This wasn't supposed to happen, but it was her fault that it had.
Jeremiah had covered Nick, yes. He hadn't wanted her interference. He had wanted vengeance by his own hands.
She could have found a moment, though, if she had looked closer.
A split second.
A chance.
"Freeze" was sometimes listed alongside fight or flight, as a reflex response to survival situations.
She could have sunk a clip into his back as he tried to limp out the door.
She wished she had.
At the End of Days, at the End of Time
Day 2 - Private
Alexander wondered if they were in front of Jeremiah’s dead body. It wasn’t a guarantee - Nia could have simply collapsed where she stood. It wasn’t as if he could just prod in front of him to confirm its existence or absence, though.
The thought was unnerving. Jeremiah had been a quiet man, but he’d still had a presence where now there was nothing. Alexander wondered how many bodies he would walk past unawares in the coming days. Probably not many, considering the relentless sun. The thought nauseated him. Knowing your loved ones were dead was difficult enough as it was without having to smell them.
The thought was unnerving. Jeremiah had been a quiet man, but he’d still had a presence where now there was nothing. Alexander wondered how many bodies he would walk past unawares in the coming days. Probably not many, considering the relentless sun. The thought nauseated him. Knowing your loved ones were dead was difficult enough as it was without having to smell them.
She fell silent. She wasn't shaking, anymore.
She realized, suddenly, she was holding his hand. She didn't remember having done so. His fingers were limp. Not cold, yet.
Bodies lost approximately 1.5 degrees Fahrenheit per hour after death until they reached ambient temperatures.
Ambient temperature was hot. Humid.
She knew exactly what would happen to Jeremiah in the coming days. She knew it would haunt her.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
None of this was, though. They shouldn't be here. What was supposed to happen had not been relevant from the moment she opened her eyes.
She let his hand fall from hers. It made a muffled thump as it hit the ground with nothing to keep it upright. The motion was unnatural, churned her stomach far worse than the blood, and she was looking at his face again and she remembered the way he laughed the day they'd met when she came up with his name and
She clapped, once.
Yes.
I'm here.
She realized, suddenly, she was holding his hand. She didn't remember having done so. His fingers were limp. Not cold, yet.
Bodies lost approximately 1.5 degrees Fahrenheit per hour after death until they reached ambient temperatures.
Ambient temperature was hot. Humid.
She knew exactly what would happen to Jeremiah in the coming days. She knew it would haunt her.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
None of this was, though. They shouldn't be here. What was supposed to happen had not been relevant from the moment she opened her eyes.
She let his hand fall from hers. It made a muffled thump as it hit the ground with nothing to keep it upright. The motion was unnatural, churned her stomach far worse than the blood, and she was looking at his face again and she remembered the way he laughed the day they'd met when she came up with his name and
She clapped, once.
Yes.
I'm here.
Nia’s trembling and sobs had calmed, then stopped. There was a quiet thud in front of them, and Alexander didn’t want to imagine what it had been.
She clapped; once. The first sign that she remembered he was there. Alexander removed his hand, rested it on the cane Jeremiah had given him the previous day. (Also the cane Jeremiah had taunted him with, but he preferred not to think Ill of the dead.)
“I’m sorry,” he said again, uselessly. “I’m ready to leave when you are,” he said, as gently as he could. He had never been one for warm displays of emotion even in the best of times.
She clapped; once. The first sign that she remembered he was there. Alexander removed his hand, rested it on the cane Jeremiah had given him the previous day. (Also the cane Jeremiah had taunted him with, but he preferred not to think Ill of the dead.)
“I’m sorry,” he said again, uselessly. “I’m ready to leave when you are,” he said, as gently as he could. He had never been one for warm displays of emotion even in the best of times.
She
Nia rose.
Her legs wavered as she did. Psychological exhaustion affected the body physically, adrenaline drained, tremors left her limbs weak, that was fine. Temporary. A quick inventory of herself found no injuries, not that she expected any, but the pain—she wasn't sure. Had to check. Psychological pain affected the body physically, squeezing pain in her chest, rocks in her stomach, that was temporary too. There was blood, yes, naturally, a good deal of it on her hands, forearms and lower legs in particular. A potential social problem; inevitably there would be some who would shoot first and not bother with questions upon seeing someone so bloodied. Considering her lack of injuries she shouldn't need to worry particularly about it as a disease vector. As far as she knew Jerem
Bloodborne illness shouldn't be a factor. Even so, it would be best to find a river or lake. Her potable water was too valuable to waste, but the ongoing social stigma could not be underestimated. Her natural difficulties with communication, such as they were, did not need added complications.
A study once showed that, depending on the source of a particular person's blindness, many blind people could still process facial expressions, though they couldn't visually see them or explain how they were recognizing them. The human brain is built to instinctively recognize such things, though depending on the cause and location of the damage that caused blindness it may or may not be possible. Alexander's expression was blank, still. Weary, perhaps. Nia wondered, when she looked at him, if some part of him was looking back.
She took his hand. Her fingers were... sticky. She tried not to touch him more than strictly necessary, but she traced four letters onto his hand, slowly, each leaving blood on his palm.
"S-T-A-Y"
Their bags were still in the warehouse. Five bags.
She had gone through her personal bag the night before. Her sketchpads were gone. Her notes, her pens. She had simmered with anger, for a while, at the time, a shadow of emotion that felt like nothing in the face of everything that had happened since. Her other personal belongings were sparse. A can of Red Bull, some trail mix, a spare t-shirt. She fit those items into her primary bag with little trouble, decreasing her burden at least a bit. Alexander had his own bags, having consolidated his things back on the beach. Jer
There were two others to contend with, now. She opened the first, the one labeled B073. It contained the expected, identical contents to her own, more food, water, another first aid kit. All potentially very valuable, and valuable also to scavengers who certainly didn't deserve its contents. She left the map, the compass, the useless survival guide. The rest was shuffled into her own bag and Alexander's as she made an attempt to evenly distribute the weight. She had considered stealing more of Alexander's supplies on the beach, before realizing that if she planned to ally with him she'd end up having to share when he ran low regardless; for the same reason she didn't bother hoarding the extra supplies for herself.
She did not look at the final bag, but her hand curled around the handles, regardless. Her burden increased. She would carry it.
She dragged all their belongings, taking two trips, into the main room, leaving behind the pilfered B073 bag and her own personal bag. Three bags to carry, between them. The blankets in the warehouse were threadbare, minimal, but stacked together they were something, at least. She didn't want to look again she felt like her heart was going to burst his face was already burned into her memory—
She covered him. She could do that much, at least.
She wrote a note.
And that was all.
The five stages of grief were highly debated as an actual phenomenon but were still considered often helpful in helping individuals process grief. A more recent version of the model added two stages. In that variation the first stage was shock, and it was strange to her, processing grief herself, that shock had not always been the first. Denial, at any rate, was useless to her. She could not deny what her own eyes had seen. She had watched. She had watched his last breath leave his lungs. There was no denial. Memories tainted in blood. She couldn't deny any of it.
Anger was next. Was she angry? She wasn't sure. Angry was hotter than she felt. But she thought, again, about putting a clip into Nick Ogilvie's back and the corner of her mouth twitched upward and that, perhaps, was an answer.
That was fine.
She could be angry.
She deserved to be angry.
She brought Alexander his bag, and placed something into his free hand, weighty, meaningful. Jer
Jeremiah would have disapproved.
It didn't matter, because he was dead.
When Nia walked out the door, she took note of the clouds. Convenient. Rain would wash off the blood more quickly than anything else. She didn't take Alexander's arm, this time, trusting him to follow her considering his cane. Once they left the village, she might not have a choice, but she would prefer not to bloody him if not absolutely necessary. She didn't have much in the way of a plan, at this moment in time. Not much of a direction, either. Such things didn't seem like they mattered much. She had had a plan and it had led to this. Perhaps the right move at this moment in time was to improvise. Perhaps they could walk until they couldn't anymore.
All that mattered was living. They would live. She would live.
She'd tucked her gun in her waistband. It felt comfortable there, somehow.
She would live. She would live, and she would find him, and she would clear that path with everything she had.
>> However long it took.
Nia rose.
Her legs wavered as she did. Psychological exhaustion affected the body physically, adrenaline drained, tremors left her limbs weak, that was fine. Temporary. A quick inventory of herself found no injuries, not that she expected any, but the pain—she wasn't sure. Had to check. Psychological pain affected the body physically, squeezing pain in her chest, rocks in her stomach, that was temporary too. There was blood, yes, naturally, a good deal of it on her hands, forearms and lower legs in particular. A potential social problem; inevitably there would be some who would shoot first and not bother with questions upon seeing someone so bloodied. Considering her lack of injuries she shouldn't need to worry particularly about it as a disease vector. As far as she knew Jerem
Bloodborne illness shouldn't be a factor. Even so, it would be best to find a river or lake. Her potable water was too valuable to waste, but the ongoing social stigma could not be underestimated. Her natural difficulties with communication, such as they were, did not need added complications.
A study once showed that, depending on the source of a particular person's blindness, many blind people could still process facial expressions, though they couldn't visually see them or explain how they were recognizing them. The human brain is built to instinctively recognize such things, though depending on the cause and location of the damage that caused blindness it may or may not be possible. Alexander's expression was blank, still. Weary, perhaps. Nia wondered, when she looked at him, if some part of him was looking back.
She took his hand. Her fingers were... sticky. She tried not to touch him more than strictly necessary, but she traced four letters onto his hand, slowly, each leaving blood on his palm.
"S-T-A-Y"
Their bags were still in the warehouse. Five bags.
She had gone through her personal bag the night before. Her sketchpads were gone. Her notes, her pens. She had simmered with anger, for a while, at the time, a shadow of emotion that felt like nothing in the face of everything that had happened since. Her other personal belongings were sparse. A can of Red Bull, some trail mix, a spare t-shirt. She fit those items into her primary bag with little trouble, decreasing her burden at least a bit. Alexander had his own bags, having consolidated his things back on the beach. Jer
There were two others to contend with, now. She opened the first, the one labeled B073. It contained the expected, identical contents to her own, more food, water, another first aid kit. All potentially very valuable, and valuable also to scavengers who certainly didn't deserve its contents. She left the map, the compass, the useless survival guide. The rest was shuffled into her own bag and Alexander's as she made an attempt to evenly distribute the weight. She had considered stealing more of Alexander's supplies on the beach, before realizing that if she planned to ally with him she'd end up having to share when he ran low regardless; for the same reason she didn't bother hoarding the extra supplies for herself.
She did not look at the final bag, but her hand curled around the handles, regardless. Her burden increased. She would carry it.
She dragged all their belongings, taking two trips, into the main room, leaving behind the pilfered B073 bag and her own personal bag. Three bags to carry, between them. The blankets in the warehouse were threadbare, minimal, but stacked together they were something, at least. She didn't want to look again she felt like her heart was going to burst his face was already burned into her memory—
She covered him. She could do that much, at least.
She wrote a note.
And that was all.
The five stages of grief were highly debated as an actual phenomenon but were still considered often helpful in helping individuals process grief. A more recent version of the model added two stages. In that variation the first stage was shock, and it was strange to her, processing grief herself, that shock had not always been the first. Denial, at any rate, was useless to her. She could not deny what her own eyes had seen. She had watched. She had watched his last breath leave his lungs. There was no denial. Memories tainted in blood. She couldn't deny any of it.
Anger was next. Was she angry? She wasn't sure. Angry was hotter than she felt. But she thought, again, about putting a clip into Nick Ogilvie's back and the corner of her mouth twitched upward and that, perhaps, was an answer.
That was fine.
She could be angry.
She deserved to be angry.
She brought Alexander his bag, and placed something into his free hand, weighty, meaningful. Jer
Jeremiah would have disapproved.
It didn't matter, because he was dead.
When Nia walked out the door, she took note of the clouds. Convenient. Rain would wash off the blood more quickly than anything else. She didn't take Alexander's arm, this time, trusting him to follow her considering his cane. Once they left the village, she might not have a choice, but she would prefer not to bloody him if not absolutely necessary. She didn't have much in the way of a plan, at this moment in time. Not much of a direction, either. Such things didn't seem like they mattered much. She had had a plan and it had led to this. Perhaps the right move at this moment in time was to improvise. Perhaps they could walk until they couldn't anymore.
All that mattered was living. They would live. She would live.
She'd tucked her gun in her waistband. It felt comfortable there, somehow.
She would live. She would live, and she would find him, and she would clear that path with everything she had.
>> However long it took.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Jeremiah's blood was on Alexander's hand, now.
Literally.
He didn't blame Nia, but he wished she could have warned him, somehow.
It was on his cane now, too. His brain hadn't been fast enough to prevent him from instinctively resting his hand on it.
He tried not to think too hard about the last remnants of a life that were smeared across his palm. He was tempted to try and wipe the blood off on his pants, but a man had to have standards. His fingers twitched.
It would be even worse when it dried; when every minute motion of his hand would forcibly remind him of the strange, sticky coating.
He stood numbly for a bit.
((Nia left. He followed. He could only hope there was a source of water nearby.))
Literally.
He didn't blame Nia, but he wished she could have warned him, somehow.
It was on his cane now, too. His brain hadn't been fast enough to prevent him from instinctively resting his hand on it.
He tried not to think too hard about the last remnants of a life that were smeared across his palm. He was tempted to try and wipe the blood off on his pants, but a man had to have standards. His fingers twitched.
It would be even worse when it dried; when every minute motion of his hand would forcibly remind him of the strange, sticky coating.
He stood numbly for a bit.
((Nia left. He followed. He could only hope there was a source of water nearby.))