[Dave jerks, an ungainly start of a movement that leaves him three inches to the side of where he'd been sitting. His skateboard shoots free in an instant, faster than it looks, flying upside-down and unfettered into the dream sky.]
Fuck.
[He peers down, pulse racing in his throat, and then stills. Every process of his has been redirected to seeing, to taking in the visitor to his post-mortem prison: not even understanding who and what he is, but just staring. Finally, though, he needs--remembers to need--to breathe. He's younger than he should be, the Dave of press releases and paparazzi, long before his last stand. But he would want to be remembered in his prime, wouldn't he. Or remember himself that way.
no subject
Fuck.
[He peers down, pulse racing in his throat, and then stills. Every process of his has been redirected to seeing, to taking in the visitor to his post-mortem prison: not even understanding who and what he is, but just staring. Finally, though, he needs--remembers to need--to breathe. He's younger than he should be, the Dave of press releases and paparazzi, long before his last stand. But he would want to be remembered in his prime, wouldn't he. Or remember himself that way.
His next words are hushed.]
Jesus shit.
[He takes another moment.]
'Sup?