villagelogs | 018-020 » what he hides

Entry tags:

018-020 » what he hides

WHO: Everyone.
WHERE: Eastern/Central/Western Mathias.
WHEN: Days 018-020
WHAT: The fog recedes!
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary. PM this account to have a warning added!
NOTES: Plotting post over here!

RECOMMENDED ♫ Graham Plowman "Edge of Darkness"

DAYS 018-020
THE HIDDEN REVEALED
“Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”
— Benjamin Franklin

As the sun rises in the distance above the sea, the fog slips away from the unsettling town, winding through streets and across buildings until it is nestled soundly in the forest. There it waits, ready to snare any who dare test its limits — residents would do well to remember what happened the last time they encountered the fog so intimately.

With the fog receded, the western portion of Mathias is now revealed and available for exploring. There are more businesses on the town square and even some on the street that runs off the square. The schoolhouse is nestled by the southern treeline, not from the little makeshift cemetery at the end of Jackson Boulevard that is courtesy of a few kind residents in town. To the far north of the square is a sprawling garden, now covered in snow, and a greenhouse that once supplied the botanical shop. And to the west, beyond the square, is another residential district of the same size as that to the east. What is different, however...

These buildings are all in some form of decay. From the beginnings of rot to completely collapsed and little more than a pile of proverbial bones, none of these homes are anything resembling livable. Well, as far as one can tell, at least. For between the streets of Hill Lane and Stine road there is a crack in the earth. A dozen feet across and fifty feet down, the crack extends from one side of the forest to the other, either end cut off by the fog. The view to the other side is clear but there is no way across.

THE NEW ARRIVALS
There are quite a few new faces in Mathias on this day. Awaking throughout Day 018, they will find themselves laying in the snow beside that unsettling crack in the earth, houses both quaint and decaying surrounding them as the snow begins to cover their bodies. Best get inside and warm up, dears.

SPECTRES IN THE NIGHT
The days are short now that winter seems to have set in unseasonably early. Though the clocks in Mathias fail to properly keep time or sometimes even work at all, the sun rises around 8:00am and sets at 5:00pm. There is far more darkness than light in these days, but in that darkness there is, in fact, light.

In the distance all across Mathias, there are lanterns lit against that darkness. Their lights dance across the snow, the warm flickering shining like tiny stars and offering an almost ethereal glow to the crisp white snow. It would be a beautiful sight to behold... if it weren't for the shadowy figures that held them. With partially raised arms, the figures hold the lanterns and walk the streets of Mathias, drifting in between buildings and disappearing into the forest. Still yet, there are some that simply stand in place, as if waiting for something or someone.

No matter where or when these figures are seen, they always seem to be facing away from our residents, and attempts at reaching them are all for naught. They will fade from view if one gets too close, and return to sight when that distance is regained. And in the morning, those lanterns may be found in the snow, their lights extinguished but their glass somehow still warm.

STRANGER IN THE SNOW
Those investigating the western part of Mathias and venturing near that inexplicable crack in the earth will have the most unsettling feeling of being watched. Most of the time, there is nothing there and no one to be seen, but then—

On the other side of that expanse, sitting on a porch, in the shadow of a home, or standing in the oddly moonlit street, there is a man. His features are shrouded in darkness and not much can be discerned about him, but instinct tells you he is dangerous. There is a sense deep in your bones that he is maliciously amused.

He makes no move to speak, nor will he respond to any attempts on your part. Instead, he sits, or he stands, and he watches. By the end of Day 020, all sign of him will be gone, along with the eerie feeling of being watched.

LOCATIONS

Unless otherwise noted, all new locations have working electricity and other utilities.

BENEDICT BOOKS Nestled quaintly on the square surrounding the Town Hall, a thick layer of dirt covering the front windows. A portrait hangs at the front of the store to illustrate the namesake of the little shop... that may, in fact, not be so little. Dust covers everything in sight and detritus litters the wooden floor, as if someone left the door open and allowed half the forest inside. (more info)

MATHESON ANTIQUES Also on the town square is an antique store that is a lesson in chaos more than culture. The items within are stacked haphazardly, creating narrow aisles running throughout the space. Furniture, light fixtures, old revolutionary and civil war memorabilia, all of it is jumbled together with no rhyme or reason. Indeed, one wrong move could create an avalanche of aged wood and peeling paint.

POE'S CLOTHES Located on the town square, this shop carries only the basics. Loose jeans in a few sizes, khakis, solid color dress shirts and blouses, flannel in various styles, socks and underwear.

SPIN RIGHT ROUND RECORDS On the square across from the beauty store, the music shop is as dusty as everything else in this town has been. Tables line the walls of the long shop, filled with rows and rows of vinyl records, while a few wall shelves display cassette tapes for sale. One side of the store is for New items, while the other holds the Used section with items for resale. Residents may recognize some of the artists but many are unfamiliar to them.

CLINIC Outside the decayed, crumbling building just north of the square is a still miraculously intact sign with the name of the clinic's doctor, Dr. Ken Suzuki. There is no way to treat patients in this location, but with care, some salvageable supplies may yet be found in the remains.

BARKER BOTANICALS Not quite a flower shop and not entirely an apothecary, the botanical store to the far north of the square is something of an amalgamation of both. With a few broken windows to let in the rain, parts of the shop have been overtaken by nature, the house plants growing beyond their pots and rotted flower petals littering the floor to tell of seasons past. The still unclaimed walls are filled with decaying plants and jars of dried herbs and other vegetation, along with a few essences and tinctures.

GREENHOUSE A few dozen yards from the botanicals shop is a sprawling garden, now covered in snow, and a greenhouse that once supplied the botanical shop. The glass is still miraculously intact, though covered in grime so thick that one cannot see inside.

GALLERY The gallery is essentially a large empty space with framed and matted black and white photographs of the town lining the walls. There is a small selected of prints available for sale near the front entrance, and a few rooms at the back of the building — a dark room for developing photos, a small office, and a locked room.

MOVIE THEATER This single-screen theater is quite small, having only 40 seats, but there is a large collection of movies in its storage room. These are all old film reels however, so hopefully someone knows how to thread a film projector.

HISTORY MUSEUM Across the street from the Historical Society, this once esteemed wooden building has seen better days. Windows and doors are boarded up and there is visible rot and decay on the exterior walls. Part of the roof has fallen in and the accumulating snow threatens to collapse the rest of it as well. It is not wise to venture within.

HISTORICAL SOCIETY This brick building has also seen better days, though in a different sort of way. Where once had been carefully cataloged collections and cozy reading rooms for aficionados of local history, there are now stacks of bankers boxes and weathered tomes in every nook and cranny. There is no organization to any of it, everything seeming to have been stashed in a hurry and then left forgotten. Anyone who dares to dive into this archive will need to devote quite some time in order to find anything worthwhile. They will also want to bring their own light source — the electricity does not work here and the windows are quite dark from the accumulated dust and grime.

SCHOOLHOUSE A much smaller school than most of our residents might be used to, there are only a half-dozen rooms in the building, with a few comprising classrooms, meeting areas, and workspaces. All ages were taught here, and one might almost imagine the sound of children's whispered voices and distant laughter while within the empty building.

CONDITIONS UPDATE

— SNOW continues to fall in Mathias. Days 18-19 see light snowfall that very slowly accumulates, but the snowfall turns moderately heavy on Day 20 and sees significant accumulation. The temperature hovers just below freezing and dips lower when the sun goes down.

— VOICES are not openly haunting our residents, though they may still be occasionally encountered in the more heavily decayed buildings where some rooms seem to almost swallow whatever light tries to enter them.

— THE FOG has receded from the town proper and much of the eastern and northern beach. The path through the northern forest to the lighthouse is now also clear.

— DISAPPEARANCES continue to plague the town. While Daisy Johnson has returned, Zed Martin, Rey, and Quentin Coldwater have now vanished without a trace.

OOC UPDATES

— MADNESS has now been unlocked. Congratulations to Inky for Claire earning the first Madness! Who will be next? (Please be sure to keep your sanity updated regularly; Stars has created an amazing tracker for anyone to use if they'd like.)

— HELPERS are officially in residence! Kelly is our Registrar and Stars is our Librarian — both of these delightful members of our community are helping behind the scenes to keep things organized and updated (and doing wonders for the mod's own sanity levels), so please give them some thanks for their hard work!

— REPORTING updates is still a thing that your mod and helpers beg you to do. Changes to locations, plot notes that affect the community, and discoveries should be reported over here so these can all be noted in their appropriate places. (For clarification, reported Discoveries are not public knowledge unless a character has ICly shared this information.)

— A MAP of Mathias now exists, thanks to our wonderful Librarian! Please note that it is not to scale and there may be a few minor errors due to your frazzled mod. Expect updates in the future as more secrets are revealed.

— BULLETIN BOARD — don't forget about it. That's all.

CLAIMING AP REWARDS

Normally, only one AP reward can be claimed per log, but due to the plethora of new and old locations to explore, this restriction is being relaxed. Instead, for this log only:
— Players may spend AP on up to three rewards, though only Spot Hidden may be repeated.
— If a player is spending multiple Spot Hiddens, they must be with different characters and in different locations.

If two characters are investigating the same location together, they may each spend a Spot Hidden on that location. Players should record their spent AP after the AP request has been approved. Sometimes there is nothing to Spot with your Hidden and the points will be "refunded" to use elsewhere.

navigation | faq | setting | mod contact

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Not surprised, not with you carrying a butter knife. Who the fuck would choose a butter knife over guns?" Although that knife did get them into this creepy as shit building, so there's that.

"You sure?" Not that he's eager to jump on into the unknown, but neither one of them knows if it's safe or not. He watches warily as Henry climbs on in, turns on a flashlight soon after. He takes that as his cue to start sliding in behind him. Nothing ate the guy, so must be safe, right?

So why the fuck does he feel like this is a bad idea?

"You see anything? Any creepy, crawly shit?"

Even though his knife got him in here, it's true, he'd rather have his guns. Alas, beggars can't choose any damn thing. The beam of light sweeps across the floor of what looks like a storeroom, and Doc takes note of the state of the place. It must have been sealed for a very long time now. His torch doesn't seem to be doing much, and he can't see much further beyond what the light filtering in through the window they had broken in through, so after a few fruitless seconds of looking around more, he clicks the torch back off and holsters it. Best to conserve battery, and free up his hand in case he needs it.

"There are none of those in this town," Doc says half over his shoulder, checking to see that Negan has entered successfully and is following close behind.

"No termites, ants, roaches, worms, spiders." And you would think that there would be roaches everywhere, so. That they're somewhere even roaches fear to tread is saying something.

There are a few shelves near them, with some boxes and what looks like oddly-shaped surplus ornaments as dusty as everything else. Everything further away than that can't really be made out in the darkness. Doc is careful not to step on anything, watching for any brittle or rotting floorboards as he makes his way further inside. Maybe he is just being extra cautious because of the building sense of dread filling him, similar to how he had felt in the clinic. Just this sense of unease that he cannot shake off no matter what he thinks of.

Pushing past the antsy restlessness, Doc makes his way out of the storage room and into the next chamber. He takes maybe two steps in and freezes, feet rooted to the spot, lifting his head slowly as his eyes widen at the sight before them. His lips part as he watches the spores dancing like snow in the wind.

"Doesn't bode well for us, does it? Even fucking roaches won't live here." Or they're all dead, which is even worse. The only things that are supposed to survive a fucking apocalypse...

It doesn't help the uneasy feeling in his gut as they keep going on, brows furrowed. "Hey, man... I don't want to rain on your parade or anything, but this shit is giving me the heebiejeebies. Real bad vibe--"

Negan starts as he comes up behind Doc, eyes distractedly darting towards the ground, behind them, and then forward to-- see whatever the sweet hell that is.

"Ah, shit-- that don't look good." One hand moves to rest at Doc's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze in an attempt to get his attention.

The crushing weight of a bundle of disparate thoughts rolling into one hits him like a ton of bricks and as soon as he registers that Negan is indeed speaking even though he doesn't listen to the worlds themselves, Doc turns, swiftly, practically lunging at Negan and sending them both crashing onto the already brittle floor. His hat slides into the storage room they had come from and he clamps his hand over Negan's nose and mouth firmly.

"Don't breathe," he warns, voice low and deathly serious, pinning the other man down for a few seconds to make sure he's still, and listening. When Doc feels a nod or some kind of acknowledgement, he jerks his head towards the way they had come in from and tugs Negan back onto his feet before shoving him on out of there as quickly as they can go, back to the window where they can climb back out and breathe again.

He can't be sure if he's just gotten a man killed, but he doesn't want to think about it too much, at least until they're out of there.

Well, hello.

Doc moves faster than he's able to react, slamming him to the floor and clamping a hand over his mouth. The way his eyes go wide, eyebrows arching all the way up probably conveys the Where the fuck did this come from? vibe pretty well though.

Not that he might mind the roughhousing under different circumstances, but time and place, you know?

Negan's used to running his mouth in almost every situation, in being loud especially in tense situations, but he can't even fucking do that with a hand over his mouth and nose. He nods at the demand, not thinking of questioning. Not wanting to linger in this place longer than necessary. Some instinct tells him to run, so that's what he does the minute he's back on his feet and getting shoved forward. Breath held, a hand coming up to cover his own mouth and nose, he runs back where they came.

Doesn't mean he won't stop to grab that hat that fell along the way in his rush to get out of the window and back to some fresh damn air. Last thing he wants is to breathe in weird spores and grow something extra or turn into something he doesn't want to.

Growing something extra is the least of their worries ~~especially considering how Negan is a little extra already~~. He makes sure Negan is out and clear before he scrambles out himself, wincing as he gets a splinter lodged in his palm and smacks the corner of his head against the edge of the small opening on his way out.

He doesn't really feel like they can breathe easy once they're outside but he does heave a sigh of relief once he's well clear of the museum, warm breath visible in the cold, the edges of his palms resting on the tops of his knees. Maybe he's being overly paranoid about it, but he's pretty sure he's breathed some in. Negan would have, too. There looked to be a hole in the far corner where some snow was coming in, so. Maybe the whole town's breathed some in. Who the hell knows at this point.

"Are you alright, friend?"

He's not sure how he feels actually. His adrenaline is pumping, he's breathing a little harder from the exertion... or hopefully it's that and not whatever they just breathed in. Holy shit, that can't be good, right? Weird alien mold poisoning them all... what the hell's gonna happen to them?

Still, he snaps back to himself as quick as he hears that question and gives a nod. "Yeah... yeah. I'm just fine."

Probably. Maybe not.

Either way, he reaches over to give him a quick, firm pat on the back. "You? Feeling any sort of way?"

"No, I don't-" Doc purses his lips and shakes his head. The snowfall has gotten quite heavy now, and they can barely make each other's silhouettes out in the dark. "-don't feel anything." But who knows how long this is supposed to take if they are meant to feel something?

Doc is starting to think clearly again, with the piercing cold air filling his lungs. Emotions get sorted into neat little compartments. Rational thought takes over. If it was just some flower pollen then the worst they can expect is some hayfever maybe. If it's not, then... Doc runs his hand over his mouth and moustache, pinching at his nose and closing his eyes. God, he's so tired. Breathing out slowly, he lowers his hand again and turns to look back at the museum.

"We need to board that back up. And then we should go somewhere, far away from everyone else. Least for a little while, until we're sure." The other thoughts are coming. The what if they are already infected. The murder suicide. He doesn't want to be entertaining those thoughts just yet.

"Hey." Okay, fuck it.

You've got to get it together, Negan. He pushes the creeping worries out of his head, the doubt and suspicion and fear as he straightens himself up. "I know that look. Hell, I've been there myself."

He knows that suggestion too, as far as that goes. "I'm not dying until I'm damn good and ready, and neither are you. Alright? You take a breather, I'll get the boards back up."

He's already breathed the shit in, so what's the point of worrying about it now, right? But fuck-- "Gonna need something I can hammer the shit back up with again. Don't suppose you've got a hammer hidden anywhere, do you?"

"Well you best be getting good and ready 'round here." This place is full of unpleasant surprises. This is not how anyone would have wanted to go but at least they've got some time now to be making some difficult decisions.

"Just use my torch." He pulls the heavy duty baton-like torch and twirls it in his hand, extending the handle towards Negan. "It's all I've got." That and his knife, with which he has to come up with ways of taking themselves out. He's breathing, but who knows how long for. If whatever was in there is contagious then they don't have much of a choice.

"Maybe we could go to the town hall." It's a place where they can leave a note, if they've got anyone to be leaving it to.

"Oh, man... you ain't seen what I deal with every day. It'd blow your fucking mind. It's not even so much the dead walking around, you know? Sure, they're shit bags. But the people. They're the ones you gotta watch out for... They'll sneak in, kill your people in their sleep without so much as a how do you do."

He takes it and goes to work. It's cold out here and he'd rather get somewhere safe, and soon. "My point is... you don't just throw in the towel, whatever shit's flung your way. People are fucking important. So don't let your head go where I think it's going because nobody's dying until we start looking tasty to each other, and not in the biblical sense."

He manages a grin. "But sure. Town hall's fine. We'll set up nice and cozy. Back where I'm from, if you're gonna get sick or turn, you know it quick. A day, tops. Usually hours."

"The- the what now?" This is a lot to process. What dead walking around? Why would they look tasty to each other? "Turn into what?" Ellie had told him that there was a highly contagious fungal disease in her world, made people sick. She neglected to mention the zombie thing. It's like they started at Genesis, made it through to Exodus and then skipped on ahead to Revelations here. Doc is missing a few vital chapters in between.

"Are you from the same place as little miss Ellie?" Maybe Negan can explain this disease better.

"The kid?" He's met her, but he can't help a laugh at the little miss thing. It sounds so goddamn old fashioned, it's charming. His lips curl up and he shakes his head.

"No, different place, but still just as fucked up. People get sick though, then they become something else. It started quick... we don't know what it was. Something in the fucking air, something in the water. God punishing us for being miserable assholes, who knows." He shakes his head.

"That-- whatever it was in there... It gives me a bad feeling though." Mostly because if he does die from it, he'll turn. It's the fucking way of things.

"If I, uh... you know. Do go. You take that little butter knife of yours and you ram it in my skull, alright? Preferably from the back because... come on. It'd be a shame to damage this."

This is the first man to get Doc to roll his eyes here, which is truly a feat given his unending patience for shenanigans that the other morons he knows keep getting into.

"You might turn into something else in the next few hours and you're worried about your goddamn face?" Doc snips, with his arms crossed standing over whatever Negan is doing, slightly miffed, slightly frustrated, slightly guilty, slightly disbelieving.

"I have the one knife and... two of us. We'll have to figure sommin' out." Soon as Negan's done he will be eager to depart for the Town Hall.

"Excuse you, it's a good goddamn face!" Come on, laugh a little, man. Sometimes you just have to or you'd curl up in a fucking fetal position and cry.

"Alright..." He straightens up after the boards back in place, holding up his hands.

"Look, I'm sorry. Truth is, I'd be shitting my goddamn pants right now if I let myself, but it's not gonna help. It won't change whatever happens to us next and believe me, I get it. You don't forget watching somebody die. You never do." Not from cancer, not from your own fucking hands. Best you can do is not think about it.

"But I'm being real goddamn serious about this. I don't know what rules apply here. You ever see me taking my last breath, from this or anything else, you beat my fucking head in the first chance you get. I wouldn't trust just anybody with that, but-- hey, we're friends, right?"

He gives him a look as he holds the torch back out for him to take. "And I'd say we're sharing a real special bond right now."

"I didn't say it was a bad face!" he retorts, hands moving to rest on his hips just above his gun belt. Far be it from Doc to die impolite. He can appreciate a bit of stubble compared to all these baby-faced men trying to redefine masculinity walking amongst them. But that's neither here nor there.

"Alright. I'll take care of you." In that way. "And you do the same for me. We have ourselves a deal." At least Negan knows what to look out for. He takes the torch back and slides it back into his gun holster, tilting his head and levelling Negan with an equally serious look.

"Smoke on it?" he asks after a brief pause, plunging his hand into his pocket to pull out the tin case where he had kept his cigarillos. Now cigarettes, since he can't find any of the former. They can puff away on one while they make their way over to the Town Hall.

"Need to write a note. There's some pen and paper where we're going."

"Yeah?" Well, that's good to know. "Yours isn't so bad either, actually. I like the mustache."

Hey, he can give compliments as good as he gets them. He's just that kinda guy. Even if the world feels like it's turning on itself.

"Hell, yeah. I think we deserve a smoke." Although the logistics of killing each other with a butter knife... man, he doesn't even know.

"I don't think I've got any notes to write, but you go right on ahead."

At last, a genuine compliment about his moustache. That makes Doc a little less irritable. "Could always grow yours out." Although it's a fine line between 80s pornstache - not that Doc knows what that is - and respectable gentleman.

Doc offers the smoke over to Negan before plucking one out for himself. He's still got a box of matches he had salvaged from one of the first houses he checked out when he first got here, but it's near impossible to keep lit in the snow and wind so it has to wait until they're inside the Town Hall before he pauses to strike one and light Negan's up, then his own.

He glances over all the notes fluttering on the board before the door closes and the wind that had swept inside dies down. There's a good chance Raylan would see it if he left a note up. He would come looking for Doc once he's figured out how to handle Malcolm on his own, or so he thinks. He hopes, without really hoping. It would be nice to be looked for, this time around.

Moving briskly over to the stack of papers and plucking the nearest pen up, Doc draws a few squiggles to get the ink flowing before breathing a sigh and placing the tip of the pen in the top left hand corner of the sheet. So many things to write. So many things he does not want to. Too many thoughts. Too big of a sheet of paper to cram them all into. He lifts the pen and sets it down again, rolling it between thumb and forefinger a bit while the cigarette burns away between his lips.

"...do you mind?" Why are you breathing down his neck looking over his shoulder, Negan? You're giving him performance anxiety.

He could, couldn't he? He's not sure he's the mustache type of guy though. Stubble, sure, bit of a beard. Maybe he ought to leave the mustaches to the cowboys.

Mostly, by the time they're inside somewhere out of the cold, he's just glad for it. Fucking chills you to the bone out there. Makes everything ache the more the cold sets in, much more than he'd like to admit. He takes a drag off the cigarette once they can manage to keep them lit, idly paces, idly peeks over Doc's shoulder.

When he's called out, he holds up his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Hey, sorry. Just not a hell of a lot to do in here, you know?"

And his mind's racing, wondering if each new ache or pain is something to worry about or if it's just the cold that's settled in bone deep. "I'll give you your privacy though, write out all those confessions. Guess it's good to get them out sometimes. Never been too big on it, myself."

He has half a mind to throw a stack of papers at Negan and ask him to draw or colour something.

"These are not confessions. Merely instructions." Even though it starts off with Dear Raylan, I am sorry to leave you like this. It continues with a quick sketch of what looks like a tree, some arrows pointing here and there. Over the page there are a few bullet points, a list ingredients with measurements next to them. Then a few more bullet points with various names. Finally it's signed off as your friend, now and always and that signature most certainly reads J H Holliday.

"Suppose we just wait and see now?" he asks, folding the note in half and then half again, writing Raylan's name onto one side of the fold and tucking it into his back pocket.

"I mean how do you even know if you're hungry or... hungry?"

Hey, not his fault he's antsy. He could be dying over here or something... but whatever Doc is writing, it's not terribly interesting. Well, maybe the signature catches his eye, but he doesn't pry right now.

He'd been hoping for a little hot and heavy, old timey notes maybe.

He huffs out a sigh as he straightens up, idly paces a little. "Well, in my world? You get really fucking sick and then you die. You come back alive with a hell of an appetite then."

So, you know... deathly ill is a good sign. "Whatever's left of you... it's not really you anymore. Just a goddamn corpse wandering around."

If Doc is writing hot and heavy old timey notes Negan can be sure that he would be doing so alone, away from the all seeing eyes of nosey individuals clad in leather jackets and attitude.

"Alright. So we'll just wait until we die." Doc swallows and nods, crossing his legs at the ankles as he leans back against the table he'd been writing on previously. Maybe today can be a cheat day and they'll have two cigarettes. They might not live past tonight after all. And to think, he had fought pretty hard to win against tuberculosis, time and proverbial and literal demons to make it this far, just to be claimed by a room full of spores.

"You must feel better off here. None of that to worry about, whatever is happening inside the museum aside. Abandoned homes and working appliances, a so far endless supply of food. Decent people." They haven't turned on each other yet, even if it might still be early days to be proclaiming that.

"Sounds like a plan, sure." Hopefully they don't. He feels pretty good still. He settles across from Doc after a moment and considers that. Does he feel better off here?

"Back home, I knew what I was dealing with... Here? I haven't got a fucking clue. Not sure how I feel about that, but... can't say I mind getting to take an actual hot shower regularly." You don't know how much you fucking miss the little things when you don't have them.

"But there are decent people. Maybe we can keep breathing, make sure they stay alive."

"So much of our lives is outside our control," Doc muses with a purse of his lips and a tilt of his head. To be honest, being here is not too different for Doc as living with a chronic illness dictating those good and bad days he gets to have in his life. At least he has a little more control over his body in this town. He can choose what to do with his time, how he treats other people, and he is choosing now how he wants to go should his time be up. It is not where he wants to be and who he wants to be with, but given their circumstances, surely this is enough.

"I spent some years of my life as a dentist but I have been far better at making sure people get dead. It would be nice to keep people alive, for a change." He's not sure he's particularly good at it, but he's been trying.

"Tell you what though. Won't be missing all this god damn snow." He gets plenty enough of it in Purgatory. Pretty enough until it turns to sludge, blocks the door, soaks into everything. It might have been nice if their Supreme Overlord had beamed them onto a tropical island instead.

"Ain't that the truth." And no matter how you try to control it, half the time... God likes to kick you right in the nutsack sometimes. Or maybe that's just because he's been a shit person in his life and only learned too late to really stop it, make a damn bit of difference. Now he might be dying here, or contagious... who the fuck even knows?

"Some years? How the fuck old are you?" He looks at Doc for a second, quiet and thoughtful.

"You never know... I would've never pegged myself as a leader of any group before the end of the world. I was a fucking coach at a school. I taught kids, I was married. Hell, I wasn't even a good husband. So we survive this, you can always learn and do better at keeping people alive."

He lets out a sigh at the mention of snow. "I'd rather be sipping drinks by a pool or something."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject