That explanation earns him a long, plaintive, desperate look. Is this guy serious? No one would say something like that, completely without conviction or pleading, just dull acceptance like what a wacky sort of day we're having.

This is its fault, isn't it. That thing. Inventing new ways to break open his head. Like it hasn't done enough. Just because this isn't the turbid hell of a shadowscape it launched him into those few, gut-wrenching times doesn't mean it isn't going to suck just as much, if not more so.

Tim puts his head in his hands.

"Fuck," he says. Then, louder, "fuck."

The hands slide away. He looks at the red-brown smear across one wrist and grimaces.

"What, did you piss it off too?" It sounds almost wry as he says it. Tim already feels dried out, emptied, too goddamn tired to even put up a righteously indignant fight about it anymore. Whatever it wants from him, it'll get it, one way or the other.