villagelogs | 065-071 » assign to oblivion / part iii

065-071 » assign to oblivion / part iii

WHO: Everyone
WHERE: Mathias Township proper
WHEN: Days 065-071
WHAT: The residents of Mathias reunite under unnerving conditions.
WARNINGS: (PM this account to have a warning added!)
NOTES: Plotting post over here!

RECOMMENDED ♫ Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross "Outside"

DAY 065-071
ASSIGN TO OBLIVION
“No matter how much time passes, no matter what takes
place in the interim, there are some things we can never
assign to oblivion, memories we can never rub away.”
— Haruki Murakami

Only two days have passed since the town was fractured, leaving residents cut off from those they'd come to know and even care for. A mere two days of wandering the new streets, uncovering more secrets that continue to make little sense of this strange place. Two days with sunrises, sunsets, and nights that seem like any other.

And yet.

When residents wake on this third day, they will find that much has changed. All around them, wherever they may be, there are signs that time has passed without them. Dust covers everything, indoors and out, even areas that were spotlessly clean seemingly hours ago. The residents themselves are covered as well, dust clinging to their hair, skin, and clothing—

Clothing that they may not have been wearing when they went to sleep. Each resident, regardless of the state they were in previously, is now clad in a pair of white pajamas, with long pants and button-up shirts. Those who thoroughly explored Baneberry Hall will easily recognize these articles as identical to those well-stocked in the decaying great house. On top of this, the clothes they wore from home have disappeared, along with anything else they may have brought with them when they arrived or items from home that have been found within the borders of Mathias.

There is no sign that anyone has entered their place of shelter, nor is there any sign of what may have been done with these items or how they came to be wearing these clothes. The dust all around them is undisturbed, almost as if they had been sleeping there for quite some time, though it seems impossible for such a thing to have occurred naturally.

THE NEW ARRIVALS
The newest arrivals to Mathias will wake up on the lawn of Town Hall, at the center of the little town square. They, too, are bereft of any items from home and clothed in the identical white pajamas. There are shops all around them, with houses just beyond, and at first glance, everything seems almost picturesque. Except for the silence that is at times so complete as to be maddening... Welcome to Mathias.

SUMMERTIME
— When summer arrives, so too does an outdoor stand in front of the General Store. Sporting a handpainted sign proclaiming Whateley Farm, the stand is overflowing with a variety of produce: berries, plums, carrots, cabbage, cucumbers, green beans, leeks, onions, peppers, potatoes, zucchini, tomatoes, and garlic bulbs. These do not replace the produce offerings normally found inside the market, but they do behave strangely. The stand replenishes sporadically, sometimes every other day or every five days. There is no discernible pattern to when it replenishes, nor is there any sign of how it came to be there at all.

— With the now-complete reverse change of season, much of the autumn debris has cleared from around town. Only a few stray leaves and fallen branches remain, their crisp colors at odds with the warm summer days. The forest has also cleared of much of the fall detritus, making it easier to both follow the paths and potentially spy things that might be out of the ordinary.

CONDITIONS UPDATE
— THE WEATHER Summer has arrived in Mathias, bringing with it warm days that average 70°F and comfortably cool nights. The skies are clear throughout the week save for Day 68 when a light rain falls from a grey sky throughout the day.

— THE FOG has maintained its new boundaries.
— 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 from the western section of town entirely.
— 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 AND DEATHS continue! Max Guevara and Liz Brundy have disappeared, and now that everyone is back together, residents will notice that Yennefer, Number Five, and Tony Stark have also vanished.

— 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
— 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 My non-RP life is busy and chaotic and I continue to ask for your forgiveness and understanding as game things continue to be slower, as I cannot promise timely mod responses beyond weekends and even that is not wholly guaranteed.

— ITEMS FROM HOME All items from home that characters would normally possess have vanished for this log and will return in the next. This includes clothing and possessions they had when they arrived in Mathias, items that were found in the rain, and items that were found in Baneberry Hall and removed from the property. Items from home that were left behind by other characters no longer in the game have also vanished. (All other items and clothing still remain, it is only items from characters' homes that have disappeared.)

— BANEBERRY ITEMS The items from home that were not removed from Baneberry Hall in the last log have vanished from the property. These items will not reappear in the next log. (Please be sure to comment in the appropriate spot on those logs about the state of your character's item for inventory purposes, ie whether they were removed from the property or left behind.)

— ACTIVITY CHECK Beginning with June's AC (posted at the start of July), all tags that consist of only dialogue will count as 0.5 points, not just those that occur in an inbox thread — this applies to both AC and AP totals. This adjustment is an extension of what has been in place since the start of the game: that all dialogue-only inbox tags counted for a half-point. Since such tags have occurred regularly in log threads as well, the half-point status is simply being extended to all tags regardless of location in order to be fairer in point distribution. (Examples will be provided in the AC post to assist with proper counting.)

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Raylan's jaw tightened and worked a little at the way Neal told him to just go back home. The rest of it didn't matter so much; plenty of people weren't sure about what Raylan was and wasn't willing to do and Mathis didn't give anyone the best chance to prove otherwise.

Do blowjobs count? He was sure it did.

"Doesn't matter what I say to you. Doesn't matter what I planned, or what I thought or what I felt, or the fact that I fucking did it, just that your feelings are hurt, right?" Raylan scoffed a laugh and shook his head and started to walk away again.

"Incredible."

The haze of rage that rolls through him at that word, incredible sets off the bomb. For a wild, brutal moment, Neal wishes he had that lead pipe.

"You--" He strangles on anything else he could have said. Just rushes Raylan and aims a punch at his kidney if he can do it on the way down.

There was no hat to knock off this time, just his lunch procurements that were tossed to the side with the sudden rush of Neal. He got that punch in as they hit the ground and Raylan scrambled onto one shoulder so he could swing at Neal in return.

I don't want this.

He moved on automatic muscle memory, taking a few shots, throwing a few of his own, the both of them immediately dusty with the taste of blood in their mouths.

Good. This was good. This was holding his hand over candle flames after Kate's plane got blown up, this was cutting his palm with the dull edge of a painter's knife after Mozzie got shot. He tastes blood in his mouth, realizes he must have cut his cheek open against his teeth, and spits blood in Raylan's face as another blow connects with Neal's stomach, driving him to his knees.

He forces one foot under himself, wobbling a little as he tries to get up.

Edited 2021-06-30 18:22 (UTC)

Raylan's bangs were wild in front of his sweat pricked face, the blood on his tongue and everything in him screamed to keep pushing. When had be gotten back on his feet? It was a blur. All that mattered was that his assailant was getting up again.

Not Neal. Neal wouldn't do this. He was anyone else for a second. Boyd maybe. Gary. Dewey.

He swung, punching down this time, aiming to put and keep Neal in the dirt. "Stop it," he snarls half a second afterwards. "Stop it!"

We were supposed to be family.

He hits the ground again, gratefully incoherent. Finally, finally outside his own head. All he's got is the will to get back up again. He doesn't know he's crying, can't distinguish between the blood and the tears on his face. He just wants to get up until he can't.

"What do you want from this, huh?" Raylan asked, chest heaving a little, calm finally burned off in the stratosphere of bullshit, eyes dark and cold for all their anger that he wasn't supposed to have. Had no right to. To a point. They'd well crossed that point.

"We were supposed to be family and I trusted you and all you've done is kick me the hell around. I know I am not the victim here. And I am not asking for your goddamned sympathy but I am asking that if you want an actual answer, you let me give one. Otherwise, you're working out your shit and I'm not a fuckin' therapy punching bag."

Malcolm hears the scuffle before he sees who it is. It’s not until he approaches that he realizes. Neal on the ground, Raylan standing over him. They’re both covered in dust and blood.

I am not a fuckin’ therapy punching bag.

Malcolm’s eyes are wide as reaches them.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Malcolm's voice. It's awful and it's perfect. Neal manages to balance on one knee, spitting another clot of blood and snot into the dirt.

Therapy punching bag.

"I started it," he rasps. "It was me."

Raylan couldn't look at Malcolm because his eyes were busy staying locked on Neal. What trust they had had broken down; if Raylan looked away, who was to say that Neal wasn't going to start up again.

"Neal and I were just debating how appropriate personal conversations on the street were. I'm thinking maybe we're gonna relocate." Reaching down, Raylan fisted his hands into Neal's shirt and hauled him to his feet, letting go of the fabric roughly. "Now are you gonna walk indoors with me and have a conversation like an adult or are we gonna show Malcolm what a bullshit street brawl looks like in person?"

They were bare inches apart and now Raylan was challenging him. Would Neal be willing to show his ass in front of Malcolm in the way he had Raylan?

Neal lifts his hands, a signal of surrender, the look in Raylan's eyes a strange relief. Job done, he thinks, not sure what his own words mean. He takes a step back before wiping blood off his mouth with the back of his hand.

Malcolm started towards them at the notion that he might see a street brawl. He was fully prepared to put himself between them. But Neal backed off. He put one hand lightly on Raylan’s arm and one on Neal’s, all the same, looking from Raylan to Neal.

“If we’re going inside to talk, let’s go home, then.”

"No," he replied firmly. "We'll pick a house. The one closest works fine." He still didn't want this shit staining their house more than it already had. He glanced behind him and picked out out. "That one."

He trusted Malcolm to make sure Neal got moving. But first he had to get his goddamned plums. Raylan and his converse (it was so weird to walk in these) strode over to his sprawled bag and crammed the fallen items hastily back into the bag before stalking after them.

Neal doesn't move right away. He knows he won't be allowed to walk away from this. Not yet. There are still a few more bridges to burn.

I get the path you're joyfully fucking dancing down.

Go talk to Raylan, go talk to Malcolm.

Time to talk, he thinks, lurching forward toward the chosen house with a slight limp he didn't see coming.

Malcolm doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like any of this. The violence, the anger, the misery. In his family. The one they made. The one that had lived and died together here. Two men he’d literally picked wet chunks of up off the snow.

He doesn’t say anything as they tromp there. When the door is closed behind them, he spies the kitchen and goes to find a kettle.

Raylan pulled up the rear and closed the door behind him with a glance around before he follows Neal into whatever room the New Yorker wanders. First flat surface he finds, he sets the bag down and pinches at the bridge of his nose, one hand settling on his hip.

After a second, he lets it drop to join it's mate and turns to look at Neal. They both look like shit. They both feel like shit. Silence was a tool to be used, a sharp contrast to the business and fury they'd come from, to let the linger of it push Neal towards breaking it and whatever tension they all might feel building.

Where do you wanna start?

Neal heads for the living room, grime-coated and dusty. It feels appropriate, this setting. He limps to the far side of the room, easing himself down so he can sit with his back against the wall.

He turns his tired, steady gaze on Raylan. Now that they're here, now that he's pushed Raylan into violence and taken credit for it in front of Malcolm... he's not sure what to say.

Malcolm interrupts their silence with the faint rattle of porcelain on a tray, setting it down on a dusty coffee table.

“I made tea,” he announces needlessly. A beat. “Kinda hoped some kind of words would happen in the meantime, but I can start.” He pours tea into three cups from the rather fine teapot the house had in the cupboard, offering one to each of them before sitting crosslegged at the coffee table with his.

“Neal, let’s talk about what you need, because punching Raylan wasn’t it. It was another outlet. You haven’t been doing well since the chupacabra attack.”

Someone had to play counsellor.

Raylan would have started if Neal refused to do so, he was used to picking up that kind of slack but Malcolm's start was significantly gentler than anything that could come out of Raylan's mouth right now. Too much vitrol had been spun at him for true grace.

So much so that he could only nod his head in a silent thanks as he took the cup, eyes still trained on Neal's face, steely but not as furiously firm as he'd been on the street.

Neal takes the tea without looking at Malcolm, staring instead at the the faint silt at the bottom of the cup. There's a weird sort of numbness settling over him, not peace, but something like it.

Malcolm hasn't given up on him. Raylan hasn't walked out.

He has no idea what to do with this.

"I don't know," he says. It's probably the most honest thing he's said in the past hour.

Edited 2021-06-30 23:09 (UTC)

“That’s fair,” Malcolm tells him. “Nobody has tools for living in a place like this, under these conditions. Do you remember what we decided hurts them the most, the beings in charge of this place?” he asks. He looks up at Raylan, offers a hand to draw him to sit with him.

Edited 2021-07-01 02:18 (UTC)

Chupacabra? Is that what they were calling it? As much as he didn't want to sit down, he knew what the gesture meant and his brain fell back into LEO roles. There wasn't good cop and bad cop, it was just bad cop and bad cop, and he took the offered seat to try and offset that feeling as best he could.

His blood was still pumping, the taste of blood still hot in his mouth, mixing with the tea as he swallowed it all down. Raylan glanced into the cup and thought about staying quiet, letting Malcolm do his soft voice, no sudden movement approach, but he had to inject something.

"You're right to be pissed off at me, Neal. I fucked up. I did the wrong thing, made the wrong decision. I accept it. Can we start there? Can you accept that I understand that?"

Neal knows why Malcolm wants Raylan to sit down. He knows why Raylan does it, and there's some small part of him that registers the fact that Raylan's willingness to give up his physical advantage means that things aren't broken here beyond repair. But seeing them sitting together still hurts, like a little knife-twist in the neck of something half way to dying.

He tilts his head back to rest against the wall, staring at Glenn on the other side of the room, silent and staring back, with that one half-popped eye. At least he's not trying to talk. Neal isn't sure he could keep himself from answering, or at least telling him to shut up.

Maybe if he stays quiet. Maybe if he ignores them for long enough they'll leave, get fed up with waiting for him to do something. Wash their hands of this whole thing.

He can feel dampness against his knuckle and glances down--Negan's careful bandages have little spots of blood blooming on them where he beat his fists open again on Raylan. It's easier to watch that happen than to think of anything to say.

“Neal?”

It’s a mild prompt and Malcolm’s eyes stay on Neal as he takes a sip of tea. But he makes no effort to move and also no effort to speak again without Neal addressing any of the points.

"Simple yes or no, finding a scrap of common understanding. C'mon Neal, we gotta start somewhere."

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cw for thoughts of self-harm

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