From New Orleans to the Ferry, Friday (Mid-Morning to Early Evening)
Absurdly, the first thought to cross Sam's mind when he set foot on Earth again was that he was glad everything wasn't orange. The second thought, much less absurd and much more jarring, hinged off the first. It had amused him, once, that his first girlfriend had such an affinity for the color orange; now, he wondered if she'd made it out of the nightmare he'd just fled, and if so, for how long. He was nearly thirty years old, but if they'd calculated timelines correctly, she'd hardly be older than she'd been the last time he saw her.
Sam couldn't imagine himself at nineteen, coping with the nuclear attack that had destroyed the Colonies. If he'd had the emotional energy to spare for optimism, he'd have hoped for the best for her . . . but now he was just too numb.
He made his way back to his studio apartment -- regretting, for the first time, living within spitting distance of the ballpark -- and packed up what few of his belongings he cared to keep. There wasn't much; shuffling around the country as he had didn't leave much luxury for accumulating possessions. The upshot of that was that he never had to spend much time cleaning, at least. Motorcycles, too, were easier to transfer from state to state, cheaper to ship along with your personal effects if you didn't make the major-league bucks; Sam strapped his army-surplus duffel onto the back of the battered mid-90's Kawasaki and went to his landlord's office to turn in his keys. Stupid detail to worry about, really, after everything he'd just seen, but Sam was going to cling to that little bit of mundanity to keep him anchored for the time being.
It wasn't unusual for itinerant journeyman ballplayers to pack up and move out on a moment's notice, but that didn't stop a fresh knot of resentment from swelling in Sam's stomach at the sympathetic look on the man's face when he took back the keys.
"Hey, you're the guy who --"
"Yeah," Sam said, not particularly regretting the harshness in his tone when he cut off the rest of the sentence. The pity, mingled with curiosity, on the landlord's face only aggravated his resentment. "Whatever's left in there can go to the next guy. I don't really give a frak."
"Where you gonna go from here, son?"
Sam was already halfway out the door, but paused just long enough to toss over his shoulder, "Not a frakking clue, man."
He hated that question by now, he reflected, throwing one leg over the motorcycle; it was too concise, too concrete a symbol of the state of flux he'd lived in for the past decade. Too many friends lost in the shuffle, too much of his own idealism and hope gone, all of it eroded so slowly over time that the loss had only sunk in over the tumult of the past few days. He didn't mean to, but as he drove out of the city on an incredibly bleak and deserted back road, the scenery (or lack thereof) seemed fitting to his mood. Nowhere to go from here, really; his home was destroyed, and he'd given up on trying to return to Fandom years ago when he couldn't find the causeway any more.
It was near dusk, after more aimless detours and backtracking than he cared to count, that Sam stumbled across the ferry landing. The ferry itself was moored at the landing, giving him the odd feeling that it was waiting for him. Odd -- and yet, for someone who'd spent ten years doing the waiting himself -- for buses, for planes, for the news of that next inevitable trade, to hear from dearly beloved people whose calls never made it through somehow -- not unwelcome.
Was this some kind of trick? If he took the invitation that the gently bobbing ferry appeared to be, would it just end up the latest letdown? Did he seriously want to risk that?
Lighting up a cigarette, Sam stared thoughtfully across the water and dithered for several minutes before shrugging and flicking the half-smoked Camel Wide off the landing; there was a faint hiss, and it hit the surface and fizzled out before he'd even had a chance to catch a glimpse of the glow from its burning end in the fading light.
He'd had enough of things dying away before he realized it.
"What the hell," Sam muttered, wheeling his bike onto the ferry. "Can't hurt, can it? I mean, it's only the end of the world . . ."
One more aimless journey in a string of aimless journeys. Wasn't like things could get much worse.
[OOC: Establishy and NFI still. Actual interactiony post will go up when I get home from work, though.]
Sam couldn't imagine himself at nineteen, coping with the nuclear attack that had destroyed the Colonies. If he'd had the emotional energy to spare for optimism, he'd have hoped for the best for her . . . but now he was just too numb.
He made his way back to his studio apartment -- regretting, for the first time, living within spitting distance of the ballpark -- and packed up what few of his belongings he cared to keep. There wasn't much; shuffling around the country as he had didn't leave much luxury for accumulating possessions. The upshot of that was that he never had to spend much time cleaning, at least. Motorcycles, too, were easier to transfer from state to state, cheaper to ship along with your personal effects if you didn't make the major-league bucks; Sam strapped his army-surplus duffel onto the back of the battered mid-90's Kawasaki and went to his landlord's office to turn in his keys. Stupid detail to worry about, really, after everything he'd just seen, but Sam was going to cling to that little bit of mundanity to keep him anchored for the time being.
It wasn't unusual for itinerant journeyman ballplayers to pack up and move out on a moment's notice, but that didn't stop a fresh knot of resentment from swelling in Sam's stomach at the sympathetic look on the man's face when he took back the keys.
"Hey, you're the guy who --"
"Yeah," Sam said, not particularly regretting the harshness in his tone when he cut off the rest of the sentence. The pity, mingled with curiosity, on the landlord's face only aggravated his resentment. "Whatever's left in there can go to the next guy. I don't really give a frak."
"Where you gonna go from here, son?"
Sam was already halfway out the door, but paused just long enough to toss over his shoulder, "Not a frakking clue, man."
He hated that question by now, he reflected, throwing one leg over the motorcycle; it was too concise, too concrete a symbol of the state of flux he'd lived in for the past decade. Too many friends lost in the shuffle, too much of his own idealism and hope gone, all of it eroded so slowly over time that the loss had only sunk in over the tumult of the past few days. He didn't mean to, but as he drove out of the city on an incredibly bleak and deserted back road, the scenery (or lack thereof) seemed fitting to his mood. Nowhere to go from here, really; his home was destroyed, and he'd given up on trying to return to Fandom years ago when he couldn't find the causeway any more.
It was near dusk, after more aimless detours and backtracking than he cared to count, that Sam stumbled across the ferry landing. The ferry itself was moored at the landing, giving him the odd feeling that it was waiting for him. Odd -- and yet, for someone who'd spent ten years doing the waiting himself -- for buses, for planes, for the news of that next inevitable trade, to hear from dearly beloved people whose calls never made it through somehow -- not unwelcome.
Was this some kind of trick? If he took the invitation that the gently bobbing ferry appeared to be, would it just end up the latest letdown? Did he seriously want to risk that?
Lighting up a cigarette, Sam stared thoughtfully across the water and dithered for several minutes before shrugging and flicking the half-smoked Camel Wide off the landing; there was a faint hiss, and it hit the surface and fizzled out before he'd even had a chance to catch a glimpse of the glow from its burning end in the fading light.
He'd had enough of things dying away before he realized it.
"What the hell," Sam muttered, wheeling his bike onto the ferry. "Can't hurt, can it? I mean, it's only the end of the world . . ."
One more aimless journey in a string of aimless journeys. Wasn't like things could get much worse.
[OOC: Establishy and NFI still. Actual interactiony post will go up when I get home from work, though.]