[ closed ] all of us like Daedalus: dead, dead, all of us

[gramarye]

Who: Benji and Wolfgang
What: At least it's not technically an arrest.
Where: Badside, Weirdhaus
When: Sukkardi/Saturday the 29th
Warnings: Unpleasantness. Updated as needed.

Whatever meds he's on now, they're working; he is coming back. Wolfgang is present in a way he hasn't been in weeks. He goes to work again, sees the friends he doesn't really like less, the ones he does like more. He smiles more. Takes the pets for walks, or rather they usually take him, sending him chasing them down the street hollering no, come back! Don't eat that! He usually is aware of who he is, where he is. If he doesn't always seem to know what's happening around him, he at least trusts other people not to lie to him about it. ("Did you just say...?" "Did you see that —" And sometimes the answer is no, and he's troubled, but he accepts it.) He teeters on functional more than he doesn't and while he hasn't stopped drinking, he at least has cut back to something that doesn't look so much like functional alcoholism. He keeps his stress to a minimum: asks for help when he needs it, quits trying to bootstraps everything. He took the wall around his dreams down.

Little things are getting easier — waking up at the same time every day, returning phone calls, eating regularly. He's usually around for dinner, helps out. Afterwards, he does the dishes while he talks to Benji, drinking red wine, some Baedalite type of grape, and maybe it's not a great idea to be handling wet knives and soap while drinking, but nobody in this house makes great decisions. Not everything he says always strictly makes sense but that's Baedal for you, really.

He's telling a story about something cute Archer — one of the kids he looks after sometimes, in Badside they trust him with their children — did and gesturing with the glass when someone or something pounds on the front door hard enough to knock it off its hinges.

He jumps and turns, pale and drawn. The glass shatters in his hand before he even drops it but retains its shape, and a handful of red grapes fall to the floor. Embarrassed, he mutters something inaudible (it sounds like an apology; it's always an apology) and throws everything in the trash before he goes to answer the door, troubled.

Voices from the foyer. Sounds like a man. "Wolfgang Einhorn?" The inflection that would make that a question has a hard enough edge to turn it into an accusation. "You have a summons."

Paper rustling. A pause. "There must be a mistake." Wolfgang's voice is thin and wavers. "I don't — I don't do that, they just put me on the power grid, that's not —" The heavy thud of boots on wood and then two uniformed Militia agents make their way into the living room, both armed; they spread out and begin going through the living room methodically, as if they're searching for something. A moment later, there's a third, followed by Wolfgang, distraught, who is holding a paper that looks like a warrant of some kind, but it can't be because the Militia do not need them.

He hovers there, not sure what to do, how to get these people out of his house.