Shimmer, Glimmer, & Gleam - A Quest of Loss & Gain

So! This could have fallen into Road Crews or The Little Things, but I felt my idea fit better for the latter. And being freshly caffeinated for the first time in about a month, I stayed up about an hour or so longer than normal to get this out all in one go!

Hopefully I have understood the assignment, and if not? OH WELL! I enjoyed doing this, and it can be apocrypha if it don't fit!

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The Little Things
Ashe, just Ashe, no last name; Had come to terms with having their hands turn to glass rather quickly. Really, they had! There was no reason to dwell on it when the apocalypse had come, their hands were made of blue Sea Glass, and there were more pressing things to focus on as the University was suddenly under siege. So they did their best to make bandages and, with great care, put their sewing skills with Fabric towards sewing Flesh to aid the few doctors patching up the defenders. The ease that they were picking up in competence and speed with it had been a bit eyebrow raising, but they had attributed it to stress more than anything.

Somehow, being saved by Spider Women Cavalry was still a novelty after those weeks of blood, even when compared to there being a literal Furry now among the University Survivors.

The flurry of activity afterwards had left little time for self-reflection either, and was it really something to worry about? They kept up their journaling as the days went by, somehow far easier to manage when it wasn't filled with 'I went to class again' week after week, kept on call when the Medics or Doctors needed more hands as the Corps Crawlers were dealt with, and helped patch up people's clothing with what spare cloth was scavenged between all the more pressing essentials. Another pair of hands to help, thats what they were, and that was fine.

So when volunteers were needed to help clear the highways and roads, they didn't think twice before volunteering. No fighting, low risk of life threatening danger, and it was work that needed doing. (No matter what the rich fops tried to mumble about when they thought no one was paying attention)

At first it was just like any other work around the community. Haul equipment here, help push something there, heat up some food on the tiny camp stove for those on break, etc, etc. It was only when they were assigned to the small group digging through each car for loose supplies that Ashe finally realized what had been prodding the back of their mind for all those weeks.

The upholstery for most of the cars was, as always, that faux leather which would peel and flake away after a decade of sitting. Pliable, occasionally stained, and worthless for anything except future insulation for new homes as far as they were concerned. But something pushed them to check it still, to poke and prod and eventually… cut a few large sections out with their knife. Into cargo pockets it went, and they resumed grabbing stray batteries free of acid leak and any surviving cigarettes as normal, almost forgetting about the material until evening.

Sewing kit in hand, and a curious idea in mind, Ashe let themself begin to to carefully work the faux material. Careful scissor cuts led to the overlarge shape of their hand taking form in four pieces, a little more work and the rough appearance of two fingerless gloves came into shape. Black thread sewn into Black Upholstery Leather began to take proper shape to the pieces, memories of working the real thing flitting by as their Sea-Glass hands flickered in the moonlight. It was shocking how easily familiar it felt to work the fake leather, like real calf hide all over again. Halfway through the work, exhaustion finally won out over fixation, but the pull was still there, that this was important. That they were on the cusp of something.

The next few days continued in pattern, working away diligently but absentmindedly on the cars, and then sewing away during their breaks, well into the night in a slow but steady pace as the exhaustion of the first night got lessened each night. And each time those gloves got a little more realized, a little more real in their hands, until one morning came… and they were finished. A new pair of black fingerless gloves, sized perfectly for their hands, and shockingly comfortable. So, they put them on, and got to work as normal; A new accessory and something to help keep warm once the Autumn winds rolled in. Ashe saw no reason to bring attention to the finished product, no one had really brought up their sewing in the time they had been working so far, but someone noticed by lunch and finally brought much needed attention to the creation.

"Hey, nice find there, kid. I didn't think any of these cars would be fancy or rich enough to have real leather driving gloves. Which one did ya get those out of?"

Ashe blinked as they tried to follow the information thrown at them, unsure how to respond delicately to the strange assertion.

"They… aren't real leather though. Its faux leather, same as the upholstery on every car here… except the furry seat one."

"Don't know what to tell ya kid, but thats real. You can tell just by lookin, the patterns all wrong for that mass produced shit they put on every chair in the last 30 years. On top of that," The old man slowly reached a hand out and felt the back of the glove with their fingertips, nodding to himself, "It feels like the real stuff too. Just like the vest my Pa had himself buried in."

Ashe looked down, really looked, and saw that… the man was right. No hint of the faux appearance or feeling remained, awareness of every part of their feel against the glass of their hands lighting up like a neon sign as their eyes turned to saucers. They nearly tripped over their own feet in their rush to stand up, ignoring the cries of the man and several others as they ran back down the road, eyes desperately scanning for the car they had cut up what felt like months ago now. It took a few minutes, progress on the work both faster and slower than expected as was so often the case in these jobs, but they found the car just as several of the others caught up to them; Staring at the cut up seat in shock.

It was faux leather, the whole thing, not one bit of even hinting at real as they reached a hand forward and touched it. And when the others finally got them to turn around and explain what had gotten into them, all they could do was hold up one hand, and point with the other, awestruck as they spoke.

"I made these, from that. It started fake, and it changed. I changed it…" And finally, that prodding insistent thought in the back of their mind, clicked into place.

The grin that slowly spread across their face was matched first by the old man, then by the others as understanding dawned on them all, one quickly running back and calling for anyone with steady hands and a knife. By the time the volunteers headed back to the Dockyard, their work on the path now done, packs laden with faux leather strips and squares, and each with a fine braided bracelet made from strands of fine looking Leather.

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It is now time to pass out before my anxiety attempts to stop me posting this!

Sometimes, getting better involves losing your shit for a while.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Acclimation.

Life Outside is... different. Amelia can feel the eyes on her. People wondering what she did. Well, people, if you can call the rich kids that much. She shakes her head. No, that's not right. That's shitty of her, isn't it? Orchid and hers are saving everyone they can. Even the monsters get a chance. Even fucking Yasmine didn't get killed. Sent off to somewhere else. Exiled. Amelia asked for one thing, and she got it, so Orchid's alright in her book. So maybe she can accept that it's not entirely the rich kids' faults that they're useless.

Like she's one to talk. Can't fucking walk. Can't lift shit. Just using her arms is exhausting, thinking is still like trudging through mud, every time she eats it makes her want to die again. Her throat, lungs, all ruined from the poisoning. Fucking Yasmine. So what's she doing now? Sorting. Small things. Useful things. Pens, trinkets, remnants of the world that died. Things found in cars. You never know when you need a fucking paperclip. Her best friend now, Jenny, -has to be, they push the fucking chair,- brings her shit, and boxes.

There's rows and rows of them now. Jenny tells her to stop when she's tired but that's a joke, it has to be, she's always tired now. So she sorts shit into boxes and labels them in shaky handwriting, -can you believe she used to be proud of that?- and then Jenny takes them wherever they store these things. People here are, admittedly, pretty good about making sure she has room to move around, but it turns out the apocalypse is not particularly wheelchair accessible! Who'd have guessed?!

But eventually Jenny stops bringing her anything. They tell her it's break time, and she retorts with her customary stream of whispered curses. Jenny just rolls their eyes and keeps pushing, starting up that constant stream of mostly meaningless chatter they're so good at. They're a good friend. She didn't think she had actually had any friends, Inside. Except for Yasmine. So it was a bit of a shock when one of the few survivors actually remembered her, remembered some act of kindness. Amelia doesn't actually remember. Her memories are jumbled, now, thanks to, once again, fucking Yasmine.

Apparently Amelia fought off someone bigger, scarier. Didn't win. Got the shit kicked out of her, actually. But she tried. She can't imagine doing that now. The very idea of it would freeze her in place, deer in the headlights, not that it matters with Jenny pushing the chair. Jenny remembered that, remembered her face... Jenny's why she's alive right now.

Amelia hates that.

All of a sudden, she starts shaking.

"Stop." Amelia scratches the word out of her throat. "Stop!" The word won't come out louder than a whisper. Jenny's stream of consciousness chatter cuts off anyway, and they look down, head tilted in confusion. They don't even get the chance to speak before Amelia mutters, "Leave, go away, get away, leave."

Jenny hesitates. "You sure?" Their voice, inexplicably, horribly, reminds her of Yasmin. Amelia nods, shaking harder, and with an anxious glance, they let go of the handles and turn back. "I'll.. I'll be in the kitchen." And then they're gone.

And she's alone.

It's never really quiet here. The sound of glass, at the very least. Drifting voices of the people. The odd thumps when the spiders don't want to be quiet. Time becomes a false thing, a sequence of noises, the occasional shout. Nothing like Inside. So why can't she fucking breathe? Why did she have to send Jenny away? What the actual fuck is wrong with her now? The spike in her chest is only growing worse and worse. A moment stretches forever, and then-

"Uh, you okay, dude?" A voice snaps her out of it, male, in front of her. She didn't even see him, the kind of distraction that gets you killed, Inside, and she almost tries to tell him to leave, but what's the point? She can't even get any words out. He's one of the university kids. One of the jocks, with a stupid haircut that looks even worse now that it's half grown out. She can't tell him this, but Amelia hopes the force of her glare gets the point across. "Shit, no, obvious, duh. Uh.."

"..." He drops onto the floor, putting his back against the wall, not looking at her. "Look, I don't know what's up with you. But I know what a panic attack looks like." He glances at the wheelchair, but thankfully, says nothing. Good. Means Amelia doesn't have to kick his ass. Not that she could, thanks to, and she would like the audience to say it with her this time, fucking Yasmine!

Anger is working great on keeping her from having to unbox the rest of those feelings, too. Top notch work, anger. Thanks for your service. ... The jock's still talking. "I had a buddy who had 'em. Nervous guy. Great goalie... But you say the wrong thing to him, or something went wrong with the lights and he'd run off into the closet, or roof. Or just away. And when I'd find him, he'd be just like this."

He tugs at the collar of his shirt, looking over at her. "I'll leave if you want me to. Just doesn't seem right. He'd say there's nothing I could do, but I thought it helped to have someone there. Something to listen to. If it doesn't just like. Wiggle your fingers or something. I'll get it." Amelia almost wants to send him off just to end the awkwardness of the moment, but... It is kind of helping, isn't it? Listening to someone else talk. She makes a face, trying to make him get on with it.

"... Cool. I'm Jacob, by the way." He gives a sorta half shrug. "... He wasn't at the university, when it all happened. He'd gone home, in the city. I bet he's hiding in a closet, waiting out the apocalypse one breath at a time. He said that a lot. One breath at a time. Said it helps."

Amelia wants so badly to say something sarcastic and bitter but what the fuck does she know? Maybe it would help. Breathing, that is. She keeps forgetting to. One breath. Two. Three. Another. And another. Jacob looks at her, then back at the ground. "Yeah, kinda like that. Just, one at a time."

And the worst thing is it helps, too. One breath at a time, the spike in her chest lessens, the pain fades to something bearable. She feels the tension in her neck drop from strangling her to merely uncomfortable.

"He had a buncha other things, too, but uh, I don't really remember. Counting, that was one."

"Bullshit." The word comes out scratchy, but it actually comes out. Quiet, but still. It comes out.

Jacob startles, looking over. "What?" He looks so confused, Amelia almost wants to laugh. But doesn't, because she's not that mean.

"It worked. Which is bullshit." It's absolutely ridiculous. It's absurd. Breathing? Counting? Stupid soft stuff that shouldn't work but it did.

He doesn't seem to know what to say, at first, before he snorts, throwing his hands in the air. "Yeah. Isn't it?"

--------

She never gets around to telling him his hair looks stupid.

Eventually, Amelia asks him to wheel her over to the kitchen, and she doesn't even curse at him when she does so.

Okay, she curses a little.

But Jacob gets her there, and Jenny's there, and there's still that spike of. Something. But it's not so overwhelming, not so much. Jenny's confused, worried, but they aren't mad, and nothing they say sounds like Yasmine at all.

You let Kayleigh know early in a morning that you need to go meet with some very private people and ask her to check out the plushie supplies for a friend.

"...The plushies," Kayleigh repeats. "Aren't those...you know...for kids?"

You give her your longest possible look.

"Okay..."

The kids don't take shifts, exactly. They help out as they can but are generally diurnal, which means they take their breakfast together in their secret clubhouse. Sometimes, like today, you join them. The fake lock appears to be gone, but everyone is there, and you take your seat after putting Barkley on the table. Breakfast is, as always, heavy on eggs. The dairy situation is fucking dire, so it's also heavy on vitamin D and calcium supplements. That problem needs to be solved before y'all actually eat your way through several pharmacies and a supermarket's worth of vitamin supplements. You're kinda quiet through the usual pleasantries, though you notice morale seems to be up, which is a positive sign for introducing Kayleigh, you think.

You clear your throat most of the way through breakfast. "There's someone I'm...helping to take care of. Maybe a friend, we'll see. I'd like to bring her to the evening meeting."

There is a series of looks around the table, and then Missy Misty, seemingly having lost the silent 'you first' competition, says: "A grown-up?"

You nod. "A grown-up."

"This place isn't for grown-ups," Missy insists, a little darkly. "You should know better."

Uhhhhh - "Missy...I am grown-ups, remember?" This gets a general chorus of 'no you're not' and 'we talked about this already', and you put your hand on Barkley's head to indicate that you're not done. "Okay. Why can't you meet my maybe-friend and see if she's also an exception?"

This precipitates a huddle. After the first minute and the third glance your direction you get your knife out so you can trim your nails; you've seen this before, it's gonna be awhile. And it is! You were completely correct in that assumption! You've got the time to get your nails done, sharpen the knife back up after, and start brushing Barkley's fur before the kids finally break up. Missy, it seems, has not managed to shake her position as the appointed representative: "We'll escort both of you to the back-up hiding spot."

"...There's a back-up hiding spot?"

"You are one of the grown-ups," Missy shoots back, smugly, and at that point you've gotta hand it to her.

* * * *

Kayleigh's penguin is named Popsicle. It is, inexplicably, a girl, though you can't really question that out loud without revealing that Barkley is a boy but you don't know why that should be the case either. Little Greggie is sent to collect the two of you before dinner, and you are very badly led towards a fast food joint (Silly Pete's Beef) near the perimeter which has already been thoroughly looted, including the moving of all of its machines. This place must have been a different business once; the layout doesn't match the others, and it has an actual like, office and breakroom space, which the kids have thoroughly drawn on in marker and crayon. They are doing their best to look grim and imposing when you arrive, which, you must say, their best is very bad.

"Everyone, this is Kayleigh. She was...Inside, with me," you not-explain. "Kayleigh, these are my friends, Marie introduced me to them."

"The kid?" Kayleigh asks, scratching at her arm; she's chosen to wear elbow-length gloves, to 'not scare the children'. "...Sorry about. Her being gone like that."

"She wasn't gone until the end," a shy girl(? it's in a dress) mumbles into the back of her stuffed bear. "Who's your little friend?"

The next few minutes are a flurry of sitting and cooing over Popsicle, who has an Excellent Name, and then everyone but you and Kayleigh kinda tents their fingers and looks serious. They're staring at her, so you clear your throat and reach desperately for a topic. C'mon, c'mon...

"So uh." You clear your throat. "How's your gender training going?" They stop staring at Kayleigh and now everyone including Kayleigh is staring at you. "...That's what y'all do, right? You picked a gender and you're learning how to do it?" Continued Staring. "Come on, I can't be the weird one here again, that's gotta be what's happening - everyone seems to have some kinda gender, like a faction in one of Marie's videogames, and then you learn how to be it and then sometimes people picked the wrong one and they Switch, that's how it goes?"

You couldn't hear a pin drop in this silence because the pin would stop falling to also stare at you.

"...Nnnnooo?" Missy hazards. "I've always been a girl?"

"Who said??" you half-demand, exasperated.

"My mom and dad??" Missy answers back.

"You don't even get to pick your own gender?" Kayleigh is quietly dying next to you, not of laughter but of mortification, and is slowly scooting her chair away from you which is rich coming from the fucking cannibal. You soldier on: "I picked mine!"

"You don't have a gender," the shy girl(?) - Juliet, that's her name - points out.

"Correct! And I picked it! The rules of this whole gender game are weird and I don't wanna play it! Do you even want to be a," oh gods you're in too deep, you're gonna have to pray you guessed this right, "girl??"

Absolute silence.

The end of time and space could not be as silent as this room is right now.

This is the sort of complete, axiomatic quiet that could only be disturbed by, as a random, nonspecific example, 'let there be light'.

And then little Greggie says, "Being a boy sounds scary, can I stop playing too?"

"You did it now," Kayleigh mutters, and you probably were not supposed to hear that but you did. Fuck. Okay, uh -

Pick one
[ ] Double down
[ ] HEY HOW ABOUT THOSE VIDEOGAMES HUH
[ ] Wait, hold up, we didn't even let Kayleigh talk about herself!!
[ ] Desperate topic change write-in?