Darkness swallowed the last light offered by the choking gears of the old generators and replaced their quiet hum with a distant ringing of their absence. Honey wasn't sure if it was her mind filling in the blanks of an absolute silence or if the buzzing existed somewhere within the deep, dark empty.

"What happens now?" Honey asked.

"We wait."

"Until the next, uh , 'trial?"

The Trapper nodded.

"Alone?"

"The others are out there," he said in a manner of tone which wished they weren't, "in the fog."

Honey looked to the furthest reaches of his property, squinting into the fog as if she might catch a glimpse of someone there. She almost thought she could make out a Shape.

"Daniel Robitaille, who is he?"

"Huh?" Honey asked.

"I heard you," he said, "you were saying his name over and over."

"Ah," Honey said with slight embarrassment. She was thirty years old trying to conjure ghosts from a rusty cleaver - not something she was too proud to admit having done even if no one was there to witness it. Still, she had to believe it wasn't so out of the ordinary here and maybe even quite possible.

"I told you about my great grandfather, the ghost murderer, that's him, I thought maybe he'd," she offered an exasperated sigh as she threw her arms out, "I don't know, maybe show up and give some grandfatherly murder advice?"

"So you could ignore that too?" There was a gravely chuckle stifled by the mask.

Honey heard it and laughed along, "Yeah, I guess so."

"Hmph."

"Did you know him?"

"Why would I know him?"

"I don't know. Weird spider realm that collects murderers, figured you guys might have crossed paths."

"Not all murderers know each other. Or want to know each-other." His tone had shifted drastically in that subtle serial killer kind of way. He wasn't quite as stand-offish, amused even by her in some small way. Maybe it was the reward of a well worked trial that had lifted some of the tension. Whatever the excuse, Honey felt comfortable for once out of this entire evening's debacle.

"Well I like knowing you," Honey said.

"You're not a murderer."

"You got me there," she said, "still..." she watched her feet, making their small little imprints alongside his much larger ones, "You're rough, but you've been pretty nice in a not-murdering-me kind of way. I think I kinda dodged a bullet meeting you."

"That right?" He craned his head just a bit to glance down at her.

"Can I ask a weird not-every-murderer-knows-each-other question?"

"Hmph."

"Do you all wear masks?"

"Most of us."

"Can I ask another one?"

No response.

"Is it weird if I don't?"

The two had meandered through the Estate and back up to the porch steps where it all began.

The Trapper paused and looked down at her.

The intensity of his stare caused Honey to hold her breath, unaware she even had. She waited with her heart thumping in her ears as he took in every inch of her under no duress of time or trial. He pinched the Sherpa of her collar between his thumb and first finger, rolling the fabric under the pads of his calloused fingers. He tugged it gently as if to get a gauge of just how big she was under the oversized coat.

She was a small thing, thin and weedy for a killer, someone who probably did most of her work sitting at a computer and most of her working out on a yoga mat. She'd never be able to lift a body, let alone reach a hook to hang them on.

Several more bees crawled out from the fabric of her coat and up over his knuckles. He pulled his hand away, bringing them close to his mask to inspect before that pointed stare fell back on Honey.

"No," he said, and was honest.

He shifted his weight to the side, inviting Honey into his home. Crooked and dilapidated, but somehow still welcoming with the warmth of a well loved home. Mud had been tracked in so much over the years, if there were such a thing in this place, that the floor had a permanent gritty feel. Peeling walls and bowed floorboards, the couch looked thirty years beyond death with tufts of fluff peeking out of pillow tears and stains which needed no questioning. A few side tables and broken frames, some still with photographs behind cracked glass made this place look almost lived in.

Honey crossed over the threshold as the Trapper closed them off from the Entity's realm, locking the three very different deadbolts on the door.

He unhooked the remaining traps from his belt and set them by the door with a soft 'clink.'

"But you can't call yourself Honey," he said.

"Oh, right," she said, "an alias, like how you use the Trapper."

He gave a single nod as he moved about Honey and settled into the ratty old couch.

"Mhm."

It was odd to see such a silent and brutal killer relaxing. There weren't many stories or movies that existed to show the more human sides behind those masks, only ever existing in shadows and bloodshed. Somehow that old couch stole away the illusion and left her with just - a guy.

He peeled off the mask and set it beside him on the arm of the couch.

Honey felt her cheeks redden, as if he had stripped all his clothing off and sat before her stark naked. She awkwardly looked up and bounced on the balls of her feet.

The Trapper chuckled again.

"How will I know, uh, when these trials start anyway?"

"You just do."

"Will I be with you for them?"

"Some," he said.

"So you're like my Batman."

"I'm not calling you, Robin."

Honey grinned, her eyes slowly adjusting to the presence of an unmasked killer. Drifting down from the ceiling she took him in. He was bald with scarred skin and brown eyes, a deep and old wound slashed right over his nose and lips. Somehow, even with all the vicious markings of his past, he seemed so much more approachable without that horrifying mask.

"You're not calling me Batman either," he added before she had a chance to open her mouth.