apocalypsehowcomm | A handkerchief held all my gear (OPEN LOG Catch-all April)

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A handkerchief held all my gear (OPEN LOG Catch-all April)

Who: George Milton and ???
When: Most of April
Where: In ADI, on the grounds, and Gloucester proper
Summary: George is familiarizing himself with his new environment and is never content to be in one place for too long.
Warnings: Possibly some of the eye flower weirdness if anyone wants to do a fair/festival prompt, possibly drinking to excess, will update if needed and also warn in individual thread headers.

1. Home Sweet Home?

It's weird, having such a huge space just to himself and maybe two other folks. For now it seems like it's just Nick, and well, he could have done a whole lot worse. Settling in is always a little awkward. He didn't have much of anything to put away. That took no time at all.

So now he's sitting on the sofa in the common room fiddling with the phone, not because he likes it or particularly wants to but because it has been emphasized so much as important, he'd be a fool not to keep at it. He's less outwardly or visibly frustrated working on it alone, just grunting and muttering to himself off and on as he fat fingers his typing or has trouble making one of the apps do what it's supposed to.

He doesn't know how long he has been at it. Long enough for his butt to be sore and his legs to feel like they could use a good stretching when there's a knock at the door. Immediately, he tucks the phone in his jacket pocket as he stands and crosses to it.

"Who's there?" His voice is deep and sharp enough to carry through the wood just fine.

2. The Library

The short guy sitting at the computer terminal doesn't much look like he belongs there. He's staring very intently at the monitor, his typing a painfully slow hunt and peck style. He seems to be trying to research basic history of the region, currently on one of the local government pages of helpful links.

Every now and then he awkwardly moves or clicks the mouse, often followed by a low, "Dammit," or, "No, not you. I want...you." He's so engrossed in the work that he doesn't react at first to the person who comes in behind him. It's only when he hears a definitive noise that he jumps a little and whips his head around, looking almost guilty.

"Sorry. Did you need this?" He's not completely sure he ought to be here, and it shows.

3. The Grounds

At various locations around the grounds, a short, slight man in a brimmed work hat can be spotted wandering and familiarizing himself with the area. He has a fast, no-nonsense gait, like somebody used to being on his feet, and he's never in any one place for very long. When spoken to, he touches his hat brim and gives a nod. He's fine with stopping to chat, especially if he has already met you, but even if he hasn't, he won't brush off a friendly overture.

4. The General's Store

George's voice is increasingly strident as he argues with the beleaguered cashier behind the register. "An' I'm tellin' you 50 bucks for a plain ol' fishin' pole is highway robbery. Not to mention you ain't even including tackle or bait in that. I ain't gonna stand here and let you swindle me. You been swindlin' everybody who works at ADI? That it?"

"Sir, if you'd just..."

"Don't you sir me. Do I look like a sir? Jes' admit you're doing people dirty. I'll tell you what. You put all a' that mess back on the shelf. I don't want none of it. I wouldn't take it if you paid me." Without another word, he's storming for the door.

5. A Bar at the Docks

It took long enough to find the kind of place with the vibe he was looking for, nothing too fancy, just a hole in the wall with beat up barstools and an older woman behind the bar who seems happy enough not to ask too many questions. Like everything else in this damned town, the price of the drinks is sky high. By this point he doesn't care.

He's seated belly up at the far end of the bar pounding gin like there's a run on it, and he may have found the last bottle. There's a certain fixed quality to his thousand yard stare. Hard to tell if he recognizes you or not if you approach.

6. Wildcard!

((OOC: Bring your own prompt, or feel free to use some of the fair prompts from the TDM. George would be playing any number of games there. If you have any questions or want to run something by me, you can hit me up at

velocinapper, PM, or Disco. Brackets are also fine!))

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"That's nice, right?" He's not so sure. Would he care he was in some weird town with say...a Parisian...if it wasn't on Earth? That's too big a thought for too little current brain. He lets it go.

He's not sure what to make of other substances. Drugs? Something else? Doesn't seem like the thing to ask with him being a little vague. Prohibition isn't so far behind him he doesn't read certain cues certain ways and let sleeping dogs lie.

"Nah. Never had much a' one in the first place." Not anywhere he'd want to stay. He polishes off what's left in his glass and turns it absently. Anything he'd say of Lennie is trapped under a heavier stone than he has the gumption to turn. "Hit the road young lookin' for work and jes' never looked back."

He doesn't press and Garner's grateful enough. He wouldn't have lied, he thinks, but the story didn't really matter, in the long run. Not like the rest of this. It feels like a weird silent agreement not to press too far, like he'd managed with Raleigh back home. That was fine.

"If I have learned anything the last month or so, it is that families are...difficult and sometimes people have to leave them...but I hear there are some who are happy with their homes." He just hadn't met them yet. He takes a much longer sip off his drink. Only about a quarter left, based on the weight in his hand.

"What sort of work did you do? Before."

"I always reckoned most a' the happy ones had money." He lifts his glass and stares into the bottom of it, affronted that it's empty. He notices the bartender trying to pretend not to notice him noticing her. It turns into a one sided staring contest for a bit.

"Farm work. I followed the crops, plantin' in the spring, harvesting in the fall. Holing up to wait it out in the winter. Hard work. Better than the whole lotta nothin' most a' them folks was finding in the cities. What about that...glaithe a' yours? Wanna tell me about that?" So he's slipping more than he realizes.

Garner does his best not to snort at that comment and sets his glass down as his other hand wraps around it. Money did not solve problems, even if he hadn't been taught that before, he'd certainly seen it in action with Raleigh and Rory as example.

"Glaive. A farmer's work is difficult, but at least you get to see the results of your efforts." It was something he could admire, though he doubted he'd have much a hand for it, even if he could see.

"My glaive was a gift given to me by the woman who saved my life. I was well used to a quarterstaff once, but that was when I could see. She taught me how to use it to defend, attack, and get by as a walking stick, when needed." His brows raise and fall as he sighs. "It feels as important to me as any limb."

It's plain weird to him, the number of people who seem to think the results of farming are somehow noble or rewarding. He's not sure what to make of it, and he's not in any shape to try to have that conversation right now.

"Glaive, right," he says absently, and slow enough to get to it that he overlaps Garner's words for a second or two before shutting up again.

"You use it mighty good." Not that he has seen him use it as a weapon yet. He gets around with it well. It seems like he's not going to say anything else, a molasses of minutes before he finally adds, "You used to see?"

He's shaking his glass in silent impatience. Seems like there's somebody else who used to see who has suddenly gone selectively blind.

He's at least patient, especially in George's drunken state, the point of the drink was to slow one's thoughts and dampen difficult emotions, he could accommodate. Though, the subtle clinking sound has his brows furrowing again. Was his glass empty?

Garner empties his own before answering, intent on trying something else for a second round. "Yes. I was not born blind, it was...a process."

Of course, that just invited more questions, didn't it? He wasn't sure he wanted to go into the details of the voluntary nature of one step in his blinding, certainly not while his companion was more than three sheets to the wind.

Luckily, the bartender's bright, if stern, voice interrupts with a hard. 'I don't think so, sir. That's quite enough for you.' Followed soon after with a nail tapped to the bartop in front of Garner and a much softer: 'Another for you, dear?'

Oh...well, that was probably wise, wasn't it? Garner would likely be helping George home as it was and it wasn't a short walk. "Whatever drink might come with...ah...tekeela?" He answers and leaves his glass for her to take, an ear half trained on George.

Before George can fully process what he has said and try to untangle it...what would that mean? A process? The bar tender is in his face with something completely outrageous and unwarranted. Cutting him off? For what?? He gives her several owlish blinks.

"Now, hold on a second. I ain't done nothin' but...but set here quiet as a churchmouse, an' you're cutting me off? That's a helluva thing." His voice is loud without shouting. He looks down the length of the bar as though he might find support among the locals studiously not looking his way.

"Fine. Gimme that...card thing, and I'll carry m'self somewhere what appreciates my business."

Garner can hear the muttered 'no where else's gonna take you' she lets out under her breath, but then she's back down the bar, assumedly to make Garner's drink and resolve whatever tab George has.

An interesting thought. The bartender is within her right, it's her establishment, but Garner was inclined to agree with George: he'd been minding himself fine, if he wanted to drink himself into a quiet stupor, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with that.

He places his hand on the bartop between them in lieu of trying to find George's arm or shoulder.

"Perhaps the sentiments on consuming drinks are different here? There are a number of such...societal differences." Like how people weren't just supposed to go strip down and go swimming in lakes, even if those lakes were man made and chemical smelling.

"Guess so. They can take their sentiment an' shove it where the sun don't shine." If he does get turned away from other bars, he has already clocked the liquor store. He'll just grab him a couple of bottles and hole up somewhere behind a dumpster until morning.

He's already out past the apartment curfew. When she brings his tab, he takes the pen in a rough snatch, scrawls his signature, and slams the plastic onto the bar in a clack.

"Less you need me to stick around, think I'm headin' out, Garner." It doesn't occur to him to invite him to come with him. He's settled, getting his drink, and he deserves to have his own good time without a surly sourpuss bringing him down. It takes a few tries to get the card back into his wallet proper and that into his back pocket.

Garner listens and sips his drink, flinching only a bit as the plastic clatters back on the bartop. There's an odd tension to the air that feels uncomfortable, but he's not entirely certain where it's coming from...other than George, perhaps.

He turns more in his friend's direction. "That depends, I am...a bit concerned with your ability to find your way home. You are still new here." He gently cites that, and not the fact he could hear George fumbling.

"Findin' my way there ain't no problem at all. It's the gettin' in there that's the problem, since they likes to treat us like a bunch a' big babies, too. Can't drink all you want. Can't get back to you own damn house when you want. Fifty dollars for fishin' poles. Four dollars for a glass 'a cheap gin. Naw, don't you worry 'bout me none. Last I checked, I still got feet and an ass to fall on, if that ain't 'dis-al-lowed', too."

So much for not starting a scene. He's staggering toward the restroom first, and then he very much intends to beat feet out of there.

Right.

Okay.

Garner retrieves the card that holds all his funds and places it on the bartop near his fingers until he can feel the bartender take the card and throws back the rest of his drink. It was good, he'd have to remember it for next time.

He trades her the glass for the card and is in the process of asking her to write in the tip for him when he can hear George come back. "Hold a second, George. Please."

Once his tab is signed and sorted, he turns and reaches his hand vaguely out in the direction he thinks the man is. There's a bit of a waver to his senses and he's starkly reminded why he didn't usually drink unless either settled in for the night or with people he trusted to guide him. It didn't serve to muddle what few sense he had left.

"Will you help me out of here?" Did he need the help? No, maybe not.

"Huh?" He pauses when Garner calls his name and staggers closer toward him, close enough for him to get his sleeve with his grasping hand. "Yeah, sure," he says. "Where you wanna go?"

It's not like they can go back to the apartments, and it's not like he has the kind of cabbage to spring for a hotel. He knows where he wants to go and that he's just fine with his decision. Garner might be much less so.

Garner follows the man's path out, taking the moment of seeming concentration to decide for himself. They can't go back this late, so...

"Perhaps one of the parks. Not the one weird things happen in, of course, but a normal one. It might be peaceful." Of course, once they're outside, a brush of salty air has him tilting his head in consideration. "Or...the beach? So long as we aren't too close to the water, it should be safe enough. The ocean has a peaceful sound."

Nevermind the last time he went to this town's beach, it tried to swallow him...that probably wouldn't happen again.

"Naw," George says decisively. "You don't go nowhere people think'd be a nice place to set a spell in the dead a' night. That's how you get yourself jumped or shanked."

As unsteady as he is on his feet, he's thinking the liquor store's a bad idea now, especially with Garner in tow. "Come on. I know a few bolt holes. Couple a' the guys I been talkin' with told me about 'em. If ain't nobody else there, we oughta be safe enough until morning."

Might even be able to actually sleep it off.

His brows pull together in slight confusion. "Oh...I thought that was what dark alleys were for." He hadn't spent a lot of time in normal civilization in the great scheme of things, there was still a lot to lean.

"I trust your judgement, George. You seem quiet knowledgeable about these things."

And they would be able to watch each other's backs in a way. That would be nice.

He snorts a very soft laugh, mostly air through his nose. "They ain't so great, neither."

He makes sure he doesn't go too fast as he takes him through the dark streets. It's early enough people are still walking in small clumps and talking, dipping in and out of bars and the restaurants still open late.

George veers them away from all of that, his rollicking gait with a bit of a sway, not so much he's close to falling down. He does head them closer to the bay, but not the beach. They enter the warehouse district instead, abandoned this time of night, with a lot of the places fenced off with outward bending barbed wire at the top or razor wire. The yellow sodium lights glare down and create big patches of dark between them.

He hurries them through each of the dark spaces and angles them to edge just around the perimeter of the light so that neither one of them get too obvious out there by themselves. When they get close, he leads Garner behind a large, industrial sized dumpster, takes a very thorough and hard look around, then guides his hand to the cold metal side of it. "Stay right here jes' like this and don't move. I'm gonna check on something and be right back."

Garner follows without fuss or question, his attention largely turned towards George and occasionally the small clusters of people. Laughing or talking, joking. Night life winding down or carrying on around them. He'd spent more time outside society than in it, it was still novel to hear. Like people watching with his ears.

George's wobbled steps didn't stumble or falter too much, however, and Garner felt better about his decision to stop him. He likely would have been fine, but he seemed...good at taking care of others. Maybe he'd had a charge or younger sibling before. Maybe a son? He'd never mentioned one...but Garner had never asked.

They pass brighter patches and darker patches and eventually he finds his hand pressed to cold metal, worn and scratched and the scent of stale reek, the kind that simply was without a specific source. A dumpster, then.

"I'll endeavor not to lose my way." He assures with a small smile and turns his head to tilt an ear up, listening both for George's movements and their ambient surrounding. A small puddle catching slow drips from something nearby, the smell of slightly more fresh trash but further away, not this dumpster, but maybe another. A slight whistle of a breeze that broke hard against tall walls around them. An alleyway, somewhere away from the restaurants and far enough from the ocean to not smell entirely of salt.

It isn't much of a long check. Even so, he doesn't like leaving him there alone in an unfamiliar part of the city with apparently almost zero street smarts and this place dangerous in ways George doesn't fully understand or have experience with.

He's quiet and quick down the side alley as he comes to a derelict warehouse with obvious gaps and holes in its weathered siding. He knocks twice, waits and finishes with a third at a warped piece of plywood covered with what looks like random graffiti but isn't. After a couple of seconds, a man with a tangle of wild gray hair and a yellowed walrus mustache moves it aside enough to poke his head out. He reeks of old cigarettes and whiskey, if George isn't missing his mark. "Hey Skraggs," he says, casual. "Need a corner tonight. Got me a straggler, too. He's awwright. I'll vouch for him."

The older man grunts and waves his hand in a come in gesture, turning and disappearing back within the darkness.

George hurries back to Garner. "Awwright, we got a place, but listen. Don't try to talk to nobody. Jes' follow me, and let's get settled. Ain't the nicest place. It's safer 'n some."

He sets his hand on his shoulder and navigates them back to the door, pulling it aside enough to let Garner squeeze through and helping guide him since he's so tall, then following behind. The interior is rich with a variety of stench, cigarette smoke, stale booze, stale piss, stale bodies. George walks them around various puddles of dubious origin through a maze of old hanging cloth, tattered at the edges. Some voices rise and fall in conversation, men and women both, nothing easy to pick out and nothing particularly charged.

They don't stop until he finds an unoccupied spot set apart by old packing crates and with a few layers of cardboard to insulate the sleeper from the floor. "This is it."

Garner looks up as the sound of footsteps reaches him long before George himself, but the explanation is met with a touch of confused interest. "Alright."

A safehouse or just a halfwayhouse or maybe even one of those encampments where bodies didn't know where else to go? He'd know soon enough.

He ducks and twists, with George's help, to avoid banging his head on anything as they go in- and then freezes as the smell assails him. For all the general quiet of the night, he feels as though he's gone partially blind over again. It's not as bad as with loud noises, but still, the strong smells disorient him enough to have Garner's fists clenching and tension rising in his shoulders. It isn't hard to keep from talking when his concentration is entirely on keeping track of George and his guidance.

When they finally get to where they're headed, Garner sighs in quiet relief. He settles down onto a corner of the cardboard where he can keep a crate near to his back and offers a strained smile. "Thank you. You moved through here with confidence and knew exactly where to look. Have you been in this place before?"

George settles in, too, curling up and leaning himself a little bit on one of the crates. "Couple a' times when I been locked out before. I done a few favors for the fellas here and there. They told me about this place if I was ever in a bind." In a bind usually has amounted to him being drunk, out past curfew, and needing to sleep it off.

It's preferable to holing up in an alley and hoping the cops or somebody with worse intentions doesn't come along. It's the kind of community he's used to. It hadn't taken him long to ingratiate himself.

"We'll be fine here. Ain't nobody gonna bother us. Come morning we can head back in." He covers a yawn behind his hand.

Garner nods. "Of course. Thank you."

It puts another brushstroke on the painting of George in Garner's mind. The sort of man whose hands are rough but his heart is kind and seeks out a place in the community he finds himself in, even a somewhat foreign one.

A man worth keeping to his back to sleep for a night.

"Get some sleep, George, I will be awake a little while longer yet, I think."

"Awwright. You need anything or get in a bind, wake me up. It don't bother me none." He settles in fully, and between the spinning of his head, winding down from his earlier pique, and general tiredness, it isn't long before his breathing evens out and he's asleep.

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A handkerchief held all my gear (OPEN LOG Catch-all April)

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