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

[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.]