Irene Didn’t Pull Back When Shiv Gripped Her Shoulders. She Just Stood There, Watching Them With That

Jessica Alexander -- 400*640

Irene didn’t look up right away.

She just nodded once — a little jerk of her chin — and dragged another fry through the pool of ketchup on her tray. Casual, like it wasn’t anything. Like letting someone close was muscle memory instead of a thing that still made her ribs itch.

But when the other woman settled across from her, tray clinking softly against the table’s metal edge, Irene let herself glance over. Quick. Subtle.

And something tugged.

Not recognition, not fully — but that odd prickle you get when a face lingers in your periphery a second too long, like a dream you almost remembered. There was a kind of unsettled weight around her shoulders, not loud, not dramatic, but familiar in the way Irene had learned to clock in strangers. A restlessness. Like she was trying to fit into skin that didn’t feel like hers yet.

It made Irene’s jaw tighten.

The kind of familiar that made her instinctively brace — not for danger, but for the part of herself that might start hoping for connection before she could stop it.

She didn’t stare. Wouldn’t let herself.

Instead, she dropped her gaze back to her food. Took a sip of her milkshake to buy herself a second. Vanilla and too sweet. It clung to the back of her throat like a childhood she didn’t have.

“Yeah,” she said after a beat, voice quieter now, more of a murmur. “Place fills up fast when the air stops biting.”

The patio was lit in a way that made everything seem a little softer than it probably was — string lights looping lazy over the tables, dogs barking and kids laughing like the world hadn’t tried to chew them up yet. Irene watched a lab mix skid across the pavement chasing a tennis ball and felt the corner of her mouth twitch. Not a smile. Not quite. But close.

Her eyes flicked back up, briefly.

“You new to the area?” she asked, not because she cared — or, at least, that’s what she told herself — but because the question hung there anyway. Like it wanted to be spoken.

She popped another fry into her mouth. Chewed slow.

Something about the girl’s presence pressed quiet against the noise in Irene’s chest. Not gone, not even dulled — just… held, maybe. For a moment.

She nudged the tray a little toward the middle. A silent offer. A peacekeeping gesture. Irene didn’t share food. Not usually. But this wasn’t usual.

She still hadn’t asked her name. Didn’t want to ask why she looked like someone from a dream Irene might’ve had once. Didn’t want to know if she’d show up in another one later.

“Try the fries,” she said instead, finally glancing back up — just long enough to meet her eyes. “They’re the only thing here better than the milkshakes.”

A beat.

“And the milkshakes are pretty damn good.”

This is one of the things she's had trouble getting used to since her turning. The hunger, an appetite far bigger than the one she used to have, and for things far heavier than what she used to eat. And as she looked around the crowded place, she lamented once more her new affinity for greasier, heavier food.

But she had needed to get out of the apartment, even if somehow, it felt slightly better, less tight, less suffocating. The walls no longer collapsing on her, the silence no as deafening as it was when she first moved there. She imagined it had to do with a redheaded wolf and the hangout place they've asked her to visit, the wolves that hang around there that can't see beyond her wolf. That don't know of the past life she carried before this.

She thinks of the blonde girl that's a new familiar face around the cafe. And a smile finds her lips all over again, as she looks down at the trail in her hands. But she shakes herself out of it, looks around once more and finds no empty seat.

Sky had almost given up, resigned to sitting somewhere on the floor or go back and asked for it to be packed to go when she catches the girl's voice, and she looks at her with a grown, and surprise in her face. She looks comfortable in her table, but Sky takes the invitation anyway, sitting opposite the other, trying to make herself small. "Thanks... I wasn't expecting this to be so packed."

Irene didn’t flinch when Shiv’s hand landed on her shoulder — the weight of it familiar, grounding. She let it sit there for a second, two, before her gaze shifted, sharp eyes scanning the shimmering horizon behind them.

The sand still whispered wrong beneath her feet. Magic in too many layers. Riven’s magic. It stirred like oil just beneath the surface — thick, slick, and sour-sweet. Something about the way it pulsed made her stomach pull tight.

This wasn’t just a trap. This was a loop. But why?

She never wished to be in their head. Not now, not ever.. and yet, here they were.

Her fingers flexed slightly around Shiv’s wrist.

“You're not the type that needs tracking,” she murmured, almost more to herself than to them. “But you went missing anyway.”

Her tone was even, but her jaw stayed set. Beneath her skin, the hum of too many unanswered questions burned like static.

Then—Thera?

She heard the name echo back at her, and for a moment, Irene just looked at Shiv. Really looked. Their confusion was real — not acted, not played for deflection. There was an absence there that hadn’t been there before. Like someone had gone through and cut out whole hours of their memory with surgical precision.

Her heart dropped, low and hard. She didn’t show it.

Instead, her lips pressed into a line and her eyes flicked to the edge of the dunes again — reflexive now, like she expected something to claw its way through. But it was just heat and mirage and silence.

Not the good kind.

She stepped a little closer, keeping hold of their wrist. The contact was starting to buzz now — faint, like a wire fraying somewhere between them.

“You don’t remember her.” It wasn’t a question.

Irene’s breath went out soft, deliberate. Her other hand rose, gentle but sure, brushing a line just above Shiv’s temple — not quite touching skin, but close enough to feel the threads of magic humming underneath. Weakened. Strained.

Instead, she looked Shiv in the eye and said, “What do you mean? Thera’s keeping you alive right now.”

She didn’t wait for the weight of that to settle. There wasn’t time. The sand behind them had started shifting again — just slightly, but enough to make Irene’s pulse tick faster at the base of her throat. She hated this place. Too bright, too open, too... unreal.

She reached down and took Shiv’s hand in hers, firm and warm and real.

“We can talk more when we’re out of here,” she said, nodding toward the faint outline of an archway shimmering in the distance — a door forming, slowly, between dunes. A weakness in the fold. Maybe even a way out.

“Do you like the beach?” she asked, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t stitched to a hundred memories of nights spent escaping and surviving and forgetting how to breathe.

Her grip on their hand tightened just slightly.

“Let’s walk. Keep your mind open. Just enough for me to hold on. I’ll handle the rest.”

She glanced back once, the heat behind them already thickening into something with teeth. Her voice was low, steady — a whisper, not a plea. She'd answer their questions, as long as they were somewhere safer.

“Don’t let go.”

Irene makes contact and the sand underneath Shiv’s feet feels just a little more solid, grounded. Maybe it’s just a placebo effect, the false reassurance of having someone they can touch and see as supposed to voices in the wind and a phantom’s touch against their skin. But, placebo or nay, they'll take it. 

“Since when have I been the type that needs tracking?” Shiv shakes their head as they laugh and smile, “Seriously, it's good to see you. I mean it.” Shiv plants a hand on the younger hunter’s shoulder with a firm grip. “Fantastic work.” 

Despite what the dream would have them believe, they don't actually have all the time in the world. If they did, Shiv would have taken a moment to give Irene her flowers, additional words of praise and notes of improvement every hunter needs to continue the onslaught.

Unfortunately, they don't have the time nor brain power to ask Irene how she got here. Shiv’s already got so much to wrap their head around as it is. Instead they nod along. “Right. Steady…Steady?” 

They fail to hide their confusion, their smile becoming nervously forced and uneasy. What does steady mean in this context? Steady as in stable? If so, mentally or physically stable? It’s hard to say if they can achieve either at this rate.

The confusion on Shiv’s face multiplies as Irene mentions another person. An accomplice maybe? Brows furrow, body slightly leaning forward as they parrot back, “Thera?”

The name feels familiar on their tongue but any and all tangible memory is missing. 

Despite how hard they try to think or recall in that moment, there is simply nothing there. No link. No connection. Just the same all-consuming static that comes when Shiv tries to remember how they got into this mess in the first place. 

“I-I mean, yeah. Yeah. I’m okay. Obviously could be better- I’m sorry, are you okay?" Before they know it, the panicked dread weighing on Shiv bleeds into their voice, "Are you hurt? What of Sammy? Or the twins? Is the rest of the Brotherhood alright? Have we been breached?”

“...And who’s Thera?”

Irene didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she just watched her—this slip of a person who moved like sunlight had stitched itself into her seams, even soaked and barefoot in the middle of the storm. Irene’s mouth twitched again, that not-quite-smile hanging on like it was waiting for permission.

“I’m not chasing anything,” she said, voice low and even. “I’m just walking.”

The rain had picked up, steady now, but she didn’t move to shield herself. Just let it bead and roll off her coat like she’d forgotten it was supposed to bother her. Maybe she had.

She glanced at Allie’s bare feet and added, “You’re gonna catch something worse than a broken neck out here, though. There’s mud in the drains and runoff like soup.”

A pause.

“But you look happy.” Not a question, not quite an observation —just a simple fact, dropped between them with no particular weight. Like Irene had noticed and decided it was worth naming. She shifted her stance, hands still buried deep in her coat. “Can’t decide if it’s comforting or dangerous.”

Her gaze flicked up to the sky —not the clouds, not the wind, but something behind both. Whatever it was, it wasn’t close yet. But it would be. “I’m not the kind who runs from storms,” she added, more to the sky than to Allie. “But I don’t usually dance in ‘em either.” Finally, her attention dropped back to Allie. Something in her expression had softened —barely, but there. Like moss on stone.

“...Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

         she feels the witch before she sees her, in between some jump and twirl when she catches a warm familiarity in the breeze. the wind’s growing sharper, and she’s not if it’s from the storm, or if it’s stemming from the magic that’s coming just a whisper closer. allie’s reaching for her before she realizes, welcoming her in before allie finds irene’s name written on the signature. allie perks up towards the sound of another voice, eyes bright and searching, her voice even brighter against the rain.  “ break my neck? ”  there’s a lot of things you can break while dancing, but she’d never thought about her neck. allie’s never been careful, but she doesn’t think she could manage that. clumsy, and delighted, she recognizes the voice as a friend. “ oh, irene! you’re here! ”

         with her shoes in her hand, allie nearly skips forward to greet her. even rain-soaked, there’s a warm excitement that blooms inside her. it might’ve been cold, but that didn’t matter nearly as much. besides, the sun was still peeking through, just a little bit. even if a storm was brewing, something big enough to scare her away, she could still enjoy the last glimpses of sunlight.

         “ oh my gosh, are you kidding? i love the rain! ”  her hands fasten, earnestly, behind her back as she rocks forward. with wide, curious eyes, she watches irene.  “ what else would i be chasing? oh, are you a rain chaser? ”  she hadn’t thought so, but she always sorta’ thinks irene’s chasing something. maybe not the rain, but something.

Irene blinked against the brightness of the laundromat lights, the hum of the machines loud enough to fill the silence between them. Her jacket still smelled faintly of dried mugwort and something acrid from the burner at work —something half-finished she hadn’t meant to forget.

She didn’t meet Shiv’s eyes right away, just stepped in and let the door fall shut behind her.

“Nothing,” she said after a second, like the word had to work its way through a wall first. “Maybe I just need to wash some clothes.”

It was a lie. The kind that didn’t even try to convince.

She hated asking favors. In general, she hated asking anyone for anything. It made her feel like she owed something back, like she'd cracked open a door she couldn’t close again. But the Shahs… her dad had trusted them. Said it more than once, like a scratched-up record he couldn’t stop playing. If anything happens to me, find the Shahs.

It was even in the will. Right there with the money he left her and a half-page of careful handwriting that tried too hard not to sound like a goodbye.

So maybe it meant something. It had to.

She dropped a small canvas bag beside one of the empty machines, but didn’t open it. Arms crossed loosely, fingers tucked beneath sleeves like they might betray more than she was willing to admit.

“Place felt quiet tonight,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Too quiet. I figured I’d go train for a bit.”

There was a pause. Not quite hesitation—more like a space to breathe.

“You feel like joining?” she asked, finally glancing his way. “Could use the company. Or, I don’t know... maybe just the noise.”

WHO: @ireneclermont WHERE/WHEN: Wash Tub Laundry / Late Evening

If Shiv had a nickel for every secret Brotherhood witch they knew and had a detailed case file for, they’d have two nickels. Two nickels with uniquely different baggage Shiv had no clue where to begin with. 

Gemma’s case was less cause for immediate concern. If things blew out of water, Gemma still had her brother and father to cover for her. That wasn’t the case for Irene. She’s an outsider coming in; Irene has no one within Port Leiry’s Brotherhood Sect to come to her aid in the worst case scenario... No one except Shiv that is. 

Technically all that Asim wanted in his will was a watchful eye on the Clermont Girl but Shiv found themself acting as their fellow hunter’s keeper unprompted. Not that Shiv's father could blame them. Compassion is a Shah bad habit: plucking up weary hunters and taking them under their wing like stray cats needing a home.

Tonight Irene comes into the laundromat with a glint in her eye. The kind of glint that gives Shiv pause. “Clermont.” Shiv stands up from where they were sitting behind the front desk, turning their full attention to the young hunter. “Working late again, I see. How can I help you?”

She didn’t answer at first.

Just stared —unmoving, unreadable—the knife still pressed flat against his neck like a question she didn’t want to ask out loud. Like if she let it go, everything she’d built to keep herself standing would tumble right down after it. Her fingers didn’t shake. Irene didn’t shake. But inside her chest, something was splintering open. Something she’d buried so deep under years of silence and steel that she barely remembered the shape of it anymore.

And then he spoke again.

Her breath hitched. The sound cracked through her like thunder under frozen lakewater —hairline fractures splintering outward from the center of her. It wasn’t the name that did it. It was the sound of his voice.

The knife dropped.

Not far —just to her side— but it might as well have been a thousand miles. She didn’t even remember stepping forward. Just that her arms were around him, tight, desperate, like if she let go now he’d dissolve into rain and fog and bad dreams. Her fingers curled into the back of his jacket. Her face pressed hard into his shoulder. She held on —like she was drowning, and he was the surface.

And for the first time in what felt like years, Irene breathed.

The kind of breath that didn’t rattle in her lungs. That didn’t feel rationed, or stolen, or half-hollowed out by the weight she’d grown too used to carrying. It hit her like air after too long underwater —sharp, real, cruelly kind.

“You’re not real,” she said against his collar, barely louder than the wind. “You can’t be. I don’t get to have this.”

But she didn’t let go.

Not yet.

Not until the storm stopped sounding like her heartbeat.

Not until she could trust her knees again.

She pulled back just enough to see him —really see him—and the moment her eyes caught his again, she asked,

“What the hell are you doing here?”

It came out hoarse, like it’d clawed its way up from something deeper than her throat. She didn’t mean it like an accusation. Not exactly. Just—an ache, a question sharpened with disbelief. A heartbeat wrapped in barbed wire.

She clung to him like if she moved —if she so much as breathed wrong— he’d vanish into the mist again. Like the rain would cut through the space between them and prove he was never there at all, just a phantom conjured by too many sleepless nights and too many memories she’d tried too hard to forget. Her fingers dug in, not soft, not delicate—desperate. A tether. A lifeline. Like she could anchor him here just by refusing to let go.

Her face stayed pressed against the curve of his shoulder, and she inhaled like it might brand the moment into her lungs, like if she just memorized the scent of rain and asphalt and him, it would make the rest of the world less sharp tomorrow. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. Not yet. Not when it still felt like a dream that could turn cruel at any second.

"I missed you so much."

He’d caught the outline of her profile earlier, just enough for suspicion to rise. Then followed her into a shop, pretending to browse the next aisle over, just to catch the sound of her voice. A good night, a casual goodbye — something, anything that would prove it was really her. Next, he had his phone in his hands, fingers swiping up, up, up until his thumb stopped on her name. Irene. The screen stared back at him like a mirror. Call her, Riven.

No. If this wasn’t her, what would he say? Sorry I haven’t called in years? How have you been, little one? He didn't want to sound like a stranger, but that's all he has become to her.

Lost in his thoughts, eyes flicking up and down the screen, Riven lost his balance. Suddenly, a knife pressed too hard into his skin. He was slammed into a wall, like it was child’s play for her to physically tower over a man like him. There was a flicker of something raw in her gaze — pain, maybe hope, maybe the memory of a bond that time hadn’t fully erased. "Irene." a beat, "It's me." He kept his hands where she could see them; empty, and open, and unthreatening.

She didn’t lower the knife. Couldn’t, maybe. Not yet. Not until he'd proven that he wasn't a ghost. That he was something real. "You're not dreaming, It's me."

Rivy.

The word felt like it stole the air from his lungs, pulled him into a time machine, back years, when he was just a kid. Just a bit taller than her, only a few years older, just as inexperienced. Maybe even more alone.

"Hey," he said softly, reaching out a hand. It brushed against hers, cradling the small of her wrist where she gripped the blade. "Come on. Put the knife down." He held her gaze. "I’m not going to hurt you."

Does your character feel more comfortable with more clothing, or with less clothing?

More clothing. Definitely.

Not because she's trying to hide anything dramatic — She just doesn’t like the attention. Irene has never been the kind of person who walks into a room and wants eyes on her. Less clothing… that invites stares, comments, and assumptions. She has had enough of that to last a lifetime.

She feels safer when covered. More in control. Like there’s a layer between her, her weapons and everything else. It’s not about shame — it’s about comfort. About not being seen unless she chooses to be.

Irene’s eyes didn’t leave her. Not when she stammered. Not when she forced that smile like it might hold her together. And especially not when she said she’d be fine.

People always said that. I’m good. They almost never were.

The wind slid in off the street, lifting the edges of Irene’s coat and catching the scent of rain still clinging to the trees. She exhaled slow, watching the girl —Cami—wrap her arms around herself like armor.

That smile hurt to look at.

So Irene didn’t.

She stepped forward instead, smooth and quiet, and in one practiced motion, she slipped the coat from her shoulders and offered it—not as a question, but a fact. A choice laid out gently between them. “Take it,” she said, tone low. “I’ve got layers.”

She didn’t. Not really. But she’d walked home colder.

Irene waited until Cami’s fingers brushed the fabric before continuing. “You can keep saying you’re not usually like this, but the truth is —no one’s at their best when they’re bleeding and scared. Doesn’t mean you owe me an explanation.” She tilted her head slightly, eyes scanning the dark behind them out of habit. Something about the way Cami looked over her shoulder had lodged in her gut like a splinter.

At the mention of the woods, she just nodded once, slow. No disbelief —just quiet understanding, like she knew too well the kind of weather that didn’t stay on a forecast. The kind that lived between trees and teeth.

“I know the kind of storms that don’t show up on radar,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone. “And I know how people crawl out of them.”

Her gaze met Cami’s then —steady, unblinking, but not hard. Just there. Like a lighthouse. Not chasing anything. Just a place to look when everything else went dark.

“I’m not pointing you anywhere until I know you won’t fall over getting there.”

She nodded toward the edge of the sidewalk, where the streetlight ended and something like quiet lived. “I’ve got a kettle on and a couch that’s not haunted —yet. You want to warm up, no strings, no pressure, you can.”

A pause. Just long enough to leave room.

“I’m not here to save you. But I’m not leaving you out here either.”

   meeting people in such a state like this, wasn't ideally how she thought it'd be, being new to town and all. she had hoped to look less.....like a character from the 100. listening to her speaking about the gym, camila's face fell as she started thinking to herself. 'she could pick up a membership as she go there' she thought to herself, as she could feel the anxiety settling in. " uh..um~" she continued before looking down at her muddy clothes & the shoes in question. "i'll....i'll figure it out, sorry! i'm.......not usually like this~" she stated, mostly to herself as she was slowly getting lost in her head.

at the next statement of being new in town, camila froze a bit before she's looking back at the stranger. "I.....I was just passing through....or actually, i'm here to .....to meet someone." she continued while nodding to herself, as if to steady herself from not being so shaky jumpy. the community center mention did catch her attention, as she was soon turning to see just exactly where she was.

"what?" she asked suddenly when questioned if she was hurt or not. "uhh....yeah i...fell in the woods. the weather was.....crazy." she nodded as she slowly crossed her arms, as if to warm herself. the dampness of her clothes mixed with the mud, was a little bit uncomfortable. when the stranger introduced herself, camila couldn't tell if they were nice or not. reading people was always.....her specialty; not camila's.

"i'm....cami. and I don't wanna trouble you, so a point in the right direction and i'll be good!" she continued firmly, while forcing another smile on her face.

There was a flicker in her expression —not quite surprise, not quite protest. Just something that passed through and didn’t linger. Her gaze dropped to the canvas bag like she’d forgotten it was even there.

“You don’t have to do all that,” she muttered, toeing it a little closer with the side of her boot. “I wasn’t angling for a tune-up.”

Still, she didn’t say no.

The bag gave a dull clink as she set it on the table. Inside; a cloth-wrapped bundle of throwing knives, a small pouch of dried sigil chalks, a pair of worn leather wraps that smelled faintly of smoke, and—carefully tucked in a separate sheath, her father’s knife. The grip was dark with age, the edge clean but dulled from use. Nothing flashy. Nothing ornamental. Just the kind of tools you carried because you had to, not because they made you look the part. Tools that had seen too much and kept quiet about it.

She picked up the blade, turned it once in her hand before setting it down for him to see. “It’s not in the worst shape,” she said. “But it’s not great either.”

Then, silence again. Long enough to leave space, short enough not to close the door. She leaned back on her heels, arms folding loosely. Eyes steady on Shiv now, but unreadable.

“I don’t like saying things out loud,” she said, eventually. “Feels like naming them makes them real.”

A pause.

“But the apartment’s too quiet. And the shop smells like the past. And I don’t know if I’m just tired, or if I’ve been tired so long it started to feel normal.”

She blinked once, then looked away, pretending to study the laundry machine like it might offer an answer. “So yeah. I figured training. At least it’s motion.”

Another beat.

“I wasn’t really expecting company,” she said, a little softer this time. “But I’m not about to turn it down.” And in its own strange, backward way — that was thanks.

“If that's the case, the washer's all yours.” Though her suggestion may be a lie, the invitation rings true. The laundry machines will still be there, no matter if Irene decides to use them now or later.

Yet there seems to be something else on her mind besides laundry or training. It’s just a matter of chipping away at that cold, distant exterior.

Shiv meets Irene’s glance with a shrug. “Sure. I'm free to join. Or accompany. Or make noise.” Three very different tasks depending on what exactly Irene is trying to accomplish. “Training is all well and good, but there’s probably better ways to fill the quiet. At some point, routine just becomes part of the humdrum, right? Just more quiet on top of quiet. Can't have that... Here.”

Shiv leans forward with one hand planted on their desk as the other points to her small discarded canvas bag. “What kind of training gear have you been carrying around all night? I can bet whatever it is will be in need of some deep cleaning or sharpening. Including that blade of yours.”

That blade being the silver-edged knife on her thigh, of course. How could Shiv not see it? The antique of a weapon sticks out of her outfit like a sore thumb.

"C'mon", Shiv clears their table and reaches into their drawer for the cleaning supplies they had immediately on hand. "Let me run a quick maintenance check. On the house. Just start filling the silence and say what's actually on your mind."

Irene didn’t answer right away. Just stood there with the wind needling past her hood and the storm biting at the edges of her coat. She watched him with that same unreadable calm — not cold, not unkind, just steady in a way most people forgot how to be. Like she’d already made her decision, and now she was waiting to see if he’d catch up to it.

At his joke, something flickered across her face. Not quite amusement. Not pity, either.

“You keep offering pieces like no one’ll miss ‘em,” she said quietly. “This town’s full of people who’d take you up on it.”

She stepped closer, the wet gravel crunching under her boot. Her gaze stayed level.

“There are folks around who’d love to know how soft your belly is. What your bones sound like when they crack. Some don’t even need a reason. Just like seeing what leaks out.”

There was nothing cruel in the way she said it. If anything, it was gentle — a warning wrapped in something like care, worn blunt from use.

Then, she pulled her hand from her coat pocket, palm up, offered without ceremony.

“You can’t stay here.”

A pause, as if she were weighing her next words against the storm itself.

“You don’t know me. I don’t know you. But you sit in this truck much longer, and someone’s going to find your teeth before they find your name.”

Her fingers didn’t waver. She wasn’t a big woman, didn’t look like she could carry much more than her own weight and maybe a loaded satchel — but there was a kind of quiet confidence in the offer. She was training on a daily basis, this couldn't be as difficult, right?

“I’ll help you. If you can walk, I’ll get you there.”

Then, softer — not for reassurance, but truth. “I’m stronger than I look.”

He doesn't know what to make of this stranger walking through a growing hurricane like it's a summer shower. There's no urgency in her tone, unlike the few others who have stopped by, and there's almost a relief when she doesn't tell Kevin to get out of the truck. She listens to his stuttering explanations and she simply responds with the facts. Unnerving, but better than trying to convince someone he wasn't being stupid for the sake of being stupid.

A mile and a half in this weather is impossible for him. His legs already ache intensely, and that's while he's dry and semi-warm. If he tried now, he would need to rest after a couple hundred feet. Still, he takes in the information all the same. "I'll keep that in mind," he nods. Doesn't mention that trying to make the journey would almost certainly lead to a worse outcome for him.

"I appreciate the warning, and maybe if someone does come by, they'll charge me an arm and a leg. They'd be useless to them, but I guess beggars can't be choosers." Maybe that's a bad joke. His head feels foggy from the storm and the drugs. "I don't know if I'll be fine," he shrugs. There's no way to be sure of that. "But it's what I've got. You got a name? If I make it out of this, I'll buy you a drink for giving a shit."