DISCLAIMER*: Kyle Crane is not going to evolve physically. Not in this fic, nowhere in this fic, not ever will I write that for a fetish. Refer to the end author's notes regarding this disclaimer.
Chapter Summary
- BACK TO SQUARE ONE
That woman couldn't help me. Nobody in this city can. Right now, I have to get back to Harran. Somehow. I've been away for far too long… What happened to the Tower while I was gone? - Kyle
...
Something's off about Beastly. He should have died. Well, he shouldn't even talk. Or act human... But I can't stop thinking about what Asem said... I need to find my boat and get to Harran. - Jack.
SEVEN: MAKE IT COUNT
It felt pointless at first. Crane had nothing—no Companion app, no bearings, no direction. Escaping Scanderoon seemed as impossible as leaving Harran had once felt. He never realized just how bareboned his situation truly was until now.
Still, his newfound determination pushed him forward. Gritting his teeth, he endured the sunburn. The orange sunlight crept through cracks in the blackout curtain, but he pressed on, the sting a small price to pay.
He was going to the Tower, even if it killed him.
Back and forth, back and forth, he did look over his shoulder and to the hotel. But the blood-orange glow never followed him. But it stayed put, unmoving, until it faded completely. The woman in red must have gone elsewhere—or he had finally put enough distance between them.
Good. Crane hoped that would be the last of her. A lot of help she was.
Crane's eyes caught sight of a clocktower several blocks away, rising above the low buildings. A perfect vantage point to survey the Coast.
There was some grace to heading in that direction; the tower's own shadow loomed over the low buildings. Over the sentient zombie. Under its cover, his strength would return, and he wouldn't have to endure the burning sunlight for long.
At least he wouldn't be dragging himself around with constant sunburns.
No. He was making a fool of himself again. The chances of letting his feral side take over...
That scared him.
The clocktower was quiet when he reached it. Too quiet. From the entrance on the ground floor to the spiraling stairs, the signs were there: footprints from recent runners taking shortcuts, stragglers standing stiff in the shadows, too dimwitted to find the way out. The sun couldn't touch Kyle as he made his way to the top.
The silence was the most telling sign. No tick-tock. No large gears moving. Someone made sure the clock wouldn't ring ever again.
"Alright… Harran's southwest of Scanderoon. So...northeast," he muttered, positioning himself by one of the clock faces. His eyes strained against the retracted sunlight, but the view confirmed what the woman had said: it wouldn't be easy. Mountains and water stretched for miles, with no visible trails or paths to the rocky borders.
And swimming? Her obnoxious comments about infected drowning had actually made him nervous about trying.
His options were very limited. Maybe he could find a manhole and navigate the sewers. But where would that lead? Another city he'd ruin with his cursed presence?
Kyle's gaze finally settled on the ocean to the northeast. There, faint on the horizon, he spotted a speck—Harran. Maybe even the tip of the Slums poking out. A sigh escaped him, heavy with both relief and misery. Harran was still standing. It hadn't been wiped off the face of the Earth.
But it was still so far away.
"Boat…" he muttered. "Only way to Harran is by boat…"
It sounded simple enough. Probably the fastest and easiest way to get there. And that was if the Navy wasn't out at sea...
"No." He straight-up scolded himself before pacing about in a bitter fit. "Not going back to that crazy woman."
Didn't matter if she had a boat. That lady was a walking disaster waiting to happen. One way or another, she was going to get him killed.
Sure, he could try to take it from her… but the fallout wouldn't be worth it.
So he kept searching, more aggressively this time until he spotted train tracks. Trailing after them led to the city's train depot and going onwards from there was to a tunnel, cutting through the mountains in Harran's direction.
"Train tracks...And there's the Border to Harran."
He recalled snippets of the dossiers he'd skimmed before his mission to Harran. The unstable terrain between the cities had made travel challenging, but the rail system had bridged the gap in the '80s. People used to cross for all sorts of reasons—recreation, family visits, business.
Then the trains stopped. The tracks became dangerous. And the tunnel was sealed off, just like those in Harran. But if the first outbreak taught him anything, it was that the infected were persistent. They always found the cracks to crawl out of.
Surely, he could find one, too. The tunnel could lead him straight back to Harran.
"Better than nothing."
Kyle glanced at the sky, taking note of how far the sun was from setting. If he made a beeline to that tunnel, he could reach there by sundown.
Clank!
In Crane's renewed assurance, he stepped back, only to knock into something. He had never taken to examining the clock room; other than at first glance, it had been left mid-repair before being abandoned. A tarp divided the space, concealing the west-facing clock.
Curiosity got the better of him.
He pulled it down to reveal a familiar setup. The same kind of table, maps, and diagrams he'd seen back at the parking lot, just fewer ammo crates than the other spot. It didn't take much to piece it together: this was another surveillance post.
"...GRE was here."
He grimaced. Just how active were they in the city? The unsettling feeling from the Ravs' earlier conversation wormed its way back into him. Moreover, the location of this specific station irked Kyle.
He stepped closer to the glass and looked down below, toward the Junction. From this vantage, he could see the Junction. The people there weren't the wisest; they had been watched for who knew how long.
It was worrisome. Another group of refugees being screwed over by GRE and for what reason?
He wanted to help—he really did. But it was out of Crane's hands. He would if he could, for the people here and the city. But not as a freak.
The Tower. You have to get back to the Tower.
The one despicable but significant fact about the setup was that it hadn't been entirely cleared out. Good. That meant resources for him. There had never been a time he didn't rifle through every cupboard, basket, and pot for something useful.
On the table was a forgotten burn phone—standard issue for GRE contractors. And it had a Companion app. Crane stared at it, debating with himself: he needed it, but did an infected want it? A part of himself convinced him to keep it for normality, or at least the illusion of it.
By the time he was halfway down the clock tower, a sound caught his attention. Outside. It sounded like a purr of some sort. Low, soft, mechanical.
A vehicle?
Cautiously, Crane approached the door and scanned the street. But nothing caught his eye. In fact, the street was eerily quiet.
Stiff.
Like the city itself was holding its breath. Waiting.
A monster shouldn't feel wary. And yet, Crane's instincts were screaming at him. The lingering sunlight still blinded him to the telltale orange glow of nearby humans.
Still, the hairs on the back of his neck bristled.
"Sniff." Despite his eyes and ears being at a disadvantage, Crane's nose picked up something hanging thick in the air.
Potent. Strangely...enticing.
"What's that smell?" He searched for the source. "...It's appetizing."
That's when he realized—he hadn't eaten since he 'woke up.' Or... had he eaten someone? Before regaining his senses? The thought made his appetite queasy, almost fleeting.
Yet, his mouth still watered. He followed after the scent to the boundary of a large, empty marketplace, south of the clock tower.
It was bigger than the one in Harran—compact with tightly packed stalls and hawker shops, but void of any life. The air hung heavy with silence, save for the faint sound of soft tearing and the grotesque crunch of teeth ripping into something soft.
The smell had an inducing grip on Crane, but his caution snapped him back as he spotted the source—a feeding frenzy.
He lingered in the shadows, observing two regular infected and a Viral were hunched over something red and fleshy. No matter how alluring the smell, he had the decency—or perhaps just the horror—not to accept the invitation. The feeders made it clear they didn't want him joining the table.
But the meal caught his eye.
It wasn't a survivor, nor did it resemble any human form. One of the infected clawed open what looked like blood-drenched plastic, revealing crimson liquid bags inside.
Bait.
That word came to Crane. He instinctively stepped back.
KREF-vroom-vroom!
The purr roared louder—a revving engine.
Wheels shrieked on stone bricks.
VROOOOOM! CRACK! THUD!
Wood planks and metal shutters exploded. A Jeep barreled through a closed shop and a stall of rotten fruits. Full throttle. Then a buggy zoomed into the bait area.
In the chaos, Crane glimpsed a hook stabbed into one of the infected, swinging it like butchered meat.
Time seemed to slow as his mind registered the drivers and passengers, clad in orange suits.
He wasn't fast enough to realize one of them threw a rope snare at his feet.
"Whoa - Whoa! Garhmp!" Kyle yelped as his whole world flipped.
His footing vanished, and his back hit the ground hard. Vertigo spun him for a moment before he realized the rope pulled—dragging him across the ground.
He was being hauled like a prize catch, against his will.
"YEAAAH! We bagged a big one!"
"Wear him down!"
Shit! This couldn't get any worse.
Crane's situation just couldn't be for the better! Trying to reach for his ankles was impossible with every object and the uneven ground knocking into him. Seven feet behind the moving Jeep, with the driver focusing on the road and the trapper cackling at their catch.
The hell Crane had been through, with the added mockery, was enough for him to retaliate.
Without hesitation, Crane fired his tendrils, one lashing straight for the trapper's neck.
"Garh-!" They traded places: the skinny criminal pulled right off as Crane launched up into the backseat. The man's body hit the road with a sickening thud—bones cracking and organs rupturing on impact as he rolled to a gruesome stop.
"Holy shit!" the driver yelped. His mind raced between his choices. Should he stop? Should he jump out of a moving vehicle?
BAM! BAM!
a motorcyclist fired at Crane, a grazing shot nicking his side. He hissed but dove forward into the backseat, closing the gap to the panicked driver.
The monster dove into the backseat as a motorcyclist fired a pistol, nicking his side.
"Stop!" The Jeep driver pleaded. It was all too much for him! His wide eyes glued to the rearview mirror as the beast loomed closer.
A claw grabbed the wheel, making him shriek. That was the final straw—the driver hopped out of the moving Jeep.
More bullets whizzed past as the motorcyclist fired again, but hitting the frame or missing Crane entirely. With one sharp twist of the wheel, the Jeep veered hard to the right—straight into the bike.
CRASH!
"GAH!" The motorcyclist's body was flung like a ragdoll as his bike crumpled under the Jeep. Metal screeched and snapped while the rider's mangled form tumbled lifelessly to the pavement.
"Serve you right," Kyle snapped and decided to get comfy in the driver's seat—he scored himself a vehicle. It wasn't his old buggy from the Countryside, but it would make do.
With this, he could reach the train tunnel faster.
He slammed the wheel around, whipping the Jeep into a tight turn.
"There he is!"
More tires screeched behind him. Around the corner of a road, a small fleet of men in orange headed his way. Just how many were there?!
"Give it up already!"
Crane floored the gas pedal. Two seconds slower, and they would've cut him off. He imagined their bafflement. He would be too if he saw a zombie driving a Jeep.
"S-Shoot him!"
Tat-tat-tat-tat!
Bullets shredded through the windshield, forcing the Hunter to duck as shards of glass rained down.
That was a fucking assault rifle!
Tat-tat-tat-tat!
Pop!
The Jeep lurched hard to the left, and Kyle felt himself sink a little in his seat.
No go. That was a burst wheel.
Time to bail.
Crane climbed awkwardly onto the seat, balancing against the unsteady vehicle. His eyes darted to the road ahead while his tendrils lashed out, snagging a telephone pole. With a powerful yank, he launched himself skyward just as the Jeep careened into the bay window of a clothing store.
The amount of noise before nightfall stirred up the aggravated undead crowds—a perfect problem for those drivers.
Crane darted across the rooftops with lightning speed. But the chasing vehicles didn't care about the feral undead their noise attracted. They plowed through the streets, determined to catch him.
Roadblocks slowed them occasionally, offering Crane brief moments to widen the gap.
Alright, if they wanted to play that game with him, he'd give it to them! The sun was still over the mountains. He just had to last until the night.
"Get that thing off the roofs!"
Bullets zipped past. God! They really wanted him—alive or dead!
Crane dropped to a balcony garden, darting through an open door and vanishing from sight.
"Two of you!" a packleader barked from the buggy, slowing down. "Go up there and find him!"
CRACK!
Shattered glass rained down on the buggy. The guy in charge barely had time to react before something heavy landed on the metal frame. A clawed hand yanked him out by the collar, and his world spun. He hit the ground just in time to see two Virals leap onto him.
"RAM IT!"
Rubber burned and suddenly, the frightened driver leapt out of the moving buggy as a second set of headlights rushed over to it.
Kyle barely turned before the impact sent the buggy tumbling. It flipped, rolling uncontrollably before it teetered over the edge of the road—crashing into the canal below.
Cold water engulfed him.
At first, he panicked—the thought of dying by water because he was infected horrified him. But nothing happened. Instead, the burn inside his lungs forced him to move. Get air. Now.
Pew! Pew!
Shots tore through the water, sending bubbling streaks around him. Swim! And he did so to the opposite bank of the canal.
Crane surfaced quietly with a gasp, his claws gripping the edge. He thought that would be the end of this chase as he hauled himself onto dry land.
He thought that would be the end of this chase as he pulled himself onto dry land with a loud gasp. But he could hear the vehicles pick up speed, crossing over a bridge five blocks away.
He needed to get out of sight.Now!
Adrenaline surged through his body, pushing his legs faster as he searched for a hiding place. If only he could go invisible-
"Where did he go?!"
"Check the alleyways!"
He skidded to a halt at the mouth of a narrow alley, his way blocked by a motorcyclist, blocking his way with the bike.
Shit.
Instinctively, Crane ducked behind a dumpster, pressing himself into the shadows. He held his breath, hoping the dim light would conceal him long enough for the biker to move on.
The crunching of the rider's boots grew louder across the pavement. Crane's heart shot up into his throat when the rider walked past his hiding spot.
And he was standing right next to Crane. Not reacting.
What the-? The guy had to have seen him!
Seconds ticked down. Crane could hear his own heartbeat pump so loudly in his ears. With how loud his teeth chattering, he had to clutch them tightly with his claws. The blood-orange glow in front of Crane taunted him to tackle it down.
"...Lost him." The rider turned around.
There were a billion more questions Crane wanted to ask, but right now, the prisoner's back was exposed, his guard down. Luck was for once on his side!
Crane crouched lower, ready to strike. He'd figure out the mystery later—right now, he had an opening.
It should have been a simple grab and twist of the neck, like countless others he had killed before. However, at the last second, the rider glanced over his shoulder, and wide, terrified eyes reflected the monstrous figure bearing down on him.
Crane saw the rider's hand reach down to his belt, for a concealed weapon, but he was ready to strike-
Blue blinding light seared into his vision.
"Gargh!" He crumpled instantly, his strength sapping away. He should have known better that the bastard would pull out a UV light. Not a firearm.
"I got him!" the rider hollered, his hand shaking. "H-Hurry!"
Get that away from me!
Crane lashed out, weak and fumbling. His claws swiped at the light but missed. Strangely, as Crane fell, the UV device flew out of the convict's grasp.
"AAAH!"
The scream was bloodcurdling. Crane froze. He hadn't even touched the guy—yet there he was, clutching his arm.
Or what was left of it. Blood poured from the stump where his hand had been.
The opportunity gave Crane just enough time to kick the light away. The oppressive burn vanished, and he staggered back onto his feet, trying to piece together what had just happened. Looking for the culprit who sliced off that arm.
That was when he noticed his right arm. It was bleeding. But he felt no pain. Why-?
His stomach dropped at the sight of what was possibly his ulna sticking out. Unnaturally.
It was longer, sharper, and wrapped in sinewy tendons. Like the unfolding of a praying mantis' blade.
He had a blade out of his arm.
"Oh shit," Kyle muttered, hesitating to touch it extending from his arm. Another horror in his new body to be terrified of. He was also worried that either the bleeding wasn't going to stop or his arm might drop off.
No, that wasn't his blood.
Then, as if responding to his wish for the foreign object to be gone, the blade retracted. Flesh sealed over, and the trickling blood stopped as the carapace plates on his skin closed the wound. His arm returned to something close to 'normal.'
An assassin's blade.
Kyle wasn't sure how to feel about it. Fear? Disgust? Or maybe… grudging acceptance? It was another tool for survival now. So he swallowed his fear and bolted. The rest of the rider's gang wouldn't be far behind.
"H-Help me…"
"I told you this was a bad idea!"
"Ah, shaddup and keep moving!"
"What about him?"
BAM!
Crane almost flinched from the gunfire, but he kept running. Even after four of their men had been killed, these convicts were determined to capture him. Were they just brave or stupid?
"Catch that infected!"
One quick glance at the horizon told him everything: the sun was nearly gone, just a sliver of light remaining.
Never in his life was Kyle desperate for the night to fall!
Suddenly, the infected face of Jade launched at him. Screaming.
"Gah!" Crane gasped, stumbling as his vision blurred. He nearly collapsed but caught himself. Shit! What was that? It was like his body had slammed on the brakes.
Crane gritted his teeth and shook his head desperately. Just like that, the strange, sudden vertigo went away. A relapse? Was he reverting?
No, if that were happening, he wouldn't even have the chance to stay conscious. The convicts might get the upper hand. Or worse, he might kill more innocent people.
Kyle forced himself to breathe steadily. Fight it; he could do this. He'd made it this far.
"The feeling's mutual."
It didn't help that he was remembering the brunette. Why now, of all times?
"Because I don't know who you were. Or what you're gonna become."
What he'd become.
Those words still cut deep, a brutal reminder of the war inside him. He'd fought to stay on one side of the coin in this body, but the world only ever saw him on the other. Wherever he went, death would follow him.
Crane clenched his talons and straightened. One deep breath in. Another out.
"So you're going to sulk and do nothing?"
No more.
Crane was done wallowing. If the world wanted a monster, fine. He'd be the monster. On his own terms. Both sides of himself, forged into a single, living weapon.
He had one shot to make it out alive.
Make it count.
"See the bastard?" the new self-appointed leader demanded.
"C'mon, man! It's nearly nighttime!" one of the weaker convicts whined, his grip on his bike handles turning white. He wanted to leave. The ominous air simply arrested the idea that his time was counting down...
Even the ravens perched on ledges above seemed to mock them with their soulless, beady eyes.
Or perhaps they already knew how this would end.
"You heard the boss. We're not going back empty-handed!"
"H-Hey!"
A shaky finger from another Jeep driver pointed down the street. And there it was, as if answering their wish, the Special infected emerged from the shadows. Handing itself to them on a silver platter.
But the smarter convicts, including the group's leader, noticed something was...off.
The 'creature' didn't lurch or stumble like the common infected, nor did it move with the feral, animalistic aggression of Biters. No, this one walked upright, calm and deliberate, its posture unnervingly human.
This Special stood its ground in the middle of the street, bold. As though it were daring them to come closer.
The convict leader swallowed. Something about this didn't sit right. But it didn't matter.
Four men against one monster. Fair odds.
"Let's go!" The leader slapped the side of the Jeep, spurring the driver to start the engine. Two bikers roared ahead, their engines echoing through the narrow street, while the Jeep followed close behind.
And still, the Special infected didn't move.
It was a wild, reckless idea that Crane cooked up in his head. Even he wasn't sure if he could pull it off. High school track and field didn't teach him anything about outrunning speeding vehicles.
The trappers' weapons of choice: hook ropes, UV lamps, blunt weapons, all sorts. It was like shark hunting—only this predator prowled on land.
Crane sprinted forward.
The first rider closed the gap, pitching his hook rope with practiced precision. But what he didn't expect was for the freak to catch it mid-air. The Hunter yanked hard, the force ripping the man clean off his bike. He hit the ground with a sickening crunch, neck twisted unnaturally.
One down. Three to go.
The next rider was seconds away, UV flashlight tied to the bike's headlights already burning into Crane's skin. His flesh sizzled, smoke curling from his carapace, but he pressed on.
Before their very eyes, the Special took the stolen hook from before and swung the rope like a cowboy swinging it like a lasso.
The hook fired with brutal accuracy, embedding itself deep into the shoulder of the second cyclist. One violent yank, and he went flying off the bike with his helmeted head smashed into the asphalt. The UV light skidded under the wreckage, flickering before going out.
Halfway there.
Crane had to dodge off to the side. A moving jeep on full throttle was too dangerous for even him to take a chance. At the right moment, the convict leader swung a wrench at him.
It was still too slow a reaction. Like the hook before, the infected snatched the weapon mid-swing, ripping it from the convict's grasp. The leader clung to the Jeep's frame, his grip white-knuckled as he barked, "Turn around!"
The Jeep screeched into a sharp U-turn. A blast of the UV lights locked onto the monster.. They had the upper hand—the monster cowering from the rays like a deer in headlights.
"Got him!" the leader shouted with a victorious grin.
But they were wrong. The antlers came down.
CRACK!
Somehow, one way or another, the windshield shattered. The driver screamed as a wrench tore through the glass with immense force, the sudden impact leaving him momentarily blind.
"Drive straight! Drive straight!" the leader demanded angrily and the driver tried. But his panic got the better of him. Out of nowhere, a clawed hand reached through the door and yanked him out into the street.
Because of that, the wheel turned right sharply, enough for the Jeep to tilt and crash on its side. Sparks flew as metal screeched against asphalt, the grinding sound cutting through the air until the machine came to a violent stop.
The attempt to derail the Jeep nearly cost Crane his life, but he fought through the UV's searing burn and seized the moment!
Of course, not without pain. Not something he could get used to—scratch that, it was impossible for an infected—but he pushed through it.
Rolling onto the ground, Crane forced himself upright. He staggered, panting heavily, trying to shake off the exhaustion creeping into his muscles.
"Bastard!"
It wasn't over.
The packleader had managed to jump clear of the crash, though not without earning a fresh gash across his forehead.
Crane could see the anger—raw and desperate, like daggers aimed at him.
Last one.
"I am getting that Antizin!" the packleader roared, yanking a crossbow from his back and leveling it at Crane. "And you ain't stopping me!"
Kyle didn't understand at first—why the sudden mention of Antizin? Then he noticed the bandages peeking from beneath an orange sleeve. The glow beating inside the convict was also blood-orange, lighter but similar to that in the woman in red.
Another infected human.
But, he didn't care. Not for a total stranger or a man convicted of a crime.
There were no heroes or villains here. It was live or die.
Kyle sprinted—not away, but toward the packleader. Despite the fumbling of an arrow and the fear flashing in his eyes, the convict held his ground and fired.
The first arrow missed.
The second buried itself in Kyle's shoulder. He bit back a yelp, still charging forward, pain be damned.
The third would have been fatal, aimed for his heart, but last-second instinct suddenly whacked the arrow away—a carapace-plated arm acting like a gauntlet. He didn't stop. He wasn't going to.
He had killed men far worse than one grunt.
The packleader barely had time to react before the monster's left claw shot out. Something grotesque lashed from it, coiling around the convict's crossbow and yanking out of his hands. Something that came straight from an alien movie.
The man stood flabbergasted, unarmed, as Kyle's right arm drew back.
Ready for the punch.
Then the blade emerged.
It swung. At least, the prisoner thought it did. Then he couldn't breathe. Something filled his throat with liquid. And the world oddly tilted before him.
He hit the ground, dead.
Zero.
Kyle stood over the lifeless body, exhaling sharply. He reached up and yanked the arrow from his shoulder. The pain barely registered—numbed by the same adrenaline that kept him alive.
Crane triumphed, as he had so many times before in Harran. He glanced up to the orange sky and estimated how many more minutes of daylight were left before he walked away from the carnage.
No time for celebrations. No more surprises or distractions. Crane was going into that tunnel. Now.
He climbed up a fire escape and sprinted his way to his destination. At the sixth roof, however, the echo of wheels rolling through distant streets pulled him up short.
More of those bastards.
Kyle steeled himself. He was ready to take them all down.
Then he saw them.
A convoy of vehicles crawled through the streets in the distance, men in orange hanging off their sides. And one of those people had a large and heavily modified weapon slung over his shoulder. A machine gun? A grenade launcher? He couldn't tell.
How in the world did convicts get firepower like that?!
Did that matter? It was a small army coming for him!
Crane slouched down in disbelief and annoyance at the sheer number. They were as bad and persistent as Rais' damn men!
"C'mon," he groaned irritably.
His new body didn't feel the daytime lethargy; his burns were growing painless. The night would wash it all away, bringing strength and clarity—and he would teach these jerks a lesson they'd never forget. The sun had now gone over the horizon.
Yet the sliver of sunlight still tortured him every step. Taunted him.
"Be nighttime already!"
Then Crane heard it coming from behind—a faint thunk behind him, followed by the sharp whistle of something fired.
He peered over his shoulder at the last second.
In an instant, thick, crosshatched ropes exploded over him, ensnaring his entire body. His arms and legs bound together, he toppled from the rooftop, tumbling two stories down.
"No! No! No!" he screamed his thoughts out and vocally hollered, "Omph!" on impact. He couldn't count the many times he had felt pain in all different ways.
"It's down! We got it!"
"Gaaaah…" Crane groaned, dazed.
His head throbbed as he raised it just enough to see vehicles surrounding him. Engines rumbled as orange-suited figures spilled out, each armed and moving with cautious excitement.
"Dammit. We lost a whole team to this...this thing!" he heard someone yelp.
"Good."
"Good? What do you mean good?!"
"It means tonight's show just got itself one hell of a killer."
Show? What show?
"Call the Director. Tell him we've got his new main attraction. And he's paying double
What was going on? Crane quickly and desperately tried to tear the net apart. He'd gladly use his teeth to gnaw the fibers. Hell, even let his other side take over if it meant getting out of this.
"I-It's trying to cut the ropes!"
"Shoot it with the tranq gun!"
Pif!
"Gak!" Crane flinched at the sharp prick on his neck. He pulled the offending object out to find a dart in his claw. A tranquillizer dart.
Oh shit. No, no, no!
His body betrayed him almost instantly, going limp as the drug coursed through his veins. Enough to knock out an elephant, even an infected-turned Crane.
Everything blurred as the prisoners towered over him. Their smiles warped and the color orange swirled in a sickly, slurpy manner.
No. Let me go. He needed to get back to the Tower.
"Alright, big guy," one of them sneered. "Make us filthy rich."
In that fading moment of clarity, Crane thought to himself with regret. That brunette sounded like a better choice. Far better than any Tom, Dick or Harry he'd meet on the street. He wished he hadn't left her.
After all, he was still a monster. The world would always treat him as such.
That was the new law of nature.
As if the universe wanted to drive the point deeper, a gun's hilt swung toward his face.
Thud!
Darkness swallowed him whole. He never felt his body being dragged away.
"Jack. Where are you going?"
It hadn't even been ten minutes since the last call.
"Nowhere," the brunette answered casually as she skidded across the rooftops. "Just looking for something."
"No. I see you heading for the beach. And that...Freakazoid, you called him? Is going the opposite direction."
"Oh, is he?" she said with a shrug. "Didn't notice."
"Jack. You're supposed to be 'observing' him. Or at least...pretending to be friends with him."
"'Friends' with a Day Hunter. Now that's almost as crazy as hearing him talk."
"And letting an infected bite you, on purpose, without dying isn't?"
"He said he didn't want a babysitter. I'm just giving him what he wants."
"Uh...did he upset you or something? This is the first time I've ever heard you get this riled up."
"Are you implying he got under my skin?" she chuckled. How amusing. "Fifteen minutes. He's confused. Vulnerable. He'll come grovelling back. Beg me to help him."
"Okkkay." Bones wasn't buying it. "Whatever this squabble you two have, you two need to get over it. The faster he gets on our side, the faster we can work on a cure."
"You only want him to be docile when he comes to your lab."
"I...won't deny that I don't want to get torn limb from limb if he comes here. And that's if he comes here," Bones quickly emphasized the point. "But if I'm supposed to treat him like a patient, we've gotta see eye to eye. Preferably without the teeth."
"You two can work that out on your own."
"'Work it out', she says. Sure." Drenched in self-doubt, his words trailed off, accompanied by the unmistakable creak of him sinking into his chair.
"Come now. He'd fit right in with the Ravs. His mind's still intact."
"And for how long? He's a different case from all the others and we don't even know how he got his humanity back."
"You know, he was still, technically, feral, when we first met," Jack mused. "Would my secret weapon help restart his brain?"
"Uh. I mean…" The hesitation was palpable as Bones reeled back, scrambling for an answer. "It's possible. None of the previous subjects managed to survive long enough after the first bite… We've been after an immune response, but we never thought about how it could affect an infected's body."
Jack didn't need to be in the same room to hear the gears turn in Bones' head. One of the smartest lads she knew and she listened attentively.
"His whole system could have rebooted itself, thanks to it and started attacking the virus... Or it could just be a placebo effect," he ended up second-guessing.
Again, the gears moved on, harder in thought over that last part. The confidence in his words started like a symphony, only for the last note to fall flat. The young clever Grad was clearly struggling to ground his hypotheses.
"I really can't say until I start doing tests. If he's cool with it."
"You shouldn't brood about it, mate. You're already infected."
"Yesah. Stop reminding me," he whined. "I just hope we can get our answers sooner than later."
"Bones. My secret weapon is not a cure..." Jack reminded him sharply. "It nearly tore the Community apart."
"I know. We all know. We just…didn't handle it well at the start."
"We couldn't have predicted how things would turn out," Jack pointed softly. With a sharp tap to her earpiece, she ended the call.
Time was against her again. With just an hour of daylight left, she needed to head back to the stone dock she crashed into days ago. A terrible idea, sure—but the decision to find the boat had already rooted itself in her mind.
For all she knew, it had either sunk to the bottom of the ocean or was swarmed by the undead.
Yes, her fearless leader had ordered her to stay in Scanderoon. Yes, she was supposed to work on the assignment. And yes, the Ravs were tasked with reconnecting with the Tower. She had no doubts about Talo or the scout group pulling through. But the nagging feeling in her gut wouldn't let up.
A job was a job. She hadn't made the decision to take the boat to Harran—yet. She could distract herself with side jobs in the meantime and wait on Asem's word.
...Sod it.
Staying in one place had never been her style.
"Alright, Caroline. Let's hope you're still intact."
Retrieving Lenny's Caroline was a set mission to help distract her, at the very least. Afterwards, she could use it to move through the city—no blocked roads, no deafening engines, and best of all, no zombies. Scanderoon's scattered open channels made water travel a safer alternative to the streets.
Moreover, it was her only way of travel to book it to the Slums. It had been her original plan from the start—to leave the Outskirts, reach the Tower, and find her cousin. Just to be sure. That everyone was alright. Alive. Fine.
She retraced her steps from Day One and passed through the broken quarantine wall, expecting to see the boat right where she'd left it.
"OH, blooming-!" Jack stopped her strongest curse.
Caroline was gone. Nothing but calm, salt-scented waters and distant buoys remained.
"Lenny's gonna murder me in cold blood."
Jack grimaced at that thought. She was already in hot water for taking someone else's boat to begin with. She searched about, just hoping for a glimpse of it nearby.
Those buggers who chased her into the pier must have taken it.
"Don't suppose you've seen where my boat went?" she casually, slight-jokingly, asked the nearby snappy blokes. She sighed at hearing inaudible murmurs and hisses, not an answer.
As if on cue, her pocket buzzed. With a frustrated roll of her eyes, she put on the comms.
"Bones. I already told you. I'm not going after Freakazoid."
"Who's Freakazoid?"
Jack quickly shut herself up. How untimely. It wasn't Bones' voice, but of all people, it had to be her.
"And hello to you too, young lady. What can I do for you today?"
"Day's almost over," Siv pointed. "You should be heading to a safehouse."
"I can kill some time. Got an ongoing errand to run first."
"For this Bones guy, right?" she pried. "You mentioned his name yesterday."
"Really shouldn't be eavesdropping, princess."
"Then you shouldn't have a big mouth about your contacts, granny."
"Ok. I'll give you that one," Jack conceded. "He's a friend from the Outskirts. Our current radioman over there."
"Current? What happened to the last one?"
"She had to quit. Bones was available at the time, and he needed to get out of his stuffy lab more anyway."
"So he's a scientist?"
"Grad student. Harran University. Studied in...forensic anthropology, I think. Or maybe forensic archaeology. One of those."
"Wow. Your group sounds understaffed."
"I should say the same for the Junction."
"Yeah. Won't deny that," Siv agreed with a weak laugh. "So that's why he's called Bones? He studies bones?"
A deliberate attempt to divert the conversation. She had something to say, but something also held her back from saying it. So Jack played along.
"Human remains, actually."
She heard a quick utter of disgust from the other end.
"Pretty useful in studying those infected a little more," Jack continued. "Bones called their skeletal structures a marvel. Thicker than human bone density."
"S-Sure. Yeah. Useful," Siv exclaimed but couldn't keep to the same level of enthusiasm as Jack's. She had seen enough of the infected to know how grotesque they were—and how some weren't just falling apart but mutating into something far worse.
And to hear about someone putting their hands into an infected corpse and opening it up? She couldn't help but feel a little weirded out.
"...You didn't call to learn more about a Grad student's field of work."
It certainly caught the girl on the other end off guard, without knowing she had stepped into the trap. "A-And? I was just curious!"
"Hm-hm." Jack didn't believe the youngster and got in return a long, droned-out groan.
"...Look," Siv muttered, clearly deflecting, "you seem busy. I'll call later-"
"It's no bother at all, Siv," the brunette chided. "What's up?"
"Um..." The hesitation was enough to make Jack smirk. Even the faint, hurried whisper away from the mic gave away that the teenager had something on her mind. "D-Did you find that Day Hunter?"
Really. What was the need to change topics on a dime? Regardless, Jack continued the game. "Oh, yes. Got more than what I bargained for."
In more ways than one. But Siv didn't need to know that.
"That doesn't sound good. Should we be going after this thing?"
"Hunt down the Hunter… Nah," she reassured. "He's not much of a threat anyway."
"He?"
"Pay no heed." Jack laughed. Now it was her turn to flip the conversation on its head. "One infected isn't worth losing sleep over. The Junction has more pressing matters, right? Food and water, meds."
Silence. So it wasn't any of those matters that got Siv's knickers in a twist.
"But hey. At least we have Antizin."
"Antizin. Right."
There was no dressing it. Siv willingly slipped her frustration out with a soft sound telling Jack she had slouched back in her seat.
"We do have enough, yes?"
"Oh. Y-Yeah. Of course! Plenty of Antizin. Can survive an Ice Age if it hit us."
"Hm-hm. Running zombies down with snowmobiles. That's actually not a bad pastime."
"Throw in some skates. You could slice their limbs off if they slip on the ice." Siv giggled at that thought, her tension slightly loosening over the line.
But Jack didn't share her girth. The little hint the teenager had been hiding in this entire conversation was obvious—no way could Jack ignore.
"Something's wrong, isn't it?"
Nothing at first. Then a forced, fake laugh echoed from the earpiece.
"Wrong? Nothing's wrong! A-And...if you're gonna accuse me of something, then… Then don't come back here-"
"You might as well tell me to drop dead." The hesitation spoke volumes to Jack. Siv had nobody at the Junction willing to truly listen; adults either brushed her off or claimed they had it handled. "Talk to me. I can't do my job if you're not honest."
Again, silence. And yet, the line stayed open. Good, so Siv was staying on the call.
"...I'm not supposed to say anything. Everyone would freak out."
"And that is when?" she asked. "Three days? A week later? Everyone will find out about this white lie you are telling yourself."
"It's not me lying. It's…" Siv fell silent.
"Mahir told you not to say anything."
Jack could hear the teenager's heavy sigh—bullseye. Siv had been carrying this secret, likely since this morning, maybe even longer.
"...He and the Doc don't want to scare people… But everyone's already on edge. The drops from Mahir's friend are taking longer and longer too."
"I thought you were all well-stocked on Antizin."
Another groan from the other end. "That's what Will says so we wouldn't panic. But we're running dry. Some are taking more than their share."
Jack furrowed her brow. That little bit of information was a concern to her that Jack muttered, "More?" softly. That word lingered unspoken in her mind, but she focused back on Siv's voice.
"It's bad, Jack. Some people are thinking of leaving and Mahir's trying to reason with them but… Even he's losing patience"
"That is bad," Jack agreed.
"Everyone's complaining and I'm just…" Siv stopped herself but from the tone, Jack could tell she wanted to say 'sick and tired'. "If these GRE jerks and convicts weren't around, things wouldn't be this hard…"
Jack heard a small knock, followed by the mic shrieking slightly from a sudden movement.
"I just…don't know what we can do."
And there it was. The real dilemma Siv had been carrying since Jack left the Junction. A shortage of Antizin was bad enough, but people using it more frequently? That spelled trouble.
It wasn't as if the authorities would swoop in with aid—not after they'd turned their backs on Harran. Generosity wasn't in their vocabulary. Their focus was elsewhere: maybe dealing with the most recent outbreak, or keeping the virus from going beyond the Checkpoint and into the rest of Scanderoon.
Still, with all the recent GRE activity, Jack had a sneaking suspicion the airdrops hadn't stopped. Simply put, they changed hands—to GRE and not the survivors.
Her gaze then drifted to the Bayside ahead
Scanderoon's stunning coastline stretched far. As her eyes traced the white sands eastward, she recalled something Mahir once mentioned. The Scanderoon Prison lay in that direction, somewhere along the coast.
Suddenly, a wild idea struck her. Stupid? Absolutely. But Jack couldn't help the grin spreading across her face.
"I'll get some Antizin."
"What?"
"That's why you called me, right?"
"Not really. I just wanted to talk to someone who isn't a whiner like everyone else."
"Aww, I've grown on you."
She heard a scoff. "Be serious, Jack," Siv said, trying to brush it off. "I don't have any idea where we can find more Antizin."
"I might have an idea," Jack replied, pulling out the Antizin bottle Doc had given her from her sling bag.
"How?" There was a wary tone in Siv's voice. "You're not gonna raid a GRE pantry, are you?"
"Someone else's hoard. A greedy bunch of blokes," she chided. "I can get the Antizin."
"...Alright." There was hesitation, but Siv didn't try to convince Jack otherwise. Not that she could. But she also wanted to believe in Jack's confidence. "You did try to go after a Hunter… Just don't get yourself killed."
"I'm Mad Jack, little princess. I'm immortal," she recited the same phrase she had used so often back in her days of kickboxing. "I also need you to do me a small favor in return."
"Anything," Siv said with a note of hope in her voice.
"I'm looking for my missing boat. Think your runners could do a recon for me?"
"...You're leaving us?" The disappointment in Siv's voice was tangible, tinged with frustration.
Jack could understand the reaction. But she didn't hold back.
"The Coast wasn't my destination, Siv. I didn't even know about a second outbreak until I crashed here."
"...Where were you supposed to go?"
"Harran."
"Harran?!" Siv exclaimed. "What's so important about going there?"
"Family and friends," Jack said plainly, hitting straight to the point. Best to come out clean than to sidestep. "Wouldn't you leave home if you've lost contact with someone you care for?"
"...Is this about your cousin?" Siv's earlier frustration softened.
Now it was Jack's turn to sigh. "...Even if we don't see eye to eye all the time, he's still family. He's all I got."
"Yeah... I get that." Not entirely; that much Jack could read in her voice. The teenager might not forgive her mom for everything, but she still worried. Blood over water.
"It's a short trip. I'll be back before you know it. And...if I don't find him… Maybe it'll take a little while longer."
"Why?"
The answer was simple. "Well. I'd have to make preparations… He's my cousin. No one deserves a half-arsed burial."
The line went quiet. It was a raw honesty Siv hadn't expected from Jack. Her earlier anger now felt misplaced.
"...Hey, Jack," Siv finally said, just as Jack was about to remove her earpiece. "Your cousin is alive. I'm sure of it."
"Yeah… I hope so too."
That was all Jack could say. Just a bit of deceitful hope until she saw it for herself. But it was making her hate herself even more—a simple means to delude herself and stay focused.
Just as she was about to stow her comms, a thought struck her. "One more thing. Can you ask Will what's the recent duration between dosage? How long before someone asks for their next Antizin shot."
"Recent duration?" Siv repeated, confused. "Sure, I guess."
"Good," Jack droned without giving her a chance to ask why. "Catch you later then."
"Um, ok?"
Jack hung up. Now the next hassle. She ran a thumb on the fragile Antizin bottle in her calloused hand. Would she actually pull it off?
Well, she had to try. She had already committed to the task for Siv and the Junction.
"Now where can I find that fighting ring?" she asked herself and got no answer. Only silence and dull wails. "Hm... Kinda wished Freakazoid didn't part ways with me."
He was the equivalent of a giant hunting dog, right? Most night zombies had horrifying, tremendous ways of finding and tracking down humans.
Jack strode back through the gaping hole in the white stone wall. If the ring was anywhere, she figured it'd be near the prison or along the Bayside.
She actually found the answer not too far from the docks.
"Shit! Ehhh-! Hey you!"
A man on top of a broken-down bus was easy to catch by anyone, including Jack just passing by. Inside and outside the vehicle, a small swarm of infected feasted on something.
How odd for a lone survivor to be out here before nightfall. He waved frantically and yelled for help, prompting Jack to point a finger at herself—did he mean her?
"Yes! You! Come help me!"
She shrugged and obliged. A job was a job, after all.
It didn't take much effort—a few swings of her crowbar and the stragglers were down for good. One Viral easily had its head smashed against the side of the bus.
"Oh, thank god... Thank you," the man gasped, relief washing over his face.
Jack paid more attention to the ground than him. By the bus were bags of meat, neatly hand-packaged and suspiciously out of place. And among the mess were two bodies in orange jumpsuits, dead and half-eaten.
Her eyes flicked to the man. He wore the same jumpsuit as the poor sobs on the ground. A prisoner.
"Thought I was a goner," he stammered, climbing down cautiously from the bus, swallowing his remaining fear.
Just a scrub, likely at the bottom of the hierarchy. The kind who followed the ones tougher than him.
"Screw this. Tonight's show isn't worth anything."
Show?
"I'm getting to the Checkpoint! I'm not infected anyway," the man mumbled to himself. He was about to hightail out-
"Now that's being ungrateful," Jack droned. "Not a proper thank you? You can do better than that."
"What do you want?" He was a little cautious at the sudden pry—a woman who saved his life just outright asking for more than gratitude?
"Tonight's 'show'. Could you kindly share the details?"
The chap's expression darkened. There was a sliver of fear in his eyes. "H-Hey. You got it all wrong. It's just a stupid boxing tournament. Against zombies."
Her grin widened. Talk about coincidence.
"Even better!" she declared, her enthusiasm surprising the prisoner on the spot. "And here I thought it'd be something small. I'm looking to participate in it."
"Participate?! Lady!" the prisoner grunted. "This is Alexander's crazy crew we're talking about!"
"Alexander. That name's been getting around a lot lately."
"O-Of course! He's running everything since this outbreak started."
"Your big boss... Noted. Now about that fighting ring-"
"You're still on that?! You'd have to survive six rounds! Winner takes the pot."
"Does that pot include Antizin?"
"Of course! It's one way of getting a bottle. But you'd have to be completely insane to try it. They toss you against Goons."
"Sounds like my cup of tea. Mind giving me the directions, mate?"
"You're really serious?!" he hissed. "You're fighting against zombies!"
"Directions," Jack repeated, her tone low and menacing as she raised the crowbar's pointed end to his throat. The sharp tip pressed lightly against his Adam's apple, making him swallow hard.
The brunette meant serious business, regardless of how much the man thought she was a madwoman.
"Uh...s-sure. It's that way."
Seriously?
Fine. If that was how he wanted to play...
Jack 'pretended' to glance in the direction he pointed. And the prisoner bolted the other way.
With a sigh and a roll of her eyes at the painfully obvious lie—especially the attempt to run away from her—the professional fighter wheeled around and sprinted after him. One good swing of her crowbar hooked his leg mid-stride.
"Uogh!" Down he went, all the wind knocked out of his lungs.
Before he could recover, Jack was on him, her knee pinning him down with just enough pressure to make him reconsider any more bright ideas.
"Wait! Wait!" he wheezed.
"Where are they holding the next ring match?" she asked sweetly, driving the blunt end of her crowbar into his ribs for emphasis.
"At the Shipyard! Near the cruise station! B-But you need admission! Or a pass from the boss!"
Jack's calm smile widened. "Let me figure that one out." She patted his cheek twice like one would praise an obedient dog, then stood, twirling her weapon as she stepped back.
"Now run along before night falls."
He didn't need to be told twice. The man scrambled to his feet and ran as far away as his legs could possibly take him. Like a bat out of hell, wailing so loudly that a few walkers turned to pursue him instead.
Jack stretched and gave herself a little cheer. "Alright. Let's see how this goes."
The ex-kickboxer reached the dockyard just before the sun dipped behind the blue horizon. Dim rays cast long shadows over a small cruise ship—long abandoned after an emergency docking—and the docks.
It didn't take long before the echo of applause guided her steps past stacks of massive shipping containers, repositioned by the shipyard's cranes to form crude, reinforced walls.
Eventually, Jack found the entrance of the improvised outpost.
Heavily guarded. By men who did time for petty and dangerous crimes.
Jack surveyed the scene carefully. Convincing men like this wasn't easy, especially for a woman. These guys had been freed from society's rules, wild and untamed, much like the dystopian chaos of that 1979 Australian flick she once enjoyed. These convicts were high on the idea that they had taken over the Coast as their own.
So Jack had to tread carefully. The moment she waltzed towards the gates, hands in pockets, the two guards snapped their rifles at her.
"Evening, gentlemen. I'm here to take part in that fighting ring you have back there." She pointed to the gates.
Straight to the point. No sugarcoating.
Of course, the guards didn't budge. A few onlookers sneered, amused at her audacity. Yeah, yeah, laugh it all out. She had been through this kind of treatment before.
A third thug stepped forward. Turkish mob from the tattoos on his arms.
"C'mon, lady," he jeered, clearly baffled at the sight of a woman. "Why throw your life away? You could be giving us some sugar tonight."
The men around him burst into laughter.
Jack simply let him talk.
"Why don't you come with me? I can protect you from those Biters. Give you a roof, food, Antizin. What do you say-?"
"Pssh."
The talkative thug frowned at the sudden chuckle the brunette tried to keep in. Then she let the snickering out—the look on the bloke's face was priceless.
"You can't be serious," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "You should be protecting yourself from me, lad. Don't you know who you're dealing with?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" he snapped.
Jack frowned. "What is with people today? Did my name fall off the map or something?"
Every man's blank, confused expression only proved her point. Painfully.
"Look. I don't have the time to keep you cosy because you can't sleep without bailing your eyes out. And..." She gave him a slow, deliberate once-over. "You're clearly out of your league."
The insult clearly took him back. Then he angrily sized himself up. "Listen here, you bitch-"
"That all you can throw?" Jack interrupted, already bored with her visitor. "If you want to be a big boy, then you'll have to do better. It's that simple."
She could see in his eyes that he wanted more than respect. He hadn't seen a woman for months.
And she counted on that.
"You don't seem to understand your situation," he barked, grabbing her collar in one rough motion. A woman in his grasp, and she hardly batted an eye.
The convict leaned in, pointing to the ground beneath them.
"You walked here. So how about you drop the attitude and we start over before you get yourself hurt-"
Without warning, Jack delivered a sharp knuckle punch to the thug's side, knocking the wind out of him. The thug kneeled down, realizing too late what had happened to him—and the next hard kick she gave.
One way or another, she had his arm twisted behind his back, her foot pinning him down.
"Get her off me! Argh!"
The guards raised their guns, but their hesitation was written all over their faces—they weren't sure how to handle this situation.
Jack's pull on his arm tightened.
"I'm gonna kill you!" he hollered.
"I'm not here to be your plaything, twat. I'm here for the tournament you boys have been bragging about," she demanded calmly. "So unless you're the boss, I strongly suggest you zip your lips and let me through."
He said nothing. Just another lackey, then. Bragging about authority now would only seal his fate.
"Good. And one more thing."
She drove her foot hard on his shoulder. With one good stomp.
Crack!
"AAAAH!" The scream ripped from his throat as his arm went limp, agony radiating through his body. "Aaaagh!"
"I warned you, didn't I?," Jack said, stepping off him and dusting off her hands.
She was completely undaunted at the other prisoners rushing over—not to retaliate but to silence the injured man's screams and deal with the commotion. Jack turned to the guards, her grin wide and predatory, like a hyena relishing her victory.
"So," she started, "can I participate in your boxing ring now?"
That grin hadn't left her face since her arrival—not even after she took the thug down. Despite the two guards staring at her like she had a death wish, neither raised their rifles.
"...Even if we did, there's no way a woman like you is going to survive."
"A woman like me?" There was an odd tone to her droning. She was a wolf circling prey, savoring the moment before striking.
The guard's grip tightened on his rifle, the barrel trembling as she stepped closer. There was something unsettling in her eyes, an unflinching confidence that dared him to pull the trigger. He was bigger, taller, armed—but none of that seemed to faze her.
"Mate. I've been kicking arses for the longest time. Humans, zombies. Do you want more demonstration of my skill?"
He swallowed hard. "...You were on TV, weren't you?"
The tension broke as Jack backed away, amazed and allowing him to breathe. "Finally. Someone recognized me. I don't have to go through the trouble of introducing myself with some trial by fire, do I?"
They still didn't move. But the longer he delayed, the more enticed she was to walk back into his personal space.
"Now. Are you gonna let me participate?"
He could have fired. He should have. But that would bring out the freaks nearby.
Why was this woman, an old champion, so hell-bent to join a deathmatch?!
"What's going on here?"
Another prisoner stepped out from the gates. Older, less brawny than the guards. His sharp eyes scanned the scene; first the woman—the obvious oddity—and then the injured thug on the ground.
"What happened to him?"
"He was blocking my way," Jack answered flatly.
"Hm." The man didn't give any orders, but his cautious stance told her enough. Not the boss, but clearly someone with authority—maybe a quartermaster keeping things in check.
"You've gotta be looney to show up here," he said at last.
"And what does that say about you lot throwing yourselves against the infected for sport?" Jack retorted.
"Don't lump me in with these numbskulls," the man added. "I'm just here to make sure everything runs smoothly." He took a hard glance at her. "I take it I'm not going to talk you out of this, am I, miss?"
"Just call me Mad Jack."
That name caught him off guard. "The previous kickboxer champion?"
"In the flesh."
"And you want to join this ring?"
"You know my reputation. I never turn down any fight."
The quartermaster mulled it over. Debating if he should break protocol and let her through. "...You need to pay admission-"
Jack lifted the Antizin bottle out like a winning hand at poker. "Will this do?"
The expression on the man's stern face told her, yes it was, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Without another word, the supervisor reached for his walkie-talkie.
Click!
"We got an outsider. She wants in on the fighting... Yes. She. Mad Jack." There was soft chatter on the line. A few nods from the quartermaster before he ended the call. "Let her through."
Jack's grin widened as she casually tossed the small bottle at him. The guards stepped aside as the older prisoner led the way.
The buzz of whispers and glances followed her as she passed, but Jack paid them no mind. Instead, she focused on mapping the area in her head. The maze of shipping containers created narrow paths, their tops reinforced with tarps and more crates, likely to keep infected out—or to keep something in.
No obvious signs of supplies or Antizin stockpiles. Smart. They must have hidden everything well to deter theft. Jack could hear the sound of the ocean beneath the distant cheers. So this little outpost was stationed right next to the water.
"What's your story?" the quartermaster asked. "You can't be trying to relive your glory days."
"Just want more Antizin. That's the honest truth."
He shot her a skeptical look. Did he really hear that correctly? "By betting away your only bottle?"
She simply shrugged. "You gotta break an egg to make an omelet."
No smile from him. "Your funeral. No weapons beyond this point."
Another guard at another checkpoint held out his palm to a basket beside him like an airport security officer.
Another hassle—a dangerous move to go weaponless in a den full of thick-headed crooks, but rules were rules. Jack chunked her weapon and anything else remotely valuable on her into the basket.
Apparently, that wasn't enough.
"Sling bag too," the guard demanded, pointing at her.
She stifled an annoyed sigh, mumbling a curse under her breath as she reluctantly handed it over. Her hesitation was noticeable, her grip lingering on the strap a second too long before finally letting go. She watched calmly as the tall guard rifled through her belongings.
"Heh. What do we have here?" he sneered, pulling out a small brown pill bottle. He twisted off the cap and shook a few red capsules into his hand. "Thought you were some famous sports champion."
She smirked. "Flattering assumption. But sure, go ahead and take a woman's medication."
The thug's one eye widened, and his voice got stuck in his throat.
"Actually, I'm curious about the side effects," she continued with a wicked grin. "What do you think? Less sex drive? Or maybe diminished-?"
"Enough," he demanded, almost unable to compose himself. As a means to shake off his displeasure, he tried to close back the bottle and slammed it on the table like it was ungodly filthy.
"I was going to say 'brainpower'."
"Just give it to her, for goodness sake," the quartermaster ordered impatiently.
The guard gave her back the bottle—but not her bags, of course. At least she got a small victory out of the exchange, seeing the man visibly uncomfortable in his stance. "Ahem. Go on right in."
"Much obliged," Jack saluted to him and strolled further into the den.
"Pretty redundant to care about those sorts of things," her tour guide murmured as he continued the lead.
"Perhaps. But you can never be too careful. I might find a lovely night in all of this chaos."
"Those don't look like contraceptive pills," he observed.
Jack raised her eyebrows. Impressive. "And how would you know about women's products?"
"I have a girlfriend," he retorted matter-of-factly, as if it should be obvious.
"Really?" she teased.
"Yes," he spat, soft but defensive. "She's outside the city, safe... Used to write to me every week before all this happened."
"You're surprisingly sweet for a criminal."
"A man too bashful to do right by a woman doesn't deserve her time."
"She must be special to inspire that kind of thinking."
"She is… She stuck around for this damn fool... But she's probably given up on me." Jack's pace slowed down as she listened to the genuine sadness in his voice. A typical smoker from the sound of his lungs and worn-down knuckles showed that he had been through it all. "Was supposed to leave prison months ago."
A misdemeanor, and if she had to guess, less than a year of jail time. The charges could be anything petty. But he did his time willingly in hopes of seeing his beautiful girl again.
Too bad the Harran virus had other plans for Scanderoon.
"...If she's a wonderful woman in your eyes, I'm sure you still have a place in her heart."
It could have come with ill intent. A joke. He had zipped his lips about his personal life, within his cell walls, and in this epidemic. But a stranger managed to pull at the right strings to get him talking.
Jack pressed on. "Maybe you'll see her again."
And there crept an old, grateful glint in his eyes. Brief, but unmistakable. His pace suddenly became a little faster. He had a job to do; feelings could be appreciated another day.
"This way."
The scent of saltwater grew stronger, mingling with the distant roar of excited cheers. Louder. Clearer. It wasn't long before the tops gave way to the open night sky. Up ahead was the grand view—it was probably the largest container ship she had ever seen up close, its hull groaning against the crashing of waves.
The tournament was inside that steel behemoth.
A third hassle. This was going to be difficult to escape, she noted silently.
"You can still turn back," the quartermaster offered without even looking back.
"I already told you. I never turn away from a fight," she started. "So what are the rules? Nothing below the belt, mister-?"
"Duman. Rules are this: do whatever it takes to win. Just beat all six rounds and the prize is yours."
"No breaks between fights?"
"Hmph. You can get a break when you're dead or after six rounds. Like I said before, your funeral."
SPLOSH!
The wet squelch pulled Jack's attention as they stepped into the belly of the beast. The so-called lobby stank of iron, and from a nearby kitchen came the disgusting sound of something slouching across the floor, syncing with the ship's gentle rocking.
A towering man in a black apron, his face obscured by a double-chamber gas mask, hacked away at some raw meat with a cleaver. A real-life horror movie butcher.
CHOP!
Jack then found the source of the horrid sound. Buckets full of red blobs, flesh and piss, along with dismembered limbs stabbed on hooks and hung up on one wall. Green boils all over them.
Bolters. And judging by the size of a few severed arms, some parts might've belonged to less fortunate prisoners.
"What's that for?" Jack asked, watching the butcher seal three red pouches and toss them into a crate—the same packaging Jack had seen near the bus earlier. With one good boot, the butcher kicked the crate out the kitchen and next to a stack of said crates.
"Something for our feral contestants. Gets them into a blood frenzy at night," Duman explained. "We've had a few try to climb over the walls."
"Huh."
With a sharp kick, the butcher shoved the crate toward a stack of similar ones.
"Hey, Duman!"
For a moment, the brunette was left alone with Duman being distracted by a passing cellmate. That was when her sharp eye caught something on top of the stack of crates, drawing her closer to the rancid smell.
It was so out of place, something one wouldn't expect to find on a ship.
Jack pulled at the floral-patterned curtain—the fresh, stinky red packets revealed underneath.
She had seen this cloth before.
"Hey." Duman's voice snapped her back. "Don't go messing with those. Once that stuff is on ya, the infected will be all over you like flies."
"OOOH!" A booming voice exploded from somewhere and everywhere—through the speakers. "That's gonna leave a mark. But he can still…leg it off!"
"Shit. Match's almost done," Duman grumbled, urging her forward as he headed for the stairs.
Jack followed suit after as she adjusted her jacket a little.
"Head to the end, and the Director will let you in."
"The Director, huh," Jack said. "Corny name."
"Don't let him hear that," Duman warned, clearing his throat. "The man's...extravagant but he has a short fuse. Heard he bludgeoned his cellmate last year."
"Ooooh OH! He's still trying! Gents! Shall we raise the stakes?" yelled the Director's voice again. "No, wait. He's calling quits. You all know the rules. Six rounds or your life!" The laughter crackled through the speakers, mending with the cheering from the crowd.
Duman reached the top of the stairs and gestured down a corridor lined with containers.
"Five minutes prep," he explained. "Give these idiots a good time, yeah?"
Meaning a good fight or a good death? But the stern man wasn't explicit. "Of course."
Duman disappeared into another hall, leaving her alone in the shadowy corridor. Quiet, save for the distant roar of the crowd. She rolled the small pill bottle between her fingers with a soft smile of ease.
"Sharp man. Almost saw through my little white lie."
She did spin the truth. She never did say they were contraceptives; she let their assumptions fill in the blanks. It cracked a smile on her face at how easy it was that she didn't need to lift a finger.
Then the smile faded off as her fingers on the bottle tightened. If that guard hadn't handed it back... things would have gotten ugly.
So she kept it back in her pocket. Concealed away from anyone but herself.
Calmed her nervousness down and focused on what was ahead.
The energy of the corridor seeped into her—the roar of applause, the upcoming fight. The rush of memory hit her like a familiar wave. The danger. The glory. The thrill of her opponent on the other side of the match.
She rolled shoulders and cracked her knuckles, a sacred habit she carried through every match.
Too bad she wasn't going against a human this time.
Jack reached the end—or perhaps, the start. A final checkpoint loomed before the 'ring,' fortified with gates, UV lights, barbed wire, and two stoic guards. Every precaution screamed of containing something truly dangerous.
From where she stood, all she could see in the ring was a steel floor stained with blood. A prisoner lay sprawled, his stomach ripped open under the harsh lighting. Under the loud hollers, she listened to the sound of electricity and the painful grunts of some infected tasered back to its cage.
"Aw, looks like that's it for Sabir. All too sudden." The words came with a theatrical flourish from the man standing over the dead fighter's body, one foot planted disrespectfully on the corpse. Unlike the other criminals on board, this one wore a sleek black vest and clutched a microphone like a prize. He looked more suited for a game show than a bloodbath.
"But don't worry, folks! The night is still young. Let's get this ball rolling for our next contestant!"
He basked in the spotlight. The gruesome bloodbath didn't faze him. The splatter of intestines didn't even disgust him.
For him, only the show mattered. That eerie, almost obsessive determination remained as he sauntered toward the checkpoint, his pearly-white grin shining—unnaturally polished for someone in a convict's shoes.
His gaze locked on the new contender.
"Miss Mad Jack," he called out with the kind of award-winning charm of a TV host. "I couldn't believe my ears when they told me. The very person herself waltzed right into my showbiz!" He gestured grandly, as if presenting her to an adoring crowd.
Then, with theatrical flair, he gave a deep, courteous bow and extended a hand, as though expecting her to place hers in his like a Victorian lady in a ballroom.
"A pleasure meeting you in person!" he introduced himself. "Call me the Director."
She didn't accept the gesture; her hands stayed buried in her pockets. "So you've heard about my reputation?"
"Who hasn't? You're a fire of a woman!"
Jack resisted the urge to gag. Someone end her misery.
"And an opportunity, too! Why, you and I should talk business. If you manage to survive all this, of course."
What a nice segway for that last part.
"I'm just here for one night."
"One night can't be enough for you. I can see it in your eyes. You crave the thrill."
"On the contrary, I'm already living the dangerous life," Jack chided. "And the benefits are more promising."
"But think about it. Out there is the unpredictable." Alsan, or the 'Director', roped his arm around Jack's tense shoulders, dismissing her thinning frown. "But here, it's all supervised under me. We're stuck in this outbreak and every day, every day fighting to survive. Crowds need something. You know what that is?"
"Hope?"
"Relief!" he declared, his enthusiasm sickeningly cheerful. "They want someone to pay the price. They want someone else to get hurt. Of course, competitors like Sabir over there…"
He gestured with a thumb to the corpse being dragged out of the ring.
"The show ends too early…But you!"
The turn was so sudden, it put Jack in fighter mode but her hands stayed in check, balled up, however.
"The Wild Dog herself... You can last longer than any of these chumps."
"And you want me to last long but also lose?"
"Lose? No. Well… Let's be honest. Nobody really believes they'll outlive this outbreak."
Such disgusting honesty that even beat hers.
"It'll be incredible if you do survive all six rounds. And if you do, then we can talk about more fights. Bigger crowds. Bigger rewards."
"Yeah." Jack unhooked herself from his clingy arm, her movements deliberate, her glare ice-cold.
She'd seen this act before, and she knew exactly where it was headed.
"I'm not the type to take a fall," Jack said firmly. "I'll do the six fights, and then I'm walking out."
At first, it seemed like the Director might try another pitch but not enough words would persuade her when Jack gave him her most serious face.
It was enough to kill.
"Alright." He held his hands up defeatedly and stepped back. "I know when to quit. But remember. The offer still stands, Jackie."
"Please don't call me that," she grumbled, feeling an unwanted tinge down her spine. Only she could call herself by that nickname, and even then, sparingly.
But the Director didn't listen and stepped back into the spotlight to the impatient cheering. Mic back up.
"Gentlemen and more gents" His booming voice ignited the crowd. "We've got a very special guest tonight! Three-time world champion in kickboxing-"
"It's four," she hissed, holding out four fingers. "Four years."
"And the most dangerous female fighter of the 21st century. You heard that right! The villainess of the ring! The Wild Dog herself is here to blow you right off your feet with more than just her teeth."
The audience roared louder—not for the fame of the name, but for the promise of bloodshed tied to a champion's fall.
"Put your bets down, people, and give it a round of applause for Mad Jack!"
The gate creaked open behind her, and Jack strode into the ring as the Director scurried back to safety, the gate slamming shut behind him. She stepped out under the glaring lights, taking in the squarish arena fashioned from towering shipping containers.
Jack traded places with the Director—out into the stage she stepped forth as he hurried back to safety with the gate closed behind her.
Under the night sky, she glanced around at the squarish, man-made arena. Rather creative using the storage containers. With barbed wire and barbed fences high enough that not even an infected could jump over—and perhaps fighters too. Evidence of claw marks and splatters of old blood dotted the walls, remnants of past matches.
The crowd erupted into cheer. Catcalls and crude jeers tossed her way but Jack ignored them. This wasn't new to her.
Frankly, it did feel a little like she was back in her glorious days. People back then had shouted her name. Some begged for her defeat, others called for her head for defeating their heroes in their eyes.
Because she always prevailed.
"Garrgh!" The sound of metal clanging yanked her attention to the far end of the arena. Pale, grasping arms shot out through the opposing gate, rattling the barrier like it was moments away from giving way. Whatever was inside sounded eager to rip into her.
Jack breathed in and out deeply. She lined up her fists.
"It's SSSHOWTIME!"
A lever was pulled from somewhere, and the opposing gate slammed open.
"Alright, Jackie," she told herself.
"Make it count."
A/N: 30/11/19 Both revamped and reedited this chapter.
*This has been a long-awaited disclaimer that has to be put down in words, no matter how many times I've said no or discreetly explained that Crane will not evolve into a brute for anyone to fuck in bed. Whatever your kind of fantasies are, it's yours and I won't question it but I have been greatly disappointed at this constant prying since I've started this fic. It's even come to a point where I have to reveal a spoiler that's supposed to happen onwards in the next chapter: Crane cannot transform because of Jack's blood. It is only his skill tree that will evolve just like a Hunter's gameplay. Moreover, his form might even deform back to close to being human, thanks to Jack. This is where I am disappointed at readers pushing for something that I have to give out a spoiler before it's revealed. And even when it's in between the lines, some of you still push hoping I'll bend. This is what I hate: being told to change the storyline for your pleasure regardless of how many times I've said no! Regardless of knowing that I've already planned how this story goes. I welcome constructive criticism but not to the point where quite a number of my review has been "making Crane big, hulky and monstrous". I have even grown to hate my own creation because some of you can't take a damn hint! And this is not recent, this has gone on long enough. I am angry that it has come to this disclaimer, the revealing of a spoiler and disliking my own work!
I am writing a story about Crane's humanity and Jack's survival. That has been my goal since I first wrote my prologue. And there are other readers who want to read this more than a monster fetish. This fanfic is not one of those kinds of fics. And if you keep pushing for Crane to 'evolve', whether as a joke or not, then I will end it. Even anything to tell me to change my story plot like stopping Jack from helping directly or not. I will refuse to continue this fic and let it be buried for good.
That is my final warning: Crane is not going to evolve. Jack's blood stops him from changing. That's it. This is not a joke, there is no chance ever of me changing my mind.
Moving on to a note that people will care reading: I will admit this chapter has been a lot improved than my previous one. Crane's character in my previous chapter was too passive and cowardly because I thought too much on his fear of his new form. But this is still the same Crane - he would take measures into his own hands like he has in the game. The more I improve my chapters, the more I'm improving my writing on Crane to still be the protagonist in the prologue arc - something that I had noticed I did poorly before. I hope he still keeps true to that protagonist spotlight, just as much as Jack's rising up too. I've also thought more on Crane's skill tree, with some inspiration from the fight against the Mother in the Following and more. The blade might be a little game-breaking but I'd say its only for emergency.
And...it's his ulna bone. If his arm isn't suited in any way, it could particularly snap right off.
Anyhow, I hope you enjoy this chapter for what it is. And what this story will be.
Btw if I'm not clear again about this disclaimer, the next review to ask "Crane to evolve" is getting reported.
7/2/21 - Fixed mistakes and edited parts according to new timestamp from pilot.
20/2/22 - Went over a full chapter edit with some fixes, retwists, deletes and adjustments. Removed specifics on Siv's exact age and changed some dialogue
7/4/23 - Made some changes and adjustments, changed some motion parts in the fight scenes
20/1/25 - Reedted some parts to be more streamlined and removed some unwanted text.