» UNTAMED BLEMISH, open

[Shepherd]

ugh finally. I got a post out lmao, it's open foo's!

It was a mess. A bona fide, true blue, can't break it down any simpler, mess. And all Shepherd could do was sit on a fence, and stare at it aimlessly. During the night, something had breached the grounds, and tore through a field. If it had been Infected, they would have torn straight through the people. Never mind the crops that were now haggard, out of line, distorted and dying. It was just one field, sure, but the inked man was reeling. One field out of the many they had was still a hit. This winter was going to be different. And he wasn't sure he was comfortable with that.

Close examination of the field deduced the culprit to be some kind of animal. Or animals. The night watch couldn't remember anything strange - then again they're trained for Infected and trespassers. Not wild zoo animals, or that kind of ilk. So really finding the guilty party had been a lost cause. It just meant a few days of hard work and salvaging, which Rae was fine with - duty was duty. But really, it was a hassle. And when you had to clean up after your own damn hard work? God forbid you have a restful night after that.

The rescued field looked so depleted compared to the ones around it. To keep the soil alive, the Commune adopted the ancient trade of cycling - moving the crops from one point of direction - say, North - to another the following season. Each section of land was given three to four seasons to recover. Something had to be done, though, with this field. Something, something useful. Something Productive, functional. So, he was sitting on a fence, gun slung over his lap, smoking a cigarette as he thought this over. What could one do with torn up land? Nothing really, which was why so much of the world was a bleak, ratty outcrop of hell. The Commune was not to look like that, ever. He now understood why the women of old would panic over a blemish. Cherish the Image, Remember the name, and all that.

As he was sitting there, Shepherd had a good view of the main road. The main path, so to speak, that led the curious out of nowhere, and up to the front door of the place. He loved hilltops for that reason, and sighed out smoke. Rolling his shoulders, the gun shifted in his lap, a little clack-clack for awareness. As his sharp, vivid eyes took in everything - the people mulling up at the house, by the barn, a few children laughing and playing - he realized that the population seemed a little slack these days. less travelers had been coming through. Were they all dying off finally? Shepherd couldn't understand that if that was the case. Really, he got from A to B without a scratch.

As he wondered the prospects of people traveling, his wondering was sated with the onslaught of an approaching silhouette. After a minute or so of watching this figure, studying the walk, deciding if it called for shooting or not, a whistle suddenly cut through the air. High, shrill, but not out of warning, the Caretaker rolled his shoulders again. Joy of Joys, a traveler. He stood up, not just on the ground, oh no, on the fence. One boot on the beam, another on the post, his balance was a little uncanny as he fought for a better view. As the traveler got closer, Rae decided to jump down, and start walking the fence, to the road itself. Reaching the road he put the gun to his hip, letting the large rifle speak for itself in its eased stance. The Inked man waited, waited for the traveler to approach, before he chanced to speak.

"Little Lost?" His tone wasn't brusque, wasn't offensive. No, just a light kind of speak. He wasn't smiling or anything, not one to exactly joke on first meetings.

[Dove]

Life takes a toll on you – when you find yourself away from family and a life lived normally, how can you still be alive? A thought pegged through Dove’s head day after day after day. Some days she awoke thinking this would all be but a dream – that, today, she would wake up and her first morning breath would not be infused with death and something foul smelling. Nevertheless, most days she woke with her eyes stinging, and her right hand set firmly on a small handgun.

A sudden turn of events plagued Dove’s sleeping patterns during the night. Her ears picked up the faint sounds of commotion somewhere in the estate. As a woman who consistently sleeps with one eye open, a hand on a gun, and a torn pair of shoes near her bedroom, little events wake you at every turn. It wasn’t uncommon for someone to wake screaming bloody murder simply because they heard a creak in the floorboards or the faint sound of wind. Dove knew better not to scream – if she was frightened, she kept her mouth tight-lipped and silent. When people look to you for support in times of utter chaos and confusion, you damn well not be confused or scared. You damn well not be.

Her eyes had opened to darkness. Time moved in stages around here. You were never quite sure what time it was – if you were lucky, you’d practiced the ancient art of reading the sun’s shadows off some rock. Most weren’t that lucky. You only knew it was day because there was a little sunlight beneath the polluted clouds. You knew it was night because you feared the time when everything went black. Luckily, The Commune kept close watch on all that occurred here. The property lines were drawn by fences, and more often than not, a line of Infected was placed every which way to ward off the other bastards.

She moved quickly out of her bed and out the door of her bedroom. When something spooky comes in the middle of the night, these people do not run back under the covers and hide. Oh, no. When something spooky comes, they confront it. As difficult as it is to navigate in the darkness, the small peaks of electricity the commune had fastened proved to be useful in cases such as these. Alas, by the time Dove reached the first floor, after flights of stairways, it was over. Whatever it was from outside had already committed its pitiful crime.
Dove knew it was best if she kept quiet. She refused to dive head on into the situation if she did not have the entire story. She soothed a few weary travelers’ fears and their questions. “You have nothing to worry about.” She told them. In truth, for now, they didn’t have anything to worry about. In the Commune they were as safe as one could be these days – and these days, that wasn’t saying much. But at least it was saying something. Dove had been unable to fall back to sleep as the hours went by. She wanted to make herself useful, and by chance, she just had.

Off in the distance, Dove stared out a bruised window. The Caretaker wasn’t hard to miss. Coupled with Dove’s knack for strategy, she also found comfort in taking care of others. Though, she knew her comfort would never be up to the standards that The Caretaker himself could provide. Many had said he had the hands and words of an angel (but, we all know, Angels don’t exist here). To Dove, his face was nothing short of angelic and his inked skin was something she’d never until she came to live here. Suddenly, as she was about to move, her eyes saw someone walking toward Shepherd. Dove inched closer, and soon found herself on the grounds of the estate. Shepherd didn’t seem alarmed by the person, but Dove simply couldn’t tear herself away. Superpowers didn’t exist – but her institution did. As Shepherd’s lips moved, she saw the person come into clear view.

Her tattered shoes seemed to catch up to the speed of her legs. “Shepherd!” She called. She reached the road, and nearly fell. She’d reached the man – the traveler, and all hell broke loose. Raven hair was wisped across cheeks. Her breathing quickened as she realized what she had found. “Shepherd! He needs help.” It was at this time, any normal person would be suffocating by the amount of gaping wounds and blood trickling down the man’s arm. But Dove’s childhood proved to be filled with wounds, both on the body and on the mind. “He’s been shot!”. She refused to move any closer – if the Infected had gotten to him, he would have been dead long ago – but she refused to take her chances. With the small handgun between her fingers, she moved backwards, waiting for the next step…

[Shepherd]

Shepherd's guard was always up, when confronting any foreign face. Now once he got a name, and the person stayed at the Commune for any reason, he'd never forget. his mind was steal trap when it needed to be, and in these days, it seemed to be a constant. Remembering, calculating, do you keep your finger on the trigger, or hold the gun down? As he started getting closer to the stranger, he quickly realized that his gun was better strapped across his back. As he was slipping it there, he heard his name, and whipped around...

Dove.

The quiet, nurturing young woman was quickly approaching. No doubt she'd happened to look over and decided to help. That was one thing she was always doing - helping, and for that, Shepherd as grateful she stuck around the Commune. There was always help that needed offering in a place constantly under construction and moving. He gave her a wave - he'd heard her and she was fine to approach, and then he looked at the stranger again.

Now it made more sense. A traveler in major disrepair. There was blood and caked mud and scratches and this poor fool screamed for a putting down. And dove had been cooing nervously as she checked him over. What Shepherd didn't expect, but wasn't surprised by, was when the woman stepped away with her gun brandished. That had him jogging over the last leg of the distance.

"Dove, easy, être calme," Shepherd said quietly, holding his hand out to her, touching her arm gently as he stood beside her; "We don't brandish guns until we have to..."

It wasn't him being stern, nor was he chastising. Just one of those soft reiterations Shepherd was prone to speaking. Like Dove, he had the tendency to be quiet, and as he walked over to the traveler, cautiously, he was like a calm before a certain storm. The traveler looked up at him, having already sunken low to his knees, barely staying up at all. He saw what looked like a bullet wound, and bit his lip; "I need you to tell me how you got this way," he said to the traveler; "all that you can, or else you're dying right here in the middle of this driveway."

The traveler looked at Shepherd like he was heartless. Shepherd didn't flinch at the gaze. He recited that message at least once a week, up to ten times a month. He didn't like reciting it, but he had tens of people to worry about, and one still-anonymous traveler was not worth that kind of risk. The Caretaker glanced back at Dove, then looked over as the traveler started to talk in garbled, ragged French. He had been part of a vulture group, and they had been attacked by some of their own. From what Shepherd gathered, there were no Infected involved. Some jagged injuries along his arm said otherwise.

With a sigh, Shepherd finally nodded, and looked back at Dove; "Help me get him to the barn. We'll put him there, get him checked out."

[Dove]

Dove nodded her head at Shepherd’s wave of his hand. She soothed the flying black hair from her cheekbones, and looked up at the ever-polluted sky. Her gun was held still at arm’s length on the right side of her body. She wouldn’t use it. Although her aim would suffice most people, she rarely called upon the shot of a gun to destroy something unsavory.

Travelers always made Dove uneasy. Although she enjoyed company and companionship, new friendships were difficult to commit to. Especially, if you see someone who should have been dead several hours ago, but, as if by magic, they are still alive. Survival of the fittest didn’t necessarily commit to these standards of life. Over the past 14 or so years, Dove had come into contact with several people that she felt should not have been spared. Although you may think wrong of the woman to think that, it wasn’t uncommon. People often wished other people to their death, and more often than not, they didn’t get their wish. However, over time, Dove had grown accustomed to the sights and sounds of someone’s death bed, no matter how gruesome of peaceful it may be or how cold-hearted the person was. Nevertheless, with every new traveler there was always something inside her that switched on, a small painful switch that brought back memories of her childhood, of her sister and of her beloved parents. Death never becomes easier, even when half of your life had been surrounded by it.

The traveler’s arm, of what she could see, was badly cut. Under the light of the sky, his skin gleamed with sweat. A large laceration down his bicep proved to be caked over with clotted blood. Clotted blood, a good sign, Dove knew. The skin was badly torn, but Dove was unable to decipher if any underlying tissue had been exposed or cut as well. Obviously this man had found himself in a situation laced with immense numbers blunt objects of other harmful points and pricks.

Shepherd’s words were a pinch at her heart. She was calm, but travelers only had so long to live! She understood the necessary precautions, but you must speak up if you want to be heard, don’t you? She knew the criteria on where and where it was appropriate to brandish a gun. She did, truly. She would have never brandished her small weapon is she hadn’t felt it necessary. Dangerous weapons, no matter how big or small gave several people a small amount of comfort. Someone there is comfort in dangerous things. Sometimes.

She couldn’t look at the traveler while Shepherd was reciting his words. Her eyes moved to the ground, and she nestled her small handgun underneath the torn black sweater. The gun was cool against the warmed skin of her lower back. A sensation she was familiar with, indeed.

Suddenly, she heard him. French! He was speaking French. She opened her eyes immediately; a small amount of hope came from her lips in the form of a smile. As ragged as his voice was, the man’s brown hair running over his face, he was speaking. He was, at this point, coherent enough to talk. The native tongue could only give her so much hope. She listed to his words: the traveler had been away from his soldiery group. How he managed to make it this far was something Dove couldn’t fathom.

Dove nodded as Shepherd spoke. Her fingers shook with nerves. “Take his upper torso, I’ll get his lower.” She told him. Strategically, it was easy for Dove to see that the upper torso would easily be carried by a man as opposed to a woman. Although Dove hated to admit that females were sometimes inferior to male, this was one of those times. Men were simply better at carrying heavier weights, no matter how thick or thin the appearance was…

She lifted, and some minute’s later three people were inside the barn. Despite the upkeep of the Commune house (although, upkeep was to be said lightly), the barn was just the same. Deserted, it proved necessary in situations like these. It had been used for horses and sheep, she’d guessed. Her first years at the commune, there had still been a faint animal smell, but that had all but drifted away. Dove had remembered that the barn did have something quite useful – somewhere, there was a small lamp, not twelve inches high. She was sure there was lighter to be found in the barn (as the Commune had harbored electricity), but cobwebs and dust made even looking for such things impossible. She searched for a lamp with a little difficulty, until she realized the placement. Several minutes passed, the lamp proved to be of little help as the traveler slowed his breathing.

“Vautour. Vautour. Vautour.” Vulture. Vulture. Vulture. Was all he said before his eyed closed; His sentences we not as coherant as they were minutes ago. It seemed exhaustion had been overcome by a state of unconsciousness.

“What do you purpose we do about his wounds?” Dove asked Shepherd after the man fell into unconsciousness. Dove wasn’t a doctor, but she’s learned a fair amount by living in this hell. She had stitches wounds with string, she’d created string with torn pieces of clothing. “If you think we should mend the laceration, I’d suggest we work now while the he’s still out cold.”

She didn’t want to move before she had has his approval.

[Shepherd]

[[okay so i'm a tard so when i say he speaks french assume it's french but i'm not gonna type it out because my alt. language keys are mucking up]]

Shepherd slipped his arm under the traveler, hoisting, and Dove followed suit beneath him. The Traveler was rank with blood and dirt and there was the faint smell of something else. They trudged up the drive, careful not to hurt the man anymore than necessary. Still Shepherd fretted in his mind about the wounds. He had seen a lot of battle, including the marks it left behind. Scars ruined his own tattoos in some places, but none of them would be as ragged as this traveler's. If he lived long enough to wear them.

The Barn was the older one, not the other that had been built the next acre over. It was relatively empty, but one thing it boasted was a sturdy table. After heaving the traveler onto it, and listening to him chant the world 'vulture', Shepherd took a precious moment to think. He wasn't sure if they should waste their supplies on so many pour wounds. Sure, they were known for the random acts of kindness, when it mattered.

When the man slipped into unconsciousness, the Shepherd sighed. Rubbing his face, he glanced out at the open barn door. He had a full day ahead of him, but now everything was going to have to wait. He looked over at Dove, then back down at the stranger. As it was just them, he spoke in their native tongue, being able to think clearer. "we need to get his clothing off... I think he was just jumped. Some shotty knives, if anything... There's antiseptics... over here..."

Walking around the table, he went over to a row of trunks, gate a bit measured and eccentric. He bent down, opening up the middle trunk - a metal, old red cross object. He rummaged carefully, pulling out gauze, flush liquids, and other things. Closing the trunk and going back to the table, he set everything down carefully, sighing afterwards.

"We'll use this once we've seen the wounds..." he looked at Dove, knowing that what he had to say next may upset her; "But if they're bad, Dove. If he's been wondering for days - if they're infected, then we need to save what we can for people who need it...."[/b]

[Dove]

Shepherd was right. The two needed to determine if the man was even worth saving. “Knives are my best guess too." Her stomach became nauseated at the thought of God knows what else he came into contact with.” Dove shook her head momentarily, gazing down at the unconscious man and then back to Shepherd. She needed to get her thoughts in order first and foremost. What to do first? “I understand, Shepherd. I’ve been here for a long while – if it’s bad, we’ll figure out how to end it for him. If he’s worth saving – then, he’s worth saving. At least, for the time being.” She said nothing after that. Shed spied Shepherd’s knowledge of the barn - the man knew where everything was! The Red Cross, eh? Boy, it’d been long since she’d heard of seen their logo. The Red Cross was all but gone – it was the invisible, non-existence Red Cross – just like religion.

Dove posed herself, kneeling down to the next to the brown-haired traveler. Look at the wounds, Dove. Look at them. The voice inside her head chanted. She reached for the small lamp so her view would be illuminated. She watched and Shepherd accumulated various items out of the small chest. She spied the elements on the table, and decided to pick up the antiseptic first. To her dismay, the table was free of any sharp objects (a knife, scissors). Dove wasn’t one to carry around pocketknives. If you found one of those you guarded it with your life. Not to mention you certainly didn’t use it on weary travelers that were badly injured.

Returning back to the unconscious man, she carefully rolled up the sleeves of her torn black hooded jacket. The sleeves held firmly to her skin with elastic bands. She needed to get the man’s shift off. His shirt, already in tatters, was soaked with sweat and various amount of blood (dried and fresh). Suddenly, it hit her. A rock! As stupid and unrealistic it seemed, with in the absence of something sharp, a pointed rock would suffice. Dove made her way to the entrance of the barn and surveyed the ground. Various sized stones and rocks were present as well as a few sticks, caked dirt, and puddle mud. A thin, grey speckled rock was what she chose. There were thin points near the corners; that would hopefully do the trick of cutting through a thin shirt.

Returning once more, she bent down in a comfortable position; Dove removed her small handgun from the back of her jeans and set it down to her side. With caution, she carefully unscrewed the cap from the delicate bottle of antiseptic – liquid gold it was. She cupped her right hand and poured a small amount into her palm. She moved the sharp rock around in her hand, briefly. Cleanliness was always key. She moistened her fingertips with the leftover liquid, and took a deep breath. Lifting an end of the torn fabric, Dove posed the sharp corner of the rock into the tear. With a little movement, the edge of the rock cut the fabric in a jagged line. The fabric was cut all the way down until it was able to be filleted open on either side of the unconscious’s man torso. Dove released the small stone on the floor beside her and gazed at the wound.

The bulk of the wound was set near the man’s upper right bicep. Most of the dried blood had been soaked up by the shirt. With luck, they wouldn’t have to deal with his wound exerting anymore blood at this time. The wound looked to be roughly, five or more inches in diameter. There was a small, deep hole in his skin near the upper part of his wound – Dove guessed a possible gunshot. She held the lamp closer to his wound, careful not to let her face gaze down too far. Even with the light it was difficult to determine if the bullet had already exited the wound. It obviously did pass through the man’s arm, as the skin underneath was only discolored by the blood from above.

The skin surrounding the supposed bullet entry site was terribly shattered. Skin was missing and was openly exposed on various surfaces of his arm. As noted before, most of the blood had clotted; therefore, the dried blood would need to be cleaned. However, the bullet was not the only wound the man’s arm had sustained. The surrounding skin had been pricked and filleted, almost burned. Small circles of skin covered a deep cut. Some of the skin was still connected to other small ribbons of skin. The surrounding skin was discolored and a green-brown color. The white pores of the skin had been transformed to black. Underneath the charred flesh, deep red inflammations of the skin were found.

Dove stood, grasping her handgun on the way up. She stretched, and moved backwards. She didn’t feel comfortable standing next the unconscious man for large periods of time. Moving to the table, where Shepherd stood, she spoke: “His body itself doesn’t seem to be infected. If his wound was badly infected, there would be more swelling. It’s only a little red. It looks as though he may have been shot, but I don’t want to risk trying to extract the bullet or digging into his wound. We could dose the wound in some antiseptic, and if you feel the need, I could help with the stitching process, but that is all I can offer.”

Death was now in Shepherd’s hands.

[Shepherd]

Shepherd was no surgeon. He could fix anything, true, if it didn't have a pulse. Cars, bikes, certain animals even - but people had always been a territory he'd just never tread though. He waited for Dove to finish her inspection, his own eyes calculating as they scoured the remainder of the unconscious man's form. There were scrapes and bruises, but nothing as worrisome as that bullet hole.

Looking at Dove once she'd finished her assessment, Shepherd bit his lip in thought. He went over, and looked at the wound. "We can't keep this from getting infected," he said; "we can clean it, wrap it, but once he comes to... I don't know. IF he comes to, we'll figure something out then... right now I guess what we have to do is clean it, and we'll keep him in here..."

As he spoke, his long, inked fingers reached out, grabbing antiseptic and cloths. He had to bend down and over, curving his height so he could adequately watch himself work. His tone drifted off as he left reality and fell into his thoughts. It was a habit Shepherd was prone to - be talking, then with the onset of something profound, he'd grow quiet, drift off. But he was checking out, detaching himself so he could work. Shepherd had cleaned plenty of wounds - but he had to stay focused to do it right.

He couldn't risk damaging the skin that was left. The cloth he had grew pink, then red, as the clotted blood was washed away. Finally straightening up, he set the cloth aside, and leaned back down. His hand shot out, grabbing the lamp, and now that the task was done, he was free to speak. But what popped into his head wasn't anything rational - it was A.E. Housman. "[/i]You had forethought, you could reason... And... saw your road and - where it led. And early wise and brave in season... Put the pistol... to your head.[/i]," he looked up at Dove, blinking and grinning almost bashfully; "Houseman, this... American Writer...." he looked back at he unconscious man; "He had a few war poems... You wonder... why, he came here..."[/b]

Now his focus was back on the stranger, and he went back over to the trunk. He dug around, sure he could get fragments of the bullet out. If it had gone clean through, there was no need to get the bullet. But he'd caught sight of fragments. Then, he let out a laugh; "Oh thank the ever-loving bastard that put us here!" he exclaimed, returning to the table with fresh, unopened tools. "Now, I might not have to shoot somebody."

he grinned at Dove, honestly happy for once in the longest while. The prospect he might not just have to take another horse to pasture? Oh he might even break out some precious, god-honest wine; "Okay, I'm going to get the frags out, then you can stitch him up...."

And with that, he set to work.

[Dove]

Knowing Shepherd, he’d always know what to say next. After all, he wasn’t the head of the Commune just because. There was substance and meaningful aspects as to why he’d been chosen. And the Commune was anything but random in their choices.

She watched as Shepherd made his way to the unconscious man. Had she made a mistake? Was her assessment not to his liking? She resisted motion; she refused to follow him or speak. Patience was a skill Dove had mastered, even if she was quiet passionate in her views and opinions. Her assessment had been derived from the research she’d read throughout the last fourteen years. And, no, Grey’s Anatomy had not been along her reading lists. During her time with the Wanderers, form New Berlin and other places of note, she’d read whatever she could get her hands on. Reading stimulated her mouth, hands, and eyes, when the quiet girl refused to utter a word. From small pamphlets, short novels, and large encyclopedias (which were so very, very rare) – wherever the Wanderers had made their temporary home, Dove scouted for reading material. Her knack for strategy also came in handy – she wanted to read because she wanted to be helpful in the long run. And, shit, her plan had come through with flying colors.

The smell of the barn had subsided – blood seemed to fill the air. It stung her nostrils like an acid. Perhaps, it wasn’t just the blood – but the other damaged tissue and sweat and misery. Shepherd was so…careful. Underneath his hardened exteriors (everyone had to put on cold-hearted exteriors in this hell), he was so careful. Surprisingly, Dove found Shepherd reciting various lines from a poet. She’d never heard the lines before, nor of the poet – unfortunately, she was not cultured in the arts. She said nothing. Perhaps letting Shepherd enjoy this small amount of his former life was just what he needed to survive another day. She watched intently from the table. The unconscious man wasn’t too far away, the lamp near Shepherd gave a little light – she was able to see what he was doing, for the most part.

She turned her back to Shepherd, momentarily. Perhaps there was something on the table she’d missed that may help the out. She surveyed the table – and a small package caught her eye. She hadn’t spotted the package the first time she’d been here. Extending an arm, she reached for the package and brought it closer for examination. She needed better light – her fingers and dull light around her eyes could not tell what the thin sticks were.

Shepherd’s sudden laugh caught Dove off guard. She turned around in a sort of minimal frightened motion, shaking her head. It was only a laugh – ironically, such a terrifying noise. It had been so long since she’d heard someone laugh at something that wasn’t terribly horrible or dead. She shook her head once more, grasping down at the small package of material. “Shepherd, please, doesn’t shoot anyone. Although, if it would make you happier and you’d laugh more, than I think maybe…you should. Laughter isn’t something we get around here that often – I’m sure you’d notice.”

A joke, a small innocent prick of the nerves of happiness. It felt so wrong in times like this.

Before she left the table, she grabbed a small bottle (of what looked like cleaning alcohol). Supplies in hand, she moved near Shepherd. She was close to enough to the small lamp, yet far enough to give Shepherd his space. She set her supplied down before settling on the floor of the barn. Hands in her lap she picked up the small package. With light in full focus, her eyes lit up.
Needles.

[Shepherd]

The Shepherd smiled a little at the woman, sad that he had startled her, not sorry he'd felt that rare flash of glee. Truly, it could make a man high these days - to feel happy. Rae was a man to seek outthat fleeting feeling. He got it in the rush of shooting down Infected, of sending another demon back to hell. He relished in the mellow delivery of it through getting high. It was never as strong then, but it lasted, minutely, through his veins, and rendered him a bit too quotey for even his liking. But happiness, that was just one of its side affects.

He chuckled again then, shaking his head; "No, No I never get satisfaction from killing," he mused, going back to the wound, working as he spoke; "Never feel like... I'm floating, after that..." it was true. Happiness, to Rae, was that floating feeling, like your mind had constant space in your skull, and everything fit for that moment jubilantly.

The wound was ragged - typical of a poor round and a lucky shot. This hadn't been clean, the shooter had probably been aiming right for the man's heart. It was a somber thing, really. And Rae's fleeting happiness waned as he went to work, picking fragments of alien material he couldn't quite identify. To think people were once paid to do this kind of thing. Then again, to think there was a time where people didn't do these things to each other. Monique would talk and talk of the old days. Rae had stopped listening to her stories. Because that life was not going to be around during his, and he only knew what he was patching up now, with Dove.

Happiness was always the worst thing to crash from. But it was a crash he was used to burning in. Rae was able to consistently flow with his moods - however sporadic, or sedentary they may have seemed. He never took happiness for granted and he relished the fall. A few things kept him going - despite the inconvenience this stranger had imposed, the fact he'd made it to the Commune, for knowing what it had in store or just to be grateful for it being there, he was happy to have been there. Then again, that was the Commune's purpose. To Be There. And he was just another functional figurehead in its mix.

"What makes you Happy, Dove?" The man asked quietly, randomly, turning his head to look at her.

he blinked. What had she found? A small smirk adorned his face, mirroring his curiosity. The wonders of what was left behind. Shepherd went back to picking through the wound, washing it out occasionally, before continuing on. He waited on her reply, realizing that, he knew just a bit about Dove. She was quiet, like her namesake, beautiful and stoic. Many people liked her, and Rae liked her. And in a way, he did know her - because so much was said in just watching a person. Most of conversation was translated into body language, after all. But, he was a man to be quiet when in crowds, or obligated. In small companies, however, he was different. No point, really, sharing the air with another person, without some words passing through.

[Dove]

With the small bottle to her side, and another free floating bottle of alcohol already near the unconscious man (that had been used to clean the wound), Dove shook her head in mixed emotions of disbelief and satisfaction. Satisfaction, because, unlike some people she’d met (men, women, and children, mind you), Shepherd didn’t feel the need to kill for fun. Although fun was taken extremely lightly around here – there was nothing fun about living in this kind of world. Nothing.

It had been so long since Dove had felt or found a moment of happiness that resonated into something beautiful. “Happiness is seldom found here and anywhere you may venture, nowadays. Its scare, just like other emotions, I suppose. Happiness seems to have manifested into something more civil and real – there’s happiness in finding objects, eating a decent meal, you know. Simple things." Hopefully her philosophy would not go over Shepherd’s head – though, in her heart, she knew he, of all people, would know the strength and determination it took to find happiness. Dove knew in it in her heart – the Caretaker, as well, used his heart just as much as he used his brilliant mind.

Dove grasped the second bottle of alcohol she’d found and set the small package of needles down at her side. She took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, looking into the dry skin on her palms. The thread that would ideally be used for proper stitching was (as she had already known) nowhere to be found. At that moment, she wished she had time to venture back to the commune grounds and fetch the string she’d collected in her small bedroom. Alas, Dove knew it was best to stay put. Bad things always turned worse when someone abruptly left, even though they often promised they would return in “two seconds”. Two seconds was a rough code for fifteen minutes. And in fifteen minutes, all hell can break loose, even if you were running with a gun in hand. It would be just her luck, the moment she leaves, the unconscious man would wake up and god knows what he’d do, of even think of doing. He could be harmless. You just never knew.

Ultimately, there was no way she’d leave Shepherd’s side.

“What makes me happy?” She questioned, and looked toward Shepherd. “I haven’t been asked that question in so long…” She looked down at her palms once more, thinking. What did make her happy? “I…I guess social interaction makes me happy. Quiet people seem to enjoy conversation most, I think. Comfort always brings happiness as well. Simple, everyday things, really. Of course, I do have other things that would make me happy, but they seem trivial.” It was always the same - simple, simple, simple. It was the truth. People (Dove included) didn’t have the time or the selfishness to seek the normal views of happiness – like a family or a safe house. Happiness came in compromises. Thinking of her family, her past - Dove had settled and compromised a thousand times over.

“What about you, Shepherd? What makes you happy?” She was curious now. Getting to know people wasn’t one of her strong suits (just one of the social interactions she lacked). Gathering information about her roommates was something that may come in handy someday. Social interaction was like gold – and Dove couldn’t resist taking the plunge into unexplored people. Dove looked down at her black hoodie, momentarily. String made of cloth would be their best bet for ‘stitches’. With the jacket already in various tears and tatters by the sleeves, she was able to pull off various lengths of black thread. She curled the thread into small balls, and placed them on the barn floor, near the small bottle of alcohol.

“Oh…” Dove said, remembering of her find. “This small package,” She pointed so Shepherd would know what she was speaking of, “There are needles in there. It’s a miracle, huh? That little red box was a savior.”

[Shepherd]

Rae listened to her explanation. Really listened. He never could take other people's words for granted, but he always took them just the same. At her question, he looked back over at her. The tall man looked up in thought, then he got a small grin as he went back to his meticulous work. He tended to be obvious through his indulgences.

"A little bit of anything," he replied simply, voice a low rumble as he multi-tasked concentration with conversation; "I like this place. But I like leaving it. I like taking out Infected, but I like just watching them, too. If I can... But I guess what makes me really happy is just being able to sit on the front porch with Sal, smoking, and not have to worry for five minutes..."

Of course, all these things, Shepherd pursued. He left out the intimate details of his joy - how he was happiest simply sharing the same space with his best lover, Salvador. Not that he'd admit that to anyone. It wasn't worth people knowing the risk. And if Rae ever got comfortable expressing it, even with one person, he knew it could make him start talking, and talking, and talking about it. And it bothered him he couldn't just be honest. He thought for a second all the times him and Salvador had to separate right before getting found out - but then again, he just told himself it was one more selfish thing he could keep to himself. And that made it make sense. Until he got frustrating again.

He realized after this was through, he'd no doubt carry on with his day, and then leave for a while. Shepherd just... did that. Early in the morning, without warning, and mostly, people just dealt. He was key but the Commune operated on everyone working together - the more people meant the faster things got done, but then again, it also meant if someone left, or died, then their work would be picked up and dispersed. The truth was Rae never liked looking at wounds - he just hid it, really damn well. He had to. Nothing could get to him. And in a way, nothing did. But sometimes, when you get random strangers begging for help with tales of hell, you had to spread the guardian wings. Fitting for some, but Rae had trouble swallowing his role in that twist of fate.

He then realized he'd drifted off into silence again. Drifted off into thought. Dove's words registered a little late, but he got them. Blinking, he beamed; "Perfect, because I'm done cleaning this wound out," He straightened up, and stretching, popped his back. seven cracks filled the air, and the Shepherd stepped back to give her space.

[sorry it's so short DX]

[Dove]

Shepherd came and went, Dove knew. She just wished she had the audacity to do the same. The thought of leaving was a two sided coin – one was the devil, the other was an angelic figure of the highest parts of the sky. Her days travelling with a group of wanderers, wondering around the high mountains and towns road of France and anywhere else, it seemed Dove didn’t leave because…well…the Commune was home. It wasn’t home, per say, in the formal sense of the word – complete with a mother, father, friends, bright lights, and happiness. The Commune was family; it was her home to the people she knew she could depend on. She was too afraid, that if she ventured into cities unexplored, she would become lost, trapped, or killed.

The frightening thought of death still hovers on the souls of some people, even if you’ve been living in Hell for fourteen years. Over the years, Dove had contemplated leaving, for a short period of time. But she didn’t know how long that ‘short’ people of time would be – that short time of leaving could span two days or two years. She was too hesitant to ask. Asking permission to leave wasn’t needed. However, she knew she could leave, without a note, or a word to anyone. But she couldn’t leave her community behind – people looked up to her, and she was counted on by many. Leaving that all behind with the flick of a match was like salting a wound. Even if she did leave, she wouldn’t know where to go. Turning left or right could mean the different between life and death. “I admire your ability to flee this place from time to time. I doubt I’d make it. Although, not being able to worry would be just as good, I suppose. We all worry, though. I think it’s natural in a time like this.”

Dove had never met Salvador, but she’d heard Shepherd speak of him a few times. She was sympathetic towards him, really. In a way, Dove and Shepherd resembled one another. They’d both been separated friends, family and even loved ones. But Dove and Shepherd weren’t the only ones – basically, everyone, everywhere, was now. No one would ever be a truly ‘complete’ family. “I…I know how it is. Being alone.” She gave him a small smile and a nod of her heard in return – in comfort. As long as the Commune was together, things would be okay. And okay was better than a lot of others could say. She knew he’d understand. You weren’t essentially alone in the Commune, you had company. But there’s always someone or something that let you know you were still alone and separated from your former life.

Nevertheless, unlike the unconscious man on the floor, he was truly alone. “You did a wonderful job, Shepherd.” She moved a little, glancing to at the wound. The small strings of black material were now in her hand. It was clean and perfect (if perfection existed). Reaching over, Dove grasped and opened the small package of needles. From years of perfecting her aim with small handguns, Dove’s eyes were able to spot the small hole in which she could thread the black ‘stitches’. Her small, delicate fingers did most of the work. She looked down to the man’s naked chest, and took a deep breath. Steadying herself, being careful not to touch the open wound, she began her work.

The needle pieced the wound from the top, closest to the man’s face. Carefully, she directed the needles to piece the other side of the flesh. Once two piercings had been made, she pulled gently, hoping the thread was long enough (and strong enough) to hold the force. Much to her surprise, it did. She pulled a little more, tugging the thread along, and then – the large wound was closed, only a little. But it was closed. Working in an alternating up and down pattern, ten minutes had elapsed before Dove had placed ten stitches in the wound. It was the best she could do –regarding the situation, the sizes, and the available amount of resources. She carefully tied a knot at the end, and moved back from the man. She grabbed the needle by the end, and placed it to the side. It would need to burned, decontaminated and/or disposed of. The small package of needles still had three more left for future use – for that she was grateful. She picked one of the small bottles of alcohol, and moved back to the table with all the elements from the red cabinet. She quickly doused her hands in the liquid, praying to some higher power that she hadn’t recently cut or stabbed herself. Cuts, stabs and bruises were so common they were like blades of grass, only the pinch was much more excruciating.

Dove turned to look at Shepherd. “I did the best with what I had available.” She told him, honestly. She wasn’t quite sure if her mending would even hold, but she had to have faith. She had to. It was then she heard a muffled cough. She turned her head, and her heart began to pump in a faster motion. The unconscious man woke. It’s strange. You finish your work just before someone wakes from coma, or suddenly dies from a car-accident. Whatever fate was, or chance, it sure saved your ass more than once.