singillatim | bad luck, old sport

Sometimes there is too much sleep, other times there is too little. The last month has been exhausting and there's some days she can't even get up from her cot in the Community Hall. The thoughts she hears of others, sometimes the most terrible of things, and even her own broadcast for everyone to hear. The low spirits of so many people around her. It's been far worse since La'an died, even if Kate didn't even know the woman personally. Edward Little doesn't even come to see her these days, it's been about a week now, and wouldn't even open the door to her.

It's no surprise when sleep won't come.

It's too late for her to be out, but Kate figures if there's some place she might find solace — Milton church would be it. She's bundled up against the cold, a storm lantern in hand — lifting it up to pick out as much as she can. Churchyards are spooky in the dark... and spookier still as it picks out the form of a person among the graves. And it's someone she recognises, after a few beats.

"... Mr Crozier?" she's... not sure what to call him. Lieutenant Little still calls him Captain, but well— she's not heard anyone else. 'Mr Crozier' seems best. She steps through the snow carefully, mindful of the graves.

"You couldn't sleep?"

Crozier's been nodding off here and there, but wakes when he hears the crunching of ice and snow underfoot. Kate emerges from the darkness with her lantern like some sort of beacon, a little angelic in her delicate-looking appearance underneath her winter clothes.

"No," he calls back to her. He coughs quietly into his hand. "No, I couldn't sleep. Neither could you, I take it."

Kate's mouth is a thin line, she shakes her head.

"Not really, no." she says quietly. "I guess this last month, there's a lot of reasons to sleep too much, and to not sleep at all. Not sleeping at all won, this time."

She stops short of him, crouching down to sit and placing her lantern on the ground. She looks about them. Yeah, it's... kinda spooky, even if the quiet is nice.

"Why... sit out here?"

What some find frightening others might find...refreshing. Comforting even. His eyes glance around the graveyard, all the silence of the dead, and thinks about how best to answer her without sounding like a damn maniac.

"A fear that the dead won't be able to rest."

It's not an answer she's expecting, and it shows: visible confusion, uncertainty. Her head shakes a little.

She wonders briefly if means something might happen with the dead, like in one of those movies that Warren likes. Zombies and stuff. He'd mentioned some of them in class before to Max. Kate wasn't too interested. Is that what he means...?

"I don't understand. You think something might happen?" her head shakes again. "I mean, I know there's been ghosts and stuff happening but... the dead stay dead."

Bless her innocent soul.

"I don't believe that the dead will rise," he tells her gently. He doesn't want to hurt her with his fears, rational or irrational. "I said that they won't rest where we've buried them."

At first, she doesn't understand. Her world is so small. She wouldn't think of it so quickly. Not the dead rising, no. But the penny does finally drop, and her mouth twists — as if tasting something unpleasant.

"You mean like... graverobbing." That's the only conclusion she can come to. It's as far as her mind can comprehend. Once she read how people once stole bodies from graves for science, in school. But... something like that wouldn't happen here, it wouldn't need to. Her expression falls and she quickly shakes her head.

"People here wouldn't do that." It's quiet, desperately insistent. "They— they wouldn't do something like that."

Not in a decent society, and she knows they're all stuck here but they're... they're a community, aren't they? No one would be so awful to do something like that. She shakes her head again, her gaze dropping to her knees, and then stops — some silent and horrible realisation dawning. Maybe one person she knows.

Her lips don't move, but she thinks it, her new ability letting him hear it too: 'He would.'

He doesn't realize that she doesn't say it with her mouth, and responds as though it was a normal part of their conversation.

Because he would. He's threatened as much. If things get as bad as they'd did on the expedition then Hickey would do whatever it takes to survive, and that includes defiling the dead -- maybe worse.

"Hickey. You must be talking about Hickey."

Oh, shoot. Kate looks up, startled. She's not used to this thing yet. It's like others hear more of her thoughts than she does, these days. But she winces at the name, yes him.

"Mr Goodsir's told me about him." she says after a long pause. "And Lieutenant Little told me I have to tell him if he ever tries to talk to me again."

Which she promised to. Fortunately Mr Hickey's stayed away from her and she's stayed away from him. It's worked out pretty great so far. He's mean and kind of scary, she doesn't want anything to do with him — even if they're all stuck in this place together.

"He's been called a Devil." from the Lieutenant. "Mr Goodsir told me he's gotten people hurt, and killed in the Expedition. He's a... mutineer. I guess that probably means he's not above stealing from the dead, too."

Her mouth is a thin line for a moment.

"You really think he'd do that? It's just... things are different here."

Of course Harry and Edward would be the ones to warn her away from him. He's glad for it; Hickey's a clever man, which makes him exceptionally dangerous. He knows how to find the weakness in people and exploit it for his own gains, and in this place people are vulnerable in a very specific way.

He doesn't want to tell her the extent of his crimes, but slowly he's becoming more and more aware that leaving out specifics isn't helping anyone.

"He pawed at the corpse of my second-in-command, stole his boots and ate his body," he says simply. Not meaning to shock, but he can't think of any other way to ease this poor girl into the truth of their situation.

"... what?"

It knocks the wind right out of her. Kate freezes, staring for a long moment — not comprehending, disbelief. As if maybe she just heard him wrong, if maybe he said something else, or she's mistaken. Or it's a joke, right? Maybe a joke? But there's nothing in him to suggest even a glimmer of humour.

And she continues to stare, mouth agape. She feels... queasy, eyes glazing over as her gaze drops to her knees. She shakes her head: no, no.

"He's—" she can't put the word to it, but thinks it in her utter horror: 'Evil'. "It's like we're nothing to him. He got innocent people killed, Mr Goodsir told me that. Mr Hickey lied and got innocent people killed but—"

He ate someone—?

Oh Hell. He's broken her.

Crozier crawls forward quickly and tries to get Kate back onto her feet before her legs freeze.

"He's not evil," he replies, once more responding to something just in her head. "He's a man with a quick tongue and a half-clever mind, and he has little regard for people he thinks aren't worth his time, but his obsessions are real. His affections."

God, what has Goodsir been telling her? Little? What have they been telling everyone else without knowing?

"There was a creature. Did Harry tell you that, about the creature?"

Kate's unsteady on her feet, but she manages to get herself standing again with his help. But she's blinking in surprise — he's not evil? But... she doesn't know what else to call someone who would do such awful things.

"I told Mr Goodsir that Mr Hickey needs a therapist." she says faintly, almost like an afterthought. "A— um. A doctor that specialises in people's minds."

Goodsir hadn't known what a therapist was. She doesn't think Mr Crozier will know either.

She nods, a little shakily.

"There was a... bear. Some kinda spirit in the shape of a bear." she confirms. "The bear had a... like a priest? But he got killed. His daughter was supposed to— bind herself to it? But she couldn't. Mr Hickey thinks he could instead."

He glances about and decides they'll be better off having this conversation in the church.

"Tuunbaq," he says quietly. "It killed my men and devoured their souls. Tuunbaq's shamans were indeed bound to it, generation after generation lived isolated from the Netsilik community to care for it. It was...horrifying, clever in the ways it hunted and butchered us. We thought it was evil and needed to be killed, but we didn't understand its purpose or why it was so angry with us.

"My men had inadvertently killed tuunbaq's shaman. They refused to let him die on the ice, then disrespected his corpse. We were strangers to their land, unwanted and unneeded. We put a strain on the land, and when tuunbaq finally died they mourned. I couldn't call it evil when I learned the truth."

Nor had they been evil, but they were guilty of ignorance and bullying their way into a land they didn't respect.

"I don't think Hickey is evil. The world's been cruel to him, and in turn he's had to fight tooth and nail to survive. He's made evil choices in that fight, and lost himself entirely when he began to believe that he was worthy of being a god. But he's a man. Only a man."

"... Tuun...baq?"

It's a word that's clumsy on her tongue as she tries to repeat it, only getting it half-right — frowning a little, but opening up to horror as she listens: it ate their souls. It's a particular kind of horror for her, especially where her beliefs lie. To think that there's a kind of spirit capable of such a thing is— inconceivable.

But the horror softens a little as he continues, understanding slowly taking hold. It's halted a little when it's brought back to Mr Hickey.

"A man isn't a spirit." she says quietly. "As I have observed, those who plow evil and those who sow trouble reap it. Doesn't his evil choices make him evil? The world is hard on so many people, but it... it doesn't make monsters of everyone."

But... he lost himself entirely. And that's... sad, in a way. Even if it doesn't take away the disgust for him. Kate falls quiet, conflicted.

"How... did it die? The Tuunbaq? How is it possible something like that could die?"

The question isn't unexpected, but it still strikes Crozier right in the gut.

"It's difficult to say," he murmurs. "We were killing it slowly with each soul it devoured. I landed the final blow, but it had died...choking."

And he'll leave it at that. It goes against his point that Hickey isn't be entirely evil - he's firm in his belief there - but tuunbaq certainly did choke on his blackened soul.

"What's a monster, Kate?" he adds softly. "Is it the creature that devours souls, a man who eats his own to survive, a captain who ignores his men for whiskey? My heart is too broken to believe in something so black and white."

"... If you hadn't been there, it would still be alive." her voice is quiet as she says it, her gaze lowering. It's sobering. We were strangers to their land, unwanted and unneeded. Their Expedition had come to their land and they'd... that was the price.

They'd been stuck, for years. They'd starved, grown sick, Tuunbaq had hunted them down, consumed their souls. Grown sick and died. Kate falters, she doesn't know what to say.

Kate looks up again at the question, she's taken aback as she listens: a captain who ignores his men for whiskey. It stuns her to hear, saddens her.

"I... I don't know." she says finally, her eyes are glossy. She shakes her head. Uncertainty isn't new to her. She's doubted a lot of things over the past half a year or so — the scales constantly misbalanced. "I used to think I did, but I... I don't think I know anything anymore."

He's made his peace with his own self-destructive past, but he'll never forgive himself for wasting time and putting himself ahead of others. All he can do now is reflect and keep his actions in the forefront of his mind, lest he ever forgets.

Crozier pushes open the door to the church with his shoulder, ushering Kate inside quickly. He knows he's hurt her with all of this information; he feels terribly for it.

"You're not the only one," he reassures her. "None of us know anything for certain. Even me, and I'm about 100, as far as you know."

A smile. See? Not all that terrible.

"If you're about a hundred, then Mr Methuselah must be about five hundred." it startles a tiny laugh out of her and she does manage a small, tearful smile. It's a little silly of him, he's definitely not about a hundred.

It's cold, but at least it's a little warmer inside. Even just being in here is comforting, the quiet stillness.

"I always feel like my dad does. Know things for certain, I mean. He's the pastor of our church, he always knows the right thing to say."

'And the light shines in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.' Katie, you'll always be my brightest light against the dark. But he's not here, and she misses him terribly. All she has are his words on a postcard. She hurt him terribly, before she came here. He sent her those words even though she hurt him.

"Is that... why you're not a Captain anymore?" she asks, tentatively. "Lieutenant Little calls you it, but you don't. I don't think I've heard anyone else call you it, either. Is it... because of what happened, with the Tunnbaq? And the... whiskey?"

Knowing the right thing to say at any given occasion isn't the same as knowing everything, but one's perception of one's father is always a tricky thing. If it's comforting to Kate he wouldn't dare dream to argue.

He pulls his gloves off his hand and stump and stuffs them into the inside of his parka. Even from an outsider's perspective the question still hurts.

"I'd be a captain without a ship, without a crew. What purpose does a title serve now?"

He sighs softly and takes a seat at the front pew. "The whiskey was a sickness. Navy men tend to drink, but I was in a state when I took command. I let it take control of me, to the point that I'd poisoned myself and began neglecting my duties."

Crozier pauses. "I nearly died ridding myself of the drink, but I was a man reborn after. I crave it to this day. Never food, always the drink, but I wouldn't dare touch a drop now."

It's a good question, and at first Kate's not sure how to answer it. She's quiet for a few moments, considering.

"I... guess titles still mean things." Words, titles, there's power in them. They mean things. That's how she can see it. "We're stuck here, and there's no police, no army, no government and... that's kind of scary, you know? It's like, chaos. And if it's just chaos, then..."

Well, what hope do any of them have? And if this place is Hell or Purgatory or something like it, then— she shakes her head, shuddering a little. It doesn't sit well with her. But she takes a seat next to him, falling silent to listen to him. There's no judgement then, but she's sad for him.

"I don't know a lot, but— addiction is hard. I don't think people ever stop fighting it." Not everyone's able to keep fighting it, she knows that much.

"But... it takes a lot of strength to keep fighting it." she offers him a small smile. "I hope you keep that strength, Mr Crozier."

She's so gentle and sweet, and living in a place so harsh and unyielding can tear at that resolve to be kind. There's strength in fighting back, in continuing to be kind, but he worries that she'll be chewed up and spit out by one of the monsters lurking in the woods.

"Thank you," he replies softly. "It helps that it makes me feel ill to think of actually bringing the bottle to my lips." And that it wasn't readily available, and still isn't, though he's certain ingenuity's already led to the creation of some sort of booze.

Kate manages a wry smile. "That's something, at least." Like, yeah. Definitely something that'll kill the temptation dead right there.

"I don't really see the appeal of it, myself." Her nose wrinkles a little. "Most of the kids at my school drink, there's... a lot of parties and stuff."

She stops, swallows thickly. The less said about the parties at her school, the better. Stupid Vortex Club ruined her entire life.

"It's not my thing. I take a sip of wine for church but— yeah."

Ah, yes, social pressures. "That's not unique to your era," he tells her sympathetically. "Any social engagement there's something to imbibe. I was always prone to it...my father drank gin, but I'd managed to avoid dependance for years."

He frowns softly.

"After the expedition to Antarctica my hands wouldn't stop shaking. It was the only thing that helped."

"Kind of sucks some things never change." Bluntly put, really. But like, she feels like she's not wrong. It does kind of suck. Her lips are a thin line for a moment.

"Woah, wait. You went to Antarctica too?" she utters with it a sense of awe. "They have research stations there now, in my time. I think— McMurdo? That's the name of the American station?"

Okay, okay. Don't be a nerd. She winces a little.

"I guess it's a lot easier, in the future. With all the modern technology." she says quietly. "I guess going off into the unknown in your time would have been a whole lot scarier, right?"

No wonder he would have drank.

bad luck, old sport

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cw alcoholism

cw: discussions of addiction

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