Just a Little Bent

[andhiswife]

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.]

Comments

[negative_feedback]

Regan nods with a wan smile. It would be so easy to fall into companionable silence with Anne — to sit or stand with her and be near each other without the pressure of trying to think of something to talk about. But Regan doesn't want that, exactly. She wants them to get to know each other. She has no idea how much or little Greta's told Anne. About Millbrook, about the creatures, about her family. Greta's always been really careful about that sort of thing; she's never wanted to overstep her bounds. People's private things are theirs, not hers.

And she finds she wants to tell her. Anne would be an asset against the creatures, if they ever showed up here. She seems like she moves quietly, and knows when to make noise. These are important things. She knows not to be reckless.

"It's just really similar to home, for me," she says after a moment. "It's uncomfortable."

[annebonny]

Anne nods slowly. She doesn't know much about Regan's home life. Greta hasn't said, she hasn't pried, and Regan isn't so prone to sharing as Saoirse is. She's spent enough time around them all to get an idea that it wasn't good. Something Regan doesn't much like to talk about. This doesn't exactly explain anything — similar could mean a lot of things. That she was isolated. That some disaster befell her world. Things Anne can't imagine and wouldn't try to guess at.

"Sorry," she says after a moment, not sure what else to say. She wonders if Regan wants her to ask about it. Maybe not, but if she does, then it would be a mistake not to. If she doesn't, she can simply say so.

So after a moment's hesitation, Anne says, "Do you want to talk about it?"

[negative_feedback]

God, she does. Her shoulders droop with the weight of how badly she wants to talk about it, and when Anne asks, they lift slightly, and she looks at her with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. She wants to talk about it, but she doesn't want Anne to have to imagine the creatures, or think about her parents, or — maybe worst of all — look at her with pity if she tells her about Beau.

But she also knows that, if she says no, Anne will take that at face value. She won't tell Regan she should talk about it. She'll accept Regan's answer and it'll hang between them, and Regan will regret not saying something forever. Or, at least, until the next time it comes up.

"Yes," she answers. Then she sighs and rubs her face before adding, "But we really don't have to."

[annebonny]

Anne watches her closely, the subtle changes in her body language that come at the question. The hesitation before she answers Yes, then follows with an escape route. Like she's afraid the question wasn't in earnest, or that Anne will regret making the offer.

Anne doesn't quite smile, but there's sympathy and understanding in her expression. "It's okay," she says, as reassuringly as she can. "Tell me."

[negative_feedback]

She takes a breath and feels her shoulders relax a little. Anne's never struck her as someone who says something for the sake of sparing someone's feelings. If she says she doesn't mind, then she probably doesn't mind. So she nods and she explains.

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."

[annebonny]

It is difficult to follow all that Regan tells her. The story is long and complicated, and it's clearly something she's been holding inside for a long time. Anne doesn't imagine she talks about this much, or that it ever gets much easier even when she does. All she can do is pay attention, take in what she can, keep her expression soft and neutral.

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."

[negative_feedback]

Regan doesn't know if being quiet will help, or if she'd rather just go back to the cottage and hide away. But Anne offering settles something in her chest, and she finds herself smiling. That smile widens a little when Anne promises to kill whatever comes for her, for them, but she knows it isn't a joke. Anne really does care about them that much. (She's not sure Anne knows how to joke.)

Then she frowns and swallows.

"I don't know if those things can be killed," she admits.

[annebonny]

Anne holds Regan's gaze with serious intensity, even at the sight of that little smile. She doesn't want to smile back, lest it look like she don't mean it. It isn't until Regan's smile fades and she replies that Anne lets her expression soften.

"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.

[negative_feedback]

This time, when Regan smiles, it's even softer. She's honestly really touched that Anne wants to reassure her like this. And it is helpful. She really does believe that Anne will do everything she can to protect her and Greta and Saoirse, if one of those things ever shows up.

She just hopes she won't have to. She hopes she'll never have to, ever.

"Thank you," she whispers, emphasizing the sign.

[annebonny]

Anne nods once. Sharp and serious. There's nothing more to say, as far as she's concerned. She sets her hand on Regan's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze, and then looks ahead once again, resuming her so-called post. She doubts there will be anything to protect against here, today, but she'll keep watch all the same. It's what she does.