Post by Dusty on Feb 9, 2022 0:17:33 GMT
Back in NYC, Psi would be heading back down to his hideout - stepping into the underground abandoned train tunnel. The Psker was tired, both emotionally and physically - recent events had kept him sort’ve busy and he was laying low till he was healed up. A slow process, for sure but needed. Luckily he wasn’t running around still, moving around would open up the hastily stitched wounds he had. Handiwork he had performed himself. Sloppy, amateurish and would lead to infection if he wasn’t disinfecting it every night.
As he got to the platforms, he would hop up with ease - landing onto them and taking his coat off. Tossing it onto his steel bed, his clothes ripped and tattered. Ruined. He hadn’t ‘aquired’ any new clothes yet, so he was still rocking his jacket and ruined shirt. Also hastily patched together, being held on by threads he used his powers to stitch. A trick he learned when he met Street-Rat and Cassidy.
With a sigh, he would grab a bottle of whiskey. A daily night routine, change the bandages; change the stitches. He would take a swing, swallowing a bit before shaking his head. It dulled the pain - not by much, but enough to make it bearable.
A night in the underground, alone - changing bandages. His senses were on edge, but what could he do about that? Anyone normal would be unnerved by whats been happening, maybe even distrubed. Luckily, or unluckily, for the Psker; he was used to it way before he arrived in NYC.
He really didn’t know if that was tragic or upsetting. Possibly both.
As he got to the platforms, he would hop up with ease - landing onto them and taking his coat off. Tossing it onto his steel bed, his clothes ripped and tattered. Ruined. He hadn’t ‘aquired’ any new clothes yet, so he was still rocking his jacket and ruined shirt. Also hastily patched together, being held on by threads he used his powers to stitch. A trick he learned when he met Street-Rat and Cassidy.
With a sigh, he would grab a bottle of whiskey. A daily night routine, change the bandages; change the stitches. He would take a swing, swallowing a bit before shaking his head. It dulled the pain - not by much, but enough to make it bearable.
A night in the underground, alone - changing bandages. His senses were on edge, but what could he do about that? Anyone normal would be unnerved by whats been happening, maybe even distrubed. Luckily, or unluckily, for the Psker; he was used to it way before he arrived in NYC.
He really didn’t know if that was tragic or upsetting. Possibly both.