Evan went quiet, mulling over his thoughts. Eventually his gaze floated back up, resting on the medic who was… staring at him. Her expression was innocent, curious, like a child listening to a story. Evan though was a very selective storyteller.
She asked about the mine. Her curiosity was genuinely surprising. He couldn’t help but wonder if she even recognized it- the collapsed mine that the Entity occasionally turned into a Basement. He always hated the fact that the Entity snatched up the mine too. Not only did it serve as a bleak reminder, but now other Killers would be forced to hunt there, spilling blood over an already well-soaked graveyard.
Evan was silent, considering if he should elaborate or not. So she lived in the city? He couldn’t lie, he quite missed the city. Theatres, opera houses, the art shows he’d sneak into… it had been so long.
“Profitable. The most successful mine in all of Seattle,” he found himself boasting, “My dad ran it well. The competition didn’t stand a chance.” Evan’s posture straightened as he found himself arrested with pride. “Sure, being inside the mine wasn’t great, but it made us fucking rich. He was the best damn businessman in the state. Country too, I bet.” Apparently the best way to get him to talk was to get him to brag. He seemed to be looking past the Survivor, gazing into the past with the rosiest tinted glasses possible.
The thin grass just turned and turned, and she started fiddling with the thicker ends, knotting them over and over. He was taking his time, and she could understand that. It didn't all have to come back so soon. After all, she had trouble remembering her own home life. And it wasn't because she had forgotten. It was because she missed it.
"Seattle..." She rolled the name around in her head a moment before perking up, a pleased smile on her face. "That's in the United States, right? M-M...Mass-ah-chew-sets?" she sounded out, pursing her lips before trying again. "Mass-achoo-sets. Massachusetts!" Her head tilted up, beaming up at him with her own little pride. "Being inside small spaces freaks me out. I don't know how you stood it." Though, she wasn't entirely sure how much of him was paying attention to her, eyeing his wrist before redoubling her efforts. With her fingers and her words. "But that's your dad. What about you? You mentioned some stuff about business last time, and you're smart." Claudette may have been speaking to him, but she was staring off into her own handiwork. "Did you work for him, or...?"
Being wealthy seemed to be a thing he focused on. Maybe he was was from one of those families that had money in the blood? Hers seemed to love nature, what with her father being a park ranger, and her mom a scientific conservationist. The stories she would hear about how some trees were older than her very country, how some forms in the cave they found were sculpted into the very stone- it was probably what helped nurtured her love of life, and all that it entailed. Sure, hers was actually dealing with what plants did, rather than where they were or their safety, but that was off track. He seemed to have loved his father, that's for sure.
Post by Evan MacMillan on Nov 6, 2019 21:28:41 GMT
His gaze flicked back to the Survivor when she spoke up again. Evan raised a brow, staring at her in confusion. What was she on about? “...no,” he corrected, “Washington. Wrong coast.” Perhaps he had been silly to assume she was from the U.S. Where could she be from, then? His first guess was Canada.
“Eh, you can get used to anything,” he shrugged. Her words caught him off guard. She said he was smart? It was something he liked to believe- given how much his job required observation and prediction- but it was just strange, hearing a Survivor say it. It was kind of humorous. He was, to a degree, having his hunting skills complimented by his prey. How ironic.
“Yeah,” he grumbled, “he showed me the ropes and all that. I was to inherit the place from him after he died.” It was a peculiar thought. At the time, his dad seemed both vulnerable and immortal. Evan knew he was human, knew how easily his life could be ended, but his presence was overwhelming.
“Mostly managed the workers,” he stated flatly, “Eventually took his place when he got sick.” Damn, why was he so talkative? Perhaps he just liked to reminisce. He just had to watch himself, not get too nostalgic, not get too comfortable.
The second he correct her, she felt the lightbulb in her heart crack. He kept speaking for a few more moments, voice lowering as he returned to the topic of his father. It was going to be a popular topic in that chapter of his life, she figured. After all, the Trapper seemed like a man that had grown up in a home of power and strength. Having a sharp wit was part of that, however, she had the vaguest feeling there was a... shortness to his words. Was there a bitter memory hidden behind that fondness? But, the longer she tried to keep her apologies in, the more she could feel the wave of something truly idiotic spilling out from her mouth.
With a sharp inhale, she clapped her fingers over her mouth, staring up at him with embarrassment and the slightest bit of hysterical shame. She knew that Geography had been hard, but come on! She went to college early for crying out loud! And now, she just went and said a curse like it was no big deal! Well, it- it really wasn't, the man cursed all the time, but it was the principle of the matter! Oh jeez, right after he had just told her about his life-
She stared up at him for a moment before her hands slipped away, groaning while she rubbed at her temples. "Washington. You're right. My bad, my bad-" Claudette held a hand out to him, as if asking for his own as she focused her gaze at her lap, blush dominating her skin. "I'm really sorry. Please, continue! I like hearing about you and... and what your life was like. I don't get to hear many people's stories, you know." she mumbled, the one hand she wasn't offering now tightened into a fist of anxiety. "A-And you're a really interesting person to me." The last part was whispered, her bowed head lifting slightly to gauge his reaction to her little slip-up. God, she hoped she hadn't offended him.
Evan paused, raising an eyebrow at Claudette’s sudden reaction. After a moment he rolled his eyes, chuckling at her reaction. She seemed to be embarrassed by her error.
“It’s not a big deal. Now if you were from the U.S, then maybe I’d make fun of you,” he chortled, the masked grin present in his voice.
He studied her hand skeptically as she held it out. Was there something she wanted? A handshake? It was perplexing.
“What?” he was genuinely surprised, she liked hearing about his life? He was visibly taken aback. She was a Survivor, why should she care about him? After all, they were technically enemies, weren’t they? Yet… she wanted to help him… and she wanted to talk to him, listen to him. How bizarre.
He scoffed at being called interesting. Interesting was certainly one way to put it. He wasn’t sure how he ended up being this fascinating to her, but perhaps she was bored. He couldn’t blame her- what else was she supposed to do, sit around the Campfire all day?
He glanced at her hand, and was about to take it- thinking that she was asking for a handshake- and froze. Evan instead rested his arms on his knees and looked away. Her question had hit a sore spot for sure.
“Don’t know,” he stated flatly, “nobody knew. None of the fucking doctors knew anything. A few of them said he’d go ‘catatonic’ or some shit. I don’t care what fancy fucking word they had for it, I just wanted them to fucking fix him. But no, they did jack shit.”
Evan was angry now, tensing as he ground his teeth. He was still upset, upset that no matter how much money he spent, nobody could do anything. It was all a waste of time, effort, and cash.
Well. Damn. He was laughing. Better than being angry, or deciding that her visit had gone on for too long! And his laughter lifted her spirits, the concern of her mistake evaporating with the imagined idea of him angry. A slight confusion at her interest, but that was alright. She knew the killers and survivors both didn't really like to think of one another in any way that was positive. And Claudette had that dangerous type of feeling within her- Empathy. She felt things strongly, and felt what others felt strongly. Even moreso in this hell, where the Entity deemed it something of hers to use for survival, rather than luxury.
Her hand, so tiny compared to his, was held out for a few more moments before she realized that he had stiffened. Oh. Wait. Her question. "I-I didn't mean to-" But he was already speaking, a low roughness and something snapping for the chance to bite edging his words. And as he spat out what happened, what his father went through, what he went through, she felt something familiar, something both warm yet hollow in filling her chest. Her hand drew in slightly, unsure and worried. Claudette bit her lip, glancing at the rings of green below before inching closer, crawling on her knees before sitting before him again. Fingers tipped over the edge of his legs and rested on one of his forearms as she kept her gaze below. "I'm sorry." She spared a single lingering look his way, a sympathy filled gaze that shone with her own feelings. She knew what it felt like to lose somebody you loved.
Post by Evan MacMillan on Nov 10, 2019 3:10:02 GMT
Why he shared this, Evan did not know. Maybe he wanted to get it off his chest. Whatever it was, he tended to do and say stupid things when he was pissed, and this was no exception. The knowledge that his efforts were in vain, only sharpening the Estate’s rapid decline, would forever weigh on his shoulders. He didn’t think something as silly and meaningless as talking would fix anything, but here he was anyway.
Evan was too wrapped up in his thoughts, not noticing her slow approach. Thus, the sudden sensation of her hand on his arm came as a surprise. He tensed, drawing in a panicked breath as his gaze snapped to her, staring her down. A pause, then… he relaxed, somewhat. After all, he could never let his guard down.
Her eyes practically dripped with emotion. But why? It wasn’t her dad who had gone crazy and died in a basement. Though, there was a possibility that she shared a similar grief- that of separation. Still, he couldn’t wrap his mind around it, why she would care to this degree. He knew her as one of the more altruistic Survivors, but… was she just naturally that sympathetic?
Evan stared, trying to piece together his thoughts, then looked away. “Eh, there’s a lot of shit I deserve,” he grumbled, propping his head on his hand. Maybe it was some sort of ironic justice, that his crimes would steal from him the one person he loved. He also didn’t know how to feel about this… sympathy. A part of him was vehemently against accepting it.
“...thanks anyway,” he mumbled, averting his gaze.
Claudette wasn't a very strong survivor. This was a well-known fact amongst those at the campfire, and those that prowled it. She just wasn't very strong. Sure, she could pull roots and crush hard tubers and seeds better than anyone, but that was a mix of skill and practice. Compared to all the others, she was just... weak.
Except for one area.
Claudette was also known as the one that had the softest hands. Most everyone got to hold them at some point, whether from pain or comfort. Even throughout her work and her toils in the earth, she would always have the softest hands. Her hugs were crushing in the good way, and her voice soothed pains that medicines and relievers couldn't. It was just a part of her, and that was her strength. Physicality meant nothing to the one that could always come back. No matter how she worked out, the technique would always be the only thing that stayed. And right now...
A fierceness in her eyes, directed at him and only him conveyed her utter belief in her words. She may not have been strong, but she was passionate, and caring, and loved too hard and she would be damned before the man before her believed for even a second that he deserved that loss, that grief. "That means you too, you know." She leaned backwards a little, feeling around for her little creation before straightening up again. "Here-"
At this point, she knew to be more slow with her movements, more visible. He was jumpy, she had learned. And so, with a very specific look his way, she began threading the reedy grasses she had plucked from the ground around his wrist, adjusting as she went. "And it's never a problem to be kind." she said firmly. "Sometimes, it's all I can be. Being a healer doesn't mean I can perform miracles. You'd be surprised that some people think I do." Her shoulders slumped slightly at the last of her words, and she eyed the wristlet with discrimination. A small 'aha!' and she plucked up her satchel, digging around the pockets for... something. "And-" A tiny primrose, most likely snuck from an offering of hers, was weaved into the grass, a single blotch of color against the natural greens. "-you of all people ought to know then, that grief is one of the most debilitating things to feel. Physically, mentally- it affects everything."
Once done with her little foray into his personal space, she rocked back into a sitting position once more, giving her knees some rest from the strain of keeping her up. She flashed the smile that she was known for, one side quirked a little more than the other while the front of her teeth just barely peaked out from her lips. "What do you think?"
Post by Evan MacMillan on Nov 11, 2019 21:47:25 GMT
She responded in a heartbeat- almost instinctively. This gave Evan pause, raising a brow and peering at the oddly determined Survivor. He’d almost be put off by her defiant tone, if he wasn’t so surprised. He had only seen this fierceness in Trials- what had gotten into her?
Evan stared at her, silent, watching as she searched the grass for something. It was so perplexing, that she cared this much about his damn feelings. It was ridiculous. He remained still as she approached, intently watching her movements. She reached for his arm, and while he didn’t flinch, he still tensed- squinting at her and eyeing her with suspicion.
And, much to his surprise, she started… tying grass around his wrist? It was so odd that Evan found himself just staring, trying to process what she was doing. It’s never a problem to be kind… Evan responded with a scoff, immediately skeptical. He knew all too well that being overly caring and trusting would get you into a lot of shit. Real bad shit.
The medic though was clearly unburdened by such cynicism. And, in a couple deft movements, she had constructed for him what appeared to be a quaint bracelet. Then, she added a little flower.
Evan remained still a moment, inspecting the bracelet. Slowly, he raised his arm, afraid he would somehow break the little thing. It had been constructed with small, delicate hands, woven with equally delicate materials. Evan was anything but soft or delicate. Even when he drew, he tended to snap the sticks of charcoal if he wasn’t careful.
It was ridiculous. Certainly silly in contrast to the shards of metal and the old blood that stained his arm. Yet, despite his assertion that it was an overly cutesy and unnecessary thing, he found himself transfixed. He slowly raised his other hand, gently running a finger over the tiny flower. Flowers were a very rare thing- at least for him. It was odd, just touching something so delicate and soft.
After a moment, he realized he hadn’t been paying attention, and his gaze flicked back to Claudette. Was she right, that his grief really affected everything? Evan didn’t want to believe it, that he could be so weak, and quickly shook away those thoughts.
“...you are very strange,” he concluded, before slowly looking back at the bracelet, “...and... talented.” He went back to gently poking at the thing, admiring it whilst simultaneously worrying about breaking it.
“I don’t understand you, uh…” he found himself automatically searching for a name he didn’t know, and thus quickly diverged, “...but I can appreciate your passion.” Even if he thought her actions were too sweet and too trusting, he couldn’t deny her very apparent determination.
Flashbacks of her childhood raced through her mind. Of befriending kids with sweat-peas and dandelions. Of children that had oohed and aahed at her talent of making the schoolyard flowers grow. Of making them gasp at her expertise with the pill-bugs that would roam the dirt underneath their Sketchers and church-shoes alongside the caterpillars. The same ones that would later push her into the snow and mud, and would thrash her plants and petals. The peers that would laugh, stomping her little friends into the pavement as they held her down.
They had called her strange, too.
But none had called her talented.
With a smile, she lifted herself from the dirt, brushing away any grass and dust at her knees as she stood in front of him. "Well. Sometimes you don't need to understand the people near you to like them. Or, better yet, to know them. I've had a lot of people in my life judge things before they even hit the surface of what they're looking at." She cocked her head, looking over him for a moment with a certain satisfaction. "I don't think we've properly met before, have we?" she said. A step back. The satchel went back over her head, resting by her side in short order.
"My name is Claudette Morel. I'm from Canada, Montreal to be exact, and I really like plants and nature. When I came here, I was nineteen, and I didn't have many friends." She stuck out one hand, the other holding the strap of her bag. "I've had your blood on my hands, and you've had mine, and I think that makes us at least acquaintances. And I think I've known you for almost as long as I've been here." Claudette's eye sparkled as she spoke, and finally, with an easy little thrum from something inner, deeper than her heart, she laughed. "It's nice to meet you."
Post by Evan MacMillan on Nov 18, 2019 23:31:56 GMT
Slowly, his eyes pulled away from the little gift, focusing instead on the Survivor as she moved, standing up. For a moment, Evan stared at her, a little surprised by what she said. Though, he supposed she was right. After all, he had never fully understood his father, but he still loved him. Even if his feelings towards him were notoriously unsteady.
Evan squinted at her. He supposed that he had judged her before properly getting to know her. But he had his reasons. After all, given the circumstances, he wouldn’t never assumed that ‘getting to know her’ would’ve been possible. He was still unsure as to if he even wanted to. When he had first arrived his overwhelming hatred and anger, both at himself and the Entity, was funneled toward the Survivors. They were just so damn annoying. And as they tried desperately to crawl away from him once they were downed, he looked on with disgust. Pitiful. Writhing like maggots.
Though at the same time, he had felt guilty. And when the hatred began to subside, the guilt grew. He didn’t want to experience it again- the inescapable guilt that invaded every waking thought. It was much easier to see the Trials as work, and the Survivors as just that- Survivors. Another part of his job. Though now, she wasn’t just ‘a Survivor.’
Claudette Morel, from Canada. The information was now permanently attached to her face. It was the fourth name he had gathered, and she would no longer be another nameless figure in the Fog. It was crazy, the rate at which he kept meeting new people. Both here and in the real world he had been so used to isolation. He had never been the talkative type, and had always been rather bad at making friends. Apparently, Claudette could relate to that.
He was comparing himself to a Survivor. It was simply ridiculous. She held out a hand to him, and for a moment he simply stared. Acquaintances. It was an interesting thing to consider. And it was surely less bizarre than thinking of them as coworkers.
He waited a moment, thinking, before taking her hand. “Evan,” he stated, “Evan MacMillan.” There was a bit of hesitation in giving his name, but he supposed that now there was little point in hiding it. She had shared a few extra tidbits about herself, and for a moment he wondered if he should do the same, before quickly disregarding the idea.
And then, much to his surprise, she laughed, and said it was nice to meet him. Evan had spent what felt like an eternity chasing her and her fellow Survivors down, slicing them up and sticking them on meat hooks. How could it be ‘nice’ to meet him? It was very tricky to wrap his brain around. But the look in her eyes… it looked so genuine.
“...yeah,” he nodded. A return to formalities was, admittedly, nice, even if it was simultaneously jarring.
A thought suddenly came to mind. He looked Claudette up and down, examining her clothing.
“...so Claudette… are you from the 90s? The 1990s?” he made sure to specify. Evan was genuinely curious. Were all the Survivors from the 90s? It would explain their strange apparel. Now was a rare chance to get more information. Recently he realized just how lost he was, so out of touch from his self inflicted isolation. It simply wouldn’t do. Now he was far too… curious.
A sound that didn't exist. Of course, Claudette did exist, and so did her voice, but the tone that warmed it seemed... unfamiliar. To him, maybe. To others, just mysterious. Not even Jake, the silent observer knew much about her motivations of this sound. Of the feeling that created it. Dwight may have felt a little of it, what with his great care for them all. But care does not equal Empathy, as much as the two are intertwined. Claudette knew all about it, and while she wouldn't name it, knew exactly what had just happened.
He made an observation, and from the dip of his mask, she figured that he had taken a closer look at exactly what she was wearing. Just her button-up, the same as last. Though, decidedly less bloody from his now-healed wound. The same jeans, same tennis shoes. Though, her hair was a little longer this time around. The Entity liked to tease her, in that. Maintenance was a tricky thing in the Realm.
"I am! It was almost the twenty-first century." She took a moment to mull over dates and times long gone. "It was... 1997. I was a month away from turning twenty, I think." Had it really been that close? Saying nineteen would make some feel a bit stifled, knowing how 'young' she was. But she knew better. The time spent here, while incurring no aging, still left its mark. Her age did not remain the same as it had been, all those Trials ago. But, she hadn't kept count, and wouldn't start. "What time are you from?"
Post by Evan MacMillan on Nov 23, 2019 0:47:36 GMT
Evan looked at Claudette in surprise. ‘Lovely’ was most certainly not the word he’d expect someone to use to describe his name. He wasn’t exactly sure how to respond. Should he thank her? Evan shifted, and remained quiet.
Twenty first century though had him nearly spit. Sure he already knew he was over a hundred years behind, but hearing it like that made his head spin. From the 19th to (almost) the 21st century… it was absolutely ludicrous. Back in the real world, he thought he lived in a time of innovation. Who knew what awaited in 1997, and the years after that. The 2000s… it was crazy, that they were so close yet so far. Time was meaningless here- but still, it was astounding.
Evan was stirred from his thoughts when she spoke up again, asking him the question Meg had posed not long ago. He shifted slightly, sighing as he wracked his brain.
“I was nabbed sometime around 1893, I think. The years are fuzzy,” he admitted, slightly ashamed of his poor memory. Just thinking about it made him feel old.
“Yeah, I know. Fucking ancient,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes as he rested his head on his hand, “hopefully things outside of here are a little less shitty by now.” Maybe by now doctors were actually competent. Or not- Evan still wouldn’t trust them either way.
Ancient. His words, not hers. The giggles that filled the air were purely accidental, and Claudette tried to convey that through gasps and paused, jilted words. "Y-You're not even old!" He was at most in his late thirties. If she was to truly poke fun, maybe early forties. And that was barely mid-life! Well, then again, maybe the expectations were different back then? The possibility of learning more of a time that never was her own intrigued her, but that could wait for another time. Evan was looking a bit more comfortable with her being there, and she didn't want to push it.
She kept standing, taking a moment to stretch out her back. After hunching over to snip his sutures, and sitting for so long to talk, she knew that it was time to give her bones a little movement. So what if she was perpetually young? No one liked the feeling of stiff joints. "A lot of people would say yes! But, then again, I didn't live in the U.S, did I?" Was it comfortable for him? Sure, he was holding his face, but did the mask get in the way any? Claudette let out a pleased hum at the cracks that resounded from her lower back. It was always there that her tension focused. "You know, I've been asking you a lot of questions, Evan." She tilted her head, an inquisitive sparkle behind the glass.
It wasn't exactly her thing, to give out information. It just... didn't feel right. The only opportunities she got were usually after patching someone up, or after bumping into them in the Fog. And no one went into the Fog looking for a chat. Well, unless you were her or Quentin. But not everyone was her, were they? But Evan was a unique case. A predator. She, the prey. And yet, here they were, talking as if the only barrier between them was the air they breathed. Not the touch of a deity she didn't understand, or a dark power that corrupted the mind with bloodlust. Just... air and time. He deserved a little of hers, that was for sure. "Do you have any questions about me? For me?"
Post by Evan MacMillan on Nov 30, 2019 23:11:41 GMT
Evan remained quiet, save for the small huff that escaped his nose. At her surprise about his age he merely shrugged. His lack of aging had added to his now abandoned belief that this place really was Hell. It was ironic, that only in a place so miserable and dreary was one able to achieve something so coveted as immortality. It was certainly something he, for a long time, severely wished he didn’t have. Though he since had become more used to this place, jaded to its horrors. And now, after so long, things were… changing. The Entity and its Realms were the same, but it was Evan who felt different. He wasn’t sure how to feel about it.
Evan huffed, moving his hand to rub at the back of his neck. His gaze flicked back to Claudette when she addressed him. It was so bizarre, just how… optimistic she looked.
Questions? Evan sighed, sitting up and thinking. He supposed he was curious and confused about a lot. But what would he ask? Asking anything was a bit of a challenge, as he was still getting used to being so… casual around Survivors.
“Alright, well…” he began, mulling over his thoughts, "Have you spoken to any other Killers, Claudette?" It would certainly explain her kindness and her confidence.