Hey guys, it's me, Jesspikapal, but you probably already knew that~!

Anyhow, I got good feedback from my previous chapter to The Wonders of Human Contact, so I decided to update again – my next update will probably be some time in a couple of weeks as I have Science finals (though I will TRY to squeeze an update in between this as it's a long time – y'never know, I may get lucky and find time on my hands or something) and so need to study accordingly. Wish me luck!

Anyhow, please enjoy, and please, review! I'd love to hear your opinions on my work! I'd also love to know how I can improve it – it's quite difficult juggling with personalities as Wilson isn't very expanded on in terms of general gameplay. Also, if you have any suggestions, as in what should happen in future chapters, leave a comment about that too – y'never know, I may work it in here.

~Jess~

X x

"I'm sick of the phrase "find yourself" - you don't find yourself. You make yourself. It's like being a blank canvas – now paint."

X x

He had continued to watch her in a sort of dream state, his eyes trained on her stomach as it moved in and out peacefully. A clear sign she was recovering – her breaths were gentle and level; Science declared she was fine, her respiratory organs functioning properly and accordingly, and so he worried not. He began to make some food in preparation for when she woke up, and for himself.

It was all still so odd in his mind: a girl, barely old enough to be independent by the looks of things, being tossed into this cruel hell-hole. But surely she hadn't crafted a machine – his means of getting in. So... how had she got in? Had Maxwell other means of entry? But even if so, why her? What could a girl of her apparent stature and mindset possibly do to make him think she could deserve such a fate? Though there was a rough look about her, defined and slightly unforgiving, she did not look like a trouble-maker or a wreck of broken promises. So... why?

As he made a plate full of food (mainly consisting of rabbit meat cooked thoroughly and some berries he felt he needed rid of), his head turned to the sound of her rustling. She sat up, and then winced, her white empty eyes narrowing in what could be assumed was pain.

"Don't even try," Wilson spoke up and the girl turned her head towards him, acknowledging him weakly, her body still slumped from sleep as she eventually sank down again to a laying position. "Your body is not rested enough to support your weight yet."

She stiffened at this comment. Just what was he implying?! Too meek to say anything, she simply settled for a bitter silence sent his way in the hopes he'd be able to point her in the right direction to food or perhaps shelter. She knew he certainly wouldn't comply if she opened her mouth and argued and so she kept her lips tightly pressed together, disallowing herself the liberty of speaking. She stared as he slowly offered her a plate (plate being a loose term – more like a square plank of wood) and he cleared his throat expectantly.

"It is not getting any warmer," he said impatiently, his cold eyes staring her down. To say he had seemed so warm and even gentle when they first met, he certainly wasn't giving her the same signals now; he seemed to have "woken up", as if he wasn't accepting her presence. Was he so used to being alone that he didn't like the thought of somebody else being there? Or perhaps, though unlikely, he felt sorry for her, being in the same situation as him and knowing how it felt.

"Right...," she trailed quietly, slowly accepting the plate of food from him, picking up the knife and fork that were laid tidily on the side of it. She mumbled a "thank you..." and slowly began to cut the meat. Wilson raised an eyebrow skeptically, hands on his hips.

"You needn't worry about manners. You must be starving," he commented gruffly and no sooner had he finished his sentence had she thrown the cutlery to one side and began to pick the meat apart messily with her fingers. Nodding knowingly, he then turned on his heels to get some food of his own, though honestly, he was too giddy to eat much. He didn't feel the urge like normal – his stomach wasn't even rumbling lightly, never mind grumbling and groaning as per usual! He settled with some stray seeds and considered making a small bit of land to farm on – the lack of variety was almost as boring as learning the skeletal structure. Almost.

The thoughts of the girl still plagued his mind; he was curious, yet he didn't want to intrude. However, couldn't he spin some tale about her owing him – as in, for saving her? No doubt she was ready to pass out whether or not he had been there. He could play her weakened state to his advantage. He was a gentleman, but he was also human, and humans had a strange fascination with discovering the unknown. His mind whirring a mile a minute, he grinned to himself, knowing his questions would be answered shortly.

By now, the small female had finished her meat completely and a little bit of colour had come back to her face; she was now simply munching berries thoughtfully, her blank eyes staring ahead contemplatively. Now was time. Slowly, he seated himself, cross-legged, and waited for her to look at him.

"Thank you," she smiled slightly, hiccuping drunkly as her stomach gave a satisfied noise. He nodded habitually.

"It was nothing. Now, tell me, what's your name?"

She seemed to pull back, apparently startled by his sudden change in approach. Beforehand, he had been insisting she stay laid down, then encouraged her to sit and eat (though she had to admit, she was feeling stronger now), made it apparent he wasn't one for chit-chat by busying himself with other things and now he was asking her questions on a get-to-know basis. This man was as fickle as they came.

"Why do you need to know?" she asked curiously, tilting her head slightly. He chuckled, obviously amused by her question.

"Curiosity," he responded almost instantly.

"But why?"

He tutted.

"You ask a lot of questions for somebody who was just provided for," he replied solidly, his jet black hair seeming to stand taller as he spoke. She took a moment to ponder his motives and his sudden change in attitude. Supposing he was curious, she still didn't see how she owed him any information; if anything, she thought he would ask for supplies in trade for his hospitality. And he would be thoroughly disappointed just as her empty pockets were. But still, he could demand for all he was worth.

"True. Because I don't see what good it will do you to know what my name is," she retorted, eyeing him closely. His posture seemed quite general, though there was a certain down-to-business element in the way he was looking at her, those same black eyes cool and calculating.

"I like to know what – or who – is around my parts."

"Your parts? You know very well this place belongs to Maxwell."

"In which I am living in, giving me some kind of claim as to what I earn in order to survive day in, day out. My land, my business."

By now, he was growing deadly serious. More serious by the second, actually, his stare incredibly hard and refusing to let go of her. She hated to admit it, but his alluringly deep gaze did little to settle her stomach as she shifted uncomfortably; this man was terribly clever, if not slightly deluded, but what could she expect from a man who had been stuck there for a grand total of ten days? It certainly had to be wearing him, and his patience, thin. She sighed in defeat, swearing she saw the flicker of a crooked smile pass over his face as she did so.

"Whimsy," she snapped. "My name is Whimsy."

"Nice to meet you, Whimsy," he stated, out-stretching his hand towards her and she honestly couldn't tell if he was mocking her or not. The way he was smirking told her so, but his genuine gesture spoke otherwise. "I'm Wilson." Slowly, she took his hand and swallowed back a gasp at how pleasantly warm his hand was. After a firm shake, he let go, retracting his hand to his side once more.

"Wilson," she repeated, testing his name on her tongue. It was surprisingly nice to say. Even staring down at the floor, the shadow for his magnificent hair protruded her vision. "How do you keep your hair like that?" she blurted before she could stop herself. Meanwhile, Wilson sat blankly, looking to his left, then to his right, then back at her.

"...natural talent." he mused, briefly wondering himself. He then stood up, slapping his hands to his legs as he did so, adding a sense of finality to their conversation. Whimsy looked up at him thoughtfully. What was the probability that he'd shoo her on her way? Ten to the dozen, no doubt. "So," he spoke again, breaking her train of thought. She stared still. "Where is your camp? I can escort you back." as he said this, he picked up a limp looking grass suit, and stuffed it into his pocket.

This was when she felt the embarrassment settle in. She didn't actually have a camp – she was so focused on gathering enough food for the next day and beyond that she hadn't planned out even the basics for a safe camp or even somewhere logical to stay. He seemed to read her expression as he stopped collecting things together, his eyebrows shooting up in almost-hysterical question.

"W-Well-"

"You don't have a camp?" he interrupted, shocked. How on earth had she lasted so long?! Oh no, this wouldn't do, wouldn't do at all! Despite his survival instincts, he couldn't have a lady wandering on her own, only to probably die due to poor planning and lack of instinct. It was a while since he had felt compassion for something other than an experiment, and he felt a pang of sympathy as she hung her head in what appeared to be shame.

"No..." she mumbled, finally answering his question, though he didn't really need to be told, based on the solemn expression on her face beforehand.

"Why, that won't do," he said and she looked up at him. Pausing his thought for a moment, he eyed the bandages on her arms – there was no way they were new or even clean any longer. She really couldn't handle herself further than common sense. Survival was all about common sense and beyond. It seemed Whimsy did not have the further knowledge... though at least, on a more positive note, she wasn't completely brainless. At least she'd thought to bandage her wounds and apply appropriate pressure to them. And also, she fed herself well enough. He couldn't stop his mind from drifting to how bad the incidents beneath her bandages were. "Why... why don't you join me then...?"

That had her attention.

Was this gentleman really suggesting she stay with him within a moment's split decision? Had he even thought about it? Psh, who cared?! She could be guaranteed safety and food and shelter and all the rest of it if she was to join Wilson and his bundle of smarts! But... would it be right to do that? Well, of course, she could help him – she was good at combat, or so she thought. Gathering was a joy too – they could probably collect twice as much! Still, her face wavered with uncertainty, as she twirled a strand of hair around her finger apprehensively. Wilson seemed to take pity.

"You don't need to be afraid to say yes, you know. The loneliness was really starting to get to me. It'll be a good thing for me too, probably," he explained somewhat hopefully. At this, she picked her head up, still looking slightly uncertain. Oh, he seemed so genuine... so friendly and so kind... but it seemed he had some kind of personality clash. After all, one moment he was interrogating, the next he was serious and the next, he was pitiful – she really wasn't sure which side to buy when it came to him, and it was already sort of frustrating. She struggled with her pride, then found herself nodding slowly.

"You're sure, Wilson...?" the last thing Whimsy wanted was to look weak, but how could she be strong in the face of such generosity?

"Of course. I never thought I'd say it, but it'd be brilliant to have some company."

And with that, it was mutually settled. She was joining him. She was so happy and relieved, honestly; she felt as if Maxwell had spared her one. Unlikely, given his nature, but it sure felt that way! She grinned and mused over her possible future. Survival, and somebody to communicate with that wasn't herself. Not to mention the whole safety in numbers thing; two wasn't much of a number, but it was still bigger than one.

"So, what should I do?" she broke the euphoria selflessly.

"Nothing for the meantime. I've been studying the time frame of this world for a while – the days last approximately a quarter of the length of a regular day. It'll be getting dark soon, and we'll need a fire. I have enough equipment to make one, so we don't need to stress. For tonight, of course. Then it's back to scavenging," he elaborated clearly, using the word "scavenging" distastefully, his tone taking on a disgusted kind of sound. Seemed he wasn't comfortable with being thought of as a scrounger, even though it was inevitable when living in Maxwell's world of nightmares.

"Okay then. And Wilson?"

"Hm?" he responded after a moment as he began to empty his back-pack and pick out logs, grass and rocks to make a suitable camp-fire.

"Thank you. For everything."

And she'd never meant anything so much in her life.

X x

Done!

I promise, next chapter, something WILL be happening – but I needed to get those two on the same page first. Hopefully it was good to read, and I hope you enjoyed it!

Also, I picked the name Whimsy because: she was made on a complete whim – just a random thought "Whim" being in "Whimsy", and I always picture her as being a rather whimsical girl, which will be shown as the time progresses. Also, the whole "your name starts with W or you die a horrible death" and yada yada yada.

Anyway, review~!

~Jess~