Surviving The Last of Us

Elliot and Lieutenant Stroud made their way through the dilapidated streets of the quarantine zone. With every step, the chaos of the place seemed to grow: civilians with faces hardened by hunger and desperation moved among the rubble and makeshift barricades, watching them with calculating eyes. Some begged, others simply followed them with a fixed gaze, like predators waiting for an opportunity.

Stroud seemed immune to everything. He walked with his back straight and his gaze forward, projecting a presence that repelled any attempt to approach him. When someone dared to cross his path, a quick gesture of his hand or a stern look was enough to make them back off.

Elliot, on the other hand, tried to keep up. He had been in the quarantine zone before, but always as part of raids or patrols. Never as someone mixed in with the civilians. He felt the stares on him, the weight of distrust and hatred from those whom FEDRA ruled with an iron fist.

"This way," Stroud muttered, turning into a narrow alley that reeked of urine and garbage.

Elliot followed, adjusting his backpack on his shoulder as his boots crunched through puddles and debris. The alley led them to another street even worse than the last. The misery here was palpable: people covered in rags huddled along the walls, while malnourished children played with pieces of rusted metal.

"Don't stare too much. Don't draw attention to yourself, kid," Stroud said quietly but firmly, his tone heavy with warning. "These motherfuckers would do anything for a little food."

Elliot nodded, gulping as he kept his eyes ahead, though he couldn't help but notice the whispers and hungry stares that followed them.

Finally, they came to a FEDRA checkpoint. This one was very different from the last: more soldiers, heavier weapons, and a structure reinforced with sandbags, metal barricades, and mounted turrets. On the surrounding rooftops, snipers watched with lenses that glinted in the sun. A helicopter hummed in the distance, and the sound of its rotors seemed to keep civilians away, like a constant reminder of who was in control.

The soldiers at the entrance let them through without question, clearly informed of their arrival. Stroud barely nodded in acknowledgement before moving forward, not slowing his pace. Elliot followed behind, his gaze scanning the area. Although he was used to a military presence, the tension in this place was different, more intense, as if a spark could ignite a riot at any moment.

They turned a corner at the end of the street and entered an apartment building that, although still standing, showed obvious signs of neglect and disrepair. The windows were boarded up, and the walls were stained with graffiti and soot.

"This way," Stroud said as she climbed a rusty metal staircase that creaked beneath her boots. She didn't look back to make sure Elliot was following her; she knew he would.

Elliot adjusted his pace so as not to be left behind, feeling the atmosphere grow heavier with each step they took towards their destination.

They climbed the metal stairs that creaked with each step to the third floor. There, the hallway was barely lit by a dim light filtering through a broken window. The walls were covered in graffiti and damp stains. Several apartments were sealed off by FEDRA.

Stroud walked determinedly to the end of the hallway, stopping in front of a door that looked as rundown as the others. Without a word, he pulled a small case out of his backpack and began working with a pair of lockpicks, moving the tools deftly as Elliot watched, clearly surprised.

"You know how to do that?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.

Stroud didn't look up. "You learn, Torres," he replied, his tone dry as the lock mechanism made a soft click. "Inside," he ordered as he opened the door and stepped inside without hesitation.

Elliot followed her, closing the door behind them. The apartment was a mess. The walls were covered in dark stains, and the air smelled of dust, damp, and something stale. In the center of the room was an old mattress, surrounded by dirty clothes and empty bottles. A battered couch was pushed up against one wall, while the tiny, rundown kitchen housed a rusty, non-working refrigerator.

Stroud walked straight into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator with a sharp yank. Elliot approached cautiously, still trying to figure out what they were doing there.

"What are we doing here, Lieutenant?" he finally asked, his voice thick with curiosity and impatience.

Stroud didn't answer right away. From between the shelves of the empty refrigerator he pulled out a half-full bottle of whiskey, its label faded but still legible. "Waiting for our informant," he said as he inspected the bottle. "That son of a bitch hasn't contacted me in weeks. That's why we're here, to remind him how things work."

Not bothering to look for glasses, Stroud uncapped the bottle and took a long drink straight from it. Then, she extended the bottle towards Elliot. "Want?"

Elliot took the bottle from Stroud, still bewildered by the atmosphere. He plopped down on the old couch, which creaked under his weight, as the lieutenant sat down beside him with a sigh. For a moment, the two of them sat in silence, sharing the shabby space as the stale smell of the apartment hung in the air.

The whiskey burned in his throat, but it was a welcome distraction from the questions that continued to swirl in his mind. Stroud took the bottle again, taking another long drink before placing it between them.

"So, Torres," she began, her tone more relaxed than usual. "First time in a place like this, huh?"

Elliot nodded, looking around. "Yeah. I've been in the quarantine zone before, but always on raids. This is… different."

Stroud let out a low, almost mocking laugh. "You have no idea. This place, these people… It's a fucking rat's nest, but at least you know what to expect from them. Most of them would do anything for food or a bottle like this."

"And what are we doing here? What do you expect from this informant?" Elliot asked, running a hand through his hair as he tried to calm his nerves.

Stroud turned to him, propping an elbow on the back of the couch and looking at him with a lopsided smile. "Always so serious? Relax, Torres. This isn't a fucking interrogation. We're just waiting."

Elliot shrugged, trying to ignore the discomfort the situation caused him. He took another sip of the whiskey and let the heat run through his body.

Stroud watched him, her eyes glinting slightly in the dim lighting of the place. "You know," she began, her tone softer, "you've got something interesting. That straight-laced attitude… but you also know when to get your hands dirty."

Elliot blinked, surprised by the comment. "Is that a compliment, Lieutenant?"

"Maybe," she replied, moving a little closer, her voice almost a whisper. "Does it make you uncomfortable?"

Elliot tensed, looking around as if the informant might walk in at any moment. "No… I just wasn't expecting this."

Stroud let out a soft laugh, amused by his reaction. "Relax, Torres. No one's going to just walk in. And if they do, you know what to do."

Elliot tried to divert attention, but the way she looked at him, leaning slightly toward him, made it impossible to ignore. Her proximity was electrifying, and while part of him wanted to keep things strictly professional, another part of him couldn't help but feel intrigued.

"Is it always like this with your subordinates?" he asked, trying to sound casual but failing to completely hide his nervousness.

"Only with the ones who deserve it," she replied, her smile widening as she let her fingers lightly brush his arm. "And you, Torres, earned it."

Elliot felt his heart begin to race. There was something in her tone, in the way she looked at him, that completely disarmed him. "Lieutenant, I'm not sure this is… appropriate."

Stroud leaned back, still holding that smile that was a mix of mockery and flirtatiousness. "'Appropriate'? We're in a fucking dumpster waiting for some idiot who probably won't show up. Relax, Torres."

Elliot couldn't help but smile slightly, shaking his head as he took another swig of the whiskey. "Is this how you spend your days waiting for informants?"

"Sometimes," she replied, leaning back into him, this time letting her shoulder lightly touch his. "Why? You don't like my style?"

Elliot chuckled, finally relaxing a bit as the bottle was passed back and forth between them. "I'd say it's… unexpected."

Time passed as the two shared the whiskey, and the conversation became lighter, more personal. Stroud told him anecdotes from his days at FEDRA, some funny, some fraught with cynicism, while Elliot shared bits of his life before this world.

The distance between them narrowed imperceptibly. Accidental brushes became more frequent, and shared laughter broke down any remaining barriers. Stroud looked at him, her eyes shining with an intensity that made Elliot feel like the air in the room had grown heavier.

"You're not such a bad guy, Torres," she said, her voice now in a low, almost intimate tone.

"Thanks, I guess," he replied, looking directly at her for the first time without trying to look away.

The sound of a knock on the door brought them out of the moment, causing Elliot to instinctively sit up straight and Stroud to click his tongue in frustration.

"Time to work," she muttered, standing up from the couch with the bottle still in her hand. She glanced over her shoulder at Elliot, her playful smile returning for a moment. "But after this, we'll continue the conversation."

The door swung open, causing Elliot to instantly tense. A man in his 50s staggered in, muttering to himself words that Elliot couldn't quite make out. His clothes were worn, and the air around him was thick with the smell of someone who had spent a long time in hiding.

Stroud, already on alert, quickly pulled out her pistol and loaded the gun, the sound of the bolt clanking through the room.

"I hope I'm not disturbing your peace," she said in a cold, cutting tone, her eyes locked on the man.

The intruder looked up at her, his nervous movements giving him away. Instinctively, he reached behind his back, clearly reaching for a gun. But before he could pull it out, Elliot already had him in his sights.

"I wouldn't try that if I were you," Elliot said, his voice firm as he pointed his gun at the man.

The man paused, his gaze flickering between Stroud and Elliot. Finally, he lowered his hand slowly, though the gesture did nothing to ease the tension in the room.

"What are you doing here?" the man growled, his tone laced with contempt. "Wasn't the favor you asked of me last time enough for you?"

Stroud took a step forward, not lowering his gun, his face a mask of suppressed anger. "You didn't answer my calls," he said, his tone deeper than ever. "Now, let go of the information I asked of you the last time I saw you."

The man let out a dry laugh, not loosening his grip on the pistol he still partially concealed. "Is this how you talk to your father?"

Elliot blinked, stunned. The man's words hit him like a sledgehammer in the chest, leaving him momentarily frozen. Father? Was that man Stroud's father?

The lieutenant showed no reaction beyond slightly gritting her teeth and placing her finger on the trigger. "You're nothing to me," he spat. "Now talk before I blow your brains out."

The man let out another laugh, deeper this time, as he lifted his head to look directly at her. "You know if I say anything, I'm dead, right? Being a Firefly isn't exactly a job with a guaranteed retirement."

Elliot felt his mind begin to spin. The man was not only Stroud's father; he was also a Firefly. The tension in the room seemed like a living entity that grew with every second.

"I don't give a shit," Stroud growled, his eyes cold as steel. "Talk."

The man looked at her with a mix of pity and mockery. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, I can't. Although... sometimes I miss when you were just a little girl with dreams and—"

The movement was quick, almost imperceptible. The man pulled out his gun and fired at Elliot. The bullet passed just inches from his head, crashing into the wall behind him.

Elliot reacted instantly, rolling off the couch and standing up with his gun raised, but the man was already running for the door.

"Son of a bitch!" Stroud roared, turning to Elliot, who was already on his feet with the gun in his hand.

"Don't let the son of a bitch get away!" she screamed, running after him without hesitation.

Elliot followed her immediately, his mind still reeling from what he had just heard, but his body reacting out of pure training. The sound of their boots echoed on the metal stairs as they both chased after the man.

End of Chapter 9.