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(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.
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.
no subject
I'm fucking suffocating in it.
I eat dinner, ramen cooked on the stove, and have a beer, then I decide to take a fucking walk, 'cause it's too quiet Too lonely. I haven't lived alone in years.
Grabbing my keys and wallet, I head out the door, turning to lock up on the way out, when I hear footsteps coming down the hall. Not completely unusual, and I look up, ready to nod or even say hello, if it's somebody worth it...
But he turns the corner and the world just... grinds to a stop.
no subject
But his flat half-gaze meets the kid's and it's like something swings out and hooks him through the heart and through the dick simultaneously, and for a split second he has a very hard time getting his breath.
What the fuck is this?
The kid himself isn't anything amazing to look at--skinny, hollow-eyed, somehow too old and much too young both at once, and it's even familiar. He's seen more than a few like this in the Realm. But it's more than that. He's familiar. More than that. Looking at him. He's not the only one who feels something.
And Mike feels a flush of savage anger. Nothing about this is okay.
His eyes narrow and his hand creeps back toward his gun. If things don't start making sense soon he's going to kill someone just for something to do. "The fuck you lookin' at?"
no subject
That's the first thing I think. Oh. Like it's not even really a surprise. I'll realize, later, that this is kind of what being in shock is like. Feeling too much, too fast, for too fucking long, sometimes turns into feeling nothing at all. The way time's slowed to a crawl. The way I've forgotten how to breathe.
He looks at me like that and I can't stop thinking about the girls. His girls. Our girls.
The scars on his face are right. The limp. The age. This is him. It's not like Sam, so why the fuck is he reaching for his gun? Why the fuck is he looking at me like a stranger?
Some tiny shred of self-preservation has me muttering out, "Nothin'." I turn my face away, fumbling with my keys, and then I force my feet to move, head down and shoulders slumped on my way toward him down the hall. Toward him, only 'cause it's the way to the stairs.
no subject
And it is something. It's a whole fuck of a thing. You just wouldn't believe.
But he shakes that off. Because whatever it is--fucking voices, some kind of pain-induced hallucination back there on the train, and whatever he's feeling now--it doesn't matter. Finding a way out of this matters. Standing on Bosko's throat matters. A skinny kid who doesn't seem to be able to meet his eyes sure doesn't matter.
But something stops him. Those hooks in him--fishhooks, barbs caught in him, and a part of him that he wants so much to ignore is sure that he won't be able to get them free. He's dragged back around and watching the kid walk past him, watching the hunch of his shoulders, the movement of his lanky body.
"Hey," he calls. "This the way to number twenty?"
no subject
Then he opens his fucking mouth. God dammit.
Glancing back over my shoulder, not quite enough to actually see him, 'cause if I look again... If I look...
"Right next to mine," I mutter, then I turn the corner and I'm rushing for the stairs, gasping for breath by the time I make it to the first flight.
no subject
A neighbor who, if he didn't know better, he would swear knew him.
A neighbor who, if he didn't have all the reason in the world to ignore the idea, he would swear he knew.
He lets out a hard sigh. What the fuck ever. If he's lucky, he won't be staying long enough for it to matter. He turns and heads down the hall, the key an odd little weight in his hand, like an anchor, like something dragging him down and holding him there.