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
Probably not looking for a fight.
"Yeah, I don’t think it’ll catch on either." She pursed her lips a bit as if she was quickly trying to think of another name. Nothing shorter or easier came to mind. "Oh, is that why you’re-" She waved a hand through the air to gesture to the path he’d been taking.
"Looking around? It’s hard to see anything through the snow." Moana hated snow and it was obvious by the sharp punctuation she had for the word. "I’ve only been here for…" She thought about it and her frown deepened. "Over a month now." She didn’t like that realization. Had it really been that long?
no subject
Casing the place, more accurately. Clocking where everything is, where each and every path leads, what the houses and buildings look like. Determining what's threatening and what's probably safe, trying to figure out where they are, geographically wise. So far, he hasn't really been able to make heads or tails of anything, really, and that's definitely more than frustrating.
He'll have to start searching for exits soon. The sooner he can get out of this place the better.
He blinks, though, brow furrowing at her statement. "You've been here for over a month? Why haven't you tried to leave yet?"
no subject
"I don't like the snow." It sounded strange to finally say that out loud. "We're in a hole in the ground I think and I wanted to climb the walls." Moana was a very good climber. "But with the weather being so cold there is ice everywhere." Which was something she was learning a lot about.
There wasn't ever snow on her tropical island.