The noon sun hung high over the airbase, bathing everything in a sweltering glow. The island, once a haven for these scattered souls, was now buzzing with a sense of finality. The old pals gathered in small clusters, packing their belongings, trading stories of the past, and chanting cheers for the future. They were survivors, each of them marked by hardship, but today, they allowed themselves a moment of relief—a brief celebration of their survival, of escaping a nightmare that had threatened to swallow them whole.
In stark contrast to the noisy commotion outside, the man, now set himself an alias as 'Zughaib', sat alone in the darkened corner of a barracks, his narrow bunk offering a sanctuary from the noise. He was hunched over, the dim light filtering through a cracked window casting a long shadow across the crumpled piece of paper in his hand. His eyes, usually so sharp and cold, softened as they scanned the words he'd written. The letter was intended for his brother, Zaid, and as he read through it again, he felt the weight of emotions he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge.
"Zaid," the letter began, the handwriting meticulous, almost too perfect for a man of his nature. The tone of the letter was sharp, ravenous, betraying the years of pent-up frustration and contempt. "I have no illusions about who you are or what you've chosen to become. Your life—full of fleeting distractions and indulgences—is a shallow echo of something that could have been meaningful. And yet, after all these years, after everything, I find myself willing to meet you, if only because of Ma."
His jaw clenched as he wrote that last part. Their mother's passing had stirred something in him, though he wasn't sure what. He hated sentimentality, hated the idea that loss could pull him toward someone he had spent years trying to forget. Zaid had always been the opposite of him—carefree, reckless, a man who floated through life while Zughaib had fought tooth and nail for every inch of ground he had gained.
"And still," the letter continued, "I will come. For Ma's sake, I will see you. But do not mistake my presence for forgiveness. This is merely duty. Yours, Zughaib."
Zughaib folded the letter neatly, slipping it into a weathered envelope. His fingers traced the edges of the paper before sealing it shut. As he leaned back on his bunk, he let out a slow breath, eyes closing for what felt like the first time in days.
Suddenly, a sharp knock on the door startled him out of his thoughts. His eyes snapped open, immediately alert. The door creaked open, and Jovian's face appeared—his weathered features tense, his usual gruff calm replaced with a rare sense of urgency.
"Zughaib," Jovian barked, stepping into the room with heavy boots, his coat flapping against his legs. "Get up. We've got a situation."
Zughaib blinked, still shaking the drowsiness from his head, but when he opened his mouth to speak, no words came out. The image of Jovian shimmered before his eyes, like a mirage, and in an instant, the airbase, the bunk, the letter—all of it vanished.
With a jolt, Zughaib woke up, the world around him suddenly cold, wet, and violently real. He was on a boat again, the rough seas slapping against the hull. Rex's voice hissed through the darkness, pulling him from the haze of his dreams.
"Shh," Rex whispered, crouched low at the bow of the worn-out dinghy. "We're almost there."
Zughaib sat up, his muscles sore and his mind racing to catch up. The air was thick with the smell of saltwater and damp wood. Night had fallen, and they were close to the docks. He could make out the faint lights in the distance, the muffled hum of a generator somewhere far off, and the occasional echo of footsteps on the wooden planks ahead.
"We have to be quiet," Rex continued, his voice barely audible over the sound of the water. "If they catch us, we're dead."
Zughaib nodded, though something gnawed at him. Rex was jittery, more so than usual. His eyes darted around constantly, never staying in one place for more than a second. It made Zughaib uneasy, but there was no time for questions. Not now.
They moved in silence, their dinghy scraping against the dock as they climbed out, feet landing softly on the wet wood. Ahead of them loomed a shadowy figure, tall and broad, waiting by a black van. Rex motioned toward him.
"That's the driver," Rex whispered. "He'll get us out of here."
Zughaib narrowed his eyes. There was something off about the whole setup. The man by the van, the vehicle itself—it all felt too convenient. Too easy. Years of experience had taught Zughaib to trust his instincts, and right now, his instincts were screaming that this was a trap.
Rex shrugged, his nervous energy spilling over into his voice. "Does it matter? We need to get out of here, and he's our ticket. Don't worry about it."
Zughaib shot Rex a hard look. Rex flinched at the accusation, his eyes dropping to the ground. "Look, man, I get it. My past… it's not exactly clean. But I'm not gonna screw you over. Not after everything we've been through."
Zughaib's gaze stayed on Rex for a long moment, weighing his words. He remembered Rex's rehab stints, the endless cycles of addiction, relapse, and guilt. Part of him wanted to believe that Rex had changed, that he could trust him. But the world didn't work like that, not anymore.
Before Zughaib could respond, the driver—a tall, imposing black man with a shaved head and cold, calculating eyes—stepped forward, nodding toward the van. "We're wasting time," he said in a low voice. "Get in."
Zughaib hesitated, but Rex was already moving. In a flash, Rex was in the van, the door slamming shut behind him. Zughaib stood there, drenched from the sea spray, his fists clenched at his sides. Something was wrong—he could feel it in his bones. But before he could act, the van's engine roared to life, and it sped off into the night, leaving him standing alone on the dock.
Rain began to fall in heavy sheets, soaking him to the bone as he stood there, helpless and furious. The island loomed behind him, a dark, oppressive presence, and in the distance, the unmistakable sound of helicopter rotors sliced through the air. An Anarchy CM copter was landing nearby.
Instincts kicking in, Zughaib turned and sprinted away from the docks, his feet splashing through puddles as he made for the cover of the narrow streets. The town was mostly deserted at this time of night, but a few street vendors and night guards lingered, their faces hidden beneath hoods and hats to shield themselves from the rain.
He ducked into an alley, breathing hard, and took stock of his situation. His plan was falling apart, and now Rex—his only ally—had vanished. Zughaib had no choice but to keep moving. He needed to get off the island, and fast. But first, there was one thing left to do.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out the envelope—the letter to Zaid, the one he had written back at the base. It felt like a lifetime ago now, but it was still important. Somehow, amidst the chaos, he had to send it.
Zughaib moved quickly, his soaked boots squelching against the cobblestone streets as he made his way toward a small post office tucked away in the corner of the town. The building was old, its wooden sign creaking in the wind, but it was still operational, a relic of the old world.
He slipped inside, the warmth of the interior a sharp contrast to the cold rain outside. The lone clerk behind the counter looked up, half-asleep, and barely acknowledged him as Zughaib dropped the letter into the outgoing mail bin.
As he left the post office, the reality of his situation began to sink in. Rex was gone, the copters were circling, and Jovian—Jovian's body was probably already sinking to the bottom of the sea. There was no time for grief, no time to process the betrayal. All that mattered now was survival.