AFTER HOURS ⭑⭒
Characters // Atlas (he/him), Wren (they/them)
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CW: Paranoia, mentions of blood and death, stalking
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The walk back to the van is long.
Atlas leads the way, Wren keeping at a steady pace behind him. They’re quiet, doing as he instructs, never stepping out of line. Not full of their usual rambunctious life, but Atlas doesn’t have the energy to care. He can sense the fear radiating off of them, washing over him in waves, but he doesn't attempt to speak to them. They’re scared, for good reason. He doesn’t have the capabilities to provide them any sort of comfort. They should be scared. They could have died.
Fear in itself is dangerous, he knows that well by now, fear has the potential to be even worse than Wren’s recklessness. But he has no time to soothe them. They need to leave, need to prepare for another attack. They have a million things that take importance over this right now. Keeping them alive is what he has to focus on. Wren is listening to him right now, looking to him for leadership, and that’s all that matters. The sooner they get out of here, the better. There will be time to talk when they both can rest.
Atlas is thorough with his work. He steps over bodies ane crushes black trackers beneath his feet. Intercoms that play static are silenced, the gadget crumbling within his fist. He’s tired, so tired, body heavy and mind numb, floating on air as he continues his search, but he easily pushes through. For his peace of mind, and for Wren. Wren especially. He can’t let anything go unnoticed. It’s only when he’s certain that the perimeter of the woods are completely bare that he deems it safe. If safe is even the right word to use anymore.
He crawls inside the van behind Wren, collapsing against the wall with an involuntary grunt of pain. His body aches. He’s escaped without any major injuries, but the strain of fighting off so many has begun to work itself into the very ligaments of his muscles. He’s exhausted.
Yet, he still can’t rest.
“We need to get out of here,” he mutters, out of breath and wheezing. Sweat has turned his hair damp, his waves hanging limply. He reaches up, arm heavy as lead, and weakly brushes his bangs from his eyes. Droplets slide down his nose. “Then we can rest. They have our location, there will be more headed this way soon.”
Wren’s eyes are weary as they stare out the window, chewing at the same reddened part of their lip that Atlas has seen them tear away countless times before. There’s blood on their legs, splattered from Atlas’s scuffle. They don’t seem to notice it.
They avoid his gaze, but nod, fumbling with their hands. “You sleep. I’ll find a place.”
Those words bring him immediate relief. Atlas feels himself soften a bit, body caving in on itself. Sleep sounds good right about now. He feels the insistent need to argue poking around somewhere in the back of his brain, but for once, he ignores it, curling on his side as his eyes flutter shut. “Okay,” he mumbles in agreement, no longer putting up much of a fight. He needs the rest. A couple of hours can’t hurt. They’ll be okay for a couple of hours.
Wren disappears from his side as Atlas’s eyes drop closed. Blood smears the floor where he lays yet he cannot bring himself to care about the mess he’s making. His mind is already slipping away from him. He’s succeeded, he’s protected Wren. Everything else will come afterwards.
The van is brought to life with the low rumble of the engine, shaking the floor from where he rests. Atlas doesn't register it.
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·
They make it twenty hours.
Atlas spends the first eleven sleeping. Something unusual for him, he hadn’t registered just how much energy he had exerted fighting off the attack. He hasn’t slept so fitfully in a long while. So long he isn’t sure he can place just when.
Wren drives. They pass through the border into Minnesota somewhere during that time. He can’t know exactly when. Atlas is awoken as Wren flies over a speed bump, jolted from his slumber with a start. Their crates slide along the floor, belongings threatening to tumble out. He is greeted with the outline of skyscrapers surrounding them, the mountains long forgotten with the dead.
He lays there for a bit. Allows his eyes to open and fall closed in a slow, rhythmic manner. Breathes, focuses on the feel of the airflow entering his nose and puffing out of his mouth. It grounds him.
It’s dark out now. Maybe just the beginnings of the new day. Wren has some sort of music playing on low in the front, though Atlas can’t make it out. They're mindful of him. Quiet while he rests. It’s just what he needs to clear his head.
He sits up when he feels the fog leftover from sleep fully leave him. His skin is dry, itchy and caked with blood; clothes left completely soiled. He’ll have to throw them out, they’re of no use to him now. He can’t exactly stay incognito with clothes splattered with crimson stains. They’ll have to find somewhere to drop them.
The next few hours are spent in silence. He spends the first scraping off as much blood from himself as he can. His hair is knotted with it, requiring some very tedious work of carefully combing through it, shaking out the clumps of red. His skin is more or less the same, using a damp towel to rub his skin raw, peeling away as much of the dirt and grime as he can. The very activity reminds him of his rather unfortunate circumstances inside the van, having traded hygiene for freedom. He's pretty sure the last time he had a proper shower was before he left.
If Wren notices him awake, they don’t say anything. The car continues driving like it did when he first came to, without so much of an acknowledgement from their end. The music is the only sort of background noise he has to fill the space, which, admittedly, feels sort of strange after all this time. He usually has some sort of mindless chatter to distract him from his endless worries.
Leaning his head against the cool glass of the window, Atlas closes his eyes. He is very aware of the target on his back, no longer reassured he can continue this on his own. He wasn’t thinking straight when he left. Despite his many attempts to rid himself of all memories of that night, it is that exact moment he finds himself repeatedly dwelling on. Wren extending their hand to him, his panic clouding his judgment. Causing him to forget; forget his training, forget logic.
He cannot help but feel guilty as he sits in the back, scratching at the blood that has refused to wash from his skin, thinking about the amount of lives he has put in danger with his selfishness. He knows better than to only think of his own meaningless desires. He is filled with a burning shame at the thought that his foolish choice may leave Wren pained and tormented by the hands that were initially meant for him.
He blinks, eyes boring into the back of Wren’s head. He can hear them humming slightly, mumbling along to the song that’s leaking from the radio, some sort of vocaloid one they like. Their fingers tap against the steering wheel, bouncing along to the rhythm of the music. He can’t help but notice they have changed into a completely different outfit than the one they had on prior to the attack, skin rubbed raw in any place he may have splattered it with blood. The gun lays loosely in the passenger seat beside them.
He closes his eyes.
The city fades into another. Atlas doesn’t make much noise from the backseat, not even reaching for one of his books as he typically would. He needs to stay on constant alert. This foolish game he’s been playing has to come to an end. Their lives are at stake. Now more than ever. There’s no time for him to relax or distract himself. Turning his thoughts away from the matter at hand for even more than a second has the potential to have otherworldly consequences. It’s a mistake he can’t make twice.
Sitting alone, the same sentiment repeats in his mind. I should have known. I should have known. There’s a persistence about it, piercing him. He doesn’t know why he had become so comfortable with Wren. He doesn’t know why he thought for a second he could have something else, something new. He doesn’t know why he thought he could handle this. It’s all just too much. They’ll never last like this. Shame creeps through him. He can't help but wallow in his own self pity, thoughts a whirlwind of what-ifs. It makes him angry.
He didn’t used to be like this.
The car stops sometime around dawn. Dipping into some sort of shady, abandoned section of town. They’re in a more rural area again, though surrounded by much more of a population than previously. Just the thought makes Atlas itchy with anxiety.
Wren only looks back at him now, with a new pair of clean clothes and the blood scrubbed from his skin. “He finally awakes,” they shoot him a grin, clambering across the middle console. “Was that nap good or what?”
He takes note that their smile looks strange. Foreign, on them. They always smile with their teeth bared, cheeks pink, mouth pulled so far Atlas is sure it must hurt. But for some reason, when they glance in his direction this time, it doesn’t stretch towards their eyes, a happy light bouncing within their stare. It’s forced, almost. Unnatural. Thin-lipped. The very opposite he has come to expect from them. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost say they look…
Nervous.
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·
“Loosen up a little,” Wren grins from beside him. They are light on their feet, carefree, as they pass down the street, hopping over cracks on the sidewalk and whistling a tune under their breath. Their entire body radiates nonchalance; posture slouched, hands tucked into the pockets of their jacket. Almost like nothing about yesterday had ever happened. Atlas is unsure if he should be annoyed or relieved about it.
“We shouldn’t even be out here.” He mutters.
He isn't quite sure how they talked him into this. After a rather awkward exchange between the two of them that painfully reminded him of his first days with them, they pivoted into jumping from conversation to conversation in a rather manic manner, with pretty much no true input from Atlas at all. It was painful. Atlas could tell they thought so too, they had even begun to grow frustrated with him and his incessant scribbling in their notepad, half-baked theories taking center in his mind. To be honest, neither of them truly seemed very interested in having a conversation about anything but Eden, the very topic that was being very carefully avoided, more from Wren’s side than Atlas’s. The last attack still lay heavy in their minds.
Eventually though, they somehow landed on the topic of weapons.
A glance towards Wren’s shotgun and their lacking amount of ammunition is enough to truly instill in Atlas how bleak their current situation is. He should have stolen some from the dead. He can’t really figure out why he didn’t. Having something that belonged to Eden’s own… it left him wary. Oddly enough, it felt wrong to kill using the weapons he had been taught to use all these years. They’d become a part of him, at some point. Carefully weighted in his hands, connected to his soul as if they beat right alongside his heart, lived inside his chest like the rest, his very life forged inside the darkened metal. The same weapons crafted with hands coated in the blood of innocents, he reminded himself. Despicable, really. It went too far — pushed against everything he knew as right.
Bad luck. Plain and simple.
“We both need something to protect ourselves with,” Wren had said, smiling a little. “So next time you don’t go and run off on me. Jerk.”
He had huffed with indignation. They had showed rather clearly how good their reflexes would be in a real battle. It didn’t offer up much hope. Atlas attempted to push that thought away. The look in their eyes after the massacre still burned behind his eyelids. He didn’t think he’d forget that for as long as he lived.
And so, reluctantly, he obliged.
He can't help but feel nervous about the whole outing. It’s just about midday as they stroll across the cracked sidewalk, side by side. The sun beats down their backs, breeze just gently brushing along their ankles. The beginnings of autumn have come to settle, leaves littering the road in a technicolor of orange, red and brown.
They’re completely out in the open. Exposed, vulnerable. Atlas’s eyes dart around nervously, jumping between streetlights. Instinctively searching for cameras. He hasn’t been able to spot any yet. He can’t be certain if it’s his inexperienced eye or if there’s truly a chance at something akin to safety.
There’s about a million things wrong he could name with this trip. The time of day, which he has hauntingly made the connection of being the exact time of both other attacks. He’s pretty sure it’s cursed. Wren’s unbothered nature, skipping around as if this is any other light task. The pinpricks of paranoia that flare up with every unexpected movement, any buzz of chatter. It’s too soon. Too soon. They shouldn’t be out. They aren’t ready.
“Don’t worry. We’ll be in and out.” Wren says with a nudge of his shoulder, not even paying attention as they slide by people through the crowd. Despite it, they’ve picked up on his nervous mood. They always do. He hates it. “They wouldn’t attack twice in a single day. We’ve got plenty of time.”
Atlas furrows his brows. They’re too optimistic. “I doubt that.” He says, still glancing around warily for sign of any Eden soldiers in disguise. Every person that passes them now triggers alarm bells in his head, new faces a sign of danger that could come their way. Eyes that were once filled with curiosity now squint with suspicion.
“Oh come on, you’re being too uptight.” Wren sighs, rolling their eyes. They have none of Atlas’s all-consuming anxieties, kicking a pebble along the street and zigzagging their direction when it skips off course. “I’m sure if you’d relax you’d actually enjoy walking out and about.”
Atlas scoffs to himself. Idiot. He thinks they’re being much too laid-back for the circumstances. It hasn’t been even 24-hours since they had three sets of guns trained directly onto their face, bullets loaded, waiting. A sloppy gunshot truly is the only reason they’re still standing here, unharmed, alive. That instance should be enough of a reason for them to take things more seriously. Atlas only knows he would. Yet it seems like the altercation had the very opposite effect.
They aren’t taking any of the care he is, scrutinizing every possible threat that comes their way. Keeping constantly vigilant. No, they’re really enjoying this. Smiling, whistling, humming songs under their breath. A couple passes by them and he actually sees them wave.
They turn the corner, weaving down another street. Signs promoting seasonal drinks flash in their every direction. Wren huffs out another sigh, boredom evident in the impatient bounce in their step. “Hey,” they say, elbowing him in the side hard enough to make Atlas clench his jaw in irritation. “Let’s play a game.”
Atlas resists the urge to groan. He would rather do practically anything other than play a game right now. They’re being tracked, he knows it. He’s sure Eden isn’t far behind the two of them now. Gathering their coordinates as they speak, he’s sure. He can’t be certain there’s any other way they could have found them buried so deep in the mountains, otherwise. They’re waiting prey, drawing out into the perfect trap.
Yet, despite all this, despite himself, what his training is screaming at him to do, he finds himself humoring them. “What game?”
“Hmm.” Wren swings their arms in over exaggerated motion at their side as they glance around. There’s a stretch of quiet as they think, singing under their breath, eyes bouncing around their surroundings. Atlas counts two stop signs passing them by before Wren’s answer comes again.
“I Spy!” They grin, eyes bright. “I spy something brown and white. Now you guess what it is.”
Atlas bites his cheek. I Spy. He’s never heard of this game before. Though, for good reason. He doesn’t think he ever played such juvenile games inside Eden. To be honest, he doesn’t think he played any games inside Eden. Especially not a guessing game. This has to be the biggest waste of his energy Wren has expected from him yet. They could be doing better things right now. They could be training. This trip was a complete waste of time. He should have ventured out alone. Then, at least, he’d feel safe. Then he’d have nothing to distract him.
He glances around rather dumbly, not putting in much of an effort to guess. All his focus goes into absorbing each face of the people walking along the street, marking it down to memory, checking for any hints that give them away as potential threats. Anything that will keep them safe in the end.
After a moment, he stops. The thought of truly searching for something as vague as ‘brown and white’ makes him internally cringe. This game is so incredibly stupid.
“I don’t know,” he relents. “What is brown and white?”
“Oh come on!” Wren groans, shoving at his shoulder lightly. “You’ve got to actually try,” they encourage, gesturing around them. “Just guess anything you see that’s brown and white.”
Atlas glances around vaguely. “That shop over there.” He guesses, still more focused on who might be following them than the game. There’s a hint of brown along the paneling. It’s as good as a guess that he’s able to give.
Wren’s eyes slide over to the shop he’s gestured to. The corner of their mouth curls down for a millisecond before they smile again, clapping him on the back. “Yeah, it is!” They cheer. “Hey see, you’ve won. Now you get to pick something.”
“What’s white?” Atlas asks, his gaze focused on the rooftop of a building across from them rather than Wren. He swears he sees movement from atop it. A sniper, maybe—
“No, no, you’ve got to say ‘I spy something white’,” Wren interjects, feet juggling a large rock from in between them. They stare at him expectantly, gesturing for him to correct himself.
No, no, not a sniper. It can't be a sniper. It wouldn’t do them any good, not right now. They wouldn’t shoot him down. Not in the presence of daylight. He’s being paranoid, seeing things that aren’t there. There’s no reason to get himself worked up without sufficient evidence. He just needs to focus on getting to the warehouse and back.
“Sorry.” He mumbles distractedly. He’s barely paying attention to them at this point, all senses raised with alarm. He can’t shake the feeling that something is about to happen. It’s running through his blood. They’re being watched. “I spy something white.”
Wren grunts, accepting Atlas’s lack luster attempt with a begrudging nod. “Okay….” they say, voice trailing off as they look around. Their eyebrows are furrowed and they’re deep in thought for a moment before their gaze lands upon the sky. “Hm. The clouds?” They ask, pointing up above them at the pillows of white shielding them from the direct sun.
Atlas grunts. “No.”
The movement along another roof he finds is just the flick of a tail of some sort of small animal. It looks like something akin to a squirrel. Not quite, though. He doesn’t find out, the animal scurrying along faster than he can try and register it. He looks back down.
Wren frowns. They click their tongue, shooting Atlas a killer stare before looking around again. “That billboard?” They ask as the two of them round another corner down an emptier street. The industrial district, Atlas recognizes. Warehouses upon warehouses for blocks. It eerily reminds him of home.
“No.” He says again, nerves grating against each other even more-so than before. If that’s even possible. He narrows his eyes down the street, all the hairs on the back of his neck standing up in anticipation.
They shouldn’t be out. He’s known it since the beginning. The workings of the stress building up over him has made him stupid. An attack lies in wait. He knows it. They aren't ready for this. They’ve barely fought off the last two. He’s sure Wren is running off of fumes. He isn’t ready for something like yesterday, not so soon, not so unexpected. Wren isn’t ready.
They scuff their shoe along the sidewalk with a huff, glancing around the worn buildings. It’s a drastic difference from the pristine, sleek look of most areas in the city. A welcoming sight for Atlas, despite his subconscious disgust. The city is swarming with cameras. He’s figured out that much. Rural areas are their best bet.
“This place is sorta gross,” Wren grimaces, eyeing some questionable liquids pooling on the sidewalk in front of them. Their lip curls upwards and they stare at the group of sleazy men gathered at the far corner. Their sneakers slosh through a puddle. “Ugh, can everything like, just not suck for two seconds?” They mumble, letting out a small groan. He feels his mood washing over theirs, dimming their energy. Good, a small part of him thinks. He bites his tongue.
“We shoulda’ parked closer.” Wren mutters. That kind of goes against the entire point. Eden has been tracking their van. It’s fairly recognizable, Atlas is sure. Beat up, scratched and coming up on its very last life. They probably couldn't have picked something more conspicuous.
It's then he feels it. Eyes.
The eyes always hit him first. Before he sees them. Before he hears them. Before he can fully register their presence. Their eyes zero in on him, his neck prickling with tension. The eyes always give it away.
His head turns an inch, eyes wild. Searching, waiting, anticipating. There’s eyes on his back and he knows it. He isn’t a coward, he never has been. Yet every piece of common sense left inside his brain is screaming at him to run. Just this time, he feels his training overrided. Wren has rubbed off on him too much. The urge is almost overwhelming, invading his senses, adrenaline suddenly coursing through his blood.
He’s never been the object of prey before.
“We should just head back.” He says, tugging loosely at Wren’s wrist. They slow a little, eyes raising. If they can notice his panic, they definitely don't show it.
“What?” They say, letting out a little scoff of indignation. They stare at him in a deadpan, gesturing harshly just ahead of them. “Dude, why? The warehouse is literally a block away.”
“I want to go back.” He insists. He numbly realizes he left all their weapons back inside the van. Anything they could have used as protection, and it’s a good two blocks away. He’s out in the open, vulnerable. Unarmed. With an unstable Wren to take care of. How did he let himself fall so far?
He seems to be asking himself that a lot lately.
“Don’t be like that. C’mon. We’re literally almost there.” Wren grunts impatiently. Not for the first time, Atlas wants to slap them. How can they be so willfully blind?
He shoots them a glare, corners of his mouth down-turnt, shoulders drawn back tight, before turning sharply on his heel, moving before they have the chance to stop him. He won’t give them any more to work with. He simply can’t chance the minutes it’ll take to argue with them, definitely not here. Taking long strides, he leaves them behind him as he makes his way back towards the more populated street. They are being watched, and he has only one chance to take them to safety.
With a grunt, Wren jogs to keep up with Atlas, tilting their head up at him. “What’s your deal?” They blurt, exasperated. “You’ve just got to relax a bit.”
“I want to go this way.” He reiterates, clenching his fists. His entire body is raised in defence, muscles tense. His voice carries more bite than he intends it to.
He still hasn’t spotted their attackers yet. They are holding back, he knows it. Waiting for the right moment to drop, waiting for his guard to lower for just a millisecond. Waiting for Wren to break.
Attackers, plural. The thought takes him off-guard. He hadn’t even questioned it until it comes into his mind, yet it strikes him with a perfect clarity that he is right on the mark. There’s more than one of them here. Watching, stalking. Hunting them alive.
“Fine, fine, whatever. Is there a reason you want to go this way?” Wren groans from behind him. They’re walking too slow, taking no note of the seriousness of the current situation. It infuriates him beyond comprehension. He grabs at their wrist, movements more aggressive than Wren is used to. They squeak a little, eyes widening in shock as his hand takes hold around their skin and drags them forwards. Their feet clumsily stumble to keep up. He doesn’t have the patience to be bothered.
He doesn’t look back again, nor bother with a response. His gaze is focused straight ahead, movements all intentional as they weave in and out of the street. Every person that passes by them is a threat, if they weren’t already before. Every person is dangerous, has the capabilities to kill them, inflict pain. Every smile, every laugh, every wave of the hand; they are all calculated, deliberate. Taunting. Blood rushes in Atlas’s ears, eyes dilated, vision clear. He picks up his pace. There isn’t room for the smallest of mistakes.
“Atlas,” Wren whines. “Stop. That hurts.”
He doesn’t really hear them. His thoughts are rushing by too quickly now, every motion of his body willed by pure instinct. They’re walking faster now, practically running. Wren struggles to keep up, feet clambering over themselves. Atlas takes a sharp turn and they almost fall. They cross the street easily. No cars come to intercept them. Atlas is relieved. There’s no noise besides Wren’s pained grunts to distract him. He moves quickly, no longer having to dodge slow walkers or large groups. The eyes never leave his back.
The next street is empty.
The silence is what sets him off. He blinks, comes to a halt. Wren squirms from out of his grip. The town isn’t big by any means, he knows that. It’s one of the reasons the two of them picked it. Easy to get in and out, no large traffic that would slow them down. Yet, staring at the road now, its clear. Bare. No cars drift back and forth from where they came or where they’re headed. There is no one left to avoid — no one left to hide behind. Within seconds, their surroundings have cleared out entirely. It’s a ghost town.
“No,” Atlas murmurs. He’s stopped, staring straight ahead. He feels the target burning into his back. “This is wrong.”
Wren doesn’t seem to hear him. They are blinking at the empty street, eyes drifting towards the darkened street windows. Their hands fidget with the hem of their shirt, playing with the fabric uncomfortably. The wind brushes their bangs into their eyes, their clothes fluttering faintly. Their cheeks have begun to flush a little from the cold. “Um-”
Their voice wavers. They look to him hesitantly, smile still fixed upon their face. The look in their eyes is an emotion Atlas can’t seem to place. “This is weird.” Wren mumbles.
Atlas’s eyes dart from building to building. They’ve just barely made it out of the industrial district, though most buildings that surround them are tall, towering over them. Only few are small, and they appear to almost be squished by the weight of the others. Suffocating next to their tall neighbours. Atlas narrows his eyes. “This is wrong, Wren.”
His stare lingers, words repeated robotically. It scares Wren, the forbidding tone of his words. They reach for his hand, fingers wrapping around the rough skin. They squeeze, eying him fearfully. “Let’s just— let’s just go.” Their gaze is wary, glancing around. Being met with silence is so absolutely foreign that it terrifies them a bit. They look smaller, cowering within his shadow.
Atlas moves on his feet before he realizes he’s doing it. His brain seems to slow in instances like these, another part taking hold entirely. His mind is rid of useless thoughts. His worries.
Wren is sticking tight to his side now. They stumble, shoes hitting the backs of his boots. Their cheek is tucked into his arm, both hands wrapped tightly around his own. It’s the action of a child, small and defenceless. They depend on him.
The line of path Atlas has set his sights on opens up in front of them. A small, narrowing alleyway, tucked away inbetween two of the warehouses. It’s gloomy, long and winding, curving with the turn of the buildings. Liquid pools out of a gutter, slapping against the pavement. The place is covered in filth, Atlas knows. Just looking at it, its the alleyway no sensible person would think to try. Yet, he knows at once, its the only sort of cover that this street could offer up. They’re sitting ducks, standing out here in the open. He starts towards it, a sense of urgency overtaking him. It’s their only chance.
They’ve made it halfway to the entrance when he notices the man approaching them.
── ⟡ ˙
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─ ELLIOT.
