( picture prompt meme )

[socketeer]

the picture prompt meme I — Comment with your character. II — Others will leave a picture (or two, or three...) III — Reply to them with a setting based on the picture. IV — Link to any pictures that are NSFW, please. V — Be aware that this meme will be image-heavy. Link to an image: <a href=IMAGEURL>TEXT</a> Embed image in your reply: <img src=IMAGEURL> Image width and height: <img src=IMAGEURL width=500> OR <img src=IMAGEURL height=INSERT>

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zombocom au??

[constartist]

[ 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 ]

No. Fuck you. (Yes.)

[girasole]

[Of course it ended behind a Waffle House. Of course.

That was eventually, though.

First:

Caesar had spent the last month pretending that he was fine (grieving, but fine; upset, but fine; he was torn, but eventually he would be fine) and that worked well for a while. At least up until the point...and this was stupid, really. It was really, really stupid. But he was going through the closet and got hit on the head by Joseph's stupid shit. A cat book, more specifically.

Crafting With Cat Hair.

Caesar didn't know why Joseph had purchased it. Joseph had never owned a cat in his life. The closest Joseph had to a cat was him. (Caesar may have heard the jokes, yes.) And it was that stupid book- it was so stupid. So very stupid. But the sight of that caused him to flip. He threw it out a window in a scream of rage, tore up a few other things, and had to eventually admit that no, no he wasn't fine. He was grieving, upset, and torn, but unless something changed he wouldn't be fine. Caesar was already taking stupid risks. He got called out on a few of them, the ones that were stupid enough he couldn't hide them. The others were still secrets. Stupid, but secret.

But no. He wasn't okay. And Caesar didn't know what would make him feel okay, but he figured that a good first step would be to embrace the stereotype, find out who it was that had killed his idiot, and extract bloody vengeance inch by inch until there was nothing left. Which was remarkably calming, really, as thoughts went: he decided he'd get vengeance, and now he had a goal that wasn't aimlessly drifting until something killed him. Caesar wasn't fine, still, but he was decisively not not fine for the time being, and that was good enough.

The subsequent month...well, it wasn't as bad as the first because at least Caesar had something that he could do. When people asked, he lied. He lied so hard. He could tell that people (friends, family) were still worried about him, but at least he was purposefully in mourning opposed to drifting and mourning, leading to the popular conclusion that he just needed space. Space and time. Which Caesar did, but first he needed bloody vengeance before he could enjoy time, let alone fucking space.

But he wasn't getting to where he needed to be, which was within firing range of whoever it was that had killed his idiot. In fact, Caesar was aware that he was drifting further and further away - he had taken too long to decide to start chasing (why was he always so late?) - and the more time that passed the less likely it was that he'd catch up to the killer. And while this was giving him purpose (and it amazed, Caesar, sometimes, how calm he felt, sometimes, in all of the wrong ways) it also was denying Joseph Joestar his bloody vengeance and that's what he needed before he could be at peace.

(Which he? Both of them, at least as far as Caesar was concerned.)

And so he decided to damn his soul, because no matter how falsely calm he could pretend like he felt he was ultimately still the reckless, impulsive one of the two of them and some things ran deep.

So. Now:

He was behind a Waffle House watching the pulsating, twitching limbs of his idiot, feeling like he had done something that he should regret - should in the sense that abstractly he felt like he should be regretting it, but couldn't bring himself to do so. If the necromancer hadn't fucked off after the job was done (he had whispered something into Caesar's ear that he wasn't going to think too hard about) he'd probably hug the guy.

This was wrong, though. So, so, wrong. He knew it was wrong. He knew it had been wrong. A desecration on multiple levels. A crime. But he had no other way of doing this, because no one else had seen the killer, and, besides, there was poetic justice in enabling Joseph to get bloody vengeance from beyond the grave and that was the only reason Caesar had done this - marched into the graveyard, shovel in hand, dug up what remained, drove to a waffle House (of all the places, necromancy performed with waffles heavy in his stomach and the taste of stale coffee on his tongue) and made his deals and traded his money, and had some semblance of Joseph raised from the grave.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time- no, it had seemed like a bad idea at the time and still felt like a bad idea.

He still couldn't quite regret it.]

How- [And Caesar couldn't have this conversation without...something, he could still taste the coffee on his tongue, so, out he pulled a cigarette, lit it with a lighter (one of Joseph's own, because of course he had to 'collect' a few) and he inhaled. Exhaled.] How do you feel?

[constartist]

[ The first thought that enters Joseph's dead brain is so that's why the undead groan.

He couldn't say that he ever altogether understood much about the undead. He understood how to end the undead, and little else. And that was one mystery that he'd never quite been able to solve, one that'd haunted him and one that he's almost certain Caesar had smothered him for asking in the small hours of the morning. That was why do they all groan like that?

Not the less base vampiric sort, of course, but the raised ones. The deteriorating masses of those most repugnant and unforgivable black-magic masters. The zombies. They all shambled about, groaning - and Joseh could figure that some of them had the motor skills to at least move their tongues once in awhile. So why did they groan?

Turns out, as life assaults his corpse, it comes down to the very same reason that Joseph himself can only produce tortured moans and muffled screams. It's the very same reason that the necromancer immediately draws a knife, crushes his flailing wrist to the ground and forces his head to turn up by his throat, fingers slipping too perfectly into the five sucking gouges lining it, as his throat bulges and leaks with two month's worth of liquid death and his eyes behold something blinding and searing in the lights of the lot - and that knife tears open the thread sealing all of that foulness behind his lips.

When he finally gets to roll over and splutter all of it out, to heave with his whole body to eject the fetid and curdled black glue that had been accumulating for so long, he understands why zombies groan.

He still doesn't have his senses as Caesar pays the man his fee and sends him on his way. He's still trying to breathe air into lungs that can't hold any and to blink that brown film out of his vision. His head is still rolling as Caesar hauls him against his shoulder and guides him, mouth hanging open, legs only barely working, into the restaurant - which blinds him all over again. Caesar piles him into a booth- one by a window, thank God, because the night is so much cooler on his eyes than the fluorescents filling the diner.

And then, the very first words Caesar speaks to him since Joseph had taken his last breath heaped against a boulder in a tangle of green nowhere. How do you feel?

He turns, slowly, deliberately - his eyes are fully visible in the indoor light, crystalline blue now fishy, the whites of them burnt to a nicotine jaundice, set in sockets shadowed and sunken by decay. He regards Caesar with eyes that shouldn't be able to. His gaze is flat enough that Caesar might actually believe that it isn't one that can behold him. He'd been murdered - someone had specifically put effort into putting him out and taking his life - he'd just watched him be unborn, vomit black syrup, digest and regurgitate the stink of death itself, the afterbirth of which is still smeared across his gaunt and bloodless cheek - and Caesar lights up and makes small talk. He wants to know how he feels. Typical. It's just enough irritation to wear through the shock and to bring him back to reality. Joseph scoffs. He'd be flummoxed if he still had it in him, but instead, he just wonders if this is some sort of bizarre fever dream.

No matter how many times he reminds himself, looking at him is still hard. It is backing his patience to an edge. Relax, Joseph, relax. Bring that back down again. He's always looked so good in white.

You know how it happened. It doesn't help.

He raises one blackened finger, just one second, and pulls out the collar of his shirt. His other arm, black rot and exposed femur and fingerbone, reaches inside and fishes around for a second. A windy, rattling little hiss works through his shirt as he pulls it out, something audibly gives a releasing squelch in his direction - and from his fingers dangles a very small, very angry snake, jaws held open in anticipation, slathered in liquid decay as it twists and writhes and pulsates around Joseph's cold hands. One poor half of a couple who just so happened to look over at the wrong moment is transfixed in blatant horror. Joseph's eyesight is still bad enough that he doesn't let it distract him. ]

You want to know where this little bastard came from?

[ His voice is hoarse. Unquenchable in its dryness. Each word chafes his bloodied throat, whistles through the gouged clawmarks hidden still by his scarf. Uncomfortable and unseemly, but a miracle still, given his time spent in the ground and the nature of his wounds. The snake winds back and sinks its toothless jaws into the flesh of his wrist. It sinks farther than it should be allowed, pinching the flesh to the bone as one might squeeze clay to a wire. Joseph either doesn't notice or doesn't care. ]

I'll tell you where it came from. It's been nested in my fucking guts. This thing is alive, and I just pulled it out of my fucking guts. That's how I fucking feel, Caesar. There's snake eggs in my upper intestine and a small civilization of grubs under my skin. [ He pauses, lets his eyes wander, burgeons another smile of wonder that stretches just a bit too far to one side reveals blackening gums. ] As a matter of fact -- yes! I think I feel another little shithead snake hatching right as we speak, Caesar. What should we call them, this -- this new little family that we're cultivating? Any ideas?

[ He throws the snake on the table to wiggle around its own coils. It smears black ooze and scatters clustered dirt. ]

[girasole]

[He should be-…he should be something. He knew this. Caesar knew this. He should be feeling something. He should be having some kind of reaction, some kind of passionate response: he should have words frothing to the surface, spilling out like vomit. He should be saying something. He should know what to say. There should be words for this, words, he was always filled with words, but now he was numb.

Joseph stared at him with empty eyes, and then pulled out a snake like it was the world’s worst magic trick. Caesar breathed in smoke. Things growing. A snake rolling in his intestin- snakes rolling in Joseph’s intestine. Caesar closed his eyes, breathed in more smoke, savored the taste of it. He had things he wanted to say. Sentimental things. Apologetic things. Pretty things: roses red, violets blue, things that didn’t matter but were worth saying anyway. Caesar had hoped…well, he had hoped for a lot of things. One of them was that Joseph-…that he might not look alive, but maybe alive enough that he could pretend and-

But Joseph didn’t, and that was for the best. And the necromancer couldn’t work magic to make it otherwise. And Caesar didn’t even have the luxury of knowing that if only he had gotten someone better things might be different, because, as shitty as it was (and it was shitty) he had gotten the best he could with the resources he had. This was-

It didn’t matter. He opened his eyes again, glanced down at the snake-]

Josephine if it’s a girl. If a boy then…I’d have to think about it as I refuse to name anything Joseph Junior. It has your eyes. [It didn’t. He didn’t care.] As for the others I’d have to see them before I could decide. [To business was what he wanted to say, but for the time being he was- he could pretend, for a moment or two. It was difficult, but he’d pretend.]

[constartist]

[ Josephine if it's a girl.

They should call it Josephine if it's a girl.

The snake twists and slithers toward the edge of the table, falling in a creamy ribbon against his trousers and to the floor. Dead enough to raise a family of snakes in his innards, and this is what he has to say about it. Quintessential. Joseph's jaw looks about ready to rot off as he takes it in, this prematurely aborted conversation. He runs his hand back over his mess of hair, groomed and combed back from his face after he'd been dressed in his Sunday best too many weeks ago. ]

Are you -- this is what you -- is this real? Am I fucking stroking out? Am I still dying? [ They're in a waffle house, and he'd just thrown a snake from his own bowels at Caesar, and the most that he can say is that they should name it Josephine. His filmy eyes shake in their sockets as he tries to spread the situation before himself. ]

Is this -- fucking -- did you get some hack amateur to do this? Is that what's happening? Is my brain still dying? What the fuck is this? Why-- [ Spreads his hands, all ten rotting fingers, palms still abraded from a flight that Joseph wasn't destined to see through, in surrender. ] No, no, whatever, it's fine. I'll save us both the trouble and find myself a car to jump in front of. How's that? Does that work for you?

[girasole]

Yes, thank you. Thank you for that. [He’s calm. Oh so calm. And the way he ground his cigarette into the dish was thorough. He stabbed it into the dish, twisted it, left it there.]

We have another argument and then you’re off to die - again. [And then, as if he had thought of something-] Actually, I’ve got an idea. I can find a car and throw myself in front of it and we can continue this wherever it is you were brought from. Wherever it was you were summoned from. However much of you was pulled from it. Well. At least you still have your charming sense of humor. I shouldn’t have expected too much.

To actually answer your questions: no, the man was actually quite accomplished and far from an amateur, and, no, you do not get to know how much I spent on it. [Breathe. Why did he- he needed a cigarette. Already. Again.] If your brain is still dying? Well, I haven’t noticed much of a change. Take that as you will.

[Then:] You died. I dragged you back. I dragged you back, Jojo, because before I can rest I need to find whatever it was that killed you and avenge you. Ideally having you avenge your own death, but, if you’re sick and tired of speaking to me, then tell me what it was that killed you - if you know - and then you can fuck off and die again for all I care and I’ll join you in good time.

[constartist]

And thank you for doing the good Christian thing and agreeing to let me die alone again, just because the first time was so great. Real jazzed for a repeat.

[ If only he had died alone.

And there we go, the truth comes out. He really did spend all of this on a business call. The worst business call of Joseph's career about to become Caesar's. He was desecrated and pulled screaming from his rest to play second banana to his revenge porn. This, just like so many of Caesar's decisions, was one made just for him. Joseph should really have known that he wasn't something that was an actual factor in this hare-brained scheme, just a means to an end. Serpents wind an angry knot in his gut, and if he were only outside, then he would dig them out and throw more at Caesar's feet. His head is thick with sludge, bulging his skull from the inside. He slaps his hand down stiffly on a pile of napkins and skims it for a handful, wadding them to his nose.

Joseph scoffs in thin, tired disbelief. As disgusted as he is, this Caesar is such a departure from the last Caesar that Joseph saw. This is the real Caesar - selfish and ruthless. The line deepens. It's easier to manage. ]

Caesar -- I don't know. I don't have the first fucking clue about what they were. If I did, we wouldn't be having this conversation, because they wouldn't have killed me. The only way I'd ever tell you is if I could force you away from pursuing it. You get it?

[ Joseph's senses are emerging from death one by one, and the strings of dark ichor he pulls from his sinuses next begins to stir his nose back to life. Smoke. Joseph looks up. Cigarettes. He cringes, covers his mouth and his nose in his hand, turns away. The night is cooler on his eyes. He can't see him there, a perfect and glowing white silhouette, a streak of silvery paint shining in the shadow of the wood, of drooping and verdant greens. Watching.

Stop. It wasn't him. The moment still rings between his ears. ]

Would you please put that out.

[girasole]

[If Joseph had been alive this would’ve been the point in which Caesar would’ve blown smoke in his face and flicked ashes at his feet. As he was not (and one look at Joseph’s blind eyes was enough - could he see a thing) he thoughtfully regarded the cigarette in his hands before he viciously stabbed it into the plate. Two and counting cigarettes. He nearly wanted to light up a third. Caesar wanted to light up a third, but no. No, he left it smoldering there. Stared at it for a moment. Looked away.

It was nice outside. Calm and cool. Pleasant. For one moment all he could think was don’t they sell snake poison? and then I could have Jojo drink it and maybe that would take care of some of the things that’s twisting in his body. And then Caesar hated himself and actually considered that car, but no, he pulled Joseph away and so this was his task to see through.]

You must. [Business was safer.] Even if you don’t remember what it was- you must remember where it was it happened. How it happened. You must remember something…anything. Because I will chase this. I have to chase this. Until- [Breathe. Calm.

The worst would be discovering that he had done all of this for nothing. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Breathe.]

Well, if it would make you feel better we could go outside and you do what you must.

[constartist]

[ Something visibly releases in Joseph as Caesar's cigarette is snuffed - not a breath, but a slackening of his shoulders and a loosening at his jaw. He glances over to gauge Caesar across the table, to gird himself for some petty betrayal, a third cigarette lit in its place. There isn't one. Joseph drops his hand from his mouth and leaves the blackened napkins balled up near the window. A nasty surprise for the poor waitress to clean up later. Why should a dead man care? He thinks he hears the snake hissing limply on the ground under his seat, curled up near his heel. He'll crush it if he moves his foot back - he doesn't care about that much, either.

He lets Caesar run through his half-hearted little declaration of war. He doesn't even look at him. He rests his forehead in his palm and he keeps his gaze fixed on the night as it passes them by. ]

So I can help you, or I can go die again. Charming. [ If Caesar even noticed that he was gone, he sure is doing an expert job of concealing it. Joseph lets his arm slap against the table like a plank. ] What did you bring me back here for? To make you feel better about yourself? That's all this is. I couldn't give a shit about my revenge, and you know that I couldn't. This is all about you.

[ Caesar had resurrected him strictly to inject his beliefs into the meaning of Joseph's continued existence. He doesn't know that he's ever heard of anything more perfectly Caesar in his life. ]

[girasole]

Yes. You’re absolutely correct. It was just to make me feel better. Only to make me feel better. And, obviously, how I goddamned feel about things doesn’t matter- all I nee- I must ask! Do you hate me, Jojo? I’ve been wondering. Besides the fact I raised you from the dead and pissed on your soul just to try to get some answers, which would piss any of us off! I know that! But is that what all of this is? Because it feels like it. That all along-

[And this was the point in which he realized he was starting to shout. The couple was staring. He flicked them a gesture, a vulgar one of the sort he normally didn’t do, but in moments like this it felt nothing but appropriate. Breathe. Breathe. Goddamn breathe. The lighter turned around in his hand.

Instead, he reached into his pocket. Pulled out his phone, placed it on the table, and then- ha, slid it towards Jojo. Caesar smiled, in that tight way which implied that he was actually a few minutes away from something violent and raw but was trying very hard to avoid it. That feral sort of half-moon slash of a smile.]

I’m going to go outside and smoke.

[constartist]

[ Rich melodrama coming from the man who, presumably, slept like a baby through Joseph's murder.

Careful, Joseph, some still barely mortal part of him says. It's on the tip of his tongue. If he let that arrow fly, he knows that he could probably get Caesar to put him back where he belonged himself. The easy way out here wasn't suicide, but his own lover. The thought manages the impossible and puts a chill in his dead spine. Joseph still keeps his eyes on the parking lot outside as Caesar rants. He isn't sure if his attention would give him the pleasure anymore, but he won't risk it. Instead, he sits, breathless and bloodless and unmoving. Like a true corpse. He's playing the part well, but he supposes that only makes sense.

The only action he acknowledges is the phone, pushed over the invisible border and to his side of the table. Joseph's filmy gaze slides down to it. He contemplates it. The message is clear enough. Do it yourself. He figures that he should at least let Caesar leave before he pulls the phone toward himself with wooden fingers. He opens it - still the same passcode as before, and he's surprised he remembers it - and he pads clumsily through his contacts. It doesn't take long to find one referencing a meeting tonight, but what does take long is Joseph trying to force the phone to acknowledge his dead hands and cold fingerprints. He couldn't have just used a Ouija board or something, Joseph thinks bitterly. He had to go the full mile.

Eventually, he manages, and he's too through with the effort to correct his mangled mess of a message; ]

Puutnmenback

[ And then, while he waits for a response, he jams the back button until it takes and he scrolls through his other contacts. He's a dead man. He's elevated above petty moral concerns like privacy right? Who cares. He'll be gone again soon anyways. ]

I guess I lied.

[girasole]

[The personal contacts were uninspiring. The exchanges with friends were tepid; the exchanges were family even more so. He was asked to go get dinner and he politely demurred - if Jojo looked into them he'd see a lot of excuses. Mainly work.

...the business contacts had multiplied. There's a number of new names on that list, and a number of names which no- there was a That One Guy near the bottom, who Caesar always complained about because while he always had work, his work was always riskier than Caesar had preferred and without enough of a reward to justify it. That One Guy apparently had done a lot of business with Caesar recently.

If Joseph went further into the phone he'd notice that a lot of what was personal had been removed from the phone. Stupid games, stupid apps - gone. Pictures were-...they were still there, but it had been moved from page one to a dark corner. As if it had been shoved into the metaphorical closet and Caesar only went there, on occasion.

But that doesn't matter.

This is what matters.

There's a response. And it reads.]

cheeks? is that you? course it is i got caller id but play along.

[Then.]

didn't go well? arseholed already?
sorry to hear it and all but im a busy man.
if you need somebody to talk to theres gotta be somebody else you can ring up.
least not unless you got something to sweeten the deal...

[constartist]

[ Socially, Caesar has never exactly been a butterfly, and Joseph's halfway certain that he downloaded most of those stupid games himself onto his phone in some misguided spree to give Caesar "something to do." He supposes it's no real surprise that he's been avoiding what friends he manages, and that the games have been wiped since he last saw his phone, but it's still a change worth noting, and one that pulls him to look further and further. The phone wasn't Caesar's phone anymore, it was his job's phone. What else had he missed?

He's digging around for all of the pictures he'd hauled him into before when a response buzzes in.

Far from an amateur, Caesar had said. An accomplished man. A professional. A twinge of irritation tightens behind his eyes. Some hack sleazeball making a nice paycheque out of the grieving of others. People called them opportunistic leeches back when Joseph was still working - what did that make this guy? He starts to pound on the touchscreen keyboard. ]

Yeaijjjuwstnfrgotbhowtotttesxt

Ddonni souhndmlikexxhuimyiou bllithnerinngniddiot
Immthefuvckingnncrorpse younjusstndug up
Andxiwantvvuou to bput me bback

[ Cheeks. Who is this jackass? They've been talking long enough to have an impressive backlog of messages, and you can bet Joseph's going to scroll up through those to find out. ]

[girasole]

[Immediately:]

holy shit.
he gave you the phone dead man? didn’t see this coming
hold on

[And then there’s silence, which would give Joseph more than enough time to pry into their chat history. Because yes, there is an impressive backlog of messages. A month and a half’s worth. Things that Joseph could learn:

It started about a month and a half ago. If the messages appeared to start in media res, it was quickly cleared up by a few references to some kind of work…apparently they had met on the job. Specifically one of That One Guy’s jobs. As it turned out, a lot of That One Guy’s contractors agreed that he was kind of an ass. Because he was.

The two of them didn’t hit it off, but they didn’t not hit it off. However, working for an ass tended to bring people together and this seemed to be one of those cases. Their messages tended to be about death, grieving, loss, and work, really. (Which sounds dramatic but it was in a very superficial way…or at least seemingly superficial way. “You know, Cheeks-“ “Caesar.” “Cheeks. I got asked by folk like you before to perform a seance but that’s all smoke and mirrors. I hate ‘em but that’s what it takes to keep the bills paid and food on my table. You get me?”) This all changed a month ago in which Caesar contacted this guy to say that he was starting to search- no, hunt, and this guy said good. You do you. And Caesar said yes, but he might need some help. And the necromancer said sure.

…but it’ll cost you.

And then came a spike in Caesar throwing himself into work. (There were implied phone calls that happened at this point, breaking up the chat history.)

Three weeks ago an unspecified something didn’t work. Or it did work, but didn’t work in the way that Caesar, apparently, needed it to work. And he was frustrated. In a rare show of emotion, Caesar had lashed out - mainly at himself, really - but talked about how he waited so long to chase that the killer was getting so far away, and so small things weren’t going to bridge that distance. He needed to do something more. And the necromancer agreed.

Two weeks ago came Caesar asking if they could question one of the victims of whatever it was that killed his Joseph because he didn’t have enough information, he didn’t know, the killer was getting further away, to which the necromancer said sure. They could do that. But they only really knew one person for sure who had been killed by that thing. (And this was the point in which, while ‘Cheeks’ had come up before, he switched to it as his main way of addressing Caesar.) And Caesar said he had to think about it.

And the necromancer said sure.

Take your time, Cheeks.

A few days later Caesar said he was in. Then came dickering about price- there was a lot of talk about prices, and one might get the sense that it wasn’t just in the cost of the job. Talk about condition, talk about options, talk about bribes-

But hey, there’s a response!]

sorry dead man had to get something heavier to deal with this
normally it’ll cost you but i’ll give you three questions on the house seeing as it is im the reason you’re here after all
like im your dad or something
a mans gotta take responsibility for his kids if you get what im saying dead man
but enough about that were talking business
and you say you want me to put you back? real hard to tell for sure given your typing but thats what it’s sounding like
you don’t know what i do do you? cheeks didn’t either. still think he don’t

[constartist]

Josseph

[ It's obviously not going to help very much, judging by Caesar's earlier attempts.

He has a timeline now, at least, something that he could follow and answer some of his own questions with. This plan, then, had been some time and effort in the making. This was no spur-of-the-moment decision, not even the beginning of his revenge mission - which was practically suicide, but he couldn't expect that this man knew or even cared about that. He'd thrown himself into his work to afford this desecration. Joseph reads all that he can, from the bottom up, and watches this procession in reverse, from the outburst to the very first middling and minimal conversations. Caesar was always such a child with his emotions, and so, it doesn't come as a terrible shock. Angry and frustrated. Joseph never did find out if he was actually capable of any other emotions.

But what he'll never understand is this fellow, most paramount of curiosities. That Caesar even let himself become acquainted with someone like this, so sleazy that he could practically feel it oozing through the screen An accomplished man. Not a hack amateur. Was he honestly so desperate that he would consider getting scammed by this loser just to champion a cause? Did he know that he was being groomed and fleeced, or was he letting it happen? Why was this man met with acceptance, while Joseph's japing had always seen violent rejection? He feels something coil his crumpled lungs. He misses being beyond the touch of the intangible. He couldn't be touched by petty jealousy while he'd slept in the forever, before Caesar had hauled him back. Unfair, is what it is. He never asked for vengeance, and he never asked for this man's involvement. Why Caesar had is beyond him.

He makes eyes at the waitress as she passes. She's ignoring him. Trying not to stare or to react too viscerally to his smell, which still manages to gag her. He turns back. ]

Riggtgso heresa thfdealcdipshit
Yoir ggoingbtoffiguren out hgow toosenddmebckor immgoing tothccops withtghis shit right
Iididnnt askvgfotr thss

[girasole]

you don’t get it either
and i didn’t ask for this either so if you’re going to be threatening anybody threaten your pal cheeks
he’s the one who wanted this
im just a working man just doing my job
necromancy is all about the debts dead man
its a long string of payments
what keeps us here the first time around is the eventual death we owe the world
what brings fine gentlemen like yourself back and holds you is another debt you eventually gotta pay off else you’re stuck here
you get what im saying dead man?

[And then there’s a pause. A few minutes.]

here so you can follow
take a seance
you ever been to one? your pal hasn’t
but the real ones only work if you promise to pay off that debt afterwards
and the thing you summoned up is only sent back if you deliver
doesn’t take much usually
something like a squirrel or rabbit buys you a few minutes
ghost is pretty mindless but it gets the job done for most folk
theres enough there of whoever that they can say whatever it is that needs saying and leave satisfied
then off goes that head and back goes whatever you managed to summon up
pretty easy
but for something larger the payment needs to be bigger
and the more of someone you pull back the more precise the payment gotta be
you follow or do i need to spell it out in small words?

[constartist]

[ He explains it, and if he'd had it in him, he would have called just to laugh in his ear at what sounded like the worst con-job credit card in the world.

Right now, he's in a very different place. A Joseph with some colour in his skin might have taken the above response. This one leans away from the phone, into the pleather of his shitty seat cushion which accepts him with a protesting and crackling groan, and he scrubs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. He lets out a noise - something between a moan and a dead sob. If he could shed tears, he would be shedding them in great and rolling sobs, to hell with everyone around him. The couple quickly vacates their seats and heads off to pay, red faces from the kitchen poking out to goggle.

This was a payment that they couldn't make. Hopelessness and dread make themselves at home in his dead guts in a way that neither ever had before he died. He stays like that for a moment, gnarled up on his seat in silent mourning. He didn't ask for this, and apparently, neither had Caesar.

He lets his hands drop into his lap. Shuffles forward, draws them up to the table. ]

Whgat thfucjkhnhavvyou
Done
Thhsissxsucidef for him

[ He doesn't care, though, patently. Or maybe he's banking on it. He got paid for his role in this transaction. He saw someone left raw and vulnerable by loss, and he capitalized. Rage seizes him. Messages upon messages, amounting to too many hours spent on what was a falsehood. Caesar never would have trusted him if he hadn't died, or so Joseph likes to think. They never would have trusted this guy. He wouldn't have had an inch. Anger washes him like a fever as he works to punch out his next message. ]

Iffiget brughtback jnjustto watcvhhimdie ithinknnghatits sporttgtoletyouknowwthatimm comngtofinddyou andikam ripppingyordickoffnbadn thatisa promis
Donntcallmmit na thretbecaus8imm not threatenng I am prommsing
Ypuvvwilhavemade ann im mortal whoosonlybghoal innlife willlbebto rip ofyourdddic k in afewwmonts and whonnyoicantbansh
Idonft sleep.idont eat. I don'tsstop
Connsderthat whilyousnspend whhatverhe paidyouforryour shittyhhackjobscam

[ And now he slides the phone back to the other side of the booth, and he leaves the conversation open and visible as the screen dies. He returns his gaze to the outside. ]

[girasole]

[He’d spent the time smoking, of course. He had two abortive tries: he was going to savor the third. Take a long breath, breathe it in, try to get some semblance of…serenity, maybe. Caesar felt eyes on him. He ignored them. He ignored everything except the smoke, trying to find that calm-in-all-the-wrong-ways facade once more. Breathe-

-and that was when the door swung open and out stumbled that one couple. They talked loudly. They also talked incoherently, which said a lot more than actual words were: something had happened. He stared at them, and then swung his gaze over to wh- he tossed the cigarette on the ground, ground into it with his heel, walked into the Waffle House, and immediately felt a whole score of eyes on him and suddenly knew where that feeling of being stared at had actually came from. Apparently he had missed something.

Walked over to the booth again, stared at Joseph, stared at the phone, turned and looked at the server who looked away, and-]

What- [Words. What did you do. Turned back, sat down, had the feeling that he missed something important.] Something happened, Jojo. Didn’t it? [Was it the money? He had the money to finish this. He had nothing but time, and nothing to fill that time but work.]

[constartist]

[ It takes him a moment to steady his eyes as Caesar comes back in, smokeless but reeking, the exact same as it had been. He keeps himself still, the picture of death sat piled on a shitty vinyl bench. He lets Caesar take in the scene that they've created, every inch of awkward tension filling out to the corners of the diner. They're seconds from being kicked out, Joseph knows that.

He glances over as Caesar starts to question him. He's not fargone enough anymore to miss the implication of what did you do buried in his voice. He's not angry about it. In fact, he's calmed considerably in their time apart. He's finally about as icy and cold as his skin is.

But before he actually gives an answer, he smiles a tight, blue-lipped smile, and he spreads his arms out to either side. I happened, dummy, remember? ]

Why don't you just go ahead and check your phone before we try at this again, Caesar.

[ Drier still than the last time he opened his mouth. There's dust gathered in the back of his throat that he can't clear. ]

[girasole]

Jojo- [But no. No. Something had happened…obviously, and he already didn’t like what it was. Whatever it had been. Jojo was cold, in a way that he shouldn’t have been and wasn’t when he had left. He hadn’t said anything about being immediately sent back, nor had he said anything about why he wasn’t…

His glance slid from Joseph to his phone. And then-

Why did his throat taste so dry. It’s like ash in his mouth. But he unlocked his phone and immediately made a noise before he could stop himself. Caesar nearly, nearly glanced up at Jojo, nearly said something about how he was so surprised that he was able to see, let alone text (barely), and bit it back. Scrolled to the top, started reading.

There was a grimace at Cheeks, a familiar one. A second one at Ddonni souhndmlikexxhuimyiou bllithnerinngniddiot. He hoped that he didn't. Caesar opened his mouth to almost say something, almost, but then he stilled at still think he don’t and then he stilled further at Iididnnt askvgfotr thss.

And then he stopped reacting, in that way which implied that he was actually reacting deep down and was trying very, very hard to not let any of it bubble to the surface, and, in the process of trying to not react, was giving everything away including the fact that there was a tiny scream starting from deep inside of him that was going to erupt if he didn't keep it clamped down. That there was a very- he ran his fingers through his hair. Breathed. One hand cradled his head, the other his phone like he was going to crush it.]

I was going to say that I wanted to tell you a few things before you left. [Ha.] Again. […] …there has to be something else.

[constartist]

[ Joseph keeps a careful eye on Caesar as he begins to soak in the situation. Just as the necromancer promised, he's as clueless as Joseph himself was before he stormed out. If he'd known, then certainly, he would have some clue as to why he was crunched up angrily in his seat now. They've been together long enough that Joseph can decipher genuine confusion from him when he sees it, and that's the first reaction he witnesses.

The grimacing barely even registers to him as he starts to read, though he does feel a sliver of vindication to see that he apparently wasn't the only person here irritated by Cheeks. No, that isn't the interesting part.

what interests Joseph is the stillness that falls over him. Most might be relieved at the sight. They've been traveling together long enough that Joseph is anything but. He can feel that there's something more to it than what Caesar's willing (or able) to let him see now. He's beginning to get into the conversation, and already, Joseph is acutely aware that the rest is going to destroy him. He softens here, lets his anger be directed at something behind Caesar instead of on him. He well and truly didn't know what he was doing, and perhaps part of the blame for his entrapment could be laid on him for that - but the necromancer had certainly scammed him for more money than he needed to pay. Caesar may have taken and used his life as some sort of trump card to satisfy his hunger for revenge, but to the necromancer, they had both meant even less. They were a paycheque. Caesar wasn't a man in grieving, he was an upsell. Joseph wasn't a human life, he was a stack of rubber-banded bills. ]

You'll have plenty of time to say whatever your heart desires, apparently. [ His voice is even, still cool, but softened. ] Your sleazeball friend's got me stuck here.

[ If he can, he'll spare him the rest of the conversation. ]

[girasole]

[...at the time he'd been told that there were a few things that they would need for the ritual. A knife. A container for Jojo's soul: his remains or something else. (Caesar didn't what to know what that something else was. He'd already been tempted too far.) Ash. Wine. But he'd also been told that they'd mainly need himself. More specifically, his grudge. He'd asked why, and was told some pretty poetry that was convincing at the time: it was human conviction that was necessary to make rituals successful. The strength to accept a debt, to bear it, and see it through to the end. Caesar's grudge would be proof of the sincerity of his will, and the grudge would complete the ritual and summon his Joseph. And at the time it seemed true enough. In retrospect, with this new information in mind, it was patently obvious that what the necromancer had meant was that either himself or the murderer would have to die before Joseph would be free.

...probably. Caesar had the feeling that texting for clarification wouldn't go well with anyone involved given the dick-ripping promise, and so instead he swallowed and pocketed his phone.

...thinking about it, this didn't change much besides making swallowing a bullet a Plan B if killing Jojo's murderer didn't work in regards to sending him back.]

Well, we'll have to fix that, won't we, Jojo? I moved recently, so you won't have to worry about anyone who knew you...before seeing you as you are now. We can go there, or, if there's anywhere else you'd prefer I can take you there instead. Either way, we should probably leave.

[(The manager, who had been staring at them warily from the counter - planning her attack but also reluctant to engage them for obvious reasons - was visibly relieved at the suggestion. Her stare was the universal one of oh thank fuck don't make me throw you out instead.)]

[constartist]

Not like I've got a choice now.

[ It isn't directed at Caesar - more behind him, to the man who actually organized and enabled this catastrophe of a plan - but he can't help that the only one here to hear it is Caesar. Joseph shoves himself up to his feet for the first time since first reawakening, and carefully works his way out of the booth, shimmying out awkwardly with his hands - one pushing from the booth's back, one from the table. His legs are more functional than they had been when Caesar hauled him in first, but to his dismay, the stiffness in his limbs looks to be a permanent side-effect of staying in the ground for so long. He lurches out, dragging his left leg as he goes, helping himself to any steady surface he can get his hands on along the way.

This does, unfortunately, include other people's tables. He hangs his head as he hobbles out and slams his back against the door to swing it open.

Once he makes it outside, he starts to gather his thoughts. Caesar would be asking questions, and being cagey about the answers was pointless now. He was involved whether he wanted to be or not. This would be his only way out. He sticks his hands in the pockets of his trousers, finds a hole, sticks his fingers through. Ignores the sudden skittering of too many legs across his ribs as he finishes the last stretch of their footbound journey - restaurant to car. ]

There were three of them. [ Start simple, start easy. Appended; ] Well. Two now, hopefully. I think I managed to kill off one before the other two got me. I don't know for sure. It was all... [ Fucked. ] Well, it was a manhunt.

[girasole]

[The car was the same one as before. He followed after Jojo, prepared to pick up in his wake - a grimace here, a nod there, a few dollars shoved at the server (apologies about the smell, apologies about us, please don’t blacklist us-…me if I ever come back here again. please?) - and left. Restaurant to car. He listened as Joseph started to talk, unlocked the ca-]

A what? Wai- [And he gestured for silence. Closed his eyes for a second. Just…took in the night air, the faint breeze (as there was one blowing in from the south) trickling past his skin, just…] Shut up, Jojo. […just in case. Caesar needed to take a moment.

He took a moment. And then he gestured to get in the car.] It was a manhunt, you say.

[constartist]

[ He stops as Caesar does, and he lets him have his time. It's a bizarre thing to see Caesar this worked up, having to try this hard to contemplate something that had once simply been part of the life they'd chosen, to have to take a moment to digest that the very same dangerous cryptids and creatures might be hunting them (him) the same way that they were. To Joseph, it'd always seemed obvious enough that this would likely be their end someday.

He lets Caesar consult the black silence and the night breeze with whatever his thoughts were before he's signaled to continue. ]

Yeah. A manhunt. [ He gives himself a moment to jerk the car door open and to fold himself into the doorway, coming to a hard rest on the seat. He pulls the door shut and cracks the window open a sliver for the smell. Then, he puts his hands on his legs and takes a breath. The first hurtle. He reminds himself of the worst that Caesar could do, and more specifically, that it probably wasn't much.

Here we go. ]

I was... I was working. Alone. I thought that if I brought some money home with me, it might be... you might not be mad at me anymore. It would be easier to patch things up. I don't know. It's what I always did. Seemed to do the trick most nights.