summertimeblues: (097)
Richie "Bitch Baby Tears" Tozier ([personal profile] summertimeblues) wrote in [community profile] nysalogs 2018-09-14 09:43 pm (UTC)

Room for one more?

[That time again, isn't it? Plenty of refugees are sticklers about holding regular vigil. Richie's upped his visits from every two weeks to once or even twice a week. The cuts were still fresh from losing the humble horde he'd made pals with since waking, and at times it seems he's got more stops on this tour than Cher makes in all fifty states. He'll do his monster first (that's what the nickel-plated flask is for) and then his hometown pals for sweet solace after. Following that he's got to follow more turns than Theseus in his labyrinth to hit up all the sleeping bodies he'd met in Olympia.

One such turn takes him down the wrong path, and course correcting sends him further off. He's cussing himself, it's been a while since he'd lost his bearings up here but the rows stretch into infinity and the new stops enroute confound his sense of direction.

The confession drifts up from seeming silence, the exact words jumbled by faint echoes. A familiar voice he has trouble placing until he's wandered into her hall. Copper-haired Bree, spilling her guts out to an older man lying prone as the rest of them. "All you have to do is wake up, dad."

Oh hell, he's got the world's worst timing. Richie freezes up for a moment. Then he looks to his flask, lips pursed. He waggles the it in the air.]


Looks like you need this more than I do today.

[He tosses her the flask with a light hand.]

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