True thundered down the stairs, missing half the steps. Their trusty lighter wavered but held and cast thin light on the basemen. Stained floor, rust or blood leading to a drain under the bulb. Narrow drag marks cut through the stains.

And bodies.

Row after row of naked, sallow bodies swayed upside down from rusted chains. The back of the basement was lit, a second fridge hanging wide open to spotlight an IV, a blood bag, and two thrashing shapes.

Hrōkr towered over Radio, pinning it to a freezer. A hand wrapping a rusted chain tight around its neck, the other pressing a sleek black gun to its head. Wide, mirthless grin stretch over their bone-coloured maw. Horrendous wet sandpaper choking rang off the concrete wall.

"Hrōkr!" True hooked the gun from their waistband. The scarecrow of a medic swivelled to shine their grin and gun on True. Fire spit through the basement. True lurched out of the bullet's path, skipping the last stair. They pitched to miss stomping on the screaming kid, a wrenched muscle raking them from shoulder to hip. Hrōkr cocked their head. Ran their tongue over their teeth. Got halfway through the motion when a bullet took care of the rest of the teeth. True's finger shivered on the triggered.

Red misted the air, and the kickback burned all the way across their chest. Hrōkr was nothing but red. True saw nothing but red. They tossed the gun, without a break in their stride kicked the collapsing body down and for good measure stomped on the remnants of Hrōkr's skull. Wet squelches filled the basement.

They were about sick of these entitled jackasses eviscerating their life.

A final squelch and they stumbled back, bumping into one of the many cold bodies. They needed to catch their breath. The air tasted of rust.

"Radio?" They wheezed. Their side screamed where they'd pulled that muscle. Not surprising, not important. Pushing themself upright deleted their vision.

They blinked away stars to see red-stained hands reached for them. Radio, unharmed. Good, a ball of nerves unravelled from their stomach.

It pitched forward to—catch True? When had they started falling? It pressed their pulled side muscle.

Fuck that hurt. Shoved its hand away with gritted teeth. Fridge light glinted off shiny fresh blood on its palm. Glancing down.

"Shit," breathless, "oops."

The hand returned, pressing hard on the epicenter of the spreading lake of blood that stained their shirt.

Not a pulled muscle.

Hrōkr's gun drooled a lazy curl of smoke. The light flickered out.