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.
The Ink Spots. He'd remember that name.
At Ender's observations, however, he waved a dismissive hand. "Heard that before," he mumbled. "It's nothing big. I'm human."
Pogo fell silent, debating on whether or not to share his burden with Ender. He decided against it. If he informed Ender of their existence, they might take that as a prompt to be more… engaged. He had to keep them quiet.
"Or, as human as I can be," he joked, chuckling to himself. "Being able to see ghosts is wild. They only interact with me when I talk to them, but I guess just being around them leaves me with more ghastly vibes. I'm no ghost myself, though. 100% flesh and blood, right here."
“….hm….cool.” He held up the gas mask. “Do you….know what this is? I found it a few months ago, after the Bad Men came….” Ender was starting to grow attached to him already, and his voice calmed him a little. He wondered if he was developing feelings for him. He had never even had a friend, let alone a lover, so he couldn’t tell, but he knew that he liked Pogo’s company. He began to get lost in his thoughts, thinking up all sorts of scenarios involving him, and his mind wandered to romance. He turned away, pretending to look at a newspaper article, so Pogo wouldn’t see the blush creeping onto his face.
Pogo, on the other hand, was oblivious to Ender's feelings, and if he had any feelings of his own, he couldn't articulate them. He himself wasn't unfeeling or uninterested, no… just afraid. He couldn't be close to anyone. They wouldn't let him.
"Oh, that?" he piped up, his attention caught by the gas mask Ender held up. "That's a gas mask. You wear it so you can breathe in an environment usually not all that safe to breathe in, ya know?"
The more he thought about it, however, the more his brow furrowed. "Have you… never seen one before?"
He shook his head. “I think I’ve seen them on the Bad Men…..but otherwise….no….”
Pogo frowned.
"Not at all?"
He took off his satchel and sat it beside him on the couch, opening it and shuffling through it.
"I was about to ask if you've ever left this place, but given you don't know how to get out of here, I'm guessing you haven't. Have you at least… interacted with the outside world? Gotten a glimpse of society?"
“….only a few times…..to the furniture store a bit down the road…..the only way I get there is on Mothman’s back, since he can fly and all….” Ender stared at the ground. “I collect little bits and pieces of things from the outside…..” He gestured to the trinkets and litter.
Pogo's gaze followed Ender's gesture, then returned to his task. Where'd he put it? He should probably be more organized with his things.
"Has it… always been like this? Just you and this 'Mothman'?"
He nods. “…yeah….I can’t remember anything else….”
"Then, here."
There it was. He felt a smooth, metallic exterior in the pouch his hand was currently digging through. He pulled it out, revealing a well-kept genuine silver compass attached to a small chain.
Pogo got up from the couch, approached Ender, and held out the compass.
"I want you to have this. It's a compass. I don't know much about it other than that it was my father's, and I don't know much about him, either… but what I like about the compass is that no matter where you are in the world, the compass can always show you where north is."
He chuckled sheepishly to himself. He wasn't super good at being sentimental.
"It's… something of a comfort for me, I guess. It's why I never worry when I get lost, 'cause I'll always know when I'm facing north. Maybe this compass will encourage you to explore a bit more, huh?"
Ender’s eyes sparkled, and he grinned with glee. No one had ever given him a gift before, besides the occasional carcass left at the entrance of the bunker by the mutated crows, as an odd symbol of gratitude for leaving them food scraps. He tried to hold back his excitement, but it was very clear that he was absolutely ecstatic. It was shiny, and the chain made a nice sound when it clinked against itself, and it was just perfect.
“….thank you….so….so much….” He was so happy that he ended up going into his true form and began shaking his fists around excitedly, like a child when they win a prize at a fair.