like father, like son.
The air stagnated around him. Lungs filled with a thick air of which Rin could not wholly take in. Difficulty breathing further incited his slowed pace. Processing the situation proved to be difficult for Rin. This place paints itself with the exact weary colors of a typical horror film set in a post-apocalyptic dystopia. Worn-down buildings, once bustling streets now overrun with plant life and the occasional feeding birds whose plumage blend well with the bland earthtones of which the ruins were composed.
Fear sinks into his stomach. Fear. Dread. He isn't quite sure why. Or, actually, he does. It took the redhead a few moments to gather his bearings, to sort out the unease that still plagues the swimmer's mind and soul. Rubber heels conducted a monotonous orchestra of rubble and decaying leaves, his tempo somewhat uneasy, unsure of both setting and realization.
Rin Matsuoka is alone and lost. Where he was last, he could barely recall. What he does recall, however, is that this place, "Asphodel Valley"... nowhere near anywhere he's ever been before. Rotten wood scatters closer by long abandoned houses, a post-apocalyptic setting only familiarized to Rin by both Japanese and foreign media so typically brushed under the umbrella "zombie movies". This, he finds difficult to swallow. First of all, no such thing exists. Second of all, this can't even be a dream considering he is very much awake, conscious, and self-aware.
Another chilling fact he could not quite grasp-- "death". He's supposed to be... dead, right? No, way. If he's dead, then this should be the afterlife. As far as he's concerned, this isn't Heaven. This isn't even Hell. Or Purgatory. Or Nirvana. Or... anything with some sort of religious stigma to it. This isn't right at all, he thought to himself. A brief thought came to pass, a thought of which he recalls declaring to his own father's grave that he would follow in his footsteps, to become the best swimmer in the world-- Olympic class. He didn't exactly intend for his claims to be extremely literal. Cautious fingers push against a decaying door until it creaks open, its shrill, elongated call temporarily snapping Rin from his thoughts. His entry marks a slow movement from the long-eroded door to snap closed behind him.
Foliage would no longer be present-- instead, dropped papers and stationaries litter his feet. Every step taken incites in his ears a cacophony of crumbling pages long illegible by time and age. Another anomaly, one that would startle the swimmer and force both hands to cover his facial orifices-- a putrid scent wafting from within the main hallway.
The scent was not immediate-- perhaps it emanated from further within the house. Did he really want to travel further inside to find out where such a rancid odor hails from?
Thoughts of logic and reasoning betray his already moving feet. Curiosity is a human concept, a concept that would definitely betray Rin at some point within the next few minutes. The scent grows more potent, dizzifying. An occupant on a nearby love seat, long ruined and worn by erosion. Old style. Seemingly been there for centuries, if not longer. Mouth and nose still covered, Rin peers over.
At a corpse.
It's stench potent, visage lifeless and rotten as if left behind for months.
There were more bodies like that one. Scattered about. Just as lifeless, if not even moreso. Dozens of bodies, perhaps an entire family and maybe some visitors once teeming with life now strung onto furniture and flooring left to rot.
A strangled noise muffled by his own hands, the young man staggers backwards in surprise. A drive to leave. A drive to get the hell out of there. Awkward, erratic motions drove him into the doorway. An undisclosed amount of time left the hinges weak. With his body slamming into the door, it easily collapsed to the ground, Rin nearly stumbling and falling along with it. Sanguine eyes could not leave the premises, widened from shock. The urge to vomit ever present in his stomach, he swallows. His heart races, his mind runs marathons in desperation to make some sort of sense of his current situation. He allowed himself the grace of a strangled noise through breathing. He wanted to yell. Call for help. Anything. No, that won't work, would it? This is death. He's dead. He's dead. No, that's not right at all. What the Hell... what the Hell...!?
Where the Hell is he?
