to dawn and daybreak :: d3 train thread
Feb 11, 2021 21:40:57 GMT -5
Post by pogue on Feb 11, 2021 21:40:57 GMT -5
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He's still drunk when they drag him into the Justice Building, the room spinning and dancing as they throw him onto the couches and there's that little dumb smile plastered all over his face, teeth singed yellow still showing as the escort shrieks with horror and the Peacekeepers shake their heads. He can practically taste their disappointment, it seeps in from the way their eyes falter and look down when they stare at him, the way avoxes and escorts hurry by the doors as he sits there, alone and with a heart that's beating too slowly in his chest, falling fast from a high that was never worth it. Eventually they drop a little white pill in some water and force him to drink it, droplets spilling from his lips when they finally pull the glass away. Things get clearer after that, forcing the fog that he'd buried himself in to clear. It takes the numbness with it, and things only got worse from there.
By the time he boards the train he's halfway to sober again, a black eye sprouting up from under his right eye, remnants of screams and shouts and Kye's fist meeting flesh. He supposes he deserves that one, supposes Kye deserved it too. At least one of those things is true.
There's a pounding in his brain now, matching the same thump thump thump of a heavy heart in his chest as he paces the train car, watching as the smog of District Three softly fades into the distance, replaced with flickering images of mountains and vast, barren landscapes. There's a soft twinge of sadness that blossoms in the back of his brain, that he lost the last bit of memories of District Three he could've had to the bottom of a bottle and a needle stuck into soft flesh. Don't dwell on it, he reminds himself through pounding visions. Even listens to himself, too, making his way over to the alcohol cart as the avox in the corner eyes him suspiciously. Blegh, there's a chorus of glass bottles clinking as he picks them up and admires the labels, all shiny and pretty and begging to be drank. His own body betrays him though, and by the time he puts the bottle back he's choking back little vomit burps that squirm their way up his throat, swallowing hard as the taste lingers on his tongue.
By the time he finally pulls himself from his own little world his District partner is already there, found her way to the couch and everything and shit, he didn't even give him a gentleman's greeting or anything, not that that'd ever been a part of his brand in the first place. He nods to the avox, mentally shrugs as their gaze intentionally diverts away from his own before making his way over to the couch.
His head falls to the side as soon as he sits down awkwardly next to his district partner, a drunk mass of shuffling limbs and dying energy. He stares at her for just a moment, trying desperately to parse through the shattered remains of drowned memories for her name. No dice, though, the world having gone black with the last little sips of a flask. He chuckles, "Hope I made a good first impression." He slurs, the smell of his own vomit clinging to his words and his breath as he sits up as straight as his body can muster, adjusts his posture before extending hand, palm still stained with cigarette ash and car oil, dirt laced underneath the fingernails.
"Fitz Meyers. You are?"
By the time he boards the train he's halfway to sober again, a black eye sprouting up from under his right eye, remnants of screams and shouts and Kye's fist meeting flesh. He supposes he deserves that one, supposes Kye deserved it too. At least one of those things is true.
There's a pounding in his brain now, matching the same thump thump thump of a heavy heart in his chest as he paces the train car, watching as the smog of District Three softly fades into the distance, replaced with flickering images of mountains and vast, barren landscapes. There's a soft twinge of sadness that blossoms in the back of his brain, that he lost the last bit of memories of District Three he could've had to the bottom of a bottle and a needle stuck into soft flesh. Don't dwell on it, he reminds himself through pounding visions. Even listens to himself, too, making his way over to the alcohol cart as the avox in the corner eyes him suspiciously. Blegh, there's a chorus of glass bottles clinking as he picks them up and admires the labels, all shiny and pretty and begging to be drank. His own body betrays him though, and by the time he puts the bottle back he's choking back little vomit burps that squirm their way up his throat, swallowing hard as the taste lingers on his tongue.
By the time he finally pulls himself from his own little world his District partner is already there, found her way to the couch and everything and shit, he didn't even give him a gentleman's greeting or anything, not that that'd ever been a part of his brand in the first place. He nods to the avox, mentally shrugs as their gaze intentionally diverts away from his own before making his way over to the couch.
His head falls to the side as soon as he sits down awkwardly next to his district partner, a drunk mass of shuffling limbs and dying energy. He stares at her for just a moment, trying desperately to parse through the shattered remains of drowned memories for her name. No dice, though, the world having gone black with the last little sips of a flask. He chuckles, "Hope I made a good first impression." He slurs, the smell of his own vomit clinging to his words and his breath as he sits up as straight as his body can muster, adjusts his posture before extending hand, palm still stained with cigarette ash and car oil, dirt laced underneath the fingernails.
"Fitz Meyers. You are?"
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