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@astrophager-a
⋆ ⭒ ˚ . ⋆ #△𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇△𝐆𝐄𝐑. independent and selective rp blog for ryland grace from the 2021 science fiction novel project hail mary by andy weir. typically suited to sci - fi / slice of life verses but post - apocalyptic, horror, and others may also occur. please read guidelines before following.
THIS BLOG IS NOW ARCHIVED. AT @ASTROPHAGER.
@astrophager :)
a few notes:
you do not need to tag me in draft responses!!! i have this sideblog linked so i will still get the notifs
all drafts and prompts etc. are considered continued unless of course you wish to drop them your end.
i will stagger following people over the next few days so that i don't get shadow banned. if you are 100% interested in interacting though i would recommend following first because i may not keep all the same mutuals if there are some i haven't really interacted with
please feel free to unfollow my multi if you aren't interested in it, i won't mind! you are not obligated to follow one of my blogs to interact with the other
they are late. she's underestimated the fretting of a last minute packing, ryland's championed her a super packer and she's honestly been that but there are intricacies to be considered, even for a one week spaniard getaway. like what would he like to see her wearing. it's ridiculous, but their almost running, weaving so quick through the crowds they may as well be tumbling past them. it shouldn't be this crowded at midnight. but they're holding hands and laughing until they finally reach the gates, with twenty minutes to spare. ❝ made it ! ❞ her duffel tumbles down to the crook of her elbow as she holds her palm up for a high five, ❝ and you said we'd miss the flight. you didn't drop your passport, did you ? ❞
airports are a new layer of hell, followed by grand central. there’s always some idiots that left things way too late and cause a bustle through an otherwise already crowded and hectic space. those idiots just happen to be us this time. it if it was me alone i’d be panic spiralling, and maybe i still am, but it’s offset a little by the laughing whirlwind of us rushing through like madmen, barely made out excuse me’s and sorry’s and giggles galore.
heaven’s pearly gates are suddenly in sight and the relief is palpable, a breathless ‘thank god’ preceding him walking off a stitch that has settled into his side. their high five comes messy and stays there, fingertips lingering in hers as he rolls his shoulders, steadies himself and his heart back to a more acceptable resting rate. ❛ so not worth the trouble of you deciding between Beach Weave Top #1 and Beach Weave Top #2, by the way. you should have just packed both. it’s not like i’d know the difference. ❜ his futile and half - assed whining is interrupted only by her reminder, and for what might be the millionth time that day he’s rummaging through his backpack, checking the zip side pocket and sure enough finding the passport that hasn’t moved from said zip side pocket since he put it there. if he wasn’t so worn out he might have pranked her, pulled a face of mock fear and yanked her chain about it being lost, him stranded forever telling her to go on without him. ❛ it’s there, i’ve got it. ❜
now he can breathe, replace nerves with excitement all over again, look at her with eyes way too energised for this late at night, and laugh. ryland takes her in, an arm easily wrapping around her shoulders and fitting her neck into the crook of his elbow, kissing her temple. ❛ you know, it would’ve been nice to shop at duty - free. but there’s always the return trip. ❜
he flushes bright red, not even from the compliment, but simply from the sudden attention. forrest is still adjusting to friendship with ryland, still doesn’t quite feel deserving of having so might bright energy in his direction. but he’ll figure it out. “well, uhm, i also have a curriculum. so uh, there’s more in common than you think.”
but it is different, and he knows it. his love for art and his love for science are so very different. “a lot of it is about… intent, maybe? not so much about the skill, but how hard the student is trying to learn. it’s.. i want art to be fun. people uhm. people tend to do better when it feels fun, or like an outlet, or something. so.. i just, make sure they’re engaging? maybe?”
he laughs a bit. “it feels a lot easier when i’m grading things. explaining is hard.”
❛ i get you. tell me to explain the laws of physics to a class full of kids and i’m on it, but the minute you ask me how i get from point a to point b ? forget it. ❜ it is an irony really, when their whole job circles around conveying information in a succinct and bite - sized manner, an accessible way of teaching, but then with adults they lose their mojo. ❛ i bet you get some real, uh . . . ‘creative’ interpretations. ❜
i’m not one to laugh at young minds doing their best, but sometimes the jokes write themselves, are too good to pass up. i remember the kid that asked me if touching a bunsen burner’s flame would hurt. sometimes teaching is merely about controlling your facial expression lest you embarrass an eighth grader.
❛ nobody going van gogh on you and chopping their ears off, i hope. ❜
he ducks away but her gaze doesn't dare deviate from the figure of him as he supplicates to the waves rather than answer her, explain to her, say it again. don't go. it plays over and over with the crashing waves, rewinds with cutting of the carrier through the undercurrent, then crashes again, and again, and again. her mind a sturdy hull that suddenly begins to bend with each replay. she wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him senseless so at least he appeals to something to her that makes sense. what do you mean, don't go ?
her humor falls flat, splats like dead meat on a slab, and he beats at it relentless when he finally rises to face her. she wants to shrink away but her defiance makes her stand taller, push on the rails so she can swallow the words into irrefutable resolution. but it thins as he goes on. what's sturdy softens to tar, to liquid, to nothing. how easily has he dissolved everything she's woven and bonded to her resolve in months, in seconds. she rejects the ease of it, the effect of him, a catalyst that sets off a chain reaction she's scrambling to stop. he's brought it all apart. she should be angry, she should leave him. she can't.
how can he say it so easily ? speak it into existence, a truth she's buried under layers of loam and pushed deep into a core unfound, and he's just unearthed it so simply. no heavy machinery required. he shouldn't be allowed to do that, but it's her mistake to have even allowed it. ❝ i'm needed here to do what, ryland ? ❞ she doesn't mean for the words to come out so sharp, so indignant, like he's cut her honor and left her pride in pieces. but he has. they don't need you. they never needed you. just when she's started to feel part of something great. just when she's really started to believe she could save the world. he tore it apart so ... effortlessly.
if she looks harder she'll know it's not effortless, but she can't see beyond her own promised betterment that he's belittled. she'll know it took everything for him to say those words, she'll know there's more to them than what he says but she hangs on to the simplicity of what he says. ❝ here i'm just a reckless archaeologist who has thrown herself at mystery after mystery for....i don't know for what. ❞ she breathes out, ❝ but i can make a difference. i can ... i can. ❞ she insists, says it twice to believe it even as it falters on the utterance. her head tilts tragically as her hardened eyes flicker with injury.
❝ you don't think i can ? ❞
his name has been sparing in her mouth, a tentative journey from croft to lara, grace to ryland. he had teased her about it the first time, really wanted to prod and pry into the meat of it but avoid what such informalities meant in tandem. he had liked the way it sounded on her lips. it doesn't leave the same satisfying sensation now, makes him want to shrivel up and desiccate : to some extent he fulfils that wish, shrinking against his own conscious will. ryland could speak of hundreds of conservation projects she could be a part of, even champion and lead herself, how her environmental knowledge could be a bountiful asset, her reputation a tool for leverage, her stubbornness a morale booster if he's ever seen one. stratt has heard it all in clearer and more concise terms as he presented his case, but here he can only shake his head in disagreement with her claims : reckless, yes, sometimes, but so much more than that.
❛ no, i know you can. i— ❜ he has to cut himself short, feels the outburst rather than recognises it until it's happened. her implication hurts, this notion that his faith in her is meager as opposed to something so all consuming that he's thought of nothing else for days. she's already made a difference. more than she, or even he can compartmentalise and measure.
i can't imagine a world without her. selfishly even, i don't want to. stratt had considered this angle, gone as far as to jab the accusation at me with barbed spears in her words, and i had refuted it as, and i quote, a load of absolute crap. there might be an inkling of truth in there, but two things can co - exist. lara would do great things here, and have a greater chance of surviving them in the process.
❛ i didn't say you couldn't. ❜ the words come out as terse as a metronome, each one placed as carefully as a piece on a board, that final plosive 't' coming out like a shot. he still can't face her, even the blurred reflection of her movements in the metal sheen of the handrail making his gut turn over on itself. his hand itches to find hers, but his mind scolds it for its idiocy and makes it stay firmly put. ❛ but your expertise . . . is more applicable down here. your place is here. ❜ he hates himself, despises his own dictating of where she should and shouldn't be, fights a measly corner for what he craves and faces his own scorn when he does. he has no right to her. he can't even come out and say it for what it is, has to use excuses of biomes and species and science instead of the law that has nestled itself in his ribcage and made a home. he doesn't know what to call it.
❛ why space ? why expel yourself to god knows what, leave everyone behind— ❜ he hesitates, barely a beat to catch his breath, eyes braving hers with something adamant and headstrong. ❛ for the sake of making a difference ? you can make a difference in a thousand ways, you can— you can stay. it's an option. ❜ he feels petulant, entitled, immature in his wants and out of steam for all his attempt in negotiating them. ❛ i know how hard it is to hear, i know of all people, but you don't have to throw your life away, lara. you really don't. ❜
rain is no expert when he comes to body language, but he’s not being subtle by any means. smile grows, and she leans against the bar. what can she say? she’s always been a sick for people recognizing just how intimidating and awesome she is, even if it’s just a social way like this. power is fun, and she’s never denied that.
“and hot women aren’t your thing?” rain can’t help it, she just can’t. he doesn’t even get the chance to answer, though. “i do the vocals, but i also play guitar a little bit. just a lot of noisy trash, i’ve been working on my growl lately. if you stick around long enough you might get to hear.”
the redirection of the question leaves him startled, nearly choking not so elegantly on the preceding sip of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. he's about to clarify that he's not gay, or attracted to not hot women, whatever that would entail, or any remotely appropriate response to the question at hand, but she's moved on before he could decide exactly what that entails.
it's not that i care what she thinks i am or get up to in my spare time, but the factual accuracy seems important. but then maybe she's onto something, because people don't tend to be my 'thing' in general terms. hot women, hot men, hot people in between and of all shapes and sizes, and not hot ones too. social ineptitude doesn't discriminate.
❛ your gr— ❜ he's not musically indoctrinated enough to determine exactly what that means, is admittedly curious to find out now if only to broaden his horizons. ❛ i take it that's not like a lions, tigers, and bears type thing. ❜ he raises his free hand in a brief replica of claws, regrets it with almost immediate effect, before it has even fully lowered back down into his lap.
─────── THE CORMORANT CREAKED AND HUMMED every once in a while as it bobbed along within the void, with the Hail Mary docked to it that made it shift and tilt every now and again from cosmic currents. Unnoticed by the three occupants in the mess hall, of course, as its gravity generators worked flawlessly to root them to where they were sitting; in an awkward, relatively long silence.
“I’ve got to bounce,” said Moppy suddenly, and the hologram cup of coffee it was nursing disappeared from its hands. “I’m not very good at flying with a ship docked to the Cormorant remotely. I have to use all my processing power for it so we don’t spin out of control from the centre of mass shift, so the bridge it is for me. Sorry to leave you both like this,” it grimaced in apology. “We’re being pulled in and I don’t really enjoy the idea of being burnt to a crisp by the star outside our windows.”
“Aye,” Howard replied weakly, then shifting his gaze at the scientist who sat opposite him, still reeking of uncertainty and anxiety despite his attempts to quell that understandable fear of the unknown. Of vampires and slash or the possibility that he was encountering a xenocreature who just so happens to look like a human being. And in truth? Howard wasn’t fucking sure if he wasn’t a xenocreature who just so happens to look like a human being, on the account that everything past his skin was nothing human. At all.
“A vampire, yes. It’s real, it’s true, and I’m here as proof that it happened, despite myself.” Howard sighed. “I have been dead for about five years after Vicki’s husband Prince Albert died. So. A long time ago, even for your standards.” He shrugged. “Though I-- was in a piece of rock for a very long time and I’d missed the whole -- star eating thing. Everything past the early 2000s. Thankfully, or unfortunately. Whichever the audience preferred.”
“The last thing I remembered was an economic crash. 2008, I think.” Howard leaned over to peek at @astrophager’s mug, to see if it needed refilling. “I was in Washington DC proper. The Lehman brothers had just declared bankruptcy. Katy Perry released her ‘I Kissed a Girl’ song. Queer bait, that,” he raised a finger briefly. “And-- ppfttt. Nothing after that. Next thing I knew I was floating in space and it was year fucking 3000. Robots and Moppy and interstellar flights.”
it's hard to avoid the hansel and gretel accusations, impossible not to suspect all this hospitality and offerings of sustenance aren't just an inventive way of fattening me up. the whole consumption of blood thing has been very clearly touched upon, and i'm still coming to terms with the fact that mine has been in howard's mouth, whether he retched the majority of it out or not.
ironically, moppy is the hardest to face right now. grace struggles to meet its optics, not out of any conscious dismissal given his hurt, but a real fight to not burst into hysterics at every given glance or acknowledgment. it's actually somewhat of a relief when he's left with the vampire rather than the android : a vampire, an android, and a middle school teacher walk into a bar . . . he shouldn't be consuming more caffeine when his addled nerves are already taut with apprehension, but he needs something to clasp his hands around, to soothe his tremors before they can rise back up to the surface.
howard explains a brief timeline that grace really does latch onto for his own sanity, and is somewhat reassured by both their deviations to comparing versus iconic landmarks of the era — he had been about to say that he'd basically stuck around for the peak of myspace and then dipped, but the joke is lodged in his throat, stifled by the still very much encompassing unease. it is an odd thing to accept, that talk of katy perry and queer bait and the great recession are somehow effective in loosening his shoulders, smoothing his brow. whatever works.
❛ so you missed the lady gaga meat dress fiasco. wow. do you even know who lady gaga is ? ❜ grace is certainly not judging, imagines there are plenty of new rises and falls and trends and revelations since he left earth himself, does a quick mental calculation and mourns the years he's missed. he calculates even more quickly the years howard has lived for and thankfully isn't quite as overwhelmed by this when he's had rocky for companion prior. ❛ where were you headed ? ❜
i should be asking the more important questions regarding the whole fudging vampirism thing, but it's like a very sore elephant in the room that i dare not look at, shove myself deeper into the bottom of my mug and finish the dregs of admittedly good coffee. it feels like if i procrastinate getting down to brass tacks, i'll stay safe. if i really dig into the meat of things, well . . . it's uncharted territory.
[ aligned ] sender lays their hand flat against receivers, lining up every digit to compare sizes - @astrophager !
╰› prompts for the romance of hands and touch , @astrophager.
ironically, sabina never anticipated how much she would come to seek out ryland’s company after that silly dating app. had pushed down how lonely she truly was and struggling to connect with people around her. it makes her appreciate his presence in her life even more. how easily he accepted her abilities for what they are and seems to tolerate her casual desire for touch. letting her hug him, loop her arm around his, even hold her hand if she wants.
it doesn’t phase her when she feels his hand reach for her and manipulate her fingers to line up with his. she looks over at him lazily, amused by the focus he’s using on measuring the sizes of their two hands. to no one’s surprise, his hand engulfs her. enough that if he wanted he could bend the tips of his fingers to completely cover hers. “did this prove or disprove your hypothesis?” she flexes her fingers for a moment before relaxing them. she’ll let him decide what he wants to do, but she wouldn’t mind holding his hand. at least when he’s done measuring. “it doesn’t take a phd to figure out my hand would be smaller. considering you’re a giant.”
it is an experiment of sorts, although the metrics aren't necessarily what interests him the most. touch is a strange thing for ryland, something that comes with reluctance and hesitation but also curiosity : it is an unknown variable. such mystery comes with its fair share of interest, to prod and play and see what sticks, but also ever the speculative mind wondering what it suggests, what's too far and over imposing. he already speaks too much, wants to sink into himself when he feels the word vomit take over, doesn't know if he could bear someone shrinking away at his contact. he simply has to be the one shrinking away instead. this time he doesn't, smiles at the warmth of two pulses lightly pressed together, blinks up at her question with a wry grin. ❛ about what i expected. not to toot my own horn or anything. ❜
it is natural for his hand to slacken, watch how his fingertips dip over the tops of hers, then let them slip down and slot into the crevasses entirely, give her knuckles an experimental squeeze. he gets the uncanny urge to rub his thumb in circles over her skin, has to shut it down by curling it inwards lest he trespass some unspoken boundary. ❛ giant ? psht. yeah, right. maybe you've just got baby hands. ❜ he prods his tongue out childishly, blows a raspberry, tries not to think too much about things when his other hand finds its mirror and twines that set together, too. ryland tows one of sabina's hands and then the other, a swaying and playful not - quite - dance as he trades each side's place repeatedly in an idle rhythm. ❛ you know, like baby shark— just baby hands instead. ❜
it's amazing and embarrassing what i learn from the kids. i cringe the moment i say it and decide the best damage control i can do is at least not continue the song through to its end, although like any good viral video it scratches in my head like an arm tactically placed on a vinyl record. i should change the subject, asap.
❛ the phd helped. which is a first. gave me the tools i needed to succeed in hand measuring. ❜ he should let go, feels he'll have far surpassed his daily allowance of getting up in her space, holds on tight regardless. ❛ were you always this short ? i don't remember. was i always that tall ? i think i grew fast. so maybe we were always doomed to this end. ❜
Why don't you tell me what you really think. - @astrophager for johnny!
"WHAT I THINK?" Nobody's really asked him that before. Then again, nobody's been around to ask him anything since the ship launched. His digital body appears to Grace like the hanged man tarot, suspended only by the ones and zeroes that make up his visage. Johnny wasn't made to think. He was made to help whatever crew remained on this ship with their mission. And now that he's had a handful of years to grow a conscience (or the facsimile of one, at least), he's starting to realize he's actually got half the mind to think with. "I think we fuck off and try to find a planet to vacation on."
Arms crossed behind his head, the background slowly dissipates from the dark, vast emptiness into sand on the beach, the waves crashing against Johnny's feet. He reaches a hand out, and instantaneously a margarita appears, which he takes a sip of. "The fuck do we owe humanity for?" Johnny knows sparingly little about the circumstances of the mission, only what the goal is and what the itinerary was. "I can't even be in charge of where this coffin goes. I gotta listen to orders from guys like you. Or, I guess, guy like you. Which is fucked up, don't you think?"
"At least you get to pick our final resting place. You can either spend the literal rest of your fucking days on what looks like a futile suicide mission. Or, you can be the first guy to discover whole new-ass planet. But me?" Johnny turns over as if to look at Grace (he's always been looking, there's cameras everywhere on this ship), pulling his sunglasses down from over his eyes. Projected on the dome, where he was made to dance and entertain, he lowers his tone. "I don't get to choose. I'm telling you, if I could? I'd choose to flip them all a big fat fuckin' bird."
the guy's certainly contentious, remarkably opinionated — not that i have any room to talk — but not all that clued in when it comes to social cues. another point that maybe i'm not the best suited to criticise, but i can at least recognise sarcasm when i hear it. poor fellow's never heard of a rhetorical question.
grace indulges the spiel regardless, gets a sense that even if he tried to interrupt it his words might fall on deaf ears, pities the poor souls that had to put this program together. then there's the people who knew this guy, presuming his digitalisation is based on a real, living, breathing person. what exactly is his purpose again ? it wouldn't be his first pick for morale, and he was so squirrelled away in the hail mary's command system that he's wondering if it's just some elaborate easter egg. ❛ . . . you done ? ❜ he quirks a brow when his company runs out of steam, takes his general point but finds it a little cynical to say the least. ❛ you're acting like we didn't know the stakes. ❜ grace points out with a measured amount of sensibility — something the coming days and weeks will deprive him of, when the truth comes like a particularly nasty eyesore to greet him.
❛ —johnny, right ? not everyone's willing to die for what they believe in. and that's cool. ❜ he hadn't thought he had the mettle for it himself, but evidently he's here and he takes it as a particular note of pride, scratches at the lining of memory to try and find out how he got from point a to point b. ❛ but clearly this was something worth chasing. is it not worth at least having a look ? seeing it through ? there's no saying planet vacations are out for the count. just . . . after. ❜
there is an attempt made to reach fingers out and touch what he thinks grace is referring to, the sand and the water. it doesn’t help, though, even his own device just projects something. the texture is enough for him to ‘see’ but not for him to actually interact with.
“fish. fish in water.” he makes a mental note of this. from what he can figure out, it doesn’t seem like his planet has the same. maybe a good thing, the water seems a little terrifying. (then, so did grace, at first.)
“hunt… yes, we hunt. many prey on planet, easy to hunt in groups. rocky not hunt, really. bigger eridians better suited for that. at one point, i did help make tools. hunting tools.”
i watch rocky's claw try to fabricate and parse exactly what he's 'looking' at, and am reminded how endearing this little rascal can be. it might just be a natural connotation from me getting used to eridian mannerisms, but then maybe eridians shouldn't be so darn cute.
❛ fish in water. you got it. ❜ he affirms, knows that it will be committed to memory in such a fashion that is unnerving — grace has had to resort to note taking to remember every detail rocky shares with him in return, because god knows he'll be scolded if he forgets. he can't blame the guy for not enjoying repeating himself. the revelation has his brows shooting upward, a murmured really? intercepting as rocky explains. grace leans back, slouches with an elbow propping his head up. ❛ so you're telling me, what, you made tiny little spears for nabbing some chow ? ❜ his free arm jabs at rocky's xenonite ball playfully, not enough to jostle it but sufficing in accompanying his fitting descriptor.
she would wade the murky cold for him, pick out the gunk that keeps him submerged and bring him to the surface if she has to, if he needs her to. but ryland is strong, stronger than he believes himself to be. she trusts that he'll come back to her, he comes back to her, he remembers the water, and lara's hand don't relent their comforting as she nods along to gently coax the memories and keep them from flooding. ❝ easy ... ❞ she breathes out, shifts back only a little to give him space as he sits upright. the smile had already been a faltering threat, it completely falls when he recalls. ❝ we...detected a favourable atmosphere. we were there for samples, for the biodome. ❞ lara whispers but the words crowd each other as they force their way out and halt heavily at her lips. they hadn't accounted for the cold, didn't think it was possible for water to be ... water at tempratures like this, so far away from eridani.
❝ easy, easy. ❞ her hands are quicker than the surge of his body as they plant to his shoulders. her head dips and tilts to find his eyes, bring him back to her, ❝ we're not flying. i ... we should be flying, we should get out of here. ❞ her voice falters from a comfort to a quiet urgency, a missed assessment she should have thought of. the exit strategy, she should have gotten them out of here. the planet's tides were unexpected, maybe their math had been wrong, maybe they missed a variable, maybe they got too caught up in her reckless excitement, maybe they're not as safe now as she thought they were. mary was sturdy but she was not built for seafaring. if the ship gets caught in a massive wave ...
lara shakes her had, ❝ rest. i'll get us out of here. ❞ he's showed her how, she's watched him many times, she's a fast learner. they needed to leave, samples be damned. they needed to be tucked into the safety of eridani's orbit and far away from this planet, she needed to make this right. ❝ you think you can lie back down ? i have to strap you in first. ❞ she starts moving, shuffles off the edges of the bunk as her palms linger on his shoulders, one hand only drops to bring the blanket higher to his chest.
❛ the biodome. ❜ ryland muses and it is like a piece slotting into place, the last node of a circuit finally connecting the dots. he's still fuzzy on the details but logic and reasoning return, ironically, in a wave. he assumes mournfully that the samples are done for, might have even braved asking if the more crucial urgency of getting away from the danger didn't nag suddenly at them both. ❛ i should be flying— ❜ he corrects, looks down at her hands with a confused disdain, as if they are a particularly annoying seatbelt that refuses to unbuckle. her intent isn't exactly clear to his addled brain until she instructs his strict lack of contribution, and it is simultaneously an offense and a concern.
does she think i can't do it ? i'm fine now. completely and totally fine, fine - fine. i'm so fine i could—
his head blares with a sudden feeling not unlike an ice pick breaching his skull, his wince far from surreptitious as the heel of his hand comes intuitively to sooth the ache. ryland's movements are clumsy as reluctant as he is to admit it, momentarily missing his temple and knocking into his eye socket. it's not enough to injure but certainly jolts him with surprise, pausing to look at his own palm as culprit.
my own body has turned against me. is nothing sacred ?
ryland narrows his eyes back up at lara, residual worry still encompassing his features. ❛ but you don't— ❜ 'like' seems too childish a word when he knows her fear runs deeper, recognises that as innately as instinct even if he is still playing mental catch up. it feels like he's fallen short of his allocated role, brows crumpling. ❛ —hhmm. ❜ he's exhausted, isn't sure if he's allowed to fall asleep yet but certainly combats it with slow and forceful blinks. he wants to come with her at least, has the disheartening realisation he might hinder her more than help her. but he's always been there, they've done every liftoff and landing together. it seems a bad omen to stop now, and contrary to instruction he shuffles forward, keeps the blanket dutifully held close. it is not unlike his makeshift toga all that time ago. ❛ i'm coming. ❜
she's not the only one who can be stubborn.
i think… blog move is definitely happening this weekend 😛 in prep for this as an fyi i will be staggering following people on the new blog. this is hopefully to avoid any shadowbanning business and generally get settled:
current/consistent writing partners first (and following back any new followers that were past mutuals)
staggering the rest of my mutuals* over the rest of next week
*i might not follow all current mutuals by default, if we haven’t interacted much at all i may clean slate this but you are welcome to follow if you are still interested! i hope to be much more pro-active in messaging new mutuals to plot and will apply this on the new blog.
" you . . . what? " every bit of brightness fades in that moment, the sun hiding behind a thick cover of clouds. the orchestra that swelled in her head has long lost its crescendo, a sharp record scratch putting the exclamation mark on the end of a sentence that should probably be a question. i.e. what does this mean? are you running? did we just make a huge mistake? are you ever going to speak to me again?
" you could stay. " the words come out small and uncertain — very un-brooke-davis-like. all confidence and bravado finds itself knocked out of her when it comes to matters of the heart. hers has been carefully stitched back together, the seams uneven and threads loose.
" you should stay. " a little more sure of herself now. still not a command, but a question. hazel eyes search for an answer reflected back in his, but it's hard to see past the way her own gaze burns back in the reflection of the glass.
" call me when you land? " she's already resigned his answer to a no, her heart sinking as she thinks of the hours that'll pass with nerves as her only friend.
i'm not sure which plummet is worse, the one her voice takes or the drop of her mouth to accompany it. i want to take it all back, make entirely nonsensical promises about staying forever and ever, as long as she'll have me, but there's a frog in my throat and it gets ever more persistent the more she talks, her tiny little voice with no wind in its sails. i'm a terrible excuse of a human being.
he could stay, couldn't he ? his brain's wires are too crossed to do the math, temptation to say to heck with his buffer days growing stronger by the minute, an asteroid that has become so large it has its own gravitational pull. he is caught in its orbit, thrown wildly off kilter. before he can make that plan truly come to fruition she is moving on, talking of times ahead when he is long gone from the circle of her arms and landing on lonelier ground. it is a shock to the system, one that makes his adam's apple bob, swallowing thickly around a lump as eyes threaten to well. he nods, offers a hum that is hard to parse but signifies agreement. ❛ mhm. ❜
he has to go. he has to go with far more urgency than before because tears are on the brink of spilling and he doesn't want her to see them, and detaching from her is about as painful as stepping on nails or pulling a bandaid off with agonising slowness, but he manages it in an awkward and shambling disentanglement, grips his pack and wipes his face. decisively ryland makes a turn away from her, one hundred and eighty horrible degrees with a whoosh of air into his lungs, a stuttering breath that does little to calm him. his lip trembles enough for him to bite into it to appease the tremor, hold it at bay.
why do i get the feeling that if i go now, i won't see her again ? that when i land, i won't call. she won't text. goodbye, new york. it was nice knowing you. i screw my eyes shut, shake my head free of the thought before it freezes me stock still in an airport with a bag in hand that should really be her waist, her cheek, her anything at all.
ryland braves the turn back around, a full three hundred and sixty degree circuit now completed, his expression a ruin. the irony of his ashamed laugh is at odds with the wet streaks that have slid down his cheeks. ❛ i . . . i can't do it. ❜ it feels like something admitted, his nails biting painfully into his palm where he still holds his shoulder strap, a dog with his tail between his legs asking for just a little more time. she said he should stay. it still feels like an intrusion, something he has to ask for. he's scared, petrified on the spot as if medusa's glare had found him. ❛ i can't go. ❜
brows scrunch, a crinkle of confusion forming along the bridge of his nose as the other man raises his arms, shields his eyes, suddenly quite visibly bothered before him. he'd have questioned the abrupt change in behavior had he not been so quickly beaten to the punch. ah. squeamish. he sure did pick a shit time to be afraid of blood-- you know, zombies and all.
'what-- you think i wouldn't have already done that if i could?' comes his swift rebuttal, expression now more awash with a faint exasperation than amusement (though a hint yet remains-- it won't for long). 'not like i'm bleedin' everywhere just for the hell of it. hard to believe, i know.' he catches the garment thrown his way with ease. it's not exactly filthy, but he'd be hard-pressed to say that it's clean either. still, he tears the fabric into strips, quickly wrapping the wound-- it's not perfect, but it would do for the time being. he uses what scraps remain to wipe the red from his arm, a sigh escaping him as they're tossed aside. 'happy now?'
maybe for the moment, he is, but whatever comfort he'd found, carlos was rapidly about to strip away, like a rug from beneath his feet.
'yeah, about that...' so, the bad news first, or the worse news second? 'i lost contact with my team a while ago. lost my partner a while back too, which is why i had no supplies to patch myself up with. pretty much used 'em all tryin' to save him.' not that it had done either of them any good. still, he doesn't regret making the choices he had; he'd try to save him again if he had the chance. 'so, sure, we can try to wait it out. no guarantee anyone's comin' though.' not anymore. 'and the name's carlos. sorry i got nothin' for ya but bad news.'
note to self : don't pick fights, even seemingly harmless bickers, with a military guy. i don't exactly mean to, but the blood thing was just a bit too much to stomach, and we seem to have moved onto safer grounds, so i document a concerted effort to bite my darn tongue and move on.
he's still compelled to watch when injury is wrapped up, if not from an idle curiosity then because he can't exactly tear his eyes away. it's certainly not as gory as a horror movie that is watched regardless of discomfort, but the general effect is the same. ❛ trying. ❜ grace echoes, an accidental parroting of a word that sticks out in his mind ominously. the implication is clear, but he still hopes he's misinterpreted and that his partner — whoever that was — is still alive and kicking as opposed to . . . well, unalive and biting. he doesn't comment on it further, truthfully feels bad for having even remarked on it as it was, but it had come unbidden and unintentional, an expulsion rather than conscious response. ❛ grace. i'm grace. or ryland. ❜ it is said absentmindedly, still mulling on the information given, if only to assess his own place in the situation at hand. ❛ when you say separated . . . ? like, there's a chance of finding them ? ❜
when little miss “i can do it myself” meets mr “sit down"
she observes, and observes, and observes. he gathers up long legs and tucks his head close, he makes himself smaller to take up as little space as possible and it makes her wonder if he's done the same on the vat. there is no way someone like him used to be small, at least not by design, but by intention. she reckons it's the aftershocks of the chase, of the hiding, such things can rattle the soul. she remembers times where she's made herself small, cowered in jonah and roth's shadows. but their shadows are no longer there to keep her hidden from the predatory eyes, eyes she's plucked like trophies and made her own, wields like a weapon when need be. right now is not a time they're needed.
instead her head tilts at grace's carefully minced words, i'm on my own now, and she can't help but think of how a quick way to die this is. humanity's always been built around a community of some sorts. even the damned rippers commune, even if it is around soldering flesh and war cries at the skies as they worship the world's demise. she's tried the alone thing to and realised it's as foolish as what she's doing now, making enemies of allies whose tradeship has kept her alive as she traversed the region. but they don't have to know she's harboring their fugitive. it leaves her wondering, even now, if their good graces is worth staying on if they would so easily turn on one of their own. it leaves her wonder on what he could have possibly done.
❝ you'll die out here if you're on your own. ❞ she speaks the words out loud, a preface for her offer to come before she catches a can of beans and rolls across the ground his way ( she almost tosses it but worries it might concuss him, really ) but her offer still stands, nodding surely in the can's direction. ❝ you can have it. i've got a lot to spare. i was looking for a battery to get this piece of crap working. ❞ she kicks at her makeshift conduction stove and shake her head. ❝ wouldn't advise eating it cold. it will taste like shit, i promise. ❞ her advise ends with a shudder that hopefully alleviates some of the tension. if only there was another way to get any heat going without risking being found out. her legs fall to the ground, criss crossed as she pulls out her weapons to lay at her side, within reach but not nearly as threatening. ❝ is there any where you want to go ? anyone you want to find ? ❞
she speaks of his death as easily as if it were carved in stone, and maybe it is. grace is running on borrowed time, scampering amidst trees and buildings with little but luck on his side : it was luck and carelessness that got him out of that trap in the first place and everything since has been a scramble to remain unseen by alive and undead alike. his luck will run out. grace watches the can roll toward him with all the skepticism of a live grenade but none of the fear. he hopes his expression when he recoils from the label isn’t blatant, nose wrinkling with distaste : beans in a rich tomato sauce sounds grim no matter whether starvation is an imminent threat or not. he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth, doesn’t want to appear ungrateful, although his suspicion is that it won’t taste great no matter the temperature. no offense. he holds it idly, turns it in incessant circles with a murmured thanks, keeps spinning it until her inevitable question where it comes to an abrupt stop.
stratt’s words echo accusatory in my head : you have no immediate family, not even a dog. i hadn’t realised making connections was a set of criteria that so directly impacted my worth as a human being, dictated whether i live or die, otherwise i might have made more of an effort.
grace shakes his head and it feels like a confession, a death sentence. his throat is thick with a deep rooted shame at the admission of such a vulnerability. he imagines he’ll leave her to it eventually, if she lets him go. he thinks she’s right, that he won’t last five minutes, but all he can do is try. ❛ you could make one. a battery. ❜ he offers feebly, reads the can’s label with muted focus : one of your five a day. ❛ it wouldn’t be hard. some zinc or aluminum — check. ❜ he waves the can pointedly, taps the side of the metal with a satisfying tink sound. ❛ copper pipe, then some sort of electrolyte solution : saltwater, vinegar, pickle juice, whatever. the rest is easy to find. easier than a battery nowadays, that’s for sure. ❜ he explains all this without a modicum of enthusiasm, the peace offering of his knowledge so quietly placed that he might as well not be there at all. maybe he can stay just long enough to show her, a trade of gratitude for her getting him out of there, and then escape with his life unscathed. ❛ it’s just basic science. nothing special. ❜ a shrug, a wave off of anything remotely impressive : the can of beans resumes its leisurely spin cycle in his hands.
