୧╏ ~ ᴥ ~ ╏୨
It'd been a long trip down to the base of the valley, full of catching his feet on rocks and roots, avoiding the local nightmares lest he get delayed by a scuffle and (god forbid) tear his good shirt, and a good amount of skepticism over what he was doing.
Or why he was doing it at all.
Curiosity, he'd told himself, but we all knew that wasn't even a quarter of the story.
Regardless— here he was. Down at the base of the valley (finally) just as dawn broke, bringing with it a whole lot of mist clogging up the landscape. The haze washed out the sky's colors and did a hell of a job muffling the noise that rose from a cluster of human misery just beyond the rapidly thinning forest.
Kyle stopped once he reached the tree line and propped his shoulder against a tall, lichen-covered rock. Yet another origami bird kept his company. It sat atop the rock he'd parked himself at, just at about eye level, and pointed its beak squarely at the refugee camp encroaching on the local scenery.
"You want me in there?"
The artistically folded paper stared on quietly. As paper should, really. He'd probably squeak if it'd suddenly start talking.
Kyle sucked on his bottom lip and idly clicked his tongue.
Okay.
The refugee camp had grown out from a tiny, tiny village; the sort which had like two farms, one house house and a roadside chapel thrown in for good measure.
There were tents everywhere. A cluster of them were plain camping tents in all kinds of colors, but the majority were large and bulky, with their colours designating who'd put them up. Green and square for military. White and round for ECDC. And apocalypse-brand-turquoise for the GRE.
Kyle frowned.
They'd set up fences around the perimeter, but even so he couldn't see this going well for very long. The encampment was right out in the open, for one, having no natural choke points to slow a horde if one happened to funnel into the valley, and those fences? They were downright sad.
It didn't make much sense for him that they'd settled here, though then again he probably missed a lot of much needed context. Was it the river going through the valley that'd drawn them here? (Water: good). Had they run out of fuel for their convoy of military vehicles, people movers, and mobile labs and decided eh, here's a good a place as any?
… and what'd it matter to Kyle?
"Fine. I'll take a peek," he muttered, which prompted the stupid bird to fall in on itself and be burnt to ash by a fire Kyle could neither see, nor smell.
He didn't immediately strut up to the encampment and instead spent another half hour or so lurking in the tree line like he was some kinda forest beastie waiting to pounce. Which, theoretically, wasn't too far off the mark. Plus, yeah. He was a fantastic pouncer. Anyway— he waited because he wanted to get a feel for the mood on the inside.
Just how scared were the people?
How hungry?
How likely was he going to get shot when he approached? (Getting shot was a thing he liked to avoid.)
And was that place actually full of refugees or, perchance, stuffed to the brim with ne'er-do-wells? Kyle blinked dumbly at a dude in urban camo, who'd just completed another march up and down what could be considered the camp's entrance.
Ne'er-do-wellers?
Ne'er-do-welleses?
He huffed.
The forest huffed back.
Not as much startled as annoyed, Kyle turned around, finally facing the viral that'd been jogging for his back. (Yeah, 'course he'd heard it.) It hadn't been subtle about it either, stepping on every single twig imaginable as it'd picked up speed. But, hey. He gave it points for not screeching, right before he snatched it by the throat and pinned it to the nearest tree-trunk with a loud THUMP.
Ah. 'course it hadn't screamed: someone had taped its mouth shut, which raised all sorts of questions as Kyle held it against the tree, scooting it up far enough to lift its feet off the ground.
Had it gotten taped up before it'd turned? After?
Kyle's eyes skipped down, at the hands clawing at his chest, with distinct wounds etched into their wrists.
Well, shit. How fucking depressing was that, huh? Whoever this poor sod had once been, he'd probably figured out he'd turn and decided to exit early, though not before taping his own mouth shut like that'd make him less of a threat should he get up again. Which he'd had, probably because he'd failed to shuffle himself off this mortal coil in time before Pestilence's toy thing had ridden him from his mind.
Tragedy at Dawn AM. It had shit nutritious value and yet the world insisted on serving it up to Kyle, day by fucking day.
But. Hey. At least this tragedy brought him a toy: a collapsible baton clipped to the viral's trousers. Kyle pilfered it, extended it with a flick of his wrist, and put the considerate soul to rest with a whack to the forehead.
And just like that, Kyle had run out of reasons to stall. He collapsed his new weapon, tucked it into his belt, adjusted the pack on his back, and peeled out from under the trees, ready (well, not really) to figure out why Death couldn't be bothered to call, text, or write him letters, but was absolutely down with sending him cryptic little birds.
Kyle didn't bother sneaking in. He hit the road and walked right down the middle in a straight line. Now, was that clever? Probably not. But it was dramatic for sure, especially with the mists still so thick, he must've struck quite the figure stalking out of them.
The guard certainly thought so. In a fearful raising my Steyr AUG and pointing it at the mysterious, lanky fellow walking from the mists.
Now there was a weapon Kyle felt a not to be disregarded aesthetic attraction to, even from afar. Except for the bit where it was currently looking at him, which kinda ruined the mood, to be fair.
Anyway, the guard. He wore a mostly useless helmet, donned a small Austrian flag pinned to his chest, and (judging by that fresh face under the aforementioned useless helmet) couldn't be older than nineteen.
Kyle raised his arms.
Since zombies generally didn't do that, the gesture afforded Kyle the moment he needed to tell the fidgety soldier that he was a Pilgrim, loaded down with gossip from a world beyond their reach.
A magic word, that.
Pilgrim.
They were the new postmen. The escorts through the End of Things. The mercenaries with real good walking shoes.
And while their movement was still new and their name fresh, they'd caught on like fire on dry lint, and had quickly begun to open doors for Kyle that might otherwise remain shut. Like this one.
Not that the encampment had a door. Whatever excuse for gates they had were made to hold docile cattle, not hangry zombies — and the more he thought about it, the sorrier he felt for every living soul clinging to it like it was a life raft.
There was no fucking way this thing wasn't going to sink.
But. Any-way.
He was in.
Yay?
And now what?
For a while, Kyle mapped the place like a tourist having himself a window-shopping Sunday. He passed the military tents. The ECDC cluster. The GRE corner. He even went on a gander through the camping tents, where most of the misery came to a boil, but he found… nothing.
Nothing but that misery, anyway, and (with the risk of sounding like a broken record) hadn't he seen enough of that already?
"Okay, how about another birdie?" he mumbled under his breath while his feet carried him back between two of the buildings the encampment had grown around. "Or anything, really? 'cause I'm about ready to walk on you, you hear me?"
Was he?
Yeah. He was. Totally. Absolutely. And would have, honest, if not for two things happening at once.
One: a bell rung out.
No, it wasn't an ominous tolling rolling from the sky— but, damn. Timing. For a beat, Kyle thought he'd been literally rung up; though when his eyes jerked up, all they found was a priest looking fellow standing with his meagre congregation that'd clustered together in front of the village's small chapel. The bell the priest was ringing was no more than an innocent brass thing.
Second: the door of the building Kyle was about to pass burst open. It clapped into the wall with a rattle, even as a scrawny boy flew out into the open, leaping down the stairs and hitting the asphalt running.
He pulled a jute sack behind him; a sack easily a third of his size and obviously heavy, judging by how it nearly toppled him when he bolted to the side while the sack wanted to keep going straight.
Kyle stared.
Two men squeezed out of the door behind the boy. They gave chase.
Given how Kyle had little love for appropriate behavior, his first instinct was to step aside and let the kid make off with whatever he'd swiped from inside. But a pinch in his gut—brought on by how he saw one of the local soldiers take note and turn towards the commotion—convinced him otherwise. Something about seeing a kid getting shot in the back being the last thing he needed to see today. Among many other lasts.
The kid was just about to fly past him, when Kyle's hand clamped around his thin arm and brought him to a sudden, involuntary stop.
"Ey, let go—" the boy snapped.
Kyle didn't.
Not when the boy pulled or pushed and defo not when he stomped on Kyle's toes. Toes which remained thoroughly unimpressed, considering the kid weighed the equivalent of two reedy sticks taped together. He looked the part, too, every bit as thin as a toothpick that'd been dressed in a t-shirt he had no hope of filling and with pants that were too short.
But nevermind all that.
What was most notably about him was the scent clinging to him. Specifically, that something else that carefully tried to conceal itself under a child's innocent indignation, dirt, and shame.
Fate.
It hung off the boy like rags soaked in the universe's swamp waters.
Kyle's brow furrowed. This was what he'd been supposed to find? A scrawny tween? A—
"Kleine Rotznase," said one of the dudes who'd finally managed to catch up, and Kyle reaffirmed his grip on the boy who just wouldn't quit trying to worm his way out of it.
Credit where credit was due, the Kleine Rotznase (little snot nose, for those not in the know) was persistent.
"Danke für die Hilfe," said the other man, and it was painfully clear that neither of them would've caught up with the boy if Kyle hadn't intervened. One had a distinct limp and the other was already huffing and puffing up a storm, his lungs whistling in a way healthy lungs really shouldn't. Both were red faced.
"Sure," Kyle said, but when the wheezing man reached for the boy, Kyle shuffled the stubborn, wiggling bundle behind him. "Hold up. Was hat er denn getan?"
(What'd he do, if you needed an interpreter. And, yeah, we'd been over that before; Kyle had a whole bunch of languages rattling around in his skull, including just enough Faerian that he wouldn't accidentally talk himself into servitude or get his soul jinxed.
Yep. Better read up on those phrases before going for lunch with a Fae. Couldn't ever be too careful.
Okay. Tangent. Over.)
"'Ne ganze Woche Verpflegung gestohlen," said Limpy and pointed to the sack.
"Hm." Kyle peered back over his shoulder. The boy had stopped wiggling. Now he was just glaring daggers at Kyle, sharp as his pale blue eyes. "Kleine Rotznasen müssen auch essen."
(That's Little snot noses gotta eat too.)
"Und so tun wir," was Limpy's reply, though there wasn't much conviction in it. In fact, Kyle picked up shame, which sat on the man's shoulder for all to see. He didn't want to catch the little thief, Kyle figured; wanted him to eat whatever the heck he wanted to eat, because everyone these days was hungry and sometimes kids deserved a treat. There was enough of that shame, in fact, he turned to his friend to argue that maybe the boy should keep it, which went as far as to get them fighting over it in front of Kyle.
Unseemly, that.
"Unhand the rations, kid." Kyle pulled the boy forward and yanked the sack from him with one quick upwards pull.
"Asshole," spat the kid, who'd immediately let go rather than allowing himself to be dangled in mid-air like a dried up trout.
"Yeah, yeah. So I am told frequently. Guys. Here, take it."
Limpy only hesitated for half a second at best before he grabbed the sack, though rather than turn around and, ah, limp away, he spent a moment rooting around in it to pull out a square pack of hard crackers. "For the kid," he said, nodded once to the boy, and then joined his ranting buddy to wander back into the house.
Kyle, crackers in one hand, thin boy-arm in the other, had himself trampled by the realisation of what he'd just walked himself into.
What was he supposed to do with— this?
This literal child?
What did one do with literal children?
How about figuring out if he's got parents before you panic. A Mom or a Pop who were gonna give him a stern talking to once Kyle deposited him with them and maybe that'd be that. Which was still very much possible, even with an apocalypse going around.
So Kyle turned his eyes down to the boy and asked, "Where are your parents?"
Cue the flat stare. "Seriously? My parents are dead." A pause. "Asshole."
… was it acceptable to growl at kids? Anyways. No parents. Panic time?
"Right." Kyle lowered the pack of crackers, just enough to put them within the boy's reach. "How about your name? What's your name?"
Cue more staring. Angry staring, at that, and a quick grab for the crackers.
Kyle pulled them up again.
So the boy kicked him in the shin.
"Ow," Kyle said, his voice flat.
Another kick.
And another.
Until, finally, with his little-kid-shoulders sagging and his little-kid-lungs puffing out a sigh, the boy rolled his head back in frustration and muttered a quiet, "Aiden."
"Aiden," Kyle echoed and offered up the pack again. "Okay, Aiden. I'm—"
—Kyle Crane, residential moron.
The second Aiden had the crackers in his hands, was also the second he started shouting at the top of his lungs. And not just shouting for the sake of shouting, either.
No, the little shit screamed "PERVERT!" for everyone, their grandma, and probably the zombie pack two valleys over to hear. "PERVERT!" He went. "PERVERT! HELP!"
. . .
All eyes turned their way. Including, but not limited to, those of a pair of soldiers. Soldiers with guns. Sure, they were attractive guns, but they were guns nevertheless.
Now, Kyle could've tackled this in all sorts of ways, but his knee-jerk reaction was what won. He let go, and the moment he did, Aiden bolted.
As one so did in a situation like this.
Kyle, feeling a headache pecking at the inside of his skull, closed his eyes, and pictured himself back on the mountain's flank, where he ignored Death's magical little birds this time around and instead went on to fuck about on his own terms, rather than heel like a well-mannered pooch.
When he opened them again, the world remained unchanged.
Naturally.
And Kyle, scratching at his scruffy cheek, turned on his heels, took a sniff, and followed the scent of a tattered, sad fate.
୧╏ ~ ᴥ ~ ╏୨
