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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"It is practical," Will corrected without any real heat and turning his attention back to his work. Though his voice was neutral there was enough tension in his body language to read that he was shying away from the idea of doing anything 'noble'.

Will would be the first to agree that he was unhinged. Even now when he peeked a glance towards Doc he saw Hannibal pacing around the man with a curious expression in his maroon eyes. The Ripper looked from Doc, to Will and raised his eyebrows in that classic 'butter wouldn't melt in my mouth' expression of curiosity. Will signed deeply and it may come across as if he were doing so at Doc's question. Regardless he sat back on his heels and wiped his arm across his brow, discreetly rubbing at his eyes.

"Yeah sure," he lowered his arm. Nope, Hannibal was still there. Will extended his arm and motioned limply towards a pile of pulled brush. "If you'd like to start clearing all that towards the door." It was a polite question. Promise.

Hannibal cleared his throat, Will sighed. "I'm Will." Look at him, being all polite and shit.

Doc is happily oblivious to the serpent coiling around his ankles, buzzing around him like a fly waiting for its next meal. What he doesn't know can't fillet him. Shedding out of his coat, he drapes it over the back of a broken chair and folds up his sleeves. Though he might not keep a serial killer poncho handy, he shares Hannibal's affinity for waistcoats. He can accept an irritated teenage-esque sigh and let it bounce off his thick skin. Between Waverly back home and Ellie here, he is learning the nuances of these fickle teenageisms.

"John Henry Holliday," he introduces himself without hesitation. He had been carefully guarded about his identity with strangers up until now. But to have more names than a prostitute is not easy to maintain in a small town, and sooner or later he inevitably ends up explaining to the people who call him 'Henry' or 'Hank' why just about everyone else calls him 'Doc'. A friend of Raylan is a friend of his. There's no need to maintain so many names around friends.

"You left me worried that day," he says without making eye contact, pushing all the debris into a more manageable corner of the room where it can be scooped up and taken out.

Edited 2021-03-01 15:52 (UTC)

You mean the murder onesie? Everybody should have a murder onesie, complete with little booties on the feet. Hannibal smiles with approval for both the waistcoat and the name. Hannibal likes puns.

'Doc Holiday' he points out to Will ridiculously pleased with the circumstances and himself. The ex-profiler closes his eyes in a 'give me strength' moment, before opening them and taking his frustration out on the stripped screw that doesn't want to cooperate.

"I assume you and Mr. Bright were able to provide a proper burial to the bodies?" Will asked in a quiet voice, completely ignoring Doc's comment about himself. He lifted the screwdriver suddenly as Hobbs appeared right in front of him, shoving his grey skinned head over the hinge, before looking at him with cloudy eyes.

'You aren't getting that screw loose' he smirked at the 'screw loose' comment. Randall Tier's long sabre tooth tiger teeth fitted over the curve of Will's shoulder as he spoke -lover like- in his ear. 'Need a rubber band.'

Will held himself still, almost to the point of trembling as he waited for the hallucinations to retreat from his immediate space. Then he slowly set down the screw driver and turned to rummage about, looking for something he could use as a rubber band.

Edited (a little added creepy) 2021-03-01 16:18 (UTC)

Well, at the rate they're going they would be better off with a murdered onesie. A murder onesie would get little use since they're too busy getting picked off and dying gruesomely.

"We tried." He spares Will the details, but suffice to say, the ground had been frozen at the time so they could not dig. The pile of rocks that keep their bodies away from the non-existent animals and the elements is very Western, like the rest of the image he exudes. But since the weather is starting to get warmer, perhaps they will be able to get a proper burial soon.

"Skipped the Psalm recital. Seemed a little pointless." And they had been about ready to tell God where He can shove it that day.

"Have you spoken to them since they returned?" Doc assumes he knows. They all just washed up on the beach like nothing had happened, like it was the first day he got here.

"God would have appreciated the recognition of the elegance in his cruelty."

'God would have been delighted at the reverence for his grace'

Will heard his own voice overlay with Hannibal's and he winced, reaching up once again to rub at his eyes. He gave his head a slight shake and then tried to focus on the question. Hobbs hissed in his ear:

'Have you spoken to them. Do you even know who they area?' Will winced again and then shook his head, looking down at his feet to try to block out the hallucinations. Suddenly Neal's head, Raylan's lower jaw, and Klaus' heart bounced into view, splattering across his boots.

"No." He said, more sharply than he intended to. "No I haven't."

"Frankly I don't give a shit what God appreciates. He hasn't done anybody any favours." It is the most frank Doc has been, and in front of an almost-stranger to boot. Or maybe it is easier with a stranger, who doesn't saddle him with expectations of what a gentleman should and should not say, of how Doc Holliday should behave in polite company.

"Would you want to?" Speak to them, that is. Doc can understand if the answer is no. It's not about being a coward because it's an awkward conversation. Sometimes there is just nothing to say. A most terrible and cruel thing had happened. There were no words to describe that either.

"I don't know how close you are, to... anyone." Doc isn't sure he wants to be close to anyone. It certainly wasn't his intention from the outset. But the heart wants what it wants, and the age old familiar pangs of loneliness can drive a man to do silly things.

Will barely heard the question or the comment that followed. His attention was grabbed and held by the initial outburst and he looked up at Doc from beneath his lashes.

The words tasted bitter in Will's mouth and when he took a breath he could feel the other man's tension across his own shoulders. He flashed back to when he first me the man, sitting in bloodsoaked snow as Malcolm chastised him and Doc hovered. Malcolm had worn his grief on his sleeve, Will had been aware of it in the anger the younger profiler had directed towards him. This man had been more calm, focused outward on Will and then Malcolm.

Will hadn't been in a mental place to recognize it consciously at the time, but his feral subconscious had grabbed onto the evidence and held it in place until this point. This man had also been entangled in the soul shattering grip of grief, but he had turned it inward as he focused on getting others back on their feet.

Will.

Malcolm.

It was a predictable crisis response, one that Will himself used to great effect at times. Which is how he could recognize the crash that was coming on. The moment when the crisis was over, when all had been addressed and the compartmentalized walls around the trauma fractured and shattered into dust.

For the first time since they started to talk, Will's focus was on Doc. Hannibal and the other's faded into the peripheral while the two slaughter scenes (Neal and Raylan) spread out on either side of Doc. Will's expression wasn't inquisitive or curious. Rather there was almost a gentle serenity in his response.

"Have you yelled at them for the fear they gave you? Told them of your anger and your grief?"

The question and the underlying perceptiveness that breathed life into it caught Doc off guard. He freezes up for half a second. Long enough to lose an entire mountain of poker chips were he playing a high stakes game at the table. Unluckily for him, these days he seems to prefer playing for keeps.

"No," he answers honestly. A pang of guilt washes over his features, tugs at the corner of his lips and makes him clench his teeth. And then it is gone.

"I was-- a little snippy with Malcolm. But it won't happen again. They have enough on their mind." What would Doc selfishly unloading his burdens do for any of them? Talking isn't going to change the fact that they had died. Or kill the thing that killed them. Breaking things, throwing things at people - those few feel-good seconds purely for his own benefit will tear the house and its inhabitants down.

Despite his general air of prickliness and 'fuck off' vibe, Will appeared to have a limitless well of patience and empathy as he watched the older man.

"Being allowed to be there for you, can provide them an anchoring sense of control that was stolen from them that night," he said in that same calm tone. "They feel vulnerable and they had no choice in that. It is strength, that allows a person to choose vulnerability to another."

Which was one of Will's greatest weaknesses but his life at this point is one big 'do as I say, not as I do'.

"Sometimes we could all use a good scream," he paraphrased words he'd said years ago.

"I used to enjoy a good scream," he muses, a twinge of nostalgia tugging on the corners of his lips. Whether you were friends, lovers or enemies with Doc, you were almost always guaranteed to have a volatile, bumpy time. His mercurial, passionate, headstrong disposition had ensured it.

"I have found it far less rewarding when they do not scream back." Not to mention the lack of makeup sex. He had been destructive, put a few holes in a couple of walls, walked until the cold seeped into his bones, and stopped just short of screaming at the ocean. Glaring into the pitch-black horizon kicking small pebbles towards the high tide had sufficed.

"What would you recommend I do? Fall apart gracefully for their sake?" Doc asks, clutching a bundle of dead vines against his abdomen. He values Will's opinion, even if he might not know him all that well.

That earned Doc a bemused look. Will honestly had no concept of what the man suggested. He had never been one to scream in an argument and couldn't imagine want to have ~~a breakdown~~ anyone else around.

So he turned his attention back to the screw he was trying to coax out of its hole.

"Yes." It was the simple and direct answer, one that earned him a long suffering sigh from Hannibal. "Put yourself in their shoes. Would you want to be treated like a victim?"

A bit of cloth and a little finesse had the screw starting to come up. Excellent.

"You can fall apart together, then pick each other up."

He did not find it easy to put himself in their shoes. His personal trauma skewed and tainted how he perceived trauma in general. He couldn't know how much they had suffered.

"We could fall apart together and not be able to pick anything up." Just as he was not able to do anything for them in those fleeting few seconds between the screaming and the silence. The kind of screaming that would keep anyone awake through successive nights to come. "I would not risk it."

Rubbing his hands down the front of his jeans, Doc looks around for a big broom to start sweeping the rubbish into the corner.

That seemed to be the man's final answer and Will would respect it. He wasn't here to strong arm anyone into doing anything they didn't want to do. Besides. Sometimes it was enough to plant the seed of the idea.

He turned his attention back to his own project. He really was absolute rubbish when it came to anything involving socialization.

He welcomes the silence. Prefers it greatly over a barrage of questions or meaningless small talk, regardless of whatever social decorum decreed about the latter. They are both busy with the corners of the greenhouse they are working on. It gives him time to mull over Will's words.

If he didn't have half the hangups and reservations he did about being the bigger, better man in the house, even though it is worth nothing in a place like this, they would probably all be in a better place emotionally and psychologically. Even if he refuses to deal with what had happened in any constructive or healthy way, he appreciates that being closed off isn't doing anyone any favours and he appreciates that Will is saying as much.

"Why did you go out, to look at the bodies?" Doc eventually asks, breaking that comfortable silence between them. "Were you looking for someone?"

The silence was companionable enough and when Will realized that Doc was in no hurry to break it, he relaxed a little and let himself focus on the work he was doing. It was never truly silent in Will's head but as he had less and less input to navigate from Doc, the hallucinations -even Hannibal- wandered off.

Will knew why it worked this way. He understood that the hallucinations were his own subconscious and conscious talking to one another. He'd learned about that thin veil when he had traveled with 'Abigail' to Italy. The hallucinations now were -in an odd way- his mind creating a reality that was more in line with what Will knew as normal. Of course his mind couldn't build that reality with Molly, Beverly ... okay fine even Zeller.

No it had to be the monsters. But sometimes it was all about the devils you knew.

When Doc spoke Will actually jumped a little, startled out of the relative quiet in his own head. He blinked, rapidly, for a moment as he struggled to catch up with the outside stimulus and heard himself answering before he'd had time to fully think it through.

"It's my job. Was my job." Seriously it was hard to keep the tenses straight anymore. Giving his head another small shake, Will set down the screw driver and balanced back on his heels. "I taught criminal forensic psychology for the FBI, and consulted on cases when the BAU ran into roadblocks."

"You were Mister Bright's colleague?" Doc wrongly assumes. He purses his lips and nods. "That would explain a lot." This line of work the profilers find themselves in, either it attracts those with a few screws loose or it does the unscrewing for them. There is someone there to catch Malcolm when the hinges start falling off and he has a full blown unhinged technicolour experience. Is there someone there for Will?

"I thought you might have been looking for 'tissues' to quell your own grief," he says quietly, recycling Will's observation of the disembowelled dead whilst gingerly stacking a pile of broken glass shards to be disposed off more cautiously later. "This is a lawless place. Not everything is a crime to be solved."

Doc's question catches Will so off guard that he pauses in what he was doing and stares for a moment before being able to formulate a response.

"No." Okay not much of a response, but Will shook his head and looked back at what he was working on. "Mr. Bright comes from an entirely different ... err ... dimension, world, existence than myself."

With that point clarified Will took a deep breath and began to pry at a hinge that appeared to be rusted to the frame.

"My examination wasn't about solving a crime," he began in soft tones. "It was about trying to understand the mentality of the killer."

"Oh I wouldn't go that far. He is somewhat unconventional but not that otherworldly." Not like Yennefer and her instantaneously sprouting tomato seedlings.

"What were you going to achieve, with that?" Doc asks earnestly. Was he hoping to find the killer and strike some kind of bargain? Try to do something to prevent it from happening again? Is it simply understanding for the sake of understanding?

He's not sure he understands this FBI... psychology thing. "Everyone seems terribly obsessed with murder," he observes with a sigh. Maybe there's something wrong with Doc, in the way he sees it as just something you do to deal with certain kinds of problems as a very last resort and try to protect people getting blood on your own hands instead, and not deserving of all this attention. Maybe it is more than an uninteresting means to an end.

A few feet away from Doc Hannibal chuckled at the joke, even as Will looked slightly pained. There was silence from the ex-profiler for a bit, long enough that it might appear as if he didn't intend to carry the conversation on any further. Doc's words had been in the form of a statement, at least the last part and could have stood as an end to the interaction.

'A very definitive bit of punctuation.' Hannibal pointed out, which was actually why Will searched around until he found something to say. It was pretty much right along the lines of what Doc was already thinking.

"It is a survival instinct. The drive to understand that which can harm us in order to develop a countermeasure to protect ourselves," he could have been reading out of a psychology book, but Will knew for himself at least it was more than that. He stopped scraping at the hinge and played with the busted screw he was using to dig out the rust. All around the greenhouse Hannibal and the others stood quiet for the moment; watching.

"I empathize with killers," he blurted out because there was just no graceful way to explain any of this. "Actually I can empathize with anyone, I can't not. It's why I avoid," he motioned towards Doc's face -his eyes- giving him a quick glance and looking away.

"Looking at the scenes, the bodies. I rebuild the entire encounter in my head and relive it. Usually through the killer's perspective."

Honestly, he's not sure anything could have been done to protect anyone from what had happened. People had been eviscerated for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. As far as Doc is concerned there had been nothing to empathise with.

He is not certain what Will is trying to avoid. Doc himself? It does not feel that way. He could have been shown the door several minutes ago. But he was permitted to stay. Killers? Or people in general? Small towns might be good for avoiding crowds but it would be impossible to avoid all the people here altogether.

"I hope you don't mind my saying this, but I do not understand how you can have it both ways. It seems to me you can either avoid connecting with killers or you can look at the scenes and the bodies and in so doing, establish that connection."

Exhaling a long, slow breath, Will shifted around until he could sit down on the floor with his back to the greenhouse wall, wrists balanced over his knees.

"I tried," he said after a few minutes. "I walked away from all of it. It was never healthy for me and I knew it. But what I do, in my world, saves lives. Before I came here I had been avoided it for three years but the FBI pulled me back in."

Will shrugged.

"This time there was no putting all the pieces back together. When I realized that I did my best to mitigate the damage. Killed two of the monsters I was tangling with and myself in one go. That was supposed to be the end of all of it." He doesn't sound emotional about his choice, if anything it sounds like he was at peace with it.

"Except I woke up here whatever here is," he said from behind his hands as he rubbed at his face. "If it was just me and all ... them," he motioned around the greenhouse as if introducing Doc to people that weren't there. "It would be fine."

He lowered his hands and just looked exhausted. "Except there is all of you people around and trying to hold on to any sense of reality in this place feels like trying to hold on to mist." Will kicked at a bit of dirt on the floor. "Half the time I convince myself the horror is real and half the time I just want to lay my head back into the stream and let it take me."

Blue eyes looked up at Doc. "I look at you," he said in a soft lullabye sort of tone. "And a part of me wants to remake you in the image I see of you. Lay your torso open like a roulette wheel, spin the ball through organs, place your bets on liver or spleen. Disconnect your eyes from the optic nerve and pull the handle, watch them spin. Jackpot! the rattat of a slot machine ... or a six shooter. Glitz and glam above the dark underbelly of murder and broken dreams."

Off to the side Hannibal was smiling broadly. Will looked at the Ripper and then drove the heel of his palm into his eye as if trying to scrub it out.

"I was ready for it to be over."

Malcolm talks to people who aren't there sometimes. It's disconcerting but not entirely new. Doc had talked to people who weren't there to keep himself sane during his century of what was essentially solitary confinement. He's not so sure they're serving the same function and being such a positive driver for Will though.

Doc wipes his hands against each other and takes a few steps a little closer, finds a spot near Will to sit, also. Not close enough to make Will uncomfortable, hopefully, but certainly close enough to be just out of arm's reach.

Glitz and glam wasn't how Doc saw himself, even if there had been few such good times throughout his short and scandalous life. He wasn't really a cowboy either, not in that vaquero sense, although he never stopped to correct anyone. Murder and broken dreams, he can more closely relate to.

"It- never really becomes over," is the first thing Doc says, resting his forearms atop his bent knees. "Once you have savoured the thrill of it, experienced that kind of... satisfaction, there is no untasting a flavour you have acquired a palate for. That part of you will always be there, in some fashion. You just have to find your own way to live with it."

"I know." He said in a quiet voice, agreeing with Doc's statement. "I had decided I no longer wanted to live with it. With them." He motioned again at the people Doc could not see.

"But this place had other ideas."

"You have a second chance. Not everyone is so fortunate. It seems a waste to let the opportunity pass you by." Mathias, for all her flaws, seems quite liberal with dispensing second chances.

"Is there anything that helps you stay grounded?" Doc isn't sure how he can help or if Will can even be helped. Does he want to come back and stay rooted in this dreary reality or has he completely resigned himself to becoming a victim of his own all-consuming success?

"Maybe it would be less effective to try and drown them out. Maybe you need to replace them with other people you are happier to be around."

"I've had second chances," Will said with a soft sort of despair. "Third chances, you could argue fourth and fifth." The last words came quickly with an edge of hysteria wrapped around them. Will paused and purposefully took a deep breath.

He looked over at Doc and then rubbed his hand over his face.

"At least we're already sitting down," Will muttered before he leaned his head back against the wall and began to talk. "I was working as an instructor, criminal forensic psychology, at the FBI Quantico when Jack Crawford came to visit me. He needed help with a case in Minnesota, eight girls dead ..."

As he had with Raylan and Malcolm Will told the whole story. He made no effort to spin himself as a victim or a hero. Though there was a clinical, almost disassociated manner in which he spoke, he at least had the speaking voice of a born instructor, with lifts and dips that hopefully helped keep the long, sordid tale from becoming monotonous.

He took Doc from the beginning to the end with Dolarhyde, Hannibal and the cliff. Every sordid detail. When he finally wound down there was a pause before he wrapped the entire tale with an answer to Doc's question.

"Dogs. I'm happiest around my dogs. But this place doesn't even have cockroaches and I always thought they would survive anywhere."

037-040 » the reason for time

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Let me know if this isn't okay and I'll edit!

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cw: suicide ideation & gore

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