Taffer Notes: In which- well. Things. In which I sort of hate Crane. A little.
For the canon blind: A new character will be mentioned here who I haven't touched on yet, and I do not want to bog you down with too much exposition around him. Karim, Rais' "Number One Flunky", if we want to quote Crane. While I figure Tahir to be Rais' second in command on all things gruesome, Karim is the one who keeps the garrison running through meticulous planning.
Siblings: Parts
She came in parts. Splintered. Fractured.
Zofia snatched at them as they swung by. She tried to pull them together: the large ones and the small ones, the heavy pieces that dragged her mind under, and the light ones that left her reeling for some measure of significance. They had to fit, she told herself. Had to let themselves be made whole.
Or maybe they'd never been. Maybe she'd been playing make-believe at being a sum of things. A neat stack of reason and thought, held together by the human condition and a purpose of sorts.
Because for now she came in parts, and one of them laughed at her, a hysterical, pitched howl twisting her gut and trapping itself in there.
Another part, the heaviest one, the unyielding one that made up most of her, that one reminded her how she'd seen them first. How the second time they'd found her, she'd had time. It told it to her frankly, placed the truth at her feet and asked her to pay attention. She'd not thought about it in a while. There'd been surviving to do. Running, hiding. Eating and drinking. Sleeping. For the longest time she'd confined the memories to the dark hours, to her nightmares and the thick molasses of things she'd like to forget but couldn't.
There'd been four of them.
Four men marked by yellow, and they'd made their way down a narrow staircase. Shoulder to shoulder they'd marched, full of some purpose or the other. Tahir had walked at their helm, taller than the rest. Wider than them. His arms were too thick, his steps too long, but that made it easy to tell him apart from the others. That made it easy to hate him more than anyone.
He'd carried a baseball bat slung on his shoulder and ill intent in his step. He'd carried fear, too. Meant only for her.
The bat had been painted a bright yellow, she remembered. The colour had drawn her eyes away from the cat she'd been stalking along the roof. A scrawny, scabby looking thing, with brown fur crusted in dirt. Zofia had an arrow notched and trained at the animal, had been ready to let it fly, when the yellow had caught her eyes.
She'd abandoned the hunt. Abandoned them. Fadil, Dalla — names forever etched into the heavy part of her that liked to drag her under. A husband and his wife, she remembered. They'd had two children. A pair of girls, drawn and thin but yet full of hope. She couldn't remember their names, or if she'd ever asked.
There'd been time when they'd found her again. Enough to slip into the house, to warn the family. To tell them not to open the door when the monsters came knocking.
But she'd fled across the rooftops. Had hidden herself away in a bathtub reeking of her own piss, trying to close out the world with her arms wrapped around her head.
She came in parts, and the third part of her drove her forward, willed her to break through the cage closing in around her. It wanted to declare him a liar as he promised he'd look after her, that he wouldn't leave her there, that he only needed a way in and she'd be okay.
His words meant nothing.
Nonsense was what they were, and she let them circle the drain in her head and flushed them from her mind. Files. Hope. Cure. Death. Everyone. She let them slip by. Didn't want to listen. Didn't need to listen.
Needed to get out.
But he was everywhere. Everything. The heat against her back as her legs came off the floor and he spun her away from the hatchet. The air, heavy with sweat and fear, each breath more of him, less of her. He was the pleading in her ear, and he was the part of her that needed her to remember.
She came in parts.
And he wanted her to remember she'd once been whole.
Don't break her wrist.
Kyle yanked her around, twisted her arms behind her back, and hitched them up high against his chest. A perfectly executed restraining exercise. Textbook.
Watch that arm. Not too tight. God damn, stop —
Her head snapped back, bounced harmlessly off his collarbone, and Kyle's gut curdled as he caught a whiff of fading, cheap soap hanging in the air between them. An image of her scrubbing at her matted hair and her bloodied clothing flicked through his mind, like the stutter of an old projector spooling the pictures by too fast and then too slow, until the roll of film caught on his conscience and unravelled.
What if she'd accepted his offer back at the train yard?
What if she'd come with him?
What if she'd been there when Rais had attacked them?
Would he have giftwrapped her right then and there?
He didn't want to think about that. Kyle swung her away from the hatchet when she wouldn't stop pulling towards it. Her legs came up, kicked uselessly at the air, a spindly, wordless bundle of bird bones twisting in his grip.
The quick beat of her pulse drummed against his fingers, setting a frantic rhythm to her struggle. She turned rigid as a coil of iron. Arched and bent.
You're going to dislocate her shoulders.
Any moment now they'd pop free, jump right out of their sockets with a sickening little PLOP . And he'd hear it. Perfectly fine. Much like her ragged breathing, how she gulped down air in irregular intervals.
In-in-out-in-out-in-in-in-out-out— Breathe, damn it…
Because she wouldn't fucking say a word.
Kyle let his hands fall open, wrapped his arms around her torso instead, and pulled her against his front. A step to the left, a step forward— his eyes cut through the room, tried to find something, anything , he could work with.
Couch.
He walked her there. She knocked over a chair. THUMP. Caught a candle and some clutter with her foot, swiped it all off the coffee table. THUNK-THUNK , muffled little bumps as everything was scattered across the floor.
And she still didn't say a thing.
Didn't cry.
Didn't scream.
The Paper Tiger remained perfectly mute in his grip, and left filling the room with words all up to him.
He had a lot to say. Had planned most of it in advance, even if he'd abandoned the script of it long ago. And it had all sounded so damn professional back then, before he'd actually had to open his mouth. Reasonable , almost. As if no one in their right mind could ever argue against any of it.
Had. Past tense. Now they were hollow words at best. Empty. Each promise already half cracked by a predesigned flaw; Him, the idiot who'd thought he'd had a plan.
Just how many times could he tell her that he'd get her out, that he'd be there, that she'd be fine— that it'd all work out? Laughable, pathetic lies, but he needed himself to believe them. Even if she didn't.
Kyle carried her to the couch, made to drop her on it, because he couldn't dump her on the dirty floor. That'd be disrespectful. But the room was too damn small, and he didn't notice one of her legs snapping up and connecting with the wall before he could swivel her away from it.
She pushed. One quick forceful shove, and Kyle tilted sideways.
Watch it. Table.
He lost his balance. And there was the low furniture, catching his foot and sending him staggering to the side. The room went for a quick dive left, and Kyle angled himself to catch the fall on his shoulder, rather than Zofia. He hit the table. CRACK. Then the floor.
She'd never fought them. Not after they'd caught her, at any rate. Never struggled. Never said no. They'd told her what'd happen if she did. What had happened to those who hadn't behaved.
They'd all gone to the Pit.
She'd not known what the Pit was then, but she'd not wanted to find out either, so she'd done the only thing that had made sense: She'd never fought them. Not once.
Jade; now she'd fight. She'd not just let them. She'd fight them tooth and nail and she'd take some of them with her before they'd send her on.
Jade'd fight.
Better than her, better than her vain struggle against Crane. Even if she'd made the world turn around on him and they both went down in a heap of heavy limbs and splintered wood.
Jade'd fight.
For a little while it didn't matter if she came in parts that no longer fit. For a little while, she wanted to do what was right.
"I won't leave you there," he repeated for the fucking hundredth time, his arms still locked around her, and his side reporting in on yet to be identified damages. Maybe he'd impaled himself on a fork, or some other dull piece of shitlery. Stabbed by proxy. Just his thing.
"I promise. I swear. I'll be with you every step of the way."
He tilted his chin up, away from the tufts of her hair and the smell of soap and broken futures. He'd really done a number on the place. The coffee table was in ruins. The carpet dotted with red wax. Shit lay scattered everywhere, from a can to a fork (good), some candles and even the radio he'd brought her maybe an arm's length from his nose.
He blinked. Her keys had fallen too, and the mangled little duck thing sat in front of him, quietly staring at him with the stump of its neck.
Kyle exhaled and tightened his arms around the rapidly breathing bundle squashed against his chest. Her shoulders rose and fell in a broken rhythm, but she'd stopped struggling at least. Had stopped everything, really. Aside for breathing, which he found himself immensely grateful for.
Okay. What now?
He looked down. She'd curled her fingers into the sleeve of his shirt, white knuckles and all. Not trying to pry herself free though. Just — what? Holding on?
"I'll let go, okay?" The words were out his mouth before he'd had time to think them over. They made no sense and they hadn't been part of the script. But they felt right.
The top of her head bobbed, and Kyle lifted his arms apart. She slid out immediately, left him lying on the broken remains of the table, with the smashed bits of his conscience mixed into the wood. He rolled on his back and groaned at the ceiling with its cracked plaster and smoke stains.
"I can't think of any other way."
That came out of no-where, too. It also sounded pathetic, and Kyle cleared his throat from whatever was crawling along inside of it.
She'd gotten to her feet. Probably. Was walking around, her naked feet barely making any noise. Picked something up. The hatchet, most likely, and she'd be hefting it in her hands, ready to sink it into his skull. THUNK. Lights out. GG, no re.
And so what? He didn't fucking care any more. He couldn't do this. Didn't know how.
Kyle squeezed his eyes shut and listened to her shuffling footsteps drawing closer. They'd gotten a bit louder.
"Tell me what to do," she said.
He sat up and looked at her. She hadn't gone to fetch the hatchet. She'd put on shoes. A pair of flakey blue running shoes, laced shut half heartedly with the string dragging on too long.
An invisible force squeezed her together, got her shoulders twitching and constricted her throat as she swallowed frantically. The handcuffs he'd brought hung from her curled, trembling fingers. Kyle blinked.
"Tell me," she repeated, her voice an irregular stutter of notes. "What you need me to do."
"Don't say a word. I'll do all the talking—"
The cuffs had settled around her right wrist. Cold. Hard. Her hand had jerked back on instinct, even though she'd wanted to be brave. Wanted to just sit there. Let him talk. Let him do what he needed to do, whatever that might be. Even better yet, Zofia would have liked to observe it all from afar, perch herself on his shoulder maybe, watch him as he'd closed up the first ring. She'd have also liked to not shake like a tree branch ruffled by a gust of wind.
"I need to find out where he keeps the file—"
His touch had been warm. Gentle. He'd slid a finger between metal and skin, had lifted it to keep the cuffs from snapping on too tight. And he'd never stopped talking. It hadn't made an awful lot of sense to her, but she'd tried to listen while he kept his head bowed and worked on the cuffs. She'd watched the crown of his head covered in short brown hair, the scar that sliced into it, and had stared at his busted up nose.
"Once we're in—"
Eventually he'd turned his eyes to her, glanced at her with his brow creased in worry. He'd been lying. Grasping at some small chance of success in a plan so unpredictable, Zofia had wanted to laugh at him. A small laugh maybe. A sad little hacking sound that had sat waiting at the base of her throat.
It'd have come with tears, so she'd kept it to herself.
"… and I won't leave without you."
He'd placed a hand against the back of her head when he'd said that, had filled her ribcage with a heart beating louder than it had any right to. Much like back at the train yard, and much like back then she'd flinched away here too, but he'd curled his fingers into her hair and made her look at him. At the train yard he'd needed her to listen. Now he'd needed her to believe him.
She didn't, but she'd nodded, and he'd let go of her and walked her to her end.
Zofia now stood in front of it.
It didn't look like much. Never had. A concrete duplex, tall and grey against the afternoon skies, which had long forgotten what it had been meant to be back when the world had been less of this , and more of what everyone had begun to misplace as the days turned themselves over.
Where it had once housed dozens of families within its two main buildings, it now served to hold the men and women who'd pledged themselves to the self proclaimed saviour of Harran.
A court yard hid out of sight behind its facade, the rows and rows upon windows barred with iron. That, Zofia remembered, was where they staged their raids. Almost every morning she'd watched them from the window of her third floor room, hands wrapped around the bars keeping her in, and her stomach aching for freedom.
"You okay?"
Her jaw clenched and she shook her head. Crane's hand twitched, squeezed her elbow a little tighter.
"Stupid questions. Sorry," he said and continued walking, his head on a constant swivel, not trusting the peace that surrounded the garrison, she guessed. Sometimes they'd cut to the front of the building, and his mouth would form a thin, grim line when they fell on the two tall yellow banners suspended from the roofs.
At least he'd grown to hate Rais' mark, too.
That was nice of him. He could carry on hating on Rais alongside her. Much as he damn well pleased. Except — Zofia's mouth dropped open, worked on a word that sounded a terrible lot like Stop.
Her legs sunk into the tarmac, each step harder than the previous one. With any luck the street might open up and swallow her, or she'd glitch through the ground and never be seen again. Lost in lala land. Lost somewhere. Anywhere.
No— No— No— this is not okay.
Zofia tried to lift her hands in front of her, to wipe at the cold sweat pooling against the collar of her shirt, but the cuffs weighted her arms down. As if he'd attached rocks to them and they'd decided to multiply while she wasn't looking.
'I want to go home.'
"I can't do this," she told the silver links around her wrists.
Crane's grip tightened, his fingers pressing into her elbow. "You're doing great."
Zofia pulled in a lungful of humid air. It felt like breathing in water, filled her lungs to the brim with something heavy. Her heart barely managed to beat through the thick slush. THUMP it went. THUMP—THUMP , and then good as nothing for a too long while she tried to figure out why she'd agreed to this.
Let me go home. Please.
Her eyes watered and stung. She wasn't supposed to come back here. Ever. Zofia tried herself at stopping, dug her heels in.
"I changed my mind," she told the ground. Dirty ground. Bloody ground.
He kept walking.
"Did you hear me? I changed— I changed my mind. I don't want to do this. I won't."
The ground didn't listen and neither did he.
He was supposed to though. He was meant to tell her that it was okay. They'd just go back to her place. He'd fix her lights. Fix her table. And she'd make him bloody tea. Because this? She'd made a mistake, had picked the wrong door. A bad choice of words at a terrible time. He'd have to understand that. Had to.
The soles of her shoes slid across the tarmac.
"Please! I can't. I swear.. I'll do anything.. Please just don't.. I can't.. I messed up, okay? If you..."
Crane pulled her in front of him and placed his hands atop her shoulders.
"I swear, anything..."
For the longest time, Kyle's mind had settled into a routine of keeping the world neatly categorised around him, dividing it into threads, inconveniences, and nothing to worry about. The routine had gotten them this far without trouble, even with Zofia's inert steps slowing them down. She'd climbed alright, even followed him at a jog, but he'd had to work them through the slums at a snail's pace anyway.
Then they'd drawn near enough to the garrison for him to close the cuffs and commit them to their charade, and now — now that they'd almost made it, she had to screw it all up by promising him the world if he'd just let her go.
His head reeled. His breathing. He kept pushing her, kept pushing himself, and neared the iron fence ringing the garrison with a world of misery in his gut.
"We can't turn back," he whispered and squeezed her small, pointy shoulders. "Look up. See those guns? They've been watching us since we got here. Now look around. Do you see any cover?"
Hint: There wasn't any.
Truth be told, there wasn't much at all happening out here. Rais had cleared the approach to his headquarters. Not a single broken down car anywhere in sight, and not a Biter either. Just a lot of dried blood. Kyle clicked his teeth together. He preferred not to add any of his own to the mix.
"If we turn around now, they're going to open up. We'll be dead before we hit the ground."
She didn't care. He'd not expected her to. So when she tried to break off to the right, he caught her around the waist. A short bend of the knee later, and he'd hefted her over his shoulder.
Wow, Crane. Primitive, much?
It worked though. Not only did it make him hate himself even more, something he'd not expected was possible, but it made her lose her mind, too. And ahead of them, Rais' men kicked the walkway from their positions. It rattled towards the ground and presented him with an open invitation.
Come on in, the gesture said. You're one of us now.
By the time he set her down again, Zofia had once more wrapped herself in perfect silence. Wide, unfocused gray eyes stared right through him as he tried to catch some measure of forgiveness in them. Failing that he'd settle for understanding. Or some fucking hate, at least. But there was nothing left in there. Nada.
A weak flush of exertion clung to her neck, and the sun had crowned her head with a line of red, but aside of that she'd turned white as a sheet. Blue lips. Unblinking stare. Not a shred of Tiger left on her.
"Come on," he whispered and guided her through the entryway leading into the courtyard.
A simple metal gate blocked the passage at the end, and it greeted him with a simple: Welcome, Friend. Kyle frowned. They'd touched up the paint since he'd last been here. Made it all nice. Just for him and his walk of shame.
Aw shucks, you didn't have to… His stomach rolled.
The gate rattled open in front of him and he pulled Zofia to a stop. She wove forward and then back, swinging like a broken pendulum, and let out a sharp exhale of air. As if she'd just woken from a dream, only to find herself walking into a nightmare.
One by the name of Tahir, their honour guard that swung the gate open for them and regarded them from way up there, wherever the fuck his neck ended and the blocky head started. The man was huge. He'd mistakenly been assembled from a barrel and some gorilla arms, and then squeezed it all into a sleeveless combat vest. Striped in yellow, of course. Douchebag.
Kyle caught himself holding on to Zofia a little tighter while his mind arranged a neat list of ways on how Tahir ought to go fuck himself.
"Rais has been expecting you," the gorilla said, and jutted his pointed chin with the ugly ass beard towards the front door of the leftmost building. Then he looked at Zofia, kept his beady eyes fixed on her, and Kyle's fingers squeezed her elbow. His knuckles itched to introduce themselves to Tahir's nose. It'd make a neat POP , he imagined. Very satisfying. And then he'd get himself shot, because Tahir wasn't the only one carrying, the whole fucking garrison did.
"Lead the way," he told Tahir, and the man nodded before leading them deeper into the garrison.
Courtyard first. Kyle's eyes cut left and right. Two men lounging at the back, sitting on a stack of crates by a white van. The same van, he remembered, as the one he'd chased through the slums two nights ago.
Windows all closed, curtains drawn. It all looked a little too peaceful for his liking, but he didn't have much of a choice as Tahir kept them walking.
Inside next. Same defeated gloom of old overhead lamps. Same musky stink to the air, the one he'd hated the first time he'd stepped in here. It smelled of an old, weathered building that had been left to sit too long, where the tapestries had been layered atop each other too often, rather than swapped out.
They made it in three steps before he noticed how Zofia's shoes squeaked on the linoleum floor, and how she'd started shaking against his side. She'd pushed herself into him.
As if that'd make any difference.
Tahir kept walking and so did they, and soon they'd made it through the main hall. Three guards. One placed by the double winged doors they were headed toward, two more hunched over a table with cards laid out atop of it. A woman sat perched on the armrest of the leftmost chair, her long, dark legs crossed beneath a too short, orange dress. She wore sandals. Bright, yellow sandals that clasped themselves to delicate ankles. She looked up briefly. Frowned. And when she saw Zofia her mouth tightened into a thin line and her jaw clenched.
Kyle blinked. Anger. That was anger there, and not at him, but at the girl he'd brought with him.
Nevermind. Not important. No distractions.
Next up came Karim, sitting by his desk like any good majordomo would, dutifully organising all the wheels and cogs and what the shit not, so Rais could go sleep well at night.
Karim's eyes turned up to land on Kyle and his reluctant cargo. And out of all the looks he could have given him, Karim settled for disappointment.
Great, even the scumbags think I'm trash.
Eventually Tahir led them through a double winged door, and Kyle was left with a few moments of taking stock of what he'd walked himself into. He'd counted on them taking his sidearm. They hadn't, so there was that, but even with the comforting pressure of the 1911 still resting against his side, Kyle didn't feel an awful lot more confident than before. It'd add a little bit of wiggle space to the amount of winging he'd have to do, but that was about it.
Still it wouldn't hurt to map out the place as Tahir led the way, make out the turns and the rooms, see if he could catch a glimpse of the garrison's inner workings, only to find himself met by a lot of closed doors and a quiet hallway.
He never stood a chance.
"Crane," Rais greeted them.
Zofia heard the smooth, thick baritone voice take command of the room they'd been led into, and felt it grab a hold of her, too. It demanded her eyes to come up from the clean Persian rug they'd favoured before, and to meet the man standing surrounded by flicking electronic equipment, because anything else would have been rude.
He looked just like she'd remembered him, but so had Tahir, who now stood by his owner's left. So had everyone and everything else, really. They weren't things you scrubbed from your memory, instead they lingered. Settled.
Like Rais. He hadn't changed a bit. Always with his hands folded behind his back when he turned to face you. Always with the clean suit trousers and the nice black shoes, too. And that matching suit jacket, the insides lined with wine red silk.
It hung open today, and while the world around her carried on with words and promises and an exchange she didn't understand, Zofia stared at the intricate tattoo covering the man's chest. There were blades and there were spirals and it all made her rather dizzy.
She exhaled, felt her feet shuffling backwards. 'Don't want to be here.' A hand tightened around her elbow. She stopped.
"I see you've brought a guest," Rais said, like he'd just now noticed her. She'd be okay with him not noticing her. Ever. "Unexpected, I have to admit. But not unappreciated."
"Cut to the fucking chase," Crane snapped, not sounding very happy, with his chest trying itself at a growl and his voice leaning against a sharp edge.
Zofia frowned. She couldn't blame him. She wasn't happy either. Not even a little.
"You wanted to talk. I'm here. Let's talk."
Cloth shifted somewhere by her side. It caused a bit of a commotion in front of them, had Tahir reach for a handgun and Rais lift a placating hand to stop him.
Then something flew across the room, chucked right towards Rais, who caught the bundle with a lazy swipe at the air.
"Here. This is what you wanted, right? The rest of Zere's research. Fucking have it. Now where's Jade? Where's Zere?"
Rais turned the package in his hand before tossing it carelessly behind him into a pile of papers.
"Tell me—" He sounded like he pitied them and underlined the words with a sad shake of his head. "Whose lapdog are you right now, Crane? Brecken's? Mine? The GRE's? Or have you finally decided who you'll be? To be a man and not someone's trained monkey?"
Somewhere between lapdog and monkey, Crane's fingers dug into her and his breathing hitched. Subtle enough, she thought. She just noticed because she'd pushed herself into him, tucked herself under his shoulder as if it'd offer her shelter of sorts.
"I have no fucking ide—" Or maybe he'd blow it all by sounding downright desperate when he opened his mouth.
"Don't," Rais lifted a warning hand. "Don't insult me, Crane. You're a terrible liar. This?" He jabbed a finger towards the package he'd discarded. "What will I find in there? Garbage data? Enough to keep me guessing you've brought me the right files? Did you think you'd win me over with it? Welcome you to my family? Let you go and finish your dirty mission?"
Rais cocked his head to the side. Next to him, Tahir took a step forward, and Zofia found herself pushed behind Crane.
"Not like it matters. You see, the GRE hasn't been altogether truthful with you. They've promised you a resolution to this chaos, but what you are looking for are the plans to weaponize the virus. Oh come on now, don't look so surprised. Did you really think they'd only send one man to retrieve a cure ?"
Boots knocked against the floor behind her. Zofia turned around, stared at the three men clustering outside the door. They carried rifles. Pointed them at her. She felt her back connect with Crane. He'd backed off. Or maybe she had. Now they stood in each other's way.
"Tahir," Rais commanded. "Get the radio. After that, Crane— how would you like to be reunited with your Scorpion?"
He never really stood a chance. But he'd tried. She'd have liked to think it counted.
Taffer Notes: This one was difficult to write. I'll go ahead and admit that. I didn't want Crane to do this, was hoping I could write my way around it and have him figure something else out, but at the end of the day the man 's got to do what the man 's got to do.
Anyway.
I regret not having spent a lot of time on Rais and his influence on the slums (or the whole of Harran, actually) and I do plan on amending this in future chapters, or at least once the main story line of Latchkey has been wrapped up.
For example: He's not only a terrible force of oppression and brutality. I do imagine that him and his men would take care of at least the immediate surroundings of the garrison, and maintain a few of the roads so they can go on their raids across the slums. All of which, in theory, would benefit others as well.
Keep in mind: The Infected might be of unlimited supply in the game, but they are not in the actual Harran. There are a lot, in particular once we move into Old Town due to the Harran Games, but the slums? I think a well coordinated force of people could make a pretty nice dent into the Zombie population.
Updated 18th Mar 2017, Draft version 1.5