The soil sighs under Bart's boots, dark and slick from the last rainfall. His mother loves rain. She says that it used to fall in clear drops that left a glistening sheen on the roads and pavement. Now the rain is dark and tainted like acid. It stings too, almost as much as the ashes and bitter sediment do when they drift from the sky to land on his face, clothes, any of his exposed flesh, really.
He crouches low to the ground as he meanders forwards. "Always travel at night," his father says, "under the safety of the moon." Yet he's learned from personal experience that the moon does little to provide guidance at night. Now, only thin, wobbly rays of moonlight peak through the ever-present cloud cover. Instead, he hugs the skeletons of buildings, hunks of dilapidated debris and ghosts of the proud skyscrapers and sturdy homes that once filled the earth.
Craning his head, Bart can just barely make out the shuffle of footsteps from up ahead. The inhibitor collar chafes his neck, but even without superspeed, he's still fast. He puts on a small burst of speed, so that he can make out a half a dozen silhouettes.
An audible snap resounds from beneath Bart's feet, either a loose twig or some brittle remnant of machinery. He gulps, silently praying that the group won't hear him. If they do, he'll be sent back home, but if he has to stay confined within those decrepit walls for much longer, he'll be the one who snaps. "Sheltered" is the word his parents use, but he knows the horrors of the world they live in. He's watched from afar as slaves collapse from exhaustion. He's heard them heave through corrupted lungs, watched their tired bodies bleed as their minds try to claw out of the empty shells their bodies have become. Sunken, lifeless husks, barely resembling anything human.
Bart doesn't want to become that. His parents tell him to put all of this on the back-burner. People with anxiety live in the future, people with depression live in the past, but his parents suffer from both, so where do they stand? Some distorted interval between the two that's not quite the present, and not quite the past, and certainly not the future. If there even is a future.
Bart has three more years before they come for him. He already has an active metagene, but the Reach may still find uses for him. If they don't, then he'll either be disposed of, or will get to return to a life of enslavement. Neither option piques his interest, but there are still worse fates, still more inhumane types of torture.
"We're almost there," a hushed voice from up ahead announces.
Bart's pulse skitters, and he can feel his heartbeat drumming in his temples. Rebellion is brewing, not strong enough to ever take down the Reach, but it's there if you squint.
He watches the group stop in front of a building, seemingly untouched by the hands of time. It has a faded cross on it, and with the dim lighting Bart can't make out the color. He slowly inches forwards, until he's only a foot-or-so away from the group. He counts the seconds in his head before one of them notices him.
"Hey kid," the man grunts out in a rough voice, "what're you doing 'ere?"
Bart shifts so that he's standing ever-so-slightly on his tiptoes, like a bird about to take flight. Even then he only reaches the shortest man's chest.
"Wait..." another man turns. "Bart? Is that you?"
"Hey, dad," he grins meekly.
"Don, why'd ya bring yer kid? We're not here ta babysit," he adds in an abrasive whisper.
"I-I didn't. Bart, does your mother know you left?"
Bart meets his father's eyes unabashedly. He's never been good at lying; you can see it in his eyes as clear as day if he's being truthful or not. "No," he whispers laconically, not an ounce of regret in his voice. Don's shoulders slump forwards, as if his body is caving in on its self. "I came to help!" Bart adds hurriedly. "And I can help."
"Bart," Don admonishes tiredly. "What we're doing... it-it's dangerous. You could get hurt. And you're my responsibility."
Bart's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly and he raises his head defiantly. "I'm not a liability."
The rest of the group, three other men, and two women, watch the relay between father and son. Finally, Don relents. "Fine. But just this once. You're still a kid Bart. You have the right to live a little before... before they..." Don clears his throat. "We're here to collect medication. This medical site has been abandoned for decades, but even dog anesthetic can be useful to humans. Don't touch any needles, and if you find anything useful, call one of us. We know how to check if it's still potent."
Bart nods, a thin smile gracing his features. He follows the rest of the group inside. The inside of the building is white and reeks of sterile chemicals. Adrenaline courses through his veins as an eager sort of satisfaction settles on his chest. It feels right, being in the middle of the action. Like helping others isn't just in his blood; it's his sole purpose.
There's another feeling that he can't quite shake, as if the sterile smell is only there to mask the odour of death. Shaking off his sense of foreboding, Bart traipses towards a cupboard. A rusted lock keeps it trapped shut, but it's probably a sign that there's something of value being locked away. Still, he's not really sure what to do. Should he call out? He doesn't know the names of anyone else here, and he'd feel childish shouting out, "dad". Bart bites down on the inside of his cheek, using the pain as a distraction. He's careful to not to bite down hard enough to draw blood, because he's done that before, and water doesn't do much to subdue the taste of blood.
Summoning up his courage Bart starts to call out, but the words end up sticking in his throat. A tumultuous blast fills the air, bits of the ceiling hurtle down. Bart just manages to lock eyes on his dad, before the blast sends him careening backwards. The scream is ripped from his throat, high and piercing, and totally involuntary.
A chorus of shouts pierce the air, and Bart stumbles to his feet, surging past the whorls of dust and smoke.
The explosion occurred on the other end of the hospital. The end where his dad...
Bart breaks into a frenetic run, desperation seeping into him. "Dad?" he cries plaintively, like a small child. He claws at the collapsed pile with desperate fingertips. His hands sting as he claws like a madman, skin turning raw and red.
"Kid," one of the men warns. A gentle palm settles on his shoulder. "Kid, stop, you're hurting yourself. Kid!"
Bart shrugs away from his touch, and resumes his mad rush to clear the debris.
"There ain't no way he survived 'at."
Bart leans forward, pressing his ear to the rubble. "Dad," he pleads, as loud as his voice will allow. "Dad, please answer me."
Silence. Bart strains to listen, to hear anything. And then he does. An almost inaudible hum. Da-dit-da-dit-da-dit.
"It's his heartbeat! I can hear it. He's alive." Bart turns to meet five incredulous pairs of eyes. "Come on! Help me! He's still breathing. Hurry!"
Six pairs of hands, including his own, work to move to clear the detritus. Bart's hand meets slick flesh, and someone else shines a flashlight over the injury. Bart's stomach heaves at the sheen of bone. That is so moded. His leg is almost torn in two. But he's still alive. Bart can hear the steady rhythm of Don Allen's heartbeat. He gropes blindly as more of the rubble is cleared. Finally, his hand lands on another limb; a wrist. A bloody, mangled wrist. He feels blindly.
"It's okay dad, we're going to get you—" Oh.
"What is it?" it's a woman's voice this time, Bart recognizes the soft sound of it.
He frees the object from his father's wrist and holds it up lamely. "Its his watch," Bart's voice isn't supposed to sound like this. It's too rough, too hollow to be his. "I heard the ticking. I thought it was his heartbeat." He feels tears prick at his eyes, but they don't fall. Crying takes up too much energy, and he's too numb to feel sad.
"Oh. You okay kid?" He can't even recognize the distinction between a man's voice or a woman's now. It's all just white noise. But he can't cry, for aforementioned reasons, so instead he smiles.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." He doesn't elaborate, but he speaks with conviction. Lying isn't nearly as hard as he thought.
Bart awakes with a gasp. A part of him wonders if it's normal to fall asleep calm and relaxed, and to wake up in a cold-sweat? One thing that should never be underestimated is the power of his subconscious. But what brought on such sharp memories? He's been in the past for a while now, and he sure as hell hadn't been picking at any scabs. Why do his thoughts have to bleed into his dreams? And to bleed such a dark colour?
With trembling fingers Bart attempts to extricate himself from his blankets, but somehow manages to only get more tangled. The covers were so tight... too tight... and it was getting very, very hard to breathe. And suddenly they weren't blankets enveloping him, but chunks of debris. He feels his bones snapping, the life draining out of him. Should've been you, should've been you. He wants to cry out for Jay or Joan, he wants to scream for help, but he can't. All he can see are a pair of wide-set eyes. It occurs to him for the first time, that his eyes were the last thing his father saw.
Oh God. OhGodohGodohGod. He repeats those two simple words until his brain no longer recognizes them. The mattress creaks under his weight as he twists and writhes and claws at the debris. He has to clear an exit or it'll suffocate him. He doesn't want to die again. But maybe he was never really alive.
He gasps for breath, but a hunk of debris must have settled on his chest, because suddenly it's too hard to breathe. His hands scratch at his own skin, searching for a way out. Vibrate through it, his mind chastises his stupidity. Bart does vibrate through it, escaping the blankets, before zooming down the stairs and through the front door.
The burst of night air would normally be refreshing, but the moon is obscured by thick, dark storm clouds th undulate across the night sky. It's like he's reliving that same day. Except this time it won't be his father that dies.