Freddy Newendyke || Mr. Orange (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
super_cool) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
nexus_crossings2017-07-20 01:43 pm
super_cool) wrote in nexus_crossings2017-07-20 01:43 pm
NEW ARRIVAL :: AN UNDERCOVER COP, NERD, AND ALL AROUND DISASTER
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?
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?
no subject
Doing anything remotely fun is pretty much the last thing on his mind. In fact, anything besides feeling like total shit for all eternity fails to register as even a possibility. Still, things being so fantastical serves as a welcome distraction from his angst. He’s also starting to believe that this is a relatively safe place, maybe even a nice place. He trusts Johnny far more than the pamphlet on that.
He’s going to worry about those other dimensions now, though. Tripping and falling into the Twilight Zone sounds like the type of dumbass thing that would happen to him.
"Right," he says, laughing a little, mainly to mask that he's actually embarrassed, even if all the blood does make him look tough. Now that he's not screaming and crying from pain, that is. “This other chick I met’s actually bringing me a change of clothes."
He means Adia. If he had any kind of common sense, he’d probably have considered cleaning up right away. But he does not have common sense, so it was beer and chips that were his first priority. Hey, he fuckin’ died. It’s understandable, surely.
no subject
Johnny's hand makes a half-aborted gesture demonstrating the action. Eh. He probably gets the gist of it. No need to treat him like an idiot.
"Good. People sure are friendly around here." He gives the matter some thought, then clicks his fingers. "I think there's a hose just out back. I could spray you down while you're waiting at least. Water's cold, but the weather's nice. And if you wait any longer, unsticking that shirt will not be fun."
Yes, that's a serious offer.
no subject
Still, dignity. But what is dignity. “Okay,” he shrugs. “You don’t have to. I mean I can probably just do it myself if you show me where it is--”
Flick, flick, flick. He’s playing with a cigarette lighter. Standing seems an enormous effort, and sitting here drinking until he passes out is much more appealing. But, not wanting to ever get glued to anything by his own blood ever again, he does manage to haul himself to his feet after a moment. He’s a little wobbly at first, but that’s more from alcohol than injury.