Trip Lawrence knows three things.
The first, never give up on family - they're all you have. The second, life in Sector V is hard - you have to fight to protect everything you have . The third, vigilantism is the only way for a better future - anything you have, it will take. When Johnathan Rowland - his adoptive father, mentor, and the Sector's resident vigilante, Reckoning - is killed, Trip must quickly decide what he holds dearest - his Sector, his family, or his alter ego Euchre. And just what it he'll do to protect it. |
If You Kill Me, Who Dies?
WIP, This involves my Colony V kiddos. Currently at prologue + four chapters at about 20,000 words
Characters involved: Everyone in Colony V (Trip, Ashton, Rosetta, Nate, & Malcom) Writing Type: Closed, I don't commission people to write this. Status: This is fully written by me and I concentrate on it when I'm not working on Darkest Minds |
Prologue
Alpha is a beautiful planet, she intends to keep it that way.
Far in the stratus, she watches the darkness settle over the city and the moons rise. Each a luminous magnet, drawing in her eyes until she can think of nothing else. They taunt her, cold and distant, as do the settlements upon them. From her office, they seem so close, as easy to reach as the pens scattered across her desk. Though in truth, the twenty-five moons of Alpha have put her in quite the predicament.
They exist for a simple purpose, to provide what Alpha cannot. Mining, lumber, manufacturing are the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the moon colonies. The moons and planet work in tandem. The products of the colonies are imported to Alpha and in return the planet provides the moons with clean air, water, protection, and enlightenment.
Every citizen understands this - the delicate balance. There are concerns that those on Alpha have things physically easier, but, for the most part, it works. She feels for the people on the colonies, truthfully, but knows (as they must) that their physical plights are matched by Alpha’s mental ones. To keep her planet the paradise it is the colonies have to exist. It is simple logic to deduce that the millions on Alpha must be prioritized over the mere hundred thousand on each moon.
It’s simple. Simple, easy, cut and dry. If things could be different, if there was any other way, she would initiate it. But to have the factories of Moon 22 destroying the atmosphere of her pristine world, set aside the acres upon acres of Moon 19’s farms, or sentence her citizens to such mundane jobs assigned to textile workers of 8 is unrealistic. And it’s not as if she doesn’t try to assist those on the moons. Programs such as Mental Ascendor allow the people of the colonies to earn a place among the scholars of Alpha.
Without Alpha, without the scientists, artists, and mathematicians, their world would crumble. Without the off-world colonies and their populations, their world would crumble. Without distinct separation of the two, their world would crumble.
There must be unity, a balance, an understanding.
Apparently, the moon colonies are as daft as the people who were first left to man them, they refuse to accept the obviousness of the situation.
Riots in 18 are an everyday occurrence, agricultural production has nearly reached a standstill after the strike on 19, every moon in the 20s is under the ignorant assumption they can ‘rebel’. In one of these so-called uprisings (more like a horrific waste of lives), Moon colony 26, in charge of weapons production, massacred all government officials, slaughtered the Alpha citizens peacefully residing there, and chased all Alpha police units off moon.
Word was received three hours ago about the event. So the woman, in charge of Alpha, standing out starkly against the ghostly room around her, has to make a decision. Does she continue to talk when the savages refuse to listen or does she respond with violence - the only language they understand?
“Madam President,” she swivels her chair back to view the assembly before her. In the early morning hours, they're here to help her deal with their … situation. The advisors stand around a circular table in front of her desk, each in the general line up of the moons they represent. A spot stands empty - Hanna Reves, ambassador of Colony 26. She respected the woman, liked her even, though she defended the colonists too much and spoke out of turn often. She much prefers the dead woman to the one speaking to her now. “I must insist on a full assault on 26,” Tiana Humde, arrogant as the day she was elected, decides it is her place to presume leadership. It is too much to ask for the lack of sleep to temper the woman.
Humde goes on to explain her ludicrous plan for a ground attack to quell the rebellious moon. Thankfully, Colony 2's representative, Thomas Lewis has an ounce of intelligence. Humde’s rant ends with the man's decisive slam of the folders in front of him.
“We have to address the problem at the root, else we’ll always be cleaning up the aftermath,” He stills, looking for approval, and continues after her gesture, “The reason why we can never stop these rebellions is because dissent is sown long before our troops can hope to do anything.”
Someone scoffs, 14’s representative she thinks, “That’s why we have Civil Obedience Units.”
Lewis shakes his head, opening and shuffling through one of the mania files. She finds it slightly endearing how the ruffled papers can not hope to match the disheveled state of his hair and his haphazard clothing. Usually, she would reprimand his appearance, but the glint in his eyes is nothing short of intense and he has much more energy than most at the table. If only all citizens harbored such fire when Alpha was wronged. “No, there’s these people. Scattered units, ingenious really, we can’t catch them because of the way they’re formed. Individuals united by the common hate of us, who know practically nothing about each other so that when we do catch them we can’t identify anyone else. They’re more mobile than our Units, know the terrain, and are aided by the people. They adopt recognizable symbols and do ‘good’ so the people rally behind them. I actually did a renaissance on my moon and found that nearly everyone knows them, whether as ghost stories or what not,”
“Lewis,” she interrupts, and he falls silent, flinching at the sound of her voice, “get to the point.”
Rapidly, he nods. “Right, so, they’re vigilantes,”
“Terrorists.”
Not in the eyes of the people,” Lewis says, “They rough up our COUs, smuggle people off-moon, forge Alpha citizenship papers, attack ration ships and distribute the goods, sabotage exports and the people hail them as heroes. They instill the idea, through propaganda and well, terrorist-like actions, that Alpha is bad. And then,” he holds up a paper that the room peers at, all she can make out is a blurry people (if people are less black things against a black background), “a domino effect occurs and the people riot. The vigilantes show that Alpha can be attacked, and the people do it.”
Reves frowns, probably due to her stolen spotlight, “But what are their reasonings?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Alpha and the protesters fight. Alpha loses in cases like 26, and the moon is left in control of these people. It’s frightening military strategy. A few individuals with the right cards, and boom,” Lewis holds up another picture, this time a man on a rooftop face obscured by a white mask watching COUs break up a riot, “a domino effect that topples the balance, not because of people but by the ideas they represent.”
She thinks it over and is shocked to find that Lewis is right. Alpha can’t fight thoughts, worming their way into the minds of the gullible moon populations - poisoning her world from the inside. “What can we do?”
Colony 2’s representative smiles, excited and dangerous and more sly than she assumed the young man could be, “We show them that their heroes are simply misguided men without the light of Alpha.”
Far in the stratus, she watches the darkness settle over the city and the moons rise. Each a luminous magnet, drawing in her eyes until she can think of nothing else. They taunt her, cold and distant, as do the settlements upon them. From her office, they seem so close, as easy to reach as the pens scattered across her desk. Though in truth, the twenty-five moons of Alpha have put her in quite the predicament.
They exist for a simple purpose, to provide what Alpha cannot. Mining, lumber, manufacturing are the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the moon colonies. The moons and planet work in tandem. The products of the colonies are imported to Alpha and in return the planet provides the moons with clean air, water, protection, and enlightenment.
Every citizen understands this - the delicate balance. There are concerns that those on Alpha have things physically easier, but, for the most part, it works. She feels for the people on the colonies, truthfully, but knows (as they must) that their physical plights are matched by Alpha’s mental ones. To keep her planet the paradise it is the colonies have to exist. It is simple logic to deduce that the millions on Alpha must be prioritized over the mere hundred thousand on each moon.
It’s simple. Simple, easy, cut and dry. If things could be different, if there was any other way, she would initiate it. But to have the factories of Moon 22 destroying the atmosphere of her pristine world, set aside the acres upon acres of Moon 19’s farms, or sentence her citizens to such mundane jobs assigned to textile workers of 8 is unrealistic. And it’s not as if she doesn’t try to assist those on the moons. Programs such as Mental Ascendor allow the people of the colonies to earn a place among the scholars of Alpha.
Without Alpha, without the scientists, artists, and mathematicians, their world would crumble. Without the off-world colonies and their populations, their world would crumble. Without distinct separation of the two, their world would crumble.
There must be unity, a balance, an understanding.
Apparently, the moon colonies are as daft as the people who were first left to man them, they refuse to accept the obviousness of the situation.
Riots in 18 are an everyday occurrence, agricultural production has nearly reached a standstill after the strike on 19, every moon in the 20s is under the ignorant assumption they can ‘rebel’. In one of these so-called uprisings (more like a horrific waste of lives), Moon colony 26, in charge of weapons production, massacred all government officials, slaughtered the Alpha citizens peacefully residing there, and chased all Alpha police units off moon.
Word was received three hours ago about the event. So the woman, in charge of Alpha, standing out starkly against the ghostly room around her, has to make a decision. Does she continue to talk when the savages refuse to listen or does she respond with violence - the only language they understand?
“Madam President,” she swivels her chair back to view the assembly before her. In the early morning hours, they're here to help her deal with their … situation. The advisors stand around a circular table in front of her desk, each in the general line up of the moons they represent. A spot stands empty - Hanna Reves, ambassador of Colony 26. She respected the woman, liked her even, though she defended the colonists too much and spoke out of turn often. She much prefers the dead woman to the one speaking to her now. “I must insist on a full assault on 26,” Tiana Humde, arrogant as the day she was elected, decides it is her place to presume leadership. It is too much to ask for the lack of sleep to temper the woman.
Humde goes on to explain her ludicrous plan for a ground attack to quell the rebellious moon. Thankfully, Colony 2's representative, Thomas Lewis has an ounce of intelligence. Humde’s rant ends with the man's decisive slam of the folders in front of him.
“We have to address the problem at the root, else we’ll always be cleaning up the aftermath,” He stills, looking for approval, and continues after her gesture, “The reason why we can never stop these rebellions is because dissent is sown long before our troops can hope to do anything.”
Someone scoffs, 14’s representative she thinks, “That’s why we have Civil Obedience Units.”
Lewis shakes his head, opening and shuffling through one of the mania files. She finds it slightly endearing how the ruffled papers can not hope to match the disheveled state of his hair and his haphazard clothing. Usually, she would reprimand his appearance, but the glint in his eyes is nothing short of intense and he has much more energy than most at the table. If only all citizens harbored such fire when Alpha was wronged. “No, there’s these people. Scattered units, ingenious really, we can’t catch them because of the way they’re formed. Individuals united by the common hate of us, who know practically nothing about each other so that when we do catch them we can’t identify anyone else. They’re more mobile than our Units, know the terrain, and are aided by the people. They adopt recognizable symbols and do ‘good’ so the people rally behind them. I actually did a renaissance on my moon and found that nearly everyone knows them, whether as ghost stories or what not,”
“Lewis,” she interrupts, and he falls silent, flinching at the sound of her voice, “get to the point.”
Rapidly, he nods. “Right, so, they’re vigilantes,”
“Terrorists.”
Not in the eyes of the people,” Lewis says, “They rough up our COUs, smuggle people off-moon, forge Alpha citizenship papers, attack ration ships and distribute the goods, sabotage exports and the people hail them as heroes. They instill the idea, through propaganda and well, terrorist-like actions, that Alpha is bad. And then,” he holds up a paper that the room peers at, all she can make out is a blurry people (if people are less black things against a black background), “a domino effect occurs and the people riot. The vigilantes show that Alpha can be attacked, and the people do it.”
Reves frowns, probably due to her stolen spotlight, “But what are their reasonings?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Alpha and the protesters fight. Alpha loses in cases like 26, and the moon is left in control of these people. It’s frightening military strategy. A few individuals with the right cards, and boom,” Lewis holds up another picture, this time a man on a rooftop face obscured by a white mask watching COUs break up a riot, “a domino effect that topples the balance, not because of people but by the ideas they represent.”
She thinks it over and is shocked to find that Lewis is right. Alpha can’t fight thoughts, worming their way into the minds of the gullible moon populations - poisoning her world from the inside. “What can we do?”
Colony 2’s representative smiles, excited and dangerous and more sly than she assumed the young man could be, “We show them that their heroes are simply misguided men without the light of Alpha.”
Chapter One
His hand shakes, causing the paintbrush to slip turning his d into a q. He curses. Darkness conceals the green paint, but when morning comes his mistake will be noticed. Indecision claws at him, should he blot it out and continue or find a new wall? His canvas is the backside of a crumbling building, smack dab between multiple others - enclosed, fulfilling his needs. It would take time to find another area that offers the same protection from prying eyes.
Reasoning this is the best place, he checks for danger with a few turns of his head and grabs a handful of dirt to smear the mistake.
There.
Now it looks like a mess.
He sighs and accepts the fact that it’s not going to be his best work. It’s okay, as long as it’s readable the message will get across - that’s all that matters.
With a few more strokes it’s done, and he steps back arms crossed to survey what’s done. For the truth, look only toward the southwest smoke of twenty-six. Decent enough.
With tonight's harsh gale, the paint will dry fast. By the time it's discovered a Civil Obedience Unit will have trouble getting rid of his ‘disobedience.” People will see, and wonder. Can freedom be theirs after countless years of oppression? And that’s all they need, the thought, the hope, that things can change.
He’s trying to incite a rebellion, has been for years actually. It’s quite hard. Lately, though, there’s been whisperings in the wind of Colony 22. And now, armed with the knowledge that 26 has actually fought (and won chasing COUs off planet), there’s real hope. Among his siblings, who have fought and spread the message for so long, this news has reawoken a fire. It makes Howard Lawrence the third wonder if he’ll live up to his textbook worthy name and go down in history.
None of the civilian population knows about the successful revolt on 26, of course. That’s what they’re doing tonight, under the cover of darkness, writing on almost every wall what the government is concealing.
He crouches down. Dipping the brush back in the small jar of paint in his left hand, he begins to write once more.
It’s not his usual message. Each of his family has a distinct voice when they write to the people. His youngest brother Malcolm is brutally honest, often writing the names of all lives claimed by the COU. Other times he draws. Neat strokes fill walls with utopian cities, free of smog and filled with smiling families, the direct opposite of their reality. Rosetta, his sister, maintains an air of deadly mystery only every tagging Change will Come in harsh, bold, blocked red letters. Yet it may be his brother Ashton who is the most eloquent, though he denies it. Angry and hurt, his voice, enraged on the behalf of the wronged, is raw with emotion. The grey scrawl of his brother can manage to enrage even the most loyal colonist.
He isn’t like his siblings, lacking the youngest’s honesty, his sister’s ability to induce fear, and Ashton’s way with words. His handwriting isn’t even neat. So long ago, to make up for his handicaps, he created something he likes to call segments.
Segments are, to say, analyticals on the atrocities in 22 and aim to educate, as well, about other Colonies.
The 25 colonies exist on moons, though they're numbered starting with 2 as Alpha (the planet) is colony 1. 22 is lucky, they don't need a bioatmosphere. Ashton swears the government pumps mind-altering substances into imported oxygen. Though their water is provided by the homeworld.
It is this dependency that keeps them subjugated. They slave to receive the barest of rewards, while their overlords frolic planetside. They are kept ignorant, in the dark about everything. Alpha claims that colonists aren't intelligent enough for enlightenment.
His niche, to separate him from his siblings, is to spread the truth about Alpha and the other colonies.
He does this using the letters of the alphabet. There are 26 colonies, including Alpha, and 26 letters of the alphabet. The common names of the colonies correlate with their number, one is a, two is b, and so on. These are colonist created names, of course, the intellectuals on Alpha would never resort to such slang.
One glance at green paint that says B is for … a person knows he’s speaking about Colony 2. V is for … means he’s talking about their Colony, 22.
V is for Vlostock the common name of 22. His home. Out of the colonies, his is by far the worst. The wealth trickles down from Alpha (rumored to have paved roads and things called fountains that literally spew water, some claim that they never suffer in the darkness of power shortages) to Colony 2 and so on. The four colonies after his are poorer if it’s possible, but the people with nothing are united in their suffering. In Vlostock there is enough that everyone will rip each other’s throats out for Alpha's scraps.
He doesn’t spotlight other colonies as much as their own. Though he finds it funny that “At least I’m not in 22” is a mantra in other colonies, while his resident's mutter, “At least it can't get any worse.” He’s not going to argue, his home is terrible, but it's his. The people here are tough and dangerous, like their city - getting mugged is a rite of passage. If he could hypothetically go anywhere else, he wouldn't. Vlostock is where he was born, where he intends to die. This is his home and his people. They deserve so much more. It’s why he patrols every night, hoping to stir a rebellion. One that at it’s conclusion would establish a new way of life to lessen the danger and ease the burdens of 22.
The roar of an engine causes him to jerk his head up and stare at the only opening to his little area. He watches for a moment until he spots a classic white, plated uniform and then he’s up looking for an escape. His safe haven becoming a cage. Without hesitation, he throws his jar of paint and brush onto the adjacent roof. Quickly, he follows, adrenaline fueling his mad, sloppy leap up. Collecting and capping the paint takes a second, shoving it along with the paintbrush into the dark brown satchel on his left leg takes one more.
Then he’s running, glancing back to see a whole COU unit, clad in white uniforms and black helmets, pulling a ladder out of their matching white van. They look unnatural, too clean and bright for the streets of Vlostock.
He drives himself harder, breaking from a sprint to a full out run. He leaps from the brick building’s roof to the one next to it.
Three COU officers take him completely by surprise as he drops onto the roof. White uniforms have been traded for black ones, blending in with the night much like he does.
All is still and silent for a moment, each of them unsure what to do with the other. With every inch of skin covered and tinted helmets concealing their eyes, it's easy to forget the COU are human.
Regaining his wits, he jumps into action. Unsheathing a blade, his knife whizzes through the air and the closest man falls. Turning, he barrels into the one in front of him, knocking the man off the roof. Two down before the other has even fired a round.
He hits the ground when that round comes. Then, manages to throw another of his knives, nicking the officer in the hand.
He rips knife out of his first victim’s leg and the man moans. Before they can recover, he’s blind-leaping towards the next roof.
V is for violence, he thinks as he hits an awkward landing - throwing his weight to the left in a move that almost sends him careening off the roof. He scrambles into a crouch, knees pulled close, elbows bowed on those knees, resting back on his heels, his face a hair's breadth away from a plummet. Blood from his gloved hands drips into the grey abyss of the streets below - scarlet taking on the grey hue that clouds the city as it vanishes out of sight. A slight shake of the same hands speeds the drip into rivulets, thankfully it isn't his.
V is for Victim, graces his mind right as gunshots ring out and a piercing cry sounds. He rocks back, taking refuge in the shadows as a speck of white edges across his vision. An armored van, cold and emotionless, stalks the streets. He holds his breath, his heart in his throat. He knows what is to come, and he stands powerless to prevent history’s repetition. The first shot ignites rage, while the ones that follow leave him hollow.
V is for Villain - and that he knows is the only way to describe the COU. They're tasked by the government to ensure peace and keep order. Like the starving colony residents have a rebellion on their mind! Well, that isn’t quite true. Their government is a mockery of the name, martial law has ruled for twenty times as long as he’s been alive. A benevolent ruler doesn’t get its soldiers nicknamed Death Squads. An honest politician doesn’t order the massacre of whole towns. A fair government doesn’t let its people starve in the colonies while those on Alpha roll in wealth. No good man holds his head high, too high, to see the suffering of his fellow man.
The ring of gunfire ceases and only sound left echoing off crumbling adobe walls is a mournful cry. A minute passes, then a single shot fires before the convoy drives on - the rev of the engine not reaching his vantage point.
Though the cry has long since silenced, his skin suddenly decides to crawl.
Clay tiles moan beneath his weight, cracking as he shifts, old and tried alike with the rest of the city. Bile and grief rise in his throat, how many dead? How many wounded? The shots are for him, trying to lure him out of the shadows. A layer of grime clings to him, real and figurative, as he peers over the ledge, trying not to dwell on those who have been senselessly taken too soon.
V is for Vile and the smog that clings to the air, combining with the humid climate to create something putrid. A smell that is metallic, heavy and not unlike blood. He rises from his crouch, takes a cautious step forward and then another until he's breaking into a sprint once his balance returns. A glance at the darkness behind him ensures that the Civil Obedience Unit no longer snaps at his trail.
He’s in the heart of the East Side, his patrol colony, hunted on his own turf. He huffs, then holds back a cough. Colony 22 supplies Alpha with Pharmaceutical drugs. Factories and labs loom in the darkness, and he watches the smoke plume into the sky. If you need medication it comes from here, ironic considering the smog is slowly killing them. Everything besides drugs in 22 is horribly expensive - necessities produced on other moons and have to be flown in.
Corners are littered with people offering forms of relief. It’s easy enough to swipe some pills off the assembly line, even easier to sell those stolen narcotics. With this, you can work longer. Take this and you’ll be able to go days without hunger. Have you tried this? You won’t taste the factory smog.
People are ensnared by the corners, transfixed by the only way to escape this hell called life. Every day, every night, hands sort pills, make pills, label pills then they're shipped away and the workers flood the corners for their share. Overburdened, overworked, no food, no money, no hope. What else can they do?
So, V is for vagrant, a classification for them - the ones who produce everything. A term the rich use to define a people whom they do not have the care to understand. Ignorance will one day be their downfall when the people rise - he’s here to stoke the embers.
V is for vain and the people on the westside who have never known a day of hunger. A day without knowing where they’re going to sleep. A night without the effects of the ever-looming factories. The people who hide away afraid of them, the people with money who fund the Death Squads and kill his friends. The people who run the country, who can buy lives and end them.
His shadow moves like a feline, all elegance and grace and silence as it flows across the tops of shanty buildings. Instinctively, a smile settles itself on his face.
He smiles when he is happy, when he is sad when he wants no one to look closer.
One of his fading memories of his father - one Howard Lawrence the second - is a harrowing phrase. If you pretend to be happy, then eventually it's true. No one's really happy, there's just a few who are better at masking their suffering. Those are the ones with real power, the liars who make life better for everyone else. Who can deflect pain with a turn of the lips. A cynical view, he knows, and yet when he thinks of the man it is all that comes to mind. He can't even remember the hue of his eyes (though he knows they must've been some shade of blue for his to claim the color of a cloudless sky) or the tone of his voice (was it rough yet soft like he imagines or lovely and rich, one that the birds would quiet for? Is it like his with a light laughing undercurrent or does he get that from his mother?). Memories of her come in fleeting grasps as well, the soft touch of the nimble hands of a surgeon and the slim form of an acrobat.
They've been gone for sixteen years, too long for the memories his ten-year-old self collected to remain. Every day, the fire that claimed their lives eats away at his recollections until what he has scraped together dissipates in a haze of smoke. It leaves him wondering who they were, who he once was.
He heeds what he has left, relying on grins to be his first defense.
But tonight, the mask is fairly genuine. Seldom does anyone experience what he is able to, trapped down on gray, decaying streets. The night is especially beautiful, stars have broken through the smog bringing light to the darkness. For as far as the eye can see a huge expanse of black reins - eerie and dangerous - the result of the colony's month-long power outage.
V is for volatile. Everything is on edge, one push and it all will fall. A kind of danger that would make any person with an ounce of sanity wary, but fills him with a certain glee. The wind toys with him as he leaps. The slam of the gale is part absolute bliss (when the cool air wraps around him and runs its fingers through his hair) and part exhilaration tinted with fear (as the fall overtakes him.) Nights like these, it feels like his feet could carry him out of Vlostock into endless opportunities.
So he runs, his grin growing wider to match the steady beat of his feet across the rooftop. The space between buildings is almost non-existent, leaps turning into steps. Crumpling mud patched adobe crunches in tune with every rhythmic footfall.
Rarely do the homes of Vlostock have glass nestled in their square dirt window frames. If an owner of flickering candlelight was to look up, they would see a lone figure racing across roofs - defying curfew like seldom dare to. It is rare any notice his presence, he makes no sound as he dances across clay shingles (if the owner has something to their name) and tin with no traction (for the less fortunate) or even mud and straw as he reaches the outer edge.
The city becomes farm in less than a blink. The shadows of poppy, cannabis, and tobacco litter the ground stretch for miles. The colony’s only crops, even here, away from the heart, 22 is drugs.
Night wraps around him, lulling in a way that only a mother can. His feet carry him until he no longer runs to escape but to reach that sweet spot where the wind whispers in his ear and the stars shine solely for him. On and on, the burn in his legs is a welcome friend. He can go anywhere, the choices stretch out into infinity.
That is until he reaches the colony edge, the place where everything ends. There is no physical barrier, there doesn’t need to be. If people ran where would they go? The rest of the planet is lifeless and deserted, shown by the way everything just stops. The crops, grass, building, everything disappear instantly into the dark of the undeveloped part of the moon. The dream of freedom is snatched away and his mind forces him back to reality. Obligations to his people, his family, his home, to the suit and insignia he bears pull him back towards the star-illuminated city.
V is for vigilante, synonymous with his family. A name for the people who bring hope to the average man, who say that not everyone has folded - they can not be subdued. A name that brings fear to those on Death Squads. The ones who spit in the face of their oppressive government, and speak for the people. A label that defines those who control the night and defend the subjugated. A name for what he is, a name for what his siblings are.
V is for vengeance which they do not let rule their hearts. They want what is rightfully theirs, the people deserve better. He doesn't patrol the streets to bathe them in the blood of the Death Squads, no, he does so in hope of producing a better future. One where people can live unruled by fear, or poverty, or injustice - free from the Alpha.
A hiss of static assaults his ears and instinctively his hand reaches towards his earpiece - shooting an apprehensive glance back towards the city. “Euchre, you're almost out of receiving range.” the distorted sound of his second youngest brother’s voice speaks his codename. “My tracker registers you on the edge. Explain?” Nathaniel keeps it short and sweet, never one to risk the chance of an interception. His next words are lost as the signal drops in and out.
“I’m heading back,” he says in a way of evading the question. He hears a little huff, almost inaudible under the pounding of the static - the cost of their old tech. No amount of static or applied distortion can hide his brother’s boyish innocence. Something that in the past has kept them out of scrutiny.
The click of the com proves that Nathaniel is mad at him. A hint upset and worried as well, Jonathan and Malcolm must have had another close call with a Death Squad. He swears under his breath, sparing one last glance at the empty abyss before he starts towards the darkness of the city.
This time he does nothing to hide the sound of his boots on roofs if anything has happened he wants to know. He’s sure some resident’s catch a glance of him, it's not hard to. Unlike the rest of the families’, his suit is designed to draw in the eyes rather than divert them. Black kevlar (which is actually many shades of grey to blending with the night’s shadows) wraps around his body and ripples with every movement. Starting halfway across the back vertically, an extra bit of green kevlar reaches across to the right shoulder. The flap diagonally buttons down, creating a storage area for whatever weapons he may need. A number of satchels and pockets adorn the suit as well as a knife sheath. His left hand is gloved green, while the other black.
And of course, there’s the trademark V-shaped white mask - one in the same with the rest of his siblings. It covers from his chin and rounds his whole face. At the tips, it reaches a good eight inches above his head then dives down slightly above his forehead and rises once move to the second tip - forming an M-like shape. Made from very thin metal, bullet proof and reflective, it's their most identifiable feature. It covers everything but his eyes, which shine through trapezoid openings.
It's a distraction, pure and simple, the mask and the way the fabric clings to his body. The others may shy away from prying eyes, but he decided long ago that he must flaunt every advantage. The figure he cuts out of the night beautiful but deadly- one that leaps from rooftop to rooftop, precise and almost predatory.
He slows to a halt, “Matrix?” He asks the com, using Nathaniel's codename. “Come on, brother,” he says - trying not to let a whine slip into his voice, “I’m back, tell me what’s going on?” The com remains stubbornly silent, evidently, Nathaniel's intellect is matched only by his ability to hold grudges. “Let’s not do this…” He begins, trailing off at the sound of boots over gravel.
Someone’s here.
Reasoning this is the best place, he checks for danger with a few turns of his head and grabs a handful of dirt to smear the mistake.
There.
Now it looks like a mess.
He sighs and accepts the fact that it’s not going to be his best work. It’s okay, as long as it’s readable the message will get across - that’s all that matters.
With a few more strokes it’s done, and he steps back arms crossed to survey what’s done. For the truth, look only toward the southwest smoke of twenty-six. Decent enough.
With tonight's harsh gale, the paint will dry fast. By the time it's discovered a Civil Obedience Unit will have trouble getting rid of his ‘disobedience.” People will see, and wonder. Can freedom be theirs after countless years of oppression? And that’s all they need, the thought, the hope, that things can change.
He’s trying to incite a rebellion, has been for years actually. It’s quite hard. Lately, though, there’s been whisperings in the wind of Colony 22. And now, armed with the knowledge that 26 has actually fought (and won chasing COUs off planet), there’s real hope. Among his siblings, who have fought and spread the message for so long, this news has reawoken a fire. It makes Howard Lawrence the third wonder if he’ll live up to his textbook worthy name and go down in history.
None of the civilian population knows about the successful revolt on 26, of course. That’s what they’re doing tonight, under the cover of darkness, writing on almost every wall what the government is concealing.
He crouches down. Dipping the brush back in the small jar of paint in his left hand, he begins to write once more.
It’s not his usual message. Each of his family has a distinct voice when they write to the people. His youngest brother Malcolm is brutally honest, often writing the names of all lives claimed by the COU. Other times he draws. Neat strokes fill walls with utopian cities, free of smog and filled with smiling families, the direct opposite of their reality. Rosetta, his sister, maintains an air of deadly mystery only every tagging Change will Come in harsh, bold, blocked red letters. Yet it may be his brother Ashton who is the most eloquent, though he denies it. Angry and hurt, his voice, enraged on the behalf of the wronged, is raw with emotion. The grey scrawl of his brother can manage to enrage even the most loyal colonist.
He isn’t like his siblings, lacking the youngest’s honesty, his sister’s ability to induce fear, and Ashton’s way with words. His handwriting isn’t even neat. So long ago, to make up for his handicaps, he created something he likes to call segments.
Segments are, to say, analyticals on the atrocities in 22 and aim to educate, as well, about other Colonies.
The 25 colonies exist on moons, though they're numbered starting with 2 as Alpha (the planet) is colony 1. 22 is lucky, they don't need a bioatmosphere. Ashton swears the government pumps mind-altering substances into imported oxygen. Though their water is provided by the homeworld.
It is this dependency that keeps them subjugated. They slave to receive the barest of rewards, while their overlords frolic planetside. They are kept ignorant, in the dark about everything. Alpha claims that colonists aren't intelligent enough for enlightenment.
His niche, to separate him from his siblings, is to spread the truth about Alpha and the other colonies.
He does this using the letters of the alphabet. There are 26 colonies, including Alpha, and 26 letters of the alphabet. The common names of the colonies correlate with their number, one is a, two is b, and so on. These are colonist created names, of course, the intellectuals on Alpha would never resort to such slang.
One glance at green paint that says B is for … a person knows he’s speaking about Colony 2. V is for … means he’s talking about their Colony, 22.
V is for Vlostock the common name of 22. His home. Out of the colonies, his is by far the worst. The wealth trickles down from Alpha (rumored to have paved roads and things called fountains that literally spew water, some claim that they never suffer in the darkness of power shortages) to Colony 2 and so on. The four colonies after his are poorer if it’s possible, but the people with nothing are united in their suffering. In Vlostock there is enough that everyone will rip each other’s throats out for Alpha's scraps.
He doesn’t spotlight other colonies as much as their own. Though he finds it funny that “At least I’m not in 22” is a mantra in other colonies, while his resident's mutter, “At least it can't get any worse.” He’s not going to argue, his home is terrible, but it's his. The people here are tough and dangerous, like their city - getting mugged is a rite of passage. If he could hypothetically go anywhere else, he wouldn't. Vlostock is where he was born, where he intends to die. This is his home and his people. They deserve so much more. It’s why he patrols every night, hoping to stir a rebellion. One that at it’s conclusion would establish a new way of life to lessen the danger and ease the burdens of 22.
The roar of an engine causes him to jerk his head up and stare at the only opening to his little area. He watches for a moment until he spots a classic white, plated uniform and then he’s up looking for an escape. His safe haven becoming a cage. Without hesitation, he throws his jar of paint and brush onto the adjacent roof. Quickly, he follows, adrenaline fueling his mad, sloppy leap up. Collecting and capping the paint takes a second, shoving it along with the paintbrush into the dark brown satchel on his left leg takes one more.
Then he’s running, glancing back to see a whole COU unit, clad in white uniforms and black helmets, pulling a ladder out of their matching white van. They look unnatural, too clean and bright for the streets of Vlostock.
He drives himself harder, breaking from a sprint to a full out run. He leaps from the brick building’s roof to the one next to it.
Three COU officers take him completely by surprise as he drops onto the roof. White uniforms have been traded for black ones, blending in with the night much like he does.
All is still and silent for a moment, each of them unsure what to do with the other. With every inch of skin covered and tinted helmets concealing their eyes, it's easy to forget the COU are human.
Regaining his wits, he jumps into action. Unsheathing a blade, his knife whizzes through the air and the closest man falls. Turning, he barrels into the one in front of him, knocking the man off the roof. Two down before the other has even fired a round.
He hits the ground when that round comes. Then, manages to throw another of his knives, nicking the officer in the hand.
He rips knife out of his first victim’s leg and the man moans. Before they can recover, he’s blind-leaping towards the next roof.
V is for violence, he thinks as he hits an awkward landing - throwing his weight to the left in a move that almost sends him careening off the roof. He scrambles into a crouch, knees pulled close, elbows bowed on those knees, resting back on his heels, his face a hair's breadth away from a plummet. Blood from his gloved hands drips into the grey abyss of the streets below - scarlet taking on the grey hue that clouds the city as it vanishes out of sight. A slight shake of the same hands speeds the drip into rivulets, thankfully it isn't his.
V is for Victim, graces his mind right as gunshots ring out and a piercing cry sounds. He rocks back, taking refuge in the shadows as a speck of white edges across his vision. An armored van, cold and emotionless, stalks the streets. He holds his breath, his heart in his throat. He knows what is to come, and he stands powerless to prevent history’s repetition. The first shot ignites rage, while the ones that follow leave him hollow.
V is for Villain - and that he knows is the only way to describe the COU. They're tasked by the government to ensure peace and keep order. Like the starving colony residents have a rebellion on their mind! Well, that isn’t quite true. Their government is a mockery of the name, martial law has ruled for twenty times as long as he’s been alive. A benevolent ruler doesn’t get its soldiers nicknamed Death Squads. An honest politician doesn’t order the massacre of whole towns. A fair government doesn’t let its people starve in the colonies while those on Alpha roll in wealth. No good man holds his head high, too high, to see the suffering of his fellow man.
The ring of gunfire ceases and only sound left echoing off crumbling adobe walls is a mournful cry. A minute passes, then a single shot fires before the convoy drives on - the rev of the engine not reaching his vantage point.
Though the cry has long since silenced, his skin suddenly decides to crawl.
Clay tiles moan beneath his weight, cracking as he shifts, old and tried alike with the rest of the city. Bile and grief rise in his throat, how many dead? How many wounded? The shots are for him, trying to lure him out of the shadows. A layer of grime clings to him, real and figurative, as he peers over the ledge, trying not to dwell on those who have been senselessly taken too soon.
V is for Vile and the smog that clings to the air, combining with the humid climate to create something putrid. A smell that is metallic, heavy and not unlike blood. He rises from his crouch, takes a cautious step forward and then another until he's breaking into a sprint once his balance returns. A glance at the darkness behind him ensures that the Civil Obedience Unit no longer snaps at his trail.
He’s in the heart of the East Side, his patrol colony, hunted on his own turf. He huffs, then holds back a cough. Colony 22 supplies Alpha with Pharmaceutical drugs. Factories and labs loom in the darkness, and he watches the smoke plume into the sky. If you need medication it comes from here, ironic considering the smog is slowly killing them. Everything besides drugs in 22 is horribly expensive - necessities produced on other moons and have to be flown in.
Corners are littered with people offering forms of relief. It’s easy enough to swipe some pills off the assembly line, even easier to sell those stolen narcotics. With this, you can work longer. Take this and you’ll be able to go days without hunger. Have you tried this? You won’t taste the factory smog.
People are ensnared by the corners, transfixed by the only way to escape this hell called life. Every day, every night, hands sort pills, make pills, label pills then they're shipped away and the workers flood the corners for their share. Overburdened, overworked, no food, no money, no hope. What else can they do?
So, V is for vagrant, a classification for them - the ones who produce everything. A term the rich use to define a people whom they do not have the care to understand. Ignorance will one day be their downfall when the people rise - he’s here to stoke the embers.
V is for vain and the people on the westside who have never known a day of hunger. A day without knowing where they’re going to sleep. A night without the effects of the ever-looming factories. The people who hide away afraid of them, the people with money who fund the Death Squads and kill his friends. The people who run the country, who can buy lives and end them.
His shadow moves like a feline, all elegance and grace and silence as it flows across the tops of shanty buildings. Instinctively, a smile settles itself on his face.
He smiles when he is happy, when he is sad when he wants no one to look closer.
One of his fading memories of his father - one Howard Lawrence the second - is a harrowing phrase. If you pretend to be happy, then eventually it's true. No one's really happy, there's just a few who are better at masking their suffering. Those are the ones with real power, the liars who make life better for everyone else. Who can deflect pain with a turn of the lips. A cynical view, he knows, and yet when he thinks of the man it is all that comes to mind. He can't even remember the hue of his eyes (though he knows they must've been some shade of blue for his to claim the color of a cloudless sky) or the tone of his voice (was it rough yet soft like he imagines or lovely and rich, one that the birds would quiet for? Is it like his with a light laughing undercurrent or does he get that from his mother?). Memories of her come in fleeting grasps as well, the soft touch of the nimble hands of a surgeon and the slim form of an acrobat.
They've been gone for sixteen years, too long for the memories his ten-year-old self collected to remain. Every day, the fire that claimed their lives eats away at his recollections until what he has scraped together dissipates in a haze of smoke. It leaves him wondering who they were, who he once was.
He heeds what he has left, relying on grins to be his first defense.
But tonight, the mask is fairly genuine. Seldom does anyone experience what he is able to, trapped down on gray, decaying streets. The night is especially beautiful, stars have broken through the smog bringing light to the darkness. For as far as the eye can see a huge expanse of black reins - eerie and dangerous - the result of the colony's month-long power outage.
V is for volatile. Everything is on edge, one push and it all will fall. A kind of danger that would make any person with an ounce of sanity wary, but fills him with a certain glee. The wind toys with him as he leaps. The slam of the gale is part absolute bliss (when the cool air wraps around him and runs its fingers through his hair) and part exhilaration tinted with fear (as the fall overtakes him.) Nights like these, it feels like his feet could carry him out of Vlostock into endless opportunities.
So he runs, his grin growing wider to match the steady beat of his feet across the rooftop. The space between buildings is almost non-existent, leaps turning into steps. Crumpling mud patched adobe crunches in tune with every rhythmic footfall.
Rarely do the homes of Vlostock have glass nestled in their square dirt window frames. If an owner of flickering candlelight was to look up, they would see a lone figure racing across roofs - defying curfew like seldom dare to. It is rare any notice his presence, he makes no sound as he dances across clay shingles (if the owner has something to their name) and tin with no traction (for the less fortunate) or even mud and straw as he reaches the outer edge.
The city becomes farm in less than a blink. The shadows of poppy, cannabis, and tobacco litter the ground stretch for miles. The colony’s only crops, even here, away from the heart, 22 is drugs.
Night wraps around him, lulling in a way that only a mother can. His feet carry him until he no longer runs to escape but to reach that sweet spot where the wind whispers in his ear and the stars shine solely for him. On and on, the burn in his legs is a welcome friend. He can go anywhere, the choices stretch out into infinity.
That is until he reaches the colony edge, the place where everything ends. There is no physical barrier, there doesn’t need to be. If people ran where would they go? The rest of the planet is lifeless and deserted, shown by the way everything just stops. The crops, grass, building, everything disappear instantly into the dark of the undeveloped part of the moon. The dream of freedom is snatched away and his mind forces him back to reality. Obligations to his people, his family, his home, to the suit and insignia he bears pull him back towards the star-illuminated city.
V is for vigilante, synonymous with his family. A name for the people who bring hope to the average man, who say that not everyone has folded - they can not be subdued. A name that brings fear to those on Death Squads. The ones who spit in the face of their oppressive government, and speak for the people. A label that defines those who control the night and defend the subjugated. A name for what he is, a name for what his siblings are.
V is for vengeance which they do not let rule their hearts. They want what is rightfully theirs, the people deserve better. He doesn't patrol the streets to bathe them in the blood of the Death Squads, no, he does so in hope of producing a better future. One where people can live unruled by fear, or poverty, or injustice - free from the Alpha.
A hiss of static assaults his ears and instinctively his hand reaches towards his earpiece - shooting an apprehensive glance back towards the city. “Euchre, you're almost out of receiving range.” the distorted sound of his second youngest brother’s voice speaks his codename. “My tracker registers you on the edge. Explain?” Nathaniel keeps it short and sweet, never one to risk the chance of an interception. His next words are lost as the signal drops in and out.
“I’m heading back,” he says in a way of evading the question. He hears a little huff, almost inaudible under the pounding of the static - the cost of their old tech. No amount of static or applied distortion can hide his brother’s boyish innocence. Something that in the past has kept them out of scrutiny.
The click of the com proves that Nathaniel is mad at him. A hint upset and worried as well, Jonathan and Malcolm must have had another close call with a Death Squad. He swears under his breath, sparing one last glance at the empty abyss before he starts towards the darkness of the city.
This time he does nothing to hide the sound of his boots on roofs if anything has happened he wants to know. He’s sure some resident’s catch a glance of him, it's not hard to. Unlike the rest of the families’, his suit is designed to draw in the eyes rather than divert them. Black kevlar (which is actually many shades of grey to blending with the night’s shadows) wraps around his body and ripples with every movement. Starting halfway across the back vertically, an extra bit of green kevlar reaches across to the right shoulder. The flap diagonally buttons down, creating a storage area for whatever weapons he may need. A number of satchels and pockets adorn the suit as well as a knife sheath. His left hand is gloved green, while the other black.
And of course, there’s the trademark V-shaped white mask - one in the same with the rest of his siblings. It covers from his chin and rounds his whole face. At the tips, it reaches a good eight inches above his head then dives down slightly above his forehead and rises once move to the second tip - forming an M-like shape. Made from very thin metal, bullet proof and reflective, it's their most identifiable feature. It covers everything but his eyes, which shine through trapezoid openings.
It's a distraction, pure and simple, the mask and the way the fabric clings to his body. The others may shy away from prying eyes, but he decided long ago that he must flaunt every advantage. The figure he cuts out of the night beautiful but deadly- one that leaps from rooftop to rooftop, precise and almost predatory.
He slows to a halt, “Matrix?” He asks the com, using Nathaniel's codename. “Come on, brother,” he says - trying not to let a whine slip into his voice, “I’m back, tell me what’s going on?” The com remains stubbornly silent, evidently, Nathaniel's intellect is matched only by his ability to hold grudges. “Let’s not do this…” He begins, trailing off at the sound of boots over gravel.
Someone’s here.
Chapter Two
Without thought, his hand slips to the leather sheath, opening it and at once gripping the hilt of his blade. He spins throwing the knife and drawing another from his satchel. He hears a grunt as the knife flies and a clatter as his weapon falls harmlessly to the ground - blocked by the muzzle of a gun. There’s a telling click as the safety leaves.
He catches a glimpse of his assailant before he falls into a defensive stance. Male, about 6'2, young, physically able, (the scent of vanilla?) disarm, attack. The second blade goes up, the intention to gut if the man comes too near.
His eyes have already trailed to the nearest escape routes, deciding what will ensure his survival. He’s near the edge of the roof, a small step backward and he could chance a free fall. Which seems the better option, when the other is getting riddled with bullets. He takes a step back, feeling the ground under his left leg disappear.
He’s tipping backward when the man latches onto his arm, “Careful, Euchre, we wouldn’t want you to trip.”
What? He shakes his head and takes a good look at his attacker, noting the V-shaped white mask, leather jacket, black kevlar, and sighs. “Venger,” he addresses, and his brother’s steely blue eyes latch onto him. Brothers in everything but blood, he likes to say.
Surface level, they seem related with the same raven black hair and blue eyes. Yet, if someone was to look closer they could see different lineages in their statues. Ashton’s built like a tank - barrel-chested, seemingly fifty percent muscle. He, on the other hand, has a slighter frame (though nothing near Nate’s sickly bones). At 5’10 and about 160, he’s built for speed and stamina, more acrobatic and nimble. The fact that they're polar opposites personality wise helps differentiate them as well, “What have I said about names?”
“What?” Ashton says, taking a step back, “I cautioned you not to trip,” he pauses and adds, “Trip.” as if he can’t resist.
“Are you twelve?” he asks, brushing off the forearm of his suit. He can't see his brother’s face, but he knows he's smiling in light of his hilarious joke. Trip and trip, he’s heard it all before (in fact, half of the play on his name comes from Ashton.) Trip, like triple he explains. It's because he's the third Howard Lawrence. He can't be Howard, because that was his father's name and Mr. Lawrence reminds him of his grandfather. So he's Trip, though he supposes that Lawrence (what Malcolm calls him) works as well.
“If I'm twelve you're only fourteen, too young to be falling to your death. Plus, Goldie,” he rolls his eyes at the familiar nickname. Goldie, short for golden boy because his brother is under the delusion he’s the favorite child. “you’re the one who almost killed me.” Ashton retorts before clicking the safety back on and reholstering his gun. The metallic sheen of the weapon glints in the moonlight, reflecting off of his brother's mask and illuminating his eyes.
If Trip's are a rich sky blue like many claim, Ashton's are whatever's on the other side of that spectrum. Deep blue, sapphire even, flecked with what is almost black. The mask hides everything else. Cloaking his tanned skin, black hair (so much like his own, but slicked back instead of tousled), and the certain ruggedness that could be considered attractive in its own way. “I mean come on,” his younger brother says, kicking the fallen knife back at him, “that was close, what would you have done if you’d hit me?”
He stages a sighs and rolls his eyes, “Think of it as training, Venger.” He chirps, bending down to scoop up the knife and pushes down the surge of guilt at the question. What would he have done?
Ashton stares down at him, something flitting across his eyes that Trip can't name, and crosses his arms, putting his weight on one foot. The gun holstered on his left leg sways as he adjusts himself, his tall athletic build empathized by his choice of clothing. Though two years his junior, Ashton has a good four inches on him and quite a few pounds. He's not quite Trip's little brother anymore and it pains him. Although, it's been a long time since either of them have experienced the innocence of childhood.
There’s a haunted look in his brother’s eyes, a scared one that lingers under the “I don't give a shit” cover. It’s been there for years, ever since Ashton’s year-long imprisonment with the COU. It makes Trip look at himself and think he's such a failure - he couldn’t even protect his younger brother all those years ago. Ashton’s posture insulates Come at me, I dare you openly rejecting any pity. “Maybe, though you didn’t consider it that when I hit your precious halfling.”
He gives Ashton a look, which is hard considering the mask, that has his brother laughing. The sound is hard and sharp like he is - though Trip knows that the rich sound is filtered a few octaves deeper by the mask. “He has a name, you know.” Trip tries to sound serious, but it’s a funny memory in a terrifying sort of way. The picture is clear in his mind, though the event happened years ago. An indignant Malcolm insisting he’s fine, pride to hurt to ask for help after Ashton nicked him in the arm with a rubber training bullet.
“Sure he does,” Ashton responds, a mischievous hint in his eyes, “Demon, hellspawn, halfling, menace, replacement’s replacement, the blood heir." Blue eyes crinkle at the last one, probably since he’s recalling (as Trip is) Malcolm's arrival to the family four years ago. With a loud proclamation, Malcolm deemed them unnecessary since Johnathan had kin to help him, as the then eight-year-old put it “insert fear into the hearts of Death Squads.”
He doesn’t address the jibe Ashton adds about Rosetta. It's beyond hope for Ashton and his middle sibling to have a civil relationship. Water that will ever be under the bridge, thanks to the emotional constipation of Jonathan when it comes it his second son, Ashton, and his first daughter but third child, Rosetta. “God, I miss it when the little devil was so full of himself. Drove the old bastard crazy.” He shrugs, coming to stand at Trip’s side. Trip glances out at the city, a sea of black, and then back at Ashton. “You’ve tamed him out some.”
Trip smiles, eyes locked on the far away wall, “You make it sound like he’s a pet,” he comments offhandedly.
His brother takes this into consideration. The air, for a moment silent and still, “Malcolm kinda is, I mean he bit me when he first came to the house. You retrained him after his father screwed him up.”
“Names,” he chastises again, “and really who wouldn’t be messed up with Parliament as a dad?”
“Yeah,” comes the answer, neither of them wanting to talk about the leader of colony 22’s COU. A sadistic monster who’s kill list is the only thing that stretches longer than his number of children. “But he bit me. He was eight. Who does that? Ellis didn’t even do that.” His brother trails off, a distant look overtaking his stormy eyes.
Dead for years, Ellis is still why Ashton fights. The day of her death was the day they met. Trip can still recall a sickly twelve-year-old Ashton grieving in the freezing snow, unwilling to leave the even smaller, lifeless body of his eight-year-old sister. Still, better to think of her than Quinn - his elder sister by ten years, lost to the Corner. Ashton clears his throat, getting down to sit on the ledge of the roof, boots dangling over the edge. “Little savage.”
“You like him though,” he says going over to sit beside his brother.
“Sadly, the pest has grown on me.” He’ll take that as a success, his first brother tolerates the newest one. “You know why Matrix is upset tonight?” Ashton questions, eyes watching the wall as well.
Trip turns, recalling his reason for rushing back, “Oh god, it’s Jon isn’t it? He’s finally gotten in over his head and gotten himself and Mal killed.”
“Names,” his brothers says, taking great pleasure in being the corrector for once, “No, though I wouldn’t mind if Jonathan went and died.” Ashton glares into the night at the mention of the man he used to consider father. “They’ve amended the Singular Child law so politicians can have two, three if they purchase the proper papers.”
“Oh, shit,” he mutters. The Singular Child Law was created some two hundred years ago to curb the population size. It does what the name would entail, people can only have one child unless they pay for another slot. Since the fee for a second slot is some absurd amount, there are countless children without papers. Stowaways in their motherland, unregistered children are sold into labor or terminated if under five years. The COU has special children units that exist for the sole purpose of rounding up paperless kids.
This law may actually be the reason his family exists - he isn’t actually related to any of his various siblings. They're a hodgepodge of orphans and paperless children taken in by one Jonathan Rowland. A man not only on a rebel crusade against injustice, but one who can't resist any child in need.
When his parents died he was underage, but it isn't all that uncommon for kids to live on the streets. He’s just lucky Johnthan found him when he did, and even more so to be an only child, thus papers.
Ashton’s mother had a son, then Quinn, Ashton, and Ellis with her last three children abandoned once the COU got wind the situation. The streets claimed his brother for far too long before he came to live with them without papers. It wasn't until recently that his brother even in the eyes of the law existed. It was a stroke of luck that Ashton was undocumented upon his capture. If there had been a direct link to Jonathan, neither of them would be sitting here now.
Rosetta had the luck of being an only child, coming to live with them with proper documentation.
Malcolm is his mother’s first child, but his father’s god knows what - but since Parliament is the law he doesn’t follow it and his son has papers.
Yet the second youngest, Nathaniel, must have drawn the short stick. Born as the second son of Vlostock’s former mayor, his parents had the funds to keep him. Instead, they opted to not pay for a slot, deciding to try again for a girl. Nathaniel's parents gave him away, not caring that they were sentencing their child to death. However, Nathaniel was considered of good lineage, he was taken to an orphanage instead of being terminated.
Under the law, upon reaching five years children in orphanages are to be disposed of. His future brother understood this and ran away. For years, he lived on the streets, until one day a Death Squad found the shelter of the group he was living with. In the ensuing onslaught, Nathaniel's legs were broken. They had found him, nine years old - legs in ruins, dying on their doorstep.
Unable to ignore the boy’s plight. Jonathan adopted him and filling his child slot. Trip can’t imagine any person throwing away baby. And is astonished further by not loving a child, he knows his parents weren't perfect but they loved him.
“Shit’s right, our seventeen-year-old brother is having a quarter-life crisis. He could have grown up with his parents.” Ashton looks down at his hands, sparing a sidelong glance at him.
Trip shakes his head, does Ashton understand their second youngest at all? “No, it means that he could still have his legs.” At Ashton’s oh, he feels terrible. What must that feel like? That amount of waste, and for what? By the time they found him Nate’s legs were beyond repair. Today he can do little more than manage to walk - struggling with a painful limp, sticking to a wheelchair around the house and Base.
“Don’t you boys have anything better to do?” Comes a rich feminine voice, deepened by a synthesizer. “Stop talking about Matrix behind his back.” They both turn, eyes greeted by their sister who is stunning as always in form-fitting red and black. Her pale green eyes glare at Ashton and the white mask does nothing to reduce the look of scorn she shoots him. In the darkness, his middle sibling’s short, hacked hair that fades from her natural black to a vibrant, dyed red. It takes the appearance of flames and provides the image of her codename’s namesake, Phoenix.
Of slight frame but very deadly.
A hiss of static announces Matrix's presence as well, he dryly states, “Actually I don’t know if you do, but this is a two-way comm. I can hear you.”
“Sorry,” he mutters.
“We’re not boys, replacement. I’m four years older than you and Euchre’s six! And why wasn’t I invited to your pity party Matrix?”
A light tap of a landing, then a voice that demands attention shatters the silence, “Your intelligence is below that of a six-year-old, Venger, let alone Phoenix’s twenty years. I mean your ineptitude resulted in your kidnapping at the hands of my father. And when are you invited to anything?” Trip holds back a sigh as Ashton stiffens beside him.
Not even Malcolm's mask can cover the scowl marring his elegant features as he takes in his siblings. He’s inches shorter than his sister’s five three, but size isn’t skill. Trip knows that he, at five ten, could be taken out by either of his younger siblings.
Malcolm's dark skin speaks of a heritage they can’t quite figure out and draws out his intelligent emerald eyes. At fourteen, he’s the youngest member of the family, though he hardly ever acts his age. Case in point, as the boy provokes Ashton, who is literally a walking arsenal. That fact though seems to evade Malcolm as he glances at his older siblings, eyes glistening. “I-”
“Talk anymore, and I'll end you,” Ashton says, his voice lacking its usual anger and Trip fights back relief. To Trip, Ashton and Malcolm's communication is a dance of jibes and insults. No one else has a chance of participating. The youngest frowns, a scowl blossoming.
Out of all of them, Malcolm is the most colorful. Their suits are designed to blend with the night, black with one other color fused in - like his green or Rosetta’s red. When Trip first convinced Johnthan to let him patrol, his thirteen-year-old self had shown little restraint pertaining to hues. In those early days, he distracted the COU from Jonathan's Reckoning. A brightly colored eye catcher, able to aide his father’s crusade without fighting.
Over time, as Vigil became a mantle once he handed it down to Aston then Rosetta, what the suit was evolved. It became, like Reckoning, a legitimate threat to the COU. Meaning the fabric had to be toned down.
The current suit is a homage to all of the vigilantes before it. A hint of green lacing for Euchre, a red felted interior for Phoenix, and the most prominent change would be the added black cloak for Venger. Malcolm's own spin on the numerous belts: blue, leading to the nickname of "Patriot".
Trip can't help but smile as his brother's cloak catches in the slight wind and his arms cross in a ‘Malcolm’ pout. “Like you could,” Malcolm responds finally, eyeing Ashton.
Ashton just laughs, pulling one dangling leg up and resting his elbow on it, “Real or rubber, little demon?”
The youngest’s eyes crinkle the slightest bit, definitely the result of a frown. His arms stay crossed, his feet planted, “What?”
“Okay, attacker’s choice,” Ashton states. Whipping out a pistol, he leaps up to face Malcolm in mere seconds - a time that shouldn’t be physically given his stature. Green eyes widen before Malcolm rushes at Ashton, who laughs again. He knows, as Trip does, an act of such callous would surprise the COU. “You’d be dead twice over, Vigil!”
“Then I am grateful we are not keeping score.”
He turns his eyes back to the city, “Try not to kill your brother.” Trip calls,hearing Ashton grunt, presumably tackled by Malcolm.
“I will try,” comes the solemn promise from the youngest. While his slightly older younger brother calls, “I refuse to abide by your antiquated sense of morality.”
He huffs out a laugh, gesturing for Rosetta (who is radiating disapproval) to come take Ashton’s former spot beside him, “You know some would call, not killing people as the morally right thing to do.”
“Some call it retarded,” Ashton yells back and something shatters, he resists the urge to roll his eyes. From the sound of it, the residents must think their city’s valiant heroes are engaged in a fierce battle with about sixty COUs. “But hey Goldie, if you don’t want to kill people I’ll just do it for you.”
“And you wonder why Jon is upset with you most of the time.”
“What?” Another slam, Ashton screams, “Stop cheating you little bastard!”
“All’s fair in war and hate.”
A laugh, Ashton corrects, “It’s love and war.”
“All’s fair in war and mutual distrain.” Malcolm amends.
“You little shit.” A pause, “There, yield?” Ashton speaks over his brother’s disgusted never, “Why Goldie? I don’t have a clue why Jonathan looks like I killed his favorite son every time he sees me.” His voice drips with sarcasm, “Man is such a hypocrite. Vigil kills, Phoenix kills, Nightingale kills, he kills yet when I do it he’s all ‘if you kill you're just as bad as them.’”
He sighs, his gaze slipping down to his hands, “Names." The blatant truth of the statement taking the smile off his face. His family consists of killers. Malcolm’s life was death from the start, he knew fifty ways to kill a man before he learned how to speak. Before her tenth birthday, Rosetta’s hands claimed the life of her mother. He’s not sure about Nathaniel, but indirectly the boy’s planned some of their more violent operations. Ashton’s the worst of all.
It’s hard to look at his brother sometimes, knowing the sheer amount of blood on his hands. The way that he sometimes seems to enjoy what they do. How he no longer registers that his targets are indeed people (that they have feelings and hopes and dreams and lives and people who will mourn them.)
They may joke, but he just can’t bring himself to take a life. He can’t do that, how will he face the man in the mirror when he knows he’s widowed someone or orphaned a child or taken a sibling?
It changes people, he’s seen good men - friends - go bad after taking too many lives. It is too easy to lose yourself in a flood of blood. Vengeance finds itself in death. He doesn’t want that. Some may call him a coward, but he can’t.
Trip pulls his mouth back into a smile, though with the mask he's not sure why he bothers, “Here’s an idea,” he jokes, “Maybe you're all just tolerated and I’m the favorite because of my morality.”
He earns a scoff from all of his siblings that time.
“If you believe that you’re as intellectually challenged as Venger,” Rosetta observes. She still hasn’t moved to sit beside him.
“Venger, new tactic.” He hears Malcolm command, “The first one to push Euchre off this roof gets the extra mango ration.”
“Oh, you’re on. Phoenix, you want in?”
His siblings quiet, meaning either they’ve died or are plotting his demise. Undoubtedly, Nathaniel has joined the conversation, excluding Trip's comm from the transmission. It’s fine, better actually. The more time they're together and not actively trying to kill each other (for real) the better. For one thing, Trip is grateful. That despite the odds they’re all here and in the infinite amount of ways their lives could have taken them it lead here.
He hears them - or rather doesn’t - their silence is the tell that they're executing their attack. The smell of vanilla is all he needs to move, dodging Ashton’s shove and twisting out of the way of Rosetta’s kick. He reaches a hand behind Malcolm's mask, ruffles the boy’s raven black hair, and evades his brother’s violent counter.
He laughs, turning back to look at them. Ashton is openly chuckling, Rosetta no longer looks too disappointed, and Malcolm is attempting not to lose what is left of his composure.
Yet he lives in a family of COU fighters and should know better than to taunt his enemies. A short and painful sound is shot through his com, Nate's work no doubt. Before Trip can reorient himself, a small but surprisingly heavy mass knocks him to the side - straight into something solid and warm.
One look at Rosetta’s substantially more serious expression, Malcolm's shift into a tighter fighting stance, and the way the mirth leaves Ashton’s eyes, Trip can deduce that Vlostock’s first vigilante has landed on their roof.
He catches a glimpse of his assailant before he falls into a defensive stance. Male, about 6'2, young, physically able, (the scent of vanilla?) disarm, attack. The second blade goes up, the intention to gut if the man comes too near.
His eyes have already trailed to the nearest escape routes, deciding what will ensure his survival. He’s near the edge of the roof, a small step backward and he could chance a free fall. Which seems the better option, when the other is getting riddled with bullets. He takes a step back, feeling the ground under his left leg disappear.
He’s tipping backward when the man latches onto his arm, “Careful, Euchre, we wouldn’t want you to trip.”
What? He shakes his head and takes a good look at his attacker, noting the V-shaped white mask, leather jacket, black kevlar, and sighs. “Venger,” he addresses, and his brother’s steely blue eyes latch onto him. Brothers in everything but blood, he likes to say.
Surface level, they seem related with the same raven black hair and blue eyes. Yet, if someone was to look closer they could see different lineages in their statues. Ashton’s built like a tank - barrel-chested, seemingly fifty percent muscle. He, on the other hand, has a slighter frame (though nothing near Nate’s sickly bones). At 5’10 and about 160, he’s built for speed and stamina, more acrobatic and nimble. The fact that they're polar opposites personality wise helps differentiate them as well, “What have I said about names?”
“What?” Ashton says, taking a step back, “I cautioned you not to trip,” he pauses and adds, “Trip.” as if he can’t resist.
“Are you twelve?” he asks, brushing off the forearm of his suit. He can't see his brother’s face, but he knows he's smiling in light of his hilarious joke. Trip and trip, he’s heard it all before (in fact, half of the play on his name comes from Ashton.) Trip, like triple he explains. It's because he's the third Howard Lawrence. He can't be Howard, because that was his father's name and Mr. Lawrence reminds him of his grandfather. So he's Trip, though he supposes that Lawrence (what Malcolm calls him) works as well.
“If I'm twelve you're only fourteen, too young to be falling to your death. Plus, Goldie,” he rolls his eyes at the familiar nickname. Goldie, short for golden boy because his brother is under the delusion he’s the favorite child. “you’re the one who almost killed me.” Ashton retorts before clicking the safety back on and reholstering his gun. The metallic sheen of the weapon glints in the moonlight, reflecting off of his brother's mask and illuminating his eyes.
If Trip's are a rich sky blue like many claim, Ashton's are whatever's on the other side of that spectrum. Deep blue, sapphire even, flecked with what is almost black. The mask hides everything else. Cloaking his tanned skin, black hair (so much like his own, but slicked back instead of tousled), and the certain ruggedness that could be considered attractive in its own way. “I mean come on,” his younger brother says, kicking the fallen knife back at him, “that was close, what would you have done if you’d hit me?”
He stages a sighs and rolls his eyes, “Think of it as training, Venger.” He chirps, bending down to scoop up the knife and pushes down the surge of guilt at the question. What would he have done?
Ashton stares down at him, something flitting across his eyes that Trip can't name, and crosses his arms, putting his weight on one foot. The gun holstered on his left leg sways as he adjusts himself, his tall athletic build empathized by his choice of clothing. Though two years his junior, Ashton has a good four inches on him and quite a few pounds. He's not quite Trip's little brother anymore and it pains him. Although, it's been a long time since either of them have experienced the innocence of childhood.
There’s a haunted look in his brother’s eyes, a scared one that lingers under the “I don't give a shit” cover. It’s been there for years, ever since Ashton’s year-long imprisonment with the COU. It makes Trip look at himself and think he's such a failure - he couldn’t even protect his younger brother all those years ago. Ashton’s posture insulates Come at me, I dare you openly rejecting any pity. “Maybe, though you didn’t consider it that when I hit your precious halfling.”
He gives Ashton a look, which is hard considering the mask, that has his brother laughing. The sound is hard and sharp like he is - though Trip knows that the rich sound is filtered a few octaves deeper by the mask. “He has a name, you know.” Trip tries to sound serious, but it’s a funny memory in a terrifying sort of way. The picture is clear in his mind, though the event happened years ago. An indignant Malcolm insisting he’s fine, pride to hurt to ask for help after Ashton nicked him in the arm with a rubber training bullet.
“Sure he does,” Ashton responds, a mischievous hint in his eyes, “Demon, hellspawn, halfling, menace, replacement’s replacement, the blood heir." Blue eyes crinkle at the last one, probably since he’s recalling (as Trip is) Malcolm's arrival to the family four years ago. With a loud proclamation, Malcolm deemed them unnecessary since Johnathan had kin to help him, as the then eight-year-old put it “insert fear into the hearts of Death Squads.”
He doesn’t address the jibe Ashton adds about Rosetta. It's beyond hope for Ashton and his middle sibling to have a civil relationship. Water that will ever be under the bridge, thanks to the emotional constipation of Jonathan when it comes it his second son, Ashton, and his first daughter but third child, Rosetta. “God, I miss it when the little devil was so full of himself. Drove the old bastard crazy.” He shrugs, coming to stand at Trip’s side. Trip glances out at the city, a sea of black, and then back at Ashton. “You’ve tamed him out some.”
Trip smiles, eyes locked on the far away wall, “You make it sound like he’s a pet,” he comments offhandedly.
His brother takes this into consideration. The air, for a moment silent and still, “Malcolm kinda is, I mean he bit me when he first came to the house. You retrained him after his father screwed him up.”
“Names,” he chastises again, “and really who wouldn’t be messed up with Parliament as a dad?”
“Yeah,” comes the answer, neither of them wanting to talk about the leader of colony 22’s COU. A sadistic monster who’s kill list is the only thing that stretches longer than his number of children. “But he bit me. He was eight. Who does that? Ellis didn’t even do that.” His brother trails off, a distant look overtaking his stormy eyes.
Dead for years, Ellis is still why Ashton fights. The day of her death was the day they met. Trip can still recall a sickly twelve-year-old Ashton grieving in the freezing snow, unwilling to leave the even smaller, lifeless body of his eight-year-old sister. Still, better to think of her than Quinn - his elder sister by ten years, lost to the Corner. Ashton clears his throat, getting down to sit on the ledge of the roof, boots dangling over the edge. “Little savage.”
“You like him though,” he says going over to sit beside his brother.
“Sadly, the pest has grown on me.” He’ll take that as a success, his first brother tolerates the newest one. “You know why Matrix is upset tonight?” Ashton questions, eyes watching the wall as well.
Trip turns, recalling his reason for rushing back, “Oh god, it’s Jon isn’t it? He’s finally gotten in over his head and gotten himself and Mal killed.”
“Names,” his brothers says, taking great pleasure in being the corrector for once, “No, though I wouldn’t mind if Jonathan went and died.” Ashton glares into the night at the mention of the man he used to consider father. “They’ve amended the Singular Child law so politicians can have two, three if they purchase the proper papers.”
“Oh, shit,” he mutters. The Singular Child Law was created some two hundred years ago to curb the population size. It does what the name would entail, people can only have one child unless they pay for another slot. Since the fee for a second slot is some absurd amount, there are countless children without papers. Stowaways in their motherland, unregistered children are sold into labor or terminated if under five years. The COU has special children units that exist for the sole purpose of rounding up paperless kids.
This law may actually be the reason his family exists - he isn’t actually related to any of his various siblings. They're a hodgepodge of orphans and paperless children taken in by one Jonathan Rowland. A man not only on a rebel crusade against injustice, but one who can't resist any child in need.
When his parents died he was underage, but it isn't all that uncommon for kids to live on the streets. He’s just lucky Johnthan found him when he did, and even more so to be an only child, thus papers.
Ashton’s mother had a son, then Quinn, Ashton, and Ellis with her last three children abandoned once the COU got wind the situation. The streets claimed his brother for far too long before he came to live with them without papers. It wasn't until recently that his brother even in the eyes of the law existed. It was a stroke of luck that Ashton was undocumented upon his capture. If there had been a direct link to Jonathan, neither of them would be sitting here now.
Rosetta had the luck of being an only child, coming to live with them with proper documentation.
Malcolm is his mother’s first child, but his father’s god knows what - but since Parliament is the law he doesn’t follow it and his son has papers.
Yet the second youngest, Nathaniel, must have drawn the short stick. Born as the second son of Vlostock’s former mayor, his parents had the funds to keep him. Instead, they opted to not pay for a slot, deciding to try again for a girl. Nathaniel's parents gave him away, not caring that they were sentencing their child to death. However, Nathaniel was considered of good lineage, he was taken to an orphanage instead of being terminated.
Under the law, upon reaching five years children in orphanages are to be disposed of. His future brother understood this and ran away. For years, he lived on the streets, until one day a Death Squad found the shelter of the group he was living with. In the ensuing onslaught, Nathaniel's legs were broken. They had found him, nine years old - legs in ruins, dying on their doorstep.
Unable to ignore the boy’s plight. Jonathan adopted him and filling his child slot. Trip can’t imagine any person throwing away baby. And is astonished further by not loving a child, he knows his parents weren't perfect but they loved him.
“Shit’s right, our seventeen-year-old brother is having a quarter-life crisis. He could have grown up with his parents.” Ashton looks down at his hands, sparing a sidelong glance at him.
Trip shakes his head, does Ashton understand their second youngest at all? “No, it means that he could still have his legs.” At Ashton’s oh, he feels terrible. What must that feel like? That amount of waste, and for what? By the time they found him Nate’s legs were beyond repair. Today he can do little more than manage to walk - struggling with a painful limp, sticking to a wheelchair around the house and Base.
“Don’t you boys have anything better to do?” Comes a rich feminine voice, deepened by a synthesizer. “Stop talking about Matrix behind his back.” They both turn, eyes greeted by their sister who is stunning as always in form-fitting red and black. Her pale green eyes glare at Ashton and the white mask does nothing to reduce the look of scorn she shoots him. In the darkness, his middle sibling’s short, hacked hair that fades from her natural black to a vibrant, dyed red. It takes the appearance of flames and provides the image of her codename’s namesake, Phoenix.
Of slight frame but very deadly.
A hiss of static announces Matrix's presence as well, he dryly states, “Actually I don’t know if you do, but this is a two-way comm. I can hear you.”
“Sorry,” he mutters.
“We’re not boys, replacement. I’m four years older than you and Euchre’s six! And why wasn’t I invited to your pity party Matrix?”
A light tap of a landing, then a voice that demands attention shatters the silence, “Your intelligence is below that of a six-year-old, Venger, let alone Phoenix’s twenty years. I mean your ineptitude resulted in your kidnapping at the hands of my father. And when are you invited to anything?” Trip holds back a sigh as Ashton stiffens beside him.
Not even Malcolm's mask can cover the scowl marring his elegant features as he takes in his siblings. He’s inches shorter than his sister’s five three, but size isn’t skill. Trip knows that he, at five ten, could be taken out by either of his younger siblings.
Malcolm's dark skin speaks of a heritage they can’t quite figure out and draws out his intelligent emerald eyes. At fourteen, he’s the youngest member of the family, though he hardly ever acts his age. Case in point, as the boy provokes Ashton, who is literally a walking arsenal. That fact though seems to evade Malcolm as he glances at his older siblings, eyes glistening. “I-”
“Talk anymore, and I'll end you,” Ashton says, his voice lacking its usual anger and Trip fights back relief. To Trip, Ashton and Malcolm's communication is a dance of jibes and insults. No one else has a chance of participating. The youngest frowns, a scowl blossoming.
Out of all of them, Malcolm is the most colorful. Their suits are designed to blend with the night, black with one other color fused in - like his green or Rosetta’s red. When Trip first convinced Johnthan to let him patrol, his thirteen-year-old self had shown little restraint pertaining to hues. In those early days, he distracted the COU from Jonathan's Reckoning. A brightly colored eye catcher, able to aide his father’s crusade without fighting.
Over time, as Vigil became a mantle once he handed it down to Aston then Rosetta, what the suit was evolved. It became, like Reckoning, a legitimate threat to the COU. Meaning the fabric had to be toned down.
The current suit is a homage to all of the vigilantes before it. A hint of green lacing for Euchre, a red felted interior for Phoenix, and the most prominent change would be the added black cloak for Venger. Malcolm's own spin on the numerous belts: blue, leading to the nickname of "Patriot".
Trip can't help but smile as his brother's cloak catches in the slight wind and his arms cross in a ‘Malcolm’ pout. “Like you could,” Malcolm responds finally, eyeing Ashton.
Ashton just laughs, pulling one dangling leg up and resting his elbow on it, “Real or rubber, little demon?”
The youngest’s eyes crinkle the slightest bit, definitely the result of a frown. His arms stay crossed, his feet planted, “What?”
“Okay, attacker’s choice,” Ashton states. Whipping out a pistol, he leaps up to face Malcolm in mere seconds - a time that shouldn’t be physically given his stature. Green eyes widen before Malcolm rushes at Ashton, who laughs again. He knows, as Trip does, an act of such callous would surprise the COU. “You’d be dead twice over, Vigil!”
“Then I am grateful we are not keeping score.”
He turns his eyes back to the city, “Try not to kill your brother.” Trip calls,hearing Ashton grunt, presumably tackled by Malcolm.
“I will try,” comes the solemn promise from the youngest. While his slightly older younger brother calls, “I refuse to abide by your antiquated sense of morality.”
He huffs out a laugh, gesturing for Rosetta (who is radiating disapproval) to come take Ashton’s former spot beside him, “You know some would call, not killing people as the morally right thing to do.”
“Some call it retarded,” Ashton yells back and something shatters, he resists the urge to roll his eyes. From the sound of it, the residents must think their city’s valiant heroes are engaged in a fierce battle with about sixty COUs. “But hey Goldie, if you don’t want to kill people I’ll just do it for you.”
“And you wonder why Jon is upset with you most of the time.”
“What?” Another slam, Ashton screams, “Stop cheating you little bastard!”
“All’s fair in war and hate.”
A laugh, Ashton corrects, “It’s love and war.”
“All’s fair in war and mutual distrain.” Malcolm amends.
“You little shit.” A pause, “There, yield?” Ashton speaks over his brother’s disgusted never, “Why Goldie? I don’t have a clue why Jonathan looks like I killed his favorite son every time he sees me.” His voice drips with sarcasm, “Man is such a hypocrite. Vigil kills, Phoenix kills, Nightingale kills, he kills yet when I do it he’s all ‘if you kill you're just as bad as them.’”
He sighs, his gaze slipping down to his hands, “Names." The blatant truth of the statement taking the smile off his face. His family consists of killers. Malcolm’s life was death from the start, he knew fifty ways to kill a man before he learned how to speak. Before her tenth birthday, Rosetta’s hands claimed the life of her mother. He’s not sure about Nathaniel, but indirectly the boy’s planned some of their more violent operations. Ashton’s the worst of all.
It’s hard to look at his brother sometimes, knowing the sheer amount of blood on his hands. The way that he sometimes seems to enjoy what they do. How he no longer registers that his targets are indeed people (that they have feelings and hopes and dreams and lives and people who will mourn them.)
They may joke, but he just can’t bring himself to take a life. He can’t do that, how will he face the man in the mirror when he knows he’s widowed someone or orphaned a child or taken a sibling?
It changes people, he’s seen good men - friends - go bad after taking too many lives. It is too easy to lose yourself in a flood of blood. Vengeance finds itself in death. He doesn’t want that. Some may call him a coward, but he can’t.
Trip pulls his mouth back into a smile, though with the mask he's not sure why he bothers, “Here’s an idea,” he jokes, “Maybe you're all just tolerated and I’m the favorite because of my morality.”
He earns a scoff from all of his siblings that time.
“If you believe that you’re as intellectually challenged as Venger,” Rosetta observes. She still hasn’t moved to sit beside him.
“Venger, new tactic.” He hears Malcolm command, “The first one to push Euchre off this roof gets the extra mango ration.”
“Oh, you’re on. Phoenix, you want in?”
His siblings quiet, meaning either they’ve died or are plotting his demise. Undoubtedly, Nathaniel has joined the conversation, excluding Trip's comm from the transmission. It’s fine, better actually. The more time they're together and not actively trying to kill each other (for real) the better. For one thing, Trip is grateful. That despite the odds they’re all here and in the infinite amount of ways their lives could have taken them it lead here.
He hears them - or rather doesn’t - their silence is the tell that they're executing their attack. The smell of vanilla is all he needs to move, dodging Ashton’s shove and twisting out of the way of Rosetta’s kick. He reaches a hand behind Malcolm's mask, ruffles the boy’s raven black hair, and evades his brother’s violent counter.
He laughs, turning back to look at them. Ashton is openly chuckling, Rosetta no longer looks too disappointed, and Malcolm is attempting not to lose what is left of his composure.
Yet he lives in a family of COU fighters and should know better than to taunt his enemies. A short and painful sound is shot through his com, Nate's work no doubt. Before Trip can reorient himself, a small but surprisingly heavy mass knocks him to the side - straight into something solid and warm.
One look at Rosetta’s substantially more serious expression, Malcolm's shift into a tighter fighting stance, and the way the mirth leaves Ashton’s eyes, Trip can deduce that Vlostock’s first vigilante has landed on their roof.
Chapter Three
Jonathan Rowland, known by the masses as Reckoning. Over Trip’s lifetime he’s called the man many things father, mentor, partner, friend, bastard, liar, fool.
He turns around and instantly cold blue eyes rake over him. Reckoning, as always, induces the thought to cower. Solid black-plated, armored Kevlar and military grade boots comprise his suit. A V-shaped white mask, substantially sharper than theirs, hides graying black hair and showcases the hard lines of an unforgiving face. It's finished by a black trench coat, which catches the wind enhances the drama tenth-fold.
The glare of this man, no matter Trip's age, feels akin to someone catching a child with their hand on an extra ration. “What is happening here?” Jonathan asks through clenched teeth. He and his siblings keep hints of their own voices present when in uniform, but the older man doesn’t. It’s entirely synthesized by the mask, deep and gravelly - not unlike shoes over rock. He looks at home here, a predator of the night - swathed in shadows waiting to pounce.
“Training exercise, uncle,” Malcolm says he jerks his head up a challenging gleam overtaking his green eyes.
“Really?” Jonathan's shoulders drop the tiniest fraction, almost unnoticeable underneath the trench coat. Yet it catches Trip’s eyes, a small sigh - not unlike an exasperated father. At once Reckoning is gone replaced by Jonathan Rowland, father of five.
It’s a change that has Trip wishing to reach out and apologize for his long-ago actions, the genesis of the rift between them now. Their easy trust shattered like glass. How he wants to mend the broken shards and beg for forgiveness, I’m sorry, so sorry. I was so out of line, I didn’t mean any of it.
But he stays quiet, hating how he has to look up at the man. Jon’s taller than him. Taller than all of them, broader too. Ashton’s the only one who comes close, and even still is about an inch or two shorter. Trip can recall many a night, after a particularly hard patrol nestled against that chest. And comforting arms cradling him after yet another nightmare, steadfast and ready. He can always count on Jon to be there, and that’s what he hates.
Jon is always there for him, but Reckoning never is. Where was that fatherly protection when Ashton as Vigil was captured? I screamed for you and you never came, Ashton once said to the man in the midst of a heated argument. How can he turn away from Nate's desperate calls for approval? How hard is it to offer a second of acknowledgment to the teenager who caffeinates himself to hell and back to labor for their cause? How can he allow more to join the crusade after Ashton? How can he lie and lie and lie?
How could Jon have looked Trip in the eyes and said that his contacts knew for a fact that Ashton was dead? That they weren't going to infiltrate COU headquarters for a rescue attempt! How can he justify allowing Malcolm in the field - his brother became Vigil at nine! How could he give Rosetta Vigil only two months after Ashton’s supposed death? How can he use them so? Are they his children or his soldiers?
And that’s what keeps him from forgiveness. He can never forget, so how can he forgive?
“There’s a fight going on on Sundale,” Jon says, ignoring the conflict shining in Trip's eyes and Ashton's seething fury. “I’ve been asking for you over the comm.” He sets that glare upon them again and Trip feels Nate wilt.
The hiss of static apologizes, “Sorry Reckoning.” Those two words pained even though the pounding noise pollution.
They stand, Jon faced towards them. Trip’s in the fount with Malcolm a few steps back and to the left. A few paces behind the youngest, Rosetta. The farthest back is Ashton, seconds away from bolting or riddling their father with bullets. Rarely are they ever in the same place like this.
The tension could be cut with a knife, and he finds himself falling into a fighting stance. Fear in the midst of his allies, imagine!
Unquestionably, Rosetta will stand with Jon and he’ll backup Ashton. Malcolm looks conflicted and uncertain as of now, there’s no telling what he’d do. His uncle or Trip?
The sudden conviction that in a hypothetical situation he can count on Malcolm's support against his blood kin surprises Trip.
“Jon’s right,” Nate says, ending the standoff, “Police presence was dismissed about an hour ago. It’s a protest turned massacre, about half of the COU is there. It's bad." The static hums, covering the sound of Nathaniel's typing.
Trip feels himself beginning to nod, the colony police aren’t too bad, nothing near the brutality of Death Squads. Under the strict thumb of the government, each colony has the right to form an organized peacekeeping force.
Vlostock’s police are decent, trying to reduce the involvement of the COU. There are some good people, and when the COU has its back turned they support vigilantism. A shame, then, that the Police are more figureheads than an actual working agency. life wouldn’t be half bad if police ran the city. “It’s strange, there’s reports of Vigilante backup. But none of us are there.”
The beginnings of a frown, the night howls around them. For a split second Trip feels the creeping suppression of loneliness. Pressing a finger to his earpiece, he chases away the feeling and tries to think.
In other colonies, vigilantes are common, yet Vlostock is most well known for having them. Most likely due to their organization and coordination with each other's efforts. They're the only masked freedom fighters in the colony. Unlike other places, Vlostock isn't a were people simply become vigilantes.
“Must be a false source,” Jon in a tone that declares no contradictions, “Sundale now.” He turns away, the night engulfing his vanishing figure as the trek begins.
Rosetta leaps after not sparing a look back. Casting a glance at his older brothers, Malcolm follows hesitation lacing his step.
Trip turns his gaze to Ashton, the rooftop silent. Ashton meets his eyes, and without a word begins to run.
Getting to Sundale is easy. Eastside to Downtown is five minutes, maximum. The ease of the run is aided by the fact that as the building’s increase in delapatation the length between them begins to shrink. By the time they reach the city's former main street buildings are right next to each other.
“Looks like someone didn’t patrol very well tonight.” Rosetta snarks as they reach her and Malcolm. Ashton glares at her.
“Oh sure,” he mutters, “I rushed patrol tonight so I could surround myself with your warm presence.”
Trip rolls his eyes, he wonders if he can tear a muscle rolling them (he does it so often.) But Rosie does have a point, downtown is Ashton’s patrol sector- though he has no clue what his brother sees in the place. Downtown is the worst part of Vlostock - and that's saying something. Crime runs rampant, and only the unwise walk the streets without a weapon.
One out of every three buildings is empty and two out of every three still show signs of the fire Reckoning inadvertently caused fourteen years ago. The homeless flood unused structures, graffiti plagues the walls, and the hollow eyes of addicts follow every movement.
He hates coming down here. Yet is still unsure if it’s because of those reasons or the fact his parents burned alive in one of these empty buildings. Panicked, quick breaths plague Trip whenever he finds himself trapped in Downtown. Every muscle wired to jump at the slightest sound, tonight is no different.
His breathing quickens, the smell of desperation and spraypaint fighting for supremacy in his nose.
Ashton, however, loves downtown. He is fierce in his protection of it. It's good he wants it - it would be a fight for anyone else to take it. The fact of the attachment seems to be nostalgia. His brother grew on these streets, begging on corners as children will continue to do when morning breaks. The most dangerous part of the city is made better by his brother, yet still remains turmoil-ridden. Trip catches sight of the flashing of sirens right as the sound of gunfire hit his ears. It seems, he thinks wryly, that we’ve reached Sundale.
The next thing he feels is a blast. The buzzing of the com goes silent and before he has time to blink he’s plummeting from the sky.
Hours later, everything prior is all but forgotten as he tries to staunch the flow of blood from his leg while also trying to fix his com system. Bullets fall like rain, and it takes all his skill, training, and a fair amount of luck to evade them. The high pitched wailing of police sirens assaults his ears, while the gun smoke causes his eyes to tear. Blood pools in his mouth, the metallic salty tang remaining long after he spits it on the pavement.
The battle has been raging for hours, and he cheats death yet again as he takes shelter behind an overturned car. Trip collapses to the pavement, his back resting against the dented vehicle. His hands rake through his tousled black hair, and his sky blue eyes grow heavier. It would be so easy to stay here, he thinks, so easy to sit, we're dead walking. But instead, he fights back the warm embrace of death trying to think.
He is defenseless, his usual daggers useless against the hail of gunfire. And though most of his suit is made of Kevlar he isn’t crazy enough to risk an assault against this many armed COU.
Trip recalls the words shouts that has begun this nightmare, “Retreat! There’s just too many!”
He is wounded, though not as bad as some. He knows for sure of others stilled for eternity, eyes drained of life and flesh devoid of warmth. The police commissioner - a woman he has known for the entirety of his life - gone before he knew what the hell was happening.
Honestly, he still doesn’t know what is happening. How has everything spiraled out of control? When had they become so dependent on commutation, each other, and the endless stream of information Matrix spews through the comm?
And he thinks that those things could have saved (no, his mind reels refusing to accept who else he knows is dead). Trip watches as blood seeps out of a wound on his leg. The crimson color provides provocative imagery as it splatters onto the cracked grey, road.
He is allyless, his siblings are nowhere near him - if they are alive at all. He has no way of knowing, the comm the only connection he has to the rest of the family. They were separated within moments of falling into the fray, each of them underestimating the threat. They have to be alive, Trip doesn't know if he can stay sane if he loses Ashton again or if he doesn’t have one last chance to hug Malcolm.
And lastly, he admits that Reckoning is dead. To think it makes it real, and he reels from the ramifications of that. The savior of Vlostock, the man he calls father. Gone. And as the gunshots continue to ring out, he can't pull himself to face them.
What are they without Reckoning? What is the city without its hope? What are he and his siblings going to do? He can barely keep them from killing one another, how is he going to protect anyone?
Trip hardly ever gets scared, courtesy of living in Vlostock his whole life. He isn't scared now, numbness creeping over him. Vaguely, he realizes that he’s going into shock.
He had seen it. Seen Reckoning fall, the untouchable crime punisher, fall in the onslaught of bullets. And how? How’s this possible, Jonathan has been crusading as Reckoning for over twenty years! They’ve faced Death Squads before, why is this any different?
Suddenly, his efforts fiddling with the comm succeed. It flares to life in an explosion of static that has him holding his breath. Oh god, please let me hear voices. Blood pounds in his ears, until finally over the comm he hears Ashton scream, "He's dead, Goddamn it! Fall back!”
Rosie's tortured cry sends him reeling, reaffirming what he already knows. Pain laces through him at Malcolm’s shout, "Venger you fool! He can't be! Where's the body! We can resuscitate him, Ashton! Where is my Uncle's body?"
Nathaniel seems to have managed to get his side of the comm back in order as well, recently. Back at Base, unaware of the horrors of his siblings, repeating over and over, "Status! What's your status?"
God, it’s a hell of his own making. He should have fought harder, been more vigilant, planned more. He’s their big brother, he’s supposed to protect them! He wants to die, take me instead! His siblings scream for him over the com, Ashton moans, "No, God not Trip as well!" But he can't respond. He can't think. He’s the eldest he needs to do something! Anything! But he doesn't.
Silence overtakes him. Not the real kind, as the comm still sputters and the bullets still ring out, but a buzzing in his head drowning out all other noise. Metal and salt suffocate him, his head dipping towards the ground. That's not right, the fuzzy grey and red that rises to greet him isn't the correct color of earth.
Somewhere, a thought occurs that the gash in his leg is more of a problem than he gave it credit form.
The cut - he fumbles for it, unsure of were his hands end and legs begin. It's slick, the ground, no his suit. He has to fix that, has to -
Against his better judgment, he surrenders to the silence and the fog. Again, something nags at him to fight, but he's tired. Tired of struggling, of fighting. The voice is nice, sugary sweet and lulling. Safe. It reminds him of his mother’s voice, the times he curled up with Jonathan content to let the older man protect him when his siblings get along.
Trip’s eyes close.
There is no blood, no screams, no people to protect, no Johnathan. Darkness and warmth.
“Euchre!” A gloved hand pulls him from last Christmas when Ashton actually showed up and didn’t pick a fight with anyone, “I found him, there's a lot of blood. Jesus, where's it all coming from? Guys?” The voice curses, “What a time from my comm to malfunction. Matrix is such an inept fool. Damn, Euchre! Wake up!” And then the darkness is gone, and there’s pain. Blinding, gasping white hot pain that brings clarity to the world.
He sputters back to the war zone around him, coughing. Green eyes focus intently on him. Everything's blurry in a newly awoken kind of way, Trip blinks. It doesn't go away.
He makes out Malcolm crouching in front of him, relief etched all over his face, “Reckoning is dead!” Malcolm informs, his voice trembling uncharacteristically as he adds, “I thought you were dead! I-”
Boots against pavement descend on their ears. He knows, as does Malcolm that any second the car's safe positioning will be compromised. His brother's eyes meet his, a steely determination in the former's green depths. And a resignation.
A hail of bullets whistles at them as he shakily gathers himself to his feet. His sibling half runs, half drags in the opposite direction, no clear plan - just to run and run and hope for luck.
Malcolm shoves a multitude of sharp objects in his hands, the cold metal helping to bring him out of his stupor. Under further investigation, he realizes they’re throwing knives and he spins, shooting them out with deadly accuracy. There are tiny thuds as the weapons hit their targets, nothing fatal he knows, his aim is too good for that.
The men fall, but more take their place to continue the chase, “Got any more Vigil?” Trip asks, moving as fast as his injured leg can take him. The older boy knows that Malcolm is slowing his pace to protect him - it’s endearing but it makes them more of a target. He would much rather his brother run to safety than try and protect him.
He knows, however, that voicing this will be meaningless. Malcolm is too stubborn to ever leave him behind.
Wordlessly, Malcolm shakes his head, his suit’s grey hood almost making the movement unnoticeable. “I’m surprised you’re still awake. It looks like you lost a few pints back there.” The boy turns to survey the men behind them, “Soon they’re going to be close enough for their terrible aims to actually hit something.”
Malcolm is right, the nearest attacker is close enough to touch. CUO. “I was holed up in the garage up ahead when Matrix told us where you were. I’m waiting for Venger and Phoenix there, I managed to let them know where we were. We need to get back.” Malcolm pulls him on, biting his lip, Trip curses wanting more than anything to fall on the ground and never get up again.
His younger brother pulls him on, but he’s fading fast. He can feel every step, the burning shooting pain that laces up his whole leg. It shouldn’t hurt this much.
He glances down and catches a glance of blood - his blood - splashing on the ground behind them.
There’s a fog edging across the corners of his mind, refusing to retreat no matter how hard he tries to stall it.
Once, when he was younger he had the luck to watch one of the colony’s only dairy cows give birth. He watched as the small calf plopped into existence, and in minutes stood on shaky unwilling legs. He feels like that calf now, legs unable to respond to what he wants.
Staying upright in a battle, one he is rapidly losing. Trip stumbles.
He tells himself it isn’t a fall, tries to convince himself that it is nothing more than a slight miscalculation in his footing, one corrected with ease.
He has enough siblings to know a lie when he hears one.
A stumble wouldn’t have Malcolm trying and failing to drag him the short ways to the garage. To relative safety.
They’re slow, too slow now. The kevlar can only take so much, and the COU continues to advance on them. He’s only half awake now and fighting - losing - to get up, he’s crawling - dragging his useless leg the rest of the way.
Malcolm is still with him, upright and pulling. The boy is strong, but still a boy - he can’t move him that much. The light of desperation shines in his younger brother’s eyes as if he’s watching the death of his older brother. For all, they both know, he is.
He’s almost there, they’re almost there - the mouth of the concrete structure that used to house cars looms in front of them. Each scape of the fractured pavement below him helps to keep him grounded. A little more, they’re almost there!
Malcolm grunts and Trip’s attention is drawn to his brother whose eyes are alight with pain. He can only helplessly watch as a small gloved hand releases one of his own, and gently brushes across his stomach. Fear flashes across the boy’s masked face as the glove comes soaked back in blood. A bullet must have hit that spot between two kevlar plates where there is nothing but black nylon.
A scream is building at the back of his throat, and he pushes forward - pain so blinding it almost disappears. He can’t do anything but move forward, his brother joining his crawl - doubled over one hand clutching his stomach.
In some mercy of a higher power, or by sheer luck or coincidence, they make it. The light of the stars disappears as they take shelter under the structure. “Malcolm,” he rasps out, his leg is gone for all he cares (he can't, and doesn't want to, feel it). All that matters at this moment is his brother.
The parlor of Malcolm's face is almost gone. Shocked, he shakes his head, “Don’t worry,” he grunts, face twisting with pain, “I should have an hour or so. We can wait for Phoenix and Venger here.”
All he can manage is a simple stare at his brother. An hour is a lie, he can see the blood flowing out - faster than his wound, but he doesn’t comment. There is nothing he can do, so damn useless. With the wall to support him, Trip pushes every ounce of will he has left in him and sways back up to his feet. He scans the area of the garage, empty besides a few vandalized cars.
No one can afford gas.
They can't afford to stay in the open. Behind a vehicle is much safer. Looking at Malcolm, whose curled up leaning against the wall, he doesn't know if they can go a step further.
Looking at himself, with the bitter taste of shame on his tongue decides they can't.
He’s only awake through sheer force of will, trying to stay alert. Trying to protect them. Trying. Trying...
A loud moaning causes his head to snap up, it's like the cry of straining metal or something breaking?
Trip only has time to grasp for his brother’s shoulder, before a large blast heats up the frozen night and the explosion throws him from his feet.
A screaming forces him to claw his way back to consciousness. He blinks once, twice, unable to fathom what he is seeing in front of him. The lot, most of the block is gone. Concrete rubble surrounds him.
In fact, he is in relative safety sheltered by debris and obscured from view.
Even with their newfound hideout, it's only a matter of time before they're found again. The blast was surely meant to kill them - if they would have been any father in the garage it would have succeeded.
They.
His heart stops in his throat, Malcolm. Panic clears his gaze as he peers through the clouds of dust. He can't see. Everything's the same.
A mutilated rebar off to his left, slabs of concrete (Trip's lucky he wasn't crushed), smashed bits of wood, broken glass. The whole block is reduced to rubbish, but there's not a scrap of blue anywhere.
It is a horrible hacking cough that finally alerts Trip to his presence.
There. He’s there. Trip catches a glimpse of tattered blue.
On his hands and knees, he makes his way over to the still form. Malcolm, his brother looks so small - unconscious and lacking his familiar bravo. He looks like a child, no more than ten, huddled in on himself. He catches a faint rise and fall on his brother’s chest and breathes a sigh of relief.
He scrambles the rest of the way over, Malcolm's shaking and Trip’s initial relief is chased away. The Vigil suit is drenched red. God, where is it all coming from?
“T- Trip,” Malcolm gasps, each syllable punctuated with a gurgling cough. Trip grabs one of his brother’s hands and holds it like a lifeline, the action calming him as he tries to speak again, “I-”
Trip shushes him, his breath coming in fast gasps. He feels like he’s dying, “Malcolm” He says as soft as he can manage, soothing, “don’t speak, conserve your strength we’re going to get through this.” He strokes his brother’s hair, the normally silky strands matted and clumped, as the boy holds onto his hand with a vice-like a grip. He feels tears welling in his eyes, he will not cry, he can not cry. Everything is going to be fine. “Euchre to Phoenix and Venger. Phoenix, Venger, Vigil’s” he pauses swallowing, “we need to get him to a clinic.”
He feels terror rising in his chest. This isn’t Reckoning, it isn’t like when Jonathan fell.
This is his brother.
His brother, oh god no. Oh god.
Beating, his heart hammers in his chest. It's not scientifically possible but it stutters because. Oh, god Malcolm.
Paling considerably by the second Malcolm. 'I'm going to go fight Death Squads' Malcolm. His brother Malcolm.
“I’m scared Trip,” Malcolm says. He coughs, and Trip watches in horror as he limply falls back to the pavement, “I’m scared,” Green eyes close, his breathing growing more and more labored.
Oh god. Trip trains his eyes on his chest. In, out, in. It stutters, and Trip has known nothing of fear before this.
He gasps again, though it is a weaker effort than before, “Brother,” he loses the fight with the words and falls silent. Trip can only pray he’s unconscious.
He can restrain the tears no longer, his brother’s dying in front of him and he is powerless.
Why has everything for the past hour tasted like salt?
The shoes against pavement resonate in his ears and he fights back terror. Why, why, why?
He’s so scared, so angry. Why would Johnathan do this? First Ashton now Malcolm, except this is real. This isn’t a kidnapping by the COU, this is real and if Malcolm dies he’ll know. If each fragile, stammering breath is the last he'll know. And his brother will be gone, and they'll be no surprises. No tears of relief of a face back from the dead.
Just this. Tears on an empty wasteland over the battered, broken body of a boy.
Children are not supposed to fight, certainly not die.
He is so angry, angry at Jonathan, angry at the way the world works, angry at his siblings for not being here, angry at colony 26 whose free. Angry at Alpha.
Angry at the world and how it works.
Angry at himself, and drowning.
“I love you,” He tells him, and then repeats it because it's true. And he hopes it's enough, but knows it isn't. So he does what he can, and begins to search for weapons to defend them, “and you’re not going to die.” Oh god, let it be true.
He pats down Malcolm again, hoping beyond hope that there is something he’s carrying that can help him.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Noth - a holster.
His mind goes blank. Guns are for killing not wounding. He didn’t know anyone but Ashton even carried them. They’re too unpredictable. It’s too easy to hit an innocent bystander, there are too many variables with guns.
Euchre doesn’t kill, he doesn’t carry a gun. It could save their lives. The footsteps pound closer.
Pick up the gun, protect his siblings, break the rule.
Euchre doesn’t kill.
“Hey, I found something!” One of the men calls out. The footsteps pound closer.
The People’s Vigilante, the Eastside whispers when he passes and he supposes it’s true. He works with the police and stops to hear the woes of those he protects. Unlike Reckoning, Euchre doesn't shroud himself in darkness and rely on fear to keep enemies in line. Euchre instead promotes second chances, and peace. Talks the talk about understanding and mutual benefits, and the good in Alpha.
It boils down to the fact that Euchre doesn’t kill. Because all life has meaning. Everyone means something to someone.
He just doesn’t. It’s not who he is. It’s not what he developed Euchre to be, it’s not who he wants to become.
He looks at Malcolm, so tiny curled in on himself. So small, so unprepared. His breaths are slower and slower now - he doesn’t know what will happen if they stop.
V is for vengeance.
He’s never killed.
Killing changes people.
Trip picks up the gun.
He turns around and instantly cold blue eyes rake over him. Reckoning, as always, induces the thought to cower. Solid black-plated, armored Kevlar and military grade boots comprise his suit. A V-shaped white mask, substantially sharper than theirs, hides graying black hair and showcases the hard lines of an unforgiving face. It's finished by a black trench coat, which catches the wind enhances the drama tenth-fold.
The glare of this man, no matter Trip's age, feels akin to someone catching a child with their hand on an extra ration. “What is happening here?” Jonathan asks through clenched teeth. He and his siblings keep hints of their own voices present when in uniform, but the older man doesn’t. It’s entirely synthesized by the mask, deep and gravelly - not unlike shoes over rock. He looks at home here, a predator of the night - swathed in shadows waiting to pounce.
“Training exercise, uncle,” Malcolm says he jerks his head up a challenging gleam overtaking his green eyes.
“Really?” Jonathan's shoulders drop the tiniest fraction, almost unnoticeable underneath the trench coat. Yet it catches Trip’s eyes, a small sigh - not unlike an exasperated father. At once Reckoning is gone replaced by Jonathan Rowland, father of five.
It’s a change that has Trip wishing to reach out and apologize for his long-ago actions, the genesis of the rift between them now. Their easy trust shattered like glass. How he wants to mend the broken shards and beg for forgiveness, I’m sorry, so sorry. I was so out of line, I didn’t mean any of it.
But he stays quiet, hating how he has to look up at the man. Jon’s taller than him. Taller than all of them, broader too. Ashton’s the only one who comes close, and even still is about an inch or two shorter. Trip can recall many a night, after a particularly hard patrol nestled against that chest. And comforting arms cradling him after yet another nightmare, steadfast and ready. He can always count on Jon to be there, and that’s what he hates.
Jon is always there for him, but Reckoning never is. Where was that fatherly protection when Ashton as Vigil was captured? I screamed for you and you never came, Ashton once said to the man in the midst of a heated argument. How can he turn away from Nate's desperate calls for approval? How hard is it to offer a second of acknowledgment to the teenager who caffeinates himself to hell and back to labor for their cause? How can he allow more to join the crusade after Ashton? How can he lie and lie and lie?
How could Jon have looked Trip in the eyes and said that his contacts knew for a fact that Ashton was dead? That they weren't going to infiltrate COU headquarters for a rescue attempt! How can he justify allowing Malcolm in the field - his brother became Vigil at nine! How could he give Rosetta Vigil only two months after Ashton’s supposed death? How can he use them so? Are they his children or his soldiers?
And that’s what keeps him from forgiveness. He can never forget, so how can he forgive?
“There’s a fight going on on Sundale,” Jon says, ignoring the conflict shining in Trip's eyes and Ashton's seething fury. “I’ve been asking for you over the comm.” He sets that glare upon them again and Trip feels Nate wilt.
The hiss of static apologizes, “Sorry Reckoning.” Those two words pained even though the pounding noise pollution.
They stand, Jon faced towards them. Trip’s in the fount with Malcolm a few steps back and to the left. A few paces behind the youngest, Rosetta. The farthest back is Ashton, seconds away from bolting or riddling their father with bullets. Rarely are they ever in the same place like this.
The tension could be cut with a knife, and he finds himself falling into a fighting stance. Fear in the midst of his allies, imagine!
Unquestionably, Rosetta will stand with Jon and he’ll backup Ashton. Malcolm looks conflicted and uncertain as of now, there’s no telling what he’d do. His uncle or Trip?
The sudden conviction that in a hypothetical situation he can count on Malcolm's support against his blood kin surprises Trip.
“Jon’s right,” Nate says, ending the standoff, “Police presence was dismissed about an hour ago. It’s a protest turned massacre, about half of the COU is there. It's bad." The static hums, covering the sound of Nathaniel's typing.
Trip feels himself beginning to nod, the colony police aren’t too bad, nothing near the brutality of Death Squads. Under the strict thumb of the government, each colony has the right to form an organized peacekeeping force.
Vlostock’s police are decent, trying to reduce the involvement of the COU. There are some good people, and when the COU has its back turned they support vigilantism. A shame, then, that the Police are more figureheads than an actual working agency. life wouldn’t be half bad if police ran the city. “It’s strange, there’s reports of Vigilante backup. But none of us are there.”
The beginnings of a frown, the night howls around them. For a split second Trip feels the creeping suppression of loneliness. Pressing a finger to his earpiece, he chases away the feeling and tries to think.
In other colonies, vigilantes are common, yet Vlostock is most well known for having them. Most likely due to their organization and coordination with each other's efforts. They're the only masked freedom fighters in the colony. Unlike other places, Vlostock isn't a were people simply become vigilantes.
“Must be a false source,” Jon in a tone that declares no contradictions, “Sundale now.” He turns away, the night engulfing his vanishing figure as the trek begins.
Rosetta leaps after not sparing a look back. Casting a glance at his older brothers, Malcolm follows hesitation lacing his step.
Trip turns his gaze to Ashton, the rooftop silent. Ashton meets his eyes, and without a word begins to run.
Getting to Sundale is easy. Eastside to Downtown is five minutes, maximum. The ease of the run is aided by the fact that as the building’s increase in delapatation the length between them begins to shrink. By the time they reach the city's former main street buildings are right next to each other.
“Looks like someone didn’t patrol very well tonight.” Rosetta snarks as they reach her and Malcolm. Ashton glares at her.
“Oh sure,” he mutters, “I rushed patrol tonight so I could surround myself with your warm presence.”
Trip rolls his eyes, he wonders if he can tear a muscle rolling them (he does it so often.) But Rosie does have a point, downtown is Ashton’s patrol sector- though he has no clue what his brother sees in the place. Downtown is the worst part of Vlostock - and that's saying something. Crime runs rampant, and only the unwise walk the streets without a weapon.
One out of every three buildings is empty and two out of every three still show signs of the fire Reckoning inadvertently caused fourteen years ago. The homeless flood unused structures, graffiti plagues the walls, and the hollow eyes of addicts follow every movement.
He hates coming down here. Yet is still unsure if it’s because of those reasons or the fact his parents burned alive in one of these empty buildings. Panicked, quick breaths plague Trip whenever he finds himself trapped in Downtown. Every muscle wired to jump at the slightest sound, tonight is no different.
His breathing quickens, the smell of desperation and spraypaint fighting for supremacy in his nose.
Ashton, however, loves downtown. He is fierce in his protection of it. It's good he wants it - it would be a fight for anyone else to take it. The fact of the attachment seems to be nostalgia. His brother grew on these streets, begging on corners as children will continue to do when morning breaks. The most dangerous part of the city is made better by his brother, yet still remains turmoil-ridden. Trip catches sight of the flashing of sirens right as the sound of gunfire hit his ears. It seems, he thinks wryly, that we’ve reached Sundale.
The next thing he feels is a blast. The buzzing of the com goes silent and before he has time to blink he’s plummeting from the sky.
Hours later, everything prior is all but forgotten as he tries to staunch the flow of blood from his leg while also trying to fix his com system. Bullets fall like rain, and it takes all his skill, training, and a fair amount of luck to evade them. The high pitched wailing of police sirens assaults his ears, while the gun smoke causes his eyes to tear. Blood pools in his mouth, the metallic salty tang remaining long after he spits it on the pavement.
The battle has been raging for hours, and he cheats death yet again as he takes shelter behind an overturned car. Trip collapses to the pavement, his back resting against the dented vehicle. His hands rake through his tousled black hair, and his sky blue eyes grow heavier. It would be so easy to stay here, he thinks, so easy to sit, we're dead walking. But instead, he fights back the warm embrace of death trying to think.
He is defenseless, his usual daggers useless against the hail of gunfire. And though most of his suit is made of Kevlar he isn’t crazy enough to risk an assault against this many armed COU.
Trip recalls the words shouts that has begun this nightmare, “Retreat! There’s just too many!”
He is wounded, though not as bad as some. He knows for sure of others stilled for eternity, eyes drained of life and flesh devoid of warmth. The police commissioner - a woman he has known for the entirety of his life - gone before he knew what the hell was happening.
Honestly, he still doesn’t know what is happening. How has everything spiraled out of control? When had they become so dependent on commutation, each other, and the endless stream of information Matrix spews through the comm?
And he thinks that those things could have saved (no, his mind reels refusing to accept who else he knows is dead). Trip watches as blood seeps out of a wound on his leg. The crimson color provides provocative imagery as it splatters onto the cracked grey, road.
He is allyless, his siblings are nowhere near him - if they are alive at all. He has no way of knowing, the comm the only connection he has to the rest of the family. They were separated within moments of falling into the fray, each of them underestimating the threat. They have to be alive, Trip doesn't know if he can stay sane if he loses Ashton again or if he doesn’t have one last chance to hug Malcolm.
And lastly, he admits that Reckoning is dead. To think it makes it real, and he reels from the ramifications of that. The savior of Vlostock, the man he calls father. Gone. And as the gunshots continue to ring out, he can't pull himself to face them.
What are they without Reckoning? What is the city without its hope? What are he and his siblings going to do? He can barely keep them from killing one another, how is he going to protect anyone?
Trip hardly ever gets scared, courtesy of living in Vlostock his whole life. He isn't scared now, numbness creeping over him. Vaguely, he realizes that he’s going into shock.
He had seen it. Seen Reckoning fall, the untouchable crime punisher, fall in the onslaught of bullets. And how? How’s this possible, Jonathan has been crusading as Reckoning for over twenty years! They’ve faced Death Squads before, why is this any different?
Suddenly, his efforts fiddling with the comm succeed. It flares to life in an explosion of static that has him holding his breath. Oh god, please let me hear voices. Blood pounds in his ears, until finally over the comm he hears Ashton scream, "He's dead, Goddamn it! Fall back!”
Rosie's tortured cry sends him reeling, reaffirming what he already knows. Pain laces through him at Malcolm’s shout, "Venger you fool! He can't be! Where's the body! We can resuscitate him, Ashton! Where is my Uncle's body?"
Nathaniel seems to have managed to get his side of the comm back in order as well, recently. Back at Base, unaware of the horrors of his siblings, repeating over and over, "Status! What's your status?"
God, it’s a hell of his own making. He should have fought harder, been more vigilant, planned more. He’s their big brother, he’s supposed to protect them! He wants to die, take me instead! His siblings scream for him over the com, Ashton moans, "No, God not Trip as well!" But he can't respond. He can't think. He’s the eldest he needs to do something! Anything! But he doesn't.
Silence overtakes him. Not the real kind, as the comm still sputters and the bullets still ring out, but a buzzing in his head drowning out all other noise. Metal and salt suffocate him, his head dipping towards the ground. That's not right, the fuzzy grey and red that rises to greet him isn't the correct color of earth.
Somewhere, a thought occurs that the gash in his leg is more of a problem than he gave it credit form.
The cut - he fumbles for it, unsure of were his hands end and legs begin. It's slick, the ground, no his suit. He has to fix that, has to -
Against his better judgment, he surrenders to the silence and the fog. Again, something nags at him to fight, but he's tired. Tired of struggling, of fighting. The voice is nice, sugary sweet and lulling. Safe. It reminds him of his mother’s voice, the times he curled up with Jonathan content to let the older man protect him when his siblings get along.
Trip’s eyes close.
There is no blood, no screams, no people to protect, no Johnathan. Darkness and warmth.
“Euchre!” A gloved hand pulls him from last Christmas when Ashton actually showed up and didn’t pick a fight with anyone, “I found him, there's a lot of blood. Jesus, where's it all coming from? Guys?” The voice curses, “What a time from my comm to malfunction. Matrix is such an inept fool. Damn, Euchre! Wake up!” And then the darkness is gone, and there’s pain. Blinding, gasping white hot pain that brings clarity to the world.
He sputters back to the war zone around him, coughing. Green eyes focus intently on him. Everything's blurry in a newly awoken kind of way, Trip blinks. It doesn't go away.
He makes out Malcolm crouching in front of him, relief etched all over his face, “Reckoning is dead!” Malcolm informs, his voice trembling uncharacteristically as he adds, “I thought you were dead! I-”
Boots against pavement descend on their ears. He knows, as does Malcolm that any second the car's safe positioning will be compromised. His brother's eyes meet his, a steely determination in the former's green depths. And a resignation.
A hail of bullets whistles at them as he shakily gathers himself to his feet. His sibling half runs, half drags in the opposite direction, no clear plan - just to run and run and hope for luck.
Malcolm shoves a multitude of sharp objects in his hands, the cold metal helping to bring him out of his stupor. Under further investigation, he realizes they’re throwing knives and he spins, shooting them out with deadly accuracy. There are tiny thuds as the weapons hit their targets, nothing fatal he knows, his aim is too good for that.
The men fall, but more take their place to continue the chase, “Got any more Vigil?” Trip asks, moving as fast as his injured leg can take him. The older boy knows that Malcolm is slowing his pace to protect him - it’s endearing but it makes them more of a target. He would much rather his brother run to safety than try and protect him.
He knows, however, that voicing this will be meaningless. Malcolm is too stubborn to ever leave him behind.
Wordlessly, Malcolm shakes his head, his suit’s grey hood almost making the movement unnoticeable. “I’m surprised you’re still awake. It looks like you lost a few pints back there.” The boy turns to survey the men behind them, “Soon they’re going to be close enough for their terrible aims to actually hit something.”
Malcolm is right, the nearest attacker is close enough to touch. CUO. “I was holed up in the garage up ahead when Matrix told us where you were. I’m waiting for Venger and Phoenix there, I managed to let them know where we were. We need to get back.” Malcolm pulls him on, biting his lip, Trip curses wanting more than anything to fall on the ground and never get up again.
His younger brother pulls him on, but he’s fading fast. He can feel every step, the burning shooting pain that laces up his whole leg. It shouldn’t hurt this much.
He glances down and catches a glance of blood - his blood - splashing on the ground behind them.
There’s a fog edging across the corners of his mind, refusing to retreat no matter how hard he tries to stall it.
Once, when he was younger he had the luck to watch one of the colony’s only dairy cows give birth. He watched as the small calf plopped into existence, and in minutes stood on shaky unwilling legs. He feels like that calf now, legs unable to respond to what he wants.
Staying upright in a battle, one he is rapidly losing. Trip stumbles.
He tells himself it isn’t a fall, tries to convince himself that it is nothing more than a slight miscalculation in his footing, one corrected with ease.
He has enough siblings to know a lie when he hears one.
A stumble wouldn’t have Malcolm trying and failing to drag him the short ways to the garage. To relative safety.
They’re slow, too slow now. The kevlar can only take so much, and the COU continues to advance on them. He’s only half awake now and fighting - losing - to get up, he’s crawling - dragging his useless leg the rest of the way.
Malcolm is still with him, upright and pulling. The boy is strong, but still a boy - he can’t move him that much. The light of desperation shines in his younger brother’s eyes as if he’s watching the death of his older brother. For all, they both know, he is.
He’s almost there, they’re almost there - the mouth of the concrete structure that used to house cars looms in front of them. Each scape of the fractured pavement below him helps to keep him grounded. A little more, they’re almost there!
Malcolm grunts and Trip’s attention is drawn to his brother whose eyes are alight with pain. He can only helplessly watch as a small gloved hand releases one of his own, and gently brushes across his stomach. Fear flashes across the boy’s masked face as the glove comes soaked back in blood. A bullet must have hit that spot between two kevlar plates where there is nothing but black nylon.
A scream is building at the back of his throat, and he pushes forward - pain so blinding it almost disappears. He can’t do anything but move forward, his brother joining his crawl - doubled over one hand clutching his stomach.
In some mercy of a higher power, or by sheer luck or coincidence, they make it. The light of the stars disappears as they take shelter under the structure. “Malcolm,” he rasps out, his leg is gone for all he cares (he can't, and doesn't want to, feel it). All that matters at this moment is his brother.
The parlor of Malcolm's face is almost gone. Shocked, he shakes his head, “Don’t worry,” he grunts, face twisting with pain, “I should have an hour or so. We can wait for Phoenix and Venger here.”
All he can manage is a simple stare at his brother. An hour is a lie, he can see the blood flowing out - faster than his wound, but he doesn’t comment. There is nothing he can do, so damn useless. With the wall to support him, Trip pushes every ounce of will he has left in him and sways back up to his feet. He scans the area of the garage, empty besides a few vandalized cars.
No one can afford gas.
They can't afford to stay in the open. Behind a vehicle is much safer. Looking at Malcolm, whose curled up leaning against the wall, he doesn't know if they can go a step further.
Looking at himself, with the bitter taste of shame on his tongue decides they can't.
He’s only awake through sheer force of will, trying to stay alert. Trying to protect them. Trying. Trying...
A loud moaning causes his head to snap up, it's like the cry of straining metal or something breaking?
Trip only has time to grasp for his brother’s shoulder, before a large blast heats up the frozen night and the explosion throws him from his feet.
A screaming forces him to claw his way back to consciousness. He blinks once, twice, unable to fathom what he is seeing in front of him. The lot, most of the block is gone. Concrete rubble surrounds him.
In fact, he is in relative safety sheltered by debris and obscured from view.
Even with their newfound hideout, it's only a matter of time before they're found again. The blast was surely meant to kill them - if they would have been any father in the garage it would have succeeded.
They.
His heart stops in his throat, Malcolm. Panic clears his gaze as he peers through the clouds of dust. He can't see. Everything's the same.
A mutilated rebar off to his left, slabs of concrete (Trip's lucky he wasn't crushed), smashed bits of wood, broken glass. The whole block is reduced to rubbish, but there's not a scrap of blue anywhere.
It is a horrible hacking cough that finally alerts Trip to his presence.
There. He’s there. Trip catches a glimpse of tattered blue.
On his hands and knees, he makes his way over to the still form. Malcolm, his brother looks so small - unconscious and lacking his familiar bravo. He looks like a child, no more than ten, huddled in on himself. He catches a faint rise and fall on his brother’s chest and breathes a sigh of relief.
He scrambles the rest of the way over, Malcolm's shaking and Trip’s initial relief is chased away. The Vigil suit is drenched red. God, where is it all coming from?
“T- Trip,” Malcolm gasps, each syllable punctuated with a gurgling cough. Trip grabs one of his brother’s hands and holds it like a lifeline, the action calming him as he tries to speak again, “I-”
Trip shushes him, his breath coming in fast gasps. He feels like he’s dying, “Malcolm” He says as soft as he can manage, soothing, “don’t speak, conserve your strength we’re going to get through this.” He strokes his brother’s hair, the normally silky strands matted and clumped, as the boy holds onto his hand with a vice-like a grip. He feels tears welling in his eyes, he will not cry, he can not cry. Everything is going to be fine. “Euchre to Phoenix and Venger. Phoenix, Venger, Vigil’s” he pauses swallowing, “we need to get him to a clinic.”
He feels terror rising in his chest. This isn’t Reckoning, it isn’t like when Jonathan fell.
This is his brother.
His brother, oh god no. Oh god.
Beating, his heart hammers in his chest. It's not scientifically possible but it stutters because. Oh, god Malcolm.
Paling considerably by the second Malcolm. 'I'm going to go fight Death Squads' Malcolm. His brother Malcolm.
“I’m scared Trip,” Malcolm says. He coughs, and Trip watches in horror as he limply falls back to the pavement, “I’m scared,” Green eyes close, his breathing growing more and more labored.
Oh god. Trip trains his eyes on his chest. In, out, in. It stutters, and Trip has known nothing of fear before this.
He gasps again, though it is a weaker effort than before, “Brother,” he loses the fight with the words and falls silent. Trip can only pray he’s unconscious.
He can restrain the tears no longer, his brother’s dying in front of him and he is powerless.
Why has everything for the past hour tasted like salt?
The shoes against pavement resonate in his ears and he fights back terror. Why, why, why?
He’s so scared, so angry. Why would Johnathan do this? First Ashton now Malcolm, except this is real. This isn’t a kidnapping by the COU, this is real and if Malcolm dies he’ll know. If each fragile, stammering breath is the last he'll know. And his brother will be gone, and they'll be no surprises. No tears of relief of a face back from the dead.
Just this. Tears on an empty wasteland over the battered, broken body of a boy.
Children are not supposed to fight, certainly not die.
He is so angry, angry at Jonathan, angry at the way the world works, angry at his siblings for not being here, angry at colony 26 whose free. Angry at Alpha.
Angry at the world and how it works.
Angry at himself, and drowning.
“I love you,” He tells him, and then repeats it because it's true. And he hopes it's enough, but knows it isn't. So he does what he can, and begins to search for weapons to defend them, “and you’re not going to die.” Oh god, let it be true.
He pats down Malcolm again, hoping beyond hope that there is something he’s carrying that can help him.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Noth - a holster.
His mind goes blank. Guns are for killing not wounding. He didn’t know anyone but Ashton even carried them. They’re too unpredictable. It’s too easy to hit an innocent bystander, there are too many variables with guns.
Euchre doesn’t kill, he doesn’t carry a gun. It could save their lives. The footsteps pound closer.
Pick up the gun, protect his siblings, break the rule.
Euchre doesn’t kill.
“Hey, I found something!” One of the men calls out. The footsteps pound closer.
The People’s Vigilante, the Eastside whispers when he passes and he supposes it’s true. He works with the police and stops to hear the woes of those he protects. Unlike Reckoning, Euchre doesn't shroud himself in darkness and rely on fear to keep enemies in line. Euchre instead promotes second chances, and peace. Talks the talk about understanding and mutual benefits, and the good in Alpha.
It boils down to the fact that Euchre doesn’t kill. Because all life has meaning. Everyone means something to someone.
He just doesn’t. It’s not who he is. It’s not what he developed Euchre to be, it’s not who he wants to become.
He looks at Malcolm, so tiny curled in on himself. So small, so unprepared. His breaths are slower and slower now - he doesn’t know what will happen if they stop.
V is for vengeance.
He’s never killed.
Killing changes people.
Trip picks up the gun.
Chapter Four
The blast throws him off his feet and ends the fight. A blast to begin and to end it seems. He lies stunned for a second and remains lying because goddamn if he doesn’t deserve a rest. Finally, because he reasons that he can’t stay here forever, Ashton gathers himself to his feet looking around at a world that spins in an oddly concerning way. There’s no one left.
Well, no one alive.
Corpses litter the ground, strangely grey in a way which matches the backdrop of Downtown. Broken buildings, broken bodies. White COU uniforms stained red. Empty bullet shells from the battle. He’s not exactly sure where that last blast came from, but the explosives chased the last of the Death Squads away. He supposes that he and his siblings are standing victorious, but it doesn’t feel like it. Not at all, when half the protesters are dead, the COU retreating to fight another day, and certainly not with Reckoning gone.
A huff comes from his left, and he looks up from the pavement. Rosetta, of course, because the Gods hate him. “Venger, we have to go get Euchre and Vigil.”
It hits him, quite sudden, that this doesn’t feel like a victory because they could easily have two more dead. His brothers could be gone just like that. He kicks a lump of pavement, and as it skitters away he feels his sister’s disapproving gaze on him. “Let’s go get them, where did Trip say they were? Are they near the billiard? It’s this way.” He pauses, shuffling forward - there’s a pain in his right foot that says something ’s wrong, oh well.
His sister falls silent as he turns away from her, even quiet Rosetta manages to seem judgemental, “If you say names, Replacement I will shoot you.”
The silence thickens and his sister follows him in a condescending way - obviously feeling like she would be the better fit for leading them, even though this is his patrol route. They’re breaking into a run, and there is definitely something wrong with his foot. It feels like jagged glass being ripped in and out. That’s not going to be fun fixing. Rosetta jogs at his side, a clear annoyance at his speed. God, he hates her.
To think about it he hates this godforsaken city. Hates the place that keeps killing his family, first Quinn, then Ellis, now Jonathan, and possibly his brothers. But hating Vlostock is like hating himself, the city flows through his blood; his very soul. From the deep ebony of his hair that reflects the dull black of the tarmac on the city streets to his love of smoke and the city’s lungs that breathes exhaust fumes day and night. And it shows in the frantic angry thoughts that plague his head, which match the constant chaos of daily life in Vlostock.
Once, when he was younger after the whole goddamn Parliament kidnapping he had tried to leave. He had run and didn’t once look back at the fading city lights. “If you run where will you hide?” Asks the CUOs in the psychological war they wage against the people. Well, he can tell people without uncertainty, there are people outside of the colony. A hard life without all the technology some of the colony have, but a life nonetheless.
And despite this, he returned, came back to Vlostock - he isn’t quite sure if he is the one that had made the conscious decision or if the city is at fault. One thing is certain, the cursed city will always drag him back to its streets kicking and screaming. Ashton is a child of Vlostock, whether he likes it or not.
A child of a monster, fitting.
Only a monster could do what he does.
“Do you think we should be looking for Reckoning?” Rosetta asks, “After we find Vigil and Euchre, of course.” His sister speaks without eye contact, through her white mask tilts towards him. In the early morning light, she looks vaguely feral, blood dripping off her red gloves, matted scarlet dyed hair, unflinching green eyes. A walking massacre.
He huffs, keeping his eyes on his feet, “No, we all saw it he’s dead.”
Is it his imagination or does Rosetta seem to wilt? “For security purposes Venger.”
He casts a glance at her, “Probably, one trial at a time though.” She nods, brisk and sharp - not wanting to agree with him for too long. They run on, he wonders how bad his foot is. He’ll have Nathanial deal with it.
His mind turns to Jonathan’s death, it’s something he’s never even thought of. Unlike what Rosetta likes to insinuate he actually thinks in between the moments of seething anger and blinding pain, whenever his mind settles enough for him to breathe (which isn’t often as his mind knocks from malignant to melancholy every fucking minute or so). He doesn't dwell on the past, instead looking to his rather bleak future.
In these moments, he sees his own head snapping back coloring the walls red for one day Venger is going to get him killed. He sees innocents die because nothing he does is ever good enough compared to the golden child that is Trip or the perfect daughter that Rosetta is. He sees Jonathan denounce him time and time again pointing out his failures until it feels like he can’t breathe.
Those moments, Ashton looks to the future and feel startled when he sees that he doesn’t have one. (And Trip then cries and tells him, of course, he matters, of course, he has a future with them. But that doesn’t stop the thoughts that he doesn’t and he just feels so lost and so angry.)
And yet for all his pessimism, Jonathan's death never crossed his mind. He supposes that he assumed the bastard was too stubborn to die and too ready to torment him for the rest of his life to kick the old bucket. But now, he’s gone and Ashton, for all he has said about the man and all Jonathan has done to him, doesn’t feel happy or relieved or anything at all relating to his adoptive father. The horrible tangle of emotions come when he thinks of the events after Jonathan's death.
He doesn’t know whether to cry, curse, scream, shoot someone or do all four when he thinks of Malcolm and Trip. When Trip’s voice came over the com he had been so happy at the fact that his brother was alive, because without Trip he’s so damn lost functioning is impossible. But he had processed the transmission and was suddenly furious. Who would dare? Who fucking thought they could touch his baby brother? And Trip had sounded so upset and so scared it made him want to painfully murder every single attacker they had faced.
So yeah Rosetta, he thinks, I haven’t given much thought about finding the corpse of an old lying bastard.
“There’s the billiard.” Rosetta’s voice startles him out of his thoughts. She nods her head towards the business, shattered windows, busted door and all.
They're on the right block now, he knows that the parking garage is here and yet it isn't.
Most of the block is just gone.
And there the garage, or what's left of it.
He sweeps past her, heading towards the large concrete structure that must be where Trip and Malcolm are. A parking garage is not quite right, almost no one can afford cars - scrap yard is more accurate. Even more, so that it’s collapsed in on itself.
The entire block is just gone, actually. Nothing’s left unscathed. And questions plague him because who, what, why? The COU has seriously lost it since they’ve decided blowing up a whole street is a reasonable response to a peaceful protest.
He doesn't dwell on it, can't focus on the damage now. If he thinks about the loss to people's livelihoods in these buildings or how many people are going to starve without places to work...
With little more than a glance at the damage, Rosetta starts through the rubble. Her steps are light, careful not to disturb what's fallen. Their luck seems to be shy of terrible. They're on a commercial block, most of the damage done to shops and buildings, not houses. The two vigilantes don't have to avoid bodies of blown up citizens.
“Euchre!” He calls, shattering the silence. Rosetta sends him a glare, a clear ‘shut up’ conveyed, “What? There’s no one here.”
There’s a clatter from somewhere off to his left right before a voice calls, “Ash?” He tilts his head to his sister in a kind of ‘look, idiot’ motion. She sighs a disgusted sort of noise and knocks against his shoulder as she heads over to their brother.
“Oh, Ashton everything you do I can do better, you inept fool.” He mimics, in a voice that he thinks is spot on for his younger sister. He begrudgingly follows after her, and what he sees draws him up short.
The sheer amount of blood is staggering. Though Malcolm's suit leg is ripped open and tied around his waist, a hasty makeshift bandage, it does nothing, not even obscuring all of the wound. Blood sluggishly seeps out of his stomach - the fabric is so slick that nothing soaks in, instead of rolling onto the ground beneath. The pavement is crimson for a good foot or so, dried black in some areas. The youngest ’s dark skin is anything but, glistening with sweat, and those intelligent green eyes are closed. Goddamn, that’s his baby brother, how did this happen? And who's he going to have to make beg for death?
A choked cry draws his eyes away from the youngest to the eldest. Trip has his head in his hand, mask bloody, hair slick with crimson as well. In fact, almost all of his elder brother is dripping with blood. It’s too much, too much to have come from Malcolm too much to have even come from the wound in Trip’s leg.
His eyes catch on something in Trip’s hand, solid black and vaguely cylindrical. He’d know that shape anywhere. Trip and a gun?
He shakes his head and takes in the rest of the scene, pieces refusing to fall together in his head. The white of COU uniforms catch his attention, dozens - a whole unit. How the hell? Could they have died in the blast? A quicker look says no, those are gunshot wounds. Gaping holes that could've only of come from… Trip?
His eyes are drawn back to his two brothers, Rosetta’s already jumped into action next to Malcolm - half way through fashioning some sort of carrier. Trip’s still not looking at either of them, shaking with sobs.
Ashton can’t, he can’t think. What? Trip? Trip, who lectures him about killing.
“Ashton killing is bad, I-”
“No shit, Trip the other person is dead”
“No, I mean for you. I’ve known people who kill and it changes them. There’s a fine line between killer and murder and I don’t want you to cross it. Hell, I don’t even want you looking at it. You’re so little, you shouldn’t ever have to do something like this.”
And then he’s laughing, it's funny, really funny, so much so that his laugh is beginning to border on manic and has Rosetta glancing at him. The world feels wrong, off because if Trip is a killer - Trip: the Golden Boy, the perfect son, the good son - what does that make him? Trip is no monster, Trip never kills. Ashton’s always thought that his elder brother would die on Jonathan's fruitless crusade. Die protecting his stupid morals that keep him from being like Ashton, die a hero.
It’s funny because the opposite has actually happened. His brother’s become like him, a monster. It’s horribly funny and harrowingly sad.
He can’t stop, he sits himself down next to his elder brother resting against the car still cackling. Some small voice tells him that he should be helping Rosetta, helping keep his brother alive. But he can’t move, paralyzed by laughs that bring tears to his eyes. It’s all falling apart, he can see everything slipping away in his hands. And finally, finally Trip looks up at him
Trip’s eyes gleam almost savagely, the gun still cocked in his hands. Blood drips through his hair onto his face and disappears beneath the mask, though not before it mingles with his brother’s beads of sweat. Though the most startling factor is his trademark ‘nothing bad will happen to us, I promise’ smile is gone. And without it, the man next to him is unrecognizable - someone who looks like Trip, but doesn’t feel like him.
Somethings will always be the same; Trip not killing, Trip always smiling, Trip always talking and laughing and not… whatever the hell has happened here. Ashton always feels safe with Trip because he, in most ways, is his polar opposite. Trip is his rock, his anchor - a moral compass.
And now, it’s just all wrong.
“Venger,” Trip mutters, his head slipping back to rest against the car, his eyes fixated on the crumbling ceiling of the garage.
And something just breaks and quite suddenly the laughs leave until he’s just crying. Tears sliding underneath his mask, the salty tang drying his mouth. Gulping for breath as it seems every ounce of liquid in his body flows out in loud, ugly sobs.
And as quickly as they come, the tears leave almost as if there were never present at all. He takes in a few shaky breaths until a cry from the unconscious Malcolm brings him back to his senses. What is he doing? Malcolm's hurt, there's plenty of time to fall apart later.
Breathe, just breathe.
He gets to his feet, trying to clear his head while looking down at his brother, “Can you walk?” He asks, trying to formulate the chaos of his head into words, and to his surprise, his voice doesn't wobble at all.
Trip looks at him, eyes confused, “Leg’s hurt.”
He nods, then turns to look at Rosetta who’s finished with her contraption - a stretcher, he has to applaud her resourcefulness. His sister has managed to move their brother onto it, with minimal blood loss it seems, he turns back to Trip, “Okay, we’re going to have to go to the clinic.”
Trip nods, “I know Venger,” He gathers himself to his feet, swaying slightly. Quite suddenly, his injured leg buckles and Ashton has to leap to catch him. The world dives into a dizzying spiral, and he has to take a few breaths before he can address his brother.
“Okay, you’re going to lean on me and we’re going to go help Phoenix with Vigil.” Trip nods again, complacent. He takes a good look at his brother, noticing that the gash on his thigh is way worse than he earlier dismissed. “Shit, shit, shit.” He mutters it’s not as bad as Malcolm's he pacifies the tiny voice that is screaming that in fact, it may be.
“Venger?” Rosetta asks, “Come help me with this, both of us are going to have to carry it.”
He glances at her, Rosetta’s back is to him - she’s squatted down applying tighter real bandages to Malcolm's midsection. “Eurche’s hit bad.” He says, struggling to keep his voice from faltering.
“Well bandage it,” comes the impatient answer, “Is your com working? I want to ask Matrix if I need to like, do something different.” She trails off, the ripping of fabric ending her train of thought.
He doesn’t bother responding, searching through his jacket for the sterile white objects. There, he has them, “Trip,” He mutters, kneeling to bandage the wound. It’s about ten inches long, knife it seems, three or four inches deep almost to the bone. “Why didn’t you fix this?” His brother is capable of taking care of himself, Ashton can’t even count how many times Trip has bandaged his wounds. The man knows how to take care of things, not like this, not just wait to bleed out everywhere. He wraps the bandage tight, almost too much so, moving at a slight diagonal angle so the gauze inches down. In minutes he has the wound covered under a layer of clean white, it looks a lot more manageable now.
But hell, why wasn’t this done minutes ago?
“I ran out of bandages,” Trip says, frowning down at him. This explains the confusion, blood loss - he begins to look through the jacket again, does he have sugar? “I mean,” he reiterates, after Ashton shoots him a look, “I used them on Malcolm, but he kept bleeding through.”
I’m like a walking kitchen, he thinks finding the sugar packets, useful for now. “That’s dumb,” he says handing Trip the packet, standing up as his brother knocks it back, “Haven’t you heard Reckoning drone on about fixing your wounds before others, what is it he says ‘you can’t help anyone if you’re dead.’”
He can’t tell but he thinks Trip sighs, whatever he can’t handle this right now. Deep breaths, in out. He walks over to Rosetta, Trip’s not going to die for about three or four hours - Malcolm needs a professional, they can’t fix him. He looks down at his brother, almost as white as the stretcher fabric beneath him, “Can he down some sugar?” Rosetta shakes his head, but he offers her a packet anyway, “One for you, so the only coherent ally I have doesn't die.” She takes it gingerly, about as distrustful looking as you can get. He takes out a packet for himself as well, ripping it open. The minute the sugar hits his tongue, he feels ten times better. Clearer, more ready.
“Let’s get Vigil to a clinic, what’s the nearest one?”
“Foxsaline.”
He bends down to grab one side of the stretcher, and wordlessly Rosetta takes the other. They make their way to Trip, and despite his brother’s protest, Ashton forces him to lean against his shoulder as they walk.
Leaving the bodies behind, but Ashton notes that Trip still has the gun.
The walk to Foxsaline’s Clinic is unbearably slow. Trip, for all his effort, is fading fast moving slower and slower with each step. Ashton’s tired, energy spent holding up Trip and supporting half the stretcher. Rosetta’s steps drag.
Slowly, slowly they plow forward.
His arms shake, exhausted from the fight and carrying the stretcher. Trip feels like death personified against his shoulder.
His foot went numb about twenty minutes back.
But finally, finally, they reach the doorstep of the clinic Rosetta insists is friendly to their cause.
They knock, staggering up the steps to the clinic he hopes is masquerading as a shack.
And that’s how Ashton and his siblings - two almost dead, one probably wishing him dead - end up listening to as Trip’s pleas for help meet a doctor’s deaf ears.
“Please,” Trip slurs, whether from exhaustion or blood loss - Ashton can’t tell. “We can’t treat him ourselves. I’m asking you as a fellow citizen and human being to please help my brother. It would-”
Ashton steps forward, feeling Trip’s half-hearted protest as he cuts him off, pulling out a pistol as he does so.
Aiming it at the doctor he growls, “Listen, lady, we most likely saved all of Vlostock and my brothers almost died. So cut the shit, we’ll pay you. Just for the love of fucking god, you will help my brothers or I will blow you sky high right here.” He takes a few deep breaths trying to calm himself, this woman will probably rat them out to the COU faster than they can say Vlostock. “Are we clear?” The doctor looks at him with owlishly round eyes and slowly steps out of the door’s path allowing it to open. It reveals a brightly lit hallway that looks, surprisingly, clean and sterile.
As the doctor quickly retreats into one of the operating rooms, Ashton turns back to his siblings. Surprisingly, they are all looking various degrees of shocked (except Malcolm he’s looking dead.) “What?” He crossly asks Rosetta, who’s ditched the stretcher and supports a very passed out, Malcolm. She shakes her head, hacked hair too matted down by what he hopes is other people’s blood to sway like it usually does.
They quickly file into the clinic.
Before his weary body can register what is happening, Trip’s weight is gone and the slam of an operating door resonates through the empty hallway. “Wait,” he calls out about a minute too late. Rosetta gives a trademark “I’m so done with you Ashton” huff before she stalks down the hallway and disappears into a doorless room. He waits for a moment by the door, unsure if he should enter to offer some sort of protection to his siblings. He reaches for the door handle, the metal cold to the touch. The knob turns - unlocked. If the doctor wanted to try anything she’d lock the door. Right?
He waits a minute more cracking his gloved knuckles, then turns and traces the path Rosetta took. Before Ashton can go back on his decision, he barges in.
He finds himself staring at what seems to be the waiting room of the house converted clinic. Walking into the empty and silent room, not caring enough to hide the clacking of his boots on the floor, he spots Rosetta’s red but mostly black suit. Her back is to him, she seems to be examining a pile of magazines on top an end table. Besides a few plastic chairs, which are as white as the walls, tile, lights, and coffee table (what is with doctors and white?) the room is devoid of anything interesting… which leaves Rosetta.
Ashton watches as his sister makes her way to one of the chairs, near the coffee table - abandoning the magazines. She sits down with a sigh, collapsing into the chair as if she hasn’t slept for days. Her scythe ( who fights with a scythe?) falls to the ground beside her, and there it sits it’s owner too exhausted or doesn't care enough to retrieve it.
Slowly, Ashton makes his way over to the chair next to her and claims it as dramatically. The stark white of the room and the white fluorescent lights are bringing back memories of a cell, Parliament, pain, manic laughter, days spent screaming for his father to come to save him, eventually silent tears as he realizes Jonathan has left him and replaced him with someone else someone new, and generally things he would like to never dwell on again.
“Hey,” Rosetta says reassuringly, well it is less harsh than her normal voice so he takes it for that, “They’re going to be okay.” Ashton didn’t even realize his breathing had rapidly increased into something borderline panic. Rosetta’s taken it as worry for Trip and Malcolm.
Which it should have been. Another show of his ineptitude, worrying about himself when his brothers are in peril. “Let's hope,” He mutters darkly, “Trip’s going to lose his shit if Malcolm dies.”
“And you’ll lose yours if Trip dies?” Rosetta questions, echoing Ashton’s thoughts exactly.
He chuckles, not happy but not yet exasperated, “Like you’ve said 2.0, I’ve already lost it. Besides if Trip dies this whole damn excuse for a family's going to hell.” Rosetta hums her agreement as she flicks open one of her suit’s satchels.
The conversation lapses into uncomfortable silence.
Oh, well. It is better than usual. You know, when their talks lead to physical altercations.
Tiny click, click noises draw his attention back to Rosetta, (he is really trying to look at anything else in the room) which turn out to be her satchel as it opens and she ruffles through it. Ashton watches, sapphire eyes trained on Rosetta as she removes a bandage from the confines of the bag (there is no way the satchel can hold as much as it does. He attended his physics studies - it isn’t plausible.) She focuses her attention on her arm, pale green eyes narrow as she watches the Kevlar become a darker shade. Ashton hadn’t even been aware she’d been hit.
Oblivious to his starring, Rosetta unsheathes a knife and begins hacking off the kevlar that clothes her right arm, the rip of the fabric only adding to the awkward silence. A glimpse of the wound, confirms it isn’t clean or neat like Trip and Malcolm's - instead jagged and messy and looks very, very painful. Once the suit is sleeveless, she retrieves tweezers and without even a flinch, one-handedly rips a bullet out of the wound. Finished, she drops the bullet and tweezers back into the bag and bandages her arm, which is beginning to ooze blood at a faster rate.
“Why,” He asks, breaking the silence, retraining his eyes on her face. Watching his sister rip bullets out of herself is something he never, ever wants to witness again. She is so silent, so strangely still that it is wholeheartedly freaking him out. “Why did you do it?”
Rosetta’s full attention returns back to him, and he - not for the first time - is struck with the similarities between her and an actual bird of prey. A piercing glare, a slight frown, narrowed eyes, it is no wonder that Phoenix is the most feared out of Reckoning’s protegees. “Do what?” she responds in a clipped tone, almost as if she finds his existence burdensome (she probably does).
He is the one to break the stare, choosing to look at the room where Trip and Malcolm are. What is going on? Are they okay? Has Malcolm regained consciousness? How long has it been since they were separated, because it certainly feels like an eternity to him?
“Step in front of that bullet,” he says, not looking at her.
He can recall now the origin of the bullet that she had fished out of her arm. It was intended for Ashton’s chest, and without her interference, he’d probably be dead. It is troubling to think that he owes his life to Rosetta, he can never read her, let alone understand her motives. Does she think he is now in her debt - if so what does she want? Did she even consciously chose to take that step forward or had she been getting a better aim at someone? Had she done it out of responsibility? Love? Compassion?
The last idea is so outrageous that he almost laughs. Rosetta feeling anything besides twenty-four hour, three sixty-five, one hundred and twenty percent rage for him. It is approaching delirious levels of comedy.
Another soft hum( he had never thought Rosetta is capable of anything besides eerily calm or spitting anger), “Maybe I can’t live without your warm presence,” she states drily. Ashton sniggers, almost not hearing her when she says, “I did it because I couldn’t stand if another one of my family died.” She sighs, her shoulders dropping a fraction. Her hacked hair slips out of its usual perfectness to shield her face, “I can’t believe he’s dead.”
Ashton’s eyes flicker from the room to Rosetta, surprises keep raining down. She considers them family? It throws his preconceived notions for a loop. If he can’t count on Rosetta’s hate what can he expect? Next thing you know Trip will say he hates Thai food! “I can’t believe he’s gone, either,” he finds himself saying, not at all sounding like the wayward son who can’t care less about his father. He sounds, broken - well, not that upset, more like mildly traumatized.
“I never thought,” she trails, her eyes no longer focused on anything in particular, “That he would die, I mean…” she looks over at Ashton, her eyes pained. He realizes that Rosetta, Malcolm, Nathaniel, hell even Trip see Jonathan as their father (honestly he still does as well, but will never admit it. Even if heavily tortured for the rest of his natural life).
Rosetta most of all - she has always had the strongest relationship with the man, the main reasoning behind their many disputes. It is unconditional love between the two, something he is envious of but will (also) never admit. “He just seemed untouchable. It seemed almost as if he worked harder, better wounded. It’s just so, surreal like I’m drowning. Like up is down and everything I’ve ever known is wrong.” She looks at Ashton, who in that instance studies the white wall like it is the most interesting thing he has ever seen.
The blatant hero worship is familiar, not because it is coming from Rosetta (who always makes Johnathan out as a god) but because he once felt the same way. Those feelings had once come from him.
When he was younger, Jonathan could do no wrong. He was the one who had saved him from the streets and a life of poverty and crime. He was the one who allowed him Vigil, took him in and became the father he had never known he needed. Jonathan was the one who showed him how much love and goodness there is in the world. He hears that in Rosetta’s voice, the ‘I’d die for you a thousand times’ the ‘I want nothing more than your love and respect’ and he feels pity.
Ashton knows, unlike his blind sister, for every one of those good moments, there is a bad one. Where Jonathan looks Trip in the face and tells him that Parliament killed him and he has to accept that Ashton is gone and he needs to stop searching. Moments where his adoptive father’s face is filled with such disappointment he wonders why he ever thought coming home to Vlostock was a wise choice. Moments where the man looks at you and you finally understand that you aren't good enough will never be good enough for him.
And the surreal moment comes after those instances, at least for Ashton.
“Yeah,” he forces out, not understanding why his chest is tight, “I felt that way when I saw Euchre holding a gun.” Ashton blinks, he hadn’t meant to say that. Rosetta doesn’t need to know that the worst part of his last twenty-four hours was seeing his older brother standing over people whom he killed. It is embarrassing because so much worse has happened, so much worse could still happen.
“I can’t believe that either,” Rosetta mumbles, “He’s very adamantly against killing, even in situations where you have no choice like Father says you can kill in.” She frowns, a crinkle developing in between her eyebrows that make her look confused, “I wonder if he’s okay.” She looks up at Ashton, “I hope he’s okay.”
Ashton nods, leaning back into the chair, “I hope so, too.” He does, more than anything, because they need Trip and need him badly. If there is one person who can, and has, kept their strange mix of a family together it is their older brother.
They lapse back into silence, though unlike before it is not uncomfortable.
He returns his standoff with the wall of the operating room and jumps as he hears something thud against the wall. Ashton would kill to know what is going on with his eldest and youngest brother.
And a thought occurs to him, and becomes the most pressing subject matter of the moment, “We’re not having movie night are we?” The thought pains him, though he can’t quite pin down why. It isn’t as if he particularly enjoys sitting on the couch eating unsalted, over buttered popcorn (the no salt is Malcolm's fault, while the over buttering is his) and complaining over whatever film is picked. It is just that a little bit of normalcy has been ripped away from him.
Movie night has been constant ever since Trip invented it three years ago, and he needs a little bit of stability every Wednesday. Even if it means sitting through some horrible film.
Rosetta stares at him, “I really don’t think that’s the most pressing issue going on right now.” She states, and Ashton thinks if his sister wasn’t so tired that question would have been grounds for her to start a fight.
“Well, then upgrade, what is the most pressing issue?”
Rosetta stares at him, she looks surprised that he has asked her something. Usually when she passive aggressively asks him to focus like that he either ignores or hits her, “It would be, of course, what compelled the COU to pull an all-out assault like that.” Her gaze turns into ‘obviously Ashton why are you so dense, keep up’ and he hides a small smile.
“Right.,” he says, eyes wandering again to the operating room. Is that a scream? Rosetta hasn’t reacted so most likely he imagined it, “Their literal job is to keep us in line and scared out of our minds, so what really does it matter?”
“ think about it,” she implores, “why would the COU, tasked with keeping order, and yes maybe instilling fear, but mostly not known for mass murder- for no apparent reason, open fire on a bunch of protesters. It would only make sense if they were trying to attract our attention because one they usually like to round those people up and make a show of them and two they seemed way too prepared when we showed up. There is no scram when we arrived like what usually happens, it is a more there's our target.
That being said, why would they want to pick a fight with us? It seemed their end goal is for Reckoning’s death, not ours.” Rosetta pauses, seemingly collecting her thoughts, “Then the blast. What was the point? They had us in their clutches, all they needed to do was finish us off. The blast gave us the edge to escape.
I think they wanted to make a show of us for the other colonies. They want our leader dead and the rest of us to give up, show the people that their heroes easily fold.”
He nods, that does make a strange sort of sense. Ashton actually can’t believe Rosetta formulated that hypothesis while they were fighting for their lives, “Wow, you know that is Matrix levels of genius, right?” He has to hand it to her, that is impressive deductive reasoning. He had formulated his own opinions, but Rosetta’s blows his ideas out of the water. Still, he can’t quite eradicate the suspicions growing in his mind, “Did you notice anything strange about the men we fought?”
Green eyes meet blue, as a focused look overtake both of them, “Unfocused eyes, heavy breathing, sweating, muttering.” Rosetta lists.
Ashton nods, so it isn’t just him, “I’m thinking some sort of drug exposure. I hit a guy four times before he fell, no one can keep fighting with that many bullets. It would seem our COU buddies where using.” He tries to keep the rage out of his voice, but it is hard. Ashton thinks there is a special place in hell for anyone who sells drugs, he knows first hand how they can tear apart families and ruin lives. Whenever they are apprehending dealers, things get a bit … messier than usual if he is involved. The men make him think of the ones who got his older sister, Quinn hooked on heroin.
Rosetta mirrors his nod, “Observative, Venger. You think if we snag a COU officer we can shake them down?”
“And then we find who did this.”
The two share a smile, and an unspoken pact forms between them - the first thing they have agreed on in a long time.
Whoever did this will pay - in blood.
Well, no one alive.
Corpses litter the ground, strangely grey in a way which matches the backdrop of Downtown. Broken buildings, broken bodies. White COU uniforms stained red. Empty bullet shells from the battle. He’s not exactly sure where that last blast came from, but the explosives chased the last of the Death Squads away. He supposes that he and his siblings are standing victorious, but it doesn’t feel like it. Not at all, when half the protesters are dead, the COU retreating to fight another day, and certainly not with Reckoning gone.
A huff comes from his left, and he looks up from the pavement. Rosetta, of course, because the Gods hate him. “Venger, we have to go get Euchre and Vigil.”
It hits him, quite sudden, that this doesn’t feel like a victory because they could easily have two more dead. His brothers could be gone just like that. He kicks a lump of pavement, and as it skitters away he feels his sister’s disapproving gaze on him. “Let’s go get them, where did Trip say they were? Are they near the billiard? It’s this way.” He pauses, shuffling forward - there’s a pain in his right foot that says something ’s wrong, oh well.
His sister falls silent as he turns away from her, even quiet Rosetta manages to seem judgemental, “If you say names, Replacement I will shoot you.”
The silence thickens and his sister follows him in a condescending way - obviously feeling like she would be the better fit for leading them, even though this is his patrol route. They’re breaking into a run, and there is definitely something wrong with his foot. It feels like jagged glass being ripped in and out. That’s not going to be fun fixing. Rosetta jogs at his side, a clear annoyance at his speed. God, he hates her.
To think about it he hates this godforsaken city. Hates the place that keeps killing his family, first Quinn, then Ellis, now Jonathan, and possibly his brothers. But hating Vlostock is like hating himself, the city flows through his blood; his very soul. From the deep ebony of his hair that reflects the dull black of the tarmac on the city streets to his love of smoke and the city’s lungs that breathes exhaust fumes day and night. And it shows in the frantic angry thoughts that plague his head, which match the constant chaos of daily life in Vlostock.
Once, when he was younger after the whole goddamn Parliament kidnapping he had tried to leave. He had run and didn’t once look back at the fading city lights. “If you run where will you hide?” Asks the CUOs in the psychological war they wage against the people. Well, he can tell people without uncertainty, there are people outside of the colony. A hard life without all the technology some of the colony have, but a life nonetheless.
And despite this, he returned, came back to Vlostock - he isn’t quite sure if he is the one that had made the conscious decision or if the city is at fault. One thing is certain, the cursed city will always drag him back to its streets kicking and screaming. Ashton is a child of Vlostock, whether he likes it or not.
A child of a monster, fitting.
Only a monster could do what he does.
“Do you think we should be looking for Reckoning?” Rosetta asks, “After we find Vigil and Euchre, of course.” His sister speaks without eye contact, through her white mask tilts towards him. In the early morning light, she looks vaguely feral, blood dripping off her red gloves, matted scarlet dyed hair, unflinching green eyes. A walking massacre.
He huffs, keeping his eyes on his feet, “No, we all saw it he’s dead.”
Is it his imagination or does Rosetta seem to wilt? “For security purposes Venger.”
He casts a glance at her, “Probably, one trial at a time though.” She nods, brisk and sharp - not wanting to agree with him for too long. They run on, he wonders how bad his foot is. He’ll have Nathanial deal with it.
His mind turns to Jonathan’s death, it’s something he’s never even thought of. Unlike what Rosetta likes to insinuate he actually thinks in between the moments of seething anger and blinding pain, whenever his mind settles enough for him to breathe (which isn’t often as his mind knocks from malignant to melancholy every fucking minute or so). He doesn't dwell on the past, instead looking to his rather bleak future.
In these moments, he sees his own head snapping back coloring the walls red for one day Venger is going to get him killed. He sees innocents die because nothing he does is ever good enough compared to the golden child that is Trip or the perfect daughter that Rosetta is. He sees Jonathan denounce him time and time again pointing out his failures until it feels like he can’t breathe.
Those moments, Ashton looks to the future and feel startled when he sees that he doesn’t have one. (And Trip then cries and tells him, of course, he matters, of course, he has a future with them. But that doesn’t stop the thoughts that he doesn’t and he just feels so lost and so angry.)
And yet for all his pessimism, Jonathan's death never crossed his mind. He supposes that he assumed the bastard was too stubborn to die and too ready to torment him for the rest of his life to kick the old bucket. But now, he’s gone and Ashton, for all he has said about the man and all Jonathan has done to him, doesn’t feel happy or relieved or anything at all relating to his adoptive father. The horrible tangle of emotions come when he thinks of the events after Jonathan's death.
He doesn’t know whether to cry, curse, scream, shoot someone or do all four when he thinks of Malcolm and Trip. When Trip’s voice came over the com he had been so happy at the fact that his brother was alive, because without Trip he’s so damn lost functioning is impossible. But he had processed the transmission and was suddenly furious. Who would dare? Who fucking thought they could touch his baby brother? And Trip had sounded so upset and so scared it made him want to painfully murder every single attacker they had faced.
So yeah Rosetta, he thinks, I haven’t given much thought about finding the corpse of an old lying bastard.
“There’s the billiard.” Rosetta’s voice startles him out of his thoughts. She nods her head towards the business, shattered windows, busted door and all.
They're on the right block now, he knows that the parking garage is here and yet it isn't.
Most of the block is just gone.
And there the garage, or what's left of it.
He sweeps past her, heading towards the large concrete structure that must be where Trip and Malcolm are. A parking garage is not quite right, almost no one can afford cars - scrap yard is more accurate. Even more, so that it’s collapsed in on itself.
The entire block is just gone, actually. Nothing’s left unscathed. And questions plague him because who, what, why? The COU has seriously lost it since they’ve decided blowing up a whole street is a reasonable response to a peaceful protest.
He doesn't dwell on it, can't focus on the damage now. If he thinks about the loss to people's livelihoods in these buildings or how many people are going to starve without places to work...
With little more than a glance at the damage, Rosetta starts through the rubble. Her steps are light, careful not to disturb what's fallen. Their luck seems to be shy of terrible. They're on a commercial block, most of the damage done to shops and buildings, not houses. The two vigilantes don't have to avoid bodies of blown up citizens.
“Euchre!” He calls, shattering the silence. Rosetta sends him a glare, a clear ‘shut up’ conveyed, “What? There’s no one here.”
There’s a clatter from somewhere off to his left right before a voice calls, “Ash?” He tilts his head to his sister in a kind of ‘look, idiot’ motion. She sighs a disgusted sort of noise and knocks against his shoulder as she heads over to their brother.
“Oh, Ashton everything you do I can do better, you inept fool.” He mimics, in a voice that he thinks is spot on for his younger sister. He begrudgingly follows after her, and what he sees draws him up short.
The sheer amount of blood is staggering. Though Malcolm's suit leg is ripped open and tied around his waist, a hasty makeshift bandage, it does nothing, not even obscuring all of the wound. Blood sluggishly seeps out of his stomach - the fabric is so slick that nothing soaks in, instead of rolling onto the ground beneath. The pavement is crimson for a good foot or so, dried black in some areas. The youngest ’s dark skin is anything but, glistening with sweat, and those intelligent green eyes are closed. Goddamn, that’s his baby brother, how did this happen? And who's he going to have to make beg for death?
A choked cry draws his eyes away from the youngest to the eldest. Trip has his head in his hand, mask bloody, hair slick with crimson as well. In fact, almost all of his elder brother is dripping with blood. It’s too much, too much to have come from Malcolm too much to have even come from the wound in Trip’s leg.
His eyes catch on something in Trip’s hand, solid black and vaguely cylindrical. He’d know that shape anywhere. Trip and a gun?
He shakes his head and takes in the rest of the scene, pieces refusing to fall together in his head. The white of COU uniforms catch his attention, dozens - a whole unit. How the hell? Could they have died in the blast? A quicker look says no, those are gunshot wounds. Gaping holes that could've only of come from… Trip?
His eyes are drawn back to his two brothers, Rosetta’s already jumped into action next to Malcolm - half way through fashioning some sort of carrier. Trip’s still not looking at either of them, shaking with sobs.
Ashton can’t, he can’t think. What? Trip? Trip, who lectures him about killing.
“Ashton killing is bad, I-”
“No shit, Trip the other person is dead”
“No, I mean for you. I’ve known people who kill and it changes them. There’s a fine line between killer and murder and I don’t want you to cross it. Hell, I don’t even want you looking at it. You’re so little, you shouldn’t ever have to do something like this.”
And then he’s laughing, it's funny, really funny, so much so that his laugh is beginning to border on manic and has Rosetta glancing at him. The world feels wrong, off because if Trip is a killer - Trip: the Golden Boy, the perfect son, the good son - what does that make him? Trip is no monster, Trip never kills. Ashton’s always thought that his elder brother would die on Jonathan's fruitless crusade. Die protecting his stupid morals that keep him from being like Ashton, die a hero.
It’s funny because the opposite has actually happened. His brother’s become like him, a monster. It’s horribly funny and harrowingly sad.
He can’t stop, he sits himself down next to his elder brother resting against the car still cackling. Some small voice tells him that he should be helping Rosetta, helping keep his brother alive. But he can’t move, paralyzed by laughs that bring tears to his eyes. It’s all falling apart, he can see everything slipping away in his hands. And finally, finally Trip looks up at him
Trip’s eyes gleam almost savagely, the gun still cocked in his hands. Blood drips through his hair onto his face and disappears beneath the mask, though not before it mingles with his brother’s beads of sweat. Though the most startling factor is his trademark ‘nothing bad will happen to us, I promise’ smile is gone. And without it, the man next to him is unrecognizable - someone who looks like Trip, but doesn’t feel like him.
Somethings will always be the same; Trip not killing, Trip always smiling, Trip always talking and laughing and not… whatever the hell has happened here. Ashton always feels safe with Trip because he, in most ways, is his polar opposite. Trip is his rock, his anchor - a moral compass.
And now, it’s just all wrong.
“Venger,” Trip mutters, his head slipping back to rest against the car, his eyes fixated on the crumbling ceiling of the garage.
And something just breaks and quite suddenly the laughs leave until he’s just crying. Tears sliding underneath his mask, the salty tang drying his mouth. Gulping for breath as it seems every ounce of liquid in his body flows out in loud, ugly sobs.
And as quickly as they come, the tears leave almost as if there were never present at all. He takes in a few shaky breaths until a cry from the unconscious Malcolm brings him back to his senses. What is he doing? Malcolm's hurt, there's plenty of time to fall apart later.
Breathe, just breathe.
He gets to his feet, trying to clear his head while looking down at his brother, “Can you walk?” He asks, trying to formulate the chaos of his head into words, and to his surprise, his voice doesn't wobble at all.
Trip looks at him, eyes confused, “Leg’s hurt.”
He nods, then turns to look at Rosetta who’s finished with her contraption - a stretcher, he has to applaud her resourcefulness. His sister has managed to move their brother onto it, with minimal blood loss it seems, he turns back to Trip, “Okay, we’re going to have to go to the clinic.”
Trip nods, “I know Venger,” He gathers himself to his feet, swaying slightly. Quite suddenly, his injured leg buckles and Ashton has to leap to catch him. The world dives into a dizzying spiral, and he has to take a few breaths before he can address his brother.
“Okay, you’re going to lean on me and we’re going to go help Phoenix with Vigil.” Trip nods again, complacent. He takes a good look at his brother, noticing that the gash on his thigh is way worse than he earlier dismissed. “Shit, shit, shit.” He mutters it’s not as bad as Malcolm's he pacifies the tiny voice that is screaming that in fact, it may be.
“Venger?” Rosetta asks, “Come help me with this, both of us are going to have to carry it.”
He glances at her, Rosetta’s back is to him - she’s squatted down applying tighter real bandages to Malcolm's midsection. “Eurche’s hit bad.” He says, struggling to keep his voice from faltering.
“Well bandage it,” comes the impatient answer, “Is your com working? I want to ask Matrix if I need to like, do something different.” She trails off, the ripping of fabric ending her train of thought.
He doesn’t bother responding, searching through his jacket for the sterile white objects. There, he has them, “Trip,” He mutters, kneeling to bandage the wound. It’s about ten inches long, knife it seems, three or four inches deep almost to the bone. “Why didn’t you fix this?” His brother is capable of taking care of himself, Ashton can’t even count how many times Trip has bandaged his wounds. The man knows how to take care of things, not like this, not just wait to bleed out everywhere. He wraps the bandage tight, almost too much so, moving at a slight diagonal angle so the gauze inches down. In minutes he has the wound covered under a layer of clean white, it looks a lot more manageable now.
But hell, why wasn’t this done minutes ago?
“I ran out of bandages,” Trip says, frowning down at him. This explains the confusion, blood loss - he begins to look through the jacket again, does he have sugar? “I mean,” he reiterates, after Ashton shoots him a look, “I used them on Malcolm, but he kept bleeding through.”
I’m like a walking kitchen, he thinks finding the sugar packets, useful for now. “That’s dumb,” he says handing Trip the packet, standing up as his brother knocks it back, “Haven’t you heard Reckoning drone on about fixing your wounds before others, what is it he says ‘you can’t help anyone if you’re dead.’”
He can’t tell but he thinks Trip sighs, whatever he can’t handle this right now. Deep breaths, in out. He walks over to Rosetta, Trip’s not going to die for about three or four hours - Malcolm needs a professional, they can’t fix him. He looks down at his brother, almost as white as the stretcher fabric beneath him, “Can he down some sugar?” Rosetta shakes his head, but he offers her a packet anyway, “One for you, so the only coherent ally I have doesn't die.” She takes it gingerly, about as distrustful looking as you can get. He takes out a packet for himself as well, ripping it open. The minute the sugar hits his tongue, he feels ten times better. Clearer, more ready.
“Let’s get Vigil to a clinic, what’s the nearest one?”
“Foxsaline.”
He bends down to grab one side of the stretcher, and wordlessly Rosetta takes the other. They make their way to Trip, and despite his brother’s protest, Ashton forces him to lean against his shoulder as they walk.
Leaving the bodies behind, but Ashton notes that Trip still has the gun.
The walk to Foxsaline’s Clinic is unbearably slow. Trip, for all his effort, is fading fast moving slower and slower with each step. Ashton’s tired, energy spent holding up Trip and supporting half the stretcher. Rosetta’s steps drag.
Slowly, slowly they plow forward.
His arms shake, exhausted from the fight and carrying the stretcher. Trip feels like death personified against his shoulder.
His foot went numb about twenty minutes back.
But finally, finally, they reach the doorstep of the clinic Rosetta insists is friendly to their cause.
They knock, staggering up the steps to the clinic he hopes is masquerading as a shack.
And that’s how Ashton and his siblings - two almost dead, one probably wishing him dead - end up listening to as Trip’s pleas for help meet a doctor’s deaf ears.
“Please,” Trip slurs, whether from exhaustion or blood loss - Ashton can’t tell. “We can’t treat him ourselves. I’m asking you as a fellow citizen and human being to please help my brother. It would-”
Ashton steps forward, feeling Trip’s half-hearted protest as he cuts him off, pulling out a pistol as he does so.
Aiming it at the doctor he growls, “Listen, lady, we most likely saved all of Vlostock and my brothers almost died. So cut the shit, we’ll pay you. Just for the love of fucking god, you will help my brothers or I will blow you sky high right here.” He takes a few deep breaths trying to calm himself, this woman will probably rat them out to the COU faster than they can say Vlostock. “Are we clear?” The doctor looks at him with owlishly round eyes and slowly steps out of the door’s path allowing it to open. It reveals a brightly lit hallway that looks, surprisingly, clean and sterile.
As the doctor quickly retreats into one of the operating rooms, Ashton turns back to his siblings. Surprisingly, they are all looking various degrees of shocked (except Malcolm he’s looking dead.) “What?” He crossly asks Rosetta, who’s ditched the stretcher and supports a very passed out, Malcolm. She shakes her head, hacked hair too matted down by what he hopes is other people’s blood to sway like it usually does.
They quickly file into the clinic.
Before his weary body can register what is happening, Trip’s weight is gone and the slam of an operating door resonates through the empty hallway. “Wait,” he calls out about a minute too late. Rosetta gives a trademark “I’m so done with you Ashton” huff before she stalks down the hallway and disappears into a doorless room. He waits for a moment by the door, unsure if he should enter to offer some sort of protection to his siblings. He reaches for the door handle, the metal cold to the touch. The knob turns - unlocked. If the doctor wanted to try anything she’d lock the door. Right?
He waits a minute more cracking his gloved knuckles, then turns and traces the path Rosetta took. Before Ashton can go back on his decision, he barges in.
He finds himself staring at what seems to be the waiting room of the house converted clinic. Walking into the empty and silent room, not caring enough to hide the clacking of his boots on the floor, he spots Rosetta’s red but mostly black suit. Her back is to him, she seems to be examining a pile of magazines on top an end table. Besides a few plastic chairs, which are as white as the walls, tile, lights, and coffee table (what is with doctors and white?) the room is devoid of anything interesting… which leaves Rosetta.
Ashton watches as his sister makes her way to one of the chairs, near the coffee table - abandoning the magazines. She sits down with a sigh, collapsing into the chair as if she hasn’t slept for days. Her scythe ( who fights with a scythe?) falls to the ground beside her, and there it sits it’s owner too exhausted or doesn't care enough to retrieve it.
Slowly, Ashton makes his way over to the chair next to her and claims it as dramatically. The stark white of the room and the white fluorescent lights are bringing back memories of a cell, Parliament, pain, manic laughter, days spent screaming for his father to come to save him, eventually silent tears as he realizes Jonathan has left him and replaced him with someone else someone new, and generally things he would like to never dwell on again.
“Hey,” Rosetta says reassuringly, well it is less harsh than her normal voice so he takes it for that, “They’re going to be okay.” Ashton didn’t even realize his breathing had rapidly increased into something borderline panic. Rosetta’s taken it as worry for Trip and Malcolm.
Which it should have been. Another show of his ineptitude, worrying about himself when his brothers are in peril. “Let's hope,” He mutters darkly, “Trip’s going to lose his shit if Malcolm dies.”
“And you’ll lose yours if Trip dies?” Rosetta questions, echoing Ashton’s thoughts exactly.
He chuckles, not happy but not yet exasperated, “Like you’ve said 2.0, I’ve already lost it. Besides if Trip dies this whole damn excuse for a family's going to hell.” Rosetta hums her agreement as she flicks open one of her suit’s satchels.
The conversation lapses into uncomfortable silence.
Oh, well. It is better than usual. You know, when their talks lead to physical altercations.
Tiny click, click noises draw his attention back to Rosetta, (he is really trying to look at anything else in the room) which turn out to be her satchel as it opens and she ruffles through it. Ashton watches, sapphire eyes trained on Rosetta as she removes a bandage from the confines of the bag (there is no way the satchel can hold as much as it does. He attended his physics studies - it isn’t plausible.) She focuses her attention on her arm, pale green eyes narrow as she watches the Kevlar become a darker shade. Ashton hadn’t even been aware she’d been hit.
Oblivious to his starring, Rosetta unsheathes a knife and begins hacking off the kevlar that clothes her right arm, the rip of the fabric only adding to the awkward silence. A glimpse of the wound, confirms it isn’t clean or neat like Trip and Malcolm's - instead jagged and messy and looks very, very painful. Once the suit is sleeveless, she retrieves tweezers and without even a flinch, one-handedly rips a bullet out of the wound. Finished, she drops the bullet and tweezers back into the bag and bandages her arm, which is beginning to ooze blood at a faster rate.
“Why,” He asks, breaking the silence, retraining his eyes on her face. Watching his sister rip bullets out of herself is something he never, ever wants to witness again. She is so silent, so strangely still that it is wholeheartedly freaking him out. “Why did you do it?”
Rosetta’s full attention returns back to him, and he - not for the first time - is struck with the similarities between her and an actual bird of prey. A piercing glare, a slight frown, narrowed eyes, it is no wonder that Phoenix is the most feared out of Reckoning’s protegees. “Do what?” she responds in a clipped tone, almost as if she finds his existence burdensome (she probably does).
He is the one to break the stare, choosing to look at the room where Trip and Malcolm are. What is going on? Are they okay? Has Malcolm regained consciousness? How long has it been since they were separated, because it certainly feels like an eternity to him?
“Step in front of that bullet,” he says, not looking at her.
He can recall now the origin of the bullet that she had fished out of her arm. It was intended for Ashton’s chest, and without her interference, he’d probably be dead. It is troubling to think that he owes his life to Rosetta, he can never read her, let alone understand her motives. Does she think he is now in her debt - if so what does she want? Did she even consciously chose to take that step forward or had she been getting a better aim at someone? Had she done it out of responsibility? Love? Compassion?
The last idea is so outrageous that he almost laughs. Rosetta feeling anything besides twenty-four hour, three sixty-five, one hundred and twenty percent rage for him. It is approaching delirious levels of comedy.
Another soft hum( he had never thought Rosetta is capable of anything besides eerily calm or spitting anger), “Maybe I can’t live without your warm presence,” she states drily. Ashton sniggers, almost not hearing her when she says, “I did it because I couldn’t stand if another one of my family died.” She sighs, her shoulders dropping a fraction. Her hacked hair slips out of its usual perfectness to shield her face, “I can’t believe he’s dead.”
Ashton’s eyes flicker from the room to Rosetta, surprises keep raining down. She considers them family? It throws his preconceived notions for a loop. If he can’t count on Rosetta’s hate what can he expect? Next thing you know Trip will say he hates Thai food! “I can’t believe he’s gone, either,” he finds himself saying, not at all sounding like the wayward son who can’t care less about his father. He sounds, broken - well, not that upset, more like mildly traumatized.
“I never thought,” she trails, her eyes no longer focused on anything in particular, “That he would die, I mean…” she looks over at Ashton, her eyes pained. He realizes that Rosetta, Malcolm, Nathaniel, hell even Trip see Jonathan as their father (honestly he still does as well, but will never admit it. Even if heavily tortured for the rest of his natural life).
Rosetta most of all - she has always had the strongest relationship with the man, the main reasoning behind their many disputes. It is unconditional love between the two, something he is envious of but will (also) never admit. “He just seemed untouchable. It seemed almost as if he worked harder, better wounded. It’s just so, surreal like I’m drowning. Like up is down and everything I’ve ever known is wrong.” She looks at Ashton, who in that instance studies the white wall like it is the most interesting thing he has ever seen.
The blatant hero worship is familiar, not because it is coming from Rosetta (who always makes Johnathan out as a god) but because he once felt the same way. Those feelings had once come from him.
When he was younger, Jonathan could do no wrong. He was the one who had saved him from the streets and a life of poverty and crime. He was the one who allowed him Vigil, took him in and became the father he had never known he needed. Jonathan was the one who showed him how much love and goodness there is in the world. He hears that in Rosetta’s voice, the ‘I’d die for you a thousand times’ the ‘I want nothing more than your love and respect’ and he feels pity.
Ashton knows, unlike his blind sister, for every one of those good moments, there is a bad one. Where Jonathan looks Trip in the face and tells him that Parliament killed him and he has to accept that Ashton is gone and he needs to stop searching. Moments where his adoptive father’s face is filled with such disappointment he wonders why he ever thought coming home to Vlostock was a wise choice. Moments where the man looks at you and you finally understand that you aren't good enough will never be good enough for him.
And the surreal moment comes after those instances, at least for Ashton.
“Yeah,” he forces out, not understanding why his chest is tight, “I felt that way when I saw Euchre holding a gun.” Ashton blinks, he hadn’t meant to say that. Rosetta doesn’t need to know that the worst part of his last twenty-four hours was seeing his older brother standing over people whom he killed. It is embarrassing because so much worse has happened, so much worse could still happen.
“I can’t believe that either,” Rosetta mumbles, “He’s very adamantly against killing, even in situations where you have no choice like Father says you can kill in.” She frowns, a crinkle developing in between her eyebrows that make her look confused, “I wonder if he’s okay.” She looks up at Ashton, “I hope he’s okay.”
Ashton nods, leaning back into the chair, “I hope so, too.” He does, more than anything, because they need Trip and need him badly. If there is one person who can, and has, kept their strange mix of a family together it is their older brother.
They lapse back into silence, though unlike before it is not uncomfortable.
He returns his standoff with the wall of the operating room and jumps as he hears something thud against the wall. Ashton would kill to know what is going on with his eldest and youngest brother.
And a thought occurs to him, and becomes the most pressing subject matter of the moment, “We’re not having movie night are we?” The thought pains him, though he can’t quite pin down why. It isn’t as if he particularly enjoys sitting on the couch eating unsalted, over buttered popcorn (the no salt is Malcolm's fault, while the over buttering is his) and complaining over whatever film is picked. It is just that a little bit of normalcy has been ripped away from him.
Movie night has been constant ever since Trip invented it three years ago, and he needs a little bit of stability every Wednesday. Even if it means sitting through some horrible film.
Rosetta stares at him, “I really don’t think that’s the most pressing issue going on right now.” She states, and Ashton thinks if his sister wasn’t so tired that question would have been grounds for her to start a fight.
“Well, then upgrade, what is the most pressing issue?”
Rosetta stares at him, she looks surprised that he has asked her something. Usually when she passive aggressively asks him to focus like that he either ignores or hits her, “It would be, of course, what compelled the COU to pull an all-out assault like that.” Her gaze turns into ‘obviously Ashton why are you so dense, keep up’ and he hides a small smile.
“Right.,” he says, eyes wandering again to the operating room. Is that a scream? Rosetta hasn’t reacted so most likely he imagined it, “Their literal job is to keep us in line and scared out of our minds, so what really does it matter?”
“ think about it,” she implores, “why would the COU, tasked with keeping order, and yes maybe instilling fear, but mostly not known for mass murder- for no apparent reason, open fire on a bunch of protesters. It would only make sense if they were trying to attract our attention because one they usually like to round those people up and make a show of them and two they seemed way too prepared when we showed up. There is no scram when we arrived like what usually happens, it is a more there's our target.
That being said, why would they want to pick a fight with us? It seemed their end goal is for Reckoning’s death, not ours.” Rosetta pauses, seemingly collecting her thoughts, “Then the blast. What was the point? They had us in their clutches, all they needed to do was finish us off. The blast gave us the edge to escape.
I think they wanted to make a show of us for the other colonies. They want our leader dead and the rest of us to give up, show the people that their heroes easily fold.”
He nods, that does make a strange sort of sense. Ashton actually can’t believe Rosetta formulated that hypothesis while they were fighting for their lives, “Wow, you know that is Matrix levels of genius, right?” He has to hand it to her, that is impressive deductive reasoning. He had formulated his own opinions, but Rosetta’s blows his ideas out of the water. Still, he can’t quite eradicate the suspicions growing in his mind, “Did you notice anything strange about the men we fought?”
Green eyes meet blue, as a focused look overtake both of them, “Unfocused eyes, heavy breathing, sweating, muttering.” Rosetta lists.
Ashton nods, so it isn’t just him, “I’m thinking some sort of drug exposure. I hit a guy four times before he fell, no one can keep fighting with that many bullets. It would seem our COU buddies where using.” He tries to keep the rage out of his voice, but it is hard. Ashton thinks there is a special place in hell for anyone who sells drugs, he knows first hand how they can tear apart families and ruin lives. Whenever they are apprehending dealers, things get a bit … messier than usual if he is involved. The men make him think of the ones who got his older sister, Quinn hooked on heroin.
Rosetta mirrors his nod, “Observative, Venger. You think if we snag a COU officer we can shake them down?”
“And then we find who did this.”
The two share a smile, and an unspoken pact forms between them - the first thing they have agreed on in a long time.
Whoever did this will pay - in blood.