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meadowlarklogs2020-08-15 11:56 am
- !arrival log,
- dceu: diana prince,
- dragon age: marian hawke,
- ffvii: cloud strife,
- marvel comics: bucky barnes,
- orphan black: helena,
- red vs. blue: agent carolina,
- red vs. blue: agent maine,
- supernatural: dean winchester,
- teen wolf: scott mccall,
- the gifted: marcos diaz,
- the magicians: margo hanson,
- the magicians: penny adiyodi,
- the magicians: quentin coldwater,
- the man from uncle: gaby teller,
- the marvelous mrs maisel: midge maisel,
- uncharted: nathan drake,
- uncharted: sam drake
ARRIVAL LOG 024
WHERE: Red Wings (immediately), New Amsterdam (as a whole).
WHEN: June 8, 2512
WHAT: Newbies!
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Coercion and loss of autonomy, references to a rebuilding city, anti-government protests, and shady mob dealings.
Just before the new arrivals show up, a message turns up in the inboxes of all of the Displaced. Unlike the message that normally comes in from El about new arrivals, it doesn't show up involuntarily, instead showing up as an optional message that anyone can ignore. Of course, this is one that people may not want to disregard, not at a time like this.
The author is "PM." It reads:
From now on, I'll direct all drop offs to Red Wings, unless circumstances change. You'll get a message a lot like this one when new arrivals are ready and incoming. I liked setting you guys somewhere fun for when you first got here, but we've had enough of the fun and games and bad zombie makeup.
I won't change the procedure. I won't give a lot of notice. They'll still have the same cocktail cooking in their veins. I can't change that. Too risky otherwise.
This may be the first and last chance I get to talk to you. Not an easy truth. I'm trying to set things right, but time seems tricky. You all know what this looks like, don't you? I don't think you're to blame, but I don't know that either. It could be me by way of you. Could be that this would happen anyway. I know Johann's got his hands involved in this somehow. It has his creepy fingerprints all over it.
One more thing. Thank Morningstar. I always meant to keep you on ice, thinking it'd be messed up to thrust you into this world. They took care of you and proved me wrong. I never asked them to do that, but they've kept it up. Now I hope you can help them.
The next batch arrives soon. Keep an eye out.
Unsurprisingly with a message like this one, replies won't be possible. Any attempts to trace it will lead to a dead end. Even El and Cassius won't be much use here, coming up against a wall that makes it seem like it came as a result of a hijacked UN emergency alert.
A hover van lowers to the ground mere moments after the message is sent. The staff this time is considerably smaller than usual: two guards and a nurse. Both guards get out of the front of the van and head toward the back. Just before they get there, they scope the perimeter. "They said they know we're coming. Stay alert." It's time to let these people out so they can head "home."
Despite the advance notice, your arrival will feel similar to the arrival of many who came before you. Awareness comes to you in blurred snatches, cloudy fragments of sound, light, color, and sensation. It's hard to grasp onto anything but a series of rhythmic beeps, a medicinal astringent smell, and the sensation of movement beneath you. Your eyes are heavy and you struggle to keep them open, but in the glimpses between slow blinks, you see a man in front of you dressed in all white. There isn't any other visibility. Not yet.
You realize there are others nearby, restrained the same way as you, and dressed in long-sleeved white scrubs. The humming feeling of the vehicle comes to an end, and the door to your right opens up, revealing two heavily armored soldiers. You may try to open your mouth to speak, to ask a question you can't quite grasp, but it's as if your tongue is coated in tar.
You realize there are others next to you: all dressed the same way as you. To your left there's an armored interior door, two more people visible, and the movement of streets passing through a windshield. You try to open your mouth to speak, but it's as if your tongue is coated in tar, and you manage nothing more than an empty parting of lips.
"Get them off their IVs and get them out of here. I don't want to deal with any of those people if they find us out here." A masculine voice filled with a sense of urgency and—perhaps—fear? Awe? It's hard to say.
The next movements are swift and methodical. Once the IV is yanked out, you feel yourself guided out of the van into the alleyway. Once you're set in a row, the silent guard speaks: "Head to the front. Don't look for local assistance like the cops. Look for the glow. That's the deal. Listen to the people with the glow."
They don't waste any time after that. Both of the guards meet each other's gazes, and then nod to the nurse who helped the Displaced out of the van. No reason to stick around, and they don't want to risk running into those people with the crazy glowing chests. They'll definitely give it a miss.
Sure enough, they lift off within a minute's time, leaving the newcomers in the alley to have no choice but to follow instructions.
◉ Though entirely capable of independent action and thought, new characters will find themselves completely, unquestioningly compliant to any verbal statement which could be taken as a command or request – and that includes the message passed on from the mysterious patron.
Of all of the cities that were ravaged in the recent attacks by a flood of monsters coming from regions unknown, New Amsterdam ended up in the best shape. That doesn't mean that it's looking good right now. The city's a mess: skyscrapers reach into the sky, illuminating little to no light because of the many shattered windows. Most of the overgrowth has started filling in again, offering a green hue to everything: making it seem as if the city is slowly being enveloped by nature once again. Worst of all: while the city looks like this, there's a sticky, muggy mist in the air thanks to the gross humidity. It feels like a constant cloud that hangs low over the day's proceedings.
As for what's going on around the city?
> RED WINGS
Much like the rest of New Amsterdam, Red Wings has only begun to recover. Although emergency services are no longer needed at the location, there are a number of local New Amsterdam citizens huddling close to the building just outside in tents, hoping to see a glimpse of the Displaced who work there. Many of them seem to think that if they stick close to Red Wings right now, they'll be in the safest place that the city has to offer. Franky, they wouldn't be wrong.
Business out of Red Wings is impossible right now thanks to the shattered windows and the damaged decorations on the inside. All that still hangs on the walls is a broken neon light fixture of Michigan and the (formerly) surrounding Great Lakes.
There are places to sit, as clearing out the bar area and cleaning it up has been a priority. The booths along the walls might have seen better days, but they offer a place to rest and wait for any attention.
Though the kitchen is understandably in bad shape, basic vegetable stews and curries are coming out to serve anyone who's hanging around, as well as the multiple Displaced who are (undoubtedly) assigned to cleanup duty for the time being. Drinks are on the house, as well, though they haven't refilled their stock of kegs since before the monster crisis. Hard liquor and cheap, unwanted wine will need to be enough for the time being.
> ANTI-UN DEMONSTRATIONS
In a world commonly known by its rigid structure and rule of law, New Amsterdam seems to be taking on a different flavor. Throughout the city, small pockets of people march while wearing the Morningstar insignia. This group has declared New Amsterdam a bastion of freedom from the United Nations, though the majority of citizens in the city aren't taking as bold of a stance just yet.
Thanks to the lack of UNA presence, there is little that the UN can do in light of this. However, people will find that any posts about these demonstrations will be promptly taken down so that the word doesn't spread through the rest of the world. Keep posting, and social media accounts will be deleted, with a ban put on for the next 48 hours to keep them from making another account.
The UN has slid into damage control.
> REBUILDING
Speaking of damage, the big three corporations (Pulsar, Giles Bell, and Vyonation) in New Amsterdam put all their resources toward helping the city recover. While they've funneled credits into previous crises, they know better than to withhold at a time like this, especially when there's an election on the horizon. These credits will go toward hiring workers around the city, helping build and deploy construction droids, and ensuring that people have enough income to ride out this crisis.
Thanks to New Amsterdam getting out of the crisis in better shape than most other cities, there are a lot of hands on deck to get the construction work underway. Anyone who's not afraid of heights and would like to fill their bank account with a good amount of funds can take up these short, contracted jobs to help rebuild the city. It's expected that the citywide repairs will take a few months to complete, assuming everything goes as planned.
In the meantime, get used to a city covered in green plant life that's seen better days. That's New Amsterdam now, for better or worse.
> THE ELECTION
To top off everything else that's happened in New Amsterdam, there's an election on the horizon. Even the newcomers will be able to vote, in part because they'll be considered long-term New Amsterdam citizens. And despite the questionable appropriateness of it all, there are political ads playing all over thanks to the geolocation focus of advertisements. Want to watch a show while clearing out rubble? Expect a commercial about Simone Durcell and what they can do for you. Want to just listen to some music? Expect an interruption about Joseph Lynch's long charitable history, and what he's doing to help New Amsterdam already.
These advertisements will be constant. But most interestingly, the corporations won't back a single candidate. After Katelin Jovavich's untimely death following the end of the simulation, the corporations are keeping mum on their preferences. It seems as if there's a corporate mandate to not publicly support anyone on social media, as well. Anyone who's employed by one of these corporations will have received a message "advising" them to not post about their political preferences during a trying time like this one.
(More information on the election can be found on the August calendar. There's also a thread for who you'd like to see win, or who you'd have your character support here on Plot Engagement.)
> SHADY DEALINGS
Not one to ignore the opportunistic gift horse right in front of them, both the Petrov Family and Riverside Mob move into action to take advantage of the chaos of the city. Their answer to everything that's going on? Kill them with kindness, with less killing and more kindness. Almost seemingly in tandem, they begin opening shelters around the city to offer people safe and dry places to live. So what if there are shady enforcers standing outside guarding the locations? At least they're safe.
In the evenings, these same mafiosos decide to flout the rule of the law by having open-air fighting rings in the sky parks. Although the NAPD is working around the clock to try to keep this creep of criminal power from enveloping the city, they're understaffed and overworked. Some of their employees have already taken off to New Beijing to join the newest rendition of the UNA army, and they don't have the staff to fill their shoes. The setup of these fighting rings is rather boisterous, as multiple members of the two mob families filter through the streets of the city with their typically concealed vehicles to begin setting up shop for the evening events.
These (extremely illegal) evening events will be a good place to pick up narcotics, weapons, and anything else that someone might be looking for from the Black Market. After all, who wouldn't want easier access to a gun during a time like this? There is always a risk that there will be a raid by the NAPD at these fighting rings, but their lack of staff means that someone can probably slip away unnoticed. Who even has the time to check all the surveillance to see who slipped away?
> HOUSING
Ah, housing! The cost of living in New Amsterdam was already going down thanks to the simulation and the numerous people aiming to move away. Now that half the buildings are in bad shape, renters will have an easy time finding an affordable location that suits their needs. There might be a wall or three missing, but there are still three to four bedrooms with appliances. Of course, the appliances may need to be covered in tarp while the city's still in its rainy season.
As for the newcomers, they won't have any safe place to hide. While they'll need to be brought to one of the two safehouse locations (Red Wings or the abandoned garage) for El to finish fixing up their identities, they'll need to be convinced to sit tight in the meantime. Not listening comes with a whole wealth of problems: the NAPD could arrest them, though they're admittedly understaffed. They won't be able to open doors anywhere, buy anything for themselves, or even take the sole train that's running within the city during these trying times. Still: El won't be able to do a rush job on these identities due to the state of the world, so the standard four days is still in place. Good luck convincing them to sit tight.
In the meantime, they'll have to get used to a few ugly truths about this new world:
◉ They'll be living on the kindness of others. While Morningstar and the Displaced have a good amount of second hand clothes to offer to newcomers, they won't be in the finest shape, especially after the recent crisis.
◉ The drug in their systems won't be going away for a few hours, so they'll have to deal with the urge to bark on command for a little while. At least it's not multiple days!
◉ This is a world without a lot of basic commodities. Coffee is hard to come by and extremely expensive. Paper? No one produces paper anymore, not even for the rich and famous. And bugs are the protein of choice given that they're easy to come by and don't take too much energy to source.
◉ While the Morningstar network will be set up for all the newcomers thanks to their proximity to Red Wings, no one will be able to VR and Chill until El finishes making their IDs. That means that any news reports or information about the world will be out of reach for the time being. Their fellow Displaced will need to help them out in the meantime.
You're now free to post to the network and logs comms. To reiterate, your characters will have no IDs or inboxes, nor be allowed to roam free until JUNE 12, 2512 (AUGUST 23, 2020), and until that date will appear as "anonymous" on the network. At that point it's expected they'll have gotten a good idea of their new situation from their fellow characters, and will have discussed their background and job potentials with El in order for their false IDs to be set up. We do expect that some characters may be unwilling to sit tight for four days when they don't have a safehouse locking them in place. Feel free to plot amongst yourselves, and come to us if you have any additional questions!
If you have any questions or ideas about how you'd like to get your character involved in the world, please head over to the plot engagement post and drop us a comment! For questions specific to this log, there is a thread below.
The August CR meme for the month is here.
Please check out our August calendar rundown for a look at things happening this month. For an idea of why things are in such bad shape, please take a gander at our most recent Event Wrap Up. All of the plot paths there are available to newcomers, so feel free to ask us any questions here!
AC remains halved this month due to the state of the world right now. New players will only need to provide at least five comments across two-four (2-4) threads, while older players will only need to provide ten comments across two-four (2-4) threads. Please let us know if you have any questions about this!
no subject
What he doesn't expect is the next guy who enters the ring.
The last one they had to drag out, Nate's knuckles bloodied, fists clenched at his sides, barely registering the body so much as the better-dressed individuals on the outskirts, talking furtively. This catches his attention more sharply: a taller, lankier form, and when Nate finally focuses on him it feels a little bit like a punch to the gut.
His eyes widen, his shoulders drop, he watches Sam give him a look he knows all too well - c'mon, hit me, just like we used to - but the cognitive dissonance brought on by the fact that he's here stymies him.
Nate thought he'd gotten over it, the hurt and the shock and the betrayal before Rafe leveled a gun at him and Sam dove in front of it, taking a bullet in the arm just before bumping Nate over a cliff in what would have been a comical move had it not probably killed him. He thought he'd processed it, more like buried it, under so much other shit he never wants to address.
It bubbles up before he can help it, jaw clenched as the screaming of the crowd dulls his hearing to a faint ringing and Nate lets that energy ricochet down his arm as he takes a swing.
no subject
But in this moment, he's living by one clear and certain principle: Don't try too hard to win this fight.
Fortunately, with a crowd screaming for blood around them, he really doesn't have to think about anything. It's no different from prison fights, aside from the part where they were usually on the same side of those. And for a couple seconds, it seems like the only thing he really has to worry about is making sure Nathan actually plays along.
And then Nathan lands a punch on his cheekbone, and it's on. He's gotta push past a wave of frustration--and a sudden, bitter misery he can't explain--but after a second or two, it's gone. Only thing that matters is making this look good. Take some decent swings, but let Nathan get the bulk of them in.
He reels back a step or two, ignoring the way his face throbs, then comes back with a jab at Nathan's gut. Something he'll walk off, no problem.
no subject
He knows he has, it's justified and right and fucking unfair that they got so far only for that rug to be pulled out from under him, the upsetting lurch you feel when you miss the last step on the stairs. Nate has almost always found comfort in the sensation of free fall but here, here it aches with everything he's internalized from the last few months, all bundled up in a writhing mess he's shoved into a mental drawer away from prying eyes. Lance told him he should look at it, but Christ, it hurts.
What shocks him is the relief that hits him with the contact, like Sam is glad he's playing the game, like this is just another day from twenty years ago, pressing their luck in front of an audience.
They shouldn't aim for skin, he reminds himself, it's too dangerous. Draws too much attention. So when Sam's fist connects center mass Nate is only barely ready for it, a blow to the solar plexus that catches him off-guard. He absorbs it, grits through it, like everything else. Like everything else.
He twists, shoulder-checking him hard, trying to swallow the shaking in his voice.
"Nice of you to finally show up."
no subject
But he's a little confused by what he's actually saying.
"Whaddaya mean, finally?" He doesn't really try to dodge Nathan's shoulder slamming into his. Making a real effort's only going to prolong this, and while the crowd might like that, Sam doubts either of them would. He wants to stay close, though, maybe get another word or two in without having to yell over the spectators.
So he keeps his feet, lunging forward again with an eye toward getting Nathan into a headlock. "S'been what, a week?"
no subject
"I've been here for months."
Nate snarls just as Sam swings left, elbow grazing Nate's jaw as an arm wraps around his neck and Nate, careful to grab at the parts of his bicep that are covered in a Morningstar-issued shirt, shifts under the new pressure. They've done this before and it feels like muscle memory to move perpendicular, to lean his weight into the hold and send them rolling to the ground.
Far and away he hears the cheers and Nate pins him, lifting a fist and looking down at him in confusion.
"When are you from?"
no subject
They end up on the ground, scrabbling at each other, kicking like it's a real struggle. Sam elbows at him, makes a little show of resistance, but they've played this out often enough that Nathan knows when to make the whole thing turn in his favor. And Sam knows when to get his ego out of the way and get himself pinned.
"Whaddaya mean, when?" he gasps out. Nathan looks enough like the man Sam saved and destroyed that it doesn't occur to him that there're other options. "Libertalia, the cliff--punch me a little, make this look good--"
They can end this pretty quick if Nathan wails on him a little. His face'll recover--what's he gonna do, destroy Sam's fine-boned nose?--and they'll get out of here faster than if Sam tries getting up.
no subject
Nate stares at him as though lobsters just started crawling out of his ears. Sam goddamn Drake shows up for the second unanticipated time in his life in the last half a year and suddenly everything is back to the nostalgia of pretending to fight just to get people off their back, or make something look more effective than it is.
This isn't the venue for a conversation and Nate knows it, can't reconcile the emotions he's been violently shoving under the carpet since he arrived, but Sam is right. He buries it again until there's a better time. If there's a better time.
They'd been on a job in Limon, some hasty, last-minute thing for cash, but Nate remembers like it was yesterday. Docking cruise ship full of gamblers, some high rollers with priceless pieces stored away in private safes, a lot of security. Nate ran point down the halls trying to locate the exact cabins and got lucky on a take down when some rent-a-thug stepped out to take a piss off the side of the boat.
It was fast. A swift tackle to the torso, a roll across the decking and the guy had him crushed onto the floor just before Nate flipped him. Sure, there's no railing here, nor is there the balmy sway of the Caribbean Sea, but he remembers Sam sprinting down the corridor just in time to see Nate wrestle a man overboard.
"Costa Rica, 1997."
no subject
He can't lay here much longer without looking like he's given up for no goddamn reason. Another breath or two, and wriggling like he's making an attempt won't be enough anymore. He'll have to get up, have to knock his little brother around some more.
Unless Nathan smashes his fist into his face a couple times. That'll get them out of this. Why the hell is he hesitating?
no subject
He wanted to hurt, just to feel anything.
"Jesus Christ-"
Nate rolls his entire head with his eyes and clocks Sam in the cheekbone, deliberately pulling the punch.
"Flip me, dumbass," he hisses. "Like in Costa Rica."
no subject
Flip me. Jesus H. Christ. It's just gonna take longer--that's all Sam's getting from this demand, wasted time they could've spent busting his nose. But Nathan's got a plan, he's the one calling the shots. They just gotta get through the next five seconds. And then the next five seconds. Just a couple breaths at a time.
So he stops faking his attempts to get out from under Nathan and puts all his energy into rolling up and shoving their bodies over. There, little brother, there's your flip. Costa Rica, 1997, without a railing, without a sea to drop into--besides all those crowded bodies ringing them in.
no subject
Just five seconds at a time.
Nate hits the ground hard - he forgets, sometimes, how dense his brother is, especially given how long it's been - and a knee nearly crushes into his side, but he uses the momentum to roll them back again, until Sam is beneath him. The hit he gives him is a show, too: a quick and brutal-looking jab of his elbow at Sam's temple, held back with restraint he didn't think he had. Stage-fighting is more difficult when you actually want to throttle your own brother, within reason.
The crowd howls and Nate sits back on his heels, getting to his feet.
"Tap out," he pants, rubbing his knuckles against his aching jaw. "Let's get the Hell out of here."
no subject
They roll around, Nathan lands one on the side of Sam's head, and he knows how to play it: lolling away like he's struggling to stay conscious, groaning, lying there for a second while Nathan gets up to his feet. This isn't his favourite part, smacking the ground as if to say fine, God, I'm done--it feels like he should've come away bloodier, somehow--but he does it.
The crowd's jeering as he staggers up to his feet, gingerly fingering his face, checking the damage. He follows along behind Nathan, fine with getting the hell outta there, even if he doesn't know where the hell they oughta go. At the moment, he'd follow his little brother just about anywhere.
"Hey, hey, wait," he says, glancing over his shoulder at the ring closing behind them. Two new guys in there, leaping at each other like rabid dogs. Next time, maybe. "Gotta get your payout."
If he's going to end up with a bruised-up face, they might as well get something out of it. He hasn't actually seen any kind of cash so far here, but he hasn't exactly been spending time in four-star restaurants.
no subject
The cash is too good to pass up given the world they're in.
Nate shoulders his way through the throng trusting Sam to follow him, tonguing the inside of his lip where a previous opponent split it against his tooth. The faster they can get away from this shitstorm the better, because Nate gives it another half-hour before the cops show up to disperse the rabble rousers.
"I got it," he says a little too hastily, too defensively. The tone a kid brother adopts when feeling needled by his older sibling. "They auto-drop it to my deposit box."
no subject
Punch a couple people, don't worry about them coming after you for the winnings when you walk home. They've done worse for less.
Once the roar of the crowd's more like a murmuring rabble, distant, Sam takes a couple long steps to catch Nathan up. They're side by side, and yet he can't quite bring himself to glance sidelong far enough to get a look at his brother. Something in his shoulders is drawn in a little, not quite enough to be hunched. "So, uh. Couple months."
no subject
Nate takes them down one of the winding staircases from the skypark, hands still flexing at his sides. He thought about what he'd say, multiple times. Never thought he'd actually get to say anything of it.
"Yeah. Woke up here same as you." He lifts his hands in mock enthusiasm. "Surprise! Temporal...interdimensional kidnapping."
no subject
Any kind of distraction would do, at the moment, but disappearing behind a cloud of smoke would be a big help. Without glancing over too carefully, Nathan looks like he's trying to decide whether punching Sam might improve his mood--but it would've been a lot more convenient if he could've gone back and forth on making fists of his hands five minutes ago.
"Helluva surprise." He pushes his hair back from his face, not that it needs much help on that front. "First thing I thought when I woke up--of course he'd have tranquilizer bullets. Knock you out if it doesn't kill you."
And then he'd realized that even poor little rich dick Rafe Adler didn't have his own mobile hospital rigged up on Libertalia. But he's not about to say that--the idea of doing more than more than vague allusion, never mind bringing up the guy by name, freezes his tongue.
no subject
It takes him a long moment to put something together, because wording matters but Nate himself was never the eloquent one. He could weave a lie to any Tom, Dick, or Larry, he can tell a story that leaves people hanging on the edges of their seats, but emotional vulnerability has never, never been his expertise.
It was never Sam's, either, so he takes some small comfort in that.
"You lied to me."
no subject
It's his own fault they're talking about this. Just had to bring up Rafe, even veiled.
"I, uh." What the hell is he supposed to say? What the hell does Nathan want him to say? Sam's lived a life predicated on finding the thing a person wants to hear and saying it--and the one person he's supposed to know, actually know, he's flying blind. "Yeah. I did."
Over and over. Even after his scary, pretty wife found out. He lied his ass off, and he's not sure he wouldn't do it again. Goddamn, he'd kill for a cigarette right about now.
no subject
Nathan Drake, the predictable little brother, following his sibling to the ends of the earth because he owed him. Because he believed himself the cause of it all, thought he could have held on longer, pulled harder, been impossibly strong in spite of the sweaty palm slipping through his and the body disappearing below him into the dark. He had nightmares for years, blamed himself for what he couldn't have possibly prevented.
He searched and bribed and made inquiries and it all came up empty: Sam was dead. Sam was dead. Sam was dead and you let him die.
Nate fixes him with a firm look, searching the tired brow of his brother for some kind of supplemental explanation he doesn't have, he hadn't thought of. Sam won't volunteer without cause and this is something Nate doesn't want to let lie; but he just arrived. The stressors of being in this environment are enough to handle for the time being.
"I don't care what it is, Sam, but don't lie to me again."
no subject
But getting him to understand...Jesus effing Christ, where would he even start? I did it for you, Nathan, you know that. For us. Any other time, any other place, he wouldn't hesitate. Libertalia was going to be their legacy. Immortality in the history books, wealth beyond all measure, everything he'd never been able to give his brother when they were kids.
Which means...what, exactly, when there's a good chance Nathan died out there, searching for it? So Sam doesn't try and justify it. He doesn't really want to acknowledge what Nathan said at all. The silence lives awkwardly between them, Sam's hands in his pockets, until he mutters, "Can't make any promises."
Not what he meant to say, and he doesn't know why. But he's going to have a hell of a time lying until the cocktail of his drugs in his system fades out.
no subject
But things are different now: the world they came from isn't an option anymore, they have no way of going back, and Nate will never known if he managed to survive his skull cracking into the side of that cliff. He might have died there, on that desolate pirate island, another body for someone else to find a hundred years in the future - if they ever made it out there. Nate had braced himself for that bullet and Sam took it in his stead and for that, Nate can't fault him.
For everything else...
"No, I need you to," Nate stresses, with a veracity that surprises even himself. "I need you to be honest with me, Sam. I need to trust you. If we can't be honest with each other, what the Hell are we doing?"
no subject
Of course, it wasn't one lie, was it? One big lie, stuffed with dozens of little lies to keep it upright. And every single one of them to keep a single castle in the air afloat: We have to find Avery's treasure. Libertalia has to be ours.
His shoulders hunch a little, like he's hoping to find a way to make himself smaller. It doesn't work.
Look, it's not like Nathan's wrong. Everything'll be a hell of a lot easier if they have each other's backs. But promise me you're done lying is a tall goddamn order--the best Sam can do is try to cut around it with a defensive, "Ain't like I make a habit of bullshitting you, y'know."
no subject
He snaps without meaning to, and the words pour out with the rest of his anger, bubbling up like another volcano on the cusp of eruption. He was fine here, he thought, not dwelling on what happened back home, trying to move past it, trying to accept that he couldn't change things. Trying to accept that he might have died in the middle of nowhere because Sam couldn't let it go.
Apparently that brand of stubbornness runs in the family.
"Stop hedging. You do this, you always- ...do this, you talk your way around shit. I'm your brother but I'm not a goddamn kid anymore. We screwed up, and we're here, and we have to live with that. So nod if you understand."
no subject
It's enough to make a guy feel like he's done something wrong.
Look, he's not stupid--he knows he fucked up Nathan's life, might've gotten him killed on top of it--but he's also pretty damned good at letting actions and consequences live in two different places in his brain. Good intentions, the knowledge that they were finally going to find a treasure that'd make all that pain worth something, live with actions; everything else goes someplace else. The life he's lived, if he let all of it mingle together, he never would've gotten this far.
Sam doesn't say anything. For once in his life, he doesn't know what to say that'll get Nathan to cool down a little. Nathan's not just his kid brother anymore, he can see that much, and what he needs now isn't what he needed back before Panama. He's figuring that out too late, way the hell too late, and he has no idea what to replace okay, little brother, time for action, adventure, and loose women with. Maybe it's too late to replace it with anything.
But this, he thinks he gets--you didn't do right by me, and I'm not over it--and because he thinks he gets it, he nods. Partly because he has to, however unknowing, and partly because he has to do something. And he follows it up with a, "Nathan," but he doesn't actually have anything to trail after. It just hangs there between them, not quite pleading.
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Sam Drake has never truly said he was sorry and meant it, Nate knows that. There are apologies for broken vases in the hall of the orphanage, toeing the floor with a sneakered foot, and there are apologies for blowing all their cash in a card game in Montevideo, and apologies for forgetting to pick up something for the fridge after a successful date night. Small things, petty things, things that can be easily remedied with time or money, but this?
This can't be taken back. Can't be given back. Sam will never apologize for something he didn't think was wrong in the first place and Nate isn't stupid, his brother has a justification he believes in. No matter how well-meant, it won't fix this.
Nate steels himself, tempers his growing frustration and pushes it back down into the box he's been forcing most of this into for the last four months. He swallows the bite and vitriol, the grief he doesn't have time to process. Who mourns the dead if they're trapped in limbo? His voice softens, his tone shifts, because he can't maintain this anger forever or it will rot what they do have from the inside out.
"...I would do anything for you, and you know that. Just-" Something cracks and Nate ducks his head, taking a slow, careful breath, exhaling all the volatility he has left. The wind gone from his sails.
"Just don't ask me to give any more than I already have. Please."
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