[ he's a dark shadow in the midst of new arrivals: coat and leathers traded in for a black jumpsuit, gun-worn fingers grasping the device in one hand and the other hanging loosely at his side. it's reminiscent to what he's seen on earth, the small box that jake has that he's seen him fiddling with from time to time, but he's never bothered to learn it. not when they were going back to midworld, where devices like these don't exist.

he watches the woman's fingers, squints at the words that appear on the screen and he makes out some of them. silence, survival; things he's familiar with at least. but none of that really matters, and his true concern becomes clear when they ask if he agrees, to which he simply asks: ]

Where is he?

[ where is jake? ]

[ it's the same every night: the dark sweep of fabric over barren and dusty land, a handful of flames and laughter slick as oil. bodies fall around him one by one, but he doesn't stop, in relentless pursuit of the man in black. but no matter how far he goes, how close he gets, he can never reach him.

death, but not for you, gunslinger.

he reaches out on the third night, fingers stretching as far as they can reach, but instead of cloth they meet a handle and he falls, endlessly, only to land on the same dusty and dry land. the sun beats down overhead and when he looks down at his closed fist, it opens to red dirt. ]

[ come at me, bro. ]