#waysteland

[doomprep]

@waysteland: 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱.

the things once cradled by conventions had all but been abandoned in the end of the world as they knew each it. days of courting felt trivial, time slots dedicated to putting on your best self and sharing over expensive dinners small fragments of who you were in small, bite-sized pieces, just enough but not too much. the performance in itself was tiresome, reigning yourself into a palatable display of normality. jake didn't much take part in the ritual, previous affairs a concise list of comings and goings that wouldn't span half a page. it never felt like the right time, until it did. some find forced proximity a facilitation, a way of settling for whoever's there by capitalising upon a time of sheer desolation. jake would call it fate. there was no urgency about the time he spent with alicia, only the ebbs of gentle mitigation. it didn't feel like the world was ending when they were together, it just felt comfortable, a natural succession from respecting her as a political party into something more, at her pace and her desire. they simply slotted together, complementing each other's personalities in a way that none around them could have ever predicted. it felt preordained in that way, as though mapped out by the heavens that they would one day unite by sheer coincidence and be together. fate. there was no clamour to fill the void in meeting, only the placid feeling of pieces falling into place.

“yeah?” he'd never known, never been around anyone long enough to know. he wondered if it was a new habit, established in harder times where head was too much occupied with the future of their homes, the strife of the living and the dead just a stone's throw away. jake never felt rested after waking, felt his mind a-mock when his body lay unconscious. of course he mumbled in his sleep, shedding the build up of a thousand things he felt he had left to do. dawn creeps in through rays, the blinds could only hold so much of a haven before reality bleeds through and he had to return to the menial task of leadership. if only he could stay for a few moments longer, sheltered from what was requested from outside and just be jake. but he pulls his jacket on and it feels more and more like a lead weight. “you get anything good out of me? don't tell me i told you where the ancient otto treasure was buried.”

[outlaste-a]

@waysteland, “whatever else this place needs, i'm here for it.”

he had long learned to detect deceit. [before this, millionaires had been an ego to feed, a prize to be won: everything adorned identified by a pencilled-in price tag, circled in a magazine.] there was always an agenda to their approach, whether they themselves knew it or not. rafe had always known it. he could see through the vacuity of false smiles, a gaping black hole of duplicity that hungers to swallow him whole. the aftermath of the world ending was no different, the tattered remains of society bowing to his citadel as though fortune and wealth even mattered. but this is where they would always come, crawling across his lawn to find refuge in his shadow. how utterly humiliating. victor, on the other hand, provided better attempts at belonging. [the man was a foe wearing friend's clothing, buttoned up in appropriated riches something taken but never earned.] rafe knows by the pop of loud colours, an offensive mismatch. that was the thing about real wealth it was ordinarily quiet. on the contrary, destitution was flashy, an obnoxious desire to be a part of something but only setting themselves apart further. victor presented himself to rafe as an equal, promising a provision of equivalence if simply given protection in return. it was a pledge of desperation, the parting of which is something rafe can find leverage with, and so he begins to tease out what he can, adding weight to the scale to see just how much he can balance.

“you a bottom feeder, victor?” rafe drawls, taking two glasses between pinched fingers, setting them down on the desk ahead of his company. there was no negotiation to be made without a drink, that was something rafe could be certain of. he pops off the cork and begins to pour, a woody scent filling the space between them. “i knew people like you, before. people who would do anything for money, fame. and now... i just need to know that if i invite you in with me, you won't throw me to the walkers, so to speak.” rafe looks at him with two seafoam irises, lulling his prey gently out to sea. “can i trust you, victor?”

[doomprep]

@waysteland: 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺.

no, you don't. they linger in opposites, a philosophical divide. jake saw solutions in everything, bets placed in mediation and working around another's demand: violence took her hand, a short incomprehensible life that bore witness to too much too young. stalemate. a path sundered with no comfortable win. jake feels the group lose faith in him and he falters, unsteady in impending demotion. leadership had been a birthright, the passing from a patriarch to his first-born who had never come to terms with the fact that it never appealed to him at all, and yet he persists, looking for an ounce of paternal pride in a shapely array of buried bones that could not offer him a single word. there was no place for him here without it. he could not lend his hands but his voice, composure as it had been and not what it was now, holding onto hope that civilisation could return to its stable predecessor in spite of the dead's plague.

“that's not how we do things.” a rare chip to his tone, incredulity rampant. his diplomacy in the new world order was becoming increasingly displaced, fight or die a mantra that booms loud around him. he watched everyone he once new shred their humanity as he clasps it between his hands, unable to part with it. was there a reason that they had died as he had lived? he blamed the violence that consumed, the twitch of fingers that fumbled for a gun instead of a pen for treaty. they were different from the dead, had to be. otherwise, what was the point? “jesus you sound like troy.”

[hopeforged]

" we need to get out of here, come on. " / @waysteland

[hopeforged]

" can you see how many fingers i’m holding up ? " / @waysteland

[flxmekeepr]

@waysteland asked: ❝ i think you get a kick from making me uncomfortable. ❞ billings

he wasn't wrong. it wasn't her fault that it was so incredibly easy to do. even just the knowledge that she knew so little of the pact and learning it wasn't exactly on her radar seemed to make him squirm. but so much was happening and he knew it so well that it made it difficult for her to find any reason to bury her nose in the book. if needed, he was almost always nearby to steer her in the right direction. she knew the basics . . . knew where to look for the more in-depth rules . . . the rest of it was just boring filler. her mind could only take in so much when it was already so full.

she had to retain some of her focus on day to day operations. day to day ongoings that were seemingly ramping up more and more every second. exhaustion filled her bones. but sleep rarely came easy right now. it felt like there were eyes on her constantly; waiting for her to fail. and maybe she should. maybe they'd take her badge away and send her back down to mechanical and all of this would be some strange memory that she'd laugh about with shirly. remember that time they thought i could be sheriff ?

maybe she was homesick.

juliette shook the thoughts from her head momentarily; fingers brushing over the spine of the pact on her desk. she would need to read more. later. maybe. her eyes lift towards him on the other side of her desk and a soft laugh slips free; shoulders relaxing only slightly as she adjusts in her chair. she was far more used to constantly being on her feet. this was strange still. she wasn't sure she'd ever get used to it.

" it's not my fault you make it so easy. " her fingers brush down to the extra hair tie on her wrist; tugging at it lazily. she wanted to lay her head down and conk out. but she couldn't. not right now. not ever. too much was consistently happening. " there's not a lot that doesn't make you uncomfortable. but hey, you'll be happy to know i finished a whole page of the pact last night. "

[flxmekeepr]

@waysteland asked: ❝ about what we spoke about earlier…i’ll take it to the grave if i have to. ❞ + holston

a sigh of relief juliette hadn't realized she'd been holding slips free of her lips slowly; shoulders only slightly relaxing. the tension would remain no matter what. she trusted him, she did. but a part of her was so stuck on his status in the silo. he was respected. he could tell judicial all about the on goings of juliette nichols and her hidden room down below. there was a chance they'd think him crazy, sure, but eventually someone would come looking. her space would be further invaded. george's memory would be trampled into the metal beneath their feet. one word from him and she could end up in the mines . . . in prison . . . sent out to clean.

she couldn't let that happen.

but she had to keep trusting him. she had to. he was the only person who could find out the truth for her. he was the only connection she had to the higher levels. her father didn't count. he could be bullshitting her about the truth but for now, she had hope. he would find out what happened and send her word. somehow.

" thank you. " the words are soft at first before she shifts to adjust her stance; shoulders back a bit further, feet planted more firmly. all of this had exhausted her. but she couldn't let him or anyone catch onto that. " i don't exactly have many fans up there. if they heard even a word of what we spoke about . . . "