sixthiterationlogs | here he comes [ squall and 3 open threads ]

WHO: Squall Leonhart
WHERE: South Village (fountain, then inn, then house 16)
WHEN: Oct. 31st (morning, late morning, early afternoon)
OPEN TO: Any!
WARNINGS: None now!

Fountain Foundation / Morning

Water. Again.

At first, Squall could only register that annoyance. He was taken out of his familiar settings again and tossed into water again. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. His actions were mechanical at first, and he refused to think about the consequences of this new setting. He had to swim towards the light. He had to pull himself out of the wet fountain to the cold fall air. He had to search in the backpack for a coat.

But once his immediate survival was secure, he looked around himself with a little more interior trepidation. It didn’t look like a dangerous landscape, but that was about the only good mark. He didn’t have his gunblade or his clothes…or Griever.

It was when he noticed the loss of his necklace that he really paid attention to his magenta clothes. They were far from his normal blacks and greys, and he didn’t like them at all. Nor did he have a good feeling about the device around his wrist that he couldn’t remove.

But with typical determination, he leaned back on his heels, crouched, and stared at the buildings and the cornfield.

Well, Leonheart. What’s it going to be this time? he thought to himself, trying to keep his thoughts away from his friends and family. He had to understand his surroundings. Then he could worry about where they were…and whether he would see them again.

When he noticed someone nearing the fountain, he rose to his feet and made eye contact—he should probably say something, but verbalizing wasn’t his strong suit, even now.

INNformation / Late Morning

An important job for both SeeD and…whatever he was in Traverse Town and Hollow Bastian…was information gathering. A mercenary and a member of a restoration committee could not succeed without having as many details as possible.

Thankfully, the first step for information was not very many steps. He went into the hotel—inn—and looked through the Public Records. Things that had happened, people and what they could do…

It was a lot of information to take in. It reminded him of the SeeD classroom, with lesson after lesson after lesson. Still, it would take him more than one reading to remember this without knowing more context.

He leaned back against the wall and rubbed his forehead. No sign of his comrades. No sign of anyone he had even heard of. Hyne, this is starting all over again.

House Hunting / Early Afternoon

Squall knew he could stay at the Inn, but he didn’t entertain that thought very long. He was prepared to make relationships and form those teams to do good with this village, but it was something completely different to want to live right next door to someone he didn’t know.

A part of him was also drawn to something a little…larger. Nothing would be as large and well designed as Garden, and he didn’t really mind not being in charge of that, but the house in Traverse Town wasn’t big enough. Merlin’s house was a much better base, roomier, and he wanted to find something that could be like that again. He wanted not just a place to sleep, but a place his team could meet.

Not that he had a team, but sooner or later, he would have one. It would be difficult and depressing at first, because he could never replace his friends, but this wasn’t about replacing them. It certainly wasn’t about forgetting them.

He didn’t wander far to choose a house that seemed abandoned, judging from all the dust. Keeping the door open, he started to sort through all the rooms to check for any problems.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ frank is sat in front of the fire transcribing something. there's a mug of coffee in front of him that's long gone cold and a croc-dog curled up on his lap. it's curious because there's no coffee in the inn or any writing supplies and yet here he is. hearing sharpened by the silent village he hails from, frank hears someone crack the tome of history that's finally been pieced together. it feels good to be a part of something going forward this way, to record events so that new people will know and that even people who have been here as long as he has won't give up. it's given him something to work towards, at least, which is something he didn't have for a while there.

he doesn't intend to speak up, but when squall changes to the census book he clenches his teeth, craning his neck to watch the man over and behind the sofa from his spot on the floor by the hearth. he doesn't look like much this way: long hair and beard obscuring the bruising on his face and an oversized (bright teal) athletic hoodie concealing just how big he is. he knows he's down in that book though, at least a dozen times over. he thinks about erasing his name every time someone looks at it, the itch of self-consciousness starting to creep up the back of his skull. ]

Weird that someone drew a hotdog on every page of that thing, huh? [ he's not sweating shut up. ]

Squall definitely appreciated the records. Even just the census--the list of people here, remembered, touched his heart. This wasn't some heartless town (or Heartless, for that matter). People worked together here. People cared. And even if people left, they would be remembered.

There was something very comforting about that, and made him more assured about using his real name. He had taken on 'Leon' for a while because he felt he had lost his home and his very self, failing his family and friends. He didn't deserve to be called Squall Leonhart, or maybe he didn't want people he didn't really know to call him by his name. His motivations were mixed, but this was a new world, and he would be Squall again.

He turned his attention to the writing man, and there was a slight exhale of breath that sounded amused. Squall's manners were usually understated like that. "Some people have weird tastes like that." He immediately thought of Zell who could never get enough of Balamb's famous hot dogs. The rest of the student body wasn't much better. What was so great about hot dogs, though?

Once Squall is here a while, he'll realize it isn't so community-oriented. People mostly keep to themselves, which is why Frank hasn't had the smoothest of experiences here in the Villages despite his prior experience in a place much worse than this. In Reims, people truly rallied around one another, as is human nature in a crisis. Perhaps things just don't seem dire enough here, or maybe that's all part of the set-up. Bringing just enough real people to clone ratio? Frank doesn't like thinking about that but even he doesn't have a better explanation.

"Liking hotdogs isn't weird," he mumbles, and it isn't Squall's imagination if he sounds defensive, even as he turns back to his paper to keep scrawling notes. "...I'm from New York." They really like hotdogs there!!! Shut up.

It would be a disappointment to learn that Squall had higher expectations than this place would deliver, but it would also give him something to work towards. Communities didn't build themselves.

But hopefully there would be some others willing to lead.

Squall wondered if he might have offended the stranger, but it was over something so small that he would have laughed if he were more prone to wearing his emotions openly. But he shared his amusement in his own Squall way--he closed the records and went over to Frank to engage in actual conversation.

He leaned against the wall closer to the man and crossed his arms. "New York?" He might have heard of that, but not enough to know anything about it. "The Balamb Garden Cafeteria was famous for hotdogs," he offered his own experience.

But it was still weird to draw hotdogs on every page and obsess over the food. It was one of those things Squall never did understand.

It was his name in another place. Mayor Hotdog. It feels even sillier to tell someone than to defend hotdogs, but for the most part he just wishes he could erase what passed for his name in that book. And that he could take back talking to this kid. Frank looks back down at the notebook he's transcribing and rubs his eyes. Okay, maybe it was time he took a break, but still. Bruno the croc-dog climbs off his leg to go nudge against Squall's ankle.

"I guess I could make some out of those weird vampire deer." He doesn't sound super enthused about the idea, but he'd still do it. Story of his life.

It was better that Squall didn't know Mayor Hotdog was a thing, but at least that story was more silly than a cause for repentance. Squall wouldn't hold his interest in hotdogs against him.

He watched the croc-dog rather than Frank, and after a moment knelt to one knee to scratch the creature's neck. Hopefully it was as friendly as it seemed. The mercenary had acquired a soft spot for dogs and dog-like creatures.

Vampire deer. It wasn't a creature Squall had heard of yet, but he was from a world of strange monsters. The idea of vampire deer didn't upset him. "The meet's probably good."

He's not a thing anymore, so Frank doesn't think it necessary to share the story. No one else had seemed all that interested in his former life anyway. Or even this one, if he's being candid. Which he usually is.

Bruno is much friendlier than Frank, closing his eyes as he gets some of those sweet, sweet scratches and leans his hairless body into Squall's leg like he wouldn't mind if the man picked him up.

"Not bad. There's elk and moose, too. Something like bison, though they're a little cute." So he mostly turns to the groffles for dairy, rather than meat.

Squall wasn't planning on picking up the dog, but he would still give him plenty of attention scratching his side. He wasn't sure what anyone would think of him being affectionate with this animal, but he was in a new world. He was going to pet the demanding croc-dog.

"Okay, so we have something to eat. Important." There was shelter, there was food, there was clothing. They could survive.

"That's one thing we're not in short supply of here, actually."

It's pretty ideal as far as survival scenarios go, not like he'd say that out loud. He's damn near positive that it's an intential oversight.

"Is there something we are in short supply of?"

That would be very important to know. Hawke hadn't said anything terrible in terms of warnings, but he wasn't sure she was the type to take danger too seriously, either.

"Electricity?" he jokes lamely, then shakes his head. He actually had managed to rig his house with some juice for lights and appliances, but most of the houses were powerless. "It's like camping. Forever." If you're into that sort of thing. Frank actually kind of is, honestly.

"..."

No electricity would be an adjustment. He was used to advanced worlds, and whatever they might lack in technology, they more than made up for with magic. Squall didn't need paramagic to survive, and he didn't miss it, but he would miss the convenience. SeeD training gave him survival 101--make fires, hunt, camp--but it wasn't the life he wanted.

here he comes [ squall and 3 open threads ]

inn

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