[George] Gang Reap
Who: George
Where: Camp Crash
When: Day 21, Oh-Dark-Thirty
Invited: Molly, Chris, Anyone at Camp Crash
Status: Complete [Closed]
Orbing was fascinating. A swarm of glowing motes appeared out of nowhere to engulf you for a moment and when they dissipated, you were somewhere else. Convenient, too. George thought she could get used to that kind of travel. (Too bad Reapers don't get nifty powers like that.)
George looked around. "Why are we here?" She and Chris were standing at the treeline within shouting distance of the camp.
Chris shrugged. "No need to make a spectacle of ourselves."
"No, I guess not."
The walk toward camp was short and George was idly pleased to note that they were quickly spotted by Tommy, who was apparently on watch now. "Hey--George!" Tommy said with what seemed like great relief. "Chris," he added with a nod.
"Hey," George said. She stopped in front of him and hesitated for an instant. So did Tommy, before he gave her a brief hug. "Bad night," George said.
"Yeah," Tommy said. "I'm glad you're here," he added. "I hate to think about Clarice and the others...." he didn't complete the thought, but he didn't have to. "Now that I know, it--well, I'm just glad you're here."
"Me too," George said. It was so much easier on everyone back in the world, where the reapers got advance notice and could take the souls beforehand. "Where are they?" George asked and Tommy told her. He had to remain on guard, so George left him there.
Walking into the middle of camp was...weird. Conversations faltered or stopped as faces turned toward her. George felt suddenly very self-conscious. They all knew she'd been at the other camp; they knew why she was here now. Even if they didn't really believe--though there were probably few skeptics left this morning--they knew.
And knowing changed things. She wasn't George the foul-mouthed slacker this morning. Or George the amusingly crazy girl who talked to herself. She wasn't even Toilet Seat Girl, with a darkly funny tale of her alleged death. She was a Grim Reaper come to claim the souls of the dead, of people they'd lived with for weeks. People that some of them had seen die, and horribly by all accounts.
George's gaze shifted from one face to another. A few looked no different. But most looked at her with new expressions, or wouldn't meet her eyes. Carrie, sitting at the entrance to one shelter turned away to busy herself with something inside. Charlie, Sully and Zoe all met George's eyes for a moment before looking away, and George saw wariness--if not fear--where she'd never seen it before. She told herself it was mostly a reaction to the attack earlier, but she didn't believe it.
Veronica stared at her unblinkingly, not frightened but mesmerized by a reality she'd previously managed to avoid but could no longer deny. Michael Dawson turned away, not from fear but from--shame? George wondered about that, but only for a moment. It was all very dis-spiriting.
Not all of the faces were troubling. Hugh and Sayid met her eyes calmly. Rose Elder smiled beatifically, no doubt pleased to know that someone was looking after the souls of the dead. Sue Cullen watched George with eyes that looked much, much too old for a child of her years.
"Where are they?" George asked Hugh and Sayid. They both stood up, Hugh with considerably more effort than usual. "This way," Sayid said.
He and Hugh led George to the makeshift morgue. Behind her George heard a few conversations resume--and the sound of people stirring. She glanced over her shoulder to see that a number of people were intent on following. Searching their faces, George could see curiosity warring with discomfort and fear.
For a moment George wanted to yell at them to go away, not to be so ghoulish. But then she reconsidered. If they wanted to watch, it was no skin off her nose. And maybe it would help them--or help the dead--to deal with the situation. There was no need for secrecy here.
Where: Camp Crash
When: Day 21, Oh-Dark-Thirty
Invited: Molly, Chris, Anyone at Camp Crash
Status: Complete [Closed]
Orbing was fascinating. A swarm of glowing motes appeared out of nowhere to engulf you for a moment and when they dissipated, you were somewhere else. Convenient, too. George thought she could get used to that kind of travel. (Too bad Reapers don't get nifty powers like that.)
George looked around. "Why are we here?" She and Chris were standing at the treeline within shouting distance of the camp.
Chris shrugged. "No need to make a spectacle of ourselves."
"No, I guess not."
The walk toward camp was short and George was idly pleased to note that they were quickly spotted by Tommy, who was apparently on watch now. "Hey--George!" Tommy said with what seemed like great relief. "Chris," he added with a nod.
"Hey," George said. She stopped in front of him and hesitated for an instant. So did Tommy, before he gave her a brief hug. "Bad night," George said.
"Yeah," Tommy said. "I'm glad you're here," he added. "I hate to think about Clarice and the others...." he didn't complete the thought, but he didn't have to. "Now that I know, it--well, I'm just glad you're here."
"Me too," George said. It was so much easier on everyone back in the world, where the reapers got advance notice and could take the souls beforehand. "Where are they?" George asked and Tommy told her. He had to remain on guard, so George left him there.
Walking into the middle of camp was...weird. Conversations faltered or stopped as faces turned toward her. George felt suddenly very self-conscious. They all knew she'd been at the other camp; they knew why she was here now. Even if they didn't really believe--though there were probably few skeptics left this morning--they knew.
And knowing changed things. She wasn't George the foul-mouthed slacker this morning. Or George the amusingly crazy girl who talked to herself. She wasn't even Toilet Seat Girl, with a darkly funny tale of her alleged death. She was a Grim Reaper come to claim the souls of the dead, of people they'd lived with for weeks. People that some of them had seen die, and horribly by all accounts.
George's gaze shifted from one face to another. A few looked no different. But most looked at her with new expressions, or wouldn't meet her eyes. Carrie, sitting at the entrance to one shelter turned away to busy herself with something inside. Charlie, Sully and Zoe all met George's eyes for a moment before looking away, and George saw wariness--if not fear--where she'd never seen it before. She told herself it was mostly a reaction to the attack earlier, but she didn't believe it.
Veronica stared at her unblinkingly, not frightened but mesmerized by a reality she'd previously managed to avoid but could no longer deny. Michael Dawson turned away, not from fear but from--shame? George wondered about that, but only for a moment. It was all very dis-spiriting.
Not all of the faces were troubling. Hugh and Sayid met her eyes calmly. Rose Elder smiled beatifically, no doubt pleased to know that someone was looking after the souls of the dead. Sue Cullen watched George with eyes that looked much, much too old for a child of her years.
"Where are they?" George asked Hugh and Sayid. They both stood up, Hugh with considerably more effort than usual. "This way," Sayid said.
He and Hugh led George to the makeshift morgue. Behind her George heard a few conversations resume--and the sound of people stirring. She glanced over her shoulder to see that a number of people were intent on following. Searching their faces, George could see curiosity warring with discomfort and fear.
For a moment George wanted to yell at them to go away, not to be so ghoulish. But then she reconsidered. If they wanted to watch, it was no skin off her nose. And maybe it would help them--or help the dead--to deal with the situation. There was no need for secrecy here.