The windshield is cracked from two separate bullet holes, both near the driver's side and covering most of the surface in a spiderweb of fissures. The backseat smells like root beer and the tang of hot metal, the broken pieces of the busted-out backseat window are jumbling on the cushions as they drive. The heater is giving them hot air but also the stench of gasoline, and Warren quickly shuts it off. He notices a couple bullet holes on the hood of the car, but he's too bewildered to care.

The roar of the engine sputters like a firecracker, then gives out. Warren does not even consider the noise, nor anything for that matter; his eyes are pinched in agony, one of his hands pressed tightly to his abdomen, the other trying desperately to regain control of the car. So overcome with shock was he, that when a telephone pole appeared in front of his path he didn't even recognize the significance of it until it was too late. At least, the cracked glass of the windshield shattered in the direction of the inertia, and thus saved them from getting doused in pointy shards once they collided with the pole.

The front section was smashed, crumpled up to the engine block. Smoke was billowing, but the rain curtailed any chance of flames consuming the vehicle. Not that it mattered much to the two occupants.

Kate's heart is drumming with fright. Her hands are pressed against her ears, so she hears more acutely the sound of her harsh breathing, the lull of the outside world is barely there. It's dark, her head is pressed against the console between the front seats. There's a stinging pain on her right side, but it's barely noticeable. Adrenaline is keeping her alive and awake—enough so that she dares to move once she's sure the terror has passed.

Warren's outstretched hand is laid in front of her face. It's not moving. She lifts the cover on her ears and mutters, "Warren—hey, are you alright?"

"…Kate," he rasps. His head lolls towards her, but he doesn't say anything more.

"Warren…Warren," she clumsily undoes her seatbelt and shifts closer to him, "Talk to me, whu—what's wrong?"

She looks around and inspects the damage. It is difficult to see in the dark and the pelting rain, but it does not look good. One of his hands is pressed to his abdomen. She can't see it well, but her mind supplies an answer all the same.

"You're bleeding," Kate realizes, as if in a daze, "You…you've been shot."

"Jus' a bit of a sting, ah'll be fine," he quickly assures. He falls into a coughing fit, barely able to keep himself up. He clutches tightly to the steering wheel, "We've got to get to Blackwell. We can't miss curfew."

Silver eyes look up to him, "No, we need to get you help. We—we need to get you to the hospital."

"Ah'm fine."

"Warren—"

"Ah'm fine!"

"Warren, please—you're hurt!" She opens the glove box, spilling many items within to find what she was looking for: a packet of spare tissues. She pulls some from the packet and then leans over to inspect him closely, "Where is it, where's the wound?"

"Kate ih'z fine, please leh' me drive—"

Her hand presses near his stomach, and he flinches. Outside, the sound of rain gives way to the distant wail of sirens. Except these were not the sirens of the Arkadian police, but a different tone altogether; these were the sirens of the militia's mobile task force vehicles. Warren catches on to the sound, and shivers with dread—

"Kate, please—"

"We have to stop the bleeding," she presses, "Warren, where is it?!"

"You 'ave to leave me, now."

She looks at him like he's gone mad, "What?! No, I'm not leaving you—!"

"You have to. The militia are coming."

The sight of blood oozing from his hand tells her otherwise, "If we don't stop this bleeding, then you're not gonna make it out of here with me—just take the tissues please."

"The tissues aren't going to help me much," he retorts, even though he did take the offered tissues, "But you getting to someplace safe will. You have to go, now."

"They'll bring an ambulance," she's begging at this point, "I'll go when I know you're safe, at least give me that! They'll have to help you, they're supposed to help you—!"

"They are not our friends," he reasons, "When they find out what happened, they'll have their way with us, and no one will stop them. They'll get me to the hospital, but they'll throw you in jail. When I get patched up, they'll throw me in jail too. You have to leave, Kate. Please."

"No," she sobs, shaking her head desperately, "No, oh God, please no…"

His clean hand goes from the steering wheel to cup her face, his thumb brushing at the fresh tears. The approaching sirens tell them there's not much time left.

"Do not give up, Kate," he smiles, even despite the pain, "For me. For Max. For everyone."

She knows what he's saying, and it burns her heart with anguish. Yet, she cannot deny the inevitable; her messenger bag is slung over her shoulder, and she moves to exit the hatchback. Teary silver eyes impart one last farewell, and then she's out the passenger door and into the rain. Her silhouette shuffles down the street, the rain breaking up her fleeing shape until she's indistinguishable. The flashes of militia vehicles come from the opposite direction, homing in on the site of the crash.

Warren watches her vanish into the darkness. He smiles, then turns back to himself. He adjusts himself to be as comfortable as he could be, and lets go of the pressure on his stomach. The cold bites his fingers, he cannot feel much below his waist. He sighs, and rests his head back against the seat.

He closes his eyes as flashlight beams rush to him, and the ambience fades into nothing.

"The plan is to gather as many guards as possible into one section of the perimeter," R.J.'s voice begins, "That way, we catch them with their pants down in one fell swoop, then we mop up the remainders. From there, we smoke those rats out of the town hall with fire, then drop as many as we can before making a getaway in our vehicles."

"Before we start, we need our distraction to be close enough to our attack point to minimize the time they've got to react," R.J. shifts to their next part, "That's where Richard will come in. Using his bike, he will pass through the checkpoint on the northwest corner and move east along Oak Street towards the secondary parking lot. Somewhere along this street, he will "slip" from his bike and collapse, and thus invoke a reaction from the guards. If we're lucky, the few men they have on standby in their armored cruisers will be the first to reach him, then more from the checkpoints. They will probably call for an ambulance, and this will be our timer. It takes approximately five minutes to get an ambulance from the hospital into the central downtown, and this will be our mark. From this side street adjacent to Oak, Jackson and his group will engage the guards from concealment and will drop as many as they can; Richard will be on the ground the whole time this happens, so keep your shots clean and do not execute until you've got a chance to drop all of the guards simultaneously."

"With these guards dealt with, we will have limited time to make our next move," MacReady segways, "Danny and his truckful of men will line up on the front entrance and douse it at range with Molotov cocktails. While this is happening, Mackensen's group and my group will be on the lookout for anyone trying to slip out of the building during the chaos. We know the auxiliary exit from the bunker underneath the town hall comes up on the east side along Fern Avenue, so we'll have eyes on this street once all the perimeter guards are dealt with. Once we've done enough damage or if we see the ambulance coming, a signal will be given through comms to each team leader telling them to exfil their teams immediately. From there, we go to our pre-selected exfil points, stow away our vehicles, and return to the comfort of our beds and give our wives and children assurances; because we know that tonight, Arkadia will triumph over the rule of tyrants."

"What happens if something goes wrong?" a voice asks.

"We're going to have Doc on standby right here at the docks. Anybody gets wounded, hightail it back to him for treatment," R.J. answered, "If shit goes south, you call broken arrow over comms, then get rid of everything you have; leave nothing for them. If militia are on your tail, try to lose them. If you can't shake them off, then get right with God and give 'em hell. Remember boys, militia don't take prisoners unless they're told to. Save a final bullet for yourselves, if it has to come to that."

Silence overcame them. It was not that anxiety forced them to be silent, but rather a subtle feeling of remorse. No man wanted to experience the worst case, but every man knew what had to be done if it came down to it.

"Rich'," MacReady addresses personally, "Take a bike helmet, and a vest. The best we have for you is soft-type Kevlar, it'll stop the rounds the guards' service pistols use, but anything larger than that will go right through, so be careful. Stick to the plan, do not deviate from the story we talked about previously. When the shooting starts, get in cover and stay in cover, I'll make sure that you get picked up by me or Mackensen before we exfil."

"And my bike…?"

"I'll get you a new one, just make sure that there's nothing on your old one that'll implicate you."

Richard nodded. R.J. turned back to his men. A fire burned in his eyes, a vengeance long tempered in the flames of a bittersweet war. He saw this flame flicker in the eyes of his men, and called upon it with ancient fervor.

"We are men of honor, we are men of duty. To each and every one of us is the desire to live, and to die, as good men. No tyrant, no bureaucrat, no politician and especially no Prescott can take that from us, no matter how hard they try. Follow that courage which lies in your hearts, for all those you hold dear!"

Much like the victorious Roman legions of ancient's past, they chant with pride—

"Arkadia, invicta!"

Though Richard does not chant with them, the smiles of his wife and daughters wave him onwards, into the cold night. There are no doubts, there is no hesitation. He is not afraid.

The storm was becoming a serious problem. R.J. had not expected it, and the radio chatter from the walkie-talkies each team leader used suggested that nobody had seen this coming as well. But they were too far in at this point to turn back now, and so they set themselves up and prepared for the coming tussle.

A bolt of lightning strikes somewhere to the east of town, close to Blackwell's heights. Richard and a couple other men swore at the great sound of it, but held their nerve.

Richard had brought his jacket with him, and while it was not water-resistant, it was the best he had. Under this jacket was the soft body armor, then his shirt. He had the bike helmet adorned even despite being in the backseat of the van they were gathered in. His grip on the bike handles was taut with anticipation.

Then, there came the sound of an engine roaring from the opposite side of the town hall, far from their sight. Confused murmurs passed between them, which rose sharply once the report of gunfire followed afterwards.

"Did we start already?" one man asked his buddy.

"No, that's not us," he dissuaded, "R.J. is our shot caller—he would've given us the signal on comms."

"Then who the fuck—?"

A small vehicle, barely visible in the distant haze of the rain, zooms across the street they're parked on, passing from right to left and through what should be the northeast checkpoint. The shots cease, and suddenly a gaggle of figures are running up from the checkpoint closest to them towards the scene of the action. These were militiamen guarding the northwest checkpoint, the ones which were expected to hold their positions and be Richard's first point of contact, yet they've abandoned their posts and moved to support their comrades.

"Is this my cue?" Richard wondered aloud.

"Not yet," said Mackensen, "We wait until they're all grouped up."

Sure enough, more figures approached from the south side, coming from their checkpoints to see what the trouble was. They waited still.

"This is Alpha, interrogative," R.J.'s voice suddenly came through over the radio, "tangoes moving on northeast corner, we got movement all around the perimeter. Bravo, you got better visual where you're at?"

"Roger," Bravo team's leader confirmed, "I'm seeing all three technicals rolling out of the parking lot, heading north in hot pursuit. Every guard is moving to northeast, this might be our lucky break. If we're doing it, it's gotta be now."

"Charlie team copies. What d'you want us to do about that, Alpha?" their radioman replied. A long, tense pause followed afterwards.

"Standby," was all that came through.

Richard looked through the windshield for the fifth time this minute. He realized, much like the rest of them, that the militiamen were not going to be staying all clustered together once their technicals move beyond the perimeter. It would not be surprising if their posture was going to revert back to what it was previously—the militia ought to be feeling pretty vulnerable with how exposed their checkpoints are. Their chance to exploit this weakness was going to flee from them.

"I'm going in," Richard decided, already opening the side-door of the van.

"Wait, Rich'—!"

"There's no time," Marsh shut down their protests, "Let R.J. know I'm going in."

"Good luck, Richard," someone called to him. He didn't know who said it—the door closed a second after, so he let it pass and steeled himself for the moment of action. He mounts the bike, and begins pedaling.

Rainwater is pelting his jacket, and dripping from the lip of his helmet. He feels the bite of the cold on his exposed hands, feels the chill nip at his skin. The jeans he's wearing are already becoming damp.

He presses on, nevertheless, to the first checkpoint. There's a small gap between the lever-arm and the concrete barriers in his path, and he threads the needle. Past the intersection and down the street Richard goes, and slowly does he approach the cluster of guardsmen still gathered near the other checkpoint. The last of their technicals have gone through and will likely catch the rogue vehicle within a couple minutes, but that's none of his concern.

They had not noticed him yet. Seeing this as his last moment of tranquility, he closes his eyes and whispers softly, as if he were upon the threshold of death—

"Into your hands I commend my life, O Lord. Do with me what you will."

He comes up to the halfway point, and is now within sight of the side-street. He glances at it, and sees nothing but pitch black. He knows that there's three or so men with their rifles ready to go, and that's all the assurance he needs.

His pedaling guides him to a selected point of the sidewalk. He angles himself to where the tire will brush the curb and make it seem like he underestimated the torrent of water he was biking into. His right foot should cushion the initial lack of balance, but for the most part Richard would roll and end up sprawled on the sidewalk, and this would be what the militia would come across.

"Hey!" a voice calls from the cluster of militia. They've noticed him!

The tire hits the curb, and Richard attempts to roll. It works, but his leg is caught by the bike as it falls down with him, pinning him to his resting place. Not that he could shift his way out in time—the guards are upon him with their service pistols drawn, barking incessantly—

"Don't move! Hands where I can see them! Lemme see your hands!"

Marsh complies, "I'm sorry, pardon me—my foot's stuck, I can't move!"

They followed textbook procedure, and had him roll onto his stomach once the bike was pulled up and away. With his hands locked over his head, Richard held his silence as they searched the pockets of his jacket, coming across his wallet and phone.

"What're you doing out here, you shouldn't be roaming around at night," one of them bluntly stated, "Curfew's in effect, don't you know that?"

"Yes, yes, I know that," Richard recognized the guards were not keen to hear his excuse, but he gave it anyways, "I was trying to get back home as soon as I could, I figured I could pass through with no trouble!"

One of the guards leaned close to impart his two cents, "Wrong decision, buddy. You know this place ain't open to anyone, much less someone like yourself."

"What are you talking about?" Richard feigned surprise, "On what authority?"

"We got orders," the guard replies pointedly, "nobody goes through here during the night. Not even the District Attorney is allowed, but he's at least smart enough to know that it's not a good idea to try."

The guards chuckle at their comrade's subtle jab. Richard feels the sting of pride, but bites his tongue before his anger gets the better of him. He tries another approach instead, "I work here during the day, I thought that there might be an exception for people like me because of that. You'll see in my wallet, there's a security card to prove I'm not lying!"

"Is that true?" the guard looked up at his counterpart rifling through Richard's wallet. This guard was not even trying to hide the fact that every single dollar in Richard's wallet was going to be indefinitely confiscated, if only for the trouble the elder Marsh has caused them. But this guard confirms the claim, and shows the security card to his companions.

"Says right here: Richard Marsh, clerk typist. It's true."

"Well, alright then," the guard crouched beside Richard stands up, "What's the plan guys, how do we go from here?"

"Maybe take it up with the chief, back at HQ?" one guard pitched, "It's the right thing to do."

"Fuck no, let the police deal with this," another countered, "You know the chief's gonna throw a fit once he finds out what happened tonight. He'll fucking smoke all of us, and you know I can't let that stain my record. Clean records mean bonuses, and I got kids to feed, you know."

"Yeah, I'm sure your baby momma would love to hear that kinda sentiment," one of his buddies snickered, and was replied instantly, "Ayo, fuck you too. I've seen what you'd do for a crisp twenty dollars."

"Why not have that one guy you brag about deal with this?" came a snide comment. Many of the guards chuckled knowingly at their friend's circumstances.

"He don't want no old man organs, goofy," the guard in question snipped back, "You go for the young 'uns, they still have some value left in 'em before there's nothing worth taking."

Richard felt a terrible weight in his stomach, "…what are you talking about?"

Again, more chuckling. Richard was the only one who remained unamused.

"It's whatever you think it means," came a sinister reply, "I don't suppose you think our paychecks cover everything we need, do ya? Sometimes, a man's gotta find other means to pay the bills. Ain't that right, boys?"

A collective hum of agreement followed this guard's dangerous spiel.

"I mean, we could just let you go with a warning," one postulated, "What do we think, is it worth the trouble to let him go and call it a night?"

"He ain't worth the trouble," one mutters tiredly, "I ain't writing myself into tonight's report if I don't have to."

There came the rumble of thunder, long and deadly. The guards circled around Richard, stepping closer and closer. One of them pulls something from their belt: a pair of handcuffs.

"Right, then it's settled—"

The air was cut by hot lead. In an instant, the cluster of guards jerked simultaneously and collapsed like stringless puppets. It was over so fast, Richard hadn't even the time to blink.

He did cry out in surprise when one of the bodies fell on top of him. He pushed it aside, and then searched quickly for his wallet and phone—the former was still in the hand of a guard and the latter was flowing down the curb in rainwater, doomed to end up in the drain.