[center][hider=Concerning:][@Xandrya][/hider][/center]It was coming to be around the Late Watches then, the interim of midnight and morning. Because it was dark and cool, their footsteps traveled farther than usual, typically a reason to walk slowly (in addition to the roots and rocks which so easily trip a blind man; especially when even the smallest cut or sprain could spell one's demise in this place), or at least be wary of their surroundings. Instead, they trudged onward with no respect, and scarcely any regard at all, for the leaves and red twigs crackling under their toes. Hunger stuck to their ribs and fatigue to the bags of their eyes. They had sheathed their weapons by then; Marcel did not fear usurpation from his soldiers any more than they feared the wrath of their liege-lord. No, they suffered equally in this long march toward God-knows-where. Frankfurt? Beyond? They headed east, they knew, and maybe they meandered north a few degrees as well; they'd be crossing the river soon. With enemies behind them, and no drive to fight, they could not argue that [i]forward[/i] was the only logical direction in which to travel.

"You made the right choice, boss," said Ray. The two had reconciled wordlessly, as men are able to so easily, to the wonderment of women; seeming simply to forget that they had ever threatened each other with bullets at all, and at that, just a few hours before.

"Maybe. But it sure don't feel like I did." Marcel looked to the ground as he spoke. Not for lack of pride, though he certainly felt worthless as they wandered to their undecided destination, like a candy wrapper on the wind; they were all hunched over, tired, driven onward by the whips of fear. Fear, fear of what would happen if they stopped to rest, of who would catch up to them. "They died defending that place and now we're abandoning it. Leaving it for [i]them[/i] to take."

Ray shook his head. Futility, was it, hmm? They died for nothing? "You didn't kill them, boss. You saved us from sharing in their fate. Just try to remember that, if it helps. I'm hungry. I'll go see if Alex wants to trade for a can of sausages." Marcel found himself alone again, though his soldiers, marching through the stale, brittle mud, surrounded him.[hr][hr][hr][center][i][color=785D62]M[/color][color=7E6566]e[/color][color=856D6A]a[/color][color=8B756E]n[/color][color=927D72]w[/color][color=988576]h[/color][color=9F8E7A]i[/color][color=A78E7B]l[/color][color=AF8F7D]e[/color][color=B88F7F].[/color][color=C09081].[/color][color=C89083].[/color][/i][/center][hr][hr][hr][center][hider=Concerning:][@themadasshatter][@silverfallen][/hider][/center]Earlier that same day, an unlikely partnership had formed in a modest (that is, hopelessly ramshackle) farmhouse. These stalkers put their differences aside, agreeing that they were safer together than alone—despite the tantalizing romance which must naturally follow the loner lifestyle. But then, it's called a "life"-style for a reason: it isn't worth much if they're not around to live it. So off they went.

They saw people on the road, people they did not recognize, and were cautious, as any smart stalker must be. But the strangers only added to this confusion, this uncertainty as to their motivations and allegiances, when they noticed Neasa and Scott behind them.

"Whoa!" One dashed for the side of the road, throwing himself into the rain-ditch, such that the dirt and the cracked asphalt covered him. When one ran, so did the others, like the entire school following the movements of the one fish startled toward the shelter of the lilies and lake-weeds. They, too, it seemed, did not altogether trust the two stalkers not to shoot them in the back. They peered out behind their covers: the ditch and the trees. They whispered harshly to each other in their Romantic language. Some hadn't even seen Neasa and Scott yet, but trusted their ally as to the danger which skulked behind them.

Bad luck, one could suppose; they were quiet as could be, the duo, but still they were spotted, because one of the stalkers was struck with a certain whimsy, watching a squirrel skitter through the leaves or any other mundane thing like that. The universe, much less the Zone, seldom paid any mind to the patterns and meaning men tried vainly to assign to the utter chaos of the world. This must be what the ancients called "luck."

No shots had yet been fired, though. Always a good sign.