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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"Who are you angry at?" Malcolm asks softly. "This place for doing that to them? Them for leaving us like this?"

Either would be a perfectly natural reaction.

"At yourself for not being able to save them?"

That would be very Doc.

Is there a correct answer to that? Because his disparate thoughts have been like a sparrow, flitting from one of those reasons to another at some point in time today. He has always been inclined towards anger. Hot-tempered. Headstrong. Not the kind of rage that Raylan keeps tucked away in his hat, but just- an elevated level of agitation, with the occasional lashing out. There was always somebody to be angry at, something to be angry about. Sickness. Pain. Misfortune. Abandonment. He has tried to change, leave that behind. It's not so easy when things do not go his way.

"Is it selfish to be angry at them? It is selfish to feel abandoned. The thought of not needing to find that much food anymore had crossed my mind. That is selfish too." Because he has taken upon himself that burden too, even though they could all provide for the house just fine. It is not solely his job or his duty or his mission to keep this ark buoyant in this sea of troubles. But it feels like it right now. "If they come back like the others..." Doc lets himself say. He doesn't want to finish that sentence. He doesn't want to hope. Turning to lie flat on his back, his hand drifts away from Malcolm's side as he finishes that train of unspoken thought staring at the ceiling.

"If they come back like the others, one of two things will happen. They'll never want to leave the house or they'll never want to come back into the house. And I would have to fix them too. On top of everything else that I need to do. Honestly Malcolm I..." Doc closes his eyes and shakes his head. "I don't feel the need to talk. The more I say the less you would think of me."

Malcolm immediately and acutely feels the absence of Doc's touch. He rolls towards him, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at him, setting his free hand splayed on Doc's chest.

"I'm not going to think less of you for having a perfectly normal human response to pain and grief. To being overwhelmed. To being tired in your bones from the endless caretaking that feels like Sisyphus pushing his boulder up the hill. But I want you to know that you're not alone. That if... things need fixed then I... want to help fix them. The things that need taken care of... there can be a 'we' in that."

"At least Sisyphus could see he was nearing the top of the hill." Doc on the other hand is just- pushing this thing that he can't see past, suffocating in its shadow. And he's pushing and pushing and turning around to shoulder it against his back and backpedalling, but instead of making any headway he feels like he's sliding back in his exhaustion, being crushed by the weight of everything.

And he would want nothing more than to take Malcolm up on his offer. It's not that he doesn't trust Malcolm. He just- Malcolm hasn't died and he already needs fixing. He can't help the cynicism.

"That is what they had said, too. I would be content if you could just take care of yourself." There is no bitterness in his voice. He doesn't mean any harm by his words. He just isn't feeling the 'we' right now.

There’s no bite in his words because he’s not lashing out. It’s just a fact.

Malcolm withdraws his hand and presses his lips together.

“That’s a good point,” he concedes. It’s not fair to suggest he can help with Doc’s toils when Malcolm is one of Doc’s toils. He nods and sits up. “I can, you know. I do. At home. I live alone at home and I’m fine.”

Does he even really need the help? Like. Really need it? He knows he does; things are different here. But he can’t take it like this.

He slides off the edge of the bed, pushing to his feet.

“Anyway, I just. Wanted to see how you were doing. I’m...” he gestured vaguely towards the door. “Going to. Do that.” Take care of himself.

This is more or less what has happened throughout his time in Mathias. People will tell him things to try and encourage him to ask for help, to rely on others, try to coax him out of his fortress, assure him he does not have to go at it alone. He starts to believe them and open up. And then they leave him with the task of collecting globs of their carcasses up from the snow, an unhealthy dose of survivor's guilt, and dump the weight of supporting those who remain behind squarely on his shoulders.

They tell him that he should not keep things bottled up inside, that it is not good for him, that he needs to air his grievances and 'just talk' before he does irreparable damage to his body with his drinking problem and finds a destructive outlet to let it all out. It is alright to be a terrible person with terrible thoughts. But the moment he says anything, it is not the kind of 'terrible' that people want to hear. Not only do they not appreciate that blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment of authenticity letting someone in behind the veneer of a 19th century Southern gentleman, but he feels chastised and belittled for it.

People ask him how he is but they are not genuinely interested if the answer is not some variant of 'fantastic'. People say they are there and he should reach out if he needs anything, but cannot make the time for the five minutes he needed of them just to hear him out. Nobody means what they say anymore. This is something he does not like about the 21st century.

For a moment he thinks to sit up and reach out. To tell Malcolm that he did not mean any harm by what he had said. That he is falling apart and does not want to be left alone. Malcolm does not have to prove anything to him. But three bottles of moonshine turn the reassurances to sludge and he is tired. Just the thought of having to protect a fragile ego and reaffirm yet again to Malcolm the things he has repeated over and over and over again over the past few weeks of their time together on top of everything else today makes him weak in the knees. Contrary to popular belief, he is not invulnerable, and he does not, in fact, have the patience of a saint. Saints are dead. They can afford to be patient. Today he... he does not have it in him to do anything else today.

He clenches his teeth and closes his eyes, letting Malcolm go, hearing the door shut and the silence stretch out once again. Forget it, Doc. You've been telling him for weeks you're an asshole. About time he started believing it.

Malcolm does not believe that. He offered help and Doc asked him for one thing: look after yourself for once. He can do one thing for someone who's done so much for him and for everyone else, even if he teeters on the edge of wondering whether it means he's just an obligation on Doc's list of self-imposed responsibilities. No. Doc cares for him, doesn't he?

He's said he wants him there, in the house. He has to believe that.

He curls back up on his side, pulling Raylan's shirt more tightly around him, looking at his hat like somehow the marshal might materialize out of it. He isn't intending to fall asleep, and not preparing to is a mistake. Not an auspicious start to Malcolm Looking After Malcolm.

His night terror announces itself with a crash of his door slamming open as he scrambles out of it with a terrified howl. He trips, landing sprawled on the floor, but it doesn't take him long to regain his feet, screaming at something invisible, bolting away from it.

Towards the stairs.

He's not sure what he can attribute his deep sleep to. All that alcohol? That little breakdown? Or maybe it was all the running around he had done all day to bury the dead, look after the living. He had compartmentalised his grief and kept it in the back of his fridge. Occasionally he would open said fridge to take a piece of reassurance or a morsel of comfort or some leftovers of support to give out, but eventually only the grief was left, and checking back every ten minutes didn't make more leftovers appear nor did it make the grief disappear. Maybe he simply wore himself out checking the fridge and eventually fell asleep next to the closed fridge door.

The sound of the door makes him jump and tense up, squeezing his eyes shut, scattering any half-baked nightmares percolating in his head, but it is the sound of Malcolm's distress that gets him attempting to climb out and ungracefully landing on the floor with his feet tangled in the sheets. Cursing at the floor and pushing himself up, Doc hurries out of his room and doesn't think too much of tackling Malcolm to the ground before he can tumble down the stairs and crack his head open on some furniture below. He had warned the ladies that Malcolm and himself both get nightmares sometimes. He did not explain the full extent of it, mostly to spare Malcolm's feelings.

Doc is still steeped in his half-sleep, half-hangover state that he can't quite subdue Malcolm the first time around. The petit New Yorker is a lot stronger than he looks. The elbow snapping at the top of his cheek, barely missing his eye and causing him to bite his own lip awakens him enough to attempt a better grapple in his second attempt and pin Malcolm down.

"Malcolm-- Malcolm!" Those screams may wake the dead and he has half a mind to just let Malcolm scream it all out on the offchance that it works. But sympathy for Ellie and Yennefer has him risking getting bitten, clamping his palm over Malcolm's mouth.

For a moment, the hand over his mouth makes him struggle harder against some horror in his head. A shadowy monster with enormous talons that could rip a man in half with one swipe. But in a moment, he blinks awake, tensing before he realizes the weight on him is Doc and he relaxes enough for Doc to understand that he’s not asleep anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs quickly, looking around. This isn’t his bed. It’s the floor. Not the floor of his room.

No. Right. Because he messed up.

His expression crumples slightly.

“Oh... I’m sorry,” he says even more earnestly.

Doc doesn't let up immediately, letting a few seconds of no struggling pass them by before he relents, untangling himself from Malcolm's limbs with a tired sigh and pushing backwards, sitting on the floor with his back to the corridor wall. No harm done beyond the zing of a coppery taste in his mouth. If he stands up too fast now his head might start to spin.

"Mm- it's alright." He presses the back of his hand to his bottom lip and holds it there for a few seconds, trying to slow his deep breaths down as his heartrate begins to settle again.

"I should have been in there. Checked your restraints. Made sure you were safe." Doc runs his hand through his hair, taming it back down as he swipes his tongue over the still-bleeding cut. Raylan would have been disappointed.

"I should not have drunk as much as I did," he says, delivering it like a well-rehearsed line he had oft repeated several times before, stopping just short of an outright apology. Self-medication is an intrinsic part of who he is. He would make no apologies for that.

Malcolm quickly shook his head. Doc shouldn’t have had to do any of those things on his account.

“No. It’s not... you asked me to do one thing to make it all easier for you but. ....I can’t,” he finished in a whisper. “Give me anything else. I want to help. I just... I can’t do that one.”

"Malcolm, I- Jesus." Doc breathes in deep and breathes out a long, slow sigh. He should have dealt with this last night. Or- a few hours ago. However long it has been.

"I didn't mean it that way, Malcolm." He closes his eyes and takes another deep breath, resting his head against the wall. God, is this Day One? It is Day One, isn't it. May the good Lord grant him strength and courage to get through this alone, somehow.

"You don't have to-- I am not imposing tasks or responsibilities upon you as though you owe me anything." He feels he can't speak freely, given how Malcolm takes the worst possible interpretation of anything he says, and he is not lucid enough that he can measure his words out carefully and formulate it all out in his head, make sure he says only the thing that could be the least misunderstood.

"I don't-" A weak huff of an almost-laugh leaves his chest as he tilts his head to one side and scratches the bridge of his nose, covering one eye with his palm. "I don't. Even know. What I am saying right now." He is so tired he could cry.

"Could you give me two hours. And we will discuss this later. I would appreciate if you could check in on the ladies, once they are awake. I did not forewarn them of your struggles with sleep." There. That is one small favour he is asking that probably won't be misconstrued into some other thing he doesn't even know how to deal with. They probably would not appreciate screaming that bears so much resemblance from what they had to listen to yesterday.

Malcolm looked towards the stairs and nodded, then looked at Doc.

"Can I lay down with you until then? I promise I won't fall asleep. I'll be quiet. I... " He crawled over to where Doc sat against the wall and leaned against him. "I wasn't trying to pay some kind of debt to you. I just see everything weighing on you and I don't want you to do everything alone. You're not alone. That's all. Can I stay for a little while?"

"Okay." He doesn't want to argue and he probably should have done this in the first place anyway. He wraps an arm around behind Malcolm's shoulder and holds him close against his side, giving his upper arm a few reassuring rubs. This is all that is left of the house. They shouldn't waste their time together wearing each other down.

There is something undignified about picking them both up only to strap Malcolm down again so Doc relents, taking Malcolm back to his old bedroom when he manages to get to his feet. His bones are creaking louder and more painful than usual today.

"Come on." He nudges Malcolm into bed. It's still dark and Doc is not awake enough that he would have trouble easily falling back asleep. He pulls the blanket aside and lets Malcolm crawl into bed first. It's still a little warm from where he had laid before.

"You are not obligated to stay awake. I will hold you." Usually Doc curls up a bit, probably on account of having made do in a tight space for much of his life. He can't help nudging the backs of Malcolm's knees with his own or the dip of his head, but he does at least straighten up a bit with one arm around Malcolm and half his face buried in the pillow. With any luck they'll be down for more than a few hours, and have fewer hours left to face the day.

Once Doc has him wrapped up, Malcolm relaxes palpably, tension easing out of his frame. He just wanted to know that they're still okay. It was a bad, hard day. The dead weren't the only ones that got torn up. His fingertips fidget lightly at the hem of Doc's sleeve and he gets what he feels are his first full breaths in a day.

He won't fall asleep. He doesn't want to disturb Doc's rest again. It's rest he can see the cowboy needs. But he can stay like this for hours. It's the only sanctuary left.

Even in his sleep he is not completely relaxed. He is still protective, almost possessive. His grip on Malcolm's waist tightens and loosens, and when it tightens every muscle all the way up to his shoulder tenses up. The sheets rustle and crease as his legs shift restlessly. At one point he's got one of Malcolm's legs trapped on the bed, heel brushing against the fabric covering a bony shin.

"Mmh-" he breathes, lips and moustache brushing against Malcolm's shoulder as he turns more and more towards the pillow. He would probably calm down and relax on his own. But it would take days, maybe even weeks, to work that tension and those unconscious fears out of him.

If all Malcolm can do for Doc is be something solid and warm to hold while he's sleeping, he's happy to do it.

The fitful way he breathes, moves, tenses and relaxes, but never all the way...

He's having nightmares, Malcolm surmises. Of course he is. Who wouldn't, having lived his life, nevermind the last 24 hours. He strokes the arm around him gently.

They're not as disturbed or violent as Malcolm's even if there are nights he's shoving at the couch telling it 'no' repeatedly, but they're definitely another small anomaly he doesn't talk about when they've got so many other things on their too-small plates. They've gotten more frequent and worse when he's alone in the dark. He has more nightmare material to work with too.

Thankfully with Malcolm in his arms the fidgeting dies down and the furrow in his eyebrows get smoothed out into a stillness resembling serenity. His grip loosens on Malcolm and he goes a little more limp, a little more like deadweight as he slips into a dreamless sleep.

That's deep sleep. Malcolm could slip away. Normally, he might. But tonight, he doesn't want to. He stays nestled there, listening to Doc's faint, even breathing. He doesn't even get up when the sun starts to come up.

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037-040 » the reason for time

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