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! ]
no subject
Except now he doesn't have a gun to reach for. He hates it.
"No skin off my nose." His curving southern accent seems to stand out more here, around folks from different places. He shifts subtly, taking care not to stand with his back to the door, but also not letting himself be between this guy and the wall. It's all instinct, all knee-jerk reactions. "I got here last night. Wherever here is."
no subject
"It's a place you can't get out of," he warns. "And believe me, I've tried every single way I can think of and haven't been successful."
no subject
That was a pretty big pain in the ass. Mark's rambling did nothing to comfort or distract him, it just made him want to throw increasingly large rocks at the man every time he decided to open his mouth. At least once, Tim thought about pushing him off the side of the cliff and calling it an accident.
"Can't get out of?" he echoes. "Are there some great walls I'm unaware of?"
no subject
It's not the kind of news he wants to share with anyone but it's just better to know it up front, right?
no subject
"You realize that sounds fake as fuck, right? Maybe y'all just aren't tryin' hard enough."
no subject
"But when you're not successful, don't be surprised. None of us have managed it."
no subject
"You military?"
no subject
"What about you?"
no subject
There seems to be a lot of military types here, he's found. Not everyone he's run across thus far, but a majority of them. He wonders if it's part of a pattern, or some sort of coincidence. In his line of work, he's learned not to believe in coincidences. Most things are connected in law enforcement. Of course, this isn't law enforcement, but the point still stands.
"What else can you tell me about this place?"
no subject
"And then there was snow that just wouldn't stop. I figure with as much snow as we got, we've got to be close to the pole. It reminds me of Alaska, a little bit."
no subject
Afghanistan is too much desert and Kentucky doesn't ever get this much snow. If it did, there would definitely be some cause for concern. The fact that Northern Hemisphere is as close of an approximation as they're able to get definitely doesn't bode well. Even if he did pay more attention in geography as a kid, it probably wouldn't help at this place.
no subject
"Then again, Alaska's got a lot of water. There's the ocean, there's vast lakes and rivers. The little river we have here? It doesn't feel right for that part of the world. Too small."
no subject
It's an arrogant thought. But also a hopeful one.
no subject
"It's not something I've had a lot of success with, figuring out this place. I can keep myself alive, sure. I can hunt and fish. But I can't figure out why we're here or how to get out."
no subject
"Least when we do figure out who's got us here, we don't gotta worry about takin' 'em down," he says. "Gotta whole lot of survivalists and fighters here, seems like."
no subject
He thinks of Riza, of how she'd explained the other place she'd been trapped in similar to this one. Is this his and Tim's first stop? Or last?