The smell of stale cigarette smoke gave Atticus a craving, his mouth salivating slightly, his wrists bound to both bars, unable to scratch the itch that had been moving in his left arm like an insect under his skin. The aches and pains in his body settled in as his adrenaline had long faded, along with the alcohol.
It was the stagnant air; he had not once heard the vents inside the station moving, not rumble of the metal echo. A musty old police department was a wonderful place to be when the air conditioning was out. Sprinkles on the ice cream.
His head was low and fixed to the table, unable to look ahead at the one-way mirror demanding he face his inadequacies, making him accept that this was inevitable. Detained and bound for what always was, as was always drilled through his skull, lashed across his back in case he ever forgot.
The slow tapping of his thumb across the stainless steel table was in rhythm with the ticking of the wall clock above the door, subconsciously matching the rhythm of the throb in the right side of his head; he could feel the embedded pebbles. The events were fuzzy as he thought of them.
Counting the time had long slipped into the back of his mind; he'd not been in this room too long, but seeing the time tick by made it drag even further. Each glance had shown only the passing of one to five minutes. He needed to be thinking of a way out, not idling around waiting for someone to throw him a bone.
Atticus took another glance, 1349; "fuck me," he hissed with the slam of his foot on the marble. He felt the slight tug of the cuff to his ankle, fighting the urge to slam his head on the table for his blatant lapse in judgment, letting his weaker impulses best him. Look both ways; so simple a child can do it.
Yori had put out feelers to try and find a way out of the city past the guard perimeter, yet Atticus didn't ask for it. He'd also found out that the first car he gave to Yori wasn't in his possession either; Yori had offered it to Emari for her sixteenth birthday, and she had apparently vehemently refused to learn a stick.
The only other options were to get with Rusty if he wasn't arrested by now, or Father Andrews of Raccoon's Lutheran Church, which he'd prefer not to do. He'd leave the praying to Yori and Mike; he wasn't entirely welcome inside their church because of his high school antics.
It was perhaps his own thoughts that were worrying; too much self-noise in his mind. The solitude used to be a blissful retreat away from the world, yet now there was too much to sift through—too many remorseful memories and the regret that followed with them.
Finding out Helen was gone struck the most; he'd hoped to make amends or perhaps at least have a proper goodbye. The things he said still rang in his head; he could tell Emari still held onto it—she held onto all of it. Atticus's lower jaw trembled faintly; of all the physical pain, Helen's passing hurt the most.
Helen had been too set in her ways, but the locals loved her—a true example of a person willing to help anyone when needed, even if it didn't benefit her in any way. Like Yori, they saved him, regardless of how much trouble he caused. There was more, but like his younger sister, he was kept in the dark.
Before he came back, it was all he could remember of their time together: the arguing over various things, his resentment at being treated like a child. Now that she was gone, he was beginning to remember all she had done, from the simplest things like early morning breakfasts to small life advice while growing up and relationship advice.
Aside from forcing him to go to church, a small ask in retrospect, she never made him do anything he didn't want to do, never asked anything of him, and always forgave him. Now she is gone. The only thing he had to pay for her passing was being arrested in front of her daughter and husband.
It had Atticus thinking about his first encounter with Yori. Having found Atticus trying to hotwire his car, he was fourteen then, trying to get out of town for the third time running. He was always running. Since the first time he escaped, he managed to find multiple ways out of the facility, which made him question what else was hidden under the city.
As imperfect as humanity was, Yori and Helen made him believe there was something left to salvage in those around them that they attracted. Atticus expected to be picked up and hauled to the station; instead, he was brought in, fed, and cared for.
Perhaps that's why he went back. It was safe, the closest thing to home. His running then led him to Yori, a new family that cared about him, his friends.
Facing the observation glass, he turned his head away from the door that sat behind his left shoulder. In the corner, with a camera sitting overhead pointed at him, a woman looked at him with a blissful smile. Her short black hair gave him a warmth that flooded through him he'd almost forgotten.
A warmth that was quickly enveloped by the cold pit of realization that Helen was just a figment of his mind's warped cruelty, making him face what he didn't want. Her face held the same compassionate light as if she were sitting before him, like she was seeing into him. He wondered if what she believed was real and if she was seeing his crimes, for the monster he always was.
This reminded him of the people he disappointed, now gone. The closest thing to a mother was dead, likely by whatever tried to kill him when he returned, or perhaps she tried to dig into his life again, and he wasn't there to stop it.
His family wouldn't ever let him go, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise. They put too much time and money into him, their lifelong investment. They, like his mistakes, followed and shadowed his every move and thought.
The same persistent itch now accompanied by a burning sensation ached. Atticus's face twitched, unable to scratch his temple. Throwing his head to the left, his left hand gripped the bar on the table. The old security cuff, now zip-tied around his forearm, clattered and clicked across the metal table as he shifted away from Helen's quiet scrutiny.
At least he didn't kill the officer arresting him where Emari could see, perhaps the journalist too; it would have been an easy slam-dunk headline. He didn't much understand how Lily could possibly think she could help write an exposé? He'd be judged the same.
It was a stupid decision to tell her anything, yet another lack of liquor-fueled judgment, not that he needed the booze for that as he was fairly good at bad judgment without it. He couldn't trust people in media work; this is what he needed to remind himself as he nodded.
The world was full of people playing nice: charlatans, bums, killers, all motivated by their own self-interests. He couldn't recall the exact quote; he had heard it from someone Yori or Helen knew, and he had visited a few times as a kid to watch him and Emari until they trusted him to watch her himself.
Yori would call him prideful, though it was more a matter of not wanting to burden others with his problems. It was never his intention to be rude; enough people had sacrificed, given, and helped. Enough people had died.
He realized he perhaps should not have gone to Yori's—a bad call under any circumstance, though it was nice to see family again. The food, especially, was needed, even with the stomach pains; he managed to eat more than he could realistically handle.
Despite the circumstances, he felt a lot better than he did the night of his escape, though the feeling of guilt kept reminding him that he owed Yori for cleaning out a large portion of his restaurant stock when he was bedbound. He was a sucker for hibachi, if anything. Sushi was a particular soft spot. Emari didn't care for any of it; she was a pizza and burgers type of person.
Perhaps now was a good time to reevaluate his situation, and without Emari or Yori in a crossfire, he could focus on getting out without collateral; odds are half of this department was corrupt anyway, much like the damned town itself.
The police station was about as he remembered it from the last time he had been the guest of the hour— that stupid statue in the lobby mirrored the one on the Estates' front lawn. Most of the building had a fusty smell like the old labs that managed to pry up past memories.
Most of the department he had seen looked tired; perhaps they were strained from what little conversation he caught from a couple of officers. Tilting his head to the side to glance at the camera, back several years ago they were new; now they were dated like everything in this city.
It had dawned on Atticus that technology changed fast, and one had to keep pace— another thing he failed to do. The military had a tendency to both keep up and lag behind, adhering to the idea of not replacing what isn't broken.
Mechanically, it's sound advice, though as he's been told, the opposite was true from more attuned minds more electronically inclined. The thought since he had arrived was who was possibly watching; it concerned him that any of his family could be, likely having some corporate goon sending a phone call at first notice.
A faint static crackled from the small speaker above the mirror. Atticus glanced up at it, then tilted his head back down—just another poorly maintained gadget. Amid the electronic noise, a smooth, comforting voice came through: "Life can be pretty harsh, can't it? We put our trust in others and sometimes end up heartbroken. We strive to make the world a better place, only to see it get hurt, left bleeding while the vultures circle. We hope for a savior, a hero, but the reality is that they're a rare find in a world where evil is often right in front of us, spreading its poison the longer we ignore it."
Atticus listened intently, feeling a sense of inevitability wash over him. Emari was right; he seemed more like a troubled soul who needed to be locked away, perhaps carted off to death row. He wondered if he really had harmed those people in the park. He recalled reading that people don't always realize when they're experiencing a psychological break; they often trick themselves into thinking they're okay. Maybe he had cracked under pressure months ago and was now just a shell, lost in a daze, performing tricks for the onlookers.
The gentle voice cut back in, interrupting his spiraling thoughts: "Well, well, I was curious if I'd ever get to meet you, the wayward son. The press conference next door should keep the Chief occupied for a bit. But time is fleeting, as I'm sure you know. It's sad, really; there's not much hope left for this city, not for lack of effort.
"You know how things work around here. Still, I feel compelled to help you, despite what you might have heard. I see things that are often overlooked. I've been keeping an eye on you and your family for a while now. Even your decision to re-enlist showed your determination to stay away—it's unlikely that running away will make any difference. Smart move, honing your combat skills to give yourself a few extra years. I have a way to help you out of your current troubles."
At that moment, Atticus realized he was staring blankly ahead, feeling like a stranger in his own skin—an unsettling mix of emotions flooding him. He chose to focus on the intercom instead. He hadn't joined the military to become a fighter, after all; it had been his only way out of prison. "Should I really be naive enough to believe you're just a friendly face, here purely out of kindness? That's sweet, but I'm not really into that kind of affection. I can't help but think about how closely you've been watching me; it's downright pervy in a way," Atticus replied sharply.
The speaker crackled once more as the voice responded enthusiastically laughing: "And that's the key question, isn't it? Just like you put your trust in your sister, I've seen some rather disturbing reports recently—very troubling indeed. Of course, I'm doing this with the expectation of a future favor. I'd have preferred to catch you at the restaurant. We have a mutual acquaintance as well. You'd be a significant player in what's coming, provided you make it through. Of course I've been watching, closer than you know."
There was a brief static pause, and Atticus couldn't help but feel the man was relishing the drama of the moment. He reminded himself to take a deeper breath as he processed the unsettling conversation.
No way could he conceive of trusting a stranger, blindly like an innocent child, like the sheep being led from one person's pasture to another for slaughter. He knew his family's company was in a limited partnership with Umbrella, albeit tense and deceitful.
Yet, he was getting nowhere as it was and knew jack shit about what was going on. "Alright, spook with no manners or name, let's say I agree to… help. Why come here for me exactly, and what do you know of my family? What's your whole… deal?"
He was still there, the cold static from the trigger press and the electric ticking of the clock echoing off the annoyingly bright room, growing gradually annoyed as he paid it all mind. Considering the possibility that the man in the box was trying to play him for a fool, dog piling in.
The gradually deafening static spoke again: "My poor manners, just call me Trent. You're not my initial business, and Raccoon isn't the place to be right now, but I think we can help each other, so I'll be as… straight as I can.
"The drive you're in possession of contains your family's… original research. Very busy bees, your family. They wanted to play gods, trying to replicate what you took from them—successful, but bastardized and at a substantial cost. I want that drive; not only can it be linked to Umbrella, it's immeasurably valuable.
"Unfortunately, we are dealt our hands. For your own, I have sympathy in a manner of speaking. If you choose to stay, rather than make the same decision as before, then just perhaps you can protect those you care about. I'm not one to cast judgment, yet we can only bury our heads in the sand for so long before we need to come up for air. To smell the roses as they say.
"I have some assets still present—like-minded individuals interested in unveiling what has been happening in Raccoon for a decade now. All the loss and pain you endured, others have as well, all buried deep under everything this place has been hiding for half a century now. Misdeeds kept under wraps.
"Those kids you found under the old orphanage, it's all just a small piece of it. You're not the only one who followed the trails; it's almost like… someone is hiding the bodies, yet that's not what I want to speak of.
"As I understand it, your family took something dear from you. I understand that as it is connected to why I wished to speak with you, but my bone to pick belongs to another entity. What remains of my family's work courses through your veins—what your parents tested on you in that dark chamber.
"From what I learned, I understand you are hiding the data they've been trying to replicate. One can only imagine what we would be looking at if you never did; it's rather interesting when one's selfish desires manage to inadvertently keep many from dying.
"What I absolutely know is that your destination was never the chair, Mr. Slade; it was where they believed you belonged once more. Yet you're a fighter, aren't you? Even in some of your footage, like now, I can see that burn in your eyes no matter how you mask it."
A crackled sigh followed the man's statement: "You'll soon see what this city is to become, just a taste of what has been both hidden and ignored. It was Oswell Spencer who struck a deal with your father, a deal that solidified the hold of your family and Umbrella on this city—two different fists strangling the same victim.
"It occurred to me that you're the only one who can stop your family. I considered your sister, but she's, well... After learning of what they've done, I was hoping that you would want justice, perhaps revenge on your brother or perhaps the others. Though I could be mistaken."
The static had cut off, and the talking box had gone quiet. Atticus was still, eyes narrowed as he tried to sift through the man's smoke show. "I don't care about your cryptic messages; I'm too tired, tired of all this shit. I'm definitely not doing the dirty work of a spook." Atticus's reply was only met with the buzz of the fluorescent light reflecting his image, which was all he received in return; that static from the intercom had ceased.
He glanced down to see a blood spot on his pants where the stitching had come undone. His ass grew increasingly numb in the flat metal chair by the minute before he called back to the box. After another few minutes of sitting in silence, he concluded his assessment of psychosis. His head returned to its sag. He felt the fatigue tugging at his muscles, the same fatigue that had been sinking in for the months of his imprisonment.
The voice came through; this time the tone of calm, collected criticism slipped through the urgency the man held: "There are over five billion people in this world—good, evil, all the above—all fighting for their best interest. Yet, the only one holding you down is yourself, even when those around you might be to blame. But it's your own blame for not getting back up."
The words sank in; he'd heard them before a long time ago—a time so distant, before everything he'd worked for went sideways. Suddenly irritated, he snapped back at the box, "Who'd you get that from?" After no response came back, he raised his voice and called back again, to no response. The static didn't return.
The thoughts inside Atticus's mind shifted to the dark, damp chamber that was essentially his main bedroom at the estate, like images beginning to be displayed by a magic lantern that he wasn't able to look away from, his mind strapped to the chair with his wrists bound to the observation room table, forced to recall what the man had forced him to remember. He now detested the box man, pushing aside the aching itch that began to run across his scarred back at the memories.
The observation room door to the left clicked as the handle turned. Atticus didn't look to acknowledge it, even after the person's scent of tonka wafted in with the fresh cycle of air before the door closed again. Stepping inside with the click of their heels across the tile, they came to a stop right in front of him.
Atticus's curiosity died with the scent of tonka bean; he knew exactly who it was—nobody else he knew wore anything like it. Though it was its similarity to artificial cinnamon that prodded at his nerves. Perhaps without that, it would just be the sweet smell of vanilla and almond—conflicting, considering vanilla was a preference in his mind.
His eyes took in the supple, creamy skin as he followed the legs upward, ending at the line of a deep blue dress skirt that held snug and accentuated the curves of her hips before meeting the line of the blazer to match, then the tag reading RNN, McClaire. His mind aligned with the opinion of the fragrance.
The sudden flood of disinclined lust and disgust ran through Atticus's body, joined with nausea, continuing upward to see the rose-lipped face set in a sly smile, Julie's hazel scan of his appearance with her arms crossing over her chest as her hip leaned to one side. "Couldn't you at least give me a hello? Didn't expect you to get all gussied up before seeing me. Although…"
Julie's eyes scanned over his body before leaning against the mirror, a silent laugh inching across her face. "...I have to admit, I don't recall you looking this, er, refined. It's been quite some time since you… moved on."
It was the taste of iron in Atticus's mouth that grounded him in the reality of biting his tongue; his body was a furnace with the gas valve wide open. His brows furrowed and jaw clenched—hardly a pinch of the pain he was feeling coursed through his body, a strange disease that wanted to connect with its host, no matter how much ache it caused to try.
A strained, hollow smile grew across Atticus's lips. He straightened himself, meeting her eyes and keeping his voice low and smooth. "Well, even a mess can be tidied from time to time. I can see you spent a lot of time making me the boogeyman for your headlines, although isn't espionage a criminal offense?" His eyes gauged her smile.
Rolling her eyes, Julie let out a brief, almost soundless laugh as she began slowly walking around the table. "Well, it's not espionage if the information was delivered on a silver platter. I must say, I didn't ever expect to see how far you've fallen. Somehow, you look better while you do it. I must admit, I didn't much plan out how any of this was going to go.
You always did have a flair for the dramatic accidents, though I expected you to go primal by now. Perhaps you leveled that head of yours, always making simple mistakes when you're worked up. Just like leaving without a word, being able to throw everything away for someone who isn't around anymore, just to walk away from me, even your adopted family and friends. I think that's karma."
The color in Atticus's vision dulled with a flicker as his pupils dialed in on hers. The forced facade he held shattered without realization as the smile he bore gradually sank. Anger always surfaced so easily, much like the ever-constant reminder of regret coming to pay its dues in the dark of night. The click of Julie's heels echoed in his mind with each step as she began carrying an orbit around him, leaving his own reflection to judge.
A distant muffle was hardly acknowledged through his senses, too burdened by the screaming of his subconscious reminding him of his inadequacies, beating into his mind from the very first point of his being.
Atticus was trying to remember the face of who she was, barely able to recall the voice—an angelic melody that soothed his temper so easily. The grip he had on the table bars tightened as a dull ache began to settle in. After a moment, the pressure on Atticus's ears lifted, the sharpness in the air coming back, hearing Julie say, "...Really, the silent treatment?"
Atticus's sight focused back in on Julie as she came to the end of her strut around the table in her fallaciously velvet tone. "I just want something for old times' sake. Perhaps on how you escaped? You can at least do that for me, can't you? Come on, Atticus," leaning in briefly, her fingers brushing his hand before he balled his fist in an attempt to brush her off. Then Julie tilted her head, "I thought you stopped drinking. Relapsing, are we?" Looking down on him disdainfully with a shake of her head.
Leaning back in the chair, Atticus eyed her. "Just a lapse in judgment. How I escaped doesn't matter; looking to print another headline to write about how I'm not firing on all cylinders?" Watching Julie glance away, her lips had a tendency to scrunch to the side in thought, then glance back over to the corner of the room, close by the door. Hanging from a mount, a bulky boxed camera sat in the corner, its ominous red blink periodically letting it be known of its presence.
It wasn't like Julie to simply prance around for her own amusement; she was too methodical. Watching Julie in her reverie of thought, he began to notice the pull of her inner lip on one side, her hand toying with the hem of her coat. She was debating something, but he didn't know what and didn't much like the idea that she was planning something.
Julie turned back, her eyes focusing on Atticus with an unnerving intensity, reaching inside her coat, barely showing an electronic device, small unlit bulbs fitted across the surface with small lettering by each.
With a flick of a switch on the side, the small bulbs illuminated singularly in turn before traveling across in rhythm before Julie put them back into her coat. "It's a short-range RFI; it sweeps the frequencies and disrupts any audio recording. It doesn't last long before the batteries die out, though; apparently, it's a design flaw, but it's useful enough; Egg is still working on it."
He watched her warily, trying to gauge her before rumbling broodily "What are you playing at?" Julie took a seat across from him staring with her head pivoting back and forth, likely trying to figure a way to mess with his mind, "No game, lughead. I'd like to get this over with before someone comes by, or worse, your damned sister, alright? I was only able to buy some time. You've been gone, but things have been happening here, more than your family."
With a snort of laughter "My sister, oh but I made all the crap about my family up, remember?" Atticus rose from his chair, held in place by the cuffs that clattered and held straight with the tension "Just another feigned attempt at attention, remember? In fact, while we're in this face to face, why don't you tell me something…
How does someone go along with the idea that her friend never existed, how someone can hide every detail from the person it hurt most, or how you can even look at yourself in the mirror knowing you're only in the position you're in because you took shortcuts." His eyes bore into her unblinkingly watching her reaction, he wanted to continue, opening his mouth, his voice hooking in the back of his throat, immediately closing his mouth back shut before digging in further, then sitting back down. There was no point in digging for answers, not from her.
Julie's face paled briefly before she narrowed her eyes, opening her mouth mimicking his in return, he could see the calculation in her eyes before she began "You don't know anything, Atti. You were always comfortable with you head up your own back end or playing the fool. At the end of the day, you're no different than your family." She threw her auburn hair off to the side and waved her hand off hurriedly.
"Nonetheless, I made the decisions I made to survive. If you'd just stop being such an emotional baggage case and work with me here, okay, it's not exactly like you were so fun to be around anyway…" with the roll of her eyes she faintly huffed "Enough. You're getting me off track, I've got contacts and if you're willing, we can pool resources, maybe even work together for a common goal.
"I figured you ought to know, Helen was one of them for obvious reasons considering she used to be the head of Umbrella's tech division long before you came into the picture, though she didn't… go missing until she started digging around into your family."
With the clench of Atticus' jaw once more, his eyes narrowed, the ticking of the clock clicked bounced off the observation room walls, a slow drown out growl rising over it. "You don't get to mention her name, not after what you did and not after... Not after pulling the stunt you did. Why would they bother helping you, you're not trustworthy, a waste of time, even entertaining anything you say is nauseating. Is that why she died, helping you further your career?
The veins in his hands bulged as his fists balled up tightly, watching Julie's expression soften slightly, she remained standing there in an eye lock, looking down at him. "I'm sorry, Atticus. About Helen, she… she was a good person, she just wanted what was best for you and everyone else."
Julie's eyes to him had seemed remorseful in their own way, yet he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of buying into her games. Just another ploy, a trap, her specialty. Likely to make a big story, to fish a bigger one. The flicker of doubt in his gut rapidly extinguished and his expression hardened as the seconds ticked by.
Breaking eye contact, Julie's eyes cut the side at the clock, then down to her jacket before turning back to him, standing up. "Perhaps I'm wasting my time here, as much as I like to see you leashed, I don't want to see you dead. Unlike your brother who has been in prison for three years, he's been like an elder on a cruise, happy and carefree as always while locked away.
I'm almost positive he has that prison paid off yet isn't leaving, his cell was like a penthouse behind bars and he's been enjoying running the place. There's another thing, people have been coming up missing in the facility and I'm positive the records are being wiped. As for the twin, I don't know, he's gone ghost the day of your court case. Like he never existed.
"I don't find it a coincidence that a year after going in there was a prison break, and then this year the Spencer Estate incident occurred. I listened to some of the S.T.A.R.S. officers' debrief reports, paying a pretty penny to get anything before that department was suspended, and it's bad. It sounded vaguely similar to how you described the labs under your family home.
"Now you're here. As much as I hate the idea of it, I was thinking I could scratch your back and you could scratch mine, unless you're still too... self-effacing? Probably you're only of decent quality; you've never been one for the spotlight. Then again, it did make it hard to be around you." Julie finished, gesturing to him and then to his cuffs, her brow rising momentarily at the security cuff chain secured around his forearm.
Julie watched Atticus, gauging him, then she turned and began walking to the door. Dropping his head, Atticus cursed under his breath, muttering, "Wait…" Turning his head her way, Julie's heels came to a final click. Turning her head and raising a brow, she smirked as her sultry smirk rolled out, "Hate to see me walk away, or is it that you want it to last longer?"
Shaking his head and looking away, thinking perhaps what was the worst that could happen, be slapped? mumbling in response, "Shut up…" he sighed as his head sagged. "A zombie, blood, face all messed up, old campy horror movie-type shit. It was on the road; I barely registered it.
"The driver was half asleep, the guy in the passenger seat reactively jerked the wheel and sent us off the road. The driver died, and the other guy went to check it out. There were gunshots, and that's the last I saw of, uh, Stanson." His face set into a grimace.
"Then the dead guy came walking along to the Humvee. I got free and got out of there. He—it came for me, and I shit you not; I'm telling you the truth." Atticus's face was set into a hard grimace, fixated on Julie's as he tried to gauge her reaction, perhaps a flicker of something.
Julie's voice, slow and deliberate, piecing together the puzzle in her mind, "By the dam, then you went to Yori's, just an assumption, considering you were picked up near there. Your small circle made that easy to narrow down. Irons is fuming at ol' Mikey for that one." She let a small laugh escape. "He told him Yori's was already swept; even Lieutenant Branagh sighed off on that one. It's like watching a pig throw a tantrum around every corner."
"Yori has been a busy man lately. Since Helen and Koi, he's been restless. Darian, you remember him? The kid you crippled, is the only one I have had any contact with, but if he's already here, then I would assume he'd talk to the old guy if anyone. The old man has his connections, it seems. You're not the only fugitive hiding out here," patting her coat pocket with her sultry smirk, "Continue?
Atticus glared at her, irritated, trying to shrug off the itch inside his right arm that was gradually growing now. His clear gruff voice ricocheted off the walls as his tone rose, "So you're not even questioning it. Are you screwing with me? What the hell are you playing at? What the hell do you know?" He then realized his eye had begun to twitch, blinking to try and get it to stop.
Julie, catching the twitch, raised her palms to Atticus, "Calm down! I'm not out to get you. Believe me, plenty of larger fish are waiting for both of us, probably waiting for the perfect moment to strike, to make it look like an accident like the rest, which is exactly why I'm going to help get you out. I want to help." Julie replied, her tone smooth; the damned smirk made her bullshit less believable.
"You're definitely not crazy. It wouldn't surprise me if the man who attacked you probably has a poster somewhere. It's Umbrella's work; your family is taking full advantage. My home office was broken into, though I wouldn't have known if they didn't break the window lock. As you know, not everyone in this city has the people's best interest at heart."
A snort escaped Atticus as quickly as his eyes rolled dramatically, "Like you do?"
Julie's smile faltered slightly for a brief moment, quickly recovering, "I care about people too, I'm just not going to sacrifice myself for people who wouldn't do it for me. Plus, some of the things I've seen have been…" she trailed off as her eyes glazed over before she shook her head slightly, he knew that look in her eyes, he needed to suppress the empathy.
"That girl scout you saved made the mistake of putting all her eggs in one basket and trying to blow the roof off Umbrella, as if others haven't tried. She trusted the system, but the system raided her home and took everything. They even tried to make me look dirty while doing it." Atticus caught the disdain in her voice, which actually pleased him.
Catching the ghost of a smile that casually seeped through Atticus's demeanor as she finished, Julie's expression flattened. "Typical. Though it doesn't change the fact that Umbrella was watching her, and now they likely know about you, and know about your adoptive family as well. I figured you ought to know. You're a big, fat walking target for anyone trying to get a corporate raise."
With the turn of her head to the clock on the wall, she cursed to herself before sliding her hand into her coat pocket, followed by the faint click of a switch before standing. Looking at him momentarily, her lips parted briefly before she closed them once more and began walking to the exit.
As Julie's hand touched the handle, Atticus spoke. "So why would you help?" he asked, causing her to pause, turning back to him and propping her hand back to her side, a rare sight of fear flickering across her face. "Because… I'm afraid of your family. I'm afraid of this city, and I'm afraid of what's happening.
"I'm not pretending I haven't made mistakes; I definitely have. I focused all on myself that… the truth was always buried. I helped bury it, and I… need to right some wrongs. There aren't many people I would trust in this city. Perhaps it's too late to do it; I don't know.
"I know as much as I can't stand being in the same room as you, I know you won't shoot someone in the back, and as much as I hate to admit it, no matter how much you dislike them, you're trustworthy to a fault. You're also the only one I know who can get into your family's facility. Their networks are more sophisticated than Umbrella's, and their security is far more responsive to hacks. This means we need physical access to the servers, maybe a master console in the labs."
After a quiet moment that ticked by with the clock, Julie turned to exit, adding over her shoulder, "I'll get in touch with Yori." The handle turned before her hand rested on it again, and the hinges whined in protest. Atticus's Adam's apple dropped into his gut as Julie's audible quick intake of air carried; her steps faltered backwards, and Atticus saw her clutch the hem of her coat in an attempt to fidget her nerves back into order.
"Why, my, my! If it isn't my big brother and the… harlot." A musically saccharine tone carried as Lilith Slade ambled her way into the door, her hand extended onto the door as her arm blocked Julie from leaving, the door creaking back shut. "Well, I might say I've been meaning to catch up. Jules, you've been dodgy, and my calls have gone unanswered; that's rather rude, impudent as my mother would say."
Lilith's cruel smile briefly feigned a pout as she watched Julie's face pale while back-stepping closer to Atticus. "Don't call me that," Julie muttered steadily, backpedaling until her back brushed against Atticus's shoulder.
Briefly breaking his attention away from his sister's face, he glanced at Julie, wondering what had her in this state until Lilith's gaze fell on him. Her pale features broadened her smile. "And dear brother, so kind of you to return home. I'd like to say I prefer a family get-together, but you know how it is. So dysfunctional."
The possibility of why Lilith was toying with him, like his parents had, made Atticus feel like he was shrinking. His eyes remained locked onto every movement Lilith made, watching her ambled gait as she settled herself down in the seat ahead of Atticus, watching him like a predator watched its prey.
Lilith turned her gaze to Julie, her smile vanishing in an instant. "You have some explaining to do; trying to evade me isn't going to help you. I trust you've been careful with those T's you've been dotting because it would be unfortunate if certain maintenance workers accidentally unearthed anything illicit in your abode: wiretapping, trespassing, and the unlawful monitoring of several government officials. How regrettable it would be for that evidence to reach the police, courtesy of an overly helpful resident of Raccoon."
Atticus glanced at Julie just as he caught the flicker of her eyes turning to the right before they fell upon him. Her complexion had drained of color; he could feel her body quivering against him. Noticing her unease, he winked with his left eye, concealing it from Lilith and distracting himself from the unsettling rhythm of his heart—two beats per second. His chest tightened, but he masked his anxiety, dismissing the rising questions about Julie's terror in response to his sister.
There was something amiss with Lilith; her confidence was unsettlingly heightened—too self-assured. Perhaps the games she had been playing justified the fear that had gripped Julie so tightly. Reminding himself to breathe and steady his voice, he stated, "Don't concern yourself with her; she's always been the loudmouth. I've got nothing to add that the news hasn't already aired. I guess you squandered your time, but you got your information. This little reunion was about as delightful as I expected."
His gaze lingered on Julie long enough to catch a flicker of emotion in her eyes before she turned and hastily exited, the door protesting against her departure. Her hair flowed like silk as she spun around to offer Atticus a fleeting glance. To his astonishment, he recognized genuine concern in her expression—something he had not seen in ages.
Then, with a weak smile, she vanished into the corridor of the police station. For a brief moment, despite his internal objections clanging through his mind, he felt an emptiness wash over him—a sharp reminder that his years of isolation might have left him more hollow than he realized. He forced the aching thought aside, shoving aside that bread of sorrow.
As the doors closed with a woeful creak, Lilith's head swivelled from the exit; as soon as it clicked shut, her gaze shot back to Atticus, locking him in a tense stare. The unsettling grin that unfurled across her face sent a reluctant shudder down his spine.
"Mmm, brother. I had orchestrated how this little reunion would unfold, but you had to go and get yourself shackled again before we could proceed. So, I must inquire: why didn't you accept the deal our parents offered? It could have been resolved without fuss or drama."
Atticus sneered defiantly in response, "Oh sure, just toss aside everything and become their damn test subject for your precious tissue synthesis. I've had more than enough of the experiments. It's even more grotesque considering what I discovered in that orphanage—what Dade did for them. After all is said and done, you've turned out just like them."
His unwavering gaze swept over her, taking in the change; perhaps she had spent far too long hidden away rather than rejoicing in the world outside. He remembered her affinity for the outdoors, particularly the daylight, but now she seemed utterly adrift, lost in her own existence.
The sly grin on Lilith's face twisted into resentment before finally settling back to neutrality. Taking a measured breath, she interjected, "Perhaps if you hadn't abandoned me for those… pathetic facsimiles you call family, I wouldn't have to be this way. Embracing that pursuit with synthesis…" She shook her head deliberately, her voice trailing off.
"...that was even bolder; they still haven't forgiven you for that. In fact, they just started from scratch. I think the new and improved synthesis is even better, but like all progress, it has its drawbacks. Both brothers wanted to bring you back, but they wouldn't allow it, for the best, really. Perhaps now that data will come in handy."
There was no doubt in Atticus's mind that what she said was true. He could hear his brothers' voices now demanding that Atticus be punished for breaking the false facade of a family unit. Dade would look for any reason to beat him; Ordell was far more calculating.
Clicking his tongue before responding, "I can only imagine you were more than enthusiastic about that idea too." Lilith simply smirked, her perfectly manicured nails rhythmically tapping the table. "No, the plan has always been the same, just without you. You made your choice, and I'm fine with that, regardless of how you screwed me in the process. I do, however, need something from you before we can bid our farewells."
Placing her purse on the table with a resounding thud, Atticus exchanged glances between Lilith and her purse, wondering what she could possibly be up to and what was in the bag. The unnerving intensity with which she was staring at him, with the ghost of a smile on her face and the smell of the jasmine she wore strangling his airways, was palpable. Lilith then began to unzip the bag. "Would you like to see how far we've come without you, brother?" The clock on the wall continued echoing, its ominous ticking filling the quiet.
The spine of Atticus's back shuddered as he heard the sharp, purring hiss of the zipper gradually opening; his eyes didn't leave the bag. Lilith's eyes unblinkingly bore into him without breaking her grin. Hung loosely between her fingertips was a small sheathed blade, popping the clip loose as it slid out. The blade glistened with a beautiful tale of his sister's past hobbies; to see her still carrying it around proudly solidified his fear from years ago.
Atticus jerked as the light reflected off the blade, the table holding him in place, an accomplice in whatever sadistic acts she had in store for him. A soft, melodic laugh echoed from Lilith: "Relax, big brother. I'm not going to hurt you unless you get in the way; you're more valuable distracting the locals."
She waved the eloquently engraved knife point at him and began to wave it around as she cheerfully chimed, "I've been thinking of all the ways I can tell you about the work I've accomplished, but I can't. I'd have to show you."
Then, rapidly, Lilith threw her body onto her elbows as she leaned in closer, now inches from his face. "So I have a proposal: help me. Together, we can take them on; they wouldn't stand a chance. Mother, father, brothers, then that decrepit old bastard, Spencer. The world could be ours, the first to lead humanity forward."
Atticus simply stared at her, unsure how to process the mix of emotions he was feeling: shock, disgust, and the sudden feeling of regret that crashed in knowing he was partly responsible.
He looked down at his bound wrists, then steeled his resolve to look her in the eyes. "I can't have any part in any of that. I'd help kill them, but I'm not part of this new age human eugenics shit; it's not right, Lil's. Do you enjoy this, playing a god?"
The smirk on Lilith's face turned stony, her eyes glazing over in an unsettling manner. Atticus couldn't tell if she was still staring at him until her eyes adjusted, noticeably dilating. "You don't get to call me that... not anymore, not after you left, not after... not after you didn't protect me like you said you would."
Lilith then placed the blade onto the table just out of Atticus's reach before taking a small black metal case, popping the latch and opening it. Atticus didn't recognize the electronic device with the small screen, but he did recognize a syringe gun when he saw one.
One of the vials was empty, two held a blue liquid with a hue that matched their eyes. The needle in both the gun and the digital device made him squeamish, his mind screaming at him to run, though pointless. Looking away to ease the nausea that was settling in as he tried to compose himself.
The stony-eyed stare that lingered on him turned into a sardonic smile; she knew all too well how he felt about needles. Rising from her chair and beginning to make her way around the table in a slow, euphoric drift while looking down on him, her smile couldn't grow any wider.
Each click of her steps was met with the clock's ticking. Atticus's mind flashed back rapidly; looking up at Lilith brought flickering moments of his mother doing the same, though the observation room was brighter.
The chains of the table clanked and rattled as Atticus shifted away from the direction his sister was approaching, forgetting his shins were Velcroed to the chair, trapped like a stray, lost and helpless as he attempted to keep away from her, futilely.
Lilith reached for his left shoulder and exposed a portion of his back, revealing the crossing of a gashed scar at the edge of his shoulder. The tips of Lilith's fingers brushed along Atticus's flesh. "You're obsolete, brother. Mother and father had something else in mind for you, but I have one of my own. Perhaps it was best that it happened this way.
"I don't have to worry about locking you in the pit for nostalgia's sake; not like I'll be taking you with me. You can die here with everyone else, but I have some use for you." A sharp sting of pain sank into his shoulder, causing him to jerk reactively, the nausea already setting in as Lilith pulled the plunger back, the syringe gradually filling with his blood before she removed it.
"There, there, that wasn't so bad now, was it?" Lilith teased, watching Atticus sway slightly, trying to keep himself from going unconscious, feeling the sensation of being pulled from, his blood filling the syringe.
Lilith's fingers clasped around his cheeks, forcing his face to look at her; her grip was like a vice, giving the sensation that the teeth in his mouth had shifted. "You and Dade have been nothing but a drag on my life, and now I'm going to get what I'm owed from you two. No more pleading from me like old times, big brother; I'm not a little girl anymore. You'll do your best to remember that you're no different from these rodents."
Atticus jerked his head loose, leaning further to the side, his body breaking into a cold sweat, his skin clammy as his mouth began salivating, feeling the wave of nausea intensify. Lilith continued in her smooth, nerve-gnawing tone, "Still have a thing against needles? You sure haven't changed much. Poor baby, thought you would have gotten over that in the military."
The room had begun to blur and fade; Atticus's head began to bob as the scent of jasmine and stale cigarette smoke wrecked his senses and morphed into the smell of a sickeningly sweet rot that had come to conquer. His eyes rolled as he felt another smaller stinging pain hit his neck.
After a quick intake of breath, Atticus bobbed his head off to his right, pivoting it as his blurred and fading vision saw Lilith's strained smile. "I would have preferred to bring you home, but it seems I'll have to settle for what I can get."
Lilith gave a teasing wave of the syringe in his face. "I'll have you know, you never did escape; the judge only delayed them from getting to you like your ridiculous antics in the military. You've been their little asymptomatic test subject since your transfer; you were even closer to them than we are here."
Watching Lilith return the syringe to the box, then into her purse once more, Atticus's brows furrowed, trying to stay conscious, his lips barely responding to his thoughts. "You… don't have…" The faded shadow of Lilith stood before him, faceless and dim, a black silhouette against the backdrop of the observation room's white walls.
His sister stood before him, lost, her obscured figure growing in size as he shrank within the room, his gut falling with gravity as Atticus's senses began to fail him, his ability to stay conscious slipping as his lucid nightmare drove him into darkness.
The ticking echoed around in infinite darkness, an insidious metronome marking time as shadows stretched and twisted within the void. Each tick felt like a countdown, a prelude to the inevitable surrender of his consciousness. The sensation of falling into nothingness overtook him, a disorienting plunge that made the very marrow of his bones ache with the weight of despair. As if tethered to some unseen force, Atticus' body jerked in reflexive protest, a visceral response to the paralyzing fear that coursed through him. His head lolled to the side, obediently succumbing to the oppressive gloom, and he began to mutter, barely audible even to himself, "... they'll... kill you."
Lilith's voice sliced through the suffocating silence, an eerie whisper that bounced off the impenetrable blackness like a cruel jest. It slithered into his consciousness with a disarming familiarity, lingering like smoke in the back of his mind. "Death is the only guarantee life can offer, big brother," she intoned, her words dripping with an unsettling mix of sympathy and cynicism.
The starkness of her declaration settled around him like a fog, thickening the air he breathed with the weight of inevitability. "What are you fighting for anyway?" she prodded further, her tone laced with a daunting conviction as it echoed into consciousness her words cutting deeper than any blade.
A shiver raced down Atticus's spine as he absorbed her words, each one a bitter reminder of the futility of resistance. What was there left to cling to when the prospect of survival felt like a fool's errand? His mind, a tempest of conflicting thoughts, spiraled relentlessly as he considered the truth woven into her dark narrative.
The echoes of his past choices rang through the void, each decision a frail thread that frayed under scrutiny. In this bleak expanse, illuminated only by the pernicious ticking, he wrestled with the shadows that danced at the periphery of his consciousness. The shadows were him, watching every thought that crossed his consciousness and snuffing out any memory worth holding onto.
With every heartbeat that punctuated the silence, a palpable tension thickened the air, a pressing reminder that time was slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. The sense of falling deepened, and his thoughts spiraled further into a chasm of doubt, mingling with memories both cherished and haunting. The question lingered—what was worth fighting for when the specter of death loomed so closely?
Lilith's specter, her voice reverberating through the darkness, haunted him, a reminder that in the grand scheme of existence, perhaps it was only the inevitability of loss that truly mattered. In that moment, amidst the stifling embrace of the void, clarity and confusion coalesced, leaving him teetering on the precipice between a forever fading hope and the promise of despair.
-
The slow, steady ticking of the clock; time wasn't on his side anymore. Everything Atticus had worked to avoid was closing in; it was disappearing or fighting, yet the idea of fighting seemed exhausting and disappearing seemed pretty damned pointless.
His mind felt split on the matter: his fear of what might happen to his family, his friends' families, and everyone else he did know. Most in this city didn't deserve a taste of what he knew his family was capable of; those that worked for them, some of the Umbrella associates that came and went.
The jerk of his body woke him, his hands instinctively coming up to stop the fall that never came. His hands were red, and the chain of the cuff rattled along the table. Then he recognized the musty and stale cigarette smoke, and a distinct smell of copper before his eyes started coming back into focus.
His heart began pounding as he realized the vicious feeling on his hands was blood. The chain, the zip ties holding it around his forearm, were cut and coated, moving along freely across the blood-soaked table. A black-suited body was slumped across the table right in front of him.
It took a couple of seconds for the scene to fully register; then he saw another suited man propped against the wall under the observation glass. The gaze of the black-suited man was fixed on him, the right eye pierced with a pen. The man's good eye was accentuated, glaring absentmindedly his way from his hard ebony features.
Not that Atticus knew the man, but he felt a pang of guilt, his eyes following the blood outline along the man's dark skin, leading down to his white undershirt tainted with the crimson stain. His eyes narrowed at the glisten from the man's waistband—a badge. With the struggle of blurred vision fading in and out, he could make out the first two words of 'Federal Bureau' and stopped there.
His chest constricted in time with the worry setting in, taking in the scene. Atticus knew the game well; his family were experts in underhanded acts of madness for their own goals, though his sister being the one doing it now was depressing as it settled in. She was one of them now.
Shaking himself out of his stupor, the chain link markings were visible on the man's pale neck, but pulled with such force it split the skin, seeping blood across the stainless steel table onto the floor—the other agent's black skin showing the darkened lines.
Too focused on the dead man's stare, his peripheral caught movement in the reflection of the observation glass. Atticus threw his head around to see a man in a uniform that matched the agents suits. The man's demeanor was like ice, steadily cleaning his hands with what appeared to be hand wipes; the black aviators he wore concealed his eyes, but Atticus could tell the man was glaring his way like the dead men before him.
As the man turned his faintly pale features toward Atticus, the pale white stubble, matching his short cut hair, ran along his refined and squared jawline. The man perhaps stood close to his height, and he couldn't make out whether the man was old or not, or perhaps military by how he stood like stone. In the back of his mind, what he could make of the man's face seemed familiar.
It was the faintly weathered but smooth tone that struck a chord: "Well, kid, you woke up sooner than she expected, it seems. Duty calls. Be happy she bothered curing your infection. I would say it was wasteful, but who am I to question?"
The man moved under the camera by the door, then with the blood-stained wipe, brandished a key and tossed it across the room onto the crimson-soaked table in front of him with a faint clatter.
Looking down to where the key landed, Atticus grabbed it, further staining his hands, already beginning on the first cuff. "Long time no see, it was a pleasure. Hope I don't see you around, kid." Looking back towards the door to see that the man had left, the camera's motion light then began blinking red again. Realizing his situation was FUBAR, he began moving faster, going from the first to the second as the cuff hit the table.
The murmur of varied voices outside the room began to grow over the ticking of the clock. He began quickly moving to the links holding his ankles; his fingers stumbled in their numbness, growing aggravated as he fumbled with the key, avoiding the dead judgment of the man before him.
The audible click told him he had found it; turning the key and moving to free his other ankle, he rose from the chair and moved to check the body of the agent on the table.
Atticus noticed the man was young, his eyes staring across the room. What was left of his slicked-back brown hair stood out as the other half remained soaked in blood and disheveled. His face had a faint hue mixed with the pallor of his skin, which had a gradual purple discoloration that made it uncomfortable to look at for too long.
Like a zombie with human eyes. Both of them stared blankly at him. Atticus didn't much like being stared at, judged, or noticed at all. This had to be the fudge for the sundae, and he was already sick of sweet surprises for one lifetime.
In a moment's hesitation, reflecting on the idea that these men would likely be alive if the situation were different, perhaps if he'd eliminated himself from the equation when he could.
Quite a few people would likely be alive if he hadn't crossed into their lives, like Kenny, his unit, and probably his own adoptive mother. At this rate, he needed to become a hermit, at least until he could figure something out.
Shaking his own thoughts, he moved for the agent's waistband, seeing the Glock 22. He reached in and did a mag check: empty. He huffed, racking it to find nothing was chambered. Tossing the gun aside, he moved to the other agent propped under the observation glass, avoiding the pen-eyed stare, reached down, and checked his Glock.
Bothered, Atticus reached over and closed the man's single eye. Then he checked the chamber: a round in the chamber. Checking the mag to find the bullet gone, he then chuckled to himself, "Alright, dick."
The tapping of shoes on the floor outside the door became more audible. He reached over to the dead agent's eyes and closed them.
His boot squeaked as he lost balance on the heel with a slip, catching himself and hitting the wall under the camera, propped in the corner behind the door, still listening to his thoughts.
Yet his eyes landed on the agent on the table, the ticking, the clicking, the buzzing. Atticus' thoughts began doing fly-bys; his mind caught the glimmer of wedding bands on their left hands.
With unnerving aggravation, his mind locked onto the idea that they likely had families. Like his own men, dead and their families shattered, children left fatherless and scared. The thoughts began to enrage him, though time was up.
The door groaned, coming open to obstruct his view, closing him in between the door and the wall. Then he heard the first person's startled response to the scene just past the threshold from what he could hear.
Bringing his knee up to hit the door, he sent it slamming closed. He saw a clean, dough-faced horror on the officer's alarmed expression as he turned to the commotion of the door, his eyes wide, reaching frantically for the gun in his holster, a stammer escaping as they failed to call out for help.
A quick jab to the officer's throat eliminated the alarm. Atticus reached out, grabbing the collar of the uniform; the tag labeling 'Kimber' glistened off the overhead fluorescence. Then he brought the man's weight around and sent his head into the concert wall.
The brief pang of guilt hit him as he saw the young officer's nose burst against the white of the room, an abstract splash of red along the stained white walls, like a terrible modern art painting splashed with red misting. Then the door cried out as it burst open once more.
Two more Raccoon police officers came in, weapons drawn. In quick response, Atticus pulled the young officer to him, shielding himself as he brought the Glock to the officer's head and pressed the barrel to his temple, causing them to pause. The older of the two had a hardened expression; he could see the focus on the end of his sight.
The two responding officers were definitely more experienced, one holding his sights on Atticus, with no blink or flinch in his expression. The other, a tanned officer, circled to his right in the direction of the observation glass to flank, heavyset and sluggish, with a more fixated visceral display than the agents.
Atticus shifted his weight, holding the half shield to block their shots. With a growl, he warned, "That's good right there, unless junior here wants to finish painting this wall with his brains, then I'll just kill you two anyway. Drop them, and you won't end up like the agents."
The officers threw worried glances back at each other. The first officer, Harrison based on the tag, had broken from his hardened focus as he raised a palm; the pistol he held, a Browning Hi-Power, hung from the trigger guard. "Okay, let's not do anything else rash here. He's just a kid."
The ticking of the clock carried as the room quieted, standing in their stalemate. Gambling was risky, but when options are limited, you have to make do, he thought. The only way out was through the door, but the officer wasn't likely to clear; if they responded, it's likely others would too. His eyes went to the motion light of the camera.
"Tell me, Officer Harrison, are you as dirty as the rest of this city, or are you just going along, turning a blind eye to collect that pension?" Atticus said, turning his eyes to the man, pressing himself to the wall to avoid the other officer's angle. The kid he was holding had begun to shake, rattling his mind into focus.
Officer Harrison, from what Atticus could see, broke his hardened expression before he found it again. "I've got family to take care of. How many people have you slaughtered like those agents there? Families and friends who will want to see you dead if not punished. You're not going anywhere, Slade. Security already alerted the department; it's only a matter of time."
Ticking, the buzzing, the beating of his chest grating his mind as he grew anxious. Then he brought the young officer back, throwing him towards the tanned officer, the tanned officer calling out in alarm as Kimber cried out in shock, trying to catch himself, sending them tumbling.
In that moment, he charged at Harrison as the man reacted, rightfully quicker than the other officer, sending him into the door and then reaching for the wrist of Harrison's gun hand. The gun rang out next to his ear as he came up; everything was momentarily mute.
Disoriented and pushing aside the high wave interference in his senses, his vision tunneled red. Atticus threw his leg behind the officer's knee, grabbing a handful of hair and slamming the man's head into the door.
The Browning pistol clattered to the floor, free to escape. Atticus let his emotions overwhelm him, his jaw gritted while he scowled and sank in, beating the man's head against the door, again and again. The officer's pained groan cut through his reddened vision as he saw the disoriented man's eyes rolling while his hands came up in a weak attempt to guard himself.
Atticus let go, and the officer's feet gave out, his body slumping to the tiled floor before a muffled crack rang out. He turned to see the tanned cop, shoving the young bloody-faced Kimber off him, a VP70 trained on him.
Atticus dove out of the interrogation room, faintly catching the muffled crack from behind, stumbling through the corridor, bouncing off the wall and catching himself as he pushed forward, his ears humming and disorienting him.
Passing the windows on his left, which let in an open draft from what looked like a back alley, he turned the corner at the end, running headlong into a blonde-haired officer. Finally registering his predicament, he heard more officers pile out of the press room.
Voices further down the East hallway likely responded to the gunshots. There were also muffled cries in the room next to him, the press room, with officers and civilians tripping over themselves trying to squeeze out the door. Some fell into the hallway. It was growing cramped and chaotic; too many judgmental eyes were about to bear down on him, grinding at his nerves.
The officer, her nameplate reading Spears, had her gun trained on him. He watched the point of the barrel, shaky, her grey eyes wide and stuck to him like he was a horror monster. She was petrified.
Perhaps she wasn't far off, yet he watched her, running a route in his head. He couldn't go out the front; he remembered the parking garage, but there might be more officers down there.
"Drop the gun and get on the ground, now," she commanded, though it was choked and lacked confidence, trying to sound commanding, but her eyes were wide and her hands trembled as she tried to keep the gun leveled on him.
Atticus glanced briefly backward at the window he passed, then caught the faint whimper of a kid he hadn't even noticed by the stairwell opening—two kids and a woman. A little girl was crying into her mother's side while the little boy watched him, seemingly unfazed as the mother pulled them closer. The mother was watching him, stoic, like a lioness protecting her cubs.
He didn't want to scar children for life over his poor timing or his dispute with luck itself. He had hoped to catch up with his sister and demand answers; perhaps that was a bit ambitious.
Spears repeated her command, this time sounding more confident; her trigger finger twitched. Atticus reached out and smacked the gun up, gut-punching the officer and pulling her around as the department's officers came to block his path, the tanned officer coming from the interrogation room, sliding to a stop and aiming at Atticus once again.
The barrel of his pistol, with a single shot pressed to Officer Spears' head, kept his arm braced on her neck, firm but not constricting. "Drop the gun; the last thing I want to do is kill anyone," his command was directed more toward the tanned officer as he inched himself back towards the window. Though nothing was stopping them aside from collateral.
The officers around him were all issuing their own commands for his surrender, peering civilian eyes over their shoulders. The tanned officer off to his right was itching at the trigger. Atticus assessed his options as the female officer's gun lay along the tiled floor. He considered grabbing it, though he'd be aired out by the department the second he tried.
To his surprise, Officer Spears balled her fist and swung her left arm back, connecting it with Atticus's groin, sending a sharp, blinding pain that coursed through his nerves. Perhaps on some level, he understood the action; normally, it would have shocked him long enough if it didn't piss him off beyond reason.
Atticus brought the Glock off Spears's temple, bringing his boot up to connect with her back, sending her tumbling into the growing crowd and Raccoon's finest and its nosey reporters. At the same time, he fired his only round blindly towards the tanned officer off to his right, not directly at the man.
Throwing his weight backward as he pumped both his legs toward the window, he underestimated the size and ended up hitting his head on the bottom window frame, his feet connecting with it as he fell out, restricting the flip he needed to do.
"Fuck." That was the only thing that crossed his mind as he felt his weight being pulled by gravity's inevitable conclusion, back first.
The uncoordinated yelling of officers rang out; three shots followed. He felt his back collide with the ground before he felt his head bounce off from the motion. The back of his skull hit the concrete below.
Atticus's senses ranged in his mind; the quick, blinding flash of white on impact with the searing pain of his head told him he likely had a concussion. Though he reminded himself to keep moving, seeing the window he dove backward out of, then seeing the random faces that quickly peered over and looked down. Then came Officer Spears.
Sorry, he thought to the female officer. She was peering over the window he'd dove out of to look down at him with widened eyes, strikingly greyed before her shortened blonde hair whipped out of view, leaving him to see the worn brick pattern that met the blue sky. No dark grey clouds in the rainy season were nice. Less depressing.
Shaking himself out of his reverie, Atticus forced himself up, feeling a sharp pain in his right hip as he stood. Fractured; at least it wasn't his spine or skull. It will heal. That's when he noticed, as he looked down at himself, that his pants were cut open, showing the scarred tissue of his thigh where the knife wound had healed. Emari's careful pink stitching stood out against his pale, hair-lined skin.
Placing a pin in that detail before officers started blind firing down at him, he focused on the issue at hand. Moving through the back alley of the department, he saw the neglected, worn surfaces of brick and concrete, the scattered trash, and random bits of furniture and equipment tossed aside and forgotten like most things in this city.
As he turned to see Koi over the tall wrought and wrought iron fencing, his naive hope rose gradually at the sight before he snuffed it out with reality. He couldn't go back; he shouldn't have gone in the first place. All he did was put a target on both his sister and Yori.
It quickly dawned on him he was too banged up to climb the wrought iron fencing after the backwards dive; then his eyes saw a manhole cover that seemed movable. It was too tall to climb in time anyway. His eyes began to dart around the back alley for something to use as leverage to open it, spotting a rusted bit of rebar stacked by a bunch of old scrap.
He hobbled over and snatched the rebar up, jamming it into the gap of the manhole cover and prying it open, sliding it to the side and staring down into the black abyss. Reluctantly, Atticus forced himself to slide down the confined access, his boot slipping on the grime that clung to the rusted ladder.
Hearing a metal door slamming open somewhere in the back alley, he bit down on his tongue and swallowed; his rapidly disgruntled nerves protested his mind about his decision as he pulled the manhole cover back against the remnants of the fall air that had come to the city.
Keeping his mind occupied, he thought to himself how it was a shame he was about to spend a decent day in sewage, making the observation room seem decent. It was the beginning of the rainy season, after all; a clear fall day was practically perfect in his opinion. It was a little thing, but it was one of the few things in life he really stopped to enjoy.
It was the sickening smell of moldy and stagnant mildew mingling with decay that smacked him back to the present, to the tightly compacted and grime-filled tomb. His face finally submitted to a hard grimace, shoving aside the enclosed feeling that had initially taken the forefront of his mind. No time for pussyfooting or letting little quirks slow him down; not now, at least.
Atticus then continued climbing down to whatever chance he had of getting out of this place, even if the confined darkness drove his mind into a frenzied fit of panic that had to be suppressed. This was now the cherry on top of the sundae. He wasn't about to get his hopes up, hoping this was a storm drain; odds were usually against him in that regard.