#yallcray

“I can’t--- I can’t fucking do it.” He buries his head in his hands, trying to hide the tears that threaten to spill forth. Alex has been absent from a race track for what feels like a lifetime, and despite the protests of everyone, he’s back to do the pre-season testing in the hopes of competing again next season. But a clutch failure has sent the car spinning into the gravel again, and even though he’s not hurt, he’s visibly shaken.

delivery no.   677355812308582400 accepting.   from:   unknown.  

𝚑𝚘𝚠   𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑   𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚛   𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎   𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍   𝚋𝚎   𝚒𝚏   𝚑𝚎   𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍   𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚢   𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚑   𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝   𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.   as   if   it   could   be   that   simple.   and   what   could   he   say,   with   not   a   word   ‘pon   his   tongue   to   speak.   to   explain   the   thousands   of   things   he   carried   on   with   him   throughout   his   days.   all   those   decisions   resting   on   his   shoulders,  how   could   he   be   asked   to   carry   it   all   --   he   had   never   aimed   to   grip   upon   the   powers   that   be   as   a   means   to   usurp   it.   no   no   no,   politics   was   not   for   courier   6.   but   the   fate   of   the   mojave   had   been   thrust   upon   him   anyhow.   and   how   cruel   fate   can   be   to   give   a   man   out   of   time,   back   from   the   grave,   so   much   to   carry.   as   if   he   wasn’t   over   capacity   itself   at   his   own   scrabbling's   of   self.   not   enough   notepads in   the   world,   no   amount   of   signing   could   fully   encapsulate   his   feelings   about   it   all.   his   gaze   doesn’t   meet   ellis’   own,   far   off   but   different   this   time.   albeit   true   that   his   mask   hid   his   face,   his   focus,   it   was   clear   when   he   was   somewhere   else   so   to   speak.  

𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢   𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜   𝚑𝚎   𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍   𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏,   past   the   barrage   of   that   harsh   wind   of   his   mind.   whipping   like   the   sand-soaked   storms   of   this   cruel   wasteland,   always   taking   parts   of   him   with   it   that   he   swore   he’d   never   get   back.   fitting   that   the   spirit   of   this   land   was   just   as   worn   and   ragged   as   it,   a   level   of   beauty   beyond   the   brutality   found   common   place   within   it.   more   than   meets   the   eye.   the   radio   of   his   pip   boy   rings   out   clear,   the   brass   of   “ strahlende   tropete ”   singing   to   him   as   they   sit   there   and   watch   the   world   pass   them   by.   twinge   in   his   brows   would   be   visible,   if   not   for   that   mask.   a   voice   comes   calmly,   like   a   thought   from   another   life   :   don’t   be   scared,   it’s   just   the   end   of   the   world.

𝚊𝚗𝚍   𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝   𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍   𝚒𝚝   𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗   𝚝𝚘   𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎   𝚞𝚙   𝚘𝚗   𝚝𝚑𝚎   𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎?   to   loosen   his   grip?   and   what   was   to   become   of   him   should   he   stop   that   careful   shielding   of   every   fragile   thing   he   sees   in   his   wasteland?   (   o’   atlas   lay   the   world   in   more   capable   hands   if   just   for   a   moment.   you   are   shielding   but   you   are   suffocating,   and   not   all   who   come   under   your   visage   need   to   be   protected   from   all   you   bear   upon   those   shoulders.   )   careful   thought   is   put   into   the   way   he   composes   his   note,   scribbling   gently   along   the   pages   and   giving   pause   when   need   be   to   think   it   over.   surprisingly   though,   a   short   amount   of   time   to   take   to   explain   all   that’s   wrong.   until   his   note   his   handed   over   :

He comes to an image of a blank sky, no clouds, bits of light from an absent sun splintering into his eyes and a throbbing headache the size of a rock boulder. His limbs are deadweight but he can still wiggle his fingers and toes, so nope, no broken bones or severed tendons. As more sensation begins to trickle in, Ellis’ uncomfortably aware of hands pressed around his neck and squirms, tries to twist his head away when a woman pale as the driven snow with cropped hair looms into view. He’s never seen her before, and judging by how her eyes are a thousand miles away she doesn’t seem to notice him either. He can feel his pulse fluttering beneath her fingers.

He tries to pick his brain to remember what happened before. Did he slip? Maybe drank something he should’ve have? Maybe he fell asleep when this lady was giving him a nice cranial massage but it’s quite impossible to relax when it feels like she could squeeze.

She'd nearly forgotten about the man strewn unconscious in the corner, just beside the entrance to the mineshafts. The others have been stepping over him all evening, though no one has bothered to move him out of the way. It's better that he remain in the way, where it's easy to see if he tries to escape. 

He doesn't try to run yet. But, he stirs, and it's enough to catch Val's full attention. She's on him before he can get his bearings, her weight on his lap, her palm against his throat just incase his instinct is to struggle. It isn't that she's unfocused; it's that she's too focused. She's seemingly unaware of her surroundings, of the warm night air or the sound of creatures just out of reach. As far as she's concerned, nothing exists but her and her prey. 

            TOE  OF  WORN  DRESS  SHOE   nudges  impatiently  at  the  ground ,  loose  dirt  easily  kicked  up  and  carried  away  with  the  breeze .   𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑛𝑘  𝑓𝑢𝑐𝑘  𝑓𝑜𝑟  𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑡 ,  𝑏𝑦  𝑡𝘩𝑒  𝑤𝑎𝑦  ;    𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑛  𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑡  𝑖𝑠  𝑎  𝑏𝑖𝑡𝑐𝘩 .    [   AND  THE  APPEAL  OF  LIVING  IN  THE  SOUTH  AGAIN  IIIIIS  .  .  .  ?   WHAT  EXACTLY ?   ]     back  of  wrist  swipes  above  pinched  brows ,  nick's  mouth  twisting  as  he  inspects  the  offending  specks  of  sweat  and  dirt  and  christ  knows  what  else  desecrating  a  once  crisp  white  sleeve .  resulting  grumbles  are  mostly  to  himself ,  though  it’s  not  like  he  makes  much  of  an  effort  with  volume  control  to  spare  sole  spectator  from  being  subjected  to  discontent  rants  as  arms  cross  tight  against  his  chest ,  narrowed  eyes  slanting  down  towards  his  feet .

            a  snort  is  nick’s  initial  response  to  ellis’  request ,  and  although  he’s  all - too - ready  to  shoot  back  with  his  latest  quip ,  delivery  is  stopped  short  when  sharpened  gaze  shifts  to  meet  maybe  one  of  the  most  pitiful  expressions  he’s  ever  seen  in  his  entire  goddamned  life .  it  catches  him  off  guard :  muscles  in  his  jaw  twitching  out  of  his  set  scowl ,  ringed  fingers  once  resting  calmly  at  his  biceps  beginning  to  curl  and  flex  uneasily  against  the  fabric  under  stare's  silent  plea .