He's in this weird fucking middle ground. There's desert—just hot and bright and too much and his eyes hurt. He's squinting and short hairs slick with sweat get caught in his eyes when he blinks.
The heat from the sand is starting to seep through his clothes, but he makes no attempt to stand. His movements are already sluggish, even his blinking. As he shifts he eyes around there are sun spots dotting in his vision, different shades of red and orange and piercing white and he can't adjust to the change in brightness.
There's the soft sound of sand being pressed under feet and he thinks nothing of it, I'm dreaming.
"Look at you, boy."
That sets him in motion. He jumps and he tries to focus on where the voice comes from but he can only make out feet from the position his body's landed in.
"Haven't been here long, I presume?"
"What makes you say that?" He doesn't tilt his head to see the face of the man who's speaking.
"You simply look lost."
"A little." He knows it's a desert, so that's a start, isn't it?
"Well," the voice belonging to the sandy feet begins, "let me be the first to welcome you."
Sandy-Feet lends him a hand and when he stands it's now the other man's turn to look up.
"Just arrived, then." His arms are crossed and he has a stern look on his face, though the other man can't see.
"I guess. I just woke up and," he moves his hands around, "this." He's squinting at the other man, sun spots still in his eyes, though the colors have shifted to blues and purples. He can make out a stocky outline, but it isn't much.
"Looks like you need these more than I do at the moment."
He hesitates before reaching out a hand, not quite sure what he needs more than the other man. He fumbles around before realizing they're sunglasses that he's being given. They don't do much but darken the sunspots in his vision, but it's something.
"Forgetting something?" The shorter man frowns.
"Yeah, where I am and how I got here and who the hell are you, anyway?" He hasn't looked at his clothes, but he imagines they're stained with sweat and frayed and realizes he probably doesn't seem like much of an opposing figure at the moment.
The other man stares at him.
"Oh," he mumbles, "and thank you."
"Better than nothing, I suppose. Arthur Kirkland. Yourself?"
"Alfred Jones."
They shake hands. "Nice to meet you, then, Jones."
Alfred's vision finally clears enough to make out the features of the man in front of him and the first words that come to mind are battle hardened. He wonders if that's from being trapped in this sandy void for so long or if he arrived here, wherever here was, like that, but there's more pressing matters at the moment.
"Where the fuck are we?"
"I call it purgatory, though there isn't really a proper name for it."
And the funny thing is, Alfred never remembers dying, if this is what Arthur says it is.
He remembers driving and running off the road with his head buried into the steering wheel of his truck, but he doesn't remember closing his eyes and letting go, but he supposes he did.
"It's hotter than hell, here."
"It isn't," Arthur says flatly. "Trust me."
(Stylistic changes in how the fic is written are bound to come, hope you still enjoy!)