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⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐒, 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐒. 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐈 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐀.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀do I have to fight? there's nothing left to lose. do I have to struggle? the walls are caving in. I'll see you again, when the pendulum ends.⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀/ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀an atomized dissertation of the avaricious, an original character developed and analyzed by matthias ⁽²⁶⁾.

﹟ 𝑨𝑩𝒀𝑺𝑺𝑪𝑺 ⠀ ⠀:⠀ ⠀⠀enter.⠀ ⠀ ⠀rules.⠀ ⠀ ⠀request a starter.

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The Punisher Season 1 Episode 02 - Two Dead Men

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- Evelyn Waugh, from Brideshead Revisited (1945)

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     𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇 pinned up in an expiring blue, that bled down into the lowering sun beyond horizon, and Reuven was taking silent, intentional footsteps alongside those left imprinted in the mud. His shelter was tucked away, about a mile in to the apex of his defense line, where the bodies of his recently killed hung, strung up upon tree branches by the viscera of intestine. Their blood dripped in dark, inviting puddles into the mud; a dangling snack for the infected to preoccupy themselves with, and stay on the defense line of mapped out foliage, and far away from Reuven's cave shelter.

     The stone sloped inward on itself, with only one way in, and one way out, and the man stepped into the opening, blocking the setting sun with his silhouette. His carbine lifted. Its buttstock nestled into the nook of his shoulder, and he locked eyes with the scavenger, who was currently going through his stuff. That, to Reuven, was a killable offense. They would soon be strung up with the rest of them, limp and lifeless; just meat on a stick.

     "You got my lifestraw in your hand," he uttered back, voice hoarse and gruff with its general non-use. There weren't many people alive to talk to anymore. And when they met in circumstances like these... well, they didn't stay alive for much longer.

     The wind lifted leaves from tree branches behind him, and he stared, jaw tight, at the stranger. "Doesn't look like passin' through to me."

open to : any gender, 21+ ! no t*boo. assume connections.

plot : apocalypse verse exclusive. mason is a scavenger and location scout for a small group of lone survivors. they've stumbled upon your muse's campsite / community and have been caught looking through their supplies.

      " now i don't mean any harm, " though the blade tucked in her palm seems to suggest otherwise — but they didn't know it was there, unless they've got a hawk's-eye, " i'm just passin' through. "

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     𝐕𝐔𝐋𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 so intensely uncomfortable. In the days of full parks and timesheets, Reuven had, once upon a time, been an emotionally sound man. He had worked half his life to obtain the wisdom and maturity to approach the world, his life, with an openness that he could have never imagined possessing in his youth. But so quickly had that defense mechanism of his childhood slammed back up, the moment the parks emptied, and the timesheets went blank. Once upon a time, he was able to share his experiences, and his strength, and his hope. Once upon a time, he was not this gnarled man, full of resent and terror. Telling his story to some stranger was not just uncomfortable. No, it was beyond discomfort. It was unsafe. It was death sentence.

     And he knew he could not trust himself, not in his current state of malnutrition. And he knew not everything was what it seemed anymore. There was always this pervasive need to stay one step ahead, in this world, because sometimes just being inline meant demise. How deeply his soul ached for understanding, though. How wretched was the pain he harbored, that it sometimes constricted in his chest, like python, until he was suffocating under its vice. Wouldn't it be nice to finally release those horrors he viewed behind closed eyes? Wouldn't it be cathartic?

     Reuven could not even consider the aspect. Josie, she seemed friendly enough. Yes, she seemed trustworthy. But... could people like her still exist? People like her didn't exist anymore. People who led with their hearts, marching forward with the power of love and kindness. No, love and kindness had been abandoned long ago. Those who loved and those who practiced kindness, they got themselves killed. Or, worse, got their family killed. He had learned that. He had to learn that, after his baby boy went cold and blue from starvation in the night.

     And, if people like her could exist, what would that mean for him? What would that speak of, about his own story? That he had not been able to master the retention of humanity, in an inhuman world. No, Reuven did not believe people like this woman could exist because he could not.

     When she offered directions to the restroom, he rose suddenly; curtly. Her offer for him to ask questions himself was rain-checked, in favor of taking a beeline to the bathroom, where he discovered his reflection, for the first time in six years.

     He did a double take as he passed the mirror, and then halted in staring. His dark gaze met mirror, and he stared back into it, under the cover of hair gone wild and beard in tow. The dark hair hung low around his shoulders, where scars of various origins littered beneath his dirtied and tattered shirt. Scars he'd never seen before. They were littered where he could not find with the pan of his visage; where only reflection could reveal. Upon his throat, extending up the lateral side of his face, and disappearing into the thickened moat of facial hair below.

     He was graying, he suddenly realized. He'd never had grays before. The streaks of lost melanin went peppering up into his sideburns; down the center of his beard. The man he was looking at was a stranger to him. How old was he now? How long had it been?

     He wasn't sure how long he'd been staring at himself in the mirror before the splash of cooled water met his face. He could barely feel it. Some primitive part of his psyche had dissasociated him from this life; from his body. The water was icy, and his nerves felt numbed to its temperature. But it did bring some feeling of refresh into his foggy mind.

     Some reason. Some hope.

     Maybe this wasn't all just some ruse to take what little he had and leave him for dead. Maybe this could be exactly what it looked like. Maybe people like Josie were able to still exist.

     And just like that, the moment of weakness took him back into the interview area, where he took a heavy thud of a seat back down opposite of Josie, and starved at her for a long moment with dilated, stoic pupils. "Why?" he finally croaked out, after a long moment. "Why do you bother? Listening to people's stories? We're all dead anyway." A beat, then a murmur. "Even the living."

For six years, Fort Manchester grew. Her measly protections constructed around the radio station were fortified and the small town square grew into the heart of a community. They soon had a garden, an armory, housing, a hospital, a makeshift school; it was a community. They even created a clock using a sundial. With Alexandria in charge, they reached a level of peace. Josie could keep broadcasting."Everyone has a story to tell." Josie responded with a small smile. This was not the first hostile interview she conducted. Her first interview was with Alexandria, then the second in charge at the time Wesley, and finally herself. It made sense of course.

Ever since the fall of humanity, Josie kept her station going. They were already set up with solar panels and people kept calling. Once the cell phone towers fell, she kept speaking on the untouchable airwaves. And people contacted her still. Josie would only leave the station to tend to the small garden on the roof. Aside from those brief moments in the sun, she continued her work. She told stories of hope, passed along useful information once it was corroborated by multiple sources (she was one of the first to report that just cutting off the head didn't stop the walkers, they still needed the head shot to go down), and listened to people's stories. She listened to the loss. The people that just needed to know they were listened to before they left the world.

At first Josie balked at being the first people survivors spoke to when they entered Fort Manchester. The stories she heard continued to rattle around her head. Alexandria had a reason for everything though. And who better but the voice of the people? "Sure we have a bathroom. It's just down that hallway on the right." The stranger's weapons were taken away from him as soon as he wandered in the camp. There was a way out: right through the same doors he entered. But then there would be no sanctuary. "You can ask me a couple questions first if that would make you more comfortable." As long as he didn't try for violence. That would not be tolerated one bit.

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     𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 of need upon a decayed mind. The screech of wound, and anger, and defense—it pierces his eardrums like razor upon flesh. From behind his cover, he can see its limbs, wild with violence, and its unseeing mind goes in search. First, of the girl. Then, of the clattering thump of stone, scattered his way.

     Smart kid. Smart enough to get a running start, while Reuven retrieved his own blade, to drive it through the demon's hardened fungal plates and into its brain. He wouldn't waste a bullet over this. But he had no problem wasting some energy. His footsteps took him sprinting after her, after the thud upon grass, of infected gone limp. Despite the chronic hunger, his strides were long and powerful, and they launched forward with an explosiveness he could see she didn't possess. If she'd wandered into his own encampment, she must have done the same to others, and Reuven was convinced she had supplies stashed away somewhere that he could take for himself.

     He sought like lion to gazelle; predator to prey. There was the forceful launch of his body forth, to slam into her in tumbling capture, and pin her to the ground with the length of his rifle. "Where is it?!" he bellowed out, viciously, while his downward grip slammed her shoulders back into the ground. "Tell me where you keep your supplies or I'll fuckin' kill you, I swear to God—" he spat, taking the name of deity he once worshipped, now in contempt and weaponization. Breaths came in labored, lifting chest and shoulders heavily. His unkempt curls hung down in front of his eyes as he struggled to keep her pinned down.

Crunch. Harper whirled around quickly, raising her machete in preparation to strike, but nothing was there. She paused for a moment, listening carefully. Silence. Hesitantly, she lowered the blade to her side and gave one more glance around before turning on her heels and continuing down the path.

She couldn’t help but grip the hilt of the blade tightly as her shoulders tensed. How could you be so stupid, so unfocused?! She had an uneasy feeling earlier, but she just assumed it was from the random goreshow a few miles back. It was now evident she was being followed. And as if they didn’t already have an upper hand with the knowledge of the land, they were also behind her. And considering she hadn’t seen anyone, they had to be a good distance away or just really good at hiding. But what were they waiting for? Why not just shoot her already? Was this for amusement? Some twisted game? She needed to get some idea of who was tracking her.

The blonde came to a quick stop, pressing her back to the nearest tree as she heard the distinct sound of clicking. She wanted to eliminate the problem as fast and effectively as she could considering there was another threat lingering off in the distance. Sadly, she couldn’t risk a Molotov in such a dense forest area, but she didn’t have any nail bombs left. She had to ignore the threat in the woods and focus on the clicker if she had any chance of making it out alive.

With a quiet breath, Harper clipped her machete back to her belt before retrieving her bow from her back. She aligned the shot, quickly pulling the string back to her cheek; she exhaled before releasing.

The clicker screeched out as it was struck in the shoulder and began to swing its limbs wildly. Staying low in the tall grass, Harper moved behind the next tree. That's when the thought crossed her mind. She quickly looked around on the ground until she came across a medium-sized rock. Perhaps she could deal with both problems at once? Now under the cover of treeline, Harper chucked the rock into the distance where she had originally come from only for the rock to bounce off a tree, quickly drawing the clicker’s attention away from herself. As soon as it stumbled away, she took her chance and bolted. She slung her bow over her shoulder and took a right turn after a few feet. She didn’t know where she was headed, she just knew she needed to gain as much distance as she could.

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     𝐒𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 human condition. So primitive in animalia, and yet, logic is prevailing, just as prominently as self-preservation. There is this resignation to the end, or what Reuven has accepted as his end, and he wishes for it to be so. His acceptance is not conjured without a melancholy foundation beneath it. And so, this stranger, she shows him mercy, and Reuven—he wants to be angry at her. He wants to pick up the barrel of carbine and place its lip upon his forehead, and gather up her hands in his, and situate them, shaking, where trigger lies. He is so tired. He is so, so tired.

     Tired enough to do nothing but allow the sobs to wrack his chest. Like thunderstorm upon night, it rains torrentially down, and he makes some noise akin to wounded animal. Some noise that had been crafted some weeks ago, when his last baby was laid down for permanent rest, and it was just now exiting his chest. He could have bellowed out the pain from the furthest depths of his chest, if he were not dwindling of energy. And that pain, it spoke to him whispers of contempt, and of distrust, and reasoning against the situation he was in. Why would this stranger take care of him and feed him? For nothing in return? And why would he believe her? This world had long devolved into something sinister and unhabitable; there was no kindness anymore. No generosity. And so quick was his own vile survivalism called to action; the hazy thought of being able to kill her while she looked at his leg flashed through him. She would be unsuspecting. He could do it suddenly, as cat strikes prey. Hands around throat. Grip digging into jugulars, until her consciousness flicked off, and then he could go upstairs and rest in that bed, in peace.

     It was not as though he hadn't done similar in the past few years. He'd certainly killed just for the peace of mind of not being stalked or targeted. But did he have to? But did he have to?

     The man's dark gaze, puffy and reddened with slowing tears, it settled into her's and he waited. Waited for her to do something. To take her chance. To make the decision for him—if she killed him first, then he wouldn't have to kill her.

     But no violence did come. And the moment passed, and his leg ached, and he croaked out, "Sounds like an uneven deal to me." Not exactly a rejection, but an acknowledgment, that she was not winning under those conditions. Did he really have the leverage here to say no, though? When was the last time he'd eaten? Properly eaten? He couldn't even remember. And that wound on his leg, though he'd cauterized its raging infection, it still festered and weeped and was healing so fitfully, he would not be surprised to wake up one morning to its necrosis. No. No, he did not have the option here to say no to medical care, nor to food. If she killed him in the process... well, he had already accepted it, hadn't he?

     His acceptance didn't come in the form of a yes, or a nod, but in the hiking of his knee up, to rest foot upon the floor, and allow the alleged doctor, a better look. "It got sliced to the bone a few weeks ago. Then infected... so I burned it." The words left his lips stoic in their baritone. As if he felt nothing over it at all.

Adrenaline shot through her like never before. Her body moved in a speed that was foreign but welcome, though her muscles ached at the sudden stretch. The gunshot spiked painfully in her ears, but none pierced her. Renata did not know how she gained the upper hand, until she was over the man with her pistol still pointed at him. Before her lay the image of a man starved and tired. In her years in the medical field, small details told huge stories. Sometimes, she could tell by the eyes alone what ailed someone.

What she did not expect, was laughing. The sound bounced off the walls like the bullets did before. Renata heard it through the sound of her own beating heart, hands shaking in front of herself. Somehow, it made her heart break.

She swallowed the lump formed in her throat. "Shut up." She commanded. Her hands started to shake more. "Those are my husband's clothes your wearing...how dare you come into my home and take them!?" Renata wanted him to care, to beg for her forgiveness and to give them all back. Their pristine condition was already ruined, but at least she still had them.

Renata's throat closed in on itself, a sob threatened to tear through. Her eyes glossed, her bottom lip wobbled. The smell of mint was suffocating her, the locket on her felt like a boulder dragging her down. The pistol remained where it was, chamber still full.

Renata knew she did not have the heart to pull the trigger, even if this man tried to kill her in her own home. Bleeding heart; the term materialized in her mind. Perhaps that was her curse.

Her brown eyes shifted down, something catching her eye.

A wound. A very bad looking wound. While she could not see much, since the material of the shorts covered it, a educated guess was made. The doctor in her surfaced, her mind already thinking of various ways to treat the wound. "You must've been really hungry...and cold..." She struggled to control her own voice. "I'll make you a deal. You can eat as much as you want...if you let me take a look at your leg." The terms were set, all laid out for him to choose. "But if you try and hurt me, I'll kill you...deal?"

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CLOSED TO: H. GRACE. ( @shctsfired ) 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄.    9 years into the apocalypse and reuven has been trailing a stranger for the entire past day after she unknowingly entered his "territory". he is looking to catch her when she's off-guard and loot what she has.

     𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐕𝐄, high, amongst the trees. It is melody of crow and sparrow, and they both call out into the evening for sustenance. Reuven's call is much quieter. Silent. And it is of boots crunching ever so slightly upon fallen leaves and rustled foliage where he pressed through, following, at a distance, after the stranger.

     It did not seem to him that she'd realized she'd crossed into his self-proclaimed territory. After all, his warning signal of strung up bodies on tree branches, shredded flesh dangling, well... that wasn't always as much of a get out sign as he might have liked it to be. Yet, still, Reuven was not a forgiving man. Not anymore. And crossing over into his space had held with it the sentence of which he should have applied some years ago, when he still had his children alongside him: death. Get too close, and he would not hesitate. Others' lives, to him, had dwindled in their worth. Down to nothing. Down to peace of mind, even. Yes, he would and had killed people, just to have the peace of mind that they would not attack him in the night.

     So far he had strayed from the man he once was. Where was that kind and patient father? Emotionally sound and firm yet loving? Whoever that was, Reuven today was just an echo of him. Some snuffed out and blurred version of him. Reuven had lost himself to the dead, and he wasn't sure there was a coming back, after the things he'd seen. The things he'd done.

     So there she was—this other survivor, and unlucky for her, she'd crossed over his invisible line, and earned herself a tail. He'd been following her for the better part of the afternoon—just far off enough that he could hide quickly when she glanced behind her shoulder. For the first few miles, she hadn't noticed him, and then he could see it, in her stature: she knew she was being followed. That didn't stop him. He would take any opportunity to amass more supplies for himself. Wherever she was headed, he was going too.

     In his arms, he cradled a black, military-grade carbine. Didn't have many bullets left, but all he really needed was one. It was as the dead came upon her that he stopped, to observe how she fought, and find some weakness he could use later. Did she stumble over her steps? Did she have an injured limb? Anything. He stared, from behind the rifle's raised barrel, deadpan, ready to shoot should the dead notice him amongst the brush. Or should she.

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CLOSED TO: V. KNIGHTLY ( @midxsommar ) 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄.    5 years into the apocalypse and reuven has just raided a vessel on the new york bay. he is holding the occupants hostage, demanding they tell him where they're keeping their supplies.

     𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 waves reflects off both the vessel's steel and the droplets of water that leap faithfully from dark curls to forearms. There is a lineup of strangers, wrists strung together behind backs by plastic zip-tie. The man, shirt torn, bare-foot, has been gracious enough to let them sit on the plush couches rather than the hardwood deck, though he is tempted to relocate them one one just won't stop berating him. Her voice rings like metal on chalkboard to his dehydrated mind, and he is trying to ignore her, but be it the irritability from half-starvation or the total lack of socialization for the past two years, Reuven can't help but feel viscerally annoyed.

     He is trying to chug what little bit of water they had laying around. Trying to keep an eye on them while he does it, too, because even if he had successfully ambushed their small group, he didn't ever let ego get him killed. As such—he wasn't willing to properly tour the vessel and leave the congregation alone for even a second. That second could mean his throat. So he finally looked at the redhead, after what felt like an hour of rambling his way (it was more likely ten minutes), a lifted a brow. Very calmly, he lifted the last bit of water from the last filled water bottle to his lips, and then responded, "Do you ever shut up?" Then, he decided he had quenched his thirst enough. "Alright. Here's what's going to happen. You tell me where you keep all your supplies—and don't try to act like you don't have any, every last one of you looks like you haven't ever missed a goddamn meal in your lives. You give me what you got, and maybe I won't throw you all overboard." He gave a smile, as if he'd been delivering the friendliest of news. "So. Where is it?"

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#thicc Beardthal Bash 2023 THE PUNISHER | 1.01

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     𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐓 of his heart. Then—shattering. A million tiny shards, exploding off the point of contact between bullet and ceramic, and Reuven is diving in the opposite direction, and he is so tired, so fundamentally and quintessentially exhausted, that when the homeowner comes upon him, his reflexes are too slow. The woman's charge is met with the unfocused gaze of man teetering ruin; combine his starvation and grief alone and it was a miracle he was standing upright. Add on everything else and it's really no surprise then, that his forefinger pulls back on trigger and the bullet that sends misses her.

     His vision narrows into tunnel, and what little adrenaline can be conjured by his deprived body is now sent full force through his veins. He meets her, chest to chest, barricading her with the length of his carbine, trying to push her off.

     But she is fed.

     And he is not.

     And, all at once, his tank runs empty. It is as though he has been running for days, and only now, staring into the mouth of predator does he stumble over his feet. What a cruel joke. What a cruel world.

     It makes him laugh. Suddenly, and surely he must look like some mad man, because she gains the upper hand over him and something strikes him—it is acceptance. Acceptance of his own death, before her weapon ever graces his flesh. His laughter rumbles through him hoarse and strained and tired, and then it's mixing with some unstoppable surge forth of saltwater. It is darting from his glossy-eyed gaze. It is sinking down into his wild and greying beard. And he is thinking of his baby girl, and of the dirt mound he dug for her to rest in. And suddenly he's letting go.

     He lets go of the carbine. He stops fighting back, and then he croaks out something pleading; something resigning:

     "Just do it. Just fucking do it."

Renata listened to the notes of this man's voice. Rough, deep. She could not discern anything from it. Her heels dug into the old wood, so much so she was sure she would break right through. Her busted knuckles ached as her grip in the knife tightened. Skin tore apart slowly, revealing dry, bloody crevices. "Doesn't matter. This is my property and you're trespassing." She called out from her position. If she was correct, there was about a hallway between her and him. Ample space to shoot with her pistol, but wood offered weak protection against the bullets that might follow. Bullshit. She thought, as the man proclaimed his intention to leave.

Sun light moved over the wall ever so slowly. Golden orange sprayed over the white walls. When the darkness draped over them, it would harder for Renata to see him. The dark carried that suffocating presence, rendering it's victims powerless in the absence of light. "Who are you?" The dark haired woman questioned, but the odds of her getting an answer were slim.

The scent hit her like a semi truck. Mint. She could recognize that scent anywhere, even if she were blindfolded. Renata closed her eyes, trying her best not to react to it. It was her husband's cologne. Well, her fiancée to be more correct. They never got the chance to officially tie the knot, but the couple had long since started to call each other 'husband' and 'wife'. A memory materialized in her mind. Alejandro, getting ready for the day, would spray a generous amount of it on himself. Whenever he wrapped his arms around Renata, she buried her nose into it. It was a cold, minty freshness.

Something clicked just then. This stranger used that cologne. He raided her home, and helped himself to anything he found. Even her husband's things. A deep feeling within her stomach brewed. How dare he? Her throat closed up, eyes teared in frustration, and her heart continued the rapid, threatening beat it took on before. She'd had enough. Renata moved quickly. She let out a singular shot, aiming for a vase on top of the kitchen book shelf. A loud crack echoed through the house. Renata took the opportunity, letting the sound of crashing glass provide some cover, and charged towards the man.

Was she at a disadvantage, upon seeing the man's weapon? Yes. But she would not go down without a fight.

[abysscs]

     𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍? Some conjuring of his social starved mind, weary and weathered? Some apparition, spun forth from the web of clip-show dreams that blurred into conscious hours? So often had his dreams felt likelier to something real than their nightmarish existence that Reuven stared back at the woman, deadpan, eyes dark and glossed over and reddened at the edges. She seemed friendly. He was trying to figure out if she was real.

    Stumbling into a sanctuary was not entirely impossible, but the man had become so deeply accustomed to the violence of the world that he was immediately suspicious of Josie, in the same way he'd been suspicious of the crew that had offered him shelter here. The only reason he'd followed them back at all was because he figured he could loot and kill them if they were telling the truth, and god damn was he hungry.

    The overgrown and wild mane of his curls draped down around his jawline, and it tensed, when she insisted he would need to disclose his story to get in. What a crock of bullshit. Paranoia paved way only to the resulting thought that they wanted to know about him so they would be able to take advantage of his weaknesses. The pause between her last syllable and his first was long, tense.

    "Don't got a story to tell," he finally answered, gruff and warning in its tone. Dark gaze flickered around the room, though he still watched her from his peripheral. What the fuck was this place? He knew when something seemed too good to be true, it always was. The hairs on his neck were raised straight. "You got a bathroom?" he asked suddenly, bringing his stare back to hers. Maybe he would wake up from this dream, once he got some cold water on his face. And if that didn't work—maybe he could sneak out of a window, or a vent.

open to all ; soft apocalypse !!!

"I'm Josie, kind of the voice of this place." It was a statement for her own amusement. Long before this building became the heart of the new community of Fort Manchester, it was her radio station. That was before everything that happened. "Scribe is more accurate at this point. I take the stories of every new resident and keep it all in the library." It was what she did from the moment the dead started walking again. Gather stories and talk to the people who needed her. "It's a requirement to stay and it's not judgemental. After I write down your story, you start fresh. It will be a brand new chapter."

[abysscs]

Olena Kalytiak Davis

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   𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍   expectations of professionality from the university faculty,   and of that Reuven is acutely aware.   The majority of his entire working life has seen such strict professional standard that even the act of an impertinent conversation with a student gives him this feeling—like he's doing something wrong.    It puts him on edge,  and he is typically quick to steer interactions back to the realm of what was allowed:    grades,   resources,  academic discussion.    Certainly not this;  certainly not sharing a lunch with a student.   Nevermind that she wasn't his student,  per se,  or rather wouldn't be for much longer.   After all,  elective courses were just that:  elective.   One semester's worth.   So,  perhaps Charlotte was not so wrong here.   What was the worst that could happen?

   "All right,"   he conceded,   finally,  after a long moment of debate, and then pulled up a chair,   gave a very gentlemanly gesture for her to take a seat,   and took his own behind his desk.   "What's on the menu?  What are we eating, doctor?"

open to: m/f/nb muse: Charlie Bennett; the innocent

"Stop being such a baby! What's the worst thing that could happen?"

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Introduction to The Iliad, Emily Wilson

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just a quick note: I am literally conducting a full character study on this muse, and am writing a dissertation on it! please expect to see lots of self-paras (termed: monologues) and other posts that relate to his character study. the dissertation is likely going to take me a couple months or more to finish so all of the muns I have threads going with: if our threads have contributed significantly to me figuring out reuven's characterization, I may ask if I can thank you on the dissertation (by your alias)! <3

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⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄: ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀𝐈.

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄: ⠀A scene of fear, of running away, and of separation. The recollection of trauma passed; of grief and agony unable to be articulated, and of father, in the throes of animal-like paternity, ferocious and devastated and anxious.

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐃. ⠀⠀ ⠀The following excerpt contains highly triggering content, and discusses mature topics such as: violence, blood, explicit gore involving a child, child death, spousal death, terror including child terror, post-dystopia survivalism and starvation. It is recommended that you proceed with caution.

THOSE DEVILS, THOSE BAPHOMETS.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀Sunlight peeked through swaying branches; barren arms extended towards dispersing clouds while white-bark skin peeled and weeped.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀His legs were on fire, but he could feel the pound of fear deep in his abdomen. It radiated out to his edges, and his footsteps launched with such a forcefulness the forest around him had been reduced to a brambly blur of greens and browns and oranges.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀Oh, that orange sun. Oh, those peeling branches. The temperature was pleasant. The wind was light. His lungs drew in rapid, laborious breaths, against burning alveoli. Were he to sear from the inside out, perhaps that might be the favorable death here. Because it was death, what licked at his heels. It was death, groaning and gnashing and wicked. It was death, rotting and twitching and screeching. Teeth and calcium, grown jagged from orifice once distinguished as mouth, now disfigured beyond anything recognizable; anything human. And from the larynx screeched something gut-wrenching; like anvil, it dropped fear from the nape of neck to the low of core. There was something evil that lurked in these woods; it walked the streets; it moaned for death. His death. His daughter's death. Reuven, he ran, he ran for his life. For her life.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀Stones and roots and small woodland creatures were just barely missed by his feet as he went. His sprint became a jog, and then his jog became a half-stumble, as the precipice of forest met the end of the world. Reuven went staggering into the water, clothes weighing his limbs as he did, trying to shove it behind him as though its formless state was the only thing that could barrier him from them. Those demons. Those lamia. He is shoving the river between himself and them, and he cannot hear the pleading screams of his baby anymore. That is what drives a panic, ice-cold, down through his chest. He wants to go scrambling back to her, back to where he'd had to leave her, because they had been discovered so suddenly, so, so suddenly. The only way to save her was to use himself as bait. To go sprinting off in the other direction. He had already hung his rifle, and bag, up on the branch he'd placed Kuna upon, and told her to hang on tight. He would be right up. He was supposed to be right up.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀The dead, they followed him into the river, with their violent twitching, furious, and seeking, and seeking, and seeking… Reuven swam out to the deepest part of the water body, inhaled wild air, and went under. His dark curls lifted from his ears. His sustaining oxygen, it bubbled from his nose. The sound of the forest became muted, and then completely silent. The only noise that could carry to him was that of the infected: thrashing, drowning, muted. The man treaded undersurface, blinking burning eyes towards the dirt shore, waiting to see if more would follow him into the depths. The water—it was his safety. It was his liberator. The bodies, though dead, would not float, at least for the time being. Their lungs would flood with water, and drag them down to the sediment below, until bellies distended with bacterial reign once more, and they would return to the surface, still dead, still animated.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀No infected followed him. When he went emerging from the river, nothing but the quiet, humming chirps of birds and dwindling daylight greeted him. Reuven took a cautious step forward, heel to toe, and let the crunch of dried leaves awaken any that might be lingering near. There was no responding screech. There was no violent pursuit. The man's scarred skin prickled with goosebumps; they spread like forest fire up his arms, protesting the shiver of cold that his drench state had brought forth. His clothes were wrung out, as he half-jogged back the way he'd come. "Kuna?" his voice cut through the silence in sharp whispers. "Koala bear? It's me, it's daddy." His breaths brought razor-like air into his lungs. The silence pressed into his eardrums with a low, bass hum. "Kuna? Sweetheart?" he whispered again, and this time his voice cracked on the last syllable. Too quickly was the approaching reality that she might be gone. Dead. Ripped and torn and shredded into sinew and bones. "Kuna?" he croaked, almost angrily; it was an urgency, borne from desperation. The terror that his only living child might have been killed too threatened to consume him. He felt it constrict in his chest; the agony waiting, patiently, for its chance to burrow in. "Kuna?" he cried, through still heaving breaths, as animal does: in woe; wounded.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀"Papa?"

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀The voice chimed suddenly from the trees up above, and relief exploded in the man's chest. His gaze went searching frantically for his little girl, until her bushy dark hair and scuffed knees came into vision. "Hey! Hey, sweetheart, it's okay," he sighed out, rushing towards the base of the tree, where his arms extended out for her to jump down into. It were as though the toddler had been waiting until she saw her father to begin to register his absence; to begin to cry over it. He opened his arms and she leapt into them and suddenly they were both sobbing. Her fingers clung to his neckline, and his hand rested, securely, protectively, upon her back, cradling her into his chest like he might never let go again. "Oh, Kuna, I'm so sorry," he murmured, trying to get his own heart to stop pounding; trying to get his own eyes to stop crying. He was so terrified he had lost her. He was so terrified, its panic-ache still lingered forefront in his chest. "Don't cry, honey," he murmured, rocking and patting her back gently as his tone softened in its reassurance. "I wouldn't have let anything happen to you, koala. I would never let anything happen to you." He nodded, sniffling. The promise came out firm, and he meant it, and though he was uncertain of their safety in that moment, he allowed them this. A moment to breathe. A moment, to just stand still, and be held, and forget about the nightmare around them. And so then was the plight of fatherhood, in this wasteland.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀How wretchedly his little girl cried into his dirty, wet shirt. How desperately she clung to him, nails digging into his traps. Her terror was agony for him to witness, and he wished he could just steal her away from all of this. He wished he could take them both back to a time where soft couches and cartoons existed. And breakfast for dinner, and drawings of cows, and laughing at nothing, and laughing at everything. None of that existed anymore, and the harder he tried to make it still exist, the more it tore him up from the inside out to witness his child live in this horror.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀He would find them safety again one day. He promised it to himself. He promised it to her. He had failed his other two children, and he would not fail her.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀When her brother had died, he had taken part of Reuven with him. He had blinked at the baby's bone-white corpse, gently shaking his chest, and repeatedly calling his name, for several moments, despite already knowing, deep down. It was as though he could not weather the realization. And so immediately had his mind rejected it. And then, suddenly, he was wailing. He was wailing out his agony from the chest, screaming it. It had bellowed out, groaning and devastated, and his body felt as though it were on fire, and his heart felt it'd been ripped out of his chest. He had pleaded no, no, please, no with the world. But the world had already taken his baby boy. And before Ezra, it had taken his eldest daughter.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀A fury at himself was borne like no other, for having failed so intensely in his fatherhood; for having not protected and cared for his children the way he was supposed to have. He couldn't protect Chedva. He couldn't feed Ezra. Reuven would do anything in his power now, to keep his baby girl alive. Even if it meant murdering in cold blood. Even if it meant torturing an innocent person for a single scrap of food. He was convinced his reservations had been the reason he'd gotten them killed—that if he had just been more willing to do what had to be done, they would still be alive.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀He remembered smashing up beetles and scooping them with his finger. He remembered swiping them on Ezra's tongue and hearing his boy's cries, because he hungered so badly, and the best Reuven could find was crushed bugs. The stores had been looted clean. The farms, too. Every scrap of food on the earth seemed to disappear overnight. And, in his own hazy starvation, his senses had weakened. He'd been trying to kill them something from the forest for days. Even if they had to eat it raw. Even if he had to chew it up and feed it to Ezra that way, he would have done it.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀But there was nothing.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀Nothing but the deafening silence, and the croaking monsters.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀He remembered laying propped up against the far wall of a cave, the chill of nighttime wind carrying through to them, where three of their four layed upon his body for warmth and support. His two living children. Their babysitter. Their shared warmth only just worked to keep the hypothermia out. Being the largest and hairiest of the group meant that he'd become their resident furnace. Reuven could not sleep, because while his chest and abdomen were used as pillow, the rock beneath his own neck was too jagged to find any comfort against.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀His neck had hurt. His knees had hurt. His entire body, really. Somewhere deep inside, where he could not touch, also hurt. It seemed he'd not had a moment until just then, to stop and be. His breaths billowed out, warm, into the cold cave. A body, dragging, twitching against its own hunger, went meandering past the opening. And the man had watched it, as though he were standing outside of his own body. As though just realizing what it was that lingered outside of their shelter. It did not feel real. It still all felt like some fever dream. He would wake up soon, to radiator heat and warm coffee and boisterous, happy babies. This was not real. It couldn't be real.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀And then Ezra didn't wake up.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀The days following had passed in some blur that was now lost to Reuven's consciousness. His memory of the entire incident was blotched and disfigured. He could not summon it on his own. Rather, it would come to him, in sudden flashes throughout the following months. Brief, vivid. The look of his boy's dead eyes. The feeling of his cold, chubby cheek. The silence of a breath that was not coming.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀With Chedva, it had been the matte of her dark curls, so alike his, clinging to the floorboards amongst a pool of her blood. It had been the sinew of nerves, hanging from dismemberment. It had been the groan, inbuman, that lifted from her chest. Her voice, not calling for him, but distorted and gutteral. Undead.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀Some days those flashes would make Reuven want to dig his fingers into the base of his skull and rip the spinal cord from his neck. He didn't want to be alive to re-experience it; not even a glimpse, for that alone was far too wretched. His heart ached with every step he took, similar to the way it had with Chedva's death, but now hers had compounded atop of Ezra's. And their mother's had compounded atop of theirs. His grief was then multifaceted, staring him down any way he turned.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀So, then, when that anvil dropped for the middle child's death that did not come, Reuven had felt an immediate unbecoming. As though his body had begun to unravel at the seams, and whatever creature that resided behind shadow and dermis was to be freed, to roam in pure violent grieving.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀The man cradled his sobbing toddler to his chest, as if the barricade of his body might protect her from everything that threatened, forever. He wanted it to. He wanted his body to be enough. But how quickly he had learned, when outnumbered, it was never enough. His baby had to run. Her little wobbling legs. Reuven would sob in the night, when she was not awake to witness his tears, because it was all so wretched, and he could not make any of it stop. The best he could do was this: prop her back up on that branch. Climb on up after her, and snuggle her back into his chest, where her cries might dwindle as the safety he offered calmed her anxieties. Even if it was a false sense. Even if he knew. How long would they make it like this? All she'd eaten today was some bugs, and he'd had to have her close her eyes and nose, and pretend it was cupcake frosting. She'd gagged, and cried, and he'd held her, and told her he was sorry, and that one day soon they would eat a big feast, full of all her favorite foods, and she listed them off and she drank water from a leaf, and he smoothed down her curls and told her of their ancestors, and how they had had to wait for a big feast sometimes, too. But they made it, and he and Kuna would too, because they had each other.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀They would make it.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀They had to. They had to.