((ooc: For Maxine's posts, I'm assuming a nuclear winter started... but was averted by unnamed wind/storm elementals, possibly with some power-boosting help, and probably multiple ones across the world who realized that dust is better when it's on the ground and not blocking out the sun. Because nuclear winter is realistic, but we all seem agreed that three years after the fact, it's fairly toasty; methinks its reasonable for mutants to have hurried along the natural process of dust settling by a significant margin, the exact length of which I've left hand-wavey.))



We go to the places we know. The places we feel safe.

There wasn't any warning. That was the part that would stick with her the most, months and years later. Not the fear, not the way the world suddenly tilted away from its center and fell apart: that there was no warning before it did. It was like a car accident as you cross an intersection on your way home: all you're thinking about is where you're going, when the world caves in. It was like, while laughing with your friends, you lean against a railing—and it breaks, and there's nothing there to catch you.

We go to the places where the people we love can help us forget the world, just for a little while.

Like watching your friend's face, as they realize that the only thing keeping them alive is the lag time between their body's death, and their mind's.

Gawain knew he was dead.

So did she.

You can't fix something like that. You can't even begin to try. All you can do is run, because that's the last thing his ghost asked you to do; because you're not the kind of person who needs to be told twice, not even when there are still people behind you, fighting like you'll never fight.

The places where we can just stop thinking and feel safe and loved. Just for awhile. Please.

She went to her house first—her home, the place where she hadn't live lived since the summer between her senior year of high school and her freshman year of college. The place that her older brother Clark had moved out of a few years before even that; as soon as he could afford his own place, just like her. They only came home for holidays, or for cheap laundry. She knew that. She knew that, but she still pictured them all waiting inside for her.

Even when she couldn't find her street; couldn't recognize any landmarks, except for the Pearson's gnarled old oak. But it had been cracked along its old trunk and flung, and was on top of a roof that she didn't know; maybe she wasn't even on the right street at all. Maybe her family was safe and waiting, someplace that wasn't here.

She should have stayed with the people from the Mansion. With that fire girl, with the too-sweet blonde girl she'd interviewed, with the pink haired egotist, with Gaw—

With everyone. She should have stayed with everyone.

She slept under the tree that night. Rex dangled from its branches above her head, glinting now and then like white Christmas lights strung across the ceiling of a little girl's room.

The next morning, she found her apartment. There was something left of it to be found, at least: the top half, now oddly disjoint from the bottom. She rested her hands on the building's crumpled doorway, and called out—not with her voice, but with that other something that had never needed a name, because it was all hers, and only hers. Inside, a hundred and more somethings answered back, with a battering of small objects against a blackness that was hard and unyielding.

Her paperclips were still in there. The ones she'd kept in a fish tank, by her bed. Of course they were: they didn't go very far without her. They were in there, but they were trapped. In little clusters, in spaces that were a foot across or only large enough for the barest of vibrations.

If she had been home yesterday, she would have been dead. She... would have expected that realization to make her feel grateful. Instead, she just felt a little sick; a little like she'd better sit down now. But... not here. Not where she could feel a hundred and more little somethings trying desperately, blindly, futilely to reach her.

Poe was in there too. She'd had the black pen for seven years.

Maxine walked away, and everything outside of her range went quiet as a dead world.

She had Rex, the clothes on her back, and her wallet. At least she had that: as long as a girl had ID and plastic, she had everything she needed to start over.

They were smashing in an ATM. It took longer than she would have thought.

No, that wasn't quite right—she would have thought that ATMs were tough. But she'd never imagined an assault on one lasting so long. Shouldn't... someone come? To stop them? They were smashing in an ATM. You couldn't just... do that.

She held Rex squeezed between her fingers: a dense mass of writhing clips with tendrils tangling around her arms, as she stayed still and quiet in the shadows of a building. There was nowhere to retreat: what had been an open boulevard had become a closed corner in what the city's new maze. The heavy THACK THACK THACK of metal on metal continued, with some laughter, some light chatter. No one was coming. No one would stop them.

She'd heard a helicopter the first day, but she hadn't seen it—there was still too much dust in the air. It was like it had been after 9-11. Except... except kicking up dirt on a country road was to 9-11 as that day was to this. It was starting to get cold during the days, and really cold at night, without any real sunlight getting through. She wore a scarf over her mouth and nose all the time, and only wished she could do the same for her eyes: they stung, they watered, they itched, and they couldn't see far in the dusty twilight that had settled over New York City. She'd heard a helicopter the first day, but she hadn't heard one since.

Why was no one coming?

THACK THACK THACK

These guys had all the time in the world.

Aggh, and they took it. She didn't want to sit down—she wanted to stay standing, ready, in case they spotted her. She wasn't one to brag—much—but she was fast. Not super-human fast, but have-been-getting-up-at-five-to-jog-since-the-eighth-grade fast. If they spotted her, if she was ready, she could run. She could run and keep running, and they would never touch her.

Not that it would do her a lot of good if her legs cramped from all this standing. She started to slide down the wall—slowly, so as not to—

A flash of movement, and it wasn't her own. She saw it from across the rubble strewn street. He froze at the same time as her, and they watched each other uncertainly. He had a bandana tied over his face, like her scarf was covering her own. His eyes were gray and so was his hair: but maybe that was just the dust. He finished sitting down first, and she followed suit.

THACK THACK THACK

Seriously? It doesn't take this long to crack a tin can. His eyes said, with the barest flick towards the group down the street and a slight twitch of shoulders.

You're preaching to the choir, hers said back.

She thought she saw a smile, trying to peek out from under that bandana.

When she batted the dust out of his hair, she found brown curls underneath. But his eyes really were gray.

"Stop that," he said, ducking away.

"God, you need a bath," Maxine said. "Me, too." It had been a week. At least. Maybe two? It was really hard to keep track of days, when the nights were so similar. There'd been odd winds recently that seemed to clear things out for awhile, but they weren't making a dent very fast. Probably another mutant. She'd just as soon avoid someone that strong: they were having enough trouble dealing with the humans they ran across. Whether everyone was really that much of a jerk, or everyone was as wary as they were, it really didn't seem wise to hook up with total strangers. Not with the... the things they'd sat quiet and watched total strangers do to one another. Maybe a hero would have tried stepping in. But Maxine had seen what happened to heroes. She wasn't a bullet taker; she was a reporter. And she was doing her best to remember faces, for when society caught back up to them. There was no way she was letting these people get away with what they'd done.

"No bathing with the drinking supply," her new friend chided, drawing his blanket over himself. "Even if you do smell worse than a—"

Arm punches: just as effective during disasters.

They were doing good. As good as people could do: they could hoard with the best of them, and they'd found a little corner of the devastation all their own to hide out in. It was hard to wiggle into and out of: only a child, or someone as skinny as they were, would even think to try. It was big enough to pile food in one corner and blankets in the other, and small enough that two bodies could keep it warm at night.

It wasn't the worst way to live. At least they were alive. And they had enough in canned peaches and water to last until help came.

Except that it never came.

Or maybe they'd missed it—had they missed it? Had everyone been evacuated, while they were tucked away in their hidey-hole? They would have heard something—they would have. They couldn't just... get left behind. They were alive.

But maybe the rest of the country didn't know that. Maybe things looked so bad from the outside—they certainly looked bad enough from the inside--that everyone just assumed they were dead. Or the ruins made it too dangerous to land rescue helicopters, so they were sweeping for survivors from the edges of the city on inwards, saving people as they went. It was a big city: it would have them a long time to get to Manhattan. That could be it.

The dust was clearing, at least—just a little, but it seemed steady. They didn't need to cover their faces as much anymore; only on days when there hadn't been rain in awhile.

How long had it been? Not more than a month. Or at least, not more than three.

He found an old calendar somewhere—she didn't know where, but he pulled it out like some kind of present, with a goofy grin on his face.

"I know it's probably not your style, but at least now we can keep track of—what? What did I say?"

It was a Bone Bikini Babe calendar. Vintage 2011, and only just the slightest bit water damaged.

He'd admitted that he'd never watched TV much—more of an NPR guy, really—but she hadn't know it was this bad. Not her style, huh?

"...I guess it is a little tasteless. I could throw it out, if you—"

"No, no! God, no. Let's find a place to hang it. I love it."

They talked about it: they talked about it over peaches and cold tomato soup, and the occasional treat of beef jerky. They talked about it, and they agreed: if no one was coming for them, they had to help themselves.

They started out the next morning, early: it paid to be naturally early risers in a world without alarm clocks. Usually, it took the rest of the city a few hours to catch up with them.

They made good time, and managed to find a passable bridge off the island—though crossing it was a dicey affair that had involved a lot of crouching, and watching the feet of others as they passed by. Once they'd cowered behind an SUV with a girl doing the same, but she hadn't stuck around afterwards. Maxine couldn't blame her: groups were only safe if you were a member. They knew they wouldn't turn on the girl just as soon as the larger group had passed, but she hadn't. It was the safest thing she could have done, besides joining up with them.

By the next afternoon, they had found the edge where city falls away to suburbia.

She didn't know what she'd been expecting. Maybe something better.

"Let's keep going," he said, finally. "It has to end somewhere. Let's try Newark, maybe."

"Right," she said, "because the air quality is always better in Newark."

She didn't even know where that had come from, but at least it made him laugh.

They never made it to Newark. They never even made it out of the New York city bounds. They stood looking for so long, that someone else found them first.

It was the group from the bridge. The big one: the one that had passed them, while they'd huddled behind the SUV with the girl.

The girl was with them.

Maxine should have run then, but she didn't, because her friend jolted where he stood.

"Terry? Terry Samson?"

A big guy towards the center looked just as surprised. A grin split his face. "Jesus, man, I didn't recognize you."

"It's all right, Maxine, calm down—I know him. We went to high school together. God, we played football together—you were a linebacker, weren't you?"

"Look at you. Orange County's star quarterback, carrying the ball into the apocalypse." They did that guy hug: the one that involved a lot more back bruising than anything Maxine would have wanted. Maybe that's what made her so uncomfortable.

"This chic yours?" The former linebacker asked, to which her friend flushed a brilliant, stammering red. The linebacker waved a careless hand behind him. "Chill, guys—he's a friend of mine."

The guys eased down, but the girl from the bridge didn't look up.

She was his, and he was Samson's old friend. The girl wasn't anyone's, and what that meant became rapidly apparent.

"We've got to get out of here," she whispered, as they feigned sleep side by side.

"We're safer with them than we'd be on our own. They've got supplies, they've got numbers—everyone is forming up. At least you're safe here."

"But she isn't."

"She's not the one I care about."

What could she say to that?

What could she say to anything? It was safer in a group. It gave them the numbers to find supplies over a greater area—she got a coat, boots, even fresh meat sometimes, when the guys that Samson sent out past the city bounds got lucky. Other groups were forming up: it was getting harder and harder to survive as a pair. Pairs were easy prey: easily found, easily dispatched, or easily brought into the fold. A girl by herself was even worse: that was practically asking for it. She couldn't leave without him. She wouldn't.

"It's to keep you safe. Some of the guys—they're talking, Maxine. They know that we haven't—that we don't—You're supposed to be mine. That's why you're safe."

"The apocalypse isn't exactly sexy. And what if I get—"

"Maxine—"

"No."

"...I'm sorry. It's to keep you safe. "

She was safe enough. She had food, water, clothes. She heard rumors of safer places—some cave called Haven, some shanty town somewhere else, with a former cop playing Sherriff. But who knew where they were; how far, how true. She was safe.

"I love you."

And loved.

She didn't know how long it had been watching her, or how long it had been... well, alive. She'd been getting headaches: she hadn't realized that they were those headaches. Caused by her powers. She'd been... distracted lately. And not thinking. The dust had cleared, but maybe she'd breathed in too much of it: her mind felt fuzzy, muddled, all the time.

It was a clear night. Stars, but no moon.

The paper dog stood about forty feet off, in the darkness. She didn't know if it was her eyes that saw it, or that other something; that something that let her know that the rasp of paper-on-paper deep in its belly would sound like a persistent growl, if she were close enough.

She'd figured out what paper's problem with her was: it was top dog, and she was just a stray in its territory. Back before the world had ended, she'd have just dumped a bottle of water on the thing when it tried to attack her. Not if: when.

Because it was standing there, and it was going to attack her. Just for living: just for having the grave misfortune of... of being who she was.

Maxine rolled stiffly out of her blanket. A sleepy hand caught at her arm.

"Where y' going?" He mumbled.

"Bathroom."

"Come back soon. 'S cold without you."

"I will."

He was just talking in his sleep. If he hadn't been, if he'd really woken up, then he would have heard the edge in her voice and he'd never have let her slip out of his grip.

The dog braced itself as she approached, the papers on its back shifting into spikes like hackles. It was a mongrel thing: nothing like the purebred constructs of white copier paper that she'd animated before. It was made of scraps of newspapers and fliers; crinkled paper, with blurred stains where rain had tried to wash the writing away. Its muzzle was wrapped in pages from some girl's diary:

June 22, 2012

I love him. I love him I love him I—

She didn't know who was more surprised when she tore that sheet off: the dog, or herself. She didn't have time to think about it, either: the paper lunged for her throat.

She swatted it back, with a heavy hand of something that tore it apart; that willed every individual sheet in its body to stop being so damn—so damn collected, confident, in control. The paper sheets that composed it scattered back from her in a cloud, and reformed; it lunged again. She forced it to the ground and held it there, without ever moving an inch from where she stood.

"Now you listen to me, you alpha bitch. I am not here for you to—to attack. I don't take that crap from—from—"

For a moment, the old Maxine was there, speaking through her: the one who poked fun at the city's most dangerous mutants with absolute impunity; who saw fights in progress, and only thought about keeping her camera safe. The one who chased all the boys, hoping that one of them would love her.

Well, one of them did.

But I don't love him.

I really don't love him.

I hate him.

I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.

When did she become a girl who went for safety over—over the chance to chase something better?

Not that they'd just let her leave.

The dog struggled and growled, and finally stilled. If it had lungs, it would have been panting; instead, it just became utterly silent at her feet.

It was from a quiet place that Maxine gave her first order. "You deal with Samson."

The dog's ears pricked; two corners of the same newspaper, one saying Thousands Flee Colorado Springs Wildfire, and the other 92° and Sunny. When she let it get up, it obeyed to its new pack leader without hesitation.

You can't shoot paper. You can't stab paper. You can't kick it, punch it, hold it down, hold it off: you can try running, but paper is fast.

Former quarterbacks are fast, too. "Over here!" Maxine called out, as he scrambled away from the confusion at the center of camp. In the darkness it was hard for any of them to see, let alone to know what was attacking them. Shots were finding targets, but not the right ones. He came running to her voice like a dog to its master.

Men. Men, you can stab. The blade goes in just fine, and stays there until you take it out. It was the second time she'd seen a dead man who was still alive. He wrapped his hands over hers, not understanding.

"But I l—

"I don't."

Maybe she could have, in different times. But the apocalypse changes people.

She wiped the knife off on his shirt, and tucked it into her belt.

The cave was called Haven. The town was too young to have a name. Both of them were run by men. People said they were safe.

Live in a cave ruled by a man, or live in a shanty town ruled by a man.

If those were the only options, then Maxine needed to make her own.