Captain Jenno — Roleplayer Guild

[RUNNERS]
"Oh God..."
"I'm so sorry."
"Is it just us left? In the wreckage of the world?"
"STAY AWAY FROM ME"

Relentless dark had given way to mauve morning, as across the thickening cloud canopy that hung above, lilac crept across grey and brought with it daylight. 
But it was not the promising gleam of the Spring sun in which New London basked, bathed in (ironically quite) autumnal shades of yellow and gold: Instead, the city lingered within the overarching shadow of a brewing cloudburst, a storm in-waiting, invisible in the starless night but clear now for the few citizens who retained the ability to gaze skywards. 

He awoke gasping, wheezing as his chest rattled hollowly, and his feline eyes snapped open, haunted by the glaze of a night terror's haze. 
His heart was thundering, but he was barely aware, distracted instead by the stinging of brewing tears and the stentorian rush of blood pounding hurriedly through his head. 
In his panic, he reached out to brush something- anything- and drew his hand back fruitless. 
He whimpered pathetically, between choked breaths, his fingertips tracing the coarse texture of the uncarpeted floor beneath, probing. 
It took a few moments before he could muster the mental clarity to try again, this time overextending his reach only slightly, and straining his shoulder as he brushed the smooth, cool steel of his very own limbs, removed in the night for safety, and shunted to arms length in his frenzied awakening. 

He hurried, pulling his stilts near and hugging them to his chest, the kiss of cold bleeding through his shirt. 
Soothing him.
He panted for a few moments, exhaling deeply and shakily. 
Then, when he'd gathered himself, he inhaled again, and sat shakily up. His eyes, moist now but unwilling to let an actual tear fall, focused into the blur of daybreak. 
"Morning," he whispered quietly, although he couldn't see who it was he'd decided to address, "If you're still awake, I mean."

Perhaps it was years of experience aiding her ears, telling her brain exactly what to listen for to know when someone else was in distress; perhaps it was just the nerves and the knowledge of what was coming -- or rather, the lack of it. But the moment his gasps replaced the still silence of the morning, Eva's drooping eyelids had snapped wide open, the fog in her brain clearing instantly. 

Her first instinct was to search for threats outside. Bracing her hands against the sill of the window, she leaned out as far as she could, scanning the ground and the nearby buildings for any sign of movement. It took a moment for her to register the fact that the sounds were coming from within the building, directly behind her. 

Sighing lightly, she rubbed her hand over her face as her brow creased in worry. She didn't have to look to know who it was. 

Turning, she planted both feet solidly on the floor, a small frown resting on her face as she watched Church pull his stilts to his chest and struggle for breath. She contemplated pretending to be asleep for a moment, but shook her head at the thought. She wasn't the type to try and spare someone's pride -- well, at least not his.

As he finally pushed himself into an upright position, she stood and padded over quietly, careful to keep her footfalls as silent as she could. With another quiet sigh, she took a seat beside him, reaching out to place her hand lightly on his shoulder. 

"Morning yourself," She greeted softly, matching his volume. "Did you at least get some rest, or did you manage to botch up something as simple as that?" Her words were teasing, but her tone betrayed her barely-concealed worry. As she spoke, her fingers were automatically moving to massage the tense muscles in his shoulder and arm, the way some of the older runners used to do with her when she was younger. 

Churchill felt his cheeks flaring up, not with embarrassment but instead with shame. 
Having been witnessed as he was, he felt as though, on some deep, fundamental level, he had revealed himself as weak. 
Roark was by no means the perfect stencil on which to base any Sector Leader, but if Churchill remembered him for anything, it was his seemed indestructibility even when he was at his weakest. 

He glanced away, his face hot and his eyes floorwards-bound, as he dropped his stilts to the floor with a clatter. 
Why had he clutched THEM of all things? He supposed in a way they completed him, but they hardly made for a soft reassurance. 

"I slept fine," he murmured, face shielded by some unkempt rivulets of glossy brown. A bead of sweat ran from his forehead to his neck, and he manouvered uncomfortably beneath Eva's fingers, although he didn't voice any opposition. 
Admittedly, in part, this was because he feared his voice might quiver.
He steeled himself a short while, before daring to speak again, "How was your watch." 
He said it deadpan, monotone, restrained as though any extra exertion would cause his vocals to snap or quiver. 
"Uneventful I hope."

"Boring as all hell," Eva let the corner of her mouth quirk upwards slightly as she chuckled. She was tempted to reach up and start...well, fussing over him. The motherly instinct she seemed to always be either gifted or cursed with was practically screaming at her, telling her to smooth down his hair, straighten his shirt, brush the tears from his eyes...

It was likely she'd come back with a few fingers less if she even tried it, though, so she kept her hands where they were. 

"I didn't even see any cats. So unfair," She murmured, the smile dropping from her face as he refused to look at her. "...Hey," Deciding to drop the act, she captured his chin in her fingers and forced him to look her way. "You okay?" 

He made a noise of deep, gutteral discomfort, like a fox cornered or a wildcat threatened, and it became immediately obvious that his body was locking up in such a way that- had it been anyone else- he might've shunted them away with all of his force.
But he restrained himself, visibly, and exhaled. 
"I'm fine," he eventually replied, with hard eyes and harder pronounciations. 
"I just..." he began, before his head grew heavier in her hand, "It's nothing. I'm fine. Stop worrying."
He forced a thoroughly unconvincing smile, teeth gritted uncomfortably, although that might've been due to Eva's grip.
"Just slept rough. That's all."

Eva held his gaze for a moment, eyes narrowed as she scrutinized him. Finally, she released him, but twisted herself so that she was sitting directly in front of him. 

"...Church," Her voice was low and level. "What we're doing today...every single one of us needs to be at our very best. I've always got your back, you know I do, but you're our leader. None of us knows what to expect out there -- it might be the easiest mission in the world, it might be chaos, but they're going to be looking to you for answers. So you need to be straight with me right now -- are we going to have a problem?"

"God, you're treating it like I just woke up missing an arm or something..." he muttered, straightening up and sliding lightly out of his sleeping bag, until his torso was visible. He pressed himself against the wall.
"It was just a night terror... that's all," he explained, although he did so with wandering eyes that rested at Eva's feet for fear of otherwise making eyecontact, "Ask Marina, ask Klaus, I have them often enough. They're just..." 
He trailed off. 
"... more intense lately. That's it. Just... more intense. It's nothing. It's stupid. I'm fine."

Blinking slowly, Eva raised her eyebrows in a way that said she was taking absolutely none of his shit. 

"...Okay," Sighing, she scooted forward just far enough so that she could take both of his hands in her own. "I'm going to ask you to do something right now. Stay calm -- it'll be rough. It'll be excrutiatingly painful for us both. There's very little chance that we won't both walk away from this experience scarred forever...are you ready?"

He eyed her skeptically, as if he was expecting a right hook at any moment. He arched a suspicious brow.
"... not really, no," he admitted, tone slightly more lively, although not exceptionally so, "I'm scared. You're scaring me. Why're you acting like this? Are you going to say something nice because I don't think my heart could handle it."

"Won't that be the day?" With a scoff, Eva rolled her eyes before giving his hands a tight squeeze. "No, no, it's much worse than that. I'm going to ask you..." She trailed off for a moment, taking a dramatically deep breath. "To talk about feelings." As the word excaped her lips, she gave a small shudder, wrenching her hands away as if the mere thought burned. 

The colour immediately drained from his face, leaving a complexion which had boasted of the mildest sun in a state of total white.
He stared at her with disillusionment, "Wait. You have feelings?", he narrowed his brow, "Wait, you think I...?"
He fell silent, and quickness overtook his features.
"Actually, uh, I-I don't, I..." he stumbled awkwardly, "I don't have those," he tried, weakly, "Th-They uh, they give you an operation when you become a Sector Leader, see... that's why Maggie is such a stonecold..." he trailed awkwardly off. 

"That..." Glancing down, Eva brought her hand to her chin thoughtfully. "Actually explains so much." Laughing slightly, she leaned back so that her arms could hold all of her weight behind her, and dropped the act. Taking a deep breath through the nose, she gave him the warmest smile she could muster up under the circumstances. 

"Church, how long have we known each other for?"

Church hesitated at this. The Runners had some rudimentary method of keeping the date, based off of old calendars and conjectures based on solstaces, but Churchill had never paid fierce attention to them. 
He'd always had bigger things to worry about than New Year, after all.
Still, on some instinctive level he knew this: He remembered because he'd been 11 when he'd arrived in Sundown, and... for a period, Eva had been his only friend.

"It must be eight years now," he settled, "Right? Eight years... I remember, we met when we were stupid kids."
He paused.
"Not much has changed there, I suppose."

"Including the fact that you don't have to put on airs around me. I still remember the night you arrived at Sundown, you know. I've seen you at your lowest, when you were battered and broken and had nothing left to lose. And I've watched you grow, and survive against all odds. I don't want you to ever doubt the fact that I have so much respect for you. You can be...annoying...at times," The way she glanced up was enough to imply that she had several other choice words dancing on the tip of her tongue, but she bit them down before they had a chance to escape. "But you're incredible, all right? Look at all you've done in those eight years. Look at where we are." 

Leaning forward again, she reached out to grab his shoulders, giving him a gentle shake. 

"Nobody is invincible, so stop trying to be. You know I trust you, and nothing you say could possibly change my mind. You're the leader, I get it, you can't show doubt or weakness or whatever -- but the team's asleep. You don't have to be a leader, not right now. We're not 'Church and Eva, Leader and Second-In-Command of Sector V' we're just 'Church and Eva'. If you've got something on your mind, now's the time to say it. I'm always going to be your friend before I'm your second-in-command, and I will leave you black and blue if you ever have the nerve to forget that." 

Churchill chewed on this a moment, breathing rhythmically as slowly he came fully into waking lucidness. 
Then he nodded, and reached out slowly, resting his hands on her shoulders. 
"Eva..." he began, voice quiet, voice tame, "Eva... there's something I should tell you. Something I've been meaning to tell you for a long, long time."
He paused, and lingered there a spell, thinking how best to word the sentiment. 
"... Eva. Eva..." he began, uncertainly, "... I'm pregnant and you're the father." 

He stared at her for a long moment, eyes unwavering, expression rigid and firm. 
Then, he cracked a light smile, crooked as the day was long and the Gunner was mischievous.
He squeezed her shoulders lightly.
"It was just a nightmare... really. Just a nightmare," he laughed weakly, "Bad enough I have to put up with you in daylight without having night terrors too, isn't it?"
He shook her lightly, jovially,"I appreciate the sentiment and speech, herr admiral, but... I'm fine. Or at least, what's wrong is at a level I can't quite get at."

He stroked her shoulders a moment- in part applying pressure just so she couldn't up and punch him- and then withdrew his hands, raising them defensively. 
"I'm not gonna go breaking down on the battlefield, don't you worry. My job is to break other people, first."

The muscles in Eva's face twitched warningly as Church joked, as did the ones in her hands. As tempting as it was to just whack him, though, she couldn't help cracking a grin right back at him. Shaking her head, she simply massaged her temples and let out a mild sound of indignation. 

"You bet your ass, it is..." Drawing a deep breath in through the nose, she finally decided to let the issue rest, instead turning her attention to their sleeping teammates. "Well, we're good and awake, and the sun's getting there. We should probably head out before too much time passes..." Her voice trailed off and she chewed on her lip contemplatively. Just a quick glance at everyone's faces was enough to show that they were all still exhausted -- she felt guilty just thinking about waking them up. "I don't want to cut their rest short any more than we have to, though. They're gonna need it."

Churchill nodded, drawing his knees up to his chest- which looked mighty uncomfortable, as it left the limp, empty legs of his tartan shorts hanging in the air below like curtains over an unsealed window- and reaching with one arm for his stilts again. 
As he did so, he peered over Eva's shoulder, and then frowned, thoughtfully. 
"Looks like rain," he observed tepidly, as though the very thought drained what little enthusiasm he could garner, "... If it's all the same with you, I want you middling the party in case one of the newbies slips."
He grabbed one stilt, and brought it slowly over to himself. He gestured to Eva with it, "You catch them."
Then he carefully unfolded the left leg of his shorts, and slid his stilt up into the space. He fumbled for a moment to clasp it properly around its stump, before suddenly jerking it to the left, and again to the right. 
He winced slightly: The years had done nothing to deaden the nerves. 
Then he- without even needing to look- tightened and tied the corrosponding leather straps to ensure his stability.

He grabbed his second stilt, gesturing to himself this time, and smiling vaguely, "And I'll catch you," he repeated the process with his second leg. 
"And Marina, most likely." 

"Yeah, you got it," Glancing out the window nervously, Eva brought her thumb to her mouth, nibbling at the nail. There wasn't much left to nibble at -- most of her nails had already been bitten down to the beds overnight, but it was a tough habit to get rid of. "...let's hope it doesn't come to that." Falling was a subject she rarely took lightly. At least being closer to the ground meant they didn't have far to fall -- it could make all the difference between a rough tumble and a death sentence. 

"You look shaken," he cocked his head, furrowing his brow, "Hell, more than I do. What's gotten you nervous?" 

"...Just trying to figure out whether you'd actually catch us, or just help us down..." She was trying to joke, but was having a difficult time getting the words out. Shaking her head, she just sighed and waved him off. "I'll catch them. If someone falls, I'll catch them." It was hard to tell if she was making that promise to him, or herself. "In any case, are we still heading down in a line, or do you want to start mixing up the formation a bit?"

"Line. I want to be the first to touch the ground," he explained, "If we're cut off or ambushed at the bottom, I've the capacity to jump back onto a fire escape or something. That's not an opportunity you 'normies' get," he jested lightly, patting the marked metal of his legs, "Plus, I'm hoping for a whole 'one small step for man' sort of thing," he added in a tone jovial, "One small step for cyborg. One giant leap for stilt kind."

"Shall I be in charge of providing the adequately dramatic soundtrack?" She chuckled. "Well, don't let us get in the way of your moment of glory -- I just wish we had some way to document it." 

Bracing her hands on her knees, she finally pushed herself up onto her feet again, but remained bent at the waist, offering a hand to Church. 

"So who should we have in the back, then? I'd prefer to keep our newbies in the center -- Acacia and Kenna don't have much combat experience, so I want them somewhere that we can easily protect if things go south. Either Klaus or Marina should probably take up the rear...honestly, I'd like for it to be Klaus, but Marina'll probably throw a fit if we don't phrase it right. I'm not too worried about Henry or Mel -- they've both shown they're pretty competent out in the field. No matter what, we shouldn't be spread as far out as we were on the way down."

"God, Klaus Hoffen watching V's behind? There's a risky move... Ivie would have our heads on a platter in a fit of jealousy," he chuckled lightheartedly, coming into his own as day bled slowly into the building. The fire had long died, and it was only now that the room was truly brightening to any significant degree.
"She'd sense it, I'm sure of it. All of his little fans would, they've got this sixth Hoffen sense."
He lingered on this thought for a few seconds, and then nodded sagely, as though he'd just said the most sensible thing in the world, "I think I'd prefer Klaus to stay in our middle, too, and escort the new ones. Marina can be just behind them- don't tell her, but I'm grouping her with them a little bit- and Mel and Henry can both pull up the flank. If Klaus is just behind you, and I'm just ahead, I think we've got a stable situation."

Eva thought it over for a moment, bringing up a mental image of the formation, before nodding in agreement. 

"Sounds like a pretty good set up. Which really just leaves us with one more question, I guess -- what are we most likely to find down there, and how are we gonna deal with it?"

"I'm sorry to even have to say it, but I honestly don't know. They won't be Omega, that's for sure... and if the rumours about the Runner Hunters down here are true, they might even be worse," he admitted. 
Church contemplated this thought a moment.
"But judging from the quiet night we've had, we can at least count on The Omega not running in and botching the operation." 
Then, he turned to meet Eva's eyes, and offered her a smile, tired but sincere, "But we'll make it through. Between you and me we've just about got a good head on our shoulders," he laughed, before- finally- taking Eva's hand and getting to his "feet."
"Whatever's waiting for us, we've just got to keep moving ahead."

"I'm holding you to that," Eva smiled back as he stood. "You're right, of course...I just hate going in blind. At least we know what we're dealing with when the Omegas are involved, or even the Specters...sort of. Actually, sometimes I think even the Specters don't know what they're dealing with, but you know what I mean." She pinched the bridge of her nose with a sigh, aware that she was rambling. 

"These guys'll know the territory better than us...it's plausible that they might have sentries set up, traps, ambushes. I don't want any of us getting separated or splitting up, at least not until we have a better idea of exactly what we're dealing with. If they have weaponry, firearms even, how are we going to counter that? We have to have at least some semblance of a plan, Church, just humor me for a bit -- imagine the worst case scenario." 

"Worst case scenario..." he muttered, thinking aloud. He brought his hand to his chin, rubbing the spot where Eva had gripped him earlier.
"I'm always going to be ten paces ahead. Worst case scenario, the moment I go down you're to shepherd the rest of V back up to Sundown on the double, and don't stop until you see the drawbridge. When you get there, ask for Sector X. Understand?" 

Nothing could have masked the expression that took hold of Eva's face as soon as he had spoken the words. 

Like hell I will, She wanted to tell him. Get someone else to do it, I'm sticking with you no matter what happens.

But she had asked for the worst case scenario, and that was, without a doubt, the worst case scenario. She did understand. She didn't want to, but she did -- she had just as much responsibility as he did when it came to their team. Out there, she couldn't be selfish. She couldn't be the friend, she had to be the second-in-command, the one that would step in if their fearless leader were to fall.

She just hoped she would be able to remember it if the situation presented itself. 

She hoped to God it wouldn't. 

"I...y-yeah..." She frowned, her brow pulling together in concern. It was a hell of a climb back up to Sundown -- if they had to make it while being chased...it would be chaos. She'd have decide whether to try and keep all of them together or have them split apart, everyone would be too preoccupied to concentrate on not taking in too much oxygen, people could stumble, people could fall...she couldn't catch that many people. If that happened, there was no telling how many people they might lose -- how small would Sector V be by the time they could ask for Sector X? 

Worst case scenario. 
Suddenly, Eva wasn't just nervous -- she was terrified. 

"I understand."

There was no regret in Churchill's expression, no fear or concern: His expression was that of a man at peace, somebody who'd made their decisions a long time ago.
He squeezed Eva's hand lightly.
"It's what needs to be done. No angst, no cynicism. I know if the time comes you'll make the right choice, and you'll make a damned good replacement, too."
He paused.
"Just try not to pick such an annoying second-in-command next time, alright?"

"Don't you talk about this like it's already happened," She growled, squeezing his hand back. It wasn't a light or reassuring gesture; it was desperate, a way of proving that he was there, solid, standing next to her -- a way of keeping him there. It wasn't squeezing, so much as crushing, honestly. "That's the worst case, remember?" 

He became immediately troubled by her concern, and reached out with his other hand to stroke the back of hers lightly.
"Of course it's the worst case scenario, Eva. Relax, you're still stuck with me for now."
He patted her hand gently, as if to emphasise his presence, "See? Not the ghost of Gunner," he smiled.
"Everything's going to be fine. Of course it is, we're Sector V. Alright?"

"It should be illegal for someone to be so optimistic -- and you're calling me annoying? Hmph..." 

Stuck with me for now, he says it so casually, For now... 

"As far as anyone else is concerned, I never said this, alright?" Taking a slow step forward, leaned forward, hesitantly, in small starts and stops, until finally her forehead bonked lightly against his chest. It was not fair for a person to be so tall, but in this situation, she was grateful -- she couldn't possibly meet his eyes. 

"I'm scared." Her voice came out as a hoarse whisper, barely any louder than the sound of her own breathing. 

Toned arms coiled around her form, pulling her softly, embracing her warmly. 
He didn't say anything, he just held her there lightly, rhythmically stroking her back as he let out long, calm breaths. 
When he spoke, his voice was calm and soft, almost fatherly.
"I know," he said simply, and that was all that needed saying. 'It's alright' hovered in the air afterwards, invisible and inaudible. 
He didn't need to tell her everything would be okay, they'd known each other long enough that some sentiments went without saying.
"I know...", he cooed again, "We both are."

[OMEGA]
Bloodshot morning broke just as quickly as overbearing night, suffusing through the bleak, starless Spring sky that seemed to linger above The Cage annually, taking the light of the sky away come March's advent, and restoring it only once the month had past.
"Our penance," Cromwell had once called it, "Even God has closed his eyes on us."

And it was under this same sky, its canvas tinted a vermillion red, flanked at all sides by a fading mauve, that Dom received his rude awakening... to the uneven, quivering tune of The Alpha's threnody. 
Like wolves they clambered up the bars of their cages, writhing and wrestling with the iron that protected them from the world... and the world, from them.
And like wolves they gnashed their teeths, and howled mournfully as dawn reminded them of the lives they'd once lived walking under the sun. 

But Dom probably didn't have time to ponder this in detail, the nature of man and the beast that lived within his head...
Because Dom was late, Dom was very, very late.

------

The wails of those gone mad still echoed in Dom's mind as he calmly made his way to see the other Elders. Despite knowing the extent of his lateness, Dom was not a man taken to rushing, and so he went on with the same non-chalant pace he seemed to always maintain. And it was with such character that the ghost approached his fellow Elders, for they had all congregated well beforehand, under the shadow of their own crooked monument. Another testament to a long forgotten sanity. He pondered it a moment, before pressing on. Few guards stood watch over such meetings, for the sake of secrey, and for the fact that each Elder was a martial powerhouse unto themselves, why would they have need of guards? And who would be so foolish as to attack them?

As Dom came closer he could hear the end of someone's sentence, and saw that they had noticed him. He threw a curtious nod to all, though knew he would likely recieve some grief due to his lateness. The man slowly settled into his chair.

 "Ah, you finally decide to join us Dominick!" quipped one of his fellow Elders.

"I would not join at all if the decision were truly mine," he answered without looking "What matter brings us here today? News from the Runners? A raid gone astray? As ever, I'm all ears."

------

If Lockdown could be said to be a drab and dreary place to linger, with hoary bulwarks and faces greyer yet claiming shelter within them, then the meeting room was the very gut of its banality. 
When first The Omega had swept down into its gates and nestled themselves neatly in its cold, hard bosom, like the parasitic larvae of the wasp that imposes upon the unsuspecting caterpillar, it had stood as the only remaining guard tower the building had to offer: A somber grey monolith, which stared over the complex with glazed windows as if it were weary of its task.

Now it served little purpose than functioning as a sort of gentleman's club, in which the Elder Omega- The Generals, as the subservient called them- would meet periodically to discuss matters of little importance, with the stated goal of misleading the young into believing there was much still to be brooded over in this desolate world of theirs.

It was a round, ill lit room: Control panels flanked each side but bore nothing but expressionless dials and featureless screens, as if the very soul had been ripped from each machine. Dust gathered in great quantities, but no Elder would lower themselves to the likes of a common Omega and sweep it away, as easy as the task would be.
In the centre was a large, redwood table, in which were carved the names of the original ten members of Sector O, with a cross against each of those who'd perished: Three names had been marked, and the surviving seven sat around them now. 

And at every side there sat some aging figure, strong now as they'd been then, but wisened by age... and polluted by power.
But none moreso than Cromwell, who sat directly across from where Dom sat now, smiling his misleading smile... 
He had the face of a hero, but the heart of a henchman. 
He occupied the seat that had, a very long time ago, been held by the lank haired, youthful body of a much greater man.
He sat in Nelson's shadow. 

"Come now Dominick, you don't begrudge your old friends such pleasantries as this, surely?", he asked in a tone jovial and friendly. In the glare of the naphtha lamps which lit the congregation, the shadows of age weighed heavily upon his features, making him look more wrinkle than man. 
He smiled crookedly, in that way the older generation always seemed to, before leaning back into his chair- Nelson's chair- and intertwining his fingers. 
"Won't you join us for a drink, before we discuss semantics further? You must understand that the rest of us have been here a great deal of time already."

------

Dom felt ever so slightly sick as his stomach turned slightly, but no outward signs marked his discomfort. He detested these meetings. It reminded him of what his old friends, people of such staunch belief in the past, had become. Old, jaded, cynical. A sudden surge of internal anger shouted "TRAITORS!" but he made sure to never make such statements. They were still his friends, and had to believe there was still an ounce of their old selves left. For were they not comrades till the end? He comforted himself in such wishful thinking.

"What pleasantries can be found here," he replied dryly, waving off the offer for a heavier drink and instead reaching for the jug of water in the middle. He carefully tipped some into his own glass, before pulling a well-used straw from his pocket and placing it in the water. All this was done in almost near silence as time seemed to slow under Dom's considered movements. He seemed oblivious to the world as he slid the straw under his mask and took the first few refreshing sips of water, before placing the glass back in its spot. He let out a sigh.

"Apologies for my mood friends," he started in resignation "The days are long and nights short." He lied. His mood was currently ruled by thoughts of Roark's revolution. And yet...he did not feel compelled to bring it up. Why was that? He did not know. He suddenly took on a lighter tone.

"Here discussing old stories and jokes I bet, rather than anything else," a rare quip from Dom, but one nonetheless.

------

"When you reach our age, Dominick, the old stories are the only ones left," Cromwell chuckled, seemingly in a far cheerier mood than he.
Another General- Joseph Zhukov, a Georgian man of a jovial nature, who'd never in all his time amongst them been anything but a good natured fool- laughed along, sipping at his own glass, in which swirled some sickly sweet red concoction. 
"I am not sure about jokes, friends, but we are the punchlines." 
"To that I'm willing to drink," Cromwell cheered, and the table was taken up into an incline of gentle laughter. 

When the old men found their rooting again, however, they seemed suddenly to calm, some mocking the gesture of wiping tears from their eyes, others smoothing down their shirts.
And then there was Cromwell, who seemed to return to his calm demeanour in an instant. 
"But of course, we are not only here to jest. We are important men, with important things to talk about... have you anything to say, Dominick?"

------

Dom let out a ghost of a chuckle, meerly to blend in with the others, but he was rarely a man driven to laughter. After a few more tittles and tattles, the group calmed and became much more subdued. And then Cromwell settled his eyes upon Dominick. Recently there was a glint to Cromwell's stare, one which made him uncomfortable.
He would like to think of them all as equal men, but he knew the Elders would always look to Cromwell as their leader, and Dom a distant second.

"Only a small something. Cultists. A small congregation of them, immune to Gunner's poison, yet they have not joined either ourselves or the Runners," he looked about to the others a moment "No, they believe themselves, eh...'chosen'. They believe that they alone are to rule, and they have shown active violence to other groups, seeing them as heretics."

He stopped, as if his piece was finished and let the news settle, before adding; "Oh, and one of them has a shotgun."

------

A great unsettlement spread amongst the group, as if it was the first any of them had heard of it... any of them except Cromwell, of course, whom nodded sagely.
"Ah, yes... Brother Grigory and his Black Church. They are a very interesting bunch, aren't they?"
Zhukov arched a thick, black brow, "Who are they? Where are they getting firearms?"

Cromwell lingered on this for a moment.
"There are rumours that they are the revived form of some archaic religion. Just as Dom has rightly informed you, they believe themselves to be chosen. To be divine." 
"For their immunity?"
"Most certainly."
"So we are natural allies, then!"
"Not at all. We- as they see fit to call us- are heretics. And shotgun preachers do not take kindly to our sort." 

They lapsed into silence for a moment.
"I have motioned not to send any of our children in, for now. Working on the presumption that Sundown will be attempting their own contact soon... we will move based on their results."
His milky blue eyes met Dom's, and gleamed unevenly, "Would you agree with that approach, Dominick?"

------

As the two men's eyes met and the question weighed on Dom, he found himself reaching back to a place that seemed so distant now. The past. Those eyes. Eyes of a friend. Somehow they had changed, but he was only now noticing. What was different about them? They were still the same colour, the same light of life in them. Yet for some reason a shadow lay behind them. What happened to the good man he knew?

Sundown
35 years ago

 As the sun slowly rose and a new day dawned a pair of bright green eyes flickered open, full of ambition and excitement. Dominick shot up from his lying position and quickly flicked his head toward the window, a grin on his face. After all their training and hard work the new in-take of Runners were ready to be assigned their Sectors, the first such teams to ever be setup by the ever growing community. And he was amongst their number! And it hadn't been just a matter of training. No. Being the first of hopefully many, they were instrumental in setting-up and advising and what was best to teach people. They had created Sundown's training programme and were leading the way in new expansion. Soon enough their small community would number into the hundreds, and who knows how many more! Or so Dominick firmly believed.

 Whilst these thoughts had raced through his head, the young man had gotten dressed and ready for the day. Tunic on, gloves and boots in place, but hood down. A mess of dirt-blonde hair fell to his ears and the slightest shadow of facial hair was just about sprouting. And with high spirits he set-off to the meeting hall, where McGregor and the other more senior Runners would assign everyone to their Sectors, and to the Sectors their tasks. As he walked through the massive halls of the re-claimed factory, Dominick was overwhelmed by the possibilities, but had to restrain his excitement as he heard the hubub of activity ahead. It seemed they were ready to begin.

 Being one of the last he was toward the back, but McGregor spoke loud enough for everyone. He gave a speech, which Dominick did his best to pay attention to, but he just wanted to get to the juicy bit. The listing of names! And soon enough it came, with each person being assigned one-by-one, and then, finally; "Dominick Sutherland. Sector O."

 O. He had gotten Sector O! Led by some guy called Nelson apparently,responsible for leading exploration and frontline fighting if the need arose. And, of course, the best damn Sector in Sundown! After a while everyone had been given their Sectors and were then left to find their Sector leader situated neatly under a banner. All except for Sector O by the looks of it. While their looked to be a number of rather confused looking Runners, there didn't seem to be a, eh...leader in sight. Dominick spoke up as he approached.

 "So...is any of you Nelson?" he asked, though received no answer at first.

------

Those he'd approached had been deeply engrossed in their own conversations, a pair of young men not dissimilar in height but worlds apart in all other views. 
To his left was a young man of some impressive stature, shoulders broad and stance straight. And, much like Dominick, he retained the freshness of youth: His features were smooth and soft, his skin alabaster and his eyes a most strikingly vivid shade of ice. 
He wore a slack gi, light green in colour and held together by a belt of white.

"... You could always ask for a transfer? C'mon, who'd dream of splitting up the two desperados? We're practically brothers!"

He was addressing another man, if he'd even passed the threshold of being a "man", and a most unlikely companion. 
He was not a man who carried himself with such high composure and composition. 
Where the first figure stood tall, this boy might've stood taller, were it not for the fact he stood so lax. 
He slouched slightly, his shoulders slumped forwards and his head worn low. His hair was an untempered forest of burnt brunette, held back and high by a black headband which bore the mascot of some heavy band of days lost, and served as a dam to hold back the thick fibered flood. 
A few stray rivulets still haunted his cheeks, however.

And his complexion was decidedly more sunkissed, too. Almost olive by comparison, and complimentary to the fierce green of his eyes. Behind his ear he'd tucked a cigarette, half-burnt already, and his form was wrapped in a rough, cracked leather jacket, and a pair of unfashionable three-quarter length shorts. 

"Sorry, Crom, but I just don't think O'd be my sort of gig. Besides, how'm I meant to ask them to transfer me? I'm the head of Sector Zed, not some lower d-"
He snapped his head sideways, in one sharp whiplash of a moment, to catch the last of Dominick's words. 
'Crom' followed, but in a manner far softer and more timely. 

The man in the green gi smiled in welcome. The man in the leather jacket glowered at him.
"I'm sorry," Cromwell eventually answered, "I'm afraid Nelson hasn't quite arrived yet," he explained, "Does that mean you're an O?"

------

 Dominick instantly had an almost apologetic expression on his face as he realised that he had interrupted their conversation. Still, he couldn't help but smile awkwardly, his eyes held in laughter. He gave out a little chuckle before replying.

 "Aye, looks like," he said in a South African accent "And I'm guessing you two might be chums o' O too? Dominick Sutherland's the name. But just Dom if it's all the same to you."

 He thrust his right hand forward toward both men in order to offer a handshake, though it was placed akwardly between the two of them. The two of them looked vaugley familiar, as did most people in Sundown, but he hadn't had direct contact with them till now, that much was for sure. The guy in the wicked leather jacket didn't seem all too pleased to see him. But then he supposed he had been kind of rude.

 "So..." he trailed on "Any idea where this Nelson fella might be? Off on some boat maybe?"

------

"Cromwell Olivier," the more composed one had replied, taking his hand and shaking it firmly, but fluidly, "And you'd be correct, I'm in the same boat as you are! Guess this makes us team mates." 
He smiled a little wider. The man in the leather jacket folded his arms across his chest. 

Eventually, Cromwell relinquished his grip on Dominick, but the other gent didn't endevour to take his place. He just offered Dom a meager greeting in the form of a two-finger salute. 
"Robert MacReary, Sector Zed. Don't call me Rob." 

Cromwell chuckled, but he did so with a sheepish sort of smile, an unspoken apology for the rudeness of his friend. 
"Nelson will be here shortly, I'm sure! I think he was helping with the construction of the medical bay, Doctor Chakwas has taken a great liking to him!"

------

Dominick was in such a state of excitement that he brushed off any slights without even noticing and welcomed positive responses twice as much as he usually would. Which probably explains why laughed so loud at the mention of Doctor Chakwas.

 "Aye, she's a killer that one, mark me words!" he chuckled "Ahh, team mates. Those are some good words to hear. So what's your guyses story? Crom? You look a formidable fella," he exalted, grasping Cromwell's shoulder lightly "Look at these shoulders. You should be playing for the Springboks mate! How about you Mac? I'm guessing mean streets, a few bar brawls even! Glad yer on our Sector mun."

 It was only after his triade of overt friendliness that Dom realised he was still grasping Cromwell's shoulder, letting go quickly and readjsting the man's gi so it was at least a little bit smooth again.

 "Ah, sorry guys, I think I'm getting a little carried away," he started, his tone still excited, but notably toned down "It's just today, ahhh...feels like something new is really starting, ya know? That we're really starting to find our cause."

------

Cromwell shook his head, offering a kindly expression, "Don't worry about it! I'm glad to see your enthusiasm!" 
He beamed, rolling back said broad shoulders, almost proudly.
"As for myself, me and my family are originally from Pontefract, but we moved out to Tibet a decade ago. Originally the Gunner Administration wanted us to serve as spies, because Tibetans have been showing the oddest immunity to his Servitutem."
He gestured to himself broadly, "Clearly he's onto something, because that's when we wised up! A monastery agreed to hide my parents from future spies as long as I contributed to upkeep. Ten years later, I've come back to London a martial artist, hidden on a rice barge from the People's Republic of China... hah, that name was never accurate, was it?"

MacReary had slid his cigarette from behind his ear whilst Cromwell talked, and was sucking on it, unlit, as he listened. 
"And I'm an Aberdonian, so the mean streets is right. Wised up five years back, spent most of that time hidin' from Spectres in a clock tower, 'til a friend'a mine told me there was something going on down here."
Now he mentioned it, the accent was there, however faint: Whether he'd diluted it himself, or he was the result of Gunner trying to Anglicise Scotland- not an impossible thought, as Gunner had tried so hard himself to hide his Scotch roots- was unclear. 
"We rode lorries half way an' got stopped at a checkpoint. They didn't find me, but they found him. No idea what they did to the bugger." 

He inhaled deeply. Cromwell frowned momentarily, but MacReary seemed near un-phased. 
Cromwell turned to Dom again, "And what's your story, my friend?"

------

A quick shadow, half angry half ashamed passed Dominick's face. In all his excitement he hadn't factored in the possibility that they'd actually ask him. But, seems as they had answered it only seemed fair. Still, he somehow needed to keep things positive. So it was always good to start with a chuckle.

 "Well, as the accent might given away I'm from South Africa, of farming stock. Me Pop, well...work weren't coming easy them years ago, so we upped and moved ta London. We didn't peg till the riots started. Me, me family, we all fell for that Servitutem. By the time me immunity kicked-in whole family was long gone. Heheh, I tell meself they're fine though," he paused a moment "Still, that's enough of my sob story!"

 Dominick looked around quickly at the rest of their Sector, and at all the other Sectors who were getting to know each other. Turning to what he was sure were his two new best friends, he pointed his thumb back over his shoulder.

 "So what do we make of the rest of this sorry lot? I don't think I even heard what they'd be doin'..."

------

Cromwell frowned thoughtfully, and rested a reassuring hand on Dominick's shoulder, before following the path of his thumb. He eyed the rest of the sector: Seven people all in all, excluding himself and Dom. 
"It's hard to say. Some of them seem quite keen about the idea we'll be holding down fort, I'm not sure I appreciate that. But of course, I was in the tutorship of true neutrals for a long time."

He chuckled lightly, "I still say it'd be better if we convinced Robert to join, though! The spoilt sport's only gone and gotten himself signed up for a Sector Leader position." 
MacReary, seemingly having come a little further out of his shell now that Dominick had opened himself up a little bit, puffed his chest out proudly.
"Aye, Captain of Sector Zed, Sundown espionage!" 
"Did you say that loud enough, MacReary? I'm not sure Gunner heard you!"
MacReary jabbed Cromwell playfully with his elbow, and the two chuckled lightly. 

Then, a shadow pasted itself across the floor, as though its owner had materialised within the sun's glare, and they both fell silent. 
"Robert," A third voice rang out through the hall. It was unwavering and bass, as though it belonged to a beast made all of rolling thunder.
MacReary immediatley bristled at its presence. 

"Nelson." 
"Robert, I believe you're meant to be elsewhere." 
Footsteps, slow, rhythmic. 
MacReary turned on his heel, and walked immediately to greet their source, a silhouette approaching at its own leisure. 
"Sorry Nelson, you must've missed the memo: We're the same rank. I can be wherever I want to be."

There was a short pause, before Nelson spoke again, this time with a jagged grin in his voice.
"Oh, Robert... you might be the leader of your own sector, but we're far from being equals."
"Oh yeah? Why's that? Think you're big and tough?"
"We're not equals because you're so young. Too young to have built character." 
"Character? I've got plenty'a character!"
"Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet, Robert. Character is the strength of a soul, the strength of ambition." 
"I'm plenty strong, too!"
"What is your ambition, Robert?"
"My ambition? Well, I... why the hell do you care? If you're so great, what's your ambition?"
"To turn these children into runners." 

Another brief pause. 
"Yeah, well..." 
A tense moments silence. Then, finally, Nelson stepped into the light: He was... not the vessel a voice like that might expect. 
He was young, and tall, but lacked any significance of build: He was simply lithe, svelte, slender. 
His shoulders weren't broad, nor did he boast any particularly well defined muscles. His skin was tanned like light coffee, and his hair was lank, a dirty blonde, bound back by a hairtie. 

And yet, MacReary stared at him with a begrudging awe. Because regardless, about him there was the essence of something greater, as though his body was but the shadow of something far bigger, far more tenacious than he. 
He had the aura of a leader, a burning fire which might have been invisible, until the honey of his eyes caught the sunlight, and was set ablaze by the glow. 

He wore a nautical cap backwards, and was bound in a light green, military grade jacket, buttoned tightly and hugging his physique. He ruffled MacReary's hair lightly, and smiled with a paternal reassurance. 
"You mustn't take things so seriously, Robert! Some day you're going to be one of us, and you'll have to deal with troublesome kids yourself. Maybe then you'll appreciate what I tell you," he grinned playfully.

MacReary folded his arms in mild annoyance until Nelson finished.
"Now, Sector Zed is looking all over for you. Go whip them into shape for your fellow Runners."
MacReary stared increduously at him for a moment, then relented, and turned to offer that same two-finger salute he'd issued earlier to both of his friends. 
"He's right, I should probably get to work." 
And with that, MacReary took his leave.

Then, Nelson stood bolt up straight, and stomped the floor with such shocking power that it caught the eyes of the rest of Sector O. 
True, he looked weak: But it was clear there was great power in this man's centre. 
"Now listen up, Sector O! You think you're runners? You are not runners. Not yet."

He began pacing back and forth, and as though an unspoken command had been issued, Sector O formed a neat line, with Cromwell nudging Dom into place in the process. 
"For the next few years, you are going to be suffering. I am going to break you down until you are nothing but raw materials, destruction by labour, and then I'm going to build Runners that're worth the rations you lot are frankly stealing out of your unrecognisable remains. Is that clear?"
"Sir, yes sir!"
Most of O seemed to bark in unison, as though it were instinct. 
"And the worst part is that you won't even begrudge me it, because we're going to be best friends, you and I. We are going to train together, rest together and suffer together. We are going to become a finely oiled machine, and by the end you'll wonder how you ever thought a whelp like you could even have dreamed of joining a Sector beforehand. Am I clear?"
"Crystal, sir!"
"Fantastic! Now let's get down to business... My name is Nelson Gattling. Tell me yours."

------

"Dominick Sutherland!" he heard himself say "Pleasure to meet ya!"

 He had been such a fool back then. But now the memories faded, and he was once again faced by his old friend. Dom momentarily lamented for those old days, before snapping ack into the present fully. Worrying over the past was for those who had given up on the future. And he wasn't anywhere near giving up.

 Cromwell's last question seemed to echo in his mind, and he considered it more than perhaps he should have, before heaving a heavy sigh.

 "I agree in principal," he started slowly "Yet it's always good to keep a close watch on Runners. It could also prove an opportune moment for certain...lacking Omegas to prove their worth. Let Roark and his group go out to survey the situation. Give them the chance to redeem themselves. Without an Elder holding their hand."

 He slumped back into his chair. If he was to gauge Roark fully, he'd need him to be out in the field a little more. And if he did prove to be trustworthy, it'd be good to know that someone was out there fighting the good fight. Which would allow Dom to keep a closer watch on his fellow Elders. They were in need of some intense scrutiny.

------

Cromwell considered this for a few moments in silence, and slowly it became very apparent that of all the people sat at this table, only he and Dominick seemed to be of any significant power within the circle.
His features shadowed and aged by the flicker of the naphtha lamp, he looked almost like a pondering dragon, reptilian and cold. 

Eventually he made a small noise of approval, and nodded his head.
"Of course, you're right. It would be most unprudent of us to ignore the situation, certainly, and Swallows could use some more work. He has, after all, exploited his 'recovery time' perfectly, we really must get him back into the field before he becomes complacent." 
Cromwell sat back, "Yes, good. Very right, Dominick. Very right indeed. Alert Swallows when next you see him."

------

Dominick nodded curtly toward Cromwell, a little relieved that the request had been given painlessly. Relaxing a little, Dom rolled his shoulders and placed both hands upon the table, before pushing himself halfway into a standing position carefully.

 "Then, if you have no further need of me, might I be excused early? Swallows will need to kow as soonas possible in order to have enough time to get his group ready."

 After finishing his sentence he stood wholly, and moved behind his designated chair. He gave each other Elder a nod, before awaiting final permission.

------

Cromwell offered a concurring nod, "Certainly. Honestly our state of affairs with The Black Church was what the meeting was to be about, anyway. But as none of our peers seem very informed on the matter, I'd say it's safe for you to leave as I explain to them the situation. Thank you for joining us... my friend."
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