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The scene faded and with it the tense, delusional misery that was this other Taym's existence. At least, Phoenix hoped, it was only the other Taym's existence. It was possible the seeds were here, but he couldn't be so far gone as all that. He could barely manage to survive as it is, and even that was ticking down, but he couldn't be that bad. Couldn't be bordering on what could only be considered insanity.

Turning to him, she gave Slain a flat, measuring look, silently asking him if he could possibly be as ******** stupid as the wretch who made himself sick over passing cars when he knew damn well he'd never see the hunter coming. They were called hunters for a ******** reason.

"I'd give him," him not you, don't let it be you, "...another week, maybe two. You ever go deer hunting? Most of the time they don't just drop, you know. They run. Just a matter of letting them run themselves dead an finding the body." And, in this case, a tablet.

She didn't hide her relief when he shook off the remnants of the dream, tension in her stomach easing as he became more or less recognizably himself. The answer was accepted with a soft snort. "When I spoke 'bout making a home for myself, you said you didn't want to talk about it." There was no question in this, just a statement that might imply she agreed. If he couldn't make a home where it was easy, nothing lasting waited out where it was difficult.

"Least you weren't killing Leslie in this one." Just yourself. But that wasn't too out of line with reality. Phoenix, not always the most reassuring person, kept that thought to herself. "We done drinking the kool-aide or are we going tit for tat?"

He was quiet, rocking back and forth on his heels in a way that was unpleasantly reminiscent of the way the Taym in the dream had rocked in the chair, until he realized what he was doing and stopped.

He wanted very much to be held but more than that he wanted to hold, and had for a long time. If they were in their own bodies, in some kind of place that was real, he might perhaps have succumbed to the urge. Instead he unthinkingly pulled his cloak around himself, the wings enfolding, just as if he were cold.

"I don't care," he said finally, in a tone that suggested very much the opposite. He was flat-footed; he was on the disadvantage now and no one was ever more keenly aware of this than Taym could be and Slain was no different. She had more of him now than he had of her, and she always had, but the balance sheet was growing more and more lopsided.

She wanted to take his hand and pull him out, get a little lost, and find a cozy table in the tavern. Maybe mention she'd seen Konstantin in the waking world. Ask if he'd woken a bit as well. She'd like to inspect his march hare and summon up Mr. Tum Tums for comparison (though hers, of course, would be the better of the two.) She'd like to make fun of Leslie a little, and then, over a drink, make fun of him a lot. And maybe share a bit of things she'd spilled during her peach cobbler incident, share those words willingly and make them her own.

But fair was fair, and he looked so miserable and lonely, even here with her there. So she may as well drink, and at the least he can be miserable with company.

Familiar smells and scenery flicker past unacknowledged. No longer important enough to register, though hours earlier you had thought and feeling enough to resent their quiet, continuing existence. The world goes on even when your own falls apart, and that's just ********> bullshit, is what it is. But you're beyond that now, beyond even the tandem echoes of thought between yourself and your weapon.

There should be a storm. It would have been fitting.

It's a beautiful day, and whatever turbulent emotions you carried within have been lost in the intensity of focus and motion. You wanted to stop being sad and you've succeeded to the point of becoming nothing, an existence you would have viciously disdained before, back when you were whole. Today it would be considered a balm, if such relief was still in your grasp. There's always a price. You've always been willing to pay it.

Your body begins to signal the inevitable break down, the shield is gone and the soft fragility of humanity seeps. You push past it, a mindless urge of forward driving you down a path, rarely used by any but you and one other.

The cliff comes into view and it goads your body faster than it should be capable of, worn and abused as it is. Between one heartbeat and the next your foot is pushing off the edge. Your body rises in flight for a few, bright seconds before gravity reaches out and takes hold. You fall.

She waited for the crashing impact against the waves, the result of the gamble between her versus the waiting rocks below. The form had been sloppy, should have resulted in broken bones at the very, very least. Instead there was a brief moment of contact, holding the sort of awkward affection that was becoming rather cherished for what it was rather than what it could be had the one bestowing it been a less complicated human being.

Distantly she realized he might think that other America had committed suicide, but she didn't bother to clarify. It was close enough for horseshoes and there was no use denying it. Then mention of Konstantin, the he between them that always mattered most, allowed whatever tension remained to fully ease back. With a small, appreciative smile, Phoenix nodded, "Yeah, I woke up a little and saw him." Raising her hands, she briskly ran them over the sides of her head, the soft friction chasing out the last bits of thoughtless, empty motion from her mind.

"Let's get lost?"

[picking prompt 10 because duplicate roll]

He'd covered his tracks well enough. Or he thought he had. He wasn't a computer person. Someone must have known how to retrieve what he'd deleted, follow the trail back to its logical conclusion. His only warning had been a text, arriving in the middle of the night. They know what you've been trying to do.

Maybe it had been a test. If it had been a test, he'd probably failed, incriminated himself by taking off. Either way, he'd swung his bag onto his shoulder and walked out, handed the portal tech a note with a set of coordinates and attempted to look bored and annoyed, like he was just going where he'd been sent. He hadn't been stopped.

He'd been hitchhiking and walking for three days now, taking whatever rides he could get and going east, east with the vague idea that he could go to a big city and lose himself in the anonymous mass. He'd ******** up big-time, and he'd tried to cover his nosiness, and he'd failed hard. Maybe he shouldn't have run. Maybe he should have stayed put to face the consequences. Maybe he could stay lost long enough, because now that he'd bolted there was no going back, and he lay sleepless in the bunk in the back of a semi truck and stared into the dark and listened to the roar of the engine and the hiss of the road and missed home, the home he'd given up and the home he'd run from, sharply, sharply.