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Sep. 29th, 2013 03:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
burglingThey say this world is cruel to those born after the apocolypse came and went, but William would like to respectfully disagree. His nephew, Freddy, had never known what it was like to nip down to Tescos for milk or what milk tastes like. While that might sound horrible, it also means that he can't miss it. For him, tea is always bitter, when they had been able to find it. Chocolate isn't a given for good deeds, it's more like the most amazing birthday gift in the world. There's no video games to rot his brain or distract him from life.
Then again, there's no sense of safety either. But Freddy had never known what it's like to be safe. And he'd question is poor uncle why the older man woke up at night or stood, quaking, at the shambling sounds of the infected if they got too close to their hide away.
Believe it or not, the old Baker Street tube station had been a fairly good place to live for the last five years. William, or as Freddy called him since he was little, Uncle Bilbo, and his young nephew had taken shelter there when the infection spread through London and the hospitals had been shut down. Some entrepreneurial Samaritans had taken the liberty of bricking up the tunnel entrances and the community had flourished more or less. They were careful. Bilbo took care of the children. They'd made due for several months with just the subterranean shops. And when that ran out, they had parties that headed up to the surface for supply runs.
Five years of that might have seemed enough to drive a man mad but William hadn't minded it as much as some that took the easy way out with wasted bullets early on. By their fifth year after the infection hit, they'd gone from seventy-three people to a healthy group of forty-two. They had spaces carved out of those old shops and a barter system that worked very well. Crime had been a minimum. Stress was low.
And then one of the hunters got careless. Infection ran through their happy little home. It took his friends. It took Freddy. And sometimes, William wishes that it would have taken him especially after having to flee the only safety he'd known for years. London's a ruin. The streets are trashed. There are no supplies anywhere around. William has had no choice but to find places to stay, places to hide, and no choice but to keep moving.
He has no food.
He has no water.
London might as well be the desert.
On the fifth day since his forced exile, William climbs the steps of the National Museum of art at Trafalgar Square and pushes his way inside the massive doors, long since pulled from their hinges to haphazardly block the way in. He sits under the dome in the atrium, he looks up...and when sleep comes, he lets it take him, falling back with his arms spread out.
Then again, there's no sense of safety either. But Freddy had never known what it's like to be safe. And he'd question is poor uncle why the older man woke up at night or stood, quaking, at the shambling sounds of the infected if they got too close to their hide away.
Believe it or not, the old Baker Street tube station had been a fairly good place to live for the last five years. William, or as Freddy called him since he was little, Uncle Bilbo, and his young nephew had taken shelter there when the infection spread through London and the hospitals had been shut down. Some entrepreneurial Samaritans had taken the liberty of bricking up the tunnel entrances and the community had flourished more or less. They were careful. Bilbo took care of the children. They'd made due for several months with just the subterranean shops. And when that ran out, they had parties that headed up to the surface for supply runs.
Five years of that might have seemed enough to drive a man mad but William hadn't minded it as much as some that took the easy way out with wasted bullets early on. By their fifth year after the infection hit, they'd gone from seventy-three people to a healthy group of forty-two. They had spaces carved out of those old shops and a barter system that worked very well. Crime had been a minimum. Stress was low.
And then one of the hunters got careless. Infection ran through their happy little home. It took his friends. It took Freddy. And sometimes, William wishes that it would have taken him especially after having to flee the only safety he'd known for years. London's a ruin. The streets are trashed. There are no supplies anywhere around. William has had no choice but to find places to stay, places to hide, and no choice but to keep moving.
He has no food.
He has no water.
London might as well be the desert.
On the fifth day since his forced exile, William climbs the steps of the National Museum of art at Trafalgar Square and pushes his way inside the massive doors, long since pulled from their hinges to haphazardly block the way in. He sits under the dome in the atrium, he looks up...and when sleep comes, he lets it take him, falling back with his arms spread out.
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Date: 2013-10-31 02:22 pm (UTC)After his throat has been painfully and delicious quenched, William leans his head back and finally looks over his saviour and still potential attacker. "William," he answers the bearded man with his piercing blue eyes. "William Baggins. Most people call-- Called me Bill."
Kili is terribly bored. Poking around in the corner of the room, he kicks some old paintings over to look beneath them. Sometimes you can find breath mints or power bars. People leave weird stuff behind.
He ends up with a pack of unopened tissues, and it's not food, but it works for him. Kili's pleased with his scavenging and murmurs something to the brother no longer alive to hear him. It doesn't matter. It cheers Kili up.
Back with Thorin, Bilbo almost reverently opens the sweets and nibbles on the corner. "I'm surprised you didn't kill me."