Pogo smiled, but there was no humor to it.
"Oh, I get that," he mumbled, fidgeting with the strap of his satchel. "I'll be frank with you; I see ghosts, so whatever you might happen to be isn't the strangest thing I've been around. Lots of the scary stuff is scary because it's hard to understand, so I go the route of choosing not to understand. I don't know what you are, and that's fine, ya know."
Ender felt like he could trust this person, at least a little. And if Pogo ran away; well, it’s happened before, he’ll get over it. “I…” He started to overthink the situation, debating whether to show him his true form or not. After about 15 seconds of him panicking, his skin turned pitch black, along with his hair, and the scars that littered his body opened up like eyelids to reveal hundreds of pale, misty eyes. He tried to hide behind a tree branch, but was far too tall for it to do any good. He made a quiet whimpering sound, like he, a tall, lanky, eye monster, was absolutely terrified of the average-enough-looking human in front of him.
Pogo's visage turned towards Ender and his dynamic transformation, and he recoiled, his own eyes opening to reveal irises of silvery red. His heart pounded out of his chest, yet his feet remained firmly planted in the dirt, his whole body tensing with a subtle chromatic blur. From the back of his mind, an old voice revealed itself.
Oh, look, he's got a funky form, too! chirped the voice.
Too? Too? hissed Pogo. You stay out of this! We agreed you wouldn't pull shit like this!
Right, right, sorry, murmured the voice, taking on a tone of exasperation. I just got excited. Gods, you're such a killjoy.
The blur around Pogo refined itself again, and he felt his eyes close with a sigh of relief. His breathing came heavy now, and he found himself trembling.
"Hey," he breathed, sounding as if the wind had been knocked out of him. "It's alright. I-I'm not scared. Everything's fine."
He continued to hide. He was trembling, and saw the shaking in Pogo’s legs. He curled up on the ground and tried to cover up all of his eyes, but he had too many.
Pogo took another shaky breath, then carefully approached the cowering cryptid before him. He extended an arm, his hand outstretched to help Ender to his feet — if the fellow would be willing to accept.
"See? Nothing's wrong. There's nothing either of us should worry about."
His many eyes looked up at him. Ender was still trembling, but timidly reached his hand up to meet Pogo’s. He made a quiet noise, almost like the ‘brr?’ sound that a cat makes when you offer it a toy it’s never seen before.
Pogo cracked a tired grin, tightening his grip on Ender's hand and pulling him to his feet.
"You've, uh… got a lot of eyes there, huh?" he whispered. "What's the world look like with that?"
He didn’t speak. He doesn’t have a mouth, which makes it a little hard to talk. When upright, Ender towered over Pogo, but somehow looked less intimidating.
Pogo sized up the very, very tall figure before him. This was no ghost. Ghosts came from people, and people usually capped at around 6 feet or so in height. Ender had to be at least 7, 8 feet.
Was Ender even a person?
"Can uh.. is this….. can you control this? Decide when you transform?"
He nodded, then shook his head, then decided on a shrug. He tried to calm himself down enough to transform back. The eyes closed, and the darkness began to fade from his skin as he returned to his ‘normal’ height.
“……sorry…..I can choose to do it at will, but it also happens unwillingly when I get too upset….” He was much more timid than before, a little ashamed of his other form.
Pogo's expression softened, a twinge of guilt creeping up on him.
"Did I upset you?" he murmured. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't realize…"
Ender shook his head vigorously. “nonononono, it’s just… I don’t talk to people very often, and I’m scared that my eyes’ll scare them off…..I worry….a lot….”
Pogo's gaze dropped to the ground.
"Well, I'm still here," he managed. "The eyes are cool. You get, like, freakishly tall, too," he continued, his expression beginning to lighten up the more he spoke. "Holy cow. It's kind of terrifying, but in a really cool way."
Ender smiles a little bit. “You…you think it’s cool?…..” He tried to hold back his excitement, which failed miserably, as an eye opened on the left side of his neck, wide and sparkling. He didn’t notice.
He started thinking about Pogo, and his mind began to race.
‘…..Why’s he here?……does it matter?…does he…..does he really think I’m cool?…..’
He begins to mumble to himself. “…….does he actually……what…….do I…..”
Pogo chuckled. It made him feel good to see Ender happy. It was likely he wasn't someone to get compliments often.
He understood. Their predicaments were ever so slightly different, but it did seem to boil down to the same concept: they had something about them that scared people. Pogo had the ability to play off his strange abilities as a performance act, making it easier to blend in with society. Ender didn't seem to have that luxury.
At least he had a home, if this home was any good for him.
"You said this was your home, right?" he spoke up. "If you don't know the way out of here, I guess I'm stuck until we find someone who does. Could you, uhm… show me around?"
Ender nodded, and walked deeper into the woods. “I usually only go into that area in the evenings…. the trees aren’t as thick there, and I can see the sunset….” He approached a concrete bunker, that appeared completely sealed. The concrete was damp from the earlier rain, and the leafy cover of the trees prevented it from evaporating. He moved aside the tendrils of some rather strange-looking ivy, and pushed open a small wooden door. He had to bend over to get in, almost to the point of crawling, and entered the bunker.
“This place is my home. It’s not a lot, but I like it.”
The door opened up into a fairly decently sized, one-room concrete storage bunker. The concrete walls were dry inside, and were littered with posters and taped-up trinkets and litter he had found. His bed was in the corner, the mattress sitting atop a base that looked to be made of scrap wood. It was covered in blankets and pillows, none of which seemed to match; like they had been taken from different places over different decades.
The floor used to be concrete, but was now covered by a mutated moss that felt more like plush carpet. Shelves lined one of the walls, adorned with everything from salvaged books to jarred, preserved food that looked to be made from the TNT Area’s flora. A small table sat off to the side, along with two chairs that, once again, did not match.
The ceiling was covered in vines, which seemed to have bioluminescent growths on them. Wind chimes made of tin cans and rusted bells hung from some of the vines, chiming quietly, regardless of the very little air flow.
One corner hosted a couch that looked almost pristine, as if it was only a few weeks old. On a table next to it lied an old record player, and a box full of records beside it.
Ender sat down on his bed, smiling a little.
Pogo followed Ender as he traversed the woods, keeping close to the fellow so as to not get lost. As they approached the bunker, Pogo pressed a hand to the concrete, its cool texture soothing, yet ominous, he had to admit. What was a lone bunker like this doing out in the woods?
"A quaint little place," he murmured in response to Ender, finding he had a much easier time squeezing through the entrance than his new cryptid friend did.
He couldn't help but feel bad for Ender, seeing all the mix-matched furniture and small scraps of a society he was well-versed with. He took a seat on the couch, taking in the room the two now resided in.
"How'd you get all this furniture?" he couldn't help but ask. "How does it all… last this long?"
“…..i….take things….Dad helps me, he carries the bigger stuff…I don’t usually take furniture from the woods, since they’re usually pretty dirty….” Ender looked up at Pogo. “Furniture stores are really finicky about their display stuff….pretty often, something’ll get torn, or messed up somehow, and they can’t sell it….they usually just throw them out. Very easy patch jobs, and they’re never too dirty. Some of these are from way back….Dad’s been collecting them for a while.” He got up and straightened a newspaper snippet that that had been skewed sideways a bit on the wall. The article said something about deadly contamination in a wooded government storage site on the outskirts of Point Pleasant, West Virginia.
Pogo turned his attention to the box of records, flipping through them in the hopes of finding a musician he recognized.
"It's all pretty interesting, yeah," he replied, figuring that Ender hadn't heard his previous questions and deciding he wouldn't press for answers.
"Is it just you here? You have any neighbors, any friends?" he asked, lifting his head to gaze at Ender.
“Well…..there’s Mothman….he’s like my dad…..he pretty much raised me…..and then there’s the nightcrawlers…..basically walking pairs of white pants….” He laughed a little. “They’re actually pretty friendly. Then….then there’s the Lost…..they look different every time….they’re people that mutated badly…..really badly…..they didn’t take it well…..luckily, they stay away from this area.” Ender stared at the ground. “Then there’s the Bad Men. I dunno why they come, or where they come from…..Dad’s usually able to scare them away, but…..they come every few years, in scary suits and big guns…..looking for something….” he got quiet.
Pogo picked out a record, pulling out the vinyl disk and setting it up with the record player. Having been unable to find an artist he knew, he settled with picking someone random. It seemed he'd picked an old 1930's ragtime record.
He leaned back on the couch, pulling up his legs to sit cross-legged. Well, at least Ender wasn't alone, and it seemed his neighbors were as odd as he was. But the mention of the Bad Men piqued his interest.
"Like… government people?" he asked. "The same people who guard Area 51? Though those people seem less… armed than the ones you describe."
Ender nods. “I think….I’m not sure though….” A newspaper clipping near the couch says something about how there’s nothing wrong with the forest near Point Pleasant, but to stay away due to bears and coyotes populating the area. Another says something about the federal government sending in people to “clean up” the “pollution”. The record skips, and Ender gets up to change it. “….this one’s really old….almost a hundred years….it scratches even more later on in the song…” he searches through the records and settles on The Ink Spots. The record has two songs on it; ‘It’s All Over But The Crying’ and ‘I Don’t Want To Set The World On Fire’. “This one’s my favorite…..and it’s still intact…”
As Ender replaced the record, Pogo took notice of the newspaper clippings and retrieved them. Interesting. The government seemed to be on a hunt.
He snickered. They tried to come after him, too. His career as a performance artist had likely saved his skin. Though interest in him had dwindled due to lack of evidence, he wasn't surprised by the FBI agents the government still sent every few years or so to "interview" him. Why they couldn't just leave him alone, he didn't know.
Well, that was assuming they didn't act up.
Almost as if the mere thought of them was their cue, the voice returned.
Ohhhh, you're with one of these guys, they cackled. Fun people. Lot of 'em have customs I don't get, though.
Don't get involved, warned Pogo. He doesn't need to deal with you.
There was a bout of mean-spirited laughter. Awh, you're getting protective of me! Knew you'd come around eventually.
I'd strangle you if you were corporeal, Pogo sneered. Don't make me get the salt.
A moment of silence, quietly followed by a begrudging grumble. His mind grew quiet once more.
Pogo sighed, letting his head fall back on the cushioned couch. At least he had the music to distract him.
"What band is this? Haven't heard their stuff before."
Ender noticed the grumble and began overanalyzing all of Pogo’s behavior again. “….it’s The Ink Spots…old band…” he tilted his head a little. His anxiety caused his fingertips to go black and a few extra eyes to open up, one being on his forehead. “….you’re not like the humans I’ve seen….and….” he tries to figure out what’s going on. “….you’ve got something….different….too, don’t you…..I can feel it….you feel….different.” He walked over to a shelf and picked up a cracked hazmat suit gas mask, running a finger along the dusty glass.