[ Methuselah prepares a feast, and once again — and as he'll continue to do for as long as he's trapped in this place — Edward Little sets out to search for any new Interlopers, to help guide them back to the safety and warmth of the Community Center. It's a time-consuming and difficult task, but one he doesn't think twice about engaging in, a solitary figure trudging through the snow as he wanders out past the town and towards the wilds, where he knows newcomers are prone to appearing.
Always, his heart is open and aching to the concept that he might come across another familiar face. To hold onto hope is perhaps a dangerous risk — but hasn't it always been what's kept him going? Even when others may let go of that risk, justifiably so, Edward clings to it.
He can't give up. There are more men from his world who may appear here, confused and lost and in various stages of rot. Men he's responsible for; he prepares himself to find them.
What he couldn't possibly prepare himself for is to stumble across this particular familiar face.
As soon as the woman whirls around to face him, aiming that strange weapon his way, Edward feels everything inside of him freeze. He comes to an immediate halt, and isn't sure he's breathing for a few long seconds that seem to stretch into an eternity. Then, finally, he's exhaling a sharp, painful rush of air against a tightening in his throat, and his heart is clenched in on itself like a relentless fist. He's the same as always, adorned in the uniform of the Royal Navy, shotgun strapped to his back. He doesn't think once about reaching for it. ]
Lieutenant....?
[ La'an Noonien-Singh is dead. She was killed by something monstrous, and he's carried the weight of his own failure to protect the woman, her ghost joining all of the others that now haunt him. This cannot possibly be real; it's some figment, some cruel trick of this place.
The head knows this, but the heart hopes anyway, and begins to beat again, pounding. ]
arrival!
Always, his heart is open and aching to the concept that he might come across another familiar face. To hold onto hope is perhaps a dangerous risk — but hasn't it always been what's kept him going? Even when others may let go of that risk, justifiably so, Edward clings to it.
He can't give up. There are more men from his world who may appear here, confused and lost and in various stages of rot. Men he's responsible for; he prepares himself to find them.
What he couldn't possibly prepare himself for is to stumble across this particular familiar face.
As soon as the woman whirls around to face him, aiming that strange weapon his way, Edward feels everything inside of him freeze. He comes to an immediate halt, and isn't sure he's breathing for a few long seconds that seem to stretch into an eternity. Then, finally, he's exhaling a sharp, painful rush of air against a tightening in his throat, and his heart is clenched in on itself like a relentless fist. He's the same as always, adorned in the uniform of the Royal Navy, shotgun strapped to his back. He doesn't think once about reaching for it. ]
Lieutenant....?
[ La'an Noonien-Singh is dead. She was killed by something monstrous, and he's carried the weight of his own failure to protect the woman, her ghost joining all of the others that now haunt him. This cannot possibly be real; it's some figment, some cruel trick of this place.
The head knows this, but the heart hopes anyway, and begins to beat again, pounding. ]