meadowlarklogs | 𝚐𝚘𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚡 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗

（ you're in a run-down building, some sort of old mechanic shop with anything useful long since stripped. the smell of mold and dust and the decay of bodies is thick and clotted on your tongue. you're beside a worn-down man in his fifties, graying beard, plaid shirt that looks like it's seen better days. he's haggard in the way you can only come by honestly — survival in impossible times. he gestures for you to be silent, and in the distance you hear the cacophonous sounds of some awful, encroaching creature.

the man hands you a revolver. it's light — if you're familiar with guns you'll recognize that it's not fully loaded. ）

Clickers.

（ the man says that very, very softly, barely audible over the ambient creaks of the building, the sounds emanating from beyond the walls to indicate the monsters. the man gestures — not quite military, but obviously evolved from some species of that same communication — for you to flank the creature on the right side. all he's got to his name, clutched in his hands is a bat studded with broken blades and barbed wire, he gave you the only gun. if you move to obey him, he'll head left. if you'd rather talk, well — he won't like it, but dream logic ain't always sound, now is it? ）

Edited 2021-02-09 20:23 (UTC)

( most people don't look at jason and think he knows how to follow orders; because he sure as hell doesn't like to. as a general rule. but placed in a strange as shit place he doesn't remember being in three seconds before with a guy whose face he recognizes enough to realize what this is works as enough of an incentive that jason does take the revolver when it's offered. rolls the cylinder to check how many rounds it has left before clicking it back into place and.

speaks soft, quickly. because he doesn't know what the hell he's dealing with here and clickers isn't exactly telling. )

Where am I aiming?

( guy wants to take the bat, he can have it. jason isn't arguing. )

（ rather than respond to that part verbally, joel gestures to the back of his neck. spinal column. ain't easy to get at when they're coming at you, but that's why he's playing decoy. verbally, however: ）

Do not let it grab you.

（ it's a warning. terse and fraught, pitched low. christ, he'd rather fight a bloater. at least they're big and slow, even if you're just as dead if they catch you.

he eases himself up out of a crouch. standing. ready to move. he nods to jason once. ）

You ready?

( oh, great. amazing. headshots with a moving target can be tricky enough, considering how much shit you have to guestimate but neck ones? he doesn't complain, because despite the fact this is definitely joel's fault (his dream, his monsters) it's not. actually his fault. so.

instead he tips his head forward in acknowledgement and moves to the right, footsteps damn near silent. none of his own gear, but a gun in hand which is significantly better than nothing. )

（ joel moves softly for such a big man, despite his age. it's the sort of silence born of necessity — one wrong move and you're dead. he doesn't like giving jason the gun, but what the hell else is he going to do? he's tired of living in an us or them world. jackson gave him back the ability to trust in some small part, and there's a part of him like a tiny, guttering flame that wants to hold to that.

the clicker jerks along, body barely resisting the infection now, puppeteered entirely by the cordyceps. every once in a while it stops and echolocates, the series of clicks for which they're known, and then stumbles anew in that direction. once joel notes jason's taken up position along the right side of the room, he reaches for an empty oilcan nearby, lifts it up so jason can see what he's got and then indicates that he plans to throw it against the back wall, mid-point between them. gets him out of the crossfire, gives jason a clear shot and means he hopefully won't have to go toe-to-toe with the damn thing.

he doesn't have a free hand to count down, but he mouths the numbers in the dim light anyway. three, two — and he throws it. the clicker orients on it instantly, screeching, and begins an inhuman shambling flail towards the noise. if jason misses it, they're in for a world of hurt. ）

( desperate times, desperate measures and all that jazz. he's not familiar with the noise, and when the clicker comes into view he--well. he doesn't freeze. quiets his breathing down until it's near nonexistent. watches it. it's definitely not human anymore, which takes away any hesitation jason had. whoever it was, they're long gone by the looks of it.

jason keeps an eye trained on it, watching joel out of the corner of them. when he lifts up the can, he gives a very, very slight jerk of his head. acknowledgement of the plan, before joel tosses it. it hits the back wall, the clicker immediately darts towards it, and jason lowers the revolver.

aims straight for the back of it's neck, where it meets shoulders. and he's a damn good shot even given the circumstances. the clicker falls, jason's immediately checking the revolver again, making sure there's a bullet loaded in the next chamber before he's pulling back the hammer and looking to where the clicker had come from.

just in case. )

（ the clicker goes down with a few residual jerks, and joel exhales. his grip on the bat doesn't ease off, though, because deeper into the building there's an echoing screech of another pack.

through the logic of dreams, there's no way out of the room but that long, narrow corridor where the clicks and screeches are echoing from. getting closer. there's a distant, echoing thunder of steps that he has the presence of mind to hope ain't a goddamn bloater, because they surely do not have the arsenal to take one of those down. ）

We don't have much time. Search for supplies.

（ he's already rummaging through an old toolbox, hastily scraping up whatever he can to make a nailbomb. once it's set, he goes to set it at the yawning entrance to that corridor. won't take down but the first few, but it's better than nothing. ）

( christ. where the hell are they? what the fuck is that--thing? why are there more of them? joel seems perfectly comfortable with it which. given the bits and pieces jason has put together about him do not surprise him in the least. guy seems tired, sick of everyone's shit. reminds him a little too much of bruce if a little older.

so.

jason takes a step out towards him. lowers the gun down to his side but doesn't drop it. )

You know this is a dream, right? Those things aren't real. They're some crappy memory you're shoving onto us. You can turn it off.

What?

（ he's used to dreams. nightmares. just about every time he closes his goddamned eyes, it's one thing or another. losing sarah. losing ellie. tommy, christ, sometimes it's tommy too. the thing is — joel just ain't equipped to deal with a world where people can step into each other's dreams. it doesn't penetrate in that way, he just seems startled and wary. the sounds echoing from the corridor don't abate — if anything, they get louder.

and then abby comes up behind jason, golf club raised. joel reaches out, grabs him by the front of his shirt and hauls him out of the way with a snarl of look out! and the club catches joel against the arm he put up to deflect it. the sound it makes isn't quite right — it's more the meaty, wet thunk of someone taking a piece of metal to a body that's well past the point of having bones to break. joel grunts with the phantom pain and shoves at jason. ）

Get the hell out of here!

（ no time, and now they're about to be beset on both sides. ）

( jason isn't good at managing his night terrors, either. this is the kind of shit that he calls in someone else for, someone who knows how to deal with their own traumatic bullshit so they don't get pulled down into his, too. except joel pulls jason right into his own and--the club doesn't bother him, at first sight. abby doesn't. until he hears the impact. jason, who had been ready to raise his revolver up and take care of it, flinches.

screws up his face; expression tightening for a moment before he curses under his breath, raises both hands up and--the entire goddamn dream shifts again.

instead of joel's nice old mechanic shop, they're in a warehouse full of boxes of all shapes and sizes. it's dark, hard to make out damn near anything, but joel will notice that he's. alone. there's the sound of laughter, loud and maniacal, that same wet thunk, over and over again.

a loud, bemused, this is going to hurt you a lot more than it does me followed by a quiet, wheezy gasp.

following the voice will find joel towards the middle of the warehouse: a man standing over the body of a boy. the boy has his hands tied behind his back, mask broken, blood leaking from the side of his face, his midsection, his mouth, as he struggles to pull himself away. the man has a bloodied crowbar in hand which he swings, again and again, straight into the boy. )

（ the dream shifts, and to him it feels like the world drops sideways, and everything falls out from under his feet. he's standing with all the still wariness of a wounded predator — arm held fast against his chest because it hurts like the seven goddamn hells, but there's no clickers he can hear, no infected. no spores, either. nowhere he recognizes, but then — he's seen so many goddamned warehouses it's hard to tell for sure.

that sound, though. that sound is unmistakable. a dream, the kid had said. a dream.

feels pretty fucking real from where he's standing, blood dripping from the shattered wreck of his arm, soaking the off-white of the bone.

he follows the voices, and comes across the scene — a kid laid out on the floor, some deranged lunatic standing over him. chest heaving with exertion, the crowbar is caked in gore and bits of tissue and hair. it ought to stir him to something. disgust. horror, maybe. but he's seen the way this manner of thing plays out all too often. he's been the one holding the crowbar. he's been the man beneath it.

but he drew the line at kids. always. so while calm indifference may have been enough to ride him out — folks beating each other to death ain't his goddamn business at the best of times — cold fury takes its place.

he has a gun again. it's just the way the shift worked out. he draws it and without preamble shoots that fucking clown in the head. then he crouches down beside the boy, pulling a medkit out of his backpack. ）

Easy, son.

（ boy looks like hell. and joel thinks — those wounds aren't the sort you walk away from. instinct tells him he should leave it. put a bullet in the kid if he's feeling merciful and walk away. but that's not what ellie would do — she'd want to help. so. he's going to help. much as it'll be hard with one arm working, and painful on the both of them. ）

( this isn't the first time jason has gotten stuck here. this is a reoccurring nightmare, an event he gets himself tangled into far more than he truly ever would want. but it's--the first time it's happened quite like this. he bitched at joel for it being fake, for him being able to throw himself out of it if he wanted but jason--is stuck inside of it. doesn't know how to push the part of his head that recognizes this is just a dream to the forefront and--shift the narrative.

it hurts just like it always had. something has punctured a lung, a few ribs are definitely cracked, maybe broken. his arm is fucked up. the side of his skull is smashed. there are several smaller fractures and he's--definitely not living long without immediate medical attention that he won't get for months and months to come. joel ends joker, and jason--lets out a wheezy cough, presses his cheek against the ground because he remembers. all the bits and pieces after this, who he became, who he is. but the memory isn't enough to shove him out of it. )

—told you. ( another breath in, but it wheezes uncomfortably. it's fake, it's a dream, this isn't real, he can get rid of the pain any time he damn well wants to, he doesn't have to be stuck here. but repeating it to himself doesn't fucking fix it. ) 's a dr— ( another breath. a little steadier. not without the wheezing. ) dream. Fuck.

( eyes screwing shut as he tries to breathe through it. knows better. knows he doesn't get out of this, and that really isn't helping to set his nerves. to help him figure out how to change the scenario, push himself/them into something different. with less blunt objects that break skin. and it's hard as hell to center himself when he doesn't feel like he can fucking breathe. like the world is crashing down around him, like he's moments away from the building going up in a giant blaze and searing off a good bit of his flesh as he kicks the bucket.

there's the casket after. that moment, when he'd pulled air into his lungs for the first time. the nails tearing at the top of the casket, digging through layers of cushy fabric then the hard wood he'd been buried in. the broken fingers, nails torn from nailbeds, barely making it out on top before he'd run out of air and—

that's not where they want to go with this either. another breath, and he shoves himself over onto his side. purposefully. pulling himself back into this moment rather than throw them into a shittier nightmare. )

—a sec. ( as in, give me one. )

（ nothing about this feels right. joel's had nightmares aplenty. sometimes about the infected. most times about that night he lost sarah. her blood staining his shirt. in dreams and reality both, he'd carried her for two days before tommy convinced him to bury her, but in the dreams she crawls out of the grave again, the infection taking root on her skin.

but this isn't anything he's ever dreamed, and the cracks start to show at the foundation. a dream, the guy had called it. just a dream.

but this setting, this stage — there's the whisper of truth here, same as in his. but the fact that it's so alien from anything he knows is jarring — there's something of his being here that's intrinsically wrong in a way he can't parse.

the boy rolls over onto his side, and he reaches out to steady him with a hand at his shoulder, but otherwise lets him do as he will. who's he to stop someone from spending their last moments how they please? ）

I can get us out of here.

（ it's said quietly. an offer, as much as anything. at least they could see the sky. it matters to some people. ）

( he'd shove joel off, if he was capable of it. reach up and tell him to fuck off, leave him alone, he's--well. lying and saying he's fine seems like a stretch, he's clearly not fine. but he's getting there, maybe. slowly. another breath in, but it fucking hurts and it sputters out harsh. shakes his head instead of talks. he's fine. he's done this before, he can--get them out of this mess. probably.

it's always the traumatic bullshit that pulls them in deep, isn't it? and he doesn't want this. doesn't want the grave. wants a door out. at least something that physically hurts less so he can pull his goddamn head together.

another breath in, and they're outside. it's still the same goddamn place, but instead of jason being--fifteen and in pieces, he's a few years older. he's not bruised and battered, and the warehouse is little more than rotting wood laying on the ground. there's nothing else for goddamn miles, just--a batjet, parked a good few kilometers away. )

Told you. ( voice still shaky and jason raises a gloved hand, shoves it through his hair. he's standing, in one piece, definitely filled out his frame more. closer to the jason joel had told off on the moon, albeit still a bit younger. ) It's a dream. None of this shit's real, you just gotta figure out how to maneuver around it.

（ this is all too goddamn much for him.

jackson didn't put the nightmares to rest, but they made it easier to bear in some respects. a place, a home, a community. somewhere he wasn't always fighting just for one more day, but could think about — what came after that one day. the future. he'd imagined that he had years left, a chance to watch ellie grow up, a chance to be as normal as anyone could in the ruin of the world.

but his dreams have always been private — except, it seems, when they ain't — and joel is scowling at the change in scenery, arms folded, mouth drawn in a line. ）

The Hell was all that, then?

(no subject)

reneger - 2021-03-15 04:43 (UTC) - Expand

[ Glimmer isn't quite sure what's happening, only that she is in a place that smells like some of the ruins she's explored. Except worse. The stench of mold feels almost overpowering. All at once, she feels the weight of an unfamiliar weapon pressed in her hands and she awkwardly wraps her fingers around the grip of the gun. There's an anxious thrill through the girl--she's never fired one of these before, though somehow she has the idea of how it works. ]

Clickers?

[ She's good at picking up the cue and her voice is already a faint whisper, barely reaching Joel's own volume. Glimmer's eyes follow the sharp gesture and she swallows--can she really do this? The young woman nods, in spite of her confusion and begins to move around towards the right side of the creature, the gun held out awkwardly, though pointed towards the clicking, twitching creature all the same. There's fear swelling in her chest, threatening to arch towards panic--but she tamps down on it. She's the goddamn Queen of Bright Moon. She can do this. As she shifts her weight, one of the floorboards lets out a groaning creak and she freezes with eyes wide. Maybe it wasn't loud enough for the thing to notice? ]

[ this... is weird.

in the middle of everything going on, everything that's dusty and dank and rotting and cast in shadow, there's just harley herself, pale and stark and bright and definitely out-of-place. and she doesn't even remember a time before she was here, which is even weirder, but she takes the gun when it's handed to her, turns it over in her grip with a familiarity that points to being comfortable with firearms, and then squints over at him in confusion. ]

Click-huh?

[ and then her gaze trails down to where he's got a bat gripped in his hands, and her eyes light up, following the weapon even as he gestures in front of it. ]

Okay, but maybe you could give me the bat and then you could have the gun, 'cause, well, my aim is a little better when I'm up in close and if we're goin' after these things — [ she's definitely not speaking quietly enough right now, so you might want to shush her, joel. ]

（ she's so goddamned gaudy that it actually makes him grimace, and as the words pour out of her mouth and continue escalating in pitch and tone he actually reaches out and slaps a hand over her mouth, pushing her back against the nearest retaining wall so that she's well and truly pinned there. there's a brutal sort of efficiency in how he moves — a man well-used to violence and all it entails. ）

Quiet.

（ he snarls in a low voice. but he didn't act quickly enough. the clicker swings around to face them and emits a high-pitched predatory shriek as it begins to amble towards them. joel shoves the girl, hard, to emphasize his point, and backs off in a crouch that strains the thighs. if she insists on being loud, at least he could always use her to bait it.

his one show of solidarity is to throw her the spiked bat. fine, he'll keep the gun. ）

[ she finds herself shoved up against the wall, unable to do anything but squeak around the palm clapped over her mouth, eyes narrowed in obvious protest even if there's a fair bit of curiosity in it too, his reasoning for being so overly aggressive about making noise.

really, she's about two seconds from licking his palm just to make him take it off her face before that horrible screeching noise distracts him, and harley staggers away from the wall, half from that shove, before making a show of brushing off herself like she's got dust clinging to her. ]

Sheesh, warn a girl next time before you — ooh!

[ that's her sound of delight over getting the bat, and she plucks it neatly out of the air, hand curling around the handle before she gives it an experimental twirl in her fingers to test the weight. it's a little different with these spikes sticking out of it, but fun.

regardless, that weird thing staggering towards them is definitely making a beeling for her, and she decides to cut it off at the knees first since it's got a few inches on her, aiming low with a vicious swing. ]

（ — the hell? he barely has time to think it before the clicker is on them. he can hear half a dozen of its buddies a ways off, their screeching echoing down the halls. it goes for the girl, who seems fearless in a way he ain't used to, and he watches as she takes out its knees.

he's half tempted to leave her to it. but the problem with clickers is that taking out their knees doesn't actually stop them, just makes them try to scrabble along the floor towards you, so joel steps on its shoulder, puts the gun up close and personal against its spine and pulls the trigger. ）

Don't let them bite you.

（ his tone's terse. still quiet, though less so. the gunshot will have alerted the others, and now he's just braced for a fight. ）

[ she might not be working with all the info here, but if she's supposed to take these things out, then that's what she'll do. of course, her next step after cutting it down by the knees is to follow up with a big swing to the head, but mr. rude beardo over here decides to cut her to the punch and take it out himself with a clean headshot. ]

Wait, why? What happens if they — ?

[ another screech, and her head whips in that direction — in the dream, she actually has her freaking hair back, long enough for her pigtails to be restored, which means they flick around her head with even the slightest turn. ]

Okay, what the shit is goin' on here?

I said, shut the Hell up and fight.

（ how many times does he have to tell this girl to damn well be quiet? joel is rummaging through his backpack for something else useful against these things, and eventually comes up with a molotov and a battered old zippo. he lights the tail of the bottle, and gestures for harley to get the hell back.

when the new wave of clickers stagger through the door, there's three, maybe four of 'em and joel tosses the bottle with expert precision. it arcs into one of them and bursts into fire on impact, the glass shattering. the noise draws the clickers' attention to their companion, and all of them start milling around, variously on fire or screeching.

there's a small, shuttered window near the top of the wall — an old ventilation grate, or something maybe. either way, while they're distracted joel grabs her by the jacket and hauls her over to it, bracing himself so she can put her foot in the stirrup of his laced hands. ）

Climb. Now.

（ while they're distracted. ）

[ of course, harley's going to be distracted as soon as that homemade molotov goes flying through the air to burst into flame on impact, lighting up whatever those things are and turning it all into a screeching, flailing bundle of limbs. she's drawn in by the sight of it, all that fire flickering and burning, until she's suddenly yanked back hard enough to stagger her by a few feet. ]

Hey, what — oh.

[ okay, they're getting out now, and she doesn't even require that much of a boost to get herself up, setting one hand on his shoulder and jabbing the end of the bat out toward the grate to pry it outward so she can climb up and wriggle through the space.

she has to do a little shimmying to get through before dropping down on the other side, but this time she actually waits for him to make it down with her before opening her mouth again. not conversational volume, but definitely not a full whisper either. ]

What were those things?

Clickers.

（ he scraped himself coming through the grate, a long gash down one arm. he tears at his sleeve and starts wrapping it. ）

Stay moving. If they can get out, they'll come after us.

（ so, unbidden, he pushes her off towards the woods. damn things can't climb trees, at least. ）

Click — what?

[ it's while she's distracted and glancing back behind them, listening to those faintly horrible screeching sounds, that he's able to give her a good enough shove that staggers her forward a few paces before she finally notices his arm. ]

Hey, you're hurt.

[ she's still walking, at least, and scenery shifts around them, and it's quieter in the woods, tall trees and so much overgrowth that it feels like this part of the city hasn't been touched or seen by anyone in years. she falls quiet, for a while, glancing up toward the canopy as they move. ] ... wow.

𝚐𝚘𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚡 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗

joel ↪ god's gonna cut you down (ota)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw: remember that scene where jason dies (child abuse, maybe death? hmm)

rude (cw injury)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject