A To-Do List

[pants]

Lucas wobbled along towards the little corner he called home. Being drunk sucked. How the fuck did Sam do this regularly?
He unceremoniously thumped down onto his quilt and kicked off his boots.

He pulled out a scrunched-up napkin from his jacket.

A to-do list. Scrawled out with a dull pencil, in jagged straight letters.

TALK TO SAM FOR MARK.
HELP DEMI W/ WATER THING.
TALK TO KAROL? PAST JOB?
SET UP TARGET PRACTICE
ASK MADDIE ABOUT HER MOM
ASK MARK ABOUT

He ground his palm against his eye, trying to dispel the heavy feeling in his eyelids.

"God damnit." he uttered. He scratched it out, one line after the next-- Fuck it all! That's what everyone else did, right?

Not even a full week and they lost someone. A friend. Mark had always-- always-- showed him kindness. Even when they were still back in town, still playing that stupid little game pretending to be cops and workers. Mark checked on them-- little whispers exchanged during mandatory body searching, hushed warnings when the Commander REALLY wasn't fucking around. Not even 24 hours ago, Mark was *alive* and he was *here* and he was talking to him.

He looked so tired. Mark said he'd slept a whole day, and he was still tired. He carried himself like he still had more to do.

Lucas liked that about him.

He looked at the list again... He flipped it over, digging through his pockets for a pencil. It wasn't over. Not as long as there were people here still living.
So he wrote out a new list. The hangover would suck. But he didn't think Mark would have let that stop him.

Only a few short days, and then the train. And after that-- who knows? Better things, surely. No doubt about that.

 

[pants]

Early Morning, February 19th, 2021.

There's a small hill just outside of town, nestled in a small gap between the trees, with a view of the old ruined military base.
It's quiet, and green, and almost undisturbed by the rest of the world around it.
"This... looks like a good spot." Lucas said to himself. He plunged a shovel into the dirt.
It took him a couple of hours, and by the end of it, his shirt was drenched in sweat and he was panting like a dog.
His hands ached. But he didn't stop. Not until the job was done.

The marker, though, is the hard part. Night falls and he's still sitting on that hill, trying to think of an inscription worthy enough to stand over the fresh grave.

Karol was...
Well, he was strong. Possessed with an unshakeable determination to escape Worksite 14 and to survive.
He had the steel nerves necessary to risk his own life-- and trade others if it was necessary-- to secure their freedom.
Lucas was once afraid of what extremes the man might be capable of, if it meant securing his greater vision.

But then Altin was gone. Carrying the Hunter on an express trip to the other side, saving Karol's life.
And something changed in him-- the man who had risked his life on their behalf, time and again, was on the receiving end.

Karol was...
Furious? Heartbroken? Devastated. Altin traded his life away for a man he met not even two weeks ago.
Without hesitation, he paid the ultimate price. And Karol just couldn't understand it.

But he came out of his shell to strike at the APC Depot. Put the whole thing together and put it into motion.
People listened to him. They really listened. The ladder went up, and Lucas went up, and Karol. and Kira.

And then the tear gas came. Lucas was the only one with a mask.
An Overwatch soldier moved with supernatural speed, grabbing Kira and slamming her into the ground so hard that she bounced.
A second soldier hit Lucas like a charging bull, disarming him and knocking him to the floor. The air above his pulse shotgun rippled with heat.
Lucas could see right down the barrel. The first soldier was pivoting to strike at Karol.

Maybe in the split second before they were all dead, it finally clicked for Karol, why Altin did what he did.
Maybe he just made the tactical decision to save the least incapacitated fighter.
Or maybe he just couldn't watch another friend die.

He swung his rifle to the right, leaving himself wide open, and sent the fastest barrage of full-powered rifle rounds Lucas had ever seen screaming right into the other soldier's side. Lucas grabbed his gun once more, and under their combined assault, the cyborg's head blossomed into a horrible bloom of meat and polymer and bone.

And a pulse shotgun roared from the left.
And Karol was gone.

Karol hadn't asked for any of this. To be sent to the Worksite, to be forced to put his trust and his life in the hands of complete strangers. To be relied upon, looked to, admired and obeyed like he was some great leader.
...But he was, wasn't he?

Lucas uncapped his marker and began to scrawl the words.



KAROL NORIN-RUDSTROM
"A great man does not seek to lead. He's called to it, and he answers."​

 

[pants]

Evening, February 25th, 2025.
​

The medbay floor was a mess. Thomas's blood claimed an entire corner of the room. A frothy bloody foam dribbled out of the two catheters in Maddie's chest. Kira was, at least, no longer lying in her own arterial spray on the floor.

What a fucking mess.
​

Back before the worksite, when he was just minding his own business, blissfully unaware of the bureaucratic gears grinding away, about to transfer him to the Caspian sea-- there were a ton of Buddhists where he was assigned. Honestly, they seemed to be just about the only people outside of loyalists who weren't at least partly devastated on a psychological level by the Combine's occupation. One of them relayed to him a story, the memory of which had been bubbling up to the surface of his mind lately. Roughly, the story went like this:

​

There was this guy who told the Buddha that he was moving to a certain country.
And the Buddha warned him, like, the people who live there are fierce. They would probably call him names and ridicule him and humiliate him.
"Well, then I will be glad that these people are civilized, and they use their words rather than their fists!"
And so the Buddha replies, well, what if they did use their hands?
"Well, I will be glad that they're civilized, and they use their fists and not a club!"
And the Buddha replies, well, what if they did use their hands?
And the story goes on and on, for some time, and then...

​

Well, Lucas never heard the end of it. Ruralpol took him in the night, gagged him, and nailed him to his front door. He didn't even last 'til morning.

Between the alpine air and the bleeding, he was gone before curfew was lifted in the morning.

But sitting here on the steps outside the medbay, the day's events being what they were, he couldn't stop thinking about it. How do you even end a story like that? Does the guy just eventually go "You know what, Buddha? That's a very solid point. If they beat me with THAT SPECIFIC OBJECT, that would suck. Maybe I WON'T move to that country"? Wouldn't really make for a good story, honestly. Plausible, but not very wise. So, what, the Buddha just stops asking questions eventually, right? And the guy moves there, and presumably gets the snot beaten out of him? Well, maybe there's a reason why Lucas isn't a Buddhist. Because even though he was (mostly) nice, and he was (mostly) unconcerned with material possessions, there is no way in hell he would be moving to "guys-who-beat-the-fuck-out-of-you nation."

He also wouldn't be moving to "doctors-pretending-to-murder-their-patients city" either. Especially if it was full of douchebag francophones who are willing to murder innocent people just because they got a minor boo-boo. In that moment, he understood why Karol and Kairos felt that it was easier to just kill their way out of things. But then the moment passed, and he was sitting on the floor while someone else took care of Kira's nicked artery. Yelling at Brooklyn, or hitting that smug bastard, or having Brooklyn run out and chase after him with a submachine gun didn't fix anything. It didn't make a single one of their lives even slightly less miserable.

So, yeah, he fucked up. Spent too much time with a hammer, and started seeing everything as nails.

Maybe he should've been listening more closely to all those little Buddhist allegories. Maybe he should've listened more to the Watcher's recent loudspeaker address. Hell, maybe Maddie was right, and he should just be doing drugs about it instead.

But in the left front pocket of his dirty, worn-out, burnt, cut-and-restitched jeans, there was a little piece of paper.

And on that piece of paper, there was a short list of things that needed done, that would make everybody's life better, and would get him out of this gross trigger happy haze.

Deep breath, in and out-- everybody makes mistakes. But tomorrow is always another day.

 

[pants]

Evening, March 5th, 2021

The city was quiet, sky lit by the last few embers of daylight skipping over the horizon. The empty city was dead silent, and most of the group had already turned in for the night, except for those who volunteered for first watch.

And except for Lucas, of course. He was still on the rooftop, processing everything that'd happened the past few days.

They finally did it, finally killed the Commander, but their victory came at a cruel cost-- Jorge and Baatar were gone.
Another roadtrip. Maybe 200 miles. Reuniting with Bai Liuxian and her new friends-- Keith and Rudy and Sven.

And then Brooklyn was gone.

And so they hit the Stalker processing facility nearby. If she was alive, she'd be there.
But they found nothing but a shipping manifest-- she'd already been moved.

A synth gunship destroyed their camp. Rudy was the only one who didn't make it out.
As they fled underground, some new synthetic horror stole Keith's life.

And that's all they had left. A few days of food, a few thousand credits of debt to the local Trader, and each other.

And the shipping manifest. Keith had managed to throw it free of the monster's clutches before it dragged him away.

The following are to be shipped off for further testing:
MICHAEL DONNOMAN | 76762
MISSY TETIANO | 99021
BROOKLYN MCGOWAN | 63076
IVAN IVANOVICH | 00212
PENELOPE CRUISER | 22098
ISAAC YURPENOVICH | 56241

Ordered by Dr. Frost ... Put them within the preparation tubes and get them hooked up once aboard the SS Adveho.

That would give them maybe a few days to lick their wounds and find the ship. Put together some kind of plan to get aboard, and save her just as she'd saved countless others.

Lucas flipped over the paper. Began writing a new list.

BLOCK THE STREET
FIND FOOD + MEDICAL
ROTFRONT ???
SAVE BROOKLYN​

 

[pants]

2 A.M., March 8th, 2021

"I have been informed... my utility has been completed. Go on, my brother."
BANG

Spoiler: Music

Nothing else mattered.
"Goddamn it, Lucas! Up with her! Now! We are leaving!"
His ears were ringing, someone was saying something behind him, but none of it mattered right now.
"No fuckin' time, yo- at the entrance!"
"I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry. I knew as soon as you left, as soon as you left camp, I knew--"
"Fuck! God damn it! LUCKY! We're going to need to fucking move, now!"
All that talk about the indifferent stars, and fate? Lucas thought she was finding religion. It wasn't meant to lead here-- to this.
"Get her body and get up here! We're running out of time!"
What happened next was a blur. He carried her-- she was lighter than he expected. Or maybe these past few weeks had seen him grow stronger. Maddie said something about a shooter in a tower. He lifted Kairos into a fireman's carry so that he could draw his pistol, keep them safe. His eyes stayed on the pipeline that was their escape. He was shot-- the vest ate the bullet. No piercing pain, just a solid kinetic crash against his sternum. And then a maniac cop charged him, almost sent Kairos rolling into the sea. But Dirk had saved him.

And so here they were. Brooklyn was emaciated, nearly comatose. Dirk was in bad shape.

Lucas slumped down against the concrete stacks on the roof, the knife wounds had scabbed over, for now.

He looked up at the stars in the night sky.
What right did they have to go on glimmering, dancing their choreographed lines across the blackest sea, while the kindest, smartest, most generous, most patient people he had ever known dropped dead one by one? On days like these, the very space between atoms ought to go still in mourning. How could something so beautiful stand, indifferent, above almost 20 years of this unimaginable cruelty?

Kairos was right. It was unfair that they had to trade lives like this-- to send cruelty onto others to ward it away from their own. It was unfair that Mark had to leave on that scouting run. It was unfair that Altin had to climb into that burning car. It was unfair that Karol, or Baatar, or Jorge, or Rudy, or Keith, or Kairos had to trade their lives so that people like him could go on living.

But Kairos had said nothing about the quality of those trades. She never said they weren't worth it. She'd told Lucas before that Karol knew what he was doing, knew the choice he'd made. And then she laid her life down, too. Took herself out of the equation, so that he, and Brooklyn, and Kylie, and everyone else could leave and make it out alive.

Karol saw something in the way Lucas refused to give up, refused to leave anyone behind.
And Kairos traded her life for Brooklyn, who kept counting chest compressions and listening for a pulse long after Karol was long gone.
Gregor, ever-watching, commanded them not to destroy, but to build.

Maybe that was it, then. The world should be fairer-- it should be a kinder, more caring place.
And if the world held no love for them, and nobody was coming to save them from the combine, then they would do it themselves.
For all those they've lost and the millions more lost chasing the slightest hope of freedom from the combine.
They would have to build a better world.

It had to be more than just a mirage. It had to be real.
If he had to fill the oceans, plant every blade of grass, raise every last animal and feed them all by himself, so be it.
For the fallen. For those still living. For all mankind.

The Volga wasn't far. Andrei had told him about the river-- it could take them pretty close to Moscow.
They had friends in Moscow, he'd bet, after derailing that train. So that was a start.
They would find Doctor Frost and burn his best-laid plans to embers, leave this city well and truly abandoned.

The To-Do List writes itself, the pen leading his hand along with it as a formality.​

BLOCK THE STREET
FIND FOOD + MEDICAL
ROTFRONT ???
SAVE BROOKLYN
STOP DOCTOR FROST
KILL THE MONSTERS BELOW
DESTROY THE RURALPOL STATION
GET IN TOUCH W/ CHUCK + DERRICK'S FRIENDS

 

[pants]

Evening, March 8th, 2021

"LUCAS!"
The scream echoed through the dark labyrinth under the city as the synthetic abomination dragged him off into the unknown, its talons digging into his flesh, dragging him behind like a bag of garbage, carelessly swinging him into walls every time it abruptly turned each corner. The shouting and the gunfire became quieter and quieter with each turn, each new corridor and tunnel and air vent another nail in the proverbial coffin.

Lucas woke up with a serious headache. Christ, did he black out? He sluggishly opened his eyes, only to immediately tense up.

That thing loomed large above him, sniffing him over like a ravenous dog. He was cornered in what looked to be a walk-in closet. His heart pounded in his chest as he tried to evaluate his options.

His pistol-- fuck, he must've dropped it when he blacked out.
His cleaver-- nope, left it at camp when he was making yesterday's dinner.
His AK was behind him, so that's out of the question.

The synth leaned in close, and Lucas's heart plummeted.
"Listeeeeen..." The creature hissed, with a tortured voice like skin against concrete.
"oh, fuck, you can talk..." Lucas mumbled, horrified. He pressed himself further back against the wall,
pulled his legs up to his chest, anything to create some distance.

The synth's eyes began to glow with a brilliant emerald light, and it turned its head to the side. The light spilled out of the snake-like optic cables in tight, coherent beams. They ricocheted off the walls without a mark, crossing and intersecting and interfering with each other until they coalesced in a three dimensional image, suspended midair.

"The Doctorrr... isss speeeakiiinggg..."

There, constructed from light alone, was a hologram of a cruel man in a heavy parka. A widow's peak of thin, light hair crowned a weathered visage contorted in a sneering glare. The lines on his face made it clear that this disgust, this sense of superiority, was his natural state. He leaned forward.

"You... you have given me far more trouble than what it is worth to arrange this conversation."
The projection nearly spat the words at him.
"Take his mask off. I want to see a man-- eye to eye."
With one great stride, the nightmare closed the distance, closing its talons around the edges of Lucas's ruralpol mask. It squeezed, and the hard casing of the clasps that held the faceplate buckled, cracked, and then shattered. The mask was pulled away like it was nothing. Lucas squeezed his eyes shut, shaking silently from the adrenaline pumping through his veins.
"Ironic, isn't it? You wear the mask of the oppressor, while your comrades hide behind one of humanity."

"Doctor Frost, I presume." Lucas narrowed his eyes at the projection.
"My name... is irrelevant."
"What matters now is what I am going to seek in terms of the damage you and your 'friends' have wrought upon this place... as well as others."

The hologram flickered and blurred as the synth shuddered, curling a clawed hand inward to scratch at its side.

"Ms. McGowan was taken from me, along with a whole batch of fresh subjects. A far more devastating loss than whatever mere value you have assigned to her."

Lucas glowered with righteous indignation. So that's how it was going to be, then. So be it.

"Alternatively... I could have you sent back to the worksite program. If I do recall, Station 20 was looking for some able-bodied males-- Siberia, I believe?" The man's thin lips curled into a cruel mockery of a smile, and then he turned away, as if distracted by something just out of frame of the holographic projection.

"What kind of choice is that?" Lucas scoffed. If this sadistic psychopath thought he would ever abandon his family like that, he didn't know the first thing about his new prisoner.

"Deeeaaathhh."
"A choice is a choice. No matter how insigificant it may be, a man like you ought to take comfort in whatever fleeting agency remains in your meek existence. It is a very rare luxury these days to have some determination in your fate."
"I think you know it's far too late for me to go back to a normal life."
"Oh, what I offer is no chance for normalcy, Mister Leavitt. I doubt you would even make it one week. I think you would find the scorching desert much more hospitable than Station 20."

"Now, with the former option, you may yet live. You might become something far greater. It is time to choose."

Lucas sat upright, leaning forward with a defiant glare.

"I'm no coward, Frost. Do your fucking worst. You take me, they'll find you no matter how far you run--" Lucas raised his voice as the words continued, "--and then you'll join the rest of your precious subjects at the bottom of the Caspian sea!" He spat a mixture of blood and spit at the projection, which flickered as the man scrunched his face with disgust.

"Hrm. It will hardly be my worst... but you might find that hard to believe once you arrive to your destination. Take him away."

The hologram fizzled out and vanished, and the Synth huffed, grabbing Lucas by the collar as it snarled. With the projection gone, the monster was once again off the leash. It breathed heavy, its sickly breath nauseating him instantly.

"Nooo... No 'away'.... Deeeaaathhh." It hissed, nearly tearing the door of the small room off its hinges as it carried Lucas towards the window of what was clearly an old abandoned apartment.

"Oh, not again, you STUPID FUCKING--"

The window shattered against Lucas's back, and he was weightless for a moment, before plummeting 4 stories to the cold ground below.

​