Chapter Text
Sirens, screaming, the noises of a riot backed by deep growling heavy metal playing over announcement speakers… some would call it the noises that came with the end of the world. But to the five, it was music to their ears- it was the backing track to the greatest achievement they would ever hope to achieve: the greatest prison break in the history of the United States of America.
The prison was already plunged into absolute chaos, prisoners using whatever they had to get long-overdue revenge on the guards and officials keeping them confined. Spurred on by means unknown, prisoners were out of their cells and moving as a solid mass of people. The sea of concrete was completely overtaken by a foam of orange jumpsuits and white tanktops all peppered with varying amounts of blood. “Look at these fuckers go!” Tony slammed his fists on the already dented control panel, watching the carnage unfold through the grainy security camera feed. It almost looked like a bad found-footage movie.
“Shit… you sure none of these guys will turn on us?” Ash twisted a single bullet casing in between two fingers, one that he found by the feet of a security guard cleared by their mysterious inside contact. “That’s why we packed extra ammo, dumbass. As if anyone would be stupid enough to attack a bunch of gun-wielding masked psychos anyways.” Corey was perched on a folding chair, katana clutched in a white-knuckled grip. “It’s not like we’re going in through the epicenter anyways. We’ve already got a plan, we’ll take the back halls and avoid the common areas. Mark’s the navigator.” She pointed the tip of her katana towards Mark. There was no threat in the gesture, however. There was wariness and a sharp motion in everything Corey did- it only took personal knowledge to know when she meant no harm.
Mark sorted through one of the pockets of his vest and unfolded a piece of printer paper with a layout of the prison drawn in marker, certain points marked with cheap red ink from a pen that no doubt had bite marks on it. “It’s simple, really. We cut through the back service halls, kill anyone who gets in our way, get to solitary confinement, kill the pedo inmates, and break out the man himself. Any questions?”
Tony raised his hand from his position in the corner, boots reclined on a cracked monitor screen. “Yeah. I do. Since when was killing all the pedophiles a part of the plan? I’m not opposed to it- in fact I’m all for it- but did you just come up with that part?” Mark shoved the map back into his pocket. “Eh, thought of it on the fly. Figured you’d enjoy it, Tony.”
“Aww, you always know what I like.” Tony faked a swoon with an exaggerated expression of glee, nearly falling out of his chair in the process. Corey got up from her chair and knocked Tony’s out from under him. “Ow…fuck you-” The sound of a muscular body hitting the linoleum broke Ash from his bullet casing induced trance.
“We ready for this? I’m getting bored.” The metal of Corey’s katana scraped against the ground, a shrill sound like a wordless threat to get moving. Her patience was like a wire- still thin, but strong nonetheless.
“Wait- hold on- we need a cool name for this whole operation.” Tony’s voice broke the mere seconds of preoperative silence that washed over the five.
“Well… we’re sort of rescuing someone off of death row… so uhh-” Alex racked her brain before Mark interjected.
“Operation Kill Shelter. Just kinda feels right, y’know? Has a good vibe to it- well, not good - just fitting. We all agree on that?”
The four other heads in the room nodded almost in sync. “Nice. Let’s fucking do this.”
The cacophony of noise coming from the cafeteria below was deafening, screams intermingled with gunshots and metal piercing body armor. The upper catwalk was made of solid steel and concrete, out of the fray and unnoticed by the swarm on the floor below. Still, it was like walking above a lion’s enclosure, separated purely by ignorance and little else. There was only one thing that all of them loved about prisons- the architecture almost guaranteed protection if you were in a certain spot.
“Shit, it’s like a feeding frenzy down there.” Prisoners churned, all different shapes and sizes fighting against the guards and eachother. Years, lifetimes even of pent-up rage against a system that kept them confined for so long.
“Do you think if we threw a box of Slim-Jims down there they’d start fighting over them?” Ash nudged his sibling with the point of his elbow, earning a harder nudge directly in his gut. He sputtered, clutching at the railing to steady himself. “Shit, watch it! I’m literally carrying a deconstructed bomb right now, you jackass! Also, why am I carrying the fucking glycerol? This is your backpack after all!” His posture was rigid, his hands in a death grip around the straps of the backpack.
“Because you’re faster, and you’ve got less surface area to shoot. You’re built like a ferret.” Beneath his mask, Ash sneered. He started to walk a little slower and kept to Tony’s cast shadow. “Don’t use me as a shield.”
“Then why are you built like a shield?” Another nudge caught Ash in the shoulder.
The screaming and churning of human bodies only continued to escalate. Down in the fray a security guard was picked up and thrown by a crowd of inmates. A hefty snap echoed past the screams and was mixed with the muffled, gurgling shrieks that came from a man whose legs had just been broken. A guttural, almost animalistic noise that only happened in situations of extreme duress.
A collective wince came across the Fans as they looked down into the carnage. More blood joined the sea of orange as the minutes went on. Small black specks in the form of overwhelmed security guards briefly surfaced, hands reaching for help that would never come. “Shit… getting bad down there. We should start moving.” Corey flinched as her focus landed on a circle of inmates taking turns beating a guard with metal pipes, reducing the man to an unrecognizable pile of meat and torn kevlar.
It was as if someone poked a hole in the shell that kept the collective humanity in this place in tow. Men became animals- somehow more vicious than the people above who thought their animal instincts had been embraced to their full potential.
Somewhere in the distance, an explosion echoed off, setting the once cheerful mood into one of anxiety and oncoming dread. Tony pushed himself to the front of the group and turned to the direction of the deafening noise. “C’mon, let’s move! I’m not meeting our hero when I’m full of nailbomb shrapnel!” Tony slammed his brass knuckles together with a metallic clink and ran full speed down the hallway, the heels of his boots tapping down the linoleum. The noise of a single gunshot going off and then human body weight hitting the floor urged the remaining four down at similar speeds. Tony stood at the end of the hallway, keyring in one hand and the bloodied collar of a prison guard in the other. He spun the keyring around on a single finger, a chorus of discordant jingles echoing throughout the hallway.
“Damn, already?” Corey crossed her arms in a display of disappointment. Tony threw the entire ring towards the group and delivered one more swift punch to the guard’s head, sending blood splattering all over his mask and the wall. “Yeah. Fucker shot at me, fuck was I supposed to do?” The tiger-masked killer brushed his hands together and flicked a piece of brain off of his shirt. Mark strapped the keyring to a loop on his vest before taking both of his uzis out of their holsters. “Looks like we’re heading into the lion’s den earlier than usual. Shit...”
“It’s just one guard. Let’s get in and out before the military starts storming this place.” Corey grabbed Tony by the strap of his ballistic vest and rushed ahead. The heels of Tony’s boots scraped against the floor as he squirmed under Cory’s iron grip, still letting himself be pulled along like a stubborn dog on a leash.
Mark was right about the “lion’s den.” The further they trekked, the more blood coated the five’s clothes and weapons. Three Uzi magazines were already discarded, 14 guards stitched from head to groin with lead, and 8 odd skinheads were impaled or sliced in half before they even reached high-security. The concentration of prisoners started to dwindle as they went further into the cells. The riot had lured everyone but stragglers still remained, making the best of raiding other cells.
The roaring of a chainsaw echoed through the now empty halls, 250 pounds of charging weight hitting the floor abruptly and messily. Alex adjusted her mask, resting against a wall to steady herself. “Holy fuck… less than I expected but god- what are they feeding these guys? Fucking horse steroids? It should only take like, 3 bullets per person max.” She stepped over the still twitching prisoner and stilled her weapon. She brushed a handful of viscera off of her mask and dropped her chainsaw.
Ash rooted around in his backpack and changed out the magazine in his own gun before tossing another to Mark. The pistol felt hot in his hands from the sheer amount of rounds it had pumped out in such a short time. “It’s a good thing we stocked up, but my back hurts and my bank account is fucking drained. The nitroglycerin alone took 6 months of paychecks just to get.”
“I think they overcharged you. Or you just have a really shitty job.” Tony tapped his foot, the spurs on his boots jingling rhythmically. “Says you. You’re basically a NEET on creatine.” Ash flung the empty cartridge into the far corner of the room. “We’re all ex-military, asshole. I have that under my belt at least.” Tony snapped back as he flicked a piece of human meat off of the metal of his spurs.
“That just means you’re more likely to get pity-hired.”
“Nut up or shut up, boys. We’ve got someone to save.” Corey pulled her katana out of the ribcage of a large inmate, letting loose a spray of blood. “Shit...just bleached my fucking shoes.” She ground the sole of her shoe onto a clean region of the deceased inmate’s jumpsuit in a half-hearted attempt to wipe some of the mess off of her Converse. A gurgle resounded across the room. Corey’s head shot to the corner where a large inmate was crumpled in a heap of blood. Her katana sliced through the skin of his neck, silencing him for good.
“Maybe we should take a break. Y’know, rejuvenate for just a few minutes and gather our bearings.” Mark sat cross-legged on a clean spot in the tile and removed his mask. He took a deep breath and let himself slouch, a habit he had been trying to beat. Alex removed her mask first. Her face was streaked with sweat and the dollar store eyeliner she usually wore was starting to run down her face. She kicked a shard of body armor out of the way and took a seat next to Mark. One by one, the rest of the Fans followed.
“So...what do you think this guy looks like?” Corey mused out loud. She gently set her mask beside her, joined by her katana. She brushed a few strands of hair aside, ones that had been cemented to her forehead by sweat. It was sweltering inside the jail with the heat of bodies and the constant action. She wished she had kept the buzz cut she spitefully got back in Hawaii. She missed the save on shampoo costs, and the looks she got from cute girls in civilian bars.
Alex leaned her head on one arm and gestured vaguely with the other. “He’s killed like, a hundred people. He’s obviously gotta be strong. Guy’s probably a complete beast .” She abruptly threw her arms out in an estimate of the elusive figure’s size. “Heard a report where a guy’s head was completely caved in. They found evidence that the injury was caused by nothing but a table leg. No normal guy can fucking pull that off.” The enthusiasm in her voice reminded the others of a small child talking about superheroes.
“I probably could. I mean, with the table leg and everything.” Tony piped in, gaze focused on the spur of one of his boots. He twirled one around with the tip of his finger in an attempt to keep himself still. His adrenaline rush still hadn’t waned after almost an hour of nonstop action. His mind briefly conjured an image of himself as Rambo holding a table leg like Excalibur, standing on an endless mountain of corpses.
Ash rhythmically tapped his foot on the cold linoleum tile, small specks of sticky blood coming off with each tap and reflecting the patterning of his shoes like some sort of grotesque rubber ink-stamp. “I heard he was part of some elite secret unit. Think they even got to call their unit something cool. Something with ‘wolves’, I think. Wish we got to name our unit.” His head was hung and supported by one hand while the other smoothed a thumb against the textured grip of his semi-auto pistol.
Tony’s head shot up. “Ghost Wolves! The commander basically fucking started 50 Blessings! How did you guys not know this?!” His voice had a fiery passion that exceeded the normal passion that his voice had.
“We’re not historians, dumbass. We joined to either get money, get some bitches, or see Hawaii before we inevitably died in poverty. You joined to live out some fuckin’ Rambo fantasy.”
“Jesus. Okay, that was a little too deep.” Tony scowled and hung his head, the words hitting a little too close to home- even though he knew they were entirely true; it was more of a matter of an ego bruise. Being forced to realize that he was just a young man who’d been fed too much violent media and overblown war stories by the paternal figures in his life.
Corey gave Tony a gentle slap on the shoulder; a common gesture started during the war and only dwindled in strength somewhat throughout the years. “Sorry. Just getting a little antsy.”
“Finally. Someone agrees with me over this stupid fucking break. Let’s go before our guy rots in his cell.” Tony got up and stretched, cracking his knuckles. “Fuckin’ hate stopping. Rather just have a soda or something instead of sitting around in a circle like a buncha girl scouts.” Corey smirked briefly, watching Tony stretch his back like he was a big cat that had just finished basking in a sunbeam. The tiger mask was never more fitting.
“Man, now you’re making me crave soda. Wish I would’ve raided that vending machine in the breakroom; they had peach Fanta fully stocked.”
“God, do NOT mention any kind of liquid. M’ so thirsty right now. Let’s just get a move-on so we can be out of here, don’t wanna bump into the fucking SWAT team.” Tony dusted off his mask and pulled it back on, a few small streaks of blood appearing across the latex surface.
Alex followed suit, her hand winding around the ripcord of her chainsaw with a death grip yet remaining surprisingly chaste.
“C’mon guys, last leg. We can do this.” Mark could see that spirits were dwindling, his friends looking more wiped out the farther they went. He pulled out the keyring Tony had handed him earlier from its spot attached to a loop on his ballistic vest. It was massive, with at least 2 dozen keys of all different shapes and sizes.
“Shit. Looks like the thing they beat Jesus with.”
Tony groaned. “I’m not spending 20 minutes sorting through keys. Wish we brought a shotgun so I could just blast door hinges.”
“You don’t even like shotguns.”
“I like large numbers of keys even less.”
The trek through the hallway continued onwards. The area ahead appeared even more like a warzone, littered with scraps of kevlar, blood splatter, and makeshift prison weapons. A guard lay in a heap with what had to be at least a dozen different shanks sticking out of different parts of their body, made of all sorts of materials; toothbrushes, bent metal shards, wood. Alex, the embracer of the concept of Schadenfreude, winced at the sight. The sudden disgust and uneasiness she felt disturbed her to a level she never thought possible.
She’d seen men burned to the bone from a meth lab explosion back in Hawaii, and stumbled across a body in an abandoned swimming pool at age 12, but seeing a man become a pin cushion pushed some hidden instinct button that made her bristle at the very sight. She attempted to ignore it and focus on the next thing to lunge at, which came in the form of a skinny man charging at the group holding a toothbrush shank and shouting incoherently.
The man’s two halves hit the floor 5 feet apart from eachother, only connected by a loop of intestines. Alex swallowed the bile that rose in her throat and plunged the chainsaw into the head of the man. Gore splattered across the pristine white of her mask. A shot rang in her ear as Ash fired a shot into another charging inmate, sending him flying backwards like a ragdoll. The ringing in her ears had her head spinning until a strong hand pulled her back from the fray.
“Shit, we’ve got company.”
A chorus of hoarse shouts echoed from the last cell and a gaggle of inmates boasting scavenged nightsticks and bedframe poles started to charge like a pack of animals. It was a taste of the armageddon happening in the commons- a pack of dangerous gang members rushing like a pack of wolves. Tony grabbed for one of Mark’s guns and shakily aimed towards the rushing, surging mass.
Men scattered and fell as a swarm of shots pierced through flesh like a hot knife through butter- well, a swarm of hot knives through several blocks of butter. In less than 2 minutes the entire small crowd of men sat incapacitated, a rapidly spreading puddle of blood consuming the speckled linoleum tile in a languid flood of red. Tony dropped the uzi at his feet. His hand moved to cradle his arm as the vibrations continued to rattle his nerves.
“Hoooo boy… shit. Now that was intense, to say the least.”
“God… I think we went in over our heads. Starting to feel pretty beat. This is like, our hardest mission but multiplied by 3.” Alex stilled her chainsaw and knelt down to catch her breath. Her hands and arms were numb from the intense vibrations of the chainsaw she’d been holding for nearly an hour at this point. Its gas meter read low, just a level above empty.
“We probably should’ve packed a few more pistols. The saw’s nearly out of fuel at this point.”
Ash slung a single strap of the backpack off of his shoulder and rooted around inside, passing 2 more magazines to mark.
“I’m out of ammo. Gonna have to start scavenging here soon.”
“Just start beating people with the pistol. Ever been pistol-whipped? Shit’s guaranteed to knock someone clean out.”
Tony knelt down and poked an inmate with the spikes of his brass knuckles. “God dammit... I’m not gonna lie- think at least 2 of my fingers are broken. Don’t think I can risk punching anything other than flesh from now on.”
Mark sighed, resting his head against the wall. “Well, good news is that we’ve only got a little bit more to go. Are the ingredients still holding up?” Ash gave a thumbs-up and slung the backpack into its normal position, holding onto the straps for dear life. “Everything’s good. I made sure to add a layer of bubble wrap to the bottle just to make sure.”
The brief silence that came over the group was shattered in mere seconds. A chorus of screams and the muffled sound of a flashbang echoed from the riot happening in the commons. The blast, still deafening despite the distance, goaded the group into a sprint down the hallway and towards the high-security wing.
“Shit. No time for dicking around with the inmates, I guess. Shit... was looking forward to bashing some more fuckin’ scum.”
“That’s right. We’ve gotta get this done, and FAST .” Mark removed the map from his pocket and checked a small block of notes written on the side, scanning for the cell number.
“Just a little bit farther. Uhh… cell 105. Dead ahead.” Mark exchanged the map for the keyring hanging off of his vest and messily scraped each key against the keyhole of the large steel door until one fit. The door swung open with a shrill creak of unoiled metal hinges, revealing a room almost like a dungeon. The silence in the room must’ve been deafening before it was shattered by the violence that was let in through the massive steel door. It almost seemed like it was amplified by the room, the growling music over the speakers that had gone unnoticed for nearly an hour seeming louder than ever before.
The sounds of the world ending raged outside of the small concrete cell Jacket had called home for two years now. Two years spent wasting away, slowly forgetting everything the outside world had to offer. He would die soon, never having seen the sun or felt the breeze on his skin ever again. He couldn’t see anything happening through the 3-inch thick metal door, only able to envision the pure destruction happening outside of his cell.
Screams, distant explosions, sirens echoing off of the concrete walls- death was coming for him, closer each second. And all he could do was lay down and accept it. He’d done this… for what? He’d put himself through hell to die laying down on a concrete slab in a place that took the remaining will from him- when all he wanted to do was avenge him . All of this was for Beard- his best friend since freshman year, the man who’d convinced him to go into the military, the man whom he’d loved before he even knew what love really meant, the man who he was too chicken to confess to.
But, he’d see him soon. He’d see her too, his girlfriend. The girl who was there when he was at what he thought was his lowest, the girl who waited for him to get his shit together, the girl who taught him how to cook and laughed at even the stupidest jokes and stole his t-shirts and wore them better than he did. He missed them both more than he could ever describe, to the point where it physically pained him- an ever-present ache in his empty chest.
The end was here. It was yards away, unstoppable. He got up from his curled up position and sat up, back straight, ears ringing from the repetition of the sirens. He would accept this end to his life standing up and awake, looking the end in the eyes. It was all he could control. He could feel tears welling up against his eyes, but the dam refused to budge. He’d spent the first year crying, all day and all night. His ability was pretty much used up by this point in time.
How do you think it’ll happen?
His inherent sense of distance abruptly fired. From the corner of his eye someone sat on his bed. Someone with the head of a chicken. It sat politely, hands folded on its lap. Pale flesh glistened in the low light but its body was shaded with almost impossible shadows, as if it was basking in the neon lights outside of a seedy motel. He could’ve sworn it was just raw muscle on bone that made up the majority of its form.
Your death. How do you think it’s going to end? Sounds like the start of a nuclear holocaust out there.
It spoke, words slipping past sharp teeth like a snake crawling from a storm drain. He dreaded seeing that figure. It started since he got out of the hospital, hanging around like a large fly on the wall, always out of the corner of his eye.
We’ve been together so long and you haven’t spoken so much as a word to me. It’s the end of the world. Why not have just one last chat?
His fists clenched. If it was his last day on earth in the middle of everything outside falling to pieces, he’d want silence. Two years spent in crippling silence and now that the outside world had breached, all he wanted was that silence back. But instead of striking at the figure that didn’t exist, he turned to face it. Its face was an organic version of the mask he was forced to wear during those crimes. A chicken… pure irony, now that he thought of it. He was just a fucking chicken .
Finally going to make peace?
He’d never make peace with that thing . Never, not even if a gun was to his head. It was a parasite, a fucking plague on his psyche that’d haunted him for 2 years. You can’t make peace with mosquitos or ticks. Screams and the sounds of gunshots came closer; the choking and splattering of someone having their throat sliced echoed so close to his door. It was a sound he was all too familiar with. The scent of blood was so strong, so pungent that his stomach turned and bile rose in the back of his throat. Nothing came but the bile, though. He hadn’t eaten solid food all week. Still, the stainless steel toilet caught the contents of his painful heaving. Just acid and bile.
Once his body was completely empty, he slumped cross-legged onto the floor. He wasn’t going to sit by the thing on the bed if he could help it. The concrete felt a little colder, a little rougher against his already cold skin. He missed the warm, soft sands of the various beaches throughout his life. Deficiencies had done their toll on the husk that he could be considered now. All colorless gray, the only pop of colors were the orange of his jumpsuit and the green of the stress ball that had occupied most of his conscious time. Even the color of his hair and eyes had desaturated. He felt like a tropical bird that had plucked out its own feathers from the stress of captivity.
Was all of this worth it?
The figure rebutted, voice full of venom but also genuine curiosity. Truth is, he didn’t know. He’d probably never know. Beard wasn’t here to cheer him on. He probably hated that he was associated with this godless rampage, used as a motive to kill dozens he’d otherwise have no reason to acknowledge. Beard probably didn’t want this at all. Neither would his girlfriend. Using violence to avenge the two people who just wanted to live in peace.
They’d even planned out their lives. He’d seen them living in peace before they were taken; Beard wanted to own a convenience store. Or a bar, to honor his fallen comrade’s interests. He always loved serving others for some reason. His girlfriend had her life together. She had a few friends she rollerskated with on the weekends, she was going to group therapy, she was even filling in job applications.
Now they were both gone. Snuffed out like candles in the wind. He was just waiting to follow at this point. Any illusion of control was gone now. He suddenly didn’t want to face this end. He was terrified, now shaking like a leaf. His hand gripped the stress ball lost under the cheap iron bed and squeezed. Several joints in his unused hands popped as he gripped on for dear life. He suddenly wished he could’ve just experienced the death penalty; ushered around with cold but gentle hands, read his last rights and given a chance to beg for forgiveness. There was no judge or jury, no chance to repent in this situation.
Footsteps echoed right outside his door. Non-uniform, not the heavy and orderly steps of the guards that would come and drag him to another interrogation during the first year of captivity. He curled onto his side and kept clutching on for dear life, like a child trying to distract themselves from an oncoming needle. His senses were prey-animal sharp. He could practically count the amount of breaths each person outside was taking, and the number of people. It was a talent he learned during the fray, not knowing how many enemies would come charging at him through the thick tropical brush or around the corners of some overtaken hotel.
There were 5 people outside of varying weights and undoubtedly equally varied statures.
His head shot to the door when the scraping of metal sounded. The small peephole, mostly used by guards to taunt him, was opening. His eyes connected with a single eye, the only one visible behind… some sort of rubber animal mask.
“Uh- hi. Listen. We’re here to get you out. Just get to the corner and cover your ears.”
The figure outside said this with absolute authority and certainty in a gruff voice that sounded almost… military. It finally hit him, like a sledgehammer to human bone. 50 Blessings. He knew they would come back for him. The vague language, the animal mask. The world seemed to go dark. Like the bulb in his head had finally burst and shattered into a million pieces. He could sense vague shuffling outside, then a scream. The 5 figures bolted until he couldn’t sense them anymore.
Then a blast, tearing through his perception.
Then pain.
Then...nothing. He was swimming through a void, bare of all senses. There was no up or down. No time. Was it death? He expected rising clouds and a blue sky, a pearly gate, maybe some figure holding a scale in order to balance his heart and judge him pure. Yet...there was nothing. No one was waiting for him at the end. He was truly alone.
“Wait- that was too big of a blast! It was just supposed to melt the hinges! Fuck, fuck fuck fuck!” Alex’s hands grasped at her signature swan mask in panic. The cell in front of them was a mess of dust and concrete, the door sitting on the floor in a dented heap.
“I’m not a fucking chemist! I only did what the fucking instructions said!” Ash met her panic and a wave of dread spread over the five. The bottle of glycerol sat shattered on the floor. “If this is the wrong cell, we can’t get the real guy out. We’re out of glycerol. I… I don’t even know if the guy survived this!” He spoke louder than usual, voice cracking. He was unable to discern if the ringing in his ears was confined just to him.
“Then we go check.” Tony kicked a shard of concrete away from the doorframe and waved his arms in an attempt to waft away some of the airborne dust. The cell was absolutely plain, all concrete, to the point where it appeared like a Victorian-era zoo cage. Just a container meant to ensure basic survival and nothing else. It almost inspired a sense of hopelessness that pierced through Tony’s chest like a dart. He crept through the rubble towards a vaguely orange heap laying in the corner.
The figure was nothing like he imagined. Not a strapping 6’5 combat veteran who ate Russians for breakfast and snapped spines with his bare hands; he was just a guy. A normal-looking guy he’d see on the street, maybe even order pizza from and make fun of to the others behind his back.
“This can’t be him. Are you absolutely 100-percent sure this is our guy?” He looks like a fucking wimp! This guy can’t be the Masked Maniac. He- he looks like a toothpick!”
“It’s been 2 years in solitary. They’re not gonna give a prisoner like this gym equipment. This is him, alright. The cell number, the location, everything’s accurate to a T.” Corey stepped through the threshold of rubble and knelt down beside the limp figure, rolling him over. He was a mess of concrete dust and small specks of blood, the only color on his pale face.
“Yep. This is him- Wait...shit- shitshitshit. Mark! Come get him! He’s not moving!” The urgency in Corey’s voice was unusual- her normal apathy was replaced by shrill panic that sent collective adrenaline levels skyrocketing. Mark grabbed the limp figure and slung him over his shoulder. He was bony as a sighthound under the baggy jumpsuit.
They collectively started to rush, pace becoming feverish. “Is he breathing?” Ash brushed a hand against the figure’s face, coming away with a palmful of dust and a few drops of blood.
“Yeah- pretty shallow, but he’s breathing. Just knocked out cold.”
Mark moved to the back of the group and held a single uzi in a death grip. “This area is a dead end. We’re gonna have to cut through one of the main hallways. Andy moved the van to the exit near the medical ward.”
One of Mark’s strong arms supported Jacket’s body like a limp ragdoll as he broke into a spring down the hall, one uzi pointed ahead in a white-knuckled grip. The others crowded around him with their weapons on a swivel like some sort of entourage protecting precious cargo, or like the armed guards surrounding an important political figure.
In a way, all of these were correct. The body slung over Mark’s shoulder was one of the most powerful men in the United States; this singular man inspired change so great that the government took notice and locked him up like some sort of treasure. He wiped out an entire mafia and rid an entire city of scum and danger. He deserved protection- but not by rotting in a concrete box. If there was anything he deserved, it was freedom.
The riot in the common room came to a head and guards swarmed to it like moths to a flame, leaving the halls empty. The faint scent of smoke started to waft in between the shouts and blasts and wormed its way between slight holes and dips in the latex masks the five wore. Panic lapped at each of their minds like ocean waves during a storm. Each corner seemed a little too sharp to turn without stopping, every hall seemed too long and had too many doors.
The noise of smoke was interrupted by the scent of disinfectant and cold metal as Tony kicked in the double doors to the infirmary. “C’mon, almost there. Just a little bit longer.” He sprinted ahead and around the rows of unoccupied beds and delivered a heavy kick to the locked doors. The doors exploded outwards, flooding the room with oxygen and the sight of the sun hanging low in the dark blue evening sky. The pop of color that was the familiar van nearly made the group collectively burst into tears. Tony fell to his knees in relief, throwing his mask to the curb and throwing his hands up in celebration.
“We- we fucking did it! We really fucking did it- holy shit!” Tony practically hugged the pavement with his overblown display of excitement. Corey joined him in his tired wallowing, throwing her katana to the pavement and leaning against Tony’s side. “Seriously can’t believe we pulled that off.” A grin spread across Corey’s face.
“Hey, uh. Hate to ruin the moment but I’d like to get moving.”
The door rolled open and Andy beckoned them in, his piercings glinting in the dying sunlight. “Glad to see you guys in one piece. C’mon, get in. Radio said the entire fucking army’s about to swarm the place.”
The five swarmed into the van, all shedding their masks. A thin sheen of sweat and blood dusted the faces of everyone involved. Tony’s lip boasted a large split that dripped a small stream of sticky blood down his chin. Alex’s eyeliner was smeared all over her face in large marks. Corey’s hair stuck up in chunks, her bangs nearly plastered to her eyes. Mark’s hair looked like an absolute disaster, his beard and hair nearly blending into one solid bush of hair from the static inside his mask.
Mark gently moved the man on his shoulder to the floor. His face seemed too pale to really be human, and a collective doubt washed over them once again. Jacket’s breathing was shallow and his body language did nothing to hint at if he was even conscious or not. “So this is the guy you guys have been talking up for the past 2 years?”
Andy glanced through the rearview mirror at the limp form laid across the floor.
“Doesn’t look like much of a serial killer to me. Dude sort of reminds me more of this one Domino’s delivery guy I had one time.”
Tony shrugged. “Exactly what I thought. Apparently prison just did a number on this guy. His cell looked like a fuckin’ zoo cage, I doubt they were kind to him.”
“Poor guy. Don’t know him- hell, I’m absolutely terrified right now if the rumors about him are true- but I’m glad he’s out. He probably wouldn’t have lasted much longer in there.”
The ride continued on in silence. A palpable cloud of exhaustion hung over the group, all slung over eachother like a sleeping pack of hunter’s hounds in the back of the van. In the center was Jacket, still unconscious. He didn’t look peaceful, in fact his face was still contorted in a subtle wince of pain. The van was wide enough to give him a decent amount of space to recuperate. His head was propped up on a hoodie that had been laying on the back of the passenger’s seat for months. It was all they had, but something was better than nothing.
“Here we are.” The burnt-out neon sign was a familiar sight, especially to Ash. The tacky chop-shop mostly overlooked by authorities and used as an occasional haven. Andy pulled into the back of the shop in order to shield the presence of the blood-splattered figures and man in obvious prison garb from the street outside. He left the driver’s side door open and went around back to open the doors as a quick sign of courtesy.
Mark replaced Andy’s position in the driver’s seat. Ash was about to join him up front in the passenger’s seat but hesitated before he opened the door. Andy gestured to a small pile of backpacks and garbage bags sitting on the shop floor. “Don’t forget your shit. I don’t wanna have to sell it.”
Tony clambered out of the van with a quiet groan of discomfort and started to assist Corey in balancing the bags in the van without hindering Jacket’s personal space.
“So you guys are really taking off?” Andy stood in front of the garage with the door half closed, basking the area in warm light that offset the cool evening glow.
Ash hung his head. “Yeah. Can’t risk staying around here. We’ll be back once everything’s cleared up, don’t worry. I’ll be back in your hair- er, lack of it- before you know it.” He exchanged a quick hug with Andy, reciprocating the friendly pat on the shoulder he received from his mechanic friend.
The van slowly pulled out of the garage and Ash waved one final goodbye as the mechanic’s shop became smaller in the distance. Miami’s skyline followed suit, becoming smaller and smaller in the distance until it was only a memory in the minds of the van’s passengers.
A small groan suddenly turned heads away from the signs along the highway.
“He’s waking up- Mark! He’s waking up- just… fuck. Play it cool. And Ash- if you make that Skyrim joke I’m straight up killing you.” A collective burst of excitement spread across the five. Tony, Corey, and Alex excitedly stared at the man who had just started to twitch out of his unconscious state.
Jacket… didn’t know what was happening. The void obscuring everything was starting to dissipate like paint slowly being scraped off of a window, the shrill sound causing his entire skull to rattle. His head throbbed. His sinuses and airway burned with the remnants of acrid chemical smoke. Each breath he took stung and no matter how hard he coughed, the sensation wouldn’t go away. He’d never felt pain like this before- he thought he’d never feel pain again, judging by what he just experienced. He was supposed to be dead . Maybe he was?
Maybe this was some… post-death hallucination. Apparently, brain enzymes went haywire and that could cause vivid hallucinations, or even make the perception of time seem warped. Mere seconds could feel and flow like years. Maybe this was all just post-death haze, fragments of memories and thoughts mashing themselves together. He could’ve been strapped to a table right now and slowly being injected with the cocktail of drugs that would make his heart fail as the nation collectively cheered over the death of the biggest monster in years.
His vision corrected from its damaged and spotty blur, only revealing a blank gray ceiling with what looked like...drawings on it. Fuck, where was he? He attempted to move, but the throbbing in his head only worsened. The sensation of raw skin rubbing against his cheap jumpsuit elicited a wince from him. He felt...dusty, for some reason.
“Hey- you’re okay. Just relax.” A gentle voice drilled its way through the agony. Feminine, but simultaneously gruff. His eyes finally peeled open. A halo of faces surrounded him- faces he didn’t recognize. He felt an instinctual yelp bubble in his chest but it died in his unused and raw throat, only coming out as a brief full-body twitch. His bare feet slid against canvas tarp and uncomfortable textured metal.
The three faces continued their staring, almost as if they were waiting for him to do something.
“You’re finally awake, thank god. Oh- you’re probably confused right now.” A woman with shaggy black hair stared over him like some sort of protective aegis. “I’m Corey. Tony’s the guy with the scar, Alex is the blonde chick, Ash is the guy in the passenger’s seat, and Mark is the guy driving.” She gestured her hand towards the others sitting on a row of benches drilled to the floor of the van. Alex, whoever she was, stared at him like a teenager meeting their favorite celebrity for the first time; an expression of pure, unnerving glee was plastered across her face. Tony’s expression could only be described as a smile, but the kind of toothy “smile” a territorial chimpanzee made.
“Hey Mark. Show the guy your face. You too Ash.”
Mark kept one hand on the wheel but maneuvered himself so he could look back and gave a short wave. Jacket still felt intimidated, but the expression on the man’s face was one of genuine content and maybe even… a little bit of relief. He exuded a sort of comforting aura, that was the best he could describe it in his scattered mind. Ash seemed to be the most normal- well, generic, of the bunch. He peered over the seat and gave a small awkward wave, then went back to staring out the window.
“So, you’re probably wondering what the fuck’s happening-” Corey was interrupted by Alex, who blurted out “We broke you out of prison and now we’re fleeing the state. Tony’s uncle has a cabin in West Virginia so we’re planning on laying low out there until things die down.”
“Yeah. Wait- hold on. We got some of your stuff out of the evidence locker and your old apartment. Here.”
Corey rooted around under one of the benches and slid a duffle bag towards him. Wait, how did these people know about his apartment? He was a grown adult, but some part of his brain was sounding the ‘stranger danger’ siren right now. He was broken out of prison by people he’d never met and in some mysterious van, being stared at like some scientific specimen. And… fleeing the state? How long had they even been driving at this point? How far was he going?
Reluctantly, he unzipped the bag and rooted through the contents; most of it was just a few of his old shirts that he recognized by touch, but then his hand brushed against something he was especially familiar with- the soft faux-silk interior of his signature jacket. He felt like crying from joy- he practically cradled the article of clothing like it was a long-lost pet. It slipped back around his shoulders like a second skin, albeit feeling much bigger on his borderline emaciated frame.
“We tried to get everything that didn’t have blood on it. Sorry if we missed a spot.”
He buried his face in the sleeves, savoring the comforting and familiar feeling against his skin. It felt like a hug from a long-lost friend. Like familiarity in the face of a world he was now entirely unsure of. He shifted around in the rest of the bag. The majority of its mass seemingly came from a large plastic mass. He shoved some of his shirts aside and revealed his NES, still in the plastic evidence bag.
He wondered why the hell the cops had bothered to take it anyway, maybe to dust for fingerprints. There wouldn’t be any, though. His second controller had never been used in the entire time he’d had it. Beard promised to play it with him one day… but that promise was gone now that he was too. The wire had stayed wrapped around the controller and tucked to the side the entire time.
The small collection of cartridges rattled around in the bag, undamaged. He let out a sigh of relief and attempted to read the titles he had- only to realize he couldn’t. Everything was still blurry around the edges and the letters seemed too small, or to shift and blur whenever he tried to focus on them. Telltale concussion symptoms- just what he fucking needed.
“Hey- oh, uhh… we… don’t exactly know your name.”
Tony anxiously scratched the back of his neck. The weird grin on his face had cleared and he almost looked like he pitied the man still laying on the floor.
Right- the realization hit him. His old name… it was still attached to that mask. That wasn’t him. He wasn’t Richard anymore. Richard was dead, died alongside his girlfriend in his shitty little apartment. Richard was the disembodied head of a rooster that committed crimes he never wanted to.
He cleared his throat, a sensation like crushed glass flowing down his throat making the start of words difficult. He tried to speak- it felt more like vomiting words, speaking was an unfamiliar ordeal. Yet he tried, attempting to push the words forward from vocal cords that went unused for 2 and a half years.
“...Jacket- jus’...call me Jacket.”