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There’s a farmhouse on the edge of a loch, nestled against a cluster of old trees, made of stone and thatch, set within a hill that overlooks the crisp, clear water. It’s silent except for the wind and the birds, peacefully disconnected from the rest of the world. At the bottom of the small hill rests a wooden dock with an aged rowboat tied to a post, the shallow hull creaking with the rippling water.

All outward appearances speak to abandonment, that its previous occupants died along with everyone else, drifting into history, forgotten and alone. Unreachable by road, not for lack of path, but lack of maintenance. Rain has washed away the gravel, allowed grass to grow, removing all traces of tire tracks.

No one lives here. Nothing stirs.

And that’s exactly how they like it.

A door stands open to the enclosed garden. Simon, with apron on and arms covered in blood and stag entrails, works a hunting knife between skin and meat. One stag is done, its parts separated and cleaned, taken away by Price to be stored properly. The second stag hangs from the ceiling by its hind legs, a bucket beneath its head to catch what blood still drips from its open neck.

This is silent work. All precision. Keeps his head clear.

Johnny is out in the garden. Simon can hear his Scottish lilt as he talks to the chickens, complimenting the hens’ feathers and scolding the rooster each time it attempts to take flight and land on him when his back is turned. Kyle’s been missing all morning, likely at the long-distance radio, listening for any outside communication.

They’ve grown fewer over the years. Months pass in complete static. Still tries though Simon sees no point in it. People are gone. People are dead. People are feral, surviving, or rotting above ground in piles. War machines churn, spewing bullets and disease, creating bioweapons meant for the enemy, only to lose control of the beast they’ve birthed, dissolving humanity with it.

Simon clears away the fur, hanging it on nearby hooks next to the other stretched stag hide. Price will clean it, turn it into a coat or a throw for one of the beds. Bone is separated from the meat, each section placed in a specific spot on the butcher table based on use. Simon’s knife is sharp. Cuts clean. Makes the work easy.

“Simon.”

Though Price calls his name, Simon keeps his gaze on removing the stomach.

“Simon.”

“What?” questions Simon, severing the connecting tissue. Holding the stag’s stomach in both hands, he sets it gently on the table.

Price stands in the doorway, his own butchers apron slick with gore. “Nearly done?”

“Just about,” replies Simon, observing the carcass.

He aims for a joint.

“Kyle picked up a signal.” Simon’s knife pauses. Falls to his side. “Distress call.”

“Close?”

Price nods. “Not far.”

“They’re out front. Surrounding the car.”

“How many?”

A scope sweep over the jerking bodies, and Simon answers. “A few dozen. One on fucking fire. Nasties don’t seem bothered.”

“Any movement inside?” crackles Price’s voice in Simon’s earpiece.

Waterproof, solar-powered, short-range walkies turned out to be a goddamn blessing after the apocalypse.

“None,” replies Simon, checking the windows not covered in newspaper. “All quiet.”

“Never a good sign,” Johnny grumbles.

To Simon’s right, Old Chap, the stray Scottish Deerhound Price found on a hunt and brought back, is all silent statue, unmoving like Roman marble, waiting for the signal. Pup was bred to hunt deer, and on a hunt, Old Chap is lethal, herding them out of hiding and into the range of their rifles. Infected meat falls under his maw, too, ripped apart by Old Chap’s teeth. The Wasting Disease rots the flesh and curdles the blood in humans or transforms them into a fleshy bullet, shambling and twisting, throwing themselves forward, hungry to bite bite bite and spread.

Creatures like that don’t last long. They’re fast but mindless. The Wasting Disease controls the base motor functions but not much else. Machines of a bloody caliber, made to ignore pain, breaking down into ripped limbs and gory stumps until the thing eventually dies. Could survive a few days. At most a week. A disease made in a lab for American Imperialism, only to backfire, spreading to enemies and friendlies. Destroying fucking everything.

“They’re fascinated by the fire,” murmurs Simon, aiming the sniper rifle, transferring the scope to each rotting head. “Strange,” he drawls, a hint of confusion in his tone.

Price’s voice again. “What’s strange?”

Simon sniffs, leaning to the left and away from the scope. The diseased, human torch topples over, still, remaining alone, its companions keeping distance.

Is he fucking seeing things?

“Simon,” prompts Price.

“They’re avoiding it,” answers Simon after a brief pause.

“Avoiding what?”

“The fire.”

Car overturned, engulfed in flame, but only one burned. The rest linger nearby, observing the vehicle and fire but refusing to draw closer. Inconceivable years ago. Wankers threw themselves at everything in their path in their need to bite. Bullet, car, train, tree, building—anything.

Simon returns to the scope, watchful of the gathered horde. Breathing widens, becoming loud in his ears. One of the nasties breaks away. From the length of the hair and the gentle flare of the hips, it might have been a woman once. She drifts back, focusing on the building, head tilting skyward.

“Price,” speaks Simon into the mouthpiece, “use caution when you enter.”

A pause. “What do you see?”

“Consciousness.”

Old Chap blinks, revealing teeth as he senses the change. Simon gently turns his head. “Still,” he softly croons, and the deerhound becomes stone.

Price sighs before he speaks. “Clear in the back. We’re entering. Rear door.”

“Copy.”

Price, Kyle, and Johnny are alone in there. Simon cannot rush to their rescue, only give them time if they require an exit. Silence for nearly three years then a distress signal from a tiny town thirty-two kilometers away. Something stinks about it. Simon fucking hates surprises.

Crackling words push into Simon’s eardrum as he counts and recounts the shambling group out front. A pop. Hiss. Little sparks burst upward from the car, flares of light that turn the nasties heads. Back when the Wasting Disease raged, any sound sent the slobbering masses running to investigate. Here, they almost admire.

“Fucking gross in here,” comes Johnny’s voice, a breath of sound.

Another pop. Another spark.

“Three. Round that corner,” growls Price.

Silence as they work. Silence on the roof. Simon sniffs, runs the scope over the crowd. Counting. Counting. Counting.

“Shit,” he mutters. Simon shifts his focus, looking for the wayward enemy.

It’s the infected woman again, dragging her right foot behind her as she lurches forward, aiming for the alley. Not a wide opening, certainly wide enough for a human to navigate quietly but not a fucking diseased shamble.

“Ones on the move,” Simon softly speaks into the walkie. “Heading to the back.”

Through the earpiece, Kyle, Price, and Johnny relay signals, mere whispers of instruction and confirmation, moving through the building as Simon readies his rifle. If he’s careful, Simon can take her out as she hobbles into the alley. He’ll have a few seconds of space before she disappears.

Simon lines up the reticle. Finger tightens.

Not yet. Not yet.

The woman turns, her gaze focusing in Simon’s direction as if she can see his hiding place.

Trigger pull—and the gun is silent, but not from a suppresser.

A wave of intense heat explodes up and outward, creating a mushroom shape that dissipates, leaving a roaring inferno behind, knocking down or incinerating the nearby nasties. Half of the building catches flame, the windows blow, bits and chunks of wood flying.

“Fuck!”

As the horde stirs, Simon snaps into action, taking out one then another, aiming for the heads if possible, taking out knees if a headshot remains blocked.

“Talk to me,” Simon says into his walkie, desperately attempting to cover the panic in his voice. “Price, do you copy?” Silence. “Johnny?” More silence. “Johnny, do you copy?” Quiet except the heated maw of the fire. “Gaz? Gaz! Fuck—Kyle!”

Old Chap is up, teeth bared, stance locked for violence though Simon hasn’t given the signal. The extension of himself is the rifle and the burst of gore from heads. It is his voice calling their names, limbs itching to fucking risk it and go after them.

Most of the horde is on fire or dead, the rest drag themselves around, limbs broken or blown from Simon’s bullets. Dreary doubt chews at the hope.

“Simon?”

Johnny.

“Soap? Do you copy?”

A pause. “Aye.” Johnny coughs. “I copy.”

“Where’s Price? Kyle?”

All that comes over the walkie is a low groan.

“Soap! Listen to me. The building’s on fucking fire. You need to get up—”

A familiar click. Simon remains perfectly still, perfectly calm as he slowly pivots to glance over his shoulder.

Man or woman, hardly matters. Some wanker has a gun pointed in Simon’s face. They’re covered, head-to-toe in black tactical gear. Shit looks nearly authentic to what he wore in the field.

“Get that gun out of my face,” growls Simon. They don’t. “I said—”

“Heard what you said.” A man’s voice. “Not here to harm you. Or those with you.”

Simon sneers behind his balaclava. “Have a funny way of showing it.”

The tactical-clad man nods toward the ground to Simon rifle. “Bigger gun. Had to be careful.”

In Simon’s earpiece, Johnny is talking, talking about Price, talking about smoke, and coughing hacking coughing.

“We can help them.”

“We?” snarls Simon.

The stranger takes a step back, shows his hands, lowers his gun. “Received a distress call. That you?”

“No. We received one, too.”

Johnny is shouting at him. Price is down. And Johnny can’t bloody see. “Let us help,” repeats the man. “Let us help.”

Jaw clenched and grinding, Simon looms in the corner like a waiting reaper.

Price is hooked up to a bunch of machines that fucking beep constantly and mean fuck all to Simon. Med was never his thing. He was a hunter. Silent stealth and bloodied knife. Johnny holds vigil beside Price’s bed, fists clenched on the chair arms, gaze sadly intense.

Kyle is missing.

Gaz is fucking missing.

Four down to three but doesn’t mean he’s dead. Johnny is here, and Simon can slip away, search for Kyle in the wreckage, unless the fuckers found him and are holding him here without telling either of them. Entirely possible, but Simon has always seen the worst in people.

Ash clings to Johnny’s face and clothes, a hint of smoke lingers in the air, Simon untouched by both, watching from afar as Price and Johnny were pulled from the burning building by strangers. They’ve relieved Price of his fatigues, swapped for plain, clean clothes, washed his face, neck, and arms.

Johnny and Simon weren’t allowed in at first. Both fought, Simon swinging on a few armed men, knocking them to the floor before he was subdued. Johnny, still with smoke in his lungs, fell easily, unable to breathe right and exhausted. Put him on oxygen for a while, fluids for hydration, refusing a bed because Johnny didn’t want Simon out of his sight.

“Need to find Gaz,” growls Simon, voice scratchy from lack of use.

Johnny sighs heavily, keeping his gaze on a snoozing Price. “Think he’s here?”

“Likely,” shrugs Simon. “Right behind you, wasn’t he?”

“One floor down at the bottom of the stairs. He stopped to check a room.”

Simon’s head snaps to Soap. “He wasn’t with you?”

“He was—”

“Not behind you.”

Johnny remains mute, lips pinched. Simon crosses his arms over his chest, tucking them in until it’s a hug. Whatever anger dwells in his bones isn’t for Soap.

“Glad you’re alive, Johnny,” sighs Simon, the cloudy temperament lifting.

A swarm of tactical-clad men emerged after Simon stood down. Like beetles from a drain, they scattered, mowing down infected, storming the house, sparks from gunfire illuminating the few windows not blown out from the blast.

Old Chap, the good pup, wrapped himself around Simon’s leg, baring his teeth at any of the men that drew near, following Simon to the truck they put him in, and hasn’t left Price’s side since. The nurses even brought him a dog bed.

“We have to find him,” whispers Soap. “He’s out there.” Johnny glances at Simon. “Kyle isn’t dead.”

“No,” agrees Simon. “He’s not.”

Kyle, the bastard, is indestructible.

A soft knock at the door draws their attention to the right. In the open doorway, a woman with dark hair pulled back into a tight bun smiles, her white doctor’s coat perfectly pressed and clean. Simon inhales sharply, momentarily stunned by the sight of her. Simon hasn’t seen a woman in damn near four years. It was him and his hand and pictures. Johnny is as startled as Simon, grip loosening on the chair arms, falling into his lap as he discreetly tries to hide the obvious bulge.

All Simon has seen of this place is men. Men in tactical wear, men in scrubs, men in civilian clothes. Men men men fucking everywhere. This is the first woman, which, why wouldn’t there be? If they’d ever come across one during these long years, Simon knows he’d have taken her. Probably what they’ve done here. Perhaps allowed a few to retain their previous jobs, just like the doctor standing in front of him.

That how these things go. In war-torn areas, it’s always the women and children who suffer the most.

“Hope I’m not disturbing,” she says softly, taking a few steps inside, heading over to Price’s beeping machines. With clipboard in hand, she makes a few notes, murmuring under her breath as her pencil scratches across the page.

“Everything aces?” grumbles Simon, chest heaving slightly.

The doctor turns, her smile remaining soft and professional. “The good news is that he’ll recover.”

Johnny blows out a ragged breath, rubbing his hands over his face as he leans forward, groaning, resting elbows on knees.

“There’s a but, isn’t there?” asks Simon. There always is.

She inclines her head. “Several bones in his legs and feet are broken. Some with smaller fractures. We need patience and time while he heals. No internal bleeding but lots of bruising. A few burns. Those are only first and second degree. They’ll heal and likely won’t leave scars.” She turns toward Price. “He’s incredibly lucky.”

He’ll live. Price will live.

But they know nothing about Kyle.

“There was a fourth with us. Is he here?”

The doctor frowns. “I’m only aware of you three. It’s possible he was brought here as well, but I haven’t seen anyone else from…outside.”

“But he could be here?” Simon adds pressure to his voice, an authoritarian air he hasn’t used since the time before.

She clocks it immediately, her smile disappearing. “I’ll find out what I can.” She nods at Johnny, disappearing through the open door. A minute later and one of those gnarly wankers that stuck their guns in Simon’s face appears. Big and broad but not as large as Simon. He could take him. The man’s eyes narrow, laser focused as if Simon personally slighted him.

Answers.

Simon will have them, even if it takes some broken teeth.

“This place is weird. I don’t like it.”

Between the slats of the window blinds, Simon observes a group of laughing men walking by. Johnny grunts, and Simon turns. The Scot is lying on the floor, fighting with the laces of his boot.

“Johnny,” snaps Simon.

“Fucking help me,” he grumbles, loosening the laces of one boot, sticking it out toward Simon. With an annoyed huff, Simon grasps the toe of the boot and yanks. “Bloody Jesus, Ghost. Trying to take my leg off?”

“Did you hear me?”

“Aye. I heard ya.”

“Said this place is weird.”

Johnny manages to kick off the other boot and sit up, arms on his knees as he looks up at Simon, bewildered. “That’s what you’re on about right now?” Johnny extends his palms upward, fingers splayed. “Give it a rest.”

“Give it a rest?”

Johnny frowns at him. “We’ve been awake, what? Forty-eight hours now?” Simon tuts dismissively and Johnny snorts, clearly fed up and irritated. “We need rest. We need a plan.”

“We need to find Kyle.”

“I know, Simon,” hisses Johnny. “Think I don’t care?”

Simon crouches. “I think you’re too calm about this.”

Johnny’s frown becomes sour. “Not looking for a fight, Ghost. I want to sleep.” He pauses, growing grim. “And to clean off Price’s blood.”

Simon can’t sleep. He’s on edge. “There’s something not right about this place.”

“Not disagreeing,” groans Johnny as he shifts to his knees and then his feet, joints audibly popping as he stretches. “But what are we going to do about it?” Simon opens his mouth, but Soap holds up a hand to silence him. “Nothing. We need sleep. A shower. Won’t do Kyle any good if we’re tanked.”

Johnny is already removing his clothes, discarding them one by one, bare ass giving Simon a show until he disappears into the bathroom. The shower turns on, and Simon considers his options. A quick walk won’t hurt. In and out.

Simon leans against the doorframe, knocking. “Soap! Going for a walk!” Johnny responds but it’s muffled by the falling water. “Be back in ten!”

A quick look. That’s all.

That’s what Simon tells himself as he steps out into the cool night, as he walks to the fence line, as he strolls casually, pretending he’s out for fresh air when it’s to spy. As Simon strolls and observes, all he notices are men and their smiling faces. Bizarre, like someone cut out lips and glued them on. No air of oppression or authority, no one making themselves appear small, and no lingering sense of tension. It’s off-putting and unnatural. Aside from that, Simon hasn’t noticed a single woman.

Are they separated? Could be. Would explain their absence. The doctor is the only women they’ve met. The nurses that came in to check on Price, the security guards, and the patients, were all men.

Simon continues to walk, passing by a few guard gates. There are only glimpses of what’s beyond, hints of what might be a town, of other people. The men standing guard there nod their heads at him before continuing in their chatter, completely relaxed, not worried that Simon is out and about this late at night. That’s strange, too. It all is, and it sours Simon’s stomach.

One lap and Simon trudges back to the small cabin he and Johnny have been given. Johnny is out of the shower, wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants, on his back in bed, eyes closed.

“What’d you find?” asks Johnny, not looking at him.

“They’re guarding something.”

Johnny snorts. “From your weird arse.”

Simon side-eyes him but leaves it. Exhaustion is setting in, muscles sore. Rolling his neck, Simon removes his boots, his clothes, plunging beneath the warm water of the cascading shower.

Simon lights up, blowing smoke into the air.

“Price is well,” says Johnny, squinting as he looks up into the sky. The sun is beating down, warming their faces, but the wind whips, bringing a chill. “Checked on him this morning.”

“Doctor find anything out about Gaz?”

Johnny shakes his head. “No. Kept it brief.”

“See anything while you were there?”

Johnny sucks his teeth. “Saw mostly men again. More women though. All in doctor’s coats.”

“How many?”

Soap shrugs. “Least six.”

“Six? And no female patients?”

“Nope,” quips Johnny. “But I was watching them because shit—how long has it been?”

“Four years,” Simon answers instantly.

Johnny elbows him in the arm. “Been counting?”

“Fuck off or talk.”

Johnny cracks a smile like he’s been holding on to a juicy secret. “Forty-eight hours and I’ve seen six female doctors. Six, Simon. Means there could be more.”

“Has to be,” mutters Simon, not really speaking to Johnny but to the cigarette smoke drifting in front of his face.

Johnny grins wider, lightly smacking Simon’s arm with his knuckles. “What if we free them? Have ourselves our own little harem.”

Simon smirks. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you, Johnny?”

Johnny sighs dreamily, resting his head against the wood wall of their cabin, eyes closed. “I can picture it now.” Holding out his hands, he makes a cupping gesture. “Big bouncy tits. Something I can suckle on while she’s on top.”

Simon snorts, choking on smoke. “You’re a dog, Johnny.”

He opens one eye, his smile growing larger. “Oh, aye. Even since I popped out of me ma.”

“What else did you see?”

At this, Johnny’s amusement softens. “Strangest thing. Around the women, all the men were…polite.”

“Polite?”

Johnny’s face pinches, lips pursing. “Wrong word,” he mutters, taking a moment to think. “Respectful,” he finally says.

“Respectful,” Simon repeats.

“Hanging on their every word. Doing what they’re told. No arguments. No joking. No backtalk or attitude. Totally compliant. Fucking bizarre if you ask me. All smiles. Some Stepford Wives bullshit.”

“Robots?” deadpans Simon. “You think the men are all robots?”

Johnny throws up his hands. “Or lobotomized.”

“Fucking hell, Johnny,” growls Simon. “They’re doctors. Course they’re being spoken to with respect.”

“No. No. You didn’t see what I did.” Johnny swallows. “Men moved out of their way. Did things without asking.” He imitates a walking robot and stilted voice. “Obedient and without soul.”

“Be fucking serious,” huffs Simon. “Respect doesn’t mean brainwashed. I’ll admit the place is weird. Think they’re hiding things. But this isn’t sci-fi movie.”

Johnny scratches the side of his nose. “Think it’s odd the only women we’ve seen are doctors. Where are the rest?”

“If we ask, might find out where Kyle is, too.” Simon puts out his cigarette with the toe of his book. “Since we’re idle, should make conversation. Learn what we can.”

Johnny nods. “Agreed. Not sure how you’ll manage it.”

“I’m not that scary.”

Johnny places his hand on Simon’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. “Course not. You’re fucking Mary Poppins.”

“Get moving,” growls Simon, shoving at Soap, who dances out of reach. “Be back here in two hours. No more.”

Johnny mock salutes and disappears, leaving Simon to contemplate his next move. Could walk the perimeter again, but he’s far more interested in those gates and whatever the hell they’re guarding.

Retracing his steps, Simon reaches the first gate he came across in the night. Closed and guarded in the twilight hours, it stands open with a different set of guards. Two of them, chatting and smiling, leaning like they haven’t a bother. Simon strides forward, relaxing his body to appear less threatening.

One of the men, a redhead with freckles, nods in Simon’s direction, unfazed by his appearance. “You’re one of the new ones.”

Simon’s reply comes sharp. “What of it?”

Redhead shrugs, still amused in the face of Simon’s attitude. “Can I help you find something?”

Kyle. You can help me find Kyle.

“Bit turned around,” answers Simon, forcing his voice into a neutral tone and fails completely. It’s gruff and brisk. Not friendly at all. “Haven’t found my way yet.”

Redhead’s companion, a lanky man with dark hair and grey eyes, nods in understanding. “Happens to everyone that’s new.” He clears his throat, tucking his thumbs behind his padded vest. Striding toward Simon, he points back the way Simon came. “You’re that way.”

Back to the little cabin that hardly fits him and Johnny.

“I know where we’re staying,” Simon replies dryly. “Looking for a friend.”

“Thought your friend was in hospital?”

Fucking gits.

“Four of us—”

“Four!” exclaims the redhead, slapping his companion’s arm. “Hear that? We’ve gone and lost one!”

It’s not worth a goodbye.

Simon moves on, gaining little information. Nothing about Kyle. Nothing about what’s behind the gates. When he brought up the lack of women, most of them looked at him funny, explaining he was “on the men’s side.”

Is the place split in two? Men on one side. Women on the other. What about children? Families? People who identify as neither? Where are they? Is the place larger than Simon first thought? Smaller?

It doesn’t make sense. None of it does. Simon isn’t the friendliest but everyone he talked to appeared to assume that Simon would already know this information because they do, too. But Simon, Johnny, Kyle, and Price are not from here. They’ve known nothing but the four them these long years, interacting with few people, nearly all of them set out to harm them for what they have.

Two hours and Simon is back at the cabin, having another cig, waiting for Johnny as he stews over the lack of fucking everything. Breathless, Johnny rounds the corner of the cabin, moving so fast he might have popped into existence.

Voice high and excited, Johnny blathers, shifting between English and Gaelic, waving his hands in the air.

“Slow down, MacTavish,” chastises Simon. “And speak English.”

Johnny grasps Simon’s upper arms, shaking him. “I know where Kyle is.”

“He alive?” asks Simon, trying not to remain hopeful.

“Injured,” nods Johnny. “But alive.” His hands squeeze, going in for another shake. “You’ll never guess where he is.” Johnny pauses like he expects Simon to play along. When Simon doesn’t, he continues. “They have him with the women.”

“Johnny—”

“All this time we thought they were hidden and they’re out in the fucking open, walking around like you and me.”

“Johnny—”

Soap chatters on, ignoring him completely. “The men at the gates aren’t guarding anything. It’s to keep women out.” He releases Simon’s arms, speaking so ferociously and quickly, that Simon has to dodge Soap’s flailing arms.

“But they have their own side. They have gates, too. To keep men out. Separate spaces. Private spaces. And in between,” Johnny swirls his hands together, mixing the air, “is everyone.”

“Johnny,” growls Simon. “You’re not making sense.”

Soap’s chest heaves as he inhales deeply, calming himself. “It’s all divided up. Men have their space. Women have theirs. Between that, it’s for everyone. That’s why we haven’t seen any women walking around. They aren’t allowed here without explicit permission, but it’s the same for their space. Men aren’t allowed to walk right on in. They need to have a reason.”

Separation. Intermingling. Simon could give a shit. Kyle is here and he’s alive.

“We have to see him,” states Simon.

Johnny’s enthusiasm wanes. “Don’t know if they’ll allow it.”

“We have reason,” emphasizes Simon. “And what’s stopping us?”

Enthusiasm returns to Soap’s face, along with a nefarious smirk. “We’ve infiltrated tougher places.”

“That we have, Johnny.”

Bending at the knees, Johnny checks the pulse of the guard Simon headbutted. “He’s fine.”

Grabbing the guard’s shoulders, Johnny hooks his elbows under the armpits while Simon grabs the feet. Quietly, they bring the downed man into the guard box, dropping him out of view of anyone passing by.

“Too easy, Ghost. Didn’t put up a fight.”

Simon frowns down at the unconscious guard. “No gun.” Using the toe of his boot, Simon eases the man over on his side. “Just a baton.”

Johnny straightens, chuckling. “Think others might be packing?”

“Don’t know.” Simon steps out of the guard box, Soap on his heels. “Need to use caution.”

Like a gate at the entrance and exit of a parking garage, it’s nothing more than a piece of treated wood lifted by a hand crank instead of sensors. Johnny and Simon simply slip under it, approaching the next on silent feet. Simon’s focus is on the two guards with their backs turned toward them. Johnny, on the other hand, slows, gaze focused on the buildings beyond. A quick tap on the arm and Johnny’s back on track.

They pounce together. Covering mouths. Choking them out.

Johnny’s target succumbs easily but Simon’s is a fighter, twisting his body to jab his elbow into Simon’s ribs. It takes nothing for Simon to snap the man’s neck.

“Jesus, Simon,” mutters Johnny, dragging his unconscious guard into the box.

“Had to be done,” states Simon, dragging his guard by the wrist, uncaring of gentleness now that he’s dead.

Slinking into the shadows, they melt into the darkness for cover, taking refuge in a small alleyway between two buildings.

“What the fuck is this?” breathes Johnny.

Simon lightly chews on the inside of his lip, assessing their surroundings. The zone he and Johnny were in before, the “male only” zone, looked like any other military base, unassuming and familiar. Johnny’s intel earlier starts to make sense. A space for men. A space for women. And a space between.

In front of them is a town center, maybe a main street, but a communal space all the same. Like an old western movie, the building facades are made of wood, their bodies composed of tougher material. Some brick. Some stone. Splashes of paint and signage to differentiate between what might be found inside. Simon can’t recall noticing the transfer of money or any form of currency. No one traded anything either.

“What direction?” whispers Simon, scanning the corners and rooftops.

No movement. All is quiet.

Johnny nods toward the right. “See that opening?”

“It’s in front of us, Soap.”

Johnny pinches his arm and Simon glares at him. “We take that. No turns. No stops. A direct shot.”

“It’s too easy.”

Behind Johnny’s balaclava, the corners of his eyes wrinkle, indicating a smile. “Firepower’s at the gate and perimeter.”

“Put your wiles on ‘em, Johnny?” teases Simon.

“Not even men can resist my charm.”

Simon bites down on his snarky remark, stepping out from the shadows, crouching low, checking both ways before darting across the street. Johnny follows, back turned to catch anyone coming up behind them.

There is no cry of alarm. No shouts. They are sightless phantoms, invisible to the living even as they exist among them.

Only one guard stands watch at the gate to the women’s side of the compound. He whistles, tapping his foot, staring up at the stars. Simon subdues him easily, he and Johnny slipping under the gate.

Simon didn’t know what they’d find. Would it be nicer? Worse? The reality is that it’s almost the same.

As Johnny and Simon move from shadow to shadow, they discover cabins like the one they were given. Several are larger, perhaps for a family, while others are lined in stretches of three or four like a row of townhomes. The paths are the same, as are the lights that illuminate them. Of all the similarities, the starkest difference is the green spaces. Trees, flowers, potted plants, and gardens.

Simon steps around a bed of bluebells that curve around the side of a white-painted cabin, nearly colliding with a garden chair and the woman reading in it.

Startled, eyes growing wide, it takes a moment for her to realize the danger of Simon’s intrusion. When she does, the shift is instant. Surprise to fear is like an unexpected splash of cold water.

Her mouth opens. A scream is coming.

Simon’s hand is around her throat before it blooms, smothering her voice and ability to breathe. “Be silent,” he whispers, staring into her watery eyes. “Won’t hurt you. But don’t give me a reason. Nod if you understand.” Takes a second, but she does. Simon eases his grip on her throat. “We’re looking for a man. He’s hurt. Being cared for here. Do you know where?”

Again, the woman nods her head.

“Good,” coos Simon, easing his grip further until his hand rests against her skin. “Tell us.”

Her chest heaves with each gasping gulp of air. “Med bay. Not far.”

“Direction?”

She nervously glances to the left before dropping her gaze downward in submission. “It’s—”

Simon tightens his grip just enough to make her whimper. “And don’t lie.”

“Go left,” she murmurs. “Follow it all the way. You’ll find it.”

Simon drops his hand. “Good girl,” he purrs, lightly patting the side of her cheek. At this, she scowls but remains mute. Smart, this one. Knows better than to poke. “After we’re gone, go inside. Do not come out. Do not talk to anyone. Tell no one we’re here.” He pauses, waiting for confirmation.

“I understand,” she replies, scowl still present.

“If you do, we know where to find you.” Simon straightens, glancing around at the array of flowers. “Hate to return and,” Simon reaches out to rub a delicate petal between his fingers, “trample all over your bluebells.”

By the deepening of the crease between her brows, Simon knows she understands the deeper meaning. Flowers are flowers. They can grow again. Limbs, fingers, toes, and teeth cannot. Simon drops the flower, stepping backward.

Johnny, remaining silent the whole time, finally speaks once they’re out of earshot. “How’d you know they’re bluebells? Didn’t take you for a man of the botanical variety.”

“I contain multitudes, Johnny,” he says casually.

Keeping out of sight, they weave between buildings, keeping a close eye on the path. Takes a few minutes but the path widens. Johnny grabs Simon’s upper arm, bringing him to a halt. A jerk of his head and Simon stills, creeping slowly to glance around a corner.

Outside the medical bay are a couple dozen security guards wielding batons. Either that woman snitched, or someone saw and reported.

Simon draws back, quietly pointing at Johnny, indicating he should circle to the other side while he does the same on the other. Johnny nods, shuffling backward, checking all directions before disappearing into the night. Simon mimics him, circling to the opposite end, crouching behind the closest structure to the medical bay.

Their gazes meet across the expanse.

A signal. Quick jerk of the head.

Simon rushes forward, aiming for the closest guard, a scrawny thing that’s more twig than man. The guard staggers forward as Simon collides with his back. Baton slipping from the man’s hand, Simon snatches it up, kicking out with his boot, jabbing the steel-toe into the man’s ribs.

Down he goes, Simon swinging the baton outward, the end clipping another guard’s chin. A loud crunch. Blood and teeth fly out from his open mouth. A sharp punch to the chest, Simon stepping to the side as the man crumples.

Simon purposefully ignores Johnny, holding his focus on the men charging him. Stumbling buffoons. They are untrained, unbloodied, and lack discipline. Worms in the dirt. Easily crushed under Simon’s heel.

Broken noses. Punches to the throat. Simon fells them one by one with minimal effort. A few of the braver ones still block his path, believing they might have a chance. Others hang back, refusing to come closer unless they have to.

Simon hears crying, wailing, and a few pleading women telling him to stop. He doesn’t. Violence is an extension of himself. A constant companion.

Raising the baton, Simon steps on the man’s chest beneath him, his weight crushing rib and lung. Blood bubbles between the guard’s lips. A killing blow.

The baton falls, coming down down down—

A hand grasps the baton, soft at first appearance, absent of hard work. Simon stares at that hand, how fragile it is, how easy he could break it. His gaze finds wrist, forearm, elbow, bicep. Up it goes, landing on a face.

No guard. No man at all.

A woman with fire in her eyes and a deep, angry scowl upon her face. Your lip trembles, not from fear of him, but from the scene of violence.

Brave. So brave you are standing up to him.

“Ignorant brute,” you growl at Simon.

When he remains still, you smack his chest. Again. Again. The next smack and your wrist is caught in his grip. Tugging, Simon draws you close, peering into your face.

He can’t help himself, how his gaze drifts to your lips, to admire the quiver, how they might do the same from pleasure and not anger.

More men appear, wielding far more dangerous weapons than a feeble baton. Soap is on his stomach, arms behind his back. It takes five grown men to keep him there.

There is no space to fight, to keep going.

Simon steps back but doesn’t release your wrist. The baton slips through your fingers, and Simon drops it as dozens of hands descend.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Simon squints at the analog clock high on the wall in front of him, surprised that they found working batteries.

“We helped you.”

Simon’s gaze slowly descends, landing on the woman behind a plain, wood desk. Nice enough, clearly handmade, not pieced together from wordless instruction manuals. It’s hardly a statement piece just like the rest of the room. Simple and unassuming, yanked out and dropped from any corporate office building.

Desk. Lamps. Filing cabinets. Bookshelves.

And a woman, Isla, seated behind the desk, with a commanding presence that could rival Captain Price.

“Gave you clothes,” she continues, counting. Her fingernails are cut short and scrubbed clean. “Food. Shelter. Rescued you. Gave medical aid to your friends.” Behind her and to the right, stands an armed guard, staring down his nose at Simon. Fucker acts tough but Simon can see the bruising beneath the collar. Simon had his hands around that one. “And how do you repay us?”

“That rhetorical?” mutters Simon and the bruised neck guard scowls.

“Show some respect,” he growls but Simon remains unflinching. His voice is weak and scratchy, detailing Simon’s handywork.

Even with his hands bound and seated in a chair, Simon is dangerous. Probably why there are not one but three guards in the room. One to guard Isla, the presiding speaker for The Council of Women, the ruling leadership of the settlement, and two guards stationed behind Simon and Johnny. One man each.

“Five men are dead,” she snaps. “More injured.”

“You hid Kyle from us,” accuses Simon coldly. “What were we supposed to think.”

“Hiding him?” she repeats, head tilting slightly as if it isn’t the fucking truth. “We weren’t keeping him from you.”

“That right?”

Gleeful screaming, that of children, carries in from the nearby window. Large and covering the entire left side of the room, it looks out onto the communal space Simon and Johnny crept through the other night. It’s full of people now.

Isla spreads her hands, forearms resting on the desk. “I understand your frustration,” she begins, retaining a calmly professional tone. “But that doesn’t give you the right to trespass. To threaten citizens. To break our laws and murder multiple men who risk their lives to keep us safe.”

Johnny speaks up. “Think we can just shut it off?”

“That is not—”

“You’re strangers to us,” interrupts Johnny. “We don’t know you. Your intentions. We’re surviving in the way we know how.”

Isla’s expression remains neutral. Always calm. Always professional. Simon admires her for that. Easy to see why The Council selected her as their representative.

“That is precisely how this mess started in the first place. The arrogance and selfishness of men.”

Johnny scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. “Can’t put that on us. Blame the Americans.”

“And we were their allies,” shrugs Isla. “We are just as responsible.”

Simon is sick of this conversation. It’s word circles leading nowhere. He and Johnny were held prisoners below. A floor down is the council chambers, where the Council of Women hold hearings. Beneath it, under the ground in a damp basement, is the jail. Counting the days was pointless, and Simon isn’t interested in returning.

“Think we took joy in it?” counters Simon. “Killing those men.”

Isla turns her gaze on Simon, the middle of her brow creasing. “From eyewitnesses to the brutality, one would think so.”

Simon leans forward. The guard behind him seizes his shoulder, roughly yanking him backward. People don’t touch him. Ever. When they do, they lose fingers.

Simon jerks his shoulder out of the man’s grip. “The violence meant nothing. We were after Kyle.”

“You’re keeping him on the women’s side,” adds Johnny. “Why not the men’s? Why not with Price?”

“Suspicious,” seethes Simon. “We wanted answers. And you’re strangers. Why would you not hide him?”

Isla’s nostrils flare. It’s the only show of emotion Simon’s seen from her. “One murder would be banishment. Two, a hanging.”

“And what’s a few more?” chuckles Johnny. “Cut into pieces?”

Isla hardly blinks, unamused by Johnny’s quip. “That is what the law states.” She sighs deeply. “But the Council thinks different.” Pushing up from her chair, Isla strides to the window, watching the people below. “They voted to show you grace.”

Johnny smothers a laugh, forcing out a cough. Simon’s gaze narrows. Showing grace? No one shows grace unless they want something.

“What’s the catch?” sneers Simon. It’s irritating they removed his balaclava when they subdued him, easier to hide his disdain behind fabric.

Shifting away from the window, Isla strides to the side of her desk. “You’re capable fighters. Strong. Organized. If I’d hazard a guess…ex-military?” When neither Simon or Johnny speaks, she arches an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” answers Simon. “Not wrong.”

Isla crosses her arms over her chest, leaning against the desk causally like Simon and Johnny aren’t tied up and at their mercy. “We don’t have the resources for proper training,” she says slowly. “The men who oversee our soldiers and guards were military themselves but low on the chain of command.”

“Cannon fodder,” Simon clarifies because he knows the truth.

Those in power and in leadership positions are long dead or hiding or scheming somewhere to bring this disaster under control. Nothing has happened. It’s been quiet. They are looking after their own survival before anyone else’s.

Isla inclines her head but it’s no confirmation. “The Council is showing grace to extend an offer. You won’t be punished but you are also not allowed to be idle. While we look after your friends, you will train our soldiers and advise those we have in charge of how we can improve. Whether you stay or leave after they’re healthy is no concern to us. You have experience and training. That is something the Council values.”

Johnny’s mouth hangs open, glancing between Simon and Isla. “Could be naval officers. Won’t help you much.”

Isla holds her gaze on Simon. “You’re not naval officers.”

Simon holds his tongue. It’s a good offer. They keep their heads, do what they do best, and leave when it’s done. Not ideal but better than corpses.

Slowly shifting his attention to Johnny, they make eye contact. No words needed. Only silent understanding.

“We were part of the Special Air Service,” Simon admits. “Handled hostage rescue, covert reconnaissance, counterterrorism.” Isla’s eyebrows rise at this. “Not what you were expecting?”

Clearly not, but that’s good. They have greater leverage now. Their skills and experience far exceed what the Council is after.

Isla ignores the question. “What of your friends?”

“The same,” he answers.

“We’re a team,” adds Johnny. “Always have been.”

“What do we receive in return?” asks Simon. “For lending our skills?”

Isla glares at them. “You receive your lives.”

“No.” Simon shakes his head. “You will take us to Kyle. I want to see him myself. Reassurance without evidence means nothing.”

For a moment, Simon believes Isla will accept. Her stern expression becomes motherly, almost pitiful. “You could have asked to see him.”

“Would you let us?”

“No,” she says automatically. “Probably not.”

“That’s my fucking point,” growls Simon. “Bring him to the men’s side.”

The guard behind Simon grasps his hair, yanking his head back to expose Simon’s throat. “Speak like that to her again and I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Careful,” chuckles Johnny. “Don’t tease him. Shit turns him on.”

The guard’s upper lip curls, roughly shoving Simon’s head forward.

Isla’s frown deepens, unamused. “Transferring your friend is not my decision to make. I can assure you he’s well cared for. He needs rest and time to rehabilitate.”

Simon runs his tongue over his teeth, tasting blood. “Let us see him and we’ll accept.”

Refusal is not survival. It is negotiation. The Council needs them, these women who oversee everything, control everything. They need tools. Simon will be that tool.

It’s a stretch of silence, of Isla’s intense gaze as she considers, purposefully withholding an answer to fuck with them. “That can be arranged.” Victory swells in Simon’s chest. “However—” Johnny groans with a heavy sigh, rolling his eyes in annoyance. “However,” emphasizes Isla, “after your violent display, the little trust you did have is broken. If I allow you to enter the women’s side, even with supervision, there will be pushback.”

“You speak for the Council,” replies Simon. “Think you can quiet a few disgruntled women.”

Isla’s face scrunches like she’s smelled spoiled milk. “Kyle is healthy and will recover. You are to stay on the men’s side and within the bounds of the communal spaces. You are to train and teach our soldiers. You are to follow our laws. You will show respect to everyone, equally.”

From the protruding veins in Johnny’s neck, the man is ready to spit venom. Soap’s temperament sometimes gets the better of him.

The corner of Simon’s mouth twitches, but he holds his tongue. “And what are the laws?”

“Knew this place was fucking odd.”

“Scared of some women, Johnny?”

“Now you’ve got jokes?”

At the edge of the training grounds, Simon and Johnny observe the ongoing drills. First impressions are important, and these men hardly come close to proficient. Lack of experience and skill was an understatement.

Johnny rolls his shoulders; arms crossed over his chest. “We were bested by this?”

Simon considers the men before him. “No. Wouldn’t trust them to hold a gun. And you were bested by a fire. I had the gun in my face.”

“Aye. That’s true.” Johnny falls quiet, tapping his foot against the ground, shaking his head when a dozen men topple off the top of the climbing wall, knocking down more as they fall.

“Fucking shambles,” mutters Simon as two of the men shove at each other.

“If only Price were better,” sighs Johnny. “Have them in line by end of day.”

Simon huffs in agreement, digging in his pocket for a cigarette. Years out of date now but Simon hardly gives a shit. Still hits the same.

Johnny lightly elbows Simon in the shoulder. “How you feel about it?”

“What about?” exhales Simon, curls of smoke dissolving into the air.

Johnny gestures vaguely. “Their rules. Council of Women. Separate living spaces. Can’t even flirt with a woman unless she approaches you first?” He shakes his head in disgust.

“That’s what you’re upset about?”

“A bit,” he grumbles, and Simon chuckles. “But you heard what they said. About the division of labor.”

“Makes your lobotomy theory more believable.”

Johnny smacks Simon’s chest, catching Simon on an exhale. “Fucking right!”

Simon coughs, clearing the smoke of his lungs. “Or,” he counters, because he’s slightly miffed at Johnny for hitting him, “you’re experiencing what women have their entire lives.”

The deadpan stare Simon receives could cut glass. “You don’t like it either,” drawls Johnny.

“No,” agrees Simon. “I don’t.”

Simon considers the soldiers before him, how they all appear content with their lives. Lobotomy or no, dissent and discontent is common amongst large groups of people. Human history is a recording of those disagreements.

“Others likely feel the same,” murmurs Simon. “Just have to find them.”

Johnny’s expression grows sour—angry. “Don’t like their rules about children. It’s not right.”

“I’m not disagreeing.”

They aren’t paying attention to the soldiers running drills. Not worth it at this point. Johnny’s ready to boil over.

“Isla worded it like men aren’t part of the process. Except—” Johnny jerks his hand. “As donors.”

Simon aims for lightness. “Keep your prick in your pants then.”

Johnny cracks a smile, some of his anger melting away. He sighs deeply, thawing his mood. “I miss my chickens.”

“We’ve left them for longer. They’ll be fine.”

“The hens aren’t getting their morning compliments.”

Simon shakes his head as Johnny chuckles to himself. “Should go. Take care of this lot tomorrow.”

“They don’t want us here,” says Johnny as they turn their backs. “Ordering them around.”

Simon shrugs. “Don’t blame them. I’d hate it, too.”

“Can see it in their eyes.”

“We killed some of their brothers.”

Johnny doesn’t disagree. “Wonder how Price is doing,” he muses.

It’s a good change. A nice shift from reality. “Maybe he’ll be more alert today.”

Price is walking. Small steps. Not fully load-bearing yet, but he’s recovering quickly. Leaving is tangible and not figurative.

The entire week is cyclical. First half of the day is training, lending skills and expertise. Second half of the day is for Price, Johnny and Simon sitting at his bedside, chatting with him, keeping him updated on the situation. Like them, Price is skeptical, but more worried about Kyle than settlement dynamics.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

It’s a routine that begins to feel normal which is exactly what Simon didn’t want. Most of the men don’t talk to him. They’re nice enough. Polite. But they prefer Johnny more. Simon understands. He’s not easy to approach even on his best days.

A hawk flies overhead, curving with the wind, wings outstretched as it soars. Simon follows the bird, admires its freedom, wishing that he too could rid himself of this place.

“Fucking starving,” groans Johnny, crossing his arms and resting them on the ledge.

They’re at the main gate today, observing the day-to-day duties, overseeing safety specs, and what the settlement might improve on. Thing is made of solid wood. A shame, really. Someone with enough fuel or a fire-happy substance could set it to torch.

“Could use a meal,” mutters Simon, rolling his neck, sighing with each little crunch and pop.

“Think they trust us now?”

Simon glances at Johnny. “Happy to have something familiar in your hands?”

Johnny lovingly taps the side of the L85. Not the best, but it’ll do. Their arsenal back at the homestead is better, and what the settlement has in theirs is an assortment of “take what you can and go.”

With them are four others: Charles, Henry, Kit, and Michael. Men with more skill than what Johnny and Simon have observed previously. Better shots from a distance that can only improve with practice. Not one carries a rank. They don’t do that here. It’s the men on the ground and the ones in charge. Only those giving orders have the right to use a title.

A response blooms on Simon’s tongue, quickly extinguished by a burst of masculine laughter. Johnny and Simon turn at the same time, and Simon’s throat drops into his stomach.

That night comes roaring back, of the baton in his grip, the blood on his face and fingers, of the blow meant for the man beneath Simon’s boot but stopped by a womanly hand.

Ignorant brute.

You’re here with a smile and not a scowl.

“Thank you,” says Charles, matching your smile, reaching out for the wrapped item you hold out to him. “Was starving.”

Simon instantly hates him.

Next to him, Johnny groans, rubbing his stomach. “Lass is an angel.”

Food. Sandwiches by the look of it. You move from man to man, handing them a sandwich each. As you approach, Simon’s stomach twists. It’s a growing flutter that strengthens with every step you take. Johnny happily takes the sandwich you offer him, opening the wrapping, inhaling deeply.

Your body shifts in Simon’s direction and his back straightens as your eyes meet. The smile fades, becoming a fierce scowl.

There is no goodbye.

And no sandwich.

Simon stares as you turn your back, sauntering away like he isn’t there at all. Out of habit, Simon’s gaze drops, admiring the sway of your hips, and an ass he wants to sink his teeth into. Sandwich in hand, it hovers in front of Johnny’s open mouth. The others also stare in disbelief, glancing between you and Simon until you disappear, descending the stairs.

Johnny’s surprise slowly melts away, open mouth coming together to form a mischievous smirk.

“Don’t,” Simon warns.

Snorting, Johnny offers up half the sandwich in amused silence. Simon snatches it, taking a bite, chewing with irritation.

Annoyed? Yes. A bit turned on? Simon won’t deny it.

The afternoon gives way to a chill and overcast skies. Simon and Johnny don’t linger, taking note of visible improvements and hidden weaknesses of the gate and surrounding fenceline.

It’s the walk back that intrigues him, that tugs on a primal part of Simon’s brain.

“Can’t tell if she wants to kill you or fuck you,” chuckles Johnny, lightly shouldering Simon.

You’re in the communal space just as they are, listening but not listening to the conversation you’re having with five others. You’re distracted, staring at Simon, eyes narrowed with suspicion. A deep scowl cuts across your lips. Or is it more of a pout?

Johnny’s head tilts as if considering the answer. “Both,” he says, answering his own question.

“Come on, Johnny,” growls Simon, grasping his arm and leading him towards the men’s side.

Johnny teases him the whole way to their cabin, yapping Simon’s ear off about winning you over. Simon half-listens. He’s thinking of the way your body moved as you walked away from him. How, even disgruntled, Simon wanted to know what you taste like.

“Maybe you need to give her gifts. Women like that. Flowers? Or—”

Simon nearly smacks into Johnny’s back. “Soap,” he scolds. Johnny remains where he is, head turned and focused on something deep within the cabin.

Shifting his weight, Simon leans to the side, peering over Johnny’s shoulder. “Fucking hell,” he mutters just as Johnny launches himself across the room.

“You bastard!” Johnny heaves himself from the floor, sailing through the air, and landing on a large mass laying on the bed. “Been fucking worried.”

“Watch the stitches,” comes a familiar, masculine laugh.

Simon steps through the door, his eyes adjusting to the darkened interior. On the bed, wiggling beneath Johnny, is Kyle. Smile broad, the two men playfully tussle, Johnny shaking Kyle’s shoulders.

“Ease up, Soap,” mutters Simon, pushing at Johnny’s arm.

He falls onto his butt, breathing heavily. “Snuck over to surprise us?”

Kyle’s smile is warm. “Cleared me. Sent me here. Happy to know you’re alright. How’s Price?”

Simon inclines his head. “Better. Walking more. Bones are healing. He’ll be up and himself again soon.”

“Good,” murmurs Kyle, nodding his head.

“What about you?” asks Johnny, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. “Had you on the women’s side.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “What’s that like?”

Kyle’s smile shifts, gaze growing soft, eyes glancing downward as if he’s lost in a fond memory. “Nice, actually. Didn’t realize it until someone told me. About the settlement. Rules and such.”

Johnny beams. “Fucking bonkers here.”

Kyle’s gaze snaps up. “How do you mean?”

He starts listing. “Separate living spaces. Unequal division of labor. Men can vote but can’t hold office.”

Kyle blinks, clearly stunned at Johnny’s disinterest in life here. “You’re upset about that?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Makes sense to me.”

Johnny’s mouth falls open. Simon simply stares.

“It makes sense to you?”

Kyle shrugs. “Why not have women in charge? Look around us. We’re here now because of the actions of men. Time for a change.”

“You agree with this?”

“Not entirely,” admits Kyle. “There are a few things I don’t particularly like. But I’m for it.”

“Oh, shit,” murmurs Johnny. He turns toward Simon. “Told you. Stepford Wives. Replaced them all with robots.”

“Lobotomy.”

“They got him, Ghost. We’ve lost Kyle.”

“Kyle is right here,” he huffs, one arm out and bent in a “what the fuck are you on about” gesture. “Haven’t left.”

Johnny and Simon keep talking despite Kyle’s assertion.

“Think he’s pussy drunk?” whispers Johnny, pointing at Kyle as if he’s not in the room.

“Maybe. Or they’ve made him a Ken doll.”

A pillow goes flying, smacking Johnny in the face with a muffled whomp. “Piss off. The both of you,” laughs Kyle. “What a shite greeting.”

Kyle’s jovial attitude about the settlement smells foul to Simon. This place has secrets. It must. The men are always happy. Happy to bend. Happy to fall in line. Happy. Happy. Happy.

And yet, the men possess the weaponry, handle the settlements safety and security. At any moment, those arms could be taken up, used against the women that hold control. That is the part Simon chews on. Women and children are always the first to suffer, but they thrive here, free of threat.

Simon rests his forearm against the base of the top bunk, staring down at them. “Just surprised. Haven’t seen much of this place. And what we have isn’t exactly thrilling.”

Kyle sighs, settling back against the bed, head on his pillow. “I miss home. But it’s not so bad here.”

Simon wishes he could agree.

And that wishing morphs into key observation.

Another week. Kyle rests during the day, disappearing at night, only to return in the early hours. Price continues to improve. Simon and Johnny oversee training. Between these moments there are snippets, teasing and curious. Simon sees you everywhere, sometimes scowling, sometimes not, but always watching. He’s unable to attach a name to it, this constant vigilance.

What the fuck do you want from him?

“Where’s Johnny?” Simon frowns at his empty bed. “He’s been gone for three days.”

“Surprised you just noticed,” chuckles Kyle, stretching, wincing as his torso lengthens.

Simon turns away from Johnny’s bed, heading for a quick shower. “We had split duties. Didn’t think he’d up and disappear.”

“He’s fine,” muses Kyle.

“You know that?”

“Promise.”

“You’ve been gone six days, Johnny.”

Simon is dressed for the day and fuming. Johnny melted into existence, appearing while Simon was in the restroom, relaxed and reclining in bed like he hasn’t been missing.

A bit stretch. A scratching of the stomach. A few slow blinks. “Bout to sleep for six more,” grumbles Johnny.

Irritated, Simon snatches his pillow, bringing it down on Johnny’s face a few times. “Where were you?”

Behind Simon, Kyle covers up a snort.

Johnny grins, almost dreamily. “Figured out why the men are so happy.”

Kyle turns onto his good side, addressing Johnny. “You have it off?” Johnny hums in the affirmative. “One?” No response. “Two?” Again, no response. Kyle guffaws and sits up fully. “More?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” growls Simon.

Johnny remains on his back, staring at the bottom of the top bunk. “Thought I’d just,” and holds a fist over his groin, slinging the wrist to simulate masturbation, “jerk into a cup.” He drops his hand, rubbing his inner thigh. “Think my dick is sore. Don’t know if I could come if I tried.”

Kyle barks a laugh, falling onto his back, covering his eyes with one hand. Johnny turns his head. “Had me rotating between three,” emphasizing his words by holding up three fingers. “Never had it off so much in my fucking life.”

Simon, finally connecting the pieces, blurts, “you were gone six days to get your dick wet?”

Kyle falls into a fit of wheezy giggling.

“Ate,” lists Johnny. “Slept. Fucked. Repeat.”

“For six days?” deadpans Simon.

Johnny nods, snuggling down into the bed, eyes closed. “Understand the compliance now.”

Controlling his giggling, Kyle manages to speak between breathy inhalations. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Don’t know how much you miss it until you’re balls deep.”

Simon rounds on him. “Is that why you disappear at night?”

Kyle attempts to suppress a smile. “That obvious?”

“Fucking hell.”

Johnny cracks open one eye. “You should have a go, Ghost. I’m sure some cute lass will take you.”

“Piss off, Johnny.”

Johnny sits up, resting on his elbows. “I’m serious. They have a whole building dedicated to it.” He shrugs. “Not sure what it’s called. Breeding center? Fertility clinic? The ‘get laid’ office?”

Kyle stabs his finger in Johnny’s direction. “That’s a good one.”

“Thought you hated this place?” snaps Simon. “Or did you forget?”

“In my defense,” begins Johnny, holding up a hand when Simon releases an annoyed groan, “I was asked.” He rolls his shoulders, growing smug. “When three women want you to breed them…you can’t say no.”

Simon pinches the bridge of his nose, using box breathing for the first time in his fucking life. Kyle is still a mess, holding his side where the stitches are, his laughter no longer audible as he loses control of himself.

“And suddenly you don’t care about paternity,” drawls Simon.

After the deal they made with Isla, Johnny had gone off to Simon about how children are conceived and treated after birth. There are few families, and those that do exist within the settlement live in their own private space. Otherwise, children are raised collectively, with the majority residing with the women on their side of the settlement. There are no partners, no relationships, unless it’s serious and approved by the Council.

Creates less drama was the reasoning. Avoids possessiveness and jealousy. They record who fucked who so no genes cross too close, but other than that, most of the men have no say in the matter, and rarely have an active role in the child’s life unless the woman permits it.

Johnny leans forward a tad, pointedly staring at Simon, ignoring his remark. “What about the lass always scowling at you? She’s a bonnie thing.”

Slowly turning his head toward Simon, Kyle’s grin becomes mischievous. “Is that who you’re wanking to?”

“Think she’d rather claw my face off,” mumbles Simon, because there’s no reason to deny it. That pouty, scowling face of yours is easy to imagine while you’re on your knees, begging to suck his cock.

“More like claw your back up,” snorts Kyle as the two men fall into hysterics again.

Simon was over this conversation two minutes ago. “There’s work to be done.”

“If you don’t come back,” calls out Johnny as Simon heads for the door, “I’ll assume you’re sticking your prick in her.”

The door slams shut behind Simon, his hand still clutching the handle, staring off as he tries to subdue his racing thoughts. Johnny disappearing for six days irritates him but it’s a speck of dirt now. Nothing he can’t clean off. It’s the after. What they said about you.

Two words.

Ignorant brute.

Every time you and Simon cross paths, you never speak to him, never approach unless necessary. The fact that Simon is interested in you at all is surprising. There are other women who’ve had their eye on him, approached him to flirt or talk. The attention is nice, satisfying a craving Simon hasn’t indulged in in years.

Rifle in hand, Simon leaves the men’s area, and into the communal space. Though there was pushback by the Council, they did agree that the occasional armed patrol in the communal area could be instituted. Simon suggested a nonsensical rotation. Routine and schedule create pockets of rebellious invitation.

Simon assumes his post near a wooden support pole. Off to the side, Simon can observe the passing people without standing in the way of anyone. Most don’t glance his way, too absorbed in their own lives to notice him. While his training tells him to have his hand in a relaxed, non-lethal position, it still scares people. He’s trying not to be a menace this time. Safety is on, the rifle is attached to a strap that rests on his shoulder. Too relaxed for him, but it makes the Council happy.

Two weeks and Simon finally understands this place. Shaped like a pentagon and divided into seven sections, five of which are residential areas, one communal, and the last acting as an interior storage lot, the place is far larger than Simon first believed. Men and women have their sides, representing a whole and not based on biological differences. Laswell and her wife could have lived together on the women’s side, and thinking of her at all brings a tightness to Simon’s chest. Families take up their own space, seniors in another to reduce noise and maintain a calm environment, and the last for anyone who doesn’t agree with separation. Simon walked that space a few days ago, quickly releasing the people residing there don’t want rigid rules and walls, preferring collective living.

It’s like before, only flipped, removed of certain social parameters. If Simon described it in one word, he’d choose fine. Just fine. Not great. Not special. Not where he’d choose to live. Home is the farmhouse. Home is the loch. Home is the nearby forests. Home is Johnny complimenting the hens and Price’s whistling as Old Chap dances around his legs. It’s Kyle walking around with the wired headphones around his neck, plugged into the radio, the cord trailing behind him, trailing around corners and over the sofa like he’s an 80’s housewife.

Scanning the crowd, Simon observes every passing face. His fingers itch for a cigarette. The one upside to this place is the endless supply. It’s the one vice of the past Simon still enjoys. The occasional whiskey with the boys is a close second.

It’s then that he sees it, a familiar face with a perpetual scowl. Stomach flipping like a gymnast, Simon’s vision tunnels, entirely focused on your forward progression. You don’t notice him at first, clearly in your own head. As you draw close, your gaze shifts, realization dawning. You slow as you approach, and for the briefest moment, Simon believes you’ll stop. That you’ll talk to him.

Your gaze finds his face. Lingering. Lingering.

Simon steps to the right, ready to block your path. There’s the faintest hesitation, feather-soft and nearly imperceptible.

Stop, he thinks. Stop.

His heart thunders and then flatlines.

You step around him, and Simon turns with you, glimpsing the moment you glance over your shoulder at him. There is no scowl. No anger. No suspicion.

The itch becomes an urge.

And Simon is only a man.

Ignoring the voice insisting that he stop, Simon leaves his post, following like a fox hunting rabbit. You’re still looking over your shoulder at him, an enticing glimmer in your eyes. The conversation between him, Johnny, and Kyle churns in the folds of Simon’s brain, urging muscles to contract, lifting leg and foot, shepherding him toward you.

Perhaps you slow, or maybe Simon covers more ground.

His hand seizes your upper arm. A quick tug and you’re off course, yanked to the right, herded between the dividing fence and brick wall.

“You’re following me,” growls Simon.

He keeps his hand locked onto your arm, using the tension to hold you in place. His other hand rests against the brick wall. Leaning in, Simon creates a private cocoon. Anyone walking by will only see him. They’d need to look at the ground to peek a second set of feet.

The scowl is gone. In its place is defiance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Fuck me, he thinks, because why do you sound so breathy?

“Let me go,” and you’re perfectly calm. No anger at all.

Blood rushes downward, cock twitching as arousal grows. Starved is an understatement. Simon is back in his teenage years, losing his virginity, fumbling around and finishing quickly. All his experience means nothing. He is a salivating animal, teeth gnashing for a bite.

Simon leans in further. Instead of tucking your chin and hiding, you lift it, meeting his gaze. “Tell me why you’re following me,” he croons. “And I might.”

“Harassment is against the law.”

“So is stalking,” counters Simon.

There’s that pouty scowl again forming on your lips. Fucking cute you are, attempting to act tough. “You want the truth?” you say, arching an eyebrow. “Fine. I don’t trust you.”

“Is that right?” he drawls, gaze focused on your lips. Hesitation is absent as Simon removes his hand from the wall, tracing your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “Following me around like a lost little bird.”

“I’m not—”

“Couldn’t threaten me if you tried.” Simon adds pressure then releases, admiring the way your pout pops back into place.

You roll your shoulders, pressing your chest forward, attempting to make yourself big and intimidating. “Someone has to keep an eye on you.”

“That’s what you’re doing?” chuckles Simon. “What about the gate? Gave everyone sandwiches. Skipped me.”

“I—I was one short,” you claim, and Simon nearly bursts out laughing.

Simon leans in again, trapping you there, shifting his body forward to create closeness that exceeds casual acquaintances. “You want me attention,” he purrs. “Don’t deny it.”

“You’re full of yourself,” you reply, but it’s breathy and soft, almost sweet like tempered sugar.

“Am I wrong?” he asks. “You have no reason to watch me. Council didn’t tell you to. Know that much. So what’s the real truth, love?”

Your chest heaves, nostrils flaring. You’re about to break or slip into a half-truth. Simon knows the signs, years of interrogation have primed his attunement to the body’s tells. Conquering this is not. Breaking you is easy.

“It’s true,” you admit. “I am watching you.”

“But?” prompts Simon, because he’s going to dig the truth out one way or another.

“But it’s not because I don’t trust you.” You lick your lips, hesitating. Simon takes a chance, pressing his hips to yours. He’s rewarded with a shiver. “You’re…dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“The men here are docile. And I want—”

Behind the balaclava, Simon smirks. “You want it rough,” he finishes for you.

“Yes,” you breathe, and Simon savors the sound. “Want to be fucked out of my mind.”

Fucking hell.

Raging hard and throbbing, it takes all of Simon’s focus to slow down and not pounce on you in this alleyway. It’s been years since Simon has known a woman’s touch, and here you are, presenting yourself as an offering, begging him to fulfill a desire no man here can satisfy.

“Tonight. We can—”

“No,” you say quickly, grasping the front of his fatigues. “Now. I want to do it now.”

Double fucking hell.

Your cabin is near the back of the women’s area, tucked away in a corner. It’s the middle of the day and everyone is out.

Simon takes in the space that isn’t much larger than the cabin he, Johnny, and Kyle occupy. The kitchenette is slightly bigger, the bathroom not as cramped. Around your bed is a makeshift canopy, soft curtains on rods drilled into the ceiling, creating a sense of privacy when there are no walls.

The rifle is gone, returned to its home over on the men’s side. Simon nearly sprinted the whole way, not wanting you to change your mind and leave him.

As you pass in front of him, Simon grasps the front of your throat, palm flat and firm, drawing you against his body. You comply, melting into him, turning your head, chin up to look at him. He knows your name now, and you know his. Simon whispers before he kisses you, leaving no doubt to his intentions.

Not slow or delicate, the kisses come in fierce and hot—messy. Ones that shift into tongue touching tongue, of little whimpers from your throat, of his own muted grunts as Simon’s other hand presses to your stomach, sliding down to cup your sex through your pants.

 Simon fingers the zipper. Undoes the button. Slips his hand inside.

The tips of his fingers find curls, find your clit, slide further until he’s teasing your opening. The kiss is broken by your gasp, of a mangled groan as Simon slowly eases his finger inside you.

“This for me?” he croons, grip on your throat tightening slightly.

A withdrawal. A circling tease. Inside once more.

“Yes,” you manage through broken breath.

Simon presses his lips to your ear. “Where you wet for me at the gate?” You nod. “When you looked at me?” Another nod. “When you stopped me from killing that man?”

“Yes, Simon.”

The affirmation shoots down to his balls, full and heavy, wanting nothing more than to spill everything into your tight cunt.

He removes his hand, and the loss of contact makes you whimper. Using the grip he has on your throat, Simon spins you around. Your lips are wet and glossy from his kisses, slightly parted, begging to be kissed further. Painted there is a small smile. Your eyelids are lust-laced and heavy.

“Get on your knees,” he growls. “Show me.”

Retaining your smile that grows hungrier by the second, Simon watches as you descend to your knees, eagerly loosening the zipper and buttons, easing the waistband of his pants over his hips and down enough to reveal his cock.

The way you lick your lips before you deep throat him makes his balls ache. The first press of tongue shifting to the welcoming wet warmth of your mouth nearly undoes him. Everything tightens, priming for release, for his cock to spurt ropes of cum down your throat. Simon thinks of math equations and hard labor, the agitation quickly dissipating.

Enthusiasm and mess. Your hand fisting the base of his cock moving in tandem with your bobbing. Simon, though, knows it’s not enough. You want it rough.

Grasping the back of your head, he takes control, forcing you down until your lips touch his hair. The gag is delicious, your hands grasping his thighs to steady yourself, tears forming in your eyes as he fucks your mouth.

“Look at you,” he growls. “Obedient thing.”

You hum, the vibration making his cock twitch. With a grunt, he forces your mouth off him. You gasp for air, salvia coating your puffy lips and chin.

Smiling. You’re smiling again.

Grasping you under your armpits, Simon hauls you to his feet. His switchblade clicks open, cutting away your clothes, tearing off the remaining shreds until you’re naked. Knife closed and tucked away, Simon shoves you onto the bed, forcing you onto your side, opening your legs.

You’re unable to move as Simon kneels. Wrapping one arm around your extended leg, he holds it to his chest, ankle touching his shoulder.

Simon slaps your pussy, your arousal wetly reverberating. He does it again. Again. Gives attention to your clit.

“Oh, fuck,” you groan. “Feels so good.”

Simon slips two fingers inside down to the knuckle. Curling the tips of his fingers slightly, he uses them like he would his dick, the pad of his thumb rubbing rough circles on your clit.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head and every word falling from your lips is nonsense. Smugness takes root in Simon’s chest. You’re falling apart, fisting the bedding, eyes shut hard in concentration, pussy walls contracting and squeezing around his fingers.

Simon knows when you come. You bear down, squeezing his fingers so hard that Simon wishes it were his dick.

“I can’t,” you whimper after the third. “I—can’t. Too—too much!”

Withdrawing his fingers, Simon slides them over his tongue, sighing when your taste hits him. You press your face into the bed, turning onto your stomach, groaning. Grasping your hips, Simon eases them up until your knees dig into the bed.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, admiring how swollen and wet you are. “You look fucking breedable.”

Simon manages to shove his pants down to his knees, but that’s all he’s able to achieve. He needs to be inside you, to fuck this cute pussy until you’re dripping with his cum. Rubbing the head of his cock against your clit, sliding it up and down your sex to coat it in your arousal, Simon finally gives you what you both want.

No slowness. No gentle touch.

Grabbing both butt cheeks, Simon thrusts, bringing you completely down on him.

You cry out, choke. “Oh, thank God,” you groan as he sets a pounding pace.

Reaching behind you, you grasp the back of one thigh, opening your leg further, giving Simon a better view of where your bodies meet, of the deliciously perfect stretch.

“So good,” you pant. “Simon. You feel so good.”

His name on your lips is a stimulant, driving his need to new heights, ricocheting around in his head.

“Harder,” you moan. “Fuck me harder, Simon.”

He’s done for. Knocked out. Ended.

Simon transfers his weight to one hand, the bed sinking beneath it. His other hand holds the back of your neck. At this angle, Simon can stroke deeper—harder.

Head dipping, Simon speaks between clenched teeth. “Gonna come inside you.” You whimper and Simon tuts. “No protesting, love. You’re taking it.” He leans in further, whispering in your ear. “You’ll take every drop I give you. Staying here in this bed until there’s nothing left in my balls.”

Your hand forms a fist, hitting the bed as if in protest.

Too bad.

Simon doesn’t stop—doesn’t slow. The only sound in the room is the wet slap of skin against skin, Simon’s feral grunting, your muffled cries. Muscles tense, and Simon shivers, his orgasm rising hot and fast. It rushes out of him, and still, he refuses to quit, fucking his cum further into your pussy. Seconds later, you clench around him, squeezing him so hard, Simon momentarily blacks out.

Collapsing atop you, Simon’s heavy breathing syncs with yours, silence all other sounds. You’re both still for a full minute, and it’s Simon that moves first, pushing him up to his knees, hands firmly planted on your ass.

Simon glances down where your bodies meet. Using a single finger, he traces the stretch, gently easing out as he does. His dick is coated in your arousal and his cum. With a satisfied smirk, Simon shifts backward and comes to standing. His muscles ache but he hardly notices it as he begins to strip down. An item at a time. Your legs collapse, followed by a pleased groan. Simon silently observes as you roll onto your back, legs together.

The shift isn’t subtle. You go from hazy bliss to bratty siren.

Biting down on your bottom lip, you spread your legs up and out, hands slipping beneath your knees, holding yourself open. One hand continues, arm hooking under the knee, fingers splaying against your pussy, forcing Simon to focus on the spot where his cum is just beginning to seep out.

“Said I wanted it rough,” you croon, and Simon nearly topples over.

Control? What fucking control? You’ve planned this, plotting from the moment you locked gazes with him.

His lips part in surprise as you wiggle your toes and giggle.

Uneven bricks, ochre and grey, cloaked by a pitched roof and tiles laced with moss and ashen lichen. A chimney peeks from the top left, darkened right around the top. There’s a stone path leading from the gravel where you parked your car to the front door—sturdy hardwood thing, painted a deep dark chocolate with bronze trims all around. Wooden fixtures for the windows, worked and etched in that way that makes them look old, but they clearly aren’t. Thick glass, maybe to isolate sounds—as if it’s needed.

This house is as pretty as it is lonely. Lost in the middle of nowhere.

At least you were right about one thing. Not even God would go this far to look after His disciples.

Out of four hours, you spent half driving through unpaved roads, with your car jumping over fat roots and potholes. Got lost once. Almost ended up in a ditch twice.

However, the landscape they led to is gorgeous as few. Worth the money that you’ll surely have to splurge on new shock suspenders.

It’s autumn, so there’s the occasional tree popping golden amongst an emerald ocean extending behind the cottage, farther than the eye can see. In front of the house, there’s a small grove. It rustles with the wind, coos with birds and owls, runs with squirrels and wildlife clawing up the trees. Evergreen bushes with the occasional pop of colour, whether red or pale orange, lean against the trunks. The sun is setting behind it, painting the landscape with the shadows of the fronds and a soft golden glow.

It's quiet, in that way only nature can be.

If you hadn’t been worried down to the bone marrow, you’d have lit a cigarette and smoked it with your ass on the trunk of your car while basking in the last shafts of sunlight of the day.

Alas, you’re not here for sightseeing.

You turn off your car and jump out of the seat. Gently, you stretch your arms; your shoulders pop, your back cracks like a fucking glowstick. Your knees aren’t faring better, clicking when you stand up fully.

With a withering sigh, you walk to the back of the car and open the bonnet. 

There are groceries for a lifetime stacked in there. Four bags from Tesco, two smaller ones from the chemist’s. Pain killers, vitamins, paracetamol, supplements, benzodiazepines, citalopram, escitalopram, and all the fucking prams the pharmacy had to offer. The list was long; you eyed Johnny worriedly when he gave it to you, but knew better than to ask.

You’re tired. Tired beyond measure. You went to work at the crack of dawn and then jumped in the car when you couldn’t take it anymore. Dropped everything, apologised to Kyle for leaving him to fend for himself with the diplomatic envoy, and when Price scrunched his nose disappointedly, you apologised to him as well and promised to do double the job once you were sure he was alright.

Because you hadn’t heard from him in days.

Not a phone call, not a text, not a sign that he was using his phone at all. Not a sign that he was alright, that he was still grumbling about the growing prices of groceries, that he was still nursing a nightcap in the evenings—that he was alive.

He used to tell you.

They don’t get it—Johnny, Kyle, Price. They don’t know about the texts, the calls, the photos, the messages sent in the middle of the night, the ones left just shy of dawn, just to wish each other a good day.

Your little secret, that. Your little something soft, developed in the ruthlessness of your job. Something amicable and familiar stuck in between the horrors of cold-blooded murder, of dead bodies scattered in your lives, and endless stacks of paperwork. 

You’d send him pictures of your pale tea—too much milk, if you asked him. Of your pies baked during downtime, of the Christmas decorations you’d hang on the ceiling. He’d send you those of birds landing on the hood of his car, cats he’d find along his walk that would nuzzle his calf.

SR: Don’t know why.

LT: they think you’re snow white

LT: because you’re pale and you have the sweetest big brown eyes

SR: Wouldn’t say sweet.

LT: in fact i said sweetest :)

SR: Flattery won’t work on your lieutenant.

LT: ha! but im a lieutenant too. you can’t pull rank on me

SR: I’m your L.T. 

SR: You’re my second lieutenant. Under my command.

LT: technicalities

SR: You’re L.T. too

SR: L.Too

SR: L2

L2: oi

SR: Haha

L2: rude

SR: Alright, L2.

They don’t get it.

SR: Sleeping?

L2: are you keeping tabs on me?

SR: You’d be surprised.

L2: won’t ask

SR: Shouldn’t.

L2: Fancy a chat?

And your phone would ring.

“L2,” he’d greet.

“Not funny anymore.” But it was.

“Reckon it’s bloody hilarious.”

“Been too long. It’s losing its charm.”

“Charm?” He’d breathe a laugh. Almost. “Right, then—El.”

Midnight, midday, seven AM, four AM, six PM. On and off the job. Christmases and birthdays and Easters and early Sundays and late-night Mondays—

His touch, secretive and fleeting. Warm hands on the hollow of your spine as he walks by, fingers tightening the straps of your vest, adjusting the holsters on your thighs. Watchful eyes chasing your shadow in the crowd, following your fingers as they deftly work through cables and buttons. Burning holes on the back of your hands as you aptly defuse an IED. His huff of relief, his palm warm on your shoulders. A pat, a caress.

“Good job, L2.”

“Fuck off with that,” you’d laugh. “Spooky fucker.”

“That’s my El.”

They don’t get it.

Or maybe they do. 

Price wrinkled his nose, but didn’t stop you. Kyle took over your shift. Johnny gave you the means to reach him.

Maybe they saw it—your eyes softening whenever he walked into a room, his shoulders unravelling whenever your voice crackled over comms. Two peas in a pod, birds of a feather. The moon and the fucking sun. Lieutenant Riley and his 2nd lieutenant. 

LT and L2. Ghost and El.

On the seventh day of no contact, you couldn’t take it anymore. You raided Tesco, you begged Johnny to give you his address (and thankfully, he was just as worried as you were—you’d have hated pulling rank on him), and he secretly passed you Simon’s medical file so you could pop by the chemist too.

Now, you find yourself properly hauling your own weight in groceries along the stone path leading to his cottage. You drop them with a grunt in front of his door. 

On your side, his car is parked. Second-hand. Onyx black. Bird shit on the roof, windows grainy with soil and opaqued with rain tracks. 

Unused for a while. Normal, in a way. It’s not like he can drive in that state. For any amenities, a nurse would come by, provided by the SAS. Sometimes he’d open and be cordial enough. Sometimes he would just tell them to leave groceries and whatnot at the door.

The nurse told Price it had been days since Simon even answered his phone calls, never mind open the door. Price told the team, but not you. Kyle passed you the intel with the same secrecy as a mole working for the enemy.

Gooseflesh crawls up your spine as you look at the weathered bronze of the doorknob. There’s no doorbell that you can see.

You knock.

“Lieutenant.”

Nothing.

The wind grazes your ears, ruffles the fronds as it intersects with the leaves. You dry the pearls of sweat on your forehead with the back of your hand, and knock again.

“L.T.,” you say, trying to sound chirpy. “Special delivery!”

Silence.

You lean to the side and try to peek through an overgrown bush into one of the windows, but the curtains are drawn shut. You bring your thumb to your lips and nibble at a cuticle.

Knock.

“Lieutenant!” Again. Worry seeps through the cracks. “It’s me! It’s lieutenant—”

You chew on your name. It dies on your tongue.

“It’s L2!” You yell instead. “It’s El!”

Blood beads on your thumbnail, bitten short. 

Knock knock.

“Please open the door?” You venture. Your heart pounds in your ears. “I’m so fucking—so fucking tired and worried.”

Knock knock knock.

“Where the fuck do you live anyway, uh?” You sniffle. Your nose stings. “Was right, wasn’t I? You are fucking Snow White.”

Nothing.

Loudest silence you’ve ever heard.

You hate it. You want to fill it with more knocks, with more yells, with the sound of his footsteps, with the gravel of his voice, the crackle through comms, the clicking of his ankle when he rests his weight on it for too long, the burn of his cigarette in the coldest nights, the breath of a laugh he wants to swallow but doesn’t manage.

“Lieu—” You gulp. “Simon? Please.”

On the far right, there’s a bench whose greyish paint is chipping away. Old wood rots in the centre because of rain and constant humidity. Even though you sat in that godforsaken car for the past four hours and some, you feel your knees buckling the more you keep standing. 

So, you carry yourself over there. Drop down. The bench creaks. As predicted, it’s wet and it seeps through your jeans. You sigh.

“Alright,” you slam your palm on the wood. 

“I’m gonna sleep right—” Thud. “Fucking—” Thud. “Here, then.”

There’s no sound.

You look at the groceries.

“I brought you food!” You go on, “And if you don’t open the door I’m gonna eat it. Everything. Even your stupid chocolate biscuits—I’m gonna gobble them up in one sitting.”

The milk will go bad if you don’t put it in a fridge. The ice cream will melt. 

“The bourbon too,” you yell. “Gonna drink it all. Gonna get comatose on your stupid bench in this—in this fucking fairy grove you live in.”

The fruit will start softening. The meat will start rotting and smelling. And flies will run to it, conquer it, eat it raw, and lay their eggs inside. Their buzz will drive you insane, and you’ll lose your mind on this bench, in the middle of nowhere.

“And I’m gonna sleep here until you open that fucking door, you hear me?” Your voice cracks. “And I’m gonna get sick and—and it’ll be your fault, because you didn’t open the bloody door.”

You wonder whether you’d smell the same thing if you broke it down. If the buzz would be heavier, more persistent. If it would be something else driving you insane.

The image flashes bright and real. Smells like you have it within reach, before you, hanging from a chandelier, drowning in a crimson bathtub, or melting on the bed, stomach filled with pills and nothing else.

Your heart plummets at your feet. You feel claustrophobic, boxed in a square of cement that pushes in your shoulders and compresses your chest.

“Simon!” You yell, voice cracking. Droplets stain your jeans. It’s not raining. “You fucking cunt open the fucking door!”

Elbows on your knees, you drop your head in your hands. You’re so tired. You don’t even know if you can drive back home, especially now that the sun is setting. You’d gladly sleep in your car—fuck, you’d sleep on this bench if it meant finding him at the door the next morning, looking all cranky and grumbling about the mess you made.

All you can do is plead quietly, a breathy prayer you hope he can hear, even if only whispered.

“Please open the fucking door, please open the fucking door—"

Are you strong enough to break it down? You’re special forces, but you’re not a battering ram. You don’t have the tools that would help—you didn’t think you were gonna need them. 

Stupid.

Are you brave enough to open the door? To find what’s inside? Should you call the police? An ambulance?

The thought makes you retch. You cover your mouth and bite on your palm.

“This fucking idiot—” You whisper. Swallow thick. Your throat stings as bile rises. “I swear to God you selfish bastard, you better not. You better fucking not, Simon, I will—”

“Which bourbon?”

Your head snaps.

His shoulders, wide and hunched, fill the doorway, open enough for you to see him entirely. A grey shirt hangs loose around his torso. He’s got his hands stuffed in the pockets of his joggers, but there’s a strain in his arms. Corded and rigid, tied in a way that shows in his neck, too.

A scar runs thick down the side of his head, starting from the centre of his forehead and tipping at the shell of his ear, following a curved line clearly left by a surgeon. Bulbous near his temple, where the flesh was too soft and took longer to heal. 

Darkness blossoms under his eyes, swollen and sunken at the same time; puffy with sleep, hollow with tiredness. He’s paler than usual, his cheeks are gaunt, and he’s so much fucking thinner.

But he’s alive.

His chest rises. His blood runs.

You blink.

A tear threatens to stream down your cheek, but you anticipate it, drying its path with the back of your hand. Your bones soften, muscles unclenched. Clumsily, you take a trembling breath, and it feels like it’s the first time you’ve ever done it.

“I-I don’t know,” you stutter. “Don’t drink the stuff. Asked the clerk for his favourite and he just—just tossed it in there.”

“Mh.”

His eyes look for the bottle amongst the mountain of food and drinks stuffed in the bags. 

“You better like it.” You sniffle and nod at the bags. “Fifty-five quid just for that thing.”

He snorts. Sighs. “Good enough then.”

You exchange looks.

Then, he nods his head inside.

“Help me out?” He drawls.

Dizzy, you nod. Your legs tingle as if they’ve just been awakened, your stomach rumbles like you haven’t eaten in days. The world turns upside down—relief so visceral and thick you feel like it’s drowning you.

You stumble to the doorway. Your guts squeeze and thrash. You might throw up, but you don’t, swallowing the tightening feeling clawing up your throat.

You stuff the smaller pharmacy bags inside the Tesco ones.

Simon leans in too, taking his hands out of his pockets.

You hadn’t seen the aftermath yet.

He’s missing the last two fingers on his left hand. Surgery scars run along the back of both, slicing the tattoo on his forearm in a cobweb of thick, ruddy lines. That is, where the flesh isn’t rubbery and burnt, convoluted as if yearning to weld itself back together in the aftermath of being torn apart. 

They shake—fiercely, like he’s experiencing an earthquake inside his body; unfolding before your eyes, shattering his bones.

You look at them. Transfixed. At the mangled flesh sewn back together, at the tremble that runs through his veins and tips at his nails. The strain of his muscles clawing up his arms, taut to the point of pain—like he’s putting all his effort to keep them still, to exert control over them.

Control he lost.

When you lift your eyes again, you meet his face.

Stone cold. Dreadfully frigid.

“The bags are heavy,” you croak.

“Carried worse,” he replies flatly, and his hands curl around the handles of two.

His fingers tighten, knuckles painted white. Nails bite his palms, but he perseveres. Swallows a groan of pain that rumbles in his throat and lifts the groceries off the floor. 

The plastic bags crackle like a gale is blowing furiously through them. The glass of the bottles clinks. You see, as he walks inside, the tension in his gait: forcing his legs to cooperate, to work by themselves, as he focuses exclusively on the stability of his hands.

Without looking back, he leaves the door open for you to follow.

You stand frozen stock still, arms down your sides, and eyes brimming with guilt.

Carried worse, he said.

Carried you, months ago, when the bomb went off.

Six Months Earlier

Intel’s rarely faulty when the source is the police themselves.

Granted, even in these cases, one should always take statistics into consideration: a mole, a diversion, the original source. However, things sometimes are so obvious that statistics fall flat.

Because in front of you, right now, there’s a big, fat bomb. No doubt about it.

A squared box, half as tall as you. It’s raggedly painted black, as if someone decided to spray the colour on the metal slabs at the last minute. Rust gathers at each corner, likely due to the humidity building up in this underground tunnel, which is also chipping away at the paint and leaving ruddy streaks scattered down the sides.

It’s not much different from the ones you’ve dispensed of already, at least at first sight. There’s no timer, not a visible one at least. Though from the looks of it, you don’t think this one is timed at all. If you’re fortunate, it needs to be manually detonated on site. Worst-case scenario, it can be set off remotely.

Thank fuck you’re wearing sturdy PPE, then.

With a huff, you flop on your knees before it. There’s a soft puff as the pressure pushes air out of your suit—a big, cumbersome thing that safely cradles you from head to toe. 

“Captain,” you call through comms. “You sure it’s off, yeah?”

The static preceding his voice buzzes softly through your ear, before John’s usual rasp fills the helmet shielding your head.

“Local bomb squad’s had a look already,” he says. “Said it’s old.”

Though the bomb in front of you looks untouched by the deft hands of a demolition specialist. You wonder how they concluded that the device is too old to be active, since there doesn’t seem to be a sign that it has been studied at all.

“Doesn’t look like they did anything, though,” you offer.

John grunts. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Right.”

His voice rumbles even through the distortion of the radio. “Just passing it on, L2. They want us to check it before they move it.”

You roll your eyes at the nickname. You knew it would stick—Simon’s convincing like that—though it is the first time John actually uses it.

You let it slide.

“And why’s that?”

“Signed by Konni.”

You tilt your head and easily spot the mark of Konni group sprayed on one side, dried red paint drawing a path downwards from where it dripped.

“Always nice to see an old friend, isn’t it?”

“Keep us updated, yeah?”

“On it.”

You squeeze your eyes through the visor of your helmet, focusing on possible entry points. Each breath you take is measured and quiet as you clear your mind to steady yourself.

“Alrigh’?”

Though considering the questioning drawl coming from beside you, you’d wager the suit is amplifying not only your voice, but also the heaviness of your panting. 

It’s fucking hot in this thing.

“You shouldn’t be here.” You give him a sidelong glance. He’s not wearing an EOD, only his usual uniform with an added clunky helmet, a bulletproof vest, and his stupid skull mask. “Especially not naked like that.”

“Naked, uh?” He snorts. “Better get a good look, then.”

You bite down a smile and return your eyes to your job. “Captain, the lieutenant is padding around in his birthday suit.”

Price’s voice crackles through the comms in your ear. By his tone, you can practically see the tight set of his jaw and the roll of his eyes.

“Ghost, either wear the EOD or leave the premises, for fuck’s sake. Don’t fancy scraping you off the walls.”

Simon gently kicks the side of your boot. “Rat.”

You turn your head around just enough to stick out your tongue at him.

“I asked the second lieutenant a question an’ she ain’t answered yet,” he drawls with his usual dispassionate tone. “Permission to kick her off the team?”

“You won’t hear a single fuckin’ word she says if you’re ground meat, Simon,” Price’s voice rasps. “Wear the bloody PPE and then we’ll talk.”

Static replaces John’s orders as communication cuts off on his part.

Only then does Simon pitch in.

“I asked you a question.”

You sigh, but it’s neither weary nor exasperated. 

“Yeah, I’m alright,” you huff, already tinkering with your toolbox. “Why aren’t you wearing the gear?”

“I’m in good hands.”

“Thanks, I’m immensely flattered,” you quip. “Please go wear it now.”

“Thought it was too old to still be active.”

You don’t have time to roll your eyes, because as soon as he mutters his thoughts, you notice a familiar indented square in one of the panels. A carefully hidden entry point that, once popped open, will show you the intricacies inside the device. It’s like spotting an oasis in the desert.

You reach for a flat tip in your toolbox at your knees. Carefully, you wedge it in the embrasure.

It only takes a few tries, and it unhinges seamlessly. Metal clinks as you gently place the lid on the ground.

There’s no need for you to look his way—his presence is like a heavy blanket wrapped around your shoulders. A shadow sewn to your own. 

“I won’t support your suicidal tendencies, so please, for the love of Christ, listen to the engineer—” you point at yourself with the screwdriver, “—and go wear the bloody bomb suit.”

Simon stays silent for a handful of seconds, only filled with the tinkering of metal of your tools.

“Worried ‘bout me, are ya?”

You huff. No use pretending, when he can see right through you. “Plenty.”

“Good heart.”

“Chop chop, Riley.”

“Aye aye, El.”

With a gentle squeeze of your shoulder, Simon turns on his heel. His footsteps become distant until the soft thud finally vanishes behind the creaky door that first led you down here, slamming shut behind you.

You don’t turn around, too focused on studying the wires wrapped around each other in the panel you just opened. There’s an entire bundle crossing the opening diagonally and so shrouding most of the circuit board in the back. They’re held together by a couple of cable ties that look awfully cheap, like the rest of the device.

“Weird,” you mumble to yourself.

“What is?” John pitches in.

You flinch, not expecting an answer to your musings.

“Uhm, uh—” You shake your head to recollect yourself. “The bomb—it looks quite cheap. Not their usual MO.”

John hums. “Could be one of Konni’s earliest works. Disposal said it’s old, innit?”

“Yeah,” you huff. “I don’t trust a single word those fuckers said.”

“Right,” he grunts, though you recognise that hint of agreement in it. “Do what you can with it. Keep me updated.”

“Roger that, captain.”

Back on track. First thing to do is get rid of those ties to isolate the cables. 

You work quietly for a while, removing your gloves to minimise errors while doing such minute movements. The flush cutters are sturdy but the blades are small, and the thickness of the cable ties is stupidly non-existent. You want to avoid cutting things you shouldn’t.

However, you can’t quite ease the knot of doubt forming in your guts.

This device has literally nothing preventing you from disposing of it. Everything is poorly put together. The control centre was placed under a thin slab of metal, which you simply popped off using the flat tip of a screwdriver. There are corner store-level cable ties keeping together a bundle of wires. Each cable isn’t isolated, but either overlaps with others or knots on itself.

This is amateurish.

And you know, with utmost certainty, that Konni isn’t. The same Konni group that blew up an entire airport wouldn’t DIY a bomb and spray paint their signature on a slab of metal like a mere local gang of criminals.

Unless—

“El? You with us?”

Simon’s voice snaps you out of it. He sounds muffled and echoey, as if he’s speaking from behind a glass. You recognise that distortion: he put on the bomb suit.

Relief floods through you.

You shake your head to clear your mind. Sweat collects on your forehead. You feel each drop brewing on your skin, only to then slowly make its way to your brow, then your eye.

Your fingers close around the cutters, and the first tie snaps off.

Then, you squeeze your eyes to get rid of the burn.

“Yeah,” you huff. “They should invent more comfortable suits for us in demo. It’s fucking sweltering in here.”

Price’s voice crackles once more. “We’ll hire a fashion designer.”

Simon snorts.

“Look at you, captain,” you croon. “Providing jobs for the youth.”

You’re sure he’s rolling his eyes. “Do yours or you’ll lose it.”

But you know it’s an empty threat. Jokes tossed around to defuse the tension as you defuse your bomb. High stress situations require ways to destress in order to keep your mind clear and at ease, even as your life is on the line.

“Aye aye.”

And from then on, silence lingers, only interrupted by Simon shifting his weight on his feet behind you. The crinkle of the suit folding as he moves, the tap of his fingers against the pack he must be holding in his hands. There’s the occasional clink of metal when you drop a tool in its box, or the snap of plastic as yet another tie comes off. 

And finally, you manage to isolate the cables from one another. Carefully you pinch one between two fingers and shift it to the side, only so you can have a broader vision of the circuit board in the back.

It’s entirely dead. Singed in places, the lights are off, no sounds fill your ears unless it's the ones you’ve already recognised as familiar. The blasting cap has an old serial number on it, different from the most recent ones you came across. The base was once attached to a couple of red cables that have been cut from their root.

You exhale, emptying your lungs in a single, long breath.

“It’s dead.”

John huffs through comms. “Thank Christ, eh. Sending Garrick over. ETA 20.”

But you stay put, staring holes through the jungle of wires that intersect and crisscross like vines in front of you, draped on the circuit board.

Simon shifts from behind you and comes to crouch by your side. The same puff of air exhales from his suit. You turn your head to look at him, though with the helmet it’s hard to have a good view of his face.

He’s taken off the skull mask to favour the protective gear placed around his head. His eyes aren’t poised on the bomb, though; they’re on your face. He must pick up on something there that doesn’t reassure him, because he knows you better than he should.

“Hang on, Price,” he rumbles.

You stall for a moment.

It’s only a hunch that spurs you to negate certainty. You’re special forces, an engineer—sixth sense isn’t enough to support evidence.

But Simon believes in it. He trusts that tiny spark he sees in your eye, the tautness of your fingers as they curl into fists atop your knees. You hear him sniff, shift on his knees to get closer. 

“El?” He whispers, perhaps not wanting the radio to pick up on it.

Your stomach lurches.

“I mean—” You gesture vaguely at the device. “It looks dead. The circuit board is gone, and the wires have been cut from the detonator. Some of this shit could be older than me—"

John cuts through your conversation. He sounds irritated, and in turn, it irritates you, too. 

“Get to the point.”

You stare at the dead circuit board. The main piece of this puzzle. It doesn’t take an engineer like you to recognise that it’s long gone, but in a very peculiar way that you don’t know how to explain without sounding like a lunatic, it looks too long gone.

You smack your lips. “Something’s wrong. It feels—”

“Don’t care how it feels, lieutenant. Is it dead or not?” 

“Listen, John, I’m not here to fucking play—"

“Need to have another look at it, boss,” Simon cuts in. “Give us a minute, will ya?” 

“Roger.”

You sigh. You wish you could scratch your forehead. Your scalp stings as sweat collects on it. Each tiny, uncomfortable thing happening to you is amplified, including the knot in your guts. 

“I hate him with passion each time he acts like—”

“He can still hear ya.”

“Good.”

If John can actually still hear you, he doesn’t voice it. Thankfully, you think, because if he pitches in again with some more of his caustic sarcasm, you might just say things before your mind can properly filter them.

You take a couple of seconds to recollect your thoughts, guiding your eyes to study the device. It’s composed of rusted metal plates welded together and protecting the bomb inside. You’d need a plasma cutter to breach the plate, but the heat could set the thing off if it’s live. In fact, there are no entry points aside from a small, squared panel that you’ve opened with unexpected ease. 

Considering how the rest of the thing is protected, however, it feels out of place. Conveniently put there for you to declare that the device is gone, when it actually isn’t. 

A hunch isn’t enough to negate evidence, that is true, but it’s there, and you won’t allow it to gnaw at your guts.

Easy is never the right answer, not with Makarov.

“Pass me the snake cam.”

You hold your hand out to Simon, palm up, without sparing him a glance. 

Your ears pick up on sounds even if you’re entirely wrapped in protective gear, even if your heart pounds madly up your throat. A zipper being opened, a cable as it unfolds. His hands are warm when they place the cold wire in your palm, steady when they close your fingers around it.

“Get it in,” he says. “I’ll hook it up.”

In the corner of your eye, pale hands reach inside the pack at his knees to pull out a pad. It blinks to life as he taps his fingers on it.

Gently, you insert the tip of the snake cam into the opened panel, carefully steering the camera underneath the knotted bundle of cables and behind the seemingly dead circuit board. 

“Got anything?” You ask Simon.

“Too dark.”

“Turn on the flash.”

The pace of your heart matches the rapid tap of fingertips running across the pad. In a blink, a soft glow fills the darkness behind the board. 

Simon hums.

“Got something.”

You inhale sharply. Your eyes flicker around, sifting through your thoughts as if you can see them, rushing unrestrained with endless possibilities. You squeeze them shut, clearing out the sting of sweat as it builds up on your brow and fogs up your sight.

“Fuck. Let’s switch.”

Simon shifts until he’s kneeling behind you. The rustle of his suit precedes his arms as they come around your head, carefully taking the cable from your fingers. 

“Got it.”

Ever so slowly, you remove your hands, shuffling on your knees and ducking your head to leave the shelter of his body. With no minimal effort, considering the weight of your blast suit, you manage to stumble to where he once sat, grabbing the pad he left lying on the ground.

As he said, there’s something. The flash clearly highlights a darkened silhouette, bulky and squared, but the quality of the camera doesn’t allow you to make out much more of it.

Only one thing stands out.

A light.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Thought so,” he spits. “Fucking Makarov.”

You don’t have time to curse him as well, though you quietly share the sentiment.

“John.”

Like lightning, his voice crackles in your ear. “Send over.”

“We got something.”

“Details.”

“In a sec. Stay on.”

You look at Simon. He’s perfectly still, not a tremble in his fingers, exactly as you’d expected. He’d make an incredible demo specialist, though you know he’s an even better sniper.

“Gentle, Simon,” you murmur. “Need you to go south.”

He follows your orders, sliding the cable down inside the box.

“Gentle,” you repeat. “Slower.”

And without a single word, he heeds you. Trusts you. Lets the camera cover each corner, bit by bit, moving his muscles imperceptibly as he snakes the camera through the jungle of wires.

Now closer to the device, you can better make out its details on the screen. It’s not old nor rusted, not singed nor dead. It sits attached to one side of the box, each cable perfectly isolated and running on sinuous curves around the circuit board. One that blinks red, then green, then red again—beating like a heart, shifting its colours inside the darkness. 

Stacks of white rubber are slathered around it, bulky and thick. You curse under your breath.

“C4.”

Simon clicks his tongue. “Christ.”

“John, tell the local authorities to clear out the area now,” you order steadily. “Add that they’re a bunch of lazy cunts, too.”

“Will do.” Then, quietly, “good work, lieutenant. Stay safe, both of you.”

“Roger.”

The static on the radio goes dead. There’s only your heart pounding in your ears, falling in rhythm with the switch of colours on the screen.

Red, green. Red, green.

Simon’s voice reaches out to you. “See a blasting cap?” 

“Yeah.” You tongue your cheek. “South. Then move to the right.”

He follows suit, once again trusting you entirely. As the camera moves, you try to take stock of each tiny detail you can make out. The quality is poor, but you’re starting to have a general idea of what you’re working with. The serial number stamped on the blasting cap matches those of more recent detonators, causing the theory of the local bomb squad to completely crumble.

Red, green. Red, green. 

While you can’t make out the logo on the circuit board, you recognize the finish immediately: factory-made, not cobbled together in some basement workshop. New. Polished clean. A pale square chip mounted against the green lacquer of the board.

Red, green. Red, red, green.

You blink. 

“Stop.”

Simon falls still.

Red, green. Red, red, green.

There. Blinking in the shadows, off to the side.

“Right. Go to the right. Quick.”

Simon doesn’t put up a fight, though you can see the uncomfortable shift of his knees. Imperceptible and yet conveying the same nervousness festering in your eyes as they fly across the screen. He is quick with his hands to find the source of the light.

It ticks, ticks, ticks.

“Shit—Simon, drop it!”

And if the clock is right, it will tick only for two minutes more.

“Drop that shit and run!”

Simon bolts on his feet, awfully quick considering the bomb suit clinging to him. You hadn’t accounted for that. Fuck, you hadn’t accounted for any of this.

You told him to wear it. You put that extra weight on him. He would’ve been out of the place and far away enough to be safe if you hadn’t insisted, if you’d let the overwhelmingly stupid trust he had in you to win, for once.

“Fuck—” You drop the pad and stand up. Your knees buckle under the cumbersome weight of your suit and the sudden dread gripping your stomach.

“It’s timed, John!” You bellow. Your yell echoes inside the EOD helmet, ringing in your own ears. “We’re leaving—no time to defuse it. Less than two minutes and it goes off!”

An old, singed circuit board as a decoy to mask the real bomb ticking away just beneath its surface. Only a demolition specialist like those in the UKFS would’ve thought of venturing further inside the device. 

Makarov knew it. 

He knew the local authorities would have called the anti-terrorism unit as soon as they saw the Konni group mark. Makes sense that he signed the device so clearly, like a fucking amateur.

He wanted John’s team there. 

He knew those bastards wouldn’t be arsed to check further. Why would they take on the burden when they could leave it in the good hands of better-trained professionals.

Call the big guns and then call it a day.

“Run. Don’t look back and run, both of you.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You’re already panting, forcing your legs to move against the strain put onto them by the suit—not protection anymore, but a cage. Your knees don’t bend as they should, your feet struggle to hold you up. The sting in your eyes, the heart in your ears. 

Simon’s ahead of you as you trudge behind him. But he’s faster, stronger—able to carry the added kilograms of his blast suit as if it’s only a mere annoyance to him.

Though he must hear you—or rather, he must feel the lack of you by his side. 

He halts in his steps and looks behind to find you.

“Fuck—faster, El!”

“I know!” You’d like to yell at him to shut the fuck up, but that would be a waste of precious breath that you need to focus on using to run.

“Go!” Your voice cracks. “Fucking run, Riley!”

Though he’s been standing still for so long that you’re now by his side. 

You stagger past him, grabbing his hand to tug him with you—though that’s one arduous thing, rooted on the ground as he is.

“We got one minute at most—run ahead for fuck’s sake!”

It’s like you can hear it, now—each ticking breath exhaled by the device behind you. You wonder if it had always been there, signalling his presence as you knelt next to it, but you were acting too cocky to notice it.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault—

Your rushing thoughts recede to a trickle the moment you feel Simon’s hand slipping away from yours. As it does, he takes your own heart with him, as you feel it skip a beat inside your chest.

The momentum of your run makes it hard to stop, and you almost stumble on your own feet as the weight of the suit drags you forward. Thankful for a wall next to your side, you slam your palm against it to avoid falling face-first into the ground.

Though when you turn, it’s your stomach that touches it.

Simon’s already pulled at the quick-release cord hanging from the front of his jacket. 

“What—”

The contraption strapped around his torso unlatches from the back. While he struggles with it, he’s impressively steady as he rips at the sleeves to take it off, shimmying his shoulders out of it with ease—chest plate and all, until everything falls on the floor at his feet.

Initially, your eyes widen in shock. Then, your face morphs into a mask of unadulterated rage. 

“Are you fucking mad?!”

But he’s taking his helmet off, too. The thud of it as it hits the ground is deafening, echoing ominously in the otherwise quiet underground tunnel you’re stuck in.

“Simon what the fuck!”

“Come ‘ere an’ shut yer mouth.” 

He charges forward, running much faster as most of the extra weight that was hindering him now lies uselessly on the floor. He bends at the waist, using gravity to his advantage, and reaches towards you with his arms.

You don’t have time to think as breath is knocked out of you. His arm wedges between your legs, and the world turns upside down. Darkness and grey bricks swivel and roll before your eyes as the air catches in your lungs. 

Your stomach curves around his shoulders. He holds your leg with one arm, curled around your knee, and your opposite sleeve with his offhand. 

He stumbles at first, trying to find his balance.

“Simon—” 

“Keep still.”

And then, he runs.

There’s a rasp in his breathing that makes it sound as if his chest is being crushed. The gravel of debris crunches under his boots, stomping heavily down the tunnel. Each sound is amplified, but you’re unsure of what is real and what isn’t. 

He trembles. Groans fiercely for each step he takes, baring his teeth as if to scare an invisible monster ahead of him.

“I’m slowing you down!” You yell, hoping the chaos won’t mask your voice too much. “Put me down! I—I have the bomb suit on, I’m going to be fine!”

Though that’s a lie. He knows it, and you do as well. If the tunnel collapses, no miracle can bring you back. 

But at least your head would be protected, giving you a chance. Your chest, too. Your legs. A minuscule, tiny possibility to have a minute more to breathe as you wait for Search and Rescue.

A chance he doesn’t have, not with half of his suit now lying uselessly on the floor.

However, Simon doesn’t answer, just runs. Runs and runs and runs, towards the exit at the end of the tunnel. It’s close, maybe another handful of meters, and yet now it feels like an endless chasm ready to suck you in.

A black hole hidden underground. 

You don’t know how much time you have left before the bomb goes off. Your breathing picks up, hand reaching around to fist his shirt around his collar to make him please, please listen.

“Please Simon, please!”

His eyes are fixed ahead, feet as quick as can be considering the weight he’s carrying—yours, his own, the suits. He stumbles, pace naturally slowing down due to the effort, but it doesn’t deter him. Hits walls with his shoulders, slams your helmet and your boots against corners, but he never stops.

He just looks ahead, drunk on adrenaline and ignoring the unfathomable strain he’s putting on his body.

Your eyes sting with panic and tears. His face is red with exertion and lucid with sweat as it beads on his forehead. Then his run turns into a stagger, trembling legs forcing themselves ahead.

Simon bursts through the door. Your helmet knocks against it.

At the same time, the tunnel’s darkness turns blinding white.