( OPEN ) I hope you're comfortable in that quiet plastic grave.

[oorah]

WHERE: Fountain Park, The Inn, wherever
WHEN: June 18
OPEN TO: ALL
WARNINGS: tl;dr (sorry), near-drowning, sad bro times, panic attacks idk

---

it's only water

He comes to with cool water rushing all around him and his heart immediately seizes with panic. The last thing he remembers is stepping through his apartment door after four long months in a city that shouldn't exist. Reims - or was it Rouen? It says something about him that as he looks around even deep underwater he isn't sure whether New York or that silent place was the dream. In a fucked up way, he's banking on New York. It was a kindness he wasn't owed, to see his friends go home after their shared nightmare.

It's taking him too long to get to the surface, he can see the light, he's so close, but he's afraid to splash. What if he's back? Or in another Sound Eater haven? He's trying to remember the list he had compiled. Perth, Yokohama, Bogota, Tehran, Karachi, Moscow, Bangkok, Frankfurt... With every city, he's getting closer to the surface but he's losing oxygen fast in trying to stay silent. However he got here, he doesn't have to get everyone nearby killed because of his fuck up.

Eventually, and it feels even longer than the reality, he spills out of the fountain with a loud slap against the stone, his body hanging over the edge, prone for entire moments. Suddenly - involuntarily - he sputters, puking up water from his lungs and slowly coming back to full consciousness. He blinks rapidly to clear his eyes too, trying to remember dying, but also knowing it never works that way. This isn't the Reset Room, and there's no red dust. Something that becomes all too apparent when he grabs a handful of dirt from the ground sprawling out in front of the fountain. The monsters aren't here yet, so he upturns himself and slips over the side of the fountain as silently as he can.

It's only then that he feels the weight of the pack on his back, missing the familiar shelter of his combat boots when earth sticks to the bottoms of his wet feet. He feels behind him at the backpack, but it's closed with a zipper. He'll have to find a soundproofed place to know what's inside. Hopefully it isn't a bomb???

He dutifully makes his way into the village on silent feet, scanning the area as he goes for anything that seems familiar. Istanbul, Lima, Rio de Janeiro... Nothing. This isn't France, though, not either version he's familiar with. That's honestly the most jarring part, somehow. There's no Constance to greet him, no one shushing him. Just wide open space. He doesn't think he's ever been so terrified in his life, and this coming from a guy who's seen combat. Who's waged it, personally.

The first person he sees will be met with the full brunt of his concerned stare, and it's a doozy. Fear is clearly reflected in his gaze as it darts around, like a wild animal who's been cornered. Similarly, he might bolt any minute, so approach with caution. Or don't, YOLO.

it's only fire

Some wandering and strategic shaking later and a dryer version of the Mayor finds himself inside the Inn where he makes quick work of opening the bag, doing it silently though there are sounds all around him. Soft talking and shuffling that assaults his delicate senses like a category 6 maelstrom. Socks and boots are donned in an instant, just as quietly as he continues to drip on the furniture. This place has to be soundproofed, he reasons, or somehow he's made it far enough away from the monsters...?

In something of a daze, he finds his way to the roaring fireplace and resigns himself to sitting by the flames until he's at least moderately less soaked. He doesn't turn enough to see who comes in, but every time the door opens his face moves towards the sound. It's so - normal. Maybe this is the dream, that would make the most sense of all. Frank pulls his teal scrub top away from his body to help it dry faster, closing his eyes for just a moment. Just one... He nods off, just like that, sitting in front of the fire with his expression deeply furrowed. His eyes twitch like he's dreaming, though it's only been a few moments. Not enough time has passed for REM, but his mind is supplying him images anyway, and if the twitches in his frame are any indication none of them are particularly pleasant.

If he's woken either purposefully by a second party, by someone making too much noise near him, or merely by his own cruel thoughts pushing him back to consciousness, he'll start awake, eyes flying open wide. Though his mouth opens into a gasp, that too is silent. He's dry and warm now, and it's time to move on. He gets to his feet one inch at a time, trying to avoid the crackle and pop of tired bones though one dislodges in his neck anyway and earns a grimace from him. It wouldn't have been enough to get him killed, even in Reims, but any sound is deafening now after over 100 days of consecutive silence.

He shoulders his pack and makes his way back out to the square, and the cacophony of villagers gathering outside causes bile rise up his throat in dread. The wheels on carts and the soft stomp of trudging feet carrying the louder din of voices and laughter have his heart pounding fast all over again. Something is very, very wrong and he doesn't have the data to get to the bottom of it. He'll be frozen there in the middle of the causeway for some time before carrying on to find a quiet place to be alone.

it's only love

Frank will be wandering the 6I/7I village(s) for most of the day until someone directs him more specifically. Feel free to encounter him anywhere along the way.

Comments

[digging]

The hug lingers longer than Karen might ever have allowed herself back home, but there's been a lot of water under the bridge since the last time they did this — Properly, anyway, not counting Frank's arms hauling her backwards with a gun under her chin or drowsy, searching hands after Wilson had ended his own life. It lingers because it's about her, but it's also about him: About saying this matters and you matter and god damn you, where have you been?

When she does pull away, it feels like coming up for air, her breath pulling in fast and sharp, cheeks damp. Aretha has settled and is looking curiously up at the both of them as if she can't decide whether this reunion is a good thing or not.

Karen's hands find the curve of Frank's jaw, his shoulders, his biceps, eyes darting over him, still damp from the fountain; he looks well, he looks solid, and god, he's real.

"Are you okay?" she quietly asks, lifting her eyes back to his again.

[oorah]

When she eventually moves back, Frank catches his breath silently, his eyes narrowing meaningfully as they find hers. It had been weeks since he'd seen her before he'd been shipped off to Reims, but now seeing her here... It may as well have been years. A firm hand touches at her arm, squeezing her elbow gently as he tries to process all the stimuli. After being so petrified every day of her showing up in Reims now he's here instead - wherever here is - and she's here too. His lungs depress, the air leaving him in a relieved rush. Goddamnit Karen.

The words have him looking around, still trying to confirm the monsters aren't coming. A tiny shiver traces through him, fear and cool water both playing their parts, but then his eyes are back on hers and he's nodding. It's slow and deliberate, he's okay. He's always okay, in that he never is. Frank doesn't have to explain that to Karen of all people, though, and instead of pulling even further away like he knows he probably should, his face is dipping to press against hers - temple to temple. What the fuck, Page?

[digging]

Good, Karen thinks with a minuscule nod of her own before they're right back in that same old place again, each of them leaning on the other as much as they're also holding them up.

"You're okay," she repeats in a whisper, a hand slipping up to press warmly against the side of Frank's neck. She can feel his pulse beneath the heel of her palm.

Honestly, she could stay like this longer than even the hug, could give herself permission to get a little lost in that wavering but undeniable connection. But Aretha lets out a thin whine, dismayed none of this attention is directed at her, and Karen pulls in another breath before she pulls back again, just enough to be able to focus on Frank when she opens her eyes.

"Come with me, I can try to explain," she says, and drags the hand from his neck to hold out in invitation, palm up.

[oorah]

Is he okay? Is she? She's talking but he can scarcely focus on the words, looking around while he waits for the other pin to drop. The trees are still around them, no horrible monster arriving to tear her limb from limb. His breathing starts coming labored, like he might have a panic attack, and he's going a little light-headed from trying to preempt the sound of his own deep breaths. She offers her hand but he misses that too, even while he nods stiltedly with a glassy, unseeing gaze. This is not the time to lose it, Castle.

He jerks back when Aretha starts whining, startled by the sound, but it's also the impetus he needs to set his feet solidly on the ground and turn back into the path. It isn't too much of a hardship to fall in line with her, though it's impossible to compensate for the way his exhaustion drags his frame down as he shuffles along silently. The dirt beneath his feet is so easy to walk on compared to the deep sandpaths in Reims he was tasked with maintaining day in and day out to keep their steps as quiet as possible in and around and out of the village. This place is so... normal in compare. Almost nice. It makes his skin crawl.

[digging]

"Frank," Karen says, her eyebrows pulling together as she watches him push himself forward, through whatever's pulling his attention hither and fro, whatever serenity they'd snatched from the moment before gone entirely. He'd seemed calm enough before she'd approached, petting the dog, looking at her almost as if he'd expected her to come walking up after, but now...

Karen knows Frank Castle, whether he appreciates that fact much or not, and her mind is racing with where he might have been in the moment before he came through that fountain.

"Frank," she repeats, stepping in front of him, hands framing his face. "Look at me. You're okay."

[oorah]

Her voice is jarring enough but hearing the name Frank is weirder, even though she's never called him anything else. And then she's stepping in front of him, and his breath catches, brows knitting together in concern, but he obediently halts all forward movement so she can grab onto him again. He doesn't lean into her this time, but he does make the effort to meet her eyes. She wouldn't lie to him, so even though it seems unbelievable, he nods. He's okay, alright, great. He inclines his head into town where she'd been heading before, even as a hand reaches down to smooth over Aretha's wrinkly head. God, he misses Max. Lead the way, Page. He's not going anywhere - he doesn't have much of a choice besides.

[digging]

Karen huffs out a breath, her hands dislodged as Frank stoops to pet the dog. She doesn't really know what she expected, here—

No, that's not true, she knows exactly what she expected. Nothing. And she's apparently got it.

She steps away without further comment, too aware of her posture, her footfalls, feeling strange in her own skin as she walks the short distance back to the house. The mess is still on the lawn, and she bends to pick the items up as she goes: Apple, KA-BAR, bundle of cord. She's afraid to turn around, afraid that the steps she hears behind her will be nothing but the echoes of her own.

Stopping just before the porch steps, she risks a sidelong glance as she hefts up her backpack, her heart clenching at the smudge of teal on her periphery. She swallows, hard.

"Come on in," she says, and continues on into the cool shadows of the house.

[oorah]

He stands stock still at the edge of her lawn, watching Aretha run around in circles as Karen gathers items back into her pack. His eyebrows shoot straight up at the knife, but obviously, he says nothing. Frank realizes belatedly he probably should have helped her, but his mind still isn't fully online. And he's looking at the house now, reminding him so much of the community housing in Reims. What is this place? How long has she been here?

That's all the introspection he has time for before she's leading him inside, and he pushes back his damp hair again with a little grimace as she tugs the door open carelessly. No checking the hinges for rust or grit, no bucket of oil to lubricate the hinges for maximum silence. Frank swallows and nudges his way inside, looking around at the out-of-date interior. He'll keep following her lead for lack of better options.

[digging]

"There should be dry clothes in your bag," Karen says, turning back to him and then motioning toward a door across the room. "You can change in there. The bathroom's through there, too, if you need it."

Lips pressing thin, she feels like she's shuffling him off and then realizes she absolutely is, falling into the welcoming routine easier than confronting what's in front of her. Not to mention that she needs a minute to breathe.

[oorah]

Frank had done it enough times to new arrivals in Reims that he can recognize what's happening. He moves into the room at her behest and shuts the door as quietly as he can. But then the door squeaks and he leaves it cracked to save himself the trauma of any further noise. He sets down his bag and stares at it like an adversary. Nothing had zippers where he'd come from, buttons and drawstrings were the name of the game. He lets out a silent sigh and crouches down, easing open the bag as quietly as he can, which makes it a slow, arduous process. And every time it makes a noise louder than a whisper his head is darting around, waiting for his consequence. He squeezes his eyes shut to try and block it out but that just brings gnashing, bloody teeth to the forefront of his memory and he has to shake himself back out of it.

When he opens his eyes again, the bag of supplies he'd gotten is staring back at him, open at last. On top are a pair of boots so he gingerly takes those out first. At least the scrubs come off and then on again as silently as his jumpsuit would have, and he stuffs all his wet clothes into the bag before pulling on socks and lacing his boots diligently. Then he's moving through to the washroom, plumbing honestly still a bit of a novelty. Frank had soundproofed all the plumbing in Reims with his own two hands, and there's no evidence of it here. It's as out-of-code as the rest of the house too. He leaves without touching anything and makes his way back out into the hall by nudging through the opening he left in the door rather than risk another squeak.

All told it takes him just under ten minutes, which he knows is seriously unreasonable for changing clothes, by his usual standards especially. Frank seeks her out, assuming the kitchen as he steps slow and soft to avoid the soles of his boots tapping against the wooden floor.

[digging]

"You want some tea?" Karen asks over her shoulder, already pulling two cups down from the cupboard. They're delicate and painted with little blue and purple flowers — Right up Frank's alley.

"Coffee's in short supply around here, I am sorry to say," she adds, her movements sharply efficient as she places the cups on the little wooden table in the middle of the room and then steps over to the kettle steaming over the wood-burning stove. She and Claire have not been one of the lucky ones bestowed electricity.

"You can ask questions, or I can just tell you what I know," she says, avoiding looking at him by focusing on pouring the hot water into the tea pot. The leaves inside aren't even proper black tea with caffeine, she thinks bitterly, despite that she'd gotten over any jonesing in her first week and the tea is, actually, floral and fruity and not bad at all. She hasn't missed before, or the supposed memory of before, so acutely in months.

[oorah]

He actually nods without hesitation, David had gotten him in on that whole tea thing in Reims while he waited for his coffee plants to grow. But then he's crouching down again to greet Aretha all over again, smiling at her in that wan way of his and rubbing her soft ears. It would probably be childish to stay on the floor with the dog though he desperately wants to, so he waves a reluctant goodbye at his new friend and goes to find out which chair is the least rickety or otherwise prone to making noise. Frank sets his bag down silently and slips into the quietest chair the best he can though it sets him at an angle for looking Karen's way. He nods again, she can tell him what she knows. May as well, right?

All the facts he'd ever typed out or spoken or signed are running through his mind now. Stick to the sand paths, avoid the red dust, contact Hotdog or Micro if you need help. He clasps his hands on the table and stares down into the cracks and crevices of his skin. If this is really happening then he must have dreamt New York, right? Why even bother sending him home for such a short time only to pull him back in. Unless - does this mean they won? The Sound Eaters are no more? He does have a lot of questions, but not the impetus to ask, not yet.

[digging]

"Well," Karen slowly begins as she pours out a measure of the tea for each of them, "I guess I should start with the fact that the last time I saw you, you were climbing through the escape hatch of an elevator with shrapnel in your arm. If what you remember is different, we'll have to catch up." Does she hope he's from before that? From before he suddenly turned back up, wrapped in a blanket and lying in wait with his smart-ass panhandler's line? She doesn't know.

But one step at a time.

"You're in a village. If it has a name, nobody here knows it. There's about fifty of us here now, I guess—" She squints, combing her hair back from her face. She keeps a tally, but there've been other new people lately and she needs to get caught up.

"We all came out of the fountain. No idea why or how, and... there's no apparent way home. I've been here about six months. The people are nice enough. Some are from Earth, some say they're not. Some say they're from the past or future. I actually live here with Claire Temple, I don't know if you remember her. She was a friend of Matt's, you might have met her when you were in the hospital."

Aretha has predictably settled near the warmth of the stove, all doggy contentment and exhaustion, as if she had done more than just run up the road and back. "That," Karen continues, pointing her way, "is Aretha. She's yours. You were here once, before I turned up, but you disappeared. That also happens, here. No warning, no explanation."

[oorah]

He shakes his head, they don't have to catch up. That's the same thing he remembers alright. It's everything that came after that's different. Did she come here when he went to Reims? What does that mean? Everything she's describing... it's the same. Wake up in the Reset Room, get the quiet speech, get your device and sent on your way. Except it's Karen freaking Page giving him the speech instead of Constance. He wonders if the Natives are safe, he feels guilty for abandoning them sometimes even if it wasn't his choice. Even if in the end he'd had to rail against them to make any real progress. He's getting lost again, and he wraps his hands around the hot mug while flashing a grateful look her way. Be present, Frank. Listen. It's so hard to focus on spoken word after so long without it. They had rain days, but those were often spent working or chattering about inconsequential things just to keep their voices alive. Sometimes yelling just for the fuck of it. It shouldn't be so jarring to hear Karen talk to him in the same tone she has so many times before, explaining a hidden truth to him in earnest; but it is. It's all at once wonderful and too incredibly much.

Claire Temple? It means nothing to him. The woman he'd known in Reims went simply by 'Claire' and he doesn't connect the dots now. Any friend of Matt's isn't a friend of his anyway, if their track records were anything to go by. He remembers to shake his head again belatedly, doesn't ring a bell, while finally taking a long sip of tea and shutting his eyes. That's marginally better. Sort of. Not really. ...Ish?

His eyes jump to the dog when Karen points her out. He named a dog Aretha? Wait. His face creases in worried confusion. He's already been here? So then... No. He's got nothing. He was here, but never when Karen was. He'd seen things like that in Reims, people just missing each other or leaving suddenly. Like Eleven who left Mike and came back much later without her memories. He swallows, still staring at the dog, his knuckles going white-knuckled on the cup. He thinks he needs to go process this somewhere else for a while. Already feeling like he's disrupted her life somehow, though it wasn't in any way intentional, Frank starts drinking down his tea faster so he can book it at the first available opportunity. He goes over the information she told him while he drinks. The village has no name, people from different places, random disappearances. It's all so familiar and yet... not. He wishes he at least had David to bounce things off of. Maybe he'd be a month late like he was in Reims. What a grim thought. The first noise he makes is the teacup hitting the table dully, and then he's getting up and shrugging his pack back on. She knows how he do. Frank signs to her simply Thank you, before making an efficient exit. If he's still tomorrow, they'll have a lot to not talk about, he figures, but watching her watch him like that is breaking the last remaining thread of dignity he had left. So he runs, like always. Catch you on the flipside, Page.