"In our atmosphere was a thunderstorm; the nature we are became dark - for we saw no way." - Friedrich Nietzsche

It was peaceful here, up by the lighthouse cliff. The golden hour shone with absolute clarity on this early evening in Arkadia. It was here, on the bench overlooking the bay, that Max hummed in tune to nature's lullaby, wherein the swaying branches of the pines gently rustled with every gust of wind.

"It's quite a view, ain't it?"

Caulfield looked to where Chloe sat beside her, and smiled contently, "yeah, it's beautiful."

"…reminds me of the good times. Y'know, before you left, before Dad was—" Max saw Chloe's hand brush at her eye, "I wish I'd have just done something to reach out to you, just…anything at all. I know I was on your ass about not talking to me after you left, but I never bothered to do the same."

"It's alright, Chlo'," the brunette forgave, "I'm not going to hold it against you. We've got to be there for each other, through thick and thin—like a captain and her first-mate."

A chuckle, "yeah, you're right. You and me, and everybody else. All in this, together."

The boats rolled along the waves, floating idle in the bay's waters. Fishermen were out and about for the evening's catch, before they would turn in for the night.

Wait, that's not right.

"Max."

A peal of thunder rolled from the distance. Max looked up, but she saw no clouds.

"Max."

"Chloe?" and she turned back to Price and beheld her best friend.

"Promise me that you'll keep them all safe. Joyce and David, and the Angels, they're all I have left," and when the bluenette turned to face her, Max felt her heart stop. For while Chloe still had one of her ice blue eyes, her other was gone, and was replaced with the gaping cavity of the eye socket, a black abyss that was circled with blood and flesh. Try as she might, Max could not look away from the exposed muscle fibers and tendons, and the rows of grinning teeth that poked out from charred-black gums.

"Only you can save them, Maximus."

Max blinked.

The sky snapped to a dark grey. Gone was the bench and her balance along with it, so she fell into a shell crater, her raincoat and jeans being soaked with the water pooled at its bottom. Dirt and brittle pieces of asphalt brushed against her hands as she quickly crawled on her back up to the lip of the shell hole, overcome with a sudden fright.

The rest of Main Street was marked like the surface of the moon, and the thunder rolled louder this time. The buildings lining the street were reduced to rubble and burning cinders, whose steam rose to the heavens at the touch of the rain. Already was the drizzle intensifying, and pittering off her raincoat. Her Mauser rifle was gleaming under the precipitation, and the bayonet at its muzzle shimmered as Caulfield raised it to her defense.

No soul was in sight, but she could still hear them; she could hear the voices, the sharp kraks of rifles and the thwum of the heavy guns—

"Max."

She snapped her aim back a fully one-eighty degrees, and stared shakingly at Chloe, who lay at the opposite side of the crater's edge. A crispy, molten-black arm raised its stump as if to reach out to her, so that she may take it in her hands.

"Save us, Maximus. Save us from the serpent," Price was withering, and like the rain did her flesh flow like a cascade, runny like watercolors on canvas. Max said nothing as this…this thing, that which impersonated her best friend, tread into the small pond between them and seemed to be swallowed by the mucky water, until there was nothing but the pitter of the rainfall.

Its ramble may have died, but Max still shivered despite herself. For in this hellscape of her home, she could not see any other soul beyond the smoke, and the fire, and the dark grey of the clouds.

But it was inviting to see this, albeit not by any stretch of her own wanting to be here. No, this comfort came by the sudden bout of familiarity that struck her. She had been here before. She had seen this place, a long time ago.

The water that was pooled at the crater's bottom began to bubble and stir, and Max jumped at the bony hand that rose from the muck and clutched at the ground. And from it was pulled the skull, the vertebrae and the ribcage, all a shade of deep crimson. This skeleton wore nothing but a simple black robe, ripped and bloody though it was.

"Time has passed, the victor's hand reaches from the depths, and casts a shadow too large to contain," the bones cracked from their own movement and snapped back into place, as the dead creature whispered under the din of the rain, "The blood of Man shall spill from Terra Mater."

What the hell is that!?

Rifle aimed, she deterred the skeleton's advance, yet the hollow gaze held her still, and Caulfield failed to see the silhouettes lining the crater. It was only when the figures stood behind the crimson red carcass that Max found herself surrounded.

Her friends, her comrades—! But pitch-black were their features, and sinister dots of light glowed in substitute for their human eyes, and panic seized Max's heart. She was surrounded by the devil's ilk.

And the crimson carcass had morphed from its original self; it was now draped in skin and bone, having donned the red letterman jacket and ragged jeans of the black knight. It rasped over the thunder and the rain, "The iron denizen is lost—their light has been extinguished. The storm shall come and destroy all that which lies beyond the grasp of the Prince of the Earth. We will march to all the beacons of light, and not cease until every last one has been extinguished."

Hands clasped at her jeans, and Max cried out from the black ichor that had suddenly replaced the dirt, and even more so at the arms of hell-spawns that rose from it and snatched at her, holding her by the legs.

"You are alone, child."

Her bayonet cracked at these clasping bones, and she tried to slash her way from the shackles. Yet there were too many to count, and once her rifle was plucked from her panicked grip, it was over. Max dared to break free, even as these bony appendages held her by her limbs and rooted her in her spot.

"There is only darkness for you, and death for your people. Nothing may stand against the whims of our Lord of Ruin. No light of yours may pierce the veil that falls over the Earth."

And Max found herself lost to this hollow gaze, unable to avoid the slow advance it makes towards her. Her heart drummed in her chest, and tears stung at the corners of her vision.

"You are strong in heart, child of the Light. But we are beyond strength."

A single bony hand rose before the expressionless grin of this puppeteer of the dead, and it ventured closer, and closer, so she screamed, thrashing one last time to get away from the deadly grasp of the devil's own—

Max gasped and snapped to a sitting position on her bed. Hands searched for her fluttering heart and felt the soft fabric of the t-shirt she wore, and calm down, it was just a bad dream.

And she huffed the stress away, and sat there, letting the ambience calm her down. Morning-grey light filtered through the window blinds and let her know it to be foolish to try and return to slumber.

Distant clangors of thunder clamored outside. But these rumbles were far too short to her liking, far too wispy when compared to the rolling peals they'd heard previously. Sighing, she pulled the covers off, and quietly shuffled to her window.

She was mindful of Chloe still fast asleep on the couch and took the time to slowly open the blinds and pry the glass pane and its metal frame back, to where she could stick her head out and bear witness to the dorm's courtyard.

It was cloudy, this much was true, but Max could tell these clouds were not as oppressive as a few days prior. These cumulonimbus types would not give rain, nor thunder.

Yet she heard it once again, in the distance off to the north. A rumble, a staccato of mild pops. And she rose a hand to her heart once again, for now she knew this was not the thunder of the clouds.

A flurry of movement surrounded Victoria as she marched steadily towards the office of the Commander of the Arkadian Militia. The many militiamen that bustled from their spots inside the Two Whales Diner were doing so at a pace that made her worry all-the-more about what was soon to come.

Waking up to the distant sound of the guns was not something Victoria had in mind, especially when it meant receiving a message from one of Madsen's couriers mid-way through breakfast, talking of mobilizing the Angels to set up in the church for the foreseeable future.

It's what led to her specifically arriving at the Two Whales and seeing Madsen personally this time. She had last-minute tallies for supplies and ammunition counts, so that if the time came, they could be distributed to the Angels without any more hassle than necessary.

The sentry was a new face, and he let her pass easily enough. And once she was sure that there was no one else besides the Bear in the back office, she knocked and entered.

"Chase," he gruffed as a greeting, "What is it?"

"Sir, I've got the official listings for First and Second Squads, as you've been asking for," and an envelope was placed at the front of the desk, "Do pardon me, sir—I'd have this done sooner, but I wanted to be sure I was correct on the tallies."

It was quiet as Madsen opened it up, and gave the roster and equipment sheets a once-over. It was silent as he read, and she would not dare interrupt him, lest to earn one of his signature glares.

But Victoria could not help but grow impatient at the way he sat there, so pristine as he calmly read. It bothered her immensely, for she could now hear the bustling turmoil outside.

Had he not seen the sweat gleaming on the heads of his fellow men? Was he not aware of how the clock's ticking could be heard? Was it for his sake that he sat there, looking as though he had not a single damn left to give?

He sat there, in his rickety old office chair, and finally commented, "Is there a reason as to why…why you've gone and made your second-in-command this girl here? I thought she was the one giving you all kinds of trouble."

She knew who he was talking of, and replied, "I recall that specific phrase from The Art of War, what was it—keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. So I intend to do just that, sir."

Madsen sighed, "So long as you can handle it, then so be it. Have both the squads remain at the church for the next couple of days. Doctor Neumann with be giving you all some lessons on first aid before the Reds arrive."

"…sir," she ventured cautiously.

"Yes?"

"How much time is that, if I may ask?"

She watched, fidgeting, as he thought it over in his head. Seconds were ticking by far too slowly to her liking.

"If we're being optimistic, then two days at the most. That's assuming they don't come up from Tillamook anytime now."

"But you're not going to be worrying that much about it," he diverged, and made sure she was listening, "instead, you're going to make sure that you and the other Angels are ready for when you are needed. I'll be sending word through Doctor Neumann; he will notify you on my behalf when the time comes."

"Understood."

Victoria about-faced and walked to the door. A hand reached up and snagged the handle—

She froze. A sudden feeling shook her from this idle state, and she looked back, "Um, Madsen?"

He seemed a bit annoyed by her remaining in his domain, "Hm?"

Her brows furrowed, and she trekked back to where she stood before, "I've been meaning to ask you this, and…well, how do you do it?"

Madsen raised an eyebrow.

"How do you deal with the bad feelings—the trauma?" she reiterated, "The, uhm, the feeling you get when you know you've done something terrible and it hurts you, but you can't get rid of it," and Chase hated the way she sound, how the tone reflected that of a child who was caught jamming their thumb into another kid's cupcake. She was not a bumbling little crybaby; she was not given the title Queen of Blackwell for crying her way to the top.

But the idea of what would come, of what she knew would come, it stirred inside a feeling of hollow weight. Because once the invisible threshold was crossed, she knew it would uproot her from everything she knew, everything she still cared for.

And Madsen's frown softened, much to her surprise, "I will be honest, I'm not a counselor or anything like that. Sugarcoating things was never something I'm good at, so I'll just say it," he sighed, "There isn't a lot you can do to get rid of thoughts like that. You'd be better off in finding ways to take the pain out of the thoughts and what gives them meaning. For most guys I was with, we did this through jokes. We would make fun of all the terrible things that happened around us, and that was how we usually dealt with our trauma."

"It's not that you're running away from the pain, in fact I think that's the worst way to handle it—the real way you go about it, is you slowly accept it over time. It could be serious, or you could poke fun at it, doesn't really matter how. All that matters is that you eventually accept what happened, accept what you did, and let it be."

His eyes were alit with sudden recognition, and he asked her, already knowing the answer.

"You were in the thick of it, weren't you? At Blackwell?"

Thoughts of the vicious battle came to mind, and he could only assume that the girls had held out for so long because they were coordinated enough, because they were able to defend themselves. Victoria was no different from Max in this regard.

"Yes, sir. I was."

He nodded. It was a respectful nod, a nod that spoke of his own humility in the face of someone who'd otherwise be deemed ungrateful, undeserving. And Victoria called this feeling of hers ungrateful because she knew it to be the case. After all, what had she believed, not less than a couple weeks ago, when her life was taken for granted? Where everything she wanted was given without questions asked?

A reputation came with a price, in whatever manner one saw fit. For Victoria, it meant her respect of self was always shadowed by those she knew deserved it more. And it brought her sudden relief to see a man who was the source of authority on this plight mark her as someone worthy of consideration. It meant she was not a fool, that it was true to feel terrible of what had been done.

It meant she was right to think on what he said, and let it be.

Madsen sensed she understood his words, "Don't let the thoughts get to you, because now you're needed by others. Do that, and you'll be fine. You're dismissed, Chase. Good luck."

"Sir," she acknowledged, and walked out the door this time.

"Maintain an orderly line from here to the harbor entrance! If you have any belongings that you do not need, please leave them by the two men under the tent to your left! And please, for the love of God, if you have to use the bathroom then notify one of us, we will be roaming up and down the line and will gladly save your spot so that you do not feel the need to soil yourselves!"

The announcer cut off the handheld speaker in his hand, and with it, his spiel. The din of conversation took its place, and the commotion of several dozens of people were all one could parcellate. Not even the rumble of the guns, encroaching as it still was, could be heard over the heartfelt tones.

With this being the only exception to Madsen's order on them remaining in the church, most of First and Second Squads were gathered at the entrance to the harbor. A large chain-link fence stretched the entirety of this entrance, and atop it was a roll of barbed wire for security. This was where a concentration of militiamen and sentries were located, with some attending the gate and defensive barriers placed around it, and the rest traveling up and down the line of awaiting departures.

This day was special for most of the Angels, for today, the last of the caravan's refugees would be departing, and following them, the first of the Arkadian natives, families who had no reason to stay. There were families that had no children of age to volunteer, and obligations in the form of the elderly, and these folks were the first to depart once the boats could accommodate them.

It had been clear to everyone, and especially the parents of the Angels and various volunteers, that to stay here any longer than necessary would be to their detriment, and the detriment of their children. Another mouth to feed, another bed space taken up, another use of the limited water and food supply would only speed up the town's timeframe to the metaphorical broken arrow. It would mean that they ran the risk of having to witness the terrors of war, along with the already-terrible realization of leaving their sons and daughters behind. One would dare to say it was redundant of their role as parents, to not save their children from the dangers that arise from warfare, and one would be thought true in their assumptions.

Yet here, it was not the choice of these parents to make. They could make no choice that would not hurt their own. In this manner, it was a simple perception of how they displayed their honor as mothers and fathers: to ease the burden of the defenders in the inevitable fight to come, or to join them, hand-in-hand.

They were no cowards. Far from it—it may be said that the Angels felt a great pity to see such a tormenting decision be delivered unto their family members like so.

It made Juliet feel torn between guilt and grief, because she did not have to bear the pain of professing her goodbyes to her parents here, in this open space. Her mother had already put two-and-two together and said her goodbyes to her daughter before boarding one of those boats. It was a solemn departure, and Watson had to tell herself many times since she last saw the boat sail beyond the bay, that it was all for the best. No doubt her mother was doing the same thing, and no doubt her father was too stricken by grief to do anything else, having been stuck in Idaho since the whole mess began.

She wishes she had a spare moment, a small peace between labors, just so she could call him one last time.

Juliet would not be surprised if some of the Angels be somehow persuaded by their families to leave while they could. The squad-leads had already prepared contingencies in case such a thing would happen amongst their squads.

She could see Alyssa amongst all the others. The raven-haired girl was clinging to her father as though he was all she had left; and when it came to family, it may very well be true. Anderson had told them that her father had volunteered to stay with and defend the town alongside the militia, but even now Alyssa had wished her father would leave while he had the chance.

The subtlety of guilt over her mother's passing still plagued the stocky girl, even despite their best efforts to keep her mind off it. Oh, as if the secret to all their troubles could be unveiled by mere talk! Juliet was not deaf to this kind of insanity. So, Watson looked down and away from the crowd, brushing her eyes on the sleeves of her double-layer jacket.

She imagined herself, sitting at her home's dining table with Mom and Dad, listening to them talk about their days. She remembered too often being in a silent mood, and mostly kept to herself—and the mere thought that she could have opened up and said something, anything, just to hear their voices and see their proud smiles—

Oh god, I'm making it worse.

A sigh came as she felt the sudden, distracting desire for lunch. It was close enough to the hour, and she was pretty sure that Dana would be back from her journey to the nearest fast-food joint anytime soon.

A couple pairs of footsteps trudged on gravel towards her, and when Watson looked up from the ground, she found these two to be Brooke, and Stella. The ebony brunette's smile was dimmed, and the Filipina was stone-cold in her expression.

It was a wordless greeting. They stopped, and stood on Juliet's left flank, and much like the bronze-brunette did they gaze at the controlled chaos. Watson had to wonder, because she knew them to still have their families here in Arkadia—why did they stand here, and sit back?

"Have you guys already…?" she asked them, and Stella replied, "Yeah. I spoke to mine as I was making my way up to the gate. Brooke's family was close to them."

Brooke hardly responded with a silent nod.

The reporter, though curious by her nature, chose not to pry in this matter. It seemed to be a stretch of privacy, whenever family may be involved. She would not dare, not when she was familiar of the pain it sowed.

"I see," Juliet concluded. Nothing more needed to be said about it.

She spotted auburn hair moving towards them through the crowd, and Dana could be seen quickly side-stepping her way towards the three. In each of her hands, a bag with some tantalizing grub, and Juliet's stomach growled in anticipation. It may have grumbled a bit too loudly, for Stella was heard holding back her cackles, "S'matter holmes, you hungry?"

"Yeah, a little," Watson downplayed, much to the other girl's amusement, "Hey, don't feel that bad about it. I'm gettin' in the mood for something to eat as well," and when that cheeky smile settled on the Filipina, the bronze-brunette detected the onset of some fuckery at play.

For her part, Brooke was not one to take Stella's lighthearted debauchery at face-value, "Keep staring at me like that, and I'll beat your ass like a drum."

"Aw c'mon B', I'm just curious to what kinda food you'd be up for," Stella charmed her way through the half-assed threat, "Like, I've been craving for some pot pies right about now—you've had pot pies before, right?"

"No," Brooke shot her down. Juliet was already chuckling off to the side.

"Damn, you really do be missing out on that—" Stella teased, and narrowly dodged the sucker-punch to the arm. By the time Dana had made it to them, it seemed as though a cat fight was ready to spark.

"Jules, I got some ACFC, hope you like it—," Ward barged into the conversation, only now realizing the scuffle about to erupt, "hey, whoa whoa—what the fuck's going on?"

"Brooke's been ousted as an uncultured individual, as Stella would say," Jules explained, "It seems the issue's over pot pies this time."

"Pot pies? People still eat those?"

"Yeah, apparently," she chuckled. The plastic bag rustled as Dana opened it up, "Here, yours is this one here."

"Thanks, D'," Watson obliged, and pulled her share out of the bag. Together, the two watched as Stella and Brooke kept on their toes, both making it their mission to swipe the other's spectacles without getting hit.

"Hey," before Dana could indulge in her lunch, her best friend asked her, "have you already talked to your parents?"

A frown was adorned, then, "Yeah, I have. They're at the front of the line, past the gate. They'll be leaving today."

"…ain't that swell," the reporter acquiesced. It was nice to hear that she wasn't alone in having her parents leave.

"…and you? How's it with your parents?"

"Mom's already gone south. Dad's gonna meet up with her once he gets out of Idaho."

"Damn," the auburnette replied sincerely, "I hope they make it out. If I'm gonna fight again, I'd like it to be for their sake, y'know? At least then, I can feel better knowing I saved someone from this…this terrible situation."

Juliet agreed and dug into her lunch. When turning to Brooke and Stella, she watched as the Filipina used her arm's length to swipe at Stella before she could swerve from the attack, and victoriously waved the captured pair of spectacles. Stella would admit defeat only after grumbling over how tasteless Brooke's palette was.

"I can pay you back for this, if you want," Watson offered.

"It's fine, they said they weren't accepting money anymore," absentmindedly did the cheerleader peel the couple packets of sauce that came with the meal, "Nobody's got the money to spare, and soon they won't have anybody to really cater to."

"Aren't they gonna close down, then?"

"No, actually. The manager over there's a really cool guy. He's letting the militia order whatever they want, until there's nothing left on the shelves."

"Sounds like a chip off the old block, that guy," Stella quipped. When no one said anything for the few seconds afterwards, the Jester burst into cackles.

Brooke looked at her like she'd dissed somebody's dead grandparent, "You're far too excited to be laughing at something like this. Like, come on, that wasn't even that good of a joke, you're just sitting there laughing at your own joke. What have I done to warrant the violation of my ear holes with your half-baked bullshit?"

The moment existed here and now, for this was but a precursor to the true depths of the divine comedy laid before them. The subtle smile, the way her eyes narrowed in anticipation—Stella had sensed this opportunity, had waited for it. It may have taken a bit of a rough start, but if there was one thing she could always count on, is that Brooke always took the bait.

"Tell me B', you think they had anything worthwhile when it came to entertainment back then, like some movies? Y'know how we got High-Definition or Blu-ray and all that—imagine the things old people had to deal with, like I-lay."

"I don't even—wait, what the hell is I-lay?" the Filipina rasped. Beside her, Juliet watched with bated breath, and Dana was washing down her food with some water from her canteen.

"I'm talking about when I-lay these fat nuts in your mouth—"

Immediately did Ward spit out the water she drank, and Watson audibly snorted from the verbal bitch slap. By the time Brooke had a chance to say anything in reprisal, Stella was giggling like a hyena, having caught the poor soul in a bait-in-switch.

"What the fuck—I swear, you keep up with these stupid jokes I'll—God, I hate you so much."

Stella would have answered her with something witty in return, but already was she doubled over and wheezing from the reaction. And even though Brooke was shaking her head, a smile of her own barely poked from the corners of her lips.

So the four chose to enjoy this moment of serenity, as Dana snickered between swigs of water, and Brooke began to laugh along with the cackling Jester.

It was quiet here, in this afternoon hour. The halls of the church were void of the echoes of footsteps, and the sounds of the outside world.

Clouds hung heavy for today, so whatever sunlight passed through the glass windows passed in sparse quantities. It gave the atmosphere in this holy place a tone of desolation. Though there lay no dust, nor any sign of deterioration, the church's interior was as silent as the dead.

Save for one soul, who sat in a pew before the altar, and read the scripture on a small hardcover, that which she had been carrying around. Before, she would have to wait until her classes were done and the homework was all finished before she could spend her free time reading, yet now there were no obligations left to do. Though the papers and pencils had been replaced with shovels and stretchers, she still had this spare time to give thanks unto the Lord above.

Kate finished reading the section she allotted to herself and closed the book, storing it in one of the pouches of her vest. The others would be back soon. Max had spoken about needing some volunteers to help with offloading the arriving boats again, and Marsh planned to be there at her best friend's side.

She wondered how Max handled the stress. She heard of the toll it was exacting on Victoria, but she imagined that Caulfield was not exempt from this hardship. Between the logistics, and Emilia, and the now tangible threat that lay to the north and south of Arkadia, Marsh could only imagine the immense feeling of obligation her brunette friend was under. She would not sit idle and let Max be troubled by these concerns, not if she could help it.

A pang of thirst made the blonde reach for her canteen, and subtle frustration arose when she realized it was not filled as she thought. A slip of the mind, to have forgotten to fill her canteen once lunch hour had passed.

So, Kate stood from her spot at the pews and walked to the columns. A single water fountain, the most recent renovation made to the church by a solid fifteen years, sat in a secluded spot on the wall, out of sight to anyone not looking for it. The water was cold and refreshing, and the blonde took her time filling up the metal canteen.

This silence was oppressive, here in the dimly lit corners of the interior, but Kate found solace here. This peace was made by one's own perseverance, for she knew she was never truly alone. Blessed was she by the Lord to know that she had her friends and her family to look forward to, so that she may greet the next day as doggedly as the day previous. So even though it was silent, she knew that good company surrounded her, and protected her from evils abound.

Yet, some shuffling came from the entrance, over to the right. Hazel eyes snapped to the shadows creeping along the floor, and a sudden feeling of danger crept down her spine. Marsh backed away, slipping behind one of the columns further down the hall, and held her breath.

A pair of voices. Their whisperings bounced off the tiles and the stone walls. It was as the two shifted closer to her that Kate's heartbeat began to drum.

"C'mon, c'mon—just say it already, will you?" came the whine of one soul.

"Well forgive me, I didn't think you'd be this impatient about it, Jen'," came the poisonous reply.

"Look, I'm dying to do something that doesn't involve me lugging stretchers and all that, so c'mon Sara, tell me!"

"I told you I wanted somewhere no one will be. But fine, let's make this quick," there was the sound of something being unclipped, and then, "Jasmin, get us some water, I'm thirsty."

Kate tensed, as only now did she recognize a third pair of footsteps shuffle to the water fountain. The machine's hum was a bit too loud to make out whatever was being said, but Marsh had to figure out who they were, she needed to figure out what gave them such a terrible presence.

"…by now I've already got the Queen to spill on her biggest secret, so all it takes is to pull at her heartstrings and she will lean in our favor," the ringleader of this trio spoke up, "Once she nominates me as second-in-command, I'll have you two run errands for me, to get all the stuff we need. If she doesn't go along with our plan, then we will rip her two aides from her sides, and that alone will send her crumbling into irrelevancy."

It was a shock to the blonde, to hear of her fellow sisters spoken of like this. These three must be from Second Squad, if they spoke so poorly of Victoria. But that begged the question to be asked—who were these girls? Kate could not remember the names of these three and could not picture any faces to go with these names.

"Next, we strike at that mousy brunette leading the other squad," Kate's eyes widened at the implication, "Once the rest of Second Squad starts acting in our interests, we'll try to frame the infighting as being that cowardly brunette's fault, and this will bring the tension to a breaking point. Once we are sure that no one can trust each other, then we'll initiate the final step."

They're speaking of treachery in the halls of the faithful. A terrible weight sat in Kate's stomach, to think that such deceit be spoken of in this sanctuary of hers.

"I'll need a lot of things to make this final step work—and most importantly, I need you two to trust me."

Kate felt a sudden tug at her heart. A diminished feeling it was, but it taunted her, it lashed at her insincerity to not trusting this girl and her small circle of confidants. They were off to do good deeds, it seems only right to trust them. They are doing what anyone in their right mind would do: taking advantage of a hopeless situation—

Snap out of it, you fool! They speak of harming your friends and folk!

A shake of the head, and Marsh listened as the sultry voice spoke again, "We can do this, but only if we work together. I need you two to help me make an opportunity, to get out of this doomed place. Can you do that for your best friend?"

"Yes, Sara," the others chorused mechanically. Kate raised a hand to her mouth to keep from uttering a sound.

"Good. I'll have a list of items prepared sometime soon. Jenny, I trust that you and Jasmin can scrounge for them, once under my authority."

"You got it," came the chipper reply, and the three of them trekked to the other end of the church, towards where the entrance of the lower level lay. The silence reigned once again, and was not disrupted until another minute had passed, when Kate stepped out from her hiding spot.

So quietly, Marsh tiptoed to the church's entrance, and once she made it out past the wooden porch steps, she began sprinting to the harbor.

The rumble was growing louder, and more sporadic. Times would pass in intervals, where nothing but the occasional gust of wind would billow through the trees, and then be jarred by the sound of the pops. There was no rhythm to it, as Chloe had quickly figured out. It made humming a tune to it all the more challenging.

Her boots clacked against the concrete sidewalk, and slowly she pressed on, up the street. The houses were quieter than usual, for their owners had packed up and left, or were down seeing their family members off on the great voyage south.

But she did not take these strides with any measure of dignity.

Max had been badgering her about this, and rightly so. Chloe should not be surprised. If she were truthful to herself, she felt that the foreboding image in her head was what she deserved.

It was not born out of a specific point of hatred for herself, but rather a multitude of things. Microscopic instances along the grand thread of time, little thorns that stung like hell when touched upon.

The shuffling on concrete paused, and she swung to the right. And Price stood there and gazed upon the humble exterior of her family's home.

There were some spots near the bottom of the exterior walls, where the old coat of beige paint could be seen. Spanning across the concrete steps between where she stood to the front door, there were thirteen cracks, small lines like a spiderweb stretching across the pads. Off to the side, there was the single two-by-four plank of wood, and the plain mailbox that sat atop it was rusted at the edges of its metal frame—

Just get it over with, already.

A sigh, and Chloe marched up to the front door. It was possible that she'd have to go in the old-fashioned way: by which she'd have to climb up the latticework on the side of the garage onto the roof, then enter through her bedroom's window. But this time, she'd give the doubts no quarter, this time she'd take the chance.

The doorbell is rung. Seconds pass by, one after another.

It was when she was about to turn away that the handle was turned, and Chloe was confronted with her mother. An apron was adorned around her waist, and the elder woman's cheeks were flushed. Considering the time, Price could only assume that she was cooking an early dinner.

"Chloe?" and the punk's brows furrowed at the surprised tone.

"Hey," she replied demurely, "…may I come in?"

"Oh—oh of course!" and Price walked inside, her mother sliding back into the kitchen, "I'm making some stroganoff, if you want some for dinner."

"I…it's fine. I just wanted to stop by and get something from my room."

It was not a fib this time around. Chloe was indeed looking for the spare stash of weed still tucked under her bed. It had been a good while since she last toked up, and it would be a long while until she could do it again.

"Alright then. Just…let me know when you change your mind," and Chloe made sure to focus on trotting up the stairs rather than read into her mother's disheartened tone. Bursting through the door, she was met with the long-forgotten scene of her bedroom. And what a sight it was! God, she had missed this place—

Wait a fucking minute.

Her bed was straightened. Not that anyone would notice this, but Chloe was pointedly reminded about how one side used to be off the wall by a couple inches or so compared to the other. Even from where she stood at the threshold, she could see the bed was flat against the wall.

In a sudden spur of motion, the bluenette rushed to the side of the bed and reached for the tin that should be underneath. This tin felt foreign in her hands as she opened it and froze.

The little baggie was gone. She pulled forth a single sticky note that had taken its place. Its inscription was scrawled with a bold sharpie.

Joyce found this before I did. Now you know who to be sorry to. – David

Her hands crumpled the life out of the note. She huffed her frustration away.

Fuck.

The tin went back into its resting place, and with it any chance of being remotely interested in coming back here. So, with another sigh, Chloe stood up and walked across the hall to the bathroom.

She'd at least take with her a spare toothbrush and some toothpaste, things that she'd be sure to need. A couple Q-tips never hurt either. Now that she thought about it, with Old Madsen out and about keeping the militia in order and her being with her sisters-in-arms, no one remained in this once pleasant home.

No one except her mother.

Chloe looked at herself in the bathroom's mirror. Immediately was she attentive to the glowering look she had, this morphed by the past couple days' worth of stress. Granted, life hadn't been as peachy as before the siege of Blackwell, but she could see how physically tired she looked.

Max had made a point, annoying as it was, to remind her of the terrible assumptions parents make of their kids. How even though it may be of their children's own volition, the parents found themselves embodied in the actions and words of their sons and daughters. It was not that this feeling was enforced by a means that one can control—otherwise any greedy sod would take advantage of such phenomena—but that it was something that just came to be. It was there, and one had no means by which to reduce it, or make it go away.

By that logic, her life would be indicative of the things her parents had done, or otherwise had not done. In that case, Joyce's neglect for her and preference to being with David lined up nicely with that theory.

Max was pointing towards something that was true, and Chloe could accept that regardless of whether it was actually true or not. It implied that all the bad choices she made may as well be choices that were made because of the people around her, especially her family. It meant that it was not her fault per se, and that was a pleasantly addictive feeling to have.

It was time to leave, before the intangible weight could touch her.

So down the stairs she went, and her hand pulled the front door open, so that she could leave—

"Chloe."

It was the desperation in that voice that kept her from walking out. The nagging tick of fear bit at her heart, and she looked back. She could only spare a glance into her mother's eyes because of how much it hurt to know.

"I'd been meaning to tell you this, before you go off with Max and the others you're with," Joyce spoke softly, sadly, "I've…I'm going to be staying here. There's a lot of mothers that have joined up with the militia, to help in any way they can. I'm going to be doing my part as well."

"…why?"

Joyce blinked, then blinked again, "I—what?"

"Why?" her daughter repeated, miffed, "Why are you telling me this?"

The elder took her time to answer, "Well, I thought it'd be fair to—"

"You're doing it so that David doesn't have to tell me, is that it?" Chloe interrupted. It wasn't a clarification, but a means to an end—she already knew the answer, and this was all the justification she'd need to slam the door once she could walk away.

"I'm telling you because you are my daughter," Joyce asserted, "and I wanted to tell you because at least then, I'd…I would feel reassured in telling you that you're not alone in this!"

The elder's voice was becoming raspy and choked. It felt odd, how seeing her mother begin to tear up barely fazed her. Perhaps it was indicative of Chloe's own mistakes, that she could make her parents feel this terrible by being in proximity to them. It stung like a thorn.

Price shook her head, and turned away, ready to close the door—

A hand clutched at her arm, just before she could cross the threshold.

"Chloe, please," and even though the bluenette was glaring at her to let go, Joyce held on with all her strength, "I haven't told David that I'm staying. You're the first person I've told this to, because I want to be there for you. I…I've tried—Lord knows I've tried so hard—but I hurt you more from moving on than I thought, and I'm so sorry," then Joyce ducked her head in shame, the tears falling like drops of rain between them.

Chloe stood there, muted. There was a gaping hole where her heart had been moments ago, swelling up and swallowing the air in her lungs. This should not hurt as much as it did.

Maybe she wasn't looking at it right. Maybe there was something that she was missing. But that meant the fault lay on her, and not Joyce. It meant that this pain was brought because of her actions, because of her stupid decisions—

How long are you going to keep pushing your family away, Price?

"I—I'm staying," Joyce finally spoke through the sobs, "I'm staying so that I can try to make up for all the time I lost, not being there for you when I should have. I'm sorry, Chloe."

It was indescribable, this feeling. Chloe could not move, and she could not think. She could not understand why her mother was crying, was hurting this badly, if not because of what she'd done, what she had not done. All the possibilities, all the opportunities to be a family, wasted by her decree.

Oh god, what have I done?

Joyce dared to close the distance between them and brought her only daughter into an embrace, still sobbing, still weeping these sudden tears.

"I'm so sorry, Chloe."

The pops could be heard in the distance, drumming ever closer.

A/N - [Completed 28th September 2021; Revised 30th June 2022]