sixthiterationlogs | Is this all as strange as it is seeming? Was I dead or was I only dreaming? [OPEN]

Entry tags:

Is this all as strange as it is seeming? Was I dead or was I only dreaming? [OPEN]

WHO: Samantha Moon
WHERE: Around town
WHEN: Post-quake
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: Some shell-shock. And because it's Sam, a lot of swearing.

As hard as Sam tried, she couldn't stop thinking about the night of the Rain of Fire. Compared to what had happened to her and the life she knew that night, an earthquake should have seemed like small potatoes. She lived in stupid California, for fuck's sake. This shouldn't have been enough to scratch up memories of the Rain, like a scab being ripped off her elbow. But introspection had never been Sam's greatest talent. So she understood herself less than complex physics or genetic sequencing or the right way to make fun of people who actually liked Walter Keane portraits. And when the memories flooded her brain, she was helpless to stop them, much less understand.

Sam was fast. She’d been fast even before she died. High school track team. Only for a hot minute, it seemed, but it had stuck with her. And it served her well, now, as she raced through the jumbled and ripped up streets of Los Angeles, jumping over steaming craters in the concrete, dodging around debris that was so twisted and mangled that she couldn’t even begin to guess what any of it had originally been. Was that bent metal rod a piece of the international space station? A support beam from a skyscraper? A fender? No way to know, no time to care.

She raced along Vine, her wig tilted to a terrible angle, her clothing ripped and torn. Her shadow stretched out in front of her, illuminated by fires from every direction. No matter which way she turned, she couldn’t erase the image of Sterling Engelhart being sucked down into the earth. “He had a piece of me with him,” Elizabeth kept moaning to Aubrey, before she succumbed to torpor and the hunters opened fire. If Sam believed in miracles, she’d call it one that no one had been shot. She’d separated from Grace and Avery at the Ordo library, then immediately turned tail and started back for home, despite their protestations that she should stay with them.

Even in this state of emergency, Sam was still afraid to reveal her secrets to them. Karen had well-ingrained the notion that no Kindred could really be trusted. The streets were full of the dead, dying, and bewildered. Most of the people that she passed seemed to come to life only when a large chunk of building fell from above. And then there was screaming and running and still more dying, as if they were reliving the first volley of space junk and satellites all over again.

“Joanna!” she heard someone screaming. “Joanna! Where are you?”

Sam did the math in her head. Based on her rough estimates, Los Angeles had probably lost well over one-third of its population tonight. And it was still too soon to make a final call. The looting hadn’t begun yet. And the panic. That too would inevitably raise the death count. And as for the rest of the world? Who knew?

Sam walked to a pile of rubble, leaning over to move a piece. She didn't hear anyone or anything underneath. With a scowl, she kicked it. What had it even been? A shed? A supply store? A fucking outhouse? There was another way this was different from the Rain. The landscape was still alien, whether it was pristine or wrecked. She was an outsider, a foreigner without any landmark to navigate by.

Her walkie crackled from her belt. “Mother to Sleepwalker.” Avery’s voice. He sounded formal. It was the same voice he used when he was in Court. “This is Mother to Sleepwalker. Come in Sleepwalker.”

She yanked it free, bringing it to her mouth. “This is Sleepwalker.” Her voice didn’t tremble too much. That would probably come later.

Avery’s tone softened. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she said, trying to force herself to believe it.

“I wish you’d stayed.”

“I have to go.”

“Will you at least tell me where you are?”

And there was yet another way this was all different from the Rain. There wasn't anyone around here like Avery, anyone to worry about her whereabouts or even care if she was alive or dead. For all she knew, she was dead and now a fucking ghost, haunting this clown rodeo. Angrily, she pressed the heel of her palm against the side of her head. She wanted to force the memories out. And maybe hide her face a little, as her expression crumpled.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's the way he thought when he arrived--and he's met other people who do it, trade favors, expect something for their assistance. In a survival of the fittest situation, it would make perfect sense, and she'd have to find something to offer.

But he saw the way people worried after Credence, and he'd dug him out of the cave without expecting anything in return. He can't imagine the purpose Credence would ever serve to him.

"I don't think people here care about that," he says, feeling the words out as he says them. His speech is often a bit slow--measured and rusty. "I mean, you have plenty of time to learn what you need, if you bother with it. But I don't think it matters. I don't think anyone's playing a game, here, they're just getting by, and part of getting by is knowing people."

Even back home, things hadn't gotten really bad until he locked himself in the dorm and stopped going out.

It was a Kindred mindset. Social Darwinism. Sam recognized it for what it was and she hated the fact that it had been imprinted on her personality. But there was nothing she could do to unlearn what she knew, to unlive what she'd been through. Maybe she wasn't Kindred any more. But three years might as well have been a lifetime.

She shook her head slightly, her synthetic curls bouncing off of the planes of her face. It was tempting to begin with something like, 'As one high school loner to another...' But she stopped herself.

Probably wasn't safe to assume.

"Getting to know people," she repeated, like she was committing the advice to memory. "Well, we could start with your name."

Did he not give her a name the last time? Gaps in his memory are so common he's learned to accept whatever sounds most like himself in explanation, and it's plausible. Hers doesn't come to mind either--he's just been putting paper in the storeroom as he makes it, aware of the need.

Girl in the blue wig was odd enough out from the village, it probably worked better than a name if he wanted to find her.

"It's Jude," he says, stepping onto a log fallen or rolled onto the path, sunk enough in mud that it's probably more of a pain to move than a necessity. Turning, he offers her a hand up.

She was all set to say something like 'Hey Jude,' but then she figured he'd probably heard that a million times already. If the Beatles existed in his world. And if they didn't, it wouldn't make sense. So, really, it was a lose-lose joke.

She bit it back.

Politely declining his hand, she stepped up onto the log. Maybe she didn't have her superpowers any more, but she figured she could handle that much.

"I'm Sam," she said. It was the first time her voice was...well. Genuine. There was nothing to be snarky about, really. It was actually kind of nice to get a simple answer to a simple question. Nothing else was ever simple.

Dismissed, the hand lifts on the wrist, points the fingers out, and curls back in just as easy. It pulls the cut on his palm just enough to remind him it's there, and maybe he shouldn't be offering it anyway. "Nice to meet you, Sam."

If the silence he lapses into along the path is awkward, he doesn't notice. It's always seemed a problem for other people, and not his to deal with. When a thought occurs to him to speak, he speaks: "I've been leaving paper at the inn; did you find it?"

Silence was always something of a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it wasn't what society taught her was normal. On the other hand, if you didn't talk, you didn't have to lie. Avery often lapsed into uncanny silences. At least before the Rain of Fire. After that, he could barely sit still, much less keep his trap shut.

Sometimes, Sam missed those good old days.

More than sometimes.

She was trembling on the brink of remembering too much again, but was saved by Jude. She blinked in puzzlement, looking up at him. "No," she admitted. "I didn't."

Looking back, he can see how he's caught her out of something, but he doesn't know and won't ask what. She didn't want a hand up, she probably doesn't want much else, and it isn't the kind of thing he's good at with people he knows far better.

But if it was the paper that helped, he can keep digging that vein. "I put it upstairs in the storeroom, it looks like where they dump extra blankets and clothes when people disappear. I'll show you when we get there.

"What did you want it all for, anyway?"

"Drawing." She gave him a sheepish, almost coy look. Because Sam knew that in a place where survival was key, any sort of artistic pursuit sort of naturally fell to the bottom of the priorities. She didn't need Darwin to know that. It was fucking common sense.

The problem was, she had a metric shit ton of psychological baggage weighing her down. And drawing was the only escape valve she could safely rely on. After all, it wasn't like they had a movie theater, with twenty-four hour showings of the Space Wars movies for her pleasure.

Although, that would have been sweet.

She shrugged. "I was an artist before this place."

A more astute person might have narrowed that down, there were only so many reasons to want paper. Journal keeping, sketching--maybe building plans or notes about the canyon. Jude has the means, but little interest. He knows what he can keep in his head, what he can touch with his hands, and--even Sam might relate--what he can sketch the shape of.

Writing down all the confusing parts of this place won't make sense of them. It'll just make him think about it.

"I don't think you stop being one because of where you go," he points out, resolving to get back tot he project once the damage to the house is sorted. Making paper had been something to do, not something he'd thought of as particularly important. But it's been used, and there have been requests since her own. "I was at the institute in Pittsburgh," he admits. "Illustration and graphic design."

And there it was, finally. Something Sam could like about Jude, besides the Goth-boy persona. Oh, that made her smile genuinely. Maybe he wasn't a kindred spirit. But he could relate to the need.

Maybe. Just...maybe.

Unfortunately, his sentiment was just that. Sentiment.

She shrugged, looking down as she walked. "I'm pretty sure people can find more important things to do with paper. Art is pretty much useless with survival being questionable so often."

"The amount of time you've spent standing around feeling sorry for yourself, you might as well spend it doing something else." Kicking over rubble wasn't important to survival. Hunting for chess pieces and arrowheads hadn't resolved into a way out. Sometimes you just did things to pass the time. "That wig doesn't keep you alive, but you put it on every day. Maybe being who you are is part of staying alive."

Whether or not complaining can be part of who someone is, his frustration doesn't always make room for. Complaining didn't do shit for survival either.

"Anyway," he finishes, looking back at the path under his feet, "It's my paper. People can do whatever they want with it."

She was set to bristle and hiss like a cat. Sam didn't take kindly to critique. But she stopped herself abruptly, her fingers finding their way to a stray curl on her shoulder. It was a point she hadn't really considered. Her family was safe from her influence, while she was here. She didn't have to wear a disguise.

But she did.

Sam had to. She had to. Because the thought of being herself made her sick to her stomach. Robbed of every other kind of armor she had, the idea of exposing who she really was felt...well. It felt wrong.

And so, Sam did the unthinkable. And she backed down from a fight.

"I guess," was all she said, offering another shrug, letting go of the curl.

Brilliant move, Sullivan. It's more idle a thought than it should be, making friends never seeming worth the effort. He's supposed to be trying, but that vein of frustration likes to meet the vein of denial, and talking to him always winds up like talking to a wall at some point.

Except the wall could abruptly open its mouth and put you in your place, without you even realizing you had one to be put.

He'd resolved to make the effort, though; he'll probably keep resolving it until it starts to feel natural. Kind of like sewing blue hair on what you were born with, he guesses. "It's a cool wig," he concedes. "I'm just saying, you're allowed to take your mind off things too. You don't have to go till the fields all day."

That earned him a dry huff of a laugh. "I'm not good at taking my mind off of things," she replied. And there was no possible way to convey the context of her life honestly, or in a way that wouldn't sound incredibly silly.

So she left it there.

She hooked her thumbs through her back beltloops. "So...Pittsburgh, huh? Lots of...steel mills. And not kosher food." A pause. "You like it?"

Fuck, she'd gotten rusty and talking to people...

"Maybe you should till the fields then, it might help with that." Finding and executing a task is all he's ever really had, when his own mind doesn't play with reality or rip away sections of time. The episodes have been minimal since his arrival--an odd smell here or there, insects no one else reacts to, batches of paper completed without any memory of the last few hours. Nothing like the gaps between letters from his mother, or waking up in the dorm with a fresh tattoo.

"Is Kosher food important," he asks, almost as dry, "Because I guess we have unlevened bread in the pantry, but I don't really know what else counts."

Glancing back at the question though, he shrugs. "I didn't like or dislike it. It made more sense than New York, and I haven't really been to any other cities." He isn't sure he makes sense himself, in cities. He probably just hadn't given it enough time.

She ignored his comment about tilling fields. It was the type she didn't want to dignify with a response. After all, she had the endurance of a high school track star. But the upper body strength of a twelve-year-old. At least, now that she was human. No point in dwelling on that any more than she already was.

As for Kosher food, obviously, the quip about Philly cheesesteaks was best left untouched.

Sam had never liked steaks of any kind. Especially stakes.

It was the way he dismissed New York that really got her attention. Enough for both eyebrows to disappear behind the synthetic fringe over her forehead. "More sense than New York?"

Explaining New York meant explaining how much better his life was without strobing lights or excessive noise. It meant explaining the clubs he didn't remember, the intention of school friends to drag him out of Pennsylvania and show him the scene. New York was some kind of root of the Community, like they hadn't all met on a campus a full train ride to the west of it.

By the time he rode the train home it was a blur of tube shots and blacklights and percussive sounds.

He settles for the usual excuse: "It's too loud." He indicates the buildings and trees on either sides of the path with a sweeping gesture: "I'd rather be here, it's easier." He never feels crushed in by it, even being literally crushed by falling debris.

Quiet, Sam could get. It wasn't so much her thing, but she could respect that some people preferred it.

Being here, however, she would never, ever get. She wouldn't allow herself. It would mean Stockholm Syndrome settling in. It would mean giving up on Avery and Grace and the fucking world. It would mean surrendering.

Never. Never ever ever.

A muscle in her jaw twitched. "You want quiet, try a suburb of Chicago. This place is shit."

Stockholm Syndrome could describe a lot of Jude's life. The first few stages of adjustment always take so much energy, always exact so little change, always let people know what really gets to you. Better to skip to acceptance and bury the rest deep down, or forget it entirely.

He knows most people don't do that. Charlie hadn't, cracking and crying and drinking through the divorce, refusing to let Jude out of his sight even when his sight wasn't the model of parental supervision. It just seemed messy. It just seemed like a lot of smoke on top of a goddamn fire.

"This place is what you make it," he says, nodding at the inn up ahead. "There's food, there's shelter, the people are nice enough." And he feels saner in a place that shouldn't exist than he did on campus, which might just be proof that he's crazy, but he'll take what he can get.

"It's a Skinner Box," she replied dryly. "Food and shelter and other rats to play with, but it's still a Skinner Box."

The constant theme of Sam's life, really. Everything she was, everything she did, eventually tied back to someone else's science experiment, someone else's plan, someone else's story.

When did she get to start her own fucking narrative?

"And that's assuming the other rats aren't decoys. Like the Milgram experiments in obedience." She gave Jude a crooked smile. "I'm just saying, I'd like to see the IRB approval for this clown rodeo."

The names are things he's heard before--probably the books he read trying to make sense of his mom. He thinks Milgram was a thing her lawyer mentioned, defending her ties to the cult. At ten he hadn't cared, he'd just wanted the cameras out of his face and no more black cars in the rain and for all three of them to go home. At fifteen he'd tried to read the court documents and found it too much to puzzle out.

No one ever talked about anything plain enough. Maybe that's why he's so fond of pictures instead.

"What are you doing about it though," he asks. Everyone he's spoken to acts like there's nothing, but at least they kept themselves fed and warm, and made inroads at putting up buildings again or tending the crops. "Is all this," gesturing at the emaciated paring of her frame since the last time he saw her, "some kind of hunger strike? Maybe I am a rat in a cage, but at least I'm not scurrying around lost every time they rattle the glass."

Sam didn't just roll her eyes. She ro-o-o-o-olled them. "It's not a hunger strike," she said. "I'm not that hipster."

Although, she couldn't decide which would make her sound worse, being a hipster or being a recovering vampire. The thought of it amused her. Fuck, she could start a support group, if there were others.

'Hi, I'm Samantha and I'm a former vampire.'

'Hi, Samantha.'

Against her will, she let out a single giggle, before quickly biting her lips shut.

Whatever reason she isn't eating--nerves, vanity, protest--it isn't doing her any favors upstairs. Jude's squint isn't very different from the usual, but there's assessment with the concern, easily mistaken for annoyance.

He doesn't know what a hipster is any more than he knows about Isabelle's tattoos or Credence being a smoke monster. Far as he knows, all three are related and when she really loses it, Sam is going to vanish in a puff of blue smoke.

He's not going to let that kind of thing rattle him either.

"You need to eat," he decides succinctly, back on his original tracks. Setting off for the inn, he holds the door open for her with his back taking its weight.

She knew she needed to eat. Of course she knew it. But knowing things with her head and knowing them with her heart were, tragically, two very different things. Different processes. A whole second set of neurons to consider. Which was especially hard, in light of her lack of introspection. Make that, her willful lack of introspection.

Which wasn't to say she intended to argue.

Sam wasn't that hipster either.

So when Jude opened the door for her, she walked right in, pausing in the entryway to examine the damage and clean-up efforts. It made her think of the Kindred Shopping District, in the weeks following the Rain. They'd worked so hard to make it look like nothing had changed. But there were cracks. Cracks in the pavement, in the surfaces, in the people who'd survived.

Sam was cracked too. Teetering dangerously close to broken.

"That's my grandmother's epitaph," she murmured. "Her tombstone says 'You need to eat.'"

Jude doesn't know his maternal grandmother--as far as he can tell, she lived and died in some kind of commune that rivaled the Amish for segregation from normal civilization. His father's parents were dead before he was born, but there were plenty of ladies in Hollow Creek who echoed the sentiment. Have another sandwich, more brisket, more pie.

He misses all three, now that he's here.

"Well, take better care of yourself or I'm putting it on yours." He's found at least one grave in his wandering: nothing traditional with a headstone, but a pile of rocks growing moss and grass under a tall pine, a star carved into the roots around it. Credence probably knows who it is, he's obsessed with the subject.

Making his way into the kitchen, he points at the spread on the table, not quite picked clean. "There are more plants and vegetables next to the old school," he adds, "you can pick things up when you walk by it. Paper and blankets are here, upstairs."

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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject