⠀ ⠀⋆ ᴬ FEAR —

⠀ what if there never is an end? ⠀           ›      all we have is means. ⠀

[waystelandmoved]

waysteland.tumblr.com is a private + independent multimuse based in apocalyptic & dystopian scifi media. crafted by (z)awn / twenty-one+ / neutral + feminine pronouns.

> basic roleplay rules apply. i will interact primarily based on ask prompts and will rarely post starter calls. i am willing to plot but a warning of that i'm not very good at it. multiple characters may appear in non-dystopian media but i have removed them from such and will only interact in alternate universes. > [affiliated with]: nearends & flxmekeepr > [links]: muse list , pinterest , interest tracker

[waystelandmoved]

hi folks moved this blog to a sideblog off my multi <3

[waystelandmoved]

dina’s casting is out 🤧

[waystelandmoved]

“i could've done more. and that ain't up for debate. i know it in my bones, and i gotta live with it.”    every day for the rest of your life,    the haunted nature of knowing all of your friends were dead,  and there was nothing you could have done to stop it,  no matter how hard you fought  [you survived despite,  was there a reason?]

@fraegiles , starter call.

[waystelandmoved]

“some people are evil. i've seen it.”      was rj evil?    you didn’t think so,   at least not the rj you knew in the before—     before the world ended,   before your roots had been ripped from the earth and left you as lost as the sinners you once thought so repulsive.     the world you knew ended, bone fragments scattered through soil and you worry your own lack of faith has caused the devastation. “ —i don’t think you’re evil.”

@redruins , starter call.

[waystelandmoved]

“don’t pretend like you don’t know the score.” the words are poised with a bite; like a rabid dog, your teeth are always bared, always waiting. it is all you have ever know, the chase that ends with the kill— a pyrrhic victory does not exist on the platter sat before you.

@angeldored , starter call.

[waystelandmoved]

@doomprep:   i know i'm being punished. 

your heart beats inside the hollow auditorium of your chest like a nervous hummingbird;   it skips a beat and hair stands on end despite the warmth coursing through your veins.    there is an endurance to your faith,   similar in the way to your heart,   that without it:   you think you would cease to exist.    every spring that brought flowers to every fall that left the trees bare,   the cyclical seasons pass,   as did your fleeting moments on non-belief,   thirst for knowledge greater quenched by each new chapter,    paper thin cuts lined your pointer,   thumb wet with ink in pages flicked too quickly.    [some rushed through to simply be done,   you to reach the next chapter,   to coat yourself with an armour you could understand,  shrouded in text that gave meaning to the world].   even in the end of the world,  it was your crutch,     that there was some meaning to this apocalypse,   that bloody knees and scorched palms could not fix.  the punishment of mankind was never meant to be fair,   let the earth flood and the forests burn so that they must stare their own creation in the face,   to witness the horrors they made.     mankind was to be made in God’s own image,   so were you both not now walking hand in hand;   accepting of the death of civilisation caused by your own lack of discipline?

“those whom i love,  i reprove and discipline,  so be zealous and repent   —       revelation,   3:19.”    you catch his eye over the fire,   how the words spill from your mouth before you even have time to register them.    you’ve repeated them to yourself night after night since this began,   to know that the punishment is only forged out of love;  that one day,  you too can bask in the holiness of light once more.    this will not last forever,   through the drought will come rain and wash away those that sin and do not find clarity through repentance.      “sorry,   it’s new testament.”     shy,  meek beth greene —      what spills from you is golden,    how light leaks from your chest in every shaky breath.       “i think humanity is.   i think that—    assuming the responsibility for this is brave,   but wrong.”

[waystelandmoved]

[waysteland.tumblr.com, an apocalyptic centred multimuse] people are talking about the apocalypse and the last judgement, because they do not know that there will be neither apocalypse nor last judgement… such things would serve no purpose since the world will quite happily fall apart by itself and go to wrack and ruin so that everything may begin again, and so proceed 𝑎𝑑 𝑖𝑛𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑢𝑚, and this is as perfectly clear-—

as our helpless orbiting in space: once started it cannot be stopped. -— homecoming

[waystelandmoved]

@sourfilm:  where have you been? 

where have you been? [where are you going? you wonder if there is anywhere left to go,  if somewhere far from here the pastures are still green,   the water flows tranquil blue and there is peace;  far unalike the decaying grass,   rotting flesh doesn’t do much for the soil,  you weren’t sure anything would grow there again–]    be the forbidden fruit,    or an ear of corn,   you didn’t have the heart to say that the tilled soil would not provide over the harsh winters,   or beneath the scorching sun.   not there,   not where land is desiccated,    a quick flick of the blade or one of the hundreds of shots fired overhead.    you were your father’s light,   flickering/not yet extinguished.  but you can’t help but shudder the way he clutches fist around Book,   as if it could still contain the answers.   every prayer you had whispered from day one was left unanswered,   the clouds a barrier to your pleas   [you kept them in a barn,   fed them.    had it been naive to truly believe that they would come back to you?]     that it was a disease spreading over the land,   one of four horsemen.  it was the price you paid,   for your sins,    for every misdeed.    had believed it was just God reminding humanity of the price they had already paid.     and so solitude had become your normal,    sat behind bars cooing at a child who had not learnt her mother’s face,   how grief would forever be a part of her beating heart.     it helps you pretend that nothing is wrong:   opposed to staring out at the trees,    how you did not truly know the family that now surrounds you,  but knew the person that they had to become.

sat on the stairs,  you watched him.   tried to imagine who he was before,    if he and maggie had met before,   would you know each of glenn's secrets over hushed giggles of sisters reunited in the summer sun?    chin rests on hand,    a smile overcoming lips—     “exploring.   we should really fix the hole before winter or else we’ll freeze.”      it had been hours,   you knew you shouldn’t disappear for that long,  but others left the safety of the walls for much longer,    you could not shake that same restlessness;    the horrors of what was out there not unknown but unrecognised.    you wanted to know,   you wanted to see what they see.       “maggie wouldn’t take me with her.”

[hopeforged]

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

[waystelandmoved]

slow blinks,  the world beginning to form in your peripheral:   unfamiliarity puts you at unease,  stomach churning to the thought of having to move on again.  a new place to call home, for a couple days, for maybe a month or two.  you were so tired.   you weren’t sure if this was something you could ever make peace with,  but you considered that maybe you weren’t supposed to–    there had to be some retribution for the actions you have carried out,   a betrayal,   a gunshot that led to the death of a brother    [you did not think you should have been forgiven,   would have drowned there and then if that had been what alicia willed]     what you do for survival and what you do for revenge is a thin line you walk.    placed loyalties with many who did not deserve your bleeding heart,   you could not retract your sins but pray for a swift end.

but althea’s words pulled you from your daze.   you did not know where it hurt,   your skin feels like it’s burning but it’s freezing cold to the touch;   mouth is uncomfortably dry where tongue drags itself across teeth,    determined to stay focused.       “uh–    two..?   al,   i can’t—” wince, “what happened?”

[dramastream]

LEE CHEONG SAN All of Us Are Dead 지금 우리 학교는, 2022

[waystelandmoved]

@nearends:  i’ve killed for you. who else can say that?

it’s late august,  and there is a bitter chill that is beginning to settle over the jackson landscape.      the stain of time,   you are haunted with each passing day,   as the seasons come and go with little more than weeks between visitors.    a life of solitude wasn’t what you planned,  but you think the quiet helps,  no wandering eyes begging for the story to be told again.    no one else understood,  some days you weren’t sure you did.    met grief yourself so young,  but it came fast,  unavoidable.   there had been no one to hate,   to latch the blame onto besides yourself,    and how quickly that could twist its way around your throat,   let the light out from behind your eyes.    you hadn’t let it,   fashioned yourself anew.      it had been the only option when you still wanted to live,   and to love.      you think you fell onto this love like a sword,  a bite that you can’t take back:   if you remove it,  you will remove a part of yourself along with it.   it is hard to admit that you sometimes don’t recognise the person you love,  in flashes of anger and grief.   you too,  are burning,   unable to escape before the house would crash down on you.  it is easier to play pretend,  easier to act as if you were oblivious to the unfinished mission,  how you packed your bags in seattle and left but ellie left a piece of herself there to return to.         “ellie,  what—?”      

it had been brewing for some time,   you could feel it in the air,  the want to go back.   it had been easier then,   how blood would spill and secrets be handed over,   how quick people could be to speak should a gun be pressed against temple.    it felt like a lifetime ago,   so why couldn’t she see that?      head shakes,   idle hands continue folding fabrics,     heart like a trapped hummingbird inside your ribcage.    you will hurt. but you promised yourself that you would heal, too.  for jesse, who couldn't,   and for ellie,   who wouldn't.       “don’t do that.   don’t make this into something that it isn’t.    i —    you didn’t kill for me.  you did it for yourself,   or for joel,   or tommy.     not me.”

[waystelandmoved]

@nearends:    you’re weak. you always were. you never had the stomach for this.

dead end after dead end.  every time you turn around,  even path taken is closed to you as if the heavens themselves had forced you down this road,  hand-in-hand with death himself.   spots of regret wound around your spine.    there is no end to your mistakes,  you cannot find the beginning of the chain that brought you from there to here;  each one interlinked with the last where it can pool at your feet, a weight to be carried as a constant reminder to your sins.    yourself the sole occupier of a haunted house,  it was a never ending circle:  generational regret with shaky hands that resemble your fathers,  you add that to the list alongside the boots,  the ideas,  the hopes to do what is right  [you want to ignore the bloodstain that will not come out of hardwood, but he left that behind too]    in a house that swallowed bodies,  you inherited a knife's edge.    more than most, you have known what it is to be dead,  or so filled with rage you were always hungry to sink your teeth in.    you abstained.    you wanted so bad for it to be a dream,  that you did not share the same red hands.        it is in these dreams that you find the haunting realisation:   your father’s hands are red holding a seeping wound,  yours are the same crimson but gripped around a knife.    nurture damned by nature,   it had always been you holding the knife,  grip shaky but there.     bellamy is your knife,    unwavering,   unafraid.    enough to make hairs stand on end,   you squeeze your eyes closed and wait—    

the taste of metal is nothing but familiar,   it draws you out of your own thoughts to bleeding gum,   molars grinding through your own feigned indifference,   as if his words were not ricocheting around your chest.     is that what he wanted?   they took root in your stomach,  slithered up to hold a bony hand around your throat like a taunt.   you’re weak.   always were.     guilt is your weakness,  you told yourself that you do what has to be done,   as if there is no other option but bloodshed.   you will send yourself to hell before the blood has a chance to stain.      “...then why are you still here?”     your foil,   your opposite.    alike in more ways than you care to admit,   in the way he never fails to slip under your skin.      eyes lift to catch him—        “go.   let what’s left of the world see bellamy the brave.    let us see you make the choice in who lives and who dies.”

[hopeforged]

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

[waystelandmoved]

“no.”      your hands bleed red,   and for once,  you have the opportunity to be savior over saved.   people had died for you, time and time again, forsaken their own existence to let you live another day.    [how had you repaid them? had let your blood run cold,  took advantage of another’s weakness,  you couldn’t carry on like that.  there had to be more to cursed bloodline] you thought.    even now,  with building crumbling around you,  groans muffled and almost inaudible through locked door that creaked with each added weight,   rotting flesh becomes considerable force. 

lingering grief slid down your oesophagus, forced,  swallowed hard in its wake until it wrapped itself around your heart; an insatiable need to be,  it would never let you go. you would never be free, faceless daughter, until you allowed yourself to see the rot that had overcome you.    people had been living here,   made home in the blinking lights hanging onto whatever power sun could give,  themselves haunted by the drip..drip..drip.    how could you leave when they looked just like you?   “you can go.   but someone is still here,  they don’t know—      i can help them.”

[waystelandmoved]

also! i’ve seen a few floating around lately across my blogs and just wanna say: i don’t interact with ‘like to remain mutuals’ posts! if i follow you, it means i want to write and interact, i don’t want you to feel forced to keep me around because i liked a post ily!

[nearends-a]

@waysteland ››› i know you’re scared, i am too. but i have to do this, and you have to let me.

their history was fragile, at best. a crumbling canopy that would not hold the rain at worst. the turbulence of his mistakes made the atmosphere rocky around them, never quite stable in the exchange of words that had been stifled in month-long silences. (there is all caleb wants to say and nothing tris wants to hear locked tightly into the muscle that works inside his jaw, apologies for all he could not make up for that falls flat in every attempt. he is acutely aware of how jarring his voice has become to her, where once her eyes had glistened at every illumination.) the air stirs around them as though sentient, a storm of uncertainty making it uncomfortably buoyant and unsettling. his voice bleeds out hoarse words from throat's lack of use, a painful sound that makes his cheeks warm with the mortifying implication: i do not exist without you, the eclipse your shadow offers me is my only reprieve from the damning dawns that torch my retinas. peter talks to him sometimes, not with anything kind or beneficial to say, tris and four often pretend caleb is not with them, and often not purposefully. chris was different. (what a difficult acceptance, to know peter is a more welcome presence in their company than his own self.) and he supposes he is unused to that treatment, especially by two who once belonged to his own faction. abnegation had always valued selflessness, putting others above own needs to an almost laughable degree. but caleb is not surprised by it, tris had always rebelled against their innate humility, indulging in her insatiable curiosity in a manner that always gained a scolding.

"i don't know how you do it," his lips purse together, the fragile notes of his malcontent playing a morbid tune. caleb clears his throat, ridding away the sudden thickness that seems to close up his oesophagus. he cannot grant himself the reprieve he yearns for, lets it die in his throat with all that remains unsaid. existing in her shadow issues some comfort therein he has orchestration, yes, but the dark obscurity cast over his complexion allows cowardice to thrive. caleb took to thought where she took to action, her lead juxtaposed his compliance: abnegation necessitates the art of unnoticed navigation, his submissive insipidity threaded into his skin in muted greys as she unveiled an illustrious mosaic, pieces of so many people merged together to make one esteemed hero. he falters in comparison. the line of her footsteps tell him where to go, and he would not know where if not for her direction. "how do you wake up and do this everyday?"

[waystelandmoved]

1.  fear doesn’t shut you down, it wakes you up. 2. everything has changed.  3. blood is blood, but the convent threatens to outweigh the womb

you do not know how to comfort caleb, or how to explain the why,  the lingering question that would keep you up for days. it was your everyday, you made that decision when you leaped from the rooftop,  when sliced palm was held over sizzling rocks,  a blur of grey disappointment with black welcome.  you do it every day because you must, because there is no other way, and there is no one else willing to fight.   erudite’s betrayal of abnegation, their hidden malice in using dauntless to round up citizens, children who did not know better it is for that you wake up every day, desperate to start anew.  stagnation was death,  it was thoughts overcrowding mind with the henious reminders of gunshots,   friend turned foe leaping off bridge into the cold depths,  or of bullet penetrating a friend,  to lie to the lover until there is no other option than your truths boiling over.   everything you had ever known dissolved in the acid of nothingness, but caleb had always been inherently good,  how he did not need a second thought to go help someone with fruit scattered over the grass, he just did.  you supposed your nature was expressed now in a different way, there was no second guessing in split second decisions. it had become do or die; to wash blood with blood and hope for a different result.     it had only been months since you left,  and yet he felt like a stranger.  he no longer knew you,  and you weren’t sure you knew him as well as you once thought.   it’s funny, you think, how proximity can trick the mind into familiarity.

a memory like a knife, it never stops cutting.   phases of childhood where he was the only bearable part, where you did not fear to see your reflection staring back at you but a boy made up of the same of you; lopsided smile fashioned in grey,  same wandering eye that you had always assumed was you staring at yourself through his green irises.  [you remind yourself that he; ever selfless, left too]  chose to create a new family far from what you had known.    you worry he looks at you like a blood-thirsty hound-  you had licked your wounds and bit your tongue for years,    climbed off of the family tree to run from the things you knew you couldn’t be,  what they wanted you to be.     “i’ve not been given a choice.”     it’s quiet when you respond,   own mind falters when you try to grasp at reasonings that made sense/in the moment, dauntless had made sense, the unknown when you had only known safety.    family line twists, it’s roots all so tangled in each other that meant you could not let go.  he was your brother,  you do this to keep him safe,  to keep everyone free and to not break another promise to a corpse.      “i don’t think i know how to do anything else.”

[waystelandmoved]

@nearends: i see the good in everybody. it’s a flaw of mine.

a flaw that also brushed your skin for the first time years before, a gentle hand extended to even the darkest of wolves, as if daring for it to try and bite the only tender gesture its seen in years. beth greene was good, perfectly pious like the rows of pews beckon you home, the similar stained oak overtaking your senses like it still held God between its walls, like the church didn’t creak and crack with every movement in its old soul, as if you weren’t sure of wayward angels hiding in the attic, waiting to reveal themselves should the moment be right. because goodness and mercy followed you at every step in your life, offered you a relieve in the darkest of moments, where blessed wheat turned liquid sour, a poison to the man you call father through blood, the Father through spirit returned him to you a changed man,  pages clutched to both your chests like an anchor even now. your skin is white and unblemished, the tender flesh of God dirtied but not harmed. digits fiddle with cross resting on collarbone, as if the contact with cool metal would bring you closer, like it did not still hurt to wear in wake of the destruction of the earth; you could not still believe that there was something coming next. this was it,  there will be no salvation, the muddied paths and boarded up windows is all that was left, the rubble of your childhood home just another victim in its wake. 

“is it a flaw?”  or were you just used to golden auras hidden beneath all that red?  that should the light hit someone just right, they too will have their moment of glory?  you had been cracked down the middle and light spilled, perfectly golden against the asphalt, like you could inspire daisies to push their way through concrete and dazzle under the hot august moon? if you cannot see the good left, you do not know what else was left for you, to live a life constantly looking over shoulder, as if every friend had a hidden dagger beneath coat. there is a still-beating heart to humanity, and you were going to look for it every day that you still walked the earth.   it is a smile now, that you offer to tyreese, as if you know something that he doesn’t, that your eighteen summers outweighed the forty-six winters he had weathered. you had not had time yet to harden, to leave the safety net of family and familiarity.    “doesn’t everyone deserve to have the good be seen? that rough edges aren’t all that they are?”    bloodied glint of a blade,  a ricocheted bullet.    “i see the good in you. you’re a good person, tyreese.”