• This section is for roleplays only.
    ALL interest checks/recruiting threads must go in the Recruit Here section.

    Please remember to credit artists when using works not your own.

Realistic or Modern 𝗙𝗜𝗥𝗦𝗧 𝗟𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 — at the end of the world

Characters
Here
Other
Here

Screenshot_20240118_144912_com.android.chrome.png

banner_for_wounded_connor.png


FLASHBACK
Lincoln Infirmary - Soon After its Newest Member Arrives
Collaboration with Good_Morels Good_Morels



It was late when Wren’s group got back, the sun bathing the prison in a fiery orange. Had it been his choice, however, they would've been out even later. The night brought quiet and isolation, precious hours without the iron collar of Marx's, presence weighing heavy on his neck.

The Samaritan picking through their things assembled a pile for the infirmary, sparking an idea in Wren’s mind.

“I can drop that off” he offered quickly, glancing towards the Samaritan.

“Hmph. You sure? I don't want shit from your boyfriend later.” They growled, glaring through heavy brows towards the scavenger. Wren nodded quickly, already picking up the supplies.

“I promise you won't get any. I'm supposed to pull my weight around here, aren't I?” He argued hopefully. The Samaritan just shrugged.

“Fine, whatever. Be quick with it.”

Wren gave a curt nod and scurried off with all the grace of a rat with a chunk of bread. His pace slowed the moment he was out of sight, hoping to make the most of his precious few moments of freedom. He was at the infirmary door far, far too quickly, but he pushed on anyways, slipping into the darkened room and quietly setting the supplies down. He stood there for a long moment, weighing whether or not the doctor would be angry if Wren put the supplies away, oblivious to the other person in the dark.



Madison swam in the road. It was dim and long and it left crossroads in her eyes. It was hard to swim in the road, its inky surface having the consistency of maple syrup. Sometimes, angels drove by on its surface, their wings aflame and their eyes black and empty as pitch. Once in a while, she thought she knew their faces. Sometimes, Madison swam to the bottom of the road, and she could sense the presence of the walking dead, of ghosts, of bones and bleeding in the dark. So far, she'd always been able to come back up, and just....... keep swimming. Sometimes, people came into the road and swam beside her, speaking in riddles or memories, other times she was alone for what felt like forever, time growing thick and slow, with nothing for company but the ooze and her own mind.

It wasn't as hard to swim in the road as she'd feared, at first. The feet that occasionally grasped for her ankles, down there in the deep, were frightening things, but beyond that..... it was mostly hard to have only her own mind for company.

A ripple across the surface of the road made Madison's head turn towards whoever had stepped into the road with her.

"H-hello?" In the real, the sound was a pained croak, but not an unfriendly one.



Wren jumped when the voice croaked from the dark, knocking a plastic bottle of pills onto the ground. It sounded like thunder in the otherwise silent room, probing him to quickly drop to his knees to pick it up.

It took him another moment to find it in the dark before he put it back on the table, sighing and turning towards the sound. "Hello, sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." He offered a small smile. Steadying himself on the counter he'd just put the supplies onto, he hesitantly approached the sound. The mighty power of basic deduction led him to the conclusion that whoever was in here was very sick or very injured, especially considering the lights were out and the doctor was gone. Therefore, they weren't any danger to him.

He couldn't quite see the stranger in the dark, but he could make out the basic shape of someone laying on a gurney. He took another few steps forward, his hand leaving the counter.

"Do you need anything?" He asked as clearly and slowly as he could manage.



The clatter of something against something else hard drew her attention, but a hazy mind and recently ineffective spare eyeball meant Madison couldn't see a damn thing. "I was.... awake."

She paused a moment, and then corrected herself. "Or..... maybe you're..... you're in....... my dream." A small shrug made the shackles on her bed rattle, the sound a different sort of thunder in the otherwise quiet space. In moments that made a little more sense than swimming in the road, Madison understood and approved of the measure. If she drowned and died, there was no point in letting loose a Risen on unsuspecting people. Better to keep her bound to the road, so if she drowned she'd sink to the bottom and join the shuffling masses there.

Did she need anything?

Madison went quiet for a moment. "Could I..... have water?"

The road was hot, and despite the pills periodically given to her, the road was still hot. Sometimes she'd get the shivers hard enough to make everything around her waver in phantom heat. But.... that made a certain amount of sense. Tar, asphalt, these were the lava flows of suburbia and the pounding lifeblood of great cities that slept while the dead and the living crawled over and through them.

Maybe that's whose dream she was having; maybe she and the city were dreaming the same dream. It would make a certain amount of sense. It would explain why she felt so small, and the road so hot as to be liquid around her neck.



Wren paused, gaze moving to focus on the shackles. She was either very dangerous, or a turning risk, judging by that. She didn't exactly sound like she was all there, so he guessed the later.

"You're awake" Wren insisted softly, though at times he wished this was some horrid nightmare. Even before the apocalypse, when his brother first disappeared, he hoped he would wake up and it would be a dream. Now more than ever he wanted to wake up and wander into the apartment they shared when their parents first kicked them out. To look up and see Vick making bacon, to chastise him for eating unhealthily and to tell him about the horrid nightmare he'd had. Vick would laugh, say "You should've known it was a nightmare when I left you, over my dead body!" and make a plate for him. Wren would laugh too.

But there was no waking up.

"Water? Yeah, yeah of course" Wren was pulled from his thoughts. He returned to the counter, rifling through things until he found a couple of water bottles. He flicked on a light switch and started towards Madison once more, but froze.

It was definitely the later.

Back when he first started working in park service, he had been part of a search party for a missing man. He left a family behind, two kids, a wife. Wren didn't find him, but he caught a glimpse of the body before they covered it. He couldn't quite comprehend what he was looking at, the human mind wasn't meant to witness such things. He looked like a bloody red crescent moon.

The stranger was bandaged, thank God, but the missing chunks of flesh and bloody fabric did little to calm the imagination.

"Christ, what did they do to you?" He whispered, mind immediately racing.'Why would the Samaritans do this? Were they keeping her alive just to throw her in the pit? Or, god, was she like him Somebody's pet?' He felt selfish for the next thought that crossed his mind.

'Was Marx going to do this to him?'

He could at least lay that one to rest. Marx wouldn't shoot him in the face, because Marx liked his face. No, if Marx were to get any ideas from this, it would be to blow his legs off so he can't run away. If that happened, he would do the rest himself. He took a deep breath and finished the short trek to Madison's bedside.

"I've got water, do you need help sitting up?"



Being told she was, in fact, awake was exactly the thing a dream would say. They had before.

Sit up?

That's.....that's right, the road wasn't always there, or if it was, it turned solid every now and again, letting her lay atop it and look up at a sky whose stars had winked out a long, long time ago. Madison tried to figure out how to make her stomach muscles clench to lift herself up, and barring that, how to grasp at the bed to roll onto the side that didn't hurt. Nothing worked the way it should have, and the woman realized the tar was still gluey enough to suck at her skin and......

Wait, no. This..... this was a bed a-and that was a voice in the dark and those were cuffs. She knew cuffs, and not in a sexy, fun way; she knew cuffs because she'd put them on people and.... and...

"Yes, please."

She was a fucking detective. So detect already!

"What...... what hospital..... is this?"

Crackerjack idea! That was detecting, right? That counted!

Hospitals were dangerous because dead people didn't stay down. That explained the cuffs. She'd gotten...... she'd gotten shot. That explained why things were so...... so.....Shitty.

Madison lifted herself as much as she could manage to make whatever assistance the man was willing to offer, with only a single, mumbled "Fuckin...." of protest.

Water. Water was so welcome. She was so hot. The asphalt was growing sticky again, and Madison could feel her thoughts sliding through her fingers. Fucking hell.



Wren helped her as gently and slowly as he could manage the moment she agreed, moving as if she was made of ash and may disintegrate if he moved her wrong. Once she was up, he shifted so his shoulder and bicep held her steady, freeing his hand to unscrew the cap from the bottle.

"You're in Lincoln's infirmary" Wren offered before holding the bottle to her mouth, trickling the water between her lips and studying her face and throat to make sure she wasn't choking.

"Lincoln is a prison- well, was a prison." He explained further, pausing as he decided between lying or not.

"You're safe here, you're in a safe place. The dead can't get in, and the people here are good"

No point in worrying her, especially if she was on our way out. If she recovered, he could apologize and explain then.



Madison got down a single, precious swallow before the news of where she was finally filtered through the shifting tar of her mind. Lincoln...... Lincoln was a bad place for assassinatio-......No...... It.... It was a bad place because because because......

And that was when realization hit as the second sip of liquid began its trek down her neck before getting abruptly and unexpectedly detoured into her lungs. Her coughs were deep and wet, and she pushed away the bottle with her free hand. At this rate, she'd rattle right to pieces.

GOD coughing hurt. It hurt her head, it hurt her chest, it was a deep, wracking pain that wrapped into and around itself that nevertheless persisted until the coughs subsided to noisy throat-clearing.

Note to self: better to die clean than sneeze. If this was coughing, then sneezing might literally be fatal, but not in a nice, quick way, but rather in the way a can of Cheez Whiz might react to being abruptly punctured with a stray nail.

Fuck. Lincoln."Shit."

The pain was making her drift and sink simultaneously, and though the woman was having trouble finding the words, the emotional resonance behind them was clear; "Stone walls an'........ an' tin men. Th'..... The knives..... of butchers...... aren't..... aren't friends."

A chestnut eye looked upwards and searched the murky blur of the man's face and tried to magically force comprehension. "They're tools."

She knew she wasn't making enough sense, but Madison wasn't sure where her knees had gone so..... baby steps.



Wren yanked the bottle away as she started to choke, staring at her in a panic while gripping her shoulder.

'Nice job dip shit, you killed her'

He should've just left, he wasn't a damn doctor, why was he still here? Maybe if he hurried it would look like she choked on her own blood or something?

He relaxed a bit when the coughing calmed down, finally releasing his grip on her. She wasn't making a lot of sense, but Wren got the gist. He frowned and nodded.

"Yeah.. yeah. I'm sorry I upset you" he said quietly, thinking for a minute before continuing. "You're very sick right now, let them heal you, and then get out. They won't let you die." he tried to offer a sympathetic smile, but it came off as more strained than anything.

"You need to rest right now, you'll need your strength."



They won't let you die, was not the reassurance the man probably thought it was, and Madison looked almost woeful as she let herself sink back into the relative softness of the gurney, the metal of her cuffs rattling against the railing. Even so, the rest of his words served to mollify her somewhat. Get strong. Get out.

The strain in the man's smile didn't show in the gloom, not with her lightly simmering brain and traumatized skull. Her night vision wasn't at its best. He was a gentle wraith of sweet lies and mixed comforts, and Madison appreciated his presence. Angels were cruel and capricious things, their wings razor-sharp and dipped in the blood of the fallen. Delicate demons lay in quieter places and ghosts whispered in her waking mind and her sleeping one alike, but this one..... this wraith...... he was okay.

"S'.... S'all right."

Madison fell silent for a moment, then asked a somewhat more poignant question than was necessarily intended, her voice slurring the edges of her words and making them into rounder, softer things: "Who were you?"



Wren watched her carefully, being sure she didn't hurt herself before giving her some space. He was about ready to leave when her question broke the quiet.

Who were you?

Thinking back before was like looking into a fun house mirror, except he was the reflection. Twisted and malformed, a shell of his former self. He almost deflected, turned the question around to save himself, but there was no point in upsetting her again. He swallowed hard.

"I was a park ranger." He said quietly. "I was in love with nature since I was a little kid, to be her steward was a beautiful thing. I took pictures of animals, painted landscapes sometimes, but I wasn't very good. I wanted her with me always, wanted to drown in those gentle greens and browns. Especially when my brother... It felt like the city was a monument to his absence, I was never all that social, but he loved people. He loved them so much, and they..." He trailed off, unwilling to say it even so many years later. "I was kind. Gentle. Quiet, but honest. I was a much better person. I... I hope I can be that again one day." He blinked away pathetic tears, refusing to look at the woman in the bed



Madison wasn't expecting a ghost to share such a detailed personal story.

She floated on a still pool and could hear the beating of a heart from somewhere beneath her, the noise vibrating through her sternum and through one whole side of her face. Who had he been in her life to appear before her, now? Was he just a hallucination? No..... the water had been real, Madison was almost sure.

The wraith's words washed over her and through her. They were as much a call to action as they might have been statement of fact. He'd been a park ranger. He'd loved nature. He'd painted landscapes. He'd had a brother. He'd been a kind, gentle person....... before becoming this. She supposed dying would do that to a person.

"M'sorry." Madison said, as though she were personally responsible for all of it. The remorse sounded genuine.

"I'll do better." Though she had no idea from when in her past this ghost had come crawling, if he'd been some gentle nature-lover, he was someone she'd either failed to avenge or failed to save. That's how ghosts worked. Bob Cratchit didn't come to visit some rando.

"I won't stop." Her free hand gestured to her face and she took the wraith's advice; "Get strong. Fight. I'll remember. Promise."

The detective wasn't sure what was wrong with her face, but the deep, raw throb meant there was some funny business going on over that-a-way.



Wren was caught off guard by how genuine she sounded. It brought tears to his eyes that dripped in rivulets down his face. He should be sorry. This situation sucks. Everything sucks and it's never going to get better and that's sad.

He didn't bother trying to stifle the silent tears, he didn't have any pride left to save. He swallowed hard as she promised, a small smile finding it's way to his face.

He didn't know what she meant to say, she was confused and had no idea more than likely, but it gave him hope. "Thank you. Save those that can from becoming what I've become, please." His voice broke as he begged, knowing damn well she couldn't.

He'd give anything to be proven otherwise. "I should get going. Get well soon." The well wishes were empty, filled with pain, but it felt wrong to leave without saying anything at all.



The ghost began to cry, Madison was pretty sure. That wasn't surprising. Being dead probably sucked. He asked her to keep others from dying.

Fair.

Even as he spoke, Madison's vision became blurry, and then a sharp tang streaked down the uninjured side of her face. When she spoke again, it was the whisper of a girl on the battlefield, picking up the shattered sword and battered shield of one of her fallen brethren, half unintelligible and eventually fading into mouthed words. But boy oh boy, she believed.

"I remem...... remember. Peace in Hell. Save who you can....... 'venge those you cain't. I re.... remember. I'll keepm.... keep m' promise."

Black tar swallowed her, the wraith unraveling at the edge of her awareness like so much twine...... though he'd succeeded in reminding her of who she was and the cause she'd dedicated herself towards. An ember came off of the flint of his words and landed in the dry tinder of her heart, flaring it into life once more. Save those she could. Keep them from becoming wraiths in the dark. She could do this. She would do this.

Get strong. Fight. Remember.

From the outside, Madison simply fell back into a discomforted haze that was not quite slumber, marred by the heat of her fever and her body's struggle to survive.



 
Screenshot_20240326_114828_com.android.chrome.png



The midday sun streamed through the speckled windows of the rural car shop. It saturated the dust-filled air, casting a warm amber glow across the scuffed floor. Sunrays glanced off the glossy red hood of a Chevy truck parked inside and a well-worn mug set on top of it. The fading words on the white porcelain were made with a black marker. The title read: “Best Uncle Ever”.

The garage was filled with the familiar aroma of motor oil and a freshly brewed coffee that steamed from the mug. The quiet growl of classic rock from the nearby radio competed with the metallic clinks and clanks. Tools and car parts surrounded the man underneath the vehicle, interspersed with a collection of kid and chew toys all scattered about.

An ageing dog was nestled in the weathered bed in the corner, lazily watching the half opened doors. His ears flicked at the sound of soft steps, even though they were muffled by the music. He pulled his head up, fluffy tail wagging at the sight of the little human peeking in. The four-year-old wrapped in a pink dress slipped inside and sneaked past the equipment, creeping towards the man like a wild creature. She approached as close as possible before her diminutive hands shot down to his singlet-covered chest, unfazed by the grease stains.

The howl of low laughter echoed from under the car, accompanied by the child’s fierce giggle and followed by a pained complaint from the man.

“Agh, my head.” He groaned and the girl’s soulful, almond-shaped eyes went big.

“Did you hurt your head, Uncle Gee?”

Greg dragged himself out from below the truck and sat up, rubbing the side of his head and making a sad face.

The little one mirrored his expression, her lips twitching downward. “I’m sowwwy.” She looked like she might cry.

Buster snatched her and cradling her under arm he tickled her side with the free hand—his tan skin pale against her dark complexion. “I’m lying!” He laughed and she shrieked, trying to wrangle her way out of his secure grasp. But he wouldn't budge, she knew the price for her actions. The man tired her out and both just lay on the creeper. Him gazing at the ceiling and her sprawled over him with her cheek pressed to his moving torso. Next to a nasty scar from a blade that poked from dark hair under fabric.

She stared at the grass outside through the half open door. “Can we go on a walk, Uncle Gee?”

“Yup.”

The man lifted her in the air when hauling himself up. Then set her down beside him. Her brown leather boots knocked against hard concrete, looking funny with the light, pink dress. The man softly whistled to get the dog’s attention and headed for the exit. He picked up his rifle on the way, slinging it across his torso.

The little one trotted beside him, slipping outside first and running across the grass like she was chasing invisible rabbits. They reached the first chainlink fence and Buster glanced around for a long moment before opening the gate. The little one peered out, looking left and right as if she was about to cross a busy street. She never did. She didn’t see traffic in her short, little life.

“Can we go to the river, uncle Gee?”

Buster walked beside her, his lazy stroll accompanied by her short legs' ginger march.

“We go to the river, old man? Whatcha say?” He flicked a glance to the graying animal. The dog raised his gaze towards the man and Greg led them to the slant of the hill. It's been four years now. Their faces were slowly fading in his mind.

“Let's go see them.”


 

Screenshot_20240326_163654_com.android.chrome.png


nach.png


LINCOLN
Infirmary
collab with Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad





Madison's consciousness was a thing that shuffled into and out of hazy mists, sleepwalking into waking dreams and dallying on the rocky shores of reality before the black came to reclaim their own. She was a little better than she'd been before, delirium merely a friendly companion rather than chains lashing her firmly to the realm of nightmare. Time still held little meaning, but at least it didn't always stretch out into endlessness on either side.

The road was a deep river, its asphalt the translucent tar of dreamstuff, while high above Madison's head, twin yellow stripes beckoned her to swim upwards, bright and golden and there. Fighting against the inky depths wasn't easy; this was less dark water and more a black ooze with the texture of pancake batter, sucking at her grasping arms and making her heart pound in her ears. Sometimes, things brushed against her legs. Periodically, lightning would streak through the road-river, always striking her in the same spot and illuminating for a clammy moment the hungry, reaching dead that wandered along the road-bed. They..... went on forever, a seaweed jungle of clawing fingers and rotting faces.

With a burst of effort, the detective kicked upwards and her face gasped at the clean, pure air. The pain on one side her face and head managed to be both sharp and deep, and though the road wasn't liquid around her....... in a strange way, it also was. One wrist was handcuffed to the rail on the gurney, and the metallic rattle drew her attention. Bed? She...... she was in a bed. That's right. Ghosts and wraiths had come to her, plucking her mind from the molten asphalt and speaking to her before letting her sink back down into the too-warm, viscus liquid that sometimes tasted like tar and sometimes like blood. Her functioning eye wandered along the room, seeing what was there and also what wasn't.

In truth, Madison's fever had eased down from brain-damage levels but had yet to break for long. Her hair was a mess of dark, wet whorls against her forehead and bandages, and she was still in bad enough shape that being cuffed to the bed was as much for the protection of others (if she should simply perish) as it was to keep Madison from unintentionally hurting herself or stumbling out of bed. Here, stripped of her possessions and with a thin blanket tangled around her feet, the wear and tear of years on the road were stark on her body; a couple of smallish bullet scars from many years prior; a finger that hadn't been set quite right; the thin scars of a blade along her forearms where she'd had nothing to block with; road-rash scars along the outside of her thigh, disappearing up into a pair of boxers; a ragged, palm-sized, unidentifiable mess along the hip opposite, periodically visible in her slow, feeble struggling; and even a strange scar along her left ankle, as though someone had stuck a dry-erase marker straight through the meat just in front of her Achilles tendon.

Life hadn't been easy for the girl, but hey. Nobody said the end of the world would be smooth sailing, especially not for people like her.

"Fuck...." She mumbled to herself, trying her best to focus.



The metal hoops jingled, sliding over the metal bar. The sheet of the flame retardant plastic that separated Madison’s bed from others was folded to the side. The man holding the curtain open cursed. “You’re not Jare.”

The male nurse carrying a urine-filled bed pan walked past him, annoyed. “Not that one, the other to the right.”

Cabrera caught the sight of what was on the bed. He stopped by the doctor’s desk and stared across the room. Straight at the now eye-less face that he met a few weeks back. Face of a warrior. An investigator. A threat.

So there was a fox in his coop now.

The coop that was filled with wolves.

The veil was tugged back on but not for long. The curtain flickered, pulled aside enough to fit an adult man. Cabrera stepped into Madison’s little sanctuary. He covered the view of the rest of the room and stood at the woman’s feet, studying her face.



One half of Madison's face was covered in gauze and bandages, though red had splotched through in a few places. Ditto the bandages over the bullet hole beneath her collarbone. Whatever had happened to her, it had raked her over, royal. The fever made her visible cheek flush pink, even as the rest of her was clammy pale. Her remaining deep eye drifted its gaze towards the noise, a silhouette that was familiar...... but still managed to elude certainty. She knew this person. Ghost? Hallucination? Someone in the now?


"Hollow..... hollow man."

It was a phrase that rang true to the girl, even if she couldn't put words as to why. A smile tugged at the edge of her lips, though they held no humor and her singular chuckle was dry and bitter; "Hello. Dead yet?"

The sickness that ran caustic through her body was obviously playing havoc with her proper sense of reality, but her flair for the direct hadn't seemed affected, spilled blood and shattered bone or not. Despite calling him a hollow man, her tone didn't sound overtly hostile, and her question seemed to be an honest one.



His throat bobbed but his stern expression didn’t scar with a reaction to the new nickname. Is that what he was now? Was that what he was going to be once everything was done?

Cabrera didn’t respond. He caught the corner of the blanket and lifted the cover off the weakened body to see full damage. No missing legs. So if her combat with fever was a success, the woman would become a problem. He let the blanket fall and he walked over to Madison’s side. Scanning the bandages before his dark gaze focused on her remaining eye.


“Do I look like an angel to you?”



Alarm crossed Madison's face and decided to stay a while, furrows carving themselves between her eyebrows and the fires of urgency driving her to fight against the fires of fever. Fight fire with fire, isn't that what they said? There was something very wrong about angels. Something wrong and something dangerous. They were on the wrong.... The wrong.....

"Nnnnn-..... Don't..... Angels don't ..... they don' fight for.....
people.... "


Fuck, this was hard.

Clearly aggravated at her own mind, Madison clenched her eye hard enough that colored sparks exploded in the fuzzy black static behind her eyelids and she lifted her free hand to clumsily press against the hole at her collarbone. Palm against bandage. Drive down. The fresh, blinding pain did more to focus her mind through the fever than anything else. She gasped. There.... There was something important about angels. When her eye reopened and her arm dropped onto her torso, her face had gone a few shades paler, but her gaze was somewhat clearer and her voice a little more steady.

Fire with fire.


"Don't. They're not.....what you think. There.... There were kids in there. Under..... understand? There.... were kids. Angles..... Angels don' care. They obey."

A small, bitter smile parted her lips as she gazed at this familiar, unfamiliar hollowed-out man, tantalizingly close to recognition, remaining as stubbornly elusive as the scent of a childhood toy..... But still man.

"God..... was never on our side. Bewar'...... Beware His angels."

Splintered chuckles boiled from cracked lips and a sauteed brain. "They'll kill ya, jus' like me."

That seemed to be genuinely funny to the girl; she'd put her faith in angels but had forgotten a singular, vital truth: fallen or not, heavenly or hellish, Angels always served other masters. Always.



Cabrera saw this before. People in her state, minds dazed with fever. They were seeing things, talking things, out of sorts. But there was something unsettlingly sober in her gaze. Color drained from her face as if she was wrestling with her body to focus.

Kids

He read that eye. Listened to the timbre of manic laughter. Trying to understand. There were times when he thought of himself as one. Not just a shepherd but a warrior of God. An angel in his holy army. They didn't wear feathers though, they were violent creatures.

Ignacio was about to break her train of thought but the moment she said it, like me....it hit him.

Cabrera asked about her when she was gone. Casey told him that she chose a lone path, chose to ride solo. And the puzzle fell into place back then. It made sense. Except it didn't. Something at the back of his head told him it didn't. She genuinely cared for the people. For a moment he thought he saw her caring about him too. Until she confirmed he was just another piece of shit. Or whatever else that she called him. So why would she just leave all these people to men like him.

Angels don't ..... they don' fight for......
people

They'll kill ya, jus' like me


“Connor.” His throat bobbed. Not taking his eyes off of her face he leaned over, so his quiet words could easily reach her. “Did the bikers do this to you?”



Confusion filled her gaze and Madison's brows furrowed together. Bikes. Bikes? Bikes. Slowly, jerkily, she nodded, a fresh lance of pain arcing from the wound in her head and over her scalp down to the bridge of her nose. The murmur was involuntary, an equal and opposite reaction to the protestations of her busted form, fit now for a junkyard. Strip her for spares or bury her within the good earth to feed and flower for childr-........ no, no...... she needed to make sure she did her part. Did her job. If there was any fight with her, she needed to get her ass in gear.

Get strong. Fight. Remember. A ghost had told her that, once.

"Bikes...Y-yeah. Steel horses...... Angels....... hin'sight 'sh...... 20/20." This, too, seemed bitterly funny to the girl, though she didn't chuckle. One eye would only see the past, now.

"Shoulda...... Shoulda seen it..... coming..... Pale horses wasn literal....... an' m'...... m'Catholic. Sh-sh-," With some effort, the woman visibly forced her mouth to work proper. "Shoulda known."

Sloppy. She'd been so, so sloppy.

After a long moment of silence, she looked at the Hollow Man and blinked slow. Comeon, brain. Fuckin' work. It was her fuckin' brain, it had better do what she wanted it to do or she'd carve it out the front part with a spoon. If she could have slapped herself, she would have. Stupid brain.


"Angels leadin' th' risen at th'end."

Grief showed on her face, a betrayal that ran deep. She'd trusted that Angels were a force for good. They were supposed to stand......... but then, she'd forgotten about floods and arks, and to never count on the mercy of the fallen.

"But..... there wuss-s kids. Not...... right. F-f-fuck 'em. God'sh not on our...... side. You...... You wash y'sself. Fuck. You watch y'self, hear?"

Her head sank back into the pillow, relaxed and throbbing deep.

"Hollow Man 'r not...... y'still a man."

As though this were both completely comprehensible and important, a message passed from the dead (or at least purgatory-ed) to the hollow. It was hot. The tar was always hot. That's how they poured it, hot and stinking. If she stayed in this forsaken river of black gunk long enough, would it set with her in it? Leave her unable to move or swim but still aware?

Styx and stones and broken bones. Blood and shadow.

Just........ keep swimming. There had to be an end to it, somewhere. Right?

Right?



He held her gaze. The quivering light of consciousness that kept swaying like a flame in a draft. He filtered her words, trying to catch the threads, follow them. But in the end he couldn't be sure how much of it was true and what was made up by the struggling brain.

The curtain bounced on the rail and a male nurse paused in his tracks, holding it open. “Oh.”

Cabrera leaned away from the woman and looked at the other. He straightened up, cleaning his throat. “What's wrong with her?”

The nurse held a drip in hand, hesitating. “You'd have to ask the doctor, sir. I'm just here to chan-”

“Alright.” He cut in and glanced at the woman one last time before turning to leave.


“Tell someone to get me when she's lucid or dead.”
 


Screenshot_20240111_230639_com.android.chrome.png

A collab with NanLia NanLia

Chloe spent the few weeks with Connor and Tanner both MIA desperately listening for information about where they had gone and what was happening. She’d known little, only what Connor had shared prior to him leaving: Tanner had been taken by Cabrera to the High School among many other teenagers. Shortly after, he’d been called away, presumably to help the school.

Since then she’d done her best to ply information from informants with the temptation of alcohol and had been able to piece together fragments of events:

A horde had come down on the school, many were dead or injured.

Good Samaritans had come to their rescue, uncertain who they were or who they represented, this information was controversial as she’d heard a few rumors, some had noted a biker gang, others claimed another Samaritan outpost of people - hidden from the prison for just these occasions and a third had hinted to the actual government coming to the rescue of their civilians. The third had been laughable, but at this point she couldn’t discount any information.

Someone important had died - a leader but unclear of which one. At least that was the case until Toni returned with other members of the MS13 crew and more information spread. Dutchess had been killed and Wesley had nearly killed her murderer for it.

What hadn’t been clear was who had been killed and who had been injured and any time she described or brought up Connor or Tanner she received further mixed messages.

It left her with sleepless nights and unfocused days until she heard that the convoy was arriving in only a few hours.

Chloe paced the hall near the entryway - if anyone was returning they would be coming through these doors and she would be there, waiting for them. She could only pray that both of them returned in one piece …

The ride back had been an entirely solemn affair.

A mood of inarguable weight bore down on everyone in the convoy as they bumped down the uneven roads and twisted along the path back to the prison. For many, this was their first time going to an unknown place that-- to them, was worse than just a prison; it was a penitentiary of pain and they were its latest additions-- mere slaves to the auction.

The Penitent Man's eyes rolled over to Tanner who sat beside him in the back of a van that had definitely been the property of some soccer mom before everything went down, but-- despite their physical proximity, a gap had formed between them like nothing they had experienced yet. The Boy had elected to stare forward at a stranger ahead of him and was making a concentrated effort not to engage Connor. Their talk before leaving had been... tense-- full of disagreements, yet he didn't feel as if it was as world-ending as Tanner assumedly did. Although, sometimes Connor had to remember that he was truly just fourteen even if he wasn't... normal.

The convoy came into sight of the prison, and the mood shifted to something akin to relief; at least, it became less apprehensive. Northview's adaptability was commendable. However, their gratitude at being oppressed was something that continued to baffle The Man. It wasn't long before they were let out of the vehicles, and Connor felt his heart begin to frolic in his chest a bit as he considered running to the bar immediately. Yet, he knew he had to patch things up with Tanner first.

"Hey, buddy.."

The Boy shrugged him off and marched sternly toward the main entrance as Connor trailed behind, "Hey! I'm talking to you!"

Soon, the duo had breached the door, and Connor called out again, "Listen, we HAVE to talk about this! You can't just--"

But Tanner whipped around and shot him a glare that choked the words in his throat, "We can talk when I'm READY!!"

The Boy hissed at him as he marched off to their cell leaving behind a Connor racked with a pain that stung straight to his heart-- face creasing as his brows furrowed in hurt and worry. The Penitent Man outstretched a hand far too late as Tanner rounded the corner, and instead could only let out some of the building steam with a deep sigh. However, the pacing of someone close by caught his attention and he turned to see-- Chloe?

His face lightened as he dropped his pack to the floor and raced the distance between the two of them before suddenly ambushing her with a hug. Connor's hands fell to the center of her back as he embraced her entire body-- trapping her arms under his as he buried his face into the small of her neck and shoulder. For a few moments, he seemed to cool down-- an engine pumping too hard, releasing the steam in a brief blow of air through his pursed lips and teeth like a whistle. He sucked in a deep breath-- remembering her scent and feeling her warmth as he embraced her, "Hi, I missed you."

Connor drew back a bit to look her in the eyes-- his hands grasping at her shoulders as if to hold her where he could see her, "Have you been okay?"

His face was younger looking without the beard, but he was clearly battle-worn. Connor's knuckles were skinned and red, face gashed along the jaw, bruises darting the exposed parts of his arms and his face.

Chloe paused hearing raised voices from the other side of the doorway. She was certain that she recognized at least one of them as Tanner but she immediately dismissed the thought; the boy was far too calm and way too sweet to scream like that. Much to her surprise, the doors swung open and the boy strode away, leaving Connor standing behind him looking lost.

She smiled seeing Connor rush for her and leaning into his larger frame as he held her, evidently needing some comfort at this time and certainly not ashamed to receive it in front of other people. He’d left so quickly and neither of them had time to fully express themselves. She hadn’t been certain where they stood after he’d been gone for so long, nor was she sure how everything would pan out with Tanner - if he was even coming back at all!

Hi,” She smiled up to him, reaching up tentatively to gently run the pads of her fingers along his jawline, the noticeable difference a clean shave made. “I missed you too.” She settled on resting her hands against his chest, unwilling to move for the time being. “I’m glad you’re back.” She said quietly. “Even under the circumstances.

She glanced down the hall where Tanner had left. “What happened with him?

The moment she leaned back into him-- his heart began to race laps around his chest; How could he be sure what she had meant when she kissed him last time? She seemed like the kind of person who meant everything she did, but for a guy like him...? Whatever worries he had were burnt away by the sheer brightness of her smile. Connor was stunned still by the sheer happiness he experienced as she reached up to rub his face-- a hiccup of excitement catching in his throat as perched his hand on her arm; his palm gliding along her skin before it rested atop her hand against his face as he rubbed his cheek into it like a cat.

"Hey," Connor's voice was low and deep with the bliss of something so sweet after so much darkness, "did you get even more beautiful while I was gone?"

Was that too much? He didn't know, but he couldn't hold back the flood of ease threatening to burst through his chest at the moment.

"It was rough out there-- really rough. I'm glad you're still okay, though. My mind was racing with what happened last time-- what that meant, I'm-- yeah..."

Connor brought himself to a nearly-choked whisper-- hand shaking against hers, "I don't know what I would've done..."

However, her query as to Tanner caused Connor to snap back to the here and now of things; The Penitent Man broke awkwardly from Chloe just in time for a few Samaritan enforcers to trail through the door and stare at them with a moment of suspicion before carrying on, "He... went through some thing back at Northview-- grew into his own person for better or worse; although, some people are insisting worse."

Connor's eyes shot left to right as if they were about to exchange in some taboo ritual, "The Kid is looking up to
Cabrera now-- I guess he really got involved in the defense, and some people even said..."

The Man's eyes tightened with a chill as his hands wrapped gently at her sleeves, "There are... rumors-- rumors that he... killed... people."

"Rumors," Connor shivered, "rumors is all they are. I'm doing my best, but the kid thinks... I've gone too soft since I came here."

Chloe glanced upwards at Connor as he spoke, a deep flush swiftly spreading across her cheeks, heating her face. She smiled and even laughed quietly at the compliment. It had been … nice and unexpected, a sudden shift from realising how much she’d missed him to a deep fluttering in her stomach.

She did her best to tamper the grin as he went on to describe the hellscape that had been the highschool and then horde. That smile swiftly faded into a deep worry and a thankfulness that both he and Tanner had returned unharmed … physically at the very least. She squeezed his hand firmly as he went on to tell her about Tanner and the kids' new found hero.

It killed her to hear it, Tanner had been sweet to her, nothing but kind before he’d left, despite Temma saying otherwise. It pained her to hear that he might be headed down a dark path that they both knew he’d come to regret one day.

No,” She said frankly. “He’s wrong. You haven’t become soft since coming here, you’ve become who you were, before all of this.” She inhaled deeply and sighed. “He’s not from the same world, Con. All of his memories, or at least the most recent relevant ones are death, fighting and killing. This is his world and Cabrera, well, his start here was a lot like your own, but the fighting and killing didn’t end when he got out of the cages.

She leaned down and attempted to pick up his pack, finding it far heavier than she expected. “Oh, oof.” She let it return to the floor. “Let’s go get you settled back in, yea? I have a few hours before I need to get back to the bar.

There was a certain sweetness to everything she said that had just recently began to creep upon Connor like the sweet aftertaste when biting into pastry, and it had him strung along as his eyes raced to capture every expression and movement she could offer to everything she heard-- good to bad. He could see that Chloe cared for The Boy and the news had hurt her greatly; her smile fading to something conflicted and poison to the happiness he imagined she likely would have felt. However, her words felt like a blessing to a cursed existence-- the second half of whatever book Madison had been writing for him. Chloe was correct; Connor had been a person first and a soldier second for a very long time as he was just in the National Guard, and for a moment it prompted him to consider when being a Soldier had begun to replace who he was.

It wasn't hard to guess the time frame, but the exact moment was a mystery.

Connor's lip curled inward as he ran his teeth along the top-- his face crunching from the pain of an emotional wound, as The Beautiful Woman contextualized something he'd struggle to say for so long. He had an impression of what it was but could never give it form as she just had, "You're right, Chloe. I just... couldn't account for that. He wasn't my kid when I first found him, and it took everything I had just to keep us both going. We saw a lot of people die, Chloe; Fuck-- everyone who is still here has seen a lot of people die. I think-- in my own grief, I closed him off to a lot of important things he needed to... get there-- emotionally. This is my fault, and I'm going to do my best to fix it, steer him right, love him."

Connor averted his gaze for a second as he brought up a tattered sleeve to wipe the tears welling in his eyes at the thought of such a colossal, painful responsibility and duty, but he wouldn't fail The Boy a second time. He couldn't.

The Penitent Man brought his eyes back to Chloe's and matched her mending gaze for a moment before her attempt at picking up his pack drew a low chuckle from him, "Of course, thank you. Do you... want to spend some of it together?"

Connor didn't want to assume anything right now; this was all so unfamiliar to him. A part of him knew that they needed to flee somewhere private to address the Cabrera issue-- as it amounted to treason to share his true opinions on the matter, and that showing their feelings for each other in public would likely only lead to a manipulation. There was no action more dangerous in Lincoln than loving.

Chloe watched conflict shift over Connor’s features as he proclaimed he would be what Tanner needed; a father. Of course, not in so many words but that was the truth of it. Tanner had lost his, painfully, and he needed someone to guide him, someone to help him, even if the boy didn’t want it. She knew there would be no one better than Connor.

She smiled and nodded as he asked, almost boyishly, if she wanted to spend her free time with him. “Yes, I do.” Chloe nodded towards the cells where the enforcers stayed, starting at a slow pace. “I’ve missed you.” She said quietly as they went, watching the people around them as they walked. The prison was filled with eyes and ears, she knew best of all. She knew they needed to be cautious of what they said publicly, but some things couldn’t be hidden even if they weren’t spoken aloud.

Chloe had always been an avid people watcher and she could easily tell when someone had an interest, ill or otherwise, in a person. A gift for a bartender in the old world, being able to spot out the creeps at a distance and keep some ladies safe. A curse in this place. “Spent a lot of time worrying about you and Tanner, not a lot comes in sometimes. The whispers dry up, the men sober up.” She shrugged. “I’m just glad you’re both back now.

Connor's heart fluttered as she agreed, and he skipped to her side to join her in a slow walk to the cells.

'I've missed you.'

Her words soothed the aches and bruises of his tired mind and soul. The man had barely had any time to rest between the battle and then packing up everything to leave back here; he knew the physical wounds would heal with time, but the stuff that cuts the fabric of who you are is another thing altogether. Chloe was that cure for him.

They walked-- near sheepishly, next to one another down the hall with an exchange of hushed whispers like lovers coiled in fresh linens. Connor lowered his head instinctually as they talked as if to try and level his eyes with hers, "I can imagine. I'm sorry. A phone would've been great, or hell-- even one of the radios. Not like they'd ever go for that, though."

The Penitent Man hiked his bag up on his left shoulder and then reached across as subtly as possible with his right hand; his pinkie loosely wrapping around the tip of hers, "I'm glad to be back."

Chloe smiled at the sentiment. If only they had a phone. If only the cell towers worked. If only the Samaritans would give them radios. If only we’d met before … She left the thought unspoken, not wanting the slight dampening and darkness from creeping in. She had thought of that many times while he’d been away: what their lives might have been like if they’d met before the world fell apart outside.

Hell, she knew she’d seen far less of it any most - she’d been at the prison only days after the riots settled and King took over. She’d hidden, at her home, then at the bar and then ran here, hopeful the guards here would help her. She didn’t regret coming here, Connor and Tanner made that an obsolete thought.

She was drawn out of her thoughts as she felt the back of his hand brush the back of hers, a smile crossing her lips as she angled her left hand so she could link her little finger with his. It was a silly thing, not even holding hands, but it made her near grin. She had to bite her lower lip to stop herself from giggling like a teenage girl.

Connor kept his eyes forward as they walked, but could only manage a couple seconds with them being parted from the glowing woman at his side. He wanted to stop, grip her chin, and hold her gaze to his to feel the warm of her skin soothe his palm and for him to bask in the shared realization of each other's presence. However, he knew that was a bit weird and unrealistic, so he simply clutched her pinky a little tighter as they arrived at the cell he had been parted from for a few weeks.

The cell was as damp, lightless, and bare as he remembered; not the chaotic bare of something that had been picked through and ransacked, but the kind of spartan empty that could only be seen of people living in situations such as these: a poor existence under a despot. Connor approached the cell door and pushed it aside with his spare hand-- the metal screeching against an oxidizing frame, before stepping inside and dropping his bag to the floor. His cot was present with a hastily patched sleeping bag atop it, a few boxes he had stuffed under with some odds and ends, and atop his bed were two rebel pilot helmets from the movie series "Star Wars"; looks like Weston had really come through for him-- again, the man was a good friend.

However, as The Penitent Man turned his head to inspect Tanner's bed-- the bedroll was missing and his belongings had been plucked from underneath. It was a now empty space that sent ice through the veins of Connor as it revealed just how deep the rift between them now was without him even realizing it, "Damn it..."

Connor swallowed deep before shifting his hand to hold Chloe's fully as if drawing support from an unsure squeeze, "Tanner took his stuff..."





 
banner-gif.1036295


JioP7Ok.jpeg


LINCOLN
The Pit
collab with Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad



Xander's blood boiled, a burning anger deep settling deep in his gut. He knew Buster's taunting shouldn't have affected him in that moment. He knew he shouldn't let it get to him, not when so much was on the line. He knew he shouldn't let their previous friendship magnify the anger he was feeling in this moment. He knew he shouldn't have glanced out toward the crowd one time out of the corner of his eye as if on cue from Greg, seeking the familiar faces of his girls before committing to what he had to do next.

Shouldn't... but did.

Then he acted. Xander shot low again -- ever the wrestler -- or at least content to let Buster think as much. His posture lowered, forward hand reaching toward the man's nearest leg, but he never committed for the feinted takedown. Instead, he pivoted at the hip, driving off his own back foot and swinging his fist in a sloppy, albeit powerful overhand punch that came looping over his own shoulder toward Buster's forehead with every bit of adrenaline (and anger)-fueled steam behind it.


The strike shattered pain through Buster’s skull, enough to shake him loose for a moment. He stumbled but the pain was firing his pistons, iron on his tongue like molten meth. When Xander leapt to his range again the big guy hurled his knuckles at his friend’s jaw. Missed, grazing scruff. He braced for the dull impact to his clenched abdomen with Xander’s counter that dislodged a grunt from his chest. Greg roared and pounced, shoving them both at the bars, making the crowds ectatic. Quick exchange of blows. Then they broke off, stumbling apart. Bodies glistening sweat and blood.

But there was something half-hearted in the way Buster moved. Like he wasn’t trying hard enough to dodge or dodged instead of blocking and hitting back. Derek saw him fight too many times. Maybe that’s what made the skinhead yell.

“FINISH HIM!”

The cling of metal objects hitting bars and clattering to the ground made Samaritans howl. It’s been over a year since the last time they saw weapons allowed in the pit—blades, hammers, and axes now glinting in the dirt.


Xander’s eyes flicked toward the sound of metal-on-metal, the rattling impacts reverberating through the air and drawing his attention just long enough for him to take in the source: weapons, and several of them. Bludgeons and blades, some improvised and some wickedly intended for one sole purpose – to maim and kill. Some part of him had noted Buster’s flagging aggression, only to subconsciously dismiss it just as fast as a symptom of fatigue or injury. Now was his chance, or so he had thought.

The weapons changed the dynamic entirely. You could be hurt and tired and still be strong enough to gut your opponent… and just the sight of them entering the arena might give Buster a second wind. Unless Xander got to them first. He had already scanned the ground, spotting the nearest tool. He didn’t hesitate. This time, when Xander lunged, it wasn’t for Buster, but for the crude metal shank.

He snatched it up in hurried hands, his palm clumsily slipping onto part of the blade and digging in. He didn’t take the time to adjust his grip, instead turning and thrusting the knife out in front of him defensively.


The big guy barreled forward with a growl vibrating in his chest. They clashed. The man’s blade sliced right through the side of Greg’s waist, splashing bright red. Body impact stunning. He grabbed at the other’s skull, fingers digging into flesh and he smashed their heads together, once, twice. Waiting on the snap of tension, for the man in his grip to go limp in surrender.


Xander’s knees buckled as his equilibrium was robbed by the headbutts: Greg’s skull smashing against his own like a battering ram. Streaks of white flashed across his vision like lightning. He kept his grip on the knife, but only barely – and only through raw, subconscious instinct. His free hand wrapped around Buster’s shoulder blindly, trying to grab onto him and stem the onslaught.


Terrible force in the vicious movement as Greg slammed his palm to the dazed man’s chest and shoved him down. He dropped his tight body over the other. His corded thighs straddled the man and he pinned Xander’s arms down. Harsh shout ripped from his lungs, jaws wide on a feral battle cry. Roaring rage and energy. His blood hot and high.


There was no air left in the teacher’s lungs. Black encroached on the edges of his vision and he was almost surprised to find himself planted firmly on his back, sounds muffled even as they reached his ears. If he was capable of anything resembling normal, rational thought in that moment he might have felt desperation or even outright fear of death. But it was all a violent haze. The only constant was the knife, held firmly in his right hand: blade pointed upward like a flagpole protruding proudly from the earth.


MokaChan MokaChan Togy Togy BeyondDandy BeyondDandy NanLia NanLia Miaow Miaow SlaughterMelon SlaughterMelon Crono Crono Aegis Aegis Namazu Namazu Good_Morels Good_Morels Fluffy-Kat Fluffy-Kat Tool Tool
 
JioP7Ok.jpeg



LINCOLN
The Pit


Greg killed men before. But he was never this aware of his ability to destroy one. Violence was always running thick through his veins. The fire once started, almost impossible to soothe until he was the last one standing. The pain thrumming through flesh and bone just a fleeting memento. But this wasn’t another defeated animal he was pinning to the filth-stewn ground. It was a man whose loss would bring change to Buster’s life. Change he didn’t like.

The big guy turned his head, zeroed in on the people. Some frozen with dread, holding breath. Others rattled the bars of the cage, their faces wild. Greg didn’t hear their yelling through the thunder of the racehorse heartbeat in his ears. He looked down in time to catch the spark of lucid fear in his friend’s eyes. Felt the resistance of straining biceps in his grasp. The tip of the knife that Xander held pointed at his stomach. Jump and shiver of his abdominals automatic against prickly touch. Greg’s lips parted on a harsh inhale.

“Bossman.” His white teeth flashed from curled lips in a tight, trademark grin. Locking eyes with Xander, he moved until the sharp point grazed him under sternum. Then he leaned over.

Time stilled. The blade sank in. Pressure of surging sea. His ocean. Vivid flash of silent lightning flaring in the darkest night. Splintering through a million drops of rain that tapped across his skin. Like ice needles spilled inside his torso, swelling, erupting wet heat at the epicenter. No pain glinted in his wide eyes, only surprise.

Greg let go of the other man and his broad, hulking figure folded over Xander. His spine curved, forehead pressing to the man’s shoulder like he needed to rest. The wound deepened, weeping blood around steel. He turned his chin and his breath hit his friend’s sweat-wet neck. “Give…” It came out a little weaker, a little lower than he intended. The loaded request colored by the silly endearment. “Give the kid my name.”

Propping to his fight-worn hands, arms shaking, he pushed his frame up with a gasped exhale. The knife pulled out. His cut-open heart still pumping hard. Blood gushed freely with every desperate pulse. His lungs filled with ice, breaths staggered by the blinding failure shooting across all systems.

The rapid coil of emotion through Buster’s chest caught him off-guard. Intense. The low bolt of regret. His mind filled with deep want that seared through his core like a delayed attempt for survival. The want to live. Fuck. He wanted to live. He wanted to live. Rueful chuckle bubbled free off his lips. The out of place affection in his gaze barely faltered. Sitting up on his shins, body rigid, Greg felt the world slowly slide sideways.




 
banner-gif.1036295


LINCOLN
The Pit

Xander’s mind was a mess of pain, confusion, and adrenaline with Buster atop him. A struggle for life that could only end in death. Few cogent thoughts survived that turmoil, yet Greg’s voice had sliced through the fog like a siren despite his almost… serene tone.

”Bossman… Give the kid my name.”

It hadn’t registered. Not at first. Then he felt Buster shift his weight atop him and do what he had proven unable to… the blade of the knife meeting sudden weight and resistance before it gave way. Warm and wet was the blood that poured out from the wound like a macabre fountain, covering Font’s hand and wrist and forearm. Xander knew immediately that there would be no staunching it. Only a precious few parts of the body bled so freely when cut.

To anyone on the outside looking in, it would look appear as if Xander had struck a mortal blow. At worst, it would look like an accident: a knife blade ending up in the wrong place during a wild and desperate scramble. But he knew the truth. He had heard Buster’s surprisingly-soft voice and seen his eyes in the moment before he… before he made his choice. The weight of Buster’s body sliding off from on top of him broke him from his trance. Xander forced himself up into an awkward sitting position before looking at the bloodied knife in his hand. His stomach churned and he tossed the blade as if it were a ticking time bomb. It clattered to the floor nearby while he sat there, palms resting on the ground behind him as he watched his friend bleed out.

“Buster… I…” he started weakly, struggling to find the words. The crowd and the Samaritans ceased to exist in that moment, fading out into little more than a vague buzz in the peripheries of his senses. He swallowed hard. “Thank you... for everything you did for us. I won't forget. We won't forget you.”

[/I]​

Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad MokaChan MokaChan Togy Togy BeyondDandy BeyondDandy NanLia NanLia Miaow Miaow SlaughterMelon SlaughterMelon Crono Crono Aegis Aegis Namazu Namazu Good_Morels Good_Morels Fluffy-Kat Fluffy-Kat Tool Tool [/i]
 
JioP7Ok.jpeg



LINCOLN
The Pit


Greg lay down on his side, cheek pressed to the dirty floor of the cage. Bravado was gone from his sweat slicked body, the past tension shaking through his shoulders like a newborn horse. Heaved, wheezing breaths shot stabs of pain through his chest. It felt like they would split his ribcage open. The already high pulse thudded faster as if his broken heart could save him if it only worked harder.

Feeling the spent tremors that ran through his once powerful frame, shivering cold as the adrenalin poured out, a soft noise broke through his red-stained lips. His gaze swayed to his friend, sitting next to him. Xander was talking. Something. Greg wasn’t sure what it was. He wanted to speak too but another surge of blood hit his throat and he had to cough it out.

The fatigue slowly gave in to warmth. A sensation spread from his core through his stomach, filling it with butterflies. The pain receded. Haze carefully claimed his mind, leaving no room for thought or reason. Leaving him stripped naked to instinct. Trembling on unsteady breath, his deep chest hitched with every swish and ebb of air that refused to expand his lungs. The frantic beating of his heart slowed down moment by moment.

Buster’s tired gaze slipped past Xander. Roving the crowds until it fixed on the face of a girl with eyes like polished marble.

Willing his limb to move, he unfolded his arm, hand fisted. Letting his knuckles rest in the man’s lap. His gesture mistaken for a plea for comfort? Buster wasn’t looking at Xander. His gaze suspended on the girl’s face. Familiarity written in the dying spark in his eyes. His fingers uncurled, showing an open palm. Empty. His last gift. The man beside him.




 

ezgif-1-5f207e3cde-gif.1036284

Screenshot_20240405_183035_com.android.chrome.png

LINCOLN PRISON
The Pit
Minnie sensed the change in the crowd. A roar of excitement, turned to rage, that teased her curiosity. Was it over? Had someone won? She didn't want to look, she didn't want to know. As long as she didn't look, they were both alive, they were both winners, everything stayed exactly as it was... She didn't like now, but that didn't mean she would like the future any better.

Hands and feet clanged against the metal cage, shaking the walls of the pit. She shot upright, like a meerkat on watch. The Samaritans were angry. Wasn't this what they wanted? To watch someone die? Her head turned to the pit below, watching the two bodies, one on top of the other. There was blood, Xander was underneath... Surely, he'd lost. It seemed that Buster had been fighting daily since his arrival, and Xander, though recovered, surely couldn't be the same after a head injury like that. Part of her had expected Xander to lose. Even if he won fair and square, the Samaritans would find a way to rig it against him, to kill him one way or another.

Then, Buster collapsed, and Xander sat up. She shot to her feet. Her breathing trembled. Her dad was... alive... Her heart swelled. He'd... won? But what did that mean next? He won, did he get to leave? Come live with them again? Her stomach fluttered... but Nari had said he might never be free, that they'd find a way to keep him forever, whether he won or not... Was this good? Was Xander better off dead? Free from whatever torture they had in store for him?

But... there was far too much blood for them both to survive. Her heart sank. In her moment of joy, she'd forgotten one of them had to die. She felt her eyes well with tears, watching Buster's chest tremble as his lungs failed to fill with air. She was sure that he was... looking at her. She swallowed the lump in her throat, the muscles cramping as she fought tears. The roaring of the crowds seemed to fade as the corners of her vision darkened. Her stomach twisted into knots, bile rising in her throat. Xander hadn't won, Buster had forfeited.

She felt a firm grip on her arm as Haewon grabbed hold. The energy of the crowd only grew, the Northview section surrounded by pure rage and aggression. She swallowed, leaning behind her sister as she held her forearm firmly.
"We need to get out of here... before they fucking riot." She yelled to Nari over the noise.

 
Red_and_Gold_Classy_and_Elegant_Business_Christmas_Banner_40.png


FLASHBACK
West Virginia - 1999

Weston Jones Senior was the kind of guy that people crossed the street to avoid.

Built like a brick shithouse - well over six-foot-six, broad shouldered, and muscular from a life of hard labor. Not like those bodybuilders with skinny torsos and weirdly sculpted biceps. No, Weston Sr. was shaped like a barrel and had the strength to lift a dozen of them even if filled with lead. He kept his shock of blonde hair trimmed short enough to hide the bit of natural curl that God gave him. Curls were the marks of a woman, he always told his son, and if his son’s hair ever so much as threatened to sway slightly out of place it would get snipped right off - or buzzed off, more often than not. In sharp contrast, the man let his beard grow long. Too long, by most decent standards, given how scraggly it was as it reached down his chest. His son asked him one day why he doesn’t braid it like Vikings do. It was a stupid question from a stupid boy that still seemed to refuse to learn right from wrong. He’d given the idiot a hard smack across the face for suggesting it, reminding him that braids too were for women, and he was no goddamn woman. That smack left a bruise on the moron’s cheek. Weston Senior was proud of that. That’ll learn him, he thought to himself, giving the issue no more thought after that.

The child, Weston Jones Junior, still had that bruise on his chin as he walked down the sidewalk next to his father. He kept his eyes on the pavement, watching for the places where the cement buckled and broke, or was chipped and missing chunks. This street was the main drag of their little town, its two-lanes narrow from back in the horse and buggy days. They had to park the old beater of a pickup truck around the back of the store in the old dirt field that served as a parking lot. Nobody had ever bothered to pave it. Dirt worked just fine, the older man always said - and if you slipped and fell in the mud, that was your own damn-fool-fault for not knowing how to pick up your feet. He also said that - typically after his damn-fool-son had done exactly that, slipping and skidding in the mud and landing on his hands and knees.

Today was a lucky day for the eleven year old. They were in the middle of a dry spell, so the ground wasn’t as muddy as it usually was this time of year, when fall gave way to winter and precipitation wobbled on the fence between rain and snow. Now he only had regular-dirt on his beat up, worn-out sneakers that he stared at as he walked.

“Chin up, boy, don’t hang your head like a Goddamn defective.” The older man smacked his son upside the head, causing the child to flinch and robotically raise his head and eyes just enough to satisfy the order, uttering a quiet “sorry, sir” automatically.

Defective. That was one of his father’s most often-used words, alongside a long list of typical slurs that one heard used frequently in this town. Defective was the catch-all. Defective included everything else on the list plus anything else somehow wrong with the world in the eyes of Weston Jones Senior - and it was a mighty damn long list. To listen to Weston Jones Senior talk about who was on The List as a Defective would easily make one wonder who the hell wasn’t on the list. If you asked the older man, it was real clear who was not on the list.

It frustrated him - angered him - that his son didn’t live up to his expectations. The gnawing sense of failure chewed at the back of his brain and slithered down into his stomach sometimes if he let himself think about it for too long. Most of the time, to ignore that feeling, all he had to do was drink more and have another round of yellin’ and whippin’ on the boy to put him back on the right path. Only then did the gnawing go away. The gnawing fear that his son was a Defective - and that reflected poorly on him.

Weston Jones Senior would not allow that.

As Senior and Junior headed down the sidewalk - one built of muscle and violence who openly carried his handgun anytime he went into town, the other one too short for his age, skinny, and drowning in ill-fitting clothes from the Goodwill - someone did, in fact, cross the road to avoid them both. Neither man noticed however, as they stopped in front of the municipal liquor store and turned their backs to the road.

“Here, take this. You got the list your momma give you?” Weston Sr. dug out his wallet and handed Weston Jr. a twenty dollar bill, his words drawled out, somehow threateningly. Three twenties remained in the wallet, reserved for the older man. Weston Jr. nodded his head and took the bill with another “yessir”. The older man motioned across the street to the Kroger’s.

“Git it then. Don’t go buyin’ any candy or extra shit, only what’s on that list. Count your change, make sure to give it all back to me, along with the receipt. Gitcher hide if I find you hidin’ even a penny.” The younger man didn’t need a reminder before he nodded his head yes; he’d already learned that lesson once.

He once bought a candy bar, thinking nobody would miss the shortage of change. It was just a quarter. Much to his dismay, his father did. His punishment for that? His father tied him to a tree outside, shirtless, in the hot August sun. The candy bar lay a few feet out of his reach beneath that tree - dead and leafless, so he didn’t even have the benefit of shade. After a few minutes, when the candy bar was good and melted, his father came back out, unwrapped the candy, and smeared the melted chocolate all over the boy’s face and chest.

Weston Junior wasn’t sure exactly how long he was left out there. Hours, at least. When his momma finally convinced his father to let him back in, he was sunburned and badly bug-bitten. That was a Saturday. When he showed up for school on Monday, some of the local boys took to calling him “Bubble-Wrap Face”, taunting they were looking forward to “popping him till his head popped open too”. He knocked a few of their teeth out in exchange. He never told his parents.

Weston Senior left his son standing there on the sidewalk as he pushed his way into the liquor store, friendly little bell chiming as the door opened. He was a regular there, and just before the door swung shut Weston Junior could hear the clerk greet him with a friendly voice. Of course he was friendly - his father was one of their best, most frequent customers.

Not bothering to look both ways before crossing the deserted road, Weston Junior trudged up to the grocery store. It had to have been one of the smallest Krogers the company owned, but for all Weston Junior knew it was the only Krogers in the world. The idea that there were other towns, other Krogers, each bigger than his own, was foreign to him. There was no friendly bell in this store, no personalized greeting, just the stale coolness wafting off the frozen food section and past the produce.

Weston Junior dutifully pulled his mother’s list from his back pocket and, clutching the cash, grabbed a cart and started shopping. He probably could have gotten away with one of those baskets, but riding on the back of the cart was fun - and as long as his father couldn’t catch him doing it, he’d take advantage of the opportunity.

The list was pretty mundane. 2% milk. White bread. Slices of American deli cheese. Cereal. Everything was store-brand instead of the more expensive name-brand kind. Weston Junior put his left foot on the bottom rack of the cart, pushing off against the floor with his right, and rolled past the small bakery aisle. He found that if he moved past it fast enough, he wouldn’t stare at the cookies and cakes and get a craving.

Momma wanted more Crisco, which was in the next aisle on the left. Weston Junior put his foot down and steered the cart around a turn - then came to a real quick stop, sharp enough that the box of generic frosted flakes tipped over and fell on its side with an unenthusiastic fwhump.

It wasn’t until now did Weston Junior’s brain register what he saw cross the road out of the corner of his eyes and enter the store before him when his attention was previously commanded elsewhere, on his father.

A pair of women and a child stood in the aisle, looking at the magazine rack on the right side. The store had a meager selection, both in size and scope, but something was better than nothing. One woman was a little taller than the other, her dark skin smooth and so perfect, she looked like she could be a magazine model despite the fact she had no makeup on at all. She wore casual-fitting jeans and had a gray sweatshirt tied around her hips, showing off a black AC/DC t-shirt. Her dark hair was braided up tightly, small braids with some of them ending in brightly-colored beads that clinked together as she moved her head. A basket dangled from one arm, full of road-trip snacks. The woman next to her was slightly shorter, curvier, with light brown hair tied up in a messy bun. She wore a brightly-colored tunic, multi-colored in a geometric horizontal pattern that only accentuated her curves, and boot-cut jeans. Leaning against the brown-haired woman was a boy around Weston’s age. He looked bored as hell and a little tired. Dark skin, just like the woman in the AC/DC shirt, jeans, a Batman t-shirt, and with a New York Yankees hat on backwards.

“Mom, can we hurry up and go? They don’t have anything good to read, and this town is creepy.” The boy grumbled and fiddled with his hat. When he said mom, both women looked down at him.

“Yeah, let's get going, sweet pea, we have enough for the rest of the trip. Come on, let's go pay.” The woman in the AC/DC shirt responded with a hint of a New York accent. Not local - same as the boy.

Weston Junior hadn’t realized he was standing there, still as a statue, and staring until the dark-skinned woman caught sight of him as she put back a magazine and started to turn away, and he immediately felt like a dumbass for staring. He just… couldn’t help it. There were too many things going on at once here that he’d never seen in his shitty little town. The scene in front of him was the kind of thing he occasionally saw on television - before his father caught wind, yelled at the television as if someone was actually listening to him, and either changed the channel or turned it off and threw the remote across the room.

The trio realized all at the same time they were being stared at - and although it was by a scrawny eleven-year-old, with a buzzcut, a bruise on his chin, and a timid soul that hadn’t yet been hardened by the years, who was just having fun riding around on a grocery cart - their good sense still alerted them to the fact they should probably get the hell outta Dodge soon. The adults murmured a quick word to each other, grabbing their son’s hand as they made their way towards the cashier at the front of the store.

The boy in the Batman shirt was dragged along, but not before looking over his shoulder at Weston Junior. The pair shared a wordless exchange in that aisle: I’m sorry you’re afraid.

Weston Junior stood there, still and silent, between the oatmeal and the antacids, as the boy in the Batman turned his back on Weston Junior and wormed his hand out of his mother’s grip, grumbling something about how he was coming and she didn’t need to squeeze so tight. On the other end of the store, out of sight, Weston Junior soon heard the bloop bloop bloop of the cashier scanning items.

Grabbing the bottle of Crisco and mentally crossing the last item off his list, Weston Junior solemnly wheeled his cart up to the cashier as well. The trio was accepting their goods in a plastic bag and stepping away, leaving the aisle clear for him.

“The fuck is this shit doing in my town?”

Setting his goods down on the conveyor belt, Weston Junior flinched when he heard that all too familiar voice behind him, by the front doors of the store. He didn’t want to look, but felt compelled to anyway. After all, when his father called, you damn well better answer right away and with the “yessir” he demanded.

Weston Senior was a few steps past the front doors, an arm-and-a-half length’s distance away from the trio. Close enough to be threatening, but not so close they could reach out and touch him. The older man reminded his son of this frequently: Don’t let them types touch you. You’ll catch what they got, and you bet God’ll smite you dead.

As much as his father raged at the television or the newspaper about various Defectives and Undesirables and all the many names they had, this was the first time Weston Junior saw his father confronted with the very people he called those names. Part of him presumed his father would just shake his head, glare at them, and give them a wide berth as he dragged Weston Junior home where he’d spend the evening griping about the state of the country.

Weston Senior did the exact opposite of that.

A produce bin was nearby, touting tomatoes on sale. The older man grabbed one, pushed his thumb through the weak skin so that it got a head start in splitting open, and proceeded to throw it directly at the face of the woman in the AC/DC shirt. So shocked by such antics, from a grown-ass adult, she didn’t even have time to react. The tomato hit her squarely in the nose and burst open, spreading juicy red tomato-mush over her face, down her chin, and down the front of her shirt. The other woman sucked in a sharp gasp, grabbing her son and pulling him away, trying to edge around their assailant and towards the exit.

“What the fuck?” The woman in the AC/DC shirt sputtered, wiping tomato juices off her face with her arm. Weston Junior felt second-hand-humiliation for her. Sometimes insulting words weren’t enough for his father - he needed to find a way to dig deep, to really twist the figurative knife.

Weston Junior watched the boy in the Batman shirt, staring at him as the boy’s face went from confusion and surprise, to terror. That terror was explained when Weston Junior heard the click of his father’s handgun.

It wasn’t the first time Weston Junior had seen his father pull it from its holster. Sadly, it also was not the first time he ever saw him aim it threateningly at someone. In his moment of silent, fearful weakness, Weston Junior quietly thanked God that *this time* that gun wasn’t pointed at him.

Weston Senior spewed a half-coherent train of slurs of all kinds as he ordered the trio out of the store, at gunpoint. It took only a few seconds for the road-tripping family to flee out the front door, their shoes slapping audibly against the broken concrete as they sprinted back to their vehicle.

The entire time, Weston Junior and the cashier stood frozen at the counter, unable to move, react, or even intervene. Especially to intervene - not that anyone was willing to do so once the gun came out. Once the trio were gone and out of sight, Weston Senior clicked the safety back on and re-holstered his gun, like nothing happened.

“Goddamnit boy, why are you so slow? Hurry the fuck up.” Weston Senior bellowed. “I got booze in the truck already, you’re slowing me down.”

Swallowing hard, Weston Junior put the last item - the carton of milk - on the conveyor. He refused to make eye contact with the cashier as his purchases were rung up, muttering a mild “thank you” as he received his change and receipt. His momma often counted her change right there before leaving the line, but Weston Junior didn’t even bother. Gathering up his two double-bagged (as momma insisted) plastic bags worth of goods in one hand, he offered the change and receipt to his father with the other.

“‘Bout damn time. C’mon.” Was all his father had to say, turning to lead the pair out of the store.

It had taken him eleven years on this planet to see this - to actually see the kinds of people that his father called Defective - about twenty seconds to be surprised and confused, and in the end would take about twenty more years to even start to undo the damage that his father’s “Defective List” had done to him.

 

eQj3ySG.jpg


Lincoln State Correctional Center
The Fight Pit

“A ticking time bomb”. That’s how people always described an unstable person: someone who might snap at any minute, placing themselves and everyone around them in danger.

Wesley had never understood that.

A time bomb, by definition, has a timer. It was methodical. It was predictable. It did its job – on schedule, no less – and nothing more.

No… not a ticking time bomb. More like an active volcano. Little more than a featureless mountain one day, but that heat and that pressure builds deep down inside, beneath the surface. Unseen by outside observers. And when it finally erupts? God help you if you’re anywhere nearby.

That’s how Wes had felt all his life. Years of corrective beatings at home had started the proverbial pressure-cooker inside his chest as a child. Then the eruptions had begun in high school and lasted all through college and the Army. He’d fight or tear down those around him until he was just the the hothead or the bully. The label suited him fine, especially once he got to Lincoln. A few disciplinary write-ups and half-assed investigations never stopped him from administering the beatings he saw fit when the inmates caught him on a bad day: when the heat and the pressure had boiled over and the granite facade crumbled into dust.

Now it was happening again. Wes was no stranger of being robbed of what he wanted in this life. It had been a recurring theme for as long as he could remember: coaching himself to prepare for disappointment before it had a chance to spring itself on him. Dutchess had been the first time in as long as he could remember that he had allowed himself even a glimmer of something… more. But this self-righteous shitbag, this teacher, this cripple from some godforsaken school he’d never even laid eyes on until a few weeks ago had taken that from him. And when the time came for that transgression to be put to rights, for that shitbag to reap the whirlwind?

Wes had to watch as that satisfaction was taken from him, too. Every blow Xander landed on Buster made the heat in his chest build all the higher, turned the pressure up just a bit more… until he saw the knife pierce Buster’s heart. Then the magma boiled over. Wesley was tearing open the gate to the Pit, marching inside – his boots pounding against the concrete. The yells of the Samaritans had faded to a distant drone as the sound of his heart thudding filled his ears. Xander never even turned to see him. The sanctimonious asshole was too busy looking at his dying opponent, cradling the man’s hand in his lap and giving it a squeeze, as if that was some kind of comfort to him now.

Wesley didn’t draw his gun. He didn’t need it, didn’t want it. Instead he reared his leg back and delivered a hard kick into Xander’s kidney. The teacher let out a yelp of surprised pain, doubling over onto the floor and curling up. Wes kicked at him once, twice more – his boot thudding into limbs and flesh and bones – before spotting the knife on the floor and stalking over to snatch it. “I’m gonna gut you like a fuckin’ hog and let your family watch, you hear me?” he snarled as he marched toward Xander.

 
Red_and_Gold_Classy_and_Elegant_Business_Christmas_Banner_40.png

Tigran_Banner.png


Lincoln State Correctional Center
The Fight Pit

Well, that was unforeseen.

When Weston had settled into his seat next to Tig to watch the fight, he expected Xander to be thoroughly beaten. The guy was wounded already - severely - and he didn’t have the kind of practice Derek’s fighters did. Whoever they threw at the schoolteacher would win. This really wasn’t a contest, this was an execution.

Weston did his best impression of someone who did not give a shit - up until he did, very strongly, give many shits about what was happening. Tig was sitting bolt upright in his own seat, leaning forward a bit, eyes wide as he watched Buster tumble over. By the time the other man’s body went still, Tig was out of his seat and leaning into Weston’s ear, whispering.

“You need to fucking do something before they riot.” Tig said quickly before he slipped away behind Weston’s chair, ready to bolt if he needed to. He was not built for violence.

“You think I don’t know that already?” Weston hissed, pushing himself out of his chair.

He didn’t have time to do anything, or say anything, though. The order for the enforcers to step inside the pit and escort Xander back to the cells died on his lips when he saw Wesley march into the pit. That was perhaps the very last enforcer he wanted anywhere near the pit.

That was his fault. He didn’t tell Wesley to stay away, didn’t order anyone to kick him out of the room, didn’t take any precautions. He simply assumed the guy could keep it together. He had an inkling that something was going on between Dutchess and Wesley, but had decided to ignore it. That was also a mistake.

Ignoring someone’s loss was always going to wind up being a mistake.

“I’ll deal with it, King.” He announced as he moved past their leader, hoping that King didn’t try and stop him - and didn’t do something ridiculous and show-y to make this worse. Weston might like to give his speeches before the fight to set the mood, but when it came down to the reality of blood and knuckles in the pit, he was not messing around. Weston’s steps shook the steps and bleachers as he sprinted down to the ground floor of the pit and circled around to the cage door, pulling it shut behind him so that - hopefully - people in the crowd didn’t get an idea to come in and join the fray.

“LT! Stop!” Weston barked as he entered the cage, the chief enforcer apparently ignoring or not hearing him, too busy kicking the crumbled man on the ground. It would be a damn miracle if Xander lived through all of this. If he did, it’d be a long recovery and he’d be lucky to be alright on the other side of it.

“Wes!” Weston called again. Knowing the other man wasn’t listening, Weston sprinted over, grabbing onto Wesley by the back of his collar and trying to yank him away from the knife and from Xander.



 


Screenshot_20240410_151213_com.android.chrome.png
Lincoln
Infirmary
(In wonderful collaboration with Tool Tool )

Madison's mind was not quite the boiling pot of goulash it had been for numberless days, but even so, semi-set Jell-O only had so much to give the world, no matter how hard it might try.

Half the woman’s face was bandaged from forehead to upper lip, all the way to the fuzz of her temple, though the white gauze and sticky pads had been changed out as regularly as supplies and the good graces of the staff here would allow. A grey tank top let her skin breathe and gave easy enough access to the gauze patch that rested below her collarbone and towards the shoulder, though it did nothing to disguise the plum-colored bruises that edged away from muddy red from where the shots had hit but not penetrated her makeshift armor. The back of her head, too, sported a jaunty swath of white where the bullet had entered, though the medically inclined had done her the favor of keeping her hair from matting, even if it was perpetually damp and hanging in limp curls.

Dark lashes rested on clammy cheeks still flush with fever, the hollow beneath her visible eye making her look like someone had seen fit give her a fresh shiner, and her knuckles clutched at the thin sheet covering her modesty, clenching and slackening again as her howling dreams dragged her from one uncomfortable truth to the next. The wrist on her uninjured right-side was cuffed to the gurney's rail, as much for the girl's own safety as the safety of the staff, should her condition take a turn and see her as one of the hungry, newly risen. Fortunately for all involved, the cuffs’ periodic, metallic rattling had not woken her for some hours.


Here, stripped of guns and armor and most of her clothes, it was easy to see her laid uncomfortably bare, though she wasn’t yet with it enough to be outraged. Scars peppered her skin, old and new, ranging from the straightish knife marks along her forearms where she'd clearly blocked an attack with the only thing she had available, to a mound along her side that was only periodically visible as she tossed and turned, and even pinprick scars in a ring around either wrist. One foot stuck out the bottom of the thin sheet, and here, too, were the remnants of an old wound just in front of her tendon, as though someone had decided this was the place to punch a marker from one side to the other. Lucky whatever had happened there hadn't been a half-inch back, or her Achilles tendon would have rolled up like a rubber band into her calf.

Currently, Detective Madison Jones rested, though not gently; her jaw clenched at some unseen, dream-enemy, her face twisting into one of veiled hostility before the expression passed and she calmed slightly.

Connor found himself spending as much time as possible helping in the bar with Chloe when he wasn’t out doing something else or trying to patch things up with Tanner, and as a result he was privy to a lot of talking; as his presence became more regular again, the guard of many of the patrons dropped as well. There was all of the classic mischief one could expect from the Samaritans: brawls, schemes, betrayals, murder, any type of sin one could dream of crammed into this one complex. However, one thing stood out from the others, a rumor of a Fallen Angel that had recently been recovered and brought back to the infirmary; if the rumor mill was to be believed, it was a woman as well. A part of him was curious when this information came out, so– when he had found it in himself to go see what the talk was about, Connor ventured to the infirmary.

The door was as uninviting as always– not really in that clinical, hospital manner but in the sense that real medical supplies were some of the most valuable resources available in this world after the end. As a result, the Samaritans seemed none-too-keen on treating much other than serious injuries on their most valued members. The Man reached out and placed his palm flat on the door but dared not push it open next. A part of him realized that this could be any female Fallen Angel– as he understood there were a few of them, yet the thought that it could perhaps be the ONE that he wouldn’t be okay with stopped him in his tracks. Madison had done a lot for him in a dark time. It was so easy to let time take the edge off on pain like that and heal just enough so that it didn’t hurt you until it did. However, when Madison and him really talked, it felt like he had taken the first step forward after a very long time. His heart felt like it was wrong for something to happen to someone as good as that in a world like this, but his brain knew that it happened to the good people more than anyone else, unfortunately.

Suddenly, his knees felt weak, throat dried. He swallowed. Swallowed deep. Tongue ran across barren gums as he dried to wet his mouth to little effect. Fuck it.

Shakey on his legs, Connor laid his weight against the palm of his hand and the door swept open under it– the hinges just degraded enough to let the bottom of the door scrape and squeal across the floor as The Man entered, “Hello? Hughes? Anyone?

Connor was stiff as he entered the room– head swiveling side to side, and ran his eyes across the mounds of white sheets and dirtied bandages carefully deposited into separate bins for the wash. There was someone, a husk of a human laid nigh-mummified in bandages as light seemed to catch in the one exposed eye– deep shadow across it like a pit straight into her skull. For a moment, the husk seemed too unfamiliar to be anybody he could’ve known, yet the uncertainty dug its claws into his heart. The Man inched forward toward the bed and he really looked– just to know; A leg hung free from under the blanket that barely covered the woman’s body, scars present on her body like cracks through stone, she slept but even then she looked dead. Connor’s thighs impacted the foot of the bed as he jumped from the sudden shock– his focus so singular upon the woman that he hadn’t realized how much of the distance he had closed.

There was someone there– that much was undeniable, but Connor didn’t want to believe it could’ve been her. Sure, there were SOME similarities in the face, but… but–

Madison?


At the call for someone, anyone, Madison's eyelid clenched more tightly shut and she almost managed to groan something that may or may not have been trying to say a word. It was difficult to tell. The “medical restraint” kept her in place, but whatever her dreams were about, they seemed anything but peaceful. When Connor's thighs knocked against her bed, her abdomen clenched and her free hand twitched in tight, rapid little spasms. The name escaping Connor's lips was a hook was a worm was a buoy was a line was a fisherman, reeling her in from boiling waters, and after what was clearly a struggle, awareness suffused her features and she blinked (or was that winked?) slowly.

For having one entire side of her face covered by bandages and a complexion that was closer to 'patina' than 'pale', she still managed a scowl down at whatever fresh hell had seen fit to wake her. Wait..... was she awake? It was so hard to tell. More often than not, a dream only revealed itself to BE a dream when the eyes of her companions ran down their faces and dripped from their chins like melted wax, and sometimes....... sometimes, not even then. Reality was shifting putty.

Madison had to breathe through her mouth, even though the scent of blood and fresh asphalt-tar hit the back of her throat on every inhalation. With the swelling and damage to her left side, there was no way to get air inside her sinuses. A glance around through a myopic, bloodshot eye told her this wasn't where she'd been before. No growths of stringy sinew stretching from floor to ceiling, no weeping sores that occasionally held eyes, no writhing infants in fluid-filled sacs.

A dream. It had been a dream.

Or, maybe THIS was the dream..... but if it was a dream, it wasn't half bad.

The scrunch between her brows eased, and she searched her memory for who...... who'd called for her.

"Yeah. That's me." The wet gravel of her voice made Madison clear her throat, which sent a throb into everything and reawakened that deep, nameless ache. The pain was a monster and it raked itself across her face before settling on her chest and in her skull. She let out a muffled pain-noise, simply by virtue of being too tired to stop it.

Wait! She knew this one! This was..... that guy! The kid guy! The..... the one with her..... the one with her name.

"C-connor?"

Was he real? Was he a ghost? The woman slept on half-melted asphalt, and it seemed every time she tried to get mental purchase, the fragile crust atop crunched beneath her feet and fell away to molten tar. Without anything in the way of forethought, simply letting whim dictate her actions, Madison’s uninjured wrist slid along the rail, her cuffed hand reaching to touch something, anything, to try and convince herself that he was real. That she was awake.

Seeing her stir was almost liberating– his heart swelling with something like relief, yet there was also a pity deep inside of him. Her, of all people, did NOT deserve that hand that she had been dealt; it would’ve almost been a mercy for her to die instead of being left in this world in such a state. Although, in this world there is no room for fairness– bad things just happen. Connor scooted along the edge of the bed and ran his hand atop the same handrail. The metal biting and grabbing his fingers as if it was electric– a signal burning through it that begged him to stay away. It seemed almost believable that his presence was the one thing keeping her anchored to this island of reality, and that without him being there Madison would just drift back into whatever sea of consciousness she had been lost to before he had arrived.

She blinked– or at least tried to, as she shifted in her place. Whatever darkness had been poisoning her mind had receded and left behind a mess of thought she was visibly struggling to grapple with; patches of red infected the white of her eyes, popped blood vessels from the force of whatever happened to her head, and it spun in place as though she was stricken with a constant vertigo. It pained her to wrack her brain for the answer to such a simple question, and Connor’s stomach dropped.

Yeah. That’s me.

Pain stitched itself across a sincere smile as she slid the cuff along the handrail until Connor’s fingers caught hers. The Man let out a soft snort. He had been holding his breath for god knows how long, and he suddenly breathed in a few heavy drags of air as he simultaneously spat it back out in a bout of nervous laughter, “That’s right. Hey, you! How are you doing?

Connor sank his yank and wrapped it around hers in a firm yet gentle cupping. The Man sank himself a bit lower beside the bed so that she wouldn’t have to raise her head much to look at him, “I heard there was an Angel down here.



Madison's fingertip ran over the skin on the man's hand, the rivers and hollows of his scars, the oddly smooth, pore-less feeling of them. This was a hand that had plunged into perdition and survived the experience and the tactile sensation linked in her mind with a memory that bubbled up to the surface of her inner tar, a memory of hands that had escaped perdition but a gaze that hadn't. A terrible mistake from a stupid, young guy..... and an attempt to balance those scales with the life of another. Ironically, she and Connor weren't that far removed in age, but the woman remembered that he counted as someone with one foot in the 'protect' column and one foot in the 'peer' column. He was a......fighter? A warrior of some kind, she was pretty sure.

At the mention of an angel, her gaze lifted and she swallowed heavily.

"N-no. No angels. Angels....... aren't on th’ right side. No….. no choice. They don’….. Know what it means."

As though trying to decipher something particularly difficult, Madison did her best to focus on a handsome face once wracked with pains so personal and caustic he'd nearly dissolved down to his bones. Yes.... this was that guy. The girl was self-aware enough to recognize that her incisive powers of deduction were about as blunted as they could get, but she was sure.

"I think...... I think a ghost toll’ me...... I was in prison."

In a world of walking dead and an army of pale horses, an iron fortress whose veins were filled with the bile of inequity and the tears of the innocent..... was not her first choice. Lincoln. That was it. A frankly perfect place to house a girl who'd also gotten pegged in the back of the skull.

Some part of the girl's less sane mind wondered what the prison thought of all this. It had been constructed to keep bad people in and protect the people out. It had unjustly caged too many and been home for a steady stream of broken souls who'd needed a helping hand rather than a pair of cuffs....... and now, it was Versailles to a would-be warlord and those whose backs he was stepping upon.

And to make matters worse, if her half-remembered instincts were right, this King was about as smart as Versailles' former, final owners.

Could a building feel pain? Would it silently weep moldy-dark tears at the cruelties within its walls? If a building had a soul, would this one feel damned?

"Lincoln.

She paused and asked a question that she wasn’t sure had a rightful answer: “Am… am I dead, Connor?"


Connor was enraptured by her will as he visibly saw her consider each word that left her mouth– her face scrunching as she seemed to struggle to drum things up. He hung on every word– his fingers clutching hers tighter, as he waited patiently with a smile. Her fingers crossed the barren, scarred space of his hands, but all that he could feel was the impression of pressure from her– the fire having stolen his ability to ever appreciate what she was doing.

However, as she continued, it was clear that whatever she knew was hidden in the twisted briars of her thoughts. Madison was cryptic. She seemed so certain, but for whatever reason couldn’t drum up the exact thing she was trying to say.

Then, talk of ghosts, “Yeah, you’re here at Lincoln. I’m sorry. Hey, they’re taking pretty decent care of you all things considered.
Lincoln wasn’t just a prison; it was a labor camp, a tomb, a fortress for a King who would reap the soul from any one of his subjects at a moment's notice– suck the marrow from their bones just to say he owned everything they were, and, hopefully, an elaborate coffin. Connor cringed a bit that she knew she was trapped in such a place, and even drew it home hard enough to call it by name. The room fell silent when ‘Lincoln’ passed through her lips as though she uttered a curse, “No, Madison, you’re still alive. You’re still kicking– too tough for whatever it was that tried to get you. I kind of already knew, but– you’re a bad bitch.


If Madison was in a better state, she might have said something short and quippy, but such as it was, she only managed a weak look towards the man with her name. Hopefully, he’d have better luck with it than she had. She was still alive, she was a bad bitch, and she was in Lincoln. It could have been worse. Could have been better, too, but the difference between good and better was often far less stark than the difference between bad and worse. One of life’s little mysteries.

Damn.” Assuming Connor was telling the truth and she was alive, what did that mean? What was she supposed to do with that? Why in the world was she still alive? This didn’t make a lick of sense. How had she come to be here? Why were they helping her? Was this some sort of scheme? Stitch her up and use her life as leverage? Why spend supplies and man-hours on an outsider, and not an especially friendly one at that? What sort of King would mend someone who wanted him dead?

Madison needed to heal, but not as an end point; she needed to heal so she could fight. The world was crawling with monsters, and there’d be no rest until there was no walking dead left to kill, no tyrants left to overthrow….. And she was in the house of one of them. The fuck were they thinking?

Why…. Why am I…..

Actually, that sounded like a pretty good place to stop. Why was always a good question.

And what the devil was wrong with her face?

Why couldn’t she see out one side?

Angels……. It didn’t make sense on that end, either, but angels had struck her down. Madison didn’t have the brain power to peer at that any closer, so she simply accepted it. For now, anyhow. Angels weren’t friends. The dead walked. She wasn’t among their number. Fine. No god, no angels, only man.


Acceptance was a hell of a remedy to anxiety and for a moment it seemed he had managed to stop one of the thoughts crashing around in her head. Madison’s face seemed to ease as she grappled with a new understanding of her circumstances, but it quickly twisted into doubt as she thrashed about with the new questions the answers had unveiled for her. ‘Damn’ was truly an understatement that brought a stifled snort out of Connor, “Yeah. I wish I could say more, but I just found out you were in here earlier today.

Then, another hard hitting question to be interpreted in any number of ways: why am I…

Hurt? Angels, presumably.

Here? He didn’t know for sure.

Alive? Connor… didn’t know.

The Man cringed a bit as she seemed to become aware of a lack of eyesight from one side of her head; whatever wound she had suffered was no laughing matter. It was clearly meant to kill and didn’t seem like the type of thing that would be an accident. Connor gnawed at his inner cheek with his molars as he examined her trying to imagine what could’ve possibly happened; after all, Madison wasn’t really the kind of person to be taken in a fight with just one clean shot. However, he had seen people die quicker and with less of a need to thrust themselves upon any problem that they saw. She was part of that group, right? The Fallen Angels. They didn’t seem like the type to leave someone behind, but did they think she was dead? Her injuries certainly made that look possible.

The train of thought derailed as he found himself making more and more assumptions about a group he knew little about, but the whole thing left a foul, copper-like taste as he ran his tongue along his teeth, “I don’t know.

It was honest, clear, “I don’t know.

Connor took a moment to glance around the infirmary in order to make sure it was free of any would-be informants before he leaned close to Madison– his lips mere centimeters from her ear as he whispered, “I don’t know, but you’re still alive– which means you have allies in here somewhere up top. You’re getting good care. Regardless of that, you have me in here; I might not be much, but put a gun in my hand and I’m a force to be reckoned with in a fight.

At the risk of coming off uncomfortably familiar, The Man drew a deep breath before spilling more of himself, “It may not have seemed like much at the time, but you saved me when I was at my lowest point in a very long time. I’ll never forget that, and I'll never stop owing you. I’ve got your six no matter what comes; even if it means us two in some kind of hopeless gunfight or going down under a hundred gnashing mouths or being executed in The Pit. I’ve got you.

Connor withdrew from her and removed his hand from her grasp before giving her a bit of a smile, “I was a soldier, then, and if everything had gone well I’d have been a cop. Hell, I guess– logically, that means I’ve always wanted to die in a shootout.

The sarcasm brought a bit of a chuckle to his lips despite the serious, treasonous talk they’d just had, but there he had stood for too long, the good man doing nothing.




If anything they’d said to one another was hot-potato dangerous, somehow, Madison didn’t know it. He drew darkly near to her face and whispered into the shell of her ear, words she needed and words that brought her back to herself a little more, pulling her down, a string tugging on a kite that had flown too far. She could smell him. It was the first scent beyond antiseptic and tar and blood in….. God knew how long. She shut her eye to listen more closely.

Connor’s answers were hard to follow, but the woman did her best. There were only a few Samaritans she knew, and then some of those only passingly; West…… West was one of them, she was almost sure. If Connor were responsible for her being here, he’d have said so. No, Weston. That was it. Not West. Weston. There was the one whose name sounded like a rodent who was…… entwined with angels of wrath and betrayal….. Somehow….. and Madison knew he wasn’t a friend.

Were there any others? No. She didn’t think so. Victims, yes. Oppressed, yes….. But nobody else on the side of the conquerors rather than the conquered. Probably a good thing, all things considered. There was….. There was a child. Two children. Or maybe one child, both younger and older at the same time, letting time flit between them like a butterfly lighting on one flower after another, taking her from a little shortie to a willowy thing…….

Weston, then. If someone in the Samaritans had brought her here and it wasn’t Connor, then it had to be Weston.

Why would he do that?

At the moment, Weston was little more than a name around the edges of her mind, and then he was gone, a bar of soap slipping through her fingers in a hot bath.

Connor, too, was gone, lifting his face from beside hers to somewhere over there, somewhere harder to focus on but still present. The cool against her cheek stole the warmth his body heat left behind, leaving only a glowing, sweet reassurance behind.

He had her six.

Don……Don’ die unless …… y’granch your enemies…… th’ same courtesy. S’polite.

Her smile was small and closed-lipped and a little sad. “I’m glad…. You’re here.

Concentration flickered in her gaze as something passed within her mental view; “You… you had someone. You had…… there was a kid. He alright?


It was a rare moment of warmth and reassurance with one of the few people with whom he could TRULY experience such a moment. Connor could tell himself– in this exchange of emotions and thoughts, that everything could be alright if they just did what they had to do; that resolve now swallowed the dead branches of heroism in his heart and ignited the burn of defiance once more– this time to burn until they very last drop of his blood had flowed free from his veins. There was no longer time to wait for a better moment– they would have to make that moment for themselves, those who would resist the King.

Madison drew breath and spoke her sage wisdom once more, “Yeah, it IS the polite thing to do. I suppose– when you put it like that, it’s not a gunfight but an exchange of fire. I’ll make sure to bring my Sunday best.

The Man ribbed her a bit to appreciate and do his best return her sense of humor, the darkness of it being something he knew too well from his past. Then, a show of sincerity from his wounded friend, “Of course. I’m happy to be here when you need me. I have a friend I talk to every now and again in here– I know how lonely it can get.

A gentle smile rested on his lips as a sense of comfort spread across the room, and as he opened his mouth to excuse himself she asked the question of questions. Thinking of Tanner stole the light from his eyes and the joy receded under his skin and back to wherever it had crawled out from. Connor ran his tongue along his cheek searching for some kind of moisture to wet his tongue with, but the desert of his mouth had no comfort to offer him. The Man parted his eye from her one and looked to the floor as if to flee from the shame of his temporary failure; then, he nodded his head as though coming to terms with the reality of it.

Uh,” He squeaked out as the tension on his face kept a tight grip on his vocals, “the Kid thinks I’ve gone soft or something like that. He’s moved out, kisses
Cabrera’s ass all day, and doesn’t want anything to do with me.

Connor’s fingers curled into fists and his nails threatened to carve trails through his palms as he gripped, “I’m not gonna leave him to be swallowed up by the FUCKING Samaritans! I won’t. I won’t leave him to them. Even if the kid doesn’t look at me anymore– I’ll make him see. I might have failed to do more than just keep him alive in the past, but I’ll show him what it means to a man, a good man.”

His breath shook with passion and conviction as though he let steam out through his throat before it built and burst in the engine of his heart, “If… I still am a good man, but even then– I’ll do my best so that he can be BETTER than me.

Connor gave a bit of a snort as he loosed his fists into open palms that he soothed himself atop his knees with a gentle rub, “Other than that, he’s fine, though. Alive. Strong. Healthy.



The woman gave a decidedly unladylike snort that turned into a harsh, wet cough that made pain spark bright behind her eyes. No laughing. Duly noted. This felt like a revelation she’d had before, somehow, but whatever. Fresh note: no yuk-yuks. “Sounds….. Like a teenager.

The cuffs on her wrist rattled as she attempted her best approximation of a shrug while prone and chained. “I was a dumbass at…… at that age…… Who idn’t?

A name and face floated back to her as though from a dream; “Knew…… knew a cop. Said his teenager could’ve fallen into a…. a barrel of tits an’ still come out…. Suckin’ his thumb."

Cabrera! Connor's words brought that name back to mind. That was it! That was the guy who thought of his own men as murderers, rapists, violent psychotics…… animals, he’d called them. The guy who decided the right place to be in that situation was as their leader. Madison wasn’t convinced, but Instead of doing anything about it one way or another, he’d lead the charge. Invade people for their own good. Put civilians within grasp of his Raider-King, on purpose. Fresh slaves for the grinder.

Cabrera had known of the treachery of seraphim.

Much like Weston, he’d backed the wrong poney. Unlike Weston, he seemed committed to the crown.

A Raider King…… what fools. Sooner or later, this place would wither on the vine.

Most of those thoughts didn’t make it past the subconscious, rapping against her skull and whispering to her in her dreams……. But Madison knew Cabrera was a man who was a danger to good, honest folk, mostly because he enthusiastically led people he thought of as scum. Didn’t say great things about his own character.

Connor and Weston were on the same side. She wondered whether or not they knew it. She hoped so. No human being was ever so flush with companionship he couldn’t use another friend.

With a start, Madison realized Connor now counted. Having to put an ‘s’ on the word friend felt strange but…… good. Being alone for so long had forced the woman to cope more directly with solitude and come out the other side….. if not wholly sane, at least able to manage the crushing loneliness her job demanded.

The woman fell quiet a moment, forcing her gaze to linger on Connor’s face, and she realized he looked….. Good. Better than he had upon first meeting, anyway. He was handsome and hale, clean-shaven and with a dedication in his eyes Madison clocked as a commitment to becoming better than he’d been. In the end, who could ask someone for more than that?

God, she felt old.

You jus…. Keep lovin’ im an’ doin’ right. Idiots…. don’ know th’difference….. between doin’ right….. an’ bein’ weak. An…. teenage boys’r….. idiots…… No……’ffence.” That last seemed to be tacked on as an afterthought; she’d just expended considerable personal effort letting Connor know it would be alright, all teenagers were morons on some level, his wasn’t special. Most grew out of being idiots, though it took longer for some than for others.

Being a good man, a good
human fuckin’ being, wasn’t flashy or a guarantee of wealth or notoriety. In these dark days, it was almost assured to bring the opposite, but putting a price on integrity was part of what set the world on fire. Violence did not belong exclusively to the cruel to be used as a cudgel; it could be a tool of the forthright, in helping to protect those who would be victims and in enacting justice towards those who would make victims of everyone.

Moral courage was a rare and precious thing.

Madison was glad Connor’s had remained in place. He seemed to be giving it a spit-shine, even as they spoke. Good. Keep it shiny and strong. Sleep was clearly grasping for Madison’s mind, but she tried to stay with it, stay focused. This was the closest she’d been to coherent in days, and though very little of the news was of a positive kind, it at least existed beyond the bounds of delirium. How much of what she’d dreamed was real? How much of it was her mind trying to make sense of things?



Madison’s snort brought him some ease as he felt a pull at his lips to join her and he might’ve if not for the swirl of anxiety buried in his guts. Could he be the man he wanted to be? Connor didn’t know, but even before the end of days not much was certain; all he could do now was walk his talk and be committed to his ideals to the furthest extent that was possible. Her wisdom poured out moments later, and removed from the apocalypse it did seem like typical teenage drama. Yet, doubt dug its claws into his lips and kept them closed as he drew breath to mutter an agreement– his heart heavy with the words of warning he had heard at the school. Teenagers had issues giving into angst and heat of the moment decisions, but was… murder on that list? If, of course, the rumors were true. It couldn’t be, but if it was…

Connor’s eye retreated to the edge of his sockets as his blue gaze cut to an unoccupied corner of the room, “I… I don’t know if it is that simple or not, but I’m going to do everything I can regardless. Thanks, Madison. I appreciate you, again.

Connor smirked a bit at her cop friend’s analogy toward his own kid, “Ha–! That’s a good way of putting it, but he must’ve been somewhat accurate if you still remember that. Sounds like a funny guy.

The Man fell silent as if he was being given a scolding while Madison continued to give her support prompting him to simply nod along as he couldn’t find himself particularly disagreeing with where she was coming from, yet as she finished there was a silence that once again blanketed the room. Two people sat in silence in an infirmary in some godforsaken prison turned fortress; the duo each taking renewed stock of the person before them.

Madison was a force to be reckoned with and strong of body, will, morals. For her to have suffered so much and still push on with her mind on others, she needed to be at least those three things. The Woman had proven herself in the short time he knew her at the prison as a capable fighter, a voice of reason and justice, and a damned good friend. All three of those things were valuable traits these days– two of them even more than the other, and Connor was glad to have met the sharer of his namesake, perhaps even more deserving of it than he; the fact that she ceded it so easily being even more convincing to The Man. Madison, he thought, would be one of the key players in what was to come in Lincoln, one of the beacons of something more than slavery, whenever she mended, and he needed to start readying himself to participate in that moment.

Connor focused back in as his weary compatriot seemed to lose focus for a moment after the silence. She needed her rest and they had already had quite the conversation that required mental and emotional energy, “Hey, Madison, I think you should get some more rest. I’ll come to visit again if you would like that, and we can talk more about this when you get better, okay? For now, I’m gonna head back if you don’t need anything first.



Madison listened to the man speak and her blinks became longer in their application, gradually going from full tilt to half mast. The cop whose name she couldn’t recall anymore did have a way with words, good o’ll whatshisname. Probably dead now.

In the detective’s world, there were very few things about which she was morally conflicted. There was the moral thing to do, the ethical thing to do, the wise thing to do, and the right thing to do….. among an ocean of wrongs. Mostly, one just needed to dig long enough and hard enough that the delineations made themselves clear, and she was able to suss out the right thing by combining options that were moral, ethical, or wise. All of which was to say, Madison was one judgey cop, and though she tried to give more than her fair share of second chances, where there were hard lines in her soul, there was no crossing them.

At Connor’s suggestion, the girl blinked long and then glanced down at her blanket (thick sheet?) and back up to the man’s face. “Sounds…. Stupid…. but would you mind?

A finger from her free hand pointed gamely downwards. “Can’t reach.

In all likelihood, whatever tucking in Connor might do would probably be undone the next time Madison wrestled with her personal demons, but for a little while at least, she wouldn’t have to play the put-the-foot-back-under-the-sheet-fuck-you-stupid-sheet-stupid-foot game. That was a game with few winners and Madison seemed to come up snake eyes, every time.

Thanks, Connor. For…. bein’ here.

This time, the blinks came slower still, until they refused to cooperate entirely, though by then, Madison was alone.



Connor gave a simple nod as he stepped forward and pulled the sheets up to rest along her shoulder before tucking it to stay in place– for good measure, “It’s not stupid. Comfort is king. Sweet dreams, Connor.

Then, he passed back into passageways of chains and lies.




 
Last edited:

Screenshot_20240118_214405_com.android.chrome.png
1713540333366.png

A BURNED SANCTUARY
A collab with Aegis Aegis and Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad
We're not gonna hurt you... was possibly the least believable thing Sylvia had heard all day. A large group of men, armed to the teeth, having just burned their village to the ground, promising not to hurt them. She couldn't be blamed for thinking that was bullshit.

As he approached, Sylvia put herself at the front of the pack, ushering the teen behind her back. She looked the man up and down as he gave his commands. Don't fuck with them too much. But a little bit of fuckery was okay, right? And, of course, this wasn't for their benefit. The fuckery was limited to avoid, maybe, hurting their new friends. No, it was to avoid an ambush, to save their own skins. Unbeknownst to the fact this man was probably the nicest of the gang of assholes before her, in her mind, Connor was currently King Asshole.

She took a step forward as he asked to speak to their leader, like some sort of cliche alien movie.
"Me," She responded simply, keeping her hands in view but... not up.
"I suppose you're who I should be thanking for this." She murmured, tossing her head towards the rising smoke.


Sylvia's approach and shelter of the teen at the front didn't go unnoticed, and his eyes settled firmly on her for a moment as she seemed to ponder what to do. The cave was thick with tension as uneasy eyes darted to and fro searching for any escape from the predators that had encircled them; there was none to be had. Connor tightened his grip around his rifle as though squeezing it would offer him some kind of release-- the guilt in his heart welling up, but all it did was add to the discomfort of his presence as his jaw similarly tightened.

Finally, a girl approached the front of the pack and offered herself as a leader, "No, I wouldn't have.... anyway, my boss orchestrated the plan. I'm just here to get you out. Please, don't make us do anything to make this worse than it already is. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Connor curled his lips inward for a second. His apology was more appropriate for not being able to hold someone's seat for them not burning down their home, but he couldn't appear too weak in front of the men-- not now. He could be merciful, but not weak.

"I'm Connor and we're the Samaritans."
Sylvia felt the urge to roll her eyes at the man. No, I wouldn't have... And yet, here he was, stumbling over his words. She didn't have the patience for his empty apologies and even emptier threats.
"Oh, my apologies, I was unaware we were making you do anything," She responded, arms crossed.

She raised an eyebrow at his introduction. She wondered if he saw the irony in what he'd just said. I'm Sylvia, and I was the first woman to walk on the moon. She took a deep breath. No matter how much she wanted to tell him he was a stupid man and his band of merry men had a stupid name, she'd rather not get her people shot for it.

"I'm Doctor Harris to you," She responded. Her patients got no, please, call me Sylvia! but these men were no patients of her hers.


The two Samaritans blended easily with the crowd, even though the older female and the elderly man knew they were anything but like them. Once Connor's team arrived it was clear for everybody else too, where their loyalties lay. Exposing some attitude, they acted bolder. Rough. One of them walked over to Sylvia and grabbed her by the arm, yanking on it like he was tugging on a leash of a dog he wanted to control.

"Where's boss?" Him and Connor didn't know each other well but they were both on the convoy that came to Northview's rescue a few weeks back. They saw each other under pressure.

"We got the woman and the supplies like he wanted." Another one stood beside a bunch of duffle bags like a guard dog. It seems medical supplies were inside but he didn't let them be touched by the wounded surrounding them.


Her rage at the situation was more than understandable, but his soft front was making for an unwelcome power shift in the dynamic that prompted one of Cabrera's other henchmen to snag hold of her and try to take over. They didn't want a dialogue; truth be told, when Doctor Harris had snapped at him just now and assigned her name to him-- he had realized the error of his approach. Regardless of his true feelings, these people were just gonna end up more hurt if they thought they could mouth off to the people they were about to meet.

The Man's face darkened for a moment as he cast a glance down to the snow and the back up to meet the gaze of the woman-- eyes hardened to an emotionless stone, "Fine, Doctor Harris, I see civilities are past us now. For your sake and the sake of anyone you love, don't keep that same attitude with the next person you meet. You'll be lucky if you even make it long enough to work in the whorehouse."

Connor's sharp glance sliced across her to look at the man who held her, a man more than capable of holding his own and exercising his cruelty and wishes on another, "Cabrera is heading down the other side of the valley. We have to a plan to link up on the other side of the village-- fire permitting, so that's what we're going with for now."

He smashed his way past the Doctor with a none-too-subtle shoulder check and approached the other man near the bags, "HEY, let me get three good Samaritans to carry these bags! We're taking these people and moving to link in with Cabrera! LET'S FUCKING GO!"

Every word he had just spoken ran like bile across his tongue, the way he threw his arm as he commanded felt wrong even if it commanded the proper gravitas of a Samaritan leader, and the fear and distress he was inflicting on these people hurt him deeply. However, it was much more of a disservice to them to allow them to believe they were EVER going to have anything the way they wanted ever again-- that time was past them; it was a small mercy to prepare them now before they met someone who beat them... or worse, for the same line the good Doctor had just given him.

Connor pushed from the back of the cave, through the crowd, and back toward the front-- puffing his chest out just enough to provide a larger, more towering body language; no longer did he show any of the concern he had previously. It should be easy enough for these strangers to believe, that the Bad Man was lying to make them cooperative.


Sylvia watched his gaze falter, his eye contact break as he re-evaluated his approach. In her mind, that was "Sylvia - 1, toy soldier man - 0," even if it had prompted a rough hand to take her by the arm.
"Oh, those were civilities, were they?" She asked, an eyebrow raised. Personally, I thought we were past civilities when you burned down our home, but that's just me.

Unfortunately, she had to give him credit for something. Bad-mouthing their leader would get her nothing but a bullet in the skull... but, she was a doctor. She had to be worth something to them. Mr dollar store SWAT team costume would get himself a bullet in the brain for shooting her, or at least toilet cleaning duty for a little while.

She kept her back straight as he slammed his shoulder into her, her gaze simply ignoring his presence as he passed her and her group. She rolled her shoulders back, turning to face her comrades as much as she could with such a tight grip on her forearm. She offered a smile to the young girl previously by her side, now a few metres away to avoid the brutality of their visitors.
"I think he fixed my back."

 
Last edited:

Tanner (14).png
View attachment Cabby.png
Kurt.png

A BURNED SANCTUARY
(A Collab with Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad Crono Crono )​

The offensive stench of charred wood and smoldering fabric hung heavy in the frigid air. Ignacio led his group from the other flank and the closer to the camp they got the louder the snapping of the flames became. The orange tongues raged in between the trees, leaping at the snow-weighted branches, shooting skywards.

“Stay sharp.” The man commanded. As if in response, a noise echoed through the chaotic scene - the panicked neighing of a horse.

The saddled steed was just a few yards deep into the camp. Feverishly circling in place, seeking a way out of the inferno. The acrid smell of burnt flesh hit them before they spotted the rider. They lay nearby, crawling along the scorched ground. Their body was half-consumed by the flames, clothing smoldering with fading embers. The legs were just black stumps, gone.

Tanner took a moment to breath in the truth of their reality-- smoke assaulting his nose and threatening to rip coughs from his chest, as he overlooked the burning settlement. However, he could feel someone staring into him, so he turned to make contact with Connor whom he brushed off with a simple glare before turning back to Cabrera. Connor would come to understand what Tanner was doing for them; The Samaritans were the strongest there was when it came to the wasteland of life they found themselves living in every day, and as long as they stayed here, got along, advanced-- they would be okay.

They would be safer here than anywhere outside. Soon, Connor would understand.

The Boy carried on down the hill and watched the back of Connor as he disappeared over the hill before turning back to look at Cabrera. The Old Man was a little grumpier lately, so it was harder to gain his favor than he would've liked. However, it did inspire a certain belief in his competence and self-assured decision-making.

The group sank lower beneath the majority of the smoke as now heat was their main opponent-- scorching wind carried the screams of a horse as flame licked at it's singed fur. Tanner threw his muzzle up with his barrel seeking the horse's heart as the thought of its screaming attracting the Zoms came to his mind, but lowered his weapon when the realization a shot would be worse hit him.

The barrel fell to a Zom whose burnt, torn frame was clawing toward them on the ground. It gained some ground on Tanner who simply stood there looking as unbothered as ever right up until the creature extended its bent fingers to snatch at his legs, but The Boy retorted with a swift kick that knocked away its hand and saw the legless creature plant into the ground. He snuck his barrel up into its armpit and flipped it onto its back before stomping his foot upon its chest and pinning it in place with the weight of his body atop his leg. However, the assault was met with a grunt and yelp from the rider beneath him.

For a moment, Tanner looked into their eyes— searching for any shred of usefulness in them or empathy within himself. It was undeniable that this had been one of the people who had been living here before, and now it brought up the question of what they would do with this legless, crippled man. However, Tanner ran his tongue along teeth and really tried to understand-- feel within himself, what he thought he should feel: empathy, sympathy, remorse.

Nope. Nothing.

Harder. Try harder.

The man bucked up to try and drag breath into his lungs and Tanner retaliated with another swift stomp that pushed a cough from the man’s lungs as he looked deep within the survivor and-- consequently, himself. Yet, there was only one thing becoming even more clear to him, this was how it had to be if the Samaritans wanted to be the strongest. They couldn't let these nobodies get any ideas-- grow. No, they had to be dealt with and drawn into their ranks; the idea truly was a work of genius as long as you could control them. If they sere the strongest, they could protect him-- protect Connor.

Now, onto the topic at hand: was this man worth the resources? No.

Okay.

Satisfied with his stance on the topic, Tanner grabbed hold of the stock and barrel of his rifle with opposite hands and smashed the wooden butt of the gun into the man’s forehead again and again with steady precision and strength-- each blow leaving an indent in the skin. Tanner felt a pop as the skull cracked like an egg before the man howled— eyes bulging, “PLEASE!”

Crack of a gunshot speared the frigid air. The suffering human froze with his skull caved and his mouth hanging open. One eye gone from the new puncture that oozed black blood. Pool of carmine ate away the virgin snow around the dead man's head. There was some sick beauty to the pattern it made.

Cabrera holstered his pistol to the rig on his thigh and lifted his gaze to meet Tanner's eyes.

"Come here." His voice hard. Deprived of frustrations he was baring before the boy in the past.

The sudden crack sent a jolt of surprise over Tanner's body as he hesitated mid-smack with his rifle-- hands still over his had, before turning to look in the direction of the man who had fired it. The Boy's face was puzzled as he stood to his feet, but he couldn't keep his eyes from the body, blood tracing ravine patterns through a frosty white, the way the man's jaw tightened and slacked in a twitch response to the trauma. Tanner started over toward Cabrera before stopping in front of him, "What's up?"

“There’s a difference between mercy and sadism. Strong man knows when to show mercy, knows when to punish. You want respect? Be that man. Act like one.” Cabrera glanced at the charred body of the tormented male.

“Or you can act like a bully.” He turned away and spat aside, the acrid taste of smoke in his mouth. “And I’ll treat you like one.”

He treaded through the thick snow that caked the bottom of his pant legs. "Stop staring and help me get to that horse." He commanded, grabbing a fallen log, about to drag it over to the barrier of fire.

The sight of what the kid had done was unpleasant. It was a vivid reminder of what he'd signed onto, and the potential outcomes. Kurt had nearly laughed at Cabrera when the man asked him to join these teams that head out to other communities, he'd assumed the Samaritan was making a joke. He wasn't in fact. And Kurt might have told him flat no, but he thought about Miyu and how the incident had gone down involving her death. So he'd agreed, if no other reason than to try and keep that shit from happening again.

The gun in his hand still felt foreign, even as he trudged through the snow after Cabrera. Even though it had been a few weeks since he'd been a part of these teams and carried it, before that it had been back at the Hospital since he'd held a gun, months ago.

Kurt turned the gun so that it dangled against his back via the shoulder strap, reaching down to grab at the other side of the fallen log Cabrera was hoisting. "The kids a loose cannon, why bring him on these?" He'd said low to try and keep it between them, looking from Cabrera back over to Tanner for a brief moment before they heaved it onto the flames. The fire cracked and sizzled at the wet and snowy log landing within it. Kurt reeled back a moment, one hand up defensively from the heat.

Turning around he trudged over to another thick but broken part of a fallen tree and started dragging it over and toss it in next to the other one. "Won't be long too long before they're burning." He noted. The loud sounds of the desperate horse still filling the air as he glanced up, watching it continue to do laps around what little space it had left of safety from the flames.

Cabrera's words *seemed* sound enough to Tanner as he chastised him, and as their Leader carried on with his speech The Boy nodded with enthusiasm, "I get what you're saying. I guess, I just wanted to save ammo and not alert anyone around here, but we're not alone anymore-- we can just shoot. I'll be careful in the future."

Although, it seemed to Tanner that Cabrera was only on top on account of having previously been the biggest bully-- as far The Boy could imagine, but he also noticed that bringing those things up to adults only ended poorly for him so he bit his tongue. The lesson stewed in his mind as he turned to the other of the more prominent faces in the group, Kurt, and watched as they hoisted the log together. When the embers flared and steam rose from the heat of the log, he could've sworn that the man had looked back at him for a moment-- some lost moment shared between the two, but if Tanner spent all day digging into people who looked at him weird then he'd be clear through to the other side of the Earth by now.

For a brief moment, Tanner considered leaping over the forming hold in the flames to grab the horse, but being all of fourteen years old and still growing didn't put him up there in terms of the likelihood of success when it came to wrangling a frantic horse with no experience. His eyes glanced around before he opened his bag and set a few of his necessities on a nearby rock; Tanner falling to a knee and shoveling armfuls of snow inside before turning to the logs and dumping it on them. The lick of flame receding slightly and the melt of the powder keeping the logs wet. Satisfied, Tanner continued the process as they cut through the wall of fire.

Cabrera was non-receptive to the boy’s enthusiasm, dismissing him with a bark. “Then use a knife next time.”

He locked eyes with Kurt when they shared a moment, carrying and tossing the log into the fire. “He should learn from the best.” He didn't specify if he meant the raiders he was leading or himself.

Cabrera glanced at his men and scoffed. “You think you’re looking pretty standing there? Move your asses and use the good example.” He gestured at the kid dumping snow into flames that shot up from the sides of the log.

“I know.” He told the biker. Kurt helped Cabrera toss more wood a foot away from the other log. Once they were done the flames in between died out, extinguished with the added piles of icy powder. But as the man said, it wouldn't last.

“Keep throwing the snow in.” The leader commanded, dropping his gear aside. Using the newly made path he took a few quick leaps to the other side of the circling inferno. Now came the fun part. The horse was terrified. It neighed and skidded left and right, trying to find a way out. But it missed the small gap they made. Fuck it was dangerous. Exhilarating. In that single moment Cabrera could forget about his job, responsibilities, heartache. In that moment it was just him and the four legged beast he had to soothe.

Ignacio’s heart pumped hard and adrenaline burned through him as he approached the halted steed with a slow but confident stride. Cooing and reaching his hand to the horses’s flaring nostrils. It didn't work the first time. The animal bolted aside. The snow was melting and the logs were slowly getting darker from the fire. What would happen if the plan failed? If Cabrera was left trapped there. What would the King do if the party came back without his favorite underdog…



 

image.png
Red_and_Gold_Classy_and_Elegant_Business_Christmas_Banner_84.png
cab.png


FLASHBACK
w/ Miaow Miaow Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad


It was lunchtime. Minnie had spent the morning preparing food, mixing huge vats of stew with a big wooden spoon with one arm. It was the same stew they served every week, with limited vegetables from the gardens and chunks of non-descript meat. She was pretty sure it was a mixture of a bunch of different types: Deer, rabbit, various birds... She thought she'd seen a couple of crows in there...

As the doors to the chow hall opened, Minnie was ushered up front, an untied apron hanging from her neck. She couldn't get her arm back there to tie it up, letting the ribbons dangle by her knees. She grabbed a ladle, her injured arm wrapped firmly in a sling and tucked behind her apron. An hour or so of this, then she could go back to hiding in the back, stirring stew...

Nari would never get used to being *with* Cabrera in public. There was no way around it, she doubted that she could ever be used to it. The man was barbaric, from head to toe, and even when there were times that she thought she spied just a tiny shred of humanity, it was swallowed by darkness. She was convinced, after spending as much time with him in private, that he couldn’t have ever been anything more than the terrible person he was today, right now.

As always, when they left his room together in public he was possessive. He always had a hand on her, either on her upper arms as he guided her through crowds, or on her back as he spoke to his men, often lecherously (and falsely) about her. But today he was in a particular mood, she could tell. As they walked he kept his hand firmly on the nape of her neck, thick finger pressing - not painfully, but pointedly. She was going to go where he wanted. She was going to see what he wanted her to see.

Nari did her best to look comfortable and calm, like this was no different than any other day and his behaviour was entirely acceptable. She smiled politely to those who bothered to greet her and ignored the ones who glared to dared to whisper obscenities under their breath at her. In the short time that Cabrera had been back, she’d learned that being *his girl* was a position plenty of women within the prison had coveted and none seemed to understand why it had been her.

Cabrera didn't have to wait in line. In the past it would be simply his position that granted it. He didn't use it, though. He was still one of the men and acted like one, waiting his turn. But nowadays it wasn't just a privilege, it was a duty. He had to start learning from his goddamn mistakes. Show the wolves that he was one of their Alphas so they didn't try to bite his ankles once the day of a trial came again.

Some people in the crowd looked annoyed with the presence of *the new couple of Lincoln*. But most showed respect, often through not so respectful words and gestures, and moved away.

Ignacio guided Nari to step forth with him and his mouth gaped the moment they were face to face and realized who they would be serviced by. There was a whole array of emotions seeing that kid now.
Minnie prepared a scoop of stew, reaching forward to slop it into the bowl of her next customer, but her hand froze. Her eyes met with Cabrera's, liquid stew dripping from the bottom of her ladle and onto his tray. In her peripheral vision, she could see her mother, the blues and purples on her cheek making her stomach turn. Her eyes flicked over to her, meeting her gaze, then scanning her face. She'd seen her bruises the night before, Nari had explained what had happened, but the sight of it still made her sick.

"You pushed my mom," She murmured, her body unmoving. She simply looked him in the eye, letting his dinner drip. She didn't care that it was an accident, his motive didn't matter, he'd pushed her mom.

Nari hadn’t been paying attention. She’d been so focused on playing her part that she’d failed to realize who was working in the cafeteria. She held her breath as they stepped toward her daughter, the angry teen was having the worst time adjusting here and Nari honestly couldn’t blame her. No one wanted to adjust to this life, not even her.

She watched as Minnie looked at her then Cabrera and spoke, almost sighing in relief. She and Haewon had been coaching her on keeping her emotions in check, keeping her outbursts in line; this was a dangerous place. “We talked about this,” Nari spoke softly. “It was an accident, he didn’t mean to.”

The quiet conversations nearby hushed and a lot of people stared at the trio. Most of them didn't know who the girl was, some just now overheard the word *mom*. Which prompted curious looks and murmurs.

Cabrera swallowed and held Minnie's gaze. He waited for the girl to break eye contact first but Minnie was no longer just a scared, little creature, was she. Good. Now all she needed to learn was how to pick her battles.

“Yes, I did.” He finally responded. His voice stern, expression unwavering. "She's my woman and I know how to treat her." He looked at Nari, touching the side of her face, pushing a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. "And I know how to apologize to her." He smirked softly and leaned in. Tilting his head he kissed her cheek, hand placed on the nape of her neck, caressing her skin.

As her hands began to shake, Minnie let the ladle clatter onto Cabrera's food tray. She gripped onto the counter to steady herself, her gaze never breaking from her prey... or maybe he was the predator. She took a breath in. She had to control her emotions, keep her outbursts in line.

"She's not your woman," She told him, her voice shaking. She didn't raise her voice, she spoke clearly and sternly.

"She's not anyone's woman."

As he broke eye contact, for a moment Minnie thought she had won... but as he touched her mom, her stomach flipped.

*He-- He's showing off. He's just doing it to make you mad.* She convinced herself. Surely Nari couldn't *enjoy* this... a slimy, disgusting cockroach of a man *touching her* like that.

"You have to *prove* that to everyone. Xander never did. Everyone could just tell."

Nari froze as Cabrera addressed Minnie in a tone that made her skin crawl. It was soft and would be considered soothing if you didn’t know exactly just who was uttering the words. They were meant to sound pleasant and calm but all it did was make her heart race. She’d heard the voice plenty of times before. At the high school before he’d offered to take her instead of Xander. When she’d greeted him at the convoy, and several other times when she’d attempted to speak with him reasonably.

Now he was using that same soft voice as he addressed her daughter. Her body stiffened as he reached up to touch her face. She swallowed hard but forced herself to smile, starting above Minnie's head as he leaned in and kissed her cheek, leaving a hand on the back of her neck. She could feel her hands start to shake and she wasn’t certain if it was due to anger with him to terror of what might happen if he continued to provoke Minnie into reacting.

She swiftly tucked them into her pockets, lest they betray her. Nari had to say she was impressed with Minnie; with how answered Cabrera. When she’d first come here she would have flown off the handle and screamed at him, but now, at least now it seemed as though she was taking her and advice to heart. *Stay calm, please Min.*

Nari gasped hearing what Minnie finished with and shook her head. “Minnie.” She hushed, not scolding but a warning. “You don’t have to like him, or this.” She said. “We talked about it, remember? It’s how it’s going to be, you can’t talk to him like that.”

Cabrera held the girl’s gaze as she spoke and her mother reacted. Not a flick of amusement in his lips, just a glint of cold warning in his dark eyes. He motioned his head at another person behind the counter.

“Switch with her.” The faintest strain in his voice suggesting Minnie’s words got to him. Or maybe there was another reason for the masked tension? The person nearby huffed, the only audible complaint before they nudged Minnie away to continue her job so the line could finally move again.

Minnie paused as he gave his command... Though her adrenaline was pumping and her hands were shaking, she felt she had won. He didn't have some witty remark, he didn't make a move on her mother, he simply sent her away from him, he couldn't take another one of her comments. She felt a smile tugging on the corners of her lips, though it was subtle. She maintained eye contact with him, determined to be the last to break as she dropped the ladle of stew onto his tray. She turned her back, taking her spot at her new workstation.


 
vpLkohH.gif


THE PIT



The fight. The fucking fight!

Temma had spent the last few weeks listening and watching Derek obsess over this god-forsaken fight! It was his entire being, his entire focus and she could understand why.

Greg was a prize fighter, after all. In the few interactions she’d had with the man, he had a passion for beating the ever-loving shit out of his opponents. She’d watched the training, occasionally, when she was missing Derek’s attention. Selfish as she was.

This fight wasn’t like the others. This fight would be the high school leader meeting his maker and paying for killing Dutchess. It was far kinder than he deserved, so far as she was concerned. She knew Kings rules well enough, everyone should be allowed to have a second chance but him? What he did? People like him should be the example of what happens when you fuck with the elite of this place!

Fight night she was excited to watch Derek’s hard work finally be put to work and the man, whose name she didn’t even recall, get what was coming for him.

As the fight progressed she remained seated in the elite area, calmly supervising her girls and boys and they paired up with the other leaders, ensuring that the drinks continued to flow from the bar with ease; this was her job, her part in all of this and she was proud of it. It was a service no one else could do to her expertise, so far as she was concerned, and she ensured the various leaders had everything they wanted from her people.

She had hardly been paying attention to the fight until the sounds of the crowds shifted. There was a pregnant pause, like almost a collective inhale, until the voices turned to rage and anger. She stood from her seat to peer down at the pit and to her horror saw Derek’s prize fighter slumped over, blood pooling beneath his body.

Temma knew nothing good would come of this and the ones that paid the price were more often than not, her girls and boys. “Everyone out.” She hissed, the leaders were already rising to attention, Weston making his way down to the the pit to head off the storm. Thankfully, her staff knew very well what would come and swiftly exited the seating area. She would keep them safe in the hours to come, but she couldn’t do it out here; they needed to get back to their cells for that to be possible.

“Temma!” One of the girls ahead of the groups shouted, pushing back through the small crowd toward her. “Look, smoke!”

Temma could see the black clouds billowing down the hall toward them. She pushed her staff in the opposite direction and turned to run, back toward where the elite and King were seated, her heels noisily clicking on the linoleum floors. She burst back through, nearly out of breath. “Fire!”

 

image.png
ezgif-1-5f207e3cde.gif
Red_and_Gold_Classy_and_Elegant_Business_Christmas_Banner_84.png


THE PIT
Collab w/ Miaow Miaow



Minnie's breath trembled, her hands clammy, her body frozen. She watched as Wesley approached her father who was completely oblivious to his fate. For a moment, the world slowed down, each step Wesley took making her stomach feel heavy and bile rise in her throat.

"XANDER!" She screamed, yet her voice was swallowed by the crowd. Wesley took him by surprise, kicking him over and over and over…

She shoved Haewon's hand from her arm, launching herself past her sister and towards the stairs. Haewon snatched her around the waist, practically tackling her back into her seat. Minnie's screams were like battle cries, like a feral animal protecting their pack.

"NO! WE HAVE TO STOP HIM--" Minnie screamed, struggling against her grip, slamming her hands into Haewon's chest in an attempt to free herself.

"Stop it--"

"LET ME HELP--"

"You can't!"

"HE'S GONNA KILL HIM!"

Haewon grabbed each side of Minnie's face, her grip much stronger than her usual touch.
"He'll fucking kill you too if you go on there! Or someone else will! Don't you get that?!" She yelled, her arms jolting forward as she shook her sister,

"We can't do anything! They will fucking kill you! I need you to fucking quit it!"


Nari watched in horror as the fight concluded. Xander had won … He’d lived … She wasn’t certain if that was for the best; he’d killed an officer from here - and while Dutchess had been nothing much to their community, she was a part of something here. Something that people had not been happy to lose.

She didn’t have to wait long to see her question answered. Wesley was in the pit, kicking Xander and screaming at him. She couldn’t hear what as the crowds around them were shouting their discourse. The community members from the high school were starting to move, disappearing into the crowds as they started to close in.

It wouldn’t be long before the prison took out their dissatisfaction on those who were brought in - it wasn’t news that Nari had been one of them, once.

She turned as Haewon shouted at Minnie over the noise, snapping back to reality. Her girls She stepped in between them and took each of their wrists, her grip harder than she’d ever touched them before. She leaned in to speak, nearly shouting to be heard over the crowd. “Quiet! Keep your head down and stay at my side. Don’t look at anyone, to say a word.”

Nari waited just a moment for the pair to look at her and nod before she turned and practically dragged them into the crowds.

The first few feet were easy enough to weave through, they were still focused on the pit and the dramatics. But after that, the crowds grew denser and she had to push between people to get by, refusing to let go of either Minnie or Haewon.

As they neared the back of the crowd, neared a hallway that would lead toward the residences a large hand grabbed her shoulder, spinning her to face them. The tattooed face was unknown to her but the markings she recognized. One of the gangs in the prison, Hispanic, if she remembered right; the same as the enforcer who had taken her to the clinic after they’d found out she was pregnant.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asked, slurred really, the alcohol wafting off his breath, making her gag.

“Hey, you know who that is?” Another asked, shoving the first drunk and when he shook his head, the second continued. “That’s Cabrera bitch.”

The drunk looked surprised but Nari didn’t want them to get any more idea. “Get out of my way, now.” It was hard to sound assertive when all she wanted to do was run, but it was enough for the duo to step aside and give her the space to leave, dragging the girls behind her.

In the hall, she paused, catching her breath. “We can’t go to your cell.” She said quietly, only to them. “They’re going to be looking for people from the school.” Her mind raced, thinking of where they could go that would be safe. “We’ll go to Cabrera’s room.” She said finally. “He’s not here, he won’t know.”


The two seemed to snap out of it as Nari grabbed them both, Minnie's eyes wet, Haewon's full of anger. Minnie swallowed the lump in her throat, her hands shaking inside Nari's as she got to her feet. She had barely noticed the riot happening around them, her eyes were on Xander and Xander only.

She looked to the pit as Nari dragged them away. Someone was pulling Wesley away... it looked like... Cabrera's friend. Cabrera's more than friend. Cabrera's more than friend that she'd embarrassed in front of all their men. THEY'RE SLEEPING TOGETHER! What a stupid thing to say. She could only hope Weston wasn't holding a grudge.

She followed close to Nari. Despite her tight grip on her arm, Minnie stayed as close as she could, their arms touching as they weaved through the crowds. The sight of the corridor filled her with relief. The place was crowded, the smell of alcohol, the screams of the crowd, the thumping of their feet against the ground... it all made her feel sick.

As the group was stopped at the door, Haewon took a step forward. All this man was an alcoholic bum to her and she'd put him in his place if he didn't get his ass out of there--

Before Haewon could even think of picking a fight with the man and his buddy, Nari had put her foot down and he was backing off with his tail between his legs.
"Guess being Cabrera's bitch has to have its perks," She murmured, following after her pseudo-mother with her little sister in tow.


Nari felt like her heart was breaking hearing Haewon refer to her as Cabrera’s bitch. She wanted nothing more than to denounce the girl and tell them both the truth but doing that would only cause more problems than help, certainly now.

She watched as the girls considered what she’d said but when they went on to talk about the rabbit Nari wanted to shake them. Did they not understand just how dangerous this place was? Even with her lie, there were people out there who would willingly risk Cabrera’s wrath just to take a piece of her. Not to mention the people who flat out hadn’t believed it. And having learned more about Caberra and his private life …. She was surprised how many people did believe it.

Nari pinched the bridge of her nose before sighing heavily. “Fine, but you’re not going, neither of you.” They were targets more than she was and if they got caught in a riot… She doubted that any of the enforcers would try and protect them, whereas she might be able to convince a few to keep her safe.

She glanced down the hall towards the elite's rooms. “Go straight to his room and stay there. Don’t open the door for anyone.” Nari gave them the directions, telling them which room was his. “Speak to no one unless they speak to you. If they ask, I sent you. Hopefully, that will be enough.”

As much as Haewon disliked Momo, he chewed on their pillows, took up space on their beds, and pooped everywhere… She knew he was the only thing keeping her little sister sane. Her dad was probably dead, Buster was definitely dead, and her mom was a cheat. Her perfect family was gone. God knows what she'd do if she didn't have that godforsaken rabbit to come back to, she was doing stupid shit as it was.

"Can you even run like that?" She murmured, gesturing to Nari's swollen stomach. If anyone should go, it was Haewon. She could sprint there and back before the majority of the Samaritans even left the pit... but Nari was right, she could sweet talk her way out of any situation. Once again, being Cabrera's bitch had it's perks.

She bent down, pulling a screwdriver from her boot, something she was definitely not meant to have. She handed it handle-first to her mother.
"There's a basket in our room, get him in that, he kicks," She warned.


Nari glanced down at her swollen belly as Haewon had questioned if she could even run. Truth be told, she hadn’t thought about it. She was sure if her life and safety depended on it, she could sprint short distances. Adrenaline could do a lot, as she had learned in the very early days.

But she hadn’t planned on running at all; running would draw attention. She frowned at Haewon slipped a screwdriver out of her boot and handed it to her. It took everything in her not to scold the young woman - she hadn’t asked to bring Haewon into engineering so she could craft shanks for herself.

Nari took it and slipped it into the pocket of her oversized pants before nodding. “Basket got it.”

“Be careful, please.” She said finally. “Just get there, quickly and quietly. I’ll be there soon.”





 
Last edited:
eczcWCa.jpg



LINCOLN
The Pit


Freddie’s usually dull gaze gleamed like a child’s eyes. Not with innocence but with untamed excitement. He wasn’t one to win often but betting on the freight train called Greg Buster brought him nothing but luck these past few weeks. Freddie betted on him the first time he saw Greg’s starved frame in the pit — nothing but skin, thick muscle on too long legs and a wild glare — and he never stopped.

Now, Greg was sitting on his opponent and Freddie felt an odd tickle of anticipation. He didn’t care for death, he hated watching it, but now? Knowing the man on the ground killed Dutchess? Freddie really liked that woman, she was good to him and they had a good deal. It worked well with her occasionally bringing the under the counter stuff in and Freddie distributing it. He was one of the guards in the female block before the world ended and even then she was one of his favorites. So he couldn’t help a sliver of satisfaction knowing the man who took her life would meet his well-earned fate from the hands of the cage killer.

Freddie’s lips parted when he saw blood, his mouth went ajar. It was pooling around the two joined men but it didn’t belong to the one on the ground. It belonged to the champion.

“No!” He ripped the worn baseball cap from his head, lashing it against the rusted bars. Goddammit! Of course he had to lose now. Now, when he betted his favorite watch. His hand hovered in mid-air as his gaze fell to his wrist, empty space in place of the neat dial and leather strap. The thing he snatched from the soldier he took in a few months back.

But the sight of his superior rushing into the pit and the roars and shouting of the crowd sobered him up a little, helping push away his fiery emotions. Freddie was one of the enforcers spread around the room to ensure order. With Wesley blindsided by rage — he felt for the poor chap, there had to be something between him and the tattooed lady — Freddie had to help get the people back in line.

“Hey!” He pointed at someone shoving the bookie and he pushed through the rows of the angry, sweaty bodies to get there. “Quit it!”

First the situation turned serious, then it promptly turned dire as Derek’s wife yelled above the blustering crowds.

FIRE

His heart jackhammered in his ribcage as fast as his boots hit the concrete floor. Freddie was rarely this scared in his life — maybe with exception for the days of the outbreak — but something pushed him forth toward the smoke. Coughing into his arm when he entered another corridor, watching billow like mist rise from underneath the dining hall, Freddie grasped his walkie talkie and squeezed it.

“It’s coming from the kitchen!” He shouted into the mouthpiece, freezing when the realization hit him. Right behind the kitchen there was a supply-room and a walk-in cooler. If the fire spread and reached their pantry supplies… “Oh God.”




 
posttt.png



LINCOLN
The Bar


Yeah. Cabrera knew where to find him. Ever since he knew Hughes was in Lincoln, he made sure the man was treated right without revealing their real ties. Why didn't he come see Huey? Why didn't he try to talk? He could lie to himself all he wanted, pretending he just couldn't risk it. But the truth was, he was a fucking coward.

Cabrera watched the two men rise from their seats. Tension constricted his chest, tightening the air in his lungs. He maintained his calm facade, but his eyes… His eyes betrayed him. As the two made their way towards the exit, Cabrera tore his gaze away from them and turned towards the stage. His limbs felt a little stiff as he approached the flexing bodies twirling on the poles.

He flicked his fingers towards the waitress and plopped to the couch.

“What can I get you, boss?”

They were trained here. To recognize who was who and use the titles accordingly.

“Shot of vodka.”

As she walked away he spoke louder. “Bring the whole bottle.”

An hour later Cabrera was many shots deep, had more glitter on his face and a scarcely dressed blondie bouncing on his lap. He pulled the colourful drink with an umbrella to his lips before smacking the ass in his face. Giving the lady vulgar compliments akin to most men working under him.


It had been years since she had done any of this yet somehow it had only taken her an hour or so to fall back into her previous rhythms. She found her footing easily, her routines easily falling back into her muscle memory, changed ever so slightly to accommodate the music blasting through the speakers above her.

Scarlett turned her mind off, not allowing herself to go into the depths of her thoughts the way she used to all those years ago. It was different now. Those depths before were so trivial compared to what she had been through since. The losses in her life now too great to allow herself to fall into those pits of despair again.

Instead she did her job exactly as she was told to. She would dance for the patrons then walk around, entertaining whoever decided to beckon for her. Bottom of the food chain. There only for the entertainment of the patrons around her.

Forest green eyes scanned the room. fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the dainty chain around her neck. The pads of her fingertips grazed the delicate gemstones of the engagement ring she once wore on her finger with pride, now just a constant reminder of gaping hole where her heart once beat. She had grown numb to the pain now. It was part of who she was.


Marx had a tendency to drink when he couldn't express his emotions. It made it easier, like lubricant on the gears of his bones. The frustration of Cabrera being back and keeping his job was something he couldn't express without it, the gears of his mind all gummed up to shit. So he was here, drinking, staring at half naked women like he wouldn't beat his partner for doing the same.

The pretty green-eyed whore didn't catch his attention for her looks. Instead, the ring caught his attention. He was yelling at her before his brain caught up with his mouth, too drunk and riled up to even notice he was audible to the rest of the bar.

"Pfft, your cuck of a husband lets you do this?" He called before getting up from his chair and approaching her, looming over her with a cruel glint in his eye as he lowered his voice.

"Or is he dead, and you're pissing on his grave? I'm sure he just loves watching his whore wife being another man's bitch. Are you proud of yourself? Or is it all tits in your head, too? Must be hard for you sluts to think of anything but dick."

With his insults growled, he reached for his pockets.

"How much? Cheap whore like you, two bucks an hour maybe?"


Scarlett didn't bat an eye. She was used to backhand comments from ignorant men. Being in the industry for as long she had been, even with the break, Scarlett had grown thick skin. As long as the man wasn't trying to touch her, she was fine.

"Désolée." She replied politely to the man, using her native tongue instinctively, "I'm not a whore. Just a dancer of the pole." As she spoke a gentle, ingenuine smile crept across her lips. Scar was not interested in getting into any kind of argument, she simply wanted to do her job then go back to her room.

"If you would like," she turned slightly toward the man, "I could point you into the direction of a lady who is seeking clientele? I'm sure I could help you find someone of interest, oui?"

She brushed a few dark coils from her face, letting them tangle with the rest of her hair. The one thing she missed the most about the normal world definitely had to be her hair treatments. Her hair had become wild, frizzy and uncontrollable at times. The only time it even slightly resembled the way it used to be was right after hair wash days before she had slept on it and before any humidity had hit it. There wasn't much she could do now. It was just one of those things she had to accept. At least it was long now and didn't resemble a short afro anymore.


In the corner of the smoke-filled section of the room, Cabrera watched a fit, black woman fill his space. She twisted her curvy figure, brushing her ass against his lap. He had fresh glitter on his cheeks, still nursing the same bottle of cheap whiskey that he took from the bartender at the night’s beginning. He stared at the female flexing before him but his mind was somewhere else. It kept going back to the moment when Hughes left him. He couldn’t figure if he liked it better that his best friend stayed away, given the circumstances, or if he hated it.

When Marx entered his peripheral he looked aside, watching the scene unfold. He knew that piece of shit all too well. The guy tried to mess with him when he was skipping ranks. Marx was envious of Ignacio’s position, that he pretty much took away from the bastard. Cabrera was ten times better at the job anyway, but still Marx liked to whine and play eyes with him making scary faces. Fucking loudmouth loser and a straight up bully.

The more aggressive he got the more cool anger shimmered at the surface of the half drunk mind. Ignacio tipped another drink down his throat.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He grabbed the girl that was getting cozy in his lap and pulled her off of him, getting up. “Be right back.”

He strutted towards the man manhandling the dancer and snatched someone’s glass along the way.

“Hey!” The guy complained but shut his mouth seeing who it was.

Cabrera tapped Marx’s shoulder to make him look back. “Hey, pansy.” The moment he did Ignacio flushed his face with vodka.


In the old world, Scarlett would have fought back. In the old world, Scarlett would never have allowed someone to touch her the way that this man did. In this world, though? Scarlett knew that even being alive still was a privilege. That the roof over her head and the food in her stomach came at a cost and that it was better for her to just keep her head down.

That didn’t stop the anger from bubbling within her, though.

It took everything in her not to bite down as hard as she could on the man’s hand. Her self preservation told her that doing so would only make the situation worse. So instead she wriggled under his grasp, trying to break herself free from his unwanted embrace. It didn’t take much, his attention being turned, Scarlett slid from his arms just as the drink was thrown in his face. Little splash backs dotting her skin as she stepped away.


Marx forgot about the girl completely, distracted by the burning in his eyes and the echoing words of his greatest enemy. He shoved the other man back, his face twisted with ugly rage.

"You got a lotta nerve calling me "pansy" with your bitch hanging around that twink of a nurse." He paused with a mean chuckle. "I mean, seriously 'Brera, the fuck kind of limp dick shit you offering that he'd rather take the sissy? At least I can keep what I stake claim on."


Cabrera took a step back—balanced well enough for his half-drunk state. He was ready to use the heavy bottom of the glass as a peacemaker if the other man tried to throw fists. Surprise glinted in his dark, hazed eyes, indicating the other took him off guard. It squeezed his gut and flared heat up his throat. The image of Hughes with the doctor like spikes at the back of his head. But instead of giving Marxs more attention, he opened his free palm to the dancer, looking past the wet-faced man.

“C’mere, girl. What’s your name?”


Scarlett hesitated. More concerned about the spittles of liquid that had hit her skin than on the argument in front of her. She had seen a lot in her lifetime. To say this was the first time she had been grabbed would be a lie and she knew it likely wasn’t the last time either.

Green eyes flickered upward toward one of the men. She recognized him a little, enough to know the face at least, but she wasn’t sure of his name. Not that it really mattered to her. Getting to know the people around wasn’t high on her priority list. When he beckoned for her she hesitated, not out of fear but out of the want to be away from the situation.

Of course this man did just do her a favour, it would have been rude to simply walk away. With that notion in her mind, she stepped toward him, clearing her throat.

“Scarlett.” She started, uncertain if it mattered what her surname was. Surely nobody would care for who she was before. Who her father was or her husband had been. Not that it mattered, neither of them survived.

“Thank you for helping me.” She added, not wanting to sound rude for not caring to ask for his name in return.


Marx furrowed his brow, less than satisfied with the effect his words had. He glared as Cabrera ignored him, running every person he'd seen near Cabrera through his mind. "Guess I ain't surprised, I'm damn sure that woman of yours ain't carrying your sorry spawn. I'm sure you know too, that's the only damn chance you'll have to be a father, ain't it? Being another man's cuck." He raised his voice, slurring his words and staring at Cabrera to look for some kind of response. "Funny, she's from your pet project, ain't she? The same one you let blow up. You're a piece of shit and not even good at it. How hard is it to fuck up that badly?"
He loomed up behind Cabrera, alcohol laden breath heavy on his neck as he made a grab for the bottle.




 

ezgif-1-5f207e3cde.gif
Screenshot_20240405_183035_com.android.chrome.png

NORTHVIEW HIGH
The Rabbit Pens

A Flashback

It was sunny. The perfect summer's day. There were clouds, but not nearly enough to obscure the blue sky above. The courtyard was bustling with Samaritans. The weather was nice, why not do their jobs outside?

Minnie, however, was stuck inside. She'd gotten the hang of walking to the bathroom and back but not much further than that. She'd crawl back into bed, exhausted from the 10 or so metres she'd walked to the room across the hall. Pandora would always tell her how well she'd done, that walking to the bathroom on her own was a good sign. To Minnie, it didn't feel good enough. She laid on her side, her hair a mess, her eyes glazed over. God, she was bored. All she had to do was talk to Harry... or wallow in her own thoughts... and Harry wasn't that talkative, anyway.

She tilted her head upwards as she heard the door open.
"Morning," Haewon smiled, gently shutting the door behind her, "You feeling okay?"
Minnie hesitated... before shrugging. She felt pretty... gross. Her head felt funny, her eyes were sore, her arms still ached, and her face was swollen.
"I had a chat with Pandora... talked her into loaning us this," Haewon told her, an air of smugness about her. She revealed a wheelchair from behind a privacy curtain like a prize on a gameshow, "Pretty cool, right?"
Minnie propped herself up on her elbow, her eyes lighting up. That was her ticket out of her prison cell.



Haewon pushed the double doors open with her back, awkwardly propping them open with her foot as she wheeled her sister out onto the ramp. Minnie squinted. It was painfully bright. She hadn't seen natural light in a couple of weeks, it burned her retinas. She shielded her eyes with one of her arms.
"I've got a surprise for you. Trust me, you're gonna love it," Haewon assured her, ruffling her sister's hair. She leaned around to get a look at her face, holding her hand just over Minnie's eyes until they could adjust.
Haewon carefully weaved the two of them around groups of Samaritans, taking the long route around the school... She wasn't ready to show her the batting cages just yet. That was an issue to deal with when she was feeling better.
"Alright... you ready?" She grinned, keeping her eyes covered as they ground to a halt. Despite being unable to see, Minnie could already make guesses as to where she was... She could hear movement, the rustling of hay, the distinct rattling noise of a water bottle made for rodents. She nodded, and Haewon pulled her hand away.

Minnie was met with the closest thing to Utopia a 14-year-old girl could've asked for. Pens and pens of rabbits, all different sizes, shapes, colours, some with floppy ears, some with sticky-uppy ears... She hadn't seen this many animals in one place since Dohyun took them to the petting zoo! She never thought she'd see this many again. There was no use fighting the smile on her face. Gene had spotted them from a distance but, seeing Haewon's plans without the two sharing a single word, she'd kept her mouth shut... until the surprise was revealed.
"Hi, sweetie!" She smiled from the opposite side of the mesh fencing, ankle deep in hay, "I knew you'd love these guys!"
She scooped up one of the smaller rabbits, carrying them over to the pair and carefully letting herself out.
"These guys were born here so they're really friendly, wanna hold him?" She asked, cradling a tiny bunny in her arms.
"Yeah!" Minnie grinned with little hesitation and Gene plopped the creature in her lap.

Minnie could've sat there for hours, but in the few minutes she'd had while Gene and Haewon talked, she seemed to have figured out this rabbit's favourite scratching spots. He'd melted in her lap, laid on his side with his feet outstretched.
"What's his name?" She asked, finally looking up from the bunny.
"Oh, umm... We're breeding them for meat, so we haven't been naming them," Gene explained, feeling a pang of guilt in her chest, though Minnie's face didn't seem to react. The rabbits had to be there for a reason, there was no way the Samaritans would let them breed a population of perfect pets.
"But this big guy's the dad to most of these babies, he'll be staying," Gene piped up, pointing to a fairly grumpy looking rabbit at the back of his pen. He'd been separated from his multiple rabbit girlfriends to prevent an overpopulation problem, so was perfectly loafed by his little house, giving him multiple rolls of fluff under his chin.
"He's not very friendly, but... you can name him, if you'd like?"

Minnie leaned forward to get a better look, smiling at the lump of fluff as he snoozed. He looked like a sentient teddy bear, his floppy ears touching the floor as he dozed off... Eventually, he flopped onto his side, leaving a cloud of dust as he landed.
"I think... Momo."

 

qi5vTCS.png


Lincoln
Cellblocks​



Nari watched Haewon guide Minnie away, a gnawing of worry growing in the pit of her stomach. She’d been on edge all day, for good reasons, but even with the fight ‘settled’, it didn’t dissipate. It festered and grew until it made her want to throw up. She lingered and watched until the pair turned the corner and were out of sight. She knew she was wasting her time by staying where she was and with a sigh she turned in the opposite direction to head toward the cellblock that housed the girl's room.

She started, at a pace that quickly became too much. The pain her back grew from an annoying hum to electric shocks down her right leg and she panted for breath as though she hadn’t exercised a day in her life, like her daily routine of stretches and walks around the yard were nothing. She was forced to slow, both hands planted firming on her hips as she shuffled onward to her destination.

With everything happening in the pit, the rest of the prison almost felt abandoned; only a few individuals lingered around. She made a point not to look over anyone for too long; if they weren’t at the pit then, whatever they were doing away from the crowds was certainly none of her business.

Despite the growing distance, she could still hear the shouts from the pit; it sounded like they were growing louder. Nari knew it had to be her mind playing tricks on her. Yes, the prison was always boisterous; it was rare to find any silence without it being the middle of the night, and that always came with the sounds of humans existing. Snores, whispers, shoes padding down hallways. Not like the school had been, where the night was peacefully silent.

As she arrived at the cellblock Nari counted herself lucky to find it empty. She wanted to get in and out as quickly as possible and back to the girls. Within the girl's cell, she found Momo, the bunny huddled in the basket Haewon had suggested she carry him back in. As much as she was certain that would have been the easiest, the basket was not small - it looked like one of the ones they’d used at the school to harvest vegetables from the garden, with a large scooped bottom and wooden lids on either side of the handles.

Wandering back through a crowd of people carrying this would bring attention to herself and the bunny, putting them both at risk. Finding nothing in the cell that would be a suitable replacement, she stepped out to search the cell next to the girls for anything that would work - a silent promise to the people she would be stealing from that she’d make it up to them somehow.

In the end, all she found was an oversized Department of Justice sweater. It’ll have to do…she huffed at herself, taking the article of clothing and pulling it over her head; it stank of cigarette smoke and had curious stains on the sleeves but time was of the essence.

Nari snuck back in to collect Momo, picking up the flop-eared bunny by the scruff of the neck. He kicked at her in protest but she caught his feet between her fingers and held him firmly. “Listen here,” She said quietly. “You bite me, Momo, getting lost with the inmates will be the least of your worries.”

She released the bunny's feet and pulled open the neckband of the hoodie, lowering the bunny in until he was seated atop her round belly. He fidgeted inside her sweater, occasionally stomping to indicate his dislike of his new surroundings, Nari simply poked and prodded the bunny until he had no choice but to settle down.

She held a protective hand over the bunny, from the outside anyone looking on would simply see an incredibly pregnant woman holding her belly. “My aunt used to raise rabbits in Japan.” She went on, whispering to the bunny as she exited the cells and waddled her way back the way she’d come in. “She’d raise them for meat and sell at the markets, and every Sunday we would go out in the yard behind her house and select the few to bring to market.” A few passers-by paused and watched her as she spoke to herself, Nari ignored them and continued on. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had to skin a rabbit, but I’m sure I could do it.”

Momo kicked her again, for good measure…






 
Last edited:
Red_and_Gold_Classy_and_Elegant_Business_Christmas_Banner_40.png


OXzH0GJ_1.jpg


Banner.gif


LINCOLN
The Pit

Weston barely had a hand clasped on Wesley’s collar when he heard the word.

Fire.

Of fucking course there was a fire now, of all times. No way that was accidental. Or if it really was accidental, it meant this place had shit luck and they were cursed.

“Wesley! Fucking forget him, let his ass burn, we have to go. Now!” Weston grabbed L.T. by the collar with one hand, and the next time Wesley raised an arm as he was kicking Xander, grabbed that arm too - physically trying to drag him away.

Wesley's blood boiled as he felt hands on him. Interfering hands. Some part of him recognized the voice as Weston's, knew that should have engendered obedience. Knew the smell of smoke in the air should have him heeding his words and fleeing while they had the chance. Lincoln was -- in theory -- "fire-resistive". He'd once sat through a boring briefing back in the day about all the materials used by the structure's architects, all the systems put in place to keep a fire from starting or impede its progress once it began. But that was back when the world was still spinning... when those systems were maintained. When the interior of the prison wasn't one giant tent city full of kindling and panicked animals. So yes, there was reason to be scared and to listen to what Weston was saying.

But he didn't give a shit. In that moment, the fire was just one more frustrating obstacle in the way of getting his revenge. Just like the infuriating pair of hands on him, trying to stop something that was going to happen. Weston would have had better hopes of stopping the Sun from setting. Emmett snarled like an animal and whipped around, his free arm extended. It would be generous to call it a punch so much as a flailing of his arm: swatting at his interloper of a superior like he might a particularly bothersome mosquito.

Weston ducked under Wesley’s flailing arm, thankful for the man’s lack of coordination. Wesley’s arm sailed over his head, and Weston took the opportunity to snap some sense back into the man… by punching him out, a closed fist aimed right for the back of Wesley’s head.

If Wesley won’t walk out of here on his own accord, Weston would carry his ass out. He could smell smoke from inside the pit already, and the chaos around him was a sure sign it was time to get out. Not just out of the pit, but out of the building.

Weston gave only Xander and the body of Buster a brief glance, checking to see if either would be a danger to him at this point.

Wesley's body collapsed onto the cement with a resounding thud. Like a marionette with its strings cut: a testament to the precision of the punch that had dropped him. Xander, for his own part, was half-conscious yet cognizant of the development... but wasn't able to muster much of a sense of relief. He knew the Samaritan leader -- whose name he couldn't recall -- hadn't intervened to save him or out of the goodness of his heart. He had no interest in Xander.

No, the truth was he had likely simply traded one death for another. Rather than being beaten to death, he would burn alive. Or he'd inhale too much smoke before that happened if he was lucky. Xander held the smaller man's gaze for a moment before the latter leaned down to begin hauling the enforcer out of the arena. With a deep sigh, Xander winced and began to take stock of his injuries.

Weston half-way, sort-of, caught Wesley on the way down, at least making sure that the other man didn’t smack his head on the cement when he collapsed. He checked Wesley briefly for a pulse just to make sure he didn’t accidentally kill the idiot. Wesley’s pulse beat just fine.

Meeting Xander’s eyes, Weston scowled at him. “You’re on your goddamn own, and don’t count on this being over.” Weston grunted at Xander, wiping sweat off his brow with his arm before he leaned down and put his arms under Wesley’s, carefully navigating the man up.

“God, you heavy-ass motherfucker,” Weston groaned as he managed to sling the man’s limp arm over his shoulder and pick him up by an arm around the waist, half-carrying and half-dragging him towards the pit exit.

Xander pursed his lips at the Samaritan's rebuke. Once upon a time he might have found it within him to challenge the man, to dig deep and find a retort of his own. But nothing came. He was hurt. He was tired. He was broken -- in so many ways. He looked at the man for a moment longer as he went about dragging his "associate" to safety before glancing away... toward Buster.

His heart sank as he remembered the sensation of the knife pushing through skin and muscle and fat. The feeling of warm blood on his hands, the same blood that was now beginning to dry there -- staining it. Was he going to die with his friend's blood on his hands forever? That thought was etched in his mind when he saw it: a movement. Buster moved. Not much, just an errant twitch of one arm. For the briefest of moments, Xander allowed himself to hope against hope that he had been wrong in his assessment of the injury. That maybe Greg would pull through and he was regaining consciousness even now. He let himself revel in this self-indulgent fantasy until the moment Buster's eyes snapped open and settled on him.

Back at the high school, Greg had been a... polarizing figure. Less-than-flattering terms were often tossed around behind his back to describe him: Mindless. Sociopath. Dead inside. But Xander, even when he was at odds with the man, had always known those uncharitable labels were wholly untrue. Not just because of the good he'd seen Buster capable of... but because of his eyes. If you allowed yourself to look closely, there was a life and a spark behind those eyes. Mischievous and inscrutable, sure, but life nonetheless.

That spark was gone now. The thing that looked at Xander with a cold, dead gaze wasn't Buster. Font felt a pit form in his stomach as he forced himself to his feet, pain coursing through every inch of him... staggering over to snatch the knife off the floor just as Not-Buster began to awkwardly try and figure out its limbs. Xander never gave it the chance. He stalked over and drove the blade down with a yell of anger -- anger at this thing for creating this crude mockery of his friend and anger at himself for allowing it to happen. This time the knife found the skull instead of the heart. The body went still.

Smoke billowed around Xander. He coughed as it irritated the back of his throat. "I'm sorry," he murmured. He spared a quick glance in the direction of where the others were fleeing and with a deep breath, willed himself to move.

Hanging from his belt, Weston’s walkie-talkie garbled and blared occasionally-overlapping voices, but Freddie’s voice was (mostly) loud and clear - it’s coming from the kitchen. At least he knew a direction now that was unsafe.

Weston dragged Wesley out of the pit, kicking the door behind him closed with his foot, but paused and considered whether he should lock the pit gate behind him or not. It seemed like an extra layer of cruelty to leave a caged man behind to choke on smoke. A miserable way to die against something you couldn’t even fight back from. On the other hand, most of the other enforcers seemed busy focused on getting people out, and if Xander managed to run free? Who knew what kind of chaos he’d cause. The guy was beaten and battered, but not dead. He could hurt more people. Take hostages. It didn’t take much to pull a trigger.

“Fuck it.” Weston muttered, turning his back on the unlocked pit gate. If Xander found the strength and coordination in himself to run wild, let him. Someone will just gun him down later for it.

Removing the walkie-talkie from his belt, Weston pushed down his talk button.

“Enforcers, start escorting people outside, I’m not having any smoke inhalation deaths here. And someone tell me where the goddamn fire system’s control box is.” He took his thumb off the button, reaching up and over to lightly knock the butt-end of the walkie-talkie against Wesley’s head.

“Rise and shine, asshole. Don’t make me carry you. I will make it embarrassing for you.”

A sharp pain was what awoke Wesley, shooting through his temples as it throbbed insistently before settling into a dull ache. He let out a groan, his eyelids rolling lazily open as he blinked a few times to clear the proverbial cobwebs and take stock of the words from nearby. Weston’s words.

He craned his neck over to look around at his surroundings. They were out of the Pit. He could smell the smoke, hear the radio blaring and the sounds of distant shouts… but only one thing mattered. His eyes fixed on Weston as he tried to muster the strength to get his feet beneath him. “Where is he?” he half-asked, half-demanded.

"On the barbeque, right where I left his ass." Weston muttered, navigating the two of them out of the pit area and into a hallway. Some people were just standing around like dumb animals, but most were being useful and getting themselves out of the building. He steered Wesley towards a wall so that the other man could hold himself up and find his footing again.

"Next time I tell you to do something, you do it, understood? Don't keep going off half-cocked when I need you to focus. Beat the guy to death later." Weston was considering leaving Wesley there while he went to deal with things when his walkie-talkie went off again.

"Fire control box is down the same wing as the infirmary!" An enforcer's voice responded, finally, to Weston's earlier question. "Around the corner from that door and down the hall a few yards." Perfect. Weston was planning on going that way anyways. Weston said his thanks, repeated his order to get people outside, and gave Wesley a scowl.

"You either walk your ass out of here now and live to beat that bastard another day, or you decide to go risk dying with him. Up to you." Weston let go of Wesley, shook his head, and jogged off towards the infirmary. He had a fire to put out and an injured person to help.


 

IMG_0500.jpeg
LINCOLN - THE PIT
The crowd had dispersed, frustrated at the result of the fight and scared by the fire that sparked nearby. The corridor blinked red, orange and yellow as fire approached and smoke filled the room. Amidst it, King watched as Font wrestled with his humanity. His friend Buster, who he had just brutally murdered, reanimated. Like a puppet with no control over its limbs, Buster rose to his feet at the pull of his strings. King reached his left hand over the rail - palm down. He brought his fingers together as he pulled his arm upward like a puppeteer controlling his minion. Buster dashed forward towards Font. The school teacher was quick to act, drawing his blade. He hammered the knife through his friend's skull. A roar of emotions echoed through the empty arena as he yelled. The strings had been cut and the puppet fell limp. The bouldering Buster had been struck down twice by the same person - bad luck.

Darker smoke engulfed the pit. Font became less visible in its presence. King squinted, trying to expand the scene and find his new prized fighter. His gaze locked on the figure as it moved into the cover of smoke and pranced away. A smirk found its way onto King’s lips but it vanished as soon as it appeared. One of King’s guards stepped into his circle. “Sir, what do we do about the fire? If we don’t get it under control, we can lose our rations and it can spread into the living quarters. People could die!” his guard questioned promptly. His eyes wide and red as his body jerked nervously as the smoke crawled up the ceiling.

The guard’s distress went ignored as King’s focus was drawn deeper into the ring. His expression went neutral. His hands were clasped behind his back, balled into fists. His eyes fixed on the gust of smoke that was eating his prison. All hell broke down below him, but he was basking in the chaos through a wave of emotions. He was analyzing, picturing the faces of the people that cheered for Font and those that didn’t. A realization hit him like a brick. The people against him had power and they had numbers. If they were able to do this under his nose, what else could they do. King turned to face his guards, eyeing each of them. He fixed the crease of his coat sleeve before bringing his hands to his side. He questioned if one of them was against him.

More smoke poured into the pit through the kitchen corridor. The radio on one of King’s personal guards buzzed sporadically. Words forced themselves through the static to give enough exposition on the events that unfolded around them. There was a fire in the kitchen that needed to be extinguished. Temma had already alerted everyone in the room and most of the higher ups had left for the safety of their quarters. Weston seemed to be on top of things, but King gave orders to have more enforcers join him in his task. The orders were radioed in by one of the guards. King showed a glance of humanity when he acknowledged Weston for his hard work and courage to tackle the fire.

“This place is my reputation. My blood. My legacy,” he told his guards. He was frowning now and his teeth grit in his mouth. The radios kept buzzing. Weston seemed to have it under control for the time being. King was not overly concerned with the flames themselves but the people who started them. After the fiasco that occurred a few months ago, it was clear he had more enemies to remove from his prison. He thought the defiance was over, but sometimes even a wounded dog didn’t know when to quit.

“How did this happen? Which of you let this happen?” He asked the four armed guards. It was rhetorical, but each of them looked confused. They turned to one another. Their eyes searched each other for answers. Suddenly they found themselves at the mercy of King’s silver eagle. The eagle had a 7 round capacity. It had enough fire power through its gas operated chamber to blow a hole through any of the guard’s at our. It fired off the notorious .50 Action Express, one of the largest center fire cartridges of a handlers weapon of that caliber. Three of the guards froze in place, but one of them shifted their hand towards his weapon. King was fast. His gaze sharpened on that individual. The barrel of his gun found its target. He smirked again.

The other guards looked at the poor bastard between them. The two guards to his right moved away, the one to his right stepped back and out of the way of King’s weapon. “No, no, no wait!” Said the middle guard. His name was Jarrod. He was five foot ten. Dark complexion. Was imprisoned for larceny. He’d been a rule follower for many years but found himself at odds with the boss. “I’m sorry boss! Please!” He pleaded. His hands were up and he started coughing as the smoke had found itself into their room. The other guards drew their collars over their mouth as they also began to cough. King chuckled as smoke inundated him. He vanished into the dark cloud. “Boss!” Said Jarrod as he narrowed his eyes and coughed into his hand. He was concerned for King’s safety and moved forward to help him out of the room.

Without notice, two hands emerged from nowhere. They forcefully grabbed Jarrod by the collar and shoulder. With force, Jarrod was dragged off his feet and swiftly found himself fighting against gravity. He was tossed over the room’s railing and fell fifteen feet into the pit. His body smashed against the surface. His arm crashed under his body and broke at the shoulder. His knee hit the floor first and shattered instantly. Jarrod cried out through his coughs. Blood popped from his throat with every howl as his lungs filled with blood and smoke. Tears formed at the end of his eyes and fell down his cheeks towards his ears. He looked up to see a pair of eyes looking down at him. Even through the smoke he made out it was King, who had just killed him. His eyes oh he began to fade as he suffocated to death.

“It costs to be a savior.” King escorted himself out of the room. He pulled the collar off from over his mouth and adjusted its buttons to fit right. His remaining detail followed reluctantly behind him, coughing up all the smoke they had just inhaled. King was prepared to take a personal stand against these vermin who thought of themselves more than. Whoever was behind these fires was in for more than they could handle.



Namazu Namazu
NanLia NanLia
 
pcYkGMg.jpg



LINCOLN
The Pit


Fucking rats. Rats in a concrete box. Toni had a healthy fear of fire but not as paralyzing as the fear of deep water. Deep, wide, whatever. Even if it was shallow enough to tread, he didn’t like the concept of not seeing where he was going. Unable to estimate the dangers of the next step. Especially that he couldn't swim. But there was no water here, just smoke.

The gang member yanked his hoodie off bare skin and pressed it to his mouth. Coughing and frantically looking around to reorient himself in the aggravating mist like the rest of the crowds, he spotted Weston was out of the pit. He was about to head to the man when he heard his radio crackle to life. Was it that loser Hofstadter? He tugged it off his belt and his heart froze.

“The fire’s in the kitchen?!” He yelled to the walkie talkie but it overlapped with another man’s words. Toni hurled himself towards the hallway that wasn’t full of toxic fumes. Shoulder-checking the long haired fa-g on his way he snapped a glare at the guy but then just sprinted into the corridor to flank the area. Taking corner he bumped to something big and soft and he grabbed the human in his chest, his hoodie falling to the floor.

It was a woman, a pregnant woman. There was only one of those around the prison, Cabrera’s bitch. Still having a hold of her upper arm and shoulder he glanced down at her belly.

“Da’fuck-” He recoiled, letting go. “It fuckin’ moved!”




 

Users who are viewing this thread

Back
Top