08-01-2017, 03:36 AM
you're the reason why i'm travelling on
don't think twice, it's all right
He was a quiet man. Sitting in silence, listening peacefully to the world go by, that was his habit. How quickly habits changed. Alone, Roque talked constantly. To himself, to the trees, to the birds. Some reassurance that he existed. Some evidence that he wasn't just a blank slate, wiped clean of emotion--it wouldn't be long, when he was chatting with the sparrows, before he'd feel his voice crack, and despite not registering the pain he knew he was feeling somewhere, it felt almost comforting to know it was there.
Being alone was frightening. But for Roque, who'd run at the sight of danger, and would cling to the nearest pillar of support--when all of that was taken away, it seemed he managed...to deal with the trials of day-to-day survival with an exhausted resignation, something many in this world were familiar with. Gone were the daily chores that made his life calming and pleasant. Meals were foraged and sparse, and though he was rarely familiar with a deep sleep even before...now he was lucky to get more than two or three hours a night.
It hadn't been this long that he'd lived like this. Certainly, the...blackout had changed much of his life, but the drastic turnabout hadn't come till only six months ago. Six months ago, when the people he'd come to know as his family just...disappeared. The night they were woken up by the fire was terrifying. Roque woke up with smoke in his lungs and if it hadn't been for Jack and Nuit, he would have just died then. They had run, leaving their camp behind--or at least, that had been the plan. Roque tried to go back. There was too much--too much they needed to survive. And when he turned back, he'd lost them.
All of them.
The forest was on fire, and he was alone.
Roque survived, needless to say. He'd found a river. A muddy, broad river and though the flames licked close to the edges, Roque was a swimmer. It was fast-moving and though he was borne downstream a good ways, letting himself float and doing his best to avoid the most dangerous looking rapids, he wasn't burnt alive. He was bruised and scratched all over, soaked to the bone and when he was finally safe from the fire--he was so far from where he'd entered the river, there was no chance he would be able to make his way back. There wouldn't be anything there, anyway. He was sure their camp had been destroyed utterly. And what he didn't want to think about--that they, too, were destroyed. Utterly.
He didn't know how he'd made it here. He'd slept, or tried to, about a mile back--the costco was in sight, but he almost doubted his strength to even get there. And he knew it was populated. That was the worst bit, but simultaneously--he needed people. Or he'd die. He knew he wasn't strong enough to survive on his own out here, and despite his doubts as to why he even needed to--his instinct kicked in. Just like it always had. Just like it had at the river. And back, before the blackout. Back when he'd woken Jack up, shaking and crying because he hadn't meant it.
Roque was going to survive.
As he approached the warehouse' borders in the evening, as he'd waited till the sun wasn't hot enough to cause him to keel over--it was clear he was underfed, bruised and battered. His clothes, once constantly cleaned and picked over, were dingy and ratty. He hadn't bothered to comb his hair or take care of himself--the only reason he wasn't stinking like a pile of dead meat was not even his depression could overrule his anxiety around being unclean. He'd taken a bath in a river the night before, soaking himself and trying not to freeze overnight. And here he stood--shakily, eyes wide and nervous as he glanced across the border--he didn't know anything about these people--if they were friendly. Maybe they'd shoot him. Maybe...
Get a grip.
![[Image: imageedit_25_7806567549_by_jessekamokazi-dbn4gv7.png]](https://orig13.deviantart.net/c09c/f/2017/254/6/3/imageedit_25_7806567549_by_jessekamokazi-dbn4gv7.png)