The abandoned pizza place wraps around him and pulls him into something close to the ground, sitting in the middle of the diner, the chair seemingly stuck in place as if it hadn't moved since 1984.

The train of thought makes the flashing images harder to shake, his grip on reality slipping and slipping until — he feels, or more so, imagines, your hand over his gloved one, a tranquil smile in your face, one he doesn't have the heart nor the body to reciprocate, but you know him, so he doesn't have to.

With you, and the rest of his friends, every single horrible thing ever endured falls into a cartoonish version of itself, though the feel of the steel against his jaw, of feeling the breeze on his skull, on his brains, that never gets easier. Soldier Boy bashes his head in the ground and he sees the sun of Nicaragua again, glistening, it's getting cloudy, and he swears it's soon to be over.

Soldier Boy. The mention of his name — Black Noir can't tell if it's himself, or you, or the other voices in his head, though he vaguely, faintly understands that he is, in fact, alone but nonetheless it makes him cross his arms over his chest and sulk, feeling like a little kid, burdened with years of dread.

After a few seconds of the shapes and colors in his head soothing him, reminding him, reassuring him — and you with them, he looks down, silent as he's been for the past half-a-century, wondering if he's ever had something to say.

He draws the words in black marker, on the small whiteboard on his lap, nothing short of empty on his masked face, or in his hands, gripping it steady and surely. I'm scared. Not a thing of his demeanor betrayed the truth of the words; but you know better, you're just a figment of his imagination, but you're his only friend in times like these.