16. The Faithful

[ Meeting 21; Crotus Prenn Asylum. ]

Archie MacMillan's silhouette could be seen outside, using a cleaver to practically rip apart the bloodied body of a bear whose foot had been caught in a trap. Was it going to be used for meat? No. Was the fur going to be used for clothing? No.

The bear was nothing more than a game.

A 15 year-old Evan watched from the window, both interested and repulsed. Hands, already dirtied and calloused from working in the mines and hunting, gripped the windowsill. When would enough be enough? When his father's arm was tired, or when the bear was nothing more than a pile of mushy viscera? Why was the human still standing, and not the bear, who outweighed him by double? Why the human, and not the animal who had vicious teeth and claws with which to maul him?

The answer, his father had said, was strength. Not just strength of body - but strength of mind. Strength of will. The bear lost because he wasn't smart enough to see the gleaming trap waiting for him; wasn't smart enough to disarm the human or plan a sneak attack. The bear simply followed instinct, and it had gotten him killed. For some reason Evan's mind went to his mother; the soft, kind, gentle woman who'd called him her 'little bear.' Even as a child he'd been built sturdier than others his age. Clever woman.

Frail woman.

Worthless wretch.

The Trapper startled himself out of his thoughts, and everything disappeared - the woods, the warm evening sky, the image of his father covered head to toe in animal blood. Any blood.

It was a memory; nothing more than a memory.

Splayed before him was the very estate he'd grown up in - a hollow, haunted replica of it. He roamed these grounds alone in perpetual night, forever doomed to hear the voice of his father and relive every moment that made him into the monster he was. He hadn't been here long and already he was beginning to grow tired of the games. Some moments - he even wished he could leave.

And other moments, his father whispered over his shoulder: kill. Kill. Kill. Show them your strength. Put those worms out of their misery.

A voice dissipated his father's murderous mutterings and the brawny man shifted to see a figure emerging from the foliage that encroached the estate. "Ergh - these damn thorns are ripping my pants all to shreds," the voice complained.

The Trapper scowled beneath his mask at the sight of the Ghostface making funny steps over to him all while picking thorns out of his clothing. "Ow! Ow! Ow! Jeez, these things are two seconds away from obliterating my nutsack." Once he finally seemed content, he patted his black cloak down gingerly and leaned on a tree, fixing the Trapper with a stare. "Never been here outside of a trial," the killer mused. "I'd say it's nice, but to be honest it's a fucking dump."

"What do you want?" the Trapper growled, hands tightening into fists. His cleaver had been left somewhere inside the main building, but he didn't need it to pummel this little quim if needed.

"Can't a guy just look around? I don't have a nice, cozy home all to myself, after all," Ghostface replied quaintly. "I already visited Kenny boy and he wasn't all too pleased to share either. I convinced him to be nice, though."

"And how did you do that?"

"Just let him know the many many merits of being my ally," Ghostface said with a shrug. "Danny Johnson, at your cervix, hehe - or Jed Olsen, if you prefer. Or just good ol' Ghostie."

"Too many names," the Trapper hissed. "Settle on one. It's less forgettable."

Danny stared at him silently for a moment. Finally, he took in a breath, voice seemingly nonchalant. "You seem like a bloodthirsty guy - setting those little traps and all. You ever think of what it's gonna be like when we get out of here? In the Fog, we get to play - to do the stabby stabby thing all we want to. No police, no jail, no resisting arrest, no consequences. For us warmongers - well, this is the best thing we could ask for, right? So the question is… What're you gonna do back on the outside?"

The Trapper's brows furrowed and his jaw clenched in annoyance. For such a little pest, he was bringing up a lot of things he'd rather not think about. "... What makes you think we'll ever get out?"

"Oh come now, Sir MacMillan." The masked killer tilted his head, staring up at the other. "You really think that spidery thing that dragged us here can keep us here? Forever? I thought there was something other than coal in that brain of yours - but maybe I was wrong…" At the Trapper's silence, Danny went on. "Let me put it to ya this way. The Entity may be a deity - a god - or just some magical being - but it's not omnipotent. Eventually… it'll run outta steam. And when it does, my man - we killers? We're royally fucked."

"You make two mistakes," the Trapper growled, advancing on the lithe killer. "One - insulting my intelligence. And two - assuming that every killer in the Fog wants to be here. That all of them enjoy killing as much as you."

Danny didn't back up; he stood his ground, merely tilting his head back to peer up at the much taller killer. "Perhaps," he said, a lilt to his voice. "Maybe some of them don't. The Wraith I can see - what a sad, sad boy. Never liked to get his hands dirty despite his aptitude for the hunt… but you." The sudden change in tone was sinister enough to give the Trapper a brief pause. Not afraid; unsettled.

"That's the reason I'm convinced you'll see my side of things. The bloodhound may not like the blood on his hands. But you, Trapper… you do like it."

The hulking killer tensed up, broad shoulders rigid. The war constantly waging inside his mind resumed in full fury; like all the tales the other miners had told about having an angel on one shoulder, the devil on the other. The horned little creature whispered death in his ear and, unable to let go of the love he'd once felt, the Trapper listened.

The devil was Archie MacMillan.

He finally rumbled; a sound that spoke reluctant agreement. That angel on the other shoulder, all tired and tattered and withered like a flower in winter, hung it's head, murmuring quietly that no, he didn't want to kill. He was tired of it.

So, so tired.

Milky white eyes stared down at the other killer; Danny straightened his posture, a finger rubbing at his mask. The Trapper didn't need to see his face to know he was growing infuriatingly smug. "Yes, that's what I thought. I had a feelin' you'd see things my way! Now - when the time comes and the Entity starts to lose its control, what are we gonna do?"

"Considering I know nothing about the Entity, nor have I ever pondered leaving this place, I hadn't exactly thought of a plan," the Trapper growled, increasingly irritated. "I don't care about the little tricks you have up your sleeve, you annoyance. I hunt. That is what I do. So leave, before I start hunting you."

"No matter your grievances with little ol' me, you've gotta admit that the idea of gettin' outta here, going back to the real world… it doesn't exactly sound peachy." Danny insisted, before tapping the chin of his mask thoughtfully. "Ya know what - leave all the sordid details to me. When the time comes, Trapper boy, can I count on you?"

The Trapper's jaw worked behind his mask, considering his words and wondering if simply agreeing would make the pest leave faster. Finally, he gave a stiff nod, and that seemed enough to satiate the persistent man - for the moment, at least. He disappeared into the woods, humming a jaunty tune,

The Trapper didn't have long to ponder the strange and aggravating encounter before he was gratefully ripped from the haunted, quiet grounds of the MacMillan Estate and thrown into a trial. When his feet hit the ground, his cleaver dropping from the sky beside him, the hulking killer gathered his bearings quickly. Snatching the cleaver from the grass and stooping over a nearby trap, he carefully repositioned it under a pallet; as he worked, the man's milky white eyes hardened in concentration and dirty fingers worked deftly to pry it open and set it. His movements were rhythmic and ritualistic; this was his job. His trade.

This was what he was good at.

For the next several minutes, the beast of a man continued walking the map, which he'd recognized as the old asylum, setting traps in strategic places. By the time he finished, the survivors had gotten a generator finished, but that was alright. Now that he had set up, it wouldn't take long at all for the match to turn in his favor.

And just as he'd thought, the sound of a CLAP followed by a scream reached his ears. With single-minded determination the Trapper pursued the source - reaching his trap set underneath the window of the killer shack, he found the sneaky one with her foot caught and bloodied. The street urchin with boyish hair looked up at him defiantly, her lips pursed. "Well if you're gonna hit me, do it, you coward," she spat.

"Bold words from the fool who stepped into my trap," he growled right back, raising his blade. With a sickening squelch, the cleaver bit deep into the skin of her shoulder, earning an ear-splitting scream as the girl crumpled to the ground.

"Nea!"

The panicked voice was followed by a cut-off gasp and the Trapper turned his gaze to look at the owner of that voice. Standing there with horror on her face was…

Her. The athletic one with the fiery red hair, vibrant blue eyes, and agile little legs. Two things about that girl confused him to no end: one - why he was so interested in her. Why he couldn't seem to look away from her. And two - why there was a faint red string connecting them. Had been from the very beginning.

Apparently he'd stared blankly at the red-head long enough that another one of the pests had come to help the street urchin off the ground, leaving him aggravated and startled… and standing alone with his trap. Carefully resetting it, he tried not to linger on the sudden anger and dismay he felt. Why? This hadn't been the first time he'd hesitated in some way in front of that girl, and it was growing increasingly annoying.

With the other mongrels, he was sure and steady and cruel. He showed the maggots their place. He put them out of their misery. And yet something seemed to stay his hand where that red-head was concerned.

The trial continued, and while the little wretches worked well together, they were hardly any match for him. Ironically, the last one left was the red-head. 'Meg,' her name was. Not that he cared. Of course he didn't. Names were meaningless, hers even more so. Instead he simply gave chase. Absolutely dead-set on seeing this trial through and pushing through the odd fascination he had for her, the Trapper raised his blade as she vaulted over a window and managed to leave a nasty gash along her upper back, earning a scream and a stumble. He continued his chase - but there was no need to, because in moments he heard the CLAP of a trap and her agonized cry right nearby.

When he got to her, the Trapper stopped just short of the red-head as she struggled with the iron so tightly clamped down on her ankle, gnawing into her pale skin and staining it sanguine. He could smell the copper she'd spilled, could hear her whimpering and panting as trembling fingers struggled to fit between the angry teeth of the trap. The monster continued to stare, entranced - entranced by the way her lip trembled, the way those bright blue eyes shifted in panic between him and the trap, the way some red hair stuck to the sweat on her face. "Why are you staring?!" the red-head finally demanded, giving up on escape. As she succumbed to the knowledge that she'd die here, her brows drew in defiantly and she gave him the nastiest glare she could muster. "How stupid are you?!"

"You insult me again and again," he rumbled, half angered and half amused.

"I do?"

His eyes narrowed behind his mask. Did she not remember anything? That would explain a lot. Considering each time he stopped and stared, the girl seemed even more shocked than he was. "Yes… you do," the killer responded, tilting his head and watching her. Her posture screamed rebellion; as if dying was the least of her worries, now. Making sure he didn't get the last word was her goal. "But beneath all of that blustering… you're just a scared Little Rabbit."

"I-I'm not scared of you," Meg growled, keeping her expression surprisingly even… but he could hear the faint tremor in her voice. A grin twisted his scarred lips. "You're nothing but a big dumb turtle. You're so slow it makes snails look like… well, me."

A low snort came from the massive killer. "Even so," he said almost patiently, stepping forward, "no matter how fast you are… you still end up in my grasp."

When he reached for her, all pretenses were thrown out the window. Her defiance melted into sheer panic and, wide-eyed, the red-head flailed and screamed at him, trying her best to slip out of the trap but only managing to chew more into her own ankle. As he grabbed the girl, ripping her from the trap and earning a howl of pain from her, a startling emotion filled his chest, nearly stopping him in his tracks on the way to a hook…

The same feeling that had grasped him when he'd sold out the miners to his father. Knowing they would die horribly for their sins. And yet they had been his friends, hadn't they? What had that feeling been...

Regret.

It was so brief, so fleeting that he shook himself out of it and took her to a hook. With brute strength he shoved her down onto it - as the rusty point pierced her, Meg let out a cry of utter agony and squirmed for a moment in protest before going still.

And as the life drained out of her, the Trapper stared up at her, face expressionless under his mask. He said nothing.

He felt nothing.