tunnel vision [OPEN]

[darkov]

WHO: Marty, others
WHERE: Maurtia Falls, assorted
WHEN: Aug 14 to end of month, player's choice
WHAT: moving and not moving
WARNINGS: sad, very sad. lots of death mentions


o1. Long hours in MF10
[there's a very great deal to both unpack and reconcile with in the days following Woden's mad scheming and meddling. truth be told, it took very little bending of the will to convince Martin that his life would indeed be more useful -- and happier -- were he to embrace the call to supposed godhood. it was a job he couldn't fail, because the consequences of failure were barely there; people would just die anyway! all he did was provide some certainty, perhaps even solace in understanding their ends. it seemed perfect.

until it wasn't. and now Martin-turned-Peklabog-turned-Martin-again has the weight of the memories of many, many lives in his head, all leaden, all pressing down together to settle, all a frightening mix of things he does and doesn't understand.

it's extremely scary how relatable some of their intimate fears and wishes were; he knows Darkovs were made to look like humans, but he never liked the idea of being so like them. like him. otherwise, that'd mean...he was somehow close enough to their level of worth as to be something to be saved. it'd contradict the certainty he has in his sins -- that the ones who fight for him, die for him, were right to do so at all.

a very great deal to both unpack and reconcile with, indeed. this doesn't even touch on having held the hands of loved ones and walked them to wherever death would send them -- that...thinking on that chills his blood and leaves his limbs limp and useless, and he finds it very difficult to do much more than breathe through the aching in his ribs and chest.

so this is what he does the most in these days and hours that follow godhood: stillness on the outside while the inside roils and rages in his skull; waves of nausea tied to despair and despondency; long stretches of a most comforting chill, which even gives him chance to sleep a little before the dread images of the dying and the lost scramble and claw him back to lucidity.

most of the time he knows exactly what's happening, but finds no strength in him to even despise it, let alone fight it. he doesn't deserve peaceful sleep, nor food nor comfort nor any of those good things he felt those dying people had before their ends. better to dwell on their despair, and that of those who had been trapped in his song, their consciences pulled away from countless dreadful memories of conflict and loss.

if only he'd had the chance to see his own losses the way they did. but he doesn't deserve that.

there are some times, though, where he can move again -- and eat a little, drink a lot, and maybe even utter a few quiet words. the times where he can actually look and see people nearby and realize that if he does nothing at all but fester, he'll have done nothing at all for them. he's supposed to move, do something, be somewhere...and so he tries.

he has to feed the fish, at least. clean the bowl. tidy the room. hang up clothes. small things, routine things -- things with patterns and one-by-one steps that can draw in his focus and mute out the rest of his surroundings and thoughts for a little while. that kind of productivity is good, at least until it's done.]


o2. A pet store
[it takes some effort to venture outside in the daytime on a good day, but in the height of summer with the worst of downswings it is near impossible. but the fish needs food. the container was empty. it's his job to feed the fish.

when the sky is overcast and moody enough to be encouraging, Martin does go out, the pathway to the pet store memorized well and easy to follow despite some of the flooding damage still lingering about. as long as the signs and shapes of the store windows along the way are the same, he knows where to go. he's never liked going alone, because when there are dogs there it can be unnerving for him and downright frightening for the owners, but he's barred the worry from his mind. he can't think on it right now, because he has a job to do, and doing it is a good thing. go to the store. purchase the food. go home. feed the fish. he drills it into his head until the instructions barely seem like words by the time he's gotten into the store, deaf to the greeting from the cashier.

there's a very great comfort in being able to coldly wander down the aisles to the array of fish goods; it's almost like he's not even actually there, but rather just watching himself go through the motions, and he's the one conducting the body where to go and what to pick.

however, when he does pluck the bottle he needs by its cap, his procedure hits a hitch: the cap had not been securely screwed onto the bottle, and now it's fallen, sending a cascade of fish flakes all over the floor. the thin plastic bounces and then rolls to a stop against his foot as he stares, still holding the cap, unmoving and uncertain about this turn of events.

this isn't part of the procedure. there's no drop the food step between find the food and buy the food. it takes a good, long stare in slow, calculating silence for him to consider what he has to do before he's begun to crouch down and begin picking up pinches of fish food and dropping them back into the container.

whew. close. almost a moment where he'd start to feel worry again for a lack of knowing what to do. but this is fine. it's fine. really -- it just means more work, one more thing to fill in the day.

it's fine.]


o3. Outside MF10 in the evenings
[later in the month, on nights when there's much less hullabaloo and traffic, Martin sits outside on the lawn in front of the house he shares with Rex and Dio, cross-legged with his communicator in his lap. he doesn't play with it much, save to idly tap it back awake now and then to stare at the small list of names that Anderson designated as primary contacts long ago.

her name's not on there, though. and neither is Andy's. he's waiting to see them pop up again, because he was told that's what happens when they come back. and they're able to come back, he heard. from being sent away, from dying...they can just do that somehow. no one says how, other than that it can happen.

so maybe it's just a matter of waiting? isn't that all anyone can do? there's no other thing he's supposed to do to make this happen, is there? no actual expectation of changing, doing better, being better... just. wait.

this is stupid, probably. that's fine. when it's dark and he's alone like this, it's much easier to accept his stupidity and remind himself that it's probably better this way. he can hate believing that all he wants, but those nasty parts of him -- the ones which sneer with Alex's teeth -- they have a lot more pull right now, even if they do have to wrestle a lot with the simple, childish, human want to see the ones he loves again.]

Comments

03

[consulinchief]

[The flickering of the blue light of the communicator is what caught Roland's attention initially, as he was coming home with groceries one evening. As it's just dark enough that the overhead streetlights were beginning to turn on, he initially believes that one of the lamps are dying, the light inside flickering in the hopes of rekindling it's life. It doesn't take him long to realize his mistake... or to make out the face of the boy causing the light show.

For a moment, he hesitates to approach--after all, he hardly made a good first impression with the boy. Then the communicator lights up again, and he gets a good look at the expression on the boy's face. Poor first impression or not, he couldn't in good conscience leave the boy without at least trying to do something first.

He purposely steps on a nearby fallen twig in the hopes of getting the boys attention as he approaches at a snails pace.]

Son... Are you all right?

[darkov]

[it's almost as if Martin doesn't hear him at first, even with the warning snaps and crunches preceding Roland's approach. it's almost true: his thoughts had buried his attention elsewhere, wondering on how the shapes of letters seem to lose meaning the longer he fixates on them, wondering how so many different worlds can have different people and names that fit into the strokes of these shapes. why does "A" have so many people attached to it? Andy, Anderson. Archie, Akira.

Adam. Alex. Adrian. Amanda.

Aric.

with that last name bubbling to mind he gives a little shudder and pops back to the present, his eyes flickering over to Roland's nearby shoes just as his communicator's screen goes dark again. one beat more and he looks back up dimly, his expression bleak and blank. he doesn't recognize him; there's been far, far too much to handle of late, that the fearful encounter of a weapon crafter of an eerily similar caliber has been usurped by godhood, death, lifetimes of memories not his own, and more.

and so he stares in silence, having missed the question, barely wondering what he ought to even say at all, let alone worry about having done to bring him here.]

[consulinchief]

The glow of the cell phone casts an eerie shadow on the boy. It lights his features unnaturally and in all the wrong ways, and only seems to accent his apparently despondent mood. Roland has no idea what might have put him in such a mood, but with all that's gone on in the imPort community since he's arrived, he has a few guesses.

Still, it wasn't his place to pry for questions, and so he waits for an answer to his original question. He's never really minded silence, and has never been one to be be overcome with the compulsion to fill it. So when Martin doesn't immediately respond, he stands where he is and waits for an answer.

When he realizes that the boy didn't seem to have heard him the first time, he crouches to be eye-to-eye and tries again:


Son? Are you all right?

[darkov]

I live here. It's fine.

[it's good that Roland came to his level, because it's unlikely Martin's voice would've carried very far. and in saying anything aloud, some of the quelled unease in him begins to stir, trying to rattle through the cold and tired sadness he's been weighted down in.

this is a stranger, first of all. (is it?) and the last time anyone approached him outside the home, it was Woden's double, come to kill him. he ought to be afraid, oughtn't he?

being called son causes a strange twinge, too.]

whoops that last tag was a hot mess, sorry about that

[consulinchief]

I didn't think you wouldn't be allowed to sit here... you just look very sad.

[Roland remembered that the boy was... jittery to say the least the last time they spoke, but this seemed different. The fear was different.]

Did something happen?

o1, soon after the event

[queenofseers]

[ This is going to hurt, she knows. But she can't not visit Maurtia Falls #10; it hurts more not to know how Martin is, to make sure he's safe.

Even before she knocks on the door she's sure Martin won't be well. She's already prepared for him to refuse to believe anything she says again, and to put this all on himself, again. But she has to try. She'd be awful not to.

She knocks on the door, prepared to divine it open if no one answers. Some part of her dreads this, but in another way she's anxious, and it's not long before she knocks again. ]

Martin? Rex? It's just me.

[darkov]

[Martin can hear the knocking from upstairs in his room, even under the covers. he can't hear the call, though, which leaves him to wonder just who it is who wants in right now. it's neither Rex nor Dio -- they have keys. probably not Archie, who is prone to just...breaking in if need be.

he closes his eyes, letting out a slow breath while shifting, tossing about until he's turned his back to his bedroom door.

whomever it is, they'll give up. probably. sometimes folks come up with pamphlets and other things, and they get the same treatment. no interaction -- not now. not today.]

[queenofseers]

[ Well, that's an excuse to divine open the lock. It's not as if she hasn't had to do it to this house before, and some of the paranoia that got to her during the Shamtheon is still weighing on her.

But as she steps in- noticing the sheer quiet of the house, relieved it doesn't seem like everything's toppled over- she goes ahead and tries to divine for the locations of the people who live here, just in case. Martin first, considering what he'd been through, and she's hoping that he hasn't run off somewhere or-

He's right here. He's been here.

She mumbles a curse to herself and, realizing he must not be downstairs, begins to scale the stairs. ] Martin? Hey, am I waking you up?

[darkov]

[when he hears her voice, Martin feels a knot start to form in his stomach. as much as he’d like to forget, there’s no way he can: he may have been out of sorts, throttled by Woden’s power, but he wasn’t ignorant to it. he remembers their fight, her appeals, his sneering...

even when he’s so sure he’s better, he’s the worst.

he knows he ought to get up and answer, but his body feels heavier just for thinking it. he curls bits of blanket in with his fingers until enough has slipped down his head and exposed his eyes, blinking slowly and staring at the wall in front of him as his ears begin to burn and fill up with the sound of her approach.

maybe if he doesn’t move, she’ll think it’s not worth the effort. or maybe she’ll just say what she wants to say and leave. why she’s come at all is kind of a wonder, what with how badly he acted, practically spitting in all of her good will and concern just because he thought he could do good. good under threat, but...]

03

[mortalweapon]

[ Who can say what she's even doing there, honestly. It looks like she's coming from down the street — maybe residence #7 or #8. Hard to tell, because for such a big armored thing, she moves very quietly, and its not until she's nearly on the driveway that she finally speaks up to the boy sitting outside of #10. She recognizes him — of course she does. Danger never forgets a face. ]

Where is your guardian?
I would prefer if she did not suddenly emerge to assault me for speaking with you.

[darkov]

[a Martin Darkov in a better state of mind would be reacting very differently to the emergency of this...thing. person? Rex says lots of non-humans are people; does this one quality, simply by being shaped like one?

a tough question for a different Martin Darkov in a better state of mind. because honestly, he doesn't really seem to realize Danger is real at all -- instead just another specter come to chastise and mock him for his failures and mistakes. Andy's absence is partly his fault, after all.

he stares up at her for a long pause after those remarks, up until his communicator's screen darkens -- which in turn faintly darkens her, making her real.]

Dead.

[it's small, dull, and barely a croak of a sound; he hasn't been drinking enough water lately to make talking very easy.]

[mortalweapon]

[ Oh.

She isn't... Surprised exactly, but it isn't really the answer she expected either. Danger remembers her brief skirmish with Andy very well. The woman had a remarkable combat sense for a human, and more than that, she'd clearly had some kind of impressive regeneration ability. ImPorts do come and go often, whether because of some fatal event or the Porter's intervention, but Andy had seemed sturdier than most. ]

My condolences.
It must be difficult for you to be without her.

[ Not spoken in the most gentle voice, but not insincere either. After a beat, she comes up the driveway — unhurried, as not to be threatening. ]

Perhaps the Porter will bring her back to you.

[darkov]

[he says nothing between those beats, and not a long time after, either. instead his eyes drift back down to his communicator, and his thumb gently grazes the screen until it lights up again.

the only "A" in his list is still Archie.]


Riptide died. [barely a murmur, and maybe a minute or two too late to a would-be conversation.] He's back.

1

[h2no]

[thanks to, uh, putting stuff in his mouth archie definitely should not have put in his mouth, he'd... missed all the stuff with woden and the new gods. he'd caught stuff on the news in between sleeping for 20 hours a day thanks to the ambien and hypno, but had purposefully avoided it. after the whole shimmer thing and a suddenly close up of tree people on tv... yeah, he's not interested in watching imPort happenings for a while. it's a few days after it's all ended that archie actually bothers to look up more of what happened on his own terms. maurtia falls flooded, chaos in the streets, people killed. sounds about right. he sighs, figuring that if he hadn't heard anything from the people he knows in maurtia falls then maybe they were unaffected... though that thought is immediately drop-kicked by his guilt complex telling him, why would they tell him anything? why would anyone want his help?

archie calls martin, then decides to go over when he doesn't answer. he always answers. it's fine? he's probably fine. for once, archie doesn't spiral-- possibly because the idea of anything happening to martin is literally too beyond him to comprehend.

he doesn't break in this time, but he has a donut. maybe rex let him in, maybe the door was open. who cares; he's in and he hops up the stairs two at a time after checking the house. there's no flood or other damage that he can see, at least... archie knocks on martin's room door.]

Yo, Marto. You in there?

[darkov]

[the door does open. eventually. in a couple minutes. there's proof of life in there from the gentle rustling of the bedsheets a few seconds after the knock, but after that is a long beat of silence. he kind of thinks he imagined it -- that his brain just came up with the idea to disrupt this long, long stretch of sleepless quiet to make him move.

his mind wouldn't knock twice, though.]

...

[Martin stares dimly at him, not really registering who it is at his door right away, and instead just looking past and moving aside -- a mechanical, memorized movement.

some hello, glass-eater.]

[h2no]

[archie doesn't quite enter, staying where he'd been standing outside the door. he holds the bag out-- one with a brand that martin probably recognises by now. or at least the sweet smell that comes from it.]

Hey. It's been a rough month, huh?

[glass-eater is concerned??]

[darkov]

[Martin’s eyes flicker down to the bag, blinking dimly. after a beat, he moves to accept it, and just as mechanical steps away.

mumbled:] Thank you.

[he moves again, over to the desk, to set it down, lingering for a moment before turning back to Archie.]

[ct_7567]

[ Rex doesn't know what to do.

That's frequently the case when it comes to Martin, but he feels it more keenly than ever before, a sort of helplessness and ineptitude he's never felt before. He had been powerless to stop any of this from happening, and Martin had paid the price - but this time, there are few for him to lean on. There is no Anderson, deftly weaving her way through business with her blunt, kind way, far more educated in the ways of how to deal with a sad, lost child than Rex has ever been. There is no Andy, there for a surly word of support, dragging Martin out with a brusqueness that Rex can never seem to manage around the kid, keeping his brain and eyes and hands busy until his mind can still.

Rex doesn't know how to do that. He doesn't know where to start. He doesn't think that his mind has ever been still; he has no experience with younglings save for Martin; he could not do a thing in the face of all this death and devastation. But he must. Everyone has their own weight on their shoulders now and it is Rex's responsibility to lessen Martin's, even as he's grappling with his own.

(He is angry. He's never been so angry when someone has died before. He's outlived most that he's come to know, but he had never expected to outlive Andy. This isn't the way it's supposed to be. He pushes it down. He doesn't know what else to do with it. Maybe it's just a distraction from how very badly he wants his friend back and from noticing the way that there's an empty spot in his life in a way there's never been before, without guidance or the quiet indignity of someone else quickly taking her place.)

He's fiddling with one of Andy's cigarette packages (wretched things, more apt to kill you than not; he is halfway tempted to try one for the hell of it) when he steps out to where Martin's sitting on the front porch. After a moment's pause, he shoves the package of cigarettes into his pocket and sits down beside him.

Rex doesn't speak, not at first, still not sure what to say except for to ask Martin how he is, if he's hungry, if he's thirsty, if he needs anything, if he can talk about anything (fine; no; no; no; absolutely not). Instead, he just puts a hand on his shoulder.

Rex can't do much, but at least he's still here. That's got to count for something. ]

[darkov]

[out here, evening frogs and insects have droned on so much for so long that it fills up his ears and into his head, contesting the buzzing, rushing images and memories of some of the fastest days and hours of his life. he's sure he's not so perceptive, and yet terrible things seem to paint themselves so distinctly in his mind, so much so that they can play backward and forwards, faster or slower...and often as repeatedly as he can barely stand.

one of the hardest parts is trying to understand that in walking Andy through that fog at her death? she hadn't been much of anything but...relieved. even happy? it's such a confusing recollection, and it toys with some of the others he's witnessed.

they'd freed a man from the machine breathing for him, and he'd been relieved, too. Riptide was...sad, sure, but. sad because he knew he couldn't stay gone.

there were others, too. scared...but only until they knew, until he -- Peklabog -- had said yes, you're going. then it was different.

is that how it is, then? was Peter relieved, too? back then, diving between Martin and death...

the weight on his shoulder yanks him back to the present, and Martin lifts his head up with a tired blink, dimly aware he perhaps ought to be worried about having to be touched at all to get called to attention.

he looks over at Rex and, unsurprisingly, can't really read his expression. somberness comes in a lot of shades, and Martin knows Andy and him were on very good terms. their dynamic reminded him of some of the others back home, back in Olvoski -- the way grumpier and more outspoken sorts rubbed up against the stoic ones, but still remained close.

(granted, Darkovs never had to worry about interloping or stealing each other's stuff or stocking other Darkovs' pantries with their own goods, but...)


Martin doesn't really know what to do. he should probably try to explain...something. but how? how much? would he even be able to get a word out? after all, any time he's tried to get close to speaking of Peter, everything shuts down. Andy's not a relative, but...in ways that aren't articulated aloud, parts of Martin knows she's still family.

Rex, too.]

What now? [it's barely audible, his dry throat giving up to hoarseness on the last word. it's fine -- he's not sure he really wants to know what could be next, what else is going to change or go away.]

[ct_7567]

We keep moving forward.

[ That's the only answer Rex has got, the only thing that's ever worked for him or for anyone else he knows. They've never been the sort to dwell on death and, quite frankly, having the opportunity to do so has been a strange, unwelcome thing. He's used to death being followed by the duties that come with it, filling up the empty places, finding replacements, filing paperwork, and then onto the next battle.

Here, there is no next battle. There's just life. Not for the first time, Rex misses the war.

He doesn't remove his hand from Martin's shoulder. ]

That's what we always do. We honour the memory of those lost - [ whether it's the person in Martin's life he lost before, the one he'd obliquely mentioned, or it's the people in Rex's life, or the people in both of their lives they had assimilated into their odd little unit before they got torn from them by fate or death or indecision ] - and we keep going.

[ He doesn't look at Martin directly, his gaze focused on some distant point from them. It's hard to tell. ]

She may come back. She may not. [ She likely doesn't wish to. ] But our path remains the same. You can't hide away forever. She wouldn't want that either.

[darkov]

[the prospect of the dead coming back... it will probably never sit well with Martin. he can't even begin to wonder how, let alone ask why, especially since it seems to be a rule exclusive to just those like them -- ones who were brought here from another world.

the prospect of moving forward, too, is hard to sit comfortably with as well. any numbness or calm he may find himself settled in for a time is inevitably broken by the prospect of what's to come, of the dozens and dozens of possibilities, all seemingly worse than before, that could befall him. and not just him, but all these strange, good people who've come to surround him, make promises, hold out their hands...and disappear.

Andy lived this kind of certainty of love and loss for countless years and still came around when she could. that's a kind of strength Martin Darkov can't fathom, let alone strive for. he's sure there's no way. but maybe that's why she was so relieved to see it done.

it'd be crueler for her to come back then, wouldn't it? even for as badly as he wants to see her...

honor her, he says. Martin's throat goes tight and forces him to swallow.]

I don't...know how to do that. Honor her. Anyone. I don't really...know how to do or. Or change. Or be anything.

How do you even decide? If no one tells you... Or...or if what you were told is...wrong.

3, sorry for lateness!

[myownprice]

[Mando’a lessons have never been the most relaxing part of Boba’s week. Putting on the Lucky act always leaves Boba feeling tense, especially around Rex, and doing it at the same time as trying to learn another language can be an exercise in stress and frustration. Still, things have been getting easier. He’s getting used to the clones, for one thing. He still doesn’t like looking them in the eye, but the more time he spends around them, the less they remind him of his father. He just has to focus on the details instead of the bigger picture: not the too-familiar face or voice, but the little quirks of speech and body language that make them different. It’s not enough for Boba to actually relax, but it at least means Mando’a lessons are a bit less of an ordeal.

At least, they were until Martin screwed everything up. The older boy had promised not to tell Rex what he had witnessed in “Lucky’s” memories, but even if kept that promise, there are other ways he could let things slip. Even carelessly calling Boba by his true name, just once, might be enough to bring the whole act crashing down around him. It means Boba has been more skittish in Rex’s presence lately, always on the alert for any sign that he might know. That this is the lesson where he doesn’t let Boba leave.

It’s those misgivings that are still running through his head when he shows up to MF10 for his next lesson. He’s so wrapped up in thinking of contingency plans and escape routes that it takes him a moment to even notice Martin sitting on the front lawn only a few meters away as he approaches the house.

He should keep walking, but Boba stops despite himself, looking over at Martin with a fierce frown. He hasn’t seen the other boy since their last encounter at the burning house and seeing him now is… strange. It’s the same Martin from before, of course. But something has changed yet again. There’s none of that dizzy mania from the burning house—now, Martin could be any other dull-eyed teenager staring down at his communicator.

Boba steps closer, partially to get a better look at his adversary and partially to keep his own voice low.]

Rex still doesn’t know, does he?

there is no late only tag

[darkov]

[being this tired makes things seem to move in slow motion, or appear in staggered, glitchy spurts of action. it makes Lucky's appearance very sudden and unannounced in almost every way, and it's almost enough to give Martin a fright. it means his stare, once he does look up, lingers longer as his expression slowly shifts from a tired blank to the quiet struggle to understand a lot of things: who it is, why, what...?

the catlike glare on his eyes from the communicator vanishes as the screen goes dark again, and this time it remains so as Martin's hands remain still. the temporary habit has been forgotten now that he has to force his sluggish and tired mind to work very hard to get to what Lucky's on about.

and, just like his arrival, the memory comes in a glitchy, sudden spurt; the awareness comes as a slight widening of his eyes and an overall stillness of his form as recalling it leaves behind a chilly, nauseous feeling inside.

it's torture. he has too many ways to envision the people he loves dying horribly for his sake -- now he has another that's uncannily like his own experience. one that's pretty easy for his mind to co-opt, too; that man Boba screamed for looked too much like Rex.

and does Rex know? that was the question from moments ago, right?]

...No. [he blinks, as if the sound of his own voice is strange.] I...I promised? [his eyes squint up at Lucky in search of confirmation.] Did that happen?

\o/

[myownprice]

[It doesn’t take a mind reader to know that something is wrong with Martin—again. Seconds tick by as the boy stares uncomprehendingly up at Boba, as if he barely even recognizes him. Boba scowls, even though he supposes it makes sense. There’d been a whole crowd of people there at the burning house that night. Boba’s must have been just one of dozens of memories Martin had seen.

His question only confirms that notion.] It did, [Boba says flatly. Strange, though, that Martin even has trouble remembering the promise he’d made after he'd pilfered through their memories. Boba's brow furrows as he regards the other boy with a mix of suspicion and uncertainty.]

How much do you remember?

[darkov]

[the pause that follows isn't quite as long, but it's clear Martin has to make an effort to really think on this. he's been spending a lot of time burying it all since then, and while he doesn't feel keen on digging it all back up, the dark look on Lucky's face is very familiar to a recent one in memory.

he looks down as he speaks, his voice lowering.]

I remember a lot... [he hesitates.] But I know that...not all of it happened then.

Woden said I'd feel that -- the, uh. The last memories of those people... [he exhales slowly, lifting a hand to self-consciously rub at his elbow.] But then it got all tangled up in other people around.

[another hesitation. his fingers curl against his skin, pinching at it lightly.]

The power is gone. But I, I can remember...all those things. [he nods slightly.]