Well, thinks David as he steps out into the cool, crisp afternoon, this place sure beats a harsh, apocalyptic winter.

He's been in Asgard for a few days now. Perhaps a week. Enough time to overcome his initial fear and confusion of the place; enough time to work out that, strange though everything is, weird though everyone seems to be, it's a hell of a lot safer than life back in the world of Infected.

That's not to say he isn't paranoid. Oh, he's paranoid, all right. He trawls the streets, hands buried deep in his ratty pockets, his eyes dart here and there, twitchy and on edge, though he always manages a smile that seems mostly easy to anyone who happens to do so for him. Always best to seem friendly, harmless, non-threatening, no matter what situation he finds himself in. Always best to make people think the best of you. Easier to gain their trust, that way. Makes them easier to manipulate should the need call for it.

Underneath those seemingly easy smiles and the seemingly friendly wrinkle of his eyes, the last thing he remembers before waking up in this place keeps playing and replaying over in his head: the searing, ripping agony of the machete being slammed down into his face. The taste of blood in his mouth. A vague recollection of that little bitch climbing on top of him and raising that machete over her pretty little head--

Yeah, he doesn't much like thinking about that. David is good, though, at suppressing his fears; he's had twenty years of practice at pushing fear deep, deep down until it becomes something that drives him rather hinders him. As he turns a corner on the cobblestone street, marvelling at how strangely quaint everything is, even despite the odd lack of colour, a wonderful smell hits his nose. Coffee. The glorious smell of freshly brewed coffee, oh good Lord, how he's missed coffee. And freshly baked bread. And pastry. He follows the scent of food to a cafe and the wonderful aroma of scents that take him back to a time before the world ended fill his senses. Not that he's got any money to buy anything, but - perhaps he can attempt to plead his case. His eyes land on a girl with red-brown hair behind the counter, her back to him. Seems quite young, he notices. A kid. Kids can be pretty easy to win over.

Hands still deep in his pockets, he glances around at the other customers, gives them an easy smile, wanders up to the counter. The smile freezes on his face when he catches sight of the girl's profile. She's rushing off, then, heading towards a storeroom to collect something. Hasn't seemed to have noticed him yet. He's certain she'd remember him. Quite very certain.

He glances over his shoulder at the customers, and then slowly begins strolling towards the storeroom. Casual, calm, like he's just a friendly guy wanting to ask the girl a friendly question. His heart has begun to beat a little faster, though; his stomach has begun twisting with disgust and anger. A completely benign expression on his face, though, and when he reaches the storeroom, he stands in the doorway and simply watches her for a moment.

"Well, I gotta say," he begins with in a light tone clipped with condescension so subtle it could be mistaken for mere friendliness by anyone listening, his lips quirked into an equally patronising smile, "things really do happen for reason."

"Wake up," Joel whispers urgently. He crouches down by the dirty mattress Ellie is asleep on; bracing a hand on her thin shoulder, he gives it a quick shake. "Wake up, baby girl."

In the distance comes an echoing thunder of gunfire. Someone shouting nearby. Footsteps pounding along the metal scaffolding just outside the room that's become Ellie's room in Tommy's settlement.

Joel's heart is pounding. He'd been downstairs with Tommy, rugged up in thick layers to keep warm against the oncoming winter, playing poker with a pack of old, tattered cards by the dim glow of a light overhead, using empty bullet shells and useless scraps of metal as chips, a half-empty bottle of contraband whiskey shared between the both of them, when the alarm sounded that the compound had been breached. Hunters, Maria had shouted as she came bursting into the room, breathing hard with angry panic in her eyes. Fucking Hunters. A whole pack of them this time. The compound is outnumbered. The fuckers had waited until the dead of night to ambush.

"C'mon," whispers Joel, whiskey on his frosty breath, "we gotta move. Now."

The first day of school is an exhausting, beautiful, incredible day of discovery and an exercise in terrible loneliness.

Ellie is eleven years old, and in all those years, she's been the new kid more times than she can count. But in the past month or so, her life has been completely turned upside down. It all started with a letter, and following that letter, a visit from a woman calling herself Marlene, holding a small, wrapped package containing a wand.

She'd have wanted you to have it, Marlene said. And then she'd taken Ellie to get her clothes and her books, and opened her to a world she'd never known existed, but on some level, had always belonged to.

The thing that sticks with her, though, is the name from her mother's letter.

Severus will take care of you. Try not to give him too much of a hard time. Try not to be as stubborn as me.

Severus.

Questioning Marlene about the name hasn't gotten her much. Only some vague mention about him being a teacher now. At the school she's going to.

Now, though -- now, she waits in line with the other first years, feeling frozen and sick, palms sweating. There is an enormous line before they make it to her name, and by then, there are only a handful of children left.

She is tiny in her new robes, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, her plain black tie already askew. Tiny, fragile, and staring intently at the old, dirty hat as if she's expecting to have to beat it into submission.

"Williams, Ellie!"

Now or never. Face flushed, she steps from the line and grips her hands into fists, heading for the old, dusty hat. She almost trips.

Every morning, like clockwork, Ellie steps outside and into the small area of the lawn where she keeps a garden. In addition to several plants important for potion-making, she generally keeps some fruits and vegetables on hand.

This morning, she's bundled up in a coat and scarf, and it's snowed overnight. Just a light dusting, but enough to get the plants wilting.

She squats down next to the strawberries and holds out her hand, reaching down inside her for the power that has become as familiar as breathing.

Instead, something goes horribly wrong.

Pain slams through her whole body like a shockwave, and she ends up on her butt in the snowy grass, gasping for air, dazed and disoriented. The pain comes in another wave, radiating up her arm, singing through her veins like fire, pulsing along with her racing heart.

At first, she can manage it. She tries to stumble to her feet, but each pulse gets progressively worse, and another heavy wave turns her knees to jelly. With a clipped scream, she goes down, writhing in breathless agony on the ground.

As fast as Ellie can get breath, she starts to scream. High and loud and terrified.