A Shadow in Red

He didn't even know the name of the person he'd texted. Male or female. Only that he'd heard that Eothian (who really had come across as decent if a little pushy) had died. A little weird how that'd left him feeling like he'd been punched in the gut. The feeling hadn't lasted and he'd meant what he'd said - he'd been sorry to hear it. And he was going to turn down the offer of help, but at that insistence, there'd not been much he could say.

So he'd said tomorrow, four PM, when the question of when had come up, and while he'd said the east side of the tennis court, he lingered a little further south. He didn't live as long as he'd lived by not being cautious. People had a thing about the homeless more often than not, and he preferred not to get rolled for what little cash he had.

Though how he'd recognize whomever, he didn't know. Unless they had Eothian's cell on them. That'd be a lot simpler.

Ethan lingered to himself, hands in his coat pockets, hood pulled over his head. It didn't make him look particularly welcoming, but he didn't look like he was about to ask kids if they wanted some candy, either.

There were a few positives to having chips in his head. As long as there was any kind of network, he could pick up on it - even if he couldn't reach the stars as he used to. He could reach far enough to get to the cellular network.

Sitting alone in his room at the church, a card on his lap, he reached for just that - enough to send a text message to the number he'd been given, unaware that the cell's owner had thrown the phone in the trash not long ago. Good thing he didn't expect an answer.

"Offer still good?" the text read, the originating number only coming up as unknown.

He had other plans if that one didn't pan out. He could always head back to customs and cheerfully inform them he was ready to be deported now. Or he could sneak back onto a boat. But for that, he thought, he'd need more peanut butter.

Time for some old-fashioned shoplifting.

"You've been a great help so far," said the priest.

Maybe it wasn't so wrong. He'd not done anything objectionable, and with the opportunity there to shower, he'd kept himself clean enough. Not every day, but every other. Maybe a couple days between.

"Not done that much."

"You've been here every day the soup kitchen's been open. I think the chili you helped make was one of our most successful batches - I heard nothing but compliments on it."

"Thanks, I guess," he muttered.

"How much longer do you plan to stay?"

And that, really, was the question. He'd heard the priest, Father Harrison, praying outside his rooms sometimes. Not that he could do anything about it at the time, or he would've told him to stop. Sometimes, he couldn't ignore the whispers, the echoes, the shadows anymore. He had to tell them, had to try to tell them, to shut up, to leave him alone for a while. He didn't want to stay here, but no matter what he'd told the Eight-Bit or the Syntax Error, he had doubts.

Those whispers, those echoes, those shadows - he knew those were him. But they'd said his chips were damaged. Or one of them had. It blurred together. And if his chips were damaged... What was it that had damaged them?

No matter what they told him, no matter what he'd screamed while trying to quiet them, he couldn't go until he had an answer.

That meant his answer was probably in Wyoming. And that... That was a very long walk.

Ethan shook his head as he rubbed the furniture polish into the pew. It'd been something to keep his hands busy. "Not sure. Think I know where I'm going now."

"Then we'll keep you in our prayers when you go, Ethan."

"Thanks," he answered, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "I guess."

Father Harrison lightly touched his shoulder before leaving him be - a touch Ethan didn't flinch at anymore. He'd gotten used to a lot of things around the church. Maybe it'd help later on. But then, there were a lot of maybes anymore.

The holidays were always the same. No matter where he'd gone, he'd seen the same actions replayed: overexpensive toys bought for kids who were little devils, too many decorations bought, everything bought when there wasn't enough money.

There were, however, a few benefits.

People seemed to like charities during the holidays. They donated cheap toys for the kids who weren't in line for the latest iPod. They donated their old coats that weren't in fashion anymore. They gave ill-fitting gloves and ugly hats, shoes that were too thin for them. They gave big packs of generic tube socks, and, anymore, long strips of polar fleece that they called scarves. It was the one time of year Ethan could actually get clothes that might last him an entire year, if he was lucky.

He'd found a place in a Catholic church's basement that was practically a dumping site for the unwanted textiles of the young and fashionable. He'd sat on one of their folding metal chairs after having been re-clothed from the inside out and pulled on pairs of socks, a pair of battered boots that were too big for him - thus the socks - and a coat that actually went to his knees. It reminded him of the coat he'd been given by the Russian soldiers. For once, for a while, he might actually be warm.

Charity wasn't lost on him, when it was charity freely given, by a genuine want to help instead of a genuine feeling of pity. That was why, on Christmas day, he was standing behind a steam table with a ladle, a huge, steaming pot of soup sunk into the table in front of him. It smelled of chicken and grease, like the best noodle soups did. He'd already had a bowl for himself and he'd been surprised. It might've been the best soup he'd ever had.

Bowl by bowl, he ladled out the soup, giving food to people who otherwise wouldn't have had a meal today - just like him. When one vat of soup was gone, one of the ladies from the kitchen would bring in another. He lost track of time standing there, his movements almost mechanical as he served like he'd been served. Only once the line slowed did he feel a faint tap on his shoulder that sent tension through his entire body.

"Can I speak with you, son?" asked the priest quietly.

"...Depends," Ethan answered. He stepped back from the table all the same, instantly guarded; he'd never had a problem with a priest, but there was a first time for everything. "What'd you want to talk about?"

The minute 'follow me' gesture the priest gave him was expected. He followed reluctantly, hands wiped on his apron. They went upstairs, into the back hallways and into the priest's office. Reflex had Ethan's hand twitching, his mind searching for the nearest electronics just in case. There was no reason for him to be worried about, or even fear, a priest, but he did.

"I know very well," the priest began, "that this world is a home to many people that may not necessarily have started here. Some have come here before - faith seems to be one of the anchors that people find no matter where they go. But I don't think faith is an anchor for you."

"I don't have faith. I've never seen a reason for faith."

"I didn't expect you would. But whether you have faith or you don't, you do seem to have an appreciation for good works. I'd like to ask you to stay here. Not forever," he forestalled, lifting a hand. "But until you can find an anchor, perhaps."

Ethan's eyes were narrowed as the offer was made. "...How many people do I have to see every day?"

"Nobody. But your help with the soup kitchen would be appreciated."

"I'll think about it," he answered after a few moments. Live in a church? He wasn't the hunchback of goddamned Notre Dame. But then, this wasn't Notre Dame, either. Who knew. Maybe he'd eventually be hired on as a gargoyle.

That night, he was curled up on the floor beside a cot with two blankets over him, a pillow hugged under his head. The heating system was pouring warm air into the room in a soft rush. If he ended up a bell ringer... well, maybe it wasn't the worst way to go.

It seems like I made that last post prematurely.

As one of you knows, I have a balance disorder. It hit me just before Christmas and basically kept me bedridden through the holidays because I couldn't freaking stand up, period. Looking at a computer monitor more than once every couple hours, even on my laptop, was a trial. I was incredibly bored and was rather stupid in pushing myself to get better quickly.

That's about when I made my last post here about my desktop dying and me trying to get into the swing of things again. And what happened after that but I relapsed, thanks to my pushing myself, and ended up flat on my back in bed again.

Now I really am getting back to normal because I wasn't stupid enough to repeat my earlier performance. Normalcy is coming back slowly, and I really am getting back to where I left off, but I'm limiting my time in front of the monitor for my own good.

I'll get to comments and emails as I can, but I'm figuring on being both slow and sporadic for a while until I really am back to my sucky-but-regular state.

Okay, I know I owe tags, etc. My health hit a nice decline where I couldn't get out of bed for a few days. I had AIM up on my rather incapable old laptop that can only run AIM or a browser but not both, but couldn't get to my desktop where I had all my emails and so forth telling me what I owed where, and I doubt my brain could've done the RP thing anyway.

So then my health gets back up to where I can get to my desktop. I check my mail, go to do an E-Rewards survey, and the very first survey I do gives my computer a rootkit, and my video card (which had already been ailing) went bad all at the same time.

My desktop has to be reformatted. I've not lost anything but the mails that were in my inbox at the time, but I'm in the process of building a new system anyway. Until then, I have my slightly more capable laptop. Within a couple of days, if I can make the cables in the new system go where I need them to go, I'll have a nice, shiny new desktop.

I'll try to catch up, meanwhile.

Okay, I'm amused now. XD

Routine.

Preparation.

It wasn't so different from every time he'd done it before. There was a little more baggage than usual, but that was all. He sat to himself in one of the seemingly seldom-used hallways in the manor house, palace, whatever. There wasn't such a thing as guaranteed privacy here. That wasn't so different, either. But he'd gone here, away from everything, to start pulling away what bandages remained on his hands.

The bandages came off reluctantly, those few remaining gauzes sticking to the wounds that had mostly healed. The new scars were no paler than the rest of his palms - but then, the rest of his palms were so pale that they were almost vibrantly white. Just like all of his scars. The paleness of his skin in those places was nothing new. Just like the appearance of more scars.

The last of the gauze pulled away, bringing an old scab with it. It wasn't a pretty wound, still pink (that would fade), but it would do without bandages now. And with that done, he could pick up his clothing and go. That was all that remained. His clothes, maybe what was left of his pills.

And maybe the next world would smell less like smoke.

He stood, gauze dropped into a small trashcan as he headed for the outside. He'd lied to himself. There was one last thing to do, and he was on the way to do it, with a particular anklet in hand. Maybe he wasn't as coarse as he could be. He'd see this thing explode outdoors instead of in.

In the room that he'd been staying in, Ethan paced.

He was clean. The pillow and the blanket were on the bed again. But he felt sore, like his head was heavy and his knees were weak. This wasn't really normal. He was used to feeling ill, but this wasn't ill. His stomach felt fine for the first time in years, but something was wrong.

He paced.

"I know," he murmured. "I know. Shouldn't be here, I know, I see, okay, shut up." His voice was muffled intentionally. He knew that whatever he spoke to, it wasn't something anybody else could hear.

But he could hear it. He could, he did, it was there, he couldn't stop hearing it.

The glass of the window was cool as he rested his cheek against it, hands fisted against the window sill.

"I know, I know, not yet, I know..."

He got sick regularly. He was used to it. Spoiled food, water that tasted like oil - there wasn't much he could do to avoid sickness in his day to day life. But he hadn't thought he was that sick.

When he felt like this, he would usually find some out of the way place and sleep until his stomach would stop cramping, beg on a streetcorner until he had enough money for some kind of carbonated drink to make the nausea ease. He didn't pay attention to how long he spent sick. It ebbed when it ebbed and then he would move on. Having medicine to take for it - meds that weren't antipsychotics - was novel.

He'd found his shoes at long last and had gone outside, back pushed against the wall as he weathered another round of nausea. He was used to it, but that didn't make it pleasant. But he'd had to go outside.

Too many roofs over his head, too many walls around him. He could feel himself starting to hyperventilate in that room, and he'd had to get out, chill notwithstanding. Even if it did make his nose run.

Once the nausea passed, he did the only thing he could do, even with an arm still held over his stomach. Ethan started to walk in whatever direction he was facing. And he breathed.

The bed had been too soft. Not that it surprised him - the softest thing he'd slept on in years was the occasional cot or the padded floor of a cell in the psychiatric ward. The bed had reminded him too much of that. He'd ended up on the floor at the bedside, the rug being the only padding he could stand.

Half asleep, Ethan made his way out of the room he'd been pointed toward and toward the front door - or what he thought was the front door. Either way, it was a door to the outside world, and he stood just outside.

He didn't fit here. Didn't fit here, wouldn't fit here, and there were worlds he had yet to scour. The wounds on his hands would take time to heal, though. Longer than usual, thanks to the cross-ocean trip.

Eyes narrowing, he lifted one arm to swipe at his nose where it dared to run. The anklet he'd removed would read his location as on these grounds until its battery ran down. The only real question was whether to stay or go. Every fiber of his being wanted him to go while the much quieter reasoning told him to stay. He needed to let his hands heal. No matter how fractured he was inside his skull, he knew that.

And he wanted his clothes back.

But he still stood just outdoors, bare feet chilled to the point of pain as he tried to come to the decision.

"No identification."

"I don't need identification."

"Oh really. And you expect us to just accept that you're allowed in this country without identification beyond your demands to get to Knight Industries?"

"Ask your agent with the broken jaw," Ethan snarled, shoving up from the chair they'd put him in, only to get thrust back down again by two agents with heavy hands. It didn't take much to move him - the man's colour was bad, his body suffering from the long boat trip. Ethan could remember few meals aboard the ship, stolen from what he could find in the waste, and having thrown up often from the motion of the sea. "I'll break another," he hissed all the same, "unless you let me go."

"You're already in trouble enough from that, and he does plan to press charges."

"Against a man who doesn't exist?" He smirked - a smug and unpleasant expression. "Please. Try."

The agent's lip curled. he had a point. To press charges against someone who had no ID in any system that they accessed -- how could they offer a fair trial to someone who wouldn't even give them his name?

There was a small benefit to his condition. Even with his hands still bleeding into their makeshift bandages, he could send his thoughts into the wireless network that permeated the air - most worlds had that, he'd found, at least in cities.

At one time, he'd stretched to the sattelites, felt the world stretch out below him as he gleaned the information he needed. It ached that he was so limited now.

But as he wished to find, there it was. The thread of Knight Industries throughout it all, the knowledge that they still existed here. And that meant he might have his chance. His precious, deserved chance...

"So," he murmured, "now I know where I need to go."

His hands slid into the loose pockets of his jacket and he began to walk (the bane of his existance, walking) toward the city he now knew held the headquarters. How long would it take for him to make it there? Less time if he hitchhiked--

Or less time, indeed, if he just... took what he needed.

With a faint smirk, he let himself infiltrate the OnStar network and unlocked a nearby Chevrolet. This would do.

The car sped out of town, slightly over the speed limit. He had somewhere to be.

He fell onto the ground with a pained thud, feeling his palms scrape against asphalt, the shocks of the manifest still sending jolts through his body. His hands were bleeding against the pavement, his heart was struggling to find the right rhythm.

The sound that left his throat was pained, but pain or not, he pushed himself onto his back.

Air. There was blessed, near-clean air. The amount of smog was lesser than the previous world - but still not clear, still not clear like it should be, the fools. He came from a world full of preciously clean air, and the fools in all of these worlds still insisted on fossil fuels...

He hissed as he took in a breath and looked at his bleeding palms.

This would hamper the beginning of his search.

( Body, Mind, and Soul. )