Environmental exposure, cold temperatures, bad weather, comfort, minor wound care, implied homelessness, implied past trauma
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Vera wasn’t going to let some little ‘storm of the century’ get in the way of her weekly grocery shopping. The kind but anxious cashier recommended she wait it out inside the shop; it wasn’t safe to be outside. But Vera only lived a few blocks from the corner shop and she had walked through worse.
The winds were relentless, whipping the rain - and possibly some small hail - like bullets through the air. Thunder roared and lightning crackled, but she plodded along, cane in hand and footsteps sure.
Her pace only faltered when she saw someone else out on the street. Her first instinct was to hypocritically chide them - what in heavens name would someone be doing outside in weather like this? But upon closer inspection, and wiping some rain from her thick rimmed glasses, her brow furrowed with concern.
“Are you…alright?”
They didn’t look alright. Their face was gaunt, eyes hollow, but even curled up at the cusp of the alleyway Vera could tell they were well fed and well built. Like something out of the magazines she enjoyed in her youth. Except their hair was cropped short, their black shirt and pants and socks soaked through - for heaven’s sake, they weren’t even wearing shoes!
“Young man,” Vera would apologize later if she had made a mistake, but the sight of them reminded her all too much of the boys she once taught. “Who in the blazes let you out of the house dressed like that?”
His head snapped up at the question, eyes wide and wild and for a split second Vera felt afraid of this stranger, but not as afraid as he was of her.
“M - ma’am?” He was shivering and Vera only felt warmer with anger at the sight of him. She was bundled in layers and a waterproof poncho and still she was miserably damp and cold. This young man must have been on the verge of hypothermia.
She sighed and held out a waterlogged bag of groceries. Vera didn’t miss how he flinched from the gesture.
“I - I can’t take that, ma’am - ”
“I don’t want you to take it. I want you to help me carry it home.” She tilted her head, studying his reaction. “Unless you’d rather a little old lady like me slog through - ”
“No ma’am. I can carry it.” He shot up to his feet and it was Vera’s turn to flinch. She could tell he was a large man when he was curled up like a soggy kitten, but seeing him tower over her was still a bit surprising. He could see her reaction and his shoulders sagged, curling forward as he held out a shaking hand. Vera gave him a determined look and handed him the groceries.
“This way.”
—
Her apartment wasn’t very far - barely a block from where she picked up this stranger, but she counted herself lucky she bumped into him. The weather was getting worse, and she started to doubt she would have made it home with all her groceries in tow if she had walked by herself. She unlocked her house, a thin sliver of the city block bought with the blood sweat and tears of her younger years.
“You can set those right there on the carpet - here, let me get you a towel.” Vera started shedding her own soaked layers, eventually reaching her relatively dry sweater and slacks. The young man stood awkwardly in the doorway, cautiously setting the groceries down on the entryway carpet. “Don’t just stand there with the door open; get in here.”
Vera heard the door close while she was dragging a towel out of the hallway closet. He looked even more out of place in her foyer, a shivering giant that looked oddly fragile. She softened her smile when she held out the towel.
“Here, try to dry off enough you won’t drip. I’ll find some clothes you can borrow.”
He slowly began to wipe off his face and arms, movements stiff.
“I, uh,” his voice was hoarse and low, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to speak, “I should be going…”
“In this weather? I won’t let you. At least not without a warm shower, change of clothes, and some tea.” Vera stood with had hands on her hips, blocking the doorway behind him. She was well aware how easily he could leave if he wanted to. And so was he.
Vera almost took it as a small victory when he took a step deeper into her home, but then she noticed the tension in his body language. She came up beside him, the start of a question on her tongue when his arm lashed out - not hurting her, but guarding her from moving forward. His face was pensive, eyes scanning the hallway with a trained precision -
He didn’t move a muscle when Vera’s old calico stalked around the corner, tail twitching and a soft mhurp acknowledging its owner had returned. Vera patted the young man’s arm, and he slowly lowered his guard.
“That’s just Mimi. Here girl!”
The cat perked at the sound of her name, bounding over to its owner. Vera could feel the man in front of her shy away from the small cat, but the tension in his shoulders was slowly uncoiling.
“Tsk, get out of the groceries, you sneaky kitty.” Vera shooed her beloved cat away, picking up a bag. The young man grabbed the rest almost automatically, following her to the kitchen table.
After directing her guest to the bathroom and finding an ancient pair of sweats and a sweater that might fit his physique, Vera set about putting away groceries and putting the kettle on for some tea. Mimi danced around her feet, ever hopeful for a treat.
With the last of the groceries put away, Vera began cleaning up after the stranger. She had instructed him to leave his soaked clothes outside the bathroom door, and he had.
The fabric of his clothes was strange, a rubbery grip to the material almost like a wetsuit. Unsure if they would survive in the dryer, Vera hung them up by the fireplace. (The electric mimic was still warm, even if Vera missed the smell of a real wood stove.) She shuddered to think how miserably cold he must have been in such thin, uninsulated clothes. From the sound of the water rushing on the other side of the door, she hoped he was enjoying a warm shower.
She noticed he had also left the towel she had first given him outside the door, and there she noticed the blood. Not a lot, just a thin splotch of red. Maybe he had cut himself shaving his hair so close to his head. Vera set out the first aid kit on the table as she poured two teacups of steaming water.
Her guest had perfect timing; just as the tea finished steeping, he shambled out of the bathroom. He looked even more out of place in the soft, patterned sweater and ill fitting sweats, eyes so unsure as he approached the kitchen. He was looking at the first aid kit.
“Come’ere. Let me have a look at that cut.” Vera gestured to a chair she had already pulled out from the table, and he guest immediately sat. She could now see the thin slice at the base of his skull. Probably an accident with the razor, one edge clean and the other sloppy, as though the pain had startled him. “Nasty gash. Though I think you’ll avoid stitches. Let me get some antibiotic ointment on that though…”
He sat stock still as she inspected and dabbed ointment on the wound. His face was flat, but she could see his hands gripping the armrests in pain.
“You allergic to any meds, honey?”
“No, ma’am.”
Vera set some ibuprofen next to his teacup and began to put away the first aid kit.
“No need to ‘ma’am’ me, sweetheart. Not a fan of it. My name is Vera.” It was then she realized this stranger at her table hadn’t told her his name. “And you are?”
He hadn’t answered by the time she settled into her chair. When she looked up his eyes were wide, staring into his still steaming tea.
“Honey?” His head jerked up as if hearing her for the first time. “How about you drink some of that tea?”
“Yes, m - miss.” That timid voice of his finally stuttered, shaking hands taking the small, fragile cup. Vera just smiled softly and watched him.
Cold temperatures, environmental exposure, violence and murder, minor character death, protectiveness, guilt, angst, implied betrayal
Masterpost | Previous | Next
Vera was starting to shiver.
Not a good sign.
While the snow had mostly stopped - replaced by ash and the smell of smoke - the wind was still brutally cold. Her hands and feet, somehow, weren’t numb in the freezing temperatures. As long as she kept moving, she would stay alive.
Until the Wave found her.
She could hear the violence, dampened by the snow but loud enough to echo through the streets. Explosions. Screams. The mechanical movement of a thousand well trained monsters roaming the streets in search of something to kill. Already she had found scenes that turned her stomach; the Wave didn’t care who they killed - young, old, rich, poor - and the corpses they left behind always told the story of a painful and inhumane death.
Every second she walked through the open street was another second she was alive against all logic. Part of her mused that the Wave must have been prioritizing the people actively fleeing for the Tunnels. They could clean up an old, weak straggler like her (who was walking in the wrong damn direction) whenever they wanted.
Vera had doubled back to her house out of instinct; she hadn’t even realized where she was going. The front door was open, left ajar. Briefly, her heart broke realizing Mimi probably escaped, or had already been killed by the Wave.
The door was open.
Vera hadn’t left the door open.
Either the Wave had gone into her mostly empty home, or someone else had gone in.
She cautiously - as cautiously as someone with a cane could - peered inside the door. No movement. No sound. (That didn’t mean anything; those monsters could easily be waiting in the shadows.) But she stepped inside her home, relishing in the heat still coming from the vents.
Vera quietly clicked her tongue, calling for Mimi, but the cat didn’t appear. She sighed, drifting toward the kitchen. She would need to leave again; the Wave would systematically check each building left standing and eliminate anyone who tried to wait it out.
The officer’s body was still on the floor, the puddle of blood around them sticky as it cooled. (At least the Wave’s carnage would cover up that Kay had murdered them.) Vera grimaced in disgust, but then she noticed something. The blood had been disturbed, smeared across the kitchen floor.
Footprints
Footprints that could only belong to one giant of a man.
“Kay?” Vera called out weakly, but there was no response. She followed the footprints back to the front hallway - they led to the closet full of winter clothes that Vera had left open in her rush. Several articles were missing.
(At least Kay was warm, wherever he was.)
Looking out the front door Vera now saw the tracks he had left. She had thought a straggler headed for the Tunnels had made those tracks, but now they clearly led in the opposite direction. Vera quickly brewed some tea, filled a thermos, and packed the last of her cookie jar and a knitting project into a bag.
Kay could travel very far now that he was properly bundled up. She needed to find him before the Wave did.
—
Federico’s home was still standing, but only barely. The building beside it had completely collapsed into a pile of rubble, crashing into the home. (A silvery Wave capsule had crashed into it - landing with killing force and opening to unleash an even more deadly foe.)The front entryway was still standing, if cracked and unstable. Vera steeled herself and went inside - Kay’s tracks had led to this neighborhood, and this was the only place he might go.
(This side of town was furthest from the Tunnels. More affordable. More dangerous. She doubted half the residents made it to the nearest evacuation point before the Wave descended.)
“…Rico? Jorge?” She spoke quietly, not expecting an answer. The two old men knew they didn’t stand a chance of reaching the Tunnels. They had told her: if there ever was another Wave, they would rather die at home. Together.
Turning the corner, she flinched at the sight. Vera knew what to expect - she had lived through nine other Waves - but it was always harder seeing the carnage with her own eyes.
Jorge was pinned under rubble; she could only guess those were his stiff and unmoving legs. Federico’s body was simply heartbreaking to see. Slumped against the rubble, pain and grief painted on his face. The bolt burns that singed his sweater were dealt directly by the Wave, and recently too. The wool was still smoldering, and his eyes were not yet cloudy with death.
Her heartrate spiked in a way it hadn’t in years. The Wave was here. In this building. With her.
There was movement upstairs, half shattered floorboards creaking. Vera breathed through her mouth, backing away into the front hallway. If she could get out of the house, it might not notice her…not yet…
Some bricks shifted behind her. She turned slowly, already knowing there was no use in running. The Wave had found her. Even glancing over her shoulder, vision blurry outside of the scope of her glasses, she knew that silhouette. The sleek black bodysuit and armoring. The infernal hum of machinery and electricity.
It lunged, and Vera accepted her fate.
(She regretted so much. So many cups of tea left cold and forgotten. So many missed bingo games with her friends. So many letters unsent. So many missed opportunities and hopes and dreams and -
She should have stopped Kay. Protected him. Told him it didn’t matter what he did; she loved him more than her own life.)
But something crashed through the ceiling, crushing the monster before it could reach her. For a split second, she thought it was another Wave capsule - about to release another murderous killing machine in a cruel twist to her fate - but the thing on top of the Wave was a person. They pummeled into the being relentlessly, fists finding purchase between the armor pieces, tearing at the tubes and wires that surrounded its concealing helmet.
And, even in the dim light, Vera recognized him.
“Kay?!” She was breathless with terror and relief. He glanced up but grabbed the Wave’s head with both hands, pulling, twisting - until a sickening pop made its flailing limbs fall limp. But Vera couldn’t help but smile. “Kay! Thank goodness you’re alright; I was so worried…”
Kay stared up at her in horrified, confused silence. His eyes were bright with fear and damp with tears. Vera shuffled forward, holding out a hand.
“You saw.” His voice was as small and as weak as it had been the day she met him. “I - that person, from the State - I didn’t mean to - I did mean to - but I - ”
“Honey, it’s okay. It’s okay. You were keeping us safe, right?”
“Shouldn’t‘ve done that. Not - not like that.” He stood from the dead Wave beneath him, shoulders curled forward and head held low.
“Maybe not. But it doesn’t matter. Not to me.” Vera kept holding out her hand. She needed to touch him, to know this was real and he was safe. He stared back at her with an unreadable expression. He didn’t take her hand. “You’re a good kid. I understand, Kay - ”
“You don’t!” His voice was loud, louder than it should have been - what if more Wave were in the area? But before she could hush him, he continued. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I - I shouldn’t have lied to you - ”
“You didn’t - what are you talking about?”
“I’m not - not like you. Not good.”
Vera breathed a shaky sigh; she hadn’t heard Kay’s voice so strained outside of breathy cries during nightmares. He sounded desperate. Desperate to convince her. Or himself.
“Oh, honey…good’s not something you are. It’s something you do. And - and helping me? Protecting me? That’s good. You’re good, honey - ”
“I’m not like you, I’m - “ Kay’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, side stepping the dead Wave and pointing at it. “That. That’s me.”
Vera brow furrowed with confusion, looking between the dead monster and the sweet young man who looked at her with tears in his eyes.
“…honey, I don’t - ”
“Advanced Scout K8.” Something in Kay’s posture shifted as he spoke, standing up straighter (towering over Vera at his full height). “Mission: assess and monitor citizens of Sector 15. Report back current Tunnel conditions and layout. Return to base for Wave deployment.”
Vera stared up at him silently, breaths fogging in the freezing air.
On a deserted island; there’s no fresh water, no animals, and very little shade. How long will they last?
In space; there’s only so much oxygen left in her life pod. Does she risk waiting for rescue or activate an unreliable cryostaisis?
By a snowstorm; cut off from the roads and electricity, he’s trapped. Will he survive the frigid temperatures at night?
On the roadside; ze are left for dead, lost and disoriented. Can ze trust the stranger who’s offering zem a ride to town?
At sea; people trapped on a small life raft with other survivors. It’s only a matter of time until someone dies of dehydration and exposure - what will they do with the corpse?
Angst, on the run, homelessness, cold temperatures, environmental exposure, hunger, vague fictional politics, referenced character near death
Masterpost / Previous / Next
She forgot how cold it could be. Kit was always cold after a revival, of course, but the miserable cold of rain and damp clothes was inescapable. She curled up tighter where she was tucked behind a dumpster, rearranging her cardboard and newspaper shelter as much as she could without tearing the rain soaked material apart.
Kit shivered, fingers slow and feet aching.
(At least with Chris, she was never cold for this long.)
The radio seemed waterproof, still crackling with communication every few minutes. Usually mundane small town cop chatter about broken windows and stolen purses. Every now and then they would mention the feds - FBI, ASP - and Kit would listen closely. They weren’t moving Reggie. Not yet. They wanted xir alive and xe was too unstable.
The persistent growling of her stomach wasn’t making it any easier to think about what she did next. She hadn’t eaten since she revived. Kit knew exactly how long she could go without food, as miserable as it was, and she wasn’t close to her limit. But she knew her energy would start dropping soon, and when she was too tired to move, the cold would kill her.
She forced herself to crawl out of her pathetic shelter, using the alley wall to help herself stand. There was a big, 24-hour chain store at the top of the hill down the street; she had seen the lights and signage in her initial walkthrough of the town. She just needed to make it to the top of the hill, and she could be somewhere warm and dry. At least for a little bit.
Kit trudged through the rain, stolen shoes a little too big and blistering her bare feet. (She should have stolen socks from the hospital staff lockers but she was taking so much already and in such a rush she forgot how important they could be.) Her hoodie was soaked through by the time she made it to the sliding doors of the superstore. Her trembling hands grabbed a cart - something to make her look less suspicious and something to support herself with as she walked, trembling.
The aisles were - thankfully - mostly empty. No one in their right mind would be shopping in this weather unless they had to, so the store was almost ominously quiet. Kit perused the shelves, keeping up the appearance of being a legitimate shopper. She put some items in her cart - scissors, a dry and clean hoodie, a lamp - a random assortment of things that could be easily put back when she inevitably couldn’t check out her cart.
(She stole clothes from the hospital but no money. It was bad enough she was taking someone’s extra set of scrubs and gym shoes; she couldn’t bring herself to take their wallet too.)
Kit walked at a leisurely pace both to hide how the blisters made her limp and to conserve energy. She should swing through the food aisles; even an apple or prepackaged crackers would be enough to make her feel less like death. (Even thinking was exhausting, her mind mostly empty beyond putting one foot in front of the other.) They drifted in the food section’s general direction, passing through the electronics at the back of the store.
These shelves were always closely watched. (Expensive items always were, one way or another.) She kept a wide berth of the merchandise. Kit didn’t need any shoplifting accusations right now. So, she walked opposite the rows and rows of televisions. Whatever was on was muted, covered by the bland pop radio coming from tinny speakers in the ceiling.
She did a double take when she glanced at the newsreel in earnest.
That person looked like Chris.
That was Chris.
(For a split second her stomach bottomed out, dread and memory pinning her in place.)
The televisions were muted, but their closed captions stuttered beneath the all too familiar face and footage of the facility being raided.
Chris was hailed as a whistleblower.
(Reggie wasn’t a monster or a kidnapper xe saved her - saved her from them - )
Chris was lamented as a windower.
(What happened to Peggy and Alex - ?)
Chris was helping the police.
Helping them find her.
Her own face stared back at her, dozens and dozens of screens along the wall displaying the same old photograph. Her hair was shorter. Her smile kinder. Her eyes happy. (It was her intake photo. Reggie had been touring her around the facility that morning and she was so happy and felt so safe - ) Cold, animal terror spread with every heartbeat. They were being hunted. They were being hunted by the police and Chris and anyone else who saw this newsreel.
Her eyes darted from screen to screen, every muted word spelled out in blocky, all caps text: missing, kidnapped, abuse - home. Chris wanted to bring her ‘home’ -
Kit marched her cart toward the restrooms, snatching the scissors and spare hoodie as she ducked into the restroom. The panic pitched and Kit didn’t care how suspicious she looked; she needed to disguise herself. She needed to be anyone but the helpless naive girl on the missing persons bulletin.
Her eyes were hot with tears as she locked herself in a stall, hands trembling as she stripped out of the rain soaked hoodie and scrub top to throw on the dry, clean new one. She had done this before. The running. The hiding. Running and hiding and surviving and dying all to avoid being trapped somewhere, with someone.
Tears tracked down her face, sobs gasping and hollow as she began to cut her damp hair. Thick black coils fell into the toilet, clumps tumbling to the floor. (Reggie had gotten her a new silk hair bag that must have burned in the car - ) Kit wasn’t sure if she looked substantially different, but her hands were too shaky to cut anymore. The adrenaline (and the hunger) was too much.
She cried. Heaving sobs choked back the best she could; the bathroom echoed softly with her tear stained breathing and sniffles. She wanted to go back. Back to the facility, back to surgeries and experiments and Reggie’s gentle voice -
(But without Chris, without hungry eyes and bruising hands.)
Eventually the tears dried up. Crying was exhausting and Kit didn’t have the energy to continue her breakdown. She had done this before. She could do this again.
Okay sorry more mad science ideas because why not. Specifically the scientist/researcher being injured or in danger:
She took on this job not realizing the conditions and risks. She’s constantly overtired, pushed to her limits to complete deadlines all while handling highly dangerous test subjects and hazardous materials. It’s only a matter of time until she forgets to lock a cage or mixes the wrong reactants.
Having access to important information, xe’s tracked down by people who want xem to open a safe or use xir credentials to access a data bank. These insurgents will use any means necessary to get the information from xem, but xe won’t betray xir integrity so easily.
They don’t realize they’re being slowly poisoned by their job. Their research has them constantly exposed to never-before-studied phenomena or materials that are emitting dangerous energy or hazardous particles that are killing them. Or changing them into something worse.
Injury to a minor [around age 14], isolation, gunshot wound, environmental exposure, cold temperatures, field medicine, stitches, past character deaths, dog mention, fictional politics
Masterpost / Previous / Next
He was alone.
And he was hungry.
The boy only had the clothes on his back - thick reindeer pelts, designed to keep him warm and dry. Not to stop bullets.
It was a minor wound, considering the carnage left behind in his family’s village. Tents set ablaze, deer and dogs gunned downed alongside the people. He shivered, the graze in his arm exposed to the icy winds as he clambered through the snow.
Áigin was old enough to understand that his family was likely among the dead, and that seeking shelter with their killers was worse than dying out here, in the land he loved and lived on for the entirety of his short life. The boy could survive long enough to find the neighboring village.
And maybe he could warn them about what was coming.
But the sky was darkening, the black smoke of the fires mixing with the shadows of night. He would need to stop, sleep, and pray he lived to see morning. Áigin found a safe hollow, far away from the gunshots and shielded from the wind. The small fire he managed to start smoldered low, embers kept dim to avoid alerting scouts.
(Not that those cowards who burned and killed children and fawns would dare venture into this wilderness at night.)
He shucked off his outer jacket, rolling back his undershirt sleeves to inspect the gory wound. It wasn’t too deep, but hours of exposure to the icy air had it crusted and bleeding anew as he tried to inspect the graze.
Grimacing, Áigin took inventory of what tools he had at his disposal. A small axe, a knife, and - by pure luck - a small sewing kit he had been tasked with returning to the neighbor on the opposite side of the village.
(It was this task that let him escape with his life, far from where the first shots were fired.)
The boy’s hands shook with cold as he threaded the needle, the thick thread not meant for delicate work. But it would have to do. He bit his lip until it bled, pushing the needle through his skin once, then twice - three times to roughly bridge the gash left by the bullet. Pulled taught and cut, the black thread was almost invisible thanks to the blood smeared on his arm.
But Áigin’s work wasn’t done.
After taking a few minutes to warm his hands, he took up the needle again, stitching his under shirt and fur coat as best he could. He would need every ounce of warmth he could muster to survive tonight.
Surviving was easy.
He knew how to survive on this land. But surviving alone was new, and seemed so impossible when he could still smell burning flesh, still hear the screams of dying deer and sobs of surrendering fathers.
Áigin barely slept, waking in fits when a nightmare seized him.
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