This stranger's experience with waking up, feeling displaced and frazzled, was similar to how it felt with Bakugou. It was the sensation of waking up after a long, deep sleep that swept over him suddenly. He didn't realise he had fallen asleep but he was awake. The feeling was of awful disorientation. When he first awoke in this world, his memories were fragmented, like dust that needed to be reassembled, compacted to become the statue it once was. There wasn't any time to process that he felt lonely, only confusion as he slowly began to gather the fire, the blood and the choking sensation of death...then was the realisation. He realised he was not himself, so insensitively thrown into a bitter landscape in which the laws he knew no longer applied in the universe he now had to cope in. Walking was all he knew, all that felt familiar to him, and Bakugou found himself walking for days. He found himself indulging in the left over scraps of predators, hating what he had been left to succumb to, hating everything whilst memories plagued him like a holy ghost. He didn't want to remember and everything had felt so surreal, so surreal that his memories only begun to feel clearer when it came to his memories of his joining in The Typhoon. Everything after that one day, that one day of coming to the edge of the island and found by others, was where life began to glint with clarity. Even then, there were so many other variables.

Nowadays, everything is one big list, a giant and rotating routine. He'd wake up to do his blacksmithing, patrol about the island, go to his usual place to train, return to blacksmithing before walking around once again. He continued to walk, continued to be mesmerised by the sensation of his striding paws. The way it felt to let his toes launch his weight upwards, the steadiness of his pace. It was the only thing that felt real to him, the only thing he knew that others understood. After all, the fire that burned within him was unseen and felt only by him. He could imagine the way the hearth cackled and consumed his emotions, the way it became a concentrated ball before being expelled when he so wished it to be. The sensation that he was at the stake, called out for witchcraft, was all in his mind. Even murmurs around him felt as though he were in a dream that he was paranoid, adding to the anger he usually felt bubbling within him because he was concerned about himself, knowing that no one really seemed to understand him. The real problem, however, was himself. He simply never spoke about how he felt and in instances where he did, he'd usually shout something along the lines of 'it's not my fault!' before proceeding to make things more difficult than they needed to be.

The Reaver didn't hear the bell but a feeling inside of him told him to check the railroad, almost anticipating to hear the obnoxious clangs. He didn't like the way the metal sounded, didn't like some of the interactions he had had in the past when it came to strangers. But, knowing it was his responsibility as a high position, he moves towards it like a bat that's found prey. His body moves almost automatically, blocking out the distractions, drowning out sounds until all he heard were his own steps. The breaking of twigs, the flick of dirt behind him, the rustle of bushes as his body slide past them. They were all noises that made the world feel alive and big, reminding him that the earth was indeed moving and real. Birds perched on branches watch him in a dreadful silence as the ragdoll begins to follow the metal tracks, not daring to walk on top of them but instead strolling beside the silvery glint. He can see that it's rusting, the little details beside his paws. How long have they been abandoned? He can hardly tell, never one to exhaust his mind on such topics. It didn't need attention but his sanguine eyes were drawn to them as if, for once, he is too cowardly to look forward and see what was standing ahead of him.

He heard the 'hello' but hesitated his reply, finally noticing that Victor had beat him to it. He isn't surprised. The sled dog has always been rather prompt, too energetic for his liking. Still, he's begun to notice differences arising in the other male. But before he can place them, he puts his attention somewhere else. The stranger, the dark-furred jaguar who was standing before them. His eyes seem almost misty, as if he had never planned to be here but was present because he needed to be. Survival, maybe, he doesn't know and doesn't want to exhaust himself in trying to figure it out. He notices the bell was untouched, calmed a little by the fact that his ears wouldn't be harassed for the time being. Regardless, Bakugou doesn't speak up. He says no greeting to echo the other because it wasn't in his nature and Victor had already asked all the necessities. All he does is sit down, shaking away the ash which appeared on his cream fur.

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