Who: Anders and Max Where: 1919, Brooklyn What: Drunk!Anders doesn't believe Max is real When: 29th, After this Rating: High. It has Anders in it for a start Open: No Status: In progress
It turned out that drugs in 1919 were both crap and great at the same time. Drugs had certainly come a long way in the world. He had found himself wondering how the junkies and recreationals of 1919 would react to some of the shit he had experimented with back home. Then he'd realise he didn't give a fuck and just settled for drinking, mixing, smoking, snorting and even a tiny bit of injecting. The latter he hadn't done in a long while. He'd never been a fan of needles or blood. Particularly his own.
Finding a room had been no problem, Bragi's voice working its magic as usual. Ditching Gatsby and Kat hadn't taken a lot of work either. So Anders had spent his time in 1919 drunk and high enough not to think. Of course, the dick of a god that shared his body wouldn't let him go too far and would, like always, step in when needed. The wanker. In the end, the room had seemed best to hole up in and ignore the world - whichever one. The blond had tried hitting on some Brooklyn chicks but his mood just wasn't there for it. He missed Max. And he hated the feeling.
When the first text message had arrived he thought it was Gatsby or Kat, or even Shepard. If it had been Karma-bitch Stacey he would have told her where to shove it. He had stared at the name for a good while before reading the bugger and then.... Well... It couldn't be real.
She'd been shit-islanded. Even if it wasn't some drug-induced hallucination, it was a trick of the island. And if it wasn't either of those, she probably wasn't even the real her.
He didn't remember much about the conversation. Something about his fish. And tits. And a word Anders Johnson certainly didn't use. Then he had gone for the booze again and everything had gone hazy once more.