the (after) life of the party feat. @jcne at the monster mash bash
thirty minutes ago, callum was three minutes away from his friday night shift coming to an end.
twenty eight minutes ago, callum was one minute away from clocking out of his friday night shift.
twenty seven minutes ago, callum was dispatched a call from illusion about a single-use bathroom door being locked and needing assistance breaking it down. something about a girl inside who was unresponsive.
she better not be dead, callum thinks to himself as he's forced to gear up anyway, his exterior jacket giving his already tired shoulders no mercy. he'd been on the clock since eight this morning and had already responded to over seven calls (to none of which, his limbo brain still adjusting to ansong failed to notice, actually involved any major fires). of course the universe loves to shove itself right into the sliver between the innate feeling of control over his own life and reality, which was, truly, getting another call a minute before his shift was over.
when he arrives on premises, there's a considerable crowd packing the nightclub. he still hasn't gotten used to the feeling of looking so out of place when he's got his gear on in public, especially in a club where everyone else around him is dressed scantily clad and do all but pretend to ignore him when his partner are forced to squeeze their way through a sea of sweaty, perspiring bodies. a manager spots them immediately to lead them through the stares that follow the gaze of the room down a hallway to the restrooms.
the thud of the bass shakes the walls of the walls that glow neon from the signs that are fixated to the wall with illusion's logo. there's a few women that stand huddled together in front of the door, their faces a solid mix split between some looking concerned and others seeming inconvenienced. the manager shoos them off, turning to explain to callum and his partner, "she's been in there for over forty minutes, apparently. it's got a dead bolt, so we can't get it open from the outside."
stupid, callum thinks as him as his partner dig in their duffel bag for their smaller-sized jaws of life to pry the door open; who installs a single-use bathroom in a club with a dead bolt? he shakes his head to rid himself of the millions of reasons for the poor design as he helps his partner open the door. the bass reverbs on the walls as the dead bolt finally gives way when the lock is crushed between the metal jaws.
the build up feels all too cinematic when the door is finally opened and it's revealed that it's june who had locked herself in the bathroom — fortunately, she doesn't look sick or in any sort of peril, just... asleep. it almost appears staged, just how peaceful she looks with her arms under her head as a makeshift pillow over the downed seat.
"i got it — i know her," he tells the other two men with him who share concerned glances. stepping between them, callum crouches down beside her and unbuckles his helmet.
the music is still quite loud in the bathroom, and the thought of how many germs there must be on this floor and the toilet seat she's got her face practically flush to is something he doesn't want to think much into. he uses one arm to lift her head off the seat and sit her in an upright position, holding one of her arms to keep her steady. "june," he has to shout over the music, shaking her gently in a feeble attempt to wake her up. judging by how her makeup is smudged at the corners, who knows how long she actually was in here before someone even noticed. "june, hey, it's callum. you gotta wake up. we're gonna take you back home."
