Constantine (brim_stoned) wrote in evaluation, @ 2019-12-19 17:16:00 |
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Entry tags: | !rooms: 3: day 5, dc: constantine: john constantine, it: chapter two: richie tozier, the shining/doctor sleep: dan torrance, the shining/doctor sleep: rose o'hara |
Who: Richie, Constantine, Dan, and Rose
What: Tempers get a little frayed on the toy line; Rose and Dan squabble, John and Richie long for popcorn.
When: Day 5, afternoon
Where: Toy Factory
Rating/Warnings: Low (language, references to death, verbal threats of violence/homicide)
Status: Closed/Complete
“I will stab you with this fucking screwdriver if you touch me again.”
John glanced over, surreptitiously checking on whether or not that hissed threat seemed viable. Signs pointed to no, but tempers were getting increasingly short and the likelihood of actual murder seemed to be escalating by the moment. Last he’d seen, people were actually plotting a prison break, like they wanted to test the boundaries of whether or not any of these funny little scenarios might kill them.
Having been nearly throttled in their first delightful foray into the unknown, John could verify, yes. Death was on the table. As nobody here was currently bulletproof, the stir-crazy lot was going to end up with some extra ventilation holes sooner rather than later and he’d rather be nowhere nearby.
At least Richie wasn’t in the yulelag anymore, in case anyone got any cute ideas today. That was one silver lining, and John had been pretty woefully short on those since arrival. With each passing day that brought no additional rations, the haze in his brain seemed to sink its teeth in a little harder. He couldn’t sort out if it was caffeine withdrawal, lack of nicotine, or plain ol’ hunger (or some hideously awful combination of the three, more likely), but John’s head hadn’t stopped thumping for days and he was sort of piloting along in a constant state of low-level nausea with an unpleasant side of lethargy that didn’t let up.
Dan, somehow, seemed to still be energetic enough to level homicide threats at Rose, and John didn’t fancy himself a referee so much as he needed a distraction to keep him from sliding right off this bench and into the floor for a nap. Those two were basically their own version of a very morbid theatre act, complete with pantomime. The aforementioned screwdriver flashed in the light as Dan waved it before hunching back over the tiny wheels he was affixing to blocky train cars. Or regular cars. Some kind of… something with wheels.
Nobody here was cranking out high-end goods, basically, but John figured that put them all on a level playing field for being reprimanded by quality control. If there was any such thing. He glanced back down, thumb rubbing over a spot that had given him a splinter five minutes back. It was smooth now, so job well done and on to the next.
“Do you ever shut up?” came the response from the harbinger of death herself, an elegant flourish - like bones rubbing into pure satin - wherein she brandished her needle and thread. The same needle and thread Rose was using to make delightful plushies like plague doctors, for all the good little boys and girls across the land. “Because I’m quite sure you don’t. So I will sew your goddamn mouth shut for you, Danny.”
He wasn’t the only one who was tired, and hungry, and while Rose was usually a chasm of nothingness, much like a blackhole, being human meant she was experiencing fifty new emotions that had yet to be defined. Some she didn’t mind so much, some she did.
“Guys,” Richie attempted to interject, but it wasn’t really much of a protest - mostly he was sure he had cocked up sanding blocks because he just gave himself a splinter. So he took a moment to suck on the pad of his thumb, ow. “Easy solution - just wait until the prison break, you can use each other as human shields for bullets.” He leaned over and observed John’s blocks. “Yours look neater than mine.”
Another flash of the screwdriver, only this time it sank into the tabletop with a sharp thunk. “Try it,” Dan snapped, venomous in spite of the low, wet rasp that hadn’t eased up in the back of his throat. It made him sound slightly more ominous, in fact, in a sort of death-rattle way. Been there, done that, unconcerned with an encore presentation because he was actually giving thought to burning this place to the ground.
At least they’d all be warm for a minute or two before the screaming started.
John rolled his eyes, grimaced as the tug against the back of his skull cranked the drumline hovering between his temples up to eleven, and reached up to rub callused fingers along Richie’s jaw. “You’re rushing, lamb. No quota to fill here, might as well take your time,” he reminded, dryly. There was a whole box of little blocks to sand, and another box to fill with finished product, and someone would come exchange the two sooner or later. It had been that oversized chap with the shoulders like the Alps, but John hadn’t seen him today. Another victim for the naughty list, maybe.
Rose chuckled - sweet as a sugarcube and sharp as a knife; her contradictions weren’t something she’d make apologies for. “I’d be doing the world a favor if I did. Your cough sounds like a dog howling,” she spoke patronizingly, and grabbed the screwdriver from the table. Then was super helpful by tossing it a few feet away. “Go play fetch instead.” Dog. That’s what they did, right?
This episode of Murder Theatre continues. Richie heard the clunk of the screwdriver hitting the floor (maybe they should keep it? It’d make for a decent weapon, you could poke an eye out with that thing) though he didn’t look up from sanding his next block. Not until he reached for John in turn, fingers taking a pass through his hair, thumb gently sweeping over his temple - he was literally starving, and Richie didn’t know what to do. Getting him out of the cold and into someplace warm and with protein available was the answer, sure, but now he was concerned that once they did get out of here, John would have to work his way back up to eating regular-sized portions; anything else would ensure a trip to pay respects to the porcelain god. It was likely a problem for most of them at this point. “If there’s no quota, then I could get away with only sanding one per day, right?” he asked rhetorically.
Honestly, he’d rather sit in a corner and take a nap, but there was really no way he’d be able to do that. Probably would be tossed into jail again if he tried - after this, he’d have nightmares about the scent of pine and the stickiness of sap, and having to hack through a tree trunk with an ax that was probably from the mid-1700s, at best.
“Could do,” John agreed, over the sound of Dan swearing, low and vehement under his breath, and then there was another thunk- this time, Dan’s forehead on the table before he shoved himself upright and went stalking after the screwdriver.
Again, pretty spry for someone who looked like half-microwaved roadkill, John would allow. Apparently he was made of sterner stuff than he appeared. Or he was powered by the same amount of spite that was keeping a few of the rest of them mobile and active in spite of the starvation rations and bitter cold.
He flashed a tired grin in Richie’s direction. “Might get you tossed back in jail, though, and then I’d be lonely. Wouldn’t want that, would you?” The bed hadn’t seemed so big when they were sharing it, but alone? Yeah. It felt different. John was probably getting too sunk into his feelings, which he could blame on wild swings of blood sugar that kept bottoming out and leaving him faint, but he could also just admit he’d caught feelings.
Inconvenient, but true. Possibly as deadly as whatever nasty bug was going around, too, but the jury was still out on that one.
Out of the corner of an eye, he watched Dan return with the screwdriver clutched in a white-knuckled hand, his lips moving like he was praying or chanting or maybe just suggesting a hundred different ways Rose could off herself in the next two minutes, whatever. John didn’t ask, and Dan went back to attaching wheels with enough vigor to imply he thought he might get paid for the effort.
“I wouldn’t want you to be lonely, angelface. Why, did you miss me too?” Richie wanted to know, batting those lashes behind coke-bottle lenses; his glasses actually slid down, and he pushed them up with a finger. The sandpaper he’d put around the block he was using to sand was coming off, and damnit, now it was his turn to curse under his breath.
The question was asked teasingly, but oh yeah. He’d definitely caught feelings - ones that were like, ‘my insides are made of ooey gooey melted chocolate chips.’ Most of the time, Richie didn’t understand them because he had no experience with that sort of thing. His relationships, with women, all started off the same way - they thought it was cute and charming he stated upfront that he refused to get married, never wanted to, and they wanted to be the Hallmark movie stars that changed his mind through love.
It never worked. He’d never loved any of them, and they dumped him when they realized he was legit about that ‘no nuptials’ thing.
This was a lot different. This was - well, Richie didn’t know what it was. He also didn’t know what it felt like to have someone actually love him, and have that love returned - it was something he maybe meant to work out with Eddie, but Eddie was gone and Richie still had anxiety about calling his ghost on the spiritual telephone. File it under ‘things that needed to happen,’ though, if he wanted to continue to progress toward something involving a healthy relationship with someone else.
“Yes, he did,” Rose answered the question about pining (no one say any variation of the word ‘pine’).
“Would you miss Dan if he was gone?” Richie asked next. Sand, sand, sand. “Would you miss him if he was in prison?”
“I haven’t had a chance to miss him. He keeps turning up like a bad penny.”
The pale curve of lips twitched, and John shot a look at Rose that lacked any sort of real irritation. She’d put up with some brief moping the night before, because while he’d thought to have played off concern for Richie’s incarceration, apparently he hadn’t been as slick as he’d like. Or Rose was just more observant than it seemed, either/or.
She did have a lot of practice at watching humanity move around her, so John was going to give her the credit. In his head. Where it was safely kept and wouldn’t make Dan throw a wheel at him.
“Might’ve,” he allowed, soft. “This much.” He mimed about an inch between thumb and forefinger, snickering quietly, and reached for a new block. There was a slight tremor to his hand, but not enough that his grasp slipped.
Dan was still ignoring them, lips moving furiously but without sound, head bowed over his work. More power to him if he could focus like that. John’s was shot to pieces, but the solid heat of Richie’s thigh pressed up close to his on the bench helped.
Rose was observant, thank you very much. Besides, if John was concerned enough about his roommate’s (lover’s, boyfriend’s, pick your term) little shine problem, then surely he’d be concerned about a prison sentence too - brief as it was. She didn’t blame him, nor was she the type to harp on it - even if she, deep down, appreciated the sentimentality. Humans, how cute.
“Mm?” was all she said in response to that look, and tacked on a wink, the shallow shark pool tone of her little hum indicating that she was not fooled for a second. But to her credit, she just went back to sewing, rather than antagonizing Dan some more. Even if it was tempting to poke him with a stick just because she could.
Richie too was observant, at least when it came to John - and he picked up on that shake in his hand. He didn’t drop the block but it was still noticeable, and Richie felt his mouth twist into a brief frown - god, he hated wintry knockoff Russia. Absolutely fucking hated it.
“We’ve got to get the fuck out of here soon,” he grumbled. “It’s been almost a week.”
“Nothing lasts forever,” John observed, like this was particularly sage wisdom and not a completely useless, nonsense sentence. It didn’t feel like the house, where the objective became clearer and clearer with time, and it didn’t feel like podunk, Canada, where everyone loosened up and got in touch with their inner prankster.
Well. Not everyone, but enough people that it felt lighthearted and easy.
This felt interminable, like weights being stacked on every morning- another daybreak, another snowfall, another slog to the border and another run-in with armed assholes who might arbitrarily ruin the day by turning you aside, another meal missed, another check to see who might’ve been arrested next.
It all got heavier and more bleak and even John, who could shrug off a lot of grimdark bullshit was flagging now.
Dan glanced up, bloodshot eyes hooded. “You’re so sure this follows a pattern?” He pressed, and John shrugged. “No way to know ‘til we get there. Door shows up or it doesn’t. Meantime, we all try not to get too squirrely and start a pointless uprising.”
“The door will show up, it’s just a matter of when,” Richie added. “The whole overarching theme is figuring out how and why we were taken from - wherever we were taken from.” For him, it was a different kind of weight, a sorrowful one - he and his remaining friends defeated the evil, but his world had collapsed. Light became shadows, the pain came and went like waves on cold sand.
Each breath he took was dirt hitting wood - hitting that coffin where he’d buried his memories and his hopes, any shot at a life with Eddie. Or even a life where Eddie actually knew him, and didn’t just see him performing standup on television. Here, it was different - he didn’t consider whatever room they were in as his place, more like he was beginning to think that way about certain people in the rooms. So no, this wouldn’t last forever - but maybe how he felt about those people would.
“Anyway, I doubt they’d give us the answer after only two or three doors,” he sighed, hand taking a break from sanding and falling on John’s thigh, rubbing gently. And this wasn’t the answer - it was a stepping stone which was why, to him, he didn’t see the point in a mass uprising. So the prisoners were freed en masse, maybe some people got injured, then what? Where would they go? What would they do? They didn’t live here. This wasn’t their government.
Whatever, it was frustrating.
John hummed, scratchy and thoughtful. “Got no answers so far at all. Not even hints about whatever’s doing this. So we’re no closer than we were to start, weeks ago.” Nobody could say if it was magic or science or something else entirely, and no one had started tossing around guesses about the Powers that Be. Maybe that was the point. Keep everyone too distracted scrambling around for the smaller answers, they’d never get around to the bigger ones and would never leave.
His hand dropped, chilled fingers curling around Richie’s palm for a squeeze. “No point in getting frustrated over this. It won’t last and we’ll be on to the next soon enough.”
He had no idea what the next might be, but generally liked to think he could roll with most any weirdness tossed his way.
Dan didn’t look satisfied with those answers (or lack thereof), but he didn’t look like he might stab anyone either, so that was… not so much progress as holding a line. He sighed, shoulders drooping, and reached for another wheel to affix. “Not like I’ve got anywhere else to be,” he muttered, shooting Rose a look from under coppery lashes.
When the options were this bullshit or death, Dan supposed this was the obvious choice.
“Oh, fuck you,” Rose huffed, stabbing her plague doctor plushie with the needle. She was stitching its mask on and maybe was a little more vigorous with the pointed end than necessary - or she was picturing herself really sewing Dan’s roses-are-red mouth shut, either one. “Like I have anywhere else to be? Tea and cakes with the demons in your head?”
She was ripped apart by the ghosts of the Overlook, becoming one of them in the end - and the idea of spending an eternity with them all in whatever hell awaited, including Dan’s useless father as a bartender slinging spirits for spirits, made her extremely cranky. So of course she’d choose the next door, whenever it appeared. There was no question about it.
“You guys ever ride the Haunted Mansion at Disneyworld?” Richie asked, holding John’s hand in between his own because freezing - John was freezing and didn’t need to get sick again, in addition to the starvation. “There’s this painting of two ghosts facing in different directions, then they turn at the same time and shoot each other and the cycle continues. That’s you two.”
“I killed him first,” Rose insisted. “Femoral artery.” Dan wouldn’t have survived even if he hadn’t rigged the hotel to blow, he was already bleeding out. Yum.
“You could’ve elected not to be a spiteful bitch and come chasing after a child,” Dan reminded, flatly. Rose didn’t have to make the choices she had, and she could still be merrily rolling along in her trailer. She’d be alone, granted, but she’d be alive.
For a version of alive, anyway. Whatever she was, however it worked. He didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know.
There were a lot of shitty choices they’d both made along the way and neither really had to live with them, now. Abra did. She wouldn’t get another birthday with her father, no more happy family Christmases. That was wreckage Dan regretted. He doubted Rose did. Maybe she couldn’t even feel regret.
He transferred his scowl to his work, and John watched the byplay through dull eyes, drifting slightly to the white noise of squabbling. It reminded him vaguely of the few stolen moments on the Waverider he’d almost enjoyed, when he watched The Legends act more like a dysfunctional family than a team. Were they building that here? God fucking help them all.
Alright, that was it.
Gauntlet fucking thrown. “Are you sure you want to do this here, Danny?” Rose asked, setting down her delightful plague doctor plushie. “In front of people?” She acted flabbergasted by the notion, but in truth, she did not care. If it got him to stop acting like a complete fool, then fine.
She felt the turmoil rise in the base of her spine, creeping up one vertebrae at a time. Their pasts hadn’t even been buried that long before they both died and were resurrected again here, but so help her - she’d dig into those grave sites with a shovel, revealing skeletons that she never wanted to see again. And ones, she was sure, Dan never wanted to see again either.
“You humans - you torture and kill animals on dirty farms and in slaughterhouses for your consumption, and you do it because you think you’re at the top of the food chain. Because you can. But oh, you sure do hate to not be at the top of the food chain, don’t you? Playing white knight for one child doesn’t change who you are,” she hurled the words at him, ready to use them in a fight if he was so inclined. She didn’t need to dig her fingers into his flesh wounds to cause him pain. “The ones I killed, I killed to survive - when you killed, it was because you lost your temper. Did you think about whether they had a family, children of their own, when you bashed in their skull? When you left them bleeding on the floor of a bar? Does that make you a monster, Danny? How long do you want to keep playing this game? Step down off your platform, sweetie, before you realize you don’t have one and fall and hurt yourself.”
Daaaaaaaaamn. Richie blinked, back to sanding blocks, but he was definitely listening. Dysfunctional family squabbles were great.
Dan’s shoulders crept up around his ears and he screwed his eyes shut, breathing deeply. Yeah, fine, okay. He could still see that girl- the one he’d left in a puddle of vomit, the one he hadn’t checked to see if she was even breathing, nope, just planted a toddler next to her on the bed and crept out with her last few dollars clutched in a sweaty hand. He’d seen her for years, flies crawling across wide-open eyes, the faded rosebud of that kid’s mouth.
She was the last, but not the first. And none of them had been about survival, not really. They’d just been bad decisions of a different kind. Bystanders to the hurricane he’d been.
“Shut up,” he hissed, “We aren’t the same. Not even similar leagues.” He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to shove that weird plush thing into her mouth until she choked on it, but instead knuckled that screwdriver until the flat edge of it bit into his palm, driven at an awkward angle and glancing off of a wheel.
The sound of Dan swearing jolted John back into the moment. He stirred, blinking owlishly, and reached for another block of his own. “Children,” he rasped, chiding. “Almost break. Kill each other on your own time, yeah? Don’t want to rile our charmingly militant overseers, do we?”
Did Rose hit a nerve? She smirked, and it reached the depths of her eyes, soulful eyes (she did indeed still maintain a soul...maybe?) and yet with such venom blooming behind them, blue nightshade. The way she watched Dan, she could barely contain the triumph and the want, the lust that was crawling out of the shadows with bloody teeth bared.
“We are the same,” she reminded him. “We’re undeniable.” Fated. Inevitable. Doomed. He could pick his poison - she’d let him do that, it was the least she could do.
Then she acquiesced to John’s request, slinging her chin his way in acknowledgment. “Well, no, we certainly don’t want to do that. Make yourself useful,” she added to Dan, setting down her sewing supplies and beginning to rise from her seat. “Find me some protein on your break so I can make something to prevent you all from starving.”
And would just go with that for now. Rose wasn’t particularly into shoddily-plotted revolutions either (she’d seen her fair share, of course) but on the flip side, she’d potentially edge it along if it meant getting out of here faster.
“Yeah, well, people say death is undeniable and here we are anyway,” Dan muttered, discomfited. He prodded at his bloodied palm with two fingers, adding enough pressure to whiten the skin and hopefully stop the slow leak he’d gouged. That wasn’t the kind of protein anyone was looking for, and nobody’s kid wanted a toy smudged in rusty red.
John made a noise that might’ve been the pale echo of a laugh at some point. Right now it mostly sounded worn, and he turned focus back to Richie. He had a feeling that someone was going to mention soup again, and he didn’t think arguing for a nap instead would get him very far. “C’mon, lamb. Time to set aside childish things and get some air.”
Delicious, frigid air and a delightful view of this little country, with its tricky name and trickier border.
Dan had already scuttled off, muttering something unflattering about fucking Soviet smuggling operations. Whether or not he’d have any success, they’d have to wait and see, but that attitude didn’t bode well. Then again, he hadn’t stabbed Rose on the way past, so maybe things were looking up.
No stabbing, and Dan’s mouth was currently not sewed shit, so, yeah. Richie would definitely consider it a victory. “Some air,” he agreed, standing up to stretch - his muscles were still sore from the tree murder and all he wanted to do was sink into a jacuzzi or maybe have Olga the Swedish massuese take a crack at murdering him to get the knots out.
“Some air...and borscht,” he reminded John, because ain’t no way he was letting his stubborn warlock forget that. They’d see if he could keep half a bowl down and then face the rest of the day as it came.
But yeah, really. Fuckin’ Soviet everything.