Little to see beyond the iron bars, little to hear besides the rumble of an engine, and little to keep sane. The spottily crafted metal cage rumbled when the truck passed over the smallest of bumps. A bench extended along the wall of the cage, but it only came out less than one hand's length. Four slender, ill-dressed figures sat with their backs pressed against the cage. Every now and then a bump sent one onto the truck-bed. Their chains drew taught, collars jerked, and their frail bodies helplessly followed. They tumbled and lie with tangled limbs while summoning the energy to rise and repeat. The process went on until one's head met the bar at an edge. When they rose, their bloody hand smeared the rear window of the truck. 

Three sat in the head of the truck. Unlike the chained and starving, they looked relatively healthy and free. Empty cans of food, drink, and cigarette butts lie scattered about their feet. Seven very different weapons scattered about the truck along with extra clothes of various styles and sizes. The truck resembled a proper bandit's keep with stolen goods left about unapologetically. Of the group, two smoked and laughed while pointing to weathered mile signs. Sat in the back row with all the weapons, the odd-one-out feigned sleep until there was a light thud. A hand pressed between the bars of the cage and against the glass. Bony fingers and a wide reach, it left bloody streaks as it the owner righted themselves back onto the bench. The odd-one-out, Remmy, snapped his fingers and gasped.

"Somethin's wrong, stop!" the Cajun ordered, grabbing a nearby Winchester and rising. 

Weapons raised, three of them, and Simon-Pietro could not muster an ounce of fear. Only one deserved a thought. The Cajun offered him some solace in the endless days and nights. A bit of conversation here-and-there nourished the mind. Some of the others dared to rebel a few weeks ago before the split-up. Not much conversation since then, not much to keep sanity but the cool bars against his bony back. Why fear guns when starvation was working you down slowly? A bullet might be mercy. He eyed the three men, for a moment imagining the muzzle flashes and the painless, unthinking caress of nothingness. Despite his flesh, blood, and bone he was not a person. Those sat beside him were not people. A bit of shaped metal meant they were things to be sold, to be taken, starved, and peddled. Hard, interlacing ovals tied to a big metal collar took away Being, and a small bit of fast metal could finish the job. He salivated at the thought. 

Spittle dribbled down his wiry, inches long beard as Simon fell to his knees. "Do it!" his gravelly shout ordered, "End me!"

Before anyone could oblige, Remmy stepped forward with a key raised. The other two men circled about the back of the truck with weapons levelled as the Cajun unlocked the cage. Crawling, the desperate creature approached and stared into the Cajun's eyes. 

"Y'know the rules? Few miles on your feet should remind you," Remmy exclaimed, unlocking creature's collar from the shared chain. 

Without a moment more the truck started again. Walking took all the will the slave could muster. His body threatened to collapse with every step, but the Cajun's company kept him standing. Well, his collar's chain attached to the rear of the truck had a part too. Despite all the pain and exhaustion they kept a slow pace longer than either expected. The whole way the Cajun attempted to start a conversation. He brought up stories the old Simon once shared about friends and, when the slave looked worst, about sex. 

"Tell me again about your ladyfriend, Wendy," Remmy suggested before cocking a brow and glancing ahead.

Simon-Pietro tipped his head up. Though his face was thinner and hardened by long weeks full of sorrow, something changed if only for a second. His lips parted and a voice, this time gentle, sighed, "Winni." The light came and went with the word, but it was enough. 

The truck stopped and Remmy's mouth fell into a perfect O. Too much change sent Simon's head spinning, but the even as he withdrew into himself he heard a loud noise. A thumping. As the slaves looked up from the cage and the slavers hopped out from the truck, Simon raised his head and found it. 

"Oh shit..." the slaver sighed, losing his words as the cigarette fell from mouth. 

The second slaver, this one taller with a practiced stand followed it with squinted eyes. "Military. Blackhawk. Light skin and no arms, looks like a scout."

A great weight fell onto Simon in that moment. He collapsed too quickly for Remmy to help, but the Cajun knelt beside him al the same. Tightness balled in Simon's chest making it hard to breath or to swallow. What little there was felt small, something beyond him at risk. It was familiar -- it was fear. Regardless of the spinning and the panic a thought forced its way through. He knew this area, he was not born far from here. They were in California or Nevada. And only the rumour of Evergreen wet Emperor's appetite more than the truth of Chico.

 Simon felt his mind whither leaving the thought to crumble. The words military and Chico clung in his mind, but the exhaustion came in one last wave.