Al's Rabbit Hole
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Tie the Noose Chapter 10
🕑 Added 2025-09-06 02:30:35 +0000 UTCDaniel woke on Sunday with his throat glued shut and the taste of copper rising behind his teeth. His eyes burned. Sweat clung to him like a second skin, slick and clammy despite the early heat pressing through the windows. The fan overhead spun in lazy, unhelpful circles, doing nothing to cut the sickly weight of the air. For a moment he lay still, trying to remember where he was. The ceiling looked too white. The light was too sharp.
Then pain bloomed under his ribs, and everything snapped back into place.
He rolled onto his side with a hoarse grunt. The motion sent fire lancing through his chest and across his back, bruises catching at the bone like hooked wire. The green herbs had done away with the worst of the injuries, sealing flesh and slowing the bleeding, but it had done nothing for the deep muscle trauma. The bruises were what ached most now, layers of damage that pulsed with every shift in position. It felt like someone had beaten him with a baseball bat, and considering what actually happened, that might have been preferable. Something tore as he shifted under the blankets, followed by a fresh bloom of pain along his shin. He hissed, breath catching, and peeled the sheet away from his leg, where the dried blood had glued the fabric to the half-healed wound.
The scabs had split. Blood, dry and dark at the edges, had soaked through the ad-hoc bandage he'd slapped on before sleep took him and smeared across the fabric in a wide, rust-colored patch. He stared at it for a long moment, brain struggling to catch up. The line of gouges that once poured blood in sheets had faded to angry, shallow scrapes, but they still wept in slow, pulsing droplets. The half-healed flesh looked raw and stretched, the skin around it puckered where the sheets had glued themselves to the wound during the night. The patch job hadn’t held. That or he’d kicked too hard in his sleep. Either way, the damage was done.
His stomach twisted. Not from pain, not exactly. It hit without warning, a sudden boil of nausea that surged up from his gut like a wave of poison. One second he was still, and the next his entire body clenched, throat tightening with that deep, primal spasm that came before vomiting. His jaw locked, his mouth flooded with saliva, and his vision blurred from the sheer force of it. Heat radiated through his core, sweat springing fresh across his face. He gagged once, sharp and ugly, caught it, choked it down, then gagged again, harder, his chest lurching as he fought to hold it back.
He managed to keep the bile down, but only barely.
Outside, the day had already begun. Warm sunlight slanted through the high windows, cutting stripes across the concrete floor of his hideout. The warmth should have brought some comfort. It didn’t. Daniel shivered beneath the soaked sheet, teeth clenched, every muscle tensed against the cold that clung to him in defiance of the weather.
He'd been aching in a way that he'd never hurt before, and the raw burn of exhaustion clawing through every nerve when all was said and done last night. The Survivalist had dropped him at the hideout, and then announced that the SUV would be his, eventually. Then he drove off without another word. Daniel didn’t know what that meant. Presumably the man planned to do something to it, but he'd been too dog tired to ask or care.
By the time Daniel had made it to the sidewalk, the car and the Survivalist were already a memory. All that remained was the long walk home, every step stretched out by pain and cold. He cut through alleyways and service roads, limping through shadows, his breath fogging in the night air. The silence was thick, broken only by the occasional hum of distant traffic and the soft scrape of his own boots.
He didn’t even remember the last stretch clearly. Just the sting in his ribs, the weight dragging behind his legs, and the overwhelming need to lie down somewhere that didn’t reek of blood and rot. It was past two in the morning when he finally reached his apartment. Every minute had dragged on in the humid dark of the night.
He felt every second of it now.
He didn’t want to think about the man right now. The offer… the gift, if it could be called that, of a new car sat in the back of his mind like a weight. The old one was gone, according to the masked bastard. Destroyed. A wreck, torched or dumped or stripped for parts. No coming back from that. The SUV was meant to replace it, but Daniel didn’t know when it was supposed to come back to him. He didn’t trust that gesture regardless. Not from someone like him. Not after the way things ended at Hooverville.
He wiped sweat from his brow and tried to sit up. His arms trembled under the effort, shoulders quivering, breath coming too fast. The skin across his chest felt stretched and fever-hot, slick with sweat and tight with strain. Bruises along his ribs and back flared like firecrackers, every movement pulling at deep, inflamed muscle. It felt like he’d been jumped by a gang with aluminum bats and left in a ditch. The sad truth was that it would've hurt less. This was worse than blunt force, it was trauma stacked on trauma, the kind that sank into the marrow and stayed there. When he finally got upright, the motion dragged a jolt of pain through his skull, sharp and blinding, leaving him gasping and blinking spots from his eyes.
Only then did he feel the throb above his eye. A swollen knot bulged under the brow ridge, tender and hot, pulsing with each heartbeat. His right eye was half-closed from the swelling, the bruise radiating outward like ink under the skin. The mirror across the room showed just enough to confirm it: a blackened eye, an inflamed cheek, and a split lip crusted with dried blood. The stubble around his mouth was matted with red, turning the whole lower half of his face into a smeared, ugly mess.
None of it had registered last night. Not when he collapsed. The adrenaline had blurred it out, or maybe he just hadn’t given a damn. He was only feeling it now, all of it, in slow, grinding waves.
He swung his legs down and bit back another groan. Blood welled fresh from his shin as the sheet tugged free. The wound was raw, angry, still oozing in slow pulses despite the sealed look of the torn scabs. He wrapped his ruined sheet around it, pressing firm until the bleeding dulled, then slumped forward, elbows to knees, every part of him thrumming with pain. The motion pulled at his ribs and deep bruises with a hollow ache, like each joint had been hammered out of alignment.
Then the nausea surged back, violent and abrupt. He lunged toward the small waste bin beside the bed and dry-heaved, body clenching so hard his vision spotted. Nothing came up, just choking bile and spit. He coughed, breath ragged, and spit again into the bin. The back of his throat burned like acid.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, and only then saw it- the bandage still wrapped around the back of his hand, stained through with a rust-dark patch. The skin beneath felt swollen and tight. Peeling back the edge, he saw the acid burn, the one from that pustulent creature in the generator room, swollen and leaking pus. Most of the skin there was flayed thin, from the edge of his knife in that desperate bid to get it off. The sight made his stomach pitch again.
He needed food. Water. Something to stabilize his system. But more than that, he needed to stop feeling like his body was betraying him second by second. His muscles trembled from sheer fatigue. His vision swam when he tried to focus. The exhaustion wasn’t just in his bones, it was in his blood. Deep and dragging. A sickness that coiled low in his gut and settled in his skin.
With shaking hands, he reached for the glass beside the nightstand and took a slow sip. The water was lukewarm, stale from the night, but it helped. It cleared the taste, if not the nausea.
The cold still wouldn’t let go. It sank deep into him, like a flu that wouldn't let up, sapping at his strength and leaving him sweating, shivering. His body felt wrung out. Empty. Like his blood was fighting itself for every degree of warmth.
He let the water sit in his mouth, then swallowed again. It helped, barely, but the ache of his guts told him that even that was ill-advised. It seemed that even a mouthful of water was enough to send him spiraling. Yet he still tried to move around, tried to function, a conscious choice that lead to a slowly losing battle.
He leaned against the counter with both hands braced flat on the laminate, breath shallow and uneven. The sunlight streamed through the cracked blinds, catching on the sweat that clung to his neck and arms. The warmth should have helped, should have reached into the marrow of his bones, but all he felt was the chill tightening around his chest.
His muscles trembled. His legs felt like hollow stilts, barely able to hold his weight. The room swam. He blinked hard, once, twice, head dipping slightly as his grip loosened. He could feel himself drifting, his eyes closing without his permission, body leaning, almost dozing where he stood, just from the effort of being upright.
Then came the knock.
Three quick taps against the apartment door, not urgent but definitely intentional.
"Danny?"
The voice on the other side was light, familiar, and unmistakably cheerful.
"I thought I heard you come in last night. Just checking in. You alive in there?"
Daniel moved to the door on instinct more than thought. Each step was unsteady, his weight awkwardly distributed between aching muscles and half-responsive joints. His stomach rolled, his pulse thudded slow and heavy behind his eyes, but he didn’t think about any of it. Didn’t think about the sweat sticking to his skin or the way his legs trembled under him. Didn’t even think about the fact that he was still shirtless, or that his breath sounded wrong when it left him.
He just opened the door.
Rebecca stood there with a bright, casual smile, one hand on her hip and the other already halfway raised to knock again. Her eyes lit up when the door opened, and she leaned slightly in, ready with a tease on her lips, something about him finally waking up, maybe about his shirt being MIA. Her posture was loose, playful, her weight cocked to one leg like she’d just come back from a walk.
Then she saw him.
The smile vanished. Her eyes widened. Her body went rigid. In an instant, the cheer drained from her face, replaced by focused tension. Her shoulders squared. The air around her changed, the bright warmth flipping into clinical urgency with a flicked switch. Her gaze locked onto his blackened eye, then tracked down his chest, cataloguing bruises, cuts, the sick sheen of sweat. Whatever she’d planned to say died on her tongue.
She stepped forward without a word, hands already halfway up, her mind racing faster than her voice could catch up.
"Okay, sit down, Danny. Kitchen table. Now, please."
Her voice was still firm, still professional, but the edges of it were soft with worry. Not panic, at least not yet, but something building underneath, tight and simmering. Her hand found his shoulder and steered him forward with far more strength than her small frame should have held. She didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t leave room for one. Her steps were short and fast beside his, like she was walking against a ticking clock.
Questions crowded behind her eyes, unspoken but close to spilling. How long had he looked like this? Why hadn’t he said anything? What in God’s name had happened? Every glance she gave him added weight to the moment, her gaze darting over bruises, posture, breath, and expression, trying to make sense of it all as she kept him moving.
But he barely made it two steps before his body gave out. His shoulders hunched, his spine curled inward, and with a strangled gag he collapsed to his knees beside the trash bin. The noise that came out of him was awful, wet and broken, and it froze her in place for a heartbeat. Her hand hovered at his back, helpless.
She stood there, blinking hard, eyes wide with a sudden fear that had nothing to do with confusion and everything to do with the wreck of a man in front of her. The swift transition from cheerful neighbor to medic hadn’t prepared her for the sheer depth of what she was seeing.
The retching hit like a seizure, his body convulsing over the rim of the trash bin. His arms locked straight, muscles trembling with the force of it, head drooped forward as if too heavy to lift. The little water he’d managed earlier came up with a wet splash, followed by bitter bile and a rattling, hollow cough that clawed at his throat. The sound of it made her flinch.
She crouched nearby, frozen at first, visibly rattled. Her hands hovered in the air, unsure of where to land. Her face had gone pale, eyes searching frantically over him for an anchor, something to focus on, something to fix. Her mouth was parted, as if still trying to speak, but no words came. She watched him shake, watched the sweat bead along his spine, and for a moment she felt panic press against the inside of her ribs.
"Jesus, Danny…" she breathed, her voice catching low in her throat. "How long have you been like this?"
He gave a tired grunt that passed for a laugh. "Not long. Yesterday was kind of rough, but it’s nothing worth fussing over."
"You call this nothing?" she said, kneeling beside him again. Her voice wasn’t angry, just full of disbelief and something close to ache. "You should’ve called. I would have been right over. I just-"
He cut in gently. "It's not... really something I was thinking about. Besides, I wouldn't want to make it your problem."
She stared at him for a second, caught between frustration and care. "Danny, you are not a problem."
He gave her a faint smile, lips cracked. "Didn’t mean it like that. I just figured I could handle it."
Her brow pinched, expression soft but taut. She reached for the towel again, then paused halfway. "You don’t have to try and downplay it. Just let me help, alright?"
"I'm alive," he said quietly, but not resisting her. "That’s got to count for something."
She didn’t respond right away. Just looked at him for a long moment, the corners of her mouth twitching like she wanted to say more, but knew it wasn’t the time.
So instead, she moved closer, towel in hand, and resumed her quiet work, steady and careful. She could wait. She’d earned that much room between them.
His breath rasped, shallow and uneven, but the retching seemed to have abated. Rebecca stayed crouched beside him, not speaking, eyes scanning over his battered frame with a quiet, focused intensity. Her hands moved automatically, checking his pulse at the wrist, feeling the temperature radiating off his skin, brushing hair away from his brow, but her mind wasn’t on the basics anymore.
She kept thinking about what he’d said the day before. Something about dealing with a family thing. At the time, she'd assumed it was a visit, maybe a favor or some kind of errand that he hadn’t wanted to explain. It didn't seem important. But now, staring at the black eye, busted lip, and the bruises wrapped around his torso, that simple phrase echoed differently.
Family thing.
The towel in her hand trembled slightly as she adjusted it, trying to clear a smear of dried blood from his jaw. Her stomach twisted. She didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but the image was building fast in her mind, and it wasn’t letting go.
That’s when she started really seeing it.
She’d noticed the bruises before, how could she not? But only now, up close and with the towel pulled aside, did the full extent of it sink in. This wasn’t an accident or a rough fall. This wasn’t "I got into a fight" bad. This was something else entirely. The kind of bruising that came from sustained, repeated trauma. Layers of deep discoloration marked him from ribs to sternum in overlapping patterns, as if someone had taken a chain or a pipe to him and hadn’t stopped until they were out of breath. The black eye, the split lip, they were nothing in comparison.
She drew in a breath through her nose, sharp and thin. The smell of sweat, blood, and stale bile turned her stomach, but she kept her face still. His skin was slick and pale beneath the bruises, the light sheen of sweat clinging to him like fever. He wasn’t moving like he had broken ribs, but that didn’t mean much. Deep bruising was its own kind of hell, especially untreated, especially with the rest of him falling apart.
Her hands trembled as she pulled the towel away. “Why didn't you go to the hospital?”
Daniel turned his head slightly. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
She gave him a look so sharp it cut. “Don’t do that. Don’t deflect. You look like you got hit by a truck and then dragged for three blocks.”
Still he didn’t answer. He tried to sit up straighter, but the movement pulled at his side and he hissed through his teeth, one hand grabbing for the counter beside him. She reached out to steady him and that’s when she noticed the blood.
“Danny.” Her voice dropped low. Not with anger, but alarm.
She crouched again and touched his leg lightly, lifting the edge of the makeshift bandage. Fresh blood had soaked through. Not gushing, but definitely active. The cuts hadn’t sealed. She peeled it back further and saw the angry, raw wound beneath, puckered at the edges and dark with dried blood that had cracked and split again. Her lips parted, eyes narrowing as she tried to make sense of it.
Then she caught sight of his hand.
“Okay, hold on, what-” She reached gently and turned it in hers. The bandage there was soaked through as well, coppery red and yellow at the edges. She frowned and began to unwrap it.
“Don’t,” he murmured.
“Danny, I need to see-”
“It’s fine,” he insisted, though his voice lacked strength. “It’s taken care of.”
“It doesn’t look fine.” Her voice steadied, but only barely. It was tight with effort, carefully reined in. “You're not okay, and you don't get to brush this off like it's nothing.”
She stepped away long enough to grab a fresh towel, rinsed it, and returned, more deliberate this time, the motion more clinical than gentle. When she crouched beside him again, she didn’t speak right away. Her hands worked with practiced calm, but her eyes kept flicking to the injuries, to his breathing, to the way he avoided her gaze.
He watched her for a beat, then said lightly, “You’re making a lot of fuss for a couple of scrapes.”
She didn’t even blink. “I’ve seen scrapes. This isn’t that.”
He offered a half-smile, the kind he thought might defuse her. “Come on, Becca. It’s not like I haven’t taken a few hits before. I'm a big boy, you know?”
Her jaw flexed. She kept working.
“Yesterday morning,” she said, voice quiet. “You said you were handling a family thing.”
Daniel’s smile faded, just a fraction.
“I didn’t think anything of it,” she continued. “But now I’m thinking about it. And I’m thinking about a lot of things I don’t like.”
He shifted slightly, a shrug without commitment. “You’re overthinking.”
“I hope so.” Her eyes met his. “But I don’t believe that.”
He said nothing.
So she didn’t ask again. She didn’t press. But she wasn’t going to pretend it didn’t matter either.
She finished wiping the last streak of dried gunk from his jaw, stood up, and moved with purpose to the door.
“You’re going to sit down, stay there, and wait for me to get back.” she said firmly, pausing just long enough to look over her shoulder. “I’m going back to my place to get my medkit, and patch you up with something better than your bedsheets.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. “Five minutes, Danny. Stay upright until then.”
Rebecca was back in two minutes flat, breathing a little harder than when she left, a full-sized duffel slung over one shoulder and clutched in both arms like it weighed more than it should. The bag was clearly heavy, jammed with supplies, and she carried it like someone who didn’t trust the contents not to shift mid-step. Her expression was focused, all business, but there was a crackle of urgency in the way she kicked the door shut behind her and headed straight for the table without so much as a word.
Daniel gave her a weak grin as she dropped the duffel onto the table and unzipped it. "That's one hell of a house call. You charge extra for weekend visits, Doc?"
"You don't want to see the bill," she replied, trying for lightness but unable to fully pull it off. Her voice was soft around the edges, somewhere between dry and distracted, like she wanted to joke with him but couldn't quite manage it through the rising concern.
She pulled out gloves, gauze, antiseptics, a full medkit’s worth of bandages, and a sealed roll of compression wrap. Daniel watched, eyebrows raised.
"That's not a medkit. That’s a trauma bag."
"And you're in trauma," she quipped.
She knelt again at his side, snapped on a pair of gloves with mechanical ease, and pulled the towel away from his leg. Her movements were crisp but unhurried, careful in that way only someone used to working under pressure could manage. When he winced, she paused for half a second, just long enough to check his expression, before getting back to work with antiseptic and gauze.
The wrap came next. Efficient, methodical, firm. Every turn placed with intention, every edge smoothed by a thumb. She didn’t speak, didn’t narrate. Just worked. The kind of care that didn’t need commentary.
“You really don’t have to fuss,” he said, a little hoarse but still trying to keep the tone light. “I was gonna get to it once the room stopped spinning.”
“I’m not fussing,” she replied, without missing a beat. “I’m treating a wound that’s still bleeding when it shouldn’t be. Big difference.”
He gave a soft chuckle. “You’ve got a good bedside manner.”
“I have a functional bedside manner,” she replied. “The good version comes out when I’m not patching someone together.”
That made him smile, even if just a little. He didn’t argue. Just let her finish the wrap in silence, the tension in his leg slowly easing as she secured the last strip.
Then she reached for his hand.
She took it gently in both of hers, turning it over without prompting. The gauze was half-adhered to his skin, stained with that mix of yellow and red that never meant anything good. She peeled it back slowly, careful not to tear anything.
The wound underneath made her pause.
It didn’t look like the other injuries. It wasn’t a bruise or a cut. It was a chemical burn, blistered and raw, the skin puckered and discolored. But worse than that, it had been scraped. Roughly. The top layer of damaged skin had clearly been shaved or torn away, like someone had tried to dig the burn out. She drew in a slow breath.
Daniel felt her hesitation and glanced over. "It’s not infected. I cleaned it."
She didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes were locked on the exposed tissue, the jagged edges of skin where the burn met the abrasion.
"I believe you," she said finally, quiet. "But that’s not what’s bothering me."
He arched a brow. "Then what is?"
She didn’t answer at first. Just sat there, holding his hand lightly in hers, staring at a wound that didn’t match the others.
It was ugly. Raw. Angry. Blistered and pink and too close to the edge of real harm. Not deep enough to threaten function, but easily bad enough to leave a scar. It hadn’t come from a strike or a fall or the same punishment that bruised his chest, though. It looked deliberate. Like it was meant to hurt.
Rebecca bandaged it with the same practiced care, but slower now, her thoughts crowding up as she worked. She wanted to ask. She wanted to press. But something in the way he sat, the way he kept his gaze elsewhere, made her hold back.
"You should go to a hospital," she said quietly, not quite looking at him.
Daniel exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with quiet finality. "I’m not going to the hospital, Becca. It’s not that bad. I just need to sleep it off, and I’ll be alright."
She didn’t argue. She knew it wouldn’t change his mind, not when he’d already decided. But her hands paused all the same, tension bleeding into her shoulders. The bandage was neat, secure, but it didn’t feel like enough. Not with the sweat still rising from his skin, not with the glassy exhaustion clinging to his eyes. The hospital was off the table. Of course it was. He wasn’t going. She’d known that the moment she suggested it. And it frustrated her more than she wanted to admit.
“You’re exhausted,” she said softly.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Little bit.”
She sighed, standing up and giving him a long look. “Okay. Fine. No hospital. But you are not staying in those gross sheets. I’m changing them, and you're staying put.”
He managed a faint nod.
“And I’m coming back to check on you later,” she added, voice a little firmer. “If that’s alright.”
Daniel glanced toward the kitchen counter. “Spare key’s in the ceramic cup by the phone. If I’m asleep, just let yourself in.”
Rebecca moved through the apartment with quiet purpose, changing the sweat-soaked sheets and airing the room with a cracked window. The air smelled stale, sweat, fatigue, blood, and something heavier underneath, and she needed it gone. Needed something clean in the space, even if it was just the air.
Danny didn’t fight her help. He barely spoke. By the time she guided him back to bed, his movements were sluggish, head tilting low as he slumped onto the mattress. He didn’t even pull the covers up. She did that for him, tucking the blanket under his arms before placing a cold towel across his forehead. The fever hadn’t spiked, but it lingered, stubborn and dull.
She stood over him a moment longer, watching his chest rise and fall with slow, uneven breaths. He was already asleep, features slack with the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from a bad night’s rest. It was deeper than that. Draining. Total.
She came back again. And again.
Not because she didn’t trust him to be okay, but because she couldn’t convince herself to stay away. Every few hours or so, she found herself glancing at the clock, then crossing the hallway again with the spare key in hand before she even realized she was moving.
Each time, she let herself in quietly, steps careful on the hardwood. She refreshed the towel on his forehead, brought a new glass of water, adjusted the angle of the fan to cool the room more evenly. Each time she stayed a little longer, lingering at the edge of the bed, her hand brushing the back of his fingers or smoothing the edge of the blanket.
He was sweating out his weight in fluid. The bedclothes were damp again. His hair stuck to his forehead. But the water glasses she left at the table were always empty when she returned, and that, at least, gave her something to cling to. He was drinking. His body was trying.
Still, it ate at her.
The bruises. The cuts. The fever.
The silence.
He hadn’t said anything about Saturday, and she hadn’t pushed. But her mind kept going back to it, replaying the words he’d used. A family thing. That’s what he’d said. And now here he was, beaten to hell, bandaged head to toe, and barely able to stay conscious.
She didn’t know what to make of it. Didn’t want to assume, but couldn’t stop the thoughts from slipping in.
It felt like he looked worse every time she closed the door behind her, and that terrified her. But each time she came back and found him still breathing, still sleeping, some small part of the knot in her chest unwound.
So she kept coming back. Because she couldn’t not.
She sat with him late in the afternoon, hand resting lightly on the edge of the mattress, and watched the rise and fall of his chest. The fever sweat clung to his skin in beads and streaks. His brow furrowed now and then, even in sleep, like his body refused to let go of the tension.
She didn’t know when it had happened, when Danny had become more than just a neighbor, had become someone real in her life. Somewhere along the way, he’d found the cracks in her walls and slipped through them, quiet and steady, like he belonged there. He made her laugh when she needed it, listened without judgment, and never treated her like she was small or fragile or like she was just some dumb kid playing at being an adult. And now he lay here, all torn up and refusing help, and it twisted something in her.
“I’ve got you,” she whispered, her voice thicker than she meant it to be. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? I promise.”
000
Monday bled into Tuesday with the dull weight of a schedule she couldn’t seem to shake off. The days were packed; conditioning runs at dawn, followed by hours of physical drills and circuit sparring. From there it was classwork: city code, procedures, arrest protocols, departmental logistics. Tactical exercises took over the afternoons- room clears, hostage scenarios, range drills until her shoulder ached and her ear protection pressed deep furrows into her head. Every segment was structured and accounted for, every moment booked.
And yet none of it stayed with her.
Rebecca moved through it all on autopilot. She logged times, took notes, hit her targets, and passed her evaluations. But her thoughts kept drifting. Her hands went through the forms while her mind counted hours between check-ins. Her body remembered the motions, but her focus was always elsewhere.
By the time Wednesday rolled around, she couldn’t recall what had been said in Monday’s lecture or who she’d been paired with during Tuesday’s drills. Her muscles burned from repetition, but her memory was patchy. She could feel the fatigue in her bones, in the sluggishness behind her reflexes, in the way her fingers locked around her pistol grip a second too long.
Enrico noticed first. Of course he did. As her team leader, he had a practiced eye for strain, and it didn’t take much to see she wasn’t locking in the way she usually did. He didn’t bring it up in front of anyone, didn’t corner her, but he checked in more than usual, asked how she was holding up, asked twice when she gave the stock answer. He had this way of teasing out answers even when she didn’t want to give them.
Barry noticed soon after. His concern was softer, threaded through casual remarks and friendly questions that danced around the edges of worry. He made sure she always had a bottle of water in her hand, offered protein bars between drills, let her sit out one more rotation than usual without comment.
Neither of them called her out outright, but the concern was there, in the tone, the glances, the way they lingered a little longer after debriefs. A few too many quiet questions. A little too much patience. It didn’t feel like they were softballing her, but it didn’t help the knot in her stomach either.
She hadn’t been sleeping well. A few hours here and there, shallow and dreamless, never long enough to feel rested. Her nights were broken by the gnawing weight of worry, and she’d wake with her heart already racing, her mind already building lists of things she needed to check. It wasn’t complete exhaustion, but it was close, the kind that dulled her edges and wore her thin without ever knocking her down.
Danny lingered in the back of her mind, haunting her thoughts like a ghost. Every sparring match ended with her checking the time. She was never one to count seconds, but something about imagining him all twisted up, it scratched at her, and she hated how helpless she felt about it. She had to stop herself from calling his cell, just to check in, because it could wake him up and he needed to rest.
He was still sick. Still dragging through whatever had latched onto him, and though the fever hadn't spiked, it hadn’t gone away either. His injuries were technically improving, the bruises had turned that sickly yellow, the cuts were sealed, but it all felt superficial. The burn on his hand looked worse up close. She'd spotted a few new blisters forming around it, and the pus had a sour odor that made her stomach twist. It didn’t seem to be spreading, and there was no streaking, no heat in the arm, but it was still festering.
He hadn’t been out of bed for more than a few minutes at a time. She knew he'd managed to shower once or twice, the damp towels and fresh clothes gave that away, but mostly, he lay there, barely moving. The pallor in his skin, the weight behind his eyes when they opened… none of it sat right.
He wasn’t getting worse. But he wasn’t getting better either. And that terrified her more than she'd admit out loud.
He wasn’t eating. She brought soup, crackers, plain rice, anything bland and easy. He could get down a few sips of broth, maybe a bite or two, but it didn’t stick. Sometimes he’d throw it back up, sometimes he just shook his head and turned away. He kept drinking water, thank God, but it felt like barely enough.
He still refused to go to the hospital. Told her he was fine. That he just needed time, needed rest, that he’d pull through.
She wanted to believe him. Wanted to take the reassurance and run with it.
But she struggled to believe it. And if nothing changed soon, she might not give him a choice.
By Wednesday night she was a mess of tight nerves and tired frustration, her sleeves damp from wiping her brow too many times, her notes smudged from a forgotten spill during the morning brief. She was halfway out the building, gym bag over her shoulder, when she heard his voice.
"Recruit Chambers. A moment?"
Captain Wesker.
She turned mid-step, heartbeat skipping as she caught sight of him standing just beyond the ready room. His posture was relaxed, arms comfortably at his sides, his expression neutral but attentive beneath the pale fluorescents. The hallway outside hummed with distant footfalls and the muffled sound of doors shutting further down the corridor.
"Yes, sir," she said, adjusting the strap on her gym bag and stepping toward him. Her voice caught slightly, throat dry, but she kept her pace even as she followed him down the hall. His office was neatly kept, the blinds half-closed against the falling dusk outside. The space was crisp, cold even, the faint scent of paper and cleaner still lingering from the janitor’s last pass.
He didn’t sit, just leaned slightly on the edge of his desk, folding his hands with practiced ease. His composure was effortless, unshakable. "Captain Marini and I have noticed your focus has been... divided these last few days."
Rebecca felt her stomach twist, her fingers curling tighter around the strap. Her eyes flicked briefly to the shelves lining the wall, clean rows of binders and reference books, a neatly framed STARS commendation on the far side. She straightened her shoulders out of instinct. "I know," she murmured. "It’s... I’m trying. Things have been complicated, is all."
Wesker gave a small nod, his voice even. "Nothing serious, I hope?"
She hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek before answering. "A friend’s been pretty sick. I’ve been trying to help them through it. I didn’t mean for it to bleed into my work."
He nodded again, measured and thoughtful. "Sometimes the things we deal with outside these walls aren’t so easily left at the door. I understand."
He didn’t ask for names, didn’t pry. Just watched her with that steady, composed attentiveness, his gaze polite but far from passive. She felt it, not pressure exactly, but weight, like being seen without being called out.
"Do you need time off?"
"No," she said, too quickly. She caught herself and drew a deeper breath, her voice gentler the second time. "No, sir. I appreciate it, but I can manage. I’m just... tired. I haven’t been sleeping well, but it’s not unmanageable."
Wesker studied her for a moment longer, one eyebrow almost imperceptibly lifted. For a heartbeat she felt like she was being sifted through, her words weighed on a scale she couldn’t quite see.
"We look out for our own, Rebecca. That includes you." He said, an easy smile barely gracing his lips. “If you need help, or time, or anything, you can come to any of us and we’ll get you taken care of. We all have high hopes for you.”
Her chest tightened, and she nodded, sincere. "Thank you. I mean it. I’ll get back on track."
He stepped aside and opened the door for her, his expression smooth as glass. "I have no doubt."
She left quietly, gym bag slung over her shoulder, the door easing shut behind her with a soft latch. The hallway felt colder, somehow, the buzz of the overhead lights louder than it had been. Her steps echoed faintly in the stillness as she walked, shoulders tight with the weight of the conversation.
She hadn't said much, and Wesker hadn’t asked for more than she was willing to give. He hadn’t pressed. But he’d seen enough. Enough to make her reflect.
It wasn’t just about being tired. It wasn’t about slipping up. It was about letting her personal life seep into the corners of a job that demanded precision. She knew better. She had to be better.
She was grateful for the check-in. She really was. But she also knew she couldn’t let this continue. If she wanted to carry the badge, if she wanted to wear the uniform and mean it, then she had to show up for it. No more excuses.
She squared her shoulders as she walked, jaw set, breath slow and deliberate. She would get back on track. She owed herself that much, and the people who counted on her, too.
000
Thursday had a different feel from the moment Rebecca opened her eyes. The constant knot in her stomach had loosened, and though she was still tired, the weight of worry was lighter than it had been all week. Letting herself into Danny’s apartment the way she had for the past several mornings, she found him up and moving. He was still pale, the fading bruises across his torso and the scabbed lines down his leg visible in the way he favored one side, the bandage on his hand clean but clearly covering something tender. He moved with the careful slowness of someone still mending, but compared to the near-helpless state he’d been in for days, it was a welcome sight.
She balanced a tupperware container in one hand, intending to get it into the fridge, when the bathroom door swung open and Danny stepped out in nothing but a towel. Steam curled around him, his hair damp and clinging to his forehead. Rebecca froze for just a heartbeat, and in that instant the relief hit her harder than she expected. He was standing, freshly showered, alert enough to grin at her. He caught her looking, the corner of his mouth curving into a faint, knowing smirk.
“Come to check up on me, or are you just here to enjoy the view?” he teased, his voice still rough but carrying a spark she hadn’t heard since before he fell sick.
Rebecca arched a brow, letting a small, knowing smile tug at her lips. “If I was, I’d at least have brought popcorn.” She stepped past him with casual ease, close enough to catch the scent of soap and warmth, and set the container on the counter. Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer than she might have admitted, just enough for him to notice. He met her glance with a flicker of amusement before disappearing into the bedroom to dress.
When he returned in sweats and a t-shirt, his movements were still careful but lacked the sluggishness she’d expected, and there was a sharper focus in his eyes. She busied herself with the small domestic routine, setting the tupperware on the counter, pouring coffee, putting toast on a plate, her hands moving on autopilot while her mind quietly took stock of him. The stiffness in his gait, the way he avoided putting too much weight on his injured leg, the careful way he flexed his bandaged hand, all reminders that he wasn’t out of the woods yet. Still, each glance she stole carried both concern and a deep, quiet relief. The easy back-and-forth that followed felt natural again, the kind of banter she had missed since she’d first seen him on Sunday. Beneath her faintly teasing tone was the warmth of knowing he was better today than yesterday, and that was enough to make her chest feel lighter.
Training that day carried a different energy. The weight in her chest that had loomed since Sunday had finally begun to ease, replaced by something steadier, more grounded. The tightness in her shoulders lingered, the ache of too many restless nights still clinging to her limbs, but there was clarity in her steps again, and she could feel herself beginning to catch up.
The work itself hadn't gotten easier; STARS boot never did. It was an unrelenting blend of physical conditioning, tactical drills, and situational coursework, designed to mold each recruit into something precise and capable. But for the first time that week, Rebecca felt like she was keeping pace. Her thoughts didn’t drift when they weren’t supposed to. The instructors didn’t have to repeat themselves. She wasn’t fighting to stay present; she was there, engaged, earning her place.
Captain Marini noticed. Of course he did. He was the type to catch everything, even the smallest shift in tempo. "Good work today, Chambers." It wasn’t loud or showy, but the steadiness in his voice carried weight. Not flattery, he wasn’t the kind for empty words, but honest, earned approval.
It hit with more force than she expected. Her chest lifted a little higher, her steps a little more confident as she moved on. That simple phrase sealed what she'd already begun to feel: she was back on track. Clearer. Steadier. Not perfect, but present again. And that meant everything.
There were still moments where exhaustion crept in, sharp behind her eyes or dull in her lower back. The kind of fatigue that didn’t come from the physical work alone, but from emotional overdraw. Even so, she met each part of the day with a kind of quiet determination. Things were finally starting to feel like they were moving in the right direction.
She was zipping up her gear bag when she caught sight of Barry waiting near the exit, arms folded across his chest, his weight leaned casually against the wall. The relaxed posture didn’t fool her; his eyes tracked her approach with quiet intent, already halfway into the question before she reached him.
“How’s Danny doing?”
Rebecca gave a small, tired smile, this one genuine, soft around the edges. “Better. Fever’s finally breaking. He was up this morning, moving around and being sarcastic again. He even managed to keep breakfast down.”
Barry let out a low chuckle. “So, basically back on his feet?”
“Somewhat, yeah.” She said, the relief plain in her voice.
He paused a beat, watching her. “Think he’d mind if I dropped in?”
She hesitated. Not because she didn’t think Danny would be fine with it, but because the thought of someone else seeing how bad things had been stirred something protective in her. Still, Barry wasn’t just someone else. She knew that he and Danny were friends, and she couldn't blame him for being worried. God knew she'd been a mess all week, and she hadn't even thought about how Barry might feel.
“I think he’d be okay with that,” she said at last. “I was planning to stop by anyway.”
Barry pushed off the wall. “Then I’ll come along. We all missed him Sunday at the club. Just not the same without all the old faces there, you know?”
The walk over was quiet, wrapped in the kind of silence that came easily between people who knew how to share space. Rebecca spoke as they moved, offering Barry the broad strokes. Danny had been laid out with something rough, a fever that wouldn’t quit, and a mess of injuries that had taken their time in healing. She didn’t dive into specifics, choosing instead to keep the details light. Barry listened without interrupting, his occasional nods and the tightening at the corners of his mouth saying more than words. He asked a few careful questions- how long the fever had lasted, what Danny was eating, but he didn’t press when her answers skimmed the surface. There was understanding in his quiet, the kind that came from experience. He didn’t need the whole story to know it had been bad, and that it wasn’t over yet.
When they reached the building, she led the way up the stairs, pulled out the key from her coat pocket, and let them in. Danny was on the couch, but he stood as they entered, bracing briefly against the armrest before straightening up. He looked better; more color to his skin, more light in his eyes, but the way he held himself said enough. He was still hurting, still stiff, still somewhere deep in the middle of recovery. The bruising showed through the neckline of his shirt, and he didn’t try to hide the bandage wrapped around his hand, much less the black eyes and split lip which were just starting to fade.
Barry took one look at him and raised his eyebrows. “Jesus, Dan. You look like you got the shit kicked out of you.”
Danny, still favoring his side, gave a dry, crooked smile. “Feels about right.”
Barry’s gaze swept over him again, landing briefly on the bandage and bruising that peeked from under the collar of his shirt. He looked over at Rebecca, then back. “Heard you had a family thing going on.” He muttered, low and careful, like someone testing the edges of a wound.
“Something like that,” Danny replied. The response was evasive, and Barry picked up on it almost immediately. "It wasn't a great weekend." Daniel chuckled, deflecting.
Rebecca hovered a moment longer, sensing a shift in the room. Barry’s expression was steady but searching, and Danny, for all his dry humor, was holding himself a little too tight around the edges. Something passed between the two men, a thread of concern that didn’t need her voice in the middle of it. She wasn’t sure what exactly Barry meant to say, but she could tell that her presence might put it on pause.
“I’m going to hop back to my apartment and grab some leftovers. And a shower,” she said gently, giving Danny a small smile. “You two hold down the fort.”
Once the door shut behind her, the quiet left in her absence stretched a little heavier.
"Want something to drink?" Daniel asked, as he made his way to the kitchen, motioning for Barry to grab a seat at the table.
Barry didn’t sit. Not right away. He stayed standing near the door, watching Danny slowly make his way over to the sink, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. The man moved stiffly, like all his insides were just a little more achy than they should be.
“You doing okay?” he asked, voice low but pointed. “Really.”
Danny let out a breath and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I'm recovering. Becca's been keeping an eye on me, but I'm on the road to recovery.”
Barry didn’t blink. “That’s not what I asked.”
"Then what are you asking, Barry?" Danny looked up then, tired but alert. “Because there isn't much more to it than that.”
Barry sighed, slowly. “You look like hell, Dan. You went off this weekend to deal with God knows what and you come back looking like someone beat you senseless, sick as a dog and barely sensate. That doesn't paint a good picture for me Dan. Me or Rebecca.”
“I get that, Barry, but it's personal. And it's dealt with.” Danny said, his voice quiet. “I know how it looks. And I appreciate it. But it’s handled.”
“I understand that. Sometimes a man's got to handle his own house, but if something happened, if something you're mixed up in comes back, it can get real rough. You don't have to handle it on your own, is all I'm saying.” Barry's tone wasn't quite confrontational, but it was firm. He let the words sit for a second. "I know you had plans to go to the Academy. But if it's something illegal-"
“Barry, I appreciate what you're saying.” Daniel cut in. “But this thing is done and dusted. It's not going to come back around, but I appreciate what you're trying to say.”
Barry gave a sharp exhale, almost too small to register. “Look, I can see you don't want to hear it. Just know you aren't alone, Dan. I like to think of myself as your friend. If you need help, if something is going on, don't just try to shoulder it, alright? Even if it's bad, even if it's... complicated, I'll come to help. So will Rebecca, as you well know.”
"I know that Barry. But it's sorted." Daniel lied, the words feeling like ash in his mouth in the face of the earnest man. "Trust me. And if something comes around and I need it you'll be the second number I'll call, right after Becca's, and only because she'd kick my ass if she weren't first."
Barry gave him a long look, before nodding. "I'll hold you to that. Rebecca mentioned you picked up a cellular of all things so you don't even have the excuse, because I'll make sure you get my number." The man said with a grin, before it faded slightly. "Just... take care of yourself Dan. Don't be afraid to ask for help. God knows I made that mistake more than once and paid for it."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it carried weight. Barry didn’t push again, and Daniel didn’t offer more than he already had. Daniel did appreciate Barry checking in on him, to his own surprise. He wasn't used to that kind of... well, care really. That concern. It tore at him to lie to the man's face, but he knew there wasn't any justification for what had happened on Saturday that Barry could accept. It wasn't just the monsters, but the data he'd taken, the man he'd killed, the aftermath that left a dozen unexplained bodies and the mysterious Survivalist who made it all possible.
Daniel knew he couldn't do things like that and expect to walk away. Not cleanly, and not freely. But it is what it is. The aftermath of the whole thing had shaken him. Especially the sickness, which he was sure he was infected, until the fever broke and the white pustules on the back of his hand drained away. It still smelled like ammonia and chlorine mixed together, that pungent stink that was so prevalent in the bunker, but to his relief it didn't seem to be progressing. All he would have is an ugly scar and a reminder to not be so fucking stupid next time.
A few minutes later, footsteps came down the hall. Rebecca returned with a bag of leftovers, her hair still damp from the shower and pulled loosely back. The scent of shampoo trailed faintly behind her as she stepped into the room. She slowed in the doorway, eyes flicking from Barry to Danny, reading something quieter and steadier in the air between them. Whatever tension had been there before was gone now, settled into a calm equilibrium. If she had questions about what was said, she kept them to herself.
“Hope you two didn’t start without me,” she said, her voice light, but the smile that followed was warm and grateful as she set the bag on the kitchen counter.
Danny leaned back against the couch with a faint sigh, the kind that came not from pain, but from easing back into something familiar. Barry gave a quiet chuckle and shook his head.
“Just relaxing,” he said.
What followed was a quiet night between three friends. They sat together around the small kitchen table as Rebecca pulled out containers and plates, doling out food without fanfare. There was no rush, no need to fill the silences. Conversation rose and fell gently, sometimes lingering on light topics; Barry’s daughters, the sorry state of the RPD’s vending machines, sometimes tapering off into quiet companionship.
The clatter of forks and soft hum of a cassette radio in the background filled the room with something domestic, something safe. Rebecca’s gaze kept drifting to Danny, watching how he moved more freely now, how the lines of pain around his eyes had softened. She watched him and Barry talk, the two chatting like old buddies, and it brought a quiet, persistent comfort that wrapped around her more securely than she expected.
They ate under the soft hush of evening, windows cracked open to let in the cooling breeze. In the flicker of kitchen light, with two friends beside her and normalcy trying its best to reassert itself, Rebecca let herself believe, if only for a while, that things were going to be all right.
000
It was late Friday night, and the lights in the Raccoon Police Department had long since dimmed, leaving only the sterile hum of fluorescent bulbs in the upper offices. Captain Albert Wesker sat alone in his office, one gloved hand resting on the surface of his desk, the other holding a crisp report marked with the insignia of the Umbrella Security Service. A single manila folder lay open before him, thin but weighty, its contents a mix of photographic stills, field notes, and debrief transcripts. Across the top of it read OPERATION: BLACK HAND
The report was thorough, as far as failure could be documented. The initial USS team, Taskforce Cobrafang, had been sent in with precision objectives: recover Dr. Leonard Hargreave, identify any external backers involved in his defection, and secure the stolen P-Prototype viral compound before it could be reproduced or disseminated. According to the log, the first squad had been butchered trying to exfiltrate. They had been torn apart by one of Hargreave’s own bioweapons, a creature detailed in only the most vague terms; serpentine, massive, and armed, literally, with enough brute force to shred a squad of trained operatives in less than thirty seconds. Fortunately for the backup team, it was no longer an issue.
Because someone else had gotten there first.
Wesker’s eyes narrowed slightly, the only outward indicator of his contemplation as he scanned the next page. The recovery team, Taskforce Viperstrike, had been deployed to suppress and reclaim the site. But by the time they’d arrived, the fight was mostly over. They had managed to encounter the operative, and it was just the one, according to the report, before they could exit through the freight entrance. Viperstrike had engaged the operative, but they had managed to make it out after inflicting a casualty and suppressing the rest of the team until they could escape.
The aftermath, of course, was a disaster.
Dr. Hargreave was dead. The creatures he had engineered were neutralized. The server mainframe had been gutted, most of the hard drives were slag, and what few blood and tissue samples they recovered were permeated with Biochlorine Nitrate. The chemical’s corrosive effect on genetic material meant no usable material could be salvaged, not even from the carnage left behind. The forensic team confirmed that only one operative had infiltrated through the rear entrance in the old highschool, but that was the sum total of their findings. Only the brass casings told the story- hundreds of 5.7x28mm rounds, scattered like breadcrumbs through the corridors and blood-slick labs.
Wesker leaned back slightly in his chair, the material creaking faintly as his gaze lifted from the report. A Belgian-made FN P90, unheard of in the United States, and still undergoing testing in NATO, but there had been rumors that the arms company had been selling the license to anyone who paid for it. Tricell? Perhaps. They’d made subtle plays before. Or it could be one of Umbrella’s lesser-known rivals, testing their reach. The problem, as always, was the void of hard intelligence.
The effectiveness of the enemy's weapon had been added in an addenda. The rounds had punched through V-Delta's vest like it wasn't there, showing a level of lethality that had stunned the rest of the team into inaction. They had moved to counter the agent but the chokepoint at the lab entrance was enough to keep them occupied, and it was clear they had a definitive advantage over Viperstrike's MP5s. V-Alpha of course blamed the technical advantage for his part in this cockup. MacKinnon was an idiot like that. The blatant ass-covering was amusing to Albert, enough so that he considered bringing in a few of the weapons for his own unit, if only to tweak the man's nose.
That aside, there was no clean narrative. The unknown agent or team had moved fast and clean… too fast for a hit squad, too brutal for standard espionage. The video feed from the outer cameras had been wiped, the freight elevator had been disabled somehow, and one of USS's own Umbrella-marked SUVs had been taken. The vehicle’s tracking beacon was disabled before it even left the building it was parked in.
This was a mission that had been planned and executed flawlessly. It had focus. It had intent. And the sheer body count left behind- over a dozen Umbrella assets, including an entire bridgehead team at the bunker's freight entrance, meant the actor or actors involved weren’t just competent. They were lethal.
Wesker’s gloved fingers tapped slowly against the edge of the report, his mind turning over possibilities. He knew there were already some pushing to close this case, that the samples and the operative were long gone from the country, but he had his doubts. This was right on Umbrella America's doorstep, a critical failure on the part of their Intelligence division, a hostile lab set up barely an afternoon's drive from their main facilities here? The P-Prototype was presumed lost or stolen, along with anything else not nailed down. Samples, files, anything of passing value and no way to take stock of what had or hadn't been there to begin with.
Someone was going to hang for this one, Albert knew. Not him, of course, but someone higher up. There would be a push for retaliation, but they had no idea against who. The USS would be on high alert, and UBCS would be mobilized at the NESTs, but that was all reactive. All so short sighted. Umbrella had gotten complacent with their dominance in the market, and now they were paying for it.
But where they saw failure, Wesker saw a different path. And his instincts, so rarely wrong, whispered something else entirely. Whoever had broken into that lab, they weren’t gone. They hadn’t fled the country, hadn’t vanished into thin air. Not with the kind of equipment used, not with the vehicle taken. Not with the way the data had been selectively erased, rather than completely destroyed. No, this wasn’t a smash-and-grab.
It was someone sending a message.
He turned his chair slightly, gaze shifting toward the wide, shaded window that overlooked the STARS common office. The overhead fluorescents were long since dimmed, the space beyond his glass wall lit only by the ghostly blue-white glow of idle monitors and the amber flicker of a coffee pot left on too long. Shadows stretched across empty desks, filing cabinets, and the faint scuff marks left behind by boots and chairs. It was quiet, dead quiet, the sort of stillness that came only in the deep hours of the night when the building had long since emptied and the city outside ceased to matter.
Wesker studied the vacant space with a measured stillness, the faint hum of his office computer a soft underscore to his thoughts. Beyond his office walls, the domain of his unit sat in silence, unaware of how close the world was to shifting beneath them. Somewhere in Raccoon, just beyond the reach of floodlights and surveillance, his new variable lingered. A skilled, deliberate agent with intent carved into every footstep.
An unknown quantity, but not without direction. Not without purpose, or, in his eyes, value.
If he shared these suspicions with his employers, Umbrella would expect a resolution. They would demand he investigate, and if he found what he suspected, elimination. Such a waste. But... there would be no tolerance for a rogue asset capable of interfering with classified research, let alone stealing it. Yet Wesker... Wesker had his own ambitions. He knew what the orders would be if he shared his beliefs. If. Such a deliberately obtuse word.
An agent capable of carving through Hargreave’s monstrosities, wiping a site clean, disabling military tracking systems, and escaping despite Umbrella's best efforts? Such an operative could be a problem. Or they could be a resource.
Wesker allowed himself the faintest of smiles.
Perhaps this ghost would surface again. And when they did, Wesker intended to be there, not with a bullet, but with an offer. Because everyone has a price, and Wesker was very, very good at finding the cost of a soul.
All he needs to do is find them.
Comments
Alex Piskura
Yeah, those pustules aren’t great, but to be fair without context they look just like burn blisters. He did get shot but they were absorbed by the armor. Just a few more bruises for his bruises you know?
Server Meta
So uh, nobody is gonna mention the fact that his hand is growing the same postules that the zombies had? Anyway nice chapter, although didnt Danny get grazed by a couple of rounds from the USS team before he made it to the elevator? Feels like something Becca would notice if im not misremembering the end of the previous chap.
Alex Piskura
Oh yeah he really earned his silver this time. I admit I’ve always been a little torn about shopping my segments though. On the one hand they fulfill a primal desire to get more cool stuff, but on the other it’s a real struggle sometimes to keep the reading interesting.
stephen lyman
Good to see he the Herbs didn't just heal him outright and it was cool to see Becca and Barrys reactions. Dan needs to get himself some goodies for what he found all of that surely has a lot of value
Alex Piskura
Hey, first comment, nice. And yeah, he really does. Man doesn't even know half of the value of what he picked up.
Mrburgerdon
Well that was a good read, man needs to read/find his loot later and make more healing items for post mission recovery. Or have Rebecca teach him what the hell the kit he picked up actually does if he can trust her enough..
