Futuristic ᴇɢᴏ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

[hery]

click!

Rupert Frazier

S T A T U S :

Conscious. Alive.

H E A L T H :

100%

L O C A T I O N :

ruined cul-de-sac

T A S K :

tearing up the floor

Some trips outside were nice.

Keeping an open mind, the dust that caked every surface was reminiscent of a time in which that quality was of note. When there was a story to be told of the long untouched. Now, it was a grim reminder of a disrepair fixable only by divine intervention. Pale and sickly was the new palette of the world, which had ground to a hopeless halt. Along with most other things, it stagnated.

Rupert's eyes were fixed onto the wooden floor. He'd driven a crowbar into the floorboards a few times already, hauling scrap wood into a haphazard pile to be transported back to base. "Home", as they'd grown to call it, was in need of more maintenance than one meager crew could manage, not for any lack of effort. The ongoing project was made even more daunting by the fact that, even in an age that had evolved past comfort, some still had no interest in getting their hands dirty.

There Cara stood in the corner, listlessly peeling scraps of tattered, floral wallpaper. Her features were dulled by the muted gold of sunlight filtering in through cracked windows and holes in the abandoned abode's roof. Though the girl had certainly checked the pantry to be greeted with cobwebs and debris, hope had not left her just yet. Even nearly a half-century past society's collapse, the planet's population had waned to such an exponential degree that maybe a few scraps of supplies were still left to be scavenged. She didn't seem very hard at work, even if her intense, resolute gaze typically told a different tale. Maybe she was taking a break.

Well, when would Rupert's be?

It was a long shot, but to return emptyhanded was to deny a meal to the children who so eagerly expected them. Rupert, even in all his self-absorption, could at least recognize that responsibility. The few kids the group fed and clothed had a permanent soft spot in the handyman's heart. They needed him and he liked that. The concept of a "loser" was still foreign to their naïve perceptions.

Rrrrrriiippp!

There was another plank ripped, as signified by the sharp noise of splintering wood. Cara's head spun around toward the source of the noise, something she'd done each time without fail. Rupert paid her no mind; if she was going to be paranoid, she could address the intermittent sound of creaking floorboards further into the house.

And where was Deron, that slothful prick?

"Someone's getting punched in the nose." Rupert's voice was a low grumble, sweat dripping down his creased brows. "Makin' me do, fuckin'..." Crack! Rip! "...manual labor..." It was a job he'd never signed up for. Why couldn't be have been one of the eggheads that diced tomatoes or whatever all day?

Others were doing their "jobs" outside. How nice it must be, running about filling up packs instead of slaving away over wood scrap. But if anybody asked, Ru wasn't bitter. Hell, he was happy to do it. For morale's sake.

Yeah, right. As in, don't be yourself or else another person will rob the pantry and skip town. Happiness = productivity.

Cara's position hadn't moved from the corner. Whatever was on her mind could wait for her diary. He knew her game, pretending to keep watch out the window as an excuse to mope around, absorbed in thought. God, he really wanted to give it to that fickle girl sometimes. And it was mutual, without a doubt.

"If no one starts taking this wood to the truck, we won't make it out by sundown!" he called out to no one in particular, his gruff tone accentuated by the exasperation brought about by yet another headache. God, he was getting old. Without Mom up and about micromanaging everyone, the mental burden of responsibility felt so much heavier to bear. Especially when commands were usually being barked by Deron, who was perpetually in over his head.

If he ran to the car now, Rupert could probably make it out without catching any followers. Oh, how often he thought about it... It was a shame who was waiting back home, or else he'd have done it in a heartbeat.

One day.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[ohdittoh]

click!

DERON FRAZIER

S T A T U S :

Conscious. Alive.

H E A L T H :

100%

L O C A T I O N :

The infirmary

T A S K :

stand here kind of awkwardly while brother gets treated

The truth was that Deron usually didn’t

give a (pardon his French) flying shit what his brother did. Rupert, for both of their lives, had never really been “hinged”, or whatever the opposite of “unhinged” would be. Growing up alongside him meant that there were countless pranks and endless fights, and blood was, for some reason, involved more often than not.

But it was the way that Rupert, the endless jackass, had name dropped Ethan that made Deron incredibly…

He didn’t have the words for it right now; when Rupert got settled down, he would certainly have them.

“You sure you can handle him alone?” Cara asked.

Deron gave a curt nod. “I’ve been doing it my whole life.”

His entire life. Saying that made the anger in within this clouded, indiscernible, un-wordable emotion that he felt flare like a crash of lightning: my whole life.

His whole life, he had been his brother’s keeper. It was always his responsibility, his, his, his; it was always “Deron, you have to watch out for others, you hear?” and “Deron, make sure your brother stays on track”. It was always making sure that Rupert didn’t hurt himself, that he wasn’t dead or trying to become dead. Rupert could never be trusted to take care of himself, at least not by Mom. Deron always had to stand over him; that had always been his job.

And the endless pranks, the endless jackassery, the endless unappreciativeness — he could kill him; Deron could kill Rupert; he could kill him right now.

Cara peered intensely at Rupert, and then at Deron, and then, finally, said, in a flat voice, “Have a good night. I’ll see you in the morning.” Her eyes shifted to Deron for a final time, and they fixated at him for a moment, to the point where he wondered, briefly, if she was trying to tell him something through her gaze, but then she just turned and walked away.

Deron, with a soft sigh, began to push his brother in the direction of the infirmary.

Rupert, yet dripping blood from his ears, inclined his head toward Deron. “Listen Ronny, I just need to lie down somewhere. It’s been a long day.” His heels dug into the dirt; pick your feet up, jackass, Deron thought, resisting the temptation to knee his brother in the backside to speed him up. “You’re half to blame for that, but I forgive you, so why don’t we…”

Deron stopped at the door of the infirmary, then reached forward to pull open the incredibly squeaky door, but Rupert stopped him short, grabbing the hand that held his shoulder and throwing it off before sighing deeply and grabbing the heavy door to the clinic.

Marie, dressed in her stained lab coat, stood beside a large glass cabinet filled with numerous multicolored vials, glass bottles full of pills labeled this and that, and countless jars of powdered substances. She lifted her eyes from the thick pocketbook in her hand to the twins as they entered through the door.

“Evening, ‘Doc’,” Rupert greeted, and Deron’s lips pressed together as he tried to will himself not to say anything to his sleazy brother. Self-control. “Had a little bleeding, if you could kindly clean me up,” Rupert continued, taking off his coat and throwing it haphazardly onto the table.

Marie’s brows pressed together in slight displeasure, and her nostrils flared briefly. She, composing herself, folded her pocketbook and placed it into her pocket, and she smiled pleasantly. “I see you’ve returned, Rupert,” she said. “The cots have been missing you.” She walked over to grab a pair of gloves.

“And I must say,” Rupert said, “it’s been too long.”

Deron shot him a glance of warning as Marie chuckled softly. “Too long…?” she said absently, obviously more focused on getting to work than anything.

“Hope your day wasn’t too busy,” Rupert continued. He sat down on a cot, and Deron shoved his hands into his pockets, sighing deeply and trying to look casual in hopes that Marie would neglect to acknowledge him. “Deron was just asking about you.”

Deron’s eyes jerked to Rupert, his brows flicking down in irritation. “Asshole,” he mouthed.

“Funny how coincidence strikes,” Rupert finished with a grin, leaning back on the cot with his arms folded behind his head.

“Oh, yes!” Marie said in her friendly way, searching for the gauze and peroxide. She spared a glance from her work to the twins; Deron paused his furious glaring at his brother to glance toward Marie with as pleasant a look as he could manage, then went back to glaring at Rupert. “Slow day today; Kurt’s pain medicine was just about it, and one of the toddlers — Wright — he got a scraped knee; oh, and Deron, Helen came by to get checked out again.” At his wife’s name, Deron flinched slightly and looked up at the ceiling; Marie didn’t see it as her eyes searched the cabinets for — aha — the gauze. Sliding the glass door open, she continued. “She’s glowing, Deron, very much glowing; Kurt says it’s going to be a girl, but by the way she’s carrying, it has to be a girl — oh, but she is so very down, so she just came in to tell me that she wasn’t going to be working. Isn’t that just…hm.” With a sympathetic knit of the eyebrows, Marie grabbed the peroxide.

Sometimes, Deron wasn’t entirely sure that Marie remembered that he and his wife weren’t on speaking terms, and that they hadn’t been on peaking terms in about ten years. In his chest burned a ball of anger, confusion, and something else — but he willed himself to feel none of those things, and, looking back from the ceiling to his brother, he focused his thoughts back on the fact that he was pissed at Rupert, even as he spoke. “I haven’t seen her,” he said hollowly.

“Oh, yes, I don’t imagine you have,” Marie said, her voice as pleasant and harmless as ever. She seated herself on the cracked, squeaky rolling chair; it let out an unhappy squeal, and she smiled softly. “But you know“ — and here, Deron looked at her to see her looking amicably up at him — “I think that she would like to see you again. I think that that would mean a lot.”

“Would it?” Deron asked, consciously blocking this conversation from his mind.

“Mhm,” Marie said, and then she looked at Rupert, smiling. “I would love to see a little family reunion,” she said at Rupert, though she was really speaking to Deron; her prodding sort of intentions were clear.

She cleared her throat, then scooted forward in the whining chair. “Let’s see what we have here…,” she said thoughtfully, her lips pressing flat in concentration as she leaned forward to examine him. She reached forward, gently taking Rupert’s face in her hands, and she softly tilted his jaw until she could get a good view of his ear in the light of the candle on the wall. “What exactly is the story of this?” she asked, unfazed, as she tilted the peroxide upside down and dripped some onto the gauze.

Before Rupert could answer for himself, Deron cut in: “He hurt himself, being a…well, you know, he’s Rupert.”

She chuckled. “Mm,” she said, smiling softly as she dabbed up some of the blood. “Is that the story, Ru?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[ohdittoh]

click!

HELEN MARK-FRAZIER

S T A T U S :

Conscious. Alive.

H E A L T H :

100%

L O C A T I O N :

Home

T A S K :

uhh...

Helen held her breath for a moment, her heart squeezing painfully,

as her brained searched for the right way to interpret the picture in front of her. In a flash, she consider whether to pretend to be asleep or to stand up and curse him—to curse the sonuvabitch who had just walked through the door for everything he’d ever done to her, to yell at Marie to go get Dad so he could finally show that the promise that he’d kill this asshole the next time he set foot in this house held any sort of water.

But she realized, in another instant, as the man cracked his joints, that the voice wasn’t Deron’s, that this man had the face of her ex-husband but the body of a man—a man who himself dove in and worked and lifted and tore and ripped and shattered and carved callouses like trophies into his palms. She let out her breath, but her heart didn’t release its squeeze; confusion worked its way into her brow.

What the hell was Rupert doing in her house…?

She sat up slowly, with great effort, the baby kicking in her stomach.

“Oh yes, you can wash up,” Marie said, surely as an answer to some question that Rupert had asked. “I won’t keep you from doing that.”

"Deron had me ripping floorboards while he and the kid were going on about how this abandoned neighborhood was too 'quiet' and 'suspicious'. Can you believe that?" Rupert said.

Helen’s ears latched onto the sound of her ex-husband’s name. The name—no, it was really more of a word, an insult at this point rather than a name—was taboo, muttered only in hushed whispers by Marie into the ears of Kurt like some sort of indecent conversation. It sickened her to her stomach, especially hearing it come from Rupert’s mouth.

Again, what the hell was he doing in her house?

Rupert made some comment to Marie about beauty sleep, his characteristic grin settling itself naturally on his face, but Helen was focused on his body language, on the movements that he was making, on reminding herself, as her heart still throbbed from the shock of it all, that this wasn’t—wasn’t him, wasn’t that bastard, wasn’t…wasn’t, wasn’t…

Marie made some sort of gesture to show him Carter’s room, and then she smiled tightly—fakely; that bitch, everything was always fake with her. “Well, wash up and sleep whenever you please. I’m going to go to bed now. I do need that beauty sleep, actually, so I’m going to get right to it. I hope you sleep well, though, Rupert.”

Marie ducked into her bedroom and shut the door, and for a few moments, the only sound that filled the air was the tick-tick-tick of the broken clock on Helen’s wall.

Tick-tick-tick; she could see him through the doorway.

With a deep sigh, her heart trembling in her chest, fingers sticky with sweat, she shifted to the end of the bed. Placing her hands on either side of herself and grunting with great effort, she pushed herself up off of her bed. It took her a long moment—much longer than usual—to find her footing; the baby kicked in her stomach.

Goddamn it; she could cry now. Every time she checked, she could see less and less of her stupid feet—stupid, stupid, stupid.

Breathless now, she looked out of her doorway at the figure.

Rupert, Rupert—stupid effing Rupert.

Helen, drawn by morbid curiosity and perhaps something else, sighed and crossed her arms over her stomach in an attempt to make her bump less obvious, squared her shoulders, and then padded across the floor to stand in the splintered doorway. Her lips alternating between a flat, unamused line and a reluctant smile, she asked, “Did you take the wrong turn, dumbass?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[ohdittoh]

click!

ETHAN FRAZIER

S T A T U S :

???

H E A L T H :

???

L O C A T I O N :

???

T A S K :

complete the expedition and get home

Into the night—they always worked into the night.

”My legs hurt”—but nooo, they just had to keep pushing ahead. But his legs fucking hurt, and so did his head, and he felt like he couldn’t even walk ten steps, and if he was being honest, he just fucking wanted to go home. But they didn’t stop—they never stopped. Dad had said—told all of these assholes, “Hey, don’t walk in the night, it’s dangerous,” but stupid fucking Lionel insisted that he knew the way, and everyone else didn’t want to admit that their legs were hurting, too, and everyone wanted to be there sooner rather than safer.

His dad had warned him—his uncle, too—but they really were all fucking idiots.

Except for Tai, sometimes—but right now, Tai was one of the fucking idiots, too.

“My legs hurt,” Ethan complained again, slumping against a tree for a second and closing his eyes, his lips forming a pout as his hands searched for his canteen. “Let’s just stop for the night.”

Someone punched his shoulder, causing him to spill water on his shirt. He cursed beneath his breath and smacked the wet spot on his shirt in anger, then glared up at the girl in front of him.

She was already walking away, flippantly saying, “Thanks for sharing, but we heard you the first fifteen times. Now shut up and keep walking.”

Ethan clenched his jaw, cursing again beneath his breath. “You shut up, Bee. Your legs hurt, too.”

“Maybe,” she said with a sigh and a roll of her eyes as Ethan caught up to her, “but I’m not a piss baby about it.”

Ethan blinked hard, shaking his head. “A piss baby? I’m not a piss baby—I’m a fucking

MAN I’M A MAN
I AM REAL
MY HANDS MY HANDS
FINGERS—TEN
NINE OF THEM
EYES EYES EYES

WHY ARE THERE NINE OF THEM
I AM A MAN RIGHT
A MAN HUMAN ALIVE
BREATHING LIVING EATING TASTING

WHAT IS THAT TASTE IS IT
METAL
METAL
THICK THICK
FINGERS—TEN
NINE OF THEM
EYES EYES EYES
WHY ARE THERE NINE OF THEM

BREATHING
BREATHE
IN IN IN IN IN IN IN
IN IN IN IN IN IN IN
IN IN IN IN IN IN IN
NO OUT
CANNOT BREATHE OUT

HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
DAD DAD
UNCLE
HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP

I AM A MAN RIGHT
AM I

I AM A MAN
I AM A MAN
AM I AM I AM I
ALIVE

HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
DAD DAD
UNCLE
HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP
HELP HELP HELP​

​

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[ohdittoh]

click!

DERON FRAZIER

S T A T U S :

Conscious. Alive.

H E A L T H :

100%

L O C A T I O N :

Base - entrance

T A S K :

make sure everything is in line and find the misplaced people

Minutes passed, or hours.

His eyes were shut, or they were open. He was on his back, or he was on his side. He was conscious, or he was unconscious. Any of these things may have been the truth, or perhaps none. All that Deron was aware of was that he lay down sometime and he opened his eyes sometime, and somewhere in-between the sky had gone from dark to a hazy sort of bright in the light of a dawning sun.

It was not hard for Deron to pull himself from his bed and get around. Twenty years ago—or even ten, fifteen—it had been much harder to get himself up. There had a young woman laying on his chest, or a little boy who had snuck into their bed because of a nightmare. But now, there was no one to keep him down, and so he arose each morning without any grumbling or ceremony. Today in particular, his work drove him to rise.

The house was quiet. That would be fixed by the evening.

Deron ate his breakfast of stale crackers. His eardrums vibrated to the shadow of his son’s snores. Damn kid was always running late, and now he’d gone and done it on his first big mission, too. Deron had warned that it wasn’t Ethan’s time—that his son simply wasn’t ready; Deron was always unfortunately proven correct. That was the burden of always knowing the best—people tended not to believe him, then hated him when they found out he’d been right all along.

People hated when their egos were put to death, but that was simply the way of the world. The greatest minds commanded they be followed. The weaker minds may have tried, but their resistance always gave way—either because they realized they were simply too feeble and gave in or because their feebleness led to an uncontrollable fall.

He left his bunker and made his way to the truck. Piece by piece, he removed the contents of the truck’s bed, then repacked them, then unpacked them again, double and then triple checking that each supply was in place. He checked the gas gauge, then reluctantly searched for a gas can when he found the gauge to be three-quarters until E. His worn leather gloves had gone on, a gas canister had been located, and the tank had been topped off before he’d checked the gauge again. His goings-about continued in such a way—doing and undoing and redoing and double- and triple-checking all provisions for the road and for the time in which they’d be gone for the next window of time—until the sun had peeked its way over the horizon.

As he scribbled down some more notes on an already packed piece of water-damaged paper (these, about what to do in case of a fire emergency), Georgia arrived at the truck. He acknowledged her with a nod and little more. Several minutes later, Jesse arrived with Cara. To them, Deron gave a raise of a finger and a slight twinge up of the eyebrows as a sort of wave, though his eyes remained focused on his paper.

Finally, Deron concluded that his writing was over. After retreating briefly into the main building to place the papers in a conspicuous place, he glanced at the sky, and then at the time on his watch. It was time to leave in five minutes, yet, as Deron opened the door to the truck and leaned against the doorframe, he found his brother to yet be absent.

Though he heaved a deep sigh, Deron could hardly say he was surprised. The five minutes ’til moved into no minutes ’til, which soon made its way to past time, and Deron’s lungs were growing tenser and tenser by the moment in irritation at his brother, until—

BANG, BANG!

Deron jerked in surprise and looked around frantically for a moment, and then breathed out a deep, irritated sigh and muttered, “Goddamn it.”

“Hello,” Rupert called. “Good morning, are we ready?”

“You’re late,” Deron scolded in a flat voice, trying to make his irritation seem more light-hearted than it truly was.

“Good morning, Ru,” Georgia said.

“Mornin’, Rupie,” Jesse greeted; Deron wasn’t sure that was genuine, but he couldn’t keep up with the kid, to be honest.

“So, am I early?” Rupert asked, tossing his things in the passenger seat.

"Well…,” Georgia began, obviously trying to be polite.

“Early as always,” Jesse said, sighing and throwing himself in the backseat as Deron climbed in the driver’s side finally.

Deron’s gaze shifted over to his brother. There were several comments that he was tempted to make—none of them kind—but the one which he opted to ask in the presence of these others was, “I hope you at least brought your supplies. I am not lending you anything.”

That comment was rather declawed, but Deron didn’t feel like bickering with his brother this early. He needed that energy for this “rescue mission” or whatever the preferred name was across the team.

With no further comment, Deron turned the key and let the truck purr in park for a moment. He turned around to glance at the three people packed in the backseat. “We’ll drive as far as we can, but I’m sure we’re all aware and prepared to walk a few miles today. I have extra gas, but for scouting out where the team might have scouted, there’s no point in driving. Angelo has given me the place where he last had signal with them, and I have the original plans for the path which they were to take. This shouldn’t take very long. Worst case scenario, we’re back tomorrow night, or maybe the morning after that. Am I clear?”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[ohdittoh]

click!

DERON FRAZIER

S T A T U S :

Conscious. Alive.

H E A L T H :

100%

L O C A T I O N :

on the road

T A S K :

head to haventon

The scent was worse outside of the vehicle.

Though it was always inconvenient to have to park outside of large cities like this, it was safer than having to drive a good vehicle through a place that had never been explored for safety—and Deron was certain that this place was unsafe to drive on from the first look. The pavement was splintered and raised like fish scales, broken apart in an ununifgorm way, with mostly small chunks—maybe only a couple of inches wide both ways—and the occasional large, few foot long piece. Weeds, grass, and other odd plants broke through between the gorges in-between pieces of pavement. As Deron threw on his backpack and walked a few steps, the ground glittered, betraying the coat of shattered glass over it. Down the way a bit, a car was parked in the center of the road. There was absolutely no way he would have been able to drive into this.

Breathing through his mouth in an effort to not smell the air (and discovering, with a soft gag, the unfortunate fact that he could taste it), Deron approached the nearest building—a squat, flat-topped, concrete structure with broken windows and peeling paint, covered in several layers of brown and grey grime. There was a patch of ivy with a square probably a couple feet by a couple feet wide cut out of it, and in the center of that bare square, spraypainted in red, was a large <M> symbol.

Deron breathed out a sigh of relief, closing his eyes for a moment and thanking whoever was listening for the fact that the team had made it safely to the town. He touched the square gently with his forefingers, finding it to be at just the right height for his son to have spraypainted it—which he (with a small, barely detectable smile) imagined was the case, due to the sloppy conditions of the symbol.

Deron turned around to the team, his face serious again, and he touched the symbol to call their attention to it. “This is the blaze for this mission,” he explained. “Buildings are marked on the north side. The blazes may—and likely will—change color, but they shouldn’t go away. If they do, we’ll know to stop and to search the area.” Deron stepped aside from the building and looked at the road, gesturing with an extended arm straight down the road. “We’ll follow the waymarked path through this area, then split at the end of this strip.” He turned back to the team. “They should’ve marked where they split with two blazes.”

Jesse raised his hand and, before being acknowledged, asked, “Why’s that the symbol for them?”

“The diamond is standard,” Deron said dryly. “M is the fourteenth letter of the alphabet.” He offered no further explanation, and he instead turned to walk into the town.

Jesse rolled his eyes and mumbled to Cara. “The hell is he trying to be mysterious for?”

The group moved in near silence as they walked down the block. There was the occasion sound of a disturbed pebble or of broken glass skirting across the pavement, but there was little beyond that. Deron strained his ear to listen for strange sounds over the sounds of footsteps—some heavy, others nearly silent—as he checked every other building for the blaze. The smell grew stronger as they moved, and he found himself still unaccustomed to it.

Then, he heard it—the sound of a whisper.

He looked around as the whisper continued, but he found no mouths moving. The whisper spoke two, maybe three sentences, and then grew silent, and then continued. He could not tell what the whisper was saying, but it sounded nearly rhythmic. It grew louder, and then softer. Every time it would begin, Deron would look to his team and find them all unspeaking—and then, he would look straight ahead, and the whisper would quiet.

Louder, quieter. Louder, quieter. Silent. Louder, quieter. Silent. Louder, louder still—and yet still indistinct. And then silent.

Finally, he stopped walking, and he turned to the team. He held his palms out to them, his eyes scanning the sky as he strained to hear the whisper again.

Silence—this time longer than it had been before.

Jesse began, “Are we supposed to be hearing—“

“Shh.” Deron strained, but now, he could only hear the sounds of his team members breathing.

No sound.

No sound.

And then—

The whisper was louder this time, though he still could make out no words, and it sounded as though it was coming from a brown building to his left.

Silent, he approached the building. Moving aside a large pallet to see through the door, Deron found his heart racing. Strangely, his world seemed to swim for a moment, and his lungs felt almost as though they were flooding.

Flooding, flooding.

The whisper crescendoed.

The stench was awful—he could vomit.

The whisper—the whisper, it was yelling.

He stooped, and his swimming vision focused in on the inside of the building, and—

The whispering stopped, and inside the building, he saw nothing.

“Empty…,” Deron muttered, and he shook his head, trying to physically clear him of whatever that was.

“Weirdo,” Jesse muttered.

Deron walked back to the street and continued walking. He heard no more whispers, only the sounds of soles against the pavement—a chrr, chrr—

A figure, silhouetted but distinct, flickered on the road before him for a moment, and Deron, in the instant, felt his heart rise into his throat.

But as he opened his mouth to call for the person, he blinked, and there was no one there.

There was a whisper—this time short and loud, and still unintelligible.

But real—and almost in Deron’s ear.

He closed his eyes for a moment, stopped walking, and swallowed, gritting his teeth. He had to stay focused—he had to stay focused.

Still, Deron couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in his chest, and he turned to his team. “Everyone,” he said sternly, “draw your weapons.”

“Something wrong?” Jesse asked.

Deron heard the whisper again—short, loud, indistinct—but he shook his head, clearing his mind, shoving that away, away. “We need to be prepared,” he said, and he turned back toward the path.

There was no sound but the sound of their feet again, and this time, the whisper did not come back.

They came to a peeling green street sign that fairly read GROVER ST.. Deron stopped and found on the sidewalk two bright blue <M>s.

He turned back to the team. “We’ll split up here. Remember your surroundings—which streets you go down, where you turn. Never get too far from trails that are blazed. If you find yourself at a trail that ends, don’t venture further tonight. We’ll look there tomorrow.”

He removed his bag and began to rifle through it. “Georgia, Rupert, and I will continue due east.” He gestured left on the street. “Cara, you and Jesse follow the path due west. Buildings are still marked on the north side, but marks may be less frequent.” He stopped looking through his bag to look them all in the eyes with a serious expression. “Do not lose the path. We’re here to find Team M, not to lose Team Rescue.”

Deron grabbed the object that he’d been searching for, but he did not remove it from his bag. “We’ll meet back here an hour before sundown—dusk. Plan accordingly.”

Jesse rolled his eyes. “Come on, really? What’s the point of walking in if we’re not going to stay in until we find the team?”

“You don’t stay outside past dark,” Deron said. He understood the want—the want to go in and find them, rush in recklessly and hold them safe. He had that himself, if he was honest. But there was no need to be unsafe in a damn rescue mission. That defeated the point. “Look for previous campsites of theirs, note where they are, and bring them back to the truck tonight. We’ll—“

“If they stayed in the buildings, then we can, too. I mean, what if they’re deeper than we can go tonight, and then we’re just wasting time having to rewalk tomorrow?” Jesse said.

“If you’re concerned with wasting time, then stop talking and start walking,” Deron said. “Note interesting things you see, but it’s not our job to scout. We’re to find Team Min Seok and bring them home safely. Remember that. We’ll talk about staying in their old campsites tomorrow, but we can’t split up the full night yet.”

He pulled his hatchet out of his bag, held it on his shoulder, and nodded. “Remember what I’ve told you.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[hery]

click!

Rupert Frazier

S T A T U S :

Conscious. Alive.

H E A L T H :

90%

L O C A T I O N :

haventon

T A S K :

follow the blazes

Foul-tasting smoke abound,

the fire at the gas station grew moderate in size, bounded only by the lake of gasoline from which it was ignited. Gasoline that would have perhaps been more useful siphoned into a jerrycan, Deron was probably thinking, not fuel for an explosion.

The giant, predatory mass, now white in color, writhed soundlessly as it retreated from the danger of the heat. Semi-hardened tendrils of goo-like substance slithered their way back into the cracks in the pavement, releasing their grip on the car that had, for a brief moment, been utterly and completely weaponized.

Once exposed to the open air again, the car—or what remained of it—looked more like a convertible than anything now. Its roof and much of its sides had been entirely dissolved, while the windows had liquefied into a sparkling, glassy sludge pooling around the wreckage.

That was the last look Rupert got at the scene. His survival instincts kicked back into gear once Deron was freed from his shell. Close behind his brother, he barreled down the street, his lungs burning from the smoke. He had seen Deron burst into a building ahead, but the chaos of their escape had disoriented him. His grip tightened on the pipe, its once-cool surface now slick with sweat.

“Georgia!” he called out, his voice ragged. He glanced just once over his shoulder, his frenzied gaze finding no sign of her. The street behind was cloaked in smoke and shadow, the orange glow of the gas station fire throwing silhouettes all across the cracked pavement. Something otherworldly, they now knew, had escaped under there.

Rupert’s head swam as he approached the building Deron had entered. The door was slightly ajar, its edge blackened with patterned scorch marks. With a heave, he shoved it open and stepped inside, into the silence.

The air was cooler inside, a relief. Rupert tilted his head back, shutting his eyes as his pulse began to steady, each beat slowing to a manageable rhythm.

The stillness wasn’t just calming—it was wrong. Rupert opened his eyes, scanning his surroundings, and froze. This wasn’t where he expected to be. This wasn't the place Deron had entered.

He found that he'd entered at the far end of a cavernous church, with stained glass windows reflecting warped rainbows across the peeling walls. Statues loomed in silent judgment, their faces cracked and worn with time, their expressions almost too lifelike in the scarce light.

The room stretched impossibly far, far longer than it should have. Rupert blinked, his heartbeat hammering again in his chest. In the distance, through the murky gloom, he spotted Deron—kneeling on the faded, threadbare carpet at the front of the church. His figure was barely visible, hunched and still, like a man deep in prayer or despair.

“Deron!” Rupert called, his voice echoing, but to no response. Not even a twitch.

“Deron... clean your ears, dammit!” he yelled louder, a slight quiver in his voice.

The moment he stepped forward, the room seemed to ripple. The stained-glass windows shifted, their colors swirling like wet paint. For a fleeting moment, Rupert thought he saw a face in the glass—one too distorted to make out.

“What the hell do you want from me?” he shouted again, but his voice was swallowed by the strange acoustics of the space. He felt a chill, though the air wasn’t cold.

Rupert felt his grip on reality begin to falter. His grip tightened around the pipe in his hands. Desperation boiled over into anger, and with a guttural yell, Rupert swung the weapon at the nearest stained-glass window. The impact sent shards flying, echoing like a screech.

Rupert staggered back, his chest heaving. The rippling colors subsided, leaving only jagged edges and a gaping hole in their wake.

"Take that, you piece of shit!" he said to the window. "Leave me the fuck alone!"

He stood frozen, his breath shallow, the church looming around him like a thing alive.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[hery]

click!

Cyrus Winslow

S T A T U S :

Conscious. Alive.

H E A L T H :

100%

L O C A T I O N :

compound - a grassy spot

T A S K :

prepare tomorrow's event

"In the morning, one's breath comes alive, swirling uniquely, then vanishing until the next.

It feels sacred. Like a magic bestowed by the gods of a winter to come.

It's autumn. And in autumn, one's breath is a reminder that it still exists, a small miracle repeated with each exhalation. We are all still here. That is worth something.

Trees, tall and sparse at first, gather more tightly ahead, limbs far outstretched as if to barricade against visitors. Light filters through them unevenly, dappling the ground with patterns both erratic and deliberate—sometimes faces, other times pictures and polka dots. This is where the fence lies, in the northeast corner of the base.

Legs wading through golden-brown grasses, fragmentizing sodden autumn leaves under work boots, hands tucked in and out of pockets. A slightly frayed tuxedo jacket over a warm turtleneck, remnants of archaic affluence made practical by layering. There is work to be done, and now, the world is quiet enough to listen."

Cyrus paused, pen hovering over paper, before scribbling a final thought:

"Tomorrow, this clearing will hold more than its share of hope. And I, as my conscience urges, will try to play my part."

Grinning modestly, the rosy-cheeked man shut his notebook and slipped it into a crossbody bag draped across his torso. In this grassy corner of the base, a few scavenged folding chairs huddled in clusters. Cyrus paused to glance at them, envisioning the small crowd—especially the children, who would bring the whole thing alive with their laughter and chatter. They needed this the most.

The past few weeks had been harder than usual. Supplies were thin, a recent scavenging run had gone sideways, and tensions were building by the minute with no word from the rescue team. The compound was a haven, sure, but it wasn’t immune to the creeping burden of survival. Cyrus had been here long enough to see the patterns, and he knew morale was teetering.

The night before, Cyrus dragged a battered upright piano to the grass patch. The thing barely held together but was still capable of carrying a melody. Now, he knelt beside it, fiddling with a makeshift tarp meant to shield it from the elements. He hummed to himself in quiet contemplation while he plunked a few keys, ready to tackle the task of tuning,

“Alright, old girl,” he said, patting the piano’s side affectionately, "Let's show them what art was created for."

Nearby, a crate of mismatched instruments waited: a tambourine, a cracked guitar, even a plastic recorder someone had handed him as a joke. Cyrus intended to make use of them all. He had written little notes encouraging people to bring any hidden talents they had: singing, juggling, even shadow puppets.

He moved to a small makeshift stage—a few wooden planks laid over cinder blocks—and began arranging lanterns and candles scavenged from who-knows-where. A house with a load of kitschy decorations, Juliet said. Something about "multi-lentil marketing" printed on stacks of poster paper, whatever that meant.

The clearing was still seemingly empty save for Cyrus, the soft rustle of leaves the only audience to his preparations. He reached into his bag, pulling out his notebook again, and made a note:

"Inspiration doesn’t need grandeur—it thrives in the smallest, simplest things."

He sat on the edge of the makeshift stage, plucking absently at the guitar while his eyes flicked to the tree line. A pair of squirrels raced across the top of the fence, shouting profanities in their unintelligible dialect of rodent. But Cyrus didn’t mind. The world had a way of sending company when it was needed most.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[unditto]

• I
• II

• 
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  click!

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  ANGELO CAPELLI

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  S T A T U S :

  
  

  Conscious. Alive.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  H E A L T H :

  
  

  100%

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  L O C A T I O N :

  
  

  the community

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  T A S K :

  
  

  show them how it's done

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  The times that Cyrus spoke of, full of always-happy-always-laughing-always-full-and-satisfied-and-alive

  moms and dads and siblings and cousins and grandparents, were as far off to Angelo as the castles and ghosts of the folk song he had learned from his youth; what Cyrus spoke of next—the love of desperate mothers, blood brothers, and, finally, himself—was a fingertip away, if Angelo wanted to reach out and touch it. Were those things love, as Cyrus suggested? Angelo paused at length.
  
  Laughing with your family—Angelo wasn’t convinced that was love. That was drunkenness in a moment, a sudden swell in your chest, some feeling that lingered but always left—that wasn’t really love. Angelo laughed with a lot of people. He laughed with Do-yun, intoxicated and gleeful. He laughed with Fraley, with Mar—hell, sometimes with Tai, even—felt that sudden swell in his chest, that enjoyment of other people. He felt that odd, heavy, lingering feeling, sipping his liquor but not quite buzzed, laying flat on his back in the tall grass with Lionel, laughing heavy laughs that echoed through his ribcage and into the night, watching the full moon’s beams brush across Lionel’s brow, seeing Lionel smile brightly with his crooked teeth half-transparent in the white light, the freedom of a long night spent awake and alone, their voices the only noise to fill the silence in the late autumn, the cold biting at their noses, burning as the air heaved in and out… But those moments weren’t moments of love. They were moments of fun, sure. But not love.
  
  Love wasn’t the other things, either. The mother lying to her child—that wasn’t love. Care for the kid would’ve been to say, “Life is hell and things will never get better, kid, and you’ll be a better man once you learn.” That’s what his dad had said, and Angelo turned out better for it. A brother taking a beating for you—that was foolishness. Anyone knew the right thing to do was to let that kind of shit happen. If someone deserved something, they should get it. If you didn’t, then, hell, it wasn’t something you should get involved in. And…as for what Cyrus did…singing the love songs for everyone to hear…that was just something to pass the time, Angelo knew. That was the same reason Angelo played—to pass the time, to see how much he remembered and what was slipping from his mind. Strumming just slightly out of tune atop the roof in the quiet of the night, to the metronome of the crickets, and singing just barely out of key with Lio…it made the hours pass faster.
  
  “I, uh…” Angelo often found his words quickly and recklessly, and now, uncharacteristically, he waited to find the right ones. He worked his mouth, shoved his hands in his pockets, looked down to the ground, and kicked at a rock.
  
  He grinned, then shrugged. “Ya got me, Cy.”
  
  That night, when he lay down to sleep, two lines from Cyrus’ song played over and over in his mind: Keep the love light glowing…In your eyes so true…
  
  What do you do to keep the embers warm, A-C?
  
  He found himself sleepless, so he reached for his bottle. He drank himself to calmness, then lay on his side until his mind quieted.
  
  Then came the faces—melting, pulling, dragging.
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  ♡coded by uxie♡

  
  
• 
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  click!

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  LIONEL CAPELLI

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  S T A T U S :

  
  

  MISSING

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  H E A L T H :

  
  

  ???

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  L O C A T I O N :

  
  

  ???

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  T A S K :

  
  

  prophecy

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  Faces—melting, pulling, dragging.

  
  
  Yellow sclera.
  
  He says, “Jaundice,” he says, but it’s not jaundice, it’s someone’s face melting—it’s a face melting, how can he not see?! He could stop it just now if he could see—if he would notice, if he would see it!
  
  Slender woman walks down the sidewalk. She holds a gun. Loaded gun. Cracked sidewalk. Rain patters onto the ground—pat-pat-pat, just like that. Small slapping sounds, like meat on the ground. She is thin, emaciated almost. Her team hasn’t eaten in seven days—seven full days. She mutters under her breath, she says, “Damn fossils,” she says, “Damn fossils, damn smoke in my eyes,” dust in the air, lots of dust.
  
  He is walking beside her, bald head, fresh bald head, still has little nicks from the razor. He says, “Fossils?” he says, he asks. She says, “These buildings,” she says, “These buildings, they’re the fossils,” she says, “Tracks dinosaurs left behind, the bones of St. Peter,” she says, and then she shoots, and—
  
  The faces are over him, the faces—big, expansive faces.
  
  Faces miles-long, in his nose, up his nose——faces miles-long, how could he not see?!
  
  The faces are in him.
  
  Slender woman is on the ground. He screams, “Palina!” he screams, he stands over her, he screams, “Palina!” shredding his voice. Voice cracks, but he keeps screaming, now in some child’s voice, “Palina! Palina!” He starts chest compressions, her blood pushes through his fingers—yellow-orange, thick like syrup, spilling into deep puddles on the ground, expanding and expanding—the faces expanding, big, expansive, miles long, melting, pulling, dragging, filling his veins—“PalinaPalinaPalinalittledovelittledove—“
  
  Corpse with no eyes only crystals, and he’s collecting samples of the crystals, and he keeps seeing those faces, those flashes of those faces, and he is so damn hungry that he is seeing if the crystals are something he can eat, and then next he is picking from her bones, he is picking from her bones, he is picking from her bones—from her bones, from her expanding face—bloating, bloating, going, going—
  
  Lumbering toward him. Lumbering toward him, saying, “Ivan—Ivan,” her voice saying, “Ivan—Ivan,” saying, “Ivan—Ivan,” but she is her but she is not her, but she has this face that is hers, but this vision is yellow, and he clutches his head and he sees from all around—from above, from below, these faces, these pulling, these dragging—
  
  A rainbow slowly saturated in the sky as Lionel’s eyes flickered open. His eyes were wide, tortured with a new clairvoyant message, something from beyond. Bright colors—bold yellows, all yellows. “Woman,” he muttered, rehearsing it to himself as he pulled his pen and pad from his pocket and began to scribble down desperate, sloppy notes, “tall, thin, gaunt, small nose, very small nose. Attacked by—ghosts, spirits, aliens…jaundice. Bones of St. Peter. Faces. Bald. Me?”
  
  When he reviewed his notes, eyes squinting in concentration, body contorting into a tangle, he came to a conclusion, which he announced in a wide-grinned trance to the wide-eyed mourning dove that landed before him:
  
  “We are going to fucking die.”
  
  And he began to repeat it, over and over again, reading and rereading his notes, analyzing, scribbling, realizing again and again how true his vision was—how real it must be—and how little it troubled him to know, for certain, for sure, that each of them was going to fucking die, all of them were going to fucking die, they were all going to—
  
  Something hard and heavy hit his head, and he yelped in pain, rubbing the back of his head.
  
  “Shut up, fuckin’ nut job.” It was the kid of the leader; he had thrown a rock.
  
  Lionel’s smile melted, and he sighed. His genius was a waste on him. “You could say things nicer, kid.”
  
  The short boy was working his jaw. From the evidence presenting itself, Lionel surmised that the boy was the one sleeping in the tent to his left and had been awoken by Lionel’s prophecies. “Yeah, well, you could not wake me up at the ass crack of dawn.”
  
  “Ass crack,” Lionel chuckled, standing and closing his journal. “Anyone ever tell you you’re funny, kid?”
  
  “Ethan,” he corrected. “Anyone ever tell you—“ Evidently, he couldn’t come up with a comeback, so he kicked at a rock on the ground. “I’ll fucking kill you the next time that you wake me up, crackhead.”
  
  Lionel cracked a smile. “It’s okay. We’re all going to die anyway, kid.”
  
  The kid’s eyebrows furrowed. “Weirdo. You better hope for your sake that you didn’t wake up Min. I bet she’s a bitch when she doesn’t get enough sleep.”
  
  “Respect for your elders, kid. Don’t say things like that,” Lio said, rather flippantly, with little emotion. He began to roll up his sleeping bag. “I think that Min would be pleasant morning company.”
  
  “Watch your mouth, too, while you’re at it,” Bee said, emerging from a different tent with a yawn. “Mr. Deron taught you better, I know for a fact. My momma would’ve popped me on the mouth by now.”
  
  “Well, Dad’s not here,” the kid said defensively.
  
  “Well, neither is my momma, but she taught me right,” Bee said, disappearing back into her tent.
  
  Lionel turned his back to the tents, continuing about his morning routine of cleaning up, though he was certain that more people would emerge soon enough.
  
  The rainbow was bright. The yellow was very bright.
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  ♡coded by uxie♡