sixthiterationlogs | (no subject)

WHO: Julian Bashir
WHERE: Fountain, Inn, also feel free to catch him wandering around looking lost
WHEN: 3/17
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: None
STATUS: Open

Fountain;
The last few days had been darkness, silence, and stifling confinement. The Dominion didn't exactly believe in the comfort of their prisoners, especially ones that were causing trouble. There was nothing to do in solitary confinement but worry and try to sleep.

Between one heartbeat, one breath and the next, he was inhaling icy cold water, feeling the pressure of it pressing down around him.

His eyes flew open, and he flailed for a bit before striking out for the surface, swimming until his head broke water. He sputtered, spit water, and flung his long arms over the edge of the...fountain.

If he didn't know any better, he'd think he'd finally gone round the bend and was hallucinating. How else could he explain having gone from a prison asteroid to half-drowning in the (surprisingly deep) fountain of a quaint brick-paved park?

He hauls himself out of the water, rolling onto the pavers and taking a very brief moment to shiver and feel the stretch in his muscles before pushing himself upright and taking stock.

Park, late-winter to early-spring, the plants looking for all their nakedness like Earth trees, heavy fog hugging the ground, making visibility limited. The fountain itself could've been at home in any park in London, once he craned his head back to look at it. He almost felt homesick. He would, if he didn't know that what he was seeing was impossible. He was literally halfway across the galaxy from Earth.

And to top off the absurdity he had a bloody backpack and was wearing what seemed like soaking wet, dark green hospital scrubs instead of his uniform.

He shivers again. It's not freezing, thankfully, but it's still too cold to stay in wet clothes, hypothermia is not a laughing matter. But he's tired, weary in the bone-deep way of someone who's beyond physical exhaustion. What can a few more minutes hurt?

Inn;
He'd found the inn after nearly an hour of aimless wandering, only noticing the road straight to it from the park after he'd circled back around from the other side. He'd stopped to peel off his dripping wet clothing a while back, it now hung from the outside pocket of the knapsack, but his hair was still damp and curling wildly around his ears as it dried.

He feels the tension melt out of his shoulders as he steps inside. He's not used to being so defensive, but recent experience...well. He might have reason to be suspicious.

Instead of approaching anyone who might be there, he quietly excuses himself to sit by the fire, settling in and trying to dry himself out the rest of the way.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Help me?" Jyn repeats, brows gathering at the center, gaze scrambling towards the ground at the shattered pieces of memories lying at her feet. She sees them - or thinks she does, at least - and falls to her knees to try and collect them. In truth, she's digging her fingernails into the dirt and grasping at air, holding one arm close to her chest as though it were cradling something precious.

Beeny.
Mac-Vee.
Mama.
Saw.
Maia.
Staven.
Papa.

They hadn't helped her.

She'd unwittingly abandoned Beeny on Coruscant, when they'd fled to Lah'mu, cried for him the whole ride there, mourned him when they'd arrived, dreamt of him for weeks.
Mac-Vee had checked her vitals and played pre-recorded lullabyes in the place of her parents, but he was unfeeling and cold, no matter how hard they'd tried to make him humanoid.
Mama chose to leave her behind with nothing more than a necklace (that dark-haired man she'd see the other morning had had that necklace on, had said she'd given it to him, had talked about her Mama), not thinking her daughter might want a mother instead.
Saw had rescued her, but at what cost? And to only abandon her eight years later as his paranoia grew?
Maia died at her feet,
Staven on another mission long after Saw had cut her loose.
Papa had no messages of love and sorrow and forgiveness when he'd died in her arms; only, it must be destroyed. His work clutched tightly to his chest, even in death.

What did Jyn Erso know of help? Of being helped? Her hands tremble like a quake, uncontrollable and erratic as she looks up at him again - hands and face and fingers caked in dirt and mud. Images of the dark-haired man's face skirt in and out of her consciousness as she finds Julian's, though she's already forgotten his name. Murmurs something inaudible, mouth and throat gone dry until she tries again -

"Help me."

Edited 2017-03-20 07:14 (UTC)

That seems about as close to permission as he's going to get, even though he's still rather careful on the approach. He'd really rather not get hit, and if she's hallucinating or the symptoms of whatever illness she was experiencing included paranoia, he could probably count on getting smacked around if he wasn't careful.

"Alright, up we go." His hands are cautious on her shoulders and arms, lifting gently so he can support her as well as he can with the height difference between them.

Looking around--because of course he doesn't know where the bloody hell he's going, he literally just got here--he sees smoke rising from nearby. Smoke means fire, which in this case hopefully means people.

His encouragement to stand sparks something in Jyn - and she finds herself (or rather, her limbs) responding. Her brain is masked, buried under layers of temperatures that have crept too high and memories brought back from the dead - but her nervous system, her muscular structure respond to his gentle reassurance. Her body feels impossibly heavy on her feet - knees bowing out and snapping back a couple of times as they figure themselves out, very much like a toddler first learning to walk. Her hand snaps out to his shoulder, making a great assumption that he won't mind her stabilizing herself with his solidity.

"Jyn Erso," she mumbles, half-slurring as her glassy eyes roll in his direction. "My name," she clarifies.

He can feel the fever from here, he doesn't know how high it is aside from just far too high, the core of his mind that practices in medicine and healing practically yelling that they need to get the fever down.

She's correct in her assumption that he doesn't mind at all--he could, if needed, carry her. But somehow he thinks she might not like that very much.

"Jyn." It's an interesting name, not one he's heard the like of before. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Too bad it couldn't be under better circumstances."

At least one bonus of being absolutely sopping wet--he's an unwitting natural cold compress.

The coolness of his clothes has the magnetism of a moth to a flame - the heat of Jyn's skin instinctively seeking out the chill of his clothes. Her fingers grip into the shoulder of his scrubs - not too tightly, but tight enough. Something lucid uncovers itself from behind the haze of her eyes as she feels the water from his clothes trickle down towards her elbow, ears picking up on the steady droplets cascading onto the ground beneath him.

She glances down towards his feet, sees the tiny pond he's created, then seeks his face out again.

"You've just arrived," she states casually, as though talking about something as informal as the weather. "We should get you inside. You'll have a change of clothes in your pack." The half of her that's spent as much as time as she can muster trying to help the newcomers is clamoring at the edge of her consciousness, clawing its way onto the platform where the fevered version of her sits - monstrous, looming. The lucid parts of her gestures vaguely towards the Inn. "There, there's a fire in there."