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Realistic or Modern LL: The Samaritans

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Chole Miller​



No scene - Bar​

Chole had long since become accustomed to the large array of patrons of the bar - her bar - at least that was how she felt about it. Truth be told, everything within the walls of this prison belonged to King, including its people. It wasn't something she liked to dwell on but was certainly a topic her mind often returned to, especially on days like today. Where only a couple of patrons milled around, one half passed out at a table, over an hour since his last order and the second at the bar. Most of the usuals were taking up extra shifts for the enforcers out of the prison leaving her alone with her thoughts.


She glanced up from the bar top she'd been wiping down for the past hour to see Ray step through the open doorway and pause, glancing at the other patrons before acknowledging her and moving onward. Each of her patrons were unique in a variety of ways; some, like Toni or Anthony, thought they were the shit, like in the Old World, and would hit on her. Others, like Dutchess or Wesley chatted with her like they'd known each other as friends for decades and were close friends.


But Ray was his own special kind of unique; rather skittish and pretty quiet, Chole knew better than to linger too long or ask too many questions and set off his paranoia. She waited for his signal - a simple nod - before heading down the bar to where he sat. "Afternoon." She reached beneath the bar and brought out a small shot glass, setting it on the bar top before selecting a whiskey and filling it to the brim. She slid it closer to him but careful not to overreach, then collected a small tumbler and set it on the bar top as well. She filled it with the house beer and inched it closer to Ray's shot. "Quiet day."

SpazTheButcher SpazTheButcher




code by ditto (head empty go bonk)​
 








Dutchess​



Chapter One - Scene Two
Home Sweet Home​

Dutchess watched in part fascination and horror as Santi arrived and collected the radio. It was quickly evident that Santi did not believe the radio belonged to Brielle and Dutchess wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing for them. She could have used the chaos of doubt against Brielle and the new people to the advantage of the incoming Samaritans but then there was a risk of pushing too hard and exposing herself and North or, worse yet, pushing too hard and having Mark kill Brielle because of his own nerves. Every person was an asset to the prison, to King and to her name. She certainly didn't like the idea of someone dying needlessly either - she wasn't so cold natured to simply not care.


She had reported numbers back to Cabrera months before: inventory she'd seen, numbers of people, potential skills, livestock, the works. She and Anthony both knew that each of these were equally as important as the next to bring back to the prison and, there was a chance, that if something went missing, was broken or if someone was killed, the deals they had to elevate themselves to privileged could be pulled for a single misstep.


She bit her lower lip, eyes casting from Brielle to Santi as he issued a greeting through the abyss to the unknown back to Mark who watched on and clearly disagreed with Santi's choice to believe the girl. She quickly looked for Mrs. Richards who still watched a fair distance away but was far enough from her and North to hear Dutchess next words whispered to Anthony. "Get to Mark, get the gun, don't kill him." She knew it was a risk but Mark was now on edge and he'd likely be searching for someone coming.


Dutchess paused as Santi pulled the radio away from him, listening to the message - or lack thereof - that came next. She put on her best worried expression as she met Santi's gaze. "I don't like this." As she headed his direction cautiously, closing the distance. "Do you think they were just passing through?"

Interactions: The Cat Man The Cat Man arthur morgan. arthur morgan.
Mentions: Crono Crono Straw-Berry Milk Straw-Berry Milk Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad




code by ditto ​
 






Anthony North



CH.1 - SCENE #2
"Home Sweet Home"

FINE | TENSE

Dutchess ( NanLia NanLia ) | Mark ( Crono Crono ) | 'New girl' ( Straw-Berry Milk Straw-Berry Milk ) | Santiago ( arthur morgan. arthur morgan. )
'The prison's audiences', 'Current coach' ( Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad )
​
Once a barrage of harsh curses started to run in his mind, invigorating his body with that known feeling of adrenaline before a big fight, North couldn't bring himself to follow Dutchess right away after she whispered at him the order, leaving the wrestler behind as he looked on in a scrunched expression, almost as if he was squinting to see the scenario unfold. Anthony couldn't help but remember his youth, the star jock demonized to nothing more but a little dumb urban legend, he deserved far much more than that, so in that particular day where his game was off for once, the wrong bratty kid decided to make a snarky comment at him.

Anthony had always felt that releasing emotions through working out was great, he could spend a few more minutes looking at the mirror with the results, and every single one of his rawest thoughts would be used as fuel for energy. However, that day, Anthony had realized he could also satisfy those thoughts, and still realize every single thing he loved about sports.

The crunch Anthony heard once that fucking nerd's face slammed head on the wall's bricks, that was the moment he could say the Devil inside of him was born. Beating people up felt incredibly releasing to him, he also loved being on top and flaunting it off, so becoming a wrestler came from a natural line of reasoning, of course, North kept his sportsmanship... But doesn't ever forget the taste of blood on his knuckles from the unlucky piece of shit who came on his path, knowingly or not.

And let's just say, that once hidden feeling in the deepest parts of his heart, has taken center stage within the new normal of today. Anthony loves having a reason to beat something up, maybe his partner's command is a test for him, if he will be able to stop his punch from breaking that pussy's skull...
North shook himself back to the role of a brother once he thought of the prison's audiences and his current coach, almost as if his reputation was an anchor holding him down to reason, besides he's out of the ring, no fights until the bell rings true, until then, he's only but a faraway obstacle.
For now.

"...Honestly? You guys are so damn paranoid!" He took a deep sigh, rolled his eyes and brought about his golden grin, the one that just always works, even if it makes him look like a classic asshole, taking a seemingly different approach from Dutchess in approach as he followed her tracks. "Come on, couldn't that be scraps from a dead survivor kicked over by some corpses or somethin'? No offense, but this girl looks like she can't harm a fly!" Instead of going straight for his supposed target, Anthony went to stay at a certain position away in front of him, near enough but more so close to the new girl herself than Mark. "If you guys really think it's something though, guess me and sis can help out on scouting it out, we're pretty much free, but then the suspect's gotta go somewhere then." He retracted his grin into a simple smile, offering a convinient opportunity of alone time and stretching things out within the ranch group. Hopefully Dutchess shares his thoughts, but for North, there's just too much distance for the cavalry and too much people right now for a hostage situation, better to try and separate people for now... And maybe there's something a little more personal he'd like to solve himself...








º º code by ditto º º
 
DENVER



INFO
Denver,, 38,, Enforcer

LOCATION
Outside of the prison

MENTIONS
Crono Crono Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad Togy Togy

CURRENT



“I accept chaos, I'm not sure whether it accepts me.”

“Well, he certainly has more potential than this one, eh?” Denver glanced up to Toni as he crouched down in front of Jax, picking up a twig and poking at the asphalt with it. His lips pursed as he studied the desperate man in front of him, jabbing the gun at Toni’s side. The itchy feet of the other patrolmen shuffled around them, guns clicking and cocking until he waved his chain-wrapped hand behind him to silence them. He could feel their impatience - namely Toni’s - but he let the tension in the air fuel him, urging him further on his bullshit.

“That was slick though – you law enforcement?” He asked, craning his neck to study the others down the line. Eugene seemed half ghost already, but the glint of a few too many dog tags around Hughes’ neck and the dark green, bold cuts of Jamie’s jacket gave him all the answers he was looking for.

“--Military,” He laughed, the realization hitting him with an air of surprise. “They teach you to climb all over your boys to go kamikaze?” He gestured to the crumpled Eugene and Hughes sitting between Jax and Jamie. Visibly suppressing his laugh, Denver tossed his twig away and straightened with a gesture around them before counting the guns pointed at the Marine on his fingers. By the time he got to eight, he lost interest - a shit-eating grin across his face as his eyes narrowed back on Jax and a wiggling Toni.

“So, what’s the plan? You’re going to shoot him, and if you’re as lucky as you are ugly, you get one other shot out before your last breath? –Before you and your boys are Swiss cheese? –I imagine I’m that second shot in your little wet dream here, huh?” His tongue flicked across his lips as his eyes bore into Jax’s with a wink.

“I mean, I’m flattered that you’d die for me, but I’m not sure your buddies feel the same.” With the flicker of Denver’s eyes behind Jax’s head, the cold barrel of a handgun snaked around Toni and pressed to the back of his hair.

“Oof,” Denver feigned a cringe. “I think you just lost your second shot. What’s your move, Mama?”




coded by weldherwings.
 
people and technology at its best (10).png

Six months earlier…​

Pounding the pavement for 12 hours at a time could take a toll on even the sturdiest footwear. Freddie's worn tactical boots knocked against the prison corridor, their steps the only sound that ricocheted off the naked walls of the solitary ward. "You should have seen it, boss." The enforcer strode beside the Leader, his usually monotone voice tinged with enthusiasm evoked by the pit fight he witnessed a few hours earlier. Or maybe more by the fact he had the gut feeling to bet on the newcomer and won. "He hugged the last one so hard that they had to pry his arms off the man's neck after poor bastard was already gone for a solid minute."

Freddie slowed down, fiddling with the keys to find the right one. "You know, sir." He huffed, sounding troubled. "My Papa used to say, a dog that bites the hand that feeds him can only be disciplined with a firm hand." He stopped before the entrance leading to one of the isolated cells and inserted the key before glancing at King with a frank face. "Or put down."

The metal door clanged and opened, revealing the pitiful sight of a severed body bent in a fetal position on the barren floor. Naked. Deprived of food and water for God knows how long. Freddie winced as his gaze dragged along the pattern of serious lacerations and dark bruises. "He had these on him, not much else." The enforcer passed the Leader a pair of dirty dog tags. The name Ignacio Cabrera and a rank of the 1st Lieutenant scratched in the unvarnished metal.

"You want me to leave, sir?" Freddie faltered. "He looks beat but after that show he gave earlier? I don't know anymore." He seized the lean, curled frame of the stranger that slaughtered the four-man execution squad during the pit fight that was supposed to end his life.

"Might still be dangerous if you ask me."



 
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Scene Three
"The Rat Problem"

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The observation Wes made about getting ahead of this issue and bringing it to King now was a good one. As much as it irritated him to be challenged, he did have to respect L.T. for at least keeping a clear head about the matter. L.T. was right; you can’t keep anything from King for long. Of course, the other two also had their own interests in mind - surely neither one would want to be implicated in a cover up, even at the direction of the second-in-command.

Using the side of his boot to kick the baggies out from underneath the squeaky metal bed frame and toward the other two men - he still wasn’t touching that shit - Weston grabbed the mattress and pulled it back down onto the bed frame. It didn’t matter if a section of the bottom had been slit open - he’d sleep on it . Not like he had much of a choice, anyway. For now, he needed to sit down and clear his head.

Sighing and running a hand through his hair, Weston nodded. “Yeah, you’re right, L.T.. I mean, fuck you for being right, but you are.” He offered Wes a small smile to show he was not actually mad at him, just stressed. His mind was already racing with the hundred ways this could end poorly for him, and most of those included a lot of pain. Needing a cigarette badly, he pulled his spare pack out of his nightstand drawer, stuck one (somewhat dry and old) cigarette between his lips, and pulled his lighter from his pocket.

“What’s the guy’s name?” He asked Freddie, wincing a little. “Sorry to hear that, by the way. I didn’t even know you had a wife.” He paused for a moment as he lit up, then corrected himself. “Ex-wife. Christ.” He muttered, shaking his head. Weston didn’t want to point out that at least Freddie’s now-former spouse was at least still alive. Most people weren’t that lucky. Reflexively, Weston glanced at the framed picture on his nightstand for a moment before looking back up at Freddie.

“I don’t know how you haven’t killed the asshole yet…. Anyway, how do we want to run this? I’m willing to tell King but I also want us going for this guy as soon as we can, so he doesn’t catch wind that we’re on to him. If you let that kid out now, the guy might notice something’s up.” Weston looked to L.T. with that last question. Even if he technically outranked everyone in this room, Weston realized he was at their mercy if he wanted to get out of this mostly unscathed.

Weston was looking forward to strangling whoever the fucker was that put those drugs inside his mattress, because now that little itch inside his brain that made him crave it had come back again. That was the last thing he wanted or needed. No cigarette in the world was going to fully satisfy that itch, either.
 
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Scene One
Hughes

The world was a blur, but it was more than that. It was like Blake was watching through a TV, while borderline blackout drunk. The marine heard noises, those were voices right? He might have questioned if they were snarls if he could even gather his thoughts. That's when the hands started pulling at him, it was then in that moment of touch that the he became aware of the pain. It was everywhere, or it felt that way. Hughes only mumbled incoherently as he was pulled out, this fell into a groan of pain. Then he'd been released, and a figure stood over him. His blurred vision started to clear just enough to make out that this wasn't one of his men, nor was it Jaime. Again he could hear the dull noise of words, yet the ringing prevented him from making out what was said. Blake tried to sit up in an attempt to maybe reorient his senses, panic starting to crawl its way out.

And then he was being dragged, and he didn't have the strength to prevent it. Yet he still moved his legs in an attempt to gain ground and stand, this only caused him to cry out. The pain radiating in his leg strengthened tenfold when that pressure was applied, so he stopped, instead reaching up to grasp at the arm dragging him. Blake didn't know if the stranger was helping or planning to do the opposite, but that didn't matter in his panic. All he knew was that he was hurt and defenseless and so he did what he'd always done, fight. Even if it was just a little, so little that the man dragging him seemed unphased, didn't matter.

It wasn't until he was propped upright that Blake started assessing his injuries. Though he still slumped heavily, his upper body unbalanced and wavering as he tried to keep himself from falling over. Over time the pain he felt all over had started to shrink, and he was able to pinpoint where it was coming from. His right leg, his ribs, chest, and head. Blake realized he likely had a concussion, it would explain a lot. So with that knowledge, the marine started to try and focus. Turning his head he saw Eugene who looked pale and concerned, so he turned his head the other way and could see that Jax was armed, outmanned, and outgunned. Hughes never felt so powerless in his life, words dying in his throat, only another grumble coming out of his mouth. His body was betraying him, unwilling to move and help. Instead he lost what little balance he'd had, falling forwards and barely catching himself by putting out his arms before he'd smashed his face into the ground. The man pushed with his arms so that at the very least his back was straight, even if he was basically on all fours and staring at the ground. There was little choice but to focus on Jacob's dogtag's swinging like a pendulum between him and the ground below.

Togy Togy Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad spottednewt spottednewt​
coded by reveriee.
 
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No Scene - Bar
Ray the Ranger​

Interactions: NanLia NanLia

"Some would say too quiet," Ray said, attempting a joke. He had been cooped up in the armory for too long, and most of the contact he had with folks was just business, but his humor was still on point. Somewhat. He sipped his whiskey and watched her out of the corner of his eye. He noticed how she watched him. He had forgotten how his paranoia drove people away. But even the Ranger needed help(and friends) from time to time.

"Heya, um, Chole. I, uh, need something." He glanced around the room. There had been a time when he wasn't a junkie. Part of him was still the precision instrument that the Marine Corps built, the natural born killer. But years out of the service and the pressure of hiding from the law deteriorated him. He could still kill a man in cold blood, but his personality wasn't as happy go lucky as it had been.

"Can you see if anyone has some Rip Fuel? or Caffeine? Or weed for that matter? Just about anything. I just need a little something to get through the day," He said sheepishly. "Listen, ah, I'm sorry. If you help me out I'll make sure there's something for you in the deal, if you can catch my drift. You pick the price."
 
people and technology at its best (4).png


Everything happened in a flash. Only to drop into slow motion seconds later.

The grimacing face of the inked gangster swayed in his peripheral. Marine's hand felt clammy, shaking as it clutched the handgun, deliberately pressing the muzzle into the owner's abdomen. The jingle jangle of the chain snapped his attention back to the stone cold killer. Or at least that's the label his frantic brain put on the leader of that hostile band.

Jax's dirty cheeks were wet from tears. Fresh sweat trickled down his forehead, biting into an open cut above his brow. His heart hammered against his ribcage and the headrush meshing thoughts together made it so hard to think. At least the spike of adrenaline helped to mask the searing pain in his leg.

The Marine listened and stalled. His vision like a camera lens, sharpening and distorting on Denver's face. And when he narrowed his train of thoughts enough to repeat his demands…it was too late. His whole body flushed with a wave of heat when the gun touched him from behind. Fleeting thought about his heart wobbling too hard was replaced by all the scenarios this could go. Neither ended well for Jax but his main concern was how it would end for his comrades.

His gaze cruised towards Hughes, who fell over, supporting on all four like an animal that tried to walk after getting hit by a van. Jax's jaw clenched as he slowly shifted to look at the enemy. Did Denver recognize the previous spark of hope and defiance now giving in to the shine of defeat and pure hatred in man's pale green eyes?

"Don't let them get to you, son." The blonde muttered when slowly putting his hands up, the one with the pistol now aimed at the sky. His eyes were solely on the man in charge but his words were dedicated to his friend, who started all this.


 
ogjgwlo.png

That, right there. LT's words carried the distinct scent of uncomfortable truth. If either of them kept this secret from the man who owned Samaritans, they would pay the price. Maybe even if deemed a traitor, someone would be sent on their way to the pits. Or straight up to meet their maker. From their trio, it would most probably be Freddie. Just an example for other enforcers who ever wavered when deciding if to follow King's rules or contradicting orders of someone— anyone else.

It wasn't fair, but it was reality.

"You said you had somebody in mind. Who is it?"
"What's the guy's name?"

Freddie listened to the men discussing the issue and what to do next but his mind drifted elsewhere with those questions. To the freckled arms of a redhead woman. Something he never admitted to any hooker was how he missed just nuzzling his face to the soft breast. Relaxing until he'd doze off.

Freddie didn't have that for a long time. Not just since his wife left him but even before that. For years their sex life was barren of honest emotion and eventually deprived of all affection either. Freddie didn't know how to provide it with that metaphorical rift in their bed. Growing even wider when he was given night shifts. Last months before the world went to hell they didn't even go to sleep around the same hours. Freddie wasn't stupid. He knew someone else was in his bed when he was working nights.

“I don’t know how you haven’t killed the asshole yet…"

Enforcer's gaze lifted to meet Weston's eyes, his jaw tight. Hint of something foreign in that usually stagnant expression. Why didn't he kill the man? Simple. He wasn't a killer like most people within those walls. He didn't even participate in the cage or pit fighting if he could help it. Unless on the other side of the bars, putting bets on the bloodthirsty fools and poor, punished bastards.

"Brad. Brad Ackerman." Wes already knew that man. He was one of the COs back in the day. Now one of the armorers instead. Responsible for those who maintained gear other than firearms. Coordinating things between armory and supply rooms or scavengers. And Wes also knew Brad was a cocky motherfucker and an ultimate asshole. But what would be his motive?




 






Kenneth Parker



CH.1 - SCENE #1
"The Marines"

FINE | NERVOUS

'Predators' ( Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad , spottednewt spottednewt )| 'Prey' ( Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad , Crono Crono , Togy Togy )
​
Kenny wasn't sure for how long he cowered away from the rifle, when his hands let go of something he was once excited to hold and retreated to his cover in a desperate attempt to escape from that thousand yard stare that shot his heart point blank, maybe even more accurate of a bullseye than he'd ever pull off. His hands crawled through his already messy hair, his arms hiding his scarred expression from reality just as it hid the prey's capture below from the boy's mind.

Every damn fear Kenny had been stuffing below his bed spilled over for any to see just because of one little sad look.
Was that why he's always avoiding people's gazes? Because just one gaze can break the coward entirely?
Kenny truly believes his father would give him one HELL of a scolding right now, getting all scared when he was grown to be tough, the son who inherited Dad's hunting talents and shit.
And yet, here he is, actually crying because someone looked at him.

It's not just that, though.
After all, Kenneth saw his prey.
He just simply recognized that this must've been how everyone around him saw theirs too.
Prison was always a far away world for Kenny, the place were bad people go, be good and you won't have to, same old shit, Dad would sometimes make some jokes over it, whatever, baseline is don't get caught doing shit. Perhaps shooting that specific deer back then awoke something in Kenny, an inner pride mixed with a rebellious teenage natural gas would never be a good combo, and so he had his little fun times at school, he felt on top, the winning predator.

It never really registered that he could be a prey too.
How easy it was to kill him. The roles swapped, and Kenny is now suddenly aware of his ever so fleeting life.
Despite Kenny's attempts at showing off a gutsy attitude... He's fucking terrified.
Many stories run through the prison, he got to know many of his security team, many of them people said to be too dangerous and locked away...
Predators, and he's just a little bunny.

It took Kenneth a while to snap out of it, realizing that he's basically slacking on his job on a very important moment was enough for his brain to go to it's senses, the sheep cannot lose the skin of a wolf in the middle of a den like this.
He just cannot let himself be prey.

...It will certainly be hard.
Hands shaking, Kenny released himself from his self-made cell and placed himself back on position, quickly trying to make sense of everything...
After noticing an apparent stalemate solve itself, Kenny thanked the surrendering soldier internally for not taking it further... Avoiding eyesight, of course, he needs to focus.
Everything seemed to be fine in their side, moving quickly within the enforcers, not wanting to stare at them as much despite the distance, he quickly moved on to the Jeep...
The incoming guilt is stuffed deeply under the bed as Kenny tries to maintain composure, taking the search for all of them as a mask.
He hopefully isn't forgetting something.








º º code by ditto º º
 
Scene One
The Marines
​
The United States Military, rather counter-intuitively for an armed fighting force, taught you that death should be avoided at all costs. Your own, specifically. Stay cool under pressure, don't get caught with your pants down, and don't do anything stupid. Jamie had failed all three in short succession, so the lesson must not have stuck.

He hadn't meant to get Jax involved in his little act of rebellion. He'd only expected to get the innuendo guy away from him before unceremoniously getting his ass beaten on the side of the road.

The offending man had tears in his eyes. The angry, lethal look of a feral animal bred in the streets. Jamie had never seen that look before, but there were just some things you could tell on sight. He wanted to grab Jamie's skull and jerk it back to meet it with his knee. He wanted to knock the fucker to the dirt and kick his stomach until Jamie's ribs gave in. He wanted to teach him a fucking lesson.

Instead, the inked man just stayed in a half-bent position with his own pistol dug into his side.

Jamie could see it in his eyes. Their clear hatred for him scared him, as did a lot of things at the moment, but that was a whole new wave of problems he'd worry about later. At the moment, he already had enough to panic over as it was.

Jax was barely holding himself together, and Eugene only looked half there. Packer had yet to join the lineup, still being pulled from the wreck, and Jamie could only hope they were doing better than the others.

Just the sight of Huey made his heart leap to his throat. The man looked more like a dead body than the quick-to-action soldier he knew. For a moment, Jamie gave a small choked gasp because he thought Huey was dead. That or dying. Jamie had seen a grand total of four men die from start to finish in his life. Two over the last fifteen months, and two back when the world was supposed to be in order, when things were supposed to be peaceful, when people weren't supposed to die for no reason.

Jamie desperately hoped Huey wouldn't add to that list. Jamie was afraid of death, but that didn't mean he wouldn't much rather die than watch any of the marines around him do the same. Every movement Huey took looked more like a death spasm or a futile, exhausted motion of a dying man. His eyes flickered, and each time they closed Jamie feared they'd never open again. It was torture, watching one of his friends on the verge of death and he couldn't do anything. It scared him more than he was willing to admit.

Everyone looked halfway there already, but somehow Jamie had gotten away relatively unscathed. Maybe he should've been thankful for his own miraculous safety, but he wasn't. All he could do was wonder why Jax hadn't just jumped off the truck when he had the chance and let Jamie deal with the consequences of his own inaction.

Because Jax is a good guy like that. That bastard. Jamie should've been the one with a ruined leg and Jax should've been the one to make it out of the crash scot-free. Jax would've been able to do so much more than him in his position.

All Jamie could do was watch as another man came up behind Jax and pressed the barrel of a handgun against the back of his head. The sight sent an intolerable rush of fear through him. All it did was face him with hard, irrefutable evidence that they could all die right there and then, that the innate fear that not all of them would survive this had merit.

Because they wouldn't.

"Don't let them get to you, son."

PSYCHO DYNAMICS INTEGRITY TRAINING: INTRODUCTION - The human mind does interesting things under extreme stress. Hallucinations, personality displacement, and mental breakdowns. We will teach you not to use these as blind animal reactions, but as moves in a game.

"Wait!" Jamie spoke for the first time, shooting upright to his feet. Barrels swiveled to aim at him, but the sight of his hands held above his head calmed them enough not to gun him down on the spot. Anxiously darting his gaze between the firearms pointed his way, he quickly held a hand out towards the man over Jax, motioning for them to stop.

"I think," Jamie swallowed nervously, "I think we just have a misunderstanding. We can figure this out. We can...come up with a deal."

The last part was said hesitantly, with Jamie shooting a look to Jax for him to trust that he knew what he was doing. God knew he didn't.

The one that had spoken to Jax, almost tauntingly, seemed to be the head of the group. His best bet was to try reasoning with him. It was that die kneeling, so he didn't have much of a choice anymore.

"These four," Jamie motioned to the three lined up with him before gesturing to the wreck towards Packer, "Are far, far more valuable alive than dead. They have squad tactics, discipline, training, experience, pure skill. Real, experienced soldiers are valuable. If you let them heal, they can handle anything. I guarantee you that you won't find four better men anywhere."

Crono Crono spottednewt spottednewt

(Written with the help of Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad )
 
Wesley Emmett
jacket_main_3_12.jpg
Scene Three
"The Rat Problem"​

Wesley relaxed slightly, nodding thankfully as the subject of their search seemed to come around to agreeing with him about the best way to move forward... namely informing King about the whole fiasco rather than trying to keep things quiet and handle it on their own. He understood full well why Weston had been interested in trying to sort things out "in-house" without involving the Boss -- hell if he was placed in the same position as him and under the same stress, he might even be so inclined as to try and pitch the same idea -- but Emmett also knew exactly how severe the consequences would be if King found out he had helped to perpetuate a potential cover-up, regardless of how noble his intentions were. He'd be damned if he was going to go out on that particular limb for Weston's sake -- and that fact had nothing to do with Weston. Wesley had no issues with the Second-in-Command or his leadership, but risk management was important at LSCC and there was always a bigger fish.

Thankfully, that wouldn't be necessary. There were a lot of ways this could have gone, he knew -- Weston making a run for it, trying to bribe them, threatening them, even going for a weapon if he was desperate enough. This was better for everyone.

However, the moment Freddie shared his suspicions about the potential identity of their rat's contact, Wesley's jaw clenched. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. The description matched up. He had worked alongside Brad for a few years prior to the outbreak and he couldn't pretend he'd ever gotten along famously with the man, but Ackerman fulfilled a vital role at LSCC these days... the same role that made him important, somewhat influential -- and in the right circumstances -- dangerous. He had access to the Samaritans' arsenal at his fingertips and while in theory a tight reckoning was kept of every firearm, bullet, flashbang, and ballistic vest... in truth occasionally things slipped through the cracks as with any bureaucracy. As bizarre as it was to consider Lincoln a (mostly) functioning bureaucracy amongst the dead, that's exactly what it was. Wes had never been able to string together enough evidence (or will) to pin anything on Brad (especially since he was generally all right at his job as an armorer). But if he was now diversifying his portfolio with drug smuggling, breaking & entering, and frame jobs... who knew how far things went or who else might be in on it with him? Assuming Freddie was right, of course.

"That shithead has too many friends, especially in the Enforcers," Wes remarked grimly -- leaving the grim implication unstated: I can't guarantee the loyalty of my guys. "I'll leave our mutual friend in his hole for now. I suggest we pack that shit away and get ahead of this before someone else catches wind."


 
Scene Three
"The Rat Problem"

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Weston turned the name over in his mind a few times as he considered the details. Brad Ackerman, armorer. Truthfully, Weston didn’t think he heard the man’s first name more than once, but he certainly remembered the last name. Both from their contact in Ackerman’s current role, and from the old prison days back before everything went to shit. Weston ran his hand down his face, then rested them both on his hips and sighed.

“Well fuck.” He murmured. He understood immediately the implication that Wes left unsaid. Given the state of the world, it was a given that new bonds would be built between people who had a difficult job. Shared trauma was great like that. So, it was expected that Ackerman was in tight with a number of the enforcers. He kept them alive, after all.

Pacing across the room, Weston pulled open a drawer in his desk and rummaged through it, pulling out a brown paper bag and a short pencil. The bag was the type that you might pack a lunch in, wrinkled but at least unused. Crouching down on the floor where the baggies had fallen, he used the eraser end to nudge them into the bag. It was a habit, not touching the baggies so as to not leave fingerprints behind - not that that shit mattered anymore. Nobody was going to be checking these for prints nowadays. But it was one more way for Weston to put some distance between himself and the drugs.

“I really don’t know what I did to piss the guy off.” He muttered to himself, rolling the top of the bag shut once the last baggie was inside. He made sure to collect all of them in full view of both Freddie and Wes, so both saw that nothing was left behind, or snuck into a pocket. Grunting as he stood back up and headed for his door, he paused for a moment in the threshold.

“Find someone to fix the fuckin’ lock too, if at all possible. I’d like to actually be able to sleep at night.” With that, Weston started his determined march down the hall and up to King’s office.

Weston had made this walk countless times. Hundreds, maybe, or more. It was always with news or plans to share, or to learn about what his next move had to be. In a way, it felt very much like being home with the club - a precarious position in between taking and receiving orders, trusted more by some and less by others, and spinning himself into a complicated web of relationships. Before, those relationships were strained by how frequently they crossed into the territory of illegal actions and just how tough you could prove you were. Now, matters of life and death on a daily basis was the cause. Different, but somehow still the same. Weston smiled to himself a little - if his old crew could see him now, taking orders from a black man, they’d probably shit their pants and mutiny. Bullshit like that didn’t matter anymore, though, and Weston knew it. There was only alive or dead. Everything else was just a footnote.

Almost everything, anyway.

Repentance. The word popped into Weston’s mind as he approached King’s door and stopped. He’d been doing that nearly on a daily basis since he saw the bodies of his friends and family fall, only to rise again with empty hunger in their eyes. The dead, white-eyed face he saw often in his dreams filled his mind for a moment before he snapped himself out of it.

Taking a deep breath, Weston steeled himself for whatever kind of mood King might be in - fully expecting some kind of painful punishment to come out of this, no matter how innocent he really was. If he was lucky, he’d still be alive and mobile after this. Maybe even with all his limbs and teeth intact, too.

Brown baggie full of drugs in his left hand, Weston raised his right hand and knocked on King’s door, swallowed hard, and waited.

 
Content Warning: Violence, brief imagery of blood, & a jackass with jackass views that do not reflect the views of the writers.
Post Cast and Mentions:
Denver
Jax
Toni
Eugene
Kenny
Jamie
NPC
Click to expand...
Denver spun on his heel to face Jamie as the man made himself known - a jerk reaction shared by the others in the patrol. As Toni’s gun was collected, the rest of the firepower turned on the pilot. The man crossed his arms over his chest, nodding along to Jamie’s pitch as his gaze raked over the crumpled men before him. His eyebrows arched upwards; a physical marker of his consideration.

“I figure you make a lot of sense there. I imagine any one of you-…” He stopped himself short, biting his tongue as his eyes came back to rest on Eugene - more blood and bruises than person - before he continued. “--Are one hell of a shot, and it looks like we might need a new sniper or two.” Denver fought the urge to shoot a dirty look at their closest sniper vantage.

Toni didn't. As soon as he got his gun back, not so much his dignity - his ego battered and aching like his crotch - the tattooed enforcer whipped his gaze up towards the sniper tower. Who the fuck was on watch that day and what the fuck were they doing, cause frankly not their job. Later, Toni would make sure that they learned their lesson. Just like the fucker that hit him in the balls. But first…they were all going to focus on someone else.

“Leroy, will you bring the truck around? They don’t look like they’re walking anywhere,” The man asked, gesturing his pointer finger in a circle over his head. “And bring some duct tape.” He paused again to soak in the tension in the air –and the way some of it had dissipated, as one of his patrol scampered off into the tree line to uncover a work truck obscured by brush. Despite the distance, he could still feel the growl of the engine kicking over deep in his chest.

“But wait,” Denver turned back to Jamie, hitching his voice up as though he’d forgotten something. “I get that while the rest of us were struggling to survive in our own damn cities, you four were busy suckin’ on Uncle Sam’s sweet, juicy package,” Denver feigned a grunt and a crude gesture before finally cracking a smile. Two stocky women moved forward to shove Jamie back down onto his knees, now out of line and held in place between the two. “But what the fuck would I want with a few bastards who were stupid and desperate enough to join the military? The way I see it, you either joined up because you think you’re Captain America and wanted to live out your little fantasy –which is stupid and desperate– or they were able to sink their claws into you for the price of housing and a meal in your bellies –which is stupid. And also desperate. It’s a bit pathetic, when you think about it.” The last thought was followed by a burst of movement as Denver landed a kick square in the middle of Eugene's chest - depositing him on the ground in a puff of dust like a sack of patriotic potatoes. The action caused everyone in attendance to lurch - two members of the patrol now allotted to each of the strangers, holding them in place; and in some cases, simply holding them upright.

Denver didn’t pause, only increasing his volume over the crunching gravel of the truck backing up to the group, “Let me tell you something– we know a thing or two about dangerous people, and we know a thing or two about people who are dangerous because they’re arrogant or stupid, or both,” Denver stopped only to catch a roll of duct tape thrown to him by Leroy as he slid out of the driver’s seat of the truck.

“I ain’t ever met a military whore who didn’t think themself to be fucking Jesus. That shit you did just now? They train you to think you’re a hero? While working for the biggest mass-murder corporation in the world? –Licking feet that have stomped out the lives of thousands of normal ass civilians?” Denver crouched down, eyes alight with a fire even more unsettling to the men and women in the circle that recognized it. “I never met somebody sick enough to mow down as many as they could because Daddy told them to, without one of these cute little costumes hanging up in their closet somewhere,” Denver gestured to Jamie’s jacket with a scoff. Voices raised against him; even of his own crew, but he was unphased.

“So,” Denver continued, moving to squat in front of Jax with the quick motion of procuring and opening a switchblade by his side; voice lowering –softening into something a bit more intimate and hard to make out over the shuffling of feet around them. “Even if any one of your boys could ever walk again,” He looked back down to Jax’s leg, sucking air through his teeth with an unsure shake of his head.

One of the men holding Jax in place, as if on cue with Denver's gaze lowering to that fractured leg, stepped on it. Ripping a surprised whimper off Marine's burning throat. "F-fuck y–" Jax choked on his words. His jaw clenched, the scorching pain spilling new tears that cut fresh streaks of helplessness down the grime covered cheeks. Horror and rage reflecting in pale, bloodshot eyes. They strayed from Denver's face to the glinting silver of the blade at the crouching man's side. His fate.


Marine's gaze slowly drifted back to Denver's eyes. Eyes that felt like they could peel off his skin and every layer, to look straight into his worn soul. Jax knew that type of man. He knew he wouldn't walk off from this. He wouldn't even fucking crawl from this. And he sure as hell didn't want to give that maniac the satisfaction of a victim begging for their life.


The resolve shone through fear as he leaned towards Denver, unable to get too close when restrained by the strong arms of Denver's thugs. His chin trembled, but it wasn't clear if from the pain or anger as he whispered. "You done barking?" He was about to lean fully back but hammered his skull forth instead, trying to catch the others off guard and hit the group's leader to the face.

Jax’s headbutt connected dead in the middle of Denver’s face, crumpling his nose back at an awkward angle. Immediately, blood poured from his nose and traveled back through his sinuses to pool into his mouth. He made no attempt to move, and no jerk reaction to the impact - but his neck and the strained muscles in his calves that kept him upright may have thanked him. With a deep, gargling snort, he inhaled and spat a heterogeneous mix of blood swirled with bubbly black into the gravel next to them.

“I won’t lie, daddy. That was pretty sexy,” hardened eyes remained plastered to Jax’s as his hand drew upward to pinch along the bridge of his nose, correcting a clean break before he propped his hand on his knee and brought the other up to hold the knife to Jax’s throat for a beat. “But it wasn’t meant to be,” He concluded in a breathy sigh, wondering if this particular G.I. Joe could’ve been useful to them for just a brief moment. Painstakingly slowly, Denver hooked the blade of the knife into the underside of the other man’s jaw in an upward motion, his own mouth slowly opening with the concentration of the effort. A smile played at the corners of his lips, still hanging agape, as he registered the newfound turbulence of Jax’s tongue catching the tip of his blade inside the man’s mouth.

“This one,” he chuckled, waving an accusatory hand towards Jax, “This one killed kids, you can smell it on him.” He bounced back up into a standing position, doing little to wipe the blood that was now running down the front of his shirt and replacing the black sludge in the creases between his gums and teeth.

“As I was saying, even if they would be able to stand up to take a leak again, why would I want a bunch of worthless, Koolaid drinkers who were so easily manipulated into feeling so honored –just so damn wet– to give their lives away for whatever cause the 1% came up with, huh? To slaughter boys they didn’t know the names of? Paid in shit money and pretend status to do the dirty work of fuckers you ain’t ever met every time you ship out.” Denver relented with a sigh and a more genuine shake of his head. “--The gangs don’t even work like that. That’s depressingly stupid. They got you so down bad that they made you think you should be proud of it. Real prostitution is more respectable.”

Denver cut himself a strip of duct tape with his bloodied knife before handing the roll off to one of the men holding him still; the former made quick work of taping the man’s hands together tightly. Sauntering over to the back of the truck, he fixed one end of his chain to the hitch, and drug the rest of the short length along behind him until he couldn’t anymore. As though they’d read his mind, the two men holding Jax still drug him close enough for Denver to insert the hooked end of the chain into the cut in Jax's jaw and wrap a few layers of tape leading it upwards, so that he resembled a fish caught on a line.

“I can’t do dick with stupid,” Denver announced through a smile and a pleasant wave as the chain fixed to the man’s head yanked taught for just a short, fleeting moment before the truck jolted into drive and careened forward, dragging a flopping Jax along behind.

“You got anything better?” He tossed the words over his shoulder to a helpless Jamie, giving Jax an overdramatic salute before cupping his hands around his mouth to call out to him, “Thank you for your service!”

Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad Togy Togy Crono Crono Safton Safton The Cat Man The Cat Man
 
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BRIELLE MENZIE​
Scene 2 - Home Sweet Home​

Location: Santiago's Ranch
Interactions: Mark, Kass, Cabrera, Dutchess, Anthony

”Why would I?” Brielle could practically taste the distrust in Mark’s tone, and she couldn’t blame him in that situation.

Movement from the direction Mrs. Richards had gone caught her eyes, and she turned her gaze to see Santiago walking towards them. A thousand thoughts raced through the woman’s head, droplets of sweat forming on her temples and nape, wondering what he would do to her and her family (because at this point Mrs. Watson was family, and she grew to love the older woman like you would a dear aunt).

”Woah, what’s going on?!?” He said, interrupting Mark as he was about to continue. He first looked at the boy, probably trying to assess the situation and make sure his son – or whatever he was to him – was ok. But Brielle was surprised to see that when he looked at her he carried some of the same gentleness he had offered Mark, although she noticed he looked a little stiff, a pained expression written on his face. But there was no mistake, his eyes told her if she did something drastic she’d be in deep shit and he didn’t need to say that aloud. ”Wanna tell me what you were doing with that radio there?” He walked to where she had pushed the radio and picked it up. “Though I have a feeling it ain’t yours, now is it?”

Praise the Lord, Brielle thought, releasing all the air she was holding in a single exhalation, but trying not to be too obvious about it.

"But I heard her talking into it!" Mark jumped in again, looking almost offended that Santiago was choosing to be so lenient with her. The boy had caught her red-handed, there was no denying it. She was willingly talking into it and she knew that perfectly well. And now there was really no doubt: from Mark’s reaction and Santiago’s question, the radio didn’t belong here, so it was understandable that he would react as he did.

As much as she wanted to start talking as fast as possible to explain the situation, she couldn’t rush and should think about what to say carefully before she ended up tripping over her words and incriminating herself. ”No, I found it,” she said after a couple of tries, finding that her mouth had gone dry with stress, ignoring Mark’s protest, then pointed at the dog with her chin, ”Well, the dog did. And I did talk into it, but I just… I’m just a little too curious for my own good, as you can see,” she finished with a dry, humorless laugh to break the tension.

“Why don’t you tell me who this is and what you want, save me the headache.” Mark and Brielle fell silent as the dark-haired man spoke into the device.

Time seemed to drag as they waited for something to happen, anything. Brielle’s pulse hit hard in her jugular and her tongue seemed swollen and sticky inside her mouth, making her wish desperately for water. The sun had started to hide behind the trees around the property, causing Brielle’s light blonde hair and skin to glow orange. She had a deathly pallor while waiting for a reply, accentuating her natural paleness and making her look like a glimmering ghost. She wasn’t off the hook yet, as God knows what could happen.

Finally, the silence was broken by static, and she waited anxiously to hear what the person would have to say. But she waited in vain because all she heard was breathing over the crackling noise. Somehow that was even more concerning.

Before she could think about what to do, however, she heard a fourth voice. "I don't like this."A woman approached Santiago with an expression of worry, but she couldn’t remember her name. Her light hair seemed to be covered in something, though Brielle couldn’t put her finger on what it was. "Do you think they were just passing through?"

The radio went silent as someone else came along. "...Honestly? You guys are so damn paranoid!" She remembered seeing the man back when Santiago was introducing her to some of the residents. He had been with the woman, but just like hers, Brielle couldn’t remember his name. Normally she’d have an easier time with that, but all her efforts were being spent on staying calm considering there was a nervous kid with a gun eager to point his fingers at her. "Come on, couldn't that be scraps from a dead survivor kicked over by some corpses or somethin'? No offense, but this girl looks like she can't harm a fly!" He continued to approach them, deciding to stand between her and Mark. Was he trying to protect her? If so, she was thankful for that gesture, even if it was somewhat reckless considering the boy looked like he’d snap at any minute, but he’d probably be less inclined to shoot someone he’s familiar with. "If you guys really think it's something though, guess me and sis can help out on scouting it out, we're pretty much free, but then the suspect's gotta go somewhere then."

Yes, please! Get me out of here, Brielle thought when he suggested that. As long as Mark wasn’t the one guarding her, that is. Her gaze turned to Santiago, asking him with her eyes what he was going to do about the situation. They had indeed been chased by the dead, that’s what got her and her companions into the property, so it wasn’t all that impossible of an explanation. It was a shame they couldn’t ask the dog where it’d gotten it from.

”If you want to keep me somewhere while you look into it, I’ll go willingly,” she looked at Santiago. With most of them seeming to believe Brielle wasn’t guilty of anything more than curiosity, she thought things had calmed down enough for her to put her hands down, though she kept them in clear sight and away from her pockets.


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arthur morgan. arthur morgan. , Crono Crono , Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad , The Cat Man The Cat Man , NanLia NanLia ​

 
Wesley Emmett
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Scene Three
"The Rat Problem"​

Emmett watched Weston gather up the narcotics impassively, the gears in his mind already turning as he considered how this whole thing was going to play out. He had gone through a lot of trouble trying to portray King as a voice of reason in the scenario he had concocted for the Second (though Weston likely knew the man better than most). In truth, Wesley had no idea how King would react... or, for that matter, what Brad's motivations were, assuming he was indeed their culprit.

Wesley snapped out of his near-trance as his superior demanded a new lock on his door. He watched the man leave, waiting several moments, jaw clenched before muttering a curse under his breath. "Shit." He shook his head at Freddie before darting out of the room after Weston. Emmett managed to jog down the corridor, arriving at the door to King's office right as Weston arrived. He nodded to the man. "Better this way," he muttered under his breath.

As the door cracked open, a guard peeking through the opening at them. Wesley heard him speaking over his shoulder to King before suddenly the door swung open to admit both of them, allowing Weston and the Chief Enforcer to step inside.

"Hey, Boss," Wes said quietly, giving King a respectful nod as they shuffled toward the man's desk. He glanced between Marcus and his Second before taking a deep breath and diving in. Here goes nothing. "There was a call earlier today about an intrusion into Weston's room. Apparently Weston found a man -- A.J. -- breaking in and going through his things and held him at gunpoint until Freddie and I arrived to help interrogate him. A.J. said that he had broken in to score drugs..." Emmett paused, swallowing hard at this point, jaw clenching. "...and that there was a stash of narcotics to be found in Weston's room."

Wesley sighed before continuing. "To be thorough, Freddie conducted a search and we found several bags of heroin in a slit in his mattress. Weston denies ownership and -- for what it's worth -- I believe him. He's been entirely cooperative with us the whole time and speaking frankly if he didn't want us to find the drugs I don't think we would have. Besides, A.J. gave us a description of who told him to hit Weston's room... leading us to a different potential suspect." He turned towards the Second, placing his arms behind his back as he clasped his hands in front of his waist -- knowing the man likely he plenty to add in his defense.







​
 
Scene Three
"The Rat Problem"​


Truthfully, Weston felt like he was holding his breath from the time Wes caught up to him at King’s doorway until the moment Wes said he believed him. Exhaling - hopefully not too heavily - he nodded in agreement with everything Wes said and waited until the other man was done before saying anything.

“He’s right.” Weston wasn’t entirely sure what to expect from Wes, but he had been bracing himself for a lot less support. All things considered, just having someone say they believed what he said in front of King made him feel significantly more hopeful that this would not end horribly. Also significantly less crazy. It still could go bad, but there was at least a chance now. He made a mental note that he owed Wes big time.

“The drugs are inside. All of it - him and Freddie had eyes on it the whole time.” Weston deposited the brown paper bag of heroin on King’s desk as he motioned at Wes with his head, happy to have it out of his hands and dropping it as if it were a sack of dog shit. “Ackerman is our suspect. The armorer. A.J. identified him as the guy that steered him my way.”

“Destroy ‘em, trade ‘em, don’t care. They’re not mine, and I have zero desire for that shit to be around me. I’m clean - a fact our suspect either doesn’t know, doesn’t give any shits about, or was hoping to change. I think Ackerman is trying to set me up. We’re holding A.J. for now, in hopes Ackerman doesn’t find out we’re wise to him.”

Pressing his lips together in a frown, he glanced down at the bag, then back up to King, hoping that looking the man in the eye would help as he said this.

“Sorry for not finding this shit sooner. No idea how long its been there. I should have searched the mattress when I took it, and I didn’t. That’s on me.”

Hopefully King would appreciate not just the information and the goods being handed over, but him owning up to his shortcomings.

 
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Marcus King
- Scene Three -
Bullyboy Squad Bullyboy Squad Safton Safton Namazu Namazu

King’s quiet lunch was suddenly interrupted by two men with urgent news, let in by the guard that stood at attention at the front door of his office. King removed the napkin tucked into his collar as Emmett and Weston approached his desk - a look of urgency in both men’s eyes. He wiped off his face and cleaned his hands before folding the cloth napkin neatly next to his plate, letting his hot sandwich go cold.

The two men began to explain their current circumstances, events that unfolded behind closed doors. It appeared rehearsed at first, Emmett was quite robotic sometimes but he’s been known to be an honest man and well respected by all his colleagues. Weston’s emotions on the other hand bled from him like a bullet wound. The man seemed to brew anger inside him, maybe some regret, something King had yet to see from the Apalachee. He was known to be very quiet and reserved but today he was quite the opposite.

When the paper bag hit his desk, King nodded at the guard to open it for him. He propped his arm up on the desk counter and watched as the guard pulled out tiny baggies of heroin. King inspected them with his eyes, the narcotics clear as day. “Okay…” he started as the guard was instructed to put the drugs back with a simple hand gesture.

“I put you in your position because you had no enemies. You are the…bridge…between my people and everyone else. But now you here telling me you got someone after you? You can see how that’s a problem right?” King stated assertively, patient awaiting Weston to react - but then he laughed. A deep chuckle escaping through the back of his throat like a broken record. It was malevolent, similar to the bad witch from those children movies everybody remembers. If King had one tell it was the laugh - every time it echoed something was about to go down and it was never good.

“I got an idea. Bring me Ackerman and that kid AJ, let’s complete the story shall we? It will be like the good ol’ times, men gathering my around sharing thoughts and ideas. Well…I guess you n*ggas never been to a real barber shop,” another chuckle followed, the guard laughing alongside him too.

“Don’t worry gentlemen, we’re going to get to the bottom of this.”​
 
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FLASHBACK
One Week After Zero Day - Part II​

“Fuckers.” Big Jim quietly mumbled as they watched, through the sights of their weapons, a dozen armed men climb out of the three vehicles. The cabs of all three trucks were covered, no doubt full of whatever they’d looted and stolen along the way.

“¡Eh, hijos de puta!” One of the men yelled out as the others circled around him, weapons drawn and ready. He was a muscled, tattooed man with a shaved head and mustache. Possibly the ringleader, the way the others seemed to be waiting for his call.

“I’m gonna make this real easy for you. Come on out with your hands up, and we won’t shoot you! We’re just here for your shit!” The ringleader called out towards the building, one hand cupped around his mouth, a semi-automatic rifle in the other.

As if the forest knew the gravity of the situation, the birds and bugs fell silent. That emptiness hung in the air for what felt like forever before Cliff responded - shouting through a half-open window in the front, behind their makeshift barricade of tables and a tipped-over Formica countertop.

“We don’t have anything worth taking, so get the fuck out. There’s no need for you to be here.” Cliff’s deep voice held not a single hint of fear in it, even as Weston felt his own hands starting to shake. It was both anticipation and fear, but neither did any favors for his aim.

The ringleader laughed, head tilting back as he let out a loud, hearty belly laugh as if that response was the most hilarious thing he’d heard in weeks - before abruptly going silent and aiming his rifle at the front door. Miss Pearl shrunk back slightly from the edge of the roof, whispering something about lunatics. Weston furrowed his brows as he watched the events unfold, just waiting for the sign that he needed to start firing. By numbers alone, they were very evenly matched - an even dozen on both sides, or thirteen for the club if you counted the kid, Sam. They would have had more, if some of the members and women hadn’t taken off in hopes of finding someplace safer. Things probably hadn’t ended well for them, but Weston preferred not to think about that.

The club had an advantage of having shooters on the rooftop, but it was questionable just how much cover they had inside the building. It wasn’t made of brick or steel, and the men in the trucks were more heavily armed than expected. They weren’t carrying small caliber - these looked like gangbangers from the city, the types that had access to more gear than you’d expect.

“You know, it's really funny you say that! I think you do have shit worth taking. Shit worth fighting for. Maybe we’ll make a trade.” The ringleader glanced over his shoulder, rifle pointed at the front door still, and motioned with his head at one of the men near the rear passenger door of the first vehicle. On cue, the man opened the door and reached in, pulling something out.

Not something. Someone. Weston felt his stomach leap up his throat so fast he almost vomited right there on the roof. It took all his strength not to call out, or start shooting immediately.

Dave stumbled as he was dragged from the vehicle, hands bound behind his back with duct tape and another strip of duct tape over his mouth. His long dark hair hung loose and wet around his shoulders, and the front of his shirt was soaking wet. He was wide-eyed, terrified, bruised, and bloody. Weston’s heart ached; he could only imagine what these thugs did to his… whatever he and Dave were. More than friends for sure, but that was something they kept secret, even from the club. Cliff had no patience for “nancies”. They couldn’t risk it.

Weston could tell from the look in Dave’s eyes that whatever they did, the physical pain wasn’t the worst of it. It was the flashbacks. They probably waterboarded him too, judging by his soaked shirt and wet hair.

To add insult to injury, the ringleader stepped behind Dave and kicked the back of Dave’s left leg - sending the prosthetic leg flying forward into the pebbly grass, and causing Dave to fall to his knees. One of the other men from the trucks stepped forward with a sledgehammer, smashing the device Dave was so dependent on (thanks to the U.S. Military and the V.A.) into useless pieces.

Weston stared in horror as Dave let out a muffled cry, eyes searching the building for some sign he’d be saved. Searching for him, no doubt. Weston bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood - if he moved now, too soon, it would be all over for everyone.

“Now, now, now, there was no need to do that.” Cliff called back with a drawl. A casual listener might think Cliff didn’t care or was in no hurry to act, but the club knew better. It was one of Cliff’s tells, the way he repeated that word. It meant Cliff was getting pissed, and something was about to go down. Subtly and as quietly as possible, everyone on the rooftop took aim and readied themselves to start firing. Weston made sure he was trained squarely in the forehead of the ringleader.

“Ah, you’re right!” The ringleader called out, holding Dave by a fistful of hair so he remained upright and on his knees. “We didn’t need to do that, nah. But you know what we did need to do?”

It was an unusual response, but one that raised alarm bells. Rightly so - a second later, Weston heard something hit the roof behind them. First a clink, then something rolling. Weston and Big Jim both saw it at the same time.

A grenade.

Weston reached out for Miss Pearl’s hand as he started to roll away, thinking of pulling her with him, but where? There was really nowhere to go and no way to move fast enough in their current position. The only cover was offered from the direction of the street via the neon sign - from behind, they were completely open. The raiders knew it, and took advantage of it.

Somehow they’d been surrounded, and didn’t realize until it was too late.
 

Wesley Emmett
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Scene Three
"The Rat Problem"​

Wesley barely managed to avoid nodding in satisfaction as he watched the Second-in-Command go "all in": informing King of who their prime suspect was and also making it abundantly clear that all of the drugs were accounted for and sitting in front of him in the paper bag... which he had no compunction with ridding himself of in whatever form that took after they left his possession. Then -- as the proverbial cherry on top -- Weston made it clear that A.J. was still in custody, that he was thinking ahead about how best to deal with the situation... and then apologized for letting it get this far in the first place. Appeasement and reassurance that he was still competent, all wrapped up in one neat little bundle framed as a simple explanation of his innocence.

Under any other circumstance Emmett might clapped. It was hard to tell what King was thinking or who would incur his wrath at the best of times, but for what it was worth Wes felt that the beleaguered Second was making the right play... and saying the right things. Now whether it saved his ass was another matter all together.

Wesley watched King silently as he examined the narcotics before dismissing them and finally addressing Weston in a way that had even the enforcer's heart dropping into a pit in his stomach out of sheer sympathy. What the Boss Man was saying was true, of course -- whether few dared to say it or not, deep down everyone knew that Weston was his charismatic "face" in day-to-day interactions with the proverbial unwashed masses who weren't directly part of the man's inner circle. After helping Marcus to overthrow the Warden, Wesley had wondered -- idly -- if he should be envious of Weston's position of trust and authority. But more than once he'd been convinced that his current role, despite its occasional "bad days", suited him far better than being King's favored liaison... and the prison's number one scapegoat. This current clusterfuck did nothing to disabuse him of that notion.

Suddenly, King laughed. It was a sound that did little to reassure Wes. It was less an expression of joviality and more like a predator's growl in tone. But, thankfully, the words that followed were straightforward enough. A task: Wes could handle a task. No more of this backroom wheeling & dealing. "Understood," he said with a nod, giving Weston a meaningful nod before making for the door to step out into the corridor. Once the Second was outside with him, he took a deep breath, stretching his arms out as he spoke. "I'm gonna go grab Ackerman before he has a chance to find out A.J.'s gone... but there's a good chance he doesn't come quietly. I'm willing to go it alone, but you're welcome to come along. I don't want to risk putting a call out to Freddie over the net. That fucker's all over our comms and at this point anything weird he hears might spook him. Once I have Brad, I'll tell Freddie to bring A.J. up."

 
Scene Three
"The Rat Problem"

e761b59a422f06fa750180d38f3fb0f5.jpg

Now and then, Weston regretted his position as King’s second in command. Sometimes he wished he could be a nobody again, without expectations or a target on his forehead. Usually when he started down that path though, he took a look at how the rank and file had to live, and squashed those thoughts pretty fast. He had no desire to live like that, and the position undeniably came with nice perks. But if it came down to it, choosing to live like a slave or somebody’s bitch, or trying to make it out there on his own? Well, he didn’t know the answer to that. Hopefully he never had to make that choice.

King’s laugh left Weston feeling uneasy all over again, with a cold shiver running straight up his back and down his arms. He thought he’d said and did everything right - not an ounce of being shady or slick. But still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter what the truth was, no matter what happened, and no matter what was said, he was still going to get fucked over in some way. If King didn’t take care of Ackerman, he definitely would handle it himself.

“It won’t be a problem for long.” Weston said with an understanding nod to King before departing the room with Wes. Once out in the corridor, he took a few steps away from the door before pausing a moment to collect himself. Leaning on one hand against the wall, he rubbed his face and let out a heavy breath he’d been holding. “Christ.” He muttered quietly.

Looking up to Wes, Weston nodded at the man’s comment about Ackerman not coming quietly.

“Yeah, you’re right. He’ll probably make this hard. I think most of us, if in his position, would at least consider it. I’ll come with you.” He ran one hand through his hair and stood up straight, visibly making efforts to get his shit together. “I know you could handle it on your own, but no sense in taking any risks.” Weston added, not wanting Wes to think he doubted him.

“I owe you one, by the way. Thanks for having my back - I appreciate it.” Weston offered as they made their way downstairs to the armory, speaking in a low voice just in case anyone was around to overhear. When they got near the armory door, Weston held up a hand to signal they should pause.

“If he tries something stupid, shoot to hurt, not to kill, yeah? I have a vested interest in not letting my ass get set on fire for this shit.” He offered Wes a probably-not-convincing grin before pushing open the armory door and entering first.

 
TW: Violence, blood, mild gore, torture, and death.

FLASHBACK
One Week After Zero Day - Part III
​

Weston had never been in or around an explosion before, being an untrained civilian and all, but he was surrounded by plenty of military vets who had - either live, or at least in training. Burt was one of them, and it was thanks to Burt that Weston survived.

While Weston had been paralyzed by his emotions, Burt was already reacting to that first clink. Grabbing both Weston and Miss Pearl, he shoved - nearly flung - both of them over the edge of the building. Risky, but better to fall a single story onto grass than eat shrapnel. It was surprising just how quickly Weston hit the ground, landing on his back and suddenly staring up at a blue sky filled with clouds that blurred together.

Miss Pearl’s landing was not quite as serendipitous. She fell backwards, heels getting tripped up on the raised edge around the rooftop, and didn’t have the same kind of clearance away from the edge of the building that Weston had. Instead, she fell face-first into the boxy air conditioning unit secured to the side of the building. While the good news was the air conditioning wasn’t running, which meant no large fan blade spinning, the bad news was that the metal cover was no less of a solid object. Miss Pearl’s neck snapped backwards at a painful sudden angle as she hit the metal casing.

Big Jim was significantly less lucky as well. The grenade detonated right behind him, blasting open a hole in the center of the roof and sending debris and shrapnel flying. The guttural scream cut short that Weston heard was Big Jim getting blown from the rooftop, upper body moving in the opposite direction as his lower half at an accelerated speed.

The others inside the building didn’t fare much better. It was not a very large building, and the grenade’s concussive force was funneled straight downwards into the room everyone had gathered in. Weston’s ears rang as he struggled to maintain consciousness, trying to make sense of the noise and chaos around him. He heard Burt’s voice, but couldn’t understand anything he said. Sam’s face, streaked with dirt and blood that wasn’t his own entered his field of vision, and suddenly he was moving - being pushed and dragged, occasionally trying to crawl on his own, but still trying to get some distance between where he landed and where the men in trucks were.

There was hooting, hollering, cheering, and screaming. Half of it was in Spanish, but he didn’t need to know the language to understand the message: We got you, we got your shit, and now you’re dead.

The one sound he didn’t hear, that he was straining so hard to make out, was Dave’s voice. Was he still gagged with duct tape? Was he even still alive?

Please, God, let him be alive.

The whole fight was a haze. Bloodied bodies and faces came in and out of Weston’s view. At some point Burt was there, and then gone - out of ammo and taking a baseball bat to a raider’s face before falling. Sam found his mother, sobbed, and stumbled away when he turned her over to see her face. A raider caught him as he tried to make a run for the woods, shooting him in the back. He never made it to the tree line.

Vince and Cliff had the blessing of being lucky shots and too damn pissed off to die quite yet. Together the two of them mowed down a whole row of the raiders before Vince took a bullet to the neck. He pushed Cliff away at any attempt to help - the final actions of a man who knew he couldn’t be saved, and the only thing that would help would be more dead guys on the other side.

Somebody propped Weston up against the wall by the back door, leaving him there with his rifle, even wrapping his finger around the trigger. His vision was too blurry to make out a face, but all he saw were shoes. Sneakers. Black, hot pink, and dusty.

God damn it. Cliff’s daughter. She was only a few months away from her eighteenth birthday. If Miss Pearl was the queen around here, Lila was their princess. Only instead of hiding her in a tower, she had been hiding in the cellar. He tried to speak, to warn her, but she shushed him with a hand over his mouth.

"You live, and you get out of this, okay? I'll meet you at the deer stands." Lila leaned in, light brown hair hanging in Weston's face as she whispered to him. Weston felt arms around himself briefly, squeezing him in a hug, then the pink sneakers turned and fled. If Lila was running, it meant Cliff was dead too. Before he passed out, one last thought entered Weston’s mind:

If Dave is dead, I should be too.



SOME TIME LATER...​

Dave.

It was the first word, the first thought, to enter Weston’s mind when he regained consciousness. He wasn’t sure if he’d been out minutes or hours. The sky was darkening from rain clouds rolling in, and now his sense of time was entirely thrown off.

“Dave?” Weston muttered, clumsily climbing to his feet, nearly falling over as he used the wall of the building to steady himself. He staggered around to the left side, where Miss Pearl’s broken body lay in a heap next to the air conditioner. Burt was several paces away, shot full of lead with his baseball bat broken in half and shoved into his open jaw. Weston was terrified to look up and forwards, but he needed to. He needed to know.

The vehicles were gone, tire tracks leading down the path back towards whatever joke of a civilization still existed. This close to the bar, there were additional marks, as if something had been dragged behind one of the trucks. It didn’t register in Weston’s mind what exactly it was until he saw Cliff’s body in the road. Several yards beyond that was Cliff’s head. Then it made sense, what the marks were from.

Still bound with duct tape, Dave lay on his side in the dirt and in a dark red pool of blood, motionless. Kneeling at his side, Weston rolled Dave over and shook him, calling his name. Gently at first, though when he saw the blood soaked through Dave’s shirt, all he could do was shake him harder.

Deep down he knew already it was useless. The gunshot wound to the stomach was severe and he’d already bled out. Bled out while Weston was just on the other side of the building, passed out and unable to help, unable to even be there in his final moments. They left Dave to die there alone, in extreme pain, and slowly. Maybe even forced him to watch as they killed others, too.

It had always been Dave’s biggest fear. After all the men he’d seen die in combat, he was sure of it, and admitted such to Weston - his biggest fear was dying alone. And wasn’t that exactly what had happened?

Did they save him for last?

Thunder rumbled overhead, and Weston felt raindrops hit his head and the back of his neck. Uncertain what to do next, and not quite ready for whatever next was, Weston carefully picked up Dave’s limp body and carried him into the ruined bar. There wasn’t anybody left to save.

As expected the explosion had entirely trashed the interior. The gaping hole in the roof would not provide any cover to the main room for the coming storm, but the back storage room was still covered. Weston found the door already open, every shelf cleaned out. It dawned on him then - everything of value in the place, every ounce of food, every bottle of booze, all of it - was gone. As promised, the raiders had taken absolutely everything.

Weston was lucky enough that the raiders were in a hurry - it meant they didn’t thoroughly search every nook and cranny, and didn’t come looking for him. There was a single overturned box in a corner behind the door, containing a camping lantern, a box of Pop-Tarts, and a bottle of cheap tequila. The food and booze he’d save for later, but it was the lantern he needed now. Closing the door behind himself, he dragged Dave’s body into the storage room.

It was probably a disturbing sight, Weston sitting on the floor up against the wall, with Dave’s body cradled gently in his arms. It was all he could manage to do in the moment as he grieved. Bloodied and bruised, Weston sat there curled up with Dave’s body and spoke to him as if he was still alive, still there. He had things that needed to be said, things he should have said sooner. He’d always been too scared to say these things. He wasn’t a Catholic, but this storage room was his confessional today.

It was impossible to keep track of time in the dim lantern-lit room as the storm built above them. The rain was pelting the door by the time Weston realized that Dave’s body had twitched.
 








Chole Miller​



No Scene - Bar​

Chloe smiled hearing Ray’s response to commentary to it being too quiet. She quickly schooled her face to an impassive but friendly visage, not wanting him to think she was mocking him in any way. It was simply the most Ray response to give and while entirely on brand for his disposition, still unexpected.

She was surprised a second time hearing him continue the conversation with a request. This was certainly new between them - Ray typically kept his conversation to business and the public events around the prison. No gossip. No further fraternizing. Chloe was always up for whatever her patrons needed, very having become a sort of confidant and therapist. She raised an eyebrow as he clearly wasn’t comfortable with the ask but obviously didn’t have anyone else he trusted.

Chloe frowned at the first word he used, she had no idea what Rip Fuel was and despite being in a prison, hadn’t heard anyone else ever use the expression. She started to worry he was asking for an illicit drug - and while she had the means to access it through friendly allies she had to be cautious after all. He went on to ask for caffeine or weed, both these things she knew she could access without concern of major reprisal.

She shifted her weight to lean her hip against the counter, moving a bit closer to the former soldier before speaking softly. “Not sure what that first thing is but I’ve got some caffeine pills in the back and I can get you in touch with someone who can get pot. They’re out on this excursion, otherwise I’d have some to give you now…” Chole smirked and gave him a wink. “Give me a sec.”

She flipped her bar towel over her shoulder and headed down the bar to the only other patron, collecting his beer bottle and interacting with him briefly. He soon shook his head and slipped off the bar stool, wobbling his way towards the exit. Chole watched for a minute before setting the bottle beneath the bar to be cleaned and reused then stepped into the back where she lived and grabbed the robin blue packet of Wake Ups she coveted.

Chole stepped back out and closed the door behind her, taking a final glance around the bar before heading back to Ray. “This is all I’ve got for now.” She said as she pried open the end and ripped off two sealed tabs to slip into her own apron pocket before closing up the pack and sliding it across the bar to Ray. “Need those for fight night - otherwise I’ll be passed out before the fight ends.”

SpazTheButcher SpazTheButcher





code by ditto (head empty go bonk)​
 
people and technology at its best (4).png

Jax was on edge. Shoulders stiff, sore muscles knotted around the whole body. At least the dizziness of adrenaline pumping his veins helped keep the pain in his leg at bay. His face tight and gray like ash as he watched the man pull the knife up.

Only when Denver pressed it under chin like that, Jax's eyes shot wide. Expecting his throat instanously sliced but not this. He bucked but they held him down, another man wrapped filthy hands around his skull just to keep it still for Denver to work.

Jax's chest heaved violently, harsh gasps through his nose turned into a whimper breaking from his lips when the knife pierced flesh under his chin. Blood dripped down his neck, sipping into his collar and sliding down his chest.

Deep, violent burn of the tip drilling into the underside of his tongue turned his whimpers into panicked, guttural choking. Taste of copper swamped his mouth and oozed down his throat. Making him gag, and cough, and whine like a tortured animal. Until it was all over. Time lost on the meaning so he didn't know how long it took when they taped his arms back. He didn't know what was coming.

Color drained from his face completely at the sight of the hook, the image burning into his muddled brain. His exhausted body instantly reacted and he trashed again in the strangers' grip. His ruined voice screaming. "No! NO!!!" Shouting despite the striking pain. His gaze frantically flashing between the hook and the man that held it. There was absolute horror in Jax's face, ice spiking down his spine, his whole system going into overdrive. Heated body shaking at the very core as he squirmed and wrenched in the assaulters' grasp, mercilessly dragged towards Denver.

Jax went quiet only when they hit him across the head hard enough to daze him. His body floundering no more, allowing the psychopath to open his jaws and plunge the hook through the hole to see it emerge between trembling lips. Marine's bulging eyes of panic and hatred fixated on Denver's face while he taped Jax's jaw with the hook and chain. Wet, bloody breaths through Marine's nose erratic. But he couldn't move, pinned by a few men and out of strength. Muscles running on nothing but pure adrenaline. The violent whimpers broke into sobs as more tears streamed down his face.

When let go, Jax whipped his head to look at his friends, chain jingling from the motion. Tied and clawing on the tape around his wrists. Raking bloody grooves in his own arms. His desperate gaze pleading. For Hughes' battle hardened voice to demand them to stop. To stop this show of terror. To release Huey's friend. His brother. His boy.

Pleading to see how Jamie gets ahold of a rifle. Screaming and shooting at those fucking monsters. All of them!

Jax felt so scared. So goddamn alone. Seeing his brothers incoherent or pinned down, unable to move. There was no rescue. The hero from minutes earlier now reduced to a scared creature yearning to live. This was the en— The truck roared and the splitting pain shot through his jaw and brain. Splinter of a second later the man was out, momentarily losing consciousness.

When he came to seconds later, his body was like a ragdoll, dragged, rattled and grated. Every pebble like a blade of a grinder. Dust bit into his eyes, gravel tore his clothes and skin, drawing blood from the ripped open flesh. There was a pounding of his own heart in his ears. The man couldn't help but beg God to finally stop it from beating.

When the world stopped flickering past him. When the agony lessened and the swollen, pulsating mass that was once his face rested on the skin-stripped cheek. Jax looked at the sky, lifting ruined eyelids. Pupils blown wide, unresponsive to the bright light. His shredded legs twitching, wet from urine and excrements. He didn't even look at his executioner when the man casted a shadow over Jax.

The Marine was no longer there, unable to witness his final demise. Relieved of his duty by delirium.




 
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