Arthur approached the WLF outpost as dusk fell, his posture deliberately weary, clothes mud-stained and travel-worn. He'd abandoned his horse five miles back, hiding the animal in a secure location that would serve as his first dead drop. Now he walked with the careful wariness of a man who had survived alone too long—alert but exhausted, dangerous but desperate.
The perfect recruit.
WLF spotlights swept the perimeter as he emerged from the tree line, hands raised to show he carried no visible weapons. The guards spotted him immediately, rifles training on his position.
"Stop right there!" a voice commanded through a megaphone. "Identify yourself!"
"Just looking for shelter," Arthur called back, the slight tremor in his voice calculated. "Heard there were people here. Organized people."
Two armed guards approached cautiously, weapons never wavering. Arthur maintained his submissive posture, eyes downcast—a survivor who had learned when to show deference to power.
"Where'd you come from?" demanded the lead guard, a woman with a scarred face and sergeant's stripes.
"East," Arthur replied vaguely. "Been moving for months. Ran with a group for a while, but they didn't make it." He gestured toward the WLF insignia on their uniforms. "Heard rumors about you folks. The WLF. That you're rebuilding something worth being part of."
The guards exchanged glances. "Pat him down," the sergeant ordered.
Arthur endured the search without resistance. They found his knife—deliberately mediocre, not the quality blade he usually carried—and a revolver with three bullets, both planted to be discovered. The more dangerous weapons remained concealed in specially designed compartments in his boots and jacket lining, detectable only through a more thorough search than field soldiers typically conducted.
"He's clean, Sergeant Chen," reported the second guard. "Just these."
Sergeant Chen studied Arthur with narrowed eyes. "What skills do you have that would be useful to us?"
"I can hunt," Arthur replied, the humility in his tone masking his true capabilities. "Track. Fix things sometimes. I'm good with a knife. Better with a rifle, if you've got one to spare."
"Everyone says they can shoot," Chen scoffed.
"Test me," Arthur suggested simply.
Something in his quiet confidence gave Chen pause. She assessed him for a long moment, then nodded. "Alright. We'll see what you're worth. But one wrong move—" she gestured with her rifle, the implication clear.
"Understood," Arthur replied, shambling forward with apparent gratitude.
As they led him through the gates, Arthur kept his eyes down but his attention focused, cataloging everything—guard positions, patrol patterns, the hierarchy evident in how soldiers interacted. The outpost was even more impressive from inside: repurposed buildings formed a natural defensive perimeter, with newer structures at the center. Supply caches, ammunition stores, vehicle maintenance areas—all organized with military precision.
This was no temporary base. The WLF was establishing a permanent presence.
They escorted him to a small building that served as a processing center for new arrivals. Inside, a tired-looking man with a clipboard waited behind a desk.
"Another stray, Rodriguez," Chen announced, pushing Arthur forward. "Says he's got skills. Worth testing, maybe."
Rodriguez sighed, picking up his pen. "Name?"
"Matt," Arthur replied, using the alias he and Joel had prepared. "Matt Collins."
"Age?"
"Twenty-three. I think." The calculated uncertainty of a man who had lost track of time in a world without calendars.
"Where were you before the outbreak?"
"Texas," Arthur answered, incorporating enough truth into his cover story to make it believable. "Austin."
Rodriguez continued the questioning—previous groups, special skills, medical conditions—recording Arthur's carefully crafted responses. As the interview progressed, Arthur maintained his facade of cautious hope tinged with the wariness of someone who had been disappointed too many times before.
"Alright, Collins," Rodriguez said finally, stamping a form. "You'll be on probation for two weeks. Work detail, supervised at all times. If you prove useful, you'll be assigned permanent duties. If not..." He shrugged. "Well, resources are limited."
"I understand," Arthur replied, the gratitude in his voice seemingly genuine. "Thank you for the chance."
Chen led him to a barracks where new recruits were housed—a spartan room with twelve beds, half of them occupied by men and women in various states of exhaustion.
"You're in bunk eight," she informed him. "Mess call at 0600. Work assignments posted outside. Try not to get killed your first day." With that parting advice, she left him to his new accommodations.
Arthur set down his meager possessions, taking stock of his bunkmates without appearing to study them. Most ignored him, too tired from whatever labor they'd been assigned to care about another newcomer. One, a young man with a recently healed burn scar across his neck, offered a nod of acknowledgment.
"First day's the worst," he said quietly. "I'm Owen."
"Matt," Arthur replied, extending his hand. Connections were crucial to gathering intelligence—the right ones could provide access to information beyond his immediate assignments.
"You picked an interesting time to join up," Owen commented, keeping his voice low. "Big operation brewing. Everyone's on edge."
Arthur feigned casual interest. "Yeah? What kind of operation?"
Owen glanced around before responding. "Not sure exactly. But the brass from Seattle arrived two days ago. Isaac's top people. They don't come out here for routine stuff."
Isaac. The name registered immediately—the WLF leader, rarely seen outside their Seattle headquarters. If he had sent his lieutenants, the situation was serious indeed.
"Guess I timed it right then," Arthur observed, testing the waters. "Might be a chance to prove myself quickly."
Owen snorted. "Or get yourself killed quickly. Word is they're planning something against a settlement not far from here. Supposedly harboring criminals who massacred a bunch of our people."
Arthur kept his expression neutral despite the confirmation of their suspicions. "Sounds serious."
"It is." Owen's voice dropped even lower. "Abby's leading the operation herself."
"Abby?"
"One of Isaac's top soldiers. Intense doesn't begin to cover it." Owen's expression shifted subtly, something personal in his tone. "She's been obsessed with this mission for years. Ever since Salt Lake."
Arthur's pulse quickened, but his face revealed nothing. "Salt Lake?"
"Before my time," Owen said with a dismissive wave. "Something about Fireflies getting massacred by some smuggler. Abby's father was among them."
The pieces connected in Arthur's mind—Abby's father had been among the Firefly doctors Joel killed to save Ellie. Her attempted revenge at the lodge hadn't been random; it had been the culmination of years of searching. And now, with the WLF's resources behind her, she was planning to finish what she'd started.
"So now we're going after this smuggler?" Arthur asked, careful to show only the appropriate level of curiosity.
"Him and anyone who protects him," Owen confirmed grimly. "But that's all I know. And more than I should be telling a new guy." He stood, stretching. "Get some sleep. First day on labor detail is brutal."
As Owen returned to his bunk, Arthur lay back on his thin mattress, processing everything he'd learned. The WLF's presence was worse than they'd feared—not just an outpost, but a staging ground for an assault on Jackson. And Abby wasn't just participating; she was leading it.
He needed to get this information back to Joel and Tommy immediately. But any unauthorized movement would raise suspicion. He would have to wait for his work assignment, find an opportunity to slip away briefly—just long enough to reach his radio hidden in the dead drop.
Until then, he would play his role perfectly: Matt Collins, grateful recruit, eager to prove his worth to the WLF cause.
The sunrise patrol found Ellie at Jackson's eastern watchtower, rifle beside her as she scanned the horizon with binoculars. Her injured leg still ached, but the urgent need for extra lookouts had overridden Doc Matthews' objections. With the scouting party's report of WLF activity, every able body was needed on defense.
"Any movement?" Maria asked, climbing the ladder to join her.
Ellie shook her head. "All clear so far."
Maria studied her with knowing eyes. "You haven't slept."
"Not much," Ellie admitted, lowering the binoculars. The truth was, she'd avoided sleep deliberately, unwilling to face the unsettling dream fragments that had haunted her the night before. "Too much to do."
"We can't afford exhausted lookouts," Maria pointed out, her tone firm but not unkind. "Get some rest after your shift. That's an order."
Ellie nodded, knowing better than to argue. "Any word from Arthur?"
"Not yet. First check-in isn't scheduled until sunset." Maria gazed over the landscape thoughtfully. "Joel's organizing defensive preparations. You should see him when you're done here."
After Maria departed, Ellie returned to her surveillance, though her thoughts kept drifting to Arthur. The kiss before his departure had been unexpected—brief but purposeful, leaving no doubt about his intentions. Under different circumstances, she might have spent more time analyzing what it meant, where they stood. But with the WLF threat looming, personal considerations had to wait.
When her relief arrived, Ellie made her way to the town hall where Joel had established a makeshift command center. Maps covered every surface, patrol schedules and defensive strategies outlined in his precise handwriting. He looked up as she entered, dark circles under his eyes indicating he'd slept as little as she had.
"How's the perimeter?" he asked without preamble.
"Quiet," Ellie reported. "No movement from the west."
Joel nodded, returning his attention to the map before him. "We're reinforcing the western wall. Tommy's organizing additional sniper positions."
Ellie studied the map, noting the careful planning evident in Joel's preparations. "You think they'll attack directly?"
"No," Joel replied, his voice grim. "Abby's smarter than that. She'll probe for weaknesses first. Try to draw us out, maybe."
"Or infiltrate, like Arthur's doing to them," Ellie suggested.
Joel's expression tightened at the mention of his son. "Maybe."
Ellie recognized the worry beneath his stoic facade. Despite their relatively recent discovery of each other, Joel and Arthur had formed a connection that ran deeper than either would readily admit—two sides of the same coin, similar in ways that went beyond blood.
"He'll be okay," she offered, unsure if she was trying to convince Joel or herself. "He knows what he's doing."
"I know," Joel acknowledged, then changed the subject. "How's the leg?"
"Manageable," Ellie replied with a shrug. "Doc says the stitches are holding."
"Good. Keep it that way." Joel's tone made it clear he expected her to follow medical advice for once. "We need everyone at full strength when—if—the WLF makes a move."
They spent the next hour reviewing patrol schedules, Ellie noting several inefficiencies that Joel promptly corrected. Working together like this felt familiar, comfortable—a reminder of their travels across the country years ago, when survival had depended on their mutual trust and complementary skills.
As they finished, Ellie hesitated, then asked the question that had been nagging at her since the scouting party's return. "Do you think they know about me? About the immunity?"
Joel paused, weighing his answer carefully. "I don't know. The Fireflies knew, obviously. Whether that information reached the WLF..." He shook his head. "We have to assume it might have."
"Which makes me a target too," Ellie concluded. "Not just for revenge, but for the same reason the Fireflies wanted me."
"You're not a target," Joel stated firmly, the same protective instinct that had driven him to save her in Salt Lake City evident in his voice. "Not if I can help it."
Before Ellie could respond, Tommy burst into the room, his expression urgent. "Riders approaching from the east. Not ours."
Joel was immediately alert. "How many?"
"Three. Armed, but not heavily. They're flying a white flag."
"Scouts? Diplomats?" Ellie suggested, already reaching for her weapon.
"Or a distraction," Joel warned, checking his own armament. "Tommy, get additional guards on the western perimeter, just in case. Ellie, with me."
They moved swiftly to the eastern gate, joining Maria who was already organizing the response. Through her binoculars, Ellie could see the approaching riders—two men and a woman, moving at a deliberate pace, a makeshift white flag attached to a rifle barrel.
"WLF uniforms," Maria confirmed grimly. "But no insignia. Like they're trying to appear unofficial."
"What's the play?" Tommy asked, joining them after relaying Joel's orders.
"We hear them out," Maria decided. "From behind cover, with rifles ready."
The gates remained closed as the riders approached, stopping thirty yards away when Joel called for them to halt. The leader, a woman with close-cropped hair and hard eyes, raised her hands to show they were empty.
"We come with a message," she announced, her voice carrying clearly across the distance. "For the ones responsible for the Salt Lake City massacre."
Joel stepped forward, positioning himself protectively in front of Ellie—a gesture that did not go unnoticed by the messengers. "Say your piece," he called back.
The woman's gaze fixed on Joel, recognition flashing in her eyes. "You'll do," she said coldly. "Abby sends her regards. She wants you to know that what happened at the lodge was just the beginning."
"That a threat?" Tommy challenged, his rifle trained steadily on the speaker.
"A promise," she replied. "But it doesn't have to be that way. Turn over the ones responsible for Salt Lake—the smuggler, the immune girl, anyone who helped them escape—and the rest of your settlement will be spared."
Joel's expression hardened. "Not happening."
The messenger shrugged, as if the response was expected. "Then consider yourselves on notice. Abby's giving you three days to reconsider. After that..." She gestured expansively. "Well, she's not as merciful as I am."
"We're done here," Maria stated, signaling the guards to be ready. "Deliver your message back to Abby: Jackson doesn't surrender its people. Not now, not ever."
The woman smiled thinly. "I'll tell her. Though I think she already knows what kind of people you are." Her eyes lingered on Ellie. "Especially you. The girl who would've been the cure."
Ellie's blood ran cold. They knew. Of course they knew.
The messengers turned their horses, retreating at the same measured pace they had arrived with, the white flag still fluttering mockingly.
"Three days," Joel muttered once they were out of earshot. "Why give us warning at all?"
"Psychological warfare," Tommy suggested. "Make us sweat, make us fight among ourselves."
"Or they're not ready yet," Maria countered. "Need more time to prepare, so they're trying to keep us off balance."
Whatever the reason, the implications were clear. The clock was ticking, and Arthur's intelligence mission had become even more critical. They needed to know what they were facing—numbers, weapons, strategy—before the deadline expired.
As the day progressed, Jackson transformed from a community to a fortress. Barriers were reinforced, ammunition distributed, evacuation plans established for non-combatants. Every resident old enough to hold a weapon received a defensive assignment, from sniper positions to medical support.
Ellie threw herself into the preparations, ignoring the persistent ache in her leg and the fatigue tugging at her awareness. She helped Jesse organize the younger fighters, cleaned and distributed weapons with Dina, and assisted Tommy with planning defensive firing positions.
Through it all, her mind kept returning to Arthur, somewhere inside the WLF outpost, surrounded by enemies. If they discovered his true identity...
Sunset found her at the northern lookout post, where Joel had established the radio connection for Arthur's scheduled check-in. The designated time came and went with no signal.
"Could be delayed," Tommy suggested, seeing the concern on both Joel and Ellie's faces. "Can't exactly step away for a radio call if he's under observation."
"We'll try again in an hour," Joel decided, his voice steady despite the worry evident in his eyes.
An hour passed. Then another. Still no contact.
"Something's wrong," Ellie stated finally, voicing what they all feared. "He wouldn't miss a check-in without reason."
Joel's expression remained stoic, but his knuckles whitened around the radio receiver. "We stick to the plan. Next scheduled contact is dawn. If we don't hear from him then—"
"Then what?" Ellie challenged. "We just leave him there?"
"No," Joel replied firmly. "We implement the extraction protocol. But not before we're sure he needs it. Rushing in could blow his cover if he's still operational."
Logic told Ellie he was right, but instinct screamed that Arthur was in trouble. The fragments of her dream flashed through her mind—rain, isolation, loss—adding fuel to her dread.
By midnight, with still no word from Arthur, Joel finally ordered everyone to get some rest. "We're no good to him exhausted," he pointed out when Ellie protested. "Four-hour shifts. I'll take first watch at the radio."
Reluctantly, Ellie retreated to her room, though she had no intention of sleeping. Instead, she checked her weapons, packed emergency supplies, and plotted routes to the WLF outpost on her personal map. If the dawn check-in failed, she would be ready to move immediately.
Despite her determination to stay awake, exhaustion eventually claimed her. Her dreams, when they came, were more fragmented than before—flashes of Seattle streets, the sound of a guitar with missing strings, standing alone in a theater with blood coating her hands.
She woke with a gasp, disoriented in the pre-dawn darkness. Something had disturbed her sleep—a noise, a presence. Her hand moved automatically to the knife under her pillow.
"Easy," came a voice from the shadows. "It's just me."
Ellie sat up sharply, heart pounding. "Arthur?"
He stepped into the faint moonlight from the window, his appearance transformed by dirt and what looked like dried blood. "In the flesh. Mostly."
Relief flooded through her, immediately followed by concern as she took in his condition. "You're hurt."
"Not as bad as it looks," Arthur assured her, moving to sit on the edge of her bed. His movements were careful, controlled, but Ellie could see the exhaustion and pain beneath his composure. "Had to make a hasty exit. Couldn't risk the radio."
"Joel's been at the radio all night," Ellie told him, reaching to examine a cut above his eyebrow. "We were worried."
"I figured." Arthur caught her hand gently, holding it for a moment before releasing it. "Got what we needed though. Intelligence on their plans, numbers, timeline."
"They sent messengers," Ellie informed him. "Three-day ultimatum. Turn over those responsible for Salt Lake or face consequences."
Arthur's expression darkened. "That tracks with what I learned. But the messengers were a diversion. Their real plan is already in motion."
Ellie tensed. "What do you mean?"
"They're not planning a direct assault," Arthur explained, his voice low and urgent. "They're going to use the infected—herd them toward Jackson from multiple directions while WLF strike teams target specific individuals during the chaos."
"Like what happened before, but coordinated," Ellie realized, remembering the horde that had nearly overwhelmed Jackson's defenses. "When?"
"Tomorrow night," Arthur replied grimly. "The ultimatum is just to keep us focused on the deadline while they position the infected."
Ellie absorbed this, strategic options already forming in her mind. "We need to tell Joel. Maria. Everyone."
"Already sent Tommy to wake them," Arthur revealed. "Ran into him on my way in. They'll be gathering at the town hall."
Ellie moved to get up, but Arthur placed a restraining hand on her arm. "There's more," he said, his expression grave. "They know about your immunity. It's not just revenge they're after—they want to recreate the Firefly research. They have another doctor, someone who worked with Abby's father. They think they can succeed where the Fireflies failed."
The implications hit Ellie like a physical blow. Not just Joel in danger, but herself—captured, experimented on, possibly killed in another attempt to create a vaccine.
"How did you get away?" she asked, focusing on practicalities to push back the darker thoughts.
A grim smile touched Arthur's lips. "They assigned me to a labor detail preparing equipment for the infected herding. I took the opportunity to sabotage some of it, got caught, had to fight my way out. Got what they're planning in the process."
His matter-of-fact recounting didn't hide the danger he must have faced. Ellie studied him more carefully, noting the defensive wounds on his hands, the way he held himself to protect injured ribs.
"You should let Doc check you out," she suggested.
"After the briefing," Arthur agreed, standing carefully. "We don't have much time to prepare."
As they made their way to the town hall, Ellie noticed Arthur watching her with an intensity that went beyond their immediate crisis. "What?" she asked finally.
"Just glad to be back," he replied simply, though something in his eyes suggested deeper thoughts. "Wasn't sure I would be."
The admission, understated as it was, revealed more about his experience than any detailed account could have. Ellie reached for his hand, squeezing it briefly. "Well, don't do it again. The infiltration thing."
A hint of a smile touched Arthur's lips. "Yes, ma'am."
In the town hall, Joel, Tommy, Maria, and other Jackson leaders were already assembled, faces grim as they absorbed the information Tommy had relayed. Joel's expression shifted subtly when he saw Arthur—relief, pride, and residual worry all visible for a moment before his practical focus reasserted itself.
"You made it back," he said simply, the understated greeting conveying more than flowery declarations would have.
"Told you I would," Arthur replied with equal restraint.
Maria cut through the reunion efficiently. "Tommy says they're planning to use infected as cover for targeted strikes. Details?"
Arthur moved to the map, indicating various positions around Jackson. "They've been capturing and containing infected for weeks, building holding pens here, here, and here. Tomorrow night, they release them all simultaneously, driving them toward Jackson from multiple directions."
"Forces us to split our defenses," Joel observed grimly.
"Exactly," Arthur confirmed. "Meanwhile, WLF strike teams will use the chaos to infiltrate, targeting specific individuals for capture or elimination."
"You and me," Joel concluded, "Tommy. Ellie."
"And anyone who gets in their way," Arthur added. "They're not concerned about collateral damage."
Maria studied the map intently. "Numbers?"
"At least forty WLF soldiers, heavily armed and well-trained. Plus however many infected they've managed to corral—dozens, maybe hundreds."
The room fell silent as they processed the threat. Jackson's defenders were outnumbered and would be fighting on multiple fronts simultaneously.
"So we evacuate," Tommy suggested, always practical. "The non-combatants at least."
Maria shook her head. "Where to? If they're releasing infected from these positions, all escape routes are compromised."
"We fortify," Joel decided. "Focus our defenses, prepare for both infected and human attackers."
"Or," Ellie interjected, an idea forming, "we turn their strategy against them."
All eyes turned to her. Ellie moved to the map, indicating the WLF holding pens Arthur had marked. "These containment areas for the infected—they're their weakness. If we hit them before they're ready, release the infected ourselves but in their direction..."
"We could turn their weapon against them," Arthur finished, understanding immediately. "Create chaos in their ranks before they can do the same to us."
"Risky," Joel cautioned, though Ellie could see he was considering it seriously. "We'd have to move fast, strike all three locations nearly simultaneously."
"Three teams," Tommy suggested, warming to the plan. "Small, mobile, experienced with infected. In and out before they know what hit them."
The strategy took shape rapidly: three strike teams would target the WLF holding pens, releasing the infected toward the WLF outpost rather than Jackson. A defensive force would remain in Jackson in case any WLF teams were already positioned for the assault. The element of surprise would be their greatest advantage.
"I want to lead one of the teams," Ellie stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. "I know how these traps work, how to redirect the infected."
Joel looked like he might object, but Arthur spoke first. "She's right. She's one of our best for this kind of operation." His eyes met Joel's. "And we need every skilled fighter we have."
After a moment's hesitation, Joel nodded. "Alright. Tommy, you take the northern pen. I'll take the western. Ellie, the southern, with Jesse as backup." He turned to Arthur. "You should rest, recover—"
"I'm going with you," Arthur interrupted firmly. "I know their patterns, their protocols. And I have unfinished business there."
Something passed between father and son—an understanding, a recognition of shared determination. Joel nodded once, accepting Arthur's decision.
"We move in six hours," Maria announced, taking command of the logistics. "That gives us time to prepare, rest, and position our teams. Everyone know their assignments?"
As the meeting broke up, people dispersing to their various preparations, Joel approached Arthur and Ellie. For a moment, he simply looked at them, these two people who had become the center of his world in different but equally profound ways.
"Be careful out there," he said finally, the gruff directive containing all the emotion he rarely verbalized. "Both of you."
"You too, old man," Ellie replied with a hint of their usual banter, though her eyes conveyed deeper sentiment.
Joel squeezed her shoulder once, nodded to Arthur, and moved off to begin his own preparations, leaving them alone in the gradually emptying hall.
"You should get that looked at," Ellie reminded Arthur, gesturing to his various injuries. "Doc's probably up by now."
Arthur nodded, but made no move to leave. Instead, he studied her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken slightly. "When I was in that outpost," he said finally, "surrounded by people who would kill me if they knew who I was, I kept thinking about getting back here. Not just to deliver the intelligence, but..."
He trailed off, seemingly at a loss for how to continue. Ellie had never seen him struggle for words before.
"But?" she prompted.
"But to see you," he finished simply. "To make sure you were safe. To be where I belong."
The admission hung between them, weightier than its simple phrasing would suggest. Ellie stepped closer, her hand coming up to rest lightly against his chest, feeling his heartbeat through the worn fabric.
"I'm glad you made it back," she said softly, her own feelings too complex to articulate fully. "I was... worried."
Arthur's hand covered hers, warm and solid. "I know."
The moment stretched between them, intimate despite the broader crisis looming over Jackson. Then, with a reluctance evident in his movements, Arthur stepped back.
"Doc first," he conceded. "Then preparations."
Ellie nodded, suddenly aware of how exhausted they both were—Arthur from his infiltration and escape, herself from the sleepless night of worry. Yet in six hours, they would be heading into even greater danger.
As they walked together toward the clinic, Ellie found herself studying Arthur's profile in the early morning light. Despite his injuries and evident fatigue, there was a steadiness to him, a certainty that provided an anchor in the chaos of their situation.
Whatever came next—the strike against the WLF, the confrontation with Abby, the uncertain future beyond—they would face it together. Not just the two of them, but Joel, Tommy, the entire Jackson community that had become family.
And for now, despite the danger ahead, that was enough.