A/N: First of all, thank you for the awesome feedback. Second, I've been coming up with ideas in my head all day, and I finally found one to work with. But even if I have a plotline now, it's flexible, and I'm up for suggestions. :) Hm…there's not much to say. Don't expect every update to be this frequent, I just got bitten by the writing bug is all. And sorry for the slowness and telling, not showing; my beginnings tend to be mediocre, but I'll definitely get things rolling soon. And expect the chapters to get longer. Way longer. Apologies if it irritates you that I haven't followed the game storyline exactly; I'm trying to, but this isn't a storyline fic. So, shutting up now, hope you enjoy it.
Impulse.
--
The stars were out that night.
Chelsea cuddled up against Denny on the vast field, his warmth burning pleasantly against her dank skin. The grass beneath them was long and a pristine shade of green, darkened by the velvet enveloping the night sky. The stars were splayed out like sand thrown across a flat surface, clinging to one another and scattered about. Millions of glittering stars, twinkling just for them.
Chelsea reached up and toyed with Denny's bandana. "Hey," she enthused, her voice not croaky or scratchy like it had been for the past week, but with her normal, bright lilt. "Let's run away."
He gave her a confused look, tilted his toasted head. "Where? How?"
"I don't know." She smiled and laid her cheek against his shoulder. "Anywhere. Let's just run away and never come back."
"But what about the island?"
"What about it?"
--
The dream shattered like a thousand glass pieces. Chelsea awoke, not dramatically, with beads of sweat rolling down her face or shooting into a semiconscious sitting position, but just tentatively. Without dwelling on it, she knew it had been a dream. One she couldn't fully understand, in fact.
She was too tired to understand much of anything. She was restless; her limbs were heavy as if her clothes were soaking wet, the bitten red bumps on her skin subsiding slightly to show the burns. She pulled a hand up to the crown of her head, twisted it into her long brown hair, and her face automatically furled in disgust.
If it was some natural girl instinct or just plain hygienic intuition, she didn't know. But there was one thing she was sure of: she hadn't showered or bathed in a week and not even the apocalypse could stop her from doing so now.
She rolled out of bed, feeling disgusting, peeling open the cracked wooden door. A flash of memory from the night before and the dream, definitely connected, slithered through her mind, but she pushed it away for safekeeping. She could think, sort things out later. All she needed now was a bath.
With last night's events swirling behind her like the light breeze in the air, she made a beeline for the stream, where she wished she could just wash the pain away.
--
This morning's catch was bad.
Usually he liked to come up with more elaborate words or explanations for how his catch was, or use metaphors; it was dorky, something he only did with himself. But today's outing could only be described with one word…well, maybe two: bad. And distracting.
He'd gotten about three tugs on his line in total. That morning, he'd set out a bit before nine - not that he had any watches or anything - with his fishing rod slung over his shoulder, a small knife in his pocket, and a bucket of bait in his spare hand. Confidently, he settled down at his favourite fishing spot, right at the edge of the broken dock with his legs dangling off and almost touching the smooth surface of the water. He stuck a worm onto his hook, cast the line out, and his thoughts and memories collected like a school of minnows.
How could he have forgotten? How could he have possibly not recalled carrying that girl back to her farm just last night? He was suddenly overcome with worry, with embarrassment. Worried if she was alright, if she'd woken up after he'd put her sleeping form on her hard bed. Embarrassed that he had just run up to her and hauled her back to her house, no explanation.
He could relive the moment in his head. Walking back from town - well, what could be called town in due time - after familiarizing himself with his surroundings. He had been mentally marking down the best fishing spots in town, and hands-down decided his favourite was the ocean, where he was heading, coming back early as the rain began to fall.
The river had too small fish, both on the west and east sides, and though the wooden, once sturdy bridges had collapsed in the middle, he had managed to leap across the gaps. That day, he'd only had time to check out the mountains and the little forest area before it. There had been a pond a few ways in, but there was a faded sign beside it. He could only make out the obscure word Goddess, but he knew right away the pond was considered 'sacred,' and thought it would be rude to fish there. So he left with nothing gained, the formerly pounding, merciless rain relenting as he paced.
The night before that, he'd capered over one of the east bridges. The weak rocks had crumbled below his footfalls, however, and he'd barely scrambled onto land before he hit the stream.
But just last night, not even a whole day ago, he'd come to the beach, expecting to sit down and fish, but instead saw a distorted blob near the shore. A fishing rod that was in worse condition than his was at the blob's side, who he'd distinguished to be a girl - young woman, specifically - who was crumpled in a ball, leaning ever so slightly to one side. She looked like she would collapse if he laid a finger on her and he would've taken caution approaching her if he hadn't gotten a closer look.
While striding quietly toward her with his eyes zoomed in on her side profile, he'd gotten about fifteen steps away from her when he could see her face, the gushing sunrise providing plenty of natural light to fill in the details. Her eyes, which seemed blue but were half-closed, had the sky's mural reflecting off them. They were heavy, exhausted, almost dead looking. Her hair was a mess, the same colour of brown as his but longer and straighter, caked with dirt and knotted. Her clothes looked wet from the rain that had subdued him earlier, and her skin was blistered and swollen and scorched from the sun. She looked weak. So frail, he perversely wondered if she would crumble away like sand in an hourglass when he moved her.
And then just like that, her tiny knuckle twitched, and the fishing rod by her side sailed over her shoulder. It almost missed him, but it didn't; the rod flew past him but the hook caught just onto the skin of his forearm, scraping it slightly as it whizzed away. The injury wasn't awful, and it didn't hurt tremendously or anything; he was just surprised. An automatic cry flew out of his mouth, past his control.
Just like that, the girl fell onto her side with a start, and she looked so breakable and feeble that it actually hurt to watch.
It also hurt to remember, so he knocked the memory out of his head, frowning, and then with a literal tug of realization, discovered that a fish had just swum away with his bait.
Tomorrow, he thought as he hooked on another worm and cast his line a short distance away from the dock. Today might be too soon, so I'll visit her tomorrow.
He watched the incessantly rolling waves as if in approval. They lapped the shore gently, always agreeing with whatever unspoken question he'd thrown at them. The waves on the other end crashed loudly against the large rocks, splashing everywhere and making a ruckus. He ignored them.
There was another tug on the end of his line, but he was ready this time. Yanking back and reeling in with his worn, purchased rod with all his might, an enormous fish burst out of the ocean, water dripping and sparkling as it flailed.
"Got you," he grinned.
--
Chelsea sighed contentedly as she pulled her clean, wet clothes back on, tying a knot on the faded red bandana wrapped around her head. Her dripping brown locks tumbled down all around her, and her skin had retained some rashes from scouring it with herbs (it wasn't like she had soap in her pockets), but she didn't at all care now. She was clean and she didn't feel nearly as disgusting, and for the same incomprehensible reason, she was happy.
She took but a single step before the old man she'd resented for forcing her into farming came bursting through the clearing, running up to her, his breathing heavy and uneven.
Before she could even say a word, he beat her to it.
"Chelsea! It's Chelsea, right? There's something I want to show you."