revivalproject | Shelter From The Storm

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Shelter From The Storm

WHO: Tommy Shepherd, Dustin, You?
WHERE: The Diner
WHAT: Sheltering from the Blizzard
WHEN: During the Blizzard
WARNINGS: CW: Discussions of accidental explosions

I. Keeping The Food Going

For once there was a proper way for Tommy to distract himself from the madness of the storm. And he always needed the distractions. The storms made him less himself, took away his power, took away his strength. Tommy hated nothing quite like the storms. He'd been hurt so many times during them, been lost, been broken in his heart and mind.

"Here," he says as he whips the space blanket off of his shoulders and draped it over another person's shoulders. "I'm trying to get the fire going to cook. Just, uh, give me more time. I've got some dried meat you could nibble on if you need."

II. Judgements Spoken | CW: Discussions of accidental explosions

It was later in the day and things were settling down when it happened. Tommy finally had an open fire going near one of the vents in the kitchen so people could stay warm. It was sorta cramped staying back there, but they would do what they had to do. But he was getting ready to settle down and then it happened.

A shadowy figure seemed to manifest as Tommy was moving to sit down. One he recognized. A high school aged girl, who looked scared, and unerringly right at Tommy, who paled.

"You're not real," he hissed at the ghostly form. "You're not real. Like all the storm images. Go away!"

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Already huddled next to the fire, Dustin groans in exasperation. The response is perhaps a little insensitive of the situation, but from his perspective, Dustin has already had just an absolutely terrible day. He'd been on his way to the Diner from the Hangar when the message to seek shelter called at him from his tablet, so he'd arrived at his destination several minutes late, already powerless, and numbingly cold from the wind and the snow soaked into his clothes. Just in those few hours he's barely managed to warm up and, on top of everything else, has developed a wracking dry cough.

And now, of course, the shadows. Icing on the fucking cake. Cherry on the shit sundae. "Of course they'd fucking show," Dustin mutters, then turns his attention to Tommy. "Don't you dare go for a dive outside, man. I don't think I can pull your ass back in before both of us freeze to death."

Wait, what? Tommy's attention turned to Dustin, and while he was shaking and white as a sheet, he was still confused.

"You can see it?"

And the apparition stood there and scoffed.

"How else would he know you for what you are?"

Dustin stares right back at him, looking equal parts surprised and confused.

"...Should I not be able to?" he asks with a blink. Having only been in one other storm before this, in which the most prominent apparitions attacked him and others, that and some vague memories of Keith describing the monsters are all Dustin has to reference. Maybe someone had mentioned that they were supposed to be for personal eyes only and he simply doesn't remember. With his abilities gone, that's entirely possible.

The ghost itself interrupts Dustin's thoughts. "The hell is it even talking about?" he grumbles, pulling the blanket Tommy had thrust upon him earlier tighter around his shoulders.

In normal storms, no. And this was clearly not a normal one. But Tommy was now clearly in a greater panic.

"Leave," he says, his voice shaking. Whether it's for Dustin or the apparition isn't evident.

"Mutie scum," the figure said. "Haven't even told them how you almost killed us. How you ruined our lives! I lost FINGERS!"

She waves the offending hand, missing two fingers and covered in burns, in front of his face.

Dustin's initial impulse is to assume that's meant for him. His annoyed frown shifts into one of confused concern, brow furrowed.

"I...I don't think I..." But the apparition cuts him off again. Dustin soaks in what it says, in spite of the fact that Tommy obviously doesn't want him to; his abilities make ignoring things like this impossible, and even without them, the habit remains.

Mutie? The term sounds familiar somehow, though frustratingly he doesn't remember why. It also sounds a bit like a slur. Dustin's opinion of whoever this drops precipitously, but he can't just brush off its accusations, either. Tommy's obviously shaken by it. Did he actually hurt this person? Multiple people? Why?

Curious, confused, and feeling more than a little awkward about this whole situation in general, Dustin continues to observe in timid silence.

"I didn't mean to," Tommy said, cringing away from the figure. "I just wanted him to stop bullying me. I didn't even know I could do that. I didn't mean it!"

He really hadn't meant it, and it wouldn't stop. At all.

"Leveled the school. Those stupid heroes never should have broken you out!"

Dustin might not have his powers right now, but that doesn't make him totally incapable of reading between the lines, or completely forgetting conversations that he had nearly eight months ago. It's the mention of heroes that finally jogs his memory.

Right, Dustin realizes, his eyes widening. Tommy's not human. The general story is similar enough to things he remembers reading online, in the months leading up to him running away from home, about people like him - people with abilities, though ones that would be more noticeable when they actually manifested. More destructive.

"It was an accident," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "You must not have known."

Quintet had come into the Diner just as the curtain of white had descended on the world. It reminded her of the first time she'd seen the ocean; the complete implacability of it. You could look out forever and it wouldn't change, wouldn't... move. The smells were the same, the movement the same. The storm was like that. It didn't brook argument or denial, it just sat there outside the window, without even the dignity of rage to fuel it.

Nature. It's implacable hand. How had the founders first gotten up the courage to oppose it? And yet they did, and it worked. Art itself was the proof of that. Nature that denies nature, maybe there was something in that.

"Huh?" Tommy's blanket settles over her, breaking Quintet from her contemplation, "Oh, uh... No thanks."

She's hungry, true. But not hungry enough to want to eat something that was once a person. Not yet.

"Sorry, I'm not ignoring you, I'm just working on a new thesis. Take your time."

"Mutie freak! You nearly killed us all! You're just as bad as your grandfather, as your mother!"

"Shut up!" Tommy shouted, hands coming up to cover his ears. Because it was a mistake, and he hated to hear this all. "Shut up. I didn't want it. I didn't ask for it!"

Well, he can't make anyone eat, so he shrugs and moves to get back to getting a fire started. By hand. With sticks. He's cursing over it.

"What's the thesis?"

Yeah, he'd been warned about talking cats.

Edited 2023-02-20 17:37 (UTC)

"Uh... Well, it's still in the concept phase, but— sort of, what is denial? I made my Metanoia based on denying the past, but," She put a paw on the glass, bitter cold, painful just to touch, and pulled it back with a grumble, "This storm is just. Total. It's a total denial of the world, like nothing exists out there. If I could do something like that, I could defend against anything. Or, I could control the field, maybe. I'm not sure. I'm still getting my head around it."

She hunches up under the blanket, thinking for a moment.

"Hey, do you have a name? I didn't ask."

And none of that made sense, at all. He's so confused.

"I'm Tommy. You're not Salem, are you?"

That earns him a dirty look.

"Quintet," She says, eventually, "I'm not Salem."

This is, she feels, somewhat obvious. She's definitely a she, at last inspection, and Salem is supposed to have black fur anyways and— well, on closer examination, this Tommy guy looks like... he might be young. Maybe she's being a little unfair, here.

"So, uh... What does your name mean? I know I'm new hear and all, and everybody's— everything is really wildly different from what I'm used to. But names usually still carry meaning, right?"

Hey, don't glare at him, Cat. He was making sure.

"Never met Salem, but got told there was a talking cat. I was told Salem was a male, but that doesn't mean cat voices have the same 'male versus female' characteristics I'd recognize, you know?"

And he wasn't that young. He was a lot older than he looked, but Maximoffs aged fucking elegantly. He'd probably look young and handsome well past sixty, if he made it that long.

"It doesn't mean anything. It's just my name."

It's a couple of days into the storm, and the atmosphere in the Diner is, understandably, pretty bleak. Someone else might consider the people trapped in here currently as fortunate relative to some of the other Temba inhabitants - they're in an intact and insulated building, they have some basic survival supplies as well as probably the largest stockpile of food outside of the Agriculture building, and perhaps most important, they aren't stuck here alone. They really ought to be more optimistic.

Dustin is not optimistic. He's definitely sick and he hates it; what started out as an annoying cough has swiftly developed into some flavor of bronchitis or pneumonia (which he can't accurately diagnose because he doesn't have his fucking powers), complete with painful chills and a fever that refuses to go away. He doesn't even have the appetite to appreciate the fact that they have food.

And on top of it all, of course, are the apparitions. Dustin's stopped even trying to fight his. He's too tired, too cold, too mortified at having his name dragged over and over again, to do much more than bury his head in the bundle of blankets he's been living in and pretend the furious ghost of his adopted mother doesn't exist, until it finally decides to leave him for later.

At some point, possibly fueled by fever and exhaustion, Dustin's listlessness flips to frustration. He's upright by the campfire currently, huddled against the wall and shivering furiously against a tightly-wrapped blanket.

"Is it fucking over yet?" he whines at the room for probably the fourth time in as many hours. "Can someone check?"

In a way, Tommy was sort of lucky. His own ghosts, annoying and frequent as they had been, only seemed to want to drag him for destroying part of his school. Repeatedly. And of course the slurs. But hey, there was only so much he could do about that.

And for now, well, he was just trying to get by. So yeah, he was not pleased with dealing with Dustin who was clearly sick, and he hated not hearing from his brother, and the talking cat had so much fucking sass at times. But for right now he thrust another bowl of warm broth into Dustin's lap and glared at him.

"First: eat. Second: don't complain about eating. Third: of course it's not fucking over. You'll know when it's over because the lights will kick on, the heat will kick on, and I will not be here because I'll be finding my twin."

And since Tommy will absolutely be brushing just up against the sound barrier to do it, it will be pretty noticeable.

Edited 2023-02-22 01:29 (UTC)

"Really?" That has her up and out of the blanket, at least far enough to turn and stare. A name without meaning? Just... just a noise? "Wh— how did you pick it, then? Did you just... like the sound?"

It's bizarre, the ways this place's culture disconnects with her own. Every time she thinks she's found a floor that surely can't be shifted, something opens up a sinkhole and down she goes.

"Sorry, I— shit," both paws now, dragging down her face, a remarkably primate gesture, "This whole place, it's just so... weird. I feel like I'm an idiot, I keep putting my foot in it."

"Hey, it's like you're me!" says a voice from the back, droll and drawling.

"Shut up, dog, nobody asked you," Quintet snaps back without thinking— and then freezes with her eyes wide and the fur slowly lifting along her back and neck in obvious alarm.

"Harsh!" The apparition appears with the suddenness that only an unexpected canine can produce, putting his long front paws up on the counter next to Tommy. He tilts his head to grin at him, a lollopping, open-mouthed, doggy grin; not a dog, a wolf. Maned wolf, with its ruddy coat and high mane, legs seeming only too long for its already stretched-out body, "You can't even be nice to me? I'm only 'dead' because of you, you know!"

"I can knock him out, if you want," Quintet offers, listlessly, and not really meaning it. She's taken to actually sitting with her own apparition. It wasn't the same as the coroner's otiose; she knew he was dead, remembered it in hideous, ugly detail made no less unpleasant for that the stupid thing kept reminding her about it, but...

...But it was still Meander. It wasn't really him, of course, he'd never spit all this at her, and not so cheerfully even if he had. She could feel the spiteful urge to Deny the whole thing in her, underneath the crushing, bone-bending loneliness, but not yet. Not yet.

"You have a twin? I, uh— I had. I was... I had—" She looks up at the ghost of Meander's cheerful panting, and grimaces with her ears flat, "Well, uh... Your sib, you think they're okay? They're capable?"

"Humans don't pick their own n-"

Tommy doesn't even get to explain it all before he's yelping and jumping away from the manifestation. Not a dog, but close enough to make Tommy very on edge. Hell, he almost looks like he's about to throw something.

Dustin opens his mouth to complain about how he isn't hungry, but realizes quickly that this would break Tommy's Second Rule, so he abandons the protest and sullenly cups the bowl of broth into his chest. On a different day he might have had the energy or sheer, stubborn audacity to carry out an argument. Today, he accepts Tommy's scorn without a word, simply staring down at his knees. Maybe it would be better if Quintet knocked him out - might make the time go faster, at least.

He stays silent, letting the broth's steam waft into his face while he tries to quash how nauseous it's making him, until the conversation moves on somewhere else.

"Billy," Dustin offers quietly. He's surprised that he remembers the guy's name, considering that they've never talked, but that's been on purpose. Because-- "He's...Medical, still?"

Okay, this is getting out of hand. Dustin abruptly gets to his feet.

"Tommy," he interjects - because he already knows that trying to talk to the apparitions is a waste of time. "It doesn't care. Stop."

Truly they're lucky Tommy's without his powers. Because otherwise he might well bring this building down around their heads.

"I didn't mean for any of it," Tommy whispered again, and he didn't even notice the thing evaporating.

Tommy shoots the figure next to Quintet his far from first (or last) fearful look. His terror of dogs and dog-like things was not fading, even with time. His kingdom to not see something that constantly left him trembling. But he had to take care of Dustin right now, so he plopped down next to the kid, trying to keep the shaggy mop of Dustin's hair between him and Quintet's ghost that Tommy was really ready to have fade already.

"Billy is definitely capable. He's been training with this real badass to be able to handle himself when the storms come, if there are threats. And the badass is like, the most badass that ever badassed so that's good. And yeah, B's still doing his best to metaphorically make the family proud. He wants to be able to help people."

Tommy also thought part of it came down to the fact that Billy knew Tommy would never see a physician of any sort, but Billy could learn stuff and get Tommy to sit still for inspection.

It takes her an embarrassingly long moment to realize that he can see it too. Her first thought is that this is, somehow, Coroner's Otiose Tintinnabulation. Nothing else makes sense; for it to be that doesn't make sense either, of course, but what the hell else could it be?

"You... you stupid dog, do you want to die again?" She tries for acidic, but it comes out as a question. Meander or the ghost of him, leaps up onto the counter and paces along it without a care, paws sliding through dishes and food and condiment bottles as if they weren't there.

"If you wanted that, all you'd have to do is leave, right? You weren't there the first time either."

"...I'm not doing this," She says, and realizes abruptly the noetic envelope would have collapsed immediately with an opening line like that. If he's acknowledging death, and she's not denying it, then. Puffed up with alarum, she turns to Tommy with fear-wide eyes, "I'm not doing that. I don't know what this is. That's my friend, but he's— he died. I don't know what this is!"

"Looks like you're not the only one who's left her siblings to die."

Quintet considers that, for a while, and then stretches up out of her blanket-nest. Her weight makes a thump as she drops from the diner-table she'd been curled up on, and as she takes distance from him, the phantom seems to blur and fade in her wake. Soon there's nothing left of him but the memory of a wolfish grin, and the shape of the blanket where he'd been.

Meander would never have said that. He would never, ever, have even brought it up. Ergo, she doesn't have to give a shit about some dog she never met.

"Look, I— I get it," She settles at Tommy's elbow, between him and Dustin, wrapping her tail around her paws. She doesn't know what to think about his own spectre, has no notion of what a 'mutie' is nor can she really throw any stones about the destruction of school property, when it comes to that.

But she's no fool.

"My name. When I was born, there were five of us, and now there's just me, so... I understand. Family is the most important thing there is. But listen, if you trust your brother, and you know he's capable, then there's nothing to worry about. And if you don't, or he isn't, then worrying still won't help."

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Shelter From The Storm

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III(!) - for Tommy and Quintet

Re: III(!) - for Tommy and Quintet

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