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
But what she was hoping would be a somewhat reasoned conversation is clearly going nowhere fast - he's running away, the coward, and using violence to mask it. She wouldn't care so much usually - he does it all the time, she's used to it. But Sarah deserves better.
"This isn't about you, Joel," she says, bracing herself to throw some tough love at him. "You need to deal with this. You can't hide in here, and you can't run away. Eat something, take a shower, put on a clean shirt, and go see your goddamn daughter. She needs you. I haven't told her you're here yet, because I wanted to give you some time to adjust, but that's not fair to her. She needs her father. You need to step up. Do it, or I'll do it for you, if Ellie hasn't already."
She leaves the sandwiches out on the table, and starts walking for the door - mostly because she expects him to shout her out of the suite after that.
no subject
Christ, she makes it sound so god damn easy. Sure, just have a shower (Does this place have hot water?, comes the brief blip of a thought that's gone in an instant), change his clothes, go and see Sarah like it's some casual, every day thing.
Without giving himself any chance to think, he lurches after Tess as she's heading for the door, reaches out his hand, grabs her arm to make her stop and face him. And touching her - shit, it hits him all over again, that same momentary sense of vertigo that Tess is real.
He quickly lets her go, takes a step back like he's still not certain of her or whether she's really real.
"You think it's as simple as that?" he shoots back icily, and maybe there's a tremble of something hidden in his voice that sounds like fear. "Just go and see my daughter? D'you know when the last time I saw my daughter was, Tess? Do you? Huh? The last time I saw my daughter was when I was burying her in the fuckin' ground!"
no subject
"This isn't Boston, and you're gonna have to accept that reality sooner rather that later - not for yourself, not for me, not even for Ellie. But for Sarah. She's alive, you should at least pretend to be happy about it."
no subject
He's not listening to it. He's not listening to any of it. He's not going to listen to anything Tess has to say about any of this. He's not going to listen to anyone. He can't handle Tess going on and fucking on about Sarah being alive, about Sarah needing him, as though it's the most simple, god damn normal thing in the whole world. As though the terror he's feeling at the thought of seeing his baby girl after all these years of grieving for her in ways that have killed him inside can all just be thrown aside.
"Don't you fuckin'--" he continues bellowing over the top of her, while she's now going on about fucking dying, about this not being Boston. He steps in closer to her, finger pointing with a fierce jab at her again. "And I had to fuckin' walk away knowing what was going to happen to you! You told me to g-- Don't you dare fuckin'--"
It's like he can't get a word in. She's still going on. On and fucking on about Sarah, and Jesus Christ, he can't deal with this. He can't deal with Tess, Tess, who's supposed to be fucking dead, lecturing him about his dead daughter.
That he should at least pretend to be happy about--
"TESS!" Her name comes out loud, like a roar. And then his voice is suddenly cold. "Out," he commands icily, "get the fuck out."
no subject
Tess is perfectly willing to stand her ground in the face of Joel's anger, when she needs to. She has many times before. But this? This isn't productive. Staying here and having a yelling match with him won't get him and Sarah together any sooner. It might even have the opposite effect.
She shakes her head at him, resuming her walk to the door. She was leaving anyway. "Get your head on straight," she says, her tone clipped and cold. "Go see Sarah when you do."
She slams the door behind her on her way out.
no subject
He grabs the door handle and goes to turn to, goes to yank the door wide open, about to step outside and tell her he doesn't want her to leave - but stops. No, he needs… He needs more time to figure this all out in his head; and his pulse is still racing with angry adrenalin, everything inside him still shaking with an angry fear that's only going to get worse if he spends even just one more second looking at her face and hearing her voice.
He pulls his hand away and steps back from the door. Pushes a hand through his hair like he doesn't know what to do, then rubs his hand down his face. And quick as anything, he begins pushing down on everything that argument has stirred in him. He's had twenty years to learn how to suppress his feelings into little more than a cold, hard ball in the pit of his stomach, and it's what he does now.
He steps back to the door and locks it, deadbolts it, puts the chain on. And then steps back, hands on his hips, running his tongue nervously across his upper lip. Okay. Okay. Focus. Do something constructive.
Guns. He was going to clean his guns before Tess showed up. Clean them and make sure they're fully loaded and ready to use just in case. Okay. That's what he'll do. And he drops his hands away from his hips and makes his way over to the couch, where he sits, picks up his rifle in his shaky hand and the rag in the other, and begins fastidiously, almost obsessively cleaning it.