#hc.*

     “when are you getting out?” 

     “what, not even a ‘hi, how are ya, how’s life in the slammer?’ jeez, nathan, you’re hurtin’ my feelings already.” 

     “i’m serious, man.” nathan’s voice is all pitchy and tense, the way he always gets when something like this happens. “the cops are still lookin’ for me ‘n i don’t know much longer i can stick around for, but i can’t — i don’t wanna leave without you.” 

     “then don’t. nathan, nathan — relax before you give yourself a stroke, alright? i got like three more months in here, brother. they nailed my ass to the goddamn wall for, ah — shit, whatever, who cares. resistin’ arrest, on top of everything else. resisting, you believe that crap? five - o, i swear to god. no sense of humor.”

     “it’s not funny.” 

     “’n i’m not laughing. listen t’me, alright, just —”

     “sully found us a job. it’s far. harran city.”

     “— come again?” 

     jee-zus, it’s never - ending. there’s no love lost between sam drake and victor sullivan, and he can spin it all he wants — blame victor, make it about something it’s not — but what it boils down to is a matter of pride. hubris and defiance, really. nathan’s his family. his, nobody else’s. they’re all they’ve got, and damned if he’s gonna pretend to be okay with some middle - aged con artist scumbag swooping in from goddamn nowhere to take his kid brother away from him. 

     fuck that. 

     he sucks his teeth and scoffs. jerks a nod at the CO who shoots him a look; his own expression states plainly, but witheringly, mind your goddamn business.

     “’kay,” he finally says. “’n i’m gonna assume by ‘us,’ you mean you and victor. you’re not gonna take it, are you?” 

     “it, uh ...” nathan’s hedging now. ‘course he is. “it was — kinda my idea.”

     “really,” sam deadpans. “huh. okay. that’s — nah, that’s cute, nathan. truly. i mean, hell, look at you — a real crime lord in the makin’. are you kiddin’ me, bro? what about what we talked about, huh? you ‘member that? you ‘member any of that, or did i black out ‘n lose like ten years of my life in this shithole? i know i ain’t been gone that long.”

     there’s silence on the other end for a minute and sam pinches the bridge of his nose, hard, between thumb and index.

     way to go, shithead. 

     “nathan. you there?” 

     “yeah.” quiet. stung. god fucking damn it all. “i remember, man. how could ... how could you ever think i’d forget?”

     “’cause while i’m rottin’ away in here, you’re out there gallivantin’ around makin’ plans with some guy who —”

     “i’m not gallivanting, and he’s not just some guy, sam, he’s —”

     “well, what would you call it? i swear, every time we talk, it’s like you’re —”

     “he’s my friend, he watches my back wh—”

     “i thought that was my job.” 

     “yeah,” nathan repeats, but it’s more fiercely this time. “it was your job. but you’re not goddamn here. you’re in there. so what the hell else am i supposed to do? i can take care of myself, sam. sully’s not what you think he is. he’s not.”

     “... whatever, man. i gotta get off here, they’re givin’ me the stink - eye.”

     “wh— already? but —”

     “time limits, you know how it is. unless you forgot that, too?” holy mother of god, he thinks, where are the brakes on this thing? “... look, i’ll call you again soon as i can, alright? keep that phone on you. if that ain’t too much t’ ask, y’know, as long as victor approves.” 

     “sam, c’mon —”

     “later, nathan. be good out there — or at least better than me. shouldn’t be too hard, right? see ya, brother.”

     the receiver’s slammed down harder than intended, and that same CO walks up with a hand on the baton hanging off his belt.

     “that’s enough, inmate. back to your cell.” 

     “i’m goin’, chachi, get outta my ass first. fuckin’ shit, this place is for the goddamn dogs.” 

     round of applause for the asshole in orange. 

     that’s the last conversation he’ll have with his brother for a long time. had he known that, maybe he would have said something different. then again, maybe he wouldn’t. the months drag by, monotony broken only by the periodic flurry of fists and smuggled contraband, bartered commissary, cigarettes in plastic bags shoved into the back of the toilet. sleeping with one eye open, if he sleeps at all. he’d made a shiv and stashed it his first week here; hasn’t had to use it just yet, but that doesn’t mean much. these guys don’t screw around. 

     lawtey correctional is a level 3 security prison for men — violent offenders with behavioral problems doing hard time. sam is older than some, younger than most. he’s three years into this. copped to grand larceny and breaking and entering, but denied involvement with the manslaughter part — they pinned it on him anyway, because he wouldn’t give up any names. no word on a trial date yet. no idea if he’s even gonna make it to trial, or if they’re just gonna leave him in here to grow moss until he’s too jaded to care. or until he snitches, which isn’t happening. sam is a lot of things, but a rat isn’t one of them. his state - issued public defender certainly doesn’t seem to give a shit either way.

     the tv bolted to the wall has been on all day, sports and bullshit, he hasn’t been paying close attention. cards litter the steel tabletop between him and a couple other guys from the pod; for legal purposes, it’s poker for bragging rights. cigarettes and ramen packets trade hands later. so far, he’s cleaning house. 

     “man, fuck you.” trip, a big, goofy - looking kid from miami, folds with a dramatic toss of his cards. “this shit is rigged.”

     somebody else snorts. “drake’s wipin’ the floor with your sorry ass, bro. sucks to suck.” 

     “hey, i’m playin’ an honest game, fellas,” sam grins, toothpick between his teeth. “ain’t on me if you can’t keep up. gotta say, though — it’s gettin’ almost too easy. sit this next one out ‘n gimme a real challenge, huh?”

      he doesn’t catch the comeback because as soon as he tosses a glance toward the tv, he hears part of the news report. just a name: harran. 

     “wait, wait, wait —” spinning in his seat, he snaps his fingers and gestures at the screen. “hey, hey, somebody turn that shit up, i wanna hear this.” 

     “nah, change the channel, i wanna check the sc—”

     “yo, what’d i say, dipshit? none’a you clowns better touch that fuckin’ thing if you ain’t turnin’ up the volume, seriously, you do not wanna fuck with me right now.”

     a female reporter in a newsroom with a banner of text underneath. breaking news. crisis in harran.

     “... spokesperson for the local ministry of defense confirmed early this morning that the quarantine wall had been approved, and construction will begin shortly. the global relief effort issued a statement to assure the public that the outbreak is contained, and that the wall is simply a precautionary measure to prevent this virus from spreading into harran city itself. military forces, both foreign and domestic, are keeping the area secure, but the CDC remains tight - lipped regarding this crisis. many believe it’s a terrorist attack, as the virus seems to be an advanced and fast - acting strain of rabies, although we’ve received no information to indicate that the pathogen is airborne. we go live now to washington, d.c., where the president is set to address these concerns in an emergency press conference with ...”

     sam’s standing a foot from the tv screen with no memory of getting there. footage of fires and armed troops on the ground, of crowds of panicked people, of tanks patrolling the streets. it’s far, nathan had said. harran. 

     harran city. 

     “oh, nathan, please tell me you didn’t take that goddamn job.” 

     he says it out loud, and a couple inmates glance his way; he ignores them. the rise and fall of his chest is so hard and heavy it’s making his pulse thump, overtime, way faster than the recommended range. quarantine. outbreak. virus. if that’s where he’s at — so help him, if nathan’s in the middle of some biological - warfare - shitstorm, somebody’s gonna pay.

     “hey,” sam blurts, halfway to the CO stationed on door duty behind that window of bulletproof glass. “hey, richards, hey — i gotta make a call, man. c’mon. you gotta let me use the phone ‘n call my lawyer, it’s an emergency.”

     “sit your ass down, drake. window’s closed for the day.” 

     “listen t’me, man — you think i’m playin’ with you? i look like i’m makin’ this up? please — richards, bro, please. gimme five minutes, that’s all i ask. just five minutes on the phone, you can listen in the whole time, i swear. c’mon. five minutes. you can’t give me five friggin’ minutes?”

     the guard eyes him for what feels like a geological epoch, then finally gets up, pulling out the cuffs, nodding his head. 

     “five minutes,” he says. “not a second more, you hear me?” 

     “yeah, yeah, yeah —” sam’s damn near breathless, all jitters, holding his wrists out with a level of obedience he’s never granted them in here. “i hear you, bro. i got you. not one second more.”

     five minutes. five minutes on the phone with a PD who probably couldn’t care less whether he lives or dies in here. but this isn’t about him. this is about his brother. he has to get out of here — he has to get to his brother. 

     fuck it, he thinks, as he’s lead to the phones. 

OLD TOWN, DAY 40 ; 19:47:03.

     he counts twenty - five. sixteen biters, four hazmat suits, two cops, and three virals. all told, almost thirty infected between crane and where he needs to go.

     firecrackers are too high - risk in this kind of a pressure cooker; so are grenades. so are guns. the crossbow slung across his back would be silent and efficient, but for that one snag: he’s down to his last bolt. from his vantage point, sight unseen atop one of the buildings lining the promenade, he weighs his options. 

          “where’d you serve?”

          “beirut,” ali says. “somalia, a long tour in lebanon. i was running point in bosnia and herzegovina before my discharge. you?”

          “uh — pakistan and the uzbekistan border, then iraq. mostly fallujah. priority one was keepin’ the civilians clear of all the shit - slinging between us and the ISIL.”

          “do you ever regret it?”

     there’s no direct path. none clear enough, none that he can fight his way through without making some noise. not from the front. the gridwork of structures branching off from his makeshift eagle’s nest are close together; some adjoining, others with narrow alleys in between whose gaps are easily jumped. he works his way around to the back of the building blocked by infected and spots it on his first scan.

     service gate leading into a small courtyard, where a fire exit door is nestled between two dumpsters. all clear. that’s his way in.

          “regret what?”

          “serving. fighting. doing what we had to do.”

          crane’s answer flows as naturally as a drawn breath. he hadn’t ever lost a moment to reflect on the alternative. hadn’t considered regret in the context of duty, even as a fleeting blip on his conscience. 

          “no,” he says steadily. “i don’t. do you?”

          ali smiles. “never have, never will. oorah.”

     the exit door is blocked from the other side. unlocked; he can tell as much when he tries the handle, but something solid and heavy is keeping it shut. that isn’t the reason he freezes, blood turning to ice in his veins. that isn’t why he tastes bile and the pit of his stomach clenches like a fist. inside, behind the barricade and the drifting moans of infected, he hears a child’s wailing sobs.

     time stands still.

     in his head, crane begins to count again. any second now and he’ll hear something distinguishable, something cogent, something like words. something.

     fuck, anything. 

     the sobs waver, hit decibels of pure anguish, taper off into screams of pain, quiet back to weeping. but they’re still just sobs.

     and still, he keeps counting. 

     when the sound becomes unbearable and his breath stays lodged in his throat, he stops. sets his jaw and shoulders the door, hard. then again. then a third time. by the fourth, whatever’s blocking it crashes to the floor and leaves him with enough space to push his way in. there’s another closed door on the far side of the counter, marked employees only, in an alcove smeared in blood. that’s where the noise is coming from. where the thing behind it is so consumed by its own agony, it’s yet to hear him.

     his body moves before his mind can find traction. one foot in front of the other. slow motion, like slogging through water waist - deep. the floorboards are sticky with gore. he takes another step, and the tread of his boot comes down on something soft. plush. somehow, he already knows what it is. he knows what it is before he picks it up. 

     he stands there, motionless, dazed as a sleepwalker. holding it between both hands. its tawny fur is matted red.

     his eyes press shut and memory uncurls like smoke.

          "kyle! kyle! you can’t go yet, i thought of a name!”

          “oh yeah?” he drops to eye level, forearms on his knees. “lay it on me, kid.”

          “violet!” eren announces. clutching the bear in the crook of his elbow, he darts off to the booth and returns with one of the books crane gave him: a small hardcover, featuring an illustration of a young girl on horseback wearing jousting armor. “look! it’s so cool! she’s a princess but she dresses up like a boy and she wins the contest ‘cause she’s better than everyone at j—jow—”

          “jousting?”

          “yeah! with the big stick. see?” 

          “now, that,” crane says, taking a good long look at the book’s cover, “is just about the coolest name ever.”

          he hugs the bear to his chest, grinning into its fur, those big dark eyes staring at crane from between its ears. “you think so?”

          “you kiddin’?” the grin’s returned. it’s his first in a while. the first that feels this warm; this genuine. crane ruffles the boy’s hair. “hey — i know so.”

     a minute — or maybe it’s an hour, maybe it’s a week — slips away from him, slick as oil. he opens his eyes and he’s standing in front of the last door. his blade is holstered and both arms are at his sides, left hand still curled around the bloodied arm of a child’s toy. a child who’s about to be dead. a child who probably died days ago. 

     “oh, god ...” the broken murmur escapes him in a shuddered breath. 

     this door isn’t locked, either. 

     eren is in a corner of the room, standing but hunched over with arms hugging his midsection, head bowed forward. he looks even smaller than before. the sobs wrack his tiny frame. infection covers his skin in open wounds and welts like burn marks, flesh a patchwork of bruised purple and deep crimson.

     crane moves silently. eren’s back is to him, and once he’s close, he crouches down to wrap an arm tight around the boy’s neck.

     “shhh ... it’s okay. it’s okay. i got you.”

     a hoarse cry greets his words, silenced in an instant by the quiet snap of fragile bone. then the body goes still. 

     “i got you,” he whispers. 

     gently, so gently, he lowers eren to the floor and finally lets him go.

     bear still clutched in his hand, crane, too, sinks down. leans back against the wall, fingers aching from the force of his grip. his breath catches in a dry, heaving sob; hitches once more before the tears fall hot and fast. it’s the first time he’s cried since jade. skin mottled with infection. the snap of bone. jade in the museum, rahim in the train car. it’s too familiar. too brutally, horribly familiar.

     he stays like that for a while, an immeasurable constituent of time that wanders off and vanishes like it did outside the door. he stays like that until he wears himself out. until the tears and prayers and strangled curses to a god he no longer believes in fall as silent as the little boy with the bright eyes, the little boy who named this bloodstained teddy bear after a jousting princess from a book he’d found in an apartment filled with death.

     just like here. this place. just like everywhere. 

     words try to form again, painted in vitriol, about how the world is ugly and just keeps getting uglier. about how good people end up corpses and bad people take what they want, picking through devastation like crows without wings. but he swallows it. all of it. 

     ali’s body isn’t anywhere inside the building. he looks for it, in the bodies by the window. in the faces of every infected he can see outside. he looks for it and comes up empty, as empty as the cage of his ribs in the aftermath of what his hands just did. they’re taking notice through the broken glass and that’s when he leaves, retracing his steps past the fire exit and crossing the courtyard with the bear still in his hand. 

louis utility over literature seldom bears clarity. it's purposely—and often subconsciously—contradictory, because words, to him, were never designed to simplify the facets of life.

that is where the friction begins.

that's why frustration may arise in conversation may feel evasive, baffling, because specificity is rarely offered. double entendres, metaphor, and layered phrasing take precedence. anything less than doublespeak—anything too direct, too singular—reads to him as incomplete. artificial. a lie by omission.

and the dirty, yet fascinating complexities of louis—his humanness and vampireness—were and are far from singular definitions. louis has never lived a life that could survive being told in one meaning. his existence has always been steeped in multiplicity.

when we think of "[ insert name here]...wears many hats", those who manage to capture a grasp over his personhood would understand he is apart of that architecture—he is constructed by them.

that confusion others feel in response to him can be amusing. at times, stifling. because their need for clarity presses against the subtle mechanisms he uses to sustain himself—denial, revision, selective truth.

to some, his intimate repertoire with reality will read as succinct, sound, even profound. to others, it will feel frustratingly facetious, deliberately fantastical, and indulgent.

both readings are correct.

because subtext is an element he flourishes. ambiguity leaves plenty of room for the imagination, and with his cultivated vocabulary—his devotion to reading, to language—he can seductively draw others into carefully constructed worlds that feel complete, even when they are not whole.

but there is one constant in his diction: it pointedly rejects erasure in any and all forms, as he has never survived just one role, but multitudes of them.

louis' relationship to language presents psychological tensions for him such as tolerating cognitive dissonance. most folks aim to resolve their contradictions to reduce internal stress. with louis, he lives inside it and expands it from within.

the red-blooded southern queer son who refuses to show weakness.

the deferential creole businessman who experiences the psychological violence racial duality in a rigid binary system.

the moral contradiction of profiting within harm while believing himself a protector.

the spiritual fracture from constant battle over god's voice, god's love, and god's heaven over damnation and self-perception.

louis... the brother, the provider, the father, the brothel owner, the protector, the exploiter, the liar, the lover, the victim, the partner, the subordinate, the human, the monster, the believer, the heretic...

roles are nothing but situational, and imposed. there isn't a default because his lived experiences supersedes that notion.

louis don't allow these tensions to collapse into a single narrative, he keeps all versions active. there is a root to it all and the splendidly branches are almost as equally strong as the tree.

word-play is the vehicle that leads one to innerstand that the coexistence is legible. it becomes a way to avoid false certainty. e.g., if he calls lestat only a lover, he erases the violence. if he calls him only a monster, he erases the intimacy.

if you ask him a question, you're by default demanding specificity, not over-articulation. and that's exactly what louis does. he evades by saying too much. the answer(s) you seek are still there. but you'll be walking away with much to chew on.

what was lestat to you?

louis: “ he was my maker. my ruin. my teacher. my companion in the dark. the man who taught me hunger, and the man i could not starve out of me .”

you have an answer—but no closure. because closure would require him to choose and if he does that means confronting which version hurts the most. so why opt for more pain when pain is already present? and for the love... the love couldn't come without the pain, anyway.

his world is a one where he needs language to survive it, anyhow. code-switching isn't just a cultural form of survival—it’s functional. creole helps withhold full access from listeners and leaves them to wriggle out of hole of the ambiguities he might suffocate them with. it's a way to return to something that predates the roles forced onto him.

“ li pa t janmen jis yon sèl bagay pou mwen… you understand? never just one. ”

the misdirection is fundamentally queer to traditional socialization. in order for louis it maintain control over his agency his language must... it must flaunt, it must purport, it must conceal. there are points in the story that is arduous but what is irrefutable is that it is passionately protective.

the voice of louis' style of story-telling and role-play operates like a gumbo—it's never perfectly replicable. the ingredients frequently shift, the balance changes, but the sensation remains: thrilling, dense, layered, and immersive.

however you create that gumbo its flavor profiles are always going to be different.

how he chooses to articulate is the one domain where he experiences something resembling pure freedom. he achieves much with the power of his tongue, even when he is in disadvantageous positions, which he finds himself in a lot. to be divorced from such a medium that helps him express his illogical consistencies—his endless variations of tales of louis du pointe du lac—would leave him utterly encumbered, anxious and paranoid.

in a relative way of framing this conundrum, think about who and what would the mythology of anansi the spider be without their web of stories?

THE HOME.

     "you have the antizin? where is it?”

     “lena ...”

     “please don’t tell me the son of a bitch broke his word. we need that medicine, kyle. tell me you have something.”

     “yeah, i — i got ...” crane starts, then stops. he’s fucking exhausted. he’s bruised and filthy and his circuits are completely blown, full - on, forget - about - repairs, this - shit - is - toast kind of blown. the jackhammer headache that started on his way back to the garrison hasn’t peaked yet, and his eyes feel like a watermelon rind stuffed with crushed ice.

     lena is watching him. waiting. expectant.

     he blows out a breath.

     “kyle,” she repeats, and he presses his lips together. 

     “i — i only got — rais, he — listen, he screwed us, alright? he only gave me five vials.”

     “only five? damn it. that’s hardly —”

     “i know, lena, okay? believe me, i know. i’m gonna get more, i promise, just ...” the words taper again. he pulls the vials from the pocket of his tac vest and hands them over. “look, for now, just take ‘em. give ‘em out to whoever’s next in line and i’ll bring you more as soon as i can. i’m — i’m workin’ on it, i swear.”

     she takes the vials and sighs. clearly agitated, but not angry with him. she gestures for him to sit down on one of the cots and when he doesn’t, she throws him a sharp look and reiterates, “sit.”

     “fuck,” he exhales. “lena — i’m fine. you think i would’ve made it all the way here in one piece otherwise?”

     busied with a tray of medical instruments, she glances at him over her shoulder, dark brows raised. “i do, actually. you’re stubborn like that. god, between you and brecken ...” she sucks her teeth, shakes her head. turns around a moment later with an injector in her gloved hand. “hold still.”

     “seriously, lena, i don’t need it. give it to someone who —”

     “oh, would you stop arguing with me for one minute? when was the last time you had an antizin shot, answer me that. do you want to start seizing in midair on your next run? hm? now, hold still.”

     he complies. tries to keep his muscles relaxed as he tilts his head, exposing the side of his neck. the shot is quick. barely a bee sting. she gives him a curt nod and sets the injector down, then faces him with hands on her hips. 

     “that wasn’t so hard, was it? go talk to brecken, he wants you upstairs.”

     crane frowns a little as he stands, ignoring the sharp pain that springs up from his injured ankle. he’d conveniently left that out. “why? somethin’ wrong?”

     “aside from the obvious?” lena says dryly. her expression darkens a moment. “talk to him. he’ll fill you in.”

     familiar faces nod at him in passing. brief greetings are exchanged. timur catches his eye at the elevators, lifts a hand from his rifle to loosely salute. 

     “hey, 31.”

     “you still on that?”

     “old habits. christ, man, you look like hell.”

     “yeah,” crane says, “i just got back.”

     brecken’s door is open when he gets to hq. jade and rahim are inside, the former standing with folded arms, the latter seated on a table and practically twitching with nervous energy. something definitely isn’t right here. another boy is on the edge of the couch, blond, new; peter, crane is pretty sure. fast friends with —

     it occurs to him who’s missing from the group. 

     “crane.” jade takes a step towards him, glancing between him and brecken. “did you get the antizin?”

     “long story. i gave what i had to lena. what’s, uh ...” another tour of each face in the room, and every one of them carries the same look of bleak concern. the scan finishes up on brecken. “what happened?”

     brecken pulls no punches. “nate’s gone. slipped the guards this morning, no one’s seen him since.”

     “wait — what?”

     “apparently,” jade continues, sensing the elevated pressure, the way brecken’s jaw goes rigid, “brecken had him on house arrest after he crossed paths with one of rais’ men. he was supposed to stay indoors, but —”

     “w— hold on, back up, when the hell was this?”

     “two days ago, while you were still in the field. they let him go. we didn’t know why, at first, but now we do. and that dipshit blake didn’t think to leave someone at the fucking post.”

     crane drags a hand down his face, palms the beard growth along his jaw that’s been untouched for almost a week. gone. one of rais’ men. they let him walk. his mouth is dry. it adds up. the connection is there, stark as a bright red line on a sheet of white paper. jade is still looking at him; from behind her, stiff in his seat, so is peter. 

     “fuckin’ hell, so the kid just — what, he just walked out the front door?”

     “he hates being inside.” that’s rahim, tight and terse as the set of peter’s spine. “must have run that stupid obstacle course fifty times this week.”

     peter nods, eager to contribute but clearly struggling to hold it together. “yeah, he’s always gotta be moving around. never sits still for more than, like, five minutes. no way a couple guards could keep him in.”

     “those guards still should have done their jobs,” jade counters. abrasive, but not directed at either boy; her eyes are on brecken again.

     brecken, in turn, is focused on crane. “jade and a few of the others have already volunteered. we’ll have scouts searching every bloody corner until we find him.”

     “no.” crane is shaking his head. “no, they don’t need to, i already know where he is. i’ll go get him.”

     “what?” jade rounds on him before anyone else can get a word in edgewise. “you want to rush back out there, right now, alone, when you haven’t slept or eaten in god knows how long? you were limping when you walked in here, crane. you should be in sick bay, not chasing rais’ thugs around the slums. we’ve got this.”

     “hey, if they took one of ours, i’m going.”

     “for fuck’s sake, kyle —”

     “brecken,” he pushes, to a huff of irritation from jade, “c’mon, you know i’ll be more use out there than in here.”

     “you’re no use anywhere out of commission because you pushed yourself too hard,” jade snaps.

     brecken looks at her for a long while, like he’s ceding the point. crane opens his mouth and he holds up a hand to cut him off. “she’s right,” he says. “but so are you. you’re one of our best, crane. we can’t afford to —”

     “jesus, brecken!”

     “look, we need all the help we can get, and if crane wants to go out there —”

     “we can handle it! god, if you could fucking trust me, for once —”

     “trust hasn’t shit to do with it, jade! we’ve —”

     “alright!” crane nearly shouts, sending the argument to a slamming halt. “that’s enough, both of you. jade —”

     “fuck this,” she bites back. she’s crossing the room, aiming for the door. 

     “jade, wait —”

     “let her go, bro,” rahim says. “she’ll cool off. eventually.”

     crane curses under his breath. the grimace he fixes on the doorway she’d disappeared through reeks of guilt. peter addresses him after a ringing pause. 

     “crane? you said, uh ... you said you know where he is, right?”

     “yeah. yeah, i know enough.”

     “are you sure?”

     the boy’s tone transcends worry and crosses the line into something else, something fierce and scared and about as fried as crane feels. he meets peter’s gaze and holds it for a few beats. trying to come up with reassurances. promises he doesn’t know if he can keep. trying to come up with something. rahim’s and brecken’s eyes are on him again, too. 

     shit.

     “i’ll find him, kid,” he says firmly, far more confident than he is right now. “whatever it takes, alright? we’ll bring him back.”

     peter swallows. nods. rahim hops down off the table, offering crane a fist in passing; he bumps it with his own and rahim’s gone like his sister a moment later. brecken approaches next, gripping crane’s shoulder for a second and giving him a wordless look of solidarity. 

     “i’ll find him,” crane insists. 

     “... 'course. yeah.” brecken’s hand drops. any heat in his voice from his quarrel with jade is gone. “i know, mate. keep in radio contact at all times. and if it turns out you’re right, about where he is, then ...”

     “brecken.”

     “no. listen. jade was right. you’re no good to us dead.”

     only, it’s more than that. he hasn’t been in harran three weeks, and these people have begun to rely on him in ways he couldn’t have anticipated. couldn’t have prepped for. this was a job, that was it. a job with a paycheck. contractually, it still is. but it hasn’t felt like a job since jade and amir saved his life the first day he touched down. he didn’t sign on with the GRE because they had a fancy logo and a potential for accolades — he signed on because he wanted to do some good. 

     so far, it feels like an uphill battle. endless collateral, more losses than wins. but brecken isn’t looking at him as a grunt, some mindless foot - soldier whose value is determined by his service. brecken is looking at him like an equal. 

     maybe circumstance is what got them thrown into this mess together; loyalty is what keeps them that way. 

     “... yeah, well,” he tries for a smile, or as close to one as he can, “i wasn’t planning on dying anytime soon. looks like you’re stuck with me, at least for a while.”

     an appreciative echo of the sentiment touches brecken’s expression. his chin dips, a single downward nod. 

     “holdin’ you to it, crane. and, hey —”

     that last comes when crane is halfway out the door. 

     brecken nods at him once more. his features are taut with emotion. 

OLD TOWN, DAY 33 ; 13:24:56.

     the apartment is picked mostly clean, the fruits of his labor yielding little more than some scrap electronics and an open box of band - aids. other things, things for trade: coffee, cosmetics, a couple of undamaged children’s books, things he doesn’t have use for but someone else will. there’s an eviscerated corpse slumped on the kitchen floor against the cabinets, at the end of a trail of blood. tenant, maybe — or maybe just some unlucky bastard who tried to find shelter and found their own grave instead. insects buzz and swarm, and the smell of decomp is strong. there’s not much left. crane covers the body with a bedsheet before he moves to check the bathroom.

     water leaks from underneath the locked door. once he gets it open, he sees why. 

     she was young. early twenties, if that. she’s half curled with bent knees in the overflowing tub, eyes open, skin bloodless and cold. drug paraphernalia litters the filthy tiled floor. accidental overdose or suicide; he’d put money on the latter, only because she’s not the first he’s seen. 

     there was a riverside shack in the slums, a mile or so behind the tower, where someone had tasted his handgun. left a note and a milk crate of canned food on his porch, telling whoever found it to take what they needed. there were those people on the rooftop of an apartment complex, the ones who’d gotten stranded and decided to cash out on their own terms. some of them died holding hands, family photos clutched close.

     a woman on a hotel bed surrounded by pill bottles. a man who’d hung himself in the basement of a restaurant.

     it doesn’t get easier. no matter how many, it doesn’t get easier.

     “i’m sorry nobody came for you,” crane murmurs, and gently closes the girl’s eyes. “... hope you found someplace better than this shithole.”

     he takes a moment, a five - count, then secures his findings, doubles back, and steps outside onto the terrace.

     a wooden latticework awning provides slatted shade from the afternoon sunlight. it dapples across skin slick with sweat and dust and dirt. blood, but not his. back - spatter, arterial spray. it’s everywhere but his face; missed his eyes and mouth, hit the visor of a scavenged police helmet he’d pulled off an infected near the quarantine wall.

     the slums are bad, but old town is a fucking war zone. virals run rampant through the streets and over the rooftops, acid - spitting toads linger near the waterfront and drainage culverts; massive demolishers pave paths of destruction wherever they can, hurling debris from empty lots, crushing anything that comes close, infected and human alike. rais’ thugs circle every drop point like vultures, armed to the teeth, and more than one desperate survivor has tried to jump crane for his supplies. 

     the worst are the screamers. the infected children. they were occupying one of the residential neighborhoods here in jarring numbers before he’d worked his way through and taken them out, quiet and reverent. 

     he dreams about them, sometimes. hears their anguished sobs and terrified wails in his sleep, waking drenched in flop sweat with his ears ringing and his heart in his throat. goddamn kids. one of the guys in his company used to rib him about that. fuckin’ soft touch, crane. that shit’ll get you killed.

     the narrow street below is clear, just a handful of shuffling biters that are easily dispersed. he’s bent over the open trunk of a car, ferreting through an old duffel bag, when he hears it. 

     a cry. a child’s cry.

     immediately, he’s standing straight. immediately he’s moving, trying to source the sound, gripping his machete tight. he’s thinking god, don’t let it be another one, until there are words instead of just noise and his pulse jumps hard.

     somewhere close by, a child is calling out for their father. calling for help. 

     shouting is dangerous, lethal, especially here, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take. he moves down the street, looking into darkened storefronts, dumpsters, the backs of vans. he thinks he’s close, can’t be sure; cuts down an infected that ambles toward him from beside a busted atm and four more that follow, and calls back, “hey, i hear you! i hear you, i’m on my way, just — can you tell me where you are? kid — ?”

     there’s no verbal answer: only a scream, too much like too many he’s had to hear, but that’s plenty. crane breaks into a run and vaults through the smashed front window of a pizza place where a dozen biters are swarming the counter. stumbling, trying to climb over each other to get to whatever’s on the other side. he snaps the first one’s neck before the others notice him but makes swift work of the rest, too. barely stopping for breath, he steps over the bodies, searching, searching —

     “it’s safe, you can come out.”

     the response is muffled, like it’s blocked by something. “where’s my dad?”

     “i — i don’t know, but i can help you look for him, alright? i’m not gonna hurt you. they’re gone now, it’s okay. come on out.”

     scuffling, then a thud, and then a pair of big doe eyes are peering at him from next to the cash register. “are you one of the bad guys?”

     “what? no — no, i’m not, i promise. my name’s kyle. you wanna tell me your name?”

     “eren. the monsters —”

     “the monsters are gone, eren. did they get you?”

     more scuffling, and the boy finally emerges, wiping his nose with his sleeve. he looks five, maybe six, small and dark - haired, dirty but at a glance unharmed. he shakes his head. “i hid in the cubby. my dad went to find food.”

     crane stays where he is, wary of making any sudden moves. “and he left you here, all by yourself?”

     “the window wasn’t broken before.”

     “how long’s he been gone?”

     “since the bells.”

     “the bells — ?” it takes him a second, because it’s a sound unique to old town and he spends most of his time in the slums; then he understands. “oh, you — you mean the church bells? he’s been gone since this morning?”

     eren nods and wipes his nose again. crane opens his mouth to speak when the boy brightens suddenly, as suddenly as the sound of boots crunching glass from just behind him. 

     “dad!”

     he turns, and he’s staring down the business end of an automatic rifle.

     “show me your hands!”

     “ah, jesus — don’t — don’t shoot, i’m not here to hurt anyone, look —” slowly, carefully, crane raises his left hand with the palm facing outward and starts lowering himself into a crouch to set his machete down on the floor. his right hand follows his left and he eases back upright, all without once looking away from the man’s face. a man dressed in tactical gear, whose grip on the gun is steady. skilled. he has a couple weeks of beard growth that makes his age harder to determine. “my name’s kyle crane, i’m one of brecken’s guys. from the tower. your son was callin’ for help, i just came to make sure he was okay.”

     as he speaks, eren scampers past and tucks in close to his father. “dad, he killed the monsters. look!” 

     “he sure did, didn’t he.” the man levels crane with a piercing, long - calculating stare, and finally lowers the gun. “you’re not one of them?”

     “no. god, no. i just wanted to help.”

     a nod. he lays a gloved hand on his son’s head. “then i owe you a lot more gratitude. i swear this place was secure when i left, but — those things ...”

     “yeah,” crane says, blowing out a low breath. “i know, believe me. i’m glad i got here when i did.”

     “so am i.” a beat. “thank you.”

     “what the hell are you doin’ out here? you know they turned the university into a safe house, right?”

     the man nods again. “we came from there. somebody passing through said there was a ferry, in the slums. that’s where we were headed.”

     “i’m — sorry to be the one to tell you this, but — the ferry dock’s gone. there are no more boats. none of us are gettin’ out of here unless one of the higher - ups orders an evac by air, and in case you haven’t noticed, that doesn’t seem like their top priority.”

     “then it’s only a matter of time before the GRE decontaminates this entire zone. infamy bridge is already compromised.”

     crane blinks. the back and forth is familiar, the terminology well practiced. “uh — yeah. yeah, it’s startin’ to look that way. but — listen, you need to get to the tower. get to brecken’s people, tell him crane sent you. they’ll take care of you and your son. there’s plenty of food, supplies, there’s even a doctor on site. you’ll be safe there.”

     “and what about antizin?”

     “what? a—are you — were you bitten?”

     they share a look, and everything this man isn’t saying is written in every line of his face. eren twists from under his hand to peer up at him. “dad ... ?”

     “no,” the man says, but it’s for his son’s benefit, not crane’s. crane already knows it’s a lie. “don’t you worry, kiddo. i’m just fine. here,” he kneels down and sets his rifle aside, swinging a bag from his shoulder and opening it up to hand eren a bottle of water, a packet of halva, and a stuffed teddy bear. “look what i found. why don’t you go think of what to name him while you eat your food, okay? let me talk to the monster slayer for a minute.”

     “cool!” eren grabs his prizes and trots off to one of the booths near the counter, the one furthest from any dropped bodies.

     once he’s safely out of earshot, the man stands up and turns to crane again. “on the leg. happened after i left this morning. my eye was to the scope, i didn’t even see it coming.”

     there’s that familiarity again, but it’s overshadowed by an ache below his sternum. crane swallows, adam’s apple riding the motion, pulling off his helmet to run a hand through sweat - soaked hair. “— i got caught in a clusterfuck, about a month ago. bite on the arm. antizin isn’t easy to come by, but brecken’s people have it. i’ll make sure there’s enough, you’ve got my word.”

     keen eyes, still clear of any visible signs of infection, give crane a deeply searching look for a full thirty seconds. he seems like he wants to say more, but settles instead for offering a hand. crane shakes it firmly without hesitation. “ali. you’ve given me a lot to consider.”

     “just as long as you consider it, and do it fast. ‘n hey — one more thing.” crane’s hand drops and he pulls out the three children’s books he’d found, bringing them to eren. “hi, buddy. you think of a name yet?”

     “no, i — hey! where’d you get those?”

     “what, these?” he holds them up one at a time, pretending to act casual, then sets them each down on the table. “well, i found ‘em, but — to tell you the truth, they’re way too advanced for me. you look like you’re pretty smart — think you can find some use for ‘em?”

     “yeah!” eren grabs for all three, sweeps them into his tiny arms and grins up at crane. “i can read bedtime stories to my bear now, so she won’t have bad dreams.”

     “see? i knew you were smart.”

     from behind crane, ali prompts gently, “what do you say to mr. crane?”

     “thank you!”

     “my pleasure, buddy. be careful out here, okay? take good care of your dad for me. he’s gonna take you someplace safe, with lots more kids to play with. sound good?”

     eren nods emphatically. barely a moment later, he has the teddy bear propped in his lap and one of the books laid open, turning pages, talking softly in the stuffed toy’s ear. 

     crane watches for a minute. his features soften, but the whisper of a smile that curves his mouth is bittersweet. he’s already made the mental note to radio ahead — to tell the tower’s guards to be on the lookout for these two — and to check back in here before he returns to the slums himself. they aren’t the first he’s redirected. some people make it. some don’t. 

     on his backpedal from the booth, he pauses to pick up his machete and slip it into its holster, helmet under one arm. 

     “if you leave within the hour, you should get there before sunset,” he tells ali. “northeast sewers are the quickest — two klicks, pretty much a straight shot from there.”

     “i know where it is. thank you, again.”

     “hey, you can thank me once you’re both safe.”

     another nod. crane returns it, then starts toward the broken window. he’s almost there, almost stepping through to the street outside, when ali’s next words stop him in his tracks and make some of his breath woof out of him like a suckerpunch.