Deer boy

[he surveys the content of the filing cabinet parallel to their bed, intent on finding… anything. Anything at all. A flip phone, maybe, or some mild form of pain relief medication… his head is killing him. Ilya had only been gone an hour or so, maybe a little over by this point, which was enough time for him to get anxious, then impatient, then desperate. He’d walked over on his knees, because his feet still hurt, burned and blistered raw at the soles.]

—🦌 ( @cant-get-home)

[A cane rests calmly at the base of his skull, not hitting, not yet, just resting. Lasha had woken up, a sleeping behemoth now risen and unsure if they were threatened.]

You have two minutes to explain, or run. Choice is yours.

[Their voice is raspy, accent foreign, cane perched at a perfect angle to strike. Lasha is not above killing, and they are not above consequences. They’ll pay their dues sooner or later, but when they do they’ll take it like a woman. For to take it like a man would be to cower in the face of virtue.

Lasha could not see the figure, they could not see who is in their room with them, they could not see their age, their face, their features. Operating on pure instinct to keep their belongings and body safe. They’d been robbed and taken advantage of too many times on the street.

There is too much at stake to not take a calculated risk. Either they scare an innocent person, or they neutralize a threat before it can be made apparent.

Y- I’m- I-.. I’m just tryna find a phone? [he pauses to breathe, steadying his voice to the best of his capabilities. By the tone and pitch, he couldn’t be older than maybe seventeen or eighteen.]

[Lasha immediately removes the cane upon hearing the squeak of his voice. Holy shit— that’s a fucking kid. They stand and fumble around for the light switch, blinking rapidly as their eyes adjust and immediately freezing.

They almost killed a kid.

They would’ve killed him if it were a worse day, if it was a day of rest after going out to make money, if it were a day filled with nightmares and troubled sleep.

They fumble around their pocket for a moment, taking out their Nokia flip phone and handing it over, a silent apology. The description tells them that he was talking about Ilya, which further aids their shame for reacting so brashly.]

Hit your head?

[They repeat, then nod. A head injury could lead to a further lack of judgement, part of them wants to scold Ilya for not coming with him. They’ll inform them of this later. When they’re able to sleep outside of the infirmary, when Temujin stops being paranoid that they’ll kill themself.

Which, one day, they still might. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s strange for them to think their choices matter much in this world, they were dead before the story even started.

They kneel down to the boys level, setting down the cane and showing him their hands.]

I didn’t mean to scare you. You scared me just as much.

[The soft youth of his terrified face makes their heart ache fiercely. They were a terrified kid once upon a time too, at least they could become an adult in a world unplagued by hell.

They show him their ruined leg.]

Look— I’m a cripple as you can see. I can’t run away easily if there’s a threat, which is why I reacted like that.

[it takes him a moment to realize what they’re handing him, but the moment his dies, he goes for it like a man starved, holding it like it’s some exceptional treasure. He tilts his head back up at this threat-turned-godsend as they begin speaking again, watching with unevenly sized pupils.]

Uh, yeah… on the dash when I was driving last night. Um.. deer or somethin’… [he shakes his head, finally dropping his hand from over his eyes with a slight wince. He doesn’t hardly look old enough to be driving here yet. In the US, sure, but he’d have to be at least eighteen to be legally driving in Russia… maybe he is. But by his appearance probably not.] [he retracts into himself as they get on his level, afraid to be hit, or scolded still. He relaxes again as they begin speaking, wary and perhaps slightly dazed in his expression. Eventually, he nods, some slight acknowledgment, before his voice comes to him.]

That’s okay.. I’d have prolly done the same, if I were you..

[he sounds like he’d like to add more, but he trails off, looking at the injury in their leg. He gets the urge to ask them about it, but afraid to be rude, he closes his mouth and bites his tongue, before anything can get past his teeth.]

[rather, he directs his attention to the phone in his hand, flicking it open, and dialing some number hopefully. He brings it to his ear while it rings, anxious, begging, pleading nearly with his eyes. It gives him nothing, so he tries again, dependent on this technology to get him home. It only hushes abruptly, nothing again. Once more…? It giggles in his ear, fueling hope that this will be the time, he’ll get through with this one… leave a voicemail. He’d rather not. Fucking figures. He closes it again, and hands it forward to them, though he feels far more like snapping it in half or throwing it across the room, dejected in his failed attempts. Maybe he’d gotten the wrong number. He’d been struggling to recall it when dialing… maybe he’s only a digit short of his mother’s voice. Maybe they’d ignored him on purpose. Maybe they aren’t worried at all. He doesn’t know. Whatever. He wipes his palms on the fronts of his jeans, offering them a tentative and obviously forced smile as compensation for their help.]

[Lasha chuckled at the kids remark, revealing yellowed, crooked and gapped teeth. Their eyes were red rimmed from tears.]

Yeah.. I’m from Mississippi, near Texas.

[They move their bangs out of their face so he can get a better look at them, picked open pimples litter their forehead and the sides of their face. Their skin follows a similar lack of pigmentation that parts of their hair do, especially on their forehead and sideburns, closest to their hairline.

Their eyes are warm and kind, a deep brown that feels light and gentle, like the endless stretch of night, like the sandman bringing you a dream.

They notice his reaction to the light, and opt for setting up a flashlight on their bed before turning them back off. The glow casts a strange shadow on their face. They look like a fox. A fox locked in a henhouse. A hare trying to blend in among bunnies. Something old and angry and primordial is behind their eyes, they’ve seen this story before, they know the end.

They know they were dead before the story even began.]

It’s a nice place if you’re into warmer weather.. but I lived outside the city.. lotsa vacant houses from what I can remember. Lotsa feelings that never died even when the one who felt them did. It’s like that in the south. Energy doesn’t die, it just moves elsewhere. There was one house, real… bad energy. Bad. Bad. Bad.

[They shook their head, they hated walking past those houses on their way to and from school, they felt watched, an unbelievable anguish would fill their heart and a deep terror would make them want to sprint away.

Nobody lived in those houses. And for good measure.

They knew the history behind a lot of those large houses. Plantation houses. The historical context of the country they call mother always makes them feel a dissonance. It was a hell for so many, it was a haven for their father who wanted to escape war, it was a haven for their grandparents, who fled famine. It was a prison. It was salvation.

Lasha’s dad was the history guy. He’s the reason they passed their history classes every year, car rides where they’d hear all about Calvin Coolidge and how he was sworn in suddenly by his father while visiting his parents. Funny tidbits like that, about Alice Roosevelt and the Ottoman Empire.

Lasha liked hearing about concubines the most. A sort of kindred feeling, a knowledge that in a way, they too were a concubine.

[he watches them speak with equally brown eyes, doe-like in his gaze, gentle but piercing in an odd contrast, face only softly illuminated by the flashlight. He seems a very soft creature, willfully bending in any direction, but maybe that’s only because he’s young.]

It sounds pretty nice.. I don’t like it hot, much, but I think it’s worse cold, ‘cause then it’s darker for longer.. I bet I wouldnta hit that deer if it weren’t so dark. [he sucks his teeth, pausing. He seems very restless, antsy, a need to move this way and that, no more still than kelp beneath the surface of the ocean.] I-I had my brights on, though, so maybe not.. and anyways, it’s been bright enough as is, I guess, huh?

[he chuckles quietly. The gesture makes his head throb. One hand goes up beneath his bangs, pulling and stretching skin, as though attempting to rip it through, to release the growing pressure pounding in his skull. His mama always told him it was dehydration, when he got headaches. In this case it’s for nothing to do with his water intake.]

Do you… miss it there? … I think I’d miss it, if I got stuck up here during all this. But I dunno, maybe with the heat if feels you’re right at home. The houses here look abandoned, too, but I bet the people’re all different than how they are in America. Do you guys really all have guns? I’ve only seen um…. One, not counting movies, and that’s just cause the guy who brought me in had one! Has he killed a lotta people?

…yeah. I do.

[They chuckled, offering an advil when they noticed the signs of attempted alleviation of a headache. They usually push their knuckles into their forehead in the hope that they can push the headache out of them.]

It’s hard not to have some feelings for where you come from. And as for guns, yes. My father had one, he grew up in a time of civil unrest for his country. He fled for the sake of avoiding conscription to war. He had a license to carry a gun, he kept it in his underwear drawer.

[They chuckle fondly, they don’t tell the kid too much about their dad. Like how after their mom died he threw out the gun immediately, tainted with her blood. If he hadn’t had it then.. maybe she wouldn’t have.

Maybe she’d still be here.

It’s hard not to have some feelings for where you came from. It’s hard not to have some feelings for the woman who brought you screaming into the world. Even if she harbored a disinterest in them. She was still their mommy, they wanted her to love them forever.

She had her own demons to fight. And she lost that battle.]

Ilya? I.. don’t know. They have killed before. We all have.

[They gesture to their bloodstained shoes, the bullet casings around the room, the empty bed. Arties bed. Arties empty bed. They feel a hysteria breaking their heart open. They want to throw their body to it and weep, they take solace in the fact he’ll be back tomorrow night. Sneaking through the window with that dopey grin of his.

They look to the kid.]

You do what you need to, kid. The first kill is always the hardest. But you.. distance yourself from it, eventually. Like an endoskeleton. Like a carapace. It grows around you.. makes it.. easier.

[They shake their head.]

I don’t recommend building that carapace though, kid. It’s dangerous too.

[Their accent is low and smooth, they place a reassuring hand on the boys shoulder.]

Who’s “we”? Are there um.. lots of other people here? Not just you and Ilya? How’d you all end up here?? Looks pretty much empty from the outside, ‘n the fence’s a pain to climb up or cut under… I barely thought to check it out..

[he means to ask how they’ve developed such a large hypothetical population. Some sort of advertising? A safe refuge for those who can’t be at home? It might make more sense to him, if everybody were crowding to a house, hiding beneath some basement maybe, but a large, relatively well-fortified school isn’t what he’d expect to gather a crowd… then again, shelter is shelter. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t consider its roof safety, just like every other person here.]

[he only nods at the part following, silent for a change. He doesn’t know what a carapace is. He wasn’t good at school. He was going to join the military, because education outside of the basics would be a waste of everyone’s time. But he’s strong enough, and he can take some battering. He was going to have to kill, even if the cataclysm didn’t start. Only, he’s not sure he has enough courage to do that. Enough anger, maybe, all kids his age do, the guts, sure he’s seen a plethora of gore and violence, but to really actually kill somebody… he’s not sure. He’d figure it out, surely. It was in his plan, anyways. Except now the world’s turned upside down, he doesn’t go to school- nobody does anymore, proven by the mass number of squatters in this school alone, and his future is undecided. Chances that he dies before even reaching adulthood are higher every day. Now all that his plans entail are to get home. He wants to go home.]

[his face heats some at their touch, uncertain, nearly bristled like a frightened cat. Very few people touch him as reassurance, and the change in pace makes him trip altogether. His skin is slightly damp, and etched with numerous small cuts and scars. He leans away from them, eyes narrowed very slightly with distrust, anticipation of ulterior motives.]

Elliot- Eli. Name’s Eli. D-do buses come by here, or…. Or cars?

[They shake their head sadly.]

Sorry kid. Buses have been down for a while, trains too. Too dangerous. Too high of a visitor risk.. and the sun. Most people I see are either in cars or bikes. But they.. don’t come this far out.

[They sigh, offering the kid their water bottle, taped up and covered in old summer camp stickers and friendship bracelets, signs of a life lived before this.]

Yeah. There are people here. Other than me and Ilya. We were all hiding out in a man named Mikhails house.. too little space, and, well.. Ilya knew of an abandoned school. I think he went here when he was a kid.

[They don’t want to blow Ilya’s cover just yet. At the end of the world it’s better if everyone believes they’re male. To be a woman was dangerous enough before.

Lasha knows the cruelty of man firsthand. Part of them selfishly hopes they can beat the cruelty out of Eli before he comes to show it. Part of them believes they deserve the cruelty that they encounter. It’s their place in the world.

They touch their stomach subconsciously when they mention Mikhails name. He’d refused them entry. He looked lonely. They’d promised they’d fix it, coyly dropped the collar of their shirt down their shoulder. He’d accepted. They’d been granted entry and safety at the price of their soul.

A lot can happen behind closed doors. Mikhail didn’t know he was making love to someone already dead.

They sigh. They remembered the blood, the pain and the contractions of the miscarriage, carefully induced by a less than medical professional, they thought they’d die. It hurt so terribly they were certain they did, surprisingly, they weren’t upset with this fact.

The pain was blinding and Lasha felt like Mary in the manger. Ilya was Joseph.]

Where ever you’re trying to go, it’s not worth your life, I promise. We hardly made the walk here in one night— and FEMA patrols nearby.

[They lift their shirt to show him the starburst shaped scar the bullet had left in their torso from the trek. Now that is a good story. If they’re gonna get injured, at least let them have a good story to accompany the scar it leaves.

They look at Eli, his sad doe eyes, and they feel pity well in their heart.]

[no cars either. Okay… Okay. Okay. The word thrums against his head, the rapturous applause of an audience, except they’re repeating a word meant to imply extreme mediocrity. Okay.]

[He gets the feeling that he can’t breathe, drowned in his impending doom, he will die here, on this ugly blood-and-vomit-spattered concrete. Fuck. He watches the space beneath their bed, quivering slightly, though it’s hardly observable in the darkness. Why had he left to begin with? Why leave home? He can’t remember. Probably some stupid reason. He’s very stupid. He’s going to die because of it, otherwise he wouldn’t feel so terrified. Impossible to feel as scared as he does, if you’re not going to die.]

Oh- that’s okay. [seems a catchphrase of his. A holy mantra, it’ll save him. see? he’s fine. He takes their water bottle in one hand, with movement so automatic it should imply that he hasn’t thought about doing it at all. Does he even know he’s holding it?]

[he shifts, knees up to his chin, back against the door, eyes shut for a moment. These things- anxiety attacks, though he’s not got a label to them- happen to him often enough, but he can’t help but feel it’ll never pass anyways. It’s something of a wonder it hasn’t hit him when he first got here, though perhaps that could be attributed to his hope that he’d be gone again by night.]

I gotta ge—get home. I wanna go home. [he looks up at their scar, before blinking hard away, with a very soft gasp. His sisters, he has to go, did he lock the door again when he left?? He can’t remember. He can’t remember anything. He wishes his head would work right. His hand goes up to pick around the stitches Ilya had put in. The bandage hadn’t stayed out for very long, unfortunately.]

I’m… sixteen. [he’d forgotten to lie. Goddamn it. This is a shit situation. All this terror is going to make his headache worse, even with the advil. His parents might actually kill him. His sisters a fucked, he can’t protect him if he’s stuck here. Nobody will have food, because the car is gone. What was he out for??? God, his parents will kill him. Well, he’s dying now anyways, so it doesn’t even matter.]

[Lasha sighs, sitting back on their bed. He’s on Arties bed. They don’t comment on it. They need to move past their grief. He’d want them to let others use his bed.]

…I’m a long way from home too, kid.

[They looked down.]

I know how homesick you probably are. It’s hard, yeah? Not knowing if your families okay.. and wanting to go back. But you can’t, because the buses aren’t running and there isn’t any chance of getting into an airplane…

[The fox offered an olive branch to the doe. They feel horrified when he tells them his age. Only sixteen. Hardly an adult, hardly a boy. Hardly anything. Too young for this.

They don’t edge closer. He can keep the water bottle for tonight. They look at the bloodstained sheets they sleep on, their bandaged arm that weeps pus and plasma when they change their dressings— the stickiness of the scabs adheres to the gauze like glue. Lasha’s lips curl.]

Look— kid, I.. if you need anything. Wake me up. Okay? And if.. if things feel worse with your head.. I’ll get Temujin. He’s a nurse, he’s more.. he’s prepared for stuff like this.

[They sigh.]

It’s hard.. isn’t it? Being a kid and growing up. It’s hard enough without this mess. It’s hard and nobody understands.

[They hate injustice against the vulnerable, and to them, this mess was the biggest injustice of all. Those trapped in unsafe homes.. those who can’t flee safely. Women and children. Those who were the most likely to be harmed here.

They never had to be the responsible adult in any given situation, the baby of the family, the sweet child of Ilya’s, the fun aunt of Faina. Never a situation where a kid could look up to them for answers.]

[going to sleep is far easier said than done. He shakes in silence, and his head pound violently, so that wheezing gasps are all he can manage, hyperventilating until his head gets fuzzy. He wants to get up and walk out. He wants to run and rub and run until he reaches his house. He wants to bury himself and choke on dirt. He wants a lot of things, but none seem like the most ideal solution, and he’s paralyzed, stuck in time, anyways, so it’s no good.]

[his fear wreaks havoc on his system, but it’s in and out in no more than ten minutes. Only ten minutes, but every second felt like hell, dread collecting in his skull, running down his sinuses, dripped like a slow poison, into his throat, and finally cooling in his stomach. Only ten minutes, and he feels his fear recede back into the depths of his mind, only in its place lies a fantastic measure of exhaustion.]

[except sleep won’t come. He lets silence pass them by for perhaps fifteen minutes, before he finally whispers into the darkness, hoping that they’ll find his message amidst the waves.]

[he surveys the content of the filing cabinet parallel to their bed, intent on finding… anything. Anything at all. A flip phone, maybe, or some mild form of pain relief medication… his head is killing him. Ilya had only been gone an hour or so, maybe a little over by this point, which was enough time for him to get anxious, then impatient, then desperate. He’d walked over on his knees, because his feet still hurt, burned and blistered raw at the soles.]

—🦌 ( @cant-get-home)

[A cane rests calmly at the base of his skull, not hitting, not yet, just resting. Lasha had woken up, a sleeping behemoth now risen and unsure if they were threatened.]

You have two minutes to explain, or run. Choice is yours.

[Their voice is raspy, accent foreign, cane perched at a perfect angle to strike. Lasha is not above killing, and they are not above consequences. They’ll pay their dues sooner or later, but when they do they’ll take it like a woman. For to take it like a man would be to cower in the face of virtue.

Lasha could not see the figure, they could not see who is in their room with them, they could not see their age, their face, their features. Operating on pure instinct to keep their belongings and body safe. They’d been robbed and taken advantage of too many times on the street.

There is too much at stake to not take a calculated risk. Either they scare an innocent person, or they neutralize a threat before it can be made apparent.

Y- I’m- I-.. I’m just tryna find a phone? [he pauses to breathe, steadying his voice to the best of his capabilities. By the tone and pitch, he couldn’t be older than maybe seventeen or eighteen.]

[Lasha immediately removes the cane upon hearing the squeak of his voice. Holy shit— that’s a fucking kid. They stand and fumble around for the light switch, blinking rapidly as their eyes adjust and immediately freezing.

They almost killed a kid.

They would’ve killed him if it were a worse day, if it was a day of rest after going out to make money, if it were a day filled with nightmares and troubled sleep.

They fumble around their pocket for a moment, taking out their Nokia flip phone and handing it over, a silent apology. The description tells them that he was talking about Ilya, which further aids their shame for reacting so brashly.]

Hit your head?

[They repeat, then nod. A head injury could lead to a further lack of judgement, part of them wants to scold Ilya for not coming with him. They’ll inform them of this later. When they’re able to sleep outside of the infirmary, when Temujin stops being paranoid that they’ll kill themself.

Which, one day, they still might. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s strange for them to think their choices matter much in this world, they were dead before the story even started.

They kneel down to the boys level, setting down the cane and showing him their hands.]

I didn’t mean to scare you. You scared me just as much.

[The soft youth of his terrified face makes their heart ache fiercely. They were a terrified kid once upon a time too, at least they could become an adult in a world unplagued by hell.

They show him their ruined leg.]

Look— I’m a cripple as you can see. I can’t run away easily if there’s a threat, which is why I reacted like that.

[it takes him a moment to realize what they’re handing him, but the moment his dies, he goes for it like a man starved, holding it like it’s some exceptional treasure. He tilts his head back up at this threat-turned-godsend as they begin speaking again, watching with unevenly sized pupils.]

Uh, yeah… on the dash when I was driving last night. Um.. deer or somethin’… [he shakes his head, finally dropping his hand from over his eyes with a slight wince. He doesn’t hardly look old enough to be driving here yet. In the US, sure, but he’d have to be at least eighteen to be legally driving in Russia… maybe he is. But by his appearance probably not.] [he retracts into himself as they get on his level, afraid to be hit, or scolded still. He relaxes again as they begin speaking, wary and perhaps slightly dazed in his expression. Eventually, he nods, some slight acknowledgment, before his voice comes to him.]

That’s okay.. I’d have prolly done the same, if I were you..

[he sounds like he’d like to add more, but he trails off, looking at the injury in their leg. He gets the urge to ask them about it, but afraid to be rude, he closes his mouth and bites his tongue, before anything can get past his teeth.]

[rather, he directs his attention to the phone in his hand, flicking it open, and dialing some number hopefully. He brings it to his ear while it rings, anxious, begging, pleading nearly with his eyes. It gives him nothing, so he tries again, dependent on this technology to get him home. It only hushes abruptly, nothing again. Once more…? It giggles in his ear, fueling hope that this will be the time, he’ll get through with this one… leave a voicemail. He’d rather not. Fucking figures. He closes it again, and hands it forward to them, though he feels far more like snapping it in half or throwing it across the room, dejected in his failed attempts. Maybe he’d gotten the wrong number. He’d been struggling to recall it when dialing… maybe he’s only a digit short of his mother’s voice. Maybe they’d ignored him on purpose. Maybe they aren’t worried at all. He doesn’t know. Whatever. He wipes his palms on the fronts of his jeans, offering them a tentative and obviously forced smile as compensation for their help.]

[Lasha chuckled at the kids remark, revealing yellowed, crooked and gapped teeth. Their eyes were red rimmed from tears.]

Yeah.. I’m from Mississippi, near Texas.

[They move their bangs out of their face so he can get a better look at them, picked open pimples litter their forehead and the sides of their face. Their skin follows a similar lack of pigmentation that parts of their hair do, especially on their forehead and sideburns, closest to their hairline.

Their eyes are warm and kind, a deep brown that feels light and gentle, like the endless stretch of night, like the sandman bringing you a dream.

They notice his reaction to the light, and opt for setting up a flashlight on their bed before turning them back off. The glow casts a strange shadow on their face. They look like a fox. A fox locked in a henhouse. A hare trying to blend in among bunnies. Something old and angry and primordial is behind their eyes, they’ve seen this story before, they know the end.

They know they were dead before the story even began.]

It’s a nice place if you’re into warmer weather.. but I lived outside the city.. lotsa vacant houses from what I can remember. Lotsa feelings that never died even when the one who felt them did. It’s like that in the south. Energy doesn’t die, it just moves elsewhere. There was one house, real… bad energy. Bad. Bad. Bad.

[They shook their head, they hated walking past those houses on their way to and from school, they felt watched, an unbelievable anguish would fill their heart and a deep terror would make them want to sprint away.

Nobody lived in those houses. And for good measure.

They knew the history behind a lot of those large houses. Plantation houses. The historical context of the country they call mother always makes them feel a dissonance. It was a hell for so many, it was a haven for their father who wanted to escape war, it was a haven for their grandparents, who fled famine. It was a prison. It was salvation.

Lasha’s dad was the history guy. He’s the reason they passed their history classes every year, car rides where they’d hear all about Calvin Coolidge and how he was sworn in suddenly by his father while visiting his parents. Funny tidbits like that, about Alice Roosevelt and the Ottoman Empire.

Lasha liked hearing about concubines the most. A sort of kindred feeling, a knowledge that in a way, they too were a concubine.

[he watches them speak with equally brown eyes, doe-like in his gaze, gentle but piercing in an odd contrast, face only softly illuminated by the flashlight. He seems a very soft creature, willfully bending in any direction, but maybe that’s only because he’s young.]

It sounds pretty nice.. I don’t like it hot, much, but I think it’s worse cold, ‘cause then it’s darker for longer.. I bet I wouldnta hit that deer if it weren’t so dark. [he sucks his teeth, pausing. He seems very restless, antsy, a need to move this way and that, no more still than kelp beneath the surface of the ocean.] I-I had my brights on, though, so maybe not.. and anyways, it’s been bright enough as is, I guess, huh?

[he chuckles quietly. The gesture makes his head throb. One hand goes up beneath his bangs, pulling and stretching skin, as though attempting to rip it through, to release the growing pressure pounding in his skull. His mama always told him it was dehydration, when he got headaches. In this case it’s for nothing to do with his water intake.]

Do you… miss it there? … I think I’d miss it, if I got stuck up here during all this. But I dunno, maybe with the heat if feels you’re right at home. The houses here look abandoned, too, but I bet the people’re all different than how they are in America. Do you guys really all have guns? I’ve only seen um…. One, not counting movies, and that’s just cause the guy who brought me in had one! Has he killed a lotta people?

…yeah. I do.

[They chuckled, offering an advil when they noticed the signs of attempted alleviation of a headache. They usually push their knuckles into their forehead in the hope that they can push the headache out of them.]

It’s hard not to have some feelings for where you come from. And as for guns, yes. My father had one, he grew up in a time of civil unrest for his country. He fled for the sake of avoiding conscription to war. He had a license to carry a gun, he kept it in his underwear drawer.

[They chuckle fondly, they don’t tell the kid too much about their dad. Like how after their mom died he threw out the gun immediately, tainted with her blood. If he hadn’t had it then.. maybe she wouldn’t have.

Maybe she’d still be here.

It’s hard not to have some feelings for where you came from. It’s hard not to have some feelings for the woman who brought you screaming into the world. Even if she harbored a disinterest in them. She was still their mommy, they wanted her to love them forever.

She had her own demons to fight. And she lost that battle.]

Ilya? I.. don’t know. They have killed before. We all have.

[They gesture to their bloodstained shoes, the bullet casings around the room, the empty bed. Arties bed. Arties empty bed. They feel a hysteria breaking their heart open. They want to throw their body to it and weep, they take solace in the fact he’ll be back tomorrow night. Sneaking through the window with that dopey grin of his.

They look to the kid.]

You do what you need to, kid. The first kill is always the hardest. But you.. distance yourself from it, eventually. Like an endoskeleton. Like a carapace. It grows around you.. makes it.. easier.

[They shake their head.]

I don’t recommend building that carapace though, kid. It’s dangerous too.

[Their accent is low and smooth, they place a reassuring hand on the boys shoulder.]

Who’s “we”? Are there um.. lots of other people here? Not just you and Ilya? How’d you all end up here?? Looks pretty much empty from the outside, ‘n the fence’s a pain to climb up or cut under… I barely thought to check it out..

[he means to ask how they’ve developed such a large hypothetical population. Some sort of advertising? A safe refuge for those who can’t be at home? It might make more sense to him, if everybody were crowding to a house, hiding beneath some basement maybe, but a large, relatively well-fortified school isn’t what he’d expect to gather a crowd… then again, shelter is shelter. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t consider its roof safety, just like every other person here.]

[he only nods at the part following, silent for a change. He doesn’t know what a carapace is. He wasn’t good at school. He was going to join the military, because education outside of the basics would be a waste of everyone’s time. But he’s strong enough, and he can take some battering. He was going to have to kill, even if the cataclysm didn’t start. Only, he’s not sure he has enough courage to do that. Enough anger, maybe, all kids his age do, the guts, sure he’s seen a plethora of gore and violence, but to really actually kill somebody… he’s not sure. He’d figure it out, surely. It was in his plan, anyways. Except now the world’s turned upside down, he doesn’t go to school- nobody does anymore, proven by the mass number of squatters in this school alone, and his future is undecided. Chances that he dies before even reaching adulthood are higher every day. Now all that his plans entail are to get home. He wants to go home.]

[his face heats some at their touch, uncertain, nearly bristled like a frightened cat. Very few people touch him as reassurance, and the change in pace makes him trip altogether. His skin is slightly damp, and etched with numerous small cuts and scars. He leans away from them, eyes narrowed very slightly with distrust, anticipation of ulterior motives.]

Elliot- Eli. Name’s Eli. D-do buses come by here, or…. Or cars?

[They shake their head sadly.]

Sorry kid. Buses have been down for a while, trains too. Too dangerous. Too high of a visitor risk.. and the sun. Most people I see are either in cars or bikes. But they.. don’t come this far out.

[They sigh, offering the kid their water bottle, taped up and covered in old summer camp stickers and friendship bracelets, signs of a life lived before this.]

Yeah. There are people here. Other than me and Ilya. We were all hiding out in a man named Mikhails house.. too little space, and, well.. Ilya knew of an abandoned school. I think he went here when he was a kid.

[They don’t want to blow Ilya’s cover just yet. At the end of the world it’s better if everyone believes they’re male. To be a woman was dangerous enough before.

Lasha knows the cruelty of man firsthand. Part of them selfishly hopes they can beat the cruelty out of Eli before he comes to show it. Part of them believes they deserve the cruelty that they encounter. It’s their place in the world.

They touch their stomach subconsciously when they mention Mikhails name. He’d refused them entry. He looked lonely. They’d promised they’d fix it, coyly dropped the collar of their shirt down their shoulder. He’d accepted. They’d been granted entry and safety at the price of their soul.

A lot can happen behind closed doors. Mikhail didn’t know he was making love to someone already dead.

They sigh. They remembered the blood, the pain and the contractions of the miscarriage, carefully induced by a less than medical professional, they thought they’d die. It hurt so terribly they were certain they did, surprisingly, they weren’t upset with this fact.

The pain was blinding and Lasha felt like Mary in the manger. Ilya was Joseph.]

Where ever you’re trying to go, it’s not worth your life, I promise. We hardly made the walk here in one night— and FEMA patrols nearby.

[They lift their shirt to show him the starburst shaped scar the bullet had left in their torso from the trek. Now that is a good story. If they’re gonna get injured, at least let them have a good story to accompany the scar it leaves.

They look at Eli, his sad doe eyes, and they feel pity well in their heart.]

[no cars either. Okay… Okay. Okay. The word thrums against his head, the rapturous applause of an audience, except they’re repeating a word meant to imply extreme mediocrity. Okay.]

[He gets the feeling that he can’t breathe, drowned in his impending doom, he will die here, on this ugly blood-and-vomit-spattered concrete. Fuck. He watches the space beneath their bed, quivering slightly, though it’s hardly observable in the darkness. Why had he left to begin with? Why leave home? He can’t remember. Probably some stupid reason. He’s very stupid. He’s going to die because of it, otherwise he wouldn’t feel so terrified. Impossible to feel as scared as he does, if you’re not going to die.]

Oh- that’s okay. [seems a catchphrase of his. A holy mantra, it’ll save him. see? he’s fine. He takes their water bottle in one hand, with movement so automatic it should imply that he hasn’t thought about doing it at all. Does he even know he’s holding it?]

[he shifts, knees up to his chin, back against the door, eyes shut for a moment. These things- anxiety attacks, though he’s not got a label to them- happen to him often enough, but he can’t help but feel it’ll never pass anyways. It’s something of a wonder it hasn’t hit him when he first got here, though perhaps that could be attributed to his hope that he’d be gone again by night.]

I gotta ge—get home. I wanna go home. [he looks up at their scar, before blinking hard away, with a very soft gasp. His sisters, he has to go, did he lock the door again when he left?? He can’t remember. He can’t remember anything. He wishes his head would work right. His hand goes up to pick around the stitches Ilya had put in. The bandage hadn’t stayed out for very long, unfortunately.]

I’m… sixteen. [he’d forgotten to lie. Goddamn it. This is a shit situation. All this terror is going to make his headache worse, even with the advil. His parents might actually kill him. His sisters a fucked, he can’t protect him if he’s stuck here. Nobody will have food, because the car is gone. What was he out for??? God, his parents will kill him. Well, he’s dying now anyways, so it doesn’t even matter.]

[he surveys the content of the filing cabinet parallel to their bed, intent on finding… anything. Anything at all. A flip phone, maybe, or some mild form of pain relief medication… his head is killing him. Ilya had only been gone an hour or so, maybe a little over by this point, which was enough time for him to get anxious, then impatient, then desperate. He’d walked over on his knees, because his feet still hurt, burned and blistered raw at the soles.]

—🦌 ( @cant-get-home)

[A cane rests calmly at the base of his skull, not hitting, not yet, just resting. Lasha had woken up, a sleeping behemoth now risen and unsure if they were threatened.]

You have two minutes to explain, or run. Choice is yours.

[Their voice is raspy, accent foreign, cane perched at a perfect angle to strike. Lasha is not above killing, and they are not above consequences. They’ll pay their dues sooner or later, but when they do they’ll take it like a woman. For to take it like a man would be to cower in the face of virtue.

Lasha could not see the figure, they could not see who is in their room with them, they could not see their age, their face, their features. Operating on pure instinct to keep their belongings and body safe. They’d been robbed and taken advantage of too many times on the street.

There is too much at stake to not take a calculated risk. Either they scare an innocent person, or they neutralize a threat before it can be made apparent.

Y- I’m- I-.. I’m just tryna find a phone? [he pauses to breathe, steadying his voice to the best of his capabilities. By the tone and pitch, he couldn’t be older than maybe seventeen or eighteen.]

[Lasha immediately removes the cane upon hearing the squeak of his voice. Holy shit— that’s a fucking kid. They stand and fumble around for the light switch, blinking rapidly as their eyes adjust and immediately freezing.

They almost killed a kid.

They would’ve killed him if it were a worse day, if it was a day of rest after going out to make money, if it were a day filled with nightmares and troubled sleep.

They fumble around their pocket for a moment, taking out their Nokia flip phone and handing it over, a silent apology. The description tells them that he was talking about Ilya, which further aids their shame for reacting so brashly.]

Hit your head?

[They repeat, then nod. A head injury could lead to a further lack of judgement, part of them wants to scold Ilya for not coming with him. They’ll inform them of this later. When they’re able to sleep outside of the infirmary, when Temujin stops being paranoid that they’ll kill themself.

Which, one day, they still might. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s strange for them to think their choices matter much in this world, they were dead before the story even started.

They kneel down to the boys level, setting down the cane and showing him their hands.]

I didn’t mean to scare you. You scared me just as much.

[The soft youth of his terrified face makes their heart ache fiercely. They were a terrified kid once upon a time too, at least they could become an adult in a world unplagued by hell.

They show him their ruined leg.]

Look— I’m a cripple as you can see. I can’t run away easily if there’s a threat, which is why I reacted like that.

[it takes him a moment to realize what they’re handing him, but the moment his dies, he goes for it like a man starved, holding it like it’s some exceptional treasure. He tilts his head back up at this threat-turned-godsend as they begin speaking again, watching with unevenly sized pupils.]

Uh, yeah… on the dash when I was driving last night. Um.. deer or somethin’… [he shakes his head, finally dropping his hand from over his eyes with a slight wince. He doesn’t hardly look old enough to be driving here yet. In the US, sure, but he’d have to be at least eighteen to be legally driving in Russia… maybe he is. But by his appearance probably not.] [he retracts into himself as they get on his level, afraid to be hit, or scolded still. He relaxes again as they begin speaking, wary and perhaps slightly dazed in his expression. Eventually, he nods, some slight acknowledgment, before his voice comes to him.]

That’s okay.. I’d have prolly done the same, if I were you..

[he sounds like he’d like to add more, but he trails off, looking at the injury in their leg. He gets the urge to ask them about it, but afraid to be rude, he closes his mouth and bites his tongue, before anything can get past his teeth.]

[rather, he directs his attention to the phone in his hand, flicking it open, and dialing some number hopefully. He brings it to his ear while it rings, anxious, begging, pleading nearly with his eyes. It gives him nothing, so he tries again, dependent on this technology to get him home. It only hushes abruptly, nothing again. Once more…? It giggles in his ear, fueling hope that this will be the time, he’ll get through with this one… leave a voicemail. He’d rather not. Fucking figures. He closes it again, and hands it forward to them, though he feels far more like snapping it in half or throwing it across the room, dejected in his failed attempts. Maybe he’d gotten the wrong number. He’d been struggling to recall it when dialing… maybe he’s only a digit short of his mother’s voice. Maybe they’d ignored him on purpose. Maybe they aren’t worried at all. He doesn’t know. Whatever. He wipes his palms on the fronts of his jeans, offering them a tentative and obviously forced smile as compensation for their help.]

[Lasha chuckled at the kids remark, revealing yellowed, crooked and gapped teeth. Their eyes were red rimmed from tears.]

Yeah.. I’m from Mississippi, near Texas.

[They move their bangs out of their face so he can get a better look at them, picked open pimples litter their forehead and the sides of their face. Their skin follows a similar lack of pigmentation that parts of their hair do, especially on their forehead and sideburns, closest to their hairline.

Their eyes are warm and kind, a deep brown that feels light and gentle, like the endless stretch of night, like the sandman bringing you a dream.

They notice his reaction to the light, and opt for setting up a flashlight on their bed before turning them back off. The glow casts a strange shadow on their face. They look like a fox. A fox locked in a henhouse. A hare trying to blend in among bunnies. Something old and angry and primordial is behind their eyes, they’ve seen this story before, they know the end.

They know they were dead before the story even began.]

It’s a nice place if you’re into warmer weather.. but I lived outside the city.. lotsa vacant houses from what I can remember. Lotsa feelings that never died even when the one who felt them did. It’s like that in the south. Energy doesn’t die, it just moves elsewhere. There was one house, real… bad energy. Bad. Bad. Bad.

[They shook their head, they hated walking past those houses on their way to and from school, they felt watched, an unbelievable anguish would fill their heart and a deep terror would make them want to sprint away.

Nobody lived in those houses. And for good measure.

They knew the history behind a lot of those large houses. Plantation houses. The historical context of the country they call mother always makes them feel a dissonance. It was a hell for so many, it was a haven for their father who wanted to escape war, it was a haven for their grandparents, who fled famine. It was a prison. It was salvation.

Lasha’s dad was the history guy. He’s the reason they passed their history classes every year, car rides where they’d hear all about Calvin Coolidge and how he was sworn in suddenly by his father while visiting his parents. Funny tidbits like that, about Alice Roosevelt and the Ottoman Empire.

Lasha liked hearing about concubines the most. A sort of kindred feeling, a knowledge that in a way, they too were a concubine.

[he watches them speak with equally brown eyes, doe-like in his gaze, gentle but piercing in an odd contrast, face only softly illuminated by the flashlight. He seems a very soft creature, willfully bending in any direction, but maybe that’s only because he’s young.]

It sounds pretty nice.. I don’t like it hot, much, but I think it’s worse cold, ‘cause then it’s darker for longer.. I bet I wouldnta hit that deer if it weren’t so dark. [he sucks his teeth, pausing. He seems very restless, antsy, a need to move this way and that, no more still than kelp beneath the surface of the ocean.] I-I had my brights on, though, so maybe not.. and anyways, it’s been bright enough as is, I guess, huh?

[he chuckles quietly. The gesture makes his head throb. One hand goes up beneath his bangs, pulling and stretching skin, as though attempting to rip it through, to release the growing pressure pounding in his skull. His mama always told him it was dehydration, when he got headaches. In this case it’s for nothing to do with his water intake.]

Do you… miss it there? … I think I’d miss it, if I got stuck up here during all this. But I dunno, maybe with the heat if feels you’re right at home. The houses here look abandoned, too, but I bet the people’re all different than how they are in America. Do you guys really all have guns? I’ve only seen um…. One, not counting movies, and that’s just cause the guy who brought me in had one! Has he killed a lotta people?

…yeah. I do.

[They chuckled, offering an advil when they noticed the signs of attempted alleviation of a headache. They usually push their knuckles into their forehead in the hope that they can push the headache out of them.]

It’s hard not to have some feelings for where you come from. And as for guns, yes. My father had one, he grew up in a time of civil unrest for his country. He fled for the sake of avoiding conscription to war. He had a license to carry a gun, he kept it in his underwear drawer.

[They chuckle fondly, they don’t tell the kid too much about their dad. Like how after their mom died he threw out the gun immediately, tainted with her blood. If he hadn’t had it then.. maybe she wouldn’t have.

Maybe she’d still be here.

It’s hard not to have some feelings for where you came from. It’s hard not to have some feelings for the woman who brought you screaming into the world. Even if she harbored a disinterest in them. She was still their mommy, they wanted her to love them forever.

She had her own demons to fight. And she lost that battle.]

Ilya? I.. don’t know. They have killed before. We all have.

[They gesture to their bloodstained shoes, the bullet casings around the room, the empty bed. Arties bed. Arties empty bed. They feel a hysteria breaking their heart open. They want to throw their body to it and weep, they take solace in the fact he’ll be back tomorrow night. Sneaking through the window with that dopey grin of his.

They look to the kid.]

You do what you need to, kid. The first kill is always the hardest. But you.. distance yourself from it, eventually. Like an endoskeleton. Like a carapace. It grows around you.. makes it.. easier.

[They shake their head.]

I don’t recommend building that carapace though, kid. It’s dangerous too.

[Their accent is low and smooth, they place a reassuring hand on the boys shoulder.]

Who’s “we”? Are there um.. lots of other people here? Not just you and Ilya? How’d you all end up here?? Looks pretty much empty from the outside, ‘n the fence’s a pain to climb up or cut under… I barely thought to check it out..

[he means to ask how they’ve developed such a large hypothetical population. Some sort of advertising? A safe refuge for those who can’t be at home? It might make more sense to him, if everybody were crowding to a house, hiding beneath some basement maybe, but a large, relatively well-fortified school isn’t what he’d expect to gather a crowd… then again, shelter is shelter. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t consider its roof safety, just like every other person here.]

[he only nods at the part following, silent for a change. He doesn’t know what a carapace is. He wasn’t good at school. He was going to join the military, because education outside of the basics would be a waste of everyone’s time. But he’s strong enough, and he can take some battering. He was going to have to kill, even if the cataclysm didn’t start. Only, he’s not sure he has enough courage to do that. Enough anger, maybe, all kids his age do, the guts, sure he’s seen a plethora of gore and violence, but to really actually kill somebody… he’s not sure. He’d figure it out, surely. It was in his plan, anyways. Except now the world’s turned upside down, he doesn’t go to school- nobody does anymore, proven by the mass number of squatters in this school alone, and his future is undecided. Chances that he dies before even reaching adulthood are higher every day. Now all that his plans entail are to get home. He wants to go home.]

[his face heats some at their touch, uncertain, nearly bristled like a frightened cat. Very few people touch him as reassurance, and the change in pace makes him trip altogether. His skin is slightly damp, and etched with numerous small cuts and scars. He leans away from them, eyes narrowed very slightly with distrust, anticipation of ulterior motives.]

Elliot- Eli. Name’s Eli. D-do buses come by here, or…. Or cars?

Uh- Shit, sorry, wasn’t- didn’t know there was people here or anything… uh, you don’t have a- maybe a key, or something? ‘Cause, you know, it’s um.. it’s heating up pretty bad… Uh.. I mean- [he sighs almost impatiently, shifting his weight from side to side] can you just let me in, please?

—🦌 ( @cant-get-home) // mjuhghgmm I don’t know I’m putting him back out there I guess.. 😇everything before this I’m considering NOT canon nobody EVER look at any of my writing from last year it’s quite embarrassing

*The hole in the fence that made F.E.M.A leave that "base" seemed like an obvious entry point and that was Ilya's main focus point every damn night. So, when they heard someone climb the fence like a maniac, struggling to get it, they already imagined this one to not be the smartest.

Their guard was even more let down by the relativly small frame on the newcommer. They don't look like a whole adult, and even with broad shoulders, their face and attitude show only pathetic weakness. Their voice is even worse, childish and shy. This was not the type to destroy a glass door.

A broken, genderless voice answer the deer stranger.*

- I can.. op-en. but why should I ?

*Through the glass, the shine of yellow rubber and the light of silver...*

Uh….. I don’t have anything, if that’s what you mean? Uh- or- I do have a few things, but not anything I think you’d like anyway, so… It’s just that my- I hit a deer and my house is another, what, hour’s drive from here?… so I can’t… uh… y- uhm..

[he trails off awkwardly, neck moist with the sweat of daybreak edging over the horizon ever so slowly. Come on. Come on, get your words in order, tell them why they should let you in… it’s just like in class, simply write an argumentative essay… except he’d never been any good at almost any of his classes, and his persuasion skills are subpar at best. To a degree, they underestimate him. He’d break a glass door, if he got mad enough. Or scared. Or scared then mad. Or vice versa. Anger and fear are two powerful motivators, and ones he’s got more than his fair share of experience with.]

The night was clearing, light already heating up the atmosphere. The glass door let Ilya see the comfortable darkness giving in. And their carefulness followed the dissapearing night.

They remembered all too well the very first dawn they met the Homeowner. The way they banged at the door in total despair. The way they begged upon his refusal. The way they bargained at his hesitation. The way they threatened to die right on his porch and be a pain for him even in Death if he let them out. When the Homeowner opened for Ilya, the morning sun already burned their face and even their hands despite the gloves. If not for Ezekiel's help, Ilya would suffer far worse than they do now. The burn on their palm and throat was enough of a reminder of that pain and primal fear. It was long ago, and yet so fresh in their memory...

The glass door opened with a click.*

- co-me in.

*The boy looked young. Rook's age, maybe. His real age, not the lie he tells everyone. Ilya let him in, taking a step back, and close the door behind. No one else is coming.*

- I'll che-ck.. late-r. In the mo-r-ning.

*The glass door was made to resist potential warcrimes, or apparently the end of the world. It would take the Pale Visitor to kick it down... Not even Ilya would try it. A window was going to break easier. And there were many opened windows at night...

But in the end it took only emergency for Ilya to be a human and let the potential visitor in.

Thank you, si- uhh, ma’a- s-sir?…… uh, thanks. [he shifts on his feet, turning them inwards, so that he’s standing more on the outsides, like a penguin, trying to get the pressure off his soles. The rough texture of the school’s carpet hardly helps cool the burning sensation bothering him so enthusiastically. After a moment of semi-awkward silence, he slaps them both back down into their regular positions, wincing slightly, bashful to potentially stain the carpet with his blood. Oops…]

*How it hurt... Both to prononce a "r" that was so painful for their throat, and to lie so shamelessly. Ilya was no "sir" and hated how much they were convincing in that role. How much they looked just like Him. Once the world would be right back on their feet, they would be back to their real themselves. Surely.

Or would they ? Wasnt it easier to be a man ? Less scary ? Wasnt Ilya more respected and loved than Liliana ever was ? Was it worth telling the truth when a lie was so comfortable ? Even if it felt bad and wrong ?

Anyway.

The boy was so obviously hurt, it pained the former-FEMA to see him try to protect his feet. They noticed right away the blood on the floor and the way his angelic little face winced. Another one in need of some patching up. Usual night.

They gestured to the boy to follow them around the corridor, but the horrible carpet texture of the ground must be terrible to walk on with open wounds... Ilya winced imagining it.

Motherly instinct to carry the boy were kickin in, but that was a stranger, maybe even a visitor...

And his head, was it bleeding ? Yes, yes it was. And gosh, that smell was awful ! A shower and to the infirmary it was ! Quick !*

- ... ... ...

*They were too hurt to say all the things they needed to say, and too tired to try to write it or make some mime game. So, they offered their shoulder as support in silence, resisting the urge to just kidnapp the boy like a potato bag -or a princess- and carry him acrosse the school.

[he cocks his head at their pointing, eyes catching after a moment, on the sliver of pale scarring across their throat, mouth going into a small o shape of understanding. He thought they were simply the quiet type, in all honesty.]

How’d that happen? Uh- nevermind- guess you can’t answer or nothin’, anyways! [he laughs a little awkwardly, pitchy and breaking in odd spots.] ya know, once I got strep throat and couldn’t talk for a week. That sucked, hurt like crazy. Mama wouldn’t stop feedin’ me honey- she said it’d help, but it kinda felt worse than before.. uh… prolly not the same, though.. how long’s it been like that? N- uhh, never mind again.

[maybe they should’ve left him outside, with how talkative he is. He goes on for some time, babbling more than before though humanly possible. He talks like he’s got a record to break, or like every sentence gets him a fat wad of money straight to his pocket. Really, none of it is even all that relevant to the situation, either.]

The double thumbsup was reward by the rolling eyes and a exasperated groan from Ilya.

They endured the chatting without any other kind of answer than some looks, either understanding or mean, depending on the situation. But in all honesty, they mostly looked tired.

When they both arrived to the infirmary, Ilya grabbed the wounded boy quite carefully and placed him with authority on one of the two beds left in the place.

Once sat, they grapped his left leg and forcefully held it up to check the under of his foot. Such an invasive procedure without any kind of explanation might be uncomfortable, even a little scary, but Ilya did not have the privilege of chatting like him. The amount of good medical supplies around surely was enough to explain what was going to happen, anyway.*

- Don.t moo.ve.

*Well, that was even worse. It sounded like a threat, with such a low and quiet voice. But it was, in fact, just an order so Ilya could clean the wounds and remove all the dirt, strands of carpet fabric, little rocks and leaves stuck into the sensitive wound. Slow and careful, the wieght of the sniper on their back barely handicaping their movements.*

- ... ... ...

What a fun time for everyone involved !

Those feets where in a pitiful state. He must have walked hours on hot, melted roads... Because of the accident ? Where was he heading, this very city ? Surely this place was the first refuge "alive" looking he found. Lucky him, it was also somewhat safe.

And well furnished in medical equipement. Ilya was glad to have enough deinfectant to share some to the teenager, and damped a clean rag with the orange solution before applying it without warning on his soles. It must burn like crazy but all bacterias would soon be dead... And it was more important than comfort. Ilya would not let somebody die of such a stupid and preventible death !!!

Once the poor "Boy who hit a deer" was finally cleaned from his feet, Ilya could focus on the most worrying : his head.*

- ... What ... happ-ened ?

[he pauses, before answering their question. What happened…? What had happened?? He’s not sure he remembers all that clearly.]

Umh… driving, like I said, ‘Cept I don’t really know where I was going… then the deer… yeah. Well- maybe- in hindsight, I’m really not so sure it was a deer- uh.. it was somethin’ big and moving, for sure, but I didn’t actually… see, ‘cause I was busy hurtin’ my head on the dash and gettin’ blood all over.. [he lets out a vague, shaky chuckle, which quickly dies in his throat.] … I don’t know. Anyways, when I tried to start the car back up, it wouldn’t go.. I tried the ignition a few times… it wouldn’t do anythin’ but sputter a bunch and die so…. And I don’t have a phone.. Uh…. So then I got to walkin’, because, you know, it was already starting to get kinda hot.. my shoes weren’t so good, kept melting on the road, and they didn’t fit in any case, so I took ‘em off. Uh….. then I walked for a while, ‘til I got here.

- ... Hm-hm.

*A vague nod at his story. It sounded plausible enough. But wild animals were a rarity, now, and such accidents... Well, still, it was plausible enough. And the kid looked human too. But... Ilya couldnt help but to check, more or less discreetly, if the unfortunate soul had any red in the eyes, or something in his ears ! As they checked his hands for injuries, the FEMA agent took some time to check the fingernails... Very obviously.*

- Humph.

*Grunts and noises of affirmation. Like a fucking caveman. But a nursing one so who could really say anything ? Who would dare ? Certainly not the accidented boy. Oh geez Ilya couldnt keep naming him that in their head !*

- ... Name ?

*That was a start...

[his eyes seem normal enough, at first glance- no, or very little ebbing of red veins in contrast with the white of his sclera, though his pupils seem oddly dilated, asymmetrical in their diameters. Common sign of concussion, nothing more, surely. All around, his features seem average enough. Normal ears, slightly battered and dirty hands, though nothing of great consequence.. his story aligns quite adequately with the nature of his appearance. He knows what theyre doing, though he pays it very little mind. Reasonable enough reaction, he figures. Only it makes him a little nervous. They don’t seem like somebody who might happen to hesitate over the trigger of a gun.]

[he retracts his hands, pressing them back to his lap as they move away, gaze following them as they regress to the darkness, back turned to him as they search for… something. He rubs the juncture between his jaw and ear again.]

Knowing this boy was "Eli" was a little sign Ilya started to warm up to him.

Feeling him flinch, seeing him wince, earing his cry, it was all so pitiful... But they just held him stronger, firm as ever. Pity and tenderness would only make the boy suffer longer. Efficiency was the key. And now that his temple was clean and ready, Ilya showed Eli the sewing kit.

They had put on clean gloves, a face mask and an full body appron. Ready for surgery. They looked, fortunatly, quite prepared, wich surely meant they were used to this role. But they also looked tired and... Apolegetic. Something in their eyes saying "see this ? It will hurt. Sorry in advance."

And it does.

The area was small, but with such a thin, fragile skin... Ilya had to be slow and careful.

And the fact his eyes were like this... It did not escape them. How bad it was inside. They took the decision to spend the day here, next to Eli, as to watch over his sleep. What else to do against a concussion, if not making sure he was asleep and... Not worse ? What more could Ilya even attempt ?

As to distract him during the process, and after a small break to change their medical needle, Ilya point at Eli, then... Badly mimick stirring a driving wheel... Gosh can they even drive ? Frustrated, they finally resort to speak.*

- ... Car ?

*Even accidented... If it could be repaired...

Working cars, with tires that did not melt yet, or enough gas, were a treasure nowaday. The way to seek for ressources farther than half a night of walking. A whole car to fill with goods ! Food ! Medical equipement ! Beds for everyone ! Clothes ! Maybe some working fans ? Or even just... Books, games, anything to keep people occupied.

A car ! Such a ray of hope !

But Ilya's smile quickly dropped. The car was left in the middle of the road, kilometers away, in the morning sun. Accidented AND melted. Ah, they were such a fool to get their hopes up. It was useless.

Once it was done, and surprised positively by the boy's obedience and patience, Ilya started to bandage his head, adding some cotton padding on the closed wound. There. Less risks of infection and more comfort ! In a few days they could remove the stiches and, hopefully, Eli would be able to sleep on his side and do everything just like before.

If he wasnt going to die in his sleep from inner brain damage, of course.*

- Bet-ter ?

*Other checks were on the table : was Eli bleeding from his ears ? Was Eli having trouble earing on one side ? Was Eli's nose running with a clear liquid ?

With his hurt feet, Ilya could not really test Eli's sens of balance, and given how much he seemed to speak, he had no trouble forming thoughts either !!! Yet...*

- Speak. Any-thing.

…okay… uhm.. okay. I haven’t been to school in.. forever. They closed ‘em all down, just like this one… I think my parents hate it more than we do, though, ‘cause……. Anyways, I bet they’ll be glad to have me outta the house for a while, then it’s just my sisters.. less people to take care of and all…

[he pauses, avoidant of eye contact as he speaks. His voice is very quiet, though rough in its texture, almost gravelly in his throat. Notably, his words slur together at times, though this could be potentially attributed to the speed of his speech- he is a very fast talker. A brief silence strains against the darkness, threatening to pour through into discomfort.]

..Feels like there’s antlers in my head, right? Like they’re tryna break through, but they can’t, so they just press and press and press.. [he closes his eyes for a moment, though they come open again to meet Ilya’s. Kind of meet Ilya’s. He looks more like he’s staring through them entirely, looking straight at the wall behind, a very penetrating and unfocused gaze.]

…that’s okay. I’ll get home sometime, right? There’s prolly… a-a bus, or somethin’?….

[he’s not even sure busses run anymore. He wants to lie down and go to sleep. He wants to go home, more. Except home is forever away, he knows, and there’s no way he’ll make it on foot, especially once the saturation of houses to wait the day out in begins to dwindle.. he watches their floor, moonlight pouring in in small sections, broken up only by obstructions in front of the glass.]

[he surveys the content of the filing cabinet parallel to their bed, intent on finding… anything. Anything at all. A flip phone, maybe, or some mild form of pain relief medication… his head is killing him. Ilya had only been gone an hour or so, maybe a little over by this point, which was enough time for him to get anxious, then impatient, then desperate. He’d walked over on his knees, because his feet still hurt, burned and blistered raw at the soles.]

—🦌 ( @cant-get-home)

[A cane rests calmly at the base of his skull, not hitting, not yet, just resting. Lasha had woken up, a sleeping behemoth now risen and unsure if they were threatened.]

You have two minutes to explain, or run. Choice is yours.

[Their voice is raspy, accent foreign, cane perched at a perfect angle to strike. Lasha is not above killing, and they are not above consequences. They’ll pay their dues sooner or later, but when they do they’ll take it like a woman. For to take it like a man would be to cower in the face of virtue.

Lasha could not see the figure, they could not see who is in their room with them, they could not see their age, their face, their features. Operating on pure instinct to keep their belongings and body safe. They’d been robbed and taken advantage of too many times on the street.

There is too much at stake to not take a calculated risk. Either they scare an innocent person, or they neutralize a threat before it can be made apparent.

Y- I’m- I-.. I’m just tryna find a phone? [he pauses to breathe, steadying his voice to the best of his capabilities. By the tone and pitch, he couldn’t be older than maybe seventeen or eighteen.]

[Lasha immediately removes the cane upon hearing the squeak of his voice. Holy shit— that’s a fucking kid. They stand and fumble around for the light switch, blinking rapidly as their eyes adjust and immediately freezing.

They almost killed a kid.

They would’ve killed him if it were a worse day, if it was a day of rest after going out to make money, if it were a day filled with nightmares and troubled sleep.

They fumble around their pocket for a moment, taking out their Nokia flip phone and handing it over, a silent apology. The description tells them that he was talking about Ilya, which further aids their shame for reacting so brashly.]

Hit your head?

[They repeat, then nod. A head injury could lead to a further lack of judgement, part of them wants to scold Ilya for not coming with him. They’ll inform them of this later. When they’re able to sleep outside of the infirmary, when Temujin stops being paranoid that they’ll kill themself.

Which, one day, they still might. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s strange for them to think their choices matter much in this world, they were dead before the story even started.

They kneel down to the boys level, setting down the cane and showing him their hands.]

I didn’t mean to scare you. You scared me just as much.

[The soft youth of his terrified face makes their heart ache fiercely. They were a terrified kid once upon a time too, at least they could become an adult in a world unplagued by hell.

They show him their ruined leg.]

Look— I’m a cripple as you can see. I can’t run away easily if there’s a threat, which is why I reacted like that.

[it takes him a moment to realize what they’re handing him, but the moment his dies, he goes for it like a man starved, holding it like it’s some exceptional treasure. He tilts his head back up at this threat-turned-godsend as they begin speaking again, watching with unevenly sized pupils.]

Uh, yeah… on the dash when I was driving last night. Um.. deer or somethin’… [he shakes his head, finally dropping his hand from over his eyes with a slight wince. He doesn’t hardly look old enough to be driving here yet. In the US, sure, but he’d have to be at least eighteen to be legally driving in Russia… maybe he is. But by his appearance probably not.] [he retracts into himself as they get on his level, afraid to be hit, or scolded still. He relaxes again as they begin speaking, wary and perhaps slightly dazed in his expression. Eventually, he nods, some slight acknowledgment, before his voice comes to him.]

That’s okay.. I’d have prolly done the same, if I were you..

[he sounds like he’d like to add more, but he trails off, looking at the injury in their leg. He gets the urge to ask them about it, but afraid to be rude, he closes his mouth and bites his tongue, before anything can get past his teeth.]

[rather, he directs his attention to the phone in his hand, flicking it open, and dialing some number hopefully. He brings it to his ear while it rings, anxious, begging, pleading nearly with his eyes. It gives him nothing, so he tries again, dependent on this technology to get him home. It only hushes abruptly, nothing again. Once more…? It giggles in his ear, fueling hope that this will be the time, he’ll get through with this one… leave a voicemail. He’d rather not. Fucking figures. He closes it again, and hands it forward to them, though he feels far more like snapping it in half or throwing it across the room, dejected in his failed attempts. Maybe he’d gotten the wrong number. He’d been struggling to recall it when dialing… maybe he’s only a digit short of his mother’s voice. Maybe they’d ignored him on purpose. Maybe they aren’t worried at all. He doesn’t know. Whatever. He wipes his palms on the fronts of his jeans, offering them a tentative and obviously forced smile as compensation for their help.]

[Lasha chuckled at the kids remark, revealing yellowed, crooked and gapped teeth. Their eyes were red rimmed from tears.]

Yeah.. I’m from Mississippi, near Texas.

[They move their bangs out of their face so he can get a better look at them, picked open pimples litter their forehead and the sides of their face. Their skin follows a similar lack of pigmentation that parts of their hair do, especially on their forehead and sideburns, closest to their hairline.

Their eyes are warm and kind, a deep brown that feels light and gentle, like the endless stretch of night, like the sandman bringing you a dream.

They notice his reaction to the light, and opt for setting up a flashlight on their bed before turning them back off. The glow casts a strange shadow on their face. They look like a fox. A fox locked in a henhouse. A hare trying to blend in among bunnies. Something old and angry and primordial is behind their eyes, they’ve seen this story before, they know the end.

They know they were dead before the story even began.]

It’s a nice place if you’re into warmer weather.. but I lived outside the city.. lotsa vacant houses from what I can remember. Lotsa feelings that never died even when the one who felt them did. It’s like that in the south. Energy doesn’t die, it just moves elsewhere. There was one house, real… bad energy. Bad. Bad. Bad.

[They shook their head, they hated walking past those houses on their way to and from school, they felt watched, an unbelievable anguish would fill their heart and a deep terror would make them want to sprint away.

Nobody lived in those houses. And for good measure.

They knew the history behind a lot of those large houses. Plantation houses. The historical context of the country they call mother always makes them feel a dissonance. It was a hell for so many, it was a haven for their father who wanted to escape war, it was a haven for their grandparents, who fled famine. It was a prison. It was salvation.

Lasha’s dad was the history guy. He’s the reason they passed their history classes every year, car rides where they’d hear all about Calvin Coolidge and how he was sworn in suddenly by his father while visiting his parents. Funny tidbits like that, about Alice Roosevelt and the Ottoman Empire.

Lasha liked hearing about concubines the most. A sort of kindred feeling, a knowledge that in a way, they too were a concubine.

[he watches them speak with equally brown eyes, doe-like in his gaze, gentle but piercing in an odd contrast, face only softly illuminated by the flashlight. He seems a very soft creature, willfully bending in any direction, but maybe that’s only because he’s young.]

It sounds pretty nice.. I don’t like it hot, much, but I think it’s worse cold, ‘cause then it’s darker for longer.. I bet I wouldnta hit that deer if it weren’t so dark. [he sucks his teeth, pausing. He seems very restless, antsy, a need to move this way and that, no more still than kelp beneath the surface of the ocean.] I-I had my brights on, though, so maybe not.. and anyways, it’s been bright enough as is, I guess, huh?

[he chuckles quietly. The gesture makes his head throb. One hand goes up beneath his bangs, pulling and stretching skin, as though attempting to rip it through, to release the growing pressure pounding in his skull. His mama always told him it was dehydration, when he got headaches. In this case it’s for nothing to do with his water intake.]

Do you… miss it there? … I think I’d miss it, if I got stuck up here during all this. But I dunno, maybe with the heat if feels you’re right at home. The houses here look abandoned, too, but I bet the people’re all different than how they are in America. Do you guys really all have guns? I’ve only seen um…. One, not counting movies, and that’s just cause the guy who brought me in had one! Has he killed a lotta people?

[he surveys the content of the filing cabinet parallel to their bed, intent on finding… anything. Anything at all. A flip phone, maybe, or some mild form of pain relief medication… his head is killing him. Ilya had only been gone an hour or so, maybe a little over by this point, which was enough time for him to get anxious, then impatient, then desperate. He’d walked over on his knees, because his feet still hurt, burned and blistered raw at the soles.]

—🦌 ( @cant-get-home)

[A cane rests calmly at the base of his skull, not hitting, not yet, just resting. Lasha had woken up, a sleeping behemoth now risen and unsure if they were threatened.]

You have two minutes to explain, or run. Choice is yours.

[Their voice is raspy, accent foreign, cane perched at a perfect angle to strike. Lasha is not above killing, and they are not above consequences. They’ll pay their dues sooner or later, but when they do they’ll take it like a woman. For to take it like a man would be to cower in the face of virtue.

Lasha could not see the figure, they could not see who is in their room with them, they could not see their age, their face, their features. Operating on pure instinct to keep their belongings and body safe. They’d been robbed and taken advantage of too many times on the street.

There is too much at stake to not take a calculated risk. Either they scare an innocent person, or they neutralize a threat before it can be made apparent.

Y- I’m- I-.. I’m just tryna find a phone? [he pauses to breathe, steadying his voice to the best of his capabilities. By the tone and pitch, he couldn’t be older than maybe seventeen or eighteen.]

[Lasha immediately removes the cane upon hearing the squeak of his voice. Holy shit— that’s a fucking kid. They stand and fumble around for the light switch, blinking rapidly as their eyes adjust and immediately freezing.

They almost killed a kid.

They would’ve killed him if it were a worse day, if it was a day of rest after going out to make money, if it were a day filled with nightmares and troubled sleep.

They fumble around their pocket for a moment, taking out their Nokia flip phone and handing it over, a silent apology. The description tells them that he was talking about Ilya, which further aids their shame for reacting so brashly.]

Hit your head?

[They repeat, then nod. A head injury could lead to a further lack of judgement, part of them wants to scold Ilya for not coming with him. They’ll inform them of this later. When they’re able to sleep outside of the infirmary, when Temujin stops being paranoid that they’ll kill themself.

Which, one day, they still might. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s strange for them to think their choices matter much in this world, they were dead before the story even started.

They kneel down to the boys level, setting down the cane and showing him their hands.]

I didn’t mean to scare you. You scared me just as much.

[The soft youth of his terrified face makes their heart ache fiercely. They were a terrified kid once upon a time too, at least they could become an adult in a world unplagued by hell.

They show him their ruined leg.]

Look— I’m a cripple as you can see. I can’t run away easily if there’s a threat, which is why I reacted like that.

[it takes him a moment to realize what they’re handing him, but the moment his dies, he goes for it like a man starved, holding it like it’s some exceptional treasure. He tilts his head back up at this threat-turned-godsend as they begin speaking again, watching with unevenly sized pupils.]

Uh, yeah… on the dash when I was driving last night. Um.. deer or somethin’… [he shakes his head, finally dropping his hand from over his eyes with a slight wince. He doesn’t hardly look old enough to be driving here yet. In the US, sure, but he’d have to be at least eighteen to be legally driving in Russia… maybe he is. But by his appearance probably not.] [he retracts into himself as they get on his level, afraid to be hit, or scolded still. He relaxes again as they begin speaking, wary and perhaps slightly dazed in his expression. Eventually, he nods, some slight acknowledgment, before his voice comes to him.]

That’s okay.. I’d have prolly done the same, if I were you..

[he sounds like he’d like to add more, but he trails off, looking at the injury in their leg. He gets the urge to ask them about it, but afraid to be rude, he closes his mouth and bites his tongue, before anything can get past his teeth.]

[rather, he directs his attention to the phone in his hand, flicking it open, and dialing some number hopefully. He brings it to his ear while it rings, anxious, begging, pleading nearly with his eyes. It gives him nothing, so he tries again, dependent on this technology to get him home. It only hushes abruptly, nothing again. Once more…? It giggles in his ear, fueling hope that this will be the time, he’ll get through with this one… leave a voicemail. He’d rather not. Fucking figures. He closes it again, and hands it forward to them, though he feels far more like snapping it in half or throwing it across the room, dejected in his failed attempts. Maybe he’d gotten the wrong number. He’d been struggling to recall it when dialing… maybe he’s only a digit short of his mother’s voice. Maybe they’d ignored him on purpose. Maybe they aren’t worried at all. He doesn’t know. Whatever. He wipes his palms on the fronts of his jeans, offering them a tentative and obviously forced smile as compensation for their help.]

[he surveys the content of the filing cabinet parallel to their bed, intent on finding… anything. Anything at all. A flip phone, maybe, or some mild form of pain relief medication… his head is killing him. Ilya had only been gone an hour or so, maybe a little over by this point, which was enough time for him to get anxious, then impatient, then desperate. He’d walked over on his knees, because his feet still hurt, burned and blistered raw at the soles.]

—🦌 ( @cant-get-home)

[A cane rests calmly at the base of his skull, not hitting, not yet, just resting. Lasha had woken up, a sleeping behemoth now risen and unsure if they were threatened.]

You have two minutes to explain, or run. Choice is yours.

[Their voice is raspy, accent foreign, cane perched at a perfect angle to strike. Lasha is not above killing, and they are not above consequences. They’ll pay their dues sooner or later, but when they do they’ll take it like a woman. For to take it like a man would be to cower in the face of virtue.

Lasha could not see the figure, they could not see who is in their room with them, they could not see their age, their face, their features. Operating on pure instinct to keep their belongings and body safe. They’d been robbed and taken advantage of too many times on the street.

There is too much at stake to not take a calculated risk. Either they scare an innocent person, or they neutralize a threat before it can be made apparent.

Y- I’m- I-.. I’m just tryna find a phone? [he pauses to breathe, steadying his voice to the best of his capabilities. By the tone and pitch, he couldn’t be older than maybe seventeen or eighteen.]

Uh- Shit, sorry, wasn’t- didn’t know there was people here or anything… uh, you don’t have a- maybe a key, or something? ‘Cause, you know, it’s um.. it’s heating up pretty bad… Uh.. I mean- [he sighs almost impatiently, shifting his weight from side to side] can you just let me in, please?

—🦌 ( @cant-get-home) // mjuhghgmm I don’t know I’m putting him back out there I guess.. 😇everything before this I’m considering NOT canon nobody EVER look at any of my writing from last year it’s quite embarrassing

*The hole in the fence that made F.E.M.A leave that "base" seemed like an obvious entry point and that was Ilya's main focus point every damn night. So, when they heard someone climb the fence like a maniac, struggling to get it, they already imagined this one to not be the smartest.

Their guard was even more let down by the relativly small frame on the newcommer. They don't look like a whole adult, and even with broad shoulders, their face and attitude show only pathetic weakness. Their voice is even worse, childish and shy. This was not the type to destroy a glass door.

A broken, genderless voice answer the deer stranger.*

- I can.. op-en. but why should I ?

*Through the glass, the shine of yellow rubber and the light of silver...*

Uh….. I don’t have anything, if that’s what you mean? Uh- or- I do have a few things, but not anything I think you’d like anyway, so… It’s just that my- I hit a deer and my house is another, what, hour’s drive from here?… so I can’t… uh… y- uhm..

[he trails off awkwardly, neck moist with the sweat of daybreak edging over the horizon ever so slowly. Come on. Come on, get your words in order, tell them why they should let you in… it’s just like in class, simply write an argumentative essay… except he’d never been any good at almost any of his classes, and his persuasion skills are subpar at best. To a degree, they underestimate him. He’d break a glass door, if he got mad enough. Or scared. Or scared then mad. Or vice versa. Anger and fear are two powerful motivators, and ones he’s got more than his fair share of experience with.]

The night was clearing, light already heating up the atmosphere. The glass door let Ilya see the comfortable darkness giving in. And their carefulness followed the dissapearing night.

They remembered all too well the very first dawn they met the Homeowner. The way they banged at the door in total despair. The way they begged upon his refusal. The way they bargained at his hesitation. The way they threatened to die right on his porch and be a pain for him even in Death if he let them out. When the Homeowner opened for Ilya, the morning sun already burned their face and even their hands despite the gloves. If not for Ezekiel's help, Ilya would suffer far worse than they do now. The burn on their palm and throat was enough of a reminder of that pain and primal fear. It was long ago, and yet so fresh in their memory...

The glass door opened with a click.*

- co-me in.

*The boy looked young. Rook's age, maybe. His real age, not the lie he tells everyone. Ilya let him in, taking a step back, and close the door behind. No one else is coming.*

- I'll che-ck.. late-r. In the mo-r-ning.

*The glass door was made to resist potential warcrimes, or apparently the end of the world. It would take the Pale Visitor to kick it down... Not even Ilya would try it. A window was going to break easier. And there were many opened windows at night...

But in the end it took only emergency for Ilya to be a human and let the potential visitor in.

Thank you, si- uhh, ma’a- s-sir?…… uh, thanks. [he shifts on his feet, turning them inwards, so that he’s standing more on the outsides, like a penguin, trying to get the pressure off his soles. The rough texture of the school’s carpet hardly helps cool the burning sensation bothering him so enthusiastically. After a moment of semi-awkward silence, he slaps them both back down into their regular positions, wincing slightly, bashful to potentially stain the carpet with his blood. Oops…]

*How it hurt... Both to prononce a "r" that was so painful for their throat, and to lie so shamelessly. Ilya was no "sir" and hated how much they were convincing in that role. How much they looked just like Him. Once the world would be right back on their feet, they would be back to their real themselves. Surely.

Or would they ? Wasnt it easier to be a man ? Less scary ? Wasnt Ilya more respected and loved than Liliana ever was ? Was it worth telling the truth when a lie was so comfortable ? Even if it felt bad and wrong ?

Anyway.

The boy was so obviously hurt, it pained the former-FEMA to see him try to protect his feet. They noticed right away the blood on the floor and the way his angelic little face winced. Another one in need of some patching up. Usual night.

They gestured to the boy to follow them around the corridor, but the horrible carpet texture of the ground must be terrible to walk on with open wounds... Ilya winced imagining it.

Motherly instinct to carry the boy were kickin in, but that was a stranger, maybe even a visitor...

And his head, was it bleeding ? Yes, yes it was. And gosh, that smell was awful ! A shower and to the infirmary it was ! Quick !*

- ... ... ...

*They were too hurt to say all the things they needed to say, and too tired to try to write it or make some mime game. So, they offered their shoulder as support in silence, resisting the urge to just kidnapp the boy like a potato bag -or a princess- and carry him acrosse the school.

[he cocks his head at their pointing, eyes catching after a moment, on the sliver of pale scarring across their throat, mouth going into a small o shape of understanding. He thought they were simply the quiet type, in all honesty.]

How’d that happen? Uh- nevermind- guess you can’t answer or nothin’, anyways! [he laughs a little awkwardly, pitchy and breaking in odd spots.] ya know, once I got strep throat and couldn’t talk for a week. That sucked, hurt like crazy. Mama wouldn’t stop feedin’ me honey- she said it’d help, but it kinda felt worse than before.. uh… prolly not the same, though.. how long’s it been like that? N- uhh, never mind again.

[maybe they should’ve left him outside, with how talkative he is. He goes on for some time, babbling more than before though humanly possible. He talks like he’s got a record to break, or like every sentence gets him a fat wad of money straight to his pocket. Really, none of it is even all that relevant to the situation, either.]

The double thumbsup was reward by the rolling eyes and a exasperated groan from Ilya.

They endured the chatting without any other kind of answer than some looks, either understanding or mean, depending on the situation. But in all honesty, they mostly looked tired.

When they both arrived to the infirmary, Ilya grabbed the wounded boy quite carefully and placed him with authority on one of the two beds left in the place.

Once sat, they grapped his left leg and forcefully held it up to check the under of his foot. Such an invasive procedure without any kind of explanation might be uncomfortable, even a little scary, but Ilya did not have the privilege of chatting like him. The amount of good medical supplies around surely was enough to explain what was going to happen, anyway.*

- Don.t moo.ve.

*Well, that was even worse. It sounded like a threat, with such a low and quiet voice. But it was, in fact, just an order so Ilya could clean the wounds and remove all the dirt, strands of carpet fabric, little rocks and leaves stuck into the sensitive wound. Slow and careful, the wieght of the sniper on their back barely handicaping their movements.*

- ... ... ...

What a fun time for everyone involved !

Those feets where in a pitiful state. He must have walked hours on hot, melted roads... Because of the accident ? Where was he heading, this very city ? Surely this place was the first refuge "alive" looking he found. Lucky him, it was also somewhat safe.

And well furnished in medical equipement. Ilya was glad to have enough deinfectant to share some to the teenager, and damped a clean rag with the orange solution before applying it without warning on his soles. It must burn like crazy but all bacterias would soon be dead... And it was more important than comfort. Ilya would not let somebody die of such a stupid and preventible death !!!

Once the poor "Boy who hit a deer" was finally cleaned from his feet, Ilya could focus on the most worrying : his head.*

- ... What ... happ-ened ?

[he pauses, before answering their question. What happened…? What had happened?? He’s not sure he remembers all that clearly.]

Umh… driving, like I said, ‘Cept I don’t really know where I was going… then the deer… yeah. Well- maybe- in hindsight, I’m really not so sure it was a deer- uh.. it was somethin’ big and moving, for sure, but I didn’t actually… see, ‘cause I was busy hurtin’ my head on the dash and gettin’ blood all over.. [he lets out a vague, shaky chuckle, which quickly dies in his throat.] … I don’t know. Anyways, when I tried to start the car back up, it wouldn’t go.. I tried the ignition a few times… it wouldn’t do anythin’ but sputter a bunch and die so…. And I don’t have a phone.. Uh…. So then I got to walkin’, because, you know, it was already starting to get kinda hot.. my shoes weren’t so good, kept melting on the road, and they didn’t fit in any case, so I took ‘em off. Uh….. then I walked for a while, ‘til I got here.

- ... Hm-hm.

*A vague nod at his story. It sounded plausible enough. But wild animals were a rarity, now, and such accidents... Well, still, it was plausible enough. And the kid looked human too. But... Ilya couldnt help but to check, more or less discreetly, if the unfortunate soul had any red in the eyes, or something in his ears ! As they checked his hands for injuries, the FEMA agent took some time to check the fingernails... Very obviously.*

- Humph.

*Grunts and noises of affirmation. Like a fucking caveman. But a nursing one so who could really say anything ? Who would dare ? Certainly not the accidented boy. Oh geez Ilya couldnt keep naming him that in their head !*

- ... Name ?

*That was a start...

[his eyes seem normal enough, at first glance- no, or very little ebbing of red veins in contrast with the white of his sclera, though his pupils seem oddly dilated, asymmetrical in their diameters. Common sign of concussion, nothing more, surely. All around, his features seem average enough. Normal ears, slightly battered and dirty hands, though nothing of great consequence.. his story aligns quite adequately with the nature of his appearance. He knows what theyre doing, though he pays it very little mind. Reasonable enough reaction, he figures. Only it makes him a little nervous. They don’t seem like somebody who might happen to hesitate over the trigger of a gun.]

[he retracts his hands, pressing them back to his lap as they move away, gaze following them as they regress to the darkness, back turned to him as they search for… something. He rubs the juncture between his jaw and ear again.]

Knowing this boy was "Eli" was a little sign Ilya started to warm up to him.

Feeling him flinch, seeing him wince, earing his cry, it was all so pitiful... But they just held him stronger, firm as ever. Pity and tenderness would only make the boy suffer longer. Efficiency was the key. And now that his temple was clean and ready, Ilya showed Eli the sewing kit.

They had put on clean gloves, a face mask and an full body appron. Ready for surgery. They looked, fortunatly, quite prepared, wich surely meant they were used to this role. But they also looked tired and... Apolegetic. Something in their eyes saying "see this ? It will hurt. Sorry in advance."

And it does.

The area was small, but with such a thin, fragile skin... Ilya had to be slow and careful.

And the fact his eyes were like this... It did not escape them. How bad it was inside. They took the decision to spend the day here, next to Eli, as to watch over his sleep. What else to do against a concussion, if not making sure he was asleep and... Not worse ? What more could Ilya even attempt ?

As to distract him during the process, and after a small break to change their medical needle, Ilya point at Eli, then... Badly mimick stirring a driving wheel... Gosh can they even drive ? Frustrated, they finally resort to speak.*

- ... Car ?

*Even accidented... If it could be repaired...

Working cars, with tires that did not melt yet, or enough gas, were a treasure nowaday. The way to seek for ressources farther than half a night of walking. A whole car to fill with goods ! Food ! Medical equipement ! Beds for everyone ! Clothes ! Maybe some working fans ? Or even just... Books, games, anything to keep people occupied.

A car ! Such a ray of hope !

But Ilya's smile quickly dropped. The car was left in the middle of the road, kilometers away, in the morning sun. Accidented AND melted. Ah, they were such a fool to get their hopes up. It was useless.

Uh- Shit, sorry, wasn’t- didn’t know there was people here or anything… uh, you don’t have a- maybe a key, or something? ‘Cause, you know, it’s um.. it’s heating up pretty bad… Uh.. I mean- [he sighs almost impatiently, shifting his weight from side to side] can you just let me in, please?

—🦌 ( @cant-get-home) // mjuhghgmm I don’t know I’m putting him back out there I guess.. 😇everything before this I’m considering NOT canon nobody EVER look at any of my writing from last year it’s quite embarrassing

*The hole in the fence that made F.E.M.A leave that "base" seemed like an obvious entry point and that was Ilya's main focus point every damn night. So, when they heard someone climb the fence like a maniac, struggling to get it, they already imagined this one to not be the smartest.

Their guard was even more let down by the relativly small frame on the newcommer. They don't look like a whole adult, and even with broad shoulders, their face and attitude show only pathetic weakness. Their voice is even worse, childish and shy. This was not the type to destroy a glass door.

A broken, genderless voice answer the deer stranger.*

- I can.. op-en. but why should I ?

*Through the glass, the shine of yellow rubber and the light of silver...*

Uh….. I don’t have anything, if that’s what you mean? Uh- or- I do have a few things, but not anything I think you’d like anyway, so… It’s just that my- I hit a deer and my house is another, what, hour’s drive from here?… so I can’t… uh… y- uhm..

[he trails off awkwardly, neck moist with the sweat of daybreak edging over the horizon ever so slowly. Come on. Come on, get your words in order, tell them why they should let you in… it’s just like in class, simply write an argumentative essay… except he’d never been any good at almost any of his classes, and his persuasion skills are subpar at best. To a degree, they underestimate him. He’d break a glass door, if he got mad enough. Or scared. Or scared then mad. Or vice versa. Anger and fear are two powerful motivators, and ones he’s got more than his fair share of experience with.]

The night was clearing, light already heating up the atmosphere. The glass door let Ilya see the comfortable darkness giving in. And their carefulness followed the dissapearing night.

They remembered all too well the very first dawn they met the Homeowner. The way they banged at the door in total despair. The way they begged upon his refusal. The way they bargained at his hesitation. The way they threatened to die right on his porch and be a pain for him even in Death if he let them out. When the Homeowner opened for Ilya, the morning sun already burned their face and even their hands despite the gloves. If not for Ezekiel's help, Ilya would suffer far worse than they do now. The burn on their palm and throat was enough of a reminder of that pain and primal fear. It was long ago, and yet so fresh in their memory...

The glass door opened with a click.*

- co-me in.

*The boy looked young. Rook's age, maybe. His real age, not the lie he tells everyone. Ilya let him in, taking a step back, and close the door behind. No one else is coming.*

- I'll che-ck.. late-r. In the mo-r-ning.

*The glass door was made to resist potential warcrimes, or apparently the end of the world. It would take the Pale Visitor to kick it down... Not even Ilya would try it. A window was going to break easier. And there were many opened windows at night...

But in the end it took only emergency for Ilya to be a human and let the potential visitor in.

Thank you, si- uhh, ma’a- s-sir?…… uh, thanks. [he shifts on his feet, turning them inwards, so that he’s standing more on the outsides, like a penguin, trying to get the pressure off his soles. The rough texture of the school’s carpet hardly helps cool the burning sensation bothering him so enthusiastically. After a moment of semi-awkward silence, he slaps them both back down into their regular positions, wincing slightly, bashful to potentially stain the carpet with his blood. Oops…]

*How it hurt... Both to prononce a "r" that was so painful for their throat, and to lie so shamelessly. Ilya was no "sir" and hated how much they were convincing in that role. How much they looked just like Him. Once the world would be right back on their feet, they would be back to their real themselves. Surely.

Or would they ? Wasnt it easier to be a man ? Less scary ? Wasnt Ilya more respected and loved than Liliana ever was ? Was it worth telling the truth when a lie was so comfortable ? Even if it felt bad and wrong ?

Anyway.

The boy was so obviously hurt, it pained the former-FEMA to see him try to protect his feet. They noticed right away the blood on the floor and the way his angelic little face winced. Another one in need of some patching up. Usual night.

They gestured to the boy to follow them around the corridor, but the horrible carpet texture of the ground must be terrible to walk on with open wounds... Ilya winced imagining it.

Motherly instinct to carry the boy were kickin in, but that was a stranger, maybe even a visitor...

And his head, was it bleeding ? Yes, yes it was. And gosh, that smell was awful ! A shower and to the infirmary it was ! Quick !*

- ... ... ...

*They were too hurt to say all the things they needed to say, and too tired to try to write it or make some mime game. So, they offered their shoulder as support in silence, resisting the urge to just kidnapp the boy like a potato bag -or a princess- and carry him acrosse the school.

[he cocks his head at their pointing, eyes catching after a moment, on the sliver of pale scarring across their throat, mouth going into a small o shape of understanding. He thought they were simply the quiet type, in all honesty.]

How’d that happen? Uh- nevermind- guess you can’t answer or nothin’, anyways! [he laughs a little awkwardly, pitchy and breaking in odd spots.] ya know, once I got strep throat and couldn’t talk for a week. That sucked, hurt like crazy. Mama wouldn’t stop feedin’ me honey- she said it’d help, but it kinda felt worse than before.. uh… prolly not the same, though.. how long’s it been like that? N- uhh, never mind again.

[maybe they should’ve left him outside, with how talkative he is. He goes on for some time, babbling more than before though humanly possible. He talks like he’s got a record to break, or like every sentence gets him a fat wad of money straight to his pocket. Really, none of it is even all that relevant to the situation, either.]

The double thumbsup was reward by the rolling eyes and a exasperated groan from Ilya.

They endured the chatting without any other kind of answer than some looks, either understanding or mean, depending on the situation. But in all honesty, they mostly looked tired.

When they both arrived to the infirmary, Ilya grabbed the wounded boy quite carefully and placed him with authority on one of the two beds left in the place.

Once sat, they grapped his left leg and forcefully held it up to check the under of his foot. Such an invasive procedure without any kind of explanation might be uncomfortable, even a little scary, but Ilya did not have the privilege of chatting like him. The amount of good medical supplies around surely was enough to explain what was going to happen, anyway.*

- Don.t moo.ve.

*Well, that was even worse. It sounded like a threat, with such a low and quiet voice. But it was, in fact, just an order so Ilya could clean the wounds and remove all the dirt, strands of carpet fabric, little rocks and leaves stuck into the sensitive wound. Slow and careful, the wieght of the sniper on their back barely handicaping their movements.*

- ... ... ...

What a fun time for everyone involved !

Those feets where in a pitiful state. He must have walked hours on hot, melted roads... Because of the accident ? Where was he heading, this very city ? Surely this place was the first refuge "alive" looking he found. Lucky him, it was also somewhat safe.

And well furnished in medical equipement. Ilya was glad to have enough deinfectant to share some to the teenager, and damped a clean rag with the orange solution before applying it without warning on his soles. It must burn like crazy but all bacterias would soon be dead... And it was more important than comfort. Ilya would not let somebody die of such a stupid and preventible death !!!

Once the poor "Boy who hit a deer" was finally cleaned from his feet, Ilya could focus on the most worrying : his head.*

- ... What ... happ-ened ?

[he pauses, before answering their question. What happened…? What had happened?? He’s not sure he remembers all that clearly.]

Umh… driving, like I said, ‘Cept I don’t really know where I was going… then the deer… yeah. Well- maybe- in hindsight, I’m really not so sure it was a deer- uh.. it was somethin’ big and moving, for sure, but I didn’t actually… see, ‘cause I was busy hurtin’ my head on the dash and gettin’ blood all over.. [he lets out a vague, shaky chuckle, which quickly dies in his throat.] … I don’t know. Anyways, when I tried to start the car back up, it wouldn’t go.. I tried the ignition a few times… it wouldn’t do anythin’ but sputter a bunch and die so…. And I don’t have a phone.. Uh…. So then I got to walkin’, because, you know, it was already starting to get kinda hot.. my shoes weren’t so good, kept melting on the road, and they didn’t fit in any case, so I took ‘em off. Uh….. then I walked for a while, ‘til I got here.

- ... Hm-hm.

*A vague nod at his story. It sounded plausible enough. But wild animals were a rarity, now, and such accidents... Well, still, it was plausible enough. And the kid looked human too. But... Ilya couldnt help but to check, more or less discreetly, if the unfortunate soul had any red in the eyes, or something in his ears ! As they checked his hands for injuries, the FEMA agent took some time to check the fingernails... Very obviously.*

- Humph.

*Grunts and noises of affirmation. Like a fucking caveman. But a nursing one so who could really say anything ? Who would dare ? Certainly not the accidented boy. Oh geez Ilya couldnt keep naming him that in their head !*

- ... Name ?

*That was a start...

[his eyes seem normal enough, at first glance- no, or very little ebbing of red veins in contrast with the white of his sclera, though his pupils seem oddly dilated, asymmetrical in their diameters. Common sign of concussion, nothing more, surely. All around, his features seem average enough. Normal ears, slightly battered and dirty hands, though nothing of great consequence.. his story aligns quite adequately with the nature of his appearance. He knows what theyre doing, though he pays it very little mind. Reasonable enough reaction, he figures. Only it makes him a little nervous. They don’t seem like somebody who might happen to hesitate over the trigger of a gun.]

[he retracts his hands, pressing them back to his lap as they move away, gaze following them as they regress to the darkness, back turned to him as they search for… something. He rubs the juncture between his jaw and ear again.]

Uh- Shit, sorry, wasn’t- didn’t know there was people here or anything… uh, you don’t have a- maybe a key, or something? ‘Cause, you know, it’s um.. it’s heating up pretty bad… Uh.. I mean- [he sighs almost impatiently, shifting his weight from side to side] can you just let me in, please?

—🦌 ( @cant-get-home) // mjuhghgmm I don’t know I’m putting him back out there I guess.. 😇everything before this I’m considering NOT canon nobody EVER look at any of my writing from last year it’s quite embarrassing

*The hole in the fence that made F.E.M.A leave that "base" seemed like an obvious entry point and that was Ilya's main focus point every damn night. So, when they heard someone climb the fence like a maniac, struggling to get it, they already imagined this one to not be the smartest.

Their guard was even more let down by the relativly small frame on the newcommer. They don't look like a whole adult, and even with broad shoulders, their face and attitude show only pathetic weakness. Their voice is even worse, childish and shy. This was not the type to destroy a glass door.

A broken, genderless voice answer the deer stranger.*

- I can.. op-en. but why should I ?

*Through the glass, the shine of yellow rubber and the light of silver...*

Uh….. I don’t have anything, if that’s what you mean? Uh- or- I do have a few things, but not anything I think you’d like anyway, so… It’s just that my- I hit a deer and my house is another, what, hour’s drive from here?… so I can’t… uh… y- uhm..

[he trails off awkwardly, neck moist with the sweat of daybreak edging over the horizon ever so slowly. Come on. Come on, get your words in order, tell them why they should let you in… it’s just like in class, simply write an argumentative essay… except he’d never been any good at almost any of his classes, and his persuasion skills are subpar at best. To a degree, they underestimate him. He’d break a glass door, if he got mad enough. Or scared. Or scared then mad. Or vice versa. Anger and fear are two powerful motivators, and ones he’s got more than his fair share of experience with.]

The night was clearing, light already heating up the atmosphere. The glass door let Ilya see the comfortable darkness giving in. And their carefulness followed the dissapearing night.

They remembered all too well the very first dawn they met the Homeowner. The way they banged at the door in total despair. The way they begged upon his refusal. The way they bargained at his hesitation. The way they threatened to die right on his porch and be a pain for him even in Death if he let them out. When the Homeowner opened for Ilya, the morning sun already burned their face and even their hands despite the gloves. If not for Ezekiel's help, Ilya would suffer far worse than they do now. The burn on their palm and throat was enough of a reminder of that pain and primal fear. It was long ago, and yet so fresh in their memory...

The glass door opened with a click.*

- co-me in.

*The boy looked young. Rook's age, maybe. His real age, not the lie he tells everyone. Ilya let him in, taking a step back, and close the door behind. No one else is coming.*

- I'll che-ck.. late-r. In the mo-r-ning.

*The glass door was made to resist potential warcrimes, or apparently the end of the world. It would take the Pale Visitor to kick it down... Not even Ilya would try it. A window was going to break easier. And there were many opened windows at night...

But in the end it took only emergency for Ilya to be a human and let the potential visitor in.

Thank you, si- uhh, ma’a- s-sir?…… uh, thanks. [he shifts on his feet, turning them inwards, so that he’s standing more on the outsides, like a penguin, trying to get the pressure off his soles. The rough texture of the school’s carpet hardly helps cool the burning sensation bothering him so enthusiastically. After a moment of semi-awkward silence, he slaps them both back down into their regular positions, wincing slightly, bashful to potentially stain the carpet with his blood. Oops…]

*How it hurt... Both to prononce a "r" that was so painful for their throat, and to lie so shamelessly. Ilya was no "sir" and hated how much they were convincing in that role. How much they looked just like Him. Once the world would be right back on their feet, they would be back to their real themselves. Surely.

Or would they ? Wasnt it easier to be a man ? Less scary ? Wasnt Ilya more respected and loved than Liliana ever was ? Was it worth telling the truth when a lie was so comfortable ? Even if it felt bad and wrong ?

Anyway.

The boy was so obviously hurt, it pained the former-FEMA to see him try to protect his feet. They noticed right away the blood on the floor and the way his angelic little face winced. Another one in need of some patching up. Usual night.

They gestured to the boy to follow them around the corridor, but the horrible carpet texture of the ground must be terrible to walk on with open wounds... Ilya winced imagining it.

Motherly instinct to carry the boy were kickin in, but that was a stranger, maybe even a visitor...

And his head, was it bleeding ? Yes, yes it was. And gosh, that smell was awful ! A shower and to the infirmary it was ! Quick !*

- ... ... ...

*They were too hurt to say all the things they needed to say, and too tired to try to write it or make some mime game. So, they offered their shoulder as support in silence, resisting the urge to just kidnapp the boy like a potato bag -or a princess- and carry him acrosse the school.

[he cocks his head at their pointing, eyes catching after a moment, on the sliver of pale scarring across their throat, mouth going into a small o shape of understanding. He thought they were simply the quiet type, in all honesty.]

How’d that happen? Uh- nevermind- guess you can’t answer or nothin’, anyways! [he laughs a little awkwardly, pitchy and breaking in odd spots.] ya know, once I got strep throat and couldn’t talk for a week. That sucked, hurt like crazy. Mama wouldn’t stop feedin’ me honey- she said it’d help, but it kinda felt worse than before.. uh… prolly not the same, though.. how long’s it been like that? N- uhh, never mind again.

[maybe they should’ve left him outside, with how talkative he is. He goes on for some time, babbling more than before though humanly possible. He talks like he’s got a record to break, or like every sentence gets him a fat wad of money straight to his pocket. Really, none of it is even all that relevant to the situation, either.]

The double thumbsup was reward by the rolling eyes and a exasperated groan from Ilya.

They endured the chatting without any other kind of answer than some looks, either understanding or mean, depending on the situation. But in all honesty, they mostly looked tired.

When they both arrived to the infirmary, Ilya grabbed the wounded boy quite carefully and placed him with authority on one of the two beds left in the place.

Once sat, they grapped his left leg and forcefully held it up to check the under of his foot. Such an invasive procedure without any kind of explanation might be uncomfortable, even a little scary, but Ilya did not have the privilege of chatting like him. The amount of good medical supplies around surely was enough to explain what was going to happen, anyway.*

- Don.t moo.ve.

*Well, that was even worse. It sounded like a threat, with such a low and quiet voice. But it was, in fact, just an order so Ilya could clean the wounds and remove all the dirt, strands of carpet fabric, little rocks and leaves stuck into the sensitive wound. Slow and careful, the wieght of the sniper on their back barely handicaping their movements.*

- ... ... ...

What a fun time for everyone involved !

Those feets where in a pitiful state. He must have walked hours on hot, melted roads... Because of the accident ? Where was he heading, this very city ? Surely this place was the first refuge "alive" looking he found. Lucky him, it was also somewhat safe.

And well furnished in medical equipement. Ilya was glad to have enough deinfectant to share some to the teenager, and damped a clean rag with the orange solution before applying it without warning on his soles. It must burn like crazy but all bacterias would soon be dead... And it was more important than comfort. Ilya would not let somebody die of such a stupid and preventible death !!!

Once the poor "Boy who hit a deer" was finally cleaned from his feet, Ilya could focus on the most worrying : his head.*

- ... What ... happ-ened ?

[he pauses, before answering their question. What happened…? What had happened?? He’s not sure he remembers all that clearly.]

Umh… driving, like I said, ‘Cept I don’t really know where I was going… then the deer… yeah. Well- maybe- in hindsight, I’m really not so sure it was a deer- uh.. it was somethin’ big and moving, for sure, but I didn’t actually… see, ‘cause I was busy hurtin’ my head on the dash and gettin’ blood all over.. [he lets out a vague, shaky chuckle, which quickly dies in his throat.] … I don’t know. Anyways, when I tried to start the car back up, it wouldn’t go.. I tried the ignition a few times… it wouldn’t do anythin’ but sputter a bunch and die so…. And I don’t have a phone.. Uh…. So then I got to walkin’, because, you know, it was already starting to get kinda hot.. my shoes weren’t so good, kept melting on the road, and they didn’t fit in any case, so I took ‘em off. Uh….. then I walked for a while, ‘til I got here.

Uh- Shit, sorry, wasn’t- didn’t know there was people here or anything… uh, you don’t have a- maybe a key, or something? ‘Cause, you know, it’s um.. it’s heating up pretty bad… Uh.. I mean- [he sighs almost impatiently, shifting his weight from side to side] can you just let me in, please?

—🦌 ( @cant-get-home) // mjuhghgmm I don’t know I’m putting him back out there I guess.. 😇everything before this I’m considering NOT canon nobody EVER look at any of my writing from last year it’s quite embarrassing

*The hole in the fence that made F.E.M.A leave that "base" seemed like an obvious entry point and that was Ilya's main focus point every damn night. So, when they heard someone climb the fence like a maniac, struggling to get it, they already imagined this one to not be the smartest.

Their guard was even more let down by the relativly small frame on the newcommer. They don't look like a whole adult, and even with broad shoulders, their face and attitude show only pathetic weakness. Their voice is even worse, childish and shy. This was not the type to destroy a glass door.

A broken, genderless voice answer the deer stranger.*

- I can.. op-en. but why should I ?

*Through the glass, the shine of yellow rubber and the light of silver...*

Uh….. I don’t have anything, if that’s what you mean? Uh- or- I do have a few things, but not anything I think you’d like anyway, so… It’s just that my- I hit a deer and my house is another, what, hour’s drive from here?… so I can’t… uh… y- uhm..

[he trails off awkwardly, neck moist with the sweat of daybreak edging over the horizon ever so slowly. Come on. Come on, get your words in order, tell them why they should let you in… it’s just like in class, simply write an argumentative essay… except he’d never been any good at almost any of his classes, and his persuasion skills are subpar at best. To a degree, they underestimate him. He’d break a glass door, if he got mad enough. Or scared. Or scared then mad. Or vice versa. Anger and fear are two powerful motivators, and ones he’s got more than his fair share of experience with.]

The night was clearing, light already heating up the atmosphere. The glass door let Ilya see the comfortable darkness giving in. And their carefulness followed the dissapearing night.

They remembered all too well the very first dawn they met the Homeowner. The way they banged at the door in total despair. The way they begged upon his refusal. The way they bargained at his hesitation. The way they threatened to die right on his porch and be a pain for him even in Death if he let them out. When the Homeowner opened for Ilya, the morning sun already burned their face and even their hands despite the gloves. If not for Ezekiel's help, Ilya would suffer far worse than they do now. The burn on their palm and throat was enough of a reminder of that pain and primal fear. It was long ago, and yet so fresh in their memory...

The glass door opened with a click.*

- co-me in.

*The boy looked young. Rook's age, maybe. His real age, not the lie he tells everyone. Ilya let him in, taking a step back, and close the door behind. No one else is coming.*

- I'll che-ck.. late-r. In the mo-r-ning.

*The glass door was made to resist potential warcrimes, or apparently the end of the world. It would take the Pale Visitor to kick it down... Not even Ilya would try it. A window was going to break easier. And there were many opened windows at night...

But in the end it took only emergency for Ilya to be a human and let the potential visitor in.

Thank you, si- uhh, ma’a- s-sir?…… uh, thanks. [he shifts on his feet, turning them inwards, so that he’s standing more on the outsides, like a penguin, trying to get the pressure off his soles. The rough texture of the school’s carpet hardly helps cool the burning sensation bothering him so enthusiastically. After a moment of semi-awkward silence, he slaps them both back down into their regular positions, wincing slightly, bashful to potentially stain the carpet with his blood. Oops…]

*How it hurt... Both to prononce a "r" that was so painful for their throat, and to lie so shamelessly. Ilya was no "sir" and hated how much they were convincing in that role. How much they looked just like Him. Once the world would be right back on their feet, they would be back to their real themselves. Surely.

Or would they ? Wasnt it easier to be a man ? Less scary ? Wasnt Ilya more respected and loved than Liliana ever was ? Was it worth telling the truth when a lie was so comfortable ? Even if it felt bad and wrong ?

Anyway.

The boy was so obviously hurt, it pained the former-FEMA to see him try to protect his feet. They noticed right away the blood on the floor and the way his angelic little face winced. Another one in need of some patching up. Usual night.

They gestured to the boy to follow them around the corridor, but the horrible carpet texture of the ground must be terrible to walk on with open wounds... Ilya winced imagining it.

Motherly instinct to carry the boy were kickin in, but that was a stranger, maybe even a visitor...

And his head, was it bleeding ? Yes, yes it was. And gosh, that smell was awful ! A shower and to the infirmary it was ! Quick !*

- ... ... ...

*They were too hurt to say all the things they needed to say, and too tired to try to write it or make some mime game. So, they offered their shoulder as support in silence, resisting the urge to just kidnapp the boy like a potato bag -or a princess- and carry him acrosse the school.

[he cocks his head at their pointing, eyes catching after a moment, on the sliver of pale scarring across their throat, mouth going into a small o shape of understanding. He thought they were simply the quiet type, in all honesty.]

How’d that happen? Uh- nevermind- guess you can’t answer or nothin’, anyways! [he laughs a little awkwardly, pitchy and breaking in odd spots.] ya know, once I got strep throat and couldn’t talk for a week. That sucked, hurt like crazy. Mama wouldn’t stop feedin’ me honey- she said it’d help, but it kinda felt worse than before.. uh… prolly not the same, though.. how long’s it been like that? N- uhh, never mind again.

[maybe they should’ve left him outside, with how talkative he is. He goes on for some time, babbling more than before though humanly possible. He talks like he’s got a record to break, or like every sentence gets him a fat wad of money straight to his pocket. Really, none of it is even all that relevant to the situation, either.]

The double thumbsup was reward by the rolling eyes and a exasperated groan from Ilya.

They endured the chatting without any other kind of answer than some looks, either understanding or mean, depending on the situation. But in all honesty, they mostly looked tired.

When they both arrived to the infirmary, Ilya grabbed the wounded boy quite carefully and placed him with authority on one of the two beds left in the place.

Once sat, they grapped his left leg and forcefully held it up to check the under of his foot. Such an invasive procedure without any kind of explanation might be uncomfortable, even a little scary, but Ilya did not have the privilege of chatting like him. The amount of good medical supplies around surely was enough to explain what was going to happen, anyway.*

- Don.t moo.ve.

*Well, that was even worse. It sounded like a threat, with such a low and quiet voice. But it was, in fact, just an order so Ilya could clean the wounds and remove all the dirt, strands of carpet fabric, little rocks and leaves stuck into the sensitive wound. Slow and careful, the wieght of the sniper on their back barely handicaping their movements.*

- ... ... ...

Uh- Shit, sorry, wasn’t- didn’t know there was people here or anything… uh, you don’t have a- maybe a key, or something? ‘Cause, you know, it’s um.. it’s heating up pretty bad… Uh.. I mean- [he sighs almost impatiently, shifting his weight from side to side] can you just let me in, please?

—🦌 ( @cant-get-home) // mjuhghgmm I don’t know I’m putting him back out there I guess.. 😇everything before this I’m considering NOT canon nobody EVER look at any of my writing from last year it’s quite embarrassing

*The hole in the fence that made F.E.M.A leave that "base" seemed like an obvious entry point and that was Ilya's main focus point every damn night. So, when they heard someone climb the fence like a maniac, struggling to get it, they already imagined this one to not be the smartest.

Their guard was even more let down by the relativly small frame on the newcommer. They don't look like a whole adult, and even with broad shoulders, their face and attitude show only pathetic weakness. Their voice is even worse, childish and shy. This was not the type to destroy a glass door.

A broken, genderless voice answer the deer stranger.*

- I can.. op-en. but why should I ?

*Through the glass, the shine of yellow rubber and the light of silver...*

Uh….. I don’t have anything, if that’s what you mean? Uh- or- I do have a few things, but not anything I think you’d like anyway, so… It’s just that my- I hit a deer and my house is another, what, hour’s drive from here?… so I can’t… uh… y- uhm..

[he trails off awkwardly, neck moist with the sweat of daybreak edging over the horizon ever so slowly. Come on. Come on, get your words in order, tell them why they should let you in… it’s just like in class, simply write an argumentative essay… except he’d never been any good at almost any of his classes, and his persuasion skills are subpar at best. To a degree, they underestimate him. He’d break a glass door, if he got mad enough. Or scared. Or scared then mad. Or vice versa. Anger and fear are two powerful motivators, and ones he’s got more than his fair share of experience with.]

The night was clearing, light already heating up the atmosphere. The glass door let Ilya see the comfortable darkness giving in. And their carefulness followed the dissapearing night.

They remembered all too well the very first dawn they met the Homeowner. The way they banged at the door in total despair. The way they begged upon his refusal. The way they bargained at his hesitation. The way they threatened to die right on his porch and be a pain for him even in Death if he let them out. When the Homeowner opened for Ilya, the morning sun already burned their face and even their hands despite the gloves. If not for Ezekiel's help, Ilya would suffer far worse than they do now. The burn on their palm and throat was enough of a reminder of that pain and primal fear. It was long ago, and yet so fresh in their memory...

The glass door opened with a click.*

- co-me in.

*The boy looked young. Rook's age, maybe. His real age, not the lie he tells everyone. Ilya let him in, taking a step back, and close the door behind. No one else is coming.*

- I'll che-ck.. late-r. In the mo-r-ning.

*The glass door was made to resist potential warcrimes, or apparently the end of the world. It would take the Pale Visitor to kick it down... Not even Ilya would try it. A window was going to break easier. And there were many opened windows at night...

But in the end it took only emergency for Ilya to be a human and let the potential visitor in.

Thank you, si- uhh, ma’a- s-sir?…… uh, thanks. [he shifts on his feet, turning them inwards, so that he’s standing more on the outsides, like a penguin, trying to get the pressure off his soles. The rough texture of the school’s carpet hardly helps cool the burning sensation bothering him so enthusiastically. After a moment of semi-awkward silence, he slaps them both back down into their regular positions, wincing slightly, bashful to potentially stain the carpet with his blood. Oops…]

*How it hurt... Both to prononce a "r" that was so painful for their throat, and to lie so shamelessly. Ilya was no "sir" and hated how much they were convincing in that role. How much they looked just like Him. Once the world would be right back on their feet, they would be back to their real themselves. Surely.

Or would they ? Wasnt it easier to be a man ? Less scary ? Wasnt Ilya more respected and loved than Liliana ever was ? Was it worth telling the truth when a lie was so comfortable ? Even if it felt bad and wrong ?

Anyway.

The boy was so obviously hurt, it pained the former-FEMA to see him try to protect his feet. They noticed right away the blood on the floor and the way his angelic little face winced. Another one in need of some patching up. Usual night.

They gestured to the boy to follow them around the corridor, but the horrible carpet texture of the ground must be terrible to walk on with open wounds... Ilya winced imagining it.

Motherly instinct to carry the boy were kickin in, but that was a stranger, maybe even a visitor...

And his head, was it bleeding ? Yes, yes it was. And gosh, that smell was awful ! A shower and to the infirmary it was ! Quick !*

- ... ... ...

*They were too hurt to say all the things they needed to say, and too tired to try to write it or make some mime game. So, they offered their shoulder as support in silence, resisting the urge to just kidnapp the boy like a potato bag -or a princess- and carry him acrosse the school.

[he cocks his head at their pointing, eyes catching after a moment, on the sliver of pale scarring across their throat, mouth going into a small o shape of understanding. He thought they were simply the quiet type, in all honesty.]

How’d that happen? Uh- nevermind- guess you can’t answer or nothin’, anyways! [he laughs a little awkwardly, pitchy and breaking in odd spots.] ya know, once I got strep throat and couldn’t talk for a week. That sucked, hurt like crazy. Mama wouldn’t stop feedin’ me honey- she said it’d help, but it kinda felt worse than before.. uh… prolly not the same, though.. how long’s it been like that? N- uhh, never mind again.

[maybe they should’ve left him outside, with how talkative he is. He goes on for some time, babbling more than before though humanly possible. He talks like he’s got a record to break, or like every sentence gets him a fat wad of money straight to his pocket. Really, none of it is even all that relevant to the situation, either.]

Uh- Shit, sorry, wasn’t- didn’t know there was people here or anything… uh, you don’t have a- maybe a key, or something? ‘Cause, you know, it’s um.. it’s heating up pretty bad… Uh.. I mean- [he sighs almost impatiently, shifting his weight from side to side] can you just let me in, please?

—🦌 ( @cant-get-home) // mjuhghgmm I don’t know I’m putting him back out there I guess.. 😇everything before this I’m considering NOT canon nobody EVER look at any of my writing from last year it’s quite embarrassing

*The hole in the fence that made F.E.M.A leave that "base" seemed like an obvious entry point and that was Ilya's main focus point every damn night. So, when they heard someone climb the fence like a maniac, struggling to get it, they already imagined this one to not be the smartest.

Their guard was even more let down by the relativly small frame on the newcommer. They don't look like a whole adult, and even with broad shoulders, their face and attitude show only pathetic weakness. Their voice is even worse, childish and shy. This was not the type to destroy a glass door.

A broken, genderless voice answer the deer stranger.*

- I can.. op-en. but why should I ?

*Through the glass, the shine of yellow rubber and the light of silver...*

Uh….. I don’t have anything, if that’s what you mean? Uh- or- I do have a few things, but not anything I think you’d like anyway, so… It’s just that my- I hit a deer and my house is another, what, hour’s drive from here?… so I can’t… uh… y- uhm..

[he trails off awkwardly, neck moist with the sweat of daybreak edging over the horizon ever so slowly. Come on. Come on, get your words in order, tell them why they should let you in… it’s just like in class, simply write an argumentative essay… except he’d never been any good at almost any of his classes, and his persuasion skills are subpar at best. To a degree, they underestimate him. He’d break a glass door, if he got mad enough. Or scared. Or scared then mad. Or vice versa. Anger and fear are two powerful motivators, and ones he’s got more than his fair share of experience with.]

The night was clearing, light already heating up the atmosphere. The glass door let Ilya see the comfortable darkness giving in. And their carefulness followed the dissapearing night.

They remembered all too well the very first dawn they met the Homeowner. The way they banged at the door in total despair. The way they begged upon his refusal. The way they bargained at his hesitation. The way they threatened to die right on his porch and be a pain for him even in Death if he let them out. When the Homeowner opened for Ilya, the morning sun already burned their face and even their hands despite the gloves. If not for Ezekiel's help, Ilya would suffer far worse than they do now. The burn on their palm and throat was enough of a reminder of that pain and primal fear. It was long ago, and yet so fresh in their memory...

The glass door opened with a click.*

- co-me in.

*The boy looked young. Rook's age, maybe. His real age, not the lie he tells everyone. Ilya let him in, taking a step back, and close the door behind. No one else is coming.*

- I'll che-ck.. late-r. In the mo-r-ning.

*The glass door was made to resist potential warcrimes, or apparently the end of the world. It would take the Pale Visitor to kick it down... Not even Ilya would try it. A window was going to break easier. And there were many opened windows at night...

But in the end it took only emergency for Ilya to be a human and let the potential visitor in.

Thank you, si- uhh, ma’a- s-sir?…… uh, thanks. [he shifts on his feet, turning them inwards, so that he’s standing more on the outsides, like a penguin, trying to get the pressure off his soles. The rough texture of the school’s carpet hardly helps cool the burning sensation bothering him so enthusiastically. After a moment of semi-awkward silence, he slaps them both back down into their regular positions, wincing slightly, bashful to potentially stain the carpet with his blood. Oops…]

Uh- Shit, sorry, wasn’t- didn’t know there was people here or anything… uh, you don’t have a- maybe a key, or something? ‘Cause, you know, it’s um.. it’s heating up pretty bad… Uh.. I mean- [he sighs almost impatiently, shifting his weight from side to side] can you just let me in, please?

—🦌 ( @cant-get-home) // mjuhghgmm I don’t know I’m putting him back out there I guess.. 😇everything before this I’m considering NOT canon nobody EVER look at any of my writing from last year it’s quite embarrassing

*The hole in the fence that made F.E.M.A leave that "base" seemed like an obvious entry point and that was Ilya's main focus point every damn night. So, when they heard someone climb the fence like a maniac, struggling to get it, they already imagined this one to not be the smartest.

Their guard was even more let down by the relativly small frame on the newcommer. They don't look like a whole adult, and even with broad shoulders, their face and attitude show only pathetic weakness. Their voice is even worse, childish and shy. This was not the type to destroy a glass door.

A broken, genderless voice answer the deer stranger.*

- I can.. op-en. but why should I ?

*Through the glass, the shine of yellow rubber and the light of silver...*

Uh….. I don’t have anything, if that’s what you mean? Uh- or- I do have a few things, but not anything I think you’d like anyway, so… It’s just that my- I hit a deer and my house is another, what, hour’s drive from here?… so I can’t… uh… y- uhm..

[he trails off awkwardly, neck moist with the sweat of daybreak edging over the horizon ever so slowly. Come on. Come on, get your words in order, tell them why they should let you in… it’s just like in class, simply write an argumentative essay… except he’d never been any good at almost any of his classes, and his persuasion skills are subpar at best. To a degree, they underestimate him. He’d break a glass door, if he got mad enough. Or scared. Or scared then mad. Or vice versa. Anger and fear are two powerful motivators, and ones he’s got more than his fair share of experience with.]