entrancelogs | Fragments

Who: Agent Washington and You!
Where: The gym, the bar, the grounds
When: Post-event
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Wash is not coping well after encountering Epsilon
The Story:

The Gym/Training Rooms
[If Wash was dedicated about training before, he's bordering on obsessive now. He heads into the training rooms and fiddles with the equipment until he's got a setting that presents a suitable challenge. He has to keep going. It keeps him occupied. Keeps him from thinking too much so he can almost drown out the parts of his mind he doesn't want to acknowledge.

By later in the day though, it's obvious that he's struggling. Slowing down, missing hits that he should have been capable of, taking hits that he should have been able to dodge. Weeks of barely sleeping, of pushing himself to the limit, finally catching up.]

The Bar
[There is a sullen determination to his visits to the bar. He is a man with a purpose when he heads in, and the only reason he's drinking there instead of in his room is because it feels slightly less wrong. Plausible deniability, right?]

The grounds
[His morning runs are the most relaxing time, a routine he sticks to unflaggingly. Helps him to blow off the last remnants of whatever nightmare he'd had. He feels almost normal. He stretches outside the mansion, standing on the steps and watching the morning sun spread across the land. He stands there for a few minutes, letting the sun warm him before he heads out for his run.]

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[He knows that it's stupid to drink this much, and not just for the sake of his liver. Carolina isn't blind. She knows him too well. But he's got too much on his mind, and even exhausted he can't stop his thoughts. The alcohol just dulls it enough to help.

It takes a moment for him to register that someone is talking to him, and then he glances over curiously. ]

Vodka. The stuff designed to knock you out.

Ah. [He nods in that slow, ponderous way that suggests he understands but also that he shouldn't have really started nodding at his current stage of inebriation. Nathaniel tops off his own glass - the bottle now half empty - and lifts it to examine the liquid inside. It appears clear at first, but an almost imperceptible bluish hue filters through it when it catches the light.]

This is whiskey. Legacy White Shear. Rare in Thedas, but.. that doesn't seem to matter here. [A small sip. He grimaces.] It isn't advised to drink it in large amounts.

[Wash peers at the liquid, frowning slightly. He has no idea what kind of booze has that sort of colour.]

Probably not. This place likes to play fast and loose with the laws of reality so getting rare alcohol shouldn't be an issue.

[He grins and raises his shot glass, downing the vodka in one go.]

What would the fun in that be?

[It comes in handy that this place has no issues with particular 'laws of reality' when a regular alcoholic drink just won't do it. Nathaniel hadn't even been all that unhappy when he walked in here, but the drinking has done nothing for how pensive he feels.

He raises his own glass in turn, but only sips again. The liquid burns white-hot down to his stomach and it shows in his face, even as he can't help but idly nod in agreement.]

There are certain benefits to not going blind, but I doubt I could drink so much that I would reach those circumstances.

[He's not sure if he'd be able to die of alcohol poisoning here, or how it would affect him. Would he come back like people claimed? Or was death by alcoholic idiocy not covered?]

At least you have something to aim for if things really get bad.

Something to aim for?

[He sets his glass down and almost misses the edge of the bar. Concentrate, Nathaniel. The rogue's brow furrows.]

What do you mean, saying that?

[Wash shrugs and takes another shot.]

If things really suck you can see which happens first. Blindness or death.

I'd just as soon see neither.

[Grim topic, but there must be something in it. He tries not to think about his death too much. Knowing how it's going to happen really takes all the fun out of it.]

When I meet death, it shan't be at the bottom of a liquor bottle.

You never know what this place will bring.

[He isn't planning to die. But he just... isn't doing everything he can to avoid it.]

Noble ideas are a great way to get yourself killed.

On the contrary.. I'm a Grey Warden. That's practically a written contract for an early grave.

[He knocks back what's left in his glass and gazes at the bottom of it glumly. After a moment, he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.]

Noble or not, we all go out the same way.

I... have no idea what that is. But it doesn't sound fun.

[Not quite the same way, but he can appreciate the sentiment.]

Okay then, noble ideas are a great way to get yourself killed slowly and painfully in ways that make sure you will never have an open casket funeral.

That, I can drink to.

[And he does, after he fills his glass halfway again. Knocking it back forces him to shut his eyes while spots dance in front of them. This is definitely a sipping whiskey, and he's going to feel the after-effects come morning.]

Nathaniel Howe. Before I drink too much to remember introductions.

[He downs a shot in solidarity.]

I'm Washington. Wash is what I go by.

Interesting name. [Different. No one in Ferelden or the Free Marches would name their child something like that. Or.. few enough people for it to be a negligible minority.

He gives the bottle of Legacy White Shear a nudge in Wash's direction.]

Try it, if you want to.

I guess it is.

[No recognition, he doesn't think. There's people here from so many places there's no reason anyone should recognise an Earth state.

He takes the bottle when it's offered and pours himself a shot. It even smells strong. This one he sips. It makes him gasp.]

Holy fuck, I think the closet lied and just gave you paint stripper. Maybe rocket fuel.

[Nathaniel laughs. It's quick and rough and sounds like it doesn't happen terribly often, but there's something about the other man's reaction to the drink that tickles him. He knocks back his own with a hissed-in breath to follow and shakes his head quickly, immediately wishing he hadn't thought that was a good idea.]

Rocket fuel?

[The word is a strange one. He lifts both eyebrows for a moment.]

What is a 'rocket'?

[Right. Different realities. Different times.]

A rocket is... it's a vehicle people used to use to go into space. You attach tanks of explosive fuel to a cylinder and when it's ignited, it pushes the cylinder through the atmosphere and into space.

[It's clear enough from the look on Nathaniel's face that he might understand some of those words separately, but stringing them all together isn't resulting in much sense being made.

And it's only partly because he's drunker than his father on a feast day.]

Into.. Into space. [He makes a small upwards gesture with one finger.] Surely that's impossible.

[He tries not to laugh at the reaction, managing to force it down to a smile.]

No. it's quite possible. The time I'm from, humans have colonised a whole bunch of planets.

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