MAD

chvpter 9

WARNING - GRAPHIC CONTENT -

IF YOU FIND VIOLENCE, ASSAULT OR THEMES OF SEXUAL ASSAULT TRIGGERING THEN PLEASE SKIP THIS CHAPTER

PM ME AND I WILL GIVE U A SUMMARISED VERSION OF THIS CHAPTER IF YOU DON'T FEEL COMFORTABLE WITH THE THEMES THAT I HAVE LISTED ABOVE <3 <3 <3

love u guys <3 <3

...

She's dead. I stare at nothing, the restraints weighing heavy on my arms.

The abandoned bus depot feels like a fish tank. On the other side of the mesh fences, a sea of men and women watch with broken faces; workers of every class. Yakuza, Hound, Ghoul, everyone. Soldiers control the mass of people they captured by directing us with machine guns. 

No one is older than twenty five. 

"Group 3-A, ready and waiting. Over." One of the soldiers' talks into a device, and some kid starts swearing and cussing at him again.

"Stand by, transport on the way. Over."

The soldiers aim machine guns through the fence like the one they used on mum. I replay the gunfire in my head.

Pelt. Pelt. Pelt. Pelt. I don't know if it was a silencer or if I was already screaming; I don't even remember what it sounded like. I can't help but play everything on repeat— my father, screaming, hugging her corpse. They were going to sell me. We had a deal!

My stomach snarls, and my body aches but most of all my hands tremor violently—this is the worst come down I've ever had. Oh god, I'd forgotten about Mal. I've never touched the shit in those masks, of course this is worse than coming off of pills.

An aircraft announces itself overhead when a deafening noise thuds the air and the masses part slowly, but I don't manage to crane my head up because of my throat so instead I watch the people they're going to leave behind.

They look to the sky, watching in mute terror as the majestic vessel lands itself inside the depo... except one man. Craig Warrendale stands right in front of the soldiers, no longer distinguished from the impoverished rats surrounding him. His arms are covered in bright, sticky, blood and his crimson-stained shirt sticks to him, the wound in his cheek gushing. He looks dead. A ghost. He doesn't lift his glare from me, but from this distance, I can't tell if he's crying. Who is he? To cry?

Someone says something, but I glare him dead in the eye. You will rot for this. Tokyo will never know that his mother died because he chased him off.

A rough hand grips my shoulder and the fücking soldier gets in my way, snapping me back. "Sergeant Wilkes-."

"Don' touch." I rasp through a painful throat.

"What now? Private." 

"She's got bloodshot eyes, sir." The younger man directs his gaze at a man named Sergeant Wilkes through an alien gas mask. "She hasn't been searched for weapons yet. Sir." He adds and the gun shoved into my pants grows hot.

Sergeant Wilkes rubs his face with his mask wrapped around his wrist. He runs his hand down his chin onto his bullet vest and twists a narrow, disdainful glare across his brute features, "She looks like a fücking animal." Wilkes shoves a scanner against my forehead, gleaning what he can from the screen impatiently. His grip stiffens and pain lances through my neck, my skin crawling when his grey lips tug into a cracked smirk.