[ Jamie knows from (very, very fresh) experience that cabins out in the middle of nowhere are Bad News. This is giving serial killer vibes if she's ever seen them β and she definitely has.
But it's cold, in ways she's never really been cold before. Not much snow out near Los Angeles, California. In comparison, this is like... the Arctic or something. Devoid of life, white and empty and vast. She's definitely not dressed for it, still in the outfit Lauren let her borrow β a pair of blue jeans, a plain pink teeshirt, and a thin grey cardigan over that. Yeah, it's fucking cold, and almost immediately after leaving the shelter she'd woken up in β a little shack of a cabin not far from this one β she's seeking another out. Maybe she can find a blanket or something inside, and a radio or phone. There was hardly anything useful in the one she'd just left.
Except for one thing. A kitchen knife, and it's not the greatest weapon in the world, but it's something. Jamie wields it in one hand as she walks, careful, unable to stave off a certain lingering shudder to her spine that has nothing to do with the cold. The killer, or a version of him, could have followed her here (clearly, she's been zapped through time again, what else could this fucking be?), which means he could be anywhere.
It's when she's nearing the front door of another cabin that she freezes, for a moment. Was that a creak? Suddenly, every seemingly dark, empty window could have him inside of them, watching her, stalking her. Jamie lifts the knife, readying herself, adrenaline pulsing through her veins a million miles an hour. She won't run. She knows running is useless, and he's bigger, stronger, faster.
Maybe it's stupid, or maybe she's still in some kind of shock about it all, but she pushes open the door with her other hand, slow and easy, readying herself to take him on, again. What she's met with instead isβ not that, not him, but a woman with an entire fucking sword pointed at her. On the other end of that blade is a petite teenage girl, eyes wide in stun as her heart skips several beats, a knife lifted in her own hand, ready to use. ]
Oh fuck, [ she breathes out loud, both relieved and horrified all at once, some weird amalgamation of emotions that she can't even begin to process. She's still in danger, clearly, but it's not him. In the moment, she asks something completely stupid, but it's all she can think to say. ]
arrival a!
But it's cold, in ways she's never really been cold before. Not much snow out near Los Angeles, California. In comparison, this is like... the Arctic or something. Devoid of life, white and empty and vast. She's definitely not dressed for it, still in the outfit Lauren let her borrow β a pair of blue jeans, a plain pink teeshirt, and a thin grey cardigan over that. Yeah, it's fucking cold, and almost immediately after leaving the shelter she'd woken up in β a little shack of a cabin not far from this one β she's seeking another out. Maybe she can find a blanket or something inside, and a radio or phone. There was hardly anything useful in the one she'd just left.
Except for one thing. A kitchen knife, and it's not the greatest weapon in the world, but it's something. Jamie wields it in one hand as she walks, careful, unable to stave off a certain lingering shudder to her spine that has nothing to do with the cold. The killer, or a version of him, could have followed her here (clearly, she's been zapped through time again, what else could this fucking be?), which means he could be anywhere.
It's when she's nearing the front door of another cabin that she freezes, for a moment. Was that a creak? Suddenly, every seemingly dark, empty window could have him inside of them, watching her, stalking her. Jamie lifts the knife, readying herself, adrenaline pulsing through her veins a million miles an hour. She won't run. She knows running is useless, and he's bigger, stronger, faster.
Maybe it's stupid, or maybe she's still in some kind of shock about it all, but she pushes open the door with her other hand, slow and easy, readying herself to take him on, again. What she's met with instead isβ not that, not him, but a woman with an entire fucking sword pointed at her. On the other end of that blade is a petite teenage girl, eyes wide in stun as her heart skips several beats, a knife lifted in her own hand, ready to use. ]
Oh fuck, [ she breathes out loud, both relieved and horrified all at once, some weird amalgamation of emotions that she can't even begin to process. She's still in danger, clearly, but it's not him. In the moment, she asks something completely stupid, but it's all she can think to say. ]
Please tell me you're not a serial killer.