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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"I thought you were dead," Doc protests with a shrug. "I have to protect Malcolm. Wasn't in the mood to deal with your reanimated..." pieces. "Remains, should that happen. Don't tell me you're feeling precious about how I treated your body." He could maybe leave some instructions if he is so Doc knows how to deal with a zombie apocalypse? Did that ever cross his selfish, conceited mind?

"I know very little about it. But I suppose I could tell you a few stories about the frontier. Used to get a lot of questions about Wyatt." Funnily enough they don't seem to care much about him here. Doc can't really fathom why, given that Wyatt was the hero everyone idolised. He's always been Wyatt's +1, Wyatt's sidekick, Wyatt's best friend, Wyatt's whatever. Perhaps with no Earps here, they don't care so much for their shared past.

"I could tell you some stories that'll make the shitshow at the OK Corral sound like another plain old Tuesday afternoon."

There's a genuine look of confusion when Doc seems to get all... defensive about shit when Negan had only been pointing out facts. He bites back the urge to say he's had wives who weren't so sensitive or looking for double meanings in his comments, but he's too tired to fight. He just shakes his head and holds up a hand in a pacifying gesture. "I don't care what you do with my body, man. It was dead and gone and Malcolm didn't need to see that shit coming back to life and trying to move around or look for dinner. I was just pointing out you've seen a lot of me and not all of it's been pretty."

Honestly, Doc didn't need to see it either, but he isn't sure pointing that out is a good idea. "Anyway--"

He shrugs his shoulders, managing a grin. "Shit yeah I want to hear about the frontier."

Even if he's still not convinced, he's curious. Hell, maybe he should ask about Wyatt Earp while they're at it, see how deep this story goes.

Hovering around the edge of the kitchen, Doc keeps his hands busy fiddling with a new type of can opener he's never seen before figuring out how to open a can of tomatoes while he talks.

"Imma tell you about the first time I met Wyatt. It was fall in Kansas, 1877, not unlike the weather is right now..." is how that story starts. It's kind of implied that Kate, whom he does not bother to sayanything else about than her name, had a hand in introducing them. Doc had already started his gambling career but he did still try to do a bit of dentistry then. He wasn't that sick that he couldn't. Wyatt was pursuing an outlaw and ran into some trouble. By the time he finishes the story with saving Wyatt's life the pasta has been cooked and is ready to be served.

Well, at least Doc manages to keep Negan nice and distracted from the fire, more hooked on his story for most of the cooking. He asks questions here and there, laughs here and there at the sheer fucking detail going into the story.

And by the time they're done and ready to eat? He just gives Doc a look. "You really aren't kidding, are you? Or you're fucking amazing at coming up with a convincing story."

He shakes his head. "But you are one hell of a story teller. But I gotta wonder... is Wyatt Earp still around where you are?"

Two immortal cowboys or something.

Doc just shrugs at that. If people don't want to believe him, he wouldn't blame them, but he wouldn't go out of his way to try and prove his authenticity.

"He's long gone. I'm-- friends with his great great granddaughter." 'Friends'. Yeah. Let's not go there. "Seemed like he had lived to a ripe old age though. I'm happy for him." He still loved Wyatt even if they had had a falling out, even if he never came looking, even if he had moved on long before John Henry ever could.

The pasta serves as a good distraction from their topic of conversation. It draws Doc's attention as Negan plates up and he moves into the kitchen again to help gather up some cutlery.

"I suppose if you ever met someone claiming to be Wyatt we could vet each other," he muses with a chuckle. He's pretty sure he would never see Wyatt again, even if he should know better than to say never about anything.

"Well, I'll keep my eye out for any new cowboys in town, just in case." He even refrains from asking if that great great granddaughter is the baby mama he's been going on about. See? He can have tact.

He settles in at the table once everything is set up, giving Doc a curious look over. "How the hell did you handle stepping into the modern world anyway? Lotta shit changed since the old west."

"Mmm." Doc tilts his head and purses his lips as he chews on his pasta, holding the fork vertically with his fingertip on the tip and the prongs in the pasta. The tip of his tongue flickers out over his upper lip and he shrugs.

"You just go up to someone, tip your hat and say 'excuse me ma'am'. Doors tend to open for you when you're polite." He's never had a problem with opening doors. Or windows of opportunity. Or legs, for that matter.

"Taught myself to drive. Got some help with my phone. I still do plenty of shooting and I run a bar same way I did a saloon, more or less. It's not all that different." It's not like he's tried to be some kind of expert on cloud computing cybersecurity.

"Excuse me ma'am," he repeats with a laugh. Excuse me ma'am.. That's a fucking good one. "You know, that's rarely ever been the case where I'm from, but I'm guessing we come from two very different sides of the track."

No, what opened doors for him is being an asshole and not taking shit. Opened plenty of legs for him too, in his time.

"Man, I fucking missed how convenient phones were back home. Pretty soon, we'll all be back to horseback too. We can't keep our cars running when there's no way to get more fuel."

For better or worse Doc hasn't known a place where he needed to be aggressive or callous to get what he wants. There was plenty of that back in the day, more to assert how big his balls are so nobody tries to mess with him or Wyatt. But Doc has always been more of a lover than a fighter. Circumstances being what they were, a bit of the latter was inevitable. If it was up to him though, he'd rather their disputes be settled over Uno blowjobs than bullet holes.

"Would've thought you'd eaten all the horses by now, heartless bastard that you are," Doc observes lightheartedly without any judgement or malice in his voice.

"You don't eat fucking horses, man. That'd be like eating gold." They're precious goddamn animals, Doc. Get with the program. He shakes his head, lips curling up. He doesn't seem to be all that bothered by it, really.

"But I've had to eat other shit I never thought I would just to live. I'd like to not go back to that again. I suggest avoiding feral dog if you can, by the way. Dog food... hey, that shit's not so bad if it's the wet kind."

"Gold wouldn't be worth anything at the end of the world," Doc points out softly. It may not have been the end of the world for Negan but it sure didn't sound like they were in a good place to be appreciating something so rare and precious regardless.

"Is it not simply meat that goes into dog food?" He knows what Negan is referring to. The prepackaged stuff in cans or sachets or plastic wrapping, not wild rabbit or whatever they have at their disposal when they're on the road.

"I'm not opposed to the idea." Dog food, cat food, whatever they can find here. It won't be as palatable as Negan's pasta but you do what you have to do to survive. There is no judgement in that.

"I would- rather eat your pasta, of course." Their talking about pet food isn't meant to be a commentary on Negan's cooking.

"Alright, smartass, it's like-- eating the last ration of your goddamn food then." He was trying to make it sound relatable. Nothing has much value beyond the necessities back home, not really.

There's a shrug of his shoulders. "Yeah, I guess so. Probably none of the bits most people'd typically want to eat..."

But you know what? It's still not so bad. Or maybe living in situations where you're starving just adjusts your tastes a bit. There's a huff of a laugh at the reassurance though. "Relax, I didn't think you were questioning my cooking skills. But--"

Look, he can not be a prick for five seconds. Maybe. "Thanks. I'm sure I can make it for you again sometime... maybe without you having to turn on the burner and watch it for me even." One day. Hopefully.

"Sometimes it's better not to ask too many questions that way." If it's food it's food. It's fine. Knowing where everything comes from or how anything gets made, all it does is rule out options for survival here.

"I don't mind cooking," he counteroffers. "I just don't spend enough time in the house." And Neal makes him self-conscious about his simple meals. He's used to the kind of things you can wrap in foil and throw directly onto a fire or where everything goes into a single pot. With Neal around they don't need to be settling for that.

"You planning on staying out here long enough to be cooking that much?" he asks. It's not necessarily an immediate decision, he can understand if it's something Negan wants to be playing by ear one night at a time. But maybe he had some plans coming out here on his own. Plans that no doubt did not include surprise guests from their house.

"Exactly." You eat it, you don't complain if it's all you got, and you get on with surviving another day.

"Well, then... maybe we can do this once in a while. There are enough abandoned places around here. If we could camp out without weird shit happening, maybe we could even cook over a fire." Unfortunately, that's probably not happening anytime soon, but he figures that's how a cowboy is probably more used to cooking anyway.

He pauses at the question, thinking it over. Surprisingly, Negan didn't have a goddamn plan other than he needed out for a little bit. He needed somewhere to get himself together, shove all that bad shit back down until he could face the others with a grin on his face and get back to business. Or hell, maybe he planned on just running away forever, even if he knows the lack of companionship'd kill him quicker than he could ever do to himself. "Probably not. Haven't been sleeping since I've been back. Feel like I'm going goddamn insane anytime I think about-- where we all were."

And how he doesn't want to go back but he feels like it's an inevitability. "Back home, I'm supposed to be saving people. Feels like I'm goddamn useless here and that's not a feeling I take to well. Just needed a night to try to get some decent sleep in and clear my head, that's all."

But just in case Doc's getting the wrong idea here-- "... I appreciate the company though. Think it helped more than sitting here stewing in my own head. Even if we've got to get you better at Uno."

One thing at a time, Negan. If you're going to court a 19th century outlaw you should take him to nice places instead of the same old damp grass patches and dirt offroads he's used to. An abandoned house that hasn't yet turned derelict is a much better place to attempt wooing than having to worry about invisible eviscerating snow sharks or vomit and murder fog.

They were so used to trading blows with their words, it's not so easy to transition into serious conversation. But making light of Negan's struggles, risking belittling him by offering empty reassurances is a surefire way to get him to shut down and while Doc might be an asshole, he's not that kind of asshole.

For a while he simply nods and pokes at his pasta, picking at it with no real rhythm or pattern, whittling the pile of food down slowly from the top. What else is there to say? They are slowly going insane. And whatever rituals they are clinging onto here, whatever coping mechanisms they are using, it can only do so much to alleviate their disquiet and discontent.

"In that case I would stay the night." Raylan had said he's got Malcolm for tonight. That is something Doc easily trusts in and he can park that worry for one night, take something else on. "There isn't much I could do for your sleep or your sanity. But I would not leave you by yourself tonight." For whatever comfort Negan might find in that.

"Maybe I threw the game to wear you out," he adds, glancing up at Negan through half-lidded eyes with a one-sided shrug. One should never pass up the opportunity to disguise losses with poker-faced delivery of throwaway lines about blowjob-seeking intentions. "Don't say I never do anything for you."

Hey, he'd honestly cook in a kitchen any day, be nice and cozy inside rather than worrying about what might maim them outside. And this has been nice so far... maybe he'll be inclined to court him a little more often. Even if every night won't end in blowjobs and pasta.

"Not like I sleep much anyway, even on a good day." Many reasons for that one, but nothing he wants to get into after spilling his guts enough tonight. Besides, his mood is-- improving. Back home, he'd said there's nothing like a pretty, nice smelling woman keeping you company to make you feel like a whole new person.

Guess a grouchy old cowboy who usually can't stand him does the trick too.

He huffs and gives a really? look at that. "Then you just admitted you were wanting that kiss... Hey, you didn't have to throw a whole game for it."

The blowjob was just a little extra perk, Doc.

"You get to a certain age..." It was meant as a joke but Doc doesn't sleep much either, even before they installed the Malcolm alarm clock to send them flying out of bed every morning. Used to be a time he could put a bullet between a man's eyes and sleep like a baby, with only a mouth full of blood from his lungs to keep him awake at night. But there have been too many troubles of late; more nightmares, more demons to contend with during those restless hours at night.

"I'm not sure I... of what I want." There was whiskey, there were cards. Things tend to happen when there's whiskey and cards, especially if the only people present happened to be two basket cases of trauma and loneliness.

"But it was nice." And Negan gets a small smile for that before Doc's mouth busies itself with another forkful of pasta.

"Shit catches up to all of us, I guess." You can try to outrun it as much as you want, but eventually-- everybody's got to pay up for what they've done or seen. Guys like them have seen plenty bad to fill up a night.

"Yeah," he agrees with a bit of a smile, nothing cocky or teasing or smug about it. "Yeah, it was."

He shrugs. "Doesn't have to be anything, you know. Doesn't need talking about. It can just be something that felt good when everything else is shit." It's how he operates at least.

"... And well, if you ever want a repeat of any of it, you'll know where to find me." He wouldn't mind another dinner or so like this, if he's honest. If there's fooling around, well-- that'll just be a plus.

Doc has no qualms keeping things casual between them. Not talking works better for him than trying to put some thoughts or words into it. He doesn't expect that there would be a repeat of anything tonight. Nobody owes anybody anything and frankly Negan still annoys the shit out of him so he's not working his way into Doc's good books any time soon.

"If that is you offering to make dinner I would not say no." Of course, Negan was offering a lot more than dinner. Who's to say Doc is solely talking about dinner, anyway?

He lets out a soft laugh at that. "Yeah, it sure is, Doc."

Whatever. Dinner, company, and anything else that happens... that's all incentive to put on his chef's hat again and again.

There probably won't be too much happening that night, after the food is finished and the dishes are done. They get through some more whiskey. Doc makes a call to 1306 to say something vague about babysitting a drunk Negan - not entirely a lie, given how much whiskey they've had - and not returning that night. Another round of whiskey taste-testing. Some Uno, in which Doc shows he's not as bad at the game as he might have first let on. They should probably check the whiskey again just to be sure it hasn't gone off in the last ten minutes since they touched it.

After the shower, they're down to the last two fingers of whiskey, and the tight pants and all the other layers get folded over the back of the couch. Doc ends up sitting in bed wearing nothing but borrowed trackpants, corner of a soft blanket covering his feet, back resting against the headboard, scars and nipples indecently exposed while he contemplates another smoke, playing with his cigarette tin case between his hands in his lap. His face is a little warm to the touch and an empty whiskey tumbler tattles on his drinking.

"I feel guilty for sleeping through the night, these days," he drawls, gaze settling on his cigarette tin. Like he owes it to Malcolm to punish himself because Malcolm doesn't have the luxury of dropping off this plane of existence for a quarter of the day. Raylan had offered a couple of days ago to stay with Malcolm but it doesn't make him feel any better about this blissful silence that has settled down around them.

Negan isn't sure how he feels about the guys back home thinking he needs babysitting, but he begrudgingly lets Doc have this one. Better than owning up to what they got into earlier, or to say they're both drunk as shit on whiskey, playing fucking uno.

By the time they've showered and changed -- Negan in a pair of sweats and a loose tank, he's feeling... maybe not good, but all loose-limbed and relaxed, alcohol coursing through him. His eyes trail over Doc briefly before he flops down next to him in bed. "Wouldn't say no to one of those," he nods towards the cigarette case Doc seems to be debating.

He folds an arm behind his head, lets out a pleasant sigh. "Try not to. You run yourself ragged, you're not gonna be good to anyone."

Pot, kettle, black. Whatever. It's the truth. "You gotta take care of yourself too. Besides, it's one night."

A lot of things can go wrong in one night. Doc purses his lips and pops the lid to his cigarette case open, swinging his arm over, holding it out for Negan to take one. He won't be able to sit next to him and not have one, so he helps himself to his own stick after that. Mindful of not striking a match in front of Negan, Doc does it with his back partially turned, one hand cupping the side even though there's no wind in the room, keeping the fire hidden from view until his cigarette is lit. He then uses his one to light Negan's up.

Reaching over to the nightstand, he brings his empty whiskey tumbler over, setting it down between them to use as an ashtray.

"I've gotten away with... too many indiscretions, thinking it's one night." This isn't throwing shade on Negan and what he did with other people on his one nights. This is Doc when he used to live his life like every night is going to be his last.

"What do you do, Negan?" he asks after blowing smoke over his other shoulder, holding the cigarette between his fingers, turning his head to look down at Negan from where he's sitting. Doc doesn't spend much time in the house and often he's off on his own in the patch of willow trees or in the library or going around these other houses or getting caught up in someone else's troubles for the day. He doesn't know what most of the house gets up to while he's gone for hours at a time.

"During the day, I mean."

Of course shit can go wrong in a single night. He lost an entire outpost in a single night because some assholes decided murdering people in their sleep was the way to go. But sometimes people like to hear pretty little lies. Makes them feel safe. Makes them relax a little.

"Haven't we all, Doc." He takes a drag off the cigarette, lips curling into a wry smile. They've all had indiscretions that came back and bit them in the ass eventually.

"Hm..." He looks up at Doc thoughtfully. "Try to keep busy, I guess. Told Malcolm I'd do yoga with him some morning."

There's a quiet chuckle. "Otherwise-- checking the shops we can get into, looking through the houses some. Back home, my days were full of relegating responsibilities to others, making sure people were working, everybody was safe. Here, there's a lot of scavenging, exploring. Don't think we're gonna happen upon an exit any time soon though."

He pauses. "Maybe if we ever thaw out long enough, I can find a nice patch of land somewhere, plant some shit if we got enough seeds together. Always wanted a garden. Growing shit's satisfying as fuck."

And if the asshole laughs at him for it, he's getting a jab to the ribs no matter how relaxed Negan is right now.

An incredulous snort greets the yoga comment. Never say never, but. He couldn't picture Negan doing yoga.

"For some unfathomable reason you seem to have grown on him," Doc notes. Sure, Negan has some redeeming qualities about him. Even when he is seizing every opportunity to wriggle under Doc's skin, to say and do stupid shit as if he's trying to get a reaction out of him. But from one monster to another, he knows that they are both ugly on the inside, and Doc sees past the Negan mask that seems to have beguiled and ensnared everyone else.

"There are seeds in the greenhouse. Miss Yennefer has started attempting to grow a few things, in pots." Doc takes a puff and breathes out a sigh. "I will sever hands from wrists with a butter knife if anyone touches them and kills them as a result," he warns with a sidelong glare. This means you too, Negan.

Averting his gaze, he scratches the bridge of his nose and sniffles.

"You know Wyatt, he- he had these grand plans for his own farm, too. A quiet life, out in the country. I was to help him build it. Didn't take one night to render those dreams to dust. Hardly took thirty seconds. There are men in this world who are destined to grow things. To be nurturing, to be a blessing unto others. And then there are men like us. All we do is take, and kill, and destroy. If I am to have dreams tonight, if I have any tears left to shed, it will not be for the lives I have taken. Perhaps you can use the corpses you have made for fertilizer for your garden," Doc muses with a shrug. "But we are so often not the creator of beautiful things."

037-040 » the reason for time

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