[The only sounds that can be heard for a few moments are those of the natural variety - wind, birds, leaves rustling... And then there's a sharp intake of breath that sounds somewhere between a panicked gulp and hiccuped sob. More silence. A bird chirps.]
I still have this thing, huh? [And to say that Bosco sounds uneasy would be an understatement
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[His tone is blatantly emotional, between shock, relief, and anger, and he's already on his way to come find you.]
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You-- you were dead. I saw them drag your body out-- what the hell happened?
[His voice is shaking slightly. Even though people have come back from the dead before here, it's never been his partner. And death is so omnipotent, so everlasting in his mind that he may never stop being stunned by these revivals.]
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I-- I died. [He can't seem to move past the confirmation.]
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Yeah. You died.
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So what the fuck does that mean then?
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[He seems to be still freaked out and worried, but has himself under control.]
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If I find a way home now I could die the second I get there.
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You're still trying to go home, though?
[Uncertainty. Bosco could be comepletely right, after all. But his opinion on the matter is that nobody goes home-- they just die here and don't come back.]
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You're not?
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Not really. It's not under my control, 's just stupid to worry about it.
[Well that, and it's really not all that different-- work as a bodyguard and investigating zombies whenever they crop up. But at least it doesn't come with odd hours and social isolation here, though the murderer makes the two options about equally desirable.]
...but anyway. What the hell happened to you? I thought they taught New York cops better than to run down dark alleys at night.
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