[reset] 001 | the shit is running and it runs deep

[3ofswords]

WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: Fountain, Village
WHEN: November 3rd and later
OPEN TO: OTA with closed starters
WARNINGS: Gunshot wound and recovery description

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Fountain (Mark)

Cold and exhausted were feelings he was well acquainted with, but neither had gone this deep before. The fact of water and depth scrambled immediate memory; the cold of the water scrambled everything else. Cool shadows weren't specific enough to blur for his eyes, but the light above was surprisingly uninviting, sparking only that insect response to move toward it.

When had he fallen into water? Had he really made it back to the garage? Had he fallen at the shot scraping his head and only dreamed getting up?

Checking his pockets for the orange bottle was too much to ask of them, right now. He needed air to keep up the questions; he needed more visual cues to fill in the answers. Swimming wasn't something he'd done often, but he knew his head with its held breath would aim up, and there was at least that much light, showing a surface to be found. Kira raised his hands toward it, cupped them outward, and pulled himself toward the world like splitting a hole to crawl out of.

It was even colder, topside; his head broke enough to suck in a breath, spit it out, take a better one. His arms and shoulders rested at the top of the water, treading it as he looked around: a stone barrier, a short lip, open sky and trees. Water fell behind him from tiered stone, the deepest fountain he'd ever—well, the only fountain he'd ever fallen into. His hair plastered to his face, and dark clothes stuck to his chest, billowed up from his arms like water-wings before they deflated with his strokes. It wasn't far to the edge, and cold as it was—he set his hands to it, cautiously peering over.

It was some kind of park, the grass poorly kept, the trees edging in naturally, rather than within thin fences.

The strangest part was the thin layer of snow.

It had choked New York for months now, no services running to clear it—and no room on the car and body clogged streets for them to run. He'd hidden face-down in it on his way into the safehouse, and he'd fallen back into it after the shot—

One arm slung over the edge, bracing his side against it, he touched the tight skin over his temple. There was a rough patch, curling back into his hair, a raised texture under his fingers. The hair was still haphazardly clipped away, where Nicky had cut away a bloody mat to stitch him up. Just a graze. Just lucky enough to move his head at the right time, like luck ever had anything to do with it. Kira coughed, a tickle running down the back of his head and throat, and stopped examining the wound. He couldn't feel the stitches any longer, but it felt closed, and at least it let him know—that much was real. The shot, the care. He'd made it back to the garage. He'd finished what he'd set out to do.

Rolling himself over the edge of the fountain, he stayed low to the ground, cold earth at his wet back. The sky held no more answers than it did when he broke surface, or when the light was shifting on the water. Clouded, cold. The sun was setting, painting the scene pink and orange, but the dark didn't worry him. Dark was better now: without the rule of law, nobody had to wait for dark. They could take aim in the daylight and pull the trigger.

It was the loudest sound he'd ever heard, the hottest thing he'd ever felt. He'd already been throwing himself to one side, and the glancing blow had whipped his head right into the brick. When he'd woken up in the snow, his coat had been gone, with his cards, his cigarettes—but the orange bottle had been stuffed down into his underwear, elastic holding it at his hip. When he'd gotten up and shaken himself down, it had rolled out of his pant leg onto the pavement.

After that—he doesn't know what else was real. Nicky patched up his head, and someone had taken the pills to Ty's room. Had he gone there after? Had he woken up with a hand in his hair, fought off the collective panic of the safehouse and allowed the loss of his cards for the sake of Ty, awake, recovering?

Laying out in the cold wasn't going to resolve it. Kira curled himself up, shaky on his feet. Looking down at black scrubs, stuck to his body with heavy water and thinly falling snow—he didn’t question them. He wasn’t feeling the cold much at all, except where it tightened his chest. He needed shelter before anything else.

Coughing so hard it pinched the muscles in his back, he pitched one step forward, two more, before he tripped over his waterlogged boots and hit the frozen grass with a muffled crunch.


Inn (OTA)

Whatever he does or doesn’t believe about this place, he’s keeping his mouth shut until he has the strength to deal with it. So far no one’s walked him by the wall of strung up cops or offered him jerky of questionable origin—he wants to believe this is some waypoint, some remote safe haven in upstate New York they were transported to while he was unconscious. But if it is, everyone’s gone off the fucking rocker.

He’s never been here before. Certainly not as recently as three days ago. The gap in his memory, between getting shot and Ty’s sickbed—that doesn’t contain a fucking year.

It itches him to move, even as his body protests. Wrapping a blanket tighter around himself, he moves away from the fire, starting to explore the lower floor of the inn. The blackboard waylays him for awhile, especially finding his name at the top of it. A house description, a—man or woman’s name, he can’t really tell. Rook, in the same location. Eleven months. Fuck.

Wandering away from it, he roots around at the bar, finding nothing for his nerves. The kitchen is next, the fire banked low this late. The dim lighting is something he’s used to, trying to avoid being seen in the dark. When he bangs into a chair despite all his practice, he muffles a curse into the blanket folded over his hand, held close.

The hardest part of this, inability to locate alcohol notwithstanding, is this: feeling half blind and deaf to the world. No warnings, no sense of the people around him. Everything he used to keep himself safe stripped away. Everything that would tell him if these people were lying.

He hopes they’re lying about the booze, at least, as he presses onward to start going through the cabinets.


House 39 (Bodhi)

It takes another couple of days before he’s recovered enough to brave the cold. A closet upstairs outfits him with sweaters and coats, and he manages to find the brick house he supposedly cleaned out—which hits him with the first piece of evidence that he might have existed here. The maps, carefully stacked by the linens, bear his handwriting, if not his actual cartography skills.

He loses several more hours exploring the space, finding touches of occupation. Trinkets in a bedside table, a pack of clothes that don’t—look or feel like his, but there’s a box in the closet that has his name fixed to it on a tag.

Kira Akiyama.

His full name, scraps of wrapping paper inside. From a December past? How many winters has he lived in the last four months?

Finding gloves and a pair of jeans, he layers himself again for the cold, and starts the trek across the village to the house marked on his hand-drawn map. Bodhi might be there, with the rest of their things. With answers of some kind, further proof that he’s existed here, or proof that this is an elaborate delusion.

He assumes it isn’t the burnt out husk of a house lightly dampened by snow, and climbs the porch of the other where the path ends. It’s an odd thing, knocking on a door you supposedly own, but he does it all the same. The first thing he hears is a dog’s low bark, rising with the scrape of claws on wood. Then the call of a bird, a clatter at the window that draws his eye—is that a crow?

Then, footsteps, and all he can do is square up and stare at the door.


[Kira's been canon updated as well as reset; he now comes from 3 days later than his first arrival, with knowledge that he did save his boyfriend and a healing graze wound to the side of his head.]

Comments

Inn

[beallmysins]

Luckily for Kira, Jax actually has a little booze left. His stores are low but he hopes another feast rolls around so he can stock his supply up again. He's fresh out of cigarettes and cigars though, so vices aren't something he can offer as easily as he usually can. Still, he's always willing to lend a hand in that department.

"Kira, right? You look like you've been through hell." He remembers the guy from a couple months ago but they'd only had a brief conversation then. He's got the little boy lost look that's usually plastered on people fresh from the fountain but he knows Kira isn't fresh; as far as Jax knows, Kira'd been there before he came.

"What you're looking for is probably not in Kate's cabinets."

[3ofswords]

It's strange enough to have to hear someone walk up, instead of just know they were in his space. Stranger still to hear his name from a voice he doesn't recognize--with a face to match when he turns to look over his shoulder. From this angle, the wound cutting diagonally up from his ear is visible, and his eyes are more guarded for the fact of the man seeming to know him--not less.

"Maybe you know my name, but what do you think I'm looking for?" Almost to be contrary, to prove at least half of it all wrong, he picks up the first thing he finds: a short little jar without a lid, half a candle melted down inside. "Got it; where does this Kate keep a light?"

[beallmysins]

"You got the look of a man who needs something to drink and probably something stronger than that. Don't have drugs, I don't do that shit, but I've got a little whiskey if that can fix you up."

Jax can see the wound too. It hadn't been there the last time he saw Kira but that means very little; Kira's not someone he spends a lot of time with and Christ only knows all the different ways someone can get injured in this fucking place. He whistles lowly.

"You wanna do something about the head wound before you have a smoke?"

[3ofswords]

Kira hasn't done that shit in a long time, and it's for the best there aren't any on offer tonight. At this point, with this kind of headache? He'd probably give heroin another go.

Doesn't stop his consideration from tripping over whiskey. What is it with this kind of guy and that shit? It's not like there aren't equally cheap clear liquors. "I guess if that's all you have," he says, barely turning to look at the guy, much less immediately follow. He keeps the jar in his hand, grip changing over the lid.

How does this guy know him, and why is he offering what might be the last of his alcohol? "Do you have cigarettes too," he asks, question for question. "My head's as seen to as it's going to get, thanks."

[beallmysins]

"Might have one or two. Been running low lately and I haven't gotten any more lately," Jax admits. He doesn't mind sharing for a price but he figures someone with a gouge in his head gets a pass on the payment. He frowns a little at the mention of his head being as seen to as it's going to get and shrugs.

"We've got doctors here, you know. You could go see one. Still, I'll share the whiskey. Last that I've got, though, so savor it."

[onlyeverdoubted]

Bodhi was pretty useless for the first little while. He feels his usual cocktail of self-loathing as a result--guilt over being more upset over Kira than other friends and what that says about his own selfishness, general recriminations for being useless and disappointing when he clearly should have snapped to and done something significant and effective at once, foolish and faintly compromised over not even thinking of going to Jude over it. Just the usual brought to a pointed head by the loss.

He's started to find refuge in busy activity as best he can, looking over Kira's packed things with a view toward continuing his project, even trying to talk himself into packing his own. (Admittedly, Bodhi's things comprise about three sets of clothes, a tea set, Jude's artwork, and some rocks.) And there are always chores when there's no automation. When he hears someone at the door, Jude seems like the best bet, and he hurriedly puts down his half folded laundry to rush over and show what a clear-headed, active citizen he's being.

Bodhi's become fond of Aurora, but he doesn't understand much about dogs despite that. Doesn't know enough to recognize what seems different in her barking when she realizes who's at the door. She likes Jude, and the weather's been wet and cold. She's probably hoping to go out. He doesn't hurry any more than he would have to see the visitor he expects. Which, admittedly, is a lot, but he's in no way prepared when he gets the door open.

He's in his Jedhan clothes today, sans robe since he's inside, and a cup of comfort tea isn't far behind him, so the smoke and honey smell escapes with him. For the first moment he doesn't even think to question why Kira would knock on their door rather than walk in and say something supercilious. He just grins like Kira would barely recognize with memories intact. If this weren't Bodhi, this would definitely be a hug thing.

[3ofswords]

He's surprised at how much he--hates this.

Maybe it's how deeply he's relied on his gifts to stay alive, the last few months. Maybe it's the fantasy of some closed but peaceful life out in the wilderness, superimposed against the reality of scraping by in a city clogged by death and snow. Face masks, guns he doesn't know how to use, asking the cards over and over for some kind of answer.

It's odd to have it all cut off, and feel like he still--needs it.

Meeting Bodhi is no exception. The man--and he's not surprised it's a man. And he's not surprised he's decent looking--if a bit short and squirrely looking. Well, he lights up at the sight of him, and Kira can't. He can't even feel it, vicariously, much less understand the context. Not much was given on his way here: he lives with Bodhi. He has for eight months, according to people he doesn't quite believe. But what is he to do with that smile, what is he to do with the warmth of the house, and the dog rushing out at him, standing up to be caught in his arms? His gaze is as lost as Bodhi is likely to ever see it, looking between the dog standing at his chest, and the man in the door.

"I...they said I live here," he greets, quietly. The dog makes another surge, nipping at his chin, and it's overwhelming and annoying enough that he finally pushes her down. "Stop it," he says, voice clipped. "Jesus, that's not mine, is it?"

[onlyeverdoubted]

Bodhi doesn't process the words immediately. They're too strange, even for this place. Admittedly, Bodhi's known people to forget things, has done it himself. One of the hazards of living here. But none of those times leaps to mind. When it was Jyn he was gentling along she looked sickly and babbled and was clearly in some kind of distress. Kira looks just like Kira, holds himself like Kira, has been gone for days but isn't acting like Kira.

The words don't make it through his head, but the reaction to Aurora does. Her obvious confusion isn't exactly subtle dog language, and Bodhi learned to dote on Rora from his roommate. "I... what? Kira?" His voice is low and relatively calm despite the obvious and unguarded spike of distress his expressive eyes make very clear. Bodhi doesn't hide much of anything, especially from his friends.

[3ofswords]

There's no easy way to say it. Well, there is actually, but Bodhi has one of those faces that makes him want to not be an asshole. There's no soothing way to say it, and he wants to. He really does want to.

If the dog would just stop giving him the same look, and the house would just stop being so strange, so anathema to everything he's ever known. A frozen hammock on the porch, warm firelight behind someone he doesn't even recognize the shape of. It isn't home in any sense of the word, and yet--he's somehow required by it. He's somehow a piece of this, according to everyone he's met and everything on Bodhi's stupid, pitiable face.

"I don't know how to wrap my head around this," he says, more honest than trying to soften the blow. "I came out of that fountain and they said I live here, but I don't--I've never been here. I--I'm sorry? They told me to check on you, but I don't know what the fuck I'm doing.

Who are you?" And who was Kira to him?

[onlyeverdoubted]

Bodhi is very accomplished when it comes to denial, but he's also lived here a long time. He doesn't have the luxury of "impossible" anymore. He wonders absently (not his first encounter with the way his mind tries to retreat) who suggested Kira should check on Bodhi. Who'd think of it?

That I don't know how to wrap my head around this, the words and the tone, that's the Kira he knows. This isn't some kind of illusion, and probably not a hallucination of his own (or he's a different kind of crazy than he thought he was). Bodhi takes a deep breath that doesn't do much to help and puts a hand on Aurora's head for reassurance. She mostly complies. "Y-you don't... you really don't remember?" He looks completely devastated, probably not helping with any of Kira's worries.

[markwatney]

The cold has come on more quickly than I anticipated. Something feels just slightly off about the everyday climate of this place; it veers out of its lane just a little sometimes. Still, I should have been prepared. Kira had disappeared and I'd been shaken enough that I hadn't finished getting the volunteers to monitor the fountain through the winter.

Except here is Kira, looking as wet and irritated as one might expect, hunched over on the grass in his soaked scrubs. This fucking place.

"You're like a bad penny, you know that?" I ask as I step quickly forward and heft him up. It's nearly as cold today as it was last time I found him, and I need to get him in front of a fire as quickly as possible. "I'd like to request that next time, you make your grand entrance during the summer."

[3ofswords]

There's a tone of familiarity in the voice, but it isn't mutual, and Kira's been handled rough enough on the streets to bat away the helping hands. If that's the intent, if the intent isn't false: he tries to assert that other sense, get a feel for the man up in his space--

Nothing. He hasn't felt this alone since climbing into the empty building for the pills: there's always someone, somewhere close enough. There's always something to catch.

Swaying out of the rejected grip, he manages a step back, a couple feet of distance, and touches the wound on his head like it's to blame. It isn't the time to panic, but he can feel it foaming around in his diaphram, ready to constrict. How hard did he hit his head?

"Bad penny," he repeats, voice flat, hardly raised against the winter breeze. "Sorry to disappoint."

[markwatney]

Well fuck. This hasn't happened all that many times that I'm aware of, but often enough to know that whatever memories Kira's lost probably aren't to blame on a head injury, even if it wasn't there when he left.

But hopefully Kira is still Kira despite all that, which means practicality wins out in virtually every situation.

"I'm guessing you don't want to freeze to death any more than last time you came out of that fountain, so how about we get inside in front of a fire and then I can explain why this friendship is suddenly not reciprocal. Because seriously, I'm not even wet and I'm fucking freezing here."

[3ofswords]

Last time and friendship shouldn't stand out more than fire in that sentence, but it takes Kira a few seconds of the cold seeping into his bones before he can make the obvious choice. "Given my options," of which he's really been given two, "what choice do I have?"

He doesn't make any move back into or taking up Mark's hands, forcing himself toward the path marked by footprints in the light snow and mud. "I'll just have to trust that a bunch of cannibals in the woods would come up with a better ruse."

That said, he doesn't do more than draw level with the man, keeping him at least peripherally in his sights.

[markwatney]

"That's probably the truth," I allow, and give him his distance as I head toward the Inn. Whatever agonizing explanations are on the way can be done out of the cold. "Mostly we eat rabbit and venison."

It probably makes me kind of a selfish fuck, but even as I crunch my way through the thin coating of snow and open the front door to usher the kid into the Inn, I'm wondering how long it's going to take him to get past his initial skepticism and wariness this time. Losing Kira in the first place had been a blow, and I could really use the help in getting everybody ready for the winter.

"Have a seat in front of the fire, I'll get you some towels and a blanket."

Inn, because I think he needs this

[elderflowermacarons]

Is this man familiar? Yes, faintly, but he's not Taako or one of less than a dozen others who don't even seem to exist in whatever reality this is, so nobody gives a shit. He only speaks up because he's rather sympathetic about the bar situation. "You're not going to have any luck, darling," he says as he steps clear of the kitchen, perfectly aware of the play of firelight over his dark complexion and shiny hair, because of course he is. "Loving the blanket ghost look, though. There's a point where you just wanna embrace the general trollishness of it all."

[3ofswords]

If there's sympathy there, it's compartmentalized nicely in the darling, and Kira finds that enough of a lifeline to keep drifting in the kitchen's general direction. There'd been an awkward exchange earlier where someone had come in and he'd pressed himself against the wall, like some kind of drab blanket camouflage. He hadn't even particularly wanted to avoid them, just--anyone. Muscle memory: people are threats. People act like they want a hand up out of the snow and draw on you for the clothes on your back.

This is easier. "If you've got some scissors, we can cut some eyes and really go for it," he offers. That might even be a not terrible idea: harder to be recognized; maybe insane enough to just not talk to.

[elderflowermacarons]

"That's about as much disguise as I'm up to at the moment myself, so... Gonna say go for it. Own the fuckery." He doesn't know why Kira thinks a ghost costume might be a good idea, and it's not that important. The results are more interesting to poke. This is the sort of thing that makes him a pretty indifferent researcher. "I think I just have thread cutters, though." He does have his sewing stuff on him. He has just about everything on him, as Taako has refused to actually take up living anywhere. That'd be admitting that this condition is long-term and might just be permanent. If no one he cares about is around, going through the motions of having a settled life is pointless.

[3ofswords]

Own the fuckery might be the closest thing to workable advice he's going to get for this situation, if only because people don't seem to realize it's advice he needs. Fuck Off Village doesn't have a groupme where everyone can get the memo that he's never fucking been here before. He doesn't know who they are, he's had his stomach drop out twice already wondering if the guys trying to jog his memory were people he'd slept with, and he's just--not loving the idea that he's here now, much less was here before.

"If you don't have the tools to do it right, why do it at all," he sighs, running the gag to its tolerable length. "You don't have like, cooking sherry in there at least? I'd settle for it today."

[elderflowermacarons]

"Bitch, if I had cooking sherry I'd be drizzling it into a cream sauce right now." He understands the need to get fucked up, but the ladder of Taako's personal hierarchy of needs tipped over decades ago and he's never seen the need to correct its wildly skewed angle. "This would require cream and also a decent selection of shallots, but you know what I mean." Almost certainly not.

Inn: Kitchen (I hope i'm not too late!)

[chosenbytheocean]

Moana slipped into the kitchen with a fish that she had caught that afternoon. She had skipped breakfast and lunch to go looking for materials in the woods and was absolutely starving by the time she was finished. After finding what she thought she could for the day she had caught a fish and brought it back to the inn. It was her own fault for missing Kate's lunch time so she wasn't going to complain but her stomach was making very loud noises.

She paused when she caught sight of Kira, remembering the first day that she had met him. It wasn't unlike this except that he had burned his hand and had a bottle of vodka with him to deal with it. Moana didn't see Kira around the inn very often and since he was searching through the cabinets she assumed that he was looking for something specific.

"Hey. What are you looking for? I might be able to help." She placed the fish on the counter before she stepped over to the stove to poke at the coals that were glowing softly inside. She hoped it was enough to cook a fish.

[3ofswords]

The voice is younger than the others he's met, which doesn't mean the owner won't know where they hide the alcohol. "I'm kind of just getting acquainted with these," he admits, well aware that something so precious probably isn't up in the jars of candles, the pots and pans, the cutting boards. No one's given him the impression that it's all for one around here, but knowing what's available if he wants to cook for himself is a distracting enough task to take his mind off the immediate fuckery.

"But I started off looking for something to drink," he adds, closing the cupboard to get a look at her. Small enough girl, a bit oddly dressed, but he's in hand-me-down scrubs and a blanket, so who is he to judge? "The bar's empty in the other room."

[chosenbytheocean]

Moana looked up at the cabinet that he in front of. Her gaze was quizzical and uncertain as it dropped back down to Kira. Wouldn't he already know where all these things were? "Oh." There was no hiding the confusion from her voice.

With the coals in the oven burning, Moana wrapped up the fish she had caught in soaked leaves and tossed it onto the coals. It was the fastest way to roast something without putting in a lot of effort, she'd know when it was done from the smell of the leaves and the fish inside.

"Yeah. I think I know where something is." Moana paused looking a little guilty. "Last time the overseers gave us a party, well, Jean and I climbed onto the roof and with a bottle of... I think it was vodka. Anyway, we didn't finish it. I have what's left in my room." There wasn't more than an inch or two left in the bottle but it had been Moana's pillow the day after the feast when she was horribly hung over. It turned her off of drinking and so the bottle had sat untouched in her room.

[3ofswords]

"Vodka would be lovely," he says, almost sighing the final word. This is not a place to confront the reality of sober, especially with the number of people who keep--acting like he has any idea what's going on or who they are. He's trying to cope, not reassure multiple dozens of people about his continued existence or completely fabricated relationships to them.

Though he might go with the flow if it got him something to drink, even as consideration of their supplies forces him to ask: "Are you sure? If you're saving it for anything, I'm not going to die for not having it."

His sanity might fray a bit, but, he's dealt with worse.

[chosenbytheocean]

"It's fine." She wouldn't have mentioned it if she wanted to keep it to herself. "There isn't much left and you're the one that likes that burn feeling. I had a headache the next morning." Moana sighed heavily. "It was awful." She was used to drugs thanks to some of the plants on her island but they just made you sleepy the next morning, not in stupid amounts of horrible head throbbing pain.

Moana went to dash up stairs before pausing. Her hands held out towards Kira while her eyes glanced towards the glowing coals. "Watch my fish." With that she turned and disappeared through the door. She was fast without shoes and didn't want to risk burning her food, which she had been waiting almost all day to eat.

She returned in about ten minutes. It took her some time to dig up the bottle as it had fallen beneath a lot of the reeds of milkweed that were currently being stored in her room. "Here. I don't want it." She assured him as she passed over the dusty bottle. "Everything okay?" Something seemed off but Moana wasn't going to push it. She remembered people disappearing and then reappearing and not being able to speak a word of the language. Maybe Kira forgot? If so, he didn't need people blaming him for what he can't control.