07-23-2015, 01:12 AM
The dim glow of the cinders flared up and died down in steady rhythm. It was almost in time with Ron’s breathing—or maybe his breathing was almost in time with the pulsing of the dying lights. It was cold out now, colder than he’d imagined it would be. He tugged his overcoat together, buttoning it up in silence.
Nat was staring into the embers as well. Their conversation had faded. Now her face was like his. Pensive, tense, each small fold of flesh a marker for the anxiety that came with deep contemplation. He felt the need to save her from it, but couldn’t find any words.
It was her who spoke, moments later. “I suppose we ought to hit the hay. Getting late.” Her voice was monotone. He nodded in the darkness. She seemed to see him just fine. With a heavy hand she drew out the light from earlier, and shone it over to the stone that would house them for the night.
“Mind moving that for me?” she asked. He nodded, concealing a tiny grin as he did so. That was a question, rather than a direct order. Her disposition was softening. If he kept this up, maybe he’d be able to turn things around. Rolling his head to one side, then the other, he prepared to try and move the boulder. He wasn’t the strongest man; muscles tensed all along his back, knees, and the joints of his hips. His face grew hot from effort, and his eyes were filled with pressure. With one solid heave, the act was done. He peered down into the cool darkness below.
For all his errant thoughts, he really, really wasn’t looking forward to this all of a sudden. He turned back towards the dwindling flames, and Nat was approaching him. She held her half-cape folded up in her arms; her bits of armor were resting atop the third stone. “What do you think?” she asked him. “Like a home away from home, isn’t it?”
She smiled at him sardonically. He knew she could see the anxiety in him. “Y-yeah, sure… Sure.” He said, straightening his posture slightly. He wasn’t about to let her have her way like that. “So are we…”
“It’s only gonna get colder.” She interrupted. “You have to go in first, since I’ve got to block the entrance from you. I don’t want you making a break for it while I’m asleep.” Walking past him, she shone her light down into the hole. He leaned in to see what it looked like.
He’d been curious how such a structure could be made in an area where the sand is more loose than bare earth. Beneath the desert sands, the slavers had buried large boxes made of wood. The large boulders surrounding most of the oasis had likely been placed there from offsite to prevent excess sand from piling up around the small, glittering pool of water.
Ron stepped down into the hole, carefully. Knee-deep in the concealed bunker, he found that, unlike his own attempt, this box had ample room to sit comfortably and stretch his legs out. Grasping the rim of the entrance, he slid down and in, until his arms were parallel with the entrance boulder, as they should normally be for ease of escape. This probably wasn’t totally necessary, however; looking down at them, he could see, due to the unusually great distance the opening was from his hands, that the crate had an extra couple feet of vertical space—a precious commodity for this type of structure.
“Alright, now keep moving. To your left.” She said, her beam of light providing only the dimmest illumination. Swiveling his head, Big Ron could see that this box wasn’t sized like a typical spiderhole. It was spacious enough that four people his size could sleep shoulder to shoulder and not worry about getting stuck.
He did as instructed, shuffling his legs, then his arms, then his head over to his left. A few times more. He glanced over and scanned the space between him and the wall as best as he could, remembering that they hadn’t checked for snakes or anything dangerous in here.
“All clear down there?” she asked, not waiting for an answer before sliding herself into position next to him. There was a good amount of room between them—Ron was conflicted over this, being at once happy and unhappy. “I guess so,” he answered her stiffly, turning once more to scan the area beside him. He wasn’t too keen on the idea of being woken up by a snakebite.
The beam of her light shone past him, falling across the wall. “See anything?” she asked. He could hear her sliding into position, and the incandescence flashed and danced across the tightly bound slats of lightly colored wood, before finally settling down again.
“I don’t see anything.” Ron answered honestly. The only areas he couldn’t see were where his own shadow blocked his sight. “You’re sure?” Nat asked, the timbre of her voice a little lower and quieter than usual. “I really hate snakes. Spiders are one thing, but I don’t do snakes. You really don’t see any?”
“No, I really don’t see any.”
“Good.”
He lay in silence for a moment. The sounds of shuffling grew louder. An arm stretched over him, and the radius of the beam shrank, and he felt the warmth of her body, brushing slightly against his. The beam of light began to flitter and strut about the whole length of the spiderhole. She’d leaned over him and was shining her light around next to him, to make extra sure. “Yeah. Good.” She said, her voice taking on its usual pitch. “It looks like we’re alright.”
She must really hate spiders, he thought, unsure of what else there was to be thunk about such sudden strange behavior.
She quickly returned to her own position, and the light was switched off, leaving him in a sea of endless dark. Turning his head over again, Ron saw her pull the stone back over the entrance. Small amounts of sand fell onto her; she quickly wiped it off, away from him, groaning at the inconvenience of it all. The shaft of moonlight gone, all was pale yellow within the desert hiding place.
“So I suppose we just go to sleep, then? Right?” He asked, trying to keep his cool. His eyes were bleary, his pulse was racing, and his head felt like it was full of nothing but air. The worst part was, he couldn’t figure out why. Had he become claustrophobic or something?
She spoke, cutting through his panic. “Well, we can. In reality it’s only been night time a little while. So if we go straight to bed now it still won’t be daylight by the time we wake up. But the fire was dead, and this box is well-insulated, though, so it’ll trap our heat better than the open desert would.”
He closed his eyes and pretended he was somewhere else as he spoke back. “So what are we gonna do until then?”
“… Do you know any stories?”
“Stories?”
“Yeah, stories. Not the kind of thing we’ve been talking about. Made up ones.”
So this is how they pass the time… he held in a sigh. Ron didn’t like it when they humanized themselves this much. He’d already learned too much about her to kill her, if it came to that.
God, he didn’t want it to come to that.
He pushed out of the fetor and miasma of his macabre contemplations and answered her, “Yeah, I know a few. Ever hear of the Devil of Mars?”
“Pshh,” she scoffed, “I’ve never even heard of Mars!”
He laughed at that. "Well, they say that he stalks the Face on Mars. It's not safe to go there at night. They say that his presence conjures up cold and frost, and that's why sometimes it snows inside Face Dome." She gasped; clearly, she remembered his earlier explanation of Mars' bubble-like colonies fairly well; like tiny little heat bumps of sentience on an otherwise toxic and frozen world. Ron continued.
"A few years back, a little girl went missing. They say that the police found her, frozen solid into an ice statue next to the hydroponic gardens! It was a perfect replica, but all ice--right down to the shape and the network of her organs. Veins, bones, brain and nervous system... It was all detailed, and all visible from the outside in."
"N-no way! That's bullshit, Ron! Besides, you said that devils don't exist in your world!" She sounded genuinely frightened; he really couldn't tell if she was playing it up or if his hokey urban legends were finally scaring someone. "That's true," he assured her. "So what that really means is that we don't even know what the Devil of Mars is. He could be an alien. He could be a monster. He could even be a shapeshifter. For all we know, he followed me here--"
"Stop it! No! No! Stop!!" She cried, her voice high with panic. He knew that she wasn't faking it. "Ugh, god, I know it's made up but I hate scary stories..."
"Oh. Oh! I had no idea! I'm sorry. Here, let me try again."
"No, just," she started, huffing and sniffling in the pitch black, "just forget it. I should've said something sooner. It's ruined."
Was she crying? He didn't know. Ron sighed heavily, reaching up and tugging his hair in frustration. "Nat... Really, I'm sorry."
The tiny exhalations slowly ebbed out, giving way to silence. He sighed once more, shaking his head. This was probably a major setback. Plus, though he was loathe to admit it, he was beginning to get to know her. It was genuinely upsetting to him to know that he'd upset her that much.
A mere handful of words came, after several long minutes.
"I know." She told him. "I believe you. It's fine. Really."
He sighed again. This time, in relief.
Their dreams were filled with confusion and hard memories.
Nat was staring into the embers as well. Their conversation had faded. Now her face was like his. Pensive, tense, each small fold of flesh a marker for the anxiety that came with deep contemplation. He felt the need to save her from it, but couldn’t find any words.
It was her who spoke, moments later. “I suppose we ought to hit the hay. Getting late.” Her voice was monotone. He nodded in the darkness. She seemed to see him just fine. With a heavy hand she drew out the light from earlier, and shone it over to the stone that would house them for the night.
“Mind moving that for me?” she asked. He nodded, concealing a tiny grin as he did so. That was a question, rather than a direct order. Her disposition was softening. If he kept this up, maybe he’d be able to turn things around. Rolling his head to one side, then the other, he prepared to try and move the boulder. He wasn’t the strongest man; muscles tensed all along his back, knees, and the joints of his hips. His face grew hot from effort, and his eyes were filled with pressure. With one solid heave, the act was done. He peered down into the cool darkness below.
For all his errant thoughts, he really, really wasn’t looking forward to this all of a sudden. He turned back towards the dwindling flames, and Nat was approaching him. She held her half-cape folded up in her arms; her bits of armor were resting atop the third stone. “What do you think?” she asked him. “Like a home away from home, isn’t it?”
She smiled at him sardonically. He knew she could see the anxiety in him. “Y-yeah, sure… Sure.” He said, straightening his posture slightly. He wasn’t about to let her have her way like that. “So are we…”
“It’s only gonna get colder.” She interrupted. “You have to go in first, since I’ve got to block the entrance from you. I don’t want you making a break for it while I’m asleep.” Walking past him, she shone her light down into the hole. He leaned in to see what it looked like.
He’d been curious how such a structure could be made in an area where the sand is more loose than bare earth. Beneath the desert sands, the slavers had buried large boxes made of wood. The large boulders surrounding most of the oasis had likely been placed there from offsite to prevent excess sand from piling up around the small, glittering pool of water.
Ron stepped down into the hole, carefully. Knee-deep in the concealed bunker, he found that, unlike his own attempt, this box had ample room to sit comfortably and stretch his legs out. Grasping the rim of the entrance, he slid down and in, until his arms were parallel with the entrance boulder, as they should normally be for ease of escape. This probably wasn’t totally necessary, however; looking down at them, he could see, due to the unusually great distance the opening was from his hands, that the crate had an extra couple feet of vertical space—a precious commodity for this type of structure.
“Alright, now keep moving. To your left.” She said, her beam of light providing only the dimmest illumination. Swiveling his head, Big Ron could see that this box wasn’t sized like a typical spiderhole. It was spacious enough that four people his size could sleep shoulder to shoulder and not worry about getting stuck.
He did as instructed, shuffling his legs, then his arms, then his head over to his left. A few times more. He glanced over and scanned the space between him and the wall as best as he could, remembering that they hadn’t checked for snakes or anything dangerous in here.
“All clear down there?” she asked, not waiting for an answer before sliding herself into position next to him. There was a good amount of room between them—Ron was conflicted over this, being at once happy and unhappy. “I guess so,” he answered her stiffly, turning once more to scan the area beside him. He wasn’t too keen on the idea of being woken up by a snakebite.
The beam of her light shone past him, falling across the wall. “See anything?” she asked. He could hear her sliding into position, and the incandescence flashed and danced across the tightly bound slats of lightly colored wood, before finally settling down again.
“I don’t see anything.” Ron answered honestly. The only areas he couldn’t see were where his own shadow blocked his sight. “You’re sure?” Nat asked, the timbre of her voice a little lower and quieter than usual. “I really hate snakes. Spiders are one thing, but I don’t do snakes. You really don’t see any?”
“No, I really don’t see any.”
“Good.”
He lay in silence for a moment. The sounds of shuffling grew louder. An arm stretched over him, and the radius of the beam shrank, and he felt the warmth of her body, brushing slightly against his. The beam of light began to flitter and strut about the whole length of the spiderhole. She’d leaned over him and was shining her light around next to him, to make extra sure. “Yeah. Good.” She said, her voice taking on its usual pitch. “It looks like we’re alright.”
She must really hate spiders, he thought, unsure of what else there was to be thunk about such sudden strange behavior.
She quickly returned to her own position, and the light was switched off, leaving him in a sea of endless dark. Turning his head over again, Ron saw her pull the stone back over the entrance. Small amounts of sand fell onto her; she quickly wiped it off, away from him, groaning at the inconvenience of it all. The shaft of moonlight gone, all was pale yellow within the desert hiding place.
“So I suppose we just go to sleep, then? Right?” He asked, trying to keep his cool. His eyes were bleary, his pulse was racing, and his head felt like it was full of nothing but air. The worst part was, he couldn’t figure out why. Had he become claustrophobic or something?
She spoke, cutting through his panic. “Well, we can. In reality it’s only been night time a little while. So if we go straight to bed now it still won’t be daylight by the time we wake up. But the fire was dead, and this box is well-insulated, though, so it’ll trap our heat better than the open desert would.”
He closed his eyes and pretended he was somewhere else as he spoke back. “So what are we gonna do until then?”
“… Do you know any stories?”
“Stories?”
“Yeah, stories. Not the kind of thing we’ve been talking about. Made up ones.”
So this is how they pass the time… he held in a sigh. Ron didn’t like it when they humanized themselves this much. He’d already learned too much about her to kill her, if it came to that.
God, he didn’t want it to come to that.
He pushed out of the fetor and miasma of his macabre contemplations and answered her, “Yeah, I know a few. Ever hear of the Devil of Mars?”
“Pshh,” she scoffed, “I’ve never even heard of Mars!”
He laughed at that. "Well, they say that he stalks the Face on Mars. It's not safe to go there at night. They say that his presence conjures up cold and frost, and that's why sometimes it snows inside Face Dome." She gasped; clearly, she remembered his earlier explanation of Mars' bubble-like colonies fairly well; like tiny little heat bumps of sentience on an otherwise toxic and frozen world. Ron continued.
"A few years back, a little girl went missing. They say that the police found her, frozen solid into an ice statue next to the hydroponic gardens! It was a perfect replica, but all ice--right down to the shape and the network of her organs. Veins, bones, brain and nervous system... It was all detailed, and all visible from the outside in."
"N-no way! That's bullshit, Ron! Besides, you said that devils don't exist in your world!" She sounded genuinely frightened; he really couldn't tell if she was playing it up or if his hokey urban legends were finally scaring someone. "That's true," he assured her. "So what that really means is that we don't even know what the Devil of Mars is. He could be an alien. He could be a monster. He could even be a shapeshifter. For all we know, he followed me here--"
"Stop it! No! No! Stop!!" She cried, her voice high with panic. He knew that she wasn't faking it. "Ugh, god, I know it's made up but I hate scary stories..."
"Oh. Oh! I had no idea! I'm sorry. Here, let me try again."
"No, just," she started, huffing and sniffling in the pitch black, "just forget it. I should've said something sooner. It's ruined."
Was she crying? He didn't know. Ron sighed heavily, reaching up and tugging his hair in frustration. "Nat... Really, I'm sorry."
The tiny exhalations slowly ebbed out, giving way to silence. He sighed once more, shaking his head. This was probably a major setback. Plus, though he was loathe to admit it, he was beginning to get to know her. It was genuinely upsetting to him to know that he'd upset her that much.
A mere handful of words came, after several long minutes.
"I know." She told him. "I believe you. It's fine. Really."
He sighed again. This time, in relief.
Their dreams were filled with confusion and hard memories.