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May. 16th, 2016 at 6:37 PM
[He's been here but a short time, more than a week, he knows, but less than two. In that short time, where he's withdrawn from the others that call this place home, where he's sought isolation instead of human companionship, the voices have - with unnerving accuracy - started their refrain once more.
Max.
Where are you, Max?
You're running again, aren't you? You always run.
But you'll hit the wall here, Max. Can't run far.
For the most part, he's ignored them. Shut them out as best he can by busying himself with the day to day tasks of living. Living? No, that's not right. With surviving. He's resourceful. He's savvy, when it comes to making things last, and it's afforded him less in the way of chances of running into other people. There's little enough reason to barter here, to interact, when it's easy enough to simply hold on to what he can get, ration it out, and keep to the shadows, at least metaphorically.
He's gotten clothes - still suited more for the desert than the prison - and fashioned a leg brace, and beyond that it's been remarkably easy to stay out of the picture. Too easy, perhaps.
The dreams he's purposely sat aside, hopefully to be buried in sand never to be thought of again.
And this day starts like most others, with the ghosts of his past trailing not far behind, their voices carried to him as though on the wind, from far away, as he goes about his business. The beach. The library. The tree grove. Places that are quiet, very usually empty, and far flung enough that it sates the craving to keep moving, to not stop and settle in one place too long.
The difference today is that he's visible, moving about in the same places and same times as others, and trying (and, for the outside observer, awkwardly failing at) going with the flow and blending in, instead standing out like a sore thumb as he drifts from one place to another; restless, but with no purpose but the drive to stay alert.]
[ooc; since i've been horribly mia, here's your local damaged, dirty dune drifter, for all your road warrior needs. if you want something specific, shoot me a pm or ping me on plurk.]
Max.
Where are you, Max?
You're running again, aren't you? You always run.
But you'll hit the wall here, Max. Can't run far.
For the most part, he's ignored them. Shut them out as best he can by busying himself with the day to day tasks of living. Living? No, that's not right. With surviving. He's resourceful. He's savvy, when it comes to making things last, and it's afforded him less in the way of chances of running into other people. There's little enough reason to barter here, to interact, when it's easy enough to simply hold on to what he can get, ration it out, and keep to the shadows, at least metaphorically.
He's gotten clothes - still suited more for the desert than the prison - and fashioned a leg brace, and beyond that it's been remarkably easy to stay out of the picture. Too easy, perhaps.
The dreams he's purposely sat aside, hopefully to be buried in sand never to be thought of again.
And this day starts like most others, with the ghosts of his past trailing not far behind, their voices carried to him as though on the wind, from far away, as he goes about his business. The beach. The library. The tree grove. Places that are quiet, very usually empty, and far flung enough that it sates the craving to keep moving, to not stop and settle in one place too long.
The difference today is that he's visible, moving about in the same places and same times as others, and trying (and, for the outside observer, awkwardly failing at) going with the flow and blending in, instead standing out like a sore thumb as he drifts from one place to another; restless, but with no purpose but the drive to stay alert.]
[ooc; since i've been horribly mia, here's your local damaged, dirty dune drifter, for all your road warrior needs. if you want something specific, shoot me a pm or ping me on plurk.]