sixthiterationlogs | Angels causing accidents;

Entry tags:

Angels causing accidents;

WHO: Credence Barebone
WHERE: The edge of the village, the inn
WHEN: 2/15
OPEN TO: OTA with a closed section for Graves
WARNINGS: severe injury via explodey lightning, mentions of Credence's history re: blacking out, talk of severe abuse in the threat with Rory
STATUS: (Is it open to new threads?)

ɪ. ɢʀᴀᴠᴇs ⇼ ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪᴛ's ɴᴏᴛ ɪᴅᴇᴀʟ;
It's a strange sort of dance, pushing and pulling. Credence doesn't trust Graves, even if the man holds all of the answers. He hasn't lorded it from him, not yet, but he's waiting. It's a matter of time, he thinks, before Graves pulls the carpet out from under him. Soon, he will somehow turn into that blonde man, and soon, it will be too late and Credence will have to do what he wishes.

Now, though, it's peaceful. It's odd, but in the same way that the fact that speakeasies are illegal and yet there are thousands of them where he's from. A strange sort of familiar type of peculiar that lets Credence feel somewhat balanced. Despite everything, he finds the village peaceful. He finds the place safe.

Even though he should be more wary of Mr. Graves--and he is, extremely--he's walking along with him. Walks, Credence had explained to the older man softly, are the best thing to do around the village perimeters, so long as you had a knife. They clear the mind and you can either think about things or not think about anything at all.

"And Mr. Graves, if you'll let me be a little bold," he had inquired, "I think maybe if you had a walk without a purpose, you might feel better." That's how the both of them are near the village outskirts, Credence bundled in his peacoat and scarf and his wool gloves. He's relinquished his extra pair, made of fine fur, over to the older man in order to keep him warm.

They talk. It's quiet, and almost like more of their games in the evening. A question for an answer, and an answer for a question. Credence has learned that this is the best way to get information, and he's quite pleased that it's moving forward so quickly.

"If you can perform magic without a wand, then why do you need one?" He asks, and it's as he turns his head to actually look at Graves that it happens. White, hot light, and then a blazing heat surges down his spine, causing every part of his body to stiffen and spasm before he immediately drops to the ground. He doesn't know what happened.

Credence, struck by lightning, falls unconscious and stops breathing.

ɪɪ. ᴀʟʟ ⇼ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅs ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜᴇᴇʟ;
He wakes up with a jolt. Panic claws through him, and there's that scratching, whispering, hissing voice in the back of his head that all but confirms his initial thought: he'd passed out again.

This time, he doesn't wake up in the subway, or in his bed at NSPS headquarters--this time, it's in the inn, sides bandaged and eyes wide. A hand immediately holds his injured side--burn marks, perhaps--and he whimpers from the unexpected pain.

"I did it again," he manages, trembling. His throat is sore, hoarse, and he has no idea how long he's been out. Hours? Days? His dark eyes scan the room, wildly, and settle on whoever is there, be it passing the hallway while the door's open or sitting in the room with him:

"Is everyone safe?"

ɪɪɪ. ᴀʟʟ ⇼ ᴀʟʟ Fᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴀsᴄᴇɴsɪᴏɴs ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs sᴘᴀᴄᴇ;
Credence will be recovering for a while, not just on the 15th. When he can make it upright, he'll be in the inn, closest to the fire and writing everything he can in his journal. He may even be staring at whomever's closest to him, friend or stranger, lost in thought.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Kid, and kiddo, and all of these things. Credence's lips quirk into an almost-smile, because he likes those little nicknames. He's never had them before. Slowly, he nods to say he understands what the other means.

"I'm 22," he admits softly. He knows he doesn't look or act like it--it's something else Mary Lou has chastised him for, despite it being her own doing. It's someting Credence blames himself for as well, as is par for the chorus. He reaches for one carefully, about to take a bite.

"And the other one?" He asks before he does. "I've only ever seen it."

"Yeah, well, I'm thirty," Sonny says, and somehow his accent manages to sound particularly harsh in those words, despite the fact that his tone is just as warm as it was when he sat down. "That means you'll always be a kid to me."

It's true, though. Sonny had pegged Credence for somewhere in his late teens, seventeen or eighteen maybe. Certainly not old enough to be able to legally purchase alcohol were they somewhere where places actually sold alcohol, and carded for it. Somehow, it only makes Sonny stronger in his theory that Credence has been mistreated before.

"Oh, this." Sonny sets the box on the table between them, beaming. "It's Jenga. It's a game, I thought you'd like to play if you have a little time."

Sonny's accent, surprisingly, is one of the few things Credence actually warms to. It's harsh and a little nasally, and under normal circumstances no matter how kind the words are Credence would wince. But with Sonny, it's a reminder of home. It's a reminder of everything he misses.

"You don't look thirty," he says politely, and it's true. The 30 year olds Credence has seen are all factory workers, or have a strange look in their eyes from the war. They all look tired. Sonny never looks tired; Sonny looks like he has the world in the palm of his hands.

"I've never played before. I don't really--there isn't much time for games where I was before."

"Oh, thank you," Sonny laughs, with a surprised, but pleased laugh. His mother is frequently reminding him that he's getting older, running out of time to start a family and give her some grandchildren that carry the family name. And he's noticed on his own time that his hair is beginning to gray at the temples, that his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, but it doesn't really bother him so much. Neither does his mother's nagging, for that matter. He's more than used to it.

Sonny pulls the box into his lap, opening the top and seeing that all the pieces are there. "No time like the present, right? If you're twenty-two and you've never played Jenga, you gotta lot of catching up to do."

He pauses, like he's realized that maybe he's stepped a little bit out of line. "If you want to, anyway. If you'd rather keep writing, I can leave you alone, too."

It's good. It makes Sonny look distinguished, and in a way, Credence feels like he can trust him more. Though with Sonny's bright smile, Credence feels at ease in general. He wonders if the other is aware of this talent, and how rare it is for Credence to feel at ease with anyone. His shoulders dip, his way of being relaxed, and closes the notebook softly, sliding it to the side.

Catch up?

Credence frowns.

"I have two sisters, but they'd just play with chalk," He says softly, unsure why the other is pausing. "We looked at Macy's a lot even if we weren't allowed to buy anything, but I've never seen this before. Maybe it's from your world and not mine?"

That's something Sonny is never going to get used to, he's sure. Your world and my world. Like something out of some sort of science fiction novel or a comic book. It's only something he's willing to consider because of what other people have told him, and how things just haven't added up quite right. There are a few people here he's pretty sure are from his own world, and Credence was one of them, if only because he recognized Sonny's harsh city accent.

For a second, he's not so sure. Anyone from his world would know what Jenga is. It's a classic game, one he and his sisters would play frequently as kids. Just as popular as Monopoly and Twister.

"Maybe," he allows, seeming thoughtful. "We have Macy's too, though, all over the place. Can't remember the last time they really sold games like these."

"There's a big one in New York, right? The giant one, near the diamond district. Sometimes when we hand out flyers there, I like to look into the window and pretend I can take the whole store home with me for Modesty and Chastity." It's a strange confession, but he feels safe with sonny and he finds himself not even hesitating.

Has he warmed up to this? Warmed up to Sonny? He's certainly slowly getting better at talking to people. This is probably a decent indicator, and he leans forward to better examine the blocks.

"There's a person here who's from New York, too, but his New York has a disease and it's in 2015. I feel bad for him."

"Yeah, the Herald Square one," Sonny says, leaning back in seat. He pushes the Jenga game closer to Credence as he examines it, allowing the other to get a better look. "That's the big one, but there's like, fifty of them in New York alone. They're all over the place."

Credence says the names Modesty and Chastity again. Virtuous names, Sonny notes, and he remembers the other boy telling him that he'd been apart of a religious group back at home. He figures the two girls are probably Credence's sisters, not only from how frequently they're mentioned, but also because Sonny recognizes the way they're talked about as the same way Sonny talks about his own sisters. With fondness and familiarity.

His New York. Different from Sonny's New York, and Credence's New York, too. He'll never get used to that, he thinks. The fact that they can be from the same place, but they're really different.

"It's 2016 where I'm from," Sonny says, voice a little softer. "No disease though, thankfully."

2016. That's different--that's way different--and he ignores the fact that Macy's department stores are everywhere in New york, because that's weird, but also because Sonny says what year he's from and he's automatically captivated.

The jenga game is almost completely forgotten, because he remembers that night when all Kira and Credence talked about is home, and how for once it was someone else's job to look after Kira and vice versa, and he had learned all about different technology and, more importantly:

"Do you have helicopters?!" Even if he wanted to, he can't keep the excitement from making his voice crack.

"I--"

For a second, Sonny is stunned into silence. He's not sure what he was expecting, as far as reactions go, but child-like excitement and inquiries over helicopters and their existence wasn't even on the list. It wasn't even near the list. It's nice, though. Not the startling and somewhat confusing question, but the particular sound of Credence's voice, the thrill and wonderment he speaks with.

Sonny can't ever remember hearing the younger man speak like that, but it's a nice look on him, so to speak.

"Yeah, we do," he says, smiling despite his next question: "Don't you?"

"No," Credence says, and he tries to hide the tinge of disappointment. He doesn't seem to realize he's more comfortable like this, here and talking without actually thinking. It's taken months to get him this level of relaxed in the village, though even then his shoulders are still too tense, and he pulls his hands close to him to unconsciously hide scars.

"Or maybe we do, and I just don't know. Kira says we'll get them eventually, and it's just that they haven't been invented yet."

He's never going to see it anyway, he realizes. What does it matter?

"I've never been in a helicopter, or even a plane. It sounds scary. Have you?"

Sonny tries to remember back to what he learned about airplanes in history class. That was more of an elementary school thing, though, so far back that Bella might not have even been in school yet. He can't seem to come up with any dates — he only remembers that the Wright brothers were the ones who invented planes, and after that, he hasn't a clue.

Still. If Credence is from a time where airplanes haven't been invented yet, then it means he's from a long time ago. That's probably the thing he hates most about this place. All of this other-times other-worlds business.

"Nah," he has, sounding almost as disappointed as Credence does, somehow. "Some of my coworkers have, but I've never had a reason. Never been far enough from home to need one, you know? But hey, in my time, they're real safe to ride, so there's nothing to be scared of.

He pauses, just for a brief moment, then asks, "What year is it for you back home?"

"1926." Credence answers without really thinking about it, and begins to stack the game pieces like the manual says. He's been a part of a lot of things that are strange and otherworldly. He himself is one, and so he feels he shouldn't be too caught off-guard. Even if it is strange.

Glass houses and stones, after all.

"December - it hadn't snowed yet, though. But when I came here, there was so much snow I thought I was going to get sick. Especially since it was wet." He pauses a little more, tilting his head to the side as he examines the lattice-like work of the wooden blocks.

"Are you scared of leaving New York?"

"Nineteen--" The surprise is loud and clear in Sonny's tone, which is ridiculous, seeing as he just learned that Credence is from a time where helicopters and airplanes don't really exist, so of course that time would be something like 1926. Obviously, logically, that makes sense.

Still. Anybody from 1926 is likely to be dead in his time. It's sort of a surreal moment for him.

He watches Credence stack the blocks as the instructions state, thinking back to all the times he played it with his sisters. He likes having Credence around, likes spending time with him — he feels like the other boy is someone he can be a big brother to, and it reminds him a little bit of home.

It never occurred to him what it might be like to have a little brother. But when he talks to Credence, he doesn't have to.

"Not New York," Sonny says, after thinking for a moment. "I'm scared of leaving my family. They just happen to be in New York."

Credence leans back as the other is surprised, but it's something he's learned to get over. Surprise is not anger, and is not a bad thing. This is Sonny. Sonny is not going to hurt him, Credence is sure of it. He's rather proud of himself--he doesn't even flinch. It's probably because Sonny hasn't raised his voice.

"Do you have a big family? My sister Modesty comes from a family of 12," he explains, "I can't begin to imagine what it's like."

Sonny can pick up a few theories about Credence from what he says. My sister Modesty comes from a family of 12. Implying that, probably, they had separate families before, but that they're considered family now. That means Credence is probably adopted, or possibly in foster care or something.

Of course, they're just theories. Sonny can't know for sure, and he's not about to pry and ask, either.

"Oh, yeah," Sonny confirms, laughing. "We're Italian. I've got three sisters, both my mom and dad have siblings, and they all have kids, and some of them have kids. I've got more cousins than I can keep track of. Family get-togethers are insane."

He can picture it - clear as day. Sonny flying kites with little nieces in Central Park, or walking the family dog, or doing everything that Credence has associated with people far richer than him.

He bets Sonny buys the paper every single day. He seems like the type of person to buy baked goods for breakfast, too, to splurge on something sweet like a doughnut and not worry about that 5 cents going to something else. Two doughnuts is a small loaf of bread, and that can easily feed Credence, Modesty and Chastity for a week...

Sonny is someone Credence wishes he was.

"What's your mother like?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Angels causing accidents;

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