Summary: Your foolproof plan to hide from intruders suddenly isn't so foolproof.
Warnings: N/A.
Prompt: A is for ATTIC.
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Your mother used to say that you don't have a mean bone in your body. Given the things you've done to survive the rise of the undead, you don't know if that's still true - but you certainly don't hurt the living whenever you can help it. You were always a gentle soul, and though the carnage has left you with chinks in your armour, you refuse to succumb to the ugliness around you. It's cost you supplies before; it's cost you weapons and ammo and sleeping bags; but it hasn't cost you your soul.
Not yet at least.
When you hear voices on the ground floor of your house, your first instinct is to hide, not fight. Your place has already been ransacked several times over - not to mention you've used most of what was here in the first place - but it won't stop them from looking. You know this even without waiting to see what they look like, or how many of them there are.
You creep up the steps to the attic, using the unfolding commotion on the ground floor as cover to pull the ladder back into place and seal the trapdoor shut. You've done this several times over and nobody has thought to check it once. They likely won't even notice the cord either, in their haste to scavenge useful goods.
The attic is decently furnished in your opinion. It used to be full of nothing but junk– old boxes full of ancient photographs and toys from your childhood– but after the world ended, you'd used most of it as kindling after the power had gone out. It left you with a cavernous space to fill, and fill it you did. Blankets; cushions; fairy lights; old mementos that remind you of all the people you've loved and lost; all the books you'd never had the chance to read before the turn; what little is left of your rations. It isn't much in terms of grand furniture and fancy lighting, but it's cosy and comfortable and free of the dead. That's all you can ask for in times like these.
You shuffle as you hear heavy boots ascending the steps to the upper level of the house. It's inappropriate, but it makes you miss your dad. He'd always been more lumber than man, but he'd been gentle and sweet. He was the very definition of a benefactor. He'd died protecting you.
"There's a cord."
You freeze up, a knot forming in your stomach as you listen to two men discuss the attic in vague murmurs. Whoever is leading them doesn't sound convinced that there's anything worthwhile to be found up here. You beg and pray to any deity that is listening that that will be enough, but to your horror you hear a muffled, "I got it."
You're panicking now, beads of sweat forming on your brow as you hear the harsh sound of the trapdoor opening. There's nowhere for you to go; the attic window leads only to the roof, and there's no way for you to descend it without falling from a great, likely deathly, height. You paw around blindly for your knife, clutching its handle in your trembling fingers as whoever is down there gradually begins ascending.
A head pops into view, facing the opposite way, as you curl yourself into the corner with your knife at the ready. Deep down, you know that you'll be unable to use it. You've killed plenty of the undead in your time scavenging, but you've never been able to bury your blade in one of the living. What use would it have anyway? You're small and you're alone. You feel no shame in capitulating if it means ensuring your survival - and that is perhaps your greatest strength. Sometimes, you don't know why you try so hard to stay alive. It's likely to do with the ones you've left behind. You can't bear to disappoint them by giving up.
When the man turns around, locking eyes with you with evident surprise, the air feels thick enough to slice through.
Then, he smiles. "Well hello there."
Wordlessly, you watch as the man climbs up the rest of the way into the attic, standing up. He's broad, built like a damn tank, and you feel tiny under his gaze as he scrutinises you from the shadows. His gaze drops to your knife, your tremors plain to see, and for just a moment it looks as if he pities you.
"There's no need for that," he informs you, hands coming to rest on his belt as he looks around the room. The arched ceiling is barely taller than he is, and he lets out a high-pitched whistle as he takes in your set-up. "Quite the cosy place, huh? I'm hurt that you didn't invite me in personally. Could've had ourselves a little tea party."
You don't miss the bite in his tone, but you're too busy swallowing your heart as he enters the room properly to rebuke it. He comes to stand in the arc of light provided by the window, and you question whether the move was intentional. The look he gives you is a dangerous mix between amused and condescending, one corner of his mouth disappearing beneath his moustache as he looks you over.
His gaze then drifts to a few bottles of water lodged neatly in one corner.
"Can you spare some?" he asks, though it's in a tone that suggests it's far from a request. Terrified, you acquiesce, standing up on your knees enough to reach over and retrieve one. After a moment of consideration, you pick up two and offer them both to him, hoping it will dissuade him from hurting you.
He arches an eyebrow, clearly surprised by your willingness to comply. "Huh." The bottles are looked at with evident scepticism before he crouches in front of you, putting them down beside him. "What are you doing hiding away up here? Don't you know you're supposed to answer the door when somebody knocks?" When you don't reply, his wide smile dims, brown eyes glinting with malice. "You want to speak when you're spoken to. Just a word of advice."
You gaze at him helplessly, like a deer in the headlights, before swallowing hard. "... I'm sorry," you say softly, hoping it will placate him. "Please don't hurt me."
The man scoffs, as if you've said something genuinely amusing. "Hurt ya? Nawww! Not if you do what I say." He leans a little closer to you then, squatting on the balls of his feet as he leers at you. His disposition is strange; a frightful blend of polite and ultraviolent. There's something about his wide smile that feels distinctly homicidal. "We'll start simple. Can you tell me your name, sweetheart?"
"It's [Y/N]," you say quietly, finding it hard to look him in the eye. You know that a lot of people deem you 'pathetic'. That much was clear even before the world went to hell. People took your kindness for granted. It's worsened now that there's no way to enforce the law, and everybody's had to dirty their hands in some regard in order to survive, but you won't yield. To stoop to that same level of depravity would only make the world a worse place, and you don't have the heart to do that. Not when things are already this bad.
"I'm Simon," he greets, gesturing to himself with an ornamental flick of his wrist before he reaches out and takes your hand, giving it a firm shake. He's barely touched you, but the strength he displays in a single hand is still enough to leave you breathless. Let's not piss this guy off. He'll probably be able to body me with a single slap.
You talk some more– or rather, he does most of the talking, and you squeeze out a word or two as and when it's appropriate. Though you're still very afraid of him and his imposing figure, you'd be lying if you said you didn't temporarily forget about your discomfort. There's something soothing about him when things are going his way– almost as if he's genuinely happy to be talking to somebody so easy to deal with.
You dread to think what'll become of you if you experience a sudden shift in attitude.
"Well," he announces after draining half of one of the bottles of water you'd handed to him. He's sweating up a storm, and the stuffy air of the attic isn't helping much. You yourself feel damp and sticky. "Unfortunately, I'm gonna have to empty this here room of all your stuff. Boss' orders. I got goods to round up 'n' people to facilitate, y'know?" He watches you keenly, almost as if he wants you to kick up a fuss, but you don't grant him the pleasure. The idea of having your things stolen makes something inside of you twist with rage, but what can you do? Even if you did have the guts to kill this man, you can hear at least another ten sets of feet still roaming around your house. There's no way you're getting past all of them unscathed. "... but! Since you've been so good, I'll take you back with us."
You open your mouth, then close it again, bewildered.
"We have a community," he explains, eyes alight with some sort of sadistic glee. He just can't help himself. He hasn't met a person so pliant in such a long time. He won't deny his innate desire to sink his fingers into you, to mould and shape you like clay until he finds what makes you tick. Nobody's this nice anymore, girlie. You're hiding something from me - and I'm good at uncovering people's secrets. "You'll be taken care of if you work hard. Doesn't that sound great?"
"Food…?" you ask hopefully.
Simon nods his head. "Mhmm. Lots of food, if you earn it."
You know better than to trust a stranger's word in these terrible times, but your options are seriously limited and you feel inclined to believe what he's saying– at least about the community. Simon may not evoke a feeling of trust in you, but if he really wanted you to die, he'd have done it himself already. It's funny how "not killing you" used to be an expectation for everyone you met. Now it's a courtesy; an act of mercy that few seem capable of affording.
Slowly, to show him you mean no harm, you reach out and pick up the blanket that you'd originally been hiding in. It's old and scratchy, something handmade by your mother, and its sentimentality outweighs its tattered edges. You look at Simon pleadingly.
"Can I at least keep this one?"
He gives you a surprisingly sympathetic look, his head tilted to one side as if he's really considering it. He reminds you of a dog, one with floppy ears and a bushy tail– and a sharp row of teeth.
"Mmm…" he murmurs through clenched teeth, the corners of his lips tugged downwards in the form of an exaggerated frown. "See, normally I'd have to say no –"
" Please," you interrupt, not giving him the chance to finish. Your hand meets his arm, your touch warm and imploring, and he looks down at your hand as if he can't quite decide whether he's offended or mesmerised. It's certainly a bold move on your part, something he'll admit he didn't anticipate. "It's from my mom. It's all I have left of her. You– you can take everything else."
"Woah, woah, woah," he says reproachfully, waving his hands. " Nuh-uh. I don't like the implication that you're letting me do something. You're not letting me do anything." His eyes are stern, and you shrink under the intensity of his gaze, the ratty material clutched close to your chest. After staring at one another in silence for a few seconds, Simon grins again, bright and broad. "... but eh. What the hell." One large hand claps your shoulder forcefully as he stands up again. It's meant as a gesture of good faith, but the weight of his palm lingers long after he takes it away, his bulk threatening. "Keep it! Consider it a gift for being such a great listener. Now up you get. We've got a long car ride ahead of us."
You move to stand up and follow him, though his hand on your head stops you. Your big [E/C] eyes find his, a renewed sense of dread befalling you as he regards you with a wicked smirk.
"Oh. One more thing, [Y/N]," he drawls, brown eyes glued to your face. "I'll take your knife." When you hesitate, he tilts his head and utters a firm: "Now."
Slowly, you reach out a hand to pick up the weapon, holding it loosely in your hand before offering it up to him atop your open palm. You don't realise what you've done in that moment; don't realise how wholly you've submitted to him; don't realise that you've aced his first test. To have a means of hurting him at your disposal and not abusing it…? That proves that he can trust you to follow orders and put the Saviours first– at least, to some shallow degree, if he dangles your mortality over his head.
"Good," he praises, sliding it into his belt. It looks at home beside his gun. "Now you can get up. Help me bring all this stuff down, too."
This is the start of something. You're not sure quite what, but you know your life's about to change. In a world that's now so static without careers and families to distract you, maybe that isn't such a terrible thing.
