Meanwhile, on the bus...

Who: Eric
Where: Outskirts of the city
When: Dusk

All things considered, Eric was actually flattered that he'd been put at the front of the bus. It was tactically sound, of course; this seat kept him in plain view of two guards and the driver, while the rest of the bus only had four more along the walkway. Three shotguns between the standing guards were held at ease, and all six had pistols holstered, but the driver was only a driver. Eric could work with this, tallying off the numbers in his head and fitting them in with what he'd learned from the ride so far.

His wrists were shackled, three feet of chain running from them to the shackles at his ankles, and that loose distance of chain was run through another loop that sat fixed on the seat itself. All things considered, it should've been secure. But then, Eric hadn't been given the best of medical care in his time at the station. Moreso, Eric hadn't been properly searched. He'd let them think that the wear and tear on his body was from a day of running, that the dead and scabbed nails here and there on his hands were just signs of desperation. And he hadn't even had to try to avoid a closer look, none of the local uniforms were generous enough to offer, not with the things he'd done. In the end, that was the problem; Danny should've shot him, not given him the chance to use the flat bits of iron that Eric had shoved under his own nails three days ago.

They weren't much, as tools went, but the bus had yet to even clear the city when Eric saw where they'd fit. The rung that held him in the seat was mounted on flathead screws, even getting one loose could be enough for him to get out of the seat. Past that, the cuffs would need to come off. He'd need his hands for what came next, though there was only one surefire way to make that happen...

And, as it tended to be when one was looking to escape armed guards on a moving vehicle, there was a lot more to worry about than just getting his hands free. Like his seatmate, for starters. He had the look of a longtime inmate from his permanent malnourished look to his sleeves of homespun tattoos, a perpetual redness around his eyes, hints of puncture scars just past his collar... with the prison bus doing a route of stops on its' way home to deposit fresh inmates, who knew if he was local? There was a price on Eric's head, and where he was going? Well, the people he'd killed had friends who could probably reach out to the prison. Maybe guards, but why not just prisoners?

Even if he could deal with the guy or avoid him entirely, he'd still have to get past the guards and clear of the bus, lose the leg shackles, and give himself enough distance that they thought he was clear of town. Whether he would be or not, Eric had yet to decide. One thing at a time, old man, he thought to himself with a grim little smirk. And for just a moment he let himself look past his seatmate, catching the last vestiges of the city slipping by and savoring the grin. It had been a good life, regrets and mistakes and all, and if this failed? It'd be a good death.

"You sure are smilin' more'n a man on this bus oughta be," he heard from the prisoner next to him, a vague drawl to his speech that shattered his reverie and drew his eyes over. "Word is, you're worth an easy stretch inside," the tattooed man went on, leaning over a bit to speak with a hint of malice. "Bet a fella could even get a televisio..." he managed before Eric decided that now was as good a time as any and lifted his feet, giving all three feet of chain to a two-fisted punch that cracked the guy in the nose and bounced his head off the glass of the window hard enough to crack it.

"Martens! Down!" one of the guards suddenly bellowed, leveling his shotgun and thumbing away the safety catch. Chaos started on the bus; a series of hoots and threats from inmates as the guards drew pistols or readied shotguns, but through it all, Eric complied. His head went down, hands in his lap as he felt a weapon stock crack into his back and stay there, leveraging him in place. "Prisoner secure," one voice said, followed by a jingle of keys and the sense of movement to his side. Eric could hear ragged breathing, see spots of blood drip down to the scuffed metal floorboards. He'd probably broken the guy's nose, that bled like hell.

Waiting there, he could hear them lead the bleeding man away, sticking to what he guessed was a long-practiced routine. Prisoner secure or in motion, it was just checkpoint work, and maybe it was good enough for these guys. It was piss-poor to the old Marine. He'd already started working with his head down and hands hidden, prying back the nail of one thumb with his fingertips as Eric sucked in a pained breath. The muscles through his hand were fighting him, twitching and pulling away, or bunching other fingers in as he tugged at the flat wedge of iron, biting his tongue to repress a gag.

Of course, the clock was running now. Nobody sharing his seat would mean twice the scrutiny if the other guard made it back, but there was no stopping now. He could hear a call for the first aid kit as Eric set the bit of crude metal into one screw that kept him locked in. The first twist almost seemed impossible for what could only have been ten seconds, but felt like a stretched-thin moment of impact. It turned he growled to himself, feeling the metal bite into his fingers as he twisted it over and over, working out the screw's depth.

But, as the saying went, no plan survived first contact with the enemy. No sooner had he started to see the first curve of the screw, the first hint that it was tapering to a point, than Eric felt a jab in his back again. “Martens, up,” he heard from the guard, that bare command sparking a nerve. There was no time, not even if he was already trying to twist into the second screw.

“Martens, I said sit up!” he heard again, the metal twisting in his grip as Eric saw the first turn. His vision flashed as the shotgun came down again, hard this time, but instead of clearing from the white? It came back blood red. Two movements. I can do this in two movements, he thought desperately, right hand clenched over his bit of iron as the left curled in a tight fist with his fingers over his thumb.

Before the hit came, Eric froze on some level. He’d written those words not long ago, tactics for his war then as they were now... and for the moment before the hit? He remembered what it had cost him. I’m sorry, he thought, eyes squeezing shut as another crack echoed across his ribs, surely with another goddamned order. In that moment, Eric’s fist knotted as tight as it could, cracking the bone of his thumb in his own grip. His hand compacted up as he grunted in pain, folding thin and wedging against the handcuff narrowly. He stopped fighting the guard, sitting up with pained breaths that were entirely real. One hand bloody and tender, the other with a broken thumb?

“Cheap shots,” he spat between breaths, good hand knuckling tight, “My turn.”

Eric lunged with a growl of rage that was too suited to his alter ego, wrenching at the weakened securing ring hard enough to tear it free with a sharp groan of resistance. The moment he’d begun the move, the pain just stopped, muting itself with a desire to show this man how wrong he was to give an order. “Priso--” the guard managed, scrambling to turn his shotgun back around. Ready for the threat, Eric yanked his bad hand free of the cuff, feeling a surge of fresh pain as skin pulled loose with it.

Who cared? How could he care about a bad scratch in a moment like this? This was purely electric. He swayed low as the shotgun dipped in, juking under it bodily and slinging up an elbow into the weapon. It lurched up with the hit, barking out a single shot that ripped through the roof of the bus. The whole vehicle lurched and shook as the driver reacted in panic, swerving and throwing a terrified look back.

How long had it been? Four, five seconds since he’d attacked? It was all stretching out again, almost giving a sense of slowed motion as Eric lashed out, grabbing the guard’s arm and twisting him around to face his fellows. He needed a shield for a moment, but only that. Only long enough for the other guards to see, to try and take in the new information. Then?

He shoved the guard forward in a stumble, turning to the driver as quickly as his leg irons allowed. It was about misdirection in war, sometimes: feints and sabotage, bullshit radio transmissions, fake news reels. As he’d told Danny, it was about letting the enemy see what you want them to see. Here and now? It was just to panic these men for the guard’s sake, just to buy him that divided focus.

The fight had given him enough room to be close to the driver, so as the others tried for their friend’s safety? Eric jumped lurchingly, leg shackles fighting him as he stomped both feet out to one side, drilling them into the driver’s head. The hit was bruising even in his ankles, and there was a twinge of regret as the driver lurched to the side, hands tugging the wheel hard in the same direction. The bus began to shake and lump again, creaking and groaning in protest as it cut off the shoulder of the road and touched a wheel into the ruts along the road.

The twinge of guilt exploded as Eric looked back into the bus, both hands gripping the bar at the top of the stairs tightly. He didn’t have a chance to hope the guards survived before the bus tipped, spilling everything to the left. There was no time for any reflection on what he was doing, just the act itself, and surviving it.

Eric hung onto that bar as the world exploded with a cacophony of destruction; a whirlwind of metal being rent apart, glass shattering, stone grinding below the frame, and the much more distinct sounds of human trauma. He shut his eyes as glass rained in from the overhead doors, looked down to see dirt and stone pass by ruined windows beneath him as the bus slid... then finally stopped.

There were survivors in here, he could hear them. Soft, weak sounds of agony, the sorts a broken man made. Thinking of how he’d been shackled in, he let of an exhale of cold sickness at the possibilities waiting behind him. In a best-case scenario, there’d be a slew of broken arms and wrists, dislocated shoulders or knees. In the worst case?

Eric didn’t look back. Crawling out the gaping hole where the windshield had been, he raised a shaky hand to wipe a smear of blood from his forehead, taking his first shuffling steps away from the bus. He needed to get out of sight now, no way of knowing when traffic would happen by. That meant dropping to the dirt below as Eric undid his jumpsuit, making a mental note to mail it to the prison in his stead.

Peeling away the bandage over his arm, he plucked apart the gauze to pull a thin bit of wire free. It’d do for the shackles, with time. Then? Leave the dead and dying, find a change of clothes, and... he still didn’t know, not entirely. The ‘what’ of it was a mystery, but the ‘where’? Well, looking back to the city skyline behind him was all the answer Eric needed. As for the ‘how’, he’d figure that out as needed. He hadn’t expected to even get this far. All things considered? Eric wasn’t sure if he was lucky or cursed, only that it was time to get moving. Like always.