singillatim | See the sun set;

Entry tags:

See the sun set;

Character Name: Heartman + you
Who: TDM continuation + a few open prompts re: prelude
What: The prelude dream doesn't bode well for someone like Heartman
When: Night of Jan 1st
Where: Community hall, Outside

Content Warnings: TBD, will update as needed

i. The Dream;
Heartman's a very light sleeper. Doing everything in 20 minute cycles means his body's circadian rhythm is severely off, if nonexistent at this point. There's no Beach to go to, no wandering black sand and smelling the salt and decomposing fish, following familiar footsteps until he tires himself out. It's just him.

When he does sleep, his dreams are never. It's usually the same dream, one Heartman stopped dreading once he knew the scientific reason but still finds deeply unpleasant. He should be glad--is glad--that he only suffers a mild case of DOOMS. He lacks the homicidal tendencies for one, the suicidal behaviour is thankfully non existent. The dreams, though. The nightmares are relentless, sharp and vivid but never in colour.

This dream is not the same.

Heartman wakes with a gasp in the community hall, hand flying to his chest out of habit--no, his heart is fine, it's still fine here--and knocking the sleeping person next to him in his hurried attempt to rise. His brow furrows, determined, panting from the adrenaline as he scrambles up and shoots to the closest scrap of paper on a table, knocking over a chair in his haste to reach for his glasses at the same time.

"It's different--" His lips frown deeply, immediately twitch into a half smile in a temporary moment of sheer scientific excitement, and his face eventually settles on a very stern sort of look, lips parted as he scribbles madly.

"This... is... different."

ii. Outside;

He can't go back to sleep. Time seems to stretch on here, elongated and like a giraffe neck in comparison to the nice, neat, short and compartmentalized moments he's so used to. He's left rudderless, aimless without his research, and while he's already started to shift his work to solving this puzzle and trying not to focus too much on the one back home in order to retain his sanity here, it's difficult.

This dream, the wolves and the voice, even the word interloper is both a blessing and a curse. Heartman decides to go for a walk, bundling up as tightly as possible and throwing a blanket around his shoulders for good measure. The air is crisp, reminiscent of the mountain air swirling around his lab, but it has far more of a bite. Temperature, perhaps. Or the sense of foreboding that new dream has weighted him down with has clouded his judgement.

If someone else is taking a night walk, Heartman will politely raise his hand in greeting, sticking to the town itself and never straying too far from the community hall.

He does nip out a second time, this time to watch the sun rise, bundled just as tightly. For all of the unanswered questions he has, Heartman still has time to enjoy the natural beauty of it all. There's no Timefall to worry about. Just sheer, natural beauty.

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He should have thought about what would happen when he slept. Heartman is a man of science, and logic, and math--all three things that should theoretically account for things like hindsight. The truth of the matter is much more simple: Heartman hasn't thought about sleep, let alone his sleeping habits in relation to other people.

Why would he? There are more interesting things than the concept of slumber. For one, he has more than 20 minutes in the world of the living, although he's not entirely convinced this entire town isn't some elaborate Beach. For another, the small town of Milton has left him with unfathomable questions and a complete lack of technology with which to test. It would be aggravating if it didn't distract him from what he could be doing back home.

Eventually he does sleep, nestled in the community hall with others. Drifting off is easy and Heartman has a knack for it, most likely due to the fact that he's used to being dead 60 times a day. The quiet of the building at night helps as well, and while the wooden structure is a far cry from his lab it's still warm and dry and that's really all that matters.

The night terror comes quickly. It's always the same, the dread shooting through him, paralyzing him like a heart attack. Heartman is on the beach--it always starts with the Beach, bleak and grayscale, the smell of rotting animals waxing and waning with every lap of waves but remaining just as constant as the smell of salt. The feeling of something on his skin, goosebumps, a physical response to the impending sense of doom. Heartman twitches in his sleep as he walks forward.

He's looking for something. Someone. Footsteps. Whose? He can't remember. It used to matter. It doesn't now, not with the storming sky, not with the crack of thunder from the clouds, not with that sense of wrongness.

Heartman stops wandering, looking up at a singular source of colour: a beautiful rainbow, lacking blue and upside down. Stunning. Ominous. When he looks down, his tennis shoes are covered in black, sticky tar. He tries to lift his foot but a singular hand rises out of the pool grabs his ankle, forcing him to stay in place. Heartman struggles as the sky opens up, rain pouring down as a second hand emerges to grab his other leg, tar bubbling up as the pool by his feet widens. A third hand, a fourth, and Heartman cries out as he feels himself sinking, unable to to escape as tar slicked bodies emerge to try to drag him down. The hands pull and Heartman struggles, rain stinging his skin like acid as he tries desperately to fight, pulling himself out of the sinking tar, now waist deep and clawing desperately at the sandy beach among the dead crabs and fish.

He hears an explosion, sees a flash of white from the ocean, and cries out once the light gets so bright he can't see anything else. He's pulled under by the hands--by the people--and all he can do is scream.

Edited 2024-01-02 18:10 (UTC)

It's foolish to wander on his own. Heartman logically knows that--his mind is nothing but science and math, logic comes easy--it's just that this scenario is fundamentally different: he has time. A blessing and a curse, all wrapped up in one. The first day he stays in the community hall, quietly awed by how quickly others mobilize to help those in need, touched by humanity's quiet need to survive, silently terrified that his heart will give out at any moment. It doesn't. He still has issues, of course--but he's not dying. A definite plus, exciting if only for the endless questions that bubble up in his brain.

On the second day Heartman decides to test things. His heart has healed, but by how much? He's never been a physical person in his life, so he makes sure to stick by the town itself as he tries to find his new limits, moving as far as he can within reason. It's hard work, it's cold work--his circulation is poor so he bundles up extra warm, even going so far as to throw a blanket over his shoulders. It doesn't do much for how he's sweating, given the physical exertion as he tests his body's limits, but it's warm.

By the time he gets to the edge of town Heartman reaches a very simple conclusion: he is absolutely not cut out for this. Even between moments of resting he's absolutely exhausted, and the igloo he spots causes a relief that blossoms inside him and gives him that one last kick to push himself. The tall man crawls in without a single ounce of shame or thought that it might be someone else's, seeing it as nothing but blessed sanctuary.

Heartman remains completely bundled. He has a habit of sleeping like corpse for obvious reasons: he simply closes his eyes and just sort of falls like he did back home, knocking his chin a bit on the densely packed snow below him. It barely registers, and he's out in mere minutes.

The moment he hits the 10 minute mark the night terror start: his endless search on the beach, the grayness of it all, the smell of rotten fish and beached whales and salt filling his nostrils, pitch black hands pulling him down to drown in black tar as the world begins to end. Always the same dream, always the same blind terror. By minute 15 he's screaming.

Edited 2024-01-02 20:34 (UTC)

Heartman's had time to adjust, although he's unsure if he'll ever adjust to the state of this place and it's lack of technology. No chiral network, which issomething he could scrape by without, sure, but there isn't a singular glimpse of anything even remotely resembling a DVD player.

Not that Heartman can consume much media. He has time now but now he's facing a different problem. Surviving. Heartman never had a problem with food or shelter holed up in his lab in the snow, but this is place is a bit different. And speaking of different...

Heartman is not the most physical person, but he can provide things like coffee in addition to his mind. It's early, the sunrise painting the snow brilliantly warm shades of pink when the tall man leaves the community hall with purpose, bundled up fully and with a blanket over his shoulders for good measure. In his hands are two cups of coffee, warm enough that the steam rises from the small tin containers.

"Constable Fraser," he greets the man after finishing his beeline towards him. "How long have you been sleeping under a pile of sticks?"

He doesn't mean anything by it other than being blunt, handing a cup over to him and flashing a brief but warm smile. He owes the other man quite a lot. The least he can do is bring him coffee around breakfast.

Edited 2024-01-02 18:23 (UTC)

[ From here ]

While that is true-- [ another not-quite half-smile as Heartman tries to figure out what to do with his face for a brief second ] --there's a certain excitement to positing theories, isn't there? Nothing disproved until proven.

[ Heartman's willing to bet it's a pattern. Time will tell on this one, and it seems like he has quite a lot of time on his hands now, which means he will most likely be insufferable as he tries to puzzle this out. ]

[ From here ]

Oh. Heartman's brows furrow, eyes scanning Kate's body language analytically before reaching the conclusion that she looks incredibly distressed. Why is beyond him, but--

Oh. Heartman's mouth opens, eyes widening slightly, back still perfectly straight but his hands jutting out at an angle that doesn't knock his AED, a clearly learned habit. First thing's first. He waves a finger.

"You are not responsible for the mistakes of others, and you are certainly not responsible for incidents beyond your control. I hardly think an apology is an order," he reassures, mouth pressing into a thin, if determined smile. "I'm the one who should apologize, it's been... quite some time since I've talked to anyone like you."

He's observant. He's seen Kate scuttling around, trying to help: her insistence that Heartman be careful because he's a new arrival is proof. He clears his throat.

"As fragmented as the United Cities of America is, what's more important is that we look to the future and try to fix what we can. Much like what you seem to already be doing here for everyone, miss..."

Oh!

"I'm afraid I don't know your name."

Edited 2024-01-02 19:53 (UTC)

I-I guess? But if you put it that way we could just throw out any crazy theory. And it doesn't even matter how often people get here. Just how, right?

[ continued from here ]

"Oh, your bodily fluids won't be nessecary at this time," Heartman says immediately, "but your need for currency, however relevant to the situation it may be, is very good to know. Just a little further, if you would, please--"

They're close to a nearby cabin, Heartman struggling once they get to the front steps.

"The kitchen table," he instructs between grunts, "may I ask where you're from?"

He makes his usual supply drop to the community center and then heads back out to his igloo. It's the same trudge every day, the same trek around the forest to forage and check his traps or out to the lake to fish, then back to his igloo to sit for a spell until it's time to watch the stars. It's a lonely existence, but it's what he can handle for the time being.

The scream makes his blood run cold. Wolf attack? Some sort of otherworldly creature descending upon the already haggard residents? He moves cautiously in the direction of the screaming, but the second he realizes it's coming from the direction of his ice hut he starts to run. (It's not the most elegant of sprints, but only can only do so much in caribou boots on the snow.)

The screaming's not just around his ice hut, it's in his ice hut. Keeping his hand on his knife he crouches down and pulls back the hanging hide over his door, finding a significant lack of blood or angry animals. It's just a man, and he's...asleep?

"Christ," he mutters. The knife's tucked away and he crawls forward to try and rouse him from this night terror he appears to be having. "Time to wake now. Come on now, old boy, wake up."

"What, you didn't wake up here with your pack missing and your pockets emptied?" Complaint colours his tone, though it's nothing too serious. "Besides, if I'm not upfront with that people get the idea that they can just start taking things."

He's definitely keeping an eye on Heartman now, a little more worried the more he seems to strain to keep up. He can't quite help it; a hand reaches out to steady the man as he shifts to shoulder more of the burden before ascending the steps.

"I'm from America, the East Coast. Capital, around the DC ruins. 2278." He says it so matter-of-factly, not just the area with increasing specificity in case Heartman's familiar, but the year as well. He knows it's not the same for everyone, so it becomes just as much a part of where he's from as the physical location. "Dogmeat, get the door."

Handy that the mutt can do that, isn't it.

Guess who was also out walking and looked a little like something that came out of some weird dream? That was right, it was Rorschach. As usual, he was out patrolling, though he'd been extremely rattled after that nightmare he'd experienced. He needed to get out of the house he was staying in and get some physical activity in before he completely lost it.

He was on a nearby rooftop, blending mostly into the dark of night thanks to the shade of his clothes. His mind kept going back to the dream, most especially that voice calling out a name. She had called him Walter. No one, not a single person here, knew of the name he'd once gone by. That by itself was jarring enough that he wouldn't be returning to sleep anytime soon.

He followed Heartman, going from rooftop to rooftop. He didn't make any attempt to hide himself though he also didn't make himself known either. Eventually, he came back down to Earth. He jumped down and landed about ten feet away from the man after he'd gotten about halfway down the house, simply leaping the rest of the distance. Once he was there, he didn't move, just looking at someone whom he presumed had to be new in town. This close up, the most unique thing about him was the mask he worse. Stark white with black blots that constantly moved on it, it covered his whole head.

The message board is rudimentary but beautiful in its simplicity, Heartman has to admit. It's a far cry from a BBS system but he still finds a certain sense of wonder in it, every letter carefully (or messily) written and placed on the board a symbol of hope. Despite everything, humans will persevere to communicate. People will connect. It's utterly beautiful. The fact that he sees a doctor offering his services certainly doesn't help the strange feeling of pride that washes over him, smiling softly to himself. They'll make it. He has confidence.

Heartman prioritizes accordingly: he's a fresh arrival, and while he'd like to test his limits with the strange half-cure his heart has been given he'd be foolish to just wander out into the wilderness to see how far he can push himself with out at least some sort of baseline. He still has his AED strapped to his chest despite it not working, half out of paranoia and half because he's used to it being there. It's covered by the many bulky layers he's swaddled himself in including a warm blanket around his shoulders as he makes his way to through the village. Once he reaches the appropriate address he walks right in, getting a solid six steps in before realizing it's absolutely appalling manners, holding up his hands as he realizes what he's done half a second too late.

"Oh--terribly sorry, I should have knocked--"

Masks aren't unheard of in his world--he's yet to see Die-Hardman's face--but one that swirls about is certainly fascinating. He's a little distracted trying to figure out the logistics before he realizes they've both been staring at each other.

Ah.

Right. He should start a conversation. Poor manners on his part. Heartman raises a hand in a very slight wave.

"Hello. Um....You can't sleep either?"

"Good morning, Heartman."

He doesn't seem at all perturbed by the description of his lean-to as a pile of sticks. It is, after all, even if only in the loosest possible description. He'd covered the branches with a layer of thickly-needled cedar branches, and it's kept off the worst of the cold and the wind. Now he gestures to the small fire he'd made and a somewhat worn blanket available to use as a seat. "Oh, a few nights, I suppose."

A few nights out here, a few nights in the extra room so kindly offered to him by Lieutenant Noonien-Singh. The cold doesn't seem to bother him, bundled as he is now in a winter coat and mittens, the ever-present Stetson tucked securely on his dark hair. Nearby, he's staked a few rabbit skins to dry, with the intent of making them into mittens and mufflers.

He reaches for the proffered cup of coffee with a nod. "Thank you kindly."

"You're....welcome," Heartman says, mostly because he's stunned into silence as Fraser happily accepts the coffee.

This is certainly a new experience. He had something to say but it's gone now, scattered to the wind as he takes in the rabbit furs, the small fire. Fraser is nothing if not prepared. It's quite admirable. He and Sam would get along marvelously, he thinks, if Sam decided to say more than three or four sentences at a time.

"You seem to be faring well?" That's Heartman for 'Are you good, my guy?'

"Not quite," Heartman murmurs to himself about the stranger's location. There's no explanation but it seems to mean something to Heartman, who's finally at the door and--oh, there's a dog, that's helpful--doesn't say much until the body is on the kitchen table. He sighs heavily, wiping the sweat off his brow with a fingerless gloved hand (not ideal) and leaning against the furniture with his other hand, finally addressing the younger man.

"Thank you," he says, giving him another thumbs up. The guy's earned two from doing most of the lifting. "Ehm--by America, do you mean the United Cities?"

Drowning is horrific, he imagines. Drowning in black tar, being dragged down by others--by people, ghosts and strands of memories--that's something on another level Heartman thinks he'll never quite get over. Even in his anguish, he always wonders the same thing: one of those hands dragging him down belonging to those tar covered humans, is one of them his wife? Does one of them belong to his daughter?

The moment a hand is placed on him he jolts upright as if being shocked by electricity, agonzing cry cutting off completely as he wakes like a child startled out of a crying tantrum. His heart is beating rapidly, tears rolling down his cheeks, but he's completely calm, surprised as he realizes someone's woken him up. He looks at the other, owlish through his glasses, and he hesitates only for a brief moment before his gaze lifts up to the domed ceiling and then back.

"Have I... intruded on your dwelling?"

Oh dear.

It could. It would be... foolish of me to rule anything out. [ Heartman's voice is pleasant--he's enjoying himself, chatting about what ifs and maybes. ]

Have you had experience with traveling like you have here? Waking up somewhere unfamiliar?

By now, it no longer fazes Goodsir very much to have people simply walk in—his offer for help was public, after all. Besides which, the habits of Rorschach and Edward Kenway have now largely inured him to surprises.

"It's quite all right," Goodsir says, with only a little sigh. "Harry Goodsir, at your service. You're new."

"I am," Heartman confirms with a small, terse smile. Sociability, while delightful, often eludes him. Goodsir doesn't seem phased by his lack of manners, so he gently presses on.

"They call me Heartman. I'm in need of--" he pauses briefly, gesturing with his hands. "--Perhaps assistance isn't the right word. I'd be very interested in an answer to a question, among a few other things. Is there any one here to your knowledge that has come to this place and been healed?"

No. Well...no. Not really. Have you?

[ continued from here ]

"Mr. Gibson," Heartman echoes the other's name quietly to memorize it, nodding to himself as he shakes the other's hand. Strong grip, firm grip, just like he used to back in the day. Connection. That's what's needed here: connection, curiousity, hope.

He's not the best at reading facial expressions, but he can at least confidentially tell when someone is curious.

"Yes," he says, the beginning of the word drawn out like it's two syllables. His gaze drops for a fraction of a second before looking back at Billy. "I spend most of my time searching for answers. And I haven't ruled out the possibility that this...place... May be one of them. A shared Beach."

It's difficult to tell if his smile is pained or not, but his lips do twist upwards. He's gleaned that there doesn't seem to be anyone else from his world fairly quickly--he'd recognize them instantly--and he's not sure he's explaining himself properly. A litmus test, then:

"Are you familiar with the United Cities of America?"

"Oh, I'm fine," Fraser promises him, settling back with the coffee. Nearby, Diefenbaker shifts a little, curling into a tighter ball of ivory-colored fur. "Just fine."

The drink steams as he lifts it for a sip, as he casts his gaze over the pink- and orange-lit dawn world. If anything, he looks wholly at peace, despite the shadows of the dream still lingering in the back of his mind... along with his father's words. As I listen to my heartbeat, I release the fear inside me, little by little.

He looks over at Heartman, eyebrows raised over the loaned mug. "Is there something I can help you with?"

She's already awake. She'd hoped she'd be too tired to dream, she's been so busy with the feast. Maybe just once she'd get a night of quiet, dark sleep. But no. She's awake. The flashing of light still burning in her mind's eye, the strange, groggy feeling seems to bleed into waking. She lies in her cot under blankets and deer fur, trying to even out her breathing and still her panicked heart — listening to the sounds of sleep around her.

There's sounds. Not the usual sounds of sleep. Not the sighs and snores and grumbles that usually come in the dead of night. Something else, something far more panicked — a cry. She sits up in her cot, looking around in the dim light. It takes her a moment to identify it: one of the newer Interlopers she thinks. Plenty of them stay in the Community Hall at first until they find somewhere else to stay.

(She never does. Four months and she watches plenty of the others come and go.)

Quietly, she gets up. Padding over until she finds the right cot, something painful twanging in her chest. Oh, no—

"... Mr Heartman—?" He's asleep, dreaming she guesses. Brow pinching in a mix of quiet horror and concern, she gently leans over and reaches for him. Her hand finds his shoulder, grips a fraction.

"Hey, Mr Heartman." she speaks softly, but firmly. "Wake up, you're dreaming. It's just a bad dream. You're okay. You're okay."

[ Continued from here ]

Despite the situation, Heartman smiles. It's gentle but firm, reaching up to let his fingers brush against Fraser's own. The man has quite a firm grip, warm and helpful. Good. He trusts him.

"I'm not afraid," he says softly, nodding. "I've been... dead for quite some time, it feels. I'm rather looking forward to it. My only regret is my unfinished research--thank you for taking care of it, sir."

Time, at least, appears constant in this plane. Renny's accustomed to days in the wilderness, away from human measures of time's passage, and so it isn't difficult for him to grasp when the sun sets and rises. He is no longer on Toril - there's no guarantee the gods can hear him from here - but sometimes the act of prayer is about comfort, the rebuilding of a routine to set a stable foundation for a new journey, even if the words fall upon deaf ears.

The second time Heartman takes his walk, he'll see a small man - no taller than three feet, bundled in a too-large bright red jacket, sleeves pushed up - tuning his lyre. The sky's beginning to turn, a promise of dawn. Renny, spotting a fellow walker, raises his hand.

"Morning!" he says, cheerful even this early. "Are you waiting for the sunrise, too?"

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Page 1 of 9

See the sun set;

closed to Kate;

shortly after arrivals, closed to Crozier;

closed to Fraser;

TDM > Levi

TDM > Kate

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TDM > Lone Wanderer

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ii

closed to Goodsir;

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now with the right account

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TDM > Billy

no subject

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TDM > Fraser

ii