singillatim | no man is an island

no man is an island

MAY 2024 EVENT

PROMPT ONE — THE ENDS JUSTIFY THE MEANS: Young Bill asks the Interlopers for help in dealing with a group of protestors that have been harassing him for months — by stealing their hidden caches and starving/forcing them out of the Lakeside area.

PROMPT TWO — SACRIFICIAL OFFERINGS: It turns out that sometimes folktales are true after all, and a mysterious creature lives within the Lake of Lakeside — and it demands payment for use of its Lake.

PROMPT THREE — GLIMMERFOG: A strange new weather phenomenon causes a new illness in Interlopers.

THE ENDS JUSTIFY THE MEANS

WHEN: Mid-May — onwards.
WHERE: Lakeside area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: themes of survival; themes of morality; themes of scavenging; instances of animal mutilation; instances of corpse mutilation/desecration; themes of folk horror;

Methuselah, having visited Lakeside, passes on the message in mid-May that Young Bill is looking for assistance from the Interlopers and asks for anyone who would be kind enough to donate their time to visit him. Some may already know how to Young Bill’s cabin, but Methuselah will draw a quick map for those unfamiliar to find the way.

After traversing through the Milton Mine — which was cleared by Interlopers back in March — and using the hand-operated crank to use the lift to reach the Lakeside entrance, Interlopers will simply need to follow the train track down through the mountains for a few hours before crossing the railway bridge over the ravine and into Lakeside. Coming off the tracks and following a trail northwards will eventually lead to a small cabin and outbuilding within a clearing: this is the home of Young Bill.

… and it seems the man himself is no less wary when he steps out onto his porch, his rifle in hands raised towards the newcomers that make their way into their clearing. Mentioning that Methuselah sent you will quickly earn that rifle being lowered though, and he will nod his head indoors.

“C’mon, I’ll get some coffee on. You look like you could do with the warm up.”

Young Bill will do just that, encouraging Interlopers to sit and warm themselves by the log burner within his home — offering mugs of coffee. He’s not alone in the cabin, either. There’s also Scout, an Alaskan Malamute, who… appears to be nesting, sleeping on piles of blankets and pillows. Once everyone’s a little warmer, he will take a seat. Onto business, then.

“Alright, straight up— what I’m suggesting here isn’t gonna be all that pleasant when you look at the big picture. If you want out, that’s fine. I’m not gonna judge.”

He means that. He understands that this going to be less than savoury, and folks are gonna have their principles and their morals. People are free to walk away from his proposal, but regardless of their participation: this is happening.

“Some of you already know about this, but I’ll start from the beginning for those who don’t. There’s this group of folks who call themselves the ‘Forest Talkers’. Rocked up here a couple of years back to protest against some of the big productions going on here in Lakeside, like the resort expansion.” he shrugs. “Few of them are locals, but most of them are from the Mainland. They weren’t so bad, but they were a pain in the ass for the companies working here. Messing with machinery, protests, vandalism. That sort of thing. I’d see them around but— they never used to bother me at all. We kept out of another’s way until everything started going south several months back.

But now? Those eco-fucks have done nothing but cause trouble for months. They break my traps, they’ve stolen from me. They tried to trash my home. They’ve even tried to attack me while I’ve been out. Pretty sure they’re the ones behind some of the burnt-out and trashed lodges. …I heard some of you guys got shot at, too.”

There’s a short pause, and Young Bill’s face grows dark, a little disturbed. Those who have been in the Northern Territories longer will note that something has been bothering Young Bill for the last couple of months or so. He’s been reluctant to mention it, but the man looks exhausted.

“They’ve done… odd shit, too. Like something out of an old horror movie. It’s like they’ve gone nuts, or something.”

If pressed, he will share the more… grisly details. Killed and mutilated wildlife, often arranged in frightening manners. He’s even found the… bodies of people: Forest Talkers themselves from what he can gather, some natives to the Northern Territories, some workers from the resort and hydrodam. The bodies are just as mutilated, skin torn from limbs, eyes removed. At some point, he has to stop. He doesn’t want to go on.

“I’ve tried reasoning with them, I’ve tried threatening them. They don’t wanna listen. I’m tired of being watched and hounded in my own home.” he explains. He seems exhausted by the whole thing. “So I guess the only thing I can think to do is to try and starve them out. I’m not here to attack anyone, but I guess maybe if they don’t have much left then they’ll finally give up and just leave. I bet if they didn’t have the foothold they have in this place, they wouldn’t be half as brave as they are.”

Ah, yes. The less-than-savoury part of all of this. Stealing from others, starving them out. Perhaps it’s not the worst thing to do to another here, but cutting off lifelines might be… morally questionable.

“They have caches, all over Lakeside. Food, supplies, stuff like that. I’ve found notes.”

He gets up to walk towards his desk and pulls out a few pieces of paper. Each of them is marked with either a stamp or some hand-drawn symbol: a circle with a simple line of pine trees inside of it, topped with the shadow of a face. They’re handwritten notes, detailing cryptic clues about where caches are hidden all over the area. Young Bill will hand them out to Interlopers to have a look.

“I have a rough idea of where they are, but I need help in finding them. It’s hard enough with the fog, and now Scout’s expecting.” There’s an unamused grumble at that last part, but he continues. “You can keep what’s in them, I just want them gone.”

Some may choose to back out of this, and Young Bill is true to his word. He isn’t here to shame or judge anyone for not choosing to get in on this. But for those who do, the journey begins. Interlopers can go out into Lakeside and begin the grim scavenger hunt. Young Bill will even supply Interlopers with maps of the Lakeside area with vague ideas of where he believes the notes may be talking about in terms of these caches. For those who disbelieve Young Bill’s claims, they too will soon find their own evidence: the very same things the man had spoken of scattered around the area.

It’s disturbing. Something is… very wrong with these people. But there seems to be no trace of the actual people themselves. Interlopers may get the sense of being watched, perhaps a sound from the woods, or something of the like — but nothing more than that. Heading to the Old Hunting Lodge and getting too close will bring on gunfire from the Forest Talkers.

Caches, when found, may be rock cairns hidden against rockier areas in Lakeside. Some might be metal containers half-hidden or even buried in the snow. They will mostly contain goods such as dried food or even MRE’s. Others will contain things like basic medical supplies such as bandages, disinfectants, painkillers, or antibiotics. Others may contain flares or ammunition. Interlopers are free to claim the items as their own — just as Young Bill said.

Surely this will get rid of them, and force them to leave the area. Right?

SACRIFICIAL OFFERINGS

WHEN: The month of May, onwards.
WHERE: Lakeside.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural creatures; serpentine creature; themes of sacrifice; potential character death/maiming; potential drownings.

While the lake of Lakeside appears to have been well known for being used all year, with fishing and watersports available during the summer, the harsh weather that has plagued the Northern Territories now means that the lake has now (possibly) become permanently frozen solid. In some respects, this is good news: allowing Interlopers to cross the terrain more easily to reach the cabins and not resorting to the long way around through the woods. It also means that there is ample opportunity for ice fishing, and it’s possible to build structures on the ice to stay warm.

But something else lurks beneath the thick ice, and it has noticed you upon its frozen waters.

In the Camp Office, a small display hangs on the wall about a monster from folklore native to the lake. It is said that the beast was the guardian of the lake and would demand sacrifice from those who wished to use its waters or otherwise drag them down to a watery grave. The whole thing seems like just some “fun” interest-grabber to visitors and those vacationing on the lake, even with cartoon drawings of a gigantic snake-like monster smiling goofily.

Or is it?

To the unsuspecting Interloper who ventures out onto the lake, whether to fish upon it or simply cross it, it appears, bursting through the ice: a huge serpentine creature with dark-green skin dotted with ridges along its back and dragon-like head — thick-bodied and incredibly fast as it rears up and opens its mouth — roaring at you with a wide, fanged mouth.

And then, it waits. And suddenly you wonder if maybe that cheesy display in the Camp Office might have had a point after all.

The creature demands a sacrifice for the use of its lake. Perhaps you have food or some freshly caught game to offer it. Or some small token you own that you can give to it: a tool, a cherished item. Maybe even the shirt off your own back, or the very blood running through your veins. You must give something.

Lay it upon the ice before it, and the beast will take it, gently collecting it between its teeth and returning to the depths below. Refuse to give anything, and the beast will roar and launch into an attack — pulling itself fully out of the lake.

It moves with speed, and will try to devour you, or wrap its body around you to squeeze the life out of you, or simply pull you down under the water. There will be no winning against this creature, no way of harming it and no way of fighting back. You may have a chance of running away, getting off the lake, but it will remember you, and will try to come for you once more if you ever step foot on the ice again.

The choice is yours, Interloper. What will you sacrifice?

GLIMMERFOG

WHEN: The month of May, onwards into early June.
WHERE: Milton area; Lakeside area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural weather; themes of illness; insomnia and sleep deprivation symptoms; altered-mental states; hallucinations; nosebleeds/blood; possible character death.

Interlopers have come to understand that strange meteorological occurrences are not uncommon within the Northern Territories, especially given the Aurora. Auroras can often last for days, as one long and seemingly endless kind of terrible, noisy bright night which affects both electronics and nature alike. Or there's the toxic fog; times where the sky goes green and the moon and stars disappear; monster blizzards… strange is the new norm.

The fog that began in April doesn’t seem to be letting up any time soon. Endless days where the fog is too thick to travel in. Fortunately, there are no further bouts of the green, toxic fog that plagued the Northern Territories — the fog that remains is just the usual freezing cold and clinging damp that's been exhausting Interlopers.

Until there’s something else that starts to happen with the fog.

At first, it appears to be no different than the usual fog rolling in: cold, wet, and biting. It clings to those who are caught out in it, and it’s utterly miserable. However, those paying attention will note that the clouds of fog will occasionally... glimmer.

It’s as if there’s a current of electricity running through it, if one watches carefully. Mini lightning bolts shooting through and upwards in curious patterns. Flicks and pops that make the tiny hairs on one’s arms and neck stand up — almost like static. It won’t shock those caught within it, but it might be a little difficult to look at at times — as if someone were staring at a light that’s far too bright.

It’s oddly pretty, and seems particularly harmless, but there’s something far more sinister about this new, strange phenomena — or... Glimmerfog, as Interlopers will come to call it.

The first sign that something is amiss is the insomnia. In truth, sleep is often hard to come by in the Northern Territories, so it might be something that is easily brushed off as quite usual in terms of day to day life. However, Interlopers will realise they won’t be able to sleep at all, and will find themselves lying awake for the entirety of the night. Soon enough, more things creep up with the insomnia, the usual signs of sleep deprivation: dizzy spells, unsteadiness on one’s feet, poor hand-eye coordination, difficulty in concentration or poor short-term memory, even mood swings or changes to behaviour are likely.

Eventually, the symptoms begin to grow more sinister: nosebleeds are common, aches and pains... and then the fever sets in. Interlopers will become weak, lethargic, and even then they still cannot sleep through their illness. With it, comes hallucinations: sounds or sights, and then quickly developing into a full on delirium. Dreams and reality blend into one. An Interloper’s dreams and nightmares bleed into the waking world. They will find themselves experiencing their dreams despite being wide awake.

It seems like there is very little to be done in trying to fight the illness. Trying to tackle the fever and getting the afflicted Interloper some kind of sleep is the main concern, both of which may eventually kill the Interloper if enough is not done in time. Natural sleep-aids like herbal teas, or medications still available in the world may be able to get the Interloper to sleep for short amounts of time. Keeping the Interloper inside and away from the Glimmerfog will also help immensely, as will spending time in complete darkness or even underground or within caves/mining systems.

Breaking the fever will signal the peak and decline of the illness, and with enough care the Interloper will slowly begin to recover.

FAQs

THE ENDS JUSTIFY THE MEANS

1. Players are free to come up with their own ideas of cache locations within Lakeside. It might be particular points of interest, a particular kind of tree, within isolated cabins in the woods.

2. Please be reasonable of finds in the caches. These supply amounts won't be a huge amount — think small but many caches.

3. It is possible to come across the grisly finds in Lakeside without meeting up with Young Bill first.

4. Caches would tend to stick to similar themes, ie. food cache, medicine cache, etc.

SACRIFICIAL OFFERINGS

1. It is not possible to communicate with the beast, but it does seem to understand Interlopers. It will have no desire to communicate of befriend any one, though.

2. The beast will be a permanent fixture of the Lake.

3. Interlopers who initially refuse to give the beast anything can try again at a later date. They will have to offer their offering quickly, showing outward remorse for their initial disrespect towards the beast.

4. Locals refer to the Lakeside Beast as 'Nor'pogo.'

GLIMMERFOG

1. "Glimmerfog Disease" will run it's full course in roughly ten to fourteen days, with symptoms peaking typically around day seven to nine. Once the fever breaks, Interlopers will require a few days to fully recover.

2. Characters are welcome to kill of NPCs with this prompt, as Interlopers who don't make it through the illness — or to be used to study the sickness. Please let the mods know if you plan to kill an NPC for record keeping purposes!

PLOTTING POST

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He’s tried other methods - killing seals and being alone tended to help when he was back with the Netsilik, and here he’d built cairns and tried to remember their names - but so far screaming has been the most effective release.

And even then, and even then. Even then the grief remains, stuttering and starting and stopping, light enough to go on some days, heavier than granite other days.

She understands, and it’s horrible that anyone should ever feel that way. Finding little rituals to soothe over empty places can only do so much, and here where there is death and suffering, their vulnerability apparent, those rituals can feel so meaningless.

“It’s the worst sort of grief,” he says quietly. “Not knowing is Hell.”

"I don't even know how she died." Aside from, probably, horribly. That's what old Vinnie the Vulture had said, right? Not 'til you're in pieces, like your big sister Willa. Wynonna breathes in, sharp and painful, pulls her shoulders straight, flicks her hair back. Shakes it off like an annoying fly, instead of a memory, a thought, that haunts her every step and every moment, waking and dreaming both.

Not that there's much difference between the two, lately. This damn fog; it's seeping into her the way it has been with everyone else, and Crozier's not wrong. It is taking them down, one by one, in a horrible echo of what happened to his crew.

She wonders if he's started seeing things that aren't there, too. "And, yeah, it would probably freak me out if she showed up here, alive. It would be amazing, don't get me wrong, but — "

Her mouth twists, wry, and she nods. "Yeah. I can see how it would get to you."

I don't even know how she died.

He can empathize; half of his men succumbed in ways he didn't personally witness, his family and friends back home lived their lives and died without him, Sophia, James dear -

But this plagues her, follows her, weighs on her like Coleridge's albatross. It's painful in a way that's perhaps even shaped her, though she's pretending otherwise, attempting some nonchalance despite how heavy the air feels.

"It's incredible," he agrees sadly. "Seeing them again has been a gift. The surprise of my life, in fact. But when you've been mired in grief for so long, it's hard to know how to...not be."

Mired in grief. Maybe she has been. Running halfway across the world hadn't kept Willa's ghost from haunting her, or Daddy's. They're with her even now, in this wholly new place. There are times she feels like she could turn around and see them; reach out and touch them.

She studies him, this sad man who can't be older than Nedley, than Shorty, and they'd both still had plenty of spark left. (She can't think about Shorty, but his ghost follows, her, too. She should have been able to save him.) "Do they know what you know?"

Does Thomas know what happened to him, beyond assumption? Does Little? Do any of them?

If Willa came here, alive and unknowing, would Wynonna be able to tell her what's coming?

None of them truly know what he knows. Every piece of information he has given away has been a sliver of what he bore witness to; pieces of the story, but not the entire thing. Little scattered memories here or there, or his own anguished reaction when the truth does out - they're clever men, they always figure it out - they've experienced that. They know that.

"Harry knows. Thomas." He fills his lungs and then exhales slowly. "The ones that were revived by the Aurora. They know that no one else made it out alive. Edward is clever though, he must know."

Harry knows. Thomas. She licks at her lips and presses them together to keep herself from crumpling all over again.

Goodsir, who's patched her up now more times than she can easily remember. And Tommy, who she'd left cheerful and busy, working in the cabin in Lakeside. (If she hurries, she can get there before morning.) And Little... "It's not happening again."

Perhaps what she should really be saying is we're not letting it happen again, because that's what she really means, isn't it? Crozier's not the only one keeping an eye out for his men anymore. They still have food, they have vitamin C, they have doctors, plural, now, and people with guns who know how to use them to protect everyone else. Wynonna takes a breath, does her best to shake her thoughts away from a driving need to go find Thomas, Little, and make sure they're fine in order to focus on the man in front of her who definitely isn't, her glance turning keen and speculative. "How've you been feeling? Did you breathe in any of that fog?"

It could happen again, very easily, and that's what frightens Crozier. They're already so powerless here, fighting against god-knows-what and the added mental burden they've all had to endure as they just try to survive. But it won't happen again. It won't. Not to those men.

They'll survive. Thomas, Edward, and Harry - hell, even William Gibson - by God, they will survive.

He pushes his fingers through his thinning hair and manages a shake of the head. "No, I don't think I have. I would have shown symptoms by now." And though his luck held in those last few months of the expedition, he doesn't think he'd continue to avoid illness in this place. He just hasn't run across the fog yet. "You haven't either, I take it."

She's clearly had other misfortunes befall her lately.

"Please." She chuckles, tosses her hair back, gives him a blasé, crooked grin. "Spend a month on tour with a metal band and you breathe in way worse stuff than a little supernatural fog, believe me."

It's deliberate, all of it: the insouciance, the references he won't understand, the cool facade she draws over herself like she's tugging on a hat. The last thing this guy needs is to start worrying about her, too. It's not like he needs more reasons to be screaming in a cabin alone in the woods.

It's not the easiest maneuver — she hurts too much to really be able to slouch back and relax like she wants — but she commits to the bit anyway. "Worst I've gotten is a little insomnia, and it's not like I was short on that in this place to begin with. No nosebleeds, though."

His mind drifts a little, which probably isn't what she'd intended. His frame of reference with metal is brass, like some sort of Prussian polka outfit, and he has to force himself to keep the smile off his face.

She probably wouldn't enjoy hearing his thoughts on a 'metal band'.

"So long as your teeth don't start falling out of your head," he grunts, his own version of casual emerging as something dire and too dry. He's not as fun as her, and quite probably never has been. "Are there headaches? Do you know?"

"Only in my nightmares," she says, idly. "Or maybe its 'taking a test I didn't study for.' Either way, I don't think it's a symptom of anything."

When she sleeps enough to dream, anyway, which has been less and less, lately. It's never been much, here, but the fog and the constant sunlight make what sleep she gets shallow and restless; she wakes up often and can't get back to sleep, her eyes gritty and her mind slow.

None of it's great for survival. A doozy for headaches, though, so her lips purse and twist, thoughtful, as she considers his question. "Why, are you getting headaches?"

He shakes his head. No, no headaches. He’s been blessed…cursed? Cursed with good health since giving up whiskey. Pickling himself wound up sparing him from some of the more severe symptoms of scurvy and lead poisoning, and he’s been steady ever since.

Not that he thinks he’s immune to all this madness. One day it’ll hit him hard and fast, and he’ll collapse in the middle of a street or during the midst of a town hall. For the time being though he’ll remain on his feet, trying to help where he can and…screaming when he’s so overwhelmed by all the suffering that he just has to get it out somehow.

“No, but it’s becoming a pattern. First the lack of sleep, then the irritability, then headaches, nosebleeds, fevers.” He pauses. “And presumably death.”

Knowing this goddamned place.

He lists off the symptoms, their order, and he's right; she's seen it, too. But there's something familiar about his observations and conclusions, and her lips twitch, wry. "You sound like a guy I know."

About as fun as him, too, which is a little like saying he's about as fun as a case of food poisoning. More than that —

They got sick. She knows that. Scurvy, lead poisoning, ravaging their minds as well as their bodies. He's seen this sort of thing before. But he hasn't mentioned everything. "Don't forget the hallucinations. Those seem like a really good time."

“The hallucinations, yes,” he says grimly.

He regards his hand, the remaining one, and wonders how much lead is still in his system. He assumes it takes years to rid one’s body of the poison. “Lead from improperly-soldered tins caused headaches and hallucinations in the men. This miraculous technique was supposed to keep us alive in the worst conditions imaginable slowly rotted our brains and drove us mad.”

He wonders…surely the others must feel the same as he does. “I’m sure these tins are perfectly serviceable - they not causing the illnesses here - but I’m suspicious of just about everything canned these days.”

He waves his hand a little and brings it up to rub at his chin. “What happened to you? And why are you not resting?”

"Yeah, shit like that's why we don't use lead in cans anymore," she tells him. "Or.. paint... and a bunch of other things-- is that what you're worried about?"

He'd asked a question of his own, she ignores it for the moment to shake her head at him, not in disagreement but in solid negation. "I mean, I get it. Your cans fucked you all over. And I'd still stay away from any that are dented or puffy, but it's not the cans that are doing this shit to us right now. But we can look them over, make sure."

She cants her head to the side, indicating her stiff arm; gestures with her left hand grandiosely over the rest of her injured body. "As for this: I got shot. And then I got in a fight." A moment of hemming and hawing, before she adds: "And then I got in another fight. With those newbies, Logan and Mal."

It's less a full-blown worry about the tins and more of a paranoid holdover, and just a little insight as to the whole...screaming breakdown in the middle of a dilapidated house. He nods softly; food is food, and if it's safe then that's all that matters.

"...right after the other? Or was there some distance between...being shot, fighting, and then fighting again?"

She crinkles her face and makes an abortive attempt at crossing her arms defensively over her chest, which fails because her right arm is still too sore and stiff to move that way. "Enough time for my arm to mostly heal up, not enough time to make taking up knitting worth it."

Although the needles might be handy, in a pinch. "It's not like I scheduled them. Fights are fights, they just break out."

Wynonna gives him a wry look. "By the way, Little tried to break up the last one and got knocked the hell out for his trouble. Please tell me you had someone else doing that on the ship, 'cause he's real bad at it."

He raises his hand in a defensive - albeit somewhat playful - little shrug. "I believe you, I believe you. You just seem particularly fortunate in that regard."

Oh, Edward. His humor momentarily turns into something more affectionately exasperated. Settling conflicts never was his strong suit.

"We had Marines to do it."

She lifts her left shoulder in a shrug. "What can I say? Gotta try and keep my dance card full."

Marines. Yeah, that tracks. She shakes her head, her expression a mirror of his own exasperation. "Well, he's got a gigantic shiner now, so if you see him and his face is all messed up, that's why."

Oh, Edward.

"Not his first blow to the head, I'm afraid." But thankfully that's the extent of the injury. He's seen far worse things done to that poor man's face - quite possibly by his own hand. "He wants to help, and he has a good heart."

And that nobility is absolutely going to keep getting him hurt, but he's sure Wynonna can see that.

"One of these days, he's going to try and break up the wrong fight," she says, grim. "And that good heart of his isn't going to keep him from getting hurt. Or worse."

She's not going to try to stop him. She knows why he does it, why he needs to do it. Her eyes narrow, and she leans forward — or tries to, before her bruised ribcage and abdomen complain loudly and she has to sit back, flinching. "I used to think he was like one of those wind-up toy soldiers, marching around like he does every day. But he does that shit even without anyone telling him to. He's out there just trying to keep everyone safe, and he— "

She bites down on anything else, a trap snapping shut, uncomfortably aware of saying too much. She shifts in the chair, frowning at herself, voice an affectation of blandness. "He's terrible at it, but Kate'll be sad if he dies. So."

Hm.

He won't smile or give any sign of the gentle amusement he's feeling. He nods in agreement; he has a good heart but no sense of self-preservation. He's working to remedy past failures - how could he possibly condemn what so many of them are trying to accomplish?

"Not just Kate," he says innocently.

"Yeah, I'm sure the rest of the muttonchop enthusiast club would be pretty broken up about it too. They'd have to pick a new president and who's got the time for that?"

It's much, much easier to be dismissive. Bad enough to tell Little directly that she worries about him. She's not about to roll over and expose her soft underbelly to a guy she only just met.

But her glance slides away from his face and toward the fire, just in case he can see a little too much in her eyes. "Everyone's too scattered. I don't like it."

He wants to laugh, he honestly and truly does, but he keeps whatever self-control he has remaining and refrains. Edward Little, popular. God bless.

But quickly the subject turns into something that he's been hemming and hawing over since the mines had opened - how scattered they all seem now. He doesn't enjoy it. It's so much more difficult to develop any semblance of community when people live too far apart, and they can't communicate effectively with each other.

He hums quietly in agreement. "Stronger together, isn't that the saying?"

The gesture she makes is too slow to be a shake of her head; it's more like a slow, thoughtful roll, or swivel, as her mouth twists. "Either that or you drive each other crazy." She cuts a sidelong glance at him. "Being in close quarters with a lot of people isn't my favorite thing. I find it tends to lead to rampant cases of 'hating Wynonna-itis.'"

She turns back to the fire, staring moodily at the flames. "But I don't like not being able to keep an eye out for my friends. And if something happened in Lakeside, nobody in Milton would be able to find out quickly enough to do anything other than help with clean up."

He does laugh then, a low, soft chuckle at the self-deprecation. She would have hated being on the ships, but then again, most would recoil at the very thought of that kind of life. It isn't for everybody.

"Before the illness..." Crozier's frowns to himself, annoyed by all the things outside of their control. Just like the goddamned expedition. "I'd hoped to connect with the runners among us, figure out a system of communication for emergencies. There are methods we can employ, but it would take all of us to be in agreement, and that isn't terribly likely."

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pacificator - 2024-06-21 19:58 (UTC) - Expand

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no man is an island

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