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Normal guy voice . I need to watch him lose consciousness in a vulnerable position

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The Vicious Kind (2009), dir. Lee Toland Krieger

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random [53]: up to no good, the hoosiers. // @stingslikeabee, from here.

WORDS DRIP LIKE HONEY, DEAR, HOW SWEET IT IS TO HEAR.

Call him calculated, but Shaw is nothing if not self-aware. The way Melissa spoke to him in the lessons they had-- using his first name as if they were familiar, laughing as sweet as sugar, and always giving him those crinkly-eyed smiles-- has become an addiction, and it's one he isn't ready to part with yet. Even at the end of their pottery class, and even as Shaw received the piece of paper certifying he was some kind of proficient, he refused to accept he'd never see her again.

All he was was smart about waiting before shooting her a text message-- Shaw waited a little over two weeks, as if mulling over how best to convey the combined concept of gratitude and I'd like to know you as a friend now. Then, when a suitable amount of time had passed, he used that innate, troublesome confidence to invite her over to his place for dinner.

If the bounds of their student-teacher relationship were no more, and considering she knew him (which she must to some degree after all those lessons), he believed there wasn't any harm in offering. And the sweet thing that Melissa is, it's no surprise at all when she shows up at his door.

At the sight of her, Shaw lights up. For a moment, it feels like a hit of nicotine after quitting smoking for years.

Then his expression calms, his smile a little more polite. "You made it," he says, stood in the doorway with a black apron over his clothes. The scent of his cooking wafts from inside; Shaw had opted for basil porkchops, and whilst the meat had yet to be cooked (it'd be quick after the marinade), the buttered vegetables he prepared earlier gives off a pleasant scent as they roast in his oven.

"Come in." The door is opened further, and he waits for Melissa to enter before offering to take her coat. "You said you came straight from work, right? I don't want you standing outside any longer than you have to."

From the entrance to his house, he leads Melissa up a short flight of stairs to where his living room is. His house is clean, and far more decorated than the bachelor stereotype would entail. Though he's got a couch same as anyone else, Shaw also has art on the walls purchased from various markets; clean, forest green curtains complement the pillows on his dark grey couch, and a dark wooden coffee table with books stacked in the shelf underneath rests comfortably before it. Notably, there's a stereo system with CDs flanking either side of it, just begging to be played.

"Make yourself comfortable-- the couch is yours, unless you want to sit at the island and watch me cook." After hanging Melissa's coat in a closet close to the stairs, Shaw faces her with his hands resting loosely on his hips. "The only condition I have is I won't accept constructive criticism until after you've tasted the food."

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"Coffee turns you into a real fucking diva, you know that?" Shaw muses, but with a hand settling easily in the space between Jacob's shoulder blades, he starts to urge him on.

"But yeah, sure-- I won't touch the damn thing." A beat. "Long as you prepare my cup for me when you're done brewing it."

This, between them-- the bartering of seemingly inconsequential things, the looks and the teasing and the cheesy twang of Jacob's voice-- has, despite all odds, become part of Shaw's normal. He has no-one but himself to blame; Jacob fascinated him so much that he manouevred to keep the man in his life in more controlled ways than just waiting for him to show up again.

Even after the revelation of his destruction (and whatever form Jacob took when he became like that-- making cuts so jagged Shaw knew he couldn't be whatever it was that lurked up the stairs to nowhere, even if he was close), in the fucked up underbelly of his mind all Shaw feels is vindication. Jacob's undoubtedly something far from human... but he's loyal to him, and that's all that matters.

Offering Jacob's fragmented life some stability means that Jacob will always come back to him, and seeing the man smile each time he recognises him has Shaw feeling the closest he's ever gotten to bone-deep joy.

He turns, looking at Jacob's profile. "Will you let me cook you breakfast, at least?"

JACOB STOOD WITH a grunt, hand held tight to Shaw's. He winced at the protest from his back ; his cross always seemed to hurt more after he collected a bounty. For a moment, Jacob remained close, chest pressed to Shaw's shoulder — but then he seemed to become aware of where he was. A bit of pink touched his cheeks, always too pale for the amount of time he spent in the sun, and Jacob stepped away. Nails scratched at the back of his neck, mindful of the fabric loosely wrapped around it.

" . . . the hell's old timey ?? " Jacob asked, though the question was aimed at himself. He bent down and picked up his Stetson ( and in doing so unknowingly defined the concept rattling around in his skull with that final piece of his outfit ).

"Nah, Mr. Shaw," he finally replied, voice purposefully raised for Shaw to hear this time. A breeze moved his twisted waves and the edges of his duster ; the smell of cigarette smoke and viscera temporarily filled the air. "Y'don't — get to dangle coffee out there like that and take it back."

Jacob dug his fingernails into his beard next. The layer of dirt in the thick hair prompted him to reconsider, and he sighed. Jacob gave Shaw a pointed look from beneath the brim of his trademark hat. " — but I may be persuaded to change my tune, sir, so long as you swear you ain't touching the kettle." His laugh, as always, was too loud.

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"Oh, it tastes like shit, does it?" Teeth bared, Shaw leans ever so slightly. His balance stays settled even with the way he remains crouched over Jacob's form, nice and practised. "What happened to being good and saying 'yes, please' and 'thank you, Mr. Shaw, sir'?"

Releasing Jacob from his grip, however, the quirk of his lip gives his unserious amusement away.

"Whatever. I don't want your dirty ass scaring any hikers out here-- if drinking old timey coffee's the price to pay, I guess that's easy enough."

Then he holds his hand out, gaze pointed in that you're gonna let me help you up sort of way, and gets Jacob up without much bother. With the insistence of a lack of cold, Shaw doesn't push it; he stopped trying to make sense of Jacob's physicality months ago (and that was before he ever saw him kill anything-- before he started digging graves, burning bodies, and taking boats out into the lake).

"Shower first. You're at least gonna give me that, right?"

GOD'S VOICE WAS gone. Stripped out of him, with all of the elation and love that accompanied it — and all that was left in Jacob was bone - deep exhaustion. The same that he fought against as Shaw's voice washed over his senses. Gray eyes opened, still glazed over. Dust ( and blood ) covered him, from the crown of his tangled mane to the toe of his boots.

you just gotta wake up for me, cowboy.

Shaking fingers grasped Shaw's wrist. Jacob's lips parted. His gaze moved to the other man. Slowly, his face filled with recognition. I know you, he mouthed silently first.

A deep inhale. Then, Jacob smiled. Storm - colored irises, which shared the same color as the coarse silver waves in his hair, glittered with life. "Mornin', sir," he said hoarsely. The slow drawl and his accent almost sounded comical ; it had been a century, at least, since anyone spoke that thickly without it being an attempt at an exaggerated character.

"I'm not cold, y'know," he murmured, lips curling up into a proper grin. " — but you've got me on coffee. Just . . . let me do it. Yours tastes like shit. Whole world's does, it's not just you." Jacob's broad chest swelled with air, and he squeezed Shaw's flesh instinctively.

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A gloved hand catches the angles of Jacob's jaw, thumb and index pressed firm enough to hold without hurting.

"Jacob." Shaw's voice is as steady as it is clear, purposeful in its attempts to snap the other man out of his groggy state. His index finger rubs a half-inch down the curve of his jaw, and through the thick fabric of his glove the blunt end of his fingernail presses dully into skin. "Come back to me, man."

He's done this enough times it feels like a routine. While Jacob lies in the grass, a mess of blood and dirt all over his boneless body, Shaw continues his attempts to wake him as if he'd simply found the man oversleeping in bed.

Poor, stupid thing. Even as he thinks it, though, Shaw's eyes soften. Poor, poor baby.

"It's morning, Jacob. C'mon, we gotta get you somewhere warm, yeah?"

(The blood all over him cooled down hours ago.)

"We'll clean you up, get you coffee." Shaw's fingers squeeze where they hold him. "You just gotta wake up for me, cowboy."

@evilsontherun // semi-plotted starter, lmao 🥰

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Miller's Girl (2024)

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random [14]: up the wolves, the mountain goats. // @bloodypuzzle, from here.

THERE'S BOUND TO BE A GHOST AT THE BACK OF YOUR CLOSET, NO MATTER WHERE YOU LIVE.

Shaw never expected to be in Lawrence's life for as long as he has, and in a way it's almost surreal. That the man was his first stairway survivor-- no small feat, either-- already made him memorable. But here Shaw is, sat on Lawrence's floor and resting his temple against his calve, silent in the shared grief of a lost little girl. Lawrence Gordon has, in some way or other, become more than a good result in a report Shaw wrote... and, frankly, he's not sure what to do about that.

Diana wasn't his, and it wasn't like Shaw ever got to become particularly close to her, but the way loss has shaped Lawrence is palpable, both in his misery and his rage. He contemplates telling him that he hasn't given up looking for her, but what good would that do? Whatever he attempts in his free time doesn't matter when there aren't any results to show for it.

So instead, Shaw's thumb strokes the bit of skin that peeks between the end of Lawrence's trousers and the sock on his one good foot. As his gaze drifts to the prosthetic attached to his other leg, he tries not to think about how saving Diana once upon a time didn't save her from the second time she was taken away.

"I never did see it," Shaw comments, sitting up enough to rest his head against Lawrence's knee. He doesn't lift his hand from where it rests on Lawrence's ankle, though.

"Your nub, I mean. At least not without it all covered in blood."

His expression turns wry.

"Is it fucked up I kind of want to?" His head tilts up in an attempt to catch Lawrence's attention. "I always pictured it smooth-- the cuts people get out there always are. But you strike me as someone who's bad at healing."

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Dorothy touches him, and it is the warmest touch Shaw's ever felt (whatever this says of his experiences in reality is ignored; real doesn't have her). He pauses, tilts his head, and marvels quietly at the ticklish feel of his sister's fingers against his beard. He's so used to his dreams being horrid that a part of him doubts this is a product of his mind-- for as long as he can remember, his subconscious has always been a right fucking asshole.

Dorothy, though? In what hazy memories he has left, and in the habits he has simply because some younger version of him had to make up for her loss (Captain always kissed his wounds because Dorothy used to do it, even if he doesn't remember her any more), he knows that she loves him. Had always loved him, and loves him even here.

So Shaw says, "I don't think you have a mean bone in your body.

"And it's okay, you know, that I'm hard to look at." Another flower is pulled from God knows where, it doesn't matter, and worked into his sister's hair. "I figure that's what missing someone does. When I tracked your high school yearbook down and saw you for the first time... like, the real first time, with me being old enough to keep this image of you in my head after...

"It was weird." He smiles slightly. "But at least you were already going through puberty then-- like, I mean, you don't look so different now.

"I guess you wouldn't, if my mind made you up." Shaw's head tilts. "I can't imagine you as anything but beautiful, though."

no, this isn't the first time, and no, she can't bear to look at him. she smiles, feeling his fingers thread through her hair with more skill than she could've imagined coming from her clumsy, boisterous little brother. dorothy can't help but wonder how her absence has changed him, what is her fault and what is simply his nature— if there's any difference between the two.

"it's still strange seeing you with a beard..." fondness swelling in her chest. he's become a man. blindly, she reaches for him. her palm cradles his cheek, thumb smoothing over his facial hair, feeling the reality that she can't dare to look at. this has to be real, then. this familiarity is only known to her here, could never be replicated with the patchwork of true dreams.

"is that cruel of me?" to deny him even her gaze after she left him behind... her hand drops to find his arm and give it a gentle squeeze. his opinion of her should have no sway here in the privacy of her mind, but the question came naturally.

"it suits you," she assures him, "just as your height does. i only struggle with the reminders of how long we've been apart."

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CALEB SINCLAIRE & ROCKY | The Vicious Kind — 2009

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37: ghosted, mother mother. // @trackd, from here.

HEY, WOULD IT BE SO BAD IF I STAYED?

"This isn't the first time we've done this, is it?"

Shaw's voice always sounds so light in his dreams. Most of the time it's because he's a child when he experiences them, but in dreams like these-- the ones where he gets to see Dorothy again-- he imagines it must be because he's happy.

Because he feels happy.

"I mean... being together like this. Seeing me like this." Shaw wets his lips, tentative. How much can a good dream tell him when he made his sister up himself? "You didn't seem as surprised as I was when I walked up to you, is all."

(She didn't start tearing up like Shaw did. She didn't lose her footing, didn't have to apologise like a fool.)

At the moment they aren't doing anything important: they're sat in the grass, and Shaw is weaving flowers in his big sister's hair. It's longer than he remembers, however accurate or inaccurate his memory might be; it feels like he's been doing this for her for years all the same. Callused though his fingers might be, they touch Dorothy with a deftness that can only be practised, even if she disappeared decades ago.

"...is that why you won't look at me?" A beat. "Did something bad happen last time?"

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Send 🎁 to receive a starter based off a random song from my Spotify Wrapped

Remember to state who the meme is for/or from for multimuses.

Add a number (1-100) for the starter to be based off the corresponding song.

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selected case reports: SHAW, K. [ wip ]

BELLINI, MAY & BELLINI, ROBERT

TYPE: Missing Person MISSION STARTED: 1/23/XX, 16:32 MISSION ENDED: 2/18/XX, 19:13 # SUBJECTS INVOLVED: 2 # LOCATED ALIVE: 1 # LOCATED DECEASED: 0 # UNACCOUNTED FOR: 1 REMARKS: Two children missing, brother and sister, last known position berry-picking west of Trail 16. May located half mile away from LKP, Robert nowhere to be found. May reports, "The lion man put Robert on his shoulders so they could play somewhere just for boys." Lion man not code, "he was very hairy especially around the face". May was given berries to eat in exchange for letting her little brother go. Potential abduction?

Case marked unsolved on Day 26: lack of new evidence.

JOHNSON, DARLA

TYPE: Missing Person MISSION STARTED: 5/2/XX, 13:42 MISSION ENDED: 5/9/XX, 18:15 # SUBJECTS INVOLVED: 1 # LOCATED ALIVE: 0 # LOCATED DECEASED: 0 # UNACCOUNTED FOR: 1 REMARKS: Young woman missing, was hiking with aunt and uncle on SE intermediate trail. Aunt last saw Darla climb a tree ~16 feet from trail, reports "she never came back down". Aunt and uncle waited at base of tree for two hours before searching the area, then called SAR for assistance. No traces found within basic search area. Perimetre stretch denied due to non-urgent circumstance.

Case marked unsolved on Day 8: lack of new evidence.

HARRISON, JOHN

TYPE: Missing Person MISSION STARTED: 6/12/XX, 09:15 MISSION ENDED: 6/12/XX, 15:23 # SUBJECTS INVOLVED: 1 # LOCATED ALIVE: 1 # LOCATED DECEASED: 0 # UNACCOUNTED FOR: 0 REMARKS: Middle-aged man missing, received report from wife Nina two days after hike began. Last known position "climbing that big cliff like he planned" (presumed Area 25) according to the wife. Located in Area 25 crevasse: broken leg, infected.

Notes: Quote from Mike L. (EMT). "He wouldn't stop crying, Shaw [...] said he was fine, then he got to the top and someone else was already there. No equipment, nothing but a parka and ski pants [...] they turn and they had no face, the guy said. No fucking face. So when he tried to run away he fell off the damn cliff because he freaked out [...] said after he landed he could hear the stranger climbing down and screaming all the while, just muffled."

MARQUEZ, VICTORIA

TYPE: Missing Person MISSION STARTED: 9/16/XX, 16:22 MISSION ENDED: 9/16/XX, 23:50 # SUBJECTS INVOLVED: 1 # LOCATED ALIVE: 1 # LOCATED DECEASED: 0 # UNACCOUNTED FOR: 0 REMARKS: Middle-aged woman, separated from hiking group along SW intermediate trail. Canine picked up scent at last known position, prompting use for the rest of the mission. Victoria eventually located past 2200 under large, rotting log ~12 miles from LKP. Physically unharmed, but in shock. Missing shoes and backpack. Was able to return to base ops unharmed.

Notes: Victoria's behaviour returning to base was flighty. Kept asking why "the woman with the black eyes" kept following us. Initially wrote it off as a shock symptom, but her condition worsened along the way. "Tell her to stop making faces at me", "Officer Shaw tell her to stop", "Tell her it's not right". Victoria eventually broke and yelled into the trees, "I won't go with you! I won't give him to you! Fuck off!"

Sounds of coughing (deep? rhythmic?) started when we were about 2 miles away from base. Few feet away, Victoria turned to me, put her hand on my shoulder, and whispered, "She wants you to hurry up. She doesn't like looking at the scar on your leg."

Heard a cough in my ear, so I hustled her to base with the dog. How did she know I had [the rest is illegible]

SAKAMOTO, YUKIO

TYPE: Missing Person MISSION STARTED: 11/14/XX, 08:34 MISSION ENDED: 11/27/XX, 19:22 # SUBJECTS INVOLVED: 1 # LOCATED ALIVE: 0 # LOCATED DECEASED: 0 # UNACCOUNTED FOR: 1 REMARKS: Older man, late fifties, received call from wife Lucy the morning after he left for his hike. Last known position unknown, Lucy claimed he went on SE intermediate trail. Suggested he may have suffered a seizure due to prior history. Standard safety formation due to lack of LKP-- tracks were found by Harry J. half a mile down the trail leading off-path, leading to fan formation. Call for regroup with Harry came 4 miles in at the base of a tree.

~30 feet above ground: walking stick was dangling, strap looped around the branches. No response to verbal calls. No other traces found in the area. No picked up scents from canines (last scent trace was found on the trail).

Case marked unsolved on Day 13: lack of new evidence.

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U2 - Sunday Bloody Sunday

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worldbuilding.

A SELECTION OF CASE REPORTS. ABOUT THE CREATURES. ABOUT THE CULT.

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about.

NAME: Kenan N. Shaw A.K.A.: "Shaw" GENDER: Cis male BIRTHDATE: 13th April SPECIES: Human OCCUPATION: Search and rescue officer (wilderness team; national park level)

HEIGHT: 186cm (~6'1") HAIR: Dark brown EYES: Brown BUILD: Fit

SEXUALITY: Bisexual RELIGION: Protestant (non-practising) FAMILY:

Douglas Eugene Shaw -- father, alive

Katherine Isabelle Shaw -- mother, deceased

Dorothy Jacqueline Shaw -- older sister, missing (presumed dead)

impressions.

VISUAL: Standing at six feet, Shaw is tall but not excessively wide. He doesn't invest in physical aesthetics, and is lean, toned, and wiry, with surprisingly firm and dense muscle beneath his skin. His cheekbones and jaw are defined, contributing to the sharp profile created by the striking line of his nose, and more often than not a well-kept, trimmed beard covers his face (with some grey in it, too, depending on age). Shaw's hair is dark and thick, and long enough that having it disrupted from its usual pushed back style has strands curling over his forehead. His lashes are long, his eyes are dark brown, and he has a light tan from all the time he spends outside. ATTIRE: Outside his uniform, Shaw favours comfortable sweaters, plaid buttoned shirts, and t-shirts of the grey and white variety. He wears pants that fit well without being tight, and usually opts for casual ankle boots for a regular day outside. He wears a standard digital watch at work, but outside it wears a Seiko Presage SARX029 (with a black crocodile leather strap to match its black dial). DEMEANOUR: Shaw stands confidently without any intention of intimidation. He doesn't really smile unless spoken to, at which point he always makes it a point to pay close attention to who's speaking to him. He's a good listener-- we have two ears and one mouth for a reason-- but this doesn't necessarily mean he's easy to sway out of his own opinions. Shaw knows politeness, but it doesn't take a lot for him to grow disinterested in anyone too invested in simple pleasantries. AURAL: Shaw's voice is crisp and comes from his chest. He's great at modulation-- his clear voice makes him a favourite for announcements or calling out during searches-- but in personal situations, it's often difficult for him to keep any emotional affect out of his tone. OLFACTORY: Clean; Shaw also tends to carry notes of sandalwood and other earthy tones, if caught outside of work. When he's fresh from duty, he does carry the scents of nature with him-- grass and leaves, the air that's carried by the wind, or the scent of the sun after it's been on his hair all day.

personality.

FOR ONCE I'M WRITING SOMEONE WITH HOBBIES

background.

content warnings: death, mentions of suicide, mild child neglect.

FIRST, YOU ARE NOT THE MAIN CHARACTER. In an absurd, almost comical way (even if he'll claim this more or less set the tone of his life forever), Shaw's life only began after a tragedy. He has no significant memory of anything before his sister disappeared, but he was also so young there wasn't any reason for him to experience significance to begin with. The day she was taken into the wilderness, Shaw's otherwise nondescript life changed enough to be considered abnormal: the house felt emptier (especially after his mother burned all the pictures they had of his sister), his parents spoke less, and despite his overall rambunctious, troublesome behaviour, nobody paid attention to him any more. After hours spent playing outside at varying levels of danger, Shaw had to take care of his own cuts and bruises, and the only one left to kiss his band-aids was his stuffed puppy, Captain.

Most kids might have clocked that something was wrong with their family, and a fewer percentage of that subgroup might have even figured out that the whole thing was unfixable. Shaw was none the wiser-- as clueless and naive as he had been when he watched his sister get taken away-- until he found his mother dead in his parents' bathtub after school one day.

As clueless as ever, Shaw did not call the authorities. Instead, his father came home to his son sitting on the bathroom floor, temple to the tub and his mother's cold hand held against his cheek.

SECOND, LOVE IS CONDITIONAL. It's a truth no-one wants to believe, but a truth nonetheless. Shaw came to terms with it sometime in tenth grade, over a decade since his sister disappeared and a little less than since his mother died. Driving his friends home from a party that was only "good" because there was free-flowing alcohol, it occurred to him that his friends got in trouble with their parents way more than he did. They called him lucky for it, saying they wished their dads didn't care if they were home after three in the morning, and all Shaw did in turn was grin and blow cigarette smoke in their faces. Cry about it, losers, he'd teased, only to get shoved around and noogied for being an asshole.

When Shaw was very little, on his father's birthday he would smile as he kissed each of his family member's foreheads: his wife's, his daughter's, and his son's. I love that you all have the same eyes, he said once, so full of affection and gratitude. And thank goodness for that, because your mother's definitely the pretty one.

With all his friends in their houses-- the one who owned the car was the last to be dropped off, car and all-- Shaw walked the rest of the way home. It was cold that night, so his hands never left his pockets the entire thirty minute duration, and every breath he exhaled fogged the air. His house, much unlike his friends' houses, was dark when he arrived-- not even the outside lights were on. Shaw was used to this, though: to unlocking the door with his key, locking it behind him, and navigating the pitch black halls until he crashed in his sister's old room.

But that night he stopped in front of his father's shut door, and when Shaw tried the knob, it was locked like he expected. He crawled into bed feeling heavy in his chest after, but accepted there were just some things he couldn't change.

"Do you still like my eyes, Dad?" "Where's this coming from?" "When I was little you used to call them pretty." "Oh, well... you're handsome, if that's what you mean." "It isn't. I was asking about my eyes." "Why?" "Because you don't kiss me on your birthday any more." "What does my birthday have to do with anything?" "It's just what I remember. You used to look at me more back then, too. Why don't you look at me now?" "I... I'm going to be late for work, Kenan. I'm sorry. Maybe we can talk about this later?" "Yeah. Maybe. See you later, Dad."

THIRD, NO MAN IS AN ISLAND. Opting not to go to college, Shaw spent his first year out of high school following U2 on their Elevation tour. He went into trade school for construction after that, and got a job as soon as he finished. He lived with his father until he was twenty-six, then moved to a house he built with his own hands (and some hired help) in a quaint little neighbourhood where everyone knew his name.

Shaw was a pretty sociable person in general. He made friends at his trade school, then made friends with people he met at all the eclectic hobby-adjacent classes he took after that. He made friends with people at the bars he and his band (named "Judgment Crisis") played at, and made friends with the familiar faces he saw at the movie theatre. The friends he had in high school visited him often when they came home, and Shaw made efforts to stay in contact with them even after everyone entered the real world, attending birthdays, bachelor (and bachelorette) parties, weddings, baptisms, and every other event under the sun.

Contrary to all this, however, Shaw was never a sentimental person. If he really stopped to think about it, he'd recognise that he had some sort of issue connecting with people-- not because he couldn't make and keep any friends, but because he couldn't care about them the way people were supposed to. He was always present when needed, and he'd drive anyone to the airport or the hospital if they called, but this was less because he loved them and more because he knew it was what friends were supposed to do. He enjoyed that his friends were loyal to him, and in fact thrived knowing that they'd do most anything for him. He was hypocritical, though, as far as feeling loyal to them were concerned. Whatever deep emotion a person is supposed to feel for other people just doesn't exist in him, and Shaw feels nothing towards family or community besides knowing he needs them to survive. Shaw isn't delusional enough to believe he's "above" needing other people in his life; he isn't pompous or arrogant in this respect at all. He is, however, completely content in knowing his definition of "love" will never be enough for anybody. FOURTH, THERE'S A WHOLE WORLD OUT THERE. Shaw started volunteering with the local search and rescue the year before he turned thirty, spurred on by a story on the news about a death out in the nature site his sister disappeared from. He started out only working on weekends, then appeared thrice a week, four times, even five. When he wasn't busy with carpentry work, he found himself drifting towards the wilderness, and ended up so fascinated by the whole thing that he was working sixteen hour days: eight hours at his regular job, and then eight on the trail.

Shaw was thirty-two when he stopped working in carpentry entirely. His search and rescue mentor was retiring, and when the man said he wanted Shaw to take his place, he was hard-pressed to refuse getting paid for what he'd already been doing.

As a serial class taker, Shaw had a fascination with learning and entertaining himself with an eclectic collection of hobbies. But with classes came mastery, and with mastery came the reality that if a hobby wasn't your passion, then you would simply plateau. Most of his endeavours ended this way: Shaw became good at it, and then he became too bored to become great. Search and rescue, though, was full of surprises. It was without a doubt the most interesting thing he'd ever done, even more than the whole "joining a rock band and getting some CDs out" experience that defined his mid-to-late twenties.

Even if he'd stumbled across it, there was a measure of fulfilment in the search and rescue job that Shaw didn't get elsewhere. As far as he's concerned, that's as good a reason as any to keep pursuing it.

FIFTH, LIFE IS MEANT TO BE LIVED.

Danger, of course, lurks for everyone. Shaw just traded the mundane experience of being concerned about things like his blood pressure for concern towards the well-being of total strangers.

[untracked]

rules.

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