Chapter Text
He didn't know where he was, but that wasn't all that new. He didn't often know where he was, it was common for him to be lost in this city. He scanned his surroundings for anything familiar, finding nothing but an empty and desolate street until his gaze locked on a building next to him. He couldn't place it, but he felt like he'd been here before.
He brushed his hair out of his face and wondered if he could find something in the building to tie it up. It was getting long, to his shoulders now. He didn't remember when it had gotten so long, but the idea of cutting it left a sour taste in his mouth.
He climbed through a broken window on the first floor, taking advantage of the thick soles of his shoes and avoiding using his hands to protect himself from cuts.
Looking around, he found shelves upon shelves of medications. He wondered if he might have stumbled on a pharmacy with the variety.
He ignored the creeping nausea as he searched through the stock of medicine. He learned it was better to ignore it, and his own knowledge of science, in times like these.
He skipped past any liquid medication, knowing none of it would be of much use, especially since he didn't know how long it had been. He didn't bother with expiration dates either, they weren't useful if he didn't even know what year it was anyway.
He went straight for pills and tablets, grabbing mostly painkillers and a few others he knew instinctively didn't lose much potency over time, but debated a long time staring at a few of the antibiotics. On one hand, the chance of them being next to worthless at their job was high, on the other they would be insanely useful if they worked. After a second of debate he decided that something was better than nothing in this case and grabbed a few bottles of ones he knew didn't have harmful effects even after expiration.
He shivered and shook off the uncomfortable feeling of crawling under his skin before he made his way up the surprisingly intact staircase.
He froze at the sight of rows upon rows of beds, skeletons crowding the corners where people went to hide, dried blood splattering the floor and IV drips left abandoned. He didn't know what this building was before, but it was clearly an abandoned improvised hospital now. He didn't know why he didn't realize it before. No building with medication wouldn't have been repurposed in exactly the same way. The nausea he had been trying to ignore came back full force as the room seemed to narrow in around him. He needed out of here. Now. His eyes frantically scanned for exits. His chest hurt. He couldn't breathe.
What was he looking for again? His hands loosened from where they had begun to pull on his hair and he frowned. When had he done that? He brushed through his hair to fix it, wincing minutely at the slight ache in his scalp. Right, he was trying to find something to put his hair up.
A glance around the room, which he pointedly ignored the very uncomfortable atmosphere of, provided nothing intended to put up hair, but it did lend him several packs of gauze, sharp implements, and basic bedding, that he put in his backpack for later, as well as a few pencils.
He vaguely remembered a hairstyle his mom taught him with a hair pin and reasoned to himself that any stick would probably do. Attempting the bun with a pencil led to surprising success and he grinned proudly to himself. The paper he found was too waterlogged to be much use so he just pocketed another pencil incase he found something to write on later.
The idea of taking the long skeletal corpses for fertilizer crosses his mind and, before he can talk himself out of it, he's using a mortar and pestle to fill several empty bottles with dust. He's a farmer at heart after all, and he knows plants won't survive well out here without help. It's survival. They'd understand. He puts them in his bag before he can question himself. In doing so, he noticed multiple bottles of medication he hadn't realize he had gotten. He paused, confused for a second, before he decided to shrug it off, they would be useful anyway.
Another glance around has him realizing just how dark the room was, with shadows coming to life in the corners of his vision. He knew from his search of the room before that a light wouldn't be found here, so he found his way outside instead. Maybe he could find someone to help him figure out where he was, although the idea made him a bit uncomfortable.
Wandering aimlessly without any idea of where you are isn't the best strategy, but it did yield him several weapons, what he concerningly recognized as an explosive and quite a bit of preserved food. Canned food and dried meats aren't the best, but he didn't trust anything else he'd found. Although he couldn't help himself from trying the slushie ice, which somehow both smelled and tasted amazing to a point it led to him questioning the concerning amount of preservatives that must have been in it.
He wonders why, if it was so easy for him to do this, he had no food before. He decides not to question it too hard when it makes his thoughts feel like cotton.
He gets startled by a voice that instinctively fills him with dread, the cup of slushie ice falling to the ground. "Hello?" it called like pins stabbing into his ear drums.
His throat tightened as he turned to face the figure he'd never known and yet existed within his nightmares. The figure held a lamp, making it glow in the darkness of the night. Its hair was dirty enough you might wonder if it was truly brown, and it wore a suit, but it was torn in places and hardly clean enough to be considered fancy.
The figure spoke with familiarity that, in the face of no recognition, brought only fear. "Oh thank god," the figure smiled in relief, and its hand came up to brush through its hair in what was likely a constant habit.
Even at the distance the figure stood at, the movement still brought forth an instinctive flinch. The figure froze, its expression flashing with guilt for a second before becoming slightly desperate. "Please tell me you have something to write with," the figure begged.
The question was so surprising it made him pause his panicked spiral to respond. "Um, I have a pencil, but I don't have any paper."
The figure seemed to deflate, looking resigned and sad. "I'm sorry," the figure's voice broke and it coughed. "I'm so sorry. Please stay safe. Trust nothing you find. And leave. For your own good," and with that last desperate message, the figure ran, leaving him behind.
He took a deep breath after the figure left, trying to calm his racing heart, the shaking of his hands, and ignore the cotton filling his brain. His muscles relaxed for the first time since he had heard the figure's voice, and, with nothing else to do, he continued wandering.
His horrible sense of direction likely meant he had gone in a circle a few times, but he didn't really mind. He wasn't sure if he was looking for people, or avoiding them anymore.
He managed to find melons and pumpkins of various interesting stages of growth, and he only had to get a little wet to grab them. He cracked them open and snagged as many seeds as he could, storing them in a bottle with some water to hopefully get some of them to sprout.
He also managed to find a sign that read, "Welcome to Shadowbrook," so he assumed that must be where he is, but that doesn't tell him much as he has no idea where that is in relation to anything.
He had found an ice cream truck, although the fuzzy feeling in his head made him feel like it might not be the first time, when he spotted three people. Despite his unease, he waited for the three to approach him, and called out, "Hello?"
A pale, young brunette girl with silver eyes, an outfit that seemed almost handmade, and a brown backpack that probably had more patches than original fabric spoke up first, a cheery smile on her face. "Hi!" She waved, almost exaggeratedly and got closer, but stayed far enough that he didn't feel like he had to back up. "What's your name?" she asked, and he had to stop himself from wincing at the question.
After all, such a normal question shouldn't have carried the weight it did for him, but no matter how hard he tried to recall, even trying to push past the cotton that flooded his thoughts, he couldn't recall his name. He must have been silent for too long, because the girl started to look concerned.
"Um," he debated for another second before deciding to reply, "I'm not sure. What's your name?"
That certainly didn't make the concern fade, rather it seemed to concern her more, but she replied with cheer regardless, "My name is Spidey!" She points to a boy around her own age. His skin was tanned and parts of his black hair were bleached to an ashy brown from the sun. His eyes, confused and concerned, hoodie, obviously durable in-spite of its wear, and fingerless gloves reflected the blue sky, and he had a black backpack that seemed to have a logo of some kind on it. "That's Blue-guy." The boy in question seemed faintly amused by the address rather than offended, so it must have been a nickname he was fine with. Spidey then pointed to the last person, a man old enough to be more salt than pepper, with a beard that seemed more like he'd forgotten to shave than anything intentional, and a single dark eye accusatory in its gaze, its pair, half covered by a bandage in desperate need of change, was clouded over. His clothes, ill-fitting and loose on his frame, told a story of scavenged supplies and rationed food. "And this is, uh," Spidey paused and turned to face the older man. She began to very unsubtly whisper to him, "I don't think you ever told me your name. We're friends but I don't know your name. What's your name?"
He watched the older man's expression soften at her, and he felt he understood where that darkness came from. "Well, let's first deal with this guy," the man responded, and the tense atmosphere returned.
He found himself backing up, as he spoke a bit frantic, "Deal with this guy? What do you mean deal with this guy?" Spidey and Blue-guy, whose attention had begun to stray, both turned their attention back to him, their stares itching under his skin.
"You're walking pretty confidently down here," the man accused. He would argue he definitely wasn't, but guesses he can't blame them for not seeing, "fully prepared to climb the nearest tree, car, or building," written across his entire posture. "Don't you know what's out on the streets?" the man questioned.
"No," he responded, feeling the slightest bit like a lectured child.
"Well," the man seemed shocked, likely not expecting a negative answer to what he now realizes was probably a rhetorical question. "What should be out here is, um, infected?" his voice pitches up at the end, turning it into a question as if searching for recognition.
All it got him was a vague sense of fear and a cotton feeling in his head. "What do you mean infected?" he asked, a bit meekly.
Spidey spoke up then, her frown seeming out of place for her cheery personality, "You seem a little confused."
"No," he replied, perhaps a bit too desperately. "I'm not confused," he assured, although he didn't know who he was trying to convince.
"I assume you're from the bus as well?" the man spoke again.
He couldn't help but tilt his head, confused. "What bus?" He, admittedly, didn't know what a bus was past vague recollection of childhood stories including yellow school buses, but felt saying that would make him seem like an idiot.
"I don't think he was on the bus," Spidey continued for him. "I would remember someone so," she paused, "blue."
He reached up to fidget with a strand of hair that had come loose subconsciously, its vibrant blue color hadn't stood out to him before, but now it definitely did. "Is there something wrong with my hair being blue?"
"No, no! It looks great!" Spidey was quick to reassure, her hands raising to wave frantically. "It's just not common to see people with died hair nowadays, that's all," she clarified, much to his confusion.
"I don't think I dyed it," he responded, trailing off the statement at the end as he tried to recall where the color had come from. It couldn't have been dyed, because he knew the color went to his root and he would have remembered if he had done it recently. He frowned when all he got was that foggy feeling instead of any answers, trying to pass it. Then he remembered.
Screaming as pain exploded behind his eyes.
Dread as a terrifying voice mentioned interesting side effects.
He blinked, his head filled with cotton as a brunette girl in front of him spoke, "Huh, that's cool," she chirped, her voice cheery and high pitched, but combined with how she fidgeted with the fabric tied around her wrist, it seemed more nervous than happy. Her silver eyes stared at him with barely hidden anxiety as she bounced from heel to toe.
"What's your name?" he asked, hating himself for it when the girl's eyes flashed with quickly hidden hurt.
"My name's Spidey!" she said in a forced cheer.
"Well, it's nice to meet you!" he attempted to match that false joy, hoping to uplift Spidey's mood.
"It's nice to meet you too," her smile seemed a bit more real this time. "Here," Spidey said, handing him a blue orchid. "Have a flower."
He thanked her, but wasn't exactly sure what to do with the flower. He wasn't very good at caring for flowers, knowing far more about vegetables and animals.
A boy around Spidey's age with sun-kissed skin, black hair, and eyes the same color as the flower Spidey had gifted him spoke, "Okay, you keep talking about this bus. I found a ticket." His tone was blunt, but not rude, directed at an older man beside him.
The man, who seemed like he was older than the other two combined, had most of his right half covered in bandages, dirty from time outdoors. The other half had pale skin and dark hair. He questioned the boy, "You found a bus ticket?"
Spidey interrupted before the boy could answer, "Yeah, I came from the bus."
A memory came to mind and he perked up, "Wait, I have a ticket!" He moves the flower to one hand and uses the other to reach into the side pocket of his backpack, pulling out an airline boarding ticket.
The old man, likely too far to see the ticket itself, assumes, "You found one as well?"
So he clarifies, "No, I have an airplane ticket. It doesn't have my name on it though. It just has like numbers and stuff written on it."
That seems to stump the man, so Spidey responds instead, "Oh, well mine had my name on it, and we came in this morning."
The boy seems to have a realization, asking, "What's the date on yours?"
"Um," he scans his ticket for it. "August 22nd."
That seems to excite Spidey while confusing the old man. "You've been here much longer than me and Blue-guy!" she said it like it was meant to be an achievement, but he wasn't sure what that achievement is, especially given he barely had anything until this morning.
He felt the water hit the top of his head seconds before the old man acknowledged it, "Oh, it's raining. Let's make our way inside." He was already walking towards a building as he spoke, Spidey and the boy lagging behind but following.
He wondered a bit at the overreaction, "What's wrong with the rain?"
He felt a bit like an idiot when the old man replied, "My bandages don't do well wet."
Of course a man half covered in bandages wouldn't want to wait out in the rain, what was he thinking. Before he can consider going off on his own again, Spidey is already calling for him to follow.
And, with the rain getting worse by the second, who is he to disagree.
The old man and the boy climb their way in a building with ease, before the boy turns around to offer a hand to Spidey, who takes it appreciatively, and him, who thanks him despite not needing the help.
He and Spidey fall a bit behind, making light conversation and easy banter. They probably scare the other two with how far behind they get, to the point the old man has to call for them in, what he now realizes is an abandoned parking garage.
Eventually he decides to make a suggestion, "If we need to wait out the storm anyway, should we set up camp and get some sleep while we can?"
While Spidey and the boy seemed to have more than enough energy to keep going, he was getting worried for the old man, who seemed to be running on nothing but paranoia.
"I'll be fine, we should keep going," the old man disagreed.
Spidey huffed and placed her hands on her hips like a scolding mother. "You need to rest. We can stay up and keep watch!" she mentioned helpfully.
He noticed the old man wince at the idea, and it seemed the boy had noticed too from where he had wandered back over, although he had no idea where the boy had gone. "You don't even have to sleep, but some of us need to sit down, eat, and drink water occasionally," the boy provided snappishly. While rude, it seemed to have accomplished the job, as the old man conceded to taking a break. "Great, I found a minivan with an interior that held up well enough for us to use and managed to unlock it about 10 minutes ago."
He and Spidey giggled conspiratorially as the old man sighed, and we were all led by the boy to the car he had found. It was a silver minivan made by a company he didn't recognize and with paint scratched beyond measure, but, as the boy had said, its interior was almost completely intact apart from the dashboard, which looked like it had been through an attempt at hot wiring by a person who had never learned anything past the basic concept.
The boy sat down in the driver's seat and Spidey barely took a second after to force the old man into the farthest back seat and shut him into it, before lying flat across the middle seats.
He made eye contact with the boy over the sounds of the old man's protests, who just shrugged, so he decided not to question it and just made his way to the passenger seat, placing his backpack on his lap and crossing his arms on top of it.
He hadn't even realized when the car went quiet, but before he knew it he was drifting off.