postocular | open post;;

From:

[ Consciousness comes sluggishly. He can't seem to open his eyes, swimming through the blank emptiness toward a small crack of light and getting nowhere. Waking shouldn't be this hard. It feels like he just went to sleep, limbs heavy, not working. It's funny. He doesn't feel anything, pain or not. Like he's a head without a body.

So he doesn't. He simply lets go.

The next time, it feels different. His fingers twitch. Where he couldn't hear anything before, there's definitely noise, but it sounds like he's underwater. Distant. Muffled. Can't make out the words. His eyes still feel heavy, but Carl feels like it's important to open them.

Open. Come on. Just once.

When he finally manages it, it's hard to process exactly what he's seeing. Stark white walls. The smell of disinfectant. The sound of a few machines nearby. A heart monitor and.. something else. It's not right.

There's sound nearby. Not the expanse of nothing but nature. The sound of death groans. The heart monitor spikes, the beats speeding up as his brain tries to piece everything together. The edges don't fit. It hurts his head.

He lets his head flop to the side, opening his eyes briefly one more time. The sight is a relief, and he tries to call out to his dad, to let him know that he's here, but all that comes out is a raspy croak.

...Weird. How long had he been asleep? And where the hell were they? It wasn't the farm. Nor Alexandria.. The hand beneath his is warm, his dad holding his hand loosely. Carl curls his fingers as best he can. Why isn't anything responding? ]

From:

postocular

[ It's only his second shift, and Carl doesn't think it will get any less painful, like his body is boiling from the inside out. Sharp points of pain as his body contorts and changes. Into what, he still doesn't quite understand- can't seem to wrap his head around it past the pain and the instinct and the power. He feels powerful, in a way he'd never experienced before. Senses are heightened so much it's an overload most of the time. There's too much going on that it's hard to string things together in a way that makes sense.

It should never have come to this. He still doesn't know what he did to deserve the bite-- no. The attack. He got more than just a bite to the shoulder that night. The mangled remnants of his right eye throb in remembrance of it. Vision skewed, he has to be careful as he darts through the heavily wooded area since his depth perception is off. He doesn't even know where he is, though something in the back of his head says north. How much, he doesn't know. As soon as that godawful shift had happened and he could see past the pain, he'd taken off. Running as fast as his feet could carry him. It didn't matter where, so long as he was far away from that asshole.

One thing is certain. He's hungry. Needs to sink his teeth into something before the night is out. He's only managed to catch small mammals, but nothing satisfied him. Nothing satisfied the monster that's lurking just under his skin now. A branch snaps somewhere close and the hackles raise as his attention swings in that direction. Fight or flight is starting to kick in, and he doesn't know which urge is stronger.

The urge to fight wins out and he skulks toward the noise, head dipped low. The faintest hints of daylight are starting to peek through the gaps in the trees, but for now, there's still time for a kill. ]

From:

postocular

The world isn't how it used to be. It's a phrase that Carl thinks about a lot- even as the weeks change, nothing is the same anymore. Their new future looks less and less like what he imagined when he was younger. The days of playing games or biking over to the neighbors to play in the sprinkler seem so far behind him, yet it wasn't really that far at all. That was the price they paid for being young when the world they knew ceased to be and the dead started to roam. Even the fights that threatened Alexandria and the other communities seemed like a lifetime away and the peace they fought for always felt like a precarious thing. The Saviors were nothing more than a nuisance, Negan locked in a cell in one of the homes of Alexandria until they figured out what to do with him, but his reign no longer lorded over their every move. Trading between the communities thrived, and there was even a Council being established with members from all the communities to establish some form of government.

Life was... Well, Carl didn't want to think of it as good, but it was better. More stable. Nobody had to worry about going hungry in those communities or fear for their life. There were walkers, but they were as much a part of life as learning to be ready to leave in an instant. Still, he knew that's not what it was like for everyone. Virginia was such a small portion of a bigger, looming problem, which is why he went on his own. Scouting for new members to welcome to their way of living, scavenging for whatever remained that could still be useful in the new life they'd established. There was always an ongoing list of demands, which he kept in a journal tucked into his backpack. Each item he marked off would make someone happy, and it was never anything out of the question: a comic book here or there, a stuffed cat, or even a windchime. Even the most inconsequential thing could mean the world to somebody else.

Gas was too rare a commodity to waste on the type of running he was doing. Thankfully among the list of things he'd been able to learn from the other communities was how to ride a horse and fight from the back of one if he needed to. It was a little harder to shoot from horseback given his already shoddy aim, but so long as he could get away, it didn't matter. The Appaloosa he trained with is his companion, and Carl had taken to him like a house on fire. Whiskey went wherever he did outside Alexandria, and would help him bring supplies back on the way. As they walk along an old highway, he's got a map spread out and a permanent marker in hand. Cities have been marked off along his way, and he's even further out than the trip before. Sooner or later, they'd run out of places to look. They're well outside Virginia, now. Maryland's border was about two days behind them. Montgomery was on a roadsign, about a hundred miles to go.

They come up to a small town, riding up the middle of the road. Walkers have been nonexistent, but they always came out of nowhere when they weren't expected. hopping down and giving Whiskey a pat on the neck, he leads the horse to a nearby house. Once it's clear, the horse goes into the garage and he shuts the door. It'll keep him in one location and away from walkers. It will be easier to clear things out on his own. Readjusting his backpack, Carl sets out after making a note on the edge of his map of the street he's on. He'll work his way up and come back before dark. He hasn't seen a soul since he left, but he'd got hope that they're not the only ones who survived.

From:

postocular

[ Before he opens his eye, he's overcome with a sense of wrong. There's a strange mechanical hum that shouldn't be present and his body doesn't feel like it's eating him from the inside out. In fact, he feels fine? Better rested than he's felt in what feels like ages. He lays on a pretty comfortable bed (first red flag) that smells clean enough but with the edge of dust (second red flag). Mulling over his thoughts, which feel like a jumbled tangle of thread, things are starting to come back as if emerging from a fog.

Taking a steadying breath, he opens his eye and has to shield his vision with his arm as he's assaulted with bright, fluorescent light. Wait. That's... not right. Like. Super not right.

Sitting up and getting a full picture of what he's dealing with, the breath leaves his chest like a physical blow. He knows this place. Hell, how could he forget the place he'd been sent to twice? Looking down at himself pretty much confirms it, his clothes clean and like new when they'd been anything but when he'd closed his eye last.

The Marsiva.. Now that he's more aware, he stands and looks around to gather his bearings. It's pretty much like he remembered. Carl runs a hand over a bit of paneling as he makes his way over to the large window overlooking the Fleet, tinny music crackling through the speakers above. Not as clear as it usually was, almost like a radio running out of batteries..

The view is still vast and endless, making him feel insignificant in the sea of stars. Out there floating in orbit is the Fleet- or what's left of it. That singular eye widens seeing what looks like half the ships torn apart as wreckage while the others chug along like nothing is out of the ordinary. He doesn't know how long he's been gone, but the way everything feels functional but in a state of neglect..

It feels too much like how things were back home when everything had gone to shit for a few months, making him uneasy. He doesn't know what day it is, there doesn't seem to be anything keeping track of the time or date. It's going to teleport him over to a ship automatically, right?

Right?!

He can feel the panic building in his chest, threatening to get caught in his throat. Carl catches sight of the broadcast system and makes for it on legs that feel a little more like jelly than he wants. His fingers are shaking when he presses the intercom button. ]

. . .-llo? H-hello? If anyone can hear-- -- plea--

From:

postocular

It's not as if he's in trouble, exactly, but it certainly feels like it. If his dad's 'I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed' face had been anything to go by. Really, it was a lose-lose situation, but the prick had definitely deserved a punch. Not his fault his step-mom taught him how to throw a punch the summer before that and David's nose was apparently made of paper maché. Sucks to suck. There's no grounding because his parents believe in talking things out and actually listening to his side of things, there's definitely a vibe of 'you should probably stay in your room the rest of the week' lingering in the air.

Homework as close to done as it's going to get before the weekend gets abandoned for an old paperback. Flopped on his bed with Journey playing softly out of the worn-out stereo, he loses himself in the yellowed pages he could probably recite from memory if he tried when a loud 'tink' jerks his attention toward his window. After a few moments, another follows and it sounds more like a small pebble bouncing off his window frame. Flinging himself out of bed, he opens his window, squinting out into the darkness.

It takes him a minute to focus on Sal's form waving at him from the dark lawn and he huffs, casting an incredulous look toward his friend as he whisper-shouts leaning out of his bedroom window.

"Dude, you could have texted." He gestures pointedly to the police cruiser parked in their driveway. Sure, his dad is home, but he's not unreasonable. Until one of his windows is broken by a weirdo lurking outside his home. Parents are overprotective and weird like that.

"How many of those did you even throw before you got the right window?"