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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.
Time for a new tactic. It's a bit of a risk, but so is being swallowed alive by someone's memories of quicksand.
"Hey," it's a new tone for Ritchie, one where he speaks exceptionally low. Unfortunately it fails drastically to replicate any kind of kind or empathetic case of human speech, which is what he is aiming for. Instead he just sounds choked, panicked and like the air let loose out of a helium balloon.
"Hey, buddy. I'm gonna need you to do me a favor. This-- whatever this place is... you're being a real drag about it. I don't know what your baggage or fascination with this all is, but you've gotta think about something else. Every leaf in this place is very impressionable, and apparently it's taken a liking to you."
Of course the fucking asshole doesn't just follow his advice. Of course he starts blathering nonsense again (just... in a strangely strangled tone this time). That's what this guy does. Because this guy is one perpetual pain in the ass.
"I don't know what you're talking about." He's talking about nothing. He's afraid and he's dribbling words the way a lot of guys dribble words just to keep from full-on panicking.
Only... Only none of this makes sense. This place, their being here. There's that unusual scent and the tint of color everywhere that's just not right. He's not dreaming. They were just in the library. None of this should be possible.... Shit. Shit, the cracks are showing through now, it's hard to think of this only as the jungle now, and if it's not the jungle then what is it? Ah, Christ, it doesn't make any sense and he...
Shit. He has to get ahold of himself. Whatever this place is, it's got the guy caught in quicksand (does it?) and none of his talk about baggage or impressionable leaves (was that what the fuck he'd said? this guy, fuck, this guy's beginning to remind Willard of someone he'd meant here, or the equivalent of here, or... fuck, it's all getting twisted) changes that.
"Hey. Would you please just get on your back? It's the only way out. I know we didn't start off on the right foot, and I still think you're a pain in the ass, but I'm not bullshitting you."
Get on your back. It's a stupid request which makes Willard's adamancy all the more frustrating. Ritchie can't say he entirely trusts the tactic, but if complying means that he'll get out of this and not die on a damn alternate plane of existence, he'll comply. He has to make sure first... no need for any more compliance then necessary with an obnoxious and totalitarian stranger.
"If I do this-- this stupid thing that you're asking me to do, do you swear you'll chill out?"
His voice is shaky but adamant.
"I mean it. Whatever you're thinking about....veer the other fucking direction, friend."
This time, there's an edge of tired irritation in Willard's voice. This guy. If he manages to escape the quicksand, Willard wouldn't mind strangling him. (Which is an impulse he'd rather not be giving thought to. Which he doesn't doubt he could absolutely do, but of course he's not here for that, those kind of actions don't belong anywhere outside of the– Don't even belong in the jungle. Don't belong anywhere at all.)
"I'm thinking about getting your ass out of that quicksand."
He still doesn't know what the jerk's talking about. Willard's about as chill as he could ever be in this place. And what's his thinking got to do with anything? What thinking is this guy talking about? Willard's thinking about (being trapped, about what no doubt lurks here, about the man who maybe waiting, about the mission that should've been over)
"If it'll get you out of there, sure, pal, fine. I'll chill out. Now would you get on your back?"
Chill out. Stop thinking. As if he could banish the jungle from his mind. As if he could will any of this to stop happening, happening again and again internally, in his head and through his veins, infusing the air he breathes. There is no other strain of thought, anymore. He's never found a way of getting out.
It's a stupid idea, or at least the panic tells him that it is. What a way to die. Really, for a stranger to this plane it's a dick move, frankly. Ritchie longs to bob in place to jog his train of thought, but at the first jostle of his heel thanks to the nervous habit he sinks a few inches deeper.
"Alright. Alright.."
He winces as he does his best to accomodate based on the situation. Everything about this is unideal: the temperature, the texture and the looming threat of death. He's not ready for that yet. This was his fall-back to avoid that. Slowing down, he does his best to lower himself into a horizontal position on his back. Now the shit's all in his hair...
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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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"Hey," it's a new tone for Ritchie, one where he speaks exceptionally low. Unfortunately it fails drastically to replicate any kind of kind or empathetic case of human speech, which is what he is aiming for. Instead he just sounds choked, panicked and like the air let loose out of a helium balloon.
"Hey, buddy. I'm gonna need you to do me a favor. This-- whatever this place is... you're being a real drag about it. I don't know what your baggage or fascination with this all is, but you've gotta think about something else. Every leaf in this place is very impressionable, and apparently it's taken a liking to you."
no subject
"I don't know what you're talking about." He's talking about nothing. He's afraid and he's dribbling words the way a lot of guys dribble words just to keep from full-on panicking.
Only... Only none of this makes sense. This place, their being here. There's that unusual scent and the tint of color everywhere that's just not right. He's not dreaming. They were just in the library. None of this should be possible.... Shit. Shit, the cracks are showing through now, it's hard to think of this only as the jungle now, and if it's not the jungle then what is it? Ah, Christ, it doesn't make any sense and he...
Shit. He has to get ahold of himself. Whatever this place is, it's got the guy caught in quicksand (does it?) and none of his talk about baggage or impressionable leaves (was that what the fuck he'd said? this guy, fuck, this guy's beginning to remind Willard of someone he'd meant here, or the equivalent of here, or... fuck, it's all getting twisted) changes that.
"Hey. Would you please just get on your back? It's the only way out. I know we didn't start off on the right foot, and I still think you're a pain in the ass, but I'm not bullshitting you."
no subject
"If I do this-- this stupid thing that you're asking me to do, do you swear you'll chill out?"
His voice is shaky but adamant.
"I mean it. Whatever you're thinking about....veer the other fucking direction, friend."
no subject
"I'm thinking about getting your ass out of that quicksand."
He still doesn't know what the jerk's talking about. Willard's about as chill as he could ever be in this place. And what's his thinking got to do with anything? What thinking is this guy talking about? Willard's thinking about (being trapped, about what no doubt lurks here, about the man who maybe waiting, about the mission that should've been over)
"If it'll get you out of there, sure, pal, fine. I'll chill out. Now would you get on your back?"
Chill out. Stop thinking. As if he could banish the jungle from his mind. As if he could will any of this to stop happening, happening again and again internally, in his head and through his veins, infusing the air he breathes. There is no other strain of thought, anymore. He's never found a way of getting out.
no subject
"Alright. Alright.."
He winces as he does his best to accomodate based on the situation. Everything about this is unideal: the temperature, the texture and the looming threat of death. He's not ready for that yet. This was his fall-back to avoid that. Slowing down, he does his best to lower himself into a horizontal position on his back. Now the shit's all in his hair...
Fuck.
"Now what, genius?"