#nonisola

It had been several weeks since War had agreed to joined this gaggle of...mortals. They were mostly upstanding in their own rights; just trying to solve their collective 'tadpole' issue. Meanwhile, he was attempting to track down Raphael. Who had proved to be more elusive than he previously thought.

When Tav had explained that they'd recently ran into a devil calling himself as such, the horseman took it upon himself to accompany them for the time being. He claimed that he would only stay with the group until his mission was complete, and he was almost certain that Raphael would approach the group again given the context of the situation.

At the moment, the horseman was sitting away from the group in camp. Working on polishing his sword with a large rustic looking whetstone, he was always content to be left in the quiet. However, Scratch the dog seemed to have won his favor already, as he was laying down beside the large man.

He knows how pathetic he sounds, how hypocritical it is of him to beg for mercy when it's his fault she's trapped in the darkness in the first place. But he can't help it; he's terrified, stumbling over roots and grasping hands as he tries in vain to outrun the night itself.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! What kind of idiot wastes their torch during dusk?

The dead kind.

He had been nervous, that's all. Winter's just around the corner and he had been doing one last resource rush before the warmth of Autumn fled for good. So many puppets up at once had sent his head spinning and shadows crawling in the corners of his vision and he hadn't been able to take the dim light of the setting sun. The puppets are gone now, abandoned along with their resources (what a god damned waste), leaving Maxwell with no light, no means to make another, and just enough clarity of mind for regret.

It's over. Charlie won't be gentle (she never is), and Max will be lucky if the others ever find his corpse in the upcoming snowstorms, much less bother to bring him back to life.

No. No, he refuses to die like this. This is still his world, and he must have something up his sleeve--

In the momentary glow of a firefly cluster, Maxwell holds the Codex aloft, murmurs to himself, and summons her.

@ensnchekov ; "It is never a good sign when your voice starts doing that, Doctor." (hello hello! i offer one little genius shit for mccoy haha, here to either make his day worse or better depending)

"THAT'S JUST HOW MY VOICE SOUNDS." But the scowl upon his face and the fervor with which he slams the cabinet door shut tells another story entirely— there's the tray of hyposprays he was looking for. Christ, this is why he takes his lunches in his office, you leave sickbay for all of ten minutes and someone inevitably gets it in their head to try and re-organize the place. When he gets their hands on them—

"Just do me a favor and hold still, would you?" It's less of a request and more of a demand, no matter how he phrases it. "I've got at least a hundred more of these," a jerk of his chin towards the tray of vaccines, brow furrowed deeply, "to distribute, I don't have time for any additional nonsense today."

My Melody was selling her fruit tarts across from the Zomburger Truck. ....Did this mean...competition?!?! ..Well there were still no customers around so perhaps not.

The young girl was just adjusting the decorations on her little table to pass the time, but occasionally she would look up and wave at her competition from across the way.

" -- what was that? "

" OUR FUTURE. "

“Thanks for joining me dude.” They were both walking down a gravel road, trees and brush lined it on either side. It was also quite foggy, making it difficult to see ahead. “I promise this isn’t as sketchy as it seems.” He started to walk backwards for a moment so he could get a better view of Zora’s face. 

“My brother and I come down this way all the time but, uh yeah. Together usually.” He turned back around, continuing to walk. “Isolation is great when you wanna hang out in peace, smoke a little weed or whatever, but it isn’t smart to go without at least one other person down here.”

The silence that falls is almost suffocating. He feels his metaphorical hackles raise, and even the burn of smoke from his cigarette can't chase away the frustration, the regret, the guilt, the self-loathing. All these things piling up, and up, so much so that it doesn't matter if he loves someone. Because he doesn't deserve to love someone or be loved in return.

But he does love someone.

It makes him feel equal parts comfort and dread. It's something he thinks he's going to take with him to the grave and beyond, because he doesn't know how to say those words, doesn't know the right way, doesn't know if it's worth it. It's the last little gap between them. A man who makes him want to be better. A man who wholeheartedly believes he can be better.

Even though they butt heads like stubborn old goats all the time.

He can't bring himself to take the first step to bridge that gap.

There are so many memories of falling asleep together in cramped motel rooms when money was short; of drunken nights, those big blue cow eyes half-lidded and drowsy, gangly arms looped around Wolfwood's shoulders to try to pull him into one last clumsy do-si-do in the middle of the saloon like he doesn't look ready to fall asleep on his feet at any moment. That stupid blonde-haired bastard always rushing to someone's aid, even if he's chased away by blazing guns moments later. And Wolfwood always goes with him. Wherever the man goes, Wolfwood follows. Not even because it's something he was tasked with at this point. It's because he wants to.

He wants him to be safe.

Wolfwood thinks, for the first time, maybe he's capable of changing.

Because he...

"If I did love someone, it don't matter. I got shit to do."

Dodging the question. That's already enough of an admission.

Do you miss someone?

So many different soft, young faces, all looking at him with wide, adoring eyes. Little voices calling him big brother and small hands grabbing his own. They wouldn't recognize him if they saw him now. It's for the best they don't see what he's become, that they never have to see the blood on his hands.

Home is so far away.

If they knew, would he have ever been allowed to leave in the first place?