avenue.]
Oh god...oh shit...
[Then the voice crackles in. The sword lights up with each sound, like a pulsing line of a heart monitor. But Boxer's mouth isn't moving.
'Course it won't.
Richie steps loose of the pair. Inching towards the wreckage of their past. He sinks to his knees, staring at the corpse. The sword. The girl.
"Don't be gone, please don't be gone, I can't—"
He looks back to them, helpless and horrified. He looks rather like a child in the moment, wide-eyed and stunned silent. He wants to say sorry but the words have jumped ship. There's nothing he could possibly do.]
JOKES ON YOU i won't get to it until four days later
At the moment, it's playing fast and loose with secrets. Laying 'em all bare with no warning and no permissions asked. When he's jolted up and around and finds himself on the stage of some glizty affair, red curtains and Blade Runner glow from the architecture, lights built into the Art Nouveau facades, he has to cast around for an anchor. He finds it in the twinned forms of Red and Boxer, one pair at his side while their doppelgangers are harried by a quartet of slickly dressed aristocrats. He can smell the money off of them in way they hold their backs in proud lines, the haughty sneers, the way they speak.
She was supposed to be alone. For the greater good of Cloudbank.
The sword is in the wrong hands. And suddenly, Richie knows exactly when they are. Boxer's giving him a pointy look but buddy oh pal, he knows when to clam up and if there ever was a time, this must be it. He nods. Red's grabbing his wrist and yanking like he's an unruly child (if they can't find the fissure quick enough she might found out exactly how much), the white haired bitch on stage is eyeballing the past couple like they're dirt under her shoe (did they expect to leave), and the eldest man raises the microchip wonder blade, and Richie finds his head unable to turn, his eyes growing wider with horror instead of closing with prudence.]
No—
[But voiceless gasps from the future can't change the past. The sword flings.
He does shut his eyes then, turn away with his free hand clapping to his mouth as his heart thunders in the tight cage of his chest. He can hear it squelch, cut a nest for itself into that steady gut.
Then there's a flash of darkness. They're outside now, like someone spliced together the film edit wrong and cropped two scenes together that never should have met. But there's old Boxy, sitting heavy on the alley ground with a blade of how many feet standing proud in his middle like the angled hand of a clock. Time's up!
Richie can feel Red flinch next to him. Sees the old Red standing at the foot of the corpse, devasted and still as a marble statue. And Boxer's gone, not even a twitch, just the down-turned crown of his head and the arms splayed to the sides, open palmed. It looks so like a religious tableau.
His throat has thickened. The present man is standing with him, but he's looking at something too hypnotic to face reality. The sight suctions him in, draws the water from his eyes in two streams out of the corners, glimmering blue and green in the alien light of the electric avenue.]
Oh god...oh shit...
[Then the voice crackles in. The sword lights up with each sound, like a pulsing line of a heart monitor. But Boxer's mouth isn't moving.
'Course it won't.
Richie steps loose of the pair. Inching towards the wreckage of their past. He sinks to his knees, staring at the corpse. The sword. The girl.
"Don't be gone, please don't be gone, I can't—"
He looks back to them, helpless and horrified. He looks rather like a child in the moment, wide-eyed and stunned silent. He wants to say sorry but the words have jumped ship. There's nothing he could possibly do.]