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~♪ — Rub my muse’s back!~
Humans were always so biased, to the point some morals and beliefs became questionable as Quentin spent more and more time talking with the Killers. He learned a lot about each of them.
Herman loved mints; anything involving the taste, Sally adored lavender flowers, even Evan told him a secret one day that his mother actually named him after Evangelical practices. The insomniac found that most of them didn’t belong here, in eternal damnation- their souls never put to rest. Their bodies worn and broken over years of exhaustion and punishment- some more than others.
One of them being Phillip Ojomo or as they, the survivors called him- The Wraith. Quentin rarely saw Phillip in Trials, and when he did - the spirit could only ever get one of them. One if not the only one of the Killers that was also rarely seen out of Trials. The insomniac didn’t want to worry, but the new bandages that Phillip always sported made him worry.
A few particular rough Trials with The Pig sent the group into arguments on whether or not it was okay putting their fellow survivors and friends on the line for a generator. Quentin was one of the first to leave, he never liked people screaming. It reminded him too much of his neglectful dad, but he didn’t want to think of that as he let himself slide down a tree in the Fog-filled woods that surrounded the campfire.
He should’ve never thought he was alone as he heard soft rustling and gurgling. Almost jumping out of his skin as the presence sat beside him and lay an invisible head on his shoulder. Quentin sat stiff as a hand rested on his back, patting it almost. And soon enough, the young male relaxed in The Wraith’s grasp.
Like he said, biases existed in the human world but not here- you would have to change your thinking if you wanted to at least make the most.
