dresden

"i want to love, but my hair smells of running and running and running. "

[forgivememysalt-blog]

delsinrhodes:

It wasn’t just how extravagant it was, how it was way too big for Delsin to ever get used to, or to comprehend that someone could call this a home. Something else was strange about it, something that made his skin crawl. He couldn’t place it, it just felt off. And it wasn’t just that the large group occupying the just a big space, the fact that there were still plenty of people around doing their own things and he was on the outside looking in. No, he was always used to that.

This was different, and she felt it, too.

Delsin nodded. As much as the place weirded him out, there was a familiar sensation of discomfort, to want to get out of there. The doors were open, he could always just go. But where? Where else was he gonna go? Back to the apartments? He survived on his own long enough. Besides, it was nice getting some extra hours of shut eye.

But was it worth it to feel so trapped again? To feel that tension slowly creep in until it exploded into something violent? Or something sinister? It was like a timebomb just gradually ticking away. And he didn’t want to be around for the explosion.

“Or we find bodies in the basement or the attic or some shit,” he replied, giving a glance toward the staircases. He wouldn’t knock that cliche; this house looked like there would be bodies in the floorboards somewhere. “It’s never always as nice as it looks. There’s always a catch with nice things.”

There’s always a catch with nice things.

The statement makes her frown in consideration. Dresden turns slightly, taking a moment to look Delsin over. He’s taller than she is -- not that that’s hard to achieve -- and in good shape, she thinks. Gorgeous, almost in an untouchable, Hollywood sort of way. But there’s something in his eyes that makes her think --

broken

-- like her. Delsin’s like her. He’s been through shit, seen shit and done shit that few other people could even imagine. It’s obvious if you know where to look for it, and only someone like them would: it’s in the tight curl of his shoulders, like he’s taking up as little space as possible. Less surface area means less places for people to touch you, smaller odds of contact. It’s in the hard set of his jaw, like he’s used to clenching it tight and soldiering on. Her own teeth begin to ache in empathy just looking at him.

But it’s mostly in his eyes; they’re a striking, clear blue but there are shadows dancing in their depths. Memories. Ghosts.

When she looks back up into his eyes, she wonders if he can see the recognition in hers. 

Me too, she thinks.

Out loud, Dresden sighs, turning back to the high ledge with the ridiculous table and chair set. 

“ This place fucking creeps me out, “ she finally admits, shuddering. It’s not a confession she would’ve made to anyone else, but something about Delsin feels safe. Safe enough, anyway. And she had promised herself to try harder with the people in the group. Vulnerability builds trust, right? “ Seriously. “

[dailyemsten]

really, i’m incredibly disjointed and not candid. just in general, my thoughts tend to come out in little spurts that don’t necessarily connect. if you hang around long enough, you can find the linear path. but it will take a second. that is why these interviews never go well for me.

[forgivememysalt-blog]

delsinrhodes:

He noticed her jump, brow raised for a moment. He had kind of crept on her, spoke up out of nowhere when he usually felt more compelled to keep to himself. But it was too easy to criticize the mansion they were currently residing in, too easy to point out the useless overabundance of crap in the house, too much space, too much shit no one was ever going to use. 

She continued with the conversation, and Delsin shook his head. Who needed ten bathrooms? “Fucking hell,” he spat, taking another look around the room they were in. Overdecorated with too many couches and lounging chairs, fur blankets draping over the back of most of them, too many goddamn pillows, there was even a fucking bar lining the edge of the room, two spiral staircases crossing behind it. And that was only one room.

“This whole house is just why? You don’t need all this shit. Don’t need ten fucking bathrooms, or that,” he turned back around, pointing up at that ledge. “You could hang out in one wing of the house and never touch the other half. No one needs this much space.”

“This place is fucking weird. Can’t wait until we get a move on.”

Her shoulders relax the more he talks. His appearance had been unexpected and no one can blame her for having shoddy nerves after everything they’ve been through. But now she’s breathing easily again, even if she’s still a bit nervous. It’s the house.

There’s something wrong with this house.

“ Oh. You--... you feel it too? “

The itch to run out the front door and keep running until this entire estate is far behind her grows more insistent with every minute she spends among the all the opulence and the emptiness. Because it is empty, despite all the stuff inside. Sure, there’s something crawling over her skin like beetles, something sinister and menacing, but the air, the... energy or whatever... it’s so still.

So dead.

“ Something’s going on with this place. It’s not just ridiculous, it’s fucking creepy. Like -- “

She pulls a hand through her hair, yanking through the tangled mess with more force than she’d intended but not really noticing.

“ I feel like somebody’s gonna open a door to a room and it’s gonna be like, ‘Surprise! A whole fucking family of Buffalo Bills lived here; see all the skin suits?!’ “

[forgivememysalt-blog]

delsinrhodes:

Delsin was already weirded out by the mansion as it was. Too fancy, too perfect given the condition of the world outside. It remained untouched from the Hell on Earth, and he tried to consider it an upgrade, but all Del wanted to do was get the fuck out of there.

But maybe part of that was from realizing exactly how many people were in this group, too.

He tried to keep to himself for the most part, sticking to the back and barely saying a word to anybody. Ezra had good intentions, offering him to join, and having met another girl in the group– he only recognized her just now as she stared up at the ledge that was decorated with useless furniture no one could ever reach. He remembered pointing the gun at her back at his apartment, back when he had been debating the offer. He thought she was an intruder, which she was, but she had just been exploring, just trying to survive like he had been. 

And she had been part of this traveling circus, too.

Delsin glanced up toward the ledge as well, arms crossed in front of himself, “You’d think they would have spent their money on something more practical,” he murmured, shaking his head. He dropped his gaze toward her, “This whole house is a fuckin’ shitshow. You know they even have an elevator in here, too? Three stories and a goddamn elevator.”

The voice coming from behind her makes her jump and squeak. She hadn’t known anyone else was around. Any other time she would’ve felt stupid for thinking she might be alone considering the sheer number of people in the group, but the mansion they’re in is enormous. She’s almost positive that she could find enough tucked away corners and (useless) rooms that she could avoid contact with everyone else altogether.

So it hadn’t been that dumb to be surprised that someone was around.

She turns to look over her shoulder and sees the guy she’d met while exploring the town around the church. He has a name like hers, two syllables, starts with ‘D’... even ends kinda like hers does...

It’s not Deacon, they already have one of those.

Devin?

...Delsin?

She forgoes puzzling out his name and shakes her head at his statement instead. The more she finds out about the place, the more she doesn’t regret that they haven’t met the people who owned it.

“ When you’ve got this much money, there’s no need to be practical. “ She looks back over her shoulder again, an eyebrow raised. “ It’s got ten bathrooms. Ten. You could take a shit in a different toilet every goddamn day of the week and still have three leftover. Like... what the fuck. Why??? “

[forgivememysalt-blog]

@delsinrhodes

Dresden is actually kind of disgusted.

The mansion they’ve taken shelter in is the definition of extra.

There’s absolutely no reason for the design and construction of a place like this except to flaunt your wealth, so Dresden feels justified in thinking that the people who built the opulent estate had to have been snobs. It doesn’t look or feel at all like a house; even the kitchen where she’d normally think a certain degree of resplendence and luxury is acceptable has her frowning. It doesn’t match the rest of the house -- it’s boring in comparison to all the pomp and flash of the surrounding structure. The place is just too much. Too flashy. 

Too pretentious.

There’s a table and chairs on an inaccessible ledge two stories in the air, for Christ’s sake.

Dresden stands beneath the ledge, neck craned and straining as she gazes up with mild horror on her face. What, she wonders, could possibly have been the thought behind putting a table and chairs in a place where no one would ever be able to use them? Screw pretentious, that was just dumb.

She mutters to herself under her breath, 

“ What the--? Fucking rich people... “

[forgivememysalt-blog]

What do you think happens when we die?

“ When I was little, I would’ve said we go to Heaven to be with the angels, but now... 

                      --Now I try not to think about it too much. “

[forgivememysalt-blog]

What's something you wish would happen, but know won't?

                “...that’s not a serious question, is it?”

                                                           “Guess.”

[forgivememysalt-blog]

chouxmilah:

Milah’s got a literal duffel pack of pills and miscellaneous articles of medical supply in her grasp. Secured by a pharmacy run across the way that’s seen a few hours of her time fly by, she spent most of the occasion milling through labels and packages and other such similar things before deciding the bag was heavy enough. Despite the carefulness taken to get the items in the first place, she’s tossing it aside the moment she has a chance to with an exaggerated swing, letting it sit on the ground next to the desk Dresden so happens to occupy. 

Glancing up at the question, there’s a note of confusion that comes with it, but she soon shrugs it away as she jumps up onto the counter, deciding a break was necessary. “Peachy, man. You?”

Dresden feels an eyebrow curve in curiosity when Milah tosses her bag down on the desk. It clatters and rattles in a way that makes her think pharmaceuticals. There’s a pharmacy not too far away -- she’d remembered seeing it in passing on their way in -- and it’s obvious Milah’s found it and gone shopping. So to speak.

“ Fabulous, “ she snarks back, sitting back in her seat and crossing her arms over her chest. She’s still not sure what to make of this girl, but she’s sworn to herself that she’s gonna try to be more... involved. So she shuffles through her internal data banks for something that might count as small talk. People did that, right?

“ Find anything good? “

[forgivememysalt-blog]

heavendestroys:

The question almost startles her when it comes.

Part of it can be blamed on how little she’s paying attention to her surroundings, more attention on the sawed off shotgun she’s shoving shells into. It’s habit by now to unload it when she comes in for the night, a measure of safety that she offsets with a constantly loaded handgun.

But her head lifts, searching out the source of it and finding a woman behind the customer service counter. Which is an almost normal thing to see. 

“Hmm?“ Still, it takes a moment before it fully sinks in what she said. Followed by a quick nod of her head, because even if she could claim otherwise, there are enough people here worse off that she wouldn’t open her mouth to complain.

“I’m fine.” There’s a quick smile before she returns it, a measure of concern filtering through. "Everything alright with you?”

Dresden feels apprehension settle heavy and tight across her shoulders when she catches sight of the gun, but she lets out a slow breath a few moments later. She’s seen this woman around, and it’s clear she knows what she’s doing with that weapon. Dresden feels silly for her initial reaction and hopes it doesn’t show on her face. She tries to fashion a genuine smile with her mouth, but only manages to just quirk her lips to one side.

She’s not used to smiling.

“ Yeah. ...Yeah, I’m good, “ she nods, her tone starting out quiet and meek but gaining strength and volume as she forces herself to get used to this. Interacting. Being cordial and open.

“ Are, uh... how’re things lookin’ out there? “

[forgivememysalt-blog]

Everyone’s back.

All the people who’d been taken during the attack on the inn, the ones the rest of the group had been worrying over so desperately -- they’re all back and alive, and the relief running through everyone has been practically palpable. Dresden has been careful to keep an outward facade of cool detachment, but if she’s honest with herself, she’s glad everyone’s okay. And jealous that she doesn’t feel that same connection with the rest of the group.

That’s entirely her fault, she knows; the fact that she’s new isn’t at all helped by the fact that she’s very purposefully kept herself away from everyone else.

But she regrets that now, only she’s not quite sure how to make up for it. She guesses she could start by talking to people.

She’s sitting behind the customer service desk, flipping mindlessly through a magazine when she senses someone approach. She bites her lip, contemplating what to say for a moment before settling on something... stupid, if she’s honest.

“ You, uh. You doin’ okay? “

[roman-alza-blog]

But We’re Monsters Too || Dresden & Roman

[forgivememysalt-blog]

roman-alza:

When the world went to Hell, what kept Roman alive was hisability to steer clear of any danger he could outrun. Of course, he knew how tothrow a punch and had enough experience in physical altercations with his teammatesthat he was reasonably skilled in combat. But he didn’t know a thing aboutguns, still doesn’t. The only experience with knives he had before theapocalypse started was with the blades he used to cut his food.

Where guns are concerned, he’d have to keep up a supply ofbullets, he’d have to learn to aim the barrel the way he aimed his throws, he’d have to get over the concept ofshooting to kill. With a blade, he’d have to get up close and personal withwhatever he was fighting, he’d have to get over the sound of metal crackingagainst bone, he’d have to get used tofeeling the limpness of a corpse killed by his own hands.

But he had no choice.

At some point, after coming face to ‘face’ with some creaturehellbent on removing the thing beating in his chest, he decided he had to gethis shit together. No one will ever feel more obligated to protect him thanhimself, and it’s why despite any help, he’s sure he would be dead if it weren’tfor his machete. He thinks about Nate who must be out there somewhere with hisguns and perfect aim, and then Carter who mustbe somewhere putting the rifle on her back to good use. And finally helooks at Dresden, already on edge from the noise, from his friends in danger,and gawks at her for not being armed.

He bounces on the balls of his feet, feeling like he’srunning the field and just waiting for the ball to be thrown to him. “Okay tellme you can fight or something.” There’s agitation in hisevery word, though it isn’t meant entirely for Dresden. “Look I know you haven’tbeen here long, but my people, our people,are in serious danger right now.And I’m bettin’ the more of that danger we can get rid of, the better. I’m taking out those fucks with face paint inthe next room, can you help me?” The question sounds desperate because it is, and Roman feels like he has to do something where he would have before; like helping this group stay safe will make up for the groups where he’s let people get hurt before.

Do I fucking look like I can fight? she wants to spit.

She’s all of 5″5′, 100 lbs. if you stuff her backpack with barbells and free weights, and he’s asking if she can fight. Her words are cutting, sure, but her body isn’t made for defense.

Just seduction.

Just sin.

Do I look like I can fucking fight? she wants to scream.

The noises around them are getting louder and more violent, and Dresden feels her heartbeat pick up, a stampede of horses rioting in her chest. She doesn’t know what’s happening out there, but it’s not good. Not even close. She hears screaming -- not just yelling, but screaming -- and every bit of her wants to clap her hands over her ears, roll under her bed, and hide.

...

Well.

...

Not every bit of her.

Because a small, tiny, infinitesimal part of her -- the part she actually listens to -- wants her to cock her ear towards the door so she can hear more, parse out what’s a scream of terror and what’s a scream of pain...

Something warm uncurls in her belly that Dresden hasn’t felt before, and it scares her. It’s... a little familiar but not in this context...

Do I look like I can fucking fight? she wants to yell.

“ Yeah. ...Yeah, I can fight. “ is what comes out instead.

[rolemodelsxx]

[roman-alza-blog]

But We’re Monsters Too || Dresden & Roman

[forgivememysalt-blog]

roman-alza:

@forgivememysalt

The body, the mind more specifically, has a way of compensating for drastic changes. The break of a winning streak, a big move, a death in the family, the end of the world. The mind has a habit of trying to maintain some kind of equilibrium, contorting the psyche into whatever it needs to be to keep its owner moving forward. Whether it’s running, walking, or crawling doesn’t matter, because the only other options are stopping or heading back. And in any normal situation, stopping would mean a stable lack of progress, and heading back simply meant a longer journey to a better state of mind. But now the world is far different than any regular doctor or self-help book can account for. Stopping now means dying. Moving backwards now means taking leaps away from the comfort of what humans pretend to be. In the world they live in now, survival hinges on ability, on instincts, on the capability to appeal to a stronger being’s mercy. In other words, in the world they live in now, they must remember how to be animals.

What keeps Roman moving forward these days is his parents in San Francisco, the idea that Rina would laugh at him if he were to give up so easily, and the desire to win whatever game God or whoever-the-hell was playing with them. But there are moment when he takes a step back. When he goes to sleep and is met with the recurring dream that his life would go back to the way it used to be, he takes a few. Instead of waking up in his own bed, he wakes up in one of the Hampton Inn’s. Instead of feeling a person by his side he feels the sheets dampened by sweat beneath him. And instead of being awoken by an alarm clock at the crack of dawn, he’s woken up by a scream sometime in the afternoon.

His mind doesn’t catch up with his body as he jumps out of the bed, nearly falling over a night stand he forgot he’d moved. A guessing game takes place in his head and he tries to nail down the owner of that scream. Assuming it wasn’t Delilah or Rowdy, logic tells him it must have been Naomi, but it also asks why. He gets half his answer when the building shakes under his feet and for a moment he hears a thunderous noise that takes him back to the day this all began. The sound of buildings crumbling is something he can’t forget, the noise from the Earth cracking open carefully categorized as something to make him panic. Like clockwork, his heart’s racing in terror and an excitement he doesn’t quite register. He gets dressed like his life depends on it, grabs his bag and his machete, and heads out to the hall.

There’s commotion outside but he can’t make out what it is; motors, yelling, an earthquake? “Hey!” he shouts into the hall, hoping someone else is around and knows what the hell is going on. He gets another part of his answer as he passes a window with a view of a mass of people outside. Face paint… a truck with spikes… and Violet. He recognizes the others but is overwhelmed with the need to help when he sees her down there. As fast as he can run he feels like he isn’t moving fast enough, the sounds coming from all over the building working to disorient him. He’s running further down the hall toward the stairs and just catches a glimpse of a group of unknown faces before he’s ducking into another hotel room.

“Fuck.” He didn’t catch sight of all their weapons, but the glimmer of a pistol was unmistakable. “Fuck fuck.” He can leave them alone and go help outside, but what if that group became someone else’s problem? What if someone on his side got hurt fighting who he chose not to? He’s going to need for that his machete. He looks up. “Uh-” Dresden. He remembers her name immediately and then shakes off his surprise, “I didn’t know anyone was in here- sorry- but some shit’s going down. There’s a bunch of people that aren’t with us.” His speech is scattered, jolts of energy striking his spine, thoughts becoming clear of anything that isn’t ‘win or die trying’. This isn’t gameday, he thinks to himself. Those things didn’t look like monsters, take it seriously. He leans back against her door. “Please tell me you got a weapon.”

Dresden spares maybe two seconds to curse literally everything for bringing yet another type of hell down upon them when she’d just gotten used to the idea of settling down for a while before she sneaks over to a window and peeks outside. She can’t see the cause of the massive ruckus she’s hearing, but it feels close. And big.

And unmistakably human.

She hasn’t accumulated much -- she hasn’t had time to -- so what little she does have fits easily into the bookbag she’d gotten, and she’s inching closer and closer to the door before she knows it. Everything in her is telling her to hide -- in the closet or under her bed, the adjoined bathroom... somewhere. But logic tells her it will just delay the inevitable; it’s only in movies that the bad guys don’t think to look in all the secret places for survivors before they abandon their search altogether. 

A lifetime of fear and memories wash over her, and Dresden shudders, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears she can feel forming behind her eyes. She can’t cry. Not here. Not yet. She has to get out.

Once she knows it’s safe.

She inches closer to her open ( and why the fuck had she left it open? ) door, but before she can peek her head out, Roman’s in front of her looking as flustered as she feels.

“ Um. Yeah, no. No weapon. “

[forgivememysalt-blog]

chouxmilah:

“Right, but dude. Still not actually touching you.” When the hand is swatted away, Milah seems to frown in mock-disappointment as the pointer is nearly snapped in half at the motion, but that was mostly alright in the end. It was a cheap, useless thing anyway. Instead of giving in to temptation and forcing the stick back into her company’s face, however, she decides to merely toss it behind her since it was likely all covered in gross scar girl germs by now and studies the other instead.

She isn’t convinced by a long shot, and it doesn’t seem like the scarred girl is willing to have her insides gutted. … Maybe one more shot at it. “Are you sure? I feel like we’re missing a golden opportunity here.”

“ I feel like you might have psychopathic tendencies, “ Dresden parrots with a frown. She’s eager for this conversation to end, both because her present company gives her the heebie jeebies and she sorely misses the silence that had cocooned her before she’d been interrupted. Not to mention the fact that she desperately wants a shower.

“ Are you the standard welcome crew, or am I just lucky? “

[forgivememysalt-blog]

roman-alza:

“What? Admitting you got no excuses and offering to do what you can? Where have you been all this time. Another helper, God bless.”

After he’s done being dramatic, he throws the towels over all the water on the floor. The last thing he needs is someone slipping a breaking their neck. Looking at the ceiling for holes, he continues, “if you’re in here I’m betting someone’s already given you a rundown. What’s your name?”

“ Atlantic City, “ she snorts, rolling her eyes at the drama.

“ The rundown? Ha. “ She thinks back on the ordeal that was trying to get into the hospital and shakes her head. “ Yeah, you could say that. “ There’s a bit of a pause before she answers, Dresden taking a minute to weigh how she feels about the question. He’s got a right to ask -- if anything, just to make communicating easier. Exchanging names doesn’t mean exchanging histories, exchanging details. 

It’s just her name.

“ Dresden, “ she concedes finally. “ Dresden Spencer. “

[forgivememysalt-blog]

sanguisx:

Leon knocks back more water, wiping his mouth with the back of a scarred hand. It doesn’t help, the liquid unable to soothe how sore his throat felt, but at least he didn’t feel like he was breathing in air against cardboard any more.

“Fight. Nothing to worry about. I took care of it.”

She doesn’t miss the scars on the back of the man’s hand -- there are a lot of them, like a whole lot -- but she doesn’t comment either. He hasn’t mentioned hers, and she appreciates it so she’ll return the favor.

“ Wasn’t worried, “ she sighs, giving him a shameless half-shrug, “ just nosy. “

[forgivememysalt-blog]

deaconhughes:

Deacon was fine with the shrug. Maybe she didn’t want to get into how she got here, where she came from– fine. People had their reasons to keep their secrets. But she mentioned where she came from, and Deacon decided to just leave it at that.

“I got here a little bit ago myself,” he replied, “came all the way from New York, but I came on my own. Apparently most of these guys came from there, too.”

New York. Everyone she’s talked to seems to have come from there. That’s actually not surprising when she thinks about it, especially considering they’re currently in Jersey, but she can still feel her eyebrows go up a bit when he tells her where he’s come from.

She takes a pull of her cigarette before asking quietly. “ Were you born there, or did you move there? “