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Get out before they catch us alive

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The letter is on his table. The one from three months ago. Kerberos Mission Failure. It feels like forever ago. 

He's 17 and living alone in a dessert. No internet, no games, no people. So? He works out. He runs 3, then 5, then 10, then 15 miles across the dessert and does it again, again, again, again, again, and again until he barely feels it. He lifts the shitty mismatched weights he bought at a thrift shop a month ago until his arms force him to drop. He learns to steal, raises garrison vehicles for weapons and food. Reaches himself to use the sword he found once, when he was still in the garrison. Doesnt think about how he and his dad were the ones to find the shack, 10 years ago. And lastly,

He tracks it. The humming. The feeling of waiting where when come find that echos from somewhere across the desert that he'll find because maybe it'll lead him to shiro or maybe he'll die trying but he won't give up because if anyone asks, shiro is his brother, his only family. And maybe without him, death is better than wondering what he's supposed to do now.

In his head he sometimes think of Shiro s omewhere in the range of 'dad'. Someone who looked out for you, who made sure you knew your responsibilities. Someone who loved you. 

Someone who would stay.

 

When he enters the bar, He's looking for information. Simple. Seen anything...weird? Felt anything east of town? Seen any lights? 

The answers always no .

Its not the first time he's been here. The bartender looks at him, then slides him a glass of something definitely illegal and probably cheap as shit. He drinks it anyway. 

 

 

 

He's not sure who starts it, but what matters is his heads bleeding, He's laughing and mounting his motorcycle as fast as he can while the worlds still spinning a little. He's just out of the parking lot when four men in tailored suits run to their cars and peel out after him. He leads them up the mountain roads, heading for something. To make a last stand, to get out. He doesn't know. 

The cars follow.

Even as he heads on and on and on, the follow. What did he say to them again? He can't remember. Its probably not that important. Something about space, maybe.

As he pulls to a sudden stop. Something in his becomes more resolute. 

Sure, they've followed him this far. But he'll make sure they won't be following him home. 

The all stop, one after the other.

One: A matte black paint job so ugly he cringes.
Two: a bright lime green that looks toxic or worse.
Three: a deep maroon, shining so bright the paint looks fresh enough to drop down.
Four: a car so glittering white, the moon glares off it like its own light source.

He stands, keeps one hand on a pistol, another on his mother's dagger. When one man fired at him and misses, there a freeze in time, before hell breaks. 

Hr shoots back quickly. while gaining ground on the man who fired first, Keith drags his knife across the man's throat. 

The man crumples.

Keith feels it happening suddenly, a twist on his skin, his ears are sharper, his eyes better. He hates the click of a trigger and ducks, the bullet flies overhead. He throws a more disposable knife in the same direction and years a choking noise then nothing. 

 

The fourth man. He watches, unarmed.

"Why," Keith spits out "would you follow me for some stupid questions?" 

"You're on to something. Something that some very high up people don't want you to know. I personally am sick of this stagnant air. I think you will bring needed change." he smiles socially, and in one fluid quickly motion, brings a gun to his own head.

"Don't let them fool you. The truth is that blood means nothing when you choose to ignore it." Thr gun is silent. His body falling against the car is louder than anything.

Keith stands there. Dagger in hand. Bloodied head. Shoulder grazed by a bullet. And wonders.

How did I do this? Was that really me? Three bodies and a gun with my findrprints say yes. The blood on my knife says yes. 

it takes him till noon the next day to handle the scene.