sixerpath (sixerpath) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2020-04-02 23:54:00 |
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Entry tags: | stanford pines |
Who: Stanford Pines and OPEN
What: Backlogging the WWII plot
When: In the late evening, March 15th
Where: By the docks
Rating/Warnings: Dead bodies, not much else so far
Status: Ongoing
((OOC: Hey guys! Been preoccupied with the craziness lately, but if anyone else who’s gotten distracted wants to roll some backlog scenes, please feel free to respond or hit me up at Rickytickytavi#6879 on Discord!))
There was a rush of fog that descended over Ford’s figure as he made his way out along the lingering darkness of the park. Street lights wavered, hushed against the thickness of it, lost like ghosts in the moving shadows of trees and brush.
He’d taken these days to cutting across this park and simply using public transportation to get home. Not that he particularly needed it, not that he particularly couldn’t afford a car, but, well...he honestly preferred the long walks, the breath of actual fresh air. Besides which, their apartment was giving them quite the hassle over the idea of two vehicles, and he honestly couldn’t have minded less with Bill picking him up on occasion when he had the time. He was rather distracted in that moment, his phone already resting in his hands while texting the other, a small, soft smile on his face.
Bill. His entire form seemed to melt still into the thought of the other. Even years later, years upon so many years, the space that held there between them simply never got old. Never worn. Never wavered or ever drew thin. In fact, so much the opposite. The kindness just as clear, just as vibrant, the softness at the edges in his expression just as authentic, his gaze as warm as when they were children, fighting against the whole of the world in a fit of adventure and constant movement for more. As his thoughts wound toward the other, his smile was just as much at home as ever. Placed in a gentleness, and a glow that nothing really could quell.
He and Bill had been together...well, coming up on a lifetime now, it seemed. And it had felt like nothing short of just a single moment. He didn’t track the time, not by years, not by days, not by anything other than where they were. Ford didn’t need to, not to simply breathe into the other’s presence, or exist alongside him, fall into line against the waves of light the other still, all these years past, shone in against the night.
‘I’m walking home now. Did you still want to meet up? Maybe we could stop and get dinner or something…? I heard about this place from Stanley, but knowing him frankly it’s probably a hell hole.’
He typed away, giving a slight chuckle and shaking his head at the thought of whatever kind of shoddy old bar or sketchy restaurant his twin may have more than likely suggested.
And right as he went to tuck his phone away, it rang, causing another softer grin to come over his face. He made to pick it up with a casual ease, an amused smile on his voice.
“Bill. Hey,” He enthused kindly, smiling into the night. And he honestly had made to continue on, or would’ve if weren’t for an abrupt shift in scenery as he broke out from the park, near the docks. His whole body paused then, faltered entirely, and he glanced up, before a frown came dawning over his features.
A vast of shadowy figures were there to meet him, leaving the man to glance about, along the heavy mist, along the pressing, eerie white, to try and make them out.
“....Huh…” He said, simply then, cutting off his train of thought as a caution of very real unease against his voice. “I uh...Bill, listen, I...well, I think I have to go. I think…” He took a few steps forward, before the scene seemed to settle in, breaking into further clarity, sharpening through the mist. He let out a sudden disbelieving curse, body shooting with sudden realization. “Oh god, I think--there are bodies here. I--listen, I have to go.” It was a jarring, shock of a second, and instinctively he hung up, dialing instead 911 and racing to the fallen figure’s side.
A man it seemed, in nothing but old WWII garb, lay there, cold, pale...and very clearly dead. He felt for a pulse just the same, jostled at the man, but nothing changed this. “What...what in all of god’s name...” He whispered, fear lacing deep in his voice, concern and disbelief all at once pulling into him. His eyes, frantic and desperate, took to the street, finding other corpses lying among the docks. He stumbled to his feet, rushing to the next body over, glancing frantic to his phone to find it had disconnected. He cursed and tried again. But it didn’t ring. Nothing went through, the signal lost. He shoved it useless into his trenchcoat, instead pressing his fingers again at the next figure’s throat, desperate for any sign of life.
“Nothing. I--” he didn’t understand. He took his gaze along the shoreline, and froze then, suddenly caught still at the image of...of, well…ships was the right word, he supposed. Some kind of massive, ancient things, straight from a historical museum. Straight out of WWII, as if on the set of a film. Maybe that was it…? Maybe…
But no.
No, these men were clearly dead.
This wasn’t some game. Or a joke. He stumbled to his feet. “HELP!” He called, rushing again to the next fallen form, trying to find some signs or flickers of life. But it seemed every last one of them were long since dead, long since cold, and long since abandoned, impossibly, in the middle of what was typically an at least somewhat busy, bustling area but remained, in that moment, devoid of all life apart from himself. “SOMEONE!” He called, but it seemed as if the entire scenery were desolate.