He lasts a little longer, clings to consciousness for a breath more, tries to speak, to wake Olivia up, something, but then he's adrift in blackness with Olivia's voice as the only anchor. He knows it's her, even though she sounds wrong, and somehow he finds his footing even though there's nowhere he can see to stand.
"I'm here." It sounds wrong. He looks down at his hands - and they're there, but small, stubby-fingered, a child's hands. He's standing in the middle of an empty street he recognizes, with shops he knew in another life, their displays brilliant with color and vacant of anyone, anything.
He steps back. This is Hell's Kitchen, his Hell's Kitchen, when he lived there with his mother. "Olivia?"
Steve tries to keep a tremor out of the call. This is wrong, he knows it's wrong, that it's not real. He wants to know where the people are - or wants it all to go away. He's not sure which.
no subject
"I'm here." It sounds wrong. He looks down at his hands - and they're there, but small, stubby-fingered, a child's hands. He's standing in the middle of an empty street he recognizes, with shops he knew in another life, their displays brilliant with color and vacant of anyone, anything.
He steps back. This is Hell's Kitchen, his Hell's Kitchen, when he lived there with his mother. "Olivia?"
Steve tries to keep a tremor out of the call. This is wrong, he knows it's wrong, that it's not real. He wants to know where the people are - or wants it all to go away. He's not sure which.