vincent holtz.

( Their radios crackle to life just as the patrol reaches their lookout. Soldiers share concerned looks with each other, waiting with baited breath as Zahra replies. )

ZAHRA: Vincent? It's Zahra. I've got a patrol here at the office lookout. I—

ZAHRA: What do you mean, outbreak?

—

VINCENT: I don't know, exactly, I'm just spitballing here — I mean, everybody woke up to screaming, and um. Maybe twenty, thirty people had already turned.

VINCENT: I don't know how many more infected there are now.

( Running through a mental list of known radio frequencies, Vincent sends out call after call and hopes he'll get an answer. At this point, he's desperate, hoping some group of enforcers is on patrol nearby and ready to respond to a distress call. )

VINCENT: Come in, Idaho Falls. This is Vincent Holtz speaking. There's been, um. A huge outbreak at Grand Teton.

VINCENT: Who do I have on the other end here? Please, can you send help?

𝟑𝟎𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐄. 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌, 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐋. @cordiiceps​​

Above him, a case of mass confusion unfolds. At first it’s just a quiet stirring, which morphs into screams, and then suddenly all hell breaks loose. Now, infection spreads rampant like fucking wildfire through the mall. A horrified crowd of citizens stampedes the ground floor as the rest of the mall wake up in terror, realizing what’s happened. They try to run for their lives, though their efforts are surely futile. Vincent, living two floors above the lowest level, decides to run deeper into the mall ( in the opposite direction of the crowd ) and towards the service stairwell. He knows that it connects to the makeshift communication center, all the best radios and ancient telecom technology huddled into a room on the first floor. It’s his only chance at letting the rest of Idaho Falls know what’s happening before the infection arrives on their doorstep.

But after word is sent out, what next? In the adrenaline rush, Vincent only planned so far ahead. He didn’t consider that once he’s in the communications room ( a makeshift thing, a converted storefront with a small storage area in the back ), the glass wall and weak doors will provide no protection from a surge of infected once they track him down. After radioing Zahra with news of the outbreak, Vincent begins the heavy work of barricading himself in, using anything he can to block off the windows and doors. He sweats as he shoves a desk against the door, working like mad to board everything else with found materials — though he knows old cardboard boxes won’t do very much.

he’s there, he’s right there.  he’s pulling her away and she doesn’t resist.  “okay,” she says softly as she stands, following him down a hallway as mara jumps in to replace her.  mara is here, it’s going to be okay, mara is here.  “she’s- she’s good,” she answers simply, her mind still in a daze as her eyes scan the floors and walls in front of her.  it’s like her brain is trying to put reality back together piece by piece, pushing the puzzle together until it fits.  she’s felt it a few times before- the spinning, the breathlessness.  she could count the occasions on one hand, the most recent one being the night maxym died.  

vincent opens a door and begins grabbing blankets.  she takes one from him to lighten his load, but finds her fingers rubbing over the soft, warm fabric.  she focuses on that feeling- the wool against the pads of her skin.  “what?” her head whips up towards him, his words pulling her back in.  “yeah- yeah i guess i didn’t realize it until now,” ophelia’s hand reaches up to wipe a tear from her cheek.  “i’m sorry, i’m a mess,” she shakes her head, looking down, embarrassed.  opie has never been one to care much about her appearance while she is working- but she can’t imagine what a wild disheveled disaster she has become in all of his.  she can feel the hair that has come loose from her braid and the sweat that has dried against her skin.  “i deal with this all the time, you know?  the pressure, the uncertainty, the chaos of life and death.  i don’t know vinny, it feels so much harder tonight.”  another tear breaks loose, she quickly wipes it away with her sleeve, still hugging the blanket tight in her other arm.  “she shouldn’t be doing this here.  she should be upstairs, she should be in a warm bed with her family and our tools and-”  she shakes her head and tries to catch her breath.  “it’s not fair, it’s not right.”  her eyes meet his and suddenly she sees the water still dripping from the front of his hair.  “oh god, god you must be freezing, are you alright?” she releases her grip on the blanket, quickly moving to wrap it around his shoulders- her mind and heart promptly back in caretaker mode.  “you made it- jesus you guys did it.  i didn’t even thank you- oh god,” she pulls him in without warning, her arms wrapping tightly around his torso as she squeezes him as close to her as she can with her stomach between them.  “i can’t believe you went out in that- i can’t believe you did that, thank god you’re alright.  i was so worried.  thank you.”  opie pulls back, looking at him again.  “was it alright, are you okay?  are you hurt?”

“No, no, you’re not a mess,” Vincent tries to assure her, turning from his task of gathering supplies from the shelf to face her again. Even if her words hold merit, loose hair and weepy eyes and all, Vincent doesn’t see the harm in a white lie if it helps his dear friend. Wet, hot tears streak her face again, but he tries not to draw attention to them, instead putting a hand on her shoulder to give it a gentle squeeze. “It’s okay to feel the pressure, it just means you’re normal,” he smiles softly, quoting his mother from rote memory. “I mean, I imagine it is much harder tonight, for a lot of reasons,” and most of them are things Vincent can’t quite yet understand. How scary it must be to be an expecting mother, body willing baby into this world, who will be greeted by armed walls, measly rations, and horrible infection, with torrential storms to match. She shakes and her breath shudders as she speaks, and though he agrees that none of this is fair ( not to the mother-to-be, not to Ophelia, not to any of them ) Vincent is beginning to discover that there is no such thing as “fair” in this life. 

And then she’s her usual self again; she springs into action, mothering him, wrapping him in one of the woolen blankets. A grumbling voice in Vincent’s head knows he shouldn’t have mentioned he and Mara’s trip outside, though he secretly appreciates the care Ophelia shows him. “Oh, I’m fine,” he starts, though she’s all worried over him now, only satisfied once she’s had her hand in helping him. “I’m fine, really, no need to thank me at all. It’s my job, anyway. Really, I’m sure I’m fine,” he interjects repeatedly as she fusses over him, wrapping him tightly underneath the blanket. His arms pinned to his sides, Vincent simply leans his head into her body as she hugs him. He can’t help but notice that her belly is big enough now to take up the space between them, and a heartstring tugs in response, a lurch settling into his throat. Some days, it can be easy to forget that she carries the last remnants of his closest friend, but as she holds him, his heart reminds him again how deeply he still aches at the loss. When Max died, he swore to Ophelia that he’d do anything he could to make sure that she and their little baby would be okay. Back then, he had no idea how hard that task would be in a place ran by people as cruel as Alexei.

Realizing the ends of his soaked hair have dripped all over her shoulder, he apologizes when she pulls away again. “Sorry, I’m probably dripping nasty stormwater all over you.” He peels off another layer of swamped clothing, abandoning wet sweater and coat on to a counter to the left, ignoring that they steadily drip water onto the floor. He can feel that his boots are soaked straight through to his socks, too, but it might be awhile before he can score a new pair, so he keeps them on. “It was...um. A little intense out there, I won’t lie to you,” Vincent says, trying to frame what happened in a way that sounds less dangerous than it really was. “We had to get to the roof of the hotel to reset the breakers. But it was fine, really, there’s some scaffolding on the side of the building, and it was easy once we were on top.” 

The only thing on Mara’s mind is climbing up the ladder. All thought of danger leaves as instinct overtakes her, pushing her to action. There’s no lingering, no overthinking – just decisive movements. It’s the only way she knows how to get through things that might seem insurmountable. It’s the only way she’s survived all these years. One foot, in front of the other. Eyes focused on her goal, on the promise of seeing her family again. Just like they are, once more, focused on the very same goal. Reestablishing communication was key to finding out where Teddy and Felix were. She’d only just gotten them back, after all.

She watches as Vince climbs and somewhere, at the back of her mind, comes a warning that she can’t let anything happen to him or Nikolai Volkav will have her head. He may not be his brother but there’s a danger that lurks under the surface when it comes to the enforcer, a danger she’d rather not test. So she keeps her focus, rope pulling tighter as Vince climbs higher. Only once he’s up does she venture to climb the slippery rusted bars. She’s weighed down by the soaked-through layers as she climbs, slowly but surely getting higher and higher. And the higher she goes, the more rain pelts her face and blinds her, the wind whipping around her so violently she can almost see it.

Even with Vincent holding the ladder steady, it threatens to pull away at each gust of wind, battling her the entire way up. The rope between Mara and Vince slackens as she draws nearer, gloved hands clutching each rung like a lifeline. She doesn’t look down, knowing it would disorient her more than current circumstances already were, but maybe she should have. Maybe she’d have seen the debris swirling below –  the way the wind whipped knocked over crates into the foot of the ladder as she reached for the next rung. Her hand grips the rusted bar but her foot misses.

It’s a distinct sensation when the world falls out from under you, when your stomach bottoms out and you’re left without a sense of direction. Not knowing which way is up or down. Mara doesn’t even register the sound that escapes as her body slams into the side of the building.

 The impact rattles her bones and the only things keeping her from falling to her death is her grip on the ladder despite her dangling feet, and the rope pulled taut between her and Vince. “Vince!” She doesn’t even know if he can hear her as she struggles to pull the ladder close enough. “Move the ladder,” she shouts, knowing that if she lunges for it, the force of doing so could cause them both to topple. Still, she struggles to pull it closer with her right arm, the rope around her waist cutting into her as she braces one foot against the building and attempts to latch her right foot on a rung to gain purchase.

It happens quickly, and without warning. The rope tied at Vincent’s waist lurches down hard, gravity suddenly threatening to rip him from platform and ladder. Panic fills him as his eyes flit to Mara below him, whose foot misses a rung just as a strong gust of wind wails against them. It sends her body flying, slamming into the building, with the thin line of rope as her saving grace. That rope and Vincent, who screams out to her. “Mara!” His voice is barely louder than the wind as it whips his face. What will he tell Felix if she’s hurt?

Looking down at her, Vincent can see that Mara maintains her steady grip even as she dangles nearly half a foot to the left of the ledge of the platform. He swallows all his fear, knowing that he is her only chance of making it safely to steady ground again, and makes his plan. Using the end of the rope he’s still got tied to the ladder, Vincent will pull the ladder to himself first and then push it over her way — if his timing is right, she’ll catch the ladder with her free hand before it falls. She’ll have to use her body weight to get it against the wall again... and then Vincent will have to pull her across the gap to get to the platform. But what other choice do they have when they are up two stories in the air?

“I’ll push it towards you,” he shouts down to her, feeling the strain in his voice as he yanks the rope towards himself. He has to fight against the wind to convince the rope to lead the ladder towards him, inch by inch, metal clanging against the building as he pulls. He leans down across the gap, reaching his arms out as far as possible before the highest rung is just barely in his hands again. “Ready?” he asks, knowing that the wind blows strong in her direction, meaning this ladder will fall towards her & fall fast. They’ll only have a single try to get this right — if the ladder falls to the ground, Mara’s stranded on her rope.

When he sees her nod as confirmation, he doesn’t hesitate. Vincent shoves the ladder away from him, hard, letting gravity and the wind do their job and sending the ladder toppling over towards Mara. He watches with baited breath as she reaches out desperately from the rope to catch it — he lets out an excited holler when her gloved hands connect with the rung. “Tie your rope to the ladder,” he shouts, already pulling at his own connection to try and inch her a bit closer to him. It’ll be an extreme test of both balance and arm strength to pull Mara from the ladder, across the gap, and onto the platform, but he thinks of his father; what would Nikolai do if he were in this situation? His father would act and not think, not fret over every choice and lose precious time. 

So when the ladder is steady enough again, he reaches across to Mara, straining as she has to leap from ladder and onto the platform, the two of them scrambling like scared animals to find sure footing. But somehow they do. Helping her to her feet, he only has time to ask, “are you okay?” before something large swoops through the air, colliding with the side of his head, shoulders, and torso.

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

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

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

     “Gotta dump this. You should be able to go over this section with the other mop. Then we’ll push the tables over here.” As she delivered orders, she barely registered Vincent’s existence, delivering her orders in monotone. Nele had swerved into auto-mode, where she disconnected from her physical body — just like when she was working — her body operating of its own accord, muscle memory taking rein. 

Any residual laughter stops as soon as Nele responds in that same stern, dry voice. “Right,” Vincent says, face feeling flush with embarrassment. His natural inclination to joke in slightly awkward situations once again makes him feel a bit stupid in front of yet another Enforcer, so he resigns to being quiet as he works. With the radios now laid out on top of the towel she’s brought over to the desk, he proceeds to take the other soaked pieces of equipment and shake them out, letting flood water drain from them before laying them flat to dry. It goes without saying that almost everything that required battery power is probably no good after the room flooded several feet high, water seeping into storage bins and filing cabinets alike. 

This is gonna be our new fuckin’ home for the next week — Vincent meets her grim announcement with another quiet, ‘yes ma’am,’ just as his mother taught him to do. A small part of him doesn’t mind the task ahead of them; his entire life, he’s been told that whatever keeps him out of easy sight and earshot of his uncle is good enough. There’ll be whole patrol forces reassigned to infrastructure repair for weeks, months even, as the whole QZ tries to recover from all the damage the storm brought. Among teams of soldiers and Enforcers, Vincent won’t be missed much. As much as he likes to imagine that all his time he’s spent pouring over old books and defunct technology gives him some special knowledge or unique insight into their world, something that sets him out from the rest of Idaho Falls, he accepts that he, too, has to take orders as they come.

A routine emerges between them, one of sopping wet mops from floor to bucket, wringing out the old strands, and taking turns hauling the bucket off to be dumped outside when it fills up. Each of their sections of the room drains slowly, water level falling from knees to shins and then down to ankles. Vincent is soaked, drenched in a mix of sweat and mildewed flood water —at least he’s finally gone nose blind to the smell of it all. As she steps out to the exterior door to toss out the next bucket of water, Vincent takes a second to rest, wiping his slick forehead with the back of his hand. Eager to do anything other than mop for a moment, his eyes wander around the cluttered room. There’s so much to sort through it can be hard to know where to start...so Vincent goes to the top, reaching for one of the storage bins shoved on a high shelf. So much was stuffed into this tiny room before, storage shelves piled hile with boxes and supplies and abandoned projects; Vincent isn’t sure what’s in this box, or if he’s ever opened it before.

It’s heavy as he pulls it down, so he lugs it over to the table. The bin thuds as it lands next to the radios, and metal clanks together inside the box. Vincent opens the lid and is greeted by the smell of stale air. He coughs instinctually, waving away the dust as he uncovers old diagrams and notes on previous repairs, loose tools that he swore he could never find before, spools of precious copper wiring — and batteries, still shiny at the bottom of the bin. “Nele!” he calls, already smiling again even though he expects her same severity. “We gotta sort through those old boxes on the top of the shelves. I don’t think I’ve ever opened them before.” And who knows what else might have been shoved in there, shut away to be forgotten by whoever else worked in Repairs before Vincent. “It’s always been such a mess in here. But maybe now that the water is cleared out...” his hand pushes through layers of paperwork, being sure to pose his suggestion as delicately as he can. “We could sort what's salvageable into new bins?”

There’s no turning back once they’re outside. Mara makes sure the rope is secure around the both of them, tugging for good measure as the violent winds whip around them the moment they step out of the safety of the hotel. Maybe this is foolish. Maybe they should wait it out. These thoughts are quickly replaced by I need to make sure they’re okay. And she can’t do that without comms. So she continues one step behind Vincent as they’re pelted by rain that won’t let up. Within minutes they’re soaked through but it doesn’t matter – they persist and Mara takes small breaths, careful not to inhale debris despite the scarf she pulls tighter around her nose more.

“Okay - Vince, let’s…” she’s shouting but can barely hear herself as she grabs his arm, pulling him around a corner away from the onslaught of the wind. Here it howls and whistles past but is no longer pushing them back. “Okay…let’s be smart,” Mara says, voice raised still but head bowed closer to him so they can hear each other. “When we grab the ladder, we should keep it low.” Lest they want the wind claiming it. “We can be quick about this. Just stay in synch.” The rope around their waists would prevent them from losing each other, but it could also prove dangerous if they weren’t aligned. 

Once it’s agreed to, they launch into action, bodies close against the wall as they make their way to the opposite one, intent on grabbing the ladder. Debris is flying all around them, smaller bits pegging their shoulders and back as they walk, hunched over in self preservation. “Got that end?” Mara yells once she has the top rung in her hands, barely able to make out Vince six feet away. “We need to keep moving!”

They’re forced to shout over the cry of the wind, ( which must be angry at them, considering it pelts their bodies with unknown debris and detritus ), so Vincent hardly says much more than “let’s go.” One arm instinctively covers his face, and the other tucks the ladder against his body as he leads them to what’s left of the old scaffolding. They’ll use the ladder for the first twelve feet before they can get to the next platform ( since whatever ladder lead to the second floor from the ground went extinct long ago ), and then it’s seven stories higher. Heights are normally no issue for him, but common sense says wind speeds that high up can become lethal quickly. Vincent swallows hard and tries not to think too much about it. Soaked layers of clothing stick to his skin as they throw the ladder up against the building to begin their ascent. 

It’s not like he hasn’t faced this sort of danger before; repair work brings new challenges of its own all the time, and as already the outdated technology and infrastructure in Idaho Falls ages further, it becomes more hazardous, too. Something in his gut knew as soon as the power flickered out that they’d be risking themselves to the storm like this — the winds threaten to pull them from rope and ladder and each other as they scale the side of the hotel. Vincent leads the way, since the route they’ll take is practically engraved in his brain, and decides to climb the ladder first. He’s as sure-footed as he can be despite how wet and humid and nasty the weather is, undoubtedly comforted by the fact that Mara is below him, footing the ladder. Even still, he can feel the frame shake with the wind as his foot connects to each rung, but he presses on. 

where: the basement of the hotel when: may 22 who: @vincentholtz​

by the time power is restored to the hotel and mara and vincent have returned from the outside, ophelia feels almost in a daze.  her hand aches from priya’s firm grips and her screams ring in her ears from ever push.  but it’s not the pain or the yells that ails her- it’s the visions of her own face that flashes over priya’s every so often.  it’s like a jolt of electricity that shocks her body and it takes every muscle within her not to react.  this shouldn’t be so hard- she’s helped women through labor before.  but now she sees it through different eyes, a mother’s eyes.  it’s terrifying.

but the lights flicker, people cheer.  still the storm rages on. the familiar faces return and ophelia’s head snaps up to take them in.  mara movies to help priya and ophelia stutters out her progress, quickly rambling off how far apart her contractions are and how many centimeters dilated she is, at least her nearest estimation through touch in the dark.  she looks up- her eyes meet vincent’s.  “vinny,” she breathes. he is a face from her childhood, a good one.  perhaps the only one in her circle who knew max as well as she.  her brown eyes well with tears for the first time that night.  she doesn’t mean to do it, she tries to blink them away.  “we- we need- towels.  t-towels we need fresh towels and water.  warm water.  clean blankets and warm water,” is all she can manage to get out to him. 

Heavy rains fall cruelly in Idaho tonight, huge drops coming steady at them sideways; the storm nips at Vincent and Mara through layers of clothing as they climb ladders and scale the building, tempting fate as they brave the weather to try and regain power for their section of the QZ. In a whiz of power, the soft hum of electricity rushes to return to the building beneath their feet, and a flood of relief follows suit. He can only imagine what it might be like inside — still humid and damp, yes, but certainly better now that the old incandescents are flickering back on again. Admittedly, any small comfort he can bring to those people feels like fucking victory right now.

Slipping out of slick rainboots and soaked jacket and back into the hotel lobby, Vincent can’t ignore the screams of labor pains that haunt the air, affecting every person in the place. In an instant, Mara heads towards the sound, off again to where she’s needed most. Every other huddled, fearful soul seems to worry for Priya and that little baby to come — including those familiar doe eyes that find Vincent. He sees that she’s been crying, or perhaps trying her hardest not to, and feels his heart lurch when she calls out to him in what sounds like panic. “Okay, yeah, I can do that, don’t worry. Mara and I got the power back, I can get you some hot water now,” he reassures Ophelia, recognizing the stress in her voice. Whatever might give her a second away from what Vincent thinks is a bloodbath will help, he’s sure. 

“Come help me,” he says, not leaving room for an answer, instead taking the initiative to lead Ophelia down one of the hallways off of the lobby. The old linen closets found on every floor have been converted to makeshift medical storage, and the custodian’s wing down here has a good sized sink to use. “How is she?” Vincent adds, unable to really think about anything else as the screams become that much closer together in time. Now at the closet, he swings the creaky hinged door open and rummages through the leftovers. Luckily enough, there’s a thin, wool blanket and a few towels to spare high up on a shelf. Vincent reaches for them as he asks, “does it feel different to you now?” He faces her again, towels draped on shoulder as he adds, “helping other women through this, I mean.”

+ VINCENT ( @vincentholtz​ )

“Here,” Mara says as she tosses Vince a scarf and any other time it might’ve been strange to hand someone a scarf in the middle of May (and a particularly balmy one at that) but not today. “You’ll wanna wrap it around your mouth before we get outside.” The wind howled like a wild thing outside, debris hitting the side of the hotel with more force than she cares to dwell on, rain pelting windows along with dirt and rocks and who knows what else. They’re going out into the very storm in a matter of minutes. The din of voice around them has ebbed and flowed the past half hour after they’ve decided on a plan. Mara and Vincent would head out to inspect the damage to the generator and power grid, reset it and hopefully get radios and comms back online. 

She ties her hair back, pulling on a hat and shrugging on an old, patched up raincoat. Mara glances over at Vincent, still putting on some layers himself. Despite the heat, they’ll be grateful for the extra protection against the elements. “Are you sure you want to come?” It’s the second time she’s asked, the first after he’d volunteered and now, minutes before they’re heading out. His support would be invaluable, considering his expertise, but Mara’s confident she can make do without if she needs to. The harsh reality of the situation is that she’d rather go out alone than have to worry about his head being in it. She won’t blame him if he backs out, but she’d rather know before they’re halfway out the door.

Growing up with a mother like Vivien Holtz, Vincent has learned not to question a woman that clearly knows what she’s talking about. He takes the scarf Mara hands him without hesitation and begins wrapping it around his face, already dreading facing the weather in full force — what he can hear wailing from inside the hotel walls is frightening enough. Outside, it’s muggy, with torrential winds and downpour to match; what might have been routine maintenance a week ago becomes a life-threatening ordeal tonight thanks to the still-growing storm. Vincent doesn’t dare express any fear that lingers, nor any worry over his father and mother and sister. Instead, he thinks about what tough decisions they might be making right now, what sacrifices they too, might be planning. In an effort to be half as brave as they somehow always seem to be, he swallows his anxiety and nods in response. “Yes, I’m sure.” For the all the times he’s had to reset the power grid on his own, he’ll be damned if he sits by idly like a coward while Mara is forced to face the storm alone.

Armored in raincoats and rubber boots and rolled-up, thick jeans, the back of Vincent’s neck beads with sweat before they’re even out the door. Backpacks are slung onto their shoulders, filled with rope and tools and a first aid kit, should something go wrong — Vincent tells himself in his mind that this mission is no different than normal. Strong winds whip the door open as he turns the handle, sending the end of his scarf whipping across the air. He braces against the heavy rains and holds the door open for Mara as she steps outside.

“We can go through the service entrance,” Vincent says, half-shouting over the loud whistle of wind and the steady drum of pouring rain. He leads her to the East side of the building, where a gate blocks off electrical lines, meters, and utilities to the hotel — the sort of place he’s come to know well through his work in Repairs. Vincent lifts the latch and throws his body weight against the gate, forcing the rusted hinge open. “The breakers are in a tricky spot — we’ll need that ladder to get to them,” he adds, pointing to an rusted, 6-foot ladder resting against the wall. 

     VINCENT ( @vincentholtz​. ) MORNING, MAY 24TH, MALL, GROUND FLOOR STOREROOM. The storm had flooded the ground floor of the mall, and when the two of them stepped into the workshop, the ground was still wet, Nele’s boot slapping wetly against the floor. There were small pools where the floor was uneven, stagnant water and mildew filling her nostrils as she moved further into the room. Nele had converted what tools she could to be powered by air compressors, but that didn’t mean they weren’t damaged, her jaw clenching slightly as she clocked the litter about the room. All the lumber was soaked, and anything that wasn’t nailed down had been swept to the floor. 

     Nele’s lips flattened as she took a deep breath, squinting at the damage that would take the rest of the day, if not more, to clean up. Vincent was at her side, and she stared ahead when she addressed him, “Any plans you might have had are cancelled. Welcome to the rest of your day and night.” Nele unclipped the radio from her belt, using it to ask if there was a working generator available for the Shop-Vac. The response was there wouldn’t be one for a while, and Nele didn’t give another response before stepping toward the door. “I’m getting some dry mops. Get a bucket together with some vinegar.” She didn’t wait for a response, disappearing out the door and around the corner.

     It took longer than expected, but she returned with two mops in tow, towels draped over both her shoulders, which she dumped on the nearest — useable — surface. “Begin at the other end picking things up. We’ll get anything that might need closer inspection on that table over there,” she canted her head to her left, “See if anything is broken beyond repair. If so, we’ll scrap ‘em for parts. Sound like a plan?” Rhetorical question. It was the plan.

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

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

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

Even though Vincent tells her that Alexei didn’t hurt him, there’s doubt. It piles in the pit of her stomach, swarms in her chest, her head. It’s hard to convince herself that Alexei wouldn’t touch a hair on his head, or her own for that matter. It’s always keep your head down, watch your tone, never speak unless spoken to. So when Vincent explains what it was that Alexei had wanted with him, the questions he had, Victoria’s brows knit together in genuine confusion. 

Weirdly calm. Victoria mouths the words, though they taste like nothing but copper. As she continues to listen to her brother, fear continues to grow, continues to build at the base of her throat. She had tasted dread plenty of times, but this is different. “But your opinion? Why?” There were plenty of others who could supply the information Alexei wanted, and at a cost that wouldn’t result in… well, Victoria wasn’t sure what this would cost. 

Victoria watches Vincent carefully, gaze flickering over every twitch and indent, even the fall of his chest as he breathes. She’s not afraid to admit that she’s terrified of the kinds of things that Alexei could potentially want from them, but more so from Vincent. “Drones…? Like, those things from before? That the military used? Like what dad told us about?” Victoria smoothes her hair out of her face, sweat beading at her temple. It still doesn’t make sense, until it does, and Vincent lets the ball drop. “He… wants you to spy? On us? The QZ?” It wasn’t _Vincent _spying, it was Alexei, but Alexei wanted to use her brother as his pawn. “What the fuck.” Really, it makes sense. Get someone smarter than you to do your dirty work, but somebody who can’t fight back. They both know the cost of this favor, even if they don’t let it break between them. “Fuck, Vin, what did you tell him?” 

There’s a characteristic bluntness to Victoria’s thought process, a bold streak that Vincent doesn’t quite have — he has to remind himself not to take it personally from time to time. “Um,” he starts, face crinkling ever-so-slightly as he speaks, “because it’s my job, you know.” It comes out sounding clunky and ungraceful, perhaps even a tad defensive. “Because I know useful stuff. Because old technology is my whole, like, thing...”

Of course, he knows that she’s right to have her guard up. Their whole life, the twins are hidden away with their mother, taught to never question their father’s family, to take orders without hesitation and to stay far under their uncle’s radar, for as long as possible. The little visit had nothing to do with Vincent’s quaint interest in technological relics; when Alexei came strolling into the room, wanting Vincent’s attention, it could only mean that he has something that the Volkov dictator wants desperately.

“Yeah, from before. They’re remotely operated, and you can mod them to add all sorts of weapons and other um. Scary shit.” Alexei doesn’t have to say that piece outright for Vincent to know he’ll want the most lethal additions. “I don’t really know what he wants me to do, not yet. Something about security, for sure.” There were so many questions Vincent was afraid to ask at the time, not wanting to seem overly eager in whatever diabolical shit Alexei is beginning to dream up. “Whether he wants to target the infected or his own civilians...I don’t know, Vic.”

brows raise and a soft laugh tumbles from his lips. “you don’t think i’m sensible?” out of everyone in the family, he had always seen himself as the champion of that trait. “what would you call me, then?” he asks curiously, taking a deep breath as if readying himself for an answer he might not like. don’t be your father, don’t be your brother, listen to him. at least nik is doing something right, because vincent smiles at him with a warmth that can’t be fabricated out of nowhere. nik hums in contemplation, considering what few inches of skin would be safest for the enforcers first tattoo. under the shirt? what about when it gets too hot? nik smiles when the puzzle comes together, angling his arm to expose the spot. “here won’t be too noticeable,” he says, fingers tracing a loose circle on the inside of his upper arm. “you gonna collab with vic?”

there is relief in that statement, but also sadness. only because there is a boldness in victoria, who still dares to call herself a volkov, and nik wonders sometimes if vincent is hiding behind her. so nik smiles, and there is real warmth there, but it fades a millisecond faster than usual, because it’s not something he knows how to talk about. what would i even ask? but at vi’s next words, nik doesn’t smile at all. “yeah, guess so.” he takes a slow breath. at least victoria and vincent are nothing like alexei and him. vincent wouldn’t kill his sister if he was given the chance. 

nik’s not sure if he feels any more reassured, but he lets go of the flask regardless, even if it makes his heart lurch. he’s itching for the flask in seconds, so he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets as vincent speaks. he makes points that nik logically knows are right. he’s a fully grown man now, not the boy that will live in nik’s memories. vincent isn’t the age he was when he first found comfort in a bottle. after a moment of silence, guilt making nik’s eyes look tired, he nods, “yeah. yeah, you’re right. i’m sorry.” in an ideal world, he’d like to share the why, the bubbling anxiety that comes with a situation like this, but nik was never taught how to detangle those feelings into words. so for now, he owns up to his faults. 

With Victoria around, headstrong and determined and all the other traits she’s coveted, it can be easy for Vincent to forget how alike he and his father really are — he hadn’t expected him to take this little joke so seriously, but it’s clear that Nik internalizes the comment anyway. “Well, even if you are sensible, I’d just sooner use other words to describe you.” Not that Vincent has much of an opportunity to discuss the inherent quirks of his father’s personality with anyone other than his sister. “I’d say...you’re protective,” even overprotective at times, though Vincent leaves this bit out, “and brave.” He doesn’t dare look at his father when he says it, too embarrassed to admit that this is the thing he most admires Nikolai for; his dad has all the courage in the world and yet somehow, Vincent inherited none of it. At least in this buzzed state, honesty comes a little easier, coaxed out of hiding by the liquor. “Maybe a little intimidating, too.”

Born into a world that’s run by Alexei Volkov, certain precautions are in place to help keep the twins safe as they age — they take their mother’s name, grow up inside her Enforcer’s suite, only meant to see their father in treasured doses, his identity a secret they learn to keep in time. It makes Vincent feel crazy sometimes, almost desperate for some permanent thing to prove where he comes from, as different as he feels from the rest of his family. Quiet as he watches his father’s fingers trace the patch of skin on his forearm, he finally nods in response. “That would be cool.” A pause passes. “We could even do matching ones, if you wanted. You, me, and Vic. Something small that’s just for us, you know?”

Mara doesn’t mind night shifts. In fact, she might prefer them these days. Less people to bother and distract from the tasks at hand. Less families worrying over loved ones. Less people coming in after their patrol shifts, asking for updates. Mara doesn’t dislike people, in fact – everything she does is for people. The people. Idaho Falls. Anyone who’s hurt. Their loved ones. She does it all for others. But she’s always felt more useful when she can slip into her own world. Like tonight. 

She’s disturbed by a quiet, familiar voice rounding the corner of the infirmary. Mara glances up at Vincent’s approach, pausing her note-taking. Despite her preference for solitude on night shifts, his warm presence is welcome. Except, in the place of his usual soft smile, there rests a frown, or not quite a frown but a thin line and furrowed brows. She knows Vincent well enough and something feels off. In the four years since she’s been in Idaho Falls, she’s  stitched him up countless times. He returned the favor by fixing various pieces of aged medical equipment. Eventually, he earned a clandestine story or two from outside the wall in turn. “Hi…it’s late.” What are you doing up?

Mara shuts her notebook, setting her pen atop it as she turns her attention towards the young man. “What’s up?” He looks tired. He sounds it. But she waits for him to speak, blue-green eyes illuminated only by the few lamps scattered throughout the space. It’s enough light to betray Vincent’s uncharacteristic expression to concern Mara. Has something else happened? She wasn’t superstitious but if bad things happened in sets of three, they were due for one more thing. Ray. Daiyu. Vincent? God, she hoped not.

Thanks to secret strings pulled by Nikolai years ago, Vincent is never sent on patrols, and is always overlooked for tasks outside the zone. In fact, most of the Enforcers have no real reason to bother him, as his schedule only ever denotes his designated time in ‘repairs.” It’s a shared space in one of the old department stores in Grand Teton Mall, a dim room with makeshift workstations huddled together, long tables used by semi-chemists and self-taught engineers and Vincent alike. What he’s come to learn about his dayjob is that working with the crumbling tech their ancestors have left behind means the pile of things he has to repair is seemingly endless. Such workloads are a great excuse for Vincent to slip away from his assigned room into the night, no longer questioned when he's up late and still tinkering with something he’s slung home from work. 

It’s his excuse now, if anyone important stops him and asks; only Mara will know the truth of the matter. Sneaking out of his room to bother the medics for a sleeping aid… a part of Vincent shudders at the lecture it might earn him from his dad, if he were to find out.

“I can’t sleep,” he admits. Vincent isn’t sure if Mara knows who buried Ray — the thought alone releases a flood of vivid recollection. The incessant clinking of shovels against rock overwhelms his memory and then the final, dull thud of a heavy body hitting ground makes Vincent queasy all over again. His face crinkles. “I can’t get my mind to stop racing. Yesterday hit me…um, kind of hard,” he starts, feeling the need to expand. “I saw everything.” Sat at a table only a few yards away from his tyrannical uncle as the scene with Ray unfolds, Vincent has an unobstructed view of the horror. “When Gil volunteered to bury him,” he swallows, “I just. Followed him. On autopilot. Like it was just another day in the labs.”

“‘cause i’m your dad and i should be sensible?” he asks with a gentle curiosity, leaning back into the plastic lawn chair that’s likely days away from breaking under the next person’s weight. perhaps his curiosity comes from concern, wondering if those words meant more than he could interpret.

his laugh is low and quiet, and with the absence of anyone else on the roof, his smile shines. “thought you might like the idea. and no, not particularly.” soft and kind eyes look over at his son with fondness, laughter fading away into the cool breeze. “a stick and poke is way more reasonable if i can choose where you do it,” he’s still smiling which some might interpret to be a joke, but he is not joking one bit. a permanent mark of his children on his body is something he’s considered in passing many times.

that warm smile doesn’t waver for even half a second. “yeah, i know you do,” his smile widens, “you have no idea how good it is for me to see you two always watching out for each other. ever since you were kids, you know, i couldn’t pick up just one of you. always had to be both of you at the same time. that, or it was crying central. always reaching for each other,” he pauses, smiling as he recalls their smaller, rounder faces, “now you’re either trying to shave shapes into my head or jab me with needles,” he chuckles, taking a sip from his flask. 

he’s hesistant at first, but he wants to do good on his previous statement, that tonight is an acception. after a beat, nik holds out his flask for vincent to take, but he doesn’t let go of it immediately. “this is not going to be a habit, right?” 

Laughter tumbles out from behind the now empty flask, and for the first time, Vincent’s full attention turns to his father. “I don’t know if I’d use the word sensible, exactly,” he says, wiping his mouth, which now melts into a smile. He’d say stern, maybe, or better yet concerned, always on the lookout for ways his children could get themselves into trouble. The idea of drawing his dad’s next tattoo makes him kind of giddy — “okie-dokie then. Where am I doing this, then?” Vincent’s drawing skills lean more towards the methodical, mostly used for sketching out designs for weapon modifications, but he think he can draw something decent enough to serve as a reminder of himself for his father. An unfortunately timed hiccup slips out before he says, “I’d better start planning now.”

Warm, fuzzy memories flood Vincent as his dad speaks, residuals of a time he & Victoria spent toddling around after Nik and Vivien with that certain childlike wonder. Sharing everything since the womb, his sister will forever be his partner in crime, the person who understands him like no other can — though he can’t help the small voice in his head that insists he’ll never be half the person she is. “We’ve always been a packaged deal, better together than apart,” though they’re twice the trouble, enough to drive their mother crazy. They remain as close as ever, still speaking their unspoken language between each other. “Though the thing about having a sibling is that they grow up knowing all the best ways to piss you off,” Vincent laughs, said all in good faith. In more serious tone, he adds, “I guess you might know something about that.”

It always goes like this — Daiyu longs for comfort, deep down, aching for it until she’s sure it will drive her mad. And then when she’s given it, she stares at it in her hands unsure of what to do. She meets it with snark and dismissal, when she wants to clutch it close in stead and as Vincent is removed by a strong, solid door, it’s almost easier to slip into denial. How are you, really? Such a dangerous question, especially if she were to answer it as truthfully as Vincent seems to ask. She digs nails into the palms of her hands. “I — no, he’s feeding me. Smaller portions, sure, but yeah. Don’t worry.” Lips bury in her teeth. “Not doing so good, Vin, won’t lie. Don’t know what else to tell you.” There’s more she can say ( how she saw Vissa appear here, in half-sleep; how she’s afraid she is becoming her father; how she’s afraid that he will bury her, too ) but she swallows in stead. “Being alone with my thoughts is like, shit.” An understatement.

She sinks to the floor, tired of standing in the dark, swallowing a comment on how she wished Vincent had managed to find a way in. It would be selfish to ask. “Er. Few days ago. I think. Pretty early on.” The question almost makes her angry. Almost, because part of her had wanted nothing more but Nik to burn this place down for her. But she asks so much from him already. “I don’t want him to do anything. I’ll get out of here, shit goes on. Mike gets to rot in the infirmary for a while.” Did Vincent still have some kind of spark, some optimism, some blind willingness to believe that there was something to be done against the likes of Alexei? It takes hold of her sometimes still, too, but it’s always violent, furious. Rebellion for the sake of it. “It’s fine, Vincent.” The less Alexei knew about how close Nik and Daiyu continued to be, the better.

—

Sentences from the other side of the door turn curt and pointed; Vincent swears he can see the face Daiyu makes, all tight lipped and repressed in response. Of course, in terms of his own skin, it’s fucking dangerous for him to be here at all, but he considers what it must be like on the other side and he can’t help but feel stupid to worry about himself. “Sorry,” his voice says, back still pressed against the wooden door, keep watching down the hallway. “I don’t know what else to say either.” Despite this fact, there was no ignoring the stress and worry that settles when Vincent realizes Alexei’s locked up his own daughter. It brings him here, in some hole on the outskirts of the QZ, all alibis and false pretenses in an attempt to...what, rescue her? “I just couldn’t sit around and do nothing knowing you were here.” He doesn’t want to admit yet that risking his life to stand just out of reach of Daiyu feels like nothing, too.

As he gets older, Vincent learnsthat for every small thing he knows about Nikolai, there’s a hundred other glaring details that Dad chooses to hide in the shadows. Though Nik himself always claims these things are done for his children’s safety, Vincent is starting to think that enough time has passed for his father’s well-meaning protection to spoil, become burdensome instead. He’s quiet as she speaks, wrapped up in his own thoughts for some time before he says, “you know, I'm glad you beat the shit out of him.” It was the first time Vincent saw proof that some violence is well-deserved. “He’ll probably have a fucked-up nose forever,” he says, tone much less serious. “Kinda sad that that’s the only kind of justice we get here.”

it’s always felt like nik has limited his children more than impacted them positively. they are no strangers to his reputation, after all. but with how quickly and freely vincent names his sister, like he knows this is not a blaming game, that no one will be punished, at least nikolai knows at least he succeeded in giving them some of what his father never allowed for him.

nik laughs softly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, flask dangling in his grip. “of course,” nik repeats after him quietly, picking any spot for his eyes to focus other than the flask that isn’t his. he settles on looking over the edge, a gentle sigh at the sound of trucks from the hotel already arriving. “you sure she’s convincing? she tried to get me to shave a uh, lightning bolt into my hair not long ago.”

“yeah? good. vic too? you’ll keep her outta trouble, won’t you, пчелка?” there’s a touch of humour to his question, but some sincerity too. tonight is no reason to think the QZ isn’t just as dangerous as it was before just because most are in a lighter mood. “probably when everyone passes out. let’s hope they’re all lightweights, mm?” he breaks his eyes away from the people below, back to his son, and for the first time reaches out to tap their flasks together in silent cheers. “so don’t get wasted, alright?”

It’s so weird to be doing this — still half in disbelief it’s his father beside him, Vincent is suddenly hyper aware of the weight of the metal flask in hand, careful not to let his gaze linger on Nik for too long. It feels almost wrong, since he’s so used to sticking his neck out to impress him. In an attempt to show only the best version of himself, Vincent becomes content to hide anything that might make him less deserving of the family name ( one he can’t even carry, for all the worries of the target it might put on he and his sister’s backs ). Being drunk around Dad without hell being raised is a new concept, too, but he reminds himself today is supposedly cause to celebrate.

“Well, I guess it’s different with you,” he says, something painfully truthful in the admission. Vincent has inflicted his own internal comparison between father as soon as he could even say Volkov. It feels good to laugh with him, though, jokes passed between them more easily than vodka. “You don’t think that would be kind of fun?” he smiles, eyes still watching the street. “Oh man. And here I was, hoping I could just stick ‘n poke you for father’s day.” Something to commemorate their time together, something to remind him of his only son.

There’s no denying the sincerity in Nik’s voice as he doles out the task of keeping Victoria safe. “Of course, I always do,” Vincent promises in response, his sister’s safety easily more important than his own, even if often she appears to be the more capable of the two of them. Where he excels in the logical and cautious, she’s all ruthlessness and heart, inheriting the same rugged mentality of their mother, holding onto their father’s family name even if it threatens to kills her. Despite their differences, each of their weaknesses is the other’s strength, balancing each other out to the perfect team.