sixthiterationlogs

Entry tags:

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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

The weather has been pretty fucking abysmal for almost a month now. The days when it isn't snowing or hurts to breathe are the good ones, and I have to admit, I don't know whether to blame our sadistic overlords or not on this one; the idea that they can legitimately control the weather is still a bit beyond my ability to suspend disbelief, but this is definitely not normal for where it seems like we are.

I'm not the only one checking the fountain on a frequent basis. I come through here anytime I'm passing now, and it's not usually to find someone else lingering, watching, not eager for another mouth to feed but not looking to have another dead body on our hands, either. There's no thermostat here, but I think we all understand that coming out of the cold water into air this cold is a really, really bad idea.

Case in point: This poor kid, soaked and cursing, because cursing is absolutely the appropriate reaction to arriving in this place, winter weather or no. I start pulling off my coat the moment I spot him, and bend to wrap it quickly around his shoulders.

"Come on, we gotta get you inside or you won't be alive to hear the answer to that."

The cold hasn't quite hit him yet, or he's past the point where he perceives it as anything but a full-body ache: it hurts to be touched, startles to hear a strange voice, when the past two days have been spent avoiding them. Kira jerks back into the coat, freeing it and his shoulders from the man's grip, and snarls about as effectively as a day old bulldog.

His lips not quite cooperating with his face is the least of his worries, ranking just under am I hallucinating Jason Bourne's dad in my hour of need. "Don't--" he starts, the motion setting off shakes that hurt even worse, "touch me?"

It shouldn't be a question, but patting the ground and soaked fabric over his hips and coming up empty, questions are all he seems to have.

There's someone new. This time, Credence didn't hear it happen--he saw it happen, quiet from where he'd been cleaning up and doing his part in the inn. He's staying there, he has to do his part. That's not Ma whispering how useless he is in his ear, though. That's common sense. It's the least he can do for the people that pulled him out of the fountain. The less he acts like a waste of space, the more he pulls his weight, the better things will be.

They've had new arrivals lately, maybe more than there should be--Credence himself, panicked and swearing he's dead. The British one, Alex, who has kept an eye out for him without even asking. The Staten Island man with the pinched brows and now this, a curious gentleman with a foreign likeness and his peacoat wrapped so tightly Credence wonders if he doesn't pop the buttons.

Credence had been in the middle of sweeping when he stopped--he lingers, staring not at the newcomer but at the food, wondering if he should say something. It's shock, maybe, that's why he's not eating all of it. Credence was shocked and scared and frightened and probably looked a lot worse than someone nudges food on their plate, shaking from the cold.

He should say something. He should vocalize his thoughts instead of just staring at him from the corner of the room, broom in hand, unmoving and silent. After a few more beats, he takes a breath.

"It's terrifying, isn't it? The fountain." His voice is barely above a whisper, a little lower than a normal speaking voice--the entire time, Credence hasn't been able to look Kira in the eye.

It isn't the voice that catches his attention. Maybe it's the silencing of the broom, the weight of the attention--or whatever sense has him confused to look up and only find one person addressing him. It doesn't feel like they're alone, and not in the way two people in a pub attached to an inn would obviously not be alone.

The taste of a storm; the still suck of air from a room before a gust gutters a candle or stokes the fire. It's there, and then it isn't, as weak as the boy's voice.

Kira isn't quite surprised, when he looks up from his plate to find the owner of the broom and voice looking like the boy from The Ring all grown up with the exact same haircut. He's about to say something about the overall effect, but the downcast gaze and quiet give him pause. It would just be cruel, and the boy isn't wrong.

"It's definitely in my top ten. Are you going to tell me how time makes it easier?"

Ravi is still utterly despondent that there's no actual alcohol in the pub. He still goes by every once in a while because there's this fervent dream in his heart that he's going to find something there this time. What he doesn't expect is to find someone else there eating in that sad way that says the service is just as awful as ever. "I wouldn't tip the waiter," he jokes as he wanders further inside to try and warm himself before he heads onwards to his house.

"Terrible service, they didn't even offer a drink," he adds, eyeing the new man and trying to debate how long he's been here from sight alone.

"Couldn't if I wanted to," he says, fingers spreading through his empty pockets. His voice is still worn a bit thin from the ordeal of it all, but it helps as much as moving his hands does--makes him feel like he's really in his skin. Not comfortable in it, but there.

"I'm used to rationing them, to be honest, but this cold-turkey-everything scene is a new low. I'd...persuade someone to murder for me to at least get a cigarette."

Raleigh knows the names and faces of everyone in their village and when he sees the new guy, he knows he's got to be fresh - within a few days, even, because he usually makes his rounds pretty quick. He tips his head at him before coming up to sit beside him, going to make the introductions.

"So when did the fountain cough you up?" he asks, deciding to skip the preamble. There's no point. They all know how they get here, by this point, and there's no real point in dancing around it. "Recently?"

The voice comes from a guy who looks like he should be modelling Calvin Kleins in an open flannel button-down, somewhere in Times Square. Good voice, solid, a little dry. His presence might have improved most circumstances, but today it's a small consolation.

It doesn't stop Kira from nodding against the support of his own hand, slipped free of his coat to lean a little less cold-and-in-shock against the table. He doesn't know what this place is, and he's pulled together enough to stop letting it see him flinch. "Last...three hours, maybe? I'm trying to be good and not pass out until I don't feel aware of every bone in my body from the cold."

Ravi gives the man a sympathetic smile, because he too understands the sadness of having nothing in your pockets when there should at least be a few random assortments of items that you forgot about and will inevitably be laundered. Here, though? It's just a sad state of nothing. "See, the whole argument of persuading someone to murder for you still implicates you in the murder," Ravi says, running through similar scenarios in his head.

"I'm not saying there is a cigarette around here and I'm definitely not saying I have one, because I like staying alive, but you might as well just kill someone yourself and go all the way through with it," he offers.

It isn't the implication that would twist his gut, he knows, remembering the war-zone north of Times Square. The only reason he was alive to go this crazy was getting someone else with a gun to hesitate, and Ty not having the same weakness. When they'd come back through the next day, Ty had stripped the body and handed back his crumpled pack with a bulletproof vest.

Kira hadn't thrown up on the spot, so he must have the stomach for some things.

He lifts one corner of his mouth anyway, feeling returned to his face in the warmth of the inn: "Would take a carton to be worth it, if we're negotiating your last resort to get out of here."

Credence's reaction is immediate--he shakes his head no, and his fingers move over the length of the broom, slender fingers halting at a knot. It's an instinctive gesture, since he can't curl his hands into fists. Attention is on him, and even if he practically asked for it by talking to someone, he's still unsure of how to actually handle it.

He may be an adult, but he very much lives under a 'children should be seen and not heard' mantra. Something that was drilled into him the moment he could hand out pamphlets and flyers for the New Salem Philanthropic Society.

Now, though, it's a little different. A fresh start, even if only in idea. he's still trapped somewhere and unable to get out, and he still has no where to belong, but there's no one here to hurt him.

Yet.

"It doesn't," he says, but doesn't make a move to join the other. He talks from across the room, and his fingers flex, briefly, as he talks. Definitely a nervous habit. "At least I don't think so." He remembers very vividly, not being able to swim, just how scared he was. It's a memory he'd rather not have. "I wouldn't know, I--I'm a newer arrival, too."

Despite the shadow cast over the room, despite the harsh lines of the boy's hair and set of his brows, he feels even younger than he looks. Like the kids at the garage, who were worn down before the outbreak or by it, not quite playing at helping out so much as stimming like animals with whatever they could be trusted to hold onto.

Hana tried to bring sweets back from patrols; Nicky ruffled hair indiscriminately and came up with distracting chores; Kira guessed cards and picked useless quarters out of ears. They hadn't had resources for those kids beyond mattresses to sleep on and extra food when the adults could afford to halve their rations, and looking down at his plate, Kira prays this is the youngest person he meets, this side of fucked.

He's still creepy as shit, but, maybe everyone doesn't cope with the shock as well as Kira's trying to. There are no cards or coins in his pockets, and the guy isn't six, but maybe he's talking because he needs to talk. "I guess we'll both find out, then." He pushes his plate the rest of the way across the table, nodding at the opposite seat. "Why don't you take a break and finish this for me, can't let it go to waste."

"Got it, if I see a carton of cigarettes, I will clear the zone for you to happily tackle on them so you don't have to murder anyone," Ravi promises, seeing as the last thing he really wants to do is be investigating another murder -- only this one to feed a nicotine addiction. "You're new, then, I take it? Should I be preparing for a withdrawal situation or is it just a casual desperate hobby?" he asks, of the smoking.

"All of my habits are casual," he assures the man, sitting back in the anchor of his coat and giving him another once-over. They're all in scrubs now, but the phrasing makes him pause, the concern and the way it still manages an airy lack of investment in the situation. The doctor they'd had at the garage had left them with basic supplies and been escorted to a more protected area, to work on some special project. Too good for a job like making sure it didn't hurt so much to starve that the kids couldn't sleep, he guesses.

At least the nurses refused to leave them like that. "What are you, the resident doc?"

"Unfortunately, just the resident medical examiner, so if you decide to croak of any particularly nasty nicotine related causes, I'll be the one tsking about the buildup on your lungs," he says, wincing after a moment because he's just met the man. "Sorry, that's a bit much for strangers, isn't it?" he says, hand to his chest in apology as he realizes he needs to start toning it back. "We've got a resident doctor as well. I mean, I can stitch you up for anything small, but if you're in the mood for proper surgery and you want to stay alive, I'm your second bet."

This is why he'd always appreciated Liv so much, especially in situations when you want a patient stabilized.

"Hey, nobody ever really takes you out for coffee before the stop smoking speech," he answers with a shrug. At least they have someone to care, and bedside manner isn't everything.

"Anyway Second Bet, I'm Kira. And stranger or not, I'm...curious if you've had to examine many people, here." He grimaces, but his expectations aren't high for a no.

Instinctively, I lift my hands up, palms out. I get it; the emotional shock of coming out of that fountain is even more potent than the physical one. But right now, it's the physical one that's the bigger issue.

"I'm not trying to hurt you," I say, for what that's worth to someone who has suddenly found themselves in an unfamiliar place, soaked to the bone and on the cusp of hypothermia.

"Warmth or cold," I add, motioning to the path and then back to him. "If you stay out there like that, you won't live through it."

It's not that he's the quickest study--water dripping from his hair in freezing lines along the burning skin of his face, the cold seeping to his bones and overriding every concern--but he does have eyes, and when he really uses them, there isn't a rifle or a flamethrower strapped to the man's back. He isn't armored for anything but the cold, and while it's faint, slower to surface--he feels safe. Deep as the cold in his bones, there's a sense telling him to listen.

He rolls his lips in, the pressure returning some blood and feeling when he lets them go. "Sorry," he manages to spit between a full-body shudder. "Warmth, definitely--"

Rolling his core forward over his legs takes an effort he didn't expect, even with the pack that's materialized on his back; he stumbles over his own knees, getting one foot under him and pitching onto his hands. "Fuck," he hisses, the impact as much as the cold of the earth stinging his palms. He has to grit his teeth and push with one bony knee against his chest, but he manages to start standing.

"I feel like I'm in high school all over," Ravi says, of the 'second bet' nickname. "Ravi Chakrabarti," he introduces himself properly, to see if he can hedge away from embarrassing names that he'd like to avoid actually being Second Bet for the rest of his sad life. "As far as the people here go, there's been an unfortunate one human person and several unfortunate animal ones," is his reply, shrugging his shoulders as he tries to ignore the grisly, grim death that had hovered over the village only a few months after he'd arrived.

Oh.

Credence looks perplexed, though it's just for a flicker of a moment before his face stiffens into it's usual expression, and careful eyes roam over Kira without actually looking at him. He's confident, Credence notes, or if he isn't he's very good at hiding it. It's a trait that makes him just a little envious, even at the little things like how the other pushes his plate away in one swift motion.

Credence presses his lips into a thin line, debating the words. He probably shouldn't eat other people's food, not with how it's likely it's going to run out. He should also probably tell the newcomer as much, but instead he finds himself carefully leaning the broom against the wall and quietly doing as he's told and sitting.

"You should eat it if you can," he says, voice just as soft as it had been. "It'll help you recover from all of that cold water."

Discomfort itches gently across the back of his neck, softly enough Kira mistakes it for his own. He shrugs, dragging the collar of his coat over the skin to ease it. "Were you already stitching people up in high school, or do you have another hidden talent?"

It's hardly the most pertinent question, but he isn't very excited for the answer to his other: "I'm guessing they didn't come here with a debilitating nicotine addiction. What should I be worrying about other than starvation and hypothermia?"

He doesn't make the boy suffer actual eye contact, scratching his idling pinky against the table while he's examined. When he's joined at the table, the chair pulling out and the presence coming stronger like a tide, he lets his eyes move back to the plate. It puts his companion in his peripherary, without making it obvious he's keeping an eye on him. Them. It--

He doesn't know. He doesn't know if he has the energy to find out, to deal with what a question might trigger. "Would if I could," he says, shrugging, drawing his hands back to sit in his new pockets. "I'm alright, someone dunked me in a hot bath, I'm just not hungry yet. Someone might as well eat it."

Slumping back in his chair, posture still tucked into the coat and letting his gaze pass over the boy's shoulder to where his strange new clothes were drying by the fire, he forced his shoulders to relax, his jaw to avoid a clench. Whatever this place was, it wasted little time putting him back on his toes. "What's your name," he asked, knowing there would only be one answer, and not entirely true.

Edited 2016-12-23 00:06 (UTC)

"I was skipping a grade, playing video games, and generally being happy that I was tall enough to escape the rather vicious bullying that ends with being shoved in a small space," he says, of his A-levels and the years preceding that. He's also lucky that his face doesn't exactly scream 'absolute geek' until he opens his mouth.

"Well, starvation, hypothermia, animal attacks, boredom," he adds. "It's not exactly Disneyland," is his wry comment, settling down finally across from Kira. "And you're the first I've met with a nicotine addiction. Or just the first willing to talk about it."

"No need to apologize," I say, and dart forward a moment too late to catch him before he falls. "Come on, let's go," I add, gathering up the coat to sling over his shoulders before I help pull him to his feet again. "I know it sucks, and I know it probably hurts, but we don't have far to go. Just lean against me and I'll get you there."

Gathering him closer, I head toward the path that dumps up closest to the inn, swallowing back my anger. It isn't helpful when I'm completely helpless regardless, but fuck if it doesn't piss me off that whoever is in charge of this little experiment keeps pushing people out of the fountain despite the fact that we've been below freezing for weeks. Like it's a test of whether we'll let someone die in the cold.

"I'm Mark," I remember to say as we emerge from the trees. "That's it right there," I say, pointing to the inn.

"Well, at least being shoved into a locker isn't on the list," he quips in turn, trying to match the levity, every line another plank well-laid on the bridge over a chasm of panic. He isn't sure where it's meant to be taking him--his next nap? Home? How long can he be here, before the prospect of leaving becomes a gruesome game of Schrodinger's Boyfriend?

That plank certainly lays crooked, certainly trips him into a moment of blank dread. Then he swallows, and doesn't think about how animal attacks probably claimed the first human victim. The inn seems sturdy enough, the fountain close enough for inspection and escape.

Let's get across the current bridge before crossing that one, maybe. "I used to party in Manhattan, talking about your addictions is as close to having a personality as some of us get."

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 5

arrival

fountain;

no subject

rub a dub dub two gays in a pub

no subject

the pub

no subject

pub

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject