Benjamin L. Willard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
setyoufree) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
dear_mun2013-06-04 05:18 pm
setyoufree) wrote in dear_mun2013-06-04 05:18 pm
Entry tags:
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.
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.
I lost the original. This is not as good. :| I am sorry...
[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.
'tis fine, 'tis fine, 'tis a fine post! fie on disappearing post, though. FIE.
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.]
Oh god, and now he's probably scaring the shit out of Ben. GJ Lugo.
[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.
Heh, 's actually decent thus far; Kurtz is a tough act to follow, y'know?
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.]
no subject
[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.
no subject
[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.
no subject
[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.]
no subject
(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.]