The Baker's Wife (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
andhiswife) wrote2021-07-10 07:24 pm
andhiswife) wrote2021-07-10 07:24 pm
Entry tags:
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.]
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.]
no subject
She tells her about the meteors, and the creatures that seemed to come from them. She tells her about how the world shut down. Any noise they made, they were hunted, so they had to be as silent as possible. And any trip to town was carefully planned, carefully executed, as a family, so they could keep an eye and an ear out for each other.
"Everything was just... empty," Regan says. "A lot like this. So I feel like I have to be that quiet, again. Like if I don't, one of those things is going to appear and..." And kill everyone she cares about, she doesn't add. She shivers a little and shakes her head. "I just keep thinking everyone's being too loud, even though I know it's not the same thing."
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But what she can gather from it is horrible. An ending of the world beyond what she could ever imagine. Horrors etched forever into Regan's life, defining her no matter how far she gets from it. It is at once familiar and utterly foreign.
Anne can't help but grimace at Regan's final trailing comments. She nods slowly, taking a moment to consider it all and to think what she can possibly offer in return.
"I think it's normal to feel afraid after all that," she says eventually. "Fear keeps you alive sometimes. And other times it keeps you stuck." She looks into Regan's eyes, meeting her directly. "It's not the same thing. But if it helps, I'll keep quiet with you. And you should know that if anything comes for you, or Greta, or Saoirse, I will kill it."
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Then she frowns and swallows.
"I don't know if those things can be killed," she admits.
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"Everything can be killed," she says. Only then does she let a smile touch her lips, wry and a little bit ruthless. "And they haven't met me."
It isn't bravado or arrogance. She wouldn't be so stupid as to go seeking out confrontation — not anymore, not even for sport; not since that mess with Mad Sweeney, after seeing how much it had hurt Jack and Greta. Things have changed since then. She states this as a plain fact. If it becomes a necessity — and they will all have to trust it won't — then she will do what needs doing.
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She just hopes she won't have to. She hopes she'll never have to, ever.
"Thank you," she whispers, emphasizing the sign.
no subject