#brain empty only jester Scott | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mortvivanthqs-blog · 6 years

Photo

welcome to the outpost, landon scott, we’re sure you’ll find the place accommodating. daniel sharman is now taken! please review our checklist and send in your account within twenty-four hours!

🡶 OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME andres

AGE 24

TIMEZONE mst

PRONOUNS he&him

🡶 IN CHARACTER:

NAME landon scott

FACE CLAIM daniel sharman

GENDER & PRONOUNS cismale / he&him

BIRTHDAY november 13, 1991

BIRTHPLACE london, england

JOB(S) commander-in-chief, medic, floats generally though (mostly field but sometimes hospitality work)

KILL COUNT twenty-one (a couple of these during his time in the u.s. army, the rest post apocalypse)

ANYTHING ELSE? leader of original and current group

🡶 BIOGRAPHY:

a smudge of orange acrylic accidentally adorns strong features, but he’s spotted all over, touches of reds and blues and yellows and all those shades in between. a canvas, flesh, pigmenting a canvas, cotton.

mum and dad never liked that very much, the young boy’s hobbies, the psyche permanently in the clouds. utters of you’re no van gogh, go outside, go play football with the boys your age. this’ll get you nowhere, they said, crushing, nowhere but a mess.

he was a quiet boy– shy even; too timid to speak up, too afraid of consequence to stand up for himself…. he, an easy target. with a single friend to his name and a rocky home life – parents too acquainted with the bottle – primary was relentless.

‘s not so bad, landon, ‘least both your parents are still together, your dad only strikes you to knock a little man into you.

sixteen, oh sixteen, supposedly sweet. nothing was sweet about the binds he had to his home. all wasn’t lost. he met someone, online (myspace), couple years his senior, an american. a man. david, who he spent hours upon hours skyping, sacrificing his sleep just for a few more hours to see that face he adored so much. they went on this way, couple of years, landon’s brain unable to remember the last time he’d gotten a full eight hours of sleep. everything was on david’s schedule, david’s timezone, david’s convenience. was alright though, landon always told himself, david was worth it. david was all he had.

he’s twenty now, attending vocational schooling, working one too many jobs. he and his “main squeeze” still in cahoots, though he still hadn’t relayed the truth of his sexuality to the ‘rents. something inside him, something deep in the gut, knew that talk could never end well. so, landon internalized. internalizing: landon’s specialty. the loneliness. the inadequacy– never living up to his parents expectations. never the son they wanted. the feeling of indestructible shackles.

an impasse, he versus himself.

let’s get married, a blinding smile tugs at his features, c’mon, david, you love me, don’t you? we’ll head up to new york, tie the knot. I could be with you, there’s heartbreak pooling in impossibly blue eyes, it’s been four years, we can finallybe together.

no.

david, he isn’t ready. doesn’t know when he’ll be ready.

landon packs his bags anyway. clothes, small trinkets. everything else is sold or donated. hands clutch the handles of his entire life, boot clad feet lead his person to heathrow, never even spares a glance out the window at the country he leaves in the dust.

marching down in the valley I heard a loud roar, curly locks litter the floor, it was a bravo trooper treating alpha like a toy, he drops and gives his sergeant twenty, so put your feet on the peddle step down on the gas, left faces every corner, legs marching in sync with a cadence ringing in his ears, move over awful alpha let the mighty bravo pass, wonders what he’s gotten himself into. bravo company is on the go.

68w combat medic, landon finds himself stationed in texas, fort sam houston in san antonio. texas, a state away from david. yet david never, in landon’s five years of service (when not deployed), does he visit landon. he offers to pay for his airfare, babe, one weekend, please, to no avail.

doc… you can’t save them all.. rounds in afganistan both hardened and crippled, gaining and losing brothers and sisters, if i try.. i can if i try.. that sweet and timid boy from london, who loved to paint, who was afraid of his own shadow, buried underneath a lifetime of horrors. and landon, the poor fool, still spent every minute of leave with david, the man who wouldn’t dare spend a cent or second to come to landon, who barely wrote, barely called. that innate need to be loved, even with an element of pretending, to be touched, and feel wanted for just a little while won over the soldier every single time.

it’s april, he’s twenty-six, still a fool sprung on a man who if he’s ever loved the londoner, hasn’t in a long time. the pair are seated outdoors, a rhythmic jazz in the new orleans air, coffee in paper mugs: one sickeningly saccharine, a scoop of unbothered bliss, no real strings attached to the man opposite him; landon takes his coffee black these days, bitter to the core, hurt etched in the heart. the man-at-arms rests his leg over his thigh and pretends, pretends he’s fine, pretends being on holiday with a man who he’s expendable to. if david was his king, landon was nothing but a jester in his court.

a screech, piercing and afraid – screaming bloody murder – rattles the ear drums. he furrows his brows, what was that? david doesn’t even spare a glance, mind ya business, landon. dick. a sea of pedestrians rush down the street of the french quarter, berserk. a harmony of emergency alerts sound from hundreds of cellular devices. the beginning of the end.

time clocks, the end of may creeps around the corner, humidity’s risen. it’s all the same, death and the dead unwilling to stay dead. the ex soldier’d gone awol shy of two months back. every passing day hope slips, he slips, nothing will ever be the same. david grows more and more useless, obscenities and degradation constantly on the tongue (falling on landon, toward landon). and something snaps, a deep-seated anger brewing for years and years and years unearthing.

snarling and restless, decay hanging from reanimated extremities clawing, clawing, and clawing. a man and his “lover” prisoned atop a rooftop; fresh meat. it’s been hours baking in the sun, emptied magazines and a single can of peas between two. they’re surrounded every which way. Hands, greasy and matted, run through brown curls. eyes, blue and bloodshot, capture the undead in their crosshairs then to david. this isn't where you die, not for this man, never for this man.

“y’know, david,” there’s something sick, something sinister pulling at the englishman’s lips, the ghost of a smile, “been a decade now. gave you my whole life– and that’s on me. i’m the fool. but there comes a point in a man’s life,” fingers feel over the hilt of the blade strapped at the thigh, “where he needs to shed the dead weight holding him back.” hunting knife unholstered, landon marvels the blade, “trim the fat.”

david’s wrestled to the ground now, he never loved you, landon, fists fly and a strike manages to connect, never gave you the time of day. a snigger escapes chapped lips, and perhaps, perhaps a sliver of humanity too. david’s pinned– landon’s taller, stronger, hungrier. a blade rests at the back of the elder man’s ankle. funny how much one mutilated tendon can have a man down, how much he can scream, how lips who utter nothing but self-serving charm and bile can beg for mercy.

he never loved you anyway.

combat boots force the mass of dead weight to the ground, a sacrifice, living and breathing. the horde pools in like a herd of starved hogs. he takes off the opposite direction, feet catching himself hitting the foundation beneath him. never looks back. but that scream? that scream went on for miles.

landon indulges in carnal pleasure, thrives in the lawless of the land. robs and kills, and not just the dead. every man for himself. the thing that keeps a man human further and further. never recognized himself in a mirror again.

yet, he meets a character or two along the way – forces violent and irrational tendencies down, far, far from the surface – allies himself. there’s a strength in numbers, one man is nothing to twenty. he’s got a plan now. a vision. throws on the charm, undigs the courageousness he’d held in his few years of serving. his true – now true, this world’s truth, that landon scott of the old world gone with the wind – colors too untrustworthy to stand a chance in rallying people, in gaining their trust. they hole up in an old baptist church and he offers himself (protection, direction, and a promise of a better tomorrow) in exchange for skills. empires aren’t built alone. stragglers come and go, landon offers a night or two and a hot meal at most to some, and a permanent position to others. the leader goes out of the way to gain the people’s trust, build a personal relationship with each and every one, acts in fearlessness and ‘selflessness,’ and never lets a wicked thought bleed through. it’s important people can vouch for the man they take a chance on. he’s nearly always out, always gathering and collecting, to stockpile supplies. never comes home empty handed. works his ass off. proves himself.

they’re nine when they abandon the church. lugging along scavenged necessities (food, water, firepower), in route to somewhere much larger. we need to stop just surviving out here, he says, create something the future generations can inherit and thrive in this madness.

but, it’s only a matter of time, a ticking time bomb, ‘till lost-and-never-found sanity uncoils at the seams.

#accepted #landon scott #fuck around n deny my own app

0 notes