#and his family all rationalize its occasional movement as the house settling and such right up until. uhh. An Incident

[scribbling-stiks]

AAR - XXXI - Bad Days

*New Mississippi Design doodle; sidenote, I hope I got the hair style right. I am caucasian and stuck in the house with my white family, so I tried my best with google trying to find something relevant. I'm not sure if I did it right, so please let me know if I didn't do it justice.*

Russia twirls America's hair in between his fingers. He tries to admire different colors. Russia himself has plain white hair, and he almost finds himself envying it, but shakes the feeling off. He pulls his fingers through America's hair and it stands on end, blue and red highlights popping out from the white.

But Russia finds he can't focus on the colors or the texture of any of it. His head spins and thoughts bounce around his skull like a pinball machine. He tries his best to relax, but his mind spins.

'What's going to happen now?' The thought echos in his mind.

'Am I in danger?'

'Are we in danger?'

'Are the kids going to be okay?'

'Is Ukraine okay?'

'Is that thing going to come back? What if it wasn't here for just the animals.'

He tries to shake off the thoughts but finds that he can't. His eyes fly around the room, even though logic tells him that he won't find anything in here. Motion catches his attention and he sees Texas walking over with a concerned look on his face.

Texas smiles when he sees Russia looking up at him and walks a little quicker. Texas swiftly makes it to Russia's side and America looks up with a smile.

"Hey, y'all," Texas says, "so, I just wanna let y'all know that outside don't look so pretty."

"What do you mean?" America asks, his tone curious and worried.

"Well, it kinda looks like when Arkansas put red food coloring and milk in the blender and didn't put the top on."

"Oh. That's not good," America says, "is the spider monster thing still outside?"

"I didn't see it, and I don't think there are any more animals left," Texas says, "at least, not anymore. But Tenny said it smelled like it was gonna rain soon, so we might just wanna wait for a while before we go outside again."

America hums.

"We wait until tomorrow," Russia says decisively, "then we will leave."

"Wait, we're leaving? I ain't complainin', don't get me wrong, but where are we going?" Texas says.

Russia notes that as soon as Texas' voice rose a little, the other kids tune in to the conversation. The kids don't move, but they do go quiet, occasionally glancing in their direction.

"We're going to my plantation house in Georgia," Dixie says loudly, and drew everyone's attention.

The room explodes with sound.

"Wait, we're going to go stay at Dixie's zombie house?"

"Bama, it's not for f***ing zombies."

"OOH! If we're leaving, can we get drive-thru on our way there?"

"Yeah! Anything's better than the unseasoned stuff coming outta these cans."

America sighs and rubs his face. Russia smiles.

"Fine, we'll get drive-thru on our way there. But I am NOT taking requests," America relents.

The states cheer and clap. Russia smiles and drops his chin into America's hair. It's prickly and tickles his face. Then he catches motion in his peripheral vision and he looks up, panicked. After a little searching, he finally sees what had startled him. He offers a smile to Connecticut as they walk over nicely.

"Hey, Dad?" Connecticut says, waving their hand to get his attention.

"Yeah, Kiddo?"

"Can I come with you?"

"What do you mean?" America asks, looking clueless. Russia shakes his head with amusement.

'They mean when we leave to invade the bases.'

"I know that you're leaving again with Russia. I wanted to see if I could come with you."

"Really? Why?"

"I've got magic, and I wanted to make sure you have some extra magic support," they answer, "I can't do wards like Massy, but I can summon weapons."

Connecticut waves their hands and summons knives, one in each hand. They wave the knives and their feet leave the ground as they whirl around, swiping through the air.

"Alright," America relents, "fine. But we aren't figuring out our search group until after we settle into Dixie's safe-house, okay?"

"Okay!" They say, and they walk off with a wide smile.

Russia's attention returns to the rest of the room and he finds himself tracking where everyone is and what they're doing. Trying to split his attention makes him feel overwhelmed, but when he tries to stop, panic grows in his chest. He feels America shift and Russia looks down at him.

America looks up with wide, concerned eyes.

"Russ, are you okay?" America asks.

"All is perfect. I am okay."

"No, you're not," America says, sitting up.

Russia's eyes fly back to America again. America is looking up at him with concern and affection in his eyes.

'His expressions still look the same,' Russia notes with muted joy.

"You're freaking out. I can feel your heartbeat," America whispers, his hand moving to Russia's chest.

America stares up at him with a tender look. "Please," he says, "breath with me."

Russia tries, he really does, but when he tries to slow his breathing, his lungs scream at him that he isn't getting enough air. He finds himself trying to match America but desperately gasping as if he had just resurfaced after nearly drowning.

'How is he breathing so slowly?' Russia thinks incredulously, 'it's impossible.'

America carefully takes Russia's hand and pulls them onto his chest, breathing deeply. Russia feels the movement.

'In...out...in...out'

Russia takes shuttering breaths, trying to breathe in when he feels America's chest expand.

"We're okay... we're okay," America whispers, cupping Russia's hands with his own.

Russia tries to look around America's head and search for danger in the building.

"Hey," America says, and Russia frantically looks back, "there is nothing behind me, okay? Look at me."

Russia tries his best to keep his eyes on America, but the movement around America's head keeps pulling his attention back to the chaos happening behind America.

"Rue, I'm going to hug you, okay?" America asks, gently letting go of Russia's hands.

Russia retracts his arms to his chest, closes his eyes, and nods furiously. America pulls him in and Russia leans his head into America's shoulder. America hugs him tightly and doesn't say anything.

'Everything is okay. Everything is okay.' It becomes almost a chant, cycling through his thoughts until it loses its meaning.

Russia feels America's heartbeat and breathing and focuses on it. Russia forces himself to focus on America. He struggles to tune out the sounds that drown out ration thoughts that surround him, so he focuses on America's breath brushing the back of his neck. Russia refuses to let his panic in his chest move his focus away.

Finally, Russia's breathing starts to slow down enough for him to think, and he wraps his arms around America, trying his best to be gentle.

'Everything is okay. Right now, we are safe. If we stay inside, we are safe,' Russia thinks, trying to convince his heart to slow its racing.

Russia focuses on keeping his breathing calm, and his heart rate calms. He lays there for as long as he can manage until he feels America begin to shift. Russia sits and looks away, his face flush. He can't make himself look up and meet America's eyes.

'What happened?!' Russia mentally demands, trying to find why he had started panicking like that.

"Rue?"

Russia scrunched his nose in frustration.

"Rue."

Russia looks up and sees America looking at him with concern. America smiles.

"You were spacing out on me there."

"Sorry," Russia mumbles.

"Hey, I get it," America says, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder, "sometimes things can be too much."

"But I..."

"Rue-Rue, everyone has their bad days. Everyone. And bad days can look different depending on who you are. Sometimes when things get hard, Flo goes non-verbal, and Tex'll lash out and isolate himself. Sometimes, for no reason in particular, some of the states will visit and be attached to me like koalas for the rest of the day," America recalls, a fond and exasperated smile spreads across his face before he shakes his head, "Anyways, my point is we just had a hard few... forevers, and you're just having a bad day today."

Russia tries his best to fight back the shame in the back of his throat. He feels his cheeks burn.

"And hey, if I'm allowed to have bad days, you are too," America says, playfully punching Russia's shoulder. Russia doesn't look up and America sighs.

"For real though, I'm here for you. Besides, we can't just go out and get alcohol to drown our sorrows, and I promised my kids I wouldn't start smoking again, so we're kinda stuck dealing with our emotions."

"I don't like it," Russia mutters. America laughs quietly.

"No one does, Rue-Rue. Trust me, I know. But if we don't deal with them, they don't ever get any better."

Russia tries to think of a counterpoint, only to find himself agreeing.

"And I'm sure once we settle down into that house, we'll have a bunch of clingy children to deal with," America says with a smile.

Russia laughs softly and finally looks back up at America, who looks at him with love in his eyes. Russia stares back, getting lost within his eyes, staring almost hypnotized by the strange dullness to America's right eye and the depth to the right.

"I think everyone needs a break just to calm down a little. I think once we're all together somewhere without things sneaking up on us and where we can sleep in actual beds, it'll get better," America says softly, a loving smile on his face.

Russia smiles back, and he feels lighter. The storm of emotions and anxiety he hadn't even noticed making a home in his chest dissipates, if only a little.

"It will be better," Russia agrees before musing, "it has been a while since I have been in a house."

America giggles widely and falls into him. Russia smiles at the display and his heart swells. America takes a few deep breaths to calm his giggling before looking back up at Russia with a stern look.

"If you get jumpy like that again, try to calm yourself down," America advises, "if you don't, you're just gonna be exhausted."

Russia nods. America smiles brightly, and Russia tiredly smiles back.

"See, now you're tired. But you gotta stay up with me."

"Why?" Russia whines.

"Because you have to, you jerk," America huffs, crossing his arms and pouting.

Russia chuckles. "You are cute."

"I am not!"

Russia shakes his head with a smile. Honestly, he couldn't wait to settle down somewhere with a comfortable mattress and insulated walls. The mats suck. But he'd make due right now. They just have to stay put one more night.

Soon, light stops peaking through the makeshift curtains, and the steady padder of rain echoes from the metal ceiling, filling the building with white noise. America begins to sway a little before leaning into Russia's side, avoiding the dripping water streaming down the wall.

Russia smiles, wraps an arm around him, drifting off, the darkness welcoming him into sleep's embrace.

~

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Table of Contents

[pilawforhire-archived]

The Truth About Bread - A headcanon drabble about Law’s negative attitudes toward bread and how that began. Told in two parts.

“…I don’t really like bread,” he said flatly, and he looked the other dead in the eye, daring them to pry. Inwardly, the voice reproached, ‘Lies, lies, lies…’

Half an hour before the alarm, Law was stumbling out of bed. He scampered across his room and nearly tripped over the heaps of books strewed all over the floor. He halted and hunkered down to hastily gather them into a messy pile. As he darted out, he forced himself to slow his pace to long but casual strides. Despite being bleary-eyed from waking abruptly, he did not require his vision, for even in the dark, his feet padded like a stray’s, his nose lifted high, sniffing the air and guiding him toward the ambrosial aroma, that wafted over from the kitchen and circulated pleasantly through the house.

Law paused at the doorway and peered out from behind the wall. Dressed in a flowery apron, she pulled off a hunk of dough, spread it out on the countertop, and widened it with her fingers. Although preparing flatbread was something his mother did regularly, Law was mesmerized and always lingered to observe. Whether her fingers danced dexterously across the piano keys or sedulously kneaded and tossed and twirled each hunk of dough until they were the size of round pillowcases, they always worked an entrancing magic, especially when they ruffled his hair affectionately or held him close to press a kiss on his habitually furrowed brow. Her hands were always warm, her touch comforting, her voice soothing, even as she called his name with a sharp look.

“Law?” She spared him a brief glance before she placed the thin layer of almost translucent dough onto a domed metal griddle. “It’s early. You should be sleeping.” Regardless of her slight reproof, when she turned back to him, she offered him the softest of smiles. It was yet another of her magical qualities; in spite of whatever adversities they encountered, in Flevance or in the family, she always remembered to smile. It was a true talent, he thought, unable to force himself to reciprocate a smile. He found smiling quite very tiring, often instead favoring a frown. He reckoned he looked better frowning when he studied his reflection in the mirror. It suited his features better than something so bright and cheery.

“I’m almost done,” she said. She lifted the Saj bread off the griddle and added it to a stack of already cooked bread by her side. “Why don’t you set the table and wake your sister?”

Minutes later, Law settled into a chair opposite Lami after he had helped her into her seat. While her legs dangled from the chair, his barely touched the ground. For his age, he was, unfortunately, one of the shorter few in his class, which to him meant all the more he had to permanently plaster a menacing scowl.

Lami asked what they were having for breakfast. When Law told her, she made a face. Unlike Law, who had a preference for savory foods and could enjoy Saj or Manakish with most toppings (cheese, a blend of spices, and his mother’s own hummus recipe being his favorites), Lami fancied the sweet pastries and desserts. Would the decision be left to her, she would have Baklawa and Mafroukeh for every meal. In Law’s opinion, as long as something was prepared handmade by their mother, he would devour it. If all he ate was his mother’s bread for life, for every meal, what a blissful good life that would’ve been.

Soon joined by their mother, they said grace together before they helped themselves to the food. Law caught the glance his mother furtively threw at the empty seat at the head of the table, where his father would usually sit, were he not up to his neck in his work, attending to patients round the clock at the hospital. Law’s eyes followed his mother’s disquieted gaze, but there was nothing that could be done. His father was needed elsewhere, with the deaths caused by the Amber Lead disease accumulating at an alarming rate. The clock was ticking and it was ticking fast.

Perhaps over a hundred times, Law had eaten his mother’s Saj bread sandwiches and still, he picked it up carefully and eyed it appreciatively. He brushed his fingers over the rough texture and turned the sandwich around to examine it in his hand. It was just simply perfect. It was a delicacy. He brought it to his nose and when no one was looking, Law inhaled deeply and savored the homely and piquant scent of the bread and the ingredients (labneh, za’atar, and some freshly cut vegetables) wrapped within. He was so lucky, he thought. Anyone who had their mother bake them bread on a regular basis was a blessed child.

Law told his mother, “I’d never again in my life eat bread baked by anyone else.” She said he was being silly. But no other sandwiches or bread—and he had tried plenty—tasted the same as those his mother made, with love. When he packed a lunchbox to school, he refused to split it with anyone else. Sometimes he brought an extra portion for friends that adored his mother’s cooking. Neighbors and friends alike would express that it was a shame his mother didn’t open a bakery. She laughed and said she didn’t have that kind of time, and who would look after her children if she did?

She laughed. She had laughed a lot. She laughed gaily, daily, the occasional warm chuckle and giggle, mostly directed at Lami or Law.

But did she laugh, had she smiled, could she smile, when she was collapsed on the floor, knowing her life would soon be over? When the house was stormed?

By the time Law was repentant that he had never returned her smiles, there was no one left to smile at but the reflection in the mirror—and he did finally smile. Law finally cracked a smile, when he donned the necklace of grenades. It was a rueful smile but suited him well, it did. There, was it so hard?

Law scrutinized the misshapen roll in his hands. He studied it from every angle. The ghastly thing seemed to weigh a suspicious ton. He bet if he hurled it at the window, it would effortlessly splinter the glass; if he pitched it at someone’s head, it was bound to cause a concussion. He figured it would be easier to choke down a rock than that stale, odorless, lifeless chunk. Oddly, he felt he could actually empathize. Are you as empty as I?

Law plucked and picked at the roll until it was reduced to half its original size. All the crumbs he flicked carelessly aside for the pigeons to peck at, but even they were smart enough to scavenge elsewhere.

The persisting protesting rumble of his stomach nevertheless prompted him to rip off a small piece and chuck it into his mouth. He chewed hastily, as fast as he could, hoping he wouldn’t have to taste the atrocious thing. Regrettably, he still did. How could they call that shit bread? Even cardboard and sandpaper ought to taste better on his tongue. He would rather eat an entire dictionary than finish the remaining bread, for despite the tiny portion he had swallowed, the bread plunged into his stomach like a boulder and he felt something inside of him come alive and start to shift and squirm and crawl.

From out of nowhere, inexplicable anger surged up within him. Law clenched his fist ferociously around the bread. He squashed it into a tight ball and crammed it entirely into his mouth. With every aggressive chomp, Law visualized his jaws brutally mangling the bread with a vengeance. By mistake, he bit down hard on his tongue. He startled and accidentally swallowed. The bread tumbled down his throat. Too large, too quickly, and then he choked.

His eyes bulged. Law turned his back to the others. Hunched over, he stuck his fingers into his mouth and tried to trigger his gag reflex. When that didn’t work, he shot to his feet and stooped down lower, shoving and jabbing his fingers in desperation. Was he actually dying? He might have considered it at times, but not like that. This was beyond pathetic, death by choking on bread. Perhaps fate did have quite the riotous sense of humor.

All his fuss inevitably attracted Bepo’s attention. Bepo immediately rushed to Law’s aid. He bombarded Law with questions after questions that Law managed only mute gestures to in response. Finally, Shachi stepped up and pushed Bepo aside. Shachi positioned himself behind Law and circled his arms around Law’s waist. Truth be told, Shachi had no idea what exactly he was doing but he had witnessed others attempt the Heimlich Maneuver on multiple occasions and decided it couldn’t be that hard if he simply mimicked the movements.

It took a series of repeated abdominal thrusts in succession before Law projectile vomited the bread. No one saw where it shot toward but it seemed to disappear without a trace, perhaps for the better.

The color gradually returned to Law’s face. He clamped a clammy hand over his mouth, a futile effort to still shaky spit-slicked fingers. His racing heart continued to pound its rage. What a blunder, an unacceptable embarrassment—ashamed not just that he had choked on the despicable roll, that the despicable roll had caused him such humiliation, but disgusted that panic had gripped him whole at the threat of impending death.

Are you all right? Distant voices drifted to his ears. Law removed his hand and straightened up slowly. A salty effluence trickled down his cheek and into his lips. Instinctively, Law jerked away and pawed clumsily at his eyes and face. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and took a moment to breathe.

“…I’m fine,” Law said hoarsely. With his back fixed toward the others, he met neither of their gazes. “I’ve just gotta… Be back later.” And he left. He stalked away, directionless, with his shoulders tense, glowering at anyone ahead in his path.

Despite all his faculties of rationality, Law couldn’t help the uncanny inkling that this was a message from the afterlife. As preposterous and ludicrous a thought, he had promised her, he said he would never again in his lifetime eat anyone else’s bread but hers. From the other spiritual plane, she must be watching in disappointment.

While Law doubted his mother would be so petty as to resent him and condemn him over an instance of ‘enjoying’ bread, that could not dispel his consuming guilt in the slightest. Besides, not forgetting Corazon (and his adamant hatred for bread), who must also be shaking his head in the afterlife. Perhaps unconsciously, their combined disapproval had mystifyingly resulted in such an event. First, he survived without them, and now, he wanted to eat bread?

Never previously inhibited by superstitions, his adolescent mind arrived at the conclusion that they were expressing their disgruntlement (for his lonesome escape, for his inability to save anyone but himself) in the only way they could, through some ghostly powers. Even if that was merely a fallacious assumption, he was unable to shake the nausea the sight of bread alone evoked.

Perhaps even they missed him and wanted him to join them in death; who knew. However, he did know something. He had a goal to achieve while he still lived. He remained indebted to Corazon and would first strive to fulfill Corazon’s wishes. Moreover, Law thought Bepo needed him around, at least for a while, until Bepo reunited with his brother.

Law made a vow to himself that night. Never again would he break that promise, as silly as it had originally been uttered to praise rather than in all seriousness.

“…I don’t really like bread,” Law mumbled, and he looked the other dead in the eye, daring them to pry. Were one to search his face, however, perhaps they might perceive a scintilla of dolefulness flickering in his eyes. Once they left him alone, quietly he murmured, for his own ears only, “...Only hers; none other but hers.”

If there was to be a lamentable lesson learned, however, it was that he should always offer smiles to those he cared for (namely Bepo).

And Law did try. He tried to smile more often.

[axolotiels]

Kick in the Head Ch. 2

Ahh, chapter 2′s goin up! We shift to Chell’s perspective this time, but next chapter its back to the screaming eyeball and Hal 9000′s mom. Special thanks to @actingwithportals who gave me a hand with spellcheck n such!

   Never let it be said that Chell was not a practical person. She believed this with all her heart, despite the many bug bites, cuts, scrapes, chilly nights, and other things that could easily be avoided. And she was indeed practical, but spiteful was another thing she was. She was both spiteful and practical with her money and goods on all accounts.

   She was not to be haggled into high pricing, oh no. So when she had cornered a passing merchant who was looking too tall to be a real human, scraggly, and like he’d rather be elsewhere than eying her down, she made the quickest transaction of her life while managing to actually get a few things that she needed. A fresh pair of pants and a shirt, a hoodie, some ancient canned food, a carving knife, and a half-empty box of matches seemed like a fair trade for a few loaves of fresh (Well, relatively fresh) bread and some woven baskets.

   Chell hated her wheat field. She knew exactly why she hated it, and she acknowledged that she hated it, but that did not help her come to terms with it. It wasn’t even a full field, certainly not as wide and endless as the parent field that her seeds had come from. But because of the name she hated it. However, hating it was no reason not to use it. She tended to it but mercifully did not have to actually make anything with it herself most of the time.

   As she trudged back to her little stead with the knife in her hand and everything else in a water-tight woven basket, Chell wondered if she should start keeping count of how many people she’d seen. She didn’t know the exact amount of time that she’d been away from that abandoned phone-store from hell, but she surmised that she probably should have seen a few more humans than she had.

   There was the family of two that lived upriver in a shed, and then a camp that nobody lived in that was mostly used for trade, but that was a day’s walk and she’d been there only twice. Then there was the tall fellow she’d traded with today, who she’d seen make this trek a few times. I hate his voice. Chell dismissively thought, her eyes trained on the cluster of pine that began the forest where she lived.

   Chell hated an awful lot of things. Maybe that’s why people didn’t like her around for long periods of time. This was fine; after all, the last time she’d had company there was a heinous amount of absolutely atrocious things that happened to her before she left.

   It is perfectly understandable that Chell would hate things that reminded her of her time in Aperture. Some people are afraid of things that have wronged them, which is rational as well. But then there are those who are not afraid to confront their fears head on with a knife in one hand and a grenade in the other, however irrational that may sound. Chell was one of those people, though as of that time, she lacked a grenade.

   The grass crunched beneath her feet as she hurried along, trying to get home before it was dark outside; this was big cat country. She’d never seen one herself, but she heard them at night, howling into the sky from mountaintops near and far. Three years in this place had kept her on her toes. Well, not three years; instead, two and a half years. The six month shifting and settling period had been harder than actually finding someplace to live and keeping that place up to snuff. If there was any way to measure the amount of distance she’d travelled from that little shack and the seemingly endless wheat field that surrounded it, she would have found that it was a rocky and hilly five mile walk. Chell had not gone in only one direction; on the contrary, she had looped back through the wheat field accidentally many times, much to her chagrin. But she didn’t care about distance, she just cared that she was away.

   Her legs had gotten rather strong, as well as the rest of her. She hadn’t been weak by any means but  now she could throw a grown man quite a few feet if she had to. Initially she didn’t know this, but there was an upstart a year or so ago at that large market that had attempted to mug her. He managed to catch her beneath the eye with a knife but that was more of a slap the ego than anything; she’d let her guard down in the group setting that she knew was usually safe.

   One of the many miscellaneous species of birds that inhabited the area whistled and flew past her into the heavy grove of pine; Chell liked them when they stayed out of her field and her slowly growing vegetables, though she never knew what kind they were. It seemed pointless to Chell to name everything. It made some sense to name things that were dangerous so you could identify them, like mountain lions or whatever the old people at the market had called ‘tax-collectors’, but to have a name for every solitary thing was ridiculous. It put too much stress on her memory.

   There was one non-dangerous bird that she loved and was glad she knew the name of, which was a raven. Aside from it being the cursed bird that had nested inside Aperture, the species itself wasn’t shabby looking either, and she had one in particular that was her favorite. It was a pretty little thing she’d found with its head stuck in a barbed wire fence when she had settled into her home. At first, she thought it was dead, only to find that it was chugging along, albeit weakly and with its head caught in a rather untoward spot. Chell didn’t own the raven, but she considered it her pet, or if not her pet a companion. It was a far superior companion, one that didn't talk constantly and sometimes brought her shiny things. She had a drawer full of shiny things the raven had brought her. This raven had a very good memory, it seemed, and had taken quite the shine to her after she’d rescued it from the fence. It would land on her shoulder sometimes, but it would never let her pet it.

   Chell hadn’t seen the raven, whom she had nick-named Aleu, for a few days. That was fine, she was sure the raven had bird obligations somewhere in a flock or a field far away from there, but she still worried a bit. The raven was one of the few things she liked.

   The sun was on it’s way down, but she would definitely be able to make it back before dark. She’d managed to get into the forest at a decent clip, her ears pricked for suspicious movement but her mind admittedly wandering. Chell was getting hungry, so she’d check the trap closest to her home when she got near it; it was rabbit season, but the mountain lions, bobcats, and other assorted sharp-toothed predators knew that too, and would not pass up a trapped animal.

   Chell had become quite adept at survivalist things; she could put those things at the front of her mind because surviving was actually something that mattered, not like naming every creature she came across or making nice with every person she came across. Of course, when she had been spat out of that shed in the middle of the wheat field, she had known little about survival and was much too angry to think about it immediately. If she hadn’t had someone to teach her, she probably would have starved.

   She reached the stream that marked the three-fourths-of-the-way home, and hopped lightly over the exposed rocks that she’d placed there herself. Chell could see her little shack now; it’s light was on and there was a bit of movement in the window, a scraggly silhouette doing god knew what, probably working on one of his gadgets. That didn’t bother her, as long as he wasn’t breaking anything.

   Making a beeline to the right of her trodden path, her eyes lit up when there, was in fact, a rabbit caught in her snare. It wasn’t fat, but it would do.

   Collecting her game and making her way back to the house, Chell heard the unmistakeable croaky caw of her little friend, and she smiled. The closer she got, she saw that Aleu was at the window and pecking it with its beak, occasionally flapping its wings and cawing again in a demand to be let inside. Once it saw it’s big strong human come walking up with a bag on her back and a shiny thing in her hand, it turned a bit and made a deathly sounding attempt at human speech.

   “Heh-lo.” Aleu’s beady little eyes glinted, no longer paying attention to the figure in the window. It shuffled its wings and hopped to the ground as she approached.

   “Hey buddy.” Chell responded, a bit more politely than she would with an actual person. When not being wrung through an underground facility and thrown down stories into an even deeper part of said facility, she found herself to be much more talkative and rather liked the sound of her own voice. At first she had been quite stunned when the bird had begun picking up human speech, but as it had been explained to her, more species of bird did this other than ravens. But ravens were local and other birds were not, so as far as she was concerned, she had the smartest bird around.

   The human brushed the hair from her eyes and walked past the shed, prompting her raven to hop along behind her for a bit before taking off and landing on her roof. Behind the shed there was a fire pit that she was going to kick up, but for now she just wanted some alone time with the raven. It was something she enjoyed, if only for a few minutes.  

   She sat down at a makeshift chair (Which was really just a log, but it was a log she sat on, so it was a chair to her) and opened up the woven pack of goodies she’d accumulated earlier that day. She still had half a loaf of bread; she’d eaten so much of it that she’d become sick of the stuff. She almost hated the smell that it put out when it was baked, even if she didn’t have to make it and it was to sell, but until her vegetables grew in more fully, bread and canned food it was. There was a surprising amount of canned food still available around here, but then again it was also a surprisingly empty place where she lived.

   Breaking up the bread into smaller pieces, she tossed a few to her raven, who readily ate them. She could tell that Aleu was more interested in the rabbit she had taken up, but the rabbit was for supper.

   Once Aleu had eaten a bit of the bread she began to focus more intently on the rabbit’s carcass. Chell squinted with a smirk on her face, and got up to the work table that was at the back of the shed. The raven eagerly followed behind her, taking to the air and landing on the section of roof above the table, tilting its head as she put the rabbit down and began to skin it.

   She had to skin rabbits or whatever it was she found out here now; her room mate was just too squeamish. Chell had no problem whatsoever with it since it netted her food. Taking one of the ears and cutting it off, she turned toward her bird and held it up. “What does Aleu say?”

   “Pleez.” said Aleu, though to Chell’s ears it sounded more like ‘blease’. It would suffice.

   So Chell tossed it toward the bird and it greedily snapped it up and swallowed it whole. There were only a few things that her raven said, ‘hello’ and ‘please’ being among them. She hadn’t been able to get it to say her name even if it was an imitation bird and she had said her name repeatedly for it.

  When it began bending over the edge of the roof, it’s shiny black head angled toward the rabbit, Chell held up the other ear and cocked her head at it and said, “What’s your name?”

   The raven took a moment, as if pondering, and then answered. “Aloo.” Aleu said, and was pleased when it was tossed another rabbit’s ear.

  Making short work of the rest of the rabbit and cleaning the blood from her hands, Chell left the undesirable bits in a little dish up on the roof, which was no trouble for her to reach. If Aleu didn’t eat them the owls would, so it was no matter. Looking at the rabbit’s pelt and liking how she’d skinned it, Chell decided that all in all, today had not gone so bad.

   There was a tinny-sounding knock from the inside of the shed against the wall where she stood. Cutting up the meat she’d been able to get from the rabbit, Chell kicked back in equal rhythm, never lifting her eyes from her work.

   “Are you done?” Came the raspy voice from inside, sounding nervous.

   “Just about. Start up the fire.” Chell responded curtly, looking for the skewers that she used to cook whatever game she had.

   She heard the door open and a half-muttered goodbye, soon followed by the jumpy steps of her room-mate. His eyes were forced toward the ground and in his hands was a box of matches that he held close to his chest, like he was afraid they would jump away.

   He had a shaggy and oily mop of black hair that stuck out it many directions, and an equally scruffy looking beard that covered the bottom half of his face. When he had first met Chell (Though in truth he had been charged at, but that was something that Chell did not like to admit she had done) he had been wearing a tattered lab coat and clothes that could barely be described as clothes beneath it, but now he was wearing a light blue shirt with some decades old logo on it for something that didn’t exist anyway, as far as they were concerned, and some cargo pants that were filled with crumbled up paper and pencils.

   “Doug?” She said, having found the skewers and was pushing them into the cuts of rabbit meat.

   It took him a moment to answer, as he had averted his gaze from the bloodied worktable entirely in favor of looking at anything else and was putting chopped up wood into the fire pit. “Yes?”

   “Why didn’t you let Aleu inside?” Chell asked him, a somewhat accusing tone in her voice.

   Doug didn’t answer at first, but she could hear him shakily opening the matchbox and getting ready to light the fire. “I was checking something.” He answered in his usual matter-of-fact but still obsequious manner.

  Chell furrowed her brow and forced her curling lip back to normal. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She shed her jacket and turned toward the fire, a skewer in her right hand and the rabbit’s pelt in her left.

   Doug had since begun scrambling to set up the stands that would let her spitroast them, still not looking her in the eye, but he rarely did. She couldn't even remember what color his eyes were since he looked her in the face so little. “I know that um… that you don’t particularly care about birds. And-and what to call them.”

   “Mhm.”

   Chell set the spitroast up and crouched down to help him light the fire. He continued, wiping the hair out of his eyes. “I was wondering about your bird-”

   “Aleu.”

   “Yes, Aleu. I was wondering what it’s gender was but I usually can’t get close enough to see it.” Doug stepped back, letting Chell blow on the fire; once he’d gotten some embers caught in his beard. Nothing happened but the many things that could have arisen from the event taught him not to put his face so close.

   “So when it showed up and demanded to be let inside I took the opportunity to-to get a closer look.” He said this part almost as if he was convincing himself as much as relaying information.

   From on the roof behind them and casting a long shadow from the setting sun, Aleu gave a croaking call, apparently finished with the bowl of innards and knowing that it was being talked about. Chell saw Doug glance uneasily at it.

   Almost lost in his own thoughts, he shook his head a bit and cleared his throat, trying to stand up straight. “A-anyway, I’ve come to the conclusion that I think your raven is a female. I think. I’m not sure.”

   Chell gave him a withering look as she stood up, ashes smearing her pants and the bottom of her shirt. “If you aren’t sure then you should have let her in.”

   Doug looked away again, one hand finding the back of his neck and rubbing it. “Sorry. I just thought you might like t-to know.” He mumbled, striding toward the other log that had been placed around the other side of the pit. Once he sat down he promptly began digging through his pockets.

   She felt a little bad for snapping, but she didn’t tell him that. Instead she reached into her back, brought out two cans of fruit with the labels barely intelligible, the hoodie, and stood over him. He looked up like a cornered rat, and she saw that Doug had blue-green eyes. What do you know?

   He’d since grabbed his arms in a faux crossing gesture and half-cowered at her expectantly. She was a good head and some odd inches taller than him even when he was standing up, so this just made her seem even bigger. Chell held out the hoodie and one can of fruit.

   It took a few moments to get Doug firing on all cylinders when he got startled, but eventually, he got the idea. He took the can and immediately started putting the hoodie on. “Thank you…” he said, and trailed away.

   Chell dismissively waved her hand and went back to her side of the bonfire, turning the meat a bit as she did. Things went on in relative silence for a few minutes, only the occasional ‘wob-wob’ sound from Aleu and Doug jumping at shadows. The crickets had begun chirping softly and the birds had quieted down, the deep blue of the night sky showing its broad face above them. The night sky was also something that Chell hated; or rather, what was in the night sky, regardless of whether or not it could be seen.

   She hadn’t told Doug every detail about what had happened to her. On the contrary, Chell had a sneaking suspicion that somehow, Doug already knew a whole lot more about what had happened than he let on. In fact, she was certain that he did, especially since he’d been met while scribbling someone that looked suspiciously like her on a wall. This was why she didn’t really trust him; she of course trusted him not to make a mess of anything and not to dig through her stuff, but this was easily seen. He had come to her wearing a shabby Aperture Science Innovators lab coat after all, even if he looked out of his mind.

   Chell had begun ruminating on these thoughts and had begun to look angry, staring into the embers of the fire that now crackled and popped.

   Doug tilted his head and looked around it uneasily, still holding his can of fruit close to his chest with the box of matches. “Chell? Are-are you alright?”

   She snapped out of it, her eyes moving but the rest of her head standing still. She gave him a wan smile, one she did not mean but it was an easy enough way to calm him down. “I’m fine, just thinking.” She replied, and turned the meat again. “How’s your radio?”

   He seemed to untense a bit and the slight upturned corners of his mouth could almost be seen through his beard. “It’s going pretty well. I think I almost fixed it… if there are any radio stations running, we’ll have those soon.”

   Chell nodded in acknowledgment and stood up. She heard him mutter, “If I can get the antenna to work.”

   She looked at the skewered meat, decided that it was done enough, and went to go get a couple of forks and plates. Once she returned, she hacked open her can of fruit and found it to be peaches. Doug awkwardly shuffled up and got his plate and fork, as well as slightly holding out the can; he had no pocket knife.

   Chell just gave him hers and a few chunks of rabbit while prying open the other can. Also peaches.

   Doug returned to his side of the fire, jumping and almost dropping his food when Aleu decided it was high time to leave and cawed her goodbyes before taking off and fluttering loudly away into the dark forest.

  Chell ate like a wolf, there was simply no other way to describe it. The rabbit required some amount of chewing since it was a bit stringy, but it was like she had swallowed the sliced peaches whole. Fruit was also one of the few things that Chell liked besides her raven. It was one of her life’s ambitions to eat a fresh apple one day. It was a small thing but something she’d set as a goal.

   Doug, on the other hand, ate slowly, as if he were sure he’d choke if he didn’t. It wouldn’t surprise Chell in the least if he thought this.

   Once Chell was done, which was in no time at all, she put the rabbit’s pelt on her drying rack. It was a pretty little pelt and would probably go for a good bit of whatever she needed at the market. “I’m going to Kaltag Crossing tomorrow. You’re going to be alone for most of the day.”

   “Actually… I was wondering i-if I could come with you. To Kaltag Crossing.” Doug mumbled, barely heard over the roar of the fire.

   Chell glanced at him suspiciously. “Why? You hate crowds.”

   “Four merchants and a few customers isn’t a crowd. I just wanted to snoop around a bit.” Doug said, sounding as though he were hiding something but doing a terrible job at it.

   “Fine. But you have to leave the cube here.”

   She could see Doug flash her a dirty look from the corner of her eye, but he nodded and got up. “Alright. I’m going to go in then. Early start.” He said as he left his plate and fork at the very edge of the worktable.

   Slumping back against the log and staring into the fire, Chell wondered what he could possibly want at Kaltag. There were people who sold mostly weapons there, clothes, matches that were way too expensive, canned food that was also way too expensive, and some knick-knacks that served no purpose other than taking up space.

   She knew that Doug did not like weapons, had enough clothes to get by, was practical enough with ‘money’ that he knew better than to buy those matches or that canned food, and that the cube was the only knick-knack he needed. They had two of those damn things now.

   They made good tables and Chell found, completely by accident, that they were also able to be used as storage cubes. She’d begun keeping most of the shiny things that Aleu had brought her in a drawer, but anything that may have held monetary value she kept in her cube. Of course, monetary value was in the eye of the beholder nowadays, but still.

   The main thing that people seemed to think had value was usable stuff, be it for actual purposes or for adornment. She’d seen deer antlers that she was sure people valued more than a human life; this did not bother her as she thought it would. The value of a human life had been overlooked quite a lot in her time, so it was not all that different from her past experiences. If anything Doug seemed to care more if she got hurt than she did, which to her was a bit disconcerting.

   As Chell was still thinking about what else she could bring to trade at Kaltag besides her pelt and a few loaves of bread, she heard the somewhat statick-y but still merry sound of music from inside the shed. There was a joyous yelp and some muffled talking that was soon followed by the door clanging open. Doug scrambled around the side of the shed with his eyes sparkling, just a little bit, and a grin on his face. In his hands was a box radio with most of the paint chipped away and the back hanging open, but that little box was making a lot of noise. It was choppy and cut noise, but it was still noise, and even Chell smiled, genuinely this time.

   “-Love those de-dear hearts and gentle people

   Wh- bzzzt in my home town

   Because those bbbzzrt and gentle people

   Will ne-ever ever let you down.”