IC CONTACT

[blowfish]

"Yo, there's no beep on this thing."

[ VOICE, VIDEO, ACTION ]

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07/14, EARLY AFTERNOON

[slushfund]

[twelve more hours pass, and hiruma finds himself kneeling in an empty 1.2, scraping up a floorboard.

nothing much under there, but it feels wrong to just leave it untouched. he knows he shouldn't be rifling through jesse's things, but without a will and testament, someone ought to take charge of the belongings now that the others can't. everyone fades with time, he's been repeating, everyone dies, just keep running; their presences don't.

is that fortunate, or unfortunate?

for someone as nostalgic as hiruma, who decides that even the nudie mags and carton of cigarettes are important to store away, it's surely the latter.

stuffing everything into his knapsack takes a long while, but he leans back against the cot with a huff of stale air after drawing out a lighter low on fuel. a few more flickers of flame and it'll snuff itself out for good—a decent life, goal achieved, leaving this place satisfied. it was put to good use. the quarterback determines to give it one last victory lap before tossing the empty container into the hole it came from.

tilting back with a scratch of the flint wheel, a head of bleach blond hair pillows on a familiar comforter, dull eyes watch it burn white paper until they close tightly, cherry of the cigarette bobbing as he draws a breath of smoke.

and the floorboard is kicked back into place with a slam of wood.]