Dying Light: The Descent

by Vickie1

Kyle Crane returns to Harran after his disappearance, tormented by the ghosts of his past and the fear of what may have happened to those he left behind. He must navigate a fractured Harran with Mad Jack. But he doesn't know that Jack is searching for the man with the answers she needs, unbeknownst to her that he's been with her all along. (Sequel to the Following, Harran Arc)

29. INTERMISSION I-V

Chapter Summary

- END ON A HIGH NOTE

There are some things left to do before we go to Harran... Making sure I leave nothing unchecked. - Kyle

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INTERMISSION I-V: BEFORE WE PART WAYS...

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SIDE QUEST: SPECIAL DELIVERY

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A Trapper named Cenk wants us to look for a missing Runner named Hermod. Who technically doesn't run but rides a bike... Bold lad to be cycling in the middle of this city. - Jack

---

Swiiiisssssh!

It was a loud, sharp turn. Mountain tires screeched across the pavement as the cyclist had no choice but to put his right leg against the wall, all to help slow his bike down for a second.

A dangerous feat to do in the middle of a zombie outbreak. He could have broken his leg. He could have been jumped the moment he made that turn.

But he couldn't stop.

So with the same leg, he pushed his bike forward and picked up the speed once again. In the nick of time, he felt something graze at his helmet. Had he not kept going, a Biter would have pulled him off his seat.

That same Biter quickly lost his footing and tumbled down the set of stairs—head splattered on impact. Another infected dead, one less problem chasing after the cyclist across town. But that wasn't the important fact: getting to his destination alive was.

Every pound of his heart went along with the beat of every jerk his bike took going down the steps. He had to focus on making it to the last flight unharmed—he had gone through this route hundreds of times. Thousands! He had lost count.

He would have laughed at his past self if he had been told that he would be riding his bicycle through zombie-infested streets.

Now there he was. Riding for his life. All because of a delivery.

Everyone had told him he was crazy. Walking on foot was far safer than taking his bike. He could have been a Runner instead!

He could have, but he had refused to try parkour.

He never liked high heights.

Staying on the ground was ideal. Or used to be. But he knew he could outrun them as long as he had his bike.

But yesterday's confidence was running dry—he had underestimated the undead goons flocking into the same district he rode in. It was never this bad!

Just make it to the safe house! Then he could wait out the horde! No, he had to radio the Junction!

The rider took a split second, glancing over the shoulder. Then he looked forward, expecting the opened barrier gate at the corner of Marge Point.

And for another split second, he saw the gate down.

Who closed it?!

"Shit!"

He had no choice.

CLANK!

Not enough time and space to stop himself at that velocity. His poor Slephir bicycle collided with metal, like crashing into a steel wall. Desperate, pleading but his whole world spun around him.

He was going down, his eyes wide behind goggles, at the sight of a few zombies—claws reaching up, teeth bared, dead stares hungry for him.

"Got you!"

Then suddenly, his world went up, by the hips. Something had wrapped around him and pulled him somewhere, but it was anywhere other than the streets. The young cyclist could barely register anything until he felt his feet planted on solid concrete and a hand holding him on the shoulder.

"Easy!" a gruff voice assured him. "You're safe."

Before him were two strangers: one blue-eyed hooded man that he could have sworn he saw something slip into his bandaged arm, and a grinning woman in a flashy, red jacket.

"Nice to meet you, Hermod," the woman in red said in the most chirpiest voice he didn't think to hear in the outbreak.

Wait, where was he?

The cyclist, for some reason, looked back. Then he wished he hadn't.

"Ah-AH! AHHH!" He quickly staggered forward, latching his arms around the man's without realizing it. He was much too terrified on the spot, pushing himself like his life depended on getting away from the edge. And again, he had nowhere to go. Not when the man tried to steady him down, his bulky body particularly being another wall stopping him. The infected down below were no longer on his petrified mind.

He hated heights!

"Alright. Let's get you somewhere safe," the brunette exclaimed.

---

"And who is he?"

"Hermod," was all Jack got. Like she should know everyone's names in the Junction to heart.

A Trapper named Cenk, rugged and ruthless-looking, was never one to have patience with people, new or old. The first word that would come out of his mouth should go right in the ear and not out the other. No doubt from the furrowed brow of his, he openly had plenty of doubt for a so-called Specialist like Jack.

"Supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago with a delivery. It's been half a day."

"I'm sure he's being cautious. Rooftops aren't exactly free of Biters."

"Nah. The guy's too chicken to be a Runner. And they will take just about anyone," Cenk snorted. "He's some cyclist who used to do, um…urban biking?"

"Biking. In a zombie-filled city?"

"His funeral. The only thing that matters is that the package is brought here, intact."

"And I thought you cared for the guy," Crane remarked with a hint of his usual dry sarcasm.

"Hey, that package is important for the Trappers, ok? We're saving your lives with it."

"Right." Sounded like hot air to Crane. At the corner of his eyes, he could see the brunette's smile harden on her face. Jack didn't buy anything out of Cenk's mouth.

"You got a problem?" the Trapper barked. "You can do the dirty work for us then. Otherwise, can you help or not?"

Right to the point again. No please, and thank you.

Jack peered to her left, noting the seething aura from her partner. In every conversation, he was patient, but this time, the attitude rubbed him off. Freakazoid had met people like Cenk in his past. He didn't let them push him, and if they did, a broken jaw was the answer right back. But that didn't mean he liked what he heard.

"We'll look for Hermod," Jack said.

"Good."

Jack held back a chuckle. The tenacity in the Trapper for not registering the meaning behind Freakazoid's answer, let alone that standing before Cenk was the Day Hunter they had been hunting days ago.

"Bring that package right to me. No peeking either. I'll know."

"Hm," she ended. A peculiar demand… Which meant exactly what she thought it meant.

---

And that was how two Runners went and rescued a cyclist in the middle of the city an hour later. For the poor man to finally calm down, screaming his head off, they had to go down a floor—then another—and finally, the grounds of a closed storefront turned Safe House. Not too far from where they previously found Hermod.

"Better?" Jack asked nonchalantly.

"Y-Yeah." The recollection and presence of his bicycle helped alleviate the rest of his fear once she placed it next to him with the utmost care. A few more deep breaths and Hermod let go of Crane's wrist.

While it wasn't a big deal for him, Kyle couldn't decide which to pick. The fact that Hermod had hung himself on a monstrous savior and had plenty of chances to see the little evidence. He held on to his arm for dear life. Or the fact that he's never seen anyone be that terrified of heights with everything going on.

Which begged the question: why do a fool's errand like that?

"Sorry about that." Hermod had been shaking his head now and then, every attempt at getting rid of any lingering trembles. "...I just really hate heights."

"You could have asked your Runner friends for help. Why take the job?" Crane had to ask. Hermod wasn't even a fighter from the looks of him. Geared up, sure, for being a mailed cyclist. But he carried light: no weapon or backup.

He wouldn't last ten seconds on foot against the freaks and thugs.

"I'm a Runner too. I…just prefer my bike. I-I know every shortcut that I can cut half the time the guys take…up there." Hermod jabbed a shaky thumb upwards.

"And you nearly went flying ten feet into a horde of zombies."

"You can thank whoever closed that gate… Look, it's fine."

"What's so important about this delivery that you need to throw your life for?"

"It's drugs."

That was the last thing Crane, or even Hermod, would think. Both men glanced back at the brunette, who had taken the box in her hands during the conversation. Lid off.

"H-Hey!" The young man took a weary climb onto his feet—the tension from his fright hadn't left him completely.

Panic rammed through his body to get up anyway. She opened the box! And Cenk was going to kill him! How was he supposed to explain this now?

And then that panic snapped away once he and the hooded man noticed the contents. Lots of multicolored pills with a chalky texture inside plastic bags.

"Steroids, specifically," the brunette explained, and she tossed a bag to Freakazoid. "Had this one opponent, Durmaz, get caught during my sixth year. Gives them a quick boost in tight corners."

She was right once again. Crane had seen these pills before, among other kinds cooked up by drug providers. Not uncommon in his previous line of work.

He couldn't help but flare his nostrils, though.

"The guy said no peeking," he pointed out in an apathetic tone. He would never keep his word, though, from an asshole like Cenk.

"People who say that have something to hide," Jack hummed.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Hermod couldn't believe it. The young man staggered and grabbed the box from Jack's hands—she let him have it without any hesitation. But the evidence was clear to him; there were drugs in the box. "I risked my life for substances?!"

"You had no idea?"

"I don't go looking into my customers' packages!" Hermod hollered at the hooded man. Gradually, his angry gaze trailed off. "...But the guy at the door reeked of chemical stuff. I didn't think much of it."

"Cenk's drug provider." And now Jack's tone changed. Her curiosity peaked.

"Where did you pick up the package?"

"At the old pharmaceutical warehouse by the Bayside," Hermod answered Freakazoid's question.

"We're going for the source?" Jack uttered. It was odd to see Freakazoid jump on a small junkie problem with other pressing matters to worry about. "And here, I thought you were as straight as an arrow on the job. 'No peeking'?"

Crane snorted. "You're not the only one who can bend a few rules." But his quick, causal tone in the banter changed on a dime.

"So what's the problem? They're pricks, but they're not hurting anyone while on the job."

"So we leave the lives of the Junction in the hands of junkies." Freakazoid held out a palm, a flat-out no. "I'm not letting this slide."

"You're not wrong. Insomnia, mood swings, irritability," Jack counted down with her fingers. "They'll surely make bad decisions."

"All the more we need to shut them down before it spirals out of control."

"That's fine." To see the brunette be agreeable to the change of plan was…surprising.

"But?"

"Hermod," Jack then called, instead of explaining a point she had in mind.

"Huh?" The young lad still looked dazed. Hadn't finished digesting everything so far, and Hermod barely wheeled to her in response.

"How many trips have you done for Cenk?"

"Uh… Nine?" he answered, confused for such a question. "No. Ten."

On the spot, he could have sworn he saw the big guy frown with a deep groan.

"Lad has his knees in deep. One word out that we close down a drug lab, and Cenk's goons might take it out on him."

"Wait. What?" Hermod uttered, his eyes back and forth on the two Runners. "What?"

Crane shook his head. Never easy. And from the reaction, he could only guess that Hermod was either held by the arm for the later deliveries or stayed quiet so that he wouldn't get in trouble.

"Alright. What do you propose?" Crane inquired.

Right away, the smirking brawler took to her comms. Eager to set the plan into motion. "Cenk, we found Hermod. He's fine by the way."

"Yeah? What about the package?" the rough voice escaped from the earpieces with no sense of compassion. Expected from the duo, and thankfully, Hermod didn't have any means of eavesdropping on the conversation.

"Gone."

"Gone? What do you mean gone?!" And now the voice croaked. Filled with anger, confusion, and every failing strain at being patient. The facade had to stay.

"Hermod got into a nasty accident when we found him. Package went flying into a gutter."

"Wha-...wait a-" The two adults were quicker than Hermod. Jack took a duck away while the big guy stepped in Hermod's way, like a fortress, all to stop the biker from interrupting. However, the rider was still stunned and processing everything to even begin having a say in the matter.

"What?! C-Can you salvage it? Shit! No. Forget it!"

That tint of panic and that one mistake, back and forth on the package. He couldn't break the facade with two strangers.

But he wasn't the type to give up.

"Fine…tell Hermod to get another one!"

"I'm afraid that's a no-go. Hermod's too dazed and his bike's busted a wheel," Jack explained without losing a beat in the con. "You're in no rush, right? We can get it in his stead-"

"No! Y-You don't need to do that." And now, Cenk was desperate. "He's alive, right? Just make him go. Have him walk on foot for all I care!"

She caught a thin glare out of Freakazoid—if he were right next to Cenk, he would certainly break his skull. However, Jack did one better without having to move back to the Junction.

"There's no proposition, mate. Either we get the package or we take Hermod back," she sang, listening to the baffled mutters from the other end.

So she pushed a bit more.

"You have a good pair of legs. Go pick it up yourself."

"Excuse me?!"

"I get it. It's a scary world out here. Don't want to get bitten. But Hermod? You saw the chance at getting a personal delivery boy."

"What you're getting at? Brat couldn't stop begging for work," Cenk scoffed.

"Because he's doing his part for the Junction. That's the bravest lad I have ever seen," she exclaimed; the tone in her voice then switched from one of magnified praise to that of cockiness. "While you're safe and sound, being a yellow-bellied coward."

"Wanna run your pretty mouth in front of my face? 'Cause I'll break it!"

"My, so the yellow belly has some punch. Then I'm sure you can get off your arse, and do this errand on your own."

"...Fine! I'll come for my package, and then you for wasting my time!"

"Go right ahead."

"You-!" That did it. A loud, frustrated groan, and the end of the call. Hook, line, sinker.

Jack shone her widest catty smirk, victorious in another verbal battle. It was never fair for the opponent to begin with, and he took the bait.

She turned to Freakazoid, only to be greeted with a line between his hairless brows. Not a yearning for approval or compliment, but the expectation that he found the ploy just as amusing as she did.

He did. Quietly.

"Ticking him off was the plan?"

"As I said before. Insomnia, mood swings, irritability," Jack repeated, again with counting fingers. "A bruised ego. Surely will make bad decisions."

Crane cracked a small smile under his scarf.

"Kill two birds with one stone."

"All we have to do is watch the fireworks go off. Won't have to lift a finger if they have a little squabble."

A deep sigh, however, scattered the audacious atmosphere. What was the problem? They glanced at each other, surprised, before turning to the culprit.

Hermod had wandered off, sat down right next to his bicycle, and rambled in an extremely pessimistic manner. One could picture a dark, stormy cloud hanging over his head. He mumbled to himself, loud enough for the two Runners to hear. Why did he take the job? How many times had he taken it for Cenk? How many times was he close to death?!

And now he could be punched for exposing a narcotic gig to two strangers. Down his face plopped into his gloved hands. A loud, exasperated groan.

"...We should give him some space in the meantime," Jack proposed.

"Yup."

---

"It ain't our problem. Go take it out on transit."

"You can make another batch, can't you?!"

The fireworks had gone off a while ago, and yet, right on time. Many of the warehouses in the Industrial District looked alike—looking for one old, derelict pharmaceutical warehouse would have been difficult if not for the shouts. The company's name had worn off over time.

Around the corner, Crane was the first to peek. Jack took a few extra steps: trudging around his bulky body and tiptoeing high to glance over his shoulder.

The inside of the warehouse's fenced perimeter was surprisingly secured for sleazy drug peddlers. UV lights at every exit; barbed wires; and guns at the ready. The usual setups.

"This isn't a bakery, y'know? This takes time and ingredients." Wirey man, gas mask, long gloves for handling chemicals—the one making steroids. Arms crossed, chin up, acting leader for about five men. Two more that Crane counted behind the walls.

On the other side of the tense showdown, Cenk wasn't alone. Four other Trappers stood behind him, armed and prepared.

He waved out a hand, directing his attention to the pandemic around them. "If you haven't noticed, we don't have the luxury to mass produce this stuff every day."

"You gotta have something. Anything!"

"The closest thing I can make is energy drinks."

"No, no! I need that fix now. Some of my boys here are going through withdrawal, and they're getting antsy."

"You included?" A frustrated throwback right back at Cenk; the nonstop tapping of his foot, and the constant fidgeting.

"Not what I was hoping for."

Crane narrowed his eyes and turned back at the brunette with an expressionless face, hiding her disappointment. She had examined the men like watching a documentary of apes banging heads over spiked bananas.

"What did you hope for?" he asked.

"I was thinking Cenk would bring more men to rough up his dealer," Jack pointed. "This might be a one-sided fight."

"I thought you wanted them to take it out on each other."

"Quasim will ask questions. And a few deaths would dampen everyone's mood."

He saw her point there. Going after a few bad eggs from the Junction wouldn't be worth it and it would complicate things for the two of them. If anything he saw out of the plan, they would spook them off, and Cenk's group could go cold turkey.

"You're out of luck unless you know a place that has amphetamine stocked," the drug maker continued, unmoved by the pleas.

"I don't know what amp-feh-whatever that is. But you need ingredients, right? I can give you a whole pantry."

That caught the chemist's attention and that of the two Runners in hiding. A smile on the crook and two frowns on their faces.

"Hey, is this a good idea?" one Trapper whispered, but Cenk shushed him off with a wave of the hand back.

He continued with the negotiation. "You won't have to worry about running dry."

"Yeah? I heard your base is run by ex-military. You're not gonna piss them off?"

"Place was jumped by GRE a while ago. They can take the blame," the Trapper hummed, looking almost impressed at how sound his plan was. Then he pushed, impatient. "Do we have a deal or not?"

"...Sure."

No handshake on it, not until Cenk held to his word. The Trappers left the warehouse without any issue: some reluctant, some too eager. The conflict fizzled out before it could even start, and thus, the drug dealers went back to their business as usual in the middle of a pandemic.

"On second thought," Jack uttered with the stiffest frown he had ever seen. "The Junction won't miss them."

Crane agreed. Bad apples, they were. All of them. But there was a sensible way to handle the situation.

"We should warn Mahir."

"Way ahead of you." Jack jumped right into the comms. "Mahir? Know a man named Cenk?"

"Kinda. Fidgety loudmouth stands out," the leader responded, never far away from the radio room. "What about him?"

"He and his boys have been taking illegal stuff behind the scenes. Overheard their plans to take medical supplies from the Junction for their providers."

"I'm sorry. What?!"

"They're on their way back home now. You should be able to catch them at the front gates."

"Thanks for the heads up."

One problem gone. Crane had full confidence that the Junction would handle a small group backstabbing them; he had seen how they ran the Safe Zone, so finding out about addicts wouldn't be something they would turn a blind eye to. Not on their watch.

"Well."

Jack's humming tone drew him to glance back. She might not have gotten the outcome she was hoping for, but that catty smirk crept back on her face, along with the words 'there were other ways' plastered. A playful twist of her weapon of choice in hand, and she looked at Freakazoid eye to eye.

"Wanna clean house?"

No objection there. The job was only half finished.

Crane straightened up and strolled right into the warehouse's perimeter, Jack three steps behind. The drug dealers' heads rose one by one, like a flock of birds, immediately aware of two hounds entering their haven.

The chemist narrowed his eyes. To them, two intruders were passing by and couldn't put their noses in their business for whatever reason.

"Gentlemen?" Jack exclaimed modestly.

---

How long had it been since those two left the storefront? Hermod ceased looking at his watch five minutes ago, with his thoughts still jumbled and processing in his head.

He hadn't stopped thinking about what the crazy lady said.

'Bravest lad' she had seen.

Must have been a joke. If they knew…

"Siv was right. I'm not cut out for being a Runner…"

Next-door neighbors, and he would see Siv while he fled on his Slephnir. The neighborhood had a bunch of kids that gelled together, and Siv was no exception, despite her family home being in Harran.

When the outbreak happened, he had just finished a delivery and returned home. There, he watched his girlfriend eat an old man he knew from the fifth floor. Aghast.

He booted it. Hit the pedal to the metal and rode off. Didn't look back since.

Terrified. And alone. That day was supposed to have been a normal day.

He saw other guys in the same situation as his; the same people he made friends with in the apartment over the years, Siv included. Some perished. Two turned.

He kept riding until he was too tired to keep going.

Then Siv came out of nowhere, whacking a ghoulish Biter in the face.

The remaining kids who grew up together, banded together for the next two weeks. Then the Junction found them and took them in without so much objection.

Hermod thought they had a moment of respite. They were finally out of Hell…

He tightened his fists. The feeling of uselessness crept back-

"Hermod!"

He jumped up at the sudden holler, shoulders tensed up, as Hermod recognized the angry, jagged face of Cenk.

Why was he here? Did he swear to find him because he didn't bring the package to him?

The worst part was that the Trapper wasn't alone.

"Did you snitch to Mahir on us?!"

The package was the least on Cenk's mind. He was bloodthirsty, with bruises on his arm and neck from some confrontation. The same kind of bruises could be said for the other two Trappers.

"W-What?"

"Don't play dumb with me! I told you not to look into those packages!"

He didn't. But nothing, not even a croak, could come out of Hermod's throat. Cenk stormed into the storefront Safe House, seeing red.

Terrified. And alone again. Hermod hurriedly backed away, but his legs caught the back of his seat, tripping over himself.

"You should have kept your damn mouth shut - omph!"

A flash of red flew past Hermod, tackling Cenk down to the granite tiles. Another flash further outside the storefront swooshed after the two other Trappers, almost making him believe an infected had jumped in.

"You alright, mate?" the brunette in the red jacket hollered, skidding over to Hermod's aid. Weapon up for any surprise attack.

"Y-Yeah."

He shuffled himself into a safe corner, away from the fight before him. The brunette and the hooded man showed no fear as they quickly turned the tide against the Trappers; men who scoffed at the Runners, who snickered behind people's backs.

One Trapper had gloated that the Junction would be nothing without them. And those words stuck deep in Hermod.

"Omph!" Now it was the brunette's turn to the ground. Two bodies rolled away, but Jack didn't falter during the tumble. She fired her fist, punch after punch, even after they came to a halt across the dirt.

Cenk turned his anger, his complete attention, from the rider to Jack. "You damn bit-!"

Before Hermod could jump to help her, a rope suddenly wrapped around Cenk's waist with a life of its own. The hooded man yanked. Hard. Adding insult to injury was the brunette's kick to the stomach.

Put those two together, and the Trapper went off like a projectile. His body crashed into an empty aisle, with planks and splinters everywhere.

"Something's not right with that guy!"

"Let's get out of here!"

Cenk scorned at the sight of the last two men who had his back. Bunch of cowards, and they easily gave up when the going got tougher. That was the same outcome when they had returned to the Junction with Mahir suddenly giving them the jump. Without any chance of explaining themselves, they were shoved out of their only sanctuary from the zombies. His group then split apart; the other two Trappers went to whoever knew where. Dead or alive.

But he was also a coward. He had been warned about the lady in red. He had heard rumors about the new guy keeping his face all covered up. And he ignored all of the hearsay.

The big guy was one issue—dangerous-looking. And the brunette? She climbed onto her feet and sprinted. Seeing red at him.

Cenk scrambled up and out of the storefront. "All of you are crazy!"

He was gone, to whoever knew where, like the rest of his whole gang.

Jack slowed herself down, catching her breath. She never planned to continue the fight with the drug addict—there was no point in wasting her energy to the end on Trappers who were all bark and barely any bite. It was a pointless bluff she counted on when she stood right next to Freakazoid. But it did the job.

From the looks of things, Mahir had indeed kicked Cenk and his men out. She didn't anticipate them encountering Hermod by coincidence.

"Hey."

At the corner of her eye was a sling bag in Freakazoid's hand. Then her eyes widened with surprise. Her hands patted herself to find that something was amiss.

That was her sling bag. Cenk must have yanked it off her during the tumble.

"Much applied," she thanked

"We should take Hermod back to the Junction," Freakazoid said, and Jack agreed with a nod. No point in staying anyway.

"Why did you say I was the bravest?"

Jack's eyebrows rose high behind her shades, although she wore her tight smile as best as she could. Dumbfounded as clear as day. Meanwhile, Crane listened, puzzled at the rider's sudden outburst.

"We're doing this here?" Jack asked.

Hermod wasn't jesting her, looking more determined than Crane had seen out of him in their short time meeting the young rider. But that conviction burned out too quickly; he was contemplating.

"This really isn't the right time and place, mate-" Jack tried to convince him with the least amount of disrespect as possible.

"Do you know why I'm out here on my bike? It's the only way I can do anything." Hermod paused, almost fighting himself not to back down. It was all out in the open. "Siv and the other Runners are always risking their necks for everyone. But me…? I freeze up if I'm on a rooftop."

The two older adults didn't remark or reassure him. They stayed quiet.

"I've never been brave. I knew something was up with the deliveries but…I couldn't say no to Cenk."

Throughout the entire conversation, the rider had been holding his arms up, swinging them around to his words. He then dropped them down to the sides, defeated.

"I just…didn't want to be a disappointment to anyone."

Crane sighed softly. It was reckless thinking—Hermod could have gotten himself killed—and he had seen that many times in people he had met before.

The need to prove oneself… It was relatable.

"Hey."

The hoarse voice did give Hermod a jump. A small one, weighted down by his self-reproach.

"I've only known Siv for a while," the hooded man started. "But I know enough that she doesn't want you or any Runner throwing your lives to make a point."

"...Yeah. I know."

"But she's also right."

All of a sudden, the same man pointed a thumb at Jack, which surprised her and confused Hermod. What did she say, she asked herself.

"You're out here on your bike. With all these infected and bandits everywhere. I've done crazier stunts, but nothing like what you're doing."

Hermod almost didn't believe him. There was a pleading gaze out of him when he turned to Jack.

"I said what I said. And I meant it." She was never the type to take back her word.

"You'rehelping the Junction the only way you know how," Crane explained.

The doubt hanging over Hermod like a grey cloud gradually puffed out of existence. Perhaps it had been following him for the longest time because, for once, he felt relief.

"Thank you."

Good, Crane thought to himself. "And no more accepting any deals. Talk with your friends first before you go off on another delivery."

"Yeah... I can do that."

With that, the Rider climbed onto his feet. He's stayed long enough sorting out his thoughts. If Hermod knew any better, it was that Siv was worried sick for him. She didn't always show it but she cared for her friends in her own way.

So, he walked over to his damaged bike and examined the damage first. The bent tire was clearly unusable at first glance.

"That was genuine, coming from you."

Crane took barely a step when he was stopped by a surprise. Hearing that kind of line from the smiling brunette almost made him think that it was another ploy out of her.

"You being all doom and gloom," Jack admitted.

Crane scoffed out a laugh, easily shrugging off the small jest.

"He needed to hear it. That's all."

"That simple, huh?" she sang.

"If you can work your magic on anyone, I figured I'd give it a shot. My way."

"So what you're saying is I've been a good teacher?"

He shook his head. Please. "Don't get too comfortable. There are some things I don't agree with."

She chuckled. "Wouldn't think any other way."

Unknown to Freakazoid, who strolled to Hermod's bicycle and offered to carry it back to the Junction, he didn't notice her smirk slowly fading down to a thin frown.

She peered down with a hand reaching into her sling bag. The moment her fingers wrapped around the plastic cylinder, her worries dispersed. Jack took it out, but not completely, and stared at the pills behind the worn-down label.

Everything would be fine. She ran a thumb across its cap for reassurance.

Just spread it out until she returned to the Outskirts.

"Jack?"

Quickly, carefully, and without letting off a beat, she wheeled back to the two men. Wide smile back on her face, and her little pill bottle was back inside her sling bag, all the way to the bottom.

"Right behind you."

---

SIDE QUEST: OUT WITH A BANG

---

While moving through the Bayside, we heard someone blaring their horn out loud and went to investigate. As it turns out, a few musicians and tech are trying to get the attention of a helicopter. That's one hell of a long shot, but maybe we can help. - Kyle

---

"Someone's waking the dead up."

As much as Freakazoid's dry remark wasn't far from the grim truth, someone was indeed blasting a loud horn. He had already sprinted towards the source before Jack noticed it, leading them to the east side of the National Complex.

It was one of the many newfangled buildings that stood against the urban backdrop with its architecture. With a long history predating the Cold War, it had been a proud national heritage site in Scanderoon, hosting major local and international events.

The National Complex, a renowned mark in history, was now a sad stage of its final days in the Harran Virus Outbreak. Abandoned military vehicles, dismantled medical booths, and the dead roamed its halls and parking lot. Just like everywhere else in the city, the government—and eventually the world—left it to decay.

In a parking lot, a large black and silver bus blared its horn, drawing more than just the two Runners—the infected slamming their rotten arms against its sides.

"Hey!" came a muffled cry from inside as silhouettes in the bus spotted them.

It was a miracle! People coming to rescue the passengers from their predicament.

"Stop using the horn!" Crane bellowed, and the noise ceased. Any longer, and Virals would've joined the chaos.

The two made quick work of the undead, clearing a path. Once the last one hit the ground, the bus door swung open to reveal a lanky man in a checkered shirt—sleeves rolled up, a pair of insulated gloves danging from his belt and a lanyard around his neck. Berkay Hale, sound engineer.

"Everyone alright?" Jack asked as she approached.

"Y-Yeah. Thanks to you two."

Crane peered over the brunette's shoulder to see the others inside: a young woman in a denim jacket at the wheel, a middle-aged man in a suit, and a robust man slumped in a seat, spiked bat in hand. As evidenced by the empty gas can tossed aside, they had boarded the bus not long ago before the swarm came.

Alright, Crane understood the situation—the woman grabbed the wheel out of desperation. But with one tire busted, where could they go?

"This isn't going to work, Eren," the robust man groaned to the suit-clad figure.

"I'm not sure what's going on but how about we get you folks somewhere safe?" Jack, always the negotiator, began her pitch "We can take you to the Junction-"

"No!"

The woman slammed her fist on the steering wheel—thankfully missing the horn.

"I am not leaving!" she yelled, eyes darting to Eren. "You said if we made enough noise, they'd come for us!"

Jack exchanged a look with Freakazoid. "Who's coming?"

"None of your business!" the young woman snapped, her polished exterior cracking under the pressure. "You're not stealing my seat out of here."

"And exactly what am I stealing?" Jack asked, genuinely puzzled.

Even Crane shrugged, unsure. "Look. Let's calm down and talk this over. You're bringing the whole neighborhood with all this noise."

"...Yes. Yes! That's it!"

The middle-aged man named Eren suddenly wheeled around with a rejuvenated spark in his eyes. His focus shifted to Jack and Crane—the solution to their problems! Whatever that could be.

Crane didn't like that. But he was going to hear it out one way or another anyway.

"We need more noise!" was the last thing anyone wanted out of his mouth. But nobody could stop him as he grabbed a walkie-talkie from Berkay.

"Are you serious?" the woman hissed.

No, Eren was serious. He practically looked deranged as he hurried to the two Runners.

His worn appearance told the story—like the others, they had been through hell. Under his faded leather jacket was an old shirt with the name of an old music band both Crane and Jack had never heard before.

"You!" He pointed at Freakazoid immediately. "You look like you can run, right?"

"Uh, sure."

At the corner of his eye, Crane caught Jack's brief frown but said nothing. From Eren's fanatical expression, he didn't insinuat a woman like her couldn't run. So Jack simply let it go.

"And I've seen your face before. Mad Jack?"

"In the flesh," she replied. Proudly.

"Ah-ha!" Eren laughed loudly. Was it so unbelievable to receive help? "We can make this work!"

"You're gonna have to explain, mate," Jack urged.

"The concert!"

Undeniably, it was still drawing a blank on the two Runners while the rest of the crew groaned loudly in disappointment and annoyance.

Eren continued regardless, undeterred. "We need to bring it back."

"I think that's a very bad idea," Crane admitted without holding back. Jack agreed wholeheartedly with a nod.

Eren pressed on. "No! There's a rescue helicopter circling for days now and we've been trying to get their attention."

"A helicopter?" Jack echoed, skeptical. "After weeks of silence."

"Maybe. But it's everyone's last chance out of here. Please," Eren begged.

A last hope to escape the nightmare was right within reach. However, both runners didn't accept that optimism as easily as Eren did.

"We can get you on board too!" He was desperate. "How does that sound?"

Crane and Jack exchanged glances again—whatever this plan would be, it sounded dangerous and reckless. But two minds thought alike: neither of them objected.

"There's no need," Crane finally said. "What's the plan?"

Everyone onboard the bus looked at them, shocked. They declined such an offer? Even the woman couldn't help but frown, confused.

But Eren's face lit up like a lightbulb and jumped out of the bus.

"We need to lure the infected away from the main building. Long enough for us to hold the concert. I'm talking big noises at each corner of this whole district."

"Sounds like a challenge," Jack hummed, more directed at Freakazoid. And it was a challenge Crane wouldn't reject.

He shrugged. "Turn on some loud machine. Easy enough."

"There's also the Concert Hall," Eren then cut in. "No infected inside and getting in."

"That's not too difficult, right, Jack?"

Jack chuckled at the cheeky remark poking at the competitive nature in her. "I'll finish before you do."

"I'll take your word for it," Crane teased back.

"Yes! That's the spirit we need," Eren eagerly uttered but for the wrong page. "It's actually a breath of fresh air after everything that has happened."

It was like something old had reawakened in the middle-aged man—a familiar spark from showbiz. Two spirits burning with passion to take a dangerous cry for help? He'd seen that same look of determination in countless new musicians, ready to shake the stage for the first time.

It brought a nostalgic feeling to Eren.

"If we hurry, we can call that helicopter down before sunset."

"So we're really putting on a show," Jack muttered.

"I need to tell the others too," he uttered in a blabbering way. "They're bunker down in the Service Annex."

"Lead the way."

Eren hurried off, almost forgetting their circumstances around them. Jack gave a glance back to her partner, signaling she had this under control, and followed after the manager.

Crane then turned back to the bus, ushering the lanky man back in for his own safety. "Stay tight, everyone. We'll be back soon."

"Don't expect me to help with this insane plan."

The young lady's sharp remark stopped Crane mid-motion from closing the door as she reclined in the driver's seat, signaling she wouldn't be helping.

"Oh. Sure."

Her look of shock turned to anger at Crane's apathetic reply. But before she could have the last word, the hooded man had already shut the door.

Back to work.

---

The plan seemed simple on paper.

Get something loud enough to draw a horde. And Crane had an abundant number of choices that could fit the bill.

"I found a bank." He read out the name, "Savings & Trust?"

"Perfect! Biggest one in the district," Eren messaged from the comfort of the Service Annex.

The once-grand bank's marble beauty was now cracked and boarded up, gutted by looters and the undead. There had been some brave fools who thought to empty the pockets and ATM machines during the chaos.

Crane hoped that nothing was broken. He searched for first the circuit breaker and and turned it on. As the lights flickered inside, he moved on to the security room and along the way, hacking down drowsy sleepers who hissed at him for waking them up.

One quick glance over ensured him that the system was running fine. And there was a big, red button for Crane to hit.

Brrrrrring!

He was out immediately before Virals swarmed the building for the source of the racket. They were oblivious to seeing the Day Hunter launch across rooftops to the next location.

"How's your end, Jack?"

---

WHACK!

That was the sixteenth one Jack had batted down inside the Concert Hall.

"Just started the auditorium," she reported, readying her weapon again.

The Concert Hall had been prepped for a music festival long before the outbreak started. And now, the usual evidence of panic, chaos and blood on that fateful day reflected everywhere in the hall.

At least, the number of infected wasn't overwhelmingly high indoors.

Jack's first task was closing off the main entrances to limit that number from increasing. Which sounded atrocious to close every single set of acoustical doors manually. However, thankfully, the security gates could be done from the safety of the Service Annex.

Of course, that also meant loud noises from those gates and in turn, attracting more Biters.

The West Gate was the first, rattling loudly and attracting nearby Biters to go after the one human indoors. They received the same treatment: a quick death.

"Groaaawl!" One infected lunged from her blind spot, only for a swift kick to the knee and tearing the rotten ligaments apart. It took to a crawl, like from those movies but couldn't move any further once the metal sliders pressed down on its back.

Stomp! Jack took the opportunity to smash its skull before she booted its corpse away—ensuring the gate fully closed.

"West Gate closed." She moved on to the North Gate.

"Starting North Gate now," uttered Berkay's voice on the other end of the comms.

The same procedure was repeated—keep the number as low as possible inside the Concert Hall.

"East Gate's next."

Jack realized she wasn't alone at the east entrance. Three strangers, part of the remaining crew held up in the Service Annex, stood outside primarily to be on standby after the threat was cleared and secondarily to give Jack help.

It was a sweet thought—more help welcomed in her book but it became clear they weren't as dauntless as Mad Jack was.

She couldn't blame them for having second thoughts. Especially if the Concert Hall would become a death cage for about ten minutes.

"Grrragh!"

Jack wheeled around to the Viral staggering from a maintenance hall. Whack!

"I'm at a fire station."

The second location—a lot faster than Eren expected, but no complaints.

Everyone in the Annex Service had called his plan hogwash when he proposed it days ago. They had better things to do, like surviving.

And for how long, he had asked them. Until food and water ran out? The blackout had pushed things to a dangerous point where anyone might abandon the Safe Zone.

"Any engines inside?" Eren hopped away from the monitors—after giving a grateful pat on the shoulder to Berkay, their saving grace behind the tech.

"There's one."

"Know how to hotwire it?"

"I can do one better."

---

As unfortunate as it was to find a dead firefighter in the cabin, the keys were still in the ignition. Crane quickly hauled the corpse out and started the vehicle. It took a few attempts but once the engine roared to life, he hit the siren.

And it deafened his ears—the curse of having a zombie's super hearing.

Crane was all too eager to leave as quickly as possible. While he couldn't hear the snarls outside, the other side in him knew the infected were getting closer after the clamor.

Especially one very close by.

At the corner of his eyes, however, he saw a door fly off its hinges.

"Grooooaaawnn!"

"Shit."

Crane had faced many Goons before, but never one that had once been a fireman. The uniform, once pristine, was now tattered and stained with blood, stretched tight over bulging, mutated muscles. The helmet clung to its head, its protective screen the only small mercy, keeping the Goon partially blinded.

What wasn't good was the rusted, blood-caked fireman's axe in its hands. While not as heavy as rebar, in the Goon's powerful grip, the axe could easily cleave Crane in two.

It stood between Crane and his exit. But a Goon lumbering around with a sharp weapon and near the siren was problematic. It hefted the axe in its hands as if grasping a faint, distant memory of its former life.

Chop down the annoying noise.

"Can't have you do that."

Crane's tendrils shot out, wrapped around the axe hilt. With a swift yank, he claimed the weapon for his own, leaving the brute momentarily stunned. It grunted angrily at how empty its hands were before wheeling with an aggressive, blind glare to the unwanted intruder.

An unwanted brethren; it had to be dealt with-

THWACK!

Crane swung the axe and despite having mutant zombie strength, the blow didn't cut clean through. It lodged deep in the Goon's shoulder, stopping just short of its left lung. He could already feel splinters in his claws: the axe had done its job on the first swing.

But the broken axe was the least of his worries. He looked up, locking eyes with the Goon.

It was mad.

"Groaaawnn!"

He quickly sidestepped from the heavy throw of a fist. The deep cut did nothing much to slow the Goon down.

Crane heaved a sigh. Fine, the hard way then.

He gave a whip of his hand to the side, unsheathing his bone blade out of his arm, and bolted.

Right into a charging Goon.

---

WHACK!

"Place's clear. What's next?"

Jack shook the red blood off her leg as she left the last corpse behind. The mess seemed trivial in a zombie outbreak, but Jack had grown used to it. Her past messes had been more discreet.

Her targets were no more human and most of them lacked a single brain cell.

"Ok. The equipment room should be to your right."

"Anything specific I should look for?"

"We need speakers and cables. The lighting equipment should still be on stage. Oh, maybe new microphones too."

Jack stopped herself. Nobody told her anything about an inventory run. "I'm sorry?"

"You're already there. Might as well give a hand with the preparations."

And that was said in the nicest way possible to Jack.

"Go on. Get to it!" Eren uttered in his manager voice.

The brunette frowned, gesturing her arms out in a fit of disbelief. "So I'm a stagehand now. Wonderful."

"Wait! Stop!" Berkay suddenly took over the mic as she headed to the supposed destination, hand barely reaching for the door's handle. "That's where the pyrotechnics are."

Jack stopped herself, listening intently to the next important detail.

"Fireworks, smoke bombs, everything. We don't know how badly damaged they are since."

Four months of stale gunpowder gone stale was a risk Jack wasn't willing to take so she immediately stepped away from the door.

"Duly noted." Honestly, the equipment room shouldn't have been next to the pyrotechnic room in the first place.

She pushed the correct door to a gap and listened—no telling how many more rats were in the smaller rooms.

No growls or groans inside, prompting Jack to widening the door. A putrid smell did escape into the air-

At the corner of her eye, she froze. At the corner of the sneaky freak's dead eyes, he spotted the human by the door.

A technician had locked himself in the room, rotting away into a grotesque Bomber. His abdomen had swelled up to the point his entire thoracic cavity was torn through and organs grossly fused together. At any time, at a single moment a sharp object could hit him, it was ready to explode.

A Bomber was one type Jack never wanted to meet.

At Jack's intrusion into the equipment room, it began to gurgle. Choked louder and louder. Stumbling towards her.

"Bloody-!" Jack quickly grabbed the first thing she saw, a rolling rack to her left and hauled it forward.

Thud!

The bloated monster flumped back from the impact without bursting into a million pieces. But he throbbed, he convulsed. Rumbling, his swollen gut went, pulsating wildly.

Jack dove behind a utility cart as the Bomber screamed in agony.

SPLORTCH!

The rack she used as her shield collided into the door at such velocity that it could surely break human bone. Plop, plop, the disgusting sound of meat and blood dripped everywhere in the blast radius.

Jack's hands trembled. Mildly. She brushed off a piece of heated spleen from her jacket, relieved that the threat took itself out without her-

Until she heard more screams outside.

Somewhere in the back, somehow, the Bomber's explosion welcomed Virals towards her location. Like a dinner bell had rung off to them.

"Ugggh," she groaned and hurried up on her feet.

At this rate, she might not be able to finish before Freakazoid would get to the last noisemaker.

---

Last one!

Crane hurried over to a nearby construction site by the roadside. There stood a bright yellow hydraulic breaker—abandoned long ago. It was meant to be a quick job.

Asphalt and concrete had broken through. Then it stopped halfway, abandoned.

"Oh boy." Crane wasn't an expert with industrial machinery but gave the control panel a try. Once the vehicle then rumbled, it encouraged him to yank the lever.

The machine sputtered to life before roaring. BAM, BAM, BAM—the jackhammer pounded rhythmically into the concrete, sending shockwaves through the ground. Crane could barely hear the horde coming. But he sensed their irritation like before.

He shot a tendril to a rooftop far off and launched himself there so he could watch the chaos unfold. Soon after, the zombies scattered, drawn to the noise and quickly clearing the streets below.

The entire district became quiet.

Complete calmness.

"Eren, it's done."

"Really?!" Eren's disbelief was palpable. "What about the zombies?"

"Gone. Don't know how long it'll last."

"Long enough for a song or two. Alright!" He shouted to the other survivors, away from the mic. "Let's get inside and set up!"

There was some grumbling but in the end, Eren ushered everyone to work, leaving Crane alone on the comms.

The concert was happening and nobody thought to tell him to come back. Should he feel a little upset or happy that they didn't include him? However, he slingshotted himself back to the National Complex.

The Concert Hall looked unchanged from the outside, though a bus tour was parked near the back entrance as a safety measure. The usual set of defenses: haphazardly-placed UV lights to deter sneaky infected from getting into backstage.

Inside were two people setting up guard duty, one being the robust man from the bus, Osman, the bodyguard from the bus, and Juda, a former roadie. Crane knocked on the back door and was let in quickly.

It had been Crane's very first time to be in the back of a concert. Never had he dreamed he would be backstage in his human life and there he was, he navigated through a maze of cables, crates, and makeshift barricades in the dimly lit corridor.

The muffled sounds of activity grew louder and the orange silhouettes grew brighter with each step. At the end of the corridor, he found Jack leaning casually against the wall, eyes on the stage.

Almost as if she predicted his arrival, she glanced back.

"Just in time."

Crane joined her in the observation. The audience seats weren't glamorous to look at, with the number of bodies laid around.

On stage, six new faces, was working with Berkay and Eren doing management. Everyone wasn't close acquaintances to each other, other than that they had come to Scanderoon for the concert and that the outbreak was what forced them to band together.

Some of them had once been part of bands. Their instruments bore various logos and brands while for each musician, their attires reflected the differences in their tastes and origins.

"Shit. That's Rafael."

"Know him?" Jack asked.

"He's from a band called Los Tempestades," Crane explained. "I've listened to their music from time to time."

"Huh... One of the survivors mentioned they were guest stars… Looks like the rest of his band didn't make it."

"Rough," Crane replied

Eren's plan seemed to involve a mix of talents thrown together. Each performer set up and tuned their instruments with people they'd never met in their entire lives. Meanwhile Berkay directed technicians to check the sound system and rig lights. They weren't aiming for a grand performance—just something loud and clear.

There was a tangible sense of nervous energy in the air, but there was also an eerie calm, as if it were just another concert night, despite the danger lurking outside.

"They're really doing this," Crane exclaimed.

"Hm-hm."

"You think it'll work?"

"Nope." Brutal. But not surprising; Crane had gotten used to Jack's straightforwardness. "They've got to make it count before the whole building gets swarmed again."

"Yeah. Those noisemakers aren't gonna last forever… I don't like this."

"Neither do I," Jack said, her tone more earnest than he'd ever heard from her. "Failure or not, we have to keep them alive."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you don't want them to succeed."

It wasn't a cruel joke out of Jack and it wasn't an accusation from Freakazoid. When the brunette had that serious look behind her sunglasses, he knew she saw the bigger picture. She always factored in every outcome like a master chess player, leaving nothing to chance.

A very cautious player.

"A helicopter flying around the city is already suspicious. I doubt they'd stop to pick up a bunch of musicians and techs."

Kyle laughed in agreement. "Yeah. Only way rescue will come is if you have connections. Big ones."

"Sounds like a story. Care to share?"

Crane hesitated but relented. "Well… Met a politician once. He had a plan to get a copter for him and a few others out. He even offered me a spot." He paused. "Then he said he'd give me 25 million dollars for the help."

Jack's brow rose behind her shades. "...That's a generous amount."

Crane huffed. "Except he sent me on a wild goose chase for that money and left me behind when it was time to go."

Jack scoffed, disgust dripping from her voice. "I've met all sorts of people but a… politician... the most despicable breed possible."

"That's a little strong out of you. Care to share?"

"Wrong place, wrong time, she replied, her groan cutting off any further inquiry. It was her way of shutting down the conversation—Crane knew that was all he'd get out of her. "That bloke sounds like a royal prick."

If Jack ever met Erol Asani, she might change her tune once she saw his missing leg.

"Maybe," Crane admitted. "He had his family to think of."

Plus it has been months since that incident. Bygones be bygones, in Crane's book.

Jack let out a long sigh the moment Crane said the word: he had thought, she backtracked on her earlier word. "Alright. If it was for his family... Not that I'd like it in your shoes."

"'Everyone has their own sob story'. Even the most despicable ones."

"Hmh," Jack laughed. "I see what you did there."

Crane smiled behind his scarf. It was her own words from back at the mall, now turned back on her. So he figured he'd use that wisdom right back at her, catching her off guard. A rare moment of camaraderie amid the chaos, reminding them both that, despite everything, they were in this together.

"...So did you take the money?"

Crane squinted at the brunette. She simply smirked—it was a fair question to ask.

"Can't believe you managed to make this work."

Behind them, the young woman in denim jacket walked over

She always kept her appearance together—golden brown hair styled, light makeup. But stress had worn her over the months. The expensive jeans were discolored and her heels swapped for running shoes. A tarnished bracelet with an enamel dove—the only piece of her past—clung to her wrist.

"And here's our lead singer," Jack jested, catching Crane up on what he'd missed during his absence. "Ever heard of Blue Dove?"

"Not really… Pop music?" Crane guessed.

"It's alt-pop," the woman, Lyra, corrected with a frown.

Crane furrowed his eyebrows—that was a name he had never come across.

"Alternative pop," she then clarified.

"There's a difference?"

Oops, he watched her lips thin in annoyance, but Jack was quick to cut in.

"I thought you were watching out for that copter."

"I got bored."

"That was five minutes ago."

"You try sitting on the roof with a doomer who had been stuck in a closet for days."

"That's…" She dropped the subject, with no idea what a 'doomer' was. It must have been unpleasant. "Alright."

Lyra stepped forward; not far enough into the spotlight but enough to stay in the dim backstage. Her skepticism deepened as she watched the makeshift crew work.

"I figured you'd give up halfway. Or I don't know, get eaten," she said.

"Glad to know we're exceeding your expectations," Jack remarked.

"What? You want a reward?" Lyra uttered. "I'll give your friend a signed CD."

"Lass, you can drop the facade. It's just us here."

Lyra shot her another annoyed glance. Offended! But the ploy did little to work on the ex-kickboxer.

"I can act too," Jack pointed. "I am Mad Jack."

"Excessively," Crane said verbally in his usual smug tone.

"...You can say it. This concert's gonna fail," Lyra finally muttered.

Both runners reeled back, shocked—she didn't hear their earlier conversation, did she?

"Eren always says music is a beacon of hope," Lyra continued. That once felt true, but now Eren's stubbornness was grating on everyone, including her. "You flew thousands of miles back home and prepared everything for the big day."

When she was on the rooftop earlier, she barely recognized her homeland. Half the city was dead—her parents and grandmother.

"Then came the scream. The concert is suddenly put on hold indefinitely… Now? One note out and those monsters come running after you."

The memory still burned. Eren suddenly hurried to her, blood on his shoes. Lyra asked what happened but it was clear that it had horrified Eren. All she could do was let Eren take her out of the Concert Hall with the panicked crowd.

"Music can get you killed… I don't get why Eren doesn't see that this will end badly."

"Because it's all you got."

Lyra was caught off guard, steering to the hooded man. Confused.

"Yeah, he's persistent," Crane pointed. "But he has a point."

"Which is?" Lyra asked, her tone skeptical.

"That it's better to try than not."

Jack raised a brow—something similar to the piece of advice she had given him at his lowest. First on the cargo ship and second after Freakazoid's second freak-out.

She had seen his growth on their journey, despite the hidden skeletons still buried in his closet. With each step out of his shell, Freakazoid was slowly reclaiming his humanity.

A hint of pride crept into her smile as she watched him perform.

"And if it doesn't work, at least you tried. Better than sitting around for the end," he continued.

"You don't believe that," Lyra muttered

Crane met her gaze, his voice steady. "This is the last concert Scanderoon's going to have. If I'm going to perform, I'm giving it everything"

He let the weight of his words root into Lyra as she gave them some thought. She didn't seem hesitant or was against the notion. That meant she hadn't given up on her passion.

"He's right." Jack, who had been silently observing, nodded. "Maybe it'll end badly, maybe it won't... We won't know until we try."

Lyra's silence, however, didn't entirely share Jack's optimism.

"Lyra."

The young singer wheeled to Eren, who stood in the middle of the stage. The manager waved her to come forward—it was time.

She first steeled herself. Lyra had done this many times but hesitated just this once—that suddenly, that scream from the past could happen again and the concert of a lifetime would end. Permanently.

Lyra then marched forward, determined.

Crane watched, confident. They got this.

"...So."

That tone again.

"…You know how to play an instrument?" Jack sang.

Crane realized his slip and glanced at Jack's shitty grin up close. Another secret about himself out.

"Yeah," he muttered. "...I know…just a little."

"Really?"

He nodded awkwardly.

"Drums?"

"Guitar. Actually," Crane said, proud.

"Then willing to do a solo, mate?"

"Oh. Yeah. Sure." Another white lie out of him as he summoned all his strength to mask his newfound future stage fright. Crane, however, extended his talons. "Any idea how I can play without cutting the strings?"

A valid point. With how sharp those daggers were, Freakazoid could snap a string with the lightest tug. Jack pondered for a moment.

"...A pair of mittens?"

She was of no help to him.

Then Freakazoid glanced back, noticing something before Jack would.

"Eren!"

Jack would have been knocked over when the Kerem, a coordinator and the 'doomer' in question, bolted past them. Thankfully, Freakazoid was faster: pulling her to him as the coordinator came nearly tripping himself, binoculars in hand.

Kerem's fear latched onto the musicians one by one in that tense moment. Even the one who had been pushing for the concert.

"W-We got trouble. I think all the noise attracted some bandits."

A setback that neither Crane nor Jack foresaw but should have. Never did they think anyone would be bold enough to go check on a location making noise.

"They're not planning to turn them off?" Eren asked.

"I-I don't know."

"Where did you see those bandits?" Crane came out of the shadows, with a small flinch from the bright lights.

"U-Uh, the fire station! They're at the fire station! B-But it's not just there!"

"I knew it… I told you," Rafael snapped, directed at Eren. "This stupid concert's gonna get us killed!"

"Calm down." Lukas, a German musician, stepped in, halting Rafael from getting any ideas that he could regret.

Chaos erupted on stage. The only one who was the quietest was Lyra, by the mic—a look of shock, mixed with disappointment and quick acceptance. Why did they even try…

It was all happening all over again.

"What do we do now?!" Rafael hollered at Eren.

"What you're good at. Make music."

"What?" The drummer from Los Tempestades, his face said everything. He had lost his bandmates; all of them. And now some guy in a hood was telling them to play. "Are you serious?!"

"You heard me. We," Crane started, his thumb pointed to himself and then Jack who joined on stage. "Will stop those bandits."

"So go loud and proud," Jack said.

"You gotta be insane!"

"Comes with the territory," she sang and wheeled back down the corridor, Freakazoid following.

"Hey!"

The stage had been set for the musicians and yet, the thunder was taken away by two unlikely performers, leaving the crew stunned.

For the first time, Lyra didn't feel petrified. Worried, yes. But not like on the day of the screaming.

---

"Three spots to cover and with just the two of us," Freakazoid muttered as they sprinted toward the exit. "Cutting it real close."

"Fire station's the biggest hitter," Jack pointed.

"I'll take that. You check the bank."

Jack stopped abruptly once they were outside. Now it was her turn to spot something Freakazoid didn't—daylight hindering his senses.

"Freakazoid, we got more problems."

"You gotta be kidding me," Crane cursed. As if on cue to Jack's warning, a group of armed thugs strolled toward the National Complex's east entrance. Another complication added to the list.

Couldn't they have a break, Crane wondered. Regardless, he was ready to jump into the fray.

But Jack stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Barely though, when his first step nearly took her forward.

"Go," she urged, readying her weapon. "You're faster than me."

Freakazoid didn't bolt at first. A new bad habit of his: weighing the risks against Jack's safety, even with the urgency of the situation.

Reluctantly, Crane bolted, vanishing in a blur. Some of the bandits jumped, thinking they'd seen something out of the corner of their eyes. First on foot, then up to the nearby rooftops.

The fright did draw their attention to the woman in red, tightening her grip around her weapon as she walked towards them.

"Hey! Lady!" one of them yelled. They all wanted answers. For once, the streets they had often avoided were empty of the very threat they feared. However, the chance to loot the buildings turned into a deceiving, ear-piercing blessing.

"Sorry, gentlemen. Tickets sold out."

The bandits paused, exchanging puzzled looks. The leader's puzzled frown soon gave way to a mocking grin. One by one, the whole crowd joined in, ridiculing a random woman on the street who had lost her mind.

"Is she serious?" one of them sneered.

"Alright," the leader scoffed. "How about you give us free pass?"

"I don't make the rules here," she smiled wide."I'm just the bouncer."

With a fierce cry, she charged, taking out the first thug.

The district was filled with cacophonies of noises—Jack's shouts clashing with bandits, fire truck sirens, and the blaring bank alarm. Except for one: Crane couldn't hear the drill from the roadworks.

He had to detour: a snap of the tendril to take a sharp turn midair, propelling himself five blocks over.

But he could see the damage before he reached the unfinished street. Too many infected wandered into the small construction site, torn limbs scattered around with a deep pool of blood in the hole.

The generator had long been destroyed, with two Virals ripping its insides apart before one was fried by a burst of electricity.

"Drill's a goner," he relayed to Jack, before moving on to the fire station.

"Someone shut that thing off!"

Three bandits struggled to get into the fire station, swarmed with the infected. Always a Viral every minute—the siren had attracted the entire zombie population in the Bayside.

But if everything had to be loud, then so too would the goons.

BAM! They brought guns.

"I got it!" one of them shouted, reaching for the ignition keys.

"Shit! Who-ugh!"

With the deafening uproar around them, there was no way they could have seen the sudden punch from behind. The bandit wheeled away from the keys to see the hooded stranger and to his horror, snap his friend's head.

Panicking, he screamed in desperation-

"Grooooaaawnn!"

"Shit!" Crane ducked as a rebar swung at him.

THUD!

It was a terrifying swing right into the fire truck's window, nearly taking it off its wheels. The siren's blare sputtered into a low warbling gurgle, glass shattered, and blood splattered.

The fireman Goon was back, wielding a new weapon he tore off from the end of a staircase. He swung it with such force that it not only smashed the truck's front but the bandit—unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place—was also caught in the crossfire.

His headless body dropped aside like a discarded ragdoll.

Crane's heart raced. Had he been a second slower, he'd have been next.

"I thought you were dead!" he hollered.

Unfortunately, the infected fireman turned around to show Crane's failure to finish him off—the missing arm he had sliced off in the last fight. It lumbered towards him with a snarl, scraping the rebar across the floor for the next attack.

Crane fired his tendrils, but not at the Goon. They latched onto the fire truck, giving him a powerful momentum as a zombie slingshot, feet up in the air.

CRASH!

The fire truck buckled and crumpled beyond recognition, the Goon crashing into it with a sickening thud. The rebar dropped out of his hand, slurped into Crane's with a tendril. Up the rebar and batta, batta, swing!

Smashed its head before it could stand up again.

"Stay down this time," Crane grumbled, watching the giant collapse for good.

The gurgling sound redirected his focus to the siren. That did it: the siren gave its last dying wail before it shut down.

Yes, his fault. But he could have done anything to save the situation.

THUD! Crane quickly flung the rebar at a nearby Biter and hurried out of the fire station.

"It's not looking good out here," he muttered over the comms.

"No choice,. We hold out as long as we can."

Easier said than done. The whole district was coming alive from every direction.

Suddenly, a sharp noise pierced the air in the chaotic orchestra.

The humans in the street heard it: white noise blaring from speakers above the east entrance, followed by the fizzle of adjustments.

Then came the music—the first tug of a string instrument.

The first song wasn't as loud and proud as Crane had anticipated. It started slow and soft that gradually built with a piano, drums, and bass guitar.

Lyra's voice followed. Nothing impactful like the Beetles in the old days. No greater meaning than some songs that carried through the decades like 'Zombie'. The lyrics were rather simple and melancholic, almost anti-climactic. If anyone took the literal meaning, it was about taking a stroll in the urban parts of Scanderoon.

Yet, the melody struck a hypnotic chord. It was oddly normal amidst the decay.

Then the music grew and grew—from soft and emotional to powerful. Rebelling and overcoming the impossible.

Before the Runners came across the group, everyone thought it would have been their last days on Earth while holed up in the Service Annex. The musicians mulled over; they tried writing a few sheets; they crumpled them up in frustration. All was meaningless.

Inside the cramped space, Eren picked each up, carefully smoothed out the discarded sheets and stacked them together on the break room table.

He liked them. Every disfumbled and unfinished piece.

At first, the others were annoyed. Eventually, Lucas was the first to pick up a pencil and glance over the sheets. Rafael followed with a gradual determination to perfect the music. Nadia, a keyboardist, softened her usual electronic sound to suit the written tones.

Lyra was the last, on and off with her lyrics.

For the past weeks, they crafted songs, knowing that nobody would hear—until the day of the revived concert.

"Hear that, Freakazoid?" Jack held her earpiece up, though it would be pointless to Freakazoid.

"Yeah, I hear it," Crane replied, perched on the fire station's rooftop. For once, he appreciated his new monstrous hearing, picking up the concert at the National Complex as if he were in the audience. "...So this is alt-pop."

But not everyone shared their awe.

"You! Go in there and shut it off - ugh!" The bandit leader was silenced mid-order, his head clobbered by a metal pipe. Jack had thinned their numbers, but now the infected had arrived. Bandits and the undead clashed, while also targeting her smack in the middle.

"It's getting busy here, Freakazoid," she muttered, tension rising as Virals pounced on an oblivious bandit.

WHAM! Jack barely reacted in time as teeth snapped inches from her. The Biter's head rocketed down to the pavement.

Emerging from the backstage exit were two people she least expected. Osman had taken the very thing he sat at the exit and from the bus: the folding chair as the bodyguard's shield and weapon.

She understood his logic—his job had been to protect, even if a zombie outbreak wasn't in the contract. And at this point, the defense was futile. They were all past the threshold.

The very person he swore to protect stood next to Jack, panting and clutching the bloodied pipe in hand.

"Hey," Lyra greeted.

"Shouldn't you be on stage, Lass?"

She shook her head, swallowing her panic. "Intermission."

Lyra was never a fighter when she had her bodyguard—her grip on the pipe was tight but clumsy. Still, her eyes showed she wasn't leaving until the concert ended, despite her fear.

"They got this," she assured Jack.

"...If you say so." Jack wouldn't take their thunder from them. "Stay behind me."

Lyra nodded, not bold enough to refuse a professional's help.

The next song started, and though the musicians were tense, they played on, racing against the clock. Any mistakes? There was no audience left to complain, but the pressure was palpable.

A guitar suddenly screeched mid-chorus.

"Shit!" Lukas recoiled, rattled by stage fright he hadn't felt since his early days. The drums and keyboard kept going, but the tension hung heavy once his rhythm stopped.

Rafael, Nadia and the technicians in the background waited with bated breaths. The chorus was about to end.

"Keep going!" Lyra's voice echoed softly through the speakers—the same Lyra who fought alongside Jack outside.

The guitar buzzed back to life, shaky but determined.

"Jack, last noisemaker is dead," Freakazoid uttered in over the comms.

So they were nearing the finale, now the zombie population turning their attention to the Concert Hall.

Suddenly, Freakazoid's voice cut through in a fervent tone.

"Copter's heading to the National Complex!"

Jack couldn't believe it—livid but relieved when she spotted the bright red dot in the sky flying their way.

The plan worked!

WHAM!

No time to celebrate. Jack smashed an infected's skull with her weapon, sending the body crumpling to the ground.

"Back inside!" she barked and no one objected. The bandits were either dead or fleeing, leaving their corpses as distractions for the zombies.

"Eren! Rescue's here!" Jack relayed over the comms. "Get everyone upstairs now!"

CLANK!

The sound of metal ripping. A Goon had swung its rebar at the speakers, enraged, but they were too high. Still, its strike ripped into the East Gate, allowing stragglers to slip in.

"We're already at the helipad," Eren's voice crackled through the comms, though Jack could hear something tearing in the background—something electric.

Backstage, Osman shoved a heavy equipment crate against the exit door. Pointless as well when the building was no longer secure, other than keeping the infected off their backs.

The sound of shuffling feet and low moans echoed through the auditorium, growing louder.

"Whole place's filling up!" Jack warned, urgency in her voice.

"Don't worry. I'll slow them down."

Jack skidded to a halt, alarmed.

"What do you mean 'slow them down'…?! Eren?"

No response.

"Eren!" she yelled again.

"H-Hey!" The other two stopped, sensing Jack's panic. Lyra's voice quivered. "What happened to Eren?! What's happened to him?!"

"Get her up to the roof!" Jack ordered Osman.

"Lyra." The bodyguard grabbed her gently by the arm despite her protests. "C'mon."

"No! I'm not going without Eren! Please!"

But Jack was already gone, searching before Lyra could make her choice in the search.

"Eren! Where are you?" Jack demanded, racing down the backstage corridor. Again, no response.

"The rescue team's already on their way! Whatever you're doing-"
"It's not just that," Eren interrupted Freakazoid, his voice trembling but resolute. "I can't let this concert die. Not yet."

Jack was Mad Jack but this was borderline insanity!

The plan had worked. Why more could he want?!

"The whole city needs to hear their music - for as long as possible!"

A loud crash echoed from his end.

"So they know what happened today!"

Frantic, Jack searched. Eren wasn't on the main stage or in the audience. Then, around a corner, she found burnt a burnt corpse. Then another two metres away. A third much further then.

Down the end of the corridor, she spotted Eren. Outside the pyrotechnics room.

His hand trembled on a live audio wire. In his hastiness, he grabbed a familiar pair of insulate gloves and made an armguard out of duct tape and a piece of soundproofing panel, marching forth to slow down any Biters with…something! Eren took it upon himself to jab the wire into each foe that ran towards him.

It was foolish of him when a lurker jumped on his arm and bit him.

Managing schedules and jam sessions hadn't prepared him for this. But he fought on

He was ready for the worst to come.

Shoving the zombie off him, Eren tried to recover back on his feet before spotting the brunette running down the corridor.

Eren smiled weakly at her.

"Tell them. Tell Lyra…"

He lifted the live wire.

"Never stop living."

And hurled it into the pyrotechnics room.

Sparks ignited.

---

"Okay... Ready the next track," Elif, a technician, instructed quietly as the second song neared its end. She signaled the singer to step back—Lyra's vocals wouldn't be needed until later.

Lyra slipped from the mic, hurrying backstage where Eren waited. Despite months of vocal training, her throat was dry, and the spasms wouldn't stop.

They started an hour ago.

"You did good, Lyra," Eren praised, guiding her to sit on an equipment crate. He handed her a water bottle, which she accepted gratefully.

"...We might actually pull this off," Eren muttered as he eyed the bloodstained, empty audience.

He hadn't stopped feeling anxious since the concert started. And while the grim truth was unavoidable, he couldn't help but see the grass getting greener on the other side.

"Berklay's got everything ready. We just need to head to the rooftop in time." His confidence sounded forced, but Lyra could see through it. At any moment, the gates would be breached—by humans or infected. "Yeah. We can do it."

But he was Lyra's manager.

Eren caught her glance, trying to mask his fear. It's going to be alright, his expression said.

Lyra forced a smile, but it faltered, her gaze dropping to the water bottle in her hands.

"What's wrong?" Eren asked, concerned.

Lyra squeezed the bottle too hard, crumpling the plastic. She realized it too late but didn't loosen her grip.

"Eren… I've been thinking."

"Yeah?"

"...About not going."

Eren's eyes widened. What? Why? But he didn't ask those questions right away.

"I don't…have anything else out there."

It sounded like an excuse out of her.

"Of course you do," Eren countered quickly. "Your fans are waiting. And, and that Chicago deal. That's gonna make you big."

Yes, Lyra had looked forward to all of that. Months ago.

"That would've been great… if I hadn't been bitten by that freak."

The reminder hit Eren like a punch. His confidence cracked before her very eyes, just like when he first saw the Viral pin her down during the blackout. It had taken days for his usual demeanor to return while she had blacked out from the blood loss for also days.

After Lyra woke up, that was when Eren changed.

Lyra wished she hadn't said it, but she had to. She didn't want to hold anyone back.

Eren tried to speak out; tried to reassure her but it wasn't that simple.

Back with the nervous pacing, until he knelt down and took her hand lightly.

"Hey," Eren started—it wasn't Manager Karabulut anymore. His voice was softer, more like a protective father. "I made that promise to your grandmother. I'd get you to stardom."

Lyra tried to smile.

"You did... You got me to the biggest concert in the world."

Eren had fulfilled his promise. With the new contract, she could have gone further than anyone imagined—if not for the virus. Eren was ready to watch her rise without him while he moved on to the next talent. Or retire.

After the blackout, he was driven. Madly. Eren had become obsessed with getting a helicopter to rescue them, desperate to get her treatment. Her career couldn't end because of this virus.

Lyra shook her head, fighting back tears. "It's not fair… Everything—"

There was nothing left in Scanderoon. Her grandmother wasn't reachable anymore, leaving only the bracelet as a reminder. Other relatives were in Sweden, and everyone else—fans, family, friends—was lost to her.

She didn't want to join them as a hollow, screaming husk.

Eren suddenly pulled her close, his back shielding her from the others on stage. It was the one thing Lyra hated: showing her true self. But she didn't care anymore. It had been too long since she'd had a hug like this.

Her emotions swirled—grief, fear, anger—until she finally felt acceptance. She was going to die, sooner than she ever expected, at the ripe age of twenty-one.

So why not drop the perfect facade? Why care about headlines, prying eyes, or expectations? If she was going to live her dream, she would do it on her own terms.

"Let's finish this concert first," Eren whispered, his voice steady, almost resolute. "One more song for the road."

---

Fire everywhere.

Scorching heat, clitter-clatter—chaos erupted in all directions.

All Jack knew was that she was on her back, winded and gasping through the smoke.

Get up!

Her legs wouldn't respond, and her ears rang painfully, worsening her headache. Trembling hands betrayed her panic, but she forced herself through her calming ritual: 1, 2, 3, 4, rinse and repeat.

Get up already!

"Jack!"

And up she went, like a monster had grabbed her. But when she saw Freakazoid's worried blue eyes under his hood, her trembles eased. He set her back down on solid ground, away from the flames engulfing the pyrotechnic room.

Everything was burning. But Eren?

She looked to Freakazoid, but his expression confirmed what she already feared. His enhanced zombie vision couldn't spot Eren through the blaze. Even if he had survived the explosion, third-degree burns were a death sentence.

Eren was gone.

But his sacrifice bought them time. The explosion blocked the path with fire and debris, and a Viral that tried to leap through became a charred corpse.

"C'mon!" Freakazoid hollered.

They sprinted all the way back to the stairway, the concert hall below swarmed by ravenous 'fans.' Fire spread to the riser seats, and walkers stormed the stage, destroying the equipment in a mindless frenzy. The concert was over, even though the music still looped through the National Complex.

Whup-whup-whup!

The sound of helicopter blades filled the air as they burst through the emergency door. Relief flooded them—until they saw the orange helicopter rising away from the helipad, already leaving.

"HEY!" Jack shouted in vain, her voice drowned by the helicopter's whirling blades.

The pilot, far too high to notice, couldn't see the frantic woman in red jumping up and down below. They were leaving with only a selected few.

Lyra stood near the exit, having refused to move forward without seeing Eren. Osman had given up halfway, while closer to the helipad, Lukas stood bewildered and Elif sat on the ground, tired and silent.

No one tried to stop the helicopter. But maybe they did, getting apologies or threats from the rescue crew.

"COME BACK, YOU BLOODY-!" Jack wanted to hurl something at the departing copter, but all she managed was a frustrated fist in the air.

Crane, watching in disappointment, had expected this outcome. It only brought back old wounds from his time with Erol. Despite everything, four people were left behind.

No. It couldn't end like this. He had to think-

"It doesn't matter."

Jack and Crane turned to Lyra, baffled. The young singer, once desperate to escape Scanderoon at any cost, now seemed resigned.

"I've decided to stay," she admitted, voice guilty and eyes wet with tears.

The two Runners stood dumbfounded but didn't demand an explanation. Everyone had worked tirelessly to pull off the biggest concert in Scanderoon with the impossible odds. They'd made that forgotten dream come true, and for now, that was enough.

Getting out of the nightmare? That would've been ideal, but Crane and Jack knew better.

Now, there was no going back.

---

"Did you hear that noise earlier?"

Crane had just entered Hope Harbor for the first time, with Jack vouching for him to Derya, the Safe Zone leader. Right away past the gates, he overheard three people gossiping near the boardwalk.

"I've never been so scared in my life... The whole city was screaming."

"Whose bright idea was it to be blasting music in board daylight! It was like Hell broke loose."

"My husband wanted to leave the harbor immediately."

"Maybe. But it drew away those monsters. The streets' a lot quieter now."

"Not gonna lie. Those tracks were pretty lit.

"You can't be serious."

"Well, it's over. At least we've got some peace now… Now if we can only deal with Alexander's men."

The conversation fizzled out, the grim reality settling back in again. Their situation hadn't improved much and now four more mouths added to their number. With nowhere to go after the concert, Jack, however, persuaded Derya to let the four survivors into the harbor.

The newcomers settled in, though the trauma lingered. Elif quickly adapted, chatting with women her age about past concerts she had worked backstage. Lukas and Osman stuck together at the pier, the bodyguard bringing back the same folding chair he'd used during the concert, despite its bent frame.

As the two Runners approached, Lukas stood with a grateful smile.

"Appreciate all that you've done," he said. "I haven't played like that since Bremen."

"Too bad we couldn't get you on that copter," Jack admitted.

Lukas shook his head. "They wouldn't take anyone infected."

"Figures," Freakazoid muttered, unsurprised.

"And Lyra?" Jack's voice wavered slightly and glanced back at the young singer, sitting at the end of the boardwalk with the ocean as her backdrop. Lyra sat in the shade, strumming an oddly-shaped guitar, different from Lukas'. No signs of distress from her.

There weren't any signs Jack saw on the lass.

"It's alright," Osman said. "Lady in charge gave us Antizin, including Lyra."

Good news, but bittersweet. Jack's glum smile said it all to Crane.

Lukas sighed. "Things went to hell after that blackout."

Osman slumped in his chair, looking worn. "Eren took it hard."

Two and two could be put together. Jack and Crane didn't need to ask further.

"He couldn't forgive himself after what happened to Lyra. He was like a second father to her… Shame he threw his life away for us like that."

Shame, maybe, Crane thought. Eren wouldn't have changed his mind.

He then noticed the brunette trail off. So he followed suit to the one spot.

Lyra was hunched over, scribbling notes and tweaking the strings of her instrument. Lost in her music, she hadn't noticed a few kids and older folks gathering around; some amused, others disapproving.

"Working on another song?" Jack's voice snapped her out of concentration, and Lyra smiled at the familiar faces.

"Kinda. Got nothing better to do," she shrugged, stretching her neck after an hour over the Lavta.

"Pop again?" Crane asked.

"Pop rock," she said proudly. "You can come listen to it later… It's actually my first try."

Crane chuckled, appreciating her honesty. "I'll hold you to that."

"How about I can top that up with this?"

Crane furrowed his brow, confused, as he watched the young singer pull a CD box from her small bag.

"It's all the tracks from the concert. Unpolished, but… raw," she explained.

Eren may have been erratic but his plan was simple: play five songs before putting them on loop to buy enough time for the survivors to reach the rooftop.

Lyra steadied herself as she held out the CD. "I want you to have it."

Crane blinked, realizing she was offering it to him, not Jack. He turned to the brunette, thinking that it would be pointless, especially to 'something' like him.

Jack simply nodded. Don't leave the lass hanging.

"Sure." Crane carefully took the CD. "Guess I'll go looking for a CD player."

"You can borrow mine, mate," Jack added.

"Share it with everyone. We put our heart and soul into those songs," Lyra said with pride.

"Back on the rooftop, Lyra-"

"It's Nina. Nina Demirci. Lyra's my stage name."

Jack acknowledged this, then asked, "...Why did you change your mind?"

The question caught Nina off guard. But Jack meant no harm, just curious after how Nina was so desperate in leaving.

"It's gonna be impossible to get another rescue team." Jack said bluntly, though she softened the blow. There was still a silver of hope, small as it was.

Nina let out a sigh, feeling the weight of her decision. Her fingers traced her bracelet as a sign of comfort. "I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

What would the next chapter in the singer's bleak future be? Crane pondered over the inevitable fate awaiting those infected when the Antizin ran out. The grim possibility of her ending up like him, a sentient monster, left him uneasy. But, strangely, in that moment, she seemed more alive than ever.

As if truly living for the first time in her short life.

"You won't regret it?" Jack asked.

Nina thought it over, her resolve unwavering, though tinged with sadness. In the end, she shook her head.

"...I'd regret it even more if I had left."

---

SIDE QUEST: LENDING A HAND

---

Jack's been keeping tips on Noam's progress with the new arm prototype from time to time. That's good to hear. Then maybe Ekrem might have a chance at being a normal, happy kid. But from the sound of things, he might have hit a snag. - Kyle

---

Since the surprise GRE raid, things had changed for the Junction.

The most noticeable shift was the balance of power. One moment, the Trappers ran the place; the next, only a handful remained—the ones who weren't horrible to civilians.

With Quasim knocked down from his soapbox, his arbitrary rules had loosened. Most survivors, including Mahir, had never truly accepted them, to begin with. They were made for everyone's safety. But that didn't mean it was done with the most integrity in mind.

The worst offenders got away with a slap on the wrist, but as long as they kept the infected at bay, people tolerated it, despite their dislike.

But the raid opened everyone's eyes. Mahir, now taking back control, scrapped those rules altogether. He made it clear: if any Trapper stepped out of line, they'd be kicked out. Trust in Quasim had evaporated, and now the focus was solely on the well-being of the Junction and its people.

The result? A bit of breathing space. Siv's Runners no longer had to walk on eggshells around the Trappers, who threatened them with being left for dead the moment they caused trouble.

Some civilians were relieved, glad to be free of the Trappers' strict behavior. Now things could finally be done. Things people wanted and needed to do.

But for others, the newfound looseness also brought unease.

"I don't like the new guy."

In the Junction, a word, a rumor or a cry could spread like wildfire. Naturally, that complaint made its way to Crane's ears a thousand feet away—thanks to his superhearing.

"Why?"

"I dunno! It's what Gul said to me."

Crane and Jack had only arrived to the Junction on an errand when he spotted the chatterboxes: a gunman, a guy in charge of stocks and the loudmouth in question.

"You know you can't trust anything those Trappers say after what Quasim did, right?"

"I know that. They're all a-holes."

"Even so, something is weird about him. Have you seen his eyes?"

"What are you doing looking at a man's eyes?"

"I mean…they are unusually blue."

"Look. I get it. Guy's super quiet, it's unnerving. Follows that woman around like a damn dog."

And that was enough.

"Freakazoid?"

"One minute," he muttered and he was off, trying to be discreet despite standing out.

"Think he's hiding something?" the supply man asked. "The lady trusts him a lot."

"She's the only one who vouches for him," the gunman pointed; it was in his best interest to report on anything shady. "We don't need any more trouble."

"He's already scary enough as it is. He jumped on that GRE thug like some superhero," the loudmouth continued in a pointless whisper. "He's not normal-"

"If you got a problem with the new guy, you should talk to him face to face."

The loudmouth was the most jittery of the trio, turning around faster than an infected sprinter. Only the gunman came to his defense but purely because they've all been caught on the spot. He held his head high, regardless.

"Fine… There's something off about you," he started, glancing at his companions.

"Go on."

The gunman frowned at being put on the spot. Now he felt uncertain.

"What exactly did you do before all this?"

Crane suspected as much. Just as how Jack could tell Freakazoid was no original Joe with a tragic past, anyone who had some military or martial knowledge could recognize that Crane had expertise that rivaled theirs.

"Independent contractor," he replied. "Nothing special."

"Oh! C'mon!" the loudmouth interjected, unable to contain himself. "We saw you take those mercenaries down like they were nothing!"

"So were everyone else," Crane shot back. "Is that a problem?"

"It's not…natural. It's like you're not human!"

A soft chuckle escaped the supply man. "That's a bit ridiculous-"

"Hang on." The gunman stepped forward, suddenly serious. "Who's to say you're not already infected?"

That was a good question, and dread flashed across their faces before their eyes locked onto the new guy.

No one ever asked if someone had been bitten—it was an unspoken rule to avoid opening a can of worms. Any new arrival at the Junction went straight to Doc for a medical checkup. If bitten, they were recorded and placed on an Antizin schedule. Any signs of shaking or blurred vision were sent to Sick Bay immediately.

But it suddenly occurred to the three men that the newcomer hadn't undergone a medical checkup—at least, not to anyone's knowledge. All they knew was that Mahir had cleared him, and that was that.

So it was suspicious.

Crane didn't falter.

"Alright. Say I was bitten. Wouldn't you have shot me if I was off my rocker?"

"I mean… That is protocol." The gunman frowned angrily when he noticed the loudmouth's gaze shifting toward him. Don't put him on the spot!

Nonetheless, it was clear to them that the man before them was very different from any infected. He had held a coherent conversation with them longer than a Viral, exhibiting no mindless aggression or incoherent snarls.

Crane straightened, shaking off the moment of vulnerability. The gunman noticed the shift; it was a stance he recognized all too well.

"I did what I had to do. The GRE would have hurt these people if I didn't."

Kyle watched three men shamefully avert their gazes, heads bowed like frightened parrots. Despite their open distrust of him—a stranger appearing out of nowhere—they couldn't deny the timing of his arrival.

If he hadn't shown up when he did, they couldn't imagine what GRE would have done.

"Yeah," the gunman finally broke the silence. "You and your friend have done a lot of good for the Junction."

"Sorry about that," the supply man added.

"Hey, we cleared the air," Crane pointed out. "Because seriously. Talking zombies?"

"Yeah. That's wild."

The three men laughed, sharing a few side-eyes. But the hooded man didn't join in. With an awkward cough, the supply man suggested, "We should get back to work."

The group of gossipers quickly agreed and dispersed to whatever tasks awaited them.

That went a lot more smoother than Crane had thought.

"Impressive."

He wheeled back to Jack. Not long ago, the super zombie with a conscience would never have initiated a conversation, always relying on Jack as his front. But now, there he was, taking charge with newfound confidence.

"You're not afraid of your secret getting out?"

He scoffed softly. Of course, he was terrified—every single day, trapped in this body.

"If I give enough bullshit, they won't believe anything."

"Clever thinking."

Crane nodded to the praise before they continued to Noam's garage.

"Here are the parts, Noam," Jack announced.

"Good. Put them over there."

The number of times Crane had gone in and out of the Junction should have worn his luck thin by now. Walking freely without anyone tearing off his hood to expose the monster underneath felt like living with a knife pressed against his back.

He often caught wary glances from a few Trappers. Quasim must have whispered something to his men, but if he did indeed know his secret, they'd have tried to pin Crane down.

Or maybe they were too afraid to try. Or prove to everyone about the newcomer.

As long as Crane kept his head down and stuck close to Jack, he would be fine.

But his anxiety crept back when he noticed someone in Noam's garage who clearly shouldn't be around dangerous tools and scrap metal.

Noam had set aside a small, safe corner, far from the equipment for the young boy missing an arm, with crayons and paper.

Ekrem struggled to hold a green crayon in his left hand, his slow movements wrinkling the paper. He'd put the crayon down, smooth the sheet, and try again, using his elbow to hold it in place.

Crane saw the frustration weighing on the boy's small shoulders. Ekrem wasn't giving up, but any minute now, he could toss the failed drawing aside like the two crumpled balls of paper at his feet.

Kyle's gaze lingered on the empty sleeve pinned to Ekrem's jacket—a cruel reminder of what the boy had lost. An arm, a normal childhood, and perhaps much more, thanks to this outbreak.

...Thanks to Crane.

He had brought the virus to Scanderoon, and no one would ever know. Over and over, he asked the same impossible question: What horrors had he committed with his own claws while his mind drowned in the primal instincts of the infected?

Crane felt the weight of responsibility for everything in Scanderoon, yet he was powerless to undo any of his mistakes—all of them. Indirectly, he had taken everything from Ekrem the day he crawled out of the manhole.

Which a darker, deadlier thought began to surface in his head.

Had he-?

"Freakazoid?"

"Hm?" Crane jolted as if pulled back from a distant place.

He tried to act normal but Jack was already aware. Instead of prying, she cut straight to the point. "We've got a problem."

Crane frowned. "What's wrong?"

"I said," Noam clearly geared up for a long explanation, "This isn't going to work."

Crane furrowed his brow, confused. Noam anticipated the reaction and gestured to the workbench, where the first prototype rested.

The prosthetic arm looked crude and clunky, a skeletal framework of scrap metal, bolts, and screws. It was functional but basic, powered by an old battery pack.

Nobody expected miracles, but the flaws became more apparent the longer Noam worked on it. The biggest issue was the fingers—they had to be controlled manually with joystick switches, requiring clumsy extra steps.

Clank!

Two fingers and a thumb clamped too hard, shattering a cup in the test.

Jack's eyes widened, alarm bells ringing in her head. There was no way they would put this on the lad and everyone agreed silently. Noam swept the shards away, terrified as the fingers twitched, almost as if the contraption wanted to grab him, only stopped by its heavy weight.

"That's a bear trap," Freakazoid stated the obvious.

"You don't have to tell me twice. Doesn't help that it needs a 35-kilo battery, and a controller that short-circuits!"

Frustrated, Noam yanked out the wires, watching the disastrous metallic beast power down.

"Alright. What do we need?" Crane asked.

"Nothing," Noam replied, slumping in his seat. "Hate to break it to you, but you're gonna need hardware. Know anyone who can help?"

"If we were in the Outskirts, the Grads might have an idea," Jack offered.

"Any chance they can help out?"

Jack shook her head. "It's hard enough traveling along the Coastline without the military breathing down our necks."

Crane wasn't an engineer, but he knew this mechanical upgrade was a long shot. The prototype on the table wasn't even the first attempt.

"...What about asking Tolga and Fatin?"

Jack's eyes widened in disbelief after hearing the worst suggestion possible. Noam, however, looked confused—those names weren't as infamous to him as they were to both Runners.

Crane already regretted the suggestion before he said it. They were the last people on Earth he'd ever want to ask for anything.

"No," Jack said firmly.

"I don't like it either," he admitted.

"Absolutely not."

"They're difficult, sure-"

"That's not my problem. You're asking two mad scientists to work on a child's arm."

"They're not going to strap a rocket launcher on him," Crane said, though Jack immediately picked on the slight doubt in his voice, narrowing her eyes further.

Because he could see those two do the impossible. Not for a kid, hopefully.

Still, what other options did they have?

"Let me talk to them."

All of a sudden, Jack crossed her arms, brow furrowed. Why?

This was the first time Freakazoid had volunteered to talk to someone, let alone two people Jack could barely tolerate.

"I mean, sure. Give it your best shot."

"Trust me. They'll make that hardware for us."

No backing down from Freakazoid—another first for Jack. Was he already sold on the brothers' brilliance for making that harpoon gun? Jack glanced over to Noam, hoping for an alternative. Another safer option.

"I got nothing," Noam said, still lost in the conversation. Any solution seemed better than his failed contraptions so far.

Jack didn't feel any more confident, but she decided to let it play out.

"I hope you know what you're doing," she muttered, both amused and puzzled, as she walked out of the garage.

Crane followed, initially confident. But as soon as he left the garage—with no one paying attention—he groaned, his steps feeling heavier.

"...Maybe they won't recognize me. My voice's fucked anyway."

He didn't notice Ekrem watching them leave.

The boy hadn't interacted with many adults besides Carl, Jack, Siv, and Noam. Anyone else? He stayed quiet, uninterested.

But the hooded man who always followed Jack seemed... different. A little scary.

Meanwhile, back inside, Noam turned to Ekrem with the upgraded arm and battery box, ready for another test.

"Alright, let's try this again," Noam stepped into Ekrem's view after making a few new tweaks to the prototype.

Ekrem had been through multiple tests, already familiar with the process. He accepted the straps over his shoulder, heavy as always. Meanwhile, Noam rested the arm on the table to alleviate the weight, but Ekrem's right side remained uncomfortable. Unfamiliar.

"Remember the drill?" Noam asked, going over the instructions again. "Try picking up your crayon."

The process was slow and awkward, requiring Ekrem to control his right arm with his left—like trying to play a video game with one hand. Eventually, the fingers wrapped around the blue crayon, just as he'd intended.

"Good, good-"

There was a sudden flash of sparks. Before the mechanic could react to the danger, the new arm drooped to Ekrem's side, dead on power.

"Son of a-!" Noam caught himself and quickly removed the arm from the boy, not wanting to trouble him with it. Ekrem wasn't hurt, and that was what mattered. He then turned to the device, trying to figure out what went wrong, hiding his disappointed frown with his hand.

Unfortunately, Ekrem saw it.

It's your fault.

If he hadn't lost his arm, Noam wouldn't be working so hard. Jack wouldn't need to leave to find parts. It was all his fault, Ekrem thought to himself.

He glanced down at the failed arm, trying to make himself smaller.

"Back to the drawing board," Noam said, patting the boy's back. "Want me to put the old arm on?"

"...I don't want it," Ekrem said softly.

Noam paused, stunned by Ekrem's downcast expression. "I used a different material this time. It should be lighter."

"It's not that…" Ekrem trailed off, a habit Noam had noticed but couldn't fix. He understood—they'd gone through so many tests, and the boy was tired. Kids didn't like tests.

A soft knock interrupted them. Noam sighed in relief when Carl, the orphans' guardian, appeared at the door—a much-needed break out of this cumbersome situation.

"Lunch's ready," Carl called.

"Would you look at that," Noam uttered, looking at the clock above them. "Can't work on an empty stomach."

Noam nudged Ekrem forward. "Run along now. We can try again later."

Ekrem nodded without much enthusiasm. He reached for Carl's hand, but stopped, remembering he no longer had a right arm—he had his toy sword in his good hand, his only comfort.

Despite of that, Carl rested his hand on Ekrem's shoulder and guided him to the canteen.

"You're gonna love it. We're having spaghetti for a change."

Spaghetti should have been exciting. The other orphans were thrilled; some had never even heard of it. For as long as they could remember, meals at the Orphanage had always been bland and repetitive.

Carl had once been scolded for offering snacks—Nasia, the strict English teacher, had angrily debated him about wasting crackers for peanut butter.

But at the Junction, things were different. Volunteers chimed in to help Carl manage the rambunctious kids, and slowly, they were acting like themselves again.

Ekrem noticed another quiet kid at the end of the table. Ozan, the residential bully he never thought he'd see again.

He didn't know him personally but remembered Lina talking about how Ozan mocked her by saying kickboxing was stupid and so her favorite kickboxer was stupid too. Whatever that meant.

"Here you go."

Carl left Ekrem for a moment to fetch him a tray. Soon, a plate of spaghetti, green peas, and canned tuna was placed in front of him—not a pleasant combination, but the Junction made do with what they had.

Another obstacle in Ekrem's way: eating with one hand. He struggled to spin the fork in the pasta.

"Here," Carl offered, gesturing if he could take over. With a few cuts from a plastic knife here and there, Carl made the meal easier for the boy to manage. But once the plate was handed back, Ekrem didn't eat right away.

"Rashid, no jumping on the seats," Carl called out, moving on to the next distraction.

Unknowingly leaving the child to his grim thoughts.

Ekrem poked at a pea floating in the tomato sauce. He just didn't have an appetite. Because the sauce's bright red color reminded him of the red crayon he used for blood.

"Ekrem?"

He glanced up at the woman's voice.

"No playing with your food. We won't go to the playground at this rate."

Ekrem had almost forgotten her face, but he knew she was his babysitter from the day everything changed. She took him and his sister out for an early dinner.

"I'll take your dessert if you don't hurry, slowpoke."

"Oya."

"Hehe!" The mischievous little girl opposite him snuck a fry from Ekrem's meal as she quickly avoided the babysitter's disapproving gaze. The woman left her to be to finish her burger.

He missed Oya.

Then he realized it once he blinked.

There was no Oya or their babysitter in front of him.

He wasn't at the small diner by the Bayside. He was at the Junction, staring at a plate of food growing cold.

Clunk!

The noise made him jump. Terrified.

"Watch it!"

"I-I'm sorry!"

"What's going on?"

Carl hurried over to the catering area. Ozan had dropped his plate by accident, spaghetti, and sauce splattering everywhere. Even the leg of a grown-up in front of him, annoyed at the mess.

Ekrem's surroundings blurred. All the noises and the shouts deafened his ears. His heart, however, was loud.

Just like before.

"He's been bitten!"

"No choice. The arm's gotta go!"

"It's gonna be okay, kid."

But it wasn't. It never was.

He never asked for the bite. He never saw his family again after that day. And he didn't understand why everything went wrong.

Or why those adults held him down and brought out something sharp.

"Cut some slack, man," Aaron scolded from the kitchen. "Accidents happen."

"Tell that to him."

"Aali, stop. The kid didn't mean it," another man, ahead of the queue, stopped him. Anyone else could see that the young boy was shaken, which only annoyed Aali more.

That meant he was the bad guy in all of this.

"Whatever," Aali muttered, stepping back in line.

"It's okay, Ozan," Carl assured the bully, pulling him aside while a volunteer cleaned up the mess.

The voices in Ekrem's head...they just couldn't stop yelling no matter how much Ekrem fought back.

"It's for your own good, kid!"

Ekrem grabbed his tray.

And hauled it as hard as he could with one arm.

CLANK!

"Hey!"

Tomato sauce splattered near the feet of the loud adult. The tray and plate crashed to the floor, and all eyes turned to the kid clenching his only fist.

The canteen fell dreadfully silent, except for the sound of Ekrem's heavy breathing.

---

"Are you sure you can do this?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

The fact that Freakazoid was walking ten feet slower than Jack said everything. He didn't want to do this, no matter how much he pretended otherwise.

It wasn't just the usual anxiety he felt around strangers. If anyone did discover his secret, well, Jack knew ways. But this time was different.

Then again, she had hoped to never see those two engineers ever again. And yet, there they were, outside City Hall.

She should have known better than to call them. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and after a few caveman-themed insults at her, they begrudgingly agreed to hear her out.

"It'll work out in the end."

"I beg to differ," Jack muttered, leading the way inside.

It didn't take long for the barrage to come.

"Ah, it's her again." The familiar, condescending tone almost made Jack spin around and leave. "...What's her name again, Tolga?"

"Everyone said Mad Jack. Should we be flattered or terrified?" Tolga replied, though Jack quietly appreciated that they used her stage name.

"Neither. She's far too predictable to have a case of lunacy."

"That's… a first," Jack said, unsure whether to be offended or impressed.

"What do you want?" Fatin asked, getting straight to the point.

Jack didn't waste time either. "I need a prosthetic arm."

Both men stared at her as if she'd just told them the world was flat.

"You've got two perfectly functional arms," Tolga mocked. "Unless you've gone blind."

"It's not for me. It's for an orphan."

That shut them up. Maybe they weren't as self-absorbed as she had thought.

Fatin, the more sympathetic of the two, had the decency to press further. "You don't mean…"

"He's nine. And he needs help."

Tolga was the first to break the silence, the most reluctant, shaking his head. "...No."

It wasn't selfishness that Fatin didn't reproach him on the spot. This was out of their comfort zone. Give them a machine, and they could fix it with duct tape. But with a child in the picture, that was a different story.

"You should ask a doctor," Tolga added dismissively.

"A doctor can't give him a new arm," Jack replied, digging into their reluctance.

That was when the hooded stranger stood forward.

The two brothers had noticed him in the far back, standing out like a sore thumb but never thought he could be connected to Jack.

"Who are you?" Fatin asked, with the same callous tone he'd used when Crane first met them.

"Keith White," Freakazoid said after clearing his throat.

Jack blinked, momentarily taken aback. It wasn't the fake name she had jokingly picked for him before that gave her such a reaction…

But what was up with his voice?

"Hmph." Fatin eyed the new stranger with suspicion, something about him clearly off. But he didn't dwell on it long. "One more and we can make a barrel of monkeys. Not that I expect you to accomplish anything as impressive as he did."

If only they knew. It cracked a small smile under Crane's scarf.

He held out one of the latest failed designs from Noam's workshop. "This is one of the prototypes. Can you improve it?"

Fatin glanced at it, clearly offended, before stepping closer for a better look.

"What is this?"

Crane, staying calm, replied, "An arm."

"That's a glorified paperweight with hinges. It's laughable. Tolga, come look at this."

"The guy behind it did his best," he pointed, defending Noam.

"This is why you shouldn't leave things in the hands of an amateur. Stone-age tools…" Fatin trailed off, noticing his brother's unusual silence. "Tolga, what's wrong?"

"Huh…?" Tolga snapped out of it, doing a poor job of hiding the fact that he had been staring at the new guy, creasing his forehead. "Nothing."

Crane kept his composure. Just this once, please, he hoped they hadn't figured it out.

Tolga finally took the arm from Crane. "...Weight distribution is awful."

"With circuitry like that, it'll overheat before the kid picks up a pencil," Fatin said.

"So you can do it?" Jack asked, half-surprised at seeing the brothers apply their noggins' for something selfless. "This is for a child, not some experiment."

"We know that," Tolga shot back. "We're not as heartless as cave dwellers,"

"It's only natural for her to be protective of children," Fatin explained to his brother. "It's in their biology."

"What do you need?" Crane asked.

"Hm. Right to the point. We're gonna need a lot for this to work so pay attention."

"We're all ears."

"First, get us linear potentiometers and DC motors, cordless. Five each. Remember, five," Fatin reinforced by putting out five fingers to him. "Also, some H-bridge motor controllers and lithium-polymer batteries."

"Careful, Fatin. You'll overload their brains," Tolga cut in.

"Right. Do you need a simplified list?"

"H-bridge motor controllers, cordless DC motors, linear potentiometers, and lithium-polymer batteries," Crane rattled off the list. "We can get those from any hobby shop."

"And duct tape," Tolga added quickly.

"Duct tape. Got it?" Fatin said.

Neither Runner was given a chance to say yes; to which Crane already saw that coming.

"Good. Now shoo."

The brothers took the arm in question to their van. Crane could hear them muttering: already breaking down the components they'd need to change the design. They had scraps everywhere, they said, so it should be easy.

Crane let out a deep, satisfied sigh. Volkan Dal, their late employer, had told him that they were no less capable in their own way.

All the more that he was confident they could make Ekrem's dream happen.

Then he felt Jack's piercing stare at him.

Cautiously, he looked down. She was amused at how well he handled that but also disbelieved everything she had witnessed.

"What?"

"What's with the voice?" Jack asked bluntly. "It sounded like you were putting on an act back then, mate."

"Really?"

"Hm-hm."

Crane cleared his throat, louder this time. "Must be a frog stuck in my throat."

Jack smirked, her face clearly saying, really? Freakazoid said nothing more and sauntered on with a hint of pride at his offhand comment.

She chuckled behind his back.

---

"That kid's not well!"

Ekrem gripped his Master Sword tightly, tucked away in a corner.

"And it's not just him! The whole canteen's a tomato tsunami now!"

"Calm down. Kids see food flying, there's gonna be a food fight."

"That doesn't excuse their behavior!"

"He's right. This isn't a kindergarten."

The voices grew more agitated, though Carl's was softer. "Look, he's been through a lot—"

"Then keep him under control. Or keep him somewhere he won't be a bother."

They were going to lock him in 'the special room,' like before. Nasia had told him it was 'for his own good.'

Ekrem just wanted the noise to go away. Wanted to go far, far away.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

"Alright, that's enough," a new voice cut through the tension.

"Mahir… I just-"

"Can it, Aali. You're not the only one on edge."

While the argument had stopped, the room was still swimming around Ekrem.

His fingers were shaking.

Stop it, he begged. But they wouldn't listen.

"Breathe and repeat after me."

Ekrem squeezed his eyes shut. Picturing Jack right in front of him.

"1, 2, 3, 4." Jack counted her fingers.

He tried, loosening his grip on the toy sword that he didn't hear it hit the floor

"Whenever you're scared or angry, stop yourself and do that."

1, 2, 3, 4. Breath in. 1, 2, 3, 4. Breath out. 1, 2, 3, 4-

"Ekrem?"

The boy glanced up too quickly, startled by a stranger in military clothes. The stranger smiled warmly at him, kneeled down in an awkward posture.

This was bad. Ekrem got the attention of the army after him now.

"Am I in trouble?"

The man shook his head. "Things just got messy."

Ekrem waited, dumbstruck but the man didn't say anything else. Instead, he picked up the fallen sword and held out his hand.

"Let's find a quiet place, ok?"

After a moment of hesitation, Ekrem took Mahir's hand. As they walked away, Ekrem glanced back at the canteen. The adults mopped most of the tomato sauce away, grumbling.

Tip, tip, tip.

There was an an odd movement in the army man's steps the boy picked on and yet Mahir didn't look distraught. Ekrem's prying gaze drifted down to the adult's leg-

It wasn't flesh but made of metal.

He was confused. It was like the metal arm Noam was working on.

Without thinking, Ekrem blurted, "Did a monster bite your leg?"

The man's pause made him regret asking but Mahir smiled at the innocent question. "No. I lost it a long time ago."

Before the monsters came? It only made Ekrem more curious, which he couldn't be faulted for. "How?"

Omph, a punch. But Mahir continued, "Doing…something important… Saved a lot of lives."

He grimaced his smile. He shouldn't have said that idiom now, and to a kid.

"Does it still hurt?"

They continued walking as Mahir thought about his answer. How much could he say to a child about these things?

"Sometimes. Took months learning to live with it until I didn't need crutches."

"...Is that how long it'll be for me?"

"Maybe. What's important is you don't stop trying."

"But I'm broken."

That was enough to make Mahir stop again, reel back, and turn to Ekrem with disbelief. His shock simmered into anger but didn't boil over the pot's edges.

"Who told you that?" he asked as calmly as he could.

"Nasia. The English teacher."

Mahir didn't know who that was but he held back his anger, for Ekrem's sake. Kneeling on his prosthetic, he made sure to meet the boy's eyes.

"Losing a part of you sucked. Big time. But that doesn't mean you're broken."

Ekrem was quiet but contemplating, staring at his empty sleeve.

"It's never easy. And it takes time to adjust… But trust me, you'll find new ways to keep going."

At first, it didn't seem as if Ekrem took his words. The child's face was blank—he genuinely was trying his hardest to understand.

It takes time, Mahir knew that more than ever. And time was all he could give Ekrem. The boy had to come to terms with his loss.

But that would be the hardest without his parents or any guardian.

Regardless, Mahir held the Master Sword back to Ekrem, which he accepted before the two continued walking together.

It was then Ekrem realized he was brought to an unfamiliar room. Then again, the whole Junction was all new to the orphans.

A breakroom. With a few machines here and there. One of the kids did say children were never allowed in the 'control room'. Was this it?

"Here we go." He lifted the young boy onto a seat so he could see the large map pinned on the table.

"Are you playing a game?" Ekrem asked, noticing the board pieces scattered about.

"Something like that," Mahir answered. "What do you say we play a board game?"

Now if he could remember where he put those boxes.

"We got snakes and ladders, checkers-"

"Mahir."

The man grimaced before another stranger popped through the door. Something was happening, too soft for Ekrem to hear.

"It's not looking good. Think we can get the newcomers to help out?"

"We can't keep dumping all our problems onto them. Jack isn't staying here forever, anyway."

"Oh… What about her friend? Think he can stay instead?"

Mahir sighed. "We'll handle this like we've always have."

The Junction leader turned back to the boy with a look he knew too well from adults. "Can I leave you alone for a while? Siv should be coming by soon."

Ekrem nodded, not expecting anything to begin with.

The adult patted him on the shoulder, a final gesture of ensuring him that things would get better before he limped out of the breakroom.

Again, leaving a child with his thoughts.

He was bored.

Tired.

Still afraid and confused.

He looked back at his Master Sword with the one hand he had left. He missed the days he played the hero in the backyard. Had a toy shield and cap.

Back then, everything felt simple. The imaginary monsters and dragons were easy to beat. He'd charge forth and swing his sword to save the day.

But now? What could a hero do with just one arm? And what new ways?

The man didn't tell him exactly what they were that he could do.

Why couldn't everything just be easy for everyone?

His gaze drifted across the room, catching on the radio by an empty chair. It sat quiet and still, with all its buttons and dials waiting for someone to use them.

Oya had told him once. Something about a radio with a microphone. She gloated that all you had to do was press a button and talk to the other person. Like their tin can telephone.

So that meant there was someone on the other end.

Without thinking much, he walked over to the radio and reached out to the mic's button. He pressed it, more out of idle habit than intent.

Static hissed, then silence.

"Hello?"

Ekrem jerked back, eyes peeled wide.

Why did it sound scary?

"Hang on. Junction's calling. Hello?"

The voice on the other side cleared his throat and tried to be a little softer, as if consciously knowing how terrifying his voice was. "Hello?"

"...Hi."

"Ekrem?"

Ekrem frowned. How come the voice knew his name?

"Um… Jack's a little busy at the moment…" the person on the other end explained.

Ekrem lit up hearing her name.

Now he got it. This was that scary guy under the hood.

"She can talk to you after we're back."

As much as he wanted Jack, he didn't want her to find out what had happened: the failed new arm, the canteen, everything. And to find out that Jack was going to go far away?

She might see him as a disappointment too.

"...I don't want to."

He took his fingers off the button, hoping to stop the talk. But for some reason, the man on the other end was still able to speak.

"...Is everything alright?"

The question… It was a simple question and yet, he had the hardest time trying to answer it. It rooted deep in him in a way he didn't think he could feel.

The question invoked an old feeling he hadn't felt in a long time. His mother had asked him, Oya had also asked him before. And his father one or two times.

And he always gave his honest answer to them. But he didn't press the mic's button this time.

"...No."

He felt his eyes wet. But he shouldn't. The memory of being yelled at for crying at the Orphanage's 'special room' lingered in his head.

There was shuffling on the other end, like the sound of feet going back and forth.

Another grown-up giving up on him, his thoughts consumed. He saw it a mile away-

"Ekrem. Talk to me."

…No. This was just another attempt from a grown-up. They've never helped at the Orphanage.

He hit the button with a bit more force.

"What for?" he snapped back, despite sounding so small and defeated. "You can't help me."

There was a pause on the other end.

"I don't know about that. But I can listen."

Ekrem held back. He didn't want to talk anymore.

It'd be the same outcome anyway.

"…I...I just want..." Ekrem started, sniffling.

The nine-year-old struggled to explain but he didn't know how. What he wanted? They were long gone and he knew they wouldn't come back.

He hated himself for that. For a lot of things.

"I don't know anymore..."

"...Yeah." The man's voice did come across as sincere, as if letting go of the usual resigned facade adults had.

Lina had told Ekrem before not to believe everything grown-ups say. But from what he heard through the mic, the scary man sounded like he didn't want to hold back.

"I know it's hard... But it'll get better once you get your arm-"

"I don't believe that."

The cut-off, while soft, took the man by surprise. But he heard it—that moment of resentment. Not a child's frustration directed at anyone else, not at the world, but something quieter, something more personal.

Crane recognized it instantly.

"...Listen to me," he then said, before heaving a deep sigh. "I've been there too."

Ekrem's head lifted up to the radio with puzzled eyes.

"I thought I'd never be the same again."

"...Did you lose something too?"

"...Yeah." His voice sounded painful.

"...Was it an arm or a leg?"

"No," he chuckled softly. "Well… It's a little complicated."

Ekrem wanted to ask: what did he mean by 'kom-pluh-kay-ted'?

Another deep inhale. Never had Ekrem hear an adult struggle to talk. Just like him.

"...I've messed up so many times and blamed myself for them… Thought I couldn't make things better, not matter how hard I tried."

"Then…did you make them better?"

Ekrem asked that question so absentmindedly and innocently. A sting, right back at Crane. But he couldn't blame the kid.

"...Not yet," was his honest answer. "But that doesn't mean I've stopped trying."

The words stunned the little boy. It wasn't what he expected. Grown-ups usually had all the answers, didn't they?

The messy feelings inside his chest didn't feel tight anymore. This time, it felt…lighter.

Ekrem stared at his empty sleeve, his thoughts spinning. Right there, the boy figured out his words. What he wanted to say.

"Can…can a new arm really help me?"

"I'm sure it will. You wanna know why?"

"Why?"

"I know two of the smartest people in the world that can make that happen… They made a submarine once."

Ekrem's eyes lit up. "They did?"

"Yup. I got to see it firsthand."

Minus the fact that the vehicle failed but Crane withheld that little bit of detail.

"We'll be back with your new arm. Promise."

"Okay," Ekrem answered back before he pondered. "...Hey."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you, mister."

The call ended.

Crane eyed the walkie-talkie in his claw and waited. One minute of silence, two, three.

But nothing else spoke from the other end.

The little annoying pit of anxiety tried to reel in his head, bringing out the worst scenarios that could happen to a poor boy forced to adapt to a harsh and terrifying world. But Crane had faith.

"Anytime, kid," he said.

A couple of heavy breaths prompted him to turn back to the brunette taking a moment to recover from their recent run. In her hand were the batteries.

"You know…" Jack started. "I didn't think the last shop would be that popular before the outbreak… Let alone after."

"I've heard RC cars have been making a comeback in recent years," Freakazoid explained.

"You don't say…" She straightened her back up, finally rid of her stitch. "You said the Junction called?"

He gave her a look that said she wouldn't believe it. "That kid. Ekrem."

Behind the shades, her eyes widened.

"What happened?"

Her worry was evident. But Freakazoid's calmness was reassuring.

"We had a talk. That's all," Crane told her.

Jack was surprised but didn't push for details, especially seeing that expression on him. Without a word, he put away the walkie-talkie and focused on their next task: delivering supplies to Tolga and Fatin. The sooner they did, the sooner Ekrem would have a workable arm.

Crane was more than ever determined to see that through.

Seeing that, Jack smiled, impressed, before following suit down the rooftops.

---

"Ekrem?"

In the control room, the boy jumped at the voice of Siv at the door, almost as if caught doing something wrong. He'd already moved away from the radio.

The boy must still be shaken from the canteen incident, Siv thought to herself.

"We're setting a read-along session soon." she asked with a playful tone. "We got 'Green Eggs and Spam', 'Perry Quackson and the Bolt Mugger'. Or we can read 'the Ruffalo'."

"What's a Ruffalo?" Ekrem countered, curious.

Siv paused—actually, what was a Ruffalo? She had never read the book. "Why don't we find that out together?"

She gestured for him to follow, and he grabbed his toy sword, walking beside her in another unfamiliar hall. The Junction was massive compared to the Orphanage to a child's eyes. But like the breakroom, there were many places children couldn't go to, just like the Orphanage.

"Siv?"

"What's up?"

"Is Jack leaving the Junction?"

Siv nearly stopped. She couldn't tell him outright, with how attached she had seen him be to the ex-kickboxer.

"Just for a while. She and her partner are going after some bad people in Harran."

Ekrem looked worried. "Why?"

"Well. Those bad people took someone. Remember the old man, Umit? He talked to you about swords?"

Ekrem nodded, with a glintful gaze, which sadly fizzled out once he put two-and-two together. "He got taken away?"

"Yeah… But they'll find him," Siv reassured, trying to stay upbeat. "They'll bring him back safely."

Onwards, the two walked on, passing people Ekrem had never seen before. Then again, it had been the longest time since he held his head up.

"Siv?"

"Yeah?"

"Can they find anyone?"

It was a harmless question. "I'm sure they can. Is there anyone you want them to look for?"

Ekrem was quiet, for some reason. Was it a touchy thing, Siv wondered.

"Your mom or dad…?"

He wasn't sure. The last time he saw his dad was the morning his babysitter came over. Something about his workplace had called him? His mom didn't hide her worry and told them she would be running errands—she had said something like "what if the 'virus' gets into the city…? Maybe I should stock on toilet rolls."

And Oya…

"Anyone you know from Harran?"

He shook his head.

"I see… You can think it over and ask Jack later. How does that sound?"

Ekrem's light nod was barely noticeable. He thought it over anyway…

---

"How's your new arm, Ekrem?"

Today's drawing had less red than usual. The lines were a little smoother. Each stroke, grip, and reach showed slow but steady improvement over the past few days, thanks to the new prosthetic.

Ekrem glanced up to the smiling brunette; no more eyes darting or jumping at sudden movements, like a tortoise emerging from its shell. He did stay quiet, but this time, he was able to hold eye contact with her.

With those bright bright eyes, the boy looked back at his new metal arm, watching five fingers grip around the crayon. It was clunky and uncomfortable like the previous ones Noam made, but a little more lighter. And cooler-looking! The patchworked contraption didn't even need that battery box lugging around.

The instructions, however, written by Tolga and Fatin, were too long and convoluted when given to the two Runners—something about 'preset patterns', yadda, yadda, yadda. Jack, with a headache, just simplified them for a nine-year-old boy to comprehend.

"I like it," he said.

Jack smiled, relieved to see more of that spirit returning each time she visited him.

And it wasn't just him. Across the table was Ozan, fully focused on drawing a Ruffalo.

"Won't be long before you're making masterpieces," Jack said. "Maybe the other kids can help you learn new things too."

She pulled down her shades, directing Ekrem's gaze to a part of the Junction cordoned off for the children. They played outside in the bright sun, away from the dreary scenes behind the walls. Someone had found a ball in storage, and another made two goalposts from junk.

No one knew the rules, but the kids quickly took to kicking the ball around. The quiet kids, like Ekrem, sat in the shade with crayons and papers.

"Looks fun, right?"

Ekrem stayed quiet but didn't reject the idea. He hadn't forgotten when one of the kids took his sword, or the panic attack that followed.

One step at a time, Jack thought.

The court became livelier. Jack noticed one of the boys edging towards an adult standing at the sidelines—one Freakazoid, stiff as a tree. Certainly, children were always curious so a very tall, hooded man who covered himself from head to toe was like an obvious beacon to them. Before he knew it, more children gathered around him after he tried to politely escape.

Before he knew it, more children gathered around him after he tried to politely escape. Every time the children persisted, he awkwardly took a step back and gestured them to go play, hoping they would get the hint.

They didn't. Now, most of the children from the field surrounded him.

How cute. Should she go in to rescue the poor bloke?

"...If..."

Jack lowered her head down to listen.

"If I get used to my arm, can you teach me how to fight?"

Her smile vanished. It wasn't a question a child should be asking. A frown stretched across her face but the shades hid her eyes.

"How about we stick to the basics?" Jack gently redirected. "Leave the fighting to us adults."

Ekrem looked disappointed, but he needed to hear it.

Jack knew the longer the children stayed in this environment, the more unhealthy ideas would form. She didn't like it but feared it might be inevitable. The real solution was getting them out of the city and away from the outbreak.

But for now, the focus was on Ekrem's recovery. And if push came to shove on the Junction…maybe finding a vehicle and driving the kids out of the Checkpoint would be the last resort.

"I learn fast," Ekrem counterattacked, surprising the brunette. Now he knew how to push back? "So can you teach me?"

It irked Jack on the spot, especially seeing the young boy too eager in his seat.

"Maybe when you're older."

It wasn't want the boy wanted to hear.

"Can't it be now?" he pressed desperately. "W-What if you need help? What if those monsters-"

Jack's hand was quick, reaching on Ekrem's real hand to stop the trembles. Her shades were down the bridge of her nose, with a stern gaze he had never seen before.

The night at the Orphanage was still fresh to Ekrem. Lina's death still lingered in hismind. So she understood why the unsettlingly unwavering determination.

"...Do you have to leave?" Ekrem suddenly asked, pleading her to stay.

Jack bit her lower lip. Yeah, she figured. Sooner or later, the boy was gonna hear word about her leaving Scanderoon.

But Scanderoon was never her destination in the first place.

"There's family and friends in Harran," she answered with brutal honesty once more. "I need to find them, Ekrem."

"..."

Quiet again. She could see, however, that it didn't cross Ekrem's mind. At least he was a little appreciative with the answer.

But he had something on his mind.

His gaze drifted to the other children playing, more fixed on Freakazoid. As if hoping he'd take his side on the matter.

"You go after monsters?"

"If the job calls for it, yes."

"Like a bounty?"

Jack folded her arms, disappointed. It was only a matter of time before he heard that word from a Trapper.

"Yes. But not for free."

She hoped that would be enough of a roadblock to a child. The concept of payment didn't mean much to kids, who rarely grasped the true value of money or trade.

However, Ekrem showed no sign of changing his mind.

"Can I pay you to take my bounty?"

Jack sighed. She didn't like that gleam in his eyes.

"Is that why you want to learn to fight?"

Ekrem hesitated, then nodded. His secret was out.

"...Alright," she relented, lighting up the boy's face. "This one is free. And I often don't do that."

Ekrem looked hopeful. Deceivingly so.

"But," she added, "You need to focus on catching up with your friends. Understand?"

He nodded again, although it didn't seem like he fully grasped what she meant.

Quickly, Ekrem pulled out a drawing from a pile of papers beside him and handed it to Jack.

It was another crude drawing of horror. It depicted swings and monkey bars with a sad boy and girl, tears drawn on their faces against a bright and colorful scene.

Opposite them stood a tall, dark monster with red eyes, claws, and spikes, standing over a round hole. A woman lay in the center, covered in red, two crosses over her eyes.

The word 'BOUNTY' was written at the top. The picture immediately made Jack the name Ekrem had told her.

The Man in the Playground.

The drawing's details showed that it was Ekrem's most vivid memory. She could sense a seething hatred toward the monster from the lines.

She could only make guesses of what really happened on 'that fateful day', unless she asked Ekrem.

But those answers may never be given.

"Is it ok?" Ekrem asked almost begrudgingly, afraid that she could reject it.

That didn't mean another bogeyman in the dying city shouldn't be ignored.

"Sure," Jack answered. "Sounds simple enough."

---

*"Why are you covered up like that?" one kid asked.

"Uh… I get sunburned easily."

"Then you should get sunscreen," another kid probed. "My mommy said it's like armor for your skin."

"I'm good. Thanks."

Man, how did he get himself stuck in a situation like this? And at a time like this, Jack wasn't here to distract the children—she was on the other side of the field, talking to Ekrem to notice.

Siv wasn't around either. Crane couldn't ask anyone with the chance of exposing himself. So he had no choice but to play the question game until he could get out of this mess.

"Are you a ninja?"

That cracked a weak smile on Kyle. "Hm. I wish." Then he could throw a smokescreen and skedaddle out of there.

That seemed to give the kids the wrong idea—eyes lit up.

"Can you do a backflip?!"

"C'mon, that's lame. Ninjas are supposed to go poof!"

One boy at the back gave Crane that kind of shitty grin to him as he held the makeshift ball up high. "Bet you can steal the ball without anyone seeing?"

"That's alright. Really." A few of them gave disappointed faces like they expected his answer to be the same. Crane mentally cursed at himself: he just couldn't be soft. "Not really a football fan."

"Then what are you a fan of?" the first kid asked. Really didn't know quits.

"Well…hockey."

"What's that?" From one row to another, that little dab of disappointment flushed away with more curiosity. It was their first time hearing it.

"I know what it is!" the boy with the ball boosted. "You have two teams hit a ball with a stick."

"It's a puck," Crane corrected him, taking it upon himself to imitate swinging a hockey stick, left and right around the imaginary disk. "You hit a puck with a stick while skating on ice."

A few looked at each other, as if half of his explanation didn't click. "We don't have ice."

"Yeah… Maybe we can find an ice rink."

"What if we can't find one?" another asked.

They really loooved giving him harder hitters. "Well-"

"How about field hockey?"

Oh my god. Never had he thought he would be grateful to see Jack coming to his rescue but never would he not be against the help.

"It's like what that lad said earlier. But with a smaller ball. No ice needed," she explained, catching a couple of "oohs" from the younger ones.

"Can you teach us how?"

Jack pondered—or acted that way, hand on chin and hip to the side.

"We'll have to look out for hockey sticks. For now, let's stick to football," she said, her voice calm but encouraging.

A compromise that the children accepted.

Finally, Crane could feel himself relax as they were quick to move on, rushing back to the field. Forget what they talked about and focus on playing ball to the goal.

Kids and their short attention spans.

"You have a natural way with kids," Jack jested to him but meant her genuineness.

"Hardly." He scratched his head sheepishly. "Hit a little too close to home when they asked about my voice."

"Take it as a compliment then. They really like you."

"I mean…" Crane heaved a sigh, surprising the smiling brunette. "Feels like I'm not doing enough."

She shrugged. "That's the same for me."

Crane almost didn't buy that, after how well she handled getting their attention to switch back to football without any fuss.

But that didn't mean she could promise the kids she'd find those hockey sticks and take the time to teach. Not with everything happening.

"What matters is you're doing more than you think, Freakazoid. That counts for something."

The hooded man before Jack blinked. Then gradually accepted her words, before he glanced back to the kids, their laughter ringing in the air.

She joined him on the sidelines, savoring this moment of peace and innocence before their departure. Although she was pleased to see the youngsters momentarily forget their troubles, her smile faltered a little—because they were still surrounded by the dangers lurking outside.

As bitter as that sounded in her head, all the more they had to press on. If they could not possibly save their generation or the last, then maybe, they could save the next.

And the outbreak could finally be a thing of the past…

---

*A little snippet end I didn't plan on but decided to put in but I had some fun writing since it's Crane. :)

---

A/N: 20/10/2024

Hello, everyone! I've written two chapters altogether and uploading them now: the first, another Scanderoon-related Intermission chapter and finally, the first chapter of the Harran Arc (more details in my author note there). I hope you enjoy another set of short stories with Crane. :3

As of writing this, the next chapter may be uploaded within a day or two as I'm still checking for errors and doing cleanup. I want to give you guys a refined chapter to start the Harran Arc off look forward to it.

Also a small tidbit for the music side quest. Took inspiration from groups like Neoni, Imagine Dragon, Zayde Wølf. Because I love those kind of music.

20/10/2024 - First initial.

29/10/2024 - Minor fixes and edits.