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philip darcy (arkhospheleteon) wrote in paxletalelogs, @ 2011-01-10 10:00:00

pray to your god, open your heart
Who: Philip, Samuel
What: First meeting.
Where: Pax, 7th Floor.
When: January 9, 2011; afternoon.

One did not normally survive a harrowing escape that involved ten foot drops onto rusted iron grating without at least sustaining a few very painful reminders to commemorate the occasion. In the end, Philip Darcy had walked (or more accurately limped) away from the scene of an exchange-gone-very-wrong with his fair share of scratches and bruises - a twisted ankle, broken lip, scraped knuckles, and more cuts of varying shapes and sizes dappled across his skin than he could count. During the first week of holed-up safety, his entire right side had ached from a patchwork of black and blue that left him too sore to sleep easily through the night, and when he'd at last dragged himself over international borderlines into the refuge of his home country, he'd garnered more than one sympathetic look or shake of the head. In all likelihood, they thought him some ignorant (or over-confident) American tourist who'd wandered into the wrong side of a strange city, only to get the tar beaten out of him and all his possessions of any value stolen. But Philip hadn't cared what they'd thought when their pity was more likely to help than halt his return to the states.

That had been almost a fortnight ago, and the majority of Philip's injuries were now healed. His ankle only occasionally protested if pressed into an awkward angle, his bruised flesh had shifted through a spectrum of colors before settling on a faded yellow barely discernible from his rosier skin tone, and a spatter of lingering scabs remained across the backs of his hands. He looked almost respectable, in part thanks to the clean flannel shirt he had procured along with a pair of worn but nevertheless freshly washed jeans. (People had a tendency to leave their laundry unmonitored during the lengthy period of the drying cycle, which was as good as telling Philip that he ought to help himself to it). On his way back up to apartment 703, he had "borrowed" a few other items, such as a cup or towel from his fellow residents on the underlying floors; the process for the most part had been a speedy endeavor unless his attention had been caught by some interesting electrical device in need of investigation or occasionally repair. If he had possessed more time he might have enjoyed taking a few of them apart and putting them back together, but his curiosity had not done away with his common sense. Philip did not need to press his luck. Already he had spent a healthy portion of his daily good fortune scaling the lower levels of the complex without running into a single living soul, which perhaps was why on the very last, a scarce skip and a jump from the door he very much wanted to reach, he opened the stairwell door to see another man standing in the hallway.

Philip blinked, his brain often prone to over-thinking. It did so now in its typical manner that was so convoluted and chaotic one could hardly categorize it as analytical for it tripped over itself in impatience and distraction, taking note of one thing and then eagerly another that in reality had very little to no connection whatsoever but his mind still insisted upon jamming together as though it could rebuild the world in such a haphazard fashion and make logical sense of it. He couldn't help but wonder if his hallway companion was suspect of his recent activities. However, he supposed he must look innocuous enough, nothing stark or startling about his appearance when he was of average height and build with hair that held no interesting shade or style, his clothing as everyday as one could find. He really was fond of his flip-flop sandals though, thick soles snug against the arches of his feet, and the leather bands comfortably worn down where they lay softly hooked between his toes. There again came that faint, familiar mustiness of old buildings. It was stronger in the corridors than by the stairs perhaps due to the carpeting lain down across the narrow strip of floor. He had smelled it downstairs as well, which briefly had him pondering if he'd properly closed the door to 503 (but of course he had as he now remembered checking the lock behind him, the distinctive coldness of the metal doorknob against his palm), and truly this stranger was staring at him intently, though he supposed it could not be helped when one had such sharp, brightly hued eyes. Philip thought to himself he ought to say something, and thus did.

"Hey there." He gave a typically amiable greeting, his smile one of charming innocence that to anyone who knew him - if there in fact existed anyone who had been around long enough to know him - might have immediately suggested some as of yet unconfessed act of mischief. "Say," he continued conversationally, glancing down at the somewhat odd collection of items in his hands. "Why is it that whenever you move somewhere new, you can plan and pack months ahead, but when it's all said and done, you still find there's something you've invariably forgotten? Then again, I don't suppose something like that would have happened to you, would it?"