Everyone who is alive today has a reason to fight for survival. A distinguishing factor between humans and other species is that even if humans are capable of adapting to extreme circumstances, if there’s no motive, no reason, no intent, no endgame— then they perish. All because the level of their conscious minds hunger for something more than just very basics of living: the hunger for connection, for conquering, for discovery, for leaving an impression on this place.
Ambition can be a powerful motivator. It’s what drove ordinary men and women to propel society into progress. The positives of such ambition were technological booms, constructing and reshaping societies, working towards the spread of humanitarian efforts. But the negatives often outweighed anything good: war, tyranny, genocide, so forth. It’s easier to kill those who oppose you. But it’s more frightening if you’re someone who’s smart enough to manipulate and work opposition in your favor.
It’s tricky when the people who are fighting for power today believe they are doing it for the good of all. They don’t perceive themselves to be evil or corrupt. Although it’s a time of savagery, it’s also a time of Machiavellian behavior: “the ends justify the means.” Owen had a few close-encounters with some of these key figures. He was forced to listen to their monologues. (If there’s one thing that hasn’t changed from before the world’s end, it’s how megalomaniacs passionately practice the art of absurdly, epically long monologues spanning five plus minutes— even if it’s to an audience of one). They have different viewpoints, but there’s a great deal of logic and rationality fueling their thought process.
Regardless– to Owen it’s still bullshit. He’s been surrounded by bullshit all his life. Growing up in a Southern conservative Bible humping town. Ended up in a government operation where the strings pulled on him couldn’t be severed, because they were made of steel. Hurled into the heart of InGen— a corporation that devoured all other megacompanies, soon to evolve and mutate into an entity that could not be rivaled. Owen is a pragmatist as well— much like the crazies in power out there today. He knows how fucked up his own logic can be at times. Logic doesn’t always equate ‘good’ or ‘right’. Logic is neutral, and often also becomes a form of opinion. Nothing sways until the person with that logic sets forth things in motion.
Hence the fucking mess everyone is in now.
But for most average people alive today, their motivation to make it to the next day isn’t battling for any throne. It’s family— related by blood or not. If you’ve got one or more people you can form a pack with, built upon a strong foundation of trust— well, then you’re lucky. It comes with the dangers of possible betrayal, or worse: the damage you’ll take if and when you lose them. Not much in the world today can cause emotional and mental trauma other than people. That kind of pain can sometimes kill you faster than a physical wound. But creating relationships is still a risk worth taking, because that’s still something when living in a world that has almost nothing. It’s something Owen doesn’t have. Not anymore.
Survivor’s guilt works as a paradox inside of Owen. It’s the root of his self-destructive mindset, but also his drive to continue surviving. Owen could have offed himself long before the world went to Hell. His first semblance of a true family was also during one of the worst times of his life: the military. Although Owen first began in the navy, once his superiors saw how he excelled in a certain range of skills, Owen was transferred. That began the chain of transfers. Owen was already losing a sense of who he was as he was moved from this branch to that branch. He became an asset, an instrument, a tool. Until he finally landed in a “new experimental” branch. One that Owen simply calls “ops” in his head, because it’s still so engrained in him to not speak its true name, or divulge any information about it to. He had led teams prior to this final transfer, but being an ops leader was like nothing else. For the first time, Owen felt like— like something. Like he had some worth. And it was because he found himself amongst people he could connect to, people he would go to Hell and back for.
But his failure as a leader resulted in all their deaths. Even if his body is still here, Owen died too. He lost his humanity long before this planet collapsed.
Guilt keeps him alive. Loss of old morality has been replaced with a set of new ones. The kind that blurs the line between vigilantism and straight up insanity. This man Owen has been hunting and torturing is not the first. Sure as heck won’t be the last. He’s got to do something with his time other than just hunt, eat, shit, piss, and breathe. Might as well try clean up a little bit of the world’s mess before death finally takes him.
The newcomer makes themselves seen. It’s expected that they’re armed. You can’t go anywhere in this world without a weapon or two or more on you. Owen’s hard stare is matched by hers. He doesn’t lower his weapon, nor does he blow her brains out right on the spot. Treats her just the same as anyone else. Owen’s always been fair to all genders. What’s different now is that almost everyone else is too. Gender dynamics shifted since the apocalypse. You could call it pseudo-equality, but it’s more like everyone’s been brought down to ground zero. Owen has seen males abused and exploited just as frequently as females. He’s also seen females take on more brutal alpha roles as well. Ethnicity, race, orientation, all that doesn’t differentiate people as much anymore. The desperate need for survival leveled the playing field in the most merciless, harshest way. No one is entitled to anything.
“I’m just the guy who needs him dead,” is his simple answer. He speaks clear and loud enough for the stranger to hear, but it also has the double effect of causing more hysteria in his prey. Good. Let him be terrified. Let him suffer. Let him try to think of a million ways out of this— all the while knowing that there’s only one end: death. After a prolonged moment, he also adds, “Owen.” Hardly introduces himself with his surname. You rarely meet the same person twice unless you stay in remotely the same area, or hold mutual connections. Owen is a modern nomad. Mobility and adaptability have been key factors in staying alive. “And you?”
Owen considers her deal. He doesn’t know what she wants with this man. Doesn’t care. As long as he gets to throw that fucker into the pit, then it’s a small job done. If there’s a chance she would try to turn this around on Owen, it’s a simple solution: kill them both. Owen would prefer not to waste bullets though. Ammo isn’t impossible to obtain, but it’s becoming more difficult these days.
He hauls the man away from the railing, then throws him over at her feet. “Here. Have fun.” He stays where he is. Doesn’t need to spell out that he’s going to be watching this.
That swirl of copper and urine strokes across upper lip, and her face wrinkles in response, lends her face a greater intensity as strong heart beats calmly in her chest. Expression smooths slowly thereafter, gaze flickering with muddled intent between the two figures. Dead. It was more than he deserved if all tales were to be believed, if every account of horror was true. But who was she to argue with a man so open, and up front -- she’d hesitate to call his brevity refreshing, it didn’t leave a pleasant taste on the tip of her tongue. Instead it settles in her stomach like a stone of suspicion, weighing her and tightening her shoulders.
This one’s trust has always been hard won -- not a prize, and yet not handed freely. It was as if stepping into the ocean, where those unworthy stand on the shore, having the sand torn away from underfoot with each coming wave. Those that sought to tame the waters skimmed above on boat or board, blissfully unaware to the primitive dark just below the surface. But those that wormed their way down, who took gulps of air and plunged into the unknown would be worthy of the bounty of life that springs from her core, the morbid sense of optimism that sucks down the weak with the currents to make room for those strong enough to tread her waters.
She has always been distant. Cold. The natural leader of their vague band of girls. It’d been her that learned to handle the cruelty of the world, that forged herself in the fires and tempered her resolve. Her bent back and lowered head only breathed to suffer the sling, arrows, and anxieties of the world so that her sisters would not have to. In hindsight, perhaps, that had been in poor taste. Taking all the burdens and leaving none to help strengthen the spines of her sisters. Impromptu leader that she was, the others had trusted and sought out her guidance, never wandering too far, and it suited her fine -- better she bear the torch to light the way, to make it easier for the others to ignore the way shadows cling to their ankles.
Let them sleep quietly at night as if jagged teeth weren’t waiting just out of sight.
Hard eyes blinked once, twice, at the prompting for a name. Oh, it’d been so long since she’d heard her birth name. It was a forgotten call, oftentimes a murmur under a mother’s breath, whispered into coarse young curls. She’d been told so very often that as a child, she cried constantly, over everything, over nothing. Broken toys or pulled hair, favorite foods or lack thereof. Every occasion was cause enough to pierce happy silence with infantile wails until mother came and whispered gently, Why so blue, darling? Years passed in seconds, the constant uttering of the word endearing a nickname like a second skin.
What’s got you so blue?
Blue again?
Blue, baby, come here.
“ ---- Blue.” Her response comes with a mistrustful lapse, a soft huff pushing forth from her nose as if in attempts to cleanse her senses of the overwhelming stench of this particular hell on earth. Weapon stays aimed true, body still poised to react as necessary, stance wide enough to break into a run but not quite so wide as to cause her balance to falter. For a moment, the corner of dark lips tugs upwards, a bitter half smile, perhaps a warning, a dare -- many she crossed paths with on... civil-esque terms that pried forth her name questioned, prodded, or chuckled at her expense upon hearing it. Things rarely remained civil for long, afterwards; she was a woman with no time or patience to suffer fools, least of all those who assumed her guard had been lowered.
It’s as if a captive breath finally wriggles free when the other -- Owen, she reminds herself -- tosses free the bleeding pig, lets him clatter to the catwalk with less grace than a newborn calf, bumbling and whimpering as shaking hands try and straighten him, knees and hands finding purchase. She sees the shift in momentum in the instant before he tries it, a careful sidestep steering her clear of his paranoid and desperate charge forward, a premature launch as feet scramble for firm ground. It’s almost too easy, and part of her craves a good chase -- but her temporary ally doesn’t seem the type for games -- it’s in that gaze, that firm set jaw. Instead, in a swift motion, her foot connects with the front of the blunderer’s thigh, sending him harshly into the metal once more.
The same boot finds his back, heel digging into a sore and gnarled spine. There’s a gutteral gasp of pain, chest dipping under her weight as if it deflates him ever so slightly. There’s a firm tsk against the back of her teeth, before pistol finds its home in the waist of her trousers. She doesn’t intend to let this thing go -- doesn’t intend to try and flee -- for the moment, she has no reason to fear this brutal stranger. Only to respect him for being offered a brief chance. If this ends with the wanderer losing her life, then so be it. A sole reason for living rides on the next few words to come past this coward’s tongue, if this crashes, goes up in flames, rips out her insides, then so be it. Death would be a welcome release. The scoff that affords itself from her chest is torn between her own inner cliche, and the feeble tightening of prey’s fingers.
“Right now, it looks as if I’m the reason you’re breathing. Barely.” Cool malice drips into her words, and the threat lingers in implication. Body lowers, knife cooled and twirling idly in her fingers. Weight shifts until a knee presses into his back, free fingers knotted harshly into slick and sweaty hair, yanking his sniveling face back as spine arches, locs spilling over shoulders as predator leans over him, to make chilling eye contact. The second boot plants itself atop mangled wrist, to discourage any physical retaliation. After all, she wouldn’t want to spoil anyone else’s hunt in the end, but there’s no reason to let him know that just yet. A harsh hand presses his face to the grating, gaze forced down towards the fate that awaits him with snapping jaws and foaming lips.
“Please -- please I’ll tell you anythin’ jus’ don’t -- just let me go!” Lip curls in disgust, eyes turned towards the stalwart one. The only softening of her features is a request for trust, brows lifted as mouth settles into the shadow of a frown. Lies were sweet in the face of death, after all. Those desperate to escape it would sell out their own mothers in the end. Heel presses harder and wrist threatens to pop, a strangle scream starting to erupt past split lips.
“As long as you tell me the truth. You’ll go free.” There was no waver in tone, no hesitation. Against her grasp he nods, desperate, lips parted to babble further. “I know you take children. Animals. But recently you or.. one of your associates took older prey. A woman. I know she is alive -- “ Secret markings leave a trail, notches carved into trees and abandoned steel, “ -- and I know she was brought here. Light skinned, dark hair.” The marks had stopped less than a quarter mile from the warehouse, no body, no tread marks, no signs of struggle. Two days, maybe more. She had to have come through here. All this one needed was a name, and a direction from here.
The hesitant silence only earns him irritation, patience thin at best. The edge of a blade runs cross curled knuckles on a pinned hand, and the fear rolls off him in waves. A foot adjusts slightly to give a skilled set of fingers more room to maneuver as they please/ The very tip of the knife snags skin and draws harsh blood, a shallow nick that’s sure to sting at the junction of his index finger and boney knuckle. A sharp intake of breath assures her he’s still kicking, still alive despite the weight of her growing agitation. It doesn’t come in clenched teeth, no. It comes with the clenching of fingers, the way she cuts him off mid inhale by forcing his head back once again not easing until she’s certain there is a cutting pain in the junction of his skull and neck.
“S-Stop! Ss.. stop please I don’t kn -- aaAAHH!” A determined stroke is all it takes to sever a single digit along the previous cut. The appendage comes off all too easily ( with a knife so well maintained it hardly comes as a surprise ) and outcries of pain join the chorus of noise on the floor below. New crimson pours from the fresh severance, flat of the bloodied weapon now balancing on her thigh as she gathers the loss in one hand, holding it carelessly, allowing it to dangle in two fingers. His head is forced to turn, pressed down, as the gore is displayed to him, and she observes the widening of pupils, draining of color from his face.
“Do not. Lie to me again.” With an unceremonious flick of her wrist, the appendage is tossed over the railing, and tumbles towards waiting maws. Some of the howling and growling and hollering pauses briefly to fight over this small bit of flesh. The pig’s eyes flutter shut, a loss of consciousness briefly taking him. She makes sure he wakes to a hard strike on his cheek, hard enough to make his body jolt and twitch beneath her, voice dropping to a coo, venom laced in the honey of her words, “Hey. Stay with me. Tell me where they took the girl, when you saw her, and it’s over.” Now, she adjusts her leg, second knee now pressing to the back of his elbow. There’s haggard breathing, a few half words, before finally the floodgates ease open and allow truth to pour forth.
“Sh-She was -- she was too old for me so I sent ‘im -- I sent the guy north with her. I-I swear he didn’t give a name I just -- I sent ‘im away maybe th -- three days ago. There’s a buddy I got, I could take you to him -- holed up’n Philadelphia I’ll fuckin’ I’ll get you there y’gotta -- y’gotta believe me -- “ His words are sputtered against the metal grating, breath sharp and whistling. There’s a long pause before fingers loosen from his head, knife gripped with certainty once again as body straightens, both her knees digging determinedly into him. Tongue runs over teeth behind closed lips, and now her features are.. satiated, for the moment. She cleans her blade on the back of his shirt before sliding it back into place, “You b’lieve me right? Right?!”
“I do.” There is a pause, a hinging of breath, artificial silence beyond the white noise of chaos. When she strikes, it’s fast. This time her fingers are harsher as they knot into hair, boots finding proper footing as she heaves the other up onto his knees, standing once more at her full height. Finally focused gaze finds the other, a solemn nod heavy with gratitude, before harsh hands more suited to fistfights than tender care shove prey forward, lets him clatter once again to the ground before Owen, her chest tightening, “I appreciate your time.”
