9
[mad dog]

All of this forgotten,
but not by me.

The sun was setting earlier every day. Now, night fell like a hammer, imbuing the Yard with a menacing vastness it lacked in the daylight hours. In the scattering of moonlight, the soaring walls seemed like little more than leaden shadows, intangible as the snow that spiralled silently around them. Somehow, the night air felt stagnant in spite of its frosty nip.

And Glasgow was off his goddamn meds.

Boston's body was racked by an immense shiver, and while the winter wind was a bit chillier than usual for tonight's recreational Yard Hour, he knew he wasn't shivering because of the cold.

The staff member–one Iven Manells–was dead. There hadn't even been anything recognizable to take back to the family. It might have been the monster Bethsheva that tore the life from him, but his gushing blood was on Glasgow's hands alone. Either way, the rumour brought to them by Raxis was finally confirmed.

In the few days it had taken for the story of the brutalized watchman to worm its way around the Slab, the entire atmosphere of the complex had been completely upended. The very quality of the prison's air had changed; it was thicker now, polluted with the palpable sense of dread that seeped from cell to cell. Even now, out in the icy, wind-stripped Yard, Boston could taste the prisoners' wild anxiety. All at the mere suggestion of an un-medicated, unrestrained, unthinking Glasgow.

Of course, the inmates were no strangers to this insane transformation of their good warden. It had happened once before, when the first med rations were just being put into place. The protocols had been severe, and the Slab had suffered dearly for it. They knew what they were in for; like beaten dog that understood exactly what was coming, they all had their tails between their legs. Boston shook his head.

Speaking of pathetic animals...

"Hey, Fenix. How're you holding up over there?"

The only response Boston received from the hulk laying on the frozen concrete several feet away was a teeth-clenching growl.

"Still on the ground, are we? Have you even tried to get up?"

This time, Boston didn't even get a grunt. Fenix was on his knees in the gently blowing snow, folded in on himself completely. His hands were wedged tightly in his armpits; his head drooped to the cement.

"No? Well, if it's any consolation, I think the bleeding has slowed up a little."

If Fenix heard Boston, he gave no indication. The man's body tensed up, then twitched violently as he fought down another convulsion. Boston stared blindly at the red splatters on Fenix's shirt, the cloth rippling as the muscles beneath bulged and spasmed. His veins had turned a dark purple hue from the abuse that had been pumped through them. There was a feverish gulp of breath, and the tortured ex-soldier hissed quietly.

"Fuck...fuck...fuck..."

In the numb, black hours after Manells' death, two guards had come to drag Fenix off to the chem shock labs. Again. He had been gone for almost two full days–enough to bring anyone to the very edge of death–and Boston had begun to wonder if Glasgow was crazy enough to skip all the drawn-out head games and just kill Fenix outright.

But he didn't. Fenix had been returned to their imprisoned ranks, but he wasn't recovering like he had before. The guards had hurled him to the snowy corner of the Yard, and it was there that the ex-soldier had spent the last forty minutes, motionless save for the horrible shaking.

For a moment, Boston felt something twinge up inside him. Something like...pity?

Yeah, maybe something like that. Distantly, he almost wished he had a letter to distract Fenix with, but it had been months since Glasgow had dropped any off; judging by the warden's current mental state, Boston doubted they'd ever hear from Anya Stroud again.

Not that Cross'll let him live long enough to miss her.

The inmate gave his head a hard shake. There he went again, giving a shit. What the hell was wrong with him? For once, this was all something he was used to. Killing another prisoner to benefit himself; business as usual. Old fuckin' hat.

Right?

The crunch of multiple boots in fresh snow made Boston flinch. Most of the other inmates were huddled miserably by the walls and fences; he raked the gloom for any sign of the approaching party, but the blanket of endlessly falling snow reduced visibility to almost nothing. As the footfalls grew louder, they were accompanied by crude laughter and gruff conversation; shapes began to form out of the blackness, and a handful of prisoners emerged from the snowy void. At their head, the alpha brute was laughing the loudest. Cross, Raxis, and their pack of lackeys were coming.

Subconsciously, Boston sank down to the concrete, crouching in the drifting snowbanks like a prey animal. He watched the rough crew of murderers, rapists, and thieves as they prowled ever nearer, remembering clearly the silent agreement he and Cross had made back in Block 38. Ever since Fenix had been so fortuitously hauled off to the labs, Cross had been watching, and waiting. Killing a man fresh out of chem shock was cowardly, cruel, but oh so wonderfully effective.

"Well. Well. Well. Lookie here, boys."

Boston didn't raise his eyes, though he knew he was surrounded by them. "Cross."

"Evenin', Boston." Cross flashed a sickly smile. "Tell me, have those fingers of yours ever been the same?"

"Oh, they healed," Boston murmured. For some reason, he was almost grateful for the tangent. "Poorly, of course. They're quite a bit more crooked than I would like..."

Cross snorted absently, his harsh features a mask of streamlined violence that Boston's idle chatter merely bounced off. He swaggered over to Fenix. "He's down, eh?" Cross cocked his chin down at the unresponsive inmate, lip curled in an expression of mild disgust. "Can't believe the fucker's still alive. Two days in the labs...shit."

Raxis' shadowy form stepped up from the faceless group of thugs, eyes glinting from amid his swirling tattoos. "Lookit his veins, bossman. Black as the plague. The bastard probably wants 'imself dead."

At that, Cross' expression contorted into one of unadulterated bloodlust.

"Ah, but that would take all the fun out of it."

The inmate cracked his neck, then his knuckles, and gestured to Boston. "So, Boz." Cross' eyes never left Fenix's shaking form. "You've still got that knife you smuggled in with you, right?"

Boston's mouth could only work soundlessly for a few hasty seconds, the words frozen in his throat like a chunk of poorly chewed food. He thought about the knife, safe in his pocket, then about how it would slit Fenix's throat. It wouldn't be an easy task; the blade hadn't been sharp in years, and the ragged edge would make it a horribly messy job...

"Cross...wait."

The larger inmate turned on Boston, slowly, like he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

"What the fuck do you mean, wait?"

"Maybe...maybe we're fucking this up." Boston's voice was low; only he and Cross could hear it over the shapeless clamour of prisoners' voices and low gusts of glacial wind. "What if this isn't what Glasgow wants? What if...if..."

There was a long, sticky pause. Glasgow's chums shifted their boots eagerly in the snow drifts. Cross continued to stare; then a short burst of incredulous laughter escaped between his gritty teeth, though his gaze never lost its frigid blankness.

"You know Boston, sometimes, I just don't think you're cut out for this."

Out of the corner of his eye, Boston saw the bloody bulk of Fenix's body stir, and he found himself hoping his blockmate would just get up. Desperate to stall for time, Boston mustered up his best scowl and opened his mouth to snap off a second warning, but the words stretched into a cry of agony as Cross' hand flashed out and crushed Boston's fingers.

"I'm sick of you getting in my way, Boston."

As Cross spoke, he wrenched the hand around, grinning as he heard all the tiny little snaps and cracks. Boston's cry erupted into a scream. He could hear Raxis' phlegmy laughter.

The prisoners all across the Yard turned towards the piercing noise, beady eyes prying. Sparks of hot pain blossomed over Boston's vision. Blindly, he snatched at Cross' iron grip, trying desperately to free his splintering bones.

"You just ride on everyone else's coattails, flying under the radar while we get fuckin' gutted, don't you Boz? Don't you Boz?"

More crushing, more screaming.

"Well, I'm done with trying to figure out whether or not I should keep you around anymore. Things are going to change," Cross hissed. "Starting tonight."

In a single practiced movement, Cross simultaneously twisted and yanked, and Boston felt the reverberations of his shattering wrist all the way up through his arm. He didn't hear his own scream, but he could feel it burn as it tore free from his throat. He crashed into the snow, and blinding white agony collapsed into throbbing blackness.

No, stay in it, Boz. Stay in it. You can't black out here. You'll freeze to death. They'll skin you alive. Stay in it. Stay in it.

Somehow, he managed to cling to his consciousness. But just barely. He was swimming in heavy darkness; thoughts were reluctant to form properly. Pain and cold gnashed mercilessly at his brain.

"Alright, Rax, keep a lookout: I've got Fenix."

Words. They were drifting around him, lazily. They sounded like they were spoken under water. He tried to understand.

"And what 'bout Boston?"

"All yours, my friend. All yours."

Conversation paused; boots shuffled in the snow around him.

"Shit, Cross, look...GX is awake."

"Well, what do you know. So he is. What the fuck are you looking at, Fenix?"

"Don't think he heard you, mate."

"Bullshit, Raxis, he's looking right frigging at me. With his freaky fucking eyes. What are you looking at, pig?"

Silence. And then.

"You."

"Oh, it talks now. No shit you're looking at me. Why? You got a problem, Fenix?"

"...Maybe."

Fenix's voice was weak. It paled in comparison toCross' laughter; deep, dangerous.

"Really? That's funny, jackass, 'cause from what I can see, you're in no condition to be having problems. Least of all problems with me."

No reply; only silence. A hundred miles away, trapped on the other side of consciousness, Boston hoped that Fenix would have the brains to keep it that way.

"You know, Cross, I could be wrong, but I don't think he liked it when you squashed Bozzy's fingers there."

"Hah! Oh yeah? I'll be damned..."

Slow, heavy footsteps crunched closer, and then the sneering voice was suddenly right on top of Boston.

"Ol' Boz certainly has been looking after you, Fenix. You guys best friends forever now? I mean, the way he was mouthing off at me, you'd think he was going to try to save you. You! It's pathetic. But I wouldn't trust Bozzy if I were you. Oh, no. Maybe you should start taking care of your problems on your own, Fenix. You were a Gear, after all."

More snow-dampened silence.

"Come on, Fenix. You got a problem? Come and do something about it."

No reply.

"Get up, you sorry sack of shit."

And still nothing.

Boston suddenly felt the weight of a boot tread on the side of his temple, and he became very nervous. When Cross spoke, Boston could hear the slick smile in his voice.

"If you don't get up, Raxis will crush dear Bozzy's skull."

A grunt issued forth from Fenix's direction, but Boston couldn't make it out.

Oh, fucking hell, Fenix. Do something.

The blunt pressure on Boston's head tripled in strength, mashing his numb face into the cement. "Get up, or Boz's head explodes."

More unintelligible grunting; Boston prayed to God that all those letters given would finally pay off.

"Hmm? You're going to have to speak up, Fenix. We can't hear you."

"...I said...Give me. A fucking. Second."

Boston's eyes shot open.

Fenix was still hunched over, arms crossed and eyes glaring at the snow before his knees. Ignoring the ex-soldier's request, Cross chuckled and Raxis raised his boot, but Fenix suddenly made an attempt at getting vertical again.

There was a furious growl, followed by several seconds of agonized clawing, and then Fenix was on his feet, one hand clutching the nearby fence. His eyes were like embers in the darkness, but the shaking of his half-hunched back belied his vulnerability.

"O-one second." He managed a tone of mild annoyance despite his laboured breathing. "That's all I asked for."

Cross' eyes said he was disappointed the ex-soldier had met his challenge. He gave Boston's neck a longing look, as if he might still snap it just for the hell of it, but instead he waved Raxis off and levelled a final glare on Fenix.

"Good to see you on your feet, asshole. We've got unfinished business."

Boston's relief at being saved melted away as Fenix hesitated. While Cross' face had pure murder etched into every snarling line, the determination in Fenix's expression was shadowed with grim reluctance. Boston couldn't believe it: the ex-soldier was still looking for some other way. In spite of all the pain and suffering, he was still treating this like one long field mission, forever trapped within that self-made cage of COG protocol and moral code.

For whatever reason, the instant of Gear-like dignity flipped a hateful switch in Cross.

"You pathetic fuckin' dog," Cross spat. "I don't even know why Glasgow ever wanted to bother with you."

Breathless with sudden rage, the convict took a step towards Fenix. Boston watched the two men. They were both massive, but Cross was still taller, and Fenix was just getting over the nasty side effects of chem shock. And yet, even when Cross shoved his face into Fenix's, the man didn't flinch. The absence of fear in his victim's features was making Cross livid.

"You don't get it, do you? You're the ticket," he seethed. "Glasgow wants you to hurt. If I kill you, that'll make Glasgow happy. And he'll keep me out of the labs. Right, Boz? Wasn't that the deal you two agreed to?"

Cross' voice rose; some of the nearby prisoners were beginning to clue into what was coming, and they pressed in. Boston glanced up towards the Yard's snow-capped walls, but the guards weren't even watching the unfolding clusterfuck below.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Fenix. The pain, the shackles, the screaming. Well, I refuse to go back to the labs. If I do, I'm dead...Unless I give Glasgow your head on a silver platter." He curled back his cracked lips, eyes flickering hungrily. "So that's what it comes down to, Fenix. Either I die in the labs on a cold operation table, or you die out here in the cold snow. Nothing personal."

As he growled the last words, Cross drew back and smashed his fist into Fenix's jaw. The growing throng of inmate spectators roared.

In spite of all his sudden confidence, Fenix went down hard. He tumbled backwards, crashing into the wall behind him like a knocked-out boxer. Cross glowered over his quivering form, but his face was devoid of any triumph; he wouldn't be satisfied until Fenix's blood had been spilled. All of it.

"Hurting yet?"

Fenix wasn't given a chance to answer before Cross' boot connected squarely with his cheekbone. The impact sent him reeling again; Cross dove right after him. He pummelled the injured ex-soldier with blow after blow, waiting cruelly for him to struggle to his hands and knees, then driving him back down to the icy concrete. The crowd screamed with joy at the brutally one-sided show.

For a fleeting moment, Boston thought Cross might have already gotten his desire for spilled blood. Fenix lay broken in the snow; he wiped a still-clenched fist along his jaw, and a long smear of bright red marred the skin under his swelling lip.

But the lip itself was clean. Then, even from his place curled up on the cement, Boston saw it: the blood came not from Fenix's face, but from his shaking fists. The man was digging his fingers into his palms so viciously, his ragged nails were piercing the skin.

Boston's eyes flicked from Cross, to Fenix, then to Fenix's hands. The blood was now trickling out between his trembling fingers. The little things gave the ex-soldier away; all the long months of abuse had maxed out his patience, and now he was going to do something about it.

Fenix might just let himself snap.

Cross didn't see it. To him, Fenix was just another defenseless victim: the convenient solution to his chem shock woes. He didn't see the bloody fists, the madly twitching jaw muscle, the murder in those blue, blue eyes. He just smirked, and lifted his foot to curb stomp Fenix into permanent oblivion.

In a blur of action, Fenix surged up from the ground and hurled every ounce of his muscled weight into Cross, causing the crowd to erupt in ravenous cheers. Cross' fist found its mark again on the ex-soldier's chin, but he simply took it in stride and bowled Cross over. There was a resounding crash as Fenix slammed down onto his opponent.

He reached for the vulnerable neck.

In spite of being out of the army for a full year, the remnants of the soldier's training were obvious. It made sense that unarmed Gears were taught to fight with brutal efficiency; to avoid the fist fights altogether and go straight for the kill. And that's exactly what Fenix did, though Boston wondered if he was even aware of it. His blood-stained hands closed around Cross' neck, and as he began to systematically crush down on the throat, Cross was rendered completely helpless.

The spectators were changing sides, and shouts for Fenix began to drown out Cross' name. Even from behind the veil of his fading consciousness, Boston was impressed by the sleekness of it. There were no flailing punches from Fenix, no wild grappling. All of that was now coming from Cross as he attempted to free himself. But Fenix just stoically took every punch Cross threw at him, each one weaker than the last, as he pinned his opponent to the ground with his knees. His face was strained by the effort, yet so perfectly calm.

For the ex-soldier, the only fists that existed were his own, wringing around Cross' throat so tight, they were bloodless. The crowd began to chant.

"Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!"

Everyone was there now, closing in to watch as Cross gurgled helplessly under Fenix's immense weight. He must have finally cut off Cross' air supply, because the larger prisoner suddenly stopped punching wildly and began to claw at the hands that were crushing his trachea. Fenix only leaned further over his opponent to put every ounce of waning strength into his merciless grip.

"Kill him! Kill him!"

Cross' mouth gaped, eyes brimming over with horror and desperation, but his final cry was drowned out by the raucous chanting. He struggled one last time, limply, then there was a sickening crunch as muscle and cartilage finally gave way to flawlessly-trained wrath, and the prisoner's windpipe splintered beneath Fenix's shaking hands.

The Yard exploded with cheers. Whether the prisoners were ecstatic to see a feared tyrant finally put to death, or simply intoxicated by the heady display of violence, Boston couldn't tell. The cold scene around him dimmed as the agony in his broken wrist threatened to take hold again, but his gaze was frozen on Fenix: the man was still straddling Cross' body, chest heaving, staring into his victim's eternally widened eyes. Finally, the ex-soldier blew a long, halted breath, hoisted himself off the dead prisoner, and limped away.

The cries of the crowd filled Boston's ears, nearly drowning out the rhythmic crash of his pain-maddened heart. With eyelids flickering heavily, he watched as non other than Raxis drew a stunted knife from the folds of his coveralls and stalked, smirking, over to Cross' corpse. Even as Boston slipped silently off the edge of consciousness, he understood perfectly.

There was a trophy to be made.