Chapter Text
Not for the last time that day, you curse your decision to switch shifts with Alex.
“Go to your daughter’s soccer game,” you had told him on the phone, rolling your eyes all the while. “Buy me a beer next time we’re off shift at the same time, and we’ll call it even.”
“I’ll buy you two,” he’d said, laughing. “Thanks so much. You’re really saving my life here.”
Now, though, as you try to navigate the hellish nightmare that has become the streets of what you once considered your city, you wish you had never picked up.
You’d gotten separated from your partner pretty early on in the evening and given up trying to find him. Your radio told all members of the precinct to return immediately before it became just static, so that’s what you’re trying to do.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you mutter as you try to navigate the crowds, gun in hand. It’s hard to ignore the screams coming from the alleyways, going against every instinct you have. “Get to the emergency shelter!” you shout, but the screaming fades, and you close your eyes for a second before moving on. You can’t help them now, not with two bullets left in your gun and nothing else at your disposal.
You force yourself to keep moving, blinking back the tears in your eyes. It's from the smoke, you tell yourself. That's what's making your eyes sting. The smoke.
Honestly, when you got promoted to detective a year ago, you’d secretly hoped you’d never have to work crowd control ever again. The last year of not having to patrol at night has probably made you less vigilant than you should have been. Why hadn’t you left the precinct with backup ammo for your gun? Why didn’t you sign out the bulletproof vest to put under your uniform? The decisions had made sense at the time, but now they just seem stupid.
“Hindsight’s 20/20,” you mutter to yourself, scanning the streets and keeping your gun close. You’ve had to shoot a couple of people tonight, although it’s maybe a stretch to call them people anymore. Two bullets left, you tell yourself. Gotta make them last.
A deafening roar overhead makes you flinch. You glance up—holy shit—a plane is spiraling down, two streets over. Flames lick the sky, and the screams around you grow sharper, more desperate. You grit your teeth and push forward, forcing yourself to block it out.
“Fuck,” you curse again. Three more blocks till you make it to the precinct. Grab ammo, grab some equipment, maybe see if there’s a cruiser you can ride in, then you’re good. Just gotta make it three more blocks.
Another gunshot cracks through the night, sharper and louder than the distant screams. You stop in your tracks, heart thudding in your ears. That wasn’t from your precinct—at least, you don’t think it was. The sound was rough, clumsy, nothing like the clean, controlled pop of a standard-issue sidearm.
You feel a flicker of hope, quickly followed by dread. Could it be one of your own? Adam, maybe, or Deb? Hell, you'd even take Wendy, and you haven’t seen eye-to-eye since training. Anyone would do right now. Any familiar face.
You step cautiously toward the sound, keeping to the shadows, and your fingers curl tighter around the grip of your gun. Your breaths come short and shallow as you edge closer. Ahead, the narrow alley stretches into darkness, littered with overturned trash cans and broken glass that glints under the sparse streetlights. There’s a body sprawled on the pavement near the alley’s mouth—a woman, or maybe a man—or what’s left of one. You fight the urge to look too closely, to let your gaze linger on the twisted shape of the limbs or the dark pool seeping into the cracks between bricks. Instead, you focus on the two figures standing just beyond, their outlines thrown into sharp relief against the broken diner windows.
No, not two. Three. One of them—a man—holds a girl in his arms, her head buried against his shoulder. Civilians. Unarmed, as far as you can tell.
Your eyes slide to the other figure, standing a few paces away with a rifle raised, his posture tense and wary.
Army. Young. He can’t be more than twenty, with his uniform too big on him, sleeves bunched around his wrists like he’s wearing hand-me-downs. You catch the way his hands shake, the jerky way his head swivels as he glances around, as though he can feel this night closing in on him, pressing down like a weight he can’t lift. His rifle is trained on the man and girl, safety off.
Instinct makes you duck back, tucking yourself into the shadows, heartbeat hammering against your ribs. You don’t dare breathe. This isn’t your business. Army’s got their orders, whatever they are. But there’s a cold twist in your gut, a sense that something’s about to go wrong. You can see it in the soldier’s body language, the tight line of his jaw, the wild look in his eyes. This kid isn’t built for this kind of work.
You bite back a curse, gritting your teeth. You should keep moving. Just make it to the precinct, grab ammo, maybe a radio. And yet… you linger, crouched in the shadows, watching, fingers inching toward the trigger. It’d be so easy to back away, disappear before they notice you’re here. But the girl’s whimper cuts through the night, and the man holding her tightens his grip, turning his body as though he can shield her from what’s coming.
“Don’t move!” you hear the soldier shout, his rifle pointed toward the other two.
“My daughter's hurt! Her ankle—” you hear the man’s voice respond with a mix of relief and panic.
You peek around your hiding spot and see them more clearly. Three people, not two. You had missed the girl being carried by the civilian.
“Stop right there!” you hear the soldier shout again. You can hear the panic in his voice too, the fear. You frown. He’s just a kid, probably way out of his depth and doesn’t know what he’s doing. You crane your neck to take another look. The rifle in his hands is pointed at the two civilians, safety off.
“Shit,” you mutter. You should turn around and leave. Army business is not police business, and you’ve only got two and a half blocks to go before you can get to the precinct. You should turn around and leave.
“Okay… easy now. We’re not sick!” you hear the civilian shout. You tuck your gun back into the holster and start backing away. It’s fine, the Army has the situation under control. You don’t want to get in the middle of this.
“I’ve got two civilians by the river. One of ’em injured,” you hear the soldier radio in. Of course the Army has a working radio.
“Where’s the injury?” comes the response. You slow your retreat, maybe it’s worth staying to gather some information. Another minute wouldn’t hurt.
“Ankle,” the soldier responds. You peek again and can see the lines of tension in his back.
“Don’t take the risk. Terminate them.” The voice crackles over the radio. You have to work hard to suppress the curse threatening to make its way out of your lips.
“Don’t do it, man,” you mutter, taking out your gun again. “Don’t do it.”
“I’m sorry, repeat?” the soldier asks, sounding every bit as shocked as you feel. “Hey! No one told you to move!” he shouts at the two civilians. You risk another look at them and see that they’ve started backing away. Shit, that’s not a smart move when the soldier is already spooked.
“You questioning orders, son? I said terminate them. It’s for the greater good. Don’t need to be risking healthy people. Terminate them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Both of them. We need to get control and prevent any further disorder.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you mutter as you flick the safety off your gun. Two bullets. Gotta make them count. “Don’t do it, buddy. Don’t just fucking follow orders.”
“Report back once it’s complete.” The radio crackles with the last command.
“Yes, sir.”
Your stomach turns as you watch the soldier steel himself, rifle raised.
“We’re not sick!” The civilian’s voice breaks, desperate. The shot goes off before you even think—aiming for the shoulder, but hitting the neck instead. The soldier’s rifle jerks, shots spraying wild. You fire again. This time, your bullet finds the back of his head.
Silence drops, heavy and suffocating, swallowing the echoes of gunfire.
You step out of hiding. The civilians are on the ground, the man shielding the girl. He turns and looks at you, eyes wide.
“Police,” you say, gun still held in your hand, aimed at the prone figure on the ground. “Don’t move.”
“Sarah, baby girl, you ok? You hurt?” Apparently the man has decided that you are not a threat, because he’s let himself turn away from you and towards the girl.
“I’m good dad. I’m ok.” You hear her say as you pry the rifle from the dead army guy’s hand. You flick the safety back on and check the chambers, nearly sighing in relief at the sight of the rounds sitting in there. You tuck your gun back in its holster too even though it’s empty now.
“You need to get to the emergency shelter.” You say to the two in your most authoritative voice, “Now.”
“No fuck that, not if they’re shooting anybody who’s injured.” The man says, his previous fear getting replaced by anger now. “What the fuck, was that the fucking army?”
“Yeah.” You sigh, ignoring the bile rising up at the back of your throat, “Just a kid though.” You add quietly, almost to yourself. You suddenly remember your first year on the force doing your first drug bust, how scared you had been despite all your training, following orders from your captain and just hoping to make it through the day.
“Thanks,” The man says after a while, his anger seems to be simmering down. “ For that.” He gestures lamely to the body lying between you.
“Serve and protect,” You mutter back, suddenly feeling every bit of fatigue and despair you had been pushing back the entire day. “Just doing my job.”
“Joel! Sarah!” The shout comes from somewhere behind you, echoing off the alley walls, and you whip around, lifting the rifle.
Your heart slams against your ribcage, body still tense from the last gunshot. Another man is running toward you, his face half-lit by a distant streetlamp.
“Uncle Tommy!” Sarah shouts. She takes a step forward, as if she wants to run toward him, but then hisses in pain, her ankle giving out.
You shift your stance, keeping the rifle trained on the new arrival, trying to ignore the tremor creeping into your hands. The night’s been long, and the adrenaline is wearing thin. You’re running on fumes and nerves, and suddenly, it’s painfully clear that you’re outnumbered.
The man—Tommy, apparently—sees the rifle pointed his way and stops, hands splayed in front of him. “Hey, easy,” he says, voice pitched low and soothing, though his breathing is ragged. “I just want to get them out of here,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve got no problem with you, officer. Just looking out for my family.”
“He’s harmless,” Joel says, his tone calm but urgent. “He’s my brother. He’s not gonna do anything stupid. Please, just—lower the gun.”
“Rifle there doesn’t seem so harmless,” you say, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that you’re outnumbered two to one, with your back turned. Fuck. If your captain could see you now, she’d probably ask for your badge right then and there for making such a rookie mistake.
Though, shooting a bunch of people would probably do that too.
The absurdity of the situation suddenly catches up with you, and you let out a shaky laugh despite yourself, lowering the rifle slowly. “Fuck.” You curse again. “Ah, sorry.” You turn slightly so you can keep both men in your line of sight. “Didn’t mean to swear.”
“I mean, you shot somebody in front of me,” Sarah says, gripping her father’s arm, “so I think maybe it’s not a big deal if you say the f-word a couple of times.”
You shrug, swinging the rifle around your shoulders. “Look, if you don’t want to go to the emergency shelters, fine. But you can’t stay here.”
“Yeah, we’re going to get out of here. Just gonna find a truck or something.” Joel nods, picking up Sarah again. “Where you headed?”
“Precinct,” you say, nodding toward the building not far away. “See if we can regroup.”
“Good luck,” Tommy says. A grimace that might have passed for a smile flashes across his face. “Joel, we gotta go. Think I saw a car back there.” He turns to you. “You, uh… stay safe, Officer.”
You nod, feeling the weight of the rifle settle heavily against your shoulder. “Same to you,” you say. “Not far to the precinct for me, anyway. Good luck out there.”
Joel gives a stiff nod, eyes still on you, his mouth pressed into a thin line. There’s something in his gaze, an intensity, like he’s sizing you up one last time. He shifts his weight, opens his mouth slightly as if to speak, then hesitates. His hand rests on Sarah’s shoulder, fingers tightening just a bit, like he’s anchoring himself.
For a brief, raw moment, you think he might ask you to come with them. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—recognition, maybe, or even understanding. Out here, every extra set of hands could mean the difference between life and death. And after what you just did for them, you wouldn’t blame him if he asked. Hell, a part of you is almost hoping he will.
But then Joel looks down at Sarah, sees her watching him, and whatever he was about to say dies on his lips. His gaze hardens, sliding away from you as he gathers her close. “Come on, baby girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady. “We gotta move.”
Sarah nods, casting one last look in your direction. She gives a shy wave, and you manage a tired, crooked smile in return. Part of you wants to say something—maybe offer some reassurance that everything will be alright. But words feel heavy and hollow in your mouth, so you just nod.
Joel hesitates again, turning back to you after he’s started walking away. “Take care, alright?” he says, a little softer this time.
“You too.” The words come out quieter than you intended, but you mean them. Watching them turn and leave, you feel a pang—a strange emptiness you hadn’t expected. For a moment, you wonder if maybe you should’ve gone with them, left this damned precinct behind and found a way out of the city. But then you think about your captain, who might be back at the precinct, defending herself against hordes of… whatever those things were. You think about Ruth, the precinct administrator who’d sent you off tonight with two homemade cookies, and you steel your resolve.
As their figures disappear into the night, you adjust your grip on the rifle, forcing yourself to look forward. The cold weight of duty settles back over you, heavy as armor.
You turn and start jogging away from the little group, a curl of warmth rising up in your stomach despite the early autumn chill of the night. If nothing else, you’ve done some good tonight. Maybe that’ll help you forget the other cries for help you’ve ignored.