kore_logs | You get to feel so guilty, got so much for so little...

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You get to feel so guilty, got so much for so little...

Who: Fun Ghoul and OPEN!
Where: Just outside of the town hall
When: Day 80 (backdated)
What: Ghoul is officially the last Killjoy at Kore. Dedication ceremony of the Mailbox for the Dead. This is an open log. Make your own threads to tag each other, or reply to Ghoul. Anything goes.
Warnings: None yet.

That's it. They're gone and they're not coming back. Ghoul's at peace with this now. He knows they're gone, but he's gotta stay. As long as he can, he's gotta stay. And he knows that while he's here, they'll still be alive. Through him. Just like anyone else they've lost since ending up here. Those people are gone, but not forgotten. Not entirely.

The cemetery still feels oddly alien to him. It's just not what they're used to. But Finch helped him. He and finch, they went into town armed with paint and colour and they found a mailbox. Right in front of the town hall. They spent a long time decorating it, just the two of them. Gotta make it bright. Gotta be able to see it from far away.

The mailbox for the dead.

"It's a part of my culture." He says to anyone that asks. "A piece of where I come from. It's a way to remember the ones that are gone without dwellin' on it too much." And he'll smile wistfully, push his hair out of his face, and just stand there, staring at it.

"Anyone can use it." He says solemnly, slipping four envelopes inside. "It's for everyone."

If pressed, he'll answer further. If you want to be alone with your thoughts, he'll leave you to them. Either way, the mailbox is ready.

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He debates it for a while, as he rightly should be. After all, he probably shouldn't be approaching Ghoul, shouldn't be talking to Ghoul, shouldn't even be fuckin' looking at Ghoul, not until he gives himself more time to cool down, more time to forgive the guy and let some of the dust settle. Just seeing him now makes him feel that cold metal of the gun in his hand all over again, gives him a little shudder over his body.

But what can he say? The thing intrigues him. And he's gotta do right by Finch. It doesn't mean he has to apologize to the guy, doesn't even mean he's gotta like him. But he's gotta do something, alright.

His hands are pressed firmly into his hoodie pockets, his shoulders taut as he approaches - slow and careful steps, like he's making his way towards a caged animal instead of a real live person. He doesn't say anything at first because he doesn't know what to say, just wanders around the mailbox and thumbs at the side of it, takes in all of the artwork. "Ya really mean everyone?" he finally says, an edge of uncertainty to his voice.

"Yeah. Not gonna discriminate, man. Everyone's got their dead." The slow and careful on Jesse's part helps Ghoul keep his composure. He's calm, collected, and even-toned. Watching him closely around the box.

There's no hostility on his part. No vengeful vibes and no aggression. His arms are crossed over his chest but he seems relaxed. Open to the conversation. "Use it how you want. Just don't disrespect. This ain't about me. It's for them." And for Jet.

"Hey, it's, like, the dead. Ya don't fuck with that stuff, it's-" Disrespectful. Yeah. Ghoul got it right. He sounds a little immediately defensive when he speaks and it shows in his body language, but it bleeds out fairly quickly as he bunches and unbunches his hands in his pockets, flexes his fingers carefully and thinks about what to say.

Because he's also right about that, that it's not about Ghoul right now. It shouldn't be, anyway. Jesse has a hard time sticking that in his mind right now, not when he's got a million things he wants to say to Ghoul and no fucking clue where to start. "You make somethin' for him?" he finally decides on, and his voice is a little quiet, almost like a kid's. For Jet, he means, even if he doesn't say.

Damn right Ghoul got it right! But hey, he can see the guy's trying. That's a genuine effort to not knock his block off in public again. Hell, now that the bruises have faded a bit, he's gotta give him some mental props for that shit. Took some balls. But then again, that's shit's easy when you're doing it for someone you care about.

Ghoul looks down at his feet, nodding a little, "Yeah. Yeah, I did." Something for all of them. Even one for the Girl. Four envelopes. "You should, too. Somethin' sweet like that, he'd be fuckin' tickled. So happy, so proud. Do it. He'd like it."

Jesse sniffs at once, looks to the side. As he shakes of his head and huffs of laugh, he suddenly breaks into a smile that's a little sarcastic, a little self-depecrating. He's got a voice to match, "Why?" He suddenly looks back, face sobered, takes his hands out of his pockets in a shrug. "It ain't like he's gonna," And he kicks at the ground, a bit angry and sullen, "see it."

He looks down with a frown as he does so, fingers spreading agitatedly by his sides. "What's a corpse gotta do with whatever I got to say?"

Wow, no, that is not okay. Ghoul frowns, no, really frowns. He's caught somewhere between furious and deeply wounded. But maybe there's something else caught up in there. Something like understanding... or sympathy-- or just him not taking any of his 'I'm worthless, it's pointless' bullshit! Because it's not pointless. He's not worthless. Not to Jet. Which means no matter what went down between them, no matter what he thinks of Ghoul, Pinkman means something to him, too. Attachment by association.

"Hey." He says sternly, and then again with a little more intensity and a pointed finger aimed at Jesse's chest, "Hey. Not a corpse, dumbshit. It's what's inside. That's gonna see it. It probably already fuckin' knows, but it's nice to leave a little reminder. Your words'll reach him. Don't gotta believe it, just know it in your heart. He cared about you. Like one of his own, yeah? Like one of us. So you knock off this bullshit and you do it for him." He backs off, hands on his hips as he shrugs, "Or don't. Don't care. Said it before, ain't got nothin' t'do with me. Between you and him."

But you gotta know, Jesse, you have to be able to see that you wouldn't have gotten that stern speech if Ghoul didn't give a shit. If he wasn't sorry about what he tried to make you do. Just hard for him to say the actual words.

"Hey," he repeats right back, a bit indignantly, and he almost moves to swat at that finger that Ghoul's pointing at him, giving him a bit of a warning look with a cock of his head.

So the guy does give a half a shit, 'else Jesse wouldn't be getting lectured right now. Alright. Fine. He can get that. He's been forgiven for holding a gun to someone's head before, that's okay - well, no, it's not okay, it's not okay at all - he almost fucking killed the guy and that's so many degrees of decisively not good - but it's Ghoul's prerogative what he wants to do here and Jesse will go with that.

But that doesn't mean his argument's done, and he shrugs again, a little more sharply than before. "I barely even knew the guy a couple months. One, maybe, even. Guy might'a liked me plenty but I ain't no fuckin' Killjoy." He couldn't accept that. He hadn't earned it. All he'd done was disappoint Jet in the time they'd known each other and he sure as hell wasn't continuing with a bang-up job of being an upstanding citizen.

"Never said you were." He smirks. "Said like. Like one of us. Gotta earn your colours, son." But he's got the heart for it. Could use a little work on his trigger hand. But you don't shoot civilians. Ghoul may not have been innocent, but he can fix it... he ... he can try to fix it. He's not that far gone. He's not the enemy.

Or maybe he is. Can't tell anymore. Hard to know for sure.

Point is, you gotta know when to shoot and when to run. Jesse has that instinct. Ghoul can tell.

"Don't matter how long you knew him. We don't get much time where we're from. Ain't how long, it's how much. What you know 'bout a person. What you feel. Stop fightin' it and accept he was there for you. Woulda been there. Still there now somehow." Ghoul can feel that. Spaceman's gone, but he's still with him. Not that far away, never too far.

With another glance down at the grass, Jesse concedes, even as his jaw squares, angrily, and he swipes an irritated finger against the side of his nose.

He's not wrong. Jet's gone, that much is true. And it's not like Jesse is so mushy or so open-minded to believe the guy's still watching over him or some shit, spirit remaining and all that crap, but he misses him. God, he misses him. He doesn't say as much. But then again, it's awful hard not to assume the worst. There's only two choices here, and either the docs got him or he went back home, back home where Jet told him himself, he's dead there, got shot, and Jesse really doesn't know which option he prefers out of the two.

He'd like to believe Jet would've been missing him at least half as much as he was missing Jet, but sometimes he's not sure he buys it. He was a hassle then and he's a hassle now.

"The hell am I supposed to say? 'Yo, man, hope you're havin' fun kickin' the bucket, really wish you were back here and good and kidnapped, thanks-'" And he hesitates before this last part, gestures vaguely with a hand at nothing in particular. "'Thanks for noticin''?"

They're all dead. Party didn't want to believe it, wouldn't believe it, but Ghoul knows. It's over. It was over the second they walked through those doors. He knew they'd never get out of there alive. He'd hoped that maybe Jet and the Girl... but he knew he wasn't going home.

"Yeah, that's it. All you gotta say. I can't tell you what to write, Dustup. Gotta come from you. Write what you feel." He's not looking away, Jesse, he's gonna stare at you until you stare back. "It helps." Easier than talking.

Write what you feel, huh, yeah. Jesse gives that sarcastic laugh again, exhales and glances away from Ghoul some more with a shake of his head. "Yeah, alright, you write what you want?" And he finally does look back at Ghoul with raised eyebrows now, folds his arms a little cagily and leans in a step. "But I ain't no faggot. I'm not keepin' a journal over here."

Whatever. Right now, he just wants a fucking cigarette all over again.

"Dustup," he says instead, with barely a pause in between thoughts. It's blankly, and almost a question.

Ghoul just rolls his eyes at that comment. Whatever. His work here is done. Got a letter to Jet in progress, that's all that matters.

... And then he smirks. And snorts. And smiles real wide. "Yeah. That's you. Suits you." Better than specifying Jesses all the time. "Just go with it. It works."

"Uh. Okay." He shifts his stance and spreads out an arm, what the hell are you playin' at? "What's it s'posed to mean? Again?"

Gotta get this kid a dictionary...

"A dustup. Brawl. Fight. Argument. Motherfuckin' fisticuffs. Go down to the bar, get in a dustup, come home with a black eye or worse." Another point and a nod in Jesse's direction in case it wasn't clear the first time, "That's you."

And, believe it or not, it's said... with something bordering on admiration. Because it takes one hell of a punch to take Ghoul out. Pinkman came real close.

Jesse sniffs, glances off as he shucks a finger under his chin. "Yeah? Like the black eye I gave you?" Much as Ghoul's doing the admiration thing, Jesse sounds almost proud of the feat. There's a lot he isn't too fucking keen on that he's done, dealings with his present company included. But the guy sure as hell deserved a punch in the face or two, and Jesse's glad he gave it to him.

Though he's still not sure what he's more ashamed on otherwise, if it's pulling the gun on him in the first place, or not having the balls to pull the trigger.

"Whatever. I can dig it."

Ghoul snickers, nodding. "Yeah. Just like that one." The one he LET you give him-- actually, no, that punch really did catch him off guard. Hard to stay sharp when your life is falling apart all around you.

He scratches at the back of his head, looking anywhere but Jesse's face. "Should probably... apologize. For goadin' you on. M'not okay with what happened." With him and Pinkman or him and Finch. "Just want you to know I'm tryin'. To fix it for him. And if you ever need it, I'm gonna watch out for you." Because it's what Jet would have wanted. He doesn't have to accept, but it's there. On the table. If Jesse wants it.

Jesse just watches Ghoul, for a few awful long seconds after he's done speaking. His hands are back in his pockets and he stands surprisingly still for once, just lets everything slowly soak its way in before he can muster a response. Watch out for him, huh? "Who's asking you to?"

That's all very cavalier and all, but he doesn't really care how Ghoul regards him, not right now. That's not what's most important to him here, and that's gotta be Finch. Finch and Ghoul and all the mess that entails, doesn't even know where to start there and so he just takes another careful step in towards Ghoul, beginnings of a frown on his face.

"How're you gonna put it right by him, huh?" What's that even going to be? How does he fix that? How does he even begin to fix- "Cuz, I mean, that's on you now. Far as I'm concerned, you don't even got other priorities."

It takes everything he's got not to lose his cool. He manages to keep the frown small and his voice at a reasonable volume, but it's boiling up inside already. Two angry guys with a lot of tension and no where to direct that rage but at each other.

"No one's askin'. Why someone gotta ask? Just offered. Fuck." Bite his damn head off, why dontcha? Trying to offer a fucking olive branch and he's just spitting right in his face. But Ghoul doesn't back away. Doesn't move back OR forward. Stands his ground. Stays put.

"Don't know yet. Been tryin' t'figure that shit out since I got back to normal, but I'll figure somethin' so--" The 'back the fuck off' gets stuck in his throat and he just lets it go. "So lemme figure. Not so fuckin' easy, okay?"

"So don't offer either," Jesse shoots back, a little tightly. Maybe it's something about the mailbox and everything their conversation's drumming up, but he can feel an edge of guilt underneath it all. He knows Ghoul meant a lot to Jet. This shit would've been a lot different if he was still here.

But he's not, and yeah, Jesse's got a temper. Jesse's having an awful hard time looking past that temper when it comes to Ghoul, but admittedly he's not trying incredibly hard yet.

He shrugs a shoulder, furrows his eyebrows at Ghoul - a bit dangerously when there's almost that implication there, the bit of a snappy tone in his voice, but it wanes. "Yeah, well, you did kinda kill someone," he says flatly, wetting his lips and watching Ghoul with a bit of a deadpan expression. "Last I checked, it ain't supposed to be easy for you."

Boy, you haven't even seen a temper. This half-assed, unwarranted lecture from a guy who ain't seen half the shit Ghoul has is pushing him over the edge and he can't keep it in check anymore. He looks too the side, snorts, you're hilarious, Pinkman, really. So funny. But he's not laughing.

Instead, his hand shoots out much like the last time, going for his throat and slamming him back up against the mailbox. Aw, baby, did that hurt? Good. He gets up in Pinkman's face, slowly squeezing that throat and keeping him pinned. Stay put, motherfucker, he's got something to say to you.

"Finch wasn't the first. And he won't be the last. I killed a lotta people 'fore I got here, and I'm probably gonna kill more before I leave. Can't help that. No remorse for that shit. But him? That one I felt. You know why?" Still conscious, Jesse? Is this getting through? "Because that one wasn't my call. That wasn't my decision. When I kill someone, I got a damn good reason, but that? Senseless bullshit. And I know what he's been through better than you ever will. So I can fix it. I will fix it. And you are gonna shut your fuckin' mouth about lest I shut it up for you. Got it?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. He applies a little more pressure before pulling Jesse up and slamming him back down again against the metal. Drive the point home. Make it stick. Sorry, Jet. He tried.

And now he's leaving. Enjoy the fucking view. Ghoul's gone.

It's one of those cases where, yeah, he kind of gets it, he's pushing it here and Ghoul's got an awful lot to be angry about - he's fully expecting there to be a reaction here. It's the 'what' in this situation that he doesn't exactly see coming, and by the time he gets to think about it, he's got a metal edge jammed up into his back and a hand squeezing tight against his neck.

A half of a choked sound leaves between clenched teeth and then nothing, he can't talk, he can't breathe, he can't anything but throw his hands out and push into Ghoul's chest as hard as he can. It's not easy to get leverage when they're this close and, short as he is, the guy's built like a tank; nothing happens. Between that and the few sparkles starting to ebb into his vision, he panics.

Only half the words are even sinking in, he's too focused on the fingers tight into his skin, and he sinks a few punches into Ghoul's side at first - those are focused. It's just about the time when Ghoul's starting to wrap up when these black cloudy edges start to crawl their way in from Jesse's sides when he gives a bit of a last-ditch effort, leaves a trail of nail marks on Ghoul's own throat, there's that last final squeeze and then-

It's done, he's walking away. Jesse slides down the mailbox, and whatever rebuttal he might have and could have spit back is left by the wayside, with him shaking and gasping on all fours in the grass.

When they've finished it, Jesse stands with his hands in his pockets, close to Ghoul, just looking down at the mailbox. It's such a pretty thing, colorful - attractive, and god, he hopes people use it. He's not missing anybody from here so badly as much as he's missing Jonathan. Emmett, Felix. His friends back home, the ones who kept him afloat. He could use Emmett here especially, he thinks.

Jesse looks to Ghoul, and chews at his bottom lip a little anxiously. A beat, and then, quietly: "I miss home."

Ghoul meets that look with one of his own, face passive, not showing any emotion in particular. He keeps looking at him for a few seconds before turning back to the mailbox. The now-finished replica of something far-off and long-gone that he'll probably never see again. And then he thinks of the people he'll never see again... and the people he couldn't help. The people he couldn't save.

"... Me too." As bad as it was, it was home. He had his family, he was home. Just gotta keep believing the Girl's okay. He's quiet another moment before he looks back at Jesse, "Much as I don't talk about it, much as I got a reason t'keep my secrets, you got secrets, too, Finch. You don't talk about it, either. Not as open as you think, huh?"

When Ghoul looks back, Jesse's got his eyes on the mailbox again. Not as open as you think - it makes Jesse snort, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"It ain't any secret, home," Jesse says lazily, but he is avoiding Ghoul's gaze. "You just never ask."

"Just ask?" Now he does smile, "That would be rude, motherfucker. Who the fuck just asks about that shit? Info's gotta be voluntary, actuary, straight from your capillaries. Who just asks? Normal people?"

He'd never be that intrusive. Hell, it took him weeks to ask Anna anything but what she was called and if she'd give him a kiss on Not-Christmas! Asking? Nah. Not his style. And do you know how fucking difficult it is not to ask when you're a curious fuck like Fun Ghoul?

"You should just tell. Hey, say it to the mailbox, not me. Go on. I'll plug my ears, yeah?" Look, he's doing it! Covering up his ears and grinning all stupid. Come on, Jesse, look. Don't get all down. He can't handle anymore down.

Jesse just rolls his eyes at that, because maybe that's how it works, but don't say it's a secret. There's no reason to go on and on about your past and how shitty or great it was if the person you're talking to doesn't want to hear it - and Jesse knows, a lot of the time, people don't want to hear it. He wrinkles his nose, though, and reaches to punch Ghoul in the shoulder lightly.

"Shaddup," Jesse tells him, but he's got half a grin on his face, reluctantly. "S'boring. Just regular old planet Earth. Nothing to tell, really - I mean, I dunno, maybe it's fascinating t'other people but really, s'just... home. For me."

He shoves his hands back in his pockets. "Used t'travel a lot. Cause of the band, you know? So I miss that, too."

"Not boring." Ghoul shakes his head, no way, it's NOT boring. "Regular stuff for you ain't regular for me, remember? Once upon a time, maybe, but not no more. Now it's about as excitin' as you hearin' about back home." Okay, well maybe you can't exactly compare the two, but basically he's trying to say he's interested. Very interested.

"Where to? Said you were from California, too, so what else did you see? Other cities? Other countries?" That prospect does have him excited. Something beyond the zones. Untouched by the bombs and radiation. He wants to picture it. That and what California would be like back before it all happened. No Battery City. No BLI. Just sprawling metropolises with individuality, small towns, green... lots of water. People not forced to be happy.

"Don't have to talk if it's gonna bum you the fuck out, but I'd like t'hear. Really would, Finch. Trade you stories." Not something he offers just anyone.

It might bum him the fuck out, but - he can't resist the offer of trading stories. He wants to talk about it, so he will, with a soft sigh and a motion for the both of them to sit. Just on the ground, whatever, it's fine.

"From California, yeah. Los Angeles. Was a teenager in Kansas, mostly, though, 'cause that's where my boarding school was." It was a nice place, the little school, and he's got fond enough memories of it. Shrug. "L.A. is busy as fuck. Always something going on there, s'always loud and full of honking cars and people who spit at each other, but there's a shitton of great artists and actors and all these people. Everybody is interesting, there, they all got their stories."

Jesse traces his hand over one of the small tattoos on his arm - a grizzly bear on it's hind legs - as he speaks. "Moved to New York when I was done with California. Even busier. Louder, angrier. Less pot and more cocaine." He sniffs in amusement. "Countries... I dunno, I been to the UK, I been to Japan. All over - we had a world tour the year I signed on, so we went everywhere."

He sits right next to him, folding his legs up and looking eager like it's time for Dr. Seuss in fucking kindergarten or some shit. All these names, the places, they all sound like magical, far-off lands. He doesn't remember much before the City. Hell, he doesn't remember much before getting off the meds. It all seems so damn exotic.

"Lemme hear more about Japan. Always wanted..." To see it. To go there. No idea if it's even still standing, they don't tell them anything. The idea of an entire country being gone... the whole world... who the fuck knows what's past all that radiation and desolation? No one's been that far. Too dangerous. "You n' Galen? You got to see it all?" Together.

He's trying so hard to stay positive, but there are whispers. Whispers in a voice that was his but wasn't at the same time. Not fair. Why should they-- no, shut the fuck up. He shakes it off. That's bullshit. That's NOT him. Not what he thinks.

"Be nice to see a city all lit up with colour and music. Miss that. A lot. I dunno if I could handle it now, though. Tall towers everywhere, might get me feelin' too cramped. Flat desert, you can see everythin' miles before it's comin' to getcha. Outrun it. Shoot it. Lots of corners in a city." He remembers that much. Places to hide but also places to be trapped.

Jesse gives him a little smile.

"Yeah. New York might not be a great idea for you, yeah? S'real fucking crowded, you can lose somebody in there real fast. Japan's the same, only worse. But there's all these lights and crazy advertisements on the streets, and all sorts of people. The energy there, y'know, it's all proper and hurried and frantic, but it got us pumped."

He rubs at the back of his head with a grin, now. "The boys and I, the roadie boys? We went out drinking one night, got fucked up on sake. It was like an - an acid trip, all I remember's the fuckin' bright lights and colors and getting shouted at in Japanese."

It's good to see Jesse smiling. Genuinely happy, calm, at ease with him. Something he never expected to happen again. Definitely not so soon. Maybe Finch is just good at hiding it. Maybe he'll never get that trust back. But it's nice seeing him smile.

"Sounds like home." Bright lights, colours, even the shouting in Japanese. Jesse would fit in there. Not just because of the face, he'd make it on his own. He's a survivor. You know... except for that one time. "Desert's a lot like an acid trip, too. A lot like. Everythin's fast and flashy and fluid. Nothin' stays the same. Hard as you fight to keep it, nothin' stays. It's bright. It's loud. Like we gotta be twice as loud to make up for the people not sayin' anythin' at all. Like we gotta be a voice for all of 'em 'cause they won't fuckin' speak."

He's not sure if it's more difficult to talk about this now that everyone that knew is gone, or if it's easier. Because he's just talking to a friend. He doesn't have to keep his guard up. Hell, he hasn't had it up in a while. Ghoul's just not sure what to do with that or how it feels. He can't remember what it was like... to just talk to someone. No masks on, no code words. It's weird as all fuck.

So now it's done, and this is what it looks like. Galen leaves Jesse and Ghoul alone to work on it, since they're the artists, and after a couple of hours, he heads out to see for himself, guitar slung over his back. Even though the custom is so unusual, erecting a mailbox for the dead or missing, it still feels strangely like going to a funeral. Solemn, despite all the bright colours he can see as he approaches. He can feel a pang of homesickness as he catches himself wanting to tell his dad about this idea. He knows he'd appreciate it.

Galen approaches Ghoul, hands in his pockets, eyes caught by the brightly-coloured monument. He does look up at Ghoul, though, and offer him a little smile.

"Hey. Looks great."

Homesickness is contagious as hell right now. Step up and get your free dose of the shit, as much as you can carry in your heavy heart. Ghoul's got plenty for everyone, though he's trying to make the best of it. Trying to stay positive. It's easier out here, with everyone. Gonna be a lot harder when he goes home to that empty house.

Galen gets a smile in return as Ghoul nods to him before running a hand through his longer-by-the-damn-day hair. Maybe he should start tying it up.

"Yeah? Thanks. Not just about aesthetics, but it helps. Loud and proud. Expressin' love." And it's a big fuck you to the sterile, cold, harsh white coating everything in the city. Seriously, fuck that shit. "You... gonna play? You really gonna play?" It's really hard to hide his excitement, but he tries. Probably not working too well.

If he started tying it up, Galen would have to ban him from his presence. There are only so many things you're allowed to do when you look that fucking much like his boyfriend, and looking even more like a desert badass isn't one of them.

Anyway.

Galen smiles back, reaches back to pluck at the strings a little. "Yeah, if you still want me to. I figure you guys have this, you got the colour down, but I know music's important, too. And I'm more than happy to deliver." Seriously, he'll play for peanuts, at this point. "Whatever it is, it'll be cooler than any funeral I've ever played."

Heeeey, 'allowed' means rules. Ghoul doesn't follow rules, Galen. Not his fault he's got all these luscious locks while Jesse's stuck with shaggy bed head. Not his problem! You deal with it, Howard.

Even that random, imperfect sound of the strings sends a jolt right through him. Tugs at something deep inside. It's been so long. Pretty bad they had more access to music in a fucking desert wasteland than they do here. He grins eagerly, no chance of hiding it now.

"'Course I want ya too. Just... just play whatever. Whatever you want. Anything, play anything. Just want them to hear it. Wanna listen for a while." Christen the box. Bless it with music. Bring it to life and fill it with energy so it sparks like a plug and sends the juice to the other side to keep those memories alive and let them feel the electricity way out nowhere.

Galen can pretty much feel the excitement for the music emanating from Ghoul, and it makes him grin. This is how a memorial should feel. Out of all the stories of all the different mourning rituals in the world that his dad used to tell him, growing up, his favourites were always the ones that celebrated life. Taking some time to mourn is fine, but it's okay to be happy.

Before Galen pulls his guitar from his back, though, he reaches into his back pocket for some folded papers, each one sealed with a little sticker (which he may or may not have stolen from Kenzi). One for dad, one for mom, one for Brad, one for Daphne, and one for Charlotte. He stares at them for a moment, smile faltering just a little.

"Just wish they'd actually get these." He wants to apologize to his friends so badly, sometimes, that it keeps him up at night.

The sight of the letters makes his heart swell. Seriously, he's all fuzzy and genuinely touched. Galen's taking this seriously. It means something to him. He's not just indulging a broken man from an alternate future with a fractured way of looking at life... he's taking up a tradition made quite recently by people just trying to live out on their own. It means a lot.

"Whatever you got to say to 'em, sure they already know." He steps away from the mailbox, giving Galen some room. Giving him some time. Big grin on his face, just smiling from ear to ear. Not at his sadness, not at his loss, no. He's happy this is getting some use. He's happy that he could help. Even just a little. After all the shit he's pulled? After everything he and his crew have done to Galen? This doesn't make up for it, but it's a start.

"Just drop 'em in, Starshine. They'll go where they need to go."

Galen takes another moment to look over the crappy little paper notes, holding them between his hands, before he steps forward to pull the mailbox door open and send all five of them on their way into the box's depths. For a second, he lets himself imagine what this must be like in the desert, mourning loved ones, saying goodbye with the hot sun on your neck and an uncertain future. For a moment, he thinks he understands Ghoul a little more.

He lets the door shunk shut again and takes a step back, then runs his hand back through his hair. "Okay. Cool. You do anything special after putting them in?"

"Nah, baby." He grins, "Not unless you count drivin' fast, playin' it loud, and shootin' em up along the way. Celebration, my friend. All you gotta do, just do it loud." Maybe grab a bite, split something out of a can between all of them.

"Or you could do a little fuckin' dance, raise your arms t'the sky, throw your head back and howl. Whatever the fuck you want. No point tellin' someone how to pray or how to mourn, yeah? Just gonna do it their own way anyway. All ways are acceptable." He claps a hand on Galen's shoulder, still smiling. You do what you want, Galen Howard. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Galen smiles, and instead opts for the kind of remembering he's good at: music. He reaches to pull the guitar around to his front, then digs into his pocket again for one of his makeshift picks.

"There's this one group of people in Madagascar," he begins, still digging, "who believe that decomposition is the most important part of death, because once the bodies decompose, the dead get to go to the afterlife. So like -- every seven years, they dig up their dead, wrap them up fresh, and fuckin' -- dance around with them to live music before burying them again." He feels like Ghoul might appreciate that fact.

"Fuck -- found it." He pulls the pick out, settles the guitar back in front of him. "Just think that's pretty cool."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

You get to feel so guilty, got so much for so little...

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