villagelogs | 062 » that moment of experience / part i

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062 » that moment of experience / part i

WHO: Everyone.
WHERE: Eastern/Central/Southern/Western Mathias
WHEN: Day 062
WHAT: A storm rains destruction upon the town.
WARNINGS: (PM this account to have a warning added!)
NOTES: Plotting post over here! Part II details are below.

RECOMMENDED ♫ Deadly Avenger "Creeper"

DAY 062
THAT MOMENT OF EXPERIENCE
“A story has no beginning or end: arbitrarily one
chooses that moment of experience from which to
look back or from which to look ahead.”
— Graham Greene
The day begins like any other might. The clouds occasionally part to give glimpses of the sun, offering a bit of hope that the hours might pass without incident. It is a hope that is soon dashed, however, for midday brings with it a suddenly darkening sky. Those near the beach will be able to see the ocean churning as all light seems to be bled from the day, the sky darkening into a purplish-black more quickly than is natural, the process taking a mere ten minutes from start to finish.

And then it begins.

The rain is so heavy and pouring so fast that the ground cannot take it all in, sending rivers down streets and leaving lawns as lakes. The winds blow in gusts so strong that they could knock someone over, and the lightning that arcs brightly through the sky is immediately followed by thunder that shakes the town to its core, the tremors almost reminiscent of the earthquakes that plagued the town only days ago.

For some, the storm will be another nuisance of mother nature, forcing them to remain wherever they were before its sudden approach. But for others, it will be far more than that, for this storm is seeking revenge on those who sought to destroy the town. Destruction will rain down and it will not stop until its vengeance is satisfied.

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. If nothing else, the cowboys' homemade moonshine should do the trick.

ABOUT THE STORM
The storm will begin at midday and last until late into the night, only calming in the early hours of the morning. The heavy rain will flood the streets, though it will not be enough to flood the buildings themselves (except as noted below), and the winds and thunder will shake the town with such strength that it will almost seem as if the town is trying to tear itself apart.

But this is not a simple storm. For those residents who took part in any way in the destruction of the Town Hall, History Museum, or Stoker Park house, they will find the storm will destroy their shelter in some fashion. This can include broken windows, caved-in roofs, flooding from the rain, or even lightning striking the building. The details are up to player choice but something will be damaged by the storm.

— All damage to buildings will be repaired by the dawn of the following day as if it never happened at all. There is no way to witness this process taking place.
— If a resident is sheltering in a shared living space with others who did not take part in the destruction of the town, you may choose to have only your character's section of that location damaged. However...
— The storm's focus will follow the resident if they move to another area or location, meaning that the new location will also suffer damage in some way.
— Only those who took part in the town destruction in some way will be targeted by the storm, but innocent bystanders can be caught up in the situation as well.

CONDITIONS UPDATE

— 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.

— DISAPPEARANCES continue! Ellie has vanished while others have returned.

— ALCOHOL supplies have run dry, save for any dregs that have been squirreled away by individual residents. Moonshine can still be acquired by those in desperate need.

OOC NOTES

— NEW MAP Thanks so much to Scy for this amazing new map of Mathias!

— PROJECT HELP Your mod needs help with some projects!

— PART II The next part of the log series will be have characters divided up (by OOC choice, not IC) into groups, so be sure to sign up for one asap. Anyone who doesn't make the deadline will be automatically assigned to an available spot.

— 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. IC events are also helpful to know about in advance so they can be included in the log write-ups.

— 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. (All outstanding matters will be taken care of in the next few days!)

navigation | faq | locations | report updates

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He doesn't have it in him to put on his brave front. He's fresh out of bravery today, running on an empty gas tank in terms of his tolerance for Mathias's cruelty and just losing that willingness to get up again after getting knocked down over and over again by these mounting setbacks. Doc hasn't even stopped to eat anything today although it's so far from his mind at this particular moment. He's too worn down to stand and be attentive to Malcolm's needs.

"Yes," he eventually says, a small, lone voice in the unending darkness.

"What's wrong? Are we flooded?" Something must be wrong for Malcolm to have come in. Something for Doc to fix. Yes, he is sitting in water, so he is aware that the water level outside has risen enough to spill over the lip of the garage floor and started to seep in. But it is just his unofficially designated room here, and the stockpile of food is on the shelf unit a few inches up from the floor. He has managed to put some old towels around the second fridge, although he's not sure what good that will do if the water level continues to rise. If they have water in the living room or dripping down from the ceiling somewhere like some kind of horror movie though, that's a problem he is more willing to try and muster up the energy to stand up and try to fix somehow.

He hasn't had the pleasure of dealing with that many floods. But for Malcolm, for this house, he is willing to try.

Everything is wrong, but also nothing is wrong. Nothing Doc can fix, anyway. Nothing anyone can fix. Mathias gonna Mathias.

He doesn’t ask if Doc is okay. He’s very clearly not. He can see the makeshift attempts to keep water out. He can see that they’ve failed. He’s sad for it. Not just the garage. Everything they’ve built. Their home. But as has been quite rightly pointed out to him, their home is the people who live in it and - if they have to - they’ll find another when the storm passes or they’ll repair this one. It’s just a house, in the end. Harder to fix broken people.

“We’re not flooded yet and if we get there, I don’t think there’s much to be done about it.”

He ventures into the room, immediately soaking his shoes. They’ll dry. He splashes his way over to Doc. “Come sit in the kitchen,” he says gently, offering his hand to pull Doc to his feet if he’ll take it. “It’s warmer.”

He's a lot heavier than Malcolm but the thought doesn't really occur to him. Not much occurs to him when he takes that bony wrist and lifts himself out of perdition and self-imposed exile. At least Malcolm doesn't fall flat on his face. Small blessings.

Dragging his feet through the water, he makes it into the living room and leaves a wet trail from the garage to the kitchen. Out here he's under no illusion that he's not in the well anymore. It's a lot brighter inside the house but his hat helps shield him from the brunt of the glare. They haven't informally assigned seats but Doc always likes the barstool closest to the front and back doors of the house. He feels safest there.

He sits down and as he starts dripping, he notices belatedly that he's made a bit of a mess. His gaze drops to the wet shoeprints on the floor and he clings to the top of his soaked jeans, anxiety settling in his furrowed brows over just-- sitting there... dripping. Doc feels that way about his life sometimes - that he's just drifting on through and upsetting the natural state of things everywhere he goes. His left hand clutches onto his right elbow as though it might stave off the dripping somehow.

Malcolm’s eyes fall to the drips without any concern about them. He ducks his head to press a kiss to Doc’s cheek without knocking his hat off and squeezes his shoulder before stepping around the island, pouring a couple fingers of cheap whiskey he squirreled away into each of one glass tumbler and his melamine mug, pushing the glass towards Doc.

“So this is a new batch of nonsense,” he says, looking out towards the front window. “Callisto’s roof collapsed. She’s fine. Just. Irate.” He looks at Doc, watching his face carefully. “I hope this is all the quiet has been leading up to.”

He's almost reluctant to get his mess on Malcolm but the gesture is nice and before he can do or say anything about it, Malcolm is serving up his favourite drink of the day.

Doc is rather grateful for having the tumbler. He unfurls from his withdrawn pose and places his wet elbows on the edge of the kitchen counter, raisin-shrivelled fingertips rubbing the rim of the glass. Mention of Callisto has Doc cracking a somewhat hollow smile. He never makes eye contact with Malcolm but he is listening and verbally responsive, so. He is at least one level above catatonic.

"She seems like quite an irate lady," he observes quietly, not knowing that Malcolm can communicate with her. Doc has stuck his other head into enough crazy pussy to know when he's encountering one from afar. Yes, he worries for Callisto, but he has enough self-preservation tendencies to know to keep some respectable distance also.

"We could have used this rain last week. Put out the Town Hall fire." And no doubt it would have been a damper, raining on Raylan's impromptu parade. But Doc wouldn't have worried so much about the fire potentially getting out of hand had it been pouring down like this.

“Yeah, she’s a trip. Every time I talk to her, I think I’m making some progress and then she starts snarling again,” he relays with a light laugh. He takes a sip of whiskey. “Warlords, right?”

At the remark about Town Hall, he smiles wryly. “But not the fire in Raylan. I hope he worked something out of his system. I’m worried about him.” He lifts his eyes to Doc’s face again. “And you.”

"You speak Hungarian?" Doc queries with one raised eyebrow after taking a small sip of whiskey and lowering his glass. Sitting in the kitchen now, soaked to the bone, he's just starting to feel cold.

"He'll be fine. We both will." It is their way. They bottle everything up, let a few hints of things go on the porch, blow off some steam in a more dramatic fashion and empty their bottles, and then they start filling them back up again. They probably don't always approve of how the other cowboy is doing said bottling and unbottling, but at least they understand each other on that level.

They will never let on that they aren't fine, in any case. Doc wouldn't, to Malcolm. And the number of times he might have hinted it to Raylan he can count on the one hand.

"Unless. Something happened?"

He frowns faintly.

“She speaks Ancient Greek.” And Malcolm had a classical education in Old Money private school.

At the casual remark unless something happened, Malcolm’s face does a little journey through incredulous to carefully schooled.

“Something... Doc. You were sitting in a puddle. I’ve been at that end of the rope; I know what it looks like.”

"Oh," he replies quietly, as though that explains anything. Not many people around who can speak that and frankly he's not sure she'll learn to speak cowboy, either. Maybe they would be better off meeting each other halfway on something they'd both have to learn - sign language.

Taking off his hat, he sets it down on the kitchen counter and runs a hand through his hair that's wet enough to wring out a few drops. He doesn't bother disguising how tired he looks, soaking wet and cold. It's taking all the energy he has left to sit upright, balance on this stool while sustaining a conversation.

"I spent a long time sitting in the well. Cold and wet. Listening to the water drip." As though that's the most normal thing to do. Just sitting in the middle of your own puddle of trauma, counting up your losses. "I just lost track of time, that's all."

Doc, regressing to the well isn't the best mental health day.

"I understand." Because he does. He can't count how many times he's been ten years old and he's opened the box. "This place puts us through a lot. Nobody can be expected to carry it all every day. I've stumbled under it more than most people." Malcolm watches Doc's face from under his brow. "You know... you're allowed to lean on the people who've leaned on you when they needed it. That's how a family works. I can't speak for anyone else, but... I'd be honoured to help bear your weight when you need it. You don't even have to ask..." He knows how hard that is for men like Doc. "Just... bring it to me and I'll take it."

The well was simultaneously the most tormenting and the safest place and he has a complicated relationship with it, a kind of long festering resentment and yet sometimes he finds himself craving for that kind of predictability and security. He can't stand the place but it was, for all intents and purposes, the only place he could call home for all those decades. He doesn't know how to describe what solitary confinement has done to him, only that if he doesn't categorically deny that any part of it was positive, he knows they'll think him crazy.

So he goes quiet again, taking another sip of whiskey. He doesn't want to lean. He doesn't want to be a bitter, damaged, useless old man. He wants--... He just wants things back the way they should be. With the girls safe and sound.

"Have you seen Ellie?" He finally asks, knowing the answer is probably no, knowing full well neither of them can do anything about that right now. Maybe it's a little unfair to put this worry upon Malcolm. It won't make Doc worry any less. But it is the main thing troubling him, right now. The only thing he can possibly do, seeing as he can't get Daisy to remember nor can he get his daughter back in any meaningful way.

Stockholm Syndrome for a well he lived in for over 150 years isn’t crazy at all.

Malcolm’s expression creases with concern at the question.

“No. Do you want some help looking for her or have you exhausted that avenue?” he asks carefully.

"I have looked." He knows he has looked everywhere that can be looked and he wouldn't have asked anyone else to go outside in this weather. He certainly doesn't have the energy to go out again for another round of looking even if he thought he might be able to miraculously find her somewhere in the dark amidst all this gushing water.

As the cold starts to bite into his skin and flesh he huddles again, squeezing some wetness out of the edge of his sleeve as he grips his elbow and watches his whiskey glass, sniffling and brooding like a seasoned drinker in his favourite chair at his local haunt.

"I'm-... rather incapable of, looking after them, it seems." He's trying to quash down any thoughts about Alice bubbling to the surface. It's proving to be quite the challenge.

As Doc huddles, Malcolm grabs a throw blanket off the couch and brings it over, draping it around Doc’s shoulders. Getting him to get up and change into dry clothes seems pushy. Baby steps.

At that remark, though, Malcolm frowns.

“Doc... nobody has been better at looking after everybody. But you’re only one man and we’re up against immeasurable power. If anyone here ever feels safe, it’s because of you. You and Raylan hold this community together. Has Negan told you what it’s like in his world? Or Ellie in hers? Nobody keeps it together there. If she comes back like some of the others, she won’t blame you for not somehow keeping a grip on her. She’ll throw her arms around you because after whatever happened, she’ll see you here and feel safe again.”

Eventually Malcolm will be able to nudge Doc into a warm bath and a change of clothes. For now he seems to be accepting the weight of the throw, holding the two ends closed using icy cold fingers for a substitute clasp.

He doesn't want to find her bloated body rotting on the beach or washing up on the streets once the weather starts to let up. That there won't be maggots feasting on her eyeballs and intestines because there are no maggots anywhere brings him little comfort.

"She's coming back," he says quietly, giving Ellie and Mathias no choice in the matter. "She has to. She's--" and he falters because he knows this isn't fair on her. She's not... his Alice. And he's not her Joel. He hadn't drawn her into his life because he wanted some kind of substitute surrogate vessel for his misplaced affections, and he's fairly certain Ellie hasn't done that with him either. And yet, he feels this acute loss cutting a little deep.

"She's the only little girl I have left," he finishes weakly, admitting to this most heinous crime of adopting unruly, strong-willed, formidable young ladies and setting himself up for failure when he watches them get hurt.

Malcolm's face falls past sober into grim as he connects the dots.

"Wynonna told you something about your daughter," he surmises. "And it's not good. I'm so sorry," he says, reaching across the counter to lay his hand over Doc's.

"She named her after my mother." Doc doesn't actually remember telling Wynonna about Alice, but. He must have. Either that or she looked her up on the Wikipedia or sommin' - but Wynonna isn't the type to do that. Maybe Waverly would, or Jeremy. But not Wynonna.

Maybe she does love him after all. Or at least, acknowledge that he's going to be involved in her life, in some shape or form.

"When my mother had tuberculosis, nobody could be there for her. I sat in the dark, and in the dirt, streams of amber candlelight and hushed, desperate prayers pourin' down in between the floorboards, and I listened to her die, alone and afraid, forlorn and forsaken." Doc moves his hand from under Malcolm's, to pick up his whiskey and finish it. When he sets the empty tumbler back down he keeps his hand on it, thumb stroking the side of the glass.

"Maybe it's a cursed name." Maybe all Alices are destined for abandonment.

Doc's mother hadn't been abandoned. Her son lived under a floor for weeks or months to stay with her.

"Maybe it just needs a chance."

He watches Doc in his stillness for a moment.

"Do you want something hot to drink? Or... a hot bath? Or... I could make a fire?" He looks over towards the living room, where the water is rising perceptibly. "Maybe not a fire. I think the water is going to take out the fireplace."

Malcolm's right. They could all use a chance, every once in a while. The only reason Doc can let go of his glass is because he's planning on getting something else to busy his hands with. It's a chronic condition, being unable to sit still for long unless it's a Designated Sit Still Space, like the porch.

"I should bring our supplies upstairs." At the very least, from the garage to the top shelf of the pantry, even if they're not bringing everything upstairs, just in case they're losing most of the first floor to this water.

"I'll take a bath after. If you don't mind I'd-- I've. Lost my bedroom." And Malcolm has two beds. The question is asked without being explicitly asked.

“I’ll help you with the supplies,” Malcolm says, abandoning his unfinished glass of whiskey and already coming around the counter. “And then I hope you’ll stay with me. I don’t... actually know where anyone else went. If we keep an eye on each other... we know where someone is, right?”

"They're here." Ainsley, Negan and Neal that is. Neal had checked in on Doc earlier and he heard Negan's gravel and smoke grating against Ainsley's rose thorns, their latest little spat filtering down from upstairs into the garage. Otherwise he would have happily slunk into one of their vacant rooms and sought solitary refuge there. Doc had encountered Raylan outside. While the Marshal is out tending to the flock, the outlaw is in looking after the house. Or at least, he's supposed to be instead of sitting around drinking whiskey watching the water lay waste to the place.

Raylan would be disappointed and for once Doc doesn't give a shit.

Sliding off his chair, Doc grabs a couple of empty crates from the kitchen counter corner they are stacked in and plods wordlessly back into the garage, handing one to Malcolm as he starts filling his up with dried and canned goods. There's space in their kitchen fridge if they want to empty out the garage one, although there's no guarantee the kitchen fridge would fair much better after Mathias is done with them.

In a moment of weakness, Doc goes to save his snowglobe from the garage bedroom on his way back to the kitchen. That's coming upstairs with him.

Malcolm glances at the stairs. He hasn’t been up there yet, but it sounds like everyone is fine. Except maybe Raylan; Malcolm doesn’t see his boots. But Doc definitely isn’t fine, so he’ll put that concern away for later as he follows Doc to the garage with his crate. He tries to keep his charmed smile at the retrieval of the snowglobe behind Doc’s back. The gunslinger hadn’t let himself take it in the first place and had moved it from the mantel to his bedroom when nobody was around. It wouldn’t do, apparently, to draw attention to him finding a crumb of enjoyment in something frivolous.

“The main floor is already flooding. If we don’t intend to take a fridge upstairs, we can probably just... not worry about the refrigerated goods. Save the non-perishables and see what’s left in the morning of everything else.”

Doc doesn't want to admit that he doesn't have the energy in him to move a fridge anywhere, much as he likes keeping himself busy. He averts his gaze as a half dozen excuses float on by before he settles on one.

"Ain't any point saving a fridge if there's no plates or microwave, pot or stove to go with." That'll do. He'll bring a crate of food upstairs that can be eaten straight out of the can - creamed corn and baked beans and the like. And of course, all the moonshine, because he's not sure of the state of 1307 and whether their rig will survive the flood. They'll need to save as many bottles as they can. Doc won't be the only one determined to make it out of this flood not sober.

Doc finishes Malcolm's whiskey on his way through the kitchen and up the stairs, dragging some water with him into Malcolm's room, finding an unintrusive corner to stash the emergency moonshine and their canned rations.

Malcolm sets his crate down next to Doc’s, turning to look at him, unconcerned about the water.

“Want me to go get you a change of clothes while you run the bath?”

He nods with his head partially turned to Malcolm before trying to cut the neatest path to the bathroom. He's not even certain hot water will come out of the tap but he'll just have to soak in cold water to get some of the mud and silt off regardless.

He still has some clothes in his old room, which is now Negan's, in the wardrobe. Where he's kept the parenting books and the grey teddy bear he took from the toy shop. Had Malcolm not offered, he would have rather tried to squeeze himself in Raylan's clothes than gone wandering in there poking his head around.

Wet clothes flop to the bathroom floor and Doc leaves the door ajar. Cowboy intervention might be required if he overhears any commotion, much as he would rather sit alone in lukewarm foamy water. No rest for the wicked around these parts, even come hell and high water.

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