> Dave: Ascertain ; monologue // closed // finished
who ; timeturntable; monologue for clarification purposes
what ; Dave sees an old friend for the first time since his arrival.
where ; Casa del Strider; junkyard.
when ; February 8th.
warning(s) ; Weird time shit.
> Accept.
They're almost done.
Dave's been packing for the past twenty-four hours. Sure, he's slept a little - and that really does mean a little, it's much more difficult to sleep peacefully when the silence keeps bringing certain images back to the front of your mind, and rap isn't the best of lullabies - but for the most part, he's been keeping himself busy. It shows, too, when he looks in the mirror and allows himself to take off his glasses, to see the dark circles and cracked capillaries under his already blood-red eyes.
So he just doesn't look, choosing instead to keep boxing more and more crap up. There must be a hundred smuppets, scattered all over the damn place, and Dave makes a note to punch Bro (ironically) whenever he gets back.
If he gets back.
That thought throws Dave off, honestly, so he tries as hard as he can to pretend it never happened. Cool kids like him, they don't have any room for doubt. So he seals up the last box, writing a few indistinguishable symbols on the top with a red sharpie, and drags it out to the main room.
He makes it all the way to the recliner before the door bursts open, and he sees himself stumble in, panting and sweating in a rumpled black suit.
“Five minutes.” The other Dave points out the door, towards the teleporter, and barks out a breathless "Run!" Dave overcomes his shock almost immediately. In a flash, he's out the door, not even bothering to look back behind him. He turns, taking the dark alleys he knows by this point, avoiding openly visible areas where possible with ludicrous bursts of speed and odd turns.
Wouldn't do to let the omnipotent furry asshole see him, after all.
In four minutes, he's made it to the Junkyard, and a flash of strawberry-blonde, freckled coolkid on top of a bundle of debris lets him know exactly where he needs to be. The other Dave gives a thumbs-up, tables already floating at his side, and then in an instant he scratches - and is gone. Dave dashes over, rooting through the pile frantically- holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fucking hell it's about time- and then the familiar vinyls are under his hands once again, covered in dust and gravel but fully intact.
Dave feels like he could scream right now, exulting fortune and himself and everything else. But he doesn't, of course, because what the hell kind of coolkid pulls that sort of shit? Instead, he flashes to the top of the pile, dragging the records back in a quick jump-
> Accelerate.
and for a moment
he is flying in reverseand as he drags himself through
he lands, posture as unmistakably cool as ever. He sees himself, dashing into the junkyard at speeds faster than most humans should be able to follow, and with something akin to a smirk he gives himself a thumbs-up. Then the tables are under his fingers again, because there's something more important to do than fulfilling the stable loops right now, and that's-
dragging himself backward
further and further towards that momentseconds then minutes then-
It is a disorienting feeling, being ripped out of time's flow and set back in and not having any control over the matter. The tables have locked, refusing to spin any further backwards, and no matter how hard he tries he finds himself stuck in this moment. This time, he's not able to hold it back - he does yell, obscenities that stream from words to gibberish, and by the end he's just screaming inarticulate rancor at everything, the empty junkyard around him and the false hope he'll be getting (five minutes, forty-two seconds from now) and the deaths he's absolutely powerless to try and stop.
Of course, he knows it's pointless. There's nothing that can be done here. And then, when that thought occurs, he realizes that even with these, there's still nothing he could have done.
The timeline must remain stable, after all. And even though what has happened cannot be changed, the future remains a far more malleable construct.
So he straightens up, taking a few deep breaths to collect himself as he swaps out his black suit from his sylladex, and then he is running back, heading straight for the soon-to-be abandoned apartment. He makes it there just in time, bursting through the door, panting and sweating from the absurd speed he's been keeping himself at, and as he looks up through fogged sunglasses he sees a look of unironic shock on his face.
That's right, you stupid bastard. Time to get things rolling.
“Five minutes.” He points out the door, towards the junkyard, in the direction he just ran. The other Dave drops the box, his leg muscles already tightening as he prepares to dash, and Dave can't help but smirk in exhilaration even as his lungs protest his next breath.
“Run!”
Paradox space finishes its loop, and the stream continues its flow. As it always has, as it always will.
> Ascend.
There is work to be done.
what ; Dave sees an old friend for the first time since his arrival.
where ; Casa del Strider; junkyard.
when ; February 8th.
warning(s) ; Weird time shit.
> Accept.
They're almost done.
Dave's been packing for the past twenty-four hours. Sure, he's slept a little - and that really does mean a little, it's much more difficult to sleep peacefully when the silence keeps bringing certain images back to the front of your mind, and rap isn't the best of lullabies - but for the most part, he's been keeping himself busy. It shows, too, when he looks in the mirror and allows himself to take off his glasses, to see the dark circles and cracked capillaries under his already blood-red eyes.
So he just doesn't look, choosing instead to keep boxing more and more crap up. There must be a hundred smuppets, scattered all over the damn place, and Dave makes a note to punch Bro (ironically) whenever he gets back.
If he gets back.
That thought throws Dave off, honestly, so he tries as hard as he can to pretend it never happened. Cool kids like him, they don't have any room for doubt. So he seals up the last box, writing a few indistinguishable symbols on the top with a red sharpie, and drags it out to the main room.
He makes it all the way to the recliner before the door bursts open, and he sees himself stumble in, panting and sweating in a rumpled black suit.
“Five minutes.” The other Dave points out the door, towards the teleporter, and barks out a breathless "Run!" Dave overcomes his shock almost immediately. In a flash, he's out the door, not even bothering to look back behind him. He turns, taking the dark alleys he knows by this point, avoiding openly visible areas where possible with ludicrous bursts of speed and odd turns.
Wouldn't do to let the omnipotent furry asshole see him, after all.
In four minutes, he's made it to the Junkyard, and a flash of strawberry-blonde, freckled coolkid on top of a bundle of debris lets him know exactly where he needs to be. The other Dave gives a thumbs-up, tables already floating at his side, and then in an instant he scratches - and is gone. Dave dashes over, rooting through the pile frantically- holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fucking hell it's about time- and then the familiar vinyls are under his hands once again, covered in dust and gravel but fully intact.
Dave feels like he could scream right now, exulting fortune and himself and everything else. But he doesn't, of course, because what the hell kind of coolkid pulls that sort of shit? Instead, he flashes to the top of the pile, dragging the records back in a quick jump-
> Accelerate.
and for a moment
he is flying in reverseand as he drags himself through
he lands, posture as unmistakably cool as ever. He sees himself, dashing into the junkyard at speeds faster than most humans should be able to follow, and with something akin to a smirk he gives himself a thumbs-up. Then the tables are under his fingers again, because there's something more important to do than fulfilling the stable loops right now, and that's-
dragging himself backward
further and further towards that momentseconds then minutes then-
It is a disorienting feeling, being ripped out of time's flow and set back in and not having any control over the matter. The tables have locked, refusing to spin any further backwards, and no matter how hard he tries he finds himself stuck in this moment. This time, he's not able to hold it back - he does yell, obscenities that stream from words to gibberish, and by the end he's just screaming inarticulate rancor at everything, the empty junkyard around him and the false hope he'll be getting (five minutes, forty-two seconds from now) and the deaths he's absolutely powerless to try and stop.
Of course, he knows it's pointless. There's nothing that can be done here. And then, when that thought occurs, he realizes that even with these, there's still nothing he could have done.
The timeline must remain stable, after all. And even though what has happened cannot be changed, the future remains a far more malleable construct.
So he straightens up, taking a few deep breaths to collect himself as he swaps out his black suit from his sylladex, and then he is running back, heading straight for the soon-to-be abandoned apartment. He makes it there just in time, bursting through the door, panting and sweating from the absurd speed he's been keeping himself at, and as he looks up through fogged sunglasses he sees a look of unironic shock on his face.
That's right, you stupid bastard. Time to get things rolling.
“Five minutes.” He points out the door, towards the junkyard, in the direction he just ran. The other Dave drops the box, his leg muscles already tightening as he prepares to dash, and Dave can't help but smirk in exhilaration even as his lungs protest his next breath.
“Run!”
Paradox space finishes its loop, and the stream continues its flow. As it always has, as it always will.
> Ascend.
There is work to be done.