wasteyard | network: @XXXtra_TerrestriEL

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network: @XXXtra_TerrestriEL

WHO: eliot waugh, king of shit, and whoever responds.
WHAT: network texting: he's running low on drugs so now he's hunting for booze.
WHERE: all over because he's also looking while texting.
WHEN: sent out before the event, but take your time to reply. it's not like it's going anywhere in your message history unless you delete it (and then find out you can't delete it). he's not going to not want booze two months from now.
NOTES: probably contains cursing, sexual references, and mentions of drugs and alcohol. eliot is not a role model. don't look inside if you're looking for one.

anyone found any liquor yet willing to exchange favors

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axe to the stomach still healing almost out of oxy no pharmacies

think i met that guy too

still bleeding?

oh mine wasn't a guy and she's my best friend long story yeah stitches haven't really healed well considering i haven't been able to treat it with anything since getting here surprise

[ Oh boy Logan knows how that goes too. ]

well good luck

[ hey!! ]

if you aren't going to share the beer do you at least have anything else that could help i'm dying here literally i mean we all are but i'm really dizzy from all this pain and i'm pretty sure my body's going to stop spitting our endorphins eventually and i'll just fall over and rot in a ditch since i can barely walk as it is

[ Yeah Logan's not replying to this. In fact, he closed the app right after his last message. However.. ]

[ A while later, like a couple of hours: ]

still alive?

unfortunately maybe you should just kill me now that might be easier than finding anymore alcohol

where are you

what can you see

some building in building hell yea h i know not helpful but they're all pretty samey aren't they

[ the next messages come consecutively as he thinks of them: ]

it looks kind of like a parking garage from the outside but it's actually like apartments or something i think ten floors or something like that there's a nameless fast food place across the street and a gas station adjacent lobby has an elevator but it's broken no reception stairs are in plain view of the front door sixth floor

fine

gimme ten minutes

Edited (u saw nothing) 2019-06-11 21:06 (UTC)

cool i'll just sit here and try not to die before you get here

[ maybe he needs a breather too. jesus, it's hot in here. and of course everything is starting to hurt. one pill a day was a shitty decision, but even then he really doesn't want to use up the last of his oxycodone unless absolutely necessary. this is fine. manageable. sort of. ]

[ Everywhere really does look the same, or at least the same shades of weird, but Logan manages to find the place eventually. Taking the stairs isn't as easy as it should be and he has to stop and breathe halfway up, fighting down waves of dizziness and nausea. Growling at himself and how much he hates this goddamn dusty armpit of a dimension.

Hell, he was starting to wish it was Mojoworld. At least that place made some kind of insane sense.

Reaching the sixth floor, he catches the tang of pain and blood on the air. It's not a difficult trail to follow. He doesn't bother trying to hide himself either, though the brown and tan of his costume is disguised by a grey hoodie, and he's stopped bothering wearing his cowl and gloves. A plastic bodega bag bounces against his leg.

He eyes Eliot as he approaches. ]

Sorry I'm late, bub.

[ eliot actually needed a break too. between the spikes of adrenaline and his own desperation to find anything to help with the pain other than the sparse pills remaining in his possession (best for last), his nerves are physically starting to struggle from the combination of exertion and pain. he managed to find some kind break room with a fairly decent couch, in tact, most importantly.

he's settled into it quite nicely when logan walks in, a light sheen of sweat against his features (from both pain and exertion). While still dressed in the clothing he arrived in, his overcoat hangs over the arm of the couch, his tie is loosened, and the sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up. his cane rests across his knees as he leans back, head resting against the top of the back rest as he tries to regain his bearings until he hears movement and looks up, hoping it isn't one of the shadow people trying to be a shithead.

thankfully, it's just
wait. what the fuck. is that

no way, it can't be. but with that hair and that build and that face and those fucking sideburns and and-- sorry i'm late, bub.

eliot can only stare blankly in confusion at the fact he's literally looking at a real, live not-drawn wolverine (that cowl doesn't do him any favors anyway) that not only isn't hugh jackman or remotely australian but is still just as handsome and somehow way more stacked than realistically possible (other than the fact that he's standing right there and so it must in fact be possible). and goddamn hairy. and somehow the guy who was texting him back this whole time.

eliot swallows thickly, trying to find his words again. ] No, no. You're. You're good.

[ the words were quieter than is natural, so he clears his throat. ] I didn't actually. Expect anyone to show up. Um. [ gambit was always more his type, but phew-- ] So are you going to bench press me out the window now, or did you decide to share that beer?

[ The guy looks about as healthy as Logan had expected from their brief conversation. Maybe a little worse. Illness rolls off him in waves, the too-sweet smell of infection covered in sweat and dirt and an ozone bitterness that reminds Logan, suddenly and unexpectedly, of Ororo. The smell of her hair and skin after a fight.

He pushes that particular brand of heartbreak aside to focus on the present. On the pretty, dishevelled, mortally wounded young man not quite sprawled on the couch. Sassing him. ]

Neither. [ Logan tosses the plastic bag onto the couch beside the kid's leg. If Eliot looks in the bag he'll see a couple of battered cardboard boxes of generic high strength painkillers. And a bottlecap. ]

Beer ain't gonna put a dent in that. [ He points at Eliot's gut. ] Believe me.

[ he glances at the bag briefly, giving logan a curious look before reaching for it and peeking in. oh. oh. eliot's eyes widen, brows raising in surprise as he looks back at logan. ]

Where did you find these? [ the words are soft, with awe: there's not even a pretense of his usual sarcastic behavior anymore. he clearly finds this far more meaningful than any alcohol that could have been offered. ] I. I couldn't find any anywhere.

[ everything just ended up being sugar pills, which do absolutely nothing in the way of dampening pain, though they did help with the endorphin production a little. ]

Thank you. [ he lets his cane slide off a knee to settle between his legs as he plucks out a box from the bag and carefully unpacks the bottle. for as unkempt and pallid as he presently appears, there's clear sophistication in his mannerisms, someone who tries to remain neat even when dealt a poor hand. ] Yeah, I know it won't. I just. Figured if I was going to go out, I may as well get drunk before biting the bullet.

[ it's said dryly, in a way that would normally be mistaken for sarcasm, but with the original edge to his tone that had been there before long gone, it settles plainly as what it really is, the truth. ]

[ Logan grunts his agreement, recognising the bitterness in his voice. Hell, being able to finally drink himself into temporary oblivion was one of the few positive sides to losing his healing factor.

He could turn and leave. Let the kid deal on his own and go back to stalking the ruins looking for a way out. Instead, he crosses his arms and leans against the door frame, watching him. Those deft movements remind him of Remy, like he's about to start shuffling cards. ]

So, axe to the stomach, huh? What'd you do to deserve that?

[ he skims the directions on the bottle before opening it. even though his arms are starting to shake, eliot manages to peel the foil off carefully as a single piece. he only takes one because he can hear margo yelling at him from some distant plane about being irresponsible and overdosing when he shouldn't. if it's not enough, he'll know anyway. he swallows it down dry, obviously well used to the action.

there's a slow, deep breath and a sigh before he responds. god, he wishes he had a cigarette. ]

I did something stupid and unleashed an immature god with no morality clause and a knack for killing anything that doesn't agree with him. It. He? Kind of possessed me and then it was turtles all the way down. My. Friends had to deal with that while I was. Trapped. In this weird hellish mindscape, but I managed to survive in something like a mind palace. When I managed to let them know I wasn't exactly dead and gone, they started trying to figure out how to. Well. I guess it's exorcism, isn't? Anyway, Margo earned this pair of really badass axes that can purge spirits from a given vessel, so.

[ he snaps his finger to emphasize the action. there's a faint, unintentional spark as he does. his nerves aren't wholly his right now. ]

I guess if I had to pick a place, the stomach is better than losing an arm or a leg. Bambi only did what she had to though. I don't blame her.

[ It's not the weirdest explanation he's ever heard. Sounds almost like something Illyana might end up involved with, except with fewer demons.

Logan raises his eyebrows a little at the spark, though. Speaking of magic.. ]

Might change your mind if you end up dyin' of that gut wound. [ He gives an audible sniff. ] Don't smell too good.

[ he manages a laugh, even though it fucking hurts, and that he regrets, but it does give him a few more endorphins to work with for now. ]

I don't know that I could. It was my fault any of it happened anyway. I'd just be getting what's coming to me.

[ he looks up, catching logan's gaze. ]

I'd be surprised if there was ever a wound that does smell good. I can't find any alcohol though, even the non-drinking sort, so I can't really disinfect, and I can only clean it so much on my own before the bacteria is faster than I stop. It's not like I can clean my insides either.

[ he almost makes an enema joke. he decides not to. ]

[ Logan scratches his stubbly chin, thoughtful. ]

Guess you picked a pretty bad place to be injured, kid. That -- [ he snaps his fingers ] -- all you can do? No healing magic?

God, I wish. Sorry, I didn't-- [ get the chance to audition for the X-Factor, he almost blurts. but he doesn't. good on him. ] --get to choose my natural arcana.

[ not that he would have picked healing anyway since healing is slow and boring magic, but that's another thing. ]

Even transmutational magic would be nice since then I could just. Change water into alcohol, but. [ he gestures dismissively with his hand. ] Most of that sort of magic is considered off limits. Enticing people with the probability of creating a philosopher's stone just seems like a one-way ticket to kickstarting the apocalypse.

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