doubt that the sun doth move;

Marcel Gusterson. 29. You can call me Hamlet. Deluded. Brink House.

[mgusterson-blog]

after-shocks || inferno || phase ii

[lake-valentine]

Prince of…. [that sounds awfully familiar. But maybe he’s only being cheeky. Or like, beating Lake to the punch, sort of like how Lake does when he introduces himself and then quickly shouts YES like the body of water NO that’s not why my parents named be that. (And also no i dont know why they named me that maybe they wanted to torture me forever shut up okay.)

But that train of thought is exactly the reason he doesn’t really know what to say. Because filterless Lake is like YOU HAVE A NAME THAT’S FUNNY LET’S TALK ABOUT THAT MR. SHAKESPEARE, but the other half of him is like WELL HEY YOU’RE NAMED AFTER A FREAKING BIG-ASS PUDDLE SO MAYBE STFU.

He clears his throat. ] Huh. Well, it’s uh, tickity-boo to meet you too, bro. I mean, obviously I got a kinda strange name also so like. Us weird name bros gotta stick together. 

[mgusterson-blog]

[Marcel can see the confusion sweeping Lake’s reactions clean, like if he looks for long enough he’ll be able to see the little engines turning and fuming inside the boy’s brain, past his wrinkled forehead. It’s a little concerning, because there’s a silence that sits between them, but he is used to that pause.

That pause doesn’t happen often, but he comes across it at different times. When he’s delusional, he gets the confused silence when he introduces himself. When he’s lucid, he gets the pause when he tells people about his condition, because they often don’t know what to say, and it takes them a while before they’re uttering a quiet little “...oh.”

It doesn’t bother him anymore.] Sure. If you so speak, it must be. [He agrees, but it’s only to humour Lake. Hamlet is not a weird name.] 

[bear-little-loss]

inferno // phase iii // marcel and orson

[mgusterson-blog]

bear-little-loss:

[He smiles softly, but it’s bittersweet, because he can’t not apologize, and he can’t deny that he doesn’t feel he needs one from Marcel. Not for ‘zoning out’. Not for any of that. If they start apologizing to each other for their own delusions they can’t control, he doesn’t know quite where they will be, but it will be nowhere good. They do enough apologizing for the others. The uninfected. 

But what he’s apologizing to Marcel for now is not his infection, his delusion, but how he’d dealt with it.

Maybe Nadine is right. He does this to himself. His isolation. Perhaps because he is weak. He’d never thought of himself precisely as such. He doesn’t quite know anymore. ] 

I just… it’s not like that. You don’t have to be sorry for, um, zoning out, or whatever. It’s not like you can help it. I just… you offered me an honest explanation and I… couldn’t. I didn’t. And I should have, because the way I reacted needed some kind of explanation. You’d been honest with me. I should have given you the same courtesy. 

[He sucks in a breath, as if that’ll help lighten the weight of talking about this. 

It doesn’t. It never does, and he doesn’t know why he continues to bother. Breathing doesn’t help anything, but keeping his heart beating. He’s not even sure how alive it makes him feel. It just keeps his body going through the motions.]

I can’t… touch people. I get visions. [It’s blunt, and yet not clear, he knows.] It’s why I pulled away. I see… people die. When they touch me. I see how they die. I just… reacted. I’m sorry. 

[Marcel wants to apologize again, wants to dismiss Orson's disimissal. Yes, he can't control his zoning out, but it doesn't mean it's not a bother; it doesn't mean he's not sorry for it.

He doesn't make a sound, however, bites into his own tongue because he knows it's not his turn. The boy stumbles but is consistent as he speaks and Marcel knows he should stay quiet, respectfully. He doesn't know the other Brink too well, it's true, but he can tell it's a fight in his mind to say the words he's saying. The atmosphere around them grows denser because it's got that seriousness of a tense subject, and it’s not just mindless apologies over small bumps on the road.

His brows furrow as he listens, focused and hanging onto the boy's every word though he doesn't agree with them. He doesn't need an explanation, he'd made it clear that morning. No one had to explain themselves over who they did or didn't allow into their personal spaces.

But this isn't a request to explain himself, this is something Orson is offering him. He thinks these are words that aren't often said, by the way the boy seems to hang them up to be heard, quiet and almost shy, in an inconsistent line of thought.

"I see people die... How they die." The words sweep clarification through the corners of his mind but that doesn't mean he truly understands it. It makes sense then, why Orson jumped away from touch so quickly that morning, and though it helps organize things in his head, it wounds a knot of hurt in his chest.

Orson can't touch anyone or he sees how they die. He can't touch.]

[Marcel can't begin to wonder what that must be like, how isolating and lonely. He licks his lips, buys himself a second more of silence, convinced that he's breaking his time limit of quiet thoughts.] So you'd see how I die, if we touched... Right. [His tone is nothing but realization and he nods once, twice, and his features slip into something better, understanding eyes despite the hurt that sits tense between his ribs. Because he does understand now, and he respects the boy even more.

There's a bravery that needs to be awarded behind the way Orson shields himself, and that at the same time he's here, apologizing and explaining something that Marcel is sure can't be easy to explain, if the tone of his voice is anything to go by. He has a million questions going through his head in a hurricane of confused thoughts, but that's not what the other needs.] I’m sorry. Thank you for telling me, [he says first instead, and it's the most genuine he's been in days, he thinks. He does appreciate to have somehow earned the right of hearing about it.]

So it-- that's why the sleeves? [He glances at them, then; long sleeves paired with fingerless gloves, just like the other day. It makes sense, but it doesn't. Because Orson pulled away that day, and Marcel was only going to touch his shirt, technically. He knows questions are not what they need, but he can't help this one because it’s already slipping out and he wants to talk about this, doesn’t want to let it die.] Or does it happen with any touch, past your clothes too?

[mgusterson-blog]

after-shocks || inferno || phase ii

[dulciius]

[His words patter like droplets of a waterfall. They build and flow onto themselves time and time again, he paints a picture and then colors in those finite details with a smile on that face that twinkles in a settled sincerity. Natalie stares at him a moment or two, words so pure and unbridled, they’re as light as a summer breeze. Nat wants to agree and sign them with an easy breezy smile of her own, but not today–those mauve lips of her lie heavy in sated silence.]

You’re probably right. [She concedes though. because some part of her does believe it even if she doesn’t believe so right now.]

[Her gaze charges back to the surrounding around them once again, there’s so much going on to capture her attention. The wave seemed to have hit a multitude of those around them, but the chaos of the moment seemed to be subsiding with the passing seconds. She felt relatively fine, the unease in her stomach and tightness in her throat the only solid reminders of the havoc that had wreaked upon her body not moments ago. The acquaintance beside her seemed alright too, so Natalie thinks the wave might be passing.

Turning to face the brunet next to her once again, Natalie pulls a smile from the shambles of an otherwise tired face and stance, sprouting an introduction because she supposes they never really did get to that–not with vomiting and gagging being what had brought them together in the first place.] I think we’ve met before but…I’m Natalie.

[mgusterson-blog]

[Marcel understands her heavy words, the cloud that hangs over her features, tugs the corner of her lips down. It’s more than understandable in a day like this. With all the suffering around them, it feels almost like a sin to give so much as a smile. It feels like staining a grieving scene, like mocking everyone else's pain.

It's not like that, he knows it's not, but he knows the feeling, too.

He watches her look around and his eyes follow, dancing over the confusing sea of faces and characters he doesn't recognize. It's dizzying, and it burns hot anxiety in his chest because he despises it, people he can't place in his play, people he doesn't know how to call or what part they play. Hamlet inside is practically screaming in agony, but externally he only lets out a heavy sigh, knowing better than to cause a scene.

The introduction makes him smile, however, mirroring the girl's own more out of Pavlovian reaction than any true need to tug his lips upwards. Since he was a baby, his father had always said he smiled to anything that caught his attention, so it carried with him still. See a smile, show a smile. It was instinct, and not even Hamlet could erase gestures so deeply engraved in his personality.]

Hamlet, [he offeres a hand out politely, slowly so that the movement won't in any way offend his already upset stomach.] 'Ts my pleasure, milady.

[eleanorandroid]

Visit Original Link

Regina Spektor - Hero

no one’s got it all ♪

[bear-little-loss]

inferno // phase iii // marcel and orson

[bear-little-loss]

[For a split second, Orson thinks he maybe upset him, somehow. And then for a moment quickly following that, he thinks Marcel is getting sick. They they really will have to rush to the infirmary before he spills what’s left of the only meal they had had a chance to have that day. 

And then he understands, but it takes a long few minutes before the conversation can continue. Orson tries not to stare, as if that will make the process more difficult. But it’s hard to keep his eyes averted, when Marcel is blinking at the floor, struggling to find purchase on himself. When he is stammering and squeezing his eyes shut and withdrawing into the darkness of his mind. 

Orson knows what it is to get lost in there. 

Five minutes, and they are awkwardly shuffling into the Torren common room, their PDDs now programmed with access, and they are following silently behind some Torren Elites, who lead them to their new rooms. And that’s when Marcel is back, smiling at him apologetically. Saying hello.

Orson can’t help but smile back.] Hey, [he says. And it feels like relief.] Welcome back. [And that, feels like an affectionate tease, and he’s surprised at himself. At the comfort it takes to speak that way to him. Perhaps they became something like friends, and he just hadn’t seen it happen. Perhaps it’d snuck up behind him when he hadn’t been looking.

Marcel goes on to continue the conversation, so Orson tries, also.] Yeah… I mean. Obviously she made good points. It’s just… well, it’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about. Um. Why I isolate myself. And why I need to apologize to you. 

[mgusterson-blog]

[There’s relief in the pit of his stomach in knowing Orson isn’t upset about having to wait until the switch between Hamlet and Marcel is done. It’s hard on him because it’s a battle he has to fight on his own, but he can only imagine how uncomfortable it must be, to watch the apparent struggle.

He should feel like a mad man, if it wasn’t the fact that there are so many of them in the colony.

The welcoming is a joke but it warms the smile on his lips a little bit, spreads them wider until the wrinkles by his eyes are showing. It does feel like coming back home. It feels like regaining control when you thought it was impossible, and it’s comforting to feel Hamlet shoved to the back of his mind, quiet and peaceful for now.

He doesn’t doubt the delusion will act up again, probably at night when he starts having nightmares again. But at the time being, he can’t worry.

They’re at the Torren tower now, and there’s a panic that wants to burn the pit of his stomach down into ashes at the reality of the situation. In theory, most dorms are very much alike -- same beds, same sheets, same curtains. But they’re different in their small, idle ways and he’s nervous about having to fit in all over again. He’s so familiar with Brink, he can’t think of replacing that.

At least he has Orson with him, who’s such easy company.

“Apologize to you”, he says, and Marcel almost scoffs. He doesn’t, because he holds himself more carefully around the boy, like he’s someone refraining from sudden movements not to scare off a wild animal. The idea of Orson asking for forgiveness is still ridiculous to him, though, so he shakes his head.]

What? No, you don’t have anything to apologize for, Orson. [It occurs to him the vague memory of calling him “duck”, and he almost loses his train of thought.] No apologies, please. Otherwise I will turn this into an apology fest for the times I zoned out in front of you. [It sounds like a threat, and his lips twitch up in silent amusement.]

[bear-little-loss]

inferno // phase iii // marcel and orson

[bear-little-loss]

[He shrugs.] There isn’t much to say, I guess. [It’s a tool. A means to an end. A path to his betterment. According to her, anyway. 

And he thinks he may like her, as much as he likes anyone, he supposes, though that isn’t really saying a lot. She’d been kind though. Insightful, if a bit honest in a way he didn’t want to hear. He couldn’t say he wasn’t used to that though. To feeling pushed, to feeling pressured by people who didn’t understand. 

But perhaps it’s him who doesn’t understand. Perhaps it’s him he sees the world upside, and though he spends his life convinced that he isn’t crazy, that one plus two equals three, maybe the colors he sees are black and white to the world. Maybe one plus two equals six, and his delusion blinds him. 

Maybe he’s not who he thinks he is. 

The idea scares him, which is weird, considering he isn’t positive on who he is, or who he wants to be, even on good days.] 

She thinks that since I… enjoy reading, that it would be a good way to meet more people. To not be an island. She thinks my isolation is unhealthy. [When he says it out loud, it sounds like it would be obvious. Painfully true. But he lives in a world in his head, and there it’s not crazy at all. From there, it’s safety. It’s inevitable. It’s fear and deflection and defense all rolled into one.

To connect will only mean disappointment. It will only mean failure and pain. In his head, his choices make sense. But she speaks to him like he’s only feeling sorry for himself, and he can’t help but feel confused, from moment to moment, as to whether or not she’s right. 

Maybe Marcel isn’t the only one with a flickering sense of self. Maybe Orson knows what that feels like, too. 

Who is he? Who does he want to be? What is he seeing? Is it lies, or is it truth?] 

[mgusterson-blog]

[Marcel is half surprised that the head of Brink is finding him ways to end his isolation. Sure, he’s tried to physically reach out before and he was then decidedly pushed away, but he figured it was just a touch thing, not a common occurrence.

He can think they’re all islands, in the end, pretending to build bridges left and right but knowing they can’t reach out as much as they used to before D-Day.

Isolation can be unhealthy and he knows oh so well. It strikes a chord with him, just the right one, because it’s a rush of memories too real to be Hamlet’s; they glare back at him like open wounds, ugly and painful and too much.

He remembers staying home, getting up only to feed his dog when he could. He remembers missed calls from his friends, he remembers the television playing old movies on mute. He remembers dehydrating and he remembers visits to doctors because he had a vitamin D deficiency, a direct result of keeping the blinds shut. It’s vivid and yet it’s all blurred together, like they could’ve been days or years worth of time.

It brings Marcel back, but that’s never an easy process. He struggles, stammers, tries to begin a sentence only to be interrupted by himself. He stares blankly to the steps while they climb some more, his hand still on the railing though he’s hardly aware of it.

It’s a while -- he can never tell how long --, and then he’s back. He squeezes his eyes when he blinks, clears his throat as if he hasn’t spoken in a while. In a way, he hasn’t.

Orson, yes. It’s almost amusing to him, that it’s the second time he’s meeting the boy and once again they’ve met as Hamlet and he came back mid-conversation. It’s a weird pattern that he feels sorry for submitting the other to.]

Sorry, [he says, because he always apologizes,] hey. [His voice is softer, not in the way Hamlet’s is, but in a way that matches the ashamed smile on his lips and the concern in his eyes. He doesn’t want to interrupt the conversation to dance that whole I’m-Marcel-again tango, because he thinks it’ll get boring fast, so he continues as if it’s all explained enough already.] That’s-- I think that’s a good idea. You shouldn’t be isolating yourself. I know it first hand.

[bear-little-loss]

inferno // phase iii // marcel and orson

[bear-little-loss]

[The man makes a compromise, and it’s not until he does that Orson realizes he’s doing it only because Orson seemed to be showing that he cared. 

And does he? Why would he? Why wouldn’t he? 

Normal folk have compassion, care about loved ones, or friends. 

And it’s not that Orson isn’t ‘normal’ enough to have compassion. He quite clearly does. But is Marcel his friend? 

He barely knows the man. Barely knows the man he plays to be while in the fog of his delusion, even. But Orson has so little in his life, and he realizes Marcel has become an accidental connection. Someone with whom he stumbled upon common ground, and doesn’t quite know what to do with now that he’s here. 

He’s sad. And sadness he knows. Loneliness he is familiar with. But friendship feels like an unpolished memory. Four years is not long, when cut out of the average american, pre-d-day lifestyle. But four years of this. Of complete isolation. That’s a long time. It’s even an eternity. 

He nods slowly. Swallows.] Alright. [He doesn’t know what to say now, so he reaches for honesty; it’s really all he has left, even if it’s irrelevant. But Marcel is hiding behind Hamlet, now, and Orson would prefer to safe his apologies for the person who most deserves them.] 

The Brink Head… she thinks I should start a book club. [He gives an almost self-deprecating smile. His shoes scuff on the floor as the climb the steps to their new tower. He wonders how long it’ll be until they rebuild. He already aches to be in his familiar space.]

[mgusterson-blog]

[The boy doesn’t seem so convinced, and Marcel hesitates for a second, wants to make sure he knows it’s all right. He’s sick, sure, but it’ll go away. The infirmary certainly had so many other patients to deal with, people with worse cases, he doesn’t want to be a bother.

That could be an easy summary of Marcel: not wanting to be a bother. He thinks it’s a little funny, even.

The mention of a book club has him humming in interest, and he’s glad that the silence was filled with something else. He -- quite surprisingly -- can’t find anything to say, so he’s content the boy has a subject to present. Not that he’s uncomfortable in silences, but that one in particular felt somewhat heavy.

He holds onto the railing by his side when they climb up because the movements seem to shift something inside his core and he feels a new wave of nausea. He ignores it in favor of keeping his dignity and to not worry Orson.

Orson. The name flickers in his mind like a broken neon letter sign, for just a moment, then it’s gone. It’s paired with the memory of talking Shakespeare in book clubs and discussing plays with his father, before the sky was painted red, before his Dad was dressed up in a coffin. His smile falls for barely a second before he makes an effort to keep the conversation afloat.]

Book club? Tell me more about it, [the words are still said with Hamlet’s voice, airier and soft like they’re hanging mid-air, but the words are ones Marcel could proclaim when being himself, and his delusion stammers again.]

[bear-little-loss]

inferno // phase iii // marcel and orson

[mgusterson-blog]

[His insides are betraying him, it’s true, but there’s something about talking to the boy that feels good, almost triumphant, to him. Maybe it’s because somewhere deep down Marcel thought he had blown up any chance they had of talking again, which was definitely tragic. Maybe it’s just the comfort of having someone worry about him at all. He hasn’t had that in a while – apart form the Colony doctors, whose job is to care for others, of course.

He lifts his eyes again at the repetition of the nickname, relieved to see the smile and not another less friendly expression. Hamlet tended to bring out a lot of bad in people, sometimes, so Marcel half expected it all the time.]

Duck. “O dainty duck, o dear.” [He smiles back, though he’s unsure if it’s explanation enough. It’s from Midsummer Night’s Dream and though that flickers terribly in his mind – wrong play, wrong lines –, it’s where the petname is from. He always liked it, the way Shakespeare used terms of endearment, and he might’ve been guilty of using it on his friends even before D-Day.

Come lucidity and Marcel will probably feel embarrassed by it, will probably have his ears turning bright red at the memory, but Hamlet gloats in all and any attention.] No, no, I am in no need of medics. Do not torment yourself over me. I just wish to settle, rest.

[bear-little-loss]

[And Orson wonders if he knows. 

If Marcel is in there, somewhere, listening to himself speak as someone else, knowing he’s not himself. 

Or is it simply that Marcel is shut off, while Hamlet is out? Is it like night and day? Does one not meet the other?

He can’t help his small smile at the explanation. He recognizes it now, and he nods, but doesn’t know what to say. Then again, he often doesn’t.

He can understand not wanting to see doctors. Doctors are exhausting. Therapists are worse. He went to countless as a child. He saw face after face, coat after coat, and they all spoke the same language, but told him different things. Generally, however, all roads led to his ‘manageable insanity’. Side effects and trauma. Anxiety and imbalances. But he could be treated with this, aided with that, made stronger, made straighter. 

Funny, no one ever talked about a cure. But there’s no such thing as a cure for the brain. For the slightly abnormal, but not abnormal enough. 

Orson had never felt himself broken, per se, he’d never considered himself sick. But he had been aware of his differences, of the things that set him apart. Aware that as a child, his step-mother worried about him. Didn’t hang his drawings on the fridge. But he hadn’t known how to change, or even if he wanted to. This was just how he saw the world. This was just the world that consumed him. He was born into a dark corner of it, and that is where he grew. It hadn’t been his fault. Perhaps it had been no one’s. ] 

Are you sure? I mean, I would just hate if you, um, ignored things and they only got worse? [He can feel the concern folding the small features of his face.] But if you’re sure you’re okay… 

[mgusterson-blog]

[It’s unusual to focus on himself rather than others. Sure, Hamlet’s character could be borderline egotistical and a raging narcisist, but Marcel has been in his skin for so long that they blended together until both of them are a part of the other, and he has his own Hamlet. And his Hamlet still had a tendency to pay attention to others, not himself.

He doesn’t know when it started, but if he had to bet he’d put his money on theatre.

His father taught him from his first plays: if Marcel thought too much about his own lines and his own part, he would get easily distracted and overthink his performance, leading to cringe-worthy disasters on stage. So he focused on other people’s parts. He knew their lines because he devoured the scripts until the words were pinted on his tongue, and he watched his co-stars do their performance, so his own would just be a natural response. It worked every time and it became his second nature.

Hearing the boy insist on talking about his well-being shifts Marcel’s focus, and he takes a moment in silence to assess the pain and nausea he feels.]

I have felt worse, duck. [Perhaps his smiles weren’t convincing enough – he didn’t doubt –, so he really tried to convey he was fine on this one, dropping the hand from his stomach gingerly. Holding it didn’t do anything of major help, and if it meant he looked less sick, he could try.] If it means such to you, I shall go see doctors come the morning, given I still find myself sick then.

[mgusterson-blog]

nadinegiroux:

[How lovely it is, then: her pupils’ work, so lovingly crafted and lovingly displayed, brightening up this dismal expanse of hallway.

Once Nadine had lived in a palatial manor: soaring high ceilings with plush carpets and reproductions of the work of masters on the walls. It had been well-designed to intimidate, that kind of declarative grandeur, and to Nadine it had been at times both a comfort and a gilded, well-decorated prison. The Colony is not that. The Colony is a fortress of stone, at times as dank and dark as some medieval keep. The Colony could be a tomb, if they let it.

She will not. For her students, she beats the darkness back with good cheer. When they found paints while out scavenging, she acquisitioned them before they could make their way to the Hub. It’s her right as an Elite, her right as a teacher: how is she supposed to teach without supplies? And her students had painted, and now their creations hang on the walls, so Nadine can show them that she is proud of them, each and every one.

So they can look at them and be proud, and think this place a home, like Nadine was a proud mother, pinning her children’s drawings to the refrigerator. She’d never had the chance to do so before, she’d never had one of her own. Just a little girl and his widowers father and their humble life that she had occupied for too-brief a time, there and gone again like a comet. A passing phenomenon.]

Perfect. [She declares it so, and turns her smile from the bulletin board to the man who had helped her raise it. She has nothing but goodwill, today. Momentarily, she is content. A predator in repose.] Nothing I would trouble you with, you’ve been so much of a help already. I’m glad to have run into you—I’m Nadine, your new Head of House. I haven’t had the chance to introduce myself personally yet. [It’s an inkling of an apology, some self-deprecation, like this is some sad oversight, some dread offense. It’s a show meant to be endearing but temporary—she has corrected the oversight now.]

[The drawings hanging as they are give him a funny feeling of progress; because despite how the world is ending, despite all the horror out there, generations are still happening, hopefully wiser than Marcel’s was, kinder and more appreciative. The grownups from today were kids who had it all and lost it. These kids, however, were practically born from nothing, they won’t remember big green fields and civilization as it was.

He has a polite smile on as the woman addresses him, and it surprises him that she’s Head of House, of all things. And a teacher. He likes the thought of someone who’s good with kids being in control of their tower.

Marcel has a feeling of wanting to show respect, then, wanting to impress the woman who is in charge of his section of the Colony. It’s a silly thought that makes him feel like a teenager in high school wanting to get his teachers’ attention, so he shakes it off.]

Oh, it’s a pleasure to meet you! I’m Marcel, [he offers his right hand with another perfectly placed and polite smile, the D on his wrist a glaring sign that he sees from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t feel like explaining it though, so he doesn’t.] We’ve all been so busy, don’t worry about it. But on that note, I’m actually free this afternoon, so anything you need, I’m up for.

[mgusterson-blog]

favorite foreplay activity?

That depends on what you’d consider foreplay. I guess… Kissing? Dancing? Definitely biting. Hand stuff…? I’m really out of practice here, forgive me for the inconclusive answer.

[mgusterson-blog]

Hot showers or cold?

A nice lukewarm is the safest bet.

[mgusterson-blog]

A guilty pleasure from before DDay?

I don’t believe in guilty pleasures, I’m an honest man. But the answer you’re looking for is that I sang too much Taylor Swift for my age.

[mgusterson-blog]

Describe your perfect date.

There aren’t many options in here, are there? I used to enjoy the good old dinner and movie, but if we’re talking about something more elaborated, I was the master of those, back in the day. But then it really depended on who I was trying to impress. I did get someone out on a surprise trip to adopt a puppy, once.

[mgusterson-blog]

What is your dream job in the colony? Out of it?

Oh, well... it’d have to be anything to do with theatre, specially in the Colony. If you ask me, I personally miss the joy of putting together high school plays, or getting toddlers to remember their lines, that whole feeling of family you get when you spend months with the same people working on a show. I’m not reliable, though, I don’t think they’d ever give a job like that to a deluded, so it’s not like I’ll try to pitch them this. I can only hope if they ever do that I get to sneak in and watch the rehearsals, at least. And out of the colony, of course, theatre as well, whether that be high school teaching or Broadway writing.

[mgusterson-blog]

Give your impressions of: Andee, Boone, Arielle

I only saw Andee once so far and it was during the second meteor shower. I could tell she was scared, because we all were, but she was strong and brave and she helped me a lot just by talking to me. I admire her, I really do.

Boone was the same, he helped me at the meteor shower. Our interaction was short and I was Hamlet back then, but he was polite and marvelous in showing me to my designated place when I had no idea where I was.

I talked to Arielle for a bit after that whole terrible day, and she seemed... lonely. She was sitting by herself, so obviously that’s why the thought. I was just as lonely so I offered some help and she seems really sweet, actually.

So far it seems being nice pays off in the Colony.

[mgusterson-blog]

[logan-grimes]

Playing Catch Up|| Inferno part IV

[mgusterson-blog]

logan-grimes:

[It had all happened so fast - the fire, the falling, the alarms and panic. The patterns and formations that were no longer drills, the fear. Oh god, the fear. The taste of it so bitter and real it had left Logan paralysed in the a corner for the longest time. Silent and afraid as blurred faces swarmed around her. As they watched and waited. There were bits of piece of time missing, of things blanked out from her memory. How long had they been on lockdown? Who had she been with? How long until it was safe to move? How did she end up in the church? It was like she has experienced what everyone was now calling “the Inferno” in a dream-like state. 

At some point they had been cleared to go back outside. To see what damaged had been done, how much of what they had rebuilt had survived. 

It wasn’t until after Logan had gone through her check up and was half way back to her room that the panic set in. Someone had found her on the shower floor, the water long past cold, manically laughing and crying at the same time. Someone had sedated her and covered her up. Two days later she had woken up in the infirmary and wasn’t allowed to leave until this morning. She wasn’t sure how long it was since that first day, all Logan knew was that she wanted out of the infirmary and out into the fresh air. She made her way outside finding the first sunny spot to sit on, turning her face to the sky to feel the breeze on her face. To clear her mind. To finally breathe.] 

[Marcel already had been told he was designated as part of the reconstruction team for the Brink towers, at least for the first round. He doesn’t mind the extra work but only once they were cleared to go outside was that they saw what they were building from.

The place had taken substantial damage, and it was heartbreaking to see their home like that. He doesn’t like sleeping in new dorms, but if it’s what he has to do until the Brink tower is back up, he’ll do it. It just means more of his free time spent outside, mostly just gazing up at all the destruction around them.

He doesn’t catch someone else’s presence until the woman is sighing, a few steps over, perched on the sunny spot of the grounds while he sits on the comfortably cooler shadows. She looks happy enough on her own that he doesn’t want to interrupt, but she’s sitting close to a particularly nasty crater made by the meteor shower, and he thinks it’s best to warn.]

Hey, careful not to fall in, [he points the hollow ground out briefly with a small smile, intent on letting her go back to whatever meditation she was going through before.]