-Wednesday, January 12, 2058; 4:32 PM
-Peace Keeper Stronghold, Hellhound Tavern
-Nashville, Tennessee

Cigarette smoke swirled lazily around the room as the large industrial fan, being large enough to take up almost the entirety of the bar’s back wall, turned at an elevated speed. The bass line whoosh, whoosh, whoosh was enough to nearly lull Boyd into an ill-gained slumber had it not been for the occasional clank of a rattling ball bearing somewhere in the device. Drooping eyelids gazed at a reflection in the burnt amber liquid sitting in the shot glass before Boyd. He was a shooter in battle, but not in the bar. He drank his whiskey slowly in measured sips as the liquid was more valuable than it maybe should have been. Had he been looking for a buzz, he could have ordered a jar of ‘shine anyway.

Still breathing fire from his last sip, Boyd leaned back in his chair and gazed up at the dimly lit, swinging light bulb in the center of the room. There was no music. There was no television playing in the background. Just the occasional cough or grunt from a bar patron and the glassy clinking of their glasses here and there. If you were lucky, a buzzing fly might find its way nearby, maybe give you some entertainment for a minute or so.

It was certain that Boyd could be in the upper level of the stronghold, drinking whiskey just as well with his father’s men. But he liked it better down here. There wasn’t constant talk about jobs and Hellhound’s lacked the constant smell of gun oils and the sound of blades being ground to a razor edge. Besides, he liked the owner here. His nephew had been a part of Boyd’s crew and had died valiantly (or at least Boyd told the story that way for a free glass of water now and then) in battle. The bar was plain and mostly comprised of metal and wood, but it was a far cry from the rubble Boyd had been crawling around in all day.

The majority of the light in the room came from wrought iron bowls filled with wax and lit with a crude wick. For a moment Boyd watched the dangerously bobbing and weaving flame as it danced. It was all about finding ways to entertain yourself, and to generally pass the time when you weren’t working. It was life. Even if his father maintained that his generation was far less spoiled. What he really meant, Boyd suspected, was that they simply had to drink their whiskey in the dark.

The moonlight bathed the upstairs room the stronghold through a skylight as Ronnie danced around a feed bag hanging from the ceiling. It was a crude punching bag stuffed with sawdust and foam but it served it's purpose. There heavy pieces of metal on the floor along with various other items that could be used to get a decent workout in with. Boyd and the others did what they could to help furnish this room and make it a workout center and it was serviceable. Her black sweat pants, pulled back red hair, and white tank top helped keep her some what cool on the hot night, but only to a point.

Ronnie often times would come up here to either blow off steam, or to prove to herself that she still had what it took to be a member of the crew inspite of her artificial leg. Although there were times that leg got in her way Ronnie also knew ways to sucker others in with it as well. She would play up the "poor helpless me" angle and then a couple of quick sucker punches to the throat and one to the solar-plexus was all it took. Ronnie studied "The Art of War" by General Sun-Tzu and this tactic was known as enticing the enemy by giving them bait that tactic many times saved Ronnie in the field. She understood that the true art of war which the General spoke of was all about deception. When they were weak they had to feign strength, when they were strong feign weakness and so many other tactics. Ronnie had them all committed to memory and she lived them out.

Just as she was getting ready to throw a combo her artificial leg pulled and Ronnie grunted in pain as the leg pulled on her stump. She bent down and found that her foot got caught in a nail. She signed and shook her head as Ronnie felt the sweat fly off. Ronnie said, "Well I guess that's God's way of telling me that I'm done for the night."

Ronnie freed her foot and made her way over to a corner and sat next to a candle that was flickering. She picked up a towel and rubbed the sweat off of her face. Ronnie then removed her leg and wiped out the sweat from inside her leg. No matter how many times she had seen that stump it was something that Ronnie could never get used to seeing. Usually this led to a moment where in her mind she could still hear the shotgun blast, the smell of gun powder in the air, the sickeningly numb feeling in her leg, and worst of all the feeling of falling back and hitting the floor. Just laying there helpless and trying to get out of the way. If it wasn't for Chad Weston pulling her out of the way who knows how many more shots she would've taken. The last thing she remembered was hearing Chad call for the field medic, and then waking up 2 days later in a make shift hospital.

Ronnie shook her head as though she was trying to get rid of annoying bug. She strapped her leg back on and made her way down the stairs. She walked over to the bar and got out a bottle of water and began to drink. After a couple of gulps she joined Boyd at his table and said, "Well another day above ground about finished." She raised her bottle and said, "All in all not bad."

A deep breath followed by a heavy sigh. A slight, unintentional smile found it's way to Noella's face as she watched her short lived warm breath rise through the cold air. She has always loved winter, even if it did prevent the growth of many plant life she finds many uses for. Correcting her expression, she returns her focus to the beehive she maintained in a small shack just outside the stronghold. She enjoys the ease and lack of danger in the foresting skills taught to her by her mother with the repressive view of a woman's only lifestyle choice. Carefully and accurately cutting out honey comb and extracting beeswax as a surgeon would with incisions.

When finished she returned to the Tavern, with a knapsack filled with procurred natural materials. Spotting Boyd and Ronnie together she makes her way towards them. "Here Ronnie, this should help." Noella reaches into her bag and hands over herbs to help her with the agitation of her nub. She had noticed the frequent expression of annoyance and rubbing of her prostetic. Though Noella has been with Boyd since his previous crew, she still is not as skilled in combat as many others. So she can usually be found analyzing others and offering her services of obtaining helpful remedies, tools, and other helpful uses she can think of with local plant life. Noella then went in the back to grab a rusted old pot and filled it with the dirty water that's used for washing and sat at her own table on the other end of the tavern. Removing the bow that was strung around her torso and leaning it up against the wall, she then placed the pot over the candle flame with a make shift stilt and placed the beeswax into it to boil.

Placing her elbows on her legs and leaning over her knees, Noella took out an old, dirty, yellow rubber ball and repeatily bounced it off the ground. She also grabbed a handful of cut up pieces of honey comb and began snacking on them. "Merci mère terre" Noella whispers while eating, thanking Mother Earth as she always does after a gathering. She was not religious, nor did she believe the earth was a live entity that gave her resources. However she did believe in karma and that being grateful for recieving without actually giving anything was a healthy practice, at the very least it couldn't hurt to try. She continued bouncing the ball and throwing back honey like candy as she often looked around the room, hoping to to soon get a job continue to increase her ranged skills in combat.

Boyd grunted slightly as Ronnie made her presence known to him. The rest of the bar had gone out of auditory focus before and her words had yanked him back to clarity and the realization that he was not the center of the universe. He often relied on his hearing more than his eyes this way, but it had yet to fail him. "Might be one of our last." He spoke in reply to her with almost an ominous air. Before he could pull his thoughts together and distill them into another sentence, Noella had also arrived on the scene. Boyd watched on for a brief moment as she handed over the bag of healing herbs. He could trust such things, even if Ronnie could not yet do the same. Noella's knowledge of medicinal herbs had made more than one of Boyd's past wounds wholly bearable.

Noella had disappeared to the other end of the room as quickly as she had appeared, and even though he would have liked to speak with her as well on an important matter, she was occupied with her own work and he was far too focused elsewhere. As if failing to miss a beat after his previous statement, Boyd tapped his forefinger on a piece of paper sitting under his glass. Raising his eyebrows slightly at Ronnie, as if she could read his mind, he inhaled deeply. "They killed Olyphant. The old guy... Just..." Boyd's fingers formed the shape of a gun as he aimed downward into an imaginary skull and pulled the trigger gently. "...Right in the middle of testifyin', and some thug walks in with a magnum and blows him away." Removing his glass from atop the piece of paper and sliding it across the table toward Ronnie, he sipped the murky alcohol with a bit more haste as if confirming that he wouldn't be staying too long.

The paper was a message from a PMC courier addressed to Boyd's father. It was clear by Boyd IV's possession of it that it had not reached its intended recipient. The message was written in neat cursive and red:

On this morning 1-11-58, Marcus Raymond Olyphant, under protection from Peace Keeper Riley Goodloe by the order of PMC Impi, was killed by a disguised assassin. One round (thought to be from a semi-automatic magnum handgun of some type) to the left temple ended his life, interrupting his testimony of events before the cleansing. As Riley Goodloe has found himself unable to maintain security within his own guild, PMC Impi would like to commission two or more members of your (Boyd Devereaux III) mercenaries to bring this assassin into custody before turning him over to the Fort Sakapo in Dallas, Texas. Your cooperation will bring you favor in our organization as well as the sum of $5,000. A member of our regiment has been posted in Nashville at the Indigo Memorial should you need further details. Please give him your reply so that he may return to us swiftly.

The message had been previously sealed in ink by the official seal of PMC Impi, though Boyd's pen knife had made easy work of it. He watched Ronnie's face for some sort of response. He could trust anyone he had personally recruited, otherwise he wouldn't have done so. Most any other Peacer here would have been all too eager to let his father know of the message's interception simply to further the gap between the two men. "It could be the kick start I need to get Coyote back on its feet." Boyd referred to his private crew, previously raider shamed and slain.

Booker was having a pretty good day thus far. He was nearly always in a great mood when he was on his way to visiting his parents. Despite everything they were very happy and usually optimistic people; something that made them very good company ninety nine percent of the time. The only thing to complain about really was the fact that he was aching a bit, probably an outcome of so much damn exercise. It definitely wasn't made better by his sleeping in a tree the night before. At least it kept him safe though and he even set some traps and caught a few rabbits, one of which he cooked for breakfast and two of which he was bringing home for his parents. Overall Percy Warner Park had proven a prosperous stop.

It had taken him a decent while to get home though and he had missed his parents quite a lot after being gone for nearly two months. It was approaching 1:00pm when he finally got into Nashville. He didn't exactly consider the city his home town but his parents lived there and so the place had a great portion of his heart just because of that simple fact. It was quite a while before he made it to the apartment complex in which his parents lived. They resided on the top floor, the sixth, despite Booker's protests. Though it kept them both in good shape he concluded, so he let it go. His parents usually did know what was best.

Finally reaching the top floor of the building; the hundred or so stairs not doing anything for his aches, Booker made his way to his parents door and knocked somewhat loudly. A few seconds later the door was open and there stood Booker's father. He was a big man; quite a bit taller than Booker at 6'3 and still built like a brick shit house. Booker never had been quite able to get his fathers physique, even whilst the man was gaining in age.

“Booker!” The large man yelled, grabbing his son and instantly pulling him into a hug that felt like it could crush ribs.

“Hey pops, good to see you.” Booker smiled widely, hugging his father back. Finally the hug was done and Booker followed his father into the apartment. It wasn't luxurious by any means but the years had long since turned it into a very comfortable feeling home. Just as Booker went to take a seat at the kitchen table his mother emerged from one of the bedrooms and her face lit up immediately along with both her son and husband's. She rushed over, kissing Booker on the cheek and this time it was Booker who gave the rib crushing hug. His mother was about 5'7 and in just as good shape as her husband; just not with the huge physique. It was a little disappointing actually, Booker had basically gotten his mothers height but his father's rugged looks. Not to say his father was ugly, just that his mother was in her late fifties and could still turn heads.

Over the next few hours the two rabbits were cooked filling the place with a delicious smell and Booker and his parents chatted. They talked about the things that they had done in the past couple of months and what they had missed of each other's lives, they talked about funny past times that they were reminded of and finally they moved on to the apparent favourite topic of what Booker's plans for the future were. It didn't take him long to admit that he missed being with people when he was travelling and was thinking about officially joining up with the Nashville Peace Keepers. He expected his parents to be against the idea but surprisingly they weren't. They thought that with the skills they had spent a life time teaching him either way he would find himself in some terrible situations whilst travelling and said that when these unfortunate circumstances came to pass they would much rather him with company. Skilled company, and everyone knew that the Peace Keepers were nothing if not skilled.

Having what was pretty much the final push he needed Booker took a two hour long nap before awaking and telling his parents that he was going to go and see what he could do about officially joining the Peace Keepers. An hour later he found himself sitting in a dimly lit room after being told by possibly the toughest looking receptionist on Earth that someone would be along to interview him shortly. So there he sat, rapping his knuckles on a metal table in a room that kind of reminded him of the few interrogation rooms in police stations he had been in over the years.

Ronnie listened intently with no expression her face. When Boyd finished she took a swig of her water and then got up and slowly began to pace. The members of the group knew that when Ronnie did this she was weighing all the information in her mind. She stared out into the night and began to nod. Ronnie walked back to the table and sat down taking another swig.

She looked at Boyd and said, "I'll tell ya boss-man a disguised assassin is nothing to screw with. This guy may be just getting his kicks off of taking out Peace Keepers just for kicks, because I knew Marcus he was as deadly as they came. This guy had to some kind of special to take him down." Ronnie dropped her head slightly and when she brought it up her eyes had tears in them. Ronnie took a deep breath and said, "He and I worked together a few times. Marcus saved my life twice and yeah we got close but we both knew it was for the better if we went our own separate ways."

Ronnie closed her eyes and shook her head. The tears fell from her face and she wiped them away when she opened her eyes there was a look of anger and hatred coursing through them. She said, "Assassin or not that son of a bitch will pay one way or another." Ronnie finished her water and said, "Besides 5k around here will go a long way around here. There doesn't seem to be any commitments on the social calendar for this month, so yeah I say we go." Ronnie looked around said, "Okay yes I will admit that this one has personal angle for me, but that being said I swear I will not let my feelings could my judgment. I will grieve on my own time and in my own way. Not to mention the folks in Dallas they ain't exactly known for treating assassins with kindness." She took a deep breath and said, "I've seen them take care of assassins especially ones that go after Peace Keepers. If you're lucky you'll just end up in front of the firing squad, and that's if they're in a generous mood. Those folks can get very creative. I'll tell you all about the one involving salt, and an open wound on the back of someone's neck sometime."

Ronnie finished her water and tossed the bottle into the trash can. When it landed she looked at Boyd and said, "Say when and I'll be ready in 10 minutes."

As if a ghostly hand reached into her mind and grabbed her, Noella was yanked from her trance-like state. The rythmic, hollow beats of the rubber ball had suddenly stopped as she looks directly in Boyd's direction. "Coyote..." Noella says softly to herself. She was never one to eavesdrop but to hear that word spoken by the unmistakable voice of the man whom she considered mostly responsible for her "metamorphesis", her curiosity was peaked. For some reason the sweet honey taste leftover in her mouth turned somewhat bitter as she went through the memories of her very first and only other group. She would have been stuck in this swirl of flashbacks if it wasn't interrupted by the pot with the beeswax in it starting to boil over. Quickly removing it and doing the finishing processes for the wax, Noella watches as Ronnie began her all too noticeable pacing before returning to sit with Boyd.

Without hesitation Noella stood up pushing her chair back, producing a wreched sound as it grinded across wooden planks and metal plates. She needed not any of the details before stringing her bow across her torso and walking over to sit at the table with Boyd and Ronnie. She notices the letter but did not care to read it. "Whatever it is, I'm in." Noella says forcefully with a stern look towards Boyd before harshly slamming a solid block of wax right on the table. Ofcourse she knew this had no meaning in any way and did not expect many pieces of it to fly off. Noella could sense the tension at the table and notice the residual redness from obvious tears from Ronnie's eyes. So this was just an empty, failed gesture she came up with on the spot. But as embarrass as she was, she ignored the mess and grabbed Boyd by the arm. "If you're thinking of trying again, just know that I'm ready......'spite your father." Noella says with as much seriousness as she could muster at the moment. Letting go of his arm, she scoops her mess into her bag and brushing her hands off each other.

Boyd inhaled as Ronnie spoke, as if he were taking in her words by mouth. In reality, he was waiting for a pause to speak. When the pause came, he ran his hand through his hair, his fingers stopping just at his crown and scratching gently. Boyd's hesitation was met with Noella's sudden reappearance as well as very unexpected physical contact from the woman. The two made their intentions clear, and Boyd was surprised that he had recruited two Peacers to his cause with very little effort. It was enough to cause his hand to fall gently to the table in contemplation. He couldn't be certain if what he felt on his face was a slight smile as something familiar welled up in him, a feeling of imminent danger with just a hint of potential greatness.

After a moment, Boyd finally spoke: "Deadly as he may have been... The man was suffering. Had himself something wrong with his insides. From what I'd heard, he hadn't picked up a gun nor blade in more than a year. He was weak... Dying. Maybe could have lived another week or two before it caught up with him. I doubt he put up a fight to be honest." Boyd shook his head as he ran his fingers around the rim of his shot glass. "It begs the question why this fella shot a dying man, rather than waiting for his own body to do the dirty work. Either way, five grand does go a long way around here. But we won't be able to use any guild resources without the Old Man catching scent of our intentions."

Suddenly, the tavern felt unusually cramped to Boyd, as if the number of support beams had tripled in the last few minutes and the walls were uncomfortably inward upon the center of the room. It was a common sensation for Boyd when he had elsewhere he needed to be. "Both of you." He spoke in a hushed tone. "Gather what supplies you can without drawing too much attention. If anyone asks: You're just going on a scavenging trip. Then meet me at the old well. The broken one behind the clinic." Boyd's face turned a bit sour for a moment, though it was only a flicker of uneasiness. "I'm going to have to find some way to get a car."

---

Having left the tavern and parted ways with his co-conspirators, Boyd IV made his way back upstairs and through the stronghold. The first thing he had to do was get an old requisition form for a vehicle. 'Form' was a strong word here, as it usually just consisted of a note with a personal request on it. The key here was that it had to be A: Already approved. and B: Unnoticed if missing.

After close to half an hour of watching the Peacer in charge of running requisitions "up the ladder" so to speak, Boyd saw his chance: Two relatively new Peace Keepers had requested a transport vehicle for moving machine parts. Since they were low on the totem pole, it was unlikely they would be approved for anything particularly good, most likely getting an old station wagon or the like. Even though he knew he would need something better eventually, Boyd would rather have a piece of garbage car that was unlikely to be missed for a while. He just needed someone without his father's face to claim the vehicle after intercepting the form.

---

A few minutes and some fast talking had allowed Boyd to personally see the request form taken to the motor pool out back. Something else had caught his attention on the way however: His father must have been openly recruiting once more as there was someone sitting in one of the interrogation rooms. The key give away that it was not a prisoner was the fact that he didn't have a broken nose or fingers. A new face was exactly what he needed to get the vehicle attached to the requisition form in his pocket.

Taking a clip board from the nearest vacant desk, Boyd wandered nonchalantly toward the room, stopping to smile at the Peacer he had seen lead the man inside. The moment that the coast was clear, he opened the door and entered with a veil of enthusiasm that made the back of his mouth taste bitter. "Hey there, fella." His gloved hand extended toward the young man, the other holding the blank clipboard to his chest. Boyd wasn't the best at social interaction non involving violent proceedings in the near future. "John... Long. Call me Long John." The introduction tumbled from Boyd's lips with uncomfortable uncertainty. "So you're here to join up?"

The man Boyd spoke to was more lucid than he had hoped, and not some brick wall with hands he could fool. None the less, he had the home field advantage and it was pretty clear that this man was not a native to this stronghold.

Ronnie made her way up to her quarters which was more like a glorified broom closet. She didn't mind it too much it was four walls and a ceiling and during these times that was considered a luxury. As she gathered her gear the words about Marcus being sick hit somewhat of chord with Ronnie. It would explain a lot about what really happened to him, because Ronnie refused to believe that anyone could ever get the better of Marcus. Although Ronnie did admit to herself that her opinion and point of view concerning Marcus was somewhat biased. The man not only taught her how to use her leg to her advantage, how to survive as Peace Keeper, but they were lovers at one point in time.

Ronnie gathered her gear and then saw an ant crawling across the floor and remembered an important lesson that Marcus taught her; things aren't always as they appear. She looked at the ant for a moment as her mind drifted back to a barren wasteland that at one point in time had cornfields as far as the eye could see. It was a scorching day in Iowa Ronnie was just getting used to her leg as Marcus and her were out for run. Marcus told her unless she could keep up with him there was no way he would allow her back into action. For the 7th time Marcus smoked her on open terrain and Ronnie was sitting on the ground near some rocks another 2 miles away from the finish line.

Marcus approached her and said, "So is that it kid? You're just gonna give up and call it? What a waste of my time and your talent!"

Ronnie snapped back, "HEY! In case you haven't noticed I'm not half the woman I used to be!"

Marcus shook his head and said, "You think what you see is all that there is to life? Wow! I'm amazed you've as long as you have Veronica."

Marcus knew that Ronnie hated being called that and just glared at him for a moment. Marcus walked over to the rock pile and said, "Come over for a moment." Ronnie walked over and Marcus said, "What do you see here?"

Ronnie replied, "Rocks. Wow are you saying I'm being stubborn?"

Marcus shook his head and said, "Look closer. Do you see the ant here?"

Ronnie nodded and said, "Yeah. Is there a point here?"

Marcus nodded and said, "Yes there is. Outward appearances say that this ant is small, frail, and weak, Yet it still lives on. It doesn't see itself as small and frail and weak. It sees itself as a living being that is more than just it's outward appearances. For the next two hours I want you to sit there and stare at that ant."

As Marcus walked away Ronnie shook her head, but still kept her focus on the ant moving about. How it went about it's life with a sense of purpose and focus. Ronnie finally began to understand what Marcus was trying to get her to do.

The next day when they ran...Ronnie got smoked again, but she finished the run. For two weeks her and Marcus ran their 5 mile race everyday until finally Ronnie tied him, and then two days later she finally broke through.

Ronnie nodded at the ant in her closet and said, "Keep an eye on the place while I'm gone, and no wild parties." She grabbed her gear and headed for the well.

“Hey there, fella.”

Booker was surprised when only a couple of minutes had passed and a man had already entered the small room. For some reason he had expected to be waiting quite on someone for a while but apparently that wasn't going to be the case. The man whom had entered certainly had the look of what Booker perceived was the appearance of a Peace Keeper as well yet he had expected to be talking to somebody quite a bit older looking than the relatively young man that was now before him. Nevertheless Booker stood up from the cold metal he had been seated on and firmly shook the man's gloved hand.

"John... Long. Call me Long John." Spoke the man as he and Booker shook hands... John Long. Booker felt like there was something off about the way the man spoke or rather just wrong with his manner in general but he soon decided to brush the feeling off. He imagined there was bound to be something a little off with everyone who did the job of a Peace Keeper for long enough.

"So you're here to join up?"

“Uh, aye, that I am. The names Booker Perdue. Good to meet you Long John... So, uh, where does this thing go from here?”

Boyd shuffled his feet over to the metal table, stopping at the corner closest to where he entered. "Well, Mr. Perdue that's entirely up to you. Where do you see ourselves in our ranks?" A pause allowed for the first syllable of an answer though it was cut short by Boyd speaking once more: "That's all well and good but first you have to show me you can follow simple instructions. If you wanna be a Peace Keeper here we prefer that you have basic motor skills first, and the ability to do what you're told second.

Slipping the requisition form into the clamp on the clipboard and placing it on the table, Body slid the document across the table while simultaneously turning it around for Booker to see. "I need you to head down the hall. Head down the first flight of stairs you come to on the right and then exit through the door at the end of that hall. You'll be in a sallyport beneath the main stronghold. You'll see a lot of mechanics working on vehicles and one burly-looking woman missing an arm. Talk to her. Politely. And give her this form." Boyd thumped the clipboard twice. "If she gives you a set of keys, I want you to bring them to me. I'll be behind the infirmary. It's the building in the courtyard with the big red cross over it."

Taking a few steps back toward the door, the Cajun stopped and turned around. "Oh, and for the sake of not using my name as a crutch... don't mention who you're doing this for, eh?" Boyd made a gun with his thumb and forefinger before firing an invisible bullet and a wink at Booker.

-Wednesday, January 12, 2058; 5:17 PM
-Altman Heights Apartment Complex, 5th Floor
-Franklin, Tennessee

A loud crack, followed by the groan of wood planks straining preceded a door bursting open, pieces of wood splintering and flying into the air. Through the door stepped a small-shouldered form heaving in air. Amira was exhausted, having tunneled her way through the massive apartment complex. Some hallways were impassable, their ceilings now like walls before her. Doorways collapsed in on themselves preventing her easy access to the treasures that were tucked away in a place like this. It was relatively safe, save for the structural integrity of the building. No marauders lived here, lest they would have came running when she shattered a window on the fire escape.

Now, she had managed to make it up to the fifth floor. It seemed untouched, evident by the fact that there were corpses that still had belongings on them. One such corpse lay face down on the carpet in the middle of the apartment's living room. Glancing down and to her left, Amira took hold of a small flower vase that sat upon an end table. Tossing it casually next to the corpse, she watched for any sign of movement. The possibility of the undead rising to greet her always haunted the depths of her mind, having had one too many spring to life before her in the past.

Amira breathed deep, hoping to clear her head and not think so recklessly and with sporadic caution. The apartment was like most others: peeling paint or wallpaper, boarded windows, inhabitants long dead and still clutching whatever was dearest to them. Sometimes it was money. Sometimes a gun. Sometimes a child....

The last one hurt Amira the most.

Focusing on the task at hand, the woman glided over the dead body, crouching on the opposite side where an outstretched hand grasped for something lustrous. A key, though not the type that went to any lock with any complexity. Maybe a footlocker, or a diary. No. Too large for a diary. Maybe a jewelry box. The thought caused Amira to rise to her feet and click on the flashlight mounted on her backpack's strap. The apartment now glowed with a cone of dim illumination. Scanning down the hallway opposite the kitchen, Amira took her framing hammer in hand and leaned into cautious steps.

With her right foot, she nudged each door open as she passed. One was a guest room converted into an office, the next was the bathroom. The site of a disposable razor on the edge of the sink caused Amira's hand to bolt inward and snatch it up as if it were made of solid gold. She put the shaving utensil into her front pocket for the moment as she continued on to the room at the end of the hall.

Pushing it open revealed a queen sized bed with a the corpse of a woman, just bones now, resting eternally in fancy dress clothes. This was probably the original occupant from decades ago. The man on the floor must have been living here sometime between then and now. She had not checked what stage of decomposition he had been to tell when, all she cared was that he didn't get back up off the floor with a groan.

Moving around the large bed in the semi circle of walking space, Amira bumped into the dresser, the swinging handles rattling noisily. Turning her shoulder so that light shined atop the piece of furniture, she tightened her face to avoid smiling. Smiling would only tempt fate to rob her off the prize: a small cherrywood jewelry box with a keyhole mounted on the front just about the size of the key.

Just about ready to slide the key into its home, she heard a rumbling noise. It was low and had a frequency that made her stomach churn. After listening for a moment longer, Amira realized that it was not a low frequency causing the rumbling, thumping sensation in the floor. It was footsteps, and lots of them. Not the brisk, measured footsteps of a raider or marauder. It was the rolling, dragging sound of a small horde of the undead. Something had stirred them to life somewhere in the building, and Amira was certain it had not been her.

Behind the walls that surround cities, some people have long since forgotten the severity with which the infection struck the world. It was easy to become lost in the secluded world that removed one from the harsh reality just beyond the gates that separated cities from the dead world. Most people Elliot's age had not left the walls, even fewer had stepped into a dark zone. The Dark Zones were meant for the PMCs, raiders, Peacers, and mostly the infected. Of course even in those four groups, two of them tended to avoid dark areas unless it was a necessity or unless there was something particularly worthwhile out there. Elliot had been an exception since he joined the Peacers some years ago, his eyes set on the world that mankind had lost to the raiders and the infected. It wasn't easy, learning to live in a world where everything wanted to kill you. A world where the lights ignored the flicking of a switch. Elliot spent months reteaching himself how to exist in this world. Learning how to navigate when light abandoned the world, learning how to scale a wall while relying almost entirely on the strength of your fingers, learning how to exist on his own. Even now the loneliness still creeps in from time to time.

Today's work led Elliot to Franklin, a small city that sat directly in one of the dark zones surrounding Nashville. It wasn't Elliot's first time coming to Franklin, nor would it be his last. He had a hole in the wall in an apartment complex, one that could only be reached by scaling a collapsed stairwell. Something most people weren't foolhardy enough to do. Elliot's first steps into the city were cautious as always, the streets being as calm as they were when he last left. The apartment complex, Altman heights, was exactly as he left it, though there was a sign of a break in at the front door. The previously planked over door frame was now agape, cracked planks strewn about the concrete entryway. No real shocker there. Everything was up for grabs in this world, especially in a dark zone. Elliot would've shrugged off the display as something that happened in the past few weeks that he had been away, but it seemed that wasn't the case. At least that's what the group of infected making a round about the apartment complex said. Whoever took down these planks must've done so recently. And pretty fuckin' noisily

Elliot initially planned to slip into the building and pick off the three that turned the corner. Plans are rarely made to last, especially when a guttural cry rips from the bloated throat of an infected approaching from the opposite side of the building. Elliot could see the other group now, a little under a dozen of them, excited from the cry of the bloated one, the piercing white eyes telegraphing their intentions to Elliot. "Christ." He spat, kicking in into fullspeed into the now open apartment complex, the sound of stomping footprint in now hot pursuit of him. Elliot knew time wasn't on his side and neither was his own body. The only mark of safety straight ahead was his hide-away on the seventh floor. A race that required him to run up five stories, then run across the length of the building and scale the secondary staircase that only led to the sixth and seventh floor, a staircase that was primarily footholds and rubble. The fifth floor was mostly boarded up as well and incredibly difficult to see during the middle of the day, even more so at dusk. This would be a bit of a pain to say the least, Elliot grimaced.

His feet met the ground with the rhymic thump as he ran through the entry hall toward the staircase, infected pouring into the building behind him, lusting after his very being. Elliot's knowledge of the building's layout was useful when dealing with the living, but a rather moot point when racing from the dead. They relied on sight, sound, and scent. They weren't hindered by an over reliance on sight. In a matter of minutes he had made his way up the stairs, short of breath and pupils wide. A sound of rattling metal coming from a nearby room snatched the Peacer's attention, reminding him that there was still at least one living being in his place. "If you can hear me, get out here!" He called, moving quickly down the hall, constantly looking back for anyone who moved like a normal human being. "You'll die if you don't follow me!" He now yelled, standing in the doorway of the staircase to the sixth and seventh floor. He could scale it and bring someone up with him and the infected wouldn't be able to follow them up, but in this equation time was the biggest bastard.

Even with the current situation and the dark cloud of emotions hanging over, Noella still could not help but smile as she casually walked back to her ragged shack outside the tavern. The thought of just attempting to reorganize Coyote revitalized her. Noella can understand the vengeful feelings and grief that Ronnie and Boyd both felt but Noella has never been too good to empathize with others unless it's from a shared experience. Most likely a result of her upbringing. Noella was raised by her mother and left her in good health. Without the opportunity to make any real friends, she just stayed close to her mother and help with the small shop they had in Florida. She has never truly lost anyone even somewhat close to her until the demise of Coyote. The manner in which she was raised is the main motivation that led to her rash decision to leave with Boyd IV. Though he was much more enthusiastic and compelling back then.

As she entered the shack she broke off the two utensils she bent to make a handle on the outside. Closing the door she slid a broken broom stick through the handle and angled it so she could place the other end into a small notch in the sheet of metal welded to the floor. The shack was under protection of the peace keepers since everything she stores in there is for peacer usage, but peacers usually don't go in there and leave it to Noella to maintain. Closing the door made it quite dark inside other than several thin yellow rays piercing through from many cracks in the walls and ceiling, as if the complete darkness of the shack represented the darkness of the world and the beams of lights were a divine power trying to reach her. She paused for a moment as she always appreciates the oddly beautiful sights in this ugly world. Noella keeps such wild moments of intense imagination to herself as she knows such things would seem as a sign of insanity creeping up on her. Returning to reality Noella quickly lights a few candles scattered throughout the shack and she grabs a duffle bag. Making her way across each table to grab a decent amount of whatever was at that station, she finally gets to the last table where she grows poison hemlock.

After carefully stashing the paralytic plant Noella extinguishes the candles, removes the broom stick and heads towards the hospital. " AYYYY NOEL!" A tall hairy man yelled from behind, waving his whole arm like a child and a large smile to grab her attention. Noella turned nervously to recognize him as the man who has fancied her since she first got there with Boyd, a fellow peace keeper with an abnoxious ego. Putting on a fake smile and adjusting her duffle farther on her back she greets him back. " Hey Joe, you know I'd prefer you didn't yell my name out everytime you want to talk with me." Noella says with attitude, trying to deter his interest. " Ah well who cares right, we're the ones runnin' this area." The man says as he steps closer and begins stroking his long, brown, frizzy beard. " Sooo I was wonderin'.." Noella interrupts him before he continues to what she could only guess as another pick up attempt. " I'm sorry Joe but I am pretty busy right now, the hospital needs these supplies quickly." Noella told the man, she knew he would try to join like he always does if she told him it was a scavenging trip so this was the best she could come up with on the spot. "Naw that's alright little lady, I can wait for ya out here then. Don't take too long." Noella nods and smirks as she continues on and enters the hospital. As she goes through the back and reaches the well, she knows that it might be a problem if that man did not give up and went looking for her. Noella sits on the ground, leaning her back up against the well and lets out a heavy sigh. "Me tuer maintenant." meaning kill me now, a phrase Noella often says in times of frustration.

Booker was finding the whole situation stranger and stranger but he guessed that's exactly what it was supposed to be. Keeping him in the dark about everything they were supposedly doing to assess him so he couldn't ready or better himself for anything. It was one way to see what someone was really made of, he imagined, though he definitely couldn't figure out what on Earth collecting a set of fucking car keys was supposed to determine about him. Long John had said if she gave him a set of car keys though, so maybe there was a chance of failing? Maybe there was more to the whole thing. Who the hell knew. With quite a bit on his mind Booker followed the blokes instructions, soon finding himself in the sally-port he was looking for. Not that there was more than one of the buggers to his knowledge.

Spotting the very distinctive looking woman quite quickly thanks to the missing arm and her burly frame Booker walked casually over to her, looking her in eyes and smiling as to make clear he was looking to talk.

“Hey, I'm Booker Perdue.” Booker spoke, holding out his right and shaking the woman's remaining hand.

“Good to meet you, I'm the burly woman with one arm.” She chuckled, whether it was at her own wit or at the expression on Booker's face was up for debate.

“Well, good to meet you too, ma'am.” Booker smiled, trying to keep the conversation from being too awkward, “How did you lose it?” and failing terribly.

“Keeping the peace.” She laughed again. Booker didn't quite know whether to be sympathetic or appreciative of her attitude. Usually the eyes told the truth but Booker admittedly found it hard to see any pain behind the apparently genuine humour that glistened in her eyes.

“I'm sorry.” Booker spoke, looking past the jokes and just saying what he knew he wanted to say. “Anyway, I'm looking to get some vehicle keys, I brought this.” Booker handed her the form, looking away from her eyes for the first time since they started speaking.

“Ah, a pretty crap vehicle if I'm honest but it gets the job done.” The woman smiled, walking away and returning with a set of keys.

“You'll come down here personally to see to the return of these?”

“Yes ma'am.” Booker smiled.

“Than they are all yours. Don't tell anybody I gave a newbie a vehicle without putting up a fight, okay?”

“I wont. Thank you.” Booker smiled once again, turning around and walking away. He was wondering how she knew he was such a newbie that quickly, was it really that obvious? The thought passed once Booker had to start finding his way to the courtyard. He took a couple of wrong turns but soon he found himself there, standing and looking up at the red cross of a medical facility. Walking around the side he spotted the bloke from earlier and lobbed him the keys.

“All right Long John, what's next?”

Somewhere, half-cloaked by the loud shambling of the walking corpses, Amira heard the rapid, persistent steps of someone moving and moving quickly. Tucking the jewelry box under her left arm, the swift woman took her framing hammer in hand and moved for the door. It was just about the time that she had reached the portal that she sound of fleeting footfalls moved past the apartment door.

Having braced her feet for combat, rather than flight, Amira froze for a moment. It could just as well be a raider ploy to get her out in the open, to finally tie up the loose end that she assumed all raiders knew she was. With a twitch in her calves, Amira's instinct took over, shouting at her for being a paranoid fool. Even if it was raiders that had caused this, infected were infected and if she stayed here she would soon be counted among their ranks.'

Wrenching the door open with the claw end of her hammer, Amira dipped into the hallway as she tried to orientate herself with what was happening. The horde. It was to the left, which meant....

Amira bolted, not even allowing her eyes to catch up for a few moments and before she realized it, she was in the stairwell next to a man she didn't know. A man who could just as soon sink a knife into her gut as he could extend a hand for help. The hammer in her right hand rose about mid-level in a twitch reaction before she froze. She wanted to say something, anything to him, but instead she just stared like a frightened doe.

---

Boyd's form, in all of its swaggering, duster-wearing obnoxiousness had only just appeared on the scene when Booker showed up. He had not even had time to acknowledge Noella's and Ronnie's presence before he heard the jingling of a keyring being thrown in his direction. Snatching them out of the air at the last second before they would have pelted him in the face, Boyd paused a moment. The kid had came through for him. A smirk quickly faded to a dull pursing of the lips however once Boyd realized what vehicle they had just been given. "The Camino." Boyd inhaled sharply, his brow raising for a split second as if in surprise. It was essentially the bottom of the barrel. No weaponry. Un-armored. An interior that was more duct tape than upholstery. But at least it ran.

"That'll do, Perdue. That'll do." Boyd turned away from the man as he approached his two companions. "Camino." Was all he needed to say to them in order to get his distaste across. Boyd didn't exactly enjoy shrugging the new recruit off like so, but it would make for a lot less of a headache if he could shake him now. "Just ah-...." Boyd swung back around to face Booker. "Go back to the interview room and... Wait for the interviewer. The... other interviewer..." Boyd shrugged, twiddling the key between his fingers. "I'm going on break."

Now all they had to do was wait on Ronnie, and pray the new guy got the hint.

Booker couldn't believe it. He just couldn't believe he had been so easily manipulated. Maybe he had become too confident in himself. He didn't know whether it was his eagerness to succeed or his general kindness that had lead him to be so easily tricked, but whatever it was it had now made him livid. Extremely livid. He had never considered himself dumb, quite the opposite actually, these days he was on the far end of what people would consider pretty fucking smart but his intelligence hadn't helped him. It had just made excuses for the shit his instincts had never stopped telling him were off. This asshole had tricked him as easily as one would a child. He saw it now. The borderline stupid fucking name, the continuous uncertainty in his words and now his eagerness to get rid of Booker. To get him back to square one. The motherfucker had played him; used him to get a vehicle he himself couldn't get for some reason.

Booker saw red, his anger boiling over and leaving his usual collected self hidden deep away. He jogged after the man, tackling him with all his weight to the ground and doing his best to establish a high mount. From there Booker cocked back his arm and punched the man savagely in the face to daze him and buy enough time to pull his handgun. Quickly pulling the H&K 45 from it's holster Booker put it to the man's face, now confident in his dominant position.

“Your friends there can put a bullet in me if they wish but I can almost guarantee the shock of that happening will make me spasm and thus put a bullet through your fucking face... Now you played me.” Booker spoke angrily, yet suddenly letting out a somewhat maniacal laugh. “Nah, I hate being manipulated so here on out that's not what happened. I was kind enough to do you a favour, and you know how it is. Favour for a favour and all that. So, in return for me being your willing fucking errand boy you're going to tell me how I become a Peace Keeper. Officially I mean. I want warnings, hints, tips, fucking passwords... Give me something.”

"Christ you're slow on your feet," Elliot shot at the woman, turning away from her and lowering his shoulder, his backpack sliding down into his hand. Elliot flung the backpack up toward the stairs that were still standing some eight or so feet up. "I hope you're not planning on carrying that think up with you." Elliot said to the woman who had a jewelry box held tightly between her arm and her torso. It was bound to make plenty of noise and frankly, Elliot had no intention of making them a more noticeable target than before. Elliot went through the motions, fully aware that a small horde was minutes away from joining them. He pulled the crowbar from his belt loop and tossed it up towards his backpack, it making a distinct clang as it bounced on the concrete. His bat was fortunately tucked into the pack already, so he wouldn't have to waste any more energy throwing things. "You can relax with the hammer, by the way. If I was going to kill you I would've cracked you with my bat while you ran in here headfirst." Elliot spoke casually, the undead noticeably closer now, perhaps on his floor searching for them. Elliot slowly took two steps back, slightly bumping into the woman as he did so, muttering a soft apology as he gathered his resolve. It was only a matter of time now, they had perhaps a minute? Perhaps less. "Your going to grab my arm by the wrist and lift yourself by grabbing the concrete. If you rely on me, you'll pull me down with you. We'll introduce ourselves later." Elliot spoke in almost a whisper, knowing too much noise would draw the unwelcome guests even faster.

His movement was fluid as he stepped forward quickly, his body lurching up into the air as he latched onto the step that withstood the test of time and pulled with all his strength, bringing himself onto the stable platform well out of undead reach. With a harsh quick breath, he brought his legs onto the platform and quickly spun around, dropping his wrist towards the temporary ally. He held his tongue, not wanting to clue her in on the infected that had wandered no more than a few meters near the door.

A calm fury hissed from Boyd's eyes, not only at the fact that he had been attacked, but that he had not reacted swiftly enough to avoid it entirely. Now, this pup, albeit an impressively snarling, teeth-gnashing pup, was barking out demands. The punch had left Boyd with a bit of blood-laced saliva swirling around his tongue and he had not been eager to remember the metallic taste any time soon. "How ‘bout your life?" Boyd spoke as he stared into Booker's eyes, straight past the cold metal barrel of the .45.

A soft nudge against his navel would make Booker aware to the magnum pressed against his lower abdomen. "Sure, you could take mine. I would go out nice and quick, like taking a shot of vodka that would let me rest for good.... But a gut shot." Boyd grinned, his slightly off-color teeth still managing to gleam in the sun. "Just knowing that you went out in more pain than me would be victory 'nuff for me."

Boyd, after all, was a gunfighter. If there was one useful thing Boyd III had taught his son, it was how to artfully and effectively use a revolver to not only intimidate and impress, but to also defend himself with the speed of a rattlesnake. His grin subsided for a moment but only to let words spill from his lips again: "So, you think your bullet's any faster 'n mine? Or you want we should remove iron from one another? Favor for a favor... and all that."

The steel in their hands were no match for that in their eyes as they stared for what felt like a minute before realization and reasoning were complete; Booker rose to his feet, as did Boyd. Rolling his revolver around his middle finger once before holstering his weapon, Boyd felt the situation noticeably defuse. Cocking his head slightly to the side and hawking out the blood-soaked loogie, Boyd began to speak: "You think we got business cards or somethin'?" The man dusted off his pants with both hands. "You don't become a Peacer. You just are one. You wake up one day and pick up a gun and that's it. What you do with it makes you one of us. There ain't exactly an official rulebook. But the password for the shitter is "Nancy", FYI."

---

Certain impatience was clearly visible on Amira's face. First this man insulted her, followed by the implication that she should leave her loot behind. It was enough to make her want to turn away from him and take her chances with the corpses. Sure, she had fought her way past multiple undead in the past, but never in such tight quarters. To top it all off, the man began barking orders at her as if he were the be-all, end-all himself.

With her teeth clenched painfully against one another and her tongue braced against the roof of her mouth, Amira silenced herself, spitefully stuffing the jewelry box into her shoulderbag and followed the man’s order in taking his arm within her grasp. With her other hand, she dug the claw end of the framing hammer into the edge of the concrete and pulled herself up as the two ascended into God knows where and what above.

Ronnie was waiting at the well for the others to show up. She sat on the edge of the well and was going over a mental checklist of what she knew about the area they were on their way to. She didn't feel the need to check over her gear, because she already went over it once. Marcus taught her that once you went over the gear once that was it. There would be no other reason to go over it again once it was done it was time to move and get ready for the job, and hope that you were through enough in your prep to make a difference. Ronnie knew it wouldn't be long and while Ronnie wasn't sure about who all was going the bottom line was two-fold for her on this one.

One that yes Marcus was dead and Ronnie wanted answers. Was he really dying and this was a mercy killing? Had time caught up to Marcus making his draw just a little too slow one time? If Ronnie heard that truth would Ronnie be willing to believe it? That Marcus allowed someone to kill him before, what sounded like. the Cancer got to him? If nothing else Ronnie wanted to see Marcus' final resting spot to pay her last respects, and though he was going Marcus would always be a part of her life. He was really the first person who gave Ronnie a legit chance to prove herself after her leg was blown off. Marcus didn't pity on Ronnie, and worked her just as hard as any of the others in the crew. Then came the one night as they sat at once was the edge of the Grand Canyon. They shared some beers, a few details about their lives, and then they shared their feelings towards one another. They fought to keep it a secret from the others, but after two weeks they finally shared the secret. The others in the crew all said the same thing, "it's about time!" However it wasn't meant to last forever and after a little more than a year Marcus decided to move on, and told Ronnie it was for the best. Maybe he knew then that he was dying and he didn't want Ronnie to see him slip away?

The second point was Boyd needed help and though there wasn't always a lot of love for one another within their crew they were family. They could get one each other's last nerves to the point that if they wanted to take each other out Heaven and Earth might call it justice, but when push came to shove they had each other's back. Much like Marcus had Ronnie's back more than once she felt the same loyalty towards Boyd. Not the same feelings by any stretch of the imagination but Boyd was the leader of this crew and that was enough for Ronnie. Besides the 5K pay off was nothing to look down on, and at this point they hadn't had a lot of action lately. If the dry spell went on much longer they would have to start practicing on each other. Nothing good could come of that mainly because while she respected Noella there were times that Ronnie thought Noella took a little too much pleasure out of trying to be a bad-ass and proving herself.

Not to mention there was a new comer that Boyd was "interviewing" it appeared. Boyd was far from perfect but if there were two things that Ronnie knew was one she knew how to make something blow up real good, and two Boyd was one of the toughest men she ever knew he could handle himself. All the while though she watched out of the corner of her eye. If she just jumped in for the sake of jumping in Boyd would not be thrilled with her. Boyd would sure that the newbie would learn some manners, and if he didn't Ronnie and the others would take the time to "educate" him as to how things worked in this crew. Not to mention she had a hand on her Sig under her coat and was ready to go if need be, but she had faith in Boyd taking care of business.