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sixthiterationlogs2016-12-15 06:19 pm
3ofswords) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2016-12-15 06:19 pm
arrival
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: Arriving out of the Fountain, later at the Inn - evening or night
WHEN: December 15
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: n/a
STATUS: Open
When you're a kid, even growing up on the Hudson, there's something magical about snow. You watch it fall from the grey sky, you catch it on your tongue--it's pure, and light, and you barely feel the cold.
At 26, face-down in it with his hood flipped over his head, Kira's fucking sick of it. His face is going numb, his cheeks burning and chapped, and it tastes like the smell of the nearest dumpster with a fine dusting of cigarette ash. The footsteps of the rioters grows closer, pauses. His fingers don't so much as twitch over the 6mm in his pocket, though the opposite hand strokes one finger against the side of his cards, seeking the smallest comfort. The deck told him to come back, and he can feel the three of swords at the top, his message to Ty scratched to the back of it--go home.
The gun isn't an option, against so many footsteps. He has to play it safe, just another body in the alley, waiting for them to pass. He has to get into the building, find the stash. He has to get these antibiotics, or Ty isn't going anywhere.
He grits his teeth, grey snow melting against his lips. Exhaustion saves him from flinching when a silencer taps against his hip. "Leave it man, shit's still dirty out here. We've got places to be." The rifle lifts; someone steps over his body. The snow crunches, broadcasting their footsteps down the alley and around a corner. He'll give it another minute, until the sounds fade and the silence only Winter can bring falls again.
It's the span of his body relaxing, his head ready to tilt up, his eyes ready to open--he swears he falls asleep. Passes out, loses the plot: when he blinks awake the world isn't divided between cold snow and cold wind. It goes deeper, swallows everything around him, keeps the world dark when he opens his mouth and eyes and starts to gasp--only to find himself choking. He doesn't wonder if the earth gave way under him, if he's fallen through the concrete and subway into the fucking sewers, if he's lost his mind and someone's dragged him back to toss him in the river. All he can do is kick his feet, hit a hard surface below him and push for the surface, breaking it moments later with a whooping cough and a hoarse "What the fuck?"
The surface of the water provides no substantial answers, though it reveals the edge to be within reach. Expecting a waterlogged parka to weigh him down, he tugs hard at the lip of a stone fountain, rolling himself several times over--a backpack?
Laid on his side, a parenthesis to the foreign landmark, he coughs and gasps again, air no warmer than Manhattan's assaulting his soaked body. He's close enough to reach out a hand and lay it on the edge once more, his panic and confusion elaborating on their theme: "Fucking christ, what is this?"
[optional - at the pub]
Shockingly, a second dip in the freezing waters hadn't improved the situation, or his understanding of it. He can't swim back to the alley and his hypothermic delusion is so advanced it's also trying to give him hypothermia, until he Inceptions himself out the other side and sets himself on fire in a daze, probably. Hopefully--crazy and freezing to death is better than trapped. At least his body combined with the note he left might lead someone to the supplies.
He stares down at the food left in front of him, wondering why he couldn't imagine a step up from what he'd been serving at the safehouse, and nudges it around on the plate just to feel his hand moving, see the signal his brain sends reach his body, try to decide if this is actually real.
He should eat, his fingers shaking from that as much as the cold, as much as the fear--but he pushes the plate back and hides them in the pockets of his new coat, burrowing into the warmth, missing his dirty old parka.
WHERE: Arriving out of the Fountain, later at the Inn - evening or night
WHEN: December 15
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: n/a
STATUS: Open
When you're a kid, even growing up on the Hudson, there's something magical about snow. You watch it fall from the grey sky, you catch it on your tongue--it's pure, and light, and you barely feel the cold.
At 26, face-down in it with his hood flipped over his head, Kira's fucking sick of it. His face is going numb, his cheeks burning and chapped, and it tastes like the smell of the nearest dumpster with a fine dusting of cigarette ash. The footsteps of the rioters grows closer, pauses. His fingers don't so much as twitch over the 6mm in his pocket, though the opposite hand strokes one finger against the side of his cards, seeking the smallest comfort. The deck told him to come back, and he can feel the three of swords at the top, his message to Ty scratched to the back of it--go home.
The gun isn't an option, against so many footsteps. He has to play it safe, just another body in the alley, waiting for them to pass. He has to get into the building, find the stash. He has to get these antibiotics, or Ty isn't going anywhere.
He grits his teeth, grey snow melting against his lips. Exhaustion saves him from flinching when a silencer taps against his hip. "Leave it man, shit's still dirty out here. We've got places to be." The rifle lifts; someone steps over his body. The snow crunches, broadcasting their footsteps down the alley and around a corner. He'll give it another minute, until the sounds fade and the silence only Winter can bring falls again.
It's the span of his body relaxing, his head ready to tilt up, his eyes ready to open--he swears he falls asleep. Passes out, loses the plot: when he blinks awake the world isn't divided between cold snow and cold wind. It goes deeper, swallows everything around him, keeps the world dark when he opens his mouth and eyes and starts to gasp--only to find himself choking. He doesn't wonder if the earth gave way under him, if he's fallen through the concrete and subway into the fucking sewers, if he's lost his mind and someone's dragged him back to toss him in the river. All he can do is kick his feet, hit a hard surface below him and push for the surface, breaking it moments later with a whooping cough and a hoarse "What the fuck?"
The surface of the water provides no substantial answers, though it reveals the edge to be within reach. Expecting a waterlogged parka to weigh him down, he tugs hard at the lip of a stone fountain, rolling himself several times over--a backpack?
Laid on his side, a parenthesis to the foreign landmark, he coughs and gasps again, air no warmer than Manhattan's assaulting his soaked body. He's close enough to reach out a hand and lay it on the edge once more, his panic and confusion elaborating on their theme: "Fucking christ, what is this?"
[optional - at the pub]
Shockingly, a second dip in the freezing waters hadn't improved the situation, or his understanding of it. He can't swim back to the alley and his hypothermic delusion is so advanced it's also trying to give him hypothermia, until he Inceptions himself out the other side and sets himself on fire in a daze, probably. Hopefully--crazy and freezing to death is better than trapped. At least his body combined with the note he left might lead someone to the supplies.
He stares down at the food left in front of him, wondering why he couldn't imagine a step up from what he'd been serving at the safehouse, and nudges it around on the plate just to feel his hand moving, see the signal his brain sends reach his body, try to decide if this is actually real.
He should eat, his fingers shaking from that as much as the cold, as much as the fear--but he pushes the plate back and hides them in the pockets of his new coat, burrowing into the warmth, missing his dirty old parka.
no subject
And to hope that no diseases strike them down in the meantime, that would also help. "Who knows, maybe we'll luck out and find some antibiotics!"
no subject
He pulls the slim silver frames out and considers them: "Maybe if they did appear, and the fountain couldn't fix it--they'd have some? It didn't fix my eyesight."
no subject
no subject
He'd misplaced them in the panic of evacuating: he can think of only one person who had ever said to miss the way they sat on his face. "Did you come through here for something," he finally asks, realizing he may have distracted the man from something important.
no subject
He's limited to a microscope and a few slides, but that's still better than sitting alone in his house staring at a wall while the cold weather piles up outside. No need to go total Howard Hughes just yet. "I was going to the inn next," he says, gesturing in that direction. "If you feel like joining?"
no subject
He can read cards better than he can an analog clock, and he doubts there's any other kind here, if there are any at all.
The last of his judgment bleeds out of his tired limbs, cut apart by the surreality of it all: he doesn't know what to do with his plate, so he leaves it, pushing away from the table to test his ability to stay upright--on his own, this time. "When I'm bored I tend to sleep," he admits, having found only a couple of other ways to occupy the downtime of confinement. "Though that isn't the only reason I'd love you to point me at a bed."
no subject
"Though, I don't think anyone is going to fault you if you fall asleep any place you like."
no subject
"I can't remember the last time I was in an actual house," he says, not going so far as to fake a yawn, but breathing deep through his nose and closing his eyes for a moment. "But if there are beds to sleep in, I'd rather one of those than a wooden table."
Letting Ravi lead him out of the wider, public room, he has some idea of where they're headed--Mark had dragged him upstairs for a bath after dumping him at the fire, and there had been too many rooms to be a series of toilets. "Your virus," he says, unsure if Ravi had called it a virus: "You were trying for a cure--did you ever save anyone?"
no subject
"I'll tell you another time," he promises, gesturing to the stairs. "Go on, get some rest."
no subject
"It... was nice meeting you," he adds, a little surprised to mean it. Whatever sore part of him Ravi had rubbed against initially had gone smooth, and he wouldn't mind hearing more about cures and plans.