blah blah strider feels blah

[brojob]

[These days, when Dirk sleeps, he no longer finds himself confined to a waking world of amethyst walls and black-shelled people. His every movement doesn't have to stay masked, his existence dictated by skating under the radar of what seem to be equally ruthless and asinine political machinations. Instead, he spends his resting hours floating freely in and out of memories, sometimes of familiar places, sometimes not. It's not often that the latter happens, but when it does, it often means company, for better or for worse.

So, when his consciousness resurfaces to find himself standing on a hillside, staring straight up at a jagged row of glitched, white letters spelling out the name "HOPYWOODOO," Dirk's brain kicks into gear and his insides do some pretty impressive acrobatics.

It couldn't be.]

Comments

[upstartcrow]

[And there, sitting on the flat top of the P, is a lone figure in profile. He's got one knee pulled up and the other leg hanging casually down the side of the P's vertical bar like he owns the joint, like he might as well be sprawled comfortably on his living room couch. If Dirk's too close to the base of the letter, maybe all he can see is that dangling foot, but there's also a shitty skateboard trying to rise through the air on its own power, and a lukewarm bottle in the man's hand.

He hasn't seen Dirk yet, or if he has, he's pretending he hasn't. The deadness of the air, though, carries down the meaningless sound of quiet speech, as if someone is talking to himself under his breath.

So yeah, Dave Strider probably hasn't yet seen the living fruit of his labors standing there below.]

[brojob]

[He hadn't noticed. Not until now. And when he does, everything freezes.

It's a long, surreal moment as he struggles to rein himself in, because the experience is so visceral and physical that he almost wonders if he isn't asleep after all, but that's impossible because he's suddenly in southern California and not in the Medium and his bro is dead, and yet here they are.

The sound of blood rushing in his ears, or perhaps just his mind replaying the memory of it, almost drowns himself out, and he can only pray that he doesn't sound weird when the calling word finally comes out.]

Hey.

[upstartcrow]

[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.

His next words are hushed.]

Jesus shit.

[He takes another moment.]

'Sup?

[brojob]

Just passing through.

[Fuck, fuck fuck fuck. He's gotta play this cool; he's imagined and rehearsed and prepared so many pointless fucking times that there's no way he could screw it up for real.]

Not a lot else to do around here, y'know?

[upstartcrow]

[Haha, well, guess who never got the "Expect surprise visits from your paradox progeny" memo. A lesser man might piss himself. A lesser man who was maybe a little less dead.

The broken sword reappears briefly in Dave's chest, but he covers it near-instantaneously. Even if his brain hasn't fully grasped the situation, he knows this kid on a muscle-and-bones level, on a cellular level. There are things Dave doesn't want him to see. He swallows and the sword is gone. He scoots forward, gripping the edge of the letter in preparation to descend, but he doesn't jump yet.]

Yeah. Tell me about it.

[He's staring hard from behind his shades, but he can't help it.]

You sleeping right now?

[brojob]

[Dirk swears he sees the flash of a weapon, but he blinks and it's gone. It leaves him unsettled, but he can gather himself enough to manage a response.]

Probably.

[upstartcrow]

[Dave breathes out. A sleeping kid he can handle. But if Dirk were dead, like he is, after every scrap of a chance he tried to claw out of the Empress's world for him?

No.

The reassurance that he's alive loosens Dave's nerve-taut muscles enough for him to slip casually off the edge of the P--kids, don't try this at home, all stunts have been performed by professional dead guys--and he lands easy, hands in his pockets, just out of arm's reach. The closest he's ever been.]

Well, welcome to the city of angels. Looks like I'm your tour guide for the evening.

[The look he ends up turning to Dirk with is less certain than he would like. He doesn't know how this kid feels about--well, anything. Him. The world. Dave doesn't know what to expect.]