Re-arrival [OTA]
"I'm stepping out for a bit. Don't worry about me, son. I know where I'm going."
A suicide note.
No, a farewell.
Admittedly, he ought to have phrased the note better. But Peter was a clever enough fellow; he'd be able to figure it out, would he not?
Either one of those Peters--
No. Peter. There was a single Peter. A single Peter Bishop.
The one whose grave Walter was standing upon.
The one whom he'd left the note for.
One and the same. Differing realities, singular personalities. All is One. Monism. Singularity. And yet conflict was inevitable. Differing realities, differing historical events, pushing towards differing futures. Conflicting futures.
Thus the ZFT.
Thus the Cortexephan Project.
He placed his gloved hand upon the cold marble of Peter's tombstone, sniffling away tears long left unshed. Unshed, for he still had Peter.
A Peter.
Scuttling his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, Walter hunched over, feeling older than he rightfully ought, sensing constant weight leaning heftily between his shoulders. The past: haunting him. The future: threatening him. And the present: mocking him and his secrets. Those things, those acts, should never have seen the light of day.
If only Agent Dunham hadn't freed him from the hospital. A madhouse. A place where he certainly belonged. Even now, without the benefit of hallucinogenic drugs, he was imagining another place, another world. Not surrounded by gravestones but buildings. Quaint, vaguely European style cottages.
And a single word on his lips: Haurvatat.
"Now this is certainly a surprise," he murmured, turning about slowly on the spot, taking in his surroundings. Belly would've enjoyed this place far, far more than he would. Smiling vaguely, he began to wander, the layout of the village still fresh in his mind, until he reached the pond. He'd not sat on a bench for two minutes when the ducks began to wander towards him, quacking, begging for food. He had, ludicrously, a zip-loc bag of microwave popcorn in his pocket, which he fetched out, scattering the contents of it onto the grass one handful at a time.
"Belly once wondered if your vocal calls echoed," he said, chuckling at the ducks' enthusiasm. "Vivisection revealed normal vocal fold function for vertebrates, nothing exactly special, so the research leaned towards the reasoning why the myth began. Fascinating findings, simply fascinating."
What those findings were, he'd have to keep to himself, for now he was attempting to lure a particularly friendly brown spotted duck up onto the bench by presenting it a kernel of popcorn between thumb and forefinger. As if it were a dog begging for a treat.
[ooc: yay, walter's back and feeding ducks. slowtime until I get home from work, needed to get this up. :)]
A suicide note.
No, a farewell.
Admittedly, he ought to have phrased the note better. But Peter was a clever enough fellow; he'd be able to figure it out, would he not?
Either one of those Peters--
No. Peter. There was a single Peter. A single Peter Bishop.
The one whose grave Walter was standing upon.
The one whom he'd left the note for.
One and the same. Differing realities, singular personalities. All is One. Monism. Singularity. And yet conflict was inevitable. Differing realities, differing historical events, pushing towards differing futures. Conflicting futures.
Thus the ZFT.
Thus the Cortexephan Project.
He placed his gloved hand upon the cold marble of Peter's tombstone, sniffling away tears long left unshed. Unshed, for he still had Peter.
A Peter.
Scuttling his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, Walter hunched over, feeling older than he rightfully ought, sensing constant weight leaning heftily between his shoulders. The past: haunting him. The future: threatening him. And the present: mocking him and his secrets. Those things, those acts, should never have seen the light of day.
If only Agent Dunham hadn't freed him from the hospital. A madhouse. A place where he certainly belonged. Even now, without the benefit of hallucinogenic drugs, he was imagining another place, another world. Not surrounded by gravestones but buildings. Quaint, vaguely European style cottages.
And a single word on his lips: Haurvatat.
"Now this is certainly a surprise," he murmured, turning about slowly on the spot, taking in his surroundings. Belly would've enjoyed this place far, far more than he would. Smiling vaguely, he began to wander, the layout of the village still fresh in his mind, until he reached the pond. He'd not sat on a bench for two minutes when the ducks began to wander towards him, quacking, begging for food. He had, ludicrously, a zip-loc bag of microwave popcorn in his pocket, which he fetched out, scattering the contents of it onto the grass one handful at a time.
"Belly once wondered if your vocal calls echoed," he said, chuckling at the ducks' enthusiasm. "Vivisection revealed normal vocal fold function for vertebrates, nothing exactly special, so the research leaned towards the reasoning why the myth began. Fascinating findings, simply fascinating."
What those findings were, he'd have to keep to himself, for now he was attempting to lure a particularly friendly brown spotted duck up onto the bench by presenting it a kernel of popcorn between thumb and forefinger. As if it were a dog begging for a treat.
[ooc: yay, walter's back and feeding ducks. slowtime until I get home from work, needed to get this up. :)]