OPEN | prompt one | RAIN

[wrens]

prompt one | R A I N I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain - and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane.

 

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amelia sahin (kookaburra) | CONSTANTINOPLE | pre-Event

[extortion]

[ There's not much room left beneath the awnings that line the busy shop center so instead of trying to push and pry her way through the crowds, Amelia (Kookaburra to her associates, those in the know) is standing on a street corner instead, doing what little she can to shield her head with a splayed-out bit of soppy newspaper. It's not really doing a very good job, though.

God, she could really use a smoke. ]

[fibbed]

[ There's footfalls, then the shift of a hand through the air and the pavement is suddenly colored orange. To her left, just-outside of the awning stands Marcus, said orange-sherbert colored umbrella clutched in his right. Maybe he doesn't have any cancer-sticks to offer but he does have a cheeky wink and a broad smile, tipping his head as if to say go on, there's plenty of space for both of us.

You can stand under my umbrella and all that jazz. ]

Wotcher, Kookiebird.

[wastenot]

[ Patrick usually likes being settled in the midsts of a crowd, but the lunchtime rush is a bit more of a herd. Stepping out of the shop just in time to meet the wave of hungry eyes, he unfurls his umbrella into the faces of those who huddle at the edges of the payment, using it as a battering ram of sorts to make way down the sidewalk. He apologizes, of course, but he doesn't stop, shaking the stings of annoyance off his shoulders like a bird ruffling its feathers.

He's not all that eager to drive in this weather as much as he is to get to his car. Maybe he'll call in late and take his lunch in there. He doubts the family in today wants to watch their overpriced hole in the earth spill mud all over the fresh casket they just bought - it really is all about the presentation.

There's a woman at the corner of the street, hiding under a sheaf of paper that is quickly soaking through. One could make a decent analogy out of that. Patrick isn't a poet, nor does he consider himself much a gentleman, but a damsel in distress is worthy, at least, of a passing attention. He's tall, taller than her, at least. As he steps closer to the curb, he sidles up beside her and sweeps the long, black canvas of his umbrella over her head like the shadow of a wide wing. ]

You look like you could use a friend.

[ He'll joke, low with a mild curl to his lips. ]

betina bechkenbauer | CONSTANTINOPLE | pre-Event

[indiscretion]

[ Betina likes guests. Guests means being able to entertain, to pour over the contents of her rather impressive wine cellar and mull over which bottle (vintage, stamp, year) will best suit the visitor in question. Their mood, her mood, something tannic or peaty or lush to smooth conversation along — it's a bit of delightful alchemy, really.

In the end she chooses a white, something floral and bright to combat the rain that spatters against the wide panorama of windows that wrap along one side of her apartment. Her heels click across the hardwood floors as she goes searching for a corkscrew. ]

I imagine trying to flag a ride in this weather was awful, [ she says conversationally. ]

[ins]

[ He shouldn't be here.

Then again, there isn't anywhere that he really is supposed to be. Hollis Frost isn't a man that most look upon kindly and there are many who would gladly have his hide. (She wouldn't mind having him skinned, either, he imagines, but they have yet to get to that stage.

Part of him — most of him — is glad of that.) ]

If I had had to flag a ride, [ is how he elects to respond, keeping his hands tucked in his pockets as he looks about the apartment. ] Then, yes, I wouldn't hesitate to say it wouldn't have been the most pleasant experience.

Rain makes for quite the view, though.

mason | OPEN | post-Event

[woke]

[ Mason can't remember the last time it rained — properly rained. The atmosphere since the Event has been in a perpetual state of royally fucked which is bad for reservoirs in general but good for him, since he scrapes an existence together by knowing where else the water is. It makes him more of a commodity, less of a target, no longer kill on sight when it comes to his contacts.

Still, occasional rain is always good. If anything, it gives people hope. (Or, on second thought, perhaps that's a bad thing.) In the distance dark clouds are forming and the sky rumbles with far-off thunder. Mason winces out an expression which is probably a smile as he looks away from the business at hand to duck his head low and look off, as if trying to read those storm clouds. ]

Finally.

william owens; CONSTANTINOPLE | pre-event

[ex_equanimities805]

[ the rain keeps most people off the streets, thins the crowd and makes it easier to stroll along sidewalks unchecked. william enjoys empty streets, even if these come with rain soaking through his jacket and dousing his cigarettes. he doesn't seem to be in any particular hurry as he walks down the street with his shoulders hunched against the deluge and a cheerily whistled tune on his lips. ]

[faceforhire]

[ Most people are not Gabriel, who seems to run on smoke rather than oxygen and has set off the sprinkler system on the boys for the last time. He's standing beneath the double-doored entrance to a nightclub, barely sheltered by the overhang and the one lamp arching over the place. Even the bouncer's had better sense to censor the incoming patrons inside.

Gabe watches William swagger along. He exhales a slow stream of smoke and joins the whistled tune. ]

ALEXANDRIA | post-Event

[reactive]

[ Rain falls so rarely these days that it's something of an event (lower-case) when it does. Harcivk's basement complex doesn't have windows, obviously but on evenings like these when the clouds have rolled in thickly, he can take his dinner (an energy bar and his ration of water) up to the covered back porch and watch the rain and it's almost like what the family that used to own this house might have imagined their rainy evenings would be like.

The rain used to come down black, wet fallout full of ash. It's still pretty acidic these days, but he sends people off to gather basins of the stuff anyway whenever it comes down, thinking vaguely that he might be able to do something with it eventually. Their signal lights flash off and on in the night now and then as he chews. ]

[shivs]

[ She's not tasked with keeping on eye on Harvick's person, but that doesn't keep Baby Jane from doing it anyway when there's nothing else for her to do. Finding him is easily enough, though he's not in any of his usual haunts this time of night. When she steals up behind him, it's on silent feet, the door barely making a soft click shut behind her.

It's not as though she's sneaking on purpose, Baby Jane just doesn't know how else to operate. It's either slinking about on soft, muted paws or all out — teeth, nails, the lot. She's not a girl raised by wolves, but a girl raised by the Event. Arguably, the later's much more fierce.

She says nothing. ]

mother charlotte | CAMP | post-Event

[motherlands]

[ They eat together like a family because that's what Mother Charlotte says and Mother Charlotte knows best. Many that follow her like the routine of it — order and security in a world that has little. Everyone sits around a sheet spread out on the ground, made to look like something out of the Last Supper, the meal's meager holdings parsed out equally between the members of the camp. (Lend Mother Charlotte your fight and your fury, and she will provide.)

Afterwards, people are left to disperse, some of the others staying behind to clean and salvage what needs and can be. Mother Charlotte ambles off, but not far, her attention turned outwards as she stands at the mouth of the shelter. A warm wind blows in from the South.

She doesn't turn at the sound of footsteps; what she says should be heard by any and all. ]

A flood is coming. Soon, now. Soon. [ Absently she rubs at her arms. ] It'll purge what's left of them, I know it.

[eyeshined]

[He eats with the others, but separate, always on the edges looking in, though it's never a matter of longing. He isn't there for family, for order or even security. He's there for strength and for interest, and if either of those wane, he'll be gone.

His interest still sticks on Mother Charlotte for now, though, and while everyone else is cleaning up, he's following her, quiet despite his size.]

Just looks like a shower to me.

[It's possible - probable - that he's mocking her, evident in the low, lazy tone of his voice.]

noah miller; CONSTANTINOPLE | pre-event

[aynasiz]

[ noah's umbrella is inside-out.

it's happened twice on the walk home, so now he waits in a doorway for the rain to let up while he contemplates just saying "fuck it," and throwing his piece of shit umbrella in the nearest trashcan and continuing on his way without it. he is on a schedule, of course, but he'd rather not show up to the appointment in question looking like a drowned rat. one looses a fair amount of intimidation when they're dripping all over the carpet.

five minutes. he'll give it five minutes, and then he'll make a break for it. ]

[iou]

[ From bad to worse, just as he's about to make a break for it, Noah's phone begins to ring in his pocket. The number of the caller is blocked, though the connection does override the default screen settings of his mobile to alert him that it's coming from the Office.

Which means only one thing: higher clearance is calling. ]

tobias "kid" addison | CAMP | post-Event

[shaped]

[ Kid, the name he’s come to associate with himself, has been staring at the rain for more than an hour, fascinated in a way that makes him look far younger than he really is.

He can vaguely remember a time where he knew what rain looked like decorating a window, clinging to glass like little jewels. It feels distant, that memory, almost like it’s never really been his, but he holds onto it for a moment longer before returning his attention to the various beakers and buckets and bottles all turned up towards the clouds.

He’s supposed to be making sure that he switches them over once they’re full, and the last thing he wants is to disappoint Mother Charlotte. Forcing himself down onto a knee, the ground an uncomfortable, painful push back to the present, Kid gently slips his fingers around a colored bottle, eyes peering into its open top to check the level of water. ]

[dogmas]

[ A voice comes from somewhere behind him. ]

A while longer on that one, I reckon, [ it says, its tone something of a sashay, the way it dips and sways like the line of a song only she's not singing, she's speaking. Madchen's been around for as long as Kid has been (longer) and much like him, she was on hard times when she and her husband had first joined the family. Kid was still a scrawny little boy back then and she a young mother bereaved of her unborn babe and so she'd taken a shining to him, as mute and withdrawn as she was.

Other than Johnny, Kid's one of the few people who can get Madchen's mood swings back on track when they pitch sharply out of control but right now, she's cheerful despite the rain. It makes her dress stick to her torso and thighs but she doesn't pay it any mind.

Madchen smiles slightly when he turns to look at her. ] Fancy help?

seba halifax | CONSTANTINOPLE | pre-Event

[costly]

[ If there's one thing Seba's learned about criminals it's that they're not particularly good at being punctual. For what seems like the fifth time since he arrived, he checks his watch and then proceeds to light another cigarette, tapping the ash into the sad dregs of what remains of his water (it'd be tacky to start drinking alone). Were he in a better mood, he might have rolled himself to the front desk, asked the woman there politely if he could borrow her phone, but the rain on the wheels of his chair makes him reluctant and stubborn so he doesn't (loathe to dirty his hands for a second time tonight).

So, instead, he smokes and watches the rain through the windows of the restaurant. Ten minutes, fifteen on the outside. Then he's leaving. ]

[faceforhire]

[ Gabe arrives at eleven. It's a dark flick of coat and a howl of wind rounding the gap of the open doorway, a cold that clings and pricks pins and needles over the unsuspecting patrons near the door. The man doesn't look around - he goes right to the table, albeit slouching into his overcoat. His boots are heavy on the hardwood.

He practically dumps himself into the chair across from Sebastian, kicking long legs carelessly into the way of the path between tables. He rolls his head to look the forger right in the eye through the oil-slick of his storm-tousled hair, opens his mouth, and sticks a cigarette in it. From his inner coat pocket, there's a pack of matches, one of which he strikes, still without comment, and nurses around the edge of the cigarette.

Is he going to...? No, he's going to take a drag off said cigarette. And drip all over the floor. ]

claude banks | CONSTANTINOPLE | pre-Event

[numbed]

[ It's raining outside. Claude can see it from his window, can hear the gentle patter against the glass. The sound picks at the back of his head like a persistent itch. To be frank, he's never really liked the rain. He knows what its importance is, but in his immediate life, it only creates inconvenience and mess. A wet coat, a shoe stuck in the mud. (It's telling, he supposes, that this is what he chooses to worry about. But what else has he to worry about save an empty house? His mind strays to that darkness enough already.)

Still, today he allows himself a breath. Leaning back slowly in his chair, he turns so that he's facing out the window, hands set on the armrests, fingers curled about the ends, a little glimpse into the unrest that has plagued him ever since, well. Ever since his Trade. ]

the hunter | SMALL SETTLEMENT IN THE WASTELAND | post-Event

[footfall]

[ Day three of the hunt and he's been hired by Ishtar Settlement to track a small group of marauders responsible for raiding their weekly water supply caravan. It's not the first time he's been called in to do this sort of thing and the Hunter knows that it won't be the last. Groups are good because they're slower to move and easier to track; they never bother with being subtle since they've got strength in numbers, and none of them ever really suspect people to send just one man after them to settle their debts. If it cam down to it, Hunter reasons, he'd rather have surprise over brute strength any day. Lucky for him, and for Ishtar Settlement, he has both.

What he doesn't have, however, is a bit of luck. The rain means whatever headway he's made is more or less lost as the rain churns the dry earth into mud, obliterating whatever tracks he had hoped to follow in the morning.

Echo Settlement exists in the remains of an outpost colony halfway between the ruins of Constantinople and Alexandria. The original plan had been to just pass through but the Hunter knows there's no use now, might as well stay the night. He stares at the rain moodily through the dirty window of what serves as the settlement's general store. ]

There goes that fuckin' plan.

[scouting]

[Darren doesn't like settlements. Too many people, too many faces he doesn't know, too big of a target. But the rain drives him in, looking for shelter until it's passed. But even then, he's grateful for the rainfall, the water. It's a sign of hope, he thinks, though he can't tell what he's hoping for anymore. Another day after the next, maybe.

He hears the complaint, even though it wasn't directed to him, or anyone in particular.]

Most people see rain as a blessing.

jonathan linnell | CAMP | post-Event

[tracked]

[ When Mother Charlotte says jump, Jonathan asks how high, and when Mother Charlotte asks if Jonathan believes, Jonathan says that yes, yes he does. And Jonathan does these things because Madchen does, and Jonathan does these things because all he has ever wanted is to keep Madchen safe. He has messed this up once already, and he has no intention of doing so again.

After dinner, he does his part in helping clean up as he always does, keeping his head down and offering up a few smiles and pardon mes and thank you kindlys as necessary. ]

[dogmas]

[ It isn't her turn to do the cleaning up but when Johnny helps, then Madchen helps too. It's only fair and it's only right and there's only so much she can expect him to bear, even when his shoulders are so broad and his arms so strong. She's the one who had hadn't been mindful the first time, after all. (One time, just the once, but one time was all it took.) She has messed this up once already and Madchen has no intentions of doing so again. Guilt is a strange creature like that. And quite often it can be as dogged as love.

When Johnny bends to gather a few of the plates from the ground — no more than some hammered out metal, roughly circular — it's her hand that grips the edge of it first. Narrow wrist, delicate fingers despite the patches of rough skin. Perhaps in another life they would have never grown so worn-down, but they have no other life than this one anymore and all the doors of possibility that would normally branch away at all sides have been shut permanently to them by tragedy and time. (There'll never be another, she'd wailed when she woke. Never ever again. And so there hadn't been.)

She looks up at him with attentive eyes which smile even though her mouth naturally frowns. ] I got it, sweetpea. Don't you worry. [ She nods him back towards the mouth of the tent, where the rain threatens to blow inside and turn the dirt floor into muck. ] Go on now.

jessica stanesfeld | CONSTANTINOPLE | pre-Event

[concealable]

[The rain doesn't bother Jessica too much, but that's still no reason to stand in it unnecessarily. She stays in the doorway of the apartment building she's just come out of - questioning the super regarding a couple of seemingly ex-residents. There's a shopkeeper across the street that she needs to speak to, but she waits for a moment, checking her phone for any missed calls or messages.]

[woke]

[ Not a message, but as she's scrolling through what her inbox has to offer, the phone rings.

Normally calls from violet-level numbers are not identified to other phones, but given that this is a call between colleagues, Mason's identification number as well as a badge from the Office of the Seat of the Magistrate displays on the screen of her mobile.

He has, as usual, impeccable timing. ]

sandrina tell | CONSTANTINOPLE | pre-Event

[forbearance]

[Simple surveillance, that's what it was meant to be, following a suspected offender's movements to confirm the reports Sandrina had already read. Confirmation and management.

The rain lowers visibility, though. Parked up on the corner, outside the café the suspected offender is having his lunch in, she peers through the glass and water, but has a hard time making out as much detail as she'd truly like. She either needs to change the plan or call it a loss for the day, but deciding on which was a weighing up of priorities and dangers that she had yet to reach the end of.]

felix laurens | CONSTANTINOPLE | pre-Event

[backstreets]

[A club tucked down a relatively quiet sidestreet, but the crowds are still large, and haven't been driven off by the rain. Felix prefers it that way. A room full of people is always the best place to be, for security and disguise, and a club full is even better. He's taken one of the raised booths at the back, seated with a few faces he trusts and some faces they've decided they like for the evening.

It's doubtful the majority of the people in the club have any idea who he is, but the few who do are already taking advantage of the moment, coming over to politely make good, ask a favour, try to impress. He seems amenable enough, but Felix never stops working. Even a nod and a smile are part of business, and his eyes are still sharp, watching the crowd.]

[extortion]

[ She isn't here to ask a favor or to curry good graces or an advance on the payment. Kookaburra is here because of business, straight from another dinner with a violet from the Bureau of Observation. It isn't going nearly as well as she'd like it to and perhaps that shows in the way that she frowns as she weaves her way through the people towards the booths, her mobile in one hand and her evening clutch (far too classy for a place like this) held tight in the other. On her way from here to there, she bumps into a man in a sharp suit and manages to palm his wallet in the process.

She tucks it away insider her purse and then snaps it shut just as she rounds the corner to Felix's table. He's talking to someone at the moment and so she waits her turn, taking the opportunity to tap out a message or two on her phone. ]

jolie wilson; constantinople PRE-EVENT

[ebullient]

[ these things always happen to her. it rains and she forgets her umbrella. it snows and she looses her scarf and mittens. it's sunny and she forgets her hat. she's always somehow unprepared.

and now standing in the doorway of the restaurant she was leaving, coffee in hand. she could go back and buy a newspaper, use it as a makeshift umbrella. but it'd be soaked through within minutes in this downpour, as jolie knew well. she'd done this before, after all.

she might as well wait, she figured. if anyone hassled her she could always blame her lateness on the rain and the traffic, neither of which were complete lies.

but no one would, in all likelihood. people were used to jolie running a few minutes late, skidding into meetings breathless and offering up apologetic smiles and contrite excuses. today probably wouldn't be any different. ]

evan mckinley | constantinople | pre-Event

[experimentalism]

[ even as a little boy even had never been a fan of the rain. it always meant that he had to go inside (stop playing or you'll catch your death) and there was always a bit of sadness each time he did. he supposes that perhaps that's the reason he never likes it now (he's not a psychologist, but it makes sense to him).

he needs to leave the labs though, if he doesn't he'll be stuck missing a party or something that someone is throwing and he can't afford it. sure, he knows he's practically a commodity (better than half of the luxuries in his mind) himself in terms of being useful, but that doesn't mean shit when people are about as trustworthy as snakes.

his frown deeps as he ponders for a moment before he heads to the door, grabbing an umbrella on his way out. it opens with minimal fuss once he's out but it doesn't stop him from saying two words that undoubtedly anyone near him will hear. ] Fucking rain.

[ebullient]

[ at the curse, jolie's eyes cut sideways, gaze landing on the umbrella before she even looks at evan's face. there's a half-second of consideration before she clears her throat. ]

You got room for one more under there?

[ because asking strangers for a favor is something jolie doesn't like, but she likes the idea of getting soaked through outside even less. her expression is hopeful, even if the look in her eyes is nervous. she can't exactly place his face, but she's certain he's someone more important than she realizes. it's too late to take the request back, so all she can really do is hope she hasn't overstepped herself too badly. ]

jane dahl | CONSTANTINOPLE | pre-Event

[strain]

[ Of course it'd start raining, Jane supposes, while she was still out. Her shift at the practice done for the day, she's out running grocery errands before picking the kids up and then dropping them off, then picking them up again and then getting home. (Getting home properly, that is. There are pockets of time in between each thing, yes, but not the sort of time anyone can use to really get anything done.)

But for now, she's dry, and maybe the rain will let up by the time she's at the checkout counter. One can hope. ]

noel strange | CONSTANTINOPLE | pre-Event

[affairs]

[ It isn't terribly often that Noel actually goes home. (This is more than understandable, considering how much he has on his plate on a daily basis.)

As such, it's in a state of mild irritation that Noel finds himself standing under the awning that leads out of the offices, a briefcase in one hand, the other held over his eyes as he peers this way and that, his mouth pulled into a thin line. A few moments later, he heads back into the lobby, looking more unimpressed than anything else. ]

I don't suppose you've an umbrella I might borrow, do you?

Re: noel strange | CONSTANTINOPLE | pre-Event

[talons]

[ Zhang Fan is there in the lobby when Noel makes his retreat. She is pulling on a pair of long, impractical gloves, like the kind a woman might wear to the opera. Fingers first, then palms, then wrist, then a long, drawn-out unfurling of fabric all the way to her elbows. The man behind the desk is standing, obediently holding her jacket for her. Whether or not the man knows who she is, or simply thinks it's a good idea to make a nice impression on some general's wife, it isn't clear.

She smiles, small and subdued, at Noel. ]

I do not, Chairman Strange, [ Zhang Fan says and it's true. As it turns out, she doesn't have an umbrella either, but she is nothing if not patient. Good things came to those who waited. (Power, money; sunshine.) ]

wes gibson | ON THE ROAD | post-event

[detestable]

[ what you do is adapt. you trade the silk ties for hand guns and the armani for leather and you accept that your hands will crack and bleed and harden and that your skin will tan and freckle and that you'll collect a new assortment of scars, all bulletholes and knife slashes and the occasional constellation of teeth marks. you do this because that is what you need to do to survive. you pick up a shotgun and you go out and you make your own damn way in what's left of the world, and you keep your fucking head down. he'd learned that lesson well, before. keep your head down and don't stick your nose in, and you'll be the better for it. even here.

these are the things wes knows, but doesn't necessarily like. he doesn't complain, but he hates that some days he'll catch a glimpse of himself in the cracked and dirt-smeared rearview mirror and not recognize the face that looks back.

he never thought he'd get this dirty in his entire life. dust and dirt and blood are the constants in his life. he can't remember the last time he saw rain, so he gets out of the car to stand in it, tip his face back and hope that maybe he'll be just a little cleaner when he gets back in the car. ]

[ex_heedlessly_549]

[ There are times (often, but arthymc, coming and going with he uneven tides of his mood) when Jacob thinks it isn't really fair — the fact that he's survived while others haven't. It's not as though he hasn't earned the right to — his hands have seen as much bloodshed as Wes' and there's dirt and dead skin under his nails even now — but unlike his traveling companion, Jacob's not really wedded to the idea of whatever I have to do to survive. Again, it's like his moods, which tip and bend and sway much more frequently than his Devil-may-care attitude ever dares suggest. There are days when he'll fight tooth and nail for just another tank of gas, another drop to drink. Then there are other days when he just waits for the death to pass over him like a long-hoped for cloud promising rain. On those days it doesn't matter to Jacob; the hows and the whys and whomever else might go down with him.

On those days, the Devil doesn't care at all. (This is not one of those days.)

The passenger side window of the salvaged wreck of a truck that they're driving between Antioch and Alexandria doesn't work. It's been rolled down for the past three hours which is fine by Jacob (he doesn't care and it shows), and with the promise of rain he leans out of it with his head and shoulder and arm, fingers drumming idly on the side of the vehicle. ]

Looks like rain, [ he says with a kind of cheerfulness. Jacob likes saying useless things. His personal favorite is being obvious. ]

[coaxed]

[ Everybody has a breaking point. It's a rule that Carl Whitmore has learned and learned well — he wouldn't be here if he didn't believe it. He steps out of his most recent session not quite covered in red (the apron and gloves get stripped off first) but by the time he gets downstairs and outside, he's perfectly clean again, not a hair out of place. (He's gotten good at that.)

He's not technically done for the day, not yet, but he needs a smoke, and he doesn't intend to set off the fire alarms. As soon as his cigarette's lit, his head tips back, sucking in a breath and then exhaling a thin stream of smoke around the thin cylinder between his lips. There are still a couple more sessions to be had, if he remembers correctly, but they can wait a few more minutes. ]

[johns]

[ There's a girl with big glossy curls and dark owl shades and shorts that come up to just about there click click clacking her way down the sidewalk in his direction. The heels of her shoes kick up splashes in all the puddles and her hips manage to draw the attention of passersby with their sway, but she doesn't seem to pay any of that attention because she seems to have eyes just for Carl. Her lips, which are slick with lipgloss and the color of candy cane nail polish, split a smile once she's an earshot, her pace slowing to a saunter and then a stop right in front of him. ]

Got a light, sailor? [ she asks, a hand fishing through the pockets of her fur-trimmed coat to find a silver cigarette case while the other keeps the neon yellow umbrella over her head from pitching too far in any one direction. ]

felix laurens | CAVES | post-Event

[badland]

[They don't build shelters, even with rain coming - and Felix had known it was coming, had felt it in the air hours before it fell. The makings of camps, heavy canvas and supports, were too much for them to carry. They needed to be quick, move fast. That was what gave them an edge.

The land provided, anyway, provided far more than the other travellers they encountered ever seemed to realise. Felix had found these caves years ago, but there were more, all noted in his mind, a vast map of their territory - a territory with no borders, stretching as far in any direction as they could travel and back again. Felix kept no limits on himself, and didn't expect any of his people to have any either.

He doesn't mind getting his hands dirty, either. He sends a couple of people down deeper into the cave for water from the spring hidden in the depths, then sets to making a low cooking fire by the cave entrance. The tinder catches, and he glances up at the rainfall.]

Looks like we're here for the night, at the least.

judith | THE WASTELAND | post-Event

[misdeeds]

[ She leaves him in the remains of a silo located at the very edge of where the settlement gives way to barren dirt fields and an obliterated stretch of concrete that, once upon a time, was a road. It wouldn't do to bring him into town with her; his insides were hardly being kept in, even with the stitch job she'd done, and even neutral towns like Carthage had their fair share of sharks. A limping wounded animal meant opportunity, maybe even a free meal. Judith knows this because she's a shark herself. (Is, was. The line isn't clear anymore.)

When she finally returns, the rains have moved in and there's water leaking down in through the splayed bits of roof overhead. It runs and dribbles down the corrugated metal walls with a wet, pattering noise and turns what had been dry, dusty earth into mud and more mud, the color of tar. Her clothes are soaked through to the bone as she kneels down beside him, her hair hanging around her face in wet strands. The very tips of it drip down onto Darren's face (plip plip plip); its enough to loosen some of the blood that's still dried there in wide ruddy streaks. Judith wipes at with one hand while with the other she presses two fingers to the inside of his wrist and then to this throat.

Then she's turning away again, digging through her bag to pull out this thing and that, setting each aside. A new needle, better thread. A jar of thick amber liquid with what appears to be twigs floating in it. Her knife. ]

Did you sleep?

[scouting]

[The pain makes it hard to think straight. To even see straight. She leaves him in some shelter (and he can't quite figure out what it is, just snatches, corrugated metal, the sound of rain) and he has no idea how much time passes before she's back again. How long she's been back. She's taking things out of a bag, and he turns his head, tries to make out what they are, but associating the shapes of them with memories in his head doesn't seem to quite work. Did he sleep? He frowns at her, lifts a hand - she's touching him - only for it to land back in the mud.]

No. [He pushes his fingers into the mud. Remembers that it's raining, realises that's what the sound on the metal above them is (again).] Where is this?