Repose

Who: Steve McRory
What: narrative
Where: Area-52
When: recent past to present
Warnings/Rating: none

( The neuralyzer was a difficult tool to master. )

[It was an hour or so of walking, but he didn't have a phone to get a car once he reached the edge of the forest. It wasn't that bad out, at least. Above freezing, anyway. Even if he was only in sweats and a t-shirt. Even if he didn't have any shoes. They could've given him some damn shoes.—Eventually, he didn't feel the ground under soles. He wouldn't get frostbite, he burned too hotly for that, so it wasn't a worry. It was mostly just annoying, like the twigs that snapped under bare feet and tried to bite into skin. Too, Steve was tired. It was a manufactured exhaustion. It was the tranquilizer that still sluggishly moved through his system, that made him stumble every few steps. He probably looked like a drunk on his way home from the bar, given the hour. Or, maybe, with the outfit, he looked like a man kicked out of his own home or something. It didn't really matter. It didn't bother him. People would think whatever it was they thought. He just wanted to get home.

He needed to talk to PJ. He wanted to see Atticus—last he knew, the man was turning into a wolf. And he'd hung up on the phone on Janus, he remembered now, with all the clarity of looking through a vaseline-smeared window. So there was a lot to do. On top of all of that, getting into bed sounded really nice, right about now. But, of course, he had to walk the main thoroughfare of town first, from where the road began, to where it nearly ended by the highway, a long, cold trek.

If he'd had any keys on him (he hadn't, he didn't think; not on him when he'd been picked up), they were gone now. So, Steve, at about three in the morning, stood outside the door to the Carriage House, and he knocked.]

[Locked to Eddie N]
Hey, Eddie.

[Locked to Hannah S]
That guy talked to me.

[Locked to Destiny S]
Are you... back?

[Graffiti pops up in the early evening. Bright yellows and shocking blues and vibrant reds. The graffiti is spray paint in photo-realism on the side of Repose's buildings, on the sidewalks, on the highway overpass and onto the ramp leading to the Capital. The same shocking splotches of color are visible on the long drive leading to the Capital, though there aren't familiar faces to be found in those modernistic arrows that point the way.

In the Capital, the breadcrumbs become harder to follow. Here, the shrieks of color tangle with tags and territory markers, but a careful eye can locate them where they embrace on local walls and in faded places. They lead to Second City, to beyond the market inside the walls, beyond the established communities within, and to a festival brightness and chaos beyond. Color explodes there brighter and more vivid than the paint sprayed onto walls and sidewalks and streets. All are welcome. Music is rhythmic, intense and wild, and there are hundreds gathered in bare skin and colorful garb, celebrating everything and nothing as the night darkens and prepares to kiss an uninhibited dawn.]

I owe you an apology for my rudeness the other day. I'm sorry for cutting you off.

Hello. How are you?