@nerfherder_han What exactly are we choosing to do in this vote? Because right now, I don't see the impact on this vote as it seems to be different variants of the same option with no meaningful differences between them.
I wanted to start small with the choices since jumping into things too quickly is an uncertainty of mine, but this initial vote will be the smallest I'll go. The results will have variations - Brett hasn't noticed you, she's surrounded by liquids being boiled, and half of the options can result in a negative interaction with her right off the bat.
Because it's a small impact, though, I'm not going to keep it open for long (one hour at the longest?) and get on to the next part once I close it.
You lean against the island for a few minutes, idly examining the food laid out on the plates. She must've been up for a while doing all this, but the clock in above the door you just walked through says you've only been asleep for three hours. Has she even gotten any rest since her shift ended?
Brett turns on her heel, two mugs of coffee in each hand haphazardly, and she locks eyes with you in an instant. She clearly hadn't expected to see you when she turned around. They bulge to the size of saucers, Brett gasping from shock. One of her hands spasms in her attempt to keep her shock to a minimum, and you can only watch in horror alongside her as the two mugs of hot coffee crash to the floor.
"Son of a--!" Some of the coffee splashes back up against her legs. Brett keeps her cool this time, her free hand steadying the remaining two cups, and she sets them down on the bench behind her.
She hisses and doubles over. You're still staring at the mess on the floor with a grim expression.
"Get me a bucket!" she snaps at you. You barely have time to watch her hiss again. You're dropping your jacket and jogging back down the hall, heading straight for the bathroom. The bucket is right where she left it last time, inside the shower collecting stray water droplets. It's half-full, probably a good enough amount to soothe her burned feet.
When you come back, Brett is rightfully sulking on a stool. She refuses to say a word to you as you slide the bucket within reach of her feet. As the coffee clears away, you can see just a hint of red seeping from one of her toes.
"Ah," is all you can say. Brett glances down and sees the small shard of coffee mug in her big toe. She sighs, exhausted and defeated.
"Can you just… make noise when you come in?" She squeezes the bridge of her nose. "My nerves can't handle being snuck up on twenty-four hours a day."
"Right. Sorry."
She gestures to the food and remaining coffee on the island. "Help yourself. It'll probably go cold by the time I get this shard out."
A pang of guilt runs through you. Welp, you've probably ruined a few tired kids' breakfasts. And Brett's day. And probably her sleep, if she hasn't had one yet.
You take little joy in piling a small plate with food. You take even less joy in snacking on it while you and Brett sit in uncomfortable silence. She never takes long to calm down, but upsetting her is still something you don't particularly enjoy doing. The best thing is to let her cool off, and then you can apologise proper for startling her. You munch on some toast and glance over at her occasionally. She runs a hand through her hair every so often before finally she calms.
"You're up early," she says. You nod.
"So are you."
She shrugs. "Haven't slept yet. I kinda wanted to get everything ready for the others before I crashed."
"I'm sure it means a lot to the others." You slide the plate over to her with a smile, letting her take some of the food. Brett smiles back. She grabs a piece of bacon and nibbles on it. "I know I like waking up to a proper breakfast like before."
Brett nods. "That's the plan."
Things settle into the usual morning routine, despite the shaky start. You see people come in from the front of the house, asking for a spare cot to sleep in. Brett occasionally checks her foot before deferring to you, and the shard is removed before an hour passes. The wound isn't deep, you tell her, and it should be fine once it scabs over.
It's half-past ten when Jake, a member of Brett's night guard and acquaintance of yours, arrives for breakfast. He's as raggedy as usual, looking like he's had the least sleep out of everyone left in the city, and he barely pays the two of you any mind as he advances on the lukewarm food on the island. You're surprised to see him ignore even the mess of coffee on the floor.
He stuffs a spoonful of scrambled eggs in his mouth, and Brett scowls at him.
"It's not going anywhere," she tells him. Jake turns to look at her just as he reaches for the bottle of maple syrup. Dear god, you know what he's going to do next. Brett seems to as well, scowling even more.
When he finishes his atrocious deed, wiping his face clean with the sleeve of his jacket, he turns for the both of you fully. He nods to you once in greeting, then says to Brett, "But I am."
Brett sits a little straighter. You abandon eating altogether. If Jake is going somewhere, it's bad news for you and your council.
"How many?" you ask him. He shrugs.
"Three. Two seizures and, ah…" He mimes the construction of a noose. You've lost your appetite. "I actually came here about that. You got anyone awake who doesn't mind delivering some bodies to the border? Three's too much for me on my own."
Brett looks directly at you. There's no subtlety to her expression - she wants you to help, probably for a reason other than simple delivery. You can't blame her for the concern she feels whenever Jake has to make the rounds and check who's passed away. It's not just the night terrors killing the residents of Haven - sometimes it's something more mundane, but tragic nonetheless. It's not like he ever talks about it, as far as you know, and with how worn down he's getting you yourself have to wonder how much longer he'll last.
[] Offer to help him
[] Tell him to ask someone in the dining room
"I'll lend a hand," you say. You push your plate to Brett and rise from your seat.
Jake stares at you with wide eyes. "Wait, really? Isn't this way out of your mayoral duties?"
You shrug. It may not be within your job description, sure, but three years ago no one had the duty of delivering the dead to the border. It's more a thing for willing volunteers, and you're as willing as anyone will get at this point.
"I'm not getting much more sleep anyway," you tell him. Jake nods in understanding. If anyone knows a thing or two about not sleeping, it's him. Even Mina and Choi are getting worried about how little he rests during the day. "Some fresh air might do me some good, too."
Jake's truck is parked out the front of Brett's house, three black body bags salvaged from the hospital lined up neatly in the back. You linger at the sight of them - two accidents and a suicide, more than you'd ever want to see for the remainder of your time here - before climbing into the passenger side and letting Jake get behind the wheel. The truck roars to life and rolls along the road, before finally Jake drives it proper.
Brett doesn't live far from the city border, being a good fifteen minutes away without traffic - Jake's timed it over and over by this point, the result always the same. Neither of you speaks during the solemn trip, instead letting Jake's cassette player blare Queen's greatest hits to fill silence. It's about the only thing he's listened to over the past year - sentimentally, you assume, because the way his face relaxes for a fraction of a second, his exhaustion and longing spilling over the edges, is far too relatable for you to just call him a hardcore fan. He isn't the only one who clings to their belongings for such reasons, either.
One day you'll ask.
The outskirts of the city are more shrubbery and small creeks compared to the moderate urban setting you live in. Beyond the border is the entrance to a park a few kilometers away, technically still part of the next town over, and part of you wishes that even a fraction of that park had been granted to the prison that Haven has become. Everyone could use some peace and quiet every so often, particularly among nature. But you suppose shrubbery and some water is still nature enough, peaceful enough, to forget most troubles.
Just a short distance from the sign marking the border - crafted by the first mayor, worn away with time - is a small heavy duty trolley. There's a rope tied to its handles. It's frayed, but still good for a few more uses. A small baggie dangles from its uppermost handle as well; you assume the cat toy with the bell in it is still being used to alert anyone on the other side of a delivery.
You exit the truck and find yourself staring down at the bags in the trailer. You help Jake unload them one by one, climbing inside and slowly easing one end of each body towards his reach. Jake has done this a lot, you think as he slings the first one over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes; even without your help, or perhaps anyone's, he'd have managed with his own methods. You get the second body bag ready and watch as he gently sets down the first on the trolley.
He sticks a note to the bag and takes the cat toy out of its pouch. With a steeling breath and a loose grip on the rope in his hand, he gives the cat toy a hard throw at the border.
It vanishes mid-jingle, a bright pink ball suddenly nothing more than empty air. Mere seconds later, the trolley he kicks after it does the same. All you can see is the rope hovering in the air, almost as though by magic.
You both wait in silence for five agonising minutes. The rope never moves, not even when Jake slackens his grip. The body bag you cradle feels unbearably cold despite reason trying to reassure you it's just your imagination. You grip the bag tighter, feeling the outline of the body inside against you. The jingle of the cat toy rings through the air just as you begin to make out the shape of a nose.
The second body is loaded. The process is repeated. When you prepare the final one, you can't help noticing the considerable difference in size and weight. When you cradle the bag against you, you can see a lot of empty space where the feet should be. No, you think with a bitter taste in your mouth, that's just where the older kids' feet would be.
You don't know which is worse: The possibility that one of the younger residents, who everyone gives their all to protect, had died due to the slowly increasing wave of seizures, or that they'd been so lost and at their wits end that suicide was the only option they could find.
By the time the final body is delivered neither of you has said anything. You glance at each other every so often, meeting gazes once or twice during your waits, but no other exchange is made. It's not all that different from how the night guard treat each other at times. Unless something /must/ be said, silence reigns supreme. And even as the silence drags on longer than before, a pause most likely on the other side of the border at the sight of such a young body, neither of you makes a comment. You just wait and wait and wait.
The cat toy comes back, and Jake gives the rope a soft yank. He pauses when the trolley doesn't come rolling back. He winds the rope around his hand and turns to face you, this time pulling with a long, loud grunt. You almost can't believe your eyes when the trolley slowly, slowly wheels back into Haven. There's multiple boxes stacked neatly atop it, all sealed with packaging tape and waiting to be opened. You hop off the truck and join Jake as he catches his breath. There's a tired smile on his face.
"No rest for the wicked," he sighs. You give him an equally tired smile.
"Haven is a wicked city," you tell him airily.
The boxes are loaded up into the trailer and Jake wastes no time revving the truck's engine. As solemn as corpse deliveries can be, getting supplies is one of the few highlights of the week. The first month had been hell, never hearing from the outside world and slowly having to ration any and all food, especially once the power went out the first time - but now Haven gets letters from family and fresh ingredients donated by people around the country, alongside meals ready to eat that the night guard has grown particularly fond of.
As soon as the truck starts to move, Jake gives you a grin. It's like the cadavers you just had to deliver never even existed. "Hope our parents sent some meals over," he tells you.
Oh yes. A home-cooked meal will be heaven after the hectic week you've had. Plus, it's better than a birthday cake at this point.
"Wonder if I got any cards," you muse. Jake's brows rise, his eyes going wide. He lunges for the glovebox and digs around inside, before finally he pulls out a box wrapped in old newspaper and sets it on your lap.
"Fuck, I can't believe I forgot. Happy birthday, mayor."
You return his earlier grin with one of your own. You really hadn't been expecting presents, given the circumstances, but you appreciate the gesture nonetheless. You tear at the newspaper wrapping and take a few seconds to process what's written on the unopened box. It's clearly been sitting around for a while, since nothing new ever gets delivered here, but you can't for the life of you figure out how something like this has never been opened before.
"A polaroid camera?" you say slowly.
Jake shrugs. "Dad wanted me to get a hobby. I bought the camera to make him happy, but it's really not my thing. Figured you'd find a better use for it. Plus," he adds, considering his words carefully now, "when you gotta leave, maybe you can take some memories with you."
"You wanna get rid of me that soon, huh?"
"Hey, I'm just saying a year passes by quicker than we think. 'Scuse me for being sentimental."
"I know. I appreciate it." You give him another grin, and this time he returns it. The supplies and the gift… They really do help make this mess you're in a little less miserable. You can forget for a while what you have to do when you get back to Haven's centre. Just… be you.
Trees pass you by and slowly you start to recognise the outline of nearby homes. You wonder how the others will react to the supplies, if there's any mail to be delivered. You're not particularly tired, so delivering some is easy enough. Well, easy when you don't have mayoral duties to attend to. You stare out the window and recline into the truck's passenger seat, relaxing at last now that the worst of the day is over. You could even sleep right now, though you doubt the truck's rough jostling will let you sleep for long. So you keep your eyes open, staring at the shrubbery and the trees.
All of a sudden, Jake's slowing the truck to a halt. You cling to the camera and look over at him in alarm, but he's staring dead ahead at the trees on his side of the truck. You follow his gaze, lost at first, but it doesn't take long to separate the colour of human skin from the brown of the trees and the green of the bushes.
"That wasn't there before," you mutter. And you know you're right. The trip to the border is always when you're most alert. You never know what could happen on the way.
Jake grips the steering wheel tightly. His knuckles are snow white, the colour draining from his face. You know exactly what he's thinking is in the bushes: A body.
"Your call, mayor. What do you wanna do?"
[] Keep driving.
[] See if the person is alive.
[] Let Jake make the call. (Additional dialogue choice)
- "I trust you."
- "I can't hold your hand for everything."
- "I'm not so sure, myself."
wow almost a year since the last update. sorry about that guys, hopefully we're back on track now that i have more time to actually write now
