extinction is the rule

[singmod]

SEPTEMBER 2023 EVENT

PROMPT ONE — THE AURORA: AFTERSHOCKS: The Aurora comes, bringing chaos to the town of Milton. Electronics go haywire, and the Interlopers learn of the original citizens of Milton.

PROMPT TWO — THE HOUR OF THE WOLF: Tainted by the Aurora and attracted to the noise of people inhabiting the town, several packs of wolves descend upon Milton.

PROMPT THREE — IT SPEAKS: A voice comes to the Interlopers, one that knows them and their darkest fears and deepest insecurities, persuading them to fade into the Long Dark by any means necessary.

THE AURORA: AFTERSHOCKS

WHEN: Sporadic nights over the next month.
WHERE: Milton area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural horror; ‘ghost’ horror; hauntings; death of npcs in various ways including suicide, murder or exposure to elements.

After the feast, and making sure the newcomers to Milton are seen to, Methuselah packs up. He will explain to others that while he will return to check in, he is no resident of Milton and will not stay. He is a nomad, something he has been all his life. He lives in nature. That is where he belongs. But he does assure that people are welcome to remain sheltered in the Hall if they wish to. And sure enough, the old man leaves, wishing the newcomers well. He can still be found out in the wilderness, and will shelter and feed those out exploring should they come across him.

And so the days and nights of this world roll on. The initial time of those who have come to be stranded in this world is unsettled. The weather is always changing, even if it remains bitterly cold. On some nights throughout the next month, however, the snow clouds clear and Interlopers are given a rare, clear night. At first, it’s beautiful: without the light pollution, all the stars can be seen, the moon casts an eerie glow upon the snow in the dead silence of the night. One might even say there is a kind of peace that comes with it all. And for some of these evenings, they pass by: uneventful and silent — the long darkness of an endless winter’s night.

But on others, it isn’t so uneventful. The noise starts: faint at first, but then growing louder. Something in the heavens above. An ethereal, high-pitched chorus of sounds difficult to place. There’s a kind of electrical buzzing with it all, a low, endless hum punctuated with cracks and pops that echo. The sky is alive with sound, louder than anyone could ever expect it to. With it comes the swirling streaking of colour against the inky black of night, growing brighter and brighter as the night goes on: The Aurora has come.

And it isn’t the sky that comes to life too: the whole town does too. Streetlights, illuminating the town’s roads; lights in stores and homes will come alive, buzzing and flickering often. Previously abandoned cars will turn on, their headlights blaring but faltering. Electronics that had previously seemed broken flick on — and whilst there are no broadcasts available on televisions, and the radio waves only drone on in static, both only occasionally blaring standard emergency broadcasts. Any computers and phones will turn on, but will have no internet or reception. Instead, Interlopers may find texts and emails — many of them unsent. The everyday lives of their users stored within, now readable.

But there’s something else too. The Aurora doesn’t just awaken the electronics of the town. Dotted around, in the streets, in homes, in stores, the lights of the Aurora begin to take shape: spectral-like forms of people, their faces hard to make out, details difficult to define. They move in glitching patterns, they speak with voices distorted by static. Eagle-eyed Interlopers may recognise the forms of some, a body or an action:

These are the residents of Milton, in their last moments on this earth.

The forms act out short scenes on repeat: a desperate fight between two men over a vehicle, a murder in a store during a riot, a suicide alone in one of the many houses. An argument over the communication lines going down. A sobbing teen curled up on his bed. A child stares up at the skies, their hands over their ears, crying in fright. A woman begs for her father to leave his home and head to the coast with her, to try to make it to the mainland, but he refuses to leave. A man succumbs to the cold walking alone in the outskirts of town without proper clothing for the elements. Several of these ‘ghosts’ are people fleeing before they stop and simply gasp, staring off into the distance for a few seconds before they drop dead on the spot.

There is nothing that can be done to stop these endless loops. Nothing to help these poor souls. Each of these moments are captured by the Aurora: final, desperate and tragic moments in some unknown, chaotic time. Some of these ‘ghosts’ maybe stop after so many loops — flickering out into nothing, others will last all night. But all will be gone by the morning and the Aurora comes to an end. There are answers, and there are none.

THE HOUR OF THE WOLF

WHEN: Sporadic nights over the next month.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: (wild) animal attacks, altered wildlife, possible character injury/death, possible (wild) animal injury/death.


The growing presence of people within the town of Milton has meant more light, more warmth, more noise. The Aurora has created great change, but people are not the only thing the ethereal lights in the sky has brought down upon this old mining town.

When the sun slips below the horizon, and the clear skies of burnt embers and inky blues alight with stars, they come.

A lone howl, long and haunting. It is the first signal, which carries on the air. You can’t seem to place from which direction it comes from, it feels like it encompasses you. Then another voice joins it, and another, and another. A chorus of them. As the sound echoes off, another fills its place: a strange feral chittering, snarling and snapping — the drumming of feet upon the snow, heading right for you.

Wolves.

Unnatural, glowing green eyes in the dark — tendrils of light seeping from them as they rush in and encircle those they come across outside. They come in packs of three or more, and they are clever. They’re quicker than any wolf you’ve ever known, bigger and hardier too. They will try to strike fast by zipping in when you’re distracted, snapping and nipping at legs or trying to take quick bites out of arms before drawing back. They work together to bring their prey down, a solid unit of noise and teeth. They will hunt down those who hide inside, try to claw their way inside of homes and buildings — dead set on finding you and tearing you apart. There is no hiding from them. They will find you.

But breaking the pack can send them back. If they’re broken, their morale is depleted. Fire is your biggest friend: torches, campfires and flames will keep them mostly at bay and only the bravest of these packs may attack. Striking them with flares or flames will actually send them into brief retreats. Bullets and arrows are effective with both noise and injuring the wolves, and although hitting one will be difficult due their speed, it’s possible. Killing one of these wolves will dissolve the pack’s morale entirely, and the rest will flee off into the night.

Until next time. Maybe it’s best you don’t stick around. They do hold a relentless determination.

IT SPEAKS

WHEN: Over the next month, possibly longer.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: psychological horror; mental manipulation; themes of suicide; themes of depression; potential self-harm; potential feelings of isolation; potential attempted suicide.

There are whispers. Small, at first. Distracting. Perhaps it is only the wind you hear. Milton is so quiet, even with the new hustle and bustle of the new people to this place. Wood creaks and the trees rustle, there are plenty of sounds you could mistake it for.

‘Interloper.’ It is an old voice. Something deep and dark and ancient. Something impossible, older than the earth itself. It floats into your ears and nestles there, sending an ice-cold shiver down your spine. Even to the most stoic and unshakeable souls, it is a unnerving voice. It feels wrong. It feels like an ending. To hear the voice is deeply unsettling... and yet... you recognise it.

It comes to you, in the dead of night when sleep is far. In the long stretches of day as you go about your business, as you travel across the frigid landscape or gather firewood or try to pass the time within whatever home you’ve made for yourself. For some the voice will be clear as day, for others it may be some distant whisper — something gently murmuring in your ear. But the voice will be heard, no matter the person.

‘Interloper. Do you know what it means?’ It asks. ‘It means one that involves itself in a place it does not belong. You do not belong.’

That it isn’t the only thing it tells you. For everyone, it’s different. It knows you. It picks up on any weakness, any insecurity. It makes you feel small, insignificant. It tells you all the quiet, terrible things you hide down within yourself. For days, weeks, the voice is there. Speaking to you. It will wear you down, insist you are not wanted, that you do not belong here.

... And wouldn’t it be better if you weren’t here at all?

The voice seeks to break you. It will push you to your limit. Sleep will become hard to find, your spirits low and hollow. In time you might seem to believe it. Maybe it’s better if you weren’t here. You don’t belong in this place, why should you stay?

‘Disappear, Interloper. Go into the Long Dark.’

Perhaps you next find yourself atop the steep cliffs, looking down into the Milton Basin below. Perhaps you find yourself with a gun in your hand, or a rope. Perhaps you find your feet carrying you out into the snow. You’re going to disappear. You’re going to go into the Dark.

Or maybe the voice isn’t so loud. You can push it down, ignore it. Perhaps Faith is what keeps you steady, perhaps knowing who you are despite your faults stops the voice from taking over. Maybe you can help those who can’t block out the voice. Words of encouragement, affirmation, kindness, determination, even spite. The voice wants you dead, but you will not let it. You will not fall. You will not let anyone else fall, either.

FAQs

THE AURORA: AFTERSHOCKS

1. While examples are given, players are encouraged to come up with their own ghostly loops of similar loops. The key thing to remember is that the people of Milton have descended into public disorder. Fights, arguments and murders have occurred, as have suicides or other unexplained deaths. People are frightened. They want to leave the town.

2. Ghostly loops cannot be interacted with, only witnessed.

3. There is no way of putting these 'ghosts' to rest. These loops are more like residual memories, as if the energy of the townsfolk remained, and have been reconstructed by the Aurora.

4. The wolf attacks and Auroras occur on sporadic nights over the course of the next month, with the Aurora being the first thing, then the wolves. It's unlikely you'll get both on the same night. While the wolves are attracted to the Interlopers' activity, the Aurora's light and noise will keep them away from the town during Aurora Nights.

5. Sharp-eyed Interlopers may notice that the 'ghosts' of those who are staring off into the distance before gasping and dropping dead are looking skyward, towards the east.

THE HOUR OF THE WOLF

1. Due to the Aurora's influence, these wolves are harder, better, faster, stronger, than typical wild wolves. They do not die as easily, and are much more difficult to wound and kill. But not impossible. Scaring the wolves will be far easier to accomplish.

2. Wolves will return, sometimes more than once on the same night, or on other nights during the month. The only sure-fire way to have them stop coming back is to kill the pack.

3. Wolf meat is technically edible. But not advised due to parasites. Characters are still welcome to harvest the wolves they kill, however. Who would say no to a cool ass wolf cape.

4. The wolf attacks and Auroras occur on sporadic nights over the course of the next month, with the Aurora being the first thing, then the wolves. It's unlikely you'll get both on the same night. While the wolves are attracted to the Interlopers' activity, the Aurora's light and noise will keep them away from the town during Aurora Nights.

IT SPEAKS

1. Characters can be talked down and broken from the voice's influence by others. Genuine connection and empathy will work massively, but even encouragement and affirmations to keep surviving will be powerful enough to break the voice's hold.

2. Players are welcome to play with the length of time the voice can be heard with characters. Some may want to have it over a short space of time, others can have this progress over a longer time period.

3. The voice can come at any time over the next month.

PLOTTING POST

Comments

[fidior]

[ There is a fear of death, certainly. Surely no man who has come so close to it and in such harrowing ways could exist without a fear of it now. But even more than that, what Little truly fears is pain. Torment, to be subjected to horrors that no human should be, and in that process, to be stripped of one's own human sensibilities. That is what haunts his nightmares, what sets his blood racing, a dull thrum in his ears. He fears the slow agony, the mutilation. The desire to die, and the inability to do so.

And even now, his body reacts to what he's seen and known. What if he should bleed too much? What if infection should set in? Will he have to lose his leg? Be held down the way he once held one of the men, pressed firmly down while sawed through? These thoughts race through the lieutenant's mind, bringing a pallor to his face, eyes darkened almost to black as his pupils swell in anxiety.

But all he can do is rely on his saviour in this moment, and Little's nodding quickly after his leg is wrapped up, stifling another pained moan as he reaches an arm out to retrieve his cap nearby, holding onto it tightly. ]

Yes— thank you. [ He agrees verbally; he won't resist the instruction, though he winces as his hands grasp onto the other man's shoulders, preparing himself to be moved upwards. Little is hardly a... well, little man, of average height and sturdy. Even those tiresome months so hungry out on the ice, the weight he'd shed, have hardly made him much lighter; he's thick-boned and thick-coated, his greatcoat a considerable weight. He tries to stand on his other leg, to push some support onto it, giving soft gasps here and there. But he looks back down at his shotgun lying there in the snow, heavy but a weight he thinks he can support against his shoulder. Perhaps some part of him resists being a burden even in this small way, yearns to still be of use. ]

My gun— I think I can carry it, sir, if you'll hand it to me.

[m1895]

Point it away from me.

[ Vasiliy grabs the gun and holds it out, then goes through the motions of arranging the much larger body so that his patient's torso is aligned with his shoulders once little seems to have arranged the rifle so that it won't dig into him. All at once he stands, bringing the man's right wrist and right hamstring together to keep him secured in place for the duration of the fireman's carry back to his residence.

The man's as heavy as he looks, maybe heavier thanks to the quality and thickness of his winter clothing. Within a few minutes of trudging through the snow, Vasiliy no longer feels the absence of the jacket he wrapped around the wound, as the effort of continuously engaging his core and legs, when combined with the warmth of another body worn over his own like a very weighty fur stole, is more than enough to compensate for the drop in temperature around him.

He's reached a level of experience with this such that he's able to unlock the front door with his free hand once they reach the modest one-bedroom he chose to take up residence in (though all of the homes here were technically available, anything more grand than the small cedar-shingled "starter home" felt almost obscene in its ostentatious excess); however, there's no way they're both getting through the doorway with the patient's body perpendicular to his own like this. ]

I will help you up steps.

[fidior]

[ Edward nods quickly, and there's a soft hiss of pain as he's brought to stand, but even with that panic so threatening within himself, he manages to subdue his discomfort somewhat. He is used to it — to subduing things, and though physical turmoil is different from the emotional, some of those tendencies manage to stay firm.

What he isn't used to is being hauled like a sack of potatoes— being lifted at all, and when he realises the position that his rescuer means to rescue him in involves being lifted to drape and curl right over the smaller man's shoulders, there's a fresh kneejerk rush of anxious adrenaline (can this man actually carry him this way???) The answer becomes obvious within moments, as Edward finds himself being hauled, giving soft gasps of surprise. ]

Are you— certain that this is— [ He begins to say, but he can feel the movement of his body with each word, and, fretful to add any more strain to the other man, falls silent again, keeping his attention on making certain the gun stays aimed clear away, free arm pressing the side of the weapon awkwardly to the stranger's back.

When they finally reach the doorframe, the lieutenant manages to lift his head a bit to see, quickly nodding at the accented words; he understands. ]

Yes, of course— [ He'll help as much as he can once he's down again, giving another subdued moan with the movement of his leg, pressing one palm against the doorframe while the other goes around Vasiliy's shoulders. He can hobble up and inwards like this, still holding onto his gun and officer's cap. ]

[m1895]

[ Vasiliy contemplates as he helps the man in, already considering where he'll be able to get the best environmental lighting in the dwindling hours of daylight that remain. Once Edward's inside and the door's shut behind them, Vasiliy busies himself setting a few towels over the couch to protect the dated fabric from blood. He decides that he'll irrigate the wound in the bathroom and suture in the dining room, where the bay window will give him enough illumination to see what he's doing if he's quick, but there's no reason to make the man stand around until then, especially given how long it will take to sterilize his sewing kit and make a crude saline solution.

The residence is decidedly spartan, clearly the sort of place inhabited by someone utilitarian in nature: squares of paint brighter than the rest of the wall around them mark the places where pictures used to hang; the small house's only real ornamentation is the shallow salad bowls that have been repurposed as ashtrays on most of its surfaces. The candles on the coffee table and dining table, and in the kitchen and bathroom, are simple off-white, unscented ones of no particularly interesting shape, sitting on dessert plates to catch the rivulets of spent wax that run down their sides and pool around them. It would strike most people of an era much later than Edward's own as a decidedly Soviet dwelling. ]

Here—on the couch. I will boil water. Do you want tea?

[ Valerian tea is what he would be given in Russia, and it's still Vasiliy's first instinct given the man's state of obvious distress and borderline catatonia—but it's not a good idea to administer a vasodilator to a man with wounds that cover such a large surface area, even if most of his issues are more linked to psychological shock than any substantial blood loss. ]

[fidior]

[ He does cast a glance around the space, and does take in how minimal everything is — a contrast to what he's more used to, and even in his own cabin here, where Little has left its previous occupant's items where they'd been, not moving much of anything around. But here... it rather looks like the man's been emptying his new home of various things, maintaining only what he must.

Edward manages to gingerly set his gun down out of the way, before moving towards the couch as directed, giving a quiet moan but nothing more as he settles down on the towels that the other man placed down upon it. He still holds his officer's cap in his hands, almost like some comfort object, fingers tight upon it, and tightening even more in some attempt to quiet the pounding of his own heart. ]

Thank you, [ he makes sure to say again, and then— ] No— I needn't trouble you any further than I already have.

[ He knows this is.. a lot, to accept a stranger into one's home. And one bleeding, no less; he hope he isn't making much of a mess. ]

I am sorry for this, [ Edward adds on, brow knit with regret and the usual waves of self-disgust. ] If I'd been more swift with my aim... You certainly seemed to be.

[ Even in the frenzy of the moment, he hadn't missed the clear skill of the other's shooting. ]

[m1895]

[ Vasiliy would rather his aim go unnoticed, truth be told, even when presented with a compliment. It's undeserved—he was quite unremarkable among his own cohort, and while his targets today were moving, they were also large and easy to hit—but that isn't the reason that he deflects the praise. It's more that he was raised in a society where anything else would be arrogant. ]

I am not that good. They are very big. Easy target.

[ Vasiliy opens the door to the stove's firebox and shoves in some wood from the pile of split logs in the metal basket beside it, then some kindling, holding the quivering flame of his lighter to the leaves and small twigs until they ignite before he withdraws and closes the door. He fills two pots with water and sets them at the center of the iron cooktop, where the surface will be hottest once a good supply of coals are going, then dumps a healthy amount of iodized salt from a cardboard cylinder into one of them. ]

It will take time to warm up.

[ That's the downside to not keeping the fire running when he's out of the house, but even though they're surrounded by forest, Vasiliy can't help but to be frugal about how much firewood he uses. It's a part of his basic nature, and moreover, a result of the memory of saving it as a child.

He returns to the couch, grabbing two decorative pillows off of the neighboring armchair as he passes it. ]

I am going to lift up your leg. It needs to be higher than your heart.

[fidior]

[ Modesty is certainly a valued trait where (and when) he's from; it's not couth to brag (at least not unless it's in the right way, in the right place or time), and likewise, it would be rude and unthinkable to press the other man — so Little lets the matter drop, although in his heart he holds true to his praise. To shoot a target so quickly, to think on one's feet that well.... he is not so accustomed to it. Hesitancy has cost him before, and again now.

Fortunate indeed that someone else was there to help him, and he is grateful, though ashamed at the same time for his own weaknesses.

Edward falls quiet to watch the other man tend to the stove, before he's looking up again as he heads back his way, and nods immediately at the words. He slowly adjusts his position on the couch a bit, and reaches his hands down to tug at his trouser leg just a little at his thigh, coaxing the material up and a bit more loosely, to try and make it easier for lower parts to be managed, potentially opened up or moved. Though the material's already been torn open near his calf, hopefully this helps a bit more. ]

How long have you been practicing? In... medical assistance?

[ It's said conversationally — even if with an underlying tension due to discomfort and pain — not questioning the man's capabilities at all, simply seeking to find out more about him. (And perhaps to distract himself a little from concentrating on that pungent smell of blood.) ]

[m1895]

[ Vasiliy has been practicing long enough to grow accustomed to the un-Russian idea of making "small talk" while he works for the exact reason his latest patient is attempting to now—it's good for distracting them from the sharp iron smell of their own blood (and the sight of it, often in copious amounts) in addition to helping maintain consciousness and providing a measure with which to gauge mental state in those struggling to do so. ]

Two years. I am going to move your leg now.

[ He's as gentle as he reasonably can be, positioning the injured limb atop a few couch pillows to keep it elevated while they wait, then grabs the wool blanket folded over the back of the couch and drapes it over the man's shoulders, notably broader than his own: its scarlet tartan is much louder than the olive drab or gray of the heavy shock blanket he would give the same man if they were in the back of an ambulance, but its weight and warmth serve the same stabilizing purpose. ]

You are an officer? Navy?

[ He doesn't know much, aside from a vague sense that the man's probably of the same generation as his grandparents, maybe his parents - but naval uniforms don't vary that much across countries. ]

[fidior]

[ Edward draws in a soft sound, the echo of a hiss, at the movement. It hurts, but it's not an unbearable hurt. He knows there are hurts that could be much worse — again, his mind latches onto the agonised screams of a man whose leg had to be cut through — and he tries to keep considering himself lucky. That won't happen to him. It won't happen. ....He can't think that it will happen.

He swallows with his eyes closed for a moment, head tilted back, before peeling open his gaze, giving a grateful sigh at the blanket weighted against him. It is a comfort, a welcomed warmth.

So is the question — some rare thing he knows when so much now is uncertain, and the greatest thing he clings to. He knows who, what he is; it's all he has left. He gives a nod, and a grim smile — it's an unfortunate circumstance for an introduction, but he realises he requires one all the same, and welcomes the familiarity of it. ]

Lieutenant Edward Little, of Her Majesty's Royal Navy.

[ Perhaps the title means nothing, now. He has no ship, no captain. The time period of this world is not even his. But Edward holds onto it all the same. He must. ]

[m1895]

[ It's unusual for "modern" Westerners to give more than their first name in an introduction; it's refreshing, being given the full name. But that's largely overshadowed by the grander implications of the introduction: Vasiliy carries a degree of deeply ingrained leeriness toward a man of that standing from that time; most officers in his parents' and grandparents' times earned their commissions by virtue of being a part of the bourgeoisie, not merit. At the very least, it confirms that the two of them do not hail from the same class background: in a castelike society like the British Empire, someone like himself could not through hard work attain the position he did in post-revolutionary Russia.

Class enemy or not, he's in too deep now to back out and throw a wounded and shocked man out into the snow. ]

Vasiliy Yegorovich Ardankin. Chicago Fire Department.

[ Not that the city of Chicago would mean anything to an Englishman of that time period. He points to the wound.]

Can you move all of the toes on that leg?

[fidior]

[ In the flurry of activity and distress, it was easy for Little to lose focus on certain details — the origin of the accent that the other man has, clearly Russian. But here and now, with things settling down and the anxious thrum of his own heart slowed to a more steady pulse (and, of course, proper introductions being exchanged), he's able to concentrate on such things, pay attention to them.

Yes indeed, he's found himself in the care of a Russian man, and it would be a lie to say there was not some discomfort of his own at the thought. When he's from and what he's lived through has seen a complicated relationship with Russia — and a recent surge of some unrest.

But he knows that this place has brought in others from different times, eras, and it would do no good to allow any assumptions to affect his mannerism; certainly, he has little thought for that. He smiles faintly, but with a true warmth to his eyes, tipping his head again. True, he doesn't know anything of this Chicago, but there's a relief in such a formal introduction in return. The man already seems easier to talk to someone, closer to someone of his own time, at least in comparison to many others in this place....... (and especially to the Modern Americans he's met here, who tend to be very.... loud and very forthright in their emotions.) ]

A pleasure, Mr. Ardankin. [ He glances down his leg at mention of it, and takes a moment to gently, experimentally move his foot just a little, then its toes. They all seem to be in working order... ]

Yes, they seem fine. I suppose it really isn't as bad as it seemed....

[ There's a flicker of shame at his reaction before. ]

Have you dealt with many wounds such as this? Animal attacks?

[m1895]

[ Good. No peripheral nerve damage, it would seem. ]

In Chicago? No. It is very big city. Like London. But sometimes there is a dog bite.

[ Or a human bite, usually in domestic violence situations. He's only seen it twice, but that's still two times as many incidents as he ever witnessed in Russia; dog bites are slightly more familiar territory, although the fact that by and large they tend to come from pet dogs, not strays, is more alien—as is the American tendency to keep purposeless dogs as pets to begin with, and their reluctance or outright refusal to dispatch an animal that has shown willingness to attack a human being. They are an incredibly sentimental culture in a way that lives shaped by hardship and scarcity do not allow. ]

Usually they target your face. You are lucky.

[ Vasiliy knows enough about the culture the man is coming from to recognize that an English EMT perhaps would not be so direct, or would spare the man of this knowledge entirely, being that there is nothing they can do if this is the case—but it is not right, or kind, to do so. He speaks plainly but not without sensitivity, presenting the facts of the situation in a way that will hopefully minimize the panic it evokes—while telling him the truth. ]

If you feel sick, if you have fever or are feeling weak—come here and tell me. They are maybe rabid. We cannot know.

[ They have the carcasses—but whoever were to dissect them, if they even found the right equipment, would be risking his life, a gamble he would almost certainly lose if unprotected contact with infected brain tissue were to be involved. ]

cw: bringing up one's lead poisoning, as one does

[fidior]

[ In truth, he isn't very accustomed to receiving injuries in general, at least not before the horrors of Sir John's expedition. No, by the time his father's era of Naval Service and war shifted to his own, Edward's time, at least, was spent at naval stations, flagships, and then expedition. It was a time of a fresh sort of glory — of exploration, advancement. There was little to be afraid of, to be harmed by, at least in terms of being harmed by fellow man.

(And yet after being damned to the ice, it was his fellow man who'd struck him over the head severely enough to knock him bleeding and unconscious — an injury he likely should... inquire about, speaking of injuries.)

But this, in general... suffering attack and torn skin, it isn't something he's used to. There's a soft wince at the words, the mental image of it — an attack to the face — yes, the words are direct, but not calloused. It lays out the truth, the severity, and Little gives a firm nod of understanding. He was lucky.

Though his stomach coils at the thought of rabies, madness. ...Perhaps not so dissimilar to what was happening to the men of his expedition, over time. ]

Thank you, truly. I'll keep a close eye on things.

[ There's a pause, an uncomfortable consideration, before he continues, quietly. If he is going to receive care from this individual, he should perhaps reveal some.... ill truths. ]

....I fear that I may be afflicted with something, already. That it may possibly make any new symptoms difficult to.... differentiate from it.

[ He frowns, uncertain how to even voice it. ]

On the ship I served before I arrived here, I was.... exposed to something. Over several years, I fear. ...Lead, from the tins we ate from. Many of my men suffered greatly, far worse than I, but.... at times, I believe I feel it in me.

god this thread is truly going everywhere...obsessed.

[m1895]

[ Vasiliy watches his face keenly as he details his medical history, taking the chance to study his pupils and the tiny vessels of his scleras (both normal) while he's at it. Lead poisoning. The hard truth is that that falls outside of his scope of practice—and expertise. Not that it matters much in a town as desolate, as Siberian in spirit as this one. As far as he knows, there is no doctor here. So things wildly out of his scope and training fall upon him—not that irrigating and suturing a wound from an animal attack didn't already. ]

I have seen this in patients. Usually it is children. The landlords do not fix building and they eat the lead paint, or drink water from lead pipes.

[ That, hopefully, will offer some measure of reassurance—the innately Bolshevik urge to downplay his own abilities and expertise as not to be seen as prideful or prioritizing himself over the collective is at war with his need to reassure his patient even here, in the remotest corner of the world, just as it was in St. Petersburg and Chicago, but Vasiliy can at least muster the ability to inform the man that he's not unfamiliar with the phenomenon. ]

You will need chelation drugs. [ It's not a word he says often, although an Englishman of a time predating the particular therapy wouldn't have a reason to notice the small tell of his mispronunciation, defaulting to a more Russian e: kellation, not keelation. ] We can maybe find them at the hospital. How long were you eating lead? How much?

we've got the RANGE

[fidior]

[ It's a frightening thing to voice, to make known. He's not had much opportunity to process the reality of it, obstinately pushed aside those concerns in favour of more pressing ones — to be trapped in this strange dreamscape, to have two of the men from his world here with him, to live knowing what he'd done....

But it lurks. Aches and pains and the feeling of something foreign, as though his body is not truly his own. Something lurks inside; worse than the pain is the strangeness of himself. His mind clouded, his thoughts odd.

It is a great reassurance that the man is familiar with the concept. Little nods again, head lifting, attentive as he listens. 'Chelation drugs' is a completely new term for him, but he understands that others from different time periods exist here, and that their advancements are beyond his own. A drug... there truly is something in existence? Something that could help with this issue, as damning as it is? ]

Nearly three years, [ is the quiet reply. ] Most of us ate from the tins to accompany every meal — vegetables were stored in them. Later, when our beef and pork stores ran out, we were all eating canned meats, too.

[ There's another quiet horror to that. The officers had been privy to fresh meat for longer than the other crewmen.... No wonder those men became ill more severely. He thinks of Morfin, begging for death from the pain inside of him. Morfin, with his blackened gums. ]

We didn't know of it. Not until one of the doctors discovered pellets of lead inside, three years after we began our journey. [ He closes his eyes for a moment. To voice his previous thought, to frame it as some sort of silver lining.... makes his stomach churn with guilt and remorse. Still, he should voice it. Let this man know that his own circumstance is not as dire as it could be, at least. ]

But the officers were exposed to it a bit less. We had fresher food, for longer.

uh oh boys

[m1895]

[ The slightest flex of his left masseter, imperceptible to all but perhaps the trained eye of a sniper or a hawk, is the only indication of the waning of some of Vasiliy's sympathy. He had time, four years of time, to learn control of almost every involuntary movement of the face, to assemble the right expressions and modulate his tone of voice until he got the desired result. His life depended on it. It comes as second nature now, far away from the interrogation rooms beneath the Lubyanka's yellow walls.

Of course the poor died first, were poisoned more acutely. He finds himself disgusted—a routine emotion by now, having spent multiple years in an unapologetically, brutally capitalist country—as he tries to consider how a man might feel comfortable sitting apart from his fellow countrymen, his fellow soldiers, eating fresh meat—a luxury in Vasiliy's own time, as well—while they picked at the scraps. How could he rationalize it? How could this man so completely numb the impulses that would have Vasilily crawling out of his own skin with self-awareness, unable to enjoy the food placed before him?

It is a stark reminder that they are different creatures, himself and the bourgeois, from different universes. There is something that they lack, by design or by conditioning, a void that stares back at him: he'd felt shy wearing visibly new jackboots on the Moscow line in 1936, as though the rest of the uniform didn't explain how he'd come by them, face burning with self-consciousness, eyes lowered to stare at the scuffless toes. ]

Three years is long time. You will need to take these drugs longer if we find them.

[ Vasiliy rises and walks to the stove, grateful for the excuse the now-boiling water gives him for the addition of distance, and glances at the clock, mentally marking the start time for the sterilization of needle and thread and saline. ]

Do you have headaches, confusion, seizures, blurred vision?

uh oh!!!! bit awkward innit!!

[fidior]

[ Edward's eyes peel back open, slowly, with a flutter of eyelashes as he looks back up to the other man, unable to perceive any sign of discomfort, not by someone so trained in masking such things. He sees only a calm, assured face looking back at him, and it continues to elicit feelings of relief. He's in the hands of someone familiar not only with this ailment, but who knows of future treatment.

And even if the drugs aren't able to be procured here..... perhaps this man can still offer him relief. Perhaps there are ways to soothe the symptoms, to lessen their effects. The lead hadn't begun to rot him away, so it won't get worse from here — only stay stagnant, or better. Right? That's the hope he has to cling to.

He sits up a little bit more so he can watch Vasiliy move, quietly mulling it over. ]

My head does ache, and my stomach. Those are the worst of it. My vision..... becomes foggy at times, yes.

[ All things the men had complained about off and on, but at first, was largely ignored by the doctors. Being out on the ice, the stress — many things were ignored in the midst of it all. Scurvy was a concern over time, but he knows any of it that may have begun to settle into him is gone by now, after several weeks eating fresher food in this place. No, all that's left is the poison (how suiting, really, that he should exist that way now. Poisoned. He'll never escape what happened to them all, nor does he deserve to.) ]

At times, I do feel... confused. Forgetful, I suppose. It can affect the mind in that way?

[ He doesn't know much about it, and it's a surprise to learn that it's capable of damaging so much. ]

[m1895]

Yes. In children, it causes them the developmental delays. The mental... [ He struggles to remember the right word—the name for the condition as he learned it from books in Russia was not how it was referred to once conversation left the back of the ambulance. ] Intellect disability. Behavior problems. You are a adult. Your brain, it is already developed. Lead hurts it, but not as much - so you have headaches, dementia, ringing in ears, vision problems.

[ He shifts his weight to one hip as he waits for the sterilization to finish, reaching for the half-finished pack of cigarettes on the counter beside him. ]

Do you smoke?

[ Class enemy or not, the offer is second-nature. How many cigarettes had he offered to prisoners over the years?

Regardless of the answer to that question, the man could probably use it. Talking and presenting a calm, unphased, confident exterior have both done a lot to quiet him down, but the suturing process will still probably be less eventful if he has a smoke. ]

[fidior]

[ It's still difficult to discern how much of what feels wrong inside of him can be attributed to the poison, or to other things. This place certainly dredges up ghosts that were still so freshly buried within him — his nights plagued by fitful restlessness, his mind often fatigued and strange as a result.

But hearing this.... the severity of it... Edward takes a sombre moment to reflect, to swallow the information. He should inform Goodsir about these things, as dreadful as they may be to hear. ]

....It's quite serious, [ he voices softly, as though to solidify the fact itself. Very serious, very worrisome. (Again, he finds himself relieved to have made contact with someone who can help him through it.)

But he's glancing up at the pack the other man grasps, managing a slight smile. ]

Rarely — perhaps some years ago. [ Many of the other men on the ships had smoked from their clay pipes; it was a deeply valued source of comfort, but Edward wasn't much one for it. Back home, he might share a cigar with men during designated social events, mainly for the sake of presence. But he's nodding again, receptive to the idea, having the same thought-process as his rescuer. ]

I could probably use it now, though. Thank you.

[ Granted, he isn't so familiar with "cigarettes" just yet, eyeing the pack curiously. ]

[m1895]

[ Vasiliy holds his own unlit cigarette in his mouth as he leaves the stove to bring a second to his patient, holding it out for him to take before he carefully retrieves his lighter from the jacket pocket atop the man's thigh. He lights the end of his and then extends the flame to Little, pocketing it once the cherry begins to glow and taking a long, slow drag—he needs it.

He pulls the cigarette from his mouth and exhales smoke before answering, the omnipresent stiffness to his shoulders relaxing ever-so-slightly into the embrace of the familiar rush of nicotine. ] Of course.

Your lead poisoning is not good. But you will not die. Some of your damage can be reversed.

[ If we can find the drugs. He glances at the clock on the wall—that's their ten minutes—and gets up, walking around the back of the couch and moving the two pots of boiling water to the mantle to cool. ] Are there others like you?

[fidior]

[ Edward carefully extracts one of the sticks from the pack, staring down at it — much smaller and thinner than what he's used to with cigars. The method used to light it is also extremely different, and his eyes are widening as he watches, a little unnerved by the display, a flame that appears so suddenly and easily. What wonders the future does hold......

But as different as all of this may be, the act itself seems similar enough, at least on the surface. Not wanting to detract from the conversation by asking questions (and of course, perpetually striving to maintain his own social norms which flinch away from the thought of being impolite towards his host), he goes ahead and places the thing in his mouth without any fuss, assuming it to be treated like a cigar.

It means that he's giving it a much shorter puff instead of taking a drag — tasting it rather than breathing it in. He sucks smoke back into his mouth, letting it rest there experimentally for just a moment, and then lets it puff back out. None of it gets inhaled, and he continues to treat it that way, slowly puffing on the thing — though a little awkwardly considering the girth of it is much less than what he's used to, lips pinched more closely together than what feels comfortable, brow furrowed for a moment.

....But he continues to do so calmly and with dignity, even if his manner of smoking it likely betrays that he isn't quite..... smoking a cigarette correctly.

(And when he extracts the thing so as to answer Vasiliy, it's with a hoarse little cough; the taste of the thing is rather different from the rich flavours he's accustomed to, a bit more chemical. Edward tries to recover himself quickly, clearing his throat.) ]

Ah— others from my world here? Yes, two have arrived thus far. [ A pause, a small moment of thought taken, one that his heart holds fast to. ] I have hope that others may yet come.

And yourself, Mr. Ardankin? Have you seen any companions from your time arrive?

[m1895]

Please—Vasiliy Yegorovich is good. —and yes. Most people here are from the 2000s.

[ But none from his real time, of course, though it would matter little if there were and they weren't his fellow countrymen. The Americans and English, the Germans and French, they were all distant, foreign creatures, far from his realm of lived experience. Places where fellow communists experienced what he does now—an island, a last bastion, without any social support, without any of their kind, engulfed in a society that deems them radical. Crazy. Unwell for their empathy. He had pitied them at the time; he aches with the shared hurt of their isolation now.

They were brave—braver than he is, being open and loud in their unwavering faith in the potential of man. ]

Cigarettes—you inhale through them. Breathe it.

[ He plasters on a gentle smile. ]

You will want a few drags before I suture.

[fidior]

Ah — Mr. Yegorovich, then?

[ He wants to be certain to refer to the man how he prefers. (Please give him something to tack a "Mr" onto, please... he needs it....) Even if Little stumbles over the name a bit, mispronouncing a syllable or two.

There's a pause as he's told to inhale. Breathe. It's... quite different from what he's accustomed to, but again, is the lingering concern of offending his present company, no matter some of the lingering discomforts — this man is his host and currently doctor all in one.

So Little does inhale, cautious and experimental, and keeps it in a bit too long so that it burns the way cigar smoke did back when he was much younger and had first been learning, accidentally breathing in the smoke that was only meant to be tasted.

He chokes, ungracefully, and immediately is mortified by it, planting a hand to his chest as he tilts forwards a little and gives a small series of coughs. ]

My apologies— I hadn't realised— [ He tries to compose himself, flustered. He hopes the question to follow doesn't seem rude, but he has to ask— ] Are you certain it should be... inhaled?

[m1895]

[ A genuine smile tugs at the edges of Vasiliy's mouth as deep brown eyes twinkle with amusement. ]

Yes. I have been smoking for a very long time. It grows on you. Everyone coughs at first.

[ He takes a drag off his own cigarette and gets up, pulling a pair of nitrile gloves from the kit bag open on the coffee table and putting them on as he walks to the kitchen. He pours off some of the water in the pot that was sterilizing the needle and thread, then plucks them from the warm bath with one gloved hand and carries back the pot of saline solution with the other.

He sets down the pot and draws up two irrigation syringes, placing them (and the needle and thread) down atop a clean towel. ]

My family name is Ardankin. Yegorovich is... like your middle name. It is okay for you to call me just Vasiliy Yegorovich. [ It's not, of course, a "just" to a Russian speaker—there's a respectful distance, a degree of formality to it—but any use of a given name, to an Englishman, seems to carry a feeling of informality. ] Are you ready?

[fidior]

[ It's strange, the sensation in his throat from the experience. Altogether more abrasive than what he's used to, and he's not too sure he enjoys it, but manners are manners and he's already accepted the offer. He holds the stick inbetween two fingers like he's not quite sure what to do with it, but he'll try again shortly....

For now, he watches the other man, a little apprehensive by all of the things that register as unfamiliar — especially the use of gloves. It's all quite strange, but he tries to calm himself, lifting the cigarette back to his face, breathing in the smell of it as he listens to the explanation. So— both names, then? Mr. Vasiliy Yegorovich.... He'll remember that, and stick to it (because of course the formal Lieutenant Little will).

An inhale through his nostrils, slow and long, and then a quiet release from his mouth. Edward looks up at the other man, giving as severe of a nod as if he were about to have major surgery.... ]

I'm ready. [ Almost immediately after, perhaps a concern that's been lingering or perhaps just a rush of words to release some nervous energy— ]

I'll make certain to pay you for your time and use of resources, of course — in some way.