(Untitled)

[withoutasea]

The kitchen fascinated her. The machines for boiling water and cleaning crocks, the mechanical range, all of it. She spent time in there, comforted by familiar kitchen sounds (people cooking and eating always sounded like people cooking and eating). Mostly, though, she sat in the large chair in the corner with her knees drawn up under the red

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[plntfood]

It's been only a day, but he hasn't left the Compound yet and he doesn't intend on venturing back into the jungle any time soon. He's explored the levels, discovered the box with the clothes and he's changed into something more suitable than the clothes he'd arrived in. The shorts are orange and pink, but at least they're not falling apart.

He's read the notices on the bulletin board and now he's in the kitchen, a glass of water on the counter beside him and when the woman speaks, he looks over at her. He doesn't think she's speaking to him, but he could be wrong. "Most stories get it wrong," he says, because he remembers Eric's words. Mathias would be the villain. The Nazi.

[withoutasea]

She looked up, her eyes wide and startled for a moment. She had not truly realised that she had spoken aloud. He was standing across the room from her, odd-clothes, but young and fair of face. His accent reminded her of Camelot, of the visitors who had come and gone to pay fealty to her Lord.

"There are many stories," she said, quietly. "And, if half of them are true, then I was, oh, very wicked, once."

[plntfood]

"I think there is always a way to tell a story to make anyone seem like the villain," Mathias answers, choosing his words carefully. Should Eric or Stacy escape, they have all they need to make him out to be the bad guy in their adventure. The one who led them to their deaths, but his intentions were never evil. He'd only wanted to find his brother.

Carefully, he moves away from the counter and leaves his glass where it is. The pain in his hands is worse today and it hurts to carry things. "What kinds of stories are there about you?" he asks.

[withoutasea]

"I wonder how it always seems to be the women that I knew who are made worst." She set the book down on the arm of the chair and looked up at him, her bare toes slipping out from under her gown into the cool air.

She leaned her chin into her hand again.

"There are many stories about me," she said. "I was wife and wicked woman and Queen of Camelot, and I dared to think and feel for myself. Wicked Jenny. Spoiled Jenny, with her sins."