#sorry i got carried away i've been wanting to write with Evgeny for ages

[barrysbaby]

She’s getting good at it; shooting.

And, by consequence, hunting—killing, even though she hates it. She hates how, the more she does it, the more used to it she becomes, the less bad she feels for the animals.

The first time Moira skinned a rabbit (or tried to, rather), she threw up almost on the spot. Had no appetite to eat anything the rest of that day. But now she can skin a rabbit in seconds with her eyes closed if she wants. Without a grimace or a complaint. Hell, sometimes, her mouth starts watering at the thought of cooking the rabbit before she even shoots it.

She could do with some seasoning, but… bland food is better than no food, and she’s learning not to be too picky. When she gets back home, she’s never complaining about her mom serving them pancakes for breakfast five times a week.

If she gets back home.

The truth is, living on this island for months now, Moira is starting to wonder if this is really temporary. If… maybe this is what the rest of her life will look like. The old man isn’t doing too hot. Every day that passes, he seems to be getting worse. Whether it’s sickness or just old age getting to him, she’s unsure. And he doesn’t really talk about it with her no matter how many times she asks him. Regardless, he won’t live forever, and one day she’ll be all alone here. Is it even worth living at that point, without having anyone by her side?

Her thoughts are interrupted when the man comes to a sudden halt and he gestures for her to be quiet.

“I wasn’t even talking?” She huffs, though she does as told and crouches beside him holding his gaze. The mention of “luck” has her eyes rolling at him. “Oh, yeah? Are you finally gonna stop bossing me around? Cause that’d be my lucky day, guarenteed.”

She looks in the direction he points. Moira has definitely gotten better at spotting the animals hiding about, noticing every little movement in the bushes or trees. It doesn’t take her long to spot today’s haul. Rabbits, rats (still gross), birds—and jackpot. “Holy crap.” Her eyes pop. “A deer?”

They don’t come by deers often. And if they can get their hands on it, they’re gonna be stocked for a while. What with them slowly running out of food. Moira’s starting to think they’re better off breeding rabbits at this point if they want a consistent source of food. But then they’d have to worry about feeding the rabbits too.

“I’ll take it,” she whispers to him, confident. “But just a headsup, I am not dragging it all the way back by myself.”

@cannonfullofcanons

         The last few days' hunting had been- what was the English word? Shit? The kroshka used that word a great deal. That seemed correct. The monsters were getting stronger. More bold, coming out in the daylight, no longer remaining hidden. It made the hunts more dangerous, and it led to less game. This hunt in particular would be crucial; they were completely out of food, and would go hungry tonight, if they did not find something edible.

         Evgeny had chosen one of his old favorite spots for this. A clearing in a thicket of trees, one wherein he had never failed to find some animals - usually rabbits, the occasional deer. Anything would suffice. He would rather eat rodents than starve.

         He could do without further pain. Pain brought memories. Memories he was more content not focusing on now.

         Upon their arrival at the clearing, a hand raised, calling for a simultaneous silence and halt to Moira's movement. He crouched down, shifting his rifle to his other hand, held by the grip; glanced back to the American, a small smile forming on his weary face. "Kroshka. We have luck today." His free hand lifted, a bony finger pointing towards a thicket of bushes.

         Rabbits darted in and out of the brush, but they were not all. Birds, perched in a tree; rats close to a crumbling structure; a deer at the far end, grazing. They had their dinner, but would they continue to have such luck? Would it last? For the kroshka, he hoped it would. Whether his did or not, made no difference to the old Russian. He lived well. He would die well, too, in his home, on his island, in SPITE of all that had happened here. In the end, he would rejoin his Irina.

         They would not take that from him.

{ @barrysbaby hit the starter call! }