[i've never felt more like a third wheel in my life, don't bicker in the brackets you two
Red is about as helpful as he expects. Which, after a chilly few seconds of her not picking up the phone, is not at all. Richie clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes, but when the weigh-in does come he supposes he can't blame her. They don't know each other that well, after all, and some pasts were better left behind you.
He's just...on the outside of something here. He doesn't truly understand either of them, wouldn't get their situation. That's fair shakes. What had happened to Wally was a travesty, and the more time he spends around them the more he's certain that the person the sword had been coming for was little Miss Carrot Top herself. There was a tenderness in the way she clutched at the thing that, if he wasn't projecting his own imaginings, belied a wistfulness that went beyond missing a body. She wore regret in her every motion, in the furtive glances of her eyes.
It makes him think of Bill sometimes. It's not a true analog — kids wear grief and emotion far differently than adults do, but even when Bill came back all grown up there was something fragile skittering around his words, his movements. It struck Mikey too. Bringing up Stan and his bad bath and knowing that if he hadn't made the call, maybe old Stan the Man wouldn't have seen fit take a slick Gilette down the road and across the street.
His own expression clouds. He leaves the texts alone.
Wally's not done though. Doesn't take the bait, probably couldn't have understood the fairy tale gobbledygook even while sober. It's edging on uncomfortable now. He's clearly not meant to hear this and yet it's right in his ear. How can he help wondering? Hell, he gives a couple shits about the two of them. Why wouldn't he be worried? How callous would it be not to care?
He knows about their sunset pickings. Less so about this spine business. "Spine of the World", sounds like a shitty name for a pack of facists looking to take down James Bond. And Cloudbank has to be a place, but whatever they mean by "Process" is beyond him. Could be a crew just as nasty as what he imagines the Spine is, could be a disease, could be some magical horsecrap beyond the meager capacities of his understanding.
Y'think they're all just ghosts.
He slows again. They're coming up on a doorway. Something about the way Wally intones it puts a tickle in every hair down his neck. Richie turns to look behind them.
He blanches white. Doesn't scream. He watches.
Roughly nine yards at their rear is a shape rendered in shades of mottled grey. Standing inches above the ground, hands poised on the wall to peek around the corner, the spirit man watches back. From this distance his eyes are charcoal holes under the brows.
Without a sound, it raises one arm. Points dead ahead, straight at them. Richie's terror cleaves his chest in two. He turns to look, expecting something more—
(worse)
—another apparition to spook them off. But there is nothing. Richie's head whips back around, and the figure is gone.]
...Well what do you know, the tour guide finally showed up. [He laughs. It's a nervy titter, they can all hear it, and he fights the shakes in his hands by laying them boldly on the door handles.] Think he can point us to the nearest margarita bar? I'm looking for something sweet and slushy after this bullshit, believe you me.
[The door swings open with little more than a grunt and a push.
It seems the spirits want this over and done with too. Inside the room is littered with goodies. A top to bottom affair, all stacked with the precision of chaos reserved for curioso shops in run down neighbourhoods. A magic lamp can't be too far off the mark now.]
cw: suicide mention
Red is about as helpful as he expects. Which, after a chilly few seconds of her not picking up the phone, is not at all. Richie clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes, but when the weigh-in does come he supposes he can't blame her. They don't know each other that well, after all, and some pasts were better left behind you.
He's just...on the outside of something here. He doesn't truly understand either of them, wouldn't get their situation. That's fair shakes. What had happened to Wally was a travesty, and the more time he spends around them the more he's certain that the person the sword had been coming for was little Miss Carrot Top herself. There was a tenderness in the way she clutched at the thing that, if he wasn't projecting his own imaginings, belied a wistfulness that went beyond missing a body. She wore regret in her every motion, in the furtive glances of her eyes.
It makes him think of Bill sometimes. It's not a true analog — kids wear grief and emotion far differently than adults do, but even when Bill came back all grown up there was something fragile skittering around his words, his movements. It struck Mikey too. Bringing up Stan and his bad bath and knowing that if he hadn't made the call, maybe old Stan the Man wouldn't have seen fit take a slick Gilette down the road and across the street.
His own expression clouds. He leaves the texts alone.
Wally's not done though. Doesn't take the bait, probably couldn't have understood the fairy tale gobbledygook even while sober. It's edging on uncomfortable now. He's clearly not meant to hear this and yet it's right in his ear. How can he help wondering? Hell, he gives a couple shits about the two of them. Why wouldn't he be worried? How callous would it be not to care?
He knows about their sunset pickings. Less so about this spine business. "Spine of the World", sounds like a shitty name for a pack of facists looking to take down James Bond. And Cloudbank has to be a place, but whatever they mean by "Process" is beyond him. Could be a crew just as nasty as what he imagines the Spine is, could be a disease, could be some magical horsecrap beyond the meager capacities of his understanding.
Y'think they're all just ghosts.
He slows again. They're coming up on a doorway. Something about the way Wally intones it puts a tickle in every hair down his neck. Richie turns to look behind them.
He blanches white. Doesn't scream. He watches.
Roughly nine yards at their rear is a shape rendered in shades of mottled grey. Standing inches above the ground, hands poised on the wall to peek around the corner, the spirit man watches back. From this distance his eyes are charcoal holes under the brows.
Without a sound, it raises one arm. Points dead ahead, straight at them. Richie's terror cleaves his chest in two. He turns to look, expecting something more—
(worse)
—another apparition to spook them off. But there is nothing. Richie's head whips back around, and the figure is gone.]
...Well what do you know, the tour guide finally showed up. [He laughs. It's a nervy titter, they can all hear it, and he fights the shakes in his hands by laying them boldly on the door handles.] Think he can point us to the nearest margarita bar? I'm looking for something sweet and slushy after this bullshit, believe you me.
[The door swings open with little more than a grunt and a push.
It seems the spirits want this over and done with too. Inside the room is littered with goodies. A top to bottom affair, all stacked with the precision of chaos reserved for curioso shops in run down neighbourhoods. A magic lamp can't be too far off the mark now.]
...Jackpot?