pineslog | ( april event ) wayward falls

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( april event ) wayward falls

EVENT: WAYWARD FALLS

It begins with a crack, as many alarming and unfortunate things tend to do. Anyone who's ever jumped a little too hard on a frozen river will recognize the sound in an instant: It's the sound of ice caving under pressure, and it echoes through the cozy wooded canyon just in time for the first trickle of water to drip over the face of the northern cliffs. Within the hour, tens of thousands of gallons of water are pouring over the cliff, a waterfall of meltwater finally freed from behind an icy dam.

It doesn't take long for the north end of town to flood as the endless torrents of water rushing through the canyon quickly overwhelm the river, despite the town's best efforts to shore it up. Which means that one guy with the kayak in his garage will finally be the one to have the last laugh: 'What was it you said about pointless hobbies again, Susan?'

You could always just stay inside instead of dealing with the flooded streets of course. The power flickers but ultimately holds and the clean up is certainly going to be annoying later but it's hardly the end of the world.

And then comes the debris.

Without any real warning or ominous portent, solid objects come careening over the cliffs' edge, carried in by the runoff cascading down to the forest below. First, it's large rocks, almost boulders in their own right. Dangerous, certainly, if you happen to be standing below them when they fall but the solution seems a bit obvious there. Just, you know, don't. But then the debris starts to look a little more... man-made.

What has the floodwater brought the little town of Wayward Pines? And possibly more importantly, will the waterfall ever cease?

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Don't think so, no, but once we get all the dirt off, I'll know for sure.

[Often as he casts particular looks at Jefferson, this isn't the time for it. He treats him removing his pants as professionally as anyone in the medical field would. Takes his foot and gently guides it under the water. It blossoms crimson and shades of brown from the silt and mud and Rumlow lifts it again, grabbing for a washcloth sitting in the corner and soaks it beneath the spray.]

This might sting a little.

[He says, starting to scrub off anything that might be stuck on. He's careful not to irritate the cuts too much. By now he's got a better gauge of how serious the cut is and, fortunately for Jefferson, Rumlow doesn't think it needs more than he can take care of on his own. Shutting off the water, he guides Jefferson's foot back so he can finish cleaning with the antiseptic.

A little bubbling burn from the peroxide later, Rumlow has Jefferson's foot neatly wrapped up in the bandage, checking to make sure the tape is secure before he peers up at him. Offering a smile, he slides his hand up Jefferson's thigh, just above his knee.]

Want me to take care of the other foot, or do you got it?

[ Though Jefferson may wince and hiss a little from the wound cleaning, he more or less takes it in stride. At least once his foot's cleaned and bandaged, he can relax a little more. Well, at least until Rumlow rests a hand on his thigh, which has him sucking in a short breath. But he forces a smile and shrugs. ]

Well, since you're already down there... [ Look at that, he's trying to joke! But seriously... ] I can take care of it, though. Thanks. [ There's a short, awkward pause, before he adds: ] You're a good friend.

[The joke earns him a laugh, and Rumlow gives his thigh a squeeze before he pushes himself to his feet. Ruffles Jefferson's hair again and moves to put the rest of the bandage away in the kit. He offers it to Jefferson so he can finish up while Rumlow washes his hands. He's got to mop up the blood on the floor too, so he'll do that while Jefferson takes care of the rest.

Shutting off the water, he dries his hands with a towel and turns back to Jefferson.]

Ah, don't mention it. [A pause.] Did you want me to grab you some pants from your dresser?

[He asks, figuring Jefferson doesn't want to wander through the house in his skivvies.]

[ Jefferson's breathing gets a bit sharper when Rumlow squeezes his thigh, and he's really hoping he doesn't look flustered or anything (especially when Brock ruffles his hair again, all casual affection). He just nods, trying for cool and collected-- two things Jefferson rarely is. ]

Yeah, uh-- just. Yeah. Thanks.

[ Shooting Rumlow another wavering smile, he starts to set about tending to his other foot, which doesn't really need all that much. It's just some scrapes, nothing like the cut on the other foot. He can probably get it cleaned and wrapped in no time. ]

Welcome.

[Don't worry, Jefferson, Rumlow is well aware of how flustered you are. Hard to hide that breathing. But it works, and Jefferson seems sufficiently distracted away from his negative thoughts. For now, at least. Once Rumlow's done cleaning, he plans on plopping the guy down on the couch and hanging out with him to keep him afloat.

He turns the tap back on to quickly rinse off his own feet, glad that whatever nicks he might have aren't bleeding enough to need attention. Rubbing them on the little carpet, he makes his way out of the bathroom and heads up to Jefferson's bedroom. It takes a few seconds to find out which drawer has his pants, but Rumlow picks out a pair of comfortable looking pajama pants and throws them over his shoulder. On his way downstairs, he stops by his own bedroom, switching out of his wet and dirty sweats into a pair of shorts.

He returns to the bathroom, and tosses the pants in Jefferson's direction. Rumlow heads to the living room next, pulling the cleaning supplies from the closet and sets about mopping up the blood and mud. Comes away easy enough, and once he's finished, he goes to wash his hands once more.]

[ By the time Rumlow's back with his pants, Jefferson's patting his foot dry and inspecting the little cuts on the bottom, trying to determine if he should bother with a bandaid or not. There's a moment where his eyes linger on the other man (on the muscles in his legs, specifically), before Jefferson's startled by the pants tossed in his direction. At least he catches them, offering a grateful smile before Brock heads out again.

Opting for a bit of ointment and a couple of bandaids, just to be safe (he doubts floodwater's particularly clean), Jefferson finishes tending to his foot before slipping the pajama pants on, looking positively mismatched as it's paired with his dress shirt and unbuttoned waistcoat. As Brock returns to wash his hands, Jefferson's putting the first aid kit away. ]

You weren't cleaning up the floor out there, were you? I could've done it.

[ Should've, honestly. ]

[Glancing up at Jefferson as he shuts off the tap, Rumlow shrugs. Cleaning up blood is nothing new for him, whether it's his life here or otherwise. Boxing is a contact sport, after all. After drying his hands on the towel, he holds the door open for Jefferson.]

Ah, don't worry about it. My muddy footprints were there too.

[Walking out of the bathroom, he heads back to the living room, flopping down on the couch as if he'd never left. He pats the spot beside him loudly, the smack echoing in the house. Time for some relaxation after the ordeal, and more importantly, time for Jefferson to keep his feet up. Let the cuts clot up and scab so he doesn't have to worry about bleeding any time he puts his weight on them.]

C'mon. I'll put something on.

[ It's a fair point, but he's still responsible for the mess, in the end. Brock's feet wouldn't have gotten muddy if he hadn't had to chase after Jefferson, after all. Still, there's no point in pointing it out now, since it's already done. He just offers a brief, half-hearted smile in thanks and follows him back out into the living room, taking careful steps so as to not aggravate his cuts. ]

Like what? [ He flops down beside Rumlow and wrinkles his nose. ] Not that Cops show, I hope.

No. [Rumlow chuckles, throwing an arm around Jefferson casually.] Whatever you want. Hell, a Disney movie.

[Rumlow really isn't picky at this point -- unless Jefferson suggests a shitty romcom. He's not about that life. Though, he guesses he could just zone out and think about shit or take a nap. The former would probably be less rude.

He grabs the remote and hands it to Jefferson.]

Your choice.

[ Strangely, 'Disney movie' twigs some familiarity in Jefferson that he can't quite place, and he's left furrowing his brow with a little frown. Time to tug on that thread. ]

Yeah. We could do a Disney movie.

[ He says it with some uncertainty in his voice, shrugging as he leans against Brock. Might as well get comfortable, and he has to admit: he likes the feel of the other man against him, solid and strong.

Plus he smells good. There's that. ]

I don't remember any of them very well, so it'll be like watching it for the first time.

[Rumlow looks down at Jefferson with a soft smile. He scoots closer (if that's even possible), until their thighs are pressed together. He gestures towards the remote with a nod.]

Well if one've them is on, that's what we'll watch.

[No telling what's actually on TV, however. It's mostly reruns, and the cable is about as basic as they come. No DVR, no nothing. It's like this place is stuck in the stone age of technology. He's kind of gotten used to it though. It's not like Rumlow needs HDTV.]

[ Meanwhile, Jefferson's starting to go all boneless on the couch, slouching with his feet stretched out on the table to stay elevated. He's looking at the TV, not but paying any attention as Brock channel surfs, his eyes somewhat distant as he leans his head against the other man. ]

I'm not picky. [ He makes a bit of a face, huffing, then adds: ] As long as you don't pick something terrible.

[ SO HE IS PICKY. ]

[As Jefferson decides to resemble a limp noodle, Rumlow takes it upon himself to switch through the channels, searching for the elusive Disney film. Surprisingly, he comes across one and leaves it on. Snow White is old as fuck, but cartoons don't really age. He sets the remote down and tips his head to the side, cheek nuzzling absently against Jefferson.]

This okay?

[He asks, glad that they're only a few minutes into the film. What nice timing. Rumlow won't really be engaged in it, but it's something mindless to leave on while they relax and come down from the earlier anxiety. Allow Rumlow to parse through his own thoughts as well, and whether or not he wants to share something of himself.]

Yeah, it's fine.

[ Nothing wrong with... Snow White. Right. This is Snow White. He knows that story. Everybody does. And yet, there's something about the characters that he can't help but frown at, his brow creasing. It's wrong. The whole story's wrong. About fifteen minutes pass before Jefferson blurts out: ]

She doesn't look like that. The Queen.

[Well, that's an odd thing to open with on a commentary for Snow White. Rumlow looks to Jefferson, unsure whether to humor him or laugh because that has to be a joke. He does remember the oddities he'd been saying when he first saw him at the St. Patrick's Day shindig. And in remembering that, Rumlow figures -- laughing might not be the smartest move. Best go with the former.]

Yeah? How's she supposed to look?

[He asks, thinking that if he gets him to talk, he might understand it a little bit more.]

[ Smart move, Rumlow. It gets Jefferson to open up more, rather than get angry or withdraw from the line of thought completely. He furrows his brow in concentration, trying to think of what she is supposed to look like, and, with a frown, rubs his eyes. ]

Uh. She's... A little younger than that. [ Still a grown woman, but not as... middle aged as the queen in the cartoon. ] And she's-- she's so much more beautiful. [ What else, what else? Think. ] Always impeccably dressed. Black satin and feathers-- no, she wears suits. Designer.

[ Disturbed, he sits up straighter, pulling away from Rumlow, pushing the palm of his hand against his temple, and his fingers in his hair. He looks straight ahead, at the TV, increasingly agitated by the figures on the screen. ]

And that's not Snow. And that's not the Huntsman. I watched him die from my window.

Edited 2017-04-25 14:10 (UTC)

[Okay. That's different, to be blunt. How does someone even respond to that? The first part, separated from the idea of the Evil Queen, sure. Okay. A little off, considering the switch Jefferson makes between satin and suits, maybe they were satin suits?

But bringing up Snow and the Huntsman as if they were real people who died? That's pretty fucking weird. Still, Rumlow has been on a good track record of not letting Jefferson believe he's crazy because the last thing he needs is more of earlier. So he plays like he's interested to hear more, not because fairy tale people aren't real.]

Guess that'd make sense as to why she was jealous of Snow. As for the rest, well I mean. It is a movie. So it ain't necessarily going to be exactly how it was. Y'know Hollywood likes to embellish things.

[He hopes that works to humor him without sounding like he's humoring him. Really, Rumlow juts wants to hear more. How much deeper does this go?]

She wasn't jealous; she was angry. [ He doesn't even know why he knows this, exactly. Jefferson just speaks as the memories come to him. The point about Hollywood goes ignored, because Jefferson's not thinking about any of that now. He's just lost in the knowledge that's returning, piece by piece, connecting the shattered fragments of his identity. ]

She took me from my daughter and drove me mad... [ That's right. It's coming together now. Jefferson's fingers twist in his hair as it finally clicks: ] Regina.

[ The way he spits that name out, it's loaded with more venom than he's ever shown here in Wayward Pines. ]

[That sure is some vitriol. Rumlow gives Jefferson a long stare, no real expression attached to it. Just sort of trying to gauge how to react to this information. It's obvious that memories of some sort are coming back to Jefferson, and objectively, they make sense, as awful as they are. The only part that Rumlow is really catching on is where this Regina is supposed to be the Evil Queen from Snow White. A fairy tale.

It's a gap in logic that Rumlow isn't sure he can fill. What he can do, however, is let that part lie and try and address what does make sense.

He reaches for Jefferson's hand, gently disengaging it from his hair, in case he decides to yank and hurt himself. He cups it with his own, giving it a squeeze. Rumlow presses closer, intention to show Jefferson he doesn't think he's acting mad right now.]

Sounds like a bitch. Do you know why? Or was that just something she did?

[ It's an unexpected touch, though he supposes it shouldn't be. Why should he still find himself surprised by Brock's kindness by now? The man's been nothing but good to him. At least he finds comfort in the larger, steadier hand over his.

Brock believes him. He isn't calling him insane or anything. That, alone, means the world. ]

Because if she couldn't have her happy ending, no one else could. She used me-- twice-- and discarded me when she got what she wanted. Her father... her poison apple... [ He draws in a breath, seething: ] The Evil Queen trapped me in Wonderland. [ And now he remembers just how much he hated that maddening place. ] And then the Queen of Hearts took my head. [ He looks at Rumlow, tugging at the collar of his shirt even though the scar's already out in the open, his eyes wide and sincere as if he's afraid Brock will stop believing him any second. ] When she put it back on, everything inside was broken.

Edited 2017-04-26 17:30 (UTC)

[Overall, Rumlow's assessment of this information is that it's crazy. It's completely absurd and there's no way it's real. However -- it is real to Jefferson. And if there's one thing Rumlow has learned it's that perception is reality. Whatever Jefferson has been through, even if it was just something as weird as a brainwashing simulation or God knows what else, he believes it. Rumlow can't just shoot it down, insane as it is.

Besides, there may be a measure of truth to it. Not that he really thinks someone can survive a beheading, but Jefferson's scar really does go all the way around. Rumlow's eyes are drawn to it, but then return to steady themselves upon Jefferson's own. He looks like a deer about to run. Rumlow's brows furrow deeper.]

That sounds, to put it bluntly, super fucked up. But I don't think you're broken, Jefferson.

[It might even be a metaphor. Maybe Regina supplanted ideas into his mind. It even feels like a familiar idea, like Rumlow has experience with it, but that doesn't make sense either. He twines Jefferson's fingers with his.]

We're all dealing with some awful shit, one way another. I don't think the things you've experienced makes you any less of a person.

I know that. [ He says it sharply, defensive, even though he doesn't have a reason to be, since Brock seems to still believe him. But he wants the other man to know that he isn't full of self-pity right now. It's different. He's certain of who he is now, and he's pushing past the doubt that's been plaguing him since he woke up in this town with most of his memories missing.

Jefferson glances down at their intertwined fingers, his expression softening. Looks like that vulnerability is returning. ]

I had to make hats over and over again, until my fingers bruised and bled. [ Funny, his fingers look fine now, but he can remember a time when they were calloused from holding the needle for hours and days on end, bleeding from his mistakes. ] The Queen of Hearts would call me her Mad Hatter. It made people laugh. Soon enough everyone was calling me that...

[Christ. What kind of psychological torment was the guy even under? It's easier to believe if he pretends like the people are code names, place holders for things that could exist rather than something he can't quite reconcile with reality. Maybe his words aren't perfect (this comfort thing feels beyond his scope), but it's not bombing so maybe he's making some headway to keep the train of thought going.

He figures the more he talks, the easier it'll be to get where he's coming from, and maybe figure out what sort of situation got him landed here. Something to help him understand Jefferson himself.]

Jesus. [Rumlow pauses, then glances askance.] Sorry, I gotta be an asshole for a sec.

[Getting up, Rumlow releases Jefferson's hand and goes towards the entertainment cabinet. Bending over, he pokes around between a few things and sure enough -- one of the cameras that dot the place sits right there. He drops it on the floor and stomps on it. Turning back to look at Jefferson, he offers an apologetic look.]

I gotta take care of these before someone overhears this shit and we get a visit from the sheriff anyway.

[ Though the camera's dispatched and they can talk without other eyes and ears monitoring them, it seems that the interruption's enough to shake Jefferson from his moment of storytelling. He pulls his feet off the coffee table, hunching forward on the couch, his arms crossed over his midsection as he directs a scowl at the television. ]

It's too late. He's going to come and lock me up. [ After a beat, he looks over at Brock again. ] You know I'm not crazy, right? It's all real.

Edited 2017-04-27 01:14 (UTC)

[Rumlow plucks another camera off its perch and smashes it too. Best clear out the room, he thinks. They can move through the rest of the house later. Not that Rumlow really knows what the repercussions are for doing this, but he's sure he'll find out sooner or later. He's sort of tired of waiting and letting them enjoy front row seats to his life anyway.

He peers back at Jefferson, who looks incredibly done with life. Rumlow sets his jaw and walks over, crossing his arms over his chest and giving him a serious look.]

Hey. I've been protecting you this long. What makes you think I'm gonna stop? If he comes, I'll deal with him. And no, I don't think you're crazy.

[He'll repeat it again if Jefferson needs it. Guy must have been seriously gaslit if he's having to repeat it this many times. Even if his story is uniquely odd, it's pretty fucking far from being sound just telling someone they're nuts.]

( april event ) wayward falls

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