I have this sketch in my sketchbook of Random‘s Miriah Xiong pointing a gun at Loki’s head while a slightly concerned/confused Sigmund looks on. This was not the scene I originally envisioned for the picture, but oh well. Gotta love the random (no pun intended) alternate universe badplot device. Apologies to Random for appropriating his character (albeti briefly) at the end…
It feels like having your soul ripped out from the inside without it having the good graces to leave the rest of your body behind. Inside out, upside down, falling and swirling and I shouldn’t have to take this crap; fucking voidborn prophecy child bullshit and I can’t even stop myself falling this very small distance.
When I hit, it feels like slamming into a ceiling from the downside, and it takes me a few moments to realise it’s actually grass tickling my nose, and not fragments of smashed cartildge. It feels like it should be, like I’ve been through the wash on the heavy duty cycle then handed over to the drier for some more goodtime fun.
I’m used to pain. I don’t like being disorientated, it makes me angry.
I’m currently very, very angry, and if I could remember where I put my feet, someone might be in a lot of trouble.
“Hey… are you alright?”
As usual, Sigmund’s voice is the ice pack and handful of asprin my poor abused little soul needs.
“No.” It’s meant to be a manly, pissed off growl… in reality it just sounds kind of shaky. I think I’m going to vomit.
My feet are thankfully where I left them, but I don’t think my legs are. I manage to sit anyway; it’s awkward, but my legs aren’t really designed for it, and it’s nothing new. Nothing seems broken, or damaged at all really; sort of like the feeling after waking from a dream cut short by a long fall. An awful lot like that, actually. Except that I didn’t go to sleep in a park, and one I don’t recognise to boot.
Sigmund is silouetted against a streetlamp, he reaches hesitantly forward before pulling back somewhat. “Do… you want me to call someone?”
I shake my head, stand, stretch and open my mouth to say, ‘Where the hell are we?’ when I get interrupted by a gasp.
“Holy fuck.”
Now, I’m a modern kind of ancient god; I watch TV, go to the movies, hell, I’ve even been know to pick up the occasional comic. As such, I know that when the person you go to bed next to every night — and have done so for quite some time — who knows all your secrets and keeps coming back regardless, when that person meets you in a park you don’t recognise, treats you like a stranger, then says ‘holy fuck’ when you turn out to not, in fact, be a bum, but a seven foot tall demon thing… when all that happens, you’ve probably fallen into an alternate dimension. Again.
I love cutting the angst.
This realisation on my behalf, however, does not change the fact that Sigmund looks like he’s about to either scream or faint or both, and I’m halfway through a stretch and am sure I’ve got the kind of expression on my face usually reserved for teenages caught masturbating. Luckily I have very, very fast reflexes when I want to.
I’m behind Sigmund before he can breathe — one hand over his mouth and the other around his waist, and tail wrapped hard around his legs for good measure — and pull him back into the shadows a little. He stumbles a little, but I won’t let him fall. His mind feels like it’s about to blank out on me, so I grab hold of that, too, make sure to press on all the right places to take the fight and the fear right out of him. It’s too easy — dead though she may be, my Sigmund still has the heart of a goddess and a mind like iron to go with it — but this Sigmund is all human boy. I decide that I’ll think about what to do with this information at a later date.
“Your name is Sigmund Gregor Sussman, you’re 22, you like computers and hate your middle name. You’re afraid of bats and won’t walk under a ladder for fear of getting bad luck. You also have a scar on your inner thigh form an accident when you were a kid.” — I really hope this is right or I’m going to look a bit silly. — “I know this because you’re the reincarnation of my dead wife and I spend a lot of time obsessing over you and you spend a lot of time letting me. I also think I’ve somehow fallen into an alternate dimension so I know who you are, but you don’t recognise me. I just want to go home, and I’m not going to hurt you. Okay?”
I can feel Sigmund’s mind turning over; I release it, pull back feeling a little uncomfortable at being in there in the first place. Eventually he nods — he’s seen the same movies I have, I guess — and I let him go. He stumbles forward a little but doesn’t run, instead turns to look at me. He’s still afraid, but I recognise his expression as more curious now, and I sidestep slightly so I’m in better light.
Eventually, he says; “Actually my middle name’s Ivan and the scar is on my stomach.”
“… oh. I was close.” I shurg; I’m not a guy for subtle movements, and when you’re a seven foot tall demon thing, an exaggerated shurg can look pretty threatening in bad lighting to the wrong person.
“What the shit is going on here?” It’s a woman’s voice, and I don’t recognise it. This doesn’t bother me overmuch. The sound of the safety being clicked on a gun, however, does.
Why does the wrong person always happen to me?
2166 days ago
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