Sixth Iteration Logs

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WHERE: (Where the post takes place)
WHEN: (When the post takes place)
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WARNINGS: (Please warn for adult content or anything triggering) <hr></div>
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3ofswords

WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: House 42 (Mark and Helen)
WHEN: January 13/14 - during the snowstorm
OPEN TO: Mark, Helen, Ravi
WARNINGS: Will put in tag headers if any arise beyond smoking weed and going stir crazy.

Stay the night, Mark had said; it looks awful out there, he'd said.

It looks a lot worse in the half-light of day, the sun obscured by clouds, the trees visible in how they whip and bow to the wind, until they disappear behind the falling snow. Kira's hardly at his best after a night on the couch, listening to the wind howl and his fucking goat clopping around the room. Goats are kind of inherently creepy, and they're ten times worse in the middle of the night.

But she's his, and there's no telling if it's the weather or something worse that has them down a bit of livestock.

Point is: there's a cramp in his shoulder, a goatlick of hair slicked out over his scar, and the plans to let her out in the morning are not going well. "Hey guys," he calls to the waking household, "The porch is basically gone." The wind has apparently been bad enough to pack snow against the front of the house; Kira is surprised enough by the sight, and bleary enough after sleep, that he stands there a moment staring at the wall of it.

The goat takes seconds to push past him, headbutting the barrier and making it fall in on top of her. The layer carries on in a slope, and the wind starts to blow the still-falling snow back toward him. Anyone coming into the room will find a goat bleating helplessly as she shakes herself out of the pile, and Kira trying to nudge her out of the way with his foot, unable now to close the door against the wind and snow.

[Four adults, one goat, two days. Free for all post for individual and multi-person threads.]

markwatney

WHO: Mark Watney
WHERE: Town Hall
WHEN: 10 Dec 2017, sundown
OPEN TO: All, mingle
WARNINGS: N/A

Since that tense standoff in front of the peach trees, Kira and I have been waiting to see whether the promises in the letter he'd received would come to fruition. I'd actually left the stolen papers out there longer than I'd intended, not wanting to disrupt the process further if I hadn't already ruined it by catching him in the act. Now that he's confirmed to me the arrival of what, for most people here, would probably be a collection of true treasures, I can't put off the inevitable. We need to let everyone know what's happened, and find out if we're alone in being targets.

Because this morning, I received a "mission" of my own, in the form of a box filled with 3 vacuum-packed, single servings of ground coffee. Speaking of treasure.

Before the breakfast rush, I made a note on the blackboard in the Inn's front room, the writing big and bold enough that nobody should miss it:

VILLAGE MEETING TONIGHT, TOWN HALL, SUNDOWN

Fortunately, there's little enough to entertain a person in this place that plenty of people show. Kira's in the front row with his "gifts," presumably ready to back me up despite not seeming to like me much yet. I guess I can't blame him, although I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss the rapport I had with Old Him.

"Hey, everyone," I call out, waving to get the small crowd's attention. "I asked everybody here tonight because we've had a development that I think we all need to know about. Kira here—" I pause, pointing. "Not too long ago, he got a letter. It asked him to steal something of value from someone and take it to the peach trees over on the East Side. It said if he did that, he would be rewarded. When he tried to get rid of the letter, another copy would always turn up. So, he did it. And putting aside that dubiousness for a moment, the reward was delivered. He found some items from his home that couldn't have gotten here without intervention from our hosts. Today, I actually got a box of coffee with a note asking me to take a portion and pass it on. Like a game or a chain letter. The note I got was threatening — If I don't do as asked, it says there will be a punishment. So."

I pull in a deep breath and spread my hands. "I know there's only so much we can realistically do about all of this, but has anybody else gotten anything like this?"

[If you want to thread with Mark directly, please say so in your subject line and let me know. Otherwise, this is a MINGLE and folks can jump around at will. Have at!]

3ofswords

WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: 7I Peach Tree
WHEN: November 18, late
OPEN TO: Mark Watney
WARNINGS: N/A

The letter had arrived days prior, tucked into the last box he'd moved between what were apparently his houses. Who was he not to commit to an action everyone said he was taking, especially if it made practical sense? And he was practical, by all accounts. Helped others, volunteered for work. Things that are both true and very convenient to tell the guy who just showed up.

Kira doesn't think the reward the letter promises will get him home. He believes them when they say no one gets out, but--maybe he can know when people are lying again. Maybe he can at least live in a canyon that doesn't ask him to have faith, trust strangers, believe in general goodwill.

Knowing's better.

Knowing's saved his life.

Being known is less appealing: it's an easy choice of who to steal from, and what. Even if he doesn't get his power back, can't know what Mark's intentions are, or how deep into this he's involved--Mark won't fucking have a scrap of paper in his handwriting anymore. Kira won't have to engage the fact that he was here, writing things down, letting them fall into someone else's hands.

Stealing the shit is the easy part: the house is unlocked, he has an easy excuse for being there. There's another tarp sled behind Mark's house, already rigged up better for Aurora to carry it than the one in his own home. The only hiccup is another dog, but it's as familiar with him as the people here: he pets some ears, he lets Aurora distract it, and he's in and out of Mark's house before anyone returns, leaving only drag marks in the thin snow and frozen dirt.

Getting the shit to the peach trees is the hard part.

There's no moon tonight, and he's glad he had multiple houses worth of towels to soak in animal fat and tie to a stick. Which just leaves him in the fucking woods, trying to navigate terrain (which he's never done) through a gap in a canyon wall (that he's never seen before), to some hypothetical trees he doesn't recognize, but finds mapped out in a journal full of his handwriting.

It's lunacy, the kind of thing he might die doing, but--what's one more trek through a cold and hostile environment? At least he has a dog to drag his stuff, and at least no one's shooting at him.

According to map, he's at the peach trees--but they're hard to recognize in the dark, bare of leaves, flowers, or fruit. It's too cold to be wrong, and too cold to make another stab in the literal dark: Kira adjusts his scarf away from his humid breath, tucking it around the bird nested down on his shoulder, and holds his flaming walking stick closer to the journal, the letter spread over the other page.

"Should I just leave it in the sled," he asks the dog, a sure sign that he's losing it out here. "Two for one?"

sixthiteration

WHERE: 6I Inn
WHEN: 10 November, all day
OPEN TO: ALL - MINGLE POST
NOTE: Details can be found here.

In the wee hours of November 10th, before even the earliest risers have roused themselves for another day, items begin to appear in the front room of the Inn. Decorations first — Boughs of autumn leaves in their reds and golds, wreaths of dried flowers and silken ribbon, flickering candles among the goards and berries and acorns. The food arrives next, the decadent aroma slipping up the Inn stairs to tempt those lingering in bed — Every imaginable harvest time delicacy, from roast turkey and ham to smoked salmon and oysters; fresh, soft bread warm from the oven to plum pudding and ice cream. And did we mention pie?

Once again, it's time for a feast. The bar is stocked, the coffee is brewed and the tables are groaning with food. Indulge, there's more than enough for everyone — That is, if you don't lose your appetite worrying about what it will all cost.

3ofswords

WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: Fountain, Village
WHEN: November 3rd and later
OPEN TO: OTA with closed starters
WARNINGS: Gunshot wound and recovery description

( Arrival )

Inn (OTA)

Whatever he does or doesn’t believe about this place, he’s keeping his mouth shut until he has the strength to deal with it. So far no one’s walked him by the wall of strung up cops or offered him jerky of questionable origin—he wants to believe this is some waypoint, some remote safe haven in upstate New York they were transported to while he was unconscious. But if it is, everyone’s gone off the fucking rocker.

He’s never been here before. Certainly not as recently as three days ago. The gap in his memory, between getting shot and Ty’s sickbed—that doesn’t contain a fucking year.

It itches him to move, even as his body protests. Wrapping a blanket tighter around himself, he moves away from the fire, starting to explore the lower floor of the inn. The blackboard waylays him for awhile, especially finding his name at the top of it. A house description, a—man or woman’s name, he can’t really tell. Rook, in the same location. Eleven months. Fuck.

Wandering away from it, he roots around at the bar, finding nothing for his nerves. The kitchen is next, the fire banked low this late. The dim lighting is something he’s used to, trying to avoid being seen in the dark. When he bangs into a chair despite all his practice, he muffles a curse into the blanket folded over his hand, held close.

The hardest part of this, inability to locate alcohol notwithstanding, is this: feeling half blind and deaf to the world. No warnings, no sense of the people around him. Everything he used to keep himself safe stripped away. Everything that would tell him if these people were lying.

He hopes they’re lying about the booze, at least, as he presses onward to start going through the cabinets.

House 39 (Bodhi)

It takes another couple of days before he’s recovered enough to brave the cold. A closet upstairs outfits him with sweaters and coats, and he manages to find the brick house he supposedly cleaned out—which hits him with the first piece of evidence that he might have existed here. The maps, carefully stacked by the linens, bear his handwriting, if not his actual cartography skills.

He loses several more hours exploring the space, finding touches of occupation. Trinkets in a bedside table, a pack of clothes that don’t—look or feel like his, but there’s a box in the closet that has his name fixed to it on a tag.

Kira Akiyama.

His full name, scraps of wrapping paper inside. From a December past? How many winters has he lived in the last four months?

Finding gloves and a pair of jeans, he layers himself again for the cold, and starts the trek across the village to the house marked on his hand-drawn map. Bodhi might be there, with the rest of their things. With answers of some kind, further proof that he’s existed here, or proof that this is an elaborate delusion.

He assumes it isn’t the burnt out husk of a house lightly dampened by snow, and climbs the porch of the other where the path ends. It’s an odd thing, knocking on a door you supposedly own, but he does it all the same. The first thing he hears is a dog’s low bark, rising with the scrape of claws on wood. Then the call of a bird, a clatter at the window that draws his eye—is that a crow?

Then, footsteps, and all he can do is square up and stare at the door.

[Kira's been canon updated as well as reset; he now comes from 3 days later than his first arrival, with knowledge that he did save his boyfriend and a healing graze wound to the side of his head.]

markwatney

WHO: Mark Watney
WHERE: 6I Inn
WHEN: 19 Oct 2017
OPEN TO: ~~ALL~~ Closed to new threads

I think most people have an unspoken list of things they intend to do when they have the time and inclination. Mine I usually actually write down, even in a place like this where paper and writing implements are scarce — Days with much downtime don't happen often, and my list is embarrassingly long. It helps to have a note so I can look everything over and figure out what's most pressing. I managed to get off of Mars this way, so I figure it's not a bad system.

Today, though, my choice was made for me. I woke up to two things: A box with my name on it, and a sky full of snow. Fortunately, all of the harvesting had been done on the less cold-hardy plants already, and unless this cold snap dragged on into something long-term, it would be good for what we picked later in the season. Sweetens the berries.

I've got plenty of ways I could fill a free day, but the snow and that mystery box left little question what needed to be top of the list: Taking a census before winter fully moved in. As far as I could tell, while various people in various places took notes about events and connections, we'd never had one central, definitive list of everyone in the community, where they were living and how long they'd been around. With a second village in the mix now, this information was more important than ever. A proper census would give us the tools to start to prepare for winter in earnest — Not just in predicting how much food and firewood would be needed, but what roads needed to be cleared, medical preparations and more.

The box I mentioned before, it helped with this. It was full of items that were a huge help in getting organized: Pencils, binders, blessed paper. And chalk. There was only one place to use that.

After carefully copying the information that had been collected on the blackboard at the Inn, I wash down both sides and jump right in: At the top of the outfacing side, I make three headings:

Name - Residence - Apx. Arrival

Beneath this, I start with my own info:

M. Watney - W. outskirts, blue - 1yr, 4 mo

"Why haven't we named the damn streets yet?" I mutter, and then began writing in what information I know on the rest of the villagers, leaving blank spaces for others to fill in next time they're at the Inn. But seriously, though, one more thing added to my to-do list: Street names and house numbers.

ad_dicendum

WHO: Gaius Gracchus
WHERE: The fields, the storehouse in 6I, around the village, and the Inn
WHEN: October 8-31
OPEN TO: All!!
WARNINGS: Brief mentions of slavery

( The seasons are turning )

[ all locations are open, feel free to catch him in the fields, storehouse, scavenging around the village, or in the Inn]

zomboligist

WHO: Ravi Chakrabarti
WHERE: Under a delicious tree (an evil, delicious tree)
WHEN: October 17th
OPEN TO: All!
WARNINGS: Ferrets, mischief, swearing

There is a ferret currently pawing at a sweater vest near one of the trees on the outskirts of town.

This isn't a sentence that Ravi would've ever assembled prior to this place, and yet, now it feels commonplace. If he weren't currently in a little ferret body, he might even feel compelled to squeak about how this place is awful. No. Wait, squeaking is for right now, which is what he's doing. It's all that bloody apple's fault for looking so green and perfect, and if someone's going to change you into a ferret after a few bites, he thinks he ought to be warned.

Of course, right now, maybe his priorities are a little off. First, there had been the immediate 'oh, fuck, I'm a ferret', and yet, after that, Ravi didn't think about switching back instantly. No, instead, he's far more concerned about the fact that he'd been wearing one of his best shirts and sweater vests and they're currently all in a pile where someone might step on them or, worse, might take them for their own. That won't do.

This is how there's come to be a tiny little angry Ravi-ferret pawing and clawing at the sweater vest to try and figure out a way to drag it with him back to his and Major's place. No opposable thumbs rule out hands, which means that teeth are next. That is, teeth are next until heavy footsteps and a looming shadow above him makes Ravi realize just how small he is and just how much he currently detests that stupid apple for making him like this.

What if it's permanent? What if he has rabies?

What if their dog eats him?

Letting out a panicked and angry squeak, Ravi clambers to protect his clothes ever the more, while simultaneously hiding behind one of his boots in case he ends up accidentally pelted by an over-eager kick.

3ofswords

WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: House 42
WHEN: September 23rd
OPEN TO: Mark Watney
WARNINGS: N/A

The longer he stays in the main village, the more it feels like a mistake. He should be running again, he should be fending for himself against the foxes--and if he loses everyone he knows in the meantime, so be it. From the sound of Margaery’s panicked prediction, he has worse things to worry about.

Margaery’s prediction is its own problem.

Kira walks up the porch, leafy plants brushing at his knees. For a moment he tries to focus on that: the itch and slide, the wood with its slight give beneath his feet, the grain against his heels. The world has a texture and a scent, is firm beneath him, is sharp and real around him. Mark and Helen live about as far removed from the village as he does, and this long after the sun goes down, it’s quiet. He isn’t standing saturated in the panic of a gathering, or trying to cook through the hunger of a dozen early risers.

He’s alone enough on the porch that it’s just his own fear, his own exhaustion. In one hand is the folded pages of notes, Mark’s name across the outer edge, and he stoops down to shove it under the door. It’s been more than a month since the ability came back, but for ever brief reprieve, it’s gotten worse, not better. He’s done his best to track the timing in the notes, explain the severity, own up to the fact that Margaery’s new burden might be from a vial with his name on it.

He doesn’t expect Mark to fix it, but someone needs to know. If only to excuse Kira’s desire to hibernate under the dog until it’s all over.

When he gets up, he stumbles enough to catch himself on the door with a dull thud. It doesn’t seem loud enough to warrant a hasty retreat, he takes another moment at the bottom of the steps. There will be quiet and calm at home, but it won’t smell this green, and there’s another walk through occupied houses between him and his bed.

thenewways

WHO: Kira Nerys
WHERE: The garden
WHEN: 22 September
OPEN TO: OTA, with locked log for Watney
STATUS: open (OTA)

It's clear to nearly everybody (and that's despite everything that's come up to divert the attention of the group, particularly of late) that the change of seasons is upon them. Even though Nerys doesn't have any solid sense of Earth astronomy at all, and has no clue that autumn is nigh, she's not completely oblivious to the shift herself, even if the weather's been veering frantically over the course of the last month. Apparently staying firmly put in the 'cooling down' column isn't really how this works.

Either that or the observers roll the damn dice every day to see what the weather's going to be. Today it is absolutely frigid, to the point where Nerys had to pull out a couple of layers of sweater this morning just to steel herself up to the notion of working outside. She's wrapped her hands firmly as well, as much for the warmth as to protect them from her tools.

If there's anything that Nerys is good at, it's getting on with the business of surviving--while the village and the other finds intrigue her somewhat, they unsettle her even more. These days, the chill in the night air (and now the day too) means it's nearly harvest time, and if they don't start canning up what they've got right now, it's going to be a lean winter again. Not to mention that there are more people around to feed, and she has no intention of anyone starving on their watch.

It's not like the garden hasn't been through enough this year, the plants hanging on to their lives with a sheer tenacity that rivals the sentient beings of the village. Hell, rivals the damned foxes. The latter have, over the last few weeks, been making a mess out of what's still left to be harvested. Sure, using blood- and bone-meal for fertilizer probably attracts them, but that doesn't really account for the sheer maliciousness of what's been done--vegetables left in neat piles with a single large bite taken out of them, mounds of chewed up berries, holes dug in very precise locations. It's enough to piss a hungry Bajoran the hell off.

[kind sir, be civil, my company forsake - OTA
So that's why Nerys is out hoeing up potatoes on a freezing cold afternoon. If they can get these down into the cellar space at the inn, they'll last a few months, though not as long as if they could leave them in the ground a while yet. She's already cut an armload of late zucchini and squash without much incident, but word gets around both among the humanoid and vulpine populations, it would seem.

A pack of three foxes have spent the last ten minutes slinking up to and around the potato patch, circling Nerys in slowly narrowing concentric arcs. She could swear that they keep looking at her, with the kind of expression that indicates they want her to know they're looking. Despite herself (come on, the Cardassians have played this game with much higher stakes), the frustration's built up to the point of snapping in two. One fox tries to move a little too close, pushes the envelope, and Nerys finds herself snarling, brandishing the hoe like a pike at him.

"Get!" she shouts, voice cracking. "Damn it...all of you, get!"

The fox doesn't, though all of them freeze; instead, they seem to give her a look that asks her who exactly the animal is meant to be in this situation. It's not lost on Nerys, who bites her lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Fuck, come on," she says, almost pleading. "We just want to eat."

The foxes are, unsurprisingly, unmoved.

[sly, bold Reynardine - for Mark]
The potatoes are in, or at least as many as Nerys dares to harvest right now today. Midday's long gone and it's not gotten much warmer, and all she can think of is frost on the vines. So, despite herself, she's kept on working, switching over to the remaining beans. The goal with these is to can them in the containers from one of the earlier feasts, cap them with beeswax, and call it a day, hoping it won't kill them all.

It seems like a worthwhile thing to try, at least.

Nerys' got a half a bag full already when she realizes there's a fox watching her from over by the wastewater tub. Five minutes later, it hasn't ventured much closer, so she's pretty sure it's just a scout. She makes a silent snarling face at it, before shifting up to her feet to ease the strain on her hamstrings for a second--and in the process, ends up snarling at Mark across the plot of beans. The color of her face after she figures that out probably rivals the turning leaves across the field.

[refs are to the British/Irish were-fox folk song 'Reynardine'; Rhiannon Giddens does it well.]

theintercessor

WHO: Jude Sullivan
WHERE: The fields (behind the Town Hall)
WHEN: August 18, Afternoon
OPEN TO: ALL, Mingle style post for the Specimen Room plot
WARNINGS: See the Plot Post for details of the Specimen Room and its contents

Jude's glad to have the meeting out of doors, with or without the illness to prompt it. The cave-in hadn't scared him out of the canyon's cracks and crevices, but the room he'd found with Margaery might, and he needs every helping factor he can get to keep himself steady through the meeting. Public speaking is less a great fear than a thing he's never cared to do, but public speaking on a subject like this might prove too much, and if he pitches over again in front of someone, he's going to throw himself in the fountain and never come back out.

He'd gotten some help to carry the board out of the inn, tacking up fresh sheets of paper to the back of it. While others gathered those villagers well enough to come out to the fields, he'd done his best to recreate his and Margaery's view of the room through the glass, the layout of the coolers, the shape of the machinery at its center. Next to that, he'd tried to draw a rough overview of the room--what shape it might have from above, the placement of the door, the curve of the tunnel that Margaery had led him down.

As far as he'd noticed, there was no way around the rest of the cave to get at the door, but he hadn't been very inclined to look. When he pulls back from the board, charcoal staining his fingers, his brow where he'd wiped back his hair, he turns to find a crowd gathering behind him.

When it comes to the actual explanations, he struggles a bit to project his voice, but the words are there when he looks for them. He sticks to using the drawings to present the information, pointing to each element in turn. "There're electrical lights, florescent ones, in the room and the coolers, so I guess they're working too. And the glass was--uh, well, it was thick enough that knocking into it didn't break anything." He drops his gaze to his feet, hiding behind his hair at the memory.

[OTA within the post or tag others. Please indicate in top levels if you do not allow threadjacking, or if you have specific warnings for threads. Use the link above for a complete list of details about the Specimen Room; ask questions, or assume that the details have been given in your threads!]

zomboligist

WHO: Ravi Chakrabarti
WHERE: Hospital / Casa di Helen & Mark
WHEN: Anytime between August 7 - 10
OPEN TO: Mark, Helen, Kira, Major
WARNINGS: n/a

It ought to be strange, really, taking your best friend from a world before and hiking him around for all your new friends to meet, but Ravi is somewhat determined to make sure that the people he feels closest to here really do like Major, especially seeing as he's going to end up picking up his life and moving in with him, mainly in an attempt to reclaim some of home again, but also because it's Major. How can he not move in with him and have incredible roomie shenanigans, again?

"They're going to love you," he vows, promising Major like he's the one who needs the pep talk instead of Ravi who needs a little bit of encouragement to sort of get over the fear that any of his friends are going to meet Major and, well, and not like him. He takes Major by the shoulders and stares at him like he's about to give him some sort of sports-related pep talk.

He doesn't, though, mainly because it would just make Major cringe and then Ravi would cringe with embarrassment and generally, it just wouldn't go over well. There's no time like the present, though, which is why he steers Major in the direction of the door, one hand draped around his shoulders like he's proudly showing off his latest creation (even if that sort of mad science has never been his bag of cats), plastering a broad smile on his face.

"Guess who has two thumbs and found a best friend?" he says, gesturing to himself, then to Major, then quickly back to himself. "I'd like to introduce you to Major Lilywhite. Yes, that is his name," Ravi says. "It's an unfortunate American thing, I think."

pretendtoneedme

WHO: Everyone
WHERE: 6I's Town Hall
WHEN: July 10th
OPEN TO: Everyone who wants in. There will be one subheader for welcoming back the group and one for the actual meeting
WARNINGS: Nothing so far; please add headers in the comment subjects if something does come up that could be problematic

The return is, when everything is said and done, uneventful. The group who went to explore the break in the canyon walks back into the village in the early afternoon, laden down with most of the supplies they'd brought with them and without any obvious injury. There's some scratches, a couple bruises, but whatever had happened to seal them away from the village for a week definitely didn't happen to them, and they're not buzzing with any news so world-shattering that everyone needs to be collected and reported to at once. There's enough time for the group to separate and grab showers, clean clothes, and something to eat, while the word passes from person to person that the explorers have returned and that there's going to be a meeting right after dinner for them to explain what they've found and answer questions.

At the appointed time, the five of them are there, looking less ragged, and ready to talk. They've brought a few things back with them to show the others in the village, but all in all there's just not a lot to show about the other side that's different - except for that one, giant thing. But the non-changes are going to be shocking enough for most people, and decisions have to be made about what to do with the information they have now.

notsocommon

WHO: Helen Magnus
WHERE: 6I village, canyon breach, 7I village
WHEN: 2 - 10 July
OPEN TO: Bodhi Rook, Ned Stark, Mark Watney, Clint Barton
WARNINGS: None at this time.

As happened the last time an expedition was mounted, Helen found herself as part of a team to go and investigate something at the edge of the known world. This time, though, the known world had expanded to great degree and it seemed that the canyon that had hemmed them in and been the bane of all those trying to escape the last several months had rent in twain, leaving them with another side of the world to push forward and survey.

Of those she found herself traveling with, only Mark was truly familiar to her. She knew the others in passing, yes, but knowing faces and part of a name weren't the same as knowing someone and she hoped that they were as stalwart and competent as they seemed to be upon first glance. All of them seemed well aware of what such a trek was going to entail, at least, and Helen wasn't concerned that she'd end up having to carry a load bigger than she'd intended in asking them along.

She wished, as always, that she had supplies to be able to draw a map or make notes about the lay of the land beyond the breach. While she knew the forest and fields beyond the village well enough, everything beyond the canyon wall was going to be new territory entirely and she wanted some way to memorialize it for the others. She hoped that someone else had access to paper and pen, that someone would be willing to give up such a precious commodity for the good of the community and for the furthering of knowledge. Supplies gathered and goodbyes said, the hike was begun to the edge of the known world and into the great beyond.

"I have no idea what's beyond this breach," Helen said. "I cannot even speculate, since none of us have been able to climb it. Geology was never my strong suit."

markwatney

WHO: Mark Watney
WHERE: Fields and nearby
WHEN: 23 May, evening
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: Poop
STATUS: Open
NOTE: Please don't feel you have to talk to him about plants. I know how boring it can get.

The weather is starting to become a concern.

Now, I really am not a person prone to panic. Things have to be going pretty badly pretty abruptly for me to freak out. But I'm also aware of how nefarious a gradual change can be, and how dangerous to people not paying attention. Personally, I'm not interested in being a lobster in a slow-warming pot.

Then again, maybe I don't have much choice in that.

Point is, it's easier to pay attention to the fact that the sun is taking the opposite path in the sky than that we're getting way too warm too soon for this time of year. (And I could get into why it's implausible that the Earth has actually reversed rotation, including disruptions that would likely end all life, but it's way more boring than it sounds, so I'll just say I'm not buying it.) People are finding ways to cool off, and that's good -- Apart from physical health reasons, we don't get nearly enough opportunities to simply relax and have unfettered fun. The plants we've all been so tending so judiciously, though, don't have the option to take a dip.

The hail was bad enough. The damage was... Well, it wasn't great, obviously, but nothing we couldn't recover from. Assuming, of course, that everything stays relatively predictable. This heat and lack of rain? It isn't predictable.

I've been out in the fields all day today, even longer than normal, taking notes and measurements, doing what I can to ensure the plants are well fed and watered. We really cannot afford to lose a significant part of this harvest, not with the number of people in the village now. It's tedious, back-breaking work, but it has to be done.

And it's honestly probably a testament to how tedious and back-breaking it is that I am tired and distracted enough that I end up covered in shit. Not metaphorical shit; actual shit, courtesy of a poorly-timed misstep while I was shoveling fertilizer. Manure's coated all along the front of my thighs and torso, splashed up to my neck and chin.

"God damn it," I moan, picking myself up with a wince.

markwatney

WHO: Mark Watney
WHERE: Field, orchard and town hall
WHEN: Anytime in April
OPEN TO: Everyone -- MINGLE POST!
WARNINGS: n/a
STATUS: Open
NOTE: Details on this year's planting can be found here.

Before I managed to wander completely off the map (again), I'd never been a farmer. Oh, I'd worked on a farm for purely academic purposes while I was in school, and I don't think it's unreasonable to say that I got to know the daily beats of tending to fields. But my time farming had previously been limited to a single term, and one of the things I'd missed was how quickly your days can go from stretching out long and listless to not having enough hours in them.

Planting season is finally here again.

Once the ground had thawed enough to allow for it, we'd expanded our fields and tilled them as well as we could -- We were still lacking in what most of us would consider "proper" tools for that, but I'd had plenty to time to rig up alternatives over the winter, and I have to admit, I'm pretty pleased with the outcome. "Engineer" tends to get overshadowed by the "botanist" in my list of credentials, but I'm glad I'm still a little worthy of the title.

Now it's just a matter of getting the seeds and seedlings planted, fertilized and watered as quickly as we can -- We've lost a handful of people to mysterious disappearances, but if the new arrivals keep on as steadily as they have been, we're going to have a lot more people than we did last fall. If we're going to feed everybody and still be able to put away enough for next winter, we need to harvest as much as we can as quickly as we can.

And no, today I'm really not going to think about the dubiousness of still being here next winter to care. One thing at a time.

I'm also not going to think about how I got another mystery box filled with seeds a few weeks back, and how god damned creepy that is.

The main fields will be split between a generous diversity of fruits, vegetables and the new grains I received. This year we're adding things like melons, corn, and yes, bane of my existence but still-useful staple, potatoes. We've also cleared out an area for an orchard where we'll have grapes, berries and eventually apple trees from the seedlings I've been fostering inside over the cold months. Also new is a little plot dedicated just to herbs, more necessary than ever now with our lack of ready salt.

With the town hall scrubbed and organized, it makes a perfect staging area and place to rest, have a drink or snack. That's also where we've laid out our tools of the trade, both gifted and cobbled together. This year, I want to make sure everyone has some kind of glove if I can. If they're willing to work, it's the least I can do.

pretendtoneedme

WHO: Clint Barton
WHERE: Woods behind House 20, Wreckage of House 14, and the mill
WHEN: March 11-13
OPEN TO: Anyone who wants in
WARNINGS: Nothing as of yet; will alter if that changes
STATUS: Open

Target Practice (March 11)

Even with the weather still very cold, one of the first things Clint does every morning is go for a run - through the village, not the woods, so as to minimize any chance of random attack by the creatures he's been told live in the forest and any accidents that could land him in a spot where he can't get to (or call for) help. Anyone paying attention to the area around breakfast time would easily be able to spot him and tell this is a familiar routine for him.

But this time when he goes out for his run, there's a box on the porch of House 20.

He's been told about these by a few different people, the "gifts" left anonymously by, presumably, whoever had locked them in here to begin with, and he's fully prepared to ignore it until he sees that the tag on top bears his name. Not bothering to get off the porch, Clint stoops down to lift off the lid, revealing something he hadn't expected at all: throwing knives, six of them in two flat sheathes, along with materials to keep them honed and polished. The sheathes are clearly meant to be worn over a belt, which he doesn't have, but he can rig something up. And he's never minded drawing from a pocket anyway. They're obviously sharp.

His run that day is foregone in favor of practice. One of the destroyed houses is right down the road, so he'd gone and lifted a few pieces of wood from the pile and propped them against some trees beyond the Avengers' home (specifically out of the way of the road). He doesn't bother painting targets on anything, but he spends a good two hours throwing his new knives at the poor, splintered wood, deciding where the sheathes would fit best for future access, getting used to the heft of the blades and their feel in his hand. For shits and giggles, he'd also borrowed a bow from the inn's storeroom when grabbing his targets and shoots with that, too. The draw weight is still way, way below what he's used to and the arrows feel like feathers in his hands, not weapons, but the only way to become more familiar with a specific weapon is to use it.

He never misses, with either weapon.

Salvage (March 12)

The wreck of (what had been) House 14 has been taunting him for a bit now, ever since he, Wanda, and Sam had decided to move to the north of the village and they have to pass it every day to get to almost anywhere. His promise to look at the mill and see what can be done there and his annoyance at not having his normal arsenal of Home Depot collectibles at his disposal during the Town Hall cleanup have been ringing in his head lately. There's just not a lot to work with here, and they definitely have to use their ingenuity more than anyone he's met so far had at home. There's no way out (that they know of) and, with the exception of the gifts they're sometimes given, no supply chains to rely on, and those are hardly reliable

So it's time to get creative. Also desperate. After a run and a half-hour of target practice, Clint wraps his hands in rags to protect them, grabs the tools he'd claimed from Nat's things, and heads down to House 14, or what's left of it. Because he's going to be hunting for nails and other useable objects and pieces in that mess, cracking and prying open boards as needed to reach them, and throwing the scraps out into a semi-neat pile for people to claim as firewood and even kindling for their furnaces. He even takes a piece and scratches "free to good furnace" in the dirt of the road with an arrow pointed at the pile, because that's all most of the pieces are good for. The ones that are mostly intact and fairly large he sets aside in another pile for future projects, whatever they might be.

Inspection (March 13)

One day's all Clint can really take of continual destruction without proper gear - even with the rags protecting his hands, he'd still gotten a couple of splinters ripping the house apart the day before. Inspecting the mill will be a better use of the day to let the punctures heal up a little, though he'll have to stop himself from diving into any project that isn't absolutely simple and not a huge strain. While he's not an engineer or a mechanic, he'll at least be able to tell what's needed to get started on the place, even if he can't fix everything himself.

As he crosses the bridge to the other side of the river, he can tell that a couple of blades on the wheel have either broken or rotted away, but that damage seems negligible. Someone had built a water gate to isolate the wheel from the current of the river which is closed at the moment, so the wheel itself isn't turning. At least he won't have to worry about getting crushed by moving machinery. The building itself looks sound from all sides, built sturdily of heavy stone closely fitted together and a few windows in each wall for natural light, so any problems are likely to be inside, with the machinery itself. Clint pauses a few feet from going in, looking up at the building with a considering gaze for several seconds, and then heads on in.

markwatney

WHO: Mark & Anyone
WHERE: The Town Hall
WHEN: Feb 16, afternoon through evening
OPEN TO: EVERYONE! This is a mingle post!
WARNINGS: N/A - Please warn in thread subject lines if needed
STATUS: Open

When we all get together and have our town meetings, the truth is that a lot of times we don't come up with the sort of solutions we're looking for. I'm not trying to say we're complacent -- Or at least not all of us, not the people speaking up in the meetings -- but just that the nature of living here, such as it is, means that answers aren't exactly forthcoming.

But the latest meeting, the one about organizing, creating some kind of formal entity to oversee the group of us, it threw something into sharp relief for me: I've been talking for a long time about how we all need to be sharing our knowledge as a safeguard, but I haven't been doing much to make this happen beyond sharing my own personal knowledge. And that's really just not acceptable -- Not here, not when we've apparently got an entire section of the population asking for active leadership and another section who might just be too shy or apathetic to admit it.

So, I've been trying to figure out a way to kickstart this project. A way for people to even put out there the sort of knowledge they have to share. You have to start somewhere.

I've never had a problem getting people together to help with the field, but somehow we've been neglecting the town hall building right next to it this entire time. It's one of the biggest buildings in town, but it's still coated in dust and cobwebs, piles of leaves drifted into corners. The inn is starting to get a little crowded during meetings; it might be nice to have a little more room, a place where people come to share.

Regardless of how you feel about community leadership, I think most of us can get behind that.

A couple days before, I put out the call: A cleaning party. We get together, clean out the town hall, and afterward we have a little potluck. People can bring premade dishes, or we can cook out back over a bonfire. We can just be around each other, in a relatively safe space, just having a moment to relax and say hello. Meet someone new, find out where to begin.

After everything that's happened recently, I really think we could use it. I'm just hoping I'm not the only one who shows up.

[CLEANING PARTY & MIXER! Threads can take place during the CLEANING portion, after during the MIXER or BOTH. They can be indoors, upstairs, in the attic, out back by the bonfire, chowing down, whatever -- It's 100% cool to improvise! Mark will have expressly told folks this is about getting to know each other and what they can each do, too. There are some additional OOC notes here.]

notsocommon

WHO: Helen Magnus
WHERE: hospital, schoolhouse, outside the butchers, Inn
WHEN: 7 February - 14 February
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: TBD
STATUS: Open

i. fixed law of gravity

Thanks to the work done by Rory, the hospital was something approaching hospitable. There were beds inside it, yes, but Helen wasn't certain that the narrow sickbays could really be considered proper beds or not. It was more of a triage station, really, or a field hospital to her modern standards and she was reminded yet again of all the medicine she'd practiced during the two great wars; there was little that rattled the nerves quite as much as hearing and feeling the vibrations of shells and mortar just outside one's door while trying to heal the sick and make them comfortable.

Helen could do without ever seeing another war.

Still, it was the nature of human beings to fight and while there hadn't been many quarrels here in this place, Helen wasn't naive enough to believe that it would always be so calm or that their threats would always come in easy to handle packages. The injuries this month were proof enough of that. No one had been hurt terribly as of yet but she was certain it was not far off, considering the lightning only increased in frequency as days passed.

Currently, she was in the midst of cataloging her meager supplies with which to treat burns. There were bandages, there were poultices and her very precious store of penicillin. She had five syringes, prepared if she should have to use them, and there was no reason to believe she'd ever get more. Their captors had been gracious enough to give her the medicine once. She wouldn't be the one to waste it.

She was ripping linens at the moment in order to make more bandages and hoped that she'd never have occasion to use quite as many as she'd made.

ii. so simple a beginning

After putting in a long day of scouring the woods for more herbs and dodging lightning where she could, Helen found herself in the Inn for a cup of her preciously-hoarded coffee and a bite to eat. She'd been grateful that there was food already cooked when she'd arrived at the kitchens and made a note to bring more berries and herbs to replenish Kate's stores from time to time. It was what she could do to help, after all, and while she could cook she was also content to eat the cooking of others.

She had a bowl of stew balanced on one knee and a mug of coffee in the other as she sat by the fire, lost in reflection and memory. There had been disappearances of late, a rash of them, and she wondered what that meant. Their captors never seemed to announce why they did things and she supposed it was futile to assume they'd start doing it now. Once she'd finished eating, she pulled out her notes from Annie and Finnick's findings, trying to make sense of the new information they'd discovered.

She wound up moving from the chair to the floor and when that didn't give her enough room, she decided to take the lot of her work over to the schoolhouse in order to avail herself of the slates inside there. She took care not to erase anything already on the chalkboards, not wanting to ruin someone else's work, but took up a piece of it herself and started trying to make sense of the muddled equations and endless lines of text.

"It doesn't bloody make sense she exclaimed in frustration, banging a closed fist in an uncharacteristic fit of pique. Even her own mind had been tested by this and if she couldn't figure it out, what hope did she have of ever finding a way back home? How could she provide insight and understanding to the people here if she couldn't make heads of tails with what she'd been presented? She sank down at one of the desks, sitting hard enough to send it flying a few inches.

"Damn."

iii. endless forms most beautiful

Having given up on the mystery of the pods for the time being, Helen decided to make herself useful and was tending a hot fire and a veritable cauldron of soap. The butcher's was the only place where she had the equipment to render fat properly and while it was smelly, disgusting work, the end result was quite nice. It reminded her of being a girl, making soaps and things by hand and once she had the soda ash added to the fat, she could start the process of turning the lot of it into soap.

This batch was going to be scented with lemon, one of the precious essential oils she'd been gifted, and it lent the air a fresh, clean scent. It was something neutral, something that simply smelled of clean and she hoped that the others in the village would agree with that assessment. If not, they were free to make their own soap, she supposed, though she was the only one who seemed to make any in any real quantity.

The next batch was blood orange and the final, at the end of the day, ended up scented with lavender. Once she'd poured it into the crude molds she'd crafted of wood she covered it with towels to let it cure. Later, after it'd set up, she'd slice it into thick bars but for now it would simply have to set. There were more than a few lye burns on her hands once she'd finished for the evening and she wondered if the powers that be would gift her a set of proper gloves. They would have more than one use. Of that, she was absolutely certain.

zomboligist

WHO: Ravi Chakrabarti
WHERE: Outside Ravi's House
WHEN: February 4th
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Lightning Storm
STATUS: Open

The auroras and the lightning have seemed harmless. It's beautiful, of course, but Ravi's so occupied with the science behind this place that he doesn't even pay much mind to what's in the sky. It's just another component of what might be a simulation. Then, all of a sudden, the lightning isn't so pretty when it's getting close enough to scare him to death, stealing sleep away from Ravi. It's put him on edge, obviously, he'd be an idiot not to be, but what he hadn't been expecting was for things to continue on in this general bad direction.

He'd been cleaning up from some tests on the local foliage (using spring water to see what growth rates it could yield) when suddenly, his house explodes, a concussive blast that forcibly knocks him off his feet, one of the front walls having burst in. Not just that, but there are singed wires in the walls exposed, on fire, and it takes him a moment to realize what's just happened.

His hair is practically standing on end, the particles around him so supercharged, and he knows, right this moment, that his house has been struck by the sort of intense lightning that causes this sort of damage. It's paranoia and true fear that sends him skittering out of the house, bundling up a bag of whatever he can grasp, rushing outside and tripping in his clumsy struggle to escape before another bolt can hit and kill him, the way it had done to Ren.

He ends up curled up on the ground, his possessions around strewn around him, and all logic and sanity goes out the window as he curls up in the fetal position, hands protecting his head as sparks start to shoot off his skin. "I have lived through too much shit to die like this," he moans out loud, rocking a little. "If I'm cooked to a crispy Chakrabarti, make sure someone commemorates me with a beautiful drawing." Internally, he adds, and please, please don't let anyone turn me into a charred zombie.

Sixth Iteration

Logs

Entries tagged with martian: mark watney

Credits & Style Info

[closed] winter breakers

[OTA - MINGLE] Town Hall meeting

[closed] sentiment's the same but the pair of feet change

[MINGLE] Harvest Feast 🍂

[reset] 001 | the shit is running and it runs deep

The birds have flown their summer skies to the south;

† tamen defendebat aerarium | OPEN

what's ferret for 'bitch please'?

[closed] i’m feeling electric tonight

they lost their former dye - autumn equinox [Mark, OTA]

[PLOT MINGLE] The Specimen Room

(no subject)

Slow Rider, Slow Rider, Move On a Little More

Once More Unto The Breach, Dear Friends, Once More [Closed]

Half a proper gardener’s work is done upon his knees [OTA]

Waving in the wind, shimmering in sunlight [OTA - MINGLE]

How Much Longer Will the Well Be Dry for Those Who Roam

We can push on through till morning; [OTA | MINGLE POST]

003 ∞ whilst this planet has gone cycling

(no subject)