Author's Note

I wrote another fan fiction because, I dunno, I thought it was fun. Another one-off from me. I hope there aren't any major grammatical issues like there was last time.

Anyway, please read through, and leave a review telling me what you think about it at the end! Thank you for reading this!

The Nightly Patrol

Slicked, greasy hair. A tattered jacket, faint and damp from use. A pair of denim jeans, tight from small size. Two brown, shredded shoes, desperately moving, along the concrete.

Though this character's life is not documented. This character is thrown into the ground by a single low-caliber bullet, planted into his upper spine. Scraping across the floor, he lets out no more than a grunt, before falling limp, blood seeping from both his back and the center of his chest.

This all happens beneath the gloomy moon, reflecting the faint light from the architecture down into the bowels of City 45. The vessels of the collapsing alleyways are rife with criminal activity, and with that, heavy law enforcement. Underneath the view of the Citadel was a dangerous place, though even up in the air, nothing is sacred in this day and age.

Though, the two Civil Protection units felt differently from one another. The one still holding his gun up towards the downed man had felt as powerful as ever, his body physically shaking with excitement, the armour hanging over his malnourished skin acting as a cosmetic, rather than an improvised material built to keep his fragile life lasting minutes more.

The other, though, clasping the same type of pistol, the barrel pointed down, felt scared, traumatised by the puddle of scarlet forming under the man's chest. He slowly crept forward, the breathing under his mask rising and collapsing with a brisk fashion, and a quavery tone.

"I got him!", one exclaims, his hand going for his radio piece on his chest. Broadcasting the kill to the rest of the Civil Protection, the other quickly jogs up to the man's figure, holding his shaky hands over his back, though relaxing his grip, turning it into a more solemn, respectable one, once he knew that he was merely a corpse.

The murderer slowly, with a cautious pace, creeps up behind the other, his gun still prepared for the worst. He's shaking, as he listens to Dispatch's 10-3*. Ignoring her, he stands behind the other, glaring down at the body.

He notices now that it wasn't something to be proud of. The sight of the blood, spilling over, his partner suppressing his weeping for the man. He suppresses his talk of guilt, and finds that compensating it for one of victory.

"I-I did good, didn't I?", he remarks, his voice quivery from anxiety and guilt. Goodness, the guy didn't even have a weapon. Staring for what seemed like minutes, same for the other. He nods to himself, before patting the other one on the back, expecting him to follow.

"Dispatch, uh… orders, over?"

"Unit Six Eight One One Two, Ten-Five*. Out." If Dispatch had a tone, she would be speaking with a threatening tone, wanting to silence him of his annoyance.

Taking a minute to register the barrage of numbers, he recognizes his unit name, and the order to keep patrolling. Shrugging, he releases his radio, turning back to the other, who hadn't moved a bit, still solemnly and glumly holding his hand in place.

"Four-One", he bellows, aiming his gaze at the kneeling one.

He looks back up to the other figure, who was forcing his pose and arms to act authoritative, unaware of the corpse, though he could not seem to hold it properly, his head occasionally snapping between the two below.

"We, uh, need to keep going… that's what they told us to do."

He subconsciously provides emphasis on the word 'they', as he walks towards the small doorway in front. As he walks ahead of them, he stands still, holds up his head, and lets out an audible sigh.

"I… I'm sorry… I didn't… want to do that myself."

Unit 41 was staring at him, his face unknown due to the plastic covering. He glares back at the body, rising, his hand dripping wet from the blood he attempted to hold inside of the dude's body. It takes him a moment to walk on, sucking in a breath as he turns away from the downed man. Catching up besides the other, he stares at the doorway ahead, holding his gun with his left hand clutching the barrel, his other clutching the grip, his finger off of the trigger.

"I… I just try to impress", Unit 68 goes on. Bowing his head in shame, he brings his hands and gun towards his crotch, to where he fiddles with the gun in his hand, tugging on the slide, and flicking the hammer idly. He appears nervous now, the pride seeping out of him the closer he stepped towards the body, and guilt flushing into him as he walked past.

Though it was his job to do this. And his job at the minute was to patrol the alleyways in the city, searching for malignant activity of anti-unionists. Rebels. Terrorists. They were told time and time again they don't fight for freedom, but, then again… rebels always fight for freedom, right?

Right?

The two look at each other, one despising, the other flinching. They begin walking into the small doorway into the large apartment complex, and slowly make their way down into the hall. The halls, decorated with torn wallpaper and dusted carpet, stretch long and thin, lined with many doors on either side, waiting for one to enter, after waiting many, many years. The place was rotting, and the only places that had attention payed to was the various rooms, which either held burnt corpses, muggers, or skeletons, discharged weapons in hand still. The three were rare, but still common enough to be afraid of.

Unit 68 clutches his gun, his finger being close to firing off the weapon, due to his shuddering hands. He tried to move slowly, but the fear-induced adrenaline forced him to move with a brisk pace, even causing his head to whir around at any space he could see.

It didn't take long for him to reach the end of the hallway, though. At the end, there were broken down stairs built of wood, most of the steps snapped off of the shell of the building. Pieces of wiring and shattered glass on the floor suggested that the top of the building had been bombed, or at least hit by something destructive. Most likely a headcrab canister, as even though the two were on the lower floors, they could still feel something following, and they swore that they heard some kind of scuttling a moment ago. They peer up the staircase, staring at the broken down ceiling, bits of rebar linked with concrete hanging off of it. They quickly pull back their head and move out of the door to their right, showing them into a tight sort of plaza.

It was encased by the buildings around them, such as the apartment they just left. One side was covered with windows, the other, a metal wall, one that belonged to a more industrial building. The two other sides too had windows, showing more apartments. Directly above was a small opening, letting the plain, grey and smoggy night sky reflect light down into. There were long wires, with battered clothing hanging off of them, clothes that nobody wore anymore.

The two stepped down the fancy, concrete steps which led up into the complex, and they both stood in the middle of the place, looking around at the windows, and off towards the alleyway on their right, scoping through to a barren street which they could barely see, although manage to make out something rustling among one of the burnt out vehicles…

They seem to ignore it, shrugging to one another as they move off to a small dumpster in the corner of the location. It was off to the side, and they could see something looking like the sole of a shoe. Unit 68 briskly walks up to the dumpster, pulls back the dumpster-

He finds a rotting, slumped corpse.

He makes out every little detail on the figure. The wrinkles of the aged skin, hanging off of her face. The hair going dry and stiff, frizzing off and dusting over. The trousers, torn, from gunfire, with patches of brown leaking through, her top, too, a citizen jumpsuit, with more patches of brown.

And those eyes open, staring back up at him. Those cold, lifeless eyes, grey and cloudy.

He was shocked. He could not move. He could not notice the other Unit curiously peeking around and then retreating, uttering an 'Oh God.' He could not even notice the gun that dropped from his hand, which was pried open by his own body as a result of the shock he felt.

He coughed. Again. And again. He wanted to throw up, but the mask on his face would not really let him do so. He stepped back, turned away, and swallowed in the sick he had managed to bring up. Unit 68 doubled over, and began wheezing hard. The sight he had seen remained in his vision, the lidless eyes forever gazing up at him, thanking not only him, but the world for her relief against the hard life.

Unit 41, however, had already backed off into the wall, still keeping an eye out for any intrusive person. He gazed down the alley quickly, definitely seeing the man, pointing a shiny object towards him, the light from the light post behind him glinting…

The bullet flies into the metal next to Unit 41, managing to pierce through, revealing a small space to see inside of the decommissioned factory. He automatically reaches for the pistol he dropped in the conundrum, and fires off two quick rounds into the wall next to the man, as he runs back, bumping into Unit 68.

Snapped out of it, Unit 68 raises his gun towards the alley, waiting for the shooter's arrival. He does indeed come around the corner, blindly, and is met with two nine millimeter bullets to the stomach, the shrapnel forcing him back, and allowing the revolver in his hand to dropped to the floor, rattling.

The man was already wailing, screeching out in pain as the blood splurges out from his wound, fresh and red. He tried to reach for his gun, but Unit 68 had already kicked away the gun, standing over him, the gun still pointed at him, not shaking in the slightest.

"Uh, C-Citizen," Unit 41 begins, speaking whilst holding his shaking gun at him, though pointed more at his legs.

"You are charged wi-with uh… I-I… I'm sorry…" Unit 41 pulls himself away, the distorted snivelling audible. He drops his own gun and falls to his knees, his hands shaking in clenched fists.

"You had the audacity…" Unit 68 growls, keeping his controlled stance. "You had the nerve… to shoot at my friend? The only one I have around here?" He spoke with an angered, shaken voice, the translated version sounding even more threatening.

"N-no! No man, I'm sorry, don't kill me!" He already tried backing away, but stopped as he saw the barrel still staring him down.

Naturally the normal Civil Protection it would have shot or detained the man by now, but Unit 68 felt something different. It was not a moment of empathy. It was not a moment of mercy. It was a moment of anger, flaring up inside of him. He felt the sudden need to torture the man, to grab the baton his belt and beat his legs, ensuring he could not walk again, but he only thought about this, in reality ignoring the man's desperate pleas. He felt like only one option was the best option to settle the urge in his head.

The squirming man was stopped due to a bullet, slamming into his brain. Blood is already pouring out of the newly found wounds on his head, being the top of his cranium and the bottom of the back of his neck. Blood gushes out from his nose and mouth, and he slumps off the the side, letting the fresh scarlet paint the ground. Unit 68 was still pointing the pistol, his hands now shaking, though his breath not shorting. His unnecessary act quickly flung Unit 41 around, and caused him to wail, running up to the man and shaking him, attempting to make sure he was alive, who was of course dead.

"Why?" Unit 41 whimpers, snapping to his feet and getting into his partner's face. his sadness became anger quickly, his hands shoving Unit 68 back, and his fingers casting his anger onto him, accompanied by his talking.

"That didn-didn't have to be done! You... You killed him! Why?! What did he do?! We here to help!"

Though, shooting him was the only help in Unit 68's eyes. It was his job, after all. To ensure... Anti-Unionists were disposed of...

Right?

Unit 68 sucked in one large, deep breath, and holstered the gun, shaking his head. Unit 41 returned to sobbing over the poor man's body, his vocally translated whines distorting his sadness.

"Get down!"

They spin around, facing two men running out of the apartments.

The one on the left was a tall, though thin man, his skin clinging onto his face, his eyes sunken, glum, and his lips long, and thin. He was wearing the standard Citizen jumpsuit, with a Civil Protection vest over, and his jeans were the same, too. He wore black boots, which were tied loosely, and he had two wooden gloves on, gripping the machine gun he carried, fitted with a magazine in the bottom of the handle, and a mounted combat sight on top.

The other was a shorter man, with more flourishing skin, not much brighter, though. It stuck out, and was chubby, adjacent from his malnourished figure. His eyes were larger, though sunken like his friend's, and his lips were pouted. He wore the same sort of thing, except he had baggy, tracksuit bottoms and the same Citizen standard shoes, damp. He was clutching onto a revolver in one hand, his other holding a backpack, filled with something, though something solid enough to poke through the sides a bit.

Unit 41 had quickly spun around, cried out in surprise, and raised his hands, backing up into the wall. He averted his gaze, and bent his legs inwards, crouching down to form a more cowardly position.

Unit 68 was stood still for a moment, glaring at the two, before slowly pulling out the pistol from his holster, and whilst holding it by its flash hider, layer it on the ground, before backing up, his arms held up in a more relaxed position.

"You killed him, you fucker!" The shorter one bellows with an English accent, toned to fit a person from Yorkshire. He tightens his grip on his weapon. Laying down the bag, he briskly approaches, still holding the revolver with one hand.

"Pl-Please, it wasn't me!" Cried Unit 41, shaking his head in denial, but he was met with a firm punt to his knee, strong enough to hurt, but not strong enough to make him fall. He grunts, squirming in position, ducking his head down lower.

The taller one approaches Unit 68 with a more relaxed stride, and begins speaking in a calmed, European voice, the hint of anger in his tone evident.

"Why are you here, then. Patrol?"

"Yeah."

"And it involved killing hi..."

The last sentence was a statement, more so than a question. He glares at the Unit and before he can respond, he walks off towards the more cowardly on, facing him, the other man turning towards Unit 68. He lowers his hand, letting his machine gun hang from his right hand, his left hand reaching up to shove the feeble unit.

"You're a monster. I hope you know that."

"No! No I'm not, I-I didn't do it, I swear! He did!"

Pointing towards Unit 68, causing said unit to bow his head, his hand is forced down by an angered grasp. Keeping his grasp there, he spits on his vest, and shoves him back into the wall, stepping away.

"I want you two to know that they did nothing wrong. They were trying to get rid of the scum you… things are."

Offended by the words, the two units shuffle on the spot, the cowardly one looking up towards the speaker, and Unit 68's gaze moving back up to face the younger male. He growls in response, holding the barrel of the gun under the unit's chin.

"Kick over his gun. You."

Pointing towards Unit 41, he looks down at the man's weapon, moving his foot over to scrape the weapon across the floor, letting it slide in front of the older male, who quickly swiped the weapon up with his free hand, observing.

He cocks back the hammer.

"Now, tell your… superiors to…"

He furrows his eyes in thought, before waving it off. "Never mind", he adds, before sucking in a breath, before letting it go from a sigh.

"You two, y-you're quiet. It's a change. I always hear the CP's talking on their radios and stuff, it's… it's surprising", he remarks, looking between the two. Though narrowing his eyes, he adds, "But that doesn't change who you are."

"L-Look, we didn't… didn't mean too!"

Offended, the European turns back towards him, his face twisted in disgust. It turns into a sort of amusement, as he steps up towards him.

"And you're the one pleading? What about all of the people you have killed? Do you even feel anything in there?"

"I-I…"

Unit 41 was strapped for words. He just splutters out sobbing again, and crouches down, covering his head.

Unit 68 was now pleading too, glaring at the man with desperate eyes, though his body only shuddering.

"Oooh, you fuckers. I should just… just kill you…"

He takes a long pause. The shorter man stares back, lowering the gun down to his face, hiw own figure slumping slightly. He shares the same feeling with Unit 68.

"Yeah… You know what? I've always had a rule but… This is… revenge…"

He tries his hardest to force a sadistic smile in order to create dominance over the Unit, but he fails. Instead, his eyes slant in regret, but he still manages to move his left hand up, pointing his shaking gun towards the Unit's head.

You could hear the clacking of the gun, the cylinder shaking about, as he nears the barrel towards the Unit's head. It takes him a full minute to even lay his finger on the trigger, his face set in stone, molded into fear. He manages to suck in, one, large breath, before doing something entirely unnecessary.

The gun is set off as he seems to accidentally pull the trigger, as he allows the recoil of the weapon to fling upwards, pushing himself backwards with a shriek of surprise. The bullet smashes through the shaking unit's plastic facemask, and out back through the polyester. The plink of the bullet going through the metal wall is heard, as well as the hum of the gun's noise bouncing off of the walls in the factory.

Unit 41 was forced back into the wall, his body sliding down it, arms held at the sides. He squirmed, uttering his last breath and grunt, before spasming, and falling limp, lifeless. Blood soaked out from the top of his helmet, and also out back, the initial blood splatter remaining on the wall, leaving trails as it drips down.

After a long beep wailing from the innocent unit's helmet Dispatch announces his death.

"Unit Four-One-Eight-Nine-Nine de-serviced in four-zero-four zone."

And after that, silence. the European just stared at the body, his figure still held back in fright. His friend slowly steps backwards, backing up against the other wall, uttering and "Oh my God…"

And Unit 68 was shocked. He could only stare at his dead partner, realizing that all that he did was tag along. His breathing sped up, himself thinking about how he never really deserved it. But then again, he tagged along, and watched Unit 68 do all of these things… Was it truly all his fault? He argued with himself in his head, his body now shaking so hard he couldn't even look up towards the European when he spoke faintly.

"Run."

And run he did. It was all he could do. He ripped his eyes off his partner, and ran off up the steps, where he came from. His breathing was audible through the mask. And as he ran off through the door, it was now only the two men in the area, beating themselves up in their heads.

Though, it was a victory, was it not?

The rebels won. They killed the naughty CP's, who did all of the bad things, and made all of the Citizen lives a living hell. The CP's were the bad guys the whole time.

Right?

Thank you for getting this far! I'm glad you read it all! Please review the fan fiction, it will help me out greatly!

Thank you all, again. I'll probably write more in the future, though I only do this in short, and I don't see myself dedicating my time to a multiple-chapter piece in the future.

Sorry this was dark, by the way. It felt necessary. Also, sorry for looking like some kind of, uh, 'resistance hater', but I wanted to sort of show some perspective.

Anyway, take care!