New York City, Wednesday Morning

No matter what film and television might tell you, there were actually a limited amount of alleyways in Manhattan. This one, though, was one of them. Probably for the best, as sometime during the morning, a pink line split it open right down the middle, and spat out one haggard-looking man.

Atton stumbled forwards. Behind him, he could just about feel the heat of an explosion for all of a second, before the portal closed, and left him by himself. Heart pounding, eyes wide.

He stood there in shock for a moment.

Then, reality kicked in. He scrambled for his old phone, hitting the power button repeatedly until it turned off. Then he did the same for his comlink.

He was done. He was done. He was alive, somehow, no matter how hard their galaxy had worked to put an end to him, and he was so, so done. Let them think he was dead this time. Anything else he was feeling, that squeeze in stomach, that relief in his chest, the pain in his hip... that could wait.

New phone? New phone. Right.

He stumbled out of the alley, inputting the numbers of the few people who deserved to know he wasn't dead. Texting, or calling, whatever worked in the moment.

(Half an hour later, he'd open the door to his apartment, and find a worried Dane looking at him, and his stupid hip, and he'd laugh hysterically and say, "Sorry, space habit I'm trying to kick," and that would be the start of something else. But that would be in a little while. For now, he was just. Breathing.)

[[ open to anyone who thinks he might call or text. and wooooo he's officially expat again baby. ]]