1. Coal Sketches

[ Encounter 92; MacMillan Estate. ]

She felt nothing but the wind in her ears and the cold, misty air in her lungs as she ran, as far and as fast as her legs would take her. For Meg Thomas, running was more than just a way to expel her excess energy; running was everything. A way of life.

Running was the one thing that had saved her life in this desolate place; and she was forever grateful that even though she'd resided in the Fog for who knows how long, enduring the endless torture of the Entity's sick games, that she could still run.

Her mind had wanted so much that she hadn't realized how far away from the campfire her legs had taken her until the shadow of a large decrepit building loomed over her, whispering danger and death. Meg felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, bristling with fear; at the same time, she was curious. She'd never been here outside of one of the Entity's trials, and she wondered just how different it might be when not part of the games. The one thing she had to watch out for; the Trapper.

Thinking about him brought a thrill of fear down the red-head's spine and she went into crouch mode, sharp blue-gray eyes keeping a close watch for him. The moment you spot him, you leave, she instructed herself firmly. Curiosity often got Meg into trouble and she had no idea what would happen if he caught her outside the game, and that was one thing she didn't want to find out.

Sneaking closer to the large factory in the middle of the open area, Meg kept her eyes peeled and, seeing no one, went inside. She never had the time to meander the place considering every time she went through it, she was being chased by some maniacal beast eager for her blood, and never before did she truly notice how… off everything was. Like everything in this realm was a mere shadow of reality, a giant illusion of normalcy created by the Entity. As she passed by a set of stairs leading below-ground, she stopped and stared down into the darkness, a shiver of fear rolling through her. There was no torture, no absolute terror like the basement. While she recognized the killers and the places this realm held, she could never fully remember what happened in a trial after it ended - another aspect where the Entity exerted its control, she supposed - but she knew that the basement meant the cruelest of deaths.

Instead, she decided to go up. The winding stairs were creaky and Meg felt like she might fall any moment - and there was a moment where they creaked and she paused in her step, terror icing over her heart - but she made it up to the top floor and ambled along the walkways, examining everything. Seeing a door that led into an office-type area, Meg slowly and carefully creaked it open and halted in the doorway, staring at the medium-sized room in utter surprise.

Papers lined the walls; papers filled with drawings.

Finally getting her feet to move and stepping inside, she drew in closer to study them more closely. All of them were done with charcoal, and the sketches depicted everything from scenery, to weapons, to abstract scribblings. She even noticed the portraits of a few fellow survivors, but their faces were warped with fear or grief. One stood out from the rest, and as she approached it, the red-head realized why, a gasp catching in her throat.

She was the portrait. It was Meg's face, sketched to near perfection, her eyes sparkling with mischief, her lips quirked into a half-grin. Lithe fingers delicately brushed over the cracked, dried paper, her blue-gray eyes wandering the dark lines, the smooth shading.

Meg's gaze was ripped away from the paper by movement outside the window in front of her. Peering through the dirty glass, she spotted no one other than the Trapper himself out on the grounds, looking remarkably small from this vantage and sitting on a large crate with his mask in his hands. His back was to her so she couldn't see his face, but his shoulders were hunched and she could tell without seeing his expression… he was tired.

Meg had never once stopped to think that the killers might feel the same way the survivors did. After all; hadn't they - at least some of them - been human, too?

Her eyes moved back to the sketch. Had he done these? They didn't seem to fit in with the interior decorating, so someone must have put them there - was an absolute monster like the Trapper really able to create something so… beautiful?

When Meg looked out the window again, her eyes widened and her heart iced over. He was gone. Turning away from the window and the drawing of herself, the red-head frantically tried to control her breathing and searched for a place to hide. There was no way that even she could get out of here fast enough to be unnoticed; her only option was to hide and wait him out. She heard the heavy thudding footsteps of the beast as he entered the building, and her breath caught when she heard him clambering up the stairs.

Throwing herself behind a ruined cabinet and putting a hand over her mouth to stifle her panicked breaths, she waited. Eventually the killer entered the office-like room; she strained to get a look at his face, but that white, grinning mask was firmly in place. His body seemed to fill the whole room as, silently, he approached the sketch of Meg and large, rough fingers brushed uncharacteristically tenderly over her cheek, before lowering. He stared a while longer until -

Shift shift.

Meg had instinctively moved a little bit to get a better look at what the hell he was doing, but that was her undoing. Slowly, terrifyingly slowly, the Trapper turned to look over at where she was hiding. The moment he began moving, Meg clawed her way out from behind the cabinet in an effort to escape. A scream ripped from her throat as he grabbed her and without thinking she began kicking, hitting every part of him she could reach. He only stood there, a large hand latched onto her upper arm, waiting until she wore herself out.

It wasn't too long. Meg caught her breath, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes as she tilted her head back to look up at him; silent except for her heavy panting and his low, bear-like breathing. His jaw worked behind his mask, as if he was attempting to speak, and her eyes widened. "Why… are you here?" he finally asked, voice deep and gravelly and rusty from disuse. It was shocking to Meg how exhausted he sounded; how different his voice was in comparison to how he'd sounded in the beginning of all this. The more she stared at him, the more the red-head realized that he seemed just as worn down from these trials as she was. They were among the first to come here, after all.

It took Meg a long moment to figure out a response; so long, in fact, that he'd let her go and stepped back, but was still blocking the path to the door. As she looked up at him, she remembered once again what a beast of a man he was; he had to have been almost seven feet tall, over three hundred pounds of pure muscle. Even exhausted and defeated, he was still a force of nature. A terrifying monster. "Stay back, you dumb turtle," she finally said, her voice wavering.

His head tilted slightly. Curiously. "Dumb turtle…" he rumbled, almost as if amused. "Answer… my question… Little Rabbit."

Little Rabbit. The nickname struck a chord within her; though for the life of her, Meg couldn't seem to remember exactly when it had been said. This was one of those incredibly rare occasions where she wished the Entity would preserve their memories of the trials so that she could remember exactly what history she seemed to have with this man. "I-I was jogging," she finally replied, furrowing her brows and shooting him a glare. "Not that I have to tell you anything."

He simply continued to stare. Her heart was still hammering in her chest, fear gripping her, but she was able to drag her eyes away from the massive man and for whatever reason, they settled on the sketch he did - the one of her. Before she could stop herself, she asked, "did you draw that?"

He followed her gaze, turning his head to glance over at the portrait. "Yes," he replied, voice low, barely above a raspy whisper.

"It's… beautiful."

Trapper tilted his head once more, turning back to her. Since he was so close she could see hints of his eyes from behind that terrible, smiling mask; they were very pale, almost milky white in color, but behind them was an intensity that was utterly terrifying. Her breath caught in her throat but her feet remained firmly planted, unwilling to move. Her voice came out shaky: "w-why me?"

His broad shoulders tensed slightly, but his voice was honest. "I… don't know."

"You don't look like you're going to hurt me."

"No."

Meg's eyes squinted slightly. She wasn't sure why she'd attempted to run yet; something, she didn't know what, but something kept her rooted in her spot. Still, she had to admit she was utterly confused. She hadn't really encountered many killers outside of matches that she could recall, but she and the other survivors had just assumed they were bloodthirsty savages all the time. "And why not?" she demanded, tone snotty.

She could see his eyes harden behind the eye holes in the mask and she wondered, briefly struck with dread, if she'd made him angry. "I've been… here… too long," he finally rasped, and Meg was struck by just how deflated he really sounded. Even more so shocked at the fact that she felt exactly the same way. It seemed that whether you were killed or did the killing, enduring the same games over and over again took its toll.

"I heard you killed a hundred men," she suddenly found herself saying. She wasn't sure why - whether it was out of a rare opportunity to actually talk to him, or it was her just trying to lose the brief sympathy she felt for the murderer - but it came up. Like word vomit. "I heard you were a monster even before the Entity sent you here."

For the first time, the Trapper faltered. Eyes narrowed dangerously on her and his hands clenched into fists, unclenching and clenching again like a nervous habit. "... Yes," he finally replied, voice utterly quiet. "I… did."

"If you managed something so vile," Meg spat, "then why don't you put me on a hook right now? Grab your weird looking sword thing and carve me up? Dump my body in the woods? Why would you draw pictures of me?"

Now that she really thought about it, his efforts in the trials had been rather weak lately. Or at least what she remembered - which wasn't much. It was like he'd simply… given up.

In a way, she had too.

His jaw worked behind his mask again. As if chewing on his words a moment before responding. "We are… connected… Little Rabbit." There was an odd hint of pain in his voice as he said the name; but Meg was more focused on the bullshit that had come out of his mouth. Connected? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Sure, they'd come into this hell-hole at the same time… but did that have to mean anything? She hadn't thought so… but maybe…

Shaking herself out of it, Meg fixed the killer with a belligerent stare. "Connected. Right. Well, if you're going to be all weird and just stare at me like a dumb turtle… then I'm going to go." She said that, but her feet remained rooted all the same.

The Trapper considered her for just a brief moment before turning away, going over to the wall, hands lifting to carefully pull her sketch from it. Meg's eyes shifted to the door; now would've been a perfect time to make her escape… so why wasn't she moving?

The brute of a man brought the paper over to her, offering it silently. Meg's eyes widened and a different feeling filled her chest; odd… but different. "You want me to keep it?"

He didn't answer as she numbly took the charcoal picture, holding it in shaking hands. The Trapper went over to the door, opening it. As Meg's feet finally began to move, slowly taking her over to the door, she stopped in front of him. "What's your name?" she blurted. "It can't possibly just be 'the Trapper'..."

He took the paper from her, and Meg found herself surprisingly reluctant to let it go. Still, she watched as he took it over to a ratty desk in the corner, rummaging around in a half-broken drawer and pulling out a small, black stick. He used the charcoal to scribble something on the dried-up paper, before bringing it back to her. When she took the drawing, their fingers brushed, and Meg felt absolute electricity race up her arm - the feeling was so shocking that she couldn't help the gasp the left her lips. "W-What the hell was that?" she asked, utterly confused, afraid, and exhilarated.

"Connected," he replied.

Meg gave him a sour look, turning away and beginning to trudge out the office door and down the steps. As she went, she constantly glanced back over her shoulder, but he never followed; simply stood just inside the room, watching her silently. Of all the time she'd spent here in the Fog, that encounter might have been the weirdest she'd ever had. Maybe there was something more to the monster. Maybe there was some semblance of humanity under that mask after all.

Immediately she banished the thought and clutched the drawing a little tighter, quickening her pace into a jog as she hurried to leave. That was ridiculous. He'd been killing her and her friends for god knows how long; there was nothing left there. He was a killer.

She glanced down at the sketch he'd given her; in the corner he'd scribbled his name.

Evan.