Arthur led Rory across the rooftop edge, crouching low as they slipped behind a rust-eaten billboard frame. Below, the Firefly convoy was still unloading crates, their soldiers spreading out into cautious formations. Their rifles weren't just for show — they moved like people who knew what monsters lurked in shadow.
Arthur whispered, "Stay close. No sudden moves. They're lookin' for somethin', an' we don't need to be it."
They followed the broken roofline until a collapsed section forced them down. Arthur found a fire escape ladder dangling loose and climbed, boots heavy on the rungs. Rory followed nervously, sawed-off tucked tight against his chest.
At the bottom, they slipped through an alley choked with weeds and husks of old cars. Arthur had his revolver out, thumb loose over the hammer.
Then the call came.
"HEY! You two!"
Arthur froze, pushing Rory gently behind him. Down the open street ahead, five soldiers in mottled fatigues had already spotted them. Rifles up. Eyes sharp.
Arthur muttered, "Well… guess we're done sneakin'."
He stepped out slowly into the open, revolver lowered but ready. His coat swayed in the cold wind, hat pulled low. Rory clung near his side, wide-eyed.
One of the soldiers barked, "Hands where we can see 'em! Drop the weapons!"
Arthur raised his revolver hand halfway, but didn't let go. His other hand hung by the satchel strap. His voice cut the silence, gravelly and slow. "Now, I don't take kindly to bein' shouted at. Why don't we all lower our irons 'fore somebody does somethin' they regret."
The leader frowned. "You're armed to the teeth. What the hell are you doing in this zone?"
Arthur's lip curled faintly. "Funny. Could ask y'all the same. Ain't seen no law round here handin' out rights."
One of the soldiers whispered, "The hell is he wearin'? Looks like he walked outta a museum…"
Arthur ignored it, stepping a hair closer. "Kid here's with me. We ain't here to fight. Just passin' through. But if you aim to press me…" His voice dropped lower. "…you'll find I don't scare easy."
Rory swallowed hard but kept quiet, watching the rifles follow every move.
The leader tightened his grip, eyes narrowing. "You're a long way from safe zones. You want to walk away alive, you tell me who you are and what you're doing here. Now."
Arthur studied him, then let out a dry chuckle. "Name's Arthur Morgan. That enough for ya? As for what I'm doin'… survivin'. Same as the rest of you poor bastards."
A tense silence hung, only broken by the distant clicking shrieks of infected echoing in the hollow streets. Both sides had their fingers an inch from fire — one wrong twitch, and it'd be over in gunfire.
Arthur shifted, shoulders broad, voice steady. "So. We lower these guns, or we start shootin' an' let the screamers down the block do the rest?"
The alley felt too narrow for all the guns pointed into it. Arthur's finger rested easy on the trigger, but his voice carried that calm, weighty drawl. "Ain't in the mood for a bloodbath. You lower yours, I'll lower mine. Then maybe we talk like folks, instead of wild dogs snappin' teeth."
The Firefly leader — a tall man with a shaved head and sharp jaw — didn't move right away. His rifle sight stayed locked on Arthur's chest. The others mirrored him, but their eyes darted, nervous. The sound of faint, distant clicks — unmistakable — rolled down the hollow street.
The man swore under his breath, then finally gave a small hand signal. Three rifles lowered, two still aimed. He didn't quite trust Arthur.
"Fine. We'll talk. But keep that antique pointed at the ground."
Arthur tilted his revolver barrel down, but didn't holster it. "Fair enough. See? We're gettin' somewhere."
Rory, pale but steady, let the sawed-off slide into the satchel at his side. He looked up at Arthur, who gave the slightest nod — the kind that said just follow my lead.
The Firefly leader studied them. "Arthur Morgan, huh? You're not with FEDRA, not with any of the QZ patrols we've run into. Hell, you don't even look like you're from this time." His eyes narrowed. "So what's your game?"
Arthur's mouth twitched into the ghost of a grin. "Ain't no game. Just a man, tryin' to keep his hide in one piece. Found the kid here wanderin'. Took it on myself to make sure he don't die too young. That clear enough for you?"
The soldier eyed Rory, then looked back at Arthur. "…That supposed to make me trust you?"
Arthur's tone hardened, gravel cutting sharper. "Ain't askin' you to trust me. Only askin' you not to do somethin' stupid."
Silence. The Fireflies shifted, hands tense on their rifles. The leader weighed the man in front of him — the coat, the hat, the revolvers, the way he spoke like someone carved from stone.
Finally, he spat to the side. "You cross paths with us again, you keep your distance. We've got bigger things to deal with than babysitting strays."
Arthur tipped his hat just enough, eyes cold. "Works both ways, partner."
The Fireflies pulled back, rifles still ready but no longer aimed. Their boots echoed against cracked pavement as they regrouped around their jeep, muttering low.
Arthur exhaled slowly, holstering his revolver. Rory tugged at his sleeve, whispering. "They… they weren't gonna let us go, were they?"
Arthur looked down at him, voice low but steady. "World don't give out free passes, son. Only reason we're still standin' is 'cause I kept my mouth straight and my gun low. Remember that."
From the rooftops, the cries of clickers carried again — closer this time. The Fireflies started their jeep in a hurry, their headlights cutting through dust as they sped deeper into the city.
Arthur watched them fade, then muttered under his breath, almost to himself. "Somethin' tells me that ain't the last we see o' them…"
He motioned Rory forward. "Come on. Best we keep movin'. Night's comin', an' this place'll crawl."