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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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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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He nudges again. "Look, we got no reason to keep you alive if you're not useful. If you're not being useful on purpose, I think I can come up with some ways to loosen up your lips."
The man glares at the two of them, but something behind his eyes is starting to waver, and something else is creeping in, something a little like fear. He's starting to understand, with the slow thinking of a man unused to having guns pointed at him, that this is deadly serious. "I don't know what you're talking about."
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He paused, staring at the back of the man's head, watching Mike's face. He hated this place, he realized. He'd known, always, but he hated it fiercly in that moment for what it had done to them, and what it made them do now. Mike had held his daughters a few nights ago.
"A man that can help us..." Tom trailed off, shrugging. "Well, he has a decent shot of getting out of here alive."
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Mike hits him. It's with the butt of the gun, a smooth and easy and calculated motion, and it knocks two of the man's front teeth out, which is what it had been intended to do. He yelps sharply, the sound echoing off the concrete, and spits them onto the pavement. He lifts his hands to his wounded mouth and before they cover it, blood is running down his chin.
"'Ou bashterdsh," he whimpers, muffled through the pain and his fingers. "Ou fucking bashterdsh."
"Sticks and stones," Mike says, swinging the gun back around. "Tell us about the vans and maybe you'll still be able to chew."
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"He's not kidding," Tom said flatly, going into a crouch, looking down at the man's face, covered in bloody spittle. "Usually, I play good cop, here. I tell him to be nice. To give you a chance. But here's the thing, you're standing between us and something we want very, very badly." He picked up one of the man's teeth off the ground and threw it at his shirt. "That's not a safe place to be. Tell us. About. The vans."
The man spit up at him, bloody and awful, and Tom just turned away abruptly, and said to Mike. "That's it, shoot him."
"Wait!" the man garbled, suddenly apologetic and desperate. "I...migh' remember...thomthing...today? You want to know about today?"
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He'll wonder about the relief later.
"Today," he says coldly, staring down. "This afternoon, fuckwad. Out in the park, where the assembly was. Start talking."
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And it will be, again. He had to believe that.
"Bosco," the little man managed, shoulders hunched. "Slaver. Keepth the skin outside town until sale day." Suddenly eager to be helpful, he glanced back at Tom before continuing. "Old Order gets first dibs. They want...um...you know. Bed warmer'th. And anyone that they could use...ah...politically."
He eyed Mike suspiciously, as if he'd just suddenly become familiar. "You're not political, are you?"
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"Where outside town?" His free hand moves, and it settles on the hilt of his knife. "You tell me now, you walk away. You might even do it in one piece." His gaze hits the man's bloody chin and he remembers the sound of teeth hitting the pavement, and to his own horror he feels himself grin. "Mostly."
He never wanted Tom to see him like this, no matter how many times he already has. Maybe it's a blessing that Neil isn't here.
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"Old Paramount theater..." He looked up at Mike, bleary eyed. "You're already dead if you think you're getting in there," he said, sounding satisfied. "You go there - death th'entence. You won't even get to go on the stage. Best guarded buildin' outside Santiago City. You're already dead."
Tom spat angrily, bile surfacing in the back of his throat. He leaned down and pressed the muzzle of his gun against the back of the little man's head. Who was he in the real world? What had he done in a world that wasn't ruined by all this? Father? Husband? Son?
"You mention this to anyway, we'll find you. Tell people you got mugged. Tell them you cheated us at cards. Tell them anything. But tell them what we came for, and we'll find you. We will find you."
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"That was just on principle," Mike growls. "You heard the man. Get the fuck outta here."
The little man gets to his feet, looks from Tom to Mike, and clearly he expects to be shot in the back the second he turns it. But finally the chance of escape is too much and he turns and hobbles away, whimpering quietly and shooting murderous glances back over his shoulder.
"We shoulda killed him," Mike says, watching him go. Suddenly he's just tired, deeply weary. They'll have to rest soon, before they do anything else. "He'll blab."
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"Lets see what his blabbing can do before then."
His shoulders sagged and he looked immeasurably tired. He gave Mike a fleeting, exhausted grin.
"Aurora, huh?" He stretched, holstering his gun. "We better get moving."
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Questioning. Asking, Where are we going? Because it's the three of them now, whatever they need.
This isn't where she thought she'd find them, but they always move on without her if she needs to leave and she always finds them.
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But this isn't the Florence he remembers, and he couldn't even begin to explain what's happened. What's happening. So he gives her a grim smile, grips her shoulder briefly in the closest thing to an embrace that they usually reach.
"One of our... friends got snatched up by skin traders," he says simply. "We gotta try to bust him out." He nods down the street, towards the car in the distance, a low hulk in the dimness. They don't have to go back to the El cars. There's nothing there for them.
"We gotta get outta town first."
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She'd held the twins, played with there hair. They'd laughed together in the late, humid evening, watching Pinocchio be a father like he'd been born to it.
Now...now was too hard to imagine.
"Bosco's the trader," he said gruffly, talking to the sidewalk and looking at her over his shoulder. "Know anything about him?"
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Her eyebrows lift questioningly, though. Friend? Mike doesn't make friends, he barely tolerates Tom's presence most of the time even now, even after all this time.