7 present assignment.

 

Scene 1 — Column Moves

We leave the prison at dawn.

Cold air. Wet grass. The sky washed pale, like someone rinsed it overnight.

Maya climbs into the truck bed beside me, pulling her coat tight around her shoulders. She doesn’t say anything. She never does at first. She just watches the column form — trucks lining up, families climbing in, gang bangers moving with quiet purpose.

Engines cough awake one by one. Metal rattles. Doors slam. Kids settle under blankets, leaning against each other like stacked stones.

The gang bangers move through the line — tapping hoods, checking tires, slapping the sides of trucks to signal ready. Someone ties down a crate with rope frayed to threads. Someone else lifts a grandmother into the back seat like she weighs nothing.

Ruby’s voice slips into my ear, soft and private.

“Route plotted. Minimal risk.”

I nod once. Maya doesn’t react. She can’t hear Ruby.

The road ahead is cracked asphalt split by weeds thick enough to look like fingers pushing through. Abandoned cars sit crooked on the shoulder, windows fogged with dust.

The column rolls forward, loud and uneven, a river of metal and stubborn hope.

Scene 2 — Maya’s Quiet Knowledge

Maya sits with her knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them. Her eyes stay on the horizon.

After a long stretch of silence, she says, “Six was built on swamp.”

Her voice is low, almost lost under the engine noise.

I look at her.

She continues, “Ground’s too soft. They knew it. Built anyway. Said they’d fix it later.”

She watches the road.

“They won’t fix it. They’ll float it. Like the others.”

I blink. I didn’t know there were others.

She doesn’t explain. She doesn’t look at me.

“They have a date,” she says. “To leave. Before the ground gives out.”

She pulls her coat tighter.

“People are scared. Ellison. Koch. The swamp. All of it.”

She doesn’t say what she’s scared of.

Ruby murmurs in my ear:

Her information is accurate.

I don’t answer.

Maya doesn’t know Ruby spoke. She just keeps watching the horizon, like she can already see Sanctuary Six rising off the swamp like a ship.

Scene 3 — The Escaped Slaves

We spot them near an overturned bus — three figures crouched behind the wreckage, clothes torn, faces gray with exhaustion. Gang bangers jump off moving trucks and go to talk to them. One pulls out a walkie and they listen, as a Mongrel addresses Theo, ."They are escapees from a slave camp. Koch has about five hundred new employees. About five and a half clicks west of hear/

No shouting. No panic. Just motion.

The jumps off the truck first. Marisol follows, hands raised, palms open.

The three figures don’t run. They don’t hide. They just stare at us — hollow eyes, ribs showing through shirts, wrists bruised from restraints.

One of them whispers to me, “Are you… real?”

"Yes, I am real and here. Nice to meet you, I am Juan."

Maya kneels beside them She doesn’t touch them. She waits.

A woman steps forward. Her voice cracks.

“They took us. Ellison’s men. They have more. So many more.”

She points east — a trembling hand, barely able to lift.

“Please,” she says. “Help them.”

The gang bangers freeze.

Not from fear.

From rage.

A quiet, controlled rage tightens shoulders and clenches jaws.

Their injuries indicate prolonged captivity. Interrogate the witnesses, scout out he perimeters, find out who the commanders are, take them down. The rest will be set free. Be prepared to arm them.

I am ready. Now that I have crossed the line from observer to agent, I had best prove myself in the monkey hierarchy, that no matter how sophisticated the human, they were attuned and using in some way -- especially the sophisticated, like Maya.

The gang bangers look at each other — a silent conversation passing through the group like electricity.

They want to go back. They want to fight. They want to free the others.

They don’t say it.

They don’t have to.

I feel it.

⭐ Scene 4 — Jake’s Brother

Jake is helping one of the escaped men into a truck when he suddenly stops.

His hand stays on the man’s elbow, but his eyes lock on something down the road.

A small group of white men walking toward us.

Dust on their boots. Faces tight. Eyes fixed on Jake.

One steps ahead of the others.

Older. Broad shoulders. Same jawline as Jake.

His brother.

He doesn’t call out. He just walks up, slow and deliberate, like he’s approaching a stray dog he used to own.

Jake doesn’t move.

The brother stops a few feet away. Looks Jake up and down. Looks at the gang. Looks at the escaped slaves being lifted into blankets.

His mouth tightens.

“You’re still with them,” he says. Not loud. Not angry. Just disappointed in his little brother.

Jake swallows. Doesn’t answer.

The brother steps closer.

“We’re heading out,” he says. “Whites only. Clean. Safe. You come now, you come with us.”

He nods toward the men behind him — all white, all watching Jake like he’s a problem they’re trying to solve. I have my brothers here. And a lot of people you hate didn't run from that fight at the prison. Sent none men to Vallala. Come with us. See this.

Jake’s fingers tighten on the truck rail.

The brother leans in.

“You don’t belong with them,” he says. “You know that.”

He doesn’t point at anyone. He doesn’t use slurs. He doesn’t raise his voice.

He just says it like it’s a fact.

Like gravity.

The gang bangers notice. They don’t step in. They don’t threaten. They just watch Jake — waiting to see who he is.

Maya shifts beside me. Her eyes flick between Jake and his brother, reading every breath.

Jake’s brother gestures east.

“Come on,” he says. “We’re leaving before Ellison sweeps again. Before Koch starts rounding up stragglers. You stay with them, you die with them.”

Jake looks at the escaped slaves — bruised wrists, hollow eyes, shaking hands clutching blankets.

Then he looks at the gang — Marisol helping a child into a truck, Tito adjusting a splint on someone’s arm, teenagers building a ramp out of scrap wood.

Then he looks at his brother.

Jake’s jaw tightens.

“No,” he says.

Just one word.

Quiet. Steady. Final.

His brother stares at him like he doesn’t recognize him.

Then he spits on the ground.

“Traitor,” he says. Not shouted. Not dramatic. Just a verdict.

He turns and walks away. The other men follow. None of them look back.

Jake stays where he is, hand still on the truck rail, breathing hard.

No one says anything.

The gang just keeps moving — lifting people, passing water, adjusting blankets — like Jake’s choice was never in question.

Maya watches him for a long moment.

Then she looks at me.

I look awful impressed I imagine because she smiles at my smile.

Unity strengthed.

The gang bangers gather near the front of the column.

Ther stands, fists clenched.

“We can’t leave them,” he says.

Marisol nods. Others nod. A ripple of agreement moves through the column.

But a younger guy with a shaved head shakes his head.

“We got families,” he says. “Kids. Supplies. We go back, we lose everything.”

The escaped slaves watch the argument like they’re watching their own fate unfold.

The gang bangers argue quietly — sharp whispers, tight gestures, hands slicing the air.

Maya watches them, expression unreadable.

I keep my face still.

The gang bangers argue harder — not about strategy, not about survival, but about morality.

About what kind of people they want to be.

The argument dies all at once.

Tito lifts his chin.

“We take them with us,” he says. “We get them safe. We don't have time to help the rest.”

Juan steps up, "There is time. I had Ruby do the math,"

"Ruby did the math? Do you remember how to do math? Way I do math, when you are running for your life, stopping to help other people gets you both killed.

No one disagrees.

The gang bangers lift the escaped slaves gently — careful hands, soft voices, blankets wrapped around shaking shoulders.

The woman who spoke earlier looks at me as she passes.

Her eyes are raw.

“You’re the one from the gym,” she whispers.

I don’t know what to say. They think a Celeb can solve it all.

I look away.

Maya glances at me — just once — like she heard something in my silence.

I stare at the road.

Responsibility settles on me like dust.

For these people. For this column. For this stupid, stubborn march toward Chicago. For whatever Sanctuary was left on this burnt out orb.

I didn’t choose them.

They chose me, the spies, now the gang.

Yes, and your fans, who after much discussion, have decided you are a Celeb and thus can do not do any wrong. They literally do not fart, or use the restroom on that show. You do not either... except that time. Ha. Never a reference. Even though Plumage has the asshole of that poor bird sewn shut every morning. Keeps the shit out of her hair. I can see the bird is in pain and that she knows it. She hates the bird, an agent thing, like you having to work with sidekick. What did the young man say, "I don't care about the contract, I work with legitimate, human holo operators. Fire me now if ... Oh, wait. No, my agent is right, I respect your perspective." Yeah who was that whimpering human?

’m starting to think they chose me.

⭐ CHAPTER 7 — THE MARCH

present tense, first person

Scene 1 — Column Moves

We leave the prison at dawn.

Not because I say so. Not because Elias says so. Not because Ruby orders it.

The gang bangers decide.

They pack the trucks, load the families, assign drivers, set up scouts, and roll out like they’ve been doing this their whole lives. I sit in the back of a truck, watching the prison shrink behind us.

Ruby speaks in my ear.

“Route plotted. Avoiding military clusters.”

I nod, even though she can’t see it.

The road stretches ahead — cracked asphalt, weeds pushing through, abandoned cars rusting in the sun. The column moves like a river of noise and stubborn hope.

I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know why I’m following them.

But I am.

Scene 2 — Outmaneuvering Ellison

Ruby warns me before anyone else.

“Ellison’s retreating units are ahead. They’re slowed by heavy transport vehicles.”

I climb out of the truck and jog up to the front. The gang leaders are already talking strategy.

They don’t ask me for input. They don’t need me.

They send scouts around the flank. They use the terrain — hills, broken roads, collapsed overpasses — to funnel Ellison’s soldiers into a narrow corridor.

The soldiers try to push forward, but their heavy trucks bog down in the rubble. The gang bangers hit them from the sides, fast and loud, forcing them to retreat again.

It’s not a battle. It’s not even a fight.

It’s a maneuver.

A street‑smart, instinctive, beautifully chaotic maneuver.

Ruby says, “They are adapting quickly.”

“Yeah,” I say. “They’re good at this.”

I hate hearing bit of pride in my voice.

Scene 3 — Rescues

We find families along the road — hiding in ditches, abandoned houses, burned‑out cars.

The gang bangers stop every time.

Every time.

They pull people out of wreckage. They give them water. They lift them into trucks. They tell them they’re safe.

I watch a guy named Tito carry an old woman on his back for half a mile because she can’t walk. I watch a girl named Marisol give her only blanket to a toddler. I watch a group of teenagers build a ramp out of scrap wood so a wheelchair can get into a truck.

I watch people help each other.

And something in me hurts.

Ruby says, “You are experiencing empathy.”

“Shut up,” I say.

But she’s right.

I’m starting to care.

Scene 4 — Collapse

We reach a stretch of road where the land has buckled — a long, jagged collapse where the asphalt drops into a sinkhole.

Ellison’s soldiers try to cross it.

They don’t make it.

Their trucks slide, tilt, and fall into the pit. The soldiers scramble out, abandoning equipment, shouting orders that echo uselessly across the broken ground.

The gang bangers watch from a ridge.

They don’t cheer. They don’t gloat. They don’t fire.

They just watch Ellison’s army fall apart under the weight of its own machinery.

Ruby says, “This collapse was predicted. The soil was unstable.”

I stare at the wreckage.

I don’t feel triumph. I don’t feel revenge.

I feel something else.

Responsibility.

For these people. For this column. For this stupid, stubborn march toward Chicago.

I didn’t choose them.

But I’m starting to think they chose me

JAKE S BROTHER SHOULD COME IN THIS SCENE... NEEDS MORE CONFLICT.