sprint across the wire, slide into my hand
open post x overflow
open post x overflow
q let me raid your supplies
ill give you absolutely nothing in return
ill give you absolutely nothing in return
[ cont ]
[ ... ]
Yeah, I'm good with my clothes. Brb, i'll meet you downstairs.
[ If he remembers correctly, he has like...a solid twenty minutes to shower, wiggle into a pair of jeans and sneakers, tug on a nicer, (mostly) clean in case Eddie wants to go anywhere pretentious. Plenty of time. Now where the fuck did he put his cigarettes... ]
[ ... ]
Yeah, I'm good with my clothes. Brb, i'll meet you downstairs.
[ If he remembers correctly, he has like...a solid twenty minutes to shower, wiggle into a pair of jeans and sneakers, tug on a nicer, (mostly) clean in case Eddie wants to go anywhere pretentious. Plenty of time. Now where the fuck did he put his cigarettes... ]
Did you think that was a request?
( a solid twenty minutes before eddie shows up dressed to the nines with an additional dress shirt, vest, and trousers folded over his arm.
look on the bright side; at least it’s not a wedding gown. )
Knock-knock.
( a solid twenty minutes before eddie shows up dressed to the nines with an additional dress shirt, vest, and trousers folded over his arm.
look on the bright side; at least it’s not a wedding gown. )
Knock-knock.
[ that's ... funny ... funnier than it should be given the circumstances, although he's missing some critical information: ]
what does "take the L" mean?
what does "take the L" mean?
praying for the day that quentin finds better friends
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
killsyourdarlings
2022-10-29 03:18 pm (UTC)(link)
You're terribly easy.
Do you require women to go through so little before you give your essence away?
Do you require women to go through so little before you give your essence away?
to get good friends, you first have to BE a good friend（︶^︶）
pharmacy
- 2022-10-29 15:33 (UTC) - Expand[ cont. ]
Yeah okay, man
[ Did you know Bill is tough as nails? But it is cold out at muddy spot where the river is starting to go to sleep for the winter. Next to a small campfire, Quentin sits cross-legged on a small stack of assorted wood--something that he's obviously spent a little time piling up to keep his ass out of the damp dirt. There's room enough for two--three if they're cozy--and he makes that extra space for Bill when he hears movement in the brush.
[ A bottle with the label torn off sits at his feet. He has a tarp wrapped around his own shoulders that he tugs tighter. ]
Look at that--party central out here.
Yeah okay, man
[ Did you know Bill is tough as nails? But it is cold out at muddy spot where the river is starting to go to sleep for the winter. Next to a small campfire, Quentin sits cross-legged on a small stack of assorted wood--something that he's obviously spent a little time piling up to keep his ass out of the damp dirt. There's room enough for two--three if they're cozy--and he makes that extra space for Bill when he hears movement in the brush.
[ A bottle with the label torn off sits at his feet. He has a tarp wrapped around his own shoulders that he tugs tighter. ]
Look at that--party central out here.
[ peter dreams less and less of his late fiancée as time passes, the delicate features of her visage fading from memory like the sun taking its final bow. he can't tell if it's a tragedy or a blessing in disguise... but when he does dream of her, it's always the same.
a constant reminder of what he had lost.
as peter descends, he's met with an unmistakable corridor, one that he had ventured time and again during his stay. but in his dream, it's long and winding, dimly lit and mostly empty. beige upon beige, bleak and uninspiring... almost draining. the dream starts as it usually does, he's running as fast as he possibly can, breathing hard, heart pounding in his ears as he chases the door at the very end of the hallway. he runs, and he runs some more, but it always seems like he's running in place, like there's an invisible force keeping him from saving the life of the one and only person who meant anything to him.
and when peter finally reaches that door, he stops dead in his tracks, panting, hesitating, emotion welling up in his chest that it's almost suffocating. he already knows what he'll find on the other side, he feels it in his gut, in the very fiber of his being.
peter swallows thickly as he lifts a hand to the cold surface of the door, pushing it open cautiously. it's nothing like what had happened in reality, the more times he finds himself in this dream, the more he becomes aware. there's a part of him that's unwilling to relive this moment, another part that's desperate to see her face again, to hold her in his arms.
he lets out a choked sob, then holds his breath when he steps inside. the apartment looks the same, the only difference is the amount of memories surrounding her, still pictures of their lives together scattered around her... on the bed, the floor, free floating in the air.
at the very least, she looks peaceful, and in that, he takes solace.
peter makes his way to her side — unaware or blind to quentin's presence — still as hesitant, carefully weaving through the pictures. when he kneels, his eyes look glassy, his expression solemn, fracturing little by little as the reality sets in. he touches her face before scooping her lifeless body into his arms, inhaling deeply and letting out another sob.
this was the moment that changed everything, the moment that peter truly became the person that he is today. ]
a constant reminder of what he had lost.
as peter descends, he's met with an unmistakable corridor, one that he had ventured time and again during his stay. but in his dream, it's long and winding, dimly lit and mostly empty. beige upon beige, bleak and uninspiring... almost draining. the dream starts as it usually does, he's running as fast as he possibly can, breathing hard, heart pounding in his ears as he chases the door at the very end of the hallway. he runs, and he runs some more, but it always seems like he's running in place, like there's an invisible force keeping him from saving the life of the one and only person who meant anything to him.
and when peter finally reaches that door, he stops dead in his tracks, panting, hesitating, emotion welling up in his chest that it's almost suffocating. he already knows what he'll find on the other side, he feels it in his gut, in the very fiber of his being.
peter swallows thickly as he lifts a hand to the cold surface of the door, pushing it open cautiously. it's nothing like what had happened in reality, the more times he finds himself in this dream, the more he becomes aware. there's a part of him that's unwilling to relive this moment, another part that's desperate to see her face again, to hold her in his arms.
he lets out a choked sob, then holds his breath when he steps inside. the apartment looks the same, the only difference is the amount of memories surrounding her, still pictures of their lives together scattered around her... on the bed, the floor, free floating in the air.
at the very least, she looks peaceful, and in that, he takes solace.
peter makes his way to her side — unaware or blind to quentin's presence — still as hesitant, carefully weaving through the pictures. when he kneels, his eyes look glassy, his expression solemn, fracturing little by little as the reality sets in. he touches her face before scooping her lifeless body into his arms, inhaling deeply and letting out another sob.
this was the moment that changed everything, the moment that peter truly became the person that he is today. ]
[ He's been in hallways like this in countless dreams. The liminal space is rich territory for anxiety and despair. The details are unique, but the archetype is classic. Unresolved business Formative moments. Places where dreamers were lonely. He's read about these thousands of times and has been in his own a hundred times more. But this...this he doesn't recognize. He would turn and leave it for something else, in fact, if it wasn't for Peter.
[ Peter. For as much as a fixture as he's becoming in Quentin's days and nights, this is the first time he's ever been in one of Quentin's dreams. His first thought is that this is dangerous. Something is posing like Peter, a snare, a trap, a bait. But (because things are good now, actually good for once in a long time), Quentin fights the first thought and lets himself be curious; maybe his mind has something to say. Peter runs, and Quentin runs after him, careful not to touch, only observing. The franticness is unfamiliar to the composed, in-control man that Quentin has come to know. Why is he seeing this? The sound that Peter makes outside the door surprises him enough that he nearly wakes up.
[ Nearly. The lure of what's behind the door is far too strong. When they slip through, what greets him is absolutely fascinating. Peter moves hesitantly through the room, and Quentin trails behind him even slower, stopping to look at the photos hanging in the air. One face he recognizes. The other he's never seen before, and looking at her now feels...dirty. He shouldn't be here. Why is he seeing this? Photo after photo of Peter and this woman distracts him, but then comes that sound again.
[ This time, it's a draw. Quentin sets a beach-side shot down on the table to drift nearer. There's no dream logic here, no repeating images, no rushed jumble of memory. This is a clear play-by-play, like he was meant to watch it on TV. Why is he seeing this? When he's within reach, Quentin follows his instincts and sinks to the edge of bed behind Peter. Photos crumple under him and flop to the floor as he stretches over Peter's back. When he wraps his arms around him, they separate Peter that much from the body. He feels just like Quentin knows him to feel.
[ It's his dream, so he asks himself: ] Why are you showing me this? [ Sometimes it works. Maybe he'll just get a nonsense answer. His stomach sours as he turns his gaze on the slack face of the woman in Peter's arms. ] Who is she?
[ Peter. For as much as a fixture as he's becoming in Quentin's days and nights, this is the first time he's ever been in one of Quentin's dreams. His first thought is that this is dangerous. Something is posing like Peter, a snare, a trap, a bait. But (because things are good now, actually good for once in a long time), Quentin fights the first thought and lets himself be curious; maybe his mind has something to say. Peter runs, and Quentin runs after him, careful not to touch, only observing. The franticness is unfamiliar to the composed, in-control man that Quentin has come to know. Why is he seeing this? The sound that Peter makes outside the door surprises him enough that he nearly wakes up.
[ Nearly. The lure of what's behind the door is far too strong. When they slip through, what greets him is absolutely fascinating. Peter moves hesitantly through the room, and Quentin trails behind him even slower, stopping to look at the photos hanging in the air. One face he recognizes. The other he's never seen before, and looking at her now feels...dirty. He shouldn't be here. Why is he seeing this? Photo after photo of Peter and this woman distracts him, but then comes that sound again.
[ This time, it's a draw. Quentin sets a beach-side shot down on the table to drift nearer. There's no dream logic here, no repeating images, no rushed jumble of memory. This is a clear play-by-play, like he was meant to watch it on TV. Why is he seeing this? When he's within reach, Quentin follows his instincts and sinks to the edge of bed behind Peter. Photos crumple under him and flop to the floor as he stretches over Peter's back. When he wraps his arms around him, they separate Peter that much from the body. He feels just like Quentin knows him to feel.
[ It's his dream, so he asks himself: ] Why are you showing me this? [ Sometimes it works. Maybe he'll just get a nonsense answer. His stomach sours as he turns his gaze on the slack face of the woman in Peter's arms. ] Who is she?
How, out of everything, is me being able to see through my bangs so shocking to you?
At the end of the trial, it's just Ash and Lisa Sherwood. She has him a dozen times, well within swipe of her itching claws. She never takes him. She only drives him, further and further, a little closer with every minute that he gets a little slower. A person in their right mind, maybe even a spectator, might suspect her intention. Ash may even realize it when she drives him into a far, unremarkable stretch of brush and grass: he's not being chased, he's being herded.
The sigil in the dirt looks different from usual, and no mud sprite springs out when Ash crashes over it. Instead, his foot sinks into the ground. No friction, no impact, just sinking--like through a hologram. Like through an elephant trap. Like into sleep, because as soon as Ash's head passes through the ground, his senses are cut loose.
Taste and smell come back first, holding hands with wriggling fingers as they wander between his teeth and up the back of his nose: musty, damp soil and roots; smoke from wood, weed, and herbs; blood-tang high above it all, laced with fire. The sound of crackling logs comes from behind Ash's head, shuffling feet above him, a buzzing racing up his bones from his right side.
Sight beats sensation to him only by a few seconds. He'll see Quentin before he feels the work. Sweating, pale, plainly high from whatever is wrapped in the joint he pinches with his lips, Quentin leaves red marks like lipstick on the paper when he pulls it away. The smoke is getting in his eyes, making him think for a second that he saw Ash twitch. He sits up, knees folded under him next to Ash's hip, filthy hands resting on his own knees as Quentin turns his head up to the exposed floorboards above. Deep breath. He's seeing things.
Ash is seeing this, too. He's feeling more slowly. Fever pounding inside his temple, sweat dripping down the outside, onto the caked-dirt floor. It's cold dirt under his head, warm mud under his left side and right thigh, where Quentin is sitting and working. Even with his upper arm and upper thigh tourniqueted tight, he's bled plenty. Quentin had hoped to avoid too much mess. On the one hand, the best laid plans...
On the other hand, he's never been great at planning. In this example, he planned on the teleportation spell to knock Ash out long enough for him to get this done. Or maybe he planned on it going quicker. Limbs are hard to get through, even when you're a little wacked out. One leg, one arm, and the worst part (but probably the easiest? the neck has to be easy) left. He wets his lips (tastes bad, tastes like Ash's blood) and sticks the joint back in before getting back to it.
Sensation: the hacksaw rumbles Ash's femur, into his hip, up his spine. It's almost ticklish.
The sigil in the dirt looks different from usual, and no mud sprite springs out when Ash crashes over it. Instead, his foot sinks into the ground. No friction, no impact, just sinking--like through a hologram. Like through an elephant trap. Like into sleep, because as soon as Ash's head passes through the ground, his senses are cut loose.
Taste and smell come back first, holding hands with wriggling fingers as they wander between his teeth and up the back of his nose: musty, damp soil and roots; smoke from wood, weed, and herbs; blood-tang high above it all, laced with fire. The sound of crackling logs comes from behind Ash's head, shuffling feet above him, a buzzing racing up his bones from his right side.
Sight beats sensation to him only by a few seconds. He'll see Quentin before he feels the work. Sweating, pale, plainly high from whatever is wrapped in the joint he pinches with his lips, Quentin leaves red marks like lipstick on the paper when he pulls it away. The smoke is getting in his eyes, making him think for a second that he saw Ash twitch. He sits up, knees folded under him next to Ash's hip, filthy hands resting on his own knees as Quentin turns his head up to the exposed floorboards above. Deep breath. He's seeing things.
Ash is seeing this, too. He's feeling more slowly. Fever pounding inside his temple, sweat dripping down the outside, onto the caked-dirt floor. It's cold dirt under his head, warm mud under his left side and right thigh, where Quentin is sitting and working. Even with his upper arm and upper thigh tourniqueted tight, he's bled plenty. Quentin had hoped to avoid too much mess. On the one hand, the best laid plans...
On the other hand, he's never been great at planning. In this example, he planned on the teleportation spell to knock Ash out long enough for him to get this done. Or maybe he planned on it going quicker. Limbs are hard to get through, even when you're a little wacked out. One leg, one arm, and the worst part (but probably the easiest? the neck has to be easy) left. He wets his lips (tastes bad, tastes like Ash's blood) and sticks the joint back in before getting back to it.
Sensation: the hacksaw rumbles Ash's femur, into his hip, up his spine. It's almost ticklish.
Someday, he's going to look back on this and laugh.
But for now, Ash thinks he's dreaming about the shed behind the cabin. His mouth feels dry yet slimy, dusty like the chainsaw resting on the top shelf over the workbench, like Linda's blue lips and her glassy eyes sightlessly staring up at him. The mechanical whirr is the sound of the blade churning to life, the harsh burnt-pennies smell is smoke from the engine, and the hot spray that hits his chest and some of his mouth—
(Ash!)
Darkness around him, darkness behind him; none of that stops him from whipping his head in the direction of the voice that whisper-shouts his name, who sounds so much like Cheryl he could almost believe it's her — if he didn't know better by now, that is. What follows is an eardrum-puncturing screech that catapults him out of his memories of that night when his brain latches onto another familiar comparison: a dentist's drill, the big and nasty kind.
Ash forces his eyes open. All he does is trade one kind of dark for another that makes it too difficult to tell where he is but not impossible to catch a glimpse of jagged wooden planks jutting out from a hole in the ceiling. Speaking of dentists: Guess I'm not the only one who needs one, he thinks suddenly when, as if hitting a perfectly timed cue, the shrill sorta-not-quite drilling sound starts up again.
He tries to lift his head, but the muscles in his neck almost immediately lock up. The back of his skull hits the ground with an unpleasantly soft thud, plopping against earth that's more mud than soil by this point, but it still hurts — for about a second or two. Once the stars clear from his eyes, all he's left with is a faint ache to pair with the tickling at his leg, and the hazy, dreamy realization that he must look very dumb right now.
"Ow," Ash says very clearly, then giggles faintly.
But for now, Ash thinks he's dreaming about the shed behind the cabin. His mouth feels dry yet slimy, dusty like the chainsaw resting on the top shelf over the workbench, like Linda's blue lips and her glassy eyes sightlessly staring up at him. The mechanical whirr is the sound of the blade churning to life, the harsh burnt-pennies smell is smoke from the engine, and the hot spray that hits his chest and some of his mouth—
(Ash!)
Darkness around him, darkness behind him; none of that stops him from whipping his head in the direction of the voice that whisper-shouts his name, who sounds so much like Cheryl he could almost believe it's her — if he didn't know better by now, that is. What follows is an eardrum-puncturing screech that catapults him out of his memories of that night when his brain latches onto another familiar comparison: a dentist's drill, the big and nasty kind.
Ash forces his eyes open. All he does is trade one kind of dark for another that makes it too difficult to tell where he is but not impossible to catch a glimpse of jagged wooden planks jutting out from a hole in the ceiling. Speaking of dentists: Guess I'm not the only one who needs one, he thinks suddenly when, as if hitting a perfectly timed cue, the shrill sorta-not-quite drilling sound starts up again.
He tries to lift his head, but the muscles in his neck almost immediately lock up. The back of his skull hits the ground with an unpleasantly soft thud, plopping against earth that's more mud than soil by this point, but it still hurts — for about a second or two. Once the stars clear from his eyes, all he's left with is a faint ache to pair with the tickling at his leg, and the hazy, dreamy realization that he must look very dumb right now.
"Ow," Ash says very clearly, then giggles faintly.
Edited 2022-12-27 06:10 (UTC)
[ cont ]
[ Quentin crouches next to him, patting the trunk. ]
Cool, cuz I can say from like...an hour of experience that you don't wanna be shoving this thing around with a headache. You see the nodes down there?
[ The dirt below the roots has a dusting of luminescent blue, but there are masses farther in--whole, the shape of flower buds, brighter than the dust they put off. ]
I need those whole. Digging isn't gonna do it for me. So I figure if you can get the shovel in another side, I can push maybe?
[ Quentin crouches next to him, patting the trunk. ]
Cool, cuz I can say from like...an hour of experience that you don't wanna be shoving this thing around with a headache. You see the nodes down there?
[ The dirt below the roots has a dusting of luminescent blue, but there are masses farther in--whole, the shape of flower buds, brighter than the dust they put off. ]
I need those whole. Digging isn't gonna do it for me. So I figure if you can get the shovel in another side, I can push maybe?
Hi dirs tgid
[ Woah, that came out weird. (No thanks to his big dumb thumbs. This isn't the only way people in the future communicate, is it?) Not the best impression you wanna make to the person who just saved your life, but that's thing with Ash — he has a knack with bouncing back on his feet from the most embarrassing situations. He did it back in the last trial, after he prematurely jumped out of that locker and hit himself in the face instead of the Oni, and he's doing it again right now as he makes contact with a guy he's only shared two, maybe three words with in passing.
So, again from the top—]
Hi
Does this belong to you
[ The next message is a picture — a selfie, Laurie called it. In it, Ash looks very pleased with himself, and Quentin's beanie looks very warm on his head.]
[ Woah, that came out weird. (No thanks to his big dumb thumbs. This isn't the only way people in the future communicate, is it?) Not the best impression you wanna make to the person who just saved your life, but that's thing with Ash — he has a knack with bouncing back on his feet from the most embarrassing situations. He did it back in the last trial, after he prematurely jumped out of that locker and hit himself in the face instead of the Oni, and he's doing it again right now as he makes contact with a guy he's only shared two, maybe three words with in passing.
So, again from the top—]
Hi
Does this belong to you
[ The next message is a picture — a selfie, Laurie called it. In it, Ash looks very pleased with himself, and Quentin's beanie looks very warm on his head.]
[ cont. ]
Oh shit, honey bun. [ Hummed easily, reaching down to pluck the bottle when Finn tips it back down. Quentin's freehand drops to scrub Finn's scalp through his dreads as he knocks back his own mouthful. Wincing, he looks down at Finn with one eye pinched shut--makes a loose fist in Finn's hair to shake him gently. ] You wanna talk?
Or do you wanna not talk?
Oh shit, honey bun. [ Hummed easily, reaching down to pluck the bottle when Finn tips it back down. Quentin's freehand drops to scrub Finn's scalp through his dreads as he knocks back his own mouthful. Wincing, he looks down at Finn with one eye pinched shut--makes a loose fist in Finn's hair to shake him gently. ] You wanna talk?
Or do you wanna not talk?
[ A sweet murmured nothing dips a few pitches into a groan. The petting was nice, the gentle shake maybe not as much— feels like he's being hounded. A hand around Quentin's wrist makes it stop. ]
I said all I wanted to say.
[ It's too touchy, it still hurts too much. Finn's grip tightens and then tugs, insisting on closeness. He doesn't want to talk about it. ]
I said all I wanted to say.
[ It's too touchy, it still hurts too much. Finn's grip tightens and then tugs, insisting on closeness. He doesn't want to talk about it. ]
[ cont. ]
[ When Daryl tromps through the gate at the very last second, Quentin is pleased and pissed at once--absolutely elated, but still bitter in the mouth over their harried messages at the beginning of the trial. Daryl is dragging Ace along with, Laurie waving for them to go go go! Stress is high--but they made it. Victory is as good a reason as any to make up. Just before they cross from the grounds into a dense swell of Fog, Quentin makes sure to grab Daryl's hand, stern and sure. ]
Stay with me.
[ Escaping a trial, it's easy to get lost and separated in the mist. No matter how well a person might know these paths too and from, nothing matters after trial. Magic gets the best of all of them. As they move through the thickest of it, Quentin doesn't bother with talking. Just holds tight to Daryl to make sure they stay together even if (when) they lose track of Laurie and Ace. It isn't till the damp air starts to thin and be more breathable that he makes a noise--and even then, he doesn't look back to Daryl. ]
Do you wanna be left? What the fuck kind of question is that?
[ When Daryl tromps through the gate at the very last second, Quentin is pleased and pissed at once--absolutely elated, but still bitter in the mouth over their harried messages at the beginning of the trial. Daryl is dragging Ace along with, Laurie waving for them to go go go! Stress is high--but they made it. Victory is as good a reason as any to make up. Just before they cross from the grounds into a dense swell of Fog, Quentin makes sure to grab Daryl's hand, stern and sure. ]
Stay with me.
[ Escaping a trial, it's easy to get lost and separated in the mist. No matter how well a person might know these paths too and from, nothing matters after trial. Magic gets the best of all of them. As they move through the thickest of it, Quentin doesn't bother with talking. Just holds tight to Daryl to make sure they stay together even if (when) they lose track of Laurie and Ace. It isn't till the damp air starts to thin and be more breathable that he makes a noise--and even then, he doesn't look back to Daryl. ]
Do you wanna be left? What the fuck kind of question is that?
[Daryl has been thinking about it. He hasn't had much time-- maybe ten minutes, and then, the trial, and you can't think of anything else during those-- so his thoughts are still largely jumbled. He needs a lot of time to understand people, especially lately. He misses the fuck out of his people, who he knows like the backs of his tattooed hands, who he breathes in sync with-]
[These people can become his people. He just has to try, so he tries.]
[He can feel Quentin's anger through his touch. If the kid were a little bit bigger, he'd have flinched away; he hates being grabbed at, by anyone. But everything happened so fast, and he's still slick with blood and a little exhausted. He's got no fight in him, even if that seems to be what Quentin's made of.]
[But he's thought about it.]
People die... every day. Where I'm from. How we talk.
[And? C'mon.]
Fucked up. Sorry. Didn't mean to harry you.
[These people can become his people. He just has to try, so he tries.]
[He can feel Quentin's anger through his touch. If the kid were a little bit bigger, he'd have flinched away; he hates being grabbed at, by anyone. But everything happened so fast, and he's still slick with blood and a little exhausted. He's got no fight in him, even if that seems to be what Quentin's made of.]
[But he's thought about it.]
People die... every day. Where I'm from. How we talk.
[And? C'mon.]
Fucked up. Sorry. Didn't mean to harry you.
Daryl wakes up the next day (or however long-- it feels like he slept) with a headache and an audience of crows. He scares them off, finds water, and considers what to do. As ever, he hates not knowing how much time he has, but at least it spurs him to action. No cooling his heels, no bullshit, just shit to do.
How do you fix a problem you created? You can start by making a fucking effort. He can't look Quentin in the eye right now, but he's sick to death of talking on those goddamn phones. He goes scavenging instead.
A few hours later, Quentin will have a scavenged notebook thrown at him, before Daryl walks back into the woods. Daryl's handwriting isn't stellar, but it's legible; his spelling is the real problem, away from the graces of autocorrect. Several pages of the book have been torn out. This is not a first draft, or a fourth, or a fifth.
How do you fix a problem you created? You can start by making a fucking effort. He can't look Quentin in the eye right now, but he's sick to death of talking on those goddamn phones. He goes scavenging instead.
A few hours later, Quentin will have a scavenged notebook thrown at him, before Daryl walks back into the woods. Daryl's handwriting isn't stellar, but it's legible; his spelling is the real problem, away from the graces of autocorrect. Several pages of the book have been torn out. This is not a first draft, or a fourth, or a fifth.
You erned it.
Not trying to be a hero. I know what peopel think of me. Im not trying to change there minds. I dont care nomore. I know what I am. I help becauze I cant live with myself. Dont know how too say it but that.
We need to compromize. Both too stubborn. My fault. Im older I should know better.
Were Im from peopel die everyday. We make plans on how we do things. Sometimes its plans like who to leeve behind or when too give up. Who does what. If things get bad who do you want to kill you. Some times thats all you can do. I have a best friend & if she got bit she told me to kill her before she turns becauze she wants it to be me. We talk like that. I talked like that to you. It was fucked up.
If you want too talk about it Im in the forest but if you dont want to look at me thats why I wrote this & you can throw it away. Your choise
Typically, Quentin is only slightly less good at peacemaking than he is at fight-picking. The two go hand-in-hand for him, especially around the Fog, where he finds himself picking more fights than he ever has. He knows confrontation crops up around him, he knows it's him even if he doesn't know the reason--so he generally tries to make up for it by defusing things where he can. Even half a day? a day? later, though, his heart is still sore from tangling with Daryl. It isn't just when he thinks about it--he can't stop thinking about it. In clings in his teeth and between his ribs, fogs up his ability to focus on anything.
Nea pulls him up by the collar when he snaps at the third person offering him help with a firestarter, shoves him to go take a hike until he can be decent, and he's barely five minutes into his walk when when a dingy notebook plaps against his shins. He looks up in time to scoff at Daryl's back. Seriously? Throwing shit? Quentin snatches up the notebook.
About five minutes later (long enough to read and then pace in a circle for a while), Daryl will hear running steps behind him, his name being called. The way Quentin figures, it's daylight, he'll never find Daryl on his own, and if there's one thing that's sure to draw Daryl to him, it's incompetence. So he's calling: "Daryl! Come on, stop moving, man, where are you?"
Nea pulls him up by the collar when he snaps at the third person offering him help with a firestarter, shoves him to go take a hike until he can be decent, and he's barely five minutes into his walk when when a dingy notebook plaps against his shins. He looks up in time to scoff at Daryl's back. Seriously? Throwing shit? Quentin snatches up the notebook.
About five minutes later (long enough to read and then pace in a circle for a while), Daryl will hear running steps behind him, his name being called. The way Quentin figures, it's daylight, he'll never find Daryl on his own, and if there's one thing that's sure to draw Daryl to him, it's incompetence. So he's calling: "Daryl! Come on, stop moving, man, where are you?"
There's no emergency other than a need for snacks and a few minutes to smoke. The night is quiet and crisp enough to be refreshing where it skims his neck just above the uniform--but not so cold that he has to wear a hat as he sits on the back bumper of the ambulance. The roads aren't icy. The radio is even pretty good tonight. He's feeling decent, all things considered, until he takes his first drag and spots Julie Kostenko leaving the store when he exhales.
Quentin looks in at the cash register, and Dana is there grimacing apologetically and shrugging. This town isn't big enough for word to get out that he's been picking fights with the wrong people. Even if he pretends he doesn't hear it, people have probably been waiting for this.
He flips one hand up in a limp greeting as Julie marches towards him, cradles his smoke in the other. "Hey.
"If you're gonna kill me, can I finish this first? Then you can do it quick. Dana's got it bad for that cashier, so...I dunno, you've probably got about five minutes?"
Quentin looks in at the cash register, and Dana is there grimacing apologetically and shrugging. This town isn't big enough for word to get out that he's been picking fights with the wrong people. Even if he pretends he doesn't hear it, people have probably been waiting for this.
He flips one hand up in a limp greeting as Julie marches towards him, cradles his smoke in the other. "Hey.
"If you're gonna kill me, can I finish this first? Then you can do it quick. Dana's got it bad for that cashier, so...I dunno, you've probably got about five minutes?"
Having to ask for help-- for a favour doesn't sit right with Julie. She's asked a couple of people already and it tastes like bile in the back of her throat every time, the acrid taste lingering long after whatever entirely expected way she gets turned down. Joey needs his car, Susie doesn't have one so there's no point in asking, her parents would never let her take one of theirs to go see the likes of Frank 'after what he did to us,' because apparently their daughter's boyfriend going to jail is their business.
Quentin is bottom of the list, but unfortunately the list of people she can ask these days is pretty fucking short. Funny to think she was ever well liked around her (or at least not disliked,) the way people eye her as she walks up to the dumb little ambulance with a frown of determination on her face. If this doesn't work she'll... Pull some of her meagre savings for bus tickets or some shit, but Julie has some vague, fuzzy memories of him offering off his own back, so maybe this'll peter out.
"I, um." Ugh, she frowns, clears her throat. That sounded too meek, start again. Firmer this time. "I need to ask you a favour and I need you not to be an asshole about it."
Quentin is bottom of the list, but unfortunately the list of people she can ask these days is pretty fucking short. Funny to think she was ever well liked around her (or at least not disliked,) the way people eye her as she walks up to the dumb little ambulance with a frown of determination on her face. If this doesn't work she'll... Pull some of her meagre savings for bus tickets or some shit, but Julie has some vague, fuzzy memories of him offering off his own back, so maybe this'll peter out.
"I, um." Ugh, she frowns, clears her throat. That sounded too meek, start again. Firmer this time. "I need to ask you a favour and I need you not to be an asshole about it."
[ Later, hours after Lisa has tended to Quentin's wounds and the blood on his clothes has dried, and the campfire has dwindled down to a few smoking embers, Quentin's phone vibrates.
There's a notification for a single message, from an unknown sender. ]
YOU HAVE QUESTIONS
QUENTIN SMITH
There's a notification for a single message, from an unknown sender. ]
YOU HAVE QUESTIONS
QUENTIN SMITH
[ He nearly ignores it. He doesn't have the heart for chatting, and the dying embers are a perfect accompaniment to the way his mind spirals as he lays on his side, still sore in the ribs, still numb in the gut. He doesn't want to talk to anyone.
[ Unless it's--
[ But it's not. He rolls onto his back with a deep sigh. ]
Who is this
Quentin isn't here rn leave a message
[ Unless it's--
[ But it's not. He rolls onto his back with a deep sigh. ]
Who is this
Quentin isn't here rn leave a message
[ So you know how survivors have those places they like to stupidly wander off to when they need to be alone? Yeah, surely Quentin has one, and by now, Frank's probably found where it is. Just go with it because all I care about is the set up for the punchline. Point being, Quentin is heading off for a little solitude.
When he gets to the nice little clearing in the woods that's his chill and don't murder all my friends because they've been that fucking annoying and stealing all my medkits to do dumb campfire tricks with spot, there's something waiting for him.
That something appears to be a body. Looks a whole lot like a dead body, actually. No one Quentin knows, but still. A body.
And pinned to it with a :) pin is a note. That note says: ]
♥
When he gets to the nice little clearing in the woods that's his chill and don't murder all my friends because they've been that fucking annoying and stealing all my medkits to do dumb campfire tricks with spot, there's something waiting for him.
That something appears to be a body. Looks a whole lot like a dead body, actually. No one Quentin knows, but still. A body.
And pinned to it with a :) pin is a note. That note says: ]
♥
[ cont. ]
So far, he's never had a trial over the bridge or under it, or anywhere near the pines that it hangs from. By Quentin's best reckoning, it's neutral ground. Or...neutral bridge, at least. Corey will find him a hundred feet above the ground, up a rustic ladder and a few yards down the bridge--angled towards the middle. There's a blue glowstick wound in his belt loop that swings when the bridge bounces under Corey's weight.
Quentin looks back over his shoulder, wary grin plain as he moves out of tree cover and into the moonlight.
"My choice, right? Hope you're not scared of heights. That would be so embarrassing."
So far, he's never had a trial over the bridge or under it, or anywhere near the pines that it hangs from. By Quentin's best reckoning, it's neutral ground. Or...neutral bridge, at least. Corey will find him a hundred feet above the ground, up a rustic ladder and a few yards down the bridge--angled towards the middle. There's a blue glowstick wound in his belt loop that swings when the bridge bounces under Corey's weight.
Quentin looks back over his shoulder, wary grin plain as he moves out of tree cover and into the moonlight.
"My choice, right? Hope you're not scared of heights. That would be so embarrassing."
Great. Just great. Corey shouldn’t have said that - but he figured it would be the polite thing to do. Why should he pick the location? That would just equal having the upper hand and that’s not trustworthy at all.
…Learning real fast that politeness gets a guy absolutely nowhere here…
How did Smith know anyway? About the heights? It’s not like he’s told anyone. (He hasn’t, right? Fuck. Spotty-ass memory isn’t helping much here. Anyone would rat him out if he shot his mouth off - at least that’s how it feels.) His heart drops into his stomach when he reads the text and doesn’t even bother responding because his fingers are trembling too much. Just shoves his phone in the back pocket of his jeans and leaves.
Can’t back out now. Because that’ll just make shit worse. And Corey’s tired of things always getting worse. Doesn’t bother with his mask, doesn’t bother with his glasses. They just keep getting broken anyway. And lately his eyesight’s been better for whatever magical reason he can’t explain so they’re rather redundant.
He just looks up from the forest floor once he gets to the meeting spot, hoping the look of absolute apprehension and fear isn’t too evident on his face. That’s pretty high up. Too high up.
He’s quick to climb up the ladder, eyes squeezed shut, refusing to even think about looking down as he powers through the seemingly impossible task. And he’s honestly proud of himself for making it up there without much hesitation. Maybe he can fake it until he makes it after all.
“No I’m good.” Just very pointedly not looking down. He keeps his gaze straight ahead, giving Quentin the briefest smile, not moving much once he’s a feet steps onto the bridge itself.
This is gonna be a disaster.
…Learning real fast that politeness gets a guy absolutely nowhere here…
How did Smith know anyway? About the heights? It’s not like he’s told anyone. (He hasn’t, right? Fuck. Spotty-ass memory isn’t helping much here. Anyone would rat him out if he shot his mouth off - at least that’s how it feels.) His heart drops into his stomach when he reads the text and doesn’t even bother responding because his fingers are trembling too much. Just shoves his phone in the back pocket of his jeans and leaves.
Can’t back out now. Because that’ll just make shit worse. And Corey’s tired of things always getting worse. Doesn’t bother with his mask, doesn’t bother with his glasses. They just keep getting broken anyway. And lately his eyesight’s been better for whatever magical reason he can’t explain so they’re rather redundant.
He just looks up from the forest floor once he gets to the meeting spot, hoping the look of absolute apprehension and fear isn’t too evident on his face. That’s pretty high up. Too high up.
He’s quick to climb up the ladder, eyes squeezed shut, refusing to even think about looking down as he powers through the seemingly impossible task. And he’s honestly proud of himself for making it up there without much hesitation. Maybe he can fake it until he makes it after all.
“No I’m good.” Just very pointedly not looking down. He keeps his gaze straight ahead, giving Quentin the briefest smile, not moving much once he’s a feet steps onto the bridge itself.
This is gonna be a disaster.
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