The Weary Kind

by Astern

Three days in Seattle. Every step Tommy has taken has led him to this point and every decision he makes in that fateful city will haunt him long after he leaves it. Follow him as he struggles to come to terms with the allegiance he once swore to the people he now hunts, with the betrayal of a redemption he thought he had found, and with the loss of everything he once held dear.

1. Prologue

This story is consistent with the events of TLOU, TLOU2, and the fanfiction story Dirt, also by Astern. Reading Dirt prior to reading this story is recommended, but is not required to understand and enjoy this story.

The Weary Kind is dedicated to Anne Marie, badass Marketing Director of Dirt. Credit to VoyTron for the cover image. Massive thank you to Mesker for beta reading.

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Prologue

It starts with him on the ground.

He is fully conscious, prone on his stomach. He is not immobile. He is not held down. But he is slow. So terribly slow. Deadly slow. The shadows of the room wrap around him like bitter cold ghosts, deadening his arms and legs, causing his hands and feet to slide uselessly against the icy floor.

He hears the screams too. He never did really, any more than he was conscious, but still he hears the screams now. High-pitched and inhuman. Agonizing. Pleading. Accusatory. The rational part of his mind knows it would not have sounded like that, even if he had heard it, but the rational shrivels like ashes in the wind here, and the ashes fill his mouth and nose and ears until only those shattering screams reverberate in his mind.

The crack of bone he does not need to imagine. He never heard that either, but his mind does not need to invent it. He has heard it many times before. Not like breaking an arm or a leg. Uniquely cranial. A sharp high crunch, the inward collapse of a brittle concave surface, instantly hushed by the wet suck of soft tissue. He never heard it then, but the sound is like a murderous old friend. Replaying once and a thousand times.

Eight faces loom, hers at the center. They laugh. High and unreal. Transformed into inhuman forms, impossibly tall, their faces dark and angular like a garish portrait of what humans might be. They laugh but their lips don't move. They stop him rising but they don't touch him. And behind them the club swings up and down and slices the air like a knife in snow.

And there he is at their center. Black hair and gray face, fingers pressed into the tiles outlined in red. The only color is blood. The only life is in the eyes. Expectant. Disappointed. The eyes continue their accusation even after the final blow falls. Even after the light behind them withers.

It starts with him on the ground, and it ends there too.

No closer to his brother.

No closer to Joel.