𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 || joel miller ¹

[ 𝟎𝟓 ] 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠

─ ❝ MY DAD MIGHT BE DEAD, RIGHT? ❞

──── ⋆◖◍◗⋆ ────

[ BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS — 2023 ]

THE STREETS REEKED OF GASOLINE and burning flesh. It hung heavy in the air like a thick, suffocating blanket, clinging like an irremovable stain to discolored buildings and people wandering past them with their heads hung low.

They weren't trying to evade the smell. No, they had grown accustomed to it over time as it never truly left.

They were avoiding the dangerously sharp eyes of the M16s that aimed at the back of their heads from the roofs of those buildings — and the ones that lurked throughout the packed blocks — waiting for a reason to shoot.

That reason only existed in the menacing symbol of a firefly spray painted onto dingy old shop windows and heavily tagged brick walls, but they were already working to cover those up. Laborers rolled thick coats of white paint over the last clear spot on a window, the rest of it covered in uneven patches of paint and newspaper that only silenced more symbols.

The crowd pushed past those laborers, not daring to let their gaze linger too long on the skillfully painted firefly and risk getting mistaken for one of them. Or risk blowing their cover. They silently continued on to their scheduled job or to their homes to retire for the day after their shift, despite it being broad daylight.

But Renee Santos wove through the crowd for a different reason. She pushed through the mass with nothing more than a few curt 'excuse me's and a couple of rather courteous shoves to make it to the Quarantine Zone's main square.

It wasn't like she had any interest in whatever it was that had attracted the crowd that was there when she arrived; she was only supposed to meet somebody to discuss a job of her own. One that she couldn't risk just anybody hearing about if she wanted to keep her head.

FEDRA, Boston's very own faction that consisted of what remained of the US military, created after the chaos known as the outbreak, remained posted at the outskirts of the square, eyeing the small mass through thick facial gear.

Renee wedged herself into the audience, turning to the makeshift gallows held together by messily welded pipes and poles and a rickety wooden platform as a FEDRA officer began to speak. The officer's monotonous voice was as flat as the full suit of black armor and weaponry she wore, echoing throughout the hushed square as she began to recite off of a small card the names and offenses committed by the three people lined up behind her.

They had all been charged for unauthorized exits out of or entries into the QZ and had been sentenced to death. Renee wanted to grimace at the sight of the three freshly crafted nooses in front of each of their bagged heads — she knew she should have — but her jaw only tightened with indignation.

Her gaze drifted away momentarily to search the crowd for the person who was supposed to be there already, throat tightening when she realized she might actually have to witness the hanging. She let her scan pan out much longer than it needed to be, studying faces she hardly recognized until she landed on one that she could.

His eyes found hers at the same time. Renee's gaze threatened to pass Joel Miller by like he was just another face in the crowd but it bounced back and her body froze. Both of their stoic facades crumbled the longer their eyes were on each other, but Joel regained composure before she could.