dear_mun | voice testing (canon is apocalypse now)

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voice testing (canon is apocalypse now)

They say life goes on, but who's to say it ever started? I've seen death, I've seen the light pass out of men's eyes and the cold that came after, but I can't say what that cold replaced. I can't say it made much of a difference.

Everyone says life is valuable. Maybe that's just some trick we have to convince ourselves this is all worthwhile. What this world's full of is eyes, echoes, hollow spaces where there oughtta be something solid. The shit I've seen— I fell into something that pulled back the curtain from the world. Showed me its darkness.

I haven't been able to shake it since.

It followed me here, wherever here is. Whoever you are, and don't get me wrong, I'm not asking for answers. Even in the middle of fucking nowhere, there's always gonna be someone in command. And if there's one thing I know how to do, it's following orders through to the end. So tell me what to do. Where to go. It's all the same to me.

There's no point in lying about it: there's only one place I'll ever really be, and as far as the rest of the world is concerned, that place never existed. Seems like everything I've seen and done just didn't happen, and I've gotten to feeling like the world's moved on without me. Like I was never a part of it, and maybe it never existed the way I thought.

Thinking like that, things get a little hairy.

What I know is the world out there's got nothing I want, not even silence. So I'll stick around, sure. Got nothing better to do.

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[Joy looks up at the man. Even though she's only eleven years old, and hasn't seen the horrors of war for herself, she knows of many in her family who have, and in a certain way, this man reminds her of them, specially of Sandor Clegane, even though in a less... "angry" manner.

In the meanwhile though, she'll stay in silence.]

[He doesn't know what to do around kids. Never has, and especially not since everything emptied out. So he keeps his distance. Wonders whether kids startle easy and how this one got here. And he tries to speak with softness.]

Are you looking for someone?

[She nods slowly]
My papa. If I find he's not here I'll go look for Jaime or Tyrion. They are my cousins. Back home Jaime's fighting in the war and Tyrion is helping Joffrey. He's my nephew and the King. Even though there are many kings now and all of them are at war.

[He'd thought that things had started to fall back into place. He'd thought that the world was taking shape again, instable as that shape might be.

Now he isn't sure. This girl might be nuts or could be possessed of an overactive imagination, but she seems pretty earnest about what she's saying. It doesn't make a lick of sense to Willard - war he gets; kings are another story - but then he isn't in a position to take the measure of sense. Or to level judgment (the word brings a sting of its own).

In any case, she's here, and he might as well try to keep up a conversation.] War catches everyone like that. [Shit, that can't be an appropriate topic for a little girl. Even if she did bring it up.]

When was the last time you saw your father?

[She nods at the sentence. Everybody seemed too caught up in the war, and changed by it. Even cousin Lancel, who now seemed like a Septon for what she knew. And cousin Jaime had lost a hand and cousin Tyrion his nose. She prayed for papa to be well and safe and to be able to return safely and take her to a place that wasn't sad and terrible like Westeros.]

I go and pray very hard to the gods so it ends soon.

The last time I saw my papa? I was three or four. He went across the Narrow Sea in the search for a sword. A legendary sword called Brightroar.

[You don't tell kids the gods are lies. Willard won't explicitly encourage the idea, and even his silence almost seems too much like support, but the girl's life isn't any of his business. Let her have her gods right now, even if a part of him screams to just share the goddamn truth.

The more advisable option is to move along. Try to handle this talk of swords... Christ, it's like she thinks she lives in some kind of fairy tale. A fairy tale plagued by war, which pretty much destroys the charm.]

All right. That's a big journey. [What the hell else is he going to say to a kid?]

I, ah, can't say I've seen anyone. I just got here. But I'll keep an eye out. What's your daddy look like?

[A sword called Brightroar, what the hell?]

[Oh but they do exist! The ones to believe they not exist are the people of the North, who believe in other gods, the iron islanders, who believe in a water god, and some fire god that still has little supporters in Westeros.

She does live in a very sucky version of Medieval Europe, you know.]

He's tall and strong and has green eyes like me and his hair is blond like mine and he has blond hair like mine though his is shorter, it only reaches to his shoulders and he has a beard and he is always smiling and making japes and telling stories. His name is Gerion.

[That description doesn't exactly narrow the field, but then Willard figures that the odds of running into this guy are slim. Still, doesn't hurt to be aware.]

All right. Gerion. I'll keep that in mind.

[Christ knows what she's been doing on her own for this long, but she seems to've gotten along all right. Best that he doesn't inquire too far. Probably best that he doesn't know.]

Milady mundane says this place has good magic and maybe I'll can find him there. Back home he's been away for a long time. Since I was four and I am now eleven. They say he's most surely dead. But this place has good magic.
[She nods, even though it might be more to reassure herself]
May I help you find someone too, Ser? Maybe I could help you find your squire. Because you look like you are a knight who's been at war, and all knights have squires. Oh, and I forgot...
[She makes a cute little curtsey]
I am Joy Hill.

[This probably isn't the time to tell her that magic isn't any more real than the gods. (Though after what he's seen and felt... He could almost believe it. He could almost believe anything, and what is there proves that magic can't be found? What's to say the gods aren't enthroned somewhere above or walking around, what's to say men can't become gods, themselves?) His head is burning, feels like fever but he gets the sense it's something else. Just the thought of all of this. Just seeing pieces that shouldn't fit.

Like knights and squires and little girls who curtsy. He'd had a niece who liked to play at being a princess, but this is a whole new level of, Christ, whatever it is. No sense trying to define what he doesn't have words or comprehension for.]

I guess you'd better listen to her on that, Joy. I'm pretty new around here. [And maybe this is somehow a place for finding people, but that doesn't do Willard a damned bit of good. He already found the man he'd been sent for, and Willard would be pretty happy if he never ran into anyone again. He certainly isn't seeking someone in particular. Just quiet, maybe. A little peace of mind.

As for whether the girl's father is dead or not... Shit. Willard's vote would be that it's likely the case, but again, this isn't the time to say it. And he doesn't know. There're always exceptions, and he's seen men come through the seemingly impassable.] Anyway, there's no telling for sure. You'd be surprised what a man can survive.

[And how the hell's he supposed to introduced himself? He sure as shit isn't going to bow, but he can't remember how you're supposed to address a kid on a normal basis, either. He settles for squatting down, elbows resting on his knees. If nothing else, he's got a better look at her eyes.] You can call me Mister Willard. Or just Ben.

Edited 2013-06-07 13:05 (UTC)

[He'll understand soon. And she's not a princess. But her niece is and her niece is the best princess and she'll be married to someone who will give her nice dresses and who will love her much and be happy.]
I'm very new too, so I pay attention to her [She nods] She knows better.

[She nods again.] And my papa is a Lannister. As our maester likes to say, we've gone through worse and survived. We are lions.

It's a pleasure
[And she nods and speaks more to herself than anything else.] Though I didn't know of House Willard. And my father made sure I knew all the Houses.

[Maybe the girl's - what was it called? - mundane knew better, and maybe she knew jack shit. Willard half-nods noncommittally, deciding not to touch it. And if there's anyone maneuvering the pieces of his own existence in this place, he's not about to go looking for ways to communicate. Not as if it'd be worthwhile, anyway.

Again, her words don't fit any sense he knows, but Willard follows along as best he can, figuring that he'll try to hold the pieces in mind and see what kind of a picture they form. He isn't hopeful that he'll come up with much, or that the pieces will even stay for long, but if that's the best he can do for now, so be it.]

I'm gonna take a wild guess and say we aren't coming from the same place. Must be different countries. [Or something more, even, though he can't quite process that yet.] I can't say I know what you mean by 'house.' [he could come up with guesses, but why bother with the pretense?]

In any case, I'd say a lion's not a bad thing to be.

Edited 2013-06-16 08:35 (UTC)

[According to Joy, her mundane knows all. And she could be a maester. (except girls can't be maesters, but she could be a very wise septa). So she'll pay attention to everything she says.]
My mundane says you come from a place called America. Is it beyond the Narrow Sea? I come from the Westerlands. It is one of the Seven Kingdoms.
[She nods with a smile.]
A house is a family. There are eight noble houses in Westeros: Stark, Greyjoy, Tully, Arryn. Baratheon, Tyrell, Martell and Targaryen. Though there are more houses sworn to them.
We are House Lannister of Casterly Rock, and we have sworn to us a lot of houses. The Noble houses are Algood, Banefort, Bettley, Brax, Broom, Crakehall, Doggett, Drox, Estren, Falwell,Farman, Ferren, Foote, Garner, Hamell, Jast, Kenning, Lannister of Lannisport, Lefford, Lydden, Marbarnd, Moreland, Myatt, Payne, Peckledon, Plumm, Prester, Sarsfield, Serrett, Spicer, Stackspear, Turnberry, Westerling and Yarwyck.
And the knightly houses are Clegane, Clifton, Greenfield, Hetherspoon, Lorch, Ruttiger, Swyft, Vikary and Yew.
[She nods]

[All right. So the girl's mundane (the hell kind of a word is that, anyway?) knows something about him. Or the girl does and is pushing the information off on this supposed mundane, though that's getting too tangled to bother with and Willard figures he's better off taking her word on this.

From the jungle, straight to... Inconsistency. Instability. Or maybe just something inexplicable.]

That sure is a list. [It's almost like listening to someone reel off the names of top-ranking officers, though he isn't about to offer any such review in response. He doesn't want to think the names, let alone start spreading them around here. If this is a new space, somehow, he'd rather keep those names out of it. Maybe - probably not, probably the idea's ridiculous and ill-advised, the product of a mind in lingering shock - maybe this is a chance to live without any of that hanging on him. The thought almost offers a breath, a flicker of light.]

Never heard of the Narrow Sea, honey. Or the Seven Kingdoms. I don't think it's something we need to worry about. [Not something he needs to worry about. If she's really looking for her father, though...]

I don't suppose your... whoever it is knows where we are now?

[She nods happy.]
We are one of the richest houses of the Seven Kingdoms and our houses are very faithful to us. Except the Reynes and the Tarbecks, but uncle Tywin ended them. There's even a song about that. It's called "The Rains of Castamere".
[She would sing the song. But it's too scary. So she'll try to answer to the question.]
I believe she's not completely sure in that matter. She only says that it allows people like you and me, who come from very different places, to meet.
If you want, I could tell you more of the Seven Kingdoms.

[Willard doesn't have any especial desire to hear more about kingdoms and castles, but there isn't much else around, and it's something that'll keep his mind at least partially occupied. Besides, he's starting to get the sense that he's better off knowing what this girl might have to tell. Who knows where he might end up? All things considered, it isn't impossible that the girl's world exist, and that he might end up in it.

Okay, so that's completely fucked. But everything is, here. Maybe everything. There isn't any telling, and Willard figures he'd better not let himself think to far into it.

Instead, he shrugs, gives the girl something that might be a nod.] Sure, go ahead.

[Pulling out a pack of cigarettes, Willard pauses.] Mind if I smoke?

[He feels only moderately foolish posing the question to a child; somehow, it'd seem stranger still to simply start smoking in front of her. Might be another one of those things he just shouldn't think about.]

Edited 2013-07-01 08:36 (UTC)

Does the darkness ever go? Or are we trapped? You went before me. You would know... right?

...Right?

[Lugo needs to know. There's something that just kind of... hangs on this guy. Like maybe he's got some answers, whether he knows it or not.]

[Went where?

Seems like the man can only be referring to one place, though Willard's beginning to understand that something with time and space is screwy here. It's almost as if time's been ripped away, for all the sense that makes.

Still, something about this man seems familiar, a reflection of what Willard's seen in almost everyone (call them men or beasts, there's little difference) he can remember meeting. So probably this guy'd been in Vietnam, too. Makes as much sense as anything.]

I guess I know as well as any man.

Where you from, soldier?

[It's sort of a bullshit question, but it's as workable a place to start as any. Got to have some sense of who this guy is, maybe what he wants beyond the basics. Willard'll get to the guy's own question, even if he doesn't know what to say about it; he just needs to work his way toward it.]

Edited 2013-06-05 04:24 (UTC)

I'm not from anywhere anymore...

[He pauses, looks down for a long while, then back up again, weary, wiping at the blood on his face. It just doesn't matter all that much to him anymore. Where he's from isn't where he lives anymore. After he joined, he had no real permanent address except for a storage unit. He lived from couch to couch.

The Life of Lugo. Loveless. Homeless. But he enjoyed his job, at the time.]

I left my body in Dubai. My name's John. Staff Sergeant John Lugo.

[Shit, that's fair enough. Maybe the truest way anyone could answer the question, and Willard's got to respect the man for it. You can try to define a man based on his origins, but it'll only get you so far, and mostly it'll only strike up false signals that'll complicate the conversation.

He nods at the information, decides there's no need to respond according to any sort of protocol. He'd been on unsteady ground with the army even before coming here; now it might as well not exist. Maybe it doesn't. And it sure as hell doesn't seem to be a present thing for this guy, who... All right, who sounds as if he thinks he's dead.

Maybe he is. Place like this, anything could be true. Just take the information as it comes. Sort it out later, if at all.]

Willard. Ben Willard, Captain. [Maybe Major, if those clowns'd followed through. Not that he gives a fuck, and not like he'd stuck around to find our. None of it means anything here. None of it meant anything there. A Major is as likely to be shot and killed as a Sergeant or a Private. As likely to be disgraced. As likely to matter not one goddamn thing.] Last I knew, I was headed back to Saigon.

[He doesn't remember exactly when he left, or how. Couldn't say what happened to Lance of Chef. Whether or not they'd be fine on their own, though between Chef's nerves and Lance's persistent stupor, he had his doubts.]

I'll tell you, John; this place doesn't make a goddamn bit of sense.

[He doesn't ask why the guy's got blood on his face. Whether it's his own or someone else's. If Willard hadn't been so set on washing himself free of every last trace of Kurtz, he might've looked the same. Instead, he's just streaked in dirt, the mark of the river.]

I imagine this is gonna be hard to grasp, but this place was designed to not make sense, Cap. It's... the way it is so that people like us can meet. So here we are.

[Lugo shrugs with only his right shoulder, sniffles a little and pulls up the hem of his shirt to wipe at the gore on his face, trying to dislodge dried blood. His nose starts to bleed fresh, and he seems less than happy to have to move his left arm at all, carrying it in such a way that it's clear he's broken it. His left hand is limp, twitching and trembling occasionally.]

I guess... I should tell someone. I haven't told anyone that would understand, I don't think. I need to get it off my chest. I told you I left my body in Dubai:

We were there to observe and report. Take a little walk through the desert and go home. Sand storms... Sand storms like you'd never believe. They just rose up and swallowed the whole city, wiped it off the map. We thought it ended there, but then we got this transmission. So off we went. And then, suddenly... suddenly there was a whole lot of killing... a whole lot of dying. We started looking for the guy who made the transmission. He was the only reason we were there in the first place.

This Konrad guy... I guess my Captain knew him. He wanted to find Konrad. Save him, maybe. I guess he didn't realize it'd go as badly as it did. Everyone wants to be the hero, right? It's the only reason I see that someone would walk right into your line of fire.

Some men die heroes. Some go stupid. Some go kicking and screaming. Me and all those poor rogue bastards in Dubai... Christ, we didn't get any of that. We went like dogs. I suppose... in my case, I earned it.

My daddy always used to say, "John, it's appointed every man once to die." I just never thought it'd be so soon. I wonder if he knew. One moment, you think you're hot shit. Think you're invincible. Then, bang. You take that shot. And if you're lucky, you survive... get a chance to learn from it.

[He smiles placidly, shakes his head, though there's something dead in his eyes, something broken. There's no going back.]

I think I came to you... because I hoped that you'd know... maybe you could tell me why something like this would happen. Maybe you can help me figure out why things got so fucked. I wanted to know... if maybe this will leave me, or if it's going to stay forever. I feel... I feel the darkness... the same shit hiding under everything in the desert...

[He trails off, silent, shaking like a leaf with his eyes so glazed and distant that it's hard to tell if he can hear anything at all. He knows there will be no forgiveness. His sins will be with him... probably indefinitely. It's a terrifying thought.

Slowly, carefully, Lugo lowers himself to the ground, sitting with his legs folded under him. He breathes deep, trying to calm himself, clear his head a bit, but it's suddenly very hard to do. Before he even knows what hit him, he feels a warm flush in his cheeks, the soft brushing itch of tears tracing down to his chin. When he licks at one caught in the corner of his mouth, it tastes like salt and blood.]

[It's all pounding and bleeding, one level of reality working into another and he could almost swear they're connected somehow, like the shit he's seen and the things this guy has seen are equally true and even connected. Shit, maybe even the same, all of it real or none of it ever real, the truth hiding somewhere in that darkness, or the truth being

(the whispered words, pronunciation that followed him from the slaughterhouse temple down the river straight into this unstable present)

empty echoes, and Jesus fuck his head's pounding again and all of this slips beyond grasp, coiling into an insurmountable ball of static into which no sight can pierce, its only resonance pulsed outward in darkness. Incoherence, impossibility. The hollow at the core of all.

Silence stretches the present, and Willard has to remind himself that he can't just keep the guy sitting there. Not after what had been said, or at least not in the face of the way it'd shake him and continues now to needle at his comprehension, frustrating all efforts to find some solid mental ground.]

Hell, I don't know a thing. [The words are out before he can take hold of them, and there's no choice but to let the statement stand. He can't deny the truth of it, or he won't, so he simply gives himself a moment to collect himself. Willard doesn't know whether he can do better, but hell, he can at least try. Because there's something too familiar in this man's voice and in the way he holds himself, all visible injuries aside.

And the words. Of course he knows, of course he recognizes, and how’s he supposed to speak when the closeness of it grips him with a growing nausea, when the talk of darkness and forever, everything that can’t be uprooted because it’s at the root…

He shouldn't be surprised to hear there's just as much darkness in the desert as the jungle. It'd be easy to blame the jungle, sure, say the madness spread from the heat or the depths or some force crawling behind and bred into the trees. Willard had believed it to be the truth for a while. Hadn’t doubted when commanders claimed the jungle had driven men to the desperation that bombed the hell out of a village on a whim, hadn’t doubted it’d been the jungle that had gotten into Kurtz’s head and left him broken.

But that wasn’t it. Isolation may force a man to turn in on himself, but it wasn't the jungle that brought madness to men. They'd brought it themselves, started setting fires just to get their rocks off and called it war to ease their minds. The darkness was never external; they’d just found a way to release it.

How the fuck is he supposed to tell that to a man who’s beat to shit and clinging to the edge of something devastating? How the fuck is he supposed to fix any of this in speech or mind when he can feel himself shaking?

Jesus Christ, just say something. He takes a breath, crouches beside Lugo.] That's a lot to spill, pal. [The statement is more reflective than anything, a way of working himself toward that massive confession and its questions.]

Like your daddy said, we've all gotta go sometime, whether we earn it or not.

There's a whole lot of insanity out there. A whole lot that doesn't make sense. You start thinking about it too much, you'll split your head in two.

[He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, offers one to Lugo. That isn't all of it, but he needs a moment to collect his thoughts, find the next words. Get a gauge on how the guy's taking it.

There's something he wants to know, badly, though he can’t say why or what it’d do: whether they’d found Konrad and what he’d had been doing out there in the first place. What that transmission'd been. The questions burn at him, but he’s got no reason to ask, and so they turn in silence, branching into his recollections, taking on a resonance Willard isn’t not sure he really wants to see.]

Edited 2013-06-09 05:48 (UTC)

[Lugo eyes that cigarette for a long time, then slowly, shakily, he takes it, places it lightly between his lips and lets it sit. He's trembling so hard that it seems to waver, nearly falls out before he adjusts it a little. Tobacco... Nicotine. It will definitely soothe his nerves a bit. Morphine would probably take the edge off of his pain. He knows if he stays this way, they'll have to re-break his arm to set it straight. He regards the tortured limb for a moment, then with a certain agonizing deliberateness, he reaches down and digs his fingers into the swollen flesh, feeling for the broken ends.

He's crying. Like a child. But it needs to be done. He's shaking so hard now that it's hard to focus. He catches the filter of the cigarette in his teeth, holding it without actually crushing the filter. The only steady parts of his body are his head and hand.

Settling back, sweating, he sighs, gets the cigarette between two fingers.]

Ulna. Classic nightstick fracture. To set it properly, I'll need to have it opened up... I mean, it could be set without surgery, but getting a plate and some screws in there means I'll be shooting again sooner. That, and there's less risk of complications...

[He sounds almost detached, out of his own body. He looks to Willard quietly, eyes glassy and black.]

You got a light, Ben?

[Shit. It's testament to the strangeness of this place (all right, sure, and of the weeks leading up to his own arrival) that Willard had taken Lugo's injury as par for the course, another part of the scenery that might just mean nothing at all. That might not've even been paining the guy, only Willard sees now that it pretty clearly is.

A fracture's not the worst that could happen, but it's bad enough, especially when you're stuck in the middle of fuck knows where. And Willard isn't exactly in a position to be of much help. Not when he's feeling so shaky. Not when everything's threatening to pull apart again. He's learned to act under pressure and he's learned to deal with injuries on the go, but he's never been so uncertain of his own hands.

It isn't a thought to dwell on.

Willard lights the cigarette, wondering whether there's anything stronger around. He ought to've taken something off of Lance; even by the time they'd left the compound, that kid had had enough to keep himself drifting for another week. Not like he needed the help... Though Willard had been too abstracted to know for a fact, he has to figure something in the kid's mind had slipped out of place.

No one makes it out whole. Your pieces fall apart in there.

Goddamnit. Got to keep focused. The least he can do his keep his mind on the problem at hand.] It wasn't enough they killed you off; they had to bring you over here half-busted up, huh?

Look, you know this place better than I do. Is there anywhere we can take you? If nothing else, I should be able to rig a sling.

[He doesn't question Lugo's remark about shooting again; some things just become part of your life. Sometimes, it gets so you can't picture living without those things.]

Edited 2013-06-11 10:29 (UTC)

If I'm here like this... it's for a reason. Maybe to let you know that not all of us will walk out of it okay? I don't know. But I'm here like this because it suits a purpose... and if I'm going to get fixed up or left to die, it's all at their whim.

[He pauses for a long moment, trying to collect his thoughts. This, he knows, runs the risk of making him look like he's completely lost his marbles, but it's something that is so inherently important to this universe... to this loosely assembled hodgepodge of reality and everything else in between. He moistens his lips with his tongue, and when the flame passes close, leans in to light his cigarette, takes a long pull, exhales through his teeth.

He coughs softly, rubs at his abused throat for a moment, then looks to Willard again.]

The people who run this place... They're important. They're the ones you have to ask for things. You can also pester them into things you want, but be careful what you wish for. Some things are just too good to be true, you know? But... a lot of this... a lot of this is just down time... sometimes you get little social breaks, but a lot of this place seems to hinge on survival.

[His body is going numb. Never a good sign, but he continues to smoke quietly, noticing the trembling of his fingers starting to ease.]

I used to have morphine in my kit... but that's long gone now. Probably would have killed me anyway... I'm in pretty bad shape. But... I guess sometimes this place seems to work differently.

['Be careful what you wish for.' Willard almost flashes a bitter smile at that. Truer words...]

All right.

[Willard isn't so sure he believes in any purpose, whoever might be calling the shots and however important they might be. Maybe they - whoever they are - do decide when to kill you off or pull you out. It isn't much of a leap to accept; what the hell else had the army been? There's always someone pulling the strings; thing is, they never know as much about what they're doing as they think.

And he sure as shit doesn't need a reminder that not everyone walks out okay or walks out at all. Five men head upriver on a boat, two head back down, and neither of them are whole anymore. All right, let's talk about walking out. Let's talk about all the goddamn good it does. Like keeping your body when you're souls been cut, if Willard can believe there was a soul in the first place. (Something doing the crying, something doing the aching, though mostly he tries to keep it cold.)

Lighting a cigarette of his own, Willard takes a drag, holding onto the silence a few moments longer. He needs time to process all of this, or maybe he just needs to get a night's sleep. Nothing makes sense. Maybe that's just something he's got to get used to.

The words are still a problem. Maybe he ought to be more open about his thoughts, give Lugo something in return for his own revelations. But how to begin? and this doesn't seem an opportune time (if indeed there is ever a suitable time). So many things that ought to be said and simultaneously ought to be kept quiet, left to wither in his silence.

For now, the matter isn't really what he wants to say; it's what must be said.] Look, buddy— John. I appreciate the head's up, and you can assure yourself I'm no stranger to commands. What I'm asking is do you want a sling. Not whether someone up there or out there is willing you to have it.

[Maybe it amounts to the same thing; Willard's not going to think that far into it. That much reflection gets to be a sinkhole, and he's close enough to losing it as-is.]

You're a good guy, Ben. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

[At this point, Lugo finds himself wondering if he's even going to need a sling. With his cigarette between his lips and steady fingers pressed lightly into the carotid pulse, his head lightly tilted, as if he's listening to some distant music or just lost in thought. He remains there for a moment, then smiles gently, nods.

They can make a sling. It won't hurt anything. And it'd at least make everyone feel like they did something to help. He's pretty sure that there's no help on the way and he's not going to be able to hoof it, if it comes to that. He's comfortable right now, as long as he doesn't think about too much of his physical condition.]

Yeah... a sling will be good. It'd definitely keep me from smacking my arm on stuff anymore.

[With that, he carefully settles flat on his back, closes his eyes and continues to smoke, quietly enjoying the burning tobacco.]

When I got... sent here... The year was 2012. They started putting nasty fire-safe shit and cardboard and whatnot in the cigarettes to make more profit off of them... These, though... These are the real deal. You know, a pack of Marlboro Reds is nearly five bucks where I'm from? Gas is getting toward the four dollar mark per gallon... Loaf of cheap bread is nearly three and change? Something like that. Gallon of milk, shit I don't even feel like bothering. Buying a new car is over a year's goddamn wages for a piece of shit... like twenty thousand or so. And outside military life, if you don't have a car, you don't have shit. To get a job to make money and get all of that shit, you have to go to college... Having a college degree is like having a high school diploma these days...

World's coming to an end, man. Sandstorms, earthquakes and wars. They say on December 21, 2012, the Mayan calendar comes to an end, and we're all going to die, right? I hope they were right.

[Willard can take the statistics, the basic facts. If they're actually facts, and for now he's almost willing to take them as such. This place might not make any sense, but it's bound to have its own details, and he can't be too shocked to discover that they don't match the facts he used to know. Things are different here. Fine; that's only more of the same. (And when the hell was the last time he talked or ever thought about groceries like some sort of normal thing?)

It's hearing his own name that brings a sense of unease. Ben. Seems like he hasn't heard it in years, in a couple of goddamn lifetimes. Familiarity where he's come to expect only strangeness. Hell, familiarity, period. It's hard to believe there's still a world where names mean something, and it's almost hard to listen to his own name. Like he's been here all his life. Like this place is more solid than the jungle— And maybe it is.

Because the idea of ending...] Yeah, well. People've been saying that a long time. Every day's the end of the world if you ask the right person.

[He shrugs takes another pull on the cigarette. If the world had any intention of ending, it'd probably have done so long before. There are always atrocities, always have been.

He's thought about this. Ending and whether it'd be better for everyone. He used to believe that an ending could be achieved, that life and war were full of endings, that maybe in the jungle he'd find one for himself. But now... What the hell's an ending, and who can say it isn't some fiction spun to keep men from going mad? War and the jungle and everything they covered over had taught him that there is no stopping, and the darkness isn't final. He'd learned that when he moved forward in the face of absurdity (and he still can't explain his actions or his reasons), when his own hand enacted the end that was truly perpetuation, the continued movement of the cycle.

What he's starting to (maybe) believe: there is no end without darkness, and that darkness never ends. He isn't even sure there's some other side, a place where thought stops and light stops. Maybe death is just being somewhere else, somewhere no less fucked.]

Wars been around since long before either of us saw the light of day. We've just been walking through the motions.

[He pobably could have done better on that. Still, what's done is done, and Willard sets to work on the sling, tearing apart the pieces of a battered-looking sheet (he doesn't ask where it came from, doesn't ask if it'd been there all along); if there are answers to these questions, they'll only throw him off further. He's got to concentrate. Got to focus on the situation and focus on this possibly useless sling, focus on anything that'll keep him from drifting off.]

Edited 2013-06-17 00:50 (UTC)

I was a good soldier...

[In his heart, that's the one thing he believes most... the one thing he feels most strongly. He smiles a little, his battered arm laying across his chest, good hand shuttling the cigarette up from his side to his lips occasionally. His eyes are getting cloudy again. Softening. He looks to Willard dreamily, smiles. He should be feeling sleepy. Really he should feel like he's dying... after all he's been through, but something is just keeping him kicking for the time being. Something in him doesn't want to go because this guy... He likes this guy. He could follow this guy, no problem.

Oh, Walker... His eyes are definitely seeing Walker in that tired face. He sighs and his smile becomes something almost softly bittersweet. Worry lines, soft crinkles that are just starting to form at the corners of his eyes... all of this for Walker.]

Don't beat yourself up, man. Shit happens. You gotta pick yourself up and keep moving. You're still a good person. Just stop and take a look around you... ask yourself, is this really the right thing? Should I be doing this? Sometimes you gotta ask yourself if you should even be there at all... But hey. You've got a chance to redeem yourself, man.

Take it.

[The darkness... may never go. He's aware that once it's there, staring out at you from under the shadow of every red rock, it will never leave. Somehow, it gets into your heart like a knot of worms and stays.

But a man can live with his darkness. Optimistic as the thought feels, Lugo knows it's true. He shifts uncomfortably. The cigarette is something he can barely register between his fingertips. He lifts it to his lips again, feels it slipping so he grips the filter between his teeth, sighs.]

I need your help. I know this sounds silly... but I need you to hold me up for a minute.

Sounds like you did your piece and then some. Sounds to me like you’ve been a damn good solider.

[Jesus, the guy's getting to be more there than here. He isn't speaking to Willard, can't be; the words don't fit, and there's no reason Lugo should know anything about what had gone down in the jungle. No reason anyone should know. The likely answer is Lugo's seeing someone who isn't there, maybe seeing someone else in or through Willard. Though not unheard of, it's unsettling, and what's worse is there's something shockingly familiar in the way he's looking at Willard, something ringing in those words (more tone and suggestion than the direct message, keep moving, just keep fucking moving, but at some point, there's nowhere else to go, solid striving drops to empty space).

Shit, it's as if Lugo's addressing what Willard's thinking and all of the impressions he can't even sort into thoughts, himself. Like despite the distance that must have stood between them and maybe still stands between them ('you can't travel through space, you can't ravel through space'), there's something... Something he understands, though he lacks the words or clarity for it, now. Something that could blow apart or bind together the whole fragmented, wayward ruins of Willard's questions.

It's ridiculous, or at least isn't worth the effort that clear thinking requires. Might be that Willard's mind is as out of sorts as Lugo's seems to be. All things considered, that's pretty likely. He forces his thought to shift focus, find something to fix itself on.

All right. The change in Lugo's expression as he's (drifting don't think any further about it leave the word where it is let it be the way its stands not now not now). Some quality has become more present, and Willard isn't sure whether to take it as a sign of improvement or regression, or whatever else it could be. It's almost... It's strange amid all of this, but he looks almost peaceful, even amid the obvious pain and the less obvious suggestions of regret of doubt of Christ knew what-all.

He decides it's best to let the softer words pass without remark, though their wistfulness leaves an ache. Instead, he simply moves to help the guy up. The request didn't sound silly in the least, and Willard doesn't treat it as such, and he moves about the business promptly, with an efficiency he'd cultivated well before he'd joined up.]

Just tell me what you need.

Will you stay until I fall asleep?

[It sounds innocent enough... but he knows what's going to happen... or at least he thinks he does. Looking down at that deep, dark silence again, waiting for it to swallow him whole. He's afraid, but at the same time, he's calm. At least this time, things aren't going to be quite as bad. He's almost soft in Willard's grip, head sinking until his chin rests against his chest. The cigarette falls from his lips, and he notices, gently brushes it away before settling completely.

Ben is warm... not the big, sturdy frame Walker had, but comforting enough. He wonders if maybe this is what makes their times so different... men weren't so... bulky. They didn't have to be a goddamn Adonis to be strong. Lugo, himself, though he's capable of meeting requirements to be a sniper, is not some bronzed Greek god. He has always been more lean, more of a survivor's build than a warrior's.]

I don't have long now... I think. I kind of wish I could go back and just... just stop the nonsense... knowing what I do now. But if wishes were fishes... then... I...

[He shakes his head, lifts it with some effort and opens his eyes, shivering softly. It's taking a lot of effort. A lot more than it should.]

I don't want to go. [He grits between clenched jaws. His brow is deeply furrowed, eyes narrowed, determined.] I don't... I need to keep moving. I need to keep going. No rest for the wicked. And I've been a wicked child.

[He's trying. He's fighting to pick himself up, struggling on hand and knee, his muscles refusing to cooperate even though he's starting to feel that second wind of adrenaline. He growls sharply, managing to get to his feet and one hand, heaving himself up shakily. He looks around for a while, eyes tired, starting to blacken from the blood that pools. He snorts softly, trying to breathe a little better through his nose, but gives up and returns to mouth-breathing just as quickly.]

We should go North. Just... walk. Until we find something. I think... I think that'd be for the best.

[Grasping... grasping at something... Anything. He can feel something just beneath the ache all through his bones.]

[Willard's first thought is that he doesn't have anywhere else to go. While it isn't particularly charitable, it isn't exactly cruel, and the logic of it helps keep him grounded. Facts can keep him from falling too far away. Whatever this place is, whatever might be done, he knows that he has been severed from orders and enforced compulsion. And if this man wants to drift off, if this man wants to...

(not now, not already not—)

Willard tells himself it isn't his place to come between this man and some sinking away. Not if Lugo's ready for it. Not if it's already approaching. Who's to say the silence (if it is silence, if it isn't only another eternity of echoes, a feigned ending that brings only prolongation) isn't preferable? Who's to say this sinking isn't merciful? (some men wish for it, some men beg for it in terms that could be demands could be orders but the pleading hadn't slipped by unnoticed and there was favor in the falling of the blade as much as there was tumult raging something broken free)

But Willard hadn't counted on the sensation of holding someone close. And there's Lugo falling into himself and Willard reaching to keep hold of him, and somehow all of it becomes too real, too close, too much like living (like what living had been, like believing). It's easy to forget what closeness feels like. It's easy to forget the weight other people have, and the way it's stirred and lightened by the life that swells within, the person, personality that makes of each body something different, something maybe almost real (if that's correct, if anything's real, and at the moment Willard could almost believe this is, though the sense is fading and broken by a knowledge of experience). He wants to release Lugo and he wants to hold him unyielding, but mostly he's relieved when the man moves of his own accord, creating movement from the strange stillness.

The man's fighting a battle for and maybe with himself, and Willard allows the words to work their way forth without interruption. He can't give answers, and Lugo doesn't need anything he might say. The whole occurrence is removed from Willard (he tries to tell himself as much, at least, though still he wonders, still the familiarity rings some inexplicable undeniable resonance). So he keeps it in his thoughts, only watches in silence.

What good would it do to speak? What good to say it's no use looking back or trying to revise what was? That 'wicked' is relative and typically misplaced, that there's never any saying that some wrong could have been put right, or that the new right wouldn't be any less repulsive... It's beside the point, especially with a man who's struggling just to remain aware. More important matters for his case.

For now, focus on keeping the guy mobile, keeping him conscious. In the absence of order, do what he asks; at least there isn't an imperative tied to this.]

Hell, if that's what you want, we'll make it happen.

[Willard moves to steady the man, so long as he'll accept the aid. Steels himself against any oncoming sensation of touch. It's best if he doesn't start feeling any of this. Best if it remains distant, abstract and only necessary. Detached.]

We can move on all day. Until we find something. Until you know what you're looking for.

[The whole fucking thing is bizarre.]

Edited 2013-07-01 08:13 (UTC)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

voice testing (canon is apocalypse now)

Hello you. You know me. I know you. And I really couldn't help it.

OH REALLY. OH HI. and methinks that me doth know, indeed, and am :D. :D, damnit.

:D heheheheheeeeh

also now i have this bizarre desire to see sandor and willard meet idek.

Lol, it would be a very depressing and angsty meeting

best kind of meetings!

Still, a meeting where I would not want to be (or want Joy to be)

yeah well good call. >.> i mean, when is sandor + anyone a happy encounter?

And an encounter not recommended for little girls (except Arya Stark)

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Sorry I took so long... this was the hardest tag... ever. :|

'twas well worth the wait, in-deed!

... hopefully... this isn't overtly squicky?

not at all, nope.

I lost the original. This is not as good. :| I am sorry...

'tis fine, 'tis fine, 'tis a fine post! fie on disappearing post, though. FIE.

Oh god, and now he's probably scaring the shit out of Ben. GJ Lugo.

Heh, 's actually decent thus far; Kurtz is a tough act to follow, y'know?

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