Ugly purple clouds billowed over the ocean, turning the waves dark and sharp. Light crackled between the crevices. Wind drew the storm closer, carrying on it the prickle of ozone and sea salt.

The simmering orange bubble of the sun sank below the seething ocean. Foam coated the overgrown banks and clung to the barnacles clumped on the dilapidated bridge. True was trying not to focus on the way the bridge swayed. They crouched in the growth, waiting. Their pack weighed on their shoulders, comfortable and grounding, although their possessions had all been removed to make room for Radio's explosives. They held their shovel across their lap, a water bottle of moonshine hung from their belt, and a shard of glass hid under their sleeve, bound to their arm by a stretch of old cloth.

Radio Silent crouched on their blind side. They kept Jonesy well within their sighted side, and Eliza perched somewhere behind them in a tree, chewing on something that True felt was better not to ask about.

The plan was simple.

Thin the Red Faction's numbers by luring them out to a false After Market.

Launch a shadow dweller attack at the bridge.

Swim across to the island and plant the bombs.

Somewhere north of the bridge, Cal walked the spider-silk thin line of an alliance that would be dead by the end of the night, regardless of which side won. He and half the civilians were biting their blades, sharing war space with Allsaint and his coven of dwellers until the time came to spring the trap.

Across the city, at the false After Market, waited Big Valdivia and the rest of the civilians.

True rubbed the trench in their side. The jab of pain focused them. It was hot to the touch and cramped something fierce. Unsurprising. They'd caught infections from cleaner, smaller injuries. It wasn't going to kill them in the next few minutes, so they shoved it way back under a pile of other things they were ignoring. Like that bridge. And the deep ache in their head that felt like a railway tie being pounded through their eyeless socket.

"There they go," Eliza whispered. Sure enough, strutting along the bridge was a mini horde of factioneers. They walked in silence, the scuff of their patched clothes and clomp of their boots were the only sounds they made. No sk-flps, True noted with a fair share of bitterness. They squished as far down into the underbrush as they could get. Held their breath as the factioneers marched past, eye sharp.

There, bringing up the rear, Otsana's obnoxious white-streaked hair. Good, she would come home to smoldering ruins, the way they had, if she came back at all.

A twig snapped.

True's glare whipped toward the sound. Enemy? Wild animal? Stranger? Jonesy. True tried to kill him with their thoughts. Jonesy made a show of cringing and easing off the stick crushed under his knee. The psychic murder attempts redouble.

Turning a watchful eye on the factioneers, they tightened their grip on their shovel. The group marched on, miraculously unaware of the ambushers a mere few feet from them. All except one. Otsana had slowed, dropping off the tail-end of the pack. She skimmed the clumps of brush where True hid. True's hand drifted to a backpack strap, preparing to shed the extra weight.

After a long, sweat-soaked pause, Otsana turned her back and ran to catch up to her group. A minute ticked by, five minutes. True dared not move. The anticipation of the horde turning back kept their heart in their throat. But the factioneers blurred into silhouettes and finally disappeared.

When the factioneers showed no signs of re-appearing. True snake their hand out to catch Jonesy.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" they hissed.

"It was an accident!"

"Well next time, why don't you accidentally set off the bombs. It will kill us faster."

Jonesy twisted out of their grip and stumbled out of reach.

"Come on, boy and others." Eliza thumped down to Earth, cat-like. She stuck her hands out and made like she was patting their heads. True air-ducked the air-pat and scowled at her back as she skulked to the water and sank in without so much as a shudder. Hair fanned out like an oil spill on the soft waves and her package of bombs hoisted precariously over her head, she struck out for the other shore. Radio slithered in after her.

Gruff and grumbling, True dug the first of their own supplies from their pack and crouched by the base of the bridge. On the opposite shore, Eliza chasséd toward her side of the bridge, drawing a wicked-looking knife from her waistband. Where had she gotten that? It was a nice knife. She gave it a theatrical twirl before pouncing on the factioneer that had come out to check on the noise.

"Are you sure you can see well enough to set that up?" Jonesy whispered.

"If you talk to me again, I will throw you in the water." True said. They heard his teeth click shut. He did have an operational brain cell after all. Would have been nice if he'd put it to use earlier. Say, three weeks earlier.

Jonesy's clammy hand squeezed their shoulder, "That After Market was my home, you know," he said in a whisper laden with grief.

The skin beneath the protective layer of their jacket crawled where he clutched them. Twilight hid the revile creeping over their face. There was something thick and rotten in the way his eyes darted to the shadows, in the way he leaned into True, that made their hackles prickle.

"We're not that different, True. I haven't made great choices to get here, but you know what its like, you were out there too. You went a little mad, too. I just needed a way out."

The tip of the glass shard threatened to break skin. They clenched a fist, unclenched the fist. They could see it now, that missing piece of the puzzle that had evaded them for so long. That Jonesy didn't just need to survive, he needed to survive with someone.

They stood, knocking Jonesy's hand from their shoulder. So close, too close.

"Maybe you're right," they whispered low, low, low. Maybe they were mad, maybe they need someone to survive with. And who could blame them if all that was true?

They jerked their chin at the island and skirted past Jonesy to clomp as quietly as they could down the soggen bank. Frigid water sucked the breath from their throat. Down they sank, letting the cold snap over them in tight bands. The salt stung in their wounds. Muck suctioned their heavy shoes deeper into the ocean bed. If they stayed there, would the become a milky eyed, salt crystal fixture of the decaying landscape? They pushed for the island shore.

Splashing followed them, the cook handled the chill with less grace than the cannibals that had gone before. At least he muffled his swearing. True poured their focus into keeping their pack above water. A hundred pounds of steel-toed caps and waterlogged clothes and weary bones dragged them to the depths with every kick. Saltwater kicked up their nose, a hot acid shot to the brain, instinct jerking their head back with a snort.

And then they hit the shore, clawed their way on. It was steep here, the silt falling away under their weight. They had to heave their pack up into the bushes to use both their arms and haul themself onto land. They stopped for a minute to peel down their mask and wrestle with their sleeve. It had caught on the shard. Slimy foam and decaying wet grass dried on their coat.

Behind them, splashing. They pulled the mask into place, turned, and motioned for Jonesy to hoist his pack to them. They thought they could make out his lips forming the words "thank you". How easy would it be to leave him there to struggle, alone. But they needed those bombs in his pack, wobbling just out of reach.

"Jonesy," they said. He goggled their way, startled by the sound of his own name. Snagging the strap of Jonesy's pack, they stuck their shard of glass between his ribs. A quick snap, a grunt. They pushed him beneath the surface to smother the sound, bubbles trilled in its place. Moonlight glittered off the fragile, pearlesque domes before they burst and let Jonesy's last breath escape. The dark water swallowed his blood.

They should have fed him to the cracked prairie asphalt. Oh well, hindsight and all that. They hooked his pack and theirs and turned to hike up the shore. Behind them the gravel crunch of battle splattered the night air.

The fishery bulged over them, the reek of long-gone eviscerated fish thickened the heavy air and made the man-made island swampish with rot. Waiting at the top of the rise, Radio stood in the shadow of the bloodred medic symbol, eyes slanted down at True. They faced each other in the quiet while the oncoming storm heaved the ocean and sky into chaos.

Radio unfurled one finger, pressed it to its lips, and gestured for them to join it.

According to Jonesy, rest his soul, the main factory was the only building in use, except for a small shed on the far end of the island that stored the Faction's main claim to fame: medicine. They weren't blowing that up.

True's original drop spots were inside the factory. Ground floor, and down in the basement where the generators ran. And Jonesy's had been on the second floor, in a gutted area he'd referred to as the bunks.

Now, staring up at the skeletal, hole-riddled outer walls of the floors high about their head, True felt a faint twinge of regret. But they were past getting to indulge in that feeling.

Creaking metal and the clink of chains smacking together filled the air, the factory swayed above them, a teetering tower. Sheets of rust flaked off the deteriorating walls and lamps had been hung sparingly along the main path, illuminating little except proof that the stretches of dark between them led in a straight line. Every once in a while another light glimmered deep to the left or the right as True and Radio passed.

Voices trickled from one of them. True paused to confirm that the voices weren't moving closer. Eliza had done her job well, taking out the watches silently, quickly. The factioneers wouldn't know about the enemies slinking through their base until it was too late. As long as no one fucked up.

One kerosene lamp later, they reached a split where the dark eased to a dingy green and the ceiling fell away. True tipped their head back, a set of stairs on their right stretched all the way to the third floor, and a ceiling that had been tarped over. Raindrops struck the beginning of a drumbeat on the tarp, a few stray drops of water clung to the metal grate steps.

A drop fell, glittering, straight onto their forehead. Cold on their hot skin. They wiped it off and turned to trudge down the corridor opposite the stairs. Generators first. Anything to put off leaving the stable ground.

Cement steps formed a gullet into the unlit basement. A deep purr-hum rose from the depths, and a strange, out-of-sync burble. For all the world, True could only picture a headless giant choking in slow motion, his last wet coughs distorted down to those low burbles. They descended, a trapped cloud of the dead fish reek enveloped them in its gases. Mildew, a hint of diesel, and the putrid meat stench of an infection left to fester. Oily stink beaded on their tongue, drawing a cough from them. Behind, Radio stopped to gag.

"My time to shine," they mumbled, mostly to distract themself from the squelch. Sparking their lighter seemed like a bad idea, given the gas smell. They fished it out of their coat pocket and thumbed the spinner. Once, nothing. That dip in the ocean had soaked it. Right. They gave it a shake and flicked it again. Weak orange light sprang forth to glimmer off the damp patches on the concrete basement surfaces and the round glass belly of a lamp.

Orange swelled to a dilute yellow bubble that slicked over a forest of swaying rusted chains and clear tubing. Dark puddles lay beneath the tubes, and off to True's left, a pipe jutting from the floor belched thick, black ooze. That same black ooze crushed a bloodless hand to the heavy grates of the drainage trench they stood on and squeezed onto the floor in soft chunks. They stepped over it and followed the hum to the generators.

Generators. Bombs. Done. They zipped their bag to leave and turned to see Radio broaching the edge of their bubble with one arm tight to its face. It waved its free hand at the basement stairs. A second bubble of light swelled from the exit, growing larger each passing second. Damn it. Swapping their own lamp for their shovel, they darted back through the ooze with Radio. The generator hum covered their splashing steps and the thud of their shoulder hitting the cinderblock wall as they flattened themself to it.

"Shut up, we have to check the gens anyways. I don't want to be stuck here with no refrigeration when the solar panels fly off."

"Why? It already stinks... was Dave down here earlier?"

"What? No."

"But the light—"

Shit, they'd left the lamp lit.

Planting their foot, True swung. Metal met metal with a jostling clang that drove them back. Radio darted into the opening to snag factioneer number one and yank her down into the muck. Recovering, True side-stepped into the light, straight into a gut punch. Vomit splashed the back of their throat. They jammed the shovel handle up into factioneer number two's chin. A hand rose from behind, grabbed them, they let the full weight of their body slam into factioneer number one. Heard a crunch. Debated through a headful of stars whether it was their shoulder or the factioneer's.

They took a hit. Another hit. Threw their head back, cracking their skull into factioneer number one's face. Static burst across their eye and they kicked out, made contact. Kicked again. By the third kick the static had cleared and both factioneers were on the ground, unmoving.

Leaning over, they spit a mouthful of sour bile. Radio wiped a smear of blood from its nose and stomped out the lamp. Two bombs down, two to go.