Looks can be deceiving

Don’t plan on it.

I’m sorry I can’t help you.

'Bout a month or so after D-Day, I guess. Before I really started to notice my infection and before my brothers and me were as close as we are. Everyone from the home was dead. Everything was gone. And there were six younger blokes all looking to me to keep them alive. Closed myself off for a few days, didn’t talk to anyone. Couldn’t talk to anyone, really. And then I got my head back on straight.

No, actually, I’m trying to figure out how I can spend more time in my dorm. 

Because God only knew he needed it. It felt like it had been years since he’d gotten a full nights’ sleep, but every time he was in his room with both Roman and J.R it felt like he was being suffocated. If not by one of his roommates than by the other. And so he’d been reduced to slipping out of his room in the middle of the night and dozing off in the Torren common room, or trying to find times to take catnaps during the day.

It wasn’t working for him, though he refused to admit it to himself. Refused to admit that maybe he needed help dealing with his situation. Mouse offered help, he didn’t take it. Certainly didn’t ask for it, even though he would never begrudge anyone else doing so. And so he found himself passed out on top of his blankets in the late afternoon, sleeping more soundly than he had in ages. So soundly, in fact, that he slept right through dinner. Right past the sunset, even, until his dreamless sleep started to shift into something else. 

Agitation creeped under his skin, and suddenly he was back in the home again. Half-buried under rubble, struggling to pull himself out from under the remains of his bed so he could get through the smoke and dust to the boys who were screaming all around him. And then there was a crash --

But it wasn’t another asteroid. It was -- Mouse didn’t know what it was. He sat up, groggy and disoriented and pissed off, and a moment later the reason why became clear. J.R. had returned to their room, and he was -- Mouse didn’t know.] What’re you doing? 

[Two weeks on, one week off. The cycle of his medication has become familiar to him, now.

What is new is the way that he sleeps through the night, sometimes, now without it. And though he is weak enough to feel relief, it scares him, too. Time is passing. The memory is slipping away. Chance is letting it. Chance’s priorities are changing. He isn’t a ghost, isn’t held still in time in the worst moment of his life, unable and unwilling to move past it. 

Chance is a human boy, and he is alive, and he is growing.

He’d thought that he wouldn’t, but he had underestimated his own instincts. Almost against his will, they push him towards survival.

Tonight, though, he wakes. It’s quieter, not the violent, sweat-slick panic of his first months at the Colony. But he knows the feeling, knows that phantom smell of smoke and the all-encompassing feeling of blame. Of failure. 

And once, when he woke in the night, he would sit up in bed until morning. Once, Chance had been too afraid to break the rules, even when his fear made the walls close in on him, the air feel too heavy in his lungs. He had been until he and Quentin had walked the Colony grounds at night, and nothing bad had happened at all, and Chance had learned to be bold.

Unwilling to stay awake and sleepless, looking through the faint light at the sleeping forms of his roommates, he slips from his room, and then from Delma, walking through the dark-quiet halls to clear his head. 

But the quiet is broken by footsteps, and Chance’s boldness evaporates, aware that he’s doing something frowned upon, something wrong.] I didn’t, I’m just — [he winces, he doesn’t have a convenient excuse, and so he gives up trying] What are you doing awake?

[As if Mouse’s living quarters aren’t bad enough -- a constant drain on his energy, a constant weight of negative energy resting on his shoulders -- tonight is worse.

Someone’s having a nightmare, and it isn’t someone in his own room but it’s bad enough that Mouse can feel it. Only he can’t do anything about it. Can’t drop a book on the floor with a loud ‘thunk’ to pull the sleeper from their terror. All he can do is toss and turn in his own bed until it’s too much. Until his head aches and his skin is paling and it’s all he can do to pull himself out of his bed and flee his common room altogether. 

He tries his best to follow the rules, most of the time. The rules he deems worth following, at least, and the curfew is one he understands for the most part. It’s stupid. It’s annoying. But raiders are a threat he’s all too aware of, and if his sticking to this rule lessens the odds that one of the younger boys will wander outside in the middle of the night -- Mouse is willing to do it. Most nights.

Tonight his bare feet pad softly through dark hallways. Seeking solitude, or the familiar feeling of one of his brothers dreaming in their own dorms. What he finds is something else. Daring, boldness, creeping closer and closer -- until it disappears just as quickly. Replaced by defensiveness, nerves, guilt as a familiar face emerges from the shadows.

Mouse answers Chance’s accusation with a crooked grin, a gentle lift of his shoulders.] Dunno. Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t fancy listenin’ t’people snoring any longer. [It’s close enough to the truth, Mouse thinks, and he offers Chance a wider grin.] I won’t tell on you if you don’t tell on me. 

And maybe he should say something about it. Maybe he should try some of those sleeping pills, or try talking to one of the therapists – but that feels an awful lot like admitting defeat, of some sort. Admitting that after everything he’s been through, his stupid infection is the one thing he can’t handle. And it wasn’t even his brothers’ deaths that led him to that conclusion – it was being forced to live with a bunch of sad, angry jerks. Instantly he felt bad for even having that thought; they were all sad, they were all angry, and they had every right to be. It just didn’t seem fair that Mouse had to feel it tenfold, from people he didn’t feel the same obligation or desire to hold up as he did for his lost boys. It wasn’t fair that he’d been crammed in a room with J.R and Roman and things had exploded and he blamed himself for it. 

But ‘fair’ was hard to come by even before the end of the world, so it’s something Mouse has learned to deal with. To deal with on his own, just like he’s used to dealing with everything else. And yet, following another day of nodding off in the back of a class, he finds his feet carrying him toward Boone’s office. Just because, he tells himself, he hasn’t seen the man in a while. And he’s a friendly face, and really it couldn’t hurt to make sure one of the people in charge likes him. And yet, upon nearing the man’s open door, he pauses, hesitates until he realizes he must already be in sight if Boone is indeed in his office. It leaves him with no choice but to take those last couple of steps forward and poke his head inside.] Uh -- hey, Boone. I was just, er -- ...passing by. Thought I’d pop by and say hi, was all. So -- yeah, hi. I can just -- [He gestured awkwardly back out to the hallway.] I don’t wanna bother you or nothin’.

[The men’s toilets are nearer her room. That would be her excuse if anyone were to ask, atleast, in reality she hadn’t thought about. Not that the man/boy she’s cornered seems to really care. Her smile turns to a devilish grin as she immediately recognises her new ‘friend’ from the Awards, delighting in how she’d startled him. 

He’d left drunk (nowhere near drunk enough for her liking) after a pair of his small friends had dragged him away from her grip. Not that she was holding very tight. He was a fleeting entertainment that night – just as he will be now.]

Bonkers. [She repeats the word, playing with the sound of it on her tongue. No tics or idiosyncrasies of the languages she learnt felt like they really belonged to Imogen. She’s a fondness for British-isms.  And this young man is right at home with the language. Words slammed together and letters dropped here and there. She fucking loves it. She also loves how quickly he takes to the surprise. Everything right now is perfect, the best sort of reaction she could expect from wondering into the men’s and shouting at the first person to enter.] Those are very dull terms, y’know. Normal and ‘bonkers’ …

I was going for more of a punk vibe albeit a punk with commitment issues to being ‘punk’. [She lies without a falter at all. As though her thought process had really gone beyond “I have a razor and too much hair.”] My ear’s already getting frostbite. Isn’t your neck costantly cold? Also – she tacks on suddenly before admiring the side of her skull in the mirror again  –  I might look like a cancer victim if I go all the way. That’s a no-go.

[Mouse doesn’t miss the devilish tilt to her grin, the same kind that’s often settled comfortably over his own features. But where Mouse trades in snarky comments and mostly harmless mischief, Imogen feels like she plays for a much different league. Where Mouse is an amateur, she is a professional. A rush of delight at his own surprise, and he’s reminded of the way he’d felt at the party. Like she was a cat, quite literally toying with a Mouse. Nothing more than a trifling distraction to her.

But this time it isn’t Mouse’s dignity at stake; it’s her own. Her own head that she’s shaved a chunk of hair off of for reasons he can’t understand, and she’s laughing the whole thing off. Bonkers, he thinks, just might be a perfectly apt way to describe her, but he keeps it to himself for now. Not because he thinks it would offend her (if anything he thinks it would just amuse her that much more), but because he’s much more interested in seeing what she might do next.

He snorts out a laugh and quirks an eyebrow at her, matching her devilish grin with a crooked one of his own.] Yeah, ya might. [A shrug, a pause as if he’s given the matter some consideration before he adds,] But then -- there’s really only one way t’know that for certain, isn’t there? [He lifts an eyebrow, daring her to do it and half hoping she actually will.]

O’course, if the cold’s too much for ya already then maybe ya shouldn’t. Not everyone can handle a bit of air blowin’ on their ears, no shame in that. 

[She wonders if it is time for her to go, without saying goodbye. There is nothing to keep her in the Colony. She can imagine it, an Elite catching sight of her and looking the other way, and it would be better that way. She’ll step into another world, the real one, and be with a magnificent coven by the sea where they all know why she would need mouse bones.

She wishes she could remember everything, but it’s been so many nights and her memory is waning with the phase of the moon. Minutes are years, there. Splash, splash, there is the sticky residue of magic on her bare toes. Yes, she must save it, but it’s just so beautiful here. The water is a magic water, and it will wash away everyone’s fears and qualities and memories, until you are left with a mermaid creature, and everyone likes mermaids.

That quiet, rasping voice in Chloe’s head whispers that she must make up a rhyme so she will never forget. She wouldn’t like that, but the rest of them would, perhaps. Maybe she hasn’t forgotten yet!

But she doesn’t know about Mouse, it’s been too long for reconnaissance and besides, talk of war is frowned upon here. She hates this.

Were this Neverland she wouldn’t ever leave, but the end of the world, this changes everything. She knows how to ignore the aching feeling in her heart that something is wrong in the Colony, something fantastic missing from this fantasy. Her greatest fear is that one day they will all look back and not remember a thing. Like the sound of laughter– - it bumps blindly into Chloe’s heart, she had almost forgotten it. People don’t laugh with her. She doesn’t laugh ever, and it takes a moment to understand that it’s funny.] You’re a Mouse! I can make medicine with Mouse bones, but you have far more than I’d ever need. Why are you called Mouse? You’re a boy.

[Even before he started to feel the emotions of others creeping under his skin -- forcing him to empathize, literally, whether he wants to or not -- Mouse has always thought himself good at reading people. At figuring out the best way to put them at ease, figuring out when it’s okay to let his mouth run as it may and when he ought to censor himself. 

Girls are weird, though. Might as well be a foreign species, for as much as Mouse knows about them. It’s not that he thinks girls any less competent or capable as blokes -- he knows better than that. It’s just that they are something Other, going through life on an entirely different trajectory than Mouse. 

So he’s surprised (albeit pleasantly so) when she seems to perk up, when she offers him a smile and he realizes suddenly that she’s actually sort of pretty. Maybe even very pretty, except he still thinks its sort of weird that she’s carrying bones around with her. 

To...make medicine, but he’s spared giving that too much thought by the question she asks. Mouse smiles easily along with her, pleased with the lightening of the mood, and he doesn’t feel the need to filter the cheeky response that leaves his lips almost by instinct.] 

It’s ‘cause I’m so quiet, ya see. [They’ve only just met, but Mouse likes to think he makes such an impression that no one could be left thinking that’s the truth. Even after such a brief interaction. Nevertheless, he flashes her a grin and shakes his head just in case.] Nah, I’ve just always been real small, is all. Been called Mouse for as long as I can remember. [He shrugs.] Anyhow, I’m all for medicine but I think I’m pretty happy with where my bones are right now so hopefully the ones you’ve got are enough for ya. 

[Nat’s speaking before she actually knows who she’s speaking to, though when she pauses enough to hear his answer and really catch a look at his face—she recognizes the lad instantly. Natalie remembers him from a hazy time of the past. A ukulele was involved somehow, though her memory fogs up just enough to make it unclear as to how the beautiful instrument wove their interaction together.]

[Her words are a river, they flow and they flow, flooding with her emotions and only coming to a simmering stop when he’s considering them as she wracks her brain for a certainly important piece of information—his name. Natalie prides herself in being a good conversationalist. Ok, perhaps good was a reach, but a somewhat genuine conversationalist. She can’t recall the last time she went into a conversation with anything but pure intent and interest, and this encounter here was threaded from the very same material.

So it is imperative to Nat that she remember the lads name, no matter how hazy the alcohol has made her mind. Her brows furrow as she taps her foot, leaning back as if it would help her size up his face better. Her ears take in his words though she doesn’t comprehend them, too lost in making sure she can dignify his presence with a name. The right name. Nat springs from letter to letter, settling on M because it sits right in the gut. It’s M for sure, and the following flurry of names are an abundance. Wrong, but an abundance nevertheless.]

[Matt. Matthew. Madison. Murdock. M…Mack. Mi—Michael. Miles. Moses? …Mouse. Mouse. Her mouth opens in the shape of several vowels before her eyes squint in the precious moments before a confirmation. The affirmation envelops her like a warm hug, as a grin breaks her face, her eyes bright. It’s hardly a thing to be proud of, but Nat’s just a little happier, a little easier to please at the moment.] Mouse! Hiya bud, I knew it was you. [And she tilts her head in a funnily scoffing assurance. He mustn’t know that it had slipped her memory. It was the alcohol, but there was no room for excuses in this serious business.]

Glow-worms? We have those here? [Eyes widen just a tad as she cocks a brow. A memory of camping in a place far, far away shines dimly in some backlit corner of a hazy mind but she pushes it away without much thought. Her mind’s too busy trying to decide on what to do this fine evening. Though his question stops her, even in her drunken stupor—what does she want to do? Well. Nat didn’t think about that. Nat’s never thought about that much at all.] Me? [She repeats, her brows rising once again just to insure she’s heard the question right. And she can’t help but furrow her brows, trying to pull an honest answer. What did she want to do? What did she want?]

[But all she can come up with is a scary blank and it sends an uncharacteristic chill down her spine because the question rings and pulls on something bigger than just evening plans for her. And no, Natalie doesn’t think it goes so well with the warm fuzz of the alcohol that’s wrapped itself warm and tight around her. It’s been a while she’s had the comfort of any embrace, so she ditches the thought quick and settles for an answer that only seems appropriate for every fantastic suggestion he makes.] Everything, mate. Let’s do it all.

[Her brows knit together and she’s looking at him with a concentration that doesn’t quite fit with her cheery mood, with the endless stream of chatter that came from her lips only seconds before. Mouse tips his head at her, more curious than uncomfortable under her gaze. There’s nothing judgmental in it, and if there is it’s not being directed toward him. It’s more like curiosity, like she’s grasping for something in the way her lips move soundlessly. The way she squints carefully at him and then there’s a rush of pride he doesn’t understand.

Until she speaks, and suddenly it makes sense. Mouse lets out a loud, easy laugh and nods enthusiastically, choosing to humor her tonight rather than give her a hard time about it. She seems so pleased with herself, and he doesn’t want to be the one to bring down her good mood -- especially not when it boosts his own spirits along with it.] Yep, that’s me. And you’re Bob, right?

[He can’t resist the teasing question, but given her current state he feels the need to give her a wink and tack on quickly,] Only jokin’, I know you’re Alfred. [Okay, he can’t resist that one either, but there’s a flash of amusement in his eyes that gives him away.] Think I’m gonna call ya Nat, though, seems like it suits ya better.

[And hopefully she’s not so drunk she thinks he’s serious, but even so she seems easygoing enough that it won’t matter. So his grin widens at her question, excitement building up inside him that he can’t distinguish as his or hers.] Dunno, maybe? Worth a look, innit? [Now he thinks about it he isn’t sure if there are glow-worms around, but there’d been some around the farmhouse and he’s sure they can find plenty else to do. 

Though Nat's mood takes an unexpected turn when Mouse turns the questions around on him. It’s something he can relate to, in a way. Putting the needs of others before his own, always, rarely stopping to think about what he wants or needs. But he’s also well-practiced at having fun, at knowing what sorts of things will lead to a good time, so he’s happy to take the lead here.]