andhiswife | Just a Little Bent

As far as Darrow antics go, this one might top the list for bloody eeriness. At the cottage, they can almost pretend nothing's happened. Between the garden, the chickens, and the staples she always keeps well-stocked, there's no immediate threat of starvation. The power hasn't failed yet, but even if it does, she thinks they'll be able to work around it — neither she nor Anne are exactly accustomed to being without it anymore, but that doesn't mean they've forgotten how to get by.

And surely things will go back to normal sooner or later. They always do, and she refuses to believe that—that whatever this is might be special in that regard.

But it's still unsettling. Even though it only seems to be the locals who have vanished, there were always far more of them than anyone else, and never has she felt the difference so keenly. Whole blocks are abandoned, shops either permanently shuttered or, more often, left unmanned mid-shift: the lights still on, but no one at home. But what she hates most are the littler signs of lives abruptly interrupted. A lone briefcase sitting at a bus stop; half-drunk beverages glued to their coasters by dried condensation; shopping carts left idle halfway down an aisle.

Regan is taking it especially hard, and no wonder.

It would be easier to avoid town entirely, and she'd be lying if she said she wasn't tempted. But she can't abide the thought of hiding out in the countryside when there are still plenty of people who need help. Not when her hands still remember how to feed a Village.

So she's stolen a bakery. Or, well... borrowed. She's borrowing a bakery.

It hadn't been hard to find. Even cleaning it up hadn't been too much of a challenge: people had already made off with the displays' contents, so there was little rotten food to be dealt with. Obviously there were no fresh ingredients worth salvaging, but things like flour, baking soda, and spices don't go bad overnight. There's plenty to start with, at least.

Getting the word out had been the bigger challenge. She's texted everyone she can, and Saoirse has made some very colorful signage to post in the bakery windows and in other places around the city, letting people know that there are fresh-baked goods available. She can't imagine charging for any of it, but after the first few hours (and some discussion with Anne), she'd added some signage suggesting that she wouldn't question where any raw ingredients might have come from, if people wanted to bring some.

It's mid-afternoon when she slides two more trays of muffins into the oven, sets a timer on her phone, and then steps out of the kitchen for some slightly cooler air. Her hair is falling out of its bun and she's probably a mess, but it's satisfying to see people eating something she made: something fresh and good that hasn't come from a bloody can.

[ooc: a mini-gathering for the vanishing NPC plot! If your pup knows Greta, you can assume they've received a text; otherwise, there's plenty of signage letting people know there's still one functioning bakery in town.]

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This whole thing's been fucked from the start, and were Darrow anything more like Nassau was, the outcome would've been a hell of a lot bloodier. Anne was prepared for it. Still feels like she ought to be. With no civilization left to sustain itself, she'd expect more total collapse than what they've got, which is mostly a lot of quiet confusion. Some fear. Always fear, but no one really feeding on it.

Of course Greta wants to help. It's what she does. One of the things Anne loves about her. It's the reason they met. And of course she's not afraid, not when there's pragmatism to wield. That's the reason Anne took note.

But Anne doesn't trust nearly anyone, and she's not about to let Greta go make herself a potential target in these uncertain times. Moreover, Greta wants to help, and Anne's not about to let her do it alone.

So she stands guard, sort of. Parks herself by the door, not close enough to discourage entry (only at Greta's insistence), but near enough to intercept anyone whose look she don't like.

Not that there's really much to do on that count. So far everyone just seems grateful. As they ought. Anne begins to feel a bit useless, prowling off to the side, drawing a few nervous glances. It should feel natural; it's her usual state of being to stand in a corner and glare. But now, here, it's difficult not to notice the poor fit. She shifts her weight and peers out from below the brim of her hat, eyes fixed on the door for the next person who might come in.

It's Regan, coming inside to get away from the oppressive quiet of the street outside. She paces a little, scrubbing her hands into her hair. She's calm. She's fine. This is all fine. It's just the city doing its weird city things, and definitely not the creatures' doing.

She doesn't notice Anne at first. Standing off to the side like that, like she usually does, it should be one of the first places Regan looks. But she's caught up in her own brief panic, the rise of it in her throat bitter and uncomfortable, until she turns just right, or maybe Anne moves just right, or maybe coming inside helps everything pass on its own and she just notices. Whatever the reason, Regan sees her suddenly, and instead of startling, she finds her shoulders relaxing a little.

She offers a wave and a wan smile, and tries not to seem too embarrassed at being caught having an internal freak-out as she goes over to her.

"Hey," she says, and tries to think of something witty to say, something funny or clever. But nothing comes.

Of the four of them, Regan is the only one who seems to be responding to this situation in a way Anne understands. She knows she doesn't understand it, not really, not the way Regan's fear is borne deep, established long ago by circumstances Anne can't possibly imagine. She knows very little of where Regan came from, only a few bits and pieces gathered here and there. She's certainly never pressed for more. But she understands the fear, even without knowing much about the root.

She catches the way the girl's shoulders loosen a bit on sighting her, and it makes her feel a little easier too, in an odd way. Like she's not overreacting to this. Her caution, her natural defenses, are worth something to Regan, at least. Even if there's ultimately nothing to defend against, it's better if she makes someone feel safer. Especially someone she cares about.

Regan greets her, and seems for a moment like she might have more to say, but nothing follows. Anne hesitates before returning the greeting — easy enough — and finds herself similarly uncertain.

Anne always feels a bit shaky in her signing ability. She's been learning steadily, and is now capable of carrying on simple conversations, but she's better at understanding than using. Always feels herself getting mixed up, stammering with her hands. It makes her shy to talk to Regan, but that can't matter now. Not when the kid so clearly needs reassurance.

"Okay?" she asks, a word she never uses in any other context. She tilts her head, considering. Slow and unconfident, she adds, "Come to help keep watch?"

"Yeah," she says, relieved that Anne's figured out something to say. Regan doesn't want to give the impression that she doesn't like Anne — she does, she realizes, the more she gets to know her — but it could've been easier for Anne to assume that given how nervous Regan sometimes feels around her. Now isn't one of those times, though. Anne is reacting to all of this with a level of suspicion that feels familiar and comfortable. Now, she's one of the few things that Regan doesn't feel nervous about.

"It's too loud out there," she adds. She doesn't necessarily mean it as a joke. Sometimes, she does: ha ha, the Deaf girl is saying it's too loud, ha, so funny. Anne could take it that way, if she wants. But this time, it's the quiet that's loud. It presses in and makes her feel on edge, and she thinks Anne will get that, more than any joke about sound. "I feel like... if I stay out there too long, I'll get distracted."

More than the moon

Just a Little Bent

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