rootsrotted

[rootsrotted]

alan shakes his head. "you ever tried a mr. pibb?" it's a joke, of course—they had been discontinued almost two years ago now—but there are few other choices available to them. "i don't know, this isn't how i remember. last time i was here, they weren't leaning so hard into their... branding. actually, i don't remember them having very much branding at all..."

Meyers places a hand over his wounded heart. “That’s outrageous. How am I supposed to eat a–” he references the menu again– “Brisket-back Mountain without a Dr. Pepper to wash it down?” He tries for a disappointed expression, but he can’t help giggling at the ridiculous name. 

[rootsrotted]

it's dark red when he's handed the mug, both eduardo's voice and the swirl of heat billowing from his mug. he enjoys the sharp observation that he's gotten more coffee out of him—but he wonders about the intention. it's easy to consider that he's just had more of it in waiting. he wouldn't even have been offended. how else do you keep yourself awake, all by yourself, without the tools only he possesses to navigate this crazy, fucked up world? drugs, mostly. david dabbles in that, too. caffeine is only one of them. "what do you mean? are you saying i look rough?" his brows arch and furrow in the wake of his theatrics, all faux offense. there have been plenty of times, even just considering his trips to the observatory, where he's looked rough and rougher. a smile slides onto his face just as quickly, followed by a long drink. it doesn't matter that it's so hot it stings. "i'm always high, eddy. high on life!" like a serpent through grass, he weaves to close the space between them and give him a hearty smack on the back, ricocheting hues of forest and ivory. "don't worry about it. i won't touch anything." that promise never lasts very long. "what are you working on tonight?"

the moniker makes his eye twitch, but is otherwise disregarded. with david, he's learned, the more you fight about something, the more satisfaction the man will draw from it. in the end, eduardo finds himself caring less each time it's used— maybe, eventually, he'll stop minding completely. like he did with the nuisance of finding a stranger in his workspace. at least it was curiosity that brought david to the observatory and that, he could work with.

if eduardo were the superstitious kind, he would think it's the coffee that summoned him. like some kind of deity of chaos, assuaged by his offering. it's a dangerous line of thought, so he'll call it coincidence— a matter of good timing.

"you look like you need it," the comment is thrown offhandedly, as ed double checks the state of him in the middle of pouring the hot brew into matching mugs; the magic type, that change color with heat. by the time he's done, the starwatch logo on the front has been engulfed by constellations. he offers the fuller one to david, not at all subtle in the way his brow furrows, noticing the red of the other's eyes. "are you high? you know, i don't care if you smoke. but if you knock over anything expensive, i'm making you pay for the repairs."

[rootsrotted]

face pulled into an unpleasant frown, alan is deep in thought as he walks. there aren't enough people anymore, he's found, to bump into. he could have walked with his eyes close and as long as he knew all the objects in his way, he wouldn't so much as stumble. today, of all days, is when that changes. at least it's not while his eyes are closed. the frown pops off his face like badly corked champagne, replaced with strong notes of surprise and uncertainty. "oh—sure, yeah, um—" at first alan thinks it's some kind of weird sales pitch, but the sight of the flyers in his hands brings his heart into his throat. MISSING in big, bold letters. he knows the signs, has seen them around. "yeah," he continues, a little more sincerely. "what's going on?"

open starter for anyone [downtown]:

some say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, while expecting different results. eduardo could get in a hour-long debate, arguing that it's a simplistic (maybe even misguided) interpretation of einstein's parable of quantum insanity, but he won't. because right now, well, he doesn't feel like the exact definition of sanity, either. eighteen months have passed since loved ones evaporated and he is still clinging to things long gone. at least in this case it's the acostas' runaway dog, a red merle australian shepherd named ginger. easier to find in the physical plane of existence, ed tells himself, though the probability of success only decreases with the inexorable march of time.

he's not entirely sure whether he's doing it for clarissa's sake, or his own. it was her pet more than anyone's: one of those gifts from an absent parent, which was really more of an ill-concealed attempt at winning his kid's favor. (it didn't stick). eduardo is sure she blames him for the missing dog like she does for everything else, these days. none the wiser on where to even begin to make things better, he's convinced himself that finding "fido" is his best shot at making his daughter happy (again— sort of). a chance worth every odd look he gets, when every two weeks -like clockwork- he heads downtown to hand out flyers, asking around "hey, have you seen this dog by any chance?" to anyone who won't avoid him like the plague.

today, ed is here again. it hasn't been an auspicious day -it never really is, as people tend to evade him rather than risk crossing his path- but he's not ready to desist just yet. with a handful of crumpled missing pet posters, he engages the next person unfortunate enough to pass by, almost throwing himself in their trail. "excuse me— yes, hello. sorry to bother you. may i steal a moment of your time?"

[rootsrotted]

with everything else turned upside down, he can't help but appreciate how simple meyers' tastes still are. a burger, some fries, a dr. pepper. he's more of a diet coke man himself, but there's nothing unreasonable about that. "i don't know, actually," he admits, this time with something closer to a real smile. every once in a while, he can forget about that crushing, horrible loneliness. before he remembers that it's mandatory, and sucks himself right back into it again. glancing further down the menu, something amused and apologetic finds its way upon his face. "....i hate to say this, but it looks like they've only got pepsi products." so much for a dr. pepper or a diet coke.

Meyers follows the conversation where Alan leads it this time, moving on. He knows he’s been pushing it. 

“I’m a simple man of simple tastes. Burger, fries, and a Dr. Pepper. Can’t be beat. They don’t call it that here, though, do they?” He tilts the menu up and does a double take.

“Wh– The Good, the Bad, and the Burger?” He shoots Alan an incredulous look then goes back to the menu. “It didn’t used to be called that, did it…?”  He snorts. “The Bacon of Burger Scruggs. These are awful.”

[rootsrotted]

"wouldn't surprise me at all. i wouldn't question you if you said you saw her leaving on a broomstick," he admits, shaking his head. he's more thankful that meyers' has chosen a spot in the very back than anything else. they don't have to act like it's a secret meeting—because it's not!—but alan has always done best in the shadows. the less people notice him, the better. especially outside of the commune. everything, eventually, one way or another, finds its way back to his father. and everything hurts worse that way. whether it's luck or fate, who the hell knows? but alan recognizes the signs meyers throws his way. he remembers those long summers, a lifetime away now, where they had crouched in the dirt and communicated without words. somehow, it had always felt easier to be honest with his hands—something that doesn't readily make its way to his mouth, to his words. i'm glad you're here. grateful as alan is, it makes him feel sick. after a long moment, a swallow, a shifting of his weight, he meets meyer's eyes. his mouth twists, but it's not quite a smile. "i appreciate it." and he does, on some level. "what's the last thing you got here?" an appeal to changing the subject—not a lie, nor the truth, just a pivot.

Meyers snorts, caught off guard. “And she could have, too. Literally. I swear I’ve seen her pick up the whole cart of books instead of wheeling it around.” Meyers doesn’t miss the way Alan redirects the conversation. He looks at the guy, the way he huddles in his seat, his lips pressed tightly together, and it’s easy to remember the kid he used to be: small, quiet. 

In hindsight, Meyers can say they were friends, though as a kid himself he would never have admitted it. Alan was too weird, too much younger, too tied to his family’s bad name. But there was that moment when Alan had realized that Meyers was partially deaf and excitedly gestured at him.

Meyers had been able to recognize the purposeful way Alan moved his hands as communication, but that was it. They found each other a few times that summer, spending humid mornings crouched in the dirt patch over by the dumpsters, Alan teaching Meyers his first rudimentary signs. Outside of those lessons, things didn’t change between them. But when Meyer took his first official ASL class at Northpoint when he was twenty-four, he found himself thinking fondly of Alan, young and happy to share.So he doesn’t say it out loud; he signs it to Alan instead, private and personal, and makes it easy to pretend nothing was said at all– I’m glad you are here.

[rootsrotted]

he could have slumped so hard he fell into the earth, but for better or for worse, he's not swallowed into the ground. he's still stuck here even while so many others should have had the same luxury. nodding, he hands off her keys and drops down to start prepping the car to be taken off the line. funny how it's his feeble, misguided attempts to do the right thing that land him right back in disaster. something slips while he's under—stupid temu jackstands—and lands him perilously about to be crushed by the car. or more accurately, perilously at her mercy. "oh, fuck—!"his hands go up instinctively, albeit uselessly, against the weight of the car. thankfully, the stand has held enough to keep him from being turned into human putty. "wait! please! there's a but-button! a red one!" for a long moment, an eternity in seconds, he wonders if she'll just let the car crush him instead. if he would prefer it that way or not.

          The rumors had already been circulating, hushed whispers spreading like wildfire, and it didn't take long for the rumblings to make its way to Minnie. In most cases, the arrival of a missing loved one was cherished as nothing short of a miracle. But its not like she's been praying for any returns, and his desertion had left its mark well before the events of October 3rd. So she chooses to keep the past buried, letting the rumors fall on deaf ears. But like all things with Redford, its only a matter of time before you run into someone or something you've been trying to avoid.           The sight of him stings -- a harsh reminder of a lack of closure. To make matters worse, he glazes over the situation. Where Alan avoids her gaze, Minnie hunts for it. Is that what we're going to do? Pretend we're strangers? She wants to comment, but instead bites her tongue. It's usually not like her to let it slide but why would he even care anyways? Fixing the dent feels useless now. She stares at it, suppressing the urge to kick it in just to make it worse. “No, thanks.” She mutters. “I'd rather live with a little dent than have to be around you any longer.” Her words are casually cruel as she extends an open hand. “Can I have my keys back?” 

[rootsrotted]

lips drawn into a thin line, alan nods. that shit. one way of putting it, that's for sure. he doesn't know how to actually respond to it. it all feels like a big, cosmic joke, but that's very self-centered of him. he has the self-awareness to realize it. at the very most, it's a shared warning—but not a new one. cherish what you have before it's gone has been a saying, probably, since before there were sayings. alan feels a stab of guilt every time he thinks of his brother now, and another thinking of his father. he wishes his brother was here, for all the shit they gave each other. he wishes his father wasn't. he shouldn't wish that his father wasn't. finally his lips part, but only to draw in a breath of fresh air. half a mistake. he nearly chokes on it. he doesn't really know what to think anymore, let alone how to express it. i'm glad to still be around, at least. alan can't say the same for himself. a selfish, horrible, disgusting sliver maybe more than a sliver wishes that for every single person that had vanished, that he could have just quietly taken their place. he had always felt outside of the world, like he didn't belong. whatever had taken the others, if there had been any force of will at all, didn't seem to agree. "i'm glad you are, too," he croaks, a cop out. a little stronger, he adds, "i think grace would have thrown me out of the building if she found me asleep."

Meyers laughs a little. “I think that’s actually pretty normal. Especially after all that shit happened.” He scribbles his hand in the air, attempting to evoke the mass hysteria, confusion, and loss that was (is) the Departure. “Sure, it’s the same town, but things are fucking different.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of the grocery store. “Like, where the fuck did Joel go? Is he Departed? Is he dead? For that matter, are any of the Departed dead? Someone’s obviously still running the store, so maybe Joel’s around? I don’t know.” It’s funny, a local joke even, to laugh about the mysterious, eponymous Joel. But think too hard about it and soon you’re thinking of all the other mysteries, each a person contained within the larger mystery that is the Departure. Meyers leans back from the table, folds his arms again, and tries to dial it back a little. “I don’t know.”

He glances at Alan, then looks around the old bar again. He’s not sure if this place would have actually had more customers before the Departure than it currently does. Statistically, probably. But it’s nice to look out at the place and see those few people still lingering. He recognizes a few, just from seeing them around town, and that’s nice, too. To know people.

“I’m glad to still be around, at least,” Meyers shrugs. “Not sure what the alternative is, but I like it here.” He’s not quite sure if “here” means Redford or life itself, but Meyers hopes that at least one resonates with Alan.

[rootsrotted]

half-listening, david is more focused on the chartreuse of her voice than the comments she's making. is she getting upset? something in her tone makes him think she might be. touched a nerve? his head tilts slightly, eyes locked onto her own. is she projecting onto the bee? that would make sense. hadn't he just brought that up? people like to feel needed, too. like to feel like they're doing the right thing. they'll do anything at all, as long as they feel that it's the right thing. the thought brings a warm smile to his face, unchanging even as the bee drops to the ground, dead. ow. that's different, a very contrasting hue. ice, blue and gray and nearly white. even so, there's only one word that stands against those others, cobalt blue—ALLERGIC. seriously. that amuses, but doesn't stop, him. why would she work with bees if the slightest accident could send her to an early grave? why does anyone do anything at all? maybe it's the thrill of it. respectable, but uncertain. "i guess she gave us her answer." he's watching her hawk-like now, eyes wide to receive whatever horrible reaction awaits. "you know, you can't help someone that doesn't want to be helped. she went out on her own terms." just as quickly, barely pausing for breath, "do you have an epipen?"

"You laugh at commercials? For phone companies?" Just who is this guy? Gung-ho about bee murder and tickled by corporate products. Linda looks up at him, squinting; distrust flickers across her mind like shocks of bright static. "It...it..." But she couldn't answer his questions. Linda stares down at the bee, curled up in hand, slowly staggering. It looks pathetic, she suddenly realizes. What's the point?

"It's not about that," she says, trying to keep her voice steady. "You can't just treat creatures like all they're good for is their function, or like, whatever. People- Animals are worth more than that. It's... Ow!" Linda shakes her hand out. "Fuck! It stung me!" The now dead bee falls to the ground as the red welt on Linda's hand grows and grows. "I'm, like, seriously allergic! What the fuck? And I was trying to help it too."

[rootsrotted]

it's hardly breaking and entering by now, windows and doors—the ones he tries, anyway—left unlocked for his convenience. better than breaking them, or something. whatever the excuse, david is happy to pull himself through, only damp from the light rain, and into the observatory. the scent of coffee, dark orange swirls, captures his attention. for two, he's come to assume. like a dog, once a pattern is established he'll chase it like tradition. "me? late? check your watch, eddy boy. i'm..." finally, he checks his own. oh, he is late. but he had kind of realized that already. "i'm just keeping you on your toes. i don't want you to get too comfortable." and after a beat, "is that coffee?" his eyes are red, but the exact reason behind that could be everything and nothing, including lack of sleep. "i could really use one."

with david - @rootsrotted at [starwatch observatory]:

quiet is the observatory at night— sanctum of peace and discovery. it's nothing extraordinary, compared to the domes eduardo has seen throughout his travels, but it's home. the one place on earth where he can unmask and simply be. he's been asked before, what the benefit of keeping up shop even is, nowadays. with a team (and their funding) cut in half, ed is the captain of a vessel adrift: lost not at sea, but in the cold vacuum of space. you know what they say about captains, they go down with the ship.

he's spent more time here in the last handful of months than over the years since being appointed to starwatch. after everything that's happened, there isn't much else to be done— little to delegate, anyway. when he's not operating the scope, observing or collecting data, eduardo can be found tinkering with equipment, typing on a computer or dozing off at his desk. he has learnt to run the observatory almost entirely on his own, grown to know every corner like the back of his own hand. he would be able to navigate it blind. and since few are the people that ever willingly haunt the spot, one cannot simply sneak-in undetected: with a mere creak of the floorboards or shift in the air, any outside presence is always identified. at this point, even awaited (but you won't catch ed admitting it).

he doesn't quite understand what fuels david's interest in breaking and entering a place in which only eduardo really recognizes any value. he didn't ask. but if at first he'd spurned the company, now ed finds himself making coffee for two. "you're late," he comments over the whirring of the espresso machine. he doesn't even bother looking up; though eduardo isn't a gambling man, he'd bet on david standing right behind him, "i was starting to believe you'd be a no-show. busy night?"

[rootsrotted]

"i don't know about that. like i said, i'm not about to appreciate the ice," he says, shaking his head, half-joking. he's starting to relax, he finds. meyers is easier to talk to than he remembers. maybe that's just part of growing up. or maybe his associations of this place skew negative. there are good and bad aspects of everything, redford included. he had missed the environment, the familiarity... there are things he had not missed, too. many, many things. sometimes it's even hard to tell the difference. ducking into the shop, alan is relieved to follow meyers to his usual spot, isolated in a corner. he's never been the type to want to stand out, but less so now than ever. the location makes him more agreeable to questioning, whether he realizes it or not. "not too warm. well, not everywhere. i went a few different places." too many, he would say, up and down the contiguous united states. there's a reason it had taken him so long to get back to redford after he had left... and it wasn't hesitation in the driver's seat. circumstance, more like. "maybe it's stupid, but everything feels so different now. even when it's all the same. i don't know, can something be both?" he shakes his head, humorlessly humorous. "it's funny." but not really. "ever since i left, all i thought about was coming home. now, all i think about is leaving again."

Meyers is glad that Alan is opening up a bit. Or, at the least, getting a bit more chatty. He shrugs at Alan’s comment on the cold. “I’ve never lived anywhere but here, so I don’t know if I’d miss it. I guess it’s good to know I should be appreciating what I’ve got.” 

“I’ve also managed to avoid driving in the ice.” Meyers laughs at his own joke. He can drive, but he’s never owned a car in his life. Why spend all that money when a bike or his own feet would do? He repeats that like a mantra this time of year, especially when he’s spending close to an hour trudging through snow.

PNW’s is just a block or so down the road. Meyers feels the tiny tingling tapping of raindrops on his nose as he holds open the door for Alan then ducks in after. The bar has a glowing warmth to it that quickly dispels any nasty weather clinging to its patrons’ backs. Like Alan said, the place is unmistakably ancient, but in a welcoming way. Its once-crisp edges are softened by time and use, such that the place feels familiar even to tourists.

There’s only a few others in the barat this time of day, but Meyers still navigates quickly to his usual spot, in a corner, against the wall, with his bad ear facing away from the commotion. It helps to know there’s nothing he needs to listen for on that side. 

Meyers props his elbows up on the dull table. It seems to have been scrubbed so many times that the busboys wiped clean through the varnish. He attempts to probe Alan lightly. “So, you went somewhere warm then?”

[rootsrotted]

their footsteps blend into soft brown hues, through the aisles and toward the back door. employees only, but like... so what? who cares? david has been in and out of it so many times in his short stint in redford that he's convinced nobody cares to check it at all. once outside, he drinks deep of the fresh air and spins on his heel to meet sol's gaze. "so how weird do you really wanna get, huh?" it's easy enough to wave off the question. "company, man. you never heard of company?" he shakes his head. "just like, hang out and shit. that's all. are you in or not?" he pulls out his jacket, very reminiscent of old stereotypes. "just have to pick your poison, that's all. pick our poison, i should say."

Sol's mind runs like a horse— all four legs digging into the earth galloping, galloping... It's been years, he thinks. "Yeah, cameras," he agrees, trying to see the world the way the man does, but it's lost on him now. Those days are gone. That Sol is gone. This man needs help, he thinks to himself, and he's just the person to give it. "Yeah." He smiles. "Let's head out. You lead the way, kid. I've got cash."

He prepares his drug lecture in his head: what would your parents think? Don't do this, you've got so much to live for. All the stuff of highschool PSA meetings in the gym; the sort of thing that puts the kids right to sleep. "Owe you company?" he asks as they walk. "What? Like you want me to watch you?"

[rootsrotted]

alan nods, trying for a smile. truthfully, he's always so far encroached into his own space that he often misses the life going on around him. he spends so much time trying to avoid eye contact with grace and meyers that the specifics, the jests between them, are lost. sheepish, he jolts to attention when he's addressed. he isn't used to being talked to, these days. not since he had left town. "oh, really? i go there on my lunchbreak too," he says, matching him step to step. meyer's, of course, has a bit larger gait than he does. alan is too used to making himself small. "is it weird to say i've missed the cold?" he's cautious in referencing anything about his failed emancipation, but the average person isn't so bothered about that. "i guess i won't be saying that when i've got to drive in ice again. so far i've avoided it." there he goes talking about driving again. one-track mind, and all that. "let's try PNW's, just for something new." bold, in the barest possible sense. "or... i guess new is the wrong word, isn't it?"

Meyers shrugs. “Yeah, man, of course.” He heaves his armful of books onto the cart and winks at Grace, the clerk currently on desk duty. She scowls. “I’m heading out for lunch,” he says to her. “Make sure Tiana processes those holds before I’m back.”

“Good riddance,” Grace says and flaps her hand at him, shooing. “We won’t miss you.”

“She’s lying,” Meyers says cheerfully as he reaches behind the desk to grab his jacket. He hesitates a moment, then discreetly snags one of their mental health pamphlets. Maybe he can find a way to work it into their conversation, or maybe he’ll slip it into Alan’s pocket at lunch.

Meyers looks over at Alan as they walk out the door. Teasing Grace is as part of his routine as opening the library is, but today he’s hoping it also serves to lighten the gloom that clings to Alan. A gloom that is reflected by the weather. “I usually pick something up at Joel’s for lunch then find a bench.” Meyers blinks up at the gray sky as they step out into the brisk air. It’s not raining now, but it surely won’t be long before it does. “This time of year, though, PNW’s might be warmer.”

[rootsrotted]

it's impossible to hide his shock at the scene. on fire is a bit of an overstatement, but he can't think—immediately—of what she could have done to mess it up that bad. why would she put that there? alan tries not to be judgmental about it. everyone has... moments. "uh... yeah, probably. i think i can fix it," he says, reaching to scratch at the nape of his neck. "why don't you... pull it around back. i'll take a look there. i don't want, um, something smoking around all the... you know, gasoline."

who: Alan Weaver ( @rootsrotted ) where: duke's garage

"Hey, so, I know you only do cars but uh...my bike is kinda on fire." Her shitty beat up bike (as in bicycle and not something cooler like motorbike) squeaks as she wheels it in. It is, in fact, smoking. "I told it quit the cigarettes." She tries to laugh but there's nervousness coating her voice. The truth is that the smoking is coming from her (now) broken vape, stuck in the tines of the bent tire. "I fell," she says but she's more worried about the vape than her scraped knees. "Can you fix it?"

[rootsrotted]

no argument, david guides the bee off of his hand and onto linda's. the magenta hues of her voice make him smile just as readily as her associations—maybe if he had a little, bee-sized chainsaw. "i prefer jason. that t-mobile commercial just cracks me up." not relevant, though. "but that's why i asked. i mean, what's a bee's lifespan anyway? a month?" hand up, he strokes at his his chin. "do you think she wants to live without wings?" without that pleasant amber-red buzz, what even is a bee? to him, little. to another... to the bee... everything. "are you going to take care of her until she dies? would you even know if she was suffering? pet owners do it all the time, prolong a terrible life to assuage their own guilt. are you sure you're not doing the same thing? bees need each other. they need to be needed." and so do people, he notes silently, pleasantly. almost everyone.

"Just because I'm a beekeeper doesn't mean– " Linda throws up her hands. "Whoa. Slow down, Jason Bateman. No– fuck. Sorry. What's the guy in American Psycho called? Oh! Patrick Bateman." She leans down, peering into the palm of his hand. She sees what he does: no wings. She hates how tears well in her eyes. "A bee can't survive without wings," she says, "but that doesn't make it– We can't just kill it. It's not– and who decides if a bee is just its wings? What if just needs someone? What if it can live even if its useless?" She turns her head and pretend to cough. She's not talking about the bee anymore; she never really was.

"G-give her to me." Linda holds out her bare palm.

[rootsrotted]

starter for @dialdrvnks !! ( for gus )

"did you rearrange again? or am i going crazy?"

[rootsrotted]

starter for @cordrots !!

"if you don't skip with me, i won't share my weed. come on, don't leave me hanging!"

[rootsrotted]

starter for @mothborn !! ( for linda )

"found this guy on the sidewalk." the bee sits, subdued, in the palm of his hands. "think we can save her?" tilting his hand, he inspects the bee more closely. wings gone. "maybe i should just step on her instead. put her out of her misery. you must see a lot of dying bees, huh? what do you think?"