Welcome to the First Day of the Rest of Your Life

[susurrosmuertos]

When night finally rolls around and St. John has apparently given up on tossing Ramon's belongings (or Ramon himself) out into the hall for now, the tall kid figures that that means this is where he's bedding down. At least for tonight.

Despite the other person's grudging allowance of letting him stay in the same room as him, or perhaps because of

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[tendencytostart]

St. John isn't sleeping. He has his headphones on, but uh...Bad Religion, not really conducive to rest. And in any event, it's likely he'd still be awake regardless. The proverbial 'sleeps with one eye open,' in this case. He always has to be ready to run. Finding out there were a lot of large people with guns keeping him in town has enforced this. They don't seem to have found him, but sometimes it takes longer than others, and the notion that if he has to go, he can't, without exploding a lot of military equipment, both terrifies and thrills him. Neither of these things are good for sleeping either.

However, that does not in any way mean he wants to deal with Ramon crying. "Kid. I am going to shove your head in the toilet." Such is the communicative nature of teenaged boys.

[susurrosmuertos]

There's an immediate, noisy snuffle and some hasty wiping of his nose and eyes on the back of one wrist and with the heel of his palm. Not that the latter is seen by his roommate, what with the dark and the way his back is facing St. John.

"S-Sorry..." he mutters miserably, and it doesn't seem he's going to say much more after that. But then!

"A-Aren't you scared, th-though?" He realizes asking this, or even initiating conversation at all might get his head dunked in the toilet anyways, but. "N-Nothing's ever g-going to be the same, St. John. Almost everybody's dying and-...And what are we going to DO?"

[tendencytostart]

St. John sighs like he's uh, being stabbed, if one can sigh in such a manner. Then he pulls off his headphones and reaches over to turn on the light. "Nothing. I'm going to lie here and you're going to annoy me and we're just going to...go on. Unless you have other suggestions. Which I'm sure you'll tell me."

He's not scared, exactly. He's apprehensive, a little, but that's mostly from the idea that things are changing very very rapidly, and the idea that this new world might be one that he fits significantly better into than any version of normalcy is, as with the idea of exploding tanks, both disconcerting and comforting.

[susurrosmuertos]

Ramon rolls over to face his surly roomie, brushing some of the ever-present bangs from his eyes. They're...pretty red and puffy-looking, and still watery too. Poor guy.

"N-No. That's just it. I don't know wh-WHAT I'm going to do either. I-I can't even g-go outside now without being scared of, you know, them. H-How am I supposed to go on when-? When-?"

There's pause for a whimper, which the shorter boy is sure to love. While St. John is poised for an existence where his power can be more readily and openly used, Ramon, on the other hand, is facing a world where he's now all but crippled by his abilities. Put that on top of the daunting realization that it's the end of the world as we know it, and that more and more people are dying by the second...

[susurrosmuertos]

"Y-Yeah." He nods, folding his hands in front of him, weaving his long fingers together. "Doesn't sound like they've, um, got good things intended."

He can't help but wonder what the heck they'd do with him, though. St. John's got a tangible power; it's a raw, destructive force and ability, something that can be harnessed and used as a weapon. The practical applications here are obvious. Secret organizations and governments can always use a new way to blow things up. But someone who just sees dead people that can't do anything anyways? It's not like he can control the ghosts, after all. Unless, maybe, they wanted his ability for information gathering...Man, now he's regretting thinking about this so hard

[tendencytostart]

It's hard to say what would happen if Ramon told him for sure. Peace of mind one way or the other? One might surmise regret and guilt are not options, and they'd be right. St. John hasn't had time to vent the appetite for destruction desire to see what things look like when they burn (just because) yet, and maybe he never will. It's like the fire itself; giving it oxygen won't put it out, just build it up.

"North Central Pharmaceuticals." He says it like it's three separate sentences, and maybe it has enough gravity for that. Almost every home in the world contains something they've made, whether they know it or not. It was the name they used to administer the drug trials Robert Allerdyce had participated in. They weren't concerned about the possibility of exposure; why would they be? That's what waivers are for. Or, you know, death and things.

[susurrosmuertos]

oh gawd Umbrella Inc.

"...What?" That knocks him for a bit of a loop, yes. Because even back over in Spain, that company was a household word in just how they made such a wide range of products that were commonly used. Not that he's ever given the business much thought before, but-

"W-Wait, why would they-? I thought they just-...Th-They were the ones who-...With your dad and everything...?" The plot thickens, sir!

[tendencytostart]

The plot is a thick chewy stew with perhaps both meat AND vegetable products and uh, according to Stephen King, laundry folders that can kill you. Whutevs.

"They have extra-curricular activities." Oh, St. John, you're so forthcoming. Probably because he doesn't, uh, really know anything. Other than they ran a drug trial which made people alternately insane or very powerful and sometimes both, and they've been chasing him around a long ass time. Also, they're well-dressed. Which does not at all help him.