villagelogs | 037-040 » the reason for time

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037-040 » the reason for time

WHO: Everyone.
WHERE: Eastern/Central Mathias
WHEN: Day 037-040
WHAT: The dead return and the living wake to changes within Mathias Township.
WARNINGS: Some explicit sexual content in threads. (PM this account to have a warning added!)
NOTES: Plotting post over here!

RECOMMENDED ♫ Kammarheit "Sleep after Toyle, Port after Stormie Seas"

DAY 037
THE DEAD RETURN
“The only reason for time is so that everything
doesn't happen at once.” —Albert Einstein
The dead return to Mathias forever changed by their experiences. Waking along the beach, near the tree line, or among the graves, they will find that their bodies are not as they remember them. They are whole again and not torn to shreds by the shadow creatures that cannot be described, but they are also not as they were before the Hunt. These residents will find, so strangely, that their bodies are in the physical state in which they first arrived in Mathias — any injuries or recovery they have made since their initial arrival no longer exists, as if their time in Mathias has simply been a horrible nightmare. Except they all now carry a last reminder of the Hunt with them: spiderweb-thin healed scars marking their injuries from the Hunt. Those who were injured by fire in the other realm also carry those burns with them.

The dead are not the only things that have returned to Mathias. Inexplicably, fall is back, with the temperature finally reaching above freezing and snow falling from trees to reveal beautiful autumnal colors. As the sun rises higher in the lightly cloudy sky and the day warms, the snow begins rapidly melting, puddles growing in the slowly revealed grass and little rivers forming in the streets. And with that snow comes the frozen blood from the deaths to the Hunt, tinting the street river on Phillips Drive a sickening shade of red.

Another oddity that residents will notice: houses with broken windows from the encounter with the fog on Day 015 have now been completely repaired, though any boards put in place are still there somehow. A small bit of good news, at least? And truly, how kind of Mathias to clean up its own mess.

Finally, alcohol is back. Enjoy in moderation, friends, for more will not be arriving the following morning.

THE NEW ARRIVALS
The newest arrivals to Mathias will wake up on the beach near The Grey Gull. It's quite chilly out with their wet clothes, but surely there's something to help warm them inside the restaurant. Indeed, their timing is perfect, for alcohol has finally returned to Mathias Township — and not just the cowboys' homemade moonshine.

DAY 038-039
THE CHANGE OF SEASON
The continued warm weather proves that the unseasonable shift of the previous day was not merely a fluke. Once again, the sun rises and brings with it a temperature that feels almost spring-like, save for the fact that each day there seem to be more and more leaves on the trees in hues of red and orange. For those who have been in Mathias for some time, this new type of weird may be almost normal at this point, but newer arrivals will likely find it quite odd.

The gently trickling river running along Phillips Drive is still somewhat pink in color as the snow continues to melt and refreeze each night. By Day 040, the bloody snow will finally be gone completely, though the relief will be... short-lived.

DAY 040
THE BLINDING WHITE
In the late morning of Day 040, when the sun is visible through patchy greyish clouds, the fog sweeps into town like a like a tidal wave. It moves in quickly and without warning, not from the waterfront but the forest, cascading through every street in a thick wave of white. Rather than a soft blanket enveloping the town, it is a heavy weight pressing down, blotting out the sky in a way that almost feels suffocating, for none can see further than their outstretch hand.

Those outside when it rolls in are left wandering blind, stumbling toward shelter as you're unable to even see your feet beneath you, let alone any obstacles in your path. Perhaps you call out for help, hoping for another voice to guide you toward shelter or simply another living soul. Or perhaps you were lucky enough to already be inside when the fog descended, quickly closing doors and windows to keep it from creeping in.

Unlike the last time the fog swept into the town, residents who encounter it are not immediately killed. Instead, they are simply disoriented, possibly losing their sense of time and place, and it is only after prolonged exposure that they will begin to feel off. A sense of being ill will cling to them if they are in the fog for too long, including dizziness, lightheadedness, or nausea — the time it takes to manifest varies from person to person, as does the duration it will last after leaving the fog.

By nightfall, the fog still has not dissipated.

CONDITIONS UPDATE

— THE WEATHER conditions are fairly typical for late fall: chilly "sweater weather" days and nights that can dip just below freezing. You don't want to be outside without a coat, but it won't kill anyone if they bundle up. Probably.

— THE FOG remains blocking the paths in the forest beginning a few dozen yards past the treeline, urging residents to stay huddled within the town proper, and it also now blocks the western section of town, beginning just past Hill Lane, before where residents know the chasm in the earth to be between Hill and Stine Road. Venturing into the fog blocking these areas is ill-advised.

— DISAPPEARANCES continue. Castiel and Sam Winchester have vanished, and Dean Winchester has not returned with the others after his death during the Hunt.

— THE GRAVEYARD has now seen around a dozen burials, both below and above ground. With the weather warming, though, something may need to be done about the handful of temporary graves aboveground...

— ALCOHOL has returned to Mathias! A small stock of beer and cheap wine may be found at the General Store, and some homes may have a small store of alcohol in the fridge or pantry. The Grey Gull has also been restocked with its lower-end offerings of a variety of alcohol types. Alcohol does not replenish in the same way as food.

— THE GREY GULL has been cleaned up and stocked with moonshine. Along with the newly restocked usual offerings, the place almost seems like an actual bar again.

— THE GENERAL STORE is in a bit of a state following the brutal slaughter of two residents during the Hunt. Cleanup on aisle 3, anyone?

OOC NOTES

— FOOD is now being mysteriously restocked as per usual, including inside homes and at the General Store. Alcohol is not being restocked. Use those rationing skills, friends.

— REWARD REDEPEMPTION is back and will soon have a new option for anyone looking to spend big AP and learn a bit more of the lore of the town.

— MADNESSES due to the Hunt have been earned by Klaus Hargreeves, Ellie, and Malcolm Bright and may now be claimed. Players may also claim additional sanity loss from the aftermath of the Hunt; only losses from the Hunt itself have been deducted from totals thus far.

— SANITY REGAIN is now available! Players will submit a form with some details of the progress their character has made and the mod will review and decide on the numbers of points that will be regained.

— MOD STATUS The usual reminder that it's mostly just Amy steering this ship for now, so things will probably be pretty slow for a while. Apologies in advance, and please don't feel shy about pinging me if you're stuck waiting for something.

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By the time the third day rolls around, you would think things would have gone back to normal. If it took until the third day for a holy, exalted man to come to life, it could surely take them three days to fall back into old habits. Only there is an unusual quiet and a stifling heaviness hanging around their necks still. A most uncomfortable kind of silence that even the most stoic men among them do not know how to cope with or make light of. The house is not a home anymore. Just a prison upon which they had built a kaleidoscope of memories on its brittle walls. A place that often needs to be escaped from.

They all need their time and space. Doc does, too. He has restarted his stockpile of food for the next round of shortages, an inevitable future that he is certain awaits them now rather than an uncertain outcome. It gives him the perfect excuse to keep himself busy, going back to doing his rounds around town, hitting up those abandoned houses he knows well and retrieving food from their fridges.

He wasn't expecting to see anyone into this next house he breaks into, let alone Negan lingering around in the kitchen. Lifting his head, he makes eye contact, eyebrows rising. He holds his crate of pilfered supplies against his crotch, not stepping in any further.

"Moving out?"

Likewise, Negan sure as hell wasn't expecting any company tonight. He whips around, meeting Doc's eyes before they fall down to that crate. Well, that explains that. "Just needed a breather. Thought I'd bring some supplies back tomorrow, but goddamn, you're already on it, I see."

He could make a joke or probably get Doc to stomp out in a huff. But he doesn't. That's so much effort and right now? He'd rather drink. "Why don't you put that down and have a drink? Got something of the non-moonshine variety."

The lack of food was the stress that broke him. He needs to do this, if nothing else than to ease the psychological burden that there will be enough for the house whether he is going to survive tonight or not. All bets are off the table now and while he is relieved to see them all return, he knows anything could change within the next day, or the next night, or hell even the next hour.

"Yeah?" He nods and sets the crate down on the nearest flat surface to the door, wiping his hands down on his jeans before stepping inside properly, closing the door behind him. "What did you find?"

"Whiskey. Looks like we're not getting any more, so we should enjoy it, right?" Or hoard it back with the rest of the supplies, but not tonight. Tonight, he's getting as drunk as he possibly can.

"C'mon, let's go sit down and get comfortable. Then we can crack open this bottle, and after, I'll help you get whatever shit we can outta this place."

"You never know." There might be more. There might not be. All the truths, assumptions and expectations he thought he had about Mathias had been turned upside down. She has been a cruel mistress thus far and he is starting to not enjoy her cruelty.

Helping himself to a couple of glasses, Doc drags them off the countertop and moves over to the couch. They could have sat outside on the porch. It's not as cold as it had been. But they would risk getting seen, waved at, talked to. He'd rather not be that kind of social right now, if he could choose.

"Nobody's been in the house lately," he observes quietly, resting his forearm on his thigh and letting his hand dangle between his legs while the other rubs over his knee. They must have all been so eager to come back. But once they were back, it seemed they all needed to scatter again.

Negan definitely doesn't want to be that kind of social right now. He just wants to-- shit, he doesn't even know anymore. He doesn't want to be alone, but he does. Fortunately, Doc's just the right kind of company for that, he figures.

"Guess we've had a lot on our minds," he answers after a moment, pouring them both full glasses once he's settled in.

"Like living two nightmares back to back, man. Give'em time. They'll come around." Raylan and Neal weren't the types to just leave and not come back, he thinks.

Oh, but just the smell of whiskey is enough to calm the nerves, have him pick up a glass and lean back against the couch with a long sigh. He had already broken all drinking records 3 nights ago, a glass this time of the day won't hurt.

"And you? Are you coming around?" He has a feeling nobody asks Negan these things. Or maybe they do, but, the same way as people ask Doc, he's not always so forthcoming with information. Especially anything that would make them feel vulnerable.

"I do not mind your presence. When you are not antagonising me." He takes a sip of his whiskey and glances at Negan over the top of his glass. That roughly translates to 'Negan, you are welcome to stay, if you want'.

Negan talk all day, give his philosophy on life and everything else under the sun, but when it comes to talking about real shit? It's... harder. Mostly because it gets shoved down, compartmentalized until he convinces himself there's not a feeling left in there. Then that got tore all to shit, didn't it? Took him down a fucking peg.

He's quiet as he considers that question. Is he coming around? "I don't know. I will. I always land on my damn feet... I'm like a cat that way."

Except he doesn't sound so sure.

He lets out a laugh as he meets that gaze. "Man, you burn my corpse once and you get all soft on me?"

There's no actual malice behind the tease and the smile he gives is something that actually looks sincere. "Thought about leaving... for everyone's goddamn sake. But the fact of the matter is? I can't stand it. I'm not better alone."

Worst company there is. "Just thought a night out might help me clear my head a little."

That's a pretty neat skill. Doc tends to land on his ass or his face. He's still figuring that one out. He stops short of telling Negan that burning his corpse had felt good. He's not sure he felt anything at that time. Whatever their misgivings and quarrels, he isn't wishing death or torment upon Negan.

"If everyone left for everyone else's sake there would be no one remaining in the house," he points out, lowering his glass of whiskey onto his thigh as he scratches his eyebrow and rubs his eyes. Felt like it had been a long day already. Probably on account of trying to throw a teenager a birthday party while wading through the grief and the trauma of the killing, and having absolutely no idea what he's doing.

"I would leave you to it, after this drink. But you sound like you haven't decided on whether you want the company." Doc doesn't blame him, honestly. Even on the best of days where a sense of clarity drives everything he does, he doesn't always know what he wants either.

"Yeah, maybe." But they hadn't all laughed about a guy's eyeball hanging out, had they? Not that it had brought him any joy. None of it did. But you had to act like a fucking badass if you wanted respect in his world... and fuck it, people did shit in wars and fights for territory they're not proud of all the goddamn time.

Or maybe he's just trying to justify it.

Either way, Doc gets a grin flashed over the edge of Negan's glass. "Stay with me, help me finish this shit off. Maybe what I need is a distraction, even if you keep saying no to the real fun ones."

He's probably never said no to whiskey. And this is a welcome breath of fresh air after the terrible homebrew that they have been making.

"You don't want to keep some? In case it doesn't last?" Doc's been trying to explain for years that these things age in the barrel, not in the bottle, and there's no sense in leaving perfectly good bottles of anything sitting on the shelf untouched, waiting for some special occasion that might or might never come. But in this particular instance, maybe it would be prudent to stretch the good times out.

"What fun distractions are you speaking of?" Because no amount of bribery whiskey is going to make Doc want to sit with Negan and watch Spongebob Squarepants reruns.

"Maybe we should," he admits, a wry twist to his lips. "Or we enjoy it now in case we get torn to shreds again tomorrow."

Or they get trapped somewhere again, or there's fog that kills them all. You know, the general shit that goes on in this place.

The question has him pausing, eyes narrowing on Doc briefly as if he's trying to judge whether it's a serious question or not. "See, I feel like you're setting me up. I say something off-color about where that mustache of yours might tickle or getting into those tight as fucking sin jeans you always got and I get a kick to the nuts. Then I'm spending the rest of the night trying to ice'em. No thank you."

He goes to refill their glasses. "What the hell do you do for fun? I used to play cards with the guys back home. Had a few game systems we could even manage to run once in a while..."

Something tells him the cowboy has no idea about that sort of shit though.

He wants to not give a shit about tomorrow. It would be liberating. He would feel so much more at ease. To some extent he doesn't care what tomorrow brings for himself. If his time is up, his time is up, whether he's coming back from it or not. He's always been ready and willing to drop everything, take anything on. But he can't leave the rest of the house with nothing. It is not his way. He can't just die knowing he took the easy and lazy way out. Not anymore.

"They fit me just fine," Doc retorts, rubbing his free hand down one leg of said tight as sin jeans before he lifts his leg and rests his ankle over his knee, slipping his hand between his legs around under his thigh. If he can cross his legs, they are surely not that tight. He's already got Raylan making fat jokes. If Negan wants to try it, he would be icing a lot more than just his nuts.

"Back home? I drink and play poker, sure. Shoot things. Drive around. Have sex." Since they're talking about where moustaches might tickle. What other kind of less-than-casual-hypermasculine-bravado response was Negan expecting, honestly? Doc's not really a sit around with his seventeen cats knitting a sweater kind of a guy.

It would be liberating. Fuck, not having to worry at all about anything would be a welcome relief at this point, but Negan isn't really the type either. It's been ingrained from his time as a teacher to his time trying to navigate an apocalypse and watch after his people. It's not all that different here, not with food shortages potentially looming if things ever go crazy again.

And they undoubtedly will.

But for one night? They can surely pretend. Or however long the bottle lasts. "Oh, they sure do fit you just fine," Negan agrees -- and Doc can't shove him for wandering eyes this time when he seems to be doing everything in his damn power to get Negan's eyes roaming.

"Well, I'm fresh out of playing cards, trucks, and guns un-goddamn-fortunately. You're not really helping here." He lets out a sigh, rolls his shoulders as he leans back and downs what's left in his glass.

Was Negan just strategically ruling out everything other than sex? Doc isn't drunk enough for this and honestly he'd never really thought about Negan in that way.

"I'm not certain this place was meant for fun," he points out quietly, taking his time with his own whiskey. He casts a furtive glance over, unconsciously trying to not be nearly as obvious as Negan when it comes to checking someone else out.

"When you put up with all those things you had put up with." Doc lowers his glass into his lap, holding it with both hands. "When you tell yourself you did what you had do so you could sleep at night. What is all for? Are you... expecting someone to formulate a cure? Were you going to outlive the sickness? Raise a child in some-... apocalyptic shithole? If it's all gone to shits what is anybody fighting for?"

Hey, he didn't rule out shit. He might not say no to going out and shooting some shit, even if said shit was just makeshift targets. Sounds like his kind of stress release at this point.

"That's why you've got to make your own, Doc. Being a joyless fuck isn't gonna help anybody." It sure as hell doesn't inspire anyone around you or reassure them worth shit.

That's-- a question he doesn't actually expect. It's not one he's sure he wants to touch on either, but he will. "Who says I sleep at night?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "There's not gonna be a cure. We're all gonna turn eventually whether we die of old age or from a bite. The government is gone, the CDC, and anything else that might've helped. Hospitals are in fucking ruins and doctors and nurses are like a damn endangered species. So that ain't it. But there are people still alive and willing, folks who just want to live their lives as best they can. So we're building a new world from the ground up... it ain't easy. I've done shit--"

He pauses, swallowing back the knot of remorse that seems firmly settled in as of late. "Man, I've done plenty of shit I didn't want to do and hope I never have to again, but this can't be the end of it all back home. There are kids still alive, kids still being born... and they deserve better than the shithole God let the earth become. So I'm striving to keep people from becoming the ugly fucks I've seen them become... They need someone to lay down the law, tell'em what to do, and guess I'm that guy."

He lets out a breath and lets his head fall against the back of the couch. "I just don't want to see more people die if I can stop it."

"I've noticed you've struck out three out of the four things I had mentioned." He would argue that, joyless fuck or not, he's tried his best to help as much as he can. And maybe Negan has a terrible definition of what a joyless fuck is.

He sips on his whiskey as Negan talks. It sounds bleak, but in all honesty, Doc doesn't get it. They didn't have a government that bothered them and what they were doing back in the day. He doesn't know what 'CDC' stands for. They had a sheriff and a church and they made it work. The people who didn't want to contribute to making the community a better place minded their own business. The people who did expected nothing or little in return and everyone got to benefit from it. They didn't need politicians. And they most certainly did not need a Negan.

"You don't seem like that guy." It was the gentler truth, between that or the 'you're not doing a great job at stopping people from dying.'

"You got a deck of cards on you, cowboy? Or you wanna ransack this house and see if we can find some?" Because he's pretty sure they're not lucky enough to find a gun or a truck tucked away anywhere. But he'd been talking more in general on the joyless fuck shit, maybe more to himself -- people tend to go dark in these kinds of situation, lose sight of anything worth striving towards.

"Yeah? What kind of guy do I seem like?" There's a curiosity behind that, brows furrowing.

"Maybe I'm not the best guy for the job back home," he admits.

"I was just a fucking teacher. I still remember the first dead asshole I had to kill and I still remember thinking holy shit, I'm a murderer now. Things happened fast after that. People got... ugly, man. Raping and stealing and leaving people to die to save their own asses like we're animals. No one would do anything, just cower and piss their fucking pants in fear while they let it happen. I didn't set out to lead the Saviors, but I couldn't--"

He scowls as he refills his glass, goes to top off Doc's too. "Doesn't matter."

"An arrogant, self-righteous asshole," Doc replies frankly, knocking back his glass and setting it down onto the coffee table. Somehow he makes it sound fonder than their unfortunate encounter in the latrine even though his voice is as dry and deadpan as ever. He lets Negan talk. If it helps, he would not cut him off. If it doesn't help, at least he knows. He would be like the cowboys. Talking doesn't do shit for them.

"What is done is done. You cannot make amends to the dead. Especially in a world that has stripped you bare. You are not anything anymore," he says quietly as he starts rifling through a few items on the shelf, looking for cards or- anything, really. "And we are still-... animals." He thinks he finds one, but it's a bigger red box that says 'UNO', and it distracts him from their conversation. Doc opens it curiously and shakes half the pack of cards out, turning them over and looking at the colours and numbers in the first few cards.

"'Yu-no'?" He asks, shaking the box of cards at Negan. He points at the corner of the box. "I have my doubts sometimes, but. You are older than seven." Imagine that. Teaching seven year olds to gamble with colourful cards with big numbers. They truly live in a depraved world.

"I do love it when you bring out the pet names, sweetheart." Yeah, alright, he might be those things.

Talking doesn't actually do shit. It's why he never bothers. He does what he has to and maybe he'll pay for it one day... or maybe he's paying for it right now, trapped in this goddamn hellhole with no way back home and not able to do anything terribly useful here besides fucking pillage for food and hope something doesn't rip him to shreds again. "Making amends has never been an option anyway. It just... is what it is. We do what we have to in order to survive."

He didn't actually expect to find shit in this house, but when Doc seems to actually come across something? There's a ready grin on his lips as he sits back up straight. "UNO, holy shit!"

He's a lot older than seven and the excitement he's showing as he reaches out a hand for the deck is entirely appropriate for an adult, thank you very much. "Now we're talking. Get your ass comfortable, Doc. We're playing."

Is he sure he isn't seven? Doc cocks an eyebrow and ambles back slowly, holding the pack out to Negan. That he seems more excited about Uno than sex is rather telling.

"I have not played this children's card game," he says. At least it probably isn't as complicated as the other children's card games with blue eyed white dragons, murlocs, or planeswalkers.

Pulling out his pack of cigarettes, he places it next to the bottle of whiskey and plucks one out for himself. If they are going to be playing games they should need drink and smokes to go along with.

"I'm going to finish half of this in the bathroom," he waves the unlit cigarette around, planting it between his lips before he slips his hand into his pockets to retrieve his box of matches. No, Negan, you are not invited.

Hey, if sex was actually on the table, he'd be excited... but Doc keeps finding all sorts of ways to cockblock him and turn him down, so card game it is. "Oh, don't worry. I'll show you."

It's not all that complicated at least and it'll give them something to do while they finish off the drinks.

"Right, well... you need a hand in there, you let me know." Negan is maybe more than carefully not looking at those matches as he shuffles cards and gets shit ready to go. Fire still makes his skin crawl, even if it's just a tiny little flame.

Doc doesn't make a habit of smoking indoors but today he is making an exception. Negan smokes himself and nobody lives in this house anyway. He lights it with his back partially turned to Negan, putting the box of matches down on top of the slightly crumpled box of smokes before making his way to a row of doors, one of which must be hiding the bathroom.

He stares at uninteresting tiles whilst taking a leak, sighing and rubbing his eyes in his fatigue before the sound of a flush and a running tap foreshadows his arrival back in the hall.

"Alright son." Nevermind that he died at a younger age than Negan must be. "Lay the rules on me."

It's kind of just a kick to the nuts. He'd fucking love to steal one of those smokes, but the thought of handling even a little baby fire like a match is enough to weigh heavy on him. Just makes him remember what it's like to feel fire biting at your skin, burning down to the fucking bone--

He's good though. Doc gets to take his piss in peace while Negan refills their glasses. He makes a face at that son comment. "Alright, old man. Don't you worry, I'll walk you through it."

Not that it's that hard of a game, fortunately. He shuffles and deals out seven cards as he explains. "You gotta get to five hundred points to win. We each get seven cards, and this--" He places the rest of the deck down and another face up.

"Is the draw pile, that's the discard pile." He goes on to explain about all the Reverse card and the Wild card, and all that other good shit as he gets them ready to go.

"You think you got it? And more importantly, are you ready to get your ass kicked?"

"Five hundred?" Doc sounds slightly incredulous. He hasn't met any seven year olds. He isn't sure they can even count to five hundred. He isn't sure he can count to five hundred himself, right now. He's had two glasses of whiskey and the only reason he can count to more than five is because he's spent years with his trusty six-shooters by his side.

He can't be sure that Negan isn't just making all this shit up but look, he can match numbers and colours just fine.

"Deal me in, sweetcheeks," he taunts, blowing smoke over his shoulder. "I'll go easy on you."

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