As Amy made her way back to the table, Andrew looked up and nodded his head and looked back at Gideon. He didn't even want to spend 50 on just information that anyone could tell him. "I'll give you 75, but you better have something good for me." He was a businessman, and he wasn't going to spend any more than he wanted to. Especially if he could ask any old person. However, Andrew knew better than to try to figure things out for himself when it comes to the Zone. This wasn't his element and he needed help. He honestly didn't trust Gideon, and half expects Gideon to shoot him in a back alley when they were gone. Maybe he could get Amy to come with them. It's always best to travel in a group in case someone tries to betray you.

Gideon didn't even deign to carry on this charade much longer. Calmly, but firmly, he put his hands flat on the table and leaned forward slightly towards Andrew.

"Fine, the freebie first. Lesson #1: Always know who you're talking to before you go around guessing their identities. Scammers will use your own lack of knowledge against you. The bartender's Max, not me, but I took advantage of the fact you didn't know who was who. Find someone not as benevolent as me, and they'll take you around a corner to mug you or leave you dead in a ditch. I'm Gideon, or Owl as people call me around here. Entrepreneur in Zone Acquisitions. Pleasure to meet you."

He held out his right hand to Andrew across the table, a devilish grin stretching across his face after dropping the ruse finally.

Owl—or rather Gideon’s—confession made Amelia realize how easily people could be fooled, to include herself. Of course, she hadn't been there for long, but nonetheless, the whole thing proved an important point. Both men shook hands, albeit rather awkwardly despite the fact that they had already been talking for who knows long. She noted Gideon's grin as she took another bite of her food, and for some reason, she thought that he was hiding something more. Maybe it was all in her head, or maybe it wasn't, but she couldn't be sure because it's been her experience that the Zone liked to play mind games with its inhabitants.

Once she was doing eating, Amelia pushed the plate away from her. "Well, it was nice meeting you both." she said as she grabbed a napkin, "I appreciate the food and drink, but I think I should get going now."

Those two didn't seem too bad, but Amelia wasn't completely sure as to their true intentions, and it was best to not take any chances.

Andrew shrugged at Gideon's remark on identities. "I found someone to do what I wanted Max to do anyway. I suppose Max would have been a middle-man, since he's a bartender. I don't much care, I just need a few tips...Owl huh? You're nocturnal then?" Andrew had tried to hide his surprise that he'd been fooled. He should have seen it coming since Gideon never really revealed himself as Max. But he hadn't realized it and he could have really been taken advantage of. Andrew knew that Gideon was right and that he would need to be more careful.

He gazed back down at his camera. What Andrew really wanted to know were the good vantage points in town. He could find them himself of course, but he didn't want to waste his time climbing something tall only to find out that there wasn't anything interesting worth seeing. Not if he didn't have to. He looked up to see if the guard was still watching TV. The guard had been gazing at Amy as she walked. At first, Andrew thought the guard was just keeping an eye on where she went.

Gideon nodded over at Amy as she left.

"Pleasure to meet you, see yea around."

He looked back over at Gideon, whom was looking over at one Max's guys.

"Yeah, you caught me at brunch here. I normally sleep in most of the day, then get to work at night. People noticed and gave me the name, I liked it. Hence, the name stuck."

He then leaned back to his normal position in his chair in and went back to eating the remains of his food. He spoke in between bites.

"So, do you have any specific questions, or do you want to me to continue handing a few more pearls of wisdom I've picked up around here?"

Andrew pondered what he should be asking. He didn't want to wait too long, and seem suspicious. But he wasn't sure if now was the right time or place to ask. "I've got two rather specific things I kinda need to know. The first is that I need to know where some rather high vantage points are. And I mean accessible ones, not just the tallest areas around." After all, any old bloke might be able to go out and look for some high places to take pictures from. However, those places being accessible is what matters. He didn't want to go intrude on someone's private land and get shot on the spot.

Andrew looked around again to see if anyone was staring anymore, and what he had found was that most of the glares had gone. Things had become uninteresting and everyone had gone back to their conversations or their food. He looked back down at his own plate, which was mostly finished. He picked up his fork and ate the last few bites while Owl responded.

Now that she had a full stomach, Amelia decided to head back home and stay there until the next day. The young woman finally felt some relief after leaving the bar as she didn't like being around too many staring strangers, but then again, who wouldn't say the same? She began her small journey home without noticing one of Marcel's men who just happened to be around the vicinity. Jon, on the other hand, easily spotted her after he casually looked behind the person he was talking to. But he refused to go after her, deciding instead to finish the conversation then and alert Marcel later. From the looks of it, she wasn't going anywhere else any time soon.

Back at home, Amelia lazily fell onto her bed. She kicked off her boots without bothering to untie them, and then turned on her side to get a little bit more comfortable. She was aware that going to sleep then would throw off her internal clock, but a small nap never hurt, especially after the last couple of days she's had.

Within a matter of moments, the young woman closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

@Fyre Unholy

Gideon leaned back and looked out the window at the ruined surrounding town.

"Easy. The Belfry of the local Chapel is the tallest building in town. You can see for a couple miles all around. Nobody that I know of has claimed it as a residence, though it would make a good sniper's nest if you don't mind the bird shit. I'd wager the ladder up to conduct maintenance on the old bells is still intact. If you're not a fan of that, then any roof should work to give you a decent perception, and if you're nervous about waltzing around on any old roof, you could use the roof of my . . . "house". I can guarantee the roof shouldn't immediately cave in."

He then finished off the last dregs of his drink and the last bite of his food before looking back over at Andrew.

"You said you have two questions, what was the second?"

"It's Irish," Neasa said with a slight shrug. Her accent might have given it away, but then again, maybe it hadn't. She sort of felt like her accent wasn't nearly as thick as it used to be. So much time in this place with a hodge-podge of different accents, it changed a person.

At the mention of her brother, Neasa glanced out the window and sighed for a moment then shrugged. "It's been a year. Figure he's probably dead already. But I mean, if you want to, 'sup to you." What he did was his business, and if it helped her, well that was alright with her. If not, that was also fine.

"Heh." She let out a weak laugh - not even a real one at that, as she touched her jaw. "Figure there's no point in wearing a gas mask anymore. Radiation sickness is already gonna kill me. Might as well make it a bit quicker and less painful, you know? What about you? You ain't wearing one either."

Scott smirked at that. "I've scouted this building out with my geiger counter. The air's pretty safe here, believe it or not, so I figured it wasn't necessary." He wondered whether she was being reckless or just fatalistic. What she said about her brother's fate hinted towards the latter. It was depressing, to be honest.

"Well, that's good to know," Neasa said, not that she really cared that much anymore. She didn't expect to make it out of the Zone alive, nor did she expect to live much longer.

"So, what are you doing here in the Zone?" she asked, ready to get the conversation away from herself.

"Heh, why did I come?" Scott's reasons were certainly far less rational than hers. "Thirst for adventure, I suppose. Where else can you go on Earth where you're completely free from the bounds of the law?"

Neasa's jaw twitched slightly and her mouth thinned to a white line. Her previous loose grip on her gun tightened slightly.

"Oh yeah? And which laws are you excited to be free from?"

"Relax, relax..." Scott said, sensing her apprehension. In hindsight that probably wasn't the best way to phrase that last statement. "Only the dumb ones, like parking laws, taxes, shit like that. Maybe it's more accurate to say that I wanted to get away from society and experience something new."

He suddenly felt a bit thirsty. He had been asleep for some time. He decided to reach into his bag, slowly so as not to spook Neasa, and pull out a plastic bottle of clearish liquid. He took a swig of it straight from the bottle, grimmacing slightly. "You drink? It's rum. A bit watered down, but not horrible."

Neasa slowly nodded her head, not sure she believed he was telling the truth. She hoped he was, but she wasn't naive. Trusting somebody too soon was how you got killed. He seemed like a fairly decent person and she would give him a chance but that didn't mean she had to play dumb.

"Not horrible, huh? Tell your face that," she said, the slightest smirk on her face.

"Oh please, you should know you can't be too picky here." He put the bottle away, assuming that meant "no". He allowed himself to return to a comfortable position, but his expression hardened a little. "Right, so, about this business with your brother. Do you have any ideas at all as to where he could be? Any leads? Surely someone must have seen him at some point somewhere."

"Thought I had a lead some months ago," she confessed. "But it didn't go anywhere. I'm just sort of at the point of wandering and asking if anybody's met a teen boy with an Irish accent."

"Surely someone must have ran into someone like that. I've only run into a couple of Irish dudes here, and..." He stopped for a second. "Did you just say he's a teenager? What the fuck is he doing here? How did he even get here?!" he asked, clearly surprised.

Neasa sighed heavily. "Now you understand my annoyance. Our older sister was a soldier back in the war. We were told she had died, but we never got her body or anything, and we figured it wasn't so much that she died and just... I dunno, vanished. Well, my dumbass brother got it in his head that she was still alive and here for whatever reason. As to how, beats me."

"Mmm." Scott stood himself up and threw his backpack on over his shoulders. "Well hang with me for a bit. I know some folks who may know a thing or two." He grabbed his pistol and holster and strapped them to his hip before picking up his M4, taking out the magazine and racking it for Neasa to see before reloading it and slinging it over his shoulder. "Fair warning, I also know some people who won't hesitate to waste us both."

Gaining a companion was probably the last thing Neasa imagined would happen, and yet here she was, nodding along and pulling her gun back out. She was still a bit skeptical but she figured he could have killed her - or worse - already if he had wanted to.

"Why are you helping me?" she asked.

Scott turned to look at the woman again, and in all honesty there was no single reason he could come up with. On one hand, he did feel that it was a decent thing to do, but he also just needed something to do. He just shrugged and left her with that before leading the way out of the building.

If one stopped and held their breath while listening closely, they would be met by the faint sound of a distinct and familiar song floating on loop over the lifeless irradiated landscape. Now, if that same person were to make the foolhardy decision to follow this sound, they'd eventually come to a slowly crumbling bridge dotted with abandoned military vehicles and a curiously manned checkpoint. This peculiar sight would only become stranger the longer one observed the happenings there of. In place of a heavily armed military detachment stood a rag-tag group of brigands up to no good, by the looks of it. Unfortunately for one unlucky Stalker this was exactly the case.

“You see Ivan, when you grip the pistol like this you need not worry about recoil for fear of looking like idiot!” The rookie stared on with wide eyes, nodding his head as if he'd just learned something profound. All assembled laughed out loud at the poor kid, oblivious to the fact that he was being taken for a ride by the more experienced bandit. It was at this point that the troop of cutthroats caught sight of the lone Stalker making his way cautiously across the bridge. “Oy, wake up assholes, we got one!” Barked the bandit leader while scooping up his cut down, sawed off TOZ-34 shotgun.

“Hey there Stalker, we'd like a word with you!” Called the scraggly bandit, greasy smile poking through the hole of his black ski mask. The man didn't reply immediately, taking note the four men who now came out of the brush to box him in from the other side of the bridge. Classic ambush.

“Yeah? Can't wait to hear what you boys got to say” replied the Stalker in Russian, his accent alien and somewhat difficult for the native speakers to understand.

Scragles couldn't help but feel a sudden pang of worried suspicion after the man spoke but chose to ignore it, secure in fact that they outnumbered him some twenty to one.

“Good! We’re happy to hear you're so willing to cooperate, bro. Makes things easier for all of us, you know?” They chuckled, every one of them training a gun on the poor man.

“Here's the deal Stalker, you drop your shit and we let you cross our bridge. You know the story, right? ‘If you wanna cross my bridge you have to pay the troll toll.’” Chuckling gave way to ruckus laughter as the bandits began stripping the unfortunate Stalker of his belonging, going so far as to taking his coat.

Letting them do their work with his hands raised above his head, the Stalker pursed his lips in distaste. “Boy, sure glad I ran into lads as reasonable as you, I mean, ya let me keep my boots.” His snark was met with more good natured laughter; at least they had a sense of humor.

“You know what? I like you, Stalker” replied Scragles between chuckles, “I'll let you keep this.” Pushing a rust spotted PM into the man’s hands, the bandit waved for two of his boys to escort the freshly robbed Stalker across the bridge.

With their dirty deed done, the brigands made their way back to the post they'd set up shop in. Eager to sift through the loot, Scragles snatched the Stalker's backpack away from his subordinate. When he popped the top on the old OD green Alice Pack he was met by a massive stack of plastic explosives. It was at this moment that Yuri knew he had fucked up.

The explosion that followed would be heard even at the furthest edges of the Zone, followed by a hail of quiet pops that tore into the remaining survivors of the blast. Not even waiting for the dust to clear, a group of twelve men in a hodge podge of expensive gear materialized from the surrounding underbrush.

“Fucking Christ mate, did you put enough blocks into that thing?” Asked one of the men, thick Australian accent completely out of place in the Zone.

“Oi, don't be such a saucy cunt, worked didn't it?” replied the recently bereaved operator in disguise, accent reflecting the last.

“Come on lads, stop playing grab ass and gather up anything worth taking” ordered an older gentleman, Australian SAS tattoo displayed proudly on one of his massive forearms.

“Aye sir,” came the universal response, men now digging through what remained of the bandit checkpoint for anything worth taking. It had been a good day for the rouge SAS operators, this attack marking the fourth successful ambush to date. Stalkers, bandits, even some military elements had been hit and word of their passing was slowly making its way around. Hard not to be noticed when you left nothing but bodies and a majority of the loot behind...

With the first of his questions answered, he wanted to see for himself. With his food and drink finished, all that had been left to do was pay his tab. Andrew had enough to last him a while, but he knew if he was going to spend time here for any amount of time he'd need something leftover. He was still a bit stressed out from the event from earlier, and his head ached a bit. Eventually the alcohol would hit his system and he'd feel better. He'd eaten something, so his stomach had stopped hurting. Now he just wanted to do a bit of climbing to ease his mind. "We can walk and talk, I want some fresh air. I'll be outside when you're done."

Andrew stood up to go pay his tab, and didn't wait for Gideon to answer. If Gideon hadn't finished his food by now, this would be his cue to do so. Andrew went to go pay his tab, checking around him to see if someone followed him. After all, plenty of people stared at him as he walked in and found a seat. Andrew's hands shook less, and he was able to walk steadily. He made it to the bar, sharply exhaling as money exchanged hands. After putting his wallet away, he put a hand on his hip for just a moment before letting his arm rest at his side. Making his way for the door, he glanced over at the table where he had been sitting with Owl.

Sleeping was out of the question. His shoulders were too taut, too wound-up. Since he lacked an appetite too, he did the only other thing which he knew would peel some of the stress away: retreating eastward, away from the stench of the dead, and flicking at the carton until a cigarette poked its head out from its den, like a marten blinking at the sun. For a moment he was amazed that he had two left, and enough butane in his lighter to feed them. The Zone must have quenched his addiction some, overwhelming the withdrawal symptoms with all other manners of pain and discomfort, such that he hadn’t very much time to notice the headaches.

He had burned halfway through the stick already when he heard someone coming; not from the treeline but the building, so the tension, all mounted up again in his shoulders, dispersed quickly. They must have located him by the glowing embers, whereas the shadows draped over their faces were not so generous in kind. He knew not who approached until he heard their voices. Of course, throughout the firefight the possibilities had been whittled down a good deal.

“We need to talk, boss.”

“Ah, Ray. And who’s this with you? Kenny?“

“Put down the cigarette,” said Eirik.

A pause. “All right.” While one hand moved to his lips, and then the nearby pile of concrete slabs, leaving the tobacco to smolder and die on top of it, Marcel moved his other hand to his coat pocket.

Suddenly he was looking down the plastic barrel of a gun, thick and toy-like. Eirik’s Glock, no doubt. No one heard it as it was drawn. “Leave the Derringer, too. Come on. We’re taking a walk.”

They headed for the tunnel. The embers glowed in the nickel finish of the little pocket-pistol as plumes of acrid smoke dissipated into the air; all the evidence that they had been there.

For lack of a kerosene lamp or even a candle, they left the doors open, so they could see each other as they, no doubt, bartered their demands. Marcel thanked them for that, privately. Already he thought of how he would get that gun away from Eirik, turning it on Ray first and then its original owner. The others would have heard the shots, so he wouldn’t be able to go back for his pack. If he conserved bullets then he could walk all through the night, and the next day too, and probably reach Donnersberg even on an empty stomach. That’s if the boars and the wanderers left him alone. Trade a bullet or two and his last cigarette for a meal, a canteen, maybe a piece of advice…

“So what are we talking about?” The gun had vanished somewhere at Eirik’s side. The idiot’s arm must have gotten tired.

“Amelia.”

Was that all? “What about her?”

“’What about her?’ he asks. What about her? We need to know whether you’re letting her come with us to our new place.“

“Our new place?”

They looked between each other. “Don’t play dumb, boss,” Ray said. “She led them straight to us. By now their leader knows where we are. And he knows how many men his managed to kill. He’ll be dropping by soon to finish what he started.”

Marcel looked distant, his thoughts elsewhere, which angered both his mutineers, but Eirik composed himself sooner. “And before you ask: yes, we have proof it was her,” he said. “Johnny saw her in the courtyard, before he took a slug to the liver. If you get to him before the gangrene does, he’ll tell you this much: the shooting started once she showed up, and then she escaped using the backdoor.”

“And you didn’t say anything til now?” Marcel swelled his breast out; a futile gesture, but the others seemed to appreciate this display of bravery, hollow as it was.

Ray shrugged. “Didn’t think she had the balls to show her face here again. Thought we was done with her.”

“I see.”

“Look, boss.” Though Marcel flinched away from the hand as it tried to land on his shoulder, and Ray withdrew it thus, their eyes met. Marcel must have been listening carefully, grateful to learn he wasn’t going to be shot—yet. The gravity of his words, the decisions he had to make, weighed down on him, so he listened as Ray spoke down to him like the captain had already been thrown off the ship, and shouted down to him over the side of the hull. “The boys have agreed it’s not safe. They don’t know about Amelia, but they know Dmitriy is coming back to put an end to our ‘business relationship.’”

“She probably told him about the tunnel, too. We won’t be able to defend against an attack on two fronts, not with the few guys we’ve got left,” Eirik added. Maybe the Glock had been holstered already. Marcel couldn’t tell but he wished so badly that he could, craving that knowledge more than he’d craved any cigarette in his life.

“So what do you want me—well, uh, what are we going to do?” Marcel asked.

“Leave her.”

“We know you love her, boss. The way you look at her in that sugary, bullshit way. We won’t ask you to blow her brains out while she sleeps, even though that would be the smart thing to do. But she can’t come with us.”

“We’re at the ends of our ropes. Anyone who’s our leader has to do what’s best for the whole crew,” Eirik said. “ Right now that means cutting a traitor loose. Prove that you’re willing to do that, or we’ll choose someone who can.” There it was: a glimpse, a flashing image of that black plastic slide. Eirik had brought it up to the side of his head as if to scratch his ear with it.

Marcel had to think about it, but when he gave his answer, they must have approved. Because when Amelia awoke he was gone, along with everyone else and everything which they could carry; the food, the ammo, all hauled away in backpacks and a wheelbarrow. There weren’t enough men to take it all, of course; not the supplies they’d hoarded, not the personal effects of the men who had died. (In the pile which had been stacked up with their bodies, they had begun to stink, bellies bloated with fly eggs.) Their weapons were there, though the magazines and firing pins had been taken, and their belongings had been consolidated into a few backpacks, stacked along the wall nearest the cold, dead campfire. She was alone. She was alone with the corpses and all the remains of their micro-society, and if she looked to the tunnel, though the Derringer had been reclaimed, she saw the half a cigarette on the ground, brushed off the concrete by a gust of spring wind. And although he left behind no letter, no bittersweet farewell, she knew between whose lips it had once been clenched. What last words would he have wished to impart, had she only the time to listen?

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When Daniel awoke he found his knees pulled up against his chest, and his head, his tender head, cracked so easily like the mud of a dried-up riverbed, cradled between his hands. This position is reserved for two kinds of people—the foetal and the forsaken—and he realized he must have been drinking again, and was loath to rattle his skull around as a test as to which he was. He began to rise from the couch and when a thunderbolt shot through his head, he had his answer. Upon the floor was his collection of glass bottles, and one or three of them must have been new drops added to this veritable ocean. Still, he pushed himself off the plushy gravity of the stained and dusty cushions. He checked his watched and it was much too early. Something must have woken him.

That’s right. As the fog of sleep melted from his consciousness, as his whereabouts sharpened around him, he remembered a noise. It was sharp and crackly, though not at all like the noises in his head, the needly buzzing which sometimes stabbed at his grey matter when he attempted to fall asleep. It was something external; it echoed off the hills and bounced around between the broken windows of the village.

He tried to walk, but felt too much like a caterpillar turned to mush in its chrysalis. He realized he probably ought to pull his pants up before trying to walk, or at least his oiled jumpsuit. So he walked into the bathroom and pissed in the corner, and then he pulled them up, and cinched the belts around his waist and shoulders. Maybe it had warmed a bit, so he stuck his hand out a window to check, and decided promptly to zip all the way up. The dregs of winter hadn’t evaporated yet from his glass. His skin shrank when the cold struck it.

When he emerged from the house and walked down the road he was “naked”; he hadn’t brought his weapons along. Who needed them in this dump? As long as no one rummaged through his room—as long as it was, incontrovertibly, his room—he wasn’t much concerned with who did what around here. Usually it was none of his business.

This tended to change when Max needed something.

“Holy shite!” Daniel exclaimed, as, although he was far enough not to hear what went on near the biergarten, he saw that the barkeep was outside, barking at this and that. Something had driven the fat badger from his den, rare enough a sight in itself, which put into perspective for Daniel how very seriously it all was being taken. He wasn’t the only one who had heard the noise, then, although the fat man and his guards fretted over it more so than the drinkers nearby.

As this figure, baggy and tattered, lumbered down the road, out from the village which served the community as a sort of ramshackle hotel, those near the bar meanwhile, and even those still inside, were inundated with Max’s excess of obscenities. Who dares? asked he, in his vicious dialect; disturbing his peace, his profits; letting the Zone’s violent diseases spread out over its body, its infection reaching even his humble empire there in the extremities?

“You want someone scouting around, boss?“ Crow asked.

“Hmm! Don’t trouble yourself. That looks like Barber down the road. I’ll make him do it. Bitchwork. You climb back up the tower and keep the customers safe.“ He turned to Andrew. “Are you sure no trouble followed you here?” A silly question, perhaps, since Andrew had arrived from the west, and the explosion from somewhere to the north; but anything like this could spoil the people’s appetites, notwithstanding the dangers which naturally followed stray bullets and bits of shrapnel.

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Speaking of people…

Whatever language they spoke, it was Latinized. Romantic. Maybe a dialect of Italian, or some-such. There were at least three and maybe more, and silence punctuated their presence more so than the words or the footfalls themselves.

Maybe they watched the farmhouse, with its crumpled silo and its tall, wild fields, all grown over with grass and spring onions. They bickered a little. If they had considered going inside then they had deemed it not worth the time, it seemed; after all, such a place, so close to the road, so easy to find, could not have anything of value inside it anymore. Everything useful was already stripped away, right down to the rusting tools, probably refurbished long ago and repurposed for sawing through fence links and snapping old, abandoned padlocks.

By the time Neasa and Scott were outside, the visitors were already down the road, heading north. They could still see them. They traveled north, toward Wiesbaden and Frankfurt. Toward the center.

Just before Andrew had left, he heard a noise off in the distance. He stopped, wondering if he should wait for Owl. He decided against it. He wanted out of the bar as soon as possible and away from all of the others with guns. It was bad enough that he had to trust Owl, who had already deceived him once. But he didn't want to trust the other patrons too. Pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind, he opened the door. There, he saw Max and a couple of his men, and Max looked angry and was shouting.

“Are you sure no trouble followed you here?” Max asked Andrew furiously. Andrew thought for a moment, wondering if he should mention the fact that he very well might have been followed. After all, Andrew had no clue where that 'other' shot had come from, and had no idea if the man was hunting Andrew. Although surely if he had wanted Andrew dead, he would have let the mutant attack Andrew, shoot the mutant, and then go loot Andrew's corpse. Although with how angry Max looked, Andrew thought it better to point out something else and not mention his incident.

"That sound just now came from that way." Andrew pointed in the general direction of the explosion. "Not sure why you'd think it'd have something to do with me, seeing as how I've been in there for a while."

@TheMadAsshatter @pugbutter

Neasa found his shrug to be actually reassuring. He wasn't sure why. He wasn't some obnoxious do-gooder who was going to be pretentious and preachy. He didn't have some story made up to convince her that he was actually good and totally not going to do terrible things to her the moment she turned her back. He was just helping her because he had a shred of decency in him. And that was fine with her.

She followed him out of the building, gun gripped in hand, and glanced around. Once her eyes readjusted to the sunlight, she scanned the horizon, and to her surprise, saw three figures a distance away.

Neasa caught up to Scott, nudged his arm with her elbow, then jerked her chin in the direction of the three figures. Maybe they were too far away to be heard, but she wasn't going to risk it if they were hostile.

Amelia startled herself awake from a bad dream she was having. It involved her parents; they were being held hostage by some unknown evil entity and she had to get to them within a certain timeframe, but obstacles kept disrupting her...those easily found within The Zone. Despite her best efforts, Amelia failed to reach her parents in time, and that's when she woke up, sweaty and teary-eyed from the realistic events occurring in her nightmare.

The young woman turned to her side and noticed it wasn't dark yet. She hadn't slept for too long apparently, despite the fact that her body felt well-rested and energized. She wondered whether her body had gotten used to the lack of adequate food and sleep to the point where she could function relatively well without much of either one. Maybe that was the case, or maybe she had just gotten a really good few hours of sleep.

A nearly empty bottle of wine sitting on the table opposite her bed made Amelia desperate enough to get up, wipe her face with some wet rag, and gear up to go search for something to drink. She preferred wine as she wasn't particularly fond of beer, and everything else was a bit more complicated to come across, so she didn't have much too choose from. Amelia knew that she had told herself she would just stay home until the next day, but she would probably get bored very easily due to the fact she wasn't the least bit tired and therefore wasn't able to go back to sleep. Such a struggle her life was.

Just then, things took a turn for the worse. The gruesome sight that awaited the woman outside was definitely something she wasn't expecting, and it is something that will unfortunately stay in her mind for years to come. The pile of corpses nearly made her lose her meal, an immediate side effect of how upset the horrific scene made her feel. Amelia wasn't by any means a stranger to death—but it was a completely different story when the victims were all her friends and individuals she considered family. Such act of selfishness was unforgivable, and Amelia knew exactly who she had to find in order to attempt to make sense of such atrocity. She only hoped he hadn't gotten too far, because this way beyond crossing the line.

@SilverFallen

Scott's plan wasn't exactly well formulated yet. He had never had to search for someone whom he didn't already have some sort of lead on. He would often be tasked with tracking someone and keeping tabs on them; stalking, essentially. He never really thought he would be starting from scratch. Still, it was something new, and another bullet point he could put on his resume. Besides that, Neasa may have been one of the least criminally inclined people he had run across in the zone. It was worth helping her out a bit; and another favor to call in should the need arise.

He didn't realize that he had gotten ahead of her, but when he heard her jogging to catch up he turned and saw some amount of concern on her face. He stopped and gave her a quizzical look before she gestured down the road. He turned to look and spotted the three walking away. They didn't seem to be any trouble, but he leveled his rifle and brought his eye up to the affixed optic to get a better look. They weren't looking in their direction and didn't seem to be a threat at the moment, but he was glad Neasa pointed them out. One could never really be too safe, and Scott took a mental note to keep track of their movements.

"We're not going that way," he said quietly, lowering his rifle. That wasn't entirely true. That was his original plan; or at least the first possible source of reliable information that he could think of resided near there, but something about this group of people seemed familiar, and not in a good way. He couldn't be sure, but he did get the impression that they should keep their distance.

His mind ran through a list of possible contacts that weren't near the Frankfurt area, when it occurred to him that he hadn't even asked whom Neasa had already talked to. "Where all have you already gone for information? Don't want to get somewhere only to learn that you've siphoned what you already could."

It was coming to be around the Late Watches then, the interim of midnight and morning. Because it was dark and cool, their footsteps traveled farther than usual, typically a reason to walk slowly (in addition to the roots and rocks which so easily trip a blind man; especially when even the smallest cut or sprain could spell one's demise in this place), or at least be wary of their surroundings. Instead, they trudged onward with no respect, and scarcely any regard at all, for the leaves and red twigs crackling under their toes. Hunger stuck to their ribs and fatigue to the bags of their eyes. They had sheathed their weapons by then; Marcel did not fear usurpation from his soldiers any more than they feared the wrath of their liege-lord. No, they suffered equally in this long march toward God-knows-where. Frankfurt? Beyond? They headed east, they knew, and maybe they meandered north a few degrees as well; they'd be crossing the river soon. With enemies behind them, and no drive to fight, they could not argue that forward was the only logical direction in which to travel.

"You made the right choice, boss," said Ray. The two had reconciled wordlessly, as men are able to so easily, to the wonderment of women; seeming simply to forget that they had ever threatened each other with bullets at all, and at that, just a few hours before.

"Maybe. But it sure don't feel like I did." Marcel looked to the ground as he spoke. Not for lack of pride, though he certainly felt worthless as they wandered to their undecided destination, like a candy wrapper on the wind; they were all hunched over, tired, driven onward by the whips of fear. Fear, fear of what would happen if they stopped to rest, of who would catch up to them. "They died defending that place and now we're abandoning it. Leaving it for them to take."

Ray shook his head. Futility, was it, hmm? They died for nothing? "You didn't kill them, boss. You saved us from sharing in their fate. Just try to remember that, if it helps. I'm hungry. I'll go see if Alex wants to trade for a can of sausages." Marcel found himself alone again, though his soldiers, marching through the stale, brittle mud, surrounded him.

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Earlier that same day, an unlikely partnership had formed in a modest (that is, hopelessly ramshackle) farmhouse. These stalkers put their differences aside, agreeing that they were safer together than alone—despite the tantalizing romance which must naturally follow the loner lifestyle. But then, it's called a "life"-style for a reason: it isn't worth much if they're not around to live it. So off they went.

They saw people on the road, people they did not recognize, and were cautious, as any smart stalker must be. But the strangers only added to this confusion, this uncertainty as to their motivations and allegiances, when they noticed Neasa and Scott behind them.

"Whoa!" One dashed for the side of the road, throwing himself into the rain-ditch, such that the dirt and the cracked asphalt covered him. When one ran, so did the others, like the entire school following the movements of the one fish startled toward the shelter of the lilies and lake-weeds. They, too, it seemed, did not altogether trust the two stalkers not to shoot them in the back. They peered out behind their covers: the ditch and the trees. They whispered harshly to each other in their Romantic language. Some hadn't even seen Neasa and Scott yet, but trusted their ally as to the danger which skulked behind them.

Bad luck, one could suppose; they were quiet as could be, the duo, but still they were spotted, because one of the stalkers was struck with a certain whimsy, watching a squirrel skitter through the leaves or any other mundane thing like that. The universe, much less the Zone, seldom paid any mind to the patterns and meaning men tried vainly to assign to the utter chaos of the world. This must be what the ancients called "luck."

No shots had yet been fired, though. Always a good sign.

The afternoon nap Amelia had taken was proving to be rather advantageous as she moved quickly through the path she assumed would lead her to Marcel and his gang. Such assumption was based on the trail of broken twigs and torn leafs left in their wake. She would either come across them or someone else who held no interest to her.

The girl was traveling light. Even though the weather was favorable, she only carried a handgun, and was wearing a fitted jacket, a shirt underneath, and a pair of jeans tucked inside brown boots. Amelia currently didn't have the patience to plan a full assault; instead, she wanted to make this little mission short and simple, and that was accomplished by somehow getting around Marcel's men to be able to get a clear shot of him, then she would run as fast as her legs could take her.

Some time passed before Amelia heard voices sooner than expected, although they weren't clear enough to understand. She decided to flank around behind some trees until she got a clear view of the group of individuals. Eventually, she saw the back of a couple of heads, and given the height and build of one of them, she was pretty confident it was Marcel. Amelia kept following the men as she maintained her distance until she came across the perfect opportunity to take her shot. It was now or never. She pushed her back against a tree, took a deep breath, then stepped out from behind the tree, aimed her weapon, and took the shot.

@TheMadAsshatter @pugbutter

Neasa wasn't all that reassured when Scott said they weren't going that way - sure, they weren't, but who was to say the strangers didn't decide to turn and follow? She lowered her gun slightly, but kept them in her peripheral, just waiting for them to try something.

"Mostly by the border," she confessed, shrugging her shoulders. "It's easy when you first get inside, after that though? S'all just dust in the wind, really. Came from the north, well, obviously," she said, rolling her eyes and letting her Irish accent tell all. "But that's about it."

She was glad that she had been keeping the group in her peripheral when they suddenly jumped and seemed to flee from the road like a flock of birds being chased off. "Hey," she hissed, keeping her voice low. "I think we've been spotted."