hastrustissues | (no subject)

They burn the stuffed animals - and it probably says something about Wichita that she's equal parts relieved and disturbed by the event, but she decides to attend, to make sure she watches as each carnival prize, all in varying stages of destruction, burn away as the bonfire rages on, button eyes and plastic melting and stuffing turning black under the flame before it too turns into ash. It's only a slightly comforting sight, and it's still serving to remind her that crazy shit like this happens all the time, without warning. Zell had mentioned the zombies arriving before, but somehow he'd been all too casual in his delivery, or at least more carefree about it than she thinks it deserves. How many people are ready for something like this if it happens again? she'd asked Columbus, wondering if any of the people she starts to care about will ever truly be prepared: Olive, Santana, Eduardo, Mark. They're all people she's starting to become closer to, and she blames herself for it, for letting each of them in long enough to start to care in the first place, because if something happens - God, this isn't how she's supposed to survive here. She isn't supposed to have to care about anyone else, to have to worry.

She makes sure to leave a note for Columbus this time (ever since the night she'd gone out for a run, she realized he'd almost started to think she had disappeared completely), but she only specifies as much as simply going for a walk, not really stopping to predict where she'll wind up. It ends up being the pier, on the western side of the island, the long one that stretches out over the water, and she walks to the very end, until she can sit down with her legs dangling over the side. She jams her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket, finds a joint in one, and lights up, giving herself ample time to inhale deeply, and keeps inhaling until the tension in her shoulders starts to ease.

The sound of footsteps behind her doesn't have her whirling around like she would be under normal, non-high circumstances, but she's still got the small pistol tucked into her waistband, if it turns out she needs to use it. She doesn't move to speak when the sound of footsteps stop and she senses someone standing over her, instead leaning back to brace her weight on one hand as the other lifts the joint to her lips.

Threaded | Flat

I've been taking more walks lately. Sometimes people ask me how it is that I manage to get around the campus as quickly as I do. I'm even able to outrun the Winklevii, with enough obstacles around and if I really put my mind to avoiding conflict. I don't really know the answer. I'm not a regular jogger, and I fell off the boat with fencing after college, but all the same, I'm still in better shape than most programmers I know— and believe me, that's not a small feat anymore, not with recent health studies continually pounding on the fact that the lot of us need to get out more and in the sun. There are always a few health nuts in each coding group.

Regardless, it's easy to pick up walking again. Sometimes breaking into a run, jogging. I think I do it because when I run, the only thing I need to think about is where that next step is going to be placed. And lately, getting that clear mind is just about as rare as anything.

I stop when I see Wichita, though. As far as distractions go, she's not a bad one to have.

The smell of pot is familiar to Mark as he steps a bit closer, quickly tucking his hands into his pockets. For once, the hoodie has been abandoned, a mere GAP T-shirt in its place. Flip-flops have been exchanged for sneakers. Back home, it'd be rare for Mark to set out with the intention of walking about and altering his outfit for that sole purpose; here, it's been happening with greater and greater frequency, a restlessness that doesn't settle well on his skin, that leaves his chest feeling taut most days. Strangely, the smoke from the joint just reminds him of campus, of school. He was never really much of a smoker, didn't see the appeal, especially after trying a joint or two himself— whatever minute amount of relaxation he's able to manage doesn't last long. But it doesn't stop him from stepping closer, glancing at Wichita with a concerned eye.

She doesn't look like the type to need a hit.

"You okay?" he asks first, and maybe it's presumptuous of him, but if there's anyone who might forgive him for that on the island, Mark's almost sure that she's one of them.