joel miller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shittybirthday) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tushanshu_logs2014-04-13 01:59 am
shittybirthday) wrote in tushanshu_logs2014-04-13 01:59 am
Entry tags:
open to all!
Characters: Joel and open!
Date: Mid-April through to... whenever??
Location: All sectors.
Situation: Joel has arrived in Keeliai and is searching for Ellie.
Warnings/Rating: PG. Will edit to a higher rating if necessary!
If you want to do anything specific with Joel, feel free to hit me up at![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
spongebong!
Joel has been wandering lost through the city for what feels like hours.
Ellie. That's all he can think about amid the mess of bewilderment racing through his mind about where he is: Ellie. Finding Ellie. From the moment he woke up in that damn tub of water, groggy and feeling like he'd been heavily drugged and finding himself staring up at a severe looking man staring right back down at him, Ellie is all he's been able to think about. His immediate thought had been that he'd been kidnapped and that Ellie had been-- Shit, he didn't want to think about what had happened to Ellie, what they'd done to her. He just wanted to find her.
And so, with the stagnant taste of water from the tunnel still in his mouth, in his throat, with the mental image of frantically applying compressions to Ellie's chest while she lay lifeless on the wet, water-logged ground, as his strength slowly began to return to him and the heavy fog began lifting from his mind, he started to fight. He weren't gonna listen to any bullshit about some great evil or some asshole called Malicant. He needed to find Ellie, god damn it.
Where is she? The girl? he'd managed to demand, his voice weak and croaky as he was lifted out of the water. When none of the strange people around him were willing to answer his questions, he began wrestling against them with all his might. He threw clumsy punches, tried grabbing them and slamming them into the wall, tried throwing them to the ground to stamp as hard as he could on their faces. Where is she? WHERE IS SHE? All to no avail: he'd been too damn weak to do much more than grope and grab and listlessly shove at anyone who tried to come near him. He was easily overpowered. Soon, he was shoved outside, left to fend for himself with no answers to any of his questions.
And now, here he is: navigating his way through a bewildering maze of streets and crowds. He's dressed in ratty jeans and a dirty, threadbare blue denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up his muscular forearms; his skin is weathered and nicked with scars, scabs and bruises. On his left wrist is a wristwatch, the glass face cracked, the hour and minute hands frozen in time. Strapped to his back is a dirty brown backpack, laden with various weapons: a bow, six arrows, a metal pipe with scissor blades crudely affixed to the end of it with duct tape, a shotgun, a hunting rifle, a flamethrower and a military torch clipped to his backpack shoulder strap. His face is tired, world-weary, the wrinkles around his eyes and on his forehead deep and heavy-set. His dark hair is greying and there are flecks of grey in his dark beard. Not a shred of mirth can be seen in his expression; but there's a look of something resembling barely contained worry, if not panic, in his hard eyes.
It's the first time in twenty years that he's seen or been in urban civilisation. Civilisation, that is, that isn't overrun by martial law, isn't secured into quarantine zones, isn't surrounded by militia, by the constant threat of Hunters, by decayed ruin and despair. By Infected.
He doesn't trust any of it. As he walks through the streets, he keeps glancing over his shoulder in paranoia. It's all too much. Too overwhelming. Too much noise, too many smells, too much stimulation. He's grown so used to the dead, dank silence of a world torn apart by chaos and sickness and terror that a thriving civilisation is completely foreign to him now; much less a civilisation as strange and almost otherworldly as this. Sudden noises make him tense; sudden movements make him defensive; people approaching him or getting in way makes him itch to whip out his pistol from where it's tucked in his waistband and aim it point-blank at their faces.
Date: Mid-April through to... whenever??
Location: All sectors.
Situation: Joel has arrived in Keeliai and is searching for Ellie.
Warnings/Rating: PG. Will edit to a higher rating if necessary!
If you want to do anything specific with Joel, feel free to hit me up at
Joel has been wandering lost through the city for what feels like hours.
Ellie. That's all he can think about amid the mess of bewilderment racing through his mind about where he is: Ellie. Finding Ellie. From the moment he woke up in that damn tub of water, groggy and feeling like he'd been heavily drugged and finding himself staring up at a severe looking man staring right back down at him, Ellie is all he's been able to think about. His immediate thought had been that he'd been kidnapped and that Ellie had been-- Shit, he didn't want to think about what had happened to Ellie, what they'd done to her. He just wanted to find her.
And so, with the stagnant taste of water from the tunnel still in his mouth, in his throat, with the mental image of frantically applying compressions to Ellie's chest while she lay lifeless on the wet, water-logged ground, as his strength slowly began to return to him and the heavy fog began lifting from his mind, he started to fight. He weren't gonna listen to any bullshit about some great evil or some asshole called Malicant. He needed to find Ellie, god damn it.
Where is she? The girl? he'd managed to demand, his voice weak and croaky as he was lifted out of the water. When none of the strange people around him were willing to answer his questions, he began wrestling against them with all his might. He threw clumsy punches, tried grabbing them and slamming them into the wall, tried throwing them to the ground to stamp as hard as he could on their faces. Where is she? WHERE IS SHE? All to no avail: he'd been too damn weak to do much more than grope and grab and listlessly shove at anyone who tried to come near him. He was easily overpowered. Soon, he was shoved outside, left to fend for himself with no answers to any of his questions.
And now, here he is: navigating his way through a bewildering maze of streets and crowds. He's dressed in ratty jeans and a dirty, threadbare blue denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up his muscular forearms; his skin is weathered and nicked with scars, scabs and bruises. On his left wrist is a wristwatch, the glass face cracked, the hour and minute hands frozen in time. Strapped to his back is a dirty brown backpack, laden with various weapons: a bow, six arrows, a metal pipe with scissor blades crudely affixed to the end of it with duct tape, a shotgun, a hunting rifle, a flamethrower and a military torch clipped to his backpack shoulder strap. His face is tired, world-weary, the wrinkles around his eyes and on his forehead deep and heavy-set. His dark hair is greying and there are flecks of grey in his dark beard. Not a shred of mirth can be seen in his expression; but there's a look of something resembling barely contained worry, if not panic, in his hard eyes.
It's the first time in twenty years that he's seen or been in urban civilisation. Civilisation, that is, that isn't overrun by martial law, isn't secured into quarantine zones, isn't surrounded by militia, by the constant threat of Hunters, by decayed ruin and despair. By Infected.
He doesn't trust any of it. As he walks through the streets, he keeps glancing over his shoulder in paranoia. It's all too much. Too overwhelming. Too much noise, too many smells, too much stimulation. He's grown so used to the dead, dank silence of a world torn apart by chaos and sickness and terror that a thriving civilisation is completely foreign to him now; much less a civilisation as strange and almost otherworldly as this. Sudden noises make him tense; sudden movements make him defensive; people approaching him or getting in way makes him itch to whip out his pistol from where it's tucked in his waistband and aim it point-blank at their faces.
no subject
He watches her for a moment, uncertain what to say, how to react, what to even think, and looks down at the counter he's still standing next to.
Maybe if… Maybe if Tess hadn't gotten bitten, maybe they would've been able to-- Fuck, he doesn't know. The memory of her ripping aside her collar with an almost defiant tug, showing him the gruesome, gnarled bite mark on the side of her neck flashes through his mind, the sick surreal horror that had suddenly ripped through him at seeing it, the immediate realisation that nothing could be done, nothing - and then Tess telling him to leave, telling him with an almost frantic anger that she was not going to turn into one of those clickers.
He clamps down on the memory as quickly as it surfaces in his mind. With his lips pressed together into a thin line, he glances back up to Tess with just hard eyes.
"Don't," he replies quietly, "just don't."
Don't bring it up. Don't talk about it.
no subject
But what else can she do? Except what she's been doing this whole time, which is shoving away the guilt she feels - into other things, into her work, into shopping and eating and building up a new set of contacts. And into looking after Ellie - and Sarah. Even when he's not here, Tess feels obligated to him, feels responsible. Ellie and Sarah are his, and so by extension she has come to think of them as hers.
And now she has to tell him that his long-dead daughter is alive, and here. And will be wanting a hug from her dad, very soon. Forget her own issues. He's not going to even believe her. He's going to throw his glass across the room, maybe hit her, definitely walk out on her. The minute the words Sarah is here come out of her mouth - there is literally no way she can say it that won't end badly.
Tess has a brief moment of wondering why me? Why is this on her? Why is he so special that she's in this position now? Part of her knows, but she can't admit it even to herself.
"I'm gonna be sorry. And you're gonna want to sit down," she finally says, carefully, pouring more liquor into her glass. He really should have more time to process, but Sarah needs her dad, too. And how do you explain that to a twelve-year-old girl, anyway?
no subject
His lips pull back over his teeth in a grimace at the fumes and he draws in a sharp breath as it burns down his throat. Fuck. Just… fuck. Jesus, he's exhausted. He's terrified and exhausted, and both are knotted up into a cold ball deep in the pit of his stomach that the alcohol is now setting alight to.
"Just…" He sets the glass down; he sets it down hard, the glass striking the counter with a loud clack. A nervous anger is starting to push through his veins - at Tess, at losing Ellie, at having no fucking clue what's going on. At frantically worrying about where Ellie is.
"Just tell me where the hell Ellie is. I need to see her."
no subject
But blurting out hey your dead daughter is here too when he's like this? All worked up, that worry deep in his eyes, the exhaustion and weight of god-knows-what shit etched into his face - that'd be like throwing gasoline on a fire.
For once, Tess really doesn't want to do that.
She sighs, runs a hand over her face. She wants to tell him to sit the fuck down, to rest, he's not back home anymore, hasn't he been listening? Ellie will be around in a bit - if she can get him off his feet, make a couple calls on her console, she can have both girls here in a matter of minutes. But telling him that won't help, either. He'll have to see all this for himself. Tess knows this man, knows how fucking stubborn he can be. Infuriatingly so.
"Fine," she says finally. "I don't know if she's home right now, but I can take you to her suite, at least."
Maybe taking him there will give her the chance to work out a game plan for Sarah, anyway.
no subject
Leaving the last of his drink untouched, he takes a few steps away from the counter to start for the door, and then comes to a hesitant stop. He turns his head to look at Tess. Once again, his eyes move up to the blue in her hair, glance over her face, which has filled out and has a healthy glow to it that he's never before seen, sweeps his gaze with quick regard down her body.
He's trying to process in his head that she's really here. It's not sinking in. He's positive that maybe… maybe this is all some fucked up, cruel dream that he's trapped in, and he's going to wake up with a killer headache, trapped in some fucking cell or handcuffed to a metal pipe, or wherever the hell that guy who told him put his hands in the air before knocking him unconscious has taken him.
"Tess," he finds himself saying. It's real good to see you, is on the tip of his tongue. He works his jaw, stares at her for a long and searching moment.
"Go the least crowded route," he settles on saying instead.
no subject
Doesn't stop the pang in her chest, though, at the way he looks at her, at the way he so pointedly doesn't say anything about what he's feeling or thinking. Give him time, she says to herself. He needs time.
"Sure thing, big guy," she says flippantly, waving him out the door. "I know all the quiet back alleys to Ellie's place, don't worry. You know I'll always keep an eye on her for you."