( Having said his rueful goodbyes to his home, his master, and his ill-begotten body, Gallagher closes his stolen eyes and ceases to exist.
...For a little while, anyway.
It seems that fickle fate his more in store for a wretch like him. Or, more likely, Gallagher isn't as ready to leave this world as he puts on. It's reasonable when you put it that way. Death must be as difficult to dreams, memories, and constructs as it is to those made of other, more natural means.
So, if some stubborn, human part of him doesn't want to go, so be it. Time is a vast, endless plane, so he should be allowed to explore it for a moment more. )
Would you believe me if you said I lost my ticket? Carried away by a strong gust of wind. ( It's all humor, nothing weighed down by solemnity in the voice of a living-dead man as his hands find their way to a glimmering glass tumbler. He tosses it, catches it, judges the weight of tangible reality and decides not to pursue that train of thought. He drops in a few ice cubes instead. )
What'll it be?
( Can he gathering the emotions from the world around him and wring their contents out in a cocktail? A strip of film from March 7th's camera, a prize won from a gacha machine Stelle poured too many coins into... they'd flow smoothly on the back of a scorned tongue, but nothing happens when he touches them.
no subject
...For a little while, anyway.
It seems that fickle fate his more in store for a wretch like him. Or, more likely, Gallagher isn't as ready to leave this world as he puts on. It's reasonable when you put it that way. Death must be as difficult to dreams, memories, and constructs as it is to those made of other, more natural means.
So, if some stubborn, human part of him doesn't want to go, so be it. Time is a vast, endless plane, so he should be allowed to explore it for a moment more. )
Would you believe me if you said I lost my ticket? Carried away by a strong gust of wind. ( It's all humor, nothing weighed down by solemnity in the voice of a living-dead man as his hands find their way to a glimmering glass tumbler. He tosses it, catches it, judges the weight of tangible reality and decides not to pursue that train of thought. He drops in a few ice cubes instead. )
What'll it be?
( Can he gathering the emotions from the world around him and wring their contents out in a cocktail? A strip of film from March 7th's camera, a prize won from a gacha machine Stelle poured too many coins into... they'd flow smoothly on the back of a scorned tongue, but nothing happens when he touches them.
Real liquor it is. )