NEW ARRIVAL :: AN UNDERCOVER COP, NERD, AND ALL AROUND DISASTER

[super_cool]

Freddy’s pretty sure he’s dead. He’d like to believe everything – the heist, the getaway, the bloodbath back at the rendezvous – was just a fucked up dream. He’d like to. There’s no hole in his cheek, no bullets in his gut, but he’s still wearing the same clothes – black suit, white shirt, and black tie – and they’re still soaked with blood. There’s blood in his hair, splattered across his face, and coating his hands.

He’s sitting on the curb outside of something that resembles the type of cheap convenience store familiar to someone from Los Angeles during the late 20th century. Next to him is an open bag of Doritos, four empty bottles of shitty beer, plus two more unopened bottles of that same shitty brand... and also a welcoming pamphlet.

While he’s not exactly feeling any better than he was when he first woke up, the alcohol is at least helping him settle into a sort of numbness. He opens the pamphlet and reads. Most of it fails to register.

‘Do you have a question for the Nexus?’ the pamphlet says.

‘What the fuck?’ is all that comes to mind. He sighs and rubs his temple, before burying his face in his arms. It's been a long goddamn day. Thinking it over though, he does actually have a question:

“Does everyone who dies get sent here? Or is it just like”–his voice still sounds hoarse, so he coughs into his fist and clears his throat–“only certain ones?”

He tries to brush his hair back, but his bangs just flop back into his face. He opens another bottle. Don't worry, he’s not going to cry or whine about shit. He may be a hot fucking mess, but he’s still a tough guy, okay?

Comments

[chiron_survivor]

Someone is staring at Freddy from across the street.

It's a young woman dressed in slacks and a t-shirt, a messenger bag slung over her shoulder. She looks spooked. Maybe it's the fact that he's got blood all over his face. Or the nature of his question. Either way, it's a moment or two before she approaches.

"Just the lucky ones," she answers softly. She gets a closer look at his appearance, the empty bottles. "Are you hurt? Here..." She reaches into her messenger bag and pulls out a travel-sized container of hand wipes. "For the, um... the blood."

[super_cool]

The fuck's she looking at? Oh right, he's a bloody fucking mess. He can’t really blame her. There’s a list of priorities in his head, and getting cleaned up is next on it, now that he’s got beer and chips. (Beer and chips had seemed most important, at the time.)

Luckily, Nexus and LA seem to have similar mentalities: mind ya own damn business.

While it’s clear the girl means well, he’s still embarrassed. He wrings his hands – an old nervous habit. He does manage to answer her question though, looking down at his blood soaked shirt before meeting her eyes: “Why do you ask?”

It's an attempt at a joke. He recognizes that there's absurdity to this situation. And he's fine. Fucking dead, but fine.

“Thanks,” he says, as she passes the wipes. He dabs at his face, and wipes some of the blood off his hands. He still looks pretty bad, but it was a sweet gesture anyway.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to be a rude motherfucker,” he says after a beat. “Name’s Freddy. From California, United States, Earth, 1992 AD."

He assumes she doesn't want to shake hands with him.

[chiron_survivor]

Why does he ask?? Doesn't he realize he's -- oh... oh, he's joking. She smiles weakly and averts her gaze a moment while he wipes off the worst of it. Dammit, she's a medical volunteer. She's seen more blood than that. She shouldn't be so rattled.

His apology eases her nerves a little. "You're doing a lot better than I did when I first came here," she says with a small, sheepish laugh. She sits down on the curb next to him, shifting the messenger bag into her lap. "You've read the pamphlet, too. That's good."

Yeah, that's a good call about the handshake. "Hi, Freddy. My name's Adia." Her expression brightens a little when he tells her that he's from Earth. "I'm from... um, well, originally a planet called Leonis. Now I live on a spaceship. But someday I hope to be from Earth, too."

[super_cool]

“You live on a spaceship?” His eyes widen; it sounds very impressive to him, who grew up when Star Wars was a huge deal in pop-culture. “That’s fucking badass.” There’s so much he wants to ask her about that: What's space like? Has she met aliens?

This is so crazy. Adia’s nice, and from outerspace. He doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve to hangout with nice spacegirls. He killed a pregnant lady, shouldn’t he be in Hell? Not that he really believes in God, but still. The universe is fucked up.

“What do most people do when they first get here?” he asks. Fucking freak out, probably. Under different circumstances, he’d be like that too. He’s asking more about what they do after the initial freak out, though. While he does feel strongly about being a piece of shit unworthy of human compassion, he still wants information. Pamphlets can't tell him everything.

[chiron_survivor]

That gets an honest-to-goodness giggle out of her. "Yeah... yeah, I guess so." She props her arms on her knees and smiles at him shyly, but seems willing to talk more about it if he's inclined. She always gets a kick out of others asking about space travel, as it's something she takes for granted.

"Well..." Her first thought is also 'freak out,' because that's what she did, but she knows that's not what he's really asking. "Find a place to stay, typically. There are inns and hotels, and places you can rent or buy. After that, look for a job." She fidgets with the clip of her messenger bag. "Some people find a portal back home right away, but, um... I'm guessing that's not an option for you?"

[conjuredskies]

There's the sound of approaching boots on the pavement before someone stops to stare down at him. In this case, 'someone' is a young man wearing some kind of medieval armor made from layers of toughened leather and ending in an armored skirt that goes to his knees. The burlap hood he's wearing makes it a little harder to see his face, but his eyes are sharp as he gives Freddy a long look.

In his current frame of mind, Felix almost didn't take any notice of one more slumped and bewildered figure here. But. That question interests him.

"I beg your pardon," he says pleasantly, lightly. There's a gentle accent Freddy won't recognize. "But I take it from your question that you died? Recently?"

[super_cool]

Perhaps Felix is always soft-spoken and polite. Perhaps he noticed that Freddy looks fucking terrified. He’s not used to people walking around in fucking armor. Let alone the fact that the guy also wears a hood over his face? Like some kind of medieval executioner straight out of a fucking nightmare? It freaks him out. His mind’s been in dark places lately, and this is like a bad trip.

He lets out a shaky breath when Felix speaks. At least the guy’s voice seems normal and non-threatening, weird accent aside. “Yeah man,” he says, laughing a little dryly and picking at one of the bullet holes in the front of his shirt. “I think that's safe to fucking say.”

He takes a long drink from the open bottle. Is there a reason Felix asked? Is it bad to have died recently? Should he have lied? He's anxious as hell, but trying hard to play it cool.

[conjuredskies]

Felix is, generally, a pleasantly-spoken kind of guy. Unfortunately for Freddy he's not quite as genuinely pleasant just now, but having something nasty whispering in your head will do that to you.

On the upside his hood is only face-shadowing than face-concealing, and he pushes it back a bit when he crouches down to take a look at the man. He doesn't look like he's slept in about five days but otherwise Felix is just a normal-looking guy. With weird taste in outfits, admittedly...

"You're wounded? Are you still bleeding? That all looks quite dry... do you feel any pain? Currently?" His attention is now tracking the bottle. Drinking. Interesting. It takes a moment or two before his better nature kicks him. The man's afraid. He should do something about that.

"Oh, there's nothing to be afraid of. Don't worry. You're quite safe here." Felix gives a friendly smile. He's always been good at radiating amicable harmlessness. It would be more convincing if he hadn't switched it on like a lightbulb just there.

[super_cool]

Well, now he just feels stupid. He hadn’t realized the man was young, and yes, apparently just a regular guy who happens to be from somewhere different. The pamphlet did mention something about that.

“I’m not afraid,” he says, like it’s not exactly what someone afraid would say. He’s a fantastic liar, when feeling 100 percent – but a mediocre one when not. “I’m fine, not in any pain," he reassures. "Just really fucking-” he wants to say ‘tired’ or maybe ‘depressed as hell’ but no, he’s not going to talk about feelings, “-pissed off I left those motherfuckers alive.”

Complete bullshit that he regrets saying as soon as it leaves his mouth. He knows he died a sniveling, piece of shit rat. He lights a cigarette with shaky hands, and redirects his eyes to Felix’s. “Thank you, though.”

He is sincere about that. He can tell that the other guy's tired, and probably has other shit to do than deal with dead newcomers. But Freddy also noticed him watching the bottle, so he’s hopeful when he asks, “Do you want a beer, man?”

[strontiumdog]

"Depends on what you mean by that."

A man with blank white eyes and a soft voice comes to a stop right in front of Freddy, hands held loosely at his sides and not looking the slightest bit awkward at doing so. He tilts his gaze down at Freddy, and idly scratches his chin as he thinks. Johnny will be the first to admit that he's not really the best at consoling people on a personal level, but he knows how it feels to be disorientated in a strange place, covered in blood and expecting death. And people - complete strangers - had helped him get to his feet and move on with his life.

So, he at least makes an attempt. For the stranger's sake.

"I hope that blood isn't all your own." Johnny says finally, a little encouragingly. Good enough.

[super_cool]

“Ha, you should see the other guy.” It actually is mostly his own blood, though. The blood that isn’t his own belongs to someone who died trying to protect him – which makes Freddy feel like a real piece of shit – so that’s no consolation. But still, there is little that cuts straight to his heart like macho bullshit, and Johnny can consider his attempt a success.

He opens the last of the beers and passes it to Johnny. Cheers, dude.

[strontiumdog]

Johnny snorts, not unkindly. "If I'd had a cred for every time I'd heard that..." But he bends down to take the proffered can anyway and sits down next to Freddy with a satisfied sigh, not really minding how his hand comes down right in the middle of a patch of blood with a tiny splish.

"So. Let me guess. You were at the bar when some arsehole spilled his whiskey all over the girl you like, and refused to apologize. Called you and her some awful names. And I suppose you left him with lumps for days, and all his mates ran away crying?"

Johnny pauses to take a drink, then studies the label intently. "And if it's not, don't tell me. I like that story better."

[super_cool]

Freddy is about to apologize for being a mess, but apparently Johnny’s seen some shit.

“How’d you know?” he says with a shrug, not missing a beat. “A week later, I’m at that same bar, with that same girl – and her hot friend – and motherfucker comes back blasting. Who’d have thought, right? Bullets everywhere, complete chaos. I take him down, but obviously not before the bastard managed to fuckin’ tag me.” An absurd story made more absurd when told by Freddy, who hardly looks like the sort to go out and get into barfights without being put in the hospital.

“Freddy, by the way. From Earth, 1992 AD.” He did at least manage to glean something from the pamphlet. It feels weird specifying the planet and year, and he’s doubtful it’d even have meaning for someone from an entirely different universe, but he’s trying his best, and Johnny sounds like he’s English.

He offers a hand, since Johnny doesn’t seem particularly concerned about coming in contact with blood. And if he actually has any taste or class when it come to booze, Johnny’s going to be disappointed – but hey, it’s alcohol.

HEY HI it's shark's player! he's indisposed IC right now so you get to deal with my other disaster!!

[grantuseyes]

Micolash is preempted by the sound of his shuffling footsteps and dragging shoelaces. Dear Mr. Orange, had he better luck, might have been left with the disheveled man wearing a cage simply passing him by. Unfortunately, his passage aligns perfectly with the time the question is asked. Its subject is enough to get him to stop walking. There is a brief pause before Micolash speaks, this time instead spent twitching his fingers spasmodically.

"O-Oh, I'm certain only a select few are capable of arriving here under such...circumstances. A unique individual, to be sure." The man with the questionable taste in headgear speaks in a low, dozy voice, dragging out words with odd emphasis.

hiiii~! c:

[super_cool]

Micolash gets a look. The look says, ‘What the fuck??’

Freddy has to wonder whether or not he isn’t just tripping from all the chemicals flooding his brain as he lays bleeding to death on the warehouse floor. It’s not the first time that thought has crossed his mind.

He’s biting his lip, unsure of what to make of this. What the fuck is that supposed to mean: ‘a unique individual?’ Would it be uncalled for to point out that, between the two of them, Freddy’s pretty sure he's not the one that could be considered fucking unique?

“Okay, thanks man,” is what he says, and takes a long, long drink. He’s responding in more or less the same manner that he responds to the ranting, wild-eyed homeless people in downtown LA. Trying to neither antagonize, nor encourage.

[grantuseyes]

At least if the attention were called to one of them being more 'unique' than the other, Micolash would take it in stride. Maybe even with pride! But that might be telling of how his own arrival in this place transpired.

Also, responding to this man in the same manner as one would the more colourful residents of Los Angeles is also not uncalled for.

Clearly not taking the hint of the short, neutral response and additionally not bothered in the least with the absolute bloodbath Mr. Orange happens to look at the moment, Micolash takes a few more of those shuffling steps and lowers himself to sit on the curb next to the other man. Thin hands planted on his knees, leaning just fractionally towards his reluctant conversation partner, the scholar smiles sleepily at Freddy.

"I take it your arrival was. Eventful."

[super_cool]

Micolash’s movement was slight, but Freddy still jerks his head back, clearly afraid the cage was going to topple over and hit him. When it does not, he continues to peer at it warily, trying to determine whether the interesting choice in headgear could be a sort of medical device, or merely an aesthetic. Who knows, maybe all the cool kids are wearing cages.

“Yeah,” he says, and lights a cigarette. It’s not like Micolash has been overtly threatening, and Mr. Orange has always been the sort to attract colorful characters. “Shit was fucked up.” He looks down at the ground, mumbling, “I was a fucking moron. I don’t want to talk about it.”

And he doesn't, so he changes the subject. "That's a pretty badass cage you got there, dude."

[magnetite_plz]

"Death is but one door that leads to this place."

Freddy won't have heard footsteps approach. The woman speaking to him is floating with the tips of her barefoot toes only an inch or so above the ground. She's pale with long platinum hair that cascades down her back and wings the same bright white as a sunlit field of snow. Her dress is much more ordinary, stitched together out of a cape or banner of some kind.

"Some arrive instead of returning to the Collective Unconscious. Some find a Path and take it whether knowingly or not. Some are banished here. Some are refugees from twisted and misshapen worlds."

Her voice is a calm stray sunbeam piercing through a shade. She spies the pamphlet in his hand and bows her head obligingly. She will return his question with one of her own.

"Are you in pain, now?"

[super_cool]

Forgive him, he’s staring. Not out of attraction or lust, but she is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. It’s striking, something one can’t help but notice.

He shakes his head in response to her question. “No, I’m not in any pain.” Not physically, anyway. “Are you... are you an angel?” he asks, hesitantly.

And immediately cringes at how fucking lame he sounds. “Sorry, I know this ain’t fu-” he catches himself, thinking that perhaps a radiant incarnation of sunlight wouldn't appreciate someone cussing like a sailor around her, “-freaking Heaven or anything like that.”

If it were, he would not be here.

[magnetite_plz]

A vague expression of surprise passes across her face. Eyes widening, wings fluttering slightly.

"You recognize me without my bindings? Yes, I am one of the angels. You will not be troubled by my sisters nor any other demons in this place. Do not worry, Child of Man." Her masters would not appreciate her harming a human and this one seems far from deserving of justice's divine wrath.

If anything, he's suffered enough.

"What may I call you, Child of Man?"

[super_cool]

“What?” He’s also confused, glancing down at the pamphlet like maybe it will provide some answers. He can’t find where it says anything about angels or demons, though...

At her question, he frowns and sets it aside, resigned at feeling lost and confused for now. “You mean my name?” Honestly, she could call him whatever she wants. He feels unworthy of even being in her presence, and although in truth his main crime was only foolishness, he feels like the worst scum of the Earth.

“Freddy,” he finally responds with an uneasy shrug. "Freddy Newandyke." He takes out a cigarette, but doesn’t light it right away. “Is it alright with you if I smoke?”

[tielle_mortevus]

The clicking sound of her heels against the stone pavement of the square echoes through the still air as she approaches. Giving the haggard man a smile, eying the blood smeared across his face and through his hair. Grabbing a flask from her hip, she takes a sip, sitting down on the curb next to him.
"Don't worry, there are quite a few ways to arrive at this place. Don't worry, you're not in the underworld or anything like that. Regardless of what you may have done in life, I'm sure you're in good company. So, what exactly did you get yourself into that got you killed in the first place? To end up in the shape you're in, there must be one hell of a story behind it."

[super_cool]

He nods, appreciative. That is all very good to know. She's actually addressed a number of his concerns. And he likes her style, too: blunt and cool.

Unfortunately, he’s not sure how to answer her own question. “Ummmm,” he begins, oh-so eloquently. “It was a long hard battle with leukemia, but at least I was surrounded by friends and family?”

A crooked grin. Yeah, he’s sort of awful, but mainly just embarrassed and unsure of how to explain... It’s personal, emotional. He might start crying if he actually talks about it, and no one wants to see that shit.

[tielle_mortevus]

"It's good that you had friends by your side, I just hope they didn't fall in battle along side you."

Her only knowledge of modern medicine being the bits and pieces she's picked up from her short time here in the Nexus, she's completely misunderstood his blatant deflection of the question, for better or worse.

"Though... it looks like you're still a bit worse for wear."

She takes another sip from her flask, licking her lips as she stares at his wounds.

"I may not look it, but I've been in quite a few tussles myself."

She not so subtly cracks her knuckles against her hip as she tucks the flask away, gibing him a smirk.

"I certainly hope those wounds aren't still open. I might be able to help patch you up a bit until you seek a professional healer."

[super_cool]

He blinks, watching the joke sail right over her. Okay, then.

“I don’t think they are, actually,” he says, brow furrowed. “Like I thought I was shot in the face, too?" An odd thing to have to explain, but he's calm. "It’s like it never happened, and I’m not in any pain or anything. I don’t know. Do dead people normally go to healers when they get here?”

You know, instead of getting drunk in front of 7-11...

As for her getting into ‘a few tussles,’ it’s true that she is petite and does not seem particularly threatening – but he nevertheless takes her word for it, having known a couple women in the police force who could kick his ass.