5
America is a nation at war; at war with itself.
This isn't a recent development. Not really. This particular pot has been stirring ever since America's birth, and right now, it's boiling. With the nation neatly torn in half between those willing to destroy all that is foreign to their idea of order and those willing to perpetuate a hurtful status quo for as long as it remains under their control, things are not going well. This isn't a fault in the system, however, not some flaw in an otherwise functioning structure — it is an inherent feature of its design.
Both parties are fully aware of this, of course. They actively enjoy this game. It's a thrill, to wait and see which of the two will come out on top this time. Is it those willing to go to war under the pretense of equity, or those willing to sit back and relax as the world bursts into dollar-writ flames? Well, sit at the table, take a gamble, and see who wins this round — and if a few people die in the process, so be it. It's a fair price.
And so one spin after another the wheel keeps on moving, forever breaking those unfortunate enough to find themselves under its heel. A few decades ago, it was the socialists and the muslims — right now, though, it's those who were born with a talent for magic. For those on top of the wheel, it's all the same. It matters not who they break for as long as somebody is being broken — the machine cares not for the kind of blood that fuels its engines.
Still, for better or for worse, today's age is that of Dan Crenshaw, prime delegate of the shameless warmongers. And it so happens that the war he's waged targets the magic inside his country — a conflict most fair, as half the nation would certainly agree. But he doesn't fight just with disinformation and hatred, as all his former friends did — his weapon is perfect. A virus, one that will spread to the whole country and take away all that which is special about those he opposes — all that makes them who they really are.
Naturally, the second half of the nation does not quite like this. They do not hesitate to fight back, but neither do their opponents — it's a vicious, cancerous cycle.
This is how things have been for the last few months, at the very least. If one were to describe the America of today, the picture they'd paint would be one of flame and violence — not of liberty and prosperity.
But perhaps not all is lost. Maybe there is still some humanity to be found in spite of the divisions, in spite of the Coalition occupation, and in spite of the quarantine that chokes the country. That is certainly what two people believe, still stuck inside Washington, the heart of the disease that is slowly eating away at the rotting carcass of America.
But will they remain in their optimism if they see what the rest of the country has fallen into?
The man just sighs. "Miss, I don't think you understand. Nothing has changed. I can't let you out." He pauses. "Not until we get our rounds of the cure, at least."
She gives him a look that used to challenge gods. "No, I don't think you understand. I've tolerated sitting here and doing nothing for half a year — but things have changed." She crosses her arms, and lifts her chin in defiance. "I have more important things to do than listening to what some goddamned bureaucrat thinks is best for me."
For a few seconds, he doesn't reply. He just blinks, tired, and slowly looks down at the ID she's presented with him. When he recognizes the name, he blinks two more times — this time with a bit more energy, but all the same frustration — and looks back up at her.
"Miss Hadfield," he says, his tone firm. "I realize that coming to terms with how things work in our society may not be easy for… people of your former position. But here's the hard truth:" He leans in from inside the booth, his face almost touching the plexi panel meant to separate them in case either is sick. "You are no longer special. So learn to live in the world you've decided to build, and stop acting like you still own it."
He waits a moment for the words to land, then clears his throat, and looks at the person behind her in line. "Next!"
Abigail Hadfield, former SCP Foundation Overseer Eight, now little more than a wealthy nobody under the Veilless world, clenches her fists and furrows her brows, but complies with the order. The kid might be little more than one-tenth her age, but he's right. She won't change anything about the machine she's raging against — not by shouting at people who've only gotten their jobs thanks to nepotism, at least. (She recognizes the irony of that thought, but refuses to dwell on it — she has better things to do than to reminiscent on her father.)
With an angry grunt, she steps out of the line, and heads back to her Coalition-appointed Temporary Washington Virion Relocation Camp living quarters.
"And?" John asks the second she slam-shuts the doors to their dorm. "How did it go?"
She sighs, and falls down on her bed. "About as well as you'd expect." She props her head up with her hand and turns to look at her brother. He's still staring at some old tome he's brought with them when they got stuck here all those months ago, and doesn't give her the courtesy of eye contact. She doesn't mind. She's gotten used to it over the centuries they've lived with each other. "The kid gave me a talk and an attitude, but the gist is the Coalition's not letting us out until they get the vaccine, our former positions be damned. Goddamned prick."
Abigail isn't the most pleasant person on a good day, and recent days have been quite far from even decent; John is well aware of this, as well as of the fact that most of his words won't do anything to persuade his sister. Still, he doesn't blame her. Anybody would be frustrated if what was meant as a two-day-break and connecting flight between London and the Daevon excavation site turned into a ten-month detention against their will.
Of course, both of them know their current circumstances are necessary, which naturally does nothing to make them any less irritating.
"You shouldn't be so hard on him," he says, and closes the book. He turns in his chair and looks at her, crossing his arms. "He probably got the job thinking it will be a two-week adventure he could put down on his CV. He wasn't expecting this."
She groans and throws her hands in the air, letting them land on the questionably soft mattress and blanket they've been given. "I know. Still. If I could just call Al Fine through Ran, they'd—"
He rolls his eyes, and moves the chair closer. "Abi. You know you can't do that anymore." Before she cuts him off, he adds, "Besides. Do you really think they still remain in touch? After all those years?"
"Ugh. You're right." She sits back up. "You're right."
For a few moments, they just sit in silence in their Coalition-appointed barrack. Their two figures stand in almost comical contrast to the dwelling; it's a painfully modern piece of quickly put-together wooden and steel architecture stretched across what could maybe amount to twenty square meters total, including two beds, a table, and a bathroom. Their things lay scattered all around it, breaking the tidy symmetry its architects have probably intended; they certainly weren't expecting the messy backpacks, suitcases, clothes, and books its current residents have brought in. (Under normal circumstances, John would have long since made sure that everything is tidied up, but — be it from contempt at the ones who have assigned them here or the realization that this state is only temporary — this time, he hasn't bothered.)
John and Abigail are an antithesis to the place. Both look as if they are pushing eighty. He is a tall, lanky, and smartly dressed man with a tidy gray beard and mustache. Though his wrinkled face doesn't even account for half of his true age, you can see it all in his exhausted, gray eyes. They'd be bespeckled if he hadn't been receiving the best possible healthcare in the world for most of his life. On the other hand, she is a tiny figure, maybe one-and-a-half meters at most, her diminutive body covered in a black button-up dress that was probably a great fashion sensation in the early twentieth century. With curly hair in a short ponytail and a grimace on her aging face, she could almost come off as just another helpless geriatric at first glance, but her bright purple eyes remain a testament to the reality-bending might held by her small figure.
After a longer while, John clears his throat. "So," he says, taking a slow breath. "What is your plan?"
She raises an eyebrow.
"I mean, what we should do now. It is clear that you are not happy sitting around here. Not that I blame you," he adds and puts his hands up before she can intercede, "but you have to realize that going to the supervisor and asking to leave every single day might come off as… hmm, suspicious, after a while. Especially considering the letters you sent out to our lawyers back home."
She gives him the type of look she used to give Overwatch Command bureaucrats. "John," she says very calmly. "It's in five days."
He furrows his brows. "Wh—" he tries to say; a brief spark of realization flies across his face almost immediately. "Oh. Oh my."
"Yeah."
"Good heavens. That certainly complicates things." There is genuine worry plastered across his face.
She crosses her arms. "Yes. We can't miss it."
He almost shakes his head. "Certainly not. He would be heartbroken. If we haven't missed it during the late thirties, then…" He scratches his forehead. "Good lord. Has it really already been almost a year?"
She first eyes his books, then him, as if trying to suggest something; he doesn't notice. "Yes, John. So what do we do? It's clear that my requests are not going to be listened to. Not unless Torres' cure makes it to the camp, at least. Which," she says, rolling her eyes. "Could be days, could be months. We don't have the time to sit around and hand our life to that man. However competent he may be."
John silently contemplates for a few seconds. When he speaks up again, his tone is calm and quiet — he's already made up his mind. "We cannot stay here."
She nods. "I'm glad that you agree. For what it's worth, I really am sorry we'll have to break the—"
He holds up his hand. "It's all right. I have already made my peace with it. There are things far more important than the rules."
She smiles with honesty, and just a tint of surprise. "Aye." She pauses, and considers the issue herself. "So, how do we go about it? I can break us out of the actual camp no problem," she says, letting a few purple sparks of power fly around her irises. "but getting away from it is a whole another issue entirely, let alone actually getting to him."
He slowly inhales. "Well. With planes, teleportation, and ships out of the question, we don't have much choice, do we?"
"You can't mean it."
"I'm afraid I can."
She rubs her temple, and stands up from the bed. "Ugh. Fine. But you're the one driving. Someone's going to have to put on the music and take pictures," she says, already reaching for the camera hung near her bed. It's an old relic of a far less civilized age, but she wouldn't have it any other way — though the hobby might be new, she likes it the way she has remembered it for most of her life. "Besides, if the Coalition pricks get us, someone's going to have to fight back, eh?"
He chuckles, and stands up himself. He stretches, and reaches for his backpack.
Before an hour passes, they are both ready to say goodbye to their dwelling.
Four things happen that night.
One: there is a breach in the security perimeter around the Temporary Washington Virion Relocation Camp Number 32; it's a small hole in one of its fences, one that won't get noticed until the first guard patrols the grounds in sixteen hours. Still, the strength with which the bars were pulled apart will remain a testament to the strength of the perpetrator, whoever they may be.
Two: John and Abigail Hadfield are officially reported as missing by the appointed supervisor of the facility the moment they don't show up for the mandated breakfast in the canteen. Their dwelling is searched and found empty, save for a single middle finger ontokinetically engraved upon its doors. A search party is sent immediately to catch them for breaching their quarantine, in accordance with all of the procedures set by the Coalition. The remaining officials find that the signage on the door cannot be cleared; it remains etched into its atomic structure no matter the effort.
Three: a broken, half-functioning SUV built well before the Veil had fallen and the mode of transportation was optimized sets its tires on the Interstate Highway number 95. It can barely move faster than sixty kilometers per hour and was paid off with House Hadfield memorabilia through less-than-legal channels owned by long-forgotten friends, but it will have to do. It can cover the fifteen hundred kilometers separating its two passengers from their destination just well enough, even with the little time they still have remaining.
Four: Abigail Elizabeth Hadfield leans back in her seat, staring into the rising sun, and turns on the radio.
♪
What if the world dies with the sunrise?
Baby it's all right, we'll be up all night
What if we're unmade when the stars fade?
Keep me going 'til the night turns into the day
♪
4
In time, and after one too many albums, the sun finally rises. It does nothing to fend away the chilly though snowless December air. It does make Abigail realize how much time has passed, though; she changes the station so as to not torment her brother any further with her excellent music taste. (He's an old relic; he still only enjoys the classics.)
The first thing that comes on is the news.
"…for the fugitives John and Abigail Hadfield continues," the radio buzzes, only barely still compatible with the waves it was tasked with intercepting. "Last seen at 11:23 PM on December the—"
Abigail abruptly turns down the volume, making it just enough to be heard but not loud enough to interrupt their thoughts. She and John exchange a nervous look, but neither is really shocked — they fully expected this to happen when they made their choice. The only thing that comes as a surprise is just how fast the chase came. Still; with Abigail's skills and a six hours head-start, they know they can make it without getting caught.
Nevertheless, over the next hour and in-between Abigail's curses and John's drawn-out sighs, they hatch together a plan.
They can't travel by day, that much is certain. The chance of actually getting spotted by some loose Coalition drone or convoy is far too high to risk it, meaning the night's their only friend. Their ride probably can't drive faster than the legal lower limit on Interstates, but that's not an issue — the nights are long, this time of the year, and both can manage driving some six hours after every sunset. (In truth, Abigail almost prefers it this way — the music doesn't feel quite the same during the day.) Their SUV might be almost ancient by paratech standards, but whoever cobbled this thing together made damn sure to include a thaumo-compressor in the mess they decided to call an engine. Thanks to that — as well as several other technological advances made by the oil lobby, unwilling to give up its seat at the table — they have well enough petrol to pass through most of the journey without needing to stop.
The second they'll pass through Georgia, though, their car won't cut it anymore. They won't be able to get into Florida proper through land. They'll need a ship to somehow cross through that canal, but a few calls made by John quickly take care of that issue. The Veil faded more than one quarter of a century ago, but some friendships — especially those fueled by the dollar — prove stronger than time.
Suffice to say, with thirteen hundred kilometers on the road and four-and-a-half days left, the twins remain firmly positive they can make it. They've driven through the hellscape of American highways many times before, and the fact that they're doing so illegally this time around changes almost nothing.
Their first issue arises almost immediately.
"We're out of food," Abigail mumbles out in-between hasty mouthfulls of Coalition-branded beef jerky. They were well aware that they'd need to stock up sometime down the road, but John hoped that maybe they'd last at least a day before needing to make a stop. He indicates that thought to Abigail through a tired look. She doesn't much mind, and instead finishes the packet and throws its wrapping to the backseat. John flinches, but doesn't say anything. "We could use some more water, too. What we've got will only last us two days. And I'd rather we stop only when it's absolutely necessary." She eyes the petrol meter. Its indicator is sitting comfortably at an approximated eighty-five percent.
John sighs. It's no use fighting; the decision's already been made. Left with no other choice, he rubs his eyes and changes lanes from central to right, leaving Abigail on the lookout for any still-operational buildings left somewhere in-between the quarantined cities of the United States.
Soon enough, a faded sign that reads "affl ous" looms on the horizon. Judging by the amount of cars present both in its parking lots and on the strips of road leading to the establishment, there's a fair chance it's open for business.
John sighs again, and takes a quick turn towards the building. He makes triple sure that their car is locked when they exit. Even then, he still has his doubts, but Abigail's enthusiasm almost makes him forget them.
The restaurant is chock-full of people from every age group and ethnicity. Abigail is almost certain she can spot a few Yeren and Fae strung somewhere in-between the average American truck driver and the occasional mercenary. All of them are here illegally — under official quarantine guidelines, transit between cities is strictly prohibited for the non-Coalition hoi polloi, no matter the reason — and all of them know that. Bound by an unspoken pact of mutually-assured self-destruction, every client here is damn well aware of the lot they're sitting and eating with. There's a common understanding between all of those smugglers, dealers, on-the-run criminals, and concerned parents: for as long as they sit inside this building, they are in this together.
So, the second the newcomers enter through, all eyes fall on them.
From concern to frustration to just plain worry, it's clear that people don't take kindly to potential leaks here. They stare down John and Abigail, trying their best to see if there's any chance the twins are Coalition agents, sent here to break their little party and drag them behind bars. A few patrons even grope guns hidden behind their long jackets — it's clear that in spite of its transitory circumstances, these people consider this place serious business.
Suddenly, one of the people next to the counter clears their throat. They grab the TV remote and bring the volume up, causing everyone present to take a look.
Displayed upon one of the walls sit the faces of John and Abigail, plastered alongside the faces of the many other escapees and relevant information pertaining to their wanted status.
The eyes of the customers fall back to the twins.
Then, as if nothing had happened, the building explodes with chatter. Everyone returns to their business, and the presenter on the TV swiftly moves on to the subject of the New Shanghai Commune sentencing the management of the All-China Federation of Industry to death.
"See?" Abigail says, grabbing John by the hand and leading him to one of the free tables. "I told you there was nothing to worry about."
John almost sighs from relief. "Right. Of course." He picks up the menu laying atop the sticky wood. He clears his throat. "So. What are you having?"
"Hmm." Abigail skews her head and bites her lip. "Well. It'd be a crime to visit and not order their firstborn, eh?"
John blinks twice.
"You know. The house special. The thing they're named after."
"Oh. Right. I was also thinking that. And tea."
Abigail nods. "Absolutely."
The waiting time is surprisingly low, for an establishment this jam-packed; after just a few minutes — and a common agreement that they'll do their shopping after they've eaten — their order is already noted down for the kitchen to handle.
In the meantime, the two turn to face the TV. The presenter's tone hasn't changed — it's as dull and uninteresting as ever. What has changed, however, is the state of her studio. Sitting next to her is an aging man, maybe somewhere in his sixties, dressed in a dark blue suit decorated by a US flag pin on his chest. With a face adorned by a sly grin and hands put together in a Mother Theresa gesture, it's clear he's quite enjoying himself.
The news line below him reads: "SECRETARY OF STATE THOMAS GRAHAM RE: THE WASHINGTON VIRION." Neither can quite make out any words spoken on the broadcast, but that doesn't stop Abigail from frowning. She furrows her brows and clenches her fists.
"Ugh. I should have taken care of that little worm when I still had the chance," she mumbles out, nervously tapping the dirty table with her fingers. "Would have done the world a final favor."
John gives her a heavy look.
"Abigail."
"I know. I know. But you can't say he wouldn't deserve it."
A smile of brief amusement flies across his face. "If Graham were to die, I think the American people would remain forever angry that the rest of congress didn't follow his stead."
Abigail smiles too, but mostly out of politeness — there's little happiness in the gesture. She has always hated subordinates like Graham, just as much as she's hated the fact her former partners in Overseerdom remained flagrantly supportive of the efficiency carried by his methods. Even then, she had little choice but to tolerate him — one of the few pains of her privileged position. Now that Graham has climbed the ladder to become one of the most influential people in the country — and now that she's no longer who she once was — her hatred for him has only grown. "I suppose." She shrugs, and puts her hands together. "But it's not like we'll ever know."
John nods. "Certainly not with our blood on his hands, yes. But who is to say how well that bastard's heart will keep on beating?"
She chuckles. This time, it's fully sincere. "We can only hope."
Their food arrives a few minutes later. It's shockingly tasty for a product of the American chain cuisine. Though the amount of sugar in it is far from healthy or reasonable, the taste it adds up to ends up being much better than either would have dared to hope.
What isn't so good, though, is the tea. It's exactly what you'd expect from a half-stocked American restaurant. Abigail drinks it all anyway — at this point, anything that will wash out the sweetness of the meal before will do. John isn't willing to be complicit in such a crime against good taste, though. As a proper English gentleman almost as old as this damned country, he won't tolerate what the consumerist hell calls tea around those parts. He refuses to engage with it past the first sip.
Without much hesitation, Abigail takes his cup and empties it. She won't let already-paid-for goods go to waste. Not ones she can tolerate, at the very least.
When they're done half an hour later, John pays the bill, thanks the waiter, and kindly requests that their wanted information not be actively proliferated to any newcomers anymore. When that's taken care of, he and Abigail quickly leave the locale.
"Like I said," Abigail says as they begin crossing the parking lot, heading for the small grocery store located on its second end. "It wasn't so bad. Neither the place nor the people, I mean."
John nods, but still isn't fully convinced. "I will count those chickens only when we are back on the road."
She raises an eyebrow, surprised at her brother using a metaphor — a most uncommon occurrence — but continues her stride in silence. She wouldn't openly admit it, but he is probably right.
Still, when they reach the shop, she remains positive it'll go all right. She looks at John. He clears his throat and points at the doors with an "after you" gesture. Abigail smiles, and walks through.
The inside isn't as bad as John has expected, but is far less stocked than Abigail has hoped. Most of its shelves are either in the process of being emptied or are already bereft of any goods. The "higher-quality" products — which, in this economy and under these trade quarantines, means coffee, sugar, spices, cigarettes, and alcohol — are nowhere to be seen. The only things that are left are giant 5-liter bottles of water, rice, and some military-grade food that one would normally expect in a nuclear fallout shelter. Still, it's not like they've got any choice — all of this will have to do.
While Abigail keeps looking at the local TV — which keeps on broadcasting a Phoenix Technology programme showcasing the few areas the cure has already been distributed to — John walks up to the cash register and shoots the attendee a small smile. She's one of five other people present in the shop alongside the twins — both of the other clients are in the back of the shop scavenging for resources. It is clear they are in the same exact position as John and Abigail.
In spite of this, Abigail keeps careful watch on her fellow customers. They might not be openly hostile, but the fact they're here makes them already suspicious. She does this as John continues his conversation with the cashier, trying very politely to see if the shop has what they need and if it even accepts cash as payment.
After a moment, one of the patrons slowly walks up to the register. They are hooded and wear ragged, worn-down clothes. With one hand in their pocket and the other tightened into a fist, they carry a vague smell of alcohol and cigarettes around them. It's not the smell of an everyday homeless person, though — it's the smell of adrenaline and intentional intoxication. Abigail eyes them.
Something is wrong.
"That will be—" John tries to say as he finishes packing what he's just purchased, only for the newcomer's fist to hit the register. John gives them a confused look, and from inside their good, the face of a bearded middle-aged man appears. His eyes are bloody and his muscles are tense. He does not look at John — his eyes are fully focused on the girl behind the register.
With his left hand, he gropes something beneath his jacket.
"Everybody stay fucking still or I'll blow your goddamn heads off," he says in a shaking, throaty voice as he nervously eyes first the register, then its atendee. "I want everything you have there. Everything anyone's paid with in the last few d—"
John puts his hands up. "Sir, please, I really do not believe this is necess—"
"I said STAY FUCKING STILL," the man shouts, drops of spit falling onto John's shirt, whom he's now come to face. He furrows his brows and unpockets his weapon, pointing the old-fashioned gun directly towards John. "You think you're so clever, eh, smartass? Want to be the hero of the d—"
Behind them, Abigail's eyes suddenly go violently purple. Without any hesitation, she lets the power run through her veins and raises her hand, spreading the fingers in a crooked manner. Brief purple sparks begin to fly around her as she furrows her brows and lets her face twist in cold fury.
Shocked — and barely comprehending thanks to the booze — the man quickly turns towards Abigail, his weapon following the direction of his shaking hand.
She doesn't give him time to react. Instead, she crooks her finger further and bends the barrel of the gun, making it impossible to fire. Then, with one movement of her hand, she makes him fly towards the nearest wall. She doesn't use much force, but the man is in no position to oppose an attack of a reality bender as powerful as her. He collapses a few shelves on his way down towards the floor.
When he does fall, the rest of the structure follows, entombing him in broken rubble and planks.
Still shaking from anger, Abigail lets the air out and takes a deep breath, "He'll be fine. Sure as hell won't be going anywhere, though. Not anytime soon," she pants out, and turns to look at the cashier.
Only then does she notice the look the rest of the customers are giving her. There is disgust and fear plastered across their faces, some deep-rooted hatred for not what she's done, but for her character as a whole. One that wasn't present there a few moments before.
As she tries to cool down, one of the customers spits on the floor. He looks her dead in the eyes, and furrows his brows further. "Crenshaw should have taken care of your kind, too."
Abigail and John don't talk on their way back to the car, or on the few tens of kilometers they still dare to cross today before stopping. Even the music plays only for a few minutes before Abigail turns the radio off, and looks soberly at the winter-ridden American roadside, now covered by an approaching snowstorm.
That time of the year, it's almost as cold as its people.
♪
I stared right into the endless void
And I ain't going back if I got any choice
I know how to live, I don't know how to die
And there ain't no thrills in the afterlife
♪
3
When the dawn breaks, they make their stop in some off-road parking lot and wait out the day in-between John skimming some book he's taken along and Abigail napping on the blanket-covered backseats. Halfway through the stop, they switch places — John takes his rest in the driver's seat and Abigail remains on the lookout, her arms crossed with a cigarette in-between her lips. (Normally, she doesn't smoke with John around, so she uses any chance she can get.)
Soon enough, darkness engulfs them again, and they hit the road in continued silence.
They only speak again when they enter North Carolina, sometime after midnight has passed.
"Almost halfway there," Abigail says, tapping the paper map held up in front of her. Her tone isn't quite sad, but there is a tint of exasperation to it. "To the border with Florida, I mean."
John nods, and continues looking at the road in front of him in silence.
"You're sure the ride across the canal is taken care of, yeah?"
He nods again. "Yes. I am most certain."
"Good. That's good."
She crosses her arms, and begins tapping the fragile paper with her fingernails. She hasn't cut them in longer than she probably should have.
"I wonder what he will think when we—"
Slowly, John turns to look at her. "You know we can talk about it if you want to, right?"
"What?"
"We can talk about it. I'm here for you."
She looks down. "It's fine," she says, tightening her lips. "Really. I mean it."
John looks at her for a few seconds more, then turns back to face the road. He considers for a moment. "You know, with how boring the road has gotten, I think I could use something playing in the background. Do you think you could put that playlist back on?"
Abigail smiles faintly, and clicks a few of the car's archaic buttons.
When the rhythm starts playing again, she continues tapping the map. This time, though, the gesture is much calmer — and much less solemn.
Perhaps out of kindness, perhaps out of genuine enjoyment of the music, John starts tapping the steering wheel, too.
A few hours later, John spots lights on the horizon.
"What is that?" he says, pointing to the vague warm glow with his left hand. "Can you make anything out?"
Abigail furrows her brows, and scratches her chin. "It… It looks like some sort of stadium. I can't quite see it, but… there's people there, all around it. Lots of them." She shakes her head. "There's cars parked all around it, too. Big trucks just as much as small cars."
John furrows his brows. So far on their journey, barring their encounter at the Waffle House, they've only ever seen one other vehicle traverse the Interstate. Any meeting, no matter how small, might mean terrible trouble — at best, it could result in them getting into another situation, and at worst, it could end with them being sent back to the camp and missing their occasion. Risking anyone else noticing them — especially a place with so many people in spite of their circumstances — is very questionably worth not taking some other, safer route.
Whatever's going on here cannot be a good sign.
"Coalition?" he asks, already beginning to brake the car. Seconds later it stops, leaving them in almost total darkness. "PENTAGRAM? Police?"
She considers for a moment. "N-No?" Abigail skews her head. "No. No, definitely not."
"What makes you say that?"
She turns to face him. "The very large banners displaying the Manna Charitable Foundation motto above the entrance."
He furrows his brows. "That can just as well be a trap. Who is to say it isn't some outlaws using the symbol to lure in travelers?"
She crosses her arms. "Well, unless you want to backtrack and lose six more hours by taking another route, there's only one way to find out."
When they drive closer, the first thing they're greeted by is all the noise. It isn't the usual ambience of American cities or the white noise of nature surrounding the road — it's genuine, human laughter. It's the sound of conversation and people eating together, sitting nearby campfires and telling each other stories — doing all this in spite of the cold, in spite of the time of day, and in spite of their differences.
The warm glow soon turns into a series of warming fires lit up around and inside the open stadium, surrounded by tents; makeshift abodes constructed from open trunks, some blankets, and seats repurposed from the abandoned sports center. All around this provisional encampment there are larger tents decorated with the charity's green logo, sitting there alongside many of the organization's trucks occupied by exhausted personnel.
The snow hasn't yet reached here — it's still relatively warm.
The twins slowly ride towards the whole organized mess, and park the car wherever there's still space left. This time, John doesn't protest.
In time, they get close enough to the tents to see all the people.
There are a lot of them. Most of them don't have anywhere else to go.
From the permanently homeless to those only made so by Coalition displacements, it is clear that this place does not quite care that if the GOC was to catch wind of what is going on here, they wouldn't like it. Between its soup kitchens, makeshift medicare centers, and just all-around support groups, it stands in opposition to everything the Coalition — or the American government, for that matter — has ever represented.
Worse yet, it is doing it all rather selflessly, judging by the state of the volunteers and the infrastructure in general. Manna has never been one for well-established, official means of helping others (in spite of this operation de facto falling under the jurisdiction of the Coalition under Pizzicato); they've always been the kind of people to do whatever they can directly on the frontlines of their circumstances, not from behind comfortable offices and bureaucratic excuses.
Abigail smiles. She's glad to see that though this is no longer a world she recognises as her own, some things never do change.
John walks up to her, and shakes his head. "I didn't think there would be that many."
She raises an eyebrow. "That many what? Sick people? Refugees?"
"That many willing to help."
For a while, they soberly observe the campsite. Nobody present — neither the camp's inhabitants nor the Manna personnel keeping it running — seems to notice them. Nearby life just makes its way around the two still figures, carrying on as if they weren't even there.
For what it's worth, both of the twins much prefer it that way. The last thing they need in a Manna camp is someone recognizing that, a lifetime ago, they both were one of the primary people opposing the organization's continued operation.
John sighs. "I think we should see what this place's deal is. If we are going to stay here—" He looks at the already-setting sun, its first rays of light making their way from below the distant horizon. "—then we better see if we can somehow help."
Abigail nods in agreement, and they both set off towards the nearest official-looking tent.
The structure's an ugly thing, all dirty white insulated material plastered with the charity's green logos. A few small windows made from what looks like some translucent metal allow both to peep inside, into the one-room hospital.
It, too, is not pretty.
Lined in rows there stand beds, all equipped with some fancy paratech apparatus neither of the twins is qualified enough to recognize. Strapped to all of it lay patients, all diverse malnourished figures connected up to breathing tubes and monitors displaying data they can't quite read. Medical personnel run all around those sick from the virus, carrying needles, food, fresh blankets, and other things necessary for the continued survival of dignity and decency in such a place. Their bodies, though covered by masks and what Abigail recognizes as Broken Church-made quarantine exclusion harnesses — a very, very expensive piece of technology tasked with ensuring a 99.5% safety rate from infection — are all ridden by signs of exhaustion.
Though those wearing them are managing for the sake of others, they are doing so only barely.
Abigail looks once more at the bed-ridden. There are maybe two hundred of them in this particular structure, all miserable, all barely keeping on, all awaiting their dose of the cure to arrive and be distributed. In the meantime, all they can hope for is postponement — in spite of its genius, modern medicine has found no other safe cure for the Virion except the one made and distributed by Simón Torres. Slowing the virus down and hoping for the best until their savior comes is the only thing still left.
It will be a long wait, Abigail thinks.
From an angle, when she looks at them right, they almost remind her of their destination, of why they even set on this road in the first place. Both bed-ridden, both put to a misery by a world not quite appreciative of their existence, both—
Her train of thought is broken as a nurse exits the tent through the nearest airlock. She's no longer wearing the harness — beneath all of that metal and glowing wires, she's just herself again. A tall, dark-haired figure with bags under her eyes and a tablet in her hands looks at the two people standing before her workplace.
She blinks twice. "Can I help you?"
John clears his throat. "Yes, actually. Apologies for interrupting your work—"
"What happened here?" Abigail cuts in. "Why camp out here, out of all places?"
The nurse sighs, and massages her temples. "There was a game hosted here. Illegally, of course, but who can blame them after so many months. A few locals got together to watch their teams compete in conceptual wrestling, and since nobody was using the stadium, they picked this as the place." She sighs again, and looks at the rest of the encampment. "They were all sure they were not sick." She pauses. "When we were called in, it was already too late to allow them to be sent home. The rest of the folks joined in when they saw we offered a place to stay."
"Why you, though?" John asks. "Why call you and not the Coalition? Would they not have a better chance at actually getting the cure more quickly through official channels?"
The nurse gives her a tired look. "And risk getting fined or arrested or worse afterwards?" She shakes her head. "No. Loss is an alternative far preferable to shame, for most.
"Besides," she adds, "you can't blame them for not exactly having faith in the Coalition anymore. I don't think anyone's had any since the late thirties." She pauses, and takes a deep breath. "It's all a mess."
For a while, nobody speaks. All three just stand there, idly looking at the still-restless base before them.
Eventually, the nurse clears her throat. "Is there anything else I can help you with? I… I really would rather be sleeping right now, I won't lie."
John looks at her. "Is there anything we could do to help?"
The nurse eyes the patients. "For them? No. Their only hope is that bastard Torres, whenever he gets off his high horse and sends us the cure." She looks back at the camp. "But for them, though? Yeah. Go bring some life into their existence. Help them cook some soup, or something. They've been here for months now. I'm sure that they would appreciate a good story to go alongside their food to break the monotony."
The camp is shockingly active for the time of day. It doesn't come as much of a surprise to either of the twins, though — a prolonged quarantine does interesting things to the internal day and night cycle of the human body.
Over the next few hours, John and Abigail do as they were told. He cuts some vegetables and prepares some meat; she uses her skills to do the same, only at three times the efficiency. (Though John is an excellent cook, there is no outmaneuvering three whole sets of kitchen utensils moving through the air, animated by ontokinetics.) When the meal finishes brewing on the thaumically-lit flames beneath them, they bring the many brown clay bowls to those that are still hungry, in spite of the hour.
This time, there are also more of them than they had expected. Many, many more than they had hoped.
When all is said and done, the twins take their own bowls (any chance to not use the food they've got in the car cannot be missed) and sit at the nearest still-free campfire.
It's surrounded by half a dozen people. Most of them are sitting there in silence, focused only on their meal. Two of them, however, are engaged in a very loud and very passionate discussion.
"…and now you're surprised?" the first person spits out, crossing their arms. "You vote for Crenshaw, that's what you get. Exactly the same thing the Republicans have been promising since Reagan."
The other person scoffs. "Yeah, as if Buttigieg winning would have changed anything. You really think the Dems would pass a chance to get a project like this running? Come on. They would have taken it and branded it as their own. They would have taken all the credit, first maybe released it in some third world country, and then given it to the cops. Congress will consider it a rational policy no matter who proposes it.
"It's all the same. It always is the same. It doesn't matter who's in that office, man." They pause. "You're not choosing a lesser of the two evils. You're just choosing evil, no matter what you do."
Suddenly, John clears his throat. All sets of eyes fall on him, quickly followed by Abigail giving him a 'what the hell do you think you're doing' look. He nods reassuringly and turns to face the others.
"Then why… why continue this charade? Why participate in a system if you know it's broken?"
The first person scoffs. "And what would you do instead, old man? Better folks than us have tried. Besides," they say, "what else is there to choose? The system's bad, but we don't got no alternatives. The commies sure as hell ain't doing any better."
That spawns a few chuckles from the crowd.
"Truth is, old man, if you try to fix a broken wire, you can always get shocked in the process." They pause. "Not worth it, if you ask me."
For a while, John considers. "So you really do believe it is better to let the wheel break you, instead of risking getting splinters in your hands when you take a swing at it?"
The other almost laughs. "Yeah, man, 'cause I sure as hell ain't no carpenter."
They spend the rest of the day in relative silence, helping a few locals move and giving out more food. Eventually though, sometime around noon, sleep catches up with them. They retreat to their car, an old relic among the newest vehicles gathered around the stadium, and both doze off.
This time, there's no need for anyone to remain on guard. Even John agrees that with these people, they are safe.
They sleep all the way until the evening.
When they enter the campsite under a dark sky again, yawning and rubbing their eyes, it's even more lively than before. There's some sort of dance around the largest campfire, a routine neither can quite make out, played to the whistles and sung tune coming from many not-quite-synched throats. A few dozen people just move around the fire, smiling to the sounds of laughter, of conversation, of tones coming from makeshift guitars and the voices of people that had once perhaps loved to sing, when they were younger and still had the time and passion to truly love something as selflessly as one loves the act of making art.
It is the music of humanity. Of mankind in its purest form, now the same as hundreds of thousands of years ago; still huddling around a fire, still with its tribe, each member still the same as all the others in spite of their appearance and history.
Somewhere beyond the reach of the fire's light, Abigail smiles again. In her time as Overseer, she's seen different mankinds through different lens and in different times. She's seen it all. And yet, for a second time this evening, she grows ever so certain that though time goes on, nothing truly does change.
When ten in the evening strikes the clock, they eat one more portion of soup, say their goodbyes, and hit the road once more. They don't really belong here anyway. It isn't their place to join this dance, to participate in this particular aspect of mankind with the displaced and the hungry.
Besides, they have their own portion of humanity to deliver to an old, almost-empty house in Florida anyway.
♪
Ages come and go but her life goes on the same
She lives to see the sun and feel the wind and drink the rain
Her colors change to mark the passing of the days
No earthly sight can match the beauty she displays
♪
2
Not late after, midnight passes. The border with South Carolina follows close behind.
John remains unphased by the change, and just continues staring at the road in front of them. (There's quite literally nobody else on the Interstate, so giving it his full focus is unnecessary; still, he insists it's for their safety. Abigail doesn't argue.) Meanwhile, beyond the window of their car, Abigail takes a few photos of the forests they continue to pass; though its almost the same as the landscape in the Northern twin state they have just left, this time, her thoughts aren't as occupied, and she can give it her full attention.
This time of the year — and in opposition to North Carolina — the many trees are covered by a thick layer of snow, just as they have always been ever since their sprouting an odd century ago. To them, this winter is no different to all the hundreds of others that came before, and the hundreds that will still come in the future. It's a calm cycle, one that leaves them unbothered by the raging politics of the world around them.
One that, on some level, Abigail almost grows envious of. Some part of her would like to just forever settle down and do nothing, until the long-awaited end of her prolonged life inevitably comes, sometime in the next hundred years.
Still, for better or for worse, she knows she's made her choice centuries ago, when she said yes to the position of Overseer Eight. The fact that the position's faded doesn't mean her character or attitude has. She's already chosen to be an active player in this world's history the second she agreed to privilege. After so many years of living that life, she can't possibly ever back down and relax. It would be against her nature.
Old habits die hard; ancient habits remain alive like cancer. And there's very few people on this planet older in their routine than Abigail Hadfield.
She sighs, crosses her arms, and looks back at the monotonous road still in front of them. She's seen a lot of it in the past few days, and she sure as hell isn't expecting that streak to change anytime soon; not until they get to Georgia and enter their ship, at the very least. Still, she's not complaining. She's well aware that the American road in-between cities could have been much, much worse for them.
Left with no other choice, she leans back, and tries to enjoy the music.
It's almost a good time.
They continue like this for a few hours. A few hours they spend on reminiscing about old times, and what will come still later on. It's a tradition they've kept up for centuries, ever since they were children — for what could a family ever be without a conversation? Well. They know what a family like that would be. They both remember their father, even all those years later, even after they've cut themselves off from his legacy. They both remember his coldness. It's only fair they do everything in their might to never allow his specter to haunt them again.
The laughs stop the second Abigail notices a car coming their way from the opposite lane.
She blinks twice, unsure if what she's seeing is real or just a product of her brain reacting to the monotony of the road and late hour. But no, it's definitely there; though it's still far away, the large TIR truck remains unmistakable for anything else.
Worryingly, its lights are turned off, and it hauls no container alongside it. It's just the front module, blasting through the Interstate at a speed that is definitely not allowed for a vehicle of its size and make.
Abigail narrows her eyes. It doesn't add up as just another lone wanderer trying to get through the Coalition-set boundaries. Not with that panicked speed. Something's wrong.
When the truck passes next to them, Abigail gets a very brief moment to look at the driver. In that split second, she notices a face plastered with worry and determination.
She immediately turns towards John. "Drive faster," she says in a firm, cold tone. "Drive faster and find the nearest exit."
He doesn't turn back at her. He just grabs the steering wheel more firmly. "What? Why on earth—"
"That truck's being chased by someone. Or something. Presumably it's the cops, but it could also be scavengers or something that's gotten loose from the local national parks." She pauses, and leans out of her chair, trying to get a better line of sight to the other lane. "Either way, it's bad. If it's Coalition, it is really bad."
John nods, and floors the gas pedal without further questions. Somehow, their half-broken ride manages to convert it into some two-hundred on the speed meter. (Though only barely and very briefly, judging by the sounds the engine is starting to make.)
Soon enough, the pursuer reveals itself.
It's an armored PENTAGRAM van, a long, black and dark-gray vehicle like the ones made for war. Equipped with bullet-proof glass and segments of paratech covering, it isn't the standard police car the regime sends to interventions against a protesting public; it's an active and deadly tool of the industrial military complex, one made for merciless and effective operations as dictated directly by the generals and colonels sitting deep beneath the Pentagon.
Worse yet, though it is still far away, it has definitely seen them. If this was a Coalition asset, the twins could hope for some level of humanity; the United Nations enjoy maintaining a facade of decency and mercy. They'd get arrested, sure, and probably beaten, but all in all they'd make it out mostly good. But PENTAGRAM? That's a whole different story entirely. As members of the privileged one-percent, they can argue and negotiate with cops; they can't even dare to hope for the same mercy from hardened military types, given freedom to do whatever they like with criminals under Procedure Pizzicato.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Abigail mouths out, and turns back to look at her map. The nearest exit from the Interstate is at least ten kilometers away. Even at their speed, that's still some three minutes before they can even begin an actual escape. Far too much time. She grabs John by the shoulder. "Drive!"
John pushes the pedal even further. At this speed, neither can quite make out if it has any effect; still, for better or for worse, he keeps on pushing. He considers the illusion of counter-action far better than the panic that would inevitably arise from realizing he's already met the end of his resources.
"What the hell are you doing?!" John says towards Abigail, still not turning away from the road. His arms are almost fully straightened out, and his grip on the steering wheel's already making his knuckles turn white.
Abigail just grunts, unmaking her belt and jumping towards the backseats. When she lands in-between the bags, bottles of water, and blankets, she grunts again, but quickly stands up on her knees and looks out beyond the back window. "Preparing for the inevitable!" she shouts back at John, trying to make her voice heard in spite of the ever-louder growls and clanks of the overworked engine.
She grits her teeth, narrows her eyes, and focuses on the truck.
Then, just as expected, there it comes.
As the truck passes forward to continue chasing the TIR, from the back of it — some hidden compartment, perhaps, Abigail's no expert in evil engineering in spite of her expertise in shadow governments — comes… something. Abigail can't quite make out its shape or make. It is blurred before her eyes, as if hidden behind some attention-diffusing veil or antimemetic membrane. All she can discern is that she can't focus on it like she'd want to, and that it is capable of flight.
That and that, in spite of their great speed, it is intently focused on following and catching up to them.
"Fuck!" she shouts again, and closes her eyes for a few moments, trying to calm down. Still, even then, behind her closed eyelids, the image of their pursuer remains, almost as if it was engraved upon some deeper level of her psyche. She grits her teeth further, opens her eyes, and tightens her fists.
"What's going on?!" John shouts from the front. Again he doesn't turn back.
"A drone. They sent a fucking drone after us."
"What?!"
"PENTAGRAM-issued weaponry. If it catches us in close enough range, it can and probably will shoot us. With thaumic missiles."
This time, John does look back. "WHAT?!"
"It's a military drone repurposed for the sake of peacekeeping." Her breathing is almost steady. She tries her best to control her heartbeat, so with a forcibly calm tone, she adds, "They took Pizzicato more literally than most."
"Oh lord."
"So floor that goddamn pedal like your life depends on it."
John nods, and turns back to face the road.
Meanwhile, Abigail narrows her eyes even further. She knows that, if she can just focus on the drone for even a split second, she can rip it out with ontokinetic pressure from the inside. Unfortunately, its designers were keenly aware of that too, hence the whole cloaking veil to begin with. Whichever bastard at Lockheed Martin or whatever other company put this thing together was smart enough to know that no conventional defence will do against people with the power to wield magic or reality-bending in their palm.
She always did believe that the industrial military complex's worst crime was employing actually competent people.
That entire train of thought lasts maybe two seconds, but the drone uses that time to its full advantage, too.
From some internal pocket beyond human perception it fires two missiles, both small and short cylinders aimed directly at their car, both capable of independent movement and actual focus.
Thankfully, this time around, Abigail can comprehend what's coming at them. She's glad that training her reflexes for two centuries didn't go to waste.
With one swipe of her hand, she forces the rockets back, back towards the drone, hoping she can overwhelm their own drive and take out their pursuer.
Though the movement works and the rockets do indeed get sent back, the drone isn't dumb, either. Whatever artificial facsimile of intelligence pilots it moves out of the way, letting the two weapons hit each other and explode right behind it.
Abigail curses beneath her nose. "How much longer until the exit?" she shouts, already counting the nearby area for whatever else she can use as a weapon.
Suddenly, she gets an idea.
"Some two minutes! Can you hold it off until then?"
"I'll try my goddamn best," she mutters out, and rolls up her sleeves. She closes her eyes and focuses on the trees around the road, all those hundreds of thousands of tonnes of flora entombing their passage from every side. She focuses on it and, with a movement so violent it nearly fractures a blood vessel somewhere in her brain, she uproots as much of it as she can possibly lift.
With trembling hands, Abigail Hadfield raises a forest. Well. As much of said forest as she can; still, the trees around them come to life, slowly levitating beneath where they previously sat for a peaceful century.
"Agh!" she shouts in some guttural growl, and imitates a throwing gesture with her right hand. Maybe a quarter of the trees obey, and fall towards the drone at speeds rivaling that of sound.
Neither of the twins see the results. John is too preoccupied with scouting the nearest exit — now within eye's reach — to even comprehend what just happened. Abigail meanwhile falls back towards the backrest of the nearest seat, too tired to even stand up straight. For a few seconds, darkness looms inside her eyes as death rings inside her ears. She's tried many feats of colossal proportions in the past, but this? This was a step too far, this late into her lifespan. It takes her breath away.
Nearly permanently so.
"Abigail? Are you all right?" John asks, his tone rid with worry.
"I… Fine. I'm fine." Abigail manages to mutter out in-between gasps for air. "I'll live." Her voice is barely louder than a whisper. With lights still dancing before her eyes, she turns back to see what has come of her grand maneuver.
The road behind them is buried in wood and leaves. It looks as if a hurricane or some tornado has gone through the area, sweeping the whole passage into an impassable mess some-dozen meters in height. Though she cannot make the drone out, she isn't sure if it's due to the fact she got it, or if she's just too tired to make out its blurred-out shape.
Only after a few seconds of staring does she take a calm breath. The weapon is nowhere to be seen.
"How much longer?" she whispers out weakly, taking a large gulp of the nearest open water bottle.
"Fifteen seconds," John replies, already changing lanes to the freshly-extant right one, headed for the exit. He knows that leaving the interstate and instead opting for another road will cost them countless hours, but they've got no choice. It's either this or getting caught. He's sure that by now, PENTAGRAM's made it known they were spotted. They need to get out of view as quickly as possible.
Abigail sighs in relief.
A few moments pass and they're no longer on Interstate 95. Instead, they are now driving on some old forest road, barely wide enough to fit a single vehicle. Abigail isn't quite sure how they made it there directly from the Interstate — after all, a passage as large as ninety-five wouldn't just directly connect to whatever facsimile of a road this is — but she's far too tired to think about it too much.
Far too tired to think about anything, really. Far too tired to even keep her eyelids open.
Before she can ask John where they are, she feels the grasp of sleep tighten around her mind.
When she awakes, it's day again.
She grabs her aching head as she props herself up against the uneven surface of the backseat, already feeling a massive migraine rush to her forehead. To her surprise, she finds herself covered by some of the blankets they took along when they left their camp. What surprises her even more is that all of the car's windows — including the one in the ceiling — seem covered by some mix of leaves and other nearby fauna, making none of the outside visible to her.
Meanwhile, John is nowhere to be seen.
She arches her brows, and slowly sits up.
The headache nearly makes her sit back down, but she powers through it. Barely. Gulping down a bottle of water helps, but also barely.
Over the next few minutes, she gathers her strength, and opens up the door to the chilly outside. The light gives her another migraine nearly powerful enough to strap her back to the inside.
When she powers through it, though, she's greeted by an image of John, sitting on some large stone near their car. He's sitting legs-crossed and holds a packet of chips in his hands, very slowly eating them as he stares into the horizon. He's surrounded by thick, snowy foliage from every direction, even from above, with only enough space to fit their car and maybe three more people.
Even if something were to fly directly above their heads, it would not notice them.
Weakly, and in many slow moves, Abigail steps down the car and joins John.
"Please don't do that again," he says the second she sits down, offering her the remainder of his snack. She accepts.
"It was necessary."
"It was stupid, Abi." He pauses, and takes a slow breath. When he speaks again, his tone is quiet. "You are not a hundred-twenty anymore. You could have died. I…" His voice trails off.
She smiles faintly. "Yeah, you're probably right. Still. Next time I risk an aneurysm, I'll tell you first."
He smiles too. "Thank you."
Over the next few minutes, she finishes eating, and washes it down with the remainder of the water.
"Now, if you'll excuse me," she says, slowly standing back up. "I'll go back to sleep. I don't think my head's quite ready to function properly yet."
John nods, and returns to sentry-looking in-between the trees as Abigail climbs back up towards her makeshift bed.
When she closes her eyes again, she feels like she hears a vague tune begin to play from somewhere deep inside her memory, but before she can focus on it or really recognize it. she dozes into half-coherent, half-sober dreams.
♪
Oh, you fool, there are rules, I am coming for you
(You can run but you can't escape)
Darkness brings evil things, oh, the reckoning begins
(You will open the yawning grave)
♪
1
When the night comes again, Abigail still hasn't woken up, but that makes no difference to John. He stands up, gets in the car, covers her with the remaining blankets (and puts on her seatbelt!), and starts to drive forward, towards their now-near destination.
He's tired — both from the chase and not having slept — but by this point in his life, he's gotten used to it. As a former Overseer himself, he's spent much, much of the twentieth century without any rest, let alone actual sleep. And as an historian, he's almost grown to appreciate the long, long hours he's spent at night. Besides — Abigail needs him. It doesn't matter how tired he is. He knows that he'll make do. He has to.
As to not interrupt Abigail's sleep, when they hit the road, John's barely breaking forty kilometers per hour — a speed low enough to get a chance to study the physical paper map Abigail's left in the front passenger seat.
Having left the Interstate, John knows they cannot possibly ever go back. It's far too dangerous. In their current circumstances, even driving with lights turned on means taking unnecessary risks. They need to make use of the dirt pathways and one-lane roads he's driven onto for as long as it'll take to get to their destination at whatever shady port their boat is awaiting.
Worse yet, they don't have that much time left — with just two days remaining, he's got no choice but to power through the fog of exhaustion and carry on until they get to the end of their journey. Losing a few weeks of his life due to the strain this journey will put on his body is an alternative far preferable to missing tomorrow's occasion.
John sighs. Between trying his best to avoid being spotted, attempting to not wake his sister up, and actually getting closer to their destination, it's going to be a long night.
By the time Abigail wakes up, they've already crossed into Georgia.
She stands back up very slowly, massaging her temple as she takes a deep breath. The headache returns almost immediately. It's far worse than any hangover she's ever had, even the ones that came after Druv'tuulian feasts in the seventies. Worse yet, unlike any hangover, it doesn't just come from her head and stomach — it feels like it's coming from the very middle of her soul.
She inhales again, this time much more deeply. This scar will take a long time to heal. Still, when John notices she's conscious again and asks how she is, she tells him everything's fine. She couldn't bare the thought of him losing even more sleep over her safety than he already has.
Very, very slowly, Abigail climbs out of her blankets and onto the front seat, next to John. She smiles faintly, and crosses her arms. She's back in the game, even if the game isn't terribly interesting and once again consists of just looking at whatever they are passing by.
At least this time around, it's no longer the bland concrete desert of the Interstate.
She sighs, and looks at John. She can see he's very, very tired. She knows he can see the same in her, too.
She's suddenly very aware that it is indeed going to be a long day. However, when she looks down at her map and at the dashboard in front of John, she realizes that that won't have to be the case. In reality, there's little road left, maybe two hundred kilometers until they reach the end of their drive; unfortunately for them, though, the tank's running similarly low.
She sighs again, and looks back at the map, already scouting the nearest gas station.
Neither is satisfied with the decision to stop, with John tired, Abigail hurt, and the country running rampant with idiots akin to those they met at the Waffle House. But risking another mess, even in their states, is something they'd much prefer to not getting to their destination on time.
Even with Abigail's instructions, it takes them most of the night to find a still-open spot. When the purple sign announcing that this particular instance of Carter Petrol is still operational, they drive over without any hesitation, even though the sun is nearly rising.
Suspicion catches them almost immediately.
It isn't just the fact that a place like this hasn't closed during the pandemic, or that more than five people still sit inside the building in spite of the very early hour (Marshall, Carter & Dark isn't particularly famous for caring about most regulations, including those about protecting its employees). It's everything else. Each of the dispensing stations save for one have been looted, with concrete around them broken and morphed alongside wood and plastic into some facsimile of defensive structures. Even the shop inside the station is out of the ordinary — with little actual products on its shelves, it has been refurnished to look more like a large living room than any instance of the corporate, MC&D-owned chain.
Worse yet, one of the people present on the station is sitting directly in front of its doors, legs crossed and with a gun resting neatly on his lap. The man takes a long drag off his cigarette as he carefully eyes them.
Nevertheless, the twins don't back out. Whatever this whole mess is, they need the gas. Everything else is less important.
They decide to both exit the vehicle when they finally stop near the only still-operational distributor. The last thing they want is for this to turn into a mess, so they opt for the path of full clarity.
"Hello!" John says loudly as he takes the first step on the concrete, his and Abigail's arms up in the air. "We don't want any trouble."
"Then what do you want?" the man replies, also standing up from his chair. His four companions, still remaining inside the building, also stop whatever it is they're doing and start eyeing the twins.
"Me and my wife just need some gas, is all," John says, pointing at Abigail with his head. He's not happy about needing to lie, but he knows they should do anything to avoid drawing attention and risking someone connecting the facts with the publically available arrest warrant.
The man grips his weapon harder. "Crossing between cities is illegal, you know that? I could just call the Coalition and have you lot arrested for breaking the quarantine."
Before John can reply, Abigail cuts in, "So is being outside said cities, let alone operating a business here." She focuses all her strength on not sounding weak and hurt and tired. It isn't easy. "But here we are." She pauses. "So, will you use our unfortunate circumstances to your profit, or will you continue pretending you don't want money?"
The man pauses to consider for a moment. After a few seconds, he lowers his gun, and looks at them with just a little less suspicion than before. "How much do you need?" His tone is still unpleasant, but now that he's sensed the chance for profit, he knows he can't back out.
"Around thirty liters," John says. "We're ready to pay cash."
Again the man stops, this time to calculate something in his head. He scratches his chin, and furrows his brows. "That'll be six big ones."
Brief surprise flies across John's face. "But—"
Once again, Abigail interrupts him. She extends her hand in a 'let me handle this' gesture, and turns back to face the dealer. "Five and a half and it's fine by us."
The man narrows his eyes, but nods in agreement. He comes towards their car, ready to do the deed himself.
As he starts pouring gas into the vehicle, John and Abigail walk towards its other side, and open one of its doors. "What the hell are you doing?" John whispers out as he grabs one of the bags with their money, his face still turned towards Abigail, who remains outside the car. "We cannot spend that much! We will not be able to afford the sh—"
She gives him a heavy look. "Do you want trouble or do you want to actually get to Aaron? Just let me do this, John. It's far easier this way. Besides," she adds, crossing her arms. "Worst comes to shove we can just sell more family trinkets. They're of no use anyway."
Instead of protesting, John just sighs, and hands her the bills. "Fine. Do your worst."
She nods, and smiles faintly. "Thank you."
A few moments later, their tank is full again. Abigail comes closer to the man, and gives him the money. He quickly counts it — twice — before nodding silently and beginning his stroll back towards his chair.
The twins smile, wave off, and open the doors to their car. Abigail stops for a moment. Somewhere at the edge of hear hearing, she thinks she hears something almost like… almost like rotor blades turning very far away, and—
Before she can focus on it, one of the four men inside the building walks out.
"Hold up," he says very loudly, alerting his sitting friend to his presence and suspicion. "Show me your face." He points at John.
"Excuse me?" John manages to mutter out.
"What is this about?" Abigail asks, furrowing her brows.
He doesn't even look at her. "Shut up, woman," he says, and reinstates his gesture. "I said, show me your face, old man."
Very slowly, John first exchanges a worried look with Abigail, then turns to face the two men. For a few moments, he stands still.
A crooked smile enters the man's face. "Just what I thought. You're Hadfield, aren't you, old man," he states more than he asks.
Again, Abigail answers in John's stead, ignorant of the men paying her no attention. "And what would that change, even if he were? What good would reporting two on-the-run criminals give you — you, who operate here illegally and without permit?" She waits a moment for her words to land properly. "Come on now. Let's be reasonable here."
Suddenly, the smile turns into a frown. "You don't seem to understand," he says as his companion once again readies his gun. "I don't care about what the Coalition wants with you. I care what I want with you." He corrects his leather jacket. "I don't care if you're on the run. All I care about is that you're formerly Overseer," he spits out, anger twisting his face. "And I'm not letting you get away with that, you fucking shadow commie piece of shit."
The man whistles, and the remaining companions inside the building quickly start to move out towards the outside.
For a very long second, John and Abigail's hearts stop beating.
Without any hesitation, as if in synch, they both jump behind the car, the only thing separating from the approaching five, armed men.
"What the hell do we do?!" John practically shouts out, grabbing his head. "Are you in shape to… to do anything?" he adds, this time with more worry.
She shakes her head. "I can maybe hold them off for a moment, but…" She quickly opens the door to the car. "We need to get out, now."
As she finishes speaking, a bullet shatters the open door's window. Then, three more shots follow it, each breaking one more part of the already poorly-standing car. They hear one hit and rapture the tire, and two break into the barely structurally sound metal of the other doors.
"Well then," Abigail rolls up her sleeves. "No choice this time around."
She tries to stand up, but is immediately stopped by John grabbing her by the leg.
"What do you think—?! You can't—"
"It's the only way."
"You promised! For god's sake, you promised, Abigail! You're too weak! I will not let you die!" His voice is full of genuine desperation.
She just smiles. "And I won't let both of us get shot by rednecks. Besides," she says, rising to her full height. "I'll be fine. They're no trees. I can take care of idiots much more easily."
Before John can protest again, she closes her eyes, and crooks her fingers.
When she emerges from behind the car, in one swift motion, she throws two of the men half a dozen meters back. Both of them break the station's glass as they fall, having hit the back wall and collapsing against it.
Before she can turn to the three remaining adversaries — who are now too shocked to react in any way — she lets out a yelp of pain and hides behind the car.
There is a stream of blood trickling down her nose.
"Fuck," she whispers out to nobody in particular. Her voice is very weak.
"Abigail," John repeats, his tone almost begging. "Please."
"I…" She tries to hold her hand up. It's trembling. "I can do this, John. Just one more attack, and—"
"And you'll die, for god's—"
She isn't listening, not anymore. Instead, she reveals herself again and tries to focus her power on whatever loose elements lay near the three remaining men, trying her best to take them out in one fluid movement. She finds it almost immediately. The chair the first gun-wielding man was sitting on. If she can throw it with enough might, she will get all three of the lined-up attackers, and—
When she raises her hand to do the deed, nothing happens. The power doesn't come.
The shock that makes her feel freezes her for a fraction of a second. A fraction of a second long enough for one of the men to take aim and fire, hitting the hood maybe three centimeters away from Abigail's face. That forces her to come back to life; she quickly takes cover behind the vehicle again.
"I can't do it," she breathes out, her tone panicked. "I can't. It doesn't— doesn't work. I—"
She grabs her head with her hands. Her eyes are moving rapidly.
Three more gunshots ring out. They ring out much more closely than before.
"I can't do this. I…" Her heart is beating louder than her thoughts. "Oh god, we are going—"
Suddenly, three things happen at once.
One: as the first lights of the day shine through the cracked horizon to the louder sound of propellers, they reveal a gigantic, long shape in the sky. It is white with blue-colored stripes, and is unmistakable for anything but GOCAS Madrigal, an airborne ship of the Global Occult Coalition. An instrument of war looming over their very heads, maybe fifty meters at most. Even from this distance, John can clearly see open doors leading to its bridge and military-grade personnel staring directly at them from the distance.
Two: one of the attackers reaches the twins, and readies his gun. Before he can fire, though, a shock goes through his whole body, making him lose control and fall down on the hard concrete before him. He drops his weapon and surrenders to gravity as another figure emerges from behind him — an armored, tall person adorned by a Coalition-blue helmet, a stun gun ready in their hands. They knock down the attacker once more, and then turn to look at the Hadfields. Their face is filled with determination.
Three: Abigail feels something break inside her head, and passes out on the cold concrete floor. The last thing she remembers is more Coalition agents entering her vision, all gesturing to each other and John, and…
When she comes back to consciousness, she's sitting next to John on some Coalition-set-up makeshift benches maybe a hundred meters from the gas station. She's covered in a bright blue thermal blanket, with one of John's hands wrapped around her to prop her up.
He smiles when he sees she is all right, but doesn't say anything; instead, he continues staring at a group of maybe a dozen people, standing a few meters before them.
They're all very obviously Coalition soldiers and operatives, field agents she recognizes from her final moments at the shootout, all of them armed except for a single figure, taller than the rest. They are looking directly at John and Abigail.
Dressed in an immaculately groomed suit, Goldbaker of the Goldbaker-Reinz Ltd. insurance group lets a smile fly across their face when they see they have the twins' attention. They approach John and Abigail, spry in their movements as ever.
When they get within talking distance, they come to a sudden halt. They clear their throat, wave towards their men to leave them alone, and put their hands behind their back. For a moment, they just stand there, one meter away from the twins, scanning the bloodied, tired Hadfields from top to bottom.
When they finally speak, their tone is perfectly calm. "It's good to see you again. How long has it been? Two decades?" They look as though they genuinely struggle to remember. "Though it's even better to be proven right, I suppose. Not that I ever had any doubts."
Abigail arches an eyebrow. Goldbaker almost chuckles.
"Come on now. It doesn't take a prophet to realize who was driving the SUV that PENTAGRAM drones picked up yesterday." Though being one certainly helps, they don't add. They clap their hands. "But none of that matters now that you're here."
"What are you doing here?" John asks, crossing his arms. "You're the last person I expected out in the field."
Goldbaker rolls their eyes. "Doing my due diligence to the Council. Everyone has to do their part, no matter my own personal opinions on the current status quo. Besides," they say, shrugging and pointing to the airship located behind them with their head, "it hasn't been all that bad. My part's mostly included getting to remote towns with that beast and giving them what we legally owe them. Or at least that's what it has included until we received reports of rogue criminals nearby escaping a PENTAGRAM convoy, and then nearly killing some four people." They pause. "It really wasn't hard to track you two down when they started firing."
Before Abigail can intercede, they raise their hand. "Rest assured my men have already taken care of the mess. It's all tidied up and explained with local authorities," they say, eyeing the beaten up twins and the gas station behind them. When their eyes return to the twins, they add, "The lesser half of it is, anyhow. I can justify self-defence in court, but I cannot do the same for someone blatantly ignoring the quarantine procedures."
John sighs, stands up, and just extends his hands forward. Abigail gives him a look, but does the same. "Just get on with it," she says, her voice tired. "No point in drawing it out." She knows that, as opposed to the rest of their colleagues sitting on the Council of 108, Goldbaker only enjoys bureaucracy when it comes to business. Still, they have no choice but to arrest someone who's clearly and shamelessly broken the Coalition-mandated quarantine.
Goldbaker shakes their head. "I do not believe that will be necessary. We are going the same way, after all. We have been called to the motherbase on Florida even before we stumbled upon you two."
John furrows his brows.
"Again — your motivations are far from imperceptible. So, knowing that, I see no reason why you can't come with us as civilized men. You're no criminal scum, you Hadfields. Haven't been for a generation, at the very least least. That's certainly the impression I got of you when we were still doing business.
"So," they say, already starting to head towards their airship, now on the ground a few meters in the distance. "Can I expect you to act in accordance with those expectations?"
"What… What about our things?" John asks.
"Already taken care of. Technically, they are evidence against you which we need to take with us — besides, your vehicle is in no shape to even carry them anymore. So my men took them with."
In a few steps, the twins catch up to Goldbaker. "Why?" Abigail mouths, facing directly at the unphased businessperson. "You could have just as well chained us the second you got us. What's the point of risking it all?"
They don't turn to face Abigail. "Do you want the official answer or the honest one?"
John slowly exhales. "Both, preferably?"
Goldbaker nods. Their smile shows he chose well. "If you're asking what I'll write up in my report, then know that even tired and battle-worn, Miss Abigail still vastly outshines all of us in pure ontokinetic might, myself included. There is no reason to make this all ugly — if you were to oppose us, it wouldn't be a battle we could survive without heavy casualties. So here comes my courtesy — an act of pure diplomacy, of course. Besides," they add, "allowing you two to carry on alone or as prisoners only risks further damage — no doubt insured damage I would personally have to pay for.
"But truth be told, I'm doing this because I like you." They stop on the steps leading up to the airship. "I don't quite trust you — I'm not that much of a fool — but you two have shown yourself to be reasonable people, back when you still ran the show. Taking you by force would only result in more chaos — but allowing you to willingly come with? That's a whole story entirely."
They shrug. "All I'm saying is I certainly do not want to end up like those gun nuts at the gas station. I think it's a reasonable offer for a reasonable concern." They pause for a moment. "So. Come with me like civilized human beings, do your business when we finally arrive, and come back once you're done with your evening. Because I do know that you will come back. Civility — and the fact that once this is over, your only reason for breaking the law will be dealt with — requires that you do so. And like we've already established, I'd expect nothing but from you two.
"Besides." They shrug again. "I know that binding John by the expectation of adhering to rules will almost certainly ensure that he indeed abides by them." They give John an apologetic look. "So yes, it's all just so much easier than forcing you to come by pointing guns at you."
Abigail just blinks, almost incapable of believing what she's hearing; still, she doesn't complain. She's far too tired — and in far too good a position — to do that.
"T-Thank you," John mumbles out, dumbfounded by their circumstances. He steps up the stairs, walking towards Goldbaker, and smiles faintly. Abigail soon joins him. "I doubt this means anything anymore, but know I won't forget this. If there's anything—"
Goldbakers's face is suddenly as still and firm as a stone. "Good," they say, their tone tolerant to no disobedience. "Because do know that if you break my trust, you being holed up with Miss Ranyue will not hold my men back."
John gulps and nods, and quickly hurries up aboard the vehicle.
Though equipped with luxuries that make the day and night travel a breeze, the airship does not have a radio system — not one tuned in to entertainment-focused frequencies, at the very least. Still, Abigail soon discovers that through ever so slightly bending the incoming waves and in spite of her exhaustion, she can make them change from Coalition orders to any tune she likes. Goldbaker initially opposes this, but after the communication proves to be little more than repeating information, they allow her to have her fun inside their temporary quarters before she goes to well-earned sleep.
That, and — though they'd never publicly admit this — they kind of like the tune. It reminds them of the long, long time that has passed since they came to be — and everyone close that's passed alongside it.
♪
'Cause I know I don't wanna stay here forever
It's time to be movin' on
Oh, I don't want to be the only one living
When all of my friends are gone
♪
0
One thing becomes immediately apparent when they land in Tallahassee: in spite of everything that's happened in the last three decades, it's still a shithole.
Current circumstances certainly do not help; if anything, the unofficial Coalition occupation only makes it worse. While the center of the city mostly remains intact, save for a few blocked-off roads and armored trucks patrolling the area, the outskirts is where things get really serious. In-between Tallahassee's own Relocation Camp, many dozens of military-grade tents, and support buildings to the many vehicles parked all around the encampment, it's a lot.
Even from up in the sky, John and Abigail can still see the many hundreds of Coalition officers and soldiers marching around the base. From this height, they look barely bigger than ants. With their numbers, they're like some alien, invasive swarm that's taken this town by right of conquest and plunder, proudly parading around beneath their blue shells and with their paratech guns.
That feeling doesn't disappear even when they soon land next to three more Coalition airships, docked at the far edge of the camp next to a giant, make-shift hangar. It doesn't disappear even when they get off their ride, pick up what little of their luggage they took along, and join the crowd of foreigners filling the capital of Florida.
Goldbaker walks up to them almost immediately.
"I expect to see you two again tomorrow at noon," they say, their face unreadable and their tone stone-cold. "I do not care how you self-report, for as long as you do it through my office."
Goldbaker points towards the remainder of their team with their head. The few dozen people are still boarding off the airship, carrying crates and weaponry around the hangar.
"Either way, I wish you luck in your endeavors." Their voice is much more relaxed, now. "Oh, and a piece of advice: if I were you, I would avoid using public transport in this place, if any still functions." They turn to face Abigail. "I'm afraid you will not find any allies in this state, Miss Hadfield. With their… appreciation of law enforcement, I do not think they would hesitate to report you, either." They look at John. "But with how close your destination is, I do not think walking will be that much of an issue anyway, even considering Miss Abigail's condition."
John nods. "Thank you. I sincerely do mean it."
Goldbaker almost smiles. "I know you do."
In one fluid movement, they turn towards the rest of their men, and start their spry stroll forward.
"Oh, and one more thing!" They shout from the distance, their voice carried by the echo of the structure around them. "If he's still receptive, please do give my regards to Aaron, and my sincerest sympathies to Miss Ranyue. That, and carry my regret we couldn't have met under better circumstances. Even if," they say, "with what the world's fallen into, I do not think any other were or ever indeed will be possible."
Outside the camp, Tallahassee is a mess, even more so than during peacetime.
With its empty streets, curtain-covered windows, and trash-filled pavements, it almost looks like a ghost town. The only thing that's any proof of any citizens still dwelling inside it is the occasional "FUCK CRENSHAW!" graffiti or "GO(C) HOME" lettering thaumically engraved onto the nearby sidewalk.
Still, when John and Abigail begin their stroll towards their destination, they can't help but feel they are walking through a ruin.
It's a slow march, one made so by Abigail barely being able to walk with what little strength she still holds onto and John carrying all of their luggage. They don't think it's ideal, not by a long shot — after all, the last thing they want is to be recognized by some bored onlooker staring out of the window of their quarantined apartment — but they know they have to make do.
In-between taking the backstreets and avoiding plazas and other large openings near public buildings, they almost feel like rats scurrying around an abandoned city. The presence of actual rats all around them certainly doesn't help. Though, unlike the twins, the little rodents don't really seem all that concerned with the situation at hand — they just lay in whatever trash that still hasn't been collected by the absent garbage trucks, and continue their feast, even when their rest is interrupted by the steps of the first humans to cross those streets in a long, long time.
Eating away at the ruin of America, the rats almost seem happy.
Some four hours later, they are almost there.
The journey through Tallahassee's many avenues and streets was long and ungrateful. Now that it's over, they are exhausted, and the sun is almost setting. Abigail is barely able to stand straight, and John's back is killing him. If they weren't quite literally in front of their destination, they are certain they couldn't ever muster the will to power through and walk forward.
There's one issue, though: although they are indeed standing at the edge of Lake Jackson, staring directly at the large house they are meant to enter, the building is located on an island on the lake. One located maybe twenty meters away from shore, sure, but on an island nonetheless.
Abigail takes a very deep breath. John just sighs.
"I can't call them," John says, touching the almost-ancient phone in his pocket. "I'm certain they have a boat but with no actual phones in there…" He shakes his head.
"I know," Abigail says dully, fully accepting of what she knows they'll be forced to do. "I think I can do it."
He turns to face her. "Are you sure?"
She raises a hand. "Look, if I could, I'd just split the water, or take a nearby boat, or…" She shrugs. "But I don't have the energy and there's no boats left anywhere. So what can you do," she states more than she asks. "I will manage. I didn't cross half the country to not manage."
"But—"
"I said I'll manage."
For a while, John doesn't say anything. He just looks at her with concern.
Eventually, though, he nods. "All right." He walks up to the nearby tree, and leaves their bags there. He's certain that nobody will take them — or even notice them, with how holed up in their houses everybody is — and it's not like they can swim across those twenty meters with their bags. Abigail soon joins him and before long, they are ready.
When they tip their first toes into the water, they immediately regret it. Even though it hasn't yet snowed in Tallahassee — and the nearby region has kept up relatively warm in spite of the winter ravaging through the rest of the east coast — it still feels like they're about to freeze. It doesn't get better even when they're fully submerged and start to swim, but it's not like they've got any other choice.
John hates being wet, and hates being cold, but he somehow manages through very rapid breaths and sheer goddamn will. In his long-past prime, he's sailed half the world under the sails of the Commission on Unusual Cargo. Though he's never been any professional, during those days, he's learned how to be a great swimmer. He makes it across in maybe half a minute, and turns back to see how much Abigail's got left.
She's nowhere to be seen.
"ABIGAIL?!" he shouts out, scouting the area for any signs of her. He can already feel his heart beart louder than his thoughts. "ABIGAIL!"
Her head isn't anywhere above the water.
Without hesitation, John immediately jumps back back into the lake.
When he opens his eyes beneath the frostbite-inducing water, two things happen: one, his brain starts to feel like it's getting stabbed by a thousand needles, a pain so great it nearly makes him unable to think; two, he notices Abigail's small shape, slowly drifting towards the bottom of the water, like some corpse thrown into the lake.
Worse yet, she isn't moving. Or breathing.
In just a few movements, still powerful in spite of his age, John swims towards her and grabs her. It's one of the hardest things he's ever had to do, but he powers through it. He's lived through being thrown off the deck of a ship twice; he treats this as nothing different. When he grabs his sister, he realizes she's far heavier than he thinks he can manage, but the strength added to him by the sheer adrenaline almost makes up for the added weight.
Before long, they are back up on the shore. As if by instinct, he gently puts her on the ground and immediately starts the resuscitation.
He only stops when Abigail spits out enough water to fill up a kettle. Her eyes shot wide open.
"Never do that again!" he shouts, already starting to shiver. With the adrenaline already wearing off, he can again feel the chilling temperature of both the air and the water they've just left.
She doesn't say anything. Instead, she just nods, and starts to shiver herself.
Within a moment, John's expression grows softer. He quickly takes off his jacket and hands it to her. It's soaking wet, so the gesture is barely more than symbolic, but she still accepts it.
John takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and tries to stand up. He stops when he feels a very warm hand suddenly land on his shoulder. Within a second, the warmth spreads throughout his whole body, and — judging by the expression on her face — leaps onto Abigail, too. Before he can even blink, they no longer feel any cold at all — and neither do their clothes, which now look as if they had been drying in the desert sun for the last few days.
"I'm glad you could make it," says a female voice from behind him. "I was getting worried you wouldn't come."
He knows the voice. He's heard it many, many times over the centuries they've worked alongside each other. If he had more energy still left, he'd be furious that's the first thing she says to him after all this time; but, exhausted like he hasn't been in a lifetime, he just turns around towards the diminutive Asian woman.
Ranyue Lin, pyromancer battlemage and former SCP Foundation Overseer Five, almost smiles when she sees him.
"Hello, John," she says, her tone as warm as always. "It's been a while."
He nods again. "Yes, Ran. It really has." He turns back towards Abigail, and helps her stand up, too.
"Let's get you inside," Ran says, already turning to walk towards the nearest doors. "You look like you could use a hot cup of tea."
Neither of the twins respond. Instead, they exchange a look, and follow their former colleague into the end of their journey.
Some hour later, both have taken a shower, drank and eaten up, and changed their clothes. (They are indeed very lucky that Aaron and Ranyue's figures match their own almost one to one.)
Now, they are sitting in a small, art-deco fashioned living room. It's filled with old memorabilia from four centuries into the past — in-between different books, globes, swords, and photos, it's all a mess. A mess they might not understand, but one whose actual owner they figure is able to navigate quite well.
Just like the rest of the house, the room is furnished along fashion choices that haven't been in style for over a century, but one that still remains a nicely-kept memory of what once was. With two sofas the twins and Ran occupy, a table in-between them, and a fireplace near one of its walls, it's just fancy enough to look good without coming off as pretentious.
John certainly enjoys just looking at it. Just like all relics of ages long-gone, he's naturally drawn to it. Perhaps due to his passion as an historian, perhaps because of its genuinely good appearance — or perhaps because subconsciously, he knows he too is not of this time.
Abigail, meanwhile, is not as enthusiastic. She looks at Ranyue. Though Abigail's lost most of her attitude over the last few days (she's still exhausted, and is only carrying on because she still has to do what they came here to do in the first place), that doesn't stop her from crossing her legs and furrowing her brows.
"So," she says, crossing her arms, too. "Where is he?"
Ran doesn't meet her eyes. She sighs. "Same place he's been for the last month." Her tone is very quiet. "He's sitting on the balcony."
She stands up, and walks up towards the nearest cabinet. From inside it, she pulls out a bottle of wine probably older than most of the Earth's population, and three glasses. She looks at the twins, the unsaid question hanging in the air. John nods; Abigail just marrows her eyes.
"Three?"
Again, Ran avoids eye contact. "I… I don't think he's going to need one."
Abigail doesn't say anything. Instead, she just blankly stares as Ranyue pours the alcohol into the glasses, and passes them towards her guests. The red wine, John notices, is almost of the exact same color as Ran's plain dress.
"So," she says, not sitting back down and not putting down the bottle. "Are you ready?"
John and Abigail exchange a look, then both nod.
"Good." Ran points to the nearest doors with her head. "Follow me."
The outside air is chilly, even after the warm shower, food, and alcohol.
The balcony itself isn't anything special — it's maybe twelve square meters surrounded by an intricate railing made of black steel. Its floor is decorated by some white tiles that haven't been cleaned in many, many years. There's a few plant pots scattered around the balcony, but — just like the rest of Florida's flora, that time of the year — it's very barely clinging onto life.
But, just like Ranyue said, he is there.
He's sitting in a wheelchair on the other end of the balcony. Next to him stands some medical apparatus — one not aimed at curing or preventing the Virion (this isolated in this house, neither of its occupants are at risk of contracting it) but one tasked with the impossible mission of postponing this man's already long-held-off death. His bald face is full of wrinkles so deep it should be impossible, as is the rest of his lanky body, propped up against the chair and situated in sight of the lake, which he's intently staring at. His eyes are glassy, and don't appear to really see anything anymore.
Even when they enter within meters of him, Aaron Siegel, former SCP Foundation Overseer One and Administrator, once the most powerful man in the world, does not turn towards them, or indeed react in any other way. He just sits there, taking rapid and shallow breaths, staring out beyond a horizon they aren't even sure he sees.
Still, John walks up to him, and puts a hand on his shoulder. Abigail meanwhile looks at Ranyue. Her eyes are glassy now, too. She briefly closes them, and looks at the lake. Abigail observes her for a few seconds, and joins her brother. They both lower themselves so their faces match Aaron's level, and from a pocket inside his jacket, John takes out a small package.
He doesn't hand it to Aaron.
"Happy birthday, friend," he quietly whispers, his tone shaky.
Aaron doesn't react in any way. Behind him, Ran drinks the rest of her wine.
"Yeah, happy birthday, old man." Abigail chuckles. It's insincere. "Not even the virion can get you, eh? You—"
"Abigail," John says calmly.
"—that bastard Graham—"
"Abigail." He puts a hand on her shoulder. She just looks at him with a defeated expression. "Please. You're only hurting yourself."
She looks down on the floor. "I know." Her tone is barely louder than a whisper. She doesn't have the strength to muster anything else. Between this heartbreak and everything else that's happened in the last few days, she's certain this won't just wear off. The rip in her soul, the damage done to her body, and this… she's been hurt too much for the scar to just heal.
For a moment, it dawns on her with utmost clarity that this pain will stay with her, perhaps until the very end of her days.
She sighs.
John stands up, clears his throat, and hands Ran the small package he's held in his hands. "I… I wanted to give it to Aaron, but… well," he says. "If he cannot have it, I think you should. For taking care of him when we couldn't."
She doesn't say anything. Instead, she just nods and begins to unwrap the paper.
Beneath it, she finds a small photograph in a metal frame. It's black and white and depicts nine people. Though she herself wasn't present for it — just as many others it should also depict — she immediately recognizes it.
It's the first ever official photo of the Overseer Council, taken back when life was simple, their hearts genuine, and their intentions still clear.
She starts to blink very rapidly.
"I…" John begins. "I thought he should have it. With everything that's been going on recently, I just… I was worried about the others, if they're still out there. I think he should remember them. Even if this photo isn't perfect, it's the best I could get. Besides, it holds sentimental value, so…" his voice trails off.
Ran closes her eyes. "Thank you, John," she says. "I think he'd love it."
John nods twice, tightening his lips.
For a few seconds, they just stand there, staring at the photo and thinking about the thirteen individuals that should have been present for its taking — who should be present here — and what has happened to them and those who inherited their mantle.
Aaron Siegel. Now little more than a ghost of a ghost of his former self. Barely more than nothing.
Two. First sold like something less than human, then forced into solitude among a foreign kin. Restless to the bitter end.
Jackson Miller. A bastard through and through. Perhaps finally at peace with the rest of his hive.
John Hadfield. A tired old wreck. A relic of an era long gone.
Ranyue Lin. A heartbroken mess, capable of little but longing. No longer host to a fire so great it could warm the whole world.
Jan Twardowski. Still stranded in his lunar prison. Maybe no longer alone, with all the new company he's gotten; but just maybe.
Eylana Graíné. A lonely spider in the center of a self-woven web. Untraceable and off the grid, just as she always has been.
Abigail Hadfield. A final link in an accursed bloodline. Its last and most desperate echo.
Natalie Asheworth. First stolen by a force beyond her power, then taken by heartbreak. Buried underneath a tree somewhere in Poland.
Evelynn Bright. A mother and friend. Maybe finally happy in her newfound freedom.
Elias Mair. Driven nearly mad by visions. Now bound to an economic beast far greater than anything he's ever fought.
Mikell Bright. Hung for his crimes by the people. A martyr in the eyes of some; a monster in the eyes of most.
Pierre Blanchet. Still bound by his working to what remains of Overwatch Command. A teacher to those unwilling to repeat the mistakes of his colleagues.
All of them, once a facsimile of a family, now little more than scattered, lonely children.
Eventually. John takes his own glass, signs a toast to Abigail and Ran, and drinks it all up in one quick swing. Abigail does the same, and Ranyue just takes the bottle and empties what's left. She whistles some old tune, her tone barely more than a whisper, her memory barely more than fading, longing sorrow.
Though they speak no words, they are all very much aware that just like the rest of their story, this moment will not last. Though Ran will remain here, taking care of what remains of Aaron, she knows that sooner or later, he too will pass. She herself isn't the youngest, either. And though they will stay here for the night, come tomorrow, John and Abigail will have to leave and report themselves to the Coalition. They won't escape the price of humanity.
John sighs.
With a heavy heart, all four look out beyond the balcony, towards a sun setting above a dying nation, awaiting any sort of catharsis in a world no longer theirs.
It never comes.
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