sixthiterationlogs | This Ship is Taking Me Far Away

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This Ship is Taking Me Far Away

WHO: Shiro
WHERE: Fountain, South Village. Inn, South Village (same day)
WHEN: Nov 19
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Spoilers for Voltron Season 6. Nothing additional at this time!

ARRIVAL
I tried, Shiro says. Thinks he says. Keith is there, finally, glowing faintly in the cosmic ether, and Shiro can explain—at least, he can try to, but his vision is fading. It's so hard, reaching out. It takes so much energy and focus, and where he's been, untethered and floating in a beautiful, formless place, one that has no boundaries, but which he can't leave, that makes focus so difficult to achieve.

And then Keith is there, can hear him, see him, finally, and then it fades, Keith fades, the lights of wherever Shiro has been held fades, turns murky, and he's—

In water? In a tube. His mind rebels, fractured but present enough to feel a lurching in his gut, which in and of itself is so disorienting he reels back in shock. Or would, if he wasn't in— back in— No. No. He starts to shout, palm slamming up against the curved glass, and then it's pressure, and the feeling of being pulled too far too fast and then there's light, again, and the familiar sensation of floating.

Although this time he is clearly floating in water, deep and cold, not some intradimensional limbo. Frankly, his ability to gauge whether this is a step forward or back is completely shot. His instincts scream at him to swim up, which is toward the light. Has to be. When he kicks, his legs feel like lead, and the drag against his shoulders as he clumsily lunges upward through the water feels off. Everything feels off. And his lungs are burning.

Shiro breaks through the surface gasping, almost choking, and when he reaches out with his right hand to grasp the edge of the pool he's in nothing happens, and he slips beneath the surface again as he thinks My arm is gone. Probably, he should have noticed that sooner. He kicks hard, trying to buoy himself up enough to get his left arm fully out of the water and anchored to the ground in one motion, and more or less succeeds. Dizzy and desperate for breath, he can't find the strength to pull himself the rest of the way out. But he will. He just needs a tick to get his bearings.

THE INN
There's a healthy fire going in the large brickwork hearth, and Shiro is grateful. The cold of the water and the chill in the air were shocks to his system, and he's dragged one table a little closer to the fire than he found it. He just can't seem to shake the chill.

He has the pack he arrived with open, its contents spread out across a wooden table top as he catalogs it with a faintly troubled expression. His gaze keeps returning to the sleek comm at his wrist. It looks Altean. More, it looks as though it's meant to be complimentary to his paladin armor, sleek with a seamless black face and softly glowing aqua accents, except the band of it isn't white or even black, it's magenta. Like the clothes he's in. The significance eludes him. It feels like everything eludes him, in the moment, and it's a feeling he despises. It doesn't make any sense. Nothing makes any sense. With a voiceless sigh he drops his head forward into his left palm, his only palm, and rubs at his temples, then his eyes.

"Well," he murmurs to himself, "you're in it, now."

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It's amazing, how fast the feeling strikes - or it would be, if it didn't hit so hard. It's luck that he's coming from the springs, not yet having gone to the hospital, when he sees the body halfway out of the fountain. His eyes take in only one thing, make sense of it, form a conclusion that hits him in the gut and the heart and has him, running, albeit without the buckets he'd been carrying, to the fountain's side. "Malik!"

He didn't know if he hoped it or feared it, some sort of connection, some sort of hope to see Malik alive again, but--

But as he neared, he saw he was wrong. The realisation did not change his actions. Altaïr still came to the man's aid, reaching for him, saying, "Calm. Calm, I am a friend," as he worked to aid this newcomer from the fountain. It seemed the man was in similar condition to how he was when he'd arrived, even down to the colour he wore. He'd have to puzzle over that later.

"Cough if you need. Find your lungs again."

Shiro didn't take the man's advice so much as find himself unable to stop, just yet. Out of the water, he felt the cold more acutely, which made it harder still to catch a full breath. He rolled onto his back, as much as he could with the shape of the - was it a back pack? - foreign item beneath him.

He forced himself to focus on the most immediate, tangible things around him, to ground his focus. The earth. The stranger's hand. The burbling splash of the fountain, apparently, he had just struggled out of. His shoulder twitched as he went to wipe the water from his face and push his hair back, instinctively with a right hand that wasn't there. He used the left instead, letting the heel of his palm hold, for a moment, against his forehead, before dropping it away and blinking up at the person calling himself a friend.

For the moment, that would work.

"Thank you."

"Ahleen. Take your time. Now that you are out of the fountain, time is something you have in abundance," Altaïr assured, his voice kept carefully gentle. He'd never seen another come up from the fountain before, and now, seeing this...

It didn't surprise him he'd mistaken the man for Malik at first, but now he saw all the ways in which he was wrong. The wrong arm was missing. The white shock of hair. The skin colour. But he'd yet to decide if he was glad or if it added to the old ache.

All the same, Altaïr kept himself crouched nearby, having no convenient cloth at hand to help the newcomer dry. What he could do instead was say, "You will have many questions. And I, myself, arrived this way not long ago. I can only help with some of the answers. My name is Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad."

His voice was low, lilting, accented to match his complexion and hair. And perhaps slightly formal compared to a usual dialect. Still, he did what he could to exude calm. Whether it worked or not was anyone's guess.

At least one of them seemed to have it together. Shiro shifted, jerkily, getting his elbow under him to push himself up halfway toward sitting. The man spoke Arabic, was clearly human. Shiro didn't dare let himself assume, but the thought, the hope, beat heavy in his chest, under the burning and uncertainty.

Was he somehow back on Earth?

"Altair," he repeated, nodding to the man, forcing his breathing to even out, his scattered thoughts to quiet enough that he could focus on what the man was saying.

"Takashi Shirogane. I'm... I don't know how I got here," he admitted, and then blinked a few times, rapidly, allowing himself to finally take in the rest of their surroundings.

"...I don't know where 'here' is," he added.

"Takashi Shirogane," Altaïr repeated. It sounded... Eastern. He'd heard similar names when he'd ridden against the Mongols, though none so similar among their number. "None of us are precisely sure how we arrived, except that many came from the fountain, as you and I both did. From what I have read since my own arrival, it is a complicated thing that gives five more questions from each one answered."

He had thought it an act of the Apple, of Juno within, but now, knowing what he did, he had his doubts.

"And I regret to tell you that we are not on whatever world it is you came from. This one has been made to welcome us - to a point. There are still many dangers that defy anything I have ever known. But there are more worlds here than any I have known. More copies of Earth than there should be."

"...copies," Shiro echoed, frowning.

He looked down at himself, the thin fabric plastered wet to his skin in a shade he wouldn't have considered wearing, given the option; the comm band on his wrist, easily recognizable in what it was, if not where it came from; the strap of whatever pack he carried cut across his shoulder.

"I've been to plenty of worlds, but only one Earth. Although-" He stopped himself. It was too much to get into, just yet. He knew alternate realities existed, could even be accessed. But he couldn't explain how, if asked, and trying was a headache he didn't welcome.

"There was a room," he started again, meeting Altair's eyes, brow setting. The memory of panic made his pulse spike.

"I woke up, in a room. In a - a containment unit of some kind. A tube. Then it deposited me, I guess, up into the... fountain. Do you know where that is? What it is?"

The way he shifted, a certain look in his eye - Altaïr reached out with one hand and lightly touched the newcomer's shoulder. Steadying, he hoped, even as he met Takashi's gaze with his amber-yellow eyes. It wasn't the first time he'd wished to have his gift once more. Each person he meets brings that want back to the surface, keeping the loss keen.

"I have read of the place some are found. They call it 'the bunker,'" he explained. "I keep intending to go, to investigate, but other things have taken the time I might have used to go there. It is a distance away and holds many strange things I cannot describe except in words others have used, as I have no real reference. In comparison to many, the last year I saw was 1257, by the Christian calendar. Others are here from 2018. Others, not from Earth at all. Whatever this place is, it is... eclectic."

Bull notices the man straight away when he enters the Inn. It is not uncommon for people to cling to the fireplace. Bull picks up some tea and then he makes his way to the table the other one is sitting at.

"Hi. Mind if I sit?"

The touch was kind, even if Shiro still felt twitchy in his own skin. Or rather, about having his own skin, at all. But that was nothing compared to the sudden bottoming out of his gut as Altaïr went on.

He knew it showed on his face. Everything was too disorienting and raw for him to have much of a hold over it.

"...oh," he said softly, and his gaze drifted off to the middle distance.

"Oh. I'm from a few... centuries after that. After 2018, I mean."

Shiro cleared his throat, looking back at Altaïr, and after a moment's dumbfounded staring made a weak attempt at an apologetic smile with one corner of his mouth.

"So we're from the same place, at least. More or less. Just... a few thousand years apart."

"Possibly," he agreed. "There are at least two earths here, though possibly more. Mine is not the same as the one Tony is from. The most telling event seems to be if the sun attempted to destroy your earth in the year 2012."

Through it all, he was calm, patient - and it seemed to come naturally to him, even as he stood and offered his hand. "Come, we can speak more of this at the inn. There is a fire there, food, and drink. It will help you settle in. I am uncertain if there are rooms remaining, but if not, my own home would be open to you."

Shiro's finally reached a decision about the clothing included in the pack, which is that it's probably harmless and, at least, not all dark pink. He's absently thumbing the embroidered insignia on the hat when he's addressed by a notably deep voice and looks up, only to freeze and go rigid. It's a small enough reaction, but it takes him a good four seconds to recover.

The man looks Galra, or near enough. If he is - if he knows who Shiro is - this could be anything.

"Not at all," he says, gesturing a little, if unnecessarily. He can't force the tension from his frame, but he's not going to be rude.

Shiro's eyes went noticeably wide at the idea of the sun attacking the planet, which implied a certain degree of agency that was deeply unnerving. He shook it off and accepted the hand, grimacing as he leveraged himself up and over-correcting somewhat when he was upright. His balance was all off. And the world felt like it was spinning, a little too quickly.

"That's a kind offer. I appreciate it. I wouldn't want to put you out, though. Uh, inconvenience you," he said, in case the colloquialism read too literally.

"I just... have to know more. About where we are. Who else is here. The place I woke up, here, even just the glimpse of it was too familiar for comfort."

When he wavered, Altaïr reached to steady him, much as he had Malik from time to time. A light touch, not too assuming - just enough to offer some balance until he had his own feet under him. "I assure you, it would be no inconvenience. Recently, we mounted a hunting expedition, and we also brought back boar meat from another expedition north. As for learning more..."

He was still convinced a Piece of Eden was behind this. Too much fit for it not to be. The illusions of the feast night. The seeming djinni's bargain of all of this. But he would admit to himself, at least in some small part, that it was just as likely that he saw a nail and held a hammer.

"I intend to do quite a bit of that myself. I have promised Dorian could go with me as I explore - I have no difficulty extending the same invitation to you."

Shiro's attention was split between Altair and their surroundings as they turned away from the fountain.

"So there are organized hunting parties. And - surveyors? How big is this place? How much of it has anyone seen? Mapped out?"

"I have been reading the history that has been recorded here," he said, and from what I've understood, this place is larger than we may think. I know that there is the bunker, this village, and another village to the north. As yet, no one has arrived in the village to the north, however it has been looked at and explored. Some live there, and it has been found to be a mirror to this one." Conversational, he walked alongside Takashi, motioning in the vague direction of the northern village. "The same buildings The same houses, but directly opposite. Dorian supposes this may also suggest the presence of a northern bunker. Much of my curiosity lays there, but I intend to see the bunker to the south before trying my hand to the north."

Through his gesturing and his offering of balance, it was likely easy to see that his left hand was missing a finger. It didn't seem to be a new injury, or even a wound that hampered him in any way, but it was a clue that the man had seen more than the usual amount of battle - if the scar across his lip didn't give that away.

"A mirror," Shiro murmured distantly. He rotated his right shoulder, uselessly, letting the wrongness in the feeling keep him grounded in his body, in the present moment.

"Dorian is-?" he asked, noting the missing digit, wondering if everyone who came here was missing a piece. If everyone was broken.

Not that Altair seemed it. Shiro felt something like guilt, but duller. He needed to not project his own state onto people offering help.

"Dorian is..." The word trailed off as he thought back to the night of the feast. The happenings of that night may have complicated things, but one word he was sure of: "A friend. When first I saw him, I thought him from my homeland. His skin is a similar tone to mine, hair as black. But he is from a different world altogether."

But then Altaïr was shaking his head at himself. "But then, I also mistook you for someone I knew. Perhaps my mind has yet to catch up."

"I can't say that happens a lot," Shiro laughed, absently reaching up to shuffle his fingers through his slow-drying hair. A one armed man with a prominent shock of white at his forehead, dressed head to toe in magenta. Those odds seemed very low.

"How many people are here, would you say?" If it was a substantial enough community, he'd have to get his footing fast, figure out where he'd stay and how he'd get the answers he needed.

That, at least, was easy. "Less than one hundred. From what I've seen, most people here are capable fighters in their way. Few seem to be used to this sort of living. I was the leader of a village and citadel before I arrived here, and I see things that should be done. More gardens. Wagons and carts with beasts to pull them. Carpentry for repairs to buildings. Weavers, masons. We have limited supplies of paper or vellum, limited supplies of metal. Some of us are capable hunters. I have yet to hear of anyone who knows how to tan leathers or hides, but as winter closes in, warm clothes will be a necessity. But I am also newly arrived. I've not met everyone - I can only say what I've seen."

There was a lot to do, from the sound of it, and as Altair elaborated, the thought settled strangely in Shiro's mind that he couldn't do any of those things. Once taught, sure. As long as it didn't require two hands. But the things he had excelled at, had been made to do, none of those were on the list.

A community of former fighters and nothing but animal husbandry and basic utilities to tackle sounded like a recipe for trouble, in all honesty.

"How newly arrived?" he asked, grateful that Altair was so willing to carry the conversation.

"A matter of weeks," he said, a hand spreading in a downplaying gesture. "There are others that have been here for years, in comparison. But from what I've been told, my situation is... unique.

"You see, I am ninety-two years old."

Looking over at Takashi, he then raised a hand toward his face, knowing well that it wasn't the face of an old man. Not anymore.

Shiro met his eyes with a look that was admittedly round eyed but not precisely skeptical.

Allura was ten thousand years old, he'd heard stranger things.

"...have you always looked like this?" he asked.

Altaïr shook his head. "Before I arrived here, I was as white-haired and paper-skinned as any old man. None other has heard of this happening - which is why I say my situation is... unique, at the least."

"That's..." Incredible. Bizarrely specific. Shiro shook his head, the ache behind his eyes spiking sharply.

"I can't even begin to understand what any of this could mean. I wasn't even-" In his body. This body. But he saw it, can almost remember, like he's looking out from its eyes-

Shiro stopped walking, pitching forward just enough to stumble, hand coming down to brace himself on his knee. He didn't fall.

"-sorry. Just-"

He just needed a minute for the sudden, painful vertigo to pass.

Immediately, Altaïr crouched at his side, reaching to brace both shoulders - and then to carefully rest his hand on Takashi's back. "Take your time," he murmured, soft and sincere. "It is all quite a lot to take in. I... still have moments, myself."

It was more than he'd said to most, but the nearest he'd come to telling everything was Tony. Tony, whom he had adopted as a son in all but name. But he knew why it was easy to speak with this man, even if he also knew the response wasn't real. This wasn't Malik. But since coming here, since gaining his youth, he had never missed his family, his friend, more.

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This Ship is Taking Me Far Away

Fountain

Re: Fountain

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Inn

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