lifeaftr | August Intro: You Think...You Wink...You Do A Double Blink...

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August Intro: You Think...You Wink...You Do A Double Blink...

INTRO LOG: AUGUST

Who: Everyone!
What: New souls arrive to the archipelago of LifeAftr.
When: August 3rd
Where: Ensō
Warnings: Mark as needed!

Part I: Get Wrekt
You rouse to a splash of sea salt drying on your skin. A haze of glass-white sand glitters in your vision, dappled by lush palms and thick, curling foliage that disappears into a jungle of deep jade. From behind, crackling wood and sawing rope groan from a mangled life raft ran ashore. A petering wash of tide over pebbled sand fills your ears as you struggle to gain your bearings in a vast portrait of tropical color…

No...no, no, that’s not precisely how this story starts.

Why don't we start over?

You rouse to a splash of sea salt, spraying across yourself and the wooden floor beneath you as it breaks across the edge of the platform. The light as it dances across the sea is blinding, dappling white spots across your vision as you slowly come back to consciousness and realize that - this is not where you last remember being.

The middle of the ocean is likely not a place most recall being at all. As you struggle to fully comprehend the new scenario in which you have found yourself, three things become quickly apparent. The raft you find yourself upon barely constitutes as something that should float, never mind a boat. In the distance, perhaps a few hours away at most, a large island beckons to you, a wide strip of beach surrounded by cliffs making it very clear where the most fortuitous of directions shall be.

Lastly, of course, you’re not alone. Hopefully your new companion(s) are just as keen to get ashore before nightfall as you, or voyaging together will not be the most positive experience. At your side you will find a knapsack, one to every member of your raft party, and upon inspecting its contents, you will discover any rewards you may have accrued - as well as a few other items to give you a fighting chance.

A note to those who participated in the Test Drive Meme: those threads, if all parties involved would like, can be game canon in the form of dream-like memories involving a place very much like this one, though the layout is considerably different.

Part II: Choose Your Own Adventure

By fortune (or misfortune, as it were), you eventually find your feet meeting sand, blessed shore to stagger upon as you shake off your newly found sea-legs. There are those that may find this place familiar, as though it appeared in a dream, though the expanse of shore certainly seems larger. The beach stretches off into the distance on both sides, curving around sharp ridges and cliffs, mist obscuring the view the farther along it goes.

So here you are. You’ve found land. Company. Supplies. The sun is now beginning to trek rather low upon the horizon…spending the night outside in such an unfamiliar land is unappealing at best and outright dangerous at the worst.

There is one silver lining in the midst of this mess. Directly ahead, the beach curves up a gentle slope until it meets forest, some manner of building visible through the trees. Further exploration of this area will reveal a dilapidated building of sorts; the architecture is indiscernible to even the most skilled eye. Despite looking as if it has seen better days, there are areas that offer some form of shelter...and who knows what else. Just because it appears uninhabited doesn’t mean you won’t wind up pleasantly, or unpleasantly, surprised.

So what shall you do from here, traveller? There is land to be explored, strangers to meet, friends to reunite with. Supplies to inspect and plenty of questions in need of being said aloud. Choose your path, make haste, and above all else: survive. And whatever you will, take heart.

Your story is about to begin anew.

Feeling a tad adrift? Make sure to check the Locations Page, which has details regarding the starting areas and a handy map for those who feel better with a bird's eye view!

LOGS ● OOC ● STORIES ● MAIN NAVIGATION

( CODED BY BOOTYCALL )

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It's not the first time Wade's been asked something like that before, though he can't remember ever being asked the cost of the pleasure of his company. The thought makes him laugh aloud; makes him slap his knee in an exaggerated show of delight. Really, it is quite funny when you really think about it. Someone is actually willing to pay to listen to him yammer on all night. What a world.

"Heh. Not really sure my company's worth all that much, champ. I mean, not exactly Mr. Personality or nothin'. So I've been told, anyway. But if you're serious on compensating me for my time, let's say... just keep my little gal happy an' we'll be square. Deal?"

That's not a reaction they've come to expect. Not when the spectrum of responses varies from shocked to dismissive. The price he offers is far more reminiscent of what they've come to anticipate - company, as though that is quantitative enough to cover an offering of food and warmth.

But in the end, how is one meant to refuse? Particularly to a child?

Another hesitation, but at last - they answer.

Yes.

"Good! That settles it, then."

Tibia claps her claws together in a surfeit of delight, and Wade can't help but smile at her antics. Reaching down, he picks up one of the sticks stuck into the sandy ground around the fire, where a fragrant fillet of fish has been roasting.

"Here. You hungry? Can't promise it's Bonefish Grill quality, but it'll fill you up."

They've not eaten this sort of food before, they know. And it feels decidedly and completely at odds with what they ought to be doing, with how they ought to be viewing this manner of exchange, of transaction. And yet, this is their payment, even if the trade feels unfair, one-sided.

But the child is happy. And surely, that is the important thing.

After a moment's contemplation, they accept the meat steaming on its pointed stick and turn it this way and that, inspecting it. Then, swiftly, one hand ducks beneath the drape of their mantle and hooks the cloth up as their head bows, and the meat enters whatever they possess that counts for a mouth without ever once revealing it.

Another moment of thoughtful chewing and swallowing, and the Drifter's eyes pinch together into pleased, dark crescents.

Very good.

"Glad to hear it. Maybe someday I can jerry-rig some kinda griddle. Cook it properly. Pretty sure Gilligan did that once."

It's not surprise Wade feels when he sees the Drifter take measures to hide their face-- only a passing curiosity. After all, he's currently wearing an image inducer to hide his own horrible disfigurements. It would be hypocritical of him to call attention to the Drifter's attempts at hiding... whatever they've got hidden under there. More hypocritical than he'd be comfortable with, anyway.

Still, never let it be said that Wade Wilson wasn't lacking in tact.

"Got some righteous scars under there or somethin', pal?"

Edited 2017-11-15 03:01 (UTC)

They have no idea what or who Gilligan is, but it feels like a low-priority enough remark that they can abstain from commenting upon it until a more convenient time. They take careful note, however. Gilligan. A definition may be required further down the line.

The cloth is carefully replaced before they issue their text-based answer.

drifter custom

Among...other things. They assume that must be obvious, however. The tint of their skin does happen to stand out, doesn't it?

Wade offers a shrug, leaning forward to pick up another fish-kabob. He's not sure what sort of custom would require one to hide their face-- barring some customs on his planet that he's fairly sure the Drifter's not a part of-- but he's fairly sure it goes a little deeper than that.

"Hey, no skin off my ass. You probably noticed that I wear a mask too, didn'cha? It ain't just for show, either. So trust me, I get it. Kindred spirits, bud."

He raps on his chest with a fist before offering the Drifter a fingergun with a clicking sound, a symbol of camaraderie between two bros who knew what was up. If the Drifter is even a bro-- it's kinda hard to tell with that getup.

The Drifter watches the gesture closely for several moments before slowly, deliberately forming their hand into a similar shape, lining it up to mimic the fingergun he just illustrated. They don't have any accompanying sound effects, but they manage to emulate the kickback of a firing pistol rather expertly.

Perhaps this is what drifters do to greet one another, where he comes from. They ought to ask.

you are a drifter?

...Okay so that's actually kind of adorable. Like, almost knuckle-bitingly adorable. Add the fact that Tibia's attempting the same hand-sign and Wade's pretty sure he's gonna contract emotional diabetes if this keeps up. Thankfully, the Drifter's question sufficiently distracts Wade from the real danger of wrecking his reputation as a hardened mercenary, and he gives the query a bit of thought before replying.

"In so many words, yeah. I mean, I ain't like those types you see on cartoons that carry bindles and hitch rides on trains, but I don't typically have any one place to call home, really. Too dangerous in my line of work. Guess that's kinda why all this world-hopping doesn't bother me so much."

In many ways, that aligns with what they might expect. He looks like a drifter. The color scheme, the covered face, the ability to understand speech through hands, the weaponry, the disposition - it all draws parallel with what one would see from a drifter of a world slightly removed from their own.

Nomadic, like them. Although...accompanied by a child.

That part is unexpected.

been to many worlds?

Hey, it worked for Lone Wolf and Cub. Wade stretches where he sits, as if the Drifter had asked a question he's answered several times before. As if by this time he's a seasoned pro when it comes to world-swapping-- and in a sense, he probably is. Too bad he can't get frequent flyer miles on trans-dimensional trips.

"A fair amount, yeah. This's my third in a row-- not countin' the world I originally came from. Doesn't have the sweet self-replenishing pantry that the previous one did, but at least the scenery's pretty nice."

He truly is a drifter of sorts, then. It is notable, also, that he refers to it as such - the world he is originally from.

And not home.

One of the foundations of the occupation is a lack of a tether to any one place, to any one person, to any one thing. They had begun to falter and fail in that regard, in many ways, near the end, but their ending had not lasted long enough for them to consider it a complete failure.

And now?

Now their limitations are in logistics, not in ideology. Yet.

no home

No home.

It's amazing how two words can just suck the frivolity right out of the atmosphere. Perhaps the Drifter hadn't intended to be so blunt, but that's how it comes across to Wade. He can't really say they're incorrect in their assessment, either-- how could they, when it was his own phrasing that had brought them to that conclusion in the first place?

He's suddenly, acutely aware that he's allowed long moments to go by without answering the Drifter's question, and he quickly covers up the awkward silence with a laugh that he hopes doesn't sound as forced as he thinks it does.

"Well... y'know. Home is where the heart is, as they say."

Somehow the tired old adage sounds more depressing coming from him than he figures it was meant to.

Blunt is where they excel. They are nothing if not direct in all they do - in conversation, in action, in intent. Is that a failure? A shortcoming? In battle, it is only ever a benefit. It does not occur to them that they have said something wrong until the conversation dwindles into silence.

Whatever it is they had said wrong, they cannot say. Were they not simply stating the fact...?

Perhaps not.

The Drifter reaches up to their chest, once, to press the heel of one palm up against the spot where their heart is housed, applying a gentle pressure that eases but does not entirely eliminate the ever-present ache that hums there.

bad heart

Wade finds himself nodding, uttering a little cynical huff of a laugh in solidarity of the Drifter's statement. Bad heart. There's a lot of that going around, isn't there? Even now, he can feel the ache in his own chest-- the dull, insistent pain that flares up whenever it likes and never ever seems to leave.

Then it occurs to him that maybe that's not the sort of "bad" that they're talking about. That theirs is more physical, more chronic; more dire.

He looks around for Tibia, but the little Cubone has finally fallen asleep, her head resting on Wade's leg. Good. He doesn't want her to hear what he's about to ask.

Wade glances back up at the Drifter, and there's no hint of sarcasm in his gaze. "Dying?"

A nod. They are not so immediately concerned with what a child might have to think about the concept of mortality; children will learn that death is a reality at some point or another. In most cases, sooner than they ought to. They do not check to ensure Tibia will not hear, as Wade does.

Though perhaps it is more that they do not worry that someone would hear them at all.

no cure

They had a final, desperate chance. And in the end, even that was for naught. The possibility that it had cured the world remains, even here, like throwing a torch down a cave stretching on for miles and hoping it may illuminate the way for those that come after.

It would not cure them.

So they're a terminal case. Wade doesn't exactly feel shocked by that news, only a sardonic sense of empathy. He wonders if whatever the Drifter's suffering from hurts them-- if, like Wade, it's the reason why they hide their face behind a mask. He wonders if they went on a long and arduous voyage to find a cure, only to realize that there wasn't one.

He supposes it's hard not to search for similarities, when you found someone else who was dying. Just human nature, he supposes-- or whatever the Drifter is.

Wade huffs out another laugh, a cynical one-- because when you're faced with death the way they both are, what else can you really do but laugh?

"Heh. Same here. We're a real pair, huh?"

Truthfully, it would probably ease their burden if they were to uncover their face and not obstruct it so with the strip of red cloth wrapped around and about, perhaps they would not be gagging on their own blood quite so often. But the habitual need to shield their face, useless as it is, overwhelms all else. If it will stay another's hand when reaching for a stone to throw, even for an instant, it is worth it.

If it hampers them in the long-term, then it does not matter. They are already dying.

Some people, when confronted with their own morality, will seek for any means at all to prevent it. Some will endure for the simple purpose of finding some way to sustain a sense of permanence when their existence is already guaranteed to be nothing of the sort. Some wish to make the best of the time that they have.

And some - some will laugh.

The Drifter does not laugh. They look at him, their eyes dark and perhaps unreadable; the concern is veiled, but it is there.

The only friend they could ever say they had, who picked them off the ground when they fell - this had been their way. Doing what they could of a shortened existence to ease the pain of others.

no cure?

And Wade was one of those people, for a time-- one of those people who would have sold his soul to the devil himself if only he could be afforded safety from a long and undignified death. Unfortunately the devil took many forms, and the gift of a lengthened life hadn't come without its price. What else can you do in a situation like that except laugh?

Wade laughs now, another cynical exhalation of sound, before peeling back the mask to expose his hideously scarred face. It's clear by the mixture of resignation and self-consciousness in his expression that he doesn't do this often, and that this is purely to make a point.

"No cure for this mug, no. An' it doesn't just stop there. You'll have to buy me dinner to see the rest of it, though."

No cure.

It is not the same affliction as their own, they know. The blood sores pocking their cobalt skin are not so malformed or all-encompassing. But the Drifter does not flinch, or blink, or look away. Mottled as his expression is by scar tissue and sores, the fact that he was willing to shed his mask for this brief moment is...admirable. Not many drifters do.

They do not show their face either, as a rule. But the Drifter gradually lifts one hand to slide the worn gray of the glove off. So long has it been that the fabric clings and scratches, hooks of the cloth caught in the blood blisters.

Five-fingered, slightly pointed at the fingertips in a way that recalls claws, the Drifter’s hand resembles any other but for the rich blue of its skin - and the vibrant pink splotches and sores cratering their palm and fingertips in irregular patterns.

What a pair they are.

prices to pay

Wade looks at the expanse of broken skin on the Drifter's hand with a morbid curiosity that nonetheless holds no disgust. He'd seen the worst humanity had to offer in Killebrew's shop of horrors, so there really was nothing that the Drifter could show him that could shock him worse than anything he'd ever seen before. Wade raises his brown eyes to the Drifter's black ones and nods once to indicate his understanding.

"Yeah. And miles to go before we sleep, I'm sure."

His hand moves to divest its fellow of its glove, peeling it away to expose a continuation of those same diseased blotches and pockmarks, and he holds it out for the Drifter to take a look at; to admire the evidence of his own mortality.

"Here's to two terminals, I guess. Though I'm pretty willing to bet that you got less time than I do."

It's not said as if he were boasting-- rather, there's an air of wistfulness to his remark that his repose can't quite hide.

They match.

It is a sombering sort of solidarity - the very same sort that lifted their gaze from the sheets of a borrowed bed to regard their fellow drifter with disbelief, they who had willingly let them a home and a place to stay and a reason to rest their weary bones. Such kindness had been given wholeheartedly and unreservedly and without regard for consequence, and they had questioned why. Why, why, why.

Up until they saw the stains of pink down the Guardian's front, the way they hacked gobs of blood into one clenched, gloved fist, and they knew.

The dead and the dying, they must stick together.

The Drifter lets their unveiled hand drop across their lap. The comparison between their own skin and Wade's strikes them as similar enough to be certain that whatever symptoms he must be weathering, they cannot be so different from the Drifter's own.

time was up
woke up here

The Drifter's eyes are alien enough, but Wade thinks he's good enough at reading people to notice the flash of realization across their face. Not just realization-- recognition, an invalid identifying another invalid and understanding that they're essentially cut from the same cloth, despite their different backgrounds. On a long enough timeline, everyone's pretty much the same when they're dying.

Wade unconsciously mirrors the Drifter's actions, allowing his own uncovered hand to drape casually across his thigh. There's an almost rueful grin on his face now, a "don't that beat all" sort of smile that has nothing to do with mirth.

"Sounds close to my situation, honestly. You sure you ain't me in another life? Comics get wacky sometimes, I'm not about to rule out them rebooting me wholesale."

must die first to be reborn

If they'd the means to inflect the words with a tone, perhaps it would be more obvious if that statement was intended as a joke or as a blunt commentary on their joint predicament. As it stands, it's not easy to to discern, and they're not about to divulge without prompting.

They would hope that their stories do not align too closely; that he does not weather cold glances for the tint of his skin or that the ritualistic anonymity of his culture fulfills its intended purpose - except where certain outliers are concerned.

Unfortunately, the Drifter would be pretty on the money with their assessment of Wade's home life. Wade at least has the dubious fortune of having people hate him for things that he's actually done, rather than what they fear he would do, but it still isn't exactly an easy life for him or others of his ilk. Must die first to be reborn. He wonders what the Drifter means by that, in their context-- he understands full well what it means in his.

"That's true. But there're different definitions of 'die', y'know?"

There's not much humor in his smile now.

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hyperlit - 2018-02-08 04:20 (UTC) - Expand

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