Chapter Text
Saying the Cordyceps virus had just - y’know - “kicked in…”
Feels wrong.
Fact is, Leo’s not sure how else to put it. He doesn’t much feel like giving it credit, you know? Saying it appeared isn’t right. It existed before it mutated, just not as a virus that humans had to worry about. Then sixteen years ago -
Boom .
Now your neighbors are killers. There are hordes in your streets. Your bloodstained hands are trembling where they’re clasped around a smoking gun. Your brothers and father are dead. If not for a promise made in your final moments together, maybe you would join them.
Leo’s one of thousands. He’s not special. He’s just lucky. At his age, he was the right age to adapt. He was the right age to get it into his head that there was an enemy, somebody to take revenge on, to fight against. He was strong and able bodied. He was the right amount of stupid to think there was some end to things.
Thank god he wasn’t stupid enough to join FEDRA or the Fireflies.
Nope. He’s just Leonardo Hamato, regular fuckin’ guy. Way it is, and the way it goes. He does his odd jobs that pay him shit rations, he stays out of the FED’s way, he doesn’t get near the wall, he avoids curfew, he goes back home and keeps his bitching to himself - shit, he doesn’t even smoke anymore.
And he doesn’t kill, either.
The asshole who keeps blowing smoke in his face makes him reconsider a couple of those things.
Not smoking, particularly. Cigarettes are hard to come by. Leo started pretty soon after the outbreak, when they’d tossed him in a camp as possible soldier material. He was solidly addicted by the time he was put on the field as a first class “medic,” where he’d deliver the killing blow to soldiers labeled code orange - infected - or red - too far gone to save. By the time he’d been upgraded to a level two, actually stitching people up and the like, he’d gotten so sick of inhaling ash and smoke that he quit cold turkey. He saw enough disease; not to sound like an edgy prick, but he didn’t need to put any more inside of him.
Still doesn’t.
He blows a long, slow puff of air at the goon blowing smoke his way. The air is so still it creeps back into his face - he makes an annoyed noise, fans it away. Leo watches him do it, unimpressed. Stupid .
“I don’t do deals for Mama anymore.”
“You’ll do this one.” Irritation sparks low in his gut - he clamps it down, clenches his teeth.
“I won’t, ‘cause I don’t do deals for Mama anymore. She fucked me over one too many times. I’m not stupid enough to think she’s changed her ways.” Mama’s twisted his deals more than he can be bothered to count - and for a petty bastard like Leo, that’s a lot . “Screw off.” He taps the edge of his shotgun against the toe of his boot. It’s leather and steel-toed, old but still solid. He paid a fortune for it years ago, dedicated himself to taking such good care of them he’d never have to buy another. (He’s got another stashed away, equally nice. It cost him nearly two months of food, but it worked.)
“Look, man -” The other one reaches out, tries to catch his arm - he shifts his weight, shoots them a glare. They shouldn’t be so stupid. Leo might not be an assassin anymore, but that kind of training doesn’t just fade away. Neither does the attitude.
He doesn’t particularly enjoy dealing with the types of people who think they can just fuck around with him.
“Mama’s fucked you over in the past. We get it, man. But she’s got - it’s not like that, this time. She’s got something -” Their voice drops, and they lean in. He leans away, giving them an irritated look. “She’s got something important, dude. It’s not that she wouldn’t fuck you over, it’s that she can’t. World scope shit.”
“I don’t really care about the world.”
He ignores the looks they exchange, like they can’t believe it. Like they still think this world is worth giving a shit about.
“Well, you don’t have to care about the world,” the overly friendly one says. “Make sure this package gets outta the city, you won’t have to worry about anything.”
“Besides,” the other one says, voice dropping. They step a little closer on Leo’s other side, boxing him in. Smoke wafts in his face. “You don’t take this, you never get another job.”
He doesn’t choke. He just stares at them, trying to keep his expression even and his face cool even as he slides one finger under the cloth of his belt, nail hooking into a groove of a hunting knife where it’s settled between his pants and skin. Honestly, he’s not even that worried about handling either of these pricks - he’s more worried about what kind of threat they’re trying to make. They’re sent by Mama - they can’t be so far off the mark.
“That’s kind of my hope,” he points out. “I’m retired .”
“Nah -”
“Mama’ll turn you in,” the friendly one chirps. They tilt their head, bright braids falling down across their shoulders. “You’re not so retired you don’t need rations. If the FEDs let you stay in the QZ at all.”
Oh, you bastards .
One more goddamn twist in the conditions, huh? Let Mama fuck him over one more time.
Two more times. If she’s so desperate to get this deal done, there’s a good chance he won’t be walking out of this one in one piece.
Mama’s looks the same as always.
It’s one of the nicer apartments. It’s in the sector of the city that always has power, usually has running water. Mama owns the hotel it’s in, if not a greater portion of the block. There’s always been the understanding that that’s the way it is - Mama has her block, and they have - well -
The rest of them don’t really have anything, but they don’t have little enough to try to intercede on her territory. Nobody’s that kind of insane.
Everybody knows where Mama is, though. It’s not that the rubble's been cleared out of the streets, but there’s less people in them. There’s none of the “lost” people, either, the ones who have given up on trying to live but that the government suddenly can’t find it in themselves to take down. (Funny, how they went from ripping out the dregs of humanity when the infection began to insisting on preserving it twenty years later.)
Nobody bothers them on their silent trek up the hill. Shit, there’s a chance nobody even notices them. They’re too close to curfew for comfort - Leo’s either going to need a room to stay in overnight, which he'd rather not, or he’s going to have to have to sneak between the rotting scaffolding in the back alleys, which he'd also rather not.
Or Mama will get fed up with him and deliver a quick bullet to the back of his head, another rather-not. It's like playing solitaire and all you're getting are twos while your opponent has a lighter. It’s a shitty deal, and Mama hasn’t even given him the terms yet.
A truck rattles by, jarring Leo from his thoughts. It’s practice that keeps him from ensuring his shotgun and blades are steady and properly hidden beneath his pack and coat. Mama’s grunts still fall victim to their instinct - their hands scutter down to their belts. If the heads poking up off the top of the truck roof turned, they might’ve seen and known there was contraband under their layers. That got some good vets - people would come back from the war, go to smugglers for a gun to try to chase out the clicks and howls that haunted them, get caught reaching for it when they saw the troops they used to have to march with and then get strung up by old comrades the next day for a nightmare they shared.
It’s stupid.
Leo keeps his hands in his pockets, worrying a bit of lint between two fingers as the ground evens out below their feet. Mama picked the most dramatic suite for herself, as expected. It’s on the fourth floor, overlooking the back of the hotel. On a clear day, you can see out into the broken remnants of the city. It’s stunning, though Leo’s long been desensitized to it. (He’s been out there, a few times, searching for groups of survivors Mama didn’t want to get past the remnants of suburbia. Why she thought she’d need him, he has no idea - half the time, it’s all he needed to do to fire a shot into a sprout, and the whole place would be swarmed in minutes.) You have to go through the old entrance and up the fancy staircase to her room. The entire place is padded with thick old carpet that muffles your footsteps. Mama’s hotel was mostly untouched after she offered it and her remaining staff to FEDRA, though they’re confined to the lower floors. It got Mama solid in the city’s hierarchy, but it also, unfortunately, showed people who's really in charge.
Yeah. The military aren’t leaving Mama’s place so untouched anymore. There’s a small group near the empty fountain with cigs that blow out dark smoke. Another in the corner is looking up and down one of Mama’s workers, a hand of rations out. There’s mud all over her typically pristine floors, bloodstains in the upholstery.
If Leo had to guess, he’d say there’s not long before Mama loses control entirely. If he makes this mission quick, he can get his cut - and it will be just a cut, knowing Mama - of his pay and clear out of the city before it all goes to shit. Or, if that fails, he can take this package to his apartment and grab the necessities before screwing off. Or just saying "fuck all of you" and fucking right off.
He'd rather - well, it doesn't matter what he'd rather, as previously clarified. Most of what matters is he gets this done and gets the fuck out.
Even though the stairs probably aren’t all that dirty, he keeps his hands off the banisters. Clean as they probably are, he doesn’t feel like peeling his hand from the wood to find filth coating his skin. He keeps his head up, ignoring the few people who stumble past them. They’re not his concern. Mama, and whatever she wants, is.
The goons knock against Mama’s door. A moment later, she croons a greeting, and they push the door open.
As usual, Mama’s not alone, accompanied by a couple of goons littered around the room. Unusually, they’re already standing at attention when he comes in.
And there’s someone else. Two someone else's.
Mama’s sat in the middle of the room, settled with her legs crossed at an elegant desk. There are figures on either side of her.
One of them is tall. He’s wearing all the same colors, blacks and blues faded to dark gray. A carhartt-type coat made long, patched together with the same faded hues, hangs around his knees. It does a poor job of hiding the multiple rifles of various types he’s tucked away inside, including what looks to be a walking staff tucked under one arm. There’s something metal glimmering alongside one of his knees, half hidden by boxy fabric. A gas mask hides the lower half of his face. His dreads are pulled up into a bun, loosely thrown around metal goggles settled on top of his head.
The other -
“Aw, hell no,” Leo says before he can shut it back up inside the way he should.
Sitting there at Mama’s feet is a muzzled kid in a viciously orange jumpsuit.