Memory Logs

Coal Sketches

1. Coal Sketches

[ Encounter 92; MacMillan Estate. ]

She felt nothing but the wind in her ears and the cold, misty air in her lungs as she ran, as far and as fast as her legs would take her. For Meg Thomas, running was more than just a way to expel her excess energy; running was everything. A way of life.

Running was the one thing that had saved her life in this desolate place; and she was forever grateful that even though she'd resided in the Fog for who knows how long, enduring the endless torture of the Entity's sick games, that she could still run.

Her mind had wanted so much that she hadn't realized how far away from the campfire her legs had taken her until the shadow of a large decrepit building loomed over her, whispering danger and death. Meg felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, bristling with fear; at the same time, she was curious. She'd never been here outside of one of the Entity's trials, and she wondered just how different it might be when not part of the games. The one thing she had to watch out for; the Trapper.

Thinking about him brought a thrill of fear down the red-head's spine and she went into crouch mode, sharp blue-gray eyes keeping a close watch for him. The moment you spot him, you leave, she instructed herself firmly. Curiosity often got Meg into trouble and she had no idea what would happen if he caught her outside the game, and that was one thing she didn't want to find out.

Sneaking closer to the large factory in the middle of the open area, Meg kept her eyes peeled and, seeing no one, went inside. She never had the time to meander the place considering every time she went through it, she was being chased by some maniacal beast eager for her blood, and never before did she truly notice how... off everything was. Like everything in this realm was a mere shadow of reality, a giant illusion of normalcy created by the Entity. As she passed by a set of stairs leading below-ground, she stopped and stared down into the darkness, a shiver of fear rolling through her. There was no torture, no absolute terror like the basement. While she recognized the killers and the places this realm held, she could never fully remember what happened in a trial after it ended - another aspect where the Entity exerted its control, she supposed - but she knew that the basement meant the cruelest of deaths.

Instead, she decided to go up. The winding stairs were creaky and Meg felt like she might fall any moment - and there was a moment where they creaked and she paused in her step, terror icing over her heart - but she made it up to the top floor and ambled along the walkways, examining everything. Seeing a door that led into an office-type area, Meg slowly and carefully creaked it open and halted in the doorway, staring at the medium-sized room in utter surprise.

Papers lined the walls; papers filled with drawings.

Finally getting her feet to move and stepping inside, she drew in closer to study them more closely. All of them were done with charcoal, and the sketches depicted everything from scenery, to weapons, to abstract scribblings. She even noticed the portraits of a few fellow survivors, but their faces were warped with fear or grief. One stood out from the rest, and as she approached it, the red-head realized why, a gasp catching in her throat.

She was the portrait. It was Meg's face, sketched to near perfection, her eyes sparkling with mischief, her lips quirked into a half-grin. Lithe fingers delicately brushed over the cracked, dried paper, her blue-gray eyes wandering the dark lines, the smooth shading.

Meg's gaze was ripped away from the paper by movement outside the window in front of her. Peering through the dirty glass, she spotted no one other than the Trapper himself out on the grounds, looking remarkably small from this vantage and sitting on a large crate with his mask in his hands. His back was to her so she couldn't see his face, but his shoulders were hunched and she could tell without seeing his expression... he was tired.