conorxsurvives

[conorxsurvives]

Conor was already telling Charlie so much more information than he had ever expected to or that he had told anyone else here in Arcadia. Maybe it was because she had shared something deeply personal with him first, or maybe it was because he just felt an unexpected kinship with her. Despite the fact that (to Conor's knowledge at least) they had different life experiences, it felt like they understood each other on a deeper level. That was a true surprise, but the truth was that Conor kind of liked it. Of course, that didn't mean he was ready to say anything more. Already he could see the sympathy in Charlie's eyes, and while he mostly appreciated it, Conor hated the fact that he had something in his life that made people give him that look. "That's the first time I've heard it described that way," Conor replied quietly as they continued on. "A scar...I don't think that's true until they're gone. The scar isn't from loving them, it's from losing them, but I think you're right. But I guess at least that's a sign that they were there, that they were important." And Garrett had been. He'd been the most important thing.

Even though it didn't really matter, Conor began wiping dust off the surfaces, as if he was cleaning the cabin to make it more hospitable. It didn't have to be though because they would only be here tonight. Nodding, Conor didn't reply to Charlie with words, instead just walking to the door and barring it closed. That wouldn't keep them out though - the amulet would. Even if They couldn't get it though, they would hear Them outside. Would They make Conor and Charlie think They were someone else? Would Charlie think it's her dad again? Or would Conor - no. He couldn't let that idea into his head because even the brief consideration had him almost spiraling. If he heard Garrett's voice or felt his presence, Conor didn't know what he would do.

Conor had considered the possibility of getting stuck here tonight, so he had brought a few things to eat, so when Charlie tossed him the - likely very old - granola bar, he didn't even open it. Instead he opened his bag, taking out his own granola bars, which had been homemade by someone in town. "The perks of being a guard include people giving you things as a thank you gift," Conor told Charlie, tossing her one of the bars. "These are pretty good too." He sat down in an armchair, dust rising around him, and Conor took a bite of his bar as he considered the situation. "Have you ever been out here at night, Charlie?" Conor asked, feeling a little tentative.

Since time immemorial humans had traded personal information about themselves in order to bond and form meaningful relationships. With consciousness came the idea of identity, and with that came the idea of identity in the tribe, the establishing of roles, the bond of blood and the bond of love. Consciousness, perhaps one of the weakest human evolutions, had well enshrined the need to form relationships with others in order to survive. It had also, undoubtedly, opened the door for different, more psychological, threats to a person's survival, left you vulnerable to emotional warfare, allowed things like whatever these monsters were poke and prod and use the ones you loved against you. Trading information here with Conor, Charlie felt her fist clenching tighter around her bow as he spoke. Whatever these things were, they were ruthless. And whatever world out there had taken someone so important to Conor away, it was just as equally ruthless and miserable, so was there any point in even going back if they could? "I've been here seven years, sometimes it's so easy to forget. But people you love, they tend to stay with you forever. Indelible, like a scar that cuts to the bone," she settled on saying, hoping it would bring Conor some comfort.

As she swept the small cabin, Charlie traced dust off the furniture. "I don't think so either," she said as she lifted her dust finger to eye level and blew on it. The wooden cabin had this musty suffocating feel to it, and while Charlie would have loved to open the window, the last trace of light was just dropping behind the horizon. It was time to lock up and buck up, and it was going to be a long night. Charlie placed her bow down on the couch and began methodically making her way to every window and insuring they were still locked and covered. "Can you bar the door, Conor?" she called out towards him as she went around the room. She paused briefly at a dusty mirror but the outline of a painted on smile altered her reflection in a way that made her stomach uneasy. No matter what she would never become one of those creatures. She used the sleeve of her jacket to wipe the smile and dust away, momentarily stunned at how much older she looked since the last time she'd checked. And frightened too. She also swung cupboards open to make stock of what had been left here, surprise to find some chocolate granola bars in one of the kitchen cupboard. "Hey check this out," she said as she tossed one in the boys direction. She opened one in her hand, sniffed and looked for mold, and then took a bite. It was like eating a block of chalk but she forced a smile in Conor's direction . "Yum," she forced out through the mouthful.

[conorxsurvives]

Conor knew he looked silly going after something that probably seemed so trivial, but he didn't regret it one bit. Not only did he not care if Anya thought he was strange, this was also more than just a keychain, and he would have done the same thing even if all of Arcadia was there to witness it. In fact, he cared so little about how foolish he might have seemed that Conor was doing something uncharacteristic: he was smiling, and widely too. "Yeah, one of the guards," he confirmed. Anya knew his name and what he did, but Conor supposed that wasn't so strange - most people here seemed to really appreciate what the guards did for the town, just like they appreciated the hunters and the scouts.

Even without Anya saying anything, Conor could see the question on their face - it was like he knew what they were thinking. But Conor wasn't going to volunteer information, and in fact, even when she asked, he was going to give her a very abbreviated answer. "It's not just a keychain," Conor answered simply. He was going to leave it at that, but he decided to give Anya a little more information. "Well not to me," he continued. "It means something, and it's worth the risk of pneumonia." That was a much better alternative than losing one of the only ties he had to Garrett.

Anya arched an eyebrow as he plunged into the water. The fog was thick today but she could see the desperate motion clearly. When he emerged, victorious and frayed, only then did her hand resume its motion of bringing the cigarette to her lips. The air was cold and damp but he seemed to be oblivious to it, pushing forward frantically. They had half the mind to make a ridiculous comment on the absurdity of it all. But the look on his face was such a sharp contrast compared to the cheer of his voice.

“Yeah, thats me,” she replied in a tone that was clipped but curious. Eyes narrowing in on him, she tilted her head as she studied him. “Conor? One of the guards?” More of a statement than a question. She had seen him before but only really in passing.

Anya carefully flicked the ash of her cigarette and leaned back onto her splayed hand. There was a flicker of sadness, maybe nostalgia behind the surface of his face that made their wise-cracking tongue still for a moment. She had seen that look. Known it well. Grief always had its way of marking people, no matter how hard they tried to avoid it. She didn't voice this. It was never worth it, not for someone who was clearly carrying something heavier than what they wanted to let on.

“What is so important that you had to do throw yourself in?” Anya asked finally, the words softened. A genuine curiosity in her tone. They gestured towards him, a small smirk, one that was friendly and less guarded than before. “I’m not sure what I’d risk getting pneumonia for.”

[conorxsurvives]

"I don't know if 'fun' is the right word," Conor replied.  "I mean, no one made me do it, and I enjoyed it, I did.  But I didn't do it to have fun."  He knew he was being vague, and he knew he should probably say more, but it wasn't something he could really explain.  Or even if he could, did he knew Zoa well enough to do so?  "Do you ever feel like you're missing something?" he asked her finally.  "Specifically like you're missing something but don't know what it is?  But even though you don't know what's missing, you know you've got to go on a journey to find it?"  There were things Conor wasn't saying, like how he had never felt like he belonged, how the pressure of just existing had felt like too much, like how he felt like if he didn't shut the world out for at least a little bit that he would collapse under the weight of it.  But Conor didn't know Zoa well enough to talk about that.  In fact, there wasn't really anyone here he felt like he knew well-enough to talk about that.

Talking about the people of the town - specifically the "idiots" as Zoa called them - was much easier for him, so Conor latched on to that topic.  "I guess that's true some of the time at least," he agreed.  "About three months ago, I was patrolling the forest in the morning and found some guy drunk lying on the ground.  He'd passed out, yet because he was wearing green, he'd blended in with the foliage, which saved his life.  Pure luck right there."  The memory also caused Conor to laugh, something he did too little these days, though he wasn't exactly the most jovial person even before ending up in Arcadia.

It seemed that the pair had landed on something they had in common, and Conor was glad for that because he was feeling a slight awkwardness suddenly between them.  It wasn't that he needed to always be talking on a trip like this.  On the contrary, Conor was comfortable with silence - hell, usually he preferred it.  But soccer was a topic he actually enjoyed talking about.  Nodding, he replied, "Yeah, midfielder.  I liked running the field the whole time; I liked feeling like I'd given everything when the game was over."  Conor didn't tell Zoa more, didn't tell her how his mind had always felt so clear when he'd given everything in game, when he was sweaty and exhausted, didn't tell her that he had come to seek that blissful peace.  And that was part of why he had hiked the PCT - for peace.  "Hey, forwards have an important job," Conor replied to Zoa.  "They're allowed to be a little...uh, razzle dazzle."  Those were two words Conor could not remember ever saying out loud, and he smiled, almost laughing again - almost.

The pair continued to walk through the forest together, sometimes silent, sometimes with a bit of conversation.  But the entire time, Conor held his hatchet at the ready just in case, always on guard for anything that might come their way even if They didn't come out during the day.  And just as Zoa had been thinking, Conor had been thinking the same thing, though he asked, "Would this be how Jim usually came?"  It bothered him that the path was so overgrown; it wouldn't be easy to traverse it.  Did that mean something bad?  Did that mean Jim wasn't okay?  I guess we'll find out, Conor thought, continuing along.

Truth be told, Conor didn't really appreciate Zoa's tone, and he clenched his jaw.  But he wasn't quick to anger, and besides, he'd come to see that much of Zoa's attitude was just an armor of sorts, something to protect her from the more painful aspects of living here in Arcadia, at least that was how it seemed to Conor.  After taking another moment, he finally responded, "Sure, if you want to call me a Disney prince, then so be it.  There are worse things."  Another beat as they continued, and then Conor added, "I'm not going to sing though."

"I don't think I could handle that either," Conor replied, glad Zoa was letting her guard down again just a little.  "People can be so entitled, though I wonder if it's really as bad here as back home."  Conor couldn't imagine that most people would be the same in that regard, and he almost asked Zoa before remembering that she wouldn't know either.

"so, you walked over two thousand miles for... fun?" there's some genuine curiosity behind her teasing tone, brow quirking slightly as she studies him. her memories of hiking long distances are tied to necessity, not choice, but the thought lingers—walking for miles, day after day, just because you can.

is that what it’s like back there? a life where trekking is a hobby, not survival? sometimes, she overhears people talking about going back—about returning home—and she can’t help but wonder what that even means. home. calling that place home feels pyrrhic, like a spell meant to summon something long gone, an end that would hollow her out more than staying here ever could.

zoa genuinely can’t remember much about the real world anymore. it's faded, kind of like the way dreams dissolve when you wake up— garbled, incomplete fragments. she’s lived just as many years in purgatory as she did outside it, and now, arcadia feels more real than whatever came before.

"considering some of the idiots in town who are still breathing, i'd say it's more about dumb luck." she quips, her words landing matter-of-factly. the cheeky smirk she wears fades, though, when he brings up how she grew up, replaced by slight, misplaced annoyance that she doesn't entirely understand.

she nods. "midfielder, huh? figures. all that hiking makes sense now, you're a god damn gazelle." she lets out a soft chuckle, "i played a little," she starts, but the words stir something that she hasn't thought about in years... marisol was so happy to have found it, a scuffed up soccer ball. she held it like a prize, smiling wide as if she'd somehow brought a piece of zoa's old life back to her. but instead of accepting it, zoa, in a fit of anger, took a knife to it instead.

“but i was more of a forward,” she says, shaking away the memory. “scoring goals instead of running in circles.” the smirk creeps back onto her face, though it feels more like armor now. back then, she’d made varsity her freshman year. it felt like something that mattered—funny, considering how little it mattered now. “guess i’ve always been the flashy type—razzle dazzle.”

hiked the pacific coast trail, played soccer, lived in a cabin. zoa collected these factoids about conor like loose change, flipping them over in her mind as their conversation guided the way to the remote location. the forest grows denser the closer they get, the underbrush catching her feet.

zoa unsheathes her machete and hacks at the overgrowth with practiced ease, clearing their path. “this,” she says, raising the sharp weapon between swings, “good for landscaping, a skull too, but won’t do shit if we run into one of Them.” the blade hits into another vine with a satisfying thunk, "jim needs to step up his landscaping game," she mutters flippantly, tone light though the comment hangs heavy in the air, doing little to hidewhat’s clear to her—and probably to conor too.  whoever had kept this path clear before wasn't doing it anymore.

hiked the pacific coast trail, played soccer, lived in a cabin, and now this, a subtle admission that he carries some baggage. zoa doesn't press for more information though, knowing she would appreciate if the other did the same. "wow," she says, tone characteristically dry, "so noble. you sound like a disney prince or something. what's next? a heartfelt ballad about your duty to protect the kingdom?" with zoa, it’s hard to tell whether she’s teasing, mocking, or both.

but when he flips the question back, the sarcasm starts to fade. “well, serving at the diner didn’t exactly work out,” she says, her words deliberate and her tone casual. “couldn’t handle the whole customer is always right thing.” it’s not the truth, not even close, but zoa’s not one to reveal her origin story like some hero on a quest.

[conorxsurvives]

If Conor cared more what people thought about him, he might have cringed at his poor attempt at humor, but as it happened, he didn't much care.  So he knelt down beside Reagan, ready to help.  "I won't pass out," Conor promised.  "I'm not a hunter, but I've lived in the forest for years.  This is not my first experience with a dead animal."  While he'd never dressed meat before, Conor wasn't squeamish.

It was a bit of a learning experience as Reagan showed him what to do, but as he had thought, it didn't take long for Conor to get a grasp on it.  After listening carefully to Reagan, Conor did as she told him, and while his work likely wasn't as neat as hers, he didn't think he did too bad of a job for his first time.  It was messy work though, but again, Conor wasn't squeamish.  "How did you learn all of this anyway?" he asked Reagan.  "Were you a hunter before...this?"  As he said this, Conor gestured around them, as if to say "before Arcadia."  Then he asked, "Or did you just learn from living here?"  Come to think of it, Conor realized he didn't actually know how long Reagan had been here. 

"ALRIGHT CONOR," Reagan said, tilting her head with a small, wry smile. His self-deprecating humor didn’t exactly land, but she appreciated the effort. This was… surprising. "I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Just… try not to pass out on me if things get messy, yeah? I don’t have time to visit the clinic today."

She pulled the pheasant from the bag, brushing a stray feather off her sleeve. "Alright, Conor," she said, with the exaggerated patience of a teacher dealing with a new pupil. "You said you’re a quick study? That's good, because meat doesn't wait for slow learners. First rule, be methodical. Start here–" she indicated to the chest, "—the breast. It's the best cut, and we want to get it off clean. Makes the rest easier." She positioned the bird on its back, ghosting her knife along the keel, the tip hovering just over the delicate skin "You make an incision at the top, just enough to get the skin started. Then, you use your fingers to peel the skin and feathers back. It's not pretty, but it's faster than plucking the whole bird."

[conorxsurvives]

There were a lot of things they were saying without saying. That was pretty typical for Conor, to speak with his eyes, with his silence. Sometimes there just weren't words to say everything he had inside him; sometimes he didn't know how to say it all. But not everything needed to be said. As he looked at Charlie, Conor felt like she was saying a lot. "See," he said, as if he could tell what was going on in her mind. "There's something keeping you going, even if it's just the desire to not let them win. Because that'll be what happens if you just stop." Truth be told, Conor didn't believe everything he was saying, or rather he did, but he didn't know if it was enough. But Conor needed Charlie to believe it was enough, so he just gave her a tentative smile and a little nod. "It's enough, right?"

They continued to the forest, Conor's mind heavy with thoughts and everything Charlie was telling him. Much of the time, he let her talk, just listening and giving nods or a word here or there to show that he was listening. That was something Conor was really good at, just listening, though he stopped abruptly when Charlie mentioned the thinking her dad had come to her door. "They...they did that to you?" he asked, starting to walk again. He knew they could play tricks on your mind, but he didn't know they could actually do what they did to Charlie. "I'm sorry that happened to you," Conor said quietly, "both things. Your parents and...well what They did too." He was going to leave it at that, but Conor felt like he needed to say more, needed Charlie to know that he understood. "One of my first times out in the woods here, I saw something carved into a tree," Conor began. "It was something we'd done in the forest back home, kind of a joke but not really. You know how people carve their initials and a heart into a tree? Mostly like teenagers and stuff? Well it was something we did." Conor smiled, laughing softly at the memory. "Not my idea," he said, "but I went along with it because...well you make the people you love happy whenever you can. Anyway, I was out in the woods here, I saw that too. Same initials, CL and GK. Even the G was kind of off like it was on the tree back home. My hand slipped. This looked exactly the same." As he talked about this, as he got to the truth of what had happened, Conor's smile faded, and he gritted his teeth. He felt a sudden surge of anger, clenching his fists; how dare they take such a precious memory and turn it against him. But a second later, Conor unclenched his fists, willing himself to calm, and after a few moments, it worked. "I don't know if ghosts are comforting though," he disagreed softly. "But at least it means they haven't been forgotten." Every day, Conor could feel pieces of Garrett slip away, and he hated that, hated that he could do nothing to stop it.

When they reached the cabin, Conor shrugged off Charlie's compliment. "I'm not really risking my life," Conor said, and besides, even if he was risking his life, it wasn't for Steve, someone he hadn't know - it was for Charlie. They stepped into the cabin, and Conor looked around; it was clear no one had been here for awhile. "I don't think he's here," Conor said, "or that he's been here even." Conor had been half-hoping that Steve would be here, holed up in the woods to live his life alone, to cut himself off from the reminders of his present reality, which was something Conor could appreciate. But if Steve were still out in the forest, he wasn't living here. Watching Charlie hang her amulet, Conor nodded, instinctively reaching up to grab hold of his. They'd have to stay here tonight.

People imprisoned and waiting for the end. That was Arcadia in a nutshell, wasn't it? A town in the middle of nowhere that might as well have not existed. No one left Arcadia, not even in a body bag. Charlie knew that she would die here and be buried here and decay here and nothing would change. She could never go back to the way the world was. But then, like Conor said, there was always a reason to keep going. Call it a natural drive to survive but if Charlie truly wanted to, she could have given up a hundred times over by now. Why hadn't she? Why keep going if you know how it will end? She thought of those reasons, counted them on one hand. They all came back to people that she loved and cared about. Such a shame they didn't care about her.

She listened as Conor talk, surprised that she cared to know more about him and even more surprised that he was willing to share. Sure, they hadn't worked together much since he'd arrived into town, but she never knew him to be a big talker the handful of time they had run into each other. "There's nothing wrong with being haunted," she rasped out as they walked, "at least you know your mind is capable of playing tricks on you, makes it less enticing when they try to." Charlie kept her eyes on the forest outline as their surroundings slowly darkened. "I saw my parents die in a fire," she said bluntly, seemingly out of nowhere. "My first night here, imagine my surprise when someone claiming to be my dad came knocking at the door. I looked into his eyes, and although it wasn't my dad, it felt like my dad. Like I believed for a minute I wouldn't be strong enough not to open the door. But then... I saw his ghost, and I saw them and I knew the difference. The ghosts are kind of comforting."

Charlie smiled softly over her shoulder towards Conor. In their walk and talk, the pit of anxiety in her stomach and softened though she still couldn't shake the feeling she were being watched. She just hoped that if it was her time to die that Conor would be spared. "No one knows how to be a person in this town," Charlie said as they arrived at the hunter's cabin, "it takes a pretty special person to risk their life for someone they barely know. Anyway, here we are."

The cabin door groaned as she opened it. From the side pocket of her rucksack she pulled out a flashlight and shun it in. The thin layer of dust on everything made it clear that it had been a while since it had been used. She came in and went to the centre of the cabin where she was able to pull a string to turn the light on. It wasn't much, but there would be enough room and equipment here to have them stay overnight. As she hung her talisman by the door she had a brief thought that maybe they should have told someone where they were going, and hoped that no one would worry too much. "Keep your talisman on... you know... in case..."

[conorxsurvives]

Conor felt more nervous about the fact that he'd have to talk to someone he barely knew than the fact that most likely, he would need stitches, and he knew lidocaine and such was in short supply. He could handle pain, could grit his teeth and bear it, but Conor had a much harder time figuring out things to say. Luckily he just didn't try - if nothing came naturally to him, then Conor kept his mouth shut. Silence had never bothered him anyway, and he liked the tranquility of it, though it was less tranquil to him when he was expected to be trying to converse.

Still, when the doctor entered the exam room, Conor immediately had the sense that this wouldn't be a problem. There was something about their demeanor that told Conor they weren't expecting him to be bubbly and outgoing, and that was a relief. He could just tell them what had happened, get treated for his wounds, and be on his way. "Conor, yeah," he confirmed with a nod. He actually quirked a smile of his own, not out of politeness but a genuine reaction to the doctor. He could tell that they were trying, but Conor could also tell that this didn't come naturally to them either, and that was something Conor could empathize with. Neither of them could be called sunshiney people it seemed.

"I'm a guard," Conor started, not sure if that was in his file or not, "and I was on the nightshift. I saw someone out on the streets while keeping watch, and...then I saw one of Them." Conor walked Dr. Shaw through it, told them about how he'd gone to help them and gotten into a fight with the creature, the way the jagged knife had slashed through his shirt not once but three times, mainly across the back of his left shoulder. "I tried to dress the wound myself, but I couldn't reach it well enough to do that very efficiently," he explained. "And...and the one on my shoulder won't stop bleeding." Conor knew he needed to show the doctor, so very carefully he removed his shirt, though it was difficult with his injury. Finally the shirt was off, revealing the chain around his neck with the silver band resting against his chest, but a second later Conor had turned and was showing Dr. Shaw his back. "You can probably see the one that one stop bleeding," Conor said, gesturing to the poorly applied bandages. One of them was surely starting to be soaked through with blood now.

The clinic had several people to attend to today. They rarely looked forward to these days; however practiced they had become, however much most of it faded into routine after more than a decade in town. If a quiet clinic was a good clinic, then it stood to reason that the opposite would hold true. People’s reasons for visiting rarely boded well. Sprained wrists from avoidable accidents; cuts that were left untreated, some too close to comfort; shadowy concerns of things growing wrong inside them, some unfounded, others until they were already too late.

Faces came and went, some more than others, some whose companies they enjoyed more than others, but Shaw preferred that if no one came in at all. Medicine came in short supply. Surgical supplies, even more so. But hurt could not be avoided here, especially in this small town, where comfort came only in disparate fragments. 

Shaw scanned the patient’s file, having taken it out of the filing cabinet as the volunteer attendee made quick work of notifying them of a new patient. Not that there was much to catch up on or that his patient record had indicated anything that could be made use of for today. Conor’s record barely ran a full page, and much of what they knew of the man was mostly anecdotal. Town hearsay was hardly a reliable source, but as a patrol guard, he’d probably seen his share of gnarly fights. Yet his last visit was from months ago on account of a mistaken diagnosis. 

If there were people who came and went, some more so than others, then there were those who’d prefer not to visit at all. Which Shaw could not fault, to an extent. Despite all of Shaw’s attempts throughout the years, the clinic was not hospitable, not by any stretch. It was hard to be when even the world outside was insistent on not being hospitable either. An understatement, really. 

“It’s Conor, isn’t it?” They began, steeping into the makeshift exam room. No one could mistake them as having a great bedside manner, but they stretched out their lips to form something of a polite smile, regardless. The kind only offered to the most reclusive of patients, to those who had yet to ease into Shaw’s presence that, admittedly, ran slightly cold. 

The warmth did not run for very long. A brief flicker of a smile, until they cut through the niceties. They lowered themselves into the chair beside the exam bed, the thin padding of the seat creaking faintly under their weight. “Walk me through what happened.” Their eyes flickered to the shoulder that seemed to be his most obvious source of discomfort, but opted not to speak any more. Best it come from him. 

[conorxsurvives]

Conor was having breakfast at the diner. Generally he ate alone, either getting his breakfast to go or having cereal or oatmeal or something somewhere else, but today he felt like eating there. Conor had had this urge to try and integrate himself more into society, something that had been happening lately. More than likely it was a temporary whim born out of loneliness, which Conor was no stranger to, and it would pass. But for now it was something he had been thinking about. However, now that he was sitting in the diner, Conor was regretting it. Even though it was nice to eat a warm breakfast of eggs, toast, and potatoes, he felt like everyone was watching him. He was aware of his reputation among the residents of Arcadia, or rather his lack of reputation - people didn't often know what to make of him, and so they whispered. And that was what was happening now. This was a mistake, Conor thought, trying to finish his breakfast quickly.

As he was shoveling food into his mouth, Conor saw someone sitting in a nearby booth who caught his eye. He heard a bit of the conversations around him and gathered that his man - Zaki Conor thought his name was - had helped fix the refrigerator in the back. After finishing his breakfast, Conor thanked his waiter and left the diner, but then he paused just outside it, an idea coming to him. If Zaki could fix the fridge, maybe he could fix other things. Re-entering the diner now, Conor approached the man cautiously, wondering if this was a bad idea. "Excuse me," he said quietly, "can I join you for a moment?" Conor sat down across from Zaki, and he explained, "My name is Conor. I'm a guard here, and I was hoping you could help me with something. I need something fixed. I...I'll find a way to make it worth your time." Conor had no idea how he would do that, but he'd figure out something.

who: zaki & conor (@conorxsurvives) where: the diner

okay, so he's not actually a mechanic. almost everything he knows about fixing things, his mother's ex-boyfriend amir taught him. amir wasn't good for much in zaki's eyes, but he had a real knack for breathing new life into things; broken appliances in their cramped apartment or even the beat-up cars down their block. he remembers spending hours at the man's side as a kid, handing him tools or just watching him work. it wasn't long before amir packed up and left. apparently the only thing he couldn't fix was his gambling problem. but the lessons stuck.

now, zaki's crouched in front of the diner's ancient refrigerator, grease on his hands as he twists the motor wires into place. thing's been losing temperature for days now, one of the waitresses told him, and if it breaks down completely, our food will spoil. the low hum of the motor kicks in, and zaki visibly relaxes as the refrigerator springs back to life. he closes up the back panel and stands, wiping his hands on a rag. "should be good now."

--

they put him in a corner booth with a plate of waffles as a thank you. the sweet, buttery scent drifts through the air as he takes his first bite. just then, the diner door swings open and his attention shifts, curiosity and unease prickling in his chest as he spots the figure entering -- a guard, one he recognizes from observing the routines of the town's patrols. he takes another bite of his food, deliberately calm, but watching.

[conorxsurvives]

Even if they didn't fully put into words the ways they were feeling, Conor felt like he and Charlie understood each other. Maybe the things they had been through were different (or maybe not - Conor didn't know much about her), but somehow he knew they were both in prisons of their own making. "The thing about towers is that they were often used as dungeons," Conor said. "People imprisoned and waiting for the end." Was that how they were? Were Conor and Charlie just waiting for it all to be over, to be lead to the guillotine or the gallows? That's how it felt for Conor at least. He was just existing, wandering through each day, nothing really driving him. But he knew one thing for certain: he was in no hurry to get to the end. There was one thing that Conor had fueling him: Garrett wouldn't have wanted him to just stop. Sometimes when things got really hard, Conor thought about this, and he gave him the drive he needed to keep going forward, one step in front of the other. And it bothered Conor the way that Charlie was talking, so he told her, "There's always something to keep you going, even if it's yourself. We're stronger than our pain."

When he heard Charlie's reply, Conor couldn't help it: he actually laughed, just a little. "You don't really believe that," he told her. "Even if it's possible, it's not probable, is it?" It was clear that Charlie fully believed that this was a trap meant for her, and whether or not it was, what mattered was the fact that she believed it. The two of them stared at each other, and it was like a silent understanding passed between them, Conor nodding back. But he told Charlie, "My ghosts always haunt me, but I appreciate that." Conor felt like he'd be haunted for the rest of his life. "The truth is...if I'm still haunted that means he's still - " Conor stopped abruptly; he'd almost said "he's still here with me," and he wasn't ready to talk about that. Would he ever be ready? Conor didn't know. Even saying Garrett's name out loud threatened to shatter him all over again, and Conor didn't know how often a person could be broken before it became impossible to put them back together. Every time it happened, a piece of him was lost.

They were on a time crunch, and realizing that sundown was so close had Conor worried; they wouldn't be able to hike back out of the woods before nightfall. Conor almost said something to Charlie about this, but he knew that she knew this as well. It seemed like tonight they'd be staying in that hunter's cabin. They moved purposely in that direction, but Conor paused briefly at Charlie's compliment - had been so unexpected. "I'm...I mean...I don't..." he stammered; Conor wasn't good at taking compliments. "I'm nothing special," he said softly. "I'm just doing what anyone else would." Conor didn't feel courageous because he felt like a truly courageous person wouldn't be so completely destroyed like he was; a courageous person would be able to move past their trauma. But the truth was that if it were someone else, Conor wouldn't have felt that way; he knew getting over things that shatter you was not mutually exclusive with being brave. "I'm just a guy who doesn't know how to really be a person anymore," Conor said quietly, a little too honest with someone he barely knew, but it just slipped out. "Sometimes I feel like I never did."

Alone in the highest tower, away from everything else. A sentiment she was more than familiar with. In her castle, the towers rose tall as sky scrapers and she could see the forest for hundreds of miles. And although they weren't as frequent anymore, there had been days in Arcadia where Charlie could certainly relate to Steve's mindset towards their end of their... friendship, if she could call it that. Days where she wondered what it would be like to fall from the towers. "I don't blame him either, all there is to do here is wait to die. We're all stuck here, it'd be nice to control this one thing, I guess," she said towards Conor. She felt like although she didn't know him well, he understood exactly what she meant.

Other people knew of Steve, she wanted to say, but admittedly she had probably been the only one to tolerate him long enough to learn anything from him. The knots... well that felt targeted enough. She thought back to what she had just said about controlling the fate of how you die. If this was her time, if she was their next target, Charlie wouldn't give them the satisfaction of killing her. She'd get the pleasure of doing that herself. "Yeah, you're right it's possible it's meant for someone else," she said softly, hardly sounding convincing. Although still on edge, she didn't miss the change that came over Conor and her gaze softened. She wanted to reach out, place a hand on his shoulder like he had done for her, but her hands were still iron tight around her bow and arrow. Instead she settled for a nod. "Well tonight I won't let your ghosts haunt you, because I know you won't let mine haunt me."

Of all the people that Charlie could have run into first into that village that she could have dragged back out there with her, she was surprisingly glad that it was Conor that had been there. There was something comforting about his presence and reasoning, he wasn't moved by her emotions and therefore it seemed easier for him to bring her back to a sense of reality. "You're right," she said with resolve, "I would. I will. Come on, the hunter cabin's this way and we only have 30 minutes until sundown." She went to leave and then paused to add, "I don't know many people who would do this for someone they've never even met, Conor. You've got a kind and courageous heart." I would be careful with it.

[conorxsurvives]

Part of Conor's duty as a guard was patrolling the town, and that was what he was doing today. Honestly he didn't mind it, preferring to be moving vs. holed up in one of the watch towers or buildings, always on alert for them. Those nights always seemed so long, Conor's shoulders and back aching from the tension by the time the sun rose. Yes, he knew it was an important job, so Conor did it without complaint, but he was glad when it was his turn to do this job instead.

As Conor walked through the town, he headed in the direction of the ranch. He didn't have a particular route assigned to him, more like a general area, and this was part of it. Truthfully Conor liked going to the ranch, liked seeing the animals - they had such a calming presence, and they were one of the few things in this town to ease his troubled spirit. And as he headed there, Conor saw someone familiar. Normally that wouldn't have been enough to draw him in that direction - Conor normally tried to keep to himself - but he knew Ophelia better than most people in Arcadia given that they both lived in the cinema. And lately, Conor had been wondering if he should try to integrate himself into society a little more. His solitary existence was starting to weigh on him.

Approaching Ophelia, Conor paused when he heard her talking. Was she talking to the cow? Despite himself, Conor smiled at that; it was sweet, and it was honestly something Garrett would have done. He'd always been talking to the deer and the birds and the other animals that had come up to their cabin. No, you can't think about him, Conor told himself, managing to lock the memory away before he came completely unraveled. Instead he focused on Ophelia, walking closer and saying, "I bet she's a good listener, isn't she?"

For: Anyone Location: The Ranch

Ophelia stood near the fence, her fingers tracing the soft, matted fur of the mother cow in front of her. The ranch was quiet this morning, save for the gentle clink of the metal feed buckets and the occasional low moo of the cows. The air was crisp with the scent of hay and fresh earth, and the morning light filtered softly through the trees, casting long shadows across the pasture.

She had always loved this time of day—before the work of the morning rush started, before the noise and bustle of everything got too loud. The calm of the ranch wrapped around her like a familiar blanket, soothing her in ways she didn’t always understand. As she ran her fingers over the cow's hide, Ophelia could feel the steady, rhythmic pulse of life in the simple act. There was comfort in the mundane here. The steady rhythm of the cows' chewing, the clop of hooves on the dirt, the soft breeze that fluttered the leaves—everything felt in place.

Her eyes flicked over to the other workers, busy with their tasks, but none seemed to have the time for small talk. Ophelia wasn’t the type to demand attention, but she couldn’t deny the sense of solitude that often crept in. She wasn’t sure how to shake it off—she wasn’t even sure she wanted to.

Still, she had her needs.

"I don’t mind the quiet, truly," she murmured aloud, her voice soft, almost a whisper. "But sometimes… well, sometimes it’d be nice to have someone around who doesn’t mind it too, you know? Just to share the quiet moments." She gave the cow another gentle pat, her fingers brushing the coarse, warm skin beneath her hand.

She looked up at the sky, then back over at the small group of workers near the barn. The silence of the moment stretched between her and them, and Ophelia felt an almost magnetic pull to break it.

"Would you mind company, I wonder?" she said, as if to the empty air, more to herself than anyone else. "Not that I expect anyone to linger, but… it's a nice place to be, isn’t it? Quiet, simple. Nothing much to it but the smell of earth and the hum of life moving slowly."

The cow leaned into her touch, nudging her gently with its head. Ophelia smiled softly, eyes flicking over the pasture once more as she waited.

[conorxsurvives]

Talking about Steve seemed to be doing what Conor hoped it would do: it steadied Charlie, and he only listened, just letting her talk about the man she had once known. "Difficult," Conor repeated simply, walking through the woods, contemplating everything Charlie was saying. "I know what that's like." People thought he was difficult too, albeit in a different way. And he could understand the way Arcadia could change a person too, nodding thoughtfully as Charlie mentioned that. "Do you think...it's possible that he just couldn't bear the weight of what he'd gone through, or the weight of this life?" Conor asked. "Or both? Maybe...he'd reached the end of his tether, and he just...decided to cut himself free." Conor didn't necessarily mean that in a permanent sort of way - maybe Steve had just decided to live with himself and his burdens only. That was another thing Conor could understand completely. "I get why sometimes it's easier to brick yourself into a castle of your own making, alone in the highest tower, away from everything else." Isn't that what Conor himself had done too?

Another thing that settled Charlie was the gentle touch, something uncharacteristic of Conor. He wasn't a very affectionate person. Even with Garrett, he didn't always know how to show his affection, but Garrett had understood. He had always understood. "So you think they're focusing on your?" Conor asked, trying to keep the concern out of his voice. "Maybe...it wasn't directly targeted to you. Other people knew Steve, right?" Somehow though, Conor doubted that; this felt like it was directed to Charlie given her reaction to it. It was like the creatures knew just how to get under her skin. Charlie was beginning to unravel again, and Conor needed to keep that from happening, but he paused when she mentioned his trauma. "I already have that," he replied quietly, eyes downcast. "Like I said, I know what ruins a person." Conor didn't elaborate, not quite feeling like he had the strength to, so he just kept walking. He had ghosts, more than he had ever told anyone in this town, and he couldn't deny that he was beginning to feel more uneasy. What if Charlie was right? But Conor couldn't think that way, not when Charlie needed him to be the pillar of strength. Hadn't he just thought about that being who he was, the one always keeping things together, even if it destroyed him? "I think we're all haunted by something," Conor remarked softly. "Maybe that's how we end up here." Maybe only broken people found their way to Arcadia.

When Charlie whipped around, Conor pulled the axe from his knapsack in a flash, something he'd honest to God practiced just in case. He held it steady, eyes wide as he looked around for unseen danger, and then he saw the rabbit. Conor couldn't help but laugh, a little at least, though it only lasted a moment until he saw the way Charlie continued to spiral. "Of course you're on edge," he replied, not bothering to deny that, "but that's understandable. But do you really want to leave?" Already Conor had decided that even if Charlie wanted to head back, he couldn't do that, not until he knew that there wasn't someone out here waiting for help. "I don't know if he would do the same to you, but I also don't think that matters," Conor said. "What matters is what you would do. What we would do."

Every fiber of Charlie's body was on edge, had been since her fingers had wrapped itself around a familiar and unfamiliar knot. She was in a a constant state of fight or flight and it made her all the more aware of each and every single unforgiving noise in the forest. Unaware of what Conor was doing, Charlie gladly took the opportunity for a distraction. "Steve was a hunter here," she started, "kind of a recluse really. He'd been here ages. He was..." She chewed on her words, trying to find the ones to best describe him. "...difficult, to get to know or to like. A bit set in his ways, but a fucking talented hunter." Charlie tightened her grip on her bow. She began again, quieter, almost like she was talking to herself. "He knew better. So it made no sense that he... disappeared. Sometimes I think he was tired of outrunning his past, you know? He said stuff sometimes that was just... Well I don't know, this place changes you."

Charlie had tried to look for him, but he knew how to cover his tracks in the first place. It had been months before she'd stumbled into his hunter's knife; wedged into a tree, rusty and bloody. She shook her head and pulled some tension back into her bow. With Conor here, she felt just the slightest bit more at ease and the touch on her shoulder did remind her to take a breath in. Thank you. He was right. She had been here a long time now. Maybe she was starting to be like Steve, maybe she was done with facing danger and coming out on the other side of it. She swallowed that thought away, offered Conor a small smile, and then continued walking.

"You're right. It's just..." she paused and freed one of her hands to rub at her eye, "when it starts being like this, targeted I mean, it usually doesn't take long for something to happen." To happen to you. Charlie began walking again, it was easier to be vulnerable when she wasn't facing Conor anyway. "I guess I'm just scared," she stated, voice barely above a whisper, "I've always been scared. And they know that. Fuck, they love that shit. They'll use your own mind against you. Notice how no one in this town doesn't come with some fucked up shit in the back of their mind? And if they don't, well they make it for them. Brutal death of a loved one on your first night here? That'll do it. Sorry if you didn't have any trauma before, but now you sure do now. I hope the ghosts in your closet, Conor, don't haunt yo-" She trailed off and stopped walking. Her breathing felt shallow and she felt something pulling her attention over her shoulder, behind Conor.

With speed, she turned around, elbowing Conor out of the way and drawing an arrow to aim behind him. She held her breath at the stillness of the forest. There was a ruffle in a bush and then... out darted the tiniest rabbit, bounding away from them without a care in the world. She relaxed her bow and let out a shaky breath. "Fuck fuck fuck, what am I doing?" She brought up her hands (and subsequently up to her face) and tried to get some semblance of normalcy back. "I'm so on edge. I shouldn't be here. We shouldn't be here. I'm so sorry." She looked up at the setting sun. It was too late now to turn back. Charlie steeled herself, shoulders pulling back and eyes landing hard on Conor. She swallowed, voice sounding more clear when she spoke again, "No... I need to know. I owe it to him to at least look. He would have done the same for me. Right?"

[conorxsurvives]

“Yeah, I guess I see his point, but when time is of the essence…” Conor trailed off, letting his comment hang there; that wasn’t the point of this at all. Refocused on the matter at hand, he could tell that Charlie was close to unraveling. Really he didn’t know anything about her, but he could tell that she was strong too, so for this to have her so rattled, well…it must have really gotten to her. He ran the entire way there and back to retrieve his axe, not wanting to leave her alone or to come back only for her to have gone into the woods alone. Even though he hadn’t really expected that, he was glad to see she was still there waiting for him when he returned. 

You’re going to have to keep it together no matter what you see out there, Conor told himself. Charlie needed him to be steady, and that was something he could do. That was something Conor always could do. He was always the solid one, the unyielding, even when doing so threatened to break him in two. Conor always kept it together, though the act of such resilience made him hard and unbreakable, which wasn’t always a good thing because it meant there was no way for him to let someone in. With his guard always up, the fortress of his soul was impenetrable, even when he wanted to open the door. And right now that was what he needed to do. With his hand gripping the hatchet firmly, Conor would not break. He walked through the forest, ready to support Charlie no matter what they found. 

So Charlie and Steve weren’t friends, but she had clearly known him somewhat well. Conor had questions, and while he honestly didn’t need to know the answers, he thought the act of answering them might distract Charlie. “Who was he?” Conor questioned. “Did you work together here?” Steve seemed to be an ally at least if not a friend. “And what happened when he went missing? Does anything stick out in your mind?” Maybe that would give Conor some insight into this situation. The way that Charlie talked about the creatures unsettled him. Truth be told, Conor hadn’t given a great deal of thought to their intellect. It wasn’t that he had thought they were stupid, far from it. But he hadn’t quite grasped the depth of their intelligence. “So they definitely could be luring us into a trap then,” he said, a statement, not a question. 

When he heard what Charlie said next, Conor rested his hand on her shoulder, stopping her. “Hey,” he said, “they’ll only be your undoing if you let them be. You’re stronger than you know. You’ve lived here for a long time now, you’ve face danger and continued to come out of it, and you’ll do it again. They won’t be your undoing.” He knew these might feel like empty words, so as they started walking again, Conor said, “I know what ruins a person. I know what destroys them. But you can’t let yourself believe they can break you or else they will.” He didn't know if that helped, but he hoped it did. Conor believed that, and he really needed Charlie to believe it too.

In any other circumstances, Charlie would have picked Conor's brain more about knots. Since Steve had left, it hadn't been a topic of conversation she could bring up with anyone, hardly a heavy hitter in terms of excitement. All she could do was nod her head and agree. "He thought knots were a way of artistically expressing yourself," she said softly, hand tightening around one of the fabric pieces in her pocket. In a very uncharacteristic fashion, Charlie almost asked Conor not to leave her by herself. The protest died on the tip of her tongue and instead she steeled herself and knocked an arrow back onto her bow, holding it at a point of tension that made her forearm ache.

The ten minutes Conor was gone felt like an eternity. It was unnerving just how quickly her sense of composure had unraveled in the last 20 minutes or so. Charlie hadn't felt this thrown off in a while, but something about the situation made her guts ache, and her guts were never wrong. The shadows of the trees loomed over Charlie and her breath hitched at any slight movement. She felt like a child all over again, jumping at each and every snap of branches. When Conor returned, Charlie let the tension in her shoulder ease ever so slightly. She was glad the other boy was here, glad that he didn't seem to think she was crazy. As they walked, Charlie's eyes stayed focus on the tree lines around them. She couldn't shake that something was there, in the corner of her eyes, but every time she turned to look it turned out to be nothing. I'm going crazy. She was so distracted that she almost missed Conor's question. "What?" she mumbled, before looking back towards him, "oh, no we weren't friends. I don't think anyone would have thought that either but..."

Charlie trailed off and kept walking, preferring not to elaborate on the complex relationship she had with someone she considered a bit of a mentor. Abruptly, Charlie stopped in her step and pivoted to face Conor. "You can't trust anything in this town," she said with urgency. She shook her head and relaxed the arrow she had drawn in her bow. "In fact, you shouldn't even have trusted me. I could be leading you to your death and you wouldn't even know. Whatever these.. these things are, Conor, they fuck with your head. They'll get you to betray everything you ever knew. The longer you're here, the more they know you, the worst it gets. I don't believe that night is the only time they come out. You've been out here, ever felt like you were being watched?"

As she asked that, Charlie looked around to their surroundings. "I think they can't do anything to us during the day time, but that doesn't mean they don't learn. How else would they know my name, hmm? Or yours. They learn, and they fuck with us and they do whatever the fuck this is," she said, gesturing to their surrounding, "because they know, Conor, they know they just need to break us to win. Everyone wants to act like the daytime is so safe, well it's not. Night time? Night time is the only time where you have permission to forsake everything you think you know. Where you know nothing is real. You keep the doors and the windows shut. If you think you hear a familiar face or voice, you ignore it, because it's not real, none of it is real. But during the day..." Charlie shook her head and resumed walking. Her throat felt so tight, she couldn't remember the last time she felt so afraid, so cold in her bones.

"Yes. I think they can do this. I think they can do anything. I think they know me more than I know myself," she said sadly as she looked over her shoulder towards Conor. "I think that will be my undoing in the end."

[conorxsurvives]

Jake's tone was so dry, but in the brief time they had known each other, Conor had come to realize that there was the slightest change in inflection when he was kidding. Conor didn't acknowledge this, but his mouth gave a slight quirk, like just the suggestion of a smile. He got the feeling that even if nobody wanted this soup, Jake would have made it anyway, and people would have had to deal with it. Luckily Jake was an incredible chef, so he was given pretty free reign to make whatever he felt in the mood for, at least as far as Conor could tell. "I'm an observant man," Conor teased back, his tone also totally flat, a joke that was uncharacteristic for him; he didn't really know how to do banter and didn't often try. There was a limit to Conor's capacity to make jokes though: he had one on the tip of his tongue about keeping time and holding Jake to that 15 minutes, but he realized before he said it that it sounded stupid.

Conor had expected something easier, like a vegetable soup or what he liked to call "anything goes" soup, which is to say whatever food was available thrown into the pot. That was also a mixed bag - sometimes it was delicious, and sometimes Conor couldn't even eat it. But Conor didn't have to worry about that with Jake because nothing he'd had of the man's had been anything less than amazing. This soup was more elaborate than Conor had expected, and he remarked, "You really put a lot of time into this, didn't you?" That was another thing Conor realized he liked about Jake: the man took his role in this society seriously. Maybe it was only because he liked cooking already, but regardless, Conor respected his place in this town.

Jake filled a glass of water for him, which Conor took gratefully; he was honestly parched, and he drank half of it in one gulp. "I prefer your perky disposition anyway," Conor replied dryly, surprising himself again with the joke. "Is the server okay?" Conor asked, taking the pitcher of water and pouring himself another glass. After taking another drink, Conor set the glass down and replied, "Not too busy. I had to break up a fight. Someone drunk on moonshine was trying to fight this other guy who was drunk on moonshine because they were both saying that the other stole it. Turns out they both just had their own moonshine, which had such a strong smell that I nearly passed out. But that was the big excitement for the day." For the day - Conor knew most of this town's excitement was after dark. "What about you?" he asked. "Busy day dazzling everyone with your charisma?"

Jake didn't like Conor. He didn't like most people, to be fair, but Conor was unfortunately among the majority. Or perhaps he was in a unique camp of one, because as much as he didn't care for the man, Jake also wasn't entirely bothered by his presence. He, dare say it, even almost liked the fact that Conor didn't seem to care that they clearly didn't match. Like two big cats on the savannah, they mostly left each other alone, and there was a humbling respect in that. So when Jake glared through the serving window and saw Conor sitting down at the counter, his hard stare softened just a bit and he turned away to stir his soup. He brought the spoon up to his lips to taste it— it was close. Maybe 15 more minutes.

"Very astute," Jake teased, though it would be hard for anyone who didn't know him to decipher the flat tone. "I have other things but I'm not particularly interested in making them. Besides, give me fifteen and the soup will be ready."

Ah, but then Conor hit the jackpot, the old, rusty key to get Jake talking. Normally a very brief man, he could go on for quite some time about whatever meal he was preparing that day. "It's a take on French Onion, but with the ingredients I have available. Special because the cheese takes a long time to make and we don't often get it, and the croutons had to be baked, but I think it'll be close to what you'd expect to see." Jake came out of the kitchen and flipped over a clean glass, filling it with water and sliding it across the counter for Conor. "Server is out today so you get me. Busy today?"

[conorxsurvives]

Conor couldn't believe he'd lost it. Earlier today, he had been at the docks, doing what he often did, which was staring out at the water. Some days were harder than others; some days, all Conor could do was think about Garrett, about what he had lost. And it wasn't just his husband Conor had lost - he'd lost the sun in his life. But he still had something to remember that light. About a month before Garrett had died, he had gotten Conor a keychain with a little sun on it, talking about the way Conor was always calling Garrett his sun. "Now you can carry me with you always," Garrett had said, to which Conor had replied that he already did, which was both romantic and cheesy; as a result, Garrett had smiled at him before they had both burst into laughter. A few days later, Conor - after looking through essentially every gift shop in Washington - had given Garrett a keychain of a moon and stars since that's what Garrett always called him. It seemed appropriate since any light Conor had was just a reflection of Garrett's own. When the cops had returned Garrett's belongings from his destroyed car to Conor, the keychain had been among them, and the light had gone out.

Now Conor carried both keychains, which hung from his knapsack at all times, except when he'd gotten back to the cinema earlier, the sun had been gone. Not again, Conor had thought, devastated, and he'd been retracing his steps ever since. But honestly Conor didn't have much hope by the time he had gone to the docks; if it had fallen off here, it was likely in the water. "I'm looking for something," Conor said, so focused on the dock and the surrounding water that he didn't even notice who the other person was. He walked over to the section he had been sitting at, and lo and behold, there it was: the keychain was hanging from a nail that was protruding slightly from one of the poles supporting the dock. Immediately his heart began racing because the keychain was barely hanging on. Slowly Conor lowered himself into a prone position, and then he carefully reached for the keychain...which promptly fell into the water. "No!" he yelled, panic overcoming him, and Conor dove into the water after it.

Just seconds later, Conor broke through the surface of the water, keychain in hand! "Yes! I got it!" Conor was overjoyed, but he was feeling something else too: undeniable sadness. Sure, he'd found the keychain, but his sun was still gone, never to return, and this was just a reminder of that. The sorrow overcame him suddenly, and Conor was glad his face was already wet as he climbed back onto the dock. After wiping his face, he hoped his eyes weren't red as he looked toward the other person there. Conor kind of knew her, and he said, "Anya, right?" It felt like he should say something to her since he'd just put on a strange display, but now Conor didn't know what to say next.

for: open to anyone! (cap of 4 for now) location: the Docks

The docks were unusually quiet today. Air rich with dampened wood and the sweet sound of minuscule wake's rolling through the water. Anya sat on the dock by her lonesome, a cigarette hanging between her fingers. The water lapped at abandoned vessels, creeping like quiet spirits forgotten. She wasn't sure why but she needed a moment. Perhaps the restlessness that always settled in when she had nothing to do. She took a drag of her smoke, it's tendrils curling from her lips. Sharp eyes danced across the waves. It always felt alive here, in ways it didn't in other parts of Arcadia. Watchful almost.

She glanced at a nearby boat. A small and weathered thing with peeling paint and a clever, well thought-out name. And for a moment she wondered what it would be like to drift off into the horizon. Would she end up somewhere new? Or would it just traipse her in circles until the docks eventually reappeared -- laughing at her futile attempts. Something she hadn't tried yet, not in all of her nine years here. Anya wasn't sure if she was bored enough yet to see how it turned out.

The sound of steps across wooden plank ripped her from her musings and she turned her head sharply; cigarette still hovering near her lips. She couldn't make out who it was in the fog but their steps sounded purposeful. A purpose that sent her fingers twitching toward the pocket where her pocket knife was tucked. "Looking for something?" Anya asked, enough edge laced in the friendly call that made it clear she's not really in the mood for games.

[conorxsurvives]

Conor listened to what Charlie was telling him and looked at the knot. "That's a good idea," he replied. "I probably would have gone with a Highwayman's Hitch, but both are good options." No one wanted to waste time untying knots, especially if they were in a rush (which people often were in the forest here). And then he looked at the Zeppelin bend, a frown on his face. "I feel like a Zeppelin would take longer," he replied, but then Conor paused. "Sorry," he apologized, "not the point, I know." Charlie was clearly troubled by what she was telling Conor, and as more of the story unfolded, he understood why. So by the time they reached the next Zeppelin bend knot in the forest, Conor felt distinctly uneasy. "This doesn't feel right," he agreed softly, his heart rate increasing just a little. He had a bad feeling about this, but Conor also knew he couldn't ignore the possibility that someone would need help. Even if he wanted to, it was clear that Charlie was going to head into the forest with or without him, and he couldn't have that, but Conor wouldn't have just ignored this anyway. Someone might need help, or someone else might follow this trail without any knowledge that it might be a trap. Looking up at the sky, he saw the sun and knew they had a decent amount of time left before dark. "Charlie," Conor said, "can you wait for me here for just ten minutes or so? I need to go grab my knapsack and my axe, but I promise I'll come back. I promise. Don't follow this trail without me." His tone was urgent, but Conor trusted that Charlie was too smart to go after this alone. After all, she'd come and found Conor before doing so, hadn't she? He gave Charlie a nod, and then Conor ran back in the direction of the cinema.

Just under ten minutes later, Conor was back, knapsack on his back with his axe strapped onto it, and his hatchet was back in his holster, though one he reached Charlie, Conor removed it again. "Alright, let's go," he said, and the pair headed off. For awhile, they walked in silence, and Conor thought about everything Charlie had told him. He hadn't said much in reply to her story about her friend, just nodding along, but now he asked, "Do you think Steve could be alive still? Or...do you know of anyone who would have known about your friendship and his propensity to tie Zeppelin knots?" While Conor could admit that it was unlikely Steve was alive, it was more likely that this was some sick joke, and that was a low move. Still, he'd have to keep Charlie from actually killing the person if that were the case. He had no idea if she would, but he didn't wan to find out.

They walked for a bit longer, Conor running through everything in his head. He was a thoughtful person, really analyzing all of the information he had always, and he didn't usually speak about it until he understood things better. Finally after walking for awhile, he asked, "Charlie, you've been here longer than me, and you have more experience in the forest here than I do. So...is this something they would do? Plant a trap like this?" If that was what was happening, well...that was a truly chilling possibility. They were already ruthless, but if they were smart too, well...that made them even worse.

About three years ago (or was it four now?) Charlie had befriended an older hunter. Befriended perhaps wasn't the best term, because she could hardly tolerate the guy and his old fashioned views on the world they had left behind. She would have been happy to ice him out, but she never turned down an assignment, and he was above all an exceptional hunter. The things he was able to teach her whenever they were partnered largely outweighed the microaggressive misogynistic comment he was prone to making. One of the things he taught her had been knots. All types of knots from marker knots to trap knots to boat knots. Honestly, it had been so boring at the time but what are you going to do in a town you can't leave if not learn useless information. Charlie was well aware she was not only about to sound majorly uncool but also massively insane. But at this point she was too wigged out to care.

"Okay so, I tie these," she started, holding up a strip of fabric, "around trees as marker points, so I always find my way back. When I make a knot, I do a figure eight knot, you know because I can unthread them easily, like this?" She demonstrated the knot as they walked back and held it up. Then she held up the bloody scrap with the knot intact in comparison before giving it to Conor. "This is a Zeppelin blend knot."

She could remember that because it had been his favourite knot as it would always illicit the two of them to break out into the opening of Immigrant Song by Led Zeppelin. "I didn't tie this. I-I don't tie this knot, ever. I also didn't tie these," she breathed out as they arrived at the last point she had been at, and she gestured towards the forest and the row of trees marked with markers. Charlie stepped up to one of the marked trees and traced the knot with her fingertips.

"Steve tied this kind of knot. But he went missing a few years ago."

Charlie put her face in her hands and let out a steadying breath. It did nothing to stop the rambling that came out of her when she turned to face Conor again.

"When I was here earlier, it felt like someone— no something was watching me. An-And I… I, yeah? I know that if people go missing around here, they don’t come back. They never come back. So maybe I’m crazy and maybe this is going to get both of us killed but— but I have to know who or what did this. Because if this is some sort of sick twisted joke I’ll…” she swallowed, “I’ll kill them. You don’t have to come with me but there’s a hunter’s cabin in that direction. I’m planning following the trail at least to there and staying the night. So… are you in or out?”

[conorxsurvives]

Conor didn't know if he liked Jake. Okay, that wasn't totally true - he didn't like him. But he also didn't know if he disliked the man. The two of them were very different people, or at least Conor thought so, but were they? Neither of them tried to be anything other than who they were. They didn't care if other people liked them, didn't try and keep the more prickly part of their personalities at bay, and while Conor didn't always like the way Jake conducted himself, he had a respect for it. And he realized as he entered the diner and heard Jake's voice that that respect actually did make Conor like him - a little bit at least, even when he felt frustrated with the man at the same time.

And another thing that Conor respected about Jake was that he felt passionate about something. It was clear he liked cooking, and Conor understood that feeling because it was the same way he had felt about writing. If paper weren't so scarce, he might try doing that here, but telling stories of horror didn't feel quite the same now that he was living one in real life. And Jake was good at it too. The moment Conor entered the diner, he smelled the aroma of the soup cooking, and his stomach growled in response. Sitting at the counter in the diner, Conor couldn't help but smile at Jake's words; there he was not giving a damn again. "I'm guessing that was a rhetorical question," Conor replied. "It's soup or nothing, isn't it? Luckily I'm in the mood for soup." He had other options, not a lot, sure, but there were others. But Conor thought soup sounded perfect on this cold day. "What kind of soup is it?" he asked Jake.

The soup wasn't ready yet.

The diner smelled good. It was a homey, comforting scent that slipped out from the kitchen and wandered out the door, drawing people in . He'd started cooking it earlier that day, but this particular soup took a while on the heat, and Jake was nothing if not very specific with his rituals. Everyone in the doomed town knew that every now and then, Jake would get to making something special. When it happened, it was best not to rush his process. In fact, it was critical not to rush his process. Several people found out the hard way. So, the soup was not ready yet. It was a phrase he'd repeated several times already to everyone who entered looking for the source of the scent. And alas, here he was, about to say it again.

"The soup isn't ready yet," he grunted, peering out of the serving window with a frown on his face and a furrow in his brow. "Unless you want something else." His words were inviting, but the tone bled something different: don't want something else.

[conorxsurvives]

Conor saw Zoa's nod, and he gave her one in return. Truthfully he thought it was unusual that she didn't have anything to say because it felt like she always had something to say, which to Conor wasn't a fault. It was actually kind of refreshing that she felt so free to speak her mind. But he recognized that just how she didn't really know him, Conor didn't really know Zoa either. "The PCT," Conor repeated before realizing that Zoa didn't know what that way. "Sorry," he apologized, "I should have been more clear. The Pacific Crest Trail." And then because that still didn't fully explain it, he told Zoa, "It's this trail that runs from the border of Mexico up into Canada. A lot of people hike it, either just part of it or all of it. I think it's...2655 miles if I remember right?" It had been awhile since Conor had hiked it, having done so not long after graduating college. "So that's what I mean when I saw that three miles is nothing to me." Not only was that just a fraction of what he'd hiked, Conor guessed the terrain wouldn't be as challenging either.

Even though Zoa was trying to be funny it seemed like, Conor saw the underlying meaning of her words. "Not dying is an important skill," he agreed, a foreboding sentiment. It was just a hard truth that that was something everyone in this town needed to know. "That must have been hard to learn at 14. I can't imagine," he stated. Conor himself had found it hard to adjust to being here, and he'd been 32. Not wanting to dwell on that though, Conor asked, "Football, like...American soccer? That's what you mean, right?" He thought that was what Zoa had said, and he knew football - or soccer - was big down there. "I played in high school and college," he told her, surprised that he was volunteering more personal information. "Midfielder. I don't know what you call that in Portuguese. Another reason why three miles are nothing." Midfielders ran basically the entire game, so they needed to have some significant stamina.

"It's not useless," Conor disagreed quietly. He wasn't trying to start an argument, but he also didn't agree with what Zoa had said. "It might not save you, but at least you have a chance. I would rather be caught with a weapon in hand than without, wouldn't you?" Conor knew that Zoa had to agree at least to an extent because why else would she have prepared so thoroughly? "The odds might be against us, but at least this way we have a chance," he finished, eyes staight ahead on the path before them leading into the forest. As Zoa talked about Jim, Conor realized he'd never met the man, at least not that he could remember. "I always wondered why someone would live in the cabins," he admitted. "I lived in one back home, but that was different. Obviously." Even living in town or in the Settlement was risky, but it was a good deal safer than living in the cabins. Conor understood the appeal of being alone - he really, really did - but was it worth it? He didn't think so.

As the pair made their way into the trees, Conor was caught off-guard by Zoa's question. Was she trying to get to know him? Or was she just making small talk. And admittedly he was just the tiniest bit offended by the way Zoa phrased it, though he wouldn't hold it against her; Conor figured this was just her brand of humor. "I'm not his errand boy," he replied quietly. "And I don't really have any trauma. Not childhood trauma at least." Now adult trauma, that was a whole different story, but he didn't tell Zoa that. "I guess...I know I can handle myself, and I know people need protection here. And I'm not so arrogant to think that I am a match for those creatures. But if I could do something to keep the people here safe and don't do it, then I couldn't live with that." And it didn't hurt that Conor had little concern for his own well-being. "What about you? Why a scout?"

the softness of his voice throws her for a second, but she doesn't let her mind linger on it. his response makes her wonder whether he's taking her seriously or just humoring her. she's not used to people speaking with such a gentle conviction... it feels disarming, and she’s not sure if she likes it. so, zoa does what zoa does best and defaults to indifference, offering a small nod in place of any meaningful reply.

"the pct, huh?’ she repeats, partly hoping that saying it aloud will help her figure out what he’s talking about. it doesn’t. "yeah, you lost me there." there's no point in pretending, the holes in her education feeling glaring in that moment. "didn't exactly cover north american hiking trails in brazil. got here at 14, so my education stopped somewhere around.... futebol and not dying." she smirks, using humor to mask the sting of inferiority. "but, sure, sounds impressive," feel like the right words, even if she doesn't quite understand the reference.

perhaps she's not used to compliments because conor's comment about her being prepared earns a dry snort. "prepared? sure. this town loves to show you how useless that is." zoa readjusts the strap of her knapsack, but it doesn't help. the bag still bouncing on her side as she walks, tin cans of peaches digging into her ribs with each step.

“jim’s what you’d call a recluse. keeps to himself, barely leaves his cabin unless he’s out of food or moonshine.” her words are clipped, but factual, delivered without much cadence. still, she doesn't really answer conor's question. jim going mia? that's new. she doesn't tell conor this, though. no point in making him expect the worst, not until, well, it was staring them in the face.

“so, out of all the jobs in arcadia, what made you pick being the sheriff’s errand boy? childhood trauma? bullied as a kid?”

[conorxsurvives]

Conor noted the surprise in Reagan's voice, and he understood it. After all, he didn't make it a habit of initiating social interaction, and he'd never helped her dress the meat she brought back. It wasn't like Conor didn't contribute to society here in any meaningful way, but the ways he chose to do it were often solitary, like guard duty. Nodding, he acknowledged, "Yeah, I know, but I'm not sick or something. I just want to help." It was his attempt at a joke, but truthfully humor was never Conor's strong point. That was why he was a horror author, not comedy.

If Conor had known that Reagan was doubting his outdoor skills though, now that would have been funny, to him at least. And even though he didn't know what she was thinking, Conor explained, "I've never dressed meat before, and I'm not a hunter, but I'm a quick study, especially natural things like this. I don't know, maybe my training prepared for picking up skills like this. I don't know." Even though dressing meat wasn't a skill he had learned as an Eagle Scout, Conor felt like he could pick it up quickly, at least the basics. Shaking his head, Conor replied, "No, I haven't, but just tell me what I need to do. I'm sure it's not as simple as it sounds." He would defer to Reagan, who was the expert here.

THE WORK DIDN’T END WHEN THE HUNTERS REACHED TOWN, if anything, she considered that the easy part. The comforting solitude of the forest gave way to the challenging task of dressing the day’s kill. Which, for Reagan consisted of two rabbits and a pheasant. Since arriving in Arcadia, her dressing work had improved significantly, though she often preferred to have Ophelia nearby — her experience butchering carcasses made Reagan look like an amateur. But the other woman was busy with Eresh and the meat would go off if she didn’t start soon. She made a point to use each part of the animal, not leaving anything to waste, and that took concentration and a steady hand. If the knife slipped into an intestine, it could mean losing an entire animal. 

Reagan nearly didn’t hear the man approach, looking up over her shoulder. Her hands were already soaked with blood, the first rabbit thrown over her knee. She knew Conor well enough, theirs was an amenable acquaintanceship strengthened by a mutual habit of staying out of one another’s way. And so his question caught her off guard. “You want to help?” 

He didn’t strike her as the skinning type, or as outdoorsy to begin with. She could count the number of times she’d seen him outside the theater on one hand. Regardless, Reagan nodded toward the other stool and slid the burlap tote to him. The pheasant’s head lolled out, the white feathers about its neck standing in stark contrast to the warm brown of the bag. “Have you ever plucked a bird before?”