George Milton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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apocalypsehowcomm2022-07-02 11:27 pm
bindlestifflost) wrote in apocalypsehowcomm2022-07-02 11:27 pm
Over the hills and far away LOG [OPEN + Closed prompts]
Who: George Milton + various
When: July
Where: Various locations in Gloucester, on the train, in and around ADI
Summary: TDM Prompts + July catch-all
Warnings: scopophobia; paranoia; unnatural animals, thalassophobia; mild scopophobia, bodily harm, stalking, bullying, altered perception, alcohol abuse, discussion of mercy killing/murder, mob "justice," gun violence
Train Home
George can be found in various parts of the train throughout the ride home, the dining car, the passenger area, the scenic window look-out, or the sleeping cubbies when it's dark and late. Pick a place if you want to talk to him about the events in Wolf's Pen or anything else. He's quiet and a little subdued but approachable and willing to talk.
Birdswatching
Maybe it's because he has spent so much of his time outside in his life, or maybe it's because he has always been extra wary of eyes on him, but it doesn't take George long at all to notice something is very off about the birds in the trees and in stealthier spots beneath bushes on the ground watching.
He pulls the brim of his LA Dodgers ballcap lower to conceal as much of his face as possible when he faces you and says, "This is a new one. What do you make of it? Think we ought to cut patrol short?"
If they're just watching, that's one thing. There's no guarantee they'll keep it to that. In his thin, short sleeved t-shirt and jeans, he doesn't feel nearly protected enough from sharp beaks or swarming talons. Not all of those birds are small or harmless, if they got it in their heads to get punchy.
Current Events
Riptide
((OOC: Please note, I'm doing 2 of these. 1 rescuing someone else, 1 being rescued. After that, George would be getting out of the water and not getting back in. First come first serve.))
1. Rescue
George has been enjoying himself in the water, a good swimmer even if being in the surf is new to him. He's swimming slow laps out beyond the breaker line when he notices you shoot past him, and whether you realize you're in trouble or not, he realizes it. "Hey!" he shouts, changing his trajectory almost immediately.
"Hang on! I'm coming for you!" He picks up speed to cut through the water to catch up.
"Relax if you can. If you fight me, we's both gonna drown."
2. Help!
Well, he'd only just managed to get someone else to safety. Whether the current shifted or he somehow managed to get further to his left than he intended, he feels himself very suddenly in a strong pull and sweep. Instinctively, he goes to his back, face out of the water and as little of him under as he can manage. It's still very fast, very far, and he's feeling both nervous and a little queasy when he looks back toward shore.
That's a long way to swim when a body is already tired out. He's looking for anything he can grab onto, and if not, trying to scull sideways to get out of the worst of it.
Poseidon Quivers
George is no artist. He'll be the first person to say it, but building sand castles isn't half bad. He's enjoying himself except for his legs going to sleep under him. He has just finished a rounded turret with a bucket when he's standing up and trying to walk it off. "Damnedest thing," he mutters.
He's wearing a LA Dodgers baseball cap, a plain pair of red swimming trunks that hit mid-thigh, and a cheap pair of sunglasses. His unfortunate permanent farmer's tan and very white legs are on full display, the latter covered with sand.
We Feast upon the Flesh
"You little bastard!" George is swatting his ballcap unsuccessfully at a seagull that just lunged in and stole his entire hotdog out of its bun. "Did you see that? Unbelievable!"
OR
George is sitting on a lounge chair hunched over a plate of food protectively and watching out for any sign of bird movement with paranoid eyes. He's eating in quick, decisive bites. If you draw close, he says, "Better watch your food. Those damned birds are out for blood today."
Spot the Difference
((OOC: Just one thread for the actual artifact, please, since it doesn't make sense to me he'd continually handle something that hurt him. I'll take repeat threads for the other injuries appearing later. First come first serve for the knife part.))
Wearing a pair of thick leather work gloves, George has picked a box and begun carefully looking at, taking pictures of, and cataloging the items inside. He's not keen to discover any weirdness. It's part of the job, and after the events in Wolf's Pen, he's both more resigned to this aspect of it and a little more confident in his ability to handle things.
He has a knife in gloved hand he's turning over to look for odd markings on the blade or handle. A strange sensation stabs through him. He glances down to see a spreading red stain on his white t-shirt on his right side over his ribs. "What the Hell?"
Setting the knife aside, he untucks the shirt and begins rolling it up carefully. There's a five inch gash across his ribs, not quite deep enough to need stitches. "You got a better angle on it. How bad is it?"
OR
It's lunch at the cafeteria. George is digging into a sandwich and some chips when a long wound opens across the back of his left hand. He drops the sandwich and grabs his hand, grimacing in sudden pain. "Aww, Hell, not again. Don't suppose you could grab me a handful a' some of them napkins, could you?"
He's bleeding onto the tray and table despite efforts to stop it with one hand clamped hard to the back of the other.
OR
It's another morning heading out for patrol around the perimeter of the dog park. George seems cheerful enough if a little subdued, his left hand bandaged and his ballcap set a bit low. He doesn't like the idea of the birds able to read his expression easily. He's setting a rapid clip until he suddenly stumbles and grimaces.
"You gotta be kiddin' me," he grumbles. "Hold up. I need to check something." He hobbles to take a seat in the grass off the sidewalk and moves to pull off his left work boot.
Studying
George can be caught in various places around ADI with a study book from the DMV. He doesn't try to hide it if he's caught with it but will need to be approached or spoken to if someone wants him breaking away from his work to engage.
SOL/Handwave Prompts
((OOC: Feel free to pick anything from this list as a log prompt if you want something lighter or fill it out if we've threaded at least once before.))
When: July
Where: Various locations in Gloucester, on the train, in and around ADI
Summary: TDM Prompts + July catch-all
Warnings: scopophobia; paranoia; unnatural animals, thalassophobia; mild scopophobia, bodily harm, stalking, bullying, altered perception, alcohol abuse, discussion of mercy killing/murder, mob "justice," gun violence
Train Home
George can be found in various parts of the train throughout the ride home, the dining car, the passenger area, the scenic window look-out, or the sleeping cubbies when it's dark and late. Pick a place if you want to talk to him about the events in Wolf's Pen or anything else. He's quiet and a little subdued but approachable and willing to talk.
Birdswatching
Maybe it's because he has spent so much of his time outside in his life, or maybe it's because he has always been extra wary of eyes on him, but it doesn't take George long at all to notice something is very off about the birds in the trees and in stealthier spots beneath bushes on the ground watching.
He pulls the brim of his LA Dodgers ballcap lower to conceal as much of his face as possible when he faces you and says, "This is a new one. What do you make of it? Think we ought to cut patrol short?"
If they're just watching, that's one thing. There's no guarantee they'll keep it to that. In his thin, short sleeved t-shirt and jeans, he doesn't feel nearly protected enough from sharp beaks or swarming talons. Not all of those birds are small or harmless, if they got it in their heads to get punchy.
Current Events
Riptide
((OOC: Please note, I'm doing 2 of these. 1 rescuing someone else, 1 being rescued. After that, George would be getting out of the water and not getting back in. First come first serve.))
1. Rescue
George has been enjoying himself in the water, a good swimmer even if being in the surf is new to him. He's swimming slow laps out beyond the breaker line when he notices you shoot past him, and whether you realize you're in trouble or not, he realizes it. "Hey!" he shouts, changing his trajectory almost immediately.
"Hang on! I'm coming for you!" He picks up speed to cut through the water to catch up.
"Relax if you can. If you fight me, we's both gonna drown."
2. Help!
Well, he'd only just managed to get someone else to safety. Whether the current shifted or he somehow managed to get further to his left than he intended, he feels himself very suddenly in a strong pull and sweep. Instinctively, he goes to his back, face out of the water and as little of him under as he can manage. It's still very fast, very far, and he's feeling both nervous and a little queasy when he looks back toward shore.
That's a long way to swim when a body is already tired out. He's looking for anything he can grab onto, and if not, trying to scull sideways to get out of the worst of it.
Poseidon Quivers
George is no artist. He'll be the first person to say it, but building sand castles isn't half bad. He's enjoying himself except for his legs going to sleep under him. He has just finished a rounded turret with a bucket when he's standing up and trying to walk it off. "Damnedest thing," he mutters.
He's wearing a LA Dodgers baseball cap, a plain pair of red swimming trunks that hit mid-thigh, and a cheap pair of sunglasses. His unfortunate permanent farmer's tan and very white legs are on full display, the latter covered with sand.
We Feast upon the Flesh
"You little bastard!" George is swatting his ballcap unsuccessfully at a seagull that just lunged in and stole his entire hotdog out of its bun. "Did you see that? Unbelievable!"
OR
George is sitting on a lounge chair hunched over a plate of food protectively and watching out for any sign of bird movement with paranoid eyes. He's eating in quick, decisive bites. If you draw close, he says, "Better watch your food. Those damned birds are out for blood today."
Spot the Difference
((OOC: Just one thread for the actual artifact, please, since it doesn't make sense to me he'd continually handle something that hurt him. I'll take repeat threads for the other injuries appearing later. First come first serve for the knife part.))
Wearing a pair of thick leather work gloves, George has picked a box and begun carefully looking at, taking pictures of, and cataloging the items inside. He's not keen to discover any weirdness. It's part of the job, and after the events in Wolf's Pen, he's both more resigned to this aspect of it and a little more confident in his ability to handle things.
He has a knife in gloved hand he's turning over to look for odd markings on the blade or handle. A strange sensation stabs through him. He glances down to see a spreading red stain on his white t-shirt on his right side over his ribs. "What the Hell?"
Setting the knife aside, he untucks the shirt and begins rolling it up carefully. There's a five inch gash across his ribs, not quite deep enough to need stitches. "You got a better angle on it. How bad is it?"
OR
It's lunch at the cafeteria. George is digging into a sandwich and some chips when a long wound opens across the back of his left hand. He drops the sandwich and grabs his hand, grimacing in sudden pain. "Aww, Hell, not again. Don't suppose you could grab me a handful a' some of them napkins, could you?"
He's bleeding onto the tray and table despite efforts to stop it with one hand clamped hard to the back of the other.
OR
It's another morning heading out for patrol around the perimeter of the dog park. George seems cheerful enough if a little subdued, his left hand bandaged and his ballcap set a bit low. He doesn't like the idea of the birds able to read his expression easily. He's setting a rapid clip until he suddenly stumbles and grimaces.
"You gotta be kiddin' me," he grumbles. "Hold up. I need to check something." He hobbles to take a seat in the grass off the sidewalk and moves to pull off his left work boot.
Studying
George can be caught in various places around ADI with a study book from the DMV. He doesn't try to hide it if he's caught with it but will need to be approached or spoken to if someone wants him breaking away from his work to engage.
SOL/Handwave Prompts
((OOC: Feel free to pick anything from this list as a log prompt if you want something lighter or fill it out if we've threaded at least once before.))
no subject
"Sounds like it was difficult, taking care of him all by yourself," he says gently.
The 1930s was not well known for its enlightened views on the differently abled, nor for pleasant conditions in the "official" channels to deal with them. "It's incredibly hard to look out for someone like that, even if they're not different. And you didn't even have means or resources of your own. To protect him like you did... I see that as an act of incredible kindness and sacrifice."
no subject
"It was hard, and I was... When we first started, I was jes' a dumb, mean kid. Sixteen. Lennie was a year younger. I was always pickin' at him, getting him to do stupid things so me and my friends could laugh. 'Til one day I told him to jump in the river, and that dumb bastard done it. Almost drowned. I pulled him out, and he jes' hung onto me thanking me for saving him, when I was the one what almost got him killed in the first place."
He pinches hard at the bridge of his nose, clearing anything trying to fall. "I never done nothin' like that again. But I wasn't... I wasn't soft. I gave him lickin's when nothing else got through his head about things, and I was always giving him Hell. That's what he called it."
He presses his mouth to a thin line. "I think the only reason his aunt asked me is 'cause she knew there weren't no one else. Not 'cause I was good or decent, or 'cause I'd know what to do with him. There jes' wasn't nobody. I was always asking myself if that was a good enough reason. If I didn't do more harm than good. For Chrissake, he killed a woman. And I should'a seen it coming after that last ranch. Should'a watched him closer."
no subject
So Nick stays quiet and lets George talk. He's quiet until there's a pause. Then he takes a (simulated) breath and lets it out in a (simulated) low sigh.
"It wasn't your fault, George. I know it's hard to believe, when it comes to a complicated situation like that, and it feels so personal, but... none of it was your fault."
no subject
"Every time I drink a soda or eat my beans with ketchup, I think about him. How we never had enough a' what he liked. How...I wasn't enough." He shakes his head and leans it back against the seat.
"If you'd a' knowed him, I don't think it'd be so easy to forgive me. Anyway, I wanted you to have the choice. Know what kind a' person you's pallin' around with. Saying is a right stand up guy. 'Cause I ain't." And allowing people to say those things feels dishonest when they don't have context. "I'm a hard sumbitch. I always have been. Don't know how to be no other way."
no subject
He's quiet for another moment as George gets down on himself. Says he's hard and doesn't know how to be any other way, even when the facts seem to indicate the very opposite, to Nick. But that's how it is.
"Listen, George..." He laces his fingers together. "I won't tell you I really, fully understand. I can't. We're from different places, different times... but I do know what it's like to live on the edge like that. In a place where there's no safety and no guarantees, nothin' but what you can make for yourself. I know what it's like to be desperate, and what it's like to just plain survive." It's not so different from the wasteland, where the difference between living and dying for most folks comes down to whether or not they can protect themselves and what little they have.
"Hard and soft, right and wrong, good and bad, black and white-- anybody who thinks the world's that simple hasn't really had to live in it." He glances at George with a quietly grim smile. "It's not up to me to forgive you. It's not up to me to judge you. But even if it was, you wanna know how I see it?"
no subject
"Yeah," he says, voice quiet. "Yeah, I do." What Nick thinks matters to him.
no subject
"All that time, you could have left him to fate, left him to a cold world that'd grind him up without a care. But you didn't. You took on that stress, that worry. Even when your back was against the wall, you chose to spare him that pain and cruelty. You took that hurt on so he wouldn't have to feel it. Even now, it's eating you up, and Lennie didn't have to know a bit of it. Wounding yourself so deep to spare a friend... to me, that's the definition of mercy."
He hesitates a moment, then decisively reaches out and sets a hand on George's shoulder. It feels warm and human enough that he can't tell the difference, probably.
"I know what I say and think can't change how you feel, and can't stop you from wondering what-if. But I don't think you're hard, George. And I don't think there's nothing else to you, either. I'm real sorry that happened to you."
no subject
Mercy. It felt like desperation. Like his back to a wall and teeth at his throat. Like any other choice would have killed him, too. And maybe that's the truth, but he isn't sure it isn't killing him anyway. Slower. A different kind of gut shot. Nick's hand feels like Slim's that afternoon, an anchoring weight and understanding beyond spoken words. If it hadn't been for Slim, he's not sure he'd have made it to Soledad the evening after at all.
He holds up a hand halfway, a wordless request for a little time to collect himself. Knuckling at his eyes and wiping the wet off his cheeks with broad swipes of the other. It doesn't take long. "I ain't figured out...how to live with it yet. When I do, I'll let you know."
no subject
"I hope you do," he murmurs. "And I hope, if there's anything I can do to help, you'll let me know."
no subject
Just being there, a steady, affable presence in his life, somebody who sometimes sits with him at breakfast even when he doesn't need to eat, who enjoys the same radio programs he does, who seems to be a good enough judge of character he can't completely discount his esteem, no matter how counter it is to his deep down self-loathing and cynicism that the good things in life aren't meant for him and never will be.
He draws a ragged breath and reaches across to pat the hand on his shoulder, grip it briefly before releasing. "That's the only big secret I got. We gonna live together and be friends, it's the one I needed you to know." There's a long pause. "Thanks."
no subject
Nick squeezes again as George grips his hand, giving another acknowledging nod.
"You're welcome, George."
no subject
"What you looking forward to about gettin' back?" If anything. Aside from his own bed and bathroom and the general routine they were starting to establish, he hasn't set many roots in Gloucester yet. He connected more to Robin in Wolf Pen than any of the natives there.
no subject
He smiles when George does speak again, and shifts back to something closer to their normal interactions. "Seeing my own face in the mirror," he says, quite honestly. "Sounds stupid, probably but... going this long without it's made me kind of nervous."
He taps his fingers idly against his leg. "Well. That, and getting to relax in the apartment again. Hotel rooms always feel so stuffy."
no subject
"You got that right." He wants to stretch out on his own bed with his door closed and maybe sleep fourteen hours or so to wring some of the stress of the trip out of him. It's still hard to believe they did it.
"Be good to get back to the shows. What you think happened in Lake Wobegon while we was away? You think the Whippets won their game?"
no subject
First though, he's got a long, thorough date with a screwdriver, a toothbrush, and a box of baking soda. There are little nooks and crannies in his exposed joints where he's still smelling fish.
"I bet they did. Through some hapless ninth inning miracle." Nick chuckles. "Wonder if they started looking into the World's Biggest Pile of Burlap Bags mystery. I was hoping to hear more about that."
no subject
He laughs a little, too. "You does love you a good mystery. Maybe we'll both get some a' what we want with them updates. I been thinkin' it's right nice a' the radio to follow some little middle a' nowhere town like that. People's always in such a hurry. It's a good reminder it ain't that way everywhere."
no subject
"That's right. It's easy to forget how things are for the humble folks outside of the cities." Case in point, the people of Wolf Pen they've just stepped in to help. "And it's nice, to hear about the simpler life."
no subject
no subject
He's not really told this to anybody else yet, given the place is just a short drive down into the city from here. "Diamond City's built out of the ruins of the baseball stadium, down there in Boston. Shops and buildings and a farm and a reservoir, right there on the field. My house is just past second base."
no subject
His eyes widen a little before he needlessly looks around to be sure nobody is passing by in overhearing range. "I'm gonna be workin' to get a driver's license and see about puttin' in for one a' them company cars. If I can, we could drive to Boston. If you wanted to see it." Sounds like something George might want to see from the ignorant viewpoint of a man who has yet to see a truly large modern city.