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

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BEHIND ENEMY LINES
Part 1 - The Whorehouse & Halls - Collab with NanLia NanLia aggravatedspacedolphins aggravatedspacedolphins Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad

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 she 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 communal 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.



 
AYRIVLg.png


BEHIND ENEMY LINES
Part 2 - The Whorehouse & Halls - Collab with NanLia NanLia aggravatedspacedolphins aggravatedspacedolphins Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad

The sound of the metal door creaking open was like music to his 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?”

She 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 she 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.



 
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BEHIND ENEMY LINES
Part 3 - The Whorehouse & Halls - Collab with NanLia NanLia aggravatedspacedolphins aggravatedspacedolphins Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad

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 t
ask 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?”

Nothing worked anymore. Nobody respected the order that granted food on their tables and shelter from the dead outside. Like children, driven by a whim and juvenile ideals, they tried to tear down what was built. Derek was not King’s lover, but he could appreciate a competent leader in charge. He recognized his life would have been very different if the man didn't unite them after the Fall. But he was no King’s lover. What he did under Marcus’s rule wasn't born from respect for the title or the man. It stemmed from loyalty to his people.

Knowing who his people were used to be easy. Distinguished by the white man genes and mutual desires. By vision for how their country should be run and what lifestyle should dominate. Prison changed that perspective. Little holes and flaws in their plans, in their views, all of it grew more jarring the longer he was locked up. Derek didn’t abandon his roots but he had to adapt.

After the outbreak everything changed. At first, the scope of his care shrunk dramatically. He was more wary of groups than ever. Fierce mostly about keeping Temma, himself, and a couple of his most trusted men safe. But time proved it could be different. Apparently, God had a plan for him. His responsibilities expanded and his people were now all the people of Lincoln—Samaritans. Each day he felt the burden and satisfaction of holding their lives in his hands. Expected nothing short of respect and loyalty in return. They could give it freely or learn it the hard way.

Seeing his home divided in the last couple of months, some of their people riling the Lincoln population against King, against him, was a bitter pill to swallow. But there was no way out of that situation. Other than restoring order. That's what he was doing when the news came—he was hunting down the rebels with enforcers. To put an end to the dangerous venture that jeopardized the Lincoln community more than once.

The news derailed that task. At first Derek didn't believe it. Confirmation came when King was spotted heading to the roof. Derek wasn't surprised. He wasn’t mad. A fleeting thought of joining him or at least putting Temma on the chopper crossed his mind, he didn't deny it. But he was not a coward. He wouldn't trade his honor. Wouldn’t abandon the home they've all worked so hard to create and preserve. Whoever the enemy was, they were outside. All they had to do was keep them out long enough to form a plan.

“Dallarosa is barricading Block C.” Derek addressed the men securing the main entrance. Big Dick was the one orchestrating it. Derek trusted that man. The hunter proved his worth and loyalty from the day he put his foot on their territory. “South is-” Something rolled across the floor. His muscles coiled, hand on his revolver—Weston's execution was still fresh in his mind. But it wasn’t a flashbang. Just a water bottle. And his wife.

“God damn it, Temma.” His blood pressure spiked up seeing her exposed in the open—his men’s weapons trained in her direction. “Stop.” He barked at them, shooting them a glare. He waited for Temma to explain herself. Why would he shoot a friend he trusted? He didn’t ask. He knew the answer—that wasn’t a friend. At least not his friend, not one he would trust. He didn’t waste time or breath, opening the door to the closest room, he gestured her inside.

As Oakley’s water bottle rolled down the hall until it was out of sight in what felt like slow motion, Weston sighed and ran a hand down his face. That pulled yet another silent prayer out of him, one of hundreds already said today. Also another curse.

“Fuck.” He cast the back of Temma’s head a worried look as she marched off on her mission - then shot a scathing glare at Oakley. Holding his finger to his lips, he motioned for Oakley to be quiet. It was a tactic as old as time: send the wife in first to soften up the husband, calm him down and prep him so he didn’t throw any punches or shoot anyone. Thing was, Temma could do only so much - the rest of it was on him to make his case to Derek. If he got lucky, Derek would listen. Might listen. If not? Well, he’d have made it this far for nothing. Maybe execution number three would be the one that stuck.

Motioning for Oakley to follow him, Weston ducked into the closest room, leaving the door open a crack. Back in the day it was used as some kind of spare meeting and waiting room, complete with a vending machine, two couches, a circular conference table with a few chairs, and a television mounted on the wall. The vending machine was long empty, the couches moved out to what was now the bar, and the television dismantled - who knew where that was now, or if it was even still in one piece and not cannibalized for parts.

“Sit here.” Weston pointed at a chair at the table and ordered Oakley to sit, pushing it out with his foot while he grabbed the back of the chair closest to himself. Rather than sit straight across from the door with Oakley, Weston moved his chair over to the same wall as the door. He carried it, instead of dragging it, so it didn’t make any noise. Angling the chair to face the door but on the far side of the room, Weston finally took a seat.
The axe leaning against the wall, rifle still slung over his shoulder, Weston slid the handgun out of his waistband and checked how many shots he had left with a frown. Three. Or, two shots and one for himself if he needed it. That’s how Madison might look at it. The thought of her made his chest hurt.

“I want you to be the first thing Derek sees when he walks into this room. A pretty young blonde white thing, the daughter of a guy he knows. Not my ass. Not because I want to put you in the line of fire, but because I want him looking at two things that matter most to him first. Temma, and the people close to him. I want him looking at the two of you when I tell him we gotta stand down.” Weston gave Oakley an apologetic look.

“Do me a favor, kid? If he does manage to kill me - when you find Tig, tell him I’m sorry. And tell him I said thanks.” He studied Oakley’s face a moment before his eyes snapped to the door at the sound of footsteps. It must not have taken that long for Temma to convince Derek to follow her - which could either be good, or bad. It was hard to tell.

When Derek entered the room with Temma on his tail, Weston exhaled and pushed himself to his feet once more - left hand on the wall to keep himself steady, gun still in his right hand.

“Derek. We gotta talk. Peacefully.”

Oakley had stopped breathing. Her fingers dug at her cheeks. She was ready for Weston to shove his axe in the back of her head and toss her aside for doing something so miniscule, or for Temma to kick her to the ground and put a stiletto through her still-beating heart. So stupid. She was so stupid. Her perfectionist attitude would throw her down to the ground enough for both of them, no need to add insult to injury. The blood rushed to her head to keep her at least mechanically still breathing. Physically, her heart felt like it had moved locations and was stuck in her throat.

Yet, none of those things happened. The worst was getting a handful of dirty looks from both Temma and Weston, who were probably even wondering why she was there in the first place, and that was over in an instant. Temma was already talking to Derek and Weston was moving away from her to the nearest door.

Husbands and wives were supposed to listen to each other. Although, she had had a much different picture growing up. Her father told her women had their place, and that it was to ‘shut up and sit down’. His misogynistic views hadn’t gone over well when she told him she was going to go to law school. It hadn’t won him any awards with her mother either. It had been hard for her to stay quiet any longer around her father, and heaven forbid Temma would stay quiet. What could Temma say to make Derek decide that this didn’t have to be a bloodbath?

Oakley followed behind Weston, her hand still clamped over her mouth now that she didn’t have any death grip on BPA graded plastic. Her sneakers, which now had the edges of blood stained against the white rims slid against the floor, squeaking as she waltzed behind him. She looked back to catch a glimpse of her father again, his back still to her. Big Dick was ordering more men to go down to the west hallway and gather up what they could. She paused at the door, just long enough for her to see his head turn in her direction before she ducked in the room

Oakley stumbled towards the chair Weston so kindly pulled back for her, her hand finding the back of it, and finally letting go of the grip around her lips. She let out a loud gasp. “M-Me? But I-” Her voice protested, squeaking out as she sat down, prim and proper, back straight against the hard chair. Her palms gripped the underside, keeping her in place. “But I-I don’t matter as much as Temma does, and I-I’m just a nobody! I-”

She gulped, and stopped as Weston explained, and sat down without another word. It was a good tactic. Look at the innocents. The people stuck in between. The other people who would be affected by this fighting…if this was really happening…and she believed in Weston. When was the time to say enough was enough? She looked back at the door, and then back at the bloodied man. Her fale was still pale, the little color in her cheeks returning, but enough to paint like a porcelain doll.

“W-what are you talking about? You can tell Tig yourself that, right?” She stared at the gun in his hands. If he wanted to talk peacefully, maybe he should have put the gun down? She was about to tell him that holding that might not be the best idea, but then at the door as Derek and Temma both entered. Her back straightened further as she looked up at the man and Temma. She didn’t know Derek too well, other than her father and him were probably as thick as thieves could be. She sniffled a little, and looked behind the two at the door, and then at the gun in Weston’s hand. She didn’t want to be center stage. She wanted to shrink back against the wall. She wanted to go back to her room, but then maybe…

“M-Maybe…Maybe you should put down…the gun?” She pleaded at Weston before looking at Temma and Derek.

Derek cussing her out was never a good sign. Few and far between had that man uttered any such curses unless she was doing something he very much appreciated. This wasn’t a good time - she knew that - but it wasn’t like she could wait until this was all over and he was in a better mood. The cursed words ate at her soul; she never wanted Derek to be disappointed or displeased with her, not that she was the kind of woman who was a simpering man pleaser but her relationship with Derek was built on mutual trust and here she was breaking it.

She didn’t bother with a placating smile or to even thank him for listening; neither of those things would help what was about to come and what she needed to do.

Temma had come to Derek in the past, only once before, with a problem she couldn’t handle on her own and unfortunately for Weston, Derek had been clear to the both of them that they were not to be involved again, not without himself present.

She obediently stepped into the room as Derek waved her in, surprised to find Oakley seated on a chair; when had she and Wes had the time to sneak in?! Well, at least she wasn’t an enforcer or guard - her observation skills were lacking.

Wesley holding a gun was not the brightest of ideas and she swiftly turned to face Derek, pleading. “Please baby, hear him out. He’s making sense.” She paused, knowing very well just how loyal her husband was. “King left us, you and I both know he’s halfway to Mexico if he’s got that chopper working and he’s left us here to get chewed up by the military.”

She glanced over her shoulder briefly to the pair in the room, she and Derek were private people, so long as there wasn’t alcohol involved. Temma reached for Dereks’ free hand, holding it with both of hers and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I don’t want you to die for something we can’t win, love. It’s the military, not some other gang coming to put pressure on us. They will win … I’d rather face whatever comes next with you and not a widow.”

His wife’s betrayal didn’t steal the stage, not today. Weston, Toni, King. Everyone who used to matter, betrayed Derek. But the fact it was her to trick him stabbed harder than anyone else’s knife ever could.

Derek stood in the middle of the room, body half facing the traitor who hid in the blind spot like a rat. Hand halfway to the revolver holstered by his hip. Their voices blended into one thudding rhythm of blood rushing in his temples. His ears and neck going red. It felt like a physical struggle to refrain from drawing the gun. From caving Weston’s forehead with a .357 right there and then.

“Better crawl back…” his voice tight, jaw set, “to whatever hole you came from, when you still can, Jones.” His wife’s reasoning jangled in his ear but he could hardly think about it now—gaze pinned to the only threat in the room.

Of course Derek was so pissed everything they said went in one ear and out the other. He couldn’t blame the guy. Oakley was right, though - they wouldn’t actually talk if he was still holding his gun too. He needed to make a show of peace, even if it was to his own risk. Keeping his gun pointed at the ground, Weston held it in plain view of Derek as he flicked the safety on, then slid it back into the waistband of his jeans. He then held his hands up, palms out at chest level, giving Derek a placating gesture.

“No guns. Just talking.” The rifle slung over his shoulder was slid off next and propped up against the wall next to the axe. He wasn’t completely disarmed, but he was at least trying to show he meant no harm right now.

“I just want to talk. This ain’t about you or me. This is about the people here. They’re in danger, and we owe it to them to try and find a way for them to survive. I know you know someone’s coming. Military, or at least geared up and looking like the military. Fuck if I know why. I didn’t call ‘em. But they’re coming, Derek, and let’s not kid ourselves. We got some tough sons of bitches here, but we can’t fight off the military.” Weston slowly let his hands drop down to his sides again.

“Temma’s right. Why do you think King kept that helicopter up on the roof this whole time? It wasn’t for us, it was his escape plan. Always has been. That’s why he wouldn’t let us use it when our own people were in danger at the school. He don’t give a fuck about us, and never has, we’re just here to slow the military down so he can get the hell outta Dodge. But I give a fuck about the people here. I know you give a damn too. You’re not gonna win or hold out by making your last stand at the doors. They’ll mow you down. You and all your men. What’s that leave the rest of us? Where does that leave Temma? You think they’ll treat her decent if they roll up and the first thing you do is start shooting? Think they’ll treat Dick’s kid decent?” He nodded his h
ead at Oakley.

“They’ll just shoot us where we stand, but think about the others. The women and kids here. This ain’t a war we’re gonna win, Derek, and we gotta stand down. It’s the only way we have a chance at living. And as much as you don’t want to - fuck, as much as I don’t really want to - we gotta work together right now. Gotta be on the same page about this. We can handle our shit between us later.”

What Big Dick wouldn't give for a damn cigarette to smoke? It was probably better for him in the long run, than the chewing tobacco that he settled between his cheek and lower lip. Two other men threw the last of the metal frame onto a pile in front of a door, pushing the legs up under the door handle to barricade it. There wasn’t much more than they could do as a collective, besides sit and wait for the storm that was approaching. Richard’s hunting rifle slung to his back, ammo strapped to his chest. Hunting knife was attached to his belt, and the silver glint of a pistol tucked into his belt were the only weapons he had on him. He had placed what little hunting traps he could. Hell or highwater, this was it. He spat on the ground as the men came back to him, and he nodded in satisfaction to his work.

“I’d like to see them try and get through that.”

Dick clicked his teeth with his tongue and twisted around, just in time to see Temma disappearing with Derek behind a closed door. What in hell was his wife doing outside the whore house? Had they already been compromised. He sucked at the chew, enough to help release enough nicotine to settle his nerves. What was left of the nicotine of the world had been distributed with prize won cigarettes and chewing tobacco, and not many people were willing to put snuff in their mouth…unless they were desperate. He swore he had seen Oakley in that room…poking her head out, getting into shit that she had no business getting into, not listening to good old Dad.

He had to tell Derek that the trap was set.

In any court of law, Weston made the perfect lawyer. She looked at Derek, Temma, and Weston, eyes following them back and forth as she sat quietly. She’d have wanted to be defended by him. His arguments were strong and sound, and he played the tactic of putting the victims in front of the judge card absolutely flawlessly. He knew how to win. Oakley timidly looked away as he motioned towards her. She hadn’t really thought of a life without her father…probably because there wouldn't be much of a life, but her father was complacent wasn’t he? He had been part of the shitshow that was Lincoln, so…if the military didn’t shoot him, what was left for him? Prison? A death sentence? She sucked in a breath just as the door opened and she was met with the face of her father.



 
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“Jesus, Mary and Joseph…”

Richard’s hand automatically raised his shirt up, pulling free the pistol, and clicking off the safety. One sight of Weston, and he was ready to fire off the first few rounds. Oakley bit at her lip, and stood off the chair, ignoring Temma and Derek for the moment.

“Dad. Wait.”

“Who the fuck you think you are, Weston? Parading in off the street like you just won a damn award. Fucking think you are damn cat, do you? How about we fucking test that theory?”

“Dad! Please!”

He paused, looking down at his daughter who was rushing to his side, hands raised. The fingers clicked on the safety, and he tucked it back into his belt pocket, lips snarled.

“Oakley, what in the hell do you think you are doing? I told you to stay put. Do you ever goddamn listen? You are like your mom. Never listening. Always doing whatever the hell you think is the best for everyone. What is it this time?”

“D-Dad, you have to listen. You have to-“

He spit on the ground, the last bit of remaining chew he had gone from his lower lip. He sniffed and ignored her, looking back at Derek.

“Block C is done. There’s some tables we could steal left in the old cafeteria but I don’t know. Might need them after it is over.”

Oakley couldn’t believe it, but she could. Her dad was stubborn, but this…this was getting out of hand.

“Dad, they are going to kill you, and all of us if you…if you even fire a gun at them. They won’t hesitate, and then….then everyone here will….will be screwed. What…What if these guys aren’t military?”

Richard snarled, “Oakley, what have I told you about hunting? There’s always someone with a bigger gun. That doesn’t mean anything when you are in the bushes, watching, and waiting. Also, you don’t know shit about war.”

He pushed her away, “Go sit down, and be quiet. Women don’t know anything about war.” He gave a side eye to Temma before glaring back at Weston,

“And there’s a damn awful amount of women in this room.”

Temma watched Derek's features as Weston spoke, she knew her husband well enough to know when she was witnessing him tunnel-vision and this was one of those times. Nothing that man said was heard, or at least was not about to be processed in a well-thought-out manner. Derek, if anything, was very black-or-white kind of man, there was no room for grey in his world. Weston was his enemy and would be for the foreseeable future.

At least Weston had the good mindset to put his gun away, it was one step closer to stopping Derek from killing him. “Baby - “ Anything Temma was going to say was cut off as the door was opened and, of all people Dick inserted himself into the conversation.

The man was grotesque, in her opinion, and for one that had requested men as many times as he requested women from her, he wasn’t one to speak about women’s places. She listened as Oakley pleaded with him to listen, keeping herself firmly between Derek and Weston; waiting for the shit show to quiet down.

Of course “Big Dick” not from what she’d heard sounded off about women then made her eyes roll. “You’re going to side with him over me?” She reached up to gently cup Derek’s cheek, trying to get him to look at her instead of glaring at Weston. “Please baby, hear me. We can’t win this fight, and I won’t live long if you’re not here with me.” It was the truth, Temma couldn’t lie to her husband, wouldn’t really. If he were dead and gone there wasn’t anything left for her in this world.

“This ain’t a parade, Dick, stand the fuck down. Both of you.” Weston narrowed his eyes at Derek and Dick, both of whom looked ready to go off cockeyed and bullets flying at any second if their precious egos got bruised or if they got their hackles up.

“Tell you what,” Weston’s accent drawled on thick now - he was tired of this, tired of them, and tired of being here fighting this fight. “I’d love nothing more than to march my ass out of this here place and leave y’all to it on your own. I’d happily disappear into the woods and not look back, not even when I heard the gunfire starting. But I’m not going to because Goddamnit that ain’t why I did any of this to begin with. If I really wanted to leave and let you all fend for yourselves, I would have left a real Goddamn long time ago. But no, I’m here, because I give a shit about the people in this cesspit.” To make his point, Weston motioned at Temma.

“What Oakley and Temma both said is true. Military is coming. We’re outgunned, out-geared, out-trained, out-ammo’d, and for all I fuckin’ know we could be outnumbered too. We’re about to find that out the hard way. If they come knocking and get greeted with bullets flying, they’re going to shoot right back. If we’re lucky, they’ll shoot all y’all at the barricades, line all the men up, execute us, and take the women and children back to wherever they come from. If we’re unlucky, it’ll be even worse. They’ll do shit I can’t say in mixed company and we’ll all be dead in the end. Every one of us.”

Weston took a step back, to make it very clear he was not trying to get up in Derek or Dick’s face about this. This wasn’t going to be a fight. This wasn’t going to be an argument. They could take it or leave it.

“Like I told Derek, if you got shit with me, we handle it later, Dick. Right now, I’m trying to keep people alive. That’s what I’ve been doing this whole time. If you’re that intent on dying, go eat iron on your own time. Both of you. But I’m saying it just once - our best bet is to stand down and see if we can’t talk our way out of this. We got no idea what they even want.” If he had to guess, he’d say they wanted King, but he wasn’t offering that up. Derek would never agree to just hand him over. Weston’s attention darted from person to person, face to face, hoping either Derek or Dick would see the light here. Temma and Oakley seemed on board, even if reluctant, and that was a start. But if the guys with the guns weren’t on board, this wasn’t going anywhere.

“Maybe start listening to the women in your life. Both of you. You think they ain’t fighting the same Goddamn fights you’ve been? They have, this whole time, just on a different front. You want to leave them widowed and orphaned? And I mean - Christ almighty, fuckin’ look at us. Look at what and who we got in this prison!” Weston motioned between himself and the others.

“You think they’re gonna try and play nice if we greet them gun-first? Two hicks, a dude from the Aryan Brotherhood, and a … whorehouse madam? At least I can cover my ink up. You can’t, Derek, unless you want to put a bag over your head.” He admittedly faltered a little in trying to find a word for what Temma was and decided on the one that was most gentle and least likely to get him shot by Derek or stabbed by Temma. “We sound like the start of a bad joke. If we give them a reason to shoot, they will.”

The prison was quiet. The sounds of gunshots and screams ceased once enforcers stopped hunting the rebels. But the room Derek was in was awfully loud. People talking over one another. Continuous noise broken only by her touch.

Derek looked at his wife, looked into her eyes. The fresh wound of her betrayal still seeping, but he couldn't help focus on the urgency in her gaze. Fear hidden behind the fan of long lashes. He hated that fear. It was his job to make sure she never had to fear like that again.

He looked at the room when it seemed that everybody who mattered and everybody who didn't, was done talking.

“Silence.” He demanded in a low, calm tone.

Derek locked eyes with Richard, then glanced at Weston. He couldn't hide the disdain he held for that man. He knew Temma trusted Jones, despite his actions. But Temma always had a big heart. She should have been more careful who she let inside.

“King and Cabrera were spotted heading for the roof. That Salvadorian traitor probably left as well. I'm in charge now.” He stated what they already knew. “Anyone who does not agree with that fact has ten seconds to leave this room. Or face the consequences of their disobedience if they stay and undermine me.”

He looked at Temma. Conflicted. But only for a moment. “You know I will not let anyone harm you, my love.” He said it like it was a constant. Derek hated the fact he had to speak private things in front of others. But time was of the essence. He looked at the two men in the room.
_
“I'm not a fool. But I'm not a coward either. We don't know who they are and this place is a fortress. We have supplies to last for weeks, maybe months if we ration. We're not alone. We can call the outposts to send men back to Lincoln. If those military trucks initiate a siege. For all we know this might be just a show of power.” He didn't believe that. He was preparing for the worst.

“We’re the ones inside. We have the upper hand. I'm not going to surrender this community. I'm not going to submit our lives to those strangers.” Like Samaritans forced other communities to do… “Unless I have to. And that moment might come. But it’s not now. Not today.”

“Oh, I’ll show you a fucking parade. Should have fucking paraded you right out in front of a firing line. No chance in hell you would have slipped up then.” Spit covered his lower lip. He felt like a rabid dog, ready to infect.

“Don’t act like I don’t give two shits about people. I give plenty of shits. That’s why the fuck we are doing this. You were the one who stopped giving a shit and decided to start this. Don’t try and act all holier than fucking thou now. You fucked up. And this is what you get.”

He spat on the ground again, right at his foot, and pressed his boot into the saliva, twisting it back and forth.

“And we had good people here with us, and then y’all decided that you had enough with being protected. So, guess what? Go on. Run to the big boys with guns, but what happens, when the big boys with guns get mowed down by us? Cause that’s all those fuckers out there are. Big boys who wanna play heroes.”

He grew silent when Derek spoke, still chewing against his lower lip as he listened to the man that was now his leader. King and Cabrera were gone. Like hell he would listen to Toni, that piece of shit. Derek was the one who made the most sense to him. A man with his own goals and ambitions and the power to make them come true, a power to lead. He was envious, but he was nothing but a pious follower.

They tried. Even as Weston and Temma both explained, she watched her father, snarling his lips, chewing on his tobacco, spitting occasionally, and grumbling under his breath. He didn’t care. He was dead set on dying in this place…and she couldn’t take it anymore. She didn’t care if Temma mocked her for crying. She didn’t care if her father rolled his eyes at her or told her to quit her belly aching. She didn’t care if Derek or Weston ignored her, called her small, or even questioned why she was in the room. She was so done with this day, and it was all coming to a head. Derek called order, and continued his speech about how they weren’t giving in. She couldn’t take it. They weren’t going to listen. Her breath caught in her chest. She started to cry.The tears left streaks down her face, paving their way through the dirt and oil that had built up over the last day. They weren’t listening. Derek nor her Dad were listening. The military was going to kill them both, and the last conversation she’d have with her father would be a screaming match. She was going to die here. Here of all places. A prison.

She cried, gasping breaths in her chest as she let out a painful plead.

“Dad, Would you just listen for once?”

She wiped at her nose with the sleeve of her sweater.
“Would you just listen to…me? Or Temma? Or Weston? I don’t care if you don’t like them. Just listen. I don’t want to be here anymore...if this is what it’s going to be like. I don’t even care if that makes me…a coward.” She looked at Derek, “but I don’t want to be worried about whether I get to eat today, or if I’m going to have to hold…hold a gun and have someone shoot me. I don’t think any of us want that? You guys do, but I don’t. I don’t think Temma…Temma wants to hold a gun constantly and hope that today she gets to come back to you, Derek, or I don’t…I think Weston has had enough of fighting for a lifetime.”

She scooted her chair back.

“If…If I remember…things right…and it is the military…they…they have to be under some kind martial law…if that even exists right now…which means they can do whatever they want to you…no consequences…if they want to take your head, they will do it. If they….if they want this prison, they won’t stop because some guys with guns are standing at the door…and it means they’ll take us…the civilians under their rule…and it means….it means…they might throw you all back into another prison. Do you want to go to an actual prison, Dad? I…I don’t know if that’s true….but just…you can’t fight them. They’ll do so much worse if you fight them. Giving up…it’s not surrendering…it’s…brave. I promise.”

She gripped her fists and stood up from the chair.

“Please. It’s brave. It’s more cowardly to hide behind your guns than to stand up and say…say you messed up. This isn’t your fight.”

Weston knew damn well when he was outnumbered, outgunned, and out-stubborned, but now he was also out-ranked. It was not something he was particularly used to. He held no illusions he was still second in command of fuckall anything having to do with the Samaritans. He’d chosen a different group of people, even if they were on the losing end of the battle. So, when Derek ordered silence, Weston shut his mouth.

Things clicked into place - King and Cabrera (fuck them both) being on the roof meant they were headed for the helicopter. No wonder they were forbidden from using it earlier when it could have been useful. That wasn’t the Samaritan's tool, that was King’s get-away vehicle.

He let Dick’s ranting and posturing roll off him - he’d seen and heard enough of it by now to realize these people were stubborn assholes who were good and happy to die on a hill rather than face walking back down it to live another day. The real tragedy here was the position it left Temma and Oakley in, but that was pretty par for the course for Lincoln.

Weston gave Oakley a nod, one he hoped she interpreted as agreeing with her, before setting his sights back on Derek again. He wasn’t going to bicker about who was in charge, but it did wrankle him something fierce to know that if the military had showed up one day earlier, he’d be in charge and this would all be turning out a lot differently.

“A’ight, fine, fuck it. You two do what you want with this place. Go out there and die for it if that’s what you want so bad. I’ll be around to help bury your bodies.”

Temma wanted to pull her hair out listening to Dick, Oakley and Weston all argue their point over top of one another. A cacophony of whimpers, threats and promises and all of it just ringing truth in her ears: this had been a mistake. She should have never doubted her husband's plan. He wasn't here directing the enforcers to uphold King's rule, he was here to keep them safe, all of them safe.

She winced when he commanded silence from them and chewed on the inside of her cheek as he went on and confirmed her suspicions, though she was surprised to hear that Cabrera would abandon them too. And then he addressed her and her heart twisted in her chest. Of course he was keeping her safe!

Temma nodded slowly and squeezed his hand, swallowing thickly. “I’m sorry.” She bit her lower lip to keep from crying, careless about preventing her lipstick from rubbing off on her teeth. “I should of - I’m sorry.” She was a fool to let Weston rile her up; it wasn’t his fault, with everything that had happened in the last several hours, of course he was animated. She should have had the wherewithal to think clearly and instead she was here, preventing Derek and his men from doing what they needed to.

She could only hope that Derek would forgive her. “I’ll go back to my girls and wait.”

The girl was just white noise to Derek. Just like Weston’s frustration. Derek’s chest felt full when his love was back where she belonged. By his side, as it always should be. He didn’t have time to dwell on anger, regrets, or forgiveness; not in that moment. But he hated to see her like that. He touched Temma’s cheek and made her look at him. “Don’t go out again. And do not open for anyone unless it’s me or Richard. Once it’s safe, I will come for you.”

The door flung open and one of Derek’s men from the old gang stormed in. “Boss-” He froze seeing the group surrounding him.

Derek let go of his lover and straightened up. “Speak.”

The guy focused on him but he was visibly alerted by the presence of others. “There’s a body. North side by the wall. They say it fell from the roof.”

His forehead creased. “What body?”

“Brown.”

Derek sharply exhaled at the unhelpful response. “Whose body is it? Cabrera’s?”

The guy flinched and Derek tensed up when a sonic boom shot through the air outside. Did the building tremble? Someone shouted from the corridor. “They’re bombing us!”



 
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They say it fell from the roof.

Weston’s heart felt like it stopped for a second at the weight of that announcement. The roof. Where King and Cabrera were. One of those outcomes was a cause for celebration. The other was… no, he couldn’t think about that. That was too complicated. Too much going on in his head and going on around him for him to take even a second to acknowledge the fact that the idea of Cabrera lying dead on the ground made him want to scream and cry despite the hurt and betrayal.

Apparently he was just a fucking idiot like that.

Brown. Of course these fuckers reduced something important - someone important - to brown like they couldn’t Goddamn figure out how names worked.

Weston was already up and moving, slinging the rifle over his shoulder as he started pushing his way to the door. He left the axe by the wall, having no need to lug that around any more. He’d push the guy out of the way if he needed to to get out there. “You ignorant fucking cocksleeve, get out of the way so-”

The boom in the not-distant-enough distance and the way the whole building shook made Weston reach for the wall, feeling unsteady on his feet. He took a stumbling step backwards, away from the door, glancing up at the ceiling and half expecting something to fall. The axe wobbled and clattered to the floor, making him flinch.

“Fuck me,” Weston hissed, wide-eyed for a moment. Explosions. It felt bigger than a grenade, if it made the building shake like that. That wide-eyed shock lasted for only a moment before he narrowed his eyes at Derek.

“Still want to hunker down and make your last stand here, even with them bombing us?”

It took everything in Dick's power to not match over to Oakley, grab her by the shoulders, and shake her. The poor girl was starting to hyperventilate. Tears on her face. He could tell the panic was setting in, and she wanted to do this grand act or gesture that she thought would matter to everyone, but this wasn’t a damn court of law, and she wasn’t a damn lawyer. She was his daughter, and she was making an ass out of himself.

Richard chewed on his lip, watching her desperately plead and look at him, and he looked away. Guilt was heavy in his heart, but she had no idea what the hell she was playing at. She had to know that…otherwise, she wouldn’t have stuck around here for so long.

He opened his mouth, to tell her that she was insane, that she didn’t stand a damn chance at being brave if all she wanted to do was talk. The door opening probably saved himself getting a good ass kicking from anyone who thought his parenting style was out of place.

Grandeur speeches went out one ear and into…no ones. Her heart sank. It felt like it was getting harder to breathe. Her chest ached. Her breath came in pitter patters as she looked between all the players on the stage. Temma and Derek loved each other…and Temma trusted him. Weston had given up….What was the point of her sticking on her soap box, if all it was going to do was make her look like an idiot? She didn’t want to give up. She had gotten this far…but…

She looked at her father, staring at him, just as the door opened and in came one of Derek’s men.

A body? Richard sucked in a breath. A body meant that whoever it was never made it that chopper. He raised an eyebrow, looking over at Weston. King or Cabrera were dead. Was it one of his men’s doing? He had a feeling he still couldn’t trust him. His hand went to the pistol stuck in his waistband, but didn’t pull it yet. Weston looked like he had gotten a swift kick to the dick, and Dick nearly got a swift kick to his own, startling out of the way as the man meant to move past. It was his funeral.

“So ya can do w-”

He grabbed the table for support, as the walls began to shake. His eyes widened, looking around him. He didn’t think Ohio was much for earthquakes.

“What in the…fuck?”

Oakley hadn’t faired any better. She fell back into the chair she had pushed away from the table, tumbling into the metal and wincing as her ankle collided with steel, causing her to hobble and rub it. The tears on her face were now a mixture of pain and loss. She looked over at her father as the men proclaimed they were getting bombed.

“Bombed? They…They….They can’t…Dad?”

Richard growled, looking over at Derek. Derek was the leader. Derek made the choices, but…if they had bombs? No amount of bedpans, steel beds, and poor plastic cafeteria trays could stand up to pure American black powder. He moved to Oakley, who was already standing up from her chair and moving towards him. His arms came around her shoulders as she embraced him, and the sobs continued into his shirt. The brief bit of red crossed his face in embarrassment, as he looked over the top of her head at Derek, desperate for some kind of direction…

He didn’t ask Weston’s question again, but his eyes said it all.

What the fuck did we do now?

Temma tilted her head and let Derek’s hand gently caress her cheek, loving the feel of his calloused hands on her soft skin; they were opposites, made to fit one another perfectly. He spoke and she listened. This wasn’t her space, and it wasn’t her place to try and push her own or anyone else’s wants on him. She had always trusted him, from the first day they’d met and would always trust him, to her last day on this earth and she’d been a fool run by emotions instead of logic. She nodded her agreement, parting her lips to give him an affirmative answer when the door swung open and all that left her was an audible gasp.

She nearly jumped out of her skin, eyes wide as she stared at the man, one of Derek’s old gang, addressed him. She rolled her eyes at the man's answer. brown simply meant not white and she was about to give him shit, and ask him if he meant dark chocolate brown, or taupe when the building shook around them. Window panes tink’d in their frames, the lights above them swung on their chains and dust drifted down from rafters likely never cleaned.

“Shut it, Wes.” She hissed at her friend, the decision had been made; they were going to stand and that was final. Temma didn’t wait to be told a third time to get her ass back to safety, she turned and grasped Oakley’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “Let’s get on, girl. We don’t want to be around here when the fighting starts.”

The walls stopped trembling but the echo of the explosion still rang in his ears. The sound brought memories of the riots, the chaos during the outbreak. Times that made weak men bend and cower. He wasn't weak. Pride seared in his chest, hands ready to break stone. Yet, cold dread crept up his spine. The images of camouflaged strangers stripping Temma naked, calling her names he wouldn’t allow. Maybe if he folded now, bowed to submission, maybe they would be open to reason. Maybe he didn’t even have a choice anymore.

Radio crackled with a frantic voice stitched with gunshots. “Boss, they’re insid—” More crackles, just static.

Derek thought he had everything inside under control. He was wrong. He wanted to rage, to drive them all forward. To prove to himself and his god the power of his will. His strength.

He looked at Weston, tone sharp, demanding. “Are you with me Jones or are you not?” The words really on his mind—can I trust you.

Not the first time here he’d been told to shut it after pointing out some real inconvenient truths, Temma’s hiss didn’t phase him. He made no move to stop Temma from dragging Oakley out of the room - and honestly, it was probably better they not be here for this. Not this close to the doors.

“So I can know who it was that died.” Weston narrowed his eyes at Richard. He didn’t owe the man any kind of Goddamn explanation and he sure as hell was not going to go in depth. Not to any of these people. That was more of a response than he even deserved.

The explosion rattled just enough dust from the ceiling to make him cough, which was enough to make him wince and hold his side. Letting out a rough breath, he leaned one hip against the wall and lifted his shirt along his side, just enough to check the wound. It wasn’t serious, and the bleeding had stopped. He was just sore all over and tired as hell.

The static-crackled words from the radio - they’re inside - even when cut off made his stomach churn. Weston ran a hand down his face, then ran his fingers through his hair, which really only served to smear around sweat and blood. He cleared his throat, looking Derek in the eye.

“I’m with the people of Lincoln. That means everyone. Including you two.” He nodded his head to Derek and Richard. “I’ll follow your lead, but I’m not killing myself to make a damn statement. If we really are fucked, if it’s clear we are not going to win, we need to seriously consider what surrender means. The more people that make it out of this alive, the better.”

Weston exhaled and leaned forward, hands on his knees. “If they’re already inside, where could they have come in from? Who’s seen them, and where?”



 
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REMEDY FOR REVENGE
The Infirmary at Lincoln - Part 1 - Collab with Crono Crono NanLia NanLia silverwhere silverwhere Protean Protean

Victor and Hatsu moved quickly, as silently as they could, through the hall until they made it to the infirmary. Victor expected at any second to run into a Samaritan and use Hatsu as a human shield while taking a shot and hopefully not dying in the process, but they hadn’t run into anyone. There was some shouting down one hall, echoing from a place they couldn’t see, but nobody was running towards them. He couldn’t make out all the shouting but he thought it was something about barricades. A problem for later, he decided. Mercifully, the infirmary was unlocked and he steered Hatsu in first. It was up to his traveling companion if he wanted to push the door open the rest of the way with his hands or with his face.

“In here, and sit down.” Victor snapped as he steered Hatsu into the side-room that served as both Victor’s office and his living quarters and forced the man onto his chair. The cot in the back of the room was still unmade from the last time Victor slept in it, however many days ago that was. Keeping his gun aimed at Hatsu, Victor grabbed a length of nylon rope off his desk. The last time he’d used this, it was to restrain a patient that he didn’t think was going to make it. The blood on the rope suggested he had been right.

Weaving the nylon rope around Hatsu’s wrists and around the back of the metal swivel office chair, then around Hatsu’s torso and arms, Victor did his best to make sure this wasn’t something Hatsu could wriggle free from. While he was tying the rope, he sat the gun down on his cot, out of Hatsu’s reach.

“Make a single noise, and I’m duct-taping your mouth shut. I might even accidentally miss and cover your nose at the same time, too. Who knows.” Victor hissed, working on the knots, turning Hatsu to face the big interior window on the side of his office that opened up to the infirmary area next to them.

Victor was nearly done tying Hatsu up when he heard a noise in the infirmary. Squatting down behind the chair, Victor looked up at the window and waited, holding his breath.

Neveah stumbled through the quiet halls, blood seeped from the shotty bandaging that had been wrapped around her elbow, knife still in place. She knew enough not to remove it, not without having some kind of medical staff present to stem the bleeding. Already she could no longer feel her fingers or hand, the ends of her appendage turning a dusty blue hue. She had enough training as an EMT to know that it was unlikely she’d keep her hand, or lower arm for that matter and that thought alone filled her with rage.

Fucking Madison. That bitch was going to die a slow and painful death and Nev was dedicated to making sure she’d last for weeks. Fuck, she’d managed to bring Dutchess back from the brink of death with her paltry knowledge, she could do the same to the cut-up bitch. At the infirmary Nev staggard through the doors, pausing to look around the empty room. It was shit luck none of the staff were here but she knew what she needed to do.

Nev set her gun down on top of a gurney, heading to a medical cabinet and pulling the doors open. She dug through the shelves, pulling out anything she thought would be of use: gauze and tape, morphine and antibiotics. In the drawers, she grabbed a handful of syringes and dumped everything on the gurney next to her gun. She’d never been shy of blood and gore, her own never scared her and maybe that was why Toni had been fond of her.

She unwrapped the bits of tattered shirt from around her arm, gritting her teeth as she groaned in pain. The blade was still firmly planted between the joint that linked elbow to forearm, handle at her elbow. She couldn’t feel anything below it and the joint itself throbbed constantly. Nev freed a syringe and stuck the tip into a bottle of morphine, carelessly injecting near the wound. She screamed in rage but when the syringe was empty she tossed it aside and went for a second, repeating the process with the antibiotics.

Already she was feeling the effects of the morphine working, bringing numbness to her limb, slowly creeping up her arm. The second needle was tossed aside and she started wrapping the wound, knife and all, back up, securing her arm against her chest with a sling.

A noise in the corridor stole her attention, she scrambled for her gun and dashed back for the doors, taking up a position next to them to glance down the hall.

The buzz in his head had started to settle, but every time the doctor yanked on the rope, it sent another jolt of nausea rippling through him, sternly reminding him of his apparent concussion. Hatsu leaned into the cool metal of the chair, letting out a heavy sigh as he closed his eyes to hopefully sway away the growing nausea. Gods, did he want a nap. He had been deprived of one for too long. Unfortunately, concussions and naps didn’t mix well–regardless of how tempting it was to drift off into Dreamvile.

Clearly, the doctor had never been a Boy Scout, gone on a fishing trip, or binge-watched YouTube tutorials on knot tying. Despite all the degrees the Doctor presumably had, none of them were in tying knots. It was too reliant on brute force. From the aged blood, it was clear the method had worked well for restraining the dead; however, Hatsu wasn’t dead–not yet, at least.

The buzzing, the waves of nausea, and the lack of Tylenol made it easy to fain that he was worse for wear. He focused on the bindings, forcing himself to stay loose and flex his hands as the doctor tightened the rope like he was fitting a Victorian woman into a corset. If Hatsu tensed up now, it would only make it harder to wriggle free later. Instead, he focused on holding his breath and making small movements to let there be some slack–not much, but it was something to work with in the future. If he were lucky, he would have enough leverage to free himself. Worse case, he’d roll himself around the room until he found something sharp to cut the bindings. Hatsu wasn’t picky when it came to improvising.

Hatsu let his head fall forward, hair falling onto his face as he slouched against the bindings. Half the lethargy was real; his head spun, and stomach churned, but the other half was milking it. If he looked more out of it than he was, maybe Dr. Cryptid wouldn’t notice him working on loosening the ropes.

The doctor had almost finished tying when a bump in the infirmary grabbed their attention. Being the epitome of bravery, the doctor ducked low, using Hatsu and the chair as cover as one of Toni’s girls stumbled in. A knife embedded into her elbow.

Clearly very pissed.

She didn’t even have to yell for him to know that. Regardless, it was a recipe for disaster. Hurt people were good at hurting others– especially when they felt cornered. What concerned him was when she went to the door, back pressed against the wall, and looked down the hall.

Toni ran this place now, so, theoretically, she should be safe.

“Be a good time to grab that gun, Doctor,” Hatsu muttered, his voice dry but quiet. His gaze stayed on the girl at the door, his fingers still working at the rope.

Moving through the prison while dodging the occasional Samaritan or otherwise personage, running through the place was tricky. But they made do. Vincent made it clear their priority was stealth, or at the very least getting as far in as they could before bullets started flying. So, ducking into whatever rooms or cells were vacant at the moment to let the angry armed people go about their duty of presumably hunting down rebels was necessary. Even if Hughes would rather put a bullet in most of them and be done with it.

Months of paying attention to guard stations, patrols, and trade-off's in the event shit ever hit the fan and then he and Vic had to get out was made nearly useless given the state of Lincoln Penitentiary at the moment. Blake wouldn't admit that all of that surveillance he'd packed away being pointless now felt like a pebble in his shoe, but it absolutely did.

But it oddly felt good to be with a team again. Blake might not know them, might not even fully trust them. Maybe save Vincent given the man had tackled him to the ground to avoid taking the brunt of an explosive blast. But he'd been out of the game so long and with so few people he could trust, it felt good. His body didn't feel as heavy as it did while waiting for them to arrive or the hours beforehand, and maybe that was just the adrenaline but who knows?

Blake turned at Vincent's question, "Small pitstop. Infirmary, we were passing it by on the way to the control room." He could already see the twitch of the other man's eyebrow. "There's someone I need to check on. Two seconds Senior Chief, you have my word." Because Hughes hadn't seen Victor in weeks. And while Cabrera told him that Vic was safe, Blake just needed to see that with his own eyes in passing.

Blake started walking with his pistol at the ready, he took point because he didn't trust anyone else aiming a gun if Victor was indeed there. They weren't even halfway down the corridor when he noticed movement in the doorway, it wasn't clear, not from this far. But then an arm came out into view, and Huey heard a bullet whizz past as the sound of a gun went off.

"Down!" The Marine's voice bellowed out, throwing his back flat against a nearby closed door, trying to make it harder for these unfortunate bullets to find him. Blake peeked as much as he dared to try and get an eye on the shooter. It dawned on him that this was coming from the Infirmary itself, and that there was no way this was Victor. Which meant any number of things. "Throw down your weapon, you're outnumbered!" He called out down the hallway, though he suspected it wouldn't stop them. Not to mention it was sort of a bluff, given he had no idea how many armed individuals were in the Infirmary.

Neveah strained to listen down the hall where she thought she heard movement. The noise around her warbled and the lights blurred in her vision. She could hear whispering but no matter how hard she listened she couldn’t place it. It was close, but fucking where? She leaned against the door, her head tilting to press on the cool glass, her breath fogging before she leaned back with a soft laugh to herself.

She reached with her free hand, to wipe at the condensation but blinked in surprise to find her arm bound. She’d forgotten what had happened, that bitch and the knife, the one that was still embedded in her elbow, red little droplets running down the handle to drip on the floor. She frowned at the puddle forming beneath her, strange little splatters. She wondered if that’s what she’d heard, not whispering but the noise of her blood on the floor?

Neveah’s head whipped up as the door to the stairwell clicked open and creaked, a man stepping through she did not recognize, in gear they didn’t have. She pressed the swinging door open enough to point her pistol down the hall and fire before dipping back inside the hospital.

The man shouted at her to give up and she laughed, shoving the door open again to lean out and fire again. “Me cagaré en tus muertos!” Hearing a scream satisfied her; she ducked back into the infirmary to wait for them to push forward and she’d have a better shot at hitting them.

Victor didn’t see what Neveah was aiming for, but it didn’t matter. If Toni had flipped, so had she, so she was good as fucking slime in his book. And he was real tired of being surrounded by these assholes. Keeping low to the floor, Victor crouch-scuttled over to his office door, crawling under the table directly to the right of the open door. Grabbing his gun off the table above his head, Victor stayed low and out of sight, just around the office doorway and pressed up against the wall. He’d have a good shot of Nev if he could just aim out the doorway and get a shot off before she noticed it. He wasn’t sure how many shots he had left and didn't dare make a sound to check. He just had to hope there was at least one and he didn’t miss.

From his vantage point, there was a growing pool of blood on the floor, and Neveah looked less-than-steady on her feet. No doubt she was in pain and losing a lot of blood, but the real kicker was the drugs she shot herself up with. With all that in her veins, she should be laying down on one of the infirmary beds, not making a last stand. She probably couldn’t even see straight, but that didn’t make her not dangerous.

Victor thought his heart was going to explode when he heard Hughes’ voice in the hallway, sounding uninjured and very much alive. He wanted nothing more than to run out there and make sure he was okay and that he was in no more than two pieces. He couldn’t though, not with that Samaritan bitch right around the side of the door. He couldn’t call out, either. That would give away his position and get him shot. If he didn’t act, though, she’d shoot Hughes the second she had the chance - and it wouldn’t be too long before she spotted him, or Hatsu, or Hatsu called out and fucked it all up.

Victor raised his weapon, aiming for the woman’s head. If he didn’t kill her, and only wounded her, nothing stopped her from grabbing her gun and taking wild potshots at anyone that moved. He watched her for a moment, trying to determine if she was going to dart out of the way or do something stupid again, like take another shot. She yelled something he only vaguely understood - something about death? Who knows, just more tough-chick bullshit like the rest of them pulled all the time, but she wasn’t moving from her spot that she mistook as being safe cover.

Victor swallowed, breathed out, pulled the trigger, and prayed he didn’t miss because Blake’s life might depend on it.

Neveah’s head snapped back as his shot hit home, driving through her skull and sending her collapsing backwards with a clatter into an empty metal cart.

While it was not the first person he killed, it was the first person he killed by gunshot. The kickback startled him a bit, though he did manage to hold on, and he had enough wits about him to call out and make sure he was not getting shot next.

“Blake!” Victor called out, his voice sounding hoarse this loud. His breath caught in his parched throat and he coughed, staying behind the wall in case someone came charging in expecting more hostilities.

“I got her in the head. I got another Samaritan with me but I tied him to a chair. Are you okay?” There was so much he wanted to say, he didn’t even know where to start, and now he just felt like he was rambling into the void. He was absolutely positive it was Blake though, he’d know that voice anywhere, and it was enough to make him crawl out from under the table and peer around the doorway.

"Everything went to shit, Blake - we need to get out of here!"

As expected, chaos erupted in the hall with threats and gunfire. Through the chaos were bits of information Hatsu could assume: a yell from a stranger and a yelp meant at least two strangers. Knife Elbow was with Toni, which ruled out Toni’s crew as the aggressors. Enforcers were unlikely, which left one probable option: rebels. Their claims of “outnumbering” them could be true even though it wouldn’t faze the drugged Knife Elbow. She was angry enough to take out at least two, maybe three, if lucky. Hatsu doubted that she would survive this, making his plan simple: let Knife Elbow handle this the best she could before picking up the pieces.

Dr. Cryptid, however, had different plans.

With a sudden spark of bravery, the heroic doctor picked up the gun, with quiet steps, went to the door. He was carefully methodical with his aim, breathing slowly to get the shot just right. The doctor would put all his medical license to use and not miss. A healthy dose of death should solve all of Knife Elbow’s problems.

The kind and dedicated doctor made a mistake and never finished tying his half-baked knot. Despite the ringing in his ears, it was easy for Hatsu to unweave the rope.

The gunshot that followed was sharp and deafening, sending a fresh bolt of pain straight through his skull. The concussion protested violently with a healthy side of nausea. He held his breath as he fought to keep the world from spinning. The doctor helpfully yelled “Blake”. Hatsu wasn’t sure if the yell or the fact they knew each other made his head pound louder. Today was going to keep getting worse, wasn’t it?

If it was, he might as well have some fun with it. He thought about neatly rolling the rope up and waiting for the doctor to notice Hatsu was free. Then, he offered him to try again, and as he tossed the rope towards him while he offered words of encouragement like a parent at a baby race.

That would be too nice, though. Hatsu felt like being mean, bitter, and spiteful.

Slowly, he stood up, careful not to let his leg click, before pushing the chair a step closer to test its weight. Yep, this would work. The corners of his mouth curled as the doctor commented about tying another Samaritan to a chair.

Filled with exhaustion, spite, and a raging concussion, the chair flew in the air.

Was it a good idea to throw a chair at a crazed, armed doctor? Probably not.

Not giving Dr. Cryptid time to recover, he threw himself into the door, which crashed into the doctor. The gun clattered into the infirmary. He would have preferred it if the gun had gone intothe office, but he’d have to make it work. Hatsu forced the door shut with a second slam and twisted the lock.

The effort sent him reeling, and he clung to the door with shut eyes, willing the ringing, spinning, and nausea away. Maybe the first plan was better, but it was too late to go with option one.

His body desperately wanted him to sit, to lay down, to take a fucking chill pill and rest. There wasn't time for that, though.

Pushing off the door with a groan, he stumbled to the desk. Every step was a fight against the swimming in his head. His fingers fumbled with the drawers as he yanked them open, scavenging for a bottle labeled “Tyneol.” The doctor had to have some stashed away. Hatsu could only imagine the migraines he had after dealing with all the dumbasses that stumbled into the infirmary.

Hatsu didn’t care about Dr. Cryptid, or Blake, or the messy family reunion that was bound to take place. He didn’t care about the inevitable backlash when they broke through the door, or the glass, or both. Hell, maybe they’d bust through the walls, making things exciting.

Right now, he just wanted some damn Tylenol.

And a nap.


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REMEDY FOR REVENGE
The Infirmary at Lincoln - Part 2 - Collab with Crono Crono NanLia NanLia silverwhere silverwhere Protean Protean

Just as Vince had tossed Mr. Yellow to the ground earlier, it came time for the favor to be returned. Dropping down low at Hughes’ ever-so-kind-and-always-reliable suggestion, he heard the bullet whiz on by. Voices too. Funny little words reeking of drama and desperation, echoing into an empty chamber like a Dieter Kohler feature film on opening night. No delicious, buttery kernels on the menu tonight, I’m afraid. Only things being popped tonight were some shoulders and skulls.

Vince’s legs were already on the move, rushing over to catch the stumbling—now toppling—body of his teammate. The lead-laden man staggered over onto the wall, giving this grimy old prison sector a lovely new splash of vibrancy. Wasn’t quite Huey’s preferred shade, evidently, but it’s a little unreasonable to be looking around for yellow paint right about now. And unlike some of our other soldiers, Bravo Team was rather well-hydrated and didn’t happen to be pissing themselves at the first sign of trouble.

The second voice—less crazed, equally melodramatic, more dehydrated—went on, sounding like he was a friend of Hughes. Purple, if he had to guess. Whomever he was, the guy wrapped up with the last of his croaks, leaving the hall empty with silence, Bravo down a man, and Vince wondering if Hughes knew what a control room was. “We’ve got a man down,” he stated, quite matter-of-factly. Some Marines needed that. Including Huey, who must’ve missed his lesson on how to read a map. Mayhaps how to tell the time too—this was shaping up to be an awfully long two seconds here, pal.

Either way, any hopes of subtlety had long been ruined by this kerfuffle, just as his uniform had been by the blood of Bravo’s fallen brother. Who, by now, was slumping deeper into Vincent’s side and losing far more blood than any man on this stealth mission should have been. He looked at the Marine, this time devoid of malice or impatience. An ultimately stern gaze, but one that was urging Blake to spit out some good news for a change. A silent plea for something, anything, in this shithole of a facility to make sense—particularly the far-off notion that a man could get some medical attention in the infirmary.

“Hughes. Your guy in there, we can trust him?”

Victor had never been in the Boy Scouts, so he had no knot-tying badge of any kind. Instead, he was a Church Youth Group kiddo. As a child that meant mostly arts and crafts projects, storytime from the original book of fables, and the occasional sing-along. When he got older, the arts and crafts were exchanged for forced volunteer hours, assigned reading from the same original book of fables, and an automatic social circle that spent Saturday evenings getting drunk and wild in whatever corn field or empty parking lot they could find.

Nowadays, those experiences in rural North Dakota didn’t always translate so well into skills that were useful in a prison full of murderous thugs, and the string of curses that left him as he hit the floor due to an acute case of airborne chair to the back didn’t do anything to make him sound like the sweet Midwestern man he’d been once. Everything had gone to shit and was continuing to go to shit, apparently.

The slamming of the door behind him - his door to his office full of all his shit - was the final middle finger that topped off all that had happened in the last few days. Still in just his boxers and undershirt, Victor groaned as he pushed himself off his stomach and rolled onto his ass in a semi-sitting position. His legs, arms, collarbone, and jaw were dotted with bruises, some old and some new but at least he hadn’t hit the floor face-first. He looked a little thin, but at least he wasn’t the one bleeding out.

Victor’s eyes darted to Neveah’s corpse first, then the locked door, and finally to Hughes. He blinked once, eyes going wide - first at Hughes because he was okay, then at the strangers behind him. Strangers that were fully decked out in camo, military gear, and weapons. One of which was shot and was being helped to the ground by another man in uniform. He’d gotten so used to seeing enforcers in prison guard uniforms and whatever rag-tag compilation of gear they could cobble together, that seeing a whole group of prepared and organized people working together was startling. It almost looked unreal.

The fact that one of them asked Blake if he could be trusted - and the fact this guy knew Blake’s name - was somehow… comforting? But also stunning. They weren’t Samaritans, that was for damn sure. It was a far cry from time in the cells with Elio.

“What.” It wasn’t even a question, just a statement of wondering what kind of fuckery he’d stumbled into while he gathered his wits off the floor and hauled himself to his feet. His spinny-rolly-desk-chair, which had been turned into a weapon thanks to Hatsu, sat on its side with one wheel still spinning in the air. He used that and the nearest infirmary bed to get upright with a grunt, then motioned to the injured man in the hall.

“Jesus. Get him in here. Where was he shot?” Victor’s first two steps were accompanied by a minor limp before he could get all his muscles to cooperate, though it wasn’t long before he nearly closed the gap between himself and Blake. His gun was still laying on the floor, he was very obviously unarmed, and he appeared to be just hoping that none of the other guys would shoot him for getting this close.

Victor wrapped Blake up in a hug, as tight as he could manage given his aches and pains. No doubt he smelled like blood and sweat but at least the doctor was alive, as was Blake, and that’s what mattered. “I’m glad you’re alive.” He murmured into Blake’s neck before reluctantly letting him go. A kiss would have to wait - he didn’t know who these other guys were, or what was going on, and there was someone bleeding out in the hallway.

“Let me scrub in quick. Take whatever bed you can get him on to. I’ll deal with the bitch’s corpse later, but if you can get that asshole out of my office that would be stellar. I’d like to put on some Goddamn pants eventually.” Victor squeezed Blake’s shoulder before finally stepping away, hobbling over to the sink along one wall. A quick twist of knobs and some percussive maintenance later, water came out in a low pressure stream. It wasn’t much, but running water these days was impressive, and he even had soap. He scrubbed as quick as he could, up to his elbows, glancing over his shoulder at those in uniform.

“The guy in my office saw the armory getting cleared out. Toni’s guys did it. They flipped on the rebellion, he decided he wanted to run the place instead of staying with us. She’s one of them. MS13.” He motioned with an elbow at Neveah’s body before sticking his arms and hands under the faucet to rinse off. He said us so easily, as if he knew that Blake would figure out the current status of us-versus-them and handle whatever translation was needed for those who accompanied him.

“Hardly any of the enforcers are in the halls - I think they all got summoned to the Pit. That can’t be good news. I think we’re fucked. I’m fucked, Blake, they already know I was in on it.” Victor’s mouth turned downwards into a thin frown as he dried his hands and arms off with a faded purple kitchen towel that hung near the sink. It was nice to get the blood off his hands.

“No idea where anyone else is. I just got out of a cell.” Victor tossed the towel over the edge of the sink and went to gather up supplies onto a rolling cart, pulling gauze out of the cabinet Neveah had left open.

“Now what the hell are you doing here and who the hell are they?” Victor motioned with a wad of gauze at Vincent and the others gathered.

Blake had grit his teeth at the sound of one of the soldiers taking a shot. He'd continued to peak the edge of the doorway, even returning fire with two shots from his pistol. Now that their 'stealth' had been blown it no longer mattered.

But threw him off was the sound of a shot from inside the Infirmary, from deeper inside, followed by a momentary silence. Then came his name from a familiar voice. "Vic!" He'd returned the shout to confirm that it was indeed Blake out here.

As Vince drew up beside him with the wounded man Hughes was quick to throw himself under the injured soldiers other arm to help support him. "With my life." He told the Senior Chief plainly. And with that they helped him into the infirmary.

Of course Hughes still checked his corners as they entered, eyes examining what he could to understand just what in the hell had happened. Nevah's corpse on the floor, Vic half-naked and looking worse than Hughes had seen him.

With a grunt he and Vince hefted the man onto the gurney. His own clothes and jacket with fresh blood on them. Hughes turned around to face Victor, mouth opening to speak but he was met with the man's arms wrapping around him. Blake let out a shuddery breath, his own arms reaching around Victor's form to hug him back. "You look like shit." Blake told him, the one free hand reaching up to cup the back of Victor's head. "I'm sorry I wasn't here." There was a guilt to his voice as it came out, and then they broke apart. Back to business.

Hughes walked over to the office door, giving the handle a quick try before walking around to peer in through the glass window as Victor went on and on. Blake was used to it at this point, but he picked up most of it. He recognized the guy inside from around the prison, but didn't know his name. "He do any of this?" Blake asked in regards to Victor's current state. "Am I killing him?" His words were so matter of fact even Blake couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

Stepping closer to Victor as he finished Hughes held him at eye contact. "Listen, I don't have time to explain everything but they're here to end this whole thing." Blake glanced back at the soldiers for a moment, "We'll have a long talk later, especially about how you were in on it and didn't tell me. Right now though you don't have to worry about that." Still he worried about Victor's safety he was indeed a target for the Samaritan's. "Just focus on helping the guy on the table, one thing at a time alright?" He smiled at Victor because in that moment they were both there, alive, and relatively safe even if for the moment.

Victor didn’t seem to mind or care that some of that fresh blood on Hughes’ clothes transferred onto his own. When was the doctor not covered in blood, anyway? He looked like shit, and felt like shit too. The few seconds it took the group to get the injured man on the bed gave him time enough to collect his things - and himself - enough to be useful.

“Him?” Victor looked over his shoulder in Hatsu’s direction, raising an eyebrow at Blake’s question. “No, he didn’t. He’s just some pencil-pusher I used as a human shield to get back here.” He swallowed hard; he didn’t want to think about what he just got out of, but at the same time he knew at some point he’d have to tell Blake everything that happened. Maybe only once he was good and drunk while someplace safer than this.

“Up to you if you kill him.” Victor picked up a pair of scissors, ready to cut fabric out of the way on the injured soldier, but immediately put them back down when his hand started to shake. Fuck, not now. Not now. He cleared his throat, looking down at the bed before he met Blake’s eyes again. The look he gave Blake was something full of a lot of hurt and a lot of things he wanted to say… but couldn’t, so he looked away again. There was work to do.

“Office-guy’s got a fake leg that isn’t treating him right ever since he took a tumble down a stairwell. I didn’t push him, but I didn’t help him either.” Victor glanced up at the glass window between the infirmary and his office.

“If he tries to run, chances are he won’t make it far.” He was quiet for a moment, scissors in hand again as he cut away at some fabric. They’d gotten the man’s uniform unbuttoned but there was no way to get his arm out of the sleeve, and the t-shirt underneath the uniform was in the way too. All of it had to go, as it stood between him and the shoulder wound he needed to treat. Victor grabbed onto the man on the bed by the arm and the side and lifted him slightly to check the other side of his shoulder for an exit wound, ignoring the way the man screamed in pain as he was moved. The screaming didn’t even seem to make him flinch.

“I should have beat him with his own prosthetic.” Victor said as he exhaled heavily, grabbing his gauze again. The wound was still bleeding, but he needed to do what he could to disinfect and get that bullet out. “Not a through-and-through shot.”

“Sorry, Blake.”

It was a bit of an apology for everything. For not telling him what was going on, and for turning into… whatever he was now. When Blake held his gaze, Victor nodded, swallowing hard a second time, finally having to look away. Not because he didn’t want to look at Blake - if it were up to him he’d have that man pressed against a wall so he could finally kiss him again - but because there was a man bleeding on the bed in front of him and a few others scowling at the whole situation.

“It was the enforcers that did this. I don’t know their names. Mid-level assholes wanting to be high-level assholes. They’re not important. There’s worse out there. If you see the Chaplain, kill him.” Victor didn’t offer any elaboration - Blake was right, he had to focus on the guy on the table right now.

Victor leaned down to grab the bottle of disinfectant from the bottom of the cart - a white plastic bottle with a cap on top that felt about half-full - but the second he unscrewed the cap and caught a whiff of what was inside, he grimaced and quickly shoved the cap back onto it. “Fucking animals, all of them, Jesus Christ.” He immediately chucked it into a nearby garbage bin full of plastic wrappers, kleenex, and other odds and ends. It made a sloshing sound as it thunked against the bottom. Someone had pissed in the bottle and put it back on the shelf in his absence, probably thinking they were funny.

Glancing around the room, Plan B dawned on him. “Keep pressure on that.” He instructed whichever one of these uniformed grunts was listening and left the gauze on top of the man’s wound as he darted across the room. There was a worn-down couch sitting in the back, dragged in from what had once been a staff break room when they needed more seating (or another bed) in the infirmary. Victor tossed aside a couch cushion and lifted a wooden panel. Before the fall, this could have held the mechanics to make the footrests rise and the back recline, but it had long since been stripped empty. These days, a handful of MS13 had taken to hiding booze in the cubby. Probably the same idiots that tampered with his disinfectant.

“Courtesy of Toni’s guys.” Victor held up a three-quarters-full bottle of tequila as he returned to the bed, yanking the cap off and grabbing fresh gauze before shooing away the helping hands.

“This is going to hurt.” No apology, just a warning a few seconds before he wiped the alcohol-covered gauze over the wound. Victor glanced up at Vincent, motioning down to the man on the bed.

“Hold him still. I’m out of painkillers, so I can’t do anything for him while I dig the bullet out.” He gave both men an apologetic look - this wasn’t making his infirmary look good, but they weren’t exactly flush with supplies.

Times like these were very validating for Vincent, his questionable choice of career, and how much more preferential getting blown to bits was to… all of this. No pain, no screaming, no suffering. Just a hell of a one-second joyride to the pearly gates, and that was that. Wouldn’t even need to live through the shame of cutting the wrong wire. The real tragedy would be leaving Baby Bozeman as the sole successor to his remaining supply of C-4. But it would’ve been funny, at the very least. Strapping one of your bleeding buddies down to his potential deathbed, considerably less so. There’s absolutely no silver lining to be found here. Silver, where?

Still, he held his bullet-riddled comrade down as Huey’s close friend had instructed. A friend that the Marine was evidently quite happy to see, as were the rest of Bravo, admittedly. Not out of any voyeuristic intrigue, mind you, but because the rough lookin’ fella looked mighty similar to one of their POIs. The one Cabrera claimed Hughes was cozying up with, no less.

“Dr. Braaten, right?” The question is merely a formality; there’s no room for doubt. Brat, Vic of the big four-zero. The one file that had gotten Vincent’s eyebrows raised the highest, mulling over if this man truly existed or was simply Cabrera’s real cheeky attempt at some creative writing. Alas, here was the Doctor in the flesh (and not much else). Standing front and center, with neither a camera nor a Cabroian prankster in sight. Evidently very real, albeit underdressed.

“POI Neveah Turner,” one of the non-screaming Bravo members interjected, nodding toward the body slumped by the door. Another prominent figure within these walls, yet one the RGF would Neveah get to question. “HVT Six also spotted.” All eyes flicked over to the young, Spermy-aged kid in the office, a real awkward standoff with nothing but cheap, readily breakable glass separating them.

Before daring to see-for himself just how sturdy that barrier to the office was, Vince excused himself from the operating “table”, swapping places with one of his subordinates and passing along that bloody torch (a nice mid-mission team-building exercise, if anything). He made his way to a quieter corner of the room, though ultimately failing to outpace the waves of pained screeching coming from behind. A quick situation report was fired off to Alpha, relaying over the status of all their new friends they managed to secure. Two out of three wasn’t bad—certainly enough to lock in his next promotion, right? Or had this new Vic on the block shot a hole through his reputation already?

Correspondence over, he assigned the last free-handed Bravo-bro to keep an eye on the hallway, on the off chance there was to be more… noise brewing in the infirmary. That much rested on how cooperative this new quartermaster, the evil Gordie, turned out to be. With a renewed sense of duty (and a spiffy new salary dangling just within reach), he turned to rejoin the rest of the crew.

“Good pit stop, Hughes. Real gold mine we’ve got here.” Vince celebrated, his complete and unwavering trust in the Marine being rewarded as he gestured around the room, hands landing on their last mark tucked away in the office. “Word is, HVT Six’s gonna make our trip to the control room a hell of a lot easier. If Cabrera’s still to be trusted, of course.” He gave Hughes a second to chew on that last bit, in the meantime returning an apologetic look over to the Doctor—if only to get that man’s head back on his shoulders and consequently, that bullet out their teammate. “Cabrera’s been feeding us intel from the inside,” he explained, raising his voice just so Evil Gordie wouldn’t be feeling left out. “Has been for nearly a year now, and he’s deemed you all rescue-worthy.”

And speak of the devil—the familiar tinge of Cabroian unprofessionalism rings in his ear once again, a flood of profanity tearing through their good, Christian comms. He lets the rest of Ozzy’s choice words fizzle out over the speaker, before shooting another telling look at Hughes. He’s getting good at that, unfortunately. “King’s down, and Cabrera’s doing God knows what. We oughta get moving, quick.” He leaves Huey and Victor to handle the remainder of their business, now strolling up to the office window and tapping on Evil Gordie’s viewing screen. “Youse catch all that, kid? So, what’s it gonna be? Plan on playing nice, or are we busting ya outta there?”



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REMEDY FOR REVENGE
The Infirmary at Lincoln - Part 3 - Collab with Crono Crono NanLia NanLia silverwhere silverwhere Protean Protean

Victor couldn’t afford to do a double-take at the marine holding down his comrade, he had to focus on the bloody mess in front of him, but he did steal a glance up at his face before both eyes were back down on the wound. It was bloody and ragged and painful looking - just like every other bullet wound bullshit scenario he’d been faced with here. This was not what he signed up for, but here we are folks. With gloves a thing of the past - latex or otherwise - Victor had to press his bare-but-washed hands down on the man’s shoulder around the wound as he carefully maneuvered his metal grabbers into the wound in search of a bullet to pull out. If the guy was lucky it was deformed but in one piece. If he was unlucky, it was shattered to bits along with whatever body parts it hit.

“Yeah. Dr. Victor Braaten. Grace Clinic of Cleveland, intensive care neurology department. I’d offer you my card but I left it in my other white coat.” He murmured, the humor in his voice somehow dry and dripping at the same time. The injured man howled as the metal instrument bumped against the ragged edges of the bullet wound, and all Victor could picture was the game Operation - the buzzing noise and the light-up nose.

“Blake, grab me something to put in this guy’s mouth for him to bite on. I’m not sewing his tongue back on too.” Victor raised his voice and called out without looking up, the kind of voice the doctor-in-charge-of-the-room would be used to using.

POI, HVT, none of these acronyms made any sense to him, but he chalked it up to military jargon. It struck him as interesting that the jackass paper-pusher in his office wasn’t even a name, just some letters and a number. A fairly high number though, which piqued his interest. Six. Six out of how many, though? And how did this other guy know his name? Blake must have told him.

The guy on the table was a lucky lad today, that was for sure. The bullet hit bone, yes, but it hit it and stopped right there. A lucky angle and a low caliber made for a show of force that deformed the bullet but didn’t break it into bits and pieces. That bone looked chipped, possibly even a hairline crack, but that was hopefully something time, rest, and a sling could fix. It didn’t take him long to have a nice firm grip on that deadly little bullet, and he plucked that thing out like an unwanted black olive off pizza.

There was talk on the other side of the room from the loud one about trusting Cabrera, which was funny as all hell if you asked Victor. Of course, nobody did, which was fine. King’s men could get fucked for all he cared, he was getting out even if he had to beg for it.

Bullet removed and held up in front of his face so he could do a quick check and ensure it was all in one piece, Victor damn near dropped it right on the injured man’s face when he heard the most ridiculous sentence he’d ever heard in his life: Cabrera’s been feeding us intel from the inside, has been for nearly a year.

Victor put his metal tool down in a hurry, clattering it against the metal side table as he fumbled for gauze with one hand, looking at both Vincent and Blake for answers.

“I’m sorry, you fucking said what now?” He laughed, which came out more like a surprised sputter. “For a second I thought you just said King’s biggest lapdog has been feeding you intel. For a year.” Victor’s eyes bounced back and forth between Blake and Vincent, waiting for someone to say something that made some sense. He wasn’t even paying attention to how hard he was pressing on the injured man’s shoulder, and at this point the poor guy may as well have been steamrolled right into the bed with the way he was groaning and mumbling incoherently. At least, it sounded incoherent in Victor’s mind.

“You must mean someone else, because all Cabrera’s been doing for a year is playing conqueror and licking King’s feet. Do you know how many Goddamn people have come through this infirmary because his men got trigger-happy? How many times Cabrera has been in here threatening me himself?! Enforcers threw me into a cell and beat me, and you know how tight he is with them.” He shot a glance at Blake, silently imploring him to make this make sense. It was such an utter, incredulous shock he couldn’t even register the words ‘King’s down’.

What the fuck is the military doing here?

Hatsu squinted; the light in the infirmary was brighter than he remembered. He had thought the remnants of the government had disbanded or crawled into a hole to die after the embarrassing attempt at managing the pandemic. Yet, a group of men dressed in their tactical Sunday best rushed into the infirmary, hauling one of their brothers-in-arms with a gaping wound courtesy of the late Knife Elbow. Judging off the screams, it wasn’t fatal–yet. There was still plenty of time to bleed out.

The details blurred, and he couldn’t get his brain to process what the men carried. It was a fruitless task that caused the back of his eyes to hurt and reminded him that he really should find that Tynelol because, no matter what, they were armed to the tee. He only had so much time till their attentions turned towards him.

Thankfully, Dr. Cryptid was organized.

Everything was labeled and stored meticulously, and each item had a clear and simple space. If the doctor were as messy as he appeared, Hatsu would have dumped the contents of the drawers onto the floor and let the concussion kill him. Instead, his cloudy mind could sort through what was what. Spare gauze and pants were left alone in their rightful place. Finally, he found his prize: a small white bottle filled with a miracle drug that could destroy headaches.

Shaky hands pulled the bottle out, shaking it twice before twisting off the cap. A leather glove was taken off of one of his hands before pouring two pills into his palm, glaring at the pills. He hated dry swallowing pills, but the war raging in his head was enough for him to choke back the pills. They sat on his tongue a second too long, making his mouth taste bitter.

Bleh.

The glove was placed back on his hand, and he went to put the bottle back into its spot when the black hilt of a blade caught his eye. It took a second for his mind to process what it was before looking up to see the tail-end glances of the men in the other room before their screaming friend drew them back. Carefully, he grabbed the blade and pulled it free from its leather sheath. The blade itself was serrated, sharp, and well-maintained. It felt good to hold–steady and reliable, unlike his own body. In a strange way, grounding him despite knowing well enough that he couldn’t take out the military men and the malnourished doctor even if his brain weren’t running on slow mode.

Still, the idea of being unarmed made him queasy. Or maybe that was just the concussion again.

Regardless, the question remained: take it or leave it.

Cabrera’s been feeding us Intel from the inside for about a year now

The knife slid into his waistband at the small of his back, hidden beneath his shirt.

As Dr. Cryptid explained why Cabrera couldn’t betray King, Hatsu disagreed. It made his temples throb harder, but Cabrera being the one to feed the military made some sense and seemed likely–the man had always been smart. This was planned, unlike Weston’s last-minute rebellion.

King’s down.

That could mean incapacitated—or dead. Either way, it tipped the scales in the military’s favor. One less obstacle for them, one more problem for him. But what the hell was their endgame? What did they actually want?

Tap, tap, tap.

Pulling Hatsu away from his thoughts, a rugged military man tapped away. All geared up and ready to win a fight. Hell, probably ready to win a war.

For a few seconds, Hatsu contemplated pretending that the glass was soundproof. His head rang, and he felt it was unfair that he would have to entertain these new guests.

“I'm plenty nice,” he paused with a shrug, trying his best to seem normal and non-concussed. “Figured you might like a challenge.”

He sighed as the injured man screamed again, “Give me ten, fifteen minutes.” His arms crossed, “Or don’t. You are more than welcome to break in.”

He paused, then flashed the soldier a cheerful thumbs up. “I’m taking a nap.”

He turned away without waiting for a response, heading to the cot. The sheets were straightened with an exaggerated sense of purpose before he sank onto it, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes.

His nerves felt like live wires, too frayed for actual sleep. But for now, it was enough to sit still and pretend.

Blake nodded at Victor's words, making the mental note of dealing with the Chaplain should they come across him on the way to the control room.

Blake was watching Hatsu through the glass while listening to the members of Bravo listing off HVT and POI's in the room. Blake couldn't help but wonder exactly what all was said, he knew how these reports went, at least in the old world. He assumed he too was listed as a POI though nobody had said a word so far about it.

Maynard's choice of words didn't go unnoticed, head turning to look at the man. Causing Blake to narrow his eyes at the Senior Chief for a moment, "He can be." It was a defensive response, one that flew out before he could even think about it. Because despite all of the shit from the last year and how he'd seen Ignacio as a different man who couldn't be trusted, Blake did trust him once again. And for that moment to hear someone who was working off Ignacio's intel and hard work, someone who was supposedly a fellow soldier that Blake assumed had fought alongside of Cabrera in some capacity. And then questioning his trustworthiness? Well it was a fast way to get on Blake's bad side that was for sure.

The thought didn't linger given that Victor had told him to find something for the soldier to bite down on. Blake's head turning as his eyes scanned the room, anything off the top of his head to use was in Victor's office. With a huff he reached down and unbuckled his belt, slipping it through the hoops then walking over and placing it within he soldiers mouth to bite down on.

Victor's reaction to the Cabrera news wasn't unsurprising. He held Victor's gaze as the man looked to him for answers. "It's true, and no I didn't know. Seems to be an ongoing thing these days. Just found out a few hours ago." Blake hadn't meant to add that part in, not really, it had just sort of flooded out in the moment.

When office-guy finally spoke up about taking a nap it was an easy excuse for Hughes to focus on something else. Between the news that King was down and that they needed to get moving, it was an easy excuse to get frustrated with the twerp inside.

Blake walked over to the window of the office where one of Bravo's soldiers was, "Let me borrow that." Blake stated with an outstretched hand and nod to the man's weapon. A questioning look was returned his way, much to Blake's annoyance. And the guy looked to Vincent as if looking for permission before handing it over.

Blake took the silenced AR and pointed it to the corner of the glass before firing two silenced shots through it. It was reinforced glass, there was almost no way through without shooting it, and even then it might not have worked. Luckily this time it worked. Shoving the front of the gun through the hole and bracing it against the sides to clean and shear off the glass shards sticking out before handing the gun back to the soldier and sticking his arm through to reach around and unlock the office door.

The Marine swung the door open and strolled into the office with his pistol drawn, the little shit hadn't even moved, one hand reaching out to grab hold of the collar of Hatsu's shirt to 'help' haul him up to his feet while the other kept his gun trained on him. "Out. Now." Blake said, brooking no argument as he forced Hatsu to walk out of the office and into the infirmary proper.

Ah, he’d seen this masterful tactic plenty of times before. Now Vinny Maynard was no father himself, but he’d dealt with enough Spermies and Bozemans back home to be acquainted with the timeless throw a tantrum and lock yourself in your room line of defense. Usually, it’d take only a modest barrage of his corny classics to get the metaphorical door creaking open, following up with a good ol’ pat on the fatherless shoulder. His tried and true fatal formula against fetal brooding syndrome. Alas, he had little time to gauge whether or not Evil Gordie was indeed fond of shoulder pats, with Hughes taking quite well to being the bad cop and making short work of their locked-door debacle. No, that wasn’t a short joke.

Come to think of it, was Huey the shoulder-pat type? He half considered putting Hughes in his own time-out earlier for stealing away some of the RGF’s big boy toys, but the Marine had done well enough thus far to warrant their trust and would almost certainly be testifying at Vince’s next big performance review. So he quietly trailed Blake into the office instead, offering his presence as support should any new piece of furniture spontaneously decide to take flight. He observed the ensuing quick takedown from the sidelines, proud and impressed with Huey’s gentle-but-firm parenting as the man secured Hatsu Back in their possession. Timely was a good look on Yellow. Who knew?

Before following Hughes back into the piss-reeking, corpse-adorned, booze-smuggling ring of a waiting room, he caught sight of a rope bundle lying on the office floor—exactly the kind of convenient tool one would use to restrain a loopy, only mildly-dangerous villain. It wasn’t nearly as fun as tying a cheeky fucker down with some detcord, but it would get the job done. So long as you weren’t a disgruntled, done-with-life, anti-Cabrera, forty-year-old man named Vic, apparently… now wait a minute.

Finally emerging victorious alongside Hughes with rope in hand, he nodded at the rest of the team and pitched a rather novel idea: “Let’s get him tied up again, eh?” Properly this time, although he deliberately chose not to air the quip out to the public, seeing as Doc was still visibly frazzled—Vincent’s gratuitous attempt at transparency backfiring in real time. “Everything’ll be explained in due time, promise.” It was a vague, unsatisfying, and Cabrera-esque response, he imagined, but it was just about the best he could offer with the inquisitive, mischievous, and drugged-out Tylenol Toddler listening in. Chasing down that promotion had already been a slippery enough slope, and he wasn’t about to let some child-prodigy escape artist get in the way of his new beachfront condo. And thus, he began rebinding HVT Six with the trained focus of a practiced sailor.

Except, said focus was promptly diverted as comms lit up once more. Oz was hit, as was Trips. A serious wound, by the sound of it. On the bright side, Chris was still up and running. Here’s hoping he stayed that way. Scouting around for a new protégé and going through yet another round of kaboom orientation was getting to be quite tedious, as entertaining as it was taking in the sight of petrified rookies. Either way, it meant that the RGF had to start moving, now. He hastily wrapped up with wrapping up Hatsu’s hands, taking the kid from Hughes and dragging him along rather inelegantly towards the exit.

Before Vic One made his grand departure, however, he stopped by Vic Two and a muffled Battle Eight. “We’ll be headed over to the control room, but we’ve got a few more folks out and about in need of medical,” he explained. “I know we’re askin’ a lot, but any chance we can count on your help? I can leave a guy here for protection, if it’s any consolation.” He motioned over for Battle Seven’s attention, effectively bargaining off the next-best man he had at his disposal. “I’m sure we all have questions for Cabrera once this is all said and done. But we gotta get movin’ and make sure the fucker gets out alive.”

He hadn’t considered how much Vic Two liked shoulder pats, but desperation was settling in and there was simply no quicker way to build camaraderie. Well, perhaps a fist bump. But Vincent’s hand was already on the move and lightly hitting Doc’s back before he could think any better, serving up as genuine and lighthearted of a smile-and-nod combo he could muster up in the moment. “You’d be doing us a big favor. Oh, and I’ll see to it that your boyfriend gets back in one piece, capiche?”

Catching sight of that little weasel Hatsu rummaging through his drawers made Victor’s skin crawl, but he tried to ignore it. The muppet would get what was coming to him soon, hopefully. Unless… Unless the idiot really did lay down for a nap, with a concussion. Victor was half tempted to tell the soldiers to let him fuck around and find out, but he didn’t need to: Blake was already breaking through the glass and unlocking the door.

Blake’s quip about there being an ongoing thing about not clueing him in to anything important did not go unnoticed. He scowled - not so much at Blake but at the man on the bed he was tending, because that guy couldn’t talk back. Pressing fresh gauze to the wound as he ignored the curses coming from the wounded man, he let out a sigh, one eye on Hatsu as he got marched out of the office.

“Your captive there probably has a concussion. Don’t actually let him lay down and take a nap if you want anything out of him.” Victor commented as he pulled out his suture kit. If the shot man wasn’t passed out yet from pain, that just meant he’d get to be awake for the unpleasant pain of having his skin stitched together. He refrained from offering his opinion about the efficacy of tying Hatsu up with rope while he threaded thread through the needle. Vincent’s comment about how everything will get explained ’in due time’ earned him a disgruntled grunt, but no pushback. “Not my circus, not my monkey.” He muttered.

At least Blake had something to offer the guy on the bed to bite down on - even if it was his own belt. “Well hun, I haven’t exactly had time to announce my intention to get involved, it isn’t like I’ve been on this very long - and by the looks of it, I wasn’t all that successful, so… let’s call it giving you some plausible deniability. You can tell me I’m terrible at bucking the established order of things later, presuming we live through this.” He commented to Blake when he got closer with the belt. “I am apparently a shit liar.” At least he offered Blake an apologetic look, knowing damn well he did probably disappoint the man.

Vincent’s announcement that more injured were headed here earned him a grim look. This sure felt just like working under King - an endless stream of people injured with one thing or another that he couldn’t turn away, even if he couldn’t help them. He glanced at the man being offered up to stick around for protection, then nodded his agreement.

“Right. Yeah. I’ll be here, send ‘em this way. Just make sure they’re aware painkillers are off the table and supplies are limited. I’ll do what I can. It’s worth pointing out I’m a neurologist - not a surgeon, not a combat medic, so don’t expect miracles. This has been trial, error, and faintly-recalled information from med school.” He gestured vaguely around the infirmary. Had Vincent been paying attention, he may have seen the stash of books in the office on medical topics as well. “I’ll do what I can, though.”

Victor sighed, looking down to the injured man on the table - and without warning, slid the needle into the man’s skin for the start of the first stitch. Nothing about it was gentle. Bedside manner? Who needed it! He may as well be sewing a button back on someone’s jacket by the look on his face.

“Yeah, I’d appreciate it if you brought him back in one piece. I kind of care about the big lug. And he owes me a birthday dinner.” Victor flashed a quick smile over to Blake, at the same time as he shoved the needle into the man’s skin a second time for a pass back the other direction.

Hatsu wished people would actually take him for his word. Ten to fifteen minutes, was that too much to ask for? Then again, what did he expect? The government barely respected its citizens; why would it respect naps? After Lover Boy opened the door, he unapologetically jostled Hatsu to his feet. The sudden movement caused the world to spin, and he felt like he was on a boat lost at sea in the middle of a hurricane. The nausea almost won–but he was going to be keeping those pills. He just wished they’d kick in sooner.

Instead of “Please move,” a gun pointed at his back. Lover Boy did not seem to be interested in manners. The soldier who’d talked to him through the glass had trailed behind, taking in the fantastic world of Dr. Cryptid’s office. Were they attempting a half-baked good cop, bad cop routine? He didn’t have the mental bandwidth to decide as he squinted his eyes. Instead, he mentally ranked them, which required significantly less effort: Dr. Cryptid, Good Cop, Lover Boy.

Now out of the office, Hatsu got a decent look at the injured man. Thankfully, he was passed out as the doctor stitched him up, which meant no screams and no ringing in his ears. Next, he looked for that chair he had thrown; maybe he could sit down.

Instead, Good Cop exited the office and announced his grand plan of tying Hatsu up with rope in hand. “Ask the doctor how that turned out last time,” but he was too exhausted to protest—instead, letting out a sigh that sounded more bored than tired.

“You’re no fun,” Hatsu mumbled, a very formal complaint about the doctor who shot down the nap idea. New ranking: Good Cop, Dr. Cryptid, Lover Boy.

Hatsu didn’t fight as Good Cop tied his hands behind his back, trying to be friendly with the doctor and explain things later. In other words, whatever he wanted to say, he couldn’t do it in front of Hatsu. Well, there had been a solution for that, but someone broke down the door. Regardless, he didn’t have to analyze and draw red strings around whatever they were saying.

Now, he had expected the soldier to be good at tying knows. There had to be a chapter in the "Welcome to the Military: How Not to Die" handbook on tying knots. The man had almost succeeded in a successful knot but paused, causing Hatsu to crane his neck to see what the hold-up was. How did he not notice the earpiece before? Wasn’t that a stable of all military people? Or was it the camo? Maybe Good Cop didn’t like what was being said over the comms, he certainly looked it as he hastily finished the knot. The knot was good; well done, actually, but it was too loose. Hatsu could get out with some effort.
Despite his attempts to not overthink things, he did. Earpieces mean communication, which meant that they had more comrades somewhere who were most likely talking. Good Cop spoke up, asking (maybe hoping) that Dr. Cryptid would look at their injured. More soldiers were already in the building.

He hadn’t thought about it before, but it was stupid to raid a prison with only five soldiers, and wherever they were, they had already run into either enforcers or Toni’s crew. Then again, maybe they just started shooting each other. Is that what they called friendly fire?

Did someone else know about the breach?

Goddmaint, he really hoped King did not leave Toni to deal with this. If he had, then they were already fucked, and he should just go ahead and let Good Cop do whatever those priests in hospitals do before shooting him.

“Chocolates too,” Hatsu blurted out, cutting into the conversation. He wasn’t entirely sure what prompted it—something about Dr. Cryptid’s mention of a birthday dinner. “Don’t settle for mediocre. You have a doctorate, after all.”

He didn’t mean to say that out loud, but he did. His brain was too slow to remind him that talking made his ears buzz.

Good Cop started dragging him out of the infirmary, a little too eager, nearly tripping Hatsu over his own feet. His vision blurred for a moment before snapping back into harsh, fluorescent clarity. He muttered something incoherent, trying to make sense of their destination.

Control room. Right. More problems. He’d deal with that later, maybe after the Tylenol kicked in—or after the room stopped lurching like a bad carnival ride.

He did the next best thing, which was to update the ranking.

Ranking update: No one. You’ve all been booted.

While Maynard handled their prisoner, Blake had gone to the doorway where one of the military boys was on lookout. The Marine stepped out to take a look around, just to be sure the immediate path was clear.

He came back in at the tail end of the conversation being had. Shit. He really had forgotten today was Victor's birthday. Not that they didn't have a lot going on, but even before things had ramped up, he hadn't even recalled so during his time in the cage at the Refuge. And if it weren't for the mention of their prisoner having a concussion he might have slapped the man upside the head for his comment, deserved or not. But Blake didn't exactly want to scramble his brains any further.

"We'll go to some local Steakhouse or something, that work for you?" Blake told Victor with a wry smile curling his lips and it soon faded away as he got back to business, turning to look at Vincent. "Coast is clear, for the moment."

As they readied to leave, Hughes picked up the pistol off the floor, the one he suspected was Naevah's or Victor's. Walking around the bed with the soldier laying on it so he was on the same side as Vic, he laid it on the medical alongside the scalpels and other items. As much as Hughes appreciated that they were leaving a man behind to keep the Infirmary as well as Victor, safe. Blake was already looking at worst case scenario.

Blake's hand lingered on the cold metal of it as he looked Vic in the eyes, "You shoot your way out of here if you have to. Got that?" His tone serious but the soft look in his eyes conveyed the worry. "I won't be long." Or at least that was the hopeful plan. And if Victor wasn't in the midst of working on literally saving a man's life he might have kissed him, instead however the Marine settled for a hand on the small of Victor's back. Momentarily conveying affection as it gave a gentle rub before he turned and headed out the door after the soldiers in the hallway.

It wasn't lost on him that they were down to three guns to secure the control room, and with the added bound prisoner on the move to make things more difficult. There were shots in the distance in the prison, chaos was still abound. "Hope you're as good of a shot as you are with that mouth Senior Chief. We'll probably need it." Blake said flatly a small quirk of his lips as he stepped forwards, taking point and raising the pistol up with both hands as they pushed on to the Control Room.

“Steakhouse it is, then. I’ll hold you to that promise.” Victor returned that smile to Blake, though his smile faded just as easily. He only wished the world was in such a state that something like restaurants still existed. Once you’ve had days where you lived on protein bars and gum while ignoring the pain in your stomach and taken food from a dying person because you needed it more, it got harder to remember what really good food tasted like.

Trying not to focus on how depressing it was to be celebrating the big 4-0 in a place and time like this, Victor glanced up and saw what Hughes was leaving within reach - the gun that had gone sliding away earlier. He didn’t take it as an analysis of the ability or willingness of the guy they left behind as guard. It was just a precaution that every one of them had to take these days.

“Got it.” Victor met Blake’s gaze, giving him a nod. His chest ached a bit that they had to part like this and not with a proper kiss and more words, but duty called. That, at least, he understood fully. At least the familiar hand on the small of his back was reassuring.

“Please, come back to me in one piece, okay? Now get going.”



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VELVET & VALOR
Part One


Temma took off at a sprint, or what would pass for a sprint in six-inch heeled boots, with Oakley in tow, practically dragging the girl along behind her. Nothing but the sound of their footsteps and breath for quite some time before she finally had to stop and catch her breath. Their return to the whorehouse wasn’t going to be nearly as stealthy as the way down had been; she had nothing to fear of any enforcers crossing their paths now - and she doubted any rebels would be running around freely now.

“We gotta go back. Temma, I mean…there’s gotta be…be something…we…we…can…” Oakley started coughing, leaning against the wall from how hard she had been running after her crying fit. “We can do…I…” She didn’t know how many more tears she could cry. What if that had been the last chance to see her father? They were going back to the whorehouse…but was the whorehouse explosion proof? Her feet and body felt raw. She had never done so much running back and forth in her life. She coughed again. Asthma would be her downfall. She wiped at her face with her sleeves again, cheeks raw from the friction.

“We can…maybe…I…I don’t know…but…we…” Her voice came between coughs and small heavy breaths.

Alex didn’t make it all that far before he had to stop again and focus on breathing, ducking behind a building and out of sight.. The pain in his ribs was intense, but he had to force himself to push through it otherwise he’d only pass out. That was the absolute last thing he needed right now - to pass out in enemy territory. It made him think back to past missions when shit was going sideways or getting rough. He’d been shot at, stabbed, punched, all of that, but never once had he been shot at by a shotgun slug. That was a new one. Not an event he wanted to repeat, either.

Wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of one hand, Alex leaned against the wall and partially unzipped his jacket, reaching in for the baggie. He wasn’t going to make it if he did pop one of these.

Off-regs for years, probably not legal or by the code, but he knew plenty of soldiers that still had these stashed away back in the day. It was one of those things they didn’t talk about. Sure, the Air Force might get go-pills for those long flights, but the rest of the grunts? On paper, they were told to tough it out and drink some coffee. Behind the scenes, people had other ideas. The ziploc baggie was opened and one pill slid out, then popped into his mouth. It tasted bitter and medicinal on his tongue, but he chewed it while he put the baggie back into his coat and grabbed his canteen. One swig of water to swallow it down and get rid of the taste, and he was good to go again. It wouldn’t take all that long to kick in now that he’d chewed it up some. Uppers were great for an emergency. The other pill would have to wait for later.

Alex had just pushed himself off the wall when his radio crackled with Gin’s voice. Not exactly the voice he wanted in his ear right now, but Alpha was in charge of this mission and that’s just how it was. The words he heard made his heart stop and he almost coughed that pill right back up.

.... Confirmed Cabrera down…

“No, fuck.” He muttered to himself, voice breaking even as he whispered, not keying his mic up yet. He didn’t want Alpha to hear him until he was ready. He could tell by the way she over-enunciated herself she was pissed off. Livid as fuck, probably, but fuck her. Fuck them. They didn’t understand. Sure, yeah, most of the RGF were formerly military too but they weren’t one of his.

Alex weighed his options. Keep going on his original intended path and head straight for the fire, or rendezvous with Bravo. Discipline, court martial, and closure… or continuing the mission and God knows what would happen. Success, at the cost of regret?

It felt like an Oliver Situation. What good would finding a body do him? What was the benefit in finding a bloody corpse? What would he do - cry over it? Crying accomplished nothing.

But what if down didn’t mean dead? Or what if Brad was wrong?

That was the key, though. If it was anyone else, anyone other than one of his team, he might not believe them. Was it a matter of just trust? Not really - it wasn’t that he didn’t think the rest of the RGF was capable, or trained. He just didn’t truly think the rest of the RGF understood his group from the boat. They didn’t know what they went through, didn’t know what they shared, didn’t know what it took to get back here on American soil, didn’t understand what it did to a person to realize you came home to nothing. They didn’t understand what it meant to be saved.

But, if his own team saw it? Called it? Then he believed Brad. Cabrera was down. They still had a mission - and be damned if he’d let it fail. He’d be letting Cabrera down.

Alex wiped his hand across his eyes and face, zipped his coat back up, cleared his throat, and keyed up his mic. “Oz to Hellhorse 7, copy that. On my way to Bravo.” He turned off his mic, took one step, then keyed it back up again. “Requesting we collect Cabrera’s body and bring him back home afterwards.” He cut himself off before his voice could crack and started walking again. The whole Goddamn team didn’t need to hear that, or to hear him add “for a funeral”. Hell, he’d make that trip himself and drag the body on his own if he needed to. No way was he letting Cabrera rot in his place of horrors.

Doing that good ol’ fashioned military trick of turning emotions off and combat brain on (God bless the U.S.A. for its ability to kill the human soul and turn men into killing machines, what would he ever do without it? Feel things? Pfftt!) Alex continued on. At the first door inside he found, he slowly pulled it open and peered inside. A dim back hallway, illuminated only by some flickering overhead lights and a sparse sprinkling of windows. One end of the hallway ended with a closed door labeled as “Custodial” in faded letters. There were two doors closer to that, marked as staff washrooms, men’s and women’s. The other direction split off into two directions - one was just another endless stretch of hallway, but the other turned off a corner and headed in the direction he needed to go - presuming Bravo had stayed more or less on course and mission.

Whatever this part of the prison used to be wasn’t all that important, because all Alex saw was potential areas where threats could be hiding. Doorways and corners. He’d read that in a really great sci-fi book series once. Doors and corners, kid, that’s where they get you. He never did get to read the last book in the series. Maybe he’d live long enough and get lucky enough to find an intact copy of it somewhere.

The sound of footsteps - loud and hurried - made Alex stop and duck into a small empty office he’d just cleared. He held his breath and listened, body happily buzzing along full of amphetamine and mind sharply focused on the mission. Yeah, he still hurt like a son of a bitch and every inhale made him reconsider not taking the painkiller in his pocket, but it kept the adrenaline buzz of action at the front of his mind. This, and while up in his perch behind a scope, were when he was in his element.

Those footsteps sounded too… click-y… and whoever was running was making zero effort at remaining quiet and undetected. Couldn’t be guards, though - those weren’t boots. Those were… high heels?

I don’t know…but…we… followed by a cough and heavy breathing. A young woman’s voice. Too panicked to be someone who had a handle on shit here. One of the victims, maybe? Intel of what was going on here made his blood boil. Shit like that wasn’t allowed to happen on American soil. Not under his watch. They were real close now - in the same hallway he just ducked out of. Alex took a breath and stepped out, handgun raised and ready for whatever he was going to find.

… Alright, that was not what he expected to find.

In Alex’s mind, he pictured some ragtag pair or maybe trio of young girls dressed up like the Ranch girls were. Tight dresses, heels, ripped stockings, a bad approximation of makeup. Instead, he got the farmer’s daughter and RuPaul’s younger, cheaper protege. That would explain where the sounds of heels were coming from. And as far as he knew, the only person that could be was one of their HPOIs. A very valuable one that could lead him to HVT Four, judging by the intel. He had no idea who the other girl was, but if she was with the HPOI, that made her useful, possibly.

“Stop! Roanoke Ground Forces, on your knees, hands behind your head!” His voice was firm and loud as he shouted out orders, the kind that could fill a room and gave no indication that same voice was cracking with grief earlier.




 
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VELVET & VALOR
Part Two



Temma shook her head as Oakley suggested they go back to Derek and Dick, where the front lines were sure to be. She huffed, wagging a single finger at the girl, the bracelets on her wrist jangling in the quiet hallway. Her other hand pressed to her ribs as the tight dress prevented her from taking deep breaths. “No, child, we do not.” She finally managed to get out between puffs.

She huffed an exasperated sigh, finally able to speak again but before she could utter a word of … encouragement - a strange voice from behind ordered their knees. Temma spun to face the man as he stepped out of who the fuck knows where with his gun raised - at her. She glanced to Oakley, a few feet to her left and the man didn’t seem to care whatsoever about the other woman.

Temma did raise her hands in a placating fashion but didn’t go as far as his demand, by placing them on her head. “Sorry love,” She murmured. “There are only two men I go on my knees for: God, and the one that makes me scream our lords' name; neither of them are you.” Her eyes flicked behind him, to where he’d come from and noted no one else was with him. She didn’t recognize the man or the name he’d shouted out but went on. “Roan Ground Forces? That sort of special ops for the US military?”

She started to doubt what Weston had been so certain of - this wasn’t the military, this was some rogue group of assholes in stolen uniforms; no different than their own enforcers.

“B-But…”

Oakley felt sick. Their protests had gone in vain. The shortness of breath, sobbing, and now bile rising in the back of throat only irritated the lining of her esophagus. She gagged. Her body bent in half, sliding herself to the wall. They shouldn’t have given up so easily. There had to be something. Something that could make them change their mind, but not even the threat of a building collapse seemed to bother them. This was their home. It was different for them. Their families were these four walls…and change was hard.

She wiped her hand on the back of her mouth. Her chest didn’t hurt so bad anymore. The stitch in her side was fading. She lifted her head just in time to see a man whip around the corner and point his gun in their direction. She fell back against the wall in shock and surprise that she hadn’t heard anybody coming.

She screamed, sliding down to the ground. The sound echoed down the hall, and she instantly covered her mouth with her hands, biting at her tongue. With her legs bent in a W-position, Oakley continued to stare flabbergast at the man. She didn’t move. She only started to shake.

They were so screwed. She looked between Temma, and the barrel of the gun, shakey as she put her hands in the air slowly.

“D-Don’t shoot. Just…d-don’t shoot. You gotta…You gotta let us go. Let us go…”

Her voice came out in squeaks. She looked at Temma, resisting arrest, and gulped down the salvia that felt soothing to her sore throat. These were going to be her last thoughts. This man could shoot both her and Temma for simply existing inside the prison. They wouldn’t stop. He would march right down this hallway and reach Derek and her father. He could shoot them point blank and no one would be any wiser.

A lonely tear ran down her face.

This whole place was entirely screwed…and she didn’t think any amount of words could save it.

Alex missed the days when people either complied with orders, or just shot back. The world was neatly black and white back then. Things didn’t stay that way for long - rather than all living human beings banding together and realizing the dead were the real problem, they broke off into their own little tribes and made themselves everyone else’s problem too. The Samaritans weren’t any different. Just thicker walls.

“Roanoke. Arm of the U.S. Military.” He corrected Temma, never moving his aim off her. “James Moore? Also known as Temma Tation?” The what-he-presumed-was a stage name sounded awkward when said out loud by him, but it was what it was. “It’ll be ‘bout time you start learning to call me God and start following directions then, because your little Hotel California here is surrounded and outgunned.” He glanced down briefly at her shoes. Yep, six inch heels. Alright, maybe kneeling and getting back up again without the use of hands was not exactly in the cards. He wouldn’t know.

No doubt the one that makes her scream our Lord’s name’ was what the intel identified as her husband. Some dumbass piece of shit Aryan Brotherhood thug he wouldn’t mind putting a bullet in. He’d known just enough of those types from a distance to not want anything to do with them save for using them as target practice, but unfortunately little things like The Law said he couldn’t. At this point, the HPOI was just bait he could dangle and catch a bigger fish - HVT Four. It made him wonder why a guy like HVT Four was doing with someone like this HPOI, but he wasn’t one to ask those kinds of questions. Sticking your dick in crazy was valid once the world ended and if Moore wanted to conquer something and Boone wanted to sample what was once verboten, more power to ‘em. Coulda left the war crimes out of it, though.

When blondie here next to Temma fell back, tripped over her own two feet, and screamed in terror, Alex didn’t even flinch. He was too used to people screaming and pleading while at the business end of the barrel. She wasn’t familiar, not someone on the POI list. Probably one of the victims. Maybe one of the prostitutes, if she was with Moore.

“Sit down and shut up.” Alex narrowed his eyes at Oakley in a brief pause. That scream she let out likely just alerted anyone who was nearby that something was going on. Would anyone give a fuck about some lone woman screaming? No doubt that kind of sound happens all the time here. Who knew what kind of horrors these people had to live through, day in and day out. Maybe it was background noise now. But that would be more likely if the girl had been alone. If she was running off with Temma? Less likely. He didn’t recognize her, but who could blame him? All blondes looked the same: like bitches. Maybe he was a little biased.

“Where’s Derek Boone? Or Weston Jones? Lead me to either of them, and you’ll get to walk out of here on your own two feet.” Alex asked Temma, returning most of his attention to her. Blondie having a breakdown on the floor probably wasn’t the bigger threat here.



 
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VELVET & VALOR
Part Three



Temma wasn’t entirely convinced the man was telling the truth when he amended his announcement to include the US military, she felt it was forced, like he had meant to say it and forgot, but any thought of calling him out was lost when he used her birth name. Her hands dropped to her hips and her back straightened. She clenched her teeth and glared at the man, despite the gun pointed at her.

Where is Derek Boone?

There it was, why the man had been focused on her and didn’t have a care of Oakley this entire time. Not when she’d screamed, not whimpered, or begged for freedom. The man in fatigues had been solely focused on her and she knew it wasn’t because of her couture dress or fine-ass updo.

She laughed, mirthlessly, shaking her head. “Someone been giving you shit information."

“Weston is dead.” She hissed through gritted teeth, “Hung this morning.” She could only hope that Oakley would go along with her. “And as for Boone, well you may as well go ahead and shoot me dead here, save yourself and the girl.” She huffed, waving a hand to Oakley behind her. “Get out while you can. You think Derek Boone, leader of the Arryan Gang in here gives a fly fuck about a black boy in drag?”

She shifted her stand, jutting out her right hip and resting her hand on it, her left hand continued to move as she spoke, emphasizing her words. “You drag me out there and try and make a deal with him, you’ll be killing us all and then he’ll have another black boy in this dress in minutes, bullet holes and all.”

Oakley’s jaw snapped shut. Her eyes were left wide. Red and glassy from crying, she stared at the man who told her to shut up. No sympathy. No questioning if she was alright. No pleasantries. Didn’t the United States military…weren’t they supposed to…be nicer? Kinder? Maybe a little more…not aggressive? Was something wrong with him? She sat down, and quieted her whimpers, falling back against the wall as he moved back to Temma, thrusting the gun at her. Every bit of her wanted to run back down the hallway to Derek and her father, but now she really had no doubt in her mind that this man would shoot her without a second thought.

They wanted Derek. They wanted Weston. They wanted whoever was in charge. They also used Temma’s real name, and she had a feeling that if Temma had her hands on a gun, this man would have been the one on the floor panicking. She shifted slightly. The cold ground was uncomfortable against her knees, and she tugged them up to her chest. She kept her hands slightly raised, to show that she didn’t have a weapon, although she was still sniffling heavy. She could barely catch her breath.

Temma lied. Temma lied to the man, and Oakley looked away, fearing her gaze would give away that these were not the answers they knew. She gazed at the ground, at the man’s boots, wet with melted snow. She sucked in a breath and nodded. It was still within her words of sitting down and shutting up.

Her teeth caught her lip and she kept nodding, squeezing her eyes shut in the process.

She hated that all this man thought was that they were the bad guys…and maybe some of them were…but there was more to them than just six-inch heels and past felonies. God, couldn’t he just get them out, and they could have this conversation somewhere else?

“Yes.” Truths they could each agree on. Derek still sensed the attitude but it was dissolved by the urgency of the moment. No use in arguing any further. He wouldn't compromise until they checked the situation. If those strangers were already inside and shooting, maybe they didn’t care about anyone surrendering. Maybe those bastards came to simply take what didn't belong to them.

“Bottom floor.” Derek moved, exiting the room, expecting everyone else to follow. “That was Jared’s voice.” He glanced back at Dick as if waiting for confirmation. Richard knew Jared’s group better than he did. “I sent them to the East wing. If the enemy is there, it means they might have used the tunnels to get inside. Which should have been secured…” With a booby trap. He didn’t let himself dwell on mistakes, though. There would be enough time for that later.

Derek stopped in front of the group of men that awaited his orders when a muffled scream shot through the silence. Oakley's scream. And Oakley was with…

Temma.” They rushed towards the sound but not blindly. Derek told his men to split. Half of them would come from the other side to surround whoever was out there and hurting Richard’s girl. Derek, Dick and Weston rounded the corner with a couple of enforcers. Derek stopped in his tracks. The sight of his wife in the hands of a camouflaged stranger filled his lungs with ice.

There was no mercy in his voice when he spoke, no room for negotiations, “The woman you’re holding against her will. She’s your goddess now. The only reason you’re still alive.” Rage boiled up inside him, tempered only by the cold touch of fear. “Hurt her and you’ll die tortured.”

As much as it was a relief Derek didn’t stand there and argue with him, he knew that time would be coming eventually - assuming they lived - and they still had a whole host of other issues to deal with first. Namely, who had gotten in, how many, and where? What were they dealing with - just armed thugs with guns on par with their enforcers, or people more highly trained? Were they outnumbered? How the hell did they get into the tunnels? Admittedly, part of the next question Weston wondered to himself was whether his rebels could use those same tunnels to get out, too…

The scream that echoed down the hall and shattered what momentary peace they’d come to made everyone’s head turn at once. Derek took off first, orders shouted at his men, plans already forming. Weston followed, not waiting for an invitation, already unslinging his rifle just in case.

Best case scenario, Oakley was just jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof and got startled by one of their enforcers. Worst case scenario….could be a lot worse. Either it was a surviving rebel he’d have to talk down, or one of the military people had gotten this far in. He didn’t hear Temma scream and either that was because she still had her head on straight, or didn’t have her head on at all.

The sight they were greeted with was exactly not the scene he wanted to see: one of their own - and Temma, no less - held hostage by a stranger in uniform. Prepared, too, not just some schmuck in camo with whatever rattling old gun he found at a surplus store. No, that guy was fully kitted out. He stopped a few paces behind Derek, rifle in hand and already raising it. He glanced down at Oakley, making sure she was alright - on the floor, backed up against the wall, but not visibly bleeding. That was a good start.

“What the fuck do you want with us?”



 
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VELVET & VALOR
Part Four



The sound of charging boots was not what he wanted today, but that’s what he expected. Before they even arrived, Alex subtly reached up and flicked on his mic. He made it look like he was just adjusting his collar or something, nothing to pay attention to here. His mic was open for all the other teams - Alpha, Bravo, and Delta included - to hear everything the mic could pick up. If that wound up being the gunshots that ended him, so be it.

In an unexpected turn of fortune (Good fortune? Bad fortune? Who knew) it was the top devils themselves that wound up in front of him… plus some lackeys. There were always going to be lackeys. But this also meant he was outnumbered. This was a bad position to be in, so he did the only thing he could do: commit a few war crimes.

Handgun in one hand, he shifted his aim from Temma onto Derek, darting forward to grab Temma. He wrapped his arm around her neck and pulled her close to him, facing outward at Derek and company. If they wanted to risk shooting his arm, they’d risk shooting Temma in the neck, head, or chest now too. And, just to sweeten the deal, he held his gun to Temma’s temple.

“Sorry to say I’m an atheist, so I don’t think so.” He said in response to Derek, taking one step backwards once Temma was in his grip. He didn’t squeeze so hard that she couldn’t breathe, but he was absolutely firm in his grasp.

“Looks like my information was solid. Derek Boone, Weston Jones, and… Christ, Richard McCay. Look how far you’ve fallen - stupid reality television shows to this? Shit, man.” Alex barked a laugh, keeping the gun on Temma’s head the whole time, pressed right to her temple.

“Moore, looks like you were the one with bad info. Jones here looks alive and well.” He eyed Weston a moment, noting how he was bloody and beaten. “Or at least alive. Boone came running fast. Sure looks like he gives a shit about his black boy in drag.” The name dropping was intentional, speaking clearly and making sure anyone who was listening in from the other teams could hear what he was saying.

“Got here quick, too, from wherever you were holed up. Guess that this hallway will make a decent conference room, unless you want to step outside and discuss it.” Alex narrowed his eyes, first at Derek - who seemed the most likely to pop off dangerously - then at Weston.

“What we want is simple. Surrender. Of everyone at the prison. Samaritans are done, man. Time to walk out with your hands up. Or die. Up to you.”

Temma knew without needing to look at exactly who was rushing down the corridor towards them; if the man could identify her on sight then she didn’t doubt he’d recognize both Derek and Weston. Her mind raced with how she could stop them from getting here - if she shouted then Alex would know she was lying and that wouldn’t stop Derek. She glanced at Oakley, still cowering on the floor against the wall and knew she wouldn’t be of any help here.

For the first time in as long as Temma could remember, she didn’t have a plan. No next step, no fallback; within seconds Derek, Weston, Dick and a handful of enforcers were rounding the corner. Dread filled her heart, before she knew what she was doing she was moving, trying her best to get to Derek, to stop him from doing something rash.

Strong arms - the wrong ones - wrapped around her neck, forcing her to lean back. Her heels slid along the smooth floor, searching for purchase as the military man dragged her along. Her gloved hands grasped his arm to hold herself up and she snarled at his sassy remarks about her information. It wasn’t lost on her he’d continued to use her birth name but at the moment didn’t have the option to clap back.

Cold fear gripped her heart; it was what she had feared; this was a do or die ultimatum. Derek was no fool, he was far smarter than most gave him credit for, but she worried those following him might decide to make their last stand, and put them all at risk.

With Oakley out of the way, Dick could focus a little better. The little bit of chew left in his lip was enough nicotine to soothe the adrenaline burst, as he moved to follow Derek out the door.

“This is the best damn bear trap I’ve ever built, Weston. Better to trap those fuckers in, then let them get back out to God knows where they came from. More military fuckers we can draw in here, better off we might be in the long run.”

Fucking Jared. Richard snarled. He knew that little shithead would have been trouble. He should have taken him out on a hunting trip before all this nonsense would have gone down, and shown him the proper way to handle his own gun, but no. It didn’t matter now. The tunnels were compromised, and Jared was probably suckling on one of those military brats necks by now…hopefully.

“We should pull everyone back here, tell them to block passages as they g-”

His thoughts on leading military horses to water would have to wait. Oakley’s shriek echoed down the hall. His heart sank to the bottom of his chest. Every fatherly mistake, every unaffectionate action, every angry thought he had had at his daughter started to eat at him, from the inside out. Oakley didn’t even want to be here. She had protested since day one…and he hadn’t listened…and now…now this place would really truly be the death of her, and it was his fault.

He ran. Blood rushed in his ears, drowning out Derek’s demands. He had to find her. He had to get her out. Every dark thought about what he would find drove him to round every corner with hesitation, letting Weston and Derek take the lead. Would he find her body on the ground? Would he even find her alive? Would he find her brains splattered against the wall…in that red Christmas sweater and jeans?

Thankfully, no…but the situation wasn’t much better.

Oakley couldn’t help herself. As soon as Temma turned towards the sound of rushing shoes, and the man who ‘claimed’ he was a branch of the United States military took the opportunity, the poor woman was being tugged back and a pistol shoved into her temple. Her mouth opened and she screamed again, her head whipping back to see Derek, Weston and her father.

He rounded the corner last, half terrified he’d find his daughter on the floor, bloodied and bruised…but instead just found her against the wall, terrified and screaming just as Temma was oh so wrongfully embraced by the wrong man. He raised his rifle, snapping it to attention, before looking down at his daughter. He gave a glare at the man as he made a quip about his failed reality hunting show, which at one time was a decent time slot at eleven p.m on local television on the weekend, but that's besides the point.

“Oakley, behind me and Weston. Now, girl.”

He wasn’t getting her. He wasn’t getting any of them. If he thought taking hostages made him a good guy, then hell, he should have been in this prison right there with him.

“Fucking high and mighty bullshit. I don’t believe this for a second. Give me a clear shot, Derek. I can do it. I can do it. I won’t hurt her.”

But he didn’t have a sniper rifle. He had a hunting rifle, and he didn’t know what he was up against, this wasn’t right.

“Talk a mean game of surrender, but so willing to take your own damn prisoners. This is bullshit.”

Oakley had scrambled up behind Weston, tears running down her face as she shook her head.

“Dad…please…please…just…we can’t do this. We can’t…Not Temma. Don’t…” She stumbled over to him. “Dad…don’t…you’ll make it worse. Please…Please…” She tugged at his arms, and buried her head into his shoulder, crying. Her body ached. Every bit of her wanted to just give up. Richard looked down at her tired, exhausted face, and frowned. He looked over at Derek, and then back at Alex.

What would it mean for them…if they gave up? They’d walk out in handcuffs, and the girls…would be free? Is that what they wanted? They’d be safe but…would they even see them again? His hands readjusted themselves against the trigger, but they were sweaty and unforgiving as he slowly started to lower it.



 
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VELVET & VALOR
Part Five



The way the man threw their names around was striking, but Derek didn’t let the shock twist his calm facade. Even when that stranger insulted Temma. Even though he knew things he couldn’t have known. They had a mole? Surveillance? Had to be. All this time those bastards were watching them…

His hand flexed close to his gun, but he didn’t touch it. Not while Temma was in the line of fire. “Nobody shoots.” He didn’t look at Richard, didn’t take his eyes off of the stranger and his wife, but his words were directed at his loyal companion among others. “Lower your guns. This man is not going anywhere with my wife and he knows it.”

The announcement boomed outside, distant like whoever spoke was under water. But the voice penetrated the concrete. Little King. The derisiveness in that tone stirred fresh anger in his heart and the demand of surrender seared Derek’s stomach. The idea of giving up everything they’d worked for, their way of life, their status. Lose it all or worse, lose their freedom. It was almost unimaginable. He knew such a day might come, when someone else would arrive to take everything that was theirs. He cursed himself for not being better prepared for it.

“Take me to your boss.” Derek started walking toward Alex. Slow but firm stride, hands away from his weapons. “I want to talk to him. But my wife stays here.”

The silent wish that Madison was still alive, right here next to him, to help talk this situation down was a painful burr in his heart. She’d know what to say and do. She knew, somehow, that the military were coming - so how much else did she know? How did she know? There were too many things he never got to ask her and now he was coming up short on his own. While everyone else spent their formative teenage years asking What Would Jesus Do, Weston was now a grown-ass man asking himself what his dead friend would do. The response was about the same: empty silence.

He felt only marginally better once Oakley got behind him - she was innocent and didn’t deserve whatever bullshit was about to be landing on their heads - but that didn’t solve the dilemma. Weston didn’t see a single other military person around here. Where was this guy’s backup? And what kind of fucking animal takes hostages like this? It made his heart sink seeing this. He was hoping that Madison was going to wind up wrong, but once again it was looking like she was going to be right. These weren’t good guys here to save the day. Not if they all acted like this.

Weston flinched when a walkie-talkie held by one of Derek’s men squelched on and static turned to an unfamiliar voice. Someone hissed an order to keep it on and turn up the volume. That unfamiliar voice’s words sent chills up and down his spine.

Samaritans. You are surrounded by the United States Military. You will surrender unconditionally into the custody of my forces, and you will release your captive enslaved population. Do so now if you want to live. Your little king is already dead. To his second in command: don’t be the next. Order your men to stand down, and come outside unarmed.

It made him wonder if the military even knew what had been happening in here just before they arrived. Sure, this fucker knew their names for some reason, but did he understand the full depth and breadth of shit going on here? Did any of them still think he was second in command?

Weston lowered his rifle when Derek ordered nobody to shoot. An order meant for his grunts, no doubt, he wasn’t dumb enough to risk Temma. He wasn’t surprised Derek gave himself up in exchange for Temma. He probably would have done the same thing, in his position.

“If you want the guy in charge, you want him, not me.” Weston nodded his head at Derek. “I got the ol’ pink slip today. Welcome to the new rank, Boone. Don’t fuck it up. Remember who you have in here.” He really, really hoped Derek understood what he meant.

It was a relief to hear the Captain’s voice finally reach the ears and dysfunctional brains of the thugs inside. Thankfully he used small words so hopefully all these inbred chucklefucks could understand him, too. Dumbing it down any further would be a mess. Give up. Go out door. No more shoot.

Even better was the revelation that the big boys team in front of him was willing to play ball. At least they had enough brain cells knocking around in their Neanderthal skulls to understand when the jig was up. It was some funny shit, coming from HVT Four, asking for his wife to be released, like he had any bargaining power here.

“You’re both coming with me. Boone and Jones. I let her go, nobody shoots, we all walk out of this intact. That’s how this is going to go, because it is the only thing keeping you all from winding up cold corpses on the ground. Understood?” Alex looked each of them in the eye, nodded once, then moved the gun off Temma’s temple.

“You, go take the blonde girl and those guys out of here. Find a room and stay there until someone comes to get you.” Alex gestured with the handgun at the unimportant men gathered behind Boone. None of them looked like anyone that RGF gave a fuck about. As he did so, he started to loosen the grip on Temma’s neck, hesitated for a moment, then let her go.

Taking a step away from Temma and Derek, he cleared his throat, raising his handgun at Derek, Weston, and Dick again. “Set your weapons on the floor and slide them over towards me. Give your girls a hug, say your goodbyes, and let’s get walking. Captain’s waiting.” Alex tilted his head a little and lowered his voice, directing his next words to his mic and his team rather than the rabble in front of him.

“Alpha, HVTs Two and Four acquired, exiting the building soon. Two HPOIs and a number of others remain inside. No injuries.” Just his own from earlier, and maybe some wounded Samaritan pride. Alex clicked off his mic now, more or less content he didn’t need to keep it open to secretly broadcast the shit he walked into.

Alex was not going to be turning his back on these people. Instead, he waited for Derek and Temma to say their goodbyes, for the others to disarm and disburse, and for Weston and Derek to start walking.

Great timing too - those drugs were starting to wear off.



 
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VELVET & VALOR
Part Six



It pained her to see Derek worry over her, she’d failed to do what she intended; to steer this military man away from finding either Derek or Weston. At the very least, he seemed willing to listen, to negotiate with the men and allow Oakley the peace of being at her father’s side. Danger wasn’t new to her; she’d spent plenty of her life before Derek under threat of harm, though this was a first.

The cool metal of the gun tapped and slid along her skin, making her heart leap into her throat. She squeezed her eyes closed tight, a little slip of his finger and she’d be dead and gone.

Temma shook as the military man started to loosen his grip on her and then seemed to pause; she had a momentary worry that he’d change his mind but the moment she was released she staggered away from him. Her knees wobbled as she took her first few steps but swiftly made the short distance to Derek. Heedlessly she wrapped her arms over his shoulder, burying her face into his neck and sobbed. “Please, be careful.”

Derek's heart bled, seeing his wife like this. He struggled to keep the images out of his mind and focus on the situation. Images of him bashing the head of that military man into hard concrete until it burst gray matter and blood. Until there was nothing left, not even his rage.

He put his arm around Temma, hand on the back of her neck, gently caressing the skin which that bastard violated. He leaned, folding her close so only she could hear. "Take the girls and hide. But don't resist." If they forced her. If they grabbed her and dragged her outside... "Just do what they say." It split his chest open to say this, his pride burning. But deep down Derek knew. They've already lost.

This hurt everything Dick stood for. He wasn’t a surrendering man. He was a trap and let the weak sort themselves out. Survival of the fittest, and he sure didn’t think of any of them as weak. There was certainly a reason that he stuck around. He lowered his weapon when Derek asked. He wouldn’t take the chance. Richard bit at his lip, looking back at Oakley, just as the announcement blared on the radio behind him. Surrender now. Come out unarmed.

And then what?

This man wanted Weston and Derek, and he wanted his gun. His lip curled. Even with the rifle lowered, he wasn’t keen on being defenseless, not when he was sure there were rebels who were going to start cheering and take this opportunity to get their revenge swift and justice, when they realized that the military was on their side. He glared daggers at Alex. He didn’t want to let go. He wanted to stay. He wanted to…

Oakley stepped beside him, tears brimming at the corner of her eyes, as Temma came back to Derek and the two embraced, having their private moment.

“Dad.”

Oakley’s voice cracked. He sighed.

“Yeah. I know.”

He slid his rifle off his back, holding it in his hands for a moment, before putting it on the ground, and sliding it across the floor. He looked over at Derek. Did he have any advice for him? Any advice for what they should do? He twisted back and grabbed the walkie-talkie, holding it before looking back at one of the few men there.

This wasn’t a farewell. Derek wasn’t dying. He was still in charge…but this…

There was still a chance right? A small chance, but a chance?

No. Oakley rubbed his arm, and gave him a hug, and started her sniffling again. He sighed, and wrapped a arm around her shoulder.

“Radio it in. Don’t resist.” He mumbled to a man behind him. “If anybody starts shooting, that’s…that’s on them.”

Blah, blah, blah. Reunions and goodbye hugs. It was more than these assholes deserved. If he had backup, he wouldn’t have hesitated marching them all out at gunpoint, one for each head, with Temma and Oakley front and center. Let their men see them cry and stumble. Surely they’d all caused worse to happen here. He had no idea who the blonde chick was but surely she had to pull some shit to stay alive here - and if Reality TV Hunter Dickwad was her dad? Her apple couldn’t have fallen too far from the tree. She was just better at hiding it. Maybe she was in on it all like Temma was.

“Make it snappy, hands off each other, c’mon. Let’s go. I might be a patient man, but the Captain isn’t. You’ll see them on the outside anyway.” It wasn’t strictly a lie, but he also wasn’t sure if it was the full truth, either. His presumption was these three men would be executed, but it was possible they could be imprisoned for a good long time if Gin convinced people to go soft on ‘em all. Frankly, he’d be pissed off if these guys didn’t swing by the end of the month.

Noticing that Jones was just standing there with his thumb up his ass, squinting up and into the distance while nobody gave a damn he was walking into his judgment day, Alex glanced the direction he was looking. A hallway in the distance had a bunch of ceiling tiles missing. Those suspended ceilings didn’t do great against explosions.

“The fuck are you looking at?”

It hit home there was nobody there for Weston to say goodbye to. The only people he cared about, or once cared about, were lying dead and bloodied, or… missing? Come to think of it, he had no idea where Cabrera, Toni, or Tigran were. Hopefully still alive, hopefully, they’d be given the same opportunity to walk out of this alive. Tigran deserved it the most, out of the three of them. He doubted Toni would go for it and would honestly probably shoot first before ever stopping to figure out what was going on. Cabrera… who even knows.

It wasn’t exactly a lightbulb moment, but Weston was staring down the hallway, eyes narrowed and upwards at the ceiling. That stretch of hall had more of those false ceiling tiles suspended in a grid, like some of the other rooms did. No additional explosions after that first one that rocked the building, but he put two and two together now that he had time to think about it. It was something about the way the ceiling tiles broke. Some had fallen, but a lot of them had busted downwards.

King kept the helicopter parked on the roof.

The explosion was big enough to shake the whole building.

The ceiling had buckled down. Not up. The walls looked okay. Did that mean the force had come from top down? He was no explosives expert. In movies, shit just blew up in whatever fashion was most entertaining.

Derek had told them King and Cabrera were spotted heading for the roof.

A body - one body - fell from the roof. One he still hadn’t identified.

Weston turned to Alex once the military man started talking to him, jostled out of his train of thought.

“Where’s Cabrera?”

Alex felt a bit of bile rise to his tongue hearing the name of his brother-in-arms coming from the mouth of that fucking animal, bloodied and complicit in God only knew what kind of horrible crimes. How dare he fucking ask. How dare he act like it fucking mattered to him. What, was he still trying to climb back up the pecking order’s ladder even now while their treehouse of horrors was collapsing?

He envisioned the man finding Cabrera’s body in the snow and laughing at him. Spitting on him. God knew what else - the man looked like he’d disposed of someone in a woodchipper so who knows what he was capable of doing.

“Get that name off your tongue and start walking. ALL of you!” Alex raised his voice, his aim traveling from Derek to Weston and back to Derek.

“Walk. I’m not asking again.” He would absolutely start taking out kneecaps if these people didn’t move, and soon.



 
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VELVET & VALOR
Part Seven



Temma nodded as Derek spoke, willing herself to calm the fuck down and get her shit together. She was supposed to be a leader here, like her husband, like Weston and here she was, sobbing like a child…

The military man’s patience was running thin, so she stepped back from her husband, brushing a gentle kiss on his cheek. She didn’t want to be the cause of any further problems for him, or anyone else. She just wanted this all to be over, she wanted to go back to her cell, with Derek and now she wasn’t even sure if that was a possibility.

Temma watched them go, but not for long, before turning to head back to the whore house and settle her people. It was going to be a long night for all of them, with no idea how it would settle out in the end. She didn’t wait for Dick or Oakely to follow, assuming the two-unit family would find elsewhere to shelter.

*​

It took Temma longer than she wanted to get back to the whore house, she was exhausted now that the adrenaline had faded, her body aching from all the running in her poor, but beautifully, chosen shoes.

As she turned the final corner she immediately noticed that the door was open - none of her people would have opened it willingly, not knowing who was outside. She swiftly picked back up into a jog and skidded to a halt in the doorway.

Inside more military-dressed men were ordering her boys and girls to the ground, they complied and whimpered and when they didn’t move fast enough received a well-placed kick or shove. “Hey!” She shouted, not thinking as she stepped into her domain; no one was going to hurt them under her watch. “Enough, they’re scared! Leave them be!”

The military-clad men turned to face her, the closets scoffing and turning to who she assumed was their superior. “What the fuck is that?”

“That,” the strike team leader spoke. “Is POI James Moore.”

Immediately weapons were raised, pointing at her again and the closest man was shouting at her, barking orders. She was shocked at how quickly their demeanour changed, how swiftly they decided she was a threat to them, that when she didn’t move fast enough one of them kicked her feet out from beneath her.

She hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from her lungs. Everything that transpired next was too fast to recount as she was stripped of her boots, jewelry and wig, her hands pulled ruthlessly behind her back and bound there. Around her, her boys and girls gasped and whimpered, though none attempted to interfere with the military men.

Finally, she was lifted to her feet, and the strike team leader came to stand in front of her. “James Moore, you are hereby under the custody of the Roanoke Ground Forces. At this time, you will direct the people under your care to exit the prison calmly and without resistance, at which time you will be remanded to the custody of our Captain.”



 

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