The gun felt heavy in Sofia's hands. It was small, smooth, bright orange like it was a toy. Maybe it was, in a manner of speaking. Maybe it was another pretend weapon, for another pretend jaunt through the countryside, gunning down imaginary enemies—probably Americans, usually it was Americans—en masse. It was easier to think that, to pretend one more time. It was easier than to think for long about what it meant, this gun in her hands, the four large cartridges it came with stacked one next to the other on top of the gravestone she crouched next to and leaned against. She couldn't read the name. It was cracked and overgrown and had accents over some of the letters.
The sun beat down on this place, casting it in almost picturesque shades. The grass was dry but alive, rough between her fingertips. She pulled it up in handfuls at first, most blades tearing off in clean breaks but some carrying with them dirt and tangled clumps of roots. These Sofia threw haphazardly back to the ground, spreading a little circle of destruction around her. After a minute or two, however, this lost its appeal and she selected a single blade, more carefully, finding one greener than the norm, straight and free of bug-bite holes. She pinched it between her fingers and raised it to her lips, realized they were dry and ran her tongue quickly across them, and then blew.
Grass whistles had always sounded weird to her, inelegant somehow, loud and harsh and almost obscene, and that was part of why she loved them. She could cup her hands and hoot like an owl, but the keening of a grass whistle was something that she could only imagine being produced in the natural world by insect life, or perhaps a small, frightened rodent.
When she was little, some of the other kids had been much better than her at whistling and hooting. They could carry tunes, could nail it every try. Sofia couldn't do that. It took her a few attempts and she messed it up sometimes and she could just make one note again and again, variation only born of error. She'd never had the patience to sit all day and really master the art. But the other kids had grown up and had stopped playing around and Sofia never had, so now she was probably the best.
The whistle whine cut through the air. The grass here was fertilized by the dead, which meant maybe she had some part of somebody pressed to her lips. It was not so strange to think of, bodies under the ground. She'd gone exploring in graveyards before. They carried weight and history and reality that most people tended to forget. A graveyard was a connection to the past, a reminder of those who'd come before. Even though they were dead and gone, rotted away to old dry bones, they still mattered. The important ones, at least. They carved the path to the future and loomed over it, leering like Cromwell's severed head watching over London in ages long gone.
Sofia wouldn't be one of those important dead now. Not personally. Maybe as one of many, as a number to bolster the statistic that this tragedy was, but who would remember her as an individual? Her mum, perhaps, and some of the old ones around town. The teachers who still lived, who might quietly be pleased not to have to put up with her anymore.
Could you, she wondered, kill somebody with a flare gun?
A little ways away was a structure, a small gazebo with one of its posts splintered. Maybe these dead were also unloved and forgotten. Their home, at least, could use some maintenance.
Sofia stood, slowly, and whistled one more time, then let the grass slip from her fingers and drift to land on the tip of her shoe. It was warm, but she kept her blazer on and her tie tight, at least for now. There was a certain value in dignity in an undignified situation. She scooped up her pack, slung it over her shoulder, and then swept the flares into it. The flare gun, unloaded, she returned to her hand from where she'd laid it to whistle.
It was funny. She'd imagined herself sentenced to death dozens of times, and in each one of those fantasies she'd felt more than she did now.
And T'Were Well That She Stood
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MurderWeasel
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Pippi
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Y’know, he’d been dreading today’s double maths class. Or… yesterday’s. Or whenever it was supposed to have been, now.
It wasn’t his worst class, but nor was it his best. He had a couple of friends in it, but none of them really sat near him, and none of them happened to be Freya, either. Most damning of all, it was just so dull. Mrs. Horton wasn’t the worlds greatest teacher, and maths wasn’t the worlds most exciting subject, and the prospect of facing two hours of it with no reprieve was enough to bore Galahad to tears.
So he’d honestly been thankful for the piercing whine of the air raid sirens, cutting through Horton’s explanation of Pythagoras’ Theorem – again – and forcing them out of seats and across the field to the underground bunker. A little bit of a reprieve from mind-numbing tedium, enough for him to refresh and face it with some renewed vigour. He’d probably have been able to hang out with Freya for a bit too, if he’d been able to find her in the bustling throng of the bunker.
Then the shots had rang out, and the two teachers he’d known since he was eleven had collapsed to the ground in a spray of blood, and then the soldiers with American accents had surrounded them, and then… and…
And now he was here. Standing in the middle of a graveyard, fire axe in hand, ordered to run off and kill everybody he’d grown up with.
Double maths sounded like heaven on Earth all of a sudden.
It wasn’t exactly a sign of good fortune, was it? Waking up in a graveyard and all that. He supposed it didn’t really matter, in the grand scheme of things. They’d all been ordered to murder or be murdered, and from the sounds of it, the Americans had this whole place locked down tightly. Nobody was coming in. Nobody was coming out. This whole… arena was just one big graveyard.
Where exactly was he right now, anyway? Somewhere in America? In Ireland? Some mock-up graveyard in a military training site?
Somewhere far, far away from prying eyes and from safety?
Galahad ran his hand between the leather strap of his aviator goggles and the back of his neck, shaking the sweat off of it and scattering it to the grass below. Wherever he was, it was way hotter than Bellington. He’d loosened his tie and undone the top button of his shirt, but he still wasn’t built for this sort of humidity. Lugging around a heavy fireman’s axe wasn’t helping matters either.
He could, of course, just drop it, and let it disappear into the undergrowth, but… that wasn’t really a viable option. Not if he was thinking smart; something that, admittedly, was difficult, with how loudly his brain was yelling at him to just freak out and curl up into a tiny little ball.
Best to just not think at all, and keep on moving forwards, axe in tow.
There was a keening, whining sound from a few yards off. Galahad paused, blinking rapidly for a few moments, unable to sever the connection between that and the air raid sirens that had permeated the background of his entire life, back home, back in England.
Then he started walking towards it, and, as he moved past crumbling headstones and over long buried coffins, towards the girl who had made the noise.
“Uh… hey! Hey, Sofia! Over here!”
It wasn’t his worst class, but nor was it his best. He had a couple of friends in it, but none of them really sat near him, and none of them happened to be Freya, either. Most damning of all, it was just so dull. Mrs. Horton wasn’t the worlds greatest teacher, and maths wasn’t the worlds most exciting subject, and the prospect of facing two hours of it with no reprieve was enough to bore Galahad to tears.
So he’d honestly been thankful for the piercing whine of the air raid sirens, cutting through Horton’s explanation of Pythagoras’ Theorem – again – and forcing them out of seats and across the field to the underground bunker. A little bit of a reprieve from mind-numbing tedium, enough for him to refresh and face it with some renewed vigour. He’d probably have been able to hang out with Freya for a bit too, if he’d been able to find her in the bustling throng of the bunker.
Then the shots had rang out, and the two teachers he’d known since he was eleven had collapsed to the ground in a spray of blood, and then the soldiers with American accents had surrounded them, and then… and…
And now he was here. Standing in the middle of a graveyard, fire axe in hand, ordered to run off and kill everybody he’d grown up with.
Double maths sounded like heaven on Earth all of a sudden.
M04: GALAHAD MATTHEWS – BEGIN
It wasn’t exactly a sign of good fortune, was it? Waking up in a graveyard and all that. He supposed it didn’t really matter, in the grand scheme of things. They’d all been ordered to murder or be murdered, and from the sounds of it, the Americans had this whole place locked down tightly. Nobody was coming in. Nobody was coming out. This whole… arena was just one big graveyard.
Where exactly was he right now, anyway? Somewhere in America? In Ireland? Some mock-up graveyard in a military training site?
Somewhere far, far away from prying eyes and from safety?
Galahad ran his hand between the leather strap of his aviator goggles and the back of his neck, shaking the sweat off of it and scattering it to the grass below. Wherever he was, it was way hotter than Bellington. He’d loosened his tie and undone the top button of his shirt, but he still wasn’t built for this sort of humidity. Lugging around a heavy fireman’s axe wasn’t helping matters either.
He could, of course, just drop it, and let it disappear into the undergrowth, but… that wasn’t really a viable option. Not if he was thinking smart; something that, admittedly, was difficult, with how loudly his brain was yelling at him to just freak out and curl up into a tiny little ball.
Best to just not think at all, and keep on moving forwards, axe in tow.
There was a keening, whining sound from a few yards off. Galahad paused, blinking rapidly for a few moments, unable to sever the connection between that and the air raid sirens that had permeated the background of his entire life, back home, back in England.
Then he started walking towards it, and, as he moved past crumbling headstones and over long buried coffins, towards the girl who had made the noise.
“Uh… hey! Hey, Sofia! Over here!”
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MurderWeasel
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Sofia snapped her head to the side, jarred from her thoughts in a way that was so familiar and yet still dropped on her like a bucket of icy water. She'd be sitting under a tree with a book in her lap, bent over almost double like she could lean into it and fall though the paper into a better world, and someone would call out and she'd lose her spot. She'd be walking along a fence, trying to push herself just a bit faster, off in a place where she was being pursued by the constable, and her name would ring through the air and slap her back to reality, make her falter and lose her footing and fall. Interruptions were unwelcome.
"Hey."
She said no more.
There was nothing really wrong with Galahad on an objective level. This was something Sofia was very well aware of. What grievances she had were, for a change, largely irrational. One of the biggest sources of consternation for her was his name. She never spoke it aloud unless she absolutely had to do so. It was a grand name, something right out of myth and legend, and chosen intentionally for that effect no doubt. To have such a name applied to such a boy was in some fashion wrong. Galahad was not a name that played football and video games and had a laugh with the lads. Galahad was lonesome questing, swords and wilderness and adventure. It was being alone, out of step with the modern world, more like she was.
Then again, maybe he would earn his moniker now. What were they facing, if not mortal peril out of a storybook?
The axe was a secondary factor, almost eluding her notice despite its bulk and heft and bright red head. It didn't fit the scene, though of course neither did her flare gun. They were equipped collectively for a search and rescue mission, but she'd've rathered swords and crossbows and old flintlock pistols.
The ground where they stood could've fit an old weathered tome, almost. She could see it, could watch the gravestones simplify and lose definition as they turned into a faded woodblock print. The vines creeping up them would thicken, the tangle of grass and weeds at their feet would clarify into bunches, the gazebo would be gone or would be more decrepit. The two of them would stand tense, not doing anything but projecting an air of readiness and danger. That part was perhaps more or less right already.
A breeze blew faintly, ruffling Sofia's tie and tracing faint fingers over her cheek and prickling at the hints of sweat on her back and under her arms. The sun was so bright. Some clouds would be better.
Her expression was bland, but she turned and adjusted her course towards Galahad, taking a few easy strides in his direction.
"Hey."
She said no more.
There was nothing really wrong with Galahad on an objective level. This was something Sofia was very well aware of. What grievances she had were, for a change, largely irrational. One of the biggest sources of consternation for her was his name. She never spoke it aloud unless she absolutely had to do so. It was a grand name, something right out of myth and legend, and chosen intentionally for that effect no doubt. To have such a name applied to such a boy was in some fashion wrong. Galahad was not a name that played football and video games and had a laugh with the lads. Galahad was lonesome questing, swords and wilderness and adventure. It was being alone, out of step with the modern world, more like she was.
Then again, maybe he would earn his moniker now. What were they facing, if not mortal peril out of a storybook?
The axe was a secondary factor, almost eluding her notice despite its bulk and heft and bright red head. It didn't fit the scene, though of course neither did her flare gun. They were equipped collectively for a search and rescue mission, but she'd've rathered swords and crossbows and old flintlock pistols.
The ground where they stood could've fit an old weathered tome, almost. She could see it, could watch the gravestones simplify and lose definition as they turned into a faded woodblock print. The vines creeping up them would thicken, the tangle of grass and weeds at their feet would clarify into bunches, the gazebo would be gone or would be more decrepit. The two of them would stand tense, not doing anything but projecting an air of readiness and danger. That part was perhaps more or less right already.
A breeze blew faintly, ruffling Sofia's tie and tracing faint fingers over her cheek and prickling at the hints of sweat on her back and under her arms. The sun was so bright. Some clouds would be better.
Her expression was bland, but she turned and adjusted her course towards Galahad, taking a few easy strides in his direction.
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Pippi
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Galahad’s relationship with Sofia, back at home, was… well… to say it barely existed was exceptionally generous. He could pick her out of a photograph, and could probably rattle off a couple of her interests and what she liked doing over the weekends, but that was barely saying much; when you were as much of a social butterfly as Galahad was, you ended up learning these sorts of things about everyone in your year, whether you liked it or not.
The only other thing that Galahad knew about Sofia was that she was… unpredictable. Temperamental. Honestly… kinda scary, from what he’d heard about her. And sure, all of that could be said for Freya as well. But he knew that Freya was in his corner no matter what. Sofia was an enigma. A coinflip that was yet to fall on friendship or hatred.
It would have been nice to suggest that the reason Galahad made his way towards Sofia was so that he could influence that coin toss, make sure that he got on her good side, let her know that he was someone worth fighting for as well, rather than fighting against.
But the reality was that he wasn’t a leader. He wasn’t decisive or brave or coming up with grandiose plans on the fly. He was scared and he was alone and he just wanted to see a familiar face so he could feel a little braver and a little safer.
“Hey,” Galahad said again, coming to a halt in front of Sofia, already sweating. He still hadn’t adjusted to the weight balance of the fire axe, and even after holding it in two hands, it had still started to drag on the ground, cutting a fine groove into the dirt.
It was about now that Galahad didn’t have a clue what to say to Sofia. What could he say that she didn’t already know? What could he say that didn’t make him sound like an insane person? ‘Oh hi there Sofia, lovely weather we’re having, sunshine and blue skies, perfect temperature to take a bullet to the skull, right?’
“Have you, um…”
His voice was strained and hoarse. He shivered in the radiant sunlight, struggling to find the words, to find anything that would help him make sense of this situation.
“Are you, uh, are… um…”
Galahad’s eyes trailed downwards, to the bright orange object in Sofia’s hand.
“Is that a gun? Like, um, like a real gun?”
The only other thing that Galahad knew about Sofia was that she was… unpredictable. Temperamental. Honestly… kinda scary, from what he’d heard about her. And sure, all of that could be said for Freya as well. But he knew that Freya was in his corner no matter what. Sofia was an enigma. A coinflip that was yet to fall on friendship or hatred.
It would have been nice to suggest that the reason Galahad made his way towards Sofia was so that he could influence that coin toss, make sure that he got on her good side, let her know that he was someone worth fighting for as well, rather than fighting against.
But the reality was that he wasn’t a leader. He wasn’t decisive or brave or coming up with grandiose plans on the fly. He was scared and he was alone and he just wanted to see a familiar face so he could feel a little braver and a little safer.
“Hey,” Galahad said again, coming to a halt in front of Sofia, already sweating. He still hadn’t adjusted to the weight balance of the fire axe, and even after holding it in two hands, it had still started to drag on the ground, cutting a fine groove into the dirt.
It was about now that Galahad didn’t have a clue what to say to Sofia. What could he say that she didn’t already know? What could he say that didn’t make him sound like an insane person? ‘Oh hi there Sofia, lovely weather we’re having, sunshine and blue skies, perfect temperature to take a bullet to the skull, right?’
“Have you, um…”
His voice was strained and hoarse. He shivered in the radiant sunlight, struggling to find the words, to find anything that would help him make sense of this situation.
“Are you, uh, are… um…”
Galahad’s eyes trailed downwards, to the bright orange object in Sofia’s hand.
“Is that a gun? Like, um, like a real gun?”
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MurderWeasel
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"Sort of."
Sofia held her assigned weapon, in all its tacky bright orange glory, up for Galahad to get a better look at. It took her a second longer than it probably should've to remember to point it in some direction besides straight at the boy in front of her, but she shifted her aim soon enough. She thought his question was kind of stupid at first, but upon closer inspection it actually did look basically just like a normal gun aside from its coloration and thick barrel. It was shaped like a pistol, it had a hammer to cock, and its trigger being cast in black made it stand out. Even the cartridges in her pack looked a little like big shotgun shells, though of course her companion wouldn't know that.
"It shoots flares," she continued.
A second later, she thought maybe volunteering all of this information was actually not the smartest choice in the world. What if Galahad swung that axe at her? Okay, that was not very likely, but just because her current companion didn't seem poised to make an attempt on her life didn't mean she shouldn't exercise caution and practice discretion. She should probably cultivate good habits and keep her options open.
"It can burn people to death, maybe," she added, in service of this goal.
It really was pretty warm out. Sofia could feel the heat prickling at her scalp and knew from experience that she'd end up stinking and sticky if she didn't shuck her blazer soon. Back home she didn't really care; her clothes got torn and mended with regularity. Now, though, if she ended up stuck in uncomfortable, soiled garments, there probably wouldn't be anything to do about it, unless there was a stream or something nearby to wash them in. She didn't have much feel for the lay of the land, and that was actually a little more interesting than Galahad, really. She looked away from him and really for the first time focused on what was beyond the middle distance.
A town sprawled out beneath the hill she now realized they were situated on, little houses and slightly bigger houses lined up along roads until they faded down towards what looked an awful lot like the sea. Now that was something. She'd seen a map in her pack, but hadn't yet really examined it with any level of attention. This would be a good place to get situated and oriented, and to start to figure out just what she was going to do with herself.
Assuming, of course, that all went well with present company.
Sofia held her assigned weapon, in all its tacky bright orange glory, up for Galahad to get a better look at. It took her a second longer than it probably should've to remember to point it in some direction besides straight at the boy in front of her, but she shifted her aim soon enough. She thought his question was kind of stupid at first, but upon closer inspection it actually did look basically just like a normal gun aside from its coloration and thick barrel. It was shaped like a pistol, it had a hammer to cock, and its trigger being cast in black made it stand out. Even the cartridges in her pack looked a little like big shotgun shells, though of course her companion wouldn't know that.
"It shoots flares," she continued.
A second later, she thought maybe volunteering all of this information was actually not the smartest choice in the world. What if Galahad swung that axe at her? Okay, that was not very likely, but just because her current companion didn't seem poised to make an attempt on her life didn't mean she shouldn't exercise caution and practice discretion. She should probably cultivate good habits and keep her options open.
"It can burn people to death, maybe," she added, in service of this goal.
It really was pretty warm out. Sofia could feel the heat prickling at her scalp and knew from experience that she'd end up stinking and sticky if she didn't shuck her blazer soon. Back home she didn't really care; her clothes got torn and mended with regularity. Now, though, if she ended up stuck in uncomfortable, soiled garments, there probably wouldn't be anything to do about it, unless there was a stream or something nearby to wash them in. She didn't have much feel for the lay of the land, and that was actually a little more interesting than Galahad, really. She looked away from him and really for the first time focused on what was beyond the middle distance.
A town sprawled out beneath the hill she now realized they were situated on, little houses and slightly bigger houses lined up along roads until they faded down towards what looked an awful lot like the sea. Now that was something. She'd seen a map in her pack, but hadn't yet really examined it with any level of attention. This would be a good place to get situated and oriented, and to start to figure out just what she was going to do with herself.
Assuming, of course, that all went well with present company.
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Pippi
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“Oh,” was all Galahad could say in response to Sofia’s weapon.
He’d never really considered the… martial potential of a flare gun before. Truth be told, he’d never really thought about flare guns to any great extent at all, until now. They’d always felt like something way more prevalent in video game land than in real life, like quicksand or chainsaw swords, but he supposed they had to exist somewhere. Hikers probably used them a lot. Mountain climbers, too. Probably people on lifeboats as well, but Galahad couldn’t think about the prospect of drowning for more than two seconds without getting shaky, so that was already out of his mind.
He didn’t know whether you could set anyone on fire with a flare gun, though. He didn’t think so. Would be kinda a fire hazard if it could set stuff on fire so easily, wouldn’t it? You set off a rescue flare in the woods and suddenly you’d caused a major fucking forest fire. But maybe he was wrong, and maybe Sofia knew something that he didn’t, and he was kinda concerned that she’d decided to bring up the potential for setting other human beings ablaze with it without being prompted.
Galahad was getting more and more uncertain about sticking with Sofia; an impressive feat, considering he was almost at peak anxious already, little more than a bundle of nerves in a set of clothing. He didn’t know her, and he didn’t know what she was thinking, and he really didn’t know what she was gonna do with her flare gun.
But in the end, it was all a moot point, because Galahad didn’t want to be left by himself for a second right now. He didn’t know what would happen. He didn’t want to know what would happen. So strange bedfellows they might be, but, well… It was something. It was something.
A warm breeze ruffled his hair as he stared at his shoes for a moment, trying to think of something to bridge the newfound silence. He let out an awkward chuckle, before hefting the fire axe up, holding it at chest height for Sofia to see, immediately regretting his choice as the weight of the metal axehead on his still groggy body nearly toppled him forwards. He chuckled again, before lowering the axe again.
“I, uh, guess it’s pretty fitting though, huh? Like, with our weapons. You’ve got your flare gun there, and I’ve got Michael here, and-“
Galahad froze, realising he’d just gone and blurted out the name he’d given his fireman’s axe, the name he’d given it after just waking up to stop him from feeling so isolated and alone, the name he’d christened upon his weapon just to pretend he’d always have someone close at hand to look after him.
“That’s, um… that’s uh… my… um,” Galahad stammered, face flushing bright red. “That’s what my, um, axe is called. Michael. Uh. Michael Chopra.”
He paused, letting out another awkward chuckle as he tried desperately to gauge what Sofia’s reaction would be.
“He was, um, he was a footballer…”
Another pause. No chuckle.
“Played for… Cardiff…”
He’d never really considered the… martial potential of a flare gun before. Truth be told, he’d never really thought about flare guns to any great extent at all, until now. They’d always felt like something way more prevalent in video game land than in real life, like quicksand or chainsaw swords, but he supposed they had to exist somewhere. Hikers probably used them a lot. Mountain climbers, too. Probably people on lifeboats as well, but Galahad couldn’t think about the prospect of drowning for more than two seconds without getting shaky, so that was already out of his mind.
He didn’t know whether you could set anyone on fire with a flare gun, though. He didn’t think so. Would be kinda a fire hazard if it could set stuff on fire so easily, wouldn’t it? You set off a rescue flare in the woods and suddenly you’d caused a major fucking forest fire. But maybe he was wrong, and maybe Sofia knew something that he didn’t, and he was kinda concerned that she’d decided to bring up the potential for setting other human beings ablaze with it without being prompted.
Galahad was getting more and more uncertain about sticking with Sofia; an impressive feat, considering he was almost at peak anxious already, little more than a bundle of nerves in a set of clothing. He didn’t know her, and he didn’t know what she was thinking, and he really didn’t know what she was gonna do with her flare gun.
But in the end, it was all a moot point, because Galahad didn’t want to be left by himself for a second right now. He didn’t know what would happen. He didn’t want to know what would happen. So strange bedfellows they might be, but, well… It was something. It was something.
A warm breeze ruffled his hair as he stared at his shoes for a moment, trying to think of something to bridge the newfound silence. He let out an awkward chuckle, before hefting the fire axe up, holding it at chest height for Sofia to see, immediately regretting his choice as the weight of the metal axehead on his still groggy body nearly toppled him forwards. He chuckled again, before lowering the axe again.
“I, uh, guess it’s pretty fitting though, huh? Like, with our weapons. You’ve got your flare gun there, and I’ve got Michael here, and-“
Galahad froze, realising he’d just gone and blurted out the name he’d given his fireman’s axe, the name he’d given it after just waking up to stop him from feeling so isolated and alone, the name he’d christened upon his weapon just to pretend he’d always have someone close at hand to look after him.
“That’s, um… that’s uh… my… um,” Galahad stammered, face flushing bright red. “That’s what my, um, axe is called. Michael. Uh. Michael Chopra.”
He paused, letting out another awkward chuckle as he tried desperately to gauge what Sofia’s reaction would be.
“He was, um, he was a footballer…”
Another pause. No chuckle.
“Played for… Cardiff…”
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MurderWeasel
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It was in that moment that Sofia decided, rather suddenly, that she actually wasn't going to rob Galahad. Because, okay, she'd sort of been starting to hype herself up to rob the boy. He was easy pickings. He seemed unsure and could barely properly hold his assigned axe, and Sofia bet she could hold it a little better and maybe swing it if she needed to, or at least brandish it like she might be able to swing it. Plus, it'd be better to have a little more food, right? She didn't know how much food exactly she had, but it didn't matter; a little more was better in this sort of situation. That was just what you did: you improved your circumstances by any means necessary, including robbing people.
She wasn't a monster, of course. She was a noble would-be robber. She would've left Galahad with half his food and water, and also all the stuff she couldn't use extras of, like the map or whatever. But that was all moot now because Galahad had gone and done something unexpected and humanized himself just a bit.
Goddamn it.
Sofia got naming things. It was a thing you did to make an object special, a thing you did if the real world wasn't so great and you wanted to go away for a while, go somewhere better where all the troubles were dragons and corrupt sheriffs and roving packs of wolves instead of homework and detention and the fact that you couldn't even get along with your mum well enough to work at the same store as her. A weapon with a name was a knightly thing—granted maybe not so much when the name was a stupid football name, but then Galahad was a stupid fake football knight so it made a certain degree of sense.
"Ah," Sofia said.
Look, she wasn't robbing Galahad, right? That was a major concession. There was no obligation whatsoever to indulge his awkward failed attempts at humor.
She turned her flare gun over in her hands as silence reigned for a moment.
"I guess it is fitting, though, yeah," she said. She wanted to put the gun away and stuff her hands in her pockets. It felt silly now, her not-really-a-weapon, just as silly as Galahad's ridiculous football axe. There was a split second of doubt as Sofia thought, wait, what if Galahad tried to turn the tables and rob her? But then she realized she'd just walk briskly away, or maybe jog. What could he do? He didn't seem like he could handle his weapon at all.
One more rotation of the flare gun, then another.
"I don't really know how to load this," Sofia admitted.
She wasn't a monster, of course. She was a noble would-be robber. She would've left Galahad with half his food and water, and also all the stuff she couldn't use extras of, like the map or whatever. But that was all moot now because Galahad had gone and done something unexpected and humanized himself just a bit.
Goddamn it.
Sofia got naming things. It was a thing you did to make an object special, a thing you did if the real world wasn't so great and you wanted to go away for a while, go somewhere better where all the troubles were dragons and corrupt sheriffs and roving packs of wolves instead of homework and detention and the fact that you couldn't even get along with your mum well enough to work at the same store as her. A weapon with a name was a knightly thing—granted maybe not so much when the name was a stupid football name, but then Galahad was a stupid fake football knight so it made a certain degree of sense.
"Ah," Sofia said.
Look, she wasn't robbing Galahad, right? That was a major concession. There was no obligation whatsoever to indulge his awkward failed attempts at humor.
She turned her flare gun over in her hands as silence reigned for a moment.
"I guess it is fitting, though, yeah," she said. She wanted to put the gun away and stuff her hands in her pockets. It felt silly now, her not-really-a-weapon, just as silly as Galahad's ridiculous football axe. There was a split second of doubt as Sofia thought, wait, what if Galahad tried to turn the tables and rob her? But then she realized she'd just walk briskly away, or maybe jog. What could he do? He didn't seem like he could handle his weapon at all.
One more rotation of the flare gun, then another.
"I don't really know how to load this," Sofia admitted.
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Pippi
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Galahad let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and gave a sheepish, nervous grin at Sofia. She could have very easily told Galahad that he was a total idiot and that she didn’t want anything more to do with him, which she would have absolutely had every right to do. Instead, she seemed almost as awkward- well, no, actually, nobody could be as awkward as he was being right now, but she was definitely as uncertain as he was feeling, definitely as hit for six by this whole experience as he was.
Of course, she could have still thought that he was a total idiot, and cannon fodder in the upcoming few days. But, well, she hadn’t said that so it was still… it was still something, right? It was still more than nothing? There was still a chance he could make this work and stick with her, at least for a while, at least until… well. You know. Until…
Yeah.
He’d been trying not to think about that, and failing horribly.
“I don’t think any of us do,” Galahad said, trying to give his usual earnest smile to Sofia, hoping it wasn’t stained with awkwardness and fear. “When have any of us ever needed to use a flare gun? I doubt even the people who were in Cubs or Brownies did anything like that. And… And there’s bound to be somebody with a gun, out there, do any of us know how to load a - load a fucking gun? Christ, I can barely use this stupid thing-“
Galahad let Michael fall to the ground, swinging downwards in his hands, axe blade slicing into the earth and sticking there.
“-and it’s an axe! There’s no… there’s no bullets or-or safeties or fuckall on an axe, it’s just heavy as shit!”
His face was flushed, his breathing heavy. He forced himself to take deep, long breaths, in a near futile attempt to calm himself down, balling his hands into fists and unclenching them again. So much for that second chance at getting Sofia into his good graces.
“Sorry. Sorry. This is all just… Christ. Maybe this is some huge fever dream that we’re all part of.”
Galahad fixed Sofia with a weak smile, lip quivering slightly.
“Could you, uh… slap me? Just, y’know, once. Either I wake up, or you knock some sense into me. It’s win-win either way.”
Of course, she could have still thought that he was a total idiot, and cannon fodder in the upcoming few days. But, well, she hadn’t said that so it was still… it was still something, right? It was still more than nothing? There was still a chance he could make this work and stick with her, at least for a while, at least until… well. You know. Until…
Yeah.
He’d been trying not to think about that, and failing horribly.
“I don’t think any of us do,” Galahad said, trying to give his usual earnest smile to Sofia, hoping it wasn’t stained with awkwardness and fear. “When have any of us ever needed to use a flare gun? I doubt even the people who were in Cubs or Brownies did anything like that. And… And there’s bound to be somebody with a gun, out there, do any of us know how to load a - load a fucking gun? Christ, I can barely use this stupid thing-“
Galahad let Michael fall to the ground, swinging downwards in his hands, axe blade slicing into the earth and sticking there.
“-and it’s an axe! There’s no… there’s no bullets or-or safeties or fuckall on an axe, it’s just heavy as shit!”
His face was flushed, his breathing heavy. He forced himself to take deep, long breaths, in a near futile attempt to calm himself down, balling his hands into fists and unclenching them again. So much for that second chance at getting Sofia into his good graces.
“Sorry. Sorry. This is all just… Christ. Maybe this is some huge fever dream that we’re all part of.”
Galahad fixed Sofia with a weak smile, lip quivering slightly.
“Could you, uh… slap me? Just, y’know, once. Either I wake up, or you knock some sense into me. It’s win-win either way.”
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MurderWeasel
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Galahad raised a number of interesting points. Yes, someone out there probably did have a gun. Was that something to be worried about? Sofia figured, actually, the answer could be yes, depending on who it was. She didn't think most of their class would quickly descend into violence but, well, there were exceptions. She had been just about to rob Galahad, after all. Not to kill him or get him killed or anything, just because, because, because it would've been an advantage and made her feel more safe and powerful. And when in her life would she be able to rob somebody besides right now? Exactly.
The boy's ramblings became less coherent and more panicked as he worked himself into a state, and that made Sofia uncomfortable in turn. She didn't like dealing with this sort of thing. She wasn't anyone's nanny, and certainly not Galahad's.
She became more aware than ever of the heat, the stickiness, the physicality of the situation. Bugs buzzed, hidden in the undergrowth. The breeze was faintly audible. Everything smelled like dirt and grass. Here she was, standing in a field, somewhere new and honestly pretty picturesque and exciting, and what was she doing? Listening to Galahad run his mouth. He was as irksome or more than the environmental annoyances, and Sofia was starting to consider whether she might safely ditch him, but then he reached his conclusion.
That last request cast things in a different light indeed.
"Yeah, sure," Sofia said, blandly.
She let her pack fall to the ground, and took a step closer to him. She tried to keep neutral but didn't know if it was working. She sure didn't feel neutral. She actually kind of liked Galahad a bit more for diagnosing his bad state and taking corrective action, and especially because that corrective action offered her an opportunity.
Sofia was a tussler. She had the disciplinary record to prove it. She was used to getting her hands dirty, used to working out her anger by working over whoever caused it. It barely even occurred to her that this might be a moment to exercise some moderation or restraint or perhaps to second-guess what Galahad was asking her. Those pangs of conscience that had aborted her planned banditry were entirely absent here. He had asked for this. He wanted it. She was doing them both a favor.
Sofia wound up her arm and swung straight at Galahad's face with a backhand carrying all her pent up energy and irritation.
The boy's ramblings became less coherent and more panicked as he worked himself into a state, and that made Sofia uncomfortable in turn. She didn't like dealing with this sort of thing. She wasn't anyone's nanny, and certainly not Galahad's.
She became more aware than ever of the heat, the stickiness, the physicality of the situation. Bugs buzzed, hidden in the undergrowth. The breeze was faintly audible. Everything smelled like dirt and grass. Here she was, standing in a field, somewhere new and honestly pretty picturesque and exciting, and what was she doing? Listening to Galahad run his mouth. He was as irksome or more than the environmental annoyances, and Sofia was starting to consider whether she might safely ditch him, but then he reached his conclusion.
That last request cast things in a different light indeed.
"Yeah, sure," Sofia said, blandly.
She let her pack fall to the ground, and took a step closer to him. She tried to keep neutral but didn't know if it was working. She sure didn't feel neutral. She actually kind of liked Galahad a bit more for diagnosing his bad state and taking corrective action, and especially because that corrective action offered her an opportunity.
Sofia was a tussler. She had the disciplinary record to prove it. She was used to getting her hands dirty, used to working out her anger by working over whoever caused it. It barely even occurred to her that this might be a moment to exercise some moderation or restraint or perhaps to second-guess what Galahad was asking her. Those pangs of conscience that had aborted her planned banditry were entirely absent here. He had asked for this. He wanted it. She was doing them both a favor.
Sofia wound up her arm and swung straight at Galahad's face with a backhand carrying all her pent up energy and irritation.
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Pippi
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“Hey, wa-“
Galahad was about to let Sofia know that her wind-up looked awfully strong, when the slap impacted with his cheek, just as awfully strong as he’d predicted, sending him staggering backwards and making his ears ring. He gasped in pain, blinking rapidly, eyes blurry and watery. Gingerly, he pressed his hand to his cheek, wincing as it immediately started stinging worse the moment he did so.
It caned like all hell, but he really, really couldn’t be mad about it in any way. He had asked for it, after all.
“Ow, fuck, okay… okay, shit…”
Galahad gritted his teeth, breathing in harshly through them, gently rubbing his fingertips against his cheek. He ran his tongue over his teeth, because he was pretty certain he’d heard a cracking noise, and he really didn’t wanna be dealing with any broken teeth right now.
“Well, uh… definitely not dreaming… Jesus…”
No broken teeth. That was good news. The slap hadn’t made him sit bolt upright in bed, drenched in a cold sweat, however, so he was definitely actually still… here, wherever ‘here’ was. Which was bad news. Now that his brain had stopped pinging around the inside of his head like someone had chucked a rubber ball in there, though, it was definitely feeling more clear. More focused. Less liable to hurl itself off the deep end and enter panic stations for the time being.
“Hey, uh, thanks, Sofia. Needed that, I think…”
It was kinda strange. Now that his head had been slapped on straight he felt… not calm, that wasn’t the right word. He was nervous and frightened, and still didn’t want to be alone for a second. But he supposed everyone else here was feeling that too. Probably Sofia as well, even if she wasn’t showing it. This here was basically a restart of his wakeup, and he’d skipped over the freakout and the dredging up memories from when they were abducted and the “Oh my God we’re all gonna die” part this time.
He was here now. That was it. He just had to deal with this as best he could.
“Hopefully that’s the worst thing that happens to me, whilst I’m… here.”
Galahad chuckled softly, stepping back towards Michael, gently resting one palm on his handle, the other one softly rubbing his cheek. There was gonna be a nasty looking mark there, he was certain. It was almost a scar, right? That was pretty badass, wasn’t it?
“Do we have any idea where, uh… ‘here’ is, by the way? Did the Americans tell us anything, print it on maps or, like…”
He shrugged.
“Did they just drop us and forget about us?”
Galahad was about to let Sofia know that her wind-up looked awfully strong, when the slap impacted with his cheek, just as awfully strong as he’d predicted, sending him staggering backwards and making his ears ring. He gasped in pain, blinking rapidly, eyes blurry and watery. Gingerly, he pressed his hand to his cheek, wincing as it immediately started stinging worse the moment he did so.
It caned like all hell, but he really, really couldn’t be mad about it in any way. He had asked for it, after all.
“Ow, fuck, okay… okay, shit…”
Galahad gritted his teeth, breathing in harshly through them, gently rubbing his fingertips against his cheek. He ran his tongue over his teeth, because he was pretty certain he’d heard a cracking noise, and he really didn’t wanna be dealing with any broken teeth right now.
“Well, uh… definitely not dreaming… Jesus…”
No broken teeth. That was good news. The slap hadn’t made him sit bolt upright in bed, drenched in a cold sweat, however, so he was definitely actually still… here, wherever ‘here’ was. Which was bad news. Now that his brain had stopped pinging around the inside of his head like someone had chucked a rubber ball in there, though, it was definitely feeling more clear. More focused. Less liable to hurl itself off the deep end and enter panic stations for the time being.
“Hey, uh, thanks, Sofia. Needed that, I think…”
It was kinda strange. Now that his head had been slapped on straight he felt… not calm, that wasn’t the right word. He was nervous and frightened, and still didn’t want to be alone for a second. But he supposed everyone else here was feeling that too. Probably Sofia as well, even if she wasn’t showing it. This here was basically a restart of his wakeup, and he’d skipped over the freakout and the dredging up memories from when they were abducted and the “Oh my God we’re all gonna die” part this time.
He was here now. That was it. He just had to deal with this as best he could.
“Hopefully that’s the worst thing that happens to me, whilst I’m… here.”
Galahad chuckled softly, stepping back towards Michael, gently resting one palm on his handle, the other one softly rubbing his cheek. There was gonna be a nasty looking mark there, he was certain. It was almost a scar, right? That was pretty badass, wasn’t it?
“Do we have any idea where, uh… ‘here’ is, by the way? Did the Americans tell us anything, print it on maps or, like…”
He shrugged.
“Did they just drop us and forget about us?”
((Barry Taylor: Start))
Barry had cycled through a few stages of panic over the past while. How much of a while? He wasn't completely clear on that; he felt like he'd been in and out of consciousness several times on the way here, but the broken, half-remembered snatches of sights and sensations could just as easily have been dreams. Did you still dream if you'd been KOed by sleeping gas? He had no idea.
Chemical questions aside, he was trying to let things sift on through his head. He'd thought about the possibility that the Adams guy was trying to pull the wool over their eyes and they were actually only in Ireland rather than the whole journey to the US, but the weather seemed to disprove that theory. It was warmer than any day but the hottest summers, enough to leave Barry sweating uncomfortably even with two buttons undone and his blazer off, shoved between the straps of the pack slung onto his back. In that case they really were in the States, hell of a long way from home. But if the army had managed to rescue American kids from this same situation, what was to say they wouldn't or couldn't do it for their own? Adams was just talking the US up, pretending they were in a stronger position than they really were.
All they had to do was wait it out.
Though, even with that goal in mind Barry was still lugging around the pitchfork which he presumed was his assignment. He was thinking about it, but hadn't actually followed through. Thing was bloody heavy, and he wasn't sure that the 'angry mob' look really did it for him anyway. He propped it on one shoulder as he stepped into the cheery surroundings of a graveyard. Just the kind of place you wanted to be hanging out. Maybe he should paint his eyes or something, fit in with the emo kids?
He wasn't alone here. Two other people were sharing the area; Barry wasn't sure, but it looked as though one of them had stumbled back as he caught sight of them both. It was that motion which had drawn his eye in the first place. However, the supposed stumbler didn't do anything in response or react like Barry would expect if there were handbags, so maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him. After a few steps more, Barry recognised both of them. Galahad tended to stick in your head because wow, that name, and then Sofia had a reputation for going off on one when she got angry.
He stopped several metres back to wave at them, went to stick his pitchfork in the ground and then thought better of it. Could literally be someone's dead body underneath the soil.
Recovering graciously, he started off forward again. "Hey! How we keeping?"
Barry had cycled through a few stages of panic over the past while. How much of a while? He wasn't completely clear on that; he felt like he'd been in and out of consciousness several times on the way here, but the broken, half-remembered snatches of sights and sensations could just as easily have been dreams. Did you still dream if you'd been KOed by sleeping gas? He had no idea.
Chemical questions aside, he was trying to let things sift on through his head. He'd thought about the possibility that the Adams guy was trying to pull the wool over their eyes and they were actually only in Ireland rather than the whole journey to the US, but the weather seemed to disprove that theory. It was warmer than any day but the hottest summers, enough to leave Barry sweating uncomfortably even with two buttons undone and his blazer off, shoved between the straps of the pack slung onto his back. In that case they really were in the States, hell of a long way from home. But if the army had managed to rescue American kids from this same situation, what was to say they wouldn't or couldn't do it for their own? Adams was just talking the US up, pretending they were in a stronger position than they really were.
All they had to do was wait it out.
Though, even with that goal in mind Barry was still lugging around the pitchfork which he presumed was his assignment. He was thinking about it, but hadn't actually followed through. Thing was bloody heavy, and he wasn't sure that the 'angry mob' look really did it for him anyway. He propped it on one shoulder as he stepped into the cheery surroundings of a graveyard. Just the kind of place you wanted to be hanging out. Maybe he should paint his eyes or something, fit in with the emo kids?
He wasn't alone here. Two other people were sharing the area; Barry wasn't sure, but it looked as though one of them had stumbled back as he caught sight of them both. It was that motion which had drawn his eye in the first place. However, the supposed stumbler didn't do anything in response or react like Barry would expect if there were handbags, so maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him. After a few steps more, Barry recognised both of them. Galahad tended to stick in your head because wow, that name, and then Sofia had a reputation for going off on one when she got angry.
He stopped several metres back to wave at them, went to stick his pitchfork in the ground and then thought better of it. Could literally be someone's dead body underneath the soil.
Recovering graciously, he started off forward again. "Hey! How we keeping?"
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MurderWeasel
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"Welcome," Sofia said in response to Galahad's gratitude. Her palm stung with tingling needles from the impact, but it felt good. She could get used to hitting people and being thanked for it. She'd paid no mind to her target's grumbles of pain; he'd asked, and she'd delivered, and it seemed they were on the same page on that matter, with no lingering awkwardness. That was good. That sort of implicit understanding meant maybe they'd actually be able to function together.
Of course, Galahad kept running his mouth. He hoped nothing worse would happen. It was nice to hope, Sofia supposed. He mused on where they might be, wondered if there was any clue or if they were flying totally blind.
"There's a map, but it's in Spanish," she volunteered. She hadn't looked at it closely at all, hadn't even thought to see if it suggested anything about their location in a more global sense. Did it really matter? She didn't think so. They weren't going anywhere far anytime soon.
Though, Sofia did take a moment to look at their immediate surroundings with a slightly more analytical eye. The gravestones were hard to make out, but the names on those near her sure didn't look American or British. There were accents on some letters, and the other words, the ones that weren't names, might not all just be in Latin like she'd at first assumed. So they were somewhere very far from home, then, because so far as she knew the Americans didn't have any footholds in Spain or Portugal secure enough to confidently stage this sort of thing from.
She didn't mention that to Galahad, though. He'd figure it out on his own, probably.
Sofia was just starting to consider finally shrugging off her blazer when she realized someone was walking towards them, and maybe had been for a while. It was the wave that attracted her eye, and then the movement of the farm implement the boy had with him, first towards ground and then away from it again. She sort of knew of Barry. He liked to roam around outside too, which meant he had more sense than most of their peers. He was being friendly and open, offering a greeting. That was a good sign.
It was also not really in Sofia's wheelhouse, so she just gave a nod and waited.
Let Galahad exchange the pointless pleasantries. He certainly was good enough at it.
Of course, Galahad kept running his mouth. He hoped nothing worse would happen. It was nice to hope, Sofia supposed. He mused on where they might be, wondered if there was any clue or if they were flying totally blind.
"There's a map, but it's in Spanish," she volunteered. She hadn't looked at it closely at all, hadn't even thought to see if it suggested anything about their location in a more global sense. Did it really matter? She didn't think so. They weren't going anywhere far anytime soon.
Though, Sofia did take a moment to look at their immediate surroundings with a slightly more analytical eye. The gravestones were hard to make out, but the names on those near her sure didn't look American or British. There were accents on some letters, and the other words, the ones that weren't names, might not all just be in Latin like she'd at first assumed. So they were somewhere very far from home, then, because so far as she knew the Americans didn't have any footholds in Spain or Portugal secure enough to confidently stage this sort of thing from.
She didn't mention that to Galahad, though. He'd figure it out on his own, probably.
Sofia was just starting to consider finally shrugging off her blazer when she realized someone was walking towards them, and maybe had been for a while. It was the wave that attracted her eye, and then the movement of the farm implement the boy had with him, first towards ground and then away from it again. She sort of knew of Barry. He liked to roam around outside too, which meant he had more sense than most of their peers. He was being friendly and open, offering a greeting. That was a good sign.
It was also not really in Sofia's wheelhouse, so she just gave a nod and waited.
Let Galahad exchange the pointless pleasantries. He certainly was good enough at it.
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Pippi
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“Right, gotcha…”
The map being in Spanish wasn’t much to go off, but it was… something. A very tiny something, but something nonetheless. It suggested the general area they might be, most likely somewhere in Central America or the Caribbean. And, well, that was about it. If that was the only information they’d been given, there wasn’t anything more they could do with it. It didn’t pinpoint their exact location, didn’t tell them what exact country they were in, didn’t give them any help in escaping or being rescued from this place. It told them they were going to die in Latin America. That was it.
He wondered momentarily whether anyone would be able to see Sofia’s flares if she fired the gun off at night. Odds were that the Americans had planned for that already, though. That army bloke who’d talked to them all before had said as much. Every part of this nightmarish horror show had been planned meticulously, right down to the unnerving façade of benevolence they’d draped across the whole thing. ‘Everyone gets a chance to live! Unless you break any of our rules to do so, in which case you die instantly.’ ‘Everybody gets a weapon to have a fighting chance! Too bad we didn’t give you all the same thing!’ ‘You all get a map so you don’t get lost! Whoops, what do you mean it’s in Spanish? Our bad!’
Bastards probably hadn’t even given them a compass.
Galahad realised he still hadn’t actually checked his bag yet, and was about to unzip it and rifle through the contents when Barry turned up, waving with one hand, holding a pitchfork of all things in the other. He knew of Barry, knew of him a lot more than he really knew him. He was friendly enough, but his main interest lay in cricket, and that was something Galahad could never get into; for whatever reason, he could hit a hockey ball on the grass no problem, but hitting a cricket ball out of the air was a skill that had evaded him year in, year out.
Still, he was higher in Galahad’s list of potential allies than Sofia, and she’d turned out just fine, so he waved back at Barry, one hand still resting on Michael’s handle.
“Uh, hi, Barry!” he said, attempting a welcoming smile. “It’s going, um…”
He rubbed his cheek with the hand that had been previously waving.
“… Better.”
He paused, another nervous chuckle escaping his lips.
“Looks like they just, uh… raided somebody’s shed for our weapons, huh?”
The map being in Spanish wasn’t much to go off, but it was… something. A very tiny something, but something nonetheless. It suggested the general area they might be, most likely somewhere in Central America or the Caribbean. And, well, that was about it. If that was the only information they’d been given, there wasn’t anything more they could do with it. It didn’t pinpoint their exact location, didn’t tell them what exact country they were in, didn’t give them any help in escaping or being rescued from this place. It told them they were going to die in Latin America. That was it.
He wondered momentarily whether anyone would be able to see Sofia’s flares if she fired the gun off at night. Odds were that the Americans had planned for that already, though. That army bloke who’d talked to them all before had said as much. Every part of this nightmarish horror show had been planned meticulously, right down to the unnerving façade of benevolence they’d draped across the whole thing. ‘Everyone gets a chance to live! Unless you break any of our rules to do so, in which case you die instantly.’ ‘Everybody gets a weapon to have a fighting chance! Too bad we didn’t give you all the same thing!’ ‘You all get a map so you don’t get lost! Whoops, what do you mean it’s in Spanish? Our bad!’
Bastards probably hadn’t even given them a compass.
Galahad realised he still hadn’t actually checked his bag yet, and was about to unzip it and rifle through the contents when Barry turned up, waving with one hand, holding a pitchfork of all things in the other. He knew of Barry, knew of him a lot more than he really knew him. He was friendly enough, but his main interest lay in cricket, and that was something Galahad could never get into; for whatever reason, he could hit a hockey ball on the grass no problem, but hitting a cricket ball out of the air was a skill that had evaded him year in, year out.
Still, he was higher in Galahad’s list of potential allies than Sofia, and she’d turned out just fine, so he waved back at Barry, one hand still resting on Michael’s handle.
“Uh, hi, Barry!” he said, attempting a welcoming smile. “It’s going, um…”
He rubbed his cheek with the hand that had been previously waving.
“… Better.”
He paused, another nervous chuckle escaping his lips.
“Looks like they just, uh… raided somebody’s shed for our weapons, huh?”
Sofia acknowledged him, which was better than nothing but less than he'd hoped, even if they weren't super close friends or anything. Less about being very happy to see Barry and more to do with general... it's good to see somebody who isn't dead. That kind of deal.
Luckily Galahad was there to pick up the slack, which suited what Barry knew of his usual coolness and was enough to put any concerns about the stumbling around he'd been harbouring to the back of his mind. He had like a dozen other doubts to harbour anyway. This port was getting crowded.
See the thing was this, as Barry smiled back at the greeting--points for effort, for Galahad--there were some hefty 'what if' clauses attached to Barry's opinion on the situation. What if the army didn't come? What if people decided to play the death game? What if the army came and they all wound up hostages? A lot could go wrong if his plan didn't go to uh, plan, and being honest there were some holes he needed to work on.
"Hopefully the trend continues," he returned his attention to Galahad. "And yeah, I suppose they did," Barry eyed the pitchfork again, taking some of the weight off by setting the base down. "I'm thinking maybe leave it. Thing's heavy, not sure I'm going to get much out of lugging it around."
Brief test of the waters. See where they stood, then he could explain why stalling things out was the right move.
Luckily Galahad was there to pick up the slack, which suited what Barry knew of his usual coolness and was enough to put any concerns about the stumbling around he'd been harbouring to the back of his mind. He had like a dozen other doubts to harbour anyway. This port was getting crowded.
See the thing was this, as Barry smiled back at the greeting--points for effort, for Galahad--there were some hefty 'what if' clauses attached to Barry's opinion on the situation. What if the army didn't come? What if people decided to play the death game? What if the army came and they all wound up hostages? A lot could go wrong if his plan didn't go to uh, plan, and being honest there were some holes he needed to work on.
"Hopefully the trend continues," he returned his attention to Galahad. "And yeah, I suppose they did," Barry eyed the pitchfork again, taking some of the weight off by setting the base down. "I'm thinking maybe leave it. Thing's heavy, not sure I'm going to get much out of lugging it around."
Brief test of the waters. See where they stood, then he could explain why stalling things out was the right move.
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MurderWeasel
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As Galahad did his thing and greeted Barry and made him feel welcome, Sofia sort of casually watched the boy with the pitchfork and thought to herself. She was contemplating whether and how to rob him. Galahad had been a bust, as far as such opportunities went. He'd become too sympathetic, too much on the same frequency, and Sofia wasn't in this to victimize or cause pain. She was just thinking to set herself up a little bit better, pad her pockets just in case.
The thing was, Barry had a pitchfork and was pretty close, and Sofia's flare gun was unloaded and Galahad could barely handle his axe. Actual violence really wasn't on Sofia's agenda at all, but there had to be some credible threat, or it was less a robbery and more begging, and she wasn't a beggar. But if things went wrong just so, where Barry bought that the implied violence could manifest but also decided to resist it, then they'd be up close to him with a sharp, dangerous weapon and with nothing to really ward him off with. That was not a good situation at all.
This was frustrating. Sofia shifted her weight from left foot to right and back again, and massaged her right palm with her left hand a bit. It was still prickly from the smack she'd given Galahad, one more discomfort along with the mugginess and the muddy nature of her thoughts.
Really, the way to proceed in this situation was to do something crafty and clever, to succeed by outwitting. But outwitting wasn't really Sofia's strength. She could be cunning to some degree, especially when it came to cheap shots in tussles, but that was different from laying out a whole plan of attack. In the stories, this sort of thing always came easily to the protagonists, but Sofia was waiting around for the flash of inspiration and it just wasn't happening.
Then Barry was suggesting he ditch the pitchfork. This was a further complication, because the pitchfork was really the thing he had most worth stealing, but on the other hand it would be much easier to work him over for his stuff if he didn't have it. This was a risk/reward thing, but Sofia was having trouble trying to weigh all the factors. Half a set of provisions would be okay, but divide by two because of Galahad's share...
Oh, that was another difficult factor, wasn't it? Would Galahad be okay with robbing Barry? Would he help, or would he freak out and mess things up or put himself in danger? Sofia had sort of just assumed he'd go along with whatever because he seemed like a weenie, but he might also freeze up. Had he ever been in more of a fight than just getting beaten? Sofia had no idea. She wished she could pull him aside and ask and also just quietly broach the robbing-people topic, but Barry might get suspicious.
This was way too complicated. She decided to just let the others do what they wanted to and play it by ear as the situation developed.
"Whatever works," she said, enthusiasm just as lacking as her commitment.
The thing was, Barry had a pitchfork and was pretty close, and Sofia's flare gun was unloaded and Galahad could barely handle his axe. Actual violence really wasn't on Sofia's agenda at all, but there had to be some credible threat, or it was less a robbery and more begging, and she wasn't a beggar. But if things went wrong just so, where Barry bought that the implied violence could manifest but also decided to resist it, then they'd be up close to him with a sharp, dangerous weapon and with nothing to really ward him off with. That was not a good situation at all.
This was frustrating. Sofia shifted her weight from left foot to right and back again, and massaged her right palm with her left hand a bit. It was still prickly from the smack she'd given Galahad, one more discomfort along with the mugginess and the muddy nature of her thoughts.
Really, the way to proceed in this situation was to do something crafty and clever, to succeed by outwitting. But outwitting wasn't really Sofia's strength. She could be cunning to some degree, especially when it came to cheap shots in tussles, but that was different from laying out a whole plan of attack. In the stories, this sort of thing always came easily to the protagonists, but Sofia was waiting around for the flash of inspiration and it just wasn't happening.
Then Barry was suggesting he ditch the pitchfork. This was a further complication, because the pitchfork was really the thing he had most worth stealing, but on the other hand it would be much easier to work him over for his stuff if he didn't have it. This was a risk/reward thing, but Sofia was having trouble trying to weigh all the factors. Half a set of provisions would be okay, but divide by two because of Galahad's share...
Oh, that was another difficult factor, wasn't it? Would Galahad be okay with robbing Barry? Would he help, or would he freak out and mess things up or put himself in danger? Sofia had sort of just assumed he'd go along with whatever because he seemed like a weenie, but he might also freeze up. Had he ever been in more of a fight than just getting beaten? Sofia had no idea. She wished she could pull him aside and ask and also just quietly broach the robbing-people topic, but Barry might get suspicious.
This was way too complicated. She decided to just let the others do what they wanted to and play it by ear as the situation developed.
"Whatever works," she said, enthusiasm just as lacking as her commitment.