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

[Tool]

Lincoln
Out and About
TW: barf​

It felt like the beginning.

It felt like when the zombies first rose.

Her father had been dispatched quickly, along with Dottie and Bob Ballings in the house next door and Tanya Kinders in the house after that. Tanya's cats Madison let loose, once she heard the sounds of panic and not-so-distant gunfre. Not-so-distant screaming. There had been walking, then, just as there was now. The players changed, but Madison was still the one walking, careful and slow, riffle at the ready, looking around for hostiles, a little fuzzy on the particulars but still able to spot an enemy when she saw one, shambling or part of the Pulse Club, it didn't matter.

The pain was different. Back then, the pain had been all emotional, her stomach in her throat, tight and hard, whispering 'oh fuck' over and over into her amygdala. Now, the pain was physical. She felt hollowed out, emotionally, a girl with cold, lead bones and torn meat all over. Before trying to connect with a chapter of her old motorcycle club, Madison had made a difference. It had been slow going, with some very personal tragedies along the way, but the woman had made zombie hunting into a god damned art form.

Helping Northview survive a swarm had been the last time she'd made a lick of difference. Nothing she'd tried, from advise to actual help, had changed anything, and getting shot in the head had definitely hampered her ability to take matters into her own goddamn hands. She'd been at this god-forsaken prison for...... god...... how many months had it been? Had she reached a year, yet? Weston, Minnie Mouse, and Sneakers were still the only ones she'd befriended, and all of those bonds, tentative or cemented, had been made before she'd gotten here.

King and the associated gaggle of douchebags had been treated as though they were unkillable gods, impervious to such trifles as grenades, bullets, trip-mines, a cut brake line, hell, even a well-aimed moltov cocktail. Nobody, not a single person, seemed to understand that no king, no emperor, no gang-leader, nobody was impervious to someone who was willing to trade their lives for that of their target. Powerful men were filled with the same bones, gooey bits, and juice as every other human being on Earth.

Yeah, the Sarmaritans were dangerous, King and the other Head Honcho Big Bads in the prison had guards and guns...... but they weren't Secret Service Agents, trained to protect the President of these once United States. This was not a retinue of Seal-Team-Six-Kung-Fu-Expert-Marksmen. These were ex-gangers, ex-convicts, ex-prison guards, and anybody else who'd happened to weasel their way into positions of power. Ex-military was probably the best they had on hand, and that didn't account for every Samaritan. It just didn't.

Bah. It was pointless to ruminate, now.

No one had listened to her, people had died, and she'd been laid up like a chump, about as useful as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.

Nothing, not one goddamned thing she'd done since getting shot in the head had mattered, even a little. But then, Madison supposed getting shot in the head precluded most people from mattering, any more. She'd just been alive for the experience, that was all. If anything, her involvement at the Prison had only made things worse. A rough shake of her head shifted her mental focus. She'd been a rube in various shades and degrees since the rise of the dead.

What else was new.

The revelation that Cabrera, loyal servant and executor of King's will, was apparently a secret marine on a covert mission...... well, that was somehow worse than his believing in the totalitarian slave-state that King had set up. It meant either Cabrera thought all the lives and settlements that had gone up in flames were acceptable collateral damage to keep up his cover (they were not), or he'd fallen under the same collective delusion that powerful men were immune to a decent Glock.

Either way, getting those people out of the gas chamber was the first contribution she'd make to this stupid old world in many, many, many months.

It felt like the beginning.

Fewer zombies (though still the occasional shuffler). More random assholes, shooting at her..... but overall..... this was some serious deja vu.

She had to stop at one point to retch in the grass, blood and bile sinking into the frigid, uncaring earth. Nobody shot her while she heaved, so.... hooray for that, but the the pain in her head made her sway for a long moment, the screaming and the gunfire seeming very far away.... until she forced herself back to her feet.... fell back to her knees with a pained grunt, and tried and succeeded on the second go.

Verticality. What a concept.

When she got there, the gas chambers were decidedly anticlimactic. A mediumish building, guarded by a couple of people who might as well have had 'I Am A Douchebag And Would Very Much Like The Opportunity To Prove It' tattooed on their foreheads. Then again, for all Madison knew, they could be secret military agents, especially committed to keeping up their ruse at the cost of a few dozen lives. It would not have been the first time. Whatever. Fuck 'em. They went down with perfunctory ease on Madison's part, and it was only the blood trickling down around her collarbone that made the woman realize she'd been shot at some point.

What else was new.

Thank the good lord for his blessed drugs.

Inside, Madison found a notable absence of anybody manning the controls, but there was a hatch with a wheel, smack dab in the middle. At least they made the important door easy to identify.

Turn the wheel, set people free.

Easy.

When one hand proved insufficient, Madison tried both hands. Then, she put her back into it. The carbine clattered to the floor, and she wrapped her whole body around the wheel and pulled.

Nothing.

Okay, great.

Madison stood there for a moment, trying to gather her shattered wits and figure out why the nice door wasn't opening when that was the entire goddamned point of doors.

The words on the walls were a pixilated blur, but after a moment, she did notice a series of unnecessary looking tubes that attached to the door. Hydraulics, maybe? Hydraulics needed fluid of some kind to work, right? Chestnut eyes couldn't make out the writing above the fire axe, but damned if she didn't pick up the axe and swing straight into everything that connected to that goddamned door out of sheer, rage-filled indignance that a stupid door was standing in her way. It was by luck rather than careful, intellectual planning that liquid rather than impressive voltage spurted into her face and chest, but a brief, sighing hiss from somewhere sounded promising.

Okay, great.

Madison v. Door, round two.

The second battle between the ex-detective and the inanimate object proved far more fruitful than the first, once she twisted hard enough to make black stars spark in her vision and pull for everything she was worth.

The suction of air rushing past might have pushed her off her feet, if she hadn't been leaning on the rather impressive doorframe.

People.... people were in there, and some of them gasped. So.... living people, then. If she'd been quicker on the draw, or more witty, or really anything beyond having had enough of this nonsense, Madison might have said something meaningful, something memorable...... but all she managed was a tired nod and a decisive:

"There."

​

 

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
Outside the Gas Chamber​

Thunder had a certain sound in the holler that it didn’t have out in the flat plains or big cities. The shape of the mountains and hills gave it a particularly deep rumble that, back in the day, old Mamaw Jones said was the ghost of dynamite exploding from back in the coal days.

When pressed as to how dynamite could possibly have a ghost (a question Weston was only fool enough to ask once) Mamaw leaned forward in her rocking chair, squinted at him with the good eye that still saw what was in front of her, and smacked him on the cheek. She wasn’t strong enough to beat him the way Pa did, but it was clear to him where that habit came from.

“A‘course dynamite got ghosts. Everything bring haints, if it was thought long and hard about in life, or went out with a big enough bang in death. It's the haints of the mountains themselves, Junior, don’t be stupid.” She leaned back in her chair, reaching for her ‘peace pipe’ - the big fancy inhaler that delivered some kind of misty medicine straight from the shiny-white-plastic box to her lungs. Weston never asked again how anything could have ghosts after that. Not just for fearing another slap, but because it made sense. In a place full of hate and haints, superstitions and subpar education, the explanation was as good as it was ever going to get.

It was that deep haint-fed rumble that Weston’s hazy mind was imagining as he sat there against the gas chamber wall, struggling to take in deep breaths that would find him enough oxygen to keep going. The beginnings of carbon monoxide poisoning was setting in already - exhaustion, heavy limbs, confusion. He couldn’t start a thought and expect to finish it, mind feeling like a row of boxcars that started down the main track only to veer off onto a spur track and wind up somewhere half a state away.

Someone crawled over a few pairs of legs, including his own, and grabbed him by the shirt. With how tight they were packed in there, by the time they all hit the floor there was really only room to curl up into fetal position, or get okay real quick with having your neighbor’s arms and legs tangled up in your own. It was going to be a shit way to die, tumbled into a mass grave like broken toys. Whoever was shaking him by the shirt wasn’t giving up, and Weston wasn’t really focusing on any words until he tried to bat their hands away.

“Goddamn, Tig, ain’t time for that now.” He chuckled, finally realizing it was Tigran pawing at him, pulling up his shirt.

“Fuck you, sleaze, that’s not what -... that’s not what I’m doing.” He wavered, somehow having a bit more sense left in him than Weston. “You’re bleeding from somewhere.”

“Does it fuckin’ matter?” He drawled out, starting to close his eyes until Tigran shook him harder.

“Yes, because if you’re going to die sooner than the rest of us, someone has to deal with it.” Tigran’s voice was grim and worn. “I’m not letting you eat us while we’re still awake to feel it.” He grumbled, gently pressing a hand to Weston’s chest to test how bad the wound was. Sure enough, it was just superficial and not too deep. A messy bleeder in its prime that had seeped through his shirt, but the bleeding had already stopped and what was smeared on his skin was tacky. It might not even be enough to warrant stitches, just a good cleaning and some gauze. Though it was doubtful any of that would ever happen.

Satisfied that Weston wasn’t going to bleed out on them, Tigran pulled the man’s shirt back down and crawled back to Weston’s side, against the wall. Someone had to shift their leg out of the way to make that happen.

“You got punched in the head one too many times. You might have a concussion.” Tigran muttered, avoiding Weston’s gaze. No doubt that was adding to how much the older man was struggling to keep his head above the proverbial water here.

“No shit. I think I noticed, in between gettin’ my heart ripped out and spat on and gettin’ a knife shoved in my back.” Weston drawled, words slurring. He wondered if anyone else heard the thunder. Maybe it was just the haints and hollers in his head. “I’m not that loopy, Tig. I’m just… so fuckin’ tired. I think I’m all out of fight.” Weston sighed, tilting his head to stare up at the ceiling, because looking people in the eye was hard right now.

“You can’t give up yet.” Tigran scowled, pulling one knee up and wrapping his arms around it.

“Thinkin’ about it.” Weston muttered. He wanted to punch someone right now, but lifting his arm felt like a waste of energy he barely had. That thunder was still rumbling off and on - was it storming outside? But the thunder sounded…. Wrong, even inside a cement chamber, even in the gentle hills of Ohio instead of home in the hollers.

Thunder was supposed to rumble, not be trails of staccato pops followed by… banging! Weston scowled at the door, and when the echo of banging filled the room, Weston put his hand on the wall and used Tigran to push himself up to his feet. It was slow going and pathetic to watch, but he got upright. The banging startled everyone still conscious enough to be startled, causing a few gasps. The two folks nearest the door did their best to scoot a few inches away from it to make room for Weston as he stumbled over to it.

“Y’hear that, Tig?” Weston muttered. “Gunfire and bangin’. Fightin’ maybe? They musta found th’others. Or, best case scenario, King’s men and Toni’s men are slaughtering each other like they both fuckin’ deserve while everyone else hightails it out of this cesspit.” Weston put his hand on the door, feeling the reverberations as something hit it or the wall nearby. He closed his eyes for a second, leaning his head against his hand.

Please God, whoever’s on the other side, let ‘em be a friendly here to help us, because I can’t.

Tigran squinted at the door, as if that could help him hear it better. Though he mostly heard his pounding headache, he did hear it. The banging. Whatever was going on out there was sure as shit getting violent.

The silence that filled the room when the banging stopped was enough to make Weston’s heart crawl back up into his throat. Had his Door Guardian Angel given up? Was the door impossible to operate even from the outside? Was it stuck? Damaged?

Weston smacked his palm against the door, curling his fingers against the smooth metal surface. “No, no, no, no, fuck, don’t give up, Christ. We’re in here!” Weston banged on the door, as if it helped. “We’re in here and we’re -”

Like the glorious song of angels from on high, something banged and rattled outside, and the door squeaked. The whole thing shuddered as the hinges squeaked, and it took a significant amount of Weston’s remaining strength and sense to not let the suction of rushing air knock him completely backwards and off his feet.

The air hit him, and instinctively he took a deeper breath than he’d had in… he didn’t know how long. Long enough for this to be bad. Long enough for some people in that room to have possibly not made it. Long enough for some of them to wish for death rather than whatever permanent state of disability they were going to be in when they woke up.

Weston gasped in the biggest lungful of air he’d ever taken and clung to the edge of the doorway, staring at his Door Guardian Angel in disbelief. And yet, somehow, he wasn’t all that surprised… because if it wasn’t Madison saving his ass, who else would it ever be? The fresh oxygen in his lungs was a rush better than anything he’d ever shot up, smoked, or drank in his entire life.

“Tock, my Watchdog.” Weston gave Madison a genuine smile, the best his face could still produce as he stumbled out of the doorway - careful not to stumble into Madison because God knows despite how perpetually immune to death his Door Guardian Angel was, she wasn’t immune to pain and was admittedly not in tip-top shape lately.

Still, the knowledge she was full of broken bits didn’t stop him from steadying himself, reaching out for Madison, and wrapping her up in the biggest, most honest damn hug he could muster without crushing her. His fingers curled against whatever spot of fabric on her back wasn’t buried under guns and gear and he let out a shuddering, relieved sigh.

“You utterly insane, beautiful woman. If you wanted me to marry you, you could have just asked.” Weston half laughed, half crazy-sobbed from relief, ignoring the blood and mystery hydraulic fluid that smeared onto him before letting her go, holding on to her upper arm to make sure she didn’t fall over in the process of being released from the hug. Relief and oxygen deprivation followed by an oxygen flood made for a real emotional rollercoaster.

Behind them, people were already starting to crawl and stumble their way out of the chamber. Tigran had exited second, right on Weston’s heels, though instead of taking time for a celebratory hug he had immediately turned around and offered his hand to the next closest person. He stayed by the door, helping people out as quickly as he could get them to move, urging them to get away from the door and fan out, to give each other space to breathe.

“Deep breaths, everyone. Get that air in your lungs and quickly. Shake it off if you can stand.” Tigran ordered, and Weston smiled a little and shook his head at how much the kid was starting to sound like him under pressure. Maybe there was some hope yet.

“Christ, I’d kiss you if I didn’t think you’d kick me in the balls for it. But we gotta move.” Weston glanced back, only to see Tigran dragging a body of an unresponsive rebel out of the chamber. One of two, with the second one on the way between two other of the rescued rebels who were strong enough to walk and carry a body between them. The sight of his people, dying or possibly dead already, wiped the relieved smile right off his face. These people were in no shape to fight, and he needed a plan.

“What’s going on inside? Any chance there’s some direction I can send these people and let ‘em just run for it? There ain’t no way we can-”

Weston’s words were cut short by a bullet that whizzed past his head so close, he swore he could feel the air rush on by. It wasn’t until he felt a warm trickle down his cheek and a stinging sensation did he realized he’d been grazed by a gunshot. The shrieks and screams around him as the other rebels - the ones that were mobile, anyway - took off and scattered like the wind brought his attention up from his bloodied hand and to the figure standing some distance away outside.

"You son of a fuckin' bitch."

Tool NanLia Bullyboy Squad Good_Morels ​

 

[Safton]

LINCOLN
Indoors Gym Area
The morning of Weston's Execution
Collab with Bullyboy Squad ​

Bags hung from chains, worn mats on the floor and free weights stacked in the corner. The cavernous space was still. Those who came there before work didn’t wake up yet, those who were coming after the night shift were yet to arrive. But it wouldn’t stay empty for long.

Cabrera stood alone by the sparring ring. His hands flexed as he tightened the wraps around his knuckles, the rough fabric biting into his skin just right. He rolled his shoulders—muscles in his back alive under skin—testing the tension. Wearing nothing but shorts and an absent look, the man seemed older than his 36 years and far more battle-scarred than he’d remember.

The faint creak of the door broke the silence and the guard’s voice followed.

“He’s here, boss.”

Ignacio didn’t look back at either of them as he responded.

“Good. Now leave.”

He glanced at the mirror across from him and zeroed in on Xander’s reflection. Fed and trained for a few weeks, he looked like a good investment. That’s how Derek would put it, wouldn’t he. Something he always did with the men he picked for his fighters. For his gladiators. He made sure there was profit. Cabrera knew a thing about it. He was one of such investments even though it was King himself who chose to let him live back then.

“You look healthy.” He raised his hands to his mouth, securing the wrap with his teeth, never breaking eye contact.



Xander flexed his hands experimentally, testing the wraps that extended from his knuckles down to his wrists on either arm. His fingers splayed out partially, but were held firm against the gauze that the enforcer had secured them with. The same enforcer now led him down the corridor toward an area Xander knew all too well… the Pit. A shiver ran down his spine as images of blood and whispered words flashed through his mind. Font ground his jaw together in an attempt to dispel the intrusive thoughts, shaking his head. If the enforcer alongside him noticed, the man didn’t speak up – instead reaching out to open the door before glancing expectantly at Xander to step through.

Font obliged, the guard poking his head inside to address Cabrera before being dismissed. Xander took a moment to scrutinize the Samaritan. He was alone in the space, posted up by the ring. The man was a wild card at the best of times, but right now he had a look of resolute determination in his eyes as he returned Xander’s gaze.

The teacher scoffed at Ignacio’s remark. It was true; the Samaritans had done all they could to get him back to ”fighting shape” after the beating Greg had put on him and the time he spent on work detail. Increased rations, medical checkups, making the gym available to him. Hell, they’d even given him supplements for Christ’s sake. He supposed he should have been happy; in today’s world, just getting enough food and water to survive wasn’t guaranteed. But throughout it all, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being fattened up like a pig for slaughter.

“I have you to thank for that?” he asked, taking a few measured steps forward toward Cabrera.



“Yeah, you got me to thank for that.” He traced Xander’s expression in the silver luster. He knew what he had to do and he couldn’t afford second thoughts. He’s been preparing Xander for a day like this much longer than the man could have fathomed. Since the first test in Xander’s bedroom that proved what the man was made of. All those little events leading up to the day in which Cabrera could finally…

Boots hit the concrete outside and the door swung open. A group of enforcers filed into the gym, back from their shift. Their voices dropped to murmurs when they saw their boss standing by the ring. Seeing them hanging back, Ignacio turned around to face them all and gave the group a curt nod.

“Go on.” He refocused on Xander and added firmly. “Get in the ring.”



Xander’s jaw set, lips pursing to form a thin line at Cabrera’s command. He knew well enough to know that’s precisely what it was. Not a request or an invitation… but a command. He spared a brief glance over his shoulder at the enforcers arrayed along the back wall behind him – watching him expectantly.

With a heavy sigh, Font nodded once before plodding forward, approaching the ring with heavy steps. His eyes fell on Cabrera as he walked and never left, even as he reached out to part the ropes and slide in. If he was the pig, this ring was the slaughterhouse.

No surprise who the butcher is.



It wasn’t just sparring—it was about something else. Something he was waiting for for so goddamn long. They danced only for a moment before the first punch landed on Cabrera’s ribs. Pain flashed in his eyes, sharp and real. Good. It drowned out the other kind of hurt. Before Xander could follow up, Cabrera sidestepped, grabbed a fistful of hair, and yanked Xander off balance. It wasn’t technical or pretty, more like a predator toying with prey. Like something Buster would do. Ignacio knew a thing or two about it. He sparred with a man exactly like that for a long while after the world went to hell.

“Come on,” he growled. “Come on!” He shoved him and slammed Xander hard against the ropes before getting some distance between them.
"You’re in my ring. Show me what you got."

Cabrera let his muscles relax just enough, flanking Xander. He smirked. “Let me show you.” The distance closed and this time Cabrera didn’t play, showing a series of surprisingly precise moves. More blows between them and they hit the floor, grappling. The locals said Cabrera was a beast on the ground, but he ended up face down on the mat, grimacing to have his arm twisted behind his back. Panting. Ribs compressed with the awkward position and the pounds of muscle at his back. He peered to look back over his shoulder, asking.

“Do you know why you’re here?” He breathed in the dust. “I’m going to tell you a secret now. C’mere.”



Xander’s harried mind expected any number of vile things to emerge from Ignacio’s mouth at the mention of a “secret”. Promises to beat him senseless and claim his wife, maybe. Threats toward his family.

Cabrera spoke quietly, but with confidence. “Tonight I’m going to kill the King.”

Xander’s eyes widened. The words hit him as hard as Cabrera’s blows had as he struggled to reconcile their meaning. The statement was simplistic enough, but it wasn’t one he would have ever predicted hearing upon entering this ring. But he didn’t have long to dwell on the remark before Ignacio was moving again.



Viper quick, his free hand shot back. Blindly grabbing a fistful of the hair and yanking forward. Xander’s skull slammed against the floor and the man twisted Ignacio’s arm nearly from its socket. Pain flared through the joint. Every muscle taut, knotted. He grated his knees raw to get them beneath him. Supreme effort in lifting the weight on his back and he shoved him off. Flicker of bodies on the ground and Ignacio had him. He wouldn’t let go. On his back, breath heaving. Wrapped around Xander, one arm pinned across Xander’s neck and armpit, the other keeping his hold in place. Anaconda.

“Listen to me-” His hot breaths fanned against Xander’s skin, tone completely different. Not stern but serious, urgent. Words soft enough only for Xander to hear. “I’m going to loosen this, but you’re not gonna move. You’re going to listen.” He swallowed air and did as he said, giving the other man more room for a breath.

“I’m not who you think I am. I’m not your enemy, I’ve just been pretending to be one.” He paused. “Undercover. Master Sergeant Ignacio Cabrera, 2nd Battalion, 1st Marines. Or more like the Roanoke Ground Forces by now. The world might be gone but we ain’t gone, boy. Cavalry is coming to take over this place, free the hostages. Save ya." He loudly inhaled. "They’re not far, they’ll arrive soon.” He gritted his teeth. “But soon is not soon enough. I don’t have days anymore, I have hours. I need them to be here today. I can’t leave Lincoln to let them know, though. Not now. So I need someone to do it for me. To get far enough to radio the closest unit. How about you stop being a janitor and remind yourself how it’s like to serve as a soldier.” He loosened the grip completely. “Whatcha say, man?”

As soon as he let go he sprung to his feet and kicked Xander half-heartedly, smirking. He was well aware they had audience and he couldn’t stretch the moment for too long before they’d boo him or ask questions.

“Wakey wakey.” The attitude, the mask, was back on. He gestured his palm, fingers curling in an inviting motion. “So how it’s gonna be, hero?”



Xander stared at the offered hand as if it were a venomous snake on the ground. Could be a trap. Get him to agree to betray the Samaritans, give Cabrera a reason to bury him for good all while stringing him along with a false hope.

Could be.

But the idea rang hollow even as the old Marine considered it. While they had been on the ground, Font struggling for air, Cabrera’s words had cut through the haze. Sharp as a knife… and yet somehow Xander felt like it was his first time truly hearing the man in all the time they’d known each other. The words hadn’t been laced with venom or backhanded threats. They were the words of another jarhead looking for an out. For an ally. It reverberated through his core, reactivating old memories he had buried from what seemed like a lifetime ago.

Calling in the cavalry. That was how Cabrera had phrased it. It would get bloody. Military actions always were, no matter how the recruiters and talking heads had wanted to portray them back in the day. But Lincoln was already a powder keg… and a controlled detonation on their terms was better than waiting for King to burn his empire down around himself out of spite or watching some desperate rebellion send the entire place up in smoke… right?

It would have to be. Xander, feeling the hard stare of spectators upon him, swallowed hard before reaching forward to take Cabera’s hand in his own and giving it a hard pump. To their audience, it was the loser of a bout conceding defeat, showing sportsmanship. But in that moment, Xander met Cabrera’s gaze and gave him the slightest of nods: barely inclining his head toward the man before making a show of pulling his hand away with a grunt.

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

 

[Bullyboy Squad]

Rooftop
collab with BeyondDandy ​

The wailing of the chopper blades subsided, and Marcus King turned slowly, the rain soaking through his fine suit. A familiar voice broke through the monotonous buzz of the fading rotors.

"Mi Rey."

Something went wrong. The tone, the weight of the words were alien, devoid of the devotion he asked. King's attention fell on Ignacio. The man stood between him and the helicopter, weapon raised. Behind him, the bodies of his guards lay in dead heaps, with blood pooling beneath. Marcus had not heard the bullets, and the betrayal was now staring him in the face.

King's breath evened out, his rage simmering beneath a veneer of serenity. He adjusted his cufflinks, letting the gold reflect the weak light. "Ignacio," his tone low and cautious. "What do you think you're doing?"

The rain tapped against the roof. Marcus let the stillness linger, filling the distance between them. He looked past Ignacio to the helicopter—the only way out—then back to the man with the gun. His lips twisted into a tiny sneer, but the hatred in his gaze remained unrestrained.

“You've chosen your moment well," King replied, his tone harsh with disdain. "Waited until the right people weren't looking. Perhaps…” he tilted his head, "you believe no one will notice."



"Oh the right people are watching, you fucker.” Hatred burned in Cabrera’s eyes. “Everybody who died because of you. They're fucking watching.” Ignacio made men bend. Broke them. No matter how hard he tried to avoid that, he even took lives a few times. Pretended and faked taking many more. But the wrongness of his actions never dulled in his mind. Not once was it routine like for so many men he witnessed in his line of work—desensitized. Often for the sake of sanity. He never fell into that path. Maybe that’s why on the bad days it felt like he was going mad.

White flakes floated down in between them, some catching in King's expensive suit, melting into dark spots on the fabric, in his hair.



Marcus took a hesitant step forward, his shiny shoes rubbing against the moist concrete. "I hope you understand the cost of this decision. Because this is not how you take power," he said, gesturing to the bodies at his feet and the gun in Ignacio's hand. "This is how you die." The pistol did not move. King's sneer deepened, and his eyes narrowed. "Do you have the stomach for this, Ignacio? To draw the trigger? To take what you think is yours? Or are you simply another fool who doesn't realize the weight of the crown?"



Ignacio scoffed, his hot breath powdering in the frigid air. "That's what you think this is? Huh? You think I want power?” His jaw clenched. "I know more about the weight of that crown than you ever would, you motherfucker. That weight is measured in souls you crushed. And I was right there, remember? Watching. Doing the sick shit for you." A cold smile stretched his lips. "It was never for you, though."

Ignacio glanced past King at the long shadow afar, a column of vehicles crawling near in the darkening dusk. "I've been waiting for this day…” His heart beat surprisingly steady, despite a surge of anxiety. Good and bad. “To bring you down to your knees.” He looked back at King, baring his teeth. “To rip that sick ambition off your chest and shove it down your throat.”

Cabrera motioned his head at the distant convoy. “That's what they're here for. And you made it so much easier locking up the hostages in their cells.” His lips curved into a smirk. "Like I told you to do. So they wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire. Sending the low ranked Samaritans to guard them. Like I told you to do. So we wouldn’t worry about accidentally killing some good men among them. Splitting all of your forces around the whole compound, looking for the wrong enemy. Instead of watching the gates. The tunnels." Smirk tugged on his cheek. "Your head working there, King? I can almost hear it. That moment when you realize, I've never worked for you in the first place."



King stood immobile, the weight of Ignacio's words falling on him like a frigid tide. For a time, the crackle of wind against the prison walls was the only sound they heard. Then he chuckled—a low, sinister rumble that conveyed terrifying enjoyment.

"You think I don't recognize betrayal when it's staring me in the face?" His voice was calm and sharp. "You aren't the first to underestimate me, Ignacio. And you will not be the last. That crown you despise so much? It’s still on my head. And you? You've just proven why you'll never wear it.”

King moved closer, his gold rings glinting faintly in the low light. "You played your game well. I will give you that. But you forget one thing: a king's strength is not limited to his pawns. It’s in his memory. Marcus King will never be forgotten. So bring your convoy. Bring your righteous anger." He leaned forward, his voice lowering to a furious whisper.

King stretched his arms slightly, snowflakes twirling down to his cheeks and his gold rings glinting like blade edges. "If you're going to take the shot," he replied quietly but sharply, "make it count."



Ignacio instinctively tightened his grip on the gun, finger light on the trigger. "That's what you’ve told yourself back then? That you're making it count?" He said, giving his head a little tilt. "I've been wondering, Marcus. What is it like? To live, to wake up every morning. Knowing you murdered the only person who ever loved you."

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

 

[Miaow]

The Hunt
A collab with NanLia , Namazu and Bullyboy Squad ​

“What’s next, Boss?” Rob's boots beat the concrete as he followed King along the corridor. His shirt sleeve stuck to the shallow wound on his arm, blood seeping through the fabric. Rob flexed his clipped limb and sharp pain shot through the muscle. "Where do you need me now?" He grunted out.

King didn't break stride, his polished shoes clicking against the floor. Fucking taco terrorists. No way King planned to share his throne with that I'm uncultured. But for now the big man ordered him to find Marx and help him hunt down the rest of those ungrateful twats. Fine with Rob. His blood already boiled. All he needed was bullets. Even though King wanted them alive so he could watch each of them agonize in the gas chamber. Sick fuck. But who wasn’t these days?

He found Andreas and Buddha lounging in one of the back rooms, cards and chips spread between them like some Vegas high rollers. Rob scoffed. Guess that’s what happens when the radio’s out. Hopefully not for long or this hunting game would get next level.

"You two. With me." Rob waved them over. "We got rats to catch."

Five minutes later, armed and ready, they linked up with Marx. Dried blood caked the side of his face.

"Had fun without us?” Rob asked.

Marx’s quick story drew a low whistle. Rob spat aside, commenting with a simple. “Fucking animals."

They moved to sweep the East wing, Rob on point. He had the prison mapped in his head, knew every nook and cranny, both inside and in the vicinity of the compound.

Voices crackled over the radio, overlapping. Looked like communications was back. High fucking time. The four of them advanced. One unclipped the walkie talkie and reported. "East top and stairwell clear. We’re going to check everything down to the basement."

They got to the level of the Samaritan prison cells and Rob stopped, throwing up his hand. "Guard post’s empty." Hushed voices and footsteps briefly drifted from around the corner. Gotcha. Time to clean this place.

As footsteps approved, Haewon threw up one hand, silencing the chatter around her. She raised her gun, turning down the corridor and taking aim... They had company and, by the sounds of it, there was more than one of them. She saw no reason for a civilian to be down here, and no Samaritan was stupid enough to be unarmed.

She held her breath, listening for movement. They couldn't waste any more time standing around... Was she really going to have her movie moment? Go, save yourselves! I'll hold them off! She always thought that was stupid, surely if they all just legged it...

Fuck that.

"Go!" She hissed, keeping her voice low. The thunderous chorus of footsteps would surely alert the stupidest of Samaritans that they'd turned tail, but there was no point in announcing it at full volume.

Fuck. Approaching footsteps. This is not what any of them needed. This is not what he needed right now - and all he had was a metal pipe and a stolen handgun with who knew how much ammo. And no shoes. That made him feel just as unprepared. Damn near naked. Victor was already taking a step away, ready to bolt, as Haewon peered down the corridor while they were all listening.

Theo clapped a hand over his mouth, taking in a deep breath to try and steady his nerves. The last thing he needed was a surprised gasp alerting whoever this was to their presence. If the Samaritan guards didn’t shoot him, that crazy-ass doctor might beat him to death for fucking up their escape. Had he always been like that, or had he not fared well in that cell? Exactly how long was he even in there, anyway?

At Haewon’s hissed instruction to go, both Victor and Theo turned and took off down the hallway, sprinting the opposite direction. Running barefoot made Victor’s feet ache, but it had the added advantage of not being nearly as loud as running in boots. Theo’s sneakers weren’t heavy shit-kickers like some of the enforcers wore, but the occasional squeak-and-scuff sounds weren’t silent either.

Chole followed the trio out of her cell, not entirely clear on what was happening beyond the fact that these people did not appear to be Samaritans. She was certain they'd told her but she her mind was elsewhere, so, when they paused at the end of the hall at the command of the teenagers, Chole nearly ran into the back of one of the two men - the one that had said he was a doctor.

She knew somewhere in her mind she knew their names, she knew everyone's names and descriptions but after hours of torture, lack of food and nearly freezing in the cell in her dead (assumed) boyfriends boxers and t-shirt, well, she didn't much give a fuck to remember.

Chole turned and frowned at the backs of the two men as they bolted down the hall at the girls direction. Where the fuck were they going to go? They were in a prison with armed inmates bowing to a King, a literal King. No K-pop princess was going to change that. And yet ... there they went. She turned back to the girl, Haewon she recalled now, as she peeped around the corner, holding the pistol awkwardly in her hands.

"Give me that." She hissed, but didn't wait, grasping the back of Haewon's shirt and dragging her back from the corner, her other hand wrapping around the pistol. "I've been trained." Of the few things she and Connor had time for, he'd made a point of teaching her own to hold, aim and reload a gun. "We can't take them head on." She continued in a hushed voice. "They'll over power us, now that the boys ran off." She knew most of them should have been at the pit, so it was likely these ones were reserves; less trained, fewer times in action or combat. The fucks that watched people in the yard doing their work, not the ones that went out on patrol. "We'll wait until they're at the corner then, hit them. They'll walk in a line, or at least two by two, we can use the corner for line of sight."

In any other situation, Haewon would be arguing. Piss off, that's MY gun. I'M leading this expedition, I may be a K-Pop princess but at least I've still got fucking hair. I'd offer to tell you my haircare routine but I don't think you'll be needing it any time soon--

Her retorts quickly faded from her brain. If this woman was as trained as she claimed to be, she should be the one holding the weapon. Haewon was... semi-trained. A fully trained fighter might have taken the guard out in one shot, she needed two. She wasn't going to let her pettiness get them killed.

She gave the woman a nod as she explained her plan.
"Whatever you say, G.I. Jane," She responded, though there wasn't even a hint of sarcasm in her voice, her knees bent as she stood, primed, behind the wall, ready to leap into action.

The sound of steps thundered down one of the hallways, ripping the enforcers out of their quiet game-plan talk. Shit.

“They legged it.” Rob hissed and started off with Andreas. Their group hit the split in the corridors at full tilt, boots skidding on the polished floor. Marx hurled himself after the runaways with Buddha close on his heels.

Rob wasn’t sure what to expect when he turned in the other direction but sure as hell he wasn’t expecting two females right there in his face. His own two-handed grip on the gun tightened, swaying at the skinny one. “Get on the fucking ground!” While Andreas leapt straight at the one with the gun.

The moment Haewon relinquished her grip on the pistol, Chole was focused on what she needed to do next, barely sparing a thought to the girl and her commentary. She was a girl after all, no older than Kenny was when she’d taken his life. She checked the clip and then the hammer before ensuring the safety was off before leaning against the wall at the corner.

She felt stiff, frozen, hardly dressed and emotionally spent but something burned in her belly. A need to do something right before the end. “You should run.” She hissed a whisper over her shoulder at Haewon. “Go free whoever you can, get the fuck out.” If she survived this, she knew exactly what her next task would be …

Chole waited, her heart hammering in her ears as she strained to listen to the people coming, presumably Samaritans - no one else would come down here at least. A flicker of movement as the first of the enforcers rounded the corner and Chole raised the pistol and fired. Blood and gore splattered from where the man's face had been a second before, startling her as the hot droplets landed on her cold skin.

Haewon watched as the woman lined herself up, holding her breath as she listened for the footsteps... She only let the air leave her nostrils as Chole spoke. Running felt... wrong. It felt like abandoning the woman she'd just freed, leaving her to fend for herself... but this was G.I. Jane they were talking about. She was the one with the gun, the one trained to use it, the one with her sight lined up with the enemy.

"Good luck, Chole," She told her before pulling the knife from her boot and turning tail. She wasn't useful stood by Chole's shoulder, breathing down her neck as she took aim. If she was gonna get shot, she was gonna do it unlocking doors and freeing prisoners. She held the blade of her knife between her teeth as she stopped at a door, fumbling with the key.

Her body jolted as a gunshot echoed through the corridor, the metal keyring almost slipping through her fingers. She threw the cell door open.
"GO! GO!" She yelled, sprinting for the next door.

Rob's world slowed as the back of Andreas's head exploded in a red mist. The wet splash hit his face and his friend's body dropped, strings-cut right in front of him.

His aim snapped from the skinny runner to the shooter—some half-naked bitch with wild eyes. Fuck, wait, he knew her. That was the girl he dragged from the bed with her boyfriend the other night. His finger squeezed the same time hers did. The gun kicked in his hands and her shoulder jerked back, blood spraying from the impact to her biceps—her own bullet missing his cheek.

Rob charged forward, boots slipping on blood-slicked floor, and he slammed into her. His momentum drove them both into the wall. As soon as he steadied his footing his forearm crushed against her throat, pinning her in place while his other hand grabbed the top of her head.

"Stop resisting." He rammed her head back against the concrete.

Chole’s surprise paused her movements; she’d never killed anyone, not directly at least and certainly not with intent. Watching the body fall, the sound it made as brain matter and blood splattered on the floor, pooled under the bare feet. She stared at Rob and the haze of surprise cleared as he raised his run at her. She scrambled to shoot him first but missed.

A searing burning pain lodged into her shoulder, the pistol clattering to the floor. She closed her eyes as she cried out and swiftly felt the full force of his body collide with hers, sending her sprawling back against the cold wall, and knocking the wind out of her.

Chole gasped for breath, her left hand gripping her shoulder whilst her feet slipped in the gore, trying to find purchase to push herself away from him. He was too fast, and again he was on her, crushing her beneath his weight. She refused to lay down this time, to let them take her back, not again. Chole clawed at his forearms, and reached up toward his face, pushing against his own throat and chin. She brought her knees up, doing anything in her power to hurt him, to make him flinch enough to get free and catch her breath.

The world spun suddenly, light sparked at the corners of her vision. She knew he was speaking but couldn’t understand him. All she could think of was the burning in her lungs, and the weakness in her limbs until there was nothing but darkness creeping in and taking over.

Rob instinctively caught Chole's limp body as she slumped forward—blood from her shoulder leaking into his black shirt as she pressed against him. His gaze skipped down the corridor where the skinny kid yanked another cell door open. Rob internally cursed and was about to drop the motionless woman when two more of his guys rounded the corner, weapons raised.

"Go get them! King wants them alive!" Rob's voice boomed off concrete walls, echoing after the scurrying people. The two enforcers thundered past him, boots pounding toward the freed prisoners and their would-have-been savior.

Rob shifted his grip on Chole, her dead weight awkward against his chest. He glanced at Andreas's body sprawled at his feet, blood still dripping from the pierced skull. Rob's jaw clenched at the sight. Good man, solid backup back at the prison before dead stopped staying dead. Now just meat cooling on the floor. At least Rob didn’t have to finish the job, the man wouldn’t turn.

He shifted the woman and threw her over his shoulder, walking back. He had to get her all the way down to the gas chamber, what a menace. "Should've stayed in your cage, sweetheart."

Hearing the gunshot, Haewon spun on her heel.
"Shit--" She hissed as the man caught the limp body of her teammate. Her weight shifted on her feet as she went to spring into action, knife in hand. She could maybe take one armed guard... as long as he missed his shot, she could close the gap between them and sink her blade into his eyeball...

She hesitated as his buddies joined him. She wasn't taking all three of them on... and they wanted her alive. If she was getting shot, it was going to be through the skull. She couldn't be arsed with the whole bleeding out crap. She'd been injured far too many times, she was either making it out pristine and untouched or in a body bag.

She turned heel, sprinting down the length of the corridor. There was no way she could rescue Chole from that situation... as long as she was alive and talking, she could at least tell someone else, rally some troops and free her as a team... if she could find some troops. Her sneakers squeaked on the cheap tiles as she launched around a corner.

​

 

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
Outside the Execution Chamber - Several Minutes Ago​

This whole enterprise had turned into a shitshow. It was not terribly surprising King could not keep his people in line - what did he know about proper management? One does not manage anything from whatever ghetto King crawled out of, certainly. Craig had hoped for better, of course, offering advice when and where he could. Whether any of it was followed was entirely up to King.

It was not the first execution Craig had attended. He’d been at most - not all - of the others, hovering precisely where he wanted to be. In the back, not with the other V.I.P.s but subtly near the enforcers who were his guards. In the shadows, essentially, and were it not for his clean suit jacket, his pressed white shirt, and his black slacks he would have appeared to be just one of the many workers filed in to witness justice.

What would the history books call this form of rule and justice? Neo-Feudalism? Lincolnism? Or just a failure?

Perhaps it was not King who should have been on the throne, but himself. That was the problem, wasn’t it? The new world didn’t need a throne. It needed a desk and a plan. People needed a visionary, not a king.

It had not surprised him when it turned out that Weston was the traitor. The man was always a fake and a fraud, as far as he was concerned. Theatrical bluster when people were watching, a long face and a distant stare when he thought nobody was. Clinging too closely to mementos and memories. A man who sinned and prayed in equal measures. A degenerate on top of it all - not someone he envisioned being part of his Grand Plan. Certainly not in a leadership position.

Too chummy with the peasants. Too popular with the general population too, which was a red flag all by itself. The last thing they needed was a martyr; King’s decision to spectacularly and publicly execute the man was a foolish one. King would have handed the peasantry exactly what they craved. But if Weston had been banished to a dark solitary cell until he perished, alone and starved and driven mad? Eh. Comme ci, comme ça. Not the best use of a figurehead but also not the worst. Were it up to only him, he would have found other more creative ways to carry out punishment.

Ruminations aside - and Craig would have plenty of time to write all those down in his memoir when he continued it later, after this was taken care of - there was a job yet to be done. He was going to do it himself if these people proved to be useless.

When the gunshots and chaos in the pit began, Craig calmly turned and exited out the nearest door. One of the workers darted out after him, also sensing the opportunity. It was the same way a bird gets curious about an open cage door - no thought given to what was outside, only the primal unthinking urge to pass through the threshold. Craig only faintly recognized the woman - not one of Temma’s whores, her face wasn’t pleasant enough for his liking. Laundry, he recalled, was where he thought she ended up. Stopping in his tracks and whirling around, Craig grabbed the woman by the hair, yanked her back, and shoved her right back into the room.

“Stay in your place, bitch.” Craig growled as he pulled the doors shut behind him, ignoring her pained and panicked shriek. Although this was by far not the only exit door, he was not keen on the idea of anyone following him too closely. In a stroke of luck, there was a maintenance cart nearby - and inside it, a crowbar. It was comically perfect - and afterwards, he would find who left this cart here and have them whipped. For now, he grabbed the crowbar and slid it between the handles of the door, barricading it shut from the outside.

Patting his side to confirm he still had his holster under his suit coat - which he did - Craig took off in long strides down the hallway.

Places to go, things to do, people to see, and a kingdom to save from itself.

Or, if he was lucky, a vision to raise from its ashes, with him at the helm.

Craig whistled a jaunty tune as he strode away, happy to let King simmer in his own pot of shit for now.

Bullyboy Squad NanLia ​

 

[Namazu]

A CURSED PLACE CALLED LINCOLN - PART 1
Outside the Gas Chamber - featuring Marx
A Collab with Tool and NanLia ​

Marx followed behind Rob and his small crew, he didn’t recognize most of them but that didn’t surprise him in the least, at this point they were putting guns in any able body’s hand that weren’t likely to turn the barrel on them. They needed it to keep control of this shit show. Fucking Weston. He should have blasted his shit out of him at his last opportunity, even if he’d lost favour with King it would have been worth it to avoid the fucking mess they were dealing with now.

Rebels had cropped up fucking everywhere and most placed they hadn’t expected, even the fucking bartender bitch turned out to be one and no surprise that the enforcer she’d been sleeping with had been too. At this point, it would almost be easier to burn the place and start new, almost.

At least King had a plan to deal with the rebels en mass, and now they needed to collect the few stragglers from the cells.

His footsteps slowed as he heard footsteps and whispers ahead, Rob heard them too and called out for their surrender but he could hear others taking off. “I’m goin’ round back.” He hissed and turned back the way they’d come to take a secondary hall that looped around the other side of the small solitary cellblock. He jogged, doing his best to listen for movement and as expected he heard the slap of shoes on the concrete floors and hushed whispers ahead.

There were at least two but one of them but one was already taking off the other way. Marx waited, listening for the other to make his move, coming down the hall pressed against the wall. The new one, the boy he couldn’t recall the name of, rounded the corner like a scared kitten. Metal pipe held out in front of him like a shield, Marx waited, leaning on the wall with his pistol raised at his hip, waiting for Theo to spot him.

“Put it down, kid.” He growled and watched the boy flinch. “Do it and I won’t shoot you.” Marx thought he’d put up any kind of a fight or protest, maybe even turn and run but instead, the kid did exactly what he was told, dropping the pipe on the floor at his feet with a noisy clatter. He’d almost hoped the kid would have fought him, he wanted a reason to chase him down, use his fists.

With a click between his teeth, Marx stepped towards the kids, “Hands up - “ gunfire echoed through the halls, one then two shots that made Theo stagger backwards. He was on the kid faster, though, tackling him back across the hall, knocking him off his feet and hard into the cell door closed behind him. The kid resisted, possibly out of panic, but Marx didn’t give a fuck, he slammed the butt of his pistol to the side of Theo’s head, watching, with satisfaction as it lulled slightly aside.

Theo was limp against the wall, only held up by him for several seconds until he started to regain consciousness. Confusion was etched in his feature but Marx leaned in and growled in his ear. “You’re gonna listen good, kid. Or I’ve got more lessons to teach ya.”

*~*~*​

Marx led Theo toward the gas chamber where the rest of the rebels were being held; orders were to round them up and bring them here. He marched the kid out in front of him, a hand gripped on his shoulder, keeping his distance and the kid upright, something wasn’t right with his head, but that didn’t matter because in a few minutes, he’d be in with the others and scheduled for death.

As they came to the outbuilding and then within he heard the audible hiss of the door being opened and he paused. No one else should have been around to open the doors; not unless they’d somehow missed a rebel and they knew exactly where to find the others.

He dragged Theo back, wrapping, crouching down to keep hidden behind the kid. “Keep your mouth shut.” He hissed as he pushed Theo toward the door as it opened.

Fucking Weston.

Marx raised his pistol over Theo’s shoulder and fired, cursing at himself for missing. “No point in trying to run, Weston. Time’s up.”

*~*~*​

Madison's eyes fluttered shut at Weston's embrace, his giddy words a gossamer tether to sanity, to life and light and hope, a reminder of what had been lost. A glimpse of something good.

He was warm. He smelled like apples and blood. Shaking arms folded around her, gently, sweetly, and for one, blissful, endless moment, Madison felt...... safe. Cared for. Valued.

It was, as all such things in her life, a very short lived sensation. The months of isolation in the prison bled together like wet road tar, and the ex-detective had learned the hard way why enforced isolation was considered a form of torture. Zombies being her only company had been easier than THAT.

The crack of a bullet and a sudden, hollow absence where Weston had been made Madison's eyes snap open, the warmth he'd left behind dissipating as quickly as birthday candles, blown out by an enthusiastic toddler. The woman turned deliberately, too aware of her own lack of balance to risk a dramatic whirl, and though she started with an emphatic "Who th'fuck 'er you?"

An unsurprising sight greeted her, someone being used as a human shield for....... for...

That Guy.

The one with the gun.

No, genius, try again.

The BAD guy with a gun.

No, that didn't really narrow it down any.

Her Prey.

There. She could work with that.

Somebody was being used as a human shield by her Prey.

Okay, great.

Well, Weston wasn't armed, but she had an axe. Plenty of guns around - her carbine was right by Weston's foot - but if Madison tried to go for one of the guns along her hip or Weston went for the nearest pew-pew, her Prey was likely to shoot Weston or Human Shield or both.

But...... her Prey hadn't identified her as a threat. Good.

People with something to fight for were extremely dangerous. People with nothing to lose were more so. Madison had the inglorious advantage of BOTH.

The detective immediately began walking away and to one side, never letting her attention falter from her mark. Comeon, buttercup..... bring it on. Focus on the lady with the axe. She gave it a threatening bounce just to draw the eye.

Out of the list of people at Lincoln Weston would love to kill with his bare hands - or a sufficiently sturdy object - Marx was pretty high up on the list. King topped that list and always would, but Marx had earned himself a comfortably solid foothold at the number two spot. After a conversation or two with Wren, it didn’t take him long to put two and two together about what kind of sludge-filled meatsack Marx was. There were certain kinds of people Weston was just not going to let get away alive, and that included Marx.

“You dickless motherfucker.” Weston hissed at Marx, eyes darting around his environment. He was unarmed, but Madison was a walking armory and no doubt that carbine on the ground was her’s. Hell, he’d reach into her pockets and find something if he had to, she’d forgive him. That wasn’t the problem though - the problem was being quick enough to reach something while the asshole was using a human shield.

“Let the kid go, Marx. Your beef’s with me, not him, not her, not any of these people.” Weston didn’t nod in the direction of the others who had taken off, hoping they were out of sight by now and being led off somewhere else. Tigran would take care of them, hopefully.

Putting his hands up in a placating gesture, Weston took a step backwards, closer to the carbine on the ground and staying out of the wide arc that Madison was walking. Once again, if he could use himself as bait via his well-honed skill (apparently) at pissing people off, maybe it’d make an opening. Maybe Madison could take a swing.

“Just you and me, huh? You wanna take a swing at me? You still pissed off? Yeah? You got plenty to be pissed about, you little dog-faced bitch. I heard all about what you like to do to Wren. That how you get off? Beatin’ on people? Breakin’ ribs? Forcing yourself on ‘em? Gotta say, I had a real nice talk with him after I took him from you. Set that little birdie free. I bet you got no fuckin’ clue where he’s at now and that just pisses you off, don’t it?” That drawl of his only got thicker the more he taunted Marx.

The carbine was right by his foot. If only he could get a second, he could reach down and end this - or at least, try and end this. It was risky as hell with the kid being used as a shield. He didn’t dare toss Theo an apologetic look - which was probably fine. The kid looked half out of it still, though he was shaking like a leaf.

Trying to do this with as much subtlety as he could muster, Weston hooked the toe of his boot under the rifle’s strap and took a step forward, closer to Marx - pulling the rifle along with him. It slid soundlessly forward, tugged along by its strap.

“Let him go and I’ll even tell you where Wren’s at.”

Wren. Of course, Wren went to Weston, the only fucking person that could have done something to stop him. Could have. Past tense. Weston held no power here any longer, he’d betrayed them all and turned King’s wrath at him. He chuckled, uncaring whether or not Weston could hear him. He gripped Theo closer, leaning in to speak into the kid's ear. “You year that, boy?” He growled. “The Rebellion King is willing to give up one of his own for you. You must mean a lot to him.”

Theo didn’t give an answer, not any more than he had after he’d been clocked, and if Marx had to guess - if he gave a fuck - the kid wasn’t last long without some help. Probably best this way, for him at least, shot instead of a slow creep to death. Quick and easy.

“You can keep Wren.” He shouted, louder than he intended. “Fuck ‘im, and fuck yourself. When I’m done with you, I’ll find his ass and take what’s mine. No one to stop me, no one for him to run to. Betcha he’s back with his friends at the Reserve anyhow. I’ll burn that fucking place down and drag him back here.”

Movement caught his attention, the woman. The fucked up one had moved off from Weston - smart, not to get in the crossfire but now she waggled an axe. “Bitch, put that shit down.” He held the sights of his pistol at Weston but kept a close eye on the woman as she stared straight back at him. “Put it down or I’ll shoot you both.”

It was pretty obvious that Marx wasn’t taking the bait - which, frankly, was a bit of a surprise to Weston. He pinned Marx for being still obsessed, like the creepy bastard he is. It still made him sick to think of the guy hunting down Wren though. By now, he had to toss Theo an apologetic look. He was not truthfully intending on giving anyone up, and he hoped Theo knew that much.

Hearing anyone call Madison a bitch was enough to raise his blood pressure, but it was even worse coming from Marx. He couldn’t let that show though, otherwise this asshole would use it against him.

“Alright, alright, calm the fuck down. This is just between you and me, okay? Ain’t ‘bout anyone else here." Weston’s arms lowered a little, hands at chest height now - and he pulled what he knew was a reckless, last-ditch move that he had no idea if it would work or not. He got down on one knee.

Nothing sweet about it - definitely not with the way his knee popped on impact, either, Christ he was sore and he felt like he was eighty, not thirty-something. It was a gesture of surrender, hands still up. “It’s alright, Madison, I got it handled. We’re good here. Before we know it, this place’ll be back to a regular ol’ City of Reality, y’know?” He knew Marx wouldn’t understand what the hell that meant, but he hoped to God that Madison did. The City of Reality, the place where nobody paid any attention to how things looked and where nobody cared because the people were all in too much of a hurry to see what they were supposed to be looking for. Their own little secret code, just between them.

Marx wasn’t looking where he should have been looking - at Weston. He was spending too much time looking at Madison, which is exactly what he needed. It was reckless as fuck. It was probably a terrible idea. But at this point, he was all out of options and he was not about to die here - not after all this.

As soon as he had the opportunity, Weston moved his foot, grabbed the carbine, raised it at Marx, and took a shot.

Marx glared at the woman with the axe, trying desperately to place her where he may have seen her before, but failed to draw a name. While he didn’t know everyone in the prison - he didn’t care to know but he was certain he would have remembered a face like hers.

Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention and he swivelled back to Weston as the former second in command raised the gun. “Don’t you - “ A round went off and Marx ducked behind the boy. By some Grace of God, it was then Theo regained some semblance of thought and took the opportunity to dash around the corner, out of his reach.

Already aiming for Weston, Marx fired. He couldn’t miss, not this time. If he did, he was dead.

Bullyboy Squad Good_Morels ​

 

[Namazu]

A CURSED PLACE CALLED LINCOLN - PART 2
Outside the Gas Chamber - featuring Marx
A Collab with Tool and NanLia
TW: Some gore/blood, character death, and mention of (but no description or depiction of) past SA​

Once upon a time, Madison tended to her fields. She'd tried to make friends and even tried dating a few times. She'd tried to find interest in whatever was popular around the station, and had eventually found a home with her uncle, among an aging, misfit biker gang, enough of their criminality behind them to not really be a concern for a detective.

These days, her field of fucks was barren, salted and burned right down to the root.

Madison, frankly, had no idea what her Prey was talking about, and she didn't especially care. That was one of the perks of not growing a yearly crop of fucks to harvest. There were a couple of shoots, here and there along the edges of her desolate garden..... but a dick waving contest was not among them.

Wren was pretty clearly the name of a person. The reserve was a place. The former had friends at the latter so...... good on him? Maybe the reserve was a fancy name for wherever the Samaritans kept extra supplies? No, that couldn't be right, otherwise there would be no 'dragging back here' to be had.

Off-site, then. Like Northview.

Okay....... great.

Movement in Weston's direction tried to draw Madison's gaze, but her dedication to her mark never wavered, and when Human Shield finally squirmed away, she swung her weapon tight and hard. It wasn't fast enough, when had she ever been fast enough, but it bit deep and sprayed a wide gush. Everything became slippery, and when Marx brought his foot to kick the woman in the torso, the pain was enough to fade to blinding white for a moment.

Thanks to Toni and his men, there was too much in the meatsack of Madison's body that had gotten ruptured or bruised, too many pains for any one person to be capable of taking. When she clenched her eyes and opened them again, needing to see, needing to know what the fuck was going on, Madison realized she'd staggered back a few steps, one arm curled around herself in a wounded animal's instinct to protect what hurt, to make it stop.

She couldn't hear anything, not really, but Weston's form was moving off to one side, and..... so was her Prey.

One guy was moving, the other guy was moving, everything was shitty........ but Madison could move too.

And so, she did.

The woman turned on one heel and planted the other foot between the two men.

It was one of the primary defining characteristics of sentient life: the capacity for self-sacrifice. The deliberate choice to override evolution and the instinct to survive in the name of a cause or a loved one....... or a friend.

Choice made, the woman looked up, eyes wide and resolutely not passing out.

Was Weston even alive?

If he wasn't..... she was gonna get shot with egg on her stupid, stupid face.

Adrenaline burned through Marx's veins and pumped his heart hard in his chest as he watched for signs that he’d got Weston, once and for all. He needed the man dead, nothing else mattered until he was and that narrow focus made him forget about the fucked up woman with the axe. She was close, too close and he swung out and punched her, just to keep her at a distance, pistol still aimed in Weston’s direction but not for long.

The way she had moved, the way she had nearly crumpled back, Marx was sure she wasn’t going to come back around. He saw the swinging axe at the last second and attempted to dance back a step to avoid the swing, all together but it was too late and she was too close.

He screamed, howling as the blade bit into the flesh at the bottom of his rib cage and tore downwards, taking material and flesh along with it until the tip lodged firming in his hip. He felt it hit bone, an earth-shattering pain trembling through his leg down his shin and into his foot. He could no longer stand, his leg giving out beneath him.

“Fucking I'm uncultured!” He swung the pistol back around at the fucked up woman and fired, blindly, several times until his clip was empty and even more then, the audible click-click-click of the gun doing nothing in his hand.

He dropped it then, hands moving to the axe handle, wishful thinking to pry it free, only the pain was immeasurable and took him the rest of the way to the floor. He lay, on his back, teeth gritted as he hissed in pain, hands pressed against the wound, feeling the rivulets of blood oozing between his fingers, soaking through his clothes and pooling on the floor beneath him. “Fuck,” He panted, looking back the way he’d come. “Fucking, someone get the doc!”

Despite the number of times Weston had internally (or externally) cussed at Marx, calling him a whole hillside’s worth of slurs that often included allusions to possibly being inbred, he did not actually believe the man was so crosseyed that he couldn’t function. He’d seen the man at work, doing what enforcers do - enforcing the will of King. Typically that meant doing something cruel and bloody, and Marx was no exception. He was a straight shot and a hard hitter, so when the adrenaline in his blood made made time slow down to a crawl and he saw Marx take aim at him, his only thought was: ’Shit.’

This was the… Fifth? Sixth? Seventh? Time in the last forty-eight-or-so hours that Weston was pretty damn certain he was going to die. After about the second or third time he’d come to just accept it no matter how much it pissed him off or terrified him. Either he was going to get his card punched or he wasn’t. Didn’t make the anger or fear go away, but there was some small comfort in knowing what was inevitable.

Death and taxes. Except, funny enough, there were no taxes anymore. Nor was death, a real death, a guarantee anymore. So much for that saying.

True to his guess Marx didn’t miss him. But it also wasn’t an effective shot - which, had it not hurt like an ass-first slide down a cheese grater to get grazed across the side of his torso like that, might have made him laugh. ’Cross-eyed motherfucker’ echoed in his mind as he took a staggered step backwards. He didn’t dare clutch his side, needing both hands for his weapon, which he kept raised and pointed at Marx.

Until, suddenly, it wasn’t Marx in front of him, but Madison. He drew in a sharp breath, but no matter how much he wanted to call out, to physically drag her out of the way somehow with the power of sound waves alone, nothing came out and nothing he could do right then and there was going to help.

The sound of Madison’s axe burying itself into Marx was satisfyingly painful and disgusting. If he could hear metal hitting bone, hear the way flesh squelched as was torn from his body, then the pain of being on the receiving end of that blow must have been something far beyond intense.

Marx should have been too dazed or in agony to do anything as he crumpled to the ground - but like any diseased rat or nest of weevils, he had to go make a mess of everything on his way out, in the worst way.

“NO! Madison!” Bullets intended for him slammed into someone else, and the horror of watching it happen right in front of him, still in that brain-trick-slow-motion, made his heart freeze. His voice came out strangled as he hollered out, for all the damn good in the world it’d do him. Fear and anger rose in him again, followed by something worse. Something so, so much worse he didn’t even know what it was called but he’d sure as shit felt it once before.

Dropping his gun and letting it clatter to the ground, Weston reached for Madison and pulled her away, as if distance between her and Marx could solve anything. Not keeping his hands on his weapon was a stupid move, even if Marx was out of rounds, but damn if his brain cells weren’t exiting the building to prevent further trauma than he’d already lived through.

Weston wrapped one arm around Madison and spun her away, yanking the axe from her (too weak, too limp) grip. Old Madison would have put up a fight and told him to fuck right off for thinking she couldn’t do this herself. Old Madison would have split Marx’s skull in two and made some quippy line about doctors and cleanup aisle nine. Old Madison would have laughed about it with him afterwards because yeah, they turned out alright in the end, hadn’t they? Old Madison would have been steady on her feet… not sagging, not leaving red liquid pouring down his arm, flowing too fast… far too fast.

“Fuck, Madison - fuck, fuck, I’m s-” Words caught in his throat as he registered the fact Marx was still squealing like the pig he was and he swore he never hated any sound in the world as much as he hated the sound of Marx’s voice.

Marx didn’t deserve to have a voice.

Quickly helping Madison down to the ground - still blindly telling himself she just needed a minute to sit down and shake it off and then it would be fine, everything was going to be fine, she was going to be okay because she was never not ok Goddamnit - Weston took a step forward and grabbed the handle of the axe. It was still embedded in Marx’s body, a bit crosswise between hip and torso.

Spoiler

With one sharp tug that offered more resistance than he actually expected, Weston yanked the axe out of Marx’s body - and immediately slammed the sharp side of the axe right back into Marx. It wasn’t a haphazard swing either - he wound up and swung that axe like it was a fucking baseball bat, right between Marx’s legs in an upward slash before burying it again in his pelvis. That one was for Wren. Marx was never raping another person ever again.

Spoiler

Weston yanked the axe out again and swung it overhand, aiming for Marx’s stomach this time. It hit with a wet squelch, spraying him (and Marx) with blood as his torso split under the impact. That one was for Madison. He was never going to harm another person ever again.

Spoiler

Yanking the axe out a third time, entrails clinging briefly before sliding off and plopping back onto Marx’s body like wet noodles, Weston hefted the axe again. One last swing, though this time Weston turned the axe around, sharp side up. The blunt side came whistling down to connect with Marx’s face. That one was for everyone in Lincoln who had to deal with that asshole day in, day out, listening to the vile shit that came out of his mouth.

By the time he was done, Weston was sprayed with blood and dripping with it, and he wasn’t sure what was his, what was Marx’s, and what was Madison’s. He dragged the axe away from Marx, out of his reach just in case before it slipped from his fingers and fell.

“Madison! Madison, talk to me. Madison?” Weston dropped to his knees in front of his friend - his best friend, his only friend in the whole world now - and reached for her. There was so much blood, he didn’t even know what to do or where to start, and tears were already welling in his eyes.

Bullyboy Squad Good_Morels ​

 

[Namazu]

A CURSED PLACE CALLED LINCOLN - PART 3
Outside the Gas Chamber - featuring Marx's cold corpse somehere over yonder
A Collab with Tool
TW: Self-inflicted character death​

For the second time in her life, the pain was truly unspeakable. Madison didn't even know she'd lost consciousness until she came to, in searing agony, the sound of someone chopping up a watermelon somewhere over thereish. Everything burned beyond measure. Her heart hammered wildly and erratically. Her lungs burned. Her guts burned. Her legs... She couldn't feel them.

Okay. Great.

A flicker of her one good eye downwards told Madison that her legs were, in fact, still attached. Attached, but nonresponsive. She'd known that standing between the two men would be a watershed moment in her life, a choice that would define and crystalize all others up to that point. Quite possibly her last watershed moment.

Sometimes, the only choice worth making was the one that allowed a person to face death with dignity and the certainty that they'd done the right thing. How many people got to say that?

Not many, surely.

Even if it fucking hurt.

The old anger tried to flare into life, tried to insist that this was all stupid, that kings and tyrants and marines were fighting over paper borders, killing one another over ink on a page, when the truth of the matter was...... the enirety of the human species was in the twilight of its years, still able to claw its way back from the trembling brink, but only if people lifted their eyes from looking at their goddamn shoes to see the forest of hands and teeth, shambling on the horizon in front of them.

But no. Either she was a sane woman in an insane world, or...... something had broken in her a long time ago, and everyone around her was a rational person. Madison could no longer tell which.

Resignation and hopelessness lodged in her gaze.

Her breath was wet and everything burned.

A stubborn ripple tingled along her jaw. Nobody become a zombie hunter expecting an open casket funeral.

There was still..... she needed to finish things.

Always keep one for yourself. One of her arms wasn't working, but the other still functioned well enough. When she heard her name, Madison's eyes opened. She hadn't remembered closing them. Not a great sign.

Tick tock. Time was a-wasting. Weston was kneeling near her, asking her to talk.

The three fingers on her right hand that weren't sporting fractures were fiddling with the snaps on a holster at her belt, even as she looked at him. She'd need that gun, and sooner rather than later.

Weston was alive. It was enough.

"What?"

The blunt and straightforward response Weston got out of Madison would have made him laugh under normal circumstances. Now it just made him wonder if she was just too dazed and faded already to understand anything he could say. On one hand, he hoped not. He wanted her to stay, even if just a little bit longer. On the other hand… maybe it was better, for her, if her final moments were fuzzy and distant instead of vividly loud and in living color.

“I’m sorry -” He whispered as he leaned over her, voice hoarse, doing his best not to choke on his own tears because Goddamnit, he was crying already, wasn’t he? That was his brain telling him facts he was trying to ignore. “I’m sorry I brought you here. I’m an idiot. A fucking idiot. You deserved better than this, you-” Weston stopped, taking in a shuddering breath. He put one hand on Madison’s torso, where it was nothing but bullet holes and blood, when he realized there were far too many holes for the good ol’ apply-pressure-and-pray trick to have a snowball’s chance in hell of doing any good. It was as useful as squeezing a sponge and complaining that your hand got wet.

“I don’t know what to do now.” Weston’s voice shook as hard as his other hand as he slid it under Madison’s head, hoping maybe that’d make breathing easier if she had a bit of elevation in her. Sure beat drowning in your own blood, anyway. “All this time I was hopin’ that in the end we’d get this sorted out and maybe you’d stick around, at least give us some advice on … on where to take it from here.”

Blood oozed between his fingers, hot and slick. For a horrible moment wires in Weston’s brain crossed in a bad way, and he couldn’t tell if he was staring at Madison’s blood or Dave’s blood. He’d read somewhere that being shot in the stomach was one of the worst ways to go because of how painful it was. He saw the way Madison was fiddling and tugging at her holster and knew damn well why she was going for it, but he couldn’t bring himself to offer to help. He wasn’t sure what was worse - the idea of him doing it for her, or the idea of walking away and turning his back so that she could do it to herself.

At least this time, nobody was dying alone.

“I’m no Goddamn leader, Madison. What do I do now? ‘Cause I can’t do this without you. Tell me what to do.”

For a moment, Madison simply blinked at the man, leaking like a sieve but enjoying the feel of another human being's hand behind her head, offering the simple, plain comfort that had been so horribly rare these past few years. Though her voice was quiet, it was as blunt as ever.

"Do ah look like an 8-ball t'you?"

Advice? She'd given what advice she could, but so far as she knew, nobody had listened to her, much less taken the advice. Some people didn't want advice. They wanted an excuse to do what they were already going to do, plain as that.

The woman winced and did her best to come up with something. She was dying, and what little energy she had didn't belong to her any more. What should he do?

"Find anybody you care 'bout, anybody who'll listen t'you, an' you run, run an don't ever look back at this place. Th'duffle bag...... my duffle bag's got some notes. How t'survive, out there. If yew kin find it."

A strangled, pained noise escaped from between clenched teeth, and Madison shuddered despite herself.

Focus. She had to focus.

"Th..... Th'marines are here. They've been in Lincoln fer...... a long time. Watchin'. They...... got moles. But.... th-they're.... they're attackin'. Right now......."

It was her turn to clutch at something, anything, trying to make Weston understand the urgency he was under.

"They watched, understand? Y'f-find people an' you git. Get people outta here. Start.... new. Walls..... they attract....... monsters. Human m-m-monsters." It was hard to get that word out, and the fuck was clear in her gaze, even if she didn't bother spending the strength to say it aloud.

"Survivin'....... out there..... isn't.... isn't s'bad...... if you can..... learn.... t'stop..... bein' afraid."

The woman's fingers loosed from their grip, but the metallic snap from her other hand meant the button keeping her destiny in place had finally given way.

"G'on, now........ don' look back. Got..... got work t'do."

Whether Madison was talking about her last task or the tasks that still lay before Weston..... didn't rightly matter.

The uncompromising dark was coming to claim what belonged to it, and she was going to meet it head on.

Madison knew no other way.

She might not have been an 8-ball, but she sure was magic sometimes. Dying, and still cracking a joke? Weston didn’t think he’d ever have it in him to be the same way. Every time today he thought he was close to taking his last breath, all he wanted to do was scream, cry, and break things. Weston let out a heavy exhale that was almost a laugh, the corner of one mouth turning up at her comment - only briefly though, before falling down back into that resting scowl he always wore. The scowl was deeper and harder these days.

The pained noise and the way Madison clenched her teeth made him hurt inside, and he couldn’t help but brush one bloodied thumb over her cheek. There wasn’t much of her that wasn’t a bloodied, bruised, and broken mess at this point but he hoped at least that didn’t hurt her. “I’ll find it,” he murmured. He already knew where to look.

Madison’s next words made him draw his head back in confusion - not far, he didn’t want her to think he was recoiling. The words all made sense, individually, but the specific way she strung them together was nigh on nonsense.

“The fucking what?” He blurted out, glancing up and around the room as if he expected them to leap out from behind one of the cement columns and yell ‘boo’. Obviously, this didn’t happen, though when the clouds outside shifted and changed the way the shadows gathered on the ground outside, he could have sworn he was going to see Dave walk in next, camo-clad and whole, armed and ready to take him out of this hellhole and to somewhere safe.

Obviously, that didn’t happen either - there was no Dave anymore, nor was there someplace safe.

Weston leaned down closer to Madison as she grabbed at his shirt, looking her in the eye as he listened. Not just heard, but listened - to every word, and to every unsaid word that fit between the lines of what did come out.

They’ve been here for a long time. They permitted this to happen.

They watched. They sat back and did nothing.

They got moles. They know what’s inside of these walls.

They’re attacking. They don’t care that there are children and innocents here.

Weston felt sick. He wracked his brain, flipping through names and faces of everyone in the prison, trying to figure out if he could guess who the secret Marine-Moles were. It could be anyone. Plenty of tough guys inside fit the vague description of a Marine jarhead but could still blend in just fine at the prison if you let them get unkempt enough. He hoped it was someone on his side, someone who stepped up to join the rebellion, but he had a nauseating worry that was already eating away at his thoughts.

What if it wasn’t?

No, he couldn’t think about that right now. He needed to get his shit together because even if he was falling apart right this second and the only thing good he had left in this world was currently bleeding out between his fingers and after this he’d have nothing, he still had a job to do. Madison was right.

Fuck the monsters, he had people to save.

Weston sucked in a sharp breath, ribs and sides hurting from all the places he’d been beaten in the last several hours. Leaning over, Weston slid Madison’s side-arm out of her holster. He remained silent as he placed it in her hand, helping nudge the few unbroken fingers around it just right so that she could feel where the metal loop around the trigger was. He wouldn’t put her finger on it - that decision had to be her own - but he’d at least orient her right-a-ways first.

“I’ll get the good ones out of here. I promise. Just… after. Okay? After this.” Weston shifted to the side, scooting down so he was sitting closer to Madison’s hip instead of right by her head and shoulders. He never worried Madison would miss - she never missed, far as he was concerned - but he didn’t want to be on the other side of her final target in case the bullet went all the way through. He didn’t know if it would; his brain wasn’t letting him think about that, about the reality of what was happening.

Now sitting level with Madison’s hip, Weston reached for her other hand - the one not cradling the gun - and held it. Lacing his fingers with her own, gentle as he could, he gave one little squeeze and rubbed his thumb back and forth over the back of her hand. With a leg bent and free arm resting on his knee, he gave Madison a sad smile - it did reach his eyes, where the crow’s feet were starting to crinkle, though he was still tearing up anyways.

“I got time for you. Not sure if you can feel it, but I’m holding your other hand.” He held those entwined hands up a bit for her to see - proof that he was here and staying here until it was over. “Not gonna let you die alone. Don’t argue, neither. I ain’t in any rush, so you take your time and do what you need to do. I’ll make sure-” Weston’s voice cracked and he pressed the back of his free hand to his mouth.

“I’ll make sure, and I’m keeping that promise I made to you. Thank you, Madison. For everything.” It was all he could get out, but he felt like it was enough. She’d know what he meant. Weston looked away; as much as he felt like he was as steeled as he was ever going to get for this, he couldn’t actually watch it happen.

Madison did her best to listen, and even nuzzled against the thumb that brushed against her blood-spattered cheek, a bulldog unconsciously seeking reassurance that they'd been good. That they hadn't disappointed too badly. That they weren't alone. Weston's words filtered down to her like the sprinkling of summer rain, though she scowled when he told her that he'd be sticking around for the grand finale.

Being remembered with a nice big hole in her head wasn't ideal, but Madison supposed it was only right. Thanks to her keen people skills and astute judgement, her crackerjack detective-work....... Toni was now side by side with King in whatever hurricane of bullets and bullshit was happening outside. Who knew how many people had perished thanks to her inattention? Yes, Weston's life had been spared the noose, but if Madison had been able to figure out the bare minimum of the reality of the so-called rebellion, there would have been other opportunities. Other ways. At a minimum, the few genuine believers would have had a chance.

A hole in the head was.... fitting.

At least she wasn't dying in a throng of gnashing teeth. She wasn't screaming. Now that was a luxury beyond compare in these times. Dying of gunshot wounds was..... almost novel. A squeeze of her hand preceded the clasped proof of companionship lifted to eye level.

That..... was nice.

A spider-silk smile flit across her lips, butterfly soft and quiet. Madison wasn't one for vulnerability, and this was no time to break a lifelong streak, so she looked down at the gun. It was heavy and cold in her hand, and there wasn't any time to waste. Lollygagging might very well lead to her taking a bite out of the living.

Madison didn't want to die, and there were enough regrets in her rucksack to weigh down Hercules, but there wasn't anything to be done about that, now.

Maybe that's what death really meant: unfinished business.

"Anytime, Milo...... Any......time."

As last words went, they were fairly nondescript, but there wasn't any hesitation as the girl lifted the barrel to sit square against her forehead; she'd seen enough zombies who were obviously failed attempts at suicide that she wasn't taking any chances.

The sound was loud and fatal, but at least the job was done.

Bullyboy Squad Good_Morels ​

 

[Namazu]

Lincoln
Grieving is a Luxury We Do Not Have​

The gunshot made Weston flinch and suck in a breath of air between clenched teeth. He squeezed Madison’s hand even as he felt it go limp, only to squeeze harder so he didn’t have to think about how slack it felt. The sound of the gunshot echoed off the walls and faded away, doing nothing to cover the sound of his choked sob as he tried to exhale and inhale again.

He didn’t have much time he could spend here to spare. Death was marching in from both sides, he was not great shape, and he had responsibilities to people stuck here. He was not afforded the luxury of being able to grieve. He had one last thing to do here, too: he had to be sure.

Grabbing the end of his shirt and finding a patch that wasn’t smeared with blood, he lifted it to his face and used the material to wipe his eyes so he could see again. Swallowing hard, he turned and looked over his shoulder.

He wished he didn’t have to, but the last thing Madison would want would be to come back for Round 2: Biter Edition. He knew it was his responsibility to make sure the deed was done and done right. One glance told him she never missed her target, not even with her last shot.

Taking a deep breath, Weston kissed Madison’s knuckles, then let go of her hand for the last time. Avoiding getting a second look at what was left, he leaned over and peeled the gun from her hand. He was going to need this more than she did. He thought about taking the holster too, but something didn’t sit right about that, so he left it be.

Getting to his feet with a groan and a grunt, all things aching and hurting in the process, Weston took a few steps and grabbed both the carbine and the bloody fire axe off the ground. He’d need these too. There wasn’t anything to cover Madison with, not so much as a simple sheet to give what was left of her some privacy from the elements. The thought of just leaving her here made his stomach roll, and he vowed that if he lived through this, he’d find some way to come back for her and give her a proper burial. Someplace nice, under some trees - not here, not in this cursed place.

The thing about death that hurt so much was the heavy sensation of loss. No more of those shared looks where whole sentences passed without a single word spoken. No more fighting together like they were a well-oiled machine. No more mutual snort-laughs over something stupid. No more sitting up on a rooftop watching the sunset. No more stitching each other up with dental floss. No more afternoons in the infirmary wondering why silly-putty wasn’t all dried up but most of the food was. No more sitting next to the hospital bed late into the night, just happy to hear breathing. No more having someone that knew you better than anyone else in the world did. No more shared inside jokes that nobody else got because you just had to have been there to understand. No more Tock, no more Milo.

One thing that wasn’t lost, though, was promises that were made.

Resting the bloody axe on his shoulder, carbine hanging from the other by the strap, with the gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans, Weston stepped out of the room that housed the gas chamber and into the open field, stepping over Marx’s corpse along the way. Lincoln Correctional Facility stretched out in front of him, oppressive and looming, as a bitter breeze kicked up and tumbled across the open lawn. It was cold out, with a few stray snowflakes fluttering to the ground just to melt and die like everything else that touched this place.

He promised to be a better person. Now it was time to keep that promise, and go save some people. Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd get to play guillotine and make a King's head roll while he was at it.

Bullyboy Squad Tool NanLia Good_Morels Crono Not Meat Miaow BeyondDandy silverwhere Protean aggravatedspacedolphins ​

 

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
The Stairwell and Hallway - Part I​

The sound of running - heavy boots, an equal number or more compared to their group - echoed down the hallway. Whoever had been approaching definitely heard them, not that it was a surprise.

“Take this, split up.” Victor tossed Theo the metal pipe, ignoring the dirty look the younger man gave him for keeping the gun. He could have simply given him nothing and told him to fuck off, but seeing as how the ragtag little group did let him out… he could play fair. Turning his back on Theo and leaving the kid to his own devices - sink or swim here - Victor took off. What started as a dull ache in his feet from running barefoot faded as he focused on his breathing and keeping his eyes peeled for Samaritans, handgun a comforting heavy weight in his right hand as he ran.

The hallways in this wing of the prison were unfamiliar to him - as well as where exactly this wing even was. Being bagged and dragged had that effect, and he hadn’t done a good job of trying to keep or find his orientation. It felt like he was running forever through endless hallways that all looked the same, the occasional door to nowhere breaking up the monotonous long stretches of nothing.

The monotony was suddenly broken by the unexpected: The armory’s code-keeper, inventory-taker, corn-hoarder, and pencil-pusher stepped out of a doorway just as Victor turned a corner.

The timing was serendipitous and he was going to take full advantage of this presumably-important Samaritan lackey. Victor pushed himself further, sprinting even faster, and lunged at Hatsu.

Hatus's day had started nicely with a warm cup of tea and a light snack before starting the day's worth of unpacking, organizing, and distributing. Then, Toni and his crew had to spoil it all. Instead of a nap before the big execution, Hatsu got stuck arranging a clean-up crew for the two (now very) dead armorers. And as if that wasn’t enough, Toni now “controlled” the prison. Hatsu couldn’t decide which was worse: Having your kneecaps broken or Toni being in charge?

The cherry on top: he never got that nap.

Regardless, Toni’s plan seemed to have worked, and there wasn’t much he could do about it. All that was left was to watch the eventual dumpster fire this all would become. With a heavy sigh, he swung the armory door shut. The place was emptied of anything helpful and now less blood-stained, probably the only good thing that came out of it. Now, he was thoroughly tired and sore. Maybe now–just maybe–he could get that well-needed nap.

That thought lasted all of ten seconds.

His thoughts were broken by the loud sound of bare feet hitting the ground.

At first, Hatsu had no clue what he was looking at.

A bloodied, bruised, and covered in dirt creature brandishing a gun was barreling towards him. It was clear that the cryptid wasn’t here to make friends.

Suddenly, it clicked. Hatsu vaguely remembered the doctor introducing himself through the hazy fog with what he hoped were kind and polite words (ones that doctors usually used), but they hadn’t stuck. When he was lucid enough to care, it was too late to ask the doctor his name. So, the man was labeled as “Doctor”.

The Doctor, now turned cryptid, was closing the distance fast, clearly not here to talk about the weather or to do an annual health check-up.

“Goddammnit,” Hatsu muttered under his breath.

There wasn’t enough time to run, nor anywhere to run, so he opted to returned to the armory, swinging the heavy door open, hoping he had enough time to slip through and shut Dr. Cryptid out.

This day couldn’t get much worse, right?

“No, no, no, don’t you fuckin’ dare-” Victor closed the limited distance between himself and Hatsu, reaching out to grab the outside door handle. It would be too dangerous to just try and slip an arm or a foot in - that’s how people got bones broken around here - but nothing stopped him from following Hatsu inside if he needed to.

Yanking the door towards himself, Victor wedged his whole body between the door and the doorframe to prevent the code-keeper from closing and locking it on him. He brought his gun up and held it with both hands, pointing it at Hatsu, breathing hard enough that he needed both of those hands to keep the gun steady. He didn’t aim for Hatsu’s head - too easy to miss. Instead, he aimed for the other man’s center-of-mass. Much easier to hit and he’d get the pleasure of causing the bastard a lot of pain and a slower death if he needed to shoot.

“Do not fucking move or I will shoot you.” Victor hissed, eyes darting around the armory. No doubt he had to look half-wild in this state, but it wasn’t like he gave a shit about that anymore. The bigger concern was the Samaritan in front of him and the fact that the armory was empty. He knew what this room was just by looking at it - Connor had mentioned it to him once before, though he hadn’t been fully aware this was where it was located until now.

There should be tons of weapons in here. Dozens upon dozens or more, all lined up and stored in racks, with ammo at hand. And now? Nothing but empty racks. It looked like even the ammo was cleaned out and there wasn’t so much as a spare shoelace left behind.

“Where the fuck are all the weapons?” Victor’s voice shook a little as he barked his orders and question, but his aim remained more-or-less steady and his eyes sharp as he glared at Hatsu.

The door almost slammed shut until the crazed lunatic shoved himself between the door and the frame, forcing his way into the armory. The Doctor's breath was unsteady and heavy. The breathing of someone with too much adrenaline flowing through their veins. The heavy door didn't faze Dr. Cryptid as he held a gun steady, straight at Hatsu's chest despite the shake in him. The scene reminded him of the movie where the guy says "Here's Johnny" or some bullshit like that. Hatsu wouldn't know, he never saw it.

"God fucking damnit," he said exasperated, taking a step back, as he raised his hands up in defeat. It wasn't worth it to be shot over a door. Then again, most things weren't worth being shot over

Dr. Cryptid 's eyes darted around the room as the gears turned and a new sort of panic settled in. Hatsu almost laughed. Wasn't the Doctor "arrested" for treason? So he was with the dissenters, right? Dr. Cryptid's recent escape was also planned in addition to Weston's but he hadn't heard about Toni's grand plan, or betrayal, not yet at least. This was a new development for the Doctor. An unexpected one. Either way, it meant the Doctor was royally fucked.

"Toni," Hatsu said with a shrug testing if he could take a step back and lean against a near by workbench, "He and his crew cleaned the place out." He paused for a second before deciding that there wasn't any reason to keep Toni's plans a secret, "Toni had this grand plan of running the place- so make sure you save a bullet for yourself." He motioned to the gun, "Things are about to turn to absolute shit."

Victor let Hatsu take a step and lean back, eyes darting to the workbench to make sure there were no tools or weapons left sitting out the man could reach for. Normally he would have tried to keep his poker face on - all that training about bedside manner made it easier - but he was too frayed around the edges to keep up that charade. There was obvious, though brief, surprise on his face at the news Toni and his crew had cleaned it out. He hadn’t known that was part of the plan.

Hatsu’s follow up comment about Toni’s grand plan made his heart drop to his gut. That was not part of the plan. Not the plan he knew about, not what had been discussed multiple times before between himself and the other rebels. Surely if anyone had known that was going to happen someone would have told him.

“Fuck you, that’s bullshit. Where are the others?”

The Doctor was slipping as the world came crashing down around him. What started as a hope to overthrow King was ending into something worse—an ending where he and his friends were dead. Hatsu could see the brief disbelief flicker across his face. The strong guy act was starting to take its toll as reality settled. What stopped it from all tumbling was denial. It kept that tiny spark of hope alive, and the Doctor’s aim remained steady.

“You’re kidding?” Hatsu said, exasperation slipping into his tone before realizing Dr. Crypitd was serious.

Denial– wasn’t that the first stage of grief? Was he going to have to explain the logistics of how this was possible? All the reasons why Toni would betray them in the end?

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, almost frustrated with the situation, “How should* I* know where ‘the others’ are? You’re the ones who jammed the radios. Best guess? The Pit. If they are alive or not…” Hatsu paused to consider it. He knew that Toni’s crew and some enforcers were sniffing out the remainder of the dissenters. Hell, Toni probably even sold out where they would be. The likelihood of it being to invite them to a celebration was slim to none– especially if King was still alive, “probably not.”

This annoying little pencil-pusher was now pushing his buttons, and watching him rub the bridge of his nose made him want to break that nose. At least he gave some useful information, presuming any of it was correct. People were gathered in the Pit - no doubt to watch the execution of his allies. The idea that this had all been for nothing and was a failure gnawed away at his stomach and sent angry acid up his throat.

If the plan was fucked, so was he - and he wasn’t sticking around to see what that meant. Victor took slow, careful steps forward, closer to Hatsu, ready to circle around to stand behind him.

“Fine. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to walk out of here, nice and quiet, and you’re not going to say a goddamn thing or make any kind of noise. If you do, you get to die a nice slow, painful death. You wouldn’t be the first and you won’t be the last.” Victor steadied his grip on the weapon, keeping it leveled at Hatsu. He might look a little off-kilter, but his voice was dead-serious.

“Then, we’re gonna take a nice little walk to the infirmary and get some things. If we run into any of your people, you’re either going to convince them to back the hell away and leave me alone, or you become their bullet sponge. Understood?”

Dr. Crypitd didn’t like the situation. It was clear as he stalked around Hatsu like a slow, steady, and calculated predator. The Hippocratic Oath was long forgotten as the gun remained level. A new plan was needed if the Doctor wanted to survive this; apparently, he just had to drag Hatsu into it.

Just how many “plans” was he a critical asset of? Jesus, if he killed over, then the rest of society would collapse at this rate. Was it so hard to figure things out without him? He didn’t consider himself a soldier– hell, he wasn’t exactly built for survival. The silver spoon he was born with was supposed to be a ticket to an early retirement—an easy and CALM life. Yet, somehow, some way, he kept being the keystone of half-baked plans.

There was much to be said about the Doctor’s plan, mainly how turning him into a “bullet sponge” would be a waste of bullets, but Dr. Crypitd didn’t seem keen on criticism. “Mmhmm,” Hatsu hummed as he pushed himself off the workbench, “Sure, understood.”

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Hatsu had already headed to the door, hand on the handle, and pushed it open, not bothering to see if Dr. Crypitd was keeping up. It wasn’t necessarily a short walk to the Infirmary, but they could save some time if they were quick. Less time out meant the less likely they would be spotted. He made sure to stay closer to the doors in case he heard enforcers ahead; maybe they could slip away and avoid contact. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?

The prison was disorienting. Most of its halls looked the same, signage was limited, and Hatsu wasn’t aware of a map. His understanding mostly came from his exploration of the place. He was always on the move, getting counts, delivering stuff, and looking for people, so knowing a quick way past crowds and shortcuts helped make the day slightly shorter.

It was hidden, and the door was heavy, but an alternative staircase existed. He assumed its original purpose was to ease the stress on the main stairs in the event of a fire or any other emergency. Now, it served as another way to get to the infirmary.
Hatsu pushed hard on the door, “It’s a bit dark, but it’s quicker.”

He didn’t wait for Dr. Crypitd’s response before descending. The red emergency lighting cast a faint glow on the narrow stairs. Typically, he would watch his feet when descending stairs, but this time, he looked over the railing to ensure no unwanted guests were there.

He had been so focused on making sure they didn’t run into anyone, so focused on making sure Dr. Crypidt didn’t pull the trigger, that he didn’t notice his foot landing awkwardly on the edge of a step.

He had fallen down enough stairs to know when he was fucked.

silverwhere Bullyboy Squad NanLia ​

 

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
The Stairwell and Hallway - Part II​

Victor did not like any of this. Then again, there was very little he did enjoy these days. Being brought to this prison was quite literally the worst thing that had happened to him in his life, and it was hard for him to remember what being content even felt like.

Although he didn’t know which of Dante’s circles this fit into, there was no doubt this prison was hell. Something about the drab walls of the hallways, the way they all looked alike, reminded him of some psychological thriller movie he saw years ago where no matter where you ran, the halls stretched on forever, bending suddenly at strange angles, only to continue on with more of the same. Although not physically possible in the real world, that’s what walking through the halls of Lincoln felt like. But, as bad as the halls were, it was still better than the pit, or the solitary confinement cells he’d just gotten out of.

When Hatsu opened a door and it was nothing but dim red light beyond, Victor paused for a moment, uncomfortable with this. He’d never been in here before, and after poking his head in to see that it was a stairwell, he had to grip the gun a little tighter to keep himself from shaking. Dark, enclosed spaces with a stairwell that obscured vision and forced movement to one side felt like a trap.

“No, not this way, we need to-” Victor started, but Hatsu was already taking a step down - and then suddenly, the man was tumbling down hard cement steps.

Old Victor - the one that existed back when his biggest worries were trying to get all his paperwork done, whether the clinic would get that grant they were aiming for, and when the new medical coding assistant would start - would have lunged forward and grabbed the man’s arm or collar, anything to try and stop him from falling down a flight of dangerous steps. Old Victor still believed in his Hippocratic Oath, believed in God (even if the Church was full of faults), thought a deal on a handshake meant something, felt queasy at the idea of violence, thought guns were only for deer hunting season, and had never raised his hand against anyone.

Unfortunately for Hatsu, Old Victor was long dead. New Victor held only one oath, knew God was a joke, didn’t put stock in anything anyone said, had murdered people with his bare hands, and admittedly didn’t feel much when he did it. Hell, had Hatsu not tripped all on his own, New Victor might have shoved him down that flight of stairs himself if it served a purpose.

Too bad Hatsu falling now didn’t serve him any purpose, and he wasn’t looking forward to having to haul an injured asshole through the prison all the way to the infirmary. Good thing Hatsu wasn’t a big, buff guy. If he was, Victor would have just put him down for good wherever he landed.

Letting Hatsu tumble down the stairs without so much as lifting a finger to help him, Victor quietly pushed the door closed behind himself, making sure the click wasn’t too loud. He stood at the top of the stairs, waiting for Hatsu to hit the first landing and stop rolling. Thankfully, a tight fire stairwell like this one had lots of landings - not that it made the tumble downwards any easier to take.

“Oh. How unfortunate.” Victor said in a dry, deadpan voice, staying at the top of the stairs and waiting to see what kind of condition the code-keeper was in by the time he landed.

“If you’re alive, better tell me now. Silence means you’re dead, in which case I might have enough mercy left to just finish you off.”

When the world finally stopped crashing, he wished it would at least stop spinning so he could get a grip. Hatsu was half tempted to remain silent and let Dr. Cryptid finish him off. At least then, he wouldn’t have to deal with the ringing in his ears and the embarrassing aftermath of such a stupid fall. He took a few shaky breaths before forcing himself to speak, trying, with varying degrees of success, to mock the Doctor, “Oh,” a deep breath, his head rattled. Still, he forced himself to talk, “How unfortunate.” He took another deep breath, and the world stopped spinning, but he wasn’t ready to move. “I'm still alive.” Another pause, “You can still finish me off, though.”

Hatsu slowly rolled onto his back and blinked at the ceiling as the room resumed its sway. Damnit. He lay briefly before pushing himself off the ground, the room buzzing. “Only if you still have that mercy to spare.”

This was probably the worst fall he had to date. He hated how his head rang and how his face burned– he wasn’t sure if it was from the pain or the embarrassment. Worst of all, he hated how his body felt shaky and uncertain of each step. How all the practice and work he put into rebuilding his confidence suddenly slipped away because HE slipped. Bullshit. Stupid. Dumb. He would beat it out of himself only if his head didn’t already buzzed every time he moved.

Slowly, he pushed himself onto his hands, blinking and waiting for the world to stop spinning again. Nothing felt broken apart from his head. Once he sat up, he reached for the railing to pull himself up.

Click.

Oh.

That’s not good.

Slowly, he lowered himself back to the ground and pulled his pant leg up to investigate the prosthetic. “Damnit,” he muttered, unable to see what was wrong in the stupid red light and giving up. He’ll find out if it was sound soon enough. Restarting the getting up process and ignoring the click, he descended the stairs again– this time, both hands gripping the railing and slowly, ignoring the new clicking.

Victor really was debating finishing him off. Hatsu was just another Samaritan lackey. There was no way he gave a shit about the innocent people here, the ones being hurt, even if he wasn’t the one brandishing guns in people’s faces. Nevermind the fact that was what Victor was doing right now, more or less.

But that click, and that unmistakable artificial appearance of the prosthetic under Hatsu’s pant’s leg, made him wince. Victor wasn’t all dead inside underneath a shell of anger and violence. There was something human in there yet. Granted, it was very bruised, very scared, and very cornered… but it was there. The prosthetic and the way Hatsu descended the stairs clinging to the railing made his mind fill with images of Blake, especially in those early days when he was struggling to re-learn how to walk on a new fake leg that wasn’t his own.

“Shit.” He breathed out, mostly to himself, as he followed Hatsu down the stairwell. He still kept the gun aimed at him - now was not the time to let his guard down - but he at least did not continue to threaten to exercise ‘mercy’ upon him.

“I didn’t know you had a prosthetic.” He commented, finally breaking the silence as they approached the door out of the stairwell on the floor below them. “Maybe, if we live through this, I’ll see about fixing it. We’ll see.”

Slowly and carefully, one step at a time, until level ground was found. Hatsu didn’t know he had held his breath until both feet were finally level, but his hands didn’t leave the railing yet. He felt like he was swaying, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of him and his nerves or the concussion. Finally, he let go of the railing and didn’t fall over, which was probably the best thing to happen to him thus far.

“What?” he muttered, blinking once, then twice, as Dr. Cryptid’s words finally registered. He shrugged, “Oh, yeah. Not many do.”

Hatsu was about to push the door open when the doctor spoke again, catching him off guard—so much so that he turned with a squinted look to make sure the gun was still pointed at him. What was with the sudden niceties? If it was a joke, then Hatsu forgot to laugh.

“Uh, thanks?” he responded, sounding more like a question, “It’ll make it easier for me to find more stairs to tumble down.”

He had meant for it to come out as a joke, to hopefully lighten the mood, but the words felt like sarcasm as they left his mouth. He’d have to work on his delivery, but that was for another time.

He pushed the door open and closed his eyes as his headache complained, pounding a heavy reminder to be more gentle. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes, blinking away the dizzy spell it had caused. Nothing seemed unusual; a few people were walking down the hall before making a turn, and despite the day's chaos, it felt relatively unbusy.

It made him feel uneasy as if he was missing something, “I think we’re good,” he mumbled as he stepped out.

That squint Hatsu tossed him looked suspiciously like confusion and being caught off-guard. Well shit. That meant what he said sounded too nice. He’ll have to remember not to do that again with these Samaritan fucks… even if he did feel a twinge of guilt. It wasn’t that Hatsu was suffering any, specifically, because fuck all of them, but the click of the prosthetic and the frustration of having to rely on a hunk of plastic and metal that may or may not even fit or work right to do something as simple as walking bothered him. It reminded him too much of Blake, and what this place did to people.

Hatsu’s comment about making it easier to find more stairs to tumble down pulled a breathy laugh from him, mostly from the absurdity of the sarcastic joke. “Put skis on the bottoms, have some fun with it.” He added sarcastically, trying to match the bad joke contest they apparently had going.

Victor waited behind Hatsu as he opened the door and closed his eyes. His best guess was he was fighting off dizziness, maybe a headache, maybe worse. If he dropped dead here… oh well. He was not going to stop and haul him back to the infirmary.

The hallway seemed unusually quiet and tame, and something about that didn’t sit right. He prodded Hatsu’s back with the gun to urge him forward, down the hall towards the infirmary. He had a general idea of where they were now, finally, but they still had a ways to go yet. With the gun in one hand, Victor kept his other on Hatsu's shoulder, squeezing him hard and making sure he couldn't squirm away. He didn't dare get closer, just in case the man tried to turn on him.

"Get walking."

silverwhere Bullyboy Squad NanLia ​

 

[NanLia]

LINCOLN
Administration Building​

Dutchess had been dragged from the execution chamber, there was no other way to describe it. One moment hell broke loose around them, the next her arm was nearly out of its socket and they were feet away, down the hall. Wesley had chated out of the fray, taking her with him and she had barely been able to keep up. It had only been days since she’d escaped the MS13 cellblock and her broken body couldn’t keep up the demands she made of it. Her lungs burned, and every joint felt like it was on the verge of breaking but she didn’t stop. She knew she couldn’t, if she did, she’d be dead … again.

From what she had seen, in the fleeting moments they were present at the start of the riot, she had seen that most of those that had torn into the room guns a blaze were from the high school. One of those fuckers had already tried to take her out, she wasn’t going to stand around and give them a second chance. Evidently, neither was Wesley.

As they rounded a corner and he paused, she dropped to the floor beside him, hands pressed to the cool cement floor as she gasped for breath. They weren’t headed for his quarters - where she would have gone - but she didn’t know where he was taking them. She also didn’t have the availability of air to ask him either. She focused on breathing and keeping the darkness seeping in at the edges of her vision at bay.


Wesley gave Dutchess a sympathetic glance before gathering his knees beneath him and posting into a kneeling position. “We gotta keep moving,” he said quietly. “The quicker we get outta sight, the better. At least until all this blows over.”

He sensed her question, pursing his lips before speaking. “There’s no guarantee they won’t try to swing by my place to loot it or take me out. We’re going to the old admin offices from before they refurbished the prison. They’re out of the way and King just uses them as storage for non-essential shit… plus some people he doesn’t hate, but doesn’t really give a shit about.”


Dutchess nodded stiffly, unable to speak for the time being. She knew Wesley was right, they couldn’t stay here, even if her body begged her to give up. At the very least the man seemed to know exactly where to go and that was fine by her. She gave her second a few more seconds before she reached out to lean on him and push herself back up on wobbly legs.

She steadied herself, leaning on the wall and blowing out a breath. “Let’s get there,” She whispered. “I don’t have much left in me.”


Wesley nodded, reaching out to wrap an arm around Dutchess’s waist so that she could lean on him before moving again down the corridor. They paused several times at the sound of yells and cascading footfalls, pressing against the wall to let the traffic pass before continuing. Out of sight, out of mind.

The progress wasn’t as fast as either of them would’ve liked, but caution was necessary and took precedence over speed. Eventually, they reached the administrative wing in question, with Wesley taking the lead down the isolated corridor. Several of the offices were already locked, their occupants likely sheltering in place. Smart.

At the end of the hall, however, they had luck. Swinging a door open revealed a large supply room filled with old copy machines and other assorted office equipment – from back when this had been a functional prison. Most of the machines had been scavenged for whatever spare parts the Samaritans could make use of before being tossed into this room and seemingly forgotten: like the corpses of carrion picked over by vultures and left by the wayside. “In here,” Wes announced, ushering Dutchess inside.


Dutchess was now well and truly lost, being led down a part of the administration building she had never been to; if it were anyone else that had been leading her, she would have been worried, but she trusted Wesley with her life.

Inside the room it was clear no one had been there in months, a thick layer of dust coating every level surface, including the floor. It didn’t matter, only that if no one had been there in months, no one was likely to come here now. She made her way across the room and then dropped onto the dusty floor, leaning against a file cabinet to catch her breath and rest her bones.



Wes secured the door from the inside. He didn’t have the keys to this area, but a heavy copier pushed into place would be a decent enough barricade and he was quick to hang his jacket over the small tinted window. Satisfied for now, he turned towards Dutchess and came to sit by her side, puffing out his cheeks with a breath.

“We should be fine here for now, at least until those assholes stop killing each other.” He gave her a crooked smile and reached into the cargo pocket of his pants, withdrawing a half-crumbled protein bar and offering it to her.

Safton Bullyboy Squad ​

 

[Bullyboy Squad]

LINCOLN
Marcus King and Ignacio Cabrera on the Rooftop
collab with BeyondDandy ​

King stood in the thick of it, the wind from the chopper blades whipping his suede jacket and messing up his nicely combed hair. The stench of blood and gunpowder lingered in the air, mixed with the faint hum of dying rotors. He peered at Ignacio, his eyes piercing and unwavering, the weak glimmer of the dying light forming deep shadows on his face. Ignacio's words hung there, piercing the clamor like a knife. King didn't flinch, but his hand reflexively brushed against the gold ring on his finger, an anchoring habit. His voice, when it came, was firm but venomous.

"You think you've got me figured out, Ignacio?" he asked, gently walking forward, the soles of his polished shoes clicking against the helipad. His tone was low and calm, yet a fire blazed behind his eyes. "You think you're the first to throw Jamal in my face? Like that’s some type of trump card? Like you’ve got me cornered?"

King paused a few feet from Ignacio, he waved broadly around them, his voice booming above the distant crack of the oncoming storm. “Take a good look, Ignacio. This is what it takes to survive in my world. Jamal forgot that. He forgot what it means to stand your ground, to protect what’s yours. He didn’t just betray me—he betrayed everyone who depended on us. You think I enjoyed it? You think I wake up every morning with a smile, knowing I put a bullet in my own brother?”

He took another step forward, his voice lowering. "I see his face every night. Hear his voice every time I close my eyes. But I didn’t kill him because I wanted to. I killed him because I had to. And you know what, Ignacio? You’d have done the same damn thing if you were in my shoes.”



Cabrera glared and kept his aim firmly on the man in front of him, anger swelling in his chest. The bastard didn’t change a fucking bit since Ignacio was twelve and admiring his best friend’s older brother. Still playing mind games. Still acting like he owned everything and everyone around him.

"You know what’s your problem, Marcus? You talk too much. And you lie whenever you open your mouth, so you no longer recognize the truth. And it’s damn simple. You’re a fucking monster. "



King's gaze shifted to the pistol in Ignacio's grasp, and his tone sharpened like a sword. "Okay, go ahead. Pull the trigger if it helps you feel better. But first, ask yourself: Are you ready to handle that weight? Are you prepared to live with that, to let it eat away at you every day until all that remains is the guy you vowed you'd never be?"

As the wind raged about them, King straightened up, his face a mask of defiance. "I GAVE YOU ALL OF THIS! POWER! SEX! ANYTHING YOU COULD ASK FOR!” His outburst softened under a sharp breath. “A kid?”



The mention of Nari’s baby was like acid on metal. Something visceral glinted in Ignacio’s eyes. His hands clasped on the gun, body rigid, hatred charging down his gut. He dropped the muzzle.

“Marcus King,” his voice formal yet thick with contempt, “You’re accused of seven counts of crimes against humanity.” Bloodrush like raging water in a riverbank, frantic and full of momentum. He stopped trying to contain it. The wrath. Ignacio shoved the gun back in the holster. Took a step forth and feigned a right cross. Just to see the surprise when his fist missed the target and his boot slammed to the man's shin. Marcus cried out, losing balance he dropped to one knee.

“Murder.” Ignacio swung and his knuckles crashed into Marcus's cheekbone, sending the man stumbling as he tried to rise. “Torture.” A hard shove sent Marcus staggering again. This time he tripped and fell on his ass. “Extermination, forcible transfer.” Cabrera didn’t rush it, walking over and speaking like he was reciting the man his rights. But his movements were anything but mechanical, his voice fueled with fire.

“Inhumane acts, imprisonment.” He grabbed Marcus, fingers digging, crushing the fancy collar as he tugged him up. “Severe deprivation of liberty.” His fist hammered down on King’s face and blood shot from the man’s nose.

“Six.” He hit again. “Counts.” And again. “Of war crimes.” And again, with every grunted word, splitting his knuckles on Marcus’s teeth. Blood and spit painted the man’s face, dripping from the side of his mouth. Ignacio was high on that moment. The sick satisfaction pooled in his gut, brain flooded by chemicals, overcome by savage hunger to make Marcus pay. Finally face the consequences of his actions. For every broken body. Every tormented soul. Was it blind rage? Was it justice? Or was it guilt. Maybe Ignacio was just another animal feeding off violence to mute his own conscience.

He shoved Marcus to the ground. Snow twirled from the sky above them, melting into wet concrete, catching in their hair and clothes.

“Attacks against a civilian population.” His boot caught Marcus in the stomach, sending him rolling dangerously close to the edge. “Starvation, pillaging, cruel treatment.” On his hands and knees, Marcus looked up, trying to get up. He opened his bloodied mouth to speak but Ignacio shut him up with a kick, the man's jaw cracking sideways. No mercy. “Mutilation and outrages upon personal dignity.”

Marcus choked and gargled. He didn’t get a chance to catch his breath. Cabrera grabbed him by the collar and pinned him to the ground. Eyes locked, he wrapped his hands around Marcus’s throat, clutching it. The man clawed and trashed but Ignacio barely felt the nails carving his skin. He didn’t take his gaze off Marcus’s watering eyes.

“One count of genocide.”

Ignacio peeled his grip off the man’s neck before Marcus could feel too light-headed to feel the pain. To understand what was happening. Cabrera hauled the man up and dragged him to the edge.

“For all that,” his lip curled off his teeth, “I sentence you to die.”

Some said dying was like a snapshot of a good memory. Cabrera made sure it wasn’t. He spun the man around, twisting his arm back until it snapped, and he forced Marcus’s head down. Made sure Marcus saw the drop below them. Destiny. Too fucking easy but Ignacio didn't think about it, he couldn't stop himself. He shoved King off the roof and watched gravity do the rest.

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

 

[Bullyboy Squad]

LINCOLN
Rooftop​

Cabrera watched the broken body on the pavement. One arm twisted and folded out of place. Leg oddly angled at the knee like it shouldn't be possible. The wind calmed down and snow drifted, quietly powdering the expensive suede coat. Melting into the growing pool of dark blood that came from under Marcus’s skull. His eyes were open.

Ignacio’s breath trembled, pulse throbbing in his neck. How did it feel? Good? Hollow? Exhilarating? Scary? He didn’t know. How could he not know? Guess killing was the one thing you never wanted to get used to. Or you’d turn as sick as the fuckers you fought in the first place.

The sound of someone sucking air through teeth jerked him out of his trance and Cabrera spun around, eyes stopping on a couple of armed men. They had no jackets. Just blood-splashed clothes and ink-branded skin. MS13.

“I knew I’d find you here.” Toni motioned his Glock towards Cabrera with a lazy tilt of the barrel, not aiming. “But this?” The gangster whistled, shaking his head. “Ain’t no way I thought you’d ever flip on that smug ni'gga,” he laughed.

Ignacio’s jaw clenched, his chin dipping low. King was a monster by choice, by ambition. Toni was worse, he was bred to be one. A different beast. One Ignacio couldn’t let walk out alive. This wasn’t about payback or justice—it was about keeping people safe.

Cabrera did a quick math in his head. Targets, splits. But it was no synthetic drill, they’d move as soon as he’d take out the first one. All hell would break loose.

“I never liked you, Cabrera.” Toni drawled, meandering in Ignacio’s direction. “But maybe you and I,” he gestured with the gun again, “Maybe we ain’t that different, eh?”

Cabrera’s mind raced, his hand hovered a few inches away from the pistol grip. He didn’t make a move to grab it, not yet. He’d have seconds at best. He gently flexed his stiff fingers, ready to test it. To see if he still got it. That’s when he caught a flash of something in his peripheral. He didn’t have to look to guess, it was angled glass. His lips twitched.

“Whatchu fucking grinning at?” Toni growled, stopping, annoyed or suspicious, Ignacio wasn’t sure. He didn’t even realize he was smiling. It’s been, what, months? Half a year? Nearly a year now. Since he was completely alone. But no more. He wasn’t alone. He wasn’t alone anymore and it was goddamn hard not to smile.

Cabrera swept them all with his gaze and raised his offhand, slowly, to not spook anyone. He aimed a finger gun at the group. At the guy that would be hardest to hit from his position.

Toni’s eyes narrowed. “You fucking retarded?? I asked-”

Ignacio pulled the trigger.

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

 

[Namazu]

Lincoln
The Abandoned Building Overlooking the Rooftop.... You Blind Dipshits​

Alex was in his element: a warzone.

It felt good. It felt right. It felt like the world hadn’t ended any more than it was already ending on a daily basis while in an active combat zone. Up here in the top floor of the abandoned industrial building, behind a half-broken window pane and just on the other side of the prison’s walls, Alex had set up shop already. He’d brought the big guns out to play today - his favorite sniper rifle, the Barrett MRAD, the one he’d had since…. Since forever, really. Long before the dead walked. One of those customized matte black ones because Oz was just that Goddamn full of himself. There was a hot neon-pink smiley face with a red bullet hole between its eyes painted on the side. Red tongue sticking out humorously and everything. This was his first love, his first baby, his first partner. He loved it a hell of a lot more than he loved his ex-wife - and slept with it more often, that was for sure.

Shiny new birdie-toy, can’t wait to take that home. Alex thought to himself as he watched the rooftop through his scope, eyeballing the helicopter. It was spinning up, which suggested it worked - a good thing, possibly, but not right now. Not with how close the target was getting to it.

It was cold up here in the abandoned building, with the multitude of broken windows letting in the cold air and snow. Luckily he came prepared: he stretched out a spare sleeping bag beneath himself to put some layers and distance between his body and the chilled cement underneath. Hopefully he wouldn’t need to be here all day - though if he had to, he would be.

Thankfully, it looked like he wouldn’t have to. Alex watched the guards drop as Cabrera took them out quickly, a little smile playing on his lips as he watched from afar. It felt a little voyeuristic, but that was part and parcel of the job.

“HVT One sighted, in position. Guards down. Dream approaching.” Alex relayed into his comm to the rest of the RGF. So far, so good. Tiny snowflakes whipped on the wind in front of his scope.

“C’mon, Cabrera. Wrap it up, Dreamboat, my balls are getting cold.” Alex breathed out quietly to himself, gracefully not over the comms this time, watching the scene unfold. He remained trained on the target’s head - King, the people here called him - the whole time, no matter which way shit-for-morals moved. That smirk slowly faded from his face as he kept watching as the target fell to his hands and knees, beaten relentlessly by Cabrera. He couldn’t say he blamed the guy. Who knows how bad it got here, after all this time. They were damn lucky Cabrera was even still alive. He had been pretty convinced the guy wasn’t.

Finally Cabrera had the target subdued, twisting an arm behind his back. Alex let out a quiet sigh of relief. Target secured. Success.

And then everything went sideways.

“Fucking hell, Cabrera.” Alex hissed to himself, watching King tumble off the roof courtesy of a one-way ticket on Cabrera Airlines. Economy class, too.

That was not Cabrera’s orders. That was very much against orders. Alex turned on his comm, then turned it off again. No doubt everyone else listening in would hear the crackle-static of him going on and off. If he did it again, it might be taken as a sign he was in trouble.

“Fuck.” Alex growled out and turned his comm back on again. “HVT One is down. I repeat, HVT One is down.” Alex kept his voice firm and calm, but he felt anything but calm. Cabrera had fucked up, royally. He adjusted his aim, spotting the body laying on the ground below. That height was a fifty-fifty shot at survival, depending on how the body landed. From where he sat, he guessed King lost that coin flip. Whether he got up and turned into a shuffler soon was anyone’s guess.

“Dream is - motherfucker.” Alex tried hard to remain blunt and professional on comms, no room for funnybusiness here, but he couldn’t help but blurt that out when he returned his watchful eye back to the rooftop, back to Cabrera, and suddenly the man was surrounded by more men. They didn’t look friendly. Not with the way they were pointing weapons at him. The presumed ringleader was talking now, gesturing lazily like he owned the place.

“New hostiles sighted on rooftop.” Alex shifted slightly, giving the rooftop a quick scan before returning to the crowd. Cabrera was completely fucking outnumbered up there. Even if he was some kind of Quickdraw Slick Cowboy he couldn’t take down that many at once. Not without eating lead himself.

Then, there it was. The signal. Finger-guns. That smirk would have returned to his face if he wasn’t so focused on making sure his buddy didn’t get his brains blown out by a bunch of slavers and thugs. Alex understood immediately, following where Cabrera was pointing to the requested target.

As soon as Cabrera gave the signal and ‘fired’ his finger-gun, Alex’s own finger pulled the trigger.

On the rooftop, one of Toni’s men dropped like a sack of shit to the cold rooftop, red bloody hole blooming on his forehead, smug expression forever turned up at the grey sky.

Alex adjusted, taking aim at his next target. Pewpew, motherfucker, Oz felt like blowing up heads today because the war never really ended, did it?

Bullyboy Squad Crono @NanLi Miaow Safton Tool BeyondDandy silverwhere Not Meat Good_Morels Protean aggravatedspacedolphins ​

 

[Protean]

Bravo Team Part I
Lincoln State Correctional Center, Outskirts
w/ Crono aggravatedspacedolphins​

HUGHES​

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."

GORDON & FI​

At this rate, he’d be known as Pukeboy for the rest of his ungodly short life. He gripped the bark of the tree, shaggy blonde hair smeared to his forehead, as he bent to the side and leaned against it, resisting the urge to live up to his call sign. He should have been used to this. Norfolk was almost a year under his belt, and still, he felt the nerves starting to bubble inside and up his esophagus. This wasn’t the same. He had told himself when it was first apparent where they were going. It wasn’t going to be the same. There would be no Welcome Wagon of corpses. There wouldn’t be a lovely little farmhouse with a beautiful garden and orchard smeared red with rot and decay…No, it was going to be worse.

Another hand brushed his shoulder, and for a minute, he tensed and twisted, ready to smack it off. He was fucking fine.

Her fingers were soft though, pressing at a tense spot in his shoulder blade for just a second before he felt something soft pressed in the palm of his hand.

“Under the tongue.” She whispered in his ear, leaning back and moving past him to another tree in the tree line.
Gordon looked down, examining the small little silver packet she had shoved under his fingers. Zofran. He looked back up, but PFC Rickett wasn’t even looking in his direction anymore, instead her eyes looking at the prison in the distance.

Fiona had known that look all too well. She had practically lived off the anti-nausea medication when she had been detoxing back in the day. Her own stomach felt like it was rocking back and forth, but she wasn’t sucking on any pills. They were saved for situations like this...where people needed them more than she did. These people. Her squad. Her new family. She’d keep them alive. The bitter words of one of her superiors stung at the back of her throat.

‘And if they get bit, you leave them. You don’t touch them. You don’t waste resources. You say your sorries and get outta Dodge.’

She adjusted the strap on the heavy pack, the medic aid bag digging into her shoulders. Heavy burdens required heavy bags.

They watched, tired and aching, until a figure finally gave the signal, and they were all little ducks in a row, Rickey Tickey taking up the rear.

Both of them hated this for the all familiar reason that it was too familiar. This time, Gordie kept quiet. He wouldn’t tell anyone not to joke. He wouldn’t motion. He’d be a good boy…and watch. This time, her first time, she slunk against the wall and said a silent prayer to her sobriety necklace, that these women and children and poor sons of a bitches maybe were treated a little better than she had been, and if not, Lord Jesus pray for her because hell still had no fury like a woman scorned.

Gordie was watching Hughes, silently sucking on his Zofran, and wondering if he ever puked on his first mission.

MAYNARD​

He knew Gordon was trouble when he walked in the command tent, boots scrambling along, payload trembling in those panicked hands, radio crackling to life. The rest of the camp had more or less also picked up what Spermy was throwing down; anticipation hung heavy in the air, all eyes following the kid as he disappeared between some muddied canvas flaps. Conversations fizzled out mid-sentence and drills were put on hold, ears tuned to any murmur escaping the big boys’ tent over yonder. An unspoken, but collective unease enveloped the clearing and its inhabitants for the first time in days. He’d half enjoyed the eerie reprieve, but it’d inevitably fall on him to break the peace and deliver the news. Yes, children. Our T-2 days ‘til things got interesting may have very well just been expedited, and we’re getting an early Christmas after all.

Shooting a solemn look over at Chris, he offered an apologetic glance he’s unfortunately used to flashing at underprepared underlings by now. “Get my things ready.” Without dallying around for a response, he followed in Spermy’s wake, ready to find out exactly the kind of hell Bozeman would be signing him up for.

~​

It was flattering, really. Being one of the first cows sent to the packing facility. That through all the thick and thin, the buttering up of his superiors, and his spotless stint at the Ranch, Mother Hen(ry) had put in something of a good word for him. Not enough praise to fast track him up to that top-shelf paygrade—that much was clear—but enough to be deserving of a golden star and one of those High-QOL stickers to boot.

Evidently, the other sardines packed in his hummer hadn’t quite picked up on said honor. The drive had been quiet, devoid of homebrewed recipes being casually tossed around and old men leaping onto the road to lighten up the mood. Even Vincent himself was relegated to silence, something discomforting (no, not the beer-can chicken) refusing to settle in his core. It wasn’t any fear of failure or death that gnawed at him so — no, that was never the case. It was quite the opposite. That if he somehow left this ordeal unscathed, not a single piece of shrapnel to his name, there’d be nothing waiting on the other side. The palpable irony that this last hurrah would be far from the last breath of stale air he’d draw.

The roar of the humvee eventually cuts off, a quick jolt halting both the vehicle and his wallowing. In the distance, buildings comprising the infamous Lincoln State tower over their convoy. A reminder that it was about time to look alive again, while they still had the chance.

~​

Never before has he felt more of a general in Caesar’s army, phalanx at his ready. That being said, the legionaries follow in as disciplined a formation as you’d expect from their ragtag gang of enlistees. But he turns the other cheek, understanding we’ve all got our personal demons laid bare out here. Everyone has their own lucky crimper or bottle of Zofran to coddle one final time, and he’s just about the last person to go knocking on your eleventh-hour rituals.

He sizes up the buildings in the distance as his form of own therapy, noting every last splinter and crack in the walls. It’s all begging for a good ol’ renovation at this point. His next side-gig aside, he spots their liaison, peeks out from the shrubbery, and throws up a hand to gesture. Taking a note out of his star-studded colleague’s fieldbook, he takes the moment to SLLS — stop, look, listen, and smell. The coast is clear, and before long he’s shuffling forth to accept the greeting of… yet another Staff Sergeant missin’ a leg, eh?

“Senior Chief Vincent Maynard, Roanoke Ground Forces.” He lets the introduction simmer in the air for a brief moment, his secondary instinct to add a bit of extra flair bubbling beneath the surface. For the first time, there’s apprehension catching his tongue. Yes, Dad’s got some performance anxiety right about now. He feels the countless pairs of eyes drilling holes in the back of his head, all uncertain and restless at this last resting stop before throwing open the gates of hell. But he owes it to every last disgruntled soldier lined up behind him, thus far all having played nice and stepping up to the occasion.

He takes the Marine’s hand in his own. The words that come out his lips are more forced than usual, but he’s able to mirror the ghost of a smile lingering on Hughes’s face. “Left all our crayons back home, I’m afraid. How ‘bout we make this quick and get you fed after we’re done here, eh?”

HUGHES​

Blake shook the hand, a tug at the corner of his lips for an easy smile. A dumb crayon joke was all it took to remind him of the old days, of home. Being surrounded by brothers in arms. Especially after the year of being at Lincoln and everything that went with it. "You got it Senior Chief. And I'll hold you to those crayons, I'm partial to the yellow ones."

Hughes glanced around at the men and women around him in the dark shadow cast by the buildings they were between before he started to move with Vincent right alongside. When they reached the corner of the building, the sight of the prison looming, he drew the Senior Chief's attention to the buildings that were outside of the prison's fencing. "That's where we're headed. Tunnels beneath will get us inside." The building they were headed to was about a football field's length away.

Another heated breath of vapor leaving him as he pulled his head back behind the cover of the building. "The prison's enforcers are on high alert, active rebellion and all. Bastards are hunting them down, taking them to some gas chamber." Who knew Lincoln had a gas chamber? Hughes didn't, that's for damn sure. "Hostages should all be locked away in their cells." He broke concentration for a moment, "There are good people in there."

The Marine cleared his throat, "Cabrera's clearing the control center to avoid any problems when we arrive. Ready to hoof it?" Hughes asked, pulling back his coat to pull out the sidearm Ignacio had supplied him with.

 

[Protean]

Bravo Team Part II
Entering the Compound
w/ Crono aggravatedspacedolphins Bullyboy Squad​

HUGHES​

The crossing was surprisingly good for Hughes. A man who'd been up for thirty plus hours now, and had little time to rest since arriving back to the prison. But it felt like back in the training days, or the long missions. It felt right. And Blake was in his element, each step in the overgrown grass felt lighter rather than heavier. Not even the fact that his prosthetic leg was rubbing harshly against his raw stump still bothered him.

Afterwards, the search for the tunnel entrance took a minute in the dark building but once they'd located it Hughes heaved the door open.

And out tumbled a hissing decomposing undead, right into his face. The burly man grunted, not letting it through, holding it's weight. Blake had shoved his gun right into it's mouth, the teeth chomping onto the metal. But his gun wasn't silenced, he knew not to pull the trigger. That's when a single silenced shot went clean through it's skull from behind him. The corpse collapsed and Hughes glanced over his shoulder and gave an appreciative nod to the shooter. "Wasn't supposed to be anything like that down here." He stated, a little disgruntled while rolling his neck.

CHRIS​

Standing between the buildings while the big boys talked was uncomfortable. He held one of the rear positions on the corner of the building, from the side they'd entered from. This was his first big mission with Roanoke, but that wasn't the part that made him anxious.

When the call came to move again, and Chris was crossing the stretch of land. He was just glad to be on the move again. But once they'd reached the building in question, decrepit and empty, that anxiousness returned with a vengeance.

See, those weeks he spent crossing the country from Riley to Roanoke? He hadn't talked to anybody about it, but those days had been hell on earth. Chris still woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat from nightmares.

Chris had still been catching his breath from the crossing when the snarl of the undead went through the echoing building followed by the silenced gunshot. The Corporal startled, goosebumps covering his skin.

Get it together Bozeman. He told himself, running a gloved hand over his face. Taking a deep breath to settle himself and ease his heartrate back down. With a resolute face he took hold of his weapon again and waited.

GORDON​

A quick handshake and they were on the move again, a set of dilapidated buildings just outside the fence. A tunnel.

A tunnel…The Ranch had one, remember? Oh, right, you don’t, because you didn’t look behind you. Because you didn’t hear her.

He sucked in the breath, and followed without a sound. Internal Gordie could go fuck himself and have a masturbation moment. External Gordie had to focus. He had moved on. It was fine. He was fine. He lifted his rifle, carrying it with a little more weight than before.

The building creaked, as Hughes opened the door, and Gordie creeped behind him and Maynard. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he had to wonder who else knew about this tunnel. He didn’t have to wait long for that answer. As soon as he heard the hiss, the tac light went on his gun, he raised it and aimed. No hesitation this time. He had done this before. He fired, silencer on, and let the thing fall back.

In those short few months, he’d been channeling himself into a soldier, because that’s who he had to wake up in the morning, pretending to be.

Thanks Mom.

He gave a nod to Hughes but kept the tac light on, and aimed it further down the tunnel.

“Someone certainly started without us, sir.”

FI​

Fiona leaned against the building outside, her eyes upward, which in hindsight probably wasn’t the best thing, but she was waiting for the sign, the signal to get her ass in there and get to work. Chief…no…Cabrera was doing his own thing somewhere else…Fucking bastard. She chewed at her lip.

She could have killed Wyatt if he decided to join the army. He’d want to be like his dad. The version of Wyatt played in her head, bouncing around with a toy pop gun, commanding his stuffed animal troops, bouncing off of couch cushion landmines and coming back to Naptime, America as a War Hero to a plate of grilled cheese and a glass of apple juice. The version she’d never see, because custody was a fucking bitch and she couldn’t imagine a nine, almost ten year old boy was playing pretend anymore.

A gunshot rang out, and she quickly came back to reality, eyes darting to the door. She waited for the screams, the shouts of ‘Where’s the damn Doc?’, more gunshots but so far, just one…

She looked behind her and realized she wasn’t the only one who had nearly jumped out of her skin. Bozeman was white. She chewed her lip further, biting the tender skin till it looked just about as pale as he did. She didn’t say anything. She learned that one the hard way. Don’t point out the ones shitting their pants. Let them figure out. The Army or whatever fucking way it was. She instead waited, watching Chris for a second before giving him a quick nod. A silent mothering nod that told him,

“You’ll be okay kid.”

MAYNARD​

Yellow crayons. As if Triples had died on the spot and possessed his body then and there, his eyes narrowed into slits. Yellow. You hearing this, Squinty? This can’t be right. Now Vinny here isn’t too well-versed in the fine art of Crayola gourmandise, but there’s some bright red alarm bells ringing in his head at the rather odd choice. Still, he’s nothing if not a professional, slapping on a bright, smooth-like-Kerrygold-butter smile and rolls along with this huge head-scratcher of a hue, Huey.

The gang gets moving soon enough, following Mr. Yellow into the building he’s pointed out. Once inside, the crusty door groans as Hughes pries it open. Vincent stays back to allow their guide the sole pleasure, on the off chance he’ll need his hands at the ready. And, wouldn’t you know it, it’s a bad day to be seeking passage through dark, mysterious passages. Before he can so much as flex a muscle, however, a swift bullet punches into the undead. Good shot, Spermy. He’d love to give Son a good ol’ pat on the shoulder and slap a golden star by his name, but Second Dad needs to look tough. Especially now that he’s gotta play bad sailor.

“Well, Staff Sergeant?” His words are cordial enough, but voice grounded and his left brow sky high, pointed right at Hughes. Wasn’t supposed to be anything down here, eh? “Any idea what could’ve happened here?” There’s plenty of possibilities here, yet as always, his mind delves straight to the bottom of the barrel. Perhaps the Marine hadn’t been quite as genuine as the pamphlets made him out to be, with Mr. Yellow’s here looking shadier by the minute. Quite like when he first met Cabrera, come to think of it. He shuffles up, sliding himself squarely between Hughes and the rest of his men. Shielding the good, honest Roanoke soldiers who deserved better than to meet their ends by the hasty preparation (or lack thereof) of an unfamiliar crayon connoisseur.

He’s awaiting a response from the man while simultaneously peering into the tunnel, scouting ahead for anything else that wasn’t supposed to be there. Once again, he’s channeling the spirit of Javier, eyes narrowing to scan the dim corridor for any signs of movement. Sure enough, the tac light Spermy shines is enough to catch the attention of another rotting fella down the line. He locks eyes (eye sockets?) with the turned bastard, who begins breaking into a pace. Alas, Dead-Eyed Darryl over there stands no chance. It’s simply too much ground for the poor undead chap to cover. Enough so that even those of us not named Gordon could’ve easily put him down before he made it halfway. But for a while, there isn’t a single safety switched, trigger pulled, or bullet fired among the RGF forces. No, this merry band of pirates is just a hair more disciplined and pos-ID-inclined than that. And yet, the zombie keels over much faster than it should.

It takes only a single blink of an ordnance technician’s eye to notice. You see it too, Squinty? No? Your vision might be going after all. Then allow the bomb guy to spell it out for you Marines in the back with the colorful wax stuffed in your ears. Darryl here didn’t take a bullet. He tripped, Triples. On what must’ve been a rather well-concealed, low-hanging wire wedged between the two inconspicuous rocks over there on the side. Mere pebbles that were now ringing bright red alarm bells in his head.

Granted, it’s all just a hypothesis shooting through his brain on pure instinct. But his body’s already on the move far before it’s time for any peer review. Arms outstretched, he grabs the two bodies closest to him and yells for the remaining folks to get down. He tackles Gordon and Hughes to the floor with him, a big group hug celebrating the groundbreaking publication of his next paper: On the Reasons Why We Don’t Follow Crayon Munchers Down Dark Tunnels. Lo and behold, his theory is a resounding success.

As the zombie collapses and drags the wire along, it triggers a faint click—a warning message barely perceptible to the untrained or unlistening ear. Some trigger mechanism (he’s quite looking forward to this IED’s inevitable autopsy) over yonder works its magic, a single second of suspense before the big reveal. And then, it happens.

A kaboom—not of his own doing, believe it or not—tears through the tunnel.

An eardrum-shaking clap of thunder reverberates off the walls. A blast wave pushes out from the confines, enough to rattle the bones and drop any unlucky bystander to the floor, if a slow reaction time hadn’t already brought them down low. A sudden puff of dust, debris, and everything in between begins clouding up the view ahead, slowly wafting and billowing outwards.

It doesn’t take long for him to recover his footing, stand up on two legs, and assess the mess. He’s been out of the business for a while now, but he’s been through this song and dance plenty of times before. Kaboom’ed to completion and still got a head on your shoulders? Good. No overwhelming scent of burning flesh wafting through those nostrils? Even better. He gives the other, less practiced folks some time to recover and recuperate from the ordeal before speaking up. “Everyone alright?” His gaze, in particular, curiously shifts over to Chris. The lucky kid who’s about to get a hell of a master class in performing improvised render-safe procedures. “Bozeman, get the tools ready.” A relatively easy task. One he’s hoping will get the boy’s hands moving and mind distracted. It’s best to get up and busy before panic can set in, and he’s already off seeing to the rest of the group.

Next on the docket is Rickett, who’s got a good working record of not letting an explosion get to her head. Though if he’s remembering the reports properly, the opportunistic gal had rather rudely ignored his handiwork the last time around, instead taking the momentous occasion to shatter a man’s skull instead. “Rickett, you’re on first aid.” An opportunity to stitch a skull or two back together, this time.

And Spermy? Stay sharp, kid. We’ll be needing our best gunman on high alert. Really, the boy’s getting good at this stuff. Hell of a transformation from his first foray, bumbling through the battlefield and mumbling about lost comrades. He’s a bona fide killer now—steady hands, attentive eyes, and a trigger finger ready to take down any bastard dumb enough to jeopardize the mission.

Which, speaking of.

“Hughes.” He finally addresses the Marine, plainly. Better a man’s title to be stripped than the skin from his lifeless, lying body. The tone in Vincent’s voice is relaxed but ultimately a facade. A thin curtain draped over the tension, if only to keep things civil for the sake of his nerve-wracked men. His eyes, on the other hand, are razor-thin and newly-sharpened, a pair of daggers honed and aimed directly at Blake. “I’m hoping you’ve got a real good explanation for all this,” he says, motioning around. “For both of our sakes.”

HUGHES​

The look Vincent had gave wasn't lost on him, especially considering the current situation. These soldiers didn't know him from a crayon in a box of pencils. And Huey would be lying if he said he didn't momentarily question Ignacio's word However before his mouth could open to give an answer the man tackled him. And well, Hughes didn't know Vincent like that so his initial instinct was defensive, but the immediate blast stopped him in his tracks.

The thundering sound of the explosion had the Marine holding his eyes shut. An echo from a time not so long ago, a flash of the road ahead, the explosion, he never saw that damned mine.

As Vincent's weight left him Hughes eyes shot open, his nub throbbed and he sat up. The room had a lingering cloud of dust as he stood, listening to the Senior Chief popping off orders. As he settles to stand he can feel the prosthetic is off, probably something came loose when Vincent had possibly saved his life. So he braced one hand against the nearby wall to keep his immediate balance, just as his turn in rollcall came.

The Senior Chief's eyes are on him like he's the one at fault, which again, wasn't surprising. Still, Hughes met the man's gaze with a stern one of his own as he wiped the dust from his mouth with the back of his jacket sleeve. "Explaining why a crazed and paranoid community of ex-cons booby trapped one of their hidden entrances into their compound?" The Marine snorted, "None at all Senior Chief." His eyes moved off for a moment at the sight of the younger soldier stepping up behind Vincent. Chris, if he remembered right. A bag of tools at the ready as he waited for Vincent to finish.

With that Hughes bent down, pulling up his pants leg, vision wasn't great to begin with in the dark building but the dust only made it harder. So he was relying moreso on touch. Hands roaming the old prosthetic for the culprit. And it was at that, an old prosthetic. It wasn't fitted to his limb nor was it of great quality. It was the best Victor could find in a pile of unused prosthetics they had at the prison. More like the few taken from people they'd killed. But it got the job done, until moments like this at least.

Blake's mind drifted to Vincent's not so much accusation. Again he questioned if Ignacio had known anything and failed to tell him. He hated that he was second guessing the man but it was hard not to given recent history. Finally his fingers found what they were looking for, whilst the soldiers were in the tunnel doing their thing. Hands tightening what was needed to keep the prosthetic in place, just like Victor had taught him to. Then he reached down and collected his sidearm from the floor below.

---​

It wasn't long before they were on the move again, just slower this time. Explosive traps? Blake wasn't a fan, he stayed right behind and slightly beside Vincent as they moved through the tunnel. Learning that Maynard was good with explosives along the way, which was a slight relief.

Once at the end of the tunnel they were faced with another door to open. Blake didn't give them time to suggest anyone else open it, he was taking responsibility head on if anything happened. The metal door creaked open but it was utter silence on the other side. He stepped back, letting them walk in first to clear and set up momentary positions. Once he too stepped inside and glanced around he looked at Vincent. "We're beneath the east prison block." It was just as cold in here as it had been in the freezing below ground tunnel.

"The Samaritan's cut off parts of the prison when winter hit, this was one of them. So they don't have to keep the entire prison heated, if that's even possible." Hughes glanced around as he considered the area they were in. "There are three possible routes out of here. Normally I'd give you a run down on guard locations but it doesn't mean much with the current state. They're anywhere and everywhere from what I was told."

TRIPLES​

Everything beyond their entry point went wrong, so Javier expected a welcome party as soon as they exited the maintenance tunnel. But there was no one to greet. Were the locals too busy or did the blast not make it past the concrete?

He swept the open space with his rifle and the bright beam of dustlight. Metal machinery glinted faintly with their flashlights, throwing weird shadows across the institutional green paint. It peeled in long strips, exposing black mold that crept up the corners where moisture seeped in. Thick walls nearly drowned out the occasional gunshots. Just the splashing sound of dripping water somewhere nearby disturbed the silence. The air was frigid. Musty. But it didn’t smell like rotting corpses, which Triples called progress.

“Cold and empty like my ex’s heart.” He muttered and searched for Vincent among the faces. “Looks like this is our stop, sir.” Time to split into teams and follow their objectives.

After a quick farewell, Bravo team chose their path and headed for the heart of the building. Which was the main tower that connected each cell block. In the upper level there was a huge control room—Bravo’s destination. Delta had a different task, which demanded them to move all around the complex. They had to unlock the proverbial and literal doors for the strike teams that Javier hoped were already freezing their balls off in the woods. Were they? Or were they still on the way. Fuck if he knew. Nobody knew nothing at that point. This whole short notice operation was messing with his gut, he’d kill for a couple of Tums right now…

Their final task was to open the front gate. If Charlie Team did their job right and they were already posted in the sniper towers in place of the Samaritan shooters, they’d cover Delta’s six. If not? Delta would be flashing their tits out in the open for everyone to engage them as they pleased.

Huerta led his team through the lightless hall, his NVG pulled down from the helmet, brightening the world up in green hues. He stopped before they’d enter the lit up part of the prison and turned to face them.

“Alright, this is where things get serious.” His voice hushed, body consistently alert. “You’ve heard our contact.” Could they even trust that guy? Javier nudged the doubt away, no room for that now. “Enemy sent multiple capture and kill squads we will encounter. Don’t forget your ROE. PID the people when you can, unless they’re already aiming at you. Then smoke those bastards, no second thoughts. I’ll take point, Bozeman on me, then Rickett and Whitaker stay close to her, watch our ass. Ready?” He checked their expressions in the dim light. His face was calm despite his sped-up heart rate. Of course he was nervous. His team was all military rookies, one of which wasn’t even drinking age. How the hell was he supposed to keep them all alive in a place filled with degenerated killers? The answer was simple. He wouldn’t.

MAYNARD​

Barring an unreciprocated embrace from Spermy and a cheeky serving of Hughes sass, it was easy enough to process what’d just happened. He hushed the nagging ring in his ears (Hughes, not the tinnitus) and eased away the tension in his joints, lest he be reminded of his most recent birthday—one he had yet to celebrate or even acknowledge. ‘Least the mind was still sharp as ever. Just like all the spiffed and shined (with dirt) tools Chris had so kindly dropped by his feet. A quick rummage through the goodie bag made it clear we weren’t about to see the prettiest and up-to-standard tunnel clearing unfolding here. Mayhaps next time, those cheap, sit-on-their-asses councilmen could toss a bone over to the bomb guy and get him some actual funding, how ‘bout that? Nevertheless, he’d be remiss to pass up a trip down memory lane minefield, and grabbed the two next-best tools a man could ask for: a pair of working eyes and a sturdy metal stick.

After some methodical scanning and prodding in the dark, he gave the all-clear and started orchestrating every last footstep in and out the tunnel. Two steps to the left... no, your other left, Spermy. ‘Twas another day shepherding some helpless soldiers across an active minefield, and here’s hoping Chris (or anybody else, lest Baby Bozeman become Baby Boom’ed) was paying enough attention for next time. God only knew how many more pleasant surprises traps were still scattered about.

Once everyone finished pouring out the passageway and after a proper headcount—in addition to a fingercount and limbcount—it came time to split up. Just like Triples had done with his cold, empty-hearted exes. He saw Delta off with a final round of salutes and patented pats on the shoulder, an extra little footnote reserved for Chris. “See ya on the other side, kid. Or not. In which case, give your dad a big ol’ congratulations for finally getting rid of me.”

One by one, he watched the youngins disappear behind Uncle Huerta, a bitter pill to swallow considering what happened last time Squinty got put on babysitting duty. Alas, a day trip with Trips sure as hell seemed safer than a hangout with Hughes, who he could now devote his full unadulterated attention to.

He tuned in to Blakey’s blathering on the prison block, doubts lingering on the legitimacy of all that intel. Intel coming from the guy who claimed there shouldn’t have been any nasties in the tunnel, only to backtrack with a booby trap revelation mere moments later. The lack of crayons must've really been getting to someone’s head. A couple other colorful questions came to mind, but for the sake of maintaining something akin to a working relationship, he put a pin in it.

For whatever it was worth, though, he ended up rather enjoying the impromptu tour Hughes was giving. Always a sucker for that tourist stuff, he was. A bit of a cold reception in this part of the building, but between the high of a surprise kaboom and that crisp, motivating chill in the air, his battle-ready blood was pumping in bliss.

The Bravo boys made swift, efficient work rounding corners and evading enforcer eyes. Differences in crayon preference aside, Hughes was an easy soldier to work with. Sharing unspoken signals and quick glances whenever the sound of footsteps drew near, the team managed to make it far enough without blowing their cover or C-4. That being said, letting enforcers roam free hadn’t exactly eased the mind, the pessimist in him unable to shake the gnawing thought of Chris and the others still being out there. But he’d left the kid with his finest selection of lucky tools, and they had stone-cold Gordon among their numbers. Not a chance anything went off the rails there.

After letting one final set of hostile-sounding footsteps echo away from their vicinity, he shot Hughes a glance. The thrill of stalking around a maze of rooms and halls hadn't worn off just yet, but the route was starting to seem a tad contrived with all the improvisation and on-the-fly detours. A scan around ensured the surroundings were clear, and he spoke up if only for his own peace of mind. “That our stop?” He asked, an expectant look at Hughes as he motioned over to a promising doorway in the distance. A faint but hopeful glow and low, muffled activity seeped out the entrance, surely implying it was their destination—the control room, right?

 

[Namazu]

A Collab with NanLia and aggravatedspacedolphins

LINCOLN
The Whorehouse & Halls - Part I​

As the tides turned and Toni took control, subduing the rebellion, Temma knew she was witnessing the end of days. Toni and King’s second, as King’s equal would spell the worst for the community, imperfect as it already was. There was no time to dwell on this or the fact that Tig had so very blatantly brandished his gun at her and Derek. That ass had the audacity to do such a thing after she had spent years listening to him bitch and moan about who he was playing service to and how ugly they were or how shittily they spoke, or that they didn’t want to talk, just to fuck. Each and every time she had given him the opportunity to walk: If you don’t want to do this, there are other places you can work.

Bitch had had the balls to walk, just wanted someone to be fool enough to pity them. She knew now for certain that had been Weston. She hadn’t ever suspected Weston to have an interest in her boys since the only person he’d ever requested had been Val. But one night he took Tig back to his room from the bar after Tig had been all over that man, and then it had only been Tig since.

Temma didn’t have time to think further about their connection as it was announced a series of military vehicles were headed for Lincoln and Derek was shoving her out of the elite area to the hall. On any other day, she would have given the man hell for the rough-handling of her only couture dress.

“Run, get to the whorehouse and lock the doors.” It made sense and really had been the safety plan any time a riot broke out or there were signs of one. The whorehouse, a name she hated, was one of the few places that had a solid metal door that locked from the inside. She had no clue what it had been used for before it had become the whorehouse, but it was useful. When she turned to go that direction she swiftly realized she was alone. “Wait, baby?” She paused, looking back at her husband. “Let’s go.”

Derek shook his head, “Go on, get. I’ll come get you later.”

She knew the look on his face, the determination. He was going to protect King and his ideals to the end, no matter what. There wasn’t any time to argue as more people came retreating out of the pit, many of them her girls and boys, pausing to watch her for direction. “Fuck.” She hissed and waved her hands at the flock. “Get moving.” She shouted which sent her flock scurrying.

Temma jogged behind them, cursing herself for needing to wear the biggest blackest stiletto heels she could find - were they stripper-sized height? Of fucking course they were, Weston had deserved nothing best but her best. But she should have assumed that something like this would go sideways and now the knee-heigh stripper boots laced to her thighs seemed like a mistake on her part.

At the whorehouse she helped push the heavy door closed and locked it, the eerie silence filling the room along with panting breath and quiet sobbing. “Head count.” She huffed, leaning back on the door and closed her eyes, trying to catch her breath and after a few seconds, one of the girls replied. “All here with a few others, but we’re missing Tig.”

There was an audible gasp and then many people speaking at once before Temma hissed, she snapped, the bracelets on her wrist jangling together. “Tig is on his own, he made that decision when the bitch pointed a gun at my ass.” More murmuring, and some wild eyes looking her way. “Listen, Tig has always done his own thing.” She huffed. “And if the bitch wasn’t to ride or die at Weston’s side, then that’s his business. But that bitch shows up at these doors asking for salvation he better be prayin’ to god almighty Jesus that I am in the mood to forgive.”


“I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here. I should not be here.” Oakley's words fell on deaf frantic ears, panicked women and men frantically filtering into the room, and everyone speaking over each other all at once until Temma shut them all into the adulterous prison.

Not once in the year that Oakley had been here at Lincoln had she had the pleasantries of stepping into Temma’s business. Thank Daddy for that bit of protection, but even so, every part of Lincoln rubbed her the wrong way. Lincoln had been her own personal Hell from the beginning. Every type of criminal, felon, or sinner existed in this concrete jungle. Everything that she had learned was wrong, a capital offense, a death penalty inflicted punishment, was legal in some shape or form. The weak and broken weren’t even given a chance, and the people who had no value were tossed aside and left to rot, turn, and rot once more. She thought about running once or twice before, but she’d never been able to shoot a gun. Dad hadn’t been proud of his first father daughter hunting trip back in the day when she was too worried about what that little doe’s family would do without her. Not much had changed since then.

She paced, arms rubbing at the red knit sweater, an old Christmas gift from long ago. She couldn’t allow herself to sit down, although she probably wouldn’t have anyway even if she wasn’t almost mid-panic attack. In another life, she would have saved herself for marriage to a good Christian boy who’s favorite book was the Bible, and he never would have said any sort of swear word. This was a house full of temptation but that was kind of obvious, wasn’t it? She bit at her nails, keratin already short due to her terrible habit of picking and chewing them. She paused, to listen to Temma shout about one of the boys, Tig, and then she resumed her pacing, and quietly mumbling to herself.

She shouldn’t be here not because this place was full of immorality, sin, and dildos. She shouldn’t have ran. She should have stood up and fought, but instead, Daddy told her to stay put, and she listened, amongst the screams and arguing. She stayed put…

Some fucking lawyer she would have been. Justice had not been served. What if they were all dead in the water? What if everyone killed each other, and they were forgotten in this…sex dungeon?

“This is not happening. It’s not. It is not.” She was the cause of all her panic, and it wasn’t doing anything to soothe the rest of the room, but she couldn’t let it go.

She should not have been here.


“Motherfucker-” Weston hissed as he tugged his axe out of the back of an enforcer. It had been an inglorious and short-lived fight: the first bastard he’d run into was the unlucky dipshit on the other side of the door that Weston snuck in through. The guy - younger than him by a handful of years - had whirled around, stared at him wide-eyed like he’d just seen a ghost, and started to raise his gun. Rather than waste bullets and make noise when he didn’t have to, Weston body-checked him into a wall, knocked the pistol out of the man’s hand, threw him to the floor, and then axe’d him. Right in the back. Worked great, until he realized this damn axe had the bad habit of getting stuck in bone. Or maybe he was swinging too hard. He wasn’t sure. Being fucking livid sure helped make fighting easier, though.

Leaving a splattering of blood against the wall, Weston rounded a corner, keeping his eyes peeled for more enforcers. Or hell, more… anyone, at this rate. His loyalists were out, hopefully running towards freedom, so that meant anyone left inside was going to fall into one of two groups: trapped innocents that needed to get out of here immediately, and enemy fuckheads about to get dropped (or, alternatively, enemy fuckheads he’d leave strung up like treats for the Marines to play pinata with if he felt so inclined). There would be very little room in between.

In his low-oxygen daze, Weston had done a headcount of who wound up in the chamber with him and who didn’t. None of Temma’s people were in there with him save for Tigran, and it was doubtful any of them were truly so enamoured with King that they’d fight to the death for him, so… logic dictated they had to be stuck inside. If they were smart, they were hiding somewhere.

Weston couldn’t think of a better place for them to hide other than the whorehouse itself. One of the few rooms with a metal door - God even knows why, Weston sure didn’t - and a place that was just out of the way enough not to be a communa
l location full of people coming and going.

The hallway was suspiciously silent and empty, which meant whatever the hell was going on in here, it was going on elsewhere. Which was fine, for now. He had a lot of ground to cover first.

Dragging his tired body up to the whorehouse door, Weston tried the doorknob. It didn’t move. Locked. Good move, Temma. At least, he hoped it was Temma’s doing, or her people.

Two closed-fist bangs to the door announced Weston’s presence next, loud enough to be heard on the other side but not loud enough to wake the whole damn wing of the prison. Weston then leaned his shoulder against the wall next to the door, not wanting to get hit with it should someone open the door up too fast.

“Temma! You need to get out of here!” Weston called out, hoping Temma would recognize his voice without making him announce himself by name. He took this opportunity to wipe the sweat off his brow with one arm - the one that was less bloody, anyway. No doubt he looked like shit - covered and splattered with blood, beaten and bruised, slightly favoring one side as he babied his wound, eyes still red from crying. He’d been striding through the halls like a man on a mission, but now that he was standing still he felt like he was wilting from exhaustion.

“Teeeemmm-aaaa… Ghost of Christmas Future here for a fuckin’ wellness check.” Weston leaned his head against the wall briefly, waiting.


The room started to settle, as settled as it could be with the day's events. Her girls and boys found their spaces, a sign they were seeking comfort where they could; she was glad they would have at least that. As the crowd dispersed from the door and further into the room it shook out there were only three individuals who had followed the gaggle of whores to the whore house, two women who were dating one of the enforcers - the same one mind you - and the daughter of one of the enforcers, gatherer, hunters. Temma didn’t know her personally, but she knew her father. The proud religious man had come seeking company more than once and more than just the female persuasion.

“Best you find yourself a place to sit, honey,” Temma called to Oakley, the only one still standing. “We may be here for a spell.” And with that knowledge, she knew she would need to make people at least feel a little safer. She strode to one of the seating areas and scooted a girl up from a massive wing backed leather chair and then dragged it, noisily across the painted concrete floors to wiggle it into position in from of the massive metal door.

She stepped around from behind and dropped into the seat, adjusting her dress as she crossed her long legs. “Crissy,” She called and a young blond things head popped up from the lap of someone else on the couch. “The paddle.” Without any further instructions, Crissy leapt from the couch and ducked behind a screen, only to emerge a few seconds later with a large wooden paddle, adorned with matte metal spikes. She delivered it to Temma, who rested it across her lap, hand clasping the pommel. It had never been used since the day Dutchess had delivered it to the whorehouse. The biker woman had stumbled across a sex shop and, while bringing in plenty of useful items, had seen it, thought it was ridiculous and knew Temma would love it.

Temma had only ever busted it out when one or two guests became unruly, threatening to use it on them if the behaviour continued. She supposed now, it would be a decent weapon to use against an intruder, provided they didn’t have a gun…

Temma screamed, along with a few others, and jumped clear out of her chair at the door rattling behind her. She spun to face the door, paddle raised like a baseball bat, ready for whoever would try and breakthrough, though when she heard the familiar voice on the other side she relaxed, slightly.

“Weston!” She hissed, hip-checking the chair aside and out of her way, she reached for the handle but paused. “You come to finish the job Tig started? Have I been that bad to you and him? Eh? I’ll tell you something, Weston Samuel Jones Junior, you can take your shit-eating whore with you and fuck right off. You try and get in here and I will crack your skull like an egg!”


It was maybe a good thing Temma didn’t see Weston’s expression on his side of the door. It was a resounding 'what the actual fuck' with a heavy dose of 'I’m too tired for this shit' on the side.

“Goddamn, girl, you are real lucky that I am damn tired of losing friends today.” Weston rubbed his forehead, drawl sounding exhausted on his side of the door. “I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about. Tig ain’t with me right now, but he’s helping get people out of here. Which you should be doing too. The fucking Marines are coming. Mil-a-tar-ee, Temma.” He stretched that word out real nice and long to drive home the point.

“I ain’t here to finish any of you off, I want to make sure you get out safe before the military comes. And, for Christsakes, if you can spare me even a single drink of water, I’d appreciate it, even if you just roll the bottle out the door or something.” There wasn’t any sarcasm or bluster in that last request, just the sound of a man too tired to preserve his pride. Weston sighed, pressing a palm to the door.

“Please? If you can’t do that, at least tell me whoever’s in there is okay, and that you are too. If someone’s not, I’ll bring you back something to help.”


If guilt was like a battery, Oakley would be the damn Energizer Bunny. She bit into a nail, and immediately winced, pulling back to see the small tinge of blood forming under the nail. Temma was nodding over for her to find a seat, and she glanced around the room. All the others were relaxing, some even finding solace in their regular activities. Oakley turned away, and moved to one of the only open seats. The girl next to her smiled,

“You sure you want to sit there, honey? That’s the virgin’s seat. Lots of cherries popped right in that spot. Gets a little…messy.”

Oakley paled, and instead found a nice bit of comfy wall that had wallpaper that hadn’t started to peel away. She first began at a lean, which turned into a swat, and then ended up quickly with her pulling her knees against her chest, sitting on the ground, and pressing her forehead into her knees, and saying a silent prayer. Her head twisted to look briefly at what one of the girls brought Temma, and her eyes only widened, wondering just in what fresh hell was that supposed to bring pleasure to someone if it was also intended to be a weapon? What on God’s green earth? She twisted her head back into her knees and said the prayer a little faster, double speed. Lord help her in this time of crisis and sin and everything unholy.

She screamed just as loud as Temma screamed, as suddenly there was a banging and rattling, begging to come into the whorehouse, but not for pleasure. Her arms wrapped around her knees a little tighter, and she twisted her head up to the ceiling.

“Oh please, please, please do not let me die here.”

The voice on the other side was gruff, angry, and pained. He was hurting…

Weston.

He was alive. He was tired. He had survived, but did he just say the military? The Marines? But, the United States wasn’t even a thing anymore? Was it? It was No Man’s Land, everyone for themselves. That’s what she told herself when she awkwardly stared at law books. Everything was solved with a pistol, it just depended on who was holding it. So, what…what kind of fever dream was he currently having? It had to be a private army, or something…not…the actual military? What reason did Weston have to lie though and he surely would have thought of better lies if he really wanted to get in here to kill any one of them? Really? The mythical United States Marines? Come on, Weston. That’s on par with Santa and the Tooth Fairy at this point.

His plea was getting desperate though, and Oakley’s heart of gold couldn’t take it anymore.

“Temma.”

Her voice was shaky, timid, quiet as the mouse she so pleaded to be. Palms of her hands released their grip from her knee caps and pushed her off the ground, and towards the much taller, fierce woman, ready to knock Weston right off his ass if he got through the door.

“You have to let him in. If…If he dies out there, then we have a bigger problem on our hand than just beating the crap out of him. And I don’t…I don’t think he’s lying. He’s served his sentence. He got what was coming, and…even if you don’t think that he did, wouldn’t you love to kick his butt inside rather than let someone else put a bullet in his head? We…”

Oakley looked behind her,

“Besides, the military? Who lies about that? Think about it.”


Temma glared at the door like she could glare at the man on the other side as he cussed her out for not immediately opening it for him. Like she were his underling, his subordinate and she should be jumping for joy that he was here and addressing her. However, his tone shifted. He sounded defeated despite the fact that he had very clearly defied death today. She rolled her eyes as he went on to tell her what she was already aware of, the military vehicles were rolling in, did he think they were hiding in here because of the rebels? “Derek’s got the enforcers together, he’s going to stop them from getting in.” She didn’t dare add we’ll be fine to the end of her sentence and test their luck further today.

The timid voice from behind her was a surprise, not many would attempt to tell her what to do. She turned to look at the girl, at least that’s what Temma felt she was; considering just how she was acting throughout all of this. “Plenty of people would lie about plenty of things, Oakley.” She huffed, turning to lean back against the door and cross her arms, letting the paddle swing beside her. “Of all people here, you should know. How many men have propositioned you here? Hm? Told you sweet lies to get into those panties?”

“You best not try and tell me to think on anything I don’t want to.” She continued, narrowing her eyes at the girl. “You go on and get, back to your corner and let the adults talk this out.”

Temma didn’t wait for her to leave, even if she didn’t before she turned back to the door and spoke loud enough for Weston to hear her. “No one in here is hurt, just a little shaken up, no thanks to your boyfriend.” She would not let him live it down. “I will open this door, and you will put down any weapons you’re carrying with you before you come in here. I swear to Christ al’mightly, I will pop you, Weston. Friend or not.”


The news that people were already aware and, worse, that Derek was planning a defensive stance made Weston raise his head and look both ways down the hallway again. Great - that meant enforcers were on edge even more than they already were, and nobody was standing down yet.

“Christfuck.” Weston hissed under his breath, probably still loud enough for most people on the other side of the door to hear. He wasn’t sure how big of a force was coming, but he was under no impression it was something they could just dismiss. The chances of this being one more lone truck full of a handful of marines that got unlucky enough to be blown up in the front yard were low.

Temma’s jab about ’his boyfriend’ made him scowl and pushed a raw button that didn’t need to be pushed, and he tried to swallow down a retort but it didn’t succeed. “Boyfriend? Single as fuck right now, Temma, in case you’re inquiring. Had our differences along the way. Call it a mix of ideology for some and a direction that we needed to run for others.”

Weston was already sliding the carbine off his shoulder as Temma laid out the terms of his entrance. “Scout’s honor. I got an axe, rifle, and handgun. I’ll put ‘em all down on the floor in front of the door so you can see ‘em. I’d rather not get popped - I got enough holes in me already.”

Weston put his weapons down on the floor - the axe first, falling with a clunk - followed by the two firearms which he was much more careful with. The handgun got put down last, and he let out a grunt of pain as he leaned down and stood back up again. That one was the hardest to let go, and it wasn’t just the pain of leaning down.

“If you shoot me, I’m gonna be real disappointed.”


“If nobody lied, Oak, there’d be no reason for lawyers and politicians. You better get good at it.”

Temma wanted to talk about lies, but she was preaching to the choir. Justice thrived on lies, and digging into the truth. Oakley thought she had gotten pretty at reading people. Evil intentions had been around her since stepping into this damnable hell, and she had pushed away more than her fair share of propositions for her virginity.

But…she could hear the exhaustion, the pain. He sounded so out of breath. Unless Weston had somehow decided to get an acting degree in the last few days, she believed him…and if he truly was going to burst into the room, just to give Temma a Bloody Sunday, she didn’t know that he’d have the energy.

“I know that! I’m just saying…That’s…Temma, that’s not relevant! Sex and needing possible medical attention are not the same thing. Pain and pleasure sensors might be in the same parts of the brain, but that doesn’t mean that-”

It clearly didn’t matter. Her science and psychology lesson would have to be saved for later. Temma was telling her to go back to the children’s table. Her nose wrinkled, and she itched at her neck, short stubby nails scratching fresh red scratches in her easily inflamed skin. She didn’t move though. She could feel the rest of the room watching, waiting, all eyes on the door.

Oakley stared at the paddle, little points glittering like diamonds. The definition of pain and pleasure. The definition of Temma.

“I really hope you aren’t lying, Weston.”


Temma rolled her eyes. Oakley’s science lesson was entirely unwelcome and there wasn’t a bone in her body that could prevent her from reacting in some way to the commentary. Sure, the girl was nervous and frightened but that didn’t change the fact that being talked down still irked. She bit her lip to keep herself from turning on the girl and giving her a dressing down. Did she think she was dumb? Uneducated? Or was it just an assumption because of where she was and what she looked like? Either way, Oakley was proving to be as ignorant as her father, the apple sure as fuck didn’t fall far from the tree.

She focused, instead on Weston speaking on the other side of the day, stating his intent to agree with her demands and even going as far as to list what he had on him. An axe? Temma couldn’t quite understand that one but she glanced down to the paddle in hand and supposed it wasn’t so unusual.

Temma had no way of knowing if Weston had done as she demanded but she pulled back the lever and tugged the door towards her. The metal groaned as it released from the latch, and swung it open enough to look through and see the man standing, alone, in the quiet hall. She glanced down, seeing the weapons he said he had laid out on the floor.

She was silent for several long seconds, wide eyes taking in the sight of him. Covered in blood and gore from head to toe, the eman was barely recognizable and the only reason she knew it was him was because she’d recognized his voice. Her hand shook on the handle, fighting the urge to shove it back closed but she swallowed hard and straightened her back.

Temma pushed away the thoughts of just how many people he had to injure… or kill, to become this bloody, she surmised that none of it could have been his own with him still standing on the other side of the door.

She stepped back and pulled the door wide enough for the man to pass through. “Hurry up and get your ass in here.” She hissed, tucking the paddle beneath one arm as she leaned down to pick up the axe’s handle between her thumb and forefinger, lest she blood all over herself.

Temma turned back to the room of watchers, “Candy!” She shouted and a middle age woman with pink hair popped up to her feet. “Come pick up these guns, Darlene, run and fetch the baby wipes…” She glanced back at the blood sodden man. “Some towels too, I think and water.” She dropped the axe carelessly on the floor inside the doorway, nudging it aside with her heeled boot. “Weston, darling, try not to get blood on the carpets.” She waved man inward as the others ran to do as she requested.


The sound of the metal door creaking open was like music to Weston's ears. Only then did he notice that he’d left a bloody smudge on the outside of the door when he touched it earlier. He made a face, trying to find a spot on his shirt to wipe his left hand on. He wound up rubbing it against the side of his thigh which mostly helped. Sort of.

When he glanced up, Temma was still staring at him, wide-eyed as if she was trying to comprehend what she was looking at. Not that he’d seen any mirrors lately, but he presumed he looked like shit. Bloody, bruised, and beaten with swelling around one eye. Everything everywhere hurt.

“Hey.”

What else was there to say while he stood here, being gawked at? Finally she stepped back and allowed him to pass through.

“Yes ma’am.” He’d normally offer a smile, but didn’t have it in him as he stepped inside, letting her take care of the axe while her girls grabbed the guns. He quietly closed the door behind himself, taking one last peek out into the hallway to confirm it was still clear.

“I’ll try not to.” He muttered. True to his word, he at least wasn’t leaving bloody footprints as he stepped away from the door, swallowing hard. He held his left side, shirt still glossy-wet with blood, and sucked in a breath as he winced. “I’ll pass on sitting down. I think if I sit down I’m never getting back up again.” He teetered for a moment, then rubbed the side of his face that wasn’t swollen.

“Temma, you need to take your people and get out of here. I don’t think you’re safe just hidin’ here. The military aren’t coming just to say hi and sample the booze stash. They’re coming armed, and who the fuck knows what they’ll do when they get here. They’ll probably just start shooting, no questions asked. I can’t-” Weston’s voice shook as he stopped himself, taking a step back to put his hand on the door and lean on it.

“I can’t stop ‘em, and they know what they’re walking into. They’ve been watching us, got it? For… fuck, who knows how long… they had a Goddamn mole inside, somehow. Someone. I don’t know who. There ain’t anything I can do to keep ‘em from rolling over us - and that includes you and your girls and boys. People who haven’t done anything wrong. If we so much as point something at ‘em we’re screwed. We’re not military. I mean, Christ.” Weston motioned at the closed door.

“The guy they had guarding the door I came in through looked barely drinking age and he had no idea what he was doing when he tried to shoot me. Only some of the enforcers know what they’re doing, and they’re still not military. There aren’t enough of them either.” Weston glanced up and scanned the room, doing a headcount of how many were in the room. Noting one particular absence, he furrowed his brows and turned that look on Temma again.

“Where’s Derek? Why isn’t he here with you?” He then turned that same look on Oakley.

“Didn’t take you for a whore, neither. This a recent change of heart? Where’s your dad at?”

​

 

[Namazu]

A Collab with NanLia and aggravatedspacedolphins

LINCOLN
The Whorehouse & Halls - Part II​

Oakley wasn’t making any friends here. She shrunk back down to her former little shell of herself, and waited with bated breath for the door to fully open.

She had expected Weston’s appearance to be more…PG-13, and not full blown rated R. Her mouth gaped, and all the breath escaped out of her mouth in quick gasps of air. It was worse than she imagined. She thought, maybe a bit of blood, hidden by a t-shirt, or maybe a big scrape down the side of his face, not swollen shades of purple throbbing around his eyes, or the sheer amount of blood that she wasn’t even sure if it was all entirely his, and if it was, how was he still standing? Her face paled.

Truth be told, she had never been good with the sight of blood. The first time she donated blood, she had fainted before they had even brought the needle anywhere close to her vein. The first time her father had dragged her out on a hunting trip, she had been so shaky when she had seen the blood leaking from that innocent doe. The first time she sliced her hand open on a broken plate in her own apartment in college she had nearly vomited in the sink. The first time she had witnessed the horrors of the Pit…she had fainted.

This was no different.

Her breath came quick and fast. Tinnitus came next. She couldn’t hear what he was saying. She could see his lips move, but the only sound was loud ringing. She was frozen to the spot, as Weston waltzed into the room and the few people moved to grab the things that Temma suggested. Her mouth was still open, gaped. She didn’t even know if she could close it. The room was starting to get smaller. It was tiny to begin with, but Weston was quickly turning into a small red dot in her tunneling vision. Her eyes never left him. How could they? She sank. Knees buckled, and she fell to the floor. Her arms barely caught in her time. Temma would kill her if there was blood and vomit on her carpet. She held it back but rolled to her side and shut her eyes tight, still heaving in large breaths.

She couldn’t look at Weston. She tucked her head between her knees, the ringing starting to fade only to be replaced with the pounding beat of her heart. God, she shouldn’t have survived this long in the fucking apocalypse but she had, and she was so damn well screwed if she had to be on her own. No wonder her father had told her to fucking hide. What the hell was she fucking thinking?

“I-I don’t know. H-he went with the r-rest of the e-e-enforcers I think. Told me to stay put, b-but I g-g-got scared. Said they were…coming up with a plan.”

Back to the quiet door mouse. So much for standing for what she believed in…


Temma growled her annoyance in the back of her throat as Weston suggested Oakley was among the newest of her girls. At the very least this confirmed that the Old Wes was still beneath the bloody gory mess that had shambled into her whore house. She shouldn’t have been surprised, but not a few hours ago did she think she was witnessing her friend and ally's death.

Oakley’s stuttering drew her attention away from Wes as the girls hurried to bring him supplies. She turned to see the child sinking to the floor, looking pale. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Oakley.” Temma huffed, striding the few steps towards the blonde, her heels clicking on the cold floors. At Oakley’s side, she reached down and snatched the girl's upper arm and dragged her up to her feet. “If you’re going to be sassy to a Queen, then you can’t go fainting at the sight of blood.”

With or without Oakley’s help, she dragged her over to sit in the chair she’d been using as a throne just minutes before. With the girl seated, she pressed a hand to the back of Oakley’s head and pushed down. “Head between your knees, girl, you’re not going to be sick on my rugs any more than Weston here is going to bloody them.”

Temma turned her attention back to Weston, leaning heavily on one hip, her free hand resting on her raised hip. “Derek is at the main doors by now. He’s going to barricade them and keep these people out.” Glared at the man. “And how do you know they’re actually the military, hm? Could they not have just taken vehicles and their flags? How many of our enforcers are actually inmates? But they wear the prison guards' apparel and act the part.”


“Fuck.” Weston breathed out, closing his eyes and gently rubbing a hand over his forehead. The movement made him wince - too much shit hurt to do that, no matter how much of a headache he had. He had no idea what direction the military was coming in from, no idea how many, and, truthfully, no idea if they were real military or just another flavor of thug. Temma had a good point, but he had to assume the worst.

Somebody was coming. That much was true; he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes but it came from a solid source. As far as Madison was concerned, anything she ever said to him was gospel truth and he had no reason to doubt her. He just wished he’d been able to ask her more questions… about everything.

All at once, Weston had to sit down, before he wound up in the same state as Oakley. Weston took a step and dragged over the nearest stool with the toe of his boot, then plopped himself down on it. The dainty little thing creaked under him, but he ignored it. The damn thing could break for all he cared. Sitting on the floor would be fine. He kind of wanted to hit the floor and not get back up for a long while anyways.

“I dunno Temma. I really, honest-to-God, don’t fuckin’ know if they’re real military or not. Didn’t have time to ask Madison. She was too busy fucking dying for me to play twenty questions.” Weston snapped irritably, leaning back against the wall behind him. He squeezed his good eye shut, which hurt, then opened it, which also hurt, and then let out a heavy sigh. That too, of course, hurt.

One of Temma’s girls - he didn’t look up to see who - shoved a bottle of water at him. He wrapped both hands around it, surprised by the fact it was actually cold. Weston wasted no time in unscrewing the cap and taking a drink; first a short one just to get something in his mouth, then a longer one after he realized just how piss-poor miserable he felt. The adrenaline was still fighting back the worst of it, but that wouldn’t last for long.

“I’m too old for this shit.” He breathed out after several gulps of water, putting the cap on the water bottle back on. He’d drank a little over half of it already. The cool temperature of the flimsy plastic water bottle felt good against the rough skin of his hands. Hands that not too long ago held an axe that he slaughtered someone with… and now that monster’s blood was all over him. As was Madison’s. It felt tacky against his skin in many places, still wet in others.

Weston leaned forward as someone handed him a little container of baby wipes - a plastic tub that popped open in the middle allowed the wipes to be pulled out one at a time. He sat the tub on the floor between his feet and pulled one out. The faint scent of it hit him as he wiped his face off; it felt so out of place here. So… before-everything. The memory of the old Kroger’s hygiene and baby aisle back home, and the time his father hit him so hard across the face it split his lip while they were standing in that aisle, came rushing at him out of nowhere. He swallowed the memory down and tried to focus on the here-and-now.

He took a second baby wipe and cleaned off his hands, then a third just for his beard. His clothes were a disaster, his hair was a mess, and his arms were more red drying blood than old black ink but at this point, the rest of it would just have to be ignored. Besides… that blood on his arm was mostly Madison’s and in some fucked-up way, he felt like he needed it. Just for a little while longer. Weston was never good at letting go.

“Won’t be enough. Damn fool’ll just get himself killed out there. Him and everyone with him. Your daddy included.” Weston nodded at Oakley, glancing over to see if she was still head-between-knees and having a moment. She looked how he felt, and for a moment he was jealous that Oakley had leave to be a vulnerable mess in front of others. Even if just for a few minutes.

Weston wadded up the bloodied baby wipes and sat them on top of the box, careful not to leave them on the carpet or furniture lest Temma finish what King started. He took one last drink of water, capped it off, then pushed himself to his feet with a groan.

“Alright. You’re queen bee here, Temma, I can’t make you leave. Just think about running for it, if shit gets bad, and don’t say I didn’t try.” Weston strode over to the door, moving a little slowly at first but finding his pace by the time he reached for the handle. He paused a second, then glanced back at her.

“Just so you know… I wasn’t the one that burned down all the food in the pantry. Far as I know, wasn’t any of me and mine. Dunno who did. I assumed King’s men did, so they could blame it on us when they found us. I was just organizing things and keeping people safe. They got strict orders not to hurt you and a couple of other people, but I can’t guarantee I know what’s happening next. Not after Toni…” He trailed off, vaguely gesturing towards the door, having no name for the shitshow that happened.

“Some of the graffiti was mine though. I gotta say, it was fun, even if mine were all the sloppy ones. Maybe I shoulda been an artist.” He kept one hand on the door handle for support as he started to lean down and grab his axe, getting ready to leave.

“Ah well. Maybe in another life. I’m gonna go find Derek before he does something stupid.” Weston’s voice was heavy with regret as he turned the door handle. It was hard to walk back out into a war zone after losing so many battles in a row.


Oh, for fuck’s sake was right. It wasn’t as if Oakley was trying to faint. If she wanted the attention, she would have done a poor job acting, and there wasn’t exactly a Prince Charming here to kiss her awake. No Taylor Swift Romeo. She let out a whiny groan as Temma heaved her up, her sneakers scrambling on the carpet until they found solid footing. She went along with the steps, not wanting to fall flat on her face and end up back into the same fetal position she had been in moments before. The room was a blur of colors that only settled when her equilibrium did, and then it was thrust back into the mutilated rainbow of reds and pink as Temma shoved her head back down. She shut her eyes, let out another gurgled groan, and grabbed her knees.

“Sorry Temma.” She whispered to her denim jeans.

Weston and Temma’s conversation continued. She caught tidbits in between tinnitus episodes and her heartbeat whooshing against her eardrum in poor attempts to flush her vertigo.

Who would fake being in the military? Who could have gotten the gear and supplies to even fake being military? She didn’t dare ask such stupid questions. There were probably plenty of military outfits that stood empty, weapons for the plundering. There were also plenty of people who played pretend. Just look at where they were at. There wasn’t any way to confirm their authenticity, was there? Besides first hand experience, and even then, what were the chances that they could peacefully get a first glimpse without becoming holier than swiss cheese? They shouldn’t risk it. It was stupid to risk it.

She peaked her head up, as Weston mentioned her father. He was right. Her father would be stupid to risk it all.

He’d go down fighting in a blaze of glory all because he thought he was right. She had practiced her arguing skills against him, and consistently lost. He said she was the spitting image of her mother, innocent, believing in what she thought was right, stubborn till the day she…

Oakley also wouldn’t survive if her father decided to be a complete and utter dunce. Nobody here had a fond bit of bone in their body for her, except the ones who wanted to put their bones in her body. Her body shuddered at the thought.

She was also worried about Weston. Of course, he had stumbled in here, covered in blood, but how much of that blood was his own? He could be bleeding out, and probably not even care. Even if he went to find Derek and her father, what was stopping him from fainting a few steps down the hall? He’d never make it, and then they truly would be screwed. There would be nobody to stop Derek. Would Temma go with him? If Oakley begged?

She couldn’t let him go on his own…He didn’t deserve to die on his own, even if others could argue that was the life he chose for himself. She tried not to scratch the fabric of the chair, as she exhausted the little bit of energy she had recovered. Her head was still spinning. Even looking at Weston wasn’t settling the pit in her stomach, but at least she could imagine that it looked more like red paint now that it had dried. She still tried to avoid glancing at him, focusing on her own two feet, on the dirty faded pink sneakers as she stepped off the carpet and went to join Weston at the door. She didn’t feel the best, but fainting in the whorehouse still didn’t seem like a grand idea. Maybe they’d both end up in a tangled mess at the end of a hallway somewhere, and the military would find them just in the nick of time… She lifted her head and closed her eyes, opening once to look at him, and quickly looking away.

“I don’t think my dad will listen to anybody that isn’t Derek or King, but I might have a chance. I don’t know how good it’ll do…but…”

She looked back at Temma, at the little bit of safety that the room had offered, and gave her another apologetic nod.


Temma huffed at Oakley’s apology. The girl pissed her the fuck off but then went and acted like the sweet and sheltered thing she truly was. Temma gently stroked her palm along the back of the girl's head and neck, waving at one of the girls to bring over a bottle of water from the bar for their visitor. Once she had it, she held the plastic bottle down in the girl's view and waggled it until she caught the hint and took it.

As much as she hated it, Weston was right. Whoever was coming, military or not, they would be overpowered. They lacked in almost everything, except for booze, and throwing Molotovs at an incoming army probably wasn’t in their best interest. When Weston admitted he had been participating in some of the mayhem around the prison Temma was caught off guard. She’d been a steadfast believer that Weston hadn’t been complicit and was just a straw man for King to roast and regain control. She didn’t know how she felt about it, truthfully, and the idea that he would be willing to overthrow King… What would he do to Derek?

Not to mention the incoming force. She never agreed with King’s law but she obeyed, within reason. She kept her people safe from the elite and the dead and put herself on thin ice more than a few times with King and her husband. But this new force. Would they give her the freedom King had? Would they recognize her for who she was? Would they let her even stay with Derek? Would they let him live?

It was too much to consider at once, so overwhelming that she wanted to slam the door shut and lock it once again.

She watched Oakley, of all people go to follow the bloody axeman to the door. Temma didn’t need to look around her to know that her flock was watching and waiting for her to make a decision.

“Fine.” She bristled, reaching up to pat her wig, tucking loose hairs back into place. “We’ll go find Derek and his team and discuss it with him.” She knew already she was about to ask her husband to kneel to someone else. “If I’m not there, Weston. Derek will kill you. He’s King’s man, he’s loyal and you betrayed him.” Us.



Weston really didn’t think Temma was going to follow him. That’s why he was already on his feet and halfway through excusing himself. He respected Temma too much to pressure her, and knew damn well he was already on shaky ground with her after everything. When she gave in with a curt, snappy ‘fine’, Weston blinked at her and offered as much of a smile as he could muster.

“I appreciate it. I know you don’t have to do this. And, I can promise you now, I’m not going over there with the intent of fighting with Derek. Or anyone, for that matter. I don’t really fault him for shit here, and I’m tired of people shooting at me today. Kinda had enough of that, y’know? But if he acts up and does something stupid, I am gonna defend myself.”

Weston grabbed his axe off the ground and accepted his weapons when the girls handed them over. “We can talk about the why part later, if y’want, if we make it to later. But I did what I did not just for me, but for you too. For all of them.” Weston motioned with his head towards the women and men gathered in the whorehouse. “Y’all deserve better.” Weston muttered, sliding his rifle over his shoulder by the sling before opening the door. He figured the full answer was a little too complicated to explain right now, not when they had to get moving. Or maybe it just felt complicated in his head.

Weston gave the hallway a quick look up and down. Spotting nobody coming and not hearing anything, he slipped out the door. If Temma or Oakley followed him, great. If it was a trick to get him to leave, well… fine. He’d deal with that too.

Thankfully, he didn’t get tricked out of leaving - once glance over his shoulder confirmed Temma and Oakley were coming with. He didn’t ask if either of them were armed. His guess? Oakley couldn’t pick up a steak knife without getting a little concerned, and Temma probably had something hidden on her person already.

Weston knew a lot of this prison like the back of his hand, even if there were apparently still a few nasty surprises left to be had. Like a gas chamber. Barbaric shit. No wonder they’d never used it before. The whole prison might have rioted if they found out sooner, back closer to the start of everything when people weren’t so worn down and exhausted.

More than once, Weston had to reach out and tug one of the ladies following him by the arm or elbow and drag them into an empty room or back behind a bend to avoid enforcer patrols. They all seemed to be in a rush, hustling this way and that in groups of two, three, even four or more sometimes. There were a few close calls. A few times he was worried blondie-girl with them would squeak and give them away. Somehow, luck or divine intervention or something was still with them, and they weren’t spotted.

A short distance and a bend around a hallway before the main entrance area, Weston motioned for Oakley and Temma to stop. He peered around the corner just enough to confirm there were people milling about, but he didn’t get good enough of a look to make either a headcount or identify anyone.

Lowering his voice to a whisper, Weston leaned in close to Temma while he rested against the wall. “Do you want to go over there first and prep him? Or do you want me to come with you? What’ll keep us all from getting shot at?”



The holy grail. A bottle of water. The cold plastic felt good against her forehead. She shakily had taken the bottle from Temma’s hand, holding it in both hands as she pressed it against her temple, rolling the plastic back and forth against her cranium, and pulling it back once her vertigo had settled. She took a few chugs of it before she capped it, and held it between her arms. Now, the bottle that Temma had so graciously given her was also her only weapon.

Weston had an axe. He had a handgun. He had a rifle. He wasn’t going to share. Temma had…well…Temma had to have something. She was Temma. Oakley had…a water bottle.

She was trying to be brave. Honest to God, she was. She didn’t know the layout of the prison as well as she would have liked to admit. She had stuck mostly to the elite areas, the areas with the least amount of danger, and the area with the most books. This all felt terribly foreign to her, and all too often, she wasn’t watching where Weston was going, partly out of fear that if she looked at him she might faint again, and partly because she felt like she was blind as a bat. Once or twice, she brandished the water bottle above her head like a bat, waltzing too far ahead, not noticing that Weston had ducked back. She swung wildly at the dark, all too quickly before Weston was grabbing her back, and she was covering her mouth to avoid screaming and closing her eyes all too tight.

It felt like that they had been walking forever, ducking their way through the maze, twisting into rooms, avoiding muttering enforcers who all seemed to be on edge. They were spooked? Or were they nervous? Or they were preparing something…something big.

Was it too late?

Weston hung back, his voice quieter than her own had been back in the brothel. She stepped ahead of the trio, poking her own head around to see what he had seen. She recognized the main doors, already being barricaded with the remnants of whatever was broken. There was light bits of conversation. Oakley recognized the back of Derek’s head. She twisted around, and saw her father down the hall, dragging what looked to be a large rusty makeshift cot out of a room, metal scratching on metal. She recognized the backwards hunter hat from here that read ‘Tucker’s Tow - Hitchin and Bitchin’ from here. She looked back at Temma and Weston briefly, mostly at Temma, before looking back out in the room.

She gripped the water bottle a little too tight. The condensation was slippery against her already sweaty palms. She raised the bottle, and the plastic slipped, dropping onto the ground with a loud ‘thwack’. The crinkled plastic began to roll…right into the open, slapping the back of Derek’s heels as it came to a stop, a little trail of water where the seal had busted around the cap.

Oakley hissed and covered her mouth, ducking back behind the cover.

Oops.



Temma followed behind Weston’s ragged blood form as he hunched and skittered along, searching down every hallway for any signs of enforcers, she guessed. She didn’t much fear them, she didn’t need to with the fact that she had sided with them and King. The thought was bitter, leaving a sour taste on her tongue. She hadn’t wanted to, truly, but King was safe for her and her girls and boys and while she trusted Weston, evidently the man had picked his allies poorly. He’d put faith in Toni, of all people.

Oakley practically chittered as they went, the girl shaking so hard that Temma was certain she could hear her teeth rattling. She had little patience for the weak and mouthy, though for some reason Oakley was growing on her. If they survived all of this she would have to teach Oakley to grow some balls, one day her daddy wouldn’t be around to keep her safe and sound.

Her heels clicked along the concrete floors, despite Weston and Oakley attempting to remain quiet; and she ducked in wherever Weston rushed them to keep quiet and wait for patrols of whomever to pass them by.

When they arrived at what looked to be the front line and the enforcers being led by Derek and Oakley’s dad to set up barricades, she listened to Weston ask how best to approach them; best to avoid getting shot.

Her lips parted as she was about to speak, to suggest that she step out to get Derek herself when Oakley fumbled that fucking water bottle she’d given her. The damn thing practically jettisoned from the girl's hand and landed in the hall. And for dramatic effect, slowly rolled and wobbled until it stopped, weakly sputtering out the last of its liquid into the middle of the hall.

Temma glowered at the girl but stood up straight, smoothing her dress as she stepped around the all and paused, staring down the enforcers, guns raised and her husband. “Subtle, I know.” She rolled her eyes, raising her hands to show she was unarmed. With the sight of her out the enforcers went back to their task and she started towards Derek cautiously. He did not look pleased to see her but she didn’t try and play coy, this was too important.

“Baby, we need to talk.” She nodded toward the hall where she’d come from. “A friend is here with me, one we trust.” She bit her lip and lowered her voice. “Promise not to shoot him, alright?”

​