The Return Journey (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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returnjourneylogs2022-03-23 10:47 pm
returnjourney) wrote in returnjourneylogs2022-03-23 10:47 pm
Entry tags:
- !backstory,
- aki hayakawa (chainsaw man),
- alice quinn (the magicians),
- blue sargent (the raven cycle),
- bucky barnes (mcu),
- claire fraser (outlander),
- conner j (original),
- ellie williams (the last of us),
- grace gibson (original),
- loki odinson (mcu),
- rhys strongfork (borderlands),
- silco (arcane),
- theon greyjoy (a song of ice and fire),
- william (westworld)
BACKSTORY: ANOTHER BORDER
BACKSTORY: ANOTHER BORDER
"Slowly, painfully, I realized what I had been reading from the very first words of his journal. My husband had had an inner life that went beyond his gregarious exterior, and if I had known enough to let him inside my guard, I might have understood this fact. Except I hadn't, of course. I had let tidal pools and fungi that could devour plastic inside my guard, but not him. Of all the aspects of the journal, this ate at me the most. He had created his share of our problems―by pushing me too hard, by wanting too much, by trying to see something in me that didn’t exist. But I could have met him partway and retained my sovereignty. And now it was too late."― Jeff VanderMeer, Annihilation
Introduction
Welcome to the backstory log for the "Another Border" simulation! Here, we play out big moments in our characters' AU histories. We've included a list of ideas below; feel free to experiment and figure out what feels right for your character's past and motivations. Consider what specific moments might have prompted them to venture into Area X!
This log is set before a simulation begins, to give players a head start on ironing out the specifics of their AUs. During this time, Peregrine life will continue as normal.
If you have any questions about the event, please ask here. You can familiarize yourself with simulation basics on our events page.
Ideas
- Your first meeting with an important or influential person.
- Doing something important for someone.
- A time you really screwed someone else over.
- A personal loss in your life.
- An injury, illness, or similar struggle.
- Domestic events: falling in love, getting married, building a home, having a child, navigating a change in a relationship, divorce.
- Getting a new job or a promotion.
- Discovering a passion.
- An important religious or philosophical moment, a moral challenge.
- An event that changed how you see the world for the better.
- An event that changed how you see the world for the worse.
- A sight you saw or place you visited that made you consider your place in the world.
- A dark night of the soul.
- Learning about the discovery of Area X.
- Getting your Area X assignment.
no subject
It doesn’t matter how long she has spent making the apartment hers — filling it with soft and handmade things, art that speaks to her, little curiosities from her travels — each time she comes back from the forrest, it feels like a stranger’s. She still finds herself wandering between the kitchen, and the living room/office, and the tiny bedroom like she is relearning where everything is. Fingers tracing the walls and the furniture as she tries to connect back with a life she’s always eager to shed.
The feeling will pass, she knows. All she needs is to give herself a little bit of time.
It’s a little like a deep-sea diver, rising slowly to the surface, allowing her body to get used to the pressure of city life.
Blue doesn’t try to write. Not yet. All her handwritten notes are jammed into a leather-bound journal and tossed into the bottom drawer of her desk alongside the laptop that holds all of the data she collected and a thick book of pressed leaves. Waiting for her to resurface. It will all be there in a week, when she feels a little less rootless.
Instead, she goes for long walks in her favorite park. She meets friends for coffee and talks animatedly about her most recent trip in crowded coffee shops. She goes grocery shopping and fills her fridge and pantry with fresh things. She attends faculty meetings on week days, leaving weekends and evenings to herself. She finds events to fill them with. Museums and farmer’s markets. Music performances and art showings.
Slowly, she sinks her roots back into the city.
It’s towards the end of the process — her roots firmly replanted in familiar soil, and her fingers beginning to itch for the keys on her laptop again — when she finds herself at an art showing with a glass of slowly warming sparkling wine cradled in her hand. The art on the walls doesn’t much appeal to her. But there are pieces scattered throughout — statues of varying sizes — and one of them catches at her.
A pair of wings in flight, they snag her attention, and she finds herself lingering.
There’s something to them that she can’t quite explain. But it resonates like the chime of a bell inside of her.
Without thinking, she slips her free hand into the pocket of her wide skirt; too aware of how easily her fingers might give into the temptation of touching unless she tucks it away.
The voice doesn’t click at first — when they spoke, he always sounded so certain, his words bitten out in precise orders without hesitation or awkwardness — but something about the accent does. When she looks up (and up), it takes a moment or two too long for the world to shift just enough to allow for his presence here and now. Dressed like a civilian rather than a soldier. But when it does, her face brightens with an immediate smile of recognition. Like the sum total of their acquaintance wasn’t spent stubbornly yelling at each other in a jungle.
He looks different here.
”Hi. Yeah. We did. We have,” she says, the words tumbling out quick, as if to make up for her hesitation. She couldn’t tell him the country, but she could describe perfectly the kind of tree they met beneath.
”Blue Sargent,” she offers, pulling her hand out of her pocket and switching the wine glass into it so she can offer him her right hand along with her name. ”I could never forget you. You almost ruined two months of work. Captain—?”
His name escapes her. As does his actual rank. Things were a little confused and loud when they were introduced.
no subject
Also a bit pleased she remembers him, God knows why. Maybe because he doesn't strike himself as particularly memorable. Just another blank slate in a uniform half the time, when he's working. Clearly not working now, though — no uniform to speak of. Just a Henley and jeans, not quite on par with half the population that clearly dressed up a few higher notches for the occasion.
She offers her hand, and he seems faintly amused by the gesture. Reaches out regardless, wrapping his hand around hers — dimly surprised in the back of his mind by how small it is.
"It's just... Conner," he says with a minute shake of his head. Dismissing the title. A beat later, his hand falls away and he uses it to scratch at the back of his neck instead. "I'd give you me last name, but honestly, nobody remembers how to pronounce it after so you're better off, really."
no subject
They spent enough time yelling at each other in the depths of the jungle, his face and voice are etched into her mind. But he was doing his job as she did hers and removed from the situation, there is no fault left to lay with him.
“Conner,” she repeats, her fingers closing around his in a firm but soft handshake that has closed many a deal. His hand dwarfs hers. But then so do many others. The instinct to linger in the touch is unexpectedly strong. He’s a little bit of the rainforest right here in the city. Even if the association is negative, it’s still there. An unexpected connection. Like the statue in front of them that still sits heavy on Blue’s mind.
“Nice to meet you again. Under, you know, different circumstances.” Not better. Just different.
When she pulls her hand back, she tucks it immediately into her pocket, fingers curling tight against her palm.
They both look different here, taken out of their element. His edges are softer. She cleans up nice. Nothing gets her into heels, but her ballerina flats are made out of hand painted silk and the tulips on them match the upside down tulips painted in broad and bold strokes down her wide skirt. Maybe like this she looks less like the kind of person who argues with men holding automatic rifles. Maybe not.
“And you can just tell me if it’s classified, you know,” she teases gently, enough of the sparkling wine warming her veins to make it easy. It’s surprising how many uniforms (both foreign and domestic) she’s come across since her postgrad and she hasn’t seen one like his before.
no subject
But here's her, looking happy and healthy.
Quite fit, too, but that's neither here nor there.
"It's not, it's-" He pauses, debates internally, and then heaves out a resigned sigh. "It's Jaskulski, but I just started signing it with a J. Leave out the rest. Makes life easier for everyone involved."
He scratches at the scruff along his jaw, eyes ducked, and feels the need to tack on the explanation, "Me gran's Polish. So."
God...
Why.
Why this. Why is he like this. Why would he think anybody wants to know about his Polish gran? This- this is why he hasn't been in a relationship in years.
no subject
Her head tilts, almost of its own accord, and her lips move in silent repetition of his last name. Is it odd to think that it suits him, somehow? The soft sound of it. The shape of it in her mouth. The family tree behind it.
”Jasu— Jak— Jaskulski,” she repeats, doing a solidly okay job at his tongue twister of a last name. Her face twists. Sorry, without repetition (on both ends) that’s as good as it’s going to get. ”You’re not kidding. That’s a mouthful. Sorry.”
A brief pause so she can wash it down with a quick swallow of sparkling wine. (Unsurprisingly, warming in her hand has not impoved upon its taste.)
”At least there’s a reason,” she offers up, concilatory tone perhaps slightly undercut by the stubbornly lingering smile making her eyes glitter with amusement. ”Your parents didn’t just decide to name you after a primary color on a whim.”
Yes. Her first name is really Blue. Yes, that’s the name on her birth certificate. (Really.) No, it’s not short for anything. No, as far as she can tell, it doesn’t hold any special meaning. No, it’s not her father’s favorite color. (Hunter Green.) Nor her mother’s. (Sunflower yellow.) It might be hers, but that’s pre-destination rather than causation.
”So, your grandmother is Polish. But you’re not.” Observation. Heading towards hypothesis. ”And you’re not American either. Not— originally.”
Is that rude? It’s probably rude. You’re not supposed to ask people where they’re really from. It’s also quite terrible small talk. You’re supposed to linger on meaningless things. Not dive straight in and down. But he’s already seen straight down to the core of her. Down in the rainforest. Seen her soul entwined with the trees down there where all the layers of polite society have been stripped away. Blue is always the most her in any given forest. And he’s already seen that. But he was wearing protective armor — literally and figuratively — and Blue just wants to peek below it.
”I’d say British Isles, but I’m afraid to narrow it down more than that. I don’t want to insult you.” The accents get complicated and subtle where identity is tied tightly to geography.
no subject
My god, is this working? Are they actually getting on right now?
"I'm from Texas," he answers to the tune of nah, with a casual little sway. A beat later, he shakes his head. "I'm only jokin'. No, I'm from Liverpool, mostly. Me gran moved to England, shacked up with an Irishman. Had me dad, and me dad had me. Mum's from Chicago though, so we migrated back there eventually."
Which is to say, he's from a little bit of all over the place. Clearly it's not the first time someone's asked, it's a somewhat-rehearsed summary that he rattles off easy enough. Turnabout's fair play, he figures, so he gives her a lightly assessing look.
"What about you? Don't know much about accents, but yours doesn't really sound like it's from Guyana." A playful squint. "Wait, let me guess... Peruvian?"
Obviously not. He just has a stupid sense of humor.
no subject
Swimmingly, in fact.
Blue feels a little stitch of pleasure at his approval of her stumbling along his name. Makes her want to get it right. Makes her want to press his mouth against his when he says it so her lips can learn the shape.
Woah. Okay. That's too much. Too fast. Blue makes herself take half a step back only to keep herself from swaying closer.
The first dumb joke gets him a slightly widening of her smile along with an obligatory mea culpa crinkle of her nose and she follows the rattle of his family tree with an easy bob of her head. She's never been to Liverpool. It's not the type her place her father would wish to visit and since she was old enough to make her own travel plans she's never purposefully gone somewhere without a forest.
The second dumb joke earns him an actual laugh. Too loud for the space, but bright and genuine.
"Close!" she jokes back. Her hand slips free of its pocket and joins its friend cupped loosely around her glass. The easy rapport softening every sharp edge of hers that he might remember from their first meeting. There's no stubborn jut to her chin, no bracing of her shoulders. Even her wrists and elbows curve gently and softly inwards towards her center, retracting the last vestiges of protective and sharp spines.
"Virginia," she corrects with an incline of her head. It's where she was born, though it doesn't necessarily feel like home.
"Very all-American, I'm afraid. Nothing very exciting. Supposedly, my father's family came over from Wales on one of the pilgrim ships. And my mother's side--" Blue pauses, a whisper of a frown descending on her brows. "I guess they came on a different kind of ship."
Not that they ever speak of her mother's family. They were not even a specter in the Sargent home. Sometimes, it feels as if Maura just sprung fully formed from the earth, with no attachments or memory. Marrying Arthur meant abandoning her heritage and Blue wishes she knew if it was relief or sacrifice.
"Many generations ago," she adds lightly, trying to steer the conversation back on less socially charged ground. "I don't even think it counts. We moved to DC when I was seven."
Blue knows the follow-up question (oh, why did you move?) and doesn't wait for him to ask it.
”Liverpool. Chicago. Guyana-- What brings you here? No offense, but you don’t really seem like the—” she gestures vaguely with her glass at the room at large. ”Art show type.”
The type of people who attends these things tend to have a certain Look to them. He doesn’t. Not now, and certainly not when they first met.
no subject
Would it be mad to ask her out somewhere? Ask for her number? Considering the way they met and all the strife that happened in the area between them, it's entirely possible she'd have written off the idea. Might drag out a very different type of laugh from her.
Or maybe it wouldn't. Maybe she'd say yes.
He doesn't get much by way of questioning in as she answers, but it's alright. She's still talking, still volunteering things for him, and that's a right bit better than any awkward conversational silences. He'll take whatever she gives him.
Annnd then comes the question.
He scratches at his eyebrow with a thumbnail. Scrunches up his face. Shoves his hands in his pockets.
"Ah. Well. Actually." He nods his head toward the sculpture they're standing in front of. "Thats- That one's mine."
Nothing quite like thrusting your artwork immediately and abruptly at a girl you're chatting up. Self-consciousness eats at him over that too much for him to worry about not looking like the art show type. Gonna have to circle back on that one for a little elaboration in a bit.
no subject
Many times.
If she could hear his thoughts, she might be offended at the implication that she is the kind of girl who'd laugh at someone for asking her out. No matter how ludicrous the match might seem.
Blue Sargent doesn't date anymore. Not with any particular purpose at least. It's too complicated. Too many emotions to take into account when she plans her next trip. Too much wounded pride each time she proves herself to be perfectly self-sufficient. As such, she has perfected the gentle letdown.
There's a whole it's not you, it's me-spiel to be deployed, neatly cutting down any potential relationship before it even has a chance to start.
Except--
Except.
The surprise is clear on Blue's features, her eyes cutting from his face to the sculpture, and back again. A pulse of familiar longing echoes between her ribs.
There're all her prejudices laid bare -- who would've thought? A soldier moonlighting as an artist. Or is it perhaps the other way around? -- and she'd feel embarrassed if it wasn't for the gentle amazement winding its way around her spine.
It feels like the moment at the top of the first hill of a rollercoaster, just when it begins to tip over. Stomach dropping, chest filling-- that tickle of anticipation.
"You made that?" she asks, and there's a new softness to her voice, her whole body leaning in eagerly even though she knows the answer.
The moment she laid eyes on the sculpture, she felt connected to it. Just like she felt connected to him when he walked up, a physical reminder of the rainforest. Two connections in the span of minutes when it's taken her weeks to feel any at all.
Blue Sargent doesn't date. But something about this feels predestined somehow. Fated.
What are even the odds of them running into each other here?
no subject
"Yeah," he says, trying for a tight little smile. "According to the placard, anyway."
There's a little bit of posted signage nearby with his name stamped onto it — Unnamed Sculpture by Conner Jaskulski. He's shite at thinking up the names, it's the hardest part.
He peels his eyes from her and sets them back on his work, trying his best to see it from fresh eyes. Trying to imagine it from her perspective.
"It's alright, I s'pose. Only got in because me mate's fiancé insisted. Think somebody else backed out at the last minute or something, so they had an open spot." Sure as hell didn't get it by name recognition or networking, or any particularly impressive talent on his part. Just... knowing people, is all. It's impulse to feel the need to justify his presence here, for some reason.
He wasn't going to, but he can't help himself — he has to look back at her and ask, "What d'you think?"
no subject
Whatever it is she likes to come in an empty slate. Let the work speak for itself.
Now, she shifts to find the post with the little sign. Unnamed Sculpture is better than Untitled, though not by much. His name written out — so that’s how he spells it — sends a gentle thrill through her. It’d be easy to attribute it to the artwork, but she knows it’s connected to the man behind it and she tries, very hard, not to lie to herself.
When his eyes light on the sculpture, hers join them, tracking the individual patterns as she listens (barely) to his explanation of how it ended up in the show. It doesn’t matter, though it gets added to the little list of facts and observations she’s keeping like she’s trying to catalogue a new species:
Conner Jaskulski
- born in Liverpool
- Polish grandmother
- Irish grandfather
- American mother
- Lived in Chicago
- Soldier (non-regular branch of the armed forces)
- Artist
- Secret smile
- Tall
- Kinda cute
- Friend’s fiance got him into the show
At the question, she turns her full attention back to him, her chest filled with feelings she can’t quite name. Later, she will have to sit down at her desk and carefully untangle them from each other. Set each one aside until they’re all laid out in front of her and set about naming them. Names are important. They have power.
”It’s—” Blue begins, and her words fail her. Not a common occurrence, as he might gather. She gives him an apologetic smile and lifts her shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. A preemptive apology for the imperfect word that’s about to follow.
”Beautiful. That’s not— ” Enough. ”It makes my chest ache.”
It’s the closest she can get to putting it into words, and it’s not enough.
Impulsively, she lets go of the glass with one hand and reaches out for his. If he lets her, she will take his hand and press it flat against her chest, the heel of his palm just above her heart, her own hand covering his to keep it there until she can feel her pulse intertwining with his. Her eyes find his, an open and earnest expression on her face.
”Like that. Can you feel it?” The gentle, longing ache that lives there. The soft thrill and closeness of the touch. The intimacy of human connection. That’s what she thinks of his sculpture.
no subject
Months from now, in hindsight, if asked to pinpoint it he'll be pretty sure that's the moment he fell in love with her. Of course, that's a mad thing to think ten minutes into your first real conversation with a person, so it doesn't actually occur to him. He does recognize the abrupt and widely spreading bloom of want — innocently, not salaciously, just an intense desire for her time, to see her again, more, to have a longer conversation.
And that's before she presses his hand to the flat of her chest.
Something does ache, though whether it's coming from him or her is impossible for him to say. For a long moment he just stands there, lips gently parted like he means to say something, eyebrows gone soft in a way that seems perhaps a bit puppyish. A bit gently hurt, or awed, or some combination of the two.
He intends to answer her with something normal, like thank you or I feel it too. Instead, what he blurts out apropos of nothing is, "D'you wanna go to dinner with me?"
Ah, shit. Was that- that was not smooth, was it? Also, probably a bit much. Amendment: "Or... lunch. Or coffee. Snow cones. Anything. Whatever you like, really."
no subject
Connected.
The look on his face sends a fresh ache through he and she feels it too. The sudden surge of want. For this moment to last. To hold his hand. To talk a little longer. For more.
At the abrupt question, a slow smile begins to spread on Blue’s face. It doesn’t stop at the boundaries of her expression. It keeps going until she is awash in it.
Snow cones, he offers and a certainty settles in her chest. (She hasn’t had a snow cone in ages. Wouldn’t even know where to get one.) Blue Sargent doesn’t date any more. Not properly. Not for keeps. But she is going to date Conner Jaskulski. A lot.
”Yes.” The single word bites the heel of his last sentence. The moment she thinks he might be done listing potential date activities. ”All of the above.”
Can he feel the way her heart has picked up speed in her chest?
Blue looks around at the mill of people around them. The passed trays of sparkling wine. The art that doesn’t speak to her and his sculpture that does. Then back at him.
”Now?” It’s as much question as it is offer, her whole body already yearning for the air outside. Only politeness keeps her from tugging on his hand and pulling him immediately with her. Politeness and— ”Or do you have to stay? You probably do. That’s probably a thing. Sorry, I just--”
Hate wasting time.
no subject
Better than yes, she says now.
Thinks for a second she's back-pedaling on the whole idea, until the reason why processes, and he's quick to interrupt.
"No. No, I can- I can go. We should go. If you want. I just-" he glances back at the statue for a fleeting second. Gestures at it to lamely say, "I mean, I've already seen it, haven't I?"
More than that, he's not so sure he cares what anyone else thinks about it now. He doesn't have to stand around looking at their faces as they stare at it. He's gotten the highest praise anybody in the building's likely capable of giving.
no subject
Her eyes track his over to the spread metal wings and to the gentle crowd wandering between the art works just past it. Suddenly the impulsive idea doesn't feel especially well thought out and she feels a quick stitch of guilt. It's not just that he might have obligations here, is it?
"If you're sure--" she begins. "This is your night. I don't want to take it from you."
A couple step up next to them to admire his work and without thinking Blue takes a step closer to him. She has to tilt her head a little further back to look at him. (He really is very tall. Which is going to make kissing interesting.)
"How about," she says, "we stay until the end. Have some very cheap sparkling wine together. Then afterwards, we go find snow cones or an all night diner and maybe you can show me your other pieces."
Wings like the ones in front of them don't just spring fully formed from the hands of a novice. He's had practice. So it stands to reason that he's got a body of work. Maybe showing her means photos on his phone. But maybe there's a workshop not too far away where they could go.