[A blink. And a light more glaring than any phone screen. And a glowing neon sign.
[There is no “Denny’s” in the undercity. Whelk will nonetheless find Caitlyn at one of the less-garishly-lit tables, napkins and takeout menus turned and scrawled over with the makings of some sort of… map? Part visual, part written, entirely indecipherable to any mind that isn’t its creator’s.
[A simple walk over will not catch her attention. There’s a branded pen waving absently in the air like a metronome on steroids, and Caitlyn stands over the pieces. There are two perfectly good booths on either side, a window across from her (revealing, as is apparently typical, formless nothing), and she appears wholly unaware of all of it.]
[A Denny's. Somehow, it's fitting. Late at night, eating a Grand Slamwich in the smoking section of a poorly lit Denny's feels a lot like a perpetual last meal. The diner franchise may well be built on hundreds of tiny Hell portals. He feels at home.
[And there's Caitlyn.]
What the hell are you doing?
[The question comes out, catty and cold, before something clicks into place. She's not the only one who's found herself bent over makeshift maps, a pen in her hand like she needs it to decode encrypted messages from her own brain.
[Then points to a scribbled sketch of the building, Caitlyn takes a step to the side, and she gives the tonal equivalent of a police report:] We have a location.
Who, when, where. [respectively: The two of them; the last events they remember; and now here, “Denny’s.” She doesn’t stop to elaborate.] What’s missing is how, and why. The question game ended when we stopped playing along [not only its end, but the conversational diversion leading to it], followed by nothing but a communications device. You said “blink.” Here we are.
[She points towards a scrawled jumble that appears to concern Whelk himself, with nearly everything he’s told her jotted down like evidence. An implicit comparison to herself, in more obvious notes: he’s a man, teacher, dead (in parentheses, to memory). Disparages “trailer trash.” Underlined: different planes.]
Is this establishment familiar to you? [“Grand Slamwich.” Vi would find that funny, she thinks.] I would presume our objective here is to eat. But it’s still just us.
[He had (has, evidently) a “why.” Caitlyn hadn’t committed that possibility to paper—but she notes it now, next to “dead”.]
Odd sort of river. [Styx is not familiar, but some cultural concepts carry across planes. She gets it well enough.] Were it intended to pair opposites in every way, it’s done a poor job.
[Absently she gives the pen a full spin around her fingers, then clicks it shut.]
And our objective isn’t your full crossing. [Scan of the diner. Back to Whelk.] What do you know about Denny’s?
[That's right. The "why" went from an explanation to a purpose, or, at least, it would be in Whelk's favor if that were true. If he's going to fully cross, he'd much rather it be back into the world of the living than to some unknown plane beyond; worse yet, nothingness. He fears nothingness so.]
I doubt our answers have much to do with our location. It's just a shitty diner chain.
[A voice crackles on the overhead speakers. Had music been playing before? Whelk can't seem to remember. A cheerful voice asks: Why do you think you're unlovable?
[Whelk stares at the ceiling.]
What?
[Why do you think you're unlovable?
[He's still staring. Before he knows what's happening (what's happening?), he's looking back at Caitlyn and scoffing.]
Well. No one ever has.
[He glares at the sound of his own voice, then back up at the speakers.]
[Caitlyn draws her rifle (since when did she have her rifle—that rifle?) and takes aim at th… what, the ceiling? Her eyes are wide, furious on his behalf. Where did that voice come from?]
You. [Low, authoritative, sharp.] Enough of your questions. What’s the purpose of this?
[Why do you think you’re unlovable?]
[To Whelk:] Could you love a monster?
[Back up, lip curled:] Show yourself.
[Okay, well, the fucking rifle makes him jump a little, palms preemptively flying up before he realizes he's not the target. Caitlyn seems to be angry on his behalf, in fact, and he doesn't hate that.
[To her question, he can't help but respond - no, really.]
[Is he? It's difficult to take inventory of yourself when everything about your life feels fake. That was true when he was still breathing too. Does he still breathe?]
I care. [A beat. She turns away, sharp and forcing a blink.] Don’t ask anything else. Something about this place is compelling answers that we’re obliged to give.
[A nod to Whelk, demanding he follow, and she steps backward toward the door. Eyes still trained on the ceiling. There’s nowhere they can’t escape from—even death.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pantheraliam) wrote2030-03-12 03:03 pm
oh my god they were umbrellacommentmates
[A blink. And a light more glaring than any phone screen. And a glowing neon sign.
[There is no “Denny’s” in the undercity. Whelk will nonetheless find Caitlyn at one of the less-garishly-lit tables, napkins and takeout menus turned and scrawled over with the makings of some sort of… map? Part visual, part written, entirely indecipherable to any mind that isn’t its creator’s.
[A simple walk over will not catch her attention. There’s a branded pen waving absently in the air like a metronome on steroids, and Caitlyn stands over the pieces. There are two perfectly good booths on either side, a window across from her (revealing, as is apparently typical, formless nothing), and she appears wholly unaware of all of it.]
no subject
[And there's Caitlyn.]
What the hell are you doing?
[The question comes out, catty and cold, before something clicks into place. She's not the only one who's found herself bent over makeshift maps, a pen in her hand like she needs it to decode encrypted messages from her own brain.
[Yeah, actually. He's been there.
[His tone changes.]
Fill me in.
no subject
[Catty, cold; the pen doesn’t stop. Didn’t hear? Ignoring it? Unclear, until—
[“Fill me in.”
[It stops instantly.
[Then points to a scribbled sketch of the building, Caitlyn takes a step to the side, and she gives the tonal equivalent of a police report:] We have a location.
Who, when, where. [respectively: The two of them; the last events they remember; and now here, “Denny’s.” She doesn’t stop to elaborate.] What’s missing is how, and why. The question game ended when we stopped playing along [not only its end, but the conversational diversion leading to it], followed by nothing but a communications device. You said “blink.” Here we are.
[She points towards a scrawled jumble that appears to concern Whelk himself, with nearly everything he’s told her jotted down like evidence. An implicit comparison to herself, in more obvious notes: he’s a man, teacher, dead (in parentheses, to memory). Disparages “trailer trash.” Underlined: different planes.]
Is this establishment familiar to you? [“Grand Slamwich.” Vi would find that funny, she thinks.] I would presume our objective here is to eat. But it’s still just us.
no subject
[He looks to Caitlyn.]
We had some idea about the why. Granted, it's a little self-indulgent, I realize. [Said quite dryly.]
You're my grim reaper. This is my...
[He looks around the empty diner, lips drawing into a tight line. He holds his hand up, half-gestures, then lets it fall again.]
River Styx...
no subject
[He had (has, evidently) a “why.” Caitlyn hadn’t committed that possibility to paper—but she notes it now, next to “dead”.]
Odd sort of river. [Styx is not familiar, but some cultural concepts carry across planes. She gets it well enough.] Were it intended to pair opposites in every way, it’s done a poor job.
[Absently she gives the pen a full spin around her fingers, then clicks it shut.]
And our objective isn’t your full crossing. [Scan of the diner. Back to Whelk.] What do you know about Denny’s?
no subject
I doubt our answers have much to do with our location. It's just a shitty diner chain.
[A voice crackles on the overhead speakers. Had music been playing before? Whelk can't seem to remember. A cheerful voice asks: Why do you think you're unlovable?
[Whelk stares at the ceiling.]
What?
[Why do you think you're unlovable?
[He's still staring. Before he knows what's happening (what's happening?), he's looking back at Caitlyn and scoffing.]
Well. No one ever has.
[He glares at the sound of his own voice, then back up at the speakers.]
What the hell? What was that?
he is god’s human chewtoy
[What?
[Caitlyn draws her rifle (since when did she have her rifle—that rifle?) and takes aim at th… what, the ceiling? Her eyes are wide, furious on his behalf. Where did that voice come from?]
You. [Low, authoritative, sharp.] Enough of your questions. What’s the purpose of this?
[Why do you think you’re unlovable?]
[To Whelk:] Could you love a monster?
[Back up, lip curled:] Show yourself.
no subject
[To her question, he can't help but respond - no, really.]
I am a monster. You already know.
But no. I can't love anyone.
no subject
[Glance his way, abjectly consternated. Back up. Nothing appears, no more mocking voices… for now.
[Hell, though. Whelk doesn’t seem the type to just… say that.
[The rifle lowers, just a hair.] You’re being forced to answer. [Right? What if she doesn’t ask?]
no subject
Whatever. Who cares? It's not a secret anymore.
[Is that freeing? He still feels trapped.]
no subject
I care. [A beat. She turns away, sharp and forcing a blink.] Don’t ask anything else. Something about this place is compelling answers that we’re obliged to give.
[A nod to Whelk, demanding he follow, and she steps backward toward the door. Eyes still trained on the ceiling. There’s nowhere they can’t escape from—even death.]