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singillppl2023-12-06 12:21 am
singmod) wrote in singillppl2023-12-06 12:21 am
Entry tags:
December 2023 Test Drive Meme
DECEMBER 2023 TDM
PROMPT ONE — ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST: A new group of arrivals 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 — not to mention the fact they are not the first to come here.
PROMPT TWO — MISTY FALLS CAVE: The Interlopers go out in search of a hidden cave in the mountains found by Methuselah, which may still contain the hidden stash of a doomsday prepper. However, they get a little more than they bargained for when they venture inside.
PROMPT THREE — SERPENT'S BREATH: Interlopers investigate the mysterious cause of whatever is killing and poisoning the wildlife and vegetation of the area — and discover a supernatural creature is behind it.
ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST
WHEN: Mid-Decmber.
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 a long time. The fire is cold, the dishes in the sink are pretty 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.
It’s possible you may come across someone here. Another fellow Interloper, out hunting or gathering. They’ll likely offer help and get you into town. However, for the unlucky ones who don’t come across anyone, you’ll carry on until you see it: the lazy trail of smoke rising in the air. Fire. Not just one, but several. Civilisation…?
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. In fact, you’ll hear the muffled sounds of life. People. In The town!
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, some are dark and lifeless, some of them are boarded up, some of them are occupied. People are going about their business, or stood watching from their tiny porches of their small, timber homes. For a town this big, there doesn’t seem to be many people.
Towards the center of town, you’ll find the building from which the biggest of the smoke trail 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.
“Ah, even more, still. Just as I thought.” he muses. “I wonder if this is perhaps the new status quo. I am Methuselah. I welcome you Newcomer, although I’m sorry for how you’ve come to find yourself here. You are not the only one, the lights are changing things. They bring more of you every so often. Come. Mother Nature has not been kind to you, but there are plenty here to help.”
The room is dim, lit only by 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. Down the other side are tables and chairs, and long tables with food, drinks and bottled water similar to one might find at a soup kitchen. Once again, Methuselah offers a feast, aided by some of the other Interlopers.
There are canisters with hot herbal teas and coffee, along with soup and stew and trays of charred deer and rabbit meats, plus grilled fish. There's also things like instant mashed potatoes, and tinned vegetables. It’s very basic, but it’s hot and filling. A feast, although newcomers will note from others who have been here some time that this particular feast is less bountiful this time.
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.
He will encourage newcomers to get warm and eat, and when they are ready to — they can explore the time and find one of the many empty homes to call their own. He will not speak much, but perhaps you might be able to get some answers from those fellow arrivals who’ve been in this place for some time now.
However, he will speak of something important, and will gladly share with others: “I have been looking for something for you all. There was once a townsfolk I knew of: Matthew. A suspicious, paranoid old miner who was interested in Prepping. He often spoke of the world coming to an end and strived to survive it. He often spoke of a cache hidden in the mountains, where he collected things of value. I have found the place, a hidden cave, but I am unable to get through, myself.”
… Well, he is an old man, after all.
“There are signs outside, so it is promising it is still intact. Perhaps the cache is still there. It might provide something useful for your growing numbers.”
MISTY FALLS CAVE
WHEN: Mid-month, onwards.
WHERE: Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: booby traps; claustrophobic situations; potential injury/maiming; potential hyperthermic situations; exploration horror;
Methuselah gives directions to those willing to check out the lead for the old prepper cache. Following the river up from Milton Basin will lead to rugged, difficult pathways up towards Misty Falls — a waterfall, the river source itself. Most of the river is completely frozen with the freezing temperatures, but it is not completely so the closer to the source you go. Misty Falls is certainly idyllic, or it would be perhaps on a fine summer’s day — good for a nice hike. But the place looks desolate in the eternal winter cursing the Northern Territories.
The half-frozen waterfall is a din of sound, but the water itself is incredibly fresh and cooling for those hot and tired from the hike up. Those paying attention might notice a small space between the water and rock, big enough to squeeze through to get behind the waterfall itself. In the small space, the entrance to a small cave can be found. There are faded handmade signs, all in the same hand, reading ‘DANGER KEEP OUT’ and it isn’t too far of a stretch to wonder if perhaps this might be the secret stash of the old miner that Methuselah spoke of.
Venturing into the cave will not be an easy task. It seems the old miner was keen to keep any trespassers out, and most of this comes down to the cave itself. The walls of the cave quickly narrow, with only enough space to walk in single file. Jutting stone will easily make those stumble and trip. Occasionally the cave’s passage becomes narrower, meaning one might have to stoop or even crawl to carry on through. Here and there, the uneven floor dips, and your feet will find themselves in shin-deep frigid water. It’s slow-going, even if the actual passage itself isn’t incredibly long.
But perhaps the worst of all is the pressing darkness. A darkness so black even with lanterns switched off, one’s eyes cannot adjust to it. It is smothering, pressing. The air is stale and damp, you feel small — and the cave itself still presses in on you. The miner also kept a few tricks up his sleeve in order to keep out intruders. There are dead-ends, making it easy to get lost. Trip wires are hidden in the darkness, causing small man-made cave-ins to fall upon unsuspecting heads.
It might be safer, saner to give up and turn back. But persevering will see the cave opening up once more, this time widening into a room. The place is fashioned into some crude shelter. There is furniture, lanterns to be lit.
With more light, the miner’s stash is revealed: the painstaking, time-costing work of a paranoid old recluse. Crates of non-perishable foods, MREs, and bottled water. Medicines and basic medical supplies, flares and tools.
A perfect supply of survival goods, ripe for the taking.
SERPENT'S BREATH
WHEN: Throughout the month.
WHERE: The entirety of the Milton area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: mentions of dead animals; malevolent creature; snakes/serpents; poison/airborne toxins; potential poisonings; potential burn injuries; potential (temporary) blinding.
It’s noticed in different ways: perhaps a trail of dead animals stands before you, each one with no particular injury other than what appears to be burned hides and flesh — it is as if the wildlife simply dropped dead, for the most part. Perhaps you notice huge, tunnel-like grooves in the deepest parts of the snow, a few feet in width — as if something long and thick had made its way through to clear a path. More worryingly for some, they might notice trails of rot: destroyed trees, decaying plant life, as if the very earth itself has been scorched in the wake of something passing through, leaving nothing but destruction and devastation.
Something is destroying the flora and fauna of the world. There seems to be no pattern, simply the random trails all over the place. There appears to be no other tracks, other than the long, smooth tunnel-like pathways. Whatever it is, it must be stopped. Resources are so precious in this world, if the beast is allowed to continue then all who live here will soon starve due to lack of animals to hunt and plants to gather.
Following the tunnels is a sure-way to hunt the beast down, although these paths will lead far from town. It is best to go prepared. But soon enough, you may come across the slumbering beast, curled up on the snow or coiled underneath some jutting space of stone along the mountains. You’ll hear and smell it before you see it: the long grumbling snores as it sleeps, and the putrid stench of rot. Everything in you tells you to flee, much like when an animal senses something toxic, or poisoning.
You press on, finally stumbling across the beast: a long, serpent-like dragon, with tremendous horns and fangs, coloured with muted grey scales and huge, glowing, flamed eyes.
The element of surprise will work in your favour to try and kill the beast, but it will give up a good fight. It will take several rounds of fights with it before it will finally be taken down permanently. It moves quickly, with scales like steel. Its eyes and mouth are its weakest spots, as is the soft underbelly of its body — fire will work well on harming this beast, especially with a well aimed shot into its mouth.
Its open mouth is where it holds its most powerful weapon. Not the fangs, no. The very reason why the air smells of rot, why the wildlife lay dead, why the earth decays at your feet: its breath. The beast’s breath is highly toxic, it will burn the skin of those it comes into contact with. Breathing in the fumes will poison those who breathe it in, and will cause a weakening, sickly illness. The breath may even temporarily blind.
These injuries are not fatal, and will heal with time and the basic medical attention available in the world. Victims will require rest for at least a week, depending on how severe the blast of the serpent’s breath. But killing the best will ensure its havoc is brought to an end.
FAQs
1. Arrival threads can be treated as game canon.
2. 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.
3. 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.
4. 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. Other Interlopers will say much of the same — there's little to know about him.
5. More information about Milton can be found here.
1. Tools found would be basic survival/camping tools one might expect: knives, hand axes, rope, handsaws, torches, batteries, etc.
1. The Stoor Worm, or Mester Stoor Worm, was a gigantic evil sea serpent of Orcadian folklore, capable of contaminating plants and destroying animals and humans with its putrid breath. Assipattle, the youngest son of a local farmer, defeated the creature by flinging still-burning peat into its mouth. As it died its teeth fell out to become the islands of Orkney, Shetland and the Faroes, and its body became Iceland.
2. It is possible the harvest the beast once it is killed, particularly for its fangs and skin. The skin/scales will provide ample protection to try to use it for armouring themselves. The fangs would provide useful for crafting knives or weapons.
3. It is... technically possible to eat the meat of the beast. Care should be taken in butchering, however. And it is not advised to eat the head.
no subject
I thought this was the underworld!
[ Even as the words come out of his mouth he knows how ridiculous they sound. His hands fall away from Vash, now that the other man's stopped crying and doesn't need th comfort anymore. That leaves his hands feeling empty, though, so he stuffs them into his pockets, arms tight to his sides.
His broken wrist is throbbing like the devil, and he'll have a nice bracelet of bruises on both arms to match the ones he left around Knives's throat, but he's spent so much of his life enduring hurts like this that it doesn't even occur to him to wrap it up yet. There'll be time for that later.
Instead, cheeks heating with embarrassment, he tries to explain what he meant. ]
I'm dead, I knew that much! And I heard that if you're dead and you eat food in the underworld, you can't... [ Can't come back is the rest of that explanation, but by now he's feeling too stupid to even finish his thought. It was just a silly story that Liz Melanie read to him and the rest of the brats when he was a kid -- there wasn't any reason for him to believe it, or even remember it. He should have eaten -- Vash is right about that.
He slaps a smirk on his face to cover up all his discomforts, and rocks back on his heels. ]
Although, if you cooked it, maybe I was right to avoid it. My poor stomach can only handle so much.
[ Vash is a fantastic cook, in his humble opinion, but he can't just say that. ]
no subject
He's here.
Vash can't stop thinking it and it makes his heart keep skipping beats like a jubilantly frolicking child. The halting explanation brings only more fondness at the silly mixing of religion and ancient mythology. Of course Wolfwood wouldn't know any better, it only makes sense. It's still endearing. ]
That's just a very old myth.
[ There are no rivers to cross here. No pomegranates to eat.
Resisting the urge to reach up and cradle Wolfwood's face between his hands, trace the crooked grin his friend forces with reverent fingers, Vash settles for sliding right back into their old banter. He puffs out his cheeks, looking the very picture of childishly offended. The effect is only increased by the fact his face is still a mess of snot and tears. ]
Well, excuse me, if my cooking is so bad, I'll give you some of Methuselah's.
[ Frankly, he doesn't care what Wolfwood eats, so long as he eats something. Anything to stay alive and keep him that way.
Vash takes a slight moment to take a deep, shuddering breath, raising only his artificial arm to brush away the wet streaks on his face with his sleeve. Once he has some measure of composure gained, he uses the hand still on Wolfwood to gently start directing him towards the sink, explaining more as he goes. ]
You probably saw him in the hall. The old man dressed in furs? He's the only surviving native of this place. Everyone else you see got brought in from all kinds of worlds.
[ There's a distinct sense of déjà vu happening. Everything about this feels like a repeat of two months ago when he'd cried all over Knives in much the same way and had to drag him off to the kitchen to personally make him something to eat as well. Knives and Wolfwood had even reacted in the exact same way when they'd seen Vash. Both have now called him a crybaby. The realization that they're alike hits him and makes him feel— some kind of way. It's hard to pinpoint what it is and he doesn't particularly care to linger on figuring it out, attention on wordlessly guiding Wolfwood to the sink where he grabs a bar of soap with his free hand to give to him. His voice comes out softer, more fragile, than he means for it to be when he speaks again. ]
Here, wash your hands. I'll get you some of his stew.
no subject
Wolfwood's hands fall to his sides but Vash doesn't let go. His hands on Wolfwood's chest are so warm that he can feel his skin tingling beneath their slight weight, the heat soaking right into his ribs and filling his chest. And of course Vash loves everyone, mourns every death, so it's no surprise at all that he's relieved when death gives somebody back, it doesn't mean anything... but that touch is making him feel drunk, dizzy. Giddy, maybe. Maybe this is what that word means.
It's been a little over a year since he realized who Vash was, since he decided to spend the rest of his life at this man's side. He'd figured, at the time, that that wasn't a long commitment at all – they had a handful of years, he'd thought, and probably less than that, before they'd finally face Knives, and the world would have three fewer souls walking across its face. He'd expected that time to be made up of quiet nights across the fire from each other, frantic fights against ever stronger opponants, drunken evenings spent laughing and singing, whistling past the graveyard, and the only time they'd touch each other would be hauling each other away from a bar, or bandaging injuries.
This touch is neither, and he doesn't know what to do with it. He doesn't even know how he feels about it. Fear and excitement feel the same in a lot of ways, and while part of him wants to lean in to that touch, to hold Vash's hand in place so it never moves, another part of him thinks that the best thing he could do here is pull back and never let this happen again.
Vash keeps his hand on Wolfwood as he leads him through the kitchen to a sink, and it's like walking on feathers. He's pretty sure his feet aren't even touching the ground, and the air has gone thick and warm. He definitely feels more than a little drunk. Vash explains something about the old man in the other room, but Wolfwood's honestly not hearing a thing he says – Vash's hand on him is too loud. He needs to say something in response, keep the banter going, play the game, but his mind is a soft blank space. Too much has happened today – he's simply overwhelmed with it all... and he's bare seconds away from saying something that he might later regret when Vash presses a bar of soap into his hand. Wolfwood looks down at it automatically – yes, of course, he's going to eat so he should wash his hands, good hygiene and all that – but it's the black lines beneath his nails that catch his attention.
He died.
He died, and Vash buried him.
He left, and got himself killed.
There isn't enough air in here. It's too close, too dark, he can't breathe. He can't move. Wolfwood manages an affirmative jerk of his head, and turns on the water with a shaking hand, forcing himself through the motions of scrubbing up. Vash put him in the ground, and now that ground is under his nails, embedded in the cracks of his palms, his knuckles. Chapel killed him, and Vash had to move his corpse, wash his face, lay him in the dirt, in the dark, piled stones onto his body, pinned him down and left him there, in the yard of his empty home, to rot and be forgotten in the ground. In the dark.
A hot tear on his cheek makes him jump, and he quickly splashes great handfuls of water onto his face to hide the track it carves in the grime and dust there. He's got nothing to be crying for, what the hell is his problem? He's alive, he's been reunited with his friend, and even the monster killing his world seems to have been defeated and made small somehow. He's fine... so why can he not stop shaking? ]
no subject
He doesn't last very long at all.
The sudden sound of splashing draws his attention right back to Wolfwood, making him pause after opening the cabinet's door to glance over. He sees him wet his face and it doesn't take Vash long to realize why when he notices how badly Wolfwood has started shaking. The sight pierces his heart and ties his stomach into knots, nearly threatening to make him well up again at the aching sympathy that rises to the surface. Of course Wolfwood isn't alright. Unlike Knives, he hadn't wanted to die, had lived in fear of dying, and here he is in the impossible aftermath of having done just that with all the signs of his burial still clinging to him.
Maybe in the past Vash would've gone about this the same way they always did when it came to nightmares: just talk at him and let Wolfwood use his voice as an anchor point. The thing is, he's gotten a little more used to physical reassurance. Sharing a bed with Knives had started as a practical thing: to account for the church's small living space, to have a source of warmth, to make sure Knives doesn't wander off and do something stupid. It's morphed into something else since then. On the occasions where he doesn't wake and startle with blind instinctive panic upon seeing his brother, they've fallen into the childhood habits of sleepily reaching for each other or tucking themselves close whenever nightmares wake either of them. His brother's near-overbearing fussing — especially during his recent bout of illness — has gotten him a bit more acclimatized to the sort of comfort he's been denying himself for the majority of his long life.
So now his first instinct is to abandon his task and slot himself back to Wolfwood's side. Perhaps it's tainted with his own selfish need, but he doesn't let himself hesitate or even think twice about it. ]
Hey, I've got you.
[ Despite the lump in his throat, he manages to keep his voice soft and even as his hands join Wolfwood's under the cold stream of water. With gentle care he's taking the soap from him and grabbing a nearby brush to start helping him wash his hands and carefully scrub the dirt from under his fingernails, still talking with a calm cadence even though he doesn't feel calm at all. ]
Don't think about it, just focus on breathing. Can you do that for me?
no subject
Out of nowhere there’s warmth beside him, a familiar presence that registers just the briefest second before Vash presses against him, and Wolfwood freezes, ashamed of his filthy hands, ashamed that he hasn’t been able to get them clean like Vash told him to. There’ll be punishment for this whispers a voice at the back of his mind, an old voice, the voice that had kept him alive through everything the Eye had thrown at him. Fail, and be punished. Don’t let them see how much it hurts. ]
I’m fine!
[ It’d be a lot more believable if his voice weren’t shaking, too. This is just Vash, though. Spikey. Blondie. The broom-headed idiot that he trusts with his life. He knows this man. And Vash is so gentle as he takes Wolfwood’s hands, so gentle as he works the filth out from beneath Wolfwood’s nails with a brush that he found somewhere. So gentle as he washes Wolfwood clean. Vash would never hurt him.
It’d be easier if it hurt. ]
I’m fine, I just don’t know what’s… what’s wrong. With me.
[ What’s he supposed to do with kindness? Kindness is for children, for the old, for fragile bodies that can’t endure anything else. He’s not fragile. He can’t be fragile. Wolfwood takes a deep, slow breath, then another, feeling the trembling flow away out of his body and down the drain. He’s strong. He has to be strong, was made to be strong. Vash needs him strong.
What the fuck is he afraid of, anyway? Being alive? Surviving one more horror? He must just be hungry, he decides, pushing the last of the fear and uncertainty way down, like he learned to as a kid. He’s just hungry, and maybe tired, and later he’ll see if there’s anything to drink in this place, enough so he won’t have to dream tonight and he’ll get some real sleep.
Vash needs him strong.
His hands look clean to him, but he doesn’t pull away from Vash’s touch, letting the other man decide when he’s finished. And if he’s leaning just a little into Vash’s shoulder, well that’s just because it’s cold in here. He’s fine. Everything’s fine. ]
The service in this place is really fantastic.
[ It’s not quite his usual casual cadence, but his voice is warming to those familiar tones with every word. ]
Do you do windows too?
no subject
Vash can't respond right away, the choked feeling only increasing with all the ways his heart is breaking for his friend, and so he focuses on meticulously getting Wolfwood's hands clean. Perhaps it's an excuse just to keep touching him, but he tries to be quick about it — not wanting to inflict more discomfort with how cold the water is. Sticking his prosthetic hand under the tap without the protection of the rubber glove he usually wears when doing dishes probably isn't his brightest idea either, but it's hard to care about that right now.
At least Wolfwood is listening and taking deeper breaths despite his protests, even leaning into him as he finds the composure to attempt their usual banter again. Vash could play along and maybe he should grant Wolfwood that mercy, look the other way in this moment of vulnerability and give him that sense of normalcy like they would always do. Vash... can't. Not anymore. Something about seeing Wolfwood try and push it all down just— stings. It feels like being shut out. Like the way he felt when he realized Wolfwood had left him behind and gone off to December on his own. His friend already carries so much on his shoulders, tries to give Atlas a run for his money for everything he takes upon himself, and this is a weight that doesn't need to be carried alone.
There are things that need to be said. Things that Wolfwood likely never heard before given the past he'd laid out for Vash. They're important and so Vash only acknowledges the joke with a wan smile and a huff of faint amusement breathed through his nose before he turns his attention to the words that came before it. ]
There's nothing wrong with you. It's okay not to be fine.
[ He thinks he's gotten the dirt out from under Wolfwood's nails sufficiently enough — no immediate reminder of a grave left there — and so he turns off the tap, keeping one hand on Wolfwood's and setting aside the brush and reaching for the hand towel with the other. All the while he continues speaking, as calm and matter-of-fact as he can wrangle his voice into being. He'd almost sound downright casual if there wasn't the slightest edge of desperation bleeding through. ]
You don't have to be. Not with me.
[ Please. ]
no subject
He meets Vash's gaze, steady and apologetic. There's support here that he could have – he sees that offer. It eases something inside him, that offer, that knowledge that there's somebody here he can lean on, somebody who can carry his weight. He knows that a heart as big and strong as this dummy's right here has room to hold his griefs and pains too... but those are his pains to hold. Sure, he's grumpy and antisocial, but those are his defenses, and those defenses are in place for a reason – for a lot of reasons, really, and a lot of those reasons have names. They're hard earned defenses, blood bound to his skin, and he can't just shake them because of a pair of pretty blue eyes and a gentle request. Keeping people out has kept him alive, and right now he wants so damn badly to stay alive.
Besides... He flicks his gaze to the doorway, and the main room beyond... and, from the way his expression hardens, to Knives, somehow alive after everything, and who Wolfwood hopes can't currently breathe without pain. There's no way in the great wide world that he's going to put his guard down voluntarily anytime soon, not with that asshole around. His wrist throbs again, and this time Wolfwood lets himself wince, jumping on the distraction from a conversation he can't have right now. He can't keep holding Vash's hand, can't listen any more to that soft voice telling him lies about safety and home. He's fine. He has to be fine.
Except for his wrist. If Vash needs to tend him, then here's a hurt that needs attention. A safe hurt. A hurt who'se treatment he can bear.
He holds up his tender wrist in surrender, dark bruises just barely beginning to develop beneath the skin. Knives is here, neutered or not, and now he knows that Wolfwood's here too. Now he has an enemy, and being the enemy of an angel isn't an easy place to be. He's scared as hell, and surely he's got every right to be – he just failed to kill Millions Knives. That he's still alive is a miracle all by itself. ]
Lemme get this wrapped up first. [ Knives once looked him in the eye and crushed the air from his lungs without ever raising a finger. It's going to take a lot to convince him that they aren't all in danger. ] And then I want some of that soup you promised, I'm actually starving.
no subject
It's probably too much to expect when they've always kept their pasts and secrets clutched tight to their chests. Not even death can break old habits so easily, it seems. There's so much that had been left unsaid between them, so much Vash wants to tell him and that he'd resolved to finally say should Milton ever give him the opportunity to do and now that it's here... it still doesn't feel like the right time. Wolfwood is so overwhelmed already and still so tense. The glance at the doorway says enough as to why.
... Later, he tells himself. He'll tell him later when they've gotten him settled a little more and he's managed to put him at ease about his brother. Somehow.
At least Wolfwood gives him a small concession although Vash doesn't realize that's what it is until he spots the darkening patches on his skin and he inhales sharply at the sight. ]
Oh—! [ Wolfwood had been hurt and he should have realized it. Should have been able to tell when he'd been washing his hands. He'd just been so preoccupied making sure to get the dirt out from under Wolfwood's nails, he'd been blind to it and now he's left mentally kicking himself, guilt adding another knot to his guts. ] Of course.
[ He's deftly drying his own hands and then Wolfwood's, being extra careful when it comes to patting his hurt hand dry, before he's taking gentle hold of his arm to take a closer look. It's with the skim of feather-light fingers that he assesses the damage, grimacing when what he finds indicates it might be broken. How could he have missed that? He needs to get it together already.
Vash wastes no time directing Wolfwood to a stool for him to sit on while he goes to fetch the first-aid kit from one of the cabinets. He addresses the concern he glimpsed before as he flits about the kitchen gathering everything he needs. ]
Don't worry about Knives, he isn't a threat. Neither of us have our powers anymore and he's been living among the people here just fine.
[ Mostly because he keeps to himself and doesn't mingle with them much, but still. His brother isn't out there murdering anyone — save perhaps for the local fish and rabbit population to sate their hunger — he can promise that much. ]
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Neither of us have our powers anymore, Vash says, so casually, like being drained of the ability to put a hole in the moon is the same as misplacing a favorite coat. No powers, so no knives, no feathery explosions that threaten to wipe cities off the map... but surely Knives should still be strong enough to have torn him limb from limb? It had been monumentally stupid of him to try and kill Millions Knives – by all accounts, he should be dead, again. But he's not. He's not dead because Knives doesn't have his powers. He's not dead because Knives is weak.
Knives is weak, and Vash, Wolfwood finally notices, watching the other man return with the medical supplies, Vash is tired. He's not as thin as he was the last time Wolfwood saw him, his cheeks aren't hollowed from hunger like they had been on the ark, but he looks every bit as worn out, to Wolfwood's eye. Some of it's the dark hair, which Wolfwood regards suspiciously – he's never seen a dead plant, has no context for what that dark hair means, but he'd noticed the dark underneath after Fifth Moon, and definitely more here that Vash isn't telling him. Part of it's the hair, and part of it's just the way that Vash carries himself, his presence, the way it feels to be around him. He feels tired, drained, and no wonder, with what he must have gone through to beat Knives. ]
You're gonna have to tell me all about it, sometime.
[ Sometime. When they're actually alone, someplace more private than this, ideally with enough booze to get through the retelling.
Assuming Knives doesn't murder him before then. ]
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Vash immediately catches on to what Wolfwood means when he says 'sometime' and although he has no real qualms spilling the beans about most of it right here on the kitchen floor, he understands the desire for privacy. They'll get to it, later. Maybe after Wolfwood's eaten, Vash can take him to one of the abandoned houses he's taken temporary residence in before. There's a few that could potentially have some left-behind clothing in Wolfwood's size and, with any luck, a shower that still functions if the pipes haven't failed yet.
The smile he offers Wolfwood in understanding response is somewhat wan — a tiredness etched into the lines that goes beyond how utterly drained he feels in the wake of his emotional spill, scraped hollow of his grief and puffy-eyed as he is — but genuine. ]
I will. So much has happened, there's... a lot I have to tell you.
[ Putting it mildly and Vash doesn't even have all the answers, having been in hiding for months right after the cataclysmic battle with Knives. He's pretty sure Livio is fine. After all, Vash had made certain he would survive. (He'd rather not have Wolfwood know the cost that took though.) The orphanage he'd made sure would remain standing as well — a drain on his then dwindling powers he hadn't regretted one bit regardless of how partially ruined the structure had been already. By now they should have been able to rebuild and move back in. All he does have is the reassurance that No Man's Land and its people are continuing on as usual for the most part even with the addition of Earth's forces milling about. But the hellhole planet they call their home is not the most important thing right now... ]
About this place, too. I don't even know where to start. Feel free to ask me anything?
[ He's throwing that offer out there as he works on stabilizing and wrapping Wolfwood's wrist with deft, careful fingers. Right now it'll be easier for him to answer direct questions than to try to corral his tired, scattered thoughts back together for a coherent explanation. ]
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Here, sitting in the floor in his soft sweater than only accents the black of his hair and the bags under his eyes,Vash touches him with such gentleness that it makes Wolfwood feels like something valuable. He has to turn away, pretending to take in the kitchen, checking for exits, for weapons, for threats, before he can think too much about why that smile makes his chest ache. Before he can give in to the temptation to gentle the weariness off Vash's face with a touch of his own.
Dying's made him stupid as hell, he mentally laughs at himself, running his free hand through his own hair to give his fingers something safe to do. Some idiot cries on him and wraps his broken wrist with care instead of curses – is that really at it takes to turn him soft? Holding Vash while he was bawling his eyes out was bold enough as it is. Is he really so shaken from dy-- from everything that's happened that he's out here seeking shelter like a kid?
Ask me anything, Vash offers then, and Wolfwood really does laugh, just a short, quiet burst of disbelief at this whole goddamn situation. ]
You mean there's more? More than being dead, and comin' back, to Earth, with ice and... and trees and whatever else all that outside was, and Knives is here too, but that's okay somehow, and unless I was seein' things earlier you're got a secret son you never told me about and he's here too?
[ Who else could that blond Vash lookalike have been? ]
Spikey, I don't know if I could handle knowin' much more right now.
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Besides, he'd been this gentle the last time he'd touched Wolfwood and cleaned the blood off his face before wrapping him in fabric and lowering him into the ground. Newly returned from the dead like a miraculous gift that Vash does not deserve, it only feels right to treat him with the same reverential care, kneeling by his side as though in supplication, even if he isn't actively cognizant of it. He's only doing what he's always doing: whatever feels right.
Wolfwood barks out a disbelieving laugh and Vash looks sheepishly apologetic at the sound of it. 'There's so much more' is the truthful answer he's prepared to give, only his train of thought gets thoroughly derailed and is send careening off of a cliff when Wolfwood calls his other self his secret son.
There's a few seconds of stunned, surprised silence before Vash— bursts out into helpless laughter; the kind that leaves him doubling over and clutching at his stomach, tears of mirth clinging to his lashes. After all the emotional crying he just did, the laughter feels good if not a little painful for his ribs.
He does feel for Wolfwood and how overwhelmed and confused his friend must be, but please give him a moment to get his laughter back under control. He hasn't laughed this hard in... a while. ]
Ha— sorry! He's not my son. He's... well, me, but from another world. Like how this Earth isn't our Earth, but just a version of Earth out of many.
[ He straightens, thumbing away a stray tear as his expression returns to something more apologetic again. ]
That probably doesn't make much sense.
[ He doesn't quite know how to explain it in any way that makes it more comprehensible right now. Maybe he'll get Wolfwood some fitting science fiction novels to read later. For now he focuses on the subject of his double, hands returning to their work to securely finish bandaging Wolfwood's wrist. ]
We're the same person, but there's differences that set us apart. Differences in how his world works, differences in experiences and choices. I've been thinking of him as a slightly younger brother who happens to have a lot in common?
[ Wolfwood's first impression though... the very thought gets another cackle out of him. ]
But son sure is funnier!
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Wolfwood stares hard and disbelieving as Vash laughs his way through that ridiculous explanation, trying hard not to show just how conpletely confused he is. Vash just knows so much, understands so many things that Wolfwood will never fully grasp, and the way he just casually offers ideas beyond Wolfwood's reckoning is both flattering and deeply frustrating.
At least this time Vash is assuming he understands some of what's happening, rather than treating him like the dumbass he is. He knows his pitiful education can't stand up to a hundred years' worth of knowledge, but he can read and do sums, and he's just as good as the next man in the things that matter, so who cares whether he knew that there's more than one Earth?
(No, he's still not over being led by the hand to see the satellite like he wasn't smart enough to understand what a damn space radio was.) ]
Another Earth? You mean, in another solar system?
[ See, he's not a complete doofus! Worlds circle stars, and there's infinite stars out there, so okay, maybe whoever put them up there ran out of ideas and just made a bunch of copies. That makes as much sense as anything.
He takes his injured wrist back, testing the bandaging. Snug and sturdy – Vash does good work. ]
How many copies are there? Is this whole town just full to the brim with spiky-headed do-gooders?
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It doesn't help that there's a lot about this place that should be impossible, including Wolfwood's very presence itself. The dead walk among them, universes collide and come together in the form of vastly different people plucked from space and time, mysterious forces toy with their lives to unknown ends.
That Wolfwood grasps what little he offers and draws the conclusion that he does is a pleasant surprise enough and it makes Vash feel proud of him all the same, quick to nod and beam at him. ]
Yeah, it's kinda like being in another solar system! One that's a copy of ours, but the details got changed and mixed up.
[ Not quite it, but close enough.
While Wolfwood tests his handiwork, Vash cleans up, tucking equipment back into the kit and closing it. He pauses only briefly to answer the question with a softer laugh while the very idea fills him with peculiar dread. He and V dance around each other, always avoiding any real questions about themselves like the cowards they are. He doesn't want to think about what it'd be like if there were even more of them. ]
Haha no, it's just him and me. Along with Knives, we're the only people from similar worlds. No one else here knows about No Man's Land or plants. Most seem to come from their own version of Earth.
[ Now that Wolfwood's injury is taken care of, he sets about putting the first aid kit back where he got it from and resuming his previous task of getting Wolfwood a bowl of hearty stew, still talking as he goes. ]
Like I said, Methuselah is the only surviving native of this town. The rest of the people who lived here... [ He hesitates and visibly sobers, voice going low and mournful. ] They were already dead when the first group of us arrived. You're part of the third group that's shown up so far. No one knows how we're here or why.
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The people who lived here died, and now they're here and nobody knows how or why? That's nothing to laugh about. That makes them sound like prisoners at best, and livestock – or sacrifices – at worst.
He's on his feet as soon as Vash is done speaking, blanket and sheet both left in a heap to keep his arms free, just in case. ]
Methuselah? That old guy out there handin' out lunch? [ Come on, Spikey, let's go confront the old bastard. ] I bet he knows more than he's sayin'. Lemme try talkin' to him.
[ Vash is too gentle, too friendly, Wolfwood thinks, and the old man clearly hadn't felt properly motivated enough to tell everything that he knew. Clearly he needs to be persuaded to spill what's happening here. ]
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Wolfwood abruptly jumps to his feet and it leaves Vash to stare at him nonplussed from where he'd been ladling stew into the bowl. Fortunately his confusion doesn't last for long because of course Wolfwood would assume the worst of Methuselah. He should have known. The pang of fond exasperation he experiences almost makes him smile. Almost. ]
No, no, no, absolutely not! You sit back down right now.
[ Bowl expertly balanced on the tips of his fingers on one hand, Vash moves swiftly to put himself between Wolfwood and the way out of the kitchen, reaching out with his free hand to gently yet forcefully push him back down to sit on the stool. ]
I've known the man for months. Buried those dead with him, helped him prepare these feasts. He's been nothing but helpful and kind.
[ Yes, Methuselah can be secretive and withdrawn, not likely to give much in the way of answers, but his presence has been invaluable. So many more would not have survived without his helping hand and wisdom. Vash trusts him and there's no way he's letting Wolfwood confront him.
Instead Wolfwood gets the bowl pushed into his hands and a firm: ]
Here, just be good and eat your stew. I promise you Methuselah is not the cause for any of this.
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You don't have to be the cause of a problem to know what's going on with it!To know who's to blame!
[ He wasn't going to hurt the old bastard, geez. He was just going to ask him some questions, that's all! Sure those questions would be more gruff than the ones Vash has certainly already asked, but sometimes the gentle touch isn't the right one – some situations require gruffness. ]
How do you even know he is who he says he is, huh? You're too trusting, Spikey.
[ His stomach growls again, interrupting his complaints. Before Vash can tell him once again to eat, Wolfwood eats, shoveling a spoonful of stew into his face with an exasperated huff. It tastes even better than it smells, and his protests have to be put on hold for the moment as he inhales the entire bowl. ]
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[ Vash sighs and crosses his arms once the bowl has left his hands, put-upon as he remains standing right where he is — a barrier between his friend and the door — just in case Wolfwood might get any bright ideas and get up again. As much as he always wants to believe the best in people, he isn't as naive as Wolfwood seems to think he is. When it comes down to it, he doesn't consider himself a bad judge of character at all. He can tell when someone has ill intentions. Methuselah doesn't, he's sure of it. ]
He knows as much as we do and that's that the Aurora is probably the most likely the culprit for our presence here.
[ Not that it changes much in the way of knowing things when the Aurora is as much of a mystery as everything else is. But that at least gives him a different subject to segue into while Wolfwood devours the stew, hopefully redirecting the attention away from Methuselah for the foreseeable future. The old man has his hands full tending to the newcomers and is far too busy to be accosted by anyone, much less Wolfwood and his gruff ways. ]
And I believe it. The auroras are these beautiful lights that randomly appear in the sky every now and then. They seem to have strange powers that affects us plants and all electricity in town. Honestly, it's been a pain in the ass for us.
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Both Vash and Knives have lost their powers, and both Vash and Knives now have black hair. That can't be a coincidence, right? ]
Lights?
[ He's scraped the last of the stew off the sides of the bowl and is just debating – just deciding, the debate was a short one – to lick it clean when Spikey drops that particular bomb. The only context he has for strange lights in the sky is the ark, and the way that beast of a ship would trundle across the heavens. At night it looked like nothing so much as a grand city in the distance, but then, as it approached, the horrors of its true form revealed themselves. Combined with the electrical humming of a ship that carried with it all the power stations of an entire planet, and he can't help but draw the connection.
He's a little pale as he lowers his empty bowl. ]
Spikey, tell me straight. Are you in danger here?
[ After all, coming from Mr Sunny Side of Life here, a pain in the ass could encompass everything from too much humidity making his hair curl, to regularly fighting for his life against a monster made of electricity. They've certainly seen stranger. And if it only affects the plants, and not the humans here, then that sounds targeted. ]
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Watching Wolfwood pale already has him feeling and looking remorseful about what he'll need to tell him. For all Vash's claims that this isn't a sinner's Hell, it's not going to sound like it. ]
We're all in danger here, I'm afraid. There are forces at work that want to see us dead and gone, voices that somehow know all our secrets and will try to tempt you to... well, end it all, ghosts that play out their last moments on a loop for us to see. And that's just to name a few of the weird things that have happened here. Not to mention how hard it is just to survive this cold environment.
[ But to address that you part in particular, he circles back to it wryly. ]
Aside from that, I guess the only danger for us plants in particular is that someone mistakes us for feathery monsters during the Aurora and shoots on sight?
[ He lets out a sheepish laugh before he seems to realize something, quickly correcting: ]
Ah, that only applies to me and Knives though. The other me just glows instead! Apparently his plants look quite different from ours, it's fascinating. I wish I could see a sister from his world...
[ Is he babbling to distract from the Horrors? Maybe. Maybe not. He could be genuinely getting sidetracked by the thought... or quite possibly the next. ]
Do you want another bowl? Or something else to eat?
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Wolfwood stands, and sets his bowl down slowly on the nearest surface. This is Hell. Vash is wrong about that. ]
I want a drink. [ And to wake up... but he did that already, didn't he? This is reality now. This is home. He laughs it off, a humorless chuckle as he crosses the room to Vash's side and claps his friend on the shoulder. ] Please, Spikey, I'm beggin' you, no more. Don't tell me any more until I've got a drink in my hand and two more lined up behind it.
[ Knives, two Vashes, ghosts, resurrections... Next Vash is going to tell him that they're all actually robots, or that this is just a dream, and Wolfwood might actually lose it! ]
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That fact only becomes all the more apparent when Wolfwood gets up and proclaims a desire Vash understands all too well. They both could use several drinks at this point. Yet the thought momentarily leaves his mind entirely when Wolfwood comes over and sets a sturdy hand on his shoulder, pleading for no more information. Briefly Vash has to struggle with the desire to either reach up and grasp that warm hand in his own or to step forward and bury his face in Wolfwood's shoulder all over again.
He does neither, managing to suppress both urges and staying still while his expression flits to something that seems downright pained for the briefest of moments. ]
I'm sorry.
[ You deserve better than this.
He'd like to tell him that, but doesn't for fear of only overwhelming him further or getting into an unnecessary argument when he knows Wolfwood might be apt to disagree when it comes to topics of deserving anything. In that regard, they're alike.
He has no further mind-shattering news to give, only something that will be quietly devastating and he looks appropriately rueful about it. ]
I'm afraid alcohol is in quite a short supply here at this point. I do have some stashed away where I'm staying, but there's not a lot left. People have been trying to figure out how to make our own.
[ Supplies in general are dwindling and will only continue to do so. What little Vash has saved for a rainy day, he's more than happy to share with Wolfwood. It's just not enough to be anything like their usual nights out drinking until they pass out in a drunken haze. He wishes he had more to offer in any kind of little comfort, he—
... He does, doesn't he? ]
Oh! But I do have this.
[ He redirects his attention and fiddles with the pouch strapped to his thigh that's held in place by the harness around his waist with more little belts than is strictly necessary. (Some things about Vash just don't change.) What he retrieves from it he holds out to his friend: a pack of cigarettes from the brand Wolfwood usually smokes. There's a few cigarettes missing, but it's still mostly full. ]
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And okay, he's playing up his disappointment to make a joke of the situation (mostly so Vash doesn't worry), but the lack of booze is going to be a real problem soon. Without something to quiet his mind and keep the nightmares at bay, how's he going to sleep? He hadn't dared be anything but sober during the months he was back under Chapel's thumb, and the nights during that time had been bad. Worse than bad. A hour here, two there, and that's all the sleep he managed to snatch for himself, sometimes for weeks on end. In between 'jobs', when the ark was between cities and there was nobody to murder and rob on Knives's behalf, sometimes he could find a dark corner of the ship to lock himself away and scream and cry in peace, but for the most part, he just didn't sleep.
That first night after their rescue, once the talk of the arriving Earth ships and Knives's plan to destroy them had finally died down and he'd had the chance to close his eyes for the first time in months, he'd dared to pop one of the painkillers the doctor had offered him. Those ship folks didn't mess around with their drugs, he'd learned! That was the deepest, most dreamless sleep he'd ever had in his life. What he wouldn't give for a bottle of those pills now.
He'll just have to find himself a spot to curl up where he won't be a bother when he wakes in the night, he decides, as Vash apologizes. Someplace where he won't accidentally hurt anybody. Someplace where Knives won't get to see how weak he is.
He's just about to turn back for his empty bowl – if he can't sleep, he might as well glut himself! – when Vash digs into a bag at his side and holds up a pack of his brand of cigarettes. The instant Wolfwood recognizes the package, he snatches it out of Vash's hand with a gasp, holding it to his face and drawing in a deep breath to savor the aroma. ]
Where'd you find these?
[ This place doesn't have drinks, but they happen to sell his smokes? That seems unlikely as hell, but so does everything else that's happened today, so Wolfwood's just rolling with it. He's already tapping one out of the pack as he speaks, tucking it into the corner of his mouth and patting down his pockets for a lighter that has to be in there somewhere. ]
You're a lifesaver!
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The few bottles he has, he'll share when they get back to the church and there's really no question that Vash will bring Wolfwood back to their little home. They can convert the church's office into a private bedroom for him. At least until they find some place bigger. The church's small living space wasn't meant for three people, much less four. Keeping Wolfwood and Knives in close quarters also seems... very ill-advised. Just thinking about having to deal with that particular situation is already giving Vash a preemptive headache. There's no way he can leave either of them to live on their own though. He wants to have them both near him where he can see them alive and make sure they stay that way, utterly selfish though that may be. However, getting them to be civil with one another is going to be a struggle and a half if their encounter just now is anything to go by.
It'll be worth it if he can manage it. Somehow.
Offering the pack of smokes gets the desired reaction and Vash can't help but smile at it, secretly glad he hasn't been smoking that many of the cigarettes. As for how he got them, he can only shrug. ]
They were just there with me when I first arrived here.
[ Lying nearby where he woke up and it had felt like a punch to the gut seeing them. It's the only instance of seeing Wolfwood's particular brand about so he's figured it arrived with him in the same mysterious manner he had. Stranger things have happened since.
His pleasure doesn't last long when it becomes obvious Wolfwood intends to light a cigarette right there and then. A swift step forward has Vash in his friend's space and plucking the cigarette right from Wolfwood's mouth with two fingers and a stern protest. ]
No smoking inside! Wait until we step out.
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Right now, though? Right now his own pack of cigarettes is wet and muddy and encrusted with old dried blood, and dammit, he's going to smoke one of Vash's! ]
No way! I'll freeze out there!
[ He lunges for the stolen cigarette with his own two grasping fingers, this squabble reminding him of fighting over a meal with Vash the first time they'd been reunited, when his hair was long and he'd been calling himself Eriks. ]
Just let me have the one!
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