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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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."

No.

It's on the edge of his tongue, the word like the blood in his mouth. Say that, get this over with. He turns his hand over, studies the white of the bandages across his palm, turns it back, watches the little spots of red.

"Why?"

It's not no, but it's something.

“You know why.” Malcolm held his hand out for Neal to join them at the coffee table. “Why are you afraid to come home?”

"Because we were supposed to be family." Did Neal still want that? Would they be left to ruminate over what once was, what they couldn't fix or understand the failure of. "Because we only have each other, because I love you, because we can figure it out, Neal." You know why.

"Because we can't let you go." If Malcolm wouldn't say it, he would. Maybe Malcolm had, he didn't know. He needed to say it himself. They wouldn't let Neal go just like they wouldn't let Henry off himself in the forest alone or let Malcolm get trapped anywhere in snowbanks he couldn't break down on his own.

He finally looks up when Raylan speaks, staring at Malcolm's hand for a moment as he listens. Raylan says I love you and Neal's gaze flicks upward, fixing on Raylan's face, vague surprise rolling through him in a cold, prickling wave.

We can figure it out. We can't let you go.

Neal closes his eyes for a moment, swallowing tightly, feeling the tears as little lines of warmth tracing over the dust and grime on his face. Slowly, wincing a little, he levers himself up and crosses over to Malcolm's other side, easing himself down again. For a second he can't say anything, or at least doesn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry," he finally whispers, fresh, hot tears pressing against eyes he's closed again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Good. He joined them.

Malcolm had told Neal those things earlier that day, but he expected it meant a lot coming from a man he’d just assaulted and who could have just as easily decided he didn’t need this shit. But Raylan wasn’t like that, the sort of person who would abandon a friend in crisis.

“You don’t have to be sorry. Just. Don’t leave us.”

Raylan could have. He could have stormed off and let Neal self destruct. He could have hooked his fingers into everything sitting in his chest, in his heart, in his head and shown his ass properly.

He could have.

But there was already enough loss of life here that every one mattered and enough loss of trust and civility that Raylan was tired of losing people. He couldn't do anything about John leaving, he couldn't do anything about Daisy or Ellie or Claire or.. Or Tim. Or Neal, if he wasn't allowed to.

But Neal had taken the first step. He was trying. He had joined them. Raylan didn't feel like he should say anything else, at the exact moment. Malcolm had a softer hand and one that Neal hadn't wanted to tear off less than twenty minutes ago.

He draws his knees up to rest his forehead against them, digging his bandaged hands into filthy hair. Don't leave us, Malcolm says, and it registers that the only other time someone has wanted him to stay when he's tried to run, it was Peter.

"Yes," he finally says to his knees, though really it's aimed at Raylan. "I know you know you messed up."

Edited 2021-07-02 18:06 (UTC)

Raylan held his teacup between his knees.

"I accept your bein' pissed about it and all the reasons why. I know I'm a shitheel. I deserved every hit you swung. Probably more." He took a deep breath. "I also know that no amount of talkin' is just gonna.. make things okay again. I don't expect that."

I just want to be able to talk to you. It might take time. Raylan was fine with that too. So long as the time between wasn't like that. Where either of them is lunging on the street. Too angry to listen to any reason, too angry to want to find a path forwards.

“You’re not a shitheel,” Malcolm told Raylan sharply. He looked between them. “I think everyone is so immersed in this place, they’re forgetting how extreme the trauma and pressure we’re all under is. How badly we’re all being pushed. How much this place wants to break us and how they try to do that by first breaking us apart from each other. Everyone copes in different ways.”

He looked at Neal. “Yeah,” he said softly, “I wish I was Raylan’s everything,” he admits plainly, “but I also knew I wasn’t. It’s not ideal for me, but I understand why someone would cling to every bit if comfort that… that there is for them. I understand the whys of it, even if I don’t agree with the hows and that’s someplace to meet. And I know this place has been heavier on you than… than maybe anyone else. Things that have happened to you, personal relationships that imploded, the influences, the urges… the games of this place. But you’ve survived it and you’re beating it because you’re still so full of love that you want to protect your friends. Take that, oppressors,” he finished softly.

Malcolm tells Raylan he's not a shitheel, and Neal can't help it. He still feels a little snap of anger and jealousy.

Still he loosens his grip on his hair as Malcolm talks, sitting up enough to cross his arms across his knees. He can't look at them. He still can't manage to do that.

Take that, oppressors. A little huff of air that's not a laugh, not even amusement really. Does it count as beating it if he can't convince himself that these people wouldn't be able to live just fine without him? Don't leave us, we can't let you go, they've told him, they've shown him, so why can't he shake that feeling? He wants to. God, he wants to. He rests his forehead against his crossed arms. He wants to just lean against Malcolm, let the other man wrap him up, but--

You don't deserve it.

"I don't know how to not..." Hurt. He takes a deep breath, lets it out in an exhausted rush. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

He was a shitheel. No matter what Malcolm said. No matter what trauma they were carrying. But the praise, however sharp, came with it's own truthful digs. The 'I wish I was his everything but I know I'm not'. The way Malcolm hesitates before forcing every bit if comfort that… that there is for them.

Raylan didn't think he'd be taking any more of that comfort. From anyone. He wasn't sure he could do it. But this wasn't about him. It didn't matter what he did or how he felt, he was still in the wrong. No room to complain.

He sipped his tea and wished like hell that it was moonshine.

It wasn't about if they could live with out him. They could. They could live without any of the others. That didn't mean they wanted to. Or that they wouldn't fight to keep what they had.

If Raylan went through all that only to abandon those comforts, Malcolm would go looking for him. Everything was in the open. Getting it there hurt. But they didn't go through the hard part to give up the good stuff. He thought Raylan was aware of how he felt about him. Everyone seemed to know how he felt about Raylan. He's been in love for months. There seemed no harm in saying so. Of course he wanted to be the only one. But he could live with this. The longer he digested it, the easier it sat.

"The same thing that's wrong with all of us," he said.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, and finally, finally looks over at Raylan. "I'm sorry I got..." So angry. Is he though? Is he entirely sorry? "I'm sorry I told you to leave."

That much is true. He takes a deep, shaky breath, feeling wrung out in the wake of the fight and the ebbing of adrenaline. "I don't want you to leave."

Raylan didn't look over for a long second but he swallowed hard and set his cup down on the dusty coffee table in front of them, hands lacing between his knees as his fingers worked together.

"Don't be sorry that you were angry. It makes sense but.." He looked over at Neal, serious but with a soft and sad patience. "Are you sure about that last part? I don't want you to be sayin' this just because we're in the middle of.. whatever this is. I want it to be because your okay seein' my face moving around town, or around the house."

I gave you my safe space. I gave you my door.

"I want us to be able to share a meal or have a coffee." He continued, adding before Neal could say anything. "And that doesn't mean tonight. I think we.. could all use another night or two."

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