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apocalypsehowcomm2022-05-16 08:09 am
- !event,
- !finale,
- !npc,
- bucky barnes (mcu),
- cornelius hickey (the terror),
- cortana (halo),
- edalyn clawthorne (owl house),
- hunter (owl house),
- kate cordello (original),
- katrina (siren),
- manji (blade of the immortal),
- zz_addison montgomery (grey's anatomy),
- zz_ade bennett (the wess'har wars),
- zz_ainsley whitly (prodigal son),
- zz_andrew jaeger (original),
- zz_beauregard lionett (critical role),
- zz_bruno madrigal (encanto),
- zz_callisto (xena: warrior princess),
- zz_donna noble (doctor who),
- zz_garner cinderbrooke (original),
- zz_george milton (of mice and men),
- zz_jeff calhoun (original),
- zz_john carter (er),
- zz_jonathan sims (tma),
- zz_luka kovač (er),
- zz_malcolm bright (prodigal son),
- zz_misty quigley (yellowjackets),
- zz_neal caffrey (white collar),
- zz_nick valentine (fallout),
- zz_orpheus (hadestown),
- zz_rye kalibash (original),
- zz_tim drake (dc comics)
Event - Appalachia: Into the Pines
Footage plays on the television as a new story comes on, showing a series of sweeping vistas, intercut with clips of wolves that have clearly been filmed at some local wildlife sanctuary. "As far as anyone knows it, the last wolf to ever freely roam the Allegheny Mountains was slain in West Virginia in 1897. Daniel Stoffer Hamrick saw to the beast's passing, and the woods in our part of the world have gone quieter ever since. Appalachia does not forget its history, though. It buries it beneath coal and flyash, debts and white powder and pills. And the blood of people taken before their time, by the mines, by the mountain, by things we don't have names for, just hurt. But Appalachia does not forget.
"This is Cindy Parsons with Channel 5, Wolf News." Footage cuts to a newscaster standing outside a gated apartment complex with FYRE's logo emblazoned on it. "As we know, our beloved Wolf Pen is home to one of the biggest FYRE worker housing complexes in Wyoming County. It is a monument to the history of our town, and this week, we'll be on the lookout for visitors from all over the country, coming to see the grand re-opening of the historic Bluestone Mine as a museum."
Footage cuts to a nondescript businessman, identified by the news footage as Carl Watts, CEO of FYRE. He's smiling blandly as he stands at a podium and gestures to the entrance of the mining tunnel behind him. "The Wolf Pen community has been a partner to us for decades now, and we knew it was finally time to give something back to all y’all. We'll have our soft opening on Monday with a full Rumble Down Under party in the old mines scheduled for June 15th. We'll have a live bluegrass concert and anticipate a huge influx of tourists to the area to help out our neighbors itching for a few more pocketbooks to tend to." A wink.
The footage returns to Cindy. "FYRE has stated that this new museum will provide an educational tool and tourist attraction for those wanting to learn about West Virginia, Wolf Pen, and the hard-working men and women who have made this beautiful part of our nation their home. Time will tell. Time is always telling when it comes to the promises of people who have used our land and our bodies to line their pocketbooks. They fill our blood and our lungs with black tar and-"
Cindy cuts out and is replaced by in-studio anchors. "Thank you, Cindy!" a blonde woman says, smile just a little strained. "I think we're all looking forward to seeing the big opening by FYRE on Sunday and that rocking good party next month. It should be a gneiss one! Now to Tim with the weather. Tim?"
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Because how many times does he have to repeat himself to Malcolm before it sticks to the guy's head? Tim's lost count with previous attempts. He stumbles some, slipping in his footing. Something under his shoe crunches. Tim's not sure if him being waist-deep is because of his own efforts to free the memorial, or if something else is at play.
Like Malcolm had said.
A trap.
But this would be worth it. This would make Bruce proud. Jason would even... acknowledge this as... a good thing to do.
Right?
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"I'm not digging deep." He answers, muttered. "It's stuck."
Sounds like a great metaphor for... something. Tim tightens his lips, grimacing.
Stuck.
Like, the way his arms are now stuck, like something down below is tugging at him. He shifts his weight- his footing slips again, and he sinks another foot into the waste. Hell.
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“A…are you stuck?” he asks with sudden alarm.
cw trash, literal trash
The thing is, Tim can't say Yes. Because his eyes widen a near comical amount and the next instant he's tasting putrid, rancid things. Even with his mouth shut and his eyes instinctively screwing shut, he just knows the gunk is enveloping every inch of his being.
Instinctively, his chin barely above the waste and with one hand pawing frantically at the surface for some leverage, he clutches at the secrets against his chest.
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“Oh my god, Tim, let go of that shit you picked up!”
It’s the only difference between them.
cw bugs, panic
There are bugs on him.
There's solid things and slush of things, his legs feeling the weight of it all. His nose is burning, and from someone who has had the odor of death around him as often as he has, that's no small feat. His chest is tight. Constricting. The hole he's fallen into is constricting his--
Tim coughs, because he has the presence of mind to attempt to release the breath he's holding. He needs to fill his lungs again. Before he goes under.
He can't. He can't breathe in, there are roaches and worms and something is tugging at his shoulders and Tim yelps because he's probably going to be stretched until his intestines spill out, huh, and that isn't at all how he ever thought he was going to go--
"Malcolm!"
Okay, that's loud. Tim's keening comes at the price of something in his ear. It's moving. He can't breathe, he can't feel his legs, he's managed to bring himself to bring both hands up to claw for security. With Malcolm's help, that means his shoulders stay above the worst of the filth.
Re: cw bugs, panic
cw bugs, always bugs
He can hear Malcolm now, and a moment of lucidity makes Malcolm's words make sense. It could be funny, that Tim has overcome doses of literal fear toxin with more poise than this. He makes a last-ditch effort to kick his way into more solid footing.
He gets a sharp, specific sort of scratch against his hip instead, and Tim winces. He simultaneously grabs a hold of Malcolm
(god bless Malcolm)
and struggles to dig out the Batarang from his pocket.
Suddenly, yes, he can kick underneath himself better. He finds a shelf to balance on. Don't look he wants to warn Malcolm, but Tim's pretty sure he'll hurl if a fly were to get into his mouth.
So he starts to shrug off his shirt, because with the way he stashed the paper clippings, he has no idea how to dig them out without risking losing what balance Malcolm's helped him get.
cw bugs, always bugs
"That's it. Come on. Hold on," Malcolm encourages, pulling him.
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He's on his hands and knees long enough to catch his breath (it stinks over here, Christ almighty) and make the decision to
not
reach back to the trash pile to retrieve his shirt.
"...keep it," he curses pitifully at the trash. It doesn't respond. Because it's trash. Tim is literally talking to trash, and his skin feels both wet and sticky, and Tim's blue eyes look up at Malcolm in a great, universal rendition of what the hell just happened?
"Oh my god," he mutters, wincing as something drips from the hair on the back of his neck. Shirtless, it means the drip tickles his back. He reaches up for Malcolm's hand again and says, "I won't hurl on you, promise. Help me up."
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"I've had someone's spattered brains get in my mouth once. Your stomach contents on my shoes wouldn't faze me much, I promise."
cw injuries
Another internal little note: Tim refrains from straightening up completely. He busies himself with flicking grime from his pants legs, but only after swiping soggy bits of trash from his arms and torso. Just to reiterate: "Please don't mention body parts right now," he pleads.
Two birds, one stone. Right? Tim doesn't want to see a damn disembodied thumb right now. He also doesn't want-- comments. It's not that he's (too) shy, or insecure. But the last time he was half-naked... well, Jeff never cared.
(Jeff never cared about anything but himself.)
But Tim knows he's criss-crossed with scars. He's not as far gone as Bruce, or Dick. He's careful. (Had been careful, until... recent events.) But there's a creeping line of burns on his back traveling to the back of his head, a surgical scar over a mangled piece of skin over where his spleen had been. A slice over his heart- another just missing the mark.
Old scrapes, miscellaneous cuts. Miscellaneous-- bullet entries.
Malcom is bound to notice and Malcolm's big mouth is bound to comment. Tim sighs, tired already.
"Let's get out of here."
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"Do you want my jacket?" he asks, already shrugging out of it. If he doesn't want Malcolm to see his body parts, he probably doesn't want strangers looking at his personal injury museum either.
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He smells like baked dog crap. He probably has some under his shoes.
A glamorous occupation, that of an underfoot busybody.
"I need a shower," Tim points out. He wonders how long he can keep up with filling silence with obvious observations. He looks to Malcolm again, gratitude apparent but he still whispers, "Thanks."
And, "Do me a favor and drop me in a vat of industrial grade bleach?"
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"Maybe Lysol, instead. I'll even scrub behind your ears with it," Malcolm assures him. "Or you could just use the shower at the hotel. I can get some clean clothes out for you while you turn the water as hot as it goes."
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It's an ordeal finding his way off the mound of garbage; he waits up for Malcolm. In that second, Tim's eyes scan the landfill again. There's no trace of the annotated adventures of Batman, no glaringly obvious evidence of who's who from Gotham City's nightlife.
Tim would feel bitter about risking his life for nothing... but he's tired, man.
"What happened? Why didn't..."
The Adventures of Hot Gollum And Dumpster Boy.
"Nothing's there anymore. I don't know if that's a good thing."
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"Ninja star," Tim replies, and he guesses the Bats are Ninjas now. That's terrible. Tim hates ninjas. "You saw me pick it up, you asked about it and I told you about ninja camp. What did you see me take out?"
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With the midday heat, Tim's at least glad it seems like the odd landfill worker has taken off to lunch. The expanse of waste at his back, he can't help the... slight... hesitation at the edge of the property. It's not that he's thinking of going back to root for what could be there. But the risk... of being wrong is...
"And... did you see anything else from your home? Right now? On the way back out?"
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"Nothing from the time I dropped what I'd picked up, in fact," he notes.
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But it's the piano; Tim can just know it.
He shakes his head and figures he's just going crazy. He shakes his head again to ward off some passing, pesky, fly.
"Guess that makes me a hoarder," the kid says, and it could be funny. He could fit everything material he gives a damn about in a backpack. A rucksack is overkill, he's learned.
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"Tim, they're messing with us. That's what they do. It's not you; it's them." He picks a piece of garbage out of Tim's hair and drops it on the ground. "Looked like the top of a pudding container."
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Snaking down his skin.
Every step, he can kinda feel the squelch of moist socks. And that's unnerving, man.
"I know it's mind games, Malcolm, but..."
Maybe. Maybe.
Jesus Christ, his anxiety can't catch a break, huh? Tim dares to run his fingers through his hair. Sticky. Sticky. A gross tell to displace the churn of worry. "Did you see me pick up anything else? Besides the... throwing star?"
...
"Because... if you did. I need you to forget it. All of it."
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