[IC] Hailstorm

[The Red Zephyr]

Hailstorm

In a room with one door and no windows, eight men and women argued endlessly across a dark oak table. They discussed the movements of their enemies, the behavior and opinions of the people, the resources they possessed, and the actions they should be taking. The chatter echoed throughout the enclosed room, growing louder and louder until the chatter turned to debate, then devolved into angry squabble.

"We should move now! The people are on our side. Mercenaries be damned; we have the advantage now!"

"Don't be a fool. Numbers are everything and we are not ready. If we go on the offensive and take too many losses, we'll look like suicidal fanatics. People want stability, not war!"

"You can't have stability without removing the cause of unrest! DERB is going to let loose their dogs unless we strike first. Any difference in numbers can be made up with morale and volunteers!"

"We can't be wasting resources on violence now. The mutants are organizing faster than we predicted, and our intelligence indicates they've been snooping around Legus and Andal more frequently. That Albatross freak must be up to something!"

"And what of the so-called Commonwealth? Our spies to the west haven't returned, and the rumors keep spreading. If they have the strength to come our way and match the DERB, everything we've done will be pointless!"

And so it dragged on for several more minutes, while a ninth person listened intently at the end of the table. Her elbows rested firmly on the lacquered surface and her hands folded over each other, occasionally moving to brush a few strands of her raven hair out of her eyes. Despite the obvious displeasure painted on her pale countenance, she spoke not a word to her advisers as they bickered like children over the rules of a made up game. The thought crossed her mind to simply shout "Shut up!" to everyone in the room, but it felt a bit cliched and over-the-top. She could have slammed her fist on the table and proclaimed "You are all right!" like some kind of executive in an old television drama. It was the truth after all: She largely agreed with all of the people at the table, but found it bothersome that each one seemed to find a single priority that transcended all other valid issues.

DERB was indeed still a threat and the main reason for the existence of her organization. The Unburdened were certainly acting strangely, and had bolstered their use of propaganda. The rumored movement west of the Kuro River was emerging as an unsettling variable, and none of the Vanguard scouts had come back from investigation. Voyagers were either annexing or eliminating other mercenary and freelancer competition, and both the Vanguards and DERB had become dependent on them. The Vanguard was little more than dozens of scattered guerrillas at the time, so set bases, territories, and resources were a constant problem as well. There seemed to be problems everywhere.

With an exasperated sigh, Liliana, the raven-haired woman at the end of the table stood to her feet. This gesture alone seemed to be enough to quiet her advisers, so she was pleased not to have to raise her voice. "We will not go on the offensive," she began, speaking clearly and concisely. "Regardless of our cause, we cannot forget that, at our base, we fight for the people and the future. We can't afford to waste the momentum we're gaining prematurely." Leaning toward the center with her hands placed firmly on the varnished table, she continued, "We will not send anymore scouts or fighters to the west. We'll instead focus on controlling the Legus area while keeping an eye over our shoulder. If any of our scouts ever return we'll know the situation, and if they don't we at least know what to deal with after DERB. Until we have sufficient manpower and firepower, we'll keep dealing with the Voyagers. Albatross is still an unknown quantity, so we'll continue to keep subtle tabs on suspected Unburdened, and accept as many into our ranks as possible to obtain information. That is all."

As quickly as she began, Liliana Wilson closed her brief statement and promptly made her way to the room's exit. She purposefully prevented any of them from presenting an argument as to not begin yet another squabble. She was very aware that she had basically just told them "Continue what we've been doing already for the past few weeks" but there was little else she could do. Making the first move was far too risky in any endeavor at this point. Ironically enough, her so-called Vanguards couldn't afford to be the first ones into the fray. The waiting game would continue.

---

In an empty room with a lit fireplace, an older man with a graying, balding head of hair sat alone in contemplation with a slowly-burning cigarette between his thin fingers. His gaze led outside the room's window over the only thing he felt he could still call a city. Below, people traversed from building-to-building, chatting among one-another casually, trading goods and services, and staying clear of the few dozen vehicles rolling across the streets. The view was serene, like something out of a dream or a fairy tale, but perhaps more like a long-lost memory.

This was how everything once was: People felt safe, unworried by the terrors of the world or of their fellow man. Their government and it's military kept them safe from such things, allowing them all to grow and prosper; to live. The world was one full of hope, and of hopeful people working toward a beautiful future.

The man lifted the cigarette to his lips and inhaled, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs, then exhaled with a deep sigh. This place was not that world.

Slowly, he stood up out of his chair and approached the window to get a closer look at the city his army had deemed a "safe zone". As the citizens bustled about, a single transport carrying several crates of various kinds of rations drove steadily through the pedestrian-riddled streets until reaching a complete stop. A group of a few dozen people crowded in front of the truck, eventually circling behind it to prevent escape. Upon closer inspection, each of them seemed to carry some kind of improvised weapon, be it a baseball bat or a pipe. It was a textbook ambush: an attack by disgruntled citizens wanting their "fair share" of rations.

The old man lifted the cigarette back to his mouth and took another puff. Typical, he thought to himself. The more that's given, the more that's expected. However, despite the dangerous situation placed in his view, the old man did nothing but watch and wait.

The first vandal struck. A middle-aged man swung at the truck's windshield with a golf club, shattering the glass, and the driver reacted by accelerating forward and knocking the man onto the ground. Within a second, several other assailants leapt at the transport, ready to beat anyone in their way to a bloody pulp. However, the old man's troops were not defenseless. Before the attackers could break more glass, gunshots rang out from the vehicle and a volley of bullets struck anybody that took a step toward the transport. Ten bodies fell to the ground, and the remaining assailants slowly began to back away.

Underestimating the effectiveness of firearms, General Melioda scoffed, Such a grave mistake for those who have the advantage of numbers and desperation. "What a terrible waste of life."

Taking another puff from his cigarette, the general moved back to his chair and made himself comfortable once more. This world is far from perfect. But perhaps one day...

---

And in the distance, the wings spread and take flight: The shadow looms closer as the light grows dimmer. The fringe boils with abberation. The ambition, the desperation, and the absolution teetered on the scales. The Unknown the Unknowing each wait for their chance to tip them in favor of one or the other. Where will they fall?

The iron rusts. The muscle atrophies. The knowledge fades. The trade collapses. The isolation crumbles. The gun misfires. The corpse blooms.

---

Chapter One: Titan Arum

[SirBeowulf]

A bead of sweat rolled off of Jones' forehead as he finished loading up a hefty crate onto one of the shopping carts that made up this jury rigged caravan. Said box in question was made of cardboard, and had the title of 'Stock Chicken', A cursory look inside revealed what had to be about twenty cans of food. In this day and age, that was a lot. Jones' current load was compromised of mostly food this time around, and that wasn't such a good thing. See, when you load up a caravan, you have to take into stock what you're delivering. Food, medical supplies, and even working electronics usually invited unwanted guests to the table, and having a vulnerable one such as this would be dangerous. It was why five brutes stood off to the side, some of them smoking, some of them drinking, just passing the time while they waited. Including them, his current caravan tallied up to fifteen people. Sufficient numbers to avoid most flocks of Lost, but not enough to go unnoticed. Looking around, he let out a weary sigh at the state of their affairs. It was better than most, but when you drag around shopping carts, plastic utility carts, and hell, even a crude wooden one made out of what seemed to be a fence it all tended to be rather depressing. What he really wished for was having access to livestock. A horse, an ox, even a cow would be great if he could just get his hands on one. Of course, unless you were high ranking in DERB or you were extremely lucky, odds of getting one were nilch. See, some idiot thought that it would be better to eat the horses and not even leave a few to repopulate. He could do for some fresh meat, though. Currently he was in one of the major settlements still left running, said settlement being Blanche. His grumbling stomach was reinforced by the faint whiff of something roasting. Probably rat or bird, but he wasn't about to wade his way back through the market just to get a taste. He would have to deal with cold stock later that night once they settled down. A cold breeze flowed through the back alley they were in, sending a chill down his spine. He wasn't even sure what year it was, let alone the date, but just by the breeze could he tell that winter would be coming soon. Winter was always bad. Of course, he would have to worry later. Everything had been loaded up and he picked up a small clip board, reading over the supplies they had taken up. Mostly canned food, but he managed to snag a few luxuries. Apples and oranges. He had three sacks of each, and they would certainly catch a good price. His mouth watered just thinking about them, but of course, selling them would be worth more than a minute of heaven. Seeing that everything was accounted for, he opened his mouth, letting out a call to his crew. "Alright laddies, its about time we finally got out of here and on the road. I wanna be close to Fairview by the time it gets dark, so no slowing down!" His orders were met by some slight groans, but for the most part he was agreed with. They all just wanted to get to Asylum on the way to SZ Sigma. The place, contrary to its name, was known for its raunchy whore houses, and many of them would spend their pay on a few girls while they stayed there. More to them, he thought. As long as they were happy, they didn't complain. He himself could have gone for a girl, but the miser side of him was always against his ideas. Of course, he would just have to see what happened. "Alright, let's go, lads!"

[Fat Boy Kyle]

Lucius Fairfax – SZ Theta

Civilians milled around the streets, most in a hurry to finish up what they had to do in time for ration distribution. It was the same most days; people got up, did their jobs, got their food, and then retreated into their homes. Of course there were many outliers to this scheme, including merchants and nomads, but they didn’t benefit from the security that this society provided… that DERB provided. Lucius was leant against a doorframe enjoying the last few puffs of his cigarette while he watched all the familiar faces do the same old stuff. He found it relaxing, like it was some sort of meditation. “I’ve got the bluebacks Lucius. We can trust you right?” came the voice of a young boy from inside the house.

Lucius took the remnants of the cigeratte from his mouth and flicked it into the road. It was last one but it didn’t really bother him; he had gotten used to living without the small things. “Of course you Ben. I’ll be back straight away, you just make sure you look after your mother ok? You’re the man of the house after all!” Lucius rubbed the boy’s hair and received a bashful smile in return. Taking the two ration tickets, Lucius begun walking towards the ration distribution point. Ben’s mother was ill and bedridden, and it wasn’t safe for Ben to go out alone; it wasn’t so much the risk of being robbed as much as the risk of soldiers coming to the conclusion that the young boy must have stolen the bluebacks.

Lucius didn’t get very far in his journey when begun to hear gunshots. Immediately he found himself on point, ready to fight. His first thought was that the SZ was under attack and he quickly begun to order nearby people to hide within their homes. He sprinted towards the direction of the commotion and eventually found himself turning a corner to witness the military gunning down civilians. It only took a second or two to register what had happened, he had seen it before; the evidence was in the various makeshift weapons that littered the small area. “That’s enough!” he barked, running to the truck as the soldiers continued to fire. The attackers had already lost and now the soldiers were simply gunning down those who tried to run. One of the soldiers was obviously surprised by the shout and quickly whipped his gun round. It wasn’t clear whether or not the solider was going to fire, but it didn’t matter; Lucius instinctively knocked the gun from the soldiers hand with his lummid riot shield before planting a decent headbutt. It attracted the attention of the other soldiers but upon seeing the shield they realised he was one of theirs and stood down.

“You’ve won this little skirmish, there’s no more need for bloodshed.” Lucius’ expression was solemn and he looked into the eyes of each soldier in turn. He was going to add “They won’t be doing that again” but he knew better than to make such claims; in times of desperation people go to extreme measures and adopt a completely different rationale. He looked up at the building beside them and could see a trail of smoke still lingering around the General’s window.

[The Red Zephyr]

As Ian wiped the blood from his dagger with the leg of his pants, he thought of how he always hated the smell of it. Blood stuck strongly of iron, almost more than iron itself. No matter how much he smelled it, he couldn't help but cringe at every whiff of it. "Come off, won't you?" he muttered to himself, wiping the blade more vigorously. After a minute or two of single-minded scrubbing, the thought occurred to him that now his clothes would smell more like blood. New clothes were hard to come by.

"Shit," he continued to mutter.

Suddenly, a strange voice called out to him: "Kid. Ian, was it? Let's get going!" The voice wasn't all that strange after Ian thought about it: He had met the man who was calling to him two days ago. His name was Ryan Somethingoranother, or at least that's what Ian called him. The last name was irrelevant, since he probably wouldn't be working with the guy much longer. He only needed to know the name Ryan for another few days, and then it would just be another name to forget.

The Voyagers really liked to move Ian around for some reason, never keeping him with the same group for much longer than a week. One of his last captains--John was his name--insisted Ian be transferred after only two days. The guy said something along the lines of "This kid is fucking psycho." Come to think of it, most of Ian's captains implied similar feelings.

"Boy!" the voice called again, trying to get his attention.

Ian rose his gaze to the man, shaking his head as if to break from a trance. "Sorry sir," he apologized, blinking a few times. He had been spacing out again. Azra always said it was a bad habit and people would think he was weird if it did it too much.

"God dammit, fucking Azra!" He yelled suddenly, looking back down at his dagger. I can think for myself dammit. Quit fucking popping up! Again, he began to space, yelling mentally at someone who was surely dead.

"Ian!" Ryan Whatever yelled louder, and angrier. "The marks are dead. Let's get out of here before their buddies show up."

Ian looked around to confirm the captain's statement as if he had not just participated in killing the "marks". There were about twelve bodies lying motionless in the grass and weeds, just a few meters from the main road heading north into Asylum and south into a settlement called Estal. Although the marks wore no sigil like most do, they were Avant Garde agents coming from Asylum. Ryan Whatsit's team and Ian had been hired to follow the group--probably by some DERB middleman--and see if they were up to anything fishy in the seedy town. As luck would have it, the group went to have a talk with Asylum's mayor, then came to this place to rendezvous with more Vanguards. As luck would also have it, the marks saw through the Voyagers' cover as traveling traders. One of their men shot the horse carrying the team's supplies, so Ian and Ryan's men had no choice but to fight back. So Ian killed them.

Ian snapped himself back into reality again. Right, he thought. "Sorry, let's go sir," he finished finally jogging in the captain's direction. Behind him were four other men and women, all cleaning their weapons as Ian had been, standing over bodies of their own. They all had fancy swords and pistols that the Voyagers handed out to identify their mercenaries, and Ryan wore an ornate set of armor fashioned with an emblem of a manned horse galloping under the sun--the Voyagers' sigil. Ian hadn't bothered to remember any of their names, so remembering them by numbers and characteristics was much easier.

"Is the kid done gawking yet?" Woman Number Two asked, sheathing her cutlass.

"Hey," The Dude With Freckles replied, "He's a little slow, but he's a goddamn whirlwind on the field. I wouldn't talk shit Cassy."

Cassy was her name. Ian would probably forget by tomorrow.

"Let's get back to Asylum already." Guy With No Hair was stretching as he spoke. "After we report back, it's time for some R&R! I haven't got laid in weeks."

Ian made a mental note to change his name to Horny Guy With No Hair.

Ryan Whocareswhathisnameis walked over to the horse that had been shot and kneeled beside it. "It'll be too much of a pain to field dress the thing, but I bet someone'll pay a couple blues for a tip on some horse meat." Then he sighed before grabbing a knife from his belt and cutting off a satchel from the beast's saddle. "We'll have to carry all of our shit though."

[jumjummju]

"Hey! I found that first!"

The voice came from seemingly out of nowhere. In the middle of a small, partially crumbling apartment room on the outskirts of the Andal Hail Zone, a heavily burdened young woman with dichotomic hair spun around holding a can of peaches as the sun began to set in the sky.

"What? No, I did!" Catherine indignantly replied, anger already flaring up in her.

"No, you didn't. Hand it over, or I shoot." The argument the two were having would've been almost childish, if not for the revolver the man was aiming at Catherine. As far as arguments went, "I have a gun pointed at you" generally won most of them.

Now that she had a look at him, the man appeared to not be much older than she was. He had spiky black hair, with a black jacket, a gray undershit and a black pair of jeans. Catherine thought he looked like he was trying too hard to be "edgy." His skin, at least what she could see, seemed entirely free of the burden.

"Fine," Catherine spat, throwing the can of peaches across the room. He caught it deftly with his free hand and stuck it into the side pocket of his backpack in one swift motion. She noticed that his backpack was almost bursting full.

To Catherine's surprised, he simply muttered a simple "thanks," before taking his aim off her and turning to take his leave. Catherine, understandably confused, added "What, not gonna rob me blind?"

The man scoffed and responded over his shoulder. "I wasn't planning on it. Do you want me to?"

"Yeah, I just have a thing for bad boys that take all my shit."

The man just shrugged. "As I said, I found it first. I'm not here to steal or anything." He started to walk out of the room.

Catherine, intrigued by his strange morality and demeanor, and his seeming lack of any burden, followed behind. He didn't really seem to mind. "What's a Clean like you doing around a hail zone anyway?" she asked, using a term popular among the burdened to refer to people that weren't.

He just shrugged again. "Taking food from cute girls, I guess?"

"I'd be blushing if I was able to," Catherine replied, deadpan, reflexively scratching the side of her blackened face. "How about a serious answer?"

"I'm not actually a Clean," he replied. "It's just all of those unsightly black veins thankfully appeared in places that are easy to hide with clothing, like on my back. I have a question, though. Why are you following me?"

"Curiousity?" Now it was Catherine's turn to shrug noncommitally.

The man chuckled disarmingly. "Well alright. I'm done scavenging for the day and was heading back to a small camp I've set up just outside the hailzone. You're free to follow me back if you want."

This confused the poor girl even more. "You're not worried I'll just steal all your stuff?"

"Nope," the man replied, matter-of-factly. To say Catherine was confused - and rather wary - was an understatement.

However, despite the craziness of the man, she followed him regardless, for it was rather late at night and the last thing she wanted was to be ambushed by the Lost when she couldn't see them. Roughly an hour passed with neither saying another word aside from introductions - his name being Dave - before they managed to reach his "camp," which consisted of a tent and a wheelbarrow with some salvage hidden in the corner between two dumpsters behind an out-of-town hotel. They had managed to avoid any Lost on the way back as well, but that mostly was more due to luck than their ability to sneak through, since the main horde happened to be closer to the center of the hail zone at the time.

Dave took his jacket and backpack off and nonchalantly threw them into the tent, exposing his muscular, yet very burdened arms, before almost casually pulling out his revolver and aiming it at Catherine, who was leaning against a dumpster. "Alright, drop your gun, Cath."

"Wha- You're robbing me now!?" Catherine froze at the sheer surprise of it all.

"Yeah, I lied before. I only didn't steal your stuff because I couldn't carry it, then you were nice enough to bring it back here for me." The way Dave spoke, one would think he was talking about the weather.

"Oh, fuck you!" Catherine shouted, barely keeping herself from lunging at him.

"I'd rather not. What's that over there?" He said, looking curiously past Catherine.

Catherine turned around and, luckily for her, it wasn't one of those "look behind you so I can shoot you" tricks. An armored vector drove down the road, it's headlights on to see it's way down the road. Someone in the car must've seen the two of them behind the hotel from the road, as the car turned into the hotel's parking lot and parked, a group of what appeared to be more scavengers coming out. There appeared to be roughly 3 of them, all of which carried variations of bolt-action rifles.

"What've we got here?" One of them said, a large, portly man with a bad mustache. "Did I walk in on a robbery or some strange foreplay?"

"Robbery," Catherine replied. "Foreplay," David replied as well, in unison.

The larger man chuckled and turned to his comrades. "They're just a buncha Lost. Let's kill 'em."

Catherine's eyes widened as a shot from one of their rifles went straight past her ear. She dove behind a dumpster to take cover from the next shots, and saw an emergency exit for the hotel nearby. She ran for it and burst in through the emergency exit, sardonically noting she was going the wrong way through it. A second later, Dave ran in through it and slammed the door shut.

"Hey, I may be an asshole but at least I'm polite!" Dave said as Catherine unholstered her own gun.

Catherine flicked the chamber open and was satisfied to see it full. "Tell you what. We'll kill these fuckers, then I'll shoot you for trying to rob me."

"War makes strange bedfellows," Dave noted, as the two ran further into the building.

Dave entered a room a short bit down the hall and took cover from the emergency exit they just entered through. "I'll hold 'em off here, you go out through the front and get 'em from behind." Catherine nodded, and ran out through the lobby, barreling her way through the front door.

She heard gunshots come from where Dave was as she started to round the building, thankful that this was one of those small, independently owned hotels and not a giant one. As she came to the corner leading to the back, she peeked around and saw the large man and one of his friends on either side of the emergency exit, taking cover from Dave within, with one of the scavengers dead at the base of the door. Catherine leaned around the corner and fired a shot, getting the man's other friend from behind. The large man was startled as Catherine fired another shot and missed wildly, and moved towards Catherine trying to swing his gun up to her and getting shot by Dave from inside, having moved into his firing line.

Now that the fighting was over, David came out of the building - his hands were up in surrender, which was convenient as Catherine was already pointing her gun at him.

"Uh... Can't we talk this out?" He smiled sheepishly.

"No. Get out of here."

"Well, you're no fun," he replied. "Can I at least get my stuff?"

"Fine." Catherine waved him over to his tent with her gun, and he took his backpack and jacket out and placed it on the wheelbarrow, before rapidly dissassembling the tent and adding that onto the pile.

"One more thing," she continued. "I want the peaches back."

Dave scoffed. "Well, aren't you petty," he muttered, tossing the can to her. "I'll be seeing you then, Cath."

"Hopefully not," Catherine replied.

Once he was out of eyesight, Catherine looked dejectedly at the vector and lamented her lack of ability to drive. Seeing as it was dark out, however, she simply settled for taking some valuables off the dead scavengers - some ammuntion, food, whatever she could carry and sell later for blues once she made it back to SZ Sigma - and locked herself into an apartment room to camp out until sunrise.

[Uffizi]

Her hair smelled strongly of stale cigarette smoke. She was plump, which accounted for her bosom nearly spilling from a stained corset. Her makeup was crude and primitive, much like her whorish attitude. Cassandra was her name, and yes, she was a whore. Additionally, Cassandra was an Unburdened informant, although she was stubborn. Alas, a certain individual, with particular "skills" was sent to interrogate the whore informant.
He was well recommended and expensive, due to the fact of his profound expertise. She would talk.

Cassandra's eyes widened in horror as she tried to breathe. This was impossible. Her fingernails dug into a toned forearm, clawing frantically, primitively to catch a breath. A vice-like grip on a cold hand was around her thick neck. Shades of red, violet, then blue washed over her visage, and her eyes began to roll back into her skull. Just then, she was flung forcefully into the wall, slamming against the wood, and crumbling to the floor gasping for air. The ghostly assailant stepped from the shadows of the dimly lit room, on the fourth floor of a whorehouse known as "Wetty's Joint", in the good ol' settlement of Asylum. His smirk was carnal, revealed pearly whites, with pronounced canines. The eyes of the individual were sunken, and like pools of frothing oil. Emotionless they were.

"Tell me what I want to know, and I'll go away, whore", said the interrogator.

Sweat rolled from the forehead of Cassandra, she hesitated, and he was upon her once more, slapping her viciously multiple times. She tried to cry out, but found her voice hoarse and quiet. Tears formed at the stinging pain of the slaps. Her vision was murky, she glanced at her latest customer, an unfortunate man ambushed by this hostile one. He was sprawled, hanging over the bed, the sheets and wooden floor were stained red. The jugular of the man had been slit, swiftly and professionally without sound, just as he was bartering with Cassandra. Bartering for pleasure. When she attempted to scream the intruder grabbed her throat again; and he squeezed viciously, ending his barrage of slaps.

Icarai Buchinsky was making progress. The whore Cassandra muttered a name so quietly the blood dripping from the customers throat overpowered it. This required Icarai to bring a curved knife, (a dagger more or less), beneath her chin. The point pressed lightly upward, but not enough to draw blood.

"Louder!" Icarai commanded.

Cassandra whimpered and uttered the name again, yet no louder than the first time. Icarai lessened his grip and drew close to face, turning his ear to her lips listening intently. He pressed the knife upwards slightly, drawing a bead of blood in which Cassandra revealed the name Icarai was searching for. Just then a flame lit in those dark pools Icarai had for eyes. A flame that quickly expanded, and raged.

"See, was that so difficult whore?" Icarai heckled.

He kept the knife below her chin, but released his grip, bringing his pale hand to wipe a tear from her face. Her makeup was running down her plump cheeks. Cassandra's vision cleared and she stared into the eyes of this monster, utterly defeated. Her confusion only increased as he now caressed her face gently, his head tilted to the side to inspect her swollen face.

"My employer sent me because the last one you wouldn't speak to. You are a stubborn little bitch, and you figured running would secure your safety? I find people, that's why they hire me. And I'm the best. It's all just business really." Icarai's emotion turned devilish, the flames poured from his sunken eyes.

"And speaking of business, my employer no longer wishes to be business partners, you are relieved of your services whore!"

Lightning fast, Icarai snatched a pillow and slammed it into the face of Cassandra, pressing her head into the wall. The curved knife cut up her chin, leaving a trail of red as it was brought outward then thrusted into her chest multiple times. Whatever futile scream she attempted was muffled indefinitely. Cassandra's limbs flailed violently then fell limp upon the seventh stabbing, which was followed with a coup de grâce.

Icarai stood, his heart pounded with adrenaline. He licked his lips and wiped the drenched knife upon the clean side of the pillow, releasing it but it remained covering the final horrid expression of Cassandra the whore. He melted back into the shadows of the room, slithering to the drawn shades of the window and escaping the fourth story of Wetty's Joint to the streets below unseen. The moon was waning, the air chilly with the impending arrival of winter. The man had a name, and he would find them..

An hour and a half later a brute wielding a spiked club burst through the room of Cassandra hollering that the time was up and other customers were waiting for her unique pleasures. The room was dark, a chill breeze crept at his skin. The smell was foul--although strangely, a scent of pine was lingering.

[The Red Zephyr]

A young woman with red-brown hair crouched over the bloodied body of someone she might have called a comrade. The woman's corpse was face-down in the dried grass with half-clotted blood puddled beneath her neck. The kill had been clean: She was one of the first to be cut down, and hardly fought back despite firing two rounds at her assailant. The other eleven bodies had gone through a struggle but didn't seem to manage to even injure their attackers besides the horse. It was a massacre. This woman, however, seemed to suffer the least among her fellow dead comrades.

"Comrades, Huh?" Azra whispered to herself. Were any of these people her comrades? Now that she thought about it that way, it was somewhat troubling. These people simply wanted to put the world back together; to have a say in their own fate. These Vanguards wholeheartedly followed an ideal and put their very lives on the line. Each one of them looked at her and thought that she chased the same ideal--that she cared about their fates. Sure, their deaths were indeed very sad, but they were, in the end, a result of their own actions. These twelve people chose to put their lives on the line to change the world. It was an admirable goal, but not quite Azra's cup of tea.

"Those motherfucking Derps!" a young man's voice shouted angrily. Without turning her head, Azra knew it was the voice of her cell's youngest and newest member; Derrick. To say the kid was brash would be an understatement. He jumped into every fight like he was invincible, tried to hold a gun one-handed like some kind of action hero, disregarded the value of stealth completely, and was practically incapable of listening to reason when he was excited. The kid was the stereotypical hothead teen straight from Azra's novels: The one who either dies first or learns some kind of lesson from almost dying.

"James... and Yura... and Harris!" Derrick continued yelling, and seemed to be tearing up from what Azra could tell. "Those murdering fucks!"

With a sigh, Azra stood back to her feet and turned to face the furious teen. He was gripping the saber on his hip and its scabbard murderously, and scanning the area for something to take his anger out on. Unfortunately for him, the only thing around the area besides twelve human corpses was the body of a horse lying on the road. It was obvious to Azra that Derrick would eventually choose it as a target, since it presumably belonged to the people who killed his comrades. However, she had seen more than enough blood for the day, and didn't much feel like watching a teenager mutilate an animal's body

Before Derrick could take a step, Azra had approached him with a warm but somber smile and wrapped her arms around him. "It'll be okay Derrick," she spoke softly over his shoulder. Immediately, she could feel his body's tension unravel and his tears soak the her shoulder. This was the most reliable way to calm him down.

Derrick had only been with Azra's cell for two months. He was a relatively sheltered kid, considering the state of the world, raised in a DERB safe zone and provided with enough food not to die of starvation. Although many people would kill to be able to have an SZ residence--and have--Derrick felt like he and his mother were prisoners, and ran away in hopes of helping the Avant Garde liberate the Safe Zones. Someone like him had never seen so much death at once before. Azra both envied and pitied him.

"Az, they can't all be dead, right? I was just talking with David this morning. They can't just be gone, can they?" Derrick's aggressive rage had quickly faded into anguish.

"No, they're all gone Derrick," Azra found herself tearing up a little as well, but she knew it had little to do with this boy's grief. Even though she knew the two of them were almost nothing alike, she couldn't help but think of him as Derrick bawled into her shoulder.

That's right. These people aren't my comrades.

They are a means to an end.

A man's hand found her dry shoulder, and the cell leader's voice spoke, "You guys take the horse up to Asylum. We'll stay back and clean up here."

[Chromane]

"There's your problem" Tobias announced triumphantly, holding aloft the small broken in the midst of the half disassembled diesel generator he'd been working on for most of the morning. "Told you I'd find it!" He said, looking around to discover that his audience had slipped away unnoticed sometime before. He sighed and stood up, stretching his legs and brushing the dirt off his coveralls.

The generator, responsible for powering the small unnamed settlement outside of Blanche, had already been old before the Fall, and had been ticking away reliably before it had conked out a couple of days previous. Tobias had been part of the small Vanguard that had ventured out to see why the settlement had suddenly gone dark.

The settlement probably did have a name, Tobias mused, not that he'd been paying any attention. Something ironic, like Eden or Haven, to describe the small cluster of buildings and the low wall that made up the tiny mote of civilization. He walked outside the small shed and started rooting in his pack. "Found your problem! Should have the spare in here... Gotcha!" Tobias held the replacement part aloft as he turned to go back into the shed.

"So you're nearly done Tobe?" A voice drawled from behind him. That'd be Vince, another member of the Vanguard party. Unlike Tobias he didn't get involved in any of the technical matters, preferring to solve his problems with his old rifle and his fists.

"Much quicker now Vince, just gotta put it back together" Tobias said, fitting the new part and screwing it back into place. "Good, I can't wait to be back at Blanche" Vince replied, following him slightly into the dingy shed.

"Not a fan of Haven? We're the Vanguard, places like this are where the action is!" Tobias retorted, allowing a note of sarcasm to seep into his voice. Vince snorted, "Place is called Sanctum, and the action I'm missing is back at Blanche, so get a wriggle on" Tobias chuckled in response and reached for the next part; coaxing it back into place with a sharp rap from the handle of a screwdriver.

Tobias busied himself with reconstructing the generator, sliding the last piece back into place and doing up the bolts with his trusty shifter. Checking the fuel tank he primed the engine and tried to start it up, biting his lip as it coughed and spluttered but refused to turn over. "Work dammit!" He cursed, giving the engine case a sharp smack with the wrench. The engine backfired twice, then roared back to life, settling down to a low steady hum.

"Up and running!" He called out, starting to collect his scattered tools. Slinging the toolbar over his shoulder he walked out of the shed towards the main farmhouse. "Try your power" he called out, smiling again as some of the lights flickered back on. "We'll just test the radio, then we'll be gone."

The old farmer nodded and gestured towards the old CB style radio in one corner of the kitchen. That was the real reason they'd dragged themselves all the way out here for a crappy generator; Sanctum was a outlying post, and the regular radio contact was an invaluable source of intelligence and news for the area. That and the people expected some small measure of return from the tithe of goods and services they tipped to the Vanguards.

"Blanche HQ, Blanche HQ, this is VG party three on repair mission, copy?". Static ruled the airwaves for a long moment before the speakers crackled "VG Three, this is Blanche HQ, reading loud and clear, what's your status?".

"VG Three, job completed and heading home, over and out" Tobias signed off and hung the microphone back on its hook. He shook hands with the farmer and headed out. "All done Vince! Round up the rest and let's head home". They'd done what they could for Sanctum, and Tobias knew there was plenty more repair work to do back at base.

[Thess]

The night was not young but far from over, the moon hung high in the sky above the sheet metal rooftops of Townhill. An aptly named town that sat on a hill. From the moon's perspective, it must have looked like a series of quickly constructed misshapen rings, which caused the town to resemble two-thirds of a large target rather than a town or a hill. The highest point held a large communal building and the three circles surrounding it were home to many families and businesses. Leading into the town from the southeast and out from the southwest was a large road, that crossed over the river. Even though the fourth outermost ring was a thin and low wall made of sheet metal, Townhill was open to anyone sane enough to not kill everyone he ever met. Despite its benign sounding name, and the mostly sane residents, there were plenty of dark alleys for people to become forgotten or shady deals to be made.

Running on all fours atop the roofs of the mostly contiguous metal huts on the west side of the town, was a monster. In the bright moonlight, any witness to his passing might haven taken notice of the dark pulsing veins of his chest that were not obscured by the tattered remains of a T-Shirt, which hung down over his shoulders from his neck. Torn and shredded jeans flapped behind his legs as the beast moved. Eyes that look like obsidian stared down at the tiny alleys breaking up the buildings below his feet. Had there been pupils in those endless pools of pitch black, they would have been following the movements of his quarry. The beast was hunting, hunting its prey...

”No, not hunting...following...” That single thought blasted through the mind of the beast and stopped him dead in his tracks. He turned his head wildly about, attempting to look in all directions at once. Unsuccessful in having found someone to have made the voice inside its mind, the beast made what can only be a shrug. Its blank dark orbs returned to the small alleys, searching for their mark. Yet their target was nowhere to be found.

---

Down in the alleyways, a small girl hid from the monster above, her breathing coming in labored gasps as she tried to make herself invisible. Normally, she would have worn something brighter, but smart as she was, the girl had prepared for this. The dark t-shirt and black jeans allowed her to slip away from that which hunts her. She had an errand to run and the monster above her would only make that task harder.

”Go back, Maul... I told you to stay, I even left you something to keep you occupied,” The girl thought to herself as she tried to quiet her breathing, hoping the man above might leave without causing an issue. As she began to breathe more normally, the girl dropped something and started creeping down the alley further from her pursuer.

---

Closing his eyes Maul began sniffing the air deeply and rapidly, the air flooded his nose with short bursts in an attempt to locate the girl with his sense of smell. A small pleased smile crossed his lips as he opened his eyes and turned toward the location of the girl. He moved toward the scent, creeping to the edge and peered down into the alley, but the girl is gone. Left behind was a small bag that sat glaring back at the beast. Reaching a lanky limb down, the hand failed to touch the bag and the monster jerked away in anger. Throwing back his head, Maul let out a howl of rage and proceeded to beat his large fists against the metal beneath his feet. As his hands crashed into the metal, without any regard to the pain it caused him, the man started to growl a single two syllable word over and over again, the girl's name came out like some twisted and forced chant, “Fre...ya! Fre...ya! Fre..ya! Fre...ya! Fre...ya!”

---

Hearing the roaring chant of the monster, the girl stopped in mid-step and let out an exasperated sigh. Freya's faith in her ability to sneak away had failed her twice tonight, her companion's ability to track was much better than she would have previously credited to him. Now, he was standing on the roof throwing a tantrum she could hear a block away. Shaking her head, she hurriedly started to make her way back to the man before he got too out of hand.

As she returned, the girl could see the candles being lit in the homes of those awoke in the middle of the night by the rage of the beast above. Cursing to herself under her breath, Freya called up to the man as she neared him, “Hoy! What the hell do you think you are doing?”

Even as she raised her volume to overpower the growls of Maul, Freya realized the hypocrisy of her actions but knew it to be the only way to get his attention, “Just going to give up so easily?”

”I need to get him out of here before people see him...” Thought the girl as she began to clap her hands and ran back down the narrow alley.

Above, Maul's fit subsided as his soulless eyes found their prey once again and his primal mind returned to the hunt. Several moments passed before the beast lets loose a howl and once again commenced the chase. He followed her from above as she lead him away from those that had begun to hang their heads from their windows in an effort to find that which had woke them so suddenly in the night. Fortunately for Freya, they could not see the beast that raced across their roofs.

The girl ran through the twisting alleys of Townhill, leading the monster that pursued her back toward the more shady side of town. While none of Townhill would likely ever be considered beautiful by anyone, the northernmost part of the town was certainly worse off than the rest in the eye candy department. Even though the town was fairly prosperous, as prosperous as a town could get after the apocalypse, most of the wealth was generated and spent in the south side. The most valuable businesses in the north half were the bars, which were little more than gambling dens and brothels, and the substantially cheap inns.

It is one of those cheap inns, one cheaper than most even by cheap standards, that Freya headed toward. In Townhill, like in most places, cheap meant that no one asked any questions. As long as one paid for their room and did not destroy it, no one could care less who you brought in or what you did with them. Even the sight of her companion had not really been an issue there, the innkeeper more than likely figured that the guards would not let in a Lost. While the girl would likely agree, she could be very persuasive when she so desired. Still, she was rather certain that her companion is not quite Lost, just losing it.

The girl stopped running very suddenly, she had become lost in her own thoughts and now found herself unsure of her location. Reaching a thin hand up to the long blonde hair that cascaded down from her scalp, Freya scratched her head as she tried to see anything she recognized. Her and her companion had only arrived in Townhill a couple weeks ago. While the town was not overly large, its many winding alleyways could be very confusing, with little more than differences in the color of the metal walls around her to be her guide.

On the roof, Maul had also come to a stop as he watched the girl below him. He began to creep toward the edge of the roof and crouched down. The animal could tell that he was able to fit down in this alley. Tensing his leg muscles the creature prepared to pounce upon his prey. His eyes fell upon the very tips of his fingers that have worn away to show the bone beneath and he is interrupted by a few more thoughts. ”When did I become so thin that you can see my bones? Did I become anorexic? What did I eat last? You're not going to eat the girl...are you?

A particular spot of rust caught the clear blue eyes of the girl and she nodded, more to herself than anyone else, certain that she had finally gotten her bearings. Without warning, Freya took off again, running to the end of the alley and turning left. It took Maul a few more moments to be pulled from his thoughts but the beast instinctively gave chase as soon as it had noticed that the girl was gone.

Only a few more twists and turns were required of the girl before she would reach her destination, The Listless Lady, but she was not destined to reach it just yet. As she rounded one corner, Freya collided with a wall, or at least that it what she felt it had to be. When her eyes looked up though, she found herself looking at a very big fellow that did not look pleased.

Glaring down at the little girl with a menacing gleam, the man said to two others behind him that Freya had yet to notice, “Well, what do we have here? A little girl out all by herself? That's really dangerous.”

Shit! I don't have time to deal with this! The teen cursed in her mind, even as a sheepishly small smile flashed across her face and her cheeks flushed red. She opened her thin lips and let out an innocent voice, “Gee mister, I am really sorry. I-”

The girl's second sentence was cut short as soon at it started by the bare foot of the man. A little dazed, Freya rolled back and away from her assailant, then quickly looked up to find Maul. Seeing him currently still catching up, she sighed in relief. The last thing she needed was for the monster to mangle these men and she knew that he would without a second thought. Standing up the girl reached into her purse as she said, “That was not very nice, mister.”

“Oh, I can be real nice,” Replied the man as he stepped closer.

“That would be a most pleasant surprise,” Said the girl as she pulled out the only weapon she ever carried, a two foot long nightstick. Holding it by the vertical handle, Freya squeezed the small button on it. Blue sparks burst forth, arching along the longer end. Swinging with all her might, the girl caught the taller man upside the head. Twitching violently, like a epileptic disco dancer the man fell backward to the ground. His two companions quickly step forward.

Glancing back, Freya saw Maul quickly approaching. She ran right toward the two men, startling them with the fire in her eyes. Neither of them would have expected this tiny girl to react so fiercely, so violently. The smaller of the two simply turned tail and ran like the apparent coward that he was but the other grits his teeth and stood his ground. Freya dove under the man's legs and came up behind him. With a second well placed but savage swing, she sent the remaining man dancing to the ground.

Without pause, the girl took off again, trying to keep Maul away from her would-be attackers. Dashing through the alleys, she looked over her shoulder and is relieved to see him following her. Freya twisted through a couple more alleys and found herself at the door of The Listless Lady. Waiting for her companion, the girls put away the nightstick that still sat in her hand.

Maul dropped off of the roof to the ground beside her. His blank eyes stared at her as if begging for something. Shaking her head, Freya said, “I don't have anything to eat on me.”

As Maul snorted in annoyance, the girl opened the door and stepped inside. Maul followed after her and she quickly shut the door behind them. The first floor of The Listless Lady was more bar than anything else, plenty of drunk men and woman trying to drown their sense of loneliness and worthlessness in alcohol and each other. Freya would have led Maul straight up to their room but Maul had different plans. When Maul had entered, his keen nose had been rewarded with the smell of stew. A table of five sat eating the stew, with a larger bowl in the middle. Unlike the rest of the inn's occupants, they did not seem interested in anything but the food. So was Maul.

The beast hopped across the floor in a couple of bounds, right up to the table and grabbed the large bowl. Before the men or Freya could say anything, Maul had drunk half of it. Crying out in indignation, the one sitting at the head of the small table grabbed Maul's arm. Pulling the bowl away from his mouth, the creature roared at the man. Startled the man let go and Freya quickly moved in.

“I'm very sorry about this but I will pay for them to bring out another bowl.” Said the girl before calling one of the serving girls over, “I'd like another big bowl of stew brought to this table.”

With a nod the woman left to the kitchen and the tension that had started to fill the room, quickly dissipated. Pulling Maul away from the bowl, even as he finishes it, Freya tried to lead him away toward the stairs. Before she could reach them, the innkeeper seemed to appear out of thin air, “I believe I just heard that you were covering that second bowl of stew.”

Flashing a smile of nearly perfect teeth, even if they are a little stained, Freya replied, “Of course! Its just that I don't have anymore to trade, right now... So, maybe I could just help out for a bit while I am here this week to cover the stew?”

The innkeeper's jaw tightened a little but he nodded and stepped aside, allowing the two to pass, “I'll want you doing dishes every morning, bright and early.”

Nodding as she passed the innkeeper, Freya used no words to reply and led Maul up the stairs to the second floor. Walking all the way to the end of the hall, she opened the last door and held it for Maul. Closing the door behind her companion, the girl's eyes follow him in, “What the hell, Maul? I told you to stay here... I have also told you not to take what isn't yours!”

The man did not reply, he did not even seem to take notice of her, instead moving to the pile of straw in the far corner next to the bed. With a yawn, the beast laid down and curled up into a ball. A moment later and he was asleep. Sighing again, the girl just threw her hands up and shook her head. Crossing the tiny room to the bed, the open window provided just enough light to make out the small shape of the chest and chair, she sat down. As she takes her boots off, the girl remembered that she never did get to do what she had planned to do upon leaving the inn that night. Shrugging, though no one was around to take notice of it, she decided that it will have to wait until the next day. Moments later and she, like the monster in the haystack, was fast asleep.

[Uffizi]

The muscled brute, known as Goy, vomited profusely upon discovering two corpses within the room. Cassandra, a known prostitue, and her client lay dead. Goy fell back against the wall in horror. He had seen blood before, no doubt, but nothing to this extent. The spiked club fell to the floor, his knees trembled. Cassandra and client were dead and the shades flicked menacing in a chilling breeze signaling the arrival of Winter. Goy noted Cassandra lay like a discarded teddy bear, pillow over her face, multiple stab wounds in the stomach and chest. Her client was sprawled over the bedside, his neck opened to mimic a Pez dispenser.

Goy was puzzled at the pine scent that filled the room, overpowering the raunch of blood and released bowels. He figured it was a tactic by Cassandra to "set the mood." Or to hide the stench of her filthy customers. Goy pressed his bulk from the wall and stumbled to the closed shades, tearing them open and lifting himself over the frame to stand on the fire escape. The metal was cold upon his hand as he leaned over the balcony. He peered to the right and the rusted ladder; he knew then, it was murder. Murder by a third-party. See, his first assumption was the two killed each other, but the droplets of blood on the ladder steps secured the later theory.

A frigid breeze manifested from the north east and bit into Goy's flesh. Snowflakes shot down from the skies, majestic and beautiful in the pale moonlight above Asylum. The man moved back to the window and climbed inside, distracting himself from the gruesome scene as he moved to pick up his club and close the door. Goy then sprinted to the stairs, down to inform his boss of the discovery.

---

John Wetty was probably the wealthiest man in Asylum, due to the fact he acted as both pimp and mayor. He was also corrupt as they come as you might expect. The hour was late and Wetty was in the basement of the pleasure house, which was the cleanest part of the whole joint. Cigar smoke lingered the air around a wooden table. Six individuals sat, playing a rather rigged game of poker,( in which Wetty was always the winner.) The man had influence and power in Asylum and he was feared, very feared.

Wetty was a tall, muscular business-type, his hair was short and white as snow, and his eyes were crimson red, a trait inherited from being an albino. He had a thick white mustache and bushy white eyebrows. A tight, black suit and a red tie were today's attire. A fat cigar was clenched in his teeth, smoke rolling from the cherry.

"What're you lookin' at Tyus?" questioned Wetty.

Tyus, a minion thug of Wetty, brought his eyes back to his cards.

"Nuttin' boss, j-just wanted to see if you were bluffin' that's all, honest!" Tyus fearfully responsed.

Wetty was self-conscious of his albinism, and usually punished those who held their gaze on him for too long. But, he was in a good mood today, as he had just won his seventh re-election, which was undoubtably rigged. The albino chuckled and was about to throw his cards down before heavy footsteps signaled the arrival of Goy, his left hand man.

"B-b-boss you gotta come quick!" Goy shouted, with his eyes to the floor, which was a fine, polished wood.

"Can't you see I'm playing a game Goy? What is it? Another fool rough up on another one of my gals?"

"W-w... Well boss.."

"Spill the fucking words!" shouted Wetty.

"Cassandra, she's dead boss, her client too."

Wetty leapt from his seat and slammed a fist on the table, he threw his cards at Tyus and stalked around the table to stand at equal height to Goy.

"Koil!" hollered Wetty, his crimson eyes fixed on Goy.

Emerging from the shadows, a beast of a man marched to the side of Wetty. Koil, his right hand man. Every bit of seven feet tall, the heavily muscled, and heavily burdened behemoth towered above all in the room. His head was bald, scars left his lip cleft, revealing a tooth, beneath a massive black beard. His trapezius muscles nearly touched his earlobes, and trickled with dark veins that spread throughout his physique. He wore only a red tank top and black jeans, his boots were leather and had aged well.

"No one gets in or out," commanded Wetty. "Let's go Koil, you too Goy."

The trio headed to Cassandra's quarters, the rest locked down the pleasure house.

---

The jacket was warm, also free. It was a trophy taken from an unfortunate man seeking only for a nights pleasure. A victim of Icarai Buchinsky. The snow fell heavy and the winds were mighty, bending trees to submission. The moonlight was quickly drown out by the snow, an impending blizzard it might seem. Icarai knew he had to find shelter or be buried in an icy tomb. His hands and toes had gone numb long ago, as he departed Asylum in the cover of night, down the road to the settlement of Fairview. His interrogation had led him to this location, and he knew it was accurate. His way of persuasion always acquired the truth.

His footfalls came heavier and heavier as the snow began to pile high. His arms wrapped across his torso in feeble defiance of the elements. The warmth was quickly being sapped from his disciplined body, as was his hope of reaching Fairview, until two lights came into view, piercing the blizzard. It couldn't be the settlement, he had only been traveling for a few hours, Fairview was two days at least on foot.

As he gained closer, the outline of a building appeared. A sign that read The Elm swayed in the wind above the door, and it quickly was being covered in snow. This was an inn no doubt.. How perfect.

The commotion within was cut short as the door flew open, the wind howled like a witch with cancer in her belly. All patrons turned their attention to the stranger. The hearth crackled solemnly in the brief silence, until the stranger shut the door and dusted snow from his form. Icarai stomped his shoes on the floor and lifted his gaze around, surveying for an empty seat.

[The Red Zephyr]

Lucius Fairfax and General Alberto Melioda

Lucius stood outside the concrete building, its large steel door looming in front of him. He had been through it countless times, unphased and unafraid, but this time it was different. Now he had three armed soldiers standing by his side, guiding him against his will--not that he was resisting. He took a deep breath as a gust of wind swept by and caught his hair. It might have been the last time that he tasted fresh air. "Hurry up. You know the General does not like to be kept waiting." the guard that spoke shoved Lucius in the direction of the door with a small snarl. It was the same soldier that he had headbutted earlier that day, and clearly he was still holding a grudge.

Inside Lucius was escorted along some simple corridors and up a few flights of stairs. The interior of the building was perhaps what one would expect from gazing at its exterior; it was well lit but cold, its walls barren and eerily clean. Every now and then they would pass a few soldiers on patrol or guarding a particular entrance, with most looking like they were about to fall asleep from the boredom. When he reached the General's room he found the old man sitting as he expected, in his old vintage leather armchair facing the warm fireplace. Melioda's eyes snapped briefly toward Lucius before settling back onto fireplace, and with a wave of his hand the soldiers were dismissed. Lucius waited for the men to leave before carefully creeping towards the vacant seat beside Melioda, "You've never had armed men detain me before. What's this about?"

Alberto Melioda took his time responding to the man before him, deciding first to bring his cigarette to his lips and take a few puffs. He exhaled a sigh before returning his gaze briefly to Lucius. "You're surprisingly oblivious, my friend." He paused shortly before looking back into the fireplace. "People are saying things. This is at least the dozenth time you've interfered with the actions of my men, and you've been more than defiant of some of the committee's decisions."

Lucius resisted the urge to become defensive, knowing that it would do little good. He tried to settle into the adjacent armchair but found himself too tense to get comfortable, instead adopting an upright pose whilst he waited for the General to elaborate.

The general took another breath of smoke before relaxing his posture and leaning into the chair. His eyes toward the smoke-browned ceiling, he continued, "If anyone else had given us the trouble you have, they'd have been hanged for treason. Those rioters out there, they will attack my men again, maybe at night, or from behind where they can't see. Every one of them you think you just saved is another risk to our soldiers running free."

Lucius disagreed with General was saying, he believed that these attacks could only be stopped by attacking the source of the issue - by helping people so that they wouldn't resort to such means in the first place. Melioda knew his views well enough though, and at this point Lucius was just glad that he was being let off easier than most. The two of them had known each other for nearly two decades and whilst they rarely agreed on things, the two similar goals and respected one and other. A big part of their friendship was likely dependent upon the fact that they were both of the old world, that they were among a few who had spent more time alive before the hail than they had after it.

Melioda sighed deeply before taking one last puff, leaving only a charred filter. "I've never understood the point in filtering these things," he said, taking the conversation a bit off topic. Perhaps he was trying to lighten the mood. "You inhale the smoke from a burning plant and get cancer. If you're going to smoke, why would you want to die slower?"

Lucius still remained silent, contemplating what was being said and suddenly wishing that he hadn't finished of his own cigarettes earlier that day.

"The point is," the general began, flicking the butt into the fireplace, "I've been far too lenient with you. Your presence here is becoming a distraction--a source of doubt--for the men. The committee has unanimously agreed to exile you from the Safe Zone."

"'Exile'? I know things haven't been easy sailing recently but..." Lucius struggled to find the words in his surprise. He pushed himself out of his chair and found his voice raised and angry "What do you expect me to do? Wander the wastes until I die? Join our enemies? I have been loyal to the people of DERB, and from day one I have helped maintain and rebuild what we have!"

"That's the problem, Lucius." Melioda's voice was beginning to rise. "They're paranoid you might have already joined our enemies. You're less of a risk outside the walls." The general's posture regained his tension as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "You're either exiled or executed: Those are the options. And after that stunt just a moment ago, you'll be lucky to get the former."

There was an awkward pause whilst Lucius regained his posture. He was not intimidated by Melioda, but was smart enough to be cautious--at least until a few moments ago. "All I have done, I have done to try and protect our citizens... just as you have. Men like us, men who remember what society was like before, must do what we can for the next generations. The committee doesn't see what it is doing, it is growing too violent. The harder we push, the more people are pushed away. How long before our citizens feel more oppressed than protected? How long before they look to others?" Lucius slumped back into the chair and combed his fingers through his hair, "All I've tried to do is reach out to those who we are losing, like the men that attacked the soldiers earlier."

"Losing?!" Melioda was now gripping the arms of his chair. "People who would attack our soldiers are already lost! They might as well be roaming Legus eating one another." The general and Lucius had nether really seen things from the same angle, but to Melioda, he wasn't even looking at the same picture. "We only have as much food as we can get, and everyone gets enough to survive. If a free handout is worth killing the people who protect them then they don't deserve what they get."

"Do you expect the hungry to simply sit around and waste away? People are going to fight and its sounds like you're just trying to cull the population." Lucius' bitterly whispered the last few words but then found himself looking down in guilt; those last words were perhaps too cruel. Looking up he could see the anger in his old friends face and found himself resigning, "I will leave. But is there nothing I could do to prove my loyalty? I will not stand against DERB."

Melioda fell silent for a moment, releasing a deep sigh as he slowly loosened his grip on the armchair. As he rested back into his seat, the man's gaze returned to the fireplace, whose flames were starting to dim. Finally, the general opened his mouth to reply, but hesitated for a moment before answering. "There is one thing."

Lucius felt a slight relief as the tension eroded, and found his own grip loosening. "Name it. You know deep down that you can still trust me." his voice was unwavering and firm as he tried to convince his friend of his loyalty.

"There is..." the general paused for several seconds, hesitating still, "a certain someone whom we've been keeping tabs on." The trepidation in Melioda's voice was clear, and very strange considering his usual stoicism. "This man, he is a weapon of the old world: A beast to be kept in a cage until the circumstances permit his unleashing. Supposedly, he was killed before the stones fell, but intel suggests he's alive, and he's been making his way westward." Pausing again, Melioda looked into Lucius's eyes, a mix of conflicted emotions painting his face, "We've lost several scouts trying to track him down, and the committee is unwilling to send any good men in fear of losing them. However, in your current position you are both invaluable and expendable. Sending you after him wouldn't be much different from death or exile to them."

For what seemed like hours, the room was silent, save for the crackling flames of the fireplace, nearly extinguished. Regardless of Lucius's choice, it would be unlikely for him to ever return to Theta, or freely enter any DERB settlement.

"So," the general said, finally braking the silence, "what will it be, Lucius?"

[jumjummju]

Catherine woke up the following morning very abruptly as the door to the room she had siezed crashed inward onto the floor. Out of reflex, Catherine fumbled for her revolver as she shot out of bed, and managed to prove her lack of dexterity by dropping it. She got a glimpse at what caused the door to crash down; a lost. The flesh on its face was half melted off, and the rest was covered in the black veins that covered most of Catherine herself. Its clothing, where it wasn't shredded, was entirely fused to its skin, and one of its knees was bent the wrong way, causing it to lurch slowly towards Catherine, its jaw hanging loosely open, with a strange, black substance drooling out of its mouth.

Catherine's first thought was "dammit, couldn't I just get five more minutes to sleep?"

As the lost was almost upon her, she resigned to going at it with her fists; the usual way she dealt with lost. It lunged, and Catherine stuck out her right hand and caught it by the throat, and with practiced precision, straightened her left hand out, and delivered a nasty left hook right into the lost's head, her hand coming out the back of its skull, which had been weakened by decay. She then released it, and threw it off of the hand it was stuck to.

"Ew," Catherine muttered, flicking the black blood and cranial matter off her hand. While that was one of the easiest lost's she's ever had to brain, considering the injured state it was in, its insides were still as disgusting as ever. She eventually wiped her hand off on the bedsheets.

The sun was rising anyway, so Catherine decided now was as good a time as any to get going. She packed up her bags, retrieved her revolver, and set out onto the road.

Her destination was none other than SZ Sigma. A heavily militarized town that offered as much freedom as a town under permanent martial law allowed, SZ Sigma was one of the better places to sell scavenged materials at, if you didn't mind the tariffs. It was almost akin to a trade capital, if such a thing existed in this apocalyptic world, where the heavy military presence kept merchant's and scavanger's minds at ease alike, though the fierce regulation on prices and taxes choked the free market.

Not like Catherine really cared too much. Blues were blues, and she paid no mind to economic matters. All the stringent policing did was make it harder for her to be cheated, as she had a tendency to fall victim to due to naivety, and she wasn't likely to be robbed either. Not that you'd want to walk around the back alleys at night, but at least the criminals there didn't beat you up in broad daylight for being burdened. They'd be shot, if they tried.

After several ardously boring hours of walking along a road that was so uninhabited Catherine nearly had to fight off tumbleweeds, she eventually reached the gates of SZ Sigma.

The heavy military presence there meant getting in was a bit of trouble, usually. Her weapons were confiscated and she was given a writ for each of the guns she had on her; one revolver and three bolt-action rifles of varying calibers that Catherine didn't care for. The only ammunition she knew about, or needed to know, was .32, as that was what her trusty revolver carried. The good thing about the writs, however, was that they were easy to lug around than three rifles.

On literally the other side of the compound, a caravan had finally reached its destination. Jones let out a heavy sigh of relief as they passed a few burned out buildings, their gazes passing onto the walls of SZ Sigma. Their battered wheels were finally ready to stop, and that damn shopping cart's squealing could finally get out of his head. Their trip up to Asylum had been rather uneventful. A few Lost, but those had been easily dealt with. Their short stay in the brothel-filled city had recharged up his men for the final stretch. Of course, then they had to get robbed.

Ten beat-knick thieves, decked out in metal saucers, scrap metal, and he even saw one with a tire strapped to his chest, had attacked their party. Normally it wouldn't have been much of a fight. They had the usual equipment and weapons, tire irons, planks with nails in them. Deadly, but not very wieldy. His hired muscle had iron baseball bats, rough blades, and the strength to use them. Of course, some son of a bitch had to pull out a gun. One of the robbers, a toothy eyed git pulled out a rusty pistol and had shot Johnson. Right in the face. The man who fired the gun had the privelege of getting brained a second afterwards. Still, it hadn't been good at all. Another one of theirs, one of his underlings. He was barely more than a kid, but he had his guts pouring out onto the floor. Jones shot him with the pistol later when they couldn't put his innards back inside.

So, things weren't in high spirits. He just wished he was back in Asylum, snuggled between a woman's unmentionables. He had a job to do if he wanted to pay for said womanly benefits, though.

Reaching the gate, he pulled out a special little certificate branded by the DERB officials. Still smelled like fresh paper even though he had been holding onto it for a few months. You needed one of them if you wanted to get into a DERB safe zone without paying a large fee. Of course, to buy one of them was a larger fee in itself.

After a good twenty minutes in the middle of the shopping district, Catherine was getting rather frustrated. The bolt-action rifles were worth much more than she was offered, she was sure of it! But no one was accepting her offer! Eventually, she caught wind that a caravan had arrived, just recently. News traveled fast around here, especially one that meant the merchants around here might be getting some lucrative deals soon.

Intending to intercept the caravan and try and trade with them before they got to the merchants and bled dry, Catherine set off towards the opposite end of the settlement. It wasn't too hard to spot the caravan; a procession of carts and trolleys being pushed by several people all in a tight group. It wasn't quite the large, rich caravan Catherine was hoping for, but its better than being swindled by the merchants.

She approached the caravan from the front and asked the first person who seemed to be part of the caravan, "Do you mind telling me who to talk to, to trade with you? I have some scavenge you might be interested in."

The blonde haired man Catherine had approached gave one look at her and sneered. "Piss off, we're not trading to Burd- Geah!" he said as he was rudely interupted by a smack to the back of the head by a taller dark haired man. Just in time, too, for Catherine was almost about to do it for him. And much more forcefully. "Cut it out, Ron," Jones said with a frown covering his face. "Why don't you go help push the carts? Tell everyone I'll catch up." The man, Ron, gave a groan. "But she's just a Burd-" and was soon interupted by a fierce glare. "Fine, but we don't get paid for standing around."

Jones laughed, "But I do pay you to push those carts, now git." He turned back to Catherine, a small smile replacing the frown. "Muscle, eh? All they think about is protecting the cargo, never out to make a deal, small as it may be. Th' name's Jones. Abrams Caravans? Heard of us?"

Catherine extended her hand for a handshake. "Catherine, and yeah," she lied. "You're pretty popular for providing good deals," she added, trying stay incredibly vague.

Jones grabbed the hand, shaking it vigorously. "Always try and satisfy my customers. Now, what're you looking to sell? Today's goods consist mostly of food, if you're hungry. Canned goods. Nice stuff. Had some of the salted pork this morning."

Catherine's stomach rumbled at the thought of salted pork, the man's reminiscing making her even hungrier. As much as she was able to loot from the scavengers, food wasn't something they had a lot of, unfortunately. Whether he was intentionally trying to make her hungry or not to get her to buy food didn't even pass her mind. "Uh, well I recently came into contact with some rifles, actually." She pulled out three pieces of paper; the writs for the rifles.

"Mm.. rifles are usually a good commodity. People always want weapons." He took a good look at the pieces of paper, making sure they weren't counterfeit. He was satisfied. "A .357 and a few five-five six. Interesting."

He stepped back for a few moments, rubbing his scrappy chin.

Catherine, being the marketing genius she was, remarked, "Uh-huh. The merchants only offered 20 blues for each of them, and that was with the ammo," not knowing that maybe she should try and make it sound like there was actual competition for them, rather than making it obvious there wasn't.

Jones raised an eyebrow, staring directly at Catherine's black eyes. "Twenty-two blues for the .357 seems like a profitable deal. After all, directly trading with me has no taxes, you know. And for the two five-five six's, I'll give you a box of canned food. Hell, since I like your eyes, I'll throw in a orange and we'll call it a deal." He grinned yet again.

Catherine's eyes widened slightly in shock, before blushing a small bit from the compliment. Not so much out of embarresment so much as the fact that most of the time, if someone commented on her eyes it was to say they looked like oil-fields, and that was if they were being nice. She pondered about the deal for a second. 22 blues was actually a profit of about 5 in total, as opposed to dealing with the merchants once she took into account the taxes, and the box of canned foods, as well as the blues, meant she could probably stick around town for a while and take a break from all the scavenging; something she hadn't been able to do for several months now. All in all, it was a pretty good deal to her.

"Deal," she said, holding out the writs. He took them, pocketing them into his coat. "If you'll follow me, we need to catch up to my convoy. I promise not to ditch you here." He winked, waving a hand for her to follow. She kept pace with Jones as he jogged back to the caravan. It wasn't far, after all. They had only talked for a minute or two. "And your eyes. I was serious about that. They're rather interesting... like big black pools of water. Never seen a Burdened with nice eyes." Catherine's blush returned again, the poor girl being overly-susceptible to compliments. Conveniently, not many people tried to coerce her via compliments anymore, and usually went for a display of force, and Catherine wasn't easy to intimdate. Jones, however, kept catching her off guard.

With a quick word to one of his fellows, he hefted a box off of a cart. He opened it, revealing twelve cans of food, and Catherine had to mentally keep herself from drooling at the sight. Salted pork. With a quick flourish, he also revealed the orange and the bluebacks. "I got to make someone smile, so its a good deal to me."

Catherine at this point looked wide-eyed at the orange like, to excuse the cliche, a kid in a candy store. At this point, she probably would've sworn her life to Jones the way she was gawking at the thing. She grabbed it and shook her head to clear her thoughts and keep herself from just devouring it then and there, as well as to try and save some of her dignity. "Uh, thanks for the deal," Catherine said, pocketing the bluebacks and grabbing the box of canned goods with her left arm, cradling the orange in her good one.

"And here's another offer for you. We lost a man on the way here, a good guy. Shot in the face by one of those bastard thieves. You look like you got a bit of muscle on you, and you're obviously smart enough to do well on your own. Plus, 'finding' three rifles doesn't really suit you. You probably kicked some ass to get them."

Catherine's eyes gleamed a bit, partially from the recognition as to her combat abilities and partially from the offer of being a guard. At least, that's what she assumed the offer was. Most people tend to not trust Burdened to guard much of anything, assuming they'll just run off and steal the cargo. "You're very perceptive, Jones. I did loot the rifles off of some people, yes. But they attacked us first, simply for daring to be burdened as we were."

"Its part of the job. You can't make it in the business if you don't have a good eye. Most people can't see beyond the black veins and red eyes. Beneath them they're just people. A little bit roughed up, a little sick, but still people." He sighed, staring off into the sky. "Especially for someone who's lost one to the Lost. You said 'we', right?"

Catherine opened her mouth to speak, in an attempt to correct herself, but was interrupted. "That would be me she was talking about," a dark-haired man said, approaching the two from seemingly nowhere. "I'm Dave, an-"

"Jesus christ!" Catherine shouted with a mix of anger and surprise, "Where the hell'd you come from!?"

"Over there," Dave replied, pointing dismissively off in the general direction of the Andal Hail Zone, not really answering her question. "I just felt like stopping by to say hi. Also, you got robbed for those rifles. You're really bad at selling stuff, Cath."

"Wha-" Catherine started to say.

Jones gave a grunt as he interupted Catherine. "I did not, I sold at a much fairer price than the local merchants would have. Or are you a bit jealous? Oranges are pretty rare."

Dave shrugged. "I'll admit the orange was a steal, but a quick trip to Mendal or Townhill and you would've been able to sell those rifles for 35 blues each. You could've easily bought three oranges with that, if you knew where to buy from. As for that position you're offering, how much are you paying Cath anyway?"

Catherine interrupted him. "What the hell are you even doing!?"

Dave shrugged again. "Trying to keep you from selling yourself away for only a few blues a day? You're not very nice to the guy trying to help you, ya know."

"You robbed me!" Catherine replied rather angrily.

"Attempted to rob you, and failed. And besides, maybe I feel a little guilty? Still, don't you think you should ask before you accept to work for him?"

Jones raised an eyebrow. "Lovers quarrel?"

Catherine's blush returned rather whole-heartedly. "Wha- No! And what made you think I was going to accept anyway?"

Dave just laughed. "Please, I could do better than her if it was that," he said, before turning back to Catherine. "Oh please, the way you were looking at him I wouldn't've been surprised if you let him fuck you for half an apple. If I had known you were so easy I would've complimented all your stuff off you rather than trying to rob you. Besides," he turned back to Jones, "you never did say how much you were offering for the guard duty."

Jones glared at the man. "Okay, buddy. I think we got off on the wrong page here. I'm not trying to rob anyone. I gave her a good price. Twenty-two bluebacks, an orange, and a full box of canned food. Enough to feed someone for a week. And if she joins, she gets the normal pay. Five blues a day, a good meal, and a bonus if we have a succesful haul. Plus the healthcare isn't that bad."

Catherine mostly just stood there, unsure how to respond as her previous would-be robber now tried to haggle on her behalf. Dave looked thoughtful for a moment. "I would say that's pretty decent pay... for the average mercenary, that doesn't venture too far out of the walls of most settlements. I know you weren't there, but this girl here managed to fight off three armed bandits basically by herself. Where else'd you think she got the rifles from? Not to mention managing to turn the tables on me after I tried to rob her. Embarressing, that. Also, she is a wiz at scavenging. She found stuff that I missed when searching through the hailzones. I even saw her take out one lost once using her bare hands, didn't even need her gun or a weapon. She just rammed her hand through it's skull like it was nothing."

Jones walked straight up to Dave, looking him straight in the eye. "You're either the greatest haggler I've ever met, or you're just plain mad."

"I like to think a little of both. Believe what you will, she's worth more than 5 a day. She'll find you more than that just looking through wreckage on the way from one town to the next," Dave added

Jones looked back at Catherine, who more or less stood there confused. "This guy. This guy. Fine, ten a day, plus a five percent share in the company. That's a lot if you knew how much I made monthly."

He sighed, "And I'll throw in some more oranges."

[The Red Zephyr]

Normally, most people weren't accustomed to long walks under the hot sun or in the biting snow, carrying a heavy knapsack and conversing with people they don't care for. For Ian, this was a daily ritual, and oddly enough one he enjoyed quite a bit. As far as he knew, this was the only thing he ever did: He'd walk to the next settlement with his sister, listening to her scold him endlessly for something "foolish" again; or he'd travel with a bunch of mercenaries that would forget his name sooner than he'd forget theirs. There was never any vector, or old automobile; no horses or carriages--or if there were, someone else was riding them. Ian was always walking in poor weather with unsavory company, and he did not expect that to change anytime soon.

Ironically enough, he used these long journeys as his "alone time". To his chagrin, Ian had always been forced to interact with other people, and such interaction had a tendency to be troublesome: He could not understand others, nor could they understand him. He was quite aware of just how detached he was and that he was not in what one would call a "normal state of mind". Sometimes, the world outside his head seemed to fade away, and the voices and faces of others would change into new, stranger-yet-familiar ones. His body would act on auto-pilot on the outside, while he listened and spoke with these figures on the inside. Ian's sister called it "spacing", and said it looked weird to the people outside. To keep her off of his back, Ian taught himself how to move normally one the outside, while remaining mostly in his own world. Before long, the trips between settlements became excellent spacing time as long as he ignored people trying to talk to him.

With this group, that wasn't much of a problem. All of them--Ryan, Woman Number Two (Cassy), Freckled Dude, Horny Hairless, Quiet Girl, and Tall One--tended to ignore Ian if they could help it. Ryan would give orders when necessary and Ian would follow them, or he'd ask a question and Ian would give an unsatisfactory answer. Every-so-often, one of the others would ask a question--about Ian, his past, his hobbies--and they, too, would be disappointed by the answer. Cassy would parrot Ryan's orders like she couldn't think for herself; the Tall One would ask who had taught Ian how to fight; Freckles would try to start some arbitrary smalltalk; and Hairless seemed really interested in whether or not Ian had "become a man" yet, whatever that was supposed to mean. Ian just shrugged or said he didn't know--which was often true. After their first trip to Asylum, all of them had given up trying to communicate with him. Ian could space freely.

"Kid!" Ryan's voice scolded from the outside.

Jinxed it.

Ian quickly pulled all of his thoughts back outside, and realized that he and the team were already back at Asylum's gates. Like many towns left after the Hail, Asylum was encompassed by a large stone wall, with swinging gates on the north and south sides. From what Ian had heard, the entire thing had been stacked brick-by-brick by the town's inhabitants in only a few weeks after society collapsed, which explained the wall's chaotic and contorted appearance. The deformed bulwarks and rickety gate only added to the settlement's seedy image. When Ian saw the town's entrance, blanketed in snow, it strangely reminded him of a cemetery's gates, though he could not recall ever visiting one.

"Sorry sir," Ian apologized halfheartedly, trying to distance himself from strange memories. Snapping back into reality, he broke into a jog to catch up with the rest of the team. He was fairly sure he heard Cal- no, Cassy say something along the lines of "retard", but didn't bother to clarify.

"Okay kiddos," Ryan began, turning to the rest of the group and clasping his hands together, "Cass and I'll report back to our contact." Zipping open a pouch on his belt and pulling a bundle of blue paper from it, he continued, "Rudy, you're in charge of setting up our rooms at the tavern. It's getting late and I don't want the locals to steal up all the good beds."

So Baldie's name was Rudy? Strange; Ian could have sworn it started with an L.

"Roger, boss," Rudy confirmed, snatching the cash away in a purposefully obnoxious manner. "I'll put these blues to real good use," he boasted.

The squad leader simply shot him a dirty look before turning away down a nearby alley, Cassy following closely behind.

"Alright boys--and girl," he shot a quick glance at the Quiet Girl, as if her existence was ruining the group dynamic, "Let's see what they have for pubs and poon. With this cold, a woman's warmth is just what I need." He wrapped his arms around himself as if he were in a loving embrace.

The Tall One let out an exasperated sigh. "It's getting late, and I'm freezing. You can be a perv after we find an inn." He (she?) then turned off down the main road, waving for the rest to follow. "Come on, I know a place nearby with a lot of rooms," her (his) gaze lingered on Hairless Rudy for a moment before finishing, "and a lot of girls. So come on before they run out of vacancies."

At that last part, Rudy darted ahead eagerly, while Ian and the other two trailed behind.

The streets of Asylum were busy to put it lightly. Men and women bustled around haggling, bickering, flirting, and fighting, taking full advantage of the settlement's state of near-anarchy. Next to every other building and by every alley there seemed to be someone offing deals on goods and services of all kinds. Women--and sometimes men--of all shapes and sizes would not-so-subtly proposition passersby, perpetuating the town's reputation as a giant brothel. The buildings' conditions ranged from pristine to completely dilapidated, as many had been abandoned, destroyed, or refurnished depending on the inhabitants' luck after the Hail. Ian swore he heard one of his teammates from his last squad say something like, "They call it Asylum 'cause it's full of crazies, and people go there to relax and keep themselves from killin' the next person who looks at 'em funny." Seeing the place now, it made a lot of sense.

After a good half hour of wandering through the chaotic settlement, Ian heard the Tall One speak up. "Here it is," he (she?) said enthusiastically. "The Elm. Used to be a nice hotel before the stones dropped. My folks are good friends with the owner, so we might be able to get a discount."

The building before them did seem like it used to be nice. The Elm had four stories with ten-or-so rooms on each floor; several of them with cracked windows, and a number of vines snaking their way inside. From the looks of it, only about twenty rooms were actually able to be occupied, assuming the upper floors weren't in disrepair. The only part of the building that seemed to be maintained at was the entrance, where the once-glass swinging doors were replaced with wood OSB panels.

"This place looks like rotted hell." Hairless Rudy stated promptly. Quiet Girl and Freckles nodded in agreement.

Tall One shot Rudy a menacing look. "This is Asylum: Everyplace looks like rotted hell." She (he?) waited for an objection, but no one said a word. "It's a lot better inside. The booze is good and the girls are pretty clean. Now come on, it's fucking cold."

[Thess]

Something large loomed over the small girl lying in the bed, the sun shining through the single window. It reached out and shook her. Freya moaned and rolled away from it. The sun had come too quickly and she did not want to leave her bed. The thing shook her again and she growled, “What do you want, Maul?”

“I am not your beast,” Replied the figure.

Groggily, Freya's mind pulled itself from the fog of the deep sleep that she had been enjoying. Springing up, the girl stared at the figure, it was the innkeeper. Sighing in relief, the girl growled again, “Is it normal for you to wake your guests?”

In the corner, Maul still slept but grunted his agreement as he rolled over. The innkeeper's fat face scrunched itself up indignantly, “Girl, I don't normally employ my guests in the kitchen.”

The sleep quickly faded from the girl's mind as she remembered what her companion had gotten her into. Sighing again, though this time in annoyance, Freya nodded and slowly gets out of the bed, “Very well, I will be down in a minute.”

The innkeeper's gaze still held her own for a moment before he turned and left the room, leaving a few words behind, “Better be no longer or I will throw you and that thing out.”

As soon as the door closed, the girl sat back down on the bed and glanced at the man sleeping in the corner. Other than rolling over, Maul showed no intention of waking anytime soon, a good thing in Freya's mind. Her companion seemed to prefer the dark of the night, something the girl also liked better than the sunlight. Freya's hands moved to her boots, they are clearly worn out but still provided enough protection for her feet. The tough leather groaned as she pulled the tongue forward and slipped her foot inside. She quickly did the same with the other one.

Standing, she sneaked across the rickety floor beneath her feet, hoping it would not creak and wake Maul. Fortunately for Freya, the girl's ability to sneak seemed better this morning that it had been last night when she had tried to sneak out. She opened the door and slipped out of the room, closing it carefully behind her. Her feet led her down the hall to the stairs and down to the first floor of the inn.

Despite the time in the morning, there were already patrons sitting at the tables, some probably still sitting there from the night before. The girl weaved her way around the tables, heading for the bar. When she reached it, Freya nimbly hopped over it to the other side, where she came face to face with the innkeeper again, “My establishment is not a playground for you and you pet.”

Nodding her head in acquiescence, the girl said nothing, though she had plenty of words she wanted to hurl at the man, most of them curses. Waving her on, the innkeeper turned away from her. Freya quickly moved to the door of the kitchen. Through the doorway she could see the large piles of dishes that loomed over those scurrying about inside. As she stepped through and moved closer, she knew they had to have stopped washing anything since the previous night when she had agreed to do them.

The girl wanted to scream, she hated such menial work and she hated that smug fat bastard behind the counter. Still, the man had worked out a rather fair deal when she had been looking for a place to stay, though it would only last another week. Shrugging in defeat, the girl set about doing her task.

While her hands worked, her body moving mostly on auto-pilot, the wheels in the girl's mind continued to turn. “I was supposed to meet my contact last night. The Unburdened seem like a very wary group and I wanted to do it without Maul. “

When she thought about her companion, she remembered that he was also the reason she was doing these dishes, “Gah, he is such a pain in the ass! So unruly...and he never listens.. Still the beast tells no lies...”

---

Back upstairs in the room, Maul stirred and blinked his eyes at the sunlight that beamed down on him. Growling at the light, as if it might retreat, the man tried to bury his head into his arms. The light continued to shine upon him. Leaping up, the man howled at it in rage but it still changed nothing. Angrily, he began to beat his fists upon the floor, hopping from one foot to the other.

When the sun still did not hide from his anger, the beast snapped. Grabbing the bed, Maul tried to throw it out the window at the ball of fire in the sky. It slammed against the wall surrounding the window, too large to fit. This only seemed to make the man angrier. “Would you stop it already? You're embarrassing...”

The thought flitted through the beast's mind, and had he been saner he could have confirmed the truth of the statement by simply looking out the window. In the alley below, those that were passing through had stopped to look up at the man. Maul hesitated for only a moment, the thought flitting away as fast as it had appeared in his mind, before he continued to bang the bed against the window.

A few moments later, he seemed to realize that what he had been doing was futile. Dropping the bed, so that it lay against the window, Maul grabbed at the straw under it. When only a few small handfuls of straw would come lose from under the bed, his rage flared right back up and he beat his fist against the floor again. Outside the door of his room, the creature could hear those that had begun to leave their rooms in an effort to determine what the commotion they heard might be.

Suddenly feeling caged, the beast went berserk. His fists slammed into the wooden frame of the bed, over and over again, until it finally broke. With a shattering sound, the window behind the bed also gave way, raining glass down upon those still watching below. The splinters that dug into his hands, did not bother the man as he continued to beat the bed in an effort to push it out the window, to try and escape the room.

---

Down in the kitchen, Freya is pulled from her thoughts by the commotion upstairs. Instantly, the girl knew it was the man in her room causing it. She dropped the dish in her hand and raced out of the kitchen. Vaulting over the counter, she took the steps two at a time and found herself in a hallway full of people. At the other end, she could just barely see the doorway to her room.

Slipping through the crowd, something that would normally be easy due to her size was hindered by the the small width of the hallway. Before she could reach the door, Freya heard the shattering of glass and curses to herself. With more determination she pushed through the crowd, elbowing those in unseemly places that would not give way. Finally, she reached the door and turned back to the crowd, “This is my room. I'll handle it. You can all disperse now.”

Without waiting to see how the crowd reacted, the girl grabbed the door and opened it. Ducking though the doorway, she finds herself in the room, with no other occupants. The bed lie on the floor in pieces, mixed with glass and straw. Cursing again, the girl went to the chest and grabbed the few things she had in it, “Well, we cannot stay here anymore...”

Climbing out the window, she looked down at the people in the alleyway. When she followed the line of their gaze, Freya could see the shape of her companion leaping from building to building. She grabbed onto the roof and swung herself up. Standing, she began to run after her companion.

[Uffizi]

Icarai's ass found a chair in the far back of The Elm. The lighting was dim to his liking, despite the intensity of the hearth. The place looked rather run down but appeared to have possibly been something of worth in the pre-Hail days. A dark skinned woman, curvy and exotic scrambled from table to table, serving potatoes, carrots, even a few salted pieces of meat to patrons. Tall glasses of amber rotgut were the favored beverage it appeared.

He placed his forearms on the table, (which was warped with age), and leaned forward as the dark skinned woman approached. His dark, sunken eyes alerted her to his burden, and she dropped her gaze from him momentarily. Perhaps she was afraid, or disgusted. Nevertheless, the woman raised her gaze once more to the burdened man, still shivering from the cold.

"We only got limited veggies and even less salted meats. Our brew is cheap, but it'll getcha where ya need to go. What'll it be mista?" questioned the woman.

He thought momentarily, but his stomach growled, interrupting his thought.

"How's about a veggie stew. Hearty potatoes, carrots, and celery. Poor man's stew I believe it's called. A few pieces of dried meat and a slice of bread will do just fine. Some water too if it's clean," Icarai replied.

The waitress winced slightly and nodded, shuffling off toward the kitchen as Icarai lit a cigarette with a match. He stared intently at her backside as she swayed to and fro. What was such a pretty little flower doing in a mud heap like Asylum?

Icarai took a long drag from his cigarette, inhaling slowly, deep in thought. He paid the noisy patrons of The Elm no heed, but was still quite aware. It was a natural instinct for him due to his profession; and he was in total control of it. His peripherals, in those pools of black, caught glimpse of all within the room. Their actions were of common variety, but Icarai knew how to look past this. He exhaled, forming tiny circular puffs in rapid succession. His thoughts were clouded as of late. Mixed emotions of excitement and fear constricted his mind nearly as bad as the weight of the Hail, a burden that haunted his dreams.

Over the past year, on four separate occasions, Icarai was followed. The individuals were eliminated with ease, suggesting they were mere pawns of someone who wanted him dead. At first, he believed them to be minions of his employer, to keep check on his progress. All four offered no chance for his interrogation. He had grown sloppy, caring more for seeing his current job through than his own life. A younger Icarai would have kept one alive, and divulged information. All the murder had finally caught up with him. Or perhaps it was the Hail.

Icarai decided there would be more, as four were already sent. The next he would keep alive, until he learned of whom held such interest in such an infamous man. A man that was dubbed infamous for his deeds, not his name. Infamous men, such as Trotter, the Winterling, or the juggernaut Koil were known and identified. Then there was Icarai, a man who couldn't be named because of the magnitude of his atrocities; and he walked among society freely. But now, that sense of security was damaged, and he wanted to lurk until he could discover who had made him. Who knew his identity and how he moved?

Alas, Icarai Buchinsky, bound by contract, always saw the job through. He had a lead, from a harlot, and he was prepared to act on it. A blizzard slowed, but didn't stop his progression. He had time, he always found whom he was looking for.

---

"We know these cuts," declared Koil, the seven foot tall behemoth. "We know whom is responsible." Koil raised a callused hand to his face, which was horribly scarred, revealing a tooth from a missing chunk of lip.

"Who? Damn it!" questioned John Wetty, whom held an arm over his face, to block the stench of death that surfaced.

"We do not speak his name, but it is known to us," replied Koil.

Wetty threw his arm to his side. Anger boiled within him, and although he was a powerful man, he had grown to trust and fear Koil. The trivial responses from the behemoth always infuriated Wetty, but the grim tone in his voice suggested he listen.

"He is a weapon, he is the first to cut us. His blade his sharp, but his wit sharper. He is the shadow that eats the light." explained Koil. "But, we suspect he grows careless, this is sloppy for him. If one could bring him into the light, he could not flee and could be brought down or overwhelmed."

"It's a fucking blizzard out there, that prick couldn't have gotten far! Search the settlement, twenty blues to the first who drags him in. I want him alive! Goy, let the others know I want this place opened! Wetty's is open for business! And Koil, you and five head out and find that murderin' bastard! This is MY town!" roared Wetty.

"We suggest ten." Koil confidently replied.

John Wetty nearly had a mild stroke.

[SirBeowulf]

"So, are they any good?" asked Jones as he watched the two devour his supply of fresh oranges. "They should be... cost me a lot..." he groaned, wishing he hadn't met them at all. They were going to run him out of business at this rate. The trio had gathered in a small office room, a subsection of the place his caravan was trading a majority of their goods to. DERB offices to be more specific.

Dave had sat himself directly in the center of a couch in the room and was slowly nibbling at his orange as Catherine sat off in a corner on an office chair, cautiously eyeing Dave over the orange that was rapidly being eaten. "I dunno," said Dave, "this one had a bruise on it."

"Ish delishush," Catherine mumbled around her orange, glaring at Dave who didn't seem to notice.

"Hold on a second. When exactly did I say he could have some? He isn't even joining, he just showed up." Jones turned back to said man. "And shutup about the bruise, be happy you even got some."

"Wait, I thought you gave him one? I have both of mine," she said, holding up the other one she hadn't started eating yet but was about to.

Dave just grinned. "Damn, guess I got caught. This is why you should hire more security!" Dave said, tossing his orange up in the air and catching it deftly with one hand. Jones groaned yet again. "Damn thief." he said, but left it at that. He wasn't about to take off a hand like most settlements did.

Catherine massaged her temples, trying to ward off a headache that was appearing out of confusion towards Dave's attitude and morals. "Oh for fuck's... Dave, can I talk to you in private for a bit?"

"Depends. Are we going to make out?"

Catherine opened her mouth to deliver a witty retort as had been the usual for their interactions, but was interrupted as man walked through the open door. He was tall, a few inches more than Jones even. He also wore a suit that identified him as a fancy pants DERB official. The glasses and reptilian look settled the deal. He appeared to have heard the comment before, but didn't say a word about it other than glaring at Dave. Catherine flipped Dave the bird behind the DERB official's back, to which Dave grinned smarmily.

"Jones Abrams... I'm afraid we haven't met before," he said, extending a hand towards said person. Jones stood up and shook it with a bit of reluctance before sitting back down at the desk.

"Aye, we haven't. But I know you, Mister Wilkes. One of the major heads in distribution, from what I've heard. You're here to buy the food, right?" Mr. Wilkes nodded, standing still at the front of the room and running his eyes over everyone.

"I was expecting this to be a chat between two people, not you and your... associates?"

"Oh, just ignore them. Just two people I picked up off the street, and they shouldn't barge in on this conversation. Too much," he said with a look at Catherine.

The tall man took a seat in front of the desk wearily. "Right, onto business then." He took out a small sheet of paper, looking it over. "Two hundred pounds of food, twenty pounds of produce, ten gallons of alcohol, and another amalgation of various items." Wilkes narrowed his eyes at Jones before sliding another sheet of paper forwards at Jones. "This price is what my supervisors say will work."

Jones grabbed the paper, taking a good look at it, a frown showing up immediately on his face. "Sir, this price is unacceptable. It doesn't even cover eighty percent of the product's cost. Let alone the danger of transporting it across the wastes."

Another narrowing of the tall man's eyes. "The amount stated is what you are going to get, Mister Abrams. I'm afraid the DERB doesn't haggle."

"Fuck the DERB then," Catherine said. "Bunch of selfish government assholes that couldn't care less about the people that look over if there isn't a profit in it for them anyway. We'd be better off selling to the Lost!"

"Cath!" Jones said rather abrupbtly. "Apologies, Mister Wilkes. I'm afraid my colleagues don't understand the intricate webs that are business. But, I'm afraid I can't accept this price. We lost someone this trip, and I can't afford to make it up if I can't get a profi-"

"This isn't business!" Catherine shouted over Jones. He winced, watching Wilkes calmly and coolly take the verbal abuse without even a word. "This is bullying! You fucking government assholes apparently aren't happy stealing from the poor people, aren't you? Now you gotta steal from the caravan runners too!"

Wilkes turned around, staring at Catherine. He closed his eyes for a moment before laughing. "Another dirty scavenger, voicing their opinion without even trying to make any sense. The DERB is an important factor to the reconstruction of society, and you anarchists can't even accept the fact that this world is no longer the hell that it used to be."

"Yeah, only because everyone is too fucking poor to afford air to breathe, nevertheless rebel or anything," Catherine continued. "We're not buying at that price, so take your fucking self-righteousness and shove it up your ass."

Wilkes stared for a few more seconds, his face only having a slight hint of anger to it. "Then you can find a different buyer, the DERB will refuse to do business with anarchist rats." Jones opened his mouth to reply as the man stood up to leave,but was cut short by Dave.

"Ya know... Those Avant Garde people were offering a damn good deal on supplies up at Heartwood when I was last there. Much more than these DERB guys," he said, directing his statement at Jones, pointedly ignoring the official.

The tall man stopped in his tracks, letting out a groan. "I might be able to change the deal, a bit. Not that it has anything to do with Avant Garde, of course. Only out of the kindness of my heart." The words had a tinge of sickness to them, as if Wilkes had trouble saying them.

He walked back up to the desk. "We can change it to... about seven hundred and fifty. How does that sound?" Jones' eyes lit up as he grinned. "Of course, we accept. I thank you humbly for the kind business you offer us."

Wilkes sighed, "Right, right. I'll have people unload the supplies and give you your money. I will take my leave... and make sure to keep your pets outside next time." Catherine stuck her tongue out at the man as he left in a brazen display of her immense maturity.

Jones laid his head on the desk as the man left the room, groaning. "Like I said, either the greatest haggler known to man, or the one with the least amount of sanity. That guy."

"'That guy' is still right here, you know," Dave replied indignantly.

"Yes, and you're a good liar as well. You know as well as I do there aren't any Avant Garde in Heartwood," Catherine replied.

Dave just shrugged. "So, how 'bout that make-out sessio- Ow!" He replied, interrupted by a slap across the face. "Sensitive, much?" he added, rubbing his cheek.

"Why are you following me around? And answer without the smarm," said Catherine.

Dave just shrugged. "Curiousity?"

Catherine just sighed with disgust. "Don't just use my previous answers back at me. How come you're also so damn calm and smarmy about everything as well?"

Again, Dave just shrugged. "I dunno."

Jones held up his two hands like little puppets. He then mashed their faces together, making smooching sounds.

Both Catherine and Dave looked at Jones; Catherine with a glare, and Dave with amusement. "Yeah, that's it," Dave said. "I must be smitten with the chains of love!"

Catherine just replied, "What."

Jones continued with his little play, making the puppets engage in some rather unmentionable acts of love. He even added the sounds and everything.

Catherine turned around and hit her head against the wall. "I hate you both."

"You seem to hate a lot of things," Dave added. "I'm half tempted to stick around just to tease you. Anyway, I have my own places to go," Dave said. "I'll be seeing you around."

"Thank God, you're finally leaving," Catherine replied.

"You're very nice to the person that gave you a raise and saved your employer," Dave said with a wink, before walking out of the office.

"He's right, you know," Jones said, grinning with amusement. "Well, as much as I like the office, I think its also time for us to go. I'd like to have the caravan moving out before noon, so I'd prefer if we got on the road. I'd also like to get out of this damn DERB zone. Buncha no-good beaurocratic government asshats," he said, with finality.

"Exactly!" replied Catherine.

[Fat Boy Kyle]

Lucius Fairfax

Lucius stood at the large daunting gates, looking out into the wilderness ahead. His rucksack straps dug into his shoulders, his polished machete sat holstered on his belt, and his left hand gripped his shield tightly. The gate guards all stared at him with cold eyes, waiting for him to leave so they could close the gate back up. He looked around and could see some citizens whispering and pointing, their faces showing more concern than anything else. He had the urge to explain to the familiar faces what was happening and to say goodbyes, if only to delay his departure. That was clearly not an option though. “Mr. Fairfax if you do not leave immediately we are under orders to fire upon you!” stated a guard in a rather matter-of-fact way, as if Lucius’ life held absolutely no value.

With a sigh Lucius marched out of the gates and into the big wide desolate world. He did not look back nor let his pace drop, even when he heard the large gates close behind him. This was the first time he had left the zone in years and now there was no squad or team at his side. He was alone… and it was the worst pain he had felt in years. Even at just a few hundred yards away. He felt his insides tense and twist nervously whilst his tear ducts began to swell. He knew he was being weak though, and thus with a grunt he buried his emotions and continued forward.

His task was the most important thing now. This murderer in the East. It had been seventeen years since the world went to shit, but before that Lucius had been a detective and a damn good one. Hunting down murderers and criminals was what he was best at even if his skills had been dormant for so long. The trail would be hard to follow though. He had little to no leads, no support, little knowledge of the east, and was technically banished from DERB outposts. He would need to track down some old friends at one point but for now he needed to head to some shit-pit called ‘Asylum’.

[The Red Zephyr]

Marry's Knockers was the perfect stereotype of a pub in a seedy town. The place was bustling with travelers, mercenaries, and locals all looking for something. Some came for a night of debauchery, while others came to trade goods and information for bluebacks. The plethora of noises, ranging from drunken attempts to woo the waitresses to the incoherent singing of patrons, served as a perfect veil to keep the quieter guests' activities--be them for business or pleasure--discreet. Azra and her companions were there for the former type of activity. They needed information. The cell hers had been working with had been completely wiped out, and the result of their mission was unconfirmed. The group had been sent to Asylum as something akin to diplomats. Despite their growing presence in the Legus area, the Vanguards were desperately short on resources and outposts. Very few settlements wished to become mixed up with conflict against the DERB, and the ones that would harbor Vanguards had little to offer. Asylum on the other hand was a massive bazaar with plenty of imported resources and more than enough places to shelter agents: A perfect base for the Avant-Garde to hide in plain sight. Azra couldn't help but feel anxious. No matter how many people there were in the tavern, she got the feeling she and her company stuck out like sore thumbs. They weren't sure exactly who had killed their comrades earlier, and their contact was nearly an hour late. The man sitting on Azra's left side stretched out in his wooden chair, as if to exclaim "I'm bored" to the rest of the group. He had jet-black hair in a crew cut that formed into a short beard, and wore what used to be DERB attire with the rank and name patches torn off. "This is getting to be a pain," he said nonchalantly, taking a look around the crowded bar. "Think the Derps know what's up? Yura's cell was taken out by pros." "This contact's never failed me before Jeremy," the other woman in the cell, Kara, said to him. She stretched and turned her body side-to-side then brushed a lock of her golden hair from her face. Obviously she was sick of sitting as well. "She's not dumb enough to get caught by those soldier-boys. She'll be here." Her word's were sure, but her tone of concern betrayed them. "Whatever you say." Jeremy rolled his eyes. As they waited, Azra periodically glanced to her right at Derrick, who was still torn up about the death of Yura's cell. Her group and Azra's had been the only ones he had the chance to work with in the Avant Garde, and despite the kid's brashness he fit in pretty well. Azra was fairly sure Derrick had taken a particular liking to the cell's leader too. "So how ya holding up?" Jeremy asked the young man, apparently noticing Azra's concern. Derrick, leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, appearing to be detached. Although he had insisted to be left alone, his posture and mannerisms gave Azra the impression that he was actually looking for attention. "I'm fine," he replied curtly. Why does he have to be such a brat? "Saying you're fine doesn't mean much when your cheeks are still red from tears," Azra mocked, lightly punching the side of the young man's head. "Ow," Derrick overreacted, much to Kara and Jeremy's amusement. He shot Azra a sharp glare before turning the other way with his arms crossed once again. Could he be any more angsty? In contrast to the rest of the group's lightheartedness, the cell leader--a larger man by the name of Baxter--was brooding impatiently with his elbows on the table. He hadn't said a word for about half-an-hour: It was obvious he was affected just as much as--if not more than--Derrick was by the sudden attack. Baxter was a somewhat unusual leader. Normally, a leader is thought of as the most charismatic or decisive of the group, but he was probably the quietest and most likely to overthink things in the cell. Perhaps what made him a leader was the constant air of intensity around him. His mind seemed to always be on the mission and he almost never joked around like the rest of his cell. It demanded a certain level of respect, if not fear sometimes. Most people outside of his team saw him as very gruff and unlikeable, while Azra and the others very clearly saw that he was always looking out for them. "For real though," Jeremy spoke again, "This is gettin' to be a waste of time. I know a couple people here. Gimme a few hours and I can probably dig up any info Kara could-" As if on cue, a hooded woman abrutply seated herself next to Jeremy. "I'm late. Why did you wait so long for me?" she interrogated. Her voice held a mixture of exasperation and exhaustion. "You came, didn't you?" Kara avoided the question. "One of my best informants was killed today." Jill, the contact they had been waiting for, was an information broker. Most of her informants were local prostitutes and waitresses in Asylum's many 'establishments'. As a Vanguard sympathizer, she often provided passing cells with information at a discount, but she always shared with Baxter's team free of charge. It seemed like she and Kara knew each other very well. "My girls are all able to handle themselves against violent idiots, especially Cassandra. But whoever killed her was some kind of professional: He slit her client's throat before torturing then stabbing her to death. They must have been trying to squeeze info out of her, which means they might know about me. I had to get the word out to as many of my girls as possible, then take the long way here." "Cassandra," Kara muttered to herself. "Anyway," Baxter piped up, trying to change the subject, "What do you have for us?" Jill quickly drew out a small writing tablet from her back pocket, then flipped about halfway through. Azra thought it a bit strange that she didn't just use a USD, since they were much better at organizing information, but she never questioned it. "There's been barely any DERB movement in town for the last week." Relief swept over the table. At the very least, DERB was not privy to the deal they were making with the Asylum. Azra wasn't so relieved though. If raiders had attacked Yura's cell, there would have at least been some casualties on the other side. Plus, minimal supplies were taken and most of them had been killed by the same blade. The intent had to have been assassination. "But there are plenty of mercenaries, right?" Azra asked the broker. "I was just getting to that," Jill answered. "Asylum probably makes half its profit from traveling mercenaries and traders looking for R&R. It wouldn't be too hard for DERB to hire an assassin here. Of course, those jobs don't come cheap." "But there was a group," Azra interrupted. "They had a horse that was shot and at least two guns." "Hm." Jill thought for a moment before scribbling something in her pad. "Probably Voyagers. They've damn near monopolized on horses these days to keep their mercs mobile." She paused again before flipping forward a few pages. "A group of six came into town a few days ago, then left earlier today. And it looks like they weren't far behind your buddies." Voyagers, huh? Azra thought to herself. He was always going on about joining up with mercenaries. He said we'd made a lot more blues if we weren't just a couple of freelancing kids. "Do you know where they were going?" "You said they lost their horse right? They might have come back into town if that's the case. I still have a couple informants to check up on, so I can't say for sure." "What about Wetty? Do you know if Yura's team struck a deal with him?" Baxter asked. "Wetty's a thug, but he's not dumb. He has a soundproofed room for business conversation. Plus," Jill paused for a moment, looking down regretfully. "Plus Cassandra was my informant at Wetty's." The table was quiet for a moment. Everyone was all thinking the same thing: "What a bag of worms," Jeremy sighed, stretching in his chair once again.

[jumjummju]

"Ugh!" Catherine groaned rather loudly. At the moment, both she and Nova were currently leaning against a wall on the third floor, in some kind of pre-apocalyptic game room complete with a billiards table (that unfortunately had no balls or cues, having been looted). They had been essentially kicked out of the discussion Jones was having with the new guy, apparently because talking about using unfortunately phallus-shaped tropical fruit as a way to practice Nova's apparent profession was too inappropriate. Also, Catherine's track record for helping Jones when it comes to business discussions wasn't very good either. "Aw, cheer up!" said Nova in her sing-song voice. Before she could say more, Catherine interjected. "If you're trying to get me to hire you again, I'm still itchy down there, so no." "You're no fun," Nova replied, mock-offended. At that point another member of the caravan, a young adult that was short for his age named Jeremy, walked into the room with his hunting rifle strapped onto his back. It almost seemed comically large for someone his size. He nervously tried stammering something, before eventually just holding out a small stack of ten blues with the most embarrassed look on his face. "I think he wants to hire you," Catherine exaggeratedly whispered to Nova in such a way that made the poor guy blush even harder. Nova just laughed, and cooed "Come along, then," running her hand across Jeremy's chin flirtatiously and grabbing the money out of his hand in one swift motion as the two dissapeared out of the room to go find somewhere with some privacy. Now that Catherine was alone, she lamented that her only friend at the moment was a prostitute. And possibly Dave, but calling him a "friend" of Catherine's was really stretching the definition. Eventually, she got bored of just standing in an empty room, and being the antisocial type she didn't really feel like finding other members of the caravan to chat with, nor did she really want to walk in on Nova. She decided on leaving the building and taking a look through the nearby buildings, or what remained of them, in an attempt to earn her keep as the scavenger of the crew, despite the freezing rain. On the way out the door, Catherine saw Jim still reading that porno mag of his as she pulled up her hood and bandana. She shook her head ruefully before taking a step out into the rain. It didn't take too long before she felt the cool dampness permeate through her jacket, even if it was a decently thick one. Regardless, she made her way over to what appeared to be the rubble of a very old home. Two of the walls were still standing, and the other two had sunken in. However, they were still in one piece, making it look more like the house was a victim of a stroke and now was half paralyzed. The door wasn't even attached in the frame anymore, as the frame was bent into a wonky triangle, barely large enough for Catherine to climb in. It was dark enough inside that Catherine had to pull out her flashlight, which was a rather large and thick one that had a surprisingly large battery life, the kind a police officer would use. It was one of the few higher-quality objects she possessed, as any scavenger would know that a flashlight can very easily be the difference between life or getting mauled to death in the dark. Fittingly, she carried it similar to how a policeman would; reverse-grip and with her hand close to the light. Seeing as food was one of the largest commodities, the first place she went was into the kitchen. As she expected, all the places where people normally kept food - the fridge, cupboards, etc. - had already been looted. However, Catherine might not be a lot of things, but she was thorough. She started pulling at the top of the fridge, attempting to pull it over so that she could check behind it, hoping that there might be a can of food or a half-full salt shaker that was dropped behind it way back in the days that it was easier to just buy a new one of you couldn't be bothered to go looking for it. She eventually succeeded in pulling over the fridge, and managed to catch a glimpse at what appeared to be a small plastic container mostly full with Oregano before the fridge outright crashed straight through the kitchen floor into the basement, with Catherine swiftly following it. She tumbled over in mid-air and landed on top of the fridge on her back, the wind being knocked out of her and her flashlight skidding across the ground and ending up in the corner of the basement, pointing towards the center. The floor and walls were boring, cold concrete and the only "furniture" in the room was what appeared to be a boiler to heat water with off in the far corner, but that wasn't what caught her eyes. Just barely coming into view of the flashlight from the wall next to it was a small group of three lost, and behind them appeared to be a somewhat decent pile of canned goods and some water. The lost seemed to consist of an older woman, an older man, and a young boy, all of which seemed to belong to the same family. This led Catherine to the conclusion that they were a family that tried to hunker in the basement with a bunch of supplies in the hopes of waiting out the apocalypse, or at least the beginnings of it, but they unfortunately became Lost before they could leave, probably due to prior contact with one of the hailstones. Of course, Catherine came to this conclusion at a later time, as her thoughts at this current moment were "Oh, fuck." The group of lost hissed viciously at her and ran towards her. Catherine quickly rolled off the fridge away from the lost and tried to land on her feet, but got her foot caught on a piece of what used to be the kitchen floor and fell back down, smacking her head against the concrete wall. Dazed, Catherine pulled out her revolver as she shuffled to better position herself and aimed it at the father of the lost, who was the first to jump onto the fridge Catherine had just been on. She took a potshot at him and missed his head by three feet to the left. The father then leapt straight at her, and in a last ditch effort she took another shot as he was closing in, managing to get extraordinarily lucky and catch him in the head with the bullet. His still-flying corpse crashed into her regardless and laid over top her right side, crushing her right arm against a plank of wood rather painfully; she could also feel a nail or screw digging into her forearm. The mother and son both opted to run around the fridge and were now coming to bear. Catherine managed to position the corpse of the father in between herself and the mother, using it as a sort of shield to block her, and barely managed to grab the son (who was thankfully rather small and light) by the throat with her free hand. She crushed as hard as she could with her left hand, hardening her fingers into miniature spikes and attempting to claw the kid's throat out, but by this time the mother had pulled the corpse of the father off Catherine and was now biting Catherine's right arm that she tried to block with and slicing Catherine's face with elongated claws on her hands. Catherine, her own "claws" deep into the neck of the little kid, pulled the kid towards the mother. She managed to crash the kid's head into the mother's hard enough to dislodge her temporarily, and when she pulled back the kid's throat gave out and she found herself with a handful of windpipe. The kid fell over to the floor before quickly choking on his own blood as Catherine pushed herself off the rubble she was lying on and stood to face the mother just in time for her to do one last suicide charge. Catherine sidestepped the mother and grabbed her, using the mother's momentum to propel her into the wall behind her, where she impaled her head straight through the cranium on an exposed piece of rebar. Catherine stepped back from the gruesome sight, attempting not to slip on the expanding pool of blood coming from the son's throat, and sat down on the fridge to catch her breath. Whether it was from the smell, the sight, or the adrenaline, Catherine leaned over and vomitted the granola bar she had earlier, and then some. She wiped her left hand off on her pants, leaving a bloody trail where there had already been dried blood from the many times she's had to use her left hand as a weapon, and shook the remaining bits of throat off. Her right arm was covered in bruises, there was a small but painful wound that wasn't bleeding much where she caught her hand on a screw and a larger wound where the mother had bit down. Her cheek was also bleeding where she had been clawed, and just in general she felt like a living embodiement of pain. After fishing out some disinfectant spray and some bandages out of her backpack that she got as part of the caravan should something like this happen, she fixed up her arm enough that she at least felt like she wouldn't immediately bleed to death before digging around the rubble for the revolver she dropped. She refilled the two bullets she fired and reholstered it, then went to retrieve her flashlight. Once she had everything all sorted out, she finally managed to get a good look at their stash. Disgustingly, there was the deceased body of what appeared to be a young girl, with most of her torso missing, presumably having been eaten by the lost she just fought. Now that she knew that the group had survived as lost for so long by presumably eating their own daughter, she felt sick to her stomach again and would've vomitted a second time if she had anything left. The pile of cans and bottled water was, as could be expected, partially used, however she still found a decent amount of unused food and water; about 8 cans and bottles of water, each, as well as a can opener. She put her justly deserved rewards into her backpack and went up the stairs to exit. Then she went back down the stairs, finding the door at the top barricaded by several wooden planks. She heard the house ominously creaking above her as she clambered back onto the fridge and tried climbing out the way she came in. It proved difficult, only having one uninjured arm, but she managed to heft herself out of the hole, thankfully without pulling even more of the kitchen down with her. A short walk back through the rain where she was able to clean some of the blood off her clothes and her hand, and she was back in the relative safety of the office building they had captured. Jim put his magazine down for a second to see who had just entered, a drastic improvement over the last time someone came in through the front door, and remarked, "You look like hell." "I feel like I'm in hell," Catherine replied, slowly trudging her way back up the stairs, with the intent to just go to bed and celebrate what she found when she didn't feel like curling into a ball and dying. ---------------------------------------------------------- Dave, on the other hand, was feeling pretty good at this point in time. He had been worried when he originally saw Catherine enter the house and heard a loud crash, as though the house had internally collapsed on her. Thankfully, she returned out of the house, and Dave breathed a sigh of relief. To anyone else, this would look like proof that Dave cared for Catherine. Unfortunately, it was far from it. Dave had been stalking the caravan since SZ Sigman, mostly just waiting for the right time to make his appearence. To Catherine and probably to the others, he probably just looked like some guy with an unrequited crush on Cath; which was what he was going for. In truth, however, he hated her. He hated how someone as dimwitted and unintelligent as Catherine of all people managed to get away with more or less robbing him, entirely due to the random group of scavengers that showed up out of the blue. Of course, he could just walk up and shoot her, but that'd be too easy. Dave took a sick, perverse pleasure in worming his way into the trust of his victims. He figured that with enough time, he could eventually get into her good graces with his rather "convenient timing" and ability to drop in and help her out seemingly out of the blue, and for almost no reward. Maybe she'll eventually come to see him as a guardian angel, or a friend, or maybe she'll even develop a crush on him! It'd only make it all the sweeter when he'd eventually turn the tables on her. He still wasn't entirely sure what he'd do when he did this. Rape and murder wasn't his style; he was at least truthful about that. He figured he'd settle on taking everything she owned and leaving, probably while also ripping off that Jones guy while he was at it, too. Then maybe he'd retire on back to Asylum with his ill-gotten goods. But now wasn't the time to show up again. Maybe he'll make a reappearence soon. But for now, he was fine just waiting, and watching.