singillatim | Summer of where the hell are we

Entry tags:

Summer of where the hell are we

Who: Raylan and you!
What: Feasting, MemLoss, around town SoL
When: Month of August
Where: Around Milton, Community hall

[Methusalah's Feast]

Raylan always made sure to come to these when he was able to without betraying himself in one way or another. He also made sure to come with plenty of firewood and dried fish over his shoulder and in his hand respectively, to offer new 'settlers'. Free supplies made things a lot easier when you were just learning how to survive like this and he remembers all too well how harrowing it was to just show up here in Milton out of regular life. It didn't hurt that he liked to see who came in, as well as take an opportunity to check up on the message board. It could be it's own form of entertainment sometimes.

At his side moved a wolf, tall at nearly hip level, with the standard kind of grey and white most people would think of when thinking 'wolf', but seemingly perfectly well behaved as his eyes stay on the rest of the room. Quiet but ready. All up until he got distracted by a smell and starts to nose into someone's meal.

"Goose! No, goddamnit, that's rude," he tuts as a long stride carries him over to push the wolf away. Goose didn't even look sorry, in the way he licked his chops, still eyeing the plate. Raylan sighs and offers an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that. Normally, he's got better manners then that."

[In the Woods somewhere]

It was cold. It was the first thing he'd noticed when he woke up and while a deluge of other wildly concerning circumstances were upon him, the cold dug at him more sharply than anything else. He felt sure that he must know who he was, if he could only warm up enough to think about it. What did it matter who he was if who he was didn't have any goddamn fingers? The flash of irritation warmed him only slightly, and he pulls the coat he's lucky enough to be wearing closer around his ears as step by step, he makes his way through the forest.

It was quiet and the kind of quiet that left live nerves under his skin. The kind of quiet that make his ears try and stretch somehow, to hear more clearly anything that might be moving in the roving mists. He couldn't decide if it had worked but after a little while, the crunch of something else stepping in the snow sent his ears right back to their proverbial stretching. Unnerved enough by not knowing who he was, the man without a hat hurries his stride a little bit, in the hope that what was making that noise was human.

"Hey! Hello, yes-" All it would take is eye contact for him to start moving closer. "Can't tell you how good it is to see someone else out here. Is there a- a town or something nearby? I seem to've gotten lost.."

[Around Milton - Wildcard]

Raylan hated this month. There was at least one shiny good part about it, but that withstanding, he wasn't sure how anyone here was sane anymore. The day in and day out that was only broken by terrible things upon terrible things, the gnawing hopelessness that felt harder and harder to fight each time they got knocked down was starting to fray his edges. So Raylan did what he always did when he felt like this (since there wasn't enough whiskey to drown it all out); he stayed busy.

Wood chopping was always needed. The library? Well there were some books he thought Tim might like. The clothing store? Just checking in, to see if anything new has come in. A few t-shirts end up over his shoulder after a quick hold up against his chest sizes it out. Hell, he even stops by the church, just to see the place again. He was happy to do anything that wasn't sit still and think. What he needed was a proper bath in the hot springs but honestly, he would need company lest his head get too far away from itself.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Amazin'ly, not a single one of those were on my list," he admits, nonplussed by the passing rant. Oddly, he doesn't feel any need to answer the energy or the way he's looked over with any more than that. He could feel the readiness coiled in the small of his spine, the readiness that sat easily in him.

"Good news must be that with the woods lookin' like this, you should see any game. How you plan on killin' it?"

Since they were focused on it, he had questions.

"Depends on what the game is," he shrugs. "If it's a deer, I'm leaving it the hell alone until I find a gun. If it's a squirrel...dunno. Maybe I'll be able to trap it."

Hickey treats this entire conversation with a light air. If this happens, so what. It happens. He'll make do and keep going as he always does. He is remarkably relaxed and laissez-faire about this whole situation, to the point where it's kind of concerning.

He snorts.

"Well, good luck with that. Looks to me like a fire ran wild through here. Probably means that everythin' ran off. Which I plan on doin', albeit more slowly." He looks the man up and down briefly.

"Suppose you could come along with me if you like." If he liked or not, the man without a hat starts walking. He wasn't sure exactly what he was looking for really, but people were probably a good start. The man that was Hickey hadn't seemed to recognize him so he wasn't going to ask if he seemed familiar. Plus, walking always helped people think.. He thinks.

The smaller, red-haired man immediately starts following the man in the hat. Yeah, he doesn't know what's up. And yeah, he doesn't know what's happening. But there's somebody else here. Safety in numbers, right? If whatever this is, if it's troublesome, best to have someone else he can shove in the way.

"Probably best to stick together," he shrugs. "I think you're the only person here I've seen so far. Something like that has to mean something, yeah?"

Even amnesiac, Hickey still sees patterns and signs where there aren't any.

"Maybe. If we don't find anyone else.." He bobs his head back and forth. "Maybe." He glances over as he's joined in the stride. He was glad for the company, no matter how odd in a way he couldn't quite put his finger on.

He wasn't one to feel a need to fill a silence apparently and so, is happy to walk a bit without making any noise whatsoever. The soft crunch of their footsteps on the carbon ashed landscape was the only thing that could be heard until-

What kind of survivor are you?

The words stop him in his tracks, dark brown eyes going wide as they dart around hungrily, taking in every bit of the open horizon that he could before landing back on his companion.

"You hear that?"

He does hear it. Hickey's eyes widen with recognition at the words, words that he heard, that he knows this other man heard as well. Words that he has no idea where they came from to begin with.

Hickey's quiet for a moment, only giving Raylan a little nod as he looks around at them. He can't see any source of the voices, anybody speaking. But that doesn't mean nothing's there. It could be hidden, after all.

So after a moment, Hickey answers the question. He answers it loud, projecting his voice so that Raylan and anything hiding in the bushes, asking creepy questions, can hear. "I'm the sort of survivor who'll do whatever it takes. Whatever's needed. Survival can be a nasty piece of work but the alternative's even worse. I'm not going to die and I'm certainly not going to be taken out by something I can control."

It felt dangerous to answer questions spoke the way that one had been. He wasn't going to answer and when he realizes that Hickey is, one hand lifts in protest that proves useless against the man's confident call into the sky. So instead, with the damage done, he waits. Is this a call and answer kind of business?

What kind of survivor are you?

It echoed in his head again, louder and insistent, making him flinch hard - one hand lifted to hold his head as he stumbles back a step and a half. "Sonvabitch," he mutters with a flare of anger.

"Fine, ya bastard, both of us," is grumbled under his breath before he answers properly. Not nearly as loud as Hickey, but he had a feeling it would count.

"I'm the sort of survivor that can pull myself together outta ugly horror because I'll be damned if my own weaknesses are the reason I end up in the ground," he starts, and with it comes a few clues about himself. His name. The flash of horrible images that have been so frequent in his life since he was a little boy.

"The kind that ain't gonna get beat down without a hellva fight."

Hickey grins as he hears Raylan's words, that he's not the kind that won't go down without a hell of a fight. A few flashes come through his head as well. The ice. The debilities in the tins. That creature. He's probably the same in that regard. Hickey won't let himself roll over and die either.

"Glad to hear that. Between the two of us, we've got this survival thing covered, yeah? We'll make it through this."

"Come hell or highwater," he agrees darkly, shoving his hands gloomily into the pockets of his coat again. He couldn't quite find it in himself to share the man's elation but the words somehow guaranteed that he would stand with and protect him, so far as he was able.

"Raylan, I think. By the way. My name." As it's said, he picks a direction and keeps walking. "As put out as I am about bein' forced to say shit out loud-" Another very telling sign, "-I am glad to know I'm not walkin' around with a pussy."

"Name's Hickey," he says, with a little nod of his own. That name doesn't exactly fit. Something about it doesn't sit right, as if it's somebody else's name. But it's the only name he remembers, so it's the name he's going with.

Raylan's statement gets a little laugh. "Last thing I'd want is someone who would drag all this nonsense out by not answering things. It's not hard, yeah? Just deal with your irritation and do it."

The answer feels right, somehow. Like it's something he should have known but the fact only populates in his head after Hickey says it. He hums a note of acknowledgement and then frowns slightly at the comments that follows.

"You're too trusting with information about yourself, clearly. Welcomin' trouble when there isn't any cause. Folks'll fill in the blanks themselves and that works to an advantage." That too, felt true but also like someone else was saying them. Someone who had experience in 'Folks', whatever that actually means.

"I think I'm used to bein' followed."

"One man's too trusting is another man's nothing to hide," Hickey points out, with a wry little smile on his face. Is he too trusting? Or in this moment, under these specific circumstances, is he an open book? After all, it's not like he's remembered anything he knows he should hide. Might as well keep things open, keep things going, talk more about himself in the hope that things open up.

At Raylan's statement, however....

"We'll probably get along piss-poor then. I think I'm used to being the leader. Feels right, yeah?"

But Hickey's tone is light and loose. Despite him saying that they might not get along, it's obvious he doesn't exactly think that.

"Oh," he sounds, brow furrowing over a good natured smirk, "Everyone's got somethin' to hide."

Even if they didn't remember it right now. He could feel it in him, whatever it was, a solidness in his gut he had to protect. Or he had colon cancer and he didn't know it. But his passing furrowed brow smooths back out as he laughs despite himself.

"That wasn't what I meant but also, no. Not quite. I'm more of a shoulder next to shoulder kinda guy, I guess. That feels right." With the information he had at the moment, anyway.

"I can work with that," Hickey shrugs. Ideally, he'd prefer not to work with that—he's the boss, thank you very much, and he has a bone deep certainty in his chest about that much. But if this is the only option? If he has to be shoulder to shoulder with this bloke? He can do that. After all, Hickey's not going to turn down any advantage. And company is certainly advantage, until they figure this thing out.

"But you're right. Everyone's got something to hide. Maybe that's what this is, this memory business. Maybe it's trying to drag out what we don't want to say."

Good. Raylan didn't want to have to fight Hickey if he didn't have to, and if the smaller man had tried to make him heel, it probably wouldn't have gone well.

"I'd like to file an official complaint, in that case. And then maybe burn somethin' down." The last was said with a bit of a wistful sigh, like it would bring the man a great and deep pleasure to burn down whatever building happened to take his complaint.

"Do you remember anything else about yourself?"

"Nah," Hickey admits, with a little frown. On the one hand, he should be annoyed about this. But on the other hand, what did it matter? He was himself. If he didn't remember who he was, then he didn't remember and he'd either remember or build himself up again, building up a new Cornelius Hickey. What other choice did he have?

After a second though, another question pierces the quiet.

When you lost everything you knew and loved, how did you keep breathing?

Damn. Each step brings with it the hope that they'll get another piece of whatever puzzle this is - it's obviously important. He was impatient, apparently. He didn't know that he wanted to be.

Raylan flinches hard as the voice rings out, and he's still not sure if it's in or outside his head. This time there's no hesitation in his answer, taking a page from Hickey's notebook. If it's going to force them anyway...

"Bitter stubbornness." It felt honest and acrid, like a freshly cut onion making one's eyes burn and knowledge flooded with it. Arlo and his mother. The oppression of small towns and lack of opportunities. He was better then those from his home hollar for having gotten out. For being educated. He looks around as he continues. "Losin' means someone else wins. And that feels wrong."

Dark eyes fall back on Hickey, curious as to what the man's answer would be.

As Raylan's eyes linger on him, Hickey shrugs.

"What other choice do I have?" Hickey answers. It feels like something's stuck in his throat, like he's just one cough away from dislodging something inside, but Hickey continues to talk. "What's the alternative, dying? Giving in? Nah. There's always something better. I can make it better."

He thinks of Harry Goodsir slitting his own wrists, of Stephen Stanley setting the tent alight, of Henry Collins drugged out of his mind. Hickey realizes that he's been in that hopeless situation, a situation where it did look like all was lost. Him and plenty of others. So what's the alternative, just rolling over to die? To give up? Fuck that.

"I'm going forward. Always forward."

The smile that crawled onto Raylan's face was wolfish and despite himself. They weren't the same, but there was a thick string of parallel in them. A mulish, defiant nature that gave the proverbial (and no doubt the actual) finger to God, the Man, the Expectations and /or the Rules. He liked that.

"Make or find," he says in agreement, long legs taking back to their striding.

"Any idea how you make it better? I got a feelin' I ain't too great at that." He never made anything better, outside of the sense of stopping something terrible from happening to people. It didn't fix anything. He could only hope for scars prevented, and the sense of it all settled heavily on his shoulders.

Truth be told, Hickey also has the lingering sensation in the back of his mind that he also hasn't made things better. More memories start to flood in his head at the answer. Struggling to make ends meet, taking a place on a doomed voyage, trying for greatness and recognition and simple acknowledgement, all to fall away in the end.

He doesn't say that, though. Instead, he simply shrugs before answering, "Terrible answer, but s'pose you just try. I'm not going to accept whatever circumstances are thrown at me, not when I know I can make my own."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Summer of where the hell are we

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject