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Who is this sassy lost child
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((Min-jae Parker continued from When I grow up, I want to be Nothing At All))

Jae had to stop about two-thirds of the way up the stairs so that he could throw up.

His progress had been slow and shaky to begin with; the splint on his leg was coming apart and he had nothing left to fix it with, so he had turned to using the rifle as a crutch and hoping that the safety didn't turn off on its own and end up blowing off what was left of his hand. He'd had half a mind to not even get up off the kitchen floor, especially once it registered that there were going to be stairs involved in herding the last few stragglers together, but well...

God, he didn't want to die with Kimiko's corpse staring at him. Not in the spot where Fiyori had loomed over him and mockingly deemed him fit to live a few hours more.

Fuck Fiyori. He had vaguely recognized the other two names listed off, but hadn't really cared about them. If he was going to do this, throw her sarcastic mercy back in her face, he had to do it in her presence.

So he shambled along, stopped to vomit on the stairs like the kind of drunken hobo he probably resembled at this point, and then shambled on some more, slowly and painfully making his way up to the roof.

The rain was cold on Jae's face, drawing trails through the grime and dried blood on his skin and waking him up a little from the lingering warm fuzzies of the alcohol-and-painkiller cocktail he'd been indulging. He still felt sluggish, but there was enough cognizant thought now to wonder about what sort of damage he had been doing to himself and whether it had a further toll to take than he was yet feeling. Even the small amount of weak painkillers he'd had left would probably do something adverse with the drink, right?

Four people left, himself included. Jae, Fiyori, and two nobodies.

Okay, it was actually just four nobodies. But Jae was still the star of his own show, so he got top billing as the chief nobody of the who-gives-a-shit primetime hour.

He was breathing hard after forcing himself up the stairs and he shuffled to the side so that he could lean against the roof to the side of the door. Nobody in sight yet. He couldn't be the first one up, could he? Fiyori at least hadn't been in worse shape than Jae when he had last seen her.

Maybe there was nobody here at all. Maybe he had actually died in the kitchen and his body just hadn't figured it out yet.

Maybe Hell and Purgatory were the same thing and you never left.
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."

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Rivers in the Desert · The Rooftop