Chapter Text
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The next morning, Jo woke with a dull ache threading through her muscles, remnants of last night's chaos pulsing beneath her skin. The dim light filtering through the barred window cast long shadows across the room, dust motes dancing in the cold air. She sat up slowly, shoulders stiff, her mind swirling with thoughts she couldn't shake.
Pulling on her worn boots and the green coat that had become her armor, she pushed open the door to the corridors of the stadium. The halls were quiet except for distant footsteps and muffled voices of early risers preparing for the day.
Jo sat in the mess hall, the bitter taste of coffee lingering on her tongue. Her fingers drummed absently against the rough wooden table, heart still pounding from the night before. The weight of Frank's words settled heavily on her shoulders. She wasn't sure if she was ready to apologize, but she knew she had to try.
Her eyes scanned the room until they landed on Abby. The other woman was sitting alone near the far end, her posture rigid but somehow calm. Jo swallowed the lump in her throat and pushed herself up, boots scraping softly on the floor as she made her way over.
Abby looked up, eyes sharp and unreadable, as Jo stopped in front of her.
"Look," Jo began, voice rough but steady, "about last night — I was out of line. I'm sorry."
Abby's gaze didn't soften, but she nodded once. "You've got a lot to learn. Around here, respect isn't given. It's earned."
Jo bit her lip, the old anger flickering in her eyes like a dying flame. "Okay."
Abby raised an eyebrow at the clipped response. Her arms were crossed, biceps tense beneath her WLF tank, but there was curiosity behind her stare now — not just suspicion.
"Okay," Abby repeated, slower this time. Her voice dipped slightly, not soft exactly, but less sharp around the edges.
Jo shifted her weight, then lowered herself into the seat across from Abby. Her movements were cautious, not out of fear — more like someone stepping into uncertain water. She studied Abby's face, trying to read something in those hard features.
"My full name is Joan," Jo said suddenly, the words catching at the back of her throat. She looked away as she added, "Not that anyone really calls me that anymore."
Abby exhaled through her nose, a short, almost tired sound — but not dismissive.
"Joan," she said, testing it like a weight in her mouth. Her gaze lingered on Jo's face, not hostile now but probing. "You don't strike me as a Joan."
Jo smirked a little, eyes still averted. "Yeah. Get that a lot."
Abby leaned back slightly, letting her arms fall to her sides. "Right," she said, almost like a truce offering. Then she added, "I like it."
Jo's smirk faded, replaced by something rawer — respect, maybe. Or just relief that Abby hadn't dismissed her outright.
"I'll try to remember that," she said quietly.
Abby studied you for a long moment, her gaze steady and unreadable. It was the kind of look that pinned you in place—like she was sorting through everything you'd ever done, said, or thought, and weighing it. You shifted under the intensity of it, but something in her expression—controlled, composed, quietly powerful—made it impossible to look away.
She was beautiful, but not in a delicate way. There was something raw and real about her—the light freckles scattered across her face, the strong curve of her jaw, full brows furrowed ever so slightly in thought. Even the way her mouth settled into a slight, thoughtful pout was unfair. She looked like someone carved by function and refined by war.
You swallowed.
"You've got patrol today, right?" she asked, voice low but firm.
You nodded, still tracing the details of her face like your eyes didn't quite want to leave.
"I'll be with you. We're heading to Sector Four." She leaned back slightly as she spoke, arms crossing in front of her chest with ease, like she'd done this a thousand times before—and probably had.
Your heart skipped. Patrol with Abby. So she was the top soldier Frank had talked about. You'd hoped, but now...
Her voice pulled you out of it. "Meet me at the shooting range in ten."
Then she stood without another word. You opened your mouth—maybe to ask something, maybe just to hear her speak again—but she was already walking off, boots hitting the floor in calm, even strides. Gone.
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Your boots squeaked against the linoleum as you made your way down the hall toward the shooting range. Distant gunfire cracked through the air like thunder, echoing from behind the heavy door ahead. You stopped at the armory window, where the soldier behind the glass barely glanced up before sliding over the clipboard. You signed your name and checked out a pistol, a scoped semi-auto rifle, and the double-barrel shotgun you'd brought with you when you joined the WLF. The other weapons were on loan—but that shotgun, that one was yours.
You pushed open the door to the range. Abby was already inside, posted up at one of the lanes. She glanced over her shoulder, then returned her focus to the target downrange.
"Headphones on," she barked, her voice low and scratchy. "I wanna see what you're working with before we head out."
You didn't argue. Just nodded and slipped on the earmuffs. The world fell into muffled silence, save for the weight of your own breath and the solid heft of the pistol in your grip. You hit the button, sent the paper target sliding back, and took aim.
You weren't perfect—but you weren't green, either. Your grouping was decent, even clean. Three points below Abby, if the numbers on the board were correct.
She leaned into your booth with a smirk tugging at her lips. "Not everyone can be perfect like me," she muttered. You caught the glint in her eye—Abby liked to win. Maybe a little too much.
You followed her out of the range, both of you grabbing ammo and supplies from the prep room. You tucked a few pipe bombs into your pack, securing them next to your shivs. She noticed.
"I'm driving," she said curtly as she swung into the driver's seat of the truck.
You didn't fight her on it. Just got in and buckled up.
The gates creaked open behind you. The truck rumbled forward, tires crunching over ruined pavement and creeping vines. The city outside the walls looked like it had been clawed apart and left to rot—buildings like skeletons, trees fighting through the cracks, the sky hanging low and grey.
Abby tapped the steering wheel absently as she drove. You sat beside her, checking over your gear, making sure everything was in reach. You even slipped a couple of extra shivs into her bag when she wasn't looking.
"This run shouldn't be anything crazy," she said, her voice cracking. "Don't waste your gear."
You shook your head. "Better safe than sorry."
At that, a faint smile crept onto her lips. You caught it. You didn't say anything.
But you saw it.
You'd driven a couple miles west of the FOB. The scenery blurred past your window—tall grass, rustling trees, the occasional deer darting off into the brush. Then, out of the corner of your eye, something moved.
A horse.
Without a second thought, you pushed forward, crawling through the tight middle window and out into the truck bed, rifle already in hand.
Abby's voice cut through the wind. "What the hell are you doing?"
You didn't answer. You steadied your aim.
Boom. A single shot cracked through the air. A Scar tumbled from his saddle like a rag doll.
Abby didn't ask again—she slammed her foot on the gas. She understood now.
The truck jolted forward as you knelt in the bed, bracing your legs. You reloaded quickly, fired again. Missed. Adjusted. Hit. You were clearing them fast, taking out stragglers before they had a chance to regroup. You could hear the whispers—Scar voices in the trees, in the wind.
This was an ambush, and you'd beaten it.
"You're a pretty good shot," Abby called over her shoulder.
You didn't answer. No time. You felt it rising in your chest—panic, old and bitter. Boston surged back like a wave: blood in the snow, bodies under collapsed buildings, screams under your boots.
You tried to breathe.
Then something seared past your arm. An arrow.
You gasped as it hit your shoulder. The pain bloomed fast. You grabbed the shaft and yanked it out with a groan.
"Shit!" Abby shouted from the cab. "Keep 'em down! FOB's dead ahead!"
You didn't respond. You couldn't. Your blood soaked through your jacket and smeared your fingers as you steadied the rifle again.
Another shot. Another memory buried. You kept firing.
When the last one dropped, you finally exhaled.
The gate loomed ahead and opened just enough to let you in. You slumped as the adrenaline faded.
Abby leaned out the driver's side window. "Got one injured!"
Before you could climb out of the truck bed yourself, she was already helping you down, ignoring your half-hearted protest. Her arm wrapped around your waist with practiced strength.
"C'mon. Med tent's this way."
You limped beside her as your shoulder throbbed, leaving a red trail behind you.
"Nora's my friend. She's good," Abby said, voice gentler now. "You'll be alright."
You just nodded and sat down on the cot. The pain hadn't fully hit yet.
"Hey, who've we got here?"
The voice was raspy, slightly amused. A lean woman with warm brown skin and curly hair pulled back under a bandana stepped into view, her WLF patch barely visible under her jacket.
You gave a slight smile in greeting, but it faltered as you peeled off your damp jacket. The fabric stuck to your skin from blood and sweat. Slowly, you tugged your shirt over your head, exposing the jagged wound across your shoulder. Just your bra now—your breath hitched.
The blood had soaked through everything. It looked worse than it felt until the cold air hit your skin.
Abby crouched beside you, her hand finding your knee. Her fingers were rough but warm. She caught your gaze, anchoring you. "This is Nora," she said quietly.
Nora stepped forward, eyes narrowing slightly as she examined the gash. "Shit," she muttered. "Alright. This is gonna sting."
She grabbed a bottle of alcohol and a clean cloth. The moment it touched your skin, fire spread through your nerves.
You gasped—vision swimming—Boston came rushing back. Screams. Sirens. That alley. Blood everywhere.
Your body moved before you could think, shoving Nora's hand away with a choked cry.
"Hey," Nora said quickly, hands up in peace. She didn't flinch. "I know it hurts, but we've gotta clean it, alright?" Her voice was calmer now, more patient.
You nodded, barely. Breath tight. Vision blurring again.
Abby's hand hadn't left your knee. You felt her eyes on you—steady, concerned, but not pitying.
Nora worked quickly after that, pressing gauze and threading the needle like it was second nature. The pain dulled to a throb.
"Anywhere else?" she asked, glancing over your body.
You shook your head. "I... I don't think so." Your throat burned from the panic.
"Alright," she said with a tight smile. "You're all patched up then."
Nora started packing away the supplies. Abby remained beside you, her hand steady, her silence saying more than words ever could.
Abby stood and motioned for you to come outside with her. You got up and followed.
As you both leaned on a truck, she folded her arms.
You broke the silence. "Got any smokes?" Your voice cut through the stillness.
Abby shook her head and leaned on the railing. "I don't... smoke." She said it firmly—maybe a little judgmental. She seemed uptight.
You nodded and bummed one off the mechanic working on the truck beside you.
Lighting a match, you took a long drag of the cigarette, standing side by side with Abby.
There was a long silence. You could hear her breathing, the subtle fidgeting of her hands picking at her nails.
You finally spoke, your voice smoky, "Thanks for helping me to the med tent."
Abby nodded, eyes watching the way you smoked. You felt the burn behind your eyes from lack of sleep. Your body leaned heavier against the railing, a long sigh slipping from your lips.
Her voice broke the quiet again. "For dinner... you can sit with my friends and me." There was hope in her voice.
You shook your head. "Nah... I can't."
Abby furrowed her brow, that familiar steel settling back into her features. "Yes, you can," she said, no room for argument in her tone. Still, her hand landed gently between your shoulder blades, rubbing in slow circles—a rare softness from her. Without another word, she turned and walked back toward the FOB, her voice trailing behind her like a command wrapped in comfort. "Be back soon."
You lit a cigarette with trembling fingers, watching the last trace of her braid disappear through the gate. What the hell was she doing? You didn't have a post today, and as far as you knew, neither did she. Probably off kissing Isaac's ass, you thought bitterly—wouldn't be the first time the top soldier got special treatment.
You wandered the edge of the FOB, shoulders hunched, hands buried in your jacket pockets as the wind bit at your cheeks and turned them raw with cold. You watched boots trudge through the gravel, voices bark orders, and the low hum of tension that never really left this place settled around you again.
Then, Abby returned. This time with someone else—Manny. You'd seen him in passing: loud, cocky, a little too charming for his own good. His rifle was slung carelessly over his shoulder, and his smirk was already halfway there before he even spoke.
"Jo," he greeted, his accent rich and smooth as worn leather. "I'll be driving back with you two." He nodded toward the truck, already climbing into the driver's seat like he owned it.
Abby turned to you and jerked her thumb toward the passenger door. "You, up front."
You scrunched your nose, shaking your head as a dry laugh escaped. "No fucking way. We're gonna get ambushed again, and you know it. You need two people covering the truck bed."
Abby exhaled sharply through her nose and rubbed at the bridge of it like she was already getting a headache. Her mouth opened for another stubborn retort, but Manny cut in before she could strike.
"She's right, Abby. Stop bitching." He leaned out the driver's side window and waved you toward the back like it was settled.
Abby bristled. "She's injured, Manny."
He laughed under his breath, not unkind. "So are half the people out here, Abs. Don't coddle her."
You could tell she didn't like it—not the decision, not being overruled. Her jaw ticked, but she didn't say anything else. She just turned and climbed into the truck bed, arms crossed tight over her chest. You climbed into the truck bed, the metal cold against your palms.
Fine. Let her be mad.
But part of you noticed it anyway—how she watched you, even as the engine roared to life.
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You drove east of the FOB to get back to the stadium. Hunger curled in your stomach as you realized it'd been hours since you'd last eaten. You sighed, glancing around, rifle in hand.
Abby watched you closely from across the truck bed.
"Cold out today," she said, a little awkward.
You swallowed and let out a breathy laugh. Was she serious?
"Yeah... real cold," you murmured, eyes drifting behind her. You caught sight of Manny peeking at the two of you through the rearview mirror. Both he and Abby were acting strange—quiet, fidgety. The air between you felt thick with something unsaid.
Then, just as quickly as the moment started, the sound of hooves thundered in the distance.
Your body reacted before your brain could catch up. You grabbed Abby and pulled her down to kneel in the truck bed beside you. She smelled like pine and sweat—sharp and earthy. Good.
"Hear that?" you whispered, breath close to her ear. "Hooves."
You pressed a finger to your ear, signaling her to listen. Abby nodded, eyes sharpening. She turned and leaned toward the small window connecting the bed to the front seat.
"Manny," she called. "Scars—two o'clock."
You spotted one and fired—BOOM. Clean shot to the head. Whistling followed, that eerie signal they always gave.
You didn't flinch.
You kept firing, falling into that cold, mechanical focus. Abby caught the rhythm quick, her gun thundering beside yours.
You took a second, grabbing pipe bombs from your bag and lobbing them into the incoming group. The explosions shook the earth, and you tried not to flinch as horses screamed and legs blew clean off. A sick pit formed in your gut, but you shoved it down. No time.
You fired until there weren't many left. Enough space to get away.
You didn't even know why you were fighting them.
Manny slammed on the brakes just as five Scars burst from the skeletal remains of a crumbling storefront. Without hesitation, you vaulted over the side of the truck bed, landing hard beside Abby. The momentum barely registered—adrenaline drowned out everything but survival.
The first Scar didn't stand a chance. You brought a brick down onto his temple with a wet crunch, the force jarring your arm. In your periphery, Abby was already locked in a brutal clash, her pipe cracking bone with precision, her grunts sharp and focused.
Another charged. You met him head-on, fists flying with a kind of desperate rhythm. You struck until he dropped to his knees, blood dribbling from the jagged mess of his mouth. He looked up at you, face mangled and trembling, his eyes wild with pain and pleading.
"Please... I have a son..." he rasped, voice cracked and broken. His shattered teeth rested near his knees—knocked out by your earlier blows.
You froze. Your breath caught painfully in your chest.
Boston.
The prisons.
The screaming.
The man who wouldn't give a name.
He'd begged like this too.
Your pulse thundered in your ears. The world narrowed to the bloodied man kneeling before you—he wasn't the one from Boston, but for a second, he might as well have been.
You didn't see Abby approach, but you felt her presence—steady, aware. She took one look at your hesitation, and that was all the Scar needed. With a choked cry, he pulled a rifle from beneath his coat and fired wildly.
The bullet missed.
Abby didn't.
A single shot rang out. The man's body jerked, then collapsed.
Smoke curled from the barrel of Abby's rifle. Her eyes flicked to you, hard and unreadable.
"You let your guard down," she said quietly.
There was a long silence.
The wind carried the stench of blood and ash. The others were already dead. It was over. But your heart was still pounding—not from the fight, but from the memory.
And from the look Abby gave you—part disappointment, part warning.
You nodded, swallowing whatever excuse you had. There wasn't one.
Just a haunted echo.
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You and Abby stood in the aftermath, the alley quiet now except for the clatter of a loosened trash can lid spinning to stillness. The man at your feet wasn't moving. Neither was the one slumped near the wall. Your knuckles ached. So did your jaw. You felt the sting of something—your own blood or someone else's—you didn't check.
Abby exhaled hard, chest heaving, sweat streaking the grime on her face. Her eyes flicked to you, then away.
"Truck'll be waiting," she muttered.
You didn't answer, just followed her when she turned, boots crunching over glass and wet paper. Every step made your ribs scream. She moved like her bones were grinding together, shoulders squared too tightly, hands still balled into fists at her sides.
You climbed into the back of the truck again. No words. Not even when the engine stuttered to life. Not when Abby sat opposite you, staring down at her bloodied palms like she was trying to memorize them. You caught her looking at you once—just once—but she looked away fast.
The city blurred by. The deeper into the zone you went, the more it looked like everything else: gray, rusted, rotting. Like nothing had ever really been alive here. You leaned back against the cold metal siding, closing your eyes just long enough to feel the nausea fade.
By the time the stadium gates came into view, the sun had dipped low enough to make the sky look bruised. Soldiers moved around the entrance, not even glancing your way. You both looked like shit, and that meant you'd done your job.
The truck rolled to a stop. Abby was out before you could shift. You followed slower, legs stiff, heart weirdly loud in your ears.
Manny spotted you from near the mess tent. "Dios mío," he said, eyebrows shooting up. "You two look like you crawled through hell."
No one laughed.
Abby didn't even look at him. She just kept walking.
You stood there for a second. Watching her retreating back. Watching the way her fists were still clenched, like she didn't know how to let go.
You swallowed hard. Your mouth tasted like pennies.
Then you turned and followed.