Well, maybe a lot longer than a second. He'd actually been sure - but now, of course, it's considerably harder to go ahead and believe he's dead. Not when he can feel the hot sun, the air on his skin, the hard, flat surface of the plaza beneath him. And for a while, those little things are enough for him - he stays where he is, sprawled out on the ground, propped up by an arm and breathing in the strangely pleasant day. He's distantly, disorientedly aware of some kind of mass exodus of people moving around him (and maybe this should start him reconsidering the idea that this might not be the afterlife), though, and the appeal of sitting still quickly wears off.
If he's not dead, he ought to find out where he is. And why he's not. And all sorts of other things, probably.
While the generally dazed and confused mood of the crowd isn't very reassuring (no more than the unfamiliar city, or waking up right out in the open), he pulls off a measure of confidence as he follows the sluggish flow of the throng toward that one stand-out building in sight. (Welcome Center? I guess that's me) The facade loses some of its luster in the confusion that comes packed into the deceptively plain manila envelope a stranger foists off on him as soon as he's indoors - and the self-conscious recognition of the fact that he's still wearing a shirt loosely peppered with bullet holes.
"Not much of a punchline, is it?" But none of that's really enough to stop him running his mouth. "'Welcome to the Great Hereafter. Go touch somebody.'"
no subject
I really thought I was a goner.)
Well, maybe a lot longer than a second. He'd actually been sure - but now, of course, it's considerably harder to go ahead and believe he's dead. Not when he can feel the hot sun, the air on his skin, the hard, flat surface of the plaza beneath him. And for a while, those little things are enough for him - he stays where he is, sprawled out on the ground, propped up by an arm and breathing in the strangely pleasant day. He's distantly, disorientedly aware of some kind of mass exodus of people moving around him (and maybe this should start him reconsidering the idea that this might not be the afterlife), though, and the appeal of sitting still quickly wears off.
If he's not dead, he ought to find out where he is. And why he's not. And all sorts of other things, probably.
While the generally dazed and confused mood of the crowd isn't very reassuring (no more than the unfamiliar city, or waking up right out in the open), he pulls off a measure of confidence as he follows the sluggish flow of the throng toward that one stand-out building in sight. (Welcome Center? I guess that's me) The facade loses some of its luster in the confusion that comes packed into the deceptively plain manila envelope a stranger foists off on him as soon as he's indoors - and the self-conscious recognition of the fact that he's still wearing a shirt loosely peppered with bullet holes.
"Not much of a punchline, is it?" But none of that's really enough to stop him running his mouth. "'Welcome to the Great Hereafter. Go touch somebody.'"