June

[misfortunas]

Hello, this is a Fallout: New Vegas roleplay blog.

I am open to both serious and lighthearted storytelling, provided that it is literate. I also may post drabbles of my own individual writing here.

My muse is June, who is an original character. Totally understand if that’s not your thing.

And quickly, about me: I go by Grub. I am 20 years old and use she/her or it/its. I have been roleplaying for eight years. I follow and like from my main blog, @moon-grub .

Here is my (and by extension June’s) Carrd:

june fallout

A single muse blog for roleplay.

My themes explored are:

- Reinvention of the self

- Reclamation of life

- Joy in the mundane

- A portrayal of PTSD that I wish I saw represented more

- All “body” is “horror”

- Lack of identity

- Recovering from trauma

- Falling back into trauma

- Hope in a hopeless world.

✦⋆˚࿔

[the-moonbug]

Yuna Myōga, a veterinary student from Boston (degree awarded posthumously)

Died April 17, 2003, at the age of 20

Her dead body and even her name twisted to suit an ideal, she no longer exists but cannot die

And June Myōga, a ?/statue/? from ?/Cyprus/?

born October 2006, born aged 20, age 20 she is and 20 remains and 20 she will be

Thirteen are her bodies and 20,000 are the ones she lives inside

[misfortunas]

Oh. June understands now. It all makes sense. Poetic really! Such folly, it’s lucky one of the last things she did was Good. Even if she had to go and mess it up. Good in the utilitarian sense anyway. Who knows how many more people would die because of her decision to drag a corpse in the making to safety?

He drags her across the encampment and she does not struggle. Well, not much. Instincts are such troublesome little things. Difficult to turn off. Why would a girl who has died so many times want to survive? There hadn’t ever really been anything for her, had there. Just that fucking bastard and the promise he’d come back, as if that wasn’t worse than being alone… Ah, such clarity! Such honesty, for once! The sound of human suffering tends to bring it, does it not? The sight of the guillotine? What is humanity but a collection of mouths? Mouths to eat, to bite, to cry. The strong survive. The weak do not unless they stay in the good graces of their sponsors. Unless they are loved. It is clear what kind Cicero is. Isn’t it? He is bitten and he bites in turn.

Anything else is a whim. An easily discouraged flight of fancy.

How to fix this? Reputation is so important to men, yes. She sees only one option when trying to look out of his eyes. Bones buried in the sand. Perhaps it will be spectacular.

June musters up the will to make a request, standing still in the sand for a moment.

“Sir, please… Would you please do it quickly?”

[cicero-the-assassin]

His grip on her wrist is steadfast in it's hold- the dog drags her along behind him. Her stumbling is seldom and barely hinders his mission to approach a tent at the opposite end of the encampment.

Cicero's mind is an empty expanse. No true thought really passes through, merely focused on the feeling of urgency rather than any elaborate thought. The sharp points of his teeth chew on his tongue. That coppery taste barely seeping into his brain before he hears her tiny voice say something. At first it doesn't register, but then her feet come to a stand still, his fingers on her wrist hold.

His body stops too. His head spins to glance at her, his eyes sharp and cold, not meaning to cut through her, but doing so anyway.

Quickly?

Do what quickly? He's trying! But her own have stopped in place. Impeding his mission of trading and taking off as quickly as possible.

"Hu?" He questions, looking over her rather slack looking stance. Those empty eyes devoid of explanation. "What are you talking about? Trade? Yes- I plan on it. The tent-" He points with his free hand to the tent at the other side of the encampment, "-is right over there. We'll go there now, get what we need, and leave. Quick enough for you?"

Cicero obviously doesn't understand exactly what she was meaning. The confusion visible on his sunburned face.

[misfortunas]

She moves her head to the side as if he’s speaking in riddles and she can figure them out by changing angles. Still, she remains unblinking. Everyone imagines screaming, or fighting, but most people go still when they think they’re about to become a corpse.

It’s like practicing for the rest of eternity.

So now they both stare at each other, confused. It’s funny, they may as well be speaking different languages—but they aren’t, are they? The soldier and the housewife are both fluent in the language of violence and it’s the most natural connection in the world even if no one wants to believe it.

“Why are you waiting?” She asks.

Her voice sounds the same, but it isn’t friendly anymore. A newscaster on the radio launching in with a scripted welcome in a sugary tone right before rattling off the latest disasters.

“Surely this is not practical...you are a clever man. You and I have both dealt in this before.”

June rocks back on her feet in an effort to say “don’t worry about it, I won’t be upset, see how relaxed I am” without needing to say too much anymore.

“Look at all those knives you have,” she remarks, as if commenting on the kitchen section’s wares instead of deadly weapons. “I can’t put up much of a fight, of course, so I doubt it will be considered an impressive kill. But that’s not really matters. I know. It’s about the feelings. My handler taught me that.”

She stops rocking. “Well, I suppose it might feel better to do it bare-handed. Ah, yes, I can see that being cathartic.” Still trying to be casual, but her voice is tremulous. “But you are busy. I think that would be a waste of your time. But I am a biased party, no?” A tinkling laugh.

[encvgh]

{{ Please reblog this if you’re a mun who’s open for angst plotting. Death, pain, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, illness, misery, fighting, screaming, tears, hate, disgust, trauma, graphic gore, etc; I’m in need of threads. Thank you. }}

[misfortunas]

Again, a vision comes to her- striking in its speed, precision, how vivid it is! Each footstep is an empty thud, they may as well be deafening with how the world is slipping away into a gray sludge, reddened by the sunrise-

The walls of the building are sandstone and concrete. There's grit to them. Texture. Nicks, bubbles, cracks, ridges. She sees herself held up to it in one fist, like a block of cheese against a grater. Ground up and down against the bumps and grit. Up down up down up down painting a red smear on the side of the wall. Her ulna's knob catches on the side once the muscle is worn through. She's ground against the holes in tiny strokes until dust starts flying, until she's a flat clean surface, perfect, slicing off tiny chunks until the sand is soaked red so it looks like farm soil- It would be nice if that would happen. Friction is warm. Blood is warm. She would be warm and comfortable, instead of frigid, pumping blood like a well crank spitting out dirty droplets. Comfortable. Warm. Not frozen like this.

She's pulled along by the warm and she keeps up just fine. It feels like catching a bird around the throat and chest, the soft of the thumb and palm placed right over it to feel a tiny heartbeat hammering out at a speed a human shouldn't get to.

Debt? What debt?

June's already forgotten about all of that, why she's here, that she's the one who helped him in the first place. She's the one indebted. Always has been. Existing was a gift and she would pay it off for all eternity. It is funny, the most emotion she has ever shown in this encounter and it's one desperately trying to hide itself, holding breath to not let heaving be heard and clenching each muscle as if that disguises trembling. Eyes focused on one point and unmoving, unblinking, as if that means she isn't looking for anything.

[cicero-the-assassin]

He doesn't even realize he's still holding onto her, his eyes do not glance to her, they seem to stare into some vision seen only to him. Something within him felt odd, perhaps some sense of shame or embarrassment made his skin almost go numb. Cold. A slight tingle deep within his sinus cavity. Begging to be filled with sand. Choking.

Perhaps this was more trouble than it was worth. It would be ill advised to keep her around like he had planned. At least- not here. Not until she learned when to speak and when not to speak.

........

He had to get her out of here before he did something he regretted.

Her wrist throbs in his grasp, trembling with something he does not seem to care for or recognize. His steps betray his purpose. Speed. And avoiding eyes at all cost. Though, they seem very unsuccessful at that now. Whether it be the strange girl he drags along, or bad gas spreading quickly in a small encampment, Cicero couldn't bear to be here any longer than necessary. If they had any other choice now, he would've dragged her away from this place. But they were desperate.

Both are dead silent, the only sound between them is the crunching of sand beneath their feet.

And the crying- the crying louder now that they were outside. The source was not obvious in the moment, yet it seemed to grow closer with their steps. Between the buildings they pass, there's a glimpse. A glimpse of a cage- a large structure housing one girl that can be seen sitting on the ground. Sobbing. Battered and dirty, crying- comforted by her mother. They wear dusty burlap sprayed red across their abdomens and even parts of their skin where the large red 'x' resides. Marked and held hostage.

They do not call to Cicero nor June for help. June was nearly as doomed as they were after all. Yet- hazel eyes, reddened from sobbing, glance their way. Filled with tears, filled with desperation and absence of hope.

Cicero's steps do not slow.

[misfortunas]

Oh. June understands now. It all makes sense. Poetic really! Such folly, it’s lucky one of the last things she did was Good. Even if she had to go and mess it up. Good in the utilitarian sense anyway. Who knows how many more people would die because of her decision to drag a corpse in the making to safety?

He drags her across the encampment and she does not struggle. Well, not much. Instincts are such troublesome little things. Difficult to turn off. Why would a girl who has died so many times want to survive? There hadn’t ever really been anything for her, had there. Just that fucking bastard and the promise he’d come back, as if that wasn’t worse than being alone… Ah, such clarity! Such honesty, for once! The sound of human suffering tends to bring it, does it not? The sight of the guillotine? What is humanity but a collection of mouths? Mouths to eat, to bite, to cry. The strong survive. The weak do not unless they stay in the good graces of their sponsors. Unless they are loved. It is clear what kind Cicero is. Isn’t it? He is bitten and he bites in turn.

Anything else is a whim. An easily discouraged flight of fancy.

How to fix this? Reputation is so important to men, yes. She sees only one option when trying to look out of his eyes. Bones buried in the sand. Perhaps it will be spectacular.

June musters up the will to make a request, standing still in the sand for a moment.

“Sir, please… Would you please do it quickly?”

[cilantrhoes]

[shripscapi]

trapped forever

[shrips]

here is the inspiration. in case anyone finds that interesting

[the-moonbug]

October 13th- June’s birthday! Most recent one, anyhow.

To celebrate the occasion, she’d like to show you her baby photos! Wasn’t she a cutie?

[fandaniel]

[joleneghoul]

Lowkey feeling like the extinct mexican lap dog lately

[viily]

so sad forever twitter killed bot api thing because fiskbot has been like crucial to my grammar vocabulary essence development

[viily]

like i am constantly referencing this thang

[valtsv]

anyone mind if i get a little bicurious on this suicide mission

[treecitysessions]

[whumpbees]

Whumpees with a fawn response <3 Whumpees who learn what their whumper wants and becomes that. Whumpees who get used to anticipating moods and keeping people calm and happy. Whumpees who even out of captivity still habitually people please

[misfortunas]

Journal Entry One (plain text below cut.)

[ID: I went through the door and it is alive out here. Red rocks were piled up by it so I had to squeeze out into a (crossed out: little room made of rocks) (corrected: cave). And I walked to the light, I turned my head up and it was like staring into an overhead light during surgery but worse.

Shadows are moving above me in the sky like flies buzzing over the garbage can. I think they might be birds, but they don’t look like the birds in pictures.

Everything is supposed to be dead but I saw a hairless rat crawling up the wall like a bug too. I could not catch it, it was faster than even the tiny ones. I don’t know why I tried because I would never eat a rat.

I do not know what to do (scratched out: but it has been so long and I am so hungry and I don’t know WHERE HE WENT) so I will go walk somewhere!]

[toxicslimemutant]

Oh, I already KNOW I'm gonna love her

[misfortunas]

🤔

When she first saw him, she saw a threat. But she also saw something that she was unable to ignored.

Maybe it was sentimentality, maybe it was sympathy, maybe it was senselessness. She had burned to death, once. Trapped in an accidental oven. Maybe fire would have been faster.

Maybe she saw herself; strange as that is.

She still sees a threat, now—a threat that wards off other threats. A monster who gobbles up the coyotes. She’ll do her best to keep it fed.