villagelogs | 059-061 » the place where you stop the story

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059-061 » the place where you stop the story

WHO: Everyone.
WHERE: Eastern/Central/Southern Mathias
WHEN: Day 059-061
WHAT: Time returns to "normal" and Mathias grants a reprieve.
WARNINGS: (PM this account to have a warning added!)
NOTES: Plotting post over here! The next log will be posted the weekend of ~~May 15th~~ May 22nd.

RECOMMENDED ♫ Nathan Johnson "Foul Play"

DAY 059-061
A BRIEF REPRIEVE
“There is no real ending. It’s just
the place where you stop the story.”
— Frank Herbert
Residents awake to a peaceful morning with the sun shining and earth remaining still. There is no unsettling shaking to rouse them at dawn, and time has continued moving onward as they slept. Whatever state they were in the night before, they remain that way now, for good or for bad.

On the surface, there seems to be little lasting effect on the tiny town from that strange series of days, save for the memories of any traumatic experiences residents may have faced — but there are always consequences within Mathias. The perpetrators of acts against the town are tormented by nightmares of those acts being used against them, and those who did not raise a hand to stop those acts of destruction may yet face consequences of their own. For now, however, the unwilling townspeople should do their best to rest and recover from the disturbing ordeals of late, for this reprieve from the madness shall surely be shortlived.

THE NEW ARRIVALS
The newest arrivals to Mathias will wake up on the beach near The Grey Gull. It's a bit chilly out with their wet clothes, but surely there's something to help warm them inside the restaurant. They may even find some alcohol within — and not just the cowboys' homemade moonshine.

CONDITIONS UPDATE

— THE HISTORY MUSEUM has not fared well with the return of "normal" time. The once esteemed wooden building is now a charred ruin, the recent fire leaving behind little of the contents within for study. The structure is unstable and it is not wise to venture into the ruins for long.

— THE WEATHER conditions remain fairly typical for early fall: warm days and cool nights. It feels almost like spring arriving except that there fewer red and orange leaves on the ground and more of them oddly returning to the trees and slowly fading to green. It's like watching one of those nature documentaries that have a timelapse of the seasons, only it's going in reverse.

— THE FOG has retreated from some areas!
— Residents may now wander the southern stretch of the forest surrounding Mathias Township — it is possible to leave the paths but potentially unwise to do so.
— The fog has also retreated farther into the western section of town, now stretching across town between Stine Road and Shelley Drive. This has revealed the Chasm in the earth that stretches from one side of town to the other between Stine and Hill Lane.
— Access to the northern section of the forest is still blocked beginning a few dozen yards past the treeline; this section of fog will urge residents to stay huddled within the town proper by inducing a physical reaction of panic and fear.

— DEATHS & DISAPPEARANCES continue! Max Guevara has vanished into the fog. Claire Novak's body can be spotted on Day 059 facedown at the bottom of the Chasm between Hill and Stine, near Phillips Drive; by the morning of Day 060, her body will be gone. (Attempts may be made to reach her body but will likely not end well for those involved. Such attempts should be reported under Exploration.)

— ALCOHOL is still in Mathias! Just barely. (Supply is running very low after recent town events.) 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 was also restocked with its lower-end offerings of a variety of alcohol types. (Alcohol does not replenish as food does.)

OOC NOTES

— PROJECT HELP Your mod needs help with some projects!

— FUTURE PLANNING If you haven't, please answer the questions here for future log planning. I will almost definitely need some of these answers for the log going up the weekend of May 15, so act quickly! Late submissions will not be considered for that log.

— UPDATES Don't forget to report updates as they come up! Changes to locations (like toppling a few bookshelves in the library), big plots you have coming up that will affect the game (parties, major property destruction, etc), or exciting discoveries that may tie into the game's mythology (even the things provided by the mod) are very helpful to have in one place so relevant page updates can be made.

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

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Thank you anyway, but I like to put in my own legwork," Tim explained and it was not a lie. He didn't doubt that the picture was thorough, but he wanted to stand there and make a careful study of not only the mural but the space around it.

And it was a point making walk as well.

“There was a gate in the other direction with an unpickable lock,” Malcolm told him, tucking his phone away. “I’ve heard of two such gates now. There are probably more.”

The mention of the locked gates jogged Tim's memory of the last time he'd been down in the tunnels. Only so much as to make him wince, inwardly, at Raylan's reaction if he went down on his own again.

Part of Tim was saying fuck it. Raylan was not his nanny and he would go where he damn well pleased, when he damn well pleased. But it would be a lie to try to claim something hadn't changed after their afternoon together. Tim found the mental voice yelling at him to be more protective of the older marshal's emotions, was out shouting the urge to be stubborn.

With the additional noises coming from his genuine intention to make peace with Malcolm.

The smart thing to do would be to turn back and look at the damn picture on the phone. But lawman instincts wanted the whole experience, not a sanitized one. He looked at Malcolm expectantly.

"Coming with?"

Malcolm shrugged. “Sure,” he said, hopping down off the rock. “We have to stop at 1306. We need some supplies,” he cautioned. “Tunnel supplies.”

Tim had no idea what constituted 'tunnel supplies' beyond a lantern, but he made an agreeable grunting noise and began to pick his way back along the path. His steps were silent across the forest floor, though he did not appear to be making any particular effort to be quiet.

Unless Malcolm broke the silence, they were making the trek back to 1306 without a word spoken. Once at the house Tim stopped with one foot on the stairs up to the porch and made a go forth and supply gesture with his hand.

On the silent walk back, Malcolm studied the Marshal out the corner of his vision. His manner, his gait, his facial expression.

At the house, he slipped past Tim and through the front door, then led him into the garage, picking up a ladder and a kerosene lantern kept next to each other. He checked the fuel supply, then tilted his head towards the door to lead the way across the street.

Once in 1307, he led Tim to a corner of the living room and pulled a trap door open, lowering the ladder into the dark.

“Batteries die fast down there,” he advised, holding the lantern out to Tim. “This lasts longer.”

Everything about Tim, from his manner, gait and resting bitch face, screamed of a man who was always on guard and ready to respond to a situation going south. It was not paranoia exactly, Tim's head wasn't on a swivel looking all around, but rather a hard learned sense of awareness. The ability to take even the most minute of cues, such as a shift in the air and be responding to it before his conscious mind caught up with his actions.

The younger marshal would offer to carry the ladder, handing it back once they got to the house and began to head for the trap door. He'd been here a number of mornings, helping Athena out of the hole beneath the floorboard, though he had never gone down more than a few steps himself.

Tim took the lantern with a jog of his eyebrows, acknowledgement of Malcolm's point. Then he began to work his way down the ladder, shifting aside immediately to make room for the smaller profiler.

As his movement took him deeper from the trapdoor, Tim felt an icy cold finger brush its way down his spine. He took a couple of deliberately deep breaths and pushed himself to move further down the tunnel, refusing to even acknowledge his lizard brain's soft screams to go back to the ladder and out.

"You said east, right?" He spoke, purposefully to distract himself. He already knew the answer.

Malcolm nodded, taking the ladder down from the hole and tucking it under his arm to follow Tim. “I’ve been making a map,” he explained as they walked. “Just of the places I’ve been so far.”

"Right," Tim acknowledged Malcolm's comment though he felt as if the other man was speaking from a great distance.

The younger marshal owned up to his struggles with PTSD. He made a joke out of it as a way to protect himself and threw himself into the job and a bottle to help distract himself. So far he'd done a good job of keeping actual flashbacks at bay. Which was why he did not immediately alert on the way his heart rate was increasing, until it felt like that organ was in the base of his throat.

He took a deep breath, trying to clear the non-existent lump in his throat, but suddenly all he could smell was the metallic tang of blood. The smell of blood mixed with the hot dust, and musty scent of unwashed bodies from Taliban caves, throwing his brain further into the flashback. The smell of shit, urine, grey matter joined the cocktail and Tim stopped.

Part of his mind tried to drag him back to the here and the now, while another part of his mind tried to logic out what the fuck was happening and why. They should go back.

Are you brain damaged recruit? The moment you want to turn back is precisely the moment you go forward. The hard screaming voice of his instructors at Benning and beyond, echoed in his skull, further displacing his ability to sort one realty from another.

Turn off that goddamn light you maggot! You're going to get your spotter killed!

Tim scrambled with the lantern, quickly dousing the light and plunging them both into darkness.

"Take this fucking thing," he hissed at Malcolm. "Keep it off, for fuck's sake."

Malcolm watched Tim descend into psychosis like he was sinking into a hot bath and his stomach sank. When he pushed the lantern into Malcolm's hands in the dark, the ladder slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor.

"Tim... where are you right now?" he asked the pitch blackness.

Had he heard the question?

It might be hard to tell.

He wheeled at the sound of the ladder crashing into the rock beneath them. His hand shot out and provided Malcolm didn't dodge, the younger marshal was going to have the front of his shirt in his fist, pulling him close.

His voice was a tight, authoritative even though it was only a smidge above a hard whisper. "Goddamn it, Corporal. Make another noise, and I will kill you and leave you here for the Taliban to find!"

Malcolm almost dropped the lantern when Tim grabbed him, just managing to hold onto it.

"Ooooh... Afghanistan," he murmured. "Okay. Um. We should get out of here. Before... they find us," he suggested quietly.

That was absolutely sound advice and a part of Tim's mind tried to assert itself in agreement with the profiler. But it ran into those loud, hard voices that drilled into him; when scared you go forward! That was what made a Ranger.

He also felt a sense (rather the remembrance) of the approval he'd experienced when he'd last been down in the tunnels. The encouragement to cut deeper, bleed more, yes, yes good

Forward was good, more was good.

Tim released Malcolm. "We're here for a purpose," he ground out through his teeth. "Have we accomplished that purpose, Corporal?"

Wait. Not Corporal. This was a civilian with him. No, couldn't be. His unit never used civilian help. Tim gave his head a shake, tapped Malcolm's shoulder to indicate they were to move forward and hopefully the profiler could track the whisper of the sniper's clothing as he pushed forward down the tunnel.

Malcolm hurried to keep up.

"What is our purpose?" he asked at a fierce whisper.

It was a very good question.

Because it presented the first crack in the flashback. Tim always memorized his mission objectives; he was known for it. But he found himself having to mentally search his internal database, looking for this particular answer.

It gave the logical part of his mind time to beat him over the head with reality.

This is not a Taliban cave. This is not the tunnel under the library. The man asking questions Malcolm, right ... Malcolm.

"Malcolm."

Tim's brain dropped back to their current reality but that was not the end of the episode. The Ranger fell back against the wall and fought back the urge to throw up. His heart was going a mile a minute and he felt cold, fear sweat pouring down the channel of his spine.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." He ground out through his teeth, reaching his hand up to rub at his eyes, which did nothing for the mounting headache. "Did I hurt you?"

Malcolm turned the lamp back on.

"That's always my first question, too," he said gently. "But no. You didn't."

He offered his hand.

"Why don't we go back up to 1307? Take a break."

It was reassuring to hear but it didn't stop the next words falling from Tim's mouth. Quiet with a desperate sort of sincerity. "I'm sorry."

Sorry for flashing back on him, sorry for manhandling him, just ... sorry.

Tim blinked when the lantern was relit. He looked like shit. Pale, sweating with his pupils blown wide from the adrenaline rush of fight or flight. But despite that he shook his head and motioned down the tunnel.

"Come on, let's finish what we started." He was stubbornly determined, reaching down to pick up the ladder. "What was the most idiotic perpetrator you ever had to profile?"

They all had one in their past, it was part and parcel of the job. It was Tim's turn to try to keep Malcolm talking, using the smaller man's voice as an anchor in the dark.

He looked at Tim with a mild amount of surprise. He hadn't thought he was even a little bit interested in what Malcolm did.

"They only bring me in for really weird or twisted murders, but... I've seen some stupid motives. It's surprising, sometimes, the things people value over a human life. Money, status, a career, clicks on their instagram, attention. Those sorts of... pedestrian concerns lead to murder more than your typical idea of what would. You know, love, revenge, betrayal... the real emotional tinderboxes. Of course, my main specialty is serial killers. They don't care about any of that stuff, for the most part. They do what they do because they love it. Because they need to. They do it because it makes them god."

Eh.

Truthfully the question might never have come up in normal conversation. It was more a case that he needed Malcolm talking and the job was always a safe topic. Tim wasn't entirely uninterested in the art of profiling. Marshals often used their own version when trying to suss out where a fugitive they were tracking would likely to be found.

But Tim would be the first to admit that the fugitives he chased were an entirely different breed of animal from the serial killers Malcolm stalked.

"Power over life, death and all that bullshit?" Tim asked, encouraging Malcolm to talk further as they made their way down the tunnel. He expected they would come up on the mural soon, but his nerves were still jangling and Tim did not want to entertain the risk of a repeat performance of his own bullshit.

“Yeah, exactly,” Malcolm told him. “There are different flavours of it, but - essentially - it comes down to the ultimate rush of power over another person. If you take the case of my father, he was a heart surgeon. That was sort of his gateway power rush into serial killing. He pretended it was scientific curiosity, but it was about power. Everything was always about power with him,” Malcolm explained casually.

Malcolm's response caused Tim's lips to twitch.

"Little wonder you and Raylan get along," he observed. "You were both shaped in your career by the actions of your fathers."

“We’re all made by something,” Malcolm pointed out gamely. “What made you choose your careers?” he asked curiously.

The young sniper initially bristled at the question. He wasn't one for talking about himself in such ways. But he reminded himself that he had kinda opened these doors and it would be a next level of assholishness to slam them back closed in Malcolm's face.

"Enlisted in the Army the day I turned eighteen before my father could throw me out of the house," he said without much emotional inflection. "The Marshal service offers a lot of support to veterans getting settled back into civilian life."

He could still get his mad minute but on the correct side of the law.

“Why would he throw you out? You didn’t get along?” Malcolm clarified.

"We did not," Tim confirmed, but that was all he was going to share on that subject.

"Should we be close to the mural?"

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cw: War - graphic

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