Finale: End Song
Who: Roscoe
When: Sometime after meeting with Axel
Where: Under the bridge
Home again. He trudges through the bushes to his little room under the bridge, but when he reaches the clearing surrounding his territory, is shocked and enraged to see someone else occupying it. A ragged man, clearly homeless, is sitting next to his fireplace. The old iron door is propped open, and another man is lounging in the doorway. The electric fence must have been shorted out when Axel and his shoes were fried by it, so the men seized the opportunity to take a fairly sweet set-up…shelter, fireplace, makeshift toilet, the works.
Roscoe sees red. This is his home, and these usurpers had no right to take it. He furiously storms over, Stella in hand, and they look up at him with languid curiosity.
“You are trespassing. Leave now,” Roscoe orders them sharply, and they laugh.
“You don’t own the park, man,” one says with a snicker.
“No, but I set up all of this myself. This is my home, so get out.”
“Right. Well, it’s ours now, asshole. Fuck off,” the guy by the fireplace growls, flipping the finger.
Roscoe puts Stella down on the ground and prepares to chase them away, wishing he had his powers. With telekinesis, he could simply toss the men aside and be done with it, or mind-control them into never returning. But all he has right now are his own skills -- weakened as they are by the drugs. He doesn’t even have any weapons with him.
When he aggressively approaches, one of them pulls out a knife.
“Last warning, pal,” the guy says, expression hardening, but Roscoe keeps coming. Suddenly he spins at the man with the knife, easily knocking him to the ground and the knife from his hand, but it makes him feel a bit unsteady on his feet. He pauses to get his bearings, still keeping a wary eye on the man’s companion, but out of nowhere a pipe makes contact with the back of his head.
“What the..?” Roscoe groans in pain as he falls to the ground, seeing stars.
There was a third man present all along.
The third man swings the pipe at Roscoe’s head again, thoroughly stunning him. Blood begins to ooze from his scalp and he lets out a soft moan. But the men aren’t interested in simply teaching him a lesson, so the second one on his feet picks up the knife and walks over.
“You asked for it,” he mutters as he slams the knife into Roscoe’s back. He pulls it out and stabs him again. And again. Lungs are punctured, the heart is nicked. Roscoe coughs out some blood, but the man isn’t done stabbing. The ghost’s presence in the body strengthens it somewhat, but there is no telekinesis to heal the wounds or stave off excessive blood loss.
“I think you killed him,” the third man observes, noting their victim isn’t moving. The man with the bloody knife stops and kicks at the body, watching it roll a couple of feet.
“I need to get drunk,” he grunts, turning away, and they go tend to their comrade who’d been knocked senseless by the spinning attack.
Roscoe opens his eyes, breathing weakly and trying to crawl to Stella, who sits a few feet away.
“Stella…” he mumbles softly, gasping for air. He knows he’s dying, is not happy about it, and wants to be with his baby as he goes. Back to Hell again for him, he supposes. But the body cannot stay alive for long, and expires before he can reach her. The corpse is left lying where it came to rest.
The ghost is sent hurtling into the afterlife, as has happened so many times before. This has become a tiresome routine for him, and he waits to get his bearings and see where he ended up.
“Hello, Roscoe,” says a female voice, and he looks around in confusion. This is new to him. Everything is still dark, but he can feel a presence around him, one that slightly reminds him of Glinda.
“Where am I?” he asks, puzzled, and can ‘feel’ her smiling.
“Where do you think?” she replies, and he frowns.
“Hell. But you don’t seem like any demon I’ve ever known.”
He has, in fact, known quite a few. However, it occurs to him that this could be some kind of demonic trick; confuse the new arrival, leave him vulnerable for torment. Demons are quite ingenious at torment.
“You have suffered greatly, Roscoe. You spent decades in Hell, years as a disembodied spirit, and been parted from your loved ones….many of whom, in turn, have rejected you. Your suffering has not gone unnoticed, and neither have your crimes. But you have paid for them, at least in part. And your sins were wiped away when you slew the demon with the sword.”
“So what are you saying..?” he asks slowly, still confused.
“Welcome to Paradise, Roscoe.”
“No. No, I refuse to believe it. This is a trick.”
“You can reject it, of course. The cycle of rebirth, death, and rebirth can continue, if you want it to. But you prayed for it to end, and we heard you. You can be free.”
“I want to be free,” he murmurs, hope welling up, and she smiles again at that hope. “Will I ever see any of my friends…my family again?”
“A few. Many are on track to never make it here, but things can change. It was fortunate for you that you had several lifetimes to change your own fate,” she reminds him sternly, and he nods. Many never get that chance.
“Thank you,” he says gratefully, smiling at the presence. “I’m ready to go now.”
He feels a gentle hand on his shoulder, though he sees no hand and he has no corporeal shoulder, and they are gone.
(OOC: This is probably the happiest ending I can give him, since he was tired of life and things had just gone terribly south for him in recent weeks, and yet I still feel sad about killing him off. Well, he’ll be happy now, which he deserves after all the hell we put him through. I’ll miss playing him and with the rest of you, so thank you for the good times.)
When: Sometime after meeting with Axel
Where: Under the bridge
Home again. He trudges through the bushes to his little room under the bridge, but when he reaches the clearing surrounding his territory, is shocked and enraged to see someone else occupying it. A ragged man, clearly homeless, is sitting next to his fireplace. The old iron door is propped open, and another man is lounging in the doorway. The electric fence must have been shorted out when Axel and his shoes were fried by it, so the men seized the opportunity to take a fairly sweet set-up…shelter, fireplace, makeshift toilet, the works.
Roscoe sees red. This is his home, and these usurpers had no right to take it. He furiously storms over, Stella in hand, and they look up at him with languid curiosity.
“You are trespassing. Leave now,” Roscoe orders them sharply, and they laugh.
“You don’t own the park, man,” one says with a snicker.
“No, but I set up all of this myself. This is my home, so get out.”
“Right. Well, it’s ours now, asshole. Fuck off,” the guy by the fireplace growls, flipping the finger.
Roscoe puts Stella down on the ground and prepares to chase them away, wishing he had his powers. With telekinesis, he could simply toss the men aside and be done with it, or mind-control them into never returning. But all he has right now are his own skills -- weakened as they are by the drugs. He doesn’t even have any weapons with him.
When he aggressively approaches, one of them pulls out a knife.
“Last warning, pal,” the guy says, expression hardening, but Roscoe keeps coming. Suddenly he spins at the man with the knife, easily knocking him to the ground and the knife from his hand, but it makes him feel a bit unsteady on his feet. He pauses to get his bearings, still keeping a wary eye on the man’s companion, but out of nowhere a pipe makes contact with the back of his head.
“What the..?” Roscoe groans in pain as he falls to the ground, seeing stars.
There was a third man present all along.
The third man swings the pipe at Roscoe’s head again, thoroughly stunning him. Blood begins to ooze from his scalp and he lets out a soft moan. But the men aren’t interested in simply teaching him a lesson, so the second one on his feet picks up the knife and walks over.
“You asked for it,” he mutters as he slams the knife into Roscoe’s back. He pulls it out and stabs him again. And again. Lungs are punctured, the heart is nicked. Roscoe coughs out some blood, but the man isn’t done stabbing. The ghost’s presence in the body strengthens it somewhat, but there is no telekinesis to heal the wounds or stave off excessive blood loss.
“I think you killed him,” the third man observes, noting their victim isn’t moving. The man with the bloody knife stops and kicks at the body, watching it roll a couple of feet.
“I need to get drunk,” he grunts, turning away, and they go tend to their comrade who’d been knocked senseless by the spinning attack.
Roscoe opens his eyes, breathing weakly and trying to crawl to Stella, who sits a few feet away.
“Stella…” he mumbles softly, gasping for air. He knows he’s dying, is not happy about it, and wants to be with his baby as he goes. Back to Hell again for him, he supposes. But the body cannot stay alive for long, and expires before he can reach her. The corpse is left lying where it came to rest.
The ghost is sent hurtling into the afterlife, as has happened so many times before. This has become a tiresome routine for him, and he waits to get his bearings and see where he ended up.
“Hello, Roscoe,” says a female voice, and he looks around in confusion. This is new to him. Everything is still dark, but he can feel a presence around him, one that slightly reminds him of Glinda.
“Where am I?” he asks, puzzled, and can ‘feel’ her smiling.
“Where do you think?” she replies, and he frowns.
“Hell. But you don’t seem like any demon I’ve ever known.”
He has, in fact, known quite a few. However, it occurs to him that this could be some kind of demonic trick; confuse the new arrival, leave him vulnerable for torment. Demons are quite ingenious at torment.
“You have suffered greatly, Roscoe. You spent decades in Hell, years as a disembodied spirit, and been parted from your loved ones….many of whom, in turn, have rejected you. Your suffering has not gone unnoticed, and neither have your crimes. But you have paid for them, at least in part. And your sins were wiped away when you slew the demon with the sword.”
“So what are you saying..?” he asks slowly, still confused.
“Welcome to Paradise, Roscoe.”
“No. No, I refuse to believe it. This is a trick.”
“You can reject it, of course. The cycle of rebirth, death, and rebirth can continue, if you want it to. But you prayed for it to end, and we heard you. You can be free.”
“I want to be free,” he murmurs, hope welling up, and she smiles again at that hope. “Will I ever see any of my friends…my family again?”
“A few. Many are on track to never make it here, but things can change. It was fortunate for you that you had several lifetimes to change your own fate,” she reminds him sternly, and he nods. Many never get that chance.
“Thank you,” he says gratefully, smiling at the presence. “I’m ready to go now.”
He feels a gentle hand on his shoulder, though he sees no hand and he has no corporeal shoulder, and they are gone.
(OOC: This is probably the happiest ending I can give him, since he was tired of life and things had just gone terribly south for him in recent weeks, and yet I still feel sad about killing him off. Well, he’ll be happy now, which he deserves after all the hell we put him through. I’ll miss playing him and with the rest of you, so thank you for the good times.)