lucetilogs | Mission: Burying the Past in Zompania

[ By the time that Jean decides to come back to his holes, there's a smaller figure that's decided to start a new one near to the line he was making. Back hunched and in a suit that's too big for him, Red's made some progress on getting off the top layer so far. Just got to keep going.

He's tried to make note of Jean's holes, such as their length and their depth, and, well, while he doubts he can dig that far in and get out without any extra help, he hopes can get something done. A small yellow overgrown mouse looking shape - a pikachu, should Jean know - stands near by his feet, watching the process on the hole, though he shows his face by looking at Jean when he comes near. The smell of the city is strong, and picking out the stench of sweat and human through it is a challenge even for him, but he doesn't need his nose to be aware of approaching people. ]

[When he sees Red hunched over the shovel, he has to wonder what the hell would compel a kid to volunteer for something like this. He glances from the weird rodent back to the kid as he scuffs to a stop in the upturned soil nearby, empty-handed, having just lain a cart's worth of bodies to rest further down the absconding rows, and looking to bury some thoughts in digging more holes.]

Need some help with that? [The question almost sounds severed, uncleanly, from their death-stained surroundings, but it carries the weight of being tired.]

[ Red shoves the head of the shovel in and keeps it there when Jean stops near to them, his glance upwards turning to focus onto the man's face when he speaks. The question makes him look back down to the ground, and he shakes his head soon after. ]

No. [ But the sight of the others near to his that catches his view makes Red reconsider that quickly enough. He can't do it all by himself. ] I can't dig as deep as them.

[ As long as he doesn't want to take over all his hole. ]

[He's not that much older than Red, a few years shy of the threshold of adulthood, but he's from a world where most are forced to grow up fast. And he himself was only twelve when he enlisted in the military, but he did so with the selfish ambition to get away from the very real possibility of an early death. That this kid has the guts to throw himself into this wreckage is impressive, sure, but it isn't the right place for him.

His frown doesn't lift. Still...]

We need all the help we can get, and you're doing what you can.

[In other words, it's okay. He finds another shovel nearby, left behind by someone who must have moved on to another task or gone to take a break, and he slices the ground a few paces from Red's shovel, shoving the head down deeper into the earth with his boot.]

[ His digging had slowed when there came nothing from the man in that moment, Red curious about what it was that he was thinking, what he might do. What he finally does say, moving thereafter to grab the shovel, clues Red in. He can guess, at least, that he was being judged for his worth. Because of his age.

Lots of people do it. It's nothing new. It's the easiest conclusion to come to, anyway.

When Jean returns and shifts in the shovel head into the dirt, he repositions his own to dig in so not to clash with his. Red's not worked on a single hole with another person, and he doesn't want to knock or have them get in the way of each other.

Maybe turning would be a good idea. Dig from the side. Easier to be mindful there. So Red tries it after a few digs in, scraping at the dirt as he waits to push into the ground with his weight. ]

...Even a kid can have a reason for being here. [ ... ] Even if I can't finish it, it's still a hole started.

[ He pushes down on the blade. ]

[Anything to finish the job faster and lay all the remains to rest beneath the dirt, like the whole thing can be buried and left behind. The kid is already here, and willing to do the work - that's all there is to it. The tired but perseverant rhythm of his shovel continues alongside Red.]

What reason is that?

[Everyone has a reason, even if it's hard to fit it into words. He can't help his idle curiosity, and talking is one of the few distractions they have. Even if it's not much of a distraction, since it's hard to get out from underneath all this heaviness.]

[ To ask him to put his reason into words is asking a lot. Natural enough after what was said, and Red does know his own reasons in his heart and in his head, but to be asked them and knowing what word to open his mouth to start the explanation with is more of a work than breathing in the stuffy air provided by the suit.

His own shovelling slows, sitting ready to be pushed in again but not yet given the help to dig in. With those few seconds, Red concludes it doesn't have to be as complicated an answer as it's been running through his head as . ]

I came here before. [ Is that too simple to satisfy the man? But that shouldn't really matter. He pushes down with all of his weight, grunting with it. ] And I want to help.

[ Help bring it down, and put the dead to some kind of rest -- or at least their bodies. ]

Fair enough. [He wasn't looking for a heart-to-heart on the meaning of existence or anything. Just a reason, any reason. He cleaves the ground with the shovel head again, launches the dirt aside.] I'm here because I didn't want to take the easy way out.

[Apprehension had jerked his gut into tight knots, volunteering for the mission and preparing himself - mentally, mostly mentally - to return to the site. The memories were fresh, are still fresh, as if they're still happening. The battle is done. There is nothing to be afraid of.

But he had taken lives, and that's not something he can let himself forget, even if he could.]

[ The easy way out? ]

Easy way out for you? Or for everyone?

[ Because he imagines it first to mean the latter when the man says it, and that doesn't sit well in Red though he's never thought about it before. But he'll see what he says. ]

For me. It ain't my business what anyone else chooses to do. You have to make these kinds of decisions on your own.

I mean... [His shovel strikes the earth again, and he pauses for just a second before scooping the dirt out. His eyes stay on his work.] It'd be easy to never come back here. It's not like I was forced into this, this time. But it wouldn't feel right, leaving all this unfinished.

[ The answer makes him blink, and to stop for a moment. It's actually an answer he likes, and everything that follows it. Words he could relate to -- in some ways, anyway. ]

...It was horrible out there. [ there, here - the two were so different, though still the same in their own ways ] I didn't wanna come - part of me anyway. But I thought it'd help. [ at least digging in the shovel for longer helps loosen the ground. maybe ] Help when we get sent out again.

[ His shovel rests still in the ground when it could dig in his silence, but there's something else. ]

I want me and my pokémon to be ready.

[ He says that with more voice -- then, finally, he digs in. ]

[He glances up from his shovel.] Oh, you train pokemon? [It's simple acknowledgement rather than a real question.]

I don't know if you can ever really be ready. [All the biggest battles of his life so far, he hasn't been ready for. Either the battle has torn open with him standing on the faultline, or he's been flung into the belly of it, and there's little time to think because he has to live.] All you can do is try to get as close to it as you can.

[ He nods with a sound anyway, realising he should've said partners than pokémon afterwards. They still understood luckily, but it was always the better option.

But to what the person says next, Red surveys the dirt underneath him for a moment. ]

'Cause stuff like the drafts can happen any second, right. [ At any instant. ] No one's going to give you a chance to be ready in a real fight.

[ It's said in a more reflective voice, lowered but not quiet. That was the way Zompania had been - keep on your toes, be ready to run. It's a reminder of that sinks into his stomach, something he doesn't want - but he accepts its presence.

Who knew what it would be like next time.

He takes in a loud breath, the motion of drawing out the dirt stinging into his arms. It wasn't only the action of digging in and digging out getting to the boy, but the weight of the shovel too. So he breathes, giving the pain a chance to dull. ]

Right. [One curt nod, in time with his shovel biting into the dirt. They're beginning to get somewhere, sinking down into the earth.]

Being ready doesn't guarantee a thing anyway. It won't protect you from every enemy that's sent your way. You could feel plenty ready, and you still end up dead. You gotta remember that, too.

[He throws a look Red's way, wary concern etched into his eyes and the sharp angles of his face, suddenly remembering this is a kid he's talking to. But then he supposes age doesn't matter in battle, nor does it matter when it boils down to simple ugly truths.]

...But I try not to think about that one too hard.

[ It's not comfort that comes to his arms in letting them rest, but a continuing pain straining down along them. Red expected it though, and he loosens as well his fingers, just enough to relax the joints.

Listening to the man gives him the time with that. He catches the look sent his way, already with his own focus on him. The material of the visor and damp of condensation made from working through the day makes it hard to see too much, to see his features too clearly, but he can tell some of the face. Obviously enough a guy, anyway.

And Red frowns. When he's done talking, Red knows he doesn't like the words he hears, but he doesn't know how to articulate why he doesn't. Because they're true? Because they're-- pointless? He looks to the ground, staring at it, then back over to his company. ]

So what? Feeling ready's better than not. It's trying. If I'm going to end up dead, I'm gong to end up dead. [ He says the words hard, not one to like to acknowledge death but having no choice in this place. ] But I wanna know I tried being ready for the worst.

I haven't got myself just to think about.

[He doesn't comment on Red taking a break. When he was that age, he would've grabbed at every chance to rest his arms, and he'd push more of his energy into complaining than digging. He wouldn't have chosen to be here at all.

But his eyes narrow as he heaves dirt over his shoulder, and when he comes to a rest, leaning on the handle for a moment, his muscles aching and his hair flattening to his forehead with the weight of sweat, he tries to read Red through the visor of the protective suit.]

You're too young to be that eager to die.

[Words braced with conviction, words that are forged in the gut with a single-mindedness - it reminds him of somebody else he knows. Death is still terrible even in its impermanence here, and the battle, still festering inside them all, had revealed to them the mushrooming potential of a kind of dying that can't be pieced back together.]

No I'm not!

[ If it can be read, then his face looks as much as the words that come out of his mouth. Eyes narrowed up to a slit, lips turned deeply, staying after each pause and word said that next comes out of it the mouth it's a part of: ]

I don't want to die! I don't want anyone to die!

[ He can't continue hold onto the shovel that loosely, not with that type of emotion running through him right now. So Red grips his fingers back around it, just so he is. ]

But I'm not stupid, I know we can all end up dead! What's stopping us from getting attacked right now?

Nothing but luck.

[With the barrier down, it's not just natural shifts they're left to protect themselves against - there's nothing to stop an invading force from pressing toward them, surrounding them, choking them. Open spaces make him paranoid. He supposes that's one of the "comforts" of home this world echoes: walls promise safety.]

Be eager to fight, eager to survive-- [The former, he can't say he understands - all there is to feel at the start of battle is the frayed edges of fear unraveling in you, and the realization that "ready" is nothing but a fable. The latter, he feels in his gut. Feels it caged in his ribs, desperate and beating insistently.] That's...that's good. That's about all you can do.

[He starts to haul his shovel up again.] Just don't think that dying will make you a hero.

[Most die wondering what the hell they're dying for, he suspects. It's anticlimactic. It leaves you thinking there should've been something more.]

[ What the hell was with this guy?

And how could he just start digging again-- the fact that he does perplexes Red as the words before and after it. Was he just lost in his own world by the end of all of that, speaking aloud thoughts words he heard and or believed in?

Red doesn't join him in the digging, handle gripped as he watches him for a few seconds without words or movement. And then he huffs, wanting to show his irritation before the words that come out. ]

Do you always preach about crap no one said? [ The words aren't loud, but they're strong and biting. If he should be more considerate about what was bringing this person to say what he does, there was no one there to tell Red that. Definitely not his own head. He tilts the shovel in his hand, lifting it up and digging it right back in to relieve some of the distaste in his body. ] I don't want to die. And I don't care about being a hero either.

[ He looks away from him at the end of those words, the interest in conversing with the man diminishing. The sooner he gets this hole done, the sooner he can leave this guy. He didn't need to get educated on stuff he knew, and not by some stranger.

Who even wanted to die fighting other than warriors in stories? ]

[At Red's outburst, Jean looks up from his digging again. His startled expression drops quickly, squashed by his sharply slanting eyebrows. He rarely intends for anything he says to spark somebody, but he never stops to check if his words are made of flint. Mostly, he was saying what was on his mind, and whether it was for Red's sake or simply for the sake of shaping thoughts to wedge into the empty spaces of this corpse field, he didn't suppose it mattered.]

I'm not trying to preach anything, I'm just saying. [His words are tight and hard, balled up like a fist that he's trying not to let go of, worn down to the knuckles. He empties the dirt from his shovel, and strikes the earth again.]

I'm happy you don't have a deathwish, kid, that's all. You're supposed to fight to live, not to die. So if you get that, then...good.

[ Kid. And without Jean realising it again, there goes another spark from his mouth. He could have a voice as tight as a fist or as light as a touch of the palm, skin soft and tender; neither have would made the words - all after a point in Red's ears judging, of one older looking down to one much younger like he needed a lesson - any less hazardous. ]

Keep it to yourself. [ He has to remember why he's here, the reason he wanted to dig this hole, though now it's not only the memories of Zompania or the corpses that laid, waiting in endless rest, that make Red's stomach turn with disgust. People standing here talking to him like he didn't have a clue at all, like he wasn't here before, he didn't come so close--

It spreads like a poison in his body, the heat under his clenched jaw, the pressure in his chest sitting over his heart. Red forces the shovel down, heedless to aching in him ass he releases his anger out in a different way than by an argument.

But regardless of if he is, it drips from his mouth in a low voice just once, a kid only capable of biting down his tongue so much, ] Just stop talking to me.

[ Just let him dig his hole, and be done. ]

[With hindsight being unhelpfully sharp, he can usually see where he went wrong with his words. He's gotten better at it. But this time, he scours what he had said, and he can't find the jagged broken edges, can't comprehend the kid's cold shoulder. Maybe it's just that death and war are topics so hard and heavy and serrated that their ugliness cuts through to glint even in the mildest words. That, he can understand. He knows nothing about Red, but he knows it's never easy.]

...Fine. Let's just do what we came here to do. [They've still got a ways to go with this hole. The movements of its creation are pressed into his muscles' memory, and it hardly takes any thought anymore. He doesn't like the familiarity of death, the resigned inevitability of these rows and rows of holes.

It won't be him. He doesn't want it to be him. He doesn't want it to be anybody.]

Mission: Burying the Past in Zompania

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really sorry for the late response

it's all good man

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