once i was

He listened as Oona went on, picturing deviled eggs, then jello, then pasta salad. All things he would have rather starved than ate once upon a time. But now? Just picturing them in his head made his mouth water. "Fridge full of pasta salad?" He pushed let out a breath through his nose. "Yeah, sounds like a dream."

The task was done. The food had been passed on; Oona was doing what whatever it was she needed to do. Log them, mark them... Ian should be leaving the room. But he lingered. Gave her question a moment's thought. Why not, you know? They were safe. Probably the safest they've been since they've all started this journey.

"It was, uh... April 20th." The date made his mouth twitch up at a side just a little. "The year before it all went down." Obviously. "I remember it was a Saturday, and I had the weekend off, so... I passed by the grocery store, got food from all of my favorite places, and just... gorged." He chuckled at the memory, shaking his head lightly at how indulgent he once was. "Passed out so hard, my grandma thought I was dead. An air raid siren couldn't have woken me up."

Regardless, she tried to do the math of how old Ian would've been back then. She knew he was about her age, so he would have certainly been a teenager, and the picture he painted was very Teenage Boy. Once upon a time, Declan seemed plenty capable of eating them out of house and home.

"Your poor grandmother. I'm sure you nearly gave her a heart attack," Oona teased kindly. Her chest warmed a little at the mention of a grandparent, and it was nice to think about him with his family. He didn't just materialize into her life as a lookout one day out of nowhere, after all. "But still, that sounds like a good way to spend a Saturday."

She capped the marker, moving the ramen packs to lean against a bag of lentils. "You had a proper smorgasbord." She smiled with the last word, liking the silly sound of it, then gestured at the food in front of them with the Sharpie. "Do you think we could recreate anything from one of those favorite places with what we've got here?"

Whit's voice drew their attention and they looked back towards him. Another all clear. What the fuck happened here? They tried not to linger on it and instead made a mental note with what he said. They'd come back and check out the supply closet. Oona and Lydia liked to do little crafts together, maybe they could find something small to get to them. They didn't clock the instruction immediately, hearing it more as suggestion than anything else. And maybe it was meant that way, but the way he held up a hand following it made them purse their lips slightly as to hide a smile that threatened to show. " Good idea, Thunder, " They said, using the nickname again as they, in good nature, framed it as though he'd been asking for their approval. " Once that's clear we can start supplies down there and before coming back up. " They said as they started to move back into the hallway.

Whit sniffed, his eyes scanning the lobby as he thought. This wasn't a breachers up! situation by any means, and ammo was too precious to waste on a ballistic approach anyway. His shoddy, improvised flashbangs were a hazard he wasn't willing to wager either, and explosives were obviously a no-go. Which meant the old tried and true, the classic first choice: mechanical. They'd need a battering ram. There was an old fire extinguisher inside the kitchenette, he recalled. Whit lightly knocked his elbow against Beck's arm and said, "Hold on." And he set off.

"yep, april 30th!" birthdays were weird now, it was a blessing to make it through another year but at the same time, there was a sinking feeling that came with them. she was 16 when all of this started, just a kid and now she was almost 30. she should be married by now, with a house and a good job. no kids yet, just a cat and a dog who sleep on the foot of her bed with her beautiful partner, whoever that might have been. and yet here they were. she pushed the thought away to focus on oona's kind words. she wasn't religious but for some reason, there was something calming about the way she spoke. it reminded her of the people she grew up around back in south carolina. "well," she started, looking around them. "i supposed this place could be considered a blessing. we'll have to wait and see about the other things."

she listened with a smile as oona spoke about her daughter. she admired her for it all, protecting and raising a child in this new world was not something to take for granted. oona was braver and stronger than most people aspen has come in contact with over the years, she could tell that right away. "oh man, yeah, she's going to be shooting up soon. might want to grab some extra sizes for her while you're at it. next thing you know, she's going to be as tall as you." aspen thought back to her own middle school years, she shot up like three inches over the summer one year and felt so awkward going back to see her classmates hadn't. "purple, noted," she nodded as if it was the most important mission they could be on: find something a ten year old girl would approve of. "so what does she like? i mean, at ten i was obsessed with icarly and sneaking twilight out of the library without my mom noticing," she says with a laugh.

"She likes Anne of Green Gables and The Boxcar Children," Oona started. "And she obviously never saw the movies, but she has a Minion-themed backpack that she carries her books in. She likes the look of those guys." She shot Aspen a playfully long-suffering look. "She thinks they're hilarious." There had been a girl in her early twenties at the last compound they'd spent time in who did a pretty impeccable impression of the Minions. Lydia had laughed until tears formed in her eyes.

"We've found a few old LEGO sets over the years, and she really enjoys piecing those together," she continued. "She gets very creative with them." Odd little vehicles she said were powered by farts, an 'evil robot grandma', and mashed-up looking animals. Beck had certainly helped her with a fair few of those. "You know, if she hears it's your birthday, you may receive your own little LEGO creature," Oona said. "And if you do, I warn you that you'll have to treat it very seriously. Give it a name and a backstory, at the very least."

Oona smiled as a house with a checkmark on the door came into view—marked safe by the initial sweeps. There were no cars in the driveway, and therefore no bumper stickers to indicate a love of hiking or an anti-fracking agenda, but there was a set of monkey bars in the side yard. At the very least, they might find some socks that would fit her daughter. "Want to check this place out?"

They nodded, clearing it first sounded mighty fine by them. As they moved closer to the door they silently did their checks. Jacket had been left with Oona and Lydia as they'd moved with the front group entering the town, so no need to check it was done up to avoid getting caught on anything. Laces on their boots were tied tightly, no openly exposed skin between boots and jeans. Hunting knife tucked into a holster on their belt. The final move was to pull rifle from their back, keeping the short barrel pointed down and their finger off the trigger.

Entering the lobby, there were immediate doors to their left and right. When Beck went right, he posted by the door until they switched roles, and it was his turn to sweep the room on the left. It seemed like a small multipurpose room. A couple of folding tables, a dozen stackable chairs. A wall-mounted whiteboard showed an unfinished, faded game of Hangman. The stick figure was one leg short of death. He itched to fill in those blank spaces, but continued on. Room by room, they went. There was a small kitchen, bathrooms, a storage room, and a gymnasium.

There were no Hallows, not many signs of life that technically couldn't be found at any other abandoned building across the country. But there was this creeping stillness, like a held breath; a half-finished scarf hung from an abandoned pair of knitting needles, a basketball left idle in the corner of the gym's glossy floors, a coffee stain on the laminate top of a desk. He stayed on edge, no matter how many C's he wrote in chalk. He kept an eye out for any more cameras.

Whit exited a narrow storage closet off an art room, filled mainly with dried-up glue sticks and child-safe scissors, and marked the door. "We're clear in here," he reported to Beck, who still stood guard by the exit leading back out into the hall. "Somebody's gonna have one hell of a time with all those pipe cleaners." There was a shit-load of them. One of his nieces always liked to make little creatures with those things—weird-looking starfish and lizards. Whit once had one hanging from his rearview mirror.

They reached out to accept the chalk, using forefinger to hold it against their palm. Easily they accepted instructions as they were given. They were never much of a leader, they far preferred it this way. Being told a plan, being trusted to execute it. " Maximum view, minimum exposure. " They said to confirm they'd heard of slicing the pie. Only they thought it was a strange American saying, not how the tactical move was referred to in general. Someone had taught them on the way down to Alabama, when the wide open spaces of the ranch where they'd learned to shoot were behind them. " Supplies while we go or clear it first? " They asked, adjusting their shoulder under the strap of their weapon. Usually that sort of question would be easy to judge, even with a building this size, if there was chance of being overrun or having to move on quickly, supplies as you go. If the concern was something or someone hiding and waiting on you to drop your guard, then clear it first.

Maximum view, minimum exposure. Whit nodded once, decisively, at the words; a ghost of a pleased smile passed over his face. Maybe there was some hope for the youth, he mused distantly, and then felt a whole fucking lot like his dad. When did he get so goddamn old? "Clear it first," Whit confirmed. "No Hallows up our ass." Threat assessment and safety almost always came before loot, in his books. He nodded for them to step ahead of him as they got closer to the door. "You wanna be my point man, kid?" He tapped at the red cross badge stitched into the strap of his bag with his open palm, a quirk to his brow as he lined up against the wall. "Medics take the rear."

It was true that medics took the back, but he also wanted to observe how Beck operated. Though they were traveling together, Whit hadn't pieced together much information on their personal TTPs yet. Hunters had the patience, stealth, and survival skills, but by and large lacked well-oiled team tactics or rapid-fire response. But they'd all adapted to their situation. He couldn't cook for shit before the world fell apart, for one, but look at him now—he could whip up a pretty kickass squirrel stew. Whit drew his weapon, jutting his chin out to signal them to open the door.

"Yeah no, it's...it's a common misconception." he smiled, hoping those words provided some sort of reassurance. Diego often feared being perceived as odd, or dull, or intimidating. Feared his company might be feeling uncomfortable or, out of place. So when Oona asked him a follow-up question that could well open the floodgates of information, he was very evidently gladdened. It showed, in the way he shifted excitedly in his seat, and the way his smile was less controlled and somewhat uneven. "Okay so uh, colour." now there was a challenge of putting things in a way that did not sound like spewing out a textbook, so he leaned just slightly forward and cleared his throat. "In red wines there are these pigments called the anthocyanins, they're found in grape skin and they give it that original purple-red colour. These pigments as they age, and...well the nature of ageing itself is a contributor, but these pigments they polymerise which uh, forms larger molecules that reflect light differently. The pigments also oxidise, this shifts the colour from purple to...ruby, to garnet and sometimes brick --" he lifts his cup then, a perfect example. "and brown. Brown is a rare find." he reached for the wine cork, placing it upright between his thumb and his index. "Cork, like this one, creates small and controlled oxygen exposure. When done right it leads to this...gradual change in colour and flavour." he let go of the cork then, and with a swift movement of his hand he dismissed the rest of the factors pertaining to phenolic compounds and tannins and changes in white wine. "That's the gist of it really. Storage conditions and grape variety are contributors too but...we don't need to get into all of that."

No communal wine? Oona shook her head, the tip of her finger tapping a couple of times at the base of the wineglass. "We were a pretty staunch bunch of Welch's enthusiasts," she answered with some humor. She'd long ago broken away from that church, even before the Hallow, and not entirely of her own volition, but there were still a few scattered memories that could bring a smile to her face. Sweet, sticky grape juice was one of them, apparently. At his follow-up question, Oona found herself reaching up to pinch at the crucifix that hung past her collarbones. She felt her muscles tense somewhat, uncertain and definitely not looking forward to where this topic would lead.

"I... am, yes," she answered, though the truth of the matter felt more complicated than those three words. "I find a lot of comfort in it, but I totally understand if that is not your thing." He was a scientist, after all. It wouldn't surprise her. A few scientific types have taken it upon themselves to challenge her over the past decade, as well as plenty of people who were simply grief-stricken. "I am not here to judge or cast aspersions. You're a very intelligent young man." And there she went, sounding like her grandmother. Young man. Diego was probably a few years her senior. "But to answer your next question, yes. I would go back if I could. I mean, I hope to. It's definitely where I'd like for Lydia to spend the rest of her childhood."

Mexico, Florida, Stanford—to Oona, that was an exceptionally interesting life. Even in a world-ending situation, her own stayed relatively sheltered until recently. "Fourteen?" she repeated, thinking back to when she was fourteen herself. She just remembered trudging through Great Expectations in her English class and secretly watching New Girl at her friend Hunter's house. She spent time in front of the mirror in her bedroom rolling up the bottom of her t-shirts to see what wearing a crop top would look like after her parents went to bed; she certainly wasn't attending a highly competitive university. "That must've been an intense transition. I can't imagine. I was still such a kid at 14."

"Here's the last of it. What I found at least."

Ian set his haul on an empty space of the counter near Oona. Several cans of non-perishables — green beans, corn, mixed fruit. A container of rolled oats. Few packs of ramen.

He held one in his hands, flipping it around to check the expiration date. To no one's surprise, it was quite some years past the best by date. Not that it's stopped any of them before. As long as it was unopened, it was fair game. He sighed before placing it with the others. Taking a step back, he took in everything they found that was on the counter. It was a pretty sizable haul.

"Recall the last time you had this problem?" A pause, then he pointed to the small hill of supplies. "Too much food," he clarified.

Egg white, she read, and wrote a neat, uppercase E on the front of the yellow package. Most people's guts had hardened tenfold since food scarcity became a universal problem, but she would rather be safe than sorry. "When you plan to feed people in the triple-digits, but then most are green in the face or too scared to even touch the jello, you can end up with a whole lot of pasta salad in your refrigerator."

She reached for one of the cans Ian brought. "I couldn't stand the sight of any of those—" Oona made a small, twirling shape in the air with her marker, "—swirly-pasta shapes for ages." She picked up another can, then placed both of them with the other canned goods to her left. "I should've known it was a good problem to have."

The smudgy, water-stained Food Log notebook lay open in front of her, and she made quick notes and tallies to mark the latest addition to their stash. "How about you?"

They didn't mean to sneak up on him. They could walk softly in a forest, a clean street with even tarmac road had them practically silent by default. Their lips had parted to greet the lone medic, but he beat them to it. A small quirk of their brow came as their initial response, but quickly it relaxed again and they nodded. " Flash and thunder, got it. " They repeated back to him, as they moved in. " Sorry. I'd wear a bell but, y'know, " They added on lightly, finishing sentence with a quick tilt of their head. Looking back to the building they listened for a moment before they looked back to Whit and asked, " Any noise from inside? "

He pointed toward an old security camera at the northeast corner of the building, then shot Beck a dry look. "I'm not too worried someone's watching us," he continued, "but if they've got hot water around here, then selective use of electricity isn't a complete impossibility." Unless their water heaters were older with standing pilots, but that would give them a lifespan of maybe 5 years at most without any sort of intervention and maintenance, and that was really pushing it. They'd have to keep their eye out for generators and solar panels.

"Take this," he said, handing over one of the pieces of chalk. "You're with me." They'd cover ground faster that way, and their company was an additional plus now that he remembered Beck had a half-decent shot. "We'll mark the rooms as we clear 'em." Whit moved to approach the entrance. "You ever heard of 'slicing the pie'?"