my little dark age

Their eyes flicked to the chipped mug she was nursing, then back to her, amusement sparkling in their gaze. “You’ve got me all wrong, though. That moonshine ain’t just medicinal—it’s practically a miracle cure. Fixes bad moods, bad days... hell, maybe even bad coffee.” They gestured loosely to her mug, the grin widening into something almost conspiratorial.

Mira’s challenge didn’t faze them. If anything, it seemed to fuel the fire in their playful demeanor. “Brutally honest, huh?” Sullivan drawled, leaning back and lacing their fingers behind their head. “That’s rich, coming from the woman who told me my boots looked like they’d been chewed on by a bear last time we crossed paths.”

They dropped their hands and leaned forward again, their hazel eyes locking with hers, their voice dropping just a touch. “But I’m game. I’ll take your review—no sugarcoating, no mercy. Just don’t think I’m the type to scare easy. You’ve got high standards? Good. Means I’ll have to make it worth your while.”

sullivan’s barrage of practical, pointed questions only heightened alex’s sense of urgency. these were questions they should have been asking themselves, but they couldn’t focus. time felt like a noose tightening around their resolve. the anxiety clung to them like a second skin as if the dog’s fate hinged on how quickly they acted. alex’s mind raced, the panic building—like the white rabbit in alice in wonderland, they were consumed by the sensation of running late, chasing a trail that only seemed to grow colder. "it always happens like this," they murmured under their breath, eyes scanning the ground for the faint paw prints that etched a path forward.

then came the arguments. "if he wasn’t friendly, he wouldn’t be leading us," alex insisted, more forceful now. their conviction was shaky, but the words tumbled out regardless. they followed the trail, desperate not to lose their way. "just don’t worry, doc. i promise, this is a good thing." the assurance sounded hollow, even to their own ears, more an attempt to quell their spiraling doubts than to ease sullivan’s concerns.

a pause, and then quieter, almost as if confessing to themselves: "he’s never let me get this far before." the admission hung in the air like a fragile thread of hope, vulnerable to the weight of reality.

They let out a low breath, shaking their head with a wry grin that was more gentle than usual. “Y’know, I don’t need to be a vet or a psychic to know you’re talkin’ out both sides of your mouth, sugar,” they drawled, catching up and falling into step beside Alex. “You’re tellin’ me not to worry, but you’re out here chasin’ paw prints like the damn world’s ending. And I’m supposed to believe everything’s fine?”

The words were sharp, but the tone wasn’t unkind—just Sullivan being Sullivan, cutting through the noise. They crouched briefly, brushing their fingers over a faint paw print in the dirt, before glancing up at Alex. “Look, I ain’t gonna stand here and pretend I understand half of what’s got you all wound up. But I do know this—panic don’t do much except make the trail colder.”

Standing back up, they tilted their head slightly, studying Alex with those hazel eyes that seemed to see more than they let on. “If he’s never let you get this far before, then maybe—just maybe—it means somethin’. Don’t go wastin’ it by lettin’ your nerves get the better of you. Trust the path, yeah?”

Their grin turned faintly teasing as they added, “And for the record, if this dog does turn out to be not-so-friendly, I’m real good at runnin’. So you just let me know.”

“I don't think even the most skilled coffee maker in this place could ever fix whatever is going on over there.” He gestured half-heartedly toward the coffee machine. Especially if the water may have been tampered with, which was his suspicion of what was going on with the people in this town. Again, he had to ask himself why on earth he had even come to wander in this place. He wasn't even looking for coffee. Lainn's gaze moved from the stranger's face to the book they had. Trying to see from where he was standing if he recognized it.

But the person continued and he listened. There was little else he had going on for him at that moment. But it really didn't culminate too much in the end, for him. Nodding his head, he wondered who was in charge of making moonshine around here. Or the coffee, even. Were they the same people? “What's wrong with it, anyway?” Lainn paused pointing toward their cup of coffee.

Their grin deepened as their gaze drifted back to Lainn, noting the way he was sizing them up—or maybe just trying to make sense of them. Sullivan let the silence hang for a moment before adding, “Let me guess—you’re not here for the coffee either, are you? No one comes here for this mess unless they’ve lost a bet or all their other bad habits dried up.”

They tilted their head slightly, as if considering something. “I’ve seen you around,” they said, gesturing lazily toward him. “Usually keeping to yourself. Guess the coffee finally broke you down, huh? Name’s Sullivan, by the way. Figured we should get that out of the way since we’re bonding over mutual disdain.” They extended a hand with a crooked grin, their tone a perfect blend of playful and sardonic. “You?”

"Cherry," Anastasia began, her voice steady but with an unmistakable note of warning. "Let me make one thing very clear—you don’t get to decide the cost-benefit analysis of your recklessness for this town. That’s not your call. The resources we used on you? They’re not ‘mine.’ They’re not even yours. They’re ours. They belong to every single person in this town who relies on them to survive. And I won’t apologize for calling you out when your actions jeopardize the well-being of others."

She took another step closer, standing directly across from Cherry now, her eyes unwavering. "You don’t ‘owe’ anyone anything for using the resources to save your life. That’s not how this works. But what you do owe us—what you owe yourself—is to stop acting like a self-destructive martyr who thinks they’re above consequence."

Anastasia’s voice dropped, the steel in her words sharpened by a rare glimpse of exasperation. "You might think no one else got hurt, but you’re wrong. Every reckless decision you make chips away at the fragile stability we’ve all built here. You’re part of this town, whether you like it or not. That comes with responsibilities. And no, Cherry, playing roulette with your life doesn’t count as helping us 'learn new shit.’"

She straightened, adjusting her blazer with a deliberate calm. "You want to talk about weighing scales? Fine. Let me spell it out for you: what you did could have cost more than just saline and bandages—it could have cost someone else their life. A parent. A child. Maybe even you, the next time you think bleeding out alone is a good idea."

Anastasia exhaled, a flicker of frustration crossing her otherwise controlled features. "I’m not here to coddle you or argue semantics. I’m here to tell you this: we’re all trapped in this place together. So, I don’t care if you hate authority, hate me, or hate the sound of my voice. What I care about is ensuring that every person in this town—including you—has a fighting chance to survive. If you can’t see the value in that, then we’ve got bigger problems than just your attitude."

She let the weight of her words settle before stepping back. "Figure it out, Cherry. Because next time, there won’t be a conversation. There’ll just be consequences," Anastasia crosses her arms, "Do I make myself clear?"

She gave a nod of her head, acknowledging the answer El gave in response to her question. Part of her wondered if El was always into cars. That's how most things translated here, right? Doctors stayed doctors. She imagined mechanics stayed mechanics. "Lucky me," she said, a slight tug of her lips but no real joy in her tone.

She's quiet for a lengthy beat as she considered El's offer. It's an invitation. To break up the routine she's fallen into. Her mind crosses briefly into what she would do had she not been invited. Not much better comes to mind except walking around, trying to study this place and the people in it.

"I could stomach a sip or two. I hear good company makes bad vodka go down easier." She offers a smile then — something more intentional and sincere. "Though I find it hard to believe you of all people actually complain about this place. You seem oddly... at peace with it all."

The word choice wasn't quite right but she couldn't think of anything better.

“Not quite the word I’d use. I think I’ve just… come to terms with it, you know? When you can’t go back, and you’re not sure what’s ahead, all you’ve got is right now. It’s not easy, but making some kind of peace with that is what gets me through.”

Ellington met her gaze then, their expression earnest but tinged with self-deprecating humor. “That being said, I do still complain. Usually to myself, when the tools don’t cooperate or the moonshine’s particularly bad. Guess you just haven’t caught me in the act.” They leaned slightly closer, their voice dropping into something conspiratorial. “But I’ll let you in on a secret—I’m really good at making it look like I have my act together.”

They eased back, their demeanor lightening. “So, after your shift? We’ll take on the vodka together. Maybe even toast to the small victories.”

it was nice to see el in a good mood. they never seemed to take things out on others, but cameron knew they held a lot back, always having things swirling around in their mind. she knew because she was the same way. maybe that was why she liked them so much. they never pushed too hard and always respected each other. "oh is that so? guess i gotta bring my a game then," she chuckled and picked up her own cup.

cam raised her glass with el's, "the night is still young, we may become degenerates by the end." she takes a swig of the moonshine. she is never quite ready for the taste, even after five years of drinking it. "for moonshine, it's not too bad. better than the piss water ralph tries to push on people."

Taking a sip of the moonshine, they wince slightly before letting out a quiet chuckle. “You’re not wrong about Ralph’s concoctions. That stuff’s got more bite than a cornered raccoon. This, though—it’s drinkable, I’ll give it that.”

Ellington leans back, letting the moment settle, the faint hum of their usual contemplative demeanor returning. “You know,” they start, their tone casual but laced with genuine curiosity, “I’ve noticed you and Stassi haven’t been… at each other’s throats as much lately. Not that I’m complaining—it’s kind of nice. Just wondering if everything’s good there, or if there’s something you want to get off your chest.” They pause, offering an easy smile. “No pressure, though. I’m just here for the poker and the moonshine.”

"yeah, money doesn't really matter here, most stuff you can get by trading," she says with a chuckle. "and food is free at the diner, everyone gets rations. would be kinda fucked up if we didn't." thank god for that. things may be limited but thanks to the livestock and the greenhouse, there was always food to be found. "want me to show you? i was just heading there anyway and they make some pretty good pancakes."

“Free pancakes?” Gemma echoes, a faint laugh escaping her lips despite herself. “I guess it’d be rude to say no to that.” She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, brushing a strand of hair from her face as she glances down the street, half expecting the surrealness of this place to shatter at any moment. But it doesn’t. It never does.

“That’d actually be... helpful,” she adds, her tone softening. “This whole—” She gestures vaguely to the street, the buildings, the unsettling quiet of it all. “—thing still feels like some weird fever dream. But if free food’s part of the deal, I won’t complain.”

Her gaze flicks back to the stranger, and for the first time, she really takes her in. There’s something about her easy demeanor, the way she’s talking like none of this is out of the ordinary, that makes Gemma feel slightly less like she’s untethered. “I’m Gemma, by the way,” she says, offering a small, tentative smile. “And if the pancakes live up to the hype, I’ll owe you one.”

FLICK'S BROWS CAN ONLY FURROW AS GEMMA GOES ON . at first in confusion, but very quickly that confusion is combined with concern . she studies gemma for a beat or two with it, the emotions mixing within her in a way that makes her hesitate . but ultimately it's with a shift into sitting position that flick moves to take her sleeping mask off where it rests on top of her head, sighing with the movement even as she softens and says, " ... scoot over ." flick doesn't know what to do with the awkwardness she feels . it feels like it's been a long time since someone turned to her for safety . for comfort, truly . it feels like a while since gemma has turned to her for those things too . but maybe both of those things align . maybe the last person to come to flick for comfort was gemma . and maybe that was a long time ago . flick doesn't know how to grapple with that reality . is it because she wasn't as good at providing that comfort anymore ? did gemma find some part of her lacking ? would gem tell her if she was ? because there had to be something wrong . something that changed and went bad . and maybe that something was flick . that something probably was flick . she barely knew how to properly be a friend when she became gemma's friend . it made some sort of sense that she'd be the one to fuck it up . yeah, it took her two decades but it as only a matter of time . she swallows before she's moving to shift in her seat, turning her body to move to sit beside gemma rather than across from her with no more warning than a soft, " y'know, i'm still not completely convinced any of this is real ." flick settles into her seat once her side and gemma's are pressed flushed together . the warmth of the point of contact relaxes flick near instantly, but she makes an effort to stay awake, only yawning once as she moves to take gemma's hand in hers and squeeze it . " this could all be some ... really fucked up cult ." flick says with a hum . she tilts her head before looking to gemma ." or we could be having a really shitty joint hallucination ." a beat of pause before she waves her free hand between them and adds, " you and me ." her hands waves dismissively towards the window next, towards the world outside of them . " not everybody else . they're all fake ."

"Well, if this is a shitty joint hallucination, I’d like to have a word with whoever gave us such crap imaginations,” she murmurs, her voice catching slightly. “We couldn’t even dream up a beach or, I don’t know, a spa weekend?”

She tries for levity, but it doesn’t quite land. Her gaze drifts out the window, where the faint glint of movement makes her stomach churn. When Flick wipes at the tears Gemma didn’t even realize were threatening to fall from her eyes, her breath hitches. She closes her eyes briefly, leaning into the touch, the tenderness of it unraveling something inside her.

“This adventure sucks,” Gemma mutters after a beat, her voice thick with emotion she tries to suppress. “The stakes are too high, the monsters are too real, and... I’m not sure I’d survive this one without you.” The words come out softer than she intended, almost a whisper.

Her eyes flicker open when Flick mentions the wine, and for the first time in what feels like hours, Gemma lets out a small, genuine laugh. It’s weak, but it’s there. “Of course you brought a bottle of wine,” she says, nudging Flick back gently. The mischief in Flick’s eyes, that glimmer of rebellion and comfort all rolled into one, makes Gemma feel sixteen again, as though they’re sneaking contraband into a sleepover. “You know - this is why I love you.”

Gemma squeezes Flick’s hand, their fingers still intertwined, and lets out a long exhale. “Alright,” she says, her voice steadier now. “Pour me a glass—just a small one. And then you’re stuck holding my hand all night, deal?”

Her lips twitch into a faint smile, one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes but is genuine nonetheless. It’s enough, for now, to feel this close again, to have this moment of shared rebellion and nostalgia, even as the world outside their window feels like it’s closing in.

her eyes follow where van was gesturing too and rolled her eyes. "it's not like there's any other bar in town," she half jokes with a chuckle. their options were limited, unless sullivan expected her to go home with them.

reluctantly, she followed after them and tried to ignore how happy they seemed about the idea of drinking together. "making me drink with you and wanting me to laugh?" she asked with a snort. "you're asking a lot of me, sullivan."

At her snort, Sullivan chuckled, their blue eyes dancing with amusement. “Oh, come on now, Jean. You’ve got that dry sense of humor hiding under all that grumbling—I’ve seen glimpses of it. It’s like spotting Bigfoot. Rare, but when you catch it? Absolutely worth the wait.”

Reaching the bar, they slid into a seat and gestured for her to do the same, their grin settling into something a touch more mischievous. They leaned back slightly, tilting their head as if studying her. “So yeah, I am asking a lot. A drink and a laugh. But hey,” they added, their tone softening just a fraction, “I’m not above earning it. Worst case? You drink, you grumble, and you go back to pretending I don’t exist tomorrow. But tonight?” Sullivan raised a brow, their grin tugging at one corner of their mouth. “Tonight, you might just have a little fun. Stranger things have happened.”

Natalia greeted them with a polite smile, turning away from whatever had occupied her attention previously to give them hers undivided. When they made a lighthearted comment, she offered a soft chuckle in return.

"Yeah, to call that paradise would be… insanity, really," she said with a shake of her head.

You holding up okay? Folks treating you right? No matter how many times Natalia has been on the receiving end of those kind of questions since being here, she never had an answer ready to go. For a town where nothing seemed to change, Natalia’s feelings about each day never stayed the same.

"Holding up," she echoed, borrowing a piece of their phrasing for her answer. "The job helps a lot," she added, gesturing vaguely to the store around them. "I think sitting around at the motel with nothing to do would definitely make this whole experience worse." She exhaled, a humorless sound escaping her.

"And you?" Natalia asked, tilting her head slightly. "How’ve you been since we last saw each other? Anyone other strangers come around asking about a car yet?"

“I’m glad the job’s been helping keep you steady,” they said, their voice warm. “But yeah, I get how sitting around the motel with nothing to do could start to wear on you. It’s... not exactly inspiring, is it?”

Their gaze swept briefly over the store before returning to her. There was something about her measured answer that made them want to tread carefully, though not without intention.

“As for me? Same old, mostly. I’ve been trying to breathe some life into a few dusty projects in the shop—no other car inquiries, though,” they said with a light laugh. “Guess you’re one of a kind in that department.”

Ellington hesitated for just a moment, their tone softening as their smile tilted a little wider. “You know, the bar has got this god-awful vodka. Probably the worst thing I’ve ever tasted, but it’s the only stuff that actually makes you forget you're trapped in hell for a bit.” Their voice turned playful as they added, “If you’re interested in a drink after your shift, we could properly complain about how this place doesn’t live up to paradise together.”

her jawline clenches tight and a muscle flickers within it in response to the chair's thud. nic ain't fond of loud noises when she ain't the one making them, and sullivan's grin just adds fuel to the fire. fuckin' smarmy asshole. hazel meets hazel when van looks over and nic only looks away to accept the coffee that's finally been placed before her, the gulp she takes of it making her stomach churn. christ, it really is shite. "aye, i'd laugh me tits off." cue the eyeroll, before nic sets the coffee mug aside and slouches back in her booth. powerful arms rise and cross behind her head as she stretches long legs out beneath her table. at this point, sullivan has her full attention and vitriol. "charm, eh?" a huff of laughter escapes. "'bout as charmin' as a kick to the arse." still, a corner of her mouth hitches upwards in response to the accusation of mean mugging. this tit-for-tat is at least slightly more entertaining than drinking crap coffee in silence.

"you understand me accent 'cos i've toned it down for yer ears, marra. divvent get us wrang, shootin' an bawlin' wi ye is canny good, like, but hadaway an' shite wi' ye bollocks while am tryna drink me brew." cue the bouncing of dark eyebrows, as though in challenge. understand that ya flag-waving, shit on a shingle eatin' gobshite.

They tilted their head, blue eyes sparking with amusement as they took in her slouched posture, the cocky stretch of her legs, and the barely hidden smirk that tugged at her lips. “But I gotta hand it to ya—‘bout as charmin’ as a kick to the arse? That’s poetry right there. You’ve got a way with words, even if half of ‘em sound like you’re casting a spell.”

“Of course, it’s nice,” they murmured, their voice low and soothing. “You deserve to feel safe, Cherry. You deserve to have someone hold you when it all feels like too much.”

They felt her breath catch, her body curling closer, and their heart ached for her. Ellington didn’t press her to stop the tears she was barely holding back. Instead, they smoothed a hand over her back, a grounding rhythm meant to let her know it was okay to let go.

When she spoke of Emerson, her voice barely above a whisper, Ellington let out a soft, pained sigh. “I know,” they said, their own voice faltering with the weight of their apology. “I’m so sorry, Cherry. For Emerson, for everything you’ve been through. You should’ve never had to feel that kind of fear.”

They paused, pressing their cheek gently against her temple. “But I swear to you, I’m going to do everything I can to keep you safe. You don’t have to carry this all by yourself anymore.”

Ellington’s hand slid up to cradle the back of her head, a gesture of quiet reassurance. “Let it out,” they encouraged gently. “You’ve been so strong for so long, Cherry. You don’t have to be right now. Not with me.”

The weight of her words about the last hug she’d received lingered heavily between them, and Ellington’s grip softened, though they didn’t let her go. “You’re not alone in this,” they promised, their voice steady and earnest. “Not anymore.”