Episode 1, Part 1

Episode 1: AFTER ALL IS SAID AND DONE

Part 1

Vagabond

Ooooh. My head.

            He sat upright, still groggy from sleep. Then, nauseous, collapsed bodily with a dull “whump,” arms splayed out in a curiously Christian pose.

            It had to be afternoon. It had to be. He hazily remembered disintegrating the alarm clock sometime before. Anything for a bit of peace from that damn electro “braa-braa-braa.” He flopped his head over the side of the bed, nearly lost his lunch, eyed the broken pieces of the now very dead clock, then flopped back into his original virtual crucifixion.

            It was like a damn hangover. Emphasis on the “damn.” Arc would call it a “suicide Tuesday,” but then, the man would know. Inhaling, pinching the bridge of his nose, grimacing in dull agony, hoping whatever was in his stomach decided against a repeat performance, the man pushed himself up on one arm. He was only vaguely aware of the sheet falling in sculpted folds at his waist. The air was still, slightly humid. And, thank-you-God, quiet.

            First one leg. Oof.

            Then the other. Ack.

            Oh, for the love of…I’ve gone through worse and now I’ve met my match? A bit of his old self—well, not old, old. It was only yesterday that his former life came crashing to an end, after all—took over then, and he heaved himself upright on his feet.

            And went down like a sack of potatoes. The knees buckled, the muscles went limp, and the whole thing toppled.

            “…ow.”

            I just had to land on the damn clock, didn’t I? Bitch.

            Funny, how if one is exhausted enough, just about any position is comfortable. It could be on a bed of nails, broken glass, or even a broken clock, too.  I’ll die soon enough, but not on wannabe ‘70s shag carpet.

            Yet he did not get up. Not then. Instead, he ran his palm across the fabric with completely, absolutely and entirely normal fingers, feeling the texture of the fabric as if he had never done so before, as if this was the first time ever. He observed the fibers with ordinary eyes, inhaled the very slight scent of them through an ordinary nose

            As it was, the sudden smart of flopping out of bed brought most of his senses to the surface. Curling into a fetal position, then rocking up onto his shins, the man hauled himself up using the nightstand as an anchor and plunked himself back on the bed. Scratching the side of his head with one hand, brushed pieces of what had been a perfect good clock out of his chest hair, he blinked his eyes clear.

            Hell, how long as it been since I actually slept? he wondered. His back popped as he stretched. It had to have been years. Ever since he learned that constantly-conscious state of being. Fully aware, yet not fully awake, it was a state Paine and Scepter likened it to meditation. It was the only reference those two had, and since he did not care what the process was called (only that he mastered it), “meditation” was as good as any other term. In fact, most of what I do probably didn’t have a name.

            Probably a good thing. Most of what he had done probably shouldn’t be named anyway.

            He hung his head for a moment. Letting the dark, coal-black of his hair spill forward in a tangled mane. Sweeping it back, yawning, he set his jaw and stood bolt upright. Momentarily unsteady from the head rush, but confident that he wasn’t going to come crashing down, he took a step forward.

            And came crashing down.

Ok, now this is just too damn stoopid.

            This was right before the nausea hit. Scrambling, in a flail of arms and legs, he made it, flopping, to the toilet right before his stomach violently emptied.

Tug-of-War, Dandelion & Paine

“How is he?”

            “You serious?” Benji had his head in his hands, grinding the palms in his hands into his brows. Looking up from the coffee that had all but taken over for his blood supply, his eyes a deep red from being awake more or less for the last two days on watch, he stared-glared at the other man.

            Danilo pulled up a chair. “Don’t start, Suzy Sunshine. I came to help out, just like you asked.”

            Benji downed the coffee. You came to help out, just like I guilted you.

            “I still say we should take him to –“

            “—the hospital. I know, I know!” came the strung-out-on-caffeine reply. Benji leaned back in his chair. His wired appearance made the other man sympathetic, and uneasy. “Any idea how we’re going to explain what happened? Once he’s in, got any idea how we’d get him out? They’re not idiots. They’d figure out what he is! It’d take two seconds! And then—”

            “Ok! Ok!,” Danilo said, his hands up. He should have known better than to talk hospitals with Benji. Just mentioning doctors or emergency rooms or anything medical set the man on edge. And for good reason, Danilo conceded after a moment. “So what are you going to do? Just keep him here?”

            “Until he detoxes. Yes,” Benji slumped, rubbing his forehead with his hand, eyes scrunched closed. He could feel Danilo staring at him. The lid blew. “It’s the only thing anybody could think of.”

            Danilo crossed his arms. He sighed. “So what now, líder sem medo?”

            ‘Fearless leader,’ Benji thought. Yeah. That is so totally me. He turned to the man whose idea of getting back to his Brazilian roots was fucking his way through Carnival in Rio, with the occasional mojito thrown in for nutrition. Benji ran his hands over his buzzed haired, down to the back of his neck, flapped the elbows out. “It’s been three days. He’s got to be starved. And dehydrated. Crazy or no, I’ve got to get something him—not remotely what I mean!—or he’ll be in even worse shape.”

            The other man grinned. “And you need The Big Strong Man.”

            Benji was just too tired for the constant innuendo. “I need the mix-martial artist who can turn parts of his body into invulnerable battering rams. I would have asked Colton. He’s out, of course. How is he?”