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

[BeyondDandy]

LINCOLN
The Pit
​

The roars of the crowd were exhilarating. They filled the halls of the prison and played in every room like the PA system used to do. The heel of brown calfskin Diors clicked down the runway towards the pits. Gold Elysium rings clipped up the buttons of an elegant burgundy chalk-stripe Brioni coat. A glistening smile flashed prisoners around the arena fortunate and close enough to see while the rest heard the minacious chuckle that came from the same tender lips. Those attending the nightly event were in disbelief at the sight of their King as he approached the audience from above like royalty.

King had given Weston the time and space he needed to complete his speech. He had not intervened but instead stood over the back post of Tig’s chair the entire time, uncomfortably close. The fall of Northview made King second guess his previous decision to put all of his chips on his pilot Gunderson. Gunderson had not shown himself to be in any way, shape or form a leader. He had been a momentary lapse of judgement on Kings behalf and would now be demoted to a simple soldier in his army. As long as his helicopter was functional and had a driver, he did not care what would become of him.

So his play returned to Weston, of course. Still wildly popular amongst the crowd, King would continue to use him to prevent the usurper. The man had shown to have the side of the common folk, and with the addition of the Northview survivors - holding the peace would prove even more crucial to King’s plans of expansion. King hated to admit it, but Weston was his dark knight.

With a keen eye, King looked over Tig as Weston continued to address the crowd. “What is your name? I don’t think we have met,” he addressed him as his three large bodyguards shifted into view and placed their hands near their weapons. King turned back towards the men and had them moved from view with geature of his hand, as to not stress Weston’s guest. Though before Tig was given the time to respond, Weston concluded his address to the people and called out the fighters.

“A wonderful speech, Weston. You are quite the rhetorician!” he expressed with a false accent. his signature chuckle and a slow clap of hands as he moved around Tig and closer to the crowds. His round-cut Bulgari studs glistered under the arena lights and he stood out from the crowd like a sore thumb - all deliberately. “You did not tell me you were having company,” he addressed his second, placing his heavy hands over the railing to lean into the excitement of his crowd. “What ever happened to Valentine?” he questioned, bringing back a ghost from both their past. King’s neck turned and his left eye caught Weston’s. “I liked that girl,” he stated before turning back to the crowd, clapping and chuckling at their excitement as warriors entered the arena. “Let the games begin,” he muttered.

Namazu
NanLia
Bullyboy Squad
Safton
Crono
Miaow
Aegis

 

[Good_Morels]

LINCOLN PRISON
The Pit​

Wren stood perched above a sea of bodies, feeling akin to a pair of buzzards as he lingered beside Marx. Both of them were in their Sunday best, which he didn't terribly mind. They were attending a funeral, after all. His long dark hair hid the hand gripping the nape of his neck, a collar to guide his gaze just as much as it was to stop him from wandering off.

Marx had gone out of his way to find them the perfect view. He loved these events, reveled in the bloodshed as much as he enjoyed the excuse to play dress up with his boyfriend. On more than one occasion, he had turned towards Wren with a grin and announced it was “a nice date”, demanding gratitude for the effort he put in to making sure Wren saw the show.

Wren hated the pit.

Wten never liked feeding live. It was usually unnecessary, it wasn't safe for the snake, and it wasn't fair to the mouse. One of the new hires had tried it only a few years after he started working at Blackwater Creek. The kid was antsy about using the tongs with their half blind Massasauga Eastern Rattlesnake, and had just dropped a live mouse in there and wandered off. Wren found the two of them a couple of days later, the snake bleeding from a litany of bite and scratch marks and the mouse dead in the corner from its venom. Massasauga hadn't even eaten the mouse, too stressed from the fight to bother with it. Her rattle hadn't sounded the same since her would-be meal had gnawed it. In the kid’s fear, he’d made the rattlesnake more dangerous, rendering her signature warning almost silent. She was already defensive considering her vision problems. From that moment on, tongs and snake-proof gloves were required for feeding, just to be safe.

To Wren, the pit looked like an enclosure. He still found it cruel to feed live, especially when they would die for nothing. The excited murmurs that rolled through the crowd as their second in command stood reminded Wren of his mistake.

They wouldn't die for nothing.

They would die for the prison’s entertainment.
They would die to send a message to vermin like him.

He listened as well as he could with Marx grumbling in his ear.

“We like it barbaric. The world's barbaric now, there's nothing wrong with pit fighting. Weston must’ve gone soft.” The growl of his captor nearly drowned out the higher ranked Samaritan, but Wren ignored him regardless. At least, he tried.

“Right darlin’? You like the pit fighting.” Marx’s snarl made him nod instinctively, which was enough for now.

“Fuck the courts!” Marx shouted his agreement with the rest of the Samaritans. Wren nodded blankly along, thinking hard about what Weston said.

He hadn't considered that perspective before. Marx never explained it as justice, as punishment that couldn't be gamed with wealth or connections.

He still didn't like it, it was cruel, and the Samaritans were anything but incorruptible, but he could understand where they were coming from.

At least for a moment. His eyes fell on the man in the pit and he was reminded of the truth. The Samaritans didn't care about what was right. The man wasn't one of them, he was a serf like Wren. More than likely, Wren would never see a Samaritan like Marx in that pit. This system, barbaric as it was, was just as corrupt as the other.

“You got a nickname for this one?” Marx questioned, elbowing Wren in the side a little too painfully to be as lighthearted as he might have meant it to be.

“Yeah. Coyote.” Wren decided. He’d started associating the pit fighters with animals some time ago in an attempt to dehumanize them and cope with the violence he was witnessing. Coyote made sense for this one; he was a murderer, but Wren wasn't convinced he was evil. It was hard for him to imagine any conquered people as evil, knowing his own dark inclinations born of servitude. Regardless, if he wanted to survive, he’d have to be cunning, quick, and full of tricks. Coyote was a fine name for him. Wren just hoped he wouldn't go against the Cougar.

​

 

[Bullyboy Squad]

​

Sleek, low-slung sedan slipped into the back street, its custom grill grinning in the weak lamp light. It cruised with a throaty rumble and pulled over in front of the massive building. Single level concrete block, classic anti-hurricane style. The vehicle’s golden spinners shimmered in the dark like ocean under the Floridan sun. Strong bass trembled the cracked pavement, thumping through the courtyard. It led up to the wide stairs inviting to the school’s entrance.

The car's tinted-glass door swung open and the rapper’s voice boomed in the street.

They spilled out of the dim interior, JD with the shawty on his arm followed by a haze of smoke. Jamal climbed out right after. The two were excited, prompting him to hurry. But he didn’t exactly feel the hype of the dumb school func.

“Jammin’.”

He stopped and looked back, barely understanding his older brother’s words from the inside, muffled by the rhythms. He shallowly bowed his head after the man was done.

“Yeah, ‘course. Got it.” Voice flat but never meant no disrespect. He followed his friends, muttering to himself. “I ain’t stupid.” He was no child, was thirteen. Some homies were stone cold killers at his age.

The trio caught up to the party inside. Tacky decorations, dancing idiots and familiar faces. Kylie Minogue’s newest release reverberated through the gym.

The girl spotted their crew and gingerly waved to her girlfriends. They headed towards the tables in the far corner, Jamal a few steps behind them. He was passing a group of older jocks and their preppy chicks when BAM. Cold and wet hit him. Spreading across his black t-shirt, splattering between his brand sneakers. A skinny guy in his face.

“The fuck!” Jamal shoved him both hands, making the guy stumble at the meatheads. “Watch it.” He growled and looked down at his milkshake-soaked shirt. He pinched it off his skin with disgust screwing up his face. Fuck. Some kids stared and talked, some pointed at his crotch with amusement. He shot a glance at his buddies and felt his face grow hot. All of them were watching.

“Man, I’m sorry!” The one that bumped into him regained his balance, chuckling. “But you look good in pink.”

He sounded drunk and Jamal doubted it was from strawberries. The Jamaican gritted his teeth, heart rate accelerating. He grabbed his shirt and peeled it off himself, a thick chain on his neck glinting in the colorful lights.

“Clean it.” He chucked the shirt at the other’s chest. The stranger didn’t catch it so it fell to the ground. The guy rubbed the back of his dark faux hawk, styled exactly like the popular hairstyles of soccer players.

“Dude. You for real?”

Jamal glanced at his friends sideways. Some of them were coming over, revving him up. He couldn’t afford not reacting so he got into the guy’s face. Their foreheads brushing as he spat through pearly teeth framed by thick lips.

“Pick it up. Bitch.”

Bloodrush and music throbbed in his ears. Their eyes locked. His breath caught when he found something in the other's gaze. The matching kind of fire.

“Break it up!” The teacher grabbed them by the shoulders, tearing them apart.

“It’s your first week and you’re already a pain in my back, Cabrera.” The adult scolded the gelled-hair punk. Adding something in a lower tone when pulling the kid away. Jamal couldn’t make out words but he didn’t have to. He knew what was said. The new guy was given a warning. To not mess with him and his crew. Good.

He picked up his shirt and dragged his ass to the bathroom to wash it. At least the stain on his jeans wasn’t that bad or else he’d beat the living shit out of the bean-er the next time he saw him.

 

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
The Pit​

On stage, spatial awareness was just as important as remembering your lines. Crashing into another actor not only made you look clumsy, it made you unemployed. Tig didn’t know what to call it, but he always had some kind of sixth sense when someone was quietly standing by or behind him, just out of his peripheral vision. On cue, the little hairs at the back of his neck stood up when he felt someone’s presence behind his chair. He looked up just in time to see King himself peering down at him. His heart leapt into his throat, but he put on his best impression of someone settling in to watch a good movie who had just seen a coworker come down the aisle. He did his best to ignore the bodyguards that moved forward and were promptly brushed back, flashing King a wide smile full of white, perfect teeth.

Tig’s jaw was opening with a response, carefully crafted right on the fly, when King’s attention was already moving back to his Second, Weston. Understandable of course, Weston was important here - but he internally pouted. So close, yet so far. No working relationship started out of silence. He’d hold on to this opportunity and wait for his moment. Tigran crossed one leg over the other as he leaned back in his chair, elbows resting on the armrest as he listened.


Weston damn near flinched as he heard King’s voice. Goddamn bastard moved silently, popping up out of nowhere like a ghost that raided a Neiman Marcus. Weston raised an eyebrow at King’s comment about his speech and his slow clap. What the hell was he doing down here?

Weston silently imagined strangling King with his own tie while the man stepped forward.

“I try to make sure the seats are filled - especially if it's by someone other than an enforcer or a bodyguard. Give the regular folks in the crowd a feeling like they could be up here too, if they were smart about it.” Weston motioned to where Tigran sat, casting the younger man a brief warning look.

At King’s question about Valentine, Weston offered a shrug. “My tastes changed. It’s alright. He’s good company. He’s with us.” Weston motioned with his head back to Tigran, the way he said ‘with us’ implying full support and allegiance.


“I assumed Valentine was with you, Mr. King? She liked you the most; I also assumed the feeling was mutual.” Tigran damn near purred from his perch. He stayed sitting, not wanting to stand up and get closer to King in case that gave his bodyguards cause for action.


Weston glanced over his shoulder, putting on a mild expression. Maybe a bit out of line for Tigran to assume he knew who preferred who, but it didn’t jeopardize him any. If Tigran wanted to get his ass beat, that was on him.

“What’s the special occasion, King? You gonna stay and watch?”

BeyondDandy Bullyboy Squad NanLia Safton Crono Miaow Tool Good_Morels Aegis ​

 

[Bullyboy Squad]

​

Ignacio watched with his brows furrowed and forehead creased. It was hard to say if it was surprise or anger flaring in his eyes. He heard the boy and the question of the boy’s old guardian but he didn't respond to either. Pulling the optic up to his eye, the man scanned the vicinity of the burning camp. Searching for something.

He finally commanded, “Angels take position,” Glancing at the snipers and then meeting Connor’s gaze. “We split. Riley, you flank them East.” From the side of the canyon. “I’m taking the West.” The side of the forest. So far the fire didn't spread to it but there was a risk it would. They had to act fast.

Both groups separated and headed for the designated areas. The rocky surface on the East exposed irregular terrain with a lot of nooks and crannies. Snow lay everywhere, rapidly melting only underneath the structures and vehicles around the camp. Heat blew in their faces if they got too close, smoke sneaked into nostrils and clung into clothes.

“Help!” A weak, raspy voice rung in the air. A man in his late 60s waved his hand towards the group. His jacket singed, the side of his arm was visible through the burnt hole, skin all red and blacked. “Please!”

The closer the group got the more of the caving in the stone they saw. There was a bunch of people there. Most of them didn't look terribly hurt. An elderly female among them who was calming down a crying teen. One of Connor’s companions hollered.

“Hey, Shane!”

A stranger nearby the older lady snapped his vision to the newcomers and his face lit up with a big smirk.

“Right on time.”

The older male that previously waved looked at Connor with dread and disdain. "You're with them." Someone from the tiny crowd shouted. "Murderers!" A teen that the older woman was comforting now cried louder. "Why would you do it to us!"

Aegis Miaow
​

​

 

[Bullyboy Squad]

​

The evening air was mad warm for a winter down in the Sunshine State. The front of his pants and tee had dried but he was damp under the pits. Occasional gusts of breeze on his face a welcomed cool-down.

Jamal was kicking it with his boys at the back of the school. But now everybody dipped back inside or bounced. The party beats were just a faint noise deep in the thick walls. Got him all reflective. Rhymes and bars, that's how it always hit him. He could play tough all he wanted but was too shy to spit his music in front of crowds. Art, some said? Dumb. Just words.

The concrete jungle is where streets speak loud.
Projects backyards full of pain-filled pride.

He knocked his cigarette, grinding the butt under his white kicks. Once again sparkling fresh, free from the goop that the Latino idiot dropped on them. His older bro was always spitting game, saying you can tell a lot about a dude from the state of his shoes. He didn’t get it back when he was young but it stuck with him.

"Ay yo, check it out. Look at that punk," three pairs of stomping feet drew closer, “You lost somethin' Jamrock?”

The one that spoke spat aside, another laughed.

“Where’s your ni-ggas?”

Jamal locked gaze on the three-guy crew, jaw and body getting tight as he faced them. The red and black gear matched the hate in their eyes. Zeds. Fucking Haitian zombies. Normally, they just passed each other in the halls, no beef, but right now, Jamal was solo and they were three deep. He ain't no fool, he could count the odds. And even though Jamal was a sturdy dude, taking on all three was a bad idea.

He didn't say a word, observing how they approached, taunting him. The only way out was past them or up the steep hill leading to the baseball court. He made a break for it, ducking through the greenery.

They were right on his tail, catching up as he was struggling to climb, white shoes digging into grass and dirt. A fistful of it yanked back with him. They sent him tumbling down, skin scraped against the pavement. Before he could reorient, Zeds rained down on him with hard knuckles, boots and spit. Curled up with his arms wrapped around his skull, he braced through the pain. Each blow landing like a thunderclap, spreading fire searing through his muscles. He could taste soil and blood in his mouth, the coppery tang. Fuck. No way out. He could hardly think. Had to ride it out.

A shout pierced the air from a distance, “Hey! Shitheads!”

The two goons paused mid-beatdown to look at the unknown guy. Jamal used it, grabbing hold of the shoe of the Zed who was still kicking him. He tried to shove it away, but it wouldn't budge. All he managed to do was rip the shoe off. Finally he managed to clench his hands around the dirty sock and gave it a harsh twist.

A cry of agony and surprise cut through the air. The guy dropped, writhing on the ground, clutching his leg in pain. The other Zeds were too busy fighting the newbie to notice Jamal scrambling to his feet. They tried to land a punch on the guy, the same idiot that spilled a drink on Jamal. But damn, he was lightning fast. Dodging and ducking their punches. Who was that guy? Karate Kid 5?

“Knife!” The newbie yelled and heat flooded Jamal’s system. Distracted by the glint of the blade the guy got socked to the side, air knocked out of him.

With his heart pumping and his veins pulsing, Jamal charged at the Zed with the knife like a freight train. His shoulders knotted as he shoved the dude hard, feeling the impact shake his bones.

“C’mon.” He snatched up the stranger's arm, yanking him along as he sprinted down. Their footsteps banged against the concrete, his palm slick and sweaty on the other’s forearm.

The two of them weaved through the maze of alleys, darting around corners until they were out of breath. The stranger slumped beside a dumpster with hands pressed to his knees, both gasping like they’d been chased by a pitbull. Jamal was leaned up against a brick wall, his chest heaving as he tried to get his breath back. Trembling from the aftershock of the adrenaline rush that muffled the ache, he tried to make sense of what just went down.

“What’s your name, Ninja Boi?” He asked between swallowed inhales. “Cabrera?”

The stranger nodded, chuckling, still catching his breath.

Jamal pulled away from the shadows and straightened up, swiped his palm against denim before offering it to the other. “I’m Jamal. But you can call me King.”

 

[Good_Morels]

FLASHBACK
The Reserve​

Flashback ~ 1 year ago.

He noticed the buzzards a day or so out. Eight hours prior, the sickly sweet smell of decay was detectable when the wind blew right. The forest was silent by eleven o’ clock that night. The groaning of the dead replaced eerie still at two am.

The Reserve had a rope course and tree house prior to the apocalypse. The tree house was only the size of a classroom, designed to store personal belongings and provide a space to teach the kids how to use their harnesses. The course was simple, a few trails looped together with rope bridges and one big Zipline.

Wren had never truly appreciated it until the apocalypse started, it provided the perfect safehouse while he and anyone else with decent aim stood on the rope course platforms, high enough to be well out of reach of the horde but near enough to pick them off up until they needed to make sure the area was clear and clean up the mess.

He sat sat perched on that wooden sanctuary through the night, picking away at the swarm until it turned from a roar to a trickle.

The morning frost soaked into his clothes as the sky began to lighten, revealing just how many he’d slain in the night. Most of his arrows missed despite the lantern at his feet. He waited another hour or so before he finished off the few dead that he hadn't hit in the head. He picked his radio from his belt.

“Walker to McClain, we’re clear on East side. How’s West doing?” The radio crackled as it came to life.

“McClain to Walker, Haven't seen anything for an hour or so. I’d say we're clear.”

Wren sighed in relief to hear his voice. “10/4, Walker to Ham, how’re you holding up?”

“Ham to Walker, doing fine. Picked off the last in my area thirty minutes ago or so. Kids are asleep.” The old man’s voice was about as quiet as he could muster and still be heard.

Wren waited for him to finish before clicking the button to speak again.

“Alright, let's get a head count” he requested before counting. “Walker.”

“McClain”
“Hammond”
“Woods”
“Ryan”
“Moore”
“Lowe”
“Reid”

Wren’s chest tightened as the radio fell quiet, until the weight was suddenly alleviated by another crackle.

“Shit, sorry, dropped the damn thing. Mendez.”

No casualties. The new horde protocol worked. A pang of regret struck him as he remembered the last horde to wander through, how simple and easy it was to save everyone all along.

He shook it off. No sense in beating himself up when he had work to do.

“Fantastic, fucking fantastic.” His voice cracked with relief. “Be on guard, let's make sure we're clear before we send everyone home.” He ordered with as much authority as he could muster. The radio echoed a litany of 10/4s before falling silent once again.

Wren’s limbs were slow and sore as he finished the rope course, dark eyes scanning the forest below for any movement. A rabbit hopped forward, ears swiveling for danger. It was the only thing he noticed, clearing him to move to the ground.

The rabbit burst away the moment his boots crunched on leaf litter, starting Wren into pointing his bow towards it. He breathed a sigh of relief as he watched it disappear into a bush.

He circled the entirety of the eastern section of their land, finding nothing. He figured as much, the horde had come from the east originally, but it was still a welcome relief.

“East side clear” he announced into his radio before turning and heading back towards the rope course. He could almost believe nothing bad happened, that he was walking through the frost laden forest like he used to. Birds sang in the trees above, rodents skittered in the brush.

Things were as they should be, until the forest was interrupted by a sickening crunch. Wren recognized the sound well by now; Bones splintering into fragments. He rolled his shoulders and raised his bow as he approached the sound, the crunching growing louder and louder the closer he got to his stand.

He pushed into the clearing below the rope course and found nothing but still bodies, the crunching suddenly silent. He lowered his bow, confused. He hadn't heard a zombie go quiet in the past ten months, not unless something else silenced it. He took a few steps further into the clearing, turning a few times to see if he had missed anything. He froze as his eyes landed on a glint maybe eight feet away.

Two yellow-green orbs stared back at him as a pink tongue swiped over a blood soaked muzzle. Laid between them, a half-eaten corpse of a recently turned survivor. The cougar’s mouth twisted into snarl as a deep rumble erupted from its throat.

Wren shook, feeling all of the blood drain from his face as a deep primal fear took hold of his heart. He didn't realize he’d dropped his bow until it landed on the ground with a clatter that shook the earth beneath him, the sound triggering the cat to shriek with an unholy yowl.

Bullyboy Squad Crono NanLia BeyondDandy ​

 

[Namazu]

FLASHBACK
One Week After Arrival at Lincoln, Post-Horde - Date Night!​

The idea of going on a date while in the depths of a civilization-destroying apocalypse seemed utterly absurd on its surface. But here they were. On a date. Granted they were still in a prison, and the “club” they went to was not something downtown with loud music and lights and dancing crowds and all that other stuff Victor experienced exactly once while in school (and then vowed to never repeat once he got over the hangover and headache), but that didn’t quite matter right now. It was a date and they were going to have a nice time. Victor swore it up and down that’s how it would go.

Taking a seat across from Hughes at a small table off to the side, he sat a beer down in front of the other man, keeping the second one for himself.

“God, they’re even kind of cold, imagine that.” He grinned, leaning to the side as he dug his leatherman out of his pocket. He quickly flipped it open and used the can opener to pop off both bottle caps. The bottles fizzed and hissed.

“Not even flat. Hell yes.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table as he picked up his bottle, taking a gulp of it before exhaling heavily, trying to let go of his stress - and anxiety. Another ridiculous thing to feel right now - anxiety, about a date. He wore his favorite hockey jersey, for lack of anything nicer to wear. It was the one article of clothing that didn’t have bloodstains on it, and he felt almost normal again in it. Unsure what to do with his hands, he turned the bottle around to look at the label, and snickered.

“Blake, do you think this is even a real brand?” He held it up so that Hughes could read it. The label said ‘Paladin Brewing’, with the letter ‘I’ replaced by an upside down sword. It was a stupid question - of course it was a real brand. Nobody in the prison was going to have the time or materials to just whip up fake labels, but his nerves were getting the best of him.

“Paladin. Reminds me of Dungeons and Dragons.” He blurted it out before he even could stop himself from outing himself as that kind of nerd. He blinked.

“Don’t tell anyone I just said that.”

Blake's attention was on scanning the 'bar' and it's patrons. He didn't come here often, mainly because often times there were Samaritans here being...Samaritans, just more drunk. Despite having spent months at the prison, Hughes' hate for most of these people had far from waned. His eyes went from person to person, instinctively trying to deduce each individual's threat level. It was just habit from his old occupation, when feeling tense or in a location with those that were armed or behind enemy lines.

The marine's leg was bouncing up and down underneath the table, another habit. He heard Vic speaking but not the words at first until finally his attention snapped back to the man sitting across from him. Hughes cleared his throat, trying to piece together what the other man said. "What? Tell anyone that you're a nerd?" He asked with a mischievous smirk. Not that he really had anyone to tell really, but teasing Vic had become a decent pastime on occasion.

Reaching out he pulled his beer closer to himself and took a sip before pulling the bottle back and looking at the label himself. "Never heard of it honestly, and that's coming from a marine who's been in multiple countries and seen too many brands to begin with." Though he was often times the 'designated driver' because Hughes and alcohol don't mix well often, but he'd seen enough bottles and had to deal with enough of his 'brothers' getting drunk that he'd seen a fair share.

"Remember what I said. Cut me off after one beer." Hughes told the man pointedly. Though he was only going to sip and not really planning to drink enough to get tipsy at that rate, because he knew himself, but he wanted a backup plan and that was Vic. Normally he wouldn't even drink, but honestly after the last few months he figures he owes himself one at this point.

“Yes, don’t tell anyone I’m a …. Nerd, thanks. I kind of doubt anyone even knows what that is though, at least the people here.” Victor grinned a bit, then momentarily looked sad. His mind had immediately drifted to wondering just how many hobbies and past-times would be lost to people. He hadn’t so much as touched a board game in God-knows-how-long now.

Clearing his throat and deciding now was not the time for an existential crisis about what all society had lost, he took another drink of his beer, stared at the table a moment, then looked back up at Blake and nodded.

“Yep, I remember. Just one drink, no more. You don’t need to finish that one if you don’t want to, either.” At this rate, Victor wouldn’t be surprised if he finished it for the man.

“What are you looking for?” Victor raised an eyebrow, glancing over his shoulder when he noticed Blake had been scanning the room. The bar was filled with all the usuals - not that he expected anyone other than Samaritans here, but it was the typical Samaritan crowd that liked this place, in various stages between tired, tipsy, and drunk. Nothing stood out to him - he didn’t even think anyone was paying attention to them - so he turned his attention back to Blake.

Noticing how the man’s leg was bouncing up and down at high speed, he quietly scooted his chair over, closer to Blake so that they weren’t directly across from each other anymore. Reaching under the table, he put one hand atop Blake’s thigh.

“I think you’ll be fine here. None of these guys know you or care who you are, or how you got here. They’re all too focused on themselves, anyway.” Victor commented, voice quiet so hopefully none would hear him.

Hughes was a little surprised when Victor moved closer and put a hand on his thigh, trying to quiet the bouncing leg. The marine sighed and shook his head, "Old habits die hard." He said simply. Lifting up the cap on his head with one hand and running his other hand through his hair before putting it back on. "Sorta comes with the occupation, you know?" Blake flashed Vic an apologetic smile. A hand going down to pat Victor's own.

Fact was he was used to both looking out for people, and having people watching his back. His squad, his brothers. Even after the world went to shit they'd had each other. But now he was on his own, adjusting to that and the lack of one leg was taking time. The only person he felt he could really trust was Victor. And he's not exactly what most would call a 'fighter'.

Hughes takes another sip of his beer before putting it back down on the table, his hand around the bottom of the bottle. "You'd think I'd have gotten used to this place by now, but no, not really." He shrugged his shoulders with a lazy smile. "I don't think I've ever asked...how long have you been here?" Hughes asked, mild curiosity as he tilted his head.

Victor returned the smile, a bit of red coloring his cheeks when he felt Blake’s hand atop his own. He quietly cursed the fact there were other people in the room - he didn’t dare make a move or do anything more than he had already done, with a covert hand under the table.

“Hm. Good question…” Blake’s question made him bite his lower lip and look up at the ceiling in thought, searching for a way to answer.

“I… am not sure, honestly. I worked at a clinic when all this started. I stayed there for about a month, month and a half. I was one of the last people to leave, but we had to. We ran out of food.” Victor glanced down at his beer bottle, idly picking at the label as he spoke.

“It was me, an EMT, a nurse, and two custodians at the end there. We left together, but, uh… they didn’t make it.” He licked his lips, glancing at Blake for a moment before looking back at his bottle.

“At the end it was just me and the EMT, until one night he took off while he was supposed to be keeping watch. He took half the food and water we had left, and the only gun we had between us. He left me a note, but all it said was ‘Sorry’, so I have no idea what he decided to do.” He shrugged.

“I wound up here afterwards - ran into a group of scavengers on their way back here after a run. I was walking alongside the road, out of food, low on water, and they offered shelter in exchange for work. So of course, I was an idiot and said yes. It seemed better than dying. I’m not sure how long I was out there wandering around.” Victor shook his head a little.

“If I had to guess, I’d say maybe a year and change? Honestly hard to tell - I used to try and keep track of what the date was, but eventually realized I was way off. So.. I stopped. Time doesn’t mean much anymore, does it?” Victor realized that answer was a depressing one, but it was the truth. The truth didn't seem so hard to share though, for a change.

He could get used to date nights like this.

Crono Bullyboy Squad ​

 

[Crono]

LINCOLN
in the bar a week after arrival
collab with Namazu & Bullyboy Squad

​

It was still early in the evening when Cabrera strode into the club. The pedestal with the metal poles and the dance floor were empty. Soft tunes played in the backdrop of the scarce conversations of a few people scattered around the tables, couches, and by the bar. The familiar atmosphere embraced him like an old friend in his buzzed state. Comforting.

The man was, once more, as usual, wearing dark pants with a drop leg holster but was missing the vest that usually hugged his strong core. He surveyed the small crowd before pausing his gaze on the bartender. Cabrera flashed a half-cocked grin at her, his stubble showing traces of glitter from the whorehouse. Glimmering like his glazed eyes. The girl already saw the bloody one and the scar but what was new was the haircut. Cabrera's skull was shaved clear, giving him an oddly gritty, dangerous look. It didn't match the friendly expression, slightly ruined by the black thread of the stitched gash on the side of his face and neck. “How's it going, ma’am?” He casually leaned his forearm to the bar, his gaze cruising along the bottles. “I'm in a party mood. Surprise me.”

Ignacio grabbed his drink and turned his side to the counter, tossing a glance at the couches and at the tables. He was about to take a drink when he spotted two figures in the subdued light. Cold shudder ran down his spine before heat erupted in his chest. Cabrera’s teeth tightened just like his lungs. The doctor’s hand on Blake’s thigh an involuntary trigger for his low key fried nerves.

The man downed his drink and slammed the glass down into the wood. He winked to the woman as thanks or bye, and started walking. First he approached the bouncer, giving him a quick instruction. Then he headed towards the two by the table. He still had a few good feet to cover when he whistled like at a dog.

“Look at that, doc. You graced us heathens with your holy presence in the dirty dungeon?” His gaze nailed to Victor’s face, never straying to Hughes. His posture was no longer relaxed but it wasn't threatening either.


Victor flinched at the dog whistle, eyes immediately turning towards its source. As soon as he saw Cabrera, he tensed up and took his hand off Blake’s thigh, hand balling up into a nervous fist in his lap before he flattened both hands atop the table. It was unfortunate; he was almost starting to relax, thinking maybe this place wasn’t so awful like he had dreaded. “Hey, man.” Victor lifted his hands a bit from the table, palms to Cabrera. “I’m just here for a drink and to unwind, like everyone else.” He had no idea how to respond to the comment about heathens and dungeons. Leaning back in his chair, Victor tried to put distance between himself and Cabrera even if it was by inches. Between the shaved head and the nasty-looking stitches, the guy looked half-wild and dangerous. Just another typical Samaritan thug. Victor cast a pleading glance at Blake, entirely uncertain what to do here.


Hughes had caught the movement in their direction just before the dog whistle. His eyes scanned the mans face and quickly realized it was Cabrera, once again a mixture of emotions hit but this time he remained still and in control. Blake's immediate reaction was not to seek the other man out, as it had been last time, ending in his spill on the pavement. The Marine's eyes glared at Cabrera, the sight of the shaved head a surprising one, and the clear presence of fresh scars and stitches. He didn't have time to wonder what even might have happened before Cabrera was speaking to Victor. It wasn't subtle, the way he was avoiding looking at Hughes. "That's all the fuck you have to say after all this time?" He asked, a mixture of annoyance and seething behind his words. The hand around the beer bottle that was still sat on the table tightening into a grip. Hughes body rigid and stiff in his chair.


Cabrera briefly put his palm up towards Hughes, silently saying ‘be right with you’. His gaze and smirk solely on Victor after he grabbed a chair from another table and put it in front of the one with the two men, backwards. “Unwind? Getting a drink with your patient?” He took a seat with his arms leaned over the back of the chair, and cocked his head. “Ain't that a little..." He twirled his finger in the air like he was looking for the right word. "Unn...."


Victor winced when Cabrera invited himself to the table and took a backwards seat, like a stereotypical jackass. He could feel his blood pressure rising even as his hands shook. He wrapped one hand around his beer bottle, keeping the other near the edge of the table, uncertain what Cabrera was going to do. “Yes. Unwinding, getting a drink, like everyone else here does for entertainment. Do you have a problem with that?” Victor’s voice wavered more than he hoped. He was trying to stay even-keeled, but it was damn hard.


"Unethical!" A few patrons looked over when Cabrera's tone disturbed their conversations. "It's unethical, right?" He blatantly ignored Victor's question. "You're fucking him too?"

The silence shattered when the steamy tune came from the dancefloor. One of the girls walked over to her pole, the other was getting ready. Visibly inconvenienced that she had to work a little earlier than normal.




Blake's jaw clenched when he was met with the hand. His eyes stayed glued on the other man's face, glaring, as Cabrera 'spoke' with Victor. "That's none of your damn business Ignacio." His voice deep with warning, unwilling to use the names he heard others around the prison call him. 'Nacho' or 'Cabrera'. Hughes used his first name not for any other reason. His grip on the beer bottle threatening to break the glass by this point as he tried to keep his rising anger from spilling over, "Cut the shit." The irony of Cabrera trying to call Victor out on being professionally unethical wasn't lost on him.


Victor narrowed his eyes at Cabrera when he blurt out his accusation about being unethical, and his question. Had he been entirely calm right now, he would have appreciated Blake's attempt at deflecting Cabrera's ire away and to stop this bullshit. Unfortunately, he was quickly becoming not calm at all. "Yeah, I am fucking him - what is it to you? There's no ethics board to complain to anymore." Victor blurted it out before he could really even think it over. He was white-knuckling his beer bottle so hard, he was surprised it didn't burst in his hand.


Cabrera didn't let it show but a whole array of emotions washed through him when the doctor confirmed that the two were sleeping together. It didn't make sense. That irrational hurt. Not like Ignacio minded in the past - he and Huey were never exclusive. Guess… it wasn't about that. But about the fact that this intellectual snob had what Cabrera lost. What he never thought he could have again. What he longed for fiercely. Not just the body. The heart.

Ignacio hauled himself up and looked at Hughes, something raw and real glinting in his eyes. “Wanna get out of here, Conejito?”


Hughes couldn't deny the small amount of amusement or even pride at hearing Victor standing up to Ignacio. Though he hadn't expected the next invitation, and all it managed to do was piss him off, because to him it just seemed as though Cabrera did it only because Victor was involved. To try and slight him or something of a jealous reasoning. It's all Hughes could imagine. So the words he'd been wanting to say to Cabrera even searching him out within the prison to no avail, maybe even the fists he'd wanted to throw, they just sort of melted away for the moment. "Let's get out of here." The man said turning his head towards Victor, already moving to stand up, leaving his beer on the table. There he waited patiently to see if Victor would do the same. He merely cast a glance at Cabrera seated across the table, a mixture of anger and hurt and his tone was frustrated. "You want to talk to me, you know where I'll be. It's where I've been for months." Blake made it clear that he was pissed over the lack of attempts on Cabrera's part to even see or speak to him.


“Fucking gladly.” Victor muttered, standing up quickly and also ditching his beer on the table. He moved closer to Blake in case he wanted any help, but kept his eyes on Cabrera. He didn’t trust the bastard one bit not to try something. He let Blake say his bit, ready to leave and put some distance between them and this bar. Although he didn’t truly want Cabrera anywhere near Blake, that wasn’t his call to make. If they had things to hash out, that was between them.

 

[Tool]

NORTHVIEW
- A few days after Evac - Flashback - Collab with Namazu ​

Madison found herself trapped in Northview's infirmary.

Irony was a bitter mistress and a sour lover.

She had extra guns in a bag near where the bikes had been kept..... that might as well have been across the world for all the good it did her. When Abraham had vanished back into the mind from whence he'd come, Madison took the time to process that one for a while, and afterwards, she'd tried to go after the bullet below her collarbone, and eventually, she'd come up successful. Slam dunk. After slapping a perfunctory bandage on top, the girl shuffled for one of the gurneys. Not a damn thing she could do for the back of her head, and laying on her uninjured side wasn't something she could ignore any longer.

She woke up screaming at around two in the morning, clawing at the air like it had buried her alive, as though she could push the oppressive weight of her future away and allow herself to breathe, but the darkness claimed her again soon after.

Grief was a crawling beast made of regret and misery, and it nestled at her trembling back, intimate and close.

She didn't have the ability to kill the zombie that came a tapping as of someone gently rapping, rapping at her chamber door, nor the ability to sew up the open wound along the edge of her skull, nor even the means to kill herself and make it stick. No guns. Only medicine...... and yet, she could use none of it to meaningfully patch herself, nor end her suffering while keeping others safe.

Madison thought about opening her veins with a scalpel, but that wouldn't stop her from rising. Headbutting a scalpel held upright with her good hand might do the trick, but it just as easily might not go far enough in, and that was assuming she had the stones enough to do so and not miss. A memory, unbidden and unwanted came bubbling forth from her subconscious.

She'd seen a zombie with an open head wound, once, its forehead and a scoop of the frontal lobe blown clean off. Not enough of the brain had been damaged, apparently, to put it down for good. Madison had watched with disgusted fascination as it stopped in its tracks, bent over a pothole to get a better look at something, and then keeled over dead-dead as a goodly chunk of mottled brain fell right out the front. She'd gone to check what the hell it had been looking at, then realized...... it had seen movement thanks to a puddle at its feet and been drawn to the possibility of prey in its own reflection.

Narcissus something something vanity will kill us all.

The sound of the zombie at the door became the beating of some enormous, terrible heart. It called to her like it remembered her. Knew her name. Madison swam into and out of awareness enough to know that she needed to get up, get moving. Abe had been right about one thing: the body was never meant to take this kind of beating and live. If nothing else, she needed to find a way to make sure that if..... or when..... she died, she wouldn't make for an immediate threat to anybody who happened upon this nurse's station, looking for medicine.

What else could she do?

If there had been a caulking gun handy, she'd have tried that out on the hole in her head...... but no such luck.

Over the course of the day, Madison slid from the gurney and stumbled around the room, looking for something, anything, to keep herself contained. If she'd had more lucidity, the notion of cutting her Achilles tendon might have occurred to her but.... as it was, she found nothing to ease her concerns for whoever it was that would find her body. This seemed.... like a no-win situation. She did find a bottle with a single Amoxycillin, a concession from the universe so thin that she couldn't help but laugh, which made time hiccup and jump forwards.
This time, when Madison awoke, she came to with her good wrist tied as tightly as possible to one of the gurney's two rails. It was just snipped strips of......sheet, it looked like? The knots were shit, but they were numerous enough that a her-zombie wouldn't be able to undo them all. A tug to her ankle meant she'd gotten herself tied down there, too.

Good.

Thirst became a powerful yearning in her throat, even as hunger faded from her belly, but that was alright. No way to fix what had broken. No way to fight out of here. No way to put herself down permanently. As far as ways to go went this...... this wasn't so bad. She was cold. She was hot. Both. Neither. Her lips cracked and bled. Whatever had happened to the people that had lived here, there was no one left. The pounding at the door became the pounding of her heart, her body trying and failing to mend.

Something in the dark was waiting to claim her.

It had been waiting a long time, and now that it had ahold of the back of her neck, it wasn't going to let go.



It had been too long. Just too damn long without seeing hide nor hair of Madison, and something didn’t sit right.

Weston watched as the Fallen Angels departed from Northview. She wasn’t with them. She wasn’t with the Northview folks and Samaritans when they packed up and went back to Lincoln. Nobody seemed to know where she was. His questions were responded to with shrugs all around, and it also did not sit right that the Fallen Angels he talked to didn’t seem more concerned. He liked to think if one of his own disappeared he’d be a hell of a lot more concerned than these people were. Typical Fallen Angels for you.

Of course it was possible she decided she’d had enough and slipped out under the cover of night. Not that a motorcycle was a quiet thing to hide, but it was entirely possible. He wouldn’t blame her, either - what they all went through was…. a lot. A horde, countless deaths, too many revelations… It was a lot, and unless someone was really tied to the people that remained, walking away was definitely an option.

But something just didn’t sit right about that either. For all her talk about not being a people person, Madison seemed to care. She gave a shit. Why leave now? It just didn’t add up. So Weston did what he was best at. He packed a truck, made an excuse as to where he’d be, and come dawn he drove off to go smack a hornet’s nest around until he got an answer.

This drive to Northview was a hell of a lot less eventful than the first one. No forest fires, no car accidents, no shootouts, no explosions, and no hordes. There was still an undercurrent of the sense of impending doom, but when did that ever really go away?

The sight of the field of dead around Northview was even worse now than it was before. The smell was stronger, for one - but after being back at the prison for awhile, trying to force the image of this out of his mind, seeing it again only cemented the fact it was real. Grabbing his hiking bag out of the truck, pistol in one hand and machete in the other, Weston carefully picked his way through the corpse-field towards the front door.

He had lied and said he was going on a quick patrol to make sure the horde hadn’t drifted back, so it would make sense he was out here in case anyone tailed him. So far nobody had, which was good, because actually going inside the school was not part of his disclosed mission. He didn’t actually know what, if anything, he’d find in here, and he was still tender from being shot, but he just had to look. What were the chances she had come back here? Slim, maybe?

Still, Weston had a hard time letting go of things and people, so he had to look to be certain. Not knowing would be worse.

There was only one sound in the entire school, which made it even more eerie. The steady thump…. Thump…. thump of a brainless meatbag smacking itself against a door somewhere, rattling its hinges, filled the derelict hallways. It was not too hard to find, now that he was somewhat familiar with the layout of the building. As expected, he found it in front of the infirmary.

The dead typically didn’t claw at something without a reason, not unless they’d been tricked. It was immediately suspicious that it was trying to get inside the infirmary, of all places. Had someone been left behind? Was the place already being looted? The infirmary would be a perfect place to start if that were the case - not that he thought anything was left.

Weston raised his machete and with one swift motion, buried it deep into the meatsack’s skull from the top down. The dead thing froze mid-scrabble and dropped like a sack of potatoes, hitting the door with a heavy thud and sliding down to the floor, leaving a trail of foul blood and flesh behind. Putting his foot on the creature’s back, he wobbled the machete and tugged it free.

Entirely uncertain what to expect inside, Weston raised his pistol as he tested the door handle. Locked. Concerning but all it would do is slow him down, not stop him. Taking a step back, Weston raised one foot and stomped with all the force he could muster through the wooden doorway, causing it to rattle and buckle under the impact. Another two good kicks, and he had broken through.

Crouching down, Weston peered inside - but saw no sign of movement. It was always dangerous to stick your arm in, but he did it fast after being sure it was safe. He stood back up, reached under the top of the hole he had just busted, and unlocked the door.

The sight of a very familiar woman tied down to one of the gurneys with bed sheet restraints, bloodied and battered, made his stomach drop so far he thought he’d crack the linoleum when the weight of it hit the floor.

She was dead. She looked so very, very dead. Her face was a mess. There was blood everywhere. Bandages everywhere. Worse yet was the way she slowly squirmed against the restraints. The shock and sadness mixed with anger immediately. Who had done this? What bastard had tied her to the bed, killed her, and left her to turn?

“Oh my God.” Weston breathed out, closing the door behind him as he holstered his pistol, keeping the machete handy just in case she got loose and tried to lunge for him. The sight made his heart ache. He’d put people down before, but it never got easy.

Not quite ready to do the deed, Weston moved closer to the side of the gurney and reached for her hand, taking it in his own and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Jesus Christ, Madison, I am so sorry.”



The child turned to run away, but she was far faster. Her body leapt ahead of him, over him, spinning perfectly and landing in front of the boy's shocked and terrified face as he looked into her eyes, deep brown eyes long dead and cataracted over.

One hand lashed out, gripping the boy's hair and wrenching his head backward. He screamed. That was the point. While she had been reaching out for his hair, her other hand had opened, a maw replacing the whole of her palm and lined in razor sharp teeth. A pallid serpent unfurled from deep within her body, through her rib cage and the inner length of her arm to burst outward through her new hand-mouth.

The detective clasped her monstrous new hand over the boy's face, holding him tightly in place. His skull cracked slightly under the pressure as the horrid leech-serpent drove itself into his mouth and began chewing its way through his soft tissues, eating bloody little chunks as it swallowed the boy down. She was dead and hungry, and there was more than one way to feed.

He tasted like bile and gasoline.

No.

Madison peeled skin from muscle while her victim struggled, but she'd broken knees and elbows both. Where was he gonna go? One bite at a time, she fed him his own skin, and he'd richly earned the pleasure. Yum yum yumity yum. Eat up, boyo. If she could have made him suffer longer, she would have.

Yes....... yes. Yes.

A dead detective ate raw eggs from the fridge, one by one. The cold shells burst in her mouth, oozing slime down her throat. She chewed and crunched on the grainy white and each one was the skull of one of her old coworkers, old friends and new ones...... The sight of their brains squirming in their skulls made Madison drop them and crawl over herself, curling up and screaming until the firm straps held her tight and the hot injections came.

Straps that held her still.

No.

A lumbering humanoid form garbed in surgical attire loomed over Madison, strapped to an operating table. Two pairs of gurneys on either side of her had patients of their own, and a dozen dead-eyed, smiling nurses maintained their consciousness and vital signs against all odds. Each of them had been disemboweled by the surgeon. He was a massive creature of rotting sinew and churning muscle stretched haphazardly across a partially mechanical framework of grinding metal and tearing meat. One of his hands was too large for its frame while the other hand had been replaced by some form of serrated pincer attached to a power tool. The shrieking roar of mechanical hardware mingled with the smell of death, blood, and diesel fumes.

That too-large hand clamped down on her fingers and made her one good eye loll that way. Her face looked exactly as good as someone who'd stitched everything by feel while hallucinating could manage. Madison's left iris was ringed with deep red, and her pupil had blown wide, turning her brown eye an uncompromising black. It still tracked, or tried to, but there was no way for it to communicate to Madison's brain..... but much like the girl it served, it was doing its best.

"No...... N-nno. Eat......."

Eat shit, fucker! Except..... precious little of that defiance made it past her lips before the surgeon's drill spun into the spot below her collarbone that had turned into caustic fire.

In her mind, she screamed, spitting curses and anger onto her captor.

In reality, the girl turned away and let out a whimper.



Holding on to Madison’s hand as he reached for the knife at his side, it didn’t quite register at first how warm her hand was. Weston was too focused on the cool handle of the blade in his other hand and trying to ignore the wetness in his eyes threatening to spill out. Rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand, he blinked down at Madison just in time to see her turn away.

The dead didn’t whimper. They growled. And that was definitely not a growl she just made.

Nearly dropping his knife as he slid it back into its sheath, Weston put his hand on Madison’s face - the uninjured side - and patted it, trying to stir her awake.

“Connor? Connor, wake up - you still with me?” It dawned on him then - her skin was warm. Bloody and dirty and sweaty, but warm. Alive. Madison was alive.

Barely.

“Jesus fuck.” He huffed out, moving for the restraints on her arm and leg, yanking at them. When they didn’t immediately give away, he took his knife out and sliced through them.

“Connor, talk to me. We need to get you out of here - you need help, right now. Do you know where you are? What happened?”



The surgeon melted into blurry mush, meat and rusted iron grinding together in a stinking horror that had claimed her and would claim her....... but the voice that filtered through her personal machine-fueled hell was..... familiar.

"A-abe?" Her voice was a croak, but it was there, tremulous with false hope, a timid, frothy lace curtain laid over the ruin of her body and mind.

The palm on her cheek was shade and sweet water. Cool against the oppressive heat of her skin. Rough with callouses. Familiar. Kind.

Beautiful.

It fell away and the restraint around her wrist with it. That was.... Good? Bad? It was hard to tell. Her hand reached out, the ligature marks around her wrist making for a lurid bracelet and her fingers fumbling for something to grasp.

"Thought...... thought you......." Thought you'd left.

Her hand abandoned its search and lifted to her chest, scratching at the fire that spread in angry reddish streaks out from the bullet hole, comparatively small though it was. Abraham wouldn't just leave her. He'd been good to her. Helped her. He'd been there. She owed him big time. Embers smoldered beneath her skin, her anger made manifest in a way she couldn't control or stop. If she could just.... tear it out, it might..... She might...

"You..... Gotta....." He needed to do something, she was sure. Jackals waited at the door, pawing at the grime and watching her with cool, impassive eyes. A violin bow drew itself across taut strings, and bone slid against bone.

She failed.

Connor gasped and the air was a bolt of shame that went right through her.

Yeah, well, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

Focus.

"Head....... hurts..... " The detective tried to focus on grandpa's face with her one good eye and nearly swooned with the pain of it. "I'm..... I'm-m-m thirsty....."



Weston had been in a position like this before. Not nearly as bad, not nearly as far gone, not quite so much like delivering girl scout cookies right to death’s door and knocking to come inside. But the delirium, the fever - that was familiar, and he knew it was bad news.

“Who’s Abe?” He questioned as he got the second restraint on her ankle free, tossing it to the ground as he slid his knife away. A quick glance around the room showed the cabinets were all open, already picked through, empty containers and packaging strewn around. Judging by the bloodied smudges and handprints everywhere, it looked like Madison had done the searching herself. No signs of anyone else in here, and the only muck-prints were his and Madison’s. It dawned on him then - she had done this all herself. If there was anyone else with her, they were gone, and hadn’t bothered to stick around and help.

As much as his heart hurt seeing her like this, he was goddamn impressed.

“Went back to Lincoln? Yeah, but I came looking for you. Didn’t know where else to start.” He pressed the back of his hand to Madison’s forehead, confirming what he suspected. Burning up.

Sliding off his backpack, he dropped it on the gurney between Madison’s feet and dug out a water bottle and his first-aid kit. He made damn sure to travel with a good one; it could mean the difference between life or death these days. Case in point: right now. Popping open the old plastic container it was all stashed in, Weston grabbed a bottle of antibiotics and a bottle of over the counter pain relievers. Not as good as painkillers, but better than nothing - and with the added benefit of trying to tackle her fever. Shaking the pills out into his hand - three in total - he uncapped the water bottle, tucking the pills into his fist so he didn’t drop them.

“Lets get you sat up. No drowning.” She didn’t look like she’d be able to attempt small sips while rolled onto her good side, so the only way this was going to safely work was if he got her sitting up. He slid an arm under her shoulders and carefully tugged her upwards - making sure not to move too fast.

“I have water and pills for you. Open up. You need this.” He held the water bottle up for her, ready to shove the pills into her mouth for her so she could swallow them down. Probably one at a time - too risky to chance three at once.

In his lifetime, Weston had seen a lot of fucked up things. A lot of dead bodies. A lot of people shot, stabbed, beaten, even blown up. But not once had he ever seen someone shot in the face and then alive to tell the tale afterwards. It was far from pretty to look at, which was a damn shame - Madison didn’t deserve any of this. Not one bit. Hopefully her faculties were still intact, if she made it through this.

“Drink up. I’m not leaving you.”



Lincoln? That name was familiar, too, and not in a good way. Something was bad at Lincoln, something dangerous beneath those waters. Whatever was there would be death for an old man, even if he..... even if he......

The disconnect between Abe and what she'd thought of Abraham only increased when he slid a hand beneath her back and lifted her up like she was made of glass. There wasn't any shake in his arms, no fragility in old bones. It felt good to be semi-vertical, somehow, even if the world went smeary-sideways and kept going even when her head stopped moving.

"Don't...... Link-on." She looked up and into a face that was and was not known to her. "Raid...... Raiders."

Warning given, she let her lips part, and tried and failed to lift her bum arm to take the water. One bitter seed at a time, her garden was re-planted, tiny sips of rain sliding down her throat with the smallest, sweetest joy she could remember. They would grow inside her, these seeds, curling green tendrils around the slippery meat of her organs, feeding on her corpse and making life anew. Plant her deep, let her roots grow down and down so children might one day feast on her watermelon heart.

Thirst made her drink greedily, filling her stomach until the liquid was withdrawn, disappearing into the world beyond her awareness, her small island of consciousness that extended only a little ways out from her skin and faded into background hells that smeared into one another But..... there had been rain. For a few holy moments..... there had been rain.

Madison felt her eyes slide shut, but some part of her knew not to let herself dip beneath the churning tides for too long. Drowning was ever present, and more than once she'd come up gasping for air, treading water in the deep.

When they opened anew, the sight of a bearded guy had grown considerably younger.

Abraham?

"Mmm-" Connor swallowed thickly, the Ghost of Confusmas Present drawing her eyebrows together. It hurt, everything hurt, but the oddity punched through smoke, leaving a whorl of WTF in its hazy wake.

"Milo?" No..... that wasn't right. That was..... That was somebody different.



“No, shh, you need this water - and this is something for the pain, and an antibiotic. If you’re not already dealing with an infection, you probably will be soon, so let's start now.” Weston didn’t want her to argue supplies or anything right now, all she needed to do was drink. Holding Madison with his arm until he could slowly shift her weight onto his chest, he gently tipped the bottle until she could attempt to hold it herself - though he held on to it as well. He wondered if the weight of a water bottle would be too much for her right now. He was also curious about what she was saying regarding raiders. Somebody new? Or was that really the first word that came to her delirious mind when she saw him?

He let Madison drink as much as she wanted - she could have the whole bottle if she could handle it - but when she pulled away, he didn’t argue.

“Don’t close your eyes.” He shook her gently, making sure she didn’t fade on him now. If he wasn’t trying so hard to keep her upright, the Milo comment might have made him drop her out of surprise. A rueful smile crossed his face. Not a time he wanted to remember necessarily, but it was a sign she knew who he was.

“There was once a boy named Milo who didn’t know what to do with himself - not just sometimes, but always. Nothing really interested him - least of all the things that should have.”

Weston recited that portion of the passage to her as he held her upright. Contrary to popular belief he was not illiterate and was not a complete idiot. He’d read that book she gave him enough times that it stuck with him. Those two lines weren’t the whole passage, but it was what stood out.

As he spoke, he studied her face and any other visible injuries. She was such a wreck, it was hard to tell what was taken care of and what wasn’t.

“You got shot, Connor. Did you get any of the bullets out?”



The man's words came to her as though something that was somehow thicker than air but not as thick as water. She mostly understood him, even if he occasionally dipped into Charlie Brown Teacher squawk-noises.

A smile drooped over her, wispy and woeful, and recognition settled in her singular gaze. "You.....It's you....... you 'member."

Holding up a bottle of anything was too much for her, to say nothing of the lack of depth perception she hadn't learned to compensate for; Weston was on his own for dispensation. She wasn't able to hold herself up, she sure as hell wasn't going to be swigging from anything on her own.

The water seemed to have something of a rejuvenating effect, and the girl visibly perked up, backing up from death's door to death's front porch. Or perhaps this was the last burst of energy from a body that was chug-chug-chugging towards the end of its proverbial tracks.

"Got...... shot...... m'own gun..... behind." Her good hand made a gun with thumb and index finger, before Madison let her fingers unfurl.

"Head.... neck..... Can't c-c-caulk...... th'back."

The visions of hell faded, even if they left an awful, quiet dimness behind that was, in some ways, worse.

"Glad.......... You're here." This was a girl who knew the sky was falling and was willing to stand among the tumbling stars, if it proved needful.

Weston.

That was his name.

If Weston was here, he wouldn't let her turn, wouldn't let her infect anybody. As much as a girl made entirely of thorns could, she relaxed. It was hot. Unbearably so. It was painful. Unbearably so. But she wasn't going to hurt anybody. That counted for a lot.

"Got'm all...... pretty sure......."



“Of course I remember.” He murmured gently, carefully capping the water bottle back up with one hand as he held Madison upright. Her explanation as to the events, though a struggle, was all the information he needed. Shot from behind multiple times. He never really truthfully believed in God, but if there was one, now was as good a time as any to be uncertain if He was working a miracle, or just fucking with people. Madison didn’t deserve this - this slow, painful death, or if she survived, whatever kind of struggle that was going to be. This was the kind of thing that put people into hospitals and rehab centers for so long that they had to file bankruptcy twice because of the crushing medical debt.

Good thing medical debt didn’t exist anymore. Bad thing that hospitals and rehab centers didn’t exist either.

It briefly crossed Weston’s mind that maybe the humane thing would be to end her suffering now. Was this even an incident Madison could walk away from, given enough time? Would she want to? She didn’t look like she was in any state to even make the decision.

“Caulk the back?” Weston furrowed his brow, very carefully switching which arm was holding up Madison so he could take a look at the back of her head. He gently tipped her head forward, brushing hair out of the way, and saw the exit wound. An exit wound was good news - it meant there wasn’t a whole bullet left in there to rattle around. But the bad news was that meant there was a fucking hole in her head, through and through.

“Jesus Christ.” He murmured again, reaching for his first aid kit. Now it made sense. Madison’s slurred, confused attempt at explaining what needed to be done came out as caulking, and he couldn’t even in his uninjured state think of a better way to describe plugging the hole.

Keeping Madison upright with one arm, letting her lean against him, he quickly grabbed gauze from the kit and rolled it into a tube-shape, folded it over, and rolled again, working on making it just the right size to fit.

“Glad I’m here too. Listen - this will probably hurt, but I’m gonna try and help, ok? We gotta plug this hole so I can get you somewhere safer.” Maybe now wasn’t a good time to mention that ‘safer’ meant Lincoln. It was the best idea he had. It was the only idea he had.

Carefully sliding that tube-wad of gauze into the exit-wound hole, Weston held onto Madison tight with one arm in case she jerked or tried to scramble away from the pain. As soon as he could, he’d press another layer of gauze over it to cap it off, and tape it all down.



Madison felt herself be moved forwards, her weight shifting to her front, and making her wince at the pressure against her ribs and the blood flowing forwards to her face. Weston was going to help her. It was going to hurt, but then..... there would be safety. She remembered that Weston wasn't the best at decision making, but none of the specifics as to why, and it wasn't as though she had much in the way of choice.

Weston could have killed her, gutted her, stuffed her with bon-bons, and made a Madison Piñata for his friends back home, and there wouldn't have been a damn thing she could do about it. Not at this point. Then, Weston slipped something inside her.

Regret and agony flared brightly in her gaze, and Madison's consciousness became unmoored from whatever kept it tethered. The darkness around the girl liquefied into a substance not unlike runny, matte pudding. The road. The road was going to drown her. The gurney sank into inky ooze without so much as a ripple. Madison cried out to nothing and no-one. Fuck, not like this. Not like this.

Madison didn’t want to die for nothing. She was going to swim and she was going to tire and she was going to die. She was going to die a chump, shot from behind with her own gun, for no goddamned reason, Fallen Angels roaring atop her. The shadows above the black seemed to be alive with hideous, unspeakable possibilities. The taste of freedom was a dream, a fevered dream she’d had once, when things were alive and the world had color. The blue sky didn't exist. Had never existed. She couldn't feel her legs.

In truth, the pain and trauma simply overwhelmed the girl's systems, making her dry heave while her friend held her, sweat pouring off in buckets. Then, the storm blew into her mind, making her clench and jerk, her fingers becoming curled crow-claws and her eyes rolling to matching white. After far too long in Weston's arms, her brain plucking wire-tight muscles in protestation of her continued existence, Detective Jones' face slipped beneath the tar.

Nothing hurt anymore, nothing felt like anything.

Her breath was shallow and low, and her mind was mercifully absent from the current goings on.



Weston expected Madison to pass out at any moment. It was to be expected, with an injury this traumatic and painful coupled with an apparent lack of water and food. But still, feeling her stiffen like a board and then sag in his arms made his stomach flip. What if that was it? What if that was his friend’s - his only friend’s - last hurrah?

Her last words were ‘Glad you’re here. Gottem all, pretty sure.’ It seemed like a very Madison thing to say, to be thinking about how she wiped out her last target before doing a final clocking out. There were worse last words to have, like ‘What does this do?’ or ‘It’ll be fine, trust me!’ or ‘Don’t worry, it's safe’. Or ‘You poisoned him.’ Andrew’s last words came back to him.

Mind and body scrambling as quick as he could, Weston laid Madison back down on the gurney so he could sweep what was left of the first aid kit back into his bag - along with Madison's hatchets and whatever of her armoring looked salvageable - and throw it over his shoulder again. Chainmail and off-road armor was heavier than he expected, and he wondered just how in the hell Madison managed to wear this for hours on end. Weapons holstered, gear packed and ready to leave, Weston slid his arms under Madison’s legs and arms and hoisted her off the gurney, bridal-style carry.

Gear and then some, an unresponsive body, and guilt were a heavy load to carry, but Weston figured he was strong enough to carry this. He worked hard, he lifted, he fought - he can do this, right? Trying not to dwell on whether the dead man was right, Weston crossed the room, shoved the door open with his foot, grunted as he readjusted his hold, and semi-jogged down the hallway as quickly as he could. Keeping alert, he had an eye out for any lingering dead that might have wandered in, but the hallways of the school were eerily but mercifully empty.

The half-jog to the front doors reminded him of action movies he used to watch. The hero scoops up some injured bystander, or a partner, or a lover, and sprints out of danger. Maybe they’re in a fashionable suit. Maybe military fatigues with full gear. Maybe some futuristic getup with gadgets and tech-gizmos. Either way their struggle was minimized through the magic of adrenaline, superpowers, sheer badassery, and CGI so that by the time they were done, the hero was only a little out of breath and had some fake sweat. All things that could be dismissed by the next time he had appropriately badass, masculine, or humorous lines to say.

This was nowhere near as easy and Weston didn’t need a mirror to know he looked like shit. This was a fucking struggle. He was absolutely not a hero, not badass, and by the time he got back to his truck he was sincerely worried he’d drop Madison. Wouldn’t that just be the kicker? ‘It wasn’t the gunshot that killed her, but the drop that resulted in her head bouncing against viscera-hardened grass’ was not something he was willing to put on Madison’s headstone.

Weston cussed something colorful and distinctly Appalachian as he lowered Madison halfway, taking back the arm under her legs and holding her in an upright position so he could open the truck’s door to the back seat. She wasn’t a big woman by any stretch of the imagination, but an unresponsive limp body was a whole battle to hold without causing further injury, and he was carrying a now overly-heavy bag of gear on his back. He took this opportunity to let the bag drop, maneuvering himself so he could climb into the truck first, backwards, and slide Madison in after him with his arms under her armpits. It was the best way he had to keep her as steady as possible while getting her inside.

It took some grabbing and shuffling, for which he’d apologize for later, but Weston did get Madison into the back of the truck, stretched out along the back seat, legs bent at the knees. He didn’t dare put her in the truck bed - she wasn’t a corpse to haul yet - even if this meant she couldn’t lay out totally flat. Shoving the bag onto the floor of the backseat, Weston slammed the truck door shut, yanked open another, and climbed into the driver’s seat.

He had to get to Lincoln fast. If anyone knew what to do to keep her alive, it would be the doctors - not him.

“I know I told you once never to come here, but - sorry. Ain’t any better option.” Weston commented out loud as he started up the truck and made liberal use of the gas pedal, even if there was very little chance his friend could hear him.

Namazu
​

 

[Safton]

​

Lincoln State Correctional Center
The Pit

Collab w/ Bullyboy Squad ​

Xander had lingered in the dark for what felt like years. He knew that was absurd, that the real length of time was far less… but it got tricky to keep track of all that down here in the dark, with no window, no one to talk to for most of that. There wasn’t even much foot traffic in this part of the prison except when someone came to deliver his meals or make sure that he hadn’t tried to kill himself. He had spent those endless hours staring at the opposite wall: thinking. Reflecting. Going just a bit crazy… if he wasn’t already. He had to be, right? What kind of man murders someone in cold blood, not caring about the consequences and who sees him do it?

Not a sane one. Not a good one. Right?

A question for the philosophers, maybe. He wasn’t sure what his fate was. In all honesty, he was surprised he had lasted this long in the “care” of the Samaritans. Part of him hadn’t expected to make it out of the School, much less survive for days on end at their little abode. He knew he wasn’t long for this Earth, that the man on high – their “King” – was probably imagining some appropriately gruesome spectacle for his public execution. Would they hang him? Shoot him? Feed him to the hordes outside? Maybe they’d break out one of the old classics: crucifixion or decapitation or drawing-and-quartering. They seemed like the type to get off on that.

And yet, even as his mind mulled over all the horrifying possibilities, Xander couldn’t bring himself to be afraid – not for himself, at any rate. He was scared for his family, yes. Scared for Nari and for their unborn child and for Haewon and Minnie – all of them surrounded by predators who wouldn’t hesitate to exploit them if they thought they could get away with it. And he wouldn’t be around to do a thing about any of it. That knowledge terrified him. But when it came to him and his own fate, he just felt… numb, detached even. At times he had been forced to fill the insufferable silence with exercise – as much as he could manage inside the cell, at any rate. Xander knew it was all for nought. What use were strong muscles to a dead man? And yet he did it anyway.

He had just finished a set of crunches against the hard concrete floor when he heard the sound of approaching footfalls: heavy boots against cement, getting closer. Too early for another meal… right? He couldn’t be sure anymore. He sat up and stared at the cell door as it swung open to reveal two Samaritans, both clad in riot gear. One was clutching a baton, thumping it menacingly against the meat of his free hand as if looking for an excuse. The other brandished a Taser lazily, gesturing for Xander to stand up and walk toward them. “C’mon, asshole. It’s showtime.”

Xander considered asking where they were going and what was happening… but he knew there were some questions you didn’t want the answers to before the time came. Besides, these two seemed like the type to dole out pain instead of information. He got his feet under him, planting his hands on his knees and standing up with a grunt before approaching, allowing the two to cuff his hands behind his back before marching him down the dark, winding corridors of the facility. It wasn’t until he got close that he heard voices… dozens of them, maybe more. They approached a gate to what looked almost like an auditorium and he squinted into the dim light beyond, provided by a mix of burn barrels and floodlights. Then it clicked. Not an auditorium… an arena.

The enforcers opened the gate, unlocked his cuffs, and shoved him inside. “Good luck, buddy,” one of them remarked, his tone oozing with sarcasm as they slammed the gate shut behind him with a resounding thud. Xander stepped out into the arena proper and almost immediately the voices seemed to quiet for a moment as he raised a hand to his eyes, attempting to squint up into the stands, hoping to spot his people. His family. He couldn’t find them, even as he spun around desperately – resisting the urge to yell their names. That would only make them a target. He didn’t have long before a voice boomed out across the arena from somewhere on a platform above him: a cruel approximation of an ringside announcer.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Derek’s voice boomed around the place. “I don’t have to remind you, that here at Lincoln, we’re not just a community. We’re family. And anyone who disrespects and breaks these bonds, gets punished. Today you’ll witness that punishment.”

Xander heard a low murmur of something like apprehension ripple through one section of the crowd to his left. Was that section of the stands filled with people from Northview? His friends, his family? It didn’t matter; whatever protests they aired were harshly muffled by the Samaritans’ stomping feet that created an intimidating rhythm which reverberated through the concrete walls and created a bass-like rhythm Xander could feel in his chest. The announcer continued.

“This man killed one of ours. And so he will be killed by one of his own.”

His blood ran cold and he frowned in confusion. He turned to look across the pit from himself. The gate opened.

MokaChan Togy BeyondDandy NanLia Miaow SlaughterMelon Crono Aegis Namazu Good_Morels Fluffy-Kat Tool
​

 

[BeyondDandy]

LINCOLN
King's office (Flashback)
collab with Bullyboy Squad

​

The Jamaican classics shuffled through the radio on a loop. Song after song appeared to solve damnation and cure oppression. The love blasted through like a light approaching at the end of a dark and forlorn tunnel, encompassing one at the end. King stood with his hands clasped behind his back, facing the moonlight that fell upon him through the only window in his room. With eyes closed his body moved to the rhyming beats, left and right he swayed as his head bobbed to the music.

“Do you remember this one?” He asked Ignacio as he opened his eyes and turned to face his friend who sat on the Oxford red Chesterfield leather sofa. “It was Jamal’s favorite,” he disclosed as he filled two Dorsey crystal glasses with his bottle of Blanton. The sweet hint of caramel mingled as liquid struck glass and hints of vanilla and nutmeg popped as it swirled and served. King handed Ignacio a glass. “Cheers, my friend.”


Pillar of smoke shot upwards from Ignacio's curled lips, splashing against the roof of the car. Chest, covered by the school team’s jersey, expanded with another hazy breath. His skull leaned back against the headrest, body pleasantly numb. Smile spread across his face, shining in his half-lidded eyes.

“Best study session ever, man.”

He rolled his head aside, passing the joint to his friend.

“Yo,” His Spanish-tinted accent gained a bit of a ghetto twang. He liked it, his older brother not so much. “What’s this song even? Sounds like a coyote whining for his mamma.”

Jamal’s usually serious expression shattered with hearty laughter. A little silly now, so it was easy to crack him up. It became one of Ignacio’s major entertainments.

“Shut up!”

“What, hear that guy go like,” He started squealing like a puppy and howling like an old wolf. His goal, to make his buddy piss himself from laughter.

Their reaction was delayed when someone knocked on the window. Ignacio’s hazy eyes met Jamal's older brother’s scrutinizing gaze through the billows of cannabis.

Cabrera blinked and looked up at Marcus, brought back from a damn old memory. He pulled his arms back from where he had them spread on the back of the couch, straightening up. Soft smile spilled on his face.

“I even remember the first time he played it to me.”

Ignacio took the glass and bowed his head to the other man. Raising it he spoke without a shade of insincerity in his tone.

“Mi Rey.”

He took a sip. Letting the expensive taste flood his tongue and the sweet memories fill his heart. To block the pain.


King grinned at the gesture and enjoyed his glass of bourbon. He smacked his lips and smirked as the fluid settled in his chest and made his body warm. “That’s good stuff,” he expressed as he and his closest ally were able to enjoy a moment of civility among the ever-brewing chaos. Their world no longer allowed for many moments like this, but every single one of them was precious to King.

Placing his glass down, King adjusted his vest and sat next to Ignacio. The music mellowed and allowed both men to reminisce on the past for some time. King went off into memory, recalling events of his past.

Marcus gaze terrified Jamal. The boy gulped and quickly rolled down the Cavalier’s passenger window, releasing the clouds of cannabis he and Ignacio had worked so hard to cumulate into the night.

“What’s up?” Jamal asked nervously with a whooping cough. He tried to hide the joint out of respect, but his big brother didn’t care for his gesture and instead opened the door and ordered his brother to move into the back seat of the vehicle. Jamal’s eyes widened as he turned to Cabrera for a second, confused and nervous.

“Move, n*gga,” Marcus reiterated verbally, forcing his brother to fidget his way between the front seats and slide into the back, thudding down like a sack of potatoes into the hard cushion.

Marcus sat down and shut the door. “Drive,” he told Ignacio, his finger pointing forward to give direction. Jamal looked into the rear view mirror to meet Ignacio’s gaze. What was Marcus doing?

The memory was broken up by the king of reggae. The famous redemption song kicked on which called Marcus back on his feet to tune the radio. He turned the music up and moved to the rhythm of its melody. He snapped his fingers, hips and shoulders shimmying to the tune. “Redemption songs!”


Ignacio watched Marcus get up from the plush couch. His gaze tracing the man’s easy movements synced with the rhythm of the timeless melody. He quietly swallowed and offered a slanted smile. Sometimes he wondered. If redemption waited at the end of his path.

Cabrera took a hefty gulp of his drink, the bite in his constricted throat sharp as ever. He slowly bobbed his head, humming along the song. Experienced with pushing aside troubling thoughts, he immersed himself in the present. Savoring the moment shared with the man who had become a guiding figure early in his life.

The Cavalier’s door thumped and the vehicle rocked as the older male took a seat next to Ignacio. His clouded brain promptly sobered up, heart throbbing against his ribcage. He caught Jamal’s gaze in the luster above the dash, looking for the same answer. But his best friend didn't have it.

Gulping, he fixed his posture and turned the key in the ignition. He shouldn't drive, that much was obvious. But Jamal’s brother was a grownass adult, he knew what he was doing, right?

Ignacio pulled off the driveway and took them into the street. Trying to stay hyper focused on the drive he could hear a drone of bloodrush in his ears. He had no idea where they were heading, traveling through the low-income neighborhood, passing centered apartment buildings and housing complexes.


“Redemption songs!” King continued, tapping his heels along to the melody as he advanced towards his desk. He was feeling himself, exposing characteristics of himself that his subordinates could claim weak. In the face of Cabrera, King was unbound by the chains of leadership and commitment. He was his only true friend in this world and he aimed to make his night a good one.

Turning over and letting himself fall freely on his rolling throne of a chair, King kicked his feet up on the counter. His expensive Ferragmo oxfords displayed their sole and the hands that cared for them. They were pristine, much like everything in King’s personal possession. He was a man of class who’d built himself from nothing and enjoyed the rewards of his labor.

“I have something for you.” King drew open one of the drawers to his right. The old wood scratched itself as he pulled. Reaching in, King’s smile grew with pleasure. He brought out a black and gold luxury crocodile skin gift box and placed it where Cabrera could see. He slid it to to the end of the countertop, closer to his friend and flickered on the green marbled Princeton lamp porched on his desk to shine light on his gift. His index finger tapped on the box, a chuckle escaping him. “Open it.”

Twin headlights flashed on as the Cavalier trailed deeper into the alleyway. Before them, a parked Escalade. Its windows were tinted pitch black, it’s trunk flapped open towards the rooftop and it’s break lights illuminated the dead end the group rode into bright red. A man stood next to it, signaling the Cavalier closer, to which King made sure Ignacio adhered.

As their vehicle came to a halt, the Escalade-man stepped towards them. He wore a large black puffer coat, bore a full beard over his already dark complexion and a bright orange beanie. As he got closer, Marcus fixed the neck of his jacket and let the man open his door.

He stepped out, looking over his shoulders and down the alleyway to make sure they weren’t followed. “We got ‘em,” said the burly man to which Marcus nodded and dismissed. Marcus then turned to face the duo in the vehicle.

“Turn that off and come with me,” he ordered them both, eyes glancing from one teen to the other. Jamal was feeling the intensity of the situation and it made him very uneasy. Even though he was unaware of what was actually happening or about to happen, the ideas that came to mind were all dark and bloody. He knew his brother was no saint and the kind of business he was involved in - the reason for his current sense of fear. Crawling over to the front seats and watching Marcus start to stride towards the Escalade, Jamal turned towards Ignacio perturbed.

“You might want to leave, bro,” he advocated under his breath as his body started to exit the vehicle one limb at a time. He didn’t know what Marcus was planning, but Ignacio didn’t need to be participate. “Leave bro!” He advised again before finding himself in the situation at hand.


Ignacio took another sip and his brows rode up. A gift? He shifted in his spot and leaned forth, propping his elbows to his knees. “What is it?” He held the glass in both hands, watching and waiting. In Lincoln, Cabrera had nearly everything he needed. If he wanted something, all he had to do was ask his King. Or more often, just take it.

He stood up and walked over to the brightly lit desk, downing his drink. A curious smirk played on his lips as he set the glass down next to the box. Its segments of gold glinted like treasure. Back in the day, the box itself could have made for a nice present for many. He flicked a glance at the man in the armchair before picking it up. He touched the lock on the front and opened it. His gaze fixed on the object nested inside and his breath halted.

Heat clawed up Ignacio’s chest and throat. Cold shudders glissaded down his knotted back. His body's reaction reminded him exactly what he felt when...

“Back then,” Cabrera looked up, holding the other man’s gaze, “Were you proud of me?”

 

[Aegis]

A Burned Sanctuary...
Canyon, East Side​

Their leader had been as evasive as ever with answering their questions, and it seemed to Connor that any thinking that wasn't Cabrera's was just an opportunity through which to allow failure-- as far as the grim man before him was concerned, he imagined. The Penitent Man wasn't exactly unused to taking orders, but this split likely meant that Tanner would go frolicking along with Genghis Khan here to conquer what was West of these ruined homes. The Man's heart sank cold into the snow at their feet-- his face hot with flaming wind and an embarrassment at helping the conquerors conquer. If not for the Boy, he'd be tucked away at the bar, or probably not; he was well enough now to do big boy tasks. Still, he'd have been a scavenger. Connor had lived that life for months, and now he no longer had to fear losing himself in the maze of moral choices that accompanied that lifestyle.

Connor flung his eyes to Tanner-- just to try, but as he parted his lips The Boy's eyes may as well have hissed him away; the sheer heat of his glare burning the air in his lungs and stealing the words from his throat. The Man's heart twisted another notch in response as every rejection beat him down a little further. With no other choice, Connor turned his eyes back to their leader, "Roger."

The Penitent Man spun on heel and started down the side of the hill eastward toward whatever awaited him only stopping to turn to his half-dozen men and throw a flat hand vertical to his forehead before pointing at the ground behind him as he walked using his non-firing hand, the hand-signal to fall into a file at the designated point. It felt weird to lead again, and as he crunched down the cliffside he wondered if they felt any apprehension at being led by him. Was it some alien thing to fall into line behind someone like him, or was it the nature of conquerors to find merit among the conquered and put it to use? Perhaps, they thought they'd snuffed out the light in him-- they very nearly had if not for his encounter with Madison, and so now did they have it in their heads that he was one of them? Connor braved a backward glance as he stopped just atop the five-foot, craggy drop into the canyon, and saw flat faces embittered by the cold-- a few poisoned with a malicious gleam at the thought of taking whatever this community had to offer.

Maybe, he was an anomaly, or maybe Cabrera was just choosing to keep his enemies close.

Connor turned back to the task at hand and plopped down onto his ass before kicking his legs out in front-- heels digging into the icy rock, and sliding down the hill into the bottom of the canyon with a gentle squish; the fire had melted the snow in a wide radius allowing little faucets of water to drain into the canyon here and mix up into a slush that was downright bone-chilling. The Penitent Man slung his weapon up down the narrow passageway of the canyon and held security while the rest of his men funneled down behind him-- one man smashing to his knees at the bottom and soaking his pants in the slurry before growling out a low 'FUCK'.

Connor carried on forward until the low murmurs of people could be heard. Suddenly, his weapon was up as he scanned the surrounding rock-- small hollows coming into view all around as the word 'AMBUSH' echoed through his very soul, but all he was greeted with was a plea for help. His face softened and he dropped his weapon to a low ready, "Hey there, it's alright! We're not gonna hurt you."

However, any comfort his statement may have provided was rapidly dispelled by one of the members of his group greeting someone tucked into theirs.

'You're with them!'

Wait, no... it isn't.... well-- it is...

'Murderer!'

No! Hey, I'm not...

'Why would you do it to us?!'

I'm not...

Yes, he was. He was, in fact, doing it to them right now. The thought made his guts twisted up into a coil threatening to have him vomit before the crowd.

Connor trotted to a halt as though he'd suddenly forgotten how to move forward, but that didn't stop the men at his back from brushing past and forming up around the survivors. They weren't much to look at-- wounds that would surely burn into their souls just as it had their homes. Horror. Doubt. Really, it appeared that all they had stumbled upon was a grouping of children and the elderly. Wait...

The Penitent Man glanced around them, and stared off into some of the caves chewed into the stone, "Hey lads, keep your eyes on these caves and above us-- this is dangerous ground. All I see are non-combatants here, so don't fuck with them too much."

Connor approached the group, "Alright, who's in charge among you guys?"

The Penitent Man kept his weapon ready just in case, but there was still a softness to his expression. Yet, he couldn't help but to keep looking over at the man among them who had clearly been a plant all along, nor could he peel his mind away from what they had said to him as it answered his questions: yes, they had done this to them. Yes, this was Cabrera's plan all along. That pissed him off.

Bullyboy Squad Miaow​

 

[Miaow]

LINCOLN PRISON
The Family Wing

A flashback
A collab with NanLia
​

The morning had not panned out how Nari had expected - she imagined it hadn’t panned out as many had expected and while she and Cabrera had it out in his quarters, her mind had been preoccupied with her family. She’d been so distracted - startled - by the convo and needing to preserve the life of her child, she hadn’t even taken a moment to search for Xander and her girls.

Now that Cabera was gone, where she didn’t care, she was off searching for her family. First, she’d found a few from her community to inquire about Xander. Several had outright refused to acknowledge her, but soon she managed to get out that Xander had been taken to the cells, presumably where Buster was and the girls were sent to the family quarters.

She’d have to find out what happened with Xander later, hopefully when she visited Buster next, but first, she headed down to where she’d lived just days before.

Nari paused in the cellblock, looking at the few new families from her community now settled in, before turning to where she’d been living these past few months. “Haewon? Minnie?” She called out, through the sheets that covered the bars - sheets that she had installed herself for more privacy. “Are you in there?”

The sisters sat across from eachother, the jigsaw puzzle between them, quietly working away at it. Haewon knew Minnie had a lot on her mind, it would be hard not to in their situation, but she wasn't sure what she could say to make it better. Their situation felt hopeless... so for now, she tried to distract her as best she could.

Minnie sat cross-legged with Momo in the crevice between her legs. His paws rested across her thigh, his ears flat against his back as he snoozed. A few of the puzzle pieces had distinct Momo teeth-marks on them, half of the battle was stopping him from chewing on it before they could even think about putting it together. Despite that, the two of them had almosted completed it in an afternoon. Haewon was beginning to wish she'd found one with more pieces...

As Nari called out to them, the two froze, staring at each other. Minnie wanted to see her... but she was hoping she'd have a little more time to process that morning... She swallowed, looking over at the door.

Haewon got to her feet, silently headed for the door. She pulled the sheet back, their cell door already open. As Nari was revealed, Minnie gently ushered Momo from her lap, standing a few metres from the door. Neither of them really knew what to say...

Nari felt her emotions rise the second the sheet was pulled aside and revealed her girls within. She felt tears roll down her cheeks and wanted nothing more than to rush in and hug them but by the cool reception, she held back. She wiped away her tears with the cuffs of her sleeves, trying to smile and not blubber. “Hi,” She said quietly, “I’m so sorry you’re here.”

She didn’t know what else to say truthfully; she didn’t know what had transpired to bring them here, only what rumours people had told her, which had been pitifully little. “Can I come in and talk?”

Haewon stepped aside, holding the curtain open to let the heavily pregnant woman inside. There was something that felt wrong about her tears, she wasn't sure she believed a second of it. Was she emotional because she missed them, or because of the guilt she felt for what she'd done? She remained silent, her spare hand tucked into her jean pocket.

Minnie fidgeted with her hands, watching her mother stand in the doorway. She swallowed, feeling her face heat up, her eyes grow wet. Her mind raced. She wanted her mother back... but her chest ached when she remembered what she'd seen, what Nari had done. She'd waited months to see her again...

As Haewon let her in, Minnie quickly stepped forward, wrapping her good arm around Nari's waist. She didn't squeeze too tight, despite how much she wanted to, burying her face into Nari's chest as she sniffled. Infidelity wasn't exactly the worst thing she'd witnessed in the past few months.

Nari released a breath she’d been holding in worry that the girls would deny her, that they would send her off and she shuffled into the cell she’d occupied days before. The moment Minnie approached for a hug Nari wrapped her arms around her and held her, brushing her hair back. “I’m so sorry.” She spoke quietly, wanting nothing more than to take all of this away. “I didn’t want to leave you, or the school.” Or Xander “But I wasn’t given a choice. Cabrera sent me here and he didn’t even let me say goodbye.”

She looked at Haewon, angling Minnie to move to the bedside so they could sit at the edge. “What happened? I haven’t been told anything that happened after I left, except what I heard today.” She shook her head. “Tell me everything, please.”

---

Nari listened, horrified, disgusted and enraged at what the girls told her. Starting from the very same day she’d been hauled out of the school until the seconds after the hoard had been cleared and Xander had killed Dutchess and Minnie had confronted Weston and Cabrera before leaving the school. This was information that could certainly put herself in a far worse situation.

It was almost too much to hear, too much to bear but she didn’t stop them, didn’t ask them to refrain from any details and didn’t interrupt their train of thought - she let them spill everything they had felt and seen since she’d been gone.

She swiftly learned that both of her girls were falling into the same problem she had; confronting the bullies. Nari had the time to mull over her mistakes, most specifically, the mistake that landed her here. In the world before, confronting bullies was how to stop them from bullying you. Showing them you’re not afraid of them. But now? She counted herself lucky that she’d been sent here and not something far worse.
But both Haewon and Minnie were doing what she did, confronting the men who ruined their lives.

“I’m so sorry.” She spoke after a long silence, she kept Minnie held against her side, and despite Haewon’s dislike for contact, she purposely slipped the older girls hand into her and laced their fingers together. “We’re together again, and I will do everything I can to keep you safe but we need to be smarter about how we behave here, myself included.”

She shifted so she could look at both the girls at once, she switched then, from English to Japanese, something both the girls knew enough of. “Here we listen, we watch and we learn. It doesn’t matter how angry they make us, we will not confront them. Do you understand?”

Minnie sat up as Nari spoke. She wanted to agree. She wanted to lay low until they simply forgot they existed... but after everything they'd done, sitting idly by felt wrong.
"They deserve it..." She retorted, her Japanese clunky and slow... but Japanese meant their words were concealed. The likelihood of a Japanese-speaking Samaritan passing by their room was slim, they could speak a little more freely. She leaned her head on Nari's shoulder. Part of her had hoped she had an elaborate plan... she was in with Cabrera now, after all. She was in the perfect position to slip something into his drink...

"Cabrera definitely fucking deserves it..." Haewon muttered in English, slipping her fingers from Nari's grip as she paced. She ran a hand through her hair, crossing her arms across her chest as she thought about it.
"But... you're right," She murmured, looking at Nari. She hated to admit it. She'd much rather think up some elaborate scheme to blow up the whole prison with everyone but them in it... but there was no feasible way to get their revenge and live to tell the tale. They kill a Samaritan, they die, and Minnie didn't need a dead dad and a dead sister.

Minnie slipped a few fingers up her sleeve, feeling the raised scars on her arm as she considered it. She'd done plenty of screaming at Cabrera, his boyfriend, his men... and it had done nothing. She swallowed, looking back to Nari.
"They're going to kill him, mama," She whispered in Japanese, her eyes wet with tears.

Nari’s heart broke hearing Minnie call her mama, the first time she’d ever done so and it had to be here, after all of this. She expected nothing less from her girls as both protested the suggestion of inaction. She’d learned the hard way, and it appeared both of them had as well, the best she could do now was to try and teach them how to live within it. She gently petted Minnie’s hair, tucking the stands behind her ear, then watched Haewon as she paced.

She continued, in Japanese. “We can’t stop that. Xander made a mistake - he forgot to think first and he killed Dutchess. We live in their rules now, their laws. They can change them when they want. So we will listen, we will watch and we will learn. One day we’ll know enough to stop them, or at least know enough on how to get away from here.”

Nari paused, looking at both Minnie and Haewon for emphasis. Switching back to English, lest they attract unwanted attention. “We’ll be okay. We’re together again and I won’t lose you again.”

Minnie took a shakey breath. We can't stop that. Her heart sank... but what had she expected? Nari didn't love Xander anymore, she loved Cabrera, now. She wanted someone to be as angry as she was and show it. She looked away from Nari, unsure what to say. It felt... unfair. Cabrera had killed. Plenty of Samaritans had killed. This was a prison, at least one of them had to be a convicted murderer, and all they got was prison time. That was fine: Lock Xander up for a little while, let his family visit, then, when he was rehabilitated, free him again!

She brushed Nari's hand away, getting to her feet. Her hands trembled as she clenched her fists, pushing her feelings down. She didn't want to yell at Nari. She missed her so... goddamn much. She wanted to hug her. She wanted to scream and kick her out of their room.
"I need the bathroom," She murmured, brushing the blanket aside and disappearing through the doorway.

Nari felt her heart die a little more as Minnie pushed her away and then left. She fought back tears as she stood and faced Haewon. “Go after her, stay with her. Don't let her out of your sight, if you can.” She turned to step out of the cell then paused. “And try to stop her from fighting them, both of you. We can't survive this if we keep doing the same thing over and over and keep getting beat down.”

She left then, unable to stay any longer, not without breaking down and sobbing in front of them. She had to be stronger than that now.

Safton Bullyboy Squad
​

 

[Bullyboy Squad]

LINCOLN
The Pit​

He could taste it on the cool air. The stink of those that stood there before him. Heated bodies strained by stress, driven insane by anticipation. The peculiar sour reek of fear. It called to the hunter in him.

He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t in a rush either.

The chant took up with the rhythm of stamping boots. Raw energy pulsing in the concrete above his head vibrated in his muscles. That sweet, pre-battle high.

The door finally flung open, flooding the cell with pale light. The silver shine tore one shoulder and the side of his face out of the darkness, the rest of his poised body remained in the shadow. The sight made the guards falter like dumb deer in the headlights. He bared his teeth at them, grin sharp like a blade at midnight.

One of them dared to step inside and circled him wide. A cold gun pressed against his back, prompting a low growl. He moved forth at a leisurely pace until the cavernous room expanded before them and the crowds grew louder. He strutted into the open, all eyes on him.

Buster showed teeth in a brazen smile when Xander’s gaze set on him. His green irises glinted like a wild beast in tall grass. Unhesitatingly he strode forth, bare toes hitting the compacted dirt on the floor of the makeshift arena. Flash of amusement in his smirk.

“We all gotta die sometime, Bossman.”

He sprung from place. Lower stance, arms at ready. About to drive his shoulder into the other man and knock him off his feet.

MokaChan Togy Safton BeyondDandy NanLia Miaow SlaughterMelon Crono Aegis Namazu Good_Morels Fluffy-Kat Tool
​

 

[Bullyboy Squad]

LINCOLN
Cabrera's Bedroom, night of the arrival
collab with NanLia

His boots rhythmically knocked against the ground. Shirt clung wet to the muscle under the jacket. Whole body tight with the tensions of the day. He really needed it. A moment. At least a goddamn moment to himself. Swinging the door open and closing behind him Ignacio caught a glimpse of warm light in the corner of the room. He turned to face the woman who, curled on an armchair, read a book under a small lamp. Cabrera drew in a sharp breath. He forgot she’d be there, mind occupied by the conversation he had with King.

Wordlessly, the man walked across the room towards the drawers to retrieve fresh clothes. The limp in his leg became more evident now that he stopped pretending he didn’t have a hole healing on the side of his thigh.


Nari sighed heavily as she stared off into space, book open on her lap as she contemplated her current situation. She’d spent much of the day alone, at least after she’d met with Haewon and Minnie. She’d wanted to reconcile with the girls, to have them close like they had been at the school. Their happy little family together again. That hadn’t been the case, nor did it seem likely to ever be that way again.

Her head snapped up as the door opened, eyes darting to the man as he stepped into the room, his room and glared at her. She said nothing as he collected clothing from the dresser. She adverted her eyes back to the pages of her book and frowned … she couldn’t recall where she’d left off and flipped back several pages.


Ignacio disappeared in the bathroom. He inhaled sharply when cool water hit his naked chest and cascaded down his fatigued body. The skin stretched over dense muscles slowly regained its normal color after days of a pale face and healing bruises. He pushed his head under the stream, his hair drenched in seconds, big drops dribbling down his scruff. The man didn't shave for a few days, his jaw was getting itchy.
Cabrera was outside minutes later, wearing sweatpants and a dark t-shirt, gear in hand.

“What are you reading?” He asked without looking over, setting the vest and the harness over the drawers.


Nari held her breath, pointedly keeping focused on her book until Cabrera left the room and she heard the shower start. She didn’t know why she hadn’t recalled that he would be staying in the room - his room - with her. She sighed and attempted to re-read the page she was on again and then ultimately gave it. She’d spoken with Haewon and Minnie today and it had been far less happy than she had desired. Minnie wanted her to stay with them and she truly wanted to, but she had to maintain the ruse. Haewon had been cold, with good reason and Nari worried now she’d lost any trust the elder girl had with her. Nari blinked as Cabrera spoke, and she flipped closed the book and turned it so he could read the title.

“Water pumps and pumping systems. It was left on my desk one morning, the main water pump for the prison keeps stalling and I’m trying to figure out why.”


Cabrera glanced at the cover after catching movement in the corner of his eye. That wasn't a title or answer he expected. The side of his mouth pulled to a faint smirk.

“Classic bedtime literature.”

He left his gun on the nightstand and walked over to the large table. Began unfolding some maps, searching for something. His mind briefly drifted to the two girls. He wondered what they had told her.


Nari blinked at Cabrera and his almost amused statement and his slight smirk. She’d never expected to see or hear something like that, even as minuscule as it was, out of him and certainly not after their conversation this morning. In fact, she had been positively certain that he would return at some point for a second round of scolding. She watched him head for the table, looking over maps that had not been there before he returned then looked back at the book on her lap.

“Can I see him?”


Cabrera’s jaw clenched and he kept his eyes on the map. If she tried to aggravate and awaken fresh anger she was close to accomplishing the goal. The man slowly exhaled and turned another large page.

“No. And don't ask me again.” He opted for a glance to emphasize his statement. “Ever.” His hard gaze expectant. Searching submission in her eyes.


Nari waited in silence for Cabrera to acknowledge her. Why did she expect any other answer from him? She held his gaze for a time, waiting to see if there would be anything further from him but when nothing came but his glare she nodded stiffly. She wouldn’t risk Xander or herself asking him again, nor would she be dumb enough to ask someone like Weston either; going around Cabrera didn’t seem the brightest of ideas. She could only hope that Haewon and Minnie would get to see him instead. She closed her book and set it on the dresser, standing from the armchair. She rifled through the first drawer, finding a fresh pair of PJs, or what would pass as them, and then shuffled toward the bathroom to get ready for bed.


Cabrera looked back at the map and shook his head, loudly huffing. He could use a drink. His gaze drifted up to the distant bar that was well stocked and rarely used. He hesitated before walking over there to fix himself a quick glass of whisky, no ice. Pity. He was halfway through his drink, leaving notes on the side of the map with a pencil, when realization hit him. The glass thumped against the desk and his steps thudded towards the bed. He threw the covers and sucked in a breath. Fuck. No. Without giving it as much as a quick thought, he hurled himself at the bathroom door, throwing it open.

“Are you touching my stuff??”


Nari closed the door behind her and sighed, being alone for the first time since Cabrera had returned and she missed it. She set her pyjamas on the counter beside the sink, little more than an oversized men's shirt and a pair of loosen cotton pants. She turned to the shower and turned on the taps, hoping the water would heat up enough to take some of her stress away. As she started to undress, Cabrera burst through the door. She gasped, clutching her shirt to her chest.

“What!?!” She exclaimed, she scrambled to pull her clothing back over her head. “What are you talking about?”


Cabrera froze in the doorway, squeezing the doorknob. His gaze shot down her body, stopping on the belly. The sight successively derailed his train of thought.

“My…” He looked up at her face, reminding himself of the issue at hand. He had a reflex he had to control, so it seemed he needed too long to find his words. “My stuff. Did you take something from my bed?”


Nari held the hem of her shirt down, as though somehow it would flip back up and over her head without her prevention. She stared at the man, enraged in a very different way than she’d ever seen him before. She looked around the bathroom desperately searching for what she could have touched that made him angry. It hit her suddenly : the coat and her eyes widened.

“Yes… Yes, I moved it. To the closet. I hung it away from the other things…” She paused, then softer. “I didn’t think you’d want me sleeping on it.”


Cabrera exhaled sharply. Of course it was in the closet. Of course the woman hung a jacket in the closet. He was a goddamn idiot. Giving her a quick one over he promptly pulled back, yanking the door with him.

“Carry on.” He shut the thing and gingerly rubbed his face, groaning at himself. His gaze cruised to the closet. He stared in silence, hearing his heart in his ears. Finally he walked over and grabbed the knob. He was ready to turn it but… He didn't. He shouldn't. He was no longer alone. He wouldn't get a chance to tap into the thin thread linking him to the man he once was.


By the time he heard the water turned off, Ignacio was back by the desk, finishing the markings around the new camp. He was going to send a few men there and he wanted them to be prepared for all that the scouts recently reported. Back at Northview. When things were easier. But they turned out to be a lie. Cabrera picked up his glass and with a flick of his wrist downed the fiery contents.


Nari stared at the door after Cabrera closed it with a simple carry on. Anger boiled in her and she wanted to chase him out and give him hell for bursting in on her half dressed! She closed her eyes and exhaled, calming herself and taking her own advice of not confronting him.

She showered, swiftly, and dressed, leaving the bathroom and making a bee-line for the bed and climbing in. This moment she hadn't thought through… where was he going to sleep?


Cabrera watched her approach the bed before refocusing on the maps and notebooks. He slowly exhaled and closed all of them before heading to the bathroom. He was gone for a few moments, however long it took to brush your teeth right. He was passionate about mouth hygiene.

Back in the bedroom, the man headed for the exit. But he didn't leave. He killed the lights and everything drowned in the faint, silver glow. Shadows played on the bare walls and moonlight casted fleeting patterns on his naked back after the man pulled off his shirt. A few old, military tattoos and fresh shrapnel scars littered his skin. But compared to others in Lincoln, he was missing gang ink. Ignacio turned to face the bed and the woman, the shine highlighted her pale features. He crossed the room to his side and removed his sweatpants, placing his clothes on a chair. Cool air wafted under the covers when he picked them up. The bed creaked as he slid himself beneath them and the mattress sighed with his added weight.


Nari had started to doze off almost immediately, though her anxiety prevented her from falling asleep fully. When he emerged from the bathroom and shut out the lights she was fully awake once more. Moments later she felt the sheets move and the mattress depress and she made an effort to scoot to the edge of the bed.

“You better be wearing underwear.” She grumbled, attempting to make herself comfortable but maintain their distance.


He felt the air grow heavy, charged with the burden of their forced arrangement. He relaxed on his back, listening to their breaths. Then he looked to the side, seeking her gaze when she said that.

“Why? When you told them the kid is mine. When you laid in my bed and dragged me into this. Were you not ready to get physical?”


Nari glared at Cabrera in the darkness, as he questioned why she'd ever be upset at his nudeness. Maybe it was the darkness giving her confidence, or perhaps the emotional and physical pain had been too much but she let her dark thoughts answer instead.

“Won't that upset your boyfriend? Weston was it?” She immediately regretted her words, not because she fear reprisal but because she always strived to be kind, even if the person may not deserve it. “Sorry.” She whispered quietly.


He needed a moment to actually register what she said, blankly staring. That little brat told her?! Of course she did. She told every-fucking-body. Didn't matter…

“No you're not.” He said with a stone cold tone. “Don't say you're sorry while daydreaming about stabbing my back. Severing my spine and watching me crawl. Am I wrong?” Cabrera didn't wait for an answer, he flipped to his side, roughly tugging the cover off their upper bodies, exposing them both.

“I take what I want, when I want it.” He growled and grabbed the girl’s hand. He pulled it down towards himself. “Touch it.”


“What?” Nari breathed, unable to understand what Cabrera was talking about. Who was going to stab him in the back? Her?! Before she could process this first piece of information he was growling at her. His fingers pinched her wrist, sending arcs of pain down her fingers and up her forearm to her elbow and shoulder. She resisted, holding her breath as she attempted to pull her arm away but when that failed she whispered.

“No …” There was no way she could stop him, even if this encounter had happened when she’d been perfectly healthy, the man could outpower her and not even break a sweat. With her fingers starting to numb she could feel the soft material against the pads of her fingers and she squeezed her eyes closed, willing it to stop. It didn’t and he pressed her hand down further into the material, her fingers slipping between a fold of cloth. She paused then, blinking into the darkness as he hadn’t brought her hand to what she thought he would but, the mattress…? A slit in the mattress. “What … what is that?”


“This is how far you can go unless you get lonely.” He growled, letting go of her hand. “So get off that edge before you fall off the bed.” He sounded a little mad. Upset? Unjustified. Or was it?

The man shifted all the way to his stomach, facing away from her. With a slow exhale he closed his eyes and tried to calm down his thoughts. But something wasn't right. After a moment he grunted and pulled up on one elbow. He grabbed the pillow and chucked it off the bed. He didn't know the woman asked for new pillows because the ones that were there before were too flat for her. Something told him it was going to be a long damn night.
​

​

​

 

[Miaow]

LINCOLN
The Family Ward

A Flashback​

The bathroom door creaked as Haewon pushed it open. The room was almost silent, 5 stall doors hanging open... and the 6th, right at the end, was locked. She slowly stepped inside, her footsteps echoing off the walls.
"Minnie?" She called out, tucking her hands into her pockets. She heard a soft sniff from behind the door, letting out a sigh.
"I'm just making sure you're not... skinning an enforcer or something," She muttered, leaning against the sink top. There was silence. God. Haewon sucked at this touchy feely stuff. What was she meant to say? There was nothing she could say to make this better.
"Do you wanna... talk about it?" She eventually asked, tilting her head a little.
"Can you go away?" Minnie murmured, her voice echoing from the stall.
"No."
"Why not?!"
"Nari told me not to."
"Who cares what Nari wants?!"

Haewon sighed, running a hand through her hair.
"It's not just Nari. It's my job to make sure you're okay. It's been my job since you were born," She responded, "Look, can we at least have this conversation in our room? It stinks in here," and, there were plenty of female Samaritans wandering around that could stumble upon them.
The latch on the stall door clicked open and Minnie emerged.

As the two returned to their room, Minnie immediately returned to her bed, kicking her shoes off and pulling her duvet over her head. Haewon huffed, crossing her arms as she watched from across the room. She took a seat on her own mattress, watching the lump under the blankets breathe.
"I know you're mad..."
"Aren't you?!"
"Well, yeah, but..." She paused. The fuck was she meant to say? She reached out to touch what she assumed was Minnie's arm beneath the covers, but she quickly yanked it away at the touch. Instead, she rested her arms on the edge of Minnie's mattress.
"I wish I could go back and fix it, Minnie... and we'd have two parents that loved each other... and twenty Momo's," She told her, resting her head on her arms, "And you'd have slept next to me so I could have made sure you were safe... but I didn't, and I can't take it back."
There was no movement from beneath the blanket, just rhythmic, quick breathing...
"But... I'm here, and I won't be going anywhere."
"I'm not worried about that..." Minnie murmured, her voice a little muffled. Haewon was always there and, when she wasn't with her, she always came back.
"Then... what are you worried about?"

Minnie slowly sat up, the duvet slipping from her head, her hair a mess. Her eyes were tired, her cheeks shining with moisture.
"Is it gonna be like mom all over again..?"
"What do you mean?" Haewon frowned.
"You know what I mean..." Minnie murmured but, meeting Haewon's gaze, it seemed she didn't, "She cheated, then she had a baby, then your dad left, then she--"
"Nari wouldn't do that," Haewon interrupted her almost paranoid rambling, sitting up straight, "We know her. We know she wouldn't do that."
"You knew mom, before me..."
"If she tries, I won't let her do that," Haewon assured, holding a hand out to Minnie. Minnie hesitated... before taking it, "If she hurts you... I'll hurt her back."

---

The two sat on the floor, either side of a jigsaw puzzle. Momo had returned to his designated spot: The space Minnie's legs left when she crossed them. He fit perfectly there, his ears flat against his back, his eyes closed...
"Why do you think she... did it?" Minnie murmured, not looking up from the puzzle as she rested a piece on top, trying to figure out which part of the pattern it correlated with.
"Well... she was gone for a while..." Haewon began, but her eyes met with Minnie's... That wasn't what she wanted to hear. She didn't want to hear about a lonely woan, missing her husband, falling into the arms of a tall, dark and ugly handsome stranger... She didn't want an actual answer.
"I don't know," She replied simply, trying to look busy with the puzzle.
"Why did--" Minnie started once more... but sighed, burying her face in her good hand. She had so many questions. She took a fistful of her hair into her hand... She just needed something to cling to.
"Hey--" Haewon muttered, sitting up straight. She shuffled to the side of the puzzle, touching Minnie's knee to the disapproval of Momo. "You're gonna drive yourself mad if you keep asking that."
Nari was good. She was kind and helpful and taught them things they'd never expected to learn in their lifetime... and Xander was good. He looked after her when she was sick, he comforted her when she had nightmares, he took the couch when she couldn't sleep in her own bed anymore... Yet, Nari was sleeping with the enemy, the man who had taken her home and threatened to do unspeakable things to her... and Xander was a murderer. Minnie couldn't fathom it. She wanted to be rational, to rationalize what she'd seen... but she couldn't.
Haewon swallowed. She knew why Xander had done it. He thought they were dead, they'd stared at Minnie's shoe together... but telling Minnie that... She knew what she was like. Xander thought she was dead, he thought she was dead because he didn't know where she was, he didn't know where she was because she'd snuck out, so Xander's death was her fault. She couldn't tell her... at least not yet. Maybe she was an adult, maybe after she got some therapy. Her eyelids and nose were red and sore... Haewon simply couldn't bring herself to tell her.
"The puzzle wasn't the only thing I took from the school..." She piped up, hoping a distraction would be what she needed. Minnie met her gaze, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Haewon smiled at her before grabbing her backpack. She hadn't wanted to spoil all of her surprises at once, she wanted to leave something for moments such as these... She retrieved a pack of cards.
"I dunno if all the cards are there... Guess we'll find out, right?" Haewon began, tipping the cards out into her hand and shuffling them, "Did I ever teach you how to play blackjack?"
Minnie paused, sitting up and watching her set up the game. She shook her head.
Good. Haewon thought. She needed something to keep her mind busy, something to stop her thoughts from wandering.

MokaChan Togy Safton BeyondDandy NanLia Crono Aegis Namazu Good_Morels Fluffy-Kat Tool
​

 

[BeyondDandy]

LINCOLN
The Pit​

The crowd broke into a choir of excited roars. They struck their heels against the bleachers to form a heartbeat-like tune. One-one-two they thumped. King watched from above in anticipation and excitement. He fixed on the gate, watching Font approach under the control of guards. The enforcers pulled open the gate and shoved Font into the mercy of the crowd. Silence followed, creeping through the bleachers like a gust of soft wind. In the silence, a clap ensued. King struck his hands together as though forging thunder from dark clouds. He chuckled and grinned as the crowd revived alongside him. The roars returned and the games prepared to begin.

King turned around and faced Weston and Tigran. The audience muffled the pair's voice, but King still understood. "Do not assume," King insisted before turning his back to the young man. If Tigran did not watch his tongue, he would meet a similar fate. Tigran had no claim on Valentine. She had been a good soldier but paid the ultimate sacrifice for her devotion. She was lovely, but replaceable - King suffered no true loss.

"I want to watch the action. It has been a while since I enjoyed the night out. My office can only bring me so much joy," King explained to Weston. The truth was that he wanted to involve himself more in the actions of his prison. It had become clear that a rebel force formed under his absence and that was unacceptable. This group believed they could overthrow him by finding cracks in the system. King presented himself before the crowd to show that his way would always triumph. King created the arena to discipline those who questioned his authority. The death of Font would give Northview a preview of what came of disobedience.

Like a wolf edging through the shadows, Buster stalked its prey. His muscles inched into the light of the arena and the crowd broke into cheers. King smiled as the man reminded him of Cabrera. He possessed an animalistic nature, a carnivorous impulse that brewed from years of neglect. King could spot an individual broken inside from a mile away. He thrived on it. He couldn't help but inch his chest into the railing as Buster broke free of the darkness and lunged into action. "This is going to be good!"

Namazu
NanLia
Bullyboy Squad
Safton
Crono
Miaow
Aegis

 

[NanLia]

LINCOLN
The Pit​

Nari ignored Haewon’s final statement. Not that she disagreed with the girl; she often heard the same from others from their community as she interacted with them daily. She ignored the statement because if didn’t she might be forced to do something about it, one way or another. Speaking those words aloud was treason here, he was King’s right hand, even if he wasn’t present in the prison. A slight against Cabrera was one against King and she’d been here to witness what happened to traitors here.

She continued to hold Minnie to her side and kept gently stroking the girl's hair, praying that today would end quickly and in the least painful way. She wanted to Xander to survive, without a doubt. She wanted nothing more than to see her husband live. It would give her hope that maybe one day he’d get to see his child, even if it were at a distance. It gave her hope that maybe they could be together again one day. But those thoughts were selfish. For him to get there, for him to reach that altogether splendid and horrid fate he would have to suffer in the pit. He would have to kill, again.

Nari also did not believe that today's fight was in any way fair. She truly believed that, even if Xander had won his freedom it wouldn’t be granted to him. That no matter what today was his final day on earth. She’d wept plenty over this thought, this knowledge in the weeks he’d been imprisoned, all privately. She knew the necessity of keeping herself outwardly cold, impassive to what happened to Xander, even if she was dying on the inside.

The crowds swelled around them and she felt her heart race within her chest. The announcer called out today’s combatants. She watched as Xander was shoved and harried down the cage corridor to the centre pit, seeing for the first time in nearly six months. Nari had to look away and swallow hard, being here, watching this was swiftly proving to be too much. The hormones of her current condition raged within her. She wanted to scream and cry and fight but also run and hide.

She purposely pulled Minnie closer, lifting the girl's chin so she’d meet her eyes. She spoke, loud enough for the girl to hear. “Don’t watch.” She said, her voice wavering, threatening to crack. “Watch the people around us. Remember their faces. Remember who was sad, who was scared, who was happy to watch what happens, alright? Cover your ears.” Nari knew that if anyone found out what she was tasking Minnie to do she’d be in danger for it but she had to do something…

Her eyes flew back to the cage as a chorus of stamping and shouting meant for Xander’s opponent. She’d heard this cheer before, this rhythmic noise. “No…” Buster burst through the gates. Her friend, her only companion for the months before now stood across from her husband. Now she couldn’t look away, no matter what happened today. She was going to lose someone she loved.

Safton Namazu Bullyboy Squad BeyondDandy Miaow Aegis Tool Crono MokaChan Good_Morels Fluffy-Kat​

 

[Miaow]

LINCOLN
The Pit

A Flashback​

As the roar of the crowd filled the air, boots slamming into the ground and sending vibrations through the stands... Minnie instinctively covered her ears. Each beat filled her with dread. It felt like they were stomping on her chest, cracking her ribs, crushing her lungs... She wanted her dad. She wanted him to hug her and tell her everything would be okay, that he had a trick up his sleeve, that he had a plan to get them all out of there alive. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat as he stepped into the arena. Suddenly, it felt real. There he was, walking right into his death.

She tore her eyes away from her dad as Nari tilted her head towards her. She didn't understand her request. Why should she care what everyone else was doing?! Her father was going to die. She and Haewon had already had that conversation: Even if he won, even if he won by a landslide, he was going to die. King would make sure of it. She didn't want to think about anyone else. It wasn't her job to make sure the others were okay. They were mostly adults, she was just a kid. She'd spent her whole childhood worrying about adults. She wanted to lay down, curl up, and pretend she was somewhere else.

Somehow, the shouts seemed to become louder. Her head shot back towards the pit. It was... Buster. The man who had gotten himself here just to protect her mother. Her mind raced. Maybe this was good! She looked to Haewon.
"It's Buster!"
Buster liked them. Buster was there, in the infirmary, he gave her sweets when she was hurt, he got himself put here for them... Maybe, as some sort of miracle from above, he'd throw the match. Maybe he'd give some triumphant speech about how he refused to kill one of his own, that Xander deserved to live, and it would be so moving that King would agree. Yes, Xander wasn't an innocent man, but he didn't deserve to die. King would change his ways, the prison would become sort sort of utopia with Momo and his twenty girlfriends and rolling fields of crops and strawberries in the greenhouse and they'd be a proper family again...
"Look away," Haewon instructed, only briefly glancing from the fight.

Buster lunged for her father. Minnie felt her heart break, her stomach twist, and the air escape from her lungs. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it wasn't Buster. That was the only explanation. He was just a guy, a Samaritan, who coincidentally looked just like Buster. She couldn't look anymore, returning her head to Nari's chest. She shut her eyes tight, her hands clutching her ears...

She tentatively opened her eyes... They were on the edge of the crowd, giving her a decent view of the Northview folk surrounding them. Her breathing was rapid, her chest barely expanding with each sharp intake of air. She tried to focus on anything other than the fight.

Gene was sat a few seats to their right, clutching a handkerchief as she averted her gaze. She couldn't watch, either, her eyes wet with tears as she dabbed her cheeks dry. She was one of the early survivors to happen upon Northview, she'd known Xander and Nari for a long time. She was the one to find the seeds for the greenhouse and helped brainstorm ways to make it more efficient with Nari. She was the one to give Minnie a strawberry the day she arrived, still hooked up to an IV... They met each other's gaze... Gene gave her the best sympathetic smile she could muster, quickly dabbing her cheeks. She didn't want to cry in front of the kid, she'd never done that before. Gene: sad. This wasn't exactly surprising, but she still made a point to remember it.

Pandora was the row behind, unable to sit still. This was... uncomfortable, to say the least. She knew this fight was rigged. There was simply no way he'd make it out alive after what he'd done. Her face was blank, numb, emotionless, with the occasional wince at something especially violent occurring behind Minnie's back. There was still something Minnie interpreted as sad behind her eyes, though. She'd sat herself with Mac, the other medic. They'd spent a reasonable amount of time together at the school, even if they were often working alternating shifts and only encountering each other at change-over time. Pandora: upset.

Victor was in the next section over. She liked Victor... and, from what she'd heard from him, he didn't seem the type to be keen on cage fighting. His face told a similar story, even if he was a little difficult to see in the dark. He promised to look after Xander if he lived. Someone who agreed with Weston's speech wouldn't be making promises like that, especially without knowing of Xander's crimes. He was looking at anything other than the crowd: His feet, the crowd, his bearded companion... They didn't look particularly thrilled, either... She didn't recognize him. He looked like a stereotypical trucker you'd see leaning out of the driver side window, toothpick between his lips... or maybe a cigarette, the kind of guy who might enjoy a good pit fight. Yet, he didn't. He looked almost annoyed by the display. Victor and his trucker buddy: not happy.

Behind them, right at the back with a view over everyone's heads, a pair of men. One was thrilled by the idea of her father's skull cracking against concrete. She felt nauseated just looking at him and the sick grin on his lips. His companion, on the other hand, looked just as nauseated as she felt. His friend egged him on, nudging him, prying words out of him, trying to get some sort of audience participation going. He didn't look particularly interested. She made a mental note: Tall, strong jaw and nose, long-ish hair. Not many of them had long hair like that. She hoped she'd be able to pick him out again, if she needed to. Long hair guy: not happy, his friend: avoid at all costs.

A few seats over was an equally familiar face, one she dwelled on for a moment. She couldn't think who it was. Pale, but his entire face was scattered with freckles. His eyes were brown, almost black in this lighting, he kind of looked like... Miyu's brother. He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. He looked... angry. His eyebrows were thick, it was easy to see when he was mad, even from a distance. She was sure Haewon had mentioned him a couple times, he'd been stationed in Nari's old workshop with her at the school. If anyone hated Cabrera, it was him. Haru... mad.

MokaChan Togy Safton BeyondDandy NanLia Crono Aegis Namazu Good_Morels Fluffy-Kat Tool
​

 

[Aegis]

Fort Benning, Georgia
Some time ago...​

The Georgia sun cut down on on a grass field situated just behind a timeless museum erected in the honor of those who came before them. A hushed whisper rode upon a wave of buzzing excitement as hundreds of young men and women were in defilade just behind a hill-- out of view of the families they had been sheltered from seeing for the better part of six months. Connor was situated among them, and he was no different as he spoke to his friends as to their intentions once they finally got out of here. What would they be once they got to Big Army? How they would all keep in touch and take yearly trips to Alaska to hunt; all things that would never truly come. However, in this moment, nothing meant more to them then this capstone celebration to crown the achievements they had made this past half-year both physically and mentally. They were warriors. Soldiers. Infantrymen and women.

A cannon sounded off and loudspeakers announced The Army's Anthem as a team of kitted soldiers crossed the field. The moment seized on Connor's heart as well as those around him as the air was sucked from their lungs-- this was the moment everything that had been through had led unto.

"Ladies and gentlemen, your sons and daughters have been molded into warriors capable of adapting to combat on any of today's modern battlefields."

Connor was light with glee as the announcer stroked his ego-- much like the other kids around him, "Ladies and gentlemen...!"

The adrenaline surged through his veins as the entire company of soldiers around him seemed to tense under the words, "Please welcome..!"

This was it, "The latest generation of infantry soldiers from Sand Hill, Fort Benning, your loved ones!"

Two hundred stomps carried a box of bodies up the side of the hill led on by a guide-on flapping in the Summer breeze just overhead. A roar of cheers, claps, and cries rained down on the heroes taking their first steps beyond the bounds of training. For this day, they were the most important people in the world. The moment went by in a blur-- Connor casting his gaze across a crowd in a stadium much too big to identify anyone specific in hopes of finding his father; no such luck was to be had. The Young Soldier's focus shifted entirely to keeping up the marching rhythm as they marched their moment for ten minutes across the field before heading back to be released.

----

Connor staggered out of the front door of the Infantry Museum loaded down with his entire life in four bags: a medium ruck and three duffels. The Boy's eyes scattered along unfamiliar faces until finally they settled on his father's usual flat, neutral expression, and regardless of that-- The Young Soldier beamed at him, "Dad, I didn't know if you came! I had to give up my phone, so I didn't see if you go my message."

Gregory Riley was never really the type of man to show much in the way of anything except stubborn indifference, and this moment proved no different as he silently approached and took two of the duffel's from the boy's hands, "Well, now you do."

Connor let out an unsure chuckle as he followed his father along into the parking lot-- waving at a few of his buddies who were leaving to the actual Army. 'Weekend Warrior". "Nasty Guard". That was him as far as they were concerned, but there was still a love underneath all the joking and bravado. Yet, it was undeniable that he was going home to Indiana and some of them were going straight to Afghanistan, but such was what they wanted in the end.

"So, do I look good in my uniform," Connor gulped down more air than he needed to blurt that out, "I think I do..."

His Dad had gone into Iraq at the turn of the century during Operation: Iraqi Freedom, a member of the post-9/11 'surge', and was a well-decorated combat veteran. All he wanted in life was to show his father that he could be like him, but he was increasingly afraid that he had disappointed him with every day that had led up to his departure starting from the moment his mom had nagged him into going to the National Guard recruitment office instead of just the regular Army; her fear founded in having had both her husband and son involved in a conflict where she was lucky to get the former back from. It wasn't unreasonable... it's just-- Connor wanted to be like his dad, so much. Make him proud.

"Hrmmm, I don't get why they changed the dress uniform; the Blues were fine, and now you're wearing those crummy pinks and greens. OCPs are half-decent though-- miles better than what we ended up with way back when."

They arrived at the back of Gregory's beat-up, white pickup truck and the war hero threw his son's bags into the back followed by the Boy, "Ah, yeah, I guess I kinda look like I serve ice cream or something."

"Yeah, you do."

The duo piled back into the front of the pickup-- Connor's enthusiasm and hopes of easy praise dashed by his father's near-disregard, and they sat silently for a bit.

"Listen, buddy..."

Connor's father dug into his pocket and pulled out a scratched up, sun-faded digital watch, "You did good, boy. Real good."

He reached over and took hold of The Young Soldier's fingers before prying them open and placing them in his palm, "Good job."

At once, Connor was assaulted with a wave of emotions at one of the only times he had ever seen his father openly smile, "Oh... thank you."

​

 

[NanLia]

FLASHBACK
w/ Bullyboy Squad ​

Nari slept soundly.

The warmth of her bed, the feeling of her husband curled up behind her. She and the girls had a wonderful day; they’d spent most of it outdoors, Haewon and herself repairing and maintaining the solar and electrical system while Minnie followed along, picking flowers and enjoying the warm weather. They prepared a home meal together in their tiny apartment, then sat around the table and chatted when Xander came home.

Their night had been idyllic, the last round of scavenging had resulted in a box of board games collected. Not all of them had pieces but she and Xander had been creative and made the bits and bobs they were missing. Watching Minnie trounce Haewon in a round of Sorry! had been hilarious as the younger girl had bellowed the word SORRY! every time she sent her sister’s piece back to the start. Haewon had been a good spirit about it, as she always was, playfully pouting and complaining about Minnie’s success.

Later, with the girls asleep and she and Xander were alone in bed he’d rolled over and held her, talking about his day and plans for the following. Plans for the future when he whispered. “I thought about what we talked about… And I think you’re right, it’s time we try…”

His body was on fire. Sheen of moisture clinging to hot skin. Muscles taut, jaw clenched. Breaths ejected from his nose too fast, on the verge of hyperventilating.

Cabrera wasn't aware of the fragile body he was clinging to. His own flooded with tremors. Words tried to make it past his tightened throat but all that came out was the low sound of choking. His eyes moved left and right under closed eyelids, fingers stiffly clenched and unclenched.

The softest whine of an animal dying in a snare tore off his chest and he curled over the petite body. His cheek pressed to the top of Nari’s head, arm hooked tight around her waist. “No.” Under breath. “Stop-”

“Xander…” Nari murmured, thoughts somewhere between the dream world and reality. Her consciousness slowly becoming aware of outside influences; one in particular. “You’re squishing me.”

No. Stop-

Her eyes fluttered open, a frown creasing her forehead. Something was wrong, Xander was warm, too warm. Boiling, even. His arms wrapped firmly around her, pulling her against him, far too tight. She turned, or attempted to, but paused as became more aware of her surroundings. This wasn’t her home, this wasn’t Northview. “Cabrera.” She hissed, a new energy within her as her hands, gripped at his arms, trying to pull them off her. “Let go.”

He didn’t respond, body continuing to shiver behind her, voice barely over a whisper, she couldn't understand what he was saying.

“Hey,” She reached up, resting a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Hey, wake up. You’re dreaming, Ignacio.”

The darkness swallowed and spinned him then spat out. His eyelids fluttered on wet eyes. Lips parted, drawing quick breaths. He was holding something. Holding and shaking like a baby deer. A body. He was holding a body. A charred corpse of his brother. Enemy. No. It moved. He wasn't in the Sandbox. He was holding a Biter! Cabrera violently flinched, shoving it hard with a choked sound, trying to get away.

Nari frowned into the darkness as Cabrera didn’t respond to her, at least not directly. She thought she saw him open his eyes, thought that perhaps he’d seen her, but a moment later, she was shoved, violently, away from his slick, warm body.

She screamed in surprise, cotton pyjama pants easily sliding across the soft sheets of the bed and over the edge. As she tumbled to the cold floor, she felt her face hit the edge of the table beside her bed, cutting her voice short. Firey pain throbbed along the top of her cheekbone, already feeling the skin start to swell, she was surprised she hadn't broken skin.

Her back and hips ached from taking the impact on the concrete floor, she leaned back against the bed with a soft whimper, raising a hand to press against her eye.

The thud wasn't enough to snap him out of it. But the silence that came after was. Broken only by the sounds she made.

“Fuck-” Reality smacked against his face and Cabrera rolled across the bed, quickly clicking the night lamp on. The moment yellow light saturated the space around them he saw where she laid and jumped off the edge without the risk of crushing her body.

“Hey-” He put his hand to her shoulder, looking down at her belly. “Talk to me, girl.”

Nari heard Cabrera speaking behind her, moving on the bed but she was still trying to sort out her own thoughts, understand just how her trying to do a nice thing for him, trying to *help* him through a nightmare resulted in her on the floor, her eye starting to swell closed.

She rolled her shoulder and then reached up to push his hand off of her. She did not want to be touched, much less by him. “I hit my face.” She knew better than to piss him off by staying quiet, even if this had been accidental, her position here relied solely on the man in the bed. She removed her fingertips from the pain point on her cheek and looked them over. “I’m not bleeding.”

Nari knew there wasn’t a point in dwelling, she’d been burned enough times already thinking that speaking to Cabrera in any sort of kindness only resulted in him cornering her and growling. “I’ll be fine.” She said softly, pushing herself up off the floor with effort, using the table and edge of the bed, then shuffled towards the bathroom in search of a washcloth. Maybe she could reduce the bruising and swelling if she could put a cold cloth on it now. Maybe it wouldn’t look so terrible tomorrow that Minnie and Haewon wouldn’t try and kill him.

Cabrera reached for her face to grab her chin and make her look at him. But he halted his hand when she showed the damage. Yellow light and shadow made the swelling look worse than it was and his exhale shattered. His gaze focused on her stomach. The question almost rolled off his tongue. Never did.

"Yeah. You'll be fine." Her bump leveled his face when she stood up and he looked up at her. But she wasn't looking at him. He followed her with his gaze. He was conscious now, understood what had happened and what caused it. But his body didn't catch up yet. Still trembling from the nightmare.

Nari turned on the light and closed the bathroom door behind her, turning the lock to prevent another intrusion for the evening. She frowned at her reflection, leaning as far as her belly would allow her to get closer to the mirror and inspect the swelling purpling lump with the one eye that could still see.

She sighed, knowing then that there would be no hiding the bruising and no way to stop gossip around the prison. She removed a washcloth that looked clean enough and turned on the cold water, letting it run until it was near freezing then soaked the cloth. Nari rang out some of the water and pressed the cloth to her cheek with a hiss, shuffling to move to sit on the toilet lid and quietly contemplate just how she got herself here.

​

 

[Bullyboy Squad]

LINCOLN
The Pit
collab with Safton


Xander had been standing there – like a dumbfounded child caught with his hand in the cookie jar – at the sight of Buster. He hadn’t seen or heard from the man since he had been taken away from the adjacent cell while Xander was awaiting his punishment. But now here he was: silhouetted in the darkness of the gate from which his opponent was supposed to emerge. The pieces started to fall into places now… all this time Xander had assumed the Samaritans were going to make him fight the undead or maybe one of their enforcers. Hell, maybe they’d give that burly asshole that had nearly pounded his skull into mush at the School a chance to finish the job.

But no, that was too neat. Too clean. Too simple. That wasn’t sending a message, not really. When the members of an ancient Roman legion were found guilty of misconduct – cowardice, insubordination, mutiny, revolt – the punishment was decimation. Every ten soldiers in the legion drew straws and the odd man out was summarily executed… with the execution being carried out by his own fellows, who were forced to bludgeon and stab their own comrade to death on the spot. After that, the nine survivors had earned the chance to survive and prove their loyalty to the state yet again… but the punishment and the price paid was never forgotten.

Xander understood that now. He understood King’s game, too. It was all clear now as he was able to dial in roughly on the location in the stands where “his people” sat versus the raucous crowd of Samaritans: chanting and cheering like pre-Apocalyptic college football fans. But what wasn’t clear was why Buster didn’t share his look of confusion or – at the very least – resignation. Instead, in him Xander saw only the same arrogant, dangerous grin he always did. Uncertainty trickled into his thoughts. Had he known that this is where they would both end up all along?

“We all gotta die sometime, Bossman.”

Xander was still processing that calm, straightforward remark when Buster began moving. Maybe it was the movement itself, maybe it was the change in stance that preceded it (something immediately familiar to anyone who had spent time on the mats) – but Xander responded on instinct before his brain had time to catch up as the man came barrelling toward him. He barely managed to drop his own weight, shooting an arm between Greg’s bicep and torso before pivoting at the hip in one fluid motion (or as fluid as he could manage, at any rate). In wrestling, they called it a “throw-by”... and 10 years ago he could have executed it to perfection. But now he was rusty, underfed, and walking around in a body riddled with injuries.



Xander’s underhook dove home but Greg’s arm latched to the man’s head, free hand snatching his waist. Their frames hugged and spun with the redirected motion fueled by the bigger man’s momentum. Disbalanced and jerked down, they slammed against the hard floor, kicking up dust. Their clasped bodies rolled until Buster’s back hit the cage, the other man half over him.

Grunting a breath, he goaded, “Gotta be faster than that.” Wasting no time, he unwrapped, digging nails into the thick black locks to peel the man off of himself. Momentarily their eyes leveled, face to face. His pupils restricted to points in the wild greens, but there was no madness in his soul. Just pure, deep-rooted hunger.



Xander staggered backwards a few steps away from Buster, trying to get his feet back underneath him as he backpedaled closer to the center of the Pit. The whole time he never took his eyes off the man as he regained his balance, panting and lifting his hands in some semblance of a defensive stance. He hardly recognized Greg in this moment. With the current expression on his face and his back planted against the fence as he stared right back at Xander… he looked less like the guy he had known at the High School – the one who had become his confidante against all odds – and more like a cornered, feral dog.

“What the hell are you doing, Buster?” Xander asked breathlessly. He knew full well the answer probably wasn’t one he would like. He had told his friend that he didn’t owe him anything… just the opposite, in fact. Xander was deep in debt to him for everything he had done to keep Nari safe. What if Buster had decided to call in that favor… in the form of Xander’s life for his own? He couldn’t say that would be an unfair trade. Even so, whatever remained of the family man inside of himself couldn’t let him just lay down and die, to allow Buster to execute him – not with his girls watching. Which they almost certainly were.


Buster sprung up, sinking seamlessly to a stance matching Xander’s. Keeping up? Easy. Greg traced the other man’s posture. Tense. Stress in the lines cracking his expression. He could tell the discipline in the way Xander moved. Formal against Buster’s primal antics. But his friend’s distress didn’t earn a reaction. The question only made him laugh, unperturbed. Lip tugged up to show canines.

“I’m going to enjoy breaking you, Captain.” In the same heartbeat, he pounced.


Xander didn’t have a chance to register Buster’s reply, to feel any sort of way about this betrayal. Not so long ago the two of them had been sitting practically side-by-side, two prisoners discussing future prospects… and past regrets. Now Xander’s confidante intended to murder him and – apparently – revel in the opportunity to do so. Xander’s brain made an unconscious choice in that moment: push sentiment aside, rely on instinct.

As Buster sprung toward him, he dipped low and sprung toward his former friend’s hips, looking to wrap up his legs and drive him to the ground.


The smack of flesh on the hard floor was barely audible through the burst of cheering and jeering of the crowd. Tackled to the ground with nothing to soften it, Greg hit the side of his head. Red trailed from the broken brow down his cheek, disappearing in his beard.

Recovering in an instant, he didn't let Xander go far. They grappled, violently entangled in the dirt. The professional clashed with stubborn resistance and mad strength. They rolled again and as Xander straddled the big body beneath him, his arm got too close to Greg’s throat. Too close to the teeth too. Without hesitation Buster dug them in the tightened meat, biting hard enough to break skin and force the man to recoil. He spat at his friend’s face, drool tinted with Xander’s blood, and he swung his arm to punch the side of the other’s skull. He was done cuddling.


Xander let out something between a grunt and a strangled yelp as Buster’s teeth sank into the meat of his forearm with all the same ferocity the dead were capable of. He had wrenched the limb back as soon as he was able, feeling the warm slickness of his own blood oozing down his wrist and between his fingers almost immediately.

The primal, feral part of his brain wanted to retaliate. To pound the skull of this man – his “friend” – into the dirt with vicious blows the same way the Samaritan had done to him outside the School. The same way Xander had done to the man he had found in Haewon and Minnie’s room. But as his hands tightened into fists and he postured up to deliver his punishment, Buster struck first. An impact thudded into the side of Xander’s head and his equilibrium wobbled, causing him to shift and slump over to one side as Greg bucked beneath him like a wild animal.

Font toppled off of Buster’s hips, the two managing to scramble away from one another. He quickly reoriented himself, forcing himself back to his feet with wide eyes and shallow breaths as he lifted his hands in front of himself in some semblance of a guard – readying himself to face another onslaught even as blood continued to pour down his arm and soak into his clothes.


Greg glanced at the blood dripping from Xander’s arm after he jumped up and righted himself. Circling the other like a bigass cat playing with his next meal, he remarked. “You don’t look too good, bossman.” He studied the glaze over the other man’s eyes. The breaths trembling his chest.

“Gonna stand there all day or gonna come back for more?” He invited with a smirk, tapping his pec.

Buster tossed a glance at the crowds, keeping Xander at the edge of his vision. “Girls are watching. You don’t want them to see you die like a coward.” He looked back, swiping at his busted brow. “Right?”

​

​

​

 

[Aegis]

Part One:
Somewhere outside the city...
Indianapolis, Indiana​

Connor hadn't slowed for the better part of an hour as he carried the wailing boy down a seemingly never-ending road choked with abandoned vehicles strapped with small glimpses into what people valued enough to take with them at the end of days-- for whatever use that had been in the moments before they presumably died. His plate carrier was swampy with a sweat and musk that heated his very being like a fire was lit just underneath the protective layer, his knees screamed with the excess of extra weight along with the strain of a labored run outside the city, and the constant sobbing of the small child in his arms was enough to grate on his mind like nothing else could. The towering buildings of the city were a reminder on the distant horizon of the danger that awaited them if they didn't keep running-- searching for a place to hide away from everyone, but The Soldier could push no more.

"Fuck--"

Connor had to tear The Boy from his frame as the child dug his nails into the outer layer of Kevlar-- the sobs giving way to a racket of jumbled words, as they desperately tried to hold on, "PLEASE-- please... be quiet."

It took everything in The Soldier not to raise his voice to a growl. However, the elevated tone of first word only seemed to incite a screaming fit from the kid who fell deeper into hysterics at the outburst from the grown man, yet Connor had no energy nor care left within him. He slumped back against the passenger's side of a Prius and let his armor drag down the glossy frame until he plopped onto his ass-- his head falling back to rest against the metal as he steadied his ragged breathing. Hands dug under his sling and threw his empty rifle to the side with a metallic clatter as he then fished his fingers under the Velcro straps on the front of his plate carrier and ripped up the front panel to reveal two clips; Connor pressed in on the release and swiftly ripped the armor off and dropped it to his left side. A wind blew through the maze of vehicles and across his overheated body-- his shirt stained dark with sweat across every inch, and Connor finally opened his eyes to a sky darkened with rain clouds. Connor shifted a bit on his ass while he stabbed a finger into his collar and pulled the soaked fabric of his shirt away in order to allowing some air to cool him better before removing his helmet, droplets of sweat racing down his forehead between locks of sweat-matted hair.

In and out. Deep heaving breaths wracked The Soldier's chest as he sat there in what should have been silence for a moment-- the child incessantly wailing.

Jaw clenched, Connor's eyes fell to look at the younger Boy across from him. Their gazes met for a moment: Connor's annoyance contrasted by The Child's desperation; it was undeniable fact that by stepping in to save him from his infected parents that The Soldier was now the sole source of stability for such a fragile existence. The sudden weight of undeniable responsibility poisoned his heart with dread. It seemed to him that saving a child was only the right thing to do, but the reality of what that meant in these times began to dawn on him, parenthood. In a world turning upside down in the course of weeks, he now had to feed and nurture a defenseless entity in a world out to sink its teeth into them both. Why? Why did he do this? Just an hour before he had shot and killed a great number of people and then abandoned everything. Everyone. Why had he elected to take on this burden?

Connor's brain spun and twisted as he tried to justify the decisions he had made to himself only to be interrupted by a shrill shriek from the child as he found another way to increase his volume, "Stop..."

The Soldier's head throbbed and ears rung from the grinding note the child was hitting in its tantrum, and The Man ran his fingers along his temples to try and massage the pain of a dehydration-induced headache away only for it to be made worse by the Boy, "Stop."

Connor ordered the Child who had no means of shutting off its emotions so easily, "Stop!"

The Man began to absently knock the back of his head off of the door of the Prius for the quarter-second of relief the impact would offer as it scrambled his brains, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

A roar sounded in the middle of the abandoned cars that startled The Boy into a silence accompanied only by a terrified stare as the Child hiccupped and shook from the fierceness of its panic. Finally, a well-earned moment of silence hung over them as Connor felt relief for the first time in weeks. The cold metal of the car was soothing to the throb deep inside of his skull, and the rain-scented wind cooled his fire-hot body long enough for him to reach down to his pocket and snag his quarter-full canteen. Then, the Child began to cry once more; this time with a volume that pulled his vocal cords taut with all the grace of a poor violinist-- the punch of his wails like biting down on a livewire for The Soldier. The Man leaned forward with a groan as he cupped either side of his head over his ears in an attempt to muffle the volume, but nothing seemed to work, "Quiet. BE QUIET! SHUT UP!"

No silence to be earned by his commands now.

Connor sat for a minute-- paralyzed by indecision, before something cold and wet dropped on his hand. Water. Rain from the sky. Another droplet hit the back of his neck and traced down his spine providing a split-second moment of relief. Fuck. It was going to rain. The Soldier blocked out the Boy and stared up at the blackened clouds above. Storm. It was going to storm.

With a sigh, Connor threw his gear back on, and approached the Kid who kicked away from him as he tried to pick him up-- the trust he had garnered before being all but crushed by his screaming; Connor's empathy was completely bottomed out at this point. Wrenching the child from the ground, the Soldier scanned the series of vehicles around him before spotting a white RV. He made a swift dash for the vehicle only to be met with a blood-smeared, open side door. The Man's eyes drew tight as he pulled the Boy in with his left arm and pulled the pistol from his holster with his right before pushing into the cabin of the RV; it was empty. The floor held a trail of blood accompanied by weeks-old shell casings, but the RV itself seemed to be clear enough. It was decently furnished with booth-style dining table in the back situated beside the bathroom, a single queen-bed, a small kitchenette, and a blind to pull that would block view from the driver and passenger seat.

As soon as Connor began to let go of the Boy, he scrambled from his arms and across the seat to the opposite side of the booth before beginning to wail once more. The Soldier sighed and turned to shut the exterior door before walking deeper inside the RV. Hard-wood floor creaked under his steps as he opened a few of the cabinets in a cursory search: a bit of food, some plates and glasses, cleaning supplies. Connor reached the front of the RV and closed the curtain separating the resting area from the front just as heavy drops of rain began to slam the windshield and roof. Turning back to the cabinets, The Soldier holstered his weapon as he fished out a half-eaten bag of animal crackers and a jar of peanut butter before plopping it down on the table across from the Boy. Connor spun open the lid of the peanut butter and dug one of the crackers, a dinosaur, into the buttery goodness before munching down on the first bite of food he had eaten for over a day and a half. Cracker after cracker disappeared until there was only a handful left at the bottom of the bag, and Connor finally looked up to the Boy who stared at the bag with a desperate desire, "Here."

The Soldier slid the remaining peanut butter and crackers across the table to the Boy before standing up and walking over to the bathroom. Connor opened the door and plopped down on the toilet in the cramped space before shutting the door and leaning his head against the thin, fake wood. What was he even doing? He didn't know. Didn't have a plan. He unfastened his helmet and dropped it into the toilet paper basket before powering on the MBITR on his vest and just listening to radio static for a bit. Hoping. Hoping someone would say something; pressing down the transmit button himself and allowing himself to entertain the thought of another person being out there was just too much for him right now.

Minutes passed. Nothing. Silence. Static.

For a second, he dared to hope as he pressed in the transmit button and killed the buzz of an empty frequency before raising it to his mouth, "Any station this net, this is Blue-2, radio check, over."

Connor held his breath.

Seconds. A dozen seconds. His face was red with anticipation, but there was nothing. He breathed. A minute-- two. Three. Five. The Soldier sucked in a shaky breath as his arm dropped toward the ground and the emotional toll of total isolation began to numb his fingers-- the radio slipping from his hand and clattering against the floor as his mind and heart emptied. Here he was, a child to take care of, no food, no water, barely any ammo. Alone. He was alone against a world of monsters. Connor had screamed, fought, killed, abandoned everything. Now, here he was paying for his cowardice and mistakes. What was he supposed to do?

Connor began a silent sob-- his face red, eyes glossy, mouth prying open as saliva arced between his cracked lips. He tried everything to hold it back, but his face twisted into that unspoken agony and his chest heaved as he stifled a wave of cries.

What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? WhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdo WhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdoWhatdoIdo?

Connor couldn't breath as he scratched at his throat unable to cry even if he wanted now, and he doubled over himself as he sucked sucked in a desperate gulp of air.

Yet, it all stopped when his eyes fell on the pistol in his holster. His right hand fell to the cold metal of the handle-- his fingers running along its grooves as he tried to steady his wheezing. Connor drew the weapon with an uncertainty as if it was the most alien thing he had ever done and leaned back-- his armor clattering with a ceramic jolt against the cover atop the toilet, and brought the barrel up to his chin. The strike of the cold metal against his skin caused him to jump a bit before he settled his weight down on it; the barrel digging into his chin leaving a circle etched in his flesh.

"I'm tired..." It was a weak whisper stated to nobody at all, "I'm done."

Connor pulled the pistol away with a careless dance of his wrist before opening his mouth and plunging the full length of the barrel inside-- his teeth scraping along the metal exterior with a sound resembling biting into a crisp apple. The taste was evil and metallic and he closed his eyes and flicked the safety off, his breath a huff around the length of metal in his mouth, his finger shaking but purposeful on the trigger. One quick tug and everything would be over. The Soldier's fight would be done.

A soft knock rapped on the door and broke him from his self-obsessed thoughts, "...mister, I'm hungry still. Do... you have anything else to eat?"

Connor sighed and held the pistol in his mouth. It would be so easy to just end this all right now. Go away. Not to ever come back as himself or some monster. The kid... would... likely die. How much better off would he be with him anyway? All The Soldier wanted to do was curl up and wait. Now that the fight in him had been extinguished-- that desperate need to live, all he wanted was to rest-- forever. This world didn't seem to have any time for such luxuries.

"Please," The small voice begged, "I won't cry again-- just like you wanted, if you give me some more. I'm just hungry, mister."

The Soldier let the barrel slide free from his mouth and fall into his lap as he continued to stare at the ceiling of the RV, "Give... me... a second. I'll be out. Just wait."

Fuck. Fuck it. FUCK IT.

Connor sunk the pistol back down into the holster, and just as he leaned down to pick up the radio it squawked to life, "Last calling station, this is Crossroads-6, I'm reading you broken and unreadable, over."

​

 

[Not Meat]

LOCATIONS: The marketplace, Dietres Eatery, Sapphire's Crystal Shop/Apartment
The bond that links true family is not one of the blood, but of respect and joy in ones life.
- Richard Bach​

Twenty-One

Rounds. The same rounds as any other day, really. First to the bakers to drop off the dress she had mended for the baker's wife in exchange for a loaf of bread and a fresh batch of buns. While Sapphire didn’t have much use for the buns yet she knew someone that would likely make good use of them, so she graciously accepted the offer and politely took her leave.

The next stop, the small electronics shop that bordered on the edge of the marketplace. Plenty of the people in the small area didn’t consider the shop as part of the marketplace but Sapphire felt as though all were welcome to the community. Besides, the little shop often had little pieces and parts that she could use while tinkering as well as a friendly face each time she walked into the shop. The shopkeep was always kind and often helped her pick out just the right pieces to complete her projects. As was the situation for this trip. She had provided him with a fix for the sign above his shop and in return he helped her find a piece she needed for the stereo that she was fixing for another shop owner. A good resource. A good friend. The same treatment throughout the marketplace, Sapphire didn’t often have to pay for the goods she was given instead bartering and trading between the shops. It made her life easier, that was for sure.

Finally, the last stop. Dietres small eatery. The decor was almost untouched from when he had opened it as a younger man. It had a clean, vintage feel to it that Sapphire was quite fond of. It was cozy, comfortable. When she was younger, her father used to take her there often, sitting and talking in the warm feeling that the establishment brought.

“Ahhh. Look who it is, the Gemstone herself!” Joseph Dietre’s voice boomed through the almost silent eatery. The few patrons who sat in their booths turned their heads but quickly dismissed the man. Most, if not all, of them were regulars to the establishment and knew the ways of Joseph Dietre well enough.

“Well, I thought it rude to keep you waiting for too much longer.” Sapphire chimed, setting her tote down onto the countertop beside them. She watched as Dietre walked around the counter, a smile playing on his lips as he went. The intoxicating scent of cheddar and broccoli soup wafting its way to her nostrils. “I brought you a gift.” She spoke, digging through her bag to retrieve the freshly baked buns from the baker, wrapped with care.

Dietres face lit up, his eyes gleaming as he carefully took the buns from Sapphires hands. “Well thank you, tinker girl. You truly do spoil me.” He lulled, voice soft and delicate as it almost always was when he spoke with Sapphire. “Take a seat, tink, a gift like this ferments a meal in return.”

“Oh… No. That’s a gracious offer, Dietre, but I’m afraid I must be back to my shop. I’d hate to leave it unaccompanied for too long as these are still open hours. I was merely running errands and thought I would pop by to repay you for your acts of kindness when my father passed.” As she spoke, Sapphire slung her tote back over her shoulder, a polite smile making it’s way through, enchanting her words with a kinder tone.

Dietre didn’t argue, instead nodding softly as if he were in quiet acceptance of her reasoning. “Well, gemstone, there are no thanks in order on your end. Thank you for the gift.”

Sapphire just nodded politely, offering him one last polite smile before making her way out of the eatery and back toward her own shop. No transaction needed, just a gift as payment for kindness that at the time she had needed more than anything else.

As the day wound down and the last of the stragglers made their way out of her shop, some purchasing goods with others offering a wave goodbye as they left, the chime to her door rang out. How strange. Sapphire was all but certain that the sign was turned off and that the last of the patrons had left. Her attention turned to the door and there stood the likes of Joseph Dietre, a package in his hands. The savory scent of freshly made steak sandwiches, likely using the buns that Sapphire had gifted, filling the room. He wore a kind smile, just the same as he always did.

“You left in such a hurry.” the man spoke, stepping toward the counter where Sapphire stood, “So once I had the opportunity I felt it only fair to repay your kindness with a kindness of my own. You must be hungry.” Dietre set the sandwich down on the countertop in front of her. The scent made her mouth water and the kindness of his actions brought tears to her eyes. How sweet. How kind. There was nothing that she could say or do to show him just how much she appreciated the gesture.

Twenty-Two

“That is not how it went at all, Dietre, and you are well aware of it.” Her words were laced with giggles, her face tinted red as she leaned back in her seat. There was a pleasant silence between them for a few moments as Dietre sipped on his drink, eyebrows raising ever slightly as he smacked his lips. There was a gentle breeze that blew the few stray strands of hair that Sapphire didn’t have pinned up. Her eyes casted away, out toward the sunset that casted a gentle orange hue on her skin as they sat on the balcony.

“Perhaps not exactly how it went.” Dietre spoke, a soft chuckle flowering his words, “However the sentiment was certainly there. The flush of your skin spoke a million words, birdie.”

Birdie. The nickname certainly wasn’t new but it was more endearing than the ones he had used when they first met. Tinker girl was nice, but it was merely an observation of her occupation, as was gemstone, but birdie? This one was personal. Likely because of the bird-like way that she nested in each place she went, his eatery included. Or perhaps it was the sing-song tone she used when she spoke. Either way, though, it brought a comforting warmth to her each time he used it. Like his own little way of reminding her that he paid attention to each of her little quirks.

Sapphire raised her own glass to her lips and took a small sip of her drink, a playful smile spotted across her lips as the duo stayed silent for a moment, basking in the last of the suns glow. “Well.” She started finally, cutting through the comfortable silence between them. “I suppose if an event such as that one should happen again, I would be blessed for it to occur in your presence. If not for the safety that you bring, but the knowledge that if things were to go awry that you would cease it from going further. That and the intimidation you bring to any suitor that dares whisper sweet nothings.” Her quiet ramble brought a glow to Dietres eyes as he looked toward her.

“Of course. I wouldn’t dream of letting the likes of someone like that man sweep you off your feet, birdie.” He replied, giving her a subtle nod.

“As if that would happen.” She giggled, shaking her head as she set her glass down onto the table beside her, “You know well that I do not mess with the matters of the heart.”

“I do. Someday you should, birdie. Having a family of your own is not a burden.” Dietres words were more so advice than a kind statement. There was a seriousness to his tone that made Sapphire glance toward him, a sad smile on her lips. “I will not be around to take care of you forever. I know you are able to take care of yourself, but you know I worry.”

“I know, Dietre. I know.” She sighed, looking back toward the sunset. She swallowed the lump that crept into her throat, “Let’s not talk about that, okay?”

Twenty-Three

Quiet heartbreak. Tear stained cheeks. The bed unmade for days as she laid on top of the sheets, staring at the wall ahead of her, numb, unable to cry as she had all but expended the tears that built within her. Not a sound passed her lips aside from the small breaths that occasionally would turn to aching shudders as she relived the painful memories of a love that would no longer belong to her.

A gentle knock. A politeness that wasn’t needed as the man knew well that Sapphire wouldn’t respond regardless. The aroma of cheddar and broccoli soup floating to her senses. Although it was undoubtedly her favorite, Sapphire remained laid just the same. A gentle sigh. Dietre set the soup down on the nightstand beside them and sat on the edge of the bed beside her. Tired, old eyes laced with sadness as he reached out. Sapphire rolled, facing away from him. The shame she felt for even feeling such a way was a heavy burden on her already broken heart.

“I’m sorry, birdie.” The whisper passed his lips as he gently rubbed her back, a soothing gesture that sent her into another quiet sob. Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. Dietres heart broke for her, knowing that there was nothing more that he could do but be there for her.

“I loved him…” Quiet. Heartbroken. Lingering as there were no other words that she could say to express just how badly she felt. She didn’t have to tell him. He knew.

Ever gently he coerced her into his arms, embracing her as if she were a young child, cooing in an act of reassurance and care. No words passed between them, instead just the almost silent sounds of her sobs echoing through the room as Sapphire cried into his chest, her heart bleeding from her chest. Dietre rubbed her back softly, resting his cheek on the top of her head. Both of their eyes closed. The man blamed himself. Had he not pushed her to find an outward happiness she would not have been shattered in such a way.

“This… is all my fault. I should never have been so careless with my heart.” Sapphire cried out, her words mufflied as she buried her face into the man's chest, fists balling the fabric of his shirt.

“You can’t think like that.” He cooed, “That’s no path to pursue. If you need to blame someone, you blame me.”

Soft hands ran through her hair, allowing her to rest against him as she shuddered. Her tears dried but her heartache remained. Even though she was hurt, even though her heart felt as though it was shattered glass with fragments piercing her in the most painful spots of her soul, Sapphire could never blame Dietre. At the end of the day he was only looking out for her and Sapphire would never discredit that.

Twenty-Four

It had to have been weeks. In all honesty Sapphire didn’t know just how long it had been since the front glass in the front of her store had been shattered but every day since she had heard the crunches of several pairs of shuffling feet below them. Every so often they would hear something shatter, likely one of the horrible monsters knocking something off of a shelf and letting it break. Drawing attention from the other shuffling beasts that filled the marketplace at the time.

People that Sapphire once knew now empty shells, their souls hidden behind dead eyes and gnawing teeth. Sapphire had watched in horror as the baker tore into someone who didn’t know he was there. Gunshots rang in the air as the man got swarmed by the monsters. All Sapphire could do was watch from her bedroom window, soft whimpers leaving her throat. She wanted to look away but she couldn’t tear her eyes from the sight. The brutality from a man that Sapphire knew didn’t have a mean bone in his body.

Then again… He wasn’t himself anymore.

“Birdie?” The gentle voice of her companion called out in the darkness of the room. With only candles left, it had become darker than Sapphire had ever seen her apartment. It was terrifying for her. Between the shuffling of the feet below and the darkness that was now her daily life, Sapphire was always on edge. Jumping even when the soft coos of a man that she knew would never do anything to hurt her peeled through the void.

“I’m here, Dietre.” She replied, her voice equally as soft. Mere whispers as to not draw attention to them being there. They both knew all too well just how dangerous noise could be.

“I made some food. Canned, unfortunately, yet food nonetheless. You should eat,” Dietre was always taking care of her now. Holding her when she was scared, preparing their meals, and cleaning the apartment quietly while she sat in the darkness. Sapphire had become a shell of herself as well, no better than the monstrosities below. Personality that once flooded through everything that she did, now hidden behind the cold interior that drove her fear.

Slowly her gaze moved from the window, peeling her eyes from the horror of their marketplace and catching onto Dietres eyes. He looked so tired, worn from worry. He never seemed afraid, though. Dietre was strong and had vowed to be strong enough for the both of them. How strong could he be though? His movements were slow, careful, as his body wasn’t capable of snapping around the way that it would have been able to years ago. His age showed more with each passing day and Sapphire could only watch as his movements slowed and his mind lost itself. Dietre was becoming forgetful. Perhaps he always was but this seemed worse, almost as if he was catching up with his years. It terrified Sapphire more than anything else. She had already lost everything… She couldn’t lose Dietre, too.

“What’s wrong, Birdie?” Dietre asked, crossing the room. He sat down on the bed next to her and reached out a slow, shaken hand and wiped a tear from her cheek. “I know that canned food is not the most appetizing meal but it is unfortunately all that we have left. The fresh produce was the first to go.”

Sapphire let out a breath, shaking her head and gently taking Dietres hand in hers, staring up into the eyes of her best friend. The lump that found its way into her throat kept her from speaking.

“Sapphire.” Dietre whispered, offering her the smallest of encouraging smiles, “It’s going to be alright, my dear. We will be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you. From the depths of my heart I vow that I will do everything in my power to keep you safe, my girl.”

“It’s… not that, Dietre.” Sapphire responded, her voice shaken and heavy with emotion.

Slowly Dietre nodded, slight confusion in his eyes as they flitted about her face as if searching for a hint. “What is the problem, Birdie?”

“I’m afraid.”

“Well surely I can see that, my girl, but what brings you such peril?”

Sapphire stared up at him, tear brimmed eyes set on his unmoving as a few tears rolled down. “I can’t lose you, Dietre.” She whispered, “You mean more to me than anything else in the world.”

A soft breath passed through Dietres lips, his head nodding ever slightly as he wrapped the girl into his arms. “My dearest Sapphire. Only death itself would take me away from you. You may not be my blood but you are my kin regardless. I wish that I could promise you the world, my girl. I wish that I could take away your sorrows. Alas, I cannot. However I can keep you fed. So, please, let us go and eat while the food is still warm, my dear.”

Dietres words only brought a deeper sadness to her heart. Only death itself would take him away from her… Sapphire feared that day would come sooner than either of them could imagine.

​