methuselah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
singmod) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillppl2023-08-10 12:13 am
singmod) wrote in singillppl2023-08-10 12:13 am
Entry tags:
August 2023 Test Drive Meme
AUGUST 2023 TDM
PROMPT ONE — ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST: A group of newcomers find themselves lost in the frozen wilds and vulnerable to the dangers of nature. With luck, they make it to the town of Milton, and to a friendly face offering food, warmth and shelter.
PROMPT TWO — HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE: Once recovered from their journey, newcomers are free to explore the town of Milton for supplies and find any signs of the townsfolk.
PROMPT THREE — THE SIREN OF MILTON BASIN: A mysterious woman haunts the frozen lake of the Milton Basin, trying to lure newcomers to their deaths.
ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST
WHEN: Day One.
WHERE: Milton, Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential animal attacks, potential injuries, potential cold injuries/hyperthermia risk.
’You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.’
It’s the last thing you hear. A dark, deep voice. Impossibly ancient. You feel afraid. Maybe you’re dreaming, maybe you’re wide awake. You saw the lights, and then your world went dark. But you hear it in the blackness, you won’t forget those words.
You awaken. You are not where you were before. It’s different for everyone, there doesn’t seem to be much of a pattern in where you find yourself. You may open your eyes to find yourself in a cold, dim and dank cabin. The air is stale, dust hangs in the rays of weak sunlight that shine through the tiny windows. Someone lived here once, but they aren’t to be found. You look around, it seems like no one has been here in several days, maybe longer. The fire is cold, the dishes in the sink are a little mouldy. It is quiet. The wood creaks around you. Or perhaps you may awaken to find yourself shivering in the yawning maw of a cave, the freezing stone below you. Or maybe you’re unfortunate enough to sit up to find yourself lying in the snow, in the middle of the wilderness. Snow lies thick around you. It’s freezing out. You haven’t felt a cold like this before in your entire life. Cruel and biting. You have no idea where you are, and what’s worse — you are completely alone.
You may feel different, too. Any powers or magics you may have feel... absent. Disconnected. Things that may not have affected you previously now do. Something in you has changed.
You know you can’t stay where you are. You’ll need to move, try to work out where you are and how you came to be here. So you walk, head out into the unknown, in hope of finding a trail or a road. You’ll find one soon enough. It’s here you may find someone else in the same boat as yourself, equally freezing and confused. You’ll both need to keep going. It won’t be easy. You hear howls of wolves around you, and the terrain is difficult: slips and falls are likely. You’re completely vulnerable out here in the open.
But it won’t be long until you see it: the lazy trail of smoke rising in the air. Fire.
Follow it, and soon enough the way you’ve taken will certainly become a path or road. Unfolding before you in the mountainous forests, you’ll see the most welcome of sights: a small mining town tucked up in the valley. Battered, rusted road signs will direct to “MILTON, POP. 947”. You’re almost there, you keep going, and it looks like other people have had the same idea as you. As you head into the outskirts and further into town, you’ll find it’s a little easier to walk but the cold has gripped you hard. You’ll find the buildings, both shops and homes, are dark and lifeless, some of them are boarded up. Other than those heading in the same direction, towards the smoke, you won’t find any townsfolk coming to greet you, or even looking at you from behind curtains. … Where is everyone?
Towards the center of town, you’ll find the building from which the smoke rises: a school-house of sorts, or some kind of community hall. Perhaps both. You’ll find more and more people all drawn to this place, each and every one of them in the same position as yourself (and your companion, if you’ve found one). Some are in worse states than others: some are bloodied, nursing bite wounds or cuts; others might have some other kind of injury sustained in the journey here from falls. Others may look as if they could faint from the cold at any second.
The door opens, and you’re greeted by the gnarled, wizened face of an elderly man, dressed in thick furs. He has a kind face. He smiles warmly, and with pity, ushering you in with haste.
“It seems like a great deal of you have come.” he muses finally. “I am Methuselah. I welcome you Newcomer, although I’m sorry for how you’ve come to find yourself here. Please, warm yourselves. Eat. Get your bearings. Mother Nature has not been kind to you.”
The room is dim, lit mostly by the weak natural daylight through the windows. A roaring fire sits at one end of the huge hall. It crackles, bright and cheerful…. and warm. Even as big as this place is, the room is pleasantly warm. You’ll also find basic cots set up down one side of the hall, places to rest for a moment and get your bearings, or just trying to recover from the cold or any injuries. Down the other side are tables and chairs, and long, foldable tables laden with food, drinks and bottled water similar to one might find at a soup kitchen.
There are canisters with hot herbal teas and coffee, along with soup and stew and trays of charred moose, deer and rabbit meats, instant mashed potatoes, and tinned vegetables. It’s very basic, but it’s hot and filling. A feast. The old man has been busy. And Methuselah will continue to busy himself, still; there is plenty to do. He will fetch blankets, tend to wounds, serve food and drinks. He does not have much time to talk. More and more people seem to be coming in from the cold. He will not stop to sit and rest until everyone is seen to, taking up a place by the fire to gaze silently into its flames. He is troubled, thoughtful.
If you ask him where you are, he will simply respond: “This is Milton, of the Northern Territories.”
If you ask how you came to be here, he will shake his head: “Something has changed. The sky, it was… full of light. The Flare. I felt you coming, a great arrival. But I cannot say for certain how, or why you are here.”
He is regretful, genuinely so. He wishes he had more answers for you, but he does not. Instead he will simply insist you rest, get warm and eat. There is plenty to go around. Eventually, when you feel well enough, Methuselah will gesture to the door: “When you are ready and able, explore the town. Many left, others could not make it out. I have found no one but the dead. They will have no use of the place now, perhaps you might in the meantime.”
HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE
WHEN: First couple of weeks since arrival.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: frozen dead bodies, unexplained deaths, suicide, murder.
Other than Methuselah in the Hall, the town of Milton is void of life. While not a particularly large town, there’s a few stores and even a gas station. Life here is rustic. Function over form. Homes are simple but sturdy and warm, it’s a rugged place and one can easily deduce that the folk living here led simple, self-sufficient lives.
Commercial buildings and stores of note include a bank and post office, a hunting/fishing supply store, a grocery store, and a clothing store. There is even a church just on the outskirts of town. The buildings are ripe for picking, with most of them still with the doors unlocked, including the residential buildings. Others are locked, but can be broken into easily enough. A few are even trickier, with some of them boarded up or with entrances blocked. In terms of contents, a third of the residential buildings seem to be almost empty, as if the owners moved out long ago. There might still be things left behind of use: old, warm clothes good for the wintery weather, tools and cooking utensils — but little in terms of food. Even if the former residents move some time ago, they didn’t completely empty their homes.
Most of the homes in Milton seem to be left as if the owner stepped out only a short while ago, and with very little disturbance. Some houses, however, seem to be abandoned in a hurry, with a mess of items strewn about in some last-minute dash to grab essentials: keys, identification, treasured personal items, supplies for a quick exit. Cupboards are typically filled with an abundance of canned goods, and some chilled goods might have survived in the cold weather within the fridge-freezers, but it might be a gamble if one wants to try and eat them. Any and all electronics within homes: televisions, computers, mobile-phones — although dated, will all appear cracked and damaged, and will not function or turn out at all. The same will go for any vehicles around the town: there is no hope of starting any of them.
Diaries and journals kept by the former residents may remark on a change in the weather, with the cold and harsh climate becoming more hostile as of late. Others remark strange lights in the skies, dating several weeks or so ago, strange noises in the air, issues with power and electrical items. Some make mentions of changes to the wildlife, with wolves coming close to the town even when they had never done so before. One or two mention problems on the Mainland, with increasing difficulty of reaching out to loved ones who don’t live in the Northern Territories, or deliveries being unable to arrive. The growing trend is that something odd and terrible has been happening, although no one can truly explain what, and the problems have been growing increasingly worse and worse up to the final entries. You might note that the actual years and dates might not line up with your own: the current year given in these entries is 2014.
The newcomers are free to take over these homes, if they wish. No one appears to be stopping them, and even Methuselah seems to shrug about moving in. And as he’d mentioned, he has found no one but the dead: and plenty of them can be found.
Bodies of the town’s former residence can be found scattered over the town. In homes, in stores, out in the snow. They appear still relatively fresh, although it may be hard to tell if it’s from the cold or if it’s from very little time passing. Most appear to have died from cold exposure, some appear to have simply dropped dead on the spot. Others may be found with a gun in hand. Some, worryingly, appear to have perished by another’s hand. You won’t find the entirety of the town’s population, but there’ll be at least several dozen. Men, women, children.
Methuselah seems to have begun laying the dead to rest, but there’s too many for one man to do. Maybe you can work out what to do with them, try to bury them in their backyards, or try to take them to the churchyard.
THE SIREN OF MILTON BASIN
WHEN: Until the next Aurora.
WHERE: Milton Basin.
CONTENT WARNINGS: mental manipulation, malevolent mythical creatures, falling through ice, attempted drowning/possible successful drowning, potential character death.
Those who venture further south of the town will find themselves traversing the steep, winding paths down towards the Milton Basin. The way down is treacherous, but if enough care is taken you should be able to make it down in one piece. The water is just about completely frozen over down here, thick and sturdy enough to walk over for the most part. Within the Basin there’s more wildlife to be found: deer and rabbit are plenty. And there’s even plenty of foragables, too.
Out on the water are two small ice-fishing cabins, enough to fit one or two people inside comfortably, which hold a few forgotten supplies to try out some ice-fishing if you want to see if anything bites. Both even hold little log burners to keep warm. An old hunter’s shack can be found along the water’s edge, for those not quite brave enough to travel out onto the ice, to take shelter in for when the weather gets a little too difficult, with an old log burner still working within it.
But it’s calm down here, for the most part. Peaceful even. It’s an excellent place for fishing and hunting, and a little more sheltered from the freezing winds.
Until you hear the voice. Something soft and feminine, echoing across the ice. The Basin helps to amplify the sound, and for a long time you can’t quite be sure of where exactly it’s coming from. It’s singing, she is singing. Something old, in a language you can’t quite understand. Maybe it’s not even a language at all, but simply melodic vocalizations. It’s... beautiful, you’ve never heard anything like it before in your life.
And then you see her: a woman standing upon the frozen waters of the Basin. You realise she’s probably the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen in your life, even if you can’t quite even begin to describe her. She appears different to everyone who beholds her, some one might see her hair is long and dark, others might see her with neat red curls. Some swear her skin is dark and rich, that looks almost plum when the light hits it just so, others claim it to be cool-toned that glistens like sunlight on snow. Whatever someone might find aesthetically pleasing is how she’ll appear, and even then to describe her to others will bring you at a loss for words. And she’s singing… to you, for you.
You’re compelled to go to her, although you can’t explain why. You’re drawn to approach her, to hear her better, see her better. Your feet carry you onto the ice, out into the midst of the Basin. You ignore the calls of everyone and anyone around you, fixated on the woman before you. She smiles when you’re close enough, beckons you a little closer.
… Then everything changes. Without warning, the woman leaps for you, her face contorting into something hideous, mouth opening to scream to reveal rows upon rows of tiny, needle-like teeth. She collides with you, and the force (paired with the slippery ice below you) is enough to send you off your feet. As you fall back, the ice cracks beneath you with an almighty sound, plunging you into the frigid depths below.
The woman fights to put you beneath the water’s surface, those needle-like teeth bared like some ferocious beast. She can be fought off easily enough, but she might just drown you before you’re able to. If you’re lucky, someone might be able to help pull you out. Tools or weapons made of iron or silver are especially harmful to her.
Once you’re pulled from the water, getting somewhere warm will be the utmost priority — otherwise the cold will kill you quicker than the woman would. The woman, you’ll find, will have vanished, and the ice where you’d fallen will have restored itself, as if it had never been broken at all.
FAQs
1. Items characters have brought from home can be found either strewn around them when they awaken, or in the community hall — as if someone left them out for them to collect. Methuselah will not know how they got there, and will be quite bemused by the happenings.
2. Reminder that all characters are now depowered upon arrival. They can choose not to notice it at first, or can immediately sense something is different about them.
3. If asked any personal questions, Methuselah will smile and say "Oh, you don't want to know about an old man like me. But I have lived all over in these parts for all my life." He will be more concerned with trying to help Newcomers, and is genuinely concerned for them and their well-being.
4. If asked how he knew that the Newcomers were arriving, he concedes that although it is a strange thing to know, it is much like how one knows a storm is coming.
1. Characters are welcome to take up residency in any of the homes of Milton. Methuselah will strongly advise characters to leave a huge, dilapidated house — known as Milton House — well alone, due to extensive fire damage.
2. More information about Milton can be found here.
1. Characters with hearing impairments will not be susceptible to the Siren's song, or may only be somewhat susceptible depending, but may be entranced to a degree by looking at the Siren. However, this will be far easier to snap out of.
2. The Siren cannot be killed, only fought off. She will disappear for a length of time to recover before she attempts to lure her next victim.
hope nobody needs this anymore!
But the town itself..... this deserted place. It should not exist, not here. And what's within it.... parts of it feel like something from a dream. There are items he can't recognise, technologies beyond him. Relics of something he does not belong to.
With perpetual uneasiness resting uncomfortably in his gut like the pit of a fruit, the first lieutenant of the HMS Terror wanders through the town, searching for a familiar face — checking each building carefully. He's a severe-looking man, clad in the long black uniformed coat and cap of the Royal Navy, shotgun strapped to his back (he'd found it waiting for him, although it is low on ammunition, a fact that fills him with more worry... The Creature could be anywhere.) Heavy boots are stepping across a small store when Edward hears some sort of commotion and tenses, gloved hand moving to touch his gun, but it doesn't take long to spot the source of it, trying to smash his way into a door. A boy.
The man exhales sharply, eyes widening as he takes in the other's spooked disposition — searching him; could he be one of the two ships' boys....? Does he recognise him? But his clothing is... strange (what is a hoodie, help, he's A Victorian), and Edward stares at him, before lifting one of his own hands in an equally placating manner. ]
My apologies. [ He isn't too bothered by your pharmacy theft attempts, Kieren, there's a matter pressing at hand he has to check upon, even if the lad's clothing suggests otherwise— ] Pardon the inquiry if it seems strange, young man, but might you belong to the Erebus or Terror?
no subject
Kieren swallows, his eyes still wide and an air of caution still about him. Even with what the old man in the community hall said, that they could essentially help themselves, it still looks pretty bad to be smashing his way into a pharmacy. Especially to be caught in the act, even if the man doesn't seem all that bothered. Guilt is a feeling that comes way too easily with him. ]
... Uhm, no. [ A beat. Slowly, he lowers his hands. ] Sorry, I don't— are those ships—?
[ Hazarding a guess. The man wouldn't have looked out of place in the Titanic movie as one of the crew, he reckons. ]
no subject
He mirrors the boy's gesture, lowering his own hand to his side. Slow and steady, and struggling to maintain his own composure, a thing which used to come so naturally to him. Now his desperation shows too well in his eyes, searching the younger man so hard for any sign of the familiar.
But the lieutenant takes a moment to gather himself, to put on the calm mask he'd always worn. He can be trusted. He can be here to help, as much as he is to seek out what he's lost. (He remembers the boys on the ships, sweet-faced and trying so hard to be men, crumbling so quickly when things began to sour. They would cry for their mothers in the night; he'd hear them from his small room in the officer's quarters.) ]
Yes, of the Royal Navy. They have long been abandoned by their crews, but I thought.... the men may have come here.
[ He casts another look over the boy, taking him in. To attempt breaking through a door with the device (....a fire extinguisher? It looks like one, but different from what he knows, something reimagined, strange) shows a certain vehemency. ]
You're seeking something inside? May I help you to reach it?
no subject
... But not this man's home, unfortunately. Kieren gets it. The need for familiarity. He's already begun to want for his parents, for Jem. But in some ways, he's glad they're not here with him. He knows if he doesn't find what he needs, it'll mean the end of him. No more Kieren. He doesn't want them to see that, to see what he'll become. Especially not Jem, he couldn't do that to her again. ]
Sorry. [ It's genuinely apologetic. He forces out a soft, short exhale — mouth curling at the edges in some wry smile — before he adds after a long pause: ] I've never even been on a boat before.
[ But it's what gives him pause. He wavers on it for a long time, on that offer of help. Unsure what to do. He has to tread so carefully, he has no idea what anyone of them would do if they found out what Kieren was. This might not be Roarton, but it might still be Roarton, too. Recent events still hang heavily at the back of his mind.
The man doesn't need details, though. And the sooner he finds Neurotriptyline, the better. Finally, Kieren gives in and nods. ]
Uh, yeah. The pharmacy. [ He gestures half-heartedly at the door. ] I'm— looking for medication, something specific. It's locked, no key.
[ Because that would be easy. ]
cw: mention of lead poisoning
But there's a genuine earnesty to the reply — 'I've never even been on a boat before' — that tugs against something within the man's chest. So this boy is no sailor; what is he, then? Apart from young, and lost?
Well, at the moment he is in need, and Edward will waste no time helping him reach the medication he seeks. Perhaps there are other things to be found within, things he could bring back with him to the tents, for the men. .....If he can find his way back from here. This dream world continues on. ]
If I may, young sir. [ Formal politeness clings to him even with his beard and scruff grown so wild, hair tangled and matted in places, like some shaggy dog. He is an Englishman, even after..... what has been done. He must remember what he is. Having someone to assist helps him remember. The man steps forwards, reaches for the extinguisher the boy dropped near his feet, and begins to knock it against the lock the same — though exerting more force, given his stature and size (sometimes a polite Victorian has to go to town on a lock, when the situation is dire enough for it; the need for medicines is.)
Though Edward's strength has certainly depleted over so much time and fatigue, he is still a sturdy man. He has not deteriorated in the ways the other men have. Stopped eating from those cans, the way the highest officers were warned to. (The other men did not know, and their gums turned blackish-blue, and their teeth began to fall. They bled from places skin usually does not bleed. He carries their cries of agony with him, always.)
The wood of the door is also thin, and splits easily around the lock; after a few slams, it clatters away and to the floor. Edward sets the extinguisher down and pushes the door open for the boy, letting him in first. ]
I hope they have what you seek. I may also look around for anything that may be helpful to my men.
no subject
Oh. Right, yeah.
[ Kieren steps aside, giving him a wide berth. He'll just... stand awkward to watch as the man picks up his dropped fire extinguisher and... goes absolutely mental on the lock with it. He's stunned, slack-jawed for a long moment. It's like it's nothing to him, and then he just... very politely puts the extinguisher down and pushes the door open, no big deal. ]
... Christ. [ Kieren's eyebrows shoot upwards. He nods once to himself. He reminds himself never to get on this man's bad side. That was... pretty brutal. Although it's probably par for the course with military, he supposes. But then he remembers himself: ]
—I mean, thanks. [ For the door bashing, and the well wish. He heads inside; it's not the largest of rooms, but the place is actually still stocked. No one's ransacked the place, until now. But even then, Kieren's sure to take care. ] Sure, alright. The old guy in the hall said we might as well, right?
[ Methuselah. That was his name, right? Old enough to be anyone's grandad. Kieren immediately hurries, looking for a fridge that he suspects it might be stored in. Even if the power's off, it might be cold enough that anything stored inside would be kept cold enough. While he's looking, he glances briefly up at the man. ]
If.. if you see anything called 'Neurotriptyline', can you let me know? It's... like a liquid in a glass bottle. [ Hopefully he's never heard of it. Most people don't know the name of the medication unless they're involved with the administration of it.
Alas, Kieren is going to be in for some bad luck. He'll discover soon enough there won't be anything of what he's looking for in this place. ]
cw: just a brief little mention of amputation and head trauma / gore
But in this moment, there is something attainable, a thing that can help, a goal that can be reached. A certain desperation drives him (help the boy, help the men left behind.... he can do this. He must do this.)
Little tips his head forwards in response, follows the boy in. Immediately he's looking around too, though he doesn't quite know what to seek. He has not spent much time among the sick and what medicines they needed. Rather, he was there for the....worst things, the atypical things — helping the captain hold down a man while his leg had to be sawed off after The Beast mutilated it. A cracked skull with its brain exposed, but the man it belonged to still living, somehow. Nightmarish things Edward never imagined to witness in his life. Hell itself. ]
Did he? That is... generous. [ He hadn't paid much attention, admittedly, back there. He was in a state of numbed stupour, mind a buzz of static and fog. He remembers seeing the old man but he had not spoken with him. (He's suspicious of the offer to pilfer through things, a thought he'll tuck away for the moment.) Edward searches quietly through cabinets and shelves, extracting a few supplies he finds to tuck into his pockets — simple bandages, an ointment to ease pain, but supplies are damnably meager. Meanwhile, his eyes search for anything like the lad describes, but so far.... ]
I see nothing by that name, I fear. Is it a rarity, or expensive? Perhaps it would be kept stocked elsewhere. In one's home, their personal stores.
no subject
His first look comes up fruitless. He checks again, being sure to read bottle labels carefully. Moves from each little fridge to the next to scour the few precious contents of each before moving to other shelves to check them, too. ]
Just rare, I guess. I don't pay for it, they put it on the NHS. [ Fortunately. He wouldn't like to think how much Neurotriptyline would cost to buy if it were a private treatment. ... He doesn't quite realise he's speaking to a fellow Brit who happens to be some hundred years or so before the inception of the National Health Service.
But by the time he checks one of the fridges for a third time, crouched down to really look into it, the sinking feeling is there. He knows the answer before he even asks himself: It's not here, isn't it?
It's hard to hide the worry, the panic he so desperately wants to keep pressed down. With an exhale, he slides down to sit on the floor, staring helplessly into the fridge for a long moment. He goes to wipe at his face in frustration, then decides against it. Not wanting to disturb his cover-up mousse, his fingers work through his hair instead for a moment before he clasps his hands together — almost in prayer, but far from it.
This was his best shot at finding some, the idea of it being in someone's home is just some stab in the dark. Kieren isn't hopeful. ]
I don't know. [ He says finally, sombre. He's going to turn, isn't he? He'll go rabid. ] Maybe? I guess? I would say 'yeah' if this were Roarton, but—
[ This isn't Roarton. It's not even England. ]
cw: nondescriptive mention of assisted suicide
(It's survival. It's living. They would say it.)
But this is no life. Rooting through others' leftovers — pilfering through things left behind by the dead. He hasn't taken a single thing from a corpse or from those poor souls' homes. The medicine here is... different, isn't it? It doesn't feel right to take it, but it's not so damnable as to take other things... (He doesn't know what to do, other than to keep doing what the captain would ask of him. Help, Little. Help the ones who are left, and do not leave them so long as they still have breath.
But he'd—
—....no. He can't think of it.) Edward blinks from his own half-lidded haze, looks back to the boy, only having half-heard what he'd said before. Enough, though, to understand rare... a rare medicine. That doesn't bode well, and then he finds himself slowly turning his body to face the boy as he sinks, as though weighted, right downwards. Edward stares, no stranger to men collapsing, men drawing themselves inwards to become smaller.
He could not allow himself to, not in front of the others; he had to keep up his stoicism, his reliability. But there is this boy here, clearly in some anguish over what he can't find.... Edward frowns, brows pinched, before he slowly moves closer. Kneeling, the way Captain Crozier would, and one gloved hand finds the youth's shoulder, carefully. In his mind, so freshly, are the men who sat and knew they would die. The man who was helped by the captain to die, pleading quietly for it. Little doesn't know what ails this boy, hasn't even confirmed it's for him (perhaps he's looking for another's sake, in this place?) but his heart gives a dull thud in his chest, dreading. ]
Do not lose hope, son. There may be medics here — a doctor. We may find them.
The medicine you seek... it is for you? Are you in pain at this moment, or discomfort?
cw: mention of suicide, suicide ideation
Son, it's achingly familiar. It reminds him of home, of one of the few things that are warming to think about. He thinks of his dad. They'd just starting talking again; addressed the elephant in the room: his suicide, how his father had found him, carried him in his arms to try to find help, but knowing it was too late. That he cradled his only son in his arms, gone. It hurts to think that maybe it's all over again, now. ]
... It's for me, yeah. [ There's a shaky exhale and he shakes his head. ] I'm not in pain or anything, I'm—
[ He doesn't feel pain. Doesn't even the hand upon his shoulder. He doesn't feel anything. Kieren seems at a loss. He wouldn't even know how to begin to explain it to this man, and no part of him wants to. No one can know what he is. Not here. He has no idea how anyone would react to a zombie right in their midst, when everything else has already gone to complete shit.
They'd probably kill him before he had the chance to get home. Maybe that would be for the best, he gently tells himself. Maybe it would be better then just kill him and then that way he doesn't have to hurt anyone else. But to be completely silent about himself puts everyone in danger, though. They'd be completely blindsided. The very thought of it hits him with a rolling wave of shame and fear. He has to say something, has to explain it somehow. He can't just stay silent. They have to know the risk. ]
I... have a condition. [ He speaks slowly, his gaze dips. He can't look the other in the eye any longer. ] A... Syndrome. I'm supposed to take medicine for it every day. I've already had some today, but—
[ Tomorrow? How long will he last without the next dose? ]
Without it, I— I end up hurting people. [ He can't bring himself to say the work 'kill', but it sits within him. He'll kill people. He's killed people. ] I don't— I don't want that. I don't want to hurt anyone else.
no subject
He stays crouched down close to the boy, hand at his shoulder. Moving into someone's personal space was never an easy comfort for Edward, but among his men, things were different. Despite his reputation for severity, it was Little who would move to grasp a shoulder or pat a back, to offer a soft touch to a thigh beneath the table. Perhaps it started out as obligation, as his own responsibility as senior officer, but over time... it was his heart to lead him. Those men, faces grim, fear living always beneath their breast. Distant gazes, quiet shudders. Edward knew those things well, himself.
He does not know this young man, but it's his heart that leads him now, too. Head tilted, body open, attention focused on the boy as he speaks. And with the words are his fears confirmed — the ailment is his own, and it's... severe, clearly, to require medication daily.
'Without it, I— I end up hurting people'
Little blinks, (lashes long and feminine; if ever he were a stern presence among the men, his eyes would always betray his true nature beneath, soft and quiet.) They'd seen this in some of the men, a.... mental degradation. A growing tendency towards violence, in some. Perhaps easy to at first dismiss as the result of a mind trapped in that frozen wasteland, but after the discovery Goodsir had made regarding the cans.....
....But this sounds different, in some ways. Different but similar; all of it still requiring so much thought and study, and time that they hadn't had. Little frowns, fingers curling slightly against the boy's shoulder for a moment (admittedly, stomach churning at the thought of what might ail him, frightened of it.) But after a moment, his palm relaxes again, fingers spreading back out to offer another soft squeeze to the younger man in such turmoil, gentle in his encouragement. ]
It affects your... mental state? You become... unstable?
[ Aggressive? Or simply beyond control of himself, unable to rationalise thought? Either way, it's certainly... worrisome, and Edward's frowning deeply as he watches the boy. ]
cw: this whole introspection, allusions to being killed
I'm not— [ He struggles to get the words out. It's difficult enough without having to hide behind half-truths and skirting around the full disclosure of his condition. ] I'm not 'me', anymore.
[ He doesn't like what he is. He can barely look himself in the mirror. Some disgusting, horrible thing — a zombie that killed people, and those who dismiss it as simply 'needing to eat' are talking shit and the ones who deny it ever happening are just burying their heads in the sand. He did such horrible, terrible things and he can't ever take them back.
But at least with the medication he lives with it. He has to carry that shame and guilt because it's maybe the least he can do after all the trouble he's caused. He puts his contacts in and covers his face in layers upon layers of mousse and he lives with it. And now he can't even do that. Now he stands with the very real threat of going back to the the monster who hurts people, of being the thing who doesn't think or feel. He can't bear the thought of hurting anyone else.
He even feels guilty he can't fully explain himself to the man, but there's still that fear looming over him. People are already scared, aren't they? Kieren knows he is. Even with the firm gentleness of his gestures, the reassuring hand at his shoulder — Kieren's still frightened to tell the truth. His eyes finally open and while he looks across to him, he still can't meet the man's gaze. ]
If... if someone like me can't be medicated— [ The words echo in the back of the mind: we take care of them. ] they... they have to be taken care of.
[ He finally braves to look at him. There's no tears in his eyes. He can't cry. He physically can't, anymore. His true eyes hidden behind dark, dark contacts — pleading the man understands his meaning. ]
If I... stop being me, I have to be taken care of, yeah?
no subject
Until the boy says something that shifts all of that. Something that stuns the lieutenant, visibly and physically; his hand tightens again, and this time it does pull back. Slowly, not frantic, but it removes itself, and he stares at Kieren with a quiet horror.
He thinks of Morfin. Behaving so bizarrely and pleading for death.
'taken care of'
Like an animal that has turned its teeth to its owner and become dangerous.
His stomach turns, and then turns again, as though a living thing is fitful inside of him. He controls himself, but just barely, taking a moment before he responds. Now the boy is looking at him, and Edward is faced with those eyes, large and round, like a deer's. He wishes the boy weren't holding his gaze, wouldn't fix those soft doe eyes upon him. ]
Surely there is another option. You could be restrained, temporarily — until medical assistance could be found.
[ But his heart is pattering anxiously and he's swallowing against a slick, nervous feeling. ]
no subject
... Maybe? [ For his sake, he does consider the idea of it: being restrained until he could be medicated again. He really does try, but the thought of it quickly crumbles inside of him. He has to laugh at the thought of it, a nervous bubble of laughter caught somewhere between a chuckle and a sob. God, the thought of it sounds bloody awful. ]
I can't see a lot of people being too happy about someone like me being locked up somewhere.
[ It sounds so ridiculous: they're stuck in some remote, frozen town full of corpses and know one knows what's going on. And oh, yeah — there's a zombie locked up in here with them, too. He finally releases him of his gaze and turns his head to gaze at the nearly-empty fridge before him. ]
People are already scared. I'm scared. Literally fucking terrified. [ There's a shakiness to his words, still that nervous fear that ripples through him. But there's no shame in knowing that fear, he's not ashamed to say out loud that he's scared. He speaks so calmly of that fear, despite how it makes his insides churn. ] You probably are, too.
[ Kieren wouldn't blame him if he was. ]
... Maybe, if it comes to it, people should have one less thing to be scared of. If... if I could do something, I'd choose that.
no subject
But how can he.... possibly entertain the thought of this poor soul being put down like some rabid animal? Edward can't comprehend the true extent of the illness that plagues him, but the glimpses he's seen of strange symptoms in the men... It is frightening. To see a person behaving so bizarrely before one's eyes, to know that they are no longer looking back at you with human comprehension. None of them knew how to handle that; how quickly things fell to chaos. It's easy to imagine such a thing could happen here — the people who have drifted to this strange, empty town are already confused, lost. Cacophony could erupt, shouts, threats, dangers. And there is no Crozier to maintain order.
....Little knows what happens when order is lost. And though these are not his men, his people, doesn't a certain responsibility fall to his shoulders? A responsibility towards fellow humankind.
He's silent for a few long moments, staying crouched there beside the boy, head dipped downwards. Through the horror of it all, through the tremour in the boy's voice, his clear fright, his way of thinking is... noble. That he should think that way, to alleviate terrors in others, to end his own life...
'if I could do something, I'd choose that'
How rare it has become for him, to have choice. Edward has known the helpless agony of it for too long now — outcomes that have only one path. Decisions that must be made for a greater good; are they truly "choices"...? But if this poor young man could make one.... this is what it would be. This is what his hands would reach towards.
The man slowly shifts, one gloved hand moving up to run over his mouth, covering it for a moment before he lets it lower, though only so that it may return to the boy's shoulder, giving another squeeze. He does not have the luxury to pretend that he is a hero, that he can save this boy. Truly, he will try — as mentioned, there may be medics here, people who could offer some insight. Edward will search. To help this boy live is the choice he wishes to grasp in his own hands. He thinks again of Crozier, and how his captain would think of nothing else. He would insist that saving this boy is the only outcome, would damn anyone for thinking otherwise.
But Little knows his captain's judgment is not always clear, that it is filtered through the ideal of protecting everyone. Knows that..... one must sometimes think in broader terms. He nods softly, voice deep and quiet. He does not like saying any of it, but he knows he must. ]
I do not think you should tell anyone else of this. [ Edward won't have the risk of potential rumours spreading, of hysteria. ]
Are there... warning signs? That you may be falling to that state?
we could wrap this thread too if you want!
Believe me, I'm less than thrilled to be talking about it at all. [ He sounds weary, with that. He wishes he didn't have to. He wishes he could just hide it all together. But he can't. He can hide it, not completely. It's far too dangerous. He can't bear the idea of being the cause of so much more hurt.
Not to mention he'd rather not cause any witch hunts. There's... probably a lot more guns in this place, and Roarton had plenty with it being out in the countryside. ]
I've— I've only seen someone go that way once. Someone else with the same condition. [ He remembers Alex, at the treatment center. His roommate. He'd taken something, snorted it, and it was like it just... undid everything the Neurotriptyline did. ]
It... happens fast. It was like he just... fell into a stupor. He couldn't talk, wouldn't respond. Like he was out of his head, on drugs or something. Just... gurgled. Threw up, too. [ Blue-black... blood or fluid, Kieren isn't actually sure. The insides of a PDS Sufferer isn't something that's pleasant to think about, and even he shudders at the very thought of it. The internal remains of a body that has begun to rot. It's a... finer details he thinks it's best to spare the man. ] And then... I never saw him again. They took him away.
[ Kieren still doesn't know what happened to him. ]
I'm... I'll find somewhere to stay. I don't think it's a good idea if I stay in the Hall. [ Too many people. No, it's best he lives alone. Maybe finds some way to keep himself contained, just in case the Neurotriptyline's effects wear off in the night. ] I can... try to keep myself safe, somehow.
[ He's never shied from the thought of holding himself accountable. His guilt would never allow it. ]