December 2023 Test Drive Meme

[singmod]

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

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

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.

MISTY FALLS CAVE

1. Tools found would be basic survival/camping tools one might expect: knives, hand axes, rope, handsaws, torches, batteries, etc.

SERPENT'S BREATH

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.

TALES FROM THE NORTHERN TERRITORIES NEWSLETTER

Comments

[m1895]

Vasiliy, [ he says, softly. ] Call me Vasiliy.

[ Even an hour ago he never would have imagined he'd be inviting someone of such status to address him so personally—because even excluding his patronymic feels almost diminutive-personal given the individual in question—but in this moment he's decidedly not a commander, or a Hero of the Soviet Union, or a cosmonaut. He's just scared and seeking out closeness. He's a patient.

And besides—he wants to be addressed as just Konstantin. ]

34. How about you?

[ Anything to keep him talking. ]

[sputnik]

[ Just Vasiliy, then. Some part of him is deeply pleased at the allowance of familiarity — in this moment, wrapped up in the coils of his own ache and sickness, any sense of closeness feels like a lifeline. ]

39. Old, I know. Greying in places. [ The man breathes another puff of soft laughter inbetween the slow mumble of his exhausted words, managing to actually sound amused; he very much knows he's not "old", or at least doesn't associate the age with the term itself. Doesn't think of himself as old, is the way to put it. Konstantin enjoys his age, enjoys where he's at. (The grey is charming. He looks mature, seasoned, handsome in a different way than that of a "young" man. People trust him.)

....He was enjoying it. Things have changed. Can't think about that now. Instead, he puts focus into complimenting someone else — a tendency he falls into completely naturally by now, and spurned on ever that much more by his current state, dripping with sickness, mind spinning loose and strange and sloppy. The way he murmurs it sounds like he's impressed, warm, clearly meant complimentary, and he's even smiling against Vasiliy's shoulder as his head tilts towards it again— ]

You have such a youthful face, Comrade. I would have thought early 20's.

konstantin!!!!!! ohhhh my god

[m1895]

[ Vasiliy's heart catches in his throat at the compliment, at the little smile he feels blossom out against his skin—in another context, such as out drinking, it would be a clear attempt to flirt. In this one, though, it's a patient dizzy with blood loss trying to find some degree of human connection to reassure himself.

He tries to remind himself of that, to stay grounded in reality, but it's hard with the warm weight of the other's body resting against his side, with his head on his shoulder. He really, really hopes he isn't blushing. He's never been one to blush, but his face certainly feels warm.

This is incredibly unbecoming. He just hopes the cosmonaut named Konstantin doesn't remember it in the morning. Assuming he pulls through. ]

I—thank you. I've been told I look young for my age.

[ And he does, maybe mid-to-late twenties—but early twenties is undeniably a purposeful exaggeration. ]

39 isn't old.

[ And the greys intermingling with much darker hair at his temples are incredibly handsome, though he keeps that part to himself. ]

just a mildly inappropriately-affectionate brotherly comradely compliment to this man he just met!!!

[sputnik]

[ Tomorrow, if he does remember this, he'll feel a sweep of shame about it. Probably. Maybe.

(Konstantin has never been particularly shameful about things like this. Granted, he wouldn't normally be quite this.... extreme about it. There is a filter, a social awareness of what's appropriate (especially towards men; oh, he can toe the line into being flirtatious with them too, it's just that there are certain norms even a charming flirty Hero of the Soviet Union doesn't upset too much). ....Perhaps it's just that in this moment, no such filter exists. Not while he's so sick and strange, head spinning, body aching, shivering. He's spilling compliments to a man too easily; it feels safe, comfortable, good.)

He's silly, sick, stupid, it doesn't mean anything.

(But it does, of course. This man just saved his life. Brought a bleeding stranger into his home, into his own bed, gave him blankets and warmth and a body to move closer to. Konstantin wants him to know his gratitude. Maybe in this state, it manifests as loving on his neck and complimenting his face a little too heavily!) ]

You'll age so well. Everyone will be jealous of that eternally handsome face.

[ Another soft, breathy laugh, mixed with a slice of pain when the muscles of his diaphragm tighten even just so subtly enough to allow the sound to happen. He winces in the next moment, closes his eyes. Still, he continues to be a bit playful— ]

If I make it through the night, I'll never complain about my age again. Or the grey.

oh you know how it is... guys being comrades..

[m1895]

[ If he wasn't blushing before, he certainly is now. Maybe, if he's lucky, Konstantin won't remember this, or if he does, he'll dismiss it as an effect of the admittedly suffocating warmth he has to maintain to get the other's body temperature up.

He averts eye contact, smiles a little. How can he not, in a situation so unreal it feels like it has to be a dream? Quite possibly the most attractive man he's ever seen, even with blood staining his chin and his face pale with how much he's lost, leaning against him, nuzzling his neck, telling him how eternally handsome he is—a cosmonaut, someone who went to space and was awarded Hero of the Soviet Union, saying this to him, a 5'7 EMT-Basic. It just doesn't feel real. ]

You don't have to say that. I'll still help you. And you're going to make it through the night. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. [ Lightly, with the faintest trace of levity in a voice that remains hushed and (hopefully) soothing—disguising, at least superficially, a very serious reassurance—: ] I know what I'm doing. I've stabilized people who have lost a lot more blood than you.

comrade-in-arms.... (Kostya, literally squirming into this man's arms,)

[sputnik]

[ Admittedly, he's used to making people flushed — it's part of it, of who and what he is — and it would be a lie to claim that he doesn't enjoy it. Women and men alike become flushed by him. In this moment it's something familiar, maybe even something that feels safe; he feels the corners of his mouth twitching into another smile, one aimed up at Vasiliy for a moment, even as the other man looks away. This, too, tickles him, pleases him; he's flustered the EMT a little.

And he would be content to let that playfulness remain, to say a few silly things, to slip further into the murky lull of his ill state. But then Vasiliy Yegorovich says that — and it's a reminder of the severity of everything. Konstantin pauses, smile held in place and then slowly fading away.

'I'm not going to let anything happen to you.'

'I know what I'm doing.'

Reassurances. To a stranger that is in such a horrific state, one who might seem like he could die from it. Once again, Konstantin thinks how this man is doing so much for him. More than most anyone would. He doesn't know him. He could be dangerous, yet he lets him into his home, his bed. He vows to get him through the night.

(He is dangerous. He's a monster, home to a monstrous thing.) Konstantin's mouth tightens, lips forming a soft frown. He's so tired. His eyes are so heavy, and he feels warmer now, and his breathing is no longer rushed and shallow; he wants to sleep, more than anything. But if he falls asleep, what will happen to Vasiliy? ]

....I'm sorry for all of this, Comrade. [ In a beat, Konstantin goes from dazed and playful to serious, though his voice still drags with exhaustion, slurred at the edges. He's fighting to stay awake with everything he has. ] You don't have to stay... here, tonight. With me.

[ In this room, this bed. (He shouldn't, he should stay away from him. How does he explain it without exposing it? The danger of this?) ]

It's all right.... I'm warmer now. You don't have to.

[m1895]

[ The cosmonaut is noble, dismissing his own discomfort and apologizing for the imposition even when he's only barely clawing his way from the edge of death. He's different, special, and even in his sickness there's a glow he emits, one Vasiliy wants to bask in forever. Even if his rather exceptional patient didn't need to be monitored, he... probably wouldn't go sleep on the couch.

It's been so long since he's been touched. Since he's been called Comrade. He needs this man to make it through the night. ]

Don't apologize. I want to. You need to be monitored.

[ He pauses, lightly resting the backs of his fingers on Konstantin's forehead to test his temperature. His skin has lost most of its chill, although he's still a little cool, enough so that the mylar blanket should stay. ]

You're warm enough to sleep. How does your stomach feel?

[sputnik]

[ He should protest more. He should leave (...attempt to). This is— dangerous.

His rational mind fights while the rest of him wants nothing more than to succumb. Once again, he tries, feebly, to reach out for the creature, to make some sort of contact. Towards the end, he was able to... guide it, control it, for a brief moment. They were able to function as one entity.

But the thought of doing that again couldn't feel further away. Doing that had taken up some last remaining strength; it was difficult, a particular strain that he was never meant to experience. And now.... he can't feel it at all, this thing within him, at least not on any level other than physically. He might almost assume it were dead, if not for the movements he'd felt earlier, its soft squirm.

....Maybe it's so injured it can barely do anything. Surely it won't emerge from him any time soon. (As if he could ever predict what it might do. Everything is different now.)

His dark eyes look back up as the other man gently touches his fingers to the skin of his forehead. Even that much physical contact is welcomed; Konstantin's eyelids lull in response, body going limp again, tension easing out of it. He wants to sleep. Maybe just for an hour or two. Just for a little. He can force himself awake again (or so he thinks.) ]

A little sore, but it's all right for now. I don't think I'll be sick again. [ Throwing up blood, he means, at least for the moment. Things are settling, the warmth that surrounds him like a balm to the aches of his body. His eyes are fluttering, so heavy, so weak. He feels himself exhaling, slowly. ]

Thank you, Comrade.... Maybe just for a moment, I'll sleep....

[m1895]

[ The cosmonaut lets out a quiet sigh, like a dog letting go of tension in the moment before it lies down to nap, and Vasiliy finds himself feeling more relieved than he's sure the mother of any colicking infant could ever have felt. His pain's subsided enough for him to grow tired in a way that isn't from hypoxia. If this was life-threatening in the immediate, he would still be in severe pain—their environment seems to have healed him.

Another Russian. Another Soviet, someone from his own country, a cosmonaut, someone who knows what it means to serve—a communist— the prospect is overwhelming, and something he'll face tomorrow. Right now he's tired, too, and he spends maybe another half-hour awake before he succumbs to it, too warm and too disbelieving to really get comfortable any sooner than that.

But the fatigue does win out eventually, and he apparently does fall asleep, because he finds himself waking up in the next moment, very warm and very, very comfortable, almost enough to tempt him to just... not open his eyes, and stay in bed, a very alien thought for him.

The previous night comes back to him by the time he registers the warmth against the side of his neck, the weight across his chest: the cosmonaut with internal bleeding. He opens his eyes and finds he isn't able to fully turn his head in his patient's direction; Konstantin's own head would get in the way, being that he's asleep with his face pressed into Vasiliy's neck, a well-muscled arm slung over his chest, more-or-less adhered to his side. Like they're lovers.

Immediately, he feels sick with... dread, or embarrassment, or dread at impending embarrassment. Maybe all three, because eventually Konstantin the cosmonaut will need to wake up, and they'll have to acknowledge this. The fact that his own face is now burning doesn't help.

It feels indecent, utterly indecent, moreso considering that the man probably doesn't realize how attractive Vasiliy finds him. He wouldn't be comfortable lying like this if he did. Is he going to assume he's... predatory, if he comes to that realization, for not breaking this up? Is the best course of action to move him now? He really needs all of the sleep he can get, and moving him will undoubtedly wake him up. Shit.

Shit.

Vasiliy decides on the coward's path and closes his eyes again, lying still, trying to breathe evenly against the firm weight on his chest. It feels a bit like a glimpse into a reality he should never, ever have been allowed to look at, but he doesn't get any further with the thought, because Konstantin's (beautifully) long eyelashes are fluttering against his skin a moment later and he's lifting his face with a quiet groan.

Vasiliy opens his eyes again, looks over at him with evident concern, trying to convince himself that if he just... acts as though there's nothing unusual about this, nothing uncomfortable about this, there won't be. ]

Good morning. How do you feel?

[sputnik]

[ He doesn't wake up. The sleep he falls into is like a thick liquid, all-encompassing, warm and safe and heavy. His body is completely limp with it, muscles loose, comfortable. At some point, his sleep becomes a state of full unconsciousness; the creature doesn't even need to knock him out in order to make its nervous exit. He won't stir, won't resist. He doesn't know it's happening.

That bliss lasts for as long as it can. Time passes, he can't know how much; is it morning? His eyes flutter open; he's pressed against warm skin, and for a lingering, dreamlike moment, he stays like that. Konstantin's nose nudges into the scent of a person; he isn't alone. He's holding onto someone, feels the solid security of a body, smaller-framed than his own.

Slowly, he lifts his head a little, allowing a quiet groan as morning brings a certain reality, a certain clarity. He's no longer trembling uncontrollably, but as he blinks through his own haze, his heart skips an odd beat.

....A man. Memory creeps in strangely, like pieces of someone else's dream. Konstantin slowly slides his arm off of Vasiliy's body, freeing the other of his hold, and moves to sit up, giving another groan as his head spins, a little. He's a bit alarmed, though not for the reason he should be, yet. In just a few seconds, he'll realise he tastes the residue deep in the back of his throat of that slimy, slithering thing. ]

I— [ He pauses again, eyes widening as he realises... he was draped across the other man, holding onto him. He can still smell him in his head, still recall the sensation of his lips pressed to warm skin. Discomfort and some embarrassment comes in, slow and strange, but Konstantin manages to speak calmly. ]

You were here? All night?

[ Oh, the answer's too obvious. ]

[m1895]

Yes.

[ Where else would he be? Where else could he ever dream of being?

The man sits up, withdrawing from him, and Vasiliy's chest feels light, the side of his neck cold and empty. Even despite the embarrassment (and dread), it had been quite comfortable and pleasant, physically speaking, and he feels the absence like a sudden void. It's been a very, very long time since another man rested against him like that or slung an arm over his chest—even if this is just a strange pantomime of what those things usually mean, what he's used to them meaning, it was... nice, being touched like that. Being held. Even in his guilt he can acknowledge that it's a human need, to just be touched.

He should probably say some word of explanation. It seems like it's maybe expected, or necessary in this particular social situation. ]

You were really cold last night. You lost a lot of blood. And you had to be monitored.

[sputnik]

[ It's been... a very long time for him, too. The very last person to hold him was Tatiana Yurievna — something desperate and fast, something grounding. He'd needed it, blood rushing hot, pulse quick, close to losing himself. She'd calmed him down, arms wrapped around him; he felt like a child. It was tender in its own way. It was kind. He'd wept.

This was its own tenderness. Slow and lulled, heart not pounding with upset but soothed into slow, heavy beats. It's more difficult for him to associate it with lover, only because he isn't so experienced with that. But of course he knows what it seems like, to be this close to another person (and there's another layer of strangeness to that concept — another man.)

He isn't flinching away from Vasiliy, but just sits there like that, upright in the EMT's bed, gently coaxing the assortment of blankets down from his torso, to rest at his lap. ]

Forgive me.

[ He says, the only thing he knows to say. This was... his fault, his weakness; he'd clung to him, forced himself onto this person in the throes of his own strangeness. (He remembers, hazily, smiling at Vasiliy, head against his shoulder and then turning to look up at him, tickled by the flush at his cheeks.) Konstantin feels another sweep of embarrassment (and through it all, the peculiar awareness of his own feeling of loss and coldness; his body much prefers being tucked in close under the covers to a fellow human being.)

His hands move to his own body, rest awkwardly in his lap, shoulders tensing, but not out of any ill feeling towards the man beside him, no, there's that sense of... quiet awe that he'd felt before, when Vasiliy had crouched down to lift him up from the snow. He stayed with him. Monitoring him for the entire night, allowing himself to be....held onto. It must have been a nightmare for him.

He'd done that, for him?

He needs to say more, knows he does, but it's hard to find the right words. Konstantin's dark eyes drop for a moment, looking away, down to his hands, and it's then that he.... feels it, tastes it, something he can never quite grow accustomed to. A slickness in the back of his throat. Konstantin's eyes slowly widen as his throat ripples with a sudden involuntary convulsion, and a hand flies up to it, fingers pressing there. At once, his heart is quaking with anxiety. The— the creature.... came out.....? Did it? His eyes are saucer-wide; he's sitting there staring straight ahead for a long, surreal moment, looking completely stricken. ]

[m1895]

[ All at once his patient's eyes widen and his throat convulses with what reads, to Vasiliy, as a gag, followed by a hand flying to the site of the disturbance. Immediately, the awkwardness is forgotten; he rises to his knees on the mattress and braces a hand on the man's shoulder. ]

Easy, easy. Are you going to be sick?

[ He quickly scans the room—there's the basin of water he keeps on the bedside table in a pantomime of what he remembers from a similar plumbing situation in childhood, but nothing empty. He'll just need to bend over the edge of the bed, but Vasiliy isn't terribly concerned with that right now. ]

[sputnik]

[ There's much to say, to— to think about, but abruptly, this takes precedence. His horror comes in strangely; this isn't.... this isn't normal. He has no memory of the creature leaving him, no memory of anything. Just like how he can't feel any mental tether to it... no fluttering waves of its presence, he lacks any access to its memories.

Ordinarily, that would be a mercy. He never wanted to remember the things it'd done, the screams, the terror, the sensation of an alien mouth ripping through human meat. (But he'd deserved to remember, of course; it was part of it. Of his punishment.)

Now, the inability to recall anything is a horror of its own. Maybe he's wrong, maybe it... hadn't come out. If it had, then Vasiliy would be.....

....but the EMT said he stayed here all night. He hadn't left. There was no time in which he would be safe from it.

His eyes eyes snap over to Vasiliy as the other man leans in to him again, places a hand against his shoulder. And despite the lingering awkwardness, the gesture is a comfort. ]

I—

[ This is going to sound bizarre, he knows it is, but his head turns towards the younger, eyes searching the soft brown pair with a desperation. ]

Did anything happen to me last night? Was I.... did I get sick? Did you feel me getting sick?

[m1895]

[ Embarrassment. It's a very human emotion, one that even cosmonauts feel. He's in an unfamiliar place, a guest in someone's home, weak and utterly dependent like a newborn kitten. He's never treated a cosmonaut before, or a Hero of the Soviet Union, but he's treated plenty of other grown men, and he knows it's difficult, degrading to be so helpless, to rely on another person for every little thing. This, he figures, is similar, a fear that his humiliation will be complete, that he made a mess for his host to clean up.

It's reasonable to feel but entirely unfounded, of course. He's sick, and moreover, he served his country in ways Vasiliy never did. Who cares if he throws up on the sheets? ]

Not at all. You slept through the night.

cw: some.... alien slime. goo

[sputnik]

[ It makes no sense. When the creature... leaves him, it's a horrific, violent process. His body spasms, jerks as though possessed, throat convulsing; Vasiliy would have felt that, surely. It would've waken him.

Konstantin's still searching the other man's eyes with an intensity, as though trying to find any evidence of a truth beneath his claims — but why would he lie about it...? No, if he'd witnessed it, surely the horror would show.

....Did it really even exit his body? Konstantin looks down himself again, hands coming to his abdomen, fingers carefully pressing against himself, experimentally. Some part of him is aware his behaviour must seem bizarre, but he can't waste time worrying about that, he has to... find some way to understand the situation, to make sense of things. There's a soft gasp of discomfort and ache when the pads of his fingers push against a certain spot, and he quickly removes his hands from himself, only to start looking around the bed. Konstantin's hand pats against the blankets, lifts one and peers inside, then he's sliding off of the bed itself, wide-eyed. Still searching, for what, he isn't even fully sure. Evidence of— of anything. He should stay calm, be more calmed than this, but he's fully expecting to find blood, viscera, somewhere.

That's when his hand brushes something slick and he stares down at it. It's odourless, but unpleasant, the alien substance: a sort of mucous-like texture that he knows all too-well. His throat gives a slight unvoluntary heave; remnants of it are still somewhat fresh within his esophagus. The creature exudes this so as not to harm him when it enters and exits, and often drips with wet, a squelching, slimy thing that crawls more than walks.

It was out. It was out, and didn't harm Vasiliy for some reason, even though he was right there, and Konstantin doesn't know what this means. He only knows something is wrong, and he's gathering up the blanket that he can now see glistens with a trail of slime. Stuffing it into his arms, he stumbles from the bed, ignoring the dizzy rush that comes from suddenly getting up; he can barely walk but he's trying, one shoulder tipping against the nearest wall. He tries to force himself to stand upright, a cold sweat at his brow. ]

Forgive me, I have to leave— I have to go—!

a sludge if you will

[m1895]

[ What?

Vasiliy's eyes widen in surprise in the split second his patient leaps out of the bed and starts searching around and then under it for... something—then scoops up the comforter in his arms and exclaims that he has to go, slumping against the wall as he tries to make a frantic exit.

What the hell? It has to be some kind of disorientation; he's seen similar behavior in people coming out of unconsciousness, people who insist they have to leave the ambulance and try to free themselves of the straps keeping them secure on the gurney. He's going to seriously hurt himself like this; he clearly doesn't have the strength and energy needed to actually make his exit.

Vasiliy leaps up, quickly bridging the distance between him and restraining him with a gentle grasp on his upper arm—not that he's in a state to go much further anyway. ]

Comrade, Comrade. Calm down. Do you know where you are?

cw: bad worm reactions and some more blood,

[sputnik]

[ He knows how this looks, seems. Rude at the very least (a no less damnable thing to be perceived as, especially given who he is) and mentally unstable at the very worst (an especially damnable thing for a cosmonaut to be perceived as — not that he knows Vasiliy has learned of what he is by the picture.) Still, it gives him no pleasure to lose his composure and behave like a madman, but he can't.... stay here. This is too dangerous — what was he even thinking, allowing himself to stay in someone's personal home over night? Never mind that he's sick, can barely think straight at all; now there's a lapse in his fever-dream haze and he can see that he's made a mistake. Something is wrong, and there's no one to monitor him and the creature now. He doesn't know what it might do.

Vasiliy's there, blocking off his exit around the bed, and Konstantin stares at him, one arm bent and pressed to the wall for support, the other clutching the blanket to his heaving chest. The other man grasps his arm, gently, but there's no mistaking it; he means to keep him from leaving. A flicker of kneejerk discomfort feels like alarm deep within him, and Konstantin's nostrils flare slightly, jaw tensing. ]

Canada — apparently. [ He still doesn't know how that can be possible. ] I know where I am. I know I need to leave. I'm—

[ There's a sudden sharp gasp of pain deep in his abdomen, and Konstantin staggers again, breath a wheezing sound as the pain almost knocks him sideways. The creature— it's spasming, reacting to the spikes in his upset, the adrenaline coursing through him. Konstantin's eyes go wide as he drops the blanket to the floor, both arms wrapping around his middle as he leans forwards — then cries out as another wave of pain sends him reeling. With it, blood splatters from his shaking mouth, coughed down onto the blanket at his feet. ]

[m1895]

[ As he feared it would, getting up so suddenly and the flurry of motion that followed do nothing for his internal state of disrepair. He cries out and doubles over, the abdominal pain undoubtedly making its return well-known; Vasiliy squeezes his arm now, trying to provide some measure of comfort as he retches up more blood. Maybe there's still a tear, a fresh wound marinating in his own stomach acid while it tries to heal. If there was a full puncture or internal bleeding, he wouldn't have survived through the night.

His voice softens. ]

Easy, easy. Don't move so suddenly. You're still hurt. Do you think you can make it back to bed, Comrade? I should take another look at you.

[sputnik]

No!

[ He barks the word a bit more harshly than he'd ordinarily mean to, trying to turn his body away from the other man in one rough movement, despite the comfort that human touch does bring (despite the fact that this man has offered him more human comfort than he's had in a very long time). He can't, can't be near him. The creature's awake, active, agitated.... If it didn't feed from Vasiliy last night for... whatever reason, then it may be hungry now.

He has a choice. He is not a monster. ]

You don't understand, I— [ He struggles to speak through the slick wet of his own mouth, blood dripping down his chin. Konstantin unwraps one arm from himself, plants his palm against the wall again, trying to steady himself. But the pain is intense, relentless, as the creature convulses inside of him. ]

There's something wrong with me! I shouldn't be here. I don't want to hurt you.

[m1895]

[ 'There's something wrong with me. I shouldn't be here.'

It resonates, deeply. He's thought the same thing, even if hurting other people—at least, based on the fact that he was? is? a dead man—wasn't the major concern. He's not sure what he means by that, but he's certainly not just going to back down and leave a patient, a Hero of the Soviet Union, to suffer alone like that. Konstantin is under his care. He does, however, respect the evident desire to not be touched, withdrawing his bare hand. ]

There's nothing wrong with you. People come here from different circumstances. You are not the only person who's died and come back into this town. You won't hurt me. Let's go lie down, Konstantin. You're not well enough to be moving around like this.

[sputnik]

[ No, he wants to say again, no, this isn't that, there's something— wrong with him, any moment he could hurt this man.

...But something gives him a momentary pause, enough to have him looking back over his shoulder at Vasiliy. 'You are not the only person who's died and come back into this town.'

There have been... others? Something in his eyes betrays his curiosity by that thought — a sort of horror that swells in the dark browns of them, and yet a desperation to know more — but for the moment, something else takes precedence, and he's shaking his head, trying to turn away from Vasiliy again, shuddering softly, skin rippling with the waves of sickness, pain. ]

You don't understand, Comrade. I haven't... let you understand. I shouldn't have come here. To your home.

[ He grimaces, straining against himself. He doesn't know what to say, do. ]

I have a... condition. Something very dangerous. Something I can't control.

[m1895]

[ That gives him pause, sends a small chill of dread through his core. He doesn't recognize the time period of the uniform in the state portrait exactly, but the tracksuit says he's "modern" enough. He thinks of the wet hot blood on his bare palms and between his fingers as he wiped it away from the site of the gunshot, dripping onto his clothes as he carried him. There are no antiretrovirals here.

He yields to the man's assertions this time, at least enough to hear him, and quietly issues the single most pressing question: ]

Is it bloodborne?

[sputnik]

[ Konstantin pauses at that, body freezing — as much as it can against the little tremours that have him shuddering, as he draws in soft hisses of breath. Immediately, he's shaking his head, even if it's slow, the movement dizzying. No, no, nothing like that, he can't let Vasiliy carry that fear— ]

No, it's not.... something like that. I don't think it could infect someone else.

[ ...He doesn't know anything about the creature as a certainty; the thing adapts, changes, who knows what it might be capable of? He doesn't think it could infect someone else, only because it hasn't so far. But why would it need to? It only requires him to live. ]

It's... like a parasite. It lives inside of me. [ Telling someone is a huge risk, for several reasons, and Konstantin winces through grit teeth against another wave of pain, before he continues. Perhaps Vasiliy really will think he's insane; that may be the best outcome, actually. He'd let this madman leave his home, encourage him to. Konstantin doesn't know what he'll do from there, has no plan this time, but he knows he can't be around people. ]

It's not of Earth.

[m1895]

[ Vasiliy stares for a long moment, blinking, processing. An alien parasite. It's not...impossible, there are all kinds of measures in place to keep people from bringing back diseases from space, and there was water or something found on Mars, single celled organisms... and he's heard a lot of strange stories here, seen strange things, met someone from another world who travelled space. ]

An alien.

[ Nothing like the Americans' E.T.—something far more primitive. A digestive parasite like the ones bothering people in disprivileged countries. It's about as believable as a hypothetical multicellular alien life form could be, and the severe, unending pain and vomiting and fever seem to corroborate it—maybe the gunshot wound did fully recover. Maybe the blood is coming from severe irritation. And the gunshot itself... ]

Is that why you were... shot...