The Red Zephyr — Roleplayer Guild

"Wakey wakey."

An isolated woman's voice called Weston from the darkness. It was a familiar voice, one that had followed him--tortured him--for a year, one that knew him better than any friend but spoke to him as an enemy. The voice had no name, but had a distinct identity. It had no body, but held a firm presence in Weston's mind. It sought to weaken him to his breaking point, but granted him immeasurable strength. The voice was that of an Onikage: A shadow of sin and denizen of the Void.

"So I'm not dead then," was Weston's response, plain and simple. He opened his eyes to the sight of dozens of askew tiles forming what could have once been called a ceiling. It was easy to tell the ceiling used to be white, but it had grayed-even blackened-deeply in age. He was laying belly-up on a very uncomfortable cot, without a pillow or napsack of any kind to keep his head propped up. Wherever he was, the place had been empty for a long time, and it showed. "Either that, or the Void is even shittier than you keep telling me," Weston continued mockingly. However, Electrical cords and wiring were woven through the gaps in the tiles leading to some flickering florescent lights, so somebody new must have moved in.

On cue with that thought, another voice spoke: A boy's this time. "Rise and shine, military man," it said in a similar tone to the Onikage's, perhaps with a bit more spite. "Looks like you ain't dead, and she ain't big on killin' survivors, so you're lookin' pretty lucky."

Weston wasn't quite sure who "she" was, but the boy talking was clearly the one he'd met in the alley before blacking out. A turn of the head revealed this to be true, and also confirmed that he was in what was once a hospital: Dozens of stretchers and sheetless beds were scattered across the white speckled floor. The apparent lack of equipment accompanying the bed, along with the asbestos-ridden ceilings showed that the hospital was quite old and probably in the lower districts of Sovereign.

"What, you too hurt to be a smartass now?" the boy spoke again. He stared down Weston with judging hazel eyes, covered partially by his unkempt dark brown hair. He looked a little tall for what Weston guessed was his age, and he was a bit pale and scrawny to boot. His attire was similar to many refugees Weston had seen: A dark winter coat, heavy jeans and leather boots, all worn heavily from a year in Sovereign. The boy laid back in an old office chair with his wiry arms crossed, waiting for a response from the "military man".

Weston smirked as he turned his gaze back to the aged ceiling. "So what'd you score off my body?" he mocked, knowing the six bullets and soggy MRE he was carrying earlier would be of little use to the boy.

"You military guys almost eat as shittily as we do down here," the kid replied, referring to the MRE. "Here I was thinking you assholes ate like kings or some bullshit," he continued. "You're probly some grunt though. I hear them big shots from outside the walls get feasts every night, then toss the leftovers in those ration crates for the survivors." Although the statement was a bit exaggerated, officers did eat pretty well all things considered, and ration crates were only distributed in the ruined city to make it look like the military was doing something. Weston imagined the food inside them wasn't exactly gourmet.

With a groan, he attempted to sit up in the rickety cot, but to no avail. A searing pain shot up his chest from his abdomen. "I'd just chill there for a while if I were you," the boy warned. "Gettin' shot doesn't heal overnight, and she told me not to let you leave this room."

"Wonderful," Weston sighed, laying back down. His curiosity piqued though, he finally decided to ask, "Who's this she? Are you living with a group of some kind?"

On cue, another voice answered, older and female: "It's just the two of us." Weston turned his head to find the source of the voice: A woman wearing a tattered coat stood at the old hospital room's doorway with her arms crossed and a rifle slung on her back. She appeared to be a bit younger than Weston, but definitely older than the boy. Dirt and partially dried mud his most of her dark caramel skin, but only exaggerated the bright faded blue eyes that judged the broken soldier before her. "That's enough about us for now though," she went on, stepping forward into the room, "I'd like to know exactly who you are."

Weston couldn't help but smirk. "Me? I'm nobody," he said. At this point, it was more than true: He had been stripped of his rank and honor. The military had defined him for his entire adult life, and now he was considered their enemy.

The woman shifted her posture in irritation. "Okay than, Nobody, what's your name? And is this uniform yours?"

For a moment, Weston pondered telling them everything: That his was Captain Weston Meyer of the Continental army, that he was a Conduit, that he simply wanted to die. However, his voice spoke differently. "My name is Deekin," he began. "And no, I found this thing on a corpse months ago." Weston was a bit shocked by his own lie, and wasn't totally sure why he had made it. Hopefully, they would buy the story about the uniform even though it wasn't as worn as their clothes, despite the dirt and grime it had collected recently.

"What kind of a name is 'Deekin'?" the boy piped up. "Either this guy's lying or his parents should be sho--"

"Enough, Aiden!" the woman interrupted. She obviously didn't mean to share the boy's name, but tried to hide her fluster by continuing, "Deekin then. What about your weapons?" the woman pointed to a sword bundled up with two holstered pistols, the blade's pommel giving off a faint orange glow.

Deciding to tell at least part of the truth here, Weston answered, "The sword was a gift from my father, and pistols aren't that hard to come by if you keep an eye open." Then he turned the question back to her: "You seemed to get your hands on a rifle pretty easily, and Aiden here was about to gun me down when he found me."

"Yours are military issue, and have fresh cores in them," the woman answered, showing more than a little irritation in her voice.

Suddenly, another figure appeared in the doorway, this time a larger man's. He wore makeshift armor that appeared to be crafted from older military models, and only covered his torso and leg, leaving his arms exposed. He gripped the door frame anxiously and breathed heavily as if he had sprinted there. "Ren," he spoke, eliciting a grimace form the woman for revealing her name. "They followed us back, and we lost Nathan and Derek and--"

"Calm down Zane," she said sternly, approaching the man and resting a hand on his shoulder. Apparently any hope she had of hiding their names from Weston was lost. "I need you to go to Zoey and tell her to have all scouts return to base. If they know where we are now, we'll have to play this defensively."

"Just the two of you, huh?" Weston piped up mockingly.

"I lied," Ren replied bluntly, "Now shut up and stay there. Your wounds still need to heal and this is our problem, not yours." She looked back at the man called Zane. "Now go. Me and Aiden will get the others," she finished, motioning the boy to follow her as she darted out of the room. Zane did the same, but turned the opposite direction outside, leaving "Deekin" alone.

After a moment of silence, the familiar voice spoke from inside his mind: "So, are you just going to lay here?"

With a smirk, Weston answered, "Of course not. Things were just getting interesting."

The Red Zephyr Member

The Fractured Mind of a Broken Soul

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