July Adventure: Where the Weeds are Now Growing Free

[lifeaftr_mods]

NEW ISLAND: UMUI

Who: Everyone!
What: Umui appears, and a new adventure begins
When: July 10th and onward
Where: Umui
Warnings: Tag as you go!

'Cause the Dirt is Up to My Eyes
As of July 10th, the mana pools on Ensō and its islets will now allow for travel to the new island of Umui.

Travelers will arrive on a mana pool situated on the C1 square. The thick crops of flowers spring freely across the lush, grassy landscape, clustered in dense knots. The variety behind these growths seems profoundly limited: it is as though each flower has only sprouted around others of its kind, mingling solely at the edges. A large building looms in the corner of the region, a twisting, unfurling mass of piping and a half-crumbled metallic shine.

Whatever lays inside, or beyond the island's limits, is for you to discover for yourself.

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Welcome to the new island of Umui! As the island is now accessible, feel free to begin preparations and explorations in this log, or create new ones of your own! For further information in regards to the island, or plotting, the following links may prove handy:

[ ♆ ] OOC info and introductory post
[ ♆ ] Optional future event sign-up
[ ♆ ] Umui on the Locations page
[ ♆ ] Search Requests page

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LOGS ● OOC ● STORIES ● MAIN NAVIGATION

( CODED BY BOOTYCALL )

Comments

[postictal]

Maybe if Tim weren't so bent on marshaling himself to set foot in this place of his own accord, he might have taken a more predominant issue on it - on the flaws in the logic, the seeming leaps and gaps in how it's not too late, really, and assuming that it is seems rather arbitrary.

Too much of him is swallowing back the bitter taste of his own bile, his own visible reluctance to follow through. The entirety to which how much he knows he doesn't want to do this anchors him like lead, like roots, like quicksand on Chol, like some inexorable fucking drag of gravity pulling him toward of whatever this place possesses in lieu of a core.

"All right." The words are rough, soft, practically whispered; Telltale Heart's a hammer in his chest.

And so he doesn't look back, when he begins to walk.

[cacoethes_mori]

Foster watches him go; he's a little surprised it came out like this, actually. He was half expecting--more than half expecting, really--Tim to declare that no, actually, never mind. That he knew who he was going to call, and Foster would turn and continue on his own, stepping carefully when he remembers to because ore, ambiguously defined in that way, suggests iron.

Instead, he's watching Tim walk towards the hospital, back stiff and will something less than iron... it's not a bad look on him, though it's also exactly what he's started to expect.

[postictal]

The instinct comes...easily. It's listening to Jay talk into a camera, murmuring words into the digital record that his frame of mind won't preserve, because when your brain accrues holes at unfathomable rates, it pays to have a backup plan. Remembers the camera he once had strapped to his chest - given over to Newt, and now gone with him. He might've been able to repair it.

It might've almost been worth it, for the memory of this. For the way it burns in his chest.

Grass and metal alike crackle underfoot. He keeps bracing himself; looking for burn damage where there isn't any.

Takes fifteen minutes to press himself against a wall and grind the heels of his palms into his closed eyes until fireworks pop up in flares of dappled white against them, and the taste of bile burns the back of his throat. Wipes his eyes. Wipes his mouth.

When he speaks into the rock, his voice is perfectly steady:

"Looks more like some kind...lab."

[cacoethes_mori]

There is a long enough silence that Foster considers the possibility that Tim simply chose not to tell him--out of spite, perhaps, or a more calculated desire to conceal his intentions from Foster. Which would have been interesting. He has enough time to wander, skirting a wide shape around the perimetre of the hospital itself--looking at it and looking away once he feels too hot or too ill or anything at all, actually, detached as he is from it all.

Tim's voice is a surprise, and there is a few seconds' delay as his rotted brain turns the sounds into words, and then a few seconds more as he repeats it in his head until the words resolve a meaning. Lab.... laboratory. Laboratory?

Researching...

".... research hospital?"

[postictal]

"Most hospitals have...rooms and stuff. For pa - for patients." The word hitches, an awkward stutter in his throat that closes it before its termination. Gives him away, doesn't it? The way the world curls up like a thick black snake sitting in his guts, a coiling pressure squeezing tight around his ribs.

There's nothing here. No burn scarring chasing the walls. Just broken glass, and too many flowers.

"This just looks like wherever they did their research."

[cacoethes_mori]

Oh it gives him away, all right. But where a more sensitive listener might have put two and two together by now, Foster assumes--well, he assumes Tim's upset is related to what he's seeing, his surroundings, but he does not connect it to Tim's earlier behaviour. After all, Tim had it all under control, didn't he?

You lie. You tell them you're all better. They cured you.

"What are you upset about?" Foster asks, and he feels saliva where there isn't any, drooling where he isn't and hasn't in over a month. "What do you see?"

[postictal]

"You didn't want to set foot in here," says Tim, the words low and intent and cut with a tremor he can't wholly swallow away. "Neither did I."

The difference being that he still did it, even if it was like an ironclad punch to the gut, crossing that threshold and there are too many walls and yet not enough, because half of the walls have decayed into nothing.

What do you see?

Impatient, isn't he? That makes it easier, it in a way; again, because he can pretend. It's just Jay, poking angrily for answers. It's just Jay, forcefully demanding he discard years' worth of mental backlog and repressed memories - bringing back old memories like it couldn't possibly have any effect on anybody else - because it isn't useful for you to be hijacked by your own fucking psychotic bullshit, Tim.

So get it together.

Choke down the lump in your throat.

"There's no one here. It's just...overgrown."

[cacoethes_mori]

Foster has no response to that.

If Tim didn't want to enter, then he shouldn't have done so; he should have made his will clear and forced Foster to do what he most hated and feared. He should have, and could have, but did not.

Why?

Because that's Tim.

The fact that the building is empty is cold comfort. It makes sense, but it's no comfort at all, and Tim is being vague when vagary is least afforded him.

He has dreams, sometimes, of wandering hallways in empty hospitals, both afraid to be lost (he's late, late for an appointment, late for a test, late late too late it's always too late) and afraid to be found--

"...but what is it?"

[postictal]

"All of it." Remember the phantom instinct to sweep the place with a flashlight beam, cutting through the water damage and musty dark and the cratered floorboards of a caved-in school floor and he checks his footing, just to make sure - but there's nothing beneath. Nothing but grass and dirt and old, filthy tile.

"The walls, the floors. It's just - it looks like it's been abandoned for years."

Broken glass crunches underfoot. The treads on his shoes have been worn to almost absolute smoothness, and he slips on the ground as he moves toward a set of dilapidated shelves.

"Test tubes...I think there's some first aid kits." It helps him breathe out, just a little. "Not exactly hospital material."

THIS IS THE ONLY TAG IN MY INBOX

[cacoethes_mori]

Foster is conspicuously silent for over a minute. A lot of that silence is just him breathing, thinking, his claws in his hair and in his scalp, picking at the bracket of fungus over his eye.

"Ha ha!" He laughs breathlessly, knowing someone who would have been delighted by a find like that, once upon a time. "Hahaha...! Just keep going."

'Not exactly hospital material.'

Just close enough.

[postictal]

Some people laugh when they're upset. He lives with someone who turned smiles into a weapon, who bladed them in crimson and burned it into their face like a mask. He doesn't call attention to it. He doesn't point it out. He doesn't question it.

It doesn't matter.

Because he sees something else. Doesn't touch it just yet; instead crouches and stares at it and wonders when his heart is going to stop being the judder of metronome veins coiled up tight behind his ribs.

Remembers the way a knife eased into the skin of someone else's neck. The way it fountained out, slicking his hands, his knees, the floor beneath him, and he could barely breathe through the iron scent of it -

"There's something here. Shears." Spotted with dark blotches of copper. Too pale to be rust. Like a flip-knife drawn across a pale throat. "Pruning shears."