[joel comes to on the ground, easy as stirring from an afternoon nap. it's too gentle even with as cold as it is. waking up in the afterlife seems like it ought to be meaner. more raw.
because he knows he must be dead, and this is hell or purgatory or whatever comes next. it sure as fuck ain't heaven – he knows that much — and he sure as fuck hadn't survived what happened in the lodge; he knows that too. this is — well, it's not the fire and brimstone he'd have expected but it's notably lacking in cherubic choirs and pearly gates, too.
he staggers to his feet in the snow with a wince and has to catch his balance on a tree, bracing himself fully against the trunk. a terrible ache thrums deep in his skull, and it almost turns his stomach.]
Goddammit.
[he takes a few steps and has to catch himself on the next tree before he stumbles. his knee is stiff and a little sore where he'd been shot but seems to be mostly healed, somehow, but his head — apparently it's going to be a minute before he can walk without feeling like he's going to pitch sideways.
but damned if he isn't going to keep trying anyway.]
» the end approaches
[this place is... different. difficult to put into words. joel doesn't trust it, not for a minute, and even if it's some kind of afterlife he still can't shake the feeling that infected might be around every corner.
so he does what he's been doing for years — he picks his way carefully and quietly around town, scavenging supplies where he can find them.
by the time he hits the bulletin board he's armed with a baseball bat. not ideal, but better than nothing.
enough that when he hears movement behind him as he's studying the message scrawled in blood — he is coming — he feels comfortable enough to address whoever it is before he tries taking their head off. ]
joel miller / the last of us
» into the endless
[joel comes to on the ground, easy as stirring from an afternoon nap. it's too gentle even with as cold as it is. waking up in the afterlife seems like it ought to be meaner. more raw.
because he knows he must be dead, and this is hell or purgatory or whatever comes next. it sure as fuck ain't heaven – he knows that much — and he sure as fuck hadn't survived what happened in the lodge; he knows that too. this is — well, it's not the fire and brimstone he'd have expected but it's notably lacking in cherubic choirs and pearly gates, too.
he staggers to his feet in the snow with a wince and has to catch his balance on a tree, bracing himself fully against the trunk. a terrible ache thrums deep in his skull, and it almost turns his stomach.]
Goddammit.
[he takes a few steps and has to catch himself on the next tree before he stumbles. his knee is stiff and a little sore where he'd been shot but seems to be mostly healed, somehow, but his head — apparently it's going to be a minute before he can walk without feeling like he's going to pitch sideways.
but damned if he isn't going to keep trying anyway.]
» the end approaches
[this place is... different. difficult to put into words. joel doesn't trust it, not for a minute, and even if it's some kind of afterlife he still can't shake the feeling that infected might be around every corner.
so he does what he's been doing for years — he picks his way carefully and quietly around town, scavenging supplies where he can find them.
by the time he hits the bulletin board he's armed with a baseball bat. not ideal, but better than nothing.
enough that when he hears movement behind him as he's studying the message scrawled in blood — he is coming — he feels comfortable enough to address whoever it is before he tries taking their head off. ]
Did you do this?
» wildcard
[idk anything!]
(also, prose or brackets are fine!)