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

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
The Cells​

Theo had never been to prison before. Not until now. Not before, when everything was normal. Sure, he’d seen snippets of them in movies and on television before, but it pales in comparison to the real thing. The only thing worse was the real thing after months and months of the world having ended and the inmates running the show. Truthfully, Theo had hoped that maybe the guards or police or army or something had the run of the place, but he wasn’t surprised to find out that the inmates run things here. He was pretty sure he saw that in a movie too.

That movie didn’t end well at all.

Planting their homemade radio-jamming devices hadn’t taken as long as he feared it would with Maren’s help. She didn’t talk much, which was unnerving - but maybe he talked too much. It was hard to tell. When they were done, Maren darted off elsewhere to go ‘take care of something’. He had a sneaking suspicion that meant she was going to go help make someone eat lead in a few minutes, based on the way she said it. He was probably better off sticking with Haewon, though she also looked mad enough to shoot someone at this point. He wasn’t about to ask why.

The next step of their plan was actual insanity and he really had to weigh his options here. Help, and probably die, or not help, and probably die.

Super great options! He hated this place.

Handgun in hand - which he did actually know how to use, thanks for asking - and pressed against a wall behind Haewon, he held his breath as she peered around the corner. They were in the solitary confinement wing, where supposedly some people were being held. One of which was a doctor. It seemed ridiculous to throw an important person like a doctor in a cell, and only after Maren had caught him up on the prison politics did he really fully appreciate the massive pile of shit he just stumbled into.

Being a rebel sounded more cool when it was in Star Wars. Being a rebel in real life was actually terrifying as shit.

Meeting Haewon’s gaze, he nodded as she silently counted down. Three…. Two…. one… and showtime. He followed a few steps behind Haewon, slipping in behind her after the guard hit the floor. He couldn’t help but flinch at the second shot to the temple to finish him off. Cold, but merciful, at the same time - and it kept the guard from coming back later as another problem.

Theo crouched down at the guard’s side, rummaging for keys. For some reason he expected them to just be dangling there at his side, all obvious-like, but of course they weren’t. He had to rummage through a dead man’s pockets, and when he couldn’t find them in the man’s pants pockets to the side, he grabbed the body and rolled it onto its side.

“Asshole kept them in his back pocket.” He grumbled, sliding a jangling circle of keys out of the dead guard’s back pocket with a look of distaste on his face. One thing they don’t often show in movies is how, once you’re dead, your bowels start to let loose.

Theo flipped through the keys as he stood. There were several of them, and it wasn’t very obvious which was a key to a jail cell and which wasn’t. Some of them looked weird, some of them looked like regular house keys of all things. He might just have to try all of them until one worked - presuming one would work at all.

“Keep keepin’ watch,” Theo asked, peering carefully up and down the hallway. Those gunshots made a hell of a lot of noise and he expected people to come running any second. Their time was limited. So far, nobody else was around.

It was a Godsend that each door had a little window in it - it meant Theo could peek inside before trying the door. This allowed him to skip several empty cells until he found one with someone inside.

“Oh fuck,” He breathed out. All he could see when he peered inside was a body laying on the floor from the waist down - stripped down to boxers and socks. Was that the doctor? Maren had told him the doctor’s name was Victor, but he’d never seen the doctor before so even if he’d seen the face, would he know? He had to check anyway, because if this was for nothing, they could at least get out faster.

Theo attempted to jam one key into the lock. It didn’t work - he couldn’t even get it in. He tried a second one. It slid in half way, then no more. Then another, and another, and fuck this wasn’t working. It was the sixth key he tried that finally slid in and turned. The click as the door unlocked made him sigh with relief - though he was still cautious about what he’d find on the other side with that body. Was it one of the wasted?

“Victor? We’re here to get you o-”

Theo flinched and sucked in a breath as suddenly he was met with a fist grabbing onto the fabric of his shirt and shoving him backwards into the opposite wall. Before he knew how to react, he was being pinned to the wall with a broken metal bar at his throat.

The man - late thirties, sweaty brown hair dangling in his face - was on him in an instant. The broken metal pipe was rusted and snapped off at one end, and he wasn’t sure what it was from. Too narrow to be plumbing, that was for sure. The man was dressed only in his boxers and a tank-top, stained with sweat, grime, and blood. Dark circles were under eyes that darted up and down the hall like a cornered animal. Dried blood covered the man’s hands, streaked his shirt, and was splattered in fine droplets on his neck and face. Bruises were everywhere - shoulders, arms, chest, and face.

Theo’s first thought was that he looked crazy.

His second thought was that this was a bad idea and he’d picked the wrong cell.

Miaow NanLia Bullyboy Squad Crono ​

 

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
The Cells​

The scraping and chinking against the door’s keyhole filled the entire cell with noise. An easy thing to do, given how it was dead silent inside. Victor was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, metal bar in hand. Waiting for Elio.

He hadn’t noticed it while laying on the cot; it wasn’t until he needed something more firm under him to keep him grounded did he notice the rust on both ends of the leg of the cot's metal frame. It took a fair amount of effort and strength to wriggle the bar loose - first by kicking it free on one end, then wiggling it back and forth and back and forth until it snapped at the other end. The cot wasn’t so usable now, what with the way it slanted downwards away from the wall to the foot-end of the mattress, but he didn’t care. The ends of the bar were jagged, sharp, and rusty while the metal bar itself was otherwise solid and sturdy in the middle. It would make for a good weapon, whether it be to bludgeon or to shove it into someone.

That was precisely what he intended to do to Elio. No more games, no more fucking around, no more playing dumb, no more of all this bullshit. He’d heard the guards outside gossiping when they changed shifts: Weston was caught and was going to hang. While he doubted Weston would talk, he didn’t know what kind of shit they put him through first, nor did he know what anyone else knew. His thoughts drifted back to Tanner, and his grip around the bar tightened. Maybe Elio wasn’t going to be the only one to eat rusty iron.

Whatever else was going on out there, Weston hanging meant he was fucked and he needed to get free, find Hughes, find some damn clothes and shoes, and get the hell out of here.

Victor waited near the door, wondering why it was taking so damn long for it to be unlocked, but preparing himself to bullrush whoever opened it. He didn’t wait for the person on the other side to finish his sentence or step inside - the second the door was open, he was out - grabbing the man by the shirt, shoving him into a wall, and holding the bar across his throat.

The guy - the kid, honestly - wasn’t what he expected. He was expecting one of the enforcers, so he knew he had to move fast before he got shot, but instead he wound up with a scrawny kid that looked like he was about to piss his pants, giving him a wide-eyed stare and rambling something about getting out.

Wait, getting out? Victor felt his eye twitch and he glanced down the hallway, catching a glimpse of Haewon, before looking back to the kid.

“Give me this,” Victor growled as he yanked the handgun out of Theo’s hand as he took the metal bar off his neck, the kid offering essentially no resistance. Clearly on his side, and not an enforcer. At least he let Theo keep the keys - for now. Victor checked the weapon and made sure it was loaded and ready to fire.

Handgun in one hand, metal bar in the other, Victor stayed close to the wall and moved quickly towards Haewon - steps easier to keep silent even when moving fast thanks to his lack of footwear.

“I need shoes, clothes, a way out, and a goddamn cigarette.” He hissed at Haewon, peeking around the corner behind her. “So lead on.”

Miaow NanLia Bullyboy Squad Crono ​

 

[Bullyboy Squad]

LINCOLN
The Execution Chamber

The kick slammed his lungs empty and he lost his footing. Cabrera dropped off height. He hit his head and ribs to the concrete, stars bursting behind his eyelids. His pistol skittered across the floor, just out of reach. Dazed and winded he dragged his chin up and looked around through the dust and chaos. People clashed, gunshots cracked through the air, bullets chewing flesh and concrete. Streaks of fresh blood dripped from his brow down his nose, threatening to sting in his eye and blind him.

His vision cleared just enough to catch Weston’s bulk charging across the room. Desperate. Running for his life. Arms tied he had no way to block the knife. Knife! Cabrera’s ribs screamed in protest, but instinct screamed louder—move. He hurled his weight and snapped up his gun, muscle memory kicking in. The weight in his palms familiar as breathing. His aim set on Weston’s back. Center mass. Perfect shot. But he let the iron sights slide and lock on the real target.

Clean shot under the armpit of the arm that raised the blade to strike Weston. The bullet pierced and jerked the attacker’s body. It dropped him spasming to the floor, blood rapidly pooling around him.

Concrete scraping his palm, Ignacio pushed up to his feet. The room tilted. His head throbbed, vision doubled, then snapped back into focus. Searching for one man now. He saw him, he saw King behind the VIP section where people lay hiding or shooting from cover. He saw King and his lips parted at the sight.

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Namazu NanLia Tool BeyondDandy Safton @spottednewt
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[Tool]

Lincoln
Execution Chamber​

Madison didn't have to wait long for Cabrera to get away from Weston, though not of his own volition; from Madison's perspective, Cabrera went pinwheeling off the gallows thanks to a well-placed boot on his keister. Now that Cabrera didn't have Weston behind him, protecting the former from Madison's bullet, she aimed at Cabrera's skull and made to squeeze one home..... but Weston's shouted plea stayed her hand. Only one eye had anybody home when she looked up at the leader of the Rebels, moving away from his swinging dissolution at a stumbling lope, but the intellect in her chestnut gaze remained sharp as a wet razor. Did Weston think there was a shortage of bullets to go around? Did he underestimate his hangman?

Detective Jones had a bad feeling about this.

Nonetheless, if there was any time to keep her trap shut and fall in line like a good little soldier, this was it. With only a hair's hesitation, her arm swung towards King. Or, more accurately, towards the thicket of guards, right-hand goons, and pompous pricks ready to throw themselves between King and harm's way.

Her way.

With a calm that came with clarity of purpose mixed with a rainbow of drugs, Madison let her breath out slow and chose another target. Compensate for the bad eye. Anticipate the movement.

Bang. Rinse and repeat. Apply directly to face. Maybe she's born with it, maybe it's Maybelline.

It was way easier to get a nice, clean shot when one was standing in front of god and everybody, back straight and pathologically unafraid, accepting the inevitability of death as a fair trade for doling out death to others. Though she wasn't looking to get herself perished, there wasn't much to keep her going except what was right in front of her: monsters. And, to be fair, being on PCP helped with the bravery.

Several more guards went down, none of them with anything less than a headshot. Center mass would only compound the problem.

Keep calm. Do the job.

When Weston came near, yelling to be let loose, Madison wordlessly holstered the gun in her off hand and drew something between a machete and a military hunting knife, and though she put the blade in place against the rope, she didn't dare drop her primary weapon.

"Saw!" She yelled in Weston's ear, bracing the handle of the cutter against her hip and returning her gaze to the sights of her gun. If Weston sliced himself open, that was fuckin on him.

Line it up. Breathe. Be sure. Take the shot.

Bang. Repeat. Bang. Repeat. Bang.

Bullyboy Squad Namazu

 

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
The Execution Chamber​

Tigran thought all of this was fucking offensive. He’d seriously considered trying to find a way to poison the ranking leadership that gathered around King. Maybe a spiked bottle of wine or tampered-with soup. Unfortunately, he had zero knowledge of how such things worked, nor did he have a plan he could pull off in time for the execution.

The way the enforcers and trusted lackeys gathered around King, flocking to him like he was some fucking God, was cult-like and sickening. The way they talked about Weston - a man he knew better than all of them - was filthy and awful. They were all wrong. All of them. He’d never liked any of these people; he only ever tolerated them for his survival. But now? He could barely keep his mouth shut.

The worst of it was the way people who had previously called themselves his friend stood down and stepped away, clearing the path for him to die. Some friends they were. It only went to show the character of the people here if that was what they were willing to do. He cast a few burning glances at Temma. That black sequined dress, like the kind a cheap whore would wear to a funeral, got under his skin. Some friend she was. A friend doesn’t put more effort into their clothing, hair, and makeup for an execution than they did for trying to stop the execution. Not that he ever truly felt like Temma was his own friend. Oh sure, he acted friendly - because that was his fucking job.

He had been more or less willing to play the Samaritan’s stupid games to keep himself protected at first, even if he spent more than enough nights sobbing in his shower or hanging his head over a toilet sick at his own actions. But he knew he couldn’t do it forever. If it weren’t for the rebellion, if it didn’t look like there was any way out of this, he probably would have eaten a bullet already. That was the thing he couldn’t let die here. It wasn’t just about Weston. It was about hope. The hope that they could get out from under this torture and not live every day terrified and disgusted and contemplating whether life here was better than no life at all.

And that was exactly why Tigran came up with his plan.

The handgun was tucked under the front of his waistband, safety on but loaded. He didn’t dare put it behind his back or at his side, knowing how at any point any of these Samaritans could decide to get handsy with him. Many didn’t - many were toxically hetero, but that didn’t stop some people from trying to play grab-ass with him. He ducked down behind others as people started reacting to the shooting and shouting, watching as Derek covered Temma and started ordering people around. Some hit the floor and covered their heads, as if that’d stop a bullet, and others tried to take cover. Some whipped out their weapons but seemed uncertain who to aim for.

Bounding off the small stage area King had set up on and where some of the other “entertainers” were gathered, Tigran motioned for the startled whores around him to follow. “I’ll get them to cover!” he shouted, just in case anyone could hear him or noticed he was moving away. A likely story. Of course Temma had warned them more than once that if things get dicey, tuck tail and run. They were merchandise, and damaged merchandise doesn’t earn its keep.

The funny thing is, sometimes damaged people can do a lot more damage when they finally lash out. And that’s what they were. People, not merchandise.

Not all of the whores were in on it. The ones with the least backbone, the ones broken down so far that they could hardly function, were left out of the plan. Those were the ones that were being shepherded out a doorway, crying and shrieking and pale. Four others though, just as resolute and angry as Tigran, were ready to end this bullshit or die trying.

The small group, dressed in their nice and clean designer jeans, tailored suit jackets, and tight dresses, hopped off the stage and for a split second, looked like they were running too. Until, that is, they all pulled concealed weapons out, took aim, and started pulling the trigger. They’d cover the back as much as they could, squeezing King’s people in. There would be no easy sneaking out the back.

The five of them took down an equal number of enforcers - some directly standing with King’s entourage, others rushing towards them. None of them could get a good clear shot of King yet, but Tigran kept his eyes open for the chance. What he did have, though, was a split second opportunity of another kind in front of him.

The crowd parted slightly, and several feet in front of him lay Temma, with Derek over her and shielding her body. He had a clear shot of Derek’s head and back. Tigran raised his weapon and took aim.

NanLia Safton Bullyboy Squad ​

 

[NanLia]

LINCOLN
The Execution Chamer​

The moment Toni heard the lock explode, his body dropped into cover. Knowledge sharpened by instinct—he knew exactly what was going on. The world exploded in blinding white but his eyes were squeezed shut, covered with his palms. Screams erupted as the bangs went off, but they were muffled by his ear protection.

Rebels stormed in with gunfire. Brass casings pinged off concrete, bodies hit the floor. More screams. More chaos. Toni and his men didn’t join it. He stayed put, waiting and listening as both sides blazed through their magazines until they were halfway through and… Click. Click. Click. Dummy rounds you stupid fucks.

Toni and his men sprung up from cover. He zeroed in on the King nearby—a group of enforcers covering the big man from the other side, where the enemy was. They didn’t know shit. Toni stepped over and shoved the loaded Glock to the back of King's head. He didn’t even have to bark any orders. As confused shooters on both sides tried to check their ammo, one of Toni’s men aimed an automatic AK up and sent a burst of gunfire into the ceiling. To nail everybody’s attention when Toni shouted.

“Shut the fuck up!” His gaze skipped between faces of high ranked Samaritans as well as rebel leaders—his boys now aiming at both groups. Toni smirked when the chamber gradually grew quiet. “For once in your life, you gon’ shut the fuck up and listen.”

LINCOLN
The Execution Chamber​

Neveah watched the gathered crowd in the pit, the various levels of elite gathered under King’s law, here to witness the death of one of his officers. It was … disgusting. Anyone else would have combated against a fighter from Derek’s team, had their skull crushed and then they would have gone one to party.

But of course not, the privileged get privileges even when their traitorous fucks. She snapped her gum, the noise muted from the earplugs, and after a rather loud bubble pop that earned her looks from solemn attendees, she raised her hands placating and moved away from them, further back and against the wall. It was almost time anyway.

The doors burst open and she turned her back, waiting for the feel of the flashbang in her core to dissipate before she turned back and the scene before her was glorious. The Monster, Dr. Frankenstein's, raged in glorious fury, aiming without second thought or consideration before firing. If she were anyone else, Nev might have idolized the bitch, or at least attempted to recruit her.

She kept herself busy, helping the rebels take out any elite that didn’t immediately cower though there was one person in particular she was looking for. Dutchess. That bitch needed to die, for real this time. She knew too much and if she uttered a word she was fucked. Unfortunately, she didn’t spot her before Toni was shouting orders from where the elites sat and she knew she didn’t have time to do it now … it’ll have to wait until later.

Neveah pushed and shoved her way through the infighting, blasting anyone that got in her way until she was there, behind Madison as she freed Weston. As silence broke over the pit, people looking to where Toni and his team were, Nev lifted her pistol, letting the barrel settle on the back of Madison’s skull. “Apologies, Monstrua. This isn’t going to go the way you had planned…”

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[Namazu]

LINCOLN
The Execution Chamber​

Weston flinched as he heard the crack of a gunshot go off nearby. Way too close for comfort, but it didn’t hit him or Madison and that was all that mattered in this instant. He didn’t see the man that went down behind him, just like he didn’t see that knife raised for him in a way that could have spelled his end if it wasn’t for Cabrera’s save.

It was damned impressive how Madison could just stand there in the thick of things, chaos around her, and pick off enforcers loyal to King one by one. It wasn’t exactly like shooting fish in a barrel - these fish tried to bite back - but did she miss any of her shots? It didn’t seem like it, but there was so much going on that it was hard for him to keep track. Assuming they lived through any of this, he’d ask her later how she managed this.

Thankful that he could get some help with his bindings and be covered at the same time, Weston ducked down and began to saw his rope bindings back and forth against the machete-like knife that Madison provided. It was a good thing she held it in place and let him do the work - she needed to be focusing on her shots. Nothing good could come out of trying to play a game of ‘pat your head and rub your tummy’ with an oversized knife and a firearm.

“I owe you!” Weston called back, having to raise his voice to shout at her over the screaming, gunshots, and the clanging and thudding of weapons against bodies and other weapons. Orders were being barked from every corner of the room, though it was unclear who exactly would be able to hear and follow them. A good number of onlookers had already fled through the doors that the incoming rebels had busted open and filtered out into the halls. Weston had no idea where they’d go from here - back to their rooms to hide, or to take this opportunity to make a break for it - but it was for the best. The fewer bystander casualties, the better. They’d deal with the fallout after the fact.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cabrera stand. A good thing - he wasn’t too injured. He’d grabbed his gun again - possibly not a good thing - but at least it wasn’t being aimed at him. The fool bastard was too busy staring at something - King, maybe? Anger roiled in his gut again that Cabrera had seemingly made his choice, and it wasn’t him he sided with. That was not something he needed to deal with right now. Another piece of the fallout to be dealt with some other time.

Finally getting his bindings sliced apart, he shook them off his wrists, letting the frayed and cut ropes fall to the ground. Weston heard the tell-tale click-click-click of someone trying and failing to fire near him. Glancing up, he saw someone shake his handgun in frustration, only to get decked in the face. People were moving too fast to easily take stock of who was on whose side.

When the burst of gunfire went off, Weston flinched and ducked low before spotting Toni and his men. Seeing King with a gun to the back of his head brought an immediate, wide grin to his face. Toni had gotten close faster than the rest of them. He could have kissed the son of a bitch in that moment just for this.

Prematurely thinking that they were getting the upper hand, Weston got to his feet - only to look over and see Neveah’s pistol settling onto the back of Madison’s head.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He hissed quietly at Neveah - though it was too late. He remained still, not wanting to make a sudden movement in case that set the tattooed woman off and made her pull the trigger.

This didn’t look like the upper hand. This looked like a knife in the back.

Bullyboy Squad NanLia Tool BeyondDandy ​

 

[Tool]

Lincoln
Execution Chamber
tw: lady parts​

Madison was a lot of things. The woman was brave to the point of psychopathy. She was dedicated to whatever had earned a place in her esteem (a cause, a rebellion, a person, an idea) with the same pure intensity that made stable-boys take up their father's swords to fight dragons. Madison could even make some pretty intuitive, perceptive leaps in cause and consequence, motivation and morality. Good enough to make detective, anyway. Madison was not accustomed to taking a metric fuckton of drugs or dealing with their effects filling her up and whispering around the edges of things.

The journey from police-woman and motorcycle-enthusiast to coked-up, one-eyed badass was less straight line and more corkscrew.

When the room went mostly silent, the woman knew something was off, but even Toni's announcement, said with all the maturity of a tween having grown his second chest hair ever........ even that didn't make things click home. Her heart was too loud, sizzling in her ears quick as summer lightning, while some part of her rattling soul noticed the smell of nail polish remover.

The cold barrel of a gun pressed against the back of her head, along with words spoken by..... somebody. The voice sounded both female and apologetic, but Madison couldn't have repeated the sorries under oath. They were just words, but the release of tension along the blade by her side a moment prior meant Weston was done with it. So that was good. She needed that blade. Weston said something, too, but Madison couldn't focus enough to discern what.

Saints of rust and dust, if she was getting shot in the head, it was going to be frontways like a goddamned adult.

Normally, Madison would have spun, grabbed the perp's wrist with her right hand, and moved up with the heel of her left, up and fast in order to bend the elbow the wrong way. The knife and gun changed things a little. The gun fired as Madison moved, and she instantly lost hearing in her left ear as well as a little off the tip, but hey, things on that side of her face already weren't doing great, but it was the knife that changed things most drastically. It drove up and into her would-be assailant's elbow and put a little space between the humerus and ulna. The two arm-bones weren't broken up, but their relationship status had changed to 'it's complicated' and neither of them was particularly happy about it.

The movement also gave Madison a real good view of her attacker's face. Tattoos, dark hair, shocked expression...... hey! It was vagina girl from earlier!

"The fuck're you doi-"

Madison had planned to ask Vagina Girl what the fuck she thought she was doing, how come everybody's guns had gone real quiet, and couldn't she do much, much better than grown-up big-boy over there, but something hit her swift and hard from behind. It was a see-sawing cock-up. On the one hand, the back of her head had been through a lot and was a singed cunthair away from giving up the ghost entirely. On the other, Madison was on a lot of drugs, specifically designed to keep her going. Ultimately, Vagina Girl was let go and Madison's blade retrieved with a wet tearing noise, and though the ex-detective was decidedly unsteady on her feet, the wide sweep of her blade managed to slice through fabric and belly alike before a length of rebar came down between shoulder and neck with a wet thwack. Madison fell to her knees and everything listed sideways.

And that is when understanding came over her in a wave. Toni had played the rebellion for a bunch of chumps. Morons. The rebels had been used, because of course they had. This had all been a setup, because Toni and his gang refused to believe they didn't have to be monsters. They were too scared. Cowards.

Tired chuckles boiled from somewhere deep inside the woman, even as the boots drove into her side, her back, her face, hitting her until the ceiling was the color of blood and a steel toe kicked her right into the arms of Morpheus, still laughing.

Bullyboy Squad NanLia Namazu

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[Bullyboy Squad]

LINCOLN
The Execution Chamber​

Toni’s eyes locked on Weston’s, adrenaline ripping through his veins, making his pulse pound. He didn’t even blink. No remorse. In that second, with his Glock pressed to the King’s skull, he was Lincoln’s top dog. It was a rush, a kind of power that buzzed through him like liquid fire. That's how God had to feel.

His gaze snapped to movement, to the one-eyed bitch twisting like a snake. Steel flashed in her hand and time slowed. Neveah’s scream cut through the silence, raw and jagged, hitting his ears like shattered glass as Madison’s knife drove into her elbow. It tore through it before she yanked it free with a sickening squelch—blood spurted in an arch, thick and red. Neveah’s limp forearm twisted at a funny angle, tendons and bone exposed in a mess of slick, torn flesh.

Heat exploded in Toni’s chest, burning away the shock. The same rage that used to come on him during enemy drive-bys. Toni’s grip on the Glock tightened and his breaths came in a snarl. “GET HER!” His voice savage in his throat. He fought the urge to lunge, tear that blade from her hand and stab her breast thirteen times. Nobody touched his crew. Nobody fucked with his ex except for him. But he couldn’t move. Not yet. Not with the King’s head still under his barrel. One wrong move and this whole plan would go to shit. He'd worked too hard, put too much on the line to blow it now.

“Get the doctor!” He yelled to one of his men, watching the drug-crazed face laughing before another one kicked the white puta into blackout. Toni would play with her later. For now he had to make sure nobody else did stupid. He swung his aim at a young rebel and shot him to the head before swiftly jabbing the muzzle back into King’s temple.

“ANYONE ELSE?!” He gave them a couple of moments to collect while his ex was being tended to on the side. Then he addressed King.

“Sorry about that, my grace,” he mocked. “Had to make sure I got your attention.” He let go of Marcus and knowing his men had their barrels aiming at the room, he stepped forward to stand in front of King, locking eyes with him. “The happy bunch that crashed your party wanted your head. You owe me.” He gestured the gun around them. “I could take your Kingdom. Wear the crown.” He paused and glanced at the rebels, at Weston.

“But I won’t.” He looked back to Marcus. “No more tyrants. I’m going to be your equal. Things will run different around here. The way people want.” The way he wanted. “I’ll keep em happy for you. And those not happy I’ll keep in line.” He rose his pistol again, aiming between Marcus’s eyes.

“So what it gon’ be, King?” His mouth twisted in a smirk.

Crono Miaow Namazu NanLia Safton Tool BeyondDandy kaileaf ​

 

[BeyondDandy]

Lincoln
The Execution Chamber​

The commotion in the room was a flurry of cries and moans, broken by the sound of gunshots. Marcus King, his handmade suede suit stained with the blood of those faithful enough to protect him, hunkered in the semicircle of his enforcers. The assurance that had brought him to this gathering unarmed now appeared to be hubris, a mistake he detested.

King's mind raced as his guards fell one by one, writhing in pain but not dying. What on earth was going on? Weston, Cabrera, and that wretched woman—Madison, the one Weston insisted was innocent—came into view. She was the nucleus of this chaos, and now, her treachery burned like acid in his gut. Their bodies would serve as warnings, and he would have them all annihilated.

Suddenly, the back of his head felt the warmth of a barrel as a crisp click echoed behind him. He stopped.

Toni's sharp, authoritative voice pierced the atmosphere. King knew it at once. The bastard had him. Toni had orchestrated this quagmire, dragging the weight of MS-13 with him, and now the room’s attention shifted to King, the supposed unassailable ruler of Lincoln.

As Toni presented his demands—a partnership, governing Lincoln as equals—King's lips tightened into a frown. As equals? King's stomach turned at the mere thought, but there was no immediate solution. He nodded stiffly, buying time while silently seething.

King finally remarked, "You have a deal," in a silky but venomous voice. As if the incident hadn't just made him feel ashamed, he straightened his coat and adjusted his tie. His subsequent remarks were calculating and icy. “But under one condition. We put Weston in the gas chamber along with all of his rats.”

The room froze. At the command, Cabrera's chest tightened. His eyes large, darting between the unconscious Madison, Weston's restrained figure and King. His mind spun through options, his heart squeezed, screaming at him to do something. He stepped forward.

"I'll take the woman." He said.

Toni's head snapped towards him, eyes narrowing. "Like fuck you will."

"You can have what's left when I'm done with her." Cabrera's voice came out rough, cold. Toni didn’t look happy but he pointed his gun at Ignacio in a casual, non-threatening manner.

“You got one night, mano.”

That’s all Cabrera needed.

"Sir." Ignacio looked at King. "She had to be the rebel leader we’ve been looking for, not your Second In Command. Maybe you should give Weston a second-”

King interrupted him with an authoritative stare. “I want Weston dead. His rebellion, his treachery—it ends tonight.”

Cabrera’s jaw ached from how clenched it was. “Yes, sir.” He cleared his throat. “We should lock all slaves in their cells as quick as possible. Guarded by low ranked Samaritans, just in case. So the rest of us can focus on hunting down anyone else that might pose a threat.”

King nodded assertively, his piercing eyes unblinking. Although he could sense the cracks in his empire growing, he was determined not to allow this uprising to topple his rule. King's mind whirled with ideas of retaliation as Toni's men seized power and his loyalists attempted to bring order to the chaos.

Madison, Weston, and Toni would not escape this alive. Not in the end.

Bullyboy Squad
Namazu
Tool

 

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
The Execution Chamber... and The Gas Chamber​

Weston was so, so tired. Tired of always fighting, tired of watching every word and every movement and every look. Tired of being on edge and scared. Tired of pain. And very, very tired of being betrayed. He didn’t want to give up, didn’t want to roll over and die, but really needed a win for once. At this point, he’d be content to be exiled so he could just leave this whole pile of garbage behind him and be done with it. Not that such a thing would ever happen - people were far too petty for that. Maybe he could take a few people with him if he were exiled. Madison, Wren… that was about it. Everyone else could get fucked.

Madison’s strike against Neveah was too fast for him to even fully track, not out of the corner of his eye. He saw blood and the glint of steel though, and that was all he needed to know it was time to act (no matter how damn tired he was).

“No!” He called out, dropping to his knees to try and cover Madison as she went down in the center of a flurry of kicks. He took a glancing blow to the shoulder as someone missed Madison and hit him instead, but it didn’t hurt as much as it could have. Not after the beatings he’d already taken, and not in comparison to what Madison was receiving. It terrified him how she laughed as they attacked her, but what was even worse was when she went silent. It brought back memories he didn’t ever want to revisit. Somewhere among the chaos of murderous limbs he found her hand and gave it a squeeze - a silent plea to please not die on him, not after all this.

Someone, he had no idea who, grabbed him and yanked him off. Enforcers he knew the names of, knew the stories of, and once had the respect of threw him off the beaten unconscious woman and onto his back. He rolled once onto his side, helped along by a kick to his lower back from someone until he was on his stomach and pressed to the cold floor. There was a streak of blood near his face and he had no way to tell if that was his own blood or someone else’s. He felt the warm end of a rifle pressed to the back of his head as he lay there, but there wasn’t anything he was going to do about it. He wasn’t getting back up anytime soon, not under his own power.

From where he lay on the floor, he could turn his head a bit and get a good look at Toni behind King, gun to the back of his head - and, sickeningly, making a deal that would never last instead of taking out the whole problem behind this cesspool. It made his stomach turn. Hadn’t he offered Toni the same damn thing? And more, not that he wanted to think about it.

“He’ll never let you live, Toni. Don’t trust him t-” Weston’s words were cut short as someone swung the butt-end of their rifle at his face. He felt blood and pain bloom across his face, and he could no longer keep track of what was and what was not bleeding. His head swam, the world tilting sickeningly, and he felt like the room was dimming as his eyes slid half-closed.

Gas chamber. He heard the words, King’s voice grating against his brain like steel wool on an open wound, but he could scarcely comprehend them. Did the prison even have a gas chamber? Or had they jerry-rigged one? Did it even work? It was not lost on him that he, of all people, was going to meet his end in a gas chamber. His Pa really would be rolling in his grave if he saw this. If he had any strength left, he might have laughed - and now he realized why Madison went down laughing too.

It took a few seconds to realize the reason the floor seemed further away was because he’d been picked up. At least two people had hauled him to his feet by his arms and got him some semblance of upright, not that he entirely remembered where his feet were or how to operate them. When he didn’t walk willingly, he was dragged.

Before Weston was dragged from the room, he took one last look at King, Toni, and Cabrera - and spit a mouthful of blood on the floor in King’s direction.

Somewhere between the pit and the gas chamber, Weston had lost track of where he was. He was fighting off pain and a massive headache and the intense need to just close his eyes. He knew if he did that now he’d be dead - and it wasn’t just the exhaustion and pain he was fighting against, but the very real fear of dying coupled with the heavy feeling that maybe his fight really was truly done and over with.

If he gave up now, he could pass out well before they flipped the switch and turned on that gas chamber. He’d be out cold and wouldn’t have to suffer whatever else was coming, wouldn’t have to watch people die around him, wouldn’t have to watch King continue to be a monster. It was tempting.

The cold hard floor of the gas chamber snapped him out of his dreams about sleep and escape. He’d been tossed in like a sack of shit, dropped in the center of the room and landing shoulder first onto his side. Voices filled the space around him, barking orders and cussing, pleading and arguing. There were others being shoved into the room with him - the heat and smell of bodies bathed in fear and sweat and blood surrounded him.

With more effort than it was worth, Weston dragged himself to the closest wall and sat up, groaning as he peeled open his eyes. Part of his face felt like it was swelling up and he was surprised he could still get both eyelids open. Faces blurred in front of him, their mixture of anger and terror matching his own inner turmoil.

“It was good working with all of you.” Weston spoke up, though his voice came out raspy and croaking. He raised his hand and lazily saluted the group in the room with him, a mockery of a real military salute. “When we turn, remember to take a bite out of as many necks as you can.”

Bullyboy Squad Tool NanLia BeyondDandy ​

 

[Bullyboy Squad]

Part 1 - Jamal
Part 2 - Jamal & Ignacio
Part 3 - Ignacio & King

PART 4
Back alley, over twenty years ago...


His fingertips stuck to the steering wheel's worn leather, clammy with cold sweat. Leave, bro. Jamal’s warning clear as a bullet through glass. He took a moment to think, thoughts pulsing in his skull, even though he already made up his mind.

He twisted the key, killing the engine and cutting the spill of the headlamps. Darkness devoured the alley, dissolved only by the blood-red wash of the Escalade’s tail lights. It framed the three silhouettes by the trunk. Two armed men. One kneeling between them. Cloth on his head.

The soft ticking of alloys amplified the silence. Ignacio swallowed hard, pushed the driver door open and his sneakers crunched against broken glass. The air was crisp. Stank of piss and rotting trash. He walked towards his friend, knees weak. Uncertainty trembled his breath as he stopped next to Jamal. He didn’t know what dark shit was about to go down, he only knew he wasn’t leaving his buddy behind.

“We’ve got ourselves a problem,” Marcus cut the silence. “There’s a stain on my brand.”

They tugged the cloth off and the bloodied face set on Marcus with a glare like venom. Low-lit but enough to see every inch of marred skin—split, slick and swollen. St. Mary and scripture tattoos crawled up the man's neck, yelling stone-cold killer. His bloodshot eyes bared anger, and with it, fear.

“That’s our blood on his hands.” Marcus reached for his belt. Glimmer of steel like a shot of adrenaline straight through Ignacio’s core.

“He killed our brothers. Worse, he betrayed me.” The man grasped the pistol by the barrel and turned the grip towards his younger brother.

Ignacio’s wide eyes locked on Jamal. Hyper aware of the organ in his chest pounding on the edge of panic.

“Blood for blood.” The man said and waited but Jamal didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound. Marcus held the gun out, his men watching. Silence stretched. Unbearable.

“C’mon,” the older man sneered, cocking his head to catch the younger one's eyes. “You want to betray me too?”

Ignacio’s gaze flinched to the kneeling male, then back to Jamal and Marcus. His brain throbbed in his skull, stomach dropped.

“I’ll do it-” He knew he couldn’t take it back. God, he wanted to run. Instead, he stepped straight into the crosshairs of Marcus’s curious eyes. He reached for the pistol with a hand that wasn’t his own, cold as ice. Heat hammered against it as he wrapped his fingers around the gun. Metal like hot coals.

Ignacio turned to the bloodied male, raising his gaze and the muzzle. His spit went thick, alien in his clamped mouth. His lungs tight. His aim was steady but inside he was shaking, his mind a sizzling mess. He was too young to die. Too young to kill. Too scared for Jamal's fate if he didn’t. Felt like his blood had to squeeze through his veins even though his heart pumped like a piston.

Nailed into that moment, pinned down, only one man was with him. Everything else drained from Ignacio’s perception. Dread like a physical burden dragged on his muscles while everything else froze in place. Even his breath.

Was it like that for him too? The man on the ground.

Ignacio’s eyes begged. The man’s chin dipped a fraction. Something like understanding in his hard gaze. The boy's heartbeat stretched into infinity, sweat-soaked shirt clung wet to his back, graffiti faded on the brick wall at the corner, a dog barked in the distance. He pulled the trigger.

Everything swayed. Zoomed out. Sluggish. Before it slammed back into focus. The body on the ground. Take a life, save a life. He blinked. Confused. Why did he not feel the weight of it all?

He left.

The gunfire rang in his ears for days. At school. At the park. At the breakfast table. In the shower. Laying in the dark. Then it stopped and he rediscovered laughter in his heart. Late night studying. Racing cars. First kiss.

But sometimes he saw something silly. Water dripping from a tap. Shoe knocked on the floor. Church billboard of St Mary. He remembered then, that he never really left that back alley.

​

 

[silverwhere]

GET THE GUNS
Armory​

News of the sudden public execution of Number Two Weston Jones planned for that evening spread like wildfire and quickly became the hottest gossip of the day. Hatsu didn't care about the gossip; most of it was a tapestry of over-exaggerations. Hidden beneath was some form of truth that he'd sort through more thoroughly later; for now, he'd go through the basics. He was more focused on keeping his shit safe than finding out who was involved—no more pantry fires.

Weston wouldn't be a somebody or a nobody to the dissident group; he was Number Two. He had information that wasn't privy to the general public and could be weaponized against King and his community. Weston had to be high-ranking and essential to the group — his death would put a dent in their plans, whether permanent or temporary. Ultimately, it meant two things: the group would either lie low, waiting for a better opportunity or go for the offensive to save their confidant. Hatsu wagered on the latter; this community had too many wanna-be heroes and self-sacrificing assholes too eager to stir shit up; Weston was an excellent example. The question was not if they would act but how.

They'd need weapons for whatever they had planned (assuming they even had a plan), so taking control over the armory seemed the best move. If the dissidents wanted to tear apart the community, they should do it with their bare hands, not with his guns.

After finishing the morning's inventorying, organizing, and scheduling deliveries, he was free to go to the armory. There was still more work to be done in other places, but this became a top priority. The armory's supplies were lower due to the recent undead attack, but they weren't any lower than he expected. Trigger-happy people wasted bullets before they died, leaving a weapon that could go back into storage. They had a lower ammo supply, but the gun count remained stable.
He locked the cage door behind him and changed the pin for good measure. He'll probably get some hell for it, but it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right?

Hatsu leaned against a nearby workbench as he wrapped up his inventory notes, occasionally pausing to proofread and rub his aching left hip. With how smoothly things were going so far, maybe he'd have time for a quick, well-deserved nap before the execution.



With the late light of the day leaning down to the southwest, Toni made his way to the armory. Two of his men a few steps behind him. It wouldn’t look natural if he took the whole damn crew. He had to be smart about this. The halls were dead quiet, the kind that makes your skin crawl when you know shit’s about to go sideways. But not yet. First they needed the guns. As they approached the armory door, Toni flicked a quick glance at his companions, making sure they were ready. They were. They knew exactly what to do.

He strutted inside like he owned the place, gaze landing on Black. As their eyes met he sharply motioned his head at him as a greeting.

“Look who’s back.” Lips curled in a smirk. He lazily swept the place, his men stopping behind him. “Still playin’ accountant with your little clipboard?” He shifted back to the younger man. “Lookin old school as fuck, amigo. Whatchu brought home for daddy, eh?” He approached him. One of his men walked up to the two armorers, knuckle-bumping with one of them and chatting in lower voice.



"Mmhm," Hatsu acknowledged, still focused on his clipboard, "Still on the hunt for an abacus so I can really play accountant."

Hatsu kept scribbling away, unbothered by the man's comments. Toni hadn't done anything to warrant his attention—at least, not yet. He kept writing, letting the moment pass, unbothered or oblivious to the noise.

Finally finished, Hatsu put his clipboard neatly on the table, face down, so Toni couldn't see the numbers. Not that it mattered; he doubted he could make sense of them. It was polite to assume he could. "Nothing you'd care about unless you have a passion for canned corn. If that's the case, then you're in luck."

He knew the man was not here to make small talk or to welcome him back home; that wasn't the type of person Toni was. He scanned the room, noting how Toni’s men and the armorers, their hushed voices mingling with the metallic clinks of weapons being cleaned. It wasn't hard to piece together what they wanted; they were in the armory, and he was the one who distributed the guns. They wanted guns, more firepower, more power, but the need wasn’t urgent, not at this moment. Hatsu's gaze returned to Toni.

If Toni wanted something, he would have to ask for it, preferably with a "please," perhaps even with a cherry on top. Then again, Toni wasn't that type of person; when did he have to ask when he could take? Regardless, it wouldn't change Hatsu's answer or the fact that the code had been changed—no one was getting through that door.

He tucked the clipboard under his arm, casually preparing to leave for that well-deserved nap. It was going to be a busy evening after all. "If you want something, speak now or forever hold your peace. I've got a busy day." It was not threatening, just matter of fact.

He really wanted that nap.



“Corn?” Toni scoffed. “Da fuk I look like to you, eh? Like a corn-fed white boy?” He glanced at his men then snapped his focus back to Black. The cool, calm manners always rubbed him the wrong way. Black’s talk too. Like dude was thinking he’s better than him. Like he wasn’t taking him seriously or something.

“Aye. No shit.” Toni chuckled. “I don’t want anything from you, Yakuza. Unless ya switched to an armorer when I wasn’t lookin’.” He drawled, gesturing at the two men with the guns.

“You gonna move ass or I have to help ya?” He warned them. “Get me some damn fire power.” One of the men stood up but hesitated, looking at Black. He knew very well he had no way of unlocking the gun cages now.



"What's wrong with corn?" Hatsu thought to himself. Perhaps Toni was deathly allergic or had a nasty run-in with a scarecrow. Unfortunately, not everyone can appreciate corn.

"Great," he said, pushing off the workbench and walking around Toni towards the exit. If he wasn't needed, he was going to take his leave.

On his way out, Hatsu caught a glimpse of one of the armorers, their eyes pleading for him to step in. They couldn't give Toni what he wanted, a position no one wanted to be in. He briefly considered leaving them to handle the aftermath. After all, they had survived dealing with disgruntled people before, and they’d survive again. Regardless of the result, Toni would eventually find out who blocked his access. It was a matter of how many people he wanted to piss off: better to make friends than enemies. There was no reason to fuel animosity against him.

It was good to have a network of people, regardless of how much he trusted them. Everyday people had their worth, after all. Besides, if the dissenters somehow manage to tip the scales, it would be good to have a few people who could vouch for him. It would be messy if the balance of power shifted; he knew what he would do if he were in their shoes. It was better to play it safe.

He let the keypad buzz and blink red once before he stuck his head back in the room. "Oh, right, nearly forgot," he said with a leisurely wave as the armorer sighed in relief. "Access has been cut. You'll have to sit tight till I wrap up this season of accounting. You know, things have a way of disappearing—can’t have just anyone barging in and messing with the count."



Toni's blood started to simmer but he kept his cool. As Black passed one of the armorers, Toni caught that look. Something was off. His attention flicked to the buzz of the lock when the other armorer tried to open it. He figured maybe the man's finger slipped, but before he could complain, Black spoke again. Toni snapped his gaze back to him, brows furrowing. That lazy wave set something off inside him and he felt the fire light in his chest when Black explained the situation.

“You callin me a thief, puto?!”

His eyes flicked to his boys for a second—one shifted behind him, the other still near the armorers—then back to Black. Who clearly didn’t get how close he was to making shit real ugly. Toni’s voice dropped lower but bristled sharp.

"I don’t give a fuck about your little accountant game but if I don’t get what I came for, you gonna have a problem."



"I'm not calling you a thief," he clarified.

The tension in the air was thick and growing. Hatsu knew exactly what Toni was capable of. There was a reason why Toni was in the position he was in, and Hatsu could respect that. He wasn't looking for a fight—not one where a fist flew and blood was drawn. Honestly, he wasn't built for it. There was a reason why he was a glorified account, and he could live with that. It was a good way to keep him busy, and he had always liked numbers; a win-win. Regardless of the ever-growing tension, Hatsu had no intention of caving. He had made a decision that was going to stand because he thought that it was for the better, despite what Toni thought.

"Yeah, I can tell," Hatsu replied, a dry edge in his voice, "The answer’s no—for now, anyhow. I’ll be done around 7 or 8 tonight. If you can’t wait that long... well, there’s always bolt cutters."

His eyes flickered to the crew and armorers as he wondered if he could slip away quickly enough, letting the silence in the room settle for a second.



Toni’s glare was steaming, teeth clenched tight, watching Black leave the armory. Without a word, he flicked a glance at his boys—they knew what to do. Then he strode after that entitled bastard. His steps outside quickly catching up as he heard a muffled, cut-off cry echoing from the armory.

Nobody in the corridor—good fucking timing. Toni wasn’t planning to test his luck staying out in the open for long. He closed the distance and whipped out his gun. With a rough grip he snagged the man’s collar and jerked Hatsu back. He wrapped one arm around him and clamped a hand over Black’s mouth, jabbing the muzzle to his temple. His lips smeared low drawl all over Hatsu’s ear. “I ain’t gonna paint the wall with your brains just cause I need it.”

Toni yanked the younger male back, dragging towards the armory. “You make a sound, I break your knees. You don’t need knees to tell me the code.”



"Jesus fu—" he almost shouted, a hand muffled him and pulled him into an unloving embrace. The clipboard was abandoned in the stumble, and a pen nearly found a new home in someone's thigh. Thankfully, Hatsu had enough sense to stop when he felt the gun. "So much for that nap," he thought as he regained steady ground, and Toni whispered sweet threats into his ear—well, more like spit. Lovely.

As he was dragged back to the armory, he noticed how the air had taken on that familiar, metallic tang of iron, but this wasn’t the cold scent of gunmetal. It was the unmistakable, raw scent of blood. One of the armorers was killed cleanly and mercifully killed with a slice to the throat, and the other was a mess of stab wounds to his chest. Hatsu knew Toni and his crew could be violent, that wasn't what surprised him but desperation that tainted the edges. Were they so strict for time that they couldn't at least destroy the brain? Had they already forgotten what killed a good portion of their crew? Why were they so desperate?

Either way, he decided he would rather have his kneecaps intact, considering how useful they were for walking. Hands up in defeat and the pen falling to the floor, hopefully rolling away from any of the blood. He couldn't exactly put in or tell Toni the code as long as he clung onto him as if he would magically disappear when freed. What always confused him was the contradictory commands and pleas-- which was it? Quiet or talk?



Toni shoved Hatsu forward, stumbling the man towards the corpses. They lay sprawled between them and the gun cage, blood pooling dark like an oil slick across the concrete floor. One stared up at them with glassy eyes, throat split ear to ear. Clean kill, minimal mess. The other one though... Rookie got sloppy with that one, turned it into a butcher job. Did the trick tho, didn’t it.

His boys stood ready, knives colored red. One wiped his blade clean to his dead buddy’s shirt while the other flanked, blocking any escape route and keeping watch on the door. Not that Black looked like he was going to try anything heroic.

The fresh kills weren't moving yet but they might not stay still for long. Toni saw enough people turn to know they didn't have much time. "Open it." He jerked the gun towards the cage. "Now." The fluorescent lamp buzzed overhead, casting harsh light across his anger-stained face. Face of a seasoned killer. His finger tightened on the trigger, itching to paint the wall with the smartass’ brains. But the man was worth more breathing than dead. Toni would need him later.

"Tick tock," he growled. "My finger's getting tired of waiting."



The countdown until the dead reanimated varied—sometimes minutes, sometimes hours. The more the clock ticked, the closer they were to discovering. With a vague threat and a shove, Hatsu was at the keypad.

"Mmhmm," Hatsu muttered as fingers inputted a familiar code.

The light blinked red once before turning a solid green with a happy buzz as the door clicked open and Hatsu pulled it the rest of the way. If you weren't quick enough, the weight would cause the door to shut and lock itself again. One of Toni's men—the bloodier of the two—pushed past him and into the cage to refile through the guns. Hatsu almost let the heavy door slam shut on the Rookie but held it open because he was a gentleman, and a gun was still trained on him.

So much for not letting the dissenters get ahold of his weapons.

As the Rookie sorted through the weapons, Hatsu couldn't help but notice how messy he was. Hands shaky, either from nerves or adrenaline, as he pooled together metal with no means of carrying it all, smearing blood on the cold metal. He was in a rush, but it wasn't just from the blind countdown of reanimated corpses. There was a franticness to it.

It was clear that Toni and his crew were with the dissenters. Hatsu had expected them to make a move to try and rescue the used-to-be Number Two. If that was everything and they had gotten all they needed, why was he still alive and not singing kumbaya with the angels?

Then something clicked. Toni was the notorious leader of MS-13; why should he fall in line when there was power up for the taking? This was about Toni's rise and taking charge once the dust settled.

It meant betraying both the King and the dissenters, which, in turn, meant enemies on both sides. He'd need more than just his crew to back him. He needed influence—why he needed people like Hatsu alive, why he was taking pains to keep things quiet, subtle. If Hatsu went along with it, willingly or not, he was a needed connection to resources and influence. Goddammit.

"How far are you taking this?" Not a question but a realization.



Toni's gaze swept over the arsenal like a kid in a candy store. Rifles, shotguns, handguns - enough firepower to start a small war. Or in this case, end one before it takes off.

He looked at the man sideways and clicked his tongue. "How far?" Circling around Black like a shark that smelled blood in the water, Toni penetrated him with his gaze. "Look at you.” He gestured with his gun, motioning the muzzle in the air like it wasn’t loaded. “Smart enough to ask the right questions." He stopped in front of him, jabbing Hatsu’s chest with the barrel. "But not smart enough to know when to shut up."

He locked eyes with the other, excitement glinting in his hazel browns. "Here's what you need to know, puto. I own all the guns now. Which means I own this place. I own you, puto.” He jabbed him again before looking back to the weaponry, trailing off.

“Now we gonna find out if you’re smart enough to take a good deal when it’s kicking you in the face.”

 

[Bullyboy Squad]

LINCOLN
Control Room​

Ignacio stepped inside the dark space lit up mostly by the blue light. The air conditioning of the tech-packed control room hummed overhead, but it did nothing to cool the tension radiating in his chest. Dozens of monitors lined the wall, each displaying grainy feeds from different cameras, different angles. King lounged in a chair near the panel, one bodyguard on each side. His gaze fixed on the screen showing the inside of the gas chamber.

“Sir.” Cabrera spoke with a changed note in his tone. But before he could say the words, the door slammed open.

“Sir-” The young man stormed in and choked out, doubling over next to Ignacio. His chest heaved, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, panic in his face. He had to run all the way—the radios were still jammed but Toni’s crew was working on it.

“Vehicles,” he spoke between shallow breaths. “At the edge of town.”

Tension cut heat in Ignacio's blood. “How many?”

“I don’t know, at least twenty. Some are very big. They. They all look the same, like the military.”

Spoiler

​

Spoiler

"Remember when these places were all crowded malls and SUVs?" The brunette rapped her knuckles against the window. Clad in her fatigues and body armor, she jostled on the vinyl seat next to him. Rifle barrel up between her knees.

Chris pulled his eyes from the road, toothpick clenched between his teeth. The stripped parking lot stretched into the distance, a graveyard of abandoned memories. A half exposed skeleton lay sprawled near an overturned shopping cart, bones bleached white by two years of sun. A much smaller corpse right next to it. Chris looked away, his gaze back on the road. They passed empty suburbs towards open fields. A lone gas station sat at the edge of town, the sign still advertising regular unleaded at $3.44.

"Remember bitching about those prices?” He chuckled, keeping spirits up despite anxiety stirring in his gut. It’s been years since he'd rolled with an operation of such scale. He was glad they were doing it, sure—those were hundreds of oppressed Americans they were talking about. But good cause or not, strapping a couple of ragtag platoons into big boy pants put his teeth on edge. Half of their men had no combat experience, half of those were civilians before the outbreak. Not his call though. Orders were orders.

The sun turned into a streak of gold by the horizon, setting below a heavy hang of gray clouds. Its dying light cast reflections off the melting snow. Ice chunks dropped from winter-naked branches that framed the road on both sides, sluicing beneath their thick tires. The convoy, like a camouflaged serpent, slithered along the cracked tarmac. Leaving the dark smudge of the last town behind.

They met a stretch of road where fallen branches and abandoned cars had to be navigated or moved. Chris sat forward in his seat, shifting the wrap-around sunglasses up where his thick, blonde locks sneaked from under the helmet as he squinted against the dying glare from melted snow.

“That’s it baby, nice an’ easy…” He chewed on the end of the toothpick, muttering under his breath as he worked the wheel. The Humvee's tires straddled a deep ditch, one side climbing a slick bank past a burnt-out van.

“Just take it slow, daddy’s got ya.” Metal groaned with the vehicle uncomfortably angled until he steered it clear. “That’s my girl.”

The closer they got to their destination, the more evidence of occupation there was. Roads more clear. Less wandering corpses.

The convoy's rumble dampened as thick pines closed in. They wound between them. Their evergreen needles forming a dense canopy on each side. The forest floor was dull and soft with years of dead foliage. Ferns withered and browned because of the melted layers of snow, leaving a fresh, acidic smell on the cool, wet air.

Last turn and the road unfolded, the prison tower stabbing the sky up ahead. Apocalypse Now flashed through his mind, complete with Wagner's score. Concrete walls topped with spirals of razor wire that glinted dull silver in the fading light. The thought of what went on behind those walls made his jaw tight.

He reached for his mic.

“Godfather, this is Two One. Visual confirmation on the prison building. Over.” Less than five clicks out.

​

​

​

​

Crono Miaow Namazu NanLia Safton Tool BeyondDandy kaileaf ​

 

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
The Execution Chamber​

The cold metal of the handgun’s trigger was pressed against the hot flesh of his index finger for only a split second before the blow struck him from behind.

He hadn’t seen it coming at all - something solid whacked him upside the back of the head, and then in nearly the same fluid motion he felt a solid strike to the back of his knees. By the time the world stopped tumbling, he was on his back with the air knocked out of his lungs, staring up at Denise. The scavenger woman had always scared him a little - not because she was excessively cruel or rude towards people, but because she was just so damn cold. Was she ever afraid? Did she ever care about any of the other people here?

Denise kicked the gun away from Tigran, out of his reach. The object she had used to give him a hard whack was actually her rifle - and Tigran fully expected to get shot at any second.

“No, no, no - stop, I-” Tigran started, rambling with panic as he tried to stretch his arms out and keep the rifle out of his face. Denise glared down at him, exhaling heavily as she brought the rifle down from her shoulder - no longer pointing it at him.

Tigran sighed, slowly lowering his arms. Maybe she was capable of mercy? Maybe she-

Denise spun the rifle around and wound up like she was holding a bat, and solidly clocked Tigran in the side of the face. Lights out for him; Tigran was knocked out cold and wasn’t awake enough to see Denise raise her rifle, pop two of the now-fleeing whores-turned-rebels in the back, then hop off the platform and go running to someone else’s aid.

By the time Tigran woke up, he was staring at a plain cement ceiling.

Bullyboy Squad ​

 

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
The Gas Chamber - an Unknown Amount of Time Later....​

Humans were never meant to be held in captivity, never meant to be treated like tools and pawns, and they were certainly never meant to survive anything like this. Yet, here they were.

The screaming, yelling, cussing, and threats all blended together after a while and became an echoing noise that filled the gas chamber. It made Weston’s head pound even harder. A rotating group of people had been banging on the chamber door ever since it was slammed shut.

Banging, clawing, scrabbling, prying, slamming, jimmying.

It was a thick metal door, impossibly heavy to move without the aid of specialized hinges. This was no wooden classroom door that someone could easily unscrew and take off the hinges from the inside. This was no regular cell door that had a key someone could have pocketed. This was a solid, sealed, war-ready, bioweapon-grade gas chamber door. It was closed and closed to stay as long as it damn well pleased until its occupants were executed properly under the good ol’ authority of the False King of Lincoln Correctional Facility, Ohio.

Had our Founding Fathers known this was what it was going to come to, would they still have penned aspirationals on parchment? Or would they have gotten back on the first ship to England and drank away the very idea? Would the tea have been thrown into the harbor, or brought home and wound up in a proper cup while they still could? One sugar, no cream, and a side of mercy, thanks.

“Stop banging,” Weston muttered, closing his eyes and wincing as the constant noise reverberated through his aching head. On top of that, he was light-headed. Every time his head swam in one direction, his stomach swam the opposite way.

Weston pulled up one leg (despite the fact it hurt to move) and propped an elbow onto his knee. Every bit of him ached and he could only imagine the bruising that was going on under his clothes. God help him if anything was broken. He’d wind up like Wren.

Fuck. Wren. The guy was presumably safe as long as he was at the Reserve surrounded by allies, but if for whatever reason he got dragged back here, or Marx tracked him down… the guy was as good as dead, after what they’d pulled. He couldn’t protect him anymore, and that realization brought a whole new wave of anger up his throat. It was one thing for someone to fuck him over directly, but the fate of people that were collateral damage made him want to snap necks.

Weston rubbed his face, blinked hard to clear his vision, and took in a deep breath (despite the fact that it hurt too) to prepare himself to stand up. Nobody listened to a guy sitting on the floor, anyway. He didn’t really want to stand - his legs felt weaker and his arms like jelly, but he needed to be on his feet.

“I said stop fucking banging the Goddamn door.” Weston hissed, annoyance mixed with pain as he slowly pushed himself up to his feet, keeping one hand on the wall to steady himself. The gesture left behind a bloody half-smudged partial handprint, but he didn’t notice. This prison was filled with so much blood he had pretty much stopped seeing anything red-colored by now anyways.

The small crowd gathered at the door gradually let up at the realization Weston was up and talking to them. He’d been their leader at one point, someone they listened to, someone they at least agreed with enough to throw their lot in with the rebels. Whether they’d still listen after he had failed was a whole other story though. Was it still failure when it was betrayal, though? Or did that just make it a bigger failure - not a weakness of the plan, but a weakness in him as a leader?

Not that Weston ever wanted to be a leader. Not really. He only did it because he had to.

“Can’t fuckin’ think with that noise. Makes my head hurt.” Weston muttered. Upright and on his feet now, Weston paused and put both hands on the wall now, studying the room, trying to ignore the fact all eyes were on him.

Plain cement on floor, ceiling, and walls that were dirty with age and disuse. Old fluorescent lights - once bright, now dim and occasionally flickering. The lights were inset into the ceiling rather than hanging from a cord. The door itself nestled flush into the wall and perfectly level with the cement wall inside, leaving no visible gap you could so much as poke a sheet of paper through.

High up on the walls, near the ceiling, were small holes. Slightly wider across than Weston’s thumb, at his six-foot-four height he could just about reach them with his fingers but not his whole hand. Those were the little murder-holes, he surmised. In with the gas, out with the bodies.

Right above the door, a camera - also inset flush against the wall. Weston narrowed his eyes at it and pushed himself off the wall. It took a great deal of concentration and muscle coordination to not stagger like a wounded animal (despite the fact he was). This had to be a camera fed into the control room - had to have been the screen that was black all the other times he’d been in there, watching what was on camera. He thought it was a dead feed, a broken camera, an unused empty room somewhere in the old wing. The reality - a hidden gas chamber that he’d never been told about - was far worse.

“You think you’re real Goddamn witty and hot shit, don’t you, Marcus?” Weston stood a few paces back from the door, where he figured the camera could get a nice clear shot of him. He just knew King had to be watching. No way King would pass up a chance to watch them all die a slow, miserable death. He wasn’t going to do the bastard any favors by continuing to call him King of anything. Back to a first-name basis with this guy.

“Bet you get off to this, don’t you, Marcus? Marky-Mark, the creepy little fucker from whatever ghetto you crawled out of. I’m sure you’re hiding in your fancy-ass room beating your meat to this right now. Probably recording it too, for a hundred more nights of finally gettin’ off because God knows the whores ain’t doing it for you anymore. Rollins not bringing you the right kind these days? What is it that you’re lacking up there, Marky-Mark? Not enough Viagra left in the world? Not enough women willing to put up with two inches of disappointment? No wonder every time I fucked Valentine she was tight as-” Weston was grabbed by Tigran from behind, forcing him to stagger back a step. He would have tripped and wound up back on his ass had someone else not caught him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Tigran hissed in his ear. “You’ll just piss him off more! We should be trying to get out of here.”

Weston turned, angling his back towards the camera. “I am trying to get us out by getting him or his lackeys to come down here and open the door to beat on my ass again. Anything to get that door open. Look around this room, man. You see any cracks? Seams? Windows? Vents? Just the holes, for gas. That’s it. Its a fucking gas chamber, man. It’s sealed air-tight.” Weston glanced up and around at the dozen or so people in the room with him. None of them looked in great condition. Even if they weren’t beaten and bloody, they were looking unsteady on their feet and weak. Two people were already slumped to the floor, holding their heads.

“They don’t need working gas to kill us. They’re going to suffocate us. Carbon monoxide poisoning, and we’re already running out of air.” He subtly motioned his head towards the two slumped figures. When Tigran glanced over his shoulder, a third person leaned against the wall and slid down to the ground.

“Oh fuck.” Tigran drew in a sharp breath of air and held it, as if that would help them.

“We can’t get the door open from in here.” Weston stated as he backed up away from Tigran in search of a wall to lean on. A dizzy spell had just hit him hard and he felt breathless panic rising in his chest. He tried to stand, but wound up relying on Tigran to slowly slide himself down the wall.

“So either I piss him off enough he comes down here to open this door and beat my ass again….” Weston trailed off, wincing as he furrowed his brow, trying to remember what he was going to say.

“Or we’re fucked.” Tigran finished the sentence for Weston.

A damn shame that the foggy confusion in Weston’s brain made him forget that, at least for the other security feeds he’d seen for himself previously, the security feeds in Lincoln Correctional Facility had no sound.

Bullyboy Squad Good_Morels BeyondDandy ​

 

[Safton]

Lincoln
Outer Perimeter
TW - Violence, Blood​

Xander crawled up to the berm slowly, wincing at the pain that flared up in his side. He forced the sensation from his mind, poking his head up over the crest to survey the silhouette of Lincoln State in the distance. It almost looked majestic, contrasted against the sunset. Almost. Lips pursed, Font turned to wave his companions forward. The first to arrive alongside him was Brad and even now Xander couldn’t help but do a double take to remind his fatigue-addled brain just who he was working with. When they had met just hours prior, Xander had been struck by the spitting image of none other than Greg – the man who had saved his life.

The man he had killed.

This was Greg’s brother – an identical twin, no less. Everything about him in the way he carried himself and spoke had Xander swallowing hard with regret and looking away from the man’s piercing gaze. Xander wanted to take time to explain to Brad what had happened, the kind of man and friend Greg had been to him and his family. But circumstances didn’t allow it and the clock was ticking… in more ways than one. The other two soldiers arrived in the impromptu stack, each one barely peeking over the berm as Xander brandished a set of night-vision binoculars and an infrared illuminator that they had given him prior to the mission. It felt… strange, being “kitted up” again after all this time. The vest chafed at him, yet was strangely familiar on his shoulders. He’d spent so long in a jumpsuit and sneakers pushing a mop at the prison and before that scrounging day-by-day at the High School but now – at least for a time – he was back to his roots. One last mission for the broken old Marine, he thought ruefully.

“Guard towers. Mark one… mark two… mark three…” each time, Xander used the infrared laser – invisible to anyone not wearing night optics – to briefly strobe the exterior base of the tower. He did so for only the quickest moment. He wasn’t sure if the Samaritans had any NODs at their disposal, but he hardly wanted to risk giving up one of the few advantages they had in the element of surprise. “Overlapping fields of fire for all of them,” he murmured under his breath. “There’s a gap in the perimeter over there. Good defilade from the nearest tower. I used to escape earlier today–” he paused as he indicated the breach. Was it still “today”? How long had it been since his mad dash out of Lincoln? It felt like a lifetime ago.

If Brad noted his hesitance, he didn’t remark on it – instead simply nodding to himself. “We stay low, keep to the defilade, and make entry. Simultaneous takedowns on each tower on my mark.”

***​

The crawl to the perimeter was painstaking. Xander’s body was coated in a sheen of sweat and wracked with fatigue and discomfort by the time they made it to the fence line, where – thankfully – he found that his escape route had remained open. They made their way inside uneventfully: no alarms, no gunfire announcing their presence. At least, not yet.

Xander felt the eyes of Brad and Zach on him, their pitying gaze. He clenched his jaw and ignored it, but didn’t argue when Brad tasked him with hitting the nearest of the guard towers. Font set off, stalking across the courtyard and toward the concrete obelisk silhouetted against the encroaching dusk. He bit down hard on his teeth as shivers set in – either from the cool air or something else entirely, he wasn’t sure. But he didn’t need the chattering teeth to be what alarmed the sniper to his presence and endangered the entire operation. Font took several deep breaths, opening the creaky metal door and taking a moment to listen. There was no challenge from the top of the tower, no sign of alarm. Either the rifleman didn’t hear him or he was so used to incoming foot traffic that he didn’t think twice.

Xander began ascending the concrete steps slowly, steadying his breathing for the task ahead until he came to a halt at a second door… the one that separated him from the small office and observation platform at the top of the guard tower. He felt the adrenaline in his body spike as he reached up to trigger the throat mic, whispering under his breath: “Chaos-8, set.”

It wasn’t long before he heard the others chiming in through his earpiece, despite having to go longer distances to reach their own marks.

“Chaos-7, set.”

“Chaos-6, set.”

“Chaos-9, set.”

“All Chaos personnel… execute.

Xander forced the door open so hard that it bounced off the hinges. The man inside, sitting on a folding chair with a rifle folded across his lap, whirled around with wide eyes – a cigarette hanging from his lips. Xander shot forward, knife brandished in his hand. The Samaritan let out a half-shout of surprise, his hands hesitating and floundering. First they thought to reach for the radio nearby. Then to bring the rifle to bear. At least they settled on a sound course of action, reaching for the pistol in a crossdraw pistol on his vest.

But by then it was far, far too late. Xander bowled the man over and out of his seat, sending him crashing to the cement floor of the platform as he mounted him. The man’s hands wrapped desperately around Xander’s wrist, trying to force the knife away. Font reached out with a free hand, driving a thumb into the sniper’s left eye, gouging and prodding. A yelp of pain escaped his throat, the resistance in his arms slackening just enough.

The knife drove home, skin and flesh parting with contemptuous ease as Xander plunged the tip of the blade deep into the sniper’s throat before tearing it free. His stomach churned as he now planted a hand over the guard’s mouth, muffling whatever strangled cries might escape… but it was little more than a formality at this point. Already the warmth of life was leaving his eyes. Font pulled his hand back and brought the knife down again, planting it through the guard’s temple this time.

Xander raised one shaky, blood-soaked hand to the throat mic. “Chaos 8: Tower 1… clear.”

​

Bullyboy Squad NanLia Crono Namazu Miaow BeyondDandy Tool​

 

[Crono]

Lincoln Prison Outskirts

The crisp in the air was...well, getting crispier. Hughes shifted his weight from where he was leaning against the outer brick wall of a building. Currently stood in a somewhat alleyway between two buildings. Pursing his lips as he pushed the bottle of water against it for another swig.

The trek back to Lincoln had left him tired, hungry, and partially dehydrated. But after getting a little food in him and some water he'd been ready to go. Especially after being given the information of what was going on and what he needed to do.

The Marine's eyes glanced to the nearby treeline within the dim light, where his contacts were meant to be. For the moment he couldn't tell if anyone was there or not. Some part at the back of his mind wondered if he was being set up, a part he couldn't quiet. It was unavoidable given what he'd been through since the world fell apart. But still, he didn't give it the time of day.

No, he focused on what was in front of him. Kept to the mission. For the moment, it was all he had. If his mind wandered too much he'd worry about Nari, Minnie, and the baby at the Reserve. Or he'd worry about Vic in whatever cell he'd been thrown into. Or even Ignacio, given what was going on at the moment.

Getting back outside of Lincoln's walls and fences had been easier than expected. No enforcers around, all busy inside of the prison hunting rebels as far as he was aware. Except for the guys in the towers, most likely.

When Blake first spotted the movement within the treeline he tensed, felt his heart rate quicken a little. He could start making out the silhouettes, the hand movements, the gear, the weapons. There was no way to prevent the small smile on his lips, because for a moment it felt like the good old days. When the world made more sense and the chaos was more natural.

Hughes threw up a hand and gave the signal that they were clear. The first person started jogging across, once over he set up on the corner of the building behind Hughes. One by one the rest of them made their way from the treeline. Hughes assessed who was in charge and stepped up to them with his hand out for a handshake. "Staff Sergeant Blake Hughes, Marine Corps. I'm your way in."

​

​

 

[BeyondDandy]

LINCOLN
Control Room​

Marcus King's face remained neutral, his eyes fixed on the young man who had stormed into the room. As if even the hum of the monitors was waiting for his answer, the tension in the air appeared to pause for a moment. He glanced back over at the screen as bodies were packed into the gas chambers for execution. Finally, he breathed gently, his lips curving into a faint, knowing smile.

"Military, is it?" His voice was quiet and almost meditative, but deep down he was in disbelief. He leaned back in his chair, tapping the armrest in a pattern that only he seemed to hear.

"Toni's crew will handle it," he stated simply, standing with languid ease. "They've been keen to prove themselves. Let them." The young man frowned, his gaze flickering between King and Cabrera.

"Sir, if this is serious—"

“That's precisely why we're going to let Tony deal with it," King said, his voice as cutting as a knife's edge. "He's been so eager to play the part of my equal, hasn't he?" His smile became colder as he adjusted the lapels of his jacket, hiding the anger and fear underneath. "Well, let's see how he handles the weight of it."

King beckoned for his bodyguards to prepare the helicopter and began striding toward the exit, his steps deliberate and slow.

The young man looked at Cabrera with confusion laced with apprehension. But Ignacio didn’t meet his eyes, he stared at gas chamber screen, his mind racing.

“I’ll meet you at the helipad, sir.” He looked back at King. “I have to finish something.”

King paused in the doorway and faced him, his countenance opaque. "Then handle it. Also, this doesn’t leave this room." His stare rested on Ignacio for a minute longer, eyes glancing at the young man before vanishing into the corridor. He didn't look back as he called over his shoulder. "Don't make me wait, Cabrera. Time is a luxury we do not have."

The cool air of the corridor whispered on his skin as King walked toward the stairs, his steps echoing slightly against the concrete. His mind worked silently, analyzing potential consequences. Allowing Tony to lead blindly was more than simply a test; it was a statement. If Tony succeeded, he would solidify his position as a leader. If he failed, the vultures would know where to land.

* * *​

Marcus stood on the roof at the edge of the helipad, the icy breeze tugging on his expensive coat. His gaze was set on the prison grounds below. His Kingdom. Untouched. Empty. The slaves were locked in their cells and his men were sweeping the compound buildings for rebel stragglers.

The rotors chopped the air above, drowning out soft sounds behind him. He never heard the suppressed gunshots—each for either of his guards. They waited by the chopper in the puddles of their own blood. Skulls punctured, eyes staring blankly at the graying sky. The pilot stopped the engine and the rotors slowed down with a dying whine, casting faint shadows in the dim light of the fading day.

“Mi Rey.” The familiar words of worship pierced through, but the tone of the man that spoke them was alien. Stripped from respect. Ignacio stood between Marcus and the escape route. His pistol raised, aiming square at Marcus’s back.

Bullyboy Squad

 

[Bullyboy Squad]

LINCOLN
Fighting Pit
Andrew's execution
8 months before military arrival at Lincoln
5 weeks since last contact​

Andrew 1a
Andrew 1b
Weston 1
Andrew 2
Wesley
Weston 2
Andrew 3
Weston 3

​

​

Spoiler

LINCOLN
Holding Cells
Few days before Andrew's execution​

Palms sweating. Expression tight. The anxious energy bled into Cabrera’s stride as it took far too fucking long to find the cell he’d been directed to. A knot of nerves in his stomach. Would be hard to explain if someone asked, everything okay, boss?

At first his mind staggered on the news, a fragile plea loading itself between his ribs. As if him begging could change the past, the fate. Make it a fucking misunderstanding. The true meaning, the true implication of what his friend did, dragged the weight of their shared burden down on Ignacio, as if he didn’t struggle enough.

But it wasn’t his friend’s fault, was it? It was his. He failed. It was just him and Andrew in that hellhole and he failed to see when his brother reached the precipice of his limits. He let down the one and only person that mattered and it triggered an avalanche of consequences. Second guessing every thought, every action. Wondering how it got to this. Would it have been any different if he didn’t tell him they lost contact with Command? If he told Andrew to run and leave him behind. If he was better at his goddamn job.

Doubts—the throbbing noise at the back of his skull—got louder and louder with every step. He couldn’t shake that feeling. How long before he’d break too?

Ignacio stopped in front of the metal door and spoke with a note of warning to the guard opening it. “Lock it behind me and don’t open until I tell you.”

The stench of old blood and piss hit him. Andrew watched him step inside with tired eyes framed by dark circles. His half shadowed face painted in a litany of bruises, shirt brown from dried stains.

Cabrera heard the lock of the door clang behind him, yet his voice was hardly more than a breath. “Why?” He knew the answer. But couldn’t comprehend. Couldn’t comprehend what it meant. Didn’t want to.

Andrew’s brows drew in, his gaze hinting hurt and pity. “I’m sorry.” He meant it. Simple words that failed to encompass the magnitude of that confirmation. “I’m sorry.”

The apology burned in Cabrera’s chest. So goddamn final. Hurt so badly that for a moment, he couldn't breathe. He didn't want it. Not from Andrew. Not from the man who lifted him up when he was rock-bottom. Who held him when the inside of his eyes played back with nightmares. When he gasped awake, shaking in pools of sweat, an invisible weight crushing his chest. Who spent so much time trying to smooth over the cracks and edges of Ignacio’s fucked up soul.

Instinct cried out at him. Before he would give in to it in front of the red light in the corner, he peeled off his jacket and tossed it at the camera. Hasty steps. He caught Andrew, snatched and squeezed, like his friend would vanish if he didn’t. Arms wrapped back around Ignacio and he folded into that hug, held tight against his friend’s injured frame. The familiar sensation of proximity and genuine warmth he’s been missing so long felt soothing in his muscles. But it couldn’t soothe his heart.

A million words he’d never get a chance to say swamped his mouth, but the ones that touched his lips came quiet. Shattered on a loss he did not think his strained soul could bear. “I can’t do this without you.”

It burned. Burned raw in his chest. Feeling every bit powerless. How was he supposed to save all these people if he couldn’t even save his friend? Unchecked, Ignacio didn't notice his own tears. Closed eyes brimmed wet over lashes and spilled. His breathing dangerously close to a sob.

Andrew’s answer was soft yet serious as a heart attack. “You have to.”

Unable to hold his own weight with the uncontrolled tremors rippling his tense muscles, Ignacio’s body caved. He slipped down from the embrace, knees hitting concrete. With his forehead buried in his friend’s blood-stained shirt, he clung to Andrew’s waist. Eyes squeezed to silent streams.

Andrew wrapped his arm around his shoulders, stroking at his hair. “Let it out.” His own voice quivered, ”It’s okay.”

Ragged breaths, a shaky exhale, and the tension slowly drained away. Replaced with the suffocating weight of quiet pain. He didn't know how long he stayed like that.

“I didn’t manage to stop them,” Andrew broke the silence. “God knows I’ve tried.” His bitter chuckle jarring to Ignacio’s ears. Yeah, he tried. He risked it all and he lost. And now he was going to die and Ignacio couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t- His jaw tensed, body once more rigid. He wanted to scream.

“They will harm those people unless you do something, Ignacio.”

Cabrera looked up, feeling fingers resting against the back of his neck. Andrew searched his face with calm, glassy eyes and spoke like it was his final wish. “Stop them.”

That sobered him up enough to clear the haze of grief. Even with the camera feed blocked, the place was not safe and their six was exposed. Andrew’s watch was about to end. His cover wasn’t blown but his punishment would be lethal. Cabrera couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t help him. He couldn’t let anyone see them like this either, with Ignacio compromised. Pathetically weak.

He didn’t want to let go. It felt like a loss when he finally stepped back. He used his knuckles to wipe the tears off his face, a little dizzy from it all, his legs like rubber. It’s been months of constant tension and act, in the face of the decaying humanity. He didn’t even realize how fried his nerves were.

He cleared his throat, voice hoarse, “I brought you something.” He pulled out a metal canteen, uncapped it, tipped his head back and sucked deeply on the cold metal lip. Sharp taste in his mouth and heat fanning down to his core helped clear his senses.

He exhaled with a cough, lips slick.

Their fingers touched when he passed it to Andrew, their gazes locked for a moment, knowing.

“I don’t want you to watch.” Andrew said and took a gulp, then another. “Leave. Go to the Reserve now.”

Cabrera knew if he’d be there as a witness of the execution, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from interrupting it. So he nodded and took another sip of the whiskey. They shared the rest of it. And then he was gone. He didn’t dare look back, leaving the only bright light in his life behind. Other stars, so far away, he would never feel their warmth. That’s what it felt like. Were they still there? Endless scenarios kept flashing through his head whenever he allowed his thoughts to wander. All of them leading to a single picture of a safe zone full of blood and death.

He had to believe they were okay. That there was a reason why they went silent. But it was getting hard. Felt like he was slowly dragged towards the hollow pit of a black hole.

Ignacio swept the thought aside before it could take hold. He would travel to the Reserve and would do whatever in his power to help those people. Then he would raid the town of Northview—something Andrew tried to stop but only delayed—try and help them too. To keep the spark of hope alive. Hope that one day his brothers would make contact again. That they would come and save them all.

Crono Miaow Namazu NanLia Safton Tool BeyondDandy silverwhere @Not Meat Good_Morels @Protean aggravatedspacedolphins @kaiseride ​

 

[Crono]

Earlier Today
Road to the Prison

The sun was beating overhead as Hughes trudged down the road. Half-melted snow on either side, the air cold and biting at him. His cheeks red and dry from the elements.

Nearly twenty-four hours ago The Reserve's people had released him, then sent him on his way to carry a message to the Samaritan's. Leave the Reserve alone or they kill Cabrera's wife and child, and the kid. Of course Hughes declined doing this, and of course he'd gotten another near concussion for trying to resist, and stay with Nari, the baby, and Minnie. Hughes wasn't entirely certain the group would follow through but he'd seen firsthand how they treated outsiders.

In the end he'd had little choice, he couldn't risk any kind of 'rescue' of the girls, not alone. The Reserve's people had walked him out for the first hour to avoid him doubling back, keeping the truck he had driven here for themselves as a resource.

Hughes had taken very few detours or stops, and he hadn't paced himself like he probably should have and was trained to. No, the former Marine was hellbent on getting back to Lincoln as fast as possible so he could get Cabrera in on what was happening and they could figure out what to do about getting the girls out of there.

So that's how he'd ended up here now, walking with a limp because the fucking prosthetic was stabbing into his stump each and every step at this point, the skin heavily chaffing from walking nearly 24 hours straight. It was another reminder of the man he was before the Samaritan's. Blake had only stopped a few times for a few minutes of rest or to try and grab some water. Finding somewhere to set up for the night wasn't on the table in his mind.
Panting hard as he walked along the asphalt, clouds of vapor from his hot breath disappearing in the air. It was cold out but beneath his layers he was sweating. He had a pipe in one hand, hanging loosely, a weapon he'd had to grab on the way. It was coated in a dark layer of dry and fresh blood from the dead he'd been forced to deal with.

In the distance he could see the prison. Never in his life did he think he'd be relieved to see hell on earth itself.

--

Cabrera's fingers brushed over the worn leather, tracing the familiar creases and patches. The jacket hung in his closet like a ghost for the past half a year, after Nari moved into his room. Now even the girl was gone, leaving him with the thoughts he fought to push away.

The brown leather was smooth under his touch, still supple despite the years, still carrying that distinct scent that brought him right back to the moment he'd given it to Blake. Images of his brother wearing it flickered before him. His throat tightened.

"Damn it, Huey." The words barely above a whisper, catching his breath.

He pressed the jacket to his face, inhaling deep. The longing for simpler days searing in his chest. It’s been a long time before just the little things began to grind at Cabrera's nerves. Little things he didn’t think twice about when he wasn't trapped inside these walls. His head, the only refuge. But the sense of time and self started to blur. Days dragged and his mind played cruel tricks. He couldn’t let it. Not today. Not now when everything his life revolved around for over a year came down to this day.

That’s why it was so tragic to lose his composure when his little rat came knocking. He let the boy in and the news made him freeze. Hughes got scoped on the road leading to the gates. Alone. Bloodied.

--

Cabrera rushed across the compound, running to the vehicles. Ignoring stares and questions he hollered, jumping on one of the scav motorcycles. “Open the gate!”

Heavy metal wings creaked apart and he sped up to meet them. Roaring across the yard, he whooshed past the gate, studded tires biting into frozen dirt. Folded over the sport cruiser, he squinted against the icy rush of air. No helmet. There—the hazy shape of a man a few miles out. His heart hammered under thick brown leather. Wind ruffled the fluffy collar, brushing the time-weathered patch of a chopper on the left side of the pilot jacket. Deep underneath, a similar image. A chopper with a heart graffiti filled with bullet holes. Inked right beside his heart.

--

When the sound of the motorcycle reached Blake's ears he tensed, a moment of uncertainty. Would whoever was leaving the prison realize he wasn't walking up on it as a threat or would he be treated the same as the first time? For the moment he didn't have a choice in the matter, he had to take whoever or whatever was coming head on.

--

It wasn't until the chopper and rider got close that he'd realized it was Cabrera. And despite everything he felt relief. Even stopping and leaning his tired form against the wreck of a nearby car, pushed off to the side of the road.

"Ig---" Hughes started to say when the man got off the bike, but his throat was drier than expected. A clearing noise followed by a swallow of what saliva he could collect within his mouth before continuing. "The Reserve isn't under your control anymore." He told the man, catching his breath still. "They've got the girls, they know who Nari and the baby are. I'm the warning to leave the Reserve and it's people alone." Not that they'd ever do that. Hughes face was one of frustration, tension, but also exhaustion.

The engine purred on neutral as he kicked the side stand and jumped off, his leather boots hitting slush on the side of the road. Blake was slumped against the car, working around words that wouldn't come. The sight punched Ignacio's guts. What the hell happened? Where was Nari? That day was slowly becoming unbearable. He caught Blake’s side in case his knees tried to buckle.

"I'm here, boy." He said on instinct, brows furrowed as he listened. His lips slowly parted at the news. He exhaled a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “God damn… That’s… That’s good.” He smiled. No more mask. Just that same face Hughes knew from years back. The one he used to kiss. Except now aged by violence and stress.

“Listen, Huey.” No more reasons to lie. Hughes was a blessing. The one ally in the Devil’s den he knew he could really trust. “Stop talking.” He leaned his side to the vehicle, his back to the compound, so nobody could see his mouth through the powerful optics. “In case they’re reading your lips.” Paranoia? Maybe. But he wasn’t taking chances now when this goddamn nightmare was coming to an end.

“Roanoke Island is a fully operational base of what’s left of the US military. And they’re coming here. Tonight. I've been undercover, man. I couldn’t risk saying anything at the time but I promise I’ll explain everything later. But first… lets smoke these bastards and free the people.”

He pulled away from the wreck and stepped in front of Blake, offering him his arm in a brotherhood hold. Even though deep inside he was dying for a goddamn hug. “Whatcha say, brother?”



Hughes face contorted into confusion. The Marine had been so hyper focused on the Reserve and thinking about a rescue mission that for a minute, Cabrera's words made no sense. No, he really had to take it in and comprehend what was said. Comprehend that the man he was looking at was familiar to him, a tug at his past.

For a moment he felt like he was lightheaded, in a free fall. But he rolled his neck and straightened his back off of the wreck he was leaned against. Despite everything he knew Ignacio, and he knew when the man spoke like this to listen. So he didn't respond initially, even if it was hard to believe they were being watched. But that change on the other man's face, the way it softened and the smile wasn't forced, it reminded Blake of the man he once knew, the man he loved. It caught him off guard.

Frankly it was a lot to take in. And if they'd had any sort of privacy he'd have clocked Cabrera right then and there. Blake's chapped lips finally parted, "You'll have a lot of fucking explaining to do." Blake told him, reaching out his arm to clasp Ignacio's. Weary but resolute eyes locked on Ignacio's. He didn't dare speak further than that in case Ignacio's warning had merit. "Just tell me what you need me to do."

​

​

 

[Tool]

Lincoln
Interrogation Chamber​

Madison was slumped in the chair, her head lolling forward. Dried blood matted her hair, vivid bruises already darkening the exposed skin on her face and arms. Cabrera didn’t stare, he didn’t have time to rethink it, every second burning in his gut. Even if he had, he couldn’t afford letting her rest. She was his last ally in that hellhole.

“Sorry, girl.” He muttered to himself, slipping hand to his jacket. The small plastic vile weighted nothing in his fingers. He twisted it open and keeping the thing away from himself, he waved it underneath Madison's nose. Waiting for the sharp chemical to hit her and rush blood to her head.

He capped it back and grabbed her shoulder as soon as she jerked awake, holding her steady. “Easy. You’re safe.” Raspy voice colored with sincerity. It came so easy. Sometimes, even Ignacio didn't know, when he was frank and when acting.



Madison jolted awake when the harsh, abrasive, chemical smell curled around some part of her brain that still ticked and kept kicking until her mind lurched and jump-started. Pain bloomed as her eyes fluttered open. Harsh, lighting pain on her right side when she breathed in. Cracked rib. Sharp ache along her hand. Busted finger. Ache along her face and jaw......

A warm hand along her shoulder accompanied a rough voice, giving her sweet lies. Cabrera.

Madison's mouth worked for a moment, and when she spat off to the side, there was a molar from the back-left, in with the saliva and blood. She swallowed a few times, working the coppery tang in and down. It was, by far, the least painful thing on her or in her, and she shuddered involuntarily.

Toni. Toni and the gang had played the rebels for a bunch of fools, and now this fuckin' guy was here to what....... play?

The gaze that stared up at the man was tired, but still burned with both defiance and hatred. She didn't reply, but Madison did rake her eyes from toe to tip, looking for a weapon, evaluating her enemy, always looking for a way through hell. There was no chance, not really, not with him looking healthy and hale and her...... not. But what the hell.

When hope died, spite served as an adequate substitute.



Cabrera stepped back to give her some space, his hand dropping from her shoulder. "Sorry about this."

He caught her gaze tracking his movements, like a cornered animal ready to bolt. "Madison.” He didn’t hide the urgency, trying to pin her attention. He had no idea how coherent she was. “Listen to me very carefully now." His fingers brushed the grip of his sidearm. The same one that was aimed near Weston's head less than an hour ago. "Then you can have this. Deal?”

He let the offer sink in. He knew it was insane. Why would King’s right hand man give her his weapon, right? Except…

"Everything you know about me is a lie. I’m not King’s right hand man. I’m not a Samaritan. I’m not a criminal.” His sharp exhale shattered before he uttered the words he protected at all cost for a fucking year. “I’ve just pretended to be that. I'm Master Sergeant Ignacio Cabrera, United States Marine Corps." The words felt strange on his tongue after so long. "I was sent here by Roanoke Ground Forces—what’s left of the American military on the East coast." That was a lot of information. Was she even following?

“Fuck, that doesn’t matter.” He shook his head, running his hand across his shaved skull. “What matters is that they’re coming. Tonight. Cavalry is on its way. They’re going to take over this place and free the people.” He paused for a heartbeat. “But you and I have to make sure there are still people to save. Okay? I need you to help me get Weston and the rest out of the gas chamber. Before it’s too late. I know it sounds crazy and it’s not fucking fair.” His chuckle out of place, a little desperate, bitter. “I know you’re hurt and have no reason to believe me.” His brows knitted. “But why the hell would I lie like this? Right?” He swallowed.

“Help me, Madison. Right now you’re all I’ve got.” There were other things he had to do and suddenly he had to do them all at once. This whole situation wasn’t part of the goddamn plan.



Madison listened to the guy make his speech, lay down his cards, play his hand, and generally reveal the grand game he'd been playing from behind the scenes. Her eyes widened, then grew cold with rage.

"You....." She started, before her voice trailed off into aghast incredulity.

"You mean t'tell me, you've been playin' secret agent with the Samaritans, an' you don' even believe the shit you been spittin'? No...... don' answer that. I'm too mad. Somehow, some way, yer military boys are on their way, tonight, of all nights, by mee-ra-cu-lous coincidence, an' apparently that's inspirin' yew t'grow a pair an' do somethin' about this cluster......."

She shook her head and struggled to her feet, groaning only a little at the pain in her left leg.

"You know how many people died so you could sit on your camoed rear end an' wait for an invitation t'do the right fuckin' thing? How many settlements fell because of your involvement, your inactio-....... "

Anger made the woman's throat tight, and Madison trailed off once more. There was something incredibly unlikely about the remnants of the United States Military Industrial Complex, the fucking Marines, spending men, materials, and munitions to focus on the Samaritans in particular, while specifically NOT assassinating leadership and furthering the Samaritans' goals at every turn.

Something was very wrong about this story.

What did the US Marine Corps have to benefit from propping up the Samaritans? What did they gain from keeping a two-bit dictator in power for literal years?

And what, exactly, did the military have in mind for this complex?

Disgust suffused her features and her eyes narrowed. "Gimmie the gun. Tell me where th' strike's supposed t'breach and where the gas chambers are, apparently. I'll help the people in 'em because it's th' right thing, an' they don' deserve to die. But jus' to be clear, you are the literal definition of Just Following Orders, an' you can pucker up an' kiss my ass."



Her words gradually turned into a blurred mess in his ears. Sounded afar, blending with the hum of his own raging pulse. It made the vein in his neck throb, clenched jaw muscle twitch. It wouldn’t get to him in the past. Why did it now? Was he that broken or was she hitting too close home? Andrew's face flickered at his peripheral, stabbing his heart. Get a fucking grip.

Ignacio’s mouth went dry, face hot and tense. Maybe they would live long enough to talk again. Maybe he could explain. He was fucking dying to explain. Everything. To someone. Why didn't they strike earlier. Why did the military happen to be in the neighborhood just now. Everything. Did she care to know, though? Maybe she just wanted someone to judge and blame so it hurt less.

“That’s all I need from you.” His voice tight. Before he forcefully ironed it, turning all-business. “We lost contact the moment you started to jam communications.”

He stepped away and grabbed the metal table in two hands, lifting it up so the legs wouldn't screech against concrete. He set it down in front of her. Then picked up the bag he left under the small, bars-covered window. Soiled window pane filtered the orange glow of the lowering sun, turning his dark eyes hazel.

“I don’t know where they are and what’s the plan at this point.” He put the gym bag over the table and unzipped it with a scrape of the metal teeth. It was filled with a long coat, a hoodie, a bulletproof vest, thigh holster, zip ties, pistol, carbine, knives, flashlight and a map of the compound with his custom markings. Half of it he had stashed for such an occasion, for Nari. His heart skipped a beat at the thought of her after Hughes arrived at noon with the news. But he couldn’t let it distract him.

“Two squads should already be here. My old buddy was supposed to lead them to the maintenance tunnels. They were supposed to hit a few days from now, we weren’t prepared this early.” He tossed that almost off-handedly. More like a heads up than an excuse.

“The gas chamber is outside of the main building in the old part of the prison that Lincoln was built over. You have it marked on the map. There are not many guards there but more might come, bringing additional rebels, so you have to be careful. I'll be in the control room to make sure the door is open by the time you're there. If it's not… it means something is wrong and you'll just have to… improvise.”



Madison watched as toolbag and tools were splayed out before her, a smorgasbord of weapons and gear impressive enough to make any survivalist blush. The long coat would have looked amazing, and possibly hidden the worst of her injuries, but Madison could spot a tripping hazard when she saw one, and none of the cool factor in the world would have made up for ending up face-first into the pavement, the first time her legs decided to fuck with her. So, the ultra-cool long-coat got to stay put, while the woman painstakingly put on the rest of it. Those who knew her wouldn't be fooled by a long coat, and mobility was of primary importance, especially considering its current difficulty.

Her gaze flickered up at the 'we' in that sentence. Cabrera had been mid-hangin' when communications went dark, which meant there were more marines on the inside. That, plus the couple of squads hypothetically already on the grounds meant friendly fire was very much a possibility, especially with her packing heavy and not in whatever passed for a US Uniform, these days. Deep eyes that throbbed with pain and grim understanding looked at the Sergeant for a long, long moment, before continuing to gear up.

Did he realize how much of a suicide mission this was likely to be? Maybe. Maybe not. It didn't ultimately matter. There was a job to do, and it acted as a North Star with which to guide her actions. Fucking marines. Being a grunt ultimately meant a willingness to believe a CO would know what they were doing, would possess information and judgement necessary to make the right call, not only ethically but wisely. Madison's faith in the armed forces had flagged pretty hard when she'd seen how they'd chosen to react to the Zombie threat, and damned if Sergeant Cabrera hadn't managed to grind what little faith she had in the military the rest of the way into the dirt.

They'd been here. For years, they'd been here.

They'd been here and done...... nothing.

Or, in Cabrera's case, worse than nothing.

Exhaustion came over the woman in a hot wave, leaving her leaning with her knuckles pressed to the metal table. Everything hurt. Body, mind, and soul, layered on top of the figurative kilo of drugs still slithering through her system and the deep tiredness that was a unique sort of pain all its own, the mental equivalent of biting on tinfoil and dipping her bones into chattering cold pewter. But, as always, there wasn't time to boo-hoo-hoo into her sleeves, no time to rest or heal or find solace, there was only the next job. And the next. And the next. Until her work was done or she was. Whichever came first.

While she was leaning over the table and doing her damndest not to pass out or cry out of sheer, pointless frustration, Madison took the opportunity to take a look at that fancy map the Marine had been kind enough to provide her. That was....... that's where the execution chamber had been. That was the location of the gas chambers...... this was the most straightforward route between the two, and over there was the better route that provided a little more in the way of cover.

Improvise.

Okay, great.

Improvise.

A roil of nausea lanced through her gut and up her throat, and the fingers that weren't busted clenched hard. When it passed, Madison took the carbine in her good hand and straightened. She'd been damned lucky the side of her face that had gotten the worst of steel-toed boos was, in fact, the one with the sightless eye. Swelling on that side wouldn't change a goddamn thing.

"I'll figure it out. Anything else I need t'know?"



“I thought you would,” he said with wishful confidence. When he saw her for the first time, back then on the bike, he already knew what she was made of. This place was filled with wolves and lions, no sheep among the enforcers. But she had the brains and the experience and sure as hell she had the guts. That’s not what he admired in her the most, though. He admired her for that damn good heart.

Ignacio’s forehead creased as he watched her suffer. Deep down, he didn’t expect either of them to make it till morning. But it was never about that for her, was it? Neither for him.

Cabrera cleared his throat, gesturing at the walkie talkie in the bag. “Comms are still dark but not for long. If you hear someone on this channel that isn't me," he tapped the device, "it should be friendlies."

The weight of everything unsaid pressed against his chest. A year's worth of choices, sacrifices, and mistakes condensed into this moment. She wasn’t the first person he confessed to that day, but she was the first he could actually talk to about it. Except, there was no time to talk.

The urge to offer some Hollywood-worthy farewell sparked through him but he crushed it. He knew that for her, he wasn’t ‘one of hers’ even if she was ‘one of his’.

He patted the bag subconsciously, nodding to himself. "Thank you." His words fell flat and cheap, but he meant them.

"I'll clear this level for you,” he turned to leave, stopping by the door. "Then you're on your own."



Madison's expression went deadpan. How many arms was he under the impression she had? It was going to be hard enough working a carbine with a couple of busted fingers and (if she was being honest) some very wrong things on the inside of her torso. Carbine with two hands, radio with hand number three, and maybe a kazoo to announce her presence with the friendlies who had no idea she existed. She waited a moment to see if there was any code word to use as a signal to the persons with guns on the other end of the radio and, like...... not die.

One did eventually come out of he man's yap, after a moment of her staring at him.

Syria.

Cool. Cool. Cool.

Famously, an American military operation that went well and with no unforeseen hitches.

Various bits and bobs went into places on Madison's person, and when Sergeant Cabrera gave her a straightforward Thank You, she gave him a tired nod.

Black hoodie, bulletproof vest, boots, jeans, and a porcupine bristle of guns. A hot trickle of blood pooled somewhere down the back of her neck. This was a ridiculous plan. Sending her in this state to yee-haw cowboy open a gas chamber was not wise. Madison didn't trust Sergeant Cabrera's judgement and forethought any more than the wisdom of an expired jar of pickles in the back of a Circle K. Cabrera was, to Madison, a bowl of undercooked ramen, slurping his way to paradise and swimming in sodium.

He was, in short, an idiot.

Worse, he was an idiot who'd gotten a lot of innocent people killed for no good reason whatsoever.

Hoo-rah, as the saying went.

After cocking the gun with only a little difficulty, Madison started walking towards the pride and joy of the local military, and the growing night beckoned like a lover, cold and swimming dark.

"Aren't we all."

Bullyboy Squad

​

 

[Miaow]

THE RESERVE
Outdoors

TW: Brief mention of insects (Luna Moth)
​

Minnie's sleep had all but gotten worse since their move to the reserve... Sure, there weren't any Samaritans walking around... but it somehow felt worse. She liked it during the day, she liked seeing Momo out in the grass, tending to the gardens, experiencing the quiet of the forest... but at night, she simply couldn't settle. Anything could happen, she of all people knew that, and the anxiety of what was to come was suffocating.

She wasn't sure what time it was, though the sun had firmly set and most of the reserve had retired to their cabins... Well, Minnie had done the same, though not for long. Her feet dragged, her hands stuffed into the pockets of Xander's old jacket, her eyelids drooped... The rangers on patrol were used to her walks by now. Normally, she'd keep going until she tired herself out, then she'd be off to bed. It was her nightly routine, the friendlier of the bunch would sometimes say hello.

As she wandered, a figure appeared in her path... though they were familiar. Minnie recognized that silhouette anywhere, a draping curtain of hair masking a crouched figure, hunched over a small, wooden structure.

"Juno..." She murmured, just loud enough for the woman to hear, "What are you doing?"
Juno lifted her head, offering Minnie a smile and a wave before rummaging in her jacket pockets for her notepad. Her gloved hands clutched a pen as she wrote. Minnie approached as she scribbled, slowly taking a seat on a log beside the bug hotel.
The luna moth's mating ritual happens at midnight. I want to see it. They only live for 7-10 days so not many people get to see them.
As Minnie read her words, her arms wrapped around her knees, she smiled a little.
"The green ones?" She asked, to which Juno nodded with a grin.

Juno slowly sat down in the grass, her movements careful and precise to avoid spooking any critters. The two sat in silence for a while, listening to the wind disturbing the leaves on the trees, whistling through the branches, eliciting the occasional hoot of an owl.
"Would you leave... if you could?" Minnie asked, keeping her voice low, her arms coiling tighter around her knees.
Juno paused to think... This seemed like the kind of conversation she shouldn't be writing down. She wasn't aware of anyone reading her notebook once a conversation was complete, but there was always a risk. She shook her head. Minnie swallowed, taking a moment to consider her response... before nodding. From what she'd learned of Juno, she had been with the reserve even before the outbreak, this place had fond childhood memories, the rangers helped raise her. It shouldn't have been surprising, really. She knew no different.

"I like it, too..." Minnie responded, "It's quiet. We just... go to classes and farm and look at bugs all day."
Juno smiled eagerly. That sounded good to her, tending to crops, finding the bugs that lived on the crops... and no sign of the dead, kept out by towering walls and skilled rangers... Kind rangers, too. Al had made sure everyone at the Reserve knew what the Samaritans were like. Regular beatings, unprovoked, in broad daylight for everyone to see. They made a spectacle of anyone who broke the rules, forcing them to fight each other while their families watched. Rotting in a cage like Hughes was a mercy. Yet, Minnie's adrenaline still ran high. Anyone could snap when given enough power, the rangers were kind now... but that meant nothing for the future.

"I wish Xander and Haewon could see it..." She murmured, resting her chin on her knee. They'd be so proud... Seeing Momo out on the grass, all the things Minnie had built for him to play on, sleep in, chew on. The crops, how she'd used everything Gene had taught her, making supports from scratch to stop the stems from drooping, when to plant what and when to harvest, deadheading flowers so they'd grow back bigger and stronger.
"I think they'd like it here..." She spoke, her voice barely a whisper... and Xander deserved to see his baby. She missed them.

"What about your family?" She asked Juno. She wasn't quite sure how to word that question in a non-offensive way. Hey, are your parents dead? My biological parents are probably dead, but I have a Xander and a Nari now, which are way better than the real thing.
Juno scribbled something in her notepad before turning it around. Wren.
"Wren is cool," Minnie smiled, fidgeting with the laces on her shoes, "He was your leader, right? Was he good?"
Juno nodded eagerly. She'd looked up to Wren since she'd met him. He was the king of gentle parenting. Juno rarely stepped out of line but, when she had, Wren eased her back onto the right path. If you needed a firm hand, he could give it, but he never overused it.
I missed him. Juno wrote, considering her options. She would simply dispose of these writings later... Wren is a gentle man. Alvaro is not so gentle.
Public executions were unheard of at the Reserve until Alvaro's takeover. Juno had never seen something so cruel.

Minnie read her words... before simply nodding. He seemed stricter, she couldn't imagine Wren leading in the way Al did. Though she hadn't experienced his wrath just yet, she was apprehensive to show it when she disagreed with him.
He is kind as long as you agree with him. He doesn't like those who don't. Juno continued, giving Minnie a knowing look. Don't cross him and he will keep you happy.
As long as the two of them kept their mouths shut and their pens down, they could have all the rabbit toys, bug hotels and garden trellises their hearts desired.
"Do you think Wren'll come back?"
Alvaro won't just hand over the job.
Minnie breathed a soft sigh through her nose. She wasn't sure she could do another rebellion... and she was barely part of the one at Lincoln. She was recon at best, a bystander at worst... but seeing the Reserve fall to chaos made her stomach turn.
Be careful what you say about your family. Don't make Alvaro worry about you.
Minnie swallowed as Juno gave her yet another knowing look. She had to keep her head down if she wanted Haewon and Xander back.

There was a few moments of eerie silence once more, the two searching the tree line for any sign of the elusive luna moth. Juno yawned, covering her mouth with her hand. She was a little disappointed... She knew how unlikely it would be to see one on her first night of looking... yet she'd hoped to be one of the lucky few. Minnie could see the disappointment and fatigue painted across her face.
"Same time tomorrow..?" She asked with a smile.

Safton NanLia
​

​

 

[Safton]

The Wilderness
Collab Post w/ @kaiseride , aggravatedspacedolphins ​

By the time Font arrived at the peak of the hill, he felt every bit the dead man walking. Sweat coated his body. His vision was dark around the edges. He had trouble catching his breath. He was tired, so tired. In fact, he couldn’t actually be sure he was actually here at his destination or if this was some self-indulgent fantasy his brain was playing on him and he’d actually passed out somewhere along the way. There were probably worse ways to go.

He blinked and shook his head, hard, as the sound of moans cut through the evening wind. He had managed to lose the bulk of his infected pursuers, but not all of them. Some still hunted him as he’d ascended the peak. But at least for now, that was the least of his problems. Xander took a deep breath as he glanced up at the clear sky overhead, taking a seat on a large boulder with a deep sigh before fishing the black radio from the canvas bag with shaky hands.

He turned the device on and took a deep breath, attempting to organize his scattered thoughts. Finally, with a deep breath, he transmitted. “Calling all stations. This is Captain Xander Ray Font, 3rd Reconnaissance Battalion, United States Marine Corps. We need aid. I repeat, all Roanoke Ground Forces, if you’re receiving this transmission, please respond. Coordinates to follow.” He swallowed hard, taking a deep breath and doubling over to hold the radio against his forehead before transmitting again. “I really hope you’re out there…” he murmured, as much to himself as whoever might be on the other end.

***
Several miles away...
​

The static on the radio that he had sat on top of a stack of crates crackled. Gordon lifted his head, long blonde locks started to drape and scruff at the back of his neck. He needed a haircut badly, but that's besides the point. Sometimes, the occasional radio interference would crackle into the white noise, and fade back into the distance. It wasn’t anything new. They all took turns with the radio, listening for any signs of life, or from inside the compound. It had been dead silent ever since they had arrived, and he was wondering if they’d run out of batteries for the sucker before it ever spoke a word…but spoke a word it did.

The clipboard fell from his fingers. Shit. Shit. Shit. He scrambled for the radio, held it above his head, and didn’t give the other two a second thought, running for the main canvas tent at the center of camp. It didn’t matter. He could take getting his ass beat for busting in on a classified intel conversation. This… This was it. The flaps moved around him as he came rushing it, nearly out of breath in the few minutes he had taken to bolt across the ground, the radio outstretched in his hand. “Sir. It’s…It’s them.”

*​

Oh, calm yourself, son. Relax. You've killed a man already. This is just answering the radio, now. Whatever comes out of that channel can't be worse. Don't tell me you still need daddy to make your doctor's appointments, now. He was in the middle of discussing their known outside scouting findings with the old fucks when the canvas flaps started rustling more frantically than usual. It's them! It's them! Okay, Paul Revere. He stops mid-intel dump to side eye the seaman barging in, hand outstretched with a radio. Hmm. Sounds important. By the time the radio had reached here now leadership's hands, Xander had likely already spoken vital information, so Henry would've missed out. Hope you're not on death's door, I'm gonna need you to repeat the last thirty seconds or so. If you are, put death on hold or have it leave a voicemail after the tone.

Taking the radio from Gordon, nodding down at the lil' man, good work son, before turning around with it to face his war council of sorts so they would better hear the conversation, with whomever this was. "This is your Captain speakin'." He introduced himself plainly and not too specifically, still not sure who this 'them' referred to. One of our forward scouts? Cabrera? Whoever sussed, caught, killed Cabrera, and took his comms? You never know. It's a mixed bag out here. "I hear ya. Report."

***​

Xander inhaled sharply as the radio in his hand crackled to life, snatching it away from his forehead and staring at it as if it might combust. Instead, it squelched again, this time with something resembling words. “–Captain speakin’–” another barrage of static. If Xander had to guess, he wasn’t far from the radio’s maximum range. He shot up from the boulder where he sat, ignoring the burning pain in his body.

Font began pacing, holding the radio aloft in an attempt to get a better signal. “...Report.” That last word came through a tad more loud and clear than the rest. Not hearing any more traffic come through, Xander took his chances and once again held down the transmit button: “Captain. This is Xander Font. I pass: 'Syria'. Repeat: Syria."

He gave a moment for the countersign to process before speaking again. "Our mutual friend requests you launch the op now. We're on the brink.” Xander didn’t dare use any names over the air beyond his own… he wasn’t sure what the SIGINT capabilities of the Samaritans were like, but he wasn’t willing to risk it while the fate of Lincoln still hung in the balance. "Prepare to receive coordinates for my position… if you get here in time, I can brief you in full.”

A moan cut through his concentration. “Be advised… it will be a hot LZ.” With that, he turned back and spread the map out atop the flat surface of the boulder, frowning at the sight of blood smeared across the laminated surface. Taking a moment to orient himself, he began to read a rough set of latitude & longitude coordinates while holding down the radio's transmit button.

​

Bullyboy Squad NanLia Crono Namazu Miaow BeyondDandy Tool​

 

[Namazu]

FLASHBACK
The Cellar - Somewhere Outside of Lincoln Correctional Facility
In Collaboration with Bullyboy Squad​

Cabrera was the one to say it, to cross the line first. Something that punched through Weston's armors and like a snap of fingers the man was on him. The heavier body slammed against his in a feral grace and they hit the wall. Already exhausted after the mad run from the horde, Weston's fists missed precision but were fueled by raw passion. Briefly dazed, Cabrera let the muscle memory take over and they started to clash like waves against hard rocks. Wrestling against the wall then tumbling and grappling on the filthy floor. Their bodies locked in a slow, deadly dance. Breaths ragged and harsh. Like two, panting beasts. Despite the adrenaline-muffled pain there was something nearly intimate in that moment. Visceral, yet twisted and dark. They were never closer than this. Cabrera was over Weston, roughly nuzzling his face to man's torso in an attempt to cover it from oncoming strikes. His arm was wrapped around the other man's neck in a trademark move, the other forearm pressing to the throat to cut the oxygen from his brain. Choking him. The sound of splintering wood shot through the abandoned house and Ignacio faltered. His head jerked back and his eyes trained on Weston's as the cracks and shattering of glass followed with the amplified groans of undead. Like a tidal wave they began to pour into the building, threatening to tear apart everything in their wake.

Without a word he stumbled off the other. Bruised and winded, he snapped his gaze to the adjacent room that the rumbling mass was pushing into. His heart pounded with adrenaline and without wasting time he snatched the other man off the ground, helping him up. They needed a way out. But the hoard outside didn't leave any clearings. The snarls and nails against plaster and wood grated at their ears. Shuffling footsteps grew louder in the dinner room they tried to get away from. "Cellar." Cabrera harshly whispered and made a beeline for the trap door in the kitchen. But he never made it there. A fresh biter with skin flapping off its bloody cheek lunged at him from the room on the side. Ignacio grunted when his back collided with the brick wall, struggling to keep the thing away from his face with one arm.

For a moment, all Weston saw was red. He was on Cabrera before he knew it, thinking about nothing other than shutting him up. Maybe once and for all. The impact - first the wall, then the floor - drove grunts and curses from him. In his blind and dumb rage all he could try and do was overpower the other man. Cabrera had the upper hand in being able to think clearly and maneuver his way to a safer position. It was not until Cabrera started to choke him did he start to regain some of his senses. A tightness swelled in his chest as he struggled to take a full breath, throat compressed from the chokehold. He was just about to try a grab for Cabrera's eyes when the sound of splintering wood snapped them both out of it. The moment they spent staring at each other would have almost been comical were it not for the life and death situation falling into their laps.

"Shit-" As soon as Cabrera was off him, Weston scrambled to his feet, readily accepting that hand to help him up. Their personal problems could wait; the dead were the real threat here. It was a good thing he was right behind Cabrera as they beelined for the cellar - a good catch that Weston didn't see or think about until it was pointed out. Truth be told Weston could have just left Cabrera to die right there, and none ever would have been the wiser. It would've kept the dead entertained for a while until they wandered off, leaving Weston free to crawl out and head back. But, for whatever reason, he chose not to. Grabbing the dead by the back of its half-rotted shirt with one hand, he was surprised to see the biter also still had a leather belt dangling around what was left of its waist. He grabbed for the belt with the other hand and hefted the biter right off its feet. It was surprisingly heavy, but that only meant there was more force behind the act of shoving its rotting skull right into the corner of a kitchen cabinet. Its skull buckled with a gross, wet spulch and the biter went limp. He tossed it to the doorway, hoping at least a few of the other dead would trip on it.

"Go, go, go!" He grabbed Cabrera next, dragging him with as he scrambled to the trapdoor. The hinges were a little rusty, but functional. He pried it open, holding it for Cabrera to go in first, where he'd follow right behind. Assuming it was safe - or at least safer than above ground.

Cabrera whipped out his pistol in the same moment Weston saved his ass. There was no pause, no thank you, they just sprung for the only shelter in that place. Cabrera couldn't see shit, barely managing to not stumble on the few steps leading to the tiny, low ceiling chamber. He turned to look at the other. Right on time. When Weston was about to shut the trap door he could catch the muzzle jolting up into his direction. Cabrera aimed at the man's head, or so it looked like, and he pulled the trigger. The bullet drove through the rotting skull of the undead that was reaching for the Second in command. It dropped on the closing door, concealing it from the other stumbling biters. The two men stood in the thick blackness. Their hasty breaths seemed louder than the muffled sounds coming from above.

Ducking and diving out of the way, Weston swore he was going to get shot. Only after he heard the thump of a biter landing on the now-closed trapdoor did he get why Cabrera shot. Or hoped he got it, anyway. His ears rang from a gunshot that close to his head, which made standing in the endless blackness even more disorienting. Stumbling away from the door, he pressed his back against a cold stone wall and raised an arm in front of his face. If Cabrera tried to find him and take a swing at him, maybe he'd be able to stop it. Hopefully they were the only two people down here. Weston tried to slink away into the darkness, away from where he thought the trapdoor was, so he could hide and recover. It was pointless effort though, no doubt Cabrera would be able to find him again by his heavy breathing. He tried to focus on catching it so he could be silent - and not think about the fact he was now trapped in a small cellar. "Well, shit." He huffed between breaths.

Cabrera's breaths were equally audible and there was some quiet rustling coming from where he stood. The sudden stream of light cut through the darkness, blinding Weston. But the older male was quick to lower the tiny flashlight down and use it to illuminate the black interior. It smelled like mold and dust. Stored what looked like a private selection of homebrewed wine and moonshine. After he was done with making sure nothing would jump them, he directed the light at the man. "Show me your arms." He demanded even though he was the one who had a too close for comfort contact with an undead sucker.

Weston squinted and turned his head away from the blinding light, taking a moment to adjust to the flashlight's beam enough to see the same stash Cabrera did. No food. Damn. "Fuck you, show me your arms too." It irritated him the way this bastard thought to give him orders, but he complied anyway and slid off his leather jacket, which was undamaged, and showed Cabrera his arms. He was sweaty, but there were no bite marks or wounds on his arms or neck, and his clothes were not torn. He was safe. Safe-ish anyway.

Cabrera flicked the light over the man's figure before shining over his own arms. He paused. There was some blood on his biceps, trickling down from under his t-shirt sleeve. He put the light to his teeth and pulled the fabric up. There was a puncture wound with some rust around the bloody edges. "Fuckin' nail." He spoke around the metal in his mouth and let go of the fabric, shining around again. "Still feeling like remodeling my sexy face?" The side of his lips twitched up.

The sight of blood on Cabrera's arm made his heart skip a beat. Was that fear, worry, or excitement that the bastard had maybe been bitten? A puncture from a rusty nail wasn't great, but it was better than a bite. "You get that looked at when we get back." Weston pointed at Cabrera's arm as he paced away a few steps. If he didn't create a little bit of distance, he might take another swing. He sighed at the question. "We got other things to focus on right now," He hissed quietly, trying not to create too much noise. The dead were still shuffling and groaning overhead, but they didn't seem to be clawing at the trap door. "Do you still feel like acting like that?"

Cabrera attached the light to his belt and it swung as he took a few steps, almost hitting his head to something hanging off the low ceiling. "Like putting to sleep an upset puppy?" He asked with clear amusement in his tone and grabbed one of the bottles. "Only if he tries to bite again." He uncapped the thing and sniffed it.

Annoyed, Weston ran a hand through his hair and stared up at the darkness where, approximately, he thought the trap door was. He didn't put his back to Cabrera - he didn't trust him that much - and kept an eye on him out of the corner of his eye. He made a disgusted face watching the man open one of the bottles - but didn't bother warning him. If he wanted to test to see if he could handle old moonshine, let him. "If I'm a dog, then I guess that makes you flea. I think I still come out on top here." Weston grumbled.

Cabrera made a face at the smell but he tipped the bottle nevertheless. Taking a sip and immediately spurting the contents aside, coughing. Which easily transformed into laughter after man's words. His lips curved into a wry smirk. "I bet you'd like that, chief." His dark eyes almost black in the low lit space. Daring.

Feeling his way along the far wall, Weston was making sure there weren't any other shelves or containers in here worth looking through. A grin crossed his face, but whether it was because the man had lost the battle against the moonshine, or the comment, it was hard to tell. "Anyone ever tell you that you're an irritating little punk?" He shot back, but with far less venom in his words than earlier. He was thankful for the darkness when he felt his face get a bit hot. "So what if I like it. You gonna do something about it?"

That jerked his body with a short, surprised laughter. "Do something about you coming up on top?" Ignacio set the bottle down in a random spot and reached for another one. Apparently not discouraged by the badly stored alcohol, searching for a good one. "That would demand more manhandling from you." Cabrera rarely bottomed and only with men who could physically dominate him. "But I can show you why nobody calls me little." He winked to Weston and took another sip. Assessing it in his mouth before swallowing.

Weston leaned his head back and stared at the low ceiling for a moment, as if silently asking God why me?. He didn't know how to respond to that offer. Nobody but Temma's employees said things like that to him. Cabrera was the only other person who did, and he never could tell if the man was joking or what exactly his angle was. "Is that one drinkable?" He swerved around the topic for now. "Just don't get shitfaced, we do need to eventually get out of here."

Cabrera took a drag from the bottle and welcomed the burn cascading down his throat. He loudly cleared it when done. "Drinkable." That was an accurate description. He walked over to the other, bringing the swinging light to Weston's corner. He offered the bottle to the man. The horde upstairs still shuffled and groaned all around. They were stuck at least for hours. If they were unlucky? For days…

Drinkable was better than nothing, and better than vomit-inducing. He accepted the bottle and took a swig without smelling it first, forcing it down. This was only to take the edge off his nerves, nothing more. He made a face as it burned all the way down. "Yep. Tastes like home. Ugh." He handed it back - or, more like, shoved it back at Cabrera, bottle to the other man's chest. He stepped away and, since there just wasn't anything else to do in this hole, lowered himself to sit on the floor. "Might as well get comfortable." He muttered.

Ignacio grabbed the bottle and shamelessly plopped right next to the man. He wasn't that cold yet but he knew it was a matter of time and having another source of heat nearby was a good idea. He wasn't bothered by the usual inhibitions people had. He spent many nights huddling with his military brothers in the most embarrassing positions. "What was home like?" He casually asked with a hint of genuine interest and he looked down in between them at his bleeding shoulder. He pulled the sleeve up. Exposing the tiny but nasty injury and he tilted the bottle, sloshing some alcohol out and over it. His expression tightened and he let out a shaky breath.

Weston wasn't used to this much closeness, physically or otherwise, but he didn't object. It was clear to him as well this was going to be a long, cold wait. Body heat of another was good for the both of them. The question caught him off-guard. Very few people ever asked him much about before all this. The only one who did, didn't stick around long. He hesitated, not sure where to start. "It was shit." He offered helpfully, watching Cabrera slosh alcohol on the wound. "Dirt fuckin' poor. Shit parents. Nothing much to do except get into trouble." Another brief pause. "The mountains were pretty, though. That was the only good part."

Cabrera hummed at the frank answer, letting his skin dry. He took another long gulp and passed the bottle back to Weston. "Mountains?" He seemed to perk up. "Damn. I had concrete jungle and swamps." He chuckled. "You were a one percenter right? Before prison?"

Accepting the bottle, Weston took another drink. If he was going to get peppered with questions, he might as well have more. "Yeah," He admitted, a bit sheepishly. "Ran with a biker club since I was a teenager. Didn't have much of a choice though - you either fall in with them, or with those crazy bible-thumpin' fundies. They were somehow actually worse, if you can believe it."

Ignacio slowly nodded. "Don't get me wrong, life with God is better than life without 'em." He stated. "But I've seen religion used as a weapon first hand." In the Middle East. "It's a devastating force." He leaned his head back and evenly exhaled. His body gently trembled as adrenaline fully wore off. "I was freshly enlisted when my big sis got honorably discharged after over ten years of serving this country." He spoke as if the United States of America was still a thing. "She couldn't find her way back in civilian life, y'know?" He chuckled faintly. "Fell for a biker," he glanced over "like you." A criminal. "Been running with his club ever since."

Weston had his serious doubts about whether God improved anything at this point. Talk of the military was even harder. He pressed his lips together to make sure he didn't blurt out anything stupid. "Sorry to hear it. All of it. She still alive?"

Cabrera reached for the bottle. "Naw, it's fine. She found her new way. That's all I cared about. Plus her husband is a cool guy." He paused at the question. Visibly uncomfortable with it. "Maybe." Suddenly less chatty.

Noticing the visible discomfort, Weston nodded, stretching his legs out in front of him and folding his hands in his lap, staring at some point on the floor in front of him. "Yeah, I get it. I don't know if mine is alive yet either." He cleared his throat and shifted the topic. "I knew some guys that were in the military. Most of them never talked much about it. The few that did, only talked when drunk as shit, and couldn't look you in the eye while doing it. It fucked them up."

Ignacio mindlessly stirred the booze in the bottle as he thought about the past. About his family. But the unwanted flashbacks began to fade when he looked at the other man and recalled his military days. "Yeah, they can either talk about nightmares or moments of weakness and comfort from other men. Not something you would advertise." He looked at the bottle and shrugged one shoulder half heartedly. "But there were good moments too." He tipped his head and bottle for the one last swig of the flaming and disgusting but digestible liquid.

"Yeah..." Weston trailed off and went quiet, weighing a question in his mind. There was no better time than the present to ask it. "That Andrew guy. The one we pinned for causing trouble awhile back that we wound up shooting in the fight pit while you were gone. Did you know him?" That's how Weston was going to play this. An entirely innocent, open-ended question. He was handing Cabrera enough rope to hang himself if he didn't answer truthfully.

Ignacio mentally stumbled over man's words. He snapped his gaze to the other beside him. The proximity stirring the air thick between them. Glaring for a few heartbeats he finally asked straight, not hiding surprise. "The fuck did you get that question from, Jones? You spying on me?"

"I'd rather watch paint dry in a swamp than spy on you." Weston drawled, snorting at the man's glare. Cabrera's reaction to that question raised some significant red flags, and now he had to continue the questions. Just, carefully. "He was military too, I think. Just figured I'd ask, in case you were in his unit or something. Whatever they're called." Spoken like a true civilian.

Cabrera silently stared. His expression unreadable. Then he turned to fully face Weston. Stance once more tense and ready for violence. "Do not fucking insult me." He bared his teeth. It was a bad fucking move on Weston's part. Ignacio was aware the man knew something. There was no way that was just a coincidence after he….

Weston held one hand up in a placating gesture, hoping the man would cool his heels. The last thing he wanted was another fist-fight right now. So much for doing this the gentle way. "Andrew had a picture on him. Him and some other guy. You're in the background. I recognized your tattoo. A party, someone's backyard. Probably a barbeque. Ring any bells?"

That… took him off guard. Ignacio looked away, staring at the shelves in the shadows without really seeing them. His brows knitted with confused contemplation. "A picture." He muttered and slowly shook his head. "A fucking picture, Gunny…" He laughed. It was a bitter, rather sad laughter. And when his gaze returned to Weston, there was no hate but something hard and stony in the man's look. "Yeah, I knew the guy that you shot like a dog."

Weston winced. He had been prepared for anger and denial, but maybe not... that. Not that level of bitter sadness, or whatever it was. It was hard to read Cabrera's face in the near darkness. "I'm sorry." He cracked his knuckles slowly, a finger at a time, staring off at the distance. "I know that means fuck-all to you. I-" He sighed. Where the hell to start? "He was right, by the way. What he said. I'm not sure if you heard about it when you got back. He called us monsters, and he was one-hundred-fucking-percent right." His voice went quiet, and he actually sounded ashamed. "I think about that day a lot. The pathetic part is, it ain't clear to me what I should have done instead. We were all fucked, y'know? King wanted blood."

Cabrera looked away and despite a little buzz going around his head he went against the previous decision and took another drink. He was silent for a long time. It seemed like he might not speak at all. "King knows what's best for us." It wasn't clear if he really believed that. But Weston saw how Cabrera acted around the man in charge. Like a loyal puppy. It seemed he admired him. He put the bottle next to the other and folded his arms, hugging himself. Positioning as best as he could to be comfortable in his seated position. "They ain't going anywhere, I'll get some shut eye." He paused. Then he reached down to his pants. "Gonna save that too." He muttered about the light and clicked it off, dropping them into complete darkness.

Letting the silence fill the space, Weston kept his mouth shut. No point in saying too much and getting himself into deep shit. He might have already said too much, but nothing he couldn't lie his way out of. Booze and stress, and no other witnesses. Not like he admitted to anything earth-shattering, anyway. After Cabrera put the bottle down, he grabbed it for a last sip for himself, then returned it to its position between the two of them. Grunting at Cabrera's comment, he also shifted in position and hunkered down for a long night. There didn't seem to be much of a point in either of them keeping watch - surely if anything got through the trap door, they'd hear it. "Good idea." He muttered, folding his arms in front of himself as well, damn thankful to have a jacket on.

HOURS LATER . . .

Cabrera awoke first. Fuck, his head throbbed like a sledgehammer. He had to be concussed. He tried to breathe but the cloth on his face was suffocating. He couldn't think in the overcompasing blackness. Involuntary panic began to set in when he felt the course ropes digging into his dry blood-caked wrists tied behind his back. He tried to move but he was bound, ankles too. His body shook with a violent tremor as he writhed against cold ground in a weak attempt to get free. The rough texture of the soil scratched his bare skin. In the cellar, back in reality, Cabrera wheezed with loud, shallow breaths. His body was knotted and his teeth grated. He was reliving a personal nightmare.

Weston wasn't sure when he finally passed out, or how long he was out, but suddenly he jerked awake. He'd slumped some to the side as he slept, resulting in an obnoxious pain in his neck, but nothing that hopefully wouldn't away soon. What was more disturbing was the loud wheezing coming from right next to him. His first thought was that it sounded like a biter. Christ, had Cabrera somehow died in his sleep? Was it from the nail, or the awful alcohol? Or something else? In the darkness, he leaned away a moment to assess. No, that was a different noise. That was breathing. Not easy breaths, though. Reaching for Cabrera again, he fumbled for that light at his side, patting his hands up around the man's leg and hip. "Cabrera, fuck - where is it- hey!" He finally found it and flicked the light on, adjusting it so it pointed out and away from their faces. He grabbed Cabrera by the shoulder and tried to shake him awake. "Wake up! Its just a dream! It ain't real!" He hissed quietly, not wanting to stir anything that might be outside and above them.

Limp against Weston's hold, wet from cold sweat and sunken deep in the dream, the man didn't react. His chest kept rapidly heaving with jagged breaths and an occasional soft whimper escaped him. Until Ignacio's eyes shot open and driven by pure instinct he countered. Grabbing Weston's arm he pounced from place, throwing himself at the other with nothing else in his eyes but intent to kill. Kill or die. The bottle in between them crashed down, triggering low groans from the upstairs.

"Stop!" Weston hissed, using his other arm to shield his face from the oncoming blow he anticipated. No doubt the bouncing light cast strange shadows in the room, which didn't help. Hearing the low groans from upstairs, his heart sank a little bit more. "Calm down. Its just me. You were having a nightmare. You're not there anymore." He'd seen Dave have enough nightmares and night terrors to guess - wherever Cabrera was in his dream, it was an awful place to be.

Cabrera stopped. Still. Save for his torso that was tugged with hard breaths. Face to face with the other man in the dark. He gazed, slowly taking in Weston's features. Like his slowed down brain needed help to comprehend who he was with a why. "Fuck.." He exhaled sharply and began crawling off the other. "Shit-" He hissed as glass crunched under his palm, splitting and digging under skin.

"Morning, sunshine." Weston drawled, scooting over away from the broken glass and climbing to his feet. He took a cautious step forward towards the trapdoor, looking up and listening. "Fuckers are still out there..." He said in a whisper, trying not to make more noise than needed. Rubbing the back of his neck, he glanced back and down at Cabrera. "You gonna be alright?"

Cabrera bared his clenched teeth when pulling the shard of glass off his palm. Motherfucker sliced right into the bottom of it. "Yeah, I'm fine." He briefly glanced up at the other and then at the trap door. "If they ain't gone in a day I'm going out." He stated with a grunt, scooting his back to the wall and holding his palm up above his sternum. "Wanna pass me another bottle?" He opened one of the pouches on the utility belt to retrieve a bandage and a tiny bottle of super glue.

"Yeah, we might not have much of a choice if this keeps up." Pacing back to the wall, he brushed the broken glass away from their sitting-spot with his boot, scraping it all underneath one of the shelves, out of the way. It was hard not to laugh at Cabrera's request. "You still want more of this shit? Have it your way." Grabbing another bottle off the shelf, he popped it open, sniffed the opening, regretted doing that, and took a swig anyway. It burned, but it at least didn't come back up. "Drinkable. Pour some on your hand, too." He took a seat next to the man again, handling over the bottle. "Go easy though. Empty stomach and all."

Cabrera took the bottle and wordlessly poured some booze over his hand. He tensed up, silently cursing. "Yeah, got it, chief." He tipped his head back to gulp down some moonshine. Then he passed the bottle. Focusing on his hand. "Wanna help me?" He was waiting for the man to scoot over. He was ready to seal the nasty cut with super glue once the other was there to aid and keep the sides of the cut close.

"I suppose so." He scooted closer, taking Cabrera's hand in both of his, pushing the sides of the cut together with his thumbs. "I promise not to tell anyone you asked for help with anything. Might ruin your image." He grinned, trying to add some humor to the otherwise shitty situation. "Super glue's a good idea, by the way."

Ignacio's laughter was a little uneven, punctured by the pain. He slowly smeared the glue over his palm, along the closed cut. "Don't get me wrong, I ask people for assistance all the time." He grins back with a glint in his dark eyes as they meet Weston's. Cabrera took a hefty gulp from the bottle and then another one on second thought. It's some time later when the bottle is half empty and he laughs. "Stop acting like a prude. I've seen how you're looking at me." He flashes his teeth, joking about man's death glares at times.

Weston did his fair share of contributing to the emptying of that bottle, for lack of anything better to do, and to try and ignore his empty stomach. Neither of them planned on being out here this long. While the pair of them sat there drinking and occasionally breaking the silence, the conversation did get more relaxed - if only now that they could poke at each other without coming to blows again. At Cabrera's comment about being a prude, Weston snorted. "What the fuck makes you think I'm a prude? Just because I don't walk around acting like I'm going to windmill my dick around doesn't make me a prude." He paused a moment, then grinned as he added. "Ask Temma, I visit her whores often enough. I just don't need to brag about it." Eyeing Cabrera up and down, Weston seemed to be sizing him up - trying to figure out what the angle here was. There was clear hesitation as he was trying to decipher what, exactly, that accusation meant. If nothing else, at least Cabrera wouldn't try and waterboard him with bad moonshine if he got pissed. Hopefully.

Cabrera snatched the bottle again even though he had enough. "Nicely put, nicely put, chief." He joked about the dick imagery and threw his head back, pressing the wet glass to his lips. His throat bobbed with a few more gulps before he pulled it away to swallow air. Cabrera's coal-like eyes slowly trailed man's expression as he sat the bottle aside and stood, stepping close and standing in front of Weston as he began to unstrap his bulletproof vest. No words. Just the keen gaze gracing Weston's every move.

Watching Cabrera as he moved, Weston leaned back against the wall and looked up. He hadn't realized it, but his hands were already resting on the back of the other man's lower legs. "Getting warm yet, Cabrera? You look like you got some ideas in that drunk skull of yours." Weston commented lightly. Not at all an objection - merely treading carefully. "This doesn't leave this room. You got it? No running your mouth." Weston didn't move a muscle until he got a satisfactory promise.

SOME TIME LATER . . .

Cabrera's gaze caught the more illuminated part of the artsy tattoo design on Weston's side, half covering some ugly past. "So that's how things are..." He reached for the offensive mark under the unfinished eagle and brushed his knuckles against it. "I see."

Weston had clearly forgotten to think about keeping it concealed, busying himself with reaching for his clothes. When Cabrera brushed his knuckles against his side, he flinched and scooted away, as if he'd been struck. It dawned on him then how bad that looked. "I can explain-" He started, like a cheater who has just been caught in bed with a stranger. He stared at Cabrera, then at the floor, as if a good way to explain was going to magically write itself in the dirt. "I- it- it was... obviously before all this. Not just the guys I ran with, but the people I grew up with. They had some fucked up ideas." Weston grabbed his jeans and rolled away, climbing to his feet so he could put his pants on. He had more tattoos on his back, but none of them offensive like the one on his side - just mainly a large pair of outstretched angel's wings. "I regret it. That shit's the reason I was in prison to begin with, and I wanted to leave it behind."

Cabrera silently let the man speak, his expression fairly neutral. "I'm not offended, Jones. You trying to cover it says a lot about the man you are now. And I never met the guy from before so I won't judge."

"Thanks, by the way. For not judging. That means something." On his feet with pants and boots on, he pulled on his own shirt and jacket again. He paused a moment, listening for the sounds of groans overhead. He still heard them, but it seemed like fewer than before. "Fuckers are still out there."

Cabrera strapped his vest on and adjusted it before looking at the other with a tired look and a faint smile. "We all got our past, chief. Our demons. But we also got a second chance at doing this life thing. Let's make the most of it." He took a seat and patted the spot next to him. "Yeah looks like it. Gonna be cold now when the heat is off." He smirked lazily. "I like your wings." He stated out of the blue and leaned his head back, closing his eyes.

Grinning, Weston took a seat next to Cabrera, trying to get comfortable again. It was not as easy to sit there on this hard floor now, but he'd manage. "Thanks. I like 'em too." He also closed his eyes - no point in anyone taking watch. He was exhausted and the booze was pulling him into sleep.

A FEW MORE HOURS LATER . . .

Cabrera was out like a light and slept solid for a few hours. He forgot to turn off the light so it greeted them in the morning. Was it morning? The same cold, dusty cellar. Fuck, everything hurt at that point, especially his neck. Ignacio realized his head was leaned to Weston's shoulder only when he was slowly stirring awake. He straightened up with a grunt and checked the water and shock proof watch on his wrist. Yeah it was morning.

It took a bit longer for Weston to stir. He was sound asleep, head hung to the side opposite of Cabrera, shoulders slumped. It wasn't until Cabrera started moving did Weston flinch awake, only for more than one joint to make a cracking noise as he moved. "Jesus fuck." He muttered, rubbing a hand over his face as he tried to get his bearings.

Ignacio pressed palm back to the wall and hauled himself up with a displeased groan. "Yeah." He confirmed, squinting against the whooping in his head. "Sore?" He realized they emptied more than one bottle.

"My dad used to have this saying - 'the only thing that don't hurt is my hair'." He snorted, then grunted as he slowly stood, pressing a hand to the side of his head. "I think I've had my fill of moonshine for awhile." He stood there, stone still for a moment, with his eyes closed.

"Whatever happens, tomorrow morning we open that door." Cabrera stated with conviction.

AND A FEW MORE HOURS AFTER THAT . . .

Ignacio steeled himself when he heard something. His heart wobbled against his ribcage. The sounds. The steps. The harsh voices. His body braced when rough fingers dove into his matted hair and jerked his head back, exposing his throat. His adam's apple bobbed uncontrollably and his gaze darted between unfamiliar faces. Looming and leering over his bare body, mouths twisted with foreign tongue. Their yelling rang in his ears. Their eyes bore into him, gleaming with hostility and contempt. Making him feel even more naked. Like they tried to strip his very soul.

Locked in the memory he squirmed against the cold floor. His body was limp and his eyelids heavy when he stirred to a half lucid consciousness. Cabrera couldn't see in the blackness, blindly groping filthy ground until he touched something warm. He didn't know it was Weston's thigh. The flashlight was out and Ignacio didn't remember where he was. "Conejito…?" He was hot, too hot. His neck and chest were burning despite the shirt under vest being soaked with cold sweat. He tried to trace the man's body, scooting closer like he was searching for shelter.

Once again for the... second? Third? Time in as many days, Weston was jolted awake by sudden suspect sounds. This time, it was also because something touched his thigh. His sleepy mind's first thought was that the biters had gotten in and now one was reaching for him. Except, biters didn't speak Spanish. And, frankly, neither did he, beyond a few basic words. Still surrounded by darkness, Weston cursed and fumbled for the light. "Cabrera, where the fuck's the li- Jesus Christ." He had no idea what was going on but he now had a very sweaty, very damp man feeling him up trying to get closer. While their earlier extracurricular activity was pretty fun, this was not his idea of entertainment. "What the hell is wrong with you?" It was less accusatory, and more simply bewildered. He kept feeling around for that damn light until he finally found it - to his other side, not on Cabrera's side as expected. After some fumbling with it, he managed to turn it on, leaning away from Cabrera to look him over. "What?"

The illumination was no longer bright where the beam hit. It was a weak, yellowish hue of a dying light. The battery must have been running out. But still it was clear Cabrera's face was moist from sweat and his half lidded eyes glazed over. Heavily fatigued body just lay down next to Weston. His fingers curled into the front of man's shirt like searching for a life line. Unseeing eyes searched for focus like a camera lens. "You found me…" Ignacio's voice was quiet, sounding idle.

Weston had seen enough drunk, high, sick, and dying people to know something was wrong - and it wasn't the booze this time. Letting Cabrera cling to his shirt, he pressed the back of his hand to the man's forehead. His eyes widened at how hot the other's skin felt. "Shit, you're burning up." He muttered, looking over the other's body, half expecting to see a bite. The thought of having to put Cabrera down now was, truthfully, not a pleasant one. That's when he remembered. "The fuckin' nail-" He reached for the man's arm, shoving clothing out of the way to take a look at the wound, sitting forward.

Cabrera lay there, cheek in the dirt. He mindlessly gazed up at the other, not letting go. The skin around the nail puncture was red, hot and swollen. A definite sight of an infection. The man's dehydrated body probably wouldn't be able to fight it without antibiotics. A stupid nail. "Can you hear it…?" Ignacio muttered, listening to the phantom whoop of the helicopter rotors. A weak smile curled up his lips as he reached up his free hand to cup Weston's face. "They're here to take us home."

It had been awhile since Weston had seen an infection so obvious, and so bad, but he knew it when he saw it. Shifting in his seat, he pulled himself away from Cabrera and climbed to his feet. "Ok that's it, we're moving. Stay there." He pointed at Cabrera, not that he really thought the man was capable of moving far, but he didn't want him getting hurt. Which... was a new feeling. Grabbing the light, Weston quietly approached the ladder that lead up to the cellar door, clicking the flashlight off and grasping it between his teeth. Very slowly, and very quietly, he ascended the ladder - pausing at the top to listen. He heard nothing. Unlatching the cellar door as quietly as he could, he slowly lifted the door open an inch so that he could peer out. Mentally, he said a little thank-you prayer to whatever was still listening. It would be tight, but not impossible. From his vantage point, he saw the back heels and legs of two biters, facing away from the door. There appeared none to his left or right. He couldn't see behind their exit, but the lack of the noise of the crowd gave him hope. Closing the door, leaving it unlatched, and climbing down the ladder as quietly as he could, he hurried back over to Cabrera and crouched down. The man was clearly hallucinating, but the best idea he had was to work with his hallucination to get him to move - if he could. "Yeah man, we're going home. Listen, you..." He thought about it a moment. If Cabrera had been military, he'd been shot at before. That story would work. "You took a bullet to the arm. You're not in great shape, so I'm going to have to carry you out of here. Think you can walk a bit first, though?"

"Okay…" He didn't understand but he was a fighter.

SOME TIME LATER, BACK AT LINCOLN . . .

Ignacio didn't remember the pain and the exhaustion that came after. But he did remember the hard body he was pressed against. Strong arm supporting him. Eventually nearly carrying him until they were spotted by a patrol and taken to safety. Cabrera drifted awake in a hospital bed. His gaze and his memories were fuzzy. But he couldn't forget the face of the Second in Command. A voice that taunted and praised. Ignacio's lips were parched and his body still struggling. The meds combated the fever but Cabrera was only half coherent when he gazed at the two men nearby. The doctor and Weston. The man from his dream. His memory.

Weston was sitting in a chair, looking exhausted as he listened to the doctor - some handsome, dark-haired man that looked like he was also in need of sleep. A nurse hovered near the two as she handed Weston a water bottle and a few pills. He swallowed them down quickly. When he saw Cabrera open his eyes, he shooed the nurse away and got up from his seat, dragging the chair over to take a seat closer to Cabrera's bed. "Mornin', sunshine." He snorted a laugh. "You with us, or are you gonna start mumblin' weird shit again like last time?" A mere distraction, while the nurse and doctor hovered over Cabrera on the other side of the bed.

Ignacio didn't have the capacity to keep tabs on all of the room. His focus was narrowed to the man that spoke to him. Second in Command. His lips curled into a weak, slanted smile. "You love my weird shit, Jones. Admit it." There was some fondness in that gaze. Stripped off bravado, dominance and self-perseverance. Just a man. Whatever he was before. Whatever his end game would be. Here Cabrera was nothing but a hurt human leaning in to the ray of light.

Grinning back, Weston leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the end corner of the bed. He looked like he was getting good and comfortable, like he intended to stay there awhile. "It has its asshole-y charm, yeah. At this rate you're gonna make me learn Spanish, so I can call you stupid nicknames. I'm working on one right now - something about eating nails. The doc here says you gotta stop shoving rusty old nails into your arm, y'know." It was hard not to admit he was relieved that the man didn't die out there. It looked grim for a bit.

Cabrera stared into Weston's face, faintly smiling. But when the doctor was mentioned his gaze cruised to the other man in the room. "A fucking nail?" He vaguely remembered. Made him laugh. Then cough becasue his throat was damn dry. His body was dehydrated but getting the IV drip. He'd be fine. Probably.

Weston laughed as well, but when Cabrera started to cough, he reached over for the man's arm and gave it a light squeeze. The doctor noticed and, seeing as how Cabrera wasn't going to keel over dead yet, excused himself from the room to give the two some privacy. "Take it easy. And yeah, of all the damn things. A nail. Don't worry, if you had died, I would have carried your ass back here and made them put something better sounding on your grave."

Ignacio's gaze turned back to Weston. His muddled brain registered the touch, the words. The tone behind them. Slowly it processed the meaning. He reached up to touch Weston back. His hand weak, fingers brushing skin. Then he said with sincerity of an old friend; "I fucked you good." His lips stretched in a sleepy smile. "It was good."

Weston let out a laugh, and actually blushed. He tried very hard to ignore it. "Oh, you remember that much, huh? Good. That's less awkward." It was still awkward, but not in an awful way. He glanced off at a spot on the floor that was suddenly very interesting. "Yeah, it was good." He went quiet for a moment, then grinned at Cabrera. "Shit place for a first time with someone. I'll give you a pass for that though. But, next time? There's gonna be no dirt, moonshine, or dead." He had a devious grin on his face, even presuming there might be a next time for that.

Ignacio gazed at the other when Weston spoke to him. But it wasn't clear how much he understood. He squeezed man's forearm before his hold began to slip. "Next time..." He hummed sleepily, on the verge of passing out again. "I'm gonna show you heaven..." His eyelids felt heavy and shut against his will. His palm fell free. Cabrera was unconscious again. How much he would know of about what took place once he was truly awake was a mystery.

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