#thread: s. plaskett.

[doomdays]

@lingeringscars said, "i wanted to be brave. i wanted to be more like you."

'brave' is not a word that he has ever used to describe himself.  he's never felt that way — not in omaha in all his failed attempts to stand up to his father,  not in campus colony as he forced himself smaller to try to hide away from the rumors and the comments that spread about him with people his age,  and not out here, when he didn't even know how to kill something that was already dead, afraid of what the violence would make of him. he's gotten better, tried harder, learned how to separate the person he has to be from the person he was scared into being, but bravery is still hard to come by.

❝  i don't know if that's what i am, ❞ he says quietly, head tilting down for his hair to move over his eye, an intentional tactic in an effort to make himself appear smaller, hidden. ❝  but maybe bravery is something different to all of us. because i think you're brave, ❞ he offers, peeking up at ryan with as mall shrug of his shoulders. ❝  think i'm still figuring it out. ❞

[doomdays]

silas looks back at tector,  wondering if he has his own specific story about his fear of heights.   silas grew up afraid of a lot of things,  but it was mostly all wrapped into one person;  it was difficult to break free of that shell afterwards,  difficult to know how to properly protect himself from the world beyond what he had known for so long,  but he left omaha because he didn't want to be afraid anymore.  and through that journey,  he discovered a new fear every single day---  but he faced it.   it's how he got here,  through shame and loss and triumph,  saved by a man he wishes dennis got to meet,  that hopefully feilx will get to meet someday,  too,  and that marcus would have been happy for silas to have found.

dennis told him he would find the right people eventually to get him through his time with the CRM.  he's grateful for what tector has done for him so far,  now he only wishes to have the chance to get to know him better.

❝  i've had a few of those,  ❞   he admits.  ❝  well----  that's kind of how i thought of the empties,  too.   that they wouldn't scare me,  but then they got close,  ❞   he admits.  when the first one he faced had the face of the scariest man he knew,  how could he not be afraid of them?  he only made it through because of his friends;  they taught him how to be strong, how to be brave, and now he's confident enough to face them alone.  he wonders if height has gotten easier for tector, too.

❝  you were a janitor?  ❞   there's a light that goes on in silas's eyes;  it's nothing to really be excited about,  other than a connection silas could find with him now  ---  as if he needs that to keep anyone interested in keeping him around.   

‘too many people’ is enough to make silas uninterested;  he’s done well before,  crafting his tight-knit circle of people carefully.  he never had any friends in omaha,  and that was mostly intentional;  his own janitor role had been a way for him to keep a distance from everyone and everything.  he needed that,  too afraid to get too close,  because knew what they’d think of him,  right or wrong.  with the crm,  he knew making friends wasn’t really an option at all,  and he longed for the ones who had become family.  but now,  maybe there’s a chance for something again.  maybe someday,  he can find them again,  too.  ❝  i was never a fan of— crowds.  all those people,  ❞   he admits,  looking ahead now to try to envision all these buildings lit up.   ❝  people always say that without the lights, you can finally see the stars,  ❞   he notes,  glancing back to tector.  ❝  was this better?  ❞

tector's often wondered what silas (and the other kids near his age) remember of that long-gone world. he'd have been so young — it can't be too much. tec's own memories from that age are hazy and fractured, discolored like ancient glass, filmy and distant; there's impressions of shapes, mostly, of people who are gone now, their mouths moving, but the voices that should emerge forgotten. but he carries within him a war; it's likely all that childhood stuff's been scrubbed out and replaced, the spaces that should have been dedicated to it reappropriated to accommodate all of that.

he wonders, but he never asks. there's a list of questions rattling in his head like the bullets swimming loosely in his jacket's pocket; he feels them ping-ponging against his skull, but they never quite make it to the tip of his tongue. he offers openings instead — observations of their surroundings, with a small anecdote inspired by, the end of a sentence never curving upwards into a prodding question. if it's met with silence, well — tector's all right with that; he doesn't mind the quiet.

and he tries not to seem too surprised now when silas speaks. tec tilts his head just slightly, hoping to seem interested, but not overtly so; his arms fold across his chest and he allows a moment to pass before glancing towards him, sucking on his teeth quietly as if deliberating the response. “yeah, it's one'a those fears you don't realize you got 'till it's too late.” there's a sharp memory of piling onto the plane during deployment, and the soft whimpering of a fellow soldier, struck with the sudden fear of flying. tector remembers it well because of the vicious reprimand from their commanding officer. his spine stiffens slightly, unconsciously; he inhales, blinks away the image. it takes another breath before he's able to register the question. “uh — yeah. did a day of janitorial work in some fancy-ass office building. just the one time.” one of his first jobs when he'd re-entered civilian life — cut short when his brain mistook some mundane, unexceptional noise for gunfire, and he scrambled to find cover beneath a nearby desk.

there's a tight quality to the words he doesn't intend. tector clears his throat, rolls his neck, sweeps his eyes across the cityscape once more. “i get that,” he replies, and tec does; there'd been a lot he disliked about cities, but he can't deny that now, there's a healthy list of things he misses. “it was — noisy. and there was too many people. but, at night...” he exhales wistfully. “the lights of all the buildings. man, i kinda miss that. it was beautiful.”

[doomdays]

📖 ↺ @lingeringscars

❝  we did it before. we learned a lot from it. we could do it again --- better this time, maybe.  ❞

[doomdays]

maybe it’s because ronan is spoken of the way he is that silas already feels connected to him, in some way.  everyone seems to have bad stories about the way he’s behaved or the way he’s made jobs difficult for others,  but silas has been that guy before,  he’s been the person whose reputation follows him around like a dark cloud,  acting as a shield for everyone else to hide from.  people assumed the worst of him, and he never got the chance to just be who he really was  (  not until he met elton, iris—the rest of his friends.  )  maybe what people say about ronan is true, but silas isn’t going to take their word for it.  he was assigned this job; therefore, he’s going into it ready to figure out who ronan is as he presents himself to silas, not to those before him.  

and if he is as bad as he says—— maybe he has good reason.  silas did.

he knows enough to understand that ronan doesn’t entirely believe him.  silas can’t blame him for that,  but he’s still adamant about doing this job well,  and he’s adamant about proving that to be true.  this is so much easier than manning the streets of the zone with a gun in his hand; looking to one person to protect,  that doesn’t feel so overwhelming, and in some ways, it feels like silas has been granted some of his identity back.  deep down, he knows that’s not necessarily true;  he is still just another FEDRA puppet, their weapon, but there are less eyes on him when he’s focused one person, and that makes him feel a little less stuck.  ❝  i am,  ❞  he insists,  taking a deep breath yet careful to not make it so noticeable;  he’s nervous, and anyone looking at the way his jaw lightly trembles or his hands shake can see that, but he is doing his best — and he won’t let ronan scare him away. 

his brows furrow, sweat forms at his hairline,  and he tries to figure out ronan’s angle.  he doesn’t agree with a lot of this system;  he’s here in honor of dennis, for his own survival, and that’s it.  along the way,  he’s committing every small piece of the puzzle to memory, trying to figure out the truths that FEDRA doesn’t tell their soldiers or their people.  ❝  he was wrong.  for trying to kill you, ❞   he answers first.  that’s not what ronan is asking, but he needs to say it anyway.  with another deep breath, he shakes his head.  ❝  —- why?  why was his girlfriend being executed? ❞  he needs more context.  maybe some soldiers would be quick to answer,  but silas believes there’s right and wrong — and that used to be so skewed to him, but the more he learns about how this place operates, the clearer it is.  ❝  i don’t think having to die for your crimes is ever right—- not .  .  .  not as simple as that.  people do things for a reason.  if they’re doing it to protect themselves or protect someone else— that’s important.  killing you wasn’t for their protection.  it was for revenge,  ❞   he points out, shaking his head.  ❝  and that’s not right.  ❞   but why did his mother approve the girlfriend’s execution?    

❝  i meant it when i said i am ready and i am honored for this job, ❞   he insists again.  ❝  whatever trouble you’re up against,  i’m ready to handle it.  ❞  maybe it is too big for him, especially as he’s still so new,  but he’s not giving up on ronan.  felix, dennis— they didn’t give up on him.

i’m not like them — that’s becoming increasingly clear. he’d expected more despair, perhaps an edge of contempt — but silas doesn’t seem to possess either, and ronan meets this unexpected turn with a growing interest. even those soldiers who are fresh-faced and new, eyes wide with some innate sense of pride a uniform can infect you with, seem able to conjure enough venom for ronan and the rest in his caste, vultures feasting greedily on the remnants of society they desperately cling to — a system he knows he benefits from, regardless of the secret he carries; he makes no attempt to fool himself into believing otherwise. but silas seems genuine enough in his proclamation, and ronan can’t seem to parse it — why?

he meets every soldier as an adversary; if they knew the truth, they’d shoot him or turn him in, eager to reap the reward for exposing a rat. he doesn’t believe silas is any different in that respect, despite the puzzling way this introduction has slanted, a direction ronan is uncertain of, a path he hadn’t expected to travel. but maybe there’s opportunity in this. it takes root in ronan’s mind, an undeveloped photograph, for the time being — but there’s some room to probe further immediately. to test him.

“well, i appreciate that.” it’s a commendable sentiment, but he is a prisoner, regardless of how much of a say silas believes he can have on the matter. three of the walls are of his own making; borders defined on his terms, ronan inserting himself just enough into FEDRA’s business, his mother’s, to glean information, but the fourth wall is beyond anyone’s control: it’s the goddamn border of this zone.

(one day, he wants to break free of it — but not until the job is finished.)

“—yeah. that’s what you’re here for.” would he turn on a fellow soldier? the question is one he considers for every new protector his mother assigns. if the worst happened, if he was exposed, would the person intended to defend him do so from FEDRA? it’s hardly a life of luxury they live — but it’s a life. a bed, food, safety within the walls of a zone, all guaranteed so long as they fall in line.

would silas give that up?

he nearly snorts at that — deeming this detail an honor. he doesn’t believe silas, but appreciates the effort; it’s a new approach. rarely do soldiers speak to him like he deserves protection; his predecessors seemed almost disappointed when the day ended and there hadn’t been another attempt on his life.

his hand lifts to his scar again, and, without offering much in way of a response to silas, almost as if he hadn’t heard (but every word is memorized, and ronan can’t help but almost reply, you don’t wanna be friends with me, if you wanna stay alive), he asks instead, “you know what happened to me?” however, he offers no time for silas to answer. “some guy settled for trying to kill me because he couldn’t get to my mom. because my mom approved his girlfriend’s execution. that’s the kind of trouble you might have to deal with.” he drops his hand, shoving it beneath his leg to force himself to stop touching his neck. “you think he was wrong? to be upset with my mother, not about killing me.”

[doomdays]

silas spent so much of his time growing up in one place, stuck in the confines of omaha, that he never really had the chance to see what the rest of the world had to offer. everyone always told them they were lucky, that omaha was one of the last standing cities in the world, and when he was a kid, it felt big. there isn't much he remembers about his life before the world fell, but it reaches him in flashes, this apartment complex reminding him of a hotel he and his parents once stayed in when he was only five years old, after they'd all roadtripped across the state to see one his father's favorite metal bands. it's one of the few good memories he has with his father, maybe that's why it comes to him now, not yet soured by everything that likely followed the next day.

it's part of the reason that he wanted to leave on their journey in the first place --- he didn't want to live his life knowing he never saw the world, never knowing if there was some place he belonged more than he ever did back in nebraska,  where the only welcoming arms were his uncle  ---  who did his best,  but he couldn't save silas from the ridicule he received.  there was freedom in getting away,  in finally allowing himself to explore not only the world,  but who he was,  too.   and now that he finally sees it all,   it's almost strange,  a world that once seemed so big now conquered;  he's finally a part of it.  

his head turns up to look at the skyscraper,  head shaking almost instantly.  ❝  yeah,  um,  i'm not afraid of heights,  i don't think,  but i don't want to test that,  ❞   he admits quietly,  squinting as he looks it over for a long moment.   ❝  have you ever been in one?  ❞   omaha didn't have anything like this,  but even anything close was far from what silas ever got the chance to see.   he wonders what kind of people worked in those buildings,  what life was like before the decay of the world started swallowing these buildings,  too.   he looks back to tector again,  adjusting the strap of his pack to pull it up higher.   ❝   i don't think i would've liked living in the city.  not a city like this.  ❞   the civic republic was hard enough,  for the brief time he was there.  he has no idea how genuine that reflection was of the real world,  but he knows it's not where he belongs.  he just hopes he hasn't let dennis down.

everything looks small from up here. — silas, @doomdays.

out front of the five-story complex is a sign, miraculously still standing, exclaiming in faded lettering: NOW AVAILALE! it boasts units composed of three bedrooms, two baths each, a community pool and gym listed as amenities alongside the roof terrace— the place where tector and silas stand now, among the ruins of sun-bleached lawn furniture, weathered astroturf, the long-rotted but humble beginnings of a garden. in front of them, roads stretch like shriveled tongues of dying beasts, leading towards a desolated city — skyscrapers like rotting teeth, jagged shards of black against the golden sky of a setting sun.

but it's a beautiful sight, even despite all the destruction — or perhaps, because of it. trees, green and small but persistent, have broken through the asphalt; they gather in small groves, new and fresh, their tender branches shuddering in the evening wind.

silas is right — it all does look rather small. not quite the minuscule specks you'd view from an airplane — but to someone like silas, that comparison would hardly matter. tec looks at the kid, a smile sweeping across his features as gestures towards the skyscrapers, stating conversationally, “just imagine how it looks up in one'a those.” tector's experience in the area is a singular one, but not something easily forgotten — walls of glass, people crawling along sidewalks below like bugs. “i ain't scared of heights, but, man, i would not wanna be up on that roof.”