singillatim | don't lie, I know we're fixing to die.

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don't lie, I know we're fixing to die.

MARCH 2026 EVENT

PROMPT ONE — MISERY: It is the end of days. Interlopers face a dying world as the Darkwalker begins to close in and experience the Five Stages of Misery.

MISERY

WHEN: The month of March
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural-induced illness; altered physical states, altered mental states; hallucinations; nightmares/sleep terrors; themes of starvation; themes of disordered eating; emetophobia; suicide ideation.

Into March, the Toxic Fog of Rot subsides, for the most part. It can still be found out in the wilds, if Interlopers delve too far deeply away from Milton. It’s enough to lull people into a false sense of security: not an immediate, seeking threat but one that looms over the heads of Interlopers nevertheless. Interlopers would be prudent to keep up with their protection runes from Enola, just in case. The Darkwalker’s stalking around the edges of Milton isn’t as relentless, either, but it remains. It follows the same pattern: where Interlopers must take care not to venture too far so the Darkwalker can hunt them down. And at the very least, the town of Milton seems spared — the soft iridescent shimmerings remain in place throughout March, too.

But there are more machinations of the being, however. And its methods can be just as insidious as they are direct. The assault is relentless, and it shows no signs of stopping. Interlopers have never faced such a long time in the dark. The sun set over three months ago now, and shows no signs of returning. The green gloom that Interlopers have seen, at the longest amount of some twenty-odd days, now reaches over a month and will surely stretch for another.

It begs the question: where is Enola? Surely she would have come by now, surely she would end the gloom and help restore the sunlight. Enola remains silent, unreachable. It’s hard to know if she may even well be alive, given that silence. But there’s another question: just how much of all of this has she been holding back to keep the Interlopers safe this whole time?

She had told Interlopers she would keep the worst of it back. Could this get worse?

She is still missing, and the Darkwalker persists.

By March, Interlopers are completely void of their Feats. The issues that have persisted through the month of February end up in a full-scale blackout of power. Maybe it is the disconnection from Enola, maybe it’s the Darkwalker’s doing. All but those touched by the being will find that their gifts have gone, and they must face this world as they once were when they arrived: vulnerable, powerless, alone.

Interlopers touched by the Darkwalker will continue to feel a bizarre and exhilarating sense of mania. While other Interlopers settle into a morbid apprehension, those with Darkwalker’s Revenge are out of place with their dispositions: gleeful, thriving and energetic.

But the hunger lingers, more potent than ever. They are tempted by those around them, and the ache to feed upon the very life forces of their fellow Interlopers is an awful kind of madness to endure.

The world is bitter and still. There is no snowfall nor wind, at least. But the cold is biting. Interlopers will continue to find their hunting efforts ruined by the fog that seeks to rot food sources out in the wilds, but even then it is difficult to find wildlife in the first place. The animals continue to become scarce. Interlopers must rely on foodstores and rationing to keep themselves going.

But for how long? The world is wrong, and it is the end of days.

This is the ending of all things.

“She cannot help you now.” the Darkwalker sneers in your ear. ”It could have been so easy. You could have gone so quietly, as it was meant to be. But now… you will know true misery.”

Quietly, you consider: maybe it would have been better to die sooner. The previous attempts of the Darkwalker, surviving through this world was a mercy. Now, the Darkwalker’s attempts to rid the world of Interlopers is far more personal.

And as promised, Misery sets in.

The Five Stages of Misery

Stage 1: Hardship — Diminished Form: A morbid decay has set in. Your hardiness has failed you. Interlopers will feel themselves physically weak: they will have less energy, stamina and strength and will generally be more vulnerable physically as a whole. Some days, even the smallest of tasks will feel like moving mountains. You find it harder and harder to do more each day, and you cannot ask your body to keep up. Even sometimes in a literal sense, it’s hard for it to keep up — you find yourself slouching more, keeping yourself small, trying to take up as little space as possible.

Stage 2: Sorrow — Haunted Mind: You experience an endless inner turmoil. In Misery, there is not even the promised safety of sleep — a brief respite from the horrors and difficulties of waking life. Over time, sleep begins to evade you, and you find yourself awake more often than not. As sleep deprivation kicks in, you begin to lose your mind to the endless night. Interlopers will begin to experience hallucinations from the lack of sleep, and will be tormented by past regrets. When sleep does come, on rare moments, you are haunted by nightmares — violent, horror-filled and bloody: your own demise, the end of the world. Interlopers may also sleepwalk, or find themselves acting out their dreams — putting themselves and others in danger.

Stage 3: Despair — Sour Stomach: Your questionable diet has caught up with you. You cannot eat as much before you feel full, and each mouthful feels like a burden. You feel no joy when eating, take no comfort from a hot meal, or drink. It is mere sustenance, but even then it comes with a price. Interlopers will find themselves prone to bouts of nausea and vomiting, or even contracting food poisoning, no matter how well-cooked the food is. Dehydration can creep in quickly if Interlopers don’t take care, and with it comes instances of dizziness, muscle cramps and shallow breathing — and can prove fatal before the end stage has been reached.

Stage 4: Torment — Rheumatic Joints: A painful inflammation has taken hold. To move is agony, as if your joints are filled with glass. Stiffness and swelling is common in the mornings, or long periods without activity. Your hands shake uncontrollably at times, making it difficult to aim weapons. It is harder to warm up, as if the chill has settled in your very bones — which prolongs the pain. You become clumsy and accident-prone. In some cases, Interlopers can experience chest pains.

Stage 5: Ruin — Broken Body: Your body carries the weight of a dying world. In the final stage of Misery, you feel close to the end. You are prone to melancholy and suicidal thoughts. Death would be kinder. Wounds will take longer to heal, illness will take longer to recover from. You bleed more freely. You begin to experience hallucinations of loved ones, from home or here in the Northern Territories. Although they speak to you kindly, or behave just as you remember them, they speak to you only about the end of the world. They encourage you to find your end, try to convince you to give up — by whatever means. Whether it be out of love, or anger, or grief. Dying would be better, dying would be a kindness.

Once the final stage of Misery is reached, it is only a matter of time. Your body gives out, or you choose your own end. You are dying. You will go into the Long Dark.

Or maybe you hang on, just a little while longer. Maybe your stubbornness, or your selfishness keeps you going. Maybe your selflessness does.

Or maybe you remember the voice of a woman dressed in furs, who asked you once to keep holding on.

FAQs

MISERY

1. Misery marks the beginning of Endgame, and marked a special event of one single prompt compared to the previous three-prompt format. The three-prompt format will return for April's Event.

2. This Event is heavily inspired by the difficulty mode Misery in The Long Dark. You can find more information about this mode on The Long Dark's Wikia.

3. All Feats barring Darkwalker's Revenge are disabled for the month of March.

4. Prompts from February's TDM can be used throughout March, with the exception of the 'Winter Of Our Youth' prompt, as the Forest Talkers have all died by the end of February. February's Test Drive Meme is here.

5. While Interlopers experience all Five Stages of Misery, players do not have to play each stage out and can choose to focus on particular stages instead.

PLOTTING POST

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

stage 2: sorrow (cw: gore, body horror, mention of death, possible violence)
Cornelius Hickey doesn't live with regret. At least, that's what he tells himself, that's what he desperately tries to prove, to say, to give off to the world. Whatever happened, it's happened. He can't change anything. He can't do anything different. There's no use dwelling on the past, the only thing that matters is going towards the future. It's easy for him to go throughout the day, pushing past whatever this place tries to claim he regrets.

Night is a different story.

At night, Hickey dreams of something he hasn't yet encountered but that he knows from Crozier that he would encounter in the end. Tuunbaq, that bear made of flesh and spells, a spirit that's also a god that's also a monster. In Hickey's dreams, he's the last man standing as the corpses of his fellow mutineers sit at his feet, vivisected, torn in half, guts strewn across the ice. He knows what he should do. He knows what he would do back home. But Hickey is so tired of being used as a pawn, as a plaything by forces beyond his understanding. Fuck all this. So he lunges at the bear, knife in hand.

Unfortunately, that's just a dream. In reality, Hickey is sleepwalking, stalking the streets of Milton, knife in hand, eyes closed and posture unsteady, ready to fight. And it's not the bear that Hickey swings his knife at. It's one of his fellow Interlopers. Whether you're also sleepwalking, headed somewhere in the darkness, keeping an eye out for people, or what have you, sorry! Hickey is absolutely trying to stab you!

stage 3: despair.
Every bite is agony, his gag reflex tightens every time he swallows, but Hickey doesn't fucking care. He's eating anyway. He's dealt with starvation before, with the horror of knowing that the food you eat is killing you, and that's not going to happen again. Hickey isn't going to let this place kill him. He's not going to let this place win. It's already killed so many of his mates, it's not killing him as well.

So Hickey's leaning on a wall of the community center mostly for support (because every bone in his body feels like it's on fire) as he steadfastly chews his way through some rabbit jerky. Each swallow is painful, he winces with every bite, and there are a few times when Hickey looks like he's going to vomit, but he forces the food down anyway.

Approaching Interlopers will get a pause, a frown, and a nod before, "Here. Eat some of this. I don't care if it hurts, don't give this place the satisfaction of starving you."

He's survived so much already. Hickey's not going to let this fucking town have the benefit of killing him.

wildcard
( ota! hit me up on plurk or discord if you want a starter. )

On the bright side, at least the surviving food stores haven't turned into spiders like they have previously theorized.

Unfortunately, that's about the only thing bright about the situation.

Levi knows, logically, that he should eat, but he's always consumed more tea than food even during good times, and now... just the thought of swallowing anything more solid than water makes him wince. It hurts. It makes him taste bile at the back of his throat. Surely someone else eating his share would be the better use for that food.

He likewise pauses, glancing down at Hickey and his offering -- something he's never turned down before, being well acquaintanced with starvation himself. But now it's like he's looking at paper rather than rations, his expression slack with disinterest.

"...thanks, but I'm not really hungry."

Whoa, he might have as well rung the alarm bell himself.

“I don’t care,” Hickey says, without any hesitation. Because he doesn’t. Levi says he’s hungry, well who cares. Man’s still got to eat. Man’s still got to survive.

“You know it’s this place changing you, yeah? Making you feel this way? It’s nothing on your end, you’re perfectly fine, this is just the Darkwalker trying to break us.” He rips off another small piece of jerky with his teeth as he starts to chew. Every bite is agony, it hurts to swallow, Hickey’s not bothering to hide the disgust and pain on his face but he keeps going. He keeps going out of pure, simple, unbothered spite.

“I’m not going to let it. I’m better than this place. I can see through its tricks.”

But as he talks, there’s a hint in his voice of Hickey saying this just to convince himself. He’s got to be better. He’s got to see through the tricks. He can do this, even if every nerve in his body, every thought in his brain is screaming otherwise. He’s running on pure spite and stubbornness, baby.

Levi does find that sheer spite inspiring, considering it's how he often keeps going, too, but it's oddly difficult to summon at the moment.

But Hickey has a point, doesn't he? This place does do things like this. Just recently, it was trying to turn people into creatures with them not realizing they were acting anything out of the ordinary. So even if he thinks there's nothing all that weird about how he feels right now, it's not impossible that the same is happening to him, right?

His hesitation is probably obvious in the way he just lingers, not leaving but not coming closer either.

"If that thing could do this all along," he mutters, "why wait until now?"

Hickey has done so many things that people deem unspeakable just to stay alive. He knows he’s not the sort of person to fall into despair. So whatever this is, whatever’s making him think this, it’s not him. After all, he doesn’t give up like this.

Levi’s question, though…that’s interesting. And it’s something he hasn’t thought about until now.

“Dunno. Maybe the Darkwalker’s tired of us refusing to die? Making a final stand, that sort of thing. It’s stepped up its game lately—those Forest Taker lunatics believe now’s the time when the world will end. Maybe it told them something it hasn’t told us.”

Hickey is talking as he slowly chews his jerky, not really caring that he’s talking with food in his mouth. It’s a small bite, so it’s not like he’s spewing food everywhere, but he’s working on getting this food as chewed up as possible. Maybe it’ll be easier to swallow that way. Maybe it’ll keep him alive.

Levi has done... nowhere near as many unspeakable things as Hickey, that's for sure, but earning his survival was still enough for him to face the gallows had he not signed his life over to the military. It's not quite like him to give up like this, either.

And yet, what else is he supposed to do? He can't fight his own body, not to this extent. Part of him wonders if that thunder spear did go off back in his own world and this has all been a weird, instantaneous hallucination, and now he's finally coming to and starting to feel his maimed body as the point blank explosion would have left it.

"Maybe," he relents. "They were sure willing to die for it, at any rate."

"Their loss," Hickey says, with a little shrug. "Far as I'm concerned, no credo or god or belief's worth dying for—especially if it's something like the Darkwalker, something that doesn't give you the time of day."

As far as Hickey's concerned, if he's going to die, he's either going to die of old age, passing away peacefully in his sleep, or he's going to die because something took him out in his pursuit of betterment. It's obvious based on his dismissive tone that he considers killing yourself a moral failing, especially if it's killing yourself because some god who never cared a whit about you asked you to.

"What matters is that it's one less mouth to feed. Because if that thing's wrong, if we go back to business as usual...well, business as usual's still a pain in the ass."

"Definitely no god," Levi mutters, though he could argue about the other two. He knows way too many people who have died for their ideals, and he respects them too much to think otherwise. Hell, that ideal is something he might be willing to die for, too, one day.

He hadn't always been like that, though. Before he'd joined them, before he was declared humanity's hope, he'd been of much the same opinion as Hickey.

"It does often go back to business as usual, doesn't it," he considers. There had been a lot of shit going on -- beasts, epidemics, poison fog -- but it all seemed to abate eventually, as long as they persevered.

Maybe the man is right.

"You see?" Hickey points out, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. He gives Levi a small little smirk, which is admittedly a little forced. But goddammit, he's not going to let this place crush his spirit.

"They'll try and break us down, but it's only for a little bit. None of this is permanent! All we've got to do is push past this and we'll spite the bastards knocking us down."

That's honestly pretty admirable, especially right now. Levi is also continuously impressed with Hickey stubbornly chewing through that jerky when it must feel like having a mouthful of crushed glass right now.

But maybe... maybe some sort of soup would be worth a try.

"I hope you're right," he says, because it's hard for him to believe there's pushing past something like their bodies breaking down on them, but he certainly wants to believe so. And, hey, spite is certainly a powerful motivator.

"...Thanks."

Chewing hurts. Trying to force the food down his throat feels like swallowing nails. But he's got to. He's got to keep going. He doesn't want to let this place, the Darkwalker, anybody trying to push him down, he doesn't want to let them win. And not starving yourself counts as a win in Hickey's book.

"I'm always right," he says, with a little shrug. He's wrong more often than he's right but hey, who's counting. "But yeah. Come on back to mine. I'll make sure we get something in your stomach."

And damn it all, maybe it does. It certainly takes enough effort to count right now.

They're certainly not making it home if the Darkwalker kills them all. What was it that the brats always said? If we win, we live. If we lose, we die. If we don't fight, we can't win.

"The hell you are," he grumbles, and that alone is probably evidence of some sort of a spark remaining. If he's got the force of will to complain, he's not dying just yet. "And that sounds like a threat. If I see you coming at me with a broomstick, I'm spitting it back out."

Hickey can’t help it: he gives Levi a wry little smile at that ‘hell you are’ comment. There we go. He knew the man had some fight left in him. It’s slightly fucked up and struggling to claw to the top, but it’s there. It counts.

“If I was going to stab you or anything like that, I wouldn’t do it in the house. Billy’d kill me if I got blood on the floor.”

Ah yes, because that’s the problem, not anything else.

Levi snorts, because he would have picked something sharper for stabbing. No, the humor in that one was using it to shove food down his throat, but ironically enough, the mention of stabbing makes him feel more at ease rather than the opposite.

He sure is fucked up in the head, huh? But having seen violence his whole life, it seems to be an oddly comforting concept in a time like this.

"No, we can't do that to him," he agrees. Because yes, that is the biggest problem. Aren't they the funniest?

Stage 1: Hardship [cw: internalised ableism]

[There is a certain obstinacy about Arilanna Tayrey that manifests itself when she's taking on the most difficult tasks. It comes of being raised as a privileged director's daughter, back at the Company. Every advantage, every opportunity, no limitations. Everything she has truly wanted, she has achieved, with the only restrictions upon her being those that she agreed to by contract. She obeys her superiors on the Prosperity simply because she chose that career, and she's certain that it's her own efforts that will make a success of it.

Admirable? Perhaps. It does leave her with a distinct lack of sympathy for those who lack focus and ambition. Today? That category has grown to encompass the unfortunate young lieutenant herself.

She's exhausted. She hardly even wants to leave her bed and face the undifferentiated dark of the morning. The thought of exertion makes her shiver, and yet she can find no reason for it. It can't be the lack of food; she was never like this even when they were down to half-rations shipside. No, she fears it's an altogether psychological malaise, and her only answer to that is simply not to tolerate it.

Responsibilities come first, and she promised that she'd keep the trading line open, so that's what she needs to do. Journey to the coast. Trade goods and information. Carry on. It takes far longer than usual for her to load up her sled. Her weakened muscles protest, and she decides, pragmatically, to take less with her than usual. The idea that she might be physically unwell flits through her mind, but she dismisses it. The atmosphere of this place weakens her, she believes, but she's still genetically enhanced. Every advantage. No excuses.

She doesn't get very far outside Milton before she falls the first time. Tayrey blames a hidden patch of ice as she grumbles to herself about her bloodied knee, her torn trouser leg. Careless. She pushes forward.

The second time Tayrey falls, she doesn't get up. She lies there, her uniform a splash of bright blue flat against the white of the ground, the wooden cargo sled looming behind her. If someone approaches, they might hear her groan.]

Stage 2: Sorrow [cw: violence, death, suicidal behavior, possible discussion of kidnapping and slavery]

[A blast from an energy pistol is surprisingly quiet. There's no loud gunshot crack, nothing to cause alarm. It sounds more like a faint electrical hiss, followed by a clean, sharp burst of energy, leaping the distance like a spark across metal. Tayrey's hand is steady as she takes the shot. No hesitation, not even when the man in her sights lets out an anguished cry, a desperate no as he realises what she intends. He drops to the ground. There's a rising aroma of ozone and burnt, cauterised flesh. Her aim was true; his life snuffed out in an instant.

She turns, staggering away, her eyes glassy. This man, Nicholas Pearson, had done nothing to provoke her. It's almost unthinkable that Arilanna Tayrey could have killed him, given the Code and the contracts she lives by, and her insistence on never initiating aggression against another. Yet there he is, dead, and there she is, moving with urgency now. Towards you.

She's utterly lost to her nightmarish hallucination.

~~~
Apprentice Tayrey sways on her feet. She's tired. Tired to her bones - how can that be? Did she have a double shift as punishment? But Lieutenant Savitskaya wouldn't do that to her - poor Savitskaya - why can't she remember anything? It's so cold. They must be venting atmosphere already, and there's no time, she has to do something. It was a fluke she killed that pirate, she knows it, she never shot so well in training. She was lucky and it saved her life. She needs to raise the alarm, but her communicator's not in her pocket, and the backup on the wall is torn out and sparking. She glances around wildly, and then she sees him. The captain. She can tell him everything.]

Captain! Captain I know I shouldn't be in here but this is urgent... priority one! Comms are all down. The pirates have boarded us. They stuck a hole right through the cargo bay. We tried to seal off the section but there were too many of them. They got through. There were casualties. Everything's offline. I... I'm the last astrogator left. I know my duty. I can do it. I can make sure there's no ship left for them to take.

[Her words are more rushed than usual, and she's shaking with cold or with fear, but she's delivering this information with precision, and relative calm, considering the gravity of it. She seems to believe every word, despite their being no pirates, and indeed no starship, in sight.]

Wildcard

[Up for other things, find me on the plotting post or Plurk!]

[ Hickey's trying to stay upright. He's got to stay upright. He doesn't want to stop, doesn't want to falter, wants to keep moving and keep going because if he stops, he worries he might not get up.

Case in point....

He's walking back to his house when he spots Ari, lying there on the ground. He pauses for a moment, unsure of what to do, before giving her a tiny little nudge with his foot. ]

Oi. You dead?

[ He thinks he hears her groaning but honestly, he's not 100% sure. He hasn't trusted his senses lately. ]

[The first thing she does is raise a hand. Not by much, but a distinct, immediate motion. Proof of life as fast as she can give it, before he decides to walk away from a seeming corpse. From there, she pushes herself up onto her elbows, raising her head to reveal her cold-reddened features. It feels like it takes forever.

She's not dead. She's not going to die. As long as she holds to that, she'll be fine.]

I'm alive. All nominal.

[The second part isn't even a good lie, but she doesn't think she's physically injured. The bloodied knee is too minor to count. There's no reason for her to be unable to stand - and yet when she tries once again, her arms shake with the effort. It's a catastrophic sort of weakness.]

Help me up, won't you?

[And that's a display of said weakness, but she doesn't really have another option. Tayrey will have to trust him to assist her. It'll be easier once she's on her feet again, she tells herself.]

[ Hickey lets out a sigh of relief as he hears Ari talk. It’s not because he’s thankful she’s alive or anything like that. It’s simply because he’s always a little bit paranoid that the wrong person will walk by at the wrong time, spot him over a body, and jump to their own assumptions. This body is alive, thank you very much, no murder here.

As for the request…. ]

Yeah, I’ve got you, [ Hickey says, as he extends an arm for Ari to grab. Noticeably, all of his movements are slow, deliberate, someone not wanting to extend more effort than he can. He is also a little weak and exhausted and also doesn’t want to show it. ]

Grab on.

1. Bonne nuit!

cw: hallucinations, murder, nightmares, vampire drama

Louis prowls in the dark when no one else will. He is the night. Lack of sunlight doesn't bother him. But lack of any powers does, vampire or otherwise. He can't hunt or even set traps reliably. He is afflicted with his own brand of hunger that has nothing to do with the Darkwalker despite the lurid emerald of his eyes. The Darkwalker's voice taunts him, and even the shade of Lestat that he sometimes sees is quiet.

He sleeps fitfully in his coffin, if he sleeps at all. It's one night too many, and he jolts upright, flinging himself out of the coffin under the floor of the general store's back room. He staggers outside, a handsome man thinned by hunger and made uncanny by pupils blowing his irises nearly to black.

"I-I killed him. He's gone. Look there, don't you see him...?"

Louis's pajamas are spotless and there is no corpse lying still with blond hair fanned out. Just Louis clutching his cane knife, wild-eyed and freezing down to his socks in the snow.

2. C'est fermé

cw: depression, suicidal ideation

In the rare quiet moments when Louis can get a moment's peace, "Lestat" only murmurs about the end of the world. Give it up, mon cher. What a strange thing for him to say. He's always said the opposite. Live life to the fullest, even if they are undead. Banish the sorrow. He would have their rooms on Rue Royale blazing with lights to chase away the gloom. He would call the deaths of the Forest Talkers last month a terrible waste (of blood).

Louis hangs a CLOSED sign on the door of Marché du Lac. It bodes ill. He doesn't know what comes next, but every night Louis wakes up feeling like he's trapped. It's the old song and dance to him.

"No point keepin' a General Store open when there's no stock."

He's so tired.

A year or so ago, Shaw erroneously (but, from her perspective, understandably) accused this guy of burning down a house. Now here he is again, stumbling up to her and confessing to murder. Things really aren't going great for these two.

But Shaw isn't law enforcement, there's no one around who's in immediate danger from this guy, and she also is in poor physical and mental shape (aren't they all?) - and so the end result of all this is that she just... blinks groggily at him, and looks. Sees nothing. Looks again, just to be sure.

"You're gonna get frostbite," she slurs, staring down at his stocking feet.

If Louis's sins were laid bare in a court of law, not to mention the Church, he would be damned many times over. That's what his Catholic guilt tells him. On his kinder days, Lestat would tell him that he has a spirit for seeking that which is better. He wants to be a better man, find deeper truths, a sense of purpose. This is what he tells himself when he helps with the greenhouse Chloe left behind despite not directly benefiting from food humans eat. Sometimes he doesn't even have to tell himself.

It takes him a moment to recognize her. Another Interloper, someone he met in town... The fire. The fire to his own house he did not set. The next year, Louis did set fire to his lover's house when the Aurora took him--for closure, he thinks. He's not entirely sure himself. Rorschach was the only witness and saw to it that Louis didn't catch fire himself.

He should kill her to protect his secret. He feels distressed enough to.

"Please help me. He's the only one I ever..." Loved? Truly felt like he murdered? The knife slips from his hand and falls uselessly into the snow.

"I can't. You know that. If he really is dead, he's dead."

For far too long a moment, she just looks at the knife in the snow - and then belatedly, sluggishly, she reaches out to take it. There's no immediate intention to use it, but a weapon is a weapon, and even a vastly diminished Shaw recognizes that.

"Can you..." She looks again to where he'd pointed, but still sees nothing. "Can you show me the body."

"That's mine..." he murmurs half-heartedly. He has more important things to worry about. If she comes at him with his knife, he can just bite her dead. He also doesn't know if he can bring himself to pick up the murder weapon.

Is Lestat really dead? He's pretty dead, Louis tells himself he's dead, he knows all the ways a vampire can die. But he also knows that a vampire can be incinerated just to make sure. If this human would just feed Lestat a little of her blood, maybe...

He forgets why his feet are hurting. He stumbles to the doorway of his General Store and kneels on the threshold. He gently touches what he thinks is Lestat's hand. He can barely look at his face, blue-gray eyes having already rolled upward and the whites dimming. The bones protrude in his cheeks and the skin is turning more translucent and ashen. He's shriveling up before his eyes.

Louis lets out a tortured cry. He clutches the air where he thinks there is a body.

She takes the knife despite his protestations, but she doesn't do anything but hold it, her fingers curled tight around the handle as she watches him make his way back to the store. Out of the snow, she thinks, dimly. Good. That'll help his feet.

The display of grief before her is at once familiar and unfamiliar. She's seen it before, time after time throughout her life - but no matter how hard she's tried, or wanted, or raged, she's never been able to feel it herself. Not out of sympathy, when the pain is right there in front of her, and not when it's her own and the pain should be issuing out from within her. She's just cold.

And he must be, too, even if he's too out of his mind to realize it. So she tromps towards him and makes to grab for his arm, intending to pull him inside the shelter of the building.

Marché du Lac, closed. Timothy's first and only part-time employment. He's not a religious man. He prays under his breath he never is subjected to The Suck of retail every again.

It's a silly waste of breath, his lungs feels impossibly rigid and brittle in this place. But Tim's trucking forward, his eyes wide in both relief and wonder because it's the man- the vampire- he's really been hurting for. Only a few days back in this rotting and weak world, and Tim's already losing coordination (again). In one step, he's almost stumbling down to the snow. But the heavy boots he's brought with him this time have better traction on the ice.

"Good," he snaps. He didn't mean to. But words and breath and time are precious. His next words are more cautious. Genuine. Less endlessly restless. "We should be getting everybody to one location anyway. We know nobody makes it out of here alive alone."

Louis turns sharply, the first time he's moved with any quickness tonight.

"Tim, what the hell? Where were you?"

He was out his best employee! That's what he should be saying. But vampirism gives Louis either a strange detachment from the people of the world or a clinginess to them. He's lost so many. He thought Tim was another one gone.

"Please tell me you're real," he breathes in his own kind of prayer.

He's not going to admit to seeing Lestat's shade muttering about the end of the world, but it's a near thing.

It makes Tim have to force himself still- he nearly startles, though there's a satisfaction to his dumb features despite himself. There's also a heartache; that is easiest of all to mask. He spreads his hands- palms up and forward, a part of him wishing he'll be tackled in some embrace the way Dick would tackle him, if he was here. It's startling, again, to think he's that familiar with Louis now that he's defaulting to thinking of his brother.

"Present," he recites like he's been called on by Teacher. He steps forward, drawn by energy and hunger and uhmm

guilt?

is it guilt?

"I went home." His voice says clearly. It sounds too simple. It's true, though. "And now I'm back. Just like I told Kate I would be. I couldn't just leave you guys."

Occasionally, especially when Tim was at his brattiest, Louis would remember his own brother. It was long enough ago that it seems like it was from another man's life. He died when Louis was still human. Paul was touched in the head, believed himself something of a saint or seer, and they had the occasional scuffle... he was difficult, but he was not a burden. Louis enjoyed when he could have a lucid conversation with him on the way to church. He misses being an older brother and spoiling Paul and Grace.

Louis stares at Tim's palms like he'll find stigmata there. What in all the hells.

"You come back of your own free will, or...?"

Just. Making sure. Then he breaks his own spell and does try to pull the approaching Tim into a hug.

"Been a shit month," is all he murmurs.

It all seems... flat: the stale air regurgitated throughout the cursed town, the sentimentality of reunion, even though the current of affection runs marrow-deep through Tim. Which is to say that he's stepping into the embrace, arms up to envelop the shoulders of the man and hold him closer than he's held anyone in a good, good while, and there's a painful lightness in his chest.

He's missed this, even if the gesture is a first.

Tim swallows and the air is stale and everything around them is rotting. Everything but them, and what makes them human. Being human, and hurting in relief, overpowers the hunger of being so near a foodsource: the Darkwalker’s curse can small powers in Louis.

All Tim cares about is making sure the man is real and true. And he is. So he confesses, "I don't know how I came back. But I'm sorry I was gone."

It's awful how human a vampire can feel. He is just a human monster, a man who has taken so many lives to sustain his own. In a terrible irony, Louis is chock full of Aurora powers and can't feed off them the way Tim can.

"You couldn't control it, then," Louis confirms. "Nothin' to be sorry about. But unfortunately I can't give you your job back."

A little humor. His lips quirk slightly upward. What's suffering without a little levity, even if Louis tends more towards bitterness. He releases Tim and steps back to more properly assess him for changes.

He never did learn how to open up that stupid olde timey cash register, anyway. Tim huffs, the joke not that great but the effort appreciated. As they pull apart he doesn't fuss, just holds himself still. Even raises his arms a little as if to say- look! he's in one piece!

(He may still have marks of his time here, like a the smallest of lip scars and a persistent discomfort to his right arm, but he's fuller than before- no longer starving. The get-up that's beneath his coats only helps the illusion that Tim is, shockingly, actually a fit and proper young man.)

"Where are you going to be staying, Mr. L?" He asks, thinking to the fog and how it turns everything putrid. Except for the spirits of the Interlopers. "Come to the Community Center. I'll be there. We can help each other better if we don't need to expose ourselves to danger just to check in."

--1. Hardship (same prompts can also include Torment if you prefer!) // cw: blood, possible violence

a) [ It's not entirely unlike he'd felt when he first arrived to this snowy wasteland. Weaker. This time it's worse, though. It wraps around his core, makes him stumble and falter where he normally wouldn't. Makes it harder to carry the same amount of things, to pull apart people when there's a fight. Even when pushing himself, he seems to cover less ground in the same time, forcing his increasingly unsuccessful hunts to end closer and closer to town proper. Still, he does his best to stay useful. Still tries, despite more and more traps turning up empty. ]

[ It might be easier if someone is there with him, of course, though it hardly seems to change the outcome. ]

b) [ When back at the community center, he can be found repainting the protection runes around the building and their dwindling food storage, it clearly taking more effort than it normally should. His hands are just steady enough to get the runes' shape right enough to work, but he's looking like shit, and yet he seems pretty adamant about not asking anybody else for blood and just using his own. ]

[ How long can he keep that up? ]

c) [ There's something that can make him pause in his work, though, and that's any sort of commotion that sounds like a struggle, or someone losing it, or someone trying to force their way toward the storage past whoever might be guarding it at the moment. As ever, he seems to just appear behind the squabbling people, though his presence feels less, now; missing that sort of quiet strength that seems to have been replaced almost entirely by tiredness. ]

What's going on here?

--2. Sorrow // cw: hallucinations, possible violence

[ Levi has always had trouble sleeping, and this place has done nothing to fix that. So as sleep grows more and more scarce for everyone, he just... stops entirely. ]

[ It's not great. ]

[ Maybe you happen to wake up or go check on something at an odd hour -- and sure enough, you might run into him perching on a chair or a windowpane, wide awake, looking much like a ghost in the faint light from the fireplace. There's a sort of an unhealthy shine to his eyes, the circles under darker than usual, looking almost like he'd died and been strung back up to life by some sort of creepy magic. The way he moves, staggering, stiff yet oddly sudden, as if pulled by a string, does little to challenge that illusion. ]

Stop. [ His voice sounds broken, yet he's looking past you as he extends his hand. ] Where are you going? I promised.

[ (It might be a good idea to just knock him out and deal with him complaining about the nightmares later. It may after all be possible for sleep deprivation to eventually kill him.) ]

--3. Ruin // cw: suicidal ideation

[ It might look like he's sleepwalking -- the backpack he usually carries everywhere has been left behind, though at least he does have a coat on as he slowly but steadily makes his way down the main street, toward the edge of the town. ]

[ It becomes clear he's not when he stops and leans down to softly pet the snout and ears of a wolfdog padding uncertainly after him. ]

No, Ulfrùn. I told you to stay.

[ He points back, toward the community center, and she takes a few steps in that direction, but as soon as he turns away and starts walking again, she stops and turns as well, apparently torn between curling up back in the relative warmth and leaving the human that's been her new caretaker for a couple months now. She barks. ]

[ He doesn't stop. ]

--4. Wildcard

[ Feel free to hit me up with something else! Plotting comment here. ]

Edited 2026-04-02 01:15 (UTC)

Stage 3 - despair

With his weak body and the lack of sleep, Frodo has spent even less time outside his new lodgings. He's spent most of his time in bed, turning the Ring over and over in his hands, cowering from shadows that look like Ringwraiths and flashes of the ever watching Great Eye. They aren't here. They can't be here.

What finally brings him back out is the food. When he manages to throw together an almost hearty stew but finds no joy in it at all, instead feels sick with it, he takes the pot and returns to the Community Hall.

Togetherness is what has saved him in the past. It is what must save him again, what must save them, he's sure of it. It's so difficult to remember. But if food alone does not bring any sort of joy or relief, the best cure for it is to share it with others.

If he sees anyone on the way to the Hell, he will encourage them to join him, and once he gets there, he will put his stew over the fire and offer a small serving to anyone who enters.

"Here. Come sit with me."

Stage 5 - Ruin

For the remainder of March, he stubbornly keeps that ritual going. It's very difficult to make good food, but with this cold and this hunger, even plain stew or soup will do. It helps keep his spirits up, even when he spills a whole pot of it and the pain keeps him in bed almost until evening (not that it matters).

Until the one who joins him at the hearth isn't an Interloper, but Gandalf. Who Frodo knows shouldn't be here, couldn't possibly be here, and he immediately tells himself it must be another trick from the Darkwalker. But there is so much warmth in the gaze Gandalf turns to him, and it twists in his chest until he can't quite seem to breathe. The wizard's voice is part of what has kept him going this month, his encouragement to do what he can with the time that he's been given, as hard as that's been.

"I'm sorry, my dear Frodo. The end is coming. There is no stopping it."

Frodo shakes his head, and closes his eyes with a breath. It's not real. Gandalf wouldn't say that.

Unless that's actually true. Maybe there is no stopping this.

"You can choose how it ends. There is no need to stay and suffer any longer. Death is nothing to fear."

C. Wildcard

[ Feel free to run into him out and about in Milton or even occasionally in the wild to try to find any food, as well as in the Community Hall, during the second half of March. He's trying so hard.

Plotting comment here and lmao I'm so late. ]

Edited 2026-04-05 09:20 (UTC)

Adam knows death - he knows death quite intimately - but this, what's happening to him, what's happening around him is different. He has wanted to succumb to despair in the past, back when death was elusive to him, and as his body betrays him now, the temptation crosses his mind. He knows death will be quiet, will bring the nothingness he longs for, and it seems to whisper to him on the wind the longer he sits in his frozen home.

So he walks into town instead, walks towards others, even as his very stomach and muscles protest his movement. He cannot be alone a moment longer, so when he opens the door to the large Hall, he's immediately relieved at the sight of a familiar face.

"Thank you." He sits on a bench with a resounding thump, but does not take the offered stew. "My... stomach has been acting oddly, as of late."

A thump that Frodo can practically feel from his seat too, but he doesn't say anything about it. He also doesn't pull his offered bowl back just yet.

"Mine, as well," he says gently. "Not eating is usually not the cure. You should at least try some of the broth."

Miserable. He's miserable, and turning into a wolf doesn't even help. Because he can't turn into a wolf. There was a moment of despair ontop of the everyday kind of desperation and all Tim managed to do in that gas station bathroom is strain himself to dry-heaving, his body still his human form only stripped bare and shuddering violently. Determined to make the only violence he suffers this morning that of his own idiot making, Tim quickly redressed and called it quits-- maybe he isn't meant to pursue a life as a wolf anymore. It's distressing, because his bones remember feeling closer than ever to finding a place within a pack. But God, it just wouldn't be worth it.

Tim is miserable and hollow. There's a hunger.

It's different to the Darkwalker's power in him (which is, surely not coincidentally, still pulling him, calling to him, alive within him) and different to the starvation of months (or just days) before. His stomach just feels wrong.

Tim searches the stash he remembers having squirreled away. There's nothing that'll help settle the wrongness in his gut.

So he does what he should have from the first day, when he swears some sixth sense told him to look for... Pack. For safety. For family. Right now, with dread pooling and mixing with acid, Tim figures he needs some reassurance that it'll be... okay. In the end. Because he is not alone. (Stupid, stupid Bruce--)

Tim has a fuzzy memory of Jason's old haunts. He also has faded ideas of where else the guy could be found: places of friends, places of interest. With Red Robin's garb under the outerwear and furs, Tim is equipped better than some in trudging through the endless dark of Milton. But he'll lazily clutch his stomach as he floats from this cabin to the next; this isn't a game. Jason Todd, dammit, "Come on... where are you..?" (It wasn't just his imagination, was it? Deluding him, so easily convincing him of a crazy theory, telling him with certainty that he wasn't alone when, in fact... no. No. Please, no. Jason is here. Somewhere. Tim knows it. Just don't ask him how he knows.)

He's been back around for some time.

There's been a run-in with Wynonna, Bigby, and the knowledge that most of those that Jason had known before are just gone. He told Bigby he's shit at settling in, and that's part of the reason: everywhere he goes, he ends up fucked up and left behind. There's no point in settling if one knows they're always going to end up alone in the end regardless. No point in giving people a way to find him if the only people who will are ones he doesn't want to be bothered by.

So Jason doesn't settle, but he visits. Stops by Bigby's place to bother him on occasion, and uses a few of the empty but still relatively well put together cabins intermittently. It gets worse with time: he loses the ability to shift forms. His already reduced stamina becomes even worse. He doesn't sleep much already, but now every brief period of time when he can close his eyes is accompanied by nightmares that don't fade when he opens his eyes. His body is exhausted. Tired. Ill. His body hurts in ways it never has, and Jason - can't wander much anymore.

He's too tired. Everything hurts too much. Even his stubborn will can't keep him moving through this, and so he just - stops trying. The last cabin he'd stayed at was mostly empty, yeah, and it certainly hadn't been his plan to stay there long-term. But at some point he lays down on the floor and just - stays there. It could have been hours or days, Jason wouldn't know, but the door opens and the idiot stepping through looks - actually a little better off than the last time Jason saw him, he supposes.

His eyes narrow into a squint, but his hands don't move from where they've settled on his abdomen.

"If you're here to kill me, jus' do it quick." It's probably another hallucination, that'd explain how Tim isn't as scrawny as he once was. "And close the door, it's fucking freezing."

"Wow. You're worse off than I am," he hears himself breathe out with a touch of disjointed awe that can only come from this bewildering circumstance. His eyes haven't even fully adjusted to the dark of indoors, the green tint of evil light effectively shut out of the cabin itself much like the bite of cold should be. Tim shuts the door dutifully behind him, his ears tuned to the voice he knows so well here and back home; that he found his target at all is replacing swimming dread with giddiness.

That's the Darkwalker’s doing. (Not that he isn't glad to see this jerk, now that Tim's blinked and he can see the form: a brick shithouse of a man, laying on the floor, impersonating something helpless while being anything but.) Tim knows it because he's stepping forward without checking for traps, only vaguely hoping he doesn't end up with a broken leg somewhere between the first and fourth step he takes towards the body of his brother. He feels it. The warmth of promise and sustenance, and Tim has felt the gnawing expectation of a feast before but it's never been so strong. He wills himself to stop, eyes searching for injury on Jason goddamn Todd and all Tim is rewarded with is an annoying, blurring film in front of his eyes. His hand remains stubborn around his middle.

Like his guts will spill out if he lets himself go.

Red Robin's boots don't dare poke at Red Hood's side. Tim isn't that delirious yet.

His voice is tighter, more schooled, and every bit as nagging as intended, "You should be at the Community Center. Do you know how much easier everything would be if everyone quit-- pretending they're lone wolves all the damn time? Are you oka- here, I'm going to help you up."

It's the voice that confirms it for Jason - that this isn't another hallucination brought about by an extreme lack of sleep and whatever the hell else is going on. Why? Because an hallucination of Timothy Drake wouldn't be nagging him; his words would be cruelly unkind, intentionally voiced to dig at Jason in the worst possible method Tim could come up with.

Somehow managing to be even more cruel than Jason would have suspected Tim could have been, but in that odd way where it feels even worse than what he's sure his own head could've come up with. Like the Darkwalker's pulling at threads Jason didn't think existed until he heard it.

But he isn't injured. There are no fresh bruises, nothing that looks bent out of shape, nothing about him physically that could place why Jason's down on the ground and refusing to move. It's the ache that's settled in his bones, the way he feels like he's falling apart even though rationally he knows he's done nothing to end up in pieces. It's all in his head in the same way the nightmares and hallucinations had been. But rationalizing it to himself repetitively doesn't do anything for him; he's still down, rolling over onto his side with a groan in response to the nagging.

"Who said I was pretending?" But now that he's a little more coherent, he's - putting together some of the missing pieces. "When did you get back?"

"I'm going to help you up," Tim repeats. More clinical, more S.O.P. and it's like the missing piece of the puzzle is finally allowed to be held in his hands instead of disintegrating if he'd so much as reach for it. Robin (Red, in this case) isn't magical. Tim Drake knows this. Logically. But damn, he should absolutely be aware (he is) and concerned (he is) of the shifting headspace the weight of kevlar core and sight of spiked gauntlets offers him residence in. Tim knows his guts won't spill out if he lets go of his middle to crouch smoothly besides the Red Hood- both because his brother is no threat, and because he's far too energized to be suffering from whatever is ailing Jason.

Because some curse has fallen on Jason- the man would never be caught dead in such a vulnerable position. The thought- uninvited, intrusive, and every bit as grotesque as a reader can imagine that comes after that particular turn of phrase- makes Tim grunt in revulsion.

(Because he has one gloved hand on Jason's shoulder, something for the guy to lean against and make an effort to right himself, if able, so as to not suffer the imagined indignity of being helped by a twerp. And Tim feels... something stirring deep where the hunger is born, somewhere dark and evil. The thing in Tim's inner soul is tinged in green and it can smell a feast radiating from the warm, still living body. It's such a shame it's still liv--)

"I got here a few days ago." Tim answers. If Jason hasn't righted himself to sitting by now, then he's got no choice but to hoist the other up to the position.

He decides to point out the obvious, to fish for a reaction that'll be just offputting enough. "You were gone. How I was supposed to know you were rotting away in here all alone? Everything here is rotting. I almost can't believe it got worse. How long have you been here?"

Explains why Jason hadn't noticed him, he supposes. Jason hasn't gone much of anywhere in the last several days, between the uncomfortable sensation settling in his gut and now this, he hasn't had much energy for it. He wonders if anyone else he's been missing has come back - if Sansa, March, Damian, or Bruce have shown back up. Not that he wishes they had - this place is unpleasant enough as it is, and they're probably better off wherever the hell they are. If they aren't dead. Not that he wants to stop and focus on that too much regardless; they could be dead, buried under layers of ice and snow just waiting for someone to come around and find them while Jason simply - hasn't.

There's a hand on his shoulder and it pulls him out of his thoughts with a displeased groan, but he's not swatting Tim away either. When he pushes, Jason takes initiative to start pulling himself up so Tim isn't shoving all his weight by himself.

Just most of it, because as soon as Jason's half upright, he's slouching forward right onto Tim.

"I 'unno. What day is it?"

He keeps track usually, yeah, but he's been - a little dead lately. More dead than usual, if not as dead as he historically has been. Ha.

'Here', as in, rotting in this rotting cabin. But that's on Tim for being unspecific, and despite the insistence of his busy mind to know when Jason got spirited away back to this endless winter, the soldier in him can acknowledge and respect that the timekeeping is next to useless. What day is it.? Tim hadn't trusted a calendar since his first week, his first time here.

Hauling an out-of-it Red Hood to a quasi-manageable position is taxing even for Tim's odd energy reserves. He growls something like a curse under his breath (without being explicit about it- a Tim is a Tim is a Tim) and he knows it'll be impossible to drag the man across town to the still-warm haven of the Center. It means this is their hideaway until further notice- and that favors will be repaid.

"Okay, when's the last time you ate?" Tim presses, because that's useful to know. Even the ugly thing is him wants to know about the appetizing, appealing something in Jason that Tim wants to take. Wants to know if Tim can have a larger banquet, a more filling feast, if only fattens up the vessel first.

(Tim is willing to acquiesce with It that it's a worthwhile question, experiment, endeavor. An empty stomach that's keen to eat itself is good to no one.)

He could put in a little more effort into pulling himself upright, Jason supposes. He feels tired, exhausted in ways that are difficult to explain because he knows it isn't natural at all, but it's - he's still Jason Todd, and it would take a lot more than this to keep him down permanently. But while he could put in the effort, Tim is insisting on shoving him upright, and Jason doesn't feel like putting all that much energy into helping him. If Tim wants him off the ground, it's Tim's responsibility to get him there.

There's a quiet, irritated grunt when he settles into a sitting position on the floor - and for a moment, Jason considers just letting himself fall over again just to be an asshole. But he doesn't. He stays upright, weight leaning against Tim just enough to keep him balanced and - takes a moment to consider the question poised to him, because.

"It hasn't been too long." He's making an effort to be a little more coherent, now. Tim's got him up, he's clearly determined for reasons Jason couldn't understand, so he may as well do his best to along with it. One hand raises, patting along the pockets of his jacket in search of something. It takes him a few moments, but he pulls out the wrapper of some expired bar he'd found at some point. "Ate this before I took a nap."

Jason sounds less half-dead, which isn't only a marked improvement; it signals hope. Tim doesn't dwell on the sentiment, on how he can only conjure up the warmth of his blood coursing through his veins when he has a second Name to lean on. (If Jason is less dead, then the world itself has a chance. That's why he's here, that's what Tim and Red Robin alike must fight for.)

He shakes his head in equal parts dismay and awe.

"Well you're going to be eating something else," he insists, already bracing against the cold as he risks peeling away from Jason's upright body. "The Center has some broth. I'll bring you some. And we'll warm it up over a fire. Okay?"

His nap has been interrupted and there's no chances of him going back to it now. Tim's determined to keep Jason conscious and coherent, which means Jason has to put more of an effort into being that. If they were back home, he wouldn't bother. He's allowed to flatten himself into the ground and pretend to be dead if he wants to, thanks, but here? They're all running low on support systems, and he knows he's - the only other one from back home that Tim's got here, unless he's stashing someone away somewhere.

It leaves Jason with a sense of responsibility that he both hates and appreciates all at the same time.

His eyes are half-lidded, but it's obvious enough he's focusing on Tim even as he moves to stand himself up. Jason presses a hand against the ground, slouching forward and resting a good amount of his weight in against his palm. Not falling over, but not committing to relying on his spine to keep up up either.

"You look like you're in better shape." He's acting like it, too. Less dead on his feet, more full of a Robin-y light. "'least that makes one of us."

Watching Jason make to stand is like holding his breath while watching a big oak about to keel over. Tim doesn't move to help- not because he doesn't feel the need to or obligation, but because his life relies on collecting information. Can Jason stand on his own? Is his body so weak that this simple task is too much, or is the illness only in his spirit, his mind? Pressed by the need to know first, Tim only hovers.

He's here to lean on (or more likely, break the fall) if it comes to it.

He also doesn't quite know how to reply to the observation of the other. Thanks? No, of course not- but if Jason had already been here 'a while', then no wonder he looks like such crap. No, of course he's not saying that aloud either.

"It's a wonder what a few days of Gotham pollution will do to a person," he remarks dryly.

It's very Narnian- leave for a few days, return to find months have passed in your absence.

"Do you need help, or do you think I can meet you in the kitchen in ten?"

Independence: something fiercely guarded by all young springbirds.

"I got it."

He says, but he's - struggling a little bit. Jason couldn't place if it's more mental than physical, just that every joint is killing him. Every flex of his fingers hurts, every time he pushes his weight up a little more something in him aches. Well, everything aches, and he can't place what ache is worse than the other ache but it's fine. Jason's been through worse. Felt worse. Died once. So this? This is nothing.

Weight down against his palm, Jason gets himself up onto his knees with a grunt, then pushes up from there all the way onto his feet. It's slow-going, worse than Bruce after a rough day in the field, but he does manage to get himself upright - even if he has to spread his legs out a little to keep himself balanced.

Edited 2026-04-28 16:55 (UTC)

Jason... does 'got it', in the end. Tim stays long enough to catch the gist: to see the whole man ambulating and maneuvering like a machine that's been left to rust in salty air. There's no deep gash. No dried blood. No clothes clinging to wet, sour and cold sweat.

Placated, Tim dips from the cabin with that restless, comparatively boundless energy. Like there's a pep in his step.

Because of that, he's ransacking the Center and back again in what's got to be a record time- though he feels like this is one empty checkpoint in the marathon he didn't sign up to complete. He's tucked a smaller Tupperware under an arm and pushes open the door to the home anyway. His mask keeps frost out of his eyelashes and the apples of his cheeks but Tim still needs to gasp in response to the lack of windbite indoors.

"I found matches," he calls to the inside where Jason must be (there's no way the jackass up and... left. Right? Of course not, not if Tim had promised to be useful). "I'll warm up the broth first then I'll go to see you. You still alive?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

don't lie, I know we're fixing to die.

Cornelius Hickey | The Terror | ota!

despair

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Lt. Ari Tayrey | Original | OTA

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Louis de Pointe du Lac

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2

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Levi Ackerman // Attack On Titan // OTA!

Frodo Baggins // Lord of the Rings

stage 3

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for Jason:

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