The Last of Us: The Broken

Prologue

From above and far away, Jackson City looked like the night sky. The lanterns, electrical light bulbs, and flashlights made it look like a tree from one of the old holiday magazines. Even at this late hour, people flittered around like moths, going this way and that, changing shifts and going to bed. And of course, no one, in this safe little haven, knew that they were being watched.

He had chosen his spot well, a secluded little hide under a tree on a hill, surrounded by bushes. The wind blew through, causing the leaves momentarily cover up the city. He had been watching this town for awhile now, sitting up in his little hide away. All he did was watch, even though he could have killed any number of people before they had even located him. Waste of bullets, probably. These people didn't act like hunters, and he had seen no evidence to the contrary. Maybe they were different. Would be a nice change of pace.

He mentally noted it was almost time for the shift change on the south west tower. He always liked this part of the night. Part of it was the cool air, which was a relief from the hot summer sun. It wouldn't be long until fall was here, and then he might have to stop his spying and focus on more important things. Another thing that he enjoyed was the breeze. It felt like a cool hand roaming across his face, a sensation he remembered from another time, and caused a twinge of something. The crickets were another, as their siren song was often his lullaby.

But mostly, it was her.

She had the night shift, and she was the reason he was out here, in the darkness. He didn't know why, but he felt compelled to come and watch her. He realized how strange it was, but he couldn't help it. And he couldn't tell why.

He had been watching the camp since just before sundown, and knew plenty about their current situation. Their farms, while adequate, were not producing enough food for the amount of people in the city. If they didn't do something soon, they were going to have a real problem come winter. They'd figure it out though, he knew. People like them, they always figure out something.

He felt something start to crawl over his back, slow and serpent like. Guessing where its head was, he snapped his hand back and closed it around the snake's neck. Bringing it around, he saw that it was a rattler, its eyes regarding him with cold loathing. Not wasting any time, he quickly took out his knife and removed its head, throwing it as far away as he could manage, and stuffing the rest of the snake into his back pack for dinner later.

Looking back to the city, he saw that she had taken her position on the tower. He picked up is rifle and used the scope to see her more clearly. He saw her red hair, her cute face, the scar running diagonally across her right eyebrow. Her eyes were an emerald green, and they held something that he hadn't seen in awhile; laughter. She looked across the forest, looking for something. Then she searched the ridge, and her gaze stopped right on him. The eyes searched his, though she didn't know it. He couldn't move, as if he were in a trance. He no longer felt the dirt gathering on the underside of his coat, or the random flies that crawled on his exposed skin. They weren't there anymore, the girl and he. He couldn't see or feel anything aside from the eyes on him, seeing him without seeing him, and judging him without knowing they had done so.

Finally, the gaze moved from him, and he regained his faculties. Looking at the night sky, he cursed when he realized what time it was. He had a four hour walk back home, and he needed to get going if he was going to reach it before sunrise. After all, he had to work, and that particular job was better done at night. Taking one last look at the girl, he got up, backed out of his hide slowly, and started walking.

He wondered what her name was.

…

He got back about an hour before sunrise, plenty of time. As he walked in the door to the dusty and run down house, walked into the deteriorating dining room and placed his pack and rifle on the table. The table it's self seemed to have been the main course in a termite buffet, and looked to be on its last legs. Sitting down for a moment, he let his eyes rest, and nearly drifted off to sleep, which would have been the first time in a little over a week. Suddenly, though, he heard some muffled commotion from the basement. Sighing with weariness, he rose and walked down to the basement. The entire thing smelled of mildew and rot, and he knew he would have to leave soon. Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, he reached to the left of the door and pulled out his mask. He looked at it for a time, remembering each scratch and gouge that had made the mask what it was now, a symbol that put fear into the hearts of the predatory. The metal was beaten and warped, but still strong. It would always be. Just like himself.

He put it on, feeling the cold steel chill his face from his nose down. He had an intense feeling of what could only be described as completeness. The mask was who he was, and he was the mask. There wasn't anyone else. The girl didn't matter now, and neither did the town to the north. There was only him and the man in the next room. How it should be.

Now that he looked presentable, he opened the door and saw his was a man, middle aged, bald, white. He was bleeding from a cut on the top of his head, which formed streaks down the left side of his head and down his neck, into his shirt. His eyes looked at him in disdain and, if he wasn't tied down to a chair and gagged with duct tape, he would have killed his captor.

As he walked through the door, he sat down in front of his "guest" and regarded him for a moment. He saw the hate, and even more present fear, in the man's eyes, and the man saw the emotionless stare he directed at him. Reaching over, he ripped the tape from the man's mouth, making sure to do it as hard and as painfully as he could.

"Now then," He said, staring at the prisoner, his face as expressionless. "You're going to tell me everything you know about the camp to the north."

"Fuck You!" The man spat. "When I get out of here, I'm gonna fuckin' rip your fuckin' throat out!"

He continued to sit there, his eyes giving away nothing. Finally, he took out a long and wicked looking knife. The prisoner tasted fear for the first time, and expected the knife to go into his throat. He was surprised, then, to find that it went to his pant leg, just above his knee.

The masked man watched him for a moment, as a snake would a mouse. He was judging the man's reaction and fortitude, to determine how much of the following unpleasantness was going to be necessary. He judged that a few moments of something unexpected would be enough, and began to cut his pant off above the knee.

"Hey, what the fuck are you doing?" The prisoner asked, more anger than fear in his voice now. He tried to move his leg, but it was tied down as well. the man continued cutting the fabric in silence, until eventually it was complete and it slid down to his ankles, exposing a hairy leg.

"You aren't afraid enough." The masked man said, twirling the knife in his hands. It was almost hypnotic, the way the blade danced in circles, never cutting his hand once. All at once he stopped and plunged the knife down into the man's knee, ripping the cartilage and ligaments apart.

"You will be, though."