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"Okay, but are you actually sure?"
"I'm as sure as anyone can be. We know for a fact that the forests to the north persisted – who's to say some towns haven't?"
A young rebel huffs and lowers his AR, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a ripped-up glove. A gust of wind brings dust up the side of a beaten down open-bed truck, and he adjusts his construction tape-covered respirator mask. He hasn't been openly hostile to any of the traitors, but his determination to argue with A-Twenty-one and undermine her words at every turn has shown how difficult it is for him to keep it that way.
"So you're not sure then?"
"I just told you-"
"Enough, two of you!" An older woman riding shotgun cuts both of them off, words given sharper edges by her accent. "You fool, don't argue over what you don't know," she chastises and clicks her tongue before lowering her voice again. "Keep going; this bridge is okay."
Bec is driving, and he evidently has enough wisdom to listen to someone actually local to the area.
The car shifts, and Victor-Sixty takes a second to stretch his back before returning to cradling his gun – back to the rusted up panel, elbow resting flat on his knee and the rifle on top. Well, it's not his, technically. One of the members of group three gave it to him on account of him being able to actually use it properly before they departed this morning. But then, considering how far away they must be now, it might as well belong to him now.
"Bridge?! And how the hell do you know that?" The youngster turns away from the road stretching behind them and towards the cabin, but is cut off before he can say anything else:
"There was a message on a billboard about ten minutes back." A girl sits in the opposite corner of the truck bed, all legs and wings and a brave face despite the hastily bandaged bullet wound on her shoulder. "'Виадукт Елешница – цялий', means 'The Eleshnitsa bridge is intact'. Or did you think we're the only ones in twenty years that tried to go this way?"
"Well, no, but isn't the concern reasonable?-"
The woman laughs at that, apparently unfazed by his doubt.
"You, boy, will see what the bridges are like here, and you will have no more concerns."
There's another chuckle from inside the cabin echoing hers, and Victor feels the truck turn a bit to the left.
Bec's a good driver – better than most Sixty has seen, managing careful movement even with a vehicle decidedly not intended for that. But there's still not much he can do about the half-ruined roads, the scattered debris and the frankly shit visibility. Even here, on the edge of the apparently-not-so-vast Wasteland, the asphalt is cracked and crumbled in places, sometimes too much to drive around.
"Keep going. Don't go off the speed road, but be careful." The woman's voice is not loud, but asserting, steady and sure with knowledge. Victor still hasn't had the chance to catch her name.
There's six of them, three rebels and three traitors, and out of everyone here she's the only one who knows what this place looked like before the Combine. She didn't exactly flaunt the fact, but was pretty much unanimously accepted as their guide out of the Wild.
If nothing else, she has obviously done her talk well. They seem to be exiting the dust-covered landscape, hills and shrubbery taking their rightful hold along the fields and around the occasional group of red-roofed buildings situated between them. A-Twenty-one, on watch towards the front, lets out a half-disbelieving laugh and exclaims:
"Holy shit, they were right! Victor, Cole, come look – I'll watch the rear for you. You have to see this before we go up there!"
Victor isn't exactly sure what's so important without being a danger to them, but indulges her, turning towards the direction of the mountains that are supposed to help them disappear and maybe even find civilization outside of Combine-controlled territory.
Not four hours ago they raced against the flat, dust-covered landscape in a mad dash to escape City-17 and the pursuing Combine soldiers. Back then, just after the shouting and the flying bullets and the screeching Xen beasts were left behind, Sixty felt a sinking weight, dreading what he expected to be a foreign and hostile stretch of land. Yet now that they're here, that weight is lost somewhere far away.
The mountains are not at all what he had expected. There are no sharp peaks or sheer cliffs of bare rock towering above them – just countless soft green slopes with narrow valleys in between, illuminated by the setting sun. The highway starts curving, a slow turn left, then a slower turn right. Walls of trees pass by just a dozen feet away from them, close enough that he can hear the rustle of the leaves. The ones closest to the road – he's not sure what they are, exactly – are bowed in the direction of their travel by the wind, and behind them the pine trees stand tall. Just a minute, and they're everywhere, all around them now, so much green it makes Sixty blink repeatedly to get rid of the momentary strain.
"We're going… there?"
"Yes, we are!- wait, is something wrong, Victor?"
A-Twenty-one's excitement gets tinged with worry as she looks down at him where he's still half-sitting, on the edge of the truck bed and leaning left to see the view better. It takes him a second to process the question, and he coughs to clear his throat.
"Uh. No. All good."
It's probably not very convincing, but he's quick to turn back towards the road behind them, rifle at the ready again. A-Twenty-one sighs awkwardly:
"Okay, if you're sure."
He adjusts his pose and tries to focus on monitoring the road for disturbances, but the view is still stuck in his mind, fresh memory shimmering before his eyes. More and more trees start passing them by, and soon both the flat plane of the Wasteland and the unnerving spire of The Citadel start disappearing from view.
Not long after that the highway starts bridging above the hills and slopes, so they exit to an older mountain road, weaving near and around the blocky concrete support struts bearing unexpectedly little structural damage. The woman – Nevena, the girl called her – huffs in a telltale 'I told you so' way when Cole expresses his incredulous surprise, but is kind enough to be quiet when the next sight evaporates any notion of skepticism from all of them.
"Holy hell," Bec murmurs as he taps the breaks. "Now that is a bridge."
Victor turns around and oh yeah. That is a bridge, towering before them. The thing is giant, a good four or five hundred feet in height, supported by the same type of struts as what they just saw, only more of them, and bigger. Much bigger. They drive under it and a then bit further before Bec stops the truck and opens the door, stepping out onto the fender to get a better view along with everyone else. Nevena follows his example, and they all stay there for a moment.
The bridge unfolds before them fully from this angle, spanning what has to be at least fifteen hundred feet, cutting through the barely clouded sky and the mountains behind it. Vegetation frames it from the sides but leaves the bulk of it largely untouched, light grey and brownish tones contrasting against the deep and vibrant greenery all around it.
The sheer size of it is, for all intents and purposes, breathtaking, and the landscape only adds to the sense of wonder it elicits.
If only we got to visit this place earlier, when things were different…
"You ever see anything like that, Victor?" Bec asks, almost as if lost in thought himself, and Sixty is pulled away from the edge. It might have just been an idle question, but it's enough to help him keep his mind from going down that particular spiral. Either way, Sixty is thankful, even if there's still an aching tug to go back and get lost in his own head.
"No."
***
They don't drive for much longer. As the sun sets behind the mountains, Nevena points them to a small collection of abandoned houses scattered in a small nook by the river – or, at least, some kind of water stream, judging by the noise. As the truck takes a sharp turn off the main road and onto an overgrown wheel rut, they become shrouded by the trees, soon stopping in front of what A-Twenty-one incorrectly identifies as a strangely flat hill. Ascending the slow slope reveals a concrete walk around the edge of what turns out to be a dam, water overflowing into an large concrete outlet to their left and turning into a river running along the main road. The basin itself is huge, too, the steel-blue surface stretching out back towards the bridge, hidden from the side by thick bushes.
At first glance, there's not much to be yielded from the remains of what could have once been a tiny village. Nevena insists, however, and a closer look nets them enough bedding for everyone to rest comfortably, a few kettles, pots and sets of cutlery, and even a stack of firewood. Bec voices his concerns about the latter's quality after so many years, but it's not like they have a lot of choice as far as a heat source goes. The spring is warm enough that they can sleep inside as-is, but it's not like anyone here would say no to at least a hot drink.
They pick out a house to stay in – bigger and arguably nicer than the others, it sits in a clearing closest to the dam, a small distance from the rest. They find a set of yard furniture sitting in the garage and set it up on a sufficiently flat patch of dirt before dispersing, each having picked out their chores. A-Twenty-one and Noelle go into the house to "look it over", and Cole helps Nevena get the fire going, while Bec stays behind to tinker with the beat-up truck. Victor settles for bringing stuff over from the other houses to keep himself busy.
As he goes back and forth, he notes how unfamiliar the disrepair here feels compared to the abandoned buildings in City-17. The difference in age is obvious, of course, but there's something else. Maybe it's the choice in personal belongings left behind by the previous owners; maybe it's the unique smell to the air here; maybe everything is just so still here compared to the never-sleeping city…
He opens a door to another room. It's small, almost cramped thanks to the bulky closet to his immediate right. The floor is covered by a faded and stained carpet, and in the other end of the room, across from an old TV, there's a couch. The owners left an embroidered blanket folded on top of it, the floral pattern persisting despite the desolation, but that's about it.
He opens the closet. It's largely empty, like the ones before it, but there are pillows in the very top compartment, right next to the pillowcases.
He's just about to reach them, when a small, lonely sound behind his left shoulder makes his breath catch in his throat.
But he knows it's nothing. There's nobody here, someone would've gone out to meet them otherwise.They're the only ones in this entire place. He knows that.
There isn't anyone in the room.
Or, at least, there shouldn't be.
░░░░?
Where did you go?
The sound repeats; Victor whips his head around, and there-
Sits the couch. Empty, of course; not ten seconds earlier he looked straight at it, and there was no one there.
Whatever he saw or heard, it's not there. Never was. A bad memory; a trick of the eye.
The closet door slams shut, and Sixty all but bolts out of the house, clutching the pillows as he makes his way back.
***
Done with his self-assigned duties for now, he settles into one of the metal chairs, watching through the steady flames as Bec inspects the truck. It doesn't look like anything's wrong with it, but that obviously doesn't deter him. The flashlight's beam passes over the rusted edges and then disappears inside the cabin, 28's muttering following suit.
The shotgun is there, right beside the driver's seat. Sixty can't see it from this angle, but just knowing it's there is enough to make him grit his teeth. He gave it to Bec before they moved out of the city… well, it was more like Bec took it off of his hands, but it's not like Victor would have protested. He can't stand to even look at it anymore, much less use it, but it might still be of help to them. Just not in his hands.
He thinks back to yesterday's events and finds himself stuck. By all accounts, he's supposed to be dead – hell knows there were more than enough bullets, flechettes and trains to put him into the ground – but here he is, far from City-17, with people who helped him get away. People who he helped get away, too. Safe, if there could ever be such a thing for him. And yet this fact doesn't leave him much except for a nasty feeling at the back of his throat, a strange sort of protest. None of this feels right.
I should be dead. And yet he isn't, and now he's got no choice but to figure out what to do with that.
Which is nothing if not a daunting task right now. Now that they're out of the Wasteland, everyone's ditched their masks and respirators, and Victor finds himself unable to ignore the awkwardness of being the only one still wearing his. Joining the others isn't an option, though. Regardless of whether or not he's keeping it together, he has to at least look the part. Besides, it's good to have someone with an NVG on hand, even if this place seems to be completely devoid of any danger.
Speaking of – there's another thing that feels extremely unrealistic. It's calm here, the kind of calm he can't remember to have ever seen. There's no established civilization anywhere near them, and the never-ending trees and mountains hide them from anything further away; not even the Citadel's claws (or, well, one claw) have reached this far, as they found out earlier today. No matter how much he scans their surroundings, there's nothing of worry to be spotted.
It's not doing a lot to help him relax, though.
Still, he moves a little closer to the fire and listens to the conversations. There's mostly idle chat – A-Twenty-one peppering Nevena with questions, Cole butting in several times before getting an elbow to the side from Noelle, and Bec chuckling at their quarrel. His voice sounds different without the modulator and the need to bark out orders, deep and warm, and not even the bandages covering the right side of his face take away from that. He seems more comfortable without the mask, at peace in a way that makes Victor wince at the sting of envy.
Slowly, the discussion shifts towards their plans for the nearest future. The bad news is that they've got two people with wounds at risk of infection, and they need to stay put for at least a day or two to monitor them – a decision that even Cole agrees with, to Victor's surprise. The good news is that the house they're staying in turned out to have a cellar stacked with shelf-stable stuff – packs of grains, stacks of canned meat, even a collection of jars with home-pickled vegetables. They could stay here for a whole week if they wanted, maybe more if the other houses have something similar as well. Hopefully they won't need to, of course – it's better to be safe than sorry in case the nearest towns turn out to be abandoned or the truck runs out of juice a little too early.
He feels bad about refusing to eat at the same time as everybody, for some reason. Well, it's awkward as hell, for one, but there's also a persistent tug of shame in him he can't quite find the source of. He apologizes to Nevena once, and then again when everyone else has already gone inside, the woman having stayed outside to take care of the dishes. She just smiles and tells him to eat soon, while it's still warm.
And then it's quiet again, save for the rushing water back near the road and the rustling trees covering the mountains all around them.
It's not particularly windy, but having fresh air touch his arms and face after at least forty hours in full gear with barely any breaks still sends goosebumps down his skin. The air itself is different here, too – a lot less dry and easier to breathe without the dust, concrete and exhaust, instead smelling of plants, soil and fresh water. It might just be the humidity, but Victor's pretty sure he's never been somewhere that smelled like this.
Ugh, he sure smells, too, he notices after a few seconds. Figures.
Then the wind changes direction, and everything else is swiftly forgotten because holy shit, the food smells amazing. His stomach finally reminds him of the concept of hunger, and he grabs the bowl and spoon left for him on the table.
The stew is about as simple as it gets, canned meat and vegetables mixed together with water and spices in a chipped enamel pot, but right now it's damn near divine. Even the way the black pepper digs into his nose doesn't detract anything from the bliss. Maybe the blandness of the Combine rations has skewed his perception, but it's good, good enough for him to spend a few minutes thinking about nothing but that.
The thing must be some kind of magical, too, because it's as if a weight has fallen off his shoulders by the time he's finished. He knows nothing actually changed, but his surroundings feel just a little more peaceful as he goes over to the river to rinse off the bowl. The water is much louder up close, splashing cool droplets up to his elbows as it rushes out of the concrete canal and further north, but even that manages to be refreshing rather than unpleasant.
On a whim, he tries to drink it. The cold of it sits on his teeth for a few moments, but even through that he can feel how clean it is.
Actual, real water, untouched by neither the Xen nor the Combine. If this isn't proof of their freedom, hell knows what is.
***
The sky has already started to lighten up by the time Victor hears the front door of the house creak open.
"Morning," Bec yawns, steps dampened by the grass. "We get the fog today, huh?"
Sixty waits to make sure the mask is affixed properly and the modulator is operational before replying.
"Yeah, guess so."
He turns around and blinks a few times. Bec isn't in uniform, instead wearing grey sweatpants that are decidedly not Combine-issued and a light-blue shirt that is visibly a little too tight… well, just about everywhere for him.
"Uhm."
Belatedly, Victor recalls that there is a thing called "rude to stare" and looks down. Thankfully, this is the one time where he has an excuse to pay close attention to the shoes, since they are actually somewhat interesting. They look like something specifically fit for rain or mud, solid shapes of black rubber reaching up to almost mid-calf, the pants tucked into them for convenience.
"Oh, right. We found some fresh clothes in the house, enough for all of us to have a spare. Even if the sizes aren't quite right for everyone," Bec clarifies with an awkward laugh. "You might wanna make use of the river before changing, though. It's not the warmest, but I can promise it'll be worth it. And we'll figure out the laundry later in the day."
This is decidedly good news, since it lets Victor escape the unfortunate fate of sitting wrapped up in a bedsheet waiting for his current set of clothes to dry. But something gets stuck in his head, halting all the gears in his head before he can finish thinking about how he looks forward to feeling clean again. Still, he manages:
"Thanks."
"Before you go," Bec adds, "your spare is in your room. Second floor, first door to the left. The towels are downstairs, though, in the bathroom. Soap and stuff is there too."
There it is, the thing that's short-circuiting Sixty's brain. It's the idle conversations; the 'goodnight's and 'good morning's; the effort put into cooking; the spare clothes for everyone. Laundry. Your room. Towels downstairs.
It's all so decidedly, uncompromisingly normal. Well, yes, as normal as it can get with one new coworker and four strangers on the run from an alien empire, but still. It's only been a few hours, but it feels like he is already starting to lean into it.
"Alright."
"And, Victor?"
"Yeah?"
Bec walks over and lifts his hand to put it on Sixty's shoulder, but pauses right before beginning to speak. Whatever he wanted to say, he evidently thinks better of it.
"Nevermind. Just let me know if you need any help," he mutters instead, settling for a somewhat stiff pat on the shoulder before walking over to the table. He grabs the rifle and gives it a quick check, calm and precise movements obviously polished through years of experience. The worn wood and metal is a stark contrast against the cotton and scarred skin when he takes aim at the valley in the distance; the lack of armor doesn't seem to be of any hindrance to him, either.
Sixty looks away again. What the hell does he say to that? "I don't need any help" is too childish. "Help with what?" is an invitation into a conversation he's not sure he wants to have now, or ever. "You can't help me with this one" is a little too edgy.
Once again, it's best to settle for something neutral, though maybe with a bit more honesty this time.
"I'll try."
Bec huffs and shakes his head. There's a scar on his jaw, an indent in the skin that stretches when he smiles.
"Not asking for anything more than that. Now go get some rest, there will be better things to do tomorrow than lazing about."
Now it's Victor's turn to feel a smile creep up on his face, and he allows himself a chuckle in the hopes that it will make the knot in his chest let up at least a little. It does.
"Sure."
It's only when he's about to enter the house that he remembers about the stew he was supposed to bring inside. But then again, Bec is here, and if the enthusiasm with which he wolfed it down yesterday is anything to go by, that might not be necessary. Still, Sixty decides to make sure.
"You want me to leave that for you?" he calls, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the pot.
"Huh? Oh, yeah, don't worry," Bec waves before moving one of the chairs a bit further from the table and sitting down with a content sigh.
***
Victor finds that the river is indeed "not the warmest" – or, rather, really fucking cold – to wash in, and he almost loses the bar of soap in the stream a few times, but it's all so worth it when he finally gets to feel clean. Even cleaner than after a regular hot shower, actually, even if he's really not sure how that works. Regardless, he's not terribly inclined to think about that when he can instead lean into how nice it can actually feel to simply exist again – no cramped metal boxes for quarters, no CCTV cameras at every corner, and no being treated like a commodity.
His window is facing east, so it takes a bit of effort to settle into bed in a way that will actually let him sleep without being constantly woken by the increasingly bright sun; when he does, though, exhaustion overtakes him almost instantly.
And right before that, somewhere in his half-asleep haze, he thinks:
Today wasn't half-bad after all.