your need grows teeth.

i will turn myself into a gun, because i'm hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own.

it’s not unusual to hear a soldier talk the way simon does- but there is still something about it that ophelia finds jarring.  the emotionless way he recalls the fight, the way he criticizes himself for getting hit.  the soldiers she knows, the soldiers she has loved- they were never proud of their kills.  at least, never in her eyes.  her maxym was a fighter, he could hold his own, but he never enjoyed the violence that came with his position.  saw it as necessary sometimes, maybe.  but he wasn’t a product of the qz, not like simon.  “well luckily they didn’t do anything too bad.  with my stitches, this won’t even scar,” she smiles.  she’s always had careful, steady hands, always took great care with her patients no matter how small the wound.

“well good, i’m sure you’re tired.  you can get some rest, give yourself some time to heal,” her gentle tone and tender touch are a sharp contrast from simon’s roughness.  she concludes her disinfecting and moves to pick up her sutures.  she prepares for the stitches, her tools a far cry from the kits her parents once used in the old world.  as she readies her needle, her fingers hovering over the cut, her thoughts are interrupted by the mention of mike once again.  “i agree,” she says, an honest response.  it will perhaps be the only bit of honestly she’ll be able to provide in this conversation.  

her eyes run over the cut on his face, she avoids meeting his gaze directly.  the accusation is slipped in.  her mind had been in such a cloud that day, her adrenaline pumping as she counted on others for survival and then pushed directly into her work, never given a moment to catch her breath.  she’d changed out of the bloody clothes as quickly as she could, but apparently more people saw her than she noticed.  “unfortunately, being covered in blood often comes with the territory of working in medical.  i’m sure you’re no stranger to it either in your line of work,” the nurse says tentatively before carefully pushing the needle into simon’s skin.  she almost laughs, her hands doing their best to focus on the task at hand as she attempts to brush off the comment.  “no, no, even if i tried, i’m not sure i could take on anyone in my current state, let alone an enforcer.”  ophelia swallows as she pulls delicately on the suture.  “that’s what you’re hoping for, right?  i mean, i only assume.  a hardworking soldier like yourself, i’m sure you’re not far from a promotion.”

His mother had been a nurse. He tends to forget that, though he doesn’t blame himself — he’s had more time without her than with her, after all. But he remembers it now, as he ponders the spirit of healers and how he’d never thought his mother possessed it. Maybe she had, once, prior to his existence. It matters little. He tries to let the thoughts go, not one for nostalgia. Point is, Ophelia is different from her — maybe that is why she lived and his mother was ash. Cage hardly seems like the type to break the rules, unlike his fool of a mother. “Reassuring.” The answer is curt, but it’s an answer.

She is so gentle, so saccharine, such a strange fit for this world. Simon supposes it is all act, that there’s little sincerity in the way Cage carries herself except for when she takes out her needle. It cannot be real, something so sickenly sweet — no amount of shelter can preserve a spirit so. A liar, she must be one. “Will do.” Another curt answer, as it’s hardly the conversation he’s interested in. No, it’s the other things he focuses on. There’s a sharp inhale as the needle breaks skin, but he remains still.

“That seems unsafe practice, to walk around covered in blood. Unhygienic, you know. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that blood can carry a number of infections.” No, Ophelia Cage doesn’t seem the type to break rules. But she seems the type to lie. She even seems the type to use sweet words to burrow under his skin, pointing out the thing he wants. Is it so obvious, then? That he thinks himself deserving of promotion? “Surely there’s a protocol that ensures our medics don’t walk around covered in blood. What happened, were you in the midst of surgery when the chaos erupted? Left a bleeding patient behind?” Might as well be, but he doesn’t mind pressing in more obvious ways if she wants to push him. One of his eyes squints as she continues her work, the tiniest wince. “Sloppy, either way. Please take a moment to cleanse yourself of whatever blood I may spill on you today. And ah, I appreciate the vote of confidence.” His jaw is somewhat tense. “If only it carried any weight.”

     “You think it’s someone out for enforcers?” Nele raises a brow at Simon, her gaze dropping to the rock he apparently has a grudge against. Her brows furrow with mild disbelief and she follows up with a scoff, the only proper response to saying one was more tolerable than Mike fucking Giraldi. She keeps walking, rifle held across her chest, browns now focused on their surroundings. There’s always the smell of decay in the air and she notices storm clouds gathering in the sky, the deepest shades of gray far off along the horizon. She can see the streaks of rain, appearing much like misty tornados at this distance. Looking down, she notices rusted barbed wire trapped in the dirt and steps over it, dirt crunching under the soles of her boots. “And we’re always out for one another. We always have been. This shit just allowed people to be more open about it.” 

     She actively listens to her environment, aware of every sound — the rustle of wind through the leaves, the chirp of crickets warning them of oncoming night — and the woods take on a reddish hue as the sun begins its descent. “Should I be concerned it’s you? What with all the theories?” She knows it isn’t. Dear Simon would never bite back against Alexei; it is, in fact, his worst trait. “Or maybe, with so many newcomers, there’s about to be a revolution. Maybe you’ll have to find another ass to kiss.” She presses forward, staying along the predetermined patrol route. There’s small signifiers, such as a splatter of orange paint on a tree trunk, or a bag tied to a bush. When one doesn’t know the path, it’s easy to get lost — though Nele thought if they got that turned around then perhaps they weren’t made for patrol. Perhaps they were better suited to, say… kitchen work. Or the infirmary. And some people just weren’t meant for this life at all. 

     Simon isn’t one of those. At least there’s that. She sighs, realizing she isn’t in the mood to be combative right now. “What’s your take?” Because why the fuck not make conversation? They have at least another hour ahead of them. 

He lifts both his shoulders. “Maybe. Or maybe it was just Mike in particular, though it’s hardly as if there’s a lot of love for those with extra rations these days.” Resentment brews in the face of hunger. It had when FEDRA had ruled and it might again, now. Would Alexei resort to FEDRA’s methods, though, executing people for the theft of food? It is hard not to think of his mother as hunger spreads, how she had succumbed to it and paid the prize in the end, one of the many executed under FEDRA rule. It is also hard not to think that the situation at the mall had been a small mercy. Less mouth to feed, and all. “Ha, maybe. Never led to an enforcer stabbed right in the midst of the base though, did it?” It was unprecedented, in a way, as was the aimed Purged attack. Simon doesn’t mind excitement. He does mind unexpected changes.

There’s a small huff of laughter. “Come on. If I were to execute someone high up, I’d go about it smarter. Plenty of ways to make it look like an accident.” No, this murder smelled of recklessness, which wasn’t a trait Simon possessed. Besides, he’d had little against Mike. Not that he’d had a lot for him either, though. His expression remains amused as he kicks the rock again. “We’ve had our fill of revolution, I think. But if these newcomers want to stir up trouble, let them.” He’ll keep an eye out, even if he can’t say he is particularly worried.

her fingers are fast and nimble. suri’s first traps were small, made of wood and wire, and designed to catch small things. rabbits, mice, squirrels. but as she grew, so did the size of those traps. now they’re big enough for people, living or less so. she’s crouched, frog-like in front of a trip wire, in the middle of tying the wire to a broken down four seater car when simon’s hands stop hers. there’s a flash of excitement in her alert eyes as they dart around. but when she realises a second later that it’s more likely to be people than infected, that excitement fades. i miss home. 

except it’s not either, and her heart rate slows back down to normal. “no way,” she whispers, eyes lighting up with wonder this time around. “never seen a blue one before.” she forgets about the trap, now her world is only the mesmerising blue of the grosbeak’s feathers. “seen yellow ones, uh, what’re they called… evening grosbeak? never a blue one.” she smiles, almost laughing. “aren’t you pretty?” she says sweet and soft up at the bird on the wire. “don’t you wish you had a camera?” she asks, briefly glancing in simon’s direction before her eyes return to the bird. “what i would give to be able to fly, man…”

Not every soldier would respond like this and for that he is grateful. Certainly, there are more important things in the zone than the appearance of a bright bird, but it has been a long week. Month, even. No matter how Simon might pretend to be above it, it still gets to him in ways, too. Besides, what is he supposed to do? Ignore it, not point it out? His hand returns to him, pats his jean pocket until it retrieves a small, busted notebook where he scribbles down sighting along with the date.

“Yes, that’s right,” he says, looking back up to the bird once he’s done writing. The pencil stub and bit of paper return to his pocket, gaze not tearing from the tiny thing. “They’re around here quite often too. Just gotta look well.” And that Simon does: observant nature comes in handy in a multitude of ways. “Hm, sometimes. But I prefer the real deal, anyway.” A static picture couldn’t move, after all, and would only trap the creature in a forever pose. He smiles a little. “It would be fun. To migrate one season and return the other ...” Strange, wasn’t it, how the birds weren’t at all affected by the cordyceps? Life for them must have improved over the years, especially for scavengers. “In a next life, maybe.”

who: @ohsimon​

where: grand teton mall, service hallways

when: early morning, 30th june 2044

The service tunnels at the Grand Teton Mall were ones that Orion was usually pleased to find a quiet respite. They were a face of the mall that many didn’t usually traverse, as plain and difficult to navigate they were compared to the main areas that people usually walked on their day to day. The service tunnels were someplace that Orion often found himself maintaining, making sure the systems that kept water and electricity running were behaving as they ought to. It was a mindless task for him when sleep failed to catch in the stillness of solid ground, when the rigidity of a bed that didn’t sway with waves was too difficult to ignore. He’d woken early, before the sun even, but still yet late enough for Orion to find it difficult to slip back into slumber. 

He’d gotten dressed, put on his worn leather and canvas jacket that had many signs of patching, particularly along sleeves – the errant sparks of a welder’s fire were not kind maintaining pristine clothing – and set out for a walk in the back hallways with his bag of tools, looking for anything that might keep his mind occupied for a while. 

He’d been deep in concentration, focused on mending an old water heater with a stubborn leak he’d found in his meanderings, when the loud bang of a door crashing against a wall startled him. He frowned, sighing heavily. He didn’t particularly mind when the kids liked to run around in the back hallways but he did mind when they threw doors around with little care. It wasn’t like they could just pop over to Home Depot to buy a new one if they tore it off the hinges–nor were there a surplus of supplies to patch drywall if they sent the handle through the wall–cosmetic patches and fixes weren’t exactly high on the priority list for them to waste resources on. They’d had this conversation multiple times, honestly.  

Orion rolled out from underneath the boiler on an old skateboard he repurposed for working in tight spaces like these and let his head lamp drop around his neck as he got to his feet. He poked his head around the corner, fully expecting to take a deep breath to get on with an exasperated scolding, but what he saw was not a gaggle of overly enthusiastic kids messing about. No, he would have really much rather preferred that, because what he saw instead was an entirely disheveled looking Simon Sandhu running for his life in what looked to be pajamas with a runner not far behind him. A runner. Inside the mall where dozens lived. Fucking shit. Orion scrambled for his tools, blindly thrusting his hand for – there. His hands found purchase just as the scramble of footsteps drew ever near. 

“Duck!” He swung the wrench with an oversized handle meant for providing extra leverage for stubborn bolts–but in this case it went beyond it’s intended purpose. Thankfully Simon did indeed duck, because the heavy metal of the wrench bludgeoned into the runner’s head just bare inches behind where Simon had stumbled past. “You okay? Your gun jam or something?” Orion asked, giving the other man a once over. “Also,” he said, not waiting for an answer to his question, turning his gaze towards the downed runner, which, thankfully hadn’t moved from where it had been thrown from the force of the blow a few feet away. “That. Why is that here?” He said, waving the bloodied wrench towards the runner. Which, speaking of, Orion cautiously stepped towards it, shining the light of his head lamp towards it–there was no way he wanted to turn his back towards it without double checking. Yep. Definitely down for the count. But that didn’t mean it was the only one. In fact it probably wasn’t the only one.  “What the fuck is going on?” 

Simon had never had much trouble with sleeping in unconventional or noisy environments — his childhood bed had stood in a room that was simultaneously a bedroom and laundry room, after all, with no daylight to wake him and an endless stirring of noise as clothes and towels were washed across him. To fall asleep was little trouble, but to stay in that state? That had become harder over the years, with ugly surprises coming every so often, peaceful sleep not a given. No, much like the others in the zone, he’s got a tendency towards shooting up in bed at odd noises, sweat gathering on his back.

This morning seems to be one of those, Simon jumping awake at the sound of a crash, noise filling the hallway. He, too, jumps to the conclusion of it being kids — that is until one of the voices roars in a way that seems far from human and his jumpy reaction seems a lot more fitting. So instinct kicks in and that’s how he ends where he is now: in his pyjamas, on socks, his revolver’s magazine empty and the blood of at least one runner sticking to his flannel trousers. A sight to be fucking seen.

The issue is, of course, the empty magazine. His flannel trousers do not carry an extra magazine ( mental note to change this has been made, thank you very much ) and the runners chasing him has little concern for where he pushes Simon. It certainly isn’t to where extra ammo is stored. So he pushes on, flies down a flight of stairs or two, bashes a head into a railing and then sprints more. No time to think about how this happened, as it’s too big a question, nor of the other locations. Just the beating of feet on the floor and his eyes, sharp, looking for something to hold onto.

He intends to shout something at Orion as eyes fall on the the other, but the handiman is quicker. So Simon ducks and hears the crunch of metal against rotten-brain, turning around as he rises to see the runner on the ground. “Out of fucking ammo,” he retorts, agitated at whatever insinutation is there but coolheaded enough to know that now’s not the time to get into it. So he nods his head. “Thanks.” Then shakes his head. “No fucking clue. Woke up, had been sleeping in after my shift ran late yesterday and next thing I know is my across the floor neighbour is chewing up his roommate in our hallway. Someone must’ve brought a bite in without reporting it, thinking themselves special or —” He bristles. “Matters little. What’s going on is that there’s a fair amount of recently infected crawling around, creating more of them. Same old.” He stares down the hallway. “All this noise is sure to attract more. D’you have something for me, Lum? Hammer, whatever?” He’s really not sure what tools an engineer uses, but there must be something heavy he can turn into a weapon.

anso spends most of his meal hour in relative quiet paying attention to his food, and not much else. he’s stalked, prowled, and hunted to his heart’s desire; there’s no more fun in the zone for him outside of the one he makes for himself. he’d clanked his tray down at a relatively empty table, let his rations scatter and splash a bit of a mess right next to a brunette – the only other body at the table. she’d looked at him, deer in headlights, and he’d given her an ugly grin, mouth open as he chewed. she’d scuttled away with not so much as a word of send off, left her glass of water behind which anso had taken to gulping from without much ado. he’d wanted to sit in peace and she’d occupied the least filled table in the room. sure, he could do the big man act, bare his teeth and threaten to bite. but why go through all that trouble on his hours off when his pretty face could do the job alone?

he had finished his food without further preamble, and was making his way to the stairwell. there were no shoulders to shove past, the corridor empty – until it wasn’t. brows furrowed in the way they always sat, a deep set line in between his brows, he neither flinched nor moved back as the stranger stepped in. head jerking at the touch, anso’s hand was fast, fingers wrapping around the offensive wrist tight enough to hurt in the blink of an eye. 

eyes narrowing, his gaze was a thin slit, mouth sitting in a grimace just close to ugly as he assessed the man. anso tilted his head, the movement serpentine, purposeful. now, now – who are you? the beat of the pause pulsed, his gaze flickering down the man’s face as a blunt, subtle grin took to scarring his mouth. the hand gripping the man’s wrist loosened, shoving his hand away with enough force to shake the man’s shoulder, enough to toss him back just a step if he wasn’t standing square. 

“just havin’ a bit of fun because you shitheads won’t.” he said, boulder of his gaze not dropping from where eyes met eyes. in the reflection of it, in the silver of it – is that a mirror that anso saw? too soon to tell, perhaps, but this was more spine than he’d seen in most of the qz combined. anso was intrigued, hunting cat rising from slumber to prowl under the set of his shoulders, in the stance of his legs. “you lookin’ for trouble?” he asks, head tilting the other way, brow cocking. the whip-split molten anger that had threatened to pique at the man’s actions crests into something of a wave now, curiosity lapping before impulse can take over. “heard that i shook off nikky boy and sent – oh, what’s he go by now” anso scoffs, chin jerking. “–gilbert running with his tail between his legs, and wanted to throw your name in the ring? is that it?”

The touch of violence is met with a hint of surprise, though hardly in a bad way. Simon had started it, picking at scabs with his own hand and now meeting consequence. Good, he figures: this zone has enough people without a spine. Bad, he figures: this zone has enough people with too much spine, incapable of hiding their teeth when it’s needed. A balance was needed, of knowing when to bite and when to clench ones jaw. 

Where Sommers fell remained to be seen, but at present it seemed an awful lot like he was more trouble than he was benefit, and they had quite a fair amount of hungry mouths to feed as it stood. And yet Simon finds himself more intrigued at this swift move of violence, the sting of pain shooting up his wrist, the grin that meets him. He raises an eyebrow himself, in challenge, in mild bemusement. It grows into something that mirrors the other when shoved back, though, and as Simon finds his footing again he lets out a huff of air.

“Your idea of fun is being jumped?” It’s a genuine question, though he sounds somewhat mocking when he asks it. Sommers might fit right in, the zone crawling with sadists and masochists alike. Simon wasn’t quite sure where he fell on that spectrum, but could see the appeal in either. There were just better things to occupy oneself with, weren’t there? The taste of your own blood got kind of stale after a while. Spilling that of others tended to just create stains you struggled to get rid of. It was all the same. No, he found himself ambivalent on most days.

And yet, here he stood, against someone so clearly animalistic, so clearly challenging. Sizing him up, tilting his head, looking at him as if he was trying to gauge whether he was fellow predator or merely prey. Simon was doing the same in return. “It seems to me like you’re the one looking for trouble here.” Hands unfold, then fall in his pockets. For now. He won’t mind taking them out, flicking that bruise again or, perhaps better, shoving the other against a pair of steps. “Is that your plan, here? Widen your stance, tilt your chin and see who wants to fight you ... some big bad wolf thing, you’ve got going on.” He lets out a sound of amusement. “Save it for the trespassers, hm? Unless you’re still a Grizzly through and through, where violence is all you know.” Simon tuts. “Sad.”

ophelia has never liked the feeling of receiving supplies from the dead.  she understands the need for soldiers and their brutality in the qz- the outbreak at the mall proved that necessity.  but no matter how dire the demand for medicine was, getting it in her hands only at the expense of another’s life has never gotten easier.  first do no harm.  it’s what she’s always tried to do.  but it seems it’s never quite applied in idaho falls.  nevertheless, it was a practice she has no control over.  at least when most soldiers bring in their hauls, it’s quick and clean.  she never questions how they got their spoils and tries to assume the best.  in this case, however, it doesn’t look like that will be an option.  the soldier, simon she believes is his name, is bloodied and injured.  it’s clear that whoever he took these supplies from put up a fight.

“oh, thank you.  yes, of course,” she reaches forward to grab the sack, quickly putting it by her station to sort through later.  she tries to ignore the blood that’s already stained the handles.  “it looks like it, let’s get you cleaned up,” she gives him a small smile, trying to remember that they’re all just following orders.  simon likely didn’t have any more choice in how he acquired the equipment than she did.  she grabs the supplies she needs and brings them over to the soldier.  she immediately picks up a bit of gauze and replaces his fingers with her own, applying firm pressure to the wound on his forehead to stop the bleeding.  “let me help you with that.  i’m sorry if this hurts.  though, you seem pretty tough,” it’s said with a tender grin.  “no problem, i can clean and stitch it for you, it shouldn’t take too long.” her mind is focused on the task in front of her, but she suddenly feels a pit in her stomach when the man mentions the all too familiar name.  it’s a name that hasn’t left her mind in four days, a name that haunts her dreams and keeps her head constantly looking over her shoulder.  “well,” she responds carefully, every word a calculation, “you must be very capable if you were able to take them on shorthanded.”  ophelia gently removes the gauze and proceeds to get a fresh piece with some alcohol.  “again, sorry, this will sting a bit,” she notes as she begins to clean the cut, hoping the conversation with quickly veer away from the fallen enforcer.  “are you at least off the rest of the day? get to enjoy a little break?”

He drops his hand easily, handing over control to the young medic with little complaint. Simon isn’t a trusting person, per se, but he trusts in the expertise of those assigned with jobs in the infirmary. And besides, they’re supposed to look after their own here, aren’t they? They’re certainly not supposed to stab each other in the midst of acute chaos. But never mind that. He offers a small smile. “Ha, thank you.” Flattery he cares little for, but he’s in no mood to point out her feeble attempts at stroking his ego will do her little good. Who knows, maybe she means it. He knows little of Ophelia Cage, but she’s often considered kind.

He’s a perfect patient, sitting still and placing his hands in his lap after gesturing at the wound she’s looking after. “Capable doesn’t look like that. Should’ve never let one of them get close enough to get a nick in,” he says, and it’s true enough. And while the minor wound was all he’d left the scene with ( along with some possible bruises, but only time would be able to tell ) it is indicative of shortcoming. Perfectionism is a hard to beat trait, especially when it affects all area of life — which, yes, does include using violence in return for precious loot. “But we had a good crew, despite being a bit short.” He hisses a little as she cleans the wound, but doesn’t stir beside it.

“Yeah, my next patrol isn’t ‘till tomorrow morning, so I’ve got a clear evening ahead of me.” He doesn’t really do small talk, as a rule. Not because he doesn’t see the purpose in it, but because he’s just not good at it. Besides, he feels like there’s an attempt her, to switch topics: so he switches back. “Pity though, about Mike. It worries me. The pointed fingers in the wake of it, the whispers ... it’s not good, for the base to be so distrustful of one another.” He tilts his head, just so she can reach the cut a little easier. “And yet so much reason for distrust. To kill your own kind — and then I keep hearing people mention you, coated in fresh blood that morning.” He looks at her. “I don’t need to be worried about you, do I? I’m at your mercy, after all.” Simon leaves it in the air whether it’s a joke or not. Admittedly, he’s not sure himself.

Tensions run high in the QZ, that much is clear even to Simon. There’s a prize up for grabs, one that means not just power but that offers extra rations — and while some might claim not to be intrigued by power ( which in and of itself Simon considered a lie: it was human, nay, animal nature to long for such a thing ) most must be hungering after a few extra bites. For him it’s the fomer that wins out, admittedly, though he doesn’t want to caught in the act of seeming too desperate for it.

He is, a bit. It was disheartening to watch so many receive promotions as his own name was not called, but that isn’t something he is keen on showing either. No, it’s best to keep those cards close to his chest, that desire. Besides, does it matter much? Compare him, a mere soldier, to this enforcer he’s on patrol with — Nele, who came into the fold so violently, who does not enjoy the proximity he gets from Alexei, nor the privileges that come with it. He tries to tell himself as much, anyway: he cannot lose himself in bitterness. He’s above such things.

And yet, the itch to be the one to solve the mystery untimely demise of Mike Giraldi remains. He scratches it as Finn and him move towards the museum lookout, their patrol squad of the day only the two of them. She’s a good enforcer, he’ll give her that. Proper company. Good tattooist. Really, there’s much worse company out there. “Not worried, are you? Now that someone out there seems to have it out for enforcers.” He kicks at a loose rock, wonders why the human brain seems to have that instinct. “There’s no need for it, if you were to ask me — and I’m aware that you’re not, but still. You’re way more tolerable than Mike was.” Another kick against the same rock. Admittedly, it is a concerning thing. Not enough to startle, but enough to furrow a brow over. “Still, it’s a concerning thing, generally speaking. If we start going after our own kind ...” He shakes his head, tuts. “Well, that’s just bad news, isn’t it?” 

He does not come empty-handed. The trespassers that had dared to manage their way past the gates hadn’t either, carrying two backpacks of solid supplies and walking in on sturdy boots. They had come with weapons too, as any wise person were to do these days, and that is in part why he’s here. That and the medical supplies he’s stripped off the trespassers, who now lie somewhere smoldering if Castañeda was doing his job right.

Truth be told, he could take care of this headwound himself. He would prefer to — Simon isn’t awfully fond of the medics getting up in his space. But he’s curious, and not just that: he’s hungry. There’s a manhunt, a prize that he’s aching for, deserving of, even. How humbling it had been, to watch Alexei list nineteen people and never have his lips form his name. There are murmurs among the ranks about the young Cage woman, who Simon has never really thought of twice.

Bleeding heart, maybe. Too many of those around here — but then Mike had made himself into a formidable enemy. A foolish thing, if you ask him. Regardless, he strides in, holding cloth against the headwound that has not yet ceased bleading and an old tote ( a freebie from a record store, he thinks ) filled with an assortment of medical supplies in his free hand. Upon seeing Ophelia he approaches, extending the bag. “Big score today.” One corner of his lips lifts. “I trust you can take care of it?” His now-free hand gestures up. “And take care of this? They were a vicious bunch.”

The place crawls with faces familiar and unfamiliar alike, the food hall a place of congregation that Simon finds agitating on most days. The loudness, the chewing and crudeness with which some take to their portions, eating like animals when this situation does not call for animalistic behaviour. No, best to save such instincts for trespassers and infected, Simon thinks. Still, he sits there day in and out, ears sharp and table shared with fellow soldiers. Today, he doesn’t contribute to their conversation – something about the gear they managed to strap off a couple of travelers – but in stead stares at one of the less-familiar faces.

Defected from the notorious militia. Pissed Orquídeas off enough to get a shiner for it. Built like something that could snap half of this base in half. Called Anso. Simon finds intrigue, maybe. Concern, too. The idea that all it takes to vet someone is interrogation ( with the likes of Nikolai ) does not sit well with him. Does not sit well with Alexei either, he’s sure. Another mouth to feed has to be worth it, doesn’t it?

He abandons his ration, shoving them to his neighbour when he sees the other get up. His stainless steel bottle comes with, though, as he slinks after him. He is intrigued, let’s call it that — intrigued, by the way the other carries himself, by the aggression he supposedly showed when faced with Orquídeas. He’s concerned, though not on his own behalf. He moves, ignores greetings, and follows the other out of the court, into the stairwell. 

It’s of little concern to him, whether the door is quiet as it falls close. Feet thunder down the stairs, onto the landing below, and this is where he meets the other. “You’ve been kicking up a storm, newbie.” Simon’s hand reaches out, finger flicking against the other’s jaw where the skin is red from impact. He wears it well. Simon knows it well, the lasting impact of knuckles on facial bone. “Whatever is your deal?”

“Hold up —” Simon extends long fingers, laying them on Suri’s clever, fastworking hands. His other hand reaches up, pressing a finger against his lips in an attempt to demand silence from someone who, well, usually isn’t. He doesn’t consider that this might be indicative that there’s something out there they need to be quiet for, some kind of danger — trespassers to catch off guard, a stray runner. No, he doesn’t consider it at all. He is dead-serious in his demand for her to halt.

His gaze pulls from her, back to the place he’d been looking before. Electric wire dangles, no longer active, but one one of the still-taut lines there’s a bird. His index finger leaves his lips, points at it. “A blue grosbeak. Don’t see them in town much.” In the more wooded areas, sure, but he doesn’t see them venture out here often. Simon stares at it, doesn’t think much of Suri next to him. Still, his willingness to make her pause the trap she’s fixing is something. It does not mean he is personable or anything of the sort — it just means there’s a common ground he is down to walk on. For Simon, that might count as some sort friendship.