Page 1 of 9 1234 ... LastLast
Results 1 to 20 of 167

Thread: Summer's End

  1. #1

    Closed Roleplay [X-Men] Summer's End

    NORTH WASHINGTON, COLORADO

    It was 3am when the bus crawled into the station. Beside the long lonely road, it shone like a beacon, brilliant, and offensively white against the darkest, flattest, and most boring landscape Jim had ever seen. A hiss of brakes announced the end of their journey, and lights like sunbeams invaded the gloomy interior, prodding weary passengers awake. Slowly, they gathered their things; spluttering as they mined the depths of their seats or groaning at the great effort to retrieve luggage from the overhead rack. And then, an undead shuffle of feet down the narrow aisle, as they filed outside, wincing like newborns. A moment longer, Jim waited for the crowd to disperse before turning to his companion.

    “Aimee?” he whispered, “Hey, Aimee. It's time to go.”

    She looked like a small pile of clothes on the seat. He gave her a gentle nudge, and she moved barely an inch, just enough to lift her head off the window. Beneath the hood, Jim imagined she woke with more grace than their fellow travellers, maybe a soft yawn and a flutter of the eyes. Although, after having lived under the same roof with several of them, he'd become wise to the fact that girls weren't entirely the dainty creatures he'd been led to believe. That went double for Aimee. Triple for Polly. When she righted herself, and he caught a glimpse of her face, Jim felt a twinge of guilt. It was less than two hours ago, as they passed through the jagged valleys of Glenwood Springs, when she finally succumbed to exhaustion. And from one glance it was plain to see fatigue still clung to her like an old coat.

    “The coast is clear. Come on.”

    Together they stepped out into the glare of the station, and cautiously, yet hastily, found themselves somewhere to sit inside that was farthest removed from everyone else. The station was long, miraculously white, and populated with clusters of plastic chairs between automated ticket dispensers, vending machines, and toilets. Footsteps echoed from end to end, so when people spoke to each other, they muttered. And the over-sensitive automatic doors were open more than they were closed, providing no refuge from the crisp night air – it was, however, a preferable alternative to the stuffy innards of a bus. On an overhead screen flickered the timetable for the incoming and outgoing traffic. Jim visibly deflated.

    “Looks like we got an hour to kill. Did you remember to bring the Travel Scrabble?”

    Slumped as she was in her seat, chin against her chest, Aimee was difficult to read, particularly with that hood hiding her face. Nevertheless, Jim hoped his admittedly weak attempt at humour had been afforded at least a courtesy smile. She didn't speak much. Sixteen hours of budget coach trips sandwiched between three hours of waiting around and doing nothing; it had been a long day preceded by another long day. The funeral had taken its toll on each of them, and after the events of the week previous, it was one last bitter pill to swallow. There was no closure for any of them. A family had been fractured and scattered, friends had been lost, everything had changed. Aimee often said that those who didn't learn to bend with the wind would break. Jim usually chalked her particular brand of hard-knock wisdom down to a defence mechanism she'd developed growing up on the mean streets of New York, but now that they found themselves returning to those mean streets, he finally understood. Gone were the palm trees and the warm Californian nights, gone were familiar faces on familiar streets, gone was the ritual of the morning bathroom rush and the clamour of chaotic meals; Anna's cooking, Jake's music, Alex's lectures, basketball with Ronnie, Scott's practical jokes, Jamie's illusions, Jennifer's impressions...

    What a difference a day makes, Jim thought, as he looked around at the station; cold surroundings and colder strangers. It was the chill wind of change, of the unknown, but they had each other, and they would face it together.

  2. #2
    Jim's attempt at a joke fell flat. Aimee found it hard to muster the will to lift her head to even look at him, her confidence shattered as it was. In her hoodie she could be just another teenager on a bus - not a mutant refugee from the upheaval in California, headed for once familiar haunts in the hope that she could find her feet again.

    After a moment she raised her head, the harsh fluorescent lights illuminating her purple skin on the lower part of her face. "No Scrabble, sorry." Aimee unzipped the outer pocket of her backpack and fished out a dilapidated pack of cards. "Got these though."

    Being here with Jim would have felt weird just a few weeks ago. Now, though? He was the last bit of rope left for her to hold onto; a tether that had appeared at the last moment when she was slipping away. Always friendly, now they were friends, and she felt bad putting him through this horrifically long bus trip with such a depressing companion.

    Aimee made an attempt to straighten up, and was overtaken with a yawn, covering her mouth with the hand holding the cards. "I need some caffeine."

    is purple your favorite color?

  3. #3
    "I'll go."

    He was on his feet before she could object. Around the nearest vending machine huddled a trio of travellers, they spoke in undertones over nursed drinks. Once Jim was upon them, all went quiet. It was a thick conspicuous sort of silence, the kind that accompanied an eerie mannequin-like stillness and then the burning feeling of so many furtive glances. The machine gave a click, and then made a painful grinding sound as it pissed instant coffee into the flimsy plastic cup. Jim stole a glance at his neighbours, eyeballs snapped downwards, suddenly transfixed by the contents of the steaming cups. His head gave a sharp twitch, as if to dislodge itself from his shoulders, and then he swept away immediately, coffee in hand.

    "Here. It don't look so bad. Better than the sludge in Vegas, at least."

    Considering his choice of words, thereafter, Jim took grim pleasure in his accidental efficiency. The sludge in Vegas, he mused, could apply to every facet of the hateful place. He imagined Aimee agreed, at least about the coffee, not that it had been discussed. In fact, over the course of the trip, they hadn't spoke much of anything - certainly of nothing that mattered. Jim knew better than to pry into open wounds, no matter how much it pained him to see his friend suffer, or to endure her silence. Outside, another bus pulled into the station, and disgorged passengers of every colour and variety. Almost every colour.

    "We can spend the night in Chicago, if you want. Find someplace cheap. Get a wash, maybe. You know, there ain't no rush."

  4. #4
    Aimee accepted the coffee gratefully, trading the deck of cards for it. Jim needed something to fidget with. He'd been remarkably still lately - for him, anyway. "I think I'd rather just get this trip over with."

    She paused, sipping the hot drink. She wasn't sure it actually qualified as coffee. "You excited to see your family?" Aimee didn't really know the particulars about why Jim had trekked across the country to live in California in the first place, except that he had run away. All of them had been adrift, for one reason or another.

  5. #5
    "No," he answered, too quickly. There was a whiff of bullish indignation about his denial, unbecoming of him, and unworthy of Aimee's patience. His shoulders sagged, the fight gone from him.

    "Honestly, it's the opposite. Who says I even got a home to back to, huh?"

    It was a feeble complaint, given the company he kept, and he knew it. Still, whether it was justified or not, his insides squirmed not only at the thought of a family reunion, but also of what Aimee would think of him when it happened. Neither of them wasted time fretting over hypotheticals. There was another silence. Jim was shuffling cards before he knew it, and when he did, he was thankful for having a companion like Aimee - precious few were those who knew how to handle his condition.

    Minutes passed like hours, and the teens remained obstinate in their ignorance of the comings and goings of crowds, until the seats opposite were occupied by a party of hikers. Rough and weather-beaten, with overburdened rucksacks and dirt-crusted boots; there was no good reason for them to be concerned with strangers, or indeed have the energy to do so. And yet, there was a murmur of disquiet which spread throughout the group like a disease. Soon, there was pointing, attracting the attention of curious bystanders. The swell in sound was like the steady and inexorable climb of an approaching tsunami. Jim found himself recalling every single newspaper headline he'd read that day, and every radio snippet and glimpse of television they had come across over the last twenty-four hours. Then he remembered the one solitary security guard posted in his booth at the other end of the station. He stood and wrapped his fingers around Aimee's wrist. His voice cracked like dry wood.

    "We oughta wait outside."

  6. #6
    She roused at his touch, bleary and stiff from nodding off curled up on the hard plastic seat. "Sure," she said, getting up. Aimee used her free hand to pull down on her hood to keep her face obscured, and then hooked the strap of her backpack. She would have worn gloves but it was still summertime and the hoody was hot enough.


    Feeling comfortable in her own skin again was going to take a while. She followed Jim as he hurried through the bus terminal, feeling overly self-conscious. Then again, by the way people's heads were turning, perhaps it was just the right amount of self-consciousness.

  7. #7
    Aimee and Jim left the station at speed, pursued by a rumble of voices. From the turbulence surfaced strings of angry taunts on either side. It was indecipherable aggression, and it did not abate until a plastic cup sailed close to Aimee's head and splashed hot coffee over the tiles in front of them. Then there was laughter. By the time the mutants were expelled from the bus station, the atmosphere within was positively jovial. Strangers gathered in boisterous congregations, food was shared, and hot drinks passed around. So dramatic was the change that overcame their tormentors, that Jim half-expected to see them raise their little cups in a toast. Outside, he and Aimee found a bench, and waited for the next bus.

    ---

    I-90, HAMMOND, INDIANA

    The sun rose over Wolf Lake, chasing the night into the horizon. On one side of the bus, the sky was a rich pumpkin orange, on the other side, it was like sapphire velvet, and overhead hung every permutation in between. The lake itself was ablaze like liquid gold and the greenery was black. And towering pylons glistened like jewels in every direction. On the bus itself, the mood was placid, it was as if every passenger was sharing one big comforter. They had been travelling for twenty minutes and it was much too early in the morning to be anything but sedate. Jim stole a glance up the aisle, everywhere there were pairs of dark glassy eyes, shimmering with quiet contentment. Even Aimee was relaxed enough to snatch a moment free from her hood.

    The journey to Chicago had been fraught with delay. When they pulled into the station at 10pm, they arrived only to discover that not only had they missed their bus, by two and a half hours, no less, but also that the next departure wouldn't be until first thing the following morning. Given the events of the night previous, the thought of spending the night at the station alone filled Aimee and Jim with apprehension. But, as fortune would have it, they weren't alone; they had Raymond and Ben. Raymond and Ben were a middle-aged couple from Des Moines who were travelling to Boston for a cousin's wedding. Both great mountains of men, between them they boasted seven championship titles in super heavyweight boxing circles, and, for the teens, it was a great comfort to spend the night flanked by each of them.

    Presently, Raymond and Ben were taking turns in trying to conquer a particularly challenging level on Angry Birds. It started with Ben - the one with a salt-and-pepper short 'fro - who had over the course of the night hunkered intermittently over a tiny iPhone, and worked at it with his bulbous thumbs until, in a ground-quaking moment of weakness, he tossed the phone aside and bellowed the words: "God damn you, you useless candy corn bastard!" That was at 5am. Jim checked his watch with a smirk, it was 6:25, but to be fair to them both, they had wasted the first half hour on a hilarious argument about whether the yellow bird looked more like a piece of candy corn or a pizza slice. It was unsurprising then to find them labouring over the same treacherous level.

    Beside him, Aimee shifted in her seat. She was gazing out of the window. Maybe it was just his relentless optimism, but she looked... not quite sad. But then again, as Aimee had learned the hardest way, appearances were about as real as that golden lake outside.

    "We should do this properly one day," he said, she managed an inquisitive glance, "This. A real road trip. You, me, Alex, Ronnie, and Scott. Guess we could also squeeze Svetlana into the trunk."
    Last edited by Jim Lewinski; Oct 21st, 2013 at 05:35:32 PM.

  8. #8
    She smiled, a lopsided twist of her lips before she could stop it. "That would be great. Maybe we could go see the Grand Canyon. Or the world's largest rubber band ball." Raymond and Ben were muttering about trajectories on the other side of the aisle, which threatened to widen her smile. Aimee had to admire Angry Birds from afar - her mutation made touch screens almost impossible to use. Something about the surface of her fingertips just didn't play nice with them.

    She looked back out the window at the glistening lake, the sunrise turning the world into a beautiful place. Sunrises, new days... even the leaves would start changing in a few weeks. It had put her in a contemplative mood, and one that wasn't fixated on recent losses but on the future. Of course, now she was thinking about them again. Aimee sighed, fiddling with her hood as if to pull it over her messy ponytail and hide again.

  9. #9
    Jim grinned as Aimee listed potential attractions for their highly theoretical road trip, knowing full well, as also did she, which of the two he'd most like to see. Giant rubber band ball, everytime. If he were to consult his internal optimist, a road trip such as that was an inevitability - he would make it happen. The scientist considered the variables; finances, resources, windows of opportunity, friendship degredation probabilities - and things still looked good. Then there was another voice; it suggested that too much had changed, that he'd probably never see his friends again, and, even if he did, it would be too late. What concered Jim was that this voice - the third and smallest voice - it didn't call out through a rose-tinted haze of happiness or bury itself under a mountain of cold and calculated fact, it was the quietest voice because it was also the clearest. Grim pragmatism was the gift of Los Santos, and it buries itself deep below the surface, where it can take root.

    Before he could further indulge in his fantasy road trip, he noticed Aimee appeared to be on the verge of retreating back into her hooded shell. Promptly, he turned to her in earnest.

    "Ayo, Aimee. Look, I know that, with all the bad stuff that's gone down, we haven't had a chance to talk. Both of us, we just sorta took off, you know? And I was wonderin', once we get to New York, what exactly are your intentions?"

  10. #10
    Disappear on the streets, hopefully forever. It was a morose thought, and Aimee knew it wasn't true. She'd tried that in LA, and, well. That had turned out great.

    "Entirely honorable," she said instead, giving him a little dig with her elbow. "I was sort of hoping I could crash with you for a while. Just until I find a place. My old...home... has a lot of turnover. Might not be space for me right away."
    Last edited by Lilaena De'Ville; Oct 21st, 2013 at 07:38:05 PM.

  11. #11
    "No!" Jim blurted with excitement, "I mean yes. That's great! I wasn't sure if you were gonna, but if you are, then we will if we can. I was worried you'd decline- nothin' pervy, you know- and there's my parents- but it's like you're psychic!"

    Words tumbled out faster than he could keep purchase on them. It was a deluge, like water from a fractured damn. In his head there were words, whole sentences in fact, leaping to bridge the chasms between each disjointed exclamation. But, outside the speedways of his mind, unspoken words were of no use at all. The flicker of confusion on Aimee's face melted into kindly practiced patience; a look Redención House residents had down to an art form, and it killed him. He slapped his cheek. Then again, harder. And bit down on his knuckle in frustration, muttering, "Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!"

  12. #12
    Jim's quiet outburst was not exactly out of the ordinary, but it wasn't usual, either. She didn't really know what to do, so settled for leaning her head on his shoulder with yawn. "It's okay, Jim. I know what you mean. I'm glad it's ok, with you at least."

  13. #13
    "Sorry," he said, breathless with shock, "I-I-I- I'm tryin' to keep a lid on it."

    He sighed a heavy, body-shuddering sigh, and swatted from his cheek a hot tear that had been squeezed out during his tantrum. The closeness of Aimee to him, the warmth of her physical touch, it was soothing. On the periphery of his vision he saw Raymond and Ben, they made no pretense of playing their game anymore, and they were watching. He braved a glance, and chased the concern from their faces with a stiff nod and a smile. But beneath the surface, his shame was eating him from the inside out. Just when he thought he had control, a single unpredictable spark of excitement set him off like a rocket. He slumped miserably into his seat, draping a heavy arm across Aimee's shoulders.

    "That's what I wanted to ask you, and I was worried you'd be scared off because you wanted to be alone, or because you'd think I was being like a sleazeball or somethin'. I don't want you to be alone, Aimee. And if everything goes well with the family, I know you'll be welcome to stay for as long as you want."

    After a moment of reflection, he added, "I also don't want you thinkin' I'm a sleazeball."

  14. #14
    "I would never think you're a sleazeball," she said. "If you try anything, though, I am practiced in the art of kicking guys in the nuts. So, keep that in mind." Aimee twisted her head and peered up at him. "Joking. Well, I mean I would, but I am sure you will be a perfect gentleman."

    She paused, considering Cameron and what she'd thought about him. Aimee sighed, pulling away and leaning her forehead against the window. "Anyway."

  15. #15
    "Anyway," Jim echoed, weakly.

    It didn't take a psychic to interpret the sudden cold shoulder, or to see the turmoil rampant behind Aimee's eyes. A better person would've asserted themselves, first with a comforting hand to hold, and then with magic words to dispel the demons. Jim stared, dumbfounded, as if he would find the right words tangled in his friend's glossy black hair. She was dealing with problems beyond the scope of his own emotional education. If Alex was with them, he'd say she just needed time. Space too, probably. It only figured that when they had time in abundance, space was in such short supply. Maybe when they got home that would change.

    Home, Jim repeated to himself. Is that what he called it?

    ---

    LOWER MANHATTAN, NEW YORK


    It had been twelve hours since their departure from Chicago. A whole three days since the tearful farewells in Los Santos. An hour ago, they said goodbye to Raymond and Ben; there had been mighty ham hock handshakes and bone-crunching bear hugs. And they were still on a bus. This time, however, it was smaller, a sardine tin by comparison, with hard plastic seats that stabbed like knifes under the shoulder blades, handrails that rattled ominously overhead in their loose fixtures, and a central aisle so narrow it even gave Aimee pause for thought. The bus was packed and hot. Outside, New York City, where buildings weren't buildings unless they were at least eight stories high, and the roads were murderous, and saturated with yellow cabs. The journey from the heart of the city was a taxing affair, exacerbated by the rush hour traffic, and they expected it would be at least forty minutes before they reached Staten Island, but at least Jim had plenty to keep him occupied. How he'd missed it, the bustle of the big city, with so much happening all at once. There was an argument breaking out at the front of the bus, unfortunately it was football related so much of what was said made precious little sense to him, but as the dispute grew heated, the combatants called in reinforcements from either side of the bus. The numbers seemed to be evenly-matched, and everyone had something to say, sounding off opinions like trumpets into battle. Jim smiled as the chaos unravelled around them. In New York, he was never bored.

    In a single minute of congestion-free paradise, the rowdy rickety bus swung through Tribeca, onto West Street, then into the amber glow of the Hugh L. Carey Tunnel. They resurfaced in Brooklyn, and took the interstate through a grizzly urban landscape of half-dilapidated buildings with graffiti-plastered walls. It reminded him too much of downtown Los Santos, so instead he kept his eyes fixed on the road, awash as it was with warm reds and blazing whites. Aimee was quiet again, which was to be expected after spending twelve straight hours on a sweaty coach, and he imagined she was probably starting to hallucinate visions of bath tubs and soap bubbles. Halfway across the Verrazano Bridge, he broke his silence.

    "So, where exactly do you call home around here?"

  16. #16
    "There's a," she yawned, and then groaned. "I hate buses. I'm never getting on one again. But I'm from Brooklyn." Aimee waved vaguely. "Around. You know. There's an apartment on a Freeman Street that I used to crash at. My friend Ginny used to work up the way at Smith's Mini Mart. Sometimes I stayed with her, if things were ..."

    She trailed off and shrugged. "I slept at the top of the Statue of Liberty once." Aimee grinned at the look on Jim's face and said, "Kidding, but I sort of have always wanted to climb her."

  17. #17
    "Ain't nothin' stoppin' you now. No, I'm serious! The shit we've been through... scaling Lady Liberty would be a snooze."

    Once they had crossed the bridge and arrived at Staten Island, the nerves started to kick in. Aimee must have sensed it too, because she supplied him with the scruffy card deck at just the right moment. Everything beyond the window was intimately familiar, to the point that he could predict to the minute when they were going to reach their stop. And by the time he had finally shuffled off the last hateful bus of the trip, Jim was positively ashen. Above them, the sky was bleeding through its colours. It was just as it had been that morning over Wolf Lake, except less tranquil. Together they skulked the sidewalk in search of an unoccupied cab.

    "Aimee, remind me. What do you know about my family?"

  18. #18
    "Uh, that you've got one." Aimee stuck her fingers in her mouth and let out a piercing whistle, a cab pulling up to the curb in moments. She waved at the driver and she and Jim hurried to get into the back of it. Thankfully in New York the taxi drivers didn't care what you looked like as long as you paid your fare. Jim told the driver the address, and they settled in.

    "Your dad's a businessman or something and your mom stayed at home." Aimee looked at Jim, who seemed a little paler than usual. "I don't think I even know if you have brothers or sisters."

  19. #19
    "No, I don't got any of those. Loads of cousins, though. Like you wouldn't believe."

    It was dark inside the cab, and the floor was sticky. There was a Little Tree swinging from the rear-view mirror, poisoning the air with its sickly-sweet stench, and the driver himself, a burly, unshaven Italian with a weakness for eye-watering aftershave, was singing along with the Taylor Swift drone coming from his radio. The music, the smell, the stickiness; trifling complaints that, when combined, helped push Jim's immediate concerns to the back of his mind. And, rather than worry, he just tried to enjoy the closing chapter of a very long trip.

    First, they passed through Sunnyside, a land of semi-detached homes, SUV's, and Star-Spangled Banners. It was charming in a throwback-Americana kind of way, with its immaculate streets, quaint local businesses, and sprinklings of maple and sycamore beside every road. Jim watched Aimee watching the houses as they ticked past, and then they disappeared entirely, replaced by thick nests of trees. Closer they got to their destination. The trees tumbled away to reveal a lake, its surface was still, like a mirror, reflecting the dark blue clouds overhead. On the other side, distant lights flickered like candles. Up ahead, there was a split in the road, and the cab vanished into a mouth of woodland. Closer and Closer.

    "Look, Aimee, I don't want you to get the wrong idea..."

    "One Delaware Place," said the cabbie, as they rolled to a stop.

    "We're here."

  20. #20
    Her amber eyes nearly popped out of her head. "This is... yours? Holy fuck, Lewinski." She slugged him in the shoulder. "Am I going to stay in your guest house?!"

Page 1 of 9 1234 ... LastLast

Bookmarks

Posting Permissions

  • You may not post new threads
  • You may not post replies
  • You may not post attachments
  • You may not edit your posts
  •