For once I am grateful for the mask. It holds the dust and stench at bay… somewhat. But this room is particularly dusty. Makes my black clothes seem light grey after I have twisted and turned a bit to get the angle right. Light outside is fading slowly into dusk, which means I get to see more. It was blinding before and I can get closer to the windowsill without fearing that the light reflects too harshly off my lens.
I peer through the powerful scope once more. It's about time now. The people should be showing up soon. Question is only which. Last time it was Hyenas and I was really itching to make a mess out of their little public execution. I wouldn't have though. Orders are to lay low and since that, three months past, no further word has been getting to us. I didn't had to, it turned out. Division was already there. Three of them. More than enough against these punks. They busted in with flashbangs, shot at everything that dared to move and had a nice ol lil chat with the captives. In the confused gratefulness and distress they're in, they would sell you their firstborn if it was the first thing that's asked of them. Then, as fast as they came, the Divs were off. Probably to hunt some HVT or reinstate some generator or something. I have lost track of what is happening in this city. At least it's not New York. I heard that city is a grave.
Not that Washington has been fine either. Only a few weeks ago, the city has been tight in the grip of three major and countless smaller factions, one worse than the other. True Sons in the east, Outcasts in the west, Hyenas all around and in between. In the center, the White House and its surroundings, the JTF had been fighting an uphill battle against all others. Looters, gangs, fanatics, psychos. We had long let off of them. I never asked why we should attack the last few keepers of order, but I was glad when we stopped. Cross always said we do bad for the greater good. He's really convinced of this too, but I never understood how killing reservists and policemen served any other purpose than destroying the peace even further than it already was.
Something moves and I shift slightly to adjust my angle through the scope. One hundred and fifty meters away someone crawls out of a collapsed scaffold and scurries across the street. There's a supermarket there, but I'm sure it has been picked clean by now. They, she might want to try her luck again. Maybe someone left something there and if it's just a granola bar. I follow her, always keeping an eye on the sides of the road, like we did in in Afghanistan. I'm still trying to find out if I would shoot if something happens. There's not really anyone who could reprimand me for doing what I was paid to do… initially.
The street is empty when she leaves. Nothing moves, nothing makes a sound. Like the last ten or fifteen times. I picked a boring spot, but I'm not really complaining. Rather, I wonder who she is. During the day I got a better look at her. She's as old as me, probably. Late twenties early thirties, short but fit, brown, short hair. It has become a ritual of mine, to wait for her. When she shows up and leaves again, it's time for a break. Let the cameras do the watching while I get a bite to eat. It took me quite some time to get something to grow on the roof, but the tomatoes are coming slowly. I don't even like tomatoes.
Eggs is fine. Egg-powder at least, with young tomatoes and the only non organic cheese in Washington state I would guess. Somehow that stuff is still edible, incredibly. Sometimes I can smell fresh bread from the castle. These people have actually started a bakery. It brings a smile out of me now and then, but I envy them. Especially their garden. They have damn pumpkins, rows of them.
When I lie back down it's dark outside. I take great care to not make any noise, but the full kit and heavy rifle make it fairly difficult. I have arranged a large table in the back of the room to be my little firing stand. The windows are large enough to provide a generous view, even from the other side of the room, but the glass is mostly intact, so that its hard to look inside.
For now, I can stay up here. A few days maybe, then I will need to go down there again too. Find water and something to eat and look for anything useful. Since the airdrops have stopped, people had to find other ways to survive, like the castle and their veggies. I know enough about survival to support myself on a day to day basis, but I'm no expert in agriculture, or biology. I don't know how to set up an acre or a water filtration system. I take stuff from the ground and from others. If I'm particularly lucky, I get to kill a deer or something that provides me with a few days worth of meat, but most of the time I'm scrounging for supplies. Well, everything except for ammunition and tactical equipment. Me and the other guys are probably the best equipped force in the whole state, but we are few and we are not particularly well liked. If someone sees us out in the street, it's not long until the Divs or the JTF know about it too. Sure, you can say what you want about the JTF. That they're underequipped, undertrained and spread too thin, but they are motivated. Morale is something incredibly powerful in these times, when everything else has gone to shit and with the SHD back up to strength they're retaking the city. Block by block, street by street, one burned out husk of a car at a time. Though the agents of the SHD are rare cases, they are very effective. They are courageous and disciplined and I suspect you have to. To leave friends and family behind at a moment's notice, just to throw yourself into this meat grinder takes a certain kind of bravery.
I haven't seen my family in years. The comrades have become my family and after I left, there was not much to come back to. This had certainly unhealthy effects on me. Nightmares and depression being the most common, but also weird other things. Civilian clothing didn't seem to fit anymore. It was hard for me to hold a job for long and I never stopped scanning the rooftops and cars, always anticipating an insurgent with an RPG or a Dragunov to pop up, but they never did.
I didn't have to endure it for long. Someone from the UN asked to speak with me in my second year out of service. They were maintaining an international task force with members from all kinds of special forces, from all over the globe. I had heard of them before, cops without borders. Like interpol, but more… immediate. This was not a group of special investigators who could call on local law enforcement if they needed to. This was a strike force. An international SWAT team to take in the bad guys anywhere, anytime.
Wish they had a less ridiculous name though.
In the end they decided against employing me, but connections happened inevitably and another path of career opened up. The one that promised zero glory, one hundred percent deniability and a very generous pay check. I never met the people in charge. It was impossible to tell who was the enemy and we were discouraged harshly to ask about the backgrounds of our work. Obey, don't ask, don't get sentimental.
Already failed there.
When the dollar flu hit, we were told to stay put for a long time. None of us knew where the other ones were and if they even survived. Naturally a lot of us didn't report in when the orders came. Most where infected and had succumbed to the flu. Some had been killed in the first wave of violence that washed over the country and a few just vanished. Even if I was allowed to, I couldn't tell anyone how many we actually were. All classified, up to the highest posts, if that has any significance now.
A gust of wind carries a swath of papers across the street. Dust and strips of matter fly across the rectangular viewport that is my window and settle again on the other side. Then it is calm again. The eerie silence that has enveloped most parts of the capital for the last few weeks since the large scale fighting has stopped. Now it's a war of attrition, a mutual testing and prodding to see which sides give in sooner. Only provided the SHD does not start shit anywhere.
Really all the major factions are conducting operations all the time, the only difference now is that the Divs and the JTF can do anything about it. And they do. They took the museum up north earlier last week. I could hear the shooting all the way here, the dampened clicks and chatter from far away machine gun fire. The muffled cracks of heavy calibers and the deep rumble of explosions.
Then, something farther east. I don't know what they hit there, but they were successful. It has been relatively silent since, with only the usual skirmishes on the streets and few acts of terror that all three major factions are up to all the time.
I haven't seen the SHD yet since we have gone into hiding. They run around and shoot shit up all the time and they are quite a few, still they have yet to cross my line of sight. I guess I have picked a good enough hiding spot.
The sun is about to rise when I look away from my scope again. How quickly the hours fly by when you contemplate your situation. I wouldn't need to watch the street all day. I could set up a perimeter of motion sensors and make myself comfortable with a book or a game of solitaire. Well, not the latter. In this situation it is depressing to play cards with yourself, but reading would be possible. I would need to go out to get a good haul from one of the libraries, but I am confident that I can make it. I have been out in the surroundings lot's of times, but since the buildings here are mostly offices, there wasn't much to get except business reports and printed shipping transcripts. At least my hideout is comfy. The building is well insulated and spacious. Also the international spy museum, which is almost next door was interesting for a while. I even got to see the exhibits which were locked up.
I see a deer cross over between the lines of shot up vehicles. I'd have a clear shot as of now, but I will not risk this spot for a bit of game. Nature is taking the city back slowly. Here and there, grasses have sprouted in the cracks in the concrete. Without maintenance and traffic in the streets, the plants and animals flourish in the wake of the former inhabitants.
I hear a shot and the deer jolts down, a pink cloud of mist exploding from its side. It trips and struggles back to its feet, before another bullet punches into its rump, leaving it to recoil sharply once again and clambering forwards towards a shredded minivan.
Now I hear the voices. Rough chatter, coughing and laughing as the shooters close in. They have the grace of a tank in a hedge maze, some even beat the stocks of their guns against car doors like clubs. I cringe inwardly at their hunting prowess. How they even got close enough to hit the poor thing is beyond me.
I shift my angle and see them proudly strolling down the street. Hyenas. Four of them. Common criminals who escaped custody or just revealed themselves as the animals they are. Most of them are driven by greed and hate, governed by only their self interest and absolutely ruthless when faced on the streets. Then again, many of us are.
I don't care too much for them. I even seen some of them interact quite civil with local civilians so that must mean they're not all monsters. Still, most of them have embraced their newfound lawlessness. They steal, murder, rape and sabotage everyone they come across. At least the true sons and outcasts have some kind of MO. Hyenas don't.
Another shot and the animal is still. One of them has pumped a shotgun round into its head and killed it finally. For a moment I dare to hope that they take their kill and move on, but it seems as if they decided to stay here for a while. Just a little break from the taxing march. Fuckers.
An hour later I have done nothing but watched these guys pull apart their prey and piss against some side mirrors. A calmer, tall man with greying hair seems to be their leader. A lot of times these guys have either been shot callers in jail or part of organized crime. Sometimes both, but generally it's the younger ones who are dangerous. They're eager to proof themselves and will do often reckless things to show how tough they are. If there isn't anything to do, they will find something to vandalize or hunt down some kind of entertainment.
Something moves on the edge of my view. I pivot slightly to reposition my crosshairs and stare at a broken police cruiser. The windshield is smashed and it is impossible to see through the decaying security glass, but something is there.
The hyenas have noticed nothing. They're laughing and yelling like this is one big party for them. The leader is sitting down in the co drivers seat of the minivan and is carefully packing up chunks of meat in zipper bags.
Someone peeks out from behind the front bumper of the cruiser. It is too far away and too quick for me to get a good look. It could be a scout from another faction. It could also be an agent from the SHD. It is rather common for these guys to venture out alone if they're not tackling a high risk target. But even then, a single Div would probably make mincemeat out of these hyenas.
The silhouette swipes past my crosshair behind another vehicle. Now I know it's a woman. I shift back to the bandits. They're still minding their own business.
She is good at moving undetected, but I already know where she is. She weaves in and out of broken down cars, hides behind rubble and trash. Sometimes crouched low and sometimes completely prone. She is quick too. Never staying too long at one spot and moving further rather competently.
Something shatters and she stops, melting back behind a minivan. One of the hyenas has hit a glass bottle with the stock of his AR. They are far too occupied to notice her, but she has closed the distance in good time.
A few minutes later, she is only a dozen meters away from the pack. She seems to be searching for something along the sides of the vandalised building across from me. As she turns to look around, I get a better look at her and my eyes widen behind my ballistic mask.
It is her. For some reason she has returned out of her usual intervals. Maybe she has a stash over there and needs something urgently. Possibly medical supplies or something.
Now the stakes have risen for me. I don't know why, but two weeks of watching her daily expeditions have made it so that I am concerned for her. A feeling that I have previously suppressed very carefully, during the last six months. I don't want her to get hurt.
With a practiced movement, my right hand snakes up to my rifle's receiver. With a flick of my wrist, a bullet is pushed into the chamber and the bolt locks back in place. I slow down my breathing, my crosshair hovering between the hyenas. My was racing just a second ago. Disobey my last direct order, or do something that feels right. Now my thoughts are reserved for nothing else than cold efficiency. I remember the points I have picked to determine range, I look for the rag on the lamppost on the other side of the street to estimate wind. I count down the rounds in my magazine. Nine plus one, enough to take all four of them down twice.
I lie silent, watching. My breath is nothing more than a low breeze in front of my mouth. My eyes are fixed forward, one through the scope, one along the barrel. Waiting.
She moves again, now just a few meters away from the car where the Hyenas have made their break. One of them turns, his eyes scanning over the hoods of a trio of taxis, but she is already gone, vanished behind a pile of rotten crates. But he lingers. He probably has heard something.
He turns to his buddies and says something. Immediately all of them get up from where they were sitting, hefting guns and looking around. One of them turns in my direction and keeps an eye on my side of the street, another raises his rifle town the other side of the street, where she had come from. The leader joins the first one, a kitted out SMG in his hands. Well, I guess you don't survive this long without picking up a few tactics.
Both close in on the crates, one on each side. I keep my scope on the back of the leader's neck. Over this distance I don't have to compensate much. The bullet won't drop enough to change the point of impact significantly. The other one will get one center mass. He is wearing a vandalised police vest, but it doesn't bulge anywhere so I assume it doesn't have any plates. Even if they have, they're probably light and standard issue. Enough for small calibres, but not enough for a full sized rifle cartridge.
The others will seek cover when those two are down. If they're smart, they will hide behind the engine blocks of the many cars. If they're smarter, they will figure out the direction. I doubt it.
The two close in on the crates. My finger is on the trigger, ready to fire. Suddenly both of them rush forward and round the corners, aiming behind the pile. There is a moment of ghastly silence, before one of them tips forward and pulls her up by the hair. She screams. It echoes faintly in the street. I reassure my aim and gently squeeze.
Shit. That was all she thought. Shit. She had been too cocky. Too full of herself. Did she think she could do this? Or did the urgency of the situation make her do such a dumb thing? The radio was just there, up on the second floor, only about seven meters above her, over the supermarket. Contact with the white house was almost close enough to grasp. How she could fuck up so hard…
She would not die here. She was a survivor, she would do what she had to, to live. Whatever these guys wanted from her, she would just listen and comply. There is always a next time if she lived, though she shivered at the thought of what was to come.
The shuffle of boots and a hard grip around her hair shook her awake. Air was pressed from her throat as she was dragged up painfully by her ponytail. She almost bit her tongue as she was spun around and was faced with a snarling face, half covered by a gasmask and grinning mean.
"Lookit boss! We caught ourselves a bitch."
To her right there was a larger, older man, carrying a submachine gun. He looked more composed, but still his face conveyed malice and brutality.
That was until it exploded in a cloud of red mist.
She only heard the shot after the corpse had already collapsed. Not because it echoed after, but because her brain reacted so slow. Her captor fared only slightly better. He managed to turn around, before a second crack whipped through the street and he went rigid. Toppling to the side, she saw that he had been shot through the chest and tried to stem the blood from beneath his vest, but it was clear that he was dead.
Just now she regained her sense. Someone was shooting. If they were shooting at her too, she didn't know, she didn't care to find out. She needed to move.
Another bullet punches through the side door of a car and slams into a third hyena's thigh. He screams and falls face first into the ground, cursing like a sailor.
Her first thought was to run back where she came from, but whoever was here could easily follow her. Instead she turned to her right and ran, trying not to look at the dead leader whose face looked as if it had deflated.
The cursing hyena was silenced by a fourth shot and she redoubled her speed. She thought she was making good distance, just until something slammed into her from behind and she was crushed against the concrete.
The last man was on her back and had slung his arm around her neck. He pulled her up even more brutally as the one before and turned towards a large office building, ducking behind her with a large knife pressed against her neck. He was using her as a shield.
Now there were two options. One. The shooter was a Division agent or an experienced JTF sniper. In this case she had good chances if she didn't do anything rash. Two. It was a true son and he or she would shoot right through her.
"Come on you fucking cunt! Come out here! Fight me like a man!"
Silence. Only the wind and the wheezing of the dying second hyena was to be heard. Her eyes twitched from spot to spot, but nothing moved. Not a single thing. Her captor was getting more and more nervous too. She felt the knife bite into her skin as he pivoted her around.
"Come out you little shit! Or she's gonna get it!"
By now she doubted she would live through this. If whoever did this, only fired to get a kick out of it, they were long gone. And the Division always tries to retain the element of surprise.
"Ooh!" The man groaned loudly. "I am gonna take my time with her!"
She closed her eyes. Don't cry now. Not fucking now.
"Oh yeah, I will-"
He is cut off by a trio of shots and she felt something wet on her shoulder. The knife on her neck fell away and she noticed how he fell down behind her. Looking down, she saw that the hand which held the knife was almost severed. Another bullet had entered his cheek and ripped his face open, while a third had punched through his throat. With only a single hand, he was helpless to stop the bleeding. Somehow he looked pitiful as his eyes looked around in panic, trying to understand what had happened to him.
Something squelched behind her and the wheezing from the other dying man finally stopped. She had to force herself to turn her head, a certain conviction in her head that she had not escaped danger, but was in the presence of a much more dangerous threat.
She turned about 180 degrees, before a dampened and distorted voice cut through the new silence.
"No sudden movements." She turned her head a bit more.
It was a man, at least judging from the voice, but also from the bulk of his silhouette. He was wearing a dirty, black overall and heavy armor. At first glance she would have thought him to be part of the Division, but they tried to invoke trust in the people and as such most of them made a point of showing their faces. He didn't. His face was completely obscured by a black and scratched mask, which seemed to consist of metal. The narrow eye holes showed a pair of sharp blue eyes boring into her.
He had an AK in his hands, heavily kitted out with a suppressor, laser, scope and a grip on the handguard, which was now aimed at herself.
"Please." She said meekly. "I'm not a fighter. My people don't belong to any of the gangs. I just had to get something."
He regarded her for a moment, cocking his head to the side as if he was thinking. The mask, she noticed, had a circle, painted above the right eye in fading orange. Strange which kind of details the brain decides to notice in a moment like this. The other thing she noticed, was much more worrisome.
Division agents all carried highly specialized equipment. Drones, turrets, scanners, explosives and launchers in different variants. Every agent tinkered with his stuff to suit his needs, but in the center of this technology, which was often designed to function autonomously, was their watch. Every Div had one and an agent she had met, Kelso, had told her that the watch was the engine to the pain train that these agents were.
This man had six. Two were fixed to the shoulder straps of his vest, while the others dangled from a loop on his backpack. Two of them were dark, dead, one was red, while the rest was glowing in that familiar orange. Alani Kelso had made a point of explaining to everyone who'd listen at the theatre that there were still more people out there besides the three major factions in DC. There were the scavengers, or nightcrawlers, or sewer people as some called them. They had originally only dared to come out at night, but they too were growing bolder everyday. Then rogue agents, but they mostly hid in the dark zones. Lastly she had mentioned hunters.
No one knew who they were, but their name was their MO. They had, according to rumours hunted the Division in the first months after the collapse. No one else. They had left civilians alone, gangs too and had only engaged the JTF when they were in the way. How someone could survive even a single fight with the SHD, she didn't know and apparently this man had six notches on his belt.
But the hunters had disappeared. SHD dared to think they were gone, but she knew that humans are difficult to get rid of. If they're highly trained even more. It was obvious who this man was.
He shifted the barrel of his gun and pulled the trigger. Even with the suppressor, the noise made her ears ring. Suppressors don't suppress sound as much as distort it. Gunfire is still very loud.
The last hyena fell silent, a red spray on the ground behind his head. She did not dare to look, but the man only glanced back at her through the holes in his mask.
"Get out of here." He said calmly, nodding towards her and securing his gun against his chest before turning to walk away without another word.
Only when he was out of sight and the cracking of broken glass had receded, she dared to move. Surrounded by four dead bodies, scattered guns and blood pooling to the ground, she remembered why she had come here. She needed to get to the radio and contact the JTF. Her friends counted on her. They would not last long under the constant attacks from the true sons. There were a number of reservists and ex-true sons. Also Maurice who had been a police officer before and could handle a gun and had taught a lot of them, but even though she and her rag tag group were not defenceless, the true sons were a powerful militia. A lot of them had military training too and all of them had access to military equipment. It was only a question of time, before they grew tired and decided to saturate her home with mortar grenades. Unless someone killed these SOBs first.
She ran and almost broke into the vandalised supermarket. Almost stumbling over an overturned shopping cart, she made her way through the back door and up the fire ladder. Help is on the way.
Soon as I'm off the street, I start to hurry. I have to leave, burn all evidence of me being here and find another place to hunker down. Shame, since I was getting used to the place, but this is the consequence of my decision to intervene.
The door to my hideout swings open. Radio equipment, rations, weapon cache and the tomatoes. Everything I can't carry in one go has to be destroyed. I do a quick inventory check. Water, food, ammo. Now where is the thermite?
I disassemble the radio station as much as I can and stuff all the devices which are hard to replace into a satchel. Food and water goes into the rucksack, ammo magazines and grenades onto the vest. All the different SHD pieces are in a sports bag. That too comes with me. I head to the roof and take a look at my little tomato project. I collect all which are ripe enough, but still it makes me a little sad.
I discount that thought, pull the pin, let the safety lever fly off and drop the red cylinder into the soil. I quickly walk away and even ten meters off, I can feel the heat on my back.
When I leave the building, my hideout is a white hot burning pit of fire. I will have to be fast. The light is still up for some time, which means I can not use the main streets and have to stick to alleys. I have ruined my hideout, but in turn I saved a life. That's acceptable for a day's work I guess.
When the sun is down, I have just crossed over towards the department of agriculture. It has been hit bad with DC62, and some rooms are still blocked with the yellow stuff. But I know one of my guys is here. Specter, who I have been on good terms with for some time. To properly live here, he must have cleared out most of the toxins and since we all have nothing better to do, I hazard the guess that he has some spare space where I can crash.
It has taken me much longer than anticipated, but the lack of sunlight is working to my advantage, like almost always. Getting inside is not the problem, though a bit cumbersome. Avoiding all the claymores is. For a building that has been declared useless, Specter has sure put a lot of effort in making sure no adventurers fare to deep into his lair.
I step into a receptionist office and sit down on the dusty office chair. I reach up to my shoulder and key my radio. One, two, three… three, two, one. It takes a while for him to answer. One, two, one, two. All clear, channel is secure.
"Hey Point." He says cheerfully.
"Hey Specter. How you doin'?"
"Great. Let's meet on the balcony, first floor, north side."
"Copy."
I get up, slightly staggered with almost forty kilos on my shoulders and make my way through the building. Specter keeps talking for a while, warns me of his traps, so it is much easier to get around.
When I reach the first floor through a lofty marble staircase, I can see immediately where he is set up. The man has the audacity to bunk in the remains of a former JTF infirmary. All the curtains are arranged to form a room and I see bits and pieces of electronics lying around everywhere. Specter is a tinkerer as much as I am a sniper. He works more with sensors, drones and scanners than anyone I know.
I drop my bags at the entrance to his room and look for the balcony.
"Booh!"
I didn't even flinch, but I stare him dead in the eye and muster my most unimpressed voice.
"Holy shit, you got me, don't ever do that again, my poor heart." I drone into his face… mask. He has painted cards, an ace of hearts and ace of spades below his eyes.
"Aw, you're no fun." He slaps me on the arm.
"Habits." I answer.
"Yeah. You're probably right. You were never much fun. What are you doing here?"
I lean on the stone balustrades and sigh silently.
"I was made, had to burn my hideout. Full firesale."
"On L'Enfant Plaza? You were so proud of that. What happened?"
I pause. No point in lying I guess.
"There was this woman, who I saw almost daily for the last few weeks." Specter only nods and beckons me to continue.
"So today, she stumbles into a pack of hyenas…"
"Ah. You're playing hero."
"No. I just didn't want to watch any more of that shit than I had to."
"You could've done something else. Put on some music and read something. You wouldn't believe what I know about corn and potatoes nowadays. Department of agriculture and such." I snort.
"So you killed them and let her go." He states. I nod.
"Did she seem like she was scouting you out?"
"No."
"So you didn't even ask her out for a drink?"
I look at him. He puts his hand into his pocket and fishes out a pack of Lucky's, offering me one.
"Ey man, I'd do you, if you weren't such a boring straighto."
"You don't even know my face." I say, an eyebrow raised.
"Yeah? I am also not really interested in you."
Can't keep myself from chuckling. I take a drag of my cigarette and stare into the darkness of the park in front of us. There is gunfire to the north east. The capital is there. The true sons are beating someone over the head with their gigantic turret again. It's a ship gun I think, probably some kind of CIWS and I agree, facing a 35mm chaingun is a terrifying thought.
I don't want this anymore. For over half a year, the world is a battlefield now. For almost six months, I have been wearing this mask now, killing my sense of justice in the hopes that what we do is right. I have hunted righteous men and women and I have ended at least six agents. Those were the ones I could confirm, but I am sure they were a few more. Attacking a full fireteam of them grants you one, maybe two sure kills. A high calibre rifle fires slow and while you prepare another shot, the rest of them has already scattered. Still you can't really check to confirm your kill if there are still three trigger happy agents out for vengeance.
Two of my watches I have collected from agents who were foolish enough to go into the sewer system alone. The other four I have taken from a full team. I wasn't hunting them, rather we stumbled into each other. It was dumb luck and a mindless animalistic rage that saved me. These four had also been the messiest kills at this point. I had a grazing shot on my shin and was kneeling on the ground, spitting blood.
To be honest, I was glad when we were ordered to stand down. I hadn't been expecting to be left for dead, but I was glad that I was not ordered to ambush agents anymore, or take their watches, or plant IEDs on JTF routes.
A feeling hits me, something familiar and I immediately pull my mask back over the balaclava, extinguish the cigarette and duck under the balustrade. Specter follows me without a delay.
"Have you been followed?" He whispers. I shake my head and peek through the gaps in the bannisters. I hear boots clapping on the street. Many boots. At least two dozen men and women are marching past the department of agriculture and north into the east mall. True sons and they're towing something.
I look over to Specter. He is reaching inside a window and pulls a light machine gun through. I shake my head and he nods. Nevertheless he has cocked the gun and keeps it ready. When they're a good distance away, he raises his head over the railing.
"What are they pulling?"
I shrug. "Looks a bit like launchers."
"Mortars?"
"Something cobbled together. Self made perhaps."
"Shit." Spector sinks back behind his cover. I can't see his eyes, but he is not happy.
"The castle is in this direction." I finally say. "They had beef with the true sons for a while now."
"I know. Think they're going for the finishing blow?"
"They can try. Even if they bomb the whole thing to bits, they have some pretty decent basements. If the Divs get wind of this…"
"Then it's war. I mean even more than now."
"Poor bastards." My smile is grim. Time for these knuckleheads to get what's coming for them.
We see a few stragglers come and go, few, but enough to cause trouble. I have already fucked my own place. No reason to do that to Specter. Still we are on guard. I have borrowed an MG4 from him and left my AK for later. Behind the telescopic sight, I peer through the darkness.
Then, a couple of hours later, we hear it. A repeated howling. Rockets.
"Not mortars then." Specter says softly. We both know what this means. The castle is under fire.
Skirmishes between the gangs, the civvies and the JTF are to be considered normal by now. Despite what the SHD might claim, continuity of government has crumbled. The state has failed and warlords hold the power. The howling and the low thumps of explosions echo almost through the entire night. I had barely gone back to sleep when Specter kicks me in the shin.
"Get the fuck up!"
I stagger to my feet, groggy eyes scanning the dawning world.
"Gas!" He yells.
Immediately I am awake and tear my mask off. I rip the gas mask from my vest and pull it over my face so harshly that my nose hurts. The lenses begin to fog up instantly
Then I see it. Yellow mist, creeping down the street towards us like a sandstorm, swallowing cars, trees and lampposts. It's an apocalyptic sight, even during the apocalypse.
"It's DC62!" Specter bellows. "Inside!"
I never had to do with DC62 before, except for staying away from it. Specter, as he lives in a building literally covered in the stuff, probably has more intricate knowledge of it, so I don't question him. Instead I jump to my feet and haul ass after him. I almost break down a folding desk when my eyes adjust to the darkness inside, but I don't care too much for a bumped hip right now.
Specter makes a turn left and then right. "Take your bag!"
I obey and snatch my rucksack from the ground, no time to put it on, so I keep it in my hand. My other hand is full with the MG4. No time to grab my other guns or the shadetech.
He sprints inside a room and I follow immediately after. He slams the door close and pulls a rag from his sleeping bag, immediately beginning to douse it in water from a nearby tap in the wall. I do the same and stuff it in the gap beneath the door.
Specter collapses in his small sleeping corner, lifting his mask slightly to breathe more freely. I sit down next to the door and too, take a few deep breaths.
"What now?" I ask after a while.
"We wait." He's still out of breath. Might be further out of shape than he looks.
"For how long?"
"Between six to twelve hours? Until it's settled on the ground. Then we burn it."
"With matchsticks?" I aks. He chuckles lightly.
"No. With a flamethrower." He kicks against a case next to him so it slides towards me. I pull it closer and crack the lid.
"Shit."
"Got it from the outcasts. Generous donation." I smile as he says it.
"Well. Then we're waiting. Got some cards?"
"No." He laughs. He has recovered his breath by now. I join him.
This is going to be fucking boring.
She broke down on the sidewalk and only barely kept herself from vomiting. She was beaten. She had tried to run as fast as she could back to the castle, but when she got close, she saw the clouds. Yellow, rolling clouds coming from her home. She had only stood still, like she was nailed to the ground, but as an animal suddenly broke through the advancing, poisonous wall, she regained her sense.
She had been sprinting for over ten minutes when she finally came to a halt. She now knelt in front of another monument of human downfall. The southern dark zone, of which the walls stretched far to the west. Everyone was gone, she was sure. No one could survive that.
She turned on her knees and patted over her side to find the rifle she had taken from one of the dead hyenas earlier today. A full magazine and two to spare.
The fucking Division had abandoned them. No one came to help. She had tried all channels, but no one answered until nightfall. Then she got to talk to them. When it was too late.
She held herself back from taking the rifle and throwing it to the ground. She would need it, no use damaging it. But when she saw an agent again, she would punch him or her so hard that her fist, imprinted on their stupid face would remind them of their failure for the rest of her life.
Now the tears came, but she pressed them back and swallowed her sorrow. No time for that now. She had to find a settlement or an outpost and rest. She had been awake all day and night.
North of her was the Washington monument, but she didn't know who controlled it right now. To her left, the west, she would surely only find outcasts and to the east there was the abandoned department of agriculture and… well and the castle. She remembered that Maurice had once said that in the sewer systems, close to the manholes, there were rooms for storing technical equipment and sometimes break rooms for sewer workers. If she could slip inside, she might be able to get a few hours of sleep until she had a clearer head. She needed a plan and right now she was only terrified and tired. If she hurried, she might make it before the sun was completely up. She knew that in front of the department of agriculture there was an overturned ambulance and if you entered the back, you could reach a manhole through the side door. She only hoped that this part of the sewer system was unused.
Dawn was coming. So she needed to hurry if she didn't want to be found.
"Shit." That's all that Specter has to say to the thin film of yellow dust that covers his entire hideout.
"Is it going to be okay?" I ask through the gasmask. I am hesitant to step anywhere, but he has ensured to me that its fine as long as I dont breathe it.
"Yeah. Might take a few hours to get rid of it again."
"Couldn't we have just closed to door?" I look at him as he prepares the flamer for duty. He only points upwards towards the upper windows.
"Fucks shot the whole front row of windows to shit. I didn't get to patching it up yet. Don't have a ladder that's tall enough."
He sends a small flame towards and I see the yellow stuff go up in orange sparks.
"It's not the stealthiest approach." He acknowledges. "But it works. Would you… you know, make sure no one's sneaking up on me while I do this?"
I nod. "Sure. I'll be outside, front, north."
"Copy." He answers and I can hear the grin below his gasmask.
As I step outside I have to narrow my eyes at the morning sun. I pull the gasmask from my face when I have convinced myself that the shit outside has dispersed enough in the last few hours to not be dangerous anymore and slide my facemask back on. It feels much more comfortable than the rubber of the gasmask and I take a few seconds to shake the stress out of my limbs. The LMG hangs lazily from a strap over my shoulder as I stroll across the front yard if the building, before settling down behind a wild bush towards the west side.
In front of me is the familiar sight of burnt out or cannibalized cars. A large truck is parked just across the yard with it's front towards the building, but there is still enough space from the front of the vehicle to the entrance. On the other side if the street, I can see the bottom of an overturned Washington fire department ambulance, with all windows smashed in and a vine snaking it's way out of the side, now top window.
It's calm. I the distance I can still see a few low drifting swaths of the yellow poison, but the wind is weak and when I look west, I can see a front of rain clouds coming in. When the water has washed the DC62 back into the sewers, the danger outside will be mostly gone.
For a few minutes, I only see the gentle swaying of thin tree branches and bundles of tall grass. A racoon dashes out from below a car and vanishes in the brush on the other side of the street. The gun in my hands feels heavy, so I prop it up on my knee, my finger off the trigger, but ready to deal some damage should someone come my way.
Something rustles to my left and I immediately tighten up, muscles ready for maximum efficiency. My knuckles must be white under my gloves as I grip the machine gun hard, pressing it against my shoulder, one hundred bullets ready.
A form breaks from a burnt out taxi and makes a run towards the overturned ambulance. I recognize her when she is halfway over to the car.
I curse inwardly. If she is here again, this can only mean that I was wrong and she was scouting me out. I can forgive having to burn my stuff and flee, but I can not let someone follow me. As much as I don't want to, I have to either take her out or bring her in. However, since we do not have any holding facilities, I guess I will have to make her disappear. But I really, really don't want that.
She has almost reached the ambulance when I let my first burst fly. The grill of the car explodes outwards and the hood flies open. She slides to a halt and I get a look at her face. She is terrified, even more as yesterday. I break from my hiding place and stand to my full height, my machine gun trained on her center of mass.
Her shoulders slump down as she recognizes me.
I am still about fifteen meters away from her when I stop and renew the grip on my weapon. She too has a rifle now, one of the M4s that the hyenas had with them, but she keeps her hands high, away from the gun.
I nod down with the barrel of my gun, but she either doesn't get it, or doesn't want to get down. I move closer and stop again. I really don't want to do this.
She moves her mouth. 'Please', but I can't let her go. Not if I want to keep living for more than a week.
"On your six." I hear Specter through my radio and hear the crunching of his boots behind me, slightly to my right. Her eyes swap from me to him and back. Her expression even more worried than before.
"That her?" He asks. I nod.
"Please." She says. Her voice is breaking and it is obvious that she is close to tears.
"Please, I am from the castle. They… have bombed it or something. Please, I won't tell anyone you're here."
"Point?" Specter asks. I don't answer. I don't have an answer.
"Point, you need to decide now."
Well, fuck.
"On your knees, feet crossed, hands apart!" I yell, so she understands. She obeys immediately, careful to keep her hands visible and away from her rifle.
"Explain to me, Point." Specter calmly says. I know it's not a suggestion, but a demand.
"We interrogate her. If she's a scout, we kill her, if she's just unlucky… we'll see."
"Yeah we'll see." He acknowledges and sets himself off to my right a bit further, while I pull a pair of zip cuffs from my vest.
I pull the gun off of her and throw it to the side, before turning her around and pushing her down in a police hold. She has no choice but to let me put her hands through the loops, otherwise her shoulder would be dislocated quicker than she could protest.
"Point." Specter says as I hoist her up to her feet. "Unknowns coming in from the west. Four. We need to get inside or this becomes a funeral march."
I know he doesn't mean us, not if the four are simple militiamen or bandits. On our own we have fought through much worse, but together there aren't many nightmares that compare to us. Still, zero confrontation is better than one, so I push the woman forward with some force. She comes quietly, well aware that the four unknowns could also be hyenas or outcasts. True sons are more focused and will not likely engage random targets if their orders don't demand it, but the other two factions are more aggressive.
Specter locks the door behind us and rearms the traps he had deactivated earlier for me to pass through. We hurry upstairs with the woman in tow. I have mixed feelings. For one, I am glad that Specter has just accepted my decision to not kill her, then again I have no idea what I will do to get a believable statement from her. If everything checks out and Specter agrees with me, she could be lucky and I won't have to use my interrogator training. If it doesn't, well I'll have to be thorough.
"Second door left." Specter grumbles and turns to the right, towards his room. I go left and push her inside the dark room. I step inside behind her and flip the light switch. A bright light flickers to life from the neon tube above and she flinches shortly. I reassure myself that the room is devoid of anything that she might use and lock the door behind me.
I feel a certain anger rising inside me. Not at anyone in particular, just an underlying annoyance that I might have built up for some time. I walk down the hallway towards where I had put down the two bags with radio and SHD equipment. Specter has torched the things and I make a mental not to reprimand him for it. Not because my stuff is now gone, but because the shadetech includes explosives which could have hurt him. I scoop up the remains of the gear and after a short walk towards the balcony, throw it out, into a deep cluster of bushes.
Specter waits for me when I get back. He is not happy.
"What now?" He grumbles. "You haven't become soft, have you?"
I look him in the eye and he relaxes a bit from his tensed up posture. Apparently I still have a certain edge to my stare. Nevertheless, I need to speak about our next moves.
I tell him that I am severely fed up with our mission and he concurs and nods. I ask him what he thinks our task is and he answers, true to our orders, "To remove any threats to the recuperation of the country by elements from within the government."
"Then why are we killing Divs?"
He doesn't answer, only tapping his fingers on the singed surface of the folding table, a contemplative look on his face.
"We know for months now that the second wave has not gone rogue. Certain, few individuals yes, but the whole wave? No. Still we have hunted them."
He raises his masked face at me. "It's not our place to ask these questions."
"Not as operatives, no." I nod. "But as human beings? I think it is our duty to question our orders now."
"Now?"
"Yes." I lean forward, towards him. "In this world, we do. Do we actually still believe in continuity of government? With this outside? The US is a failed state, man."
"What's your angle, Point?"
I lean back and sigh into my mask. "How long has it been since our last orders? Before we were told to go silent?"
"I don't know?"
"Guess."
Specter shrugs. "Three, four months?"
I point my indexer at him. "Exactly. And have you tried raising anyone since then? Have you had any contact with our bosses?"
"No. Did you?"
I raise both of my hands. "Every. Day. For the last five weeks. No one answers. They are gone."
Now he leans forward, narrowing his eyes. "What are you implying?"
"I am implying that everyone who has been in charge has either left or is maybe dead, which means-"
"-That we have to do what we think is best." He finishes my sentence.
"Exactly. Chain of command is broken, so it is up to the individual units to continue with the fulfilment of the mission."
"To eliminate detractors of the rebuilding efforts." Specter seems to stare at thin air. "So the mission stays the same."
"Yes." I say. "But we choose targets now."
"Like the sound of that." He leans back again into his chair. Even though I don't see his face, I hear something in his voice, something like a smile.
We sit like that for a while. Him, adapting to this new revelation and me, surprised that it was so easy to persuade him. The wind outside has picked up and a slight howling is heard throughout the building. The dust has settled, time for a new gameplan.
"What about the girl?" Specter finally asks.
"I am not going to shoot her." I say. He nods.
"Yeah. That'd be a bad start." He's tapping his fingers on the table again. Apparently he does that when he thinks.
"Get her to the Divs?"
"At least to one of their FOBs, yeah. We'll wait until night and then we'll go."
Specter leans back and puts his feet on the table. "Alright boss." There's a grin in his voice. I like him. He's uncomplicated, nice to deal with. More often than not, I find people to be difficult. It happens that I don't get what they mean if they don't say it directly. Occasionally I feel as if someone is angry at me, even though that's not the case. When I was little my family suspected mild autism, but I was never really diagnosed. Specter has no face for me, but he seems friendly enough.
"Then, how do we deal with the Divs from now?"
"We'll avoid contact. If necessary, we'll try to use non lethal weapons. If we manage that, maybe help them out a little, without being too friendly. But we can't kill them anymore. The JTF too."
"The others? TS, hyenas, outcasts?"
"Well." I say, leaning back. I can't suppress a grim smile as I say it.
"We are still Hunters, aren't we."
Heey. Here's the reason my update cycle is like shit. I don't know if someone cares, but this is my AU take on the hunters in TheDivision. Seriously, maybe the coolest enemies safe for the Helghast in any video game.
This is my testbed. If you guys like the premise, I'll continue. If you have ideas or criticism, put it in the comments.
And please, excuse the shitty formatting. I am still writing this on a phone made of potato.