Deputy U.S. Marshal Tim Gutterson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
comfortablyerect) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2017-01-30 08:54 pm
comfortablyerect) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-01-30 08:54 pm
001 ★ gimme back my bullets
WHO: Tim Gutterson
WHERE: The fountain, briefly, House 52, and eventually the Inn.
WHEN: January 30th and 31st.
OPEN TO: OTA!
WARNINGS: Brief description of war zone and depictions of a very mild PTSD episode.
STATUS: Open!
Thirtieth
Tim does not remember going to sleep underwater, but that's where he wakes up.
At first, he thinks it's one of his many nightmares, but he's never had one like this before. Normally, the nightmares that so often plague him are hot and dry — gritty sand on his tongue and between his teeth, sun beating down on the back of his neck, fatigues sweaty and uncomfortable. Usually in these dreams, he's on some high, rocky cliff side when the ghosts of the men he's killed come back to haunt him. Sometimes, the dreams involve the fellow soldiers he's watched die. Never are they wet, and never do they leave him scrambling for breath.
Maybe his dreams are evolving. That would be unfortunate.
Only, it's not a dream, and he becomes very aware of that when he accidentally inhales a bunch of water. He's awake, and he's drowning. Thankfully, he's close enough to the surface that a bit of scrambling has him breaking through, immediately coughing violently as he reaches for something to hold onto. Fingers grip roughly at the stone edge of the fountain, clinging desperately until he can gather his wits and examine his surroundings. All he knows for sure is that he's definitely not in Lexington anymore, and the shocking change is more than enough to put him right on edge.
Panic tries to burrow itself in his chest, but he shuts it out quickly, instead pulling out the only version of himself he's truly comfortable as: the soldier he became in Afghanistan.
It doesn't take long to take stock of himself. The clothes he wears are not his, there's no gun at his hip, and there's a backpack secured over his shoulders. It's also freezing, and while there doesn't appear to be anybody around, he seems to be in a small town, a little reminiscent to the one he grew up in.
He hauls himself from the fountain, but he doesn't go towards the nearest building. He finds a large rock near the base of the fountain, easy enough to carry but big enough to do some damage, and moves quickly but quietly through the village. The house he settles on going into isn't the furthest away, but it's remote enough, and the one directly next door seems to be in shambles. Inside, he takes stock of what's in his backpack before changing into something dry, then ventures back outside for all the time it takes to gather a little bit of wood from the nearby destroyed house to build a fire with. That night, he doesn't sleep. He flinches at every single noise, sits with his back to the fire, and keeps the rock firmly in his hand.
Thirty-first
The next morning, he still hasn't relaxed any. His back is sore from sitting so ram-rod straight, and he feels so bare without a firearm on him. But the sun begins to come through the window and Tim knows he can't stay here forever. The fire's out and he hasn't eaten and he needs to explore his surroundings one way or another.
In the kitchen, he finds a couple of knives, slipping them into the waistband of his longjohns and pulling his now-dry scrubs on over them. He grabs the iron poker from beside the fireplace and with that, he's slipping out of the house and into the light of day. He skirts around the outside of the village, doing his best to avoid being seen by anyone, taking in the size of it and the various homes, some standing and some damaged. It's only when he makes a full circle around the village does he take to the road, choosing to go into the building that's likely to have the most people in it: the Inn.
[ ooc: This intro definitely got away from me in the end, but! Feel free to interrupt him doing any of these things on either day! ]
WHERE: The fountain, briefly, House 52, and eventually the Inn.
WHEN: January 30th and 31st.
OPEN TO: OTA!
WARNINGS: Brief description of war zone and depictions of a very mild PTSD episode.
STATUS: Open!
Thirtieth
Tim does not remember going to sleep underwater, but that's where he wakes up.
At first, he thinks it's one of his many nightmares, but he's never had one like this before. Normally, the nightmares that so often plague him are hot and dry — gritty sand on his tongue and between his teeth, sun beating down on the back of his neck, fatigues sweaty and uncomfortable. Usually in these dreams, he's on some high, rocky cliff side when the ghosts of the men he's killed come back to haunt him. Sometimes, the dreams involve the fellow soldiers he's watched die. Never are they wet, and never do they leave him scrambling for breath.
Maybe his dreams are evolving. That would be unfortunate.
Only, it's not a dream, and he becomes very aware of that when he accidentally inhales a bunch of water. He's awake, and he's drowning. Thankfully, he's close enough to the surface that a bit of scrambling has him breaking through, immediately coughing violently as he reaches for something to hold onto. Fingers grip roughly at the stone edge of the fountain, clinging desperately until he can gather his wits and examine his surroundings. All he knows for sure is that he's definitely not in Lexington anymore, and the shocking change is more than enough to put him right on edge.
Panic tries to burrow itself in his chest, but he shuts it out quickly, instead pulling out the only version of himself he's truly comfortable as: the soldier he became in Afghanistan.
It doesn't take long to take stock of himself. The clothes he wears are not his, there's no gun at his hip, and there's a backpack secured over his shoulders. It's also freezing, and while there doesn't appear to be anybody around, he seems to be in a small town, a little reminiscent to the one he grew up in.
He hauls himself from the fountain, but he doesn't go towards the nearest building. He finds a large rock near the base of the fountain, easy enough to carry but big enough to do some damage, and moves quickly but quietly through the village. The house he settles on going into isn't the furthest away, but it's remote enough, and the one directly next door seems to be in shambles. Inside, he takes stock of what's in his backpack before changing into something dry, then ventures back outside for all the time it takes to gather a little bit of wood from the nearby destroyed house to build a fire with. That night, he doesn't sleep. He flinches at every single noise, sits with his back to the fire, and keeps the rock firmly in his hand.
Thirty-first
The next morning, he still hasn't relaxed any. His back is sore from sitting so ram-rod straight, and he feels so bare without a firearm on him. But the sun begins to come through the window and Tim knows he can't stay here forever. The fire's out and he hasn't eaten and he needs to explore his surroundings one way or another.
In the kitchen, he finds a couple of knives, slipping them into the waistband of his longjohns and pulling his now-dry scrubs on over them. He grabs the iron poker from beside the fireplace and with that, he's slipping out of the house and into the light of day. He skirts around the outside of the village, doing his best to avoid being seen by anyone, taking in the size of it and the various homes, some standing and some damaged. It's only when he makes a full circle around the village does he take to the road, choosing to go into the building that's likely to have the most people in it: the Inn.
[ ooc: This intro definitely got away from me in the end, but! Feel free to interrupt him doing any of these things on either day! ]
Night of the thirtieth + inn
He's never really seen the stars before here. Not living in a big city in New York.
He forgets his fur hat, not really thinking he's going to be long when he spots it--a column of smoke rising from somewhere far away. A house, he thinks, if he has the map of the village right in his mind. Left, right, past the schoolhouse, a little further away. The last house is around there, and it looks about right.
Credence only glances back once before he makes up his mind. After all, he has his machete in his pocket. He's certain if he's gone for too long Mr. Graves will notice.
Credence makes his way quietly towards the smoke simply because that's how he's learned to walk: quiet, carefully, lest too much noise cause Mary Lou to lose concentration with whatever she was doing. He rounds the corner, squinting at what he's positive is not a fire, and--is there a man, too? New. He can't make out the colour of his scrubs, except dark, and--
--why does he have a rock in his hands?
Credence Barebone is not brave. He takes a few steps backwards before turning back around. He'll tell Mr. Graves about this. Surely, he'll know what to do.
--
Credence is always up early, one of the earliest risers--if he doesn't rise early, Mary Lou doesn't approve, so it's ingrained in him. It helps that when it comes to the inn, he tries to help as much as he can and a lot of that includes starting fires and making sure everything is perfect for someone who actually knows how to cook well to do so.
He's crouched, trying to start the fire in the main room--it's being finnicky today--when he hears the inn's door open.
"Good morning," He says politely, before he actually looks up and sees who's walked through the door.
"Oh," he says, and it's less 'there's been a strange man sleeping outside by the fire with a rock and now he's here' than it is 'I see you've finally decided to join us.' "Hello. Are you cold?"
no subject
That's probably saying something. He's not in very good shape now, all things considered.
His gaze snaps to the voice when he hears it. Polite, a little bit reserved. It's coming from a young boy crouched in front of the fire. Fighting with it, it looks like. Tim doesn't respond right away, first doing an over-all threat assessment of his company.
It doesn't take long for him to decide it's fairly low.
"It's not exactly nice and toasty out there, is it?" His tone isn't as harsh as the words themselves. His rolling southern accent is rather deadpan, somehow softening what he says. He eyes the fireplace skeptically. "You need a hand with that?"
no subject
He'd be lying if he said he wasn't wary. Credence looks at the fire, and then at Tim, and then towards the door and his scrub colour in one, fluid motion.
"It's normally not this troublesome," He says carefully, and it isn't until he gets up and backs a good distance away that he nods for the other to take over.
"The stove is active, would you--maybe some tea will help you warm up?"
no subject
He supposes he can't blame them. He's just as leery of them anyway.
"They can be finicky sometimes," he murmurs, heading for the fireplace as soon as Credence gestures to it. He kneels down, glancing over his shoulder once towards the door before setting his weapon in front of him. Better safe than sorry.
He starts to rearrange some logs, shifting kindling around to give everything a little more breathing room. He glances up, arching a brow. "Don't suppose you have anything heavier? Maybe bourbon?"
no subject
He did, rather, but that's gone to the man who is or isn't his tormenter. Credence shakes his head, gaze transfixed on the poker iron, reminded very much of the man who had died recently with his long curtain rod strapped to his back like a sword.
"I have hot cocoa," He says, offering an alternative. "Um--only if you'd prefer it."
Credence is transfixed on it. Maybe he's not scary, so much as trying to find a foothold in this new world. Maybe he's a knight, and that poker is just because he couldn't find a sword--maybe he didn't go to the inn because he was finding a King. Maybe he just wants something familiar to him.
"No one's going to hurt you, here."
no subject
Hot cocoa is a lackluster alternative. But at least maybe it'll remind him of when his mother made it for him, and help him feel a little more comforted.
"Hot cocoa's fine," he says, glancing over his shoulder two more times throughout the process of rearranging the fire. Eventually, he gets it settled how he wants it, and gets the starter lit. But before he can blow on it to help it build, the boy speaks again, and Tim turns his head to look at him.
"No," he agrees after a moment, pausing to blow gently on the fire. "They won't. I'm not gonna let 'em."
no subject
Most of the trip--to his room, to grab the box, to make the cocoa in a snowman mug, just for the stranger--is spent seeing if he can wrack up the courage again. It turns out lighting does strike twice, metaphorically, because by the time he wanders over to find him he's ready.
"What I meant to say, sir, is that the people like you oand I who are also trapped--we're peaceful. Mostly just as confused as you. It's the others you have to watch out for."
no subject
Maybe he's just paranoid. That's alright, though. It's his paranoia that's kept him safe for so long.
By the time Credence returns, Tim's gotten the fire up and roaring, cackling and heating the immediate area. Tim's picked the poker back up, but now he's using it to gently move a few logs with precision and the ease of practice. He glances up, quick and sharp as Credence comes towards him again, but he's already deemed the kid to not be a threat, so he doesn't jump.
"Who're the others?" he asks.
no subject
It's roaring, good and bright, and Credence pinches his lips slightly as he stares into the embers. The man's clearly done this before, and apparently isn't going to stab him with the poker, so he could do worse. He doesn't trust the man yet, but Credence doesn't even trust the man from the same world as him.
"They watch us, everyone here, everyone that comes up from the fountain. Sometimes they give us things, sometimes they... do things to us."