19. Sympathy - Pt. II

[ Meeting 94 - MacMillan Estate. ]

Pain. That was all he could seem to comprehend anymore. He felt it so fiercely and so often now that it blocked out everything else. And all the while, every punishment, he could see his father glaring at him. Disappointed - no, enraged. Letting them go is weakness.

"You're not my father," he wanted to tell the figure staring at him, but nothing came out. The Entity had a way of manipulation that rivaled that of his real father. Perhaps that was why he'd served it blindly for so long. Because his father still had a hold on him.

But he was tired. The Trapper was tired. And furthermore… he was… conflicted. He never in his life thought he'd feel such a way - not until he'd seen that damned string. The string connecting himself to… to that girl. Meg. The one he couldn't seem to stop staring at, the one who had red hair that reminded him of tiger lilies his mother used to plant near the estate, the one who was so wild and free and full of life, even in this joke of a realm.

Somehow, thinking of her eased the pain - if only a little.

However, seeming to sense the killer's contentment, the Entity's claws rose up from the ground to pierce him with more sharp objects - his chest, his limbs, his stomach, even his head were all targets. A low growl of agony left the massive man and blood, thick and dark, dripped from his wounds. Time passed. He wasn't sure how long he'd been rigged up, only sure that his limbs were numb and consciousness faded in and out like a horrible fever dream. And his father never left; staring at him. Mocking him. Cruelly instructing him. Hunt them down. Sacrifice them all. That is the ONLY way to be strong, Evan! Put the worms out of their misery!

Sometimes Archie MacMillan's urgings worked; and sometimes the Trapper was simply too tired to act on them.

A gasp caused the killer's eyes to flutter open. Through blurry vision he could see… her. The Little Rabbit. And that red string connecting them as it always had. She looked absolutely mortified. But he could do nothing other than grunt softly, watching her through heavy eyes, fighting the blackness at the corners of his vision.

If he had enough energy to be surprised, he would have been - the girl, despite her slim stature and small frame, began yanking things out of his body with deceptive strength and used footholds to free him from the large panel. The Trapper fell, his body limp, limbs too numb to move or flex. He fell right on top of her; he could feel the warmth of her little body, her heavy breathing, the heaving of her chest - and it reminded him of an encounter they'd had some time ago. It was a heated, raw, passionate encounter; but it was also cruel. He'd been much more vicious and monstrous back then. Still, he couldn't seem to shake the image of her naked and trembling underneath him, so when she pressed her hands against his chest in an effort to get out from beneath him, it took the hulking killer a few moments to respond.

Finally he mustered the strength to lift himself just enough so the red-head could wriggle out from beneath him - then he collapsed. "The Entity did this," he vaguely heard her murmur. He expected her to turn tail and run. She'd gone above and beyond what he'd ever expected or deserved already. Most survivors would have pointed and laughed. Taken glee or pleasure in his suffering. And he wouldn't have blamed them for it. He deserved the punishment he got - yet here Meg was, suddenly grabbing his arm and tugging and yanking desperately. "Get - up!" she growled, straining to lift him.

Something awakened inside the Trapper. She was helping him. She was helping him. The realization played like a mantra in his head as he summoned a small bit of energy he didn't know he had to get to his feet and limply follow Meg into the factory. She set him down on the stairs - and he fully expected to see her go. But still she remained, beginning to search for something. What, he had no clue. Logically he had to suspect she was looking for a med-kit, but it still shook him to the core when she returned with one in her hands and immediately began rummaging through it and organizing the supplies. The Trapper was suddenly struck with an odd feeling in his chest, one he couldn't seem to identify, but it made every muscle in his body tense - either with fear or anticipation.

Then she looked up at him. When their eyes met, that feeling intensified. When Meg reached for his mask, the killer flinched away.

Undeterred, the girl began wrapping up his arms, one by one. "The Entity did this to you," she said quietly as she worked. "Why? Was it - was it because you…"

The Trapper looked away, unable to bear the concern knitting her brows. He didn't feel worthy of it - or the bandages she was wrapping around his arm. "... Let… you go?" he finished tiredly.

She paused. "Yeah."

He looked back at her. In the many encounters they'd had, he'd been cruel. Mean-spirited. Even vile. Meg was a free spirit with a smart mouth and a tendency to put herself at risk to help her friends. She was kind. She was vibrant. And here she was… putting herself at risk to help him. He'd at one point convinced himself he only spared her because he was growing tired of the Entity's endless games. That it was nothing more than his own personal act of rebellion. But looking at her now, with gauze in her hands and a confused expression on her face, he knew that wasn't the truth. But what could he say? How could he tell her?

"... Yes," he rumbled.

Meg seemed dissatisfied with his answer but either too preoccupied or too nervous to question him. She continued with what she was doing - but when her hands went to his overalls to undo them, the killer flinched and grabbed her wrists tightly in warning. If it wasn't for the trembling of her little hands and the fluttering of her eyelashes, the Trapper would have believed the burning anger in the red-head's eyes. Though her voice wavered slightly, she growled, "I need to look at your wounds, you dumb turtle. So are you going to let me, or are you going to be stubborn?"

He cracked a hint of a smile, relieved she couldn't see it beneath his mask. There was that nickname again. Though she normally said with such poison in her voice that he knew it was nothing but an insult, he couldn't help but think that maybe the tone in her voice now was… just a little softer. Or perhaps he was imagining it. Wishful thinking. "Dumb turtle…" he murmured.

He could see the fire in her eyes, unwavering and unrelenting despite the shaking of her hands in his own. "Yes, dumb turtle; you're going to let me wrap up your wounds, and you're going to answer my questions… Evan."

The name caught him off-guard and his body tensed - fearful or thrilled, he wasn't sure. His eyes narrowed on her. He hadn't heard that name in such a long time that hearing it roll off her tongue elicited that strange, foreign emotion in his chest once more. Why had he written it on that paper? Why had he even given her that sketch? He was a killer; he had a role to play. Obedience was necessary. Plus, he felt nothing for her. He shouldn't feel anything for her.

Right…?

Finally he let her hands go, allowing her to do as she pleased. If she was brave enough to argue with him, then she earned the right to have her way. The killer glanced away as she undid his overalls, baring his chest to her, feeling uncomfortable with being so exposed. Only her muttered curse brought his attention back to her and he stared down at the girl as she fumbled for something on the floor. His brows furrowed. Perhaps she was nervous, considering he was a brutal killer who had sacrificed her to the Entity on more than one occasion. That had to be it. That was the logical answer.

As she straightened up, he saw that what she'd been searching for was a needle. "There's a, uhm, a really bad gash on your chest so I-I have to, uhm -" she began, but he cut her off with a grumble.

"It's… okay."

Meg stared long and hard at him, looking like she might hurl at any moment. He shifted uncomfortably, looking away again. He knew that the Entity had warped his body, mutated him into the hideous beast he'd always been on the inside, and the expression on her face was only cementing that fact. "Get it together, Meg," he heard her mumble.

Then she set her hands on his chest and the absolute heat that flared in every part of his body was something he'd never felt - either in this realm, or back on earth. It was new, it was uncomfortable, it was… thrilling.

That foreign pang in his chest came back full-force and it took every ounce of willpower not to grab her hands once more and shove her away. They shouldn't touch one another - not in this way. Not with care, or kindness. It wasn't right. It seemed like the stitching took an eternity, considering how on edge and uncomfortable the Trapper felt - but finally she finished, and as soon as her fingers left his skin, he felt like he could breathe again. Meg, on the other hand, looked pleased. "I do a pretty damn good job if I do say so myself," she exclaimed.

Once he was able to catch his breath, he took a brief glance down at the work she'd done before looking back up at her face. The red string that connected them began glowing brightly, as if pulsing with life; something it'd never done before. But still the killer could only seem to stare at her face. He wasn't sure how to express what he was feeling, or even if he should - he could only manage two words, spoken in a low rumble. "Thank you."

When her eyes abruptly lifted to meet his own, surprise flitting across her features, that feeling hit him straight in the chest. Before he could seem to act on it, however, she surprised him yet again with a demand, although more hesitantly made this time: "I'm going to need to look at your face."

"It'll… be fine," he grunted, an odd sort of panic clenching his lungs.

"No, it won't," Meg insisted, stunning him with a pair of curious hands that reached for his mask. That seemed to finally spur his body into action and his hands went up to catch her wrists just as quickly and roughly as before. Stop, stop, stop, circled his brain on repeat as he held those offending little hands at bay - until he heard a pained whimper escape her lips and fire struck his hands, singeing them painfully. The Trapper let go and stared at them for a moment, wondering where the flames were. It felt like he'd been burned - was that really some form of punishment from the Entity… or merely his own guilt? Why did the thought of hurting her make him feel so… conflicted?

Meg's voice broke him from his troubled thoughts, loud and demanding. "What was that? "What is going ON here? What history do I not know about? Why do you look at me like that?"

The killer's eyes finally lifted from his hands, which lowered into his lap, and his gaze met her face. He said nothing, simply stared, unsure what to say. Or whether to say anything at all. He was confused about all this himself - and on the note of their… history… for some reason, he couldn't bear to tell her. The knowledge of what had gone on between them… the things he'd done… it made the guilt worse. So much worse.

"UGH!" Meg threw her hands up, exasperated. He didn't blame her. "Say something, you big dumb turtle!"

In an effort to appease her and also to distract from her question, he finally said, "You don't… see it." The Trapper's disservice had cost him his voice, his humanity, and so it was difficult to string words together - but he tried. For her. "The… red… string."

Meg's brows furrowed. "Red string…?"

"It… connects us," he replied, frowning. She really couldn't see it? Why did the Entity choose for him to see their connection, but not her? "Always has."

He could see the curiosity written all over her face. He couldn't help but feel an odd sense of relief that she seemed to have forgotten about her previous questions to focus on this new revelation. "Where is it now…?"

He hesitated - but eventually instinct won. He lifted a hand, extending it toward her; he could see her stiffen up, maybe in fear, maybe in anticipation - but he pressed a finger to where the string extended from her chest, then followed it to his own. Meg seemed thoroughly confused by it all. "Is it… is it like that for all survivors and killers? Like.. Dwight and the Wraith? O-Or Nea and the Nurse…?"

The Trapper shook his head. "Don't know."

"Helpful." She sighed. "Listen; I'm still going to need to look at the gash on your face." He tensed up once more, fighting the urge to turn and leave - which was strange, considering he'd been taught to never run away. His father had always told him to face problems head-on and to crush them. If he were to listen to his father's mutterings, he would be grabbing the girl and teaching her a lesson - making her regret ever boldly stepping foot here.

"Please… Evan."

The name brought his attention sharply back to her and he wasn't sure whether it was exhaustion or guilt that made him relent, but he didn't bother to stop her when she lifted the mask from his face.

And promptly dropped it.

Her reaction caused him to scowl, averting his gaze. His father had told him on more than one occasion how ugly he was, how much he looked like his mother, and the thought that Meg felt the same way made his lips purse into a thin line. The hulking killer utterly avoided looking at her as she fumbled with the needle once more to stitch up the gash on his temple. He could feel the way her body trembled against him, the heaving of her chest and the shakiness of her breathing; and he wondered, briefly, if maybe her reaction to seeing his face… wasn't disgust after all.

Ludicrous.

She missed a stitch and pain arced through his skin down his face and through his neck and shoulders, earning embarrassed apologies from her when he growled. Meg exhibited the same nervous energy from before, when she had stitched up the wound on his chest. "I still have the sketch you gave me," she suddenly blurted, as if the silence was painful.

Why did everyone always feel the need to talk about everything?

His gaze shifted up and sideways to look at her and he could see redness to her pale, freckled cheeks. She was embarrassed. Before he could even consider making some sort of response, she began rambling. "I-I've been thinking a lot about it all, and it feels like there's some… I don't know, history. We've been in the Fog for a long time and - I don't know if this affects killers, too, but - we survivors can't really remember specific details from inside the trials. Maybe it's a way to keep us terrorized, to keep the pain and the agony fresh and new for each match, but… is it the same for killers, too? Do you forget what you've done when you leave the trial? Or… are there… things that have happened that I can't seem to… remember?"

That odd sort of panic settled in his chest once more and he couldn't help but heave a tired sigh, realizing she wasn't going to let it go. He didn't care to talk, period, but he really didn't want to talk about this. Meg, unfortunately, was more perceptive than he ever bothered to give her credit for, and finishing up her stitch, she drew back so she could look him in the eye, impatience written all over her face. "What happened? What do you know?"

The Trapper refused to answer - refused to even look at her. He couldn't. Because there was no way he could ever tell her what all had transpired between them. Even though he was a killer, a monster, for the first time a survivor had briefly looked at him like he wasn't one, and he didn't like the thought of cold anger returning to those blue-gray eyes. But it seemed his silence was almost as telling as a full confession because she stood up, backed away from him, and squinted suspiciously. The red-head turned away, as if giving on the conversation and preparing to leave. Perhaps she didn't even know why she was here. He certainly didn't. But for some reason, words came unbidden to his lips: "your hair."

The girl froze. Glancing back over her shoulder at him, she frowned. "... What?"

Words were difficult, especially a long string of them. Which was why he preferred to just remain silent these days. Let the Entity take away his voice. He didn't need it. Except he couldn't help but explain himself to her… or try. His voice was low, gravelly, pausing with struggle. "Your hair… was the first… thing I… noticed."

Her brows furrowed in confusion. "What about it? I know it's matted and dirty, but -"

"No," he instinctively interrupted. He'd spoken more here, with her, than it seemed like he had in eons. Time had no meaning here in the Fog - the Trapper had no idea how long he'd gone without his voice. But he was using it now, despite the effort it took to do so. "It is… beautiful."

Like the tiger lillies his mother used to plant next to the house. Bright, vibrant, hopeful.

Meg's eyes widened - then narrowed almost evilly. "Are you serious?" she said. Despite being double her size and probably triple her weight, the massive killer seemed to shrink under her stare. He'd stepped out of line - he'd confused the roles - he'd messed everything up. This was stupid. This wasn't right.

Stick to your role, know your place. Kill them. That's your job. Make them pay. Put them out of their misery.

Then she began berating him, her voice growing louder and louder - and his first instinct was to shut her up. To squeeze the life out of her until he couldn't hear her anymore. But as he forced himself to listen, he began to piece together the meaning behind her ranting, and that strange, light feeling in his chest returned. "This is crazy!" the red-head growled. "Do you hear yourself?! Do you realize how impossible it is for us to - to - to get along?! We're on opposite sides of the playing field, and not only did you draw me, but I kept it, and - here I am, sewing up your wounds?! And you're saying - you're saying my hair is beautiful, I didn't even know you knew the meaning of such a nice word, but you're saying it, and looking at me with something other than a killer's eyes, and -"

"Little Rabbit," he interrupted, and she stopped her tirade entirely, just staring at him while attempting to catch her breath. Something half-quirked his lips, stretching the scar that ran across his face. He couldn't tell whether it was amusement or annoyance, or both. "You… talk too much."

Meg huffed irritably and began marching away without so much as a glance back. The Trapper watched her go, confliction returning. That conversation shouldn't have happened, and she shouldn't have touched him. She shouldn't have helped him. For a reason he couldn't quite place, the killer felt like this encounter between them… it changed everything. It had brought something to life - and he couldn't help but think that maybe, maybe Meg was the ticket to change.

As he watched her run, fade into the trees, there was something in his milky eyes that resembled determination. An absurd thought occurred to him: if she could be brave enough to step out of her role and tend to his wounds… perhaps he could be brave enough to do the same.

Perhaps he could be a protector, instead of a murderer.