The Final Test Drive Meme

[singmod]

DECEMBER 2025 TDM

IMPORTANT NOTE: THIS TDM IS THE FINAL APPLICATION ROUND. WHILE ANYONE IS FREE TO PLAY IN THE TDM, THE FINAL APPLICATION ROUND WILL ONLY BE OPEN TO CURRENT PLAYERS, OR RETURNING PLAYERS WHO CHOSE THE 'AURORA' OPTION WHEN THEY DROPPED.

PROMPT ONE — ARRIVAL: THE DARKWALKER’S FEAST: The Aurora signals back a group of familiar faces, for the last time, with the Darkwalker close behind.

PROMPT THREE — THE ERRODING: A toxic fog settles onto the Northern Territories, spoiling food and spreading rot.

PROMPT THREE — WINTER OF OUR YOUTH: With the Darkwalker’s presence ever looming, the former Forest Talkers living amongst Interlopers perform their final rite.

ARRIVAL: THE DARKWALKER’S FEAST

WHEN: Early February.
WHERE: Milton, Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential injuries, potential cold injuries/hyperthermia risk; themes of terror; themes of stalking; mental manipulation/degradation; physical degradation; potential character death.

'You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.’ A dark, deep voice. Impossibly ancient. The Darkwalker hisses to you: ‘And I am coming for you.'

You saw the lights, your world went dark and in the blackness the Darkwalker called to you. The words echo as you open your eyes once more — squinting and straining to a world of dark, green gloom.

There are no stars above you, no moon. The world is impossibly quiet. You do not get the sanctuary of some abandoned cabin. Instead, you awaken out in the open — in the bitter cold and snow. You can barely see your breath cloud in front of you as you sit up; the gloom feels so oppressive, stifling. You are alone in the wilderness, in the frozen land of the Northern Territories — you are completely alone. You may feel different, too. Any powers or magics you may have feel... absent. Disconnected. Things that may not have affected you previously now do. Something in you has changed.

You call out. There is no answer. Your voice cuts short. You stand alone in the wilds of Milton, the woods are dark and deep — but the feeling of being alone does not last long. You only have but a few minutes to collect yourself, pick up any stray belongings that might have been dumped alongside you.

Suddenly, there is a sound that breaks the suffocating silence: a long, low, moaning growl. Something neither human nor animal. You cannot place the sound.

You feel a bolt of cold heat through your chest. You are afraid.

(Some of you may remember this sound. Remember the noises of the being who struck out at Interlopers, turning them into twisted corpses, frozen in horror.)

In the distance, you hear the heavy, thundering of footsteps. Something is coming. The Darkwalker is coming. You cannot stay here. You need to move, need to get away from those footsteps. Although slow, they are persistent, steady. You do not want to know what will happen if those footsteps catch up. And if you do not move, the cold might kill you just as quickly.

You must work out where you are, and you must find civilization as fast as you can. So you pick a direction and hurry into the unknown, trying to navigate your way through the gloom — to try and find a trail, something which might lead you to warmth and safety. Along the way, you may find someone else in the same boat as yourself, equally freezing and confused and afraid. You’ll both need to keep going. It won’t be easy. You hear the inhuman, low, growling moan once again, and the terrain is difficult: slips and falls are likely. You’re completely vulnerable out here in the open.

Or it’s possible you may come across someone else here. Someone who looks far better prepared to deal with the freezing cold and frozen landscape, out hunting or gathering. Out looking for you. They’ll likely offer help and get you into town.

All the while, the footsteps boom in the near-distance. They grow louder and louder, and you realise the reason why they’re drawing closer: they are coming for you. The Darkwalker is hunting you, and in your bones you feel that anxious gnawing. It sets your teeth on edge, makes the hair on the back of your neck prickle.

You are a hunted animal.

You must keep going. The Darkwalker is behind you, making a beeline for you — the thuds of its footsteps making the ground quake a little the closer it gets. You cannot see the Darkwalker, save for the sickly-green footprints you may see if it is immediately upon you, but the effects of its presence will become more profound.

Move too slowly, or dawdle and soon enough that anxiousness within you will turn into true fear. You find yourself lost to hysteria, unable to move, and you find yourself growing weaker and weaker — like you might die before it has an actual chance to catch up to you. Your very life slowly ebbs away. Only gaining distance from the Darkwalker will bring you back to your senses and restore your energy — but the effects on you from the Darkwalker will linger in the days to come.

The trails will lead to paths, and the paths will lead to roads. You can smell the heavy, low scent of fires burning in the dark. Unfolding before you in the mountainous forests, you’ll see the most welcome of sights: a small mining town tucked up in the valley. Battered, rusted road signs will direct to “MILTON, POP. 947”.

As you head into the outskirts and then further into town, you’ll find it’s a little easier to walk but the cold has gripped you hard. You’ll find the buildings, both shops and homes, most are dark and lifeless, some of them are boarded up, some of them are occupied. The town is quiet in this endless night, but you can see the warming lights of your fellow Interlopers in the windows.

Once you enter the town limits, the Darkwalker stops chasing you. But you can still sense its oppressive presence not too far off.

You are not greeted by Methuselah at the Community Hall. There is no Feast.

Some of your fellow Interlopers may have gathered and attempted some kind of half-hearted welcoming committee, instead. There may be a little soup, some charred meat, hot tea. Someone may be on hand to tend to any wounded from slips and falls out in the snow, or deal with any cold injuries sustained in the journey to town. But there is nothing compared to the Feasts Interlopers have grown accustomed to, or have perhaps taken advantage of.

But, no. No feast. This time, if you are not quick enough, you are the feast.

May the Darkwalker never catch you.

THE ERRODING

WHEN: The Month of February.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural/extreme weather; poisonous/toxic fog; themes of food insecurity, themes of food scarcity; supernatural illnesses; breathing-related illnesses; nausea and vomiting.

The Darkwalker told you once: I am the Rot.

The Darkwalker’s arrival has only just begun. Not only does it stalk around the edges of Milton, but its presence brings atmospheric shifts to the world that make it difficult to get about. Interlopers are well accustomed to bouts of supernatural weather, and they’ve faced something like this before — a caustic fog that burns and erodes everything it touches, or the fog that ignited Interlopers into fight or flight.

It may linger in the minds of many when this new kind of fog sets in.

It’s hard to tell it’s settling in at first, with the eerie green gloom that covers the entirety of the Northern Territories in darkness. Vision in the world is difficult, for the most part. But you notice a certain kind of heaviness in the air, and looking up has a kind of clouded, greenish haze — like a fog is slowly drifting in.

Things seem fine, at first. Just another string to the Darkwalker’s wicked bow. But when you tend to your traps, your fishing, your smokeboxes — anything kept outside — the stench of decomposition hangs. You find the meat, the carcasses, the food rotting. Anything kept outside, no matter how well protected in boxes, crates or storage, will slowly succumb to putrefaction. It isn’t just the food that begins to rot. Even vegetation will find itself prone to withering and dying — cutting off another form of food.

The fog will drift heavier, sometimes it rolls in quickly and you’re lost in a thick fog. Being out and about in this fog will make it hard to breathe, and enough to bring the taste of blood in your mouth as your lungs slowly begin to rot with each breath you take. Interlopers who spend long enough outside will slowly drown in their own blood, and will also find themselves coming down with bouts of nausea and sickness — and if they continue to remain outside, they will fall more and more ill, withering away to nothing until death.

Fog will even try to seep into houses, with unsecured buildings most at risk — the fog appears to actively try and get in anyway it can. If it fills a home, you are as good as dead.

Interlopers must work quickly to try and secure their food sources, their very homes. But how do they when something is actively turning their food to rot and their very bodies?

You remember from a dream in January. Enola drew a rune. in blood upon the snow:

“Use this, when the time comes. It will help keep it at bay. You have power, never forget that.”

There was once a rune Methuselah told Interlopers about. A warding rune to keep the Darkwalker from stealing an Interloper’s wits during its comings. A rune etched in Interloper blood.

Paint the rune in your blood, and true to Enola’s word: it will keep the fog at bay.

WINTER OF OUR YOUTH

WHEN: The month of February.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: themes of suicide; depictions of suicide; ritualistic suicide; human sacrifice; death of NPCs; death of teenage children; potential character injury; potential hostage situations; potential murder of NPCs.


Well over a year ago, the remaining Forest Talkers — some mere teenagers, barely on the cusp of adulthood — had absconded from their group to join the side of Interlopers when the Forest Talkers came to Milton to bring devastation and death. The Interlopers had taken them in, and they’d existed quietly in Milton — getting to work, contributing to the town and gently struggling with integrating with their former enemy. And while some of them have died one way or another in that time, eight still remain.

They have kept up their habits, private rituals of beliefs that have still stuck with them even after all this time — the hunting of small game to carry out their grisly displays out in the woods: animal remains placed in particular manners, the snow dug away to the earth.

They had once told Interlopers, when discovered in these rituals: The world is still dead, even if we don’t want to fight you anymore. We just want everything to be reborn again, so next time it’ll be better. We have to give them a chance. I guess we just have to see what happens.

And now the Darkwalker is here.

Over the course of the month, the former-Forest Talkers put plans into action. Some are quieter than others, some are far more violent in their displays. It will always be outside. They shed their outer-layers, removing boots and coats.

”Don’t you see it now?” they’ll tell you. ”Don’t you understand? This all has to happen. This has to be the way of things. The world is dead. It must be reborn. The Yawning Grave has been opened. The Long Dark awaits. Leave me to the wilds, or bury me. I will return renewed.”

A knife. A gun. And it’s all over. A sudden, violent act.

Or maybe you can stop it. Wrestle a weapon out of their hand. And maybe a fight breaks out. The young Forest Talkers have no interest in trying to hurt Interlopers but they will fight to the death to meet their own end. They refuse to be stopped, one way or another they will try to end their own lives. Maybe you might have to do it yourself, maybe they force you into putting them down when they try to hurt someone else, someone you care for.

In the quieter instances, it's slipping out into the wilderness. Letting the fog take them, or trying to succumb to the elements. Maybe you’re trying to drag one of them back into town, to try and talk some sense into them, maybe you win. This time. They listen, but they do not hear you. They have already decided what must be done.

There will be other times. More attempts.

By the end of February, all eight of them will be dead — one way or another, no matter how many attempts it takes.

The Yawning Grave has been opened, and they must go into the Long Dark.

FAQs

ARRIVAL: THE DARKWALKER'S FEAST

1. Arrival threads can be treated as game canon.

2. Items characters have brought from home can be found either strewn around them when they awaken, or in the community hall — as if someone left them out for them to collect.

3. Reminder that all characters are now depowered upon arrival. They can choose not to notice it at first, or can immediately sense something is different about them.

4. Returning players who are bringing characters back with Feats will note their Feats aren't working as they should, there is further information on this on the Tales From The Northern Territories, linked at the bottom of the page.

5. More information about Milton can be found here.

THE ERRODING

1. A rune etched in Interloper's blood will provide a powerful protection against the fog. It will keep the fog from drifting into homes.

2. The rune itself will only cover small areas, so while it could be used in the close quarters of the centre of town — it would require multiple runes all over the place.

3. The runes must be maintained with fresh blood every day to keep their protective enchantments active.

WINTER OF OUR YOUTH


1. Players can either play out a successful halting of a former-Forest Talker's suicide, or be unsuccessful.

2. There are eight Forest Talkers who will ultimately die during the month of February, despite Interlopers best attempts. These are: Jean-Marc Sun, Jack St Pierre, Steven Forest, Gabriel Dunlop, Guy Harvey, Colette Ayotte, Renee Langevin and Marnie Mann.

TALES FROM THE NORTHERN TERRITORIES NEWSLETTER

Comments

[ployboy]

There's a light in Kate that isn't lightness; Tim can read burden on her shoulders like he can read plain English. It's something else: a quick ignition, a literal spark. Action, movement, and he's speechless at the receiving end of it, even as their bodies meet and the distance between them ceases to be. Kate Marsh has a hand up to his face, touching, and Tim suddenly and vividly remembers her being so, so cold before, when she had lost someone dear. Tim is speechless because he sees a spark in her now, here in the present, and that's enough to force hope into the in-between of his flesh and his skin. And, he too, feels alive.

He's being kissed.

She's kissing him.

Tim hums. The gesture is shocking and sweet and something only for him. Possessive (and partly possessed), his hands fly to her waist and they... eagerly, but tenderly, gently, chastely rest there even if he can't feel all that he wants to through the thick gloves. (He's hungry.) There's no big looming size difference between them- she's just his size and he's fit just so her mouth is pretty and soft and warm against his own with such little effort that in fleeting delirium he thinks they're literally made for one another. No stranger to the spotlight, knowing it as an advantage, Tim wants to press on, press forward, kiss deeper.

He parts from Kate just to peck at her lips again, this time returning the hungry and desperate and pure touch of their lips. God, is he hungry.

But Kate hates most of whatever this is, he knows. And yet can't stop himself entirely.

Let the interlopers stare. What they do, what they've been through to be together now, is none of their fucking business.

Against her, he tests those waters. Licks his cold-chapped lips (even if it means a quick, accidental, brush of his tongue against her own lips- sorry- they're close- didn't mean to-) and murmurs, ever witty and sharp and gallant, "Hi."

[castitas]

He's real, he's real and he's here. He's freezing from the chill of the outdoors, and she doesn't care because Tim's here. His hands at her waist is a welcome weight, only proving further that this isn't some kind of dream. The world is quiet, and it's not the haunting silence that the Darkwalker's presence brings — it's the soft hush she hasn't heard in months and months.

He pulls back, then steals another kiss and her head's pleasantly swimming. Her eyes glazed and soft when she opens them again.

"Hi." she breathes it out with a shudder, a smile curving at the corners of her lips, eyes welling with emotion. She's trying to keep herself together and not just— start crying... on him...

She kisses him again. It is a short and sweet thing, and when she pulls back it's not by much. He's here and she's smiling and her eyes are shining.

Thank you, God—

"I thought I'd never see you again." Her breath hitches in her throat, voice low as she fights for composure. "I looked and looked— you just disappeared."

She wished he'd just gotten in trouble, wished he was hurt but alive and she could have found him and yelled at him about it for making her worried sick. But there was nothing, and nothing is far worse.

"Where did you go?"

[ployboy]

"Home," Tim answers. There's hardly any time between her question and his response. There's no reason for a pause. Even a Tim in Robin's clothing can't deny her the truth when the girl looks one moment away from letting tears fall. There's an unpleasant pressure in his last rib and between his heart and lungs.

Unable to bear the emotion with stoicism, Tim sweeps that grand flowing cape off his shoulders. He feels like a brittle half-man half-icicle, but he lays the cape across Kate's shoulders anyway if she'll let him. "In Gotham," he explains. Explains the get-up, the weight of a botched murder invisible but nagging, the reason he isn't hiding his face behind his mask despite his oath. Tim swallows, heaviness settling in where the dark's restlessness had had him animated an instant before. "But I told you, I wouldn't forget about you. And I'm not leaving you here. We'll be together again now."

(Did he remember her before the--? Tim banishes the thought violently, swiftly. It doesn't matter.)

"I didn't want to leave, Kate. Not if it meant leaving you."

[castitas]

Home, and it's hard to measure what that means. Because there's never a straight-forward answer to the meaning of that word. Not with what she knows, and she hesitates, not sure how to react. Not sure how or what to question.

What's easier to react to is, if only by a little, is the fact he's taking his cap off and draping it over her shoulders. There's protest in her eyes, and it sharpens them a little: are you kidding her, and it's familiar and easy to fall into. Like he's never been away. And yet— are you kidding her, Tim Drake— you've been outside in the freezing cold and she's not and if either of them need this cape for any extra warmth it's not going to be her.

But— Tim is Tim. She knows this. So she lets him, hands sliding from his face, settling at his shoulders because she doesn't quite want to let go of him. Not yet. And maybe if does, she's scared this won't be real after all.

It does explain the get-up, and Kate's frowning at his chest, the bandoliers— her lips pursing together in worry.

"I was.. so ready to be mad at you, thinking you'd gotten into trouble. That— maybe you were banged up in a cabin somewhere, or cursed, or—" she shakes her head. "And I could yell at you for being an idiot, or—"

But he'd be here. Being mad at him would be justified. Probably. But this?

"I can't be mad at you for leaving. I'm not." she looks up again. No, she's not mad. How could she be? "You're.. you're okay. You're alive, and I—"

Kate exhales, a faint exhale and soft smile.

"I missed you."

[ployboy]

He doesn't need to hear it to know and Tim is puzzled for a second on if she's in his head or not. Ultimately, saving himself from quickly warming apples of his cheeks and ducking his head, Tim mumbles, "I'll dry quicker without it."

The cape. The latest version, able to sustain his weight for short glides from rooftop to rooftop of one of the East Coast's most densely packed cities. The stiffening mechanism is all but useless in the wilds of remote Canada. But it's no longer heavy leather, biting into the shoulders of whoever wears it. (Kate looks, In Tim's opinion, damn cute enveloped in the dramatic oversized thing.)

She's staring at his chest, and unconscious Tim is straightening. Preening. There's the lambasting of not having his cowl over his eyes, of all of this spectacle being so public, but if Kate can weather the storm than it's his responsibility to do the same. Red Robin touches the insignia in the center of the kevlar suit, briefly traces the hawkish bird in yellow. The bandoliers-- "That's smoke bombs and flash grenades," he explains in a lower voice. The voice, almost a growl, because practice states it must be so.

Tim reaches out again, this time for one of her hands to take into his. He's here. She is okay. She is alive. It's a borrowed silence to his storm of worries that only love can bring.

"Kate. We'll be okay," he promises and doesn't feel foolish though he will, later. "Come on. Help me warm up."

[castitas]

Yeah, she really doubts that. It feels like a lame excuse, but she supposes it's better to get out of wet clothes and into something dry and warm instead. Kate sighs noiselessly, looking down at herself — caped up, looking super dramatic like some sort of wizard or something.

The voice, makes her do a double take and she blinks up at him. Oh. Heat creeps up into her cheeks, lips parting in a flustered stun and she tries to form words to reply what is that even— but nothing comes out and she just stands there with her cheeks burning. Oh.

Okay, she didn't know— that was a thing.

Finally, she swallows thickly, opts for a sensible: "I... don't think me and explosives really mix." Good lord.

Wow, it's hot in here. Right?

There's a few beats, and she fights for composure — fixing her face into something more quiet and less flustered. He takes her hand and she nods. She believes it, because anything from here has to be more okay than it was before. Than it was in the months of his absence. Him being here already makes it okay.

Help me warm up. She's straightening, the same focus she carries at each and every Feast, so used to dealing with sort of thing. Kate's head turns, towards the direction of the fire. Her fingers curl around his and she moves forward to lead the way—

"This way." there's an old arm-chair recently vacated. Close enough to the fire without it being overkill. "I'll get blankets and warm water. You're gonna sit and not move until you're no longer an icicle."

No arguing.

[ployboy]

If only it was a surprise- in spite of it all, there's a cousin of expectation in Tim's blue eyes, hidden very poorly behind a show of patient amusement. Good to know how to get color into her cheeks, and he can nearly feel the heat radiating off her. It's enticing. (He needs to stop.)

Another noncommittal noise, and his shoulders drop enough to signal the burden of the thought of having to move, just after he's evaded the Darkwalker itself with a clipped, unwavering step, never stumbling or else he'd have died. But so's the nature of this beastly world. He's a silent, armored figure trailing behind Kate who is now so full of purpose in her movements, the daze of shock and grief lifting to make way for practice and her delicate, essential expertise. "Thank you," Red Robin says again. Yes, the Voice again. This time it's more private, the two words carrying only the distance that they should to reach her ears and hers alone, because that's the kind of needless practice Tim brings to the table. --to the arm-chair, as things may be. His thighs protest with a dizzying strain, an ache to his knees and elbows as he lowers himself inelegantly to sit.

Control, next to the fire, evaporates.

His head and his mess of hair touch the back of the big chair with a quiet thunk and Tim feels so exhausted and boneless. (Part of him knows it's because Kate has left. It's not the romantic part- it's the part that wants to tear into the Gifts of Enola and devour them all, that part that's starving now and warring against his ribcage.) Somehow he toes off his boots, something like tabi socks on his legs and feet now. His eyes are closed when Kate returns, and his voice is sleep-rough but it's Tim's now.

"Thanks."

[castitas]

He's doing it again, and she knows for a fact that this time it's completely on purpose. Kate stops and starts, and there's no relief in sight for the blush that's crept across her face. Months, he's been gone and it's like nothing's changed. Picking up where he left off, really. And while heartfelt emotional reunions are one thing, but—

Mhm— is the only thing she can muster, her voice tight.

At the very least, the space as she gathers what she needs give her a little time to compose herself — swirling off like a gentle shadow when with the cloak still at her shoulders. It lets the heat cool from her face. She returns, arms full of blankets and warm, dry compresses. The second thank you is more like Tim and she smiles this time, genuine, as she sets to work — very gently manhandling him as she leans over him and tucks a warmed towel around his neck.

"Here." She drapes a second over his chest before she works on layering blankets around him — careful, almost methodical.

"Did you get hurt on your way in to town?" He doesn't look hurt, only half-frozen. But it's always worth asking. Kate looks at him for a moment, worry knitting back into her brow. "I heard it's... out there."

The Darkwalker, she means. There's a pause, and she adds—

"And no half-assed answer if you're hurt. You can relax, I can't heal you with my powers even if I wanted to."

Because he'd refuse it, otherwise. Or lie, so she wouldn't need to. Probably. He was never all that thrilled about her using them on him after the Forest Talkers attacked.

"We're, like, kicking it old school right now."

[ployboy]

"Not hurt," he mumbles in reply. It's a monumental task, the adrenaline of survival draining slowly and surely out of him. But if Kate is busy, Tim can meet her efforts- he's obligated to out of either respect or unbridled adoration or both. He blinks his eyes open and almost winces away from the bright light of the fire before him-- there aren't that many Interlopers here. Was there a smaller harvest? Did they just... not make it all the way into town?

Frowning still, he sighs at the relief and pain of warmth on his skin. He peels off his gloves- pressing here and there in a pattern to readjust the fit so he can do away with the gauntlets the way he's done away with his boots. His hands are blueish- but not blistered. They grab at the warm towels like they're lifeline. Eventually, he shakes his head. "I'm not hurt," he says. "But the Darkwalker... was hunting. It was right behind me. I had to keep running or else it would have caught me."

He hates how 'I' dominates that report; he's a hero, isn't he? Why isn't he talking about how he saved the others?

"How many people have come in here today...?"

[castitas]

Not hurt. And her gaze lingers for a moment, not quite accepting of the answer. He doesn't look great, and the wince at the light of the fire does little to instil confidence. Kate's mouth twists to one side, brow furrowing a little further. But finally, there's an answer that's she satisfied with — even if she doesn't like it a whole lot.

"The Darkwalker came for two of us, like how it's done before. And— and now it's out there hunting us?" She shifts uneasily, the hairs at the back of her neck prickling as she turns her head towards a window. "You ever get the feeling you're in the world's worst goldfish bowl?"

And there's a cat outside, waiting to pounce and claw you out of it. Kate shudders, lingers a little at Tim's side — fingers curling unconsciously at the blanket at his shoulders: It was right behind him.

It takes her a while to answer the question, head jerking back towards him as she considers for a moment.

"Honestly, not many. Maybe a dozen or more, so far?" Maybe there'll be more than make it through the wilds. She isn't sure. This isn't even all making sense, they weren't even ready for anyone coming. "It's too early. Methuselah isn't even here, like he usually is. No one's seen him for a while."

Yes, she's worried for the old man. Even when no Interlopers would come, Methuselah would still always come back into town.

"The world's been like this for maybe a week or so, with all the green. The sun was supposed to rise last month, but it didn't. We haven't seen real daylight since November."

[ployboy]

Who he wants to ask. Who did the Darkwalker take-? There's some names he opens his lips to want to spill, to beg it isn't them, but Tim closes his mouth without a word. He nods, accepting that he'll be around long enough to find out himself.

Then there's the matter of how long he's been gone that the lack of sunrise is news, that the green is now a permanent fixture and the Darkwalker seems so close to winning. He wonders if he'll reopen wounds for her with the question, or if he's already doing so just by virtue of existing when he didn't just minutes ago. Life moves on- uh, finds a way, and Tim's got gooseskin with the ramifications of that.

And the rot, the way the trees themselves were stripped bare and looked towards where the sun wasn't. Is that--?

"Kate," he says, softly and squirming to sit himself up properly and less like deadweight. "You're tired.

Come sit with me."

[castitas]

Randvi and Chloe, he'll come to find. Kate didn't have the greatest of relationship with Chloe, on account of the whole 'getting smacked in the face and knocked out' by the woman a while back. But they had been civil, made up. Everyone had gone a bit crazy that mid-summer. But Kate liked Randvi, and her death is a deep loss felt by the whole town, she thinks.

"Everyone's tired."

She offers it gently. Everyone's tired and cold and hungry and wilting away with the lack of sunlight. They don't even have those cool sun lights to help stave off the dark — it's practically Vitamin D Deficiency City in this place.

"And you won't be last one to come through those doors." Meaning: she's got work to do. Her eyebrows raise a little, but a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I don't get special treatment to ditch pitching in just because you came back."

Not to mention:

"And you need to work on defrosting."

[ployboy]

Everyone is always tired. He fixes her a look- innocent despite what she may think of him wanting her near him right now, eyes searching her face for those hungry lines he knows well. He feels selfish, suddenly, having none of that. "Okay," he sighs. She'd been- colder than he remembered, when he had reached her. Like her own light from within had been extinguished, that fire that burns inside her. But he also remembers she hadn't been frozen in place, hadn't had any blue tint to her soft lips.

She'll be okay.

He rolls his shoulders and it burns, his body protesting and him working through the stretch. There's no rest for the wicked and it may be for the best that she's away from his hands- the Darkwalker is ravenous. Tim is a vessel for that madness. He wouldn't want to hurt her.

"You're right," he adds. Tilts his head a little as he studies her and wonders how much longer she'll be able to stay on her feet. "But I'd feel better if you were with me right now." He'd been away from her too long already. Which begs the question- "Where have you been staying?"

And is he welcome, in that not so far future, to visit.

[castitas]

Kate misses the warmth. She misses the feeling of helpfulness her hands brought, taking away wounds with only a touch. She misses the strange comfort in connectedness to others in her own head. Now there is only the chill and helplessness and isolation. Enola's gifts are failing her, and she doesn't know why. It makes it all so much harder, it reminds her how easy it's been.

But she's persisting, she's trying.

She exhales a soft laugh, her head dipping slightly. Okay. That is... super mushy. It's sweet, and she's bashful for a moment.

"I'm... not going far, I'm still in the same room." she says it with an gentle playfulness. She feels so unused to this. "And I'll need to keep an eye on you, anyways. You know. Like, make sure you warm up and stuff."

As if she'd be letting him out of her sight.

"I'm still home." She has... really missed rocks being thrown at her window. "Lieutenant Little mostly stays with Wynonna these days, so it's usually me and Lieutenant Irving. And Merry, of course."

Oh. That reminds her, her eyes lighting up with realisation. Very important:

"Wynonna took in Lily, after you disappeared. She's doing good. She'll be happy you're back, too."

[ployboy]

He looks away, his face too hot to be for any logical reason all of a sudden. It's like he's a kid begging to not be left alone somewhere strange. She's like a nurse, comforting the impossible patient in one of those sterile white rooms though the grand room of the Community Center is anything but a hospital. Tim clears his throat, does that thing where a guy nods up instead of down to signal that the message has been received loud and clear. There's a shine in his eyes, though- mischief that's out of place in so much gloom and disease, and, for the sake of transparency, there's that dose of disappointment too.

Until she brings up three names.

And Tim breathes easier- those are some of the names he had wished he'd hear news from. The feelings are complicated. Irving, as it stands, is the one in best standing. But they're important to Kate and they're people despite all those messy, nasty differences that have gotten in the way. (He remembers a promise to Little, and remembers running with Wynonna through hard packed snow after voles.)

They'll be okay.

He's smiling, relieved and warm, because Laelaps is okay too.

"I bet they're a good fit for each other," he huffs in his own joke, and swears he doesn't mean anything too mean. The amusement is obvious. "You'll have to show me how to tell Wynonna thanks for taking care of Lily. If I try, she'll bite my head off."

[castitas]

Oh, don't give her the disappointed eyes. She can't deal with that, she's a sucker for sad, disappointed looks. She almost folds. Almost. But the fact that they're short of hands and there's still plenty to do gives her enough fuel to not give in. She's going to be very responsible.

She can come sit with him later, when things settle down. She'd promise that.

Kate hums, thoughtful at the assessment. Well, it's not completely wrong. Wynonna and Laelaps have gotten on pretty well. It was maybe a little hard, in the beginning. But it's worked out.

"You know, you could just say thank you and mean it. No smart-butt quips, no sass." she tells him with a raised eyebrow. "I mean, she probably might wrinkle her nose up at you and find the sentimental stuff gross. But just an honest thank you without overdoing it would be enough."

Kate does know the secrets to Wynonna's warm and mushy center. It's there and it definitely exists. But it's been something earned and learned over time, and it's definitely a privilege to have learned.

She leans down to him slightly from where she stands at one side of the armchair, amusement in her expression.

"Although if you're super worried about Wynonna biting your head off, I can hold your hand for some moral support."

[ployboy]

Oh, she's having her fun with him. Tim is about to say that means about half of what he ever tells Wynonna- she's scary enough to earn that percentage of truth, but hearing it in his head is enough warning to not say it aloud. It's his turn to be sheepish, though the small smile doesn't wane much. It just turns a hint shier.

Even more so when she looms over him with what he's sure is an ultimatum, simple as it could be. Something like, 'please act like an adult' or 'don't be so ridiculous' or else face her version of wrath. But Tim's ears just turn pinkish red, and his eyes scan their surroundings as if wishing somebody else heard that so he wouldn't have to be the one to pinch himself (later, when feeling returns all the way to his fingertips).

He's in literal Hell and he's had the luckiest day in years: first she kisses him and now

"Okay. It's a date."

(If only it was always like this, and he was under a pile of warm blankets and towels, and the fire roaring was in its place and not jumping at them and their nightmares lived only in their heads-- then it wouldn't be such a bad deal, to be in Milton.) Reality catches up quickly, and Tim laughs a little giddy, a little overwhelmed despite himself under his breath. He shakes his head to sober up, the way a dog (a wolf) might, to clear his thoughts. "We'll... meet with Wynonna after your shift. If you feel up to it. Then I can take time to see if... Jack is still around, or just get a headcount."

[castitas]

It's a date. Her mouth opens, then closes. Well, shoot. He's gotten her there. Kate doesn't even know what to say to that. Again, open mouth, close mouth. Even with pink ears and a sheepish smile, he's still managed to get her to do her best goldfish impression.

"Some flowers would be nice." she is kidding, in truth. It's not really a date, she knows that. She huffs out a soft sound, straightening again.

Oh. Jack. Her mouth forms a thin line and she rubs at her brow briefly, considering her words for a moment.

"... I don't think he's here anymore." she says after a long pause. "I haven't seen him around."

She lets it settle.

"A headcount doesn't sound like a bad idea." she's smoothening down her clothes. "But, yeah. We can go find Wynonna later when I'm done here."

Likely at the Post Office, she thinks. Running the only bar in miles is pretty much a full time job. Kate pulls in a breath, lifting her gaze to move around the room. She'll need to check on those already here, see how they're getting on warming up. God knows there'll probably be more yet to come. Her eyes shift back to Tim, eyebrows lifting.

"Do you think you can behave for a while and stay put?"