Author's Notes: If you have not read "In the Blood," I would highly suggest doing so before reading this fic. It picks up just about three years after Allyson escaped Michael's captivity and while this chapter serves as somewhat of an exposition, it's hard to grasp everything that's transpired between this fic and Halloween 2018 without reading the first fic.

ONE

Druxy (adj).: having decayed spots or streaks of a whitish colour.

The Belvidere Outdoor Shooting Range sits along a narrow river bank, where most of the dirt paths have turned muddy from the downpour the night prior. Allyson Nelson slams the driver's side door shut and opens the back of her SUV, pulling out a shotgun that she slings over her shoulder, along with a duffel bag. Cropped brown hair pulled back away from her scarred face, she's dressed for the day's gloomy weather-ankle-high boots, jeans, and a black utility jacket. She ambles to the reception area, her knee replacement clicking the same way it always does, especially in this cold.

The secretary, a kindly looking older woman, looks at her over horn-rimmed glasses. Allyson immediately sees the recognition in her eyes, but says nothing.

"How are you doing today, sweetie?" she asks, "I mean-on this cold, cold day. Can you believe it's only September? Feels like winter already."

"I hear you," Allyson says, handing her the punch card.

"You picked one hell of a day to go shooting."

"Yeah-well, the rain, the thunder-it's good practice for the real thing, isn't it?"

That's when the girl laughs. The older receptionist stares at her like she's truly unhinged.

"I guess so."

When the woman hole punches the red slip, Allyson merely takes it back, gaze fixed on the taxidermied animal heads that line the wall. Then, she turns in the direction of the outdoor shooting range without a word, ignoring the shine of recognition and, worse, pity that lingers in those kind, beady eyes.

Thunder roars loudly and the pouring rain violently hits the windows that line the long corridor leading outside. It instantly soaks her hair when she steps out into the mud pasture, and she knows from inhaling through her nostrils that there's a farm somewhere on the premises. Closing her eyes against the rain that falls for a moment, she leans her head back to the sky above, shoulders relaxed. It only takes a moment to pull her head together and, with a roll of her neck, she situates herself to start shooting, ear-cancelling headphones over her ears. The stark white targets are easy to see, even in the rainy overcast, and her aim is not so great all things considered, but she's satisfied to see holes where her target's head would be.

Switching to an advancing target, Allyson sets the shotgun down and pulls a smaller piece from the holster at her belt, shooting at it with ease. She's more comfortable with the small piece, and it'd been the first gun she'd bought with her savings years ago at a gun show, shortly after she turned eighteen.

When she relaxes her stance and takes off the headphones, she exhales softly, stopping the target to look at her handiwork while it's so close. Unlike the last target, the holes are in close proximity where its head would be. The smile that tugs at her features doesn't quite reach her eyes as she looks it over.

A lithe hand reaches out to touch the still-smouldering hole, but stops herself-she only ever has one target in mind these days, and this isn't it.

That's when her phone starts buzzing in her pocket. Frowning, she sets her firearm aside and starts to dig for it until she has it in her hand. Grandmother. It's difficult pressing the talk button on her touch screen while the rain pours but she manages after jabbing it a few times.

"Hello?"

"Allyson, where did you go?" Laurie cuts to it, like always.

The thunder clashes so loudly it makes her jump, and the metallic taste of rain water fills her mouth.

"I needed to go for a drive-clear my head. I'm alright."

"Okay-well, are you going to come back for dinner, then? I'm grilling steaks."

"I-maybe, I might go to Kelly's house, I might go out after that, I don't know," she pauses, letting out a long exhale as she kicks a rock with her boot-clad foot, "don't wait up for me, okay? I'll be fine."

She can almost see the veins in Laurie's forehead, the way they always pop out when she's angry. It's only one part of why she's grateful she's not home.

"Allyson-"

"I'm fine, grandmother," she snaps. Immediately regretting it but knowing she can't take it back, she speaks softer, "I'm fine, okay? I'll text you to let you know I'm okay and everything, I promise."

"Fine," Laurie says at the end of a long-suffering, exaggerated sigh, "fine, Allyson. Make sure you text me every so often, you know how worried I get." A beat, and then, "I love you."

"I love you too. Don't wait up for me."

"Okay."

When Laurie hangs up first, Allyson stuffs her phone in her pocket and gathers her rifle. Her cheeks sting as rain turns to hail, which is when she knows to pack it up. She expertly avoids the receptionist on her way to her car while simultaneously trudging mud all over the freshly polished floor. She smiles when she thinks about the look on that woman's face when she finds it there whenever she returns from her smoke break, which is enough to make her night.

Ever since that night almost three years ago, that cruel streak in her has only grown-quick and malignant like cancer, no matter how hard she tries to fight against it. Sometimes, it's easier not to fight and to let it win.

That's how she feels tonight.

As soon as she starts her car, her phone goes off, automatically connected to the bluetooth. A smile spreads over her features then. Kelly.

"Hey, you," Kelly says, "you're running late, ma'am."

"I just got out of target practice."

She groans.

"Are you serious, Ally? In this weather?"

Allyson can't help but grin at the nickname-she's never liked it, not until she's heard it from Kelly's mouth.

"Hey, it's good practice, alright?" a pause, as she takes the exit on the freeway, blinker ticking like a metronome, "what are you wearing tonight?"

"Why are you so curious, huh?"

Allyson rolls her eyes.

"I just want a hint of where you're dragging me off to, bitch, that's all."

Kelly snorts and giggles. Allyson joins in, stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic. The sound of the rain and Kelly's laughter is soothing.

"It's pouring and I'm pretty sure there's going to be a tornado warning if there isn't one already, so I think we should stay inside. Dad's not home so I can actually get the good shit from the wine cellar."

"You're twenty-four now, and even then, you act like your dad's ever given a shit what you do."

"Whatever. Get your ass over here, but be careful."

"Yeah, whatever," Allyson says, warmth twinging her tone, "I'll see you in like twenty."

When they hang up, Allyson looks at herself in her rearview mirror-taking in her soaked hair, the hairline scars that line her left eye, barely perceptible to the naked eye, her crooked nose. Her clothes cover the worst of the scars, but it's hard not to wonder if people can see right through her for all of the scar tissue that will never go away. Sometimes, she thinks that's all she is-scar tissue. Damaged goods, used goods, she's heard it all, especially now that the novelty of being a new celebrity victim of a household brand serial killer has worn off and she's just mean in a way that's no longer understandable or charming.

She's a survivor as much as she is a victim unlike the others-a favorite victim. A favored lamb, maybe, even if he had seemingly no intentions of taking her out to the slaughter. She's spent too much time the past three years wondering why that had been the case-why Vicky and Oscar had died, why her mom had died, why he'd followed her like the Grim Reaper that day until he came to claim her as his own. Sometimes she'd rather she'd be dead, too.

It's been a day-by-day progress, really-and Kelly Meeker made those days a little easier. It takes a lot not to go too far over the speed limit to get to her place.

The rain pours even harder when she parks in their driveway, heading up the many steps to the big Meeker house. It's one of the biggest in town-especially since Ben Meeker had been promoted to Sheriff following Sheriff Barker's disastrous congressional campaign and he'd been able to build an addition onto the big house that'd run in the family for years. Mrs. Meeker opens the door to find Allyson standing in the rain, soaked down to the skin.

"Oh my god!" Mrs. Meeker exclaims, ushering her inside, "come in, Allyson. You're going to get sick out there."

"It's okay, Doreen," Allyson says, shoving her jacket off her shoulders. Doreen quickly hangs it up. "It's fine. I like the rain."

"Yeah, sure."

"Ally?" Kelly exclaims from the top step. Allyson glances up at her as she unlaces her boots to slide them off at the front door to take them off. Sometimes, it's hard not to see Vicky when she first glances at Kelly-her bleached hair platinum in the low yellow light of the house, her t-shirt tucked haphazardly into a pair of shorts. Their voices are close to the same timbre too. Luckily, it only takes a blink for that likeness to go away, and Kelly's in her space then, brandishing a worn set of clothes she'd left the last time she'd been over.

Allyson smiles, taking the clothes from her friend's hands.

"You okay?" Kelly asks when Doreen goes back to the kitchen to finish dinner. Allyson nods, so tall that she has to look down at her, even with her boots off.

"Yeah, I'm fine, Kelly. I'm gonna use your shower though, okay?"

"Sure," Kelly says, leaning in to sniff her with her nose furling, "you need it. You reek like gunpowder and dirt."

Allyson rolls her eyes, starting up the stairs where Kelly follows close behind to dig for a clean towel out of the closet by her room.

"I don't stink that bad," Allyson mutters, sniffing under her arm, "I wasn't even there that long."

"I still don't get why you'd go out in this type of weather."

"You know why, Kelly."

"I do know why, and I understand why but-I don't know, it seems like a bit much to give yourself pneumonia to shoot at some stationary targets."

"Maybe you're right," she says, mind already elsewhere. Thankfully, Kelly doesn't seem to notice, "anyways, I'll be a bit. My neck is killing me and your water pressure is too good."

"Whatever," Kelly says, smiling, "don't be too long."

Allyson shuts the door behind her, quickly stripping out of her soaking wet clothes and bra and underwear. In the floor length mirror of Kelly's bathroom, she looks at the muscle tone on her form, at the scars that map her entire body like a story. She runs her fingers over the scars on her shoulders, by her elbow where her bone had poked through, along her hairline. They're everywhere, and while they've become a part of her as much as all of the limbs on her body, she can't help but touch them to remind herself that they're there.

The heat of the shower soothes the ache in her knee replacement when she steps inside and the smell of Kelly's luxury shampoo in her hair makes her sigh. She'd chopped off most of her hair and she's kept up with it since, and it's gotten easier and easier to cut her own hair because she hates going anywhere else to do it. She dyes it too, darker than its natural color. It's different enough to give her an edge and hate looking in the mirror less and less.

It'd been one of the few things group therapy had taught her before she'd left-to stop going back to what's familiar because it's comfortable. Her therapist now says the same, but it's hard to break the habit-specifically with Kelly.

Kelly's waiting for her on the bed when she gets out, dressed in the tank top and sweatpants she'd given her, toweling the water out of her hair.

"You all done?" Kelly asks while Allyson digs through her closet for a sweatshirt that fits. When she pulls one on, she smells Kelly's perfume and detergent, exhaling with a sigh as she practically jumps on the bed beside her. The booze in Kelly's hands almost spills everywhere.

"Ugh, watch it!"

Allyson laughs, lying back against the pillows as she stares at the home screen on Kelly's big television. Kelly takes a swig of the brandy, shaking her head.

"Sorry," she says, smiling impishly.

"You're a brat," Kelly says, shoving the bottle toward her. Allyson takes a sip of the booze-a few years ago and she would've cringed, but she isn't the girl she was a few years ago and she can take it. She takes another swig for good measure, exhaling as it burns and brandy spills over her chin.

"Save some for me," Kelly takes it from her hands. Allyson lies fully back against the bed and sighs, folding her hands behind her head as her eyes close. They only open when Kelly shoves the bottle toward her again.

"So," Kelly continues, "how have your classes been?"

"They're fine. Boring, and it's been hard getting back into school even if it's just online," Allyson smiles against the burn of her booze down her throat, mirthless, "if only I could live off the Smith's Grove settlement money forever."

"Well, you could go on Dr. Phil. He'd love a girl like you."

"You're an ass," Allyson hands her back the bottle, "I refuse and always have. I don't want to profit too much off it. There's always someone who's hurt worse, who's had it worse-"

"It's not a competition," Kelly interjects.

"Still," Allyson shifts uncomfortably, offering no elaboration at all. There's a beat, and then, "are you going to put something on or not?"

"Yeah, yeah, I am," Kelly starts flicking through the channels, "but I mean it. You can talk to me."

"I'm sick of talking," Allyson admits, "that's all I think I've done the past few years. I just want to move on."

Those words sound empty to her ears-she doesn't know what she wants and she hasn't since she'd stabbed Michael Myers sixteen times.

"Talking helps, doesn't it?" Kelly asks when she puts on a movie.

"It's starting to feel like beating a dead horse," Allyson takes another swig of the brandy, "Michael Myers is most likely dead on the side of the road somewhere, right? Besides, I know what to do if I see him again, which won't happen. My grandmother's got our house set up like a fortress. I have good aim. And I have you and your dad. The only thing that really helps right now is drinking with you and smoking a bowl, how about that?"

Kelly laughs, even as Allyson moves to lie her head on Kelly's shoulder. Her lithe fingers push through dark, wet locks.

"You're corny," Kelly says, "and you're wetting my shirt."

"You'll live."

"Yeah, I will."

The booze starts hitting Allyson, who can smell it everywhere, along with the smell of Kelly's shirt and perfume.

"Kelly, you know I mean it, right?" Allyson says softly, "I don't really feel much of anything besides when I'm with you."

"Even cornier," Kelly says. Allyson means it, though, she really does, and she wishes she weren't so earnest about it-when all you have is apathy, being with one of the only people in the world who makes you feel anything at all is a gift. Even if it isn't mutual, and even if Allyson needs Kelly more than she needs her-that's a feeling she's always been used to, anyway.

"Don't be an asshole about it," Allyson mutters, extracting herself from Kelly's embrace before she can fall asleep that way. That's when she turns onto her side to face Kelly.

"I was not," Kelly argues.

"Yeah, whatever," Allyson says, "are you going to tell me about your week? About how your date with Brady went? I know you've been dying to tell me and for some reason, refused to FaceTime me about it."

Kelly blushes, and Allyson starts hearing ringing as soon as Kelly starts talking about how Brady had taken her to his apartment-a whole condo, all to himself, can you believe it?-and she's glad she can push herself to actively listen, even as she drinks herself into more and more of a stupor. She's rehearsed so well that she doesn't sound rehearsed at all.

That's how the night goes-she drinks until she blacks out, and her sleep is blessedly dreamless.

She's so hungover the next morning that she's practically still drunk. Mouth so dry she has to practically unglue her tongue from its roof, she groans in pain at the splitting headache that follows when she sits up. When she glances beside her, Kelly sleeps soundly, and a glance at her watch lets her know it's ungodly early enough to still be dark outside.

Allyson pushes herself out of bed, careful not to wake Kelly, and gathers her phone, where she finds several missed calls from Laurie and a mass of texts from her school group chats.

Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she opens the door to creak down the stairs, grateful Kelly doesn't awaken. Lacing up her boots, she slides her coat on-freshly washed, thanks to Doreen-and leaves the Meeker house. The light of dawn peeks into the small town as it awakens. She spots fathers out mowing their lawns, mothers walking their kids to school. An old couple at the end of the street decorate their porch with bats and fake cobwebs, smiling and laughing with each other.

The sight makes her wish she could put something extra in her coffee but doesn't when she picks it up from a drive-thru to bring home to finish the rest of her homework she's put off until now. She's even gone from a tryhard honor society student to flunking basic college math, and she can't bring herself to give a shit.

The sun's fully out when she arrives home, cup of coffee half-gone. The keys clang loudly in the front door when she opens it and she braces herself for whatever onslaught awaits her when she opens it.

Instead, the house is empty. She shuts the door behind her and locks the three locks along the door, disarming and rearming the security system so its one minute delay doesn't go off and wake up Laurie for sure.

Taking her cup of coffee to the kitchen, she leans against the counter to drink it, peering into the backyard. Instead of sleeping in her bedroom downstairs, Laurie Strode works in the vegetable garden in the backyard, where she'd taken over her mother's duty harvesting the herbs and zucchini therein. Allyson watches her work, expression unreadable, feeling something she can't name churn in her gut like dread. After all the years of choosing to make her home a fortress rather than a home for her family, she's making up for it tenfold. By all means, it's heartwarming, seeing her efforts to try and move on.

Allyson tosses her empty cup in the trash to head upstairs to her room before Laurie can turn around and see her, locking the door behind her. The textbook and computer sitting on her desk don't appeal to her in the least so she doesn't touch them, opting to lie on her back on her bed to stare at the glow-in-the-dark stickers lining her ceiling.

She turns on her side, finding the photo of her mother and her staring back at her from the night she'd been inducted into the National Honor Society. She exhales looking at it-the fact that she can't muster up tears even if she tries at the thought of her mother hurts. But what hurts worse is the fact that her mother's memory is poisoned by the last time they'd seen each other-he'd killed her right in front of him like she was little more than an animal to be put down.

No matter how strong Ben says her mother was, she doesn't think she has any memories of her that aren't tainted. They're ruined, just like she is.

She sets the picture down, sinking to the floor to crawl over to the bottom drawer of her vanity to find the edible hidden therein. She considers it for a moment, standing at her full height to look the candy over in her hands.

That's when a glint catches her eyes, sitting right in the middle of the vanity's surface beside her hair brush.

Her stomach sinks when she finds the sterling silver bracelet sitting there, completely out of place in the organized chaos of the makeup collection that lines its perimeter. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she picks up the bracelet to look it over-and sure enough, she finds her initials engraved inside.

"No-no, no, no-" she whispers, all of the breath knocked out of her, like she'd been punched right in the solar plexus. That's when she pulls the gun out of her bedside drawer, head spinning as she checks the bathroom and the upstairs rooms-nothing, nothing even out of place. She hadn't expected to find anything anyway-it's intentional, like everything else he's ever done to her.

He's nowhere. Not outside, not inside. But he's everywhere, just like he's been the past few years, and she's accepted that he's a part of her she'll carry with her like her titanium knee and all of her scar tissue. But not like this, nothing like this, even if she's dreamed of all the traumatizing goddamn ways he could possibly come back into her life and destroy whatever it is she has left.

She stops in her bathroom before she runs downstairs, shaking from head to toe so hard that she needs to brace herself and get her shit together before she tells her grandmother. She doesn't even want to talk to her but she knows she has to, gripping the edge of the counter as the bracelet clatters loudly into the sink. The gun lands on the soft, fuzzy mat by the toilet when she bends down to wretch into the toilet. After she flushes, she stands at her full height, steadying herself with the sharp edge of the counter that pokes hard into the palm of her hand.

Staring into her worn reflection, Allyson breathes shallow and quick, in and out. The little gasps for breath turn into hiccups, the salt of her own tears hitting her tongue. She weeps, and once she starts she can't stop. Her free hand rises to feel her own heart race in her chest, and a smile spreads through it.

More than anything else, she's relieved to feel at all.

Author's Notes: a smaller chapter to get us all reacclimated and honestly, to introduce us to a newer, wearier Allyson. Please let me know what you think-constructive criticism is always appreciated. I've missed writing and I've missed these two so much.