tdr_backup | Casualty of Migration

Current Mood: uncomfortable

Casualty of Migration

~It's surprising how losing your hair suddenly makes you realise how vain you once were. As the final clump comes out in his hand (rather be bald than have a stupid-looking fringe) and his skin start splitting along its newly-healed seams he briefly considers lying back and letting whatever else is in this Level take him. But escape is necessary and he won't let a little thing like being too weak to breathe stop him. God he was glad he wasn't with anyone right now. If anybody saw what was happening... downstairs... they'd never take him seriously again.

Making it through Seven had been difficult and his feet were nearly bloody stumps from all the sharp garbage, but pain was something he had gotten used to. The dull heart-wrenching ache was worse than a stabbing- at least that would have been something he could appreciate- and he had wanted to tear off his own feet to stop it, but gritty resolve won out and he had made it to Six, wearing nothing but a threadbare smock and linen trousers, found among the sewage of the lower level.

The first thing he does upon arrival is sear his own feet on one of the more hidden bulls- anything to distract from their pain and the nausea and the general brain-freezing depression of suffering through a Hell worse than anything he did to his boys. It's pretty much all his body can stand and he crumples against a wall, allowing himself an unhappy groan. His insects crawl over his body as if he were already a corpse and he doesn't bother to slap them away; like a dying wildebeest.~

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What?! Don't tell me you'd feel bad. Bit late for that.

That doesn't mean I am going to make a habit of imprisoning people to drag rusted wagons all around Six. Be quiet and stay in the cart...

*ignores this bit of advice, leaning on Reg's bleeding back, putting a terrible strain on the old cart, his voice ringing out across the alley very conspicuously, his face a picture of misery, bloody vomit frothing from the corners of his mouth melodramatically*

Please sir. We're broken and vulnerable.

*he catches the handles of the cart so Barty's shifted weight doesn't topple it over, but he looks supremely unimpressed both by Barty's plan and lack of self control to just stay silent in a cart for a couple moments while doing so*

I can see that- though I am impressed to see somebody else just wandering about.

*He brushes insects off his body with a new casuality, as if picking a piece of lint off a suit. He's starting to feel better already*

*Regulus eyes the insects, taking note as a stray bee flits off down the street - no one down here is really in any place to judge, but ever since he first got here it had been clear that trouble usually starts in Seven so, as without his wand from when he had been alive he is rather supremely ill-equipped at fighting back in the event of danger, he tries to stay away from trouble as much as possible*

We're not wandering, per se, sir. We're headed somewhere.

Are we? I thought we stopped thinking about destinations ages ago.

No, you stopped thinking about destinations. I am not wandering.

*Suddenly this is far more important than he would have otherwise thought. It might have been just the promise of some information, but he really can feel his strength starting to return. He turns more to the one on the wagon to talk because he's probably going to be more accomodating.*

Wherever the two of you are heading, it would do me a huge favour if I could tag along. Give me a leg up, would you?

But of course!

*hops out of his wagon to do so, though he regrets this motion immediately and crumples a bit, swearing and staggering in a zig-zag before finally, gingerly, reaching this new face, his cracked and frost-bitten hand out-stretched*

*Uses him to hop into the wagon. He watches his painful display with legitimate concern, but when he manages the concern vanishes.*

Thank you. You're from 9?

*Surprised that someone who seems so friendly is from a lower level than himself; but then he of all should know that appearances are deceiving.*

You've come very far.

I got very good at climbing very fast.

*Barty stops, crossing his eyes as a bee hovers above his freckled nose, he pauses for a very long moment, watching, raising up his hands in an attempt to squish it, but it deftly escapes his death clap at the last moment*

So what are you in for, Bee Boy?

*ever an Englishman, in fact often too much of one, Regulus hadn't said anything as their new little friend had climbed aboard, even though the prospect of him pulling both Barty and this man is both laughably impossible without any help as well as a new level of demeaning (it is one thing to pull Barty, but for anyone else to join in is practically slavery) - now though he peers over the edge of the cart and looks in at them with a suspicious and unfortunately eyelashless glare of suspicion*

Yes, I'm rather curious of that myself.

*Looks to them both with a nice smile, once more paying just slightly more attention to Barty.*

I used to euthanise animals at a veterinary clinic. I suppose you could call me a little trigger-happy. Yourselves?

*He notices that they probably aren't going to get anywhere sitting in this wagon, but he's happy to chat for a while- it's been so long since he's seen another person. But his senses are attuned to any unnatural movement around them.*

*Barty shoots him a very wide, very unregretful smile - despite the torture it wrecks on his peeling cheeks* I got a little trigger-happy too. With my father, among other things.

*He's smiling, enjoying their easy conversation.*

I've never known men more unpleasant than fathers. Mine was rather alright, but I still had moments where I'd like nothing more that to whack him over the back of the head with a two-by-four.

*Barty's eyes grow very wide as he replies* A TWO-BY-FOUR WOULD BE A MERCY HE DOES NOT DESERVE. He's in Eight, you know. On my first go up I shoved him into one of the big machines. Haven't seen him since. I like to think he's been turned into cereal and has become part of a healthy breakfast for demon spawn Hellwide.

*He definitely wasn't expecting that sort of reaction, but he doesn't let the shock of suddenly realising the man you're talking to might not be playing with a full deck of cards show on his face.*

Level Eight is for the fraudulent if I remember correctly?

*He slumps back a little against the side of the wagon, losing some strength as a wave of nausea hits him.*

Barty, that's no kind of talk.

SILENCE, REGINA. I'll talk as I please.

And yes it is. That's one damnation Hell got spot-on, really.

*He waves his hand idly as he speaks, fighting down a dizzy head and horrible sickly feeling.*

So what did he do exactly?

*He winces, but soon the sickness fades away again. The illness is simply in its death throes as he begins to recover.*

*Barty opens his mouth, his entire sordid life story ready to pour out in his usual fragmented babble, but he stops, realizing that if he starts then they'll likely run out of eternity before he runs out of words - instead he settles for the obvious*

He had a terrible moustache.

*Andrew nods in understanding- only partly to humour him.*

It wasn't one of those greasy half-grown ones was it? I swear there should be a new circle of Hell for men who have those things.

*He looks over the edge of the wagon to Regulus and speaks nicely.*

I'm assuming that this isn't going anywhere anytime soon. Do we have a plan of action?

*still very unsure of this new guest and his strangely pleasant ease speaking with Barty, Regulus is taken slightly aback when spoken to directly; he had always been a nervous boy but in life he could cover some of it up in the presence of company, now his fingers skirt around the handles of the cart under this casual scrutiny*

It's rusted. If you would like to give it a pull I'm sure you'll find it's very difficult to move.

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