( 20. marcus )

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THE GROUP had set up camp in an abandoned structure, its crumbling walls barely keeping the outside world at bay. Ellie sat near the makeshift fire, her hands tightly gripping her knees as her gaze darted to the darkened streets visible through the shattered windows. She strained to hear anything—footsteps, voices, even the rustle of movement—that might signal two familiar figures emerging from the void.

Nearby, Minho crouched against the wall, sharpening a blade with slow, methodical movements. Frypan was poking at the fire with a metal rod, and Newt was sitting next to him. Teresa sat with her back to the wall, arms crossed, her expression distant but watchful.

Jorge settled beside Ellie, offering her a battered canteen. "He'll find us, hermana. You'll see," he said, his voice steady and reassuring.

Ellie hesitated before taking it, the metallic taste of the water doing little to soothe the dryness in her throat. "I know," she murmured, though the tightness in her voice betrayed her doubt.

"Brenda knows these streets better than anyone," Jorge continued, studying her face. "And your boyfriend seems capable enough."

Ellie shot him a sharp look. "He's not my boyfriend," she said quickly, her voice sharper than she intended.

Minho let out a short laugh from his corner, not even looking up from his blade. "Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, Ellie."

Ellie glared at him, her cheeks warming. "Can we not do this right now?"

Jorge smirked but didn't press further. Teresa, however, was silent, her eyes fixed on Ellie with an unreadable expression.

୨ৎ

The sun rose harsh and unforgiving, its heat already suffocating by the time the group was ready to move. Jorge took the lead, guiding them through the city's streets. Ellie stayed close, while the others brought up the rear, scanning for threats.

They reached a building that seemed slightly more intact than the others, its windows boarded and its entrance guarded by two rough-looking men. Jorge approached with an air of calm, his hands loose at his sides.

"Marcus?" he asked smoothly.

"Marcus ain't here no more, dead probably," one of the men replied, his tone flat and unfriendly.

Ellie noticed the slight tightening in Jorge's jaw, though his expression remained neutral. "Ah, shame to hear it," he said, shrugging as he turned to walk away. "He owed me money."

The group followed Jorge down the street, moving slowly until they were out of sight. Once around the corner, Jorge motioned them toward a rusted fire escape at the back of the building.

"Marcus isn't dead," he muttered as he began climbing. "But he might wish he was soon."

The fire escape groaned under their weight as they ascended. Inside, the stench of stale alcohol and filth hit them like a wave. Marcus lay sprawled across a couch, his clothes rumpled and his eyes glassy.

"Lovely," Frypan muttered, wrinkling his nose.

Jorge didn't waste any time. He grabbed Marcus by the collar and hauled him upright, dragging him to a chair and tying him down with practiced ease.

"What the hell?" Marcus slurred, his head lolling.

"This might take a while," Jorge said, flexing his fingers as he loomed over Marcus.

Ellie, needing to do something besides wait and worry, turned to Newt, who had been quiet the entire time. "Let's go check downstairs—see if Thomas and Brenda wondered in."

Newt nodded, his gaze steady. "I'll come with you."

As they headed back down the fire escape, Minho called after them, "Don't get yourselves killed! We've got enough problems already!"

Ellie rolled her eyes but didn't respond. Somewhere in the wasteland of this city, Thomas and Brenda were either making their way to them or... she couldn't let herself finish the thought.

୨ৎ

The crowded club pulsed with deafening music, the beat reverberating through Ellie's chest as flashing lights turned the darkness into a disorienting blur. Bodies pressed together, moving in rhythm, and the suffocating heat made it harder to think. She pushed through the crowd, her heart hammering in her chest as panic clawed its way up her throat.

Then she saw him.

Thomas was crumpled on the floor, his body limp and unresponsive. A knot of fear twisted in Ellie's stomach, but she forced herself to move, shoving past dancers who didn't seem to notice—or care—about the unconscious figure at their feet.

"Thomas!" she called, her voice barely audible over the pounding music.

As she knelt beside him, a hand landed on her shoulder. She looked up to see Newt, his face pale but composed, his brow furrowed in concern.

"Help me," Ellie said, her voice trembling.

Together, they lifted Thomas, Newt taking most of the weight while Ellie steadied him. The two of them worked their way toward the stairs at the back of the club, struggling to navigate the crowd. By the time they reached the dimly lit upper floor, Ellie's arms ached, and sweat was dripping down her face.

Upstairs, the scene was no less tense. Jorge was still interrogating Marcus, who was slumped in a chair, his face bloodied and bruised. Jorge paced in front of him like a predator stalking its prey, muttering something Ellie couldn't hear over the ringing in her ears.

Brenda who must have wondered up here, sat in the corner, a glass of water in her hand, her gaze distant and unfocused. She looked up briefly as Ellie and Newt carried Thomas in, her expression flickering with recognition before she quickly looked away. Weird.

They lowered Thomas onto a tattered couch in the corner, Ellie brushing the damp hair away from his forehead. His breathing was shallow but steady, and the sight of his chest rising and falling brought a small wave of relief.

"Think he'll be alright?" Newt asked, his voice low.

Ellie nodded, though her stomach churned with uncertainty. "He just... needs rest," she said, though the words felt hollow.

Newt gave her a faint smile, then moved to join Jorge, leaving Ellie alone with Thomas.

୨ৎ

It wasn't much later that Thomas woke slowly, his body heavy with exhaustion and sweat beading on his forehead. His head throbbed, and his vision was blurry, but the first thing he noticed was Ellie leaning over him, her face etched with concern. Relief softened her expression as his eyes fluttered open.

"Hey there," she said softly, attempting to mask her worry with humor. "We've got to stop finding you passed out. It's becoming a bad habit."

Thomas groaned, pushing himself up on his elbows. His head spun, but Ellie's steady hand on his shoulder kept him grounded.

"Welcome back, you ugly shank," Minho said with a smirk as he crouched beside them, tapping Thomas lightly on the arm. "You sure know how to make an entrance."

Thomas blinked, taking in his surroundings. Jorge stood a few feet away, his fists clenched as he loomed over Marcus, who was tied to a chair. Blood trickled from Marcus's nose, staining his already grimy shirt.

"I suggest you talk!" Jorge barked, landing another punch across Marcus's face. The sound of the impact echoed through the room. "You son of a bitch!"

Marcus slurred something incoherent, his head lolling to the side. "You're... gonna have to leave my house," he mumbled, almost drunkenly.

Newt appeared at Thomas's side, dropping to sit on the floor beside him. "Looks like you've been having fun," he said dryly, gesturing to Thomas's disoriented state.

Thomas shook his head, trying to clear it. "What's going on?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"Jorge's handling negotiations," Ellie said, glancing at the scene unfolding in front of them.

Jorge leaned closer to Marcus, his voice dropping into a low growl. "Listen, I don't enjoy hurting you. But I will if I have to. Where is the Right Arm, Marcus? Where are they hiding?"

Thomas frowned, sitting up straighter. "Wait, this is Marcus?" he asked, finally piecing things together.

Marcus turned his bloody face toward Thomas, a crooked grin forming on his lips despite the swelling. "The kid catches on quick. Are you the brains of the operation?"

"Shut up," Jorge snapped, grabbing Marcus by the collar. "I know you know where they are. So tell me, and maybe—just maybe—I'll make you a deal. You can come with us."

Marcus let out a hollow laugh, his head lolling back. "I burned that bridge a long time ago. Besides, I made my own deal. You're the one who taught me, Jorge. Never miss an opportunity, right?"

"What's he talking about?" Newt asked, his voice tense as his eyes darted between Jorge and Marcus.

"I'm talking about supply and demand," Marcus said with a sneer. "WICKED wants all the Immunes they can get. I help provide them. It's a good deal for everyone—well, except for the kids."

Ellie stiffened, her grip on Thomas's shoulder tightening. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice low but sharp.

"Oh, it's simple," Marcus said with mock cheer. "I lure the kids in. Give them a place to stay, a little booze, a little fun. Then WICKED swoops in, separates the wheat from the chaff, and everyone gets what they want."

Jorge's face darkened, his jaw tightening as anger radiated from him. "I changed my mind, hermano," he growled. "I do enjoy hurting you."

He kicked Marcus's chair over, the force sending it clattering to the floor. Marcus yelped as Jorge pressed the barrel of his gun to his temple.

"Okay! Jesus!" Marcus shouted, his voice high-pitched with panic. "But I'm not making any promises! These guys like to move around. They've got an outpost in the mountains, but it's a long way from here. And with half of WICKED on your ass, you're never gonna make it. Not on foot."

Jorge's eyes narrowed. "Where's Bertha?" he demanded, his voice icy.

Marcus froze, visibly trembling. "Not Bertha," he muttered, almost to himself.

"Who the heck is Bertha?" Ellie asked, her brow furrowed as she glanced between Jorge and Marcus.

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