bludhound-a

[bludhound-a]

mia goth & she + any / non-binary ⸻ i saw abel monroe coming through the trees. the twenty six year old was fleeing from gallatin, tennessee when they came across novac, and have sought salvation within the motel of purgatory. abel has been in town for three years and has been assigned as a motel cleaner to keep society running smoothly. no matter what, they will find something to fight for.

stats.

name. abel monroe. nickname. give her some. age. twenty-six. gender identity. non-binary. orientation. bisexual. place of birth. gallatin, tennessee. date of birth. 28 october 1996. occupation. motel cleaner. moral alignment. chaotic neutral.

background.

a  mother  dreams  of  her  child.  still  bare  boned,  wrapped  in  jelly  that  should  be  muscle.  too  soft  for  her  womb,  slipping  through  her  belly  button  as  she  sleeps.  she  stops  sleeping.  her  belly  swells,  holds  her  baby  tightly.  in  her  waking  haze,  she  finds  a  father:   a  man  who  birthed  none  yet  fathers  many,  who  grips  her  life  as  tautly  as  her  belly  grips  her  baby.  a  perfect  baby,  he  says,  who  will  perfectly  live.

abel’s  first  home  dies  on  her  birth-bed.  mottled  skin  from  blood  and  cries.  heavy  in  her  mother’s  arms:  a  baby  skull  harder  than  her  reedy  collarbone.  made  barren  for  her,  and  her  alone.  never  to  see  another  of  her  kind.  you’ve  atoned,  he  says,  for  being  born.  a  chosen  child  in  a  chosen  womb;  this  would  always  happen.  when  abel  would  watch  through  her  scope,  long  after  her  mother  died,  she  would  think,  meanly,  a  neutered  woman.  her  purpose  fulfilled:  her  mother  sleeps.

the  woods  call  to  abel  at  night.  naked  feet  and  dirty  smock.   a  heat  that  persists  under  the  clouded  stars.  she  answers.  the  bunker  greets  her  with  a  heavy,  open  door.  no  groans  of  protest;  the  rust  bears  her  fingerprints,  without  her  warm  touch.  a  bare  two  steps,  she  ventures,  before  she  slips  to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  as  if  her  foot  could  catch  wrong,  within  this  tomb.  fresh  cut,  now,  above  her  right  eyebrow.  scarred  upon  holy  ground,  they  would  say.

her  mother  cradles  her  loosely,  when  abel’s  hair  can  braid.  if  she  didn’t  hold  tightly,  she  would  fall.  left  mewling  at  her  mother’s  feet.   and  yet,  those  fingers  pick  knots  from  her  hair  lightly;  too  afraid  to  scruff  her  truly.  bite-marks  on  the  meat  of  her  palm.  her  mother  has  two  hands:  one  for  the  lord  and  the  other  for  her  own  heart.

they  teach  her  about  some  rapture,  before  she  has  words.  like  she  could  know  without  words,  woven  into  the  marrow  of  her  bone.  ‘   it’s  going  to  come,  abel.  can  you  feel  it?  ’   she  couldn’t.  and  yet,  her  mother  would  recount  that  pious  pregnancy.  ‘   i  could  feel  it  when  i  was  with  you.  ’   hatred  laces  their  ideas:  for  the  government,  for  their  embodied  purgatory,  for  each  other.

(  this  language  is  one  she  knows.   woven  within  her  teeth  like  spit.  )

fatefully  alone,  abel  prowls  into  the  woods,  sniffs  until  she  sees  a  cat.  pupils  blow  wide.  an  arm  pockmarked  with  scratches  and  bites  later,  and  the  cat  purrs  in  her  lap.  a  distrust  of  sin  steals  the  cat  from  her,  by  a  so-called  sister  of  the  lord.

soon  after,  they  visit  the  river  together.  away from prying eyes. and  back  abel  comes, alone,  a  frog  in  hand,  a  smile  on  her  lips.  dirt  on  her  knees  and  a  bruise  hidden  beneath  moon-kissed  skin.  disciples  she  doesn’t  recognise  ask  about  the  girl,  but  abel  cries  and  cries.  young  enough  to  pretend  she  still  doesn’t  understand.

enter  stage  left:  the  father  finds  her,  again,  beside  the  river.  his  eyes  glint  under  the  moonlight,  just  like  hers.  do  you  miss  her,  he  asks.   miss  her  how,  she  replies.  his  thumb  finds  the  unbruised,  tender  spot  on  her  forehead.  do  you  miss  her?  tears  glass  her  eyes.  no,  she  replies.  his  thumb  presses  harder  for  a  moment,  and then  he  pulls  her  close.  his  heartbeat  rests  at  her  temple.  she  holds  him  tighter;  he  starts  to  rock  her.

(   our  father  who  art  in  my  arms.  )

the  radio  crackles  on  a  day  like  any  other:  rapture  is  upon  us.  and  bury  themselves  they  do,  ten  feet  under. maybe more: abel can’t tell, surrounded by bare, crumbly walls.  rats  wouldn’t  even  hunt  within  their  pipes.  abel  counts  the  days  on  her  hangnails,  trapped  between  her  nails  and  their  beds.  a  gradient  of  bitten  flesh:  crusted  and  dark,  or  moist  and  tender.  bloodied  by  her  crooked  teeth.  the  iron  tastes  good,  she  thinks  as  she  hides,  for  two  years,  from  the  sun.

burrowed  in  isolation,  she  grows  itchy.  first,  in  her  bloodshot  eyes,  twitching  instead  of  blinking;  and  then,  on  her  brittle  lips,  swollen  from  her  tongue  and  its  swiped  spit;  until  it  settles,  finally,  within  her  muscles.  each  movement  draws  her  nails  to  scratch  against  the  skin  that  won’t  calm.  she  showers  but  the  water  can’t  unravel  her  skin,  to  drag  the  itch  from  deep  within  her  flesh.

the  father  senses  her  unease  and,  one  day,  unlocks  the  door  that  wouldn’t  open.  can  you  feel  how  tainted  the  air  is  up  here?  can  you  hear  how  ungodly  our  land  has  become?  she  doesn’t  reply.  in  the  house,  fifty  yards  away,  there’s  a  pistol,  some  knives  dulled  by  disuse.  pierces  his  thigh  just  as  easily.  she  aims  the  gun  at  him,  then  skyward.  the  shot  reverberates.  crawl  home,  she  says,   i’ll  lock  the  door  behind  you.  she  doesn’t.  a  parting  gift  from  daughter  to  father.

[bludhound-a]

SUCCESSION | 4.09 | 4.10 "I feel like people are gonna be like... why isn't it me? You know, like... Sure. I mean, it could have been you, Rome. Could easily have been you. It's just... It's just marginal... presentation shit." — Richie Hofmann, Breed Me

[bludhound-a]

her  palms  mould  to  the  shape  of  the  guns.  a  cloth  in  one  hand,  the  pistol  grip  in  the  other.  her  hands  never  feel  how  iced  they  grow,  until  they  grab  at  another  body.  jay  and  his  warmth  arrive;  her  hands  rise  from  their  honeyed  cold.  ‘   didn’t  have  a  choice  before.  not  much  else  to  do  now.  i  still  wouldn’t  want  to  touch  the  merchandise  with  ( … )  well,  greasy  hands.  ’  her  imagination  fails  her  then.   ‘  what  would  you  want  them  to  pay  for  overtime  –   some  time  outside?  ’

— for @bludhound

even though jay had not been assigned to the barracks ( despite his military training ), he still knew the schedule relatively well thanks to his friends who were posted there. one such one was mina, and he was on his way over to walk with her to the food hall now that it was approaching lunch at noon. he'd already said his hellos to the guard and then poked his head into the armory to see if she was ready to go just yet. "are you planning to work through lunch? i don't think they pay for overtime here."

[bludhound-a]

comfort  unfurls  within  her;  quiet  yet  startling.  frayed  at  the  edges,  worn  from  the  years  spent  with  her  oldest  brother.  she  should  chuckle.  it  sounds  more  like  a  scoff.  ‘   a  delight,  then,  to  know  i’d  be  getting  treated  by  a  doctor  that  can’t  sleep  properly.  ’  she  looks  away  to  the  dirt-sodden  wall.  almost tastes the tatty paper, as she talks between bites.  ‘   i  had  steadier  hands  than  my  medic  too.  so  i guess i’m still  my  own best  choice.  ’

⸻⸻ 𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙖𝙨 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙣 eyebrow, leaning back in his seat. ‘ mm, well, aren't you a smart one? ’ she wasn't wrong — more sleep would certainly help his predicament, but staying up helped the nightmares even more, and it was much better to be sleep deprived than have to watch his wife and son die by his hand when he closes his eyes. ‘ unfortunately, duty calls. lots of people to heal these days. ’

[bludhound-a]

even  now,   emotion  strains  maiya’s  posture.     settled  into  her  muscles:   something  the  girl  would  struggle  to  forget.     like  trying  to  steal  air  from  a  lung.     her  pace  slows  a  step  or  two  behind  maiya.     glassy-eyes;   her  skin  cools.     a  car  emptied,   shots  strewn  at  the  occupiers’  feet.     all  that  mina  could  dream:   the  back  of  their  head.     black-haired,   yet  thinner  than  maiya’s.     their  frayed  gait.     a  clenched  fist.     this  girl  breathes  in  whines.     her  eyes  harden  again.     ‘   it  hurts,   does  it?     you  should  remember  that  when  you  want  to  spar  again,   or  you  can  forget  and  get  another  scar.   ’     just  a  flinch  could  provoke  maiya.     too  eager:   her  undefended  flesh  earns  its  punishment.     pain  settles,   and  maiya  should  learn.     a  stray  hit  is  still  a  chosen  hit.     watch  your  blind  spots.     ‘   you  won’t  learn  until  you  remember.   ’     her  teammates  would  react  similarly,   when  she  would  taunt  them.     sculpt  their  anger  until  it’s  quiet.     it  would  click:   a  scope  attaching  to  a  gun.     and  then,   her  car  won’t  get  raided.     sacked  by  a  swarm  of  hungry  ex-soldiers.     mina  would  make  sure  of  that.     she  almost  grins.     a  wrinkle  doesn’t  form.     ‘   and  you’ll  thank  me  one  day,   when  you  can  win.     is  that  the  incentive  you’re  missing   –   you  think  you’d  never  win?   ’

she supposed she was glad of it, the fact that mina treated her not as a plaything but a true opponent. when maiya trained with others—iris, noé, finch—she was left with barely a scrape. now there was a rather nasty red welt where their sticks had whipped too rough. you’d be dead if you couldn’t. just like her family, buried in the grounds of the chapel, a headstone etched with the same date of expiry like a pallet of milk cartons. somehow, by some miracle, summaiya was still standing. “it’s not that.” she spoke begrudgingly as they transitioned to the hard concrete of the motel parking lot. once there would have been cars lining each painted bay, children clutching pool floaties, dads shouldering heavy bags, mothers clutching itineraries. “i want to be put through the ringer. i want to know what i’m up against. what i don’t need is you being self-indulgent when we’re trying to help each other.” they were set for a rather frosty night—new mexico temperatures were thick, dry, suffocating, and yet a chill would exist between mina and maiya until reluctant apologies were exchanged. if they were exchanged. “it’s no good to anyone.” especially no good to her, who would have to attend the farm come morning one arm short.

[bludhound-a]

‘  for  himself?   if  he’s  feral  enough.  ’  unbidden,  her  childhood  dog  flashes  before  her  eyes.  a  dead  raccoon  in  his  mouth,  blood  lining  its  black  mouth.  ‘  we’re  not  desperate  enough  for  it.  stinks.  ’  a  smile  plays  at  mina’s  lips  as  she  pets  hancock’s  warm  neck.  ‘  d’you  think  he’d  wear  it  like  a  trophy?  maybe  he  wants  to  look  tougher, tell you to stop babying him.  ’

Iris watched Mina as she spoke, taking in the information. "Do you think the pelt could be salvaged?" She asked, examining the mangled fur. "I could probably take it to Laz. I'm sure he could work his magic on whatever meat there is."

[bludhound-a]

her  sigh  hits  her  like  a  breeze.  his  feet  were  here  before  his  face  was,  and  now  ––  his  face  cannot  be  denied.  i  should  leave  now.  the  thought  barely  forms.  more  hum  than  words.  and  then,  she  doesn’t  know  whether  she  had  the  thought  at  all. her gaze flits to the food in his hands, like a bee finding its flower.  narrowed  eyes,  pursed  lips.  suspicion  abates  her  hunger.  she  doesn’t  reach  for  the  tree.  ‘   you’re  not  drunk,  are  you?  you’ll  be  in  trouble  if  you  are.  ’

open starter where: close to the farm / when: mealtime (utp which one)

the young man had been comfortably seated upon a sturdier branch, his back leaning against the tree trunk as legs dangled freely - he could not imagine a more comfortable set up to devour his meal. and boy was he hungry, truly insatiable. he noticed the presence of another person rather quickly, standing almost directly before him. a boyish grin spread on his lips as the following words left his lips, ' you're more than welcome to join if you want, there's more space up here and a meal is always better shared. '

[bludhound-a]

a  foot  scrapes,  absently,  against  the  floor.  tiny  scruffs,  barely  a  noise  itself,  like  a  moth  caught  in  a  jar.  her  thumb  presses  against  her  glass  of  liquor.  the  nails  feel  crowded  in  their  beds,   by  the  fat  tips  of  her  fingers.  a  muted  sigh.  then, the  door  bangs  against  the  wall.  mina’s  head  turns  languidly,  rests  in  her  palm.  dark  eyes  calmly  watch  the  woman  struggling.  how  did  the  crate  get  this  far,  she  wonders.  a  stubbornness  that  dies  upon  seeing  victory?  convenient.  ‘   y’look  like  you’ve  got  it.  you’re  just  ( … )  stanced  wrong.  ’  and  yet,   she  stands.  in  a  blink,  mina  stands  beside  her.  a  brief  once-over.  ‘   y’don’t  want  to  lose  against  a  barrel  of  beer,  do  you?  c’mon   ( … )   with  me.  ’   in  another  blink,  she  crouches,  casting  an  expectant  gaze  up.

- open - Location: The Tap House Large crate in hand, Bellamy used her shoulder to push open the heavy door that separated the "brewery" from the rest of the Tap House. Self reliance had always been something she'd practiced and as such she found it hard to ask for help, even as she almost toppled over with the weight of the crate. "Fuck," she muttered under her breath, as she struggled to lift up the latest stock onto the bar top. She tried again and barely managed to make any progress. She knew she'd overfilled the crate. Damn her hubris and lack of actual muscle. Sighing to herself, she turned to the nearest person and put on a apologetic grin - something that had always served her well during college. "A little help here?"

[bludhound-a]

the  sheen  of her sweat holds  with  its  cooling  grip.  her  quick,  moon-kissed  run  would  expend  her  residual  energy,  its  lingering  heat.  burning  muscles  compete  against  her  cold  sweat,  fighting  to  be  the  dominant  nerve.  and yet,  numb  she remains.  two  pains  make  her  right.  her  head  thumps,  softly,  against  the  wall  of  the  motel.  ears  prickling.  imagining  a  twig  snap,  an  echoing  groan,  a  need  for  company.  her  eyes  open;  she  stares  at  the  starry  sky.  ‘  it’s  nice  being  up  this  late.   i’ve  always  chosen  it,  ’   mina  says  plainly.  her  gaze  never  strays  towards  them.  a  marked  lack  of  curiosity.  still,  she  elaborates.  ‘   you  can  hear  them  here sometimes.  you  can  hear  how  far  away  they  are.  ’

open starter where: outside the motel when: late at night

sleeping used to be kris' favorite thing. before the outbreak, she loved sleeping away responsibilities. homework? sleep. chores? sleep. bored? sleep? after the outbreak, in the early days, kris would sleep to escape what was going on. but now? they were lucky if they could sleep a full night without nightmares filling their mind. which was why she was outside in the middle of the night, walking around the motel. she was hoping this would tire her out enough to shut off her brain when she finally laid down. it was on their third lap around the building when she notices she wasn't alone on their night walk. "can't sleep either?" they asked their guest.

[bludhound-a]

unperturbed,  she  barely  offers  her  ears  to  the  girl.  inhale.  tight  grip  around  the  bench  as  she  leans,  stretching  her  back  and  shoulders.  deep  exhale.  her  voice  bears  no  inflection,  slightly  breathy.  ‘   people  would  find  us  easy.  an’  then  we’d  have  to  deal  with  them.  ’  mina  stands  straight  again,  sparing  a  glance  at  the  girl.  she’s  about  to  lean  to  the  side,  to  stretch  her  arms  and  shoulders.  to  pass  the  days  faster  ––  to  what?  her  inhale  cracks  slightly, a tad too strong.  a  deeper  scowl,  somehow.  ‘   d’you  want  us  to  be  found?  ’

"i'm bored." frigg groans as she sits down crossing her arms. "what's fun around here? people don't know how to have fun it seems like. sure we're in an apocalypse, but we can still have fun for the time being to make the day go by faster." frigg rolls her head over at the other and beats her eyelashes at them. "if it was between you and me i would think having some sort of groups or outings would make the day go by faster-- i would for sure encourage a girl scout or boy scout group."

[bludhound-a]

the  air  is  heavier  in  the  stables.  the  acoustics  ring  in  her  ears,  before  she  encounters  the  back  of  someone’s  head.  and  lo  and  behold:  a  face  she  does  not  want  to  see.  an  irritated  heat  blushes  her  cheeks,  like  she’s  been  found  doing  something  she  shouldn’t.  a  slight  scrunch  of  the  nose  –  it  doesn’t  even  wrinkle  –  before  her  features  default  to  its  inert  gaze,  its  hard-set  jaw.  her  stride  doesn’t  falter  before  she  reaches  him.  ‘   if  y’insist.  out  of  my  way  ––  please.  ’  she  nods  her  head  to  the  side,  gesturing  for  him  to  simply  move  out  of  her  way.  a  short  pause  before,  there,  a  step  forward:  lifted  chin  and  slight  head-tilt.  an  easy,  lazy  blink.  if  she  cared,  she  might  even  grin.  ‘   or  y’can keep  me  company.  whichever  you’d  prefer.  ’

open  starter.   location  :  the  stables; kal's work area.       time  :   around 5pm.

 he's  just  finished  shoeing  his  last  horse  of  the  day  —  one  of  the  geldings  that  the  scouts  take  out  to  do  patrols  —  when  he  hears  footsteps  against  the  creaky  hardwood  of  the  stable  floor,  coming  up  behind  him.  he  bristles  —  it's  not  common  for  somebody  to  need  something  from  him  so  late  in  the  day,  and  he's  supposed  to  be  off  in  thirty  minutes.  he  sighs  as  he  rises  to  full  height  from  where  he'd  been  crouched  down,  cleaning  up,  idly  wiping  the  dirt  &  dust  from  his  hands  with  a  rag.  dark,  bloodshot  eyes  dragging  across  his  surroundings  until  they  land  on  the  guest  —  or,  with  the  way  he  glares  at  them,  the  intruder.    "  can  i  help  you?  "    no  greeting,  tone  flat  &  irritable.  a  portrait  of  the  word  '  UNWELCOMING. '

[bludhound-a]

any  reverie  abandons  her  in  the  face  of  the  brunette.  another  heartbeat.  another.  unbidden,  her  legs  walk  to  the woman.  light-footed:  skipping  the  first  and  seventh  step  of  her  childhood  stairs.  roused  by  something  buried  within  mina.  something  grotesque:  familiar,  yet  inaccessible.  something  like   fondness.  heavy  as  a  heart,  as  a  forgotten  memory.  ‘  y’didn’t  hear  me?  hmm.  i  could’ve  pinned  you  by  now, mags.  ’  an almost teasing timbre. a  part  of  her   ––  some  part  left  bleeding  at  mina’s  feet,  carved  out  with  her  own  hands  ––  wriggles  and  pulls  at  that  beating  fondness.  you  should  ask,  mina  thinks,  what’s  bothering  her.  but  there  it  remains,  at  her  feet.  beating  and  unheld.  margaret  wouldn’t  reciprocate;   it  would  be  unproductive to ask.   ‘  still  might  ––  teach  you  a  lesson.  i’ll  disappoint  you  and  stay  quiet though.  ’

@bludhound ( mina ) private starter

margaret's not really looking anywhere, not even at the object her stare has settled in. her gaze is far away, and her head is stuck within itself. it's not optimal, to be left alone with her thoughts, but there are days, few and far between, where it's best for her to be away. clear her head. she doesn't hate crowds, tolerates them at worst, and does well around other people. most days. today was just not one of them. but she seemed to come back to herself when a shadow peeked through her peripheral vision, a quick reflex to look with a hand grasping onto the hilt of her pistol. it's not an infected, not within the walls of novac, but it never hurts to be safe. "you're more quiet than usual, mina."

[bludhound-a]

the  dead  hour  clings  like  a  film  of  sweat.  she  should  be  lying  in  the  dirt,  counting  the  stars  until  her  eyes  close.  among  her  teammates,  she  would  wake  languid.  tingling  eardrums;  puckered  gooseflesh.  now,  she  wakes  with  tense  shoulders  and  a  stiff  back,  to  the  soft  stirring  of  her  roommates.  tonight,  her  lids  touch  each  other  for  no  longer  than  a  kiss.  when  she  blinks  faster,  it  sounds  like  dry,  flapping  wings.  two  blinks,  one  second.  aimless,  in  its  true  form.  fitting,  then,  that  she  would  find  herself  here,   looking  at  another  cold  face.  eyes  as  dark  as  her  own.  an  innocent,  little  blonde  girl,  lost  without  her   daddy.  ‘   would  you  like  me  to?  ’   a  dispassionate  timbre.  settles  into  her  slack  shoulders.  her  soft,  cold  gaze.  she,  who  left  mina’s  teammate,  stealing  their  life  for  her  own.  in  every  memory,  they  have  no  face.  singed  like  their  body,  that  became  mina’s  tinder  for  the  night.  she  should  feel  angrier.  lips  contort  into  words,  she  thinks,  her  teammate  would  say.  ‘  i’ll  get  comfortable,  just  for  you.  if  you  want  me  to  ––  tayla.   would  you  like  to  join  me?  ’

& . closed for @bludhound !

novac   seemed   to   be   a   graveyard   of   her   past   lives   .   many   people   she’d   run   into   over   the   years   had   appeared   out   of   nowhere   ,   making   tayla   believe   this   might   have   been   her   own   personal   hell   .   maybe   she   died   years   ago   ,   to   the   infected   like   she   should   have   from   the   start   .   maybe   this   was   her   punishment   for   all   the   lies   that   slid   through   her   lips   .   either   way   ,   tayla   wasn’t   a   fan   of   having   to   face   the   consequences   of   her   actions   .   she   sits   ,   still   as   a   statue   with   a   book   in   her   lap   while   she   remained   lazed   back   in   her   chair   .   it’s   when   mina’s   figure   wanders   in   that   the   blonde   tears   her   gaze   from   the   words   on   the   page   to   the   only   other   person   she’d   seen   in   the   last   hour   .   expression   doesn’t   change   ,   stoic   nature   failing   to   falter   now   as   chin   lifts   in   acknowledgment   of   her   company   .      ❛   have   a   good   night   .   ❜   tone   rests   nothing   short   of   sour   ,   unsure   if   mina   was   headed   towards   a   room   or   away   from   the   desk   .   tayla   didn’t   care   all   too   much   either   way   .

[bludhound-a]

Poem for Earth Day. From Matthew Olzmann's book, Constellation Route. (Alice James Books, 2022)

[bludhound-a]

the  aches  latch,  only,  to  her  hands.  her  blood  seeks  to  bruise,  yet  no  other  pain  spouts.  her  heartbeat  steadies.  her  body  loses  the  soft  thrum  of  her  fight.  a  slight  pulse  in  her  hip:  maiya’s  hardest  hit  would come  when  she  would  tap  out  of  mina’s  pin.  blind  frustration  is  too  easy,  a  crutch  that  keeps  the  woman  from   cold, precise  wrath.  something  clogs  maiya’s  bones,  coagulates  her  blood  into  honey.  sticky  and  tight.  almost  begging  for  a  mouth  to  feast.  she  can’t  move  in  the  way  she  needs.  and  that  just  won’t  do,  will  it?  ‘   you  can  take  it.  you’d  be  dead  if  you  couldn’t,  ’   mina  says  simply.  her  arms  hand  loosely  at  her  sides,  her  hands  stuffed  into  her  empty  pockets.  ‘  you  could  try  against  the  real  thing,   if  i’m  not  good  enough.  they  would  end  your  pain  much  quicker.  that’d  be  easier,  wouldn’t  it?  preferable,  maybe.  ’   within  the  first  minute,  you  either  kill  or  get  bitten  ––  even  in fights with  those  who  could  hold  their  own.  in  the  first  nights,  out  in  the  cold  with  her  squad,  the  screams  would  end  as  quickly  as  they  would  start.  the  echoing  groans,  however,  would  bleed  into  her  dreams.

── streets of novac , summaiya & mina !

they walked almost a foot apart. those drifting past would have thought mina and maiya were strangers, when they were instead trailing novac back to their shared motel room. "i was distracted." she finally mumbled into the twilight, although she knew it was no excuse—if she was ever 'distracted' in the thick of a hoard the woman would quickly become a memory, another candlelit vigil. such mistakes couldn't be made. such mistakes could be accepted in the parking lot, swinging sticks instead of knives, but there would be a time—a time soon—where her opponents weren't friends or mulch-stuffed scarecrows. "you didn't have to go so hard on me either, you know. this is training. i'm not like you." the closest to military training that maiya had ever received was playing soldiers with her sisters, a distant flicker in a scrapbook. she would illuminate the wicks that evening, four brightly burning flames—garvesh, sujaya, saavi, shriya, take me with you. @bludhound

[bludhound-a]

‘  useful  (  …  )  as  dog  food,  yeah.  ’  fur  gathers  in  her  hands  as  she  pets  his  head,  lowers  to  scratch  his  neck  once  he  drops  the  animal.  good  hunting, dog.  her  nose  scrunches,  looking  at  the  groundhog’s  wet,  dead  mouth.  ‘  unless  you  want  to  skin,  prep and check  it.  ’

"O-oh, thank you, Hancock." Said dog stands before Iris with a smug look, dead groundhog in mouth. "I'm sure this will be very... useful..." She praises sarcastically, her gloved hands reaching for the offered carcass.

[bludhound-a]

he’s  in  her  periphery  as  she  eats.  holds  a  stare:  his  under-eyes  dark  from  lack  of  sleep.  her  own heart  remains  steady,  at  night;   her  eyes  lazily  blink  the  nightmares  away,  in  the  morning.  rewind,  play;  rewind,   play.  she  watches  them,  night  by  night,  with  the  bare  interest  of  a  fly  leering  at  a  deathbed.  ‘   you  could  just  sleep  more.  you  don’t  have  anything  better  to  do  with  your  time,  do  you?  ’

location: food hall

⸻⸻ 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙪𝙣 𝙝𝙖𝙨 been up for hours now, but that doesn't matter much to nicholas when he's barely slept. he's learned to keep the nightmares at bay over the years, but some night they manage to slip through the cracks and get him when he least expects it. he finishes the last of his barely decent breakfast and stifles a yawn. ‘ what i'd give for a good cup of coffee right now, ’ he muses, ‘ and i mean a good one, espresso shots and all. ’