singillatim | prelude

prelude

January 1st 2015

Do you remember yesterday? What is tomorrow?
How will you face this quiet apocalypse?
— Raphael van Lierop.

As the old year falls and the new year begins, the skies fill with light. An Aurora comes on the last day of December, and with it the usual signs of it: the ethereal noise, the cracks and pops in the air, the stuttering of electrics as they struggle to power on and then blare and flicker. It is, as Interlopers have come to know, business as usual — in terms of the Auroras within this world. However, something a little different happens this time.

Interlopers will fall asleep all over the town of Milton. Even the ones who fight sleep and try to stay up into the small hours of the night will find themselves drifting off for a short while — as if their eyes just feel too heavy to keep open, and their minds slip into a deep kind of quiet darkness without their realising. And at first, there is nothing — nothing but the quiet dark. Something peaceful, almost.

A dream comes.

The first thing you notice is blood in your mouth, the cold in your bones, the deafening din in your ears — as if you are caught in static and the sound of howling winds through pine trees. You are afraid. At first, you do not know why. You find yourself on your knees in the snow. The skies are filled with green light, the air is thick with smoke. And then the realisation comes:

This is the ending of all things.

You look up, to the sight before you: a huge, shapeless shadow. Towering above you, over you. A head peers down at you: a cluster of three wolf skulls, eye-sockets glowing green and terrible, and their three open maws, dripping with more green. The sound it makes is unnatural, you cannot put it into words. The darkness draws in, you are so cold, so tired.

This is the ending of all things.

It is so hungry. You are so tired. The world falls away, you cannot see the stars, the dark hiding them from view. Were they even there to begin with? Or did they go out? You have forgotten. And you know, you know—

This is the ending of all things.

The skies glimmer, licks of strange, colourful wisps curl above — a voice screams out your name, from the static and winds. Through the noise. A woman’s voice. You have heard this voice before, in the lights and noise. Do you see? What could be? What you could become?

Can you hold on? Please. A hand grips your shoulder, but as you turn — the dream ends.

For some, they snap into waking with a shout or cry. Some will shudder awake to find tears in their eyes. All over Milton, the Interlopers wake: shaken, unsure, afraid. They will awaken to the dark: the Aurora is gone — slowly fading from the night skies into an otherwise calm and clear night.

It is a new year.

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[ Speaking of toying with his heart. The cosmonaut grins at the compliment, boyish and charming, visibly glowing at the recognition. He supposes it would make sense that such a person would be drawn to a field in which the eyes (and praise) of the nation would be on him. He's larger than life, as are his accomplishments.

That makes it all the more meaningful to be acknowledged by such a man—people had expressed their gratitude for first responders as a class from time to time in America, but he'd largely been invisible. He wasn't a handsome all-American firefighter, he was an EMT making 14$ an hour far from home, speaking a language in which he wasn't fluent.

Capable and selfless, he says—high compliments, if one is a communist born in 1910. The highest. His smile never fades. ]

It's nothing. This is the job description. ...You deserve to have a big head. You earned it.

[ And, on a pragmatic level... he's been beaten down, quite a bit. Treated like a traitor, just like those soldiers who returned home after being encircled by the enemy and were given a homecoming by the NKVD—something he'd read about, not experienced (he'd been in Common Grave Number One in the Donskoye Cemetery at the time), but unsurprising to him. It's not how someone horribly maimed in the line of duty should be treated, and he wouldn't be, if the wounds were external. ]

[ Konstantin's smile softens again, eyes glancing downwards to the the water in his hand, carefully taking a little sip. It gives him a naturally quiet moment to consider his thoughts.

He'd thought he earned it. He'd worked as hard as was required, put in the effort and time, spent years of his life shaping himself into something that others could be proud of. That his country could be proud of. He thought of himself that way. But.... in one instant, with one accident, everything changed. And now.. if (when) he returns back home, he'll be treated as a criminal. Or even worse. Who knows what lies the public have been told about him? ]

It's part of my job description, too. This "Hero" business. I just followed the guidebook for it all. [ Another light-hearted laugh, all of the worse things kept tucked away for now. He doesn't want to ruin the mood. ]

But— really. You can help people here. You helped me. You can provide a lot for this community, Comrade. [ A wry smile as he taps his fingers against his glass. ] While we're here.

While we're here [, he repeats, a faint smile at his lips yet not quite reaching his eyes—because this is temporary. Truth be told, even with the dangers and eternal winter... it occurs to him that now, with the singular addition of this man into his life here, he wouldn't choose to go back to modernity and its complete and utter solitude if he had a choice.

It's selfish, wanting to stay and to wish for something to keep everyone else trapped here too, but he's only human, and he's been so starved of human company for so long. So he allows him the one secret, unBolshevik indulgence of hoping they won't leave any time soon, or that—somehow they can leave together, to some third destination where both of them are safe. ]

Thank you. [ Quiet, genuine. ] I try. It was how we were raised, no? To contribute to the greater whole. ...I just wish there was more I could do. I've been studying what books I can find, and I have a book on drug information from the pharmacy for prescribing, but I was not a doctor or paramedic back home. I had only been in practice for a year.

[ Konstantin smiles again, taking another careful sip of his water before answering. ]

Well, you'll probably get lots of practice on me. Being your guinea pig would be a lot nicer than being theirs.

[ A laugh, quiet and soft but no less amused. "Theirs" — the research facility, something he can allude to with humour even though it's all a particular horror. He's... terrified to be brought back there, or more likely transferred to a new, secret area. He knows this time there would be no escape. And little surface mercies offered; he'd be treated directly like the prisoner he always was. Who knows what they'd do to him, and the creature? ]

But I can imagine it would be a lot, with suddenly being in a place like this. The kinds of injuries people may get here... [ It's a wonder Vasiliy holds it together as well as he does. Most anyone would get overwhelmed with such a thing, a responsibility as daunting as that. ]

Have you had to deal with anything very severe, so far? Apart from me.

[ There's a genuine curiosity as he watches him, attention fixed on. The subject matter may be a little harrowing — as is the cause of this whole night being interrupted in the first place — but he's still conversational about it, and there's something very nice to that. He's happy to lie in bed beside the other man and listen to him speak. ]

Some. There was a man who was attacked by the wolves, but they only scratched him. He was lucky. He didn't get bitten.

[ He considers for a moment, then: ]

It's different here than Chicago, but the injuries here aren't as bad. In the city... a lot of things can go wrong. A lot of shootings and workplace accidents. [ An exhale. Maybe the night's events have predisposed him to be a little more honest than he normally would be. ] America is not so great. I miss Russia.

[ America, its cities, do seem like a wild place. Konstantin listens thoughtfully, somberly, attention staying on his companion. He only moves to lean carefully to the side and set his glass of water aside, before resuming his position, head tilted to watch Vasiliy.

The admission coaxes a quiet flicker of ache in the pit of himself. ]

Do you think you'll go back someday? Back home to Russia?

[ Never mind the unspoken 'if' it's possible to leave this place. It has to be possible. They will escape here eventually. And then... Vasiliy could return home. Some part of Konstantin does wonder why he hadn't already, but he won't ask that, just looks to the information that the younger man is willing to share with him. That much is important enough. ]

[ He wants to—how desperately he wants to. But there’s a part of him that recognizes that it will probably never be possible, not with who he is, the name he has, the documents that still lie resting like a sleeping dragon in the KGB archives—his signature, repeated over and over on endless fabricated confessions; his file; even payroll information, probably.

There’s a deep, infinite ache of grief that opens like a sinkhole deep in his core. How he wants to. How he wants to. Even if they get out of this place, he can never just go home. He’ll just be a stranger on a different planet. The only difference, aside from his environs being even more hostile (at least to a person like himself), would be that everyone else was at home, not equally displaced.

He almost prefers this reality to his own.

He lies—for Konstantin’s benefit, or maybe his own—voice quiet with sleeplessness and awareness of the hour of the night. ]

I think so. I’ve seen enough.

[ Any lingering trace of somberness in Vasiliy to the subject is attributed to the fact they're stuck here, and that to think of returning home to Russia may seem... impossible. Konstantin has no idea the true scope of things, but he does know how to function through hope, how to hold onto the concept of a thing with such certainty that one can feel emboldened. It's never about false hope, or pretending. It's about the confidence that one is strong enough to make it happen. It goes along with all of the values that are intrinsic to where they're from, what's revered — strength, capability, dedication.

He smiles, and it's genuine. ]

You'll make it back there. We're going to escape this place, Comrade. Together.

[ He doesn't doubt that. It may take time, so much time. But he will not be trapped here forever. And he will not leave Vasiliy behind. ]

....This strange place with its strange dreams. What a night this has been. [ He gives a soft chuckle deep in his throat, like the purr of an engine. ] Do you think you can get back to sleep?

[ What if I don't want to escape? he thinks but doesn't say— Konstantin would think he was mad, and selfish, were he to say it out loud. He's not particularly eager to return to life as an EMT on the poverty line in a hypercapitalist, anticommunist country that famously receives immigrants, especially those who are not perfectly fluent in English, particularly well.

He tries to refocus on the sound of the other's quiet laugh, a sound as warm as the rest of his demeanor, and cast his thoughts of what lay behind him aside for now. He needs rest. They both do. ]

I think so. Are you comfortable?

Yes, [ he answers, honestly, and with the lingering trace of his smile. He is comfortable, more comfortable than he can remember being in a long time. There's this home, this bed, this— companion.

This little compartmentalised place of safety, despite whatever is going on outside of it. Tomorrow morning might bring more horrors — things to think more deeply about, what the nightmare could mean. The realisation that more people than just the two of them have seen it.

But for now... He feels his eyelids fluttering, heavy and relaxed. Konstantin gives a drowsy hum, low in his throat, and finally closes his eyes, breathing a soft wish for them both, ]

Better dreams, Vasiliy.

[ He's bedding down, himself, when Konstantin says it, adjusting his pillow, shifting slightly as he tries to re-find the comfortable position he'd fallen asleep in, and he's again struck by how odd it is that he now falls asleep beside someone who would wish him such things every night—here, in this cold, desolate place others have described as a hell. ]

You too, [ he murmurs, and within no more than twenty minutes, despite having returned to the feeling of knowing it's all about to end for the first time since his death a few hours prior, he's soundly asleep. ]

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prelude

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POSSIBLY a good wrap point here or soon?? w them keeping company & chatting all night...

def soon..a lil Meaningful Admission to send them off with...

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