ArchivedLogs:Low Road

Low Road
Dramatis Personae Nox, Parley	2013-04-09 People just can't seem to get enough of the sewers!
Location <MOR> Below New York
Buried beneath the bustle and noise of New York's busy streets, the world underneath the city is a quieter place. Quieter, but far from deserted. Occasional ladders, often rusting, ascend to the city above and are evidence that at /one/ point these tunnels had been in use, or had been planned for it; perhaps by way of maintenance, or access to subways or sewers. These stretches have been abandoned by civic infrastructure for some time now, though, but occasional scraps of evidence -- discarded food wrappers, piles of tatty blankets or moldering old mattresses, sometimes voices carrying echoes through the dank concrete -- give evidence that /someone/ still uses these tunnels. The rumbling of subway trains sounds frequently through the walls, many of the train routes accessible through various doors and openings. BAM. The escape had been messy; exits blocked off, Parley had gone /down/, further and further down, erupting into a deep underground parking lot. Locked tight, he'd railed a bit wildly against other locked doors and windows until the last moment, when the stairwell had burst open and a last wild look around Up (cement ceiling, no good), left (cement wall, no good!) right (the corner around which he could hear guards and cocking guns - SHIT) and then DOWN: a drainage grate. Ah... BAM. Echos shimmer for miles through the dark, complicated network of New York's subterranean organs; the muffled roar of the subways somewhere above, the soft drip of water. BAM. The smell of rats and stone and moss and rotting wood. But that was hours ago. BAM-clatter! Rotting wood that is, at the moment, being kicked down from its former position of boarding up a service tunnel, where so vaguely in the dark there can be seen long walls of ancient graffiti leading off into shadows before a dirty mess of a figure crumples through the gab. The rush of shaky irregular-rapid panting, a palm slaps down against concrete, then another, blindly fumbling through the dark until they find a wall. Teeth gritted, eyes only periodically opened, more often squeezed shut, he seems for a moment intent on pressing on, rushing a bloody hand over the wall's surface and then just slumps down to sitting. Far behind, on a level that was more city subbasement than proper underground, there had been noise; shouts and the report of gunshots. But the stillness has set in. And the dark. The dark is not always a friend. In total darkness, it has a weight that presses against the eyes, presses against the ears. It /thrums/, promising that there are things within it that can't be seen, can't be heard. In the pitch black, the only true friend a person can really have are the shapes of ground and wall, the cold that can leech into a body, the occasional puff of stagnant air, all reassuring a person that the world hasn't simply vanished, that time hasn't wound back to a history where there was no creation--only the dark, humming with its own secrets. The unfriendly darkness gradually shifts, though. Who knows how long Parley sat there before it stirred with a presence that is not just mindless and all-enveloping. After awhile, something like a hand passes over his brow, while others slide over his body. Patting, smoothing, /soothing/. There's a voice in his ear, whisper-soft and concerned. "Parley? Can you hear me, Parley? Why are you down here, little man?" "Nuh!" up to this moment sitting with hands shoved under his armpits, Parley jolts like a live wire. Long since run out of stamina and burnt through on adrenaline, all that's left is twitchy raw hindbrain nerve-jerks, and a miserable undignified /noise/. The dark does thing, to a mind; it's a den-feel, bizarrely intimate and naked and universal. His hands snap up partways, instantly stop, and it's somehow in this /stopping/, and the lowering of them back to mash between his knees that puts him back on the track of complicated human communication. "-uh!" He rushes, "Um. Each touch smoothed over him - torn clothes, a few micro-cut scraps on a cheek and arm, back muscles twitching - seems to ground him, harden him. Inspire harsher breathing. "I. Just." With his knees pulled up, he bites down on his pantleg, muffles, "-give me. A minute. I'll." A minute is requested and a minute is granted, all of those many hands withdrawing and leaving Parley in peace. The seconds tick by. Somewhere, something large and fast rumbles, like a threatening animal. Up or down, or off to the sides, it's impossible to say. For those sixty precious seconds, he might as well be completely alone. But Nox is still there, lurking in the dark. Or she /is/ the dark, and has only drawn back the most obvious parts of herself. When a minute has ticked by--maybe a little more, maybe a little less--she murmurs from all around him, "Are you hurt? You should not be down here, it is dangerous. We should move you." "/Mmh/." Parley makes a wired noise that sounds like his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth, somewhere between an affirmative and a - laugh? A keen? It quiets to just a heavy swallow, and a brisk semi-businesslike nod, "Yes. I." /He/... has a palm pressed against the wall again, and down his arm muscles lock up and compress under bodyweight until he's shakily pushed to his feet. "-am sorry. For. The. No. I'm not," as he says it, he runs a thumb pad over a torn up fingernail blankly, "hurt. Nox-san. I'm trying to - where this is." And he adds, more present-minded, sounding suddenly brighter, "I seem to be a little lost." "You seem to be suffering from shock," Nox observes. She has eyes everywhere, the cheater, and very little of his reaction to being found, to having to interact, goes missed. When he moves to stand, there are arms helping him and a hand rests on his shoulder to offer steadying balance. "It is a poor place to be lost, as well. May I carry you, Parley? It is safer that way. There are...there are dangers here. Things darker than I am and they are waking up, hungry." "Ahh? Yes." Parley fills up his cheeks with air, and slowly pushes it out in a slow stream, digging his nails into his leg, compression making knuckles stand out, and then ease again. "--probably." Probably this is a poor place to be lost, or probably he's in shock, he isn't entirely clear - it's a guessing game! It's dark and black but his eyes face forward as he slowly shifts his feet, twitching once in his shoulder, making a quiet hiss and then /deliberately/ leaning into Nox's touch. Hard. /Aggressively/ fitting his form to hers; it doesn't feel affectionate - almost challenging. "Monsters," he says quietly, like it's an experiment, and dips a finger into a pocket. Touches something inside it, the plastic shape of a thumbdrive. And then closes his eyes, melting back against the dark, silent allowance to be lifted. "...I seems to be accruing a lot of debt since I've been in this world." It's clear that Nox doesn't entirely know what to make of Parley--whatever support he might have found when he responds to her touch is withdrawn, almost snatched back and away as if she'd been burned. Only the lesser darkness remains until he relaxes again. Then, gingerly, he's lifted up and enfolded in softness. Unlike before, when she spoke all around him, this time she speaks against him. Her voice is there, and there, and there, humming around his body. Presumably they are moving? There is no sense of movement or shifting, just the ancient and eternal standard of being cradled safe /within/. She whispers, "There is no debt." And, "The world above runs on such things but it is different here." And, "Monsters and worse, yes. Good comes few and far between, below. When it grows warm." Notably, however, she does not ask /why/ he is here. Maybe that's manners. Cocooned in the dark, Parley curls, the natural curl most any animal eases into, when they loosen. Or die. There's no manner of hiding the full-body quake, so he doesn't waste time in trying. The indulgence of it affords a wedge of suspended distance, allowing his body to roar in shock while his face relaxes, abandons this nonsense and coasts over it like one more thermal. And comments, softly, head turned to the side as though he could hide his face from her, "...thank you." Where he shakes, Nox supports him. Not restraining so much as holding him through the tremors, large and small, for however long they last. She is good at that and good at continuing not to inquire as to what might have caused it. Instead, they move quickly through the tunnels, places deeper and darker than any he might have found on his own before beginning the slow climb towards the surface. Up there, where there's sunshine, and people, and different types of monsters. Nox offers silence to the thanks. There's nothing to say, given where she's returning him.