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

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?

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He notes that frozen smile, the slight twitch of the lips as Micolash’s cage is called badass. He assumes that all the swearing must be irritating to him. He thinks that’s dumb ‘cause they’re just words, but he’s trying not to be antagonistic.

“Yeah,” he affirms. “Very cool.” His eyes follow Micolash’s fingers as they trace the cage, and he’s taking a closer look now, skeptical that the device warrants such pride. Yep, it looks like just a ratty old cage he's stuck over his head. That it was referred to as an invention leads him to ask, “What’s it do?”

Edited 2017-07-30 18:16 (UTC)

The fingers of one hand still lingering against the bars twitch and twiddle with excitement. Spasmodically as though it's an unconscious action simply prompted by brief eagerness. How delightful that someone so quickly has taken to his invention and invites him to speak on its purpose!

"Ahh! It was constructed with restraining the will of self as its primary function. Limit and sequester concerns and urges both physical and earthly, allowing matters of the mind to take precedence. Additionally, it facilitates contact with those of the higher planes. Allowing us to perceive their words in ways frail mortal minds can fathom."

He's sounding more and more like a LA resident all the time!

Edited 2017-07-30 19:00 (UTC)

Yeah, he’ll take some of what this guy’s smoking.

He raises an eyebrow. He has nothing to say, but it’s not like that's ever stopped any random stranger from explaining all about the eleven different dimensions, and how you can train yourself to see the metaphysical vibrations operating on a higher frequency... It’s all about opening up that third eye, man. Just look at the crystals, man. It’s just basic physics, man, like Einstein and string theory. They’ve done all the math of course, and naturally they’re always writing a book about it... Why does this always happen to him?

“Um,” he says, shifting uncomfortably. “Wow, that--” Yeah, he still has no idea what to fucking say to Micolash. “That's uh... interesting...”

It’s obviously not sincere, but also not assertive or sarcastic enough for somebody caught up in explaining the secrets of the universe to be able to take a hint from. Which of course is why this is always happening to him.

Third eye? That's laughably rudimentary. One needs so many more than just THREE.

Poor Freddy's open discomfort goes completely overlooked, the fervor of talking about his studies and creations taking priority over silly things like reading body language. Micolash is still smiling, somewhat vacantly now.

"Ohh yes. Terribly so. And you do so much look like someone who's learned about the limits of the Old Blood."

The scholar points out all the red dousing Mr. Orange's, well. His everything. The presence of such continues to bother Micolash no more than seeing someone with their shirttails out.

"Are you a hunter, perhaps?"

“A police officer, actually,” he replies, trying to sound casual. “A detective.”

He always thinks that should sound real impressive and scare off the type of people who want to tell him about crystals. Unfortunately, it's almost always had the opposite effect... But he's still always enjoyed telling people his job. Well, up until-- you know.

While currently conflicted about his career, he's still glad for the opportunity to let Micolash know that he’s not just some dumb uneducated kid who will believe a bunch of bullshit, but a real professional that shouldn’t be messed with.

"Ohh! A constable. I see, I see. A Confederate of the League, perhaps? They did come to consider themselves another breed, didn't they...

"You know," Micolash taps the bar nearest to his mouth, a substitution for tapping against his lower lip in thought. Too awkward to reach past the iron to try for that; easier to just adapt your gestures into something that accommodates the cage's presence. "You said you've died, yes? Shuffled well off from the mortal coil? Perhaps this place is your Hunter's Dream. It would explain a great deal, wouldn't it? Most hunters don't know they've been bound to it until their first...fatal ordeal."

Micolash is still in that phase of learning that the Nexus may not entirely apply to what he's always known as logic and fact of the matter. Culture shock isn't a problem when you just ignore it.

“No?” he says, awkward. “I’m from California.”

At Micolash’s next words, however, his eyes do widen. Although it’s quite clear they are from different worlds, something about the suggestion that this is a dream registers as plausible.

“I think you might actually be right about that." He bites his lip. "There’s, you know, stories. About people who die, but they don’t know it because they’ve been trapped inside a dream." He’s not sure they have movies where Micolash is from, so he doesn't want to ask whether he's familiar with films like Jacob’s Ladder or Carnival of Souls, but they have crossed his mind. "But it can't be like that since I know I'm dead, right?"

He looks genuinely worried. He knows that he shouldn’t be looking for reassurance from strangers wearing dirty clothes and a cage over their head, but that’s just who happens to be there.

As Freddy rambles his increasing concerns, Micolash is briefly more wrapped up in mouthing the word 'California' to himself. Careful with each syllable, noting the position of his tongue and teeth: Cal-ee-for-nya. As if special effort will bring him to recall what land this California is located in. Surely he must have known it, once upon a time. Is that where the practice of sky burial and hunters of hunters surfaced? No, that was another city, wasn't it. Perhaps it's one of those small, remote villages buried in distant forests.

He only comes back to the conversation partway through, blinking as if coming out of a daydream. The worried question only causes the tattered scholar to smile kindly, patting Freddy's potentially blood-soaked shoulder in reassurance.

"Oh no. No, no, no! A hunter will remember each and every death. Every time a beast rips out their heart, every time their mind fails to feverish frenzy. And I'm quite secure in the knowledge that death of the body is what happened for me as well back in Yahar'gul. That was the purpose of the Ritual, after all. The mind persists when the body is discarded." He gives Freddy another reassuring pat, the action a bit wooden and stilted as if uncertain of his own mobility or how to measure his strength. "We are compatriots, you and I! Fellow explorers of the planes beyond physical limits."

Micolash may be in the early stages of Nexus culture shock, but Mr. Orange has just arrived. He read the pamphlet, including the section about different worlds, but he has no way of knowing for sure whether Micolash is currently speaking entirely of experiences from his homeworld or experiences here in the Nexus.

Additionally, Freddy’s just been through a trauma! Talk of beasts ripping out hearts and minds falling to feverish madness is enough to stir up anxiety, particularly when coming from the weirdest sounding voice he’s ever heard outside movies and television. When Micolash goes to pat him a second time, Mr. Orange, tough guy, has gone pale, staring wide-eyed into the distance, his knees pulled up to his chest while he wrings his hands.

“Shit,” he says, voice calm but quiet, no longer concerned with offending Micolash. In fact, he's no longer speaking particularly to Micolash at all. “I fucked up, I deserve this” --a deep breath, before he does something really embarrassing because yes, those are tears he’s blinking back-- “I deserve this.”

He turns to Micolash, seeing him in new light. Could they really be compatriots? In time, will he too become a mad, rambling spirit in tattered clothes, driven insane by multiple deaths, accosting citizens with fragmentary accounts of past horrors?

Poor, poor Freddy. Micolash remains sympathetic in his awkward way, keeping his hand on that blood-soggy shoulder. Watching as the man he's trying to help get his bearings unravel under a flood of emotions, none of them good.

"Ohh, who's to say who deserves what. And what is a mistake but an opportunity to learn? You may not find yourself in the right spot when your spirit is uncoupled from your body, but we make the best of it. There's still plenty to discover, isn't there?"

There, the bright side of things, brought to you by a mad scholar in a cage. Surely that will help!

He blinks. For a moment there, Micolash was actually making sense.

“Like what?”

The pain of having your flesh torn apart by monsters? The despair of a violent death, experienced over and over again for all eternity? What the hell, Micolash?? Eldritch horror isn't reassuring!

Good thing Freddy didn't voice all those questionable lessons because Micolash would have been nodding along eagerly. Yes! Those are all learning experiences, aren't they!

"Well. Speaking from personal experience... When you find yourself in an unexpected situation or," he twirls his free hand at the wrist, indicating their present surroundings, "location. You've clearly transcended something past average, human understanding. And now you have a higher vantage to study how to get even further.

"Determine what you did to arrive here instead of the rest of demonstratively unworthy masses, and how to make the best of your current situation. Better to be here than back in Yahar'gul, trapped in a dead shell, hmm?"

Not that it makes any difference to Micolash, but he now has a listener who is genuinely interested in what he has to say. How did that happen?

Mr. Orange eyes Micolash askance, before redirecting his gaze back to the ground while contemplating the caged scholar’s words. He can’t recall doing anything besides fucking up and then dying a miserable, sniveling little rat. Could it really be possible he's somehow worthy of... whatever?

“What’s further than death?”

So many questions, so eager for answers. This must be turning into a very good day for Micolash.

He loves having people listen to him! But that's what's so wonderful about the Nexus. Everyone seems so receptive, always listening to talk of his studies with comments like 'sure' and 'I see'. Nevermind that the comments seem kind of confused and noncommittal. He rarely catches that part, if ever.

"Those who die without dying are in some way touched by Great Ones. Beings of higher planes that travel and shape the cosmos as they care to. As they too can uncouple the spirit from the body, so can we who are chosen, or who strive. Death is not an end. It is simply...a transformation. And who or what shall you transform into? That is for you to determine."

Strangely uplifting, really.

That is something to think about. There are still so many questions. What is a Yahar’gul? What was that about hunters, earlier? And, of course, the mention of Great Ones-- but no, there is still an inkling of self-preservation that tells him not to press Micolash too much.

Not now that he’s got such a positive message to focus on. Can he really use his time here to become a better, more competent person? Someone who doesn’t do things like accidentally kill civilians while carjacking or get involved in relationships with criminals he’s been lying about his identity to?

“I’m gonna’ do that,” he says. "What you said. Transform." Fuck yeah. He's going to become somebody who doesn’t do those things. He's going to fucking try, anyway. Maybe not right away, but as soon as he's feeling better. He's going to work on self-improvement. He must. "I don’t gotta’ wear a cage though, do I?” He taps one of the metal bars with a slight grin.

He might be a little drunk, and still really confused, but at least he no longer looks ready to cry? Good job, Micolash??

Edited 2017-08-04 00:21 (UTC)

Getting Micolash going on his favourite subjects are usually the worst ones, so good call. Sidestep that until you've got more Insight, Freddy. Otherwise, your frenzy bar will max out in two seconds.

Okay, enough video game jargon.

Micolash lightly claps his hands together in a happy little display of Freddy's newfound conviction. Yayyy! He still doesn't notice or care that his bloodied hand is now getting red on the other one. "The first step is always inspiration and the second determination. Well done, well done."

Although he makes a face when his cage is tapped, one hand travelling to its collar as if to ensure it remains in place. "O-Ohh, no. Unless you have interest in suppression of will to heighten your Insight, of course. And even if you were, you would have to grant me time to craft another..."

It was a very light tap, okay.

The cop has his wits together again, now that the eldritch reality Micolash lives and breathes has been draped over by a thin sheet stitched of some positive encouragement. Should he feel patronized? Micolash is clearly not well and probably homeless. What does it say if he’s the one that’s being patronized here?

He’s torn between wanting to get as far away from Micolash as possible and feeling some sort of responsibility toward his fellow deceased. Should he offer buy Micolash a sandwich, even though Freddy doesn't have very much money himself? Is there some sort of shelter that he needs to take Micolash back to?

“I’ll be right back,” he says, and dashes inside the store. He tries to be quick, even though he vaguely hopes that Micolash will wander away in his absence. When he returns a few moments later, it’s with some paper towels for Micolash to wipe his hands.

(Un)Fortunately, Micolash is still put when Freddy returns, happily tapping his fingers on his knees, watching passer-by and watching...nothing. His eyes actually sometimes flit upwards or aside and move in degrees, as if they're following something in motion that just plain isn't there.

He's startled out of his observations when Freddy comes back, seemingly almost confused that his new friend came back at all. Maybe he forgot he left? Maybe he's just absent-minded. Micolash also stares at the paper towels before gingerly taking them. "Thank...you?" He seems mystified as to their purpose, instead just unfolding it. Maybe there's a message inside?

“It’s for the blood,” he says. He’s not sure Micolash gets it, so he mimes at wiping his own hands. It’s bad when this human trashcan is helping somebody else with self-care.

Man, Micolash looks so fucked up. He must be on drugs. How can Freddy just leave him here in front of 7-11? Is there an authority figure around? Someone who can help take this whole situation out of Freddy’s hands? Of course not.

“So, you live around here, pal?” He will make sure Micolash gets home safely. Never mind that Freddy himself is swaying slightly, and will possibly pass out on a bench tonight.

Micolash looks down at his own hands when the demonstration is given, voicing a small, "Oh!" once the realization sinks in. He starts wiping it up even as he adds, "A bit of blood isn't much to worry about it, is it? Hardly a problem. All depending on what the blood is from, of course, but..." No worse than getting jam on your hands after making a butty, if the scholar's nonchalant tone is any indicator.

When he's got the worst of it off, Micolash absentmindedly folds the napkin again and tucks it into a pocket. He's thinking instead about how to answer the question of where he belongs. "Ohh, I spend most of my time in the grand library. Have you been there yet? Quite lovely. Plenty of research material to be had..." Freddy might not be the only one who has to crash in improvised locations.

So Micolash is homeless, but secretly camps out at the library. That's no long term living arrangement, but fuck it. That's a problem for another day.

“Sounds awesome,” he forces himself to smile. “Do you mind if I walk back with you?”

He's also really hoping to find a thrift store along the way. Someone with as much knowledge of blood as Micolash must know how sticky it gets as it dries. Not fun.

Let's all take a moment to be thankful that Freddy is an LA cop and has probably dealt with his fair share of colourful homeless folk. Might be the first he met who wears what looks like a massive, iron laundry basket on their head, but hey. At least Micolash's not one of the poor souls who resorts to nudity or eating live pigeons, right? The City of Angels is fucking wild.

"Oh, if you'd like to," he drones sleepily, already looking back in the direction the library lies. "Good for future reference, correct?"

Micolash soon pushes himself up onto his feet with a lot more dexterity than one might expect from a man with a towering cage on his head. He must be terribly used to balancing with it. And going places without his shoes tied, considering he's already shuffling on his way without bothering to lace up.

Micolash is an odd bird all right, but at least he’s not belligerent. Because yes, Freddy may be a cop, but look at him. This is a tiny train wreck.

After throwing away his empty beer bottles and grabbing that bag of Doritos, he starts tagging along after Micolash. There they go, the skinny kid in a blood-soaked suit and the towering figure of the tattered scholar wearing a birdcage over his head.

Freddy makes sure to keep Micolash in the corner of his eye, but he’s more focused on looking around him, both for a thrift-store and so that he can keep track of where they are going. He looks tired, like someone in a stupor making their way home after the bars close... after getting caught in a shoot out.

Conversation with Micolash has proven to be completely exhausting, so small-talk and the smug cop questions he's supposed to be asking in these situations are abandoned in favor of hyper-focusing on the self-appointed task at hand: getting Micolash ‘home’ safe and sound, and as quickly as fucking possible.

It's thankfully not a far walk; five blocks at worst. Micolash seems fine with no small talk or continued chatter as they make their way there. He mutters to himself instead, more wrapped up in that to begin with. Dreamily murmuring about 'Kos some say Kosm' and 'grant us eyes', repeating the phrases with others equally strange.

Arrival at the grand library brings Micolash to a stop at its steps, then turns himself around to see if his tag-along made the trip as well.

"Here we are, here we are," he says cheerily, clasping his hands together in front of him. "Almost possible for a man to get lost in there, it's so large." Or, you know, slip under the radar and overnight there in some overlooked nook or neglected aisle. "It really has been such a pleasure. I do hope we speak again..." The scholar offers his hand stiff and hesitantly. Having to momentarily review the situation and determine if handshakes are proper at this juncture.

He, of course, has forgotten about the issue of getting any further blood on him. It just plain won't register as offputting.

Freddy tuned out Micolash's mutterings, so they didn't bother him. The short walk still may as well have been the Bataan Death March, though.

“Oh yeah?” says Freddy, staggering up to the building shortly after Micolash. He looks up at it without much interest. Not that he’s some cretin who can’t appreciate a library, but finding a good (comic)book to curl up with isn’t on his mind. He’s regretting not finding a change of clothes earlier, and also still not sure if it’s right to just leave Micolash alone.

“Uh,” he glances down at that awkward outstretched hand, “I don’t wanna’ get blood on you again.” What if Micolash touches the walls, or the books? Innocent library patrons shouldn’t have to deal with Freddy’s disgusting blood all over anything. So instead of shaking hands, he passes Micolash the bag of Doritos. He's backing away now.

“Take care, man--"

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grantuseyes - 2017-08-13 00:47 (UTC) - Expand

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