#manojoaquin

The bruises slowly faded, but they were replaced with something worse. Memories, fleeting glimpses of what not-Harry had gotten up to in her body. They came to her like fever dreams, distorted and fuzzy, out of order and rarely making sense. She'd spent a lot of time in the Labyrinth, leading people in only to abandon them. Harry's isolation meant that she didn't have to deal with facing those people just now. What could she say? She wasn't going to apologise for something she didn't do-

-- But you could do it. It was so easy, and didn't it feel good, taking their trust and hope and showing them how naïve they were, how stupid. --

The thoughts were another disturbing development. Harry, already grumpy by nature, was dark by morning, sleep-deprived and in pain. But she'd uncovered memories of being at the farms, visiting them each in turn in the quiet hours of the day. And despite her reluctance to help, Harry couldn't ignore the siren call of wanting to know what not-Harry had done, nor could she resist the possible praise if she managed to fix it.

Harry slowly, slowly, emerged from the edges of the jungle, where she'd made her camp the past few days. She was limping again, but her whole body still ached from the vines, from not-moving. She had to stop several times to cough and cough until she had no air in her lungs and had to gasp in air that felt like razor blades. Maybe if she'd been faster she would have been able to avoid anyone at the Upper Farm, but lo and behold, familiar footsteps came lumbering towards her.

Wenzel had to admit that the influx of new blood to the beach had brought some perks. Such as the house he had been gifted by Emre, the expanded farm (even if that came with the loss of the tobacco field), and, of course, the media library. The world had changed rapidly while Wenzel had been a part of it, and after he had come to the island, the world hadn't ceased expanding, growing more awe-some and hideous and beautiful. And all Wenzel had to experience it was the small collection of books in the library.

Apparently libraries were redundant. Who needed a library when telephones (that people carried around (?) in their pockets (?)) had an invention called the internet on it, which was a sort of encyclopaedia. It was a ridiculous notion, Wenzel still couldn't figure it out. His best bet was that the Internet was the name for some Kummerkastentante who they called on their tiny telephones that apparently did not need wires. It all sounded like a type of mass hallucination to Wenzelslaus.  

Give him books any day. Wenzel lost himself in the pleasure of looking over the small shelf of books, steering clear of the electronics on the opposite wall. Yes, he was curious, but his curiosity was the sort where he wanted to break apart the tiny electronic things and see how they fitted the wires inside, which would inevitably lead him to being unable to realign the wires inside. His fingers traced the well-worn spines of the Lord of the Rings series, no, he could not reread his beloved series for the thousandth time. His finger stopped at the spine of an unfamiliar book. Wenzel pulled out the book, Meditations by Marcus Aurelius, just as someone else entered the library.

"Ah, potzbiltz," Wenzel gasped, bringing a hand to his chest. "My apologies, you startled me." Wenzel offered the other man a wan smile, unsure whether they now had to endure the niceties of small chatter that he so loathed.

Mik wasn't sure what had taken him so long to go and see Joaquin. It had been maybe around a week since his fire attunement had manifested in a violent, horrifying way. And since then, every time he had felt any sort of emotion strongly he'd been a walking radiator needing to douse himself. He'd hoped he'd get that part under control before coming up to Joaquin.

Today Mik had finally swallowed his pride and made the trek to the upper-settlement and the farm there that Joaquin looked after. He found him with his hands dirty, bent over and weeding (or harvesting? Mik still wasn't that good with gardening). "Hey Joaquin." Mik tapped Joaquin quickly on the shoulder. "Turns out I'm a fire guy," Mik gave his best charming smile, like it was the best thing he'd say all day- except... His thoughts spiraled back, back to the sight of Nick's blistered wrist, the smell of smoke and Nick's pained cry...

"Sisco!" Harry called out as she approached, her pack full and bursting, swinging on her back. The ground rumbled traitorously underfoot, the opening maw of the Labyrinth almost a snail’s, trees twisting like an undulating churning series of radula. And before it all stood Sisco, standing guard as a valiant knight.

"Sisco, I heard John's voice!" Harry said as she came up next to him, clasping his shoulder. She stared deep into his eyes, chest bubbling with acrid anticipation. "In the Labyrinth! It was him!" Harry hissed, looking towards the entrance to the Labyrinth. The ground undulated like a churning ocean. "He sounded confused... I have to go in after him... I can bring him back."

As the years went on there were fewer and fewer people that Harry recognised from her earlier years on the island. It was an unfortunate, morbid fact. But of the few that had survived, Harry found more friends than enemies.

Whenever she saw him, John's voice perked up in her mind. "Sisco!" The same way he would have shouted for him when their paths crossed in the past, which would inevitably lead to Sisco shouting out for John and Harry, and the end to Harry's peace and quiet for at least a few days. Harry hadn't minded his chatter back then, because it had kept John occupied as they switched between botany to ecology to philosophy to politics at a drop of a hat. When she'd stuck around the pair she'd enjoyed listening into their conversations, the quiet observer who would chime in only when John was truly misappropriating something to impress Sisco. When John and her had split, well it was her turn to entertain Sisco, and he'd adapted to her silences.

And then... a few years back they'd found each other in the jungle again, except Joaquin had been like a feral dog, or possessed. Like her uncle on his worst days, his mind transported back to Turkey, to the trenches and hills, everyone around him either ghosts or enemies. Harry had tried to redirect him to the river where the canopy was less intense, but he hadn't been cognizant of anything she said. He'd even lunged at her, hissing some curse in Spanish or French or his own made-up language. That had been enough for Harry. She'd left him to his mad cackling and she hadn't seen him since.

She had spent her time on the southern beach quietly observing Sisco, watching for any sign of madness. He appeared to be returned to his prior, happy self. Not to say that Harry was ready to trust him as she once had, or that she didn't want answers.

As dusk fell Harry crutch-hopped towards Sisco, where he sat before at a bonfire with a group. She didn't like groups. Harry tapped his shoulder with her spare crutch. "You right again?” she asked, looking for any sign of his previous madness. The glassy eyes, the speaking in tongues “Found something," she said, colder than she had previously been with him. "Some mushrooms, you want to see?"