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#Post#: 943--------------------------------------------------
Chasing Time (short solo)
DIR By: MAT
Date: February 4, 2025, 9:43 pm
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HTML https://splatomat.com/personal/images/DH/yorick/ricky0.png[/float]
screams from the haters
got a nice ring to it
[center]Yorick Tsipras
HTML https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1F3tCmvXqFTlAT1j9JHc8k280TMxJzRNNPcuFY1Mi33Q/edit?usp=sharing[/center]
i guess every superhero
needs his theme music
Euthanatos | Notoriety 2 | Forgettable
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The skies had turned dark since he’d last looked, and Yorick let
out a small sigh that immediately misted as fog in front of his
face. He pulled up the hood of his parka and peered out through
the opening in the side of the train car. It was snowing again,
and it was so cold. Maine along the coast had been pretty humid
in the summer and cold in the winters, but not nearly so strong
as what he was facing at the moment.
Traveling across the continent with no car and no money wasn’t
the easiest prospect. The time of year made things even more
difficult. Winter in the states bordering Canada was ferocious,
and it merely added yet another danger to an already treacherous
journey. He was freighthopping; using long freight trains to
move between cities. The route he’d mapped before leaving would
take him from Portland, to Worcester, to Selkirk, to Buffalo,
then to Toledo, before finally arriving in Chicago. He didn’t
actually know if that was the final destination, it was just a
place to stop and reassess.
“Are we there yet?” a raspy, feminine voice asked. The voice
came from inside a battered canvas rucksack currently sitting on
the floor of the train car.
Yorick glanced back for a moment, shaking his head, then looked
back through the narrow opening in the cargo door. “There’s no
there,” he grunted in response, folding his arms in an attempt
to keep his torso warm. The snow was falling more heavily now,
and it was blending the sky and ground together, making it look
like the train tracks disappeared into a gray void.
“Oh, that’s very philosophical, but I’m getting bored in here,”
the voice returned.
“Oh no!” Yorick said with zero sympathy. “I’m **** freezing out
here. You? You’re made of stone,” he grumbled.
A few seconds of silence followed. Then the voice spoke again.
“Okay, fair enough. But let me be more direct: do you even know
where we are?”
The Euthanatos snorted softly. “I know exactly where we are.
We’re sitting on tracks outside Worcester. In just a few minutes
I’m gonna sneak off this train and make what will be a terrible
walk to a city called Ayer where we can catch the next train.”
“How far away is that?”
Yorick sighed again. “About forty klicks.”
“That’s a long way to walk for a fragile human in these
conditions.”
“Yeah, no ****, Sherlock,” he snapped back. “Also, thanks for
that, by the way. ‘Fragile’. Pfeh. What a boost to my already
soaring self-esteem.”
A small hand pushed past the flap of the backpack. It seemed to
be made out of stone or concrete, despite possessing the
flexibility of flesh. The tiny fingers ended in sharp points,
and the hand used those fingers to undo the tie that secured the
flap. A pug dog face pushed up out of the darkness of the pack,
but it too was rendered in stone. Two large, unblinking eyes
stared out for a few seconds.
“Hire a coachman,” Medea suggested.
He looked back at the creature, squinting. “We call them ‘taxis’
in this century, lady. And if I could afford a taxi I would have
bought a bus ticket.”
“I can give you some currency.”
Yorick opened his mouth to argue, but then he just started to
laugh. It was the first time he recalled laughing in quite a
while. It felt good. “Oh, gosh. I didn’t realize I was carrying
around Daddy Warbucks all this time.”
The stone gargoyle narrowed its eyes. “I’m sure you think that’s
a hilarious reference, but it escapes me.”
“Okay…? Are you sitting on a hoard of gold coins or something?”
“Another supposedly-clever reference? No. But I can make some of
the paper trash in this bag look like money. And since most of
the contents of this bag is paper trash...”
Yorick chuckled. “Sure.” Then he turned to glance back at the
creature. “Wait, really?” The color drained from his face. “Are
you yanking my chain? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?!”
“You never asked.” A thin, innocent smile crossed the gargoyle’s
lips.
Yorick stared at Medea for a moment. “Sometimes I want to punt
you like a football.”
She gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. “With your bird bones?
You’d break your foot.”
“Okay.” His mind churned quickly. “Tell me how it works. Is it
transmutation or just an illusion? How long does it last?”
“A play of light and mind,” Medea said cryptically. “The essence
fades after an hour or so.”
He felt a twinge of something in his gut. Maybe it was guilt.
He’d been a child soldier, an assassin, a bodyguard. He had seen
so much violence in his young life and had buckets of blood on
his hands. But he wasn’t a thief. Even as destitute as he was,
as down on his luck, he didn’t lie to or cheat people. Using
magic to steal…felt very dirty and low.
Medea spoke up again, as if hearing his thoughts. “Your
hesitation is folly. Wishing alone cannot repair a broken axe,
and a broken axe will never fell the tree.”
Determined now, the Euthanatos walked over and picked up the
rucksack, along with his bedroll and a sling bag. He made sure
everything was secured, then checked the area surrounding the
train car for bulls and other traffic. Seeing none, he leapt
down and started hiking quickly towards the train depot,
avoiding lines of sight and potential railyard staff. From
there, he made his way to the local bus station. Two hours
later, he was sitting on a bus with his rucksack on his lap,
shaking his head at the turn of luck.
About 28 hours later he was stepping off the bus in Chicago.
Despite the fact that it was dark, and cold, and he had no
money, no job, nowhere to stay; despite the reality that he
didn’t know anybody here, and didn’t know why he had come…he was
feeling pretty optimistic.
He pulled out the old, antique pocket watch he’d gotten in the
mail. The minute hand had advanced, which he interpreted to mean
he was moving in the right direction. Towards what, or for what
purpose, he had no idea. Ruin, perhaps. Triumph.
Well, probably not that second one, given his track record. Time
enough to keep running, though...
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