[This is the weirdest one yet. All the other - dreams, or whatever the fuck, they'd all had something. That something was terrible sometimes, yeah, but it was something. Someone. But this, here? It's a hell of a lot of not much. It's empty. It's not like whatever this is couldn't be his, it's not like he hasn't seen snow before, but if it was he wouldn't even be wondering about it. That's not how it'd worked, the last few times. He'd just known.
Hank looks around, shoulders hunching, tucking his hands between his arms and his chest. He sees a whole lot of nothing and, after a second, starts walking into it. It's the last thing he'd be supposed to do, if this was real, wander off before someone could come get him. But all rules are off in dreamland. So.
Maybe he should feel worse about the fact that the ugly shock of finding all those bodies laying there makes him feel better.
Well, not better, exactly, but - steadier. He doesn't know what the hell to do with blizzards and fake computer voices out of nowhere talking about shit he doesn't recognize and freaky patches of literal actual nothing humming there in the middle of the snow, but he knows what to do with a body.
Shell casings. Ammo clip. Hank makes sure there aren't any more little details sitting in the snow and then moves closer, walking between the bodies - and stopping at one.]
Well.
[Well. What the fuck does he say to this? He doesn't need to say anything, there's no one here to hear it, but-]
Shit.
[He squats close to- to the body, knowing he shouldn't, doing it anyway. He swallows, watching his hand reaching out. He grasps his- the shoulder. He pushes just enough to see the face. He's breathing faster now, grabbing the chin - it feels so real. That's the thing about this whole place. The thing that gets him. That's really his beard under his fingers, really his chin there right in his hand. His face turns under his grip and it's whole, there's no marks on his temples or anywhere on his head at all, and that's the weirdest part. That's the little evidence that tells him, no, it can't be what happened to him out in the real world, what must of happened before he got to this... this whole fucked up magic place, it can't be his brain telling him what he must just not consciously remember about Detroit, cause his head's in one piece. All the shots are to the body, exit wounds on the back, and not in the places they'd be if he'd been crouching, trying to hide or get away. Whoever did it - or didn't do it, or, or whatever - they must of taken him by surprise.
There are footsteps ahead of him, Hank notices. In the snow. Almost covered over by the blizzard, but coming close to this last body brought him close enough to see that they're there. They're not his. He stares at them for a minute.]
Come on. [Who is he talking to? He doesn't know. There's no one here to hear. The universe, maybe? Calling all deities, someone, anyone?] Don't fuck with me like this. If you're gonna do it get it fucking over with!
[He waits. He takes a breath that burns cold in his throat, shivers, tucks his hands under his arms again, and stares at those footprints.
After another minute he follows them, and as he starts off he mutters to himself.]
What the hell. Everyone's gotta go some time. Snowstorms are boring as hell, anyway.
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Hank looks around, shoulders hunching, tucking his hands between his arms and his chest. He sees a whole lot of nothing and, after a second, starts walking into it. It's the last thing he'd be supposed to do, if this was real, wander off before someone could come get him. But all rules are off in dreamland. So.
Maybe he should feel worse about the fact that the ugly shock of finding all those bodies laying there makes him feel better.
Well, not better, exactly, but - steadier. He doesn't know what the hell to do with blizzards and fake computer voices out of nowhere talking about shit he doesn't recognize and freaky patches of literal actual nothing humming there in the middle of the snow, but he knows what to do with a body.
Shell casings. Ammo clip. Hank makes sure there aren't any more little details sitting in the snow and then moves closer, walking between the bodies - and stopping at one.]
Well.
[Well. What the fuck does he say to this? He doesn't need to say anything, there's no one here to hear it, but-]
Shit.
[He squats close to- to the body, knowing he shouldn't, doing it anyway. He swallows, watching his hand reaching out. He grasps his- the shoulder. He pushes just enough to see the face. He's breathing faster now, grabbing the chin - it feels so real. That's the thing about this whole place. The thing that gets him. That's really his beard under his fingers, really his chin there right in his hand. His face turns under his grip and it's whole, there's no marks on his temples or anywhere on his head at all, and that's the weirdest part. That's the little evidence that tells him, no, it can't be what happened to him out in the real world, what must of happened before he got to this... this whole fucked up magic place, it can't be his brain telling him what he must just not consciously remember about Detroit, cause his head's in one piece. All the shots are to the body, exit wounds on the back, and not in the places they'd be if he'd been crouching, trying to hide or get away. Whoever did it - or didn't do it, or, or whatever - they must of taken him by surprise.
There are footsteps ahead of him, Hank notices. In the snow. Almost covered over by the blizzard, but coming close to this last body brought him close enough to see that they're there. They're not his. He stares at them for a minute.]
Come on. [Who is he talking to? He doesn't know. There's no one here to hear. The universe, maybe? Calling all deities, someone, anyone?] Don't fuck with me like this. If you're gonna do it get it fucking over with!
[He waits. He takes a breath that burns cold in his throat, shivers, tucks his hands under his arms again, and stares at those footprints.
After another minute he follows them, and as he starts off he mutters to himself.]
What the hell. Everyone's gotta go some time. Snowstorms are boring as hell, anyway.