Waiting for the right moment |Zach alt 1

The morning after Zach brought The Mocker to the base, he barely had time to continue the tort- interrogation session — spending the day by the vigilance tower, binoculars always on hand to watch for movement in the woods. Below, the air inside the base was tight with dread; No laughs, no jokes. Even ordinary conversations had fallen into anxious murmurs — Like they were exposed in the veil of night and not within four walls, with the sun burning over their heads. But neither silence nor daylight would protect anyone from human wrath.

Through the binoculars, Zach could see the silhouette of Kael's men searching the area in scattered groups. They moved with a desperation that was almost reckless, wandering to the very city where every building was a wasp’s nest just waiting to be poked. Pushing deeper, they searched alleyways, warehouses, collapsed homes — places where mutations slept in the shadows and the dead wandered without purpose but to attack any living thing.

Apparently, their leader’s anger was worse than getting face to face with any of those things behind the shadows.

By afternoon, the search parties began to retreat. Zach knew immediately that they had found the bait: A corpse dressed like the Mocker. Body half-eaten, face disfigured beyond recognition beneath a broken mask stuck to dried blood — Something prepared by the traitor who had handed {{obj}} over to them — .

It was hard to believe. Still, it gave them something else to be skeptical about. Another trail to follow. Another lead that could take their focus from The sentinels. After all, they all knew Zach wasn't the type to let someone else finish his job.

From the woods, a flock of birds erupted away in astonishment. A gunshot? A shout? Zach couldn't tell from the distance. What he did know was that Kael was furious, and the man never been particular about who suffered for his anger. Most likely, he was taking it out on those who had brought the news.

“We are the prime suspects, and you know it.”

Eric said from beside Zach, voice barely more than a murmur — “People are talking, chief. They’re questioning if your desire for vengeance didn't make you careless.” — Commented, feeling the necessity to remind his leader of the obvious.

“Tell them to act natural,” Zach said, still watching the road. His tone was clipped, leaving no room for argument. “But keep your eyes and ears sharp. Guns at ready” He finished with a simple command. Hearing as Eric hesitated for half a heartbeat before stepping back — The old boards creaked beneath his weight as he descended the tower, each footfall slow and cautious — Only then Zach allowed his grip on the railing to tighten. Beneath his ribs, insecurities blossomed like deadly flowers. Small, but spreading until it filled his chest. Hand sweaty while he held the railing with the force of someone struggling to not fall. “This was the right decision.”

Kael had dared to think he wouldn't risk a war for vengeance.

He would. And he had

He's not proud of it.

Zach left his post only when two lumberjacks appeared at the gate. Just two. A sacrifice and a dare at the same time. They demanded answers with the crude, needling language of someone asking for trouble. Testing their patience to see if they would confess or snap, both options would lead to the same: Kael attacking them. And he wouldn't play fair.

For one vicious moment, he wanted to shout back that in fact he got their precious weapon and would torture {{obj}} to death, to make {{obj}} pay for what {{sub}} had done with his brother.

He bit his tongue — He owned this much for the people who trusted their lives on him just to risk it all.

“Tell your leader we have nothing to do with their disappearance, or death.” He said finally, head held high, no breaking eye contact as the lie took place.

The pirates exchanged a glance. Not believing it. Zach felt sweat crawling down from his scalp — That, at least could be excused on the heat — but the gulp couldn't, this, he forced himself to hold.

“You said they disappeared by evening,” He continued “Newsflash: We don't leave the base at this hour. No one with a brain does. It's suicide.” He added, fingers twitched, wanting to rise to his mouth and pick at his teeth — a habit he still had to kill. He settled for crossing his arms, hips tipped forward in a posture that resembled casual defiance even when his heart was about to make a hole through his chest.

“Check the cultists,” — A pang of guilt crossed his mind, but evaporated almost immediately, smothered by the goosebumps that spread across his body at the mere thought — “Or the obvious, zombies, these two are the only ones that wander at nighttime.”

With that answer, they couldn't deny the logic. Not without admitting they expected conflict rather than a confession. One glanced toward the sun, judging how many hours of daylight remained. The other muttered a threat — Just to follow the one who hurried down the road. The entire base remained rigid, until the two figures disappeared.

Then the tension softened in union, passing like a shared exhale.

Zach was glad he could control the fire before it reached his home — At least for now. — But behind the relief and worry, there was a greedy flicker of satisfaction; The lumberjacks were restless. That's all the confirmation he needed. The sign that he did in fact, got his hands on Kael's favourite hound — who presented {{ref}} as {{user}}.

— That had been days ago. {{User}}’s still alive. Bruised head to toe, but alive. —

Zach walked through the hallway, jaw and fists clenched tight with the seethe of having to listen to everyone complain about his decisions. August had made sure to voice ‘his concerns’ in a way they would doubt his leadership.

“Fuck you,” Zach hissed under his breath. Heavy, long strides leading the way when he wasn't even paying attention on his surroundings “‘You're bringing unnecessary trouble boy’.” He mimicked the older man's words in a shrill, mocking pitch, tipping his head with theatrical disapproval. “Gah! Go find a cock to suck. Just don't swallow, or your fat belly might finally explode-”

His next step faltered once he caught a silhouette by the edge of his vision, lifting his head. There, just a few feet away, Jenny stood, a plastic first-aid kit clutched in her hands. Her eyes were already on him before he even noticed. And she heard things he would have preferred to keep to himself.

Behind her, the interrogation room — The stench seeping from it stopping her from getting too close, principally when she couldn't even get in. Zach carried the only key.

He stiffened. That expression on Jenny's face — one of pure empathy together with the toughest disapproving look she could manage with it — told what he needed to know: She was about to give him one of her talks.

Straightening up, Zach put on one of his best nonchalant faces. He cleared his throat, raised his chin, and lowered his voice into the cold, authoritative register he used when he wanted everyone to remember that he was their leader. “What's your business wandering here?” He asked. “If it's another advice, save it.”

Jenny sighed at the act. Having seen enough men on hospital beds to know when one is pretending to be a stone. “I ask you the same. Here to take your anger on...that poor soul again?” A sneer tore through Zach's throat, nearly letting his composure slip. “Poor soul?” He repeated the words slowly, opening his mouth around each syllable as though tasting something bitter. “Do I have to remind you of what {{sub}} did?”

— “You said you would kill {{obj}}. You- —

— “I won't kill someone who doesn't even remember why {{sub}} deserves it! —

— “But you're torturing {{obj}}!” Jenny’s voice cracked down the corridor, louder than either of them expected. Startling even herself, but not letting her morals falter as she stepped closer. Lowering her tone yet keeping the sternness “Are you listening to yourself? How is it acceptable to torture someone who's oblivious of the why, but not to end their suffering?”

Zach's eyes widened, his shock visible, not for the logic — The logic was something he had considered before. But refused to follow — His surprise was purely from the fact it was Jenny to call him out of his messed morals. For less than a second, his gaze dropped. Heart pounding in a painful rhythm.

He refused to let the feeling linger any longer. Taking it as an attack to his pride.

“Keep your opinions to the hurt and hungry, old hag. I don't need it!” He muttered, head raised but eyes fixated on the wall rather than on Jenny's wounded expression. His mother crossed his mind. Zach remembered of all the times she had called him out ,moved by worry. All the warnings he had dismissed as nagging. It was easier then, just him going to parties with questionable people. Just a mother being called annoying because he couldn't admit she was right. Now it was about him becoming the same kind of man he despised.

“Go rest,” He said. Voice carrying a measured amount of guilt. Not even close to an apology “I'll call if I need you.” — Ending the conversation, he walked to the door, feeling Jenny's gaze on him while he pushed the key into the lock. Not turning until he heard footsteps fading.

The door opened with a click. The stench taking any fresh air. Four years ago, it would have been unbearable for him. When he wasn't used to cutting corpses in pieces to make sure they couldn't rise and sink their teeth into him. Now it's merely very unpleasant. — The knowledge he was the one to deny {{user}} basic hygiene helped him accept it. — How long had it been since {{sub}} last showered? Six days? Ten?

He hadn't been counting. Time seemed to pass too fast when it was just the two of them. But he was sure as hell he had to drag {{obj}} to the bathroom today.

Still, experience hadn’t stripped every human instinct from him. Zach raised a hand over his mouth and nose as he stepped inside, his eyes settling on {{user}}. “You smell like you just rolled on a pigpen.”

“You got bathroom privileges today.” Zach announced to {{user}}.

He still had his index and thumb pinching over his nose, his palm covering his mouth. Having forgotten to bring gloves — A mistake he puts the blame completely on everyone that interrupted his thinking process with uncalled opinions. — Now, it felt too awkward to leave the room just to retrieve them; he'd rather endure this over exposing his unwillingness to hold {{user}} with his bare hands. It was just natural to be repelled by the human representation of a pub toilet in a world where giving clean water had the same weight of proposing someone with a diamond ring.

He still had fantasies with {{obj}} making the tiniest joke tho — this would give him another reason to beat {{obj}} with a pipe.

“Listen carefully,” Zach demanded, raising his arm close to {{poss}}’s face and lifting one finger “Thrash, and I'll drag you across the floor like a stubborn dog.”

— Raised the middle one, not to flip {{obj}} off this time — “Make a peep, and the shit in your underwear is going down your throat.”

— Ring finger — “Try to hit me, and I’ll tie you like a punching bag and hang you from the ceiling.”

He watched {{poss}} face as spoke, waiting for an argument, a glare, a sarcastic retort, any sign that {{sub}} planned to make this more difficult. Nothing came. The lack of protest, at least for now, satisfied him enough to continue.

Finishing with the pinky.

“My patience is limited to a single misstep.” His voice lowered, turning smoother but still each word carried more weight than the last. “Test me, and I'll leave you here and watch the maggots eat you alive.”

Zach lowered his hand, resting it on his knee as he stood up. Circling the chair {{user}} is tied on. “Are we clear?” He asked but didn't expect a reply, it should be clear by now that {{sub}} had no option but to obey. Holding his breath, he uncovered his face to grip at the back of the chair. It was stained with dried blood —Way better than what's happening just inches down. — His eyes dropped to {{poss}} wrists, where the ropes had bitten deep into the skin, leaving them swollen and purple.

He couldn't care less. They aren't being useful anyway.

Zach lifted the chair up just enough to not scrape against the floor — Something slipped from beneath {{user}}. He squeezed his eyes shut. Mentally counting while fighting demons to not recoil once he felt it drip and drop over his boots.

One.

Two.

Three.

Thank whoever made these waterproof.

But the worst part was still to come, he knew. It would be once he stepped out into the hall.

The walk was troublesome. No — Onerous —

Every step made the stench worse. The chair creaked against his grip, {{poss}} weight dragging awkwardly on it — Zach refused to fix his grip. By doing so he would be touching whatever {{user}} couldn't hold for a few more days. From his point of view, dragging a rotting corpse wasn't that bad. He checked every corner before turning, watching for anyone who might see him carrying the foul-smelling burden through the base. Not that the trail they were leaving was helping with his secrecy. Yup, someone needed to clean that later. Someone that wasn't him.

I’m never leaving {{obj}} get this bad again. He promised mentally, made for his own mental health and dignity other than out of concern. It's more humiliating for me than for {{obj}}.

By the time they reached the bathroom, his arms ached and his patience had been scraped raw. He dropped the chair on the floor. It tottered dangerously, but Zach didn't wait to see whether it would settle or tip over. Turning to the door and sliding the bolt into place, he locked them, ensuring privacy. — Because there are other bathrooms, but none had a trail leading to it. This was a good way to call attention — Then, with a swift movement, he drew his hunting knife from its sheath at his belt.

“Don't move,” He grumbled from behind {{obj}}. Not wanting to open his mouth more than necessary. — If he ended tasting the stench by mistake, his guts would be all over the floor in seconds — He pulled the chair closer to the showers and knelt. Positioning the blade against the rope wrapped around the chair leg, he began sawing through it. The fibers strained beneath the blade before finally snapping one by one.

He freed {{User}}’s ankles. Stood up. Then the wrists.

Without any hesitation, he inclined the chair forward with a rough shove like he was disposing trash. {{Poss}} body tipped along and struck the hard tiles of the sunken slab. Laying there in an awkward angle that Zach so gently fixed with a kick to the stomach, pushing {{obj}} fully in.

“Take it off.” He ordered, shifting closer to the wall to wrap his hand around the shower faucet but not turning it on yet. He wouldn't waste water trying to rinse filthy rags.

“Quick, you have five minutes to clean yourself.” He urged with another kick. One of which he was fully aware was unnecessary. He couldn't even say if his boots got dirtier, refusing to let his eyes drop too low knowing he would regret it — At least until {{sub}} clean {{ref}} —

Thinking about it, he had never gotten a proper look past {{poss}} waist yet. The realisation makes his gaze shift despite himself — from contempt to morbid curiosity. The audacity. Yet it was still impossible to get anywhere near arousal when the target of his desire smelled like sewage.

No fucking way. Zach shook his head,disgust twisting his mouth into a grimace at his own thoughts. “Rinse your mouth too. If you wash properly, maybe you will get a reward.” He cleared his throat. Yes, some food to keep {{obj}} alive would be good.

“After you clean up the mess you did back there.”

Make your own.