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Some days were bad. They were made up of circumstances and situations, all of which conspired on thoroughly ruining the course of a day, but Madison typically had ways to cope. Sleep, music, alcohol, occasionally drugs, he had systems built for every potential. When an issue arose, he was prepared to deal with it, that had always been his way of life. Ensuring that nothing occurred off the cuff, not when everybody in the industry sought absolute perfection in their various operations. Did that make him an addict, he wondered; taking what he could get to halt the creeping onset of anxiety.

But some days were worse. Bandits had come across his Fringe safehouse, seemingly by complete accident, but he couldn't be too careful. Regardless of what they took, and that they destroyed the place, but didn't search for the hidden safes, or take the documents that Madison had left unattended on the desk. Regardless of who they were. They represented a greater danger than simple Bandits - ordinarily, they were no issue; he could deal with a Water Bandit party if it came down to it. But if word spread and he remained, it would be game over.

Danger meant pulling favours. Just because he was prepared didn't mean he enjoyed it, not anymore. It had been his third move in two months, and the Neutral Zones were becoming increasingly dangerous for him by the day. It was only a matter of time before he had to relocate to somewhere more difficult to assault, where Water Bandits and Slavers wouldn't, and couldn't, apparate from the mists when his back was turned, blissfully ignorant. Between the location and setup of the safehouse itself, the chance's of run-ins like that were as low as he could get them - that much, Madison was confident of.

He was less than confident on the Enclave of choice, though. New Brazil wasn't the worst Enclave, far from it, and both it and Cartelli had their positives. But the Cartelli Corporation had their eye on Madison's head as well. Bounty or not, it was risk; Cartelli had their negative points too. But he'd had a transport favour lined up since months prior. The Madison from the past had thought it was a good idea - he'd placed part of their small fortune on it. And Madison had long since come to accept that trusting his past self over himself was the best course for everyone involved.

He jolted awake. Light bled past his eyelids, forcing them open, and immediately shut, as he blinked back the haze of sleep that had fallen over him. An acrid smell found his nose, a mix of ash, and sulphur, and blood, and smoke. There had been an explosion - Madison could recognise the smell from anywhere. They couldn't have planned it. They couldn't have known. He attempted to arrange his thoughts, but the build of anxiety forced him to breath, inhaling plumes of debris that led him to choke against the fumes.

The build to sensory overload bubbled over in the form of pain - a sustained, pronounced ache that wracked his person, from his leg and up to his neck. He couldn't place what it was he had hit. He could barely focus on his surroundings, but it had to have been something. Still, he forced himself to his feet. They were targeting him - sitting still was a death sentence, regardless of the distance the blast had flung him. One hand clasped the wall to his right, dragging him to a stand, while the other fingered the clasp on the holster to his pistol, a heavily modified, high calibre ballistic weapon. Most of the modifications were lost on him, but old Madison liked the aesthetic. The sights were cracked from the impact, but against Slavers and Bandits, it would make short work regardless.

For a moment, Madison took stock of his situation. His rucksack had survived, as had his clothes, but the blast wave had dishevelled him. A trickle of blood ran down his left arm, leaving a smear through his jacket that he would be unable to hide. Somehow, he had found himself in an alleyway. The force had flung him through the front glass and out the back of some building. He could see through the crater of the front entrance, the chaos the square had devolved into. Between the soldiers and flames, his fight or flight kicked into action.

Madison began walking as flight won out, his left hand clenched around the grip of the gun, as his right gripped firmly against the wound, halting the blood flow. Each step was staggered and slow, punctuated with resurgences in pain for every movement. Pain that crawled along his spine and into his rightmost knee. He had painkillers in his bag, but he couldn't afford to stop, not yet. Escaping the blast area was his priority, especially with soldiers detaining anyone they found. All he had to do was make it to the safehouse.