villagelogs | 001-003 » a chilling mathias welcome

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001-003 » a chilling mathias welcome

WHO: Everyone.
WHERE: The east end of Mathias, along the waterfront.
WHEN: Days 001-003
WHAT: The newest residents of Mathias Township are welcomed with a storm.
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary. PM this account to have a warning added!
NOTES: A small love letter from your mod. This spot can be used for plotting.

RECOMMENDED ♫ Deadly Avenger "Mara"

DAY 001
THE ARRIVAL BEGINS

Is it the whooshing crash of waves on dark jagged rocks that wakes you? Perhaps. It might also be the near-continuous rumble of thunder growing closer every second, the vibrations almost seeming to come from the wet sand beneath your hands. Or maybe it’s the shivering of your own body as water recedes from the pebble-covered shore, the cold sinking into your very bones as a chilled wind picks up. It could be any of these things that rouse you from a deep slumber that leaves you feeling groggy and out of sorts--

But it’s the fear that gets you moving. A deep, intense terror grips your chest and squeezes the breath right out of you, and you know without a shred of doubt that you have mere minutes before whatever it is you’re so afraid of arrives on that stretch of rocky beach to greet you. Even if you want to stay rooted to that spot and faced it head-on, your body betrays you, a survival instinct etched into your genetic code forcing you to seek shelter.

Welcome to Mathias. You should probably run now.

THE STORM ARRIVES

When the storm crashes into the small township, it's hard to remember what life was like before it. The ocean becomes a raging thing, waves rising and falling as if trying to attack whatever they can reach along the coast. Any foolish enough to venture along the beach have no hope of surviving the encounter; their bodies will be swept out with the current, gone in the blink of an eye.

The wind is a howling beast, screaming between buildings and driving spikes of cold into any crevice it can reach. The rain is just shy of freezing, every drop like a shard of icicle trying to itself into your skin. It will bite at your nerves and leave you shaking if you stay out in it too long, so you had best get inside if you haven't already. You certainly don't want to attract the attention of the lightning that arcs in the sky like a vengeful god ready to unleash its wrath.

The Grey Gull restaurant sits at the edge of the town along the beach, and just a few yards away are two parallel rows of houses lining what might be a picturesque street if the world weren't beginning to resemble an apocalyptic landscape.

Move quickly, and choose wisely.

DAY 002
THE STORM RAGES ON

The storm has somehow become even more violent overnight. The world outside your shelter might be trapped in an endless night, for all you can see through the thick covering of storm clouds. Lightning continues to streak across the sky, thunder following almost immediately in its wake, threatening just how near those spikes of electricity truly are. You can see them touch the shore at times, even the street between the homes, but never the buildings themselves. A blessing, perhaps, or an oddity to take note of?

Some may be foolish enough to try venturing outside. They are welcome to, of course, that is their right, but the rain is still like ice and that lightning is so very near. You may try heading further into town, and you can certainly see buildings beyond this row of houses, but should you walk toward them...

Well. It is far from a pleasant experience. Exhaustion sinks into your bones so quickly that it leaves you reeling, and every second you push through it makes you physically ill with a feeling that you might collapse at any moment. The second you turn away from that path, however, you feel infinitely, and even more so each step back the way you came.

Something wants you to stay where you are. Perhaps you should.

DAY 003
THE CALM DESCENDS

The third day begins much as the second, with waves crashing upon the shore and thunder booming with such force that the ground seems to shake. It feels very much like the world might end right there, torn apart by a force of nature unlike any seen before. Any who venture outside at this time are almost immediately afflicted with a terror so intense that they can make it no more than a few yards or the short distance to cross a street before they become incapacitated by the fear that sets their heart beating dangerously fast. The term scared to death may very well become literal this day.

And then, suddenly it stops. The rain, thunder, lighting— all if it just stops and the silence that fills the night is deafening. There are no sounds of life within the town, no car motors or dogs barking or the voices of anyone beside those new arrivals in the immediate vicinity. In fact, none of those things even exist in Mathias. There are no cars, no animals or insects, no other people. There is just... emptiness and silence.

It may be best to wait until daylight to move further inland.

THE NIGHT DARKENS

For those who are foolish enough to leave the relative safety of the cluster of houses near the Grey Gull, they will find their journey quite chilling, in a very literal sense. There is another row of houses beyond where they had been, branching off on either side into a neighborhood. There are no lights on in any of these homes, though there are occasional streetlights illuminating their way. But as they continue further, reaching a third block of houses, those lights begin to dim, until they have gone out completely, and what had previously been a simple fall chill becomes biting cold as the temperature sharply drops.

In all of this, there is silence. No sounds travel through that night air to comfort them, and even looking up to the sky stretched out above them offers little reassurance. That sky is black, without a single star and not even the faintest outline of the moon to guide them. All that reaches them here is the barest hint of light traveling from the way they've come. The longer they linger outside in this place, the colder it will become, and any light they carry with them will slowly begin to dim as well.

Truly, they should have waited until the sun rose once more.

LOCATIONS

THE GREY GULL is what one might expect of the most frequented restaurant in a small coastal town. The wrap-around porch is lined with white chairs characterized by peeling paint. Exposed wooden walls and worn seating speak to its many years of existence, and the mishmash of décor confirms that the owner never much cared for how the place looked. What mattered here was the food, and faded chalk menus advertise soup specials and a daily pie. The bar appears to have once been well-stocked, but all the bottles remaining are unfortunately empty. There is, however, quite a bit of food in the kitchen that is somehow as fresh as if it were purchased that day.

The second floor of the restaurant is a sparsely furnished apartment. There are no personal items to be found; perhaps it was waiting to be rented out to someone.

THE HOUSES are well-kept, middle-class homes, four lining either side of the street. Their doors are unlocked, windows unshuttered, and everything within feels like the owners might return at any second. There is running water and electricity, fresh food in the fridge, photographs on the wall... but also dust everywhere. If you didn't know better, you'd say the place had been abandoned for years, and yet nothing has aged. It is both strange and unsettling, and yet no matter how hard you search, no answers may be found within these homes.

What can be found within them, however, is a phone. One single black phone within a main room of the house, and beside it, a list of handwritten numbers and names that have been crossed out.

1302 8-5491 ~~Thomasen~~
1304 8-9256 ~~Lyrie~~
1306 8-4712 ~~Anders~~
1308 8-3201 ~~Mulcalley~~

1301 8-0415 ~~Sanderson~~
1303 8-6762 ~~Reese~~
1305 8-9132 ~~Evers~~
1307 8-9025 ~~Hirano~~

Should your character choose to shelter in one of the houses, you are welcome to choose the features of that particular unit. Please reply to the comment thread below with the details you decide upon, specifying the house number in the subject line.

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"It will do us just fine, ma'am. I appreciate it." He takes the notebook and tears a couple of blank pages out, handing it back to her before returning to his little lean-to fire setup, arranged with a large, wet log blocking the wind. Crouching down, he puts the paper in a compact little heap beneath his structure and strikes rocks that he'd already gathered before she showed up. It's all very old fashioned, maybe with a hint of Bear Grylls. With a bit of blowing and poking, he gets a small fire started with apparent ease.

No telling how long it'll last, but it's not his first rodeo outdoors.

"I did bring some food from the Grey Gull, if you were hungry," he offers, glancing up at her while he's still crouched down. There's ample space for her to join him by the fire, but that's an unspoken invitation she is welcome to take him up on in her own time.

It's so weird to watch him use such an old-fashioned method to start the fire. She'd assumed he'd use matches or a lighter, but instead, she'd been treated to seeing something you just didn't see anymore, at least not in her time. For the first time, she wonders if he really is a cowboy and not just someone who takes great joy in emulating the lifestyle. With other worlds and mixed up timelines in play, she really wouldn't be that surprised by it.

"I'm good, but thanks," she says in response to that offer, which isn't something she'd expected. Despite that first misstep, he's seemed very... polite. Gentlemanly. It reminds her a bit of Sousa, actually. Maybe that's why she hasn't hesitated once at the idea of staying out here with him.

Her own time to take him on that unspoken invitation is right now, it turns out. Picking up the backpack by the top handle, she moves over to sit next to him, an arm's length between them doing nothing to diminish the comfort she finds in even being this close to him. A perfect stranger. It's those base instincts, again.

There's no way she can just sit there in silence though, not when the beginning crackles of the fire are so quiet and yet loud in the eerie night, so she says the first thing that comes to mind: "So, cowboy. What's your story?"

"Oh I'm afraid it is a boring one," he offers with a smile that tugs at the corners of his eyes, playing down the sheer length of that story and the eventfulness of everything that's happened recently.

"I was a doctor, a gambler and a gunslinger, a lifetime ago. And not necessarily in that order." If he was the bill paying type, poker would have paid more bills than dentistry would, given how he much preferred spending time on the former.

"Now I know, things are a little different around here. Changed a fair bit, since my time. But I would be happy to check on those," he lowers his gaze to her bandaged arms and gestures with an incline of his head. "If I may call on you from time to time."

It's that damned politeness, it has to be. Any other time, she would have brushed off the offer with a casual dismissal of being just fine; no need to worry, and no explanations given. But she's so tired and sore, and he keeps reminding her so damn much of Sousa, that she finds herself sighing quietly and shaking her head with a soft smile.

"I appreciate the offer, but there's nothing to check on," she tells him, carefully untying the bandage from where it's tucked against her left palm. With practiced ease, she unwinds enough of the bandage to reveal the mottled bruising from her fingers up to her wrists, leaving the rest of it disappeared beneath her sleeve. "Burst capillaries and hairline fractures. Nothing to do except wait for them to heal."

The way she says it makes it clear this is far from the first time she's dealt with this particular injury, unfortunate as that is. But she's not looking for sympathy.

He ever so gingerly slides his hand underneath her knuckles, studying the damage with an inscrutable expression hiding behind the rim of his hat. It is not any ordinary, run of the mill injury. He does not think she acquired it from anywhere around here. He would have expected a cut, scrape, scratch or something to that effect. This almost seems... internal?

"This happened before you got here? Seems a little trite to ask if it hurts. Sure looks like it would." He lifts his softened gaze to meet hers and slowly retracts his hands. "If there was anything I could do to help, you need only say so."

There's a gentleness in the way he touches her hand that speaks of genuine care. Is it the doctor in him? Do all genuinely good doctors have that quality to them, the way Jemma does? It matches that steadiness in how he studies the bruises, something in his expression reminding her of someone trying to solve a puzzle.

A few days ago, this entire exchange would have bothered her. Today? It's almost familiar and... comforting. Again, the strange association of that sensation with this stranger, likely entirely apart from his intentions.

"Thanks," she murmurs, something in her almost unsettled by the softness in his eyes. No one ever looks at her like that anymore. Would he look at her like that if he knew anything about who she is? No, doubtful. It's because she's a stranger and she's hurt. That's all.

Grasping the bandage between her injured fingers again, she begins the incredibly familiar and well-practiced task of wrapping her hand again. There's only a little wincing from how tightly she has to wrap it, which she tries to distract from by casually telling him, "It does hurt, and it did happen here, actually. This is what happens sometimes with my powers."

"Powers?" he asks softly, keeping his head turned towards her even as he sticks his hands out close to the fire. It's big enough now to engulf all the kindling and it's likely to survive a strong gust or two, although the elements do seem rather keen on snuffing their fire out.

He has come across Number Five who has demonstrated his trick, and another man who claims to be a magician. There are demons who can do all manner of different... and somewhat unusual things back home. Whatever she chooses to disclose likely won't impress him. But she is equally free to disclose nothing at all and just watch the fire with him.

"It has been mere days since we arrived in this wretched place. You should keep yourself in good health, ma'am."

Well, that confirms two things for her. One, that he's used to the idea of powers being an actual thing that exists, judging by how he didn't scoff at the idea or look at her like she was crazy. Two, that he'd arrived here at the same time as the rest of the people she'd met over the last few days. It's almost frustrating how those elements just continue to cement what she's already been feeling.

"Well, cowboy, it wasn't exactly intentional," she informs him, something like kindness coloring the affectation. She glances at him, meeting his gaze for just a moment before turning her attention back to her hands. "My powers aren't working right here, and I'm not the only one."

She tries very hard to keep any hint of uneasiness from her expression, but the affect of his presence makes that difficult. There's tension in the lines of her forehead and a tightness to her mouth that betrays just how much that fact worries her.

"You may call me Henry, ma'am." He is not yet aware of the existence of the other cowboy, but that could get confusing real quick. Also, it feels more impersonal, not sharing a name that is hardly a secret.

"Very little is working right here." Other than a stable electricity supply and readily accessible water that are somehow not yet cut off despite the fact that it might have been months, or even years of bills going unpaid.

"By 'powers' not working right, you are referring to...?" Something to do with her hands, presumably?

Henry. Even his name screams polite and old-fashioned. It's almost ridiculous how well it fits him.

Sighing, she ties off the bandage before answering. "I can manipulate vibrations. Shockwaves, earthquakes, vibrating weapons apart... That sort of thing."

It's the most basic answer for what she can do, but explaining that she can tap into the frequencies at which everything vibrates and change those frequencies and rates of vibration seems like it might be a bit overkill for him. She makes stuff shake is a much simpler way of putting it.

He has no reason to doubt she can do what she says she does. It does a better job of explaining her internal injuries than anything more mundane that he can think of.

"If I may suggest, for you to not exert yourself too much." He tries not to undermine her or sound patronising, but if they look at the facts, well. Her ability is somehow 'not working right' and she's hurting herself, in a strange town with no abandoned hospital or staff in sight.

"We may be here a while." Much as he doesn't like to dwell on that fact. "You should conserve your energy."

He's not the first person to say that to her today, but that doesn't make it any easier to hear. She shifts uncomfortably, sitting up a little straighter and almost hunching in on herself. It's not a combative reaction, he's being far too polite for that and she can tell he really does mean well, but...

"It's not that easy." There's just so much that he doesn't know. The same things that Coulson doesn't know, only with Henry she doesn't have to worry about breaking her own personal timeline. She's almost tempted to tell him, to just spill her secrets to this total stranger because she's so tired and there's no one here who knows and—

The feeling of being alone is starting to wear her down.

He recognises those little signs. The slump in her shoulders. The defeat in her eyes that seem to have lost that little spark, dullness despite the flickering flame in front of them.

"It is hard to keep your head up with the weight of the world on your shoulders," he observes quietly. "But it will be alright, little darling." He forces a braver smile than he really ought to be able to manage, given their current circumstances, and hesitates for a beat before shifting over a little closer towards her. Extending an arm, he moves slowly to put his arm around behind her back, reaching for her far upper arm. Giving it a firm, reassuring squeeze, he leans until their shoulders are touching.

He might be sort of half-expecting a violent reaction but hopefully they can allow this, even if it's just for a little while.

Little darling. How strange to be called that. She's a thirty-one-year-old woman who feels like she's six again, crying in the orphanage for parents who will never find her. In this moment, she's drowning under that weight of having to be strong when all she wants is someone to help hold her up, just for a little while.

Maybe that's why she doesn't flinch away from his touch when he reaches out and puts his arm around her. The thought is there, the instinct to move away and keep up that strong facade, but in the end... He doesn't know her. There are no expectations to be met, no team to lead, no orders to follow. She's on her own, and maybe he is too. So she allows it, leaning into his side until there's a warm line of contact between them.

For a moment, she's just quiet, drinking in the comfort he's offered, but then. "Is there anyone here from home for you?"

"No, there is not. And I am grateful for that." He rubs her upper arm a few times, a comforting gesture although whether that's for her sake or his, he can't really say for sure.

"The uh... My..." Doc takes in a deep breath and tilts his head, eyebrows furrowed as he lifts his free hand. Turning it at the wrist, he blows out a sigh. Wynonna Earp doesn't fit in any neat boxes that they have simple words for. And he thinks he knows, where he stands with her, but she's never opened up enough to him even after everything that's happened to say exactly what's on her mind. A terrible irony considering she doesn't have problems speaking her mind to anyone else.

"There is a woman," Doc finishes with a press of his lips and one of those shrugs. He is comfortable enough to offer this information to Daisy. She's probably familiar with this nebulous space people occupy when they're too afraid to use the L-word, anyway. "And she is visibly, heavily pregnant. And I am here. And she is not." That is an oversimplification of their current situation, but all the little details he hasn't mentioned weigh heavily on his mind.

"I think the timing exceptionally poor, but. What is a man to do?" Except to just not hope that she will show up at the restaurant (but go there and hope anyway) and figure out their next move with the people he does have around him.

Daisy listens closely as he speaks, turning her head only once or twice to glance at his expression because there's so much already in his voice and body language. That shrug she knows so well herself, that gesture of the hand that means everything and nothing because words are so difficult sometimes. Yeah, she gets it, more than she'd like to admit. At least he seems to be handling things a lot better than she would in his situation.

"I'm sorry," she says when he's finished, because it's the only thing she can think to say when he's obviously stuck here away from someone he cares about. That, but also: "And... congratulations?"

The woman he cares about is pregnant; it's not too much of a leap to guess the baby is his, or that he doesn't care if it isn't. It makes her think of her own father, of how he'd fought for years to get her back, never once stopping his search for his lost daughter. It steels something inside her, some resolve against what this place is trying to do to them, and she nods her head firmly. "We'll get you back to her, to them. Whatever it takes."

She's not going to let another father lose his child.

"Mmm." That 'congratulations' doesn't sit easy on his shoulders as well, even if he feels somewhat reassured by her determination to get them back. He has only just been smacked by this unplanned, unexpected, frankly a little unfair revelation in the face and he is still dealing with it, in his own way. Not unfair on him but unfair on the child, and its mother, and this wretched curse they had no hand in.

"Having left at this particular juncture of our-... relationship, I am far more likely to survive out here than I am going back home," he points out with a mirthless twitch of a smile. Because he has to try and see the humour in the situation if he doesn't want to get angry or drive himself crazy. He wouldn't have minded a bit of space and time, and Lord knows she would have needed it a lot more than he did, but. Not like this. He reaches up to adjust his hat. A nervous gesture maybe. Maybe he just likes the way it takes time to obscure the uncertainty lingering on his features.

"And to whom will I also be trying to get you back to, miss Daisy? Have you seen any familiar faces here?"

Ah, so it's like that. A rocky relationship that might not even be considered such except on good days, if she's reading between the lines correctly. Still, the fact that he's acknowledging the pregnancy is a point in his favor. Whether unexpected or not, she has the distinct impression that he'll do his best for his child, whatever that best might be. It just seems like his nature.

But then he turns the conversation back around to her and... She'd rather they have kept talking about his problems.

"Yeah, I, uh..." She takes a breath and tries to keep her voice steady. "Someone from my team is here. We've been friends for years, he's the closest thing I have to a father—"

Her voice breaks and she stiffens slightly, though she doesn't move away from him. It helps, somehow, being close to this stranger who is also hurting and simply wishing to go home. "He's not here from the same time as me. There are five years between us and it hurts. I can't talk to him the way I used to because there's so much he doesn't know. There's so much—"

One breath. Two. Because if she keeps talking she's going to start crying and Henry doesn't need that dropped on his lap.

No, she really doesn't need to hear all about his problems. For there are many, more than he can spend the night listing out, and none of them will get them any closer to leaving this bitterly cold and unwelcoming town.

The time thing confuses him, that much is evident in the lines between his eyebrows. He has met Five but no explanation was offered beyond something something temporal something displacing that honestly just went above Doc's head. At first he thinks that she means that he's five years older than her, but that doesn't make sense with the rest of what she is saying. So Doc gathers she must mean that either he is from her past or she is from his future.

A heavy burden indeed, to carry that kind of knowledge, not knowing what can or cannot be said, how a single utterance in the heat of the moment could have disastrous consequences.

"Come here?" he offers, turning and reaching over with his other arm to try and pull her into a proper hug, to give her space to rest the side of her head against his shoulder and chest. Doc is firmly of the belief that she should just let it out instead of bottling everything up inside. That way leads to mangled-looking arms.

At first, Doc doesn't say anything. Just rocks her a bit, gives her some much needed warmth. He thinks that she needs to talk to her teammate, regardless of their predicament. They will have a much harder time getting through this by holding back pieces of themselves from each other. She will lose him in five seconds if she holds back because of those five years. Doc knows this from experience all too well, and it is a mistake he is oft repeating. But she probably doesn't want advice for something that personal, and it is not his place to give it.

"You will find your footing, again," he murmurs, a warm promise whispered against her forehead. She does not sound like she is ready to commit fully to navigating that space between them, so that is all the assurance that some stranger she chanced upon in a strange town can give at this stage.

He doesn't question her about any of it. Not her powers, not the idea of her and Coulson being from different times. Henry just accepts the crazy things she's saying and offers her... support? Sympathy? Whatever it is, she too accepts it without question, wrapping her arms around him and hiding away in the embrace of someone she's just met.

When was the last time someone had done this for her? Just held her while she tried to get through one moment to the next? It seems like a lifetime ago. She's tried to tell herself over the years that she doesn't need it, at times even that she didn't deserve it, but at this moment in time, it's all she wants. To have someone to cling to for a little while who doesn't expect her to always be okay, who won't judge her or expect her to have all the answers.

Instead, she looks to him for answers he can't possibly have.

"What if I don't?" There are tears in her voice that she fights to hold back, and her bruised fingers twist around the fabric of his coat. She doesn't even think about the words that are tumbling out now, a rambling mess of syllables that she'll regret and be embarrassed by later. "He died a year ago and I— I can't tell him—"

Her voice pitches higher, cracking every few words. "He can't know that, or what happened to me. He doesn't deserve that pain."

Lucky for her, he has amassed considerable experience in dealing with hot messes and hot, messy situations. Careful to keep her away from the fire, he pats her hair a few times and breathes out a quiet sigh. It is no surprise that death should come for everyone, but knowing exactly when and how, it might drastically change some choices made and complicate things.

"He is here now. And so are you." It's not that simple, but. She has an opportunity - not to kick cans further down the line or change what has happened to her, what will happen to him, not to avoid grief or figuring out what and where to next, but to simply spend borrowed time she might not have thought she had, and not waste all of it shedding tears and avoiding him.

"I have lived a very long time, Miss Daisy, and I have precious little to show for it. You have some time with him now that you did not have before you came here. You cannot save him, but surely there are regrets you should like to make right."

There's so much more to the situation that she's said. But exactly how does one explain that Coulson and death are old friends? Can she just come right out and say in plain English that he's died before and been brought back? That she mourned him for a year before an alien entity showed up with his face, that she'd thought she might get him back and then was mourning again when she did get him back, just in a way that she still worries he might never truly forgive her for?

No, it isn't worth it. Because Henry's right, she has time here that she didn't before, and she does have regrets...

Still. She pulls in a deep breath and nods, her cheek moving against his shoulder, and then she pulls back, untangling herself from him with another, firmer nod. Time to pull herself together.

"You're not wrong," she tells him quietly, lifting a hand to wipe at her eyes. "It's a lot more complicated than just that, but... You're not wrong." Another deep breath and she adds, "Sorry to just unload all that on you. Bet you're regretting letting me sit with you now."

He lets her pull away from him easily, the cold setting in quickly once she's left his side. He almost misses it already, and she has him considering that maybe he would fair better with some company than roughing it out alone. After all, he's already spent plenty of time alone in the dark.

"Not at all." If you can't pour your heart out to a stranger over a fire then when can you? He has sought a great many answers at the bottom of a glass of whiskey, or down the barrel of a gun, or with a woman whose real name he did not know or care about. He would have far less regrets if he'd just talked honestly over a fire.

"I will not breathe a word of any of this, should you wish to talk about it no longer," he assures her. Complicated as things might be, they are likely both people who tend to want to focus on the problems right in front of them. "But I was worried, if it might be getting a little cold for you."

Going it alone always seems like the better idea until you're reminded of how it is to be with someone else. She knows that all too well herself.

She nods at his words, offering a small but grateful smile. No, she'd rather not talk it about more, and his discretion is appreciated more than she could possibly say. If they really are stuck here, she'd rather not have everyone know about all she dumped on him tonight.

"Thanks," she says after a moment. "And yeah, I, uh... I might head back. Are you gonna be okay out here? Even with the fire, it's really cold."

"I will be alright," he promises, getting up when she does. "I can walk you back, if you don't mind," he offers. A man of his time did not let a young lady wander off on her own in a strange, potentially unsafe place.

He can always put the fire out, start another one, find somewhere else to stay the night. It doesn't bother him. The freedom to do as he pleases, he will take any day over being confined.

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