February 2024 Test Drive Meme

[singmod]

FEBRUARY 2024 TDM

PROMPT ONE — ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST: Yet another 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 — OF FAIR FORTUNE: After spell of bad luck, finally, the Interlopers find A Very Good (albeit slightly spooky) Boy.

PROMPT THREE — BAD PICKINGS: An error is made when foraging for mushrooms that have been altered by the Aurora makes for some interesting situations for the Interlopers.

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

WHEN: Mid-month.
WHERE: Milton, Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential animal attacks, potential injuries, potential cold injuries/hyperthermia risk.

'You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.'

It’s the last thing you hear. A dark, deep voice. Impossibly ancient. You feel afraid. Maybe you’re dreaming, maybe you’re wide awake. You saw the lights, and then your world went dark. But you hear it in the blackness, you won’t forget those words.

You awaken. You are not where you were before. It’s different for everyone, there doesn’t seem to be much of a pattern in where you find yourself. You may open your eyes to find yourself in a cold, dim and dank cabin. The air is stale, dust hangs in the rays of weak sunlight that shine through the tiny windows. Someone lived here once, but they aren’t to be found. You look around, it seems like no one has been here in several weeks, maybe longer. The fire is stone cold, the dishes in the sink are mouldy — it's possible the place has been ransacked, as if they've gone through the drawers and cupboards looking for something. 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. Interlopers who arrive during the month of February will find themselves especially likely of falling foul to accidental injuries and the like. It's as if the bad luck of finding yourself in this place only gets much worse. Maybe you get yourself horrendously more lost than you mean to, maybe you end up with a sprained wrist or ankle after a fall, torn clothing from fighting through the thicker parts of the wilderness.

But soon enough, you'll be able to find a path to town. A little more worse for wear, but alive. It’s here you may find someone else in the same boat as yourself, equally freezing and confused — battered from the journey. 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.

Or it’s possible you may come across someone else here. Someone who looks far better prepared to deal with the freezing cold and frozen landscape, 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. Civilization...?

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 then 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. Several dozen at most, but no more. Some of them will direct you to the Community Hall, tell you to head there — you've been expected.

There is a sombre mood to the town. Although you can't quite place why, maybe you should ask?

Towards the center of town, you’ll find the building from which the biggest of the smoke trail rises: a community hall, by the looks of it. 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, but looks sad. He smiles warmly despite the sadness in him, and with pity, ushering you in with haste.

“Another batch of poor souls from the wilds.” he nods gravely. No, this is not the first time that this has happened. “I am Methuselah. I welcome you Newcomer, although I’m sorry for how you’ve come to find yourself here. The lights are changing things, bringing more of you here. Come, we must get you warm and fed. Mother Nature has not been kind.”

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, and while it seems there's a few people already living here, there's enough space for those in need of them. There's 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 laden 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 perhaps a rare canister of coffee, along with soup and stew and trays of charred deer and rabbit meats, plus some grilled fish, instant mashed potatoes, and tinned vegetables. It’s very basic, but it’s hot and filling. A feast. The old man has been busy. And Methuselah will continue to busy himself, still; there is plenty to do. He will fetch blankets, tend to wounds, serve food and drinks. He does not have much time to talk. More and more people seem to be coming in from the cold. He will not stop to sit and rest until everyone is seen to, taking up a place by the fire to gaze silently into its flames. He is very troubled, thoughtful. Much has been happening. The others from town will eventually trail in too, to eat and warm themselves, and search among the new faces.

He will encourage newcomers to get warm and eat, and when they are ready to — they can explore the town and find one of the many empty homes to call their own. He will not speak much, his mood is... low, mournful. but perhaps you might be able to get some answers from those fellow arrivals who’ve been in this place for some time now.

This time, if he is approached, particularly by those who have been in Milton for some time, he will frown in thought. He is… considering something. Finally, he will speak:

“I had hoped that the secret cache I and your fellow Newcomers had found two months past would be enough until the spring comes.” He hesitates for a moment, his gaze moving to one of the many windows of the Community Hall. “If she ever arrives, that is.”

He doesn’t believe it will.

“More and more of you come. Life will continue to get harder with the numbers rising.” Methuselah explains. “Milton is but one town, and the way out to the south is blocked.”

He means the road out — the one that follows out of town, past the gas station and through the mountains. The tunneled road ends there, caved in with snow and stone. There is no way out that way. Methuselah is quiet for a few moments.

“... There must be another way out. For all of our sakes. It must be found."

OF FAIR FORTUNE

WHEN: The month of February.
WHERE: Milton Outskirts, Milton area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: otherworldly animal;

The Interlopers have discovered that it is not best to trust the canines in this world. The wolves and volatile, aggressive — prone to attacking the town, people. There has even been an instance of a dog leading Interlopers off the beaten track some months ago, into trips and falls and all sorts of mischief. To come across any sort of dog these days would draw suspicion, perhaps even aggression from Interlopers.

And certainly, coming across this particular dog is enough to turn plenty around and start heading in the opposite direction.

There is something…. Otherworldly about this dog. In terms of breed, one might recognise it to look a great deal like an Old English Sheepdog — but far bigger and hardier. It almost looks as if moss and vines are matted in its long fur, which seems ridiculous — but it’s true enough. The dog does not bark, but instead will stop and look at you silently when you come across one another. If approached, it will not run off, but it does not want to be petted and prefers to keep a respectable distance between you and it.

Then, it will turn to look in one direction and begin heading that way. It looks as if it wants to take you somewhere, but it won’t run off for you to catch up. It keeps to your side, silent and steady as you head through the snow, the woods. Wherever you’re going, there seems to be no rush in getting there.

It’s a little unnerving: where did this dog come from? Why does it look so… strange? Where is it going? Where is it taking you? But even with these questions, it doesn’t seem like you’ll find much in terms of answers, not at first.

Soon enough, you’ll find it. It’s different for everyone, but it seems like it all has some recurring theme. Perhaps out in the cold wilds of the Northern Territories, you’re in desperate need of shelter or warmth — you and the dog will find yourselves facing an abandoned cabin, a place of safety from the cold, perhaps with warmer clothing within. Or perhaps the dog may lead you to some secret stash: a metal cache half-hidden in the snow, a small stone cairn — with vital loot hidden within: matches, flares, maybe even food. It may even lead you to foragable foods: mushrooms, berries or of the like — all safe to consume.

Whatever the strange dog leads you to, it is a fortune. A small one, but a fortune nonetheless. It seems as if it wanted to bring you to something to aid you in your time here. Upon finding whatever it is the dog leads you to, the dog disappears — never to be seen again.

BAD PICKINGS

WHEN: Mid-month onwards for a few weeks.
WHERE: The entirety of the Milton area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: altered food/foraged foods; drugs/hallucinogens / negative hallucinogenic trips; severely altered/warped moods; temporary amnesia; personality switches; loss of senses

The Northern Territories may be harsh, difficult conditions to survive in, but certainly not impossible. There is an abundance of wildlife, hardy enough to withstand the weather — even in the extreme, unpredictable times such as these. Foraging will soon come to be a staple for those stuck here in this world, and is just as important as hunting down any deer or rabbit. Flora is not only useful in terms of sustenance, but in its use in medicines and tinctures.

Mushrooms can be found here and there in particular areas: taking advantage of the wet, rotten wood of downed trees, or nestled in the sheltered undergrowth of the more densely wooded areas where it’s a little more suitable for fungi to grow. But not even the flora of this world is safe following the recent Auroras. The world is changing, and for the next few weeks — foraged mushrooms will have some… interesting effects, when consumed.

Interlopers that come across these mushrooms in the wilds will find themselves compelled to pick and eat these mushrooms right away. They're perfectly fine to eat raw, just more enjoyable to eat once cooked.

The effects of the mushrooms will last between eight hours to a full day, depending on how much was consumed. Nothing can be done to alleviate symptoms. You will feel incredibly hungover the day after the effects have subsided, and feel completely fine after that. The Aurora’s influence on mushrooms is only temporary, and the mushrooms will cease their effects after a few weeks.

Reishi mushrooms This mushroom will temporarily take away one of your five senses: sight, touch, smell, taste or hearing. You may find yourself feeling completely numb to touch; or unable to hear or see anything.

Oyster mushrooms Eating one of these mushrooms will give you temporary amnesia. You may forget yourself, things about your life, even your own name. Or maybe you will forget those around you. Or perhaps both.

Black Morel Eating this mushroom will seem to switch your personality to its complete opposite. Introverted sorts will become extroverted, those prone to anger will become more calm and chilled out, cheerful sorts will become more morose — and vice-versa.

Chanterelles Your mood is lifted and you become more cheerful and affectionate with those around you. You may even become more enamoured with the next person you happen to meet, regardless of your feelings towards them previously or your own orientation/attractions.

Amethyst Laccaria There is nothing supernatural or strange that happens when this mushroom is consumed. You just have a super bad hallucinogenic trip of your own horrible making. This mushroom is literally a nightmare. Sorry about that.

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.

OF FAIR FORTUNE

1. Please Do Not Pet That Dog.

BAD PICKINGS

1. Interlopers that pick a variety of the mushrooms and cook them together to eat will suffer the effects of whichever mushroom was in the largest quantity.

2. The mushrooms are fine to eat raw, and characters will feel compelled to eat them raw.

TALES FROM THE NORTHERN TERRITORIES NEWSLETTER

Comments

Logan | XMCU

[lasttoolong]

METHUSELAH'S FEAST
COMMUNITY HALL
cw: injury, degenerative illness

While it's not the first time Logan's woken up in a snow-choked forest in the middle of nowhere, it's the first time -- at least, that he can remember -- that he's truly felt the cold. He'd never noticed before the way his body had protected him from the weather, the subtleties of his healing factor keeping him upright and moving through the deep freeze, numbing his skin, pushing blood through his frostbitten extremities. He'd just accepted it. Moved on to whatever he needed to do. Survived, against all odds, again and again. It's what he's best at.

What he was best at.

Now, though, he's all too aware of the role his mutant physiology played -- because it's gone.

At first, he thought he'd been mistaken, confused from whatever had knocked him out hard enough to dump him somewhere in the rural backwoods he used to know so well, like a bad joke. He'd tried to ignore it, right up until the point where he'd popped his claws for the first time -- and stopped, staring, once he'd pulled them back in, at the thin streams of blood running down his fingers from the wounds in his knuckles. The wounds that weren't healing.

He's a hulking shape in the corner of Methuselah's hall. He accepts a roll of bandages from the old man, ignoring his look of quiet pity, so he can clean and bind up his knuckles. The wounds ache, but it's not the pain, but a far deeper fear that occupies Logan's mind, keeping him silent and watchful when he pragmatically accepts food and drink and sits to watch the residents and other newcomers, trying to figure out what kind of shit he's ended up in this time.

BAD PICKINGS
FOREST
cw: degenerative illness

The little township isn't unfamiliar. Logan's spent plenty of time in places like it over the years, frontier toeholds edging out into the Canadian wilderness and backwoods logging towns dying a slow death. They're the places he retreats to when he's had his fill of humanity and needs somewhere to drink where nobody's going to ask him any stupid questions. If it wasn't for the talk of Interlopers and other worlds, and the concerning lack of his mutant powers, he'd assume he's just spent a little too much time at the bottom of a bottle and ended up in one of his old haunts.

Even so, he's ready to make himself useful, mostly because it means he's less likely to be get dragged into a conversation if he's already busy. It also gives him something to think about besides the bandages around his hands and the ways the lack of healing factor is starting to grate at him. He can put himself to work hunting and skinning for the pot, trying to ignore the way he has to stop frequently to breathe and spit blood onto the snow.

It means he can at least test the remains of his enhanced senses. His nose is dulled, but not gone. Hunkered down, he sniffs out the mushrooms before he finds them, brushing off the frost for the early crop.

Anyone trying to sneak up on him won't succeed, though he doesn't turn around. Just twists the mushroom in his fingers, breath smoking on the cold air, before he addresses his audience:

"Feelin' hungry?"

WILDCARD / OOC

[ OOC: Also happy to have wildcards! I haven't decided whether to throw in Wolverine from 616 or the XMCU yet so this could go either way, we're playing fast and loose with canon details here ok ;-; ]

METHUSELAH'S FEAST

[webshootings]

Peter's been sneaking peeks at the huge man in the corner for a little while now. He doesn't recognize him but it's hard to miss a guy that looks like he'd grab your legs and snap them like a wishbone.

Peter quietly tells himself that he will be doing everything he can to stay on this guy's good side. He looks injured, the bandages being wrapped haphazardly around his knuckles in a way that makes Peter frown.

That's when he realizes he's outright staring and he shakes himself, pushing away from his spot across the hall. He grabs a glass of water and decides to just meet the brick fortress of a man head on. He comes over, stands in front of him and offers him the glass of water.

"My name's Peter and I'll be your bartender today," he says, amusement in his voice before he shrugs. "Not much of a bartender since this is just water."

[lasttoolong]

"No shit, Peter."

He's in a bad mood, which is not Peter's fault, but Logan's not going to curb his growls just because the kid is trying to be helpful. He does glance up, however, scowling at him as he winds the bandage around his hand. The blood on his knuckles has dried in dull streaks. After a beat, something behind his gaze softens slightly. He nods at the table in front of him, indicating that Peter can set down his glass.

"Thanks." He studies the kid. "Don't tell me this is a goddamn dry town."

[webshootings]

He's had plenty of people yell and growl and hiss and try and hit him in his life so he's not too upset. It happens. And he knows that just getting to this place?

It's kind of world rocking.

"I don't think so but I don't think alcohol's really readily available either. Can't just walk down the street to a liquor store."

Because they just didn't exist here. Not in a way that would work for Logan.

"A lot of stuff is kind of falling to pieces here. I don't know if anyone's taken to making booze. Not really my thing."

[lasttoolong]

"Great," Logan grunts, deeply unimpressed with this news. He pulls the bandage tight around his knuckles and tucks the end to keep it secure. It's not great, but it'll do for now, until he can figure out what the fuck is wrong with his healing factor.

That done, he reaches for the glass of water and eyes it skeptically, then turns the same look on Peter.

"So what is your thing, kid? Welcome wagon?"

[webshootings]

"No, not really. I just got here myself. I just know that when I got here, I kind of needed something to drink."

He'd needed a lot more than that but a drink and someone to tell him what the hell was going on had been at the top of the list.

"I'm not a really good welcome wagon. I don't come with cookies or anything. Sorry. Your hands okay?"

[lasttoolong]

"They're fine," Logan replies, looking at one of the hands in question. He flexes his fingers experimentally, testing the tightness of the bandages and the painful pull of the wounds between his knuckles. There's a little of the familiar burn of healing, but not a lot. Or maybe he's just imagining it.

The reminder has him glancing back up at Peter.

"Everyone here.. they're all human?" It might be a weird question anywhere else, but here -- it feels like it's worth checking.

the feast —

[chuju]

The wave of new arrivals feels almost surreal. It's hard to believe Daisy's been in this place long enough, and yet here they are, marking the days like clockwork. According to everything she's learned in the past weeks, this is how it works — new people arrive, waking up in the cold with no memory of how they got here, and two months later, another group finds themselves in the same situation. Lather, rinse, repeat. And still, they don't have any better idea of what is causing this.

It's strange, and frustrating, and horrifying. So, of course, she has to try to do her part to "welcome" the newcomers. As if any of them are truly welcome here when that thing is just waiting to pick them all off.

With a worn purple backpack hanging off one shoulder and a slightly hideous, oversized plaid coat wrapped around her, she moves through the Community Center, offering help where she can, usually in the form of warm drink refills and the like. But when she gets to the big guy in the corner, she frowns at the state of his hands and gestures toward them.

"Can I help you with those?" she asks carefully and as much without judgment as possible. Not do you need help because so many men rarely want to admit such a thing, and everyone here is already on edge or in shock.

[lasttoolong]

Compared to the other new arrivals, Logan has something of an advantage when it comes to accepting his new circumstances. Things could be worse, after all -- have been worse. At least he's been welcomed with food and a warm place to rest rather than a cage and guns pointed at his face, rather than some mutie-hating scumbag waiting to kick him down just for the fun of it. For now, anyway. There's a reason he's got his back to the wall and an eye on the door. He's learned to be wary.

He doesn't recognise the girl approaching, but that's no surprise. The thing he doesn't like is the way he can't quite hear her heartbeat, can't quite catch her scent in the heavy air of the room and the smells of the cooking food and other bodies around them. His senses are dulled, cutting down on the ways he's read the moods of everyone around him for most of his life. It's like trying to negotiate a conversation with a blindfold on, and he doesn't like it.

Glancing up at her, he catches the no on his tongue before it can escape. If he's going to figure out what's going on, he needs to talk to people. It's unsettling the way that thought occurs to him in Scott's voice.

"Just make it tight," he huffs instead, lifting his hand to offer it out to her. If she wants to tie a bandage in exchange for a little information, he'll let her. "You know what's goin' on around here?"

[chuju]

Things could be worse is a perspective Daisy knows all too well, though it's been hard to keep that perspective when each new day in this frozen hellscape reminds her of everything she's lost. Her friends, her family, the cause she'd been willing to give her life for...

And her powers. It feels like part of her nervous system has been ripped out, that extra sense such a vital part of who she is that it aches to be without it. She is far from helpless, years of SHIELD training saw to that, but she feels like she is, and the struggle to overcome that feeling would be so easy to lose if she let her guard down.

Setting her backpack at her feet, she takes hold of the bandage and starts to wrap it around his hand with practiced ease, not hesitating to make it as tight as the wounds require. She doesn't ask about them yet, but she notes how unusual they are.

"As much as anyone else," she answers almost casually, though her expression remains serious. "I arrived with the last group two months ago."

[lasttoolong]

She clearly knows what she's doing, Logan has to give her that. He lets her keep hold of his hand as she works -- heavier than she's used to, maybe, fingers soft and strangely unscarred besides the wounds themselves. His gaze lingers on her face, noting the small tells of a woman used to stepping up where she's needed, and maybe not taking as much care of herself as she should be as a result.

"The last group?" He repeats, frowning. He's had some of the scope of it from Methuselah, but the whole concept of someone -- something -- gathering people together is unsettling. It speaks to the kinds of bullshit that usually ends in blood and death, in Logan's experience. Leaning forward a little over the table, he drops his voice, enough to make their conversation somewhat more private.

"What the hell is goin' on here?"

[chuju]

Taking care of herself is always an afterthought. Daisy Johnson is the typical example of a hero: everyone else comes first, and her own needs are only met out of necessity. She has plenty of experience patching herself up, though — it comes with the territory when your power is just as destructive to your own body.

"I wish I could tell you," she says, the words coming out in a sigh. Exhaustion, both emotional and physical, clings to her like a second skin. "We've been trying to piece things together, but there's still a lot we don't know. How or why we're here, for starters. But we do know a new group arrives every other month, practically like clockwork. There's no pattern to who is brought here, though. Different ages, different backgrounds, even different worlds."

Yes, the brand of weird she's used to dealing with includes different worlds, which she discusses with the same ease as one might talk about the weather.

Feast (lmk if you'd like me to match style)

[abandonhumanity]

[A familiar sight. Eren has been watching Logan. The injuries on his hands could be from anything, but Eren wonders...

[Eren watches until he's able to make eye contact with Logan. In a show of commiseration, perhaps, he lifts his own right hand, similarly bandaged and bloodied. Look! You match.]

Something got ahold of you?

that's fine!

[lasttoolong]

[ Busy getting stuck into his food, Logan doesn't glance up until the motion catches his attention. He's visibly unimpressed with the sight of the kid's hand, eyebrows lifted a little as if to silently ask what he's supposed to be looking at. ]

What got ahold of me ain't here. [ It's a long way and decades behind him by now. He studies the other guy as he reaches for his mug of coffee. ] Bite like that, you might want to get checked out. Doesn't seem like the kinda place to have somethin' like that turn bad.

[abandonhumanity]

[That obvious that it's a bite, huh? From beneath the bandages, the ragged edges of torn flesh are still visible. Even so:]

It's been tended to.

Your injury looks recent. [What got ahold of him isn't here? That answer presents a contradiction. So, Eren's curiosity only compounds.]

[lasttoolong]

[ It's less a deduction than a pretty good guess. Not many injuries would call for that kind of bandaging, and he's already heard some tales about the wildlife. Logan studies the guy over the rim of his coffee mug, swigs down a mouthful, then sets it aside again. ]

Old wound got reopened. [ He's used to being evasive about it; not everyone wants to know there's a mutant in their midst. Still, he thinks about it, then adds: ]

Usually heals better. Feels like that's not gonna work here.

[abandonhumanity]

[There are options to weigh here. Eren could offer his commiseration; maybe this man would be more willing to talk about his ability if he knew that Eren had one too, and similar at that. It's good to know what the people here are capable of - or, at least, what they have the potential for, should powers return. Eren hasn't let go of the idea that his is gone yet. He's not much without it.

[Then again, he doesn't want to show all of his cards; can't afford to. The business he left behind in his world still needs tending to, and he doesn't want anyone thinking they can interfere.

[Powers - and having them taken - isn't uncommon here. There's little risk if he doesn't divulge all the details...]

I know what you mean. [He gestures again with his hand.] It's an ability you're talking about, right? Or one you're lacking.

Methuselah's Feast

[wolf_lover]

Funnily enough, Connor's father Bigby was also a grumpy, tough brunette who was far older than he looked, had enhanced senses, liked cheap smokes, didn't have the best social skills, and was associated with a particular animal. Small world. Connor was sitting nearby devouring some food and slowly dethawing after being dumped in the middle of the woods in a tux, which was definitely not snow appropriate attire.

He glanced over at Logan and noted the fact the man was injured. "What happened to you? Did you punch a moose out there or something?" .....It should also have been noted Connor's social skills also weren't always the best on occasion. Blame spending a good portion of his time as a wolf pup isolated away from most people growing up.

[lasttoolong]

The food is the simple and hearty kind that Logan prefers, especially when he can have enough to fuel the endless furnace of his healing factor. Might not be so much of a problem now, but he's been fighting through the snow all morning, so he's on his third bowl of stew when he feels a curious gaze tilted his way. He doesn't glance up, not wanting to encourage it.

"If I punched out anythin', bub," he finds himself saying nevertheless, "you'd know about it."

He raises a bandaged fist to make the point clear and pops all three claws, snikt, realising too late what a stupid idea that is. The adamantium blades shear through the fabric and gleam in the warm light. With a grimace, Logan pulls them back in, a wet metal-on-metal noise, and looks balefully at the blood seeping into the holed bandages.

"Goddamn it. Gotta stop doin' that."

[wolf_lover]

Connor just sat there and blinked for a few moments as it registered with him that he'd just seen three fucking claws pop out of this guy's hands. Connor had seen a lot of weird shit in his life but that was still up there, especially with how strange this whole situation already was. Once he'd picked his jaw up off the table, he managed to start talking again. "Okay. I'm caught somewhere between thinking that's really cool and also dude, what the fuck? Uh, exactly how and why do you have metal claws?"

Those seemed like highly impractical weapons from Connor's POV even if they did seem rather cool. Also the chances of this dude ending up with infected wounds in his hands were pretty damn high, especially since it wasn't like those things were coming out of a natural sheathe at the end of digits the way they did on most of nature's critters.

BAD PICKINGS

[heartofthedream]

[ Iiiiii could not resist! ]


It's good that she isn't trying to sneak up on him, then.

Jean would like to say she tried not to get her hopes up after hearing about someone with far too familiar markers in town. She'd say she's half-convincing herself not to hope because she's heard about the timelines and universes crossing (but when did her heart ever listen? When was hope ever truly not one of the best answers?). This would be so much easier without the screaming silence that feels like it's drowning her. She keeps trying to reach out a hand and slamming it into a glass wall—nothingness, endless nothingness.

She's studying his back. The mushroom he's twisting.

"Maybe in a minute." Her voice is deceptively calm.
More announcement of herself than answer.




She'd say she's convincing herself
not to hope for too much

(but when did her heart ever listen).

[lasttoolong]

There's still enough of his senses left to let him know when someone has arrived, though it's less than he's used to, like trying to hunt through a forest fire, the air choked and thick. He doesn't know she's there until she's already there, and even then he can only tell enough to know she's a stranger and more nervous than she's letting on.

"Ain't like this will do much to help anyway," he mutters, turning a bit to glance over his shoulder at his new companion -- at which point he freezes in place, eyes widening.

The red hair. Those eyes. She's unfamiliar, not the woman he knows, but it's close. Too close for the old scars across his broken heart. And it should be impossible, except it's not, he already knows that all too well.

"Do I.." His voice is a raw scrape, barely above a whisper. Hoping. Not wanting to hope. "Do I know you?"

[heartofthedream]

Logan turns, and she can watch the shock dart across his face. The way his gaze darts across her, lingering and scattershot. Searching for something he’s not finding, and yet. Those blue eyes. The sudden, ripped open, reaching she can see.

(But can’t feel it fill up her mind.
Even as she reaches so much harder for him.)

“Yes—“ But it’s already there in the emerald of her eyes. A subtle but unhidden sweep of sadness, sitting side-by-side with something rueful. Tiredly patient. As though the universe tearing them apart and twisting them up—the both of them and the X-Men—is not something new. And yet, she’d still let herself reach for it.

Against the glass wall.
Against the weird new universe.

For the briar patch of his mind; the one that almost only ever truly lets her in. That she carried more memories of the life of than her own now. Still, she doesn't let her shoulders droop, and her lips turn the ghost of a curve. Not quite a smile. It’s more of the movement of lips that is a worn, tattered secret they can share. Mirror reflections of each other across that line. “—and no.”

“Starcrossed universes.”

Beat. "Maybe timelines, too."

Jean wants sourly to be able to feel the rough, cynical pessimism of his thoughts and that deep-buried but never truly extinguished kernel of hope, of faith underneath it all. To be able to rest her hand on even just his shoulder and feel something stable that isn’t the ground under her feet.

But she said it. He’s Logan,
But he’s not her Logan.

sorry for the wait!!

[lasttoolong]

Of course, he thinks. Of course it's her. He knew, the moment he turned around. People like the two of them, they're not allowed peace for very long -- not allowed to just have something end, even if it was a bad ending.

She doesn't smell the same or look quite the same, but that soft smile, the wry edge to her words is all Jean. Logan's on his feet again -- taller, as it turns out, than she might be used to -- before he realises he's going to stand up, half in awe and half scared of what this means.

It takes him a minute to process her words. Starcrossed universes.

"Jean," he breathes, just to say it. Snow crunches under his feet as he approaches her, hand lifting so he can touch his cold fingertips to her cheek.

No worries. <3 Just glad to have more of your boy!

[heartofthedream]

Stars. The standing puts a more glaring slip of difference, doesn't it?

Jean can't think on it long, though, because he's walking toward her, reaching out, almost as if in a daze, as though it's almost more need than a decision that he's moving toward her. His fingers raised to touch her cheek with a gentleness few people ever expect from Logan, and she finally moved. But not away. She raised a hand to curl light over the back of his, collapsing his hand softly until the curve of his palm was full against her cheek.

It's a simple movement. At least deceptively too simple.
In it there is no conflict (of loyalties; or morals),
no trepidation (of his feelings; or hers).

They'd burned so many of those bridges.

And the look of pain in those eyes—even just slightly different as they are; a different height to look into the eyes of—is stronger than the rest of the questions. The number of differences. She knows the look of this pain on him. It's written in her name. (Too, too often in her blood.) "Something happened to me."

It's a statement, not a question.
And it's not about her,
but the other-her.

(Give me a P,
Pat Sayjack.)