don't breathe too deep `` open

[CHLOË LAFFERTY]

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Sometimes it surprised Chloë that even when the world seemed like such a horrific, desolate place, the sun still rose. She’d got up early today on purpose, leaving the base camp before dawn in order to come down here to the docks and watch the sunrise. There were days when it didn’t seem likely that there was ever going to be light on this pitiful world again, after all the trauma its population had caused to each other, and yet, by some miracle or another, it still did. Chloë wasn’t religious – she’d been to church on Sundays growing up, but she had no real faith…even if she had done, she thought that it probably would have been lost when she’d seen what the so-called almighty God had allowed to happen to His creation – but knowing what a state everything was in and still being able to find a quiet spot to watch the light return to the world, just as it did everyday in a never ending cycle…it gave her something to believe in. If nature could carry on as it did, then maybe this wasn’t the end; there were still animals, still plants growing and the absence of leaves on the trees was due to the season, not the death of humanity as it was known. Nature was usually the first thing to notice when something was wrong, but still it continued in the same pattern that it always had; maybe they would too, eventually. Maybe they’d find the Dollhouse and subsequently find a cure, and the world would be returned to rights. Well, not rights – there’d be people in power who could never be trusted again, technology would fall into disuse and so many people’s lives would have been lost – but it would be something. Anything was better than this…but Chloë wasn’t altogether hopeful. She believed the Dollhouse was out there, and perhaps even in a cure—the world would never be the same again, though. It couldn’t be, not after this.

It was almost possible to believe that it could be, though. If she looked out to sea, it didn’t seem as though there was any destruction at all. Looking behind her, of course, the warehouses were empty and half-torn down, and shipping containers had been opened and pilfered, but Chloë didn’t want to look at that now. She swung her legs from the side of the marina, her thick boots – army boots, of course, not some high-heeled thing that came up to her calves (although she did own some of those, or had done, once upon a time; they weren’t exactly practical, though) – feet above the water. It was cold down here, and Chloë huddled into herself, wishing that she had some gloves because her fingers felt as though they were freezing off. But it was worth being cold; for a little while, she could pretend that nothing had happened. She could pretend that her family was still alive, instead of being dead or missing, that she still had a job and a career and a future, that she had people to hang out with and a life of her own to lead. She could pretend that people weren’t being exploited by an evil company, being made into an army when most of them had probably never struck another living person in their lives. She could pretend that she wasn’t terrified of being the next one to be wiped, or to be killed by butchers; she could pretend that she didn’t have her sidearm next to her, ready to fight back before they got her, and that she didn’t now carry it absolutely everywhere – not as a precaution, as it had been at work, but as a necessity.

Watching the sunrise, Chloë could pretend that the world was how it should have been, because it was still beautiful. Given the destruction of the city – she assumed it was the same for the rest of the world – it was even more striking in its contrast. She smiled, looking up at the sky and resolutely not thinking about how they’d need to find more food today, and preferably some blankets, as well as continue searching for the Dollhouse and a hundred other things that needed to be done to keep them all alive. It was funny, really; she had all these things to do, a whole load of people that she felt responsible for even though she didn’t know them, and yet here she was, alone at the docks, watching a freaking sunrise, of all things. Chloë laughed, and once she’d started laughing, she couldn’t stop.

[BREEZE DRISCOLL]

Wake up, it’s time little girl, wake up.
All the best of what we’ve done is yet to come.
Wake up, it’s time little girl, wake up.
Just remember who I am in the morning.
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It was hard, or rather becoming more difficult each morning. To wake up with the slight hope that it had all been a dream, and that she'll wake up in her warm bed. Why she would keep torturing herself with this hope wasn't known, maybe it was just the desperation in Breeze's heart. At least the sun still rose... That's what she told herself when she realized that it was all still true. That she had somehow managed to find some hidden place to sleep for a bit, and was still herself in the morning. After letting out a sigh, Breeze pushed herself up onto her feet. She didn't bother dusting herself off anymore, since dirt and dust was caked onto her clothes, it was pointless. Tossing the strap of her assault rifle over her shoulder, she glanced around the area before continuing on her way. She wasn't even sure what she was looking for anymore, let alone which direction she was heading. Though she would never forget her underlying goal in everything; Alex. Breeze's brother, hopefully alive, and somewhere in Boston. Even though he was alive, it didn't really mean that he was himself. If he wasn't himself, he was a Butcher, and therefore probably not in Boston. She couldn't think on that though, then she couldn't focus on what was around her. That could lead to her being attacked. It was also because she wanted to believe that Alex was indeed alive, and truly himself, just hopefully he hadn't gone anywhere to look for her.

It was amazing to her how fast things could change. Not too long ago she was designing or repairing tech. Now she was on the run for her life, with possibly no family left. Her sister might even be the one to kill her. Death, murder, something she thought she was never capable of. When her life was threatened, Breeze found that she was capable of a lot. Reflecting back on the previous couple of days, she luckily only had a couple run-ins. She had shot them, killed them, so that she – as well as others – could live on. Her weapon had been swapped out many times for something with more ammo, and each time she had to get used to what she was using all over again. Though she favored what she had now; fast, and hard hitting. Hopefully she would find some sort of camp, or gathering of those like her. Oh that's right! She was looking for fellow Actuals. At first she had the resolve of trusting no one, and making it on her own. It seemed easy then, because she hadn't seen the problem. However, as Breeze travelled and faced part of opposition, she realized that she would need to join up with others. Better survival rate in numbers, after all. Then there was the issue of determining who was really themselves. That led up to the tattoo on her back, which still was a bit sore. Frowning at the thought of it, she reached behind her to softly rub the spot. It read 'Adela Driscoll', which she thought was clever on her part. She got others to call her Breeze, a nick name that stuck from high school. If she ever was imprinted – which she prayed never happened – they would assume she was known as Breeze, not Adela. She smiled every time she thought about this.

Becoming much more aware of her surroundings, she noticed that she was coming up to a dock. Taking in the surrounding, everything seemed to be slightly better. The water, reflecting the rising sun, and even small plant life. It all reassured her that life went on, no matter what the human civilization was doing. It was a comforting feeling, in a sad sort of way. Though amongst everything in the area, she also saw someone sitting on the dock, laughing. Breeze wasn't sure if the laughter to worry her, or make her feel at ease. As she carefully stepped onto the dock, and closer to the woman, a hand hovered near her gun. The word 'overcautious' no longer had any meaning when you couldn't be sure if the next person you meet could kill you. “Is the sunrise really that funny?” She asked in a curious manor. She had tried her best to sound friendly, and not threatening or anything. It was a possibility that she was an Actual, and in that case, a possible friend.

[CHLOË LAFFERTY]

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Chloë enjoyed the peacefulness here; with the fact that you had to permanently have someone watching out for butchers, and how the buildings were crumbling around their ears and there wasn’t enough food, to mention just a few, it was very difficult to find peace and quiet when she was with other people. And the incessant arguing, god; Chloë had thought that somehow, the end of the world would mean that people managed to get along for a change, but if anything, she’d seen more arguments recently than she’d overheard in months. Everything was so frantic and tense that she guessed emotions simply frayed more quickly. She had yet to lose her temper, which was probably a good thing from the point of view of those at the camp, but she was more than mildly irritated with some of the people who’d survived. They didn’t seem to have appreciated that the whole world had changed; the rules that they’d lived by before no longer applied. Chloë was adaptable; she could see it, even while the law enforcer in her wanted desperately to uphold the laws that she could see being broken around her all the time, but there was no longer a government for her duty to be towards—any remnants of it were completely corrupt, and had probably been infiltrated by Rossum using their dolls from the Dollhouse for years. Chloë’s duty now was to survival – not just her own, but that of people around her. And she was damned if she was going to let anyone else die. There was a cure, somewhere, a way to get those who had been wiped back to their original selves: then she could find her parents and her sister and her partner (she’d not even thought about her partner, but he was probably dead too and though they’d not been working together long, it was terrible to think of because she’d trusted him and that took a lot for her to do), and they wouldn’t be dead, or worse—Chloë was of the firm belief that being wiped was worse than being killed. It was why her guilt over killing butchers was less than it might otherwise have been; if she was in that situation, she’d want someone to kill her, too. She wouldn’t want her body to be used for evil in that way.

Evil was something that Chloë had come across many times before; she fought criminals for a living, with her cases specialising towards homicides. There was definitely evil in the world, Chloë knew, but there had never been evil like this. What had happened wasn’t just one person getting angry at his girlfriend, or revenge, or even a serial killer following a pattern, it was the people at the top of a corporation deciding to take over the world for their own benefit (although what benefit it could be, Chloë had yet to realise). Killing someone was one thing. Taking an innocent person and turning their body into a murdering vessel without their consent was quite another, especially on the scale that it had been done here. Chloë didn’t know how many people were still themselves; twenty? Fifty? And they were on the run, all the time, so that they, too, weren’t made pawns in whatever game Rossum was playing. It had to end, and it had to end now; Chloë just didn’t know how a rough and tumble group of refugees could do that. It was why they needed to find the Dollhouse, so they could be safe from signals (if the rumours were true and it was the safest place to be, aside from Safe Haven), and use the resources that were apparently there to reverse what had happened and lock up those who’d done this. And there would be justice; if they got through this, which, at the moment at least, seemed improbable, Chloë would personally make sure there was justice.

“Is the sunrise really that funny?”

Chloë had sharp reflexes; it took her only a few seconds to notice the presence of someone else, stop laughing and pick up her gun, despite the fact that coming all the way out to the docks on their own didn’t seem like typical butcher behaviour. She couldn’t be sure, though; the butchers could be programmed to do anything Rossum wanted – for all she knew, their coding could have been changed since their last encounter. “It’s not funny,” she conceded, getting to her feet with her gun still trained on the other woman, though it was merely a precaution; Chloë didn’t honestly think that she was out to kill her. If she was lucky, she’d found another actual. “But if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry, and I find that option infinitely less appealing.” She shrugged, looking out to sea for a moment before remembering herself, pointing her gun with more of a purpose now; chit-chatting was not about to get Chloë Lafferty killed. “What’s your name?” She just hoped the woman was tattooed with her name, just as Chloë was, and that she was who she said she was; she seemed nice. Chloë didn’t want to have to kill her.