Who: Iris What: Back at a place not-quite-home (another Narrative) Where: Anton's place When: Now? Warnings/Rating: ...no?
Iris was fairly certain that, among the passing of her tears and the sobs that had wracked her body in its shock, she had found time to hold a conversation with the Riddler, but even that seemed strange in the new sharpness of her world. She knew it was possible, knew that it was real, but it was all just a little skewed. Death was still turning down (emphatically) her own return through the door, and Iris eventually came to the realization that she would have to leave the hotel.
She hadn't stepped foot outside its doors and back into the Vegas air for weeks, and she was uncertain through an unsteady push to her feet and shuffle along the hallways to the building's front door. In the pocket of her dress was the journal, two keys, and enough cab fare to get her back to Anton's. Grateful for a setting sun outside that provided just enough light without hurting her eyes, Iris managed to find a cab and, with a brief thought, was able to give the driver directions. The ride through the city was strange, and she was ever-more aware of the fact that her body had very little, if any, of her medication, even the smaller doses that Dr Roman had been prescribing. It made everything sharper to sensitive senses while at the same time being a muddle of confusion and exhausted, raw emotions.
Walking back inside only continued the strangeness. Barely a thing had changed in the entire building, even once she turned her (still-functioning) key in the lock and let herself inside. She didn't call out, uncertain if Anton was even there, but instead headed for the room she used, more than a litle surprised to see everything, down to even the bobbypins on her dresser, had been left the same. The maids had been doing a good job of keeping it dust-free, but everything else lay where she had dropped it so long ago. With a hand on the back of her chair, she easily slipped out of her shoes and added to the things in the room.
Her dress slipped from sharp shoulders the same way it would from the hanger, and puddled on the floor for her to step out of, feeling carefully forward with her toes before shifting her weight. The slip it left her in was about as pale as her skin, and barely skimmed the angles of her body. The covers of her bed seemed overly heavy as she drew them back, but she knew that only a few more moments and she would be able to rest. One knee on the mattress, then the other, thin arms settling the bedding around herself. When she closed her eyes, her light lashes lay highlighted by the bruised purple below her eyes, which followed along into the new sharpness of her features. She didn't notice them, however, keeping her gaze away from any mirror and soon, the room familiar around her, she finally fell asleep.