DEAD LIKE THE SEA

a cecilia from 2014 would’ve left by now, a quick dismissal of a drunkard in a bar. she’ll freely admit that pre-everything, she’d always felt superiority to those who found themselves drinking in dire situations. it wasn’t surprising that she’d become one of those people; she’d always been a hypocrite. at the compliment, she doesn’t b r i s t l e like she used to, or act surprised. he’s drunk, she isn’t unattractive, and everyone is dreadfully unhappy. “ you’ve never met someone ENGLISH before? ” she asks, sounding slightly amused. 

trust is rare in a constant game of survival, and cecilia’s never been particularly trusting anyway. she watches the man- SID. she isn’t sure whether to trust him. she doubts she will. “ it’s good to meet you too, sid. ” she almost goes to shake his hand, stopping herself before she can. her blood FREEZES for a second, shaking her head involuntarily. “ no, you can’t. ” the name sinks into her veins, tangles them together, her fists clenched and knuckles white. she can feel her own tension, but it might very well be coupled with his own, and so she offers, “ you could call me celia, if you’re going to insist on a nickname. ”

   ❝ what makes you say that? ‘ve met plen’y of english folks. ❞ approximately five. he prides himself on being connoisseur of bbc, though. ❝ but like’a said ... not a lot ‘round here. i ain’t met ‘em at least. ❞ --- insist? sidney hall insists on nothing. his life is lived as passively as the world allows, the responsibility of decisions is too much for him. the most important choices he makes in his life are WHISKEY or VODKA. ❝ sure, ❞ a shrug as he lifts his glass. ❝ celia’s nice, i guess. ❞ a little too close for comfort, but it’s better than the full effect ... ❝ i’d ask what brought you to town but, uh, i s’spect it’s those monsters outside, righ’? ❞

     the bar wasn’t empty, per say. there were people dotted around, but it wasn’t full. quite typical for a bar during broad daylight. she smiled slightly as the bartender gave her her drink, choosing to stare into the glass rather than drink it. hearing a voice, she looked up in surprise. “yes, i am. is it that o b v i o u s ? ”

it’s obvious, just from the smell, that this man has had far, far too much to drink. she can’t blame him, though. everybody has their vices now, it’s the only way to get through it. she smokes now, when she can get her hands on a packet of cigarettes. she hadn’t smoked until 2014. “cecilia owen.” her accent, despite having lived in the states for three years, is as crisp as when she taught. her sister had always said it was because cecilia was trying to hold onto some sort of normalcy. she was probably right. 

   he finds it intriguing --- her accent, not her. he’s found very few women to be truly interesting in his experience ... but he won’t say that aloud. not while he’s still interested in what she has to say ( more so h o w she says it ) instead he lifts his glass to take a long swig of whiskey, the familiar burning making it’s path down known. ❝ well, i think i would’ve noticed someone so pretty before. and well ... ya’ don’t really sound all too local. ❞

all listed reasons aside, he’s more observant than most give him credit for ; it comes with his job title at v.a. medical. he can’t exactly let just any stranger in -- or, he could, but he’s not fond of being entirely alone. ❝ nice ta’ meet’ch’ya cecil - ... ❞ the name comes back as memory ( which is to say he FORGOT ) and he swallows back the saliva that’s accumulated in his cheeks. another thought for another time.  ❝ ‘m sid. ❞ a half smile, followed by a shrug. ❝ can i call ya’ cece? ❞

it had been a tough week. all weeks were tough weeks, she supposed, looking at the watch on her wrist that had stopped working months ago. clock shops weren’t particularly a necessity when you were facing the end of the world. no-one had any meetings to be late for, or buses that they needed to catch. it was strange, really. living in a world where TIME was of such little importance, when a mere second could be the difference between you becoming a member of the undead, and managing to escape. pondering on things like that had been a common occurrence for the past four days. now that she was on her own. no mum, no dad. no zelena. it was cecilia, her gun, and the question of the meaning of life. she wasn’t completely sure that there was one. as she wandered through the town, she caught sight of a sign. oh, thank god. a bar. NUBA. she could remember something about a chinese deity, but the details were gone. she craved the days where that information would be in a book on her bookshelf in her old classroom. god, she bloody missed home. 

she sat down at the bar, smiling at the person tending, albeit a sad smile. “i’ll just- have whatever’s good.”

     an alcoholic at a bar --- how original. some things didn’t change with the beginning of the end of the world ; sidney hall, for example, remained as pathetic and sad as always. which is why it wasn’t uncommon to find him h i d i n g in plain sight. not just from the walkers, oh no, but from his duties as patrol, or more recently, the debts he owed. instead, he could be found drinking away what was left of his sanity and moral compass. 

     he doesn’t notice the footsteps approaching at first, or at least, he doesn’t care. it’s not until the figure, just a shadow in his periphery, sits next to him does he decide to sneak a look. ❝ you must be new, ❞ his words aren’t quite slurred. slowed, perhaps. but he’s quick to acknowledge pretty girls. and this one was clearly unaware of his reputation. all the better.  ❝ names sid ... ❞ he bows his head as if tipping a hat. ❝ and you are ... ? ❞

It had been months. Fucking months, the redhead thought to herself as the heels of combat boots too large for the young woman scraped along the street. There was something different about the redhead. It wasn’t the slightly gaunt cheeks or the dark circles under her eyes, those had always been there. It wasn’t even the fact that she looked half goddamned wild as her hand gripped the knapsack slung over one shoulder. It was something about her posture, her demeanor.

Her gaze was sharp and expression harsh as she scanned the familiar streets of Cheyenne, moving forward again. A calm, almost collected way about how she took step after step. As if she were stone cold fucking sober. Something caught her attention, chin jerking toward the sound as the redhead bristled, lifting a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “Guess this isn’t a ghost-town now after all.. ” Her voice was low, just as dry as it always had been. “Unless you want to eat a bullet you should probably let me know whether or not you’re alive.” Cassidy called out toward whoever had made the sound, taking a step toward them.

     sidney hall is not stealthy. it has nothing to do with his lack of sobriety -- even as a child, his sisters wouldn’t let him play SPIES with them. too clumsy, too loud. and in the midst of an apocalypse, his skills were hardly improved. it really was a wonder how he had ended up surviving this long. it was only a matter of time before he undoubtedly drew in a horde towards himself. so it’s no surprise to him that he’s tripped over the only trash can in the alleyway, one that could have easily been a v o i d e d. ❝ uh ... hey, ❞ his arms raise instinctively as he peaks his head out.  ❝ ‘m not dead yet. so, can ya’ like ... put that thing down, feisty.❞