apocalypsehowcomm | September Catch-all [OTA]

Entry tags:

September Catch-all [OTA]

Who: Frederick and OTA!
When: The month of September
Where: Various, see prompts
Summary: Skeleton about town
Warnings: Bones

I. Effigy At Work - ADI buildings

The only place anyone can see Frederick as he really is, is the ADI compound. He works in the library, with a message up on the computer screen by his desk stating his name and that he won't hurt anyone, puttering around the books and scanning things for the digital library. Yes, the awkward hunched deer skeleton is scanning things. He finds it kind of amusing, himself.

Though he doesn't eat, some days he'll sit in the cafeteria during or shortly after lunch, anyway, practicing dexterity with his cloven-hoof hands by making a tower of cards. He keeps knocking it over, though, and making rattling noises with the stones dangling from his ribcage as if in frustration, and then starting over again.

He might, perhaps, being attempting to acclimate more people in ADI to his presence and appearance by doing normal, boring things in their presence. Silly things, even. He always has a tablet next to him when he's not in the library, so he can tap out messages for anyone who actually wants to chat.

II. Effigy About Town - General town locations

Everywhere else in Gloucester, Frederick is an amiable old man, maybe a little off in the way he moves, but ready with a smile and a handshake and a friendly word. He patronizes various little shops, sometimes purchasing knicknacks, sometimes purchasing books, occasionally wandering past a diner or cafe and sniffing mournfully at what he can't have. "That does smell very nice," he says to anyone walking with him. "You should get some."

Though one afternoon someone might find him trying to haul home a heavy, old-fashioned typewriter. He's trying very hard not drop it, but it's big and he doesn't have the best grip. Come help him?

III. Dogtown Watch - Dogtown fences

There is not a single thing an old man or a deer skeleton construct could do for people lost in Dogtown, Frederick is pretty sure. But he does kind of loiter around outside the edges, wandering the fences and hedges, looking for anyone who needs a little help once they get out. Or just want someone to talk to, once they get out.

IV. Familiar Tune - near the graveyards

Frederick doesn't sleep... exactly. He definitely doesn't dream, that he can remember. But that odd song does make him feel kind of slow and muddled. "What is that?" he asks whoever decided to come walking in the rain with a small old man. He rubs at his forehead, trying to follow the sound and juggle his umbrella, at the same time. He is not particularly successful, the umbrella listing to one side, exposing him to the rain. He's holding it oddly high up, too, for his very average height and somewhat wizened posture.

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Yelena is already in the library today when Frederick comes in for his shift. She isn't the only one - it's not uncommon for people to be in and out throughout the day to check some reference or another. She is, however, the only one who's out of sight of the door, in the stacks.

Which means when she emerges, still halfway lost in thought, she is not expecting to find an ambulatory deer skeleton puttering about as though this is somehow normal. She certainly isn't expecting to almost collide with him, and her head jerks up, eyes widening in a rare expression of genuine surprise. She curses - or, at least, her tone sounds like she's cursing, though it's not in English - and backpedals two paces before her hip bumps up against one of the shelves. Her hand jerks downward, though she appears to be unarmed, and does not actually draw anything to break that illusion.

If only because she recalls glimpsing this particular skeleton - at least, she assumes it's this particular skeleton, and that someone hasn't decided to animate an army of bones for some unfathomable reason - in the halls once or twice, at enough of a remove to be unnerving, but not an immediate shock.

Frederick dips his head to the person at the computer, someone he's interacted with before, so there's nothing but a wary look and a nod back. Then he heads for the front desk to check any messages that might have been left, and looks up with a startled rattle of stones against bones at her curse. Well, "looks up". He has no actual eyes, and his upside-down skull has very limited movement, but it's clear somehow that he's focused on her. And technically, he is looking down, as he is quite tall.

Then he ducks his head again, hunching his shoulders like a shy person might, and reaches over with his hoof-hands and turns his computer monitor enough on its stand that she can see his standard greeting.

My name is Frederick Cotgrave. I won't hurt you. I can't speak in your language but I understand it just fine.

Then, realizing he didn't actually understand what she said, he taps out, englsh r welsh to add to his message.

She squints a little at the monitor, then forces a small, wry smile. It looks natural enough, were it not for the earlier outburst of swearing, only a slight tension at the corner of her eyes to give her away. She has seen a lot of strange things in her life, and more since her arrival in Gloucester. This is still new.

"Then you're not leshy," she says. "I guess I lose that bet."

There was probably never an actual bet to begin with. Probably.

That's a new term. Frederick types out the word, misspelled because how else would he know how to spell that? Then a question mark.

leshie?

Her nose crinkles slightly, but she lets it be for now. It's romanization, using something nonstandard is not a hill worth dying on.

"It's...a creature from folklore. A forest spirit that can change its shape. You don't really look like the traditional depictions, but antlers and cloven hooves are sometimes a part of it."

Also, leaning back on half-remembered stories from her early childhood is much less disconcerting than grappling with the reality of an animated skeleton.

Oh! Yes, okay, he thinks he remembers some stories like that. Not the same name, clearly, but still along the same lines.

He writes, am a poppet. creation of the white peoples servants from another world tht connects to ours. used t be human thogh. Mostly used to be human. There's a lot of non-human parts in there, these days.

She shifts her weight as he writes, settling back on her heels in a more solid stance, as though she's committed to being here for a while.

"Things from another world?" she repeats, suppressing a shudder. That is - unsurprisingly - something that sounds incredibly familiar.

faerie world maybe, he suggests. That may or may not make it less scary. He continues, though, because he's had this brought up more than once: not th same as this other wrld. white people are not fear monsters. just people w magic. mostly extinct maybe

He remembers meeting the one. And the young lady who was only half, and weak blooded at that. And no others.

She considers this for a moment, then nods slowly. "So something more like another planet than a completely alien dimension?"

That, too, is familiar enough and, as half the people on her Earth can personally testify to, just as dangerous.

"Do they usually turn people into...poppets?"

per legend white people used wax but the poppets r making the poppets now, and we just use whatvr junk we can find, Frederick types. made another out of a typewritr, newspaper, and dolls.

She was not as friendly as he'd hoped, but maybe there was more of his wife's cruelty than his curiosity in that house, in the end.

He does not realize that this is probably not very reassuring.

Yelena doesn't quite recoil, but she tenses a little, expression shuttering in a way that does not conceal the sharp spike of dread as she reads the latest message.

"You turned other people?"

He sways his head and shoulders from side to side. not peopl never peopl. typewritr doll parts newspapr. from my old hose. no animal bones even

He'd just wanted a piece of his house to be his companion, maybe. It hadn't worked out well for anybody, in the end. Ah well, we live and learn. Or not live and learn, as the case may be.

She's quiet for a long moment before asking, finally, "Why?"

It's several questions rolled into one. Why choose those things? Why make the poppets in the first place? Why, perhaps, was he turned, if making them without including anything human is a possibility?

He's silent and still for a long moment, hoof hovering over the keyboard, because the answer is... complicated. It's hard to explain when you have to hunt and peck with three large and awkward fingers.

He finally says, i was lonely. did not live with the other poppets. different from them.

"Because you were a person first?" she guesses, not quite sure whether she hopes that's the answer, or hopes it isn't.

She shouldn't worry about other worlds. This one has horrors enough. But she can't help but wonder what possessed the creatures to make a skeletal monster out of a man, if that wasn't the normal way they were created.

Oh, Yelena. They make more of themselves out of people plenty, just-- not usually so recently dead. Or so old and set in their ways as he is.

Frederick doesn't know most of those details, though, so he sways his shoulders in a shrug. dont know. maybe bc i knew about them befor i died. tried to avoid for many yrs. moved contints and married an awful womn who they avoided.

Possibly because she was awful, he's thought more than once. He'd certainly avoid her if he knew, back then. At least the poppets aren't actively malicious, just oblivious.

"That sounds like a very bad reason to marry someone," Yelena notes. Then again, given her rather low opinion of marriage in general, she can't really think of a good reason, just less terrible ones.

Apparently, being raised by spies in a sham marriage, however much affection they might've developed for one another, leaves a mark. Who knew.

At length, she adds, "I'm sorry for freaking out at you, Frederick. You just startled me."

Frederick rattles the stones in his ribcage, imitating laughter as much as he's able, and types, yes it was.

He sways his head from side to side at her apology. is ok. i am startling. once everyn is used to me i will be less statling.

The last thing Yelena expected when she woke up this morning is that she would wind up feeling sympathy for a walking skeleton with makeshift windchimes where internal organs used to be, and yet.

She reaches out and gently pats his arm. "Yes. We are very good at getting used to things here."

Frederick is quietly delighted. She touched him of her own volition. That's not a thing that happens much even now. He's not touch-starved, given he technically has no skin to feel touch properly anymore, but he does like little signs that he's right and people can stop being afraid of him with time.

And, you know, him being as non-threatening as possible.

He types, all the bettr for me. tho i am sorry for the rest of you. seems hard

"Life is hard for most people," Yelena says. "The way it's hard just changes. And I'm going to be late for my guard shift if I don't get moving, so I will stop taking up all of your time. Stay safe out there, Frederick."

He gives himself a little rattling shake, then writes, of cours. was there someth you needed here frst?

Because she'd been in here, surely she needed something, that he interrupted.

"I was just referencing something," she says, tipping her head towards the stack she'd emerged from. "There's nothing else I need today."

That she knows of. There's always going to be the potential for a research emergency.

Oh, well, then. He dips his head to her.

And pages down to his last pre-written statement in his open document:

Have a nice day! :)

Steve has started doing his own patrols outside of Dogtown, because he's starting to think that it's really a good idea to keep an eye on a much bigger swath of the city.

It's during one of these slightly unofficial patrols that he spots the figure trying to wrestle a typewriter down the street, and it would really be a shame to see that kind of thing smashed. He lopes across the street as soon as no cars are coming to ask, "D'you want a hand with that? Those things are heavy." He remembers.

"Oh. Oh, could you?" Frederick staggers less because of the weight but because he keeps almost dropping the damn thing. And he spent a pretty penny for it at the antique shop since it still works, he doesn't want to damage it. "Please, I don't have very good grip anymore."

"Yeah, of course." Steve's immediately levering his arms under the thing to take some of (most of, if he can manage it) the weight. "Even with a good grip, these are just awkward," he admits, with a laugh. "Where'd you find it?"

Frederick will let him take as much weight as he likes. He'll hand the whole thing over if Steve tries, in fact, and gives his hands (hooves) a little shake. He doesn't feel pain, really, but he wants to make sure all the connections are still strong. No fraying twine.

"There's an antique shop down that way a few blocks, on the corner that doesn't have a stop sign and really should," he says. "It wasn't cheap. But it appears to work. Or it will, if I don't drop it on the way home. Steve, wasn't it?"

Steve does try, so he ends up with an armful of typewriter. Fortunately, said arms are fully healed - if scarred - from those burns and, while not super-strong, still reasonably strong (though they could be better, he's maybe still figuring out the gym thing a little, though Winter has been very helpful).

Steve nods at the answer, files that away - maybe he'll go take a look - but then he pauses, glances over, and "Wait, do I - "

His mind ticks back a bit. The somehow odd sort of feeling he'd gotten when their hands had brushed, like his mind was seeing one thing and fingers feeling another. Also, the fact that this fellow has bought a typewriter - a real typewriter -

"Yeah. It's - Fred?"

He knows ADI can do... something, to make non-humans look human. He has never seen it up close for himself.

Frederick looks delighted. "Very good! You're quite bright. Most people don't make that connection so fast. After all, I don't look much like myself right now."

He pats at his chest a little, and adds, "Or rather, like I do these days. I'm pretty sure this is what I looked like before I died."

Steve smiles, pleased he wasn't wrong. "I might have an advantage," he says, hefting the typewriter slightly to indicate it. He's one of the only people who might have connected the typewriter thing, specifically, he suspects.

Of course, "Either way, you still look pretty spry for a dead guy." Granted, he's been told that himself. "How's it work? Do you know? The - illusion?"

Maybe it's a projection. That seems reasonable enough, based on what Tony can do, but who even knows with ADI, really.

"Apparently it tricks the senses somehow. I still feel like me, and I can put my hoof right inside my ribcage like I normally would." He demonstrates, but it only puts his hand into his jacket, rather than something more hideous. "But when I look in the mirror I see, well, this."

He withdraws his hand to wave at himself.

"It's something ADI does so we don't scare the townspeople. Which I'm not complaining about," he adds. "I do get a bit tired of scaring people, you know."

"Huh." Well, that explains the weird little mental disconnect moment from taking the typewriter, too, Steve figures.

"We wouldn't want to scare the townspeople," Steve echoes, and maybe he should feel a little more like a jerk over it, but even years and years removed, he can remember people looking at him like... well. Not exactly like he scared them. But definitely like he disgusted them. For a long time, he'd felt like he was wearing some kind of illusion, too.

But he can admit that Fred's problem is much more real and pressing. So it is good, in the end. "It is nice. To not have people stare. And not have to type out everything. That's gotta get a little tedious, even if I'm glad it works. You'll be a professional typist in no time - and nobody these days needs one anymore, I guess."

"I have a handy little tablet now," Frederick says, patting the shoulder bag lightly, oblivious to Steve's moment of bitterness. He's not particularly aware of subtle expression and state of mind, these days. "That's faster than a keyboard, though not by a lot. I'm getting better at it. And I think people at the compound are getting a little less awkward." Not a lot less. But a little less.

Honestly, Fred being a little oblivious to Steve's unintentional expression is probably for the better. It's not really something he wants to focus on.

"I'm glad it's working out. Are you acclimating to everything else okay? The tablets and the computers and the credit cards," he clarifies. He certainly doesn't doubt anyone's ability to acclimate to the "future," but if he can help make it less like his own experience, the better, he thinks. There's a lot more going on here than just having skipped a few decades. "Oh - and I guess you don't eat, but if you do, I recommend avoiding the bananas."

"I'm afraid I don't eat, no." He sounds a bit wistful about it. "No stomach, you understand. Or throat. Or tongue to taste with. I tried scooping things up with my skull in the early days, and it just fell right through, or got stuck and then took weeks to get out again. Why's that? What's wrong with bananas? I know they tasted different when I moved to America, but I just assumed that was Americans for you."

Steve nods, sympathetic - yeah. He can picture it. "Doesn't sound like a picnic," he comments about things getting stuck (and hey, maybe it's even a pun).

"They're... they taste different. I read about it, there was some disease, wiped out all the ones we were used and now there's a different kind. They seem kinda like a pale comparison, honestly. Banana-flavored candy, though - that still tastes like the old ones."

Not that that does Fred any good, either. "Are you just, uh. Powered by magic, then? I mean - makes sense to me," he adds, with a little sheepish laugh. "Glad you're still kicking, either way."

"Something like that," Frederick shrugs helplessly. "I believe poppets run on the power of our creators, which might be why we're such a mess these days. The white people, or those in the city where I was made, have been missing for decades. Died out or moved on, and left us behind. We've been making ourselves for some time now."

He looks at his hands, or hooves under the illusion. "Here, I suppose I must run on fear. Which isn't pleasant to think about."

"Ah." That sounds rough, Steve thinks - no matter which way you look at it.

"Yeah, I've heard... anything 'supernatural,' including superhuman abilities, needs fear, here. But that doesn't make it your fault. Not if you just need to survive." That's different, he thinks, than, say, him trying to do something to get the serum-based powers back.

Not that he's not frustrated without them. But still. He doesn't need them to literally live. He's lucky he still looks like this at all, maybe.

"Oh, I know it's not my fault. That doesn't keep it from feeling a bit rotten, though." He shakes his head a bit. "Do you know, I met my wife's granddaughter before I was brought here, and she didn't recognize me at all. Not that I blame her, of course. But it was a bit confusing for a while when I didn't quite realize why she wasn't letting me into the old house."

He's worked it out, since, spending so much time in this town, among regular living humans. Remembering more about how to be human, after a couple decades living mostly alone with the animals and the occasional other poppet. But at the time he could only keep knocking and hope she figured it out, herself.

"That's... a situation I can't imagine many people find themselves in," Steve admits, tone a cross between wry and sympathetic. It's funny, in a way, because you just have to laugh, the same way you had to laugh a lot of things or they'd simply just bowl you over. But it's also really, really not funny, and he gets that, too.

"Well, now if you ever get back, all you'll need to get yourself is a laptop and an email account," he says, feeling the way he feels sometimes - like the words coming out of his mouth are complete nonsense.

Frederick chuckles. "Can you imagine, a big poppet like me, carting around a laptop? Well, it certainly might make little Mouse less afraid of me. That's the granddaughter," he adds. "I'm sure she has a real name, but I'm afraid I don't remember it. She didn't visit often."

"I think it would definitely make her less afraid," Steve agrees, smiling despite himself - but if Frederick can laugh, he figures, then so can he. It would look a little crazy, but sometimes that's the idea. "Never underestimate the benefit of making someone do a double-take."

Even so, "Granddaughter. Phew. I can't imagine." Although part of him might like to.

"By marriage rather than by blood," Frederick says. He doesn't sound particularly wistful about that. It's for the best that she's not related to him, and he never really had much of a paternal feeling about him his whole life. It's fine. "But she was a good girl. Didn't really inherit much from her grandmother, thankfully."

Steve would've understood being glad someone was protected by not being blood related. Hell, he still doesn't know if any kids he might potentially be able to have would be healthy.

And it's not really something he can think about right now, at least.

"Still. Family's family," he admits. "Although sometimes it's better when you get to choose them, I think."

He considers. "Are you... there are more of you, right? Poppets, you said? Are all of you sort of... related by magic?"

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September Catch-all [OTA]

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