aluminumandash | [glencola] inbox

[ She catches him as he's checking himself over—plucking at the skin at his throat, testing the seams of his shirt where he'd cut off the sleeves. His reply isn't immediate, but it's not long in coming. ]

I'm alive. [ Part question, part confession. Bitter and despairing. His voice is low, raspy, like his throat needs clearing. It creaks out: ] Shaw—

[ Then he pulls in a breath. Report, she said. He reports. ] It's like a reset, like y'all were saying. Leg's fine, ankle. Wrist. Clothes, my, my hair's shorter. I'd just done a bump of coke and I can feel it, pulse is elevated. [ Likely apparent from the clip of his speech, though he does stop short after that. ]

Something's wrong with my throat. Where he shot me. Scar tissue, feels like, but I can't see it to know.

Edited 2023-11-12 14:15 (UTC)

I don't think I died. Not totally sure, though.

You know where you are?

Ahhh... [ A thoughtful sound—though one it hurts to make, so he cuts off pretty quick.

As he fumbles toward the shore, taking stock: ] You come to just now? On a beach?

No. No beach.

You a regular user who knows how to manage yourself while you're high, or do I need to be worried about that?

[It's asked without any judgment in her voice; her tone is the same slightly flat tone that it usually is. ]

I wasn't, then I was. Before here I was taking downers, mostly. On account of not sleeping. [ Equally dispassionate: it all seems so trifling, so irrelevant, next to his continued ability to draw breath. The impossible, maddening thump of his heart. ]

I don't drink either. Not unless I'm liquoring up some fucking kingpin. [ A ghost of a sneer in his voice; his anger's snuck up on him. He pauses. ] When I fall off the wagon I fall hard, but it's easier. Out here, living like this. You know, the stakes are staring you in the face.

[ Another pause. ] Think I know where I'm at.

[ And via poem code, WHICH I WILL FIGURE OUT LATER BECAUSE THIS WEEKEND WAS CRAZY (or byop!), he sends: ] t r e n c h

[Using the same whatever-poem-he-used, but still doggedly sticking with her trick of bouncing around and not using the same occurrence of a given letter every time:]

I M C O M I N G

[They really should have just shot the stupid cabin fucker.]

[ The thought rears up: he doesn't want her seeing him like this. He doesn't even know what it means. Alive? Put together, whole? He shoves it aside. ] You hurt? Still got the kit? [ The rasp hasn't left his voice.

He punches buttons as she answers, spelling out: ] w a t c h t r e e s m o v e s t h r u c a n o p y

My head feels like hell, but I'm fine. No missing items, no injuries.

Missing time. [ He says, casting back over their conversation. Filling in the blanks. ] Drugged? Not whatever it was those drones were jabbing us with, that went out like a fucking lamb.

Nobody stuck me with anything, but as I was approaching the cabin I started to feel like I was going to pass out. Gas, maybe, but--

[It'd have to be potent as hell to get her that bad out in the open.]

Yeah. [ He agrees in a rough hum, following that line of thought. ] How—what happened? You got time?

[ And out of step with the rest of the conversation—he starts typing the moment it pops in his head, almost compulsive—comes: ] c a n t r e a d e n g l i s h [ Which Rust should've picked up on soon as he saw that clawed-up bone, those scratches. But if she has the means to leave a warning, a note, better late than never. ]

[Goddammit, if only these walkies didn't offer convenient audio transcription. She keys in a few numbers that come out to L U C K Y U S, then says:]

Everything was kinda hazy after that. Don't know what was real and what wasn't-- even more than usual.

[Hardy har har.]

I found your body, and a big... thing carried you away.

[ To his credit or not, that doesn't trip him up. The thought of himself as a corpse. ] Tell me. [ He breathes it out, involuntary and intent. ] What you saw, what you felt. Everything.

Edited 2023-11-25 01:58 (UTC)

Uh--

[It's hard, with how out of it she'd been; harder still, considering how muddled she feels now. While she thinks, she sends another coded message: WHERE ARE Y O U? N S E W?]

Tall. Big yellow fangs. I followed it, and it looked like... days were going by. I kept seeing the moon rise and set, and then the jungle was on fire--

[She cuts herself off with a small sound of frustration.]

Like I said. Pretty sure I just dreamed a lot of it.

[ He gives her another handful of seconds, in case she wants to pick up where she left off. ] Sounds like how my pop talked about Nam. [ He says, close to a murmur. Recalling in the moment. The torched jungle, the bleed of time.

He looks at the numbers she's sent, but for now they go unanswered. ] Did it see you?

An answer for an answer.

[Where are you, buddy?]

[ A clenched little pause, like a held breath. ] It matters. Sometimes, sometimes there's real and there's true. [ He listens a while after that, to the bundle of wires and plastic clamped in his hand. Knowing he's talking like a junkie.

But eventually he dredges up the poem, links numbers to letters. Sends back: ] s e

[Southeast. Good.]

It saw me. I think. It looked like it saw me.

[ A rough: ] Uh-huh. [ As though that's confirmed something. ] When you came to—now—does it look like you've been walking? Mud on your shoes, scratches?

[ He wastes no time in following with: ] c a l l e d y o u m y p e t m i g h t e x p e c t y o u t o h e e l [ Which is to say, lead him right to Rust. ]

[She lets out a quiet little huff at the question, clicking her tongue.]

You think I wasn't already covered in mud and scratches? Kinda hard to tell if there's more, but, uh-- I don't think so.

[But she sounds distracted as she says it, the bulk of her attention already on the coded message - the far more important bit, as far as she's concerned. She's as certain as she can be that she's not being followed on foot, but all her training on shaking a tail had been city-based, not wilderness-based. "As certain as she can be" isn't as certain as she'd like.]

u w o r r i e d ?

Fresh scratches, fresh mud? [ With just a trace of wryness: ] You know there's different kinds.

[ A pause. ] w h y l e t u l i v e

Nope. Not that I can tell.

i d k

w a n t m e 2 s t a y a w a y]

[She trusts that once he has the rest of the message figured out, he'll be able to realize that she's using the number 2 to stand in for "to", as opposed to the second letter of the poem: just another attempt to throw off anyone who might be reading their messages and trying to codebreak.]

[ His reply comes quick: this is important, no room for ambiguity. ] i d k ? [ He's careful to switch up the numbers, which...is probably annoying. ]

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cw: drug mentions ayyyy (also there may be scarring updates pending mod answers l o l)

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