[Unfortunate, but the same thought has tugged at his mind more than once. Not enough to persuade him, but you don't go starving for weeks and staunchly ignore a steak dangled through the cage bars.
Her response triggers something apologetic in him. Not hidden as expertly as anything she feels, there's a twinge at the corner of his mouth that gives him away. But he doesn't speak on it. Best to pretend like they aren't communicating on two layers at once, he finds. Most everyone prefers it that way.]
Honestly, I barely understand myself. It sounds so fucking stupid to speak on it. I wasn't pulling your leg when I said my world was regular — probably a billion to one odds on seeing something truly out of the ordinary. Almost nobody knows.
[Which is the other punch in the dick. No knowledge, no precedence, no help.]
It's sort of...it works with your imagination. Pulls shapes out of your own head — whatever scares you, what's been grating on your mind, that's what it'll be, and that's what will come to kill you. And it's not affected by the world as we know it. It can't be seen unless it lets you see it, and fighting back with brute force doesn't cut it.
You saw a bit yourself. My buddy Bill shot it with the gun and it barely slowed It down, even if he blew a chunk of its skull out. Or what looked like a chunk. Wearing the wound like it was part of the illusion.
But if you fight fire with fire — use your own imagination, play pretend? For some goddamn reason that lays into it better than any knife or bullet can. [There's an unusual brand of embarrassment tied in here, because he knows how utterly cracked he sounds. She'd be in the right to blow him off, if she hadn't watched the same memory he had.
The bullet? Might as well have shot off a rubber band. Richie doing a cockamamie voice out of the blue? Throwing a dumbshit prank powder at it? Well golly, that sure stuck it to him! Richie grimaces and wipes at his face. He'd rather crawl into a dank hole than elaborate, but here we are.]
Kids can do that. Kids can buy into all kinds of shit if you don't knock the wind out of their sails too quick. Grown ups? [He squints, waggles his hand.] Hard to believe in anything you can't touch, buy, or sell.
Which is too bad. It doesn't need you to believe in jack shit to pull your head off your shoulders. It just prefers them young.
no subject
Her response triggers something apologetic in him. Not hidden as expertly as anything she feels, there's a twinge at the corner of his mouth that gives him away. But he doesn't speak on it. Best to pretend like they aren't communicating on two layers at once, he finds. Most everyone prefers it that way.]
Honestly, I barely understand myself. It sounds so fucking stupid to speak on it. I wasn't pulling your leg when I said my world was regular — probably a billion to one odds on seeing something truly out of the ordinary. Almost nobody knows.
[Which is the other punch in the dick. No knowledge, no precedence, no help.]
It's sort of...it works with your imagination. Pulls shapes out of your own head — whatever scares you, what's been grating on your mind, that's what it'll be, and that's what will come to kill you. And it's not affected by the world as we know it. It can't be seen unless it lets you see it, and fighting back with brute force doesn't cut it.
You saw a bit yourself. My buddy Bill shot it with the gun and it barely slowed It down, even if he blew a chunk of its skull out. Or what looked like a chunk. Wearing the wound like it was part of the illusion.
But if you fight fire with fire — use your own imagination, play pretend? For some goddamn reason that lays into it better than any knife or bullet can. [There's an unusual brand of embarrassment tied in here, because he knows how utterly cracked he sounds. She'd be in the right to blow him off, if she hadn't watched the same memory he had.
The bullet? Might as well have shot off a rubber band. Richie doing a cockamamie voice out of the blue? Throwing a dumbshit prank powder at it? Well golly, that sure stuck it to him! Richie grimaces and wipes at his face. He'd rather crawl into a dank hole than elaborate, but here we are.]
Kids can do that. Kids can buy into all kinds of shit if you don't knock the wind out of their sails too quick. Grown ups? [He squints, waggles his hand.] Hard to believe in anything you can't touch, buy, or sell.
Which is too bad. It doesn't need you to believe in jack shit to pull your head off your shoulders. It just prefers them young.