Richie Tozier (
gofuckmyself) wrote in
lastvoyageslogs2020-04-16 06:44 pm
Entry tags:
richie tozier christens the barge
Who: Richie Tozier and OPEN
What: Richie's arrival on board
When: Forward dated to Friday evening
Where: On Deck
Warnings: Spoilers for It Chapter Two, blood, brief description of serious bodily injury, vomiting
Notes: Multiples and fuzzy time welcome!
Fuck. That's a lot of stars.
Richie blinks stupidly up at space from the deck of the Barge, feeling very much like this - the Admiral, the offer of a way to bring Eddie back, to fix shit, the deck he's now standing on, all of it - might just turn out to be some Deadlights hallucination, right?
He's in shock. Richie knows he's got to be in shock because everything feels pretty shaky and weird right about now. That's what being in shock means, right? His hands clench uselessly at his sides like he's still trying to hold on as Bill and Ben had tried to pry him off and away.
He forces himself to take a breath. Okay. Time to take stock. Apparently none of the other Losers had made the same (possibly literal?) deal with the devil, so it's just him, standing here on the deck of this ugly stepsister of the Titanic, floating through open space, all damp with sewer water, piss and shit, head fucking pounding, throat all ripped up from screaming at his friends, blood (Eddie's blood) smeared on his hands and staining his shirt, seeped into the cracked lens of his glasses, which must have happened when-
Blood splashing his face, his stomach, Eddie jerking in surprise and pain above him, looking down at the claw jutting out of him, his voice all pained and surprised.
"Richie-"
And that's what cuts through everything and sends Richie staggering to the side of the ship. He holds his glasses to his face with one bloody hand and grips the deck railing with the other as he hunches over and pukes up the last dregs of the little he'd managed to eat in the last twenty four hours. Apparently unsatisfied, his stomach insists on subjecting him to some additional dry heaves as he does his best to both stamp down the complete emotional breakdown that's looming and keep his glasses from tumbling into the dark abyss of space.
What: Richie's arrival on board
When: Forward dated to Friday evening
Where: On Deck
Warnings: Spoilers for It Chapter Two, blood, brief description of serious bodily injury, vomiting
Notes: Multiples and fuzzy time welcome!
Fuck. That's a lot of stars.
Richie blinks stupidly up at space from the deck of the Barge, feeling very much like this - the Admiral, the offer of a way to bring Eddie back, to fix shit, the deck he's now standing on, all of it - might just turn out to be some Deadlights hallucination, right?
He's in shock. Richie knows he's got to be in shock because everything feels pretty shaky and weird right about now. That's what being in shock means, right? His hands clench uselessly at his sides like he's still trying to hold on as Bill and Ben had tried to pry him off and away.
He forces himself to take a breath. Okay. Time to take stock. Apparently none of the other Losers had made the same (possibly literal?) deal with the devil, so it's just him, standing here on the deck of this ugly stepsister of the Titanic, floating through open space, all damp with sewer water, piss and shit, head fucking pounding, throat all ripped up from screaming at his friends, blood (Eddie's blood) smeared on his hands and staining his shirt, seeped into the cracked lens of his glasses, which must have happened when-
Blood splashing his face, his stomach, Eddie jerking in surprise and pain above him, looking down at the claw jutting out of him, his voice all pained and surprised.
"Richie-"
And that's what cuts through everything and sends Richie staggering to the side of the ship. He holds his glasses to his face with one bloody hand and grips the deck railing with the other as he hunches over and pukes up the last dregs of the little he'd managed to eat in the last twenty four hours. Apparently unsatisfied, his stomach insists on subjecting him to some additional dry heaves as he does his best to both stamp down the complete emotional breakdown that's looming and keep his glasses from tumbling into the dark abyss of space.

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"You look like you could use some water and a shower, man. You don't have to tell me about it, but I'd like to know if you're injured anywhere that's not obvious, and if you know why you're here."
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He straightens up slowly, keeping his eyes squeezed shut against the lingering nausea and headache, and wipes his mouth on his wrist, for all the good that'll do. His jacket's gone, must still be with-
"I'm fine," he says firmly enough, although some familiar sounding part of him's already trying to pipe up with the reminder that he fell like, thirty feet and might have a concussion at least. "And if this is the boat where we get to be life coaches in exchange for shit, I think I'm in the right place."
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"Communal showers? What the fuck is this, tenth grade gym?"
His voice is pretty rough, but the delivery comes out as intended. At least he hasn't started fucking crying.
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"Feth, what happened to you?"
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"What does it look like happened?" he asks, voice croaky, too shocked or wired to think of anything more creative for the time being.
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After a pause. he says, "I'm Elim Rawne. Call me Rawne."
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"Richie. Tozier." Crazy, that he's just standing here introducing himself to some rando on a cruise ship in outer space, like five minutes after- "I'd shake your hand, but-" He holds up both hands in a sort of 'what can you do?' gesture. His stomach rolls a little, sickened by his own joke, but what the fuck else is he supposed to do? Completely fucking lose it?
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This is an insulting suggestion from most people, but Quentin is very calm, manages to make the advice sound credible rather than trite.
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"Fuck."
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And the blood. Eddie's blood, because you couldn't push him out of the way in time and he got stabbed on top of you. Can't forget about that!
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There's no sound of anybody walking up or arriving, there's just no one there one second and the next there's an acid-yellow triangle the size of a housecat. He's got one staring, cheery eye and is so flat that seen from the side he nearly disappears. There's literally no way any of it makes biological sense, don't worry about it.
His voice sounds like someone yelling from the end of a long, long metal tube. He's filing his nails casually. Welcome to the ship, my man.
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"Oh, fuck this," he says, almost to himself, before shouting at Bill. "If this is some bullshit killer clown from outer space shit, just hurry up and come at me, fucker! Happy to kick your ass all over again."
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"HAHAHAHAHA.
YOU SURE KNOW HOW TO SELL AN OFFER. I'VE ALWAYS WANTED TO HAVE MY ASS KICKED!"
Nope, absolutely not going to come at him and fight him. Even a normal-looking human is about a hundred times his size, fuck all that.
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"What the fuck are you?"
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jumping off details meme here, let me know if i need to roll back
not at all, extremely accurate read
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Sadly, what is also obvious, is that the guy kinda smells. Blood and sewer and oh, why not add puke to the list? Being as it is, Rhys stops at about a meter and a half away conflicted about whether to come any closer, or just stay back and rubberneck on the other man's discomfort.
"Heeeeey there buddy. Lookin' kinda-- well, kinda traumatised. You must be in the right place?"
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He spits and takes a minute to get his breath back before straightening up and turning to Rhys, looking pretty wiped as he croaks out "If this is the boat with the guy who can bring people back from the dead, yeah. Guess so."
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Because Rhys fully believes that the Admiral picks favourites.
"Annnd, side question: Rank food, shower, medical care, and beer in order of which one you need pointing towards the most?"
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She went rogue a long time ago. Well, on the timescale she's lived on, which is less than two years spent conscious and remembering things rather than shambling around being a zombie. But some part of her still thinks like a janitor. The world is full of horrors, inside and out, and people are delicate, fucked up messes most of the time. There's one thing that pretty much always makes it better. "You wanna get someplace you can get that all scrubbed off?"
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"Yes," he get out, voice a little hoarse from the puking and off camera screaming, but the thought of getting clean is inspiring some pretty obvious relief. "Just point me in the direction of a fucking swimming pool I can fill with bleach, holy shit."
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It's offered conversationally, or as much so as Xigbar ever manages. There's certainly no judgment though, and nothing to suggest that he's particularly bothered by the fact that he's happened across someone hurling the contents of their stomach over the edge of the Barge. Sure, someone's going to have to actually clean the resultant mess, but it's not going to be him.
"Bad day, or just space-sick?"
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But these are like, quite literally the worst possible circumstances, so any geeking out is going to be tabled indefinitely.
"Do people usually turn up here on good days?" he croaks out. It's not antagonistic, just pointing out the obvious.
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His own arrival hadn't been the best day of his life, that's for certain. But it hadn't really been the worst, either. Just another step on the road he's been following, and one that... may have ended slightly differently to how he'd intended. But he's gotten a pretty sweet vacation out of it, and he's not about to complain about that.
(He is also not unaware of the fact that he seems to be less shaken up about some of the regular goings on of the Barge than some people are. But he might as well make the most of that, he figures.
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