— hellfire

The switch in conversation topic from Marseline and the other fallen to Mike had seemed smart, somehow, something to distract her from that familiar distant cold called grief. Now that the topic is at actual hand, though, Daiyu feels something crawl up her spine. As if, for the first time, she is considering the full picture. An enforcer murdered in the heat of a moment. Not just any enforcer: one her father had favoured, had come close to defending while striking down Ray not even two months prior.

It would not be so easily let go. It wouldn’t just be another casualty, no, it would be considered a slight upon his authority, or something of the sort. “No, but I can take a fucking guess. Someone saw their chance and took it.” Daiyu tries to state it plainly but struggles to keep her tone neutral. She isn’t one to dance on someone’s grave, but even so, Mike’s loss isn’t one she feels particularly moved by. There’s some vindication there, she supposes. “There’s a ton of people who had a bone to pick with the guy, right?”

She lets out a huff of air, not bothering to search her jacket for gloves. Daiyu does not want to find Mike’s murderer only for them to receive the fitting punishment, to see their own end in response. “Pah, as if he’d put me on the job,” she says, not sure if she’s insinuating that her father finds her incompetent or if she’s too privileged for such dirty work. “I don’t care who did it. I care how this happened, the fucking outbreak. But sure, yeah. It’s gonna be a fucking mess, trying to figure out who did it.” Does Nele look at her as a suspect? Daiyu isn’t sure. She digs her hand in her pockets, stares at the flames and finds it intolerable, so stares ahead in stead.

    Daiyu is a woman who gives a lot with a little. Nele recognizes the emotion hidden behind scowls and aggression, tone steeled so as not to let anything through. Only the anger. It’s acceptable; intolerable, at times. And isn’t it easier to be the enemy? Isn’t it easier when they don’t look to you as a savior? As a leader? Alexei wears a different crown, using fear and violence to gain a following — to trap a following — while lording resources over their heads. She’s his blood, though as much as Nele wants to hate her, it’s difficult while she’s watching her battle grief, hands shoved into her pockets, stare aimed away from the burning bodies; standing there, so human. 

     “Pretty idiotic, really. Hard to replicate the way a Runner tears into you. They could’ve worked a little harder covering it up.” Maybe they hadn’t intended to. Maybe they wanted it to be known he was killed with intent. Maybe it was really meant as a message for Alexei. “But I’m with you on that. This is the real fucking mess.” She gestures to the blaze behind her, then twirls a finger in the air to signify the carnage that took place. “This is exactly why I need VIncent and Orion working on the perimeter defense I’ve been designing. That fucking storm put a hitch in things.” Now, she’s thinking aloud more than actually speaking to Daiyu, though one wouldn’t know it by the way she kept eye contact. 

When the chaos of the outbreak is dealt with, a quarantine weathered and a monumental clean up effort begun, it takes the cake when Alexei Volkov dangles temptation of promise in status and resources over the heads of the shocked and grieving, conditional with the cost of betrayal to their own. A surprising number of individuals seem entranced by the lure of his bait, forgetting that by default there will be more to go around with the loss of 89 individuals to feed, protect. It’s a fact that many seem to overlook. The murmurs following Alexei’s latest proclamation leave a bitter taste in Orion’s mouth. 

He finds himself walking the hallways of the mall with a self-imposed task of assessing damage, but he can’t help but be distracted by the way the halls are lined with signs of violence. The splatters of dried blood on the floor & walls… The remains of improvised weapons scattered… Doors busted in–some with signs of failed barricades and some simply swung wide open. It’s hard to objectively look past.

There are signs of clean up around some. He imagines the ones who survived can’t bare to live on in spaces with such vivid, physical reminders–to continue in places of tainted sanctity that had been held for many years. His own shared quarters were fortunate to have not been marred by violence but many couldn’t say the same. He had a feeling there would a number of vacancies in the surrounding living spaces once tallies of what rooms were now without tenants were properly accounted for.

There was a lot that needed to be done, and he had a feeling that he and the others that shared overlapping skill sets with his own would be busy in the coming days. It didn’t help that they were still playing catch up with that last storm.

He rubbed a hand along his jaw, absently making a mental note that he needed to shave when he had a moment. With a sigh he backtracked to the delivery bay, and slid into a seat on a bench on which was already occupied on one end by another that looked just as tired as him. "It’s really been one shit show after another lately, hasn’t it?“

     Someone had used a truck to smash someone’s brains in; creative, but messy. There are so many other weapons to use in the delivery bay, yet someone had decorated the front of one of the vehicles red, the lower half of the corpse hanging out from under the hood. Their hands are coated in the blood of their victims, sleeves stained as well, and Nele huffs as she lugs the body out from under the hood to dump it on the ground. She peeks at the interior to see tissue and blood dripping down, a soft sigh passing through her lips when she grabs a rag to wipe it all down. Surely, there won’t be any damage, but she’s set on checking, just in case. 

     There’s a void — Nele notices it more and more as the years pass — and she doesn’t feel the sorrow that should come with tragedy. There’s no grief, no weight on her heart, no tightness in her chest and throat. She remembers how it feels because she felt it for so long, fighting off the pain of missing her family every single night. Then Frankie. Then, eventually, it lessened. Eventually, Nele didn’t feel it at all, for anyone. Ever. 

Gabriel breathes out a slow, steadying breath, swallowing down the lump forming in his throat and trying not to let the scrape of the knife against his neck distress him any further. He knew there were reasons not to trust him - he hadn’t exactly been welcomed into Idaho Falls in the most conventional of ways. But was it truly just because of the circumstances, or did she have a personal vendetta against him for some reason?

“You’re the one with the accusations, not me,” he pointed out. Certainly anyone who knew him would find it ridiculous, the idea that he would’ve had any hand in either of the events that had taken place. He certainly had no motivations for Mike’s brutal murder - and he was not remotely a fan of the infected.

Nele was just looking for someone to blame.

Gabe’s jaw tightens a bit at her questions, attempting to sink further back into the wall as the blade presses more firmly to his throat. What was she going to do, kill him? Right here, right now?

He didn’t owe her anything. “I’m not from anywhere. I have people here.”

    “You are from somewhere,” she retorts, eyes narrowing into a flinty glare, “And who the fuck are your people?” The enforcers were usually notified when someone new was being brought in purposefully — and this one had shown up in the middle of chaos, with more following after. Her entire body tensed, anger speeding up her pulse. If he was responsible for Mike, or the outbreak, then she knew he wouldn’t admit it. It’d take a lot more coaxing; a variety Nele finds no pleasure in, despite how many times she’s been forced to do it. Maybe she wants to direct her rage at a specific source, because it has to go somewhere, and she’s teeming with it; large oaks that began as seeds all those years ago when she first arrived in Idaho Falls. Now, they shadowed everything. Now, they’d been there so long she hardly even noticed them.

Tensions run high in the QZ, that much is clear even to Simon. There’s a prize up for grabs, one that means not just power but that offers extra rations — and while some might claim not to be intrigued by power ( which in and of itself Simon considered a lie: it was human, nay, animal nature to long for such a thing ) most must be hungering after a few extra bites. For him it’s the fomer that wins out, admittedly, though he doesn’t want to caught in the act of seeming too desperate for it.

He is, a bit. It was disheartening to watch so many receive promotions as his own name was not called, but that isn’t something he is keen on showing either. No, it’s best to keep those cards close to his chest, that desire. Besides, does it matter much? Compare him, a mere soldier, to this enforcer he’s on patrol with — Nele, who came into the fold so violently, who does not enjoy the proximity he gets from Alexei, nor the privileges that come with it. He tries to tell himself as much, anyway: he cannot lose himself in bitterness. He’s above such things.

And yet, the itch to be the one to solve the mystery untimely demise of Mike Giraldi remains. He scratches it as Finn and him move towards the museum lookout, their patrol squad of the day only the two of them. She’s a good enforcer, he’ll give her that. Proper company. Good tattooist. Really, there’s much worse company out there. “Not worried, are you? Now that someone out there seems to have it out for enforcers.” He kicks at a loose rock, wonders why the human brain seems to have that instinct. “There’s no need for it, if you were to ask me — and I’m aware that you’re not, but still. You’re way more tolerable than Mike was.” Another kick against the same rock. Admittedly, it is a concerning thing. Not enough to startle, but enough to furrow a brow over. “Still, it’s a concerning thing, generally speaking. If we start going after our own kind …” He shakes his head, tuts. “Well, that’s just bad news, isn’t it?” 

     “You think it’s someone out for enforcers?” Nele raises a brow at Simon, her gaze dropping to the rock he apparently has a grudge against. Her brows furrow with mild disbelief and she follows up with a scoff, the only proper response to saying one was more tolerable than Mike fucking Giraldi. She keeps walking, rifle held across her chest, browns now focused on their surroundings. There’s always the smell of decay in the air and she notices storm clouds gathering in the sky, the deepest shades of gray far off along the horizon. She can see the streaks of rain, appearing much like misty tornados at this distance. Looking down, she notices rusted barbed wire trapped in the dirt and steps over it, dirt crunching under the soles of her boots. “And we’re always out for one another. We always have been. This shit just allowed people to be more open about it.” 

     She actively listens to her environment, aware of every sound — the rustle of wind through the leaves, the chirp of crickets warning them of oncoming night — and the woods take on a reddish hue as the sun begins its descent. “Should I be concerned it’s you? What with all the theories?” She knows it isn’t. Dear Simon would never bite back against Alexei; it is, in fact, his worst trait. “Or maybe, with so many newcomers, there’s about to be a revolution. Maybe you’ll have to find another ass to kiss.” She presses forward, staying along the predetermined patrol route. There’s small signifiers, such as a splatter of orange paint on a tree trunk, or a bag tied to a bush. When one doesn’t know the path, it’s easy to get lost — though Nele thought if they got that turned around then perhaps they weren’t made for patrol. Perhaps they were better suited to, say… kitchen work. Or the infirmary. And some people just weren’t meant for this life at all. 

Unable to sit still in the aftermath — could you even call if the aftermath when they were still stuck in the mall, counting the dead and watching the living for any sign of infection? — Zahra finds any reason to keep moving. She flits between families huddled together in the main areas of the mall, asking them what they needed and for the names of loved ones they haven’t found yet, radioing for updates on the body count, breaking bad news when the name of a missing one is reported as dead, offering comfort to the ones they’ve left behind. Still, it all feels futile, like sticking a bandage over a gaping wound. This shouldn’t have happened. Those people should still be here, huddled with the rest of their families and friends. No one should be mourning tonight.

But it did happen, and those people aren’t here, and there are plenty others mourning. They gather in small groups as Zahra helps to distribute the food shipped over by those not trapped within the mall, though there’s a distinct lack of chatter that usually accompanies meal time in Idaho Falls. A group of soldiers wanders in from outside where they’ve been burning the bodies before they can start growing spores, but by Zahra’s count they’re down one. She checks with one of the soldiers before making her way outside to where Nele stands near the fire.

“Here.” Zahra coughs, choking on smoke and stench. No wonder everyone was trying to get away from it. She hands Nele her packet of food. “Fungus free, or so we’ve been told. There’s safe water inside, too, if you need it.” Zahra’s eyes move to the fire in front of them, to Marseline’s body going up in flames. She deserved better. They all did, but especially Marsie. She should’ve gotten to be buried next to her grandma or maybe sent down the river she always seemed to be swimming in, not becoming an anonymous pile of ash and bone. “Shit’s fucked, huh?” It comes out more of a statement than a question. “People doing shit like this. We must’ve really pissed somebody off.”

     For some reason, Zahra makes Nele smile. It’s only a subtle quirk of her lips, but it isn’t often people make her smile, and to even stir up that is a feat. It’s the way she presents herself; shameless and blunt, with the type of odd sense of humor that Nele enjoys. She removes her gloves, tucking them into the back pocket of her jeans so they hang out halfway, then accepts the food. Tearing the bag open with her teeth, Nele goes in on the contents, tugging down the bandana and tilting her head back to pour some of the snack into her mouth. “Thanks,” Nele offers in kind regard after swallowing the food, then hums in agreement when she continues on about the bodies. The outbreak. All of it. Shit’s fucked. Fuck yes it is.

     “Been fucked for a while, hasn’t it? You even remember before?” She didn’t. It’s better that way. This is what she knows; it’s all she knows, and it gives her nothing to mourn. Not in that regard, at least. And she isn’t really serious when she asks Zahra. Nele doesn’t ask about people’s pasts and she prefers if they show her the same respect. “Emma and David stepped off since she began crying.” She changes the subject, more willing to talk about others than dive into a deeper conversation. “People are gonna want a memorial,” she adds, shaking a bit more food into her mouth before looking over her shoulder at the burning pile. 

     The interior floods with the sound of gargling screeches, punctuated by the sharp clap of gunfire. There’s shrieks of fear, some cut off, some gurgling as some flooded with blood. Nele doesn’t need to hear the wet crunching to know what it sounds like when someone is being eaten. Her boots slap against the tile as she races toward an abandoned shop that has gates leading outdoors. They have to be closed; immediately. Someone appears in her peripheral at her side and she keeps pounding forward, racing into the store — now used for storage — then slamming the door shut behind her as soon as the other passes through. Now, she recognizes Anso, a scowl appearing on her features as she slams her back against the door to hold it closed, “Grab that dumpster from outside. Roll it over here.” She shoves him away from her and toward the half opened gate, her attention refocusing on the shelves in front of her. 

     If she lets go, they come in. But the dumpster has wheels and they need something to keep it in place. One of the old metal shelves will do, and frustration begins to bubble up — how the fuck did this happen? — closing her throat as it climbs to the back of tongue, sitting there like a tiny weight. They’re slamming against the door behind her, her body jerking forward as she fights against their force; stronger and stronger with each passing minute. “We need to close that gate too,” she says, voice low and it wasn’t an order as much as it was announcing the tasks at hand. And a bit of underestimating her current company. Though that wasn’t anything new.

Daiyu isn’t sure why she asked the question she had, as Finn starts to list off names of people that had died. Her gaze hardens, pulls away, staring at the fire. Perhaps they should all be better at this, by now. Grasping the reality of death and how it would keep coming and never stop, the way there is no security in friendship or love — not just because of the nature of humans, but because of a high mortality rate. But Daiyu isn’t sure how to be better at it besides cutting out her heart and throwing it on that fire, too, and she refuses to do that.

Marsie hurts most. It’s stupid, to rank losses, but it’s something she ends up doing anyway. Daiyu clenches her jaw, looks up and then at Nele. Maybe for the first time she allows herself to feel bad for her, for her losses. It takes a moment for her to say something, “Matty told me about Marsie. Didn’t know ‘bout the rest. Seems we lost quite a lot of people.” She reaches up, rubs at a temple. She’s cold, despite the summer eve and the fire. It will be cold, she thinks, with warm people like Marseline gone. “Did you hear about Mike?”

Her gaze sticks back to Nele at the question. It feels like an accusation. Hell, it might be, considering Daiyu has been far from pulling her weight now that the fight is done. “Sure.” She doesn’t really want to, but she has little interest in giving Nele reason to actually get accusatory. “Just gotta get some gloves. Finish your snack, hm?” 

     This is a first: Daiyu, humbled in a way. Death does that to people and Nele wonders how close she was to the ones she’s named. A hand lifts toward the other woman, then lowers, and it’s the one bearing the jerky, to which Nele realizes she’s holding it in a gloved hand. Gloves that have been handling the dead. And now it seems unappetizing, the dried meat resembling the corpses once they’ve been burned. She feels drained now and her features contort as she stares at the meat in hand, finally tearing off the glove then rubbing the meat with a bandana she keeps in her pocket. Then, she tears off a bite with her teeth, eyeing Daiyu as she asks about Mike.

     “Yeah, I heard about the asshole,” she claps back, face tightening, irritated that Daiyu “gave her permission” to finish eating. It’s easier to be annoyed — but it isn’t the time, and Nele ends up poking her tongue into her cheek, inhaling a long breath. A hard smile does little to ease her features, though she wishes it would. She wishes she had the softness she did when her family was still around, but her body won’t allow it to extend it to someone with the last name Volkov. 

     She takes another rough bite, chewing quietly as she stares at Daiyu, expecting pushback. “You know what happened to good ol’ Mike? Cause you know it’s gonna fall on us to find them.” She isn’t looking forward to finding justice for someone who hardly deserves it; she’s used to attending to duties she has no interest in. All because of Alexei. And Nikolai. Fucking Volkov’s. She should have put a bullet in Nik when she had the chance. The bitterness is comforting sometimes, offering the same temporary satisfaction as a cigarette. 

Things were calming down once again, the community picking up the pieces and knitting everything back together to at least appear as if they were as held together as they once were. But there were cracks in the walls, a crumbling exterior that you might only be able to see if you knew where to look.

He could feel the eyes, everyone on higher alert now as they searched for answers. Sure, the person responsible for starting the outbreak had been dealt with - rather brutally. But beyond that, there were more questions than answers left out on the table. It wasn’t only the infection that had run rampant throughout Idaho Falls, wasn’t it?

Gabriel was attempting to lay low, stay out of the politics. He had few loyalties in this place and certainly no reason to make a splash - but a new face in tragedy was always an easy target. So when Nele approaches, he’s not overtly surprised by an oncoming line of questioning. The way she goes about it, though, catches him unawares.

“What the fuck -” he exclaims, instinct raising his hands to push her away. But he stills when the cool blade presses to his throat, a muscle jumping in his jaw as his teeth clench together.

“What happened at the mall - ?” he repeats the question in an exasperated way. Everyone knew by now what happened at the mall, it wasn’t as if it were a secret. But that wasn’t really what she was asking. Of course not. “You think I had something to do with it?”

     She deliberately lowers her head to study him, brow wrinkled and eyes narrowed. Her legs are wide apart, keeping her balance and her grip on the knife firm. “Had something to do with what?” There’s the outbreak and Mike; the short list of things he could be responsible for. But she’s not going to give him any extra information, nothing to reveal what she thinks or how she feels. Don’t give me a reason to take you to the basement. Alexei hardly has any qualms about interrogating people, especially new people — and while Nele hates it, she’s good at it — but she’d prefer not to. There’s other jobs she’s just as suited for, if not more, and she’s happy to stick to those. Rebuilding, repairing, traps — fuck, the perimeter, she remembers. A job pushed back again after another tragedy.  

This is a moment where she could take charge. Should, too. Where Daiyu should wield that surname to bring some kind of order to the chaos, to offer some kind of support or room or anything. She is, however, rendered incapable of any such thing. She can do the grunt work. Can fight the infected until they drop. But lead? Demand attention and offer something feasible in return? She isn’t sure where to begin, especially with her head spinning in the aftermath of adrenaline, with new grief starting to rot in her chest. 

So she lets the other enforcers take the reigns, watches people like Nele and Nik and even Zahra excell where she slinks back, focuses on doing another sweep. She helps with the fire, for a bit, dropping infected on there before slinking away again, to the promise of at least another night being stuck. She gets her portion, eats half of it, contemplates the issue of Mike’s body and the hole that Marseline will leave in their little community. It’s not something her mind hangs onto for a long time, the thought sharp too sharp to not leave some kind of damage. The impulse that always comes back is there: the impulse to run. To get out of the mall, out of the perimeter, to the edge of the QZ or one of the abandoned apartments she favours.

In stead she just goes outside, the smell of burning flesh destroying any appetite she had left and making it obvious that there’s no chance at finding fresh air here, either. There’s company, though, and Daiyu isn’t sure if that’s a good or bad thing just yet. But it’s something. She looks at Nele from a distance, then nods. “Some jerky.” Her appetite for that, in particular, has vanished. She digs in her pocket, produces the waxpaper its wrapped in and unwraps it. Daiyu doesn’t wait to find out if Nele even wants it, just tosses it her way, folding the paper back up. “All yours. You should go inside if you want some water, though. And you know, hydration …” There’s a shrug, hands pushed into her pockets. “… it’s said to be crucial.” Daiyu stares at the fire for a moment, then back at Nele. “Has anyone been keeping track? Of who —” She looks away again, back at the flames. “Who we lost?” That was something she should have done, considering her station, but she’d been to busy playing hide and seek with herself, outrunning the feeling of dying adrenaline left her with. 

     Nele deftly catches the dried meat, eyes squinting at Daiyu as she wonders why she wouldn’t have just tossed it in the paper. Today, Nele is willing to dip into her compassionate side; it existed once, before this place. She watches Daiyu for a moment then nods, tilting her head to the side as she raps her knuckles against the metal water bottle hanging from her waist. There’s an overall weighted feeling; her body, the air, and it was as if it slowed her heartbeat, scenes playing out behind her eyelids. It’s her, burning these very bodies. It’s Daiyu’s expression, slack and vacant. There’s a slight ache in her throat as she tries to find the words, but simply shrugs one shoulder instead. 

     “The people who bring the bodies over should be keeping track. I haven’t been examining the bodies. I noticed Marseline though,” she speaks, and her tone is far gentler than it usually is, brows pulling down in concentration, “Recognized Ortega too, and Greta.” Oddly enough, all she’s feeling is for Daiyu now, because that’s who’s alive and in her presence. Because she doesn’t feel anything herself. It’s a void and Nele isn’t sure what’s underneath. Does it all get buried or is it burned away? She hopes for the latter, but she knows it’s the former. 

     Word makes it back to her that Jesse’s been taken down to the basement and Nele knows better than to interrupt. Part of her wants to — if only to make sure he’s given fair treatment — but she opts for hovering near the entrance, arms crossed over her chest, a rolled cigarette pinched between her fingers. Bits of loose tobacco stick to her lips when she takes a drag, and she raises a hand to brush it away with her right ring finger. They’d be writing, or signing, which meant she wasn’t going to hear anything, so she let herself entertain all the possibilities. 

     Jesse killed Mike. Mike was a fucking dick, and if Jesse had anything to do with it, Nele knows it was for good reason. She doubts it, but it’s always worth it to examine all sides of a coin. Despite knowing she won’t hear anything, Nele detects every sound, the distant clamoring of other residents bouncing through the halls. Then, finally, Jesse appears, looking a little worse for wear, and Nele pushes herself off the wall, brows raised with curiosity. 

    Jesse had been there since Nele arrived, and she took an interest in sign language early on. He was tolerable. It was another distraction. So, during patrols and posts, she’d practice. Whenever she was with Jesse, she’d poke him for more. When she couldn’t sleep, she’d gesture under low lantern light. Because Nele hated being here, every second, and she grasped at whatever she could to make it bearable. 

     There’d been so much happening: Ray’s death, the storm, newcomers, an outbreak. It’s too much chaos and while there’s been “justice” for crimes — barely — it makes it seem as though Alexei and his enforcers aren’t doing their jobs. And since her survival is linked to Idaho Falls, it makes her veins buzz with impatience, her lips downturned in a slight scowl as she stalks the hall toward the food court. She eats her meals with the others in her rank, at the hotel dining room, but she’s looking for someone in particular, eyebrows furrowing then releasing when she spots Gabriel on his way to the court. 

     A slow, miniscule smile builds as she picks up her pace, coming up beside Gabriel to snatch him by the shoulder, shoving him against a nearby wall. There’s some chatter from a passing group, and they divert their stares when Nele glances back at them, meeting them with a harsh gaze. Her attention quickly returns to Gabriel, her forearm across his chest, pining him in place, while her free hand unsheathes her hunting knife to hold it up to his throat. “Hey there, buddy,” she greets him in a low, husky voice, “Finding your way around alright?” Nele stares him down with cold, empty eyes that flicker across his features in search of any ticks. 

     Smoke billowed into the dark sky, a grey monstrosity gaping its maws at the stars. It filled the air with the scent of charcoal and sulfur, hair from the corpses below sparking in the flames. Nele reached back to retie the bandana covering the lower half of her face, wiping her hands on her thighs before she bent down to haul another body into the fire. This was one she recognized more than most, though she’d never gotten to know her well. Marseline. Too young. Her features are nearly unrecognizable, half her face chewed to the bone, though even if she didn’t reconize her, the supple youth of what remained was enough to know it was too soon. Nele knelt, lifting her stiff and heavy torso to pile it over her shoulder, a low grunt escaping her as she stood. It was odd, how little she felt, how the smell of burning bodies didn’t make her stomach turn. She was encased in ice, her warm center put into hibernation, and she couldn’t recall exactly when that had happened. She’d been so young when it happened, but she’d lived some before, so why did it seem so far away?

     Because it was. It was a faint shadow in her past, so indiscernible she forgot it even existed. So pale, she was able to burn the dead with no reaction. She knew it wasn’t right; she knew she was supposed to feel more, but she simply… didn’t. A light sigh was the only reaction given before she tossed the young woman in with the rest, eyes squinting against the harsh smoke as she watched her torn clothing burst into flame. And then, she did feel something. White, hot anger to match the fire — because how had they let this happen? And yet, didn’t it always come to this?

     Nele wiped her forearm over her furrowed brow, her gloved hands and shirt decorated with smeared blood, the crimson on her neck glistening as it mixed with sweat. A crunch behind her; the sound of a footfall, and she turned her head, peering over her shoulder to see who was approaching. Most of the others had taken a break — and most of the others preferred a different clean-up job — but Nele had kept working, because sitting still, even for nourishment, wasn’t an option. She’d keep moving until she was spent, until the idea of sleeping on the crowded mall floors seemed a bit more enticing. Until the rage leapt into the fire with the corpses. Until she could breathe. 

eva deflates with relief when nele agrees. ahead, there will be questions of why and what this will cost; but here and now, her body lags with the palpable relief of it. she drops to a seat at the edge of the bed closest to her, palms resting at the top of her knees as she quite literally lets the weight of the last few days roll off her back. “thank you.” she says – quiet, sincere. she hears the quiet pad of nele’s footsteps, is reminded of the hour once again at her statement. she brings a hand to brush over her face, through her hair; tries to put back together the pieces of herself that were coming a little lose, a little undone. “i know – fuck, i’m sorry.” it’s all still unfiltered; but it’s the morning hours, and she’s as tired from the haunting of the past few days and from the relief from them too. “i just – got it in my head, i had to come ask you.”

eva pauses at her question, gaze rising to meet nele’s. she considers the easy white lies she could offer here, is almost certain nele wouldn’t push even if she did clock them for what they were. but there’s no use for it, eva thinks. she has no reason to lie, no reason to masquerade her fears or her past around as anything they’re not. 

“i’m seeing ghosts, nele.” she says, her gaze dropping from hers to some undefined point on the floor. it’s an attempt at making light of it. eva’s not entirely sure of her execution, and is not entirely concerned about that either. she could say more, but eva knows she won’t. it’s not for lack of want. most days she’s plagued by her own tight-fisted need to talk about the cuts and bruises that still bleed. most days, eva’s haunted by the allure of admitting defeat. it’s too hard, she wants to say. i don’t want to do this again, i can’t keep at it. 

she has yet to run into anso herself, but she didn’t need to to herald in the memories she doesn’t revisit. these are the ones she lets rot in some unbidden corner of her mind, collecting dust. she’d told only gil about what had happened the night she escaped the militia, and she had only told him what was necessary; sanitizing the events as best as she could to keep him from doing something stupid like take on the guilt for it. it was her choice to help the prisoners; what had transpired after were the consequences of her actions. eva didn’t want him to take on any blame for that. a fool’s errand, maybe, but their mercies were little and far and few in between. it’s the same reason she doesn’t speak of it now, either. even if she did, who would she say them to? everyone had their world of horrors, what good was it for her to ask someone to hold her hand through hers? 

“i can use the practice.” is what she says instead. it’s not a lie, either. but it’s not an answer, and eva knows it. “i need the practice.” she amends – no ego about it. she lets herself look up at nele again, straightening some as she wrangles composure back into her form. 

     Thank you. Something warmed in Nele’s chest, dripping down into her stomach, and she crossed her arms as if it’d protect her from it. I’m sorry. Again. And this time a buzzing came with it, vibrating throughout her entire form and making it impossible to shift her gaze away from Eva. She already showed some of her cards when she’d asked what happened, a question that rarely passed her lips unless it had to do with interrupting a task at hand. Warmth didn’t exist in her anymore, frozen over by a decade in this hellscape, under a man who had murdered her family. For a moment, she thought of Nikolai and their excursion to the water treatment plant. She gripped the memory in her fist, the possibility she’d let pass by because the consequences seemed worse than the relief it may bring. She wondered, when Eva brought up ghosts, if her desire for violence wasn’t the result of her past as well. 

     There was more to it; there had to be. Of course there was. But Nele wasn’t the type to push, especially when she herself was so well versed at keeping her past locked up tight. At one point, the safe was heavy, iron weighing in her chest, but eventually she became used to carrying it, she became stronger, and eventually, she didn’t even notice it was there anymore. Nele was a shadow of the woman she was before Alexei, mysterious and solemn. 

     Eyes narrowing, Nele approached Eva slowly, unsure of what she was actually doing, her body moving on instinct, the early hour leaving her just slightly more vulnerable to gut reactions. She knelt down in front of her, browns crawling over Eva’s features in search of… well, she didn’t exactly know what. Maybe it was the answer she refused to speak, maybe… it was something else. Something unguarded in the darkness of wee hours. 

nele comes down the stairs with blankets and ophelia is grateful.  it’s not a bed or a warm bath but it’s something.  she wishes she had sterile instruments and light, and her mother.  but she will make do.  she won’t let anything happen to priya or her baby, nothing can happen to them.

“thank you,” she says as the blankets are flung over priya and used to make her slightly more comfortable.  the presence of nele makes her even more nervous.  she’s an enforcer, a direct line to alexei.  but she’s been closer, she reminds herself.  she tries to ignore it, she tries to imagine what her mother would do.  “right, of course,” she answers, replaying the words in her head.  i have to lead, i can lead.  can she?  she’s never been the lead in a birth before, especially one in a dark basement without the proper equipment.  she takes a deep breath.  i can do this.  “okay priya, i can’t see so i’m going to have to feel with my fingers, alright?  is that okay?” once a nod is given, ophelia carefully feels for dilation.  a bit of relief washes over her when she discovers it’s not time to push yet.  “okay, you can’t be more than about 6 centimeters, you’ve got some time, alright?  try to breathe through the contractions, we’ll help you change positions if you need,” she tries to keep her voice steady, she tries to lead with confidence.  she’s not sure if it’s working.  her gaze turns to the enforcer. 

“we’ll need some more light eventually, is there anything, candles?  lanterns?  a flashlight?” she asks.  “and she’s going to need a strong hand to hold, these contractions are going to get painful.”  she’s held a few hands through birth, it isn’t an easy job.  “labor can last minutes or hours, it might be a long night.”

     Nele was in her default form, emotionless and active, set on retrieving whatever Ophelia or Priya may need. She was thankful when Ophelia had another request, since the last thing she wanted to do was be next to them, to the birth. A child had no place here; a child wasn’t allowed to be a child. There was too much danger, and it was being born under Alexei’s rule, which perhaps, to Nele, was far worse than a fate outside these walls. “I’ll be back,” was her only answer, browns tearing away from the crying, sweating woman to the stairs. 

     She took them two at a time, climbing all the way up to her quarters, where she had a collection of candles, all of them burnt at least halfway down, a black and brittle wick sticking up through the white wax. Gathering five in her arms, Nele paused when she noticed a half smoked cigarette perched on a bowl being used as an ashtray, plucking it up to balance it between her lips. One hand fished out a lighter and she inhaled deeply, her eyes falling shut as she felt the familiar and satisfying buzz of nicotine. Another drag, a slow exhale, fogging the air in front of her. Then she was off, back down flights of stairs to Priya and Ophelia, the remainder of the cigarette left on a table near the door. 

Given the option between the two it wasn’t hard to see which would be preferential for the survival of those who had lagged behind. Being cooped up in the dark with no access to food or other supplies certainly wasn’t an ideal situation, by any means, but it wasn’t about to get you killed. Not after a night or two. Infected, on the other hand? If they’d been held up this long just because of infected…then the odds weren’t looking to be in their favor. Perhaps they were still alive, barricaded behind closed doors to keep the infected out.

Naturally, that would mean they’d become his problem to deal with, though. Putting himself into harms way with the infected to save some people locked behind the doors that he could probably not care less about. This was certainly a shift from what he was used to.

Here was hoping that the efforts Nikolai, Nele, and the rest of that damned patrol had put in hadn’t been for nothing. Bloaters didn’t tend to just wander up on places, after all, at least as far as Henrik knew. It seemed more likely that they’d found themselves stuck somewhere, festering in the infection, for years. Was there another lurking in the hidden corners of the plant, waiting to be found?

Fortunately the scene they arrived to, from the outside, at least appeared to indicate Nele’s original guess to be true. That didn’t say anything as far as what was going on inside, but it wouldn’t be their first issue to face. Still, Henrik’s eyes wandered, surveying their surroundings as the trucks pulled to a stop. If there were infected in the area, the noise of the engines might very well attract them back over. Certainly a chainsaw would, if they even had such supplies on hand.

Clearing the mess before the door would certainly take some time and effort, but Henrik makes no move beyond climbing out the truck and strapping his all too familiar bow across his shoulder. He watches Nele absently as she makes to climb up with the proposal of breaking a window.

“This shit is gunna need to get cleared away sooner or later anyway,” Rik observed, leaning against the truck and focusing his attention instead on the fallen tree and other debris that had clearly inhibited the way out. “Might want to save the window and just get started there.” Besides, they had plenty of hands on this journey - might as well make use of them. Taking out a window would weaken the whole structure, expose it to the elements more than it already was. The plant itself seemed rather sturdy, it’d be a waste to damage it further for no true reason. Windows weren’t easily replaceable in this day and age.

“You said we’ve got ropes, yeah? We should be able to put together some sort of system to haul this out of the way - at least enough to get the door open again.” That would be enough for now. “What’s another hour or two stuck in there so that we do this right?” If they were already dead then the extra time certainly wouldn’t be a burden on them, and if they were still breathing - then another hour or two wasn’t about to change that drastically.

      Nele hated being corrected, in any form. She had little patience for it, and was hardly known for having patience in general when it came to people. When it came to machines? To building structures? Her focus was unparalleled, patience in abundance. Henrik was warranted more than others — if only because of their past — but given the storm, it had already been shortened. “I’ll give you permission to stay behind and clean up if you’re hellbent on it, but I’m not gonna hand over the extra hands yet.” Daiyu was supposed to be inside — the other enforcer on the grounds — and perhaps she would disagree with Nele’s plan of action. If so, she could stay as well, or they could radio her gracious father to see what he’d prefer. Either way, Nele was the one on deck, and this was the way she wanted things done. They’d return with more hands, more weapons, when they could make sure they weren’t outnumbered… again. Last time she was here, they’d returned with a list of casualties. For all they knew, the storm had opened up other points of entry for the fucking things. Their people were, ultimately, the priority; as was the mall and the hotel.

As soon as falling rain begins to puddle, creeping inside closed doors and continuing to rise, a small-seeded worry settles inside Vincent and expands. Flood control is one of the many long-overdue issues that Idaho Falls maintenance needs to worry about, but can’t — every waking moment is dedicated to the most basic means of survival and security. Things like damaged infrastructure are only dealt with when they can no longer be ignored. Prepared or not, the flood comes anyway, and now the entire quarantine zone suffers the losses; Vincent counts himself fucking lucky that his family manages to survive it, as plenty of folks rolled far less fortunate fates. 

On the first day that regular patrols resume, Vincent lays in bed a little longer than normal, wide-eyed and dreading the mountain of work that he knows awaits him. Working by day in repairs since he was a young teenager, there isn’t a thing in the QZ he hasn’t fixed once or twice before. Today ( commandeered by one of the few enforcers that truly intimidates him ), common sense and pants soaked to the shins tell him that there’ll be more to scrap in the store room than repair. He takes Nele’s orders without question, offering nothing other than an obedient ‘yes ma’am’ in response until a mop is thrust into his hand.

As commanded, a circular routine of sopping up gray, mildewy water into the bright yellow bucket and tossing it out the storeroom door ensues. Among the murky wreckage lies old, gutted hard drives, television and computer monitors, radios that have been picked apart and repaired more times than you can count — all of it valuable in a post-infection world, but likely nothing more than scrap metal now. Vincent can’t help but sigh as he realizes all of the material they’ve lost. “We could try putting everything in a bag of rice,” he jokes dryly, meeting Nele’s eyes as he holds up two walkie-talkies, still dripping. Luckily, some of the things tucked inside a sealed, metal filing cabinet seem to be mostly okay. 

     “We both know if we had any, we wouldn’t be dumping metal in it.” Food was rare, especially variety, and at the mention of rice, Nele wished they did have some at their disposal. Not only for eating, but for the very thing Vincent joked about. If they poured it all over the floor and had extra to do as he said, it would solve some of the problem that surrounded them. The disappointment caused by the damaged walkie-talkies (and everything else) appeared on her features, lips pressed together with a somber gaze. They’d have to go through everything, pick apart what was salvageable.

     She laid out a towel on an empty surface, snatching the radios from Vincent to lay them on the towel. “We’ll start putting things here that need to be dried off. The desk over there is empty enough for us to begin putting together what we’ll have to go through later.” Hope you’re ready for a long night. Or five. Then, Nele crossed the room, slapping the dry mop onto the floor before she began mopping up the puddles, wringing it dry at intervals in a nearby empty bucket. They only had two, one filled and one empty, since the others were in use, which meant they’d be making plenty of treks to dump them. 

     “Expect to eat in here tonight. This is gonna be our new fuckin’ home for the next week.” It wasn’t a joke, though she was certain the both of them wished it was. And now she wanted a cigarette, because she was annoyed, because if they’d just planned for this ahead of time, the cleanup wouldn’t be so bad. It was an oversight on her part; surely she wasn’t alone in wishing she’d secured an area better. Thankfully, her private set of tools was housed in her room, safe from the flooding. Mildew rose into her nostrils as she pushed the water around, making it wrinkle with mild disgust, though it did little to slow her down. Mop. Wring. Repeat. Over and over, until Nele was hoisting the bucket off the floor to tread outside.