This is a Fucking Forest

Who: Conor and Hannah
When: Approximately 9 a.m.
Where: In the forest behind the chapel.

This was most certainly not The W. It wasn't even a fucking Hilton. Or a goddamn house. No, this was a forest. With trees, and sticks and grass and mud and no doubt a few furry woodland creatures. He was outside. Outside in the dirt. Well. This was not what he had had in mind. Christ Jesus, at least a bed would've been reasonable, he thought. Not too much to ask, that. This was a far fucking cry from civilization, to be sure.

Conor sat up, trying in vain to remember how he had gotten himself here, and recalling only the final preparations he'd made for the trip. At least he could assume the travel itself had been pleasant, seeing as he'd grown so used to first class he couldn't tolerate anything less. He got to his feet, dusting himself off with no small amount of disgust. This was his current favorite sweatshirt, dammit, and where the hell was all his shit? This was just bad business.

Reaching beyond his coat and into his inner pocket, Conor removed a pack of cloves, tapping one out and studying the building before him contemplatively. It looked like a church. Conor hadn't been in a church in years -- about seven, actually. He removed his small silver lighter from his pocket and touched the tip of the clove, inhaling deeply, before he bothered to really look around. What a fucking joke.

Hannah was pissed, though that really wasn't anything new for her. But Lina kept putting her on fucking fishing duty, and she didn't fucking know how to fish, and because Bitchface McSheriff told her to do it, which meant that she didn't want to. So there. She'd stomped off after hearing that bullshit, Anubis keeping her from running into anything, planning to take a piss somewhere and maybe find a drink of water before settling in for another long day of doing absolutely nothing on the fucking lakeshore.

She hadn't gone far when she heard the rustling sounds that meant someone else was moving around out there, then the click and hiss of flame. "Well, holy shit," she snarked. "Day two and someone's already playing with fire again. And with the ruins of the house still smoking. That's got to be a foul in someone's rulebook."

At the sound of someone approaching, Conor glanced over and set eyes on a very short woman. Potentially a midget, but then, she was Asian, so he supposed he could forgive her stature. Besides, she had a fucking huge dog. He eyed the animal warily, noting the harness and filing that away for further contemplation. She wasn't looking at him, he noted, which either meant she didn't deem him worthy or couldn't see him. Based on the dog, and the fact that he damn well was worth a good look, Conor's money was on the latter. He stuffed one hand into his pocket and dropped his lighter, then rocked back on his heels as he observed her. So that was what had happened, the reason he had woken up on the fucking ground. He narrowed his eyes. "Well, holy shit," he mimicked. "Nine A.M. and someone's not had her morning caffeine drip. You ought to see to that mouth of yours." He flicked ash. "Since we're keeping score."

"Rules aren't the same as scores," Hannah corrected, "but when you come up with a way to brew coffee out of thin air, princess, I'll happily take a cup. Black, if you please, like my soul." She shrugged, the picture of uncaring nonchalance. "I'm just saying," she said, amused, "if you burn down the forest to match the house, people are going to be pissed. Some bitches woke up in stocks today for being lazy whores. I'd hate to see how you turned out. Well," she amended, "I probably wouldn't hate it. Likely I'd laugh. But you know what I meant." Newbies. Perfect for working out some of her irritation.

Personally, Conor couldn't see the difference, nor did he quite care for the distinction. He absently checked his inner pocket, fingertips grazing plastic. At least he'd woken up with that, if not the rest of his things. He raised a brow at her, though she couldn't see it, and wondered at the attitude. Oh, he appreciated a little snark now and again, even enjoyed banter when it was convenient for him, but he was pre-caffeine drip himself, so she was messing with the wrong man. And Christ, but he hated idioms. "To go with your cold, cold heart, I take it?" he responded blandly. "Seeing as I'm not a complete idiot -- not that you would know, but I'm capable of counting, I don't drool too much in public, and no one's had a problem letting me out of the house before -- I don't think I'll be burning down a forest with a cigarette." Not any time soon, of course, and not that he would give a shit if he did. "I woke up on the ground," he said with a shrug. He was mostly over it. "I can hardly be bothered to care about the condition of everyone else. Why haven't they moved us to a new facility?" Why the hell had they dropped him off in a forest, more like. Fucking bullshit.

"Hardly," Hannah drawled. "Cold coffee is an abomination." She dropped the square handle of Anubis' harness in favor of holding only the leash, looped around her wrist, and crossed her arms to grin at him. She was much better able to pinpoint his location now that he was speaking and adjusted her face accordingly. "Those are pretty low standards," she informed him. "You might still be an idiot. I'm reserving judgement until further notice. However, since attitude like that will get you dropped on your face pretty damn quick here, allow me to inform you about just how completely screwed you are right now. For one, there is no new facility. In case you hadn't noticed - and I'd certainly hope you would've by now - we are in the middle of fucking nowhere. Second, this farce of an experiment is being run by a team of complete and total psychopaths. I wouldn't put it past them to have burned down the house themselves in order to see how well we'd all survive out here. So don't expect luxury accommodations anytime soon. Third, should you go up to the people who like to think they're in charge of all of us lab rats - specifically Bitchface McSheriff and her cronies - you're liable to be sent on your merry way with no food, no tent, and no help in making your own way. She's big in the whole 'share and share alike' philosophy. Fourth, on top of all the other shit we deal with in this high stress experiment, we've got a hidden psycho living in the house with us. Be careful or you might find yourself waking up chained to a piece of meat in the meat locker or something similarly twisted. Assuming we get another meat locker, further assuming we get a new house. Right now I'm leaning towards 'no.' At least, not for a while."

Seeing as the girl seemed incapable of shutting up for more than five seconds at a time, and every time she opened her mouth, she spewed the sort of bile that bespoke of a serious lack of sexual encounters, Conor decided not to respond until she was finished. Of course, at this rate, he highly doubted that would be any time soon. Her grasp on sarcasm was great from her end, but apparently she could only dish -- and not all that well, he doubted she'd ever succeed at a career as waitstaff, or service for that matter, and not just because of her obvious visual limitations -- and didn't quite understand what she was being served. He smoked silently as she railed on, taking in what he could and smirking to himself -- it wasn't like she could see it anyway. "Well, shit. No room service. Whatever shall I do?" he finally said in mock horror. "You know, you're possibly the most loquacious person I've ever met." And the most unpleasant, and that was saying something. He blew smoke into the air and watched it curl and dissipate. "We have access to weapons?" he asked, mild interest tinging his voice.

"Bitchface and her cronies have weapons," Hannah said, rolling her eyes and wondering where the hell he'd pulled that from in her fun little spiel. "You - or me, for that matter - do not. No way in hell is she going to give some brand new bozo a bow or knife to play with. You could probably borrow a nice, shiny fish hook, though, if you ask nicely. Good for putting out eyes or cutting your own wrists. You seem like the type who'd be utterly lost without your suite at the Mandarin Oriental," she continued, naming one of the most iconic pieces of architecture - and a very luxurious hotel - in San Francisco.

"Well, that would be her loss," he commented easily. And he doubted she was right. Regardless of Bitchface's nickname, Conor had the feeling he could sway her. It wouldn't hurt to try. After all, he was a champion hunter, and he didn't doubt that the rest of the people involved in the experiment would grow tired of fish soon enough. In any event, it wasn't like he had any interest in retaining a weapon. He genuinely couldn't think of any need he might have other than acquiring food. "You seem like someone who would be utterly lost without your dog and a thick shell of sarcasm," he remarked idly, not bothered by her opinion of him. Many had it; many didn't know how capable he was. The fact he dressed like a homeless person always added to the confusion, but then, she couldn't see that, could she? Interesting how easily someone that was blind still made such harsh and quick judgments. Conor flicked the remainder of the clove in her direction, putting his hands in his pockets and taking steps in the direction from which she'd come. "The rest of them around the front?" he asked, clarification he really didn't need.

"Everyone's a psychoanalyst," Hannah said with a sigh, rolling her eyes at his assessment. He was by far not the first person who tried to write her off in a variety of ways. "Not like it matters to explain myself to you, but I didn't get this dog until I came here. I can take care of myself just fine, thanks." She shrugged. "Beats me," she said, deliberately choosing to play dumb about what he meant by 'around front'. "You're such a skilled hunter, though, I'm sure you'll have no problem finding people." It wasn't as if they weren't making enough noise to lead a deaf AND blind person right to them.

Conor didn't consider himself a psychoanalyst, but he did have a degree and he did know his shit when it came to people. And he stood by the fact that she was bitter and hadn't had sex in months -- possibly years. Maybe not ever, not that it mattered in the grand scheme of how fucked up she appeared. He didn't care when she'd gotten the animal. The fact was, he wasn't wrong about her, and it was unfortunate, really -- thankfully, he wasn't the sort of person to be overly bothered by the hardships of other people, especially when they made such a fuss concerning their lot. "Whoever said I was a hunter?" he asked in amusement, not even tossing a final glance over his shoulder as he began to make his way around the side of the building. Yes, he could hunt -- he supposed it had been implied -- but he hadn't ever considered himself a hunter. Conor liked to let things come to him, which was why he was so fucking good at games like this.

"Logic," Hannah answered in a tone that implied he should know this already. "The only thing they're using weapons for right now is to hunt for food. I'd told you that you wouldn't be given a weapon because Lina's got her grubby claws all over them so her cronies can use them all to go play Daniel Boone in the woods. The phrase 'her loss' implies that you have skills that would be useful to us at this present time. Therefore, you must know how to use a bow or firearm for hunting or other marksmanship purposes." She didn't have to voice the 'duh.' "If we're done with the mystery man act, I've got other things I'd rather be doing instead of waxing eloquent on how completely you screwed yourself by joining this experiment."

He couldn't decide if he was more amused or annoyed. Really, he was never truly annoyed, because most people didn't matter enough that he was inclined to feel one way or the other, and so it was a smile that quirked his lips -- albeit a wry one. Conor ignored her complaints, having discovered that regardless of what was said -- even nice things, such as, "My, you're looking lovely today" or "Your dog smells quite nice this afternoon" -- she would tend to bitching. "Very good," he complimented her. "Regular detective, you." Obviously he was no match for her mystery-solving skills -- except when it came to finding him unless she asked around or even potentially got led by the nose. He sauntered away, uninterested in her ultimate destination -- exactly where did blind people have an interest in going in the middle of the woods? -- and headed for the crowds.