leave a word, set of words, or quote for one of my folks. or leave a comment and i'll respond with a word/words or a quote. (if you're searching for words, you might try this site or this site.)
He agrees to the job. Some guys would be apprehensive of last-minute plans, but there's still a thrill in it for Malvo. He's always prided himself in his ability to think on his feet.
"My cut and 10% of yours. You'll get something extra for getting it done quick. Not like you're missing out on any money."
"Says the guy who's getting an extra ten fuckin' percent."
He never should've agreed to this. Should've stuck to theft without the murder, but the pay'd been too much to pass by. Grab the jewels, grab the documents, kill one asshole, and get out of there. Trouble is, he's not the most experienced with knocking someone off. He can do it, sure. Has done it plenty of times in self-defense, usually while fleeing a crime scene. But just walking in and pulling the trigger? He thinks he can do it, but there's no guarantee. And for this much cash, he's not about to leave loose ends.
Which is where Mr. Personality comes in. Pink (it doesn't hurt to use code names, okay?) had brought him on to make sure the murder part of the assignment goes smoothly. Pink's fine grabbing the documents and jewels from the safe, knocking out the security systems, whatever. As far as he's concerned, he'll handle all of that, this guy can stick to the blood and guts. Lorne Malvo's not a totally unknown entity - there's a mutual acquaintance, someone they've both been on jobs with - but Pink doesn't have a clear picture of him, either. Which makes him nervous, but it'll have to be one of the prices of this assignment.
And now he wants ten percent, which to be fair isn't really that much, he could've asked for worse. It still bothers Pink, and the harsh disquiet in his eyes betrays as much.
"Yeah, sure, fine, an extra ten percent to you. And my personal fucking thanks for saving my ass. Is that enough for you?"
All right. All right, he needs to calm down. Take a deep breath. It's the uncertainties that're getting to him, the stress of taking on a job that may be beyond his means. Which shouldn't be a problem any more. He's taken care of it; that's what Mr. Ten Percent is for. So he's got no reason to be so worked up. Anyway, if he doesn't calm down, the job'll be a wreck.
"Shit. Honest, I appreciate your coming on."
Edited (gonna adjust until my eyes fall out) 2018-03-24 05:43 (UTC)
This is the first time Lorne has met with his contact outside of their mutual acquaintance and he already has his share of reservations. The piercing nag of the voice coming out of the scrappy little man goes a long way in terms of doubt. What credentials his voice alone doesn't demolish his heated exchange with, well... himself, obliterates any form of competency.
That said, Malvo expects to be paid and leave this job alive all the same. He can't say the same for Mr. Pink.
"Just the ten percent is fine," he replies casually before setting his bag on the counter. It looks like an old doctor's bag from a time long past, inherited and repurposed for god only knows. From it he begins producing weapons, ammunition and a small vile of liquid with a syringe.
The places Ritchie wishes to travel aren't easily accessible to a human. Dimensional travel takes time, practice and a level of discipline that he has thus far reached only under great duress and circumstance. A little reading may do him some good which prompt his visit to the library.
"Fuck," it's admittedly louder than the standard inside voice, but he continues flipping through his pages anyway should he have missed something.
Nothing.
Slamming the heavy book on ethereal dimension aside, he slides it across the table and picks up another beast of a book which he starts flipping through and pouring over, mumbling loudly to himself. It's the only way he can think with any clarity.
Willard doesn't really want to read. Or research, or even deal with words, really. He's come to the library on an errand of distraction, hoping to find something that could pull him outside of himself. He's tried a mystery novel about somebody's grandma, Proust, a fishing magazine, a treatise on something about aviation, a kid's book about penguins; nothing really works. Nothing tears him away from the reality he knows and was nearly consumed by.
It doesn't help that staccato noises - an almost-shout, a slam, a pointed flickering of pages - have been assaulting his mind. That a sound of muttering keeps him from forgetting about the world around. Impossible to distance himself when these invasive noises drag him right back down, leaving him all too aware of the way his skin crawls, the way his shoulders tense a little more with every sound.
After what feels like an eternity (but it's not, but time is never as slow or as fast as you think), Willard heads to the offending patron, placing his palms on the table.
"Hey, pal. Do you think you could keep it down?"
He doesn't know when he last slept. It's hard to sleep these days. Hard to make it more than two or three hours without dreams that leave him choking fog and damp air, feeling clasped tight by the sound of one immovable unerring voice. Doesn't know whether he'd changed clothes this morning or whether he's been wearing the same shirt for three days. It's hard to keep track, sometimes.
It's jarring to have someone physically invade his space (having claimed a majority of the table). Ritchie turns his head only slightly, gazing out of his peripherals like a frightened animal. Logically he knows what could have drawn the man over here: disruption, unease and the simple desire for peace.
"I'm sorry," even his effort to placate remains disingenuous. Raising a hand, he reaches over to grab the book that is coincidentally the farthest from him and the closest to the stranger. Perhaps he's fishing for a reaction-- perhaps he's just really in need of that particular book. Hard to say.
He notes the way the man watches him, knows that kind of furtive glancing, but it doesn’t move him from the table. Maybe he should deal gently with the guy, but Willard’s not in the mood for anyone’s bullshit right now. Especially when they look like they're just fine continuing their disruptive ways.
"I’m concerned you didn’t understand me." Willard reaches out and presses his hand onto the book, eyes still fixed on the man.
"I don’t want to make a thing out of this. I'm just looking for a quiet afternoon at the library. "
Ritchie knows libraries. He's got a PhD, thank you very much. It's been nearly a decade of libraries, libraries and more goddamn fucking libraries.
In his heart of hearts, he knows this guy doesn't belong anywhere near a library.
"Oh. You're looking for a quiet afternoon at the library."
He raises his hands in the air and tucks them to his chest. If this guy thinks he has any kind of throw around these stomping grounds, he's sorely mistaken.
Willard feels his muscles coil, feels his head run cold and feels himself going still. He doesn't move his hand, doesn't move his gaze, though his expression shifts colder. "That's none of your business, friend."
The world around's growing hazy, distant, sounds are coming clearer, and Willard knows his own warning signs and where this is going. He can't do this. He can't do this here. Shit keeps up, it's going to be him and the urge to throttle this man, at least physically shake him out of his self-satisfaction.
He'd only. All he'd wanted was somewhere to get away from himself. And here he is, slipping right back into the fog.
"There any reason you need to be so loud? There are other people here."
The atmosphere changes entirely when the man's expression becomes grave. Ritchie's no champion of any kind of physical alteration, but he does have his pride. As much as his impulses scream and urge him to back down, his ego quashes the urge.
"I'm looking for something specific. It's not here. I have a right to voice my dissatisfaction."
Admittedly it's a bit of catharsis to say his dilemma out loud. The ears belonging to this audience, however, are unproductive. This guy hasn't even given a reason for being here, let alone why he thinks he runs the damn place.
"If you want quiet, just take your book home. Goddamn fascist."
If only the guy would back down. If only this smug-looking piece of shit fucking guy would stop escalating the situation, but there it is, there's that word and yeah, Willard's heard it before, heard fascist and worse lobbed his way lobbed at what he was if not who he is but getting it here where he'd come for quiet getting it here when all he's done is ask a guy to keep his distractions to a minimum and get it from this fucking guy who just won't fucking listen–
Willard's quiet. He's quiet and he's still and it's just him and the guy and he needs to, he needs to keep himself planted, remember where he is. Just here. Just a library. Just a library and this is just some son of a bitch who thinks he can make a point about Christ only knows what.
Okay. Okay.
"We've got a right not to listen to...."
His voices echoes half-hollow in his own ear, coming from a distance.
Ideally the other man would take his advice and just leave. It's a rarity, outside of his lecture hall, that people take his advice. Surely it's some kind of curse. It's this previous experience that keeps Ritchie set in his ways-- he's not about to eat shit because some stranger wants his way.
"You're right. I don't. And I won't ever if you refuse to answer some basic questions and resort to throwing your weight around instead.'
'Throwing your weight around'? Asshole doesn't know what he's talking about. Asshole doesn't know one word about what he's talking about, and this isn't what Willard had asked for and he should've never come here should've walked the other way and the table's slipping away, the fog's settling out and even the noise of that asshole's gone away, the cold's lacing itself with stricken heat and now, and now
It happens before Willard realizes it, sidestepping around the table to throw a fist directly into the asshole's face.
There it is. There it fucking went.
Willard takes a step back, staring, still not certain where he is or how to move.
The beauty of magic is the aid it gives to everyday life. It's the first aspect of it that Ritchie fell in love with. Someone small and feeble wasn't resigned to a feeling of helplessness; with skill, willpower and the right circumstances, anyone could be capable if not dangerous. There is no need for brute strength or quick reaction times.
Today it does not help him. Ritchie falls on his ass about as ceremoniously as a bridge detonation. He scrambles for balance, knocking a few books off the table in the process. He can only hang onto one, gripping it tightly with one arm as he curls into a ball and nurses his face with his free hand.
"FUCK!"
He holds the book he has taken with him in the fall up like a small, plastic-bound shield. His sword? A finger thrust forward accusingly.
"He hit me!"
The readers and the librarian stare, but none seem eager to intervene. They sit, their attention no longer on their pages but instead staring wide-eyed at Willard. Once it's clear that his anger has been accordingly, perhaps even productively, directed, they mutter uneasily before returning to their private, quiet spheres.
"He fucking hit me!"
He yells as if the louder his volume, the more likely he was to get a call-to-action from his fellow patrons.
He dimly notes that no one's intervening (because there are other people here, aren't there? things are starting to swim toward awareness slowly toward awareness and he's in a public place and there are more than a few people here), isn't really surprised. Since when does anyone here (here, back home, back in what used to be home) stick their neck out for anyone else?
The guy's like a goldfish. Flopping ineffectual on the floor, small and drawn together and somehow getting louder every time he opens that mouth of his. He needs the guy to quiet down. He needs space so he can pull himself back together, and every word from this guy's an assault.
So he drops to a squat, eyes on the guy only. "Fella. Fella. Fella." It begins as a whisper, finally finding volume enough to maybe - maybe - filter through the shouting. "Could you shut your fucking mouth?
"No one's coming for you."
That's bleak, even for this asshole, and a little too true, and Willard picks up the fallen book nearest to him, holds it out toward the guy. "You, uh, dropped this."
The words resonate in a more haunting way than he anticipated. Ritchie does stop screaming, stilling to a near catatonic state. When he does finally move, its reserved to the point of rigidity, focusing his energy instead on a new course of action. He mumbles something low to himself, incomprehensible even, but with strong conviction. It's only the tail end of his ramble that can be heard, when he finally raises his voice and grabs for the book leaving them both grasping the tome.
"--exsequor!"
In a simple blink the library vanishes around them. Instead they are both surrounded by a lush jungle that seems to blot out of the sky with its foliage. The smells of the place aren't quite natural to those who know terrain such as this; there's an artificial quality to the wilderness that brings about an almost sweet and smoky scent like incense. Ritchie surveys his surroundings with only mild curiosity, finally shaking his head. If this is the terrain this stranger's consciousness has mapped out for them in the pocket dimension, so be it. For now he'll just... get off the jungle floor.
"Well. Good luck, shithead."
Dusting the very real dirt off his pants, he starts to walk in one direction. There is no path set, only foliage and the hum of life all around. He'll take it alone and leave the asshole to himself.
It’s a dream. It’s a nightmare or a flashback brought on by attacking that piece of shit fucking asshole. He’s back again. Back here against with a shocking clarity that’s somehow more real than any dream, like he’s standing back in the jungle himself and maybe, maybe that’s possible, only
(Did the guy just… Did the guy just say something? Slipped away if he did. Could be anything. Could be nothing at all.)
Only something isn’t right. Only something’s wrong here. Something in the color. The smells. Even the moisture doesn’t weigh on him the way it should.
Okay. Okay. Whether this is a dream or whatever the fuck this is, he’s got to proceed like he’s in the jungle. Go quiet. Stay quiet. Keep away from clearings, be wary of paths, get out of the sightline of anyone who might be watching. Work out a sense of the terrain. And… And…
And the asshole’s wandering off like nothing’s happened. Could be he’s in shock. Could be he’s not thinking anything at all. And what he does is none of Willard’s business, but at the same time, who knows who the fuck that guy is? All Willard knows is he’s loud and he couldn’t take a punch. Nothing that bodes well for his survival.
How many times does Willard have to get killed? Hasn’t he had enough of that? Christ, he’d thought that was over and done with, but of course you never know and some things you just can’t escape.
And shit, maybe, maybe by some fucked-up twist it’s Willard’s fault they’re here. Doesn’t he take the jungle with him everywhere he goes? That’s just what this is, some kind of a manifestation, or, or… Hell, there’s no making sense of it. The point is he can’t just watch the jerk walk off like everything’s dandy.
So Willard speaks without raising his voice, firm but no louder than he needs to be; no sense drawing attention their way. “Fella. Hey.
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing. You'll get yourself killed.”
Edited (bc words were bothering me whatever) 2018-04-10 18:17 (UTC)
holy crap man. this post.... this post is beautiful <3
He doesn't even turn back to reply, just yells in the direction ahead of him. There's no need to share the secret here: that in this world one's reality is decided. Willard has brought a jungle with him, for what reason Ritchie doesn't know. Perhaps he's an avid explorer-- or a Jumanji aficionado.
Instead Ritchie tentatively rubs his cheekbone where the punch landed as he walks. If there's one thing he hasn't found a handle on yet, it's getting rid of things that follow him through to the pocket dimension. With cravings it's as simple as stopping time from passing at all: no hunger, no itching, and no cares. Only time. Pain is another matter entirely, especially when he knows there's going to be some serious bruising.
The guy is lucky he didn't damage his glasses.
"I know what I'm doing. Mind your own damn business."
Or maybe it really is shock. If the terrain weren’t so damned familiar, Willard would probably be stuck still, himself (but that isn’t true, is it? jungle or no jungle, instinct always kicks in, and he’s trained to act, react, move). So maybe this guy’s convinced himself whatever the fuck’s just happened is normal.
That’d explain why he thinks shouting in the middle of the fucking jungle’s a good idea.
Well, shit. Even if he registers he’s in a jungle, maybe he doesn’t know better. It isn’t as if everyone’s spent time getting close to any kind of jungle, let alone a jungle crawling with enemies (and it is, isn’t it? has to be, because like it or not this is the jungle he knows which means tigers which means enemy soldiers which means friendly soldiers running wild which means death in many guises).
Hard to hear much over the jerk’s careless stomping (or that’s what it sounds like in Willard’s ears, an affront to the heaviness of silence and birdsong and the unhurried growth of plants, a cacophony making the noises around difficult to detect, making it impossible to say whether they’re being watched), but there’s another familiar sound at the edge of hearing. Closer than he’d like, close as he recalls it: the river, slow steady and inevitable.
What you can never escape. What will never let you go.
And there’s another thought: If this is the jungle, if this is even some copy of the jungle Willard knows, there’s a good chance the compound is here somewhere, too. And maybe, just maybe… Christ, no. Christ, that’d be too wretched. He can’t… He can’t exist here. Please, God, please, all the fucking gods that’ve never existed and never gave a shit, please don’t let him or any of them be here.
He has to move. He can’t stay here and he owes it - maybe - to the asshole to follow him. Much as he doesn’t want the headache. Much as his instinct tells him to stray from the noise of the man.
So Willard moves to follow the man, his motions a grace of tension, silent and swift. "I can't do that.
This can't happen. The moment he hears the jog of footsteps behind him, Ritchie gets squirrely. His initial instinct is to take off and run, but it manifests in him darting about in a small series of circles to avoid Willard. Finally he scoots off the path into... well, he assumes it's the gutter equivalent of the jungle. He's off the grass and the dirt and straight into some imperceptible texture that reminds him of mud taking it a step further in terms of moisture. Excessive. Very. Excessive.
He groans.
"You're not going to follow me. You have the whole damn world. Go explore or-- I don't know. Get fucked for all I care."
Look, friend. Willard would like nothing better than to leave you to plunge neck-deep into the swamp or catch a case of jungle rot or wind up mauled by a tiger or get yourself captured or killed. You're rude and you're obnoxious, you're going to draw attention, and quite frankly he'd be better off without you.
But he isn't about to let another guy die because of his sins. He could live with the knowledge if he did, sure, but there's more than enough weight on his chest as it is.
Willard takes a perceptible breath, feet planted on the path, watching the guy. "You're standing in quicksand." Probably walking right into a swamp. Jesus.
Quicksand. That's idiotic. Frankly he's not concerned. All he has to do is will himself out of this one. Thinking calm thoughts, taking deep breaths and he can merely step out of the goo that seems to have a gravitational hold on him.
...It doesn't quite work.
"--Shit!"
What's that they say in the books and the movies? Don't struggle? It's just the kind of thing he would scoff at, when people struggled despite their better impulses, yet the first thing he can think to do is lift his hands up to his chest. He very quickly slips lower into the quicksand until the lower half of his abdomen slips under.
"Can you not wreck shit here? How are you even doing that?"
It's more muttering to himself, trying to decipher how Willard has so much of a role in this environment.
It's been a long time since Willard's seen anyone make this much of a mess of quicksand. Not that he's been around quicksand for a while. Not that he was ever around that many people. He'd spent most of his time in Vietnam on solo missions, relying on his instincts and training, his skills and his alone. Which had been a blessing, really, because Willard's never been the best at working with others.
Here, he doesn't have much of a choice. "Get onto your back. You need to– Jesus. You need to spread out your weight."
He drops into a squat, trying to keep an ear out for disturbances while making sure the guy doesn't somehow plant his face in the muck. Is the guy talking to him? Willard isn't sure, and it doesn't make much sense if he is. Probably it's just the guy being fucking strange, maybe a panic reaction.
Of all the fucking places to be. Of all the people to be caught with.
Albert's reply is dry. Nothing about the explanation is sufficient to his questions. Still, the stupidity that has caught them here in his phone conversation that has, somehow, been redirected to him twice is too much to overlook.
"Let's try this again but with the understood parameter that your bullshit is eating up my time. I'll ask you one more time: why did you call the Federal fucking Bureau of Investigation this evening?"
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for cannibalartist
2) fernweh
3) accismus
1
He agrees to the job. Some guys would be apprehensive of last-minute plans, but there's still a thrill in it for Malvo. He's always prided himself in his ability to think on his feet.
"My cut and 10% of yours. You'll get something extra for getting it done quick. Not like you're missing out on any money."
no subject
He never should've agreed to this. Should've stuck to theft without the murder, but the pay'd been too much to pass by. Grab the jewels, grab the documents, kill one asshole, and get out of there. Trouble is, he's not the most experienced with knocking someone off. He can do it, sure. Has done it plenty of times in self-defense, usually while fleeing a crime scene. But just walking in and pulling the trigger? He thinks he can do it, but there's no guarantee. And for this much cash, he's not about to leave loose ends.
Which is where Mr. Personality comes in. Pink (it doesn't hurt to use code names, okay?) had brought him on to make sure the murder part of the assignment goes smoothly. Pink's fine grabbing the documents and jewels from the safe, knocking out the security systems, whatever. As far as he's concerned, he'll handle all of that, this guy can stick to the blood and guts. Lorne Malvo's not a totally unknown entity - there's a mutual acquaintance, someone they've both been on jobs with - but Pink doesn't have a clear picture of him, either. Which makes him nervous, but it'll have to be one of the prices of this assignment.
And now he wants ten percent, which to be fair isn't really that much, he could've asked for worse. It still bothers Pink, and the harsh disquiet in his eyes betrays as much.
"Yeah, sure, fine, an extra ten percent to you. And my personal fucking thanks for saving my ass. Is that enough for you?"
All right. All right, he needs to calm down. Take a deep breath. It's the uncertainties that're getting to him, the stress of taking on a job that may be beyond his means. Which shouldn't be a problem any more. He's taken care of it; that's what Mr. Ten Percent is for. So he's got no reason to be so worked up. Anyway, if he doesn't calm down, the job'll be a wreck.
"Shit. Honest, I appreciate your coming on."
no subject
This is the first time Lorne has met with his contact outside of their mutual acquaintance and he already has his share of reservations. The piercing nag of the voice coming out of the scrappy little man goes a long way in terms of doubt. What credentials his voice alone doesn't demolish his heated exchange with, well... himself, obliterates any form of competency.
That said, Malvo expects to be paid and leave this job alive all the same. He can't say the same for Mr. Pink.
"Just the ten percent is fine," he replies casually before setting his bag on the counter. It looks like an old doctor's bag from a time long past, inherited and repurposed for god only knows. From it he begins producing weapons, ammunition and a small vile of liquid with a syringe.
2
"Fuck," it's admittedly louder than the standard inside voice, but he continues flipping through his pages anyway should he have missed something.
Nothing.
Slamming the heavy book on ethereal dimension aside, he slides it across the table and picks up another beast of a book which he starts flipping through and pouring over, mumbling loudly to himself. It's the only way he can think with any clarity.
no subject
It doesn't help that staccato noises - an almost-shout, a slam, a pointed flickering of pages - have been assaulting his mind. That a sound of muttering keeps him from forgetting about the world around. Impossible to distance himself when these invasive noises drag him right back down, leaving him all too aware of the way his skin crawls, the way his shoulders tense a little more with every sound.
After what feels like an eternity (but it's not, but time is never as slow or as fast as you think), Willard heads to the offending patron, placing his palms on the table.
"Hey, pal. Do you think you could keep it down?"
He doesn't know when he last slept. It's hard to sleep these days. Hard to make it more than two or three hours without dreams that leave him choking fog and damp air, feeling clasped tight by the sound of one immovable unerring voice. Doesn't know whether he'd changed clothes this morning or whether he's been wearing the same shirt for three days. It's hard to keep track, sometimes.
no subject
"I'm sorry," even his effort to placate remains disingenuous. Raising a hand, he reaches over to grab the book that is coincidentally the farthest from him and the closest to the stranger. Perhaps he's fishing for a reaction-- perhaps he's just really in need of that particular book. Hard to say.
"You can go now."
no subject
"I’m concerned you didn’t understand me." Willard reaches out and presses his hand onto the book, eyes still fixed on the man.
"I don’t want to make a thing out of this. I'm just looking for a quiet afternoon at the library. "
no subject
In his heart of hearts, he knows this guy doesn't belong anywhere near a library.
"Oh. You're looking for a quiet afternoon at the library."
He raises his hands in the air and tucks them to his chest. If this guy thinks he has any kind of throw around these stomping grounds, he's sorely mistaken.
"Why don't you tell me what you're reading, pal?"
my god
Willard feels his muscles coil, feels his head run cold and feels himself going still. He doesn't move his hand, doesn't move his gaze, though his expression shifts colder. "That's none of your business, friend."
The world around's growing hazy, distant, sounds are coming clearer, and Willard knows his own warning signs and where this is going. He can't do this. He can't do this here. Shit keeps up, it's going to be him and the urge to throttle this man, at least physically shake him out of his self-satisfaction.
He'd only. All he'd wanted was somewhere to get away from himself. And here he is, slipping right back into the fog.
"There any reason you need to be so loud? There are other people here."
no subject
"I'm looking for something specific. It's not here. I have a right to voice my dissatisfaction."
Admittedly it's a bit of catharsis to say his dilemma out loud. The ears belonging to this audience, however, are unproductive. This guy hasn't even given a reason for being here, let alone why he thinks he runs the damn place.
"If you want quiet, just take your book home. Goddamn fascist."
no subject
Willard's quiet. He's quiet and he's still and it's just him and the guy and he needs to, he needs to keep himself planted, remember where he is. Just here. Just a library. Just a library and this is just some son of a bitch who thinks he can make a point about Christ only knows what.
Okay. Okay.
"We've got a right not to listen to...."
His voices echoes half-hollow in his own ear, coming from a distance.
"You don't know a thing about me."
no subject
"You're right. I don't. And I won't ever if you refuse to answer some basic questions and resort to throwing your weight around instead.'
no subject
It happens before Willard realizes it, sidestepping around the table to throw a fist directly into the asshole's face.
There it is. There it fucking went.
Willard takes a step back, staring, still not certain where he is or how to move.
"Shit."
no subject
Today it does not help him. Ritchie falls on his ass about as ceremoniously as a bridge detonation. He scrambles for balance, knocking a few books off the table in the process. He can only hang onto one, gripping it tightly with one arm as he curls into a ball and nurses his face with his free hand.
"FUCK!"
He holds the book he has taken with him in the fall up like a small, plastic-bound shield. His sword? A finger thrust forward accusingly.
"He hit me!"
The readers and the librarian stare, but none seem eager to intervene. They sit, their attention no longer on their pages but instead staring wide-eyed at Willard. Once it's clear that his anger has been accordingly, perhaps even productively, directed, they mutter uneasily before returning to their private, quiet spheres.
"He fucking hit me!"
He yells as if the louder his volume, the more likely he was to get a call-to-action from his fellow patrons.
no subject
He dimly notes that no one's intervening (because there are other people here, aren't there? things are starting to swim toward awareness slowly toward awareness and he's in a public place and there are more than a few people here), isn't really surprised. Since when does anyone here (here, back home, back in what used to be home) stick their neck out for anyone else?
The guy's like a goldfish. Flopping ineffectual on the floor, small and drawn together and somehow getting louder every time he opens that mouth of his. He needs the guy to quiet down. He needs space so he can pull himself back together, and every word from this guy's an assault.
So he drops to a squat, eyes on the guy only. "Fella. Fella. Fella." It begins as a whisper, finally finding volume enough to maybe - maybe - filter through the shouting. "Could you shut your fucking mouth?
"No one's coming for you."
That's bleak, even for this asshole, and a little too true, and Willard picks up the fallen book nearest to him, holds it out toward the guy. "You, uh, dropped this."
no subject
The words resonate in a more haunting way than he anticipated. Ritchie does stop screaming, stilling to a near catatonic state. When he does finally move, its reserved to the point of rigidity, focusing his energy instead on a new course of action. He mumbles something low to himself, incomprehensible even, but with strong conviction. It's only the tail end of his ramble that can be heard, when he finally raises his voice and grabs for the book leaving them both grasping the tome.
"--exsequor!"
In a simple blink the library vanishes around them. Instead they are both surrounded by a lush jungle that seems to blot out of the sky with its foliage. The smells of the place aren't quite natural to those who know terrain such as this; there's an artificial quality to the wilderness that brings about an almost sweet and smoky scent like incense. Ritchie surveys his surroundings with only mild curiosity, finally shaking his head. If this is the terrain this stranger's consciousness has mapped out for them in the pocket dimension, so be it. For now he'll just... get off the jungle floor.
"Well. Good luck, shithead."
Dusting the very real dirt off his pants, he starts to walk in one direction. There is no path set, only foliage and the hum of life all around. He'll take it alone and leave the asshole to himself.
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No, he’s– He’s got to be… he’s got to be…
It’s a dream. It’s a nightmare or a flashback brought on by attacking that piece of shit fucking asshole. He’s back again. Back here against with a shocking clarity that’s somehow more real than any dream, like he’s standing back in the jungle himself and maybe, maybe that’s possible, only
(Did the guy just… Did the guy just say something? Slipped away if he did. Could be anything. Could be nothing at all.)
Only something isn’t right. Only something’s wrong here. Something in the color. The smells. Even the moisture doesn’t weigh on him the way it should.
Okay. Okay. Whether this is a dream or whatever the fuck this is, he’s got to proceed like he’s in the jungle. Go quiet. Stay quiet. Keep away from clearings, be wary of paths, get out of the sightline of anyone who might be watching. Work out a sense of the terrain. And… And…
And the asshole’s wandering off like nothing’s happened. Could be he’s in shock. Could be he’s not thinking anything at all. And what he does is none of Willard’s business, but at the same time, who knows who the fuck that guy is? All Willard knows is he’s loud and he couldn’t take a punch. Nothing that bodes well for his survival.
How many times does Willard have to get killed? Hasn’t he had enough of that? Christ, he’d thought that was over and done with, but of course you never know and some things you just can’t escape.
And shit, maybe, maybe by some fucked-up twist it’s Willard’s fault they’re here. Doesn’t he take the jungle with him everywhere he goes? That’s just what this is, some kind of a manifestation, or, or… Hell, there’s no making sense of it. The point is he can’t just watch the jerk walk off like everything’s dandy.
So Willard speaks without raising his voice, firm but no louder than he needs to be; no sense drawing attention their way. “Fella. Hey.
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing. You'll get yourself killed.”
holy crap man. this post.... this post is beautiful <3
He doesn't even turn back to reply, just yells in the direction ahead of him. There's no need to share the secret here: that in this world one's reality is decided. Willard has brought a jungle with him, for what reason Ritchie doesn't know. Perhaps he's an avid explorer-- or a Jumanji aficionado.
Instead Ritchie tentatively rubs his cheekbone where the punch landed as he walks. If there's one thing he hasn't found a handle on yet, it's getting rid of things that follow him through to the pocket dimension. With cravings it's as simple as stopping time from passing at all: no hunger, no itching, and no cares. Only time. Pain is another matter entirely, especially when he knows there's going to be some serious bruising.
The guy is lucky he didn't damage his glasses.
"I know what I'm doing. Mind your own damn business."
heyyyyy thank you <3
Or maybe it really is shock. If the terrain weren’t so damned familiar, Willard would probably be stuck still, himself (but that isn’t true, is it? jungle or no jungle, instinct always kicks in, and he’s trained to act, react, move). So maybe this guy’s convinced himself whatever the fuck’s just happened is normal.
That’d explain why he thinks shouting in the middle of the fucking jungle’s a good idea.
Well, shit. Even if he registers he’s in a jungle, maybe he doesn’t know better. It isn’t as if everyone’s spent time getting close to any kind of jungle, let alone a jungle crawling with enemies (and it is, isn’t it? has to be, because like it or not this is the jungle he knows which means tigers which means enemy soldiers which means friendly soldiers running wild which means death in many guises).
Hard to hear much over the jerk’s careless stomping (or that’s what it sounds like in Willard’s ears, an affront to the heaviness of silence and birdsong and the unhurried growth of plants, a cacophony making the noises around difficult to detect, making it impossible to say whether they’re being watched), but there’s another familiar sound at the edge of hearing. Closer than he’d like, close as he recalls it: the river, slow steady and inevitable.
What you can never escape. What will never let you go.
And there’s another thought: If this is the jungle, if this is even some copy of the jungle Willard knows, there’s a good chance the compound is here somewhere, too. And maybe, just maybe… Christ, no. Christ, that’d be too wretched. He can’t… He can’t exist here. Please, God, please, all the fucking gods that’ve never existed and never gave a shit, please don’t let him or any of them be here.
He has to move. He can’t stay here and he owes it - maybe - to the asshole to follow him. Much as he doesn’t want the headache. Much as his instinct tells him to stray from the noise of the man.
So Willard moves to follow the man, his motions a grace of tension, silent and swift. "I can't do that.
“Do you know where we are?”
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This can't happen. The moment he hears the jog of footsteps behind him, Ritchie gets squirrely. His initial instinct is to take off and run, but it manifests in him darting about in a small series of circles to avoid Willard. Finally he scoots off the path into... well, he assumes it's the gutter equivalent of the jungle. He's off the grass and the dirt and straight into some imperceptible texture that reminds him of mud taking it a step further in terms of moisture. Excessive. Very. Excessive.
He groans.
"You're not going to follow me. You have the whole damn world. Go explore or-- I don't know. Get fucked for all I care."
i think quicksand's legit but idk idk actually
But he isn't about to let another guy die because of his sins. He could live with the knowledge if he did, sure, but there's more than enough weight on his chest as it is.
Willard takes a perceptible breath, feet planted on the path, watching the guy. "You're standing in quicksand." Probably walking right into a swamp. Jesus.
only one way to find out!
Quicksand. That's idiotic. Frankly he's not concerned. All he has to do is will himself out of this one. Thinking calm thoughts, taking deep breaths and he can merely step out of the goo that seems to have a gravitational hold on him.
...It doesn't quite work.
"--Shit!"
What's that they say in the books and the movies? Don't struggle? It's just the kind of thing he would scoff at, when people struggled despite their better impulses, yet the first thing he can think to do is lift his hands up to his chest. He very quickly slips lower into the quicksand until the lower half of his abdomen slips under.
"Can you not wreck shit here? How are you even doing that?"
It's more muttering to himself, trying to decipher how Willard has so much of a role in this environment.
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Here, he doesn't have much of a choice. "Get onto your back. You need to– Jesus. You need to spread out your weight."
He drops into a squat, trying to keep an ear out for disturbances while making sure the guy doesn't somehow plant his face in the muck. Is the guy talking to him? Willard isn't sure, and it doesn't make much sense if he is. Probably it's just the guy being fucking strange, maybe a panic reaction.
Of all the fucking places to be. Of all the people to be caught with.
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3 aaaaa I WANTED TO USE ALL 3 WORDS they fill me with joy
Albert's reply is dry. Nothing about the explanation is sufficient to his questions. Still, the stupidity that has caught them here in his phone conversation that has, somehow, been redirected to him twice is too much to overlook.
"Let's try this again but with the understood parameter that your bullshit is eating up my time. I'll ask you one more time: why did you call the Federal fucking Bureau of Investigation this evening?"