Chapter Text
There were certain advantages to being a scientist.
Strength was not one of them.
Wilson chopped at the tree for the tenth time. It still did not fall, though there wasn't much left where he'd been hitting it with his ax. He swung again. And again. And again. Finally, the tree seemed to be about ready to fall. Two more swings and it was creaking. And finally down it went, and the resounding crash shook the ground. He smiled and chopped the tree into logs, which took another thousand swings. Once he finished, he stuffed the logs into his bag. He'd need them for the campfire.
And speaking of which, the brilliant, saving light of the sun was disappearing over the horizon. He looked up at the sky, wiping sweat from his face. Judging by how long days were, he supposed winter would be coming soon. That was not something he looked forward to, but no matter. He'd survived two winters already, he could survive another.
He followed the path back to his campsite. He'd placed it in, quite literally, the middle of nowhere so that he wouldn't be bothered by spiders or anything else that liked to try to murder him. If he wanted something from those monsters, he'd go off and find them himself.
Of course that was simply the ideal.
His arms ached. Chopping trees was not fun, but it was necessary. He'd certainly lost some weight while being out in this wilderness, and it was terribly lonely. That was something no amount of talking to Chester or even his pig allies could fix. He needed an intelligent mind, one like his own.
But that wasn't going to change anytime soon. He would probably die here. Alone. What a morbid thought.
The sun had nearly gone down by the time he'd reached his campsite. He had walls surrounding the camp, save for one 'door' which was not much more than a stone he could push out the way with even his weak arms. After removing his door and replacing it, he found Chester resting by the fire and his pig friends eating from the supplies of food he had stored away. He'd discovered a better way to preserve food than simply salting it to death. The salt was killing him and his pig friends slowly, and this new ice box was exactly what he needed.
He sat by the fire, grabbing a piece of cooked meat as he saw the last glimpse of the sun.
And then the noises started.
The spiders were a ways away from his encampment, but they liked to explore. They came from the forests and their lairs. They smelled the food, they heard the chatter of himself and his allies, and they wanted to feast on his corpse.
At least that's what it felt like. He'd been told some time ago, when he was a child, that spiders feared him more than he feared them. Nowadays, though, he didn't know if he believed that.
"More food!" one of this pigs, whom Wilson had named Maurice, stated with a smile. He stood and stomped over to the chest, retrieving himself another slab. Wilson sighed, finishing his meal.
Though the fire burned brightly, illuminating the entirety of the camp, he could see eyes peering at him from the darkness. He glared at them, but said nothing. What was there to say? Go away? They rarely listened. He merely had to keep tabs on his sanity. He remembered what had happened when he started talking to things that didn't exist.
He shuddered from the memory of the night monster biting him relentlessly after the hands extinguished his campfire. He'd almost died then, back in the early days of this 'adventure', before he'd even had the proper ability to even start a campfire.
With a sigh, he saw as Chester and his pig friends retired for the evening. Each found a place beside the fire, but Wilson couldn't bring himself to sleep. There was a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach, that if he slept, he might as well already be dead. He watched the fire flicker ominously, sending shadows across his group of three pigs. They looked like hulking masses as they slept, though most definitely less violent. If he were to bring them with him to chop down trees, they'd punch the poor things down with their bare hands.
His eyes fell back to the flames. It was calming, like staring into the sun and knowing that as long as it burned, he would be safe.
He threw a log from his bag onto the fire and watched the tendrils of concentrated heat lick the log into charcoal.
And then he saw movement.
Wilson stood slowly, utterly defenseless. He didn't carry his spear with him, and thus didn't have it. It was in his chest, which was some ways away. He didn't want to leave it with Chester. The dog chest might hurt himself.
A flash of darkness. His heart dropped and stomach went cold. Were those the hands again, come to take away the only defense he had against the night monster? No, no, Wilson, he thought to himself, you musn't think like that. But he slowly retrieved his spear nonetheless and slowly walked back to his campfire. He sat.
Wilson saw it again, and spun around to see a shadow on the ground in the shape of a serpent. He lowered the spear. It was just Mr. Skitts, as harmless as ever. Of course, that didn't mean his friends wouldn't be showing up soon enough. This was a precursor to the levels of insanity he wasn't quite willing to deal with at the moment.
Mr. Skitts slithered about, keeping his distance. He seemed to say, "You look down, Wilson." And Wilson sat, feeding into the desire to say something to someone (or in this case, something).
"Hello," he spoke, voice cracked from disuse. When was the last time he'd spoken outright? He was all gestures nowadays, and the occasional comment to his pig allies. Mr. Skitts seemed impatient.
"Hello," he said again, voice clearing, "How are you?" There was no response. He wasn't expecting one.
"I'm fine," Wilson answered, and he hummed. What to discuss?
"I thought things were going... better," he said, "But I suppose not, if I'm seeing you again. I guess the Hands will be back, soon. I've tried to keep sane, really. I've kept up my scientific research, you see. I've found these... machine bits I suppose, in the wilderness. I don't know what they do, but I've been collecting them. I don't even know how to put them together. But I've studied them; they seem otherworldly.
"You know what I want the most? My notebooks. They were filled with knowledge from that... that man, Maxwell. You know him, don't you? The tall one?" Mr. Skitts made no movement to show that he understood.
"Well, the notion stands. I knew so much, and it’s all locked up here," he tapped his forehead, "I remember it, sure, but what can I do with it without materials? And most of it I can't... fully realize I suppose." He sighed, despondent. Talking had only done him a disservice-- depression fell upon him like a weight.
Mr Skitts was as silent as ever. Wilson reached out to the shadow on the ground, and he slithered away into the darkness. Alone, Wilson turned back to the fire.
And that's when he heard it.
Above the crackling of the fire, he heard panting and footsteps and the sound of spiders. He looked at the sky, unable to tell what time it could have possibly been. Was it time for the spiders to come around, look upon his fortress and wonder how to enter, or was someone or something bringing them to him? He grabbed his spear and fished around in one of the chests for his logsuit. Upon finding it, he donned it quickly. The footsteps were nearing, but seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. Wilson wanted to say something, he really did, but fear paralyzed his throat quite effectively. The pigs were fast asleep, snoring. Chester was, as well. To leave the safety of his haven in the dead of night was a death sentence, wasn't it? To face the night monster again, an unseen and untouchable enemy, was not in his plans.
But if it was someone, and that someone died because he'd been too afraid to look outside for five seconds, he would never forgive himself.
And so he created a torch out of the materials in his chest and walked over to the blocked doorway. The footsteps were almost upon his haven. With a breath, he pushed at the rock until it allowed him to see outside into the darkness.
He waved the torch, looking for any signs of movement. He saw something, a spider running past? And just as he was about to force the rock back into its position, a face startled him. He screamed, falling back and dropping his torch. A pale face, eyes wide with fear stood there, mouth moving but no sound coming out. Wilson didn't move. A spider's leg pierced the man's shoulder, and blood splattered on the rocks and on Wilson's face. It made him flinch, and he could move again. He scrambled up and stabbed at the spider, killing it quickly. He shoved the rock as hard as he could and pulled the man into his encampment, scrambling for his torch and waving it at the spiders.
"Get out of here!" he screamed (mostly for show, really) and they scurried back in fear of the fire.
Yes, of course spiders feared humans, but when they were as big as these monsters...
He pulled the rock back into its original position, and looked at the man he'd just rescued.
He was as silent as ever, holding his bleeding arm with a kind of gratitude in his eyes.
"Come on," Wilson spoke, gesturing for the man to follow him.
Near the fire, Wilson took scraps of fabric from an old vest he'd made and patched up the oozing wound.
"Are you alright?" he asked in the crackling silence. The man had said nothing, and he remained in his silence. Wilson tried again.
"Its very frightening, I know, to be attacked by those monsters. They're... horrifying." He shuddered, recalling the first time he'd been attacked by a spider. He hadn't been expecting to find such large arachnids, and the thing was upon him in seconds. No matter how fast he ran, the thing caught up, and it took beating the thing's face in with his fist to get it to stop. He shuddered again and finished patching the man up. He looked at his handiwork; he was no doctor, but the man's shoulder seemed to be alright. He probably wouldn't have much movement in it for awhile, but it'd heal.
Hopefully.
"So what's your name?" Wilson asked, trying to coax a response out of him, excitement burning in his stomach. The man gestured to himself.
"Yes," Wilson said, a smile on his face, "You." The man seemed puzzled. He gestured in the air. Wilson frowned.
"What?" The man gestured again and a sick realization hit him.
"You can't speak, can you?" The man shook his head, looking guilty. Wilson swallowed.
He was back to square one, then. But he tried to smile against the pit of despair that ate away at him, because things weren't so bad, right? He had his pig friends, still, and now someone could at least listen to him. But he missed the mellifluous, nuanced sounds of human voices. He missed the sounds of people. And though he'd taken to being alone even before all of this had occurred, he missed civilization and, above all, humanity.
"Alright." But the man seemed to be near tears. He clasped his hands together, mouthing words Wilson couldn't hear.
"What?" he asked. The man begged more in silence. Wilson thought.
"Oh... oh you think... you think I'm going to hurt you?" The fear in the man's eyes was apparent. Wilson shook his head.
"No, no. I couldn't do that. It's alright if you can't talk. I'm merely... disappointed." The man seemed to calm a bit, wiping at his eyes with a gloved hand. They sat in silence for a minute. The man pulled some reeds from the bag on his back-- where had he gotten those?-- and began to spell letters with them. First a W, like Wilson's own name. He watched with interest as the man spelled out an E and an S, leaving them on the ground and looking up at Wilson.
"Wes?" he asked. The man nodded, a small smile on his pale face. Wilson smiled, too.
"Well, I have food on hand if you're hungry." Wes' face displayed his need for food, and Wilson looked at his thin frame. When was the last time the poor man had eaten? Wilson stood and walked over to the chest, fishing out another slab of meat. He walked back over and handed the delicious item to his new friend. Wes devoured it in seconds.
"Are there any more..." Wilson began, but he stopped himself. He didn't want to know, now. He had a long night ahead of him, and he didn't need to ponder such things. Wes' face held his question, and Wilson shook his head.
"Never mind. You should rest. You'll heal faster if you sleep." That was another thing he was told as a child, but this one seemed, if not plausible, than at least ideal.
Wes made to rest his head on the stone beneath them, but Wilson shook his head.
"I have a tent that you can use." He pointed to Wilson, confusion in his eyes. Wilson's face was grim.
"I'm not sleeping tonight." With some hesitation, the silent man made his way over to the tent and stepped inside. For him, time would pass in mere seconds. For Wilson, the night would last forever.
But that was nothing new.