thebrokenmarionette has moved
ooc;; Veata has been moved to here. This post will be put into the queue to repost for the next week.
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posttraumaticennui-deactivated2
How to Soften the Thought of Coffins
It had become second nature to jump at every noise, flinch at every bang. When your community would kill you the moment they knew the truth, a heightened startle reflex was nothing more than expected.
She would argue this until her final breath.
The door had slammed behind her, and Liv had spun around, her hand instinctively reaching for her gun. Three months, she had been in Oregon; the only place she could be safe. It had meant leaving everything and everyone behind, but when her status as a zombie painted a target on Ravi, on Peyton - even on Blaine - she couldn’t have stayed.
Here, the zombie outbreak had been different. Romeros - walkers, as they were called here - walked the streets, claiming whoever they could. A scratch could see you executed without a moment’s hesitation. If they ever caught her mid meal, it’d be Good Night, Vienna.
Liv reached to the shelf next to her, her eyes fixed on the woman who had begun ransacking the shelves at the other end of the store.
“Never know when it’s going to be another walker,” Liv said at last, stuffing a pack of fiery Cheetos into her bag, mentally tallying the price. Did robbery go against her Hippocratic oath? If she ever saw Ravi again, she’d be sure to ask him.
She was too calm given that if Olivia had reacted but a moment sooner Veata would have found herself with a bullet to the brain. Rather than panic however she considered the blonde with a neutral expression before turning her attention to the task of scavenging. “It’s better to assume than it is to be mistaken.” She knelt down to consider the sparse selection on the bottom shelf. Impulse urged her to take anything that had been left, but there were limitations to how much could be carried. Food was without a doubt one of her first priorities. Nothing though that couldn’t last on the road without proper storage. Rural Oregon didn’t offer much in terms of shelter. The gas station was in fact the first building she’d seen in half a week.
It was a double-edged sword. Rural meant a lower, more spread population -- it meant less of the dead -- but it meant scarcer shelters and fewer opportunities for supplies as well. Some places had been picked clean through. Others were untouched troves of treasure. The gas station was one such building that had been ransacked before them, but the survivors that had passed through had done so in a frenzied rush. There were plentiful leftovers left scattered and tossed throughout the aisles as if a storm had torn through. She glanced towards the windows coated in a thick layer of grime. “This might not be the worst place to settle in for the night.” She stood in one smooth motion and approached the front counter.
Veata found what she was looking for in a rotatable stand next to the register. She plucked out one of its aged maps and unfolded it over the glass. Her fingers skimmed the parchment until she found the last town she’d passed through with Olivia. “What direction have we been walking in? It doesn’t look like there’s another town near here for at least nineteen more miles.” Veata gestured for Olivia to approach. “What do you think?” It frightened her sometimes -- these details that slipped through her hands like water as it became impossible to distinguish one week from the next. She often lied to herself. So long as she could maintain the charade of searching for her brother it kept her from thinking of the hopelessness of her aimless wandering.
thebrokenmarionette-archive reblogged
Study me as much as you like. You will never know me for I differ a hundred ways from what you see me to be. Put yourself behind my eyes, and see me as I see myself for I have chosen to dwell in a place you cannot see.
thebrokenmarionette-archive reblogged
City of Strangers
From his spot, if he somewhat leaned, David could see the flower just sitting on the table. Mills doesn’t take much notice to it, it just didn’t occur to him as odd or out of place in this home. But upon the mentioning of it, he finds it slightly curious. He wrote it down. Problem was, Mills didn’t know his flowers, he couldn’t tell if it was an orchid or not. Had he known it was a carnation, perhaps he would have questioned why it was different this time.
❝Thank you once again, Ms. Aydelotte.❞He smiles politely the other before walking towards the door. He glanced at the cup of coffee, ❝That would be great. I promise to return it in that case, sometime.❞ After all, he had her address and name, worst case scenario he’ll leave it at the reception desk.
Once the detective is out the door, he rushes to the victim’s apartment. There he pauses, taking a sip of the coffee. After looking around, he spots Somerset and joins him by his side.
❝So, what’s so interesting that you called me?❞ The question is simple enough, and he smirks slightly, still happy that he evaded door-to-door duty. William sighed and took one of he evidence bags from the pile that was accumulated currently on the one of the desk (temporarily, as soon the forensics guys will be done with the scene and will move out). What he shows David is a set of photos, all taken of a unaware woman. It takes several of these photos before Mills spots one with a face. ❝Shit… I just talked to her. It’s his neighbor.❞
“Really?” Somerset is surprised. Photos reminded him too much of John Doe’s lust victim. She was completely oblivious in all these photos. Either this was an art project Veata had neglected to mention to David or something was certainly suspicious about this.
❝You think the killer planted these? Or did our guy have an unhealthy obsession?❞ Mills takes another sip of his beverage, nervous now. ❝She might be in danger… I think I’ll need to talk to her again… We might need to place in a safe house for now…❞ He began rambling and William wonders if the younger had taken his medicine today. With a sigh, Somerset places the photos away.
“You’ll need to go talk to her again.”
Veata left his contact information on the counter next to the phone before she busied herself in the kitchen with pouring his leftover coffee into a travel mug. Through the stainless steel she could feel its faint warmth. He would have perhaps another fifteen minutes. “It’s no trouble, Detective Mills,” she reassured when she presented him with the mug. She then escorted the male to her front door. Before he left she offered a last condolence, “I hope that you find the person that did this.” It was a cliche he’d no doubt heard a thousand times before but it was all that could be said when no other words were left. The lock clicked into place after Detective Mills, and in the silence Veata found herself alone with her thoughts.
His death was peculiar to consider. It was a loss, but not to her. Her eyes wandered to the carnation. Veata knew the guilt she felt at the sight of it was a result of her unrequited interests. She paused in front of the dining room table. Even if she had suspected he would be torn from the world so soon she could not have forced genuine emotions for Michael. Could she have feigned them in his last hours? Without a doubt but then she hadn’t known when his last hours would come. She ran her finger over one of the wilting petals as she considered the future of his last token of affection. In the past she’d attempted each time to return the gifts though he reassured her the orchids came with no strings attached, but he no longer lived to insist she keep the flower.
Within the hour she returned to bustling about the apartment though it was impossible to keep her thoughts from turning to Michael Fuller. Not often but often enough that after calling the curator she settled onto the couch with the television turned on instead of returning to her work as she had planned. The knock -- the second time that evening -- came during a commercial. Veata entertained the thought of Detective Mills as she looked alarmed at the door before dismissing it as she stood. She should have known better for there Detective Mills stood in view of the peephole. Veata opened the door. “Detective.” It was a greeting, but the tone of her voice as she spoke was the pitch of inquisition -- the question unspoken but obvious.
thebrokenmarionette-archive reblogged
There is Doubt in Faith
𝓔retria had only taken a few steps in the direction of camp, until she heard that Veata was not accompanying her back just yet. Halting in her steps, she glanced over her shoulder towards her mentor, watching as she knelt before the corpse and proceeded to drag it away towards the thicker forest line nearby. Turning her head, she looked towards the direction of camp for a second before turning her entire body towards Veata.
❝ It’s not safe out here alone. You told me that how many times. ”
𝓣he statement was an excuse. Despite her hunger, Eretria was not fond of the people back at camp. She didn’t trust them, trust was something she lacked when it came to anyone in this world, yet she did trust Veata for more than one reason. Eretria walked towards Veata and the corpse, grabbing the corpse by the ankles and giving a nod towards Veata. A silent indication that she was ready to lift and help dispose of the dead. As well as making it clear she wasn’t going anywhere without her mentor.
She made to argue with Eretria before the words died in her throat. There would be no point. She had taught her such lessons, but more than that Veata knew the strength of her stubbornness like the back of her hand. Her brother had been much the same, and it had been because of him that she had learned how to choose her battles. This was not something worth fighting about. “Fine.” She gestured for Eretria to take the legs with a nod of the head, and between the two women the corpse was walked further into the woods where Veata had dug a shallow grave earlier that morning. It was here that she signalled for Eretria to lower the deceased. In all the entire affair -- including covering the unmarked grave -- took no more than fifteen minutes.
There were no burial rites -- no moment of silence, no recited scripture. Veata expected this would be her same fate when the time came. It wasn’t an unusual thought for her to have. As it stood she had survived longer than she would have been expected to. Veata brushed the dirt from her hands then turned her back to the mound with shovel in hand. The sun had reached its peak, and the warmth of its light beat down on the two women. Without a single word she started the trek back towards camp. “We have another week out here before it’s time to turn back. That means time to scout one more town.” She stepped over the fishing line marking the boundaries of their camp. “Keep that time frame in mind with the rations.”
thebrokenmarionette-archive reblogged
City of Strangers
❝Black.❞ David answered right before he looked back down at his notebook, deep in thought. This guy was nothing special so far. But from everything he saw at his apartment, whoever killed him, didn’t act on impulse. It seemed planned and clean. A quick shot to the head from the back and that’s all. Whoever it was, he had to be trusted to be let into the apartment. Or at the very least, he had to sneak in somehow. Mills raised his head at the mention of the gallery owner. ❝That’d be very helpful, thank you.❞ He knew most people didn’t like talking to police, so maybe having been contacted by somebody else for this would calm them down. The detective thinks for a moment. ❝How do you figure he left before you? You said he talked to you most of the evening, didn’t happen to mention where he was going?❞
❝Thank you.❞ He smiles at Veata as she places the cup of coffee in front of him. He took several sips, staring at his notepad… But suddenly something beeped. It took David a moment, but he realized it was Somerset’s pager. The older man had handed it to him just as he was walking out, saying “just in case.” Seems something did come up or else this wouldn’t have happened. The detective looked it up, shifting slightly in spot. ❝Would it be all right if I used your phone?❞ The detective got off the chair and looked pleadingly at the hostess. He was being invasive at this point, but whatever it was, it must have been important.
Once on the phone he dialed the unknown number and in several rings, somebody picked up. That somebody being William. With a hushed tone, David inquired what the problem was. But all he got as a reply was that they found something he would be interested to see.
❝Should I get there now? I’m kinda in the middle of– All right, all right… See you soon.❞ He hung up the phone and turned back to Veata then. ❝Thanks again.❞ He walked up to her and handed his card. ❝If something were to come up, please call me… Miss?❞
“You’re welcome.” Veata tested the weight of the kettle. There was enough water left that she could fix herself a cup of tea without needing to boil more. Her hands were quicker this time as she opened one of the tea jars and sprinkled a pinch into the second ceramic mug. “There was a flower waiting for me when I came home last night. We weren’t involved, but at least once a week he would bring me orchids. If I’m not home at the time he leaves them in front of the door or with the receptionist downstairs.” Her hands paused curled around the mug, her image reflected in the discolored water. She supposed it was more accurate to use the past tense when speaking about him rather than the present. On her dining table the carnation laid untouched in the sunlight.
Carnation. There was the beeping of a pager, and Veata looked somewhat startled towards the male. His eyes were pleading as he made his request, and her smile offered reassurance as she said, “Of course, Detective.” She gestured towards the phone set that sat on the edge of the kitchen counter. “I’ll go find that number for the curator while you’re making your call.” His evasiveness didn’t so much as register as such to the young woman. Veata was not naïve, but there were no reasons for her to be suspicious of the detective. Before she left the kitchen however she found herself lingering next to the carnation. Her finger twitched as if she were about to touch the blood red petals, but the sound of his voice ushered her out.
In her studio she copied the information of the curator down, and when she returned it was just as he was hanging up the phone with an audible click. The carnation was forgotten. “It wasn’t any trouble.” She took the card from him, and exchanged it with the scrap of paper. “Veata Aydelotte. It’s a pleasure though I wish it were under better circumstances.” There was no role she knew better than that of the gracious host. She gestured to the paper in his hand. “That has her name, the address of the exhibit, and the number to her office. She should be in until at least six tonight.” His mug sat half-finished on the counter. “Oh, but your coffee. I have a spare travel mug if you’d like to bring it with you. You wouldn’t need to worry about bringing it back.”
My Hands to Learn
@fcrestmaiden
The gift of witchcraft had been passed down to her through the blood of her great grandmother. How peculiar it was to consider that a woman she had never once met would was responsible for the course her life had taken. She had no coven. Her mother had never spoken of one, and even if such a coven had once existed it had been left behind in the jungles of Cambodia when her father had courted her mother and brought her with him to the bustling streets of France. It had been he that had seen to arranging lessons of the occult for her when her gifts began to show themselves as a child. Veata owed much to her father. She thought of him as she tended to her plant beds deep in the heart of uncharted forests.
It was said the ancient fair folk once walked these woodlands, and traces of their magic were thought to have remained here. If there was evidence supporting such claims Veata had not found it despite the countless trips she had made here during these last ten months. She had however discovered that the land was fertile and the soil was lush making it an ideal location to cultivate the more difficult flora required of her craft. From the branches of the towering trees songbirds chirped cheerful tunes as she continued to pluck the delicate stems of budding flowers. The serene calm felt here was enough in and of itself to be worth the half week trek it took to reach the heart of the forest. So few places were left untouched in the world.
There was no warning in the seconds before Muppet came tearing through the trees as she sprinted after an unsuspecting rabbit. Veata felt her heart drop into her stomach as sudden fear knocked the breath from her lungs. She held one hand against her chest in a gesture of alarm then breathed a short, relieved laugh as the Great Dane bayed in frustration at the top of her lungs as the rabbit dove into its’ den. Rithisak had insisted she bring Muppet with her on these ventures and though Veata had her doubts about the canine being much help in a dangerous situation she had to admit her deep bark and her looming size were intimidating. “Muppet!” Her ears perked but she made no move to leave the hole until Veata called her name a second time.
No guilt saddened her eyes as she came trotting to Veata with her tail wagging. In a scolding tone she attempted to admonish her, “I almost had a heart attack!” Muppet in response nudged her head under her hand in a demand for scratches. She had to bite back a smile as she sighed then began gathering her tools. As was custom of her she left an eighth of her harvest lying next to her, and once she had finished she gathered these into her arms. Muppet bound in circles around her then vanished back into the undergrowth as she approached the oldest tree. In its gnarled roots she placed the gift -- a gesture of gratitude to the forest. Even if these ancient woods were not home to creatures of old it did her no harm to express her respect.
thebrokenmarionette-archive reblogged
The trust of the innocent is the liar’s most useful tool.
Stephen King
thebrokenmarionette-archive reblogged
Voir Avec Le Coeur
As much as he hated taking even more time away from the RFA he knew that he needed this. A little vacation to another country was the perfect place to take more photographs for his gallery and to sell as prints for those who may want them. Not to mention for all he knew this could be one of the last times that he could take such an adventure with his diminishing eyesight making him that much more eager to take a little trip.
Stepping up to a small bridge that overlooked a creek, he lifted the camera up before pulling his sunglass down his nose a bit to squint at the monitor. Just as expected the image to him was blurry but he continued on with taking a few more photos despite this obstacle. After a few minutes of changing the lighting on his camera as he pressed the familiar buttons and even the angle as he took to getting closer to the small stream of water the strain finally started to get to his eyes. Taking a seat in the grass, he laid back while resting the camera against his chest.
Hearing footsteps moments later as he relaxed he glanced over towards the sound to see movement not to far away and without thinking he glanced back up towards the sky only to start speaking as a gentle smile formed across his features. “It’s a beautiful day out, isn’t it? I’ve never been here before so I guess that makes it a little more special.”
The morning was too beautiful to be spent inside the apartment. She had considered as she washed her face inviting a friend out to lunch or visiting Rue Sainte-Catherine with her brother, but in the end it was decided she would take the afternoon for herself. Her mother had taught her the importance of a person taking the time to be with themselves. Veata thought back on these lessons as she wandered the streets of Bordeaux. Her feet carried her through familiar paths, and it did not take long before she found herself wandering through local vineyards lush with life. She was near enough to her father’s personal favorite that it wouldn’t be unreasonable for her to visit the owners and purchase a bottle for him.
It was here as she neared the bridge that marked the edge of their vineyard that she noticed the man lying in the grass. Rather than his presence though it was his voice when he spoke that stood out. She plucked the note of his accent out with the same ease that a harpist did her strings. In Bordeaux tourists were common, and she was amiable to their passing conversations and their curious inquiries. Veata smiled. “It is.” Her eyes turned upwards towards the blue skies. Such a simple, common scene but it was the beautiful constant of her childhood. Her attention returned to the man as he continued speaking with an amiable demeanor. “I suppose it's a simple thing to forget how beautiful something can be until it’s seen from a different light.”
He almost felt familiar when she took a second glance though she couldn’t put her finger on from where. She’d been raised a socialite that dabbled her toes in the waters of numerous communities. The nag teasing her thoughts wasn’t an uncommon one, and she was certain others felt the same about her. Veata continued speaking with a hint of pride in her voice, “You’ve chosen a wonderful time to come to Bordeaux. This is the season the grapes ripen and the vineyards start the preparations for their wines.” She locked her hands behind her back. “I hope you don’t mind my saying but your french is beautiful. Have you been to France before?” It was not an unreasonable question. There was more to the nation than her beloved Bordeaux.
#Voir Avec Le Coeur#Mystic Messenger RP#Jihyun Kim#blurredsun#📚 ▌every morning i wake up to the sweetest sound ⌞V. MYSTIC MESSENGER⌝#; this starter is more than perfect!#; i actually just finished all the main routes for this game a month ago#; and i've been craving some threads for it for the longest time#; cheers to little coincidences and bumping into each other here too#; i'm glad that you've liked what you've seen of this blog so far#; yours and your writing are both just beautiful
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City of Strangers
❝Coffee, please.❞ Score, he thought. Finally a chance to not be yelled at or scolded by random strangers who had no regards for the police. With that, he took a seat at the counter, continuing to look around the apartment. He moved his jacket slightly with the motion of glancing behind. revealing his gun and badge. David quickly caught onto that and placed the fabric over them, knowing how much people didn’t like weapons. He didn’t mean to alarm anyone, after all. At the description, he thought back onto the corpse and nodded. ❝Yes, that’s the one.❞
Mills took into consideration what the host had said. Taking out his notepad, he quickly jotted it down, nodding again. This was useful, begin to build a time frame. Not information that they wouldn’t have figured out, but it’s better sooner than later. David thought for a couple more moments.
❝And there was nothing unusual that happened during the time you were at the exhibit? No arguments? No nothing?❞ The inquiry was obvious. ❝Was the victim perhaps acting unusual himself?❞
David would find the apartment to be impeccable and as serene in appearance as its resident, but with personal touch enough that there was a certain warmth about it. Her mother had preached throughout her life the importance of presentation, and Veata in turn had taken her lessons to heart. She’d built for herself the persona of a calm, feminine individual. It suited her tastes. Even as her stomach tightened at the glimpse she stole of the firearm her demeanor remained civil. “How do you prefer your coffee?” Bitter. Sweet. Black. Milk. Little details such as these became subtle intricacies in the practice of brewing. Veata thought of these things as she began to grind the coffee grounds for the french press even as the previous night stole into her thoughts.
“Nothing that I can recall.” Steam coiled around her hands as she added the grounds then the boiling water to the press. She remembered the canines of his smile, and his hand on her elbow as he walked through the exhibit with her. “He spent most of the night talking with me though I can’t speak for anything that happened before I arrived. If you’d like I can get you into contact with the owner of the gallery. She would know more since she planned the event.” His hand had rested on her back -- a gesture too intimate for her tastes -- as he led her further from the guests. Veata counted the seconds then stirred the water before sliding the lid into place. She closed her hand around the knob and began to press down with great care.
Veata remembered how he’d leaned so close a secret could have tumbled from his mouth onto hers. She’d rejected him then with a single step out of his reach as she’d mused a question about one of the paintings. From a cabinet Veata pulled down a mug and poured the brew with his preferences in mind. “No. Michael seemed to be acting himself, but I have to admit we weren’t close enough that I would have been able to tell if he hadn’t.” His eyes had flashed something dark. But no one liked rejection. “I do know that he had to have left before me.” She knew because there’d been another flower waiting at her door for. Not an orchid, but a carnation. “Here we are.” She smiled as she set the mug of fresh coffee on the counter.
Little Yellow Bike
@allherechos
Papa had insisted to Mama that it would do her good to travel. She was worth more than her two cents of sensibilities, and she would not be travelling alone. Mama though could not be dissuaded from the notion that it was a bad idea. Veata hadn’t minded though others would have thought it smothering. If nothing more it was proof her mother cared very much for her. She could have survived without, but she’d promised Clara the summer and Papa wanted for her to backpack through Europe as he had done himself after his graduation. Neither had addressed the fact that it should have been her brother that carried on the tradition first before passing it down. Veata thought of how she would need to call her parents soon as the train continued down the tracks.
Her eyes closed as she breathed in the faint hint of rain in the air that lingered in the air. Papa had helped her book the tickets, and he’d spared no expense in their arrangements. It would have driven Rithisak mad if he were here in her stead. The sound of the private carriage door opening interrupted her thoughts, and her head turned with a welcoming smile as Clara bustled back inside. She glanced down at the digital numbers on her phone screen. “It shouldn’t be much longer before we arrive at Baden-Baden.” The Black Forest was one of her most anticipated highlights of their trips, and the German town she expected to be a beautiful accompaniment. It would be another fifteen minutes though before the train reached the station.
It was in her nature to be meticulous, and the arrangements she’d made for Germany were as thorough and well-thought as the plans she had made in Belgium. She waited until Clara was comfortable in her seat to lean against her arm. “If the train arrives at the station on schedule that’ll leave us another hour before our check-in at the hotel. We could grab lunch somewhere first then head out. It’s local so it should be within walking distance. What do you think, Clara?” Veata wondered if Baden-Baden was one of the locations marked in her aged travel book -- if there would be a photo and a letter to her mother. She felt the train as it slowed then came to a stop. The gray skies outside did nothing to mar the view waiting them.
thebrokenmarionette-archive reblogged
The Pale Morning Sings
The realization that the bodies were going to continue to stack up smacks him in the chest like a ton of bricks. The amount of energy it took not to act, not to let himself get so close that he lost himself in an attack was immense. It was the people standing around that had grounded him, the people that were at as much of a risk as Spencer had been — as Olivia. The choices he’d made, the decisions that he’d had to stand by while swallowing his rage down hard, it had been to keep his people safe. Negan’s presence seems to make it near impossible.
It’s eerily quiet in the aftermath. As the Saviors clear out, as the street empties, he’s left with the echo of what he’d walked in on. It’s unsustainable, he knows that. His feelings towards Spencer had been double-sided. He’s made assurances in the past that he was one of them, that he’d protect him the same as the rest, but he also had a way with putting them in danger. Being at odds with him doesn’t mean he wants blood in his place. And Olivia, Olivia was completely innocent. Killing her was ruthless, senseless, but it’s the reality right now. The door shuts a little harder behind him than he means it to. He’s caught his breath and his thoughts are still gathering.
He doesn’t know where Judith is until he sees Veata. The fact that Negan was anywhere near his daughter makes his stomach churn. There’s a relief that settles in his chest though, that takes a least a fraction of his concern and dials it back. “ Hey, ” As Judith reaches for him, Rick takes the toddler off of Veata’s hands, quiet as he hugs her to him, reminding himself that she’s okay. That some of them are still okay.
❝ Thank you, ❞ he offers, bringing his attention from Judith back to her. ❝ – I don’t – they’ve got Eugene, cause he made a bullet that Rosita tried to use. Olivia — she — ❞ died for it, though he knows it goes without saying. ❝ And Spencer screwed up. – it’s a mess. ❞
Revelations tumbled from his words and scattered at her feet too plentiful to understand all at once. But for each gear that locked into place she could feel her chest tightening. The fear came slow and chilling behind the start of a thriving migraine. Eugene. Much like Rick and his inner circle Veata had not started the end of the world in Alexandria. She understood the worth of a bullet -- the worth of Eugene. “They won’t kill him.” Not like Olivia. It would have done them worse damage had Eugene been the one shot, but The Saviors must have decided he was better to them alive than dead. Her eyes lowered to Judith’s plump smile. This was what to become of her world. Death would be as much a constant to her as the sun itself.
When she blinked the image of Olivia as she collapsed to the ground flashed through her mind. How much of this would Rosita put on herself? Enough. She had been there the night Negan had beaten Abraham and Glenn to death. He’d made it quite clear that when a debt had to be paid, it would not be the inciter that he came for. Rosita had to have known the consequences her actions risked. Veata sighed. In another time, in another life she might have succeeded in ridding them of once menace, but like the hydra it would not have taken long for another to rise in his place. The only option left to them was to move forward. “I saw it through the window.” She didn’t offer her finger to Judith as the toddler opened and closed her hand.
His assessment was correct. It was a mess. There was a heartbeat of long silence. “It would have been worse if she had killed him, Rick.” The words tasted like poison in her mouth. “He wasn’t alone. His people would have slaughtered her then the rest of ours. It would have been even worse than when The Wolves came. I don’t know what he is to them, but it’s more than a leader.” The migraine worsened. “It’s like watching a cult. We don’t have the strength to stand against something like that.” Veata was careful. When The Saviors came for their homes she’d paid heed to their faces then again when Negan had come looking for Rick. The number hadn’t changed, but the faces had. He was formidable.
Cobbler?
@jerrylovescobbler
She glanced the man as much as the offering over with guarded eyes. Need told her to take the dish, but paranoia snarled a demanding warning that even this might be a test. At no point did part of her think it nothing more than an act of kindness. Veata lowered her head at a slight angle and turned her cheek though she kept his large frame at the edge of her vision. Her stomach growled a hushed noise of complaint. “I’m fine. Thank you.” It unsettled her that the cobbler was whole -- that he’d offer even an entire tupperware of it to a single person. It would seem their king -- deluded and unstable -- hadn’t lied about the well-being of his people. That didn’t mean she trusted him or the others here. Her stomach knotted itself.
thebrokenmarionette-archive reblogged
City of Strangers
He awkwardly stepped in, taking in the sight of the apartment. It was better than something he could afford, but now wasn’t the time to sulk about that.
❝It’s in regards to Michael Fuller, he lived just a couple of apartments away from you.❞ He didn’t like door-to-door duty, but Somerset once again took the integrity of the scene and decided against letting David stick around. He started to despise studio digs. ❝We just wanted to see if you by any chance heard or saw anything last night. Every little detail could help.❞
Mills turned to face the host, himself looking rather distracted from the matter at hand. He wondered if he could find a way to stick around here a little longer than official business required. Considering, he would rather wait around than have to do more door-to-door.
Michael Fuller. The name rang a bell though she couldn’t quite place her finger on the reason for it. Her eyes lowered as she picked through her thoughts while leading the detective into the kitchen. In a distracted tone of voice Veata offered, “Would you care for a cup of tea, Detective? I have some coffee grounds as well if you’d prefer that instead.” Even if he wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries the motions of brewing one for herself were comforting. She glanced over her shoulder with a slight smile before starting in on the task of preparation. “Feel free to take a seat.” It was as she was running water at the sink for the kettle that the pieces clicked into place. “Oh! Michael wouldn’t happen to be on the taller side with dark hair and green eyes?”
Veata knew why the name rang a bell. On more than one occasion she and Michael Fuller had stopped each other for conversations in passing both inside and outside the building. Her recollection of him was a neighbor that had been charming and warm, but perhaps a tad too quick to become comfortable around her. Nothing that had raised red flags though. If she’d expressed a mutual interest in him she might have even found the flowers he’d left at her door endearing. With a flick of the wrist she set the kettle to boil on the stove. “That’s a shame. I talked to him just last night.” She was quick to add. “But that was around seven at one of his exhibits. I came home at around eleven, and there was nothing unusual then.”
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Tá Mé I Dtiúin
└ with the calm morning skies and the turbulent waves, beck knew what was coming; people didn’t want to listen, and maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as he felt - but salt water ran through his blood, he knew the sea like he knew himself. it was nice here, compared, but barricades would protect from the corpses that crawled heavy and chomped hard, but not from the impending doom - the unforgiving beast, the ocean itself. he gave it a week before the waves came and devoured the shores - and when the time came, he’d do all he could to ensure the safety of those around them.
beck had learned to keep his mouth shut more often than not - he wasn’t the brains of the operation, he was the grunt. he’d always been the grunt in life, why would things be different now?
rolling over, veata was nowhere to be seen. the roll of panic settled in and beck rushed to his feet and - there she was - out there, stacking bags in hope of keeping back the rotting bags of flesh - couldn’t blame the girl. those monsters stunk; they were more retched than the rest, bloated and riddled with boils and sores. the thought of them made his stomach churn - more so, the thought of the time he’d shot one, point blank, and it’d had essentially blown up… all over him.
❝ and how do you think it’ll hold up against waves - when it gets bad - if it gets bad. ❞ when. ❝ what, you want me to play pack mule? yeah yeah, couple other things i’d like to look for.. ❞ he gave a heavy sigh while turning to snag his pack, and his machete. ❝ well let’s get it done while we got the daylight. ❞
“It won’t.” The ocean consumed. It could devour shores with the same vicariousness that it did the bloated flesh of the dead, and for as often as it was the gentle, soothe of waves lapping at sand like a kitten to milk it was as often a building swell of storms so powerful it could drown entire towns in seconds flat. “I haven’t lived here long enough to learn the weather patterns, but I’ve never known a port town that hasn’t had to deal with some nature of destructive incident before.” Her eyes cast out over the open waters of the ocean. It was a peaceful image basking in the warmth of the rising sun, but in her mind’s eye Veata could picture towering waves crashing down around them. “I doubt it’ll hold against much, and at that point we evacuate.”
She couldn’t decipher whether the remark was sarcastic or authentic. It was difficult to think there had been a time she would have cared enough to. “Yes. You’re stronger than I am.” The tone of her voice was as plaintive as her expression. She pressed her hand down on the sandbag a final time before turning to trail after Beck. The compact space of the lean-to added a heaviness to his sigh that she dismissed as she equipped herself with her steel crowbar and her worn satchel bag. “We can stop at the post office, and write in a request if you can’t find what you’re looking for here.” She’d planned on taking him on a more detailed tour around the town at some point. No reason it couldn’t be while running other errands.
The sand crunched under her boots as she traversed the thin strip of sand and brittle rock that led out of the cove. “I’m assuming Carter hasn’t explained the finer details of how the town operates.” He hadn’t with her at least when she’d arrived almost three months earlier. “We’re not a collective. Most folks here aren’t friends, but we’ve kept the peace dividing responsibilities between us. I live the farthest from the others handling the dead that wash onto shore.” Veata pointed to a small, white storefront as she and Beck crossed the threshold of the low brick wall that marked the transition from beach to town. “Marcus lives there with his daughters. He used to work at a water plant, and he’s the only reason anyone has potable water.”