(no subject)

He's come to the fucking address because as far as he can tell there's nothing else to fucking do.

This is another goddamn sim. It has to be. How Bosko's gotten him into it, whether or not Bosko has anything to do with it at all, he doesn't know and doesn't even much care. What matters now is getting out and getting back to Hobbes before Bosko's whore can sink her hooks any further into his stupid, simple ass.

Even though he has a horrible feeling that it might be too late for that.

He has a lot of horrible feelings, actually, and he can't figure most of them out. There's his eye--fuck knows what that's about, though it feels like some kind of sick joke. There's his leg. There's the fact that his body itself feels alien, like it doesn't even belong to him at all. The tan, the way it moves, the age. When he had woken up in the Realm for the first time, his body had felt like his in a way that the body he had abandoned never had since Yugoslavia. It had been like coming home.

This feels like walking into someone else's house by mistake. And not being able to leave.

And he won't even think about the ring. He won't think about why he hasn't yet taken it off and tossed it in the street.

Fuck, maybe it'll be worth something.

He's going to scour this fucking place, find some goddamn answers, find the fucking jump port (if there even is one, part of him mutters). But the address on the card in the packet he'd found seems like a place to start, if nothing else. So now he's here. It doesn't look like a total shit-hole, he has to admit. Just a regular apartment complex, clean and well-kept without being fancy, and he can see, looking up at it, that some of the units will have a view of the strange gray ocean that he's caught glimpses of toward the west through the gaps in the skyline.

Whatever. It's not like he's staying. He grits his teeth, finds what seems like the appropriate stairway, and starts to climb.