Doyle, the badly dressed superhero. (bowlingshirts) wrote in chaostheory_rpg, @ 2010-02-08 00:52:00 |
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Entry tags: | doyle, kali, week six |
Who?: Doyle & Kali.
What?: Freshly resurrected and lost as lost can be.
When?: A little after ten PM. Okay, let me clarify. xD He resurrects a little after ten PM, probably walks for quite a while, and then ends up falling asleep on a bench. Should you choose to respond, your character can be waking him up at any point between maybe four AM and noon. Sound good?! I hope so!
Why?: Why not?
Status?: Ongoing.
People exaggerate. That was the only excuse Doyle could think of for people comparing any pain they ever had to the pain of having their entire bodies on fire. Having experienced that for himself - well, sort of, anyway, as he was moreso melting than he was actually bursting into flames - he couldn't rightfully say that any pain he'd ever felt before or likely any pain that anyone had ever felt before could compare to what he was feeling at that moment. The stench of burning flesh, the incineration of his very skin right down to the muscle - it was a pain that was impossible to describe, made even more impossible by the fact that saying your entire body felt like it was on fire was also an acceptable way to describe a particularly bad sunburn. He would have gladly traded what he'd gone through for the worst sunburn in the world, with skin cancer and blisters and heat stroke as side dishes. Gladly.
He was dying. He knew it. But he was doing the right thing, maybe for the first time since discovering his demonic heritage. Dying a hero's death came right along with fighting the good fight and he knew that he made the right decision. The blinding light was gone, which he hoped meant that he had been able to disable the Beacon. If he had been successful, he knew that he was lucky because it was hard as hell to focus on much of anything through all that burning and, at some point, he wasn't even sure if he was still pulling. It still hurt. He still felt like his entire body was on fire. But it seemed like an eternity had passed. Was he dead? Did it still hurt? Doyle took a deep, shuddering breath and immediately choked, feeling icy, salty water rush into his mouth and lungs. Thrashing, Doyle's eyes shot open wide, alarmed by the sudden unbelievable coldness against what was just burning to a crisp.
His eyes rolled wildly as he tried to figure out where exactly he even was. Drowning? Drowning?! He was being burnt to a damn crisp and now he was drowning?! What the hell did this mean!? His lungs screamed for air and his vision was swimmy - maybe from the water, maybe from general lack of oxygen at this point. And then, through his panic, he shifted. Suddenly, it became clear to him which way was up and with just a few powerful strokes, Doyle surfaced, coughing up water and gasping for air. Ahead of him was the dock, above him was the moon, barely visible through the heavy clouds. It was nighttime. His limbs felt heavy, numb. He couldn't even feel the pain anymore. Did he have any damn skin left?! Maybe his nerve endings were just ash now, that would account for the lack of feeling, because otherwise this salt water in his open wounds would have been hurting like hell. Desperately, Doyle swam for the dock, then realized that there was no way he could possibly propel himself upward enough to reach it. So, instead, Doyle pushed his tired body further and fought against the tides in order to finally throw himself upon the shore. With his forehead on the wet sand, he coughed and coughed, his arms tightly hugging his stomach. Water was expelled from his lungs, and he was thankful when his lungs themselves stayed right where they belonged. He was pretty sure that he was just about to hack them up, too. Rolling over onto his back, the water still licking at his feet (one of which was not only shoeless, but sockless as well), Doyle shifted back to his human form.
He laid there for what seemed to be forever, numb and exhausted and confused. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he tried to catch his breath, his eyes were closed tightly. Thinking just wasn't happening for him. He wasn't quite in the right frame of mind just yet to even entertain rational thought. After some time, Doyle opened his eyes and slowly, very slowly, pushed himself into a sitting position. His left hand gingerly patted his face, expecting to be horrified with what he felt, but instead he felt -- well, entirely unmarred. What the hell was going on here? Was he dead? He atoned, didn't he? So was this some kind of hell? Why would he be sent to hell, despite having atoned? "Angel? 'Delia?" he yelled hoarsely, staggering as he forced himself to his feet and moved forward.
There was no sign of anyone. No one at all. The ship was gone, Angel and Cordy were gone, and he was stranded on the shore all on his own. So the ship got away and escaped the Scourge, right? That was a good thought. The Beacon had been deactivated, right? Unless. Unless it hadn't been. Unless the ship sank and Doyle had done something entirely wrong and everyone in LA with a human taint to their blood had been wiped out. But then why would he still be here? None of this made sense! One hand to his head, Doyle made his way from the docks with uncertain footsteps. They wouldn't have just left him here if they were okay, his mind reminded him with dread. But maybe they were okay. He just needed to get to the office. Then it'd all be clear, right? They'd be fine. Hell, of course they were fine! They probably thought he was dead, and so they left. They're at the office mourning him right now and, when he walked in there, Cordy would throw herself at him and Angel would thank him profusely for doing the right thing.
And so Doyle took to the streets of LA, soaked to the bone and freezing, headed in the direction of what he knew to be Angel Investigations. There were cars. People were alive. None of them knew that they owed it to him, but it felt damn good nonetheless. He stuck his hand into his jacket pocket, withdrawing a sopping wet ten dollar bill stuck to a one dollar bill. Then, digging in the right pocket of his jeans, he came out with another thirty-seven cents. Ah. Well. That wouldn't get him very far, and no cab driver would let him into their car as wet as he was. He continued walking.
Eventually (very eventually), Doyle found his now especially weary body standing in a place that made absolutely no sense to him. He knew where he was. He'd walked this street and the surrounding ones how many times? Despite feeling as if he definitely knew exactly where he was going, in place of the building that Doyle had been expecting to find was one that he didn't even recognize. "Fuck all," he groaned with frustration, taking just a few more tired steps to a nearby bench before collapsing and cradling his head in his hands. Doyle was exhausted, both mentally and physically, and he wanted nothing more than to find Cordelia and Angel and let them know that he was fine before he found himself a nice, warm bed to sleep in for the next - oh, he didn't know - sixty years? He could only ask himself the same question that he'd been asking himself this entire while; What the hell was going on?
But, as mentioned, Doyle was pretty damn exhausted. Soon enough, (and without really intending to) he laid himself back on the hard, metal bench and fell asleep, despite the fact that his clothes were still soaked and his questions were still unanswered.