He hadn't been in town for very long...no, not long at all. The great greandfather drug of the drugs (at least in this country) had really only just arrived. And he knew that he needed to reach out, to contact the other drugs....his family and his children, his cousins and his friends...but for now, he was just wandering, just wandering and wondering who he might happen upon...who he might meet. The fact was, no one could ever really know who they might find in this city, this place so swollen with life, mortal souls and immortal essences, each and every one of them brought to power by the belief that they had, by whatever avenue, garnered. It was a cosmic joke, wasn't it? Or some kind of joke, and Peyote...well, he wasn't laughing. Maybe they were home-made, maybe all of the deities were home made, but that made them no less responsible for those who had created them. Peyote felt a responsibility to his mortals, regardless of how they worshiped him.
The absurdity of their existence would never negate their responsibilities, and Peyote himself would never deny or wrestle with such things.
But that was neither here nor there. He'd left to lend his aid to some, to a few wonderful scientists who were experimenting with him, who were proving to themselves that he was a healer. He always had been, and thus the Schedule One status had been a pretty tough blow, but he took it all in stride. After four thousand or so years of consciousness, one learned to take most anything in stride. Regardless, now they were taking another look at him, and it felt good, and it increased the side of him that loved, that healed, that cared-for. Despite the cold winds and grey skies of the New York City winter, Peyote felt warm and content, bundled up in a thick, rough brown coat he'd been given by a farmer in a bar upstate, a red plaid scarf around his neck, cowhide gloves on his hands. In his heavy working boots and jeans he looked a bit out of place, more like a farmhand or construction worker than an ancient, powerful drug. There was something about him, some harmonious feeling that others seemed to find inviting...they kept talking to him, kept approaching him, and he spoke to them all, any who asked for his attention with their eyes or tones of voice. When one spoke to Peyote, one left with a sense of peace, of belonging, of empathy and oneness with the world at large.
Nevertheless, as he moved through the park, even as he spoke to various people and found their stories, comforted them with a smile or a word, he felt a familiar something, the sort of feeling he would never forget. It was family, it was one member of the family in particular, one he was particularly fond of because they shared something...an organic connection and a lifetime of meetings, of experiences. He'd followed Shrooms and he'd been followed, the two of them had tripped across this great land and found this and that along the way, and he would never forget that feeling, the feeling that meant his friend, his brother was here.
He had felt him first, before his green eyes could land on him, but Peyote found his brother soon enough. Walking up to the other drug, he reached out a hand, patted his shoulder. "Well my brother, look where you've found yourself...look where we've found ourselves again and again." Pulling the other drug into a great hug, Peyote grinned and slapped his back slightly, holding onto him for a moment (or perhaps several), ecstatic as he could be to see his brother again. "Tracer, my brother, my friend...how are you? How have you been?"