itinere | Open | Eternity in an hour... or three days.

Open | Eternity in an hour... or three days.

Isaac arrived three days earlier.

He had numbly followed the instructions on the PDA and holed himself up in his apartment for three days to try and swallow the hysteria. He was too sober to cope with this on top of everything else and total isolation was the only way he knew how to cope in the absence of his favourite addiction.

Now, he's decided to put on his big boy pants and actually go out and try and find out if this is Heaven, Hell or something far weirder.

Judging by the profusion of roses and clover, he's going for far weirder right now.

(OOC: Hello and please come and help/harass Isaac Mendez, formerly of Heroes and coming from his death at the end of season one!)

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Having no idea who Peter was, d'Artagnan just shrugged. "I cannot say I understand this place," he admitted. "But it seems to be a good think if your head was being cleaved for you to be here."

Isaac's hand reached up to where the cut had been made, fingers shaking slightly as he checked it yet again. "Yeah. Guess so. I had sort of banked on... being dead? And I'm not. You're not dead either. According to you."

"I would hope according to you, too," d'Artagnan agreed, amused. "What would that make me ... a ghost?" He scoffed. "I was alive in Paris, then I ended up here and I am still alive, monsieur."

"Well, I was more hoping for this being the afterlife. Maybe even Heaven. Though I really don't think I belong in Heaven..." He crossed himself absently.

"... you clearly have a lot on your mind," d'Artagnan offered. "I don't know if this place is heaven or hell, and I have no idea where I will be when the time comes. I suppose I don't worry on it very much." What was the point?

"My family were very much hellfire and damnation people. I thought about it a lot. I still do." He looked at d'Artagnan. "What is this place?"

"I - " Well, d'Artagnan might be the worst person to ask. "I am not sure," he prefaces, "but it seems to b something of a - " ahem. "A magical place," he admits, his expression making clear how he knows he sounds. "That can pull us from all over time and location."

"So... not Heaven? Or Hell?" Honestly, the way the last five weeks of his life went, magic place is not the most outlandish thing he can imagine.

"No," d'Artagnan repeats. "Because we aren't dead."

That is important. Very, very important.

"Right."

He was definitely dying before, but he seems to be okay now. "Not dead. Yeah."

"Right." For a moment, d'Artagnan watches him with raised brows, judging whether the man is all right or not.

Or at least all right enough. "So. You can ... find a place to stay. There is food to eat. It's ... not bad really."

"I found a place. I've been holed up for three days, mostly going insane and screaming a lot." He feels no shame for his break down. He's had a long six weeks.

"Not dead."

Not dead, but really, the screaming and going insane sounds quite terrible; that shows on d'Artagnan's face. "I ... well, I hope you are feeling better?"

Isaac gives a wry smile and tilts his head. "Well, you know, I'm lucid and outside, so that should count for something. And I still remember how to speak English, French and Spanish, so if I'm still insane, at least I'm remembering my education and insane."

"... right."

Perhaps a change of topic is due. "What is it like where you are from, monsieur? Very much like this?"

"Um..." He looked around.

"Sort of? I come from a city called New York, in America. Most recently, anyway. It's a lot bigger and dirtier and busier than this. There's traffic day and night. They call it the city that never sleeps, which is pretty true. There's eight million people live in her, give or take." He doesn't know how to really use words to explain her. "I'm not... a word person. Really. I'm a painter."

"A painter." Well, that's impressive. d'Artagnan grins. "And is that what you do here as well? Paint?"

"I don't know." He tugs on his hair briefly, an old anxious tic. "I've only been here three days."

It's dawning on him that he can never leave here. Even if he's not dead, going back through that door is a death sentence for him. "I'm going to have to work it out, I guess."

"As are we all," d'Artagnan reminds him. Of course, his love of Lucrezia makes that easier, most certainly. "Perhaps, monsieur, I could commission of you a portrait?"

"Me?" He's from a world which doesn't value painters the same way that d'Artagnan's world does. "I mean, yes, but I'd need to find where I can get supplies. Get money for supplies. Crap. But yes! I can do a commission. What of?"

"Of the most beautiful woman," d'Artagnan replies, his eyes shining. "Fair and kind and of a lustrous beauty that puts all others to shame. I have a few coins." He draws them from his pockets, offering them over. "If these should help get what you need?"

Ah. He's in love. Isaac gives him a slightly fond smile. "Well, we can find out what the local currency is, if there's art supplies and you're going to have to rustle up either this young lady of yours or her likeness."

"I will happily escort Lucrezia to where you would wish to paint her. Or I can escort you to her rooms," d'Artagnan says with a bright smile. "When will you paint her?" He makes sure to put the coin's in Isaac's hand.

Isaac gives him the coin back. "I need to find out if there's any supplies in this place. Don't give me money until I know if it's even possible."

What sort of place would this be if there were not supplies for artists? d'Artagnan frowns at the idea.

"You will contact me, then? When you are ready?"

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I am sorry, I had no phone or net until yesterday afternoon!

Urgh. D: No worries!

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