apocalypsehowcomm | Event - Appalachia: Into the Pines

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Event - Appalachia: Into the Pines

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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She's a quick study - a couple passes through the steps, and she has the pattern down. That brief glimpse of some darker mood is entirely erased by bright interest - despite the similarities, these aren't the steps she knows, and more importantly, there's no ulterior motive at all behind the teaching.

"Okay," she says, smiling. "Let's do this thing."

That is one thing you pretty much never have to worry about with Winter: any motive other than the clearly stated one. He's here to show her dancing, and maybe to have a little fun. Because this? This is fun.

He actually grins at her, then pulls her into a fast swing step. He moves easily, like this is second-nature, and for once without any hesitation to touch her. He twirls her out, then back in against him for two rocking steps, then extends her to the end of his arm again.

She laughs as he twirls her out, bright and carefree. A couple more passes, and she's comfortable enough to add little flourishes of her own. Nothing flashy, just fun, playing with motion.

For this brief moment, it doesn't matter that there are people in this town that would gladly see the world ended. It doesn't matter that they are, both of them, broken weapons struggling to learn how to wield themselves.

Whatever may come in the next few days, the next few weeks, she will cherish this brief span of time, and the sight and feel of her friend happy and unafraid.

Once she seems confident, once she starts adding in her own shit, Winter can really get going. She gets lifted off her feet a couple times, tossed into the air once, and swung around to the point where someone not trained for dancing would get dizzy.

He only keeps her out there for the rest of that song and the next, because he's not superhuman anymore, and he needs breaks. But when he does, he's still grinning, even if a few people in the crowd are watching, and they get a wolf-whistle from somebody. "See? It's fun," he says, though now he has to let her hand go. The lack of discomfort only comes when actually dancing.

"Very fun," she agrees. She doesn't protest when he lets her hand go, just uses it to make a cheerful gesture in the direction of the wolf-whistle, one that sets them laughing too.

"We'll have to find somewhere to do this when we get home."

Because it is fun, and they need that light in the darkness. But also because it's unlocked some part of him that doesn't shy from touch or from people. And while she doesn't think he will ever be truly comfortable with crowds or free with contact, nurturing the part of him that doesn't recoil can only help him heal.

Can only, she thinks, loosen his patron's grip.

He gives her a sharp look, one maybe with a bit of hope to it. "Other people know this?" he asks, easing out from the people still around on the dance floor, assuming she'll come with him. "It's. Apparently it's very old."

He considers, then suggests, "I can swing you around our living room. But we might hit a lamp. Or the wall."

Yelena does fall into step with him, switching sides to casually place herself between him and the thickest knots of people, the ones most likely to be careless about touching a stranger.

"We can move things around to make space," she says. "Or set up on the lawn and invite the neighbours. But yes, it's the sort of thing other people know. Probably not in any of the bars, but smaller group events. I'll see what I can find for us."

He notices. He's torn between annoyance at being managed and gratitude that she even wants to do it. And maybe a little relief that he's got a buffer between the worst of the crowd and himself. He steers them back towards the bar, for something to drink.

Not alcoholic, because yuck. But there's some fruity drinks here that aren't terrible.

"If you find other people who know how. Then I'll go. Maybe not on our lawn, though." That seems awfully personal for a thing he's only just discovered. "There should be music, too. The right kind of music."

"The music at least should be easy," she replies, making a mental note to do a search once they've returned to the inn - it's too noisy in the bar to add another source of sound. "The magic of the internet - if it exists, someone has uploaded it somewhere."

"I never thought to try music," Winter admits, leaning up to the bar. "Maybe I should have sooner. And I'd have remembered."

He orders himself a fruit juice mix-- no citrus, it's all raspberries and blueberries and milk, and lots of sugar-- and lets Yelena pick whatever she wants. He's apparently mastered ordering a drink, anyway, because he seems natural enough at it.

She orders a vodka soda, something she can sip while they talk.

"We can look for other music from around the same time, too. Build you some playlists for when you're working, but need the noise." And see if it draws forth any other pleasant memories.

He looks puzzled at the concept. "If I'm working that means I'm on patrol. And need to be focused." Why would he want music just for noise? Noise is distracting, isn't it?

"Or training," Yelena says. "Or training someone else." She shrugs slightly, tracing an absent pattern on the bar with the tip of one finger. "It can be useful for that - one source of input instead of a dozen. And for helping set a rhythm."

"I never had anything like that. With." He doesn't finish. She knows who with.

Except, for a moment, he feels like he did. A flash of lights, of repeated words, of confusion--

--he shudders all over and puts his face in his hands for a moment, palms, metal and flesh, ground against his eyes.

She doesn't reach out to him, though her hand lifts briefly from the bartop before she checks herself, checks that instinct.

"Winter," she says softly. "What is it?"

"Sorry. Sorry. Piece of a memory," he says, shifting his palms against his eyes instead of covering his whole face. "Not. Not sure what it was. But it hurt."

It felt like it was stabbing his brain, is what it felt like. It still feels like that.

And just like that, the sound of the music, the people around him, all of it is suddenly too much. He pushes back from the bar, leaving his drink behind.

There's no hesitation - he pushes away from the bar, and she follows after him, slapping down a bill that's much larger than would be needed to cover their tab.

That doesn't matter. The drinks don't matter. What scant few whispers of new gossip she might glean if she stays don't matter. Winter matters, and his distress, and the chance - however slim - that something in this town might seek to exploit either.

He doesn't quite barrel out of the club, but he definitely eels out through the crowd at the fastest speed he can manage without making a scene. And he goes for the nearest exit, which is out onto the street in front rather than somewhere secluded like the alley. (Probably for the best; there might be people back there already looking for privacy.)

One out in the open, he gulps cooler air, trying to get his heart slowed back down again, trying to convince his head that it's a memory, it shouldn't be giving him a headache like that. He grinds his palms into his eyes again.

Yelena's agile enough to dodge through the gaps after him without having to apply a judicious elbow to anyone's ribs, which spares her being delayed by a bar fight - something that would not end well for anyone, when both bones and cover stories are weighed in the balance.

"Here," she says. "Come with me. Someplace quiet."

The street...isn't. It's not a city in full swing, but there are enough people in varying stages of intoxication, voices raised in conversation and catcalls and arguments that teeter on the edge of boiling over.

He nods, and falls in behind her when she leads. Memory. It's memory. It's not happening now. It's not now, stop pounding, you stupid head--

"There was a word," he mutters, just loud enough for her to hear, since he's hovering right at her heels. "Over and over. And a light. It. It hurt?"

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Event - Appalachia: Into the Pines

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