At six, silence.

In the seven o'clock hour, he is parched from the chase but alive. Almost safe. He hates the dark.

In the eight o'clock hour, he doesn't dream. Catnaps through his watch. In moments like these, he wishes he could have his brothers. He won't admit it but he needs their comfort. But he can't have what isn't there. Maybe he should go back to sleep.

At nine, the sun finally cuts through the smog. The morning is red, and the glare off the broken window glass is faint. He squints; the sudden light hurts his eyes. He might hum softly to himself or sigh or cry, whatever the morning brought.

In the ten o'clock hour, he is on the move. Discovered, hunted, out of luck. He can't lead them to his hideout.

In the eleven o'clock hour, the water stinks. It's gritty and grey from pollutants, like the rest of the world, but his throat stings with thirst. He is parched from the chase but alive. Almost safe.

At noon, contact.

In the one o'clock hour, they meet. Plans are laid out, scrapped, fought over, and cemented. The shipment will move tonight, and so must they. His team will move first.

In the two o'clock hour, the traitor is outed. The ambush is sloppy but not the guns. Blood squishes between his toes as he checks the body. Lifeless. That makes three, and he's not out of danger.

At three, pain.

In the four o'clock hour, he wakes. He doesn't know how he got here. Gauze wrappings rub against his knee, wrist, shoulder as he rises. Slowly, he wanders to the wall. The cinderblocks are cracked with age, and the scent of rot grows stronger as he moves toward the door. Captured?

In the five o'clock hour, she comes. He weeps with relief in her arms. There is more grey in her hair and bags under her eyes. They had to move again. Discovered, hunted, out of luck. The traitor is still at large.

At six, judgement.

In the seven o'clock hour, the body is broken. He lows his weapon, now stained crimson. Anger gets easier, killing gets easier. He barely flinched as he struck down the turncoat. He'll dig this grave. The others don't need to see, don't need to know what he's capable of.

In the eight o'clock hour, he contemplates. He has retreated to his room, little more than a broom closet, the room he was in before. There are gauze shavings from hastily cut bandages in one corner and a pail of water in the other. The water stinks. It's gritty and grey from pollutants, like the rest of the world. He rubs his shoulder absently. Maybe this one won't get infected. Maybe he should go back to sleep.

In the nine o'clock hour, silence.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I liiiiiiivvveee. Sorry for the long absence. I've gotten married, switched jobs, and had a kid! I would greatly appreciate feed back as I actually haven't written much since I went off the grid here. And to my Recovery readers...I am so sorry. I have part of the last chapter/epilogue on my computer, and I guess I thought it was finished and posted. I'm trying to finish it as fast as I can. Y'all deserve it.