Two pairs of hardened, focused eyes looked at each other for a number of intense moments,

ignoring the squirming figure that lay bound and gagged on the tree stump between them,

muffled screams failing to make it past the tape wrapped around his mouth, though there was not

a lack of noise (though beyond their current position, he would not be heard; and he would not

be saved, not at all) head thrashing about wildly, arms feebly trying to break free of the rope that

only scratched and cut and burned his tender flesh the more he struggled.

The man was naked. Stripped bare. Forcibly. Fabric wrangled off of his body, held down as his

garments were torn and ripped. Scattered about on the dirt, until he was completely exposed.

Face as red as ripe tomatoes, ashamed to be laid out like this in front of two men. Not that they

had much interest in his body. Not at all in the way he might be thinking. They had an interest,

and they were going to do terrible, vile, unspeakable things to him (for him, they would be

terrible, vile, unspeakable; to his assailants, they were going to be the source of much glee and

satisfaction), but this was no sexually motivated act.

Two infamous men, were the perpetrators. They looked nothing alike, nor acted very much alike,

but they considered each other “father and son”. Not bound by blood, as one could plainly see.

Yet it did not matter. That was what they thought themselves to be. And everyone accepted it,

even if one had to wonder how these two came to know each other, and wind up that way.

One of them was a young man. His head was shaved, hair cut very short, resembling an old,

military-style buzz cut. Not quite down to the skin, but certainly short enough to see the skin
underneath the many tiny, yet thick, jet-black strands. On the sides of his face were just-as-short

sideburns, which led down to a stubble on his chin that was trimmed damn near all the way,

giving him the appearance of having a very faint shadow being cast onto his chin.

Icy, dark, stormy blue eyes, those sinister and yet strangely beautiful orbs of his, held a

captivating gaze, able to make whoever happened to look into them with their own eyes unable

to peel away their line of vision. Intimidating, often containing wrathful indignation or immense

sorrow, perhaps lighting up with joy or intrigue, but never simply neutral. A whirlwind of

emotion, they were, saying what his face and mouth usually dared not convey. His cold

expressions were frequently betrayed by the bewitching, oddly charming orbs he possessed.

Pale skin covered his body, adorned with blemishes that had healed over time. Enough to blend

into his complexion, yet not enough to fade away altogether. Scars, bruises, burns, gashes, marks

of all kinds. It came with the life he lived. The land he lived in, and cherished. The ideals he

upheld, and the passions he followed. Tattoos of various kinds had been etched into his flesh,

most of them sigils with meanings that evaded the minds of most. Or sayings and quotes from

bygone times.

While he’d undergone much, living through enough major events to fill several lifetimes’ worth

of stories (you could say his life had been one long war for his very survival), his face, itself,

was, well, rather young. Laddish. Boyish. One that, had he ever chosen to wear a different

expression, might’ve depicted exuberance, like something off of a propaganda poster, exuding
stoic confidence in the face of insurmountable odds. Wrinkles and signs of stress hadn’t made

their appearance. It was still smooth, round, not really all that angular or square, but not exactly

feminine exactly. Androgynous, it was. His expression was neutral, as always, though his

eyebrows were slightly furrowed, showing his concentration, him being lost in thought, not a

rare occurrence for him in the slightest. Lips turned slightly downward, showing hints of a small,

barely noticeable frown. Dark bags hanging under his eye.

He possessed a physique that was certainly muscular and strong, but not bulky at all. Rather,

lean, slender, toned, and defined. Legs that were sturdy and made to deliver brutal kicks with

either shin or foot, tough and spaced just the right amount apart from each other, thighs and

calves armed with the power to shatter bones. Strong and on the thicker side. Leading up to a

small waist and flared out hips. Paired nicely with a curvy, perky rear. Arms that were showing

clearly signs of belonging to someone powerful and possessing much might, ending in hands

tough and calloused, knuckles maimed somewhat from vicious blows being delivered over many

years; the arms themselves connected to sturdy, firm shoulders, themselves stood atop a smooth

chest and a flat, athletic stomach, topped off with a lack of fat of any kind. Without any body

hair to speak of.

One wouldn’t expect much, going off of his short stature, a mere five feet, seven inches.

Definitely not what one may be expecting from someone with such a fearsome reputation and,

while slow to rise to the surface, notoriously destructive temper, when properly aroused. Don’t
be fooled. He could kill you all the same with little effort. Larger foes had had their egos

smashed and their skulls caved in when poking and prodding, pressing for a reaction. They

didn’t walk the same ever again.

The older gentleman standing across from him looked a hell of a lot different. Noticeably

different. You couldn’t mistake one for their other. Even if they were somehow reduced to

silhouettes, mere shadows, identifiable only by outlines, they’d look nothing alike.

The taller of the pair’s most striking feature…was his hair. It was…extraordinary. Magnificent.

Stunning. You would think he stole it from a Greek god and permanently attached it to his scalp,

that was how gorgeous it was.

It was blonde. A bright, almost…shiny blonde, perhaps. Glowing, like the sun. Flowing straight

down to his shoulders, before turning wavy at the ends, cascading in various directions at the

bottom, curling up a bit in the middle, and then curling out and up and even in on the left and

right sides, adding a slight touch of disarray to the otherwise well-kempt, well behaved locks. On

the right side, it was parted, combed over to the left side of his head.

Dull, grey-green eyes looked out from inside of his skull, a gaze not as intense and wild and

possibly deranged as his compatriot’s, but instead one that was…a bit off. Maybe a bit…cold.

Not showing any definitive emotion.

The opposite of the younger fellow standing in front of him. A more expressive face, lips turned

upwards a small amount, curled in a devious smirk, the lines forming a look of a subtle, yet

visible, smugness. Arrogance. In stark contrast to his eyes, seeming a bit…dead, in comparison.

Speaking of his face, it was more mature, but not old. Older, yes; not elderly, or even middle-

aged, not quite. However, it definitively lacked the boyishness of his “son”. More rugged, more

manly. Mature. Not that his “son’s” wasn’t, but, the face on this one was aged, no doubt about

that. Hardly was it unattractive, though. It, too, was covered in a neat, short, soft stubble, though

blonde, instead of brunette. It didn’t look like a dark contour was permanently stuck to his chin.

And like the younger man, his skin was also pale. And decorated with marks from past

skirmishes and battles. Reminders of killing and almost being killed. Etched into him like

engravings in stone tablets. Constantly growing in number, not unlike the other man. Tattoos

were not lacking, either. Many of the same ones, with the same meanings. They were worn by all

throughout his…”gang”, if you will.

Nor was his physique radically different. Slim and svelte, trimmed of fat, yet muscular and

strong. Powerful, in a manner that was obvious to anyone who wasn’t blind, capable of ending

lives with little else but his own hands, but eschewing the excessive girth and volume associated

with those who were known for being brawny and stalwart. Larger, of course, yet that was
because he was taller. Much taller. Six feet, two inches. About that height. Dwarfing most

individuals he came into contact with. It also meant a longer reach. As well as harder strikes.

Thanks to his calmer demeanor, and bountiful charisma, a disarming, humorous personality that

served as a foil to the shorter man’s more serious, no-nonsense, standoffish, and potentially

unfriendly disposition, he didn’t came off as outright scary as his “son” did. He was a smooth

talker, a charmer, coming across as cordial, polite, and, in less formal situations, jovial and

lively.

Nothing like his “son”, who, as one may guess, was reserved, quiet, and shy. Not one to be

bothered, or liked to be bothered. Caring little for the companionship of other humans, unless he

took a liking to them personally. Social interactions were something he avoided, ones involving a

group above the number of “a few people”, anyway. And when caught in them…he felt

awkward. Incompetent. Being around too many “randos”, listening to the prattling of too many

voices talking about “frivolous bullshit”, wasn’t something he enjoyed, causing others to stay

away. It didn’t help that he was naturally grumpy and prone to being of a sour, sarcastic, scathing

mood.

Make no mistake, that didn’t mean “blondie” was a pushover, some “talk it over” kind of guy

who would give you multiple chances to stop before he laid you out. He reveled in violence,

more than anyone else. A somewhat proud sadist, albeit usually attempting to hide his…

tendencies. Those animalistic, bestial urges that cried for blood, for death. A wicked grin was
usually plastered on his face when alone with a victim. “Blondie” fought to hurt, humiliate, cause

pain, sheer panic, dread, horror, relishing in the act of breaking an individual’s spirit and mind,

their very resolve, their willingness to continue being alive. To never forget his name, or his face.

Leave permanent injuries, mental and physical, so they forever remember the unspeakable

assault incurred on them. Dominating them, showing them their weakness, cruelly and savagely.

Unlike his “son”, who fought to kill, end a life for good, put down a foe (preferably in front of

said foe’s allies, to demoralize them and frighten them, right before they, too, are taken out), win

a fight as quickly (and as brutally) as possible; his “son” was more invigorated by victory, a total

victory. The kind of victory that could only be found by looking at one’s dead opponent, lying

motionless on the ground. In his mind, there was a great rush gained from being able to come out

on top of a worthy adversary, able to say “I have bested you”. A decision wasn’t final until

someone perished. Brawls, to him, were life, or death. Strength against strength. Might against

might. Cunning against cunning. Physical prowess, wit, valor, strategy/tactics, the aids with

which to achieve that one, singular goal: triumph. Maybe a…triumph of one’s will.

In comparison, the smaller soul didn’t get off on the idea of wading in innards and skewering

people meticulously and psychotically. Unless it was a special occasion, when it was a lot more

personal, a lot more justified, in his eyes, to cause massive amounts of harm before they finally

passed away. It was a waste of time, he thought. Especially in fights where his heart just wasn’t

in it (thankfully, his heart was in it often). And it didn’t give him any distinct surge of enjoyment

and satisfaction, a lot of the time. Sure, he delivered a lot of savage beatings with his fists and

gruesome wounds with various improvised weapons. When you fight tough bastards all the time,

that’s usually what it takes to finally bring them down. That being said, he preferred to use only
the force that was necessary, whether it be a little…or all of it, and anything in between. He

viewed himself as a warrior, not a serial killer. He fought to kill, not hurt and maim and brutalize

and humiliate. Again, usually. There were exceptions. Quite a few of them, where the sadistic

streak came into play, and showed itself.

This was one of those exceptions.

The two men were dressed the same, more or less. Black jean jackets with obscure symbols

painted onto them, no doubt of an occult nature, if anyone happened to know about them,

although just from looking at them, one wouldn’t be in the wrong for presuming a…sinister…

meaning. Not that either of these two men would be insulted. Rather, they’d be honored. Aside

from that, plain, fitted white shirts tucked into plain, fitted black pants, themselves tucked into

tall, steel-toed combat boots that went up to just below their knees, tied tight around their lower

legs. That was the entirety of their outfit. Simple, functional, and…imposing. Unforgettable. Just

the way they liked it.

The younger one received a wink from his older comrade, still smirking, looking as though this

were some mere act of childish mischief. Maybe he did view it that way. Probably thinking his

partner needed to lighten up a bit, and not take it so seriously. Which would earn him a strong

rebuke in an equally strong southern accent that rivaled “blondie’s”, telling him to “stop fucking

around”, followed by an exasperated eye roll.

The lesser-in-age of the two looked down at their soon-to-be victim, face still neutral. Still…not

entirely discernable. But, as previously mentioned, pay attention to the eyes, for they harbored

the tempest burning and growling and rampaging through his soul.

In one swift movement, the tape came off, a loud ripping sound making itself known, followed

by an obnoxiously noisy yelp that echoed through this patch of dense woods, before settling into

a fit of hard panting (born more of fear than a lack of oxygen) and very audible gulping. Both

happened to raise the annoyance of his killers. Had they not held a large amount of self-control,

the blades they both were carrying would’ve already started hacking away.

“B-Bruce! Ch-Charlie! What the fuck, guys?! Wh-What the f-fuck is this all about?! You…you

sick bastards! Goddamnit, let me go! Ugh, fucking…ropes…fuck the both of you! This is

bullshit!”

Bruce, the young, bald one, and Charlie, the older, blond one, looked down as Jamison Demspey,

a former friend, a good one, at that, and a long time cohort who was a “member” of their “gang”.

Those terms were used very loosely (even though, in all honesty…they were more accurate than

either one would like to admit, even they weren’t entirely truthful, either), but better words were

currently unable to found. The keywords here being: “former”, and “was”. He’d been hunted

down, by Charlie and Bruce together, after a conveniently mysterious disappearance was
undertaken by Jamison right around the time some rather…damning…information came to light.

Namely, he was acting in a very distasteful, abhorrent, degenerate (a favorite word of the “gang”

when used to describe behavior or things they weren’t fond of) way towards his female

accomplices, and also…he was acting against this…”union of free spirits”, we’ll call it. As in, he

betrayed them, being a duplicitous fraud who worked with another faction that was actively

hostile towards the people he professed loyalty to. He was helping the enemies of his supposed

“friends”.

Given the current predicament he was found in, it was obvious that his turncoat activities had

earned him severe ire, and for his two-timing antics, he’d have to be punished accordingly.

Traitors were cowards, and cowards of all stripes, in the eyes of this “group”, were despised,

viewed as lower than dirt.

Initially invoking how respected and how esteemed he was, as well as where he “stood”, that

failed. Quite quickly. There were no formal “positions” or “ranks”, nothing rigid and set-in-stone

that established some kind of carefully detailed, thought out hierarchy (there was one, to be sure,

so don’t for a second think there wasn’t a pecking order; it just wasn’t…properly defined, and no

one, not even Charlie and Bruce, were certain how it worked, or what it was, other than it was

there, and it was respected, by everyone), so to bring up anything of this sort was going to be

ridiculed. Harshly. And even if that somehow was going to be an advantage to him, everything

seemed to add up all too well. The prolonged absence and vague non-answers from Jamison

further cemented in everyone’s minds that he was shifty, wretched, and might need to be
disposed of. Soon. Distrust towards him grew exponentially. The moment he decided to flee,

when everyone wasn’t looking, already preoccupied/distracted, to go on the run, hoping to avoid

being shot dead where he stood, or stabbed right then and there, was when he was marked for

death. Sealing a far more gruesome, violent, hideous, excruciating fate for him.

Charlie let out a small, quick sigh, still looking down at Jamison, and then finally…he spoke.

“You done with this, uh, tirade of yours yet?” A smooth, slightly raspy, refined Mississippian

accent spoke those words, the voice of a southern gentleman, a potential plantation owner. Not…

well, a ruthless son of a bitch who was about to put someone in the grave.

Metaphorically speaking, since there was no digging and burying that was going to happen here.

He was an “opfer”, for the forest, its plants and soil, and the animals, if they felt the need to

indulge. They reserved burials for their dead friends, making a ceremony out of rejoining the

revered Gaia, Mother Earth.

There was a lot of esoteric/mystical elements woven into their general outlook, to be sure. A lot

of them came into this with that sort of background, already finding “The Way” to be in line with

the spiritual teachings they were brought up with, or had put together in their heads. Though, in

this, it went far deeper than anyone except “The Founders” could possibly conceive. Mainly

because it was born, and channeled, in them, put forth into the world. Many didn’t grasp the little
nuances, the minor details, the easily overlooked intricacies, and if they did, they wouldn’t

probably figure out how deep the rabbit hole went. It was a lot more defined and apparent than

any…exoteric, perhaps even…philosophical or political aspirations, which were there, and in a

lot of ways, just as inflexible, but in many other ways, very malleable, that this band of

renegades might have.

Sacrifice, such as this, was a lot dirtier, messier, primal, and brutal, than a burial. Usually done

by one or two individuals, and no dignity or respect was afforded the victim of the sacred art of

“culling”, as they called it. And there wasn’t just Mother Earth who was receiving the sacrifice.

There was…someone, or rather, something, else, that the “opfer” was going to be a “gift” for.

She wanted, no, needed, that blood to be shed. Traitor’s blood. If there was one thing you didn’t

do, it was betray the dialectic. Violate the code. And now, he was as good as dead, thanks to that.

Rotten dross. A soul possessing a foul stench. Blood that was not of her kind. Maybe at one

point. Not anymore. Not of her Faustian, sinister, heretical kind. The chaotic mistress, having

been brought out of the timeless, formless, endless void she inhabited, the yawning abyss of the

snarling dragon, manifesting as the goddess of this fallen world, was here. Tangibly? No. But her

presence could be felt, nonetheless. Jamison’s eyes widened, a chill running down his spine.

They’d seen her before, in multiple forms, but always seeing her. They knew it was her. Ready

to receive the flesh, the bones, the corpses, the war, the death, the fear, the hate. She…craved it.

They could perceive it, sense it. And who were they to deny her?
“Fucking faggo-ahhhhhhhh!”

Surprisingly, Charlie wasn’t the one who had driven the knife into Jamison’s stomach.

Bruce struck first, which, during a situation like this, that was rare.

There was a fearsome glare on Bruce’s face as he jammed the blade right into Jamison’s

abdomen, his hand gripping the hilt so hard, his knuckles turned white.

Had Jamison not been choking on his own blood, he might’ve started to shed tears. Perhaps even

cry out to someone for some kind of mercy. Or attempt to fight back. Spit some of his blood in

their faces. Choke out some final disparaging retort. With all the crimson leaking from his lips,

however, it seemed he wouldn’t get a chance to do any of those things. If he even possessed the

necessary willpower, or strength, or energy, to partake in any of the above.

“That’s for calling my father a faggot.” Bruce growled out in a dangerously low voice, teeth

gritted, snarling like a wild animal. Even Charlie had to admit, Bruce was…scary. Right now, at

least. Not that he wasn’t scary at any other time. Most folks tended to quake in his presence. But

rarely was Charlie ever frightened by his own son.

If he were going to be totally honest, though he’d never bother to admit to anyone who he didn’t

important enough, Charlie was…touched. Touched that his son was defending his honor, and his

sexual proclivities. Sure, he didn’t need any help in handling it. But there was no objection on his

part. He’d do the same for Bruce, of course. No one could accuse him of not loving his son. He

just had a…strange way of showing it, a lot of the time. One which tended to spark a lot of

criticism. Said criticism was met with snarky responses and a dismissive attitude.

A sickening sound came when Bruce violently yanked the blade down through his innards,

cutting deep into his crotch, narrowly missing his genitals. The cut was jagged, not at all straight.

Curved and misshapen. Organs were torn through by the harsh, sharp steel, blood spurting onto

Bruce’s hand and the cuff of his jacket. Choked grunts and wheezing coughs left Jamison’s

mouth, weak and barely audible. The precious, life-giving fluid now poured out like a running

river, running down Jamison’s bare sides, and dripping onto the tree stump he laid deceased

upon.

The traitor’s head rolled to the side, eyes still wide open. But he, he had long departed. To

where? Somewhere far worse than here.

“That was for my mothers.” Bruce snarled once more, ripping the knife out of Jamison’s corpse,

eyes narrowing as he unceremoniously kicked Jamison’s body off of the tree stump and onto the

forest floor, sheathing his knife back into the holster in his jacket.
Both of them spit on the body, turning on their heels and beginning to walk away, leaving the

remains for the soil, the plants, and the animals.

For Charlie, Jamison was an example, a warning.

For Bruce, Jamison was personal. Very, very personal.

Bruce was snapped out of his train of thought by the rustling of pitch black fur against his face,

spilling soot onto the hard, cold, slightly wet wooden floor, with a bit falling onto his skin, too.

Sort of like black snow. Fine, powdery black snow. He still had to wonder where all of it was

coming from. How the two of them managed to produce it. Even stranger was the fact that, after

a while, it just…disappeared. Evaporated. Like it was never there in the first place. Leaving no

trace of its existence.

In his company, whilst he laid on the floor of an abandoned shack, lit up by a fireplace, which he

sat as close to as possible (the cold was biting and fierce; like a million little needles stabbing

into his skin all at once, draining him of his blood), were two small wolf pups. Both of whom

were jet black. So jet black, that when nightfall came, they became lost to the darkness

completely. Unable to be seen. Two pairs of bright, milky white eyes stared back into his vibrant

blue one, were the only indicators that would provide their whereabouts in the latest of hours.
Sitting on their hind quarters, heads tilted curiously, their tails swished back and forth, back and

forth. In an eerily synchronized manner. Everything they did, they both did together. As if they

were one being split into two. One of them pawed at his chest, bringing a smile to Bruce’s face.

Affection and a nap was in order. The adorable little creatures were small enough for him to

scoop both of them in his arms, as demonstrated by him sitting up, the twins hurriedly gathering

in his lap and cuddling together, wrapping his arms around them. Thanks to the thick, shaggy

coat gifted to them by whatever divine presence may exist, the pair seemed to be largely

unaffected by the blistering cold. That, and…they were unnaturally warm. Bruce was glad for

the constant snuggling. It was like holding a couple of miniature furnaces in his embrace.

Within minutes, slumber took them both away from consciousness, and now they lay there,

softly breathing, occasionally letting out tiny whimpers and deep exhales.

He knew he’d be covered in soot once they decided to get off of him. Yet, right now, he didn’t

care. All that mattered was their safety, and their well-being.

He had nothing else in this world. Not anymore.

Except for these two.

It wasn’t long ago he had come across them and adopted them. The encounter was…a few nights

ago, maybe? Bruce wasn’t quite sure. His sense of time had been…knocked loose. How long had

he been out, nearly dead? How long had he wandered the barren, snow-covered wasteland,

aimlessly, a living, breathing corpse, dead flesh walking? How long had he been in this land?

Where even was he, really, at this current moment in time? The answers to all these questions

eluded him, like a rabbit eluding a hunter’s gun, or a sparrow eluding a hawk’s ravenous beak.

Keeping track of the day and night cycles, in his current state, wasn’t much of a priority, nor an

easy task. It felt like one long, arduous day.

The circumstances leading up to him finding them flashed into his mind. Time might’ve turned

into an illusion; memories did not. His mental clarity was still as sharp as ever. Even if he

trudged at an uncharacteristically slow pace, and looked as though the next blow to the chest

might kill him.

Consciousness seemed to be slammed down into him. For when he awoke, he felt immensely

exhausted. As if a great fall had been sustained by his soul, plummeting from an immense height,

the weight of his spirit making his body feel groggy, weak, and terribly off-kilter. Much akin to

being tackled by an addict who had finally lost it, barreling into you with all of his might,

knocking the wind out of you, crashing into you, bringing you to the floor, slobbering the vile

acid that was their tainted saliva, eyes wild and hungry, like some kind of undead nightmare.
Vague memories lingered in his mind. No, not vague memories of already established events,

places, people, etc. Goodness, he wasn’t an amnesiac. Mentally, there was nothing missing.

Gaps? Please. An absurd notion. Bruce Halifax did not have ulcers forming in that wracked

noggin, that possibly cracked skull, of his. He was made of sterner stuff, apparently.

Ok, so, the mind wasn’t quite yet firing on all cylinders. So what? That’s neither here nor there.

Aye, these were different kinds of memories that stirred to the forefront of that ol’ cerebral organ

of his.

Recent, real recent.

Yes, the recollections of his near-death surged forth so hard, so viciously, it was similar to the

digging in of a rambunctious predator’s claws, or the serrated blade of a large, intimidating knife

swiping across one’s skin.

Maybe, perhaps more pressing, the sting of burning cold, atom-sized needles burying into his

flesh’s pores, irritating the new, permanent mark upon his face.
Had he been dead? Sure seemed like it. The young man had been dead before. Quite a few times,

to be precise. The sensation, of being out of one’s own body. Wasn’t a lengthy affair, though.

Something…maybe…maybe someone (never got a good glimpse of who, or what, it was that

sent him back to the realm of the breathing; always felt a touch on his shoulder, and before he

could whirl around and inquire about the mysterious, always clear as day, hand upon him, before

he could catch a glimpse of this being, he woke up, without rail), usually had him back up and

running, ready to go (or as ready as anyone can be, after being revived from the crossing over

point), in a relatively short amount of time. A few times, he’d managed to get the most minute of

glimpses of that stranger. And…well, might’ve been his foggy, fuzzy mind playing tricks on him

(you expect someone to be all there immediately after they get up from what should’ve been the

big sleep?), however, the image he always faintly caught sight seemed to be a woman. A

strikingly beautiful one at that.

Oh, hell. Everything hurt.

Hurt so, so much.

Toe to head, all was aching, throbbing, screaming, crying, groaning, burning.
Consciousness, full consciousness, was coming back. Awareness in full spring once again. A

singular ocular organ tentatively peering around, vision blurred somewhat, straining hard to see

if anything devilish lurked out beyond his reach. Too damn foggy to tell, he discerned.

Inhaling and exhaling heavily a few times, an attempt to get up was made. Struggling to push

himself to his feet, via his arms, huffing and panting and grunting, biting and snarling foul

obscenities as the building block of any upright movement, standing up, had been turned into

some kind of monumental feat.

Damnit…never before had the broken warrior felt so weak, so downtrodden, so beaten down,

ever in his existence. In the haze of it all, wobbling and swaying like some idiotic drunkard,

possessed by vile, body-destroying spirits, those accursed liquid demons, an attempt was made to

remember a time he felt as though mere wind gusts would send him tumbling to the Earth.

Yes, this was a first.

First time for everything…

Shit, this was…far from ideal. Dizzy, as if spun around in a grand centrifuge. Poor, poor brain.

Forced to slosh around in the pool of juices kept in that head of his. Drowning in the soup of

whatever the fuck wad contained up there. Evidently, his brain wasn’t too happen with such a
situation, pulsing angrily and vengefully, as if to revolt against Bruce for potentially putting it

permanently out of condition.

Gray matter, it can be such a nuisance sometimes.

Before doubling over briefly, halfway convinced that stomach acid and other vital fluids were

going to exit from his esophagus and spill past his dried lips, the old rhythm of left foot, right

foot, began to take hold once again. Cautious, of course. Timidly stepping forth, looking as if he

were an infant all over again, learning the finer points of complex motions such as.. walking.

Hobbling along, limping, with a very apparent wound that still trickled and oozed blood upon his

face, his frostbitten feet simply moved…forward. Where was “forward”? Hell if he knew.

Wherever his eyes were facing, that was “forward” for the time being. Every faint drop, every

little stream of crimson, it further reminded him of his own mortality. Mortality he had damn

near succumbed to…well, to be truthful, he wasn’t sure how long ago. Could’ve been hours.

Days. Weeks, even. Not months. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have woken up. And it was still winter.

The empty hole. The socket. He was…tempted…to feel it. Pick at it. There was a distinct lack of

something vital there.

Even if his hair (seems that he’d grown it out within the timespan involving his stay in Oregon,

because he damn sure never had hair before), covering it somewhat, with its length, couldn’t

wave away the revelation that he was now rendered half-blind.

It wasn’t like he’d somehow forgotten that his eye was torn out of his head.

Lopsided vision served to bludgeon into Bruce’s head that he was half-blind.

As well as the traumatic memory (or rather, memories) that led to the loss of it.

It’d just…take some time to get used to.

He’d had two eyes his entire life, so, it was only natural to still be put off by the absence of one

of them. To touch the place where it had once so snuggly resided, never dislodged, let alone

forcibly removed. Sometimes, in a fit of paranoia, he felt around it. Worried something might’ve

crawled in, or might attempt to. Or that a bird may decide to nibble at the flesh. Never in, though.

His fingers never actually went in. That…that’d be too much for him.

A part of him wondered if the wind was why his head hurt so much.
Then the more reasonable side kicked in, saying, “you are dehydrated, starving, and, not too long

ago, were lying in the snow, left for dead after enduring the worst beating of your life, at the

hands of the man you called father”.

His father…

The very thought of that man kindled a burning hatred in him so strong that the sixth circle of

Hell itself probably formed within his core, even though he was currently stuck in the ninth. It

probably didn’t do him much good to make his heart work this damn hard. Fucking thing was

barely working already. Struggling to pump enough blood through his veins to keep himself

from falling dead, running on pretty much nothing. To get all excited, in this climate, with little

in the way of strength, wasn’t smart.

Right now, he didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, he was already dead. Undead, now. Risen

from the grave, animated by something else. He wasn’t entirely there, he thought.

That was all probably bogus, but then again, maybe not. Certainty flew out the window a long

tine ago.

Anger, spite, defiance, it kept him going.

At everything.

That was his current mindset towards everything.

His father…

Bruce wanted to kill him (Bruce refused to call him by his name, currently; to speak his name…

that’d make him real, and in the present moment, the last thing he needed to worry about was…

him).

A thought that, evidently, had never crossed his mind.

Even after all that had transpired, all the acts perpetrated by that man’s hands, Bruce still…

couldn’t really fathom what it would mean to kill him. To…to murder him. End his life. Sure,

righteous fury and a want, no, need, for vengeance, boiled in his gullet, demanding to be satiated.

On the other hand, one had to remember that…there were still countless memories, numerous

good and bad times, life-changing events, and teachings that all involved that man’s presence, a

presence so constant that, in a way, Bruce’s identity was attached to his, and vice-versa. From

birth, Bruce was with him, in damn near every sense one could be with another human being.
Living with him. Looking up to him. Sharing with him. Laughing with him. Crying with him.

Being there for him, and him being there for Bruce. It was damn near a certainty they’d die

together. This man…he was, in a lot of ways, Bruce’s whole world. Sure, he was…certainly not

as pristine as Bruce, or certain others, may’ve thought him to be. In hindsight, the amount of red

flags, glaring flaws, and questionable behaviors…they seemed to be warning signs. That

anything involving him might end in disaster. Nevertheless, no one, certainly not Bruce Halifax,

saw it as reason to disavow him.

Even now, Bruce wasn’t sure if he could disavow him in his entirety. At least, right now, that

was an impossibility. There was just as much sadness, and loneliness, and despair, and sheer

agony, monumental longing, as there was hate, anger, immeasurable disappointment, and even a

sense of regret.

Then, his mind drifted to three very special, important women. A trio of women he cherished just

as much as he had cherished his father. He would’ve died for them, something he came close to

doing… on an innumerable amount of occasions. And, as he had demonstrated countless times in

the past, he would’ve killed for them. Whole swaths of people, he’d unhesitatingly shed the

blood of, to guarantee their safety.

Early on, he lost knowledge of their whereabouts. Things were intensely chaotic at first,

disordered and jumbled. Split-ups occurred, a great deal of their numbers were slaughtered and

captured right from the get-go, the territory was unfamiliar, crushed under the heel of a
tyrannical, dictatorial enemy with the most savage mean streak any of them had ever

encountered, and supplies was scarce. With his morale already in the gutter, their sudden

disappearances left him noticeably shaken. Worry wracked his whole body, trying to suppress

the bone-chilling thought that they were gruesomely murdered in the snow. Or worse…taken in,

as prisoners. By those…those monsters. Since he refused to see them as human, at all, the

soldiers.

He was half right. One of them was seized. At that point, death would’ve been mercy. A

welcome relief. The fate that befell her…Bruce was ignorant of it, and that was probably for the

best. It’d drive him into complete insanity to hear what became of her.

Her wife, however, her precious wife, the other of Bruce’s two mothers, the second half of the

esteemed female couple that was held in such high regard in the gang hailing from Nevada, she

had been merely killed. Bruce never found her body, either. Assuming he were to somehow

come across it, he probably wouldn’t be able to look at her remains. Surely, there was not

enough bile in the human body for the kind of reaction he’d have.

And his lover…one of his lovers, that is, for his other one, who she was, in every way except,

well, “officially”, one could suppose, married to, he had been vanquished early on (something

that sparked a great, overwhelming ferocity in Charlie’s son (“like a damned volcano had

erupted in his heart”), driving him to blindly charge at the enemy, seeking blood-smeared

retribution for the stricken man he so adored, which nearly got him killed…more than once, as
well as his father and a few others)…she wasn’t anywhere to be found. Once her “darling” had

been slain, riddled with bullet holes, like rotten, nauseous Swiss cheese, laying on the ground,

festering and decaying, she…vanished. No one had seen her leave, and no one could guess her

whereabouts, to what corners she’d ventured off into.

Eventually, the answer came. In possibly the worst fashion, at what could be described as

Bruce’s lowest moment. A day before he and Charlie would battle in the snow; by this point,

they were giving each other the silent treatment.

Looking back on it, what stung the most is that he hadn’t told them he loved them when he’d last

been in their presence. So certain was his mind that they’d reunite. Precedence had drilled into

him again and again that, in the darkest and dreariest of times, his father and his mothers would

be there. Immediately? Right there and then? Perhaps not. But eventually. Hopefully soon.

Optimism, hope, they ran thin, despite his best efforts, and it wasn’t long before he, in his mind,

and in his heart, presumed them to be dead.

Large, cold, blinding tears welled up in his eyes as he recalled the night it became certain, to him

(his father had solemnly come to the conclusion they were long gone way before he did, and

while he and them had gone back and forth, quarreled furiously, occasionally declaring hatred

for each other, never being on the best of terms, much to Bruce’s dismay, they’d still been there

for him and his son for a lot, having done a lot, helped a lot, and he was, at the very least,
grateful for that, commending them as he lamented aloud, something he did when a close friend

“joined the dirt”).

The young man wept harder under the moon, in those somber hours, than he ever had in his

entire life.

There was a feeling of emptiness, one that couldn’t be ignored.

As if the reasons for him being alive, the purposes for everything that had occurred up to this

point, had come crashing down, brought to ruins, and laying in a million pieces all over the

ground.

What was he to do now?

He was a wanderer, aimlessly drifting.

Without a home.

Without a family.
Without any kind of hope.

A wanderer in the purest sense.

Occasionally, the young man’s gaze shifted around to look at his surroundings. While this was

an inopportune place to be stranded in, and at the most inopportune of times, without anything

other than the clothes on your back, and what was in said clothes, without a weapon, not even of

some crude kind, there was a real sense of beauty to be found here. The forests were dense, filled

with strong, sturdy saplings, fully grown and, occasionally, dreadfully imposing; he imagined, in

warmer weather, they were lush, strikingly green, with plentiful leaves that touched the ones of

their fellow brethren, forming a giant, emerald covered tarp over the forest floor, like a curtain, a

shade, keeping the might of the sun at bay somewhat. As of right now, white blanketed their

long, curling, twisting arms, reaching out in all directions, gesturing wildly, saying things we

couldn’t even begin to understand. In his travels, he was able to gaze upon deep, yawning

gorges, valleys that cut right into the breast of Mother Earth herself, everything plunging down

into the depths, an unfathomable distance that led to a long, winding, ancient river, quite possibly

older than even the valley itself. The tales it might be able to tell. All it had seen, all it had taken

into its ebb and flow, the collections it must’ve had, and may even still have, lurking in its bed.

While trudging through miles upon miles of rolling hills, vast fields, and great plains, extending

far out for miles and miles, as far as his eye could see, infinite and without limit, he’d sometimes

catch glimpses of the mountains in the background. A sight reminiscent of his travels in his
homeland, although Oregon’s peaks were somewhat covered by the numerous would-be

evergreens, as well as the plateaus and other dips and curves. Nevada was, by contrast, a lot

more flat, and seemingly barren, though Bruce knew better. If he were in the right place, he

could see what was long ago dubbed “Mount Hood” towering in the distance, jutting out from

the ground like the spires atop a grand cathedral. Asserting its superiority in a silent, stoic

manner. Along the way, his eyes had bared witness to three formations, a trio of volcanoes.

Individually, they were nameless, but from what information he gathered whilst he here, he

learned that they were referred to as “The Three Sisters”. All of it was so breathtaking. Truly, it

touched his heart.

Time was taken, whenever he could, to sketch the various animals and plants he came across, as

well as make small notes and observe them peacefully, a habit that he had picked up from his

father as a child, and one that would likely continue until the day he perished. Some he had much

experience with, well acquainted to their presence, appearance, and behavior. Various species of

mice, deer, bears, foxes, elk, bats, golden eagles, hawks, owls, whatever you could think of when

the term “wildlife” came to mind. Others, not so much. Wolves, moose, bald eagles, grizzlies,

instead of the more familiar black bears. Some were even new, never having encountered their

specific variety of creature before. Being from a place that was landlocked, he got to see oceanic

life for the first time. Whales, seals, and dolphins were something he’d only heard about in

books, and seen pictures of in old paintings or alongside informational texts. There wasn’t a

whole lot of them that he saw, nor did he spend much time on the coastline, but he still saw

them, and he was still as awestruck as one might imagine, even if it was from a distance, a long

way’s away, upon the shore. Truly, wonders and marvels abound, in that singular trek to the
scenic coastline, the brief moments he spent there forever imprinted upon his mind. And the

ocean itself wasn’t anything to sneeze at, either. Had he been afforded the opportunity, he

would’ve liked to set up a permanent home right then and there, forever gazing out into the

eternal blue, waking up every morning to the Earth’s eye.

Bruce Halifax, living a normal, domestic life. What a humorous notion that was.

Bloodlust was in him. Combat, war, death, he craved it like an addict craves their next opium fix.

Nothing, no one, could ever make him put down the gun, and the knife.

A warrior he was. A warrior he’d die.

Yes, even after all that had transpired. Were there regrets? Was there trauma? Oh, absolutely.

Absolutely, without any shadow of a doubt.

Gladly would he throw himself, body and soul, back into the fray. Unhesitatingly.

One couldn’t help but feel supremely glad Oregon had been spared a great deal of damage, not

unlike Nevada to the south. Both were rather…pristine, if you will. Their wilderness and rural

areas were, anyway, which constituted the majority of both lands. Neither were very densely
populated before The Fall, and didn’t hold a lot in terms of importance. Well, Nevada did, a bit,

but that was besides the point. The two territories managed to escape the carnage rather

untouched and unscathed.

Harsh lands, the two areas were, to be sure. One as warm and punishing as the sixth circle, and

the other as cold and isolating as the ninth. Rugged, hardy people, only, were worthy of staking

their claims here. Struggle and hardship met those who lived and died in the regions. Those up to

the challenge, who proved themselves fit enough for it, knew no place better. Botched ones, they

either fled, or wound up dead. While made of a pair of different, incomparable terrains,

navigation, settling, wandering/journeying, weather considerations, foraging, gathering, hunting,

shelter, farming, and such being completely different in each of them (thus breeding distinct

cultures), the strategies and tactics of surviving and thriving in these parallel soils manifesting in

separate ways, even in divergent manners in certain pieces of land within them (in Nevada,

anyway; regulation and rigidity prevented such in Oregon), difficulty of all of these things being

carried out whilst calling either one of them home was a reality one came to face on a regular

basis. Hence the importance of being tough enough to withstand the conditions. Nevada, to the

foreigner looking in, from the outside, found it to be empty and ugly. Inhabitants, natives, bring

aware of where they lived, recognized a reality starkly contrasting to how it was perceived by

outsiders, knowing it was anything but ugly and empty. Quite beautiful and colorful, actually.

Far from dead. Oregon’s outward charm and enchanting seductiveness lulled one into a false

sense of security. One wasn’t prepared for the world lying in wait for them, ready to take their

life, too enraptured by what they saw, heard, smelled, or felt. Getting lost was easy. Finding the
way out was damn near impossible. And that’s before you took into account who lived in these

realms…

So timeless and picturesque. Perennial, primordial, everlasting, eternal. Unshaken. An ample

place to find the pathway towards Truth. Divinity was nestled in its breast, deep in its heart. He

could sense it. Feel it.

Bruce felt as spiritually rooted here, as he did in his native Nevada. As if he belonged here, in

addition to over there.

If the young man were to be of an arrogant, cocky disposition, he’d say it was his birthright to be

here.

Certainly, he felt more entitled to this place than the scum who were once here.

T’was a shame that it had to be disturbed by such foul presences that had taken root here long

ago. These were haunted lands. Phantoms aplenty, in these parts. Like a manor overtaken by

poltergeists. To the untrained eye, it may look empty and abandoned and untouched. Stick

around, and you’d find out the opposite. Loathsome, disgusting, a lumbering, brutish,

unintelligent creature responsible for a great deal of harm, lurked here. In the past tense, since…
as far as he could tell, as far as he could remember, this rot was mostly gone. Extinguished, put

down, killed.

Rooting them, these presences, out was a wholly destructive process, one which disturbed the

land a great deal. In a short period of time (in comparison to the greater scope of existence; to

them, it had been a long, long time they’d been here), it looked as war-torn as Nevada. Razed,

were swaths of territory. All in the name of vengeance. “Fuck around and find out”, became the

rallying cry in the journey to find who hurt their land, their goddamn home, and, worst of all,

their pride. A rallying cry that they all answered without question. Spoiling for a fight, they

salivated at the thought of another great series of battles, another great war. Foaming at the

mouth to reassert their rightfully earned place as the most sturdy, fearsome, defiant presence in

Nevada.

Initially, the goal was to drive them out. Simply get rid of their presence. What a difficulty that

by itself was. The invaders numbered not-that-many, maybe a quarter of those who would storm

Oregon with the zeal of an imperialistic Roman regime, yet they were…brutally efficient. In

what, you may ask? Laying waste to anything and everything that they felt the need to make

mincemeat out of. Terrifyingly swift, with an unquenchable thirst for carnage and corpses.

Sprinkled with a large helping of pure, zealous sadism. As if they didn’t need to think about it.

Killing and torturing whoever, wherever, was so automatic, so…ingrained. Mercilessly

butchering, so indiscriminate. Was it a threat? Could it be a friend? Is rushing in, assuming all

were foes, the only option? Distinguishing between any of these designations was not a
particularly important matter, to them, when it came to this foreign land. Answering these

questions was, no pun intended, out of the question. As long as it was a human who was not one

of their own, it would not breathe. Man, woman, child…their bullets and blades did not care for

who was who. Blood was flowing; that’s what mattered. Enemy blood, to be specific. Standards?

What standards? Who needs them? War swallowed everyone. Consumed all. Funneled all toward

the jaws of death. War was the truest anarchy. No morals, no rules or rulers, no ethical

considerations, no consent, not even a mutual agreement. There was only the struggle of two

stubborn entities, and a desire to live in both, an unquestionable unwillingness to die. The

question was: who was more fit to live?

The new, would-be occupiers of Oregon had acknowledged these truths. Lived by them.

Difference was: they knew how to keep their eyes on what they were really chasing, what they

were really after. Would others who were not meant to perish, perish? Sure, no doubt about it.

And while unfortunate, it was a fact of war. Casualties would not be strictly limited to just the

antagonist. To apply morals, ethics, rules, spirits, these spirits, to everyday life, let alone the most

chaotic and violent activity man can engage in, was an absurdity. Costly, was maintaining

freedom and life. Sentences, ideas, and fancy rhetoric didn’t back these two up; struggle and

battle did, even if sentences, ideas, and rhetoric had a great, hefty influence on the struggle and

battle. What is a struggle without an idea? Aimless, idiotic flailing. What is an idea without a

struggle? An empty platitude. “Don’t weep for the dead, or you’ll never stop the flow of tears”,

as Charlie liked to say.

Still, outliers weren’t intentional. Attempts were made to be somewhat careful and deliberate.

Not so, for the ones venturing from Oregon.

Did they have a target? Technically, yes. Everyone they came across was a target. Not a party.

Not a specific group. Not a town. Not an ethnic category. Not some religious sect.

At first, this may seem to be a matter of conquest.

Yet, even conquerors didn’t slaughter all of the people they came across. Why rule if there were

no subjects to rule over? Plus, women could be used to propagate the bloodlines of the

conquerors, and the youth could be conscripted. Men would turned into slave labor, possibly.

Those that marched into Nevada were interested in none of these.

Which meant that this…was an extermination.

A genocide.
So, they were defeated, as was already explained. Victory had come at a high cost, however.

Quite a lot of northern Nevada was laid to waste. Middle Nevada hadn’t come out entirely

unscathed, either. As worse off as northern Nevada? Not by a long shot, as you might’ve

guessed. There was still a healthy population in that region, along with quite a few surviving

towns. Obviously, a body count had been racked up. Impressive signs of damage made

themselves apparent here and there, a small taste, a faint glimmer, of the horrors responsible for

the eerie, downright creepy desolation in the more boreal parts of Nevada. Senseless, you would

have to be, to deny this. It wasn’t anything irreparable, however. Afforded some time to rest and

recover, and one would think nothing had happened at all. Up in the northern sectors, human life

had been rendered…extinct. To someone who knew no better, assumptions of settlements never

having taken root here, being bereft of a human presence since The Fall, The Blackening, never

showing any real signs of even a faint human presence, would not be entirely nonsensical. Go

ahead. See for yourself, this state of affairs. Towns were sacked, blown to bits, left in an array of

splinters and pebbles. Smoldering heaps of wreckage, charred, burnt severely, plundered of any

supplies, valuables annihilated; hardly anything remained once they were through. Corpses were

strung up from any high point deemed sturdy enough to support a hanging cadaver. The remains

of decapitated individuals were strewn about. Decapitation seemed to be a favorite of theirs. And

not swift, clean cuts. It looked as though they hastily, messily hacked away, evidenced by cuts to

the shoulders and backs of the carrion, being feasted upon by wandering creatures. Bullet holes

riddled whatever members of the departed weren’t hacked up. Some had been hacked up to the

point of looking similar to the aftermath of cattle, pigs, chickens, and the like being cut up in old

slaughterhouses. Flung carelessly to the side. Others had, evidently, been subjected to
immolation. Their flesh had been singed so terribly, they less resembled human beings, or more

so large lumps of coal. Wherever they went, nothing remained alive any longer.

Do you see the boots stomping?

Farewell, I bid thee; what awaits you is only doom.

Marching upon a sizzling ash heap, stoically standing amidst the aftermath.

Expect nothing less, in their presence, than total gloom.

There wasn’t much that the loosely-connected tribe of similarly thinking individuals and unions

of folks alike feared, the one Bruce had taken so much pride in “belonging to”. He, his father,

and his mothers had done their best to set an example of how they all should be, how they all

should act. One of those essential traits that got emphasized a great deal was a sense of

fearlessness. Show no visible signs of uncertainty and anxiety in the presence of the enemy. Yes,

that included situations where the fight was not in their favor…at all. Continue to advance.

Retreat? What cowardly hogwash. No, throw yourself into the fray even more, if the odds seem

insurmountable. Their whole mentality was this: the worst thing that can happen is you die. And

dying on the battlefield? Maimed beyond repair, whilst giving a foe a good run for its money?

Slain in the name of driving away that which would undoubtedly attempt to make you a slave,
unfree, remove one’s sense of own-ness, turning you into their property? Dying so that,

hopefully, your dearest friends, those closest to your heart, your family, who understand your

mindset, cherishing that same sense of autonomy, may continue to experience the fruits in this

bountiful garden? Shame was not to be found, in relation to a deed of this nature. Nay, it was, in

all actuality, a great honor. It was beautiful. Breathtaking. Through this, ironically, a person

became immortal. Alive eternally, by means of departing this plane of existence heroically.

Their way was not rotting with the years, or being afflicted by sickness, or other “natural

causes”. Clamored, these fanatics always did, for a chance at one of two options: destroy the

opposition, or perish in a spectacular manner whilst trying to do so.

Through sheer stubbornness, endless strength, fountains of courage, and the smarts to back all

three of them up, it was no wonder that they became as legendary and utterly threatening to those

who were facing their blades and guns, as well as those who weren’t. Like all who wish to

establish a revolt against time, where an old, fetid way of doing things is swept away for

something better (though they were not on some sort of mission to erect a grand, new order; the

opposite, actually, breaking away from the tired method of being flung off the wheel, only to try

and get back on it again), the currents of causal moments ebbing and flowing tried to wither

away at the rock that was them; still, a giant stone lobbed into a rushing river, they stayed, and

steadfastly held their ground. Refusing to be carried away by the gushing of that most essential

fluid. Did the river chip and wither away some of the rock? Yes, as all rivers do to any stone and

soil it moved through, carving through the ground the way beaver teeth carve through tree

trunks; sculpting the Earth, shaping it with its tides however they pleased. These hooligans, these
cultured thugs, were not exempt from any of this. Time had its way with all, whether it accepted

this or not. Better to accept it, they always said. But here they were, still going strong.

When the Oregonites were encountered by them, there was a sense of awful, dire trepidation.

Steps weren’t as certain. The swagger, it wasn’t as self-assured. Voices wavered a bit. Charlie

and Bruce, Sierra and Brooke, usually morale boosters, didn’t do so great in masking their sense

of impending quietus on all of their parts.

These Nevada natives, these ones specifically, they liked to dress a certain way. For both

practical and aesthetic reasons. Black leather jackets (or black bomber jackets) with symbols

painted onto them and patches sewn into the fabric, plain black shirts, black steel-toed boots that

stopped their calves, and dark pants, typically pairs made out of denim (with bandanas and

protective sunglasses on their faces to somewhat obscure their identities, as well as keep dust and

any offending particles or blazing light from handicapping their vision) tended to be both

durable, and pleasing to the eyes. Ergo, that was the usual identifier of who was one of “them”.

Not to mention, at night time, when many of their more homicidal activities occurred, it provided

excellent camouflage, in addition to whenever Nevada’s skies might turn grey, via storm or an

unusual abundance of clouds (contrary to what one may believe, Nevada’s climate was…

surprisingly varied). In the woodlands of Nevada, where they resided more than anywhere else,

eschewing the vast miles of cooked sand (a long-standing tradition over there), it did an excellent

job of keeping them hidden, to an extent. There was also a sense of fear to be derived from

seeing a group of renegades clad in outfits that portrayed nothing short of menacing intentions. A
certain Italian regiment (also, the most die-hard and vicious cadre of European devotees to ever

exist, spreading terror and death as far as Russia, served as an inspiration) from a war that had

become a distant memory in centuries long since passed made them develop an affinity for dark

clothing, especially in the realm of wearing it into battle. Something about that look, it instilled a

sense of awe and dismay. When someone caught glimpse of that combination of garments,

advancing towards you, hanging around in the periphery of your eyesight, running itself wasn’t

even an option anymore. You were backed into a corner, with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

Sure, go ahead, pull out your weapon, try to stave off the inevitable eviscerating you were soon

about to be on the receiving end of. That’d only make them more excited, more…eager.

Challengers were always welcome.

Tis not a question of if, but only of how soon.

Something else are they; certainly not members of man.

Manufactured machines, fleshy contraptions brandishing blades out of the womb.

To who or what were they loyal? Did love exist in wherever they hailed from, in such a haywire

land?
Dressed in in what appeared to be armor of some kind (although a bit crude, despite how

effective it proved to be) on their torsos, bullet belts around their waists, jeans tucked into tall,

heavy jackboots, helmets that served as gasmasks, with radios built into them, eyes covered by

glowing red optics (built into said helmet/gas mask combination), all topped off with black

dusters that stopped somewhere down by their feet. Oh, and every one of their getups had human

remains smeared on them, notably on their armor. Dried, now melded with the material their

apparel consisted of. Reeking of the putrid odor a cadaver develops when left out to fester in the

sun for days and days, what they wore had never once been washed. They probably hadn’t even

considered it.

Then again, there was a good possibility that this was a deliberate decision on their end. As it

wasn’t their appearance which ultimately made the normally steel-like nerves of these steadfast

anarchists quiver somewhat, but rather, the aura they gave off. Foes who looked disconcerting

wasn’t something uncommon, in their day-to-day lives.

Whoever, or whatever, these mystery people (if that was, indeed, what they were…people), they

seemed to carry with them...the end. The end of what? Of everything. “Cessation” was their

attitude, their goal, their motivation, their desire. Silence was how their operated, in contrast to

how vocal the defensive side was during all their years of carrying whatever it is they felt like

carrying out in any given 24 hour period. And silence was what they left in their wake. Noise no

longer came from wherever they got finished thoroughly molesting. That…that was more
frightening, than anything else. The calmness, the stillness. How vile, it truly was. It conveyed

pure hostility, utter ruin.

Purposefully, methodically, single-mindedly, manifesting what could only be described as

“absolute fucking Armageddon”.

Radiating off of them was an atmosphere of pure negation, telling all who were near, without any

use of verbal communication, that The Reaper’s agents had come to collect on some tickets.

And did they ever enjoy collecting.

Yes, it might all sound very mystical, but if you were there, then you’d know exactly what was

being described, because then you’d experience it, too.

Penetrating beyond the skin, beyond the flesh and bones, beyond the chemicals and neurological

passageways of the mind, this…feeling…would seize your very soul, with all of its might.

As one might guess, things went…the opposite of well. Sure, the opposition lay dead on the

ground, when all was said and down, but so did an alarming large number of their kindred. And

to top it all off, there was the lurking suspicion that wherever they came from (up north, in
unexplored (by them, that is) territory), more were living…and potentially drawing up plans for

another assault). For the first time, in…probably years, the natives to Nevada, had gotten quite a

good thrashing. Proven to be…less than invincible. A challenge, a true challenge, had arrived on

the scene, and while not victorious (not in that moment), had left an eternal mark. In one singular

skirmish, the seemingly undefeatable lost more of their own than they had since the passing of

the last two winters. Admittedly, not many of them had died in the previous pair of years. If one

considers how many would usually perish (quite horribly, it is to be added) in a single year alone

from living how these rogues and eccentrics lived, the casualties amassed amidst their numbers

would seem positively paltry.

A miracle, considering all of the havoc and mayhem they’d gotten into, ridding Nevada of what

they saw, in their eyes (and many other people’s eyes), as oppressive influences. Hazardous and

robust in their own rights, the grand multitude that was the population of this southwest, desert-

laden realm could only dream of mounting an insurrection against those “others”, those that

salivated at the thought of trampling, without end, or restriction, upon whomever, and wherever,

instituting reigns of most nauseating kinds. If the present state of the world in which they

inhabited seemed unpleasant, and even at times, nightmarish, what was awaiting them, should

the most rotten of the rotten, whose own lived in squalor (not boding well in the slightest for the

would-be subjects, who, to them, were pawns towards ends that sounded ghastly even in paper

and speech (let alone in practice, and practice what they preached, they most definitely did) at

best…and at worst, anthropic cattle to derive pleasure…maybe even feast on), would prove to be

much, much worse. It wasn’t on the behalf of the populace at large, although them being untied,

meant that no one else would be (in theory, of course; in practice, what they got up to, amongst
themselves, was nobody’s business, being the affairs of those involved in this hypothetical

dilemma…unless, for whatever reason, someone, or an association of someones, felt like making

it their business), since slavery has a habit of growing, like a dismal infection, dragging all into

its fiery depths. T’was more for their own sake.

More than capable, they proved, of preventing the dastards from succeeding in an uprising.

Beyond merely keeping them at bay, subdued for the time being, until, renewed in strength and

vigor, decided, once again, to test the waters, seizing the opportunity for a second chance at

lordship, much of these unwanted scourges were outright exterminated, to the point of borderline

irrelevancy, no more threatening and harmful than the average clan of petty bandits scavenging

the less fortunate and less able.

They wielded the club, and the once terribly ruthless, backed away into shadowy corners,

clutching their broken ribs (literally and metaphorically), fearing incoming strikes from the club,

hiding out of sight, in vain attempts at self-preservation, quarreling with each other more than

ever, now that they were cast into the dark abyss of lowliness.

Everyone experiences it. It’s a rite of passage. You can revel in it, or climb out. The choice is

yours.
When the roaring noise of firearms ceased, when the blades were held at the sides, eyes of a wild

disposition surveyed the amount of carcasses on their side.

Oh dear, it seemed quite a few of them were...slain.

Naturally, they’d seen their friends murdered, whilst locked in the throes of bloody savagery.

Yet, it’s always so hard to keep track of whom was gone, and who was present, during the heat

of battle. Becomes difficult, also, to tell just how many of your allies are falling by the wayside.

Breathing raggedly, panting like overworked oxen, attention turned to their unknown foes.

The good news? All of them were gone.

The bad news? The total summation of this here regiment, was less, quite a bit less, than the

amount of dead to be counted for the Nevadans.

Perhaps these brave, dauntless, gallant warriors, having made themselves known as the most

formidable presence to have ever graced these lands, taking for themselves the mantle of the
“most free”, for nothing was truly out of their bounds, went soft in the wake of the defeat those

lesser, ill-bred, bastard goons.

Possible, certainly not out of the question, but not likely. In order to do the exact opposite of

“going soft”, as warriors are tempted to do in times of peace, they threw themselves into

conflicts both large and small, irregardless of the motives or the persons duking it out, as a way

to test and continually sharpen their capabilities as fighters/strategists, in addition to turning their

fists against each other, for the very same reasons. There was also an increase of ritualistic

activity (already highly present), though a return could be made to that specific topic, as it wasn’t

the main focus currently.

A more likely prospect was that there was someone…something...out there, wherever, in

unknown lands, up in the northern areas way past Nevada, filled to the brim with mysterious

people (assuming they were people; after all, just because red came rushing out like watery

rapids, didn’t make whatever it was a “man”)…that molded and then mobilized these terrors into

the humanoid equivalents of rocket launchers. Mute, emotionless, inexpressive, scarily efficient,

strong, and seemingly immune to pain. Obviously, they knew of the existence of Nevada. Were

well aware that it was inhabited. In some cases, thriving. Not in an old-world sense, however.

Only in a manner unique to Nevada.

How long had they been planning this? After all, this was not some spontaneous undertaking by

some two-bit band of bandits, yes? Too organized, too thought-out, too precise, too well-armed,
too…too fucking strong, y’know? Could there be more amongst them? Hiding in the shadowy

places in this sacred oasis in the vast southwest, observing from the dark, from the periphery,

scurrying about like armored mice, quietly taking notes, spying and peering and gazing, waiting

for the perfect moment to strike? Were there more? How many more? How much did they

know? The bastard who put them up to this, what was their name? Did they have a motive? If so,

what was it? Endgame, endgame, their plans, because, of course, scheming bastards, hidden

figures, obscured and veiled lunatics were behind all this, right? Right? Feelings, attachments,

were these dastardly no-goods possessors of qualities such as those just named? Out up north,

did they have untold numbers at the ready sending them in squads, one at a time, marching in,

whittling away whatever resistance could be put up against them, until they decided to stop

teasing them, and let loose all the way? Scores and scores, vast, swarming, teeming cattle,

equipped with fangs and claws, instead of hooves and molars; is that the situation they were

looking at, in regards to these machine-gun obsessed freaks? Under those masks, how’d these

barbarians, these savages, appear? Culture, culture…in all of Nature’s fine creation, pray tell,

what sort of bastard manifestation of human expression, of Nature’s will, had produced, given

way, to these…these…abominations? These things that clearly shouldn’t be?

It was not a matter of who they were. It was a matter of…what…they were. “Who” implied a

sense of personage, of humanity. Going by the encounter they had with these beasts, those

elements had been purged out of themselves perfectly. Thus, becoming…something else.
And just what, exactly, did they want, in all of thus? To what ends were they working? Desires,

wants, needs; how did they view and define any of these, in relation to themselves?

So many questions…

A dire need for answers…

Goddamnit, they should’ve never gone.

Ignorance, arrogance, it practically dragged them by leashes into a mass grave.

Yet, they all figured they had no choice. Sooner, or later, whatever had taken root in this

inhospitable, unforgiving realm, would come further south, and devour everything in its path.

Open wide its gaping, and swallow whole the entire territory that was the American southwest,

building an empire upon a mountain of bodies, peaks composed of blood, bone, sinew, and

ligaments. Us or them, us or them? Which was it going to be? Obvious answer for a ridiculous

question.

Not like they even gave a fuck about the finer details, or the reasoning, the logic, that lay behind

whatever they were facing. That myriad of whys, hows, whats, whens, wheres, whos, it all
disappeared from their minds, becoming non-issues. Inquiries? Didn’t care, didn’t matter. Now

the sole focus became…where did they need to go, and who did they need to kill?

Vengeful attitudes tended to cloud the mind. Surely, everyone knows that. A need, a desire, for

“get back”, clouded judgement. These souls weren’t immune to that fact. If anything, they were

more prone to it. Wanting, no, needing, blood to be spilled. Us or them, remember? Their flesh,

or our flesh. Either way, cadavers were returning into the Earth. One way or another, somebody,

something, had to die.

Wish granted. Just…just wasn’t in their favor. Life-giving crimson liquid was shed. It was…it

was theirs, unfortunately. For a while, solely theirs. Until a turning point came. Mainly due to the

efforts of “Blondie” and “The Kid”. Gruesome, monstrous, irredeemable actions were

committed…but it at least guaranteed that, if the Nevada natives were going down, then the

Oregonites were due to be dragged down with them.

And dragged down they were.

Mightily, forcefully…viciously.
Look at them now. Extinct, or very close to it, at least. Scattered to the wind, lost, cold, hungry…

forgotten. Consumed by despair and an impending sense of dread. At least, that’s what Bruce

imagined they were feeling. He was projecting. Because that’s what he felt.

Perhaps…perhaps they didn’t feel anything. Can’t feel anything when you’re not alive. When

was the last time he saw any of those kindred of his, other than “Blondie”? Any kind of

satisfactory response eluded him, evaded his grasp.

Best not to trouble oneself with the past, he thought. Not right, anyway. More pressing matters

were of concern right now.

He could muse and contemplate all he wanted when he managed to find a way to bring himself

back from the brink of death. Right now, he was slowly withering away. Any longer, and he

might crumple into a pile of dust.

All that mattered now was simple survival.

Trouble was…there was a whole host of obstacles currently impeding his desire for self-

preservation. The will to live was…well, it was there. Ailing, ill, fragile, weary, in danger of

being shattered in the manner of a fine wine glass in the presence of a gifted opera singer, unable

to be pieced back together…but it was there, all the same. If it weren’t, he would’ve simply
resigned himself to lay in the snow. Waited for the blood-stained scythe to finally swing down

hard on his neck. Definitely overdue for a good reaping.

The alarming lack of vegetation around…substantial, edible vegetation, was, to put it lightly,

driving him totally nuts. Son of a bitch…he didn’t want to resort to any meat, if he could help it.

Hadn’t tasted flesh. Never, in his whole life. The inclination never even rose within him. It was

always out of the question.

Looming into view, was a small, abandoned little cottage. A quaint little structure, seeming

untouched, undisturbed. Did anyone live there? His singular eye widened in fear, stopping dead

in his tracks, feeling the off-kilter rhythm of his heart kick into high gear. Which, in all honesty,

he wouldn’t be able to take much of. If it kept up for too long, there was a good chance he may

faint.

By the grace of the Cosmos themselves, he was immediately calmed by the sight adjacent to the

house. On the right side, hardly more than ten feet away, was a tree. First once he’d seen since

waking up. Come to think of it, hadn’t seen a whole lot of trees shortly before being knocked

unconscious, either. However, it wasn’t the tree itself that caught his attention. A tree was a

welcome sight, but the limp body hanging from it…that made his spirits soar.
Suspended in the air, with the help of a sturdy noose and a sturdier tree branch, was a man.

Looked to be a middle-aged fellow, approaching the “elderly” stage, but not old enough just yet

to fit squarely into that age range. Then again, since the body had no doubt been festering in the

blistering cold for some time, and was hanged by the neck (incurring gratuitous damage either

before or after, or hell, during, the whole process of being lynched), the decrepit nature of the

unsightly cadaver would’ve served to make it look older than it really was. Exposed to the

elements, subject to all manner of relentless decay, there was no telling how old this fellow really

was.

And in all honesty, it didn’t matter. He was just thankful that whatever previous circumstances

had occurred, a temporary shelter was gifted to him.

Of course, one could ask how he was able to discern it was truly open for him to take refuge in,

without the risk of joining his kin, those lost souls, in the ether. The hanged figure could mean

someone fought the previous owner, and strung him up, before taking it for themselves.

Unquestionably resilient these Oregonites were, yet even they probably wouldn’t leave their

most valuable defense against the piercing winds flowing in from lands beyond anyone’s

knowledge (maybe even a mythical place, spoken about in old tomes, by long-forgotten, long-

deceased tongues) wide open, allowing the insufferable temperatures to permeate and settle in

the abode.
Finally…

Finally…

Some kind of solace.

Some kind of peace.

Rest.

Relief.

For a second time, he was stopped again in his tracks. But it wasn’t out of fear. Terror didn’t grip

his heart this time, seizing every part of him in a tight fist, invisible fingers crushing his ribcage

and lungs, making it hard to breathe, his heart fighting to keep him from passing out. The

opposite emotion came over him, actually. Curiosity, wonder. A sense of delight, even.
Below the feet of the strangled, lifeless individual, were two very, very interesting (and adorable)

little creatures. Couldn’t be any taller than his calves. Totally identical in appearance. Observing

them from a healthy distance, their features were taken note of, in his mind. Gazing at them

brought a small to his face. What he was currently looking upon, were two shaggy, pitch black

hounds. If he wasn’t mistaken, they were wolves. Or very similar, anyway. He’d rarely ever seen

wolves in his lifetime, and when he did, he felt as though he were dreaming. Caught in some

kind of slumber-produced film, being played out in the forefront of his brain, so vivid that it

might’ve seemed real. Charlie had told him of his travels in other, more eccentric lands, before

settling in Nevada. Having came upon wolves a number of times. There was always something

so profoundly mystical, supernatural, about them. What was it? Hard to pinpoint exactly.

Yet, they were unlike any wolves he had ever seen. Or even glimpsed in linguistic descriptions,

or artistic, perhaps photographic, depictions. Were they really, truly, wolves? And nothing else?

Such questions mattered little to him, for he fell in love with them all the same.

His thoughts were interrupted when the twins came rushing up to him, yipping excitedly and

playfully, wagging their tails, jaws hanging open as their tongues lolled out, staring up at him

with wide, pupil-less, ghostly orbs, never seeming to blink.

Even in this state, it was hard not to smile. How endearing and wonderful these little fur balls

were. Certainly enough to make him disregard their glaring oddities. For example, how warm

they were, even in this frigid climate. Or how they seemed to spill coal-dust all along the ground

while they trudged through the snow towards him. Maybe, maybe, those milky-white ocular

organs should’ve been more curious and bizarre than he deemed them to be.

On the other hand, the macabre, morbid, strange, and surreal was no stranger to him. Neither he,

to it. Au contraire, for they were old acquaintances. Flirting with each other. Acknowledging

their existences, subtly…and not so subtly. Sometimes even embracing…well, clashing, more

like. Ah, that might not be the correct term either. Language, it can hardly do the one thing it was

made to do: express.

Turning his attention back to the lynched fellow hanging from the tree, he realized they must be

quite hungry. When he’d come upon them, they were trying (unsuccessfully) to pull the carcass

from its current resting place by the dead man’s feet. As time went on, such a feat would’ve been

trivial. Not only would the body be yanked down, but a few branches would come tumbling with

it. But as of now, they were little pups. Infants, small children. He, nor they, even, could’ve

fathomed the proportions they would grow to.

Coincidentally, he, too, was starving.

Yes, he’d never ate a flesh-and-blood creature before. Never wanted to, and the very thought

abhorred him. But, that vitality within him, stirring and whirring about, demanded sustenance.

Any at all. Didn’t seem to care where it came from. And right now, he was inclined to agree.

And, as he looked down once more at the tiny canines, their heads tilted as they peered curiously

at him, as if wondering, “who is this strange, pale, gaunt bipedal creature that looks at us so

happily?”, a sense of…not obligation, for he detested that notion (an obligation would imply he

was forced, compelled, to do this, and no one forced, compelled, him to do anything), nor, but…

a kind of protectiveness, mixed with affection, took hold of him. Love at first sight. Giving him a

renewed sense of purpose. Of meaning. A quaint little spectacle that, despite facing a world that

seemed to say there was none, and, in all likelihood, could never produce any, he still sought it

out, in spite of it all…and was pleasantly surprised.

Just like right now.

As always, it came when he was standing upon the heights of despair or madness…which is

quite tautological, since the two are usually linked, inextricably.

Wordlessly, he affirmed to these twins, and himself, that he would carry on. For their sake, and

his own. Because…why not? What else was he going to do? Sure, it wasn’t apt to be perceived

as glamorous by most (everything that is seen by most as glamorous, is in all actuality,

disgusting, pitiful, nauseous, corrupt, and worthy of the most virulent, accusatory, seething

contempt), but they were more than enough for him. Then again, there was actually a certain

loftiness, a certain grandiosity, in this new undertaking. He would be, in essence, a father.

Keeping them safe, guiding them through this terrifying and wondrous world; that would be his

new mission, from here on out. The guiding light that would serve to motivate his legs to walk

forward more and more.

Vowing, silently, within his heart, Bruce promised to never make the same mistakes that his own

father had made. Like Charlie, he would not be. These two would be properly cared for and

loved. Shown affection, reminded that they were not merely potential soldiers, potential killing

machines. Their wills would not be negated for his own whims and desires. If they wished to live

like him, so be it. Yet, if they did not, then judge, he would not. Nor force them. And they would

not tormented, berated, and borderline abused (it would seem that he was finally starting to

realize, in recent weeks, that he’d been looking on Charlie raising him, that part of his

upbringing, with heavily rose-tinted glasses). Certainly, Bruce would never, ever, under any

circumstances, resort to killing them, or attempting to, anyway. For any reason.

Bruce hadn’t really raised anything before. Truly brought a being up from juvenility to adulthood

or what have you; such an endeavor had never been undertaken in his lifetime. Never had the

desire sprang up within him, come to think of it. However, he now knew that what he went

through, was no way to rear a child. Even Charlie, throughout his life, acknowledged this, and

despite Bruce (admittedly, in a half-hearted manner, now looking back on it all) trying to
reassure his father that he’d done a good job…there was no denying that Bruce’s early life had

been wrought with trauma, hardship, strife, and (relatively) unnecessary suffering.

And the young man had been all the worse off for it…

No, things would be different for these pups.

Did he know anything about being a father? Not exactly. As far as examples go, he was given the

most mixed one in existence.

Goddamnit, he’d still try. These pups deserved that much. His highest efforts.

Oddly enough, the fact that it was a human being he was to consume, in that rundown,

structurally unsound shack, did not produce much anxiety within himself. Wholly undisturbed by

the fact, he cut the corpse down, flung it over his shoulder, and carried it into the shack for him

and his new friends to enjoy by a bright, dancing, seductive gathering of flames and sparks and

cinders. To this day, he wasn’t sure why that was the case, his lack of perturbation towards the

indulging of human remains. Could it have been as simple as his hunger, his demanding appetite,

screaming out for something edible, roaring feverishly deep within at the presence of a potential

series of meals? Maybe the sheer lack of energy made it thoroughly impossible to care? Perhaps

the thought of sharing a meal with another sentient lifeform sparked some joy within that heart of
his, that weary, war-torn soul, gripping in a white-knuckled manner to the last vestiges of life?

Or…or…just a thought, but…this could’ve been his ultimate revenge against a species that had

wronged him greatly, in his eyes? A dabbling in that most forbidden practice, as a way of

slandering a race, a breed, a creature, which he had started out with a rather disdainful opinion

of, and found himself, now, wanting to see extinguished from the face of the Earth?

Either way, with his newfound companions, he cooked and prepared said flesh as best as he

could. It turned out quite well, which was a shock to himself. Meat was never a meal, in any

form, he’d indulged in, as mentioned a little while ago. For his first time ever…making it, the

results were quite edible. Dare he say, delicious. And the little furry critters now under his care

certainly shared those sentiments.

Never again had his teeth, his jaws, his tongue, indulged in, swallowed down, digested, chewed

and mashed and broken down, chunks of flesh.

From here on out, that stomach of his would know the nutrients and proteins nestled within fat,

muscle tissue, blood, sinew, ligaments, and the flavor exuded by the bone, no more from that

point forth.

Interestingly enough…something did change. A spiritual occurrence, of a…peculiar kind. T’was

hard to name it, hard to put a finger on it, so as to grasp it and examine it. Study it. Certainly
something of an adversarial variety, gifted from a place beyond anything even he, in all of his

experiences…could hope to imagine. Nor was it subtle. Seems as if some kind of different,

hidden nature, some buried potential that he had been eager to get for so long, had been unlocked

within him, allowed to burst forth and surge in his veins, in his blood, freely and excessively. An

uncontrolled wildfire searing every inch of his internal structure, setting his soul ablaze in a

manner that was, despite the way that description may sound…extremely pleasant. It could be

seen in the darkening of his bright, shiny blue orb, singular and lonely, lying in his skull, a nod

towards something…other. As though whatever he were composed of wasn’t the material of

mere mankind. Not a swift, readily apparent shift in the coloration, in that eye of his. Yet, to the

keen observer (of which there were none around, aside from the chipper pups currently laying on

either side of him, occasionally staring at him in a perceptive manner, as if they knew…

something was up), the difference was staggering, and a bit…disconcerting. Seeing such lovely

ocular organs turn blacker and blacker.

The key to all of this, of course, lay in the consumption of a human being.

Now, why him?

He’d come across many a cannibal in his life. For reasons he wasn’t entirely sure of (besides his

great aversion to the consumption of flesh), the act always disgusted him. But, of the cannibals

he often ran into, there was no doubt some other element there that made it beyond vile.

Example: many of them made sure it turned sexual. Applied fetishistic logic to it, sprouting
burgeoning erections as their teeth gnashed through skin and down to bones. Usually

accompanied by sick violation and defilement of the person in question.

Could be the numinosity carried within. His ties to…something else. Of course, he’d only ever

taken it purely on unshakeable faith, an unwavering belief. Whether he knew for sure or not,

whether it was even truly there or not, that did not matter. This was not the most pertinent aspect

of it all. And everyone else who he was raised alongside, was aware of this fact, his…his

difference. Able to apprehend the unnamable that made him uncommon. Perhaps, some had

theorized, he’d been born out of somewhere else. Here, he did not belong. In this realm, he was

not truly a member. More of a long-term guest. They were knowledgeable of his true nature, and

their own, those who he often accompanied or was accompanied by. But there’s never been any

proof that could be detected by the profane ways of the more ordinary and more asleep. That’s

not to say that it wasn’t there. It absolutely was. Even the dullards, who were absolutely in the

majority, got the hint. Bruce, in addition to those who Bruce associated with, and chose to

associate with him in kind, were no ordinary men and women, no mere mortals. Well, in a sense,

anyway. He, as well as they, certainly possessed a kind of mortality (this, despite the tales

weaved by mythmakers on all sides, was irrefutable and unquestionable). Yet, in comparison to

the numerous, the many, the…all too human, shall we say, there was a gap. One that was always

every widening, to the point of potentially being insurmountable. Many, many times, during

countless days and nights, he could distinctly recall feeling the ever-present chasm that formed

between him and his kindred, and those who were…mundane. “Everyone else”, as Charlie would

say. Never again able to join them (if he ever had that potential to begin with), even if it was only

an acausal thing, and not something physically present in the material world.
Even among crowds of the ordinary, he was simply...not there.

Appearance-wise, he may’ve been virtually indistinguishable from your everyday member of

mankind, but, as the saying goes, appearances can be deceiving.

We all know this…

In the beginning, the great Mother had set to

Vitalizing and animating all things.

Flora and fauna, by Her hand, were given parts of

Her flesh and spirit, shaped by a deep and gracious love.

Soil, wind, water, minerals, fire, night and day, for they art also true,

Were blessed with Her soul and essence as well, proven by

The expressions gifted to our world by winter, summer, fall, and spring.

Aye, this creation is a part of Her, and Her, a part of it, but not, exactly, above,
No, not the right term to use; nevertheless, it is not all of her, for there is still much

Of Her that is beyond this world, this universe; so much that soars into infinity like a dove.

Disharmony was not present, for all was balanced, and all was free,

Living in accordance with its own True Will.

Order and chaos, discord and form, neither fluctuated and sank into excess, you see,

And there was no concept of struggle for mere struggling sake,

Greed and overconsumption seen as detriments, for then the Mother would be killed.

And why, pray tell, would anything want their Mother to perish?

She is the source of life, the wellspring from which the tree drinks and grows.

Birth and rebirth would not be without Her; non-existent would be life and death’s great throes.

To server the ties to the over soul, to cut away that which binds everything,

From most complex to charmingly simple, to Her,

Would be tantamount to suicide; ergo, She is, consciously or unconsciously, cherished.

One day, a new being

Was soon fashioned by Her hands.

A pestilential monster that

Would take over and dominate all

Of the lands.

Atop two legs and two feet it stood,

Gazing upon all with a hard look.

Fiendish things they were,

Thus species of wicked crooks.

Perhaps it was Her only mistake,

It goes by the name of “Man”.

After a period of what Bruce had assumed to be several days (he counted six nights), he decided

to venture. Having exhausted the remains of the body, as well as a cache of various edible plant

items (a bit stale and rotten, many of them were, but not past the point of no return; besides,

given the fact that he’d just ate a human carcass…one could imagine his gullet was probably

fashioned out of iron), and plenty of aged meat for his two furry comrades to devour, along with

enough water to hydrate this trio of admittedly mangy scroungers, the inevitability of having to

leave this shoddily constructed den slowly became a reality he’d have to contend with. Oh well.

This…”break”, if it could accurately be called that…from all of the carnage and raging entropy

that plagued his existence, was a welcome one. For once in his life, he’d managed to acquire

healthy, sizeable amounts of rest. Granted, his body was wracked with exhaustion and near-lethal

physical trauma, making his biological instincts mandate, more or less, sleep, yet if that’s what it

took to get a string of nights where his mind didn’t wake him up after grotesque images flashed

through it over and over, or being interrupted by outside interferences hell bent on either turning

him into Swiss cheese, a tasty snack, or decorations on a decrepit wall, he would gladly take it.

And even now, peering out of the doorway, into the pale, uninviting abyss that was the snowy

plains of Oregon, every part of him, every single fiber and cell of his physical anatomy, felt

sluggish. Perhaps revolting and rebelling against what Bruce would, once again, command his

body once more to do, to endure, to act upon, to be subjugated to. Weak and way out of his

element, did he feel to such an immense degree. Sure, he might’ve been tiptoeing on the very

brink of death, but the idea of his state being “pathetic” still rang true in his head.
Trudging out into the unknown, eyes wandering about, a lost, vacant gaze plastered on his face,

wearily scanning for anything that could be deemed a threat, his two companions now at his side,

he realized a bit late that he saw…something…

Feet stopping dead in the snow, he figured that there should be a heightening of fear and worry

going on in his veins, alerting him to a danger that he couldn’t even begin to fathom. Screaming

at him to back away, turn in a different direction, hope and pray to whatever deity he adhered to

for a chance at surviving unscathed. What he was looking at should’ve surely driven him to

madness, no doubt. Even though he was already quite well off his rocker.

But…none of that happened…

Just…just didn’t kick into high gear.

What…what was it?

Skulking about in the fog, looking like some kind of ghostly apparition, resembling more of a

paranoia-induced hallucination than a physical being proper (though rest assure, whatever he saw

was indeed…very real), the details were nonetheless unmistakably apparent.

Black fur, shaggy and unkempt, matted and overgrown, claws like knives upon its giant

forepaws, antlers growing out of the skull it had for a head, resembling the one of perhaps a

cervid, a hunched over form that, if stood fully upright, might’ve well measured…maybe 12 feet

talk, and fangs lining its upper and lower jaw, with eye sockets empty, hollow…similar to black

holes in space, deep voids where there was no light.

It paused its eerie trotting…

And then turned its head ever so slightly, to look back at him.

Various messages had been popping up in Nevada recently.

What kind of messages? Well…all kinds, really. But not just scrawled slogans and crude, blunt,

in-your-face statements etched into dirt, concrete, stone, wood, and whatever else, a myriad of

complexities, decades and decades of discourse, boiled down into a couple of words. No to say

those kinds of messages weren’t there. There were those, too. Fanatical calls for a return of the

ideals of some long dead Messiah, one born in Israel and the other born in Germany, demands

that a nation born botched have its cadaver reanimated, howls and cries smeared onto walls,

snarling that the machines/engines of death and demise, of ruin and rapaciousness, be turned

back on, calls for the weak and expendable to be toyed with, enjoyed, broken until irreparable,
and of course, the scrawled screams that shouted the toilers all over should take back that which

was theirs…by force.

Yet, as was mentioned, that was hardly it.

An entire town of those whose faith was placed in that old doorstopper called the “Qur’an” was

torched. Reduced to ashes, cinders, little bits of orange-colored embers. Bodies eaten up by the

flames that ravaged this place, flesh boiled and mangled, loosely clinging to the skeletons. Facial

expressions unrecognizable, though one could guess their last seconds were fraught with

physical. In death, they were no longer individuals. Who were they? What had they done? Where

did they come from? Didn’t matter. As carcasses, they were indistinguishable. Life granted them

uniqueness. This massacre took it away. In regards to the instruments of worship…well, let’s say

these were left in a state similar to the dead.

Similar kind of incident occurred on the other side of the state. Except this was no great funeral

pyre, with a blaze aching to reach the sky, dancing in the air and licking at the night as some

onlooker stood by and watched in satisfaction at their handwork. No, here, munitions were

utilized. The bodies resembled honeycombs, or wasp nests. Riddled with holes, obviously the

work of firearms. Probably the kind that keep coughing up lead as long as you squeeze back on

the trigger. And the buildings? Blown apart. Shattered by explosive force. Plain and simple.
In both instances, no potential victim was spared. Men? Perished where they stood. Women?

Any amount of pleading was only met with swift disposal. Children? Oh, how they screamed.

No survivors, clearly.

Near where the carnage had occurred, next to both of these places, were scrawled passages from

either Bible or Qu’ran, depending on the location which had been turned into a hunk of

smoldering remains. Passages that condemned each other as being false, wicked, sinful,

demonic, advocating extermination of one by the other. By the more morally correct, the purest

strain. And then there

Expropriations were carried out upon communities/towns/settlements/villages which were

perceived to be among the…”haves”. Hoarding precious resources from those that truly deserved

them, that actually could make use of such rare gifts in this world of perpetual strife and misery,

even if, in reality, these people were not in the least bit “well-off”, and had simply come upon

some good luck in finding what could prolong their lives, instead of bog them down and drive

them deep into desperation or physical collapse. For their injustice, the residents were decimated

in the dead of night by an unknown group of assailants…or perhaps a singular, skilled assailant.

What they had was pilfered for all it was worth. Demands that all be shared equally and

distributed fairly rang out loudly (yet silently) upon notes left near the devastation.
They’d been gathered, but for…?

A pair of relaxed, almost sleepy gazes peered up at the beams of sunlight beaming through thick,

gray clouds, pushing their way through the dull, dark, damn near impenetrable veil. Occasional

rumbles and growls able to be heard overhead, as the fat clusters of gas moseyed on by without a

care in the world. Charlie’s long, lustrous hair was ruffled slightly by the damp, chill winds,

blinking as he sat against Bruce’s beloved car, Ghost. Something of a bulky, hulking, chrome,

furious beast. Powered by a 500+ cubic inch heart that spit rage and hate, guzzling that most

putrid smelling liquid known to humankind. Fueled by, quite literally, the dead. The grave

robbers of old who devised ways of turning bones into boiling sources of either tranquil,

comforting warmth or fiery, incendiary commotion. Bruce, whose legs were currently sprawled

across the head, back laid comfortably against the windshield and arms draped over his stomach,

found the thing to be either a pain in the ass that was more troublesome than a newborn infant, or

a lifesaver responsible for allowing him to worm his way out of dicey situations numerous times.

He certainly recognized the utility of having a dangerously powerful, steel-bodied sedan with

tough-and-tumble suspension and tires, but compared to his nimble, lighter, more exciting and

compact bike, Ghost didn’t measure up nearly as well, and was ultimately viewed with mixed

feelings by the one who drove it. Oftentimes fantasizing about abandoning it, or even crashing it.

Rubbing at his freshly shaved head, Bruce wondered how long it would be before rain began to

pour down upon them, forcing them to take shelter in Ghost until the evening showers subsided.
Closing his eyes, he opened his mouth to speak, voice quiet and hushed, more than usual, given

how relaxed and comfortable he appeared to be.

“Do you ever think about…what the time before all of this was like?” It was a simple inquiry,

but one the brunette occasionally found his mind drifting to.

Furrowing his eyebrows in thought, head tilting as it continued to lay against the rear quarter

panel of the burly hunk of metal that was Ghost, eyes fixated on the borders of a ghost town that

was referred to as “Vegas”, Charlie sighed.

“Eh…only as an idle curiosity. The past is the past. What’s dead should stay dead. History, and

its invocation, most times out of ten…is wielded like a ball and chain, determined to keep one as

unfree as possible. Afraid of shadows and terminally frightened by the judgements of what is

bygone, or chasing after what isn’t there with hands that try to grasp something wholly

nonexistent. Can’t return to some imagined ideal of how things were. It’ll make a zombie, a

cadaver, out of an individual. Just a cage, a prison, when all’s said and done.” He explained,

slumping further and further until his form lay flat against the ground, head pressed against the

right rear wheel.

Disagreeable? What could be disagreeable about the words that came from his father’s mouth?

Absolutely nothing. Not to Bruce. Those they came across who were in the grip of ideologies
from bygone eras were…tyrants. Internally, and externally. Ruled by phantoms. Haunted by

ghosts. All of the people Bruce fought against, railed against, deemed to be enemies to his

liberation and the liberation of those he held dear, were all trying to revive what hadn’t

worked…didn’t work. Absolutely could not work. From that dead world that had come to pass.

That failed age, that failed cycle. Chock full of rulers and ruled. Slaves and slave-masters.

Trapped in the vice grip, the lethal jaws, of that idiotic dichotomy of two deplorable sides who

mirrored each other, and at some point, converged into a singularity of sameness. Uniformity.

Just like everything else back then seemed to be heading towards. A melding, until perfect

conformity was reached.

“Treating the tired, well-worn words of dead men as holy gospel spells doom for the psyche.

Sure, look to the past for inspiration, and for lessons to be learned. Not against that in the

slightest. But…” Sighing as he tried to think of the right phrasing, the right wording, he blinked.

Staring off into the distance as he saw figures and shapes moving off in the distance around the

edges of Vegas. Head tilting as his eyes traced the large, opulent, gaudy structures sealed away

from greedy hands and prying eyes by the large, concrete walls. Briefly imagining them filled

with lights, with people. The idea disgusted him. “…resolving to be hopelessly tied to the

specific words of so and so movement, so and so establishment, so and so person, especially

once their time has passed, letting the grasping hands and gnawing jaws of history drag you with

it, is to resign oneself to self-enslavement. Change is the law of chaos, of Nature…and those who

cling to the past are retards for trying to deny this law. Arrogant enough to think they can

override it.”
Taking in the words of his adopted father, Bruce squinted, nodding. Eyes opening up a bit more

as he saw a shambling…thing…heading their way. It looked to be about, give or take, 4 miles

away. His eyes traced the discernable features of whatever the hell it was, slowly finding himself

baffled by this monstrosity. It was bipedal. The general shape of its torso was vaguely human.

Aside from that, all of the similarities to a human being were gone. It possessed for incredibly

muscular arms. Legs both long and incredibly powerful. A distinct lack of skin, revealing

nothing but deep red, hardened muscle tissue, sinew, ligaments, and tendons. On its head was…

nothing. No hair, no eyes, no mouth, no nose, no ears.

And…and there he was. Looking like a corpse (a handsome corpse, but still a corpse…a

breathtaking cadaver, walking, talking…breathing). Even as he was clearly withering away,

looking half-dead, just about ready for the grave, Charlie still managed to somehow look…oddly

charming. Beautiful, perhaps. Retaining aspects of his former physical glory. Large portions of

it, shockingly enough. In such a twisted state, ol’ Blondie could still somehow hold on to

features that pointed to someone who was once a sight to behold, with not many able to hold a

candle, male, female, or otherwise. Sure, his pupils, now an unsettling pitch black, were dilated

to nightmarishly uncomfortable proportions, threatening to obscure the whites of his eyes. Yeah,

that grin he gave, wide and definitely not friendly or jovial in any manner, revealed blood-

stained teeth and gums that had seen better days. His cheeks were sunken in, and his face

looked…aged…more weathered, maybe, and…at the same time, possessing a dull radiance,

charismatic and delightful, while sinister, dark, morbid all the same. Not human. Eldritch.

Macabre. Eyes looking as if they were melting deeper into his sockets. While body mass still

stayed present upon his bones, enough of it to still look as intimidating as ever (more so, given
his current appearance), muscular and ready to end lives, stop the breathing process of whatever

dared tread near his path, capable of making the light leave someone’s eyes as the invisible

scythe only buried deeper and deeper, track marks, bumps, and scratches adorned his once

perfect, pale complexion, as well as the bruises, burns, and gashes that had always been there.

But…the way the older, taller male looked at what was once his former adopted son, was…

creepy. Not because of any intense, laser-like focus, or precise harnessing of emotions. Quite the

contrary. It was how distant his expression was. Charlie’s eyes, despite how they bored right into

Bruce, searing into his bones, his soul, appeared to be staring far beyond him. As though he were

fixated on a target many, many miles away. Like he wasn’t registering the presence of another

person. Sure, he was wide awake. And he was conscious, breathing hard and fast as he sat all too

casually against the wall (despite the way his chest rose and fell quite visibly, no sounds of

inhaling or exhaling could be heard). Remaining perfectly, impeccably still. Chest rising and

falling in rapid, erratic patterns, but otherwise not moving a single muscle. Uncomfortably

immobile. But…his mind wasn’t there.

Had Charlie blinked yet?

The predatory, emotionless, borderline inhuman stare had made Bruce forget to breathe, or even

think. Mind going black as Charlie managed to intimidate him by sheer virtue of simply sitting

there. Not saying or doing anything. Acting so wildly out of character…but at the same time, so

in character as well. Swallowing thickly, the younger brunette was unsure of how to proceed. He
had thought about this encounter a number of times…yet nervousness began to set in, now that

they were in the same place. Sure, Bruce was the deadliest thing in Nevada, and the entire

southwest…except for Blondie. Blondie could end him with ease, and the shorter male was fully

aware of this chilling fact. Flashes of their last encounter in the snow now in the forefront of his

mind. How one-sided that had been.

Peering at his current location with his one remaining eye, he finally took notice of the ransacked

interior within the house. Having been entirely too focused on Charlie, and whatever potential

move he would potentially make, to take a gander at the abandoned home both of them were

currently inside of. Afraid that if something else caught his attention, Blondie would be beating

him into the soil before there was any chance for the one-eyed individual to comprehend just

what was taking place. Slowly examining the destroyed furniture. Walls damaged by holes or

deep dents, likely from whoever his former father had maimed being thrown around. Either that,

or fists/kicks, bullets, slashes from blades. Not even the ceiling had been spared. And the floor

was a torn, unrecognizable mess. Because this wasn’t a fight. This was a beatdown. A slaughter.

Power tripping. Curbstomping.

Leaning forward the slightest bit, turning his head to one side, Bruce was met with a grizzly,

unsightly display. A male figure, presumably a father, was hung from the ceiling by his entrails.

So was the mother. Both of their abdomens thoroughly emptied and gutted. Stomach, kidnesy,

liver, pieces of the spinal chord, splayed out on the ground in front of the lynched corpses.

Trembling as he then saw…children. Completely nude. Laid out on their backs spread eagle.
Jugular veins sliced open. Bodies pale from the sheer blood loss. The two of them smelled

particularly rancid and terrible, more so than the parents, and the sheer implications of what

Charlie might’ve done…

The younger of the former Regulators felt bile rising up in his throat.

Once he turned his head back to Charlie, he was rushed. Blitzed before he could react or even see

it coming. Grunting loudly as Blondie’s large palm grasped his face, and slammed him hard

through a wall. Knocking the wind out of the brunette as he was completely caught by surprise.

Having caught a brief glimpse of the taller, bigger male’s wide, manic grin, those yellow teeth of

his gritted together tightly.

Unceremoniously falling to the floor with a pained groan, crashing through wooden floor tiles

and broken furniture, reworked appliances, he opened his eyes. Seeing Charlie standing there,

still grinning down at him, with those hollow eyes of his. Shakily crouching, legs trembling and

head a bit dizzy. A cut on his forehead threatening to spill crimson into his only remaining eye.

Rob him of sight in that singular, beautifully blue orb that now simmered with rage.

Not saying a word. No trash talk. No scathing remarks. No death threats. Nothing of the sort.
Gasping in sheer terror at the sight of the blonde charging at him with blinding speed, the shorter

male’s mind firing on all cylinders at this point. Heart racing, veins swelling as the blood flow

was accelerated to the absolute maximum, breath ragged and labored, Bruce hopped up and

slammed his shin as hard as he could into Charlie’s head. A lightning-fast penalty kick. Pouring

all of his anguish, physical and mental pain, unbridled frustration, longing, desperation, and

surging fear into the blow. Enough to cause a sickening crack in Mason’s jaw. Knocking out a

tooth, and shooting blood right out of his nose, like a geyser’s bursting stream.

It knocked Charlie off balance, causing his steps to wobble somewhat, stumbling backwards.

Still barring his teeth in a gritted manner, but the grin had been replaced by a frown. An irritated,

thoroughly hateful frown.

Of course, Bruce didn’t stop there. Fully taking advantage of his former father’s briefly dazed

state. Delivering expertly timed punches, one after another. Into his face, into his chest, into his

torso. Using every ounce of energy, every ounce of force, to batter Charlie. For the average

person, a single strike would’ve been enough to render them deceased, sending them off into the

realm of the dead and forgotten. Hell, the initial kick alone would’ve put anyone weaker into a

state of being permanently comatose.

And for a brief moment, Bruce seemed to have the upper hand. Rocking the taller, bulkier male

with a myriad of loud, punishing shots to everywhere that might’ve been vital. The mohawk-

sporting runt was on the offensive, charging forward. Blazing with determination. No way he
was going to lose. His life depended on it. Including the life of those he held dear. This was

vengeance. For those still breathing. For those taken into the soil. For…himself.

Luckily for the blonde, he was not anyone else.

Instead, he was Charles Angel Mason. The toughest, brawniest son of a bitch in Nevada, in the

entire southwest. And he’d be damned if some punk ass, scrawny, short-stack fuck like his son

was going to do him in.

With frightening speed, Charlie’s right arm went right for Bruce’s throat, his large closing all the

way around his son’s neck. The son he’d disowned so brutally back in Oregon. Fingers thick and

rough, palm pressing down hard on his esophagus. Digits digging into skin. Scratching, kicking,

shoving, punching, doing anything that might have a slim chance of wiggling out of this

undoubtedly lethal grasp. The air was being crushed out of Bruce’s neck. Every movement was

now devoted to preventing Bruce from doing one thing: suffocating to death. His only ocular

organ remaining swelling to the size of a saucer. Convinced he might really die here.

He woke up with a start.

Where…
Where was he?

The singular eye in his socket gazed upon his surroundings. A small area of grey grass and black

dirt, flat…perfectly manicured, even, surrounded by a vast field. The land twisted and shaped in

ways that he did not know were possible. Composed off a mix of hard, molten rock and… Off a

long way’s away in the distance, he could see bizarrely shaped cliffs and mountains that were

A single icy, bright blue eye stared at the shaggy wolves in front of it, who were sat upon their

hind quarters right in front of the owner of said window to a whirlwind of a soul, gazing up at

their beloved caretaker and friend with milky white eyes, always glowing…always open. One

hand coming to pet their heads gently, a smile upon the man’s face. Both of them huge, their

heights coming up to around the middle of his chest…on all fours, and sitting down. Fingers and

palm relishing in the soft, comforting feeling of touching their pitch-black fur. Grounding him in

something benevolent. Something that wasn’t trying to kill him. And most importantly…

something real. Because lately, his mind had been haunted by ghosts. The ghosts of those he

couldn’t save. Ones he never got to say goodbye to. Some of whom, to this day, he still

wondered about. Where they went.

They’d grown up so fast. Starting as small, excited pups he could carry around effortlessly in his

arms, to giants that could gallop faster than horses and tear casually through human beings, as
well as steel. Unfazed by gunfire, cuts, or burns. Come to think of it, Bruce wasn’t sure he’d ever

seen them shed blood....or felt any signs of injury under the black forest that was their fur. Seeing

them become larger and larger in the months he’d had them by his side. Stronger and stronger,

more durable than any creature he’d ever bore witness to, animal, human, or otherwise.

Humming, he tried to discern the neutral expression they wore. One of relaxed contentment.

Tilting his head to the side, furrowing his brows as though that would help him understand even

a lick of what they were thinking. Knowing the pair were more intelligent than most humans (but

then again, most humans were foolish at best, and detrimentally stupid at worst). Mimicking his

head tilt, their heads fell to the same side his did. A small chuckle left the male’s lips at that.

Despite their penchant for murderous carnage, and clear enjoyment of battle, they were more

content to playfully wrestle with themselves, or their human companion…or simply laze about

and sleep without disturbance. It was hard to read them, since, despite being so big, they were

quiet. Not really ones for growling, barking, snarling, whining, or snorting. Really, their jaws

tended to remain shut. Only opening if they felt it necessary. In addition to that, they had

surprisingly light feet, and could be stealthy when they wanted. During nightfall, anyway. Rather

difficult for the pair to be sneaky in the daytime when they were darker than shadows, and

approaching the size of small cars. Of course, this hindered them in precisely zero ways. Didn’t

keep them from blitzing and rushing and charging whatever dared attack them; didn’t keep them

from effortlessly barging through, battering, and biting into whatever they deemed a foe of

theirs.
Motioning for them to follow him, the trio walked in the direction of a place that was special to

Bruce. It held a lot of wonderful memories for him, although the people he shared said memories

with were long gone. But he didn’t want to dwell on what was, or what could’ve been. Not right

now. He’d done enough of that already, and it was exhausting him. Pushing aside invading

thoughts about faces and names who were no longer there. With a shaky groan, he worried that

he’d start seeing and hearing things again. Fooled by what wasn’t there. The strength to grieve

properly, after doing nothing but fighting and grieving for months, was starting to elude him.

Bruce’s tears had been spent, and his heart was aching. Didn’t mean he was over it…any of it;

not by a long shot. Never would be. Yet, he still had to soldier on.

And besides, the wolves didn’t need him to be stuck in his own crumbling headspace. They were

still so young, so new to the world, so potentially vulnerable. The former Regulator would never

forgive himself if they were to be hurt, or Lord forbid, killed. He had to keep it together, for their

sake. Because for once, he wasn’t just living for himself.

Placing his hands upon the other male’s shoulders, Bruce began to lean in. Hesitant and tentative,

unsure of himself. After all, he’d never done anything like this. Never had a chance to, and

wouldn’t have had an inkling of a clue as to how to go about it. Finally, his lips pressed against

Justin’s, who pressed his own lips back. Moving his hands from Justin’s shoulders, to his long,

smooth, beautiful locks of dark brown hair. In turn, Justin’s arms wrapped around Bruce’s neck,

tilting his head to the side a bit in an effort to deepen the kiss, poking and prodding at Bruce’s

lips with his tongue. Opening up, their tongues began to embrace. Bruce a bit nervous at first,
until Justin pressed into him more and began to climb onto his lap. Eliciting a sound of pleasant

surprise from Bruce’s lips. A giggle of sorts; Justin couldn’t help but smile into the kiss at that.

How cute, how sweet. The turn of events led to the bald young male’s calloused hands roaming

over Justin’s slim, lanky figure. Taking his time to feel under his shirt, rubbing his smooth, flat

chest and stomach, small waist and slightly flared hips. Quiet moans escaped from the brunette’s

throat, who returned a similar sort of gesture. Hurriedly removing Bruce’s own longer-sleeved

shirt, fingers and palms trailing across the shorter male’s toned, lean, almost skinny figure,

causing the blue-eyed individual to lean back, using his hands to support him from behind,

closing his eyes, gasping and panting somewhat. Tracing tattoos and scars. Pulling away from

the intense they were currently sharing to gaze upon Bruce’s figure. Very openly admiring his

strong, yet lithe and petite torso. Rubbing at his waist, which was narrow and grabbable.

“Tch, word of advice, honey…do your best to not end up like these meatheaded jackasses.”

Sierra hummed, looking at Bruce, pointing her finger at Dmitri and Charlie sizing each other up,

clearly no longer speaking to each other in the realm of

Upon a couch, in a cabin nestled up in the deep forest spread across the large hill overlooking

what was once known as Groom Lake, which had long since become devoid of anything

possessing any kind of interest, lay Isa, Kaiser, and Bruce. This time of the year always got

exceptionally cold, snow blanketing the ground outside, necessitating thick covers. Like a thick,

white veil covering the face of Nevada, it all was. Isa’s sharp blue orbs gazed out of the window,

into the regions beyond their secluded, hilltop home, shrouded in dense thickets and tall grass. Or
tried to peer that far, anyway. The ice along the borders of the window, and thick fog shrouding

it, made looking outside a bit of a challenge. Pondering her current home as she lay there. A

place that knew both scorching heat and blistering frost. Winds howled eerily out in the pitch

black depths of the all-consuming night. Only the moon and the stars provided even the faintest

glimmers of illumination. Beyond that, everything resembled a haunting shadow. A looming

silhouette, bearing down ominously upon all things. The known became the unknown, and

safety, comfort, fragile notions in this fragile world, disappeared altogether in the foreboding

embrace of a blackened sky. Her long, blonde locks lay all over both herself and Kaiser, even

Bruce a bit, who was fast asleep in Kaiser’s arms, face buried into the taller male’s strong chest,

nuzzling into it, pressed into Kaiser’s imposing, lean, strapping figure; willowy, yet still quite

brawny all the while. Isa’s golden strands complimented her pale skin, giving her an almost

ethereal appearance. That slim/toned, yet curvaceous and seductively voluptuous figure pressed

against the blonde male’s back, fiddling with the blue tips at the ends of his messy, unkempt

mullet. Idly twisting her fingers around the two extended blue strands that ran to the middle of

his back, akin to elegant ribbons. Causing her fellow Oregonite to purr somewhat. His own

fingers running through his shorter lover’s thick, jet black locks. Smiling as he stared at Bruce’s

sleeping face.

Sadly, the peace was not meant to last. The cerulean gaze of the taller male watched as Bruce

began to stir and grunt in his sleep, attracting the attention of Isa as well, who now sat up as the

brunette mumbled fractured sentences into Kaiser’s chest. Becoming louder in volume, more

frantic as the former terror of Nevada (a title he maintained since the early days of the

Regulators) began to twist, turn, thrash, as if he were fighting invisible entities determined to tear
him apart. Choked sobs spilling out onto pale skin, arms tightening around the blonde male’s

torso a whole lot more. Had he not been of comparable strength to Isa (meaning, quite a bit

stronger than the Regulator they so adored), the hold would’ve indeed been suffocating and

potentially lethal.

This wasn’t the first time the pair had bore witness to these happenings; far from it. Nor did they

feel burdened or annoyed by them whatsoever. The brunette was their love, their treasure…their

schatz. Kaiser and Isa couldn’t fathom being angry at him for that deep well of emotion

contained within his soul reaching a boiling point, and spilling over. By all accounts, it was quite

understandable. Really, it was a miracle Bruce was still coherent, after all he had endured. All

he’d done. All he’d had to do.