#mp&c

Wilson felt moisture on his cheek. Bringing a hand up to his face he discovered he was actually crying. With a sigh he wiped his face. Being with other people really had made him more attached to them. He used to live in solitude, away from the drama of social life he hated so much. Then he was forced into this survival situation and was even thankful for when he ran into Maxwell, the man who had brought him here in the damn first place. Then they tried to build a portal, just like before the Constant. Now they were a group of almost a dozen strong, with all manner of expertise. A group where they took care of each other and as much as he hated to admit he was attached to all of them, some more than others, but he didn’t wish to see anyone deceased for good.

A tap on the shoulder brought Wilson out of his musings with a startled shout, the man turned on his heels and clutched the weapon in his hand tightly. Standing behind him was a taller man with a pale face and red cheeks, a warm smile on his face. “Wes! You can’t sneak up on me like that!” Wes’s smile turned from a friendly one to an apologetic one but it soon turned to a frown as the other man extended a hand out to touch Wilson’s face. Recoiling from the touch Wilson wiped away the stray tears on his cheeks. “I’m fine. I just got lost in thought. I found something that… concerned me…” Wes moved his hands in a fashion that translated to language. Wes was a mute, he couldn’t even scream when hurt. Ms. Wickerbottom knew sign language and Wilson did once but forgot it after not using it for many years so he was rusty when they first attempted communication. But together they taught the whole camp how to communicate with the mime; all but Maxwell, but that was a separate issue all together.

‘What did you find?’

“I think it belongs to a little boy…” Wilson held the skull out to the Frenchman, the gross spider appendages still seemingly fused to the skull. Wilson felt tugging in his chest as the other man’s face became solemn while examining the object.

‘Wendy?’

“Oh no I saw Wendy going south yesterday, there’s no reason-” Wes held a hand out to silence him and shook his head.

‘Ghost.’ How he hated that word. Every death came what most survivors called a ghost, some sort of residual life-force that could be ripped from the human body and harnessed to bring said person back to life. Ghosts were nonsense, insulting to Wilson’s very nature as a scientist, there was obviously a better explanation for what they were, he just… had to find out what that explanation was.

A man called Wolfgang was the first to die, surprising as he was their strongest member, not so surprising when you considered the fact he needed large amounts of food to maintain said strength. Wes and Wolfgang were the two who consumed the most, any survivor dreaded when the pair came to their camp after an expedition as there was likely to be no food left when they had their fill.

Everyone was distraught, Wilson didn’t have the means to revive him. No meat, no hair, no Prestihatitator. It seemed that, that was it for Wolfgang. Wendy, a young girl, didn’t seem fazed by the death. Wilson assumed it was because she was desensitised to death, her own twin sister was dead after all. Wendy’s sister Abigail was one of these so-called ghosts, only Wendy could understand the words she spoke and was also the only one Abigail followed. However, Wendy commented she didn’t understand why everyone was so upset, that Wolfgang was still here and that he said he “was scared of being floaty”. There was a moment of silence before she rolled her eyes and took something out of her pocket, a writhing mass of flesh and rope. She said it hadn’t worked for Abigail but maybe it would for Wolfgang, she urged for an empty space to take it before lights blinded them and the strongman was standing before them again. It was a miracle, a miracle of science. It seemed Wendy could see the life-forces of the fallen, whereas the others could not. Perhaps this young boy was wandering as a lost spirit, spirit being said as it sounded a little more professional than ghost.

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 Once the grave was dug Wes arrived at the graveyard. Wilson really didn’t understand why the two of them wanted to accompany him, he was just going to bury it and leave. He didn’t know the kid, what was he supposed to say? All he could do was give them the respect they deserved. Placing the skull into the grave he sighed. “Sorry kid. I hope you didn’t suffer.” Wilson looked back to his two friends, both giving a warm smile back.

“At least they don’t have to deal with this crap eh Wil?”

“I suppose.” Wilson looked down to the grave and begun to return the soil to its original location. Willow took a few steps forward and helped Wilson shovel the dirt. Once the task was done Wes placed a handful of flowers on top of the grave. Willow placed her hand on his shoulder in a gesture of comfort.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it Wilson. What could you have done? No one knew about them, it can’t be helped.” Nodding, Wilson put his hand on top of hers. He just couldn’t get over how young the boy must have been, almost as old as… He shook his head. “You gonna be alright egghead?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine. It’s… just a shame you know?” Wilson could hear Willow sigh and pull away from him, on the inside he wish she hadn’t moved, old memories were trying to resurface and he could use any distraction right now.

“Yeah… Let’s get back to camp, it looks like it’s gonna rain.”

“Right behind you.” As Willow begun to walk away Wilson found himself unable to stop staring at the grave until Wes waved a hand right in front of his face, flinching he gave the mime a scowl.

‘Not okay. What is wrong?’

“Nothing is wrong!”

‘Lie’

“I’m not lying! Let lightning strike me if I am!” The sky tore open and a blinding bolt of lightning stuck the ground, a roar of thunder grabbing the attention of all in earshot. Silence hung in the air like a thick fog, clearing only when Wes turned to Wilson, an eyebrow raised and arms crossed. “For the record, I said it had to strike me.” To be fair it had stuck the headstone of the fresh grave, not Wilson. The mine took out a stick and threatened to hit the scientist with it, Wilson held his hands up in defence. “You and Willow are both bullies! I’m a grown man! I refuse to allow myself to be pushed around like a child!” A sound stopped the taller man’s assault, a scratching sound, like a moleworm but bigger. The two men looked at each other and then back to the grave.

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