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

[Tool]

The Meeting
Lincoln Prison - The MS13 Cell Block​

The first crack about her appearance from the man named Toni got him a sharp look, but no immediate response. Frankenstein was the scientist, not the monster, and that rather well-known fact by itself meant this guy didn't know shit about shit. A practiced gaze took in the tats she could see; MS13 was on his face and in his blood, and a look in his eyes said mayhem was his MO........ but that kind of swagger was sadly immature. Mid-20's maybe? Old enough to gain some stillness if he was the deadly demon those tats implied. Detective Jones had dealt with enough gangers to know the dangerous ones when she saw them. They were quiet. When they spoke, people listened. The streets were a warzone and MS13 was one army of many.

Toni was a shallow pool.

To her credit, Sneakers cracked the whip right back in Toni's direction when the latter inquired about Sneaker's mom. Good on her. It seemed that Sneakers and a skinny, nerdy looking type had arranged to jam radio signals. Non-functioning radios sounded like a fine idea, once the rebels were in place to move. Once things got going, things would happen quick, and live radios on the side of the attacking would only give away their position for no good reason whatsoever. This wasn't an army of thousands that could send reinforcements hither and yon. This was a rebel group that could have been fed out of a single case of beans from Costco and still had leftovers for the next day.

When Weston spoke next, informing the group that Connor and Chloe had been taken along with Victor, Madison could feel her veins flood with adrenaline. Madison could count her friends on one hand and still have fingers left over. Damned if she was going to let that one stand...... and then Weston tossed the hot potato of speech into her ripe lap and she gave him a rather deadpan expression.

Did Lady Lovelylocks have no plan?

He HAD to have a plan, right?

Right?

When Toni made a second crack about her....... Madison got to her feet and smiled, getting uncomfortably close to a guy who'd never really had a chance in life.

"Was doing your men a favor. They say you's stayin' up all night, cryin' into yer pillow about how you's the ugliest cabrón inside these here walls...... so they paid me t'git m'face fucked so you wouldn't have t'be th'worst one 'nymore."

There was a beat before her hand darted out and grabbed Toni's family jewels, hooking her leg around his ankle and letting her dead weight do the rest, landing hard on the guy's chest and getting nose to nose with someone who would've been on the opposite side of an 'interview table', once upon a long time ago. Then again, Madison tended to draw the short straw when it came to working homicide, and for all his bluster, she didn't think Toni had ever killed kids and stuffed them in a wine cellar. He didn't have shark-eyes.

Though Madison didn't yell, she did speak loudly enough to be comfortably audible..... and if somebody shot her off Toni's chest, well, she'd make it a point to take at least one of these nuts with her.

"Frankenstein's monster killed everybody he want. Still lived. Pirates were feared by th' king's men. Bullet to the head ain't killed me yet. Fed a man 'is own skin 'cause he make me mad. Killt me hundreds of dead, solo. You got it in you to be rebel? Take down Kings so you be a legend? So even god know your name an'th devil fear you so bad he don't want you? Or you just some vato with old ink, hiding in th'prison they sent you, riding on courage you did before you got cuffed?" Dark eyes searched Toni's own, trying to find the man beneath the Mara Salvatrucha.

"Nobody care what father you had, only what kinda father you gonna be. You gonna be legend enough your kids remember your name? Be able to say 'I'm Toni's kid' with some pride?"

Anger at one of her friends and the doc who'd patched her back together being made into victims burned hot and true, and it felt good to have something to be angry at that wasn't herself. With a smoothness she didn't really feel, the woman rolled off the ganger, let go of his junk, and got to her feet. Christ but she'd pay for that later, but it was so worth it.

"Nobody got your kinda ink 'spect to live ferever. Only kind of forever people like us get is t'be so god damned awesome th' angels write our names on th' sky. An th'devil fear our souls."

Madison extended a hand downwards, palm up, and prayed Toni didn't try to pay her back; she'd have absolutely no recourse. Not without some serious uppers and enough painkiller to down a rhino.

"Ask me, yer men didn't go hard 'nough on m'face. Y'still got me beat on ugly. Jus' a little."

For just a moment, Madison let her eyes flicker to Weston before coming back to rest on Toni's face, and she spoke while still locked eyes with the de facto leader of the MS13.

"G'on. We got things t'talk 'bout. Maybe when yer done chattin' King, me an' Toni here an' th' others'll have some real good ideas. F'gure out how t'put the radio thing an' the dead cars t'proper use."

@ Bullyboy Squad @ NanLia @ Miaow @ kaileaf Namazu

​

 

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
The Meeting / King's Quarters​

Calling Madison an ugly pirate got his blood pressure up, but he swallowed it down - and he didn’t move from his perch when Madison got up and grabbed Toni. One eye twitched in a wince when he noticed just how she grabbed him.

He probably could intervene. Probably should. He didn’t want anyone to come to blows, and wasn’t sure just how much of a punch Madison could take right now.

But Goddamn if he weren’t proud as hell of her right now.

He was about to remind Toni - and any of his MS13 who were taking this as permission to be idiots - that they needed to work together when his walkie-talkie crackled. Worse yet, not just his radio, but Toni’s, and a few others in the room.

’Weston Jones. You’re summoned to King’s quarters.’

Weston blanched as he unhooked the radio from his belt, looking at Toni and meeting that serious look. There was nothing but confusion and concern on his face, so he wasn’t laughing either. Weston held up one finger and gestured for everyone to remain silent. He took a second to take a breath and prepared himself to make his response sound natural. He waited until after the second repetition of the message before he pressed his button down and responded into the radio.

“Jones here. I’m on my way.” He let his thumb up off the button, having done his best to sound like he was sleepy while answering. Climbing off the bench, Weston started to head towards the door to the cellblock before pausing to turn and face the others.

“I have no idea what I’m walking into and not sure how long it’ll take. Make this meeting quick. Don’t stay here, but don’t everyone leave at once. Haewon, can you help Madison get back?” He looked to Haewon first, apologetic that she was being asked to do this, though the two of them wandering the halls together late at night was more believable than anything else he could think of.

“Guys, if I don’t leave that office on my own two feet…. Don’t fuck this up, okay? And drop the taunts and arguments. For fuck’s sake. Work together, and don’t kill each other.” Weston paused partway to the door, glancing at those in the room. His glare softened as he looked at Toni, and he didn’t hide the fear on his face when he looked at Madison. There was a tightening worry in his stomach that whatever was going to happen was going to be bad, and he didn’t know if he’d be walking away from it. There were things he would have liked to say, but couldn’t, so he simply turned and left the cellblock.

Weston hurried down the hall, trying to make himself take enough time to get to King’s quarters that it’d seem like he’d woken up, thrown on clothes, and hustled to King’s from his own quarters - not from the MS13 cellblock. He was trying his damndest not to panic, but in all honesty it was getting difficult.

He slowed a bit as he passed the doorway to where Ignacio’s room was. The door was closed, the room was dark, and there were no sounds inside. Was Ignacio asleep? The sudden desire to say something to him, just in case this was the last opportunity, was so strong he almost did walk up to that door and knock. But he couldn’t.

Ignacio would have too many questions that he couldn’t answer, and he risked spending too much time there and showing up to King’s late.

Patting down his pockets, Weston took out a pen and a small flip notebook - like the kind cops carried. Flipping a few pages past lists of things people asked for and supplies that were needed, Weston jotted down a quick note:


Ignacio,

If I’m dead or missing tomorrow, look on the underside of the bottom drawer of my desk in my room.

Please.

Weston


Folding the paper over, he knelt down and silently slid it underneath Ignacio’s door. Hopefully either Ignacio would find the note, or if Nari did she’d have the decency to give it to him without sticking her nose into it.

Stowing his pen and notebook back into his pockets, Weston hustled off to King’s quarters, trying to stop the storm of anxiety and fear in his mind and chest. At this rate, if King didn’t kill him, he’d have a heart attack someday.

Westin paused at King’s door only for a moment, giving it three quick knocks before opening it and stepping inside.

“You called, boss?”

BeyondDandy Bullyboy Squad NanLia Tool ​

 

[NanLia]

ON THE ROAD



Nari cautiously picked her path down the rocky roadside; she’d already spotted a well-placed bush not far from where they’d stopped that would work for a short trip. She stopped dead in her tracks at the cracks of gunfire turning back to watch the enforcers on the bed of the truck open fire. She watched in utter confusion as she hadn’t heard a call of warning about the dead and their actions seemed desperate.

It was only when one of the guard's head split, blood splattering on the nearest other enforcer before he tumbled off the bed of the truck into the gravel beside her that it clicked. She suppressed the urge to scream (and vomit) and dropped to the ground. Nari hissed in pain, the wound on her side burning in revolt at the sudden movement but it was pull her stitches or get shot. She scrambled back to the truck, she needed to get to Minnie!

Before she’d even made it back to cover it seemed to be over, whatever had happened and someone she didn’t know was hauling her to her feet and leading her around the front of the truck. She bit back a sob as she came around to find Hughes bound and on his face in the road. At least Minnie was there, and looking unharmed. Nair fell in beside her daughter, pulling her against her side and holding her there.

She looked in disbelief at Wren as another welcomed him home. This was supposed to be a safe place; Cabrera had promised her that and he’d obviously trusted Wren, otherwise he wouldn’t have sent her out.

Nari turned to lean down and pressed her cheek against the top of Minnie’s head. “I’m sorry.”





​

Miaow Crono Not Meat Good_Morels ​

 

[NanLia]

LINCOLN
The Cellblock

​

What a cautious fellow… Elio watched as Victor considered the information he’d been provided carefully and then, seemingly, carefully considered his answer before giving it. There was something to be said about the timid; they were often shrewd and far harder to guess what their next move may be.

He smiled pleasantly as the good doctor stated he would help and Elio stepped back out of the doorway to make space for Victor to join him, then led him down the hall past open cell doors. “He had the unfortunate run-in with prison’s rebels.” He glanced over his shoulder at Victor, watching for a reaction.

“It seems, he’s their victim of misinformation.” He went on, coming to a stop next to another cell door that was only partly closed, a guard stood, holding a ragged-looking plastic first aid kit. “They set him up, you see. They lied a left this man out to hang for their sins.” He toed the door open so it would swing and reveal the brutalized man on his cot.

“Do your best, Doctor. If you please. He shouldn’t suffer for others' sins.”

Namazu ​

 

[NanLia]

LINCOLN
Bar & Club​

Chole was still asleep as she was dragged from the warm sheets and comfort of her bed. She barely had her eyes open before she was shoved against the cold wall, her arm painfully twisted up behind her back.

All too swiftly, reality came crashing in as she spied Cabrera step in beside her, uttering horrifying words. “Please.” She whispered, and someone behind her scoffed. They misunderstood, her plea wasn’t for them.

“Connor, please.” She called, louder now. She could hear him, somewhere behind her. Men were shouting to subdue him. “Connor, please don’t fight them!” She tried to push away from the wall to turn and see, to face what was happening but the more she fought the harder they crushed her to the wall until they had both her wrists behind her and in cuffs.

And then there was silence, an eerie quiet behind her and an enforcer cursing under his breath.

“Get her out of here, the Priest is waiting.”

@Bullyboy Squad ​

 

[Crono]

On the road
Literally on the road. Almost within sight of The Refuge.
​

The shouting and gunfire happened fast. Despite the gun to the back of his head, Hughes had turned it to see part of the slaughter. And he'd been about to fight back, hope that the guy behind him wasn't trained well enough or have the focus to shoot before the Marine could get a hold of his gun. Again he was sent back to that day in the road beside the wreck, Jax, Eugene, and Jamie all lined up with him. Hughes felt the pain in his leg that was no longer there, the ache. But then he was pulled back to reality and it was over quick and he could tell they were outnumbered and instead he'd just clenched his fists in frustration. These Samaritan's hadn't been his men, his brothers, hell he only had known one of their names. But they'd still been under his command to some extent. The moment he tried to turn his head and shout at whoever was behind him was met by a harsh shove, and Blake's face hit the body of the truck. Instinct was to turn on the man. Hughes wasn't a small guy by any means, but he knew if he took out the one they'd still be in trouble, so he didn't resist much when his wrists were pulled back and ziptied roughly. The Marine's mind was racing on what would happen, if Nari, Minnie, and Sapphire would be okay or if giving in would be the worst option. Too many unknowns, and Hughes wasn't exactly known for being a fast thinker, he reacted emotionally.

Then they were pulling the girls out and Hughes was shouting alongside Wren. "Get your god damn hands off of them!" Hughes bellowed turning on the man behind him, one swift kick to the joint of his attacker's knee from the side caused a cracking noises, and folded him like a lawn chair. But Hughes wrists were still bound, and he barely made it a step before the butt of a gun hit his head and he lost his balance on his prosthetic leg causing him to fall to the ground on his stomach. He felt the small trickle of warm liquid slowly running down around his right temple and before he could move yet again a gun was pointed at his head. So Hughes stayed where he was with a knee in his back keeping him pinned until the conversation on the other side of the truck played out and he was stood up. Blake spat out some of the dirt that got into his mouth onto the road below.

It was confusing really but from what he could gather, these guys were Wren's people. And obviously not a fan of the Samaritan's, trying to point out who he was, wasn't going to gain anything. The man glanced at Nari holding her daughter, both emotional. A mix of anger and frustration, much of it pointed at himself, given he was meant to be in charge of their safety. It wasn't too surprising Wren had told them he probably couldn't be trusted, since he wasn't entirely wrong. Hughes didn't like the sound of the cages but he was relieved at least to hear the others would get a 'cabin', whatever that meant to these people. "Do whatever you want with me, just leave them out of it." He stated matter of factly as he was hauled to his feet by two men.

Miaow NanLia Not Meat Good_Morels​

 

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
The Cellblock​

As thankful as he was to be out of the cell, he knew it was only temporary - and he was at an extreme disadvantage. They hadn’t given him back the rest of his clothes, not even his shoes, and the floor was cold under his feet as he exited his cell and followed the priest down the hall.

He offered no reaction to the priest’s comments, already sensing this was a test. He would offer neither shock nor happiness at the suggestion rebels did anything to this man, as best he could.

Unfortunately, that poker face faltered when he saw the shape of the man inside the cell, left laying on his cot in a bloody and broken mess.

“My God.” Victor murmured as he took the flimsy first-aid kid and approached the man on the cot. He didn’t expect there to be anything useful in the kit, not for what the man’s problems were. Blood dribbled from his mouth as he breathed, and he saw more missing teeth than he cared to try and count. Nothing to be done about that, but he could perhaps wrap up those broken fingers.

The angle of the man’s leg, bent odd at the knee, spoke of more injuries he probably couldn’t do much about. He could wrap it, but would that be enough? Probably not. Even if and when that knee did heal, there was a good chance this man wouldn’t be able to walk right anymore.

Kneeling next to the man on the cot, Victor sat the first-aid kid on the floor and popped it open. Thankfully there was some gauze and athletic wrap inside. He decided to start with the man’s knee. Helping the man roll onto his back and stretching out his knee as best he could, he shoved the man’s pants leg up to expose his knee. It looked like a mess - bruised and with the skin split in a few places. No visible bone, but it wasn’t shaped right anymore. There was nothing he could do, and he wasn’t sure wrapping it would really help.

Victor glanced over his shoulder at Elio, then turned his attention back to the man on the cot, cautiously wrapping the athletic wrap around his knee. The man on the cot yelped in pain, every little touch causing him pain.

“It’s okay, the pain will pass shortly.” He murmured, as that was all he had to offer - words, not painkillers, not effective treatment. His bedside manner had never been great, but he was run too ragged to offer more even if he tried.

The man writhed in place, cussing, but eventually Victor got his knee wrapped. By this point working on his fingers was easier - pain had already worn the man out, and now this was just new pain. He used gauze to wrap his fingers together after straightening them, using some tongue depressors he found in the first aid kit as splints. Finally, he wrapped black electrician’s tape around the bundle of fingers and gauze to keep it all in place.

Victor patted the man’s shoulder gently, having nothing much to say to him. The man’s eyes met his, wide-eyed but dazed, before Victor stood. He paused for a moment, then stepped away from the cot towards Elio, lowering his voice.

“I can’t do much for him with what we have. He could benefit from something for the pain.”

NanLia ​

 

[BeyondDandy]

Lincoln
King’s Quarters​

Marcus King was a man who refused to let the world define him. Even in a post-apocalyptic landscape, where survival often demanded sacrifice, King clung fiercely to the luxuries that had once set him apart. He wore expensive suede suits, perfectly tailored to his powerful frame, shined shoes that gleamed despite the grime of the world around him, and gold rings that caught the dim light of his office - a space that was less an office and more a throne room. Lincoln was his fortress, and he ruled it with an iron fist.

King’s reputation as the leader of a large group of survivors was built on fear, respect, and control. Under his rule, the prison had become more than just a place of confinement; it was a kingdom where his word was law. Yet, power breeds resentment, and recently, the seeds of rebellion had taken root within the prison walls. A growing force of rebels had begun to rise against him, their aim clear: to dethrone the man who had held them in check for so long.

The signs of unrest had been impossible to ignore. Graffiti proclaiming “no more kings” had appeared overnight, scrawled in bold letters on the prison walls. The kitchen had been set on fire, and the rations meant to sustain them had been burned in an act of defiance. The most brutal blow had come in the form of a zombie attack on the MS13 block, an orchestrated assault that had left many dead. Each act of rebellion was a message, a declaration of war against his rule.

For King, these acts were more than just challenges to his authority—they were personal affronts. He had worked tirelessly to maintain order, to create a world where he could still live luxuriously even as the world outside crumbled. But now, his very throne was under siege. As he prepared to go to war against these rebels, the question that haunted him was simple: who were they? Who among his ranks had the audacity to rise against him?

The answer came to him in the form of a devastating piece of intel. His right-hand man, Weston, the one person he had trusted implicitly, was the mastermind behind the recent attacks. Weston had been leading the rebels, orchestrating the chaos that threatened to destroy everything Marcus had built. The revelation hit him like a blow to the chest, a betrayal so deep that it shook him to his core. But he should have seen it coming.

Unable to process the rage, the sadness, and the disbelief, King sought solace in the one thing that had always brought him a measure of peace: his piano. The notes filled his office, a haunting melody that mirrored the storm brewing within him. But even the music could not calm the tempest. He had summoned Weston to his office, the traitor who had once been his closest ally. The moment of confrontation was at hand.

A knock at the door broke the spell of the music. Marcus’s fingers stilled on the keys as he called for Weston to enter. The man walked in, his face carefully neutral, but Marcus could see the tension in his posture, the flicker of fear in his eyes. Two guards lingered in the corners of the room, their presence a silent threat, weapons ready to act on Marcus’s command.

King rose from the piano and approached Weston, the distance between them shrinking until they were face to face. He looked Weston over, searching for any sign of regret, of weakness. “Who else?” Marcus asked, his voice low and dangerous. He wanted names. He wanted to know every person who had dared to defy him. But Weston remained silent, his lips pressed into a thin line.

The silence was too much. It pushed Marcus over the edge. His rage, barely contained until that moment, exploded. He lunged at Weston, his fists flying in a flurry of punches that sent the man reeling. Each blow was fueled by the betrayal, the anger, the raw, unfiltered emotion that had been building inside him. Weston crumpled under the assault, falling to his knees, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. Still, he didn’t speak.

Breathless, Marcus finally pulled back, his knuckles throbbing from the impact. He looked down at Weston, beaten and bloodied, and felt a cold fury settle in his chest. “Why?” Marcus demanded, his voice trembling with a mix of rage and despair. “You had everything you ever wanted here! I gave that to you!”

But Weston didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The damage was already done. Marcus turned away, walking to the cabinet near his desk. He grabbed his most expensive bottle of bourbon, a rare luxury in this broken world, and poured himself a glass. The liquid burned as it went down, but it was a familiar burn, one that steadied him. He drank deeply, savoring the taste, before signaling to the guards.

“I will hang you in front of everyone,” Marcus said, his voice cold and final. This wasn’t a threat; it was a promise. Weston would be made an example of, his death a warning to all who might think to challenge King’s rule. The guards moved to apprehend Weston, dragging his limp form out of the office to solitary confinement, where he would await his death sentence.

The room fell silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. King’s gaze bore into Weston, a mix of fury and cold calculation. Slowly, he stepped forward into the hall, his polished shoes echoing against the stone floor. He took a moment, almost savoring the power he held in that instant, before speaking in a low, controlled voice that sent shivers down the spine of everyone present.

“Any last words?”

The question hung in the air, a final act of mercy or a cruel reminder of the inevitability of Weston’s fate. As the door closed behind them, Marcus returned to his piano, his hands still smeared with Weston’s blood. He sat down, fingers hovering over the keys before he began to play again. The music filled the room, a somber requiem for the man he had once trusted and the kingdom he was determined to keep. For Marcus King, there was no turning back now. His rule had been challenged, and he would stop at nothing to crush the rebellion and restore his throne.

Namazu

 

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
King's Quarters & Cellblock
Suggested Listening - Hozier - Nobody's Soldier​

Weston knew he was dead the moment Marcus opened his mouth. Like hell was he ever going to give this twisted asshole a single name. He kept his mouth shut, not saying anything, as he stared Marcus down - chin high, shoulders squared. He wouldn’t cower even if the end was coming. He'd made his peace.

But was it a defeat? No. Not one bit. Weston felt fucking victorious in that moment when he watched Marcus take a figurative running leap off the edge. That calm, cold exterior Marcus maintained at all times broke - and it didn’t simply break, it shattered, brittle and thin, and he saw it the second that Marcus snapped and threw the first punch.

Marcus had been standing close enough to him that he couldn’t do much to block or dodge the blows. Despite Marcus’s fine suits and polished shoes, the man was a fighter too, and he had a hell of a right hook. Blows to his face, to his gut, he lost count of where all he was being hit. It didn’t matter though - and it didn’t matter that he found himself on his knees eventually.

Weston was laughing as he went down.

“Because you’re no king. You’re a fucking monster, Marcus, and I am done being your butcher.” Blood and spittle trickled down Weston’s face, running down his neck, dripping onto his shirt, and splattering onto Marcus’ floor as he rasped, looking up at Marcus as he spoke - eyes on the tyrant, defiant.

“You gave us nothing. You hear me? Nothing at all. This was all us, Marcus, not you, and I’ll be damned if we’re gonna let you keep killing us and beating us so that you can hide up here like the cowardly little prince you think you are. Bitch.”

Weston grunted as the guards dragged him back up to his feet by his arms and his hair, restraining him in place. When Marcus declared his intent to hang him in front of everyone - undoubtedly in the pit, Weston’s heart thudded in his chest wildly. Almost poetic, the butcher of the pits gets executed there himself. He couldn’t deny he probably earned it.

“I’ll feed those fucking piano keys to you myself!” Weston snarled, only held back from lunging at Marcus by the little prince’s guards. One of them gave his hair a sharp tug while the other treated him to a sharp kidney-punch.

When Marcus asked him if he had any last words, Weston smiled at him - then spit blood into his face.

“No more kings.”

That earned Weston a kick to the back of a knee, which brought him down again. It gave the guards the opportunity to drag him out of Marcus’ office with less fuss. Not no fuss completely, just less.

“This ain’t fuckin’ over, Marcus. You’re no goddamn king, and I can’t wait to tear your throat out, you son of a bitch!” Weston snarled as the guards dragged him out, fighting it the whole way. It took a few more punches, then a kick to the groin, to shut Weston up.

The trip to the solitary cells seemed fast to Weston, but must have felt like forever to the two guards who had to haul this angry bull that fought them and dragged his feet the whole way. Blood still flowed freely from his nose, mouth, and from where his skin had split on his cheek, getting sticky in his beard and leaving a thin dribbling trail on the floor.

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you too. Cowardly pieces of shit.” Weston hissed at his guards as they hauled him down the solitary cell block, half hunched over. He didn’t bother looking at any of the cell doors - they were solid, no way to tell who was down here behind the closed doors.

The guards shoved Weston into a cell and held him against a wall, making sure to frisk him and take his weapons and his belt. By the time they threw him to the hard floor and slammed the door shut behind them, Weston was laughing again.

BeyondDandy NanLia Bullyboy Squad ​

 

[Namazu]

FLASHBACK
Just After the Zombie Outbreak in the Cell Blocks - Weston's Quarters
TW: Brief mention of SA​

Cabrera stood at the door, hesitating. It took him a full minute to muster the nerve to knock. When he finally did, it wasn't formal but that familiar, casual rhythm. The same one he'd used numerous times before when he'd drop by with the flimsy excuse of a broken shower. They both knew it was a cover for something far riskier. Something that made his heart beat faster. Something they shouldn't have been doing for more reasons than either could count.

But those days were over now, weren't they? He didn’t have to worry about that anymore. Right.

As he heard footsteps approaching from the other side, Cabrera instinctively straightened up his posture. But when Weston opened the door, a small smile broke through his recently stern expression. Not just because of nostalgia but because the man saved Ignacio’s life just a few days earlier. Their lives, his and Nari’s. Yet, instead of expressing gratitude for that or for the crib that he came there to thank for in the first place, Ignacio said something dumb and painfully genuine. “I’ve missed you.”

Weston hadn't been expecting anyone to visit, so to hear a knock had him tense for a moment. Forcing out a breath, he sat aside his book and rolled off his bed, heading for the door.

Ignacio was perhaps the last person he expected to see standing there, and the surprise was all over his face - as was the confusion, and the relief.

Those three simple, genuine words made him smile, and he couldn't help it. "Hey. I missed you too." Weston looked Ignacio up and down as if to make sure he was uninjured, then stepped aside and motioned for him to come in. "You doin' okay?"

Cabrera stepped inside with no hesitation, his arm brushing to the other man’s side. “Yeah, I’m alright.” He stopped in the middle of the room and looked around as if to check how much it changed since he was last in there. “Thanks to you.” He turned to face Weston, watching him, surprised by the thought that hit him. How much they’ve changed…

“But that's not why I’m here.” His gaze softened a little but there was undeniable discomfort in his expression. “The crib.” Or was it embarrassment? Guilt? “I meant to come earlier but we were both busy, huh.” Were they that busy though?

“Thank you for the gift. For… you know, giving a shit about this.” He chuckled. About him and Nari. It didn't matter that it was a fake deal. Especially that sometimes, lately, it felt surprisingly real.

Not much about Weston's room had changed since Cabrera stopped coming. All the furniture was the same, though Weston did have an extra blanket on the bed and more clothes were left sitting out, half-assed folded and tossed onto a chair or at the foot of his bed. There was no indication anyone had warmed the other side of Weston's bed, with the way the sheets were half-made and a pillow lay at an angle. Much like his room, Weston looked just a little more haggard himself. Longer hair, and that beard wasn't perfect anymore. As Cabrera moved into the middle of his room, Weston turned to face him, watching him with an equally soft look.

Weston raised an eyebrow when Cabrera said what he was really there for, then he nodded. Of course, it was the crib - and Nari - why the man was here. Not for him.

"You're welcome. Better to put it to use than let it sit in storage. Her man might be a dick but that ain't her fault. So... thanks for giving a shit about the kid. Wouldn't be right of any of us to do otherwise." Weston hesitated a moment, studying Cabrera's face as he stepped closer. He couldn't help but lightly trail his fingers up Cabrera's arm. "What's the plan with her? And Xander?"

Ignacio felt a pang of dizziness combined with a flood current of complex emotion. His skin tingled where he was touched, making him shiver and the hair on his neck stand. A taste of the high he knew he could get if he closed the space between them. Clashed their bodies and stole their breaths. He glanced down at his lover’s hand before locking back on Weston’s eyes. He didn’t push away the man’s touch but he didn’t invite more of it either.

“What do you mean? She’s my woman now and gonna have my baby. Xander is just a mop jockey. There’s no ‘plan’ for him and next time he gets in my way I will be less generous than the last time.”

Weston wasn't sure what he expected as an answer, but he didn't look all that surprised. His hand lingered on Cabrera's arm, finally giving it a squeeze - and with his other shoulder, a shrug.

"Yeah, that's all I meant." His dismissed his own question, though that was very much not all that he meant. He knitted his brows together at the mention of a last time. "What 'last time'?" The lie came out easily, as if he hadn't seen part of it on the security camera.

Cabrera exhaled sharply, pulling away and turning his back on the touch he craved. He paced across the room, dark eyes scanning Weston’s desk and drawers, looking for a distraction. “Had to set him straight, man. Both of them need to know their place.” Or else all three of them were fucked.

Weston's desk and dresser were cluttered with the usual bits and bobs he had sitting out - a few knives, an empty beer bottle, an empty bowl and spoon, some books, a half-box of ammo, his handgun in its holster, a comb, a pair of socks of questionable cleanliness, and other random junk. Frowning at the back of Cabrera's head when he turned away, Weston crossed his arms over his chest. "Are we cool? I can't tell if you're angry at me, or if I'm just asking questions that piss you off."

Cabrera stopped by the desk, eyes skimming over the mess until they locked onto the beer can. His throat tightened, the urge to crack one open gnawing at him. The craving was fresh, a problem he’d shoved aside for “after”. For later. But sometimes, despite the revitalised hope, he wondered if the later would ever come.

He looked over his shoulder with a bent brow. “Whatcha mean man, I'm not angry.” He turned back to the desk, fully aware of what Weston meant. They’d been off lately, and he knew damn well why. “We’re good, man. Don't worry about it.”

Taking a seat on the edge of his bed, Weston wasn't really sure if he believed that they were 'good'. They certainly weren't as good as they were before.

"Listen. Ignacio, I meant it when I said I missed you. But I also gotta ask... exactly how did you set Xander straight? Did you fuck him?" He couldn't force himself to say the word actually in his mind.

Cabrera froze. Did someone see Xander leaving Cabrera’s room that night in the small hours? Spread the rumors about him walking funny? Or someone saw the footage and called for the Second in command to show him. Fuck. Ignacio stared at the beer can for a few heartbeats before turning to look at the other man. Expression serious, stern. “We already talked about this.”

"Please?" Weston's voice was quiet - an actual plea, not a dismissal, not disbelief. "I... I saw the camera footage. Before you cut it. I'm not telling anyone else, this is just between you and me. I need to know. Please."

It speared through his chest. The way Weston said it. Ignacio swallowed hard, actively fighting the urge to come over and touch him. To reassure him. To apologize. The old habits, sentiments, the old empathy. But maybe this was a good way of ending things. A good excuse to…

“I found him in my bed.” He wasn't sure if Weston saw that part. “Once I cut the feed I forced Nari to hold a gun to his head. I promised I'll drive a bullet through his skull next time they as much as look at each other and the blood will be on their hands.” Cabrera cleared his throat and turned to the door, stalling.

“I guess things are different now. I'm different.” He looked at Weston one last time. “So I shouldn't be mad that you keep assuming I'm a fuckin’ rapist.” It took a lot of willpower to move and he headed for the exit. “Thanks again. For the crib.”

Weston pushed himself off his bed the moment Ignacio headed for the exit, reaching out for his shoulder.

"Ignacio, I'm not assuming anything. I'm asking because I'm afraid I'll be wrong, and I miss you. I miss how things used to be. How we used to be." The words came out all in a tumble, the hurt in Weston's voice thick enough to cut.

"I'm sorry. I'm just." He let out a heavy sigh, squeezing Ignacio's shoulder. "I want you back and I don't like how things changed. That's all."

Cabrera clenched his jaw, stunned by what that touch was doing to him. But he didn’t let the weakness win. He had to follow the course and he couldn’t let Weston or anyone else get in the way. He swallowed hard against the bile biting his throat and he said, as calmly as his fluttering nerves let him.

“You never had me. You just had a good time.” He pulled away and marched straight for the exit, knowing if he didn’t get out of there fast he'd say something completely different that he really shouldn’t.

Weston let his hand fall from Ignacio as he stepped away, letting him leave for good. He clenched his jaw too, hating the fact he swore he felt pricks of tears at his eyes. For once, he was at a loss for words completely.

Bullyboy Squad ​

 

[Bullyboy Squad]

LINCOLN
The Meeting - reaction to Madison right before the radio crackles
​

Toni recoiled a fraction with the damaged face just inches away from him. The stench of hospital clung to her skin and he thought, even to her breath. He hated that smell. Maybe everybody did, but for him, it dragged up something rotten. Buried deep in his mind. Granting most times he avoided that place like a cornered cat dodges water.

Her words struck and boiled something in his chest—no he didn't give a fuck about what she said. He did about the optics. Toni shot a glance at his crew the very moment her words made sense. He was ready to give her a quick lesson of respect but she grabbed his balls and slammed them both to the ground. His breath knocked out of his lungs, his back crashing down hard with a dead weight pinning him. Real dead weight! He’d fucking kill that bitch!

Only her next words saved her. Toni put his hand up to stop his men from ripping the female off of him and kicking the living hell out of her. He withstood the pain, the smell, the sight, and the lecture—his face twisted in a snarl. To anyone else it looked like he was just humoring her, letting her talk. Like her words didn’t even scratch him. But she’d see it. Those puppy eyes gave away that she was cutting too damn close, hitting home.

Toni growled and slapped her hand away as he got up, less graceful but with visible strength and agility behind it. He didn't look at her when speaking, instead tossing a deadly glance at Weston.

“Put your toxic bitch on a tight leash or I'll put her down.” He spat aside, tasting that damn hospital on his tongue.

Tool Namazu ​

 

[NanLia]

LINCOLN
The Cellblock

​

Elio watched Victor’s posture and face change the moment he spotted the enforcer on the cot. He had to give Victor credit where it was due; when the good doctor had stepped out of his cell and tempered his resolve, Elio thought he might be a harder nut to crack. Seeing the doctor’s resolve crack to empathy was expected and mildly disappointing.

He watched on, never leaving the threshold of the small cell, as Victor assessed, then assisted the man in the cot and ended his short procedure with a lie. Elio nodded slowly as Victor noted he could use something for the pain.

“I’m certain he could.” the priest agreed with a sage nod. “However, due to recent circumstances, access to any medications need to be approved by King or his men.” Elio inhaled and sighed, a sad frown appearing on his features.

“I may be able to sway one of them if I could give them something in return.” He paused, watching the doctor. “If you would give them what they want.” Elio made a placating gesture, his hands held out, palms up before him. “What were you going to do with the drugs you were trying to steal?”

Namazu ​

 

[NanLia]

LINCOLN
Interrogation & Solitary Cellblock
TW: Violence
​

Blade. Water. Pain. Light.

Chole struggled to remember why she was here, seated on a metal chair, her wrists cuffed to the arms, her ankles to the legs.

“Names, Chole. And this all ends.”

That's right, he wanted her to tell him who else were rebels. Who was behind the attacks. But she'd already told them everything she knew: nothing. Nothing more than what they must have known to have dragged her an Connor out of bed. To have taken her here. How long had it been? Minutes, hours? A day? More?

Blade. She cried out as her hair was pulled harshly, craning her neck back painfully so she couldn't move. “Open your eyes.” She knew if she resisted he’d pull harder on her hair. When she did open he brought a blade to her eye, holding it so close, if she blinked she’d cut herself.

“Names. Who are they?”

“I don’t know.” She whimpered, focused on the blade. “I don’t know,” She repeated, too frightened to move. The only name she could think of was Connor. Where was he, what had happened to him? She wanted to scream his name, call out of him but fear kept her silent.

The blade disappeared from view and a damn cloth was brought up to her face instead. “NO!” She cried out, muffled beneath the cloth and she knew her plea fell on deaf ears.

She choked and gagged, unable to breathe. Drowning in her seat, having never left until her head was released she fell forward against her restraints, the cloth falling on the metal table, water running off of her. She continued to gasp for air, coughing out water she’d inhaled.

Behind her, she heard movement and knew what was coming next. “Please, " she begged quietly, leaning further to rest her forehead on the table. “Please stop.”

“It ends when we hear what we want.”

Pain jolted through her body, the sound of electricity arcing between the cuffs and the chair, burning her skin where the metal touched her bare flesh. She couldn’t scream, her body locked, frozen in place until the power was cut.

“What is coming next?”

She panted softly, unable to string thoughts together let alone formulate a reply, the same reply she’d had for however long this had been going on.

Pain arched through her body again, but this time blessed darkness took her.

***​

Chole became aware she was moving, her feet dragging behind her, and she heard the sound of heavy footsteps on the concrete floor on either side of her. Secondly, she became aware of the pain. Her body ached, her lungs burned and now, her back and shoulders felt like they were being torn apart. Two people dragged her, one on either side of her, painfully gripping her upper arms as they held her up off the floor.

She groaned and they paused, pulling her up to her feet. Her legs threatened to give out but she was pulled to lean heavily against the person on her right. The second person released her and whoever was holding her upright purposely lifted her head so she could see him. Cabrera.

A cruel smile found his lips but he said nothing, continuing on down the hall and bringing her with him. She stumbled and limped, her body stiff and protesting every single step. She didn’t know where she was, though that wasn’t a surprise as she hadn’t been to most of the prison, sticking to her bar, club, and King’s quarters exclusively.

As they rounded the corner she was surprised to see Weston present, shoved into a cell ahead of them, she knew better than to voice anything, and as the guard that had closed his cell door, he directed Cabrera to the one adjacent.

She was shoved into the cell and she stumbled forward unable to keep herself upright. She landed hard on her hands and knees and leaned heavily against the cot with a groan of pain.

@Bullyboy Squad @Namazu ​

 

[Tool]

The Meeting
Lincoln Prison - The MS13 Cell Block​

Madison could see something in Toni's eyes. She wasn't psychic, but it didn't take a mind reader to see a feeling that wasn't blind, diffuse anger or enough bravado to inflate a dozen party balloons. When he slapped her hand away but made no move to attack, an ember of hope smouldered in her throat. When he called her a toxic bitch and demanded she be put on a short leash while not being able to meet her eyes? Madison knew she had him.

Whether or not his fellow gangers knew it, she saw a ghost of submission in that gait, being unable or unwilling to meet her eyes. Hopefully, Toni didn't realize it. Hopefully, it would make him that much more inclined to listen. Hopefully..... If he took it personally later, well...... Hopefully a lot of things.

Weston left about three shades paler, a haunted man called to stand before a paper king. Considering the hour, this likely wasn't a social call. The rebels would probably need to move quick, though when Weston returned he could fill them in further. Until then....

"I'll take Toxic Bitch. Know how to bite, and m'not 'fraid of much. Alright, we got cars that ain't gonna run, radios that ain't gonna squawk, an' you got yer chingón warriors ready like Aztecs of fuckin' old."

She nodded approvingly.

"Gonna need some way t'talk don't need radios, I suggest flashlights out the window or on th' roofs..... But that don't solve our main problem: how we gettin th' rebels from one side of th' complex to th' other? Any ideas on how we gonna take the armory for our own? I ain't in charge, but while Beard's talkin' to our target, les keep th' plannin' goin. No stupid ideas, only stupid people, let's hear 'em."


@ Bullyboy Squad @ NanLia @ Miaow @ kaileaf Namazu

 

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
The Cellblock​

Victor knew he couldn’t feign confusion when Elio mentioned ‘recent circumstances’. He wasn’t surprised that King now had medications on lockdown - but it angered him anyway. He was certain that the bastard, who was no doctor at all, would be worse than any pre-fall insurance company ever was. Treatments and medications would be withheld for no reason other than to punish and prolong pain, or shorten life.

So, instead, he gave Elio a bland look of resigned acceptance. He didn’t know the enforcer on the cot, couldn’t put a name to a face, and had no idea who he was before the fall or what he was like as a person. One of his mentors once had told him part of his lacking bedside manner came from the fact he treated patients like puzzles, not people.

Victor was glad these days he didn’t put too much empathy into the people he treated. If he saw them as meatsacks to be stitched back together and disinfected, rather than victims to be saved, he could make it through one day to the next.

It was almost disappointing how obvious Elio’s next move was.

The priest’s mistake was assuming that because Victor was a doctor, and because he still had the capability of grimacing at bad injuries, it meant he actually gave a shit about the well-being of an enforcer. As long as Elio kept thinking this, maybe he could twist it to his advantage. Or at least, keep himself safe. Safer. Safe-ish.

Quickly deciding exactly how he was going to play this, Victor looked up at Elio with a bit of puppy-dog-eyed hope on his face, then sighed heavily. Sitting back on his haunches and letting his shoulder sag, he rubbed the back of his neck, then wrung his hands. Worried, nervous movements to accompany the moments he took pondering Elio’s offer. He couldn’t string it out too long, but he couldn’t answer too quickly either.

“Sedatives.” He answered quietly, looking away from Elio and at the man on the cot - who seemed to have passed out now. He let his shoulders slump, a move he hoped looked like defeat.

“It was sedatives. They were for myself. I’ve been having trouble sleeping.” He looked up at Elio, brows furrowed, searching the priest’s face as if looking for understanding and forgiveness both.

“It’s the anxiety. We don’t have any meds for that. I’ve been off my medication since…” He trailed off, making a vague gesture towards the far wall, suggesting he’d lost track of how long, exactly. That part wasn’t a lie, exactly. He was very much an unmedicated mess, and he was going for the sedatives. No point in arguing facts which might be proven - only the intent was open for argument.

“I got desperate for a decent night’s sleep. I figured it’d clear my head. Stop the shakes. Alcohol wouldn’t do it - and who wants a hungover doctor the next morning?”

Victor glanced at the man on the cot again, then up at Elio, and gave him an innocent shrug.

Internally, he prayed the priest would believe him.

NanLia ​

 

[Namazu]

FLASHBACK
During the Zombie Outbreak in the Cells - Just After Helping Cabrera, Nari, and Xander in the Pit​

Wren wasn't quite sure how long he spent in the center of the room, that knife still clutched in his fist. It didn't really matter. He couldn't get back to the bed on his own and Marx wasn't back yet. He hoped he was dead. If there had been a zombie breach, there was a very good chance he was. Then again, he had probably spent the last of his luck on Weston running by. The dark spots were long gone now, thankfully, and his rib had dulled a bit in ache. Now was as good of a time as any to try and stand up again. He stumbled, flinching again as the momentum shifted his skeleton, but refusing to fall. The only question was now what? Go back to the bed and hope Weston came back before Marx, or try his luck outside.

Both sounded like death wishes, so he didn't pick, instead just standing still and looking down at the knife.

The sound of something metal dragging along the floor out in the hallway created an eerie scrape, echoing off the bare walls. It was something like in those horror movies, where the monster is slowly shuffling its way down a dark hall, closer and closer to the heroes... or to the next victims. Scrape... scrape.... scrape.

The scraping stopped just outside of Wren's room, and the handle of the door slowly turned. Something metal hit the doorframe out in the hallway.

"Ow, fuck." Weston winced as he pushed the door open, shaking one hand out. No horrors, no monsters, just a human. A very sweaty, bloodied, tired-looking human. A long metal bar from a bench press was tucked under his arm, periodically scraping along the floor as he walked. Weston looked Wren over, pausing near the door a moment to make sure the man wasn't dead on his feet already. Satisfied that Wren was not one of the biters, Weston exhaled.

"Sorry it took me awhile. I-" Weston sighed, vaguely waving out into the hall, as if that one gesture described a whole mountain of shit he had to deal with. "You're standing, that's good."

Wren felt his heart fluttering like a bird in his ribcage as the eerie scrape grew closer, images of Marx opening the door with a pipe or a shovel flooding his head. A weapon meant he planned on finishing the job, a shovel meant he'd follow it up with burying him in the prison yard. He inhaled hard, gasping when he exhaled from the pain it caused. Weston's voice didn't quite calm him completely, but it made him sigh with relief and visibly relax. Wren met his hesitance with the same, looking him over for any visible bite marks and, though he wasn't certain, he was satisfied enough. He smiled, though it was tired and pained.

"You're fine, really.. thank you for coming back." He almost whispered, hesitating before stepping closer to him. "Have you seen Marx?"

Weston shook his head, taking a few steps more into the room now that it was clear the room wasn't full of the dead. "Nah, I haven't, actually - not sure where he's been. But I haven't seen his body at all either, if that helps?" He gave Wren a look up and down, at the way he was just standing there and the expression on his face. "You hurt?"

The news did not help, in fact, it made things worse, but Wren tried not to show it on his face to limited effect. Not reacting was also not the expression a spouse should make when finding out their partner is probably alive. He hurt too much to pretend well. "I'm fine, I just fell."

The answer to Weston's came without Wren thinking, leaving him a little shocked at his own words. He'd been holding out hope Weston would help him, and he was here now. He tried to say something else, but the words didn't come, the very thought of admitting what was happening making his heart race. Why was it so scary? He wanted help. He needed it, hell, he would die soon without it. He mustered the rest of his strength into a question. "Can you shut the door?"

Something in the way Wren responded - or didn’t respond - felt off. Actually, this whole moment just felt off. Weston’s gaze flicked around the room, as if searching for sign of what was wrong… because clearly, something was. Seeing no hidden assailants, traps, or dead lurking and ready to pop out from under the bed, Weston stepped inside and closed the door behind him quietly. He left the door unlocked.

Resting the metal bench press pole against the wall, Weston took one step closer to Wren and looked him over, brows furrowed. “Hey man, what’s wrong?”

Wren couldn't meet his gaze, still struggling to find the words to ask for help, or to make his brain say anything other than 'please help me'. He didn't notice his hands shaking, or the way he was starting to sweat and look pale. The only thing that caught his attention was that his intensifying breathing hurt. He took a deep breath and immediately hissed it back out as Weston spoke. The tears started the minute he heard those words, silent and heavy as they streamed down his face. Everything was wrong. Everything was wrong forever and nobody had asked him that in over a year. None of the people that had were alive anymore, either.

"I..." I trailed off, glancing at the door as if terrified it would fly open. "My rib's broken. I.. I know Victor can't do anything, it's fine, just- Fuck it hurts. I'll be alright though." The words came quickly and quietly, as if he was ashamed to say them.

Weston had lied to enough people over enough years, many of them straight to their faces, that he thought he was a pretty decent judge of when someone was bullshitting him. Not perfect, no Sherlock Holmes, but pretty good. And Wren right here? He was lying. Weston tilted his head a little, shook his head, and sighed as he tucked his thumbs into his pockets. “You should probably sit down, or lay down. How’d you break your ribs? And don’t say you fell. You’re not ninety years old. Who was it? One of the enforcers?”

"It took so much just to stand up" Wren gave a pained chuckle, but relented and sat on the ground again. He kept his hands in his lap and stared at them for a moment as he thought about how to answer Weston's question. He started with a quiet nod, it was one of the enforcers. "... You should probably go. I appreciate you checking on me, but if Marx gets back and sees you standing here while I'm on the ground, there'll be hell to pay."

It didn’t take a blind fool to start putting the puzzle pieces together. People didn’t just ask for help on the inhale and then dismiss it on the exhale unless there was something very wrong they couldn’t talk about. People didn’t lack a reaction when they were told their partner was at least not-dead. Unfortunately, it wasn’t uncommon to see the local tough-guys act like bastards towards whatever they were claiming as their own. He’d heard stories from Tigran. Temma might have rules against leaving bruises and broken bones, but those weren’t the only kinds of marks a person could leave. Taking a few steps closer, Weston crouched down in front of Wren and lowered his voice. “It’s Marx, ain’t it? That hurt you, I mean. I’ve seen him grab at you before. Rough. He’s got no right to do that, and you don’t need to let him keep doing it."

Wren started to cry again, this time holding back sobs not only because he was afraid to be weak, but because sobbing hurt. Everything hurt. He nodded, then made a sound that sounded more like a gasp than a humored scoff. "He.. he didn't like that I was out late handing out pamphlets. He's never been good but.. he's been getting worse. It's just a matter of time." He let out a pitiful sob. "I don't even like him. He came and told me that either I could let him fuck me or he'd kill everyone in The Reserve. I'm the only bargaining chip we have and- God, he's going to kill me."

He couldn't help but talk faster the more that he said, afraid that if he stopped he'd never get the chance to say it again. "He loves me, I know that, but God he loves hard and I'm getting worse at walking on eggshells. If I make another sound he's going to finish the job, and nobody will stop him. If he comes in and sees you he's going to kill me for being alone with another man."

The pit of Weston’s stomach dropped out and flipped over itself. The thought made him sick to his stomach and at the same time, he wanted to punch something. He’d heard the phrase ‘makes my skin crawl’ many times in his life, but only recently was he starting to really understand what exactly that felt like.

Marx was one of those types.

Was he just fucking surrounded by the worst of the worst?

“But he doesn’t love you. If he did, he wouldn’t do that shit. You don’t hurt people you love. Not like this. And Goddamn, a lot of these people might think I’m a hick from the backwoods but even I know that much.” Weston looked Wren over, pushed himself to his feet, and paced a small circle around the room as he tugged at his beard, thinking.

It was not a very hard decision to make.

Moving to Wren’s side again, he leaned down and offered his hand to Wren. “Come with me, and I’ll make sure that fucking asshole doesn’t touch you again. I’ll put him in the Goddamn ground myself if I have to.”

"He does, he's just.. possessive... and sick in the head, I guess." He argued quietly, but he didn't even sound like he believed it himself. He knew it was wrong, there was no denying that, but he also knew that if Marx wasn't attracted to him there wouldn't have been any bargaining at all. Maybe attraction was different than love, that could be it. He watched Weston pace for a minute before focusing on the door, still terrified it would open at any second. He couldn't help but flinch when Weston's hand moved close to him, but afterward, he took a moment to stare in bewilderment. He couldn't be serious. Weston barely knew him, Weston was a Samaritan and while he may not be the enemy, he was one of them. Marx said nobody would dare get in his way. It can't have been this easy, it wasn't. It couldn't be.

"What about the Reserve? It's a Samaritan settlement now, he'll take it out on them if he can't take it out on me or you." He looked up at Weston, his voice a little louder and more sure now, but equally as desperate. "Or he'll just find me and kill me, blame one of the rebels for it, or even you."

“Bullshit.” Weston responded to Wren’s feeble attempts at explaining why anything Marx was doing was even remotely okay. He didn’t sound angry, just quiet confidence that everything Wren had said wasn’t true. That single flinch when he reached out told him a lot. “He’ll have to get past me to do it. I can either wait until he comes knocking at my door looking for answers, or I can invite him over for a little… man to man discussion about things. Wouldn’t he start asking around here first before going all the way to the Reserve?”
Weston motioned with his hand again, urging Wren to take it.

“Do you want me to help you up? Ain’t gonna touch you if you don’t need or want that. Look, I’m not trying to force you to do anything. You don’t have to trust me. But you need help and I’m going give it, whether you let me or not.”

Wren frowned, looking between Weston's hand and the door. What was he getting out of this? It was a damn lot of trouble to take on for altruism. He'd probably want sex, but that wasn't any worse than his current arrangement. Weston had a point about the reserve too. Marx wasn't smart enough to go straight there, he'd go straight for him with steam rolling from his ears. The fact that Weston wasn't willing to take no for an answer to his help took the decision out of his hands anyways, it didn't matter what he thought if the second in command wanted him. Somehow, that made it feel easier, like it wasn't his fault that he spoke up and was doing something for once. He took Weston's hand. "Can you stop him from hurting the reserve?"

Weston was really convinced that Wren was going to keep saying no. Then what would he do? It didn’t sit right with him to leave the guy alone to his fate. It wasn’t uncommon to hear that someone died, even without any catastrophic event going on. Shit happened all the time. Accidents, fights, untreated health conditions, illnesses, or people just at the end of their ropes opting out. Wren would become just a number thanks to some bastard who-

Weston wouldn’t let himself finish that thought, wouldn’t let himself even think the word. “I’m going to do anything I can to keep him from hurting the rest of your group. If there’s anything I’ve learned in all this shit, it's that making promises is tricky. But y’know what? I’m going to damn well try.”

Wren tried in vain to wipe the water from his face, feeling pretty damn pathetic for crying so much. He chuckled dryly at that as he used Weston to help himself up, sucking in a pained breath. "That'll make two of us, which is better than one." He noted, but he didn't point out the direct power difference. If Weston was willing, there was a real chance he could do something, not like how Wren traded his safety for theirs. That was more than enough. Even if he didn't entirely trust Weston, he thought maybe he could learn to.

"Can I see Victor? Marx didn't want me around him because he thinks he's gay and when the alarms started the nurse he did get left. A bag of ice would be pretty fucking awesome right now."

Weston helped Wren up, careful not to make his ribs hurt any more than they already did. He kept his arm out as an offer to Wren, not knowing how steady the man felt on his own two feet. Helping steer Wren towards the door, he took his metal pole under the other arm. The opposite end was bloody yet, though drying. Apparently, it had been effective. He couldn’t help but snort a bit at the comment about why Marx and the doctor. “Yeah, you can see him, of course. But if that’s why Marx didn’t like Victor, he ain’t going to like me any better.” He reached for the door, pulling it open and taking a quick look up and down the hallway.

“Victor’s kind of an asshole. Bedside manner of a bedpan. But I’m pretty sure he only ever got handsy with one patient, not all of ‘em.” He offered Wren a grin, even if that wasn’t actually too funny in the present circumstances.

Wren used Weston to keep himself steady, trying to breathe through the pain. His legs were fine, bruised maybe, but fine, it was just the blinding ache that was making him dizzy. Wren chuckled dryly. "He doesn't. You and Cabrera are the people he wants me around the least." He admitted. "Not that he thinks Cabrera's gay, he just hates the guy." He clarified with a one armed shrug.

Weston's joke absolutely fell flat and Wren visibly tensed, considering what he was willing to do for the pain to stop. It was a lot. "That's fucked up. I hope he doesn't like me," he commented as he made his way down the hall with Weston. It was easier not to fuck up his rib with him keeping him straight, thank God. He was more focused on not passing out than paying attention to his surroundings, but he heard the footsteps before he saw them, heavy and angry. He tensed, shoving away from Weston as if he was about to be caught in an affair.

Marx turned the corner and froze, looking between Weston and Wren as his face twisted into hardly confined rage. He made fists tight enough to turn his knuckles white as he stepped closer, aiming to get between Weston and Wren. He nodded respectfully to Weston before reaching for Wren's arm. "He ain't giving you trouble, is he? He wasn't supposed to leave his room, he knows better." He managed to hide his bristling fury for the most part, but all Wren saw was a caged animal.

Sighing, Weston shook his head. There was a lot to everything Wren just said, and he wasn’t even sure where to start. “I meant the thing about Victor as a joke. I really don’t think you have to w-” He went silent, confused as to why Wren was pulling away, thinking for a moment the man was going to be sick or needed to stop before he heard it. Footsteps.

There was no missing the way Marx’s fists clenched up tight and the anger swept across Marx’s face. A very punchable face, in Weston’s opinion. Weston tensed too as Marx got between him and Wren and reached for the other man’s arm. “He ain’t giving me trouble. He needs help, so let him go.”

Weston’s voice was firm and steady as he stood tall against Marx. He didn’t hide the fact he slid that pole out from under his arm and wrapped his hand around it, bloody end pressed against the floor. “You can go back to your patrol, we’re fine here.”

Wren was quiet and passive, a part of him already clocking out to avoid facing Marx's wrath.

Marx looked confused for a minute, looking between Wren, Weston, and then the pole. "I'm not sure I understand. Did he say something to you?" His tone was even and far too calm in comparison to his hardly contained emotions. "Wren, what did you tell him?" He followed up, turning to Wren who didn't respond.

Marx forced a laugh. "He doesn't need help, he's just got a stomach ache and needs to sleep it off. Wren, you don't want to waste Victor's resources on nothing." He smiled as genuinely as ever, gently tugging Wren towards him. Wren stayed put, unable to find the words to say anything, but not willing to go with him either.

"I'm sure he's told you some kind of bullshit story about it, he gets dramatic about these things and will say whatever it takes to get what he wants." Marx chuckled as if it was some kind of inside joke. "Y'know how outsiders can be, manipulative and all that."

“I said we’re fine here.” Weston hardly let Marx finish his sentence before he was already brushing him off again. He took a step closer to Marx, picking that pole up and giving it a slow spin so that the bloodied side was pointing upwards. “We’ll let the doctor decide what kind of resources need to be spent, and where. That is not your call to make. Now-” Weston shifted his grip on the pole, moving it so the bloody end was closer to Marx’s head. Bits of flesh and strands of hair were stuck to it, and the gore was getting sticky as it was drying.

“I have just spent a significant amount of time running around, beating in skulls of dead shit, and making sure people in this prison don’t die. I am going to continue to beat in skulls and make sure people don’t die until I am satisfied that I’ve done my job and I run out of skulls. In case you need to be reminded of your job once again, enforcer - Go. Back. On. Patrol.”

Weston enunciated each word, locking eyes with Marx.

Marx went through a variety of emotions. Confusion that Weston wasn't listening to him, then disgust at the state of the pole, then understanding and perhaps the slightest hint of fear, followed by absolute rage. He let go of Wren's arm and backed up a few steps, one hand moving to rest on his pistol. Wren felt a flash of panic, but Marx didn't draw it, instead replying with an icy "yes sir." He shouldered past Wren and continued down the hall, apparently silenced for now. Wren trembled.

"H-he's not going to take that lightly." He whispered as he stepped closer to Weston, seeking some form of shelter.

Weston’s eyes immediately went to Marx’s hand, watching as it rested on that pistol. He was ready to reach for his own when Marx finally replied and walked away. Though he let out a silent sigh of relief, he still stared daggers into Marx’s back as he walked away. He reached for Wren and moved in front of the man a bit, shielding him even though that beastly excuse of a human being was still walking away.

“Probably not. Sorry.” Weston apologized, finally turning back to the direction they were headed, towards the infirmary. Gently, careful not to spook Wren but wanting to show he was still there with him, he lightly put his hand on Wren’s upper back, between his shoulder blades. “Just proves my point though. About what I said, I mean. C’mon.” He didn’t elaborate, not right there out in the open in the hallway. “Do you stay with him? In his room? I can find you someplace else to sleep.” The wheels in Weston’s head were already turning on what would - or could - come next.

Weston's effort unfortunately went unappreciated, as Wren flinched the moment his hand made contact, as if Weston's hand burned him. He hugged his arms around himself as they continued, which admittedly didn't do wonders for his rib, but he needed the comfort. "I-I can't be alone with him now, I didn't go with him. He'll kill me." He spoke barely above a breath. He thought for a moment, each idea running through his head making him more paranoid.

"Can I stay with you?" He finally asked, looking sheepish. "I... I've never seen him back down like that to anyone. You're probably the only person he would respect, the only safe person at least... I've never met Cabrera, but Marx tells me he's bad news. As bad as him or worse. You, Cabrera, and King are the only people I know are above Marx."

As soon as Wren had flinched, Weston had murmured an apology. It just made the severity of what was going on hit more - the guy couldn’t even stand being touched in a friendly, non-harmful way. He knew what that feeling was like. Wren’s question didn’t surprise him - more like it was a relief, given he was about to suggest the same thing.

“Yeah, of course, you can. You can have either the bed or the reclining chair, whatever makes it easiest to breathe and sleep. I have extra blankets.” Weston kept glancing over his shoulder every few steps, half expecting Marx to come back and charge at them. Or shoot.

“I don’t know if Cabrera would help you or not. I would like to think so, but I honestly just don’t know. I doubt King would. And hey - listen -” Weston took another look over his shoulder and lowered his voice a bit. “I’m not going to ask anything from you, okay? I’m not doing this so that I can demand something from you later. I just want to help. And I’m sorry I touched your back.”

Thankfully, Marx didn't come back, a fact that made Wren relax a little more with every step. He relaxed much more when Weston agreed to let him stay. "I don't think I would want Cabrera's help." He admitted, taking a moment to process the last bit of what Weston said. Once he had it figured, however, he still didn't believe it. He kept his voice low as not to be overheard.

"You don't have to lie, it's alright, I'm not bitter about it or anything." He gave a soft smile, unfortunately genuine considering what he was implying. "People don't do these things for nothing. I really don't mind paying you back with what I can. Marx'll have a fit, but he can deal with it. If I had to do it with him and get beaten, I can absolutely do the same with you."

Furrowing his brow in concern, Weston shook his head. “No, I meant what I said, and I’m not lying. It isn’t right, what he does. I’m sure as fuck not going to do the same thing.” Weston rested the pole on his shoulder, opposite of Wren, and his shoulders slumped a bit. He couldn’t help it, but his mind drifted to Tigran, and all the other people Temma ‘employed’. He’d never forced himself on anyone, never hurt any of them, but his stride faltered for a moment as he came to some realizations he had been trying hard to ignore these past months.

“Why do you think I’m lying?”

Wren took a moment, genuinely confused. He couldn't help but feel a little bit hurt. His body was the one thing he still had to offer, and Weston didn't want it? Was he uglier than he thought he was? He frowned, allowing the quiet to set until Weston spoke again. "I mean, I'm pretty." he mentioned, sounding a little unsure of himself now. "Nothing's free here, you may not pay with cash but you pay with something, and you don't know me. Why else would you help me?" He paused. "There's no good Samaritans. No karma, no kindness. You can only lose by helping me, you have to get something out of this."

Weston’s jaw worked silently for a moment; he couldn’t find what to say. No, actually, he knew exactly what he wanted to say, just not how, because he’d never said it to anyone before. Not Tigran, not Ignacio, not anyone. Only one person knew this truth and it wasn't something they'd likely ever speak about again.

“No! You are - good looking, I mean. Very. That’s not what I meant though.” Weston glanced over his shoulder, then sped up his steps a bit to peer around the corner in the hallway before they turned it - just in case. Nobody was around, which was good. He paused at the corner, giving Wren all the time he needed to catch up so they could continue, not rushing him. Broken ribs were a bitch and it would make everything harder, even just walking.

“Truthfully, yeah, I do get something out of this. But it’s not because I’m taking anything from you.” Weston rubbed the back of his neck nervously, keeping his eyes ahead of them. The infirmary door was up ahead, at the other end of this hallway.

“I get something out of this because I… now I know for sure what kind of person Marx is. And I can’t deal with people like that being around here. Around anywhere. Doing what he does. While I might not know you, I know people like you, and they needed help too.” Weston glanced at Wren, then quickly returned his eyes to the other end of the hallway and the infirmary door, tucking his free hand into his pocket because he didn’t know what else to do with his hands. “If you really need to, think of it like I’m taking something from Marx, and that’s my trade. Or you can just let me be nice and not make a big deal out of it.”

For a moment, Wren panicked that Weston was abandoning him and picked up his pace as well, though he slowed down when Weston did. He wasn't quite sure if he believe Weston's evaluation of his appearance now, but it apparently didn't matter.

He listened closely, churning Weston's words in his head like an old ice cream machine. He could understand that, he'd seen it before. His parents weren't abusive, not like Marx's, but that didn't stop them from hurting him and his brother. He'd been content to take it and move on, but Vick never had. A thousand years ago, he'd sat with Vick and asked why he got into journalism of all things, considering how paranoid he was about the government and media. Vick had sipped his coffee and grinned at him. "So every time that bitch back at home reads the paper, she knows she was wrong. I made something of myself without her. That's the best revenge I can get."

He hesitated, looked around, and then hooked his arms around Weston's chest and hugged him, mumbling a quiet and emotional thank you into his chest. It only lasted for a moment before he was pulling away and walking towards the infirmary, more or less acting as if it hadn't happened at all.

Weston made a quiet but surprised grunt as Wren suddenly hugged him. It was entirely unexpected, especially from someone as prone to flinching and injured as Wren. Of all the things to be on guard for at Lincoln, a hug was not one of them. He found himself wondering when the last time was that someone did that to him. Months ago at least, when he saw Lila, probably? Unsure what to do at first, Weston stood still and let it happen. When Wren mumbled a thank-you, he lifted one arm up and hugged him back. Gently, of course. “You’re welcome. Anytime.”

It was a blessing that the walk to the infirmary was uneventful after Marx. Opening the door for Wren, he stepped in first and glanced around, expecting to see Victor - the guy damn near lived in here. But the place was empty, save for a few sleeping forms in beds behind closed curtains. Somebody somewhere was snoring quietly. He poked his head into Victor’s office - the door was open, but the room was empty, which felt unusual. “Huh. He must have stepped out.” He commented, mostly to himself, turning back to face Wren. “Well, pick a spot, I’ll get ice.”

Wren picked himself a spot as far from everyone else as he could and sat down, fumbling with his shirt for a minute before pulling it off. There wasn't much point in wearing it when he'd have it off again soon anyways. He glanced around for Victor, but wasn't shocked to see him missing considering what just happened. "Thank you" He repeated as he waited for Weston to get the ice, curiously tracing his fingers over the rib and looking at the wound. It was bruised badly, with obvious swelling around the bone. At least it didn't break in half and puncture a lung or something. It looked about as painful as it felt though.

Weston had spent just enough time in the infirmary to have some idea of where things were. Not everything, but he wasn’t useless. Annoyed that the asshole doctor wasn’t around to do the doctoring they let him stay here for, Weston went into Victor’s office to find the mini-fridge with the freezer space on top. The fridge was full of bottled water, and the freezer space crammed full of ice packs and bags of ice. Weston took an ice pack and a bottle of water, glancing around the office as he stood back up. Nothing looked out of place - bed unmade, open books on the desk, half-empty mug of coffee nearby, extra clothes hanging or piled around. The doctor probably just stepped away for something.

“Alright, I found ice.” Weston announced as he emerged from the office, heading to where Wren sat and offering him the ice pack. The bottle of water was still sealed, so he turned the cap just enough to snap the plastic, then handed it to Wren, so he could open it but see it was otherwise untampered with. He couldn’t help but study the bruises over Wren’s body, wincing at the sight of all the black and blue and swelling.

“Do you want me to try and find some painkillers? Or aspirin? Or… I don’t know what else would help, besides time.”

Wren smiled softly as he took the ice pack and water, carefully situating the ice pack against his ribs and holding it with his arm before sipping the water.

He didn't really mind Weston studying his body, not because he was handsome, but because it hardly felt like a part of him anyways. He'd been eye candy for so long that it was only to be expected, but the way Weston looked at him wasn't like that. If anything, that was the part that felt weird and unfamiliar. He perked up at the mention of painkillers. "Marx said I can't have those because I'm not a Samaritan" He more or less blurted. "Aren't they for emergencies?"

Weston stole a quick glance at he door to make sure they hadn't been followed in before answering. "Marx is full of shit. Painkillers are for whatever the doctors decide they're needed for. And since I don't see any doctors around here, I'm gonna say you're allowed some painkillers. You do look like you broke, or at least badly bruised, a rib. Kind of sounds like a fuckin' emergency to me."

Weston moved to a cabinet some paces away. The door was locked, but Weston fished a ring of keys out of his pocket and flipped through them, selecting one and shoving it into the lock. The cabinet was stocked pretty full, and Weston was not entirely sure what he was looking for. "Uh... alright. Do you know any names of painkillers? Oxycontin is one, right? What else should I be looking for?"

Wren followed his gaze. He wasn't sure how much he believed that, but considering nobody was here (consciously) and even if they were, they couldn't exactly tell Weston no anyways, he let it slide. "That's what the nurse said. You can feel where the fracture is."

Wren said it like a joke, but he didn’t laugh, it'd hurt too much. He paused to consider the names of painkillers that he knew. "Acetaminophen, advil... That's the only two I can think of." He frowned, then looked up at the ceiling. "Aspirin.. ibuprofen... tylenol... " He listed off, then paused again. "If anybody read my field guide, willow bark is a great one."

"I was thinking you need something stronger than over the counter stuff like Advil and Tylenol..." He furrowed his brow, taking a bottle of Oxycontin out and giving it a shake. A few pills inside rattled. "We're fresh out of willow bark, sorry." He responded while unscrewing the cap to the pill bottle and shaking one out onto his hand. Returning the bottle, he locked the cabinet back up tight. "I hope you're not allergic to oxy." He raised an eyebrow at Wren as he dragged a stool over to sit next to him, offering the pill out with an open palm.

"You wrote a field guide?"

"Somehow I get the idea that you wouldn't recognize it if we did have it, since you didn't read my book." Wren cracked the slightest smile before taking the pill and swallowing it. "I gave you one, though I understand if you were more concerned with my code cipher than the actual herbal information. Both are important though, we're going to run out of pills eventually. I could go on and on about natural medicine...." He trailed off, taking a deep breath and flinching. "When I can breathe better. If I'm staying with you I'll have plenty of time to lecture."

"No, you're right, I wouldn't recognize it." Weston returned the smile, hand dropping to his lap after Wren accepted the pill. It took him a moment to realize what guide Wren was talking about, and when it clicked, it showed in his face. "Oh, shit, you wrote that whole guide? I didn't realize - and yeah, you're right, I did spend more time on the cipher." He paused a beat, then grinned. "I'll have to read it then - and I'll be all ears for learning something useful." He slouched back in his chair, rubbing a hand down his beard.

"Anything I can get you?"

Wren couldn't help but smirk as he watched Weston's face shift in understanding. He chuckled, then winced, but still grinned. "It was something to do. Take my word for it and not the book, some days I was more bitter about being here than others." He teased, though it was only half a joke. He couldn't quite remember if he had mislabeled anything on purpose. He paused for a moment before deciding to play it off.

"Gives you an extra reason to keep me around." He added with another breathless laugh. He sighed, waiting for the pain killer to kick in. "I'm alright. Thank you, Weston, really. You've done more for me just now than anyone has in a long, long time..." He trailed off, his thoughts drifting to his brother for a moment.

"You know this isn't over with Marx though, right? He's going to go after you. It won't be pretty."

Weston offered Wren a grin, rolling his eyes a little. "Guess we'll have to keep you around so we don't accidentally poison ourselves. Smart move, man." At the mention of Marx, Weston scowled at some point in the distance on the floor, then nodded. "I know. I'll be ready for him - and let 'em. I got no patience for fuckers like him." Weston pressed his lips together, frowning more deeply, before looking back up at Wren.

"Don't worry about it though, okay? I don't plan on going anywhere anytime soon."

Good_Morels ​

 

[Bullyboy Squad]

LINCOLN
Prison cell for traitors


The enforcers shoved her into the cell, forcing her to her knees on the cold, hard ground. Cabrera moved to stand in front of her as they pinned her in place. His expression was cold, serious.

“You people…” His tone tinted with disdain as he drew his knife. “You try to burn us. Bring the undead when we sleep.”

Cabrera grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back, making her meet his gaze. She was too weak to resist. She felt weak to him. No matter how strong she tried to be. How brave. Her eyes, wet and wide, were filled with fear. Good. Fear of more pain, fear of the unknown. Those were the first steps. And then when her mind would be on the verge of shattering, he would offer her solace. Hope. That everything would be okay if she just gave him what he wanted. That’s how you got results in the long run. Cabrera knew. He’d been on the other side of that blade before. No matter how tough you started, how determined. Everyone broke eventually.

“You act like fucking animals,” he gritted out, “so I’ll treat you like one.” He tugged her hair up and started sawing through it with the knife. The guards held her steady, but it was slow work—the blade wasn’t sharp enough to slice cleanly through the wet strands. He did it bit by bit, dropping chunks of hair into her lap until he was done.

He stepped back afterwards, and without another word the door clung shut behind him as he left her alone in the cell. But Ignacio didn’t go far before he stopped frozen in his spot, his mouth going ajar. He stared into the adjacent cell but he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Weston…” He mumbled under breath before shoving the nearby guard, snarling. “Open this fuckin’ door.” Deaf to the excuses. “NOW!”

​

Namazu NanLia
​

​

 

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
Prison Cell for the Ones On the Right Side of Morality​

Weston landed roughly on his side on the floor of the cell, groaning as he slowly rolled onto his back. His heart was thudding in his chest and his mind whirling a hundred miles a minute. Where there was nothing but anger before - red hot anger that needed an outlet - there was now fear and panic creeping into his chest to add to the mix. Some of the adrenaline was already starting to wear off and it was quickly becoming apparent to him that damn near everything hurt. Reaching up, he pressed the back of his hand to his cheek, where one of King’s punches had caused the skin to split. Still bleeding, but possibly slowing? It was hard to tell. His face felt a little swollen around his cheek. He’d probably be all puffed up in a few hours.

Leaving a thin trail of blood on the cell floor, Weston rolled onto his other side where he hadn’t been punched and dragged himself over to the wall of the cell. Propping himself up, he leaned his back against the wall and stretched one leg out, the other leg half-bent as he held his sore side. That cheap shot might have him pissing blood for a while. Not that he particularly expected to have ‘a while’ left.

Maybe he’d languish, maybe he’d be in the pit by tomorrow. Who knew? The real question was, who cared?

Weston was plenty ready to sit there in his bruises and his blood and chew on the concept he’d lost the battle but others might live on to win the war when he heard the possibly the last voice he wanted to hear right now.

“Open this fuckin’ door NOW!”

Something slammed against the door - had Ignacio kicked it, or had he thrown one of the guards into it? Knowing Ignacio, the right answer was probably both of those things, and he’d keep doing it until he got in.

“Jus’ fuckin’ let him in, Christ Almighty.” Weston half-grumbled, half-whispered, knowing full well nobody on the other side likely heard him or cared about what he thought. He wasn’t Second in Command of fuckall squat anymore. He had no power here.

It was a tough call, to say what he would have preferred at this point. He didn’t want to hear that door bang all night, and didn’t want Ignacio to bust himself open trying to get in. He gave not a single flying fuck about the guards outside and would have been just fine if Ignacio gutted them and decorated the halls with their innards. But at this point what he was truly dreading, far, far more than the hangman’s noose, was having to actually converse with Ignacio about…. This. All of this.

He probably failed a lot of people, but this was one failure he didn’t want to face.

The guards must have finally relented, because the cell door went flying open fast enough to make the hinges squeal. Weston flinched slightly, remaining on the floor propped up against the wall for a moment before deciding to stand. Pressing a hand against the wall, he slowly dragged himself up back to his feet, turning to stare at Ignacio in the doorway. He kept one hand on the wall for balance, slightly hunched over as he kept his other hand gently pressed to his side, wincing.

There was no smile, no tender look, no gentle hand offered to rest on Ignacio’s arm this time. A sweat-and-blood covered hand wiped at his beard, also stained with blood thanks to his split lip. There was no coldness in his eyes either though; just distant, exhausted resignation.

“Come to say your goodbyes?”

Bullyboy Squad NanLia ​

 

[Namazu]

THE MEETING
MS13 Cellblock​

Why did they have to meet in the middle of the night?

Tigran was exhausted, and now he was also late to the meeting. It had taken longer than expected for his night’s client to finally fall asleep, even with all the alcohol involved. He himself was a bit buzzed, but not yet too drunk to function, and he was able to silently slip out of the quarters he’d been visiting. He would have loved nothing more than to go back to his own bedroom, shower off that night’s regrets, and crawl into bed and sleep alone. Burying his face into a pillow that didn’t smell like sweat and sex sounded amazing.

Moving as quickly and as silent as he could, Tigran heard the voices before he saw anyone, and it was enough to make him freeze in place and press himself against the wall, listening to what he heard down the hall. Two sets of stomping footsteps, the jangle of keys, two angry and exasperated voices, and one voice cussing up a storm in between pained groans and grunts.

Tigran recognized that voice. If he was being honest, he recognized those groans too, but he tried not to think of that. Peering around the corner of the hall, trying not to let himself be seen, Tigran caught sight of a bleeding Weston being dragged between two guards, still trying to fight them even though it looked to be a losing battle. One of the guards decked him across the face, which made Weston sag in their arms and quieted him down for a moment.

“We’ll get names out of you, fucker.” One of the guards spat before continuing to drag him on in the direction of the solitary cells.

Shit.

When the trio turned another corner and were out of sight, Tigran picked up his pace. Not sprinting, even if he wanted to - people would hear his shoes against the hard linoleum and it would rouse suspicion and concern. It didn’t take him long to reach the MS13 cellblock, tugging open the door. The guards momentarily bristled until they recognized him as someone invited, not an intruder.

Tigran stumbled into the middle of the cellblock, putting a hand against a tiled pillar as he stopped to catch his breath. It wasn’t that he was bad at cardio, but it was the fear knotting in his throat that made it hard to breathe. He took this opportunity to quickly glance around the room at the others gathered. Some faces here were a surprise, but not others.

“Guys, we got a problem. They got Weston. I saw him being hauled to solitary. Looks like they beat him real bad.” Tigran glanced around, from person to person gathered, uncertain who was in charge now that Weston was sunk.

“We gotta either fucking act now, or bail.”

Bullyboy Squad Tool NanLia kaileaf Miaow ​

 

[Namazu]

Collab with Bullyboy Squad

LINCOLN
Weston's Prison Cell​

Ignacio stormed inside, shocked and angry, instantly getting to his friend. “Weston.” He touched the man’s shoulder, looking him over. His gaze hinting disbelief, both at the state the man was in and the fact he was locked in a fucking cage! He was the Second in Command of this fucking Kingdom! What was this?!

“What the hell happened, man?” He shot a glare back at the guards. “You did this to him?! Don't tell me you fucking did this!” He swung his gaze back to Weston, eyes almost frantically scanning the damage on the man’s face, looking for more serious injuries. “You need a medic.”

Weston didn't immediately meet Ignacio's eyes, not until after he snapped at the guards while searching for someone to blame. When Ignacio looked back at him, he shook his head and exhaled. He looked like he'd been beaten pretty good.

"King did it. Him and his guards. No point in a medic now, even if he did allow one in here." He finally reached up, putting his hand over Ignacio's on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze - though he didn't push it away. "Not on someone who's gonna be swinging from a rope soon."

Fucking flashbang. Stunned. Cabrera’s lips parted as different emotions cascaded from his mind straight to his heart. “What… How…” Why?! Why would Marcus do that!! It didn't make fucking sense!!

Punched to the gut with the news, Ignacio’s stomach dropped. He let go, taking a step back. Fighting nausea and shaking his head like a man rejecting reality. “That’s— What?” He scoffed and glanced back at the guards like he expected them to burst out laughing. This had to be a joke. Why nobody was fucking laughing!

Looking back to Weston, completely lost, he gritted out. “What the fuck is happening, man?”

It was hard to figure out where to even start, knowing full well that at any second Ignacio could turn around and walk right back out that cell door without hearing all of it. "I don't know who is behind the kitchen fire, or the outbreak in the cell blocks. Marcus thinks I am. He's wrong." He frowned as Ignacio stepped away.

"But," he took in a deep breath, only to wince as pain shot through his side again. Bruised muscle, hopefully. He looked away, then back to Ignacio's face, meeting his eyes.

"We deserve better than this, Ignacio. That includes you too." He studied Ignacio's face, expecting him to lash out at any moment. "These people need better. It ain't gonna be me, but that's fine. It was never about me."

Cabrera's heart hammered in his chest as he listened to the vague explanation. He gingerly shook his head, not following. "What the hell are you talking about, Weston?? What did you do... What did you do man?!"

As much as it hurt him to do this to Ignacio, he wouldn't hang his head or grovel for forgiveness for doing it. Head held high, standing as straight as he could manage with his injuries, Weston swallowed hard and answered with the truth. No point in denying it now.

"It was me, Ignacio. It's been me the whole time. No more kings. You got it? You were never in danger though. They know you're off-limits. My orders."

Cabrera felt dizzy from the headrush. It’s like the pressure under his skull was going to explode. He couldn't believe this. He… The expression on his face was pure bewilderment. To the point it was impossible to say if he was angry, feeling betrayed, relieved or worried. His lips moved but no sound came through. His brows furrowing as if he tried to figure out a math equation.

“Of course…” He finally mumbled. “Of course it's you…” Ignacio swallowed against tightness clenching his throat. The words biting his tongue. “You’re the terrorist.”

He tore his gaze away from Weston and turned to rush for the exit. Like he couldn't stand being in the other man’s presence any more.

Weston made a grab for Ignacio's hand, trying to stop him or slow him down before he could run off. He missed his grab, and Ignacio never stopped or even slowed in his exit.

"I'm no terrorist, Ignacio! I'm trying to save us from a goddamn dictator!" Weston finally broke his stillness and his calm, shouting at Ignacio's back as he stormed out of the cell. "I don't regret what I did, I only regret I couldn't tell you sooner - because I did this for you too!"

Bullyboy Squad BeyondDandy ​

 

[Bullyboy Squad]

LINCOLN
The Meeting - The News
​

Toni stood aside with his arms crossed and let her run her mouth, not saying a word. He already couldn’t stand that bitch, but damn, if she didn’t have balls. While she talked, his crew settled down, grabbing seats or leaning against walls. The tension simmered but it stayed in check now that their boss wasn’t getting jumped.

“How da fuk you gonna flashlight your tits inside the building eh?” He shook his head but didn’t care much. That’s usually how it went in the old days, back when the prison was run by white men from the office in the sky and the gangs controlled the ground. You made a plan and then it was out of your hands—you couldn’t just call each other’s cellphones. Communication was only non verbal and on a small scale. A look, a touch. That’s all you got back then. Toni and his crew knew that game too well, they didn’t need stupid flashlights.

"Ya ain’t listenin’. I said I know Black. Imma get the guns, whatever we need. But it would be smart to bust the rest, eh?” Toni was ready to elaborate when a new face rolled up and… everything changed. Toni stood like he was frozen for a few good moments after the guy choked out the news.

Cursing, the Hispanic hooked one of his boys by the neck, pulling him close and hissing quick, quiet orders into his ear. The man didn’t waste a second, bolting out the spot. Almost like clockwork, a walkie-talkie crackled to life—not Toni’s, but one lying on a bench. The voice on the other end spoke in code, straight-up Spanish prison tongue. Toni snatched it up and hit the button, snapping back. It looked like the news that came next lit a fire in his gut.

He threw a sharp look at Madison. Whether he liked it or not, she was the one with the plans, the one holding down some authority next to his. “It’s fuckin’ worse. They setting up an execution. Tomorrow 5 PM in the pit.” He paused, voice laced with anger but his face stripped of the mask. Showing anxiety, worry. “Weston’s gonna hang.”

Tool Namazu NanLia kaileaf Miaow ​

 

[NanLia]

LINCOLN
The Cellblock

​

Father Aurelio listened to Victor speak, gently clasping his hands in front of him as he kept his face passive. He listened, for subtle queues and context that may or may not align to the details he already knew about the events, what the kid had shared with him.

Once the doctor was done with his mournful tale, Elio remained silent for a time, watching him and carefully considering. “I thank you, Doctor, for sharing this with me.” He offered a gentle smile. “It could not have been easy for you to admit such a thing.”

Elio glanced at the guard at the door and waved him off, he didn’t look pleased but left, heading down the hall. The Priest waited for the sounds of the guards' footsteps to fade before he turned back to Victor.

“Our professions are not so different.” Elio stepped towards the metal sink, watching Victor through the reflection, partly turned away. “Many years of education and dedication to try and bring peace to our people, to people who need us.”

He reached into his pocket and then removed his hand, fist holding something out of Victor’s sight. He opened the palm and seemed to consider something before selecting one item and then setting it down on the edge of the sink.

The tooth wobbled and threatened to teeter over before settling down.

“I spend my days listening to the lies of men.” He continued, selecting another tooth to set down before the first. “Like most men, dear doctor, you tell a partial truth.” A third tooth was set next to the others. “Now, there were two parts to your story. You were gathering sedatives and your intent was to use them for your own sleep.”

A fourth tooth was added and Elio looked at the small collection before closing his fist and returning the remaining teeth to his pocket. He turned back to Victor who still knelt next to the moaning man, those moans becoming more distraught at the sight of his teeth.

“I nearly believed the drugs would be for you, but then, you wouldn’t have been in the position you were for long.” Elio inhaled deeply and sighed. “If you had been using drugs from the supplies the Black would have known about the unaccounted medication, long before everything was lockdown.” He tisked softly and turned towards the cell threshold once more.

“Unfortunately, Doctor, you weren’t willing to do everything you could to save this man’s life, and that will be a sin you carry with you when you greet our Heavenly Father..” At the door he turned, looking back into the cell. “I wish you both the best of luck this evening, perhaps if he makes it to the morning, you’ll be more willing to share the truth with us.”

Elio grasped the heavy door and started to close the cell door. “At least, doctor, you know that if he does turn, you won’t be bitten.”

Namazu ​

 

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
The Cellblock
TW: Blood, Gore, Torture​

There was a brief ray of hope, a shining moment in time, where it seemed the priest had believed him. Victor watched the man carefully, at first wondering if he was setting down ivory beads from a broken rosary. He might have offered to try and fix it for him, even. It was not until Elio moved his hand did Victor see what it truly was - a tooth. No doubt from the man on the cot.

A shudder ran through Victor, but he did his best to steel himself against whatever was coming next - whether that be adding his own teeth to the collection, or worse. It dawned on him at that moment: there was no uncertainty that the priest had everything to do with the state of the man on the cot. No doubt whatsoever.

If this man was a priest once, he certainly had no right to call himself one now.

Ignoring the moans of the man on the cot, Victor kept his attention trained squarely on Elio, listening and watching, counting those teeth, noting the way the priest returned a hidden handful of more to his pocket.

Victor felt the anger flare inside him, making him wish he had a weapon in his hand so he could lash out at this pretender as he taunted him and spoke to him of sin, then on top of it all had the audacity to suggest that at least he wouldn’t be bitten. As if this was some sort of favor the man had done for him.

This was not the first time a priest had deemed him a sinner. Far from it. Back home, in a world that seemed a million miles and a million years past, certain rumors of who one spent their time canoodling with in a late summer cornfield under a blanket of stars tended to get around. Once those rumors reached certain ears, it was a guarantee that the axe of judgment would come down. Victor long ago earned himself the title of sinner and wore it with pride, and these days, he was only adding chevrons and stripes to that uniform.

Victor made no effort to stop Elio from leaving his cell, only staring at him in cold silence, letting the priest close the cell door. He had no expectation he’d be walking out of that door alive.

He waited until Elio’s retreating footsteps faded into silence before pushing himself back up to his feet, pacing away from the man on the cot. The man was moaning more now, trying to speak though it mostly came out incoherent. Victor wrapped his arms around himself as he leaned against the far wall of the cell, staring up at the ceiling, thinking.

~*~*~​

After an hour of listening to the man moan off and on, less and less coherently, Victor was at the end of his rope. He’d spent the fifteen, maybe twenty minutes of that time sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, staring blankly through the man.

There was absolutely nothing he could do for Cot-Man, which he was now mentally calling the guy, since he couldn’t get a name out of him. The man’s eyes were no longer open, and he’d been shivering and shaking for well over an hour now, maybe two. He was pale, sweaty, and sickly looking. No doubt the beating he had was taking its toll.

Elio had been right, in a way. He wasn’t willing to do everything in his power to save Cot-Man’s life - because he wasn’t willing to risk trading his own away. Not for a stranger, not when it was unlikely any of them could do much for him. If Cot-Man lived, he’d likely never walk right again. He’d be limited to liquids and mashed potatoes for the rest of his life.

~*~*~​

After two hours of standing vigil over Cot-Man’s fast downward spiral, Victor wished he could go back to being alone in a cell. Even if Cot-Man wasn’t awake and the only movement in him was the unsteady rise and fall of his chest and stomach as he breathed, Victor still preferred an empty cell. It was easier to think, easier to pace, easier to exist, and easier to fall apart without feeling like someone might be watching or listening.

“Fuck you for even being here.” Victor muttered to Cot-Man. He’d been having a one-sided conversation with the man for awhile now, ever since he seemed to pass out. It was mostly Victor verbally berating the man and using him as an emotional punching bag for all the pent up frustration he had.

Victor, currently pacing back and forth in the small cell in an attempt to warm himself up, paused when he heard Cot-Man’s breath turn rattly and weak-sounding. He’d been mulling over his options ever since Elio stepped out, and it appeared the time for a decision was quickly coming to a head.

Approaching Cot-Man, Victor unwound the tight gauze around the man’s knee, pulling away the electrical tape. He bundled up the gauze and squeezed it in his hand. Not quite enough. There was no pillow on the cot, either. Staring down at Cot-Man, Victor got an idea. He yanked off the man’s shoes and socks, making a face at the smell of sweat and feet, and wrapped the gauze around the socks. Now he had a decent thick and large enough piece of fabric in hand for what he intended.

“Sorry man. You’ll thank me later.” Victor murmured as he leaned over Cot-Man, pressing the stinking bundle over his mouth and nose with both hands. It didn’t take long before Cot-Man started to struggle. Victor grabbed the man by his neck and squeezed, keeping him held down.

“Shut the fuck up. It’s for your own good!” Victor hissed, squeezing and pressing tighter. As tired and hungry as he was, Victor had the upper hand here, and before long Cot-Man’s struggles ceased.

Once the man was still, Victor held the bundle in place for another minute or two before carefully moving it aside, reaching down to feel the man’s neck. When he felt a pulse - a faint one, but a pulse nonetheless, he let out a frustrated growl.

There was nothing sharp in the room he could use as a weapon to finish him off with. Nothing but walls and a cot.

And that would be enough.

Grabbing Cot-Man by the legs first, he dragged the man off the cot and flopped him onto the floor. The man landed face-down with a thump, not that Victor gave a shit anymore. He just needs this out of the way and disposed of. And that’s what the man has become: a this, not a him. Picking up the man’s legs by the ankles, he dragged Cot-Man across the floor of the cell to the opposite side, near the doorway, and rolled him onto his stomach. He wasn’t certain he could still do this if he had to look at the man’s already-ruined face.

Kneeling at Cot-Man’s side, he took the man’s head in both hands, hesitating for a moment.

A mercy killing, he told himself. Reminded himself. Convinced himself.

Picking the man’s head up, he slammed Cot-Man’s head against the hard cement floor. It connected with a painful sounding thwack of flesh and muscle and bone, leaving behind a bloody streak on the floor. Victor had never heard a noise quite like it before. He tuned it out as best as he could.

Victor picked up the man’s head again, and repeated the gesture, slamming his head against the cement floor.

Again.

And again.

And again.

~*~*~​

In the end, Victor hadn’t counted how many times he’d done it. All he knew was that there was no pulse and he was not concerned the man would reanimate and try to bite him. He'd left the body where it lay, sprawled with arms out and legs straight, almost directly in front of the cell door.

Victor reclined on the cot - his cot now - and stared up at the ceiling.

He needed a cigarette.

NanLia Bullyboy Squad Crono ​

 

[Tool]

The Meeting
Lincoln Prison - The MS13 Cell Block
tw: sexual innuendo​

When some pretty boy Madison didn't know burst into the super secret clubhouse meeting of the rebellion, announcing in breathless tones that Weston had been hauled off to solitary, Madison's stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. Chestnut eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and she felt the old anger rise, the anger at injustice and failures on her part to keep folks safe, though this was closer to a cold anger, a frozen fire that kept her calm and focused tight as a laser, a fire of blues and indigos and purples rather than oranges or reds. Nevertheless, her jaw clenched hard enough to hurt as Toni spoke into a walkie-talkie in a prison-pidgin she couldn't follow.

Friends. They'd be the death of her.

Execution. At that, Madison's eyes snapped open and watched the doors for nearly a minute and a half, ready to go down fighting should the moment require it.

Zip. The Samaritans didn't know about the meet, and her lips uttered a resigned: "Oh, fer fuck's sake."

Alright......well, that meant whoever or whatever had gotten Weston made didn't include this meeting, which...... if the mole was among these people would have been the appropriate time to act.

Something released in the woman, and a tension eased somewhere down deep as another part of her soul sloughed away like a scab. The die were cast, and there was no way to spool things back into a tidy bundle. Her gaze drifted down to her hands, and she clenched and opened them a few times in succession. Weston's scheduled execution was a very mixed bag. On the one hand, the deadline was tighter than a virgin on her wedding night. On the other hand, that meant the Samaritan's opportunity to torture information out of her friend was equally brief. Lots of things in this world were worse than dying, but most of them took longer than a single day to implement.

When she spoke, Madison's voice was black and hard as pig iron, and though her eyes were a storm of unnamed emotions, none of them leaked through to her manner or tone.

"Sounds like we got ourselves a deadline. On th' one hand, th' fact they's killin' him quick means they're not gonna have much of a chance to get info out of 'im. On th' other...... Weston brought me into this mess. I'm not gonna let 'im die without trying to stop it. Some things are worth fightin' for."

She looked towards the Mech, Sneakers, and Nerd Boy in turn; "Can you three do yer thing in that time? Fuck up th' cars between now an' tomorrow, jam th' radios on cue?"

Without waiting for an answer, she looked at Toni, and then back out to the group at large; "We can pluck this chicken a few ways I can see. They's risky, but I don' know that I care."

Holding up one finger at a time, Madison ticked off the options she saw. "Go one buildin' at a time, startin' with the one they's gonna string up Weston. Surround. Exterminate everyone we know's a bad guy. Hopefully pull it off quick an' quiet 'nough with silencers and such that we can go to th' next buildin'. Rinse an' repeat, until things get messy."

"Or......."

"Cast wide. Spread out in kill squads of two or three at a time an' git in position b'fore hangin' time..... strike all at once across th' whole complex, sweepin' th' buildings from all four sides an' meetin in the middle. Use th' fire escape routes they's got on the wall as a guide t'go room by room. Things get messy all at once. Toni - you got contacts in th' armory..... they got tear gas canisters? Gas masks? Flashbangs? What'er our options? All ideas on th' table. Ain't like I'm some brainiac. I didn't live here b'fore a few months ago. You all know this place better'n me. Best I can tell, Samaritans aren't too good at wide-scale focused plannin'....... but they're gonna assume we're gonna do somethin' - I would, if I were in their shoes - so how can we use that assumption to OUR advantage? Any options I'm not seein'?"

Regret drifted across her face, and she looked down at her hands once more before looking at Toni and meeting his gaze levelly. "An I'm gonna need some heavy angel dust or stims if I'm gonna be any good in this fight. You th' man t'see 'bout that?"

Living through this didn't seem overly likely, but that was alright. Madison hadn't been afraid of death for a long, long time.

@ Bullyboy Squad @ NanLia @ Miaow @ kaileaf

​

 

[Namazu]

LINCOLN
The Old Prison Classroom
TW: Implied possible S.A., references to slavery
​

The sun had set over the prison, and it was nearly time for the unprivileged to be ushered back to their beds for the night, yet Craig Rollins still looked as awake and fresh as a daisy as he had earlier that morning. Hair slicked back, dressed in a black suit jacket, black slacks, crisp white shirt, and black leather shoes, Mr. Rollins stood at the front of a brightly-lit room filled with rows of worktables, chairs, stools, and terrified slaves of the Samaritans.

Back before the fall, this had served as a sometimes-classroom, sometimes-workroom, where well-behaved inmates were taught employable and valuable skills for life on the outside. It was a privilege that was earned, through good behavior and the drive to better oneself. These days, it was a workhouse to extract labor from the unprivileged. Or, as Mr. Rollins internally liked to call them, slaves.

A blackboard hung on the wall behind him, with the room’s rules written in Mr. Rollin’s clear, neat print. The rules were simple: No talking, no leaving your seat, no stopping work, no mistakes or errors, no taking anything with you when you leave, no eating, no drinking, no body fluids, and raise your hand if you require the attendant’s assistance or have a question. He called it an attendant but there was no mistaking what that role really was: An armed guard - a Samaritan enforcer.

This particular workroom was dedicated to the delicate task of sewing and tailoring. The prison was a populous place, with plenty of people who needed appropriate clothing free of rips and holes. Old clothes wore out, new clothing found did not always fit, and nothing went to waste here if it could be avoided. There were other uses for these skills too - bedsheets, pillows and pillowcases, blankets, makeshift ropes - and they even had people working on fixing shoes.

The slaves were hard at work with making and maintaining suitable winter clothing along with the usual repair requests. The privileged - including himself - had been allocated the best jackets, hats, gloves, boots, even snowmobile suits and snowpants. Everyone else? Well, they were going to have to prove themself useful enough to earn a jacket and winter accessories, or be content with layers and makeshift coats.

Mr. Rollins was fine with this. If the slaves were cold outside of the walls of the prison, it would keep them from running away.

The workers gathered here were not new faces. Mostly older people, the physically disabled, and women he did not deem attractive enough to present to Temma but were too frail to have any other use, they had mostly been under his employ for weeks now. They knew the rules, knew the routine, and knew their stitches and sewing techniques. Older women were especially useful here - the most likely demographic to come to him with these skills in hand already. He also selected these people because of how compliant they were. How fearful they were. How… easily controlled they were.

You cannot give needles to upstarts.

“It has come to my attention that yesterday evening, at the end of shift, there was an… incident.” Mr. Rollins folded his hands behind his back, standing tall and square-shouldered before the huddled masses. None of them raised their eyes to look him in the face. All of them shook slightly in their seats from nerves and fear. One older woman in the back folded her hands together under her chin, silently praying. He would have scoffed at her pathetic prayers, but that wasn’t who his focus was on this morning.

“I have to say, I am very disappointed in our resident rule-breaker. You have been granted this opportunity to help the community with a very cushy role. You get to stay indoors, seated, out of danger and away from the biting jaws of the dead.” Mr. Rollins’ eyes drifted over those gathered, watching their reactions.

“You have been handed a kingdom in which you may thrive, where other societies would have cast you out and left you to die. Other groups do not take care of their old, their infirm, or the fragile the way we take care of you.” Mr. Rollins continued as he casually strolled down the aisle between tables, slowing to a stop as he approached a table where an older man sat, hunched over. It seemed a miracle a man his age still lived in this day and age - he had to be at least in his seventies. He was a recent arrival, having come to Lincoln injured, helped along by his lovely granddaughter - barely eighteen, that one. He was injured with a broken leg from a nasty fall. Still now the man wore a brace and split on his leg and walked with crutches. He did not know the man’s prognoses, and did not care. He only knew the man’s only contribution could come from whatever he could do with his hands. And it seemed that contribution was quickly drawing to a close.

Standing at the end of the man’s table, he stared down at the man with disdain. With slow, deliberate motions, Mr. Rollins drew a long leather switch from his sleeve as he continued to speak.

“My assistant tells me that your eyesight is failing. Not merely weakening, but failing. You are failing to such a degree that you turned in an exceptionally shoddy piece of mending that fell apart in the attendant’s hands.” He paused, leather switch in hand, waiting for the man to react. When the man said nothing and did not move, Mr. Rollins slapped the switch against the table, right in front of the man. The entire room jumped at the sudden snap the gesture made.

“LOOK UP AT ME!” He shouted, right in the man’s face. He was immediately met with unfocused terrified eyes that had small, easy to miss milky-white spots in the center of the pupils. Late-stage cataracts, in both eyes. Who knew how long the man had them exactly, but he had certainly had them when he was admitted to Lincoln. Mr. Rollins pressed the tip of the switch to the underside of the man’s chin and stared at him until the silence stretched for an uncomfortable length of time. Then, abruptly, Mr. Rollins stood up straight and took the switch away from the man’s face.

“In 2007, an economist by the name of Raymond Vernon wrote about a concept he called ‘Product Life Cycle Theory’. In his paper, he spoke about the stages of a product’s market life cycle - any product, really, from washing machines to computers to power tools.” Mr. Rollins stepped away from the man’s table and began walking a slow circle around the room.

“First comes the introduction. A product is brought to market, shown off, tested, broken in. Next comes growth - the product finds its niche, its place in the world. Then comes maturity. The product is settled in, comfortable, at peak performance. Then comes saturation. There are many of the product out there now, others having gone through the same cycle after the original. Others are getting comfortable and performing well. Peak performance across the board. A joyous equilibrium.” Mr. Rollins made a horizontal gesture with his hand as he spoke of balance, before bringing his middle finger and thumb together and sliding them down the length of his switch.

Mr. Rollins had completed his circle around the room, coming to stand at the end of the man’s table again. Some of the other workers in the room had started to cry, hugging themselves or wiping their faces. They knew not what was coming, only that it couldn’t be good.

“Sadly, there is a final stage to a product’s life cycle. Abandonment. The cost of maintaining the product is high, and the demand is low. I am afraid that we have reached that point with you, Gerry.” The older man, Gerry, was shaking his head back and forth.

“No, no, please, I promise - I can see just fine, I-” Gerry didn’t finish his sentence as Mr. Rollins whipped the switch across Gerry’s face, leaving an angry red line across his cheek that immediately started to trickle blood. Gerry yelped, gasping as he pressed a hand to his injured cheek. The intent of the switch was never to kill, but to cause pain and intimidate, which surely had succeeded.

“You are obsolete, Gerry.” Mr. Rollins snapped, leaning down to put himself eye to eye with Gerry from the other side of the table.

“Be thankful, at least your granddaughter has a long life ahead of her.” Gerry’s eyes widened, his whole frail frame shaking.

“Wh- where is she? I haven’t been allowed to see her yet. The guards, they keep saying she’s busy helping others. Is she safe?” The old man’s eyes were blurring with tears now, afraid of the answer before it was even spoken.

“She is doing well, Gerry. She is safe. Cared for. Looked after.” He paused a moment, studying Gerry’s face as a slow smile slid across his own features.

“She serves Lincoln on her back, legs spread, like a good whore. She is adept at it. I should know. I have enjoyed her company myself. In fact, I was the one that broke her in.”

Mr. Rollins stood up straight at the same time Gerry attempted to take a swing at him, catching him by the wrist by a powerful grip, and immediately slamming the man’s arm down against the edge of the table. It was a heavy table bolted to the floor, precisely so that prisoners couldn’t flip it over or destroy it. The sound of a bone cracking filled the room, along with Gerry’s pained screams. The guard was already moving forward to collect the old man and drag him off.

“Dispose of him.” Mr. Rollins waved the guard off, sliding that switch of leather back up his sleeve. The old man couldn’t struggle much against the much stronger, much younger enforcer who dragged him out, leaving the man’s crutches behind.

Idly adjusting his cuffs, Mr. Rollins sniffed lightly, then cleared his throat as he returned to the front of the room. Approaching the blackboard, he plucked a slim piece of chalk from the tray at the bottom of the blackboard and wrote upon the chalkboard:

FAILURE WILL BE PUNISHED

He wrote slowly, intentionally making the chalk squeak. When he was done, he turned around to face the crowd. A backup enforcer had appeared at the doorway, to replace the one that had hauled Gerry off.

“You are dismissed. Report back here tomorrow morning, usual time, to resume working. Gerry’s projects will be reassigned tomorrow.” There was barely a heartbeat that passed before the workers stood and formed an orderly line a few steps in front of the door, where the guard searched each of them intently. A pat-down, pockets turned out, mouths opened and peered into. As each individual was waved through as they passed their search, they were handed their shoes from a rolling cart the guard brought to the room. Workers in Mr. Rollins’ work rooms were not allowed to wear shoes, in case any of them thought it would be a good place to hide needles, thread, or other goods. It also made running away harder, if one was clad in only socks or less.

When the line of exiting workers was halfway processed, an enforcer slipped into the room and hurried over to Mr. Rollins. A shorter man compared to Mr. Rollins’ impressive height, Mr. Rollins tipped his head down to listen to what the enforcer whispered to him. Hearing the news shared, he raised one eyebrow, looking at the enforcer. The enforcer looked at him - earnest and serious.

So it was true.

The head of the snake was caught.

A smile crept across his face once more.

“Lovely. We will break for work early tomorrow. I shall see to it that everyone is in attendance. What a show it will be, what a twist we will witness, to feed the ringmaster himself to the lions.”

Bullyboy Squad NanLia Safton Crono Tool Good_Morels Not Meat Miaow kaileaf BeyondDandy ​