#*thread: sam

[somethinginthedirt]

@vitalphenomena

he comes to at black canyon. one moment darkness, the next he's here, fingers wrapped tight around the fence that protected onlookers from plunging to a rocky death. sam remains there for a moment, eyes closed. his head swims with hazy visions: stevie, from the motel; a record player skipping, and a moon almost full, rising behind the tired-looking blonde, blood spilling from a gash in her neck.

he's been in this stupid fucking town for almost a month.

exhaling, bone-tired as he always is after a blackout, he fishes out a cigarette and turns his back to the canyon to catch his breath. a prickling sensation skitters along the back of his neck, but he ignores it, jaw tight as he lights the smoke. it's only then he notices he's not alone at the overlook—a rarity. he squints from behind his sunglasses, surprised to realize he doesn't even recognize the woman.

a tourist? poor fucking thing.

"it's not really that impressive," he says to her, knocking his head back towards the canyon. black rock plunges deep into the earth, jagged outcrops hiding small caves and abandoned mining shafts. the air around it is oppressive, like gravity is heavier somehow. "there're better roadside attractions."

[inruptus-blog]

♡ＥＸＩＧＥＮＣＹ

He's sitting on the curb of a shoddy motel, comm in hand and earning weird looks from passerby but Jim can't find it in himself to care much about wandering eyes and pursed lips. He's grown up with it, he's used to it, and the only issue he wants focus on right now is how the hell he's going to get back 2259. He isn't even sure what time this is, the two people he's bothered to ask giving him weird looks and muttering about 'drunk bums', and he almost wishes they were right;

                         at least then he'd become lucid in a few hours and pretend this was all a liquor-induced hallucination.

Comm doesn't work, too far out of range he guesses and he shoves it back in his pocket with an irritated huff, making a mental note to never, ever, ever volunteer to be the lab rat again.

                                            (But he knows he will, the next time it comes up.)

Jim's stomach growls, angry from a distinct lack of anything to eat in the thirteen hours he's been here and he ignores it, taking his issues one step at a time. Nowhere around here takes credits--he's tried, been yelled at, and pushed out of stores--meaning food, a place to sleep, and new clothes are going to be a pain in the ass.

He could always pick the lock on the motel doors, that issue less pressing, but walking around in Command Golds with a growling stomach and no sense of direction isn't exactly inconspicuous and his tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth in agitation.

              This is going to be an extreme pain in the ass.

                                                             He needs to find out the date.

Jim blinks a few times in rapid succession, a habit of his to clear his head before looking up from the gravel cerulean hues have been trained on for such a long period of time, gazing falling on a tall, brunet male and he clears his throat to get his attention.

"Hey, uh, can you tell me what the date is?"