#theremainingstarter

Lance hummed, trying to keep his voice low and stay out of the whole situation but he just couldn’t help himself. Speaking out against the person who was acting rather cocky at the moment was just half of it, he may just become the person to give them problems. Being of a humble and rough upbringing the Irishman never did like arrogant people who flaunted what they owned or had accomplished. Sure there were times when such things were acceptable but in the middle of the apocalypse and at the end of the world, well, perhaps such boastings were not the best at the moment. Especially since they didn’t mean a god damn thing any more.

                       “S’not like anyone really cares mate–”

Bringing his last cigarette to his lips Lance tried to silence himself with filling his lungs with smoke in order to push away the words that so they wouldn’t burn his tongue so much. Really, he needed to learn to mind his own business in moments like these. If there was one thing that had never worn off or had been unlearned by the Irishman it was to leave well enough alone, some how, some way Lance was always getting into some kind of trouble. This moment was no different as his gaze flicked over to the person who had been doing the talking and a smirk tugged at his lips.

But she had to walk with them, test them out like a newborn foal, trying to get her bearings and recover. She remembered waking up, warm and covered in blankets, someone tending to her head with a damp cloth, perhaps for fear of fever or long-term unconsciousness. She remembered blinking slow, up at their face, not recognizing them at all and jolting as only a person who’s just been pulled from a deep sleep can jolt: barely, and suddenly, and she had cried out in pain. Her scar had been irritated, every muscle sore, every bit as familiar to Liadan as a perfect stranger.

So she walked through the main floor, watching, taking it in - the bodies, the sounds, the faces. Dozens, gathered in safety and survival. For how long? She’d lost count of days, hardly able to track the seasons until she felt the ocean breeze push winter onto her skin by the coast. New York was cold in the winter, nearly as cold as Jardine. She pulled her coat tighter around her body, not because she was so much affected by the temperature anymore, but because she wanted to drown in its folds and fabric. It still smelled like home.

Liadan Bailey’s knees wobbled and her shoulders trembled. She was fatigued and hungry and afraid. She didn’t know who to ask for a bite to eat and a place to lie down.

“You think this thing’s sturdy enough to climb?” He speaks up as footsteps approach. Throwing a look over his shoulder to see who it is, he slowly looks back to the long necked skeleton,“I just decided I’ve always wanted to ride a dinosaur.”

Pulling the strap of her bag onto her shoulder Cristine was about to close the trunk when she saw it, the red and blue checker board backpack with yellow straps. Her breath caught in her throat and it was taking everything in her to not burst into tears right then and there. Gingerly she reached out and took the bag in her hands and pulled it closer, a lump rising in her throat as her chest began to ache. It was far too soon and she should have gotten rid of this thing before now. The only thing it would accomplish was making her grief even more difficult to get rid of, or rather, harder to ignore. Cristine had to admit that every night she woke up calling his name to be sure he was alright only to find that he wasn’t there, reliving the horror of losing him all over again. Just holding his bag now was like reliving that horrible day when the bandits took her son from her, as if the world wasn’t already a shit hole, they had to make it worse for her. Even though the world was shit and Cristine had lost her parents and the life she knew before, at least she had her son. But now all of that was gone and although she believed her siblings to be alive she knew that Charles, her son, was not. She’d been there when they had ripped the life from the child and it was the day her world actually ended.

Sniffling softly Cristine regained her composure, shooting a glance over her shoulder before she tucked the bag gently under her arm, as if doing anything to it would be a sin. Clearing her throat she slammed shut the trunk door and shook her head, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve before she realized someone else was there and her defenses went up automatically. “Can I help you with something?” She half demanded, her tone a little more bristled than she wanted but Cris hoped it did the job done of warding the person off.

Of course that was the understatement of the century, no one ever planned to be in these kind of situations-- one’s where the world was shit and there was very little that could be done about it. The Irishman was very familiar to this sort of thing, mostly from his early childhood and teen years, but also from living on his own after the fact. Tragedy was not unknown to him, it wasn’t unfamiliar and Lance had actually come to accept it as another blow like he did when he was fighting, it rolled off him like water off a ducks back. Sad to think that he had come to be that way, cold, almost, to the way things were-- the world had ended and Lance could have acted as if nothing at all had happened. But perhaps that was because he didn’t have anyone to protect, to care about, to watch die and mourn over; he wasn’t broken from the way things had changed, the way the world had been destroyed. That was because he had been broken so many years ago-- when his sister died.

But for now, he’d make conversation perhaps, like the world hadn’t gone to shit, like he was pretending things weren’t horrible outside these walls. That was what he was good at, pretending like shit wasn’t actually going on then fighting his way out of whatever problem he got himself into. Lance swayed, grin pressing his lips into a rather obnoxious expression before he pointed and nodded then continued with a big sigh. 

            “O’course, I always did wanna see t’is place. Not as great              as I t’ought it would be-- still, I can cross it off m’bucket list.”

That was until he’d woken up in a new place, hearing voices coming from every angle, and knew that he hadn’t been lucky enough to end up somewhere better than hell. Hunter tried to peer around from his spot, wondering if he’d ever find a face to go with the voices circulating around him, but every time he tried to move, his body screamed out in protest and sent black into his vision that left him out of breath and barely conscious.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, knowing that if Tate were there, she’d probably have a laugh, kick his ass, and tell him to pick it up again, gun shot wound or not. 

Knowing that, Hunter made another attempt to move and this time managed to make it upright into a seated position before he was gasping for air and leaning heavily against the side of the wall beside his spot. If anything, he’d find his way out and back to her again, rather than find himself at the end of another barrel when he heard someone approach. “If you’re here to finish the job, all you’re going to have to do is wait another few minutes and I’ll do it all on my own,” he managed to get out before he was picking up his head again to look up.