Acta, non verba 1
Warning: dystopian, oppression, poverty, power imbalance, noncon, and other dark elements. Please heed these warnings.
Summary: when your escape is foiled, you're met with a new warden. (Curtis Everett)
This is in the same universe as Vae Victus.
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"We can make it..."
Those words echo in your head with the raze of bullets all around. You told 9L23, or Dylan as he once was, it was too risky. You need to wait a little longer. Just until the clouds shift over the moon..
Too late to rehash the argument now. Not as the yelps and groans of your comrades and the impact of their bodies on the earth fill your reality. Your soul weighs down your feet as you long to stop and help but you agreed on one thing; at the end of the day, everyone for themselves.
You pump your arms harder as you focus on the tree line getting closer. Almost there. Just fifteen, no ten more feet.
A hot force knocks you forward. You stumble and roll over your head onto your back, flat in the dirt as you pant up at the moonlight. The clouds crawl over her face and shroud the night.
The heave of your breath is all you can hear. You close your eyes with a whimper. That's it. It's over. Just like you knew all along, there's no hope.
The burning agony impales your shoulder. Your hand shakes as you bring it up to touch the wound. Your blood smears onto your palm. You think it went right through as you can feel the ragged gap in your back. Is that good? No, none of this is. It just means you'll suffer more.
A chuckle rolls across the clearing. The drone of pained voices and crackly draw of final breaths mingles in the lull. Footsteps tamp on the grass and dirt. There's a grunt then a yipe. 5S77. Your friend, as good as a sister in this world.
"Pity." A low voice taunts. "Pretty lips."
A bullet rings out and you twitch. Then a metallic thump and another pained groan.
"Orders are to take as many alive as we can." A man snarls. "Do you long for the drought, Oppio?"
"Good as dead, chest wound." The other grits and receives only a growl in return.
"Remember your orders," the leader commands.
You try to roll onto your side. You might be able to crawl into the trees. The moon is overcast. You're not as close as the rest.
"Argh!" A man cries out and a grizzly thump makes your insides turn.
"Fuck you, coward." Dylan sneers and that noise comes again and again and again, his senseless moans and groans dwindling beneath the stomp of the soldier's boot.
"Fucking rat! Stabbed me." The soldier drags his bloody boot on the grass.
You roll onto your stomach and bite your tongue. You plant your elbows and knees. You lurch forward, the effort tearing in your shoulder.
You do it again and again. You're so close... Just as you smell the pine and feel the bristle of dry needles, a crushing weight comes down with the sudden glow of moonlight. The boot pushes your chest to the ground as the man above you snickers.
“Where’re you going, sweetheart?” He taunts.
You go limp and spread your fingers wide. There’s no use fighting. You’ve lost.
He shifts his weight and turns, the muzzle of his rifle running along your side to your hip. “Not as bony as those other plebs.” He mocks. “Bet you got a set on you.” He drags his foot off you, the dirt on his boot crumbling off. “How about you turn over and show me?”
You shudder and close your eyes. You couldn’t if you tried. You feel your strength draining from your shoulder.
“Don’t fuck with me.” He hisses and pushes the barrel of his firearm against your wound.
“Oppio.” The same grizzly warning comes as before. “Back away.”
“This one’s breathing,” the soldier above you rescinds his rifle.
“I see that.” The other man stomps up. You let your head fall to the side and look up as they come side to side. They glare at each other.
The Oppio backs off and scoffs. “Heard, Tribunus.”
The other man, a Tribunus, high up for someone chasing stray plebs, sniffs and looms above you. He doesn’t move until the other man stalks off to bark at the other soldiers. You close your eyes and exhale. Weakness flows through you.
You whine as suddenly the man touches your shoulder. He pulls the sopping fabric back and feels along the edge of the flesh. He hums and wipes his fingers on your jacket.
“You’ll live.”
He grabs your elbow and hauls you up to your knees. You open your eyes as you sway and he tugs again. Your legs are heavy as you set your feet. You stand, hunched, as the Tribunus stays latched above your elbow.
You feel him staring at you. You keep your eyes to the ground. He turns you and checks the front of your jacket. Your numbered patch is gone. You all tore them off when you slipped through the gap in the camp wall.
“Doesn’t matter which one you are. We know what you are.” He turns you by your arm and hurls you ahead of him. “Walk.”
You slump and drag your feet across the ground. There’s two others able to limp. 6T00 and 35B4. The rest are hauled between men to the waiting truck with the caged bed. Dead or dying, they’re tossed in without care.
The Tribunus sighs and lets go of you. He shoves something into your hand. A coarse rag.
He points. You climb up after your comrades and stand in the truck bed, not even a bench afforded to lowly plebs. You stare down at Dylan’s corpse. He’s as good as headless. You close your eyes and bring the cloth to your shoulder. You grunt at the radiating pain. It won’t be the worst of it before all’s said and done.
