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Derailment
He's not sure what wakes him. It could be any number of things. It could be the light on his face, the air moving over him, the shift of cloth against skin where before it had just been the cool of the sheets and the heat of two bodies. It could be the hard ground under his back, which would also explain the aches in him as consciousness drifts closer. He's gone soft, he thinks sometimes, fallen out of the habit of sleeping well on the ground, lost in the embrace of Tom's big bed. But he still roughs it sometimes, so at first the fact that he's clearly outside doesn't sound any alarms.
But it's the kind of outside. It's not the light but the quality of that light; not warm and glowing but thin, pale, anemic. When he opens his eyes it's not the trees swaying over him in the morning breeze but what they're like, them and the other plant life, still thickly growing and untamed but bad. Unhealthy. Sparse where it shouldn't be and dense where it shouldn't be. No birds, no fucking birds at all. The hints of a world knocked out of balance and gone horribly wrong.
There's a cold wet nose pressed against his cheek, and a weight pressing into his arm, numbing it. He rolls, pulls it away and sits up, shoving Neil harder than he meant to. Dexter steps back, whining softly, and Mike stares around and then down, absorbing it in quick shocked bursts. The car. The campfire, smoking ashes. Dexter. The two figures, curled together on the ground. Tom's old and ragged sweater. His own pants. Camo. Boots. The itchy feel of clothes that haven't been washed for a while.
His gun.
There's no mistaking what this is.
He doesn't want to wake them. As long as they're still sleeping, this is his nightmare and his alone. Maybe they never have to wake up. And yet he has no idea what's really worse: being back here or being back here on his own.
"No," he breathes, barely above a whisper. No louder, because he's honestly afraid that he might scream. "No. No. Fuck."
But it's the kind of outside. It's not the light but the quality of that light; not warm and glowing but thin, pale, anemic. When he opens his eyes it's not the trees swaying over him in the morning breeze but what they're like, them and the other plant life, still thickly growing and untamed but bad. Unhealthy. Sparse where it shouldn't be and dense where it shouldn't be. No birds, no fucking birds at all. The hints of a world knocked out of balance and gone horribly wrong.
There's a cold wet nose pressed against his cheek, and a weight pressing into his arm, numbing it. He rolls, pulls it away and sits up, shoving Neil harder than he meant to. Dexter steps back, whining softly, and Mike stares around and then down, absorbing it in quick shocked bursts. The car. The campfire, smoking ashes. Dexter. The two figures, curled together on the ground. Tom's old and ragged sweater. His own pants. Camo. Boots. The itchy feel of clothes that haven't been washed for a while.
His gun.
There's no mistaking what this is.
He doesn't want to wake them. As long as they're still sleeping, this is his nightmare and his alone. Maybe they never have to wake up. And yet he has no idea what's really worse: being back here or being back here on his own.
"No," he breathes, barely above a whisper. No louder, because he's honestly afraid that he might scream. "No. No. Fuck."
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"What color was it?" He paused, giving the man a dangerous look. "Did you know these two mysterious big men?"
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Which is as good a guess as any. Almost everything here is grey.
"Which way did they go?" he hisses, grabbing the man's collar and shoving him back against the wall, eliciting a yelp of protest.
"Jesus, watch it! West! West, I'm pretty sure!"
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Mike stands there, looking at Tom's back and frowning. He doesn't like this. Everything feels worse than wrong, and it isn't just that Neil's been taken.
"What the fuck's gotten into you?"
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"We lost him," he said, blunt and blank. His eyes darted from Mike's face, down the path that would lead to the sad little room underground. Neil wouldn't be there waiting. He'd hoped before, stupidly. Now all they had was a grey van, going west.
"All we had to do was look after him. It was the only thing and I -" He shook his head jaggedly, turning. This is my fault.
"We have to keep moving."
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"It happened. Can't change that." He scrubs his hands over his face, leaning back against the wall where the man had been. "Just gotta deal with it now." He looks up at Tom again, his gaze set and pointed. "But we can't keep moving unless we know where the fuck we're going. Otherwise we're just wasting time."
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He sighed, dragging a hand down across his face. "It's that," he said, not letting himself think too much about it. "Or...it could be people trying to get to us. Think they still remember us here?"
After so many years away, it seemed it impossible that they would.
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He sighs and crosses his arms. Exasperation covers terror, covers grief, and he can at least function. Someone took Neil. Someone has him. That means he can be retrieved.
"If we go to the skin market we could be there 'til dawn and still not find him. I dunno if we have that kind of time."
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He paused for a moment and seemed to remember something, head jerking up a bit.
"...how many slaver lackeys you know can afford to keep a van going in the city? I mean, buying out protection for it from the Old Order alone would...they've got to have money."
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"If they've got money... or if they're getting money from somewhere... people know who they are. Bet anything on it." He pushes away from the wall, hands dropping to his sides. He feels weary and restless both at once. He needs to sleep, but he knows he couldn't if he tried.
"C'mon." He starts off down the street. "Looks like we're gonna have to do some barhopping after all."
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"Okay," he said, rubbing his face, shaking himself. "Okay. We've got this. Lets go."
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"We gotta do this careful," he mutters, looking around the room. "We call more attention to ourselves, I don't think we're gonna help anyone."
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He glanced around at the chaos, liquor, sex, everything for sale in one way or another.
"Where do we start?"
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He takes a swallow of his drink, grimaces slightly as it takes the lining of his esophagus with it, turns back to the bartender and leans in close.
"So," he says, setting the glass down on the bar. The bartender is a big man, scarred, tattooed knuckles, one eyebrow a solid mass of piercings. He scowls darkly. "We're new in town. Me and my friend here. We're looking to move some... merchandise." He puts emphasis on the last word, his eyes flicking up meaningfully as he does so. Merchandise means goods. It also means people. "Ideally, we'd get a truck, a van, something like that. Any idea who we'd wanna talk to?"
The bartender grunts, casts an even darker scowl in Tom's direction. "No one moves anything here 'less the Order knows 'bout it."
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"How would you suggest we let the Order know about it?"
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"You know what we need, then. We can pay once we get it, believe me." He fishes in his pocket and pulls out another shotgun shell, nudging it across the bar. "And that's for your trouble."
The man grins again, pockets the shell and nods across the room to a thin, weasily looking man engaged in intense conversation with someone about twice his size. "He might be a good start."
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That didn't matter now. Neil mattered now.
"I hear you can maybe help us about tracking down a van," Tom said when their conversation petered off. "Order approved, of course."
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Mike shrugs right back, looks him up and down. He had been worried that the big man was a bodyguard. That doesn't seem to be the case, as the man's turned his attention away, drifting toward another part of the room. So if they can get him out of here, get him somewhere deserted...
"We got some merch to move," he says. "High quality stuff. Fresh. In pretty good shape, too, considering." He grins, feeling a little sick. "We feed 'em well."
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The little man's face pulled into a slick kind of smile. Please. Slavery was good money.
"Of course...bipedal bargains all go through Sasha up at Navy Pier." He spread his hands in supplication. "But of course you know this." He gave them a pitying look, all concerned salesmen. "You do know this, yes? Getting in touch with Sasha can be....expensive."
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"We can pay. And then some." He inclines his head toward the door. "Look it's kinda noisy in here. If you step outside with me for a minute, you can explain where I can contact Sasha. And I'm sure I can make it worth your while."
The man narrows his eyes suspiciously, but there's greed glittering in them as well. He lifts the corner of his jacket, pats the small but wicked-looking firearm at his side, and nods. "All right. We go."
Again Mike catches Tom's gaze, sending a silent message. As soon as we're alone, we take him. Be ready.
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Well. There were worst places to start, if it came to that.
Tom let the door shut behind him, moving to stand between Mike and the man and the mouth of the alley. Nothing but a dead end and two pissed off ex-military guys that were desperate as hell.
"You said something about Sasha?" Tom said slowly, fingers curling on the butt of his gun.
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"We know what we're doing," Mike says. He says it very quietly. His gun is drawn and aimed, drawn and aimed since the man started reaching for his own gun. The man's squinty eyes widen very slightly. He's let a good life here, maybe. Not too many people waving firearms at him.
"Drop it now. Unless you wanna lose some fingers."
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"Try us," Tom said, and his voice sounded strange to his own ears, tired and desperate, and I don't care who you are, all we need to do is use you.
"You're not going to get paid, but you might get out of here alive," Tom said, gun pointed at the man's spine.
"Put it down."
Whatever that put through the other man's head, a moment later, the weapon clattered to the oilslicked ally floor, and the ratty man kicked it over to Mike.
"No way to conduct business," he muttered acidly, "No way at all..."
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"I think this might go better if we're a little further away from the street," he says, nodding further down the alley. "If you would...?"
The man scowls, seems ready to stand his ground, but one glance back at Tom, and then at Mike again, and he appears to think better of it. "You'll regret this," he sneers, even as he follows Mike's direction and walks. "I'll make you wish you had never set foot in that place."
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Tom followed, feeling the anger prickling under his skin, dangerous and unruly, not completely foreign but something he hadn't really felt since the last time he was here, half broken, unsure of himself, worried for Mike and Florence and the weight of an impossible task. Christos. The world was fucked beyond saving long before he'd come along.
"Any new skin on the market?" Tom asked without preamble. "Maybe you heard something today? Maybe one of your cars was out of the lot around the time of the gathering in Millennium park?"
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