Surviving The Last of Us

Elliot sat on a medical cot, his torso bare as the nurse finished examining his shoulder. The confrontation with Stroud's father had reopened the wound, and though it was now carefully sealed, the pain lingered, ever-present.

"You should be more careful," the nurse said as she adjusted the bandages, her tone mixing reproach with exhaustion. "This wound won't heal if you keep throwing yourself into fights like you're invincible. And yes, you need to rest, even if that seems impossible for you people."

Elliot nodded silently, unable to argue. When the nurse finished, she gathered her tools and moved to another part of the room, leaving him lying on the cot with a sense of defeat.

The door creaked open, and a familiar voice echoed in the room.

"Damn, you're here again?"

Elliot looked up to see Lawrence rolling in on a wheelchair, his legs still wrapped in thick bandages. His companion moved with a sarcastic grin, wheeling himself to a nearby spot.

"You know, I like to keep busy," Elliot replied with a sigh, attempting a weak smile.

Lawrence chuckled, stopping next to Elliot's cot and giving his leg a light slap. "You should take better care of yourself, man. We're still young. Or are you already planning your retirement?"

Elliot chuckled softly, but the movement made his shoulder tense, and a grimace of pain crossed his face. "Retirement sounds nice. Maybe I'll become a farmer. Grow carrots. You can come by and criticize my crops from your porch."

"Carrots? Please. If you ever make it out of this hellhole, you'll be the guy making home-brewed beer. Everything smells funny, but you'll swear it's better than any industrial crap," Lawrence shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

They both laughed lightly, though Elliot's laughter faded first. "How are your legs?" he asked, gesturing toward the wheelchair.

Lawrence shrugged. "Two bullets, and I'm still breathing. Could be worse. I could be in a body bag or in the Fireflies' hands."

Elliot nodded, noting the shift in his companion's tone. "Speaking of the Fireflies... what do you think about all this?"

Lawrence leaned forward slightly, his expression darkening. "What I think is they're no different from the damned infected. They infiltrate, spread, infect people's minds with their revolution nonsense, and all they do is cause chaos."

"Don't you think they have a just cause?" Elliot asked, knowing it was a risky question.

"Just?" Lawrence let out a bitter laugh. "Leaving innocents to die in attacks to push their agenda? Corrupting our own people? There's nothing just about what they do. FEDRA might not be perfect, but at least we maintain something close to order. Without us, this world would be a damn hellscape."

Elliot watched him for a moment, considering his words. "Not everyone sees FEDRA that way," he said cautiously.

"I don't care how they see us," Lawrence replied, his tone harder than before. "Sometimes you have to be the villain to keep things from falling apart. I'd rather be hated while people stay alive than applauded from a grave."

Elliot didn't respond immediately, letting Lawrence's words hang in the air for a moment. He knew there was some truth to them, but he also felt that the line between order and oppression was too thin to ignore.

The conversation was interrupted when the door opened again. Lieutenant Stroud entered with her usual commanding stride, her eyes scanning the room until they landed on Elliot.

"Torres," she said simply, her tone authoritative.

Lawrence raised his eyebrows and smirked, wheeling himself backward. "Here comes Mama Hawk. I better get out of here before she yells at me for not being in my cot."

Elliot managed a small smile as he watched Lawrence leave the room, his carefree attitude intact even as he moved in the wheelchair.

When Lawrence was gone, Stroud stopped in front of Elliot's cot, crossing her arms. "How's your shoulder?" she asked, her tone softer than usual, though her eyes still carried their usual intensity.

"I'm alive. That counts," Elliot replied, though the weariness in his voice was evident.

Stroud nodded slightly, tilting her head as if evaluating more than just his physical state. "I need you to recover quickly. There's work to be done."

Elliot frowned, looking up at her. "Haven't you had enough action for one week?"

Stroud let out a brief chuckle, her face showing a flicker of humor before returning to its serious expression. "It's never enough, Torres. Never."

"Please, Lieutenant, let me rest," Elliot said with a tired smile, leaning back on the cot as if he wanted to sink into it.

Stroud raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms as she regarded him with a mix of mockery and exasperation. "Are you seriously asking me that? After you told me you didn't know what to do with yourself because you were such a busy man?" Her tone was sharp, but there was a glint of humor in her eyes. "Men are such liars."

Elliot chuckled, shaking his head, but then his expression shifted, becoming more serious. "How are you, Lieutenant?" he asked, his voice lower. "About your father and... everything."

Stroud's expression remained unchanged, as if the question barely fazed her. Not a trace of regret or doubt crossed her face. She had killed her father in cold blood, and her indifference sent chills through Elliot.

"I'm fine," she replied, her tone as firm as ever.

"Why?" Elliot pressed, frowning slightly. "He was your father."

Stroud sighed, exhaling slowly as she sat next to him on the cot. For a moment, her gaze drifted to a distant point, as if recalling something she had tried to bury for years.

"I was ten years old when he changed," she began, her voice lower and more controlled. "He abandoned my mother and me to join the Fireflies. Back then, I didn't understand what that meant; I just knew he wasn't home anymore. When he came back, he'd be wounded, angry, or reeking of cheap alcohol."

She paused, running a hand over her face as if trying to erase the image from her mind.

"It was hell," she continued. "We never knew when he'd show up, and every time he did, my mother suffered. The yelling, the hitting... it was always about his 'causes' and his personal failures. He always found an excuse to take out his frustration on us."

Elliot stayed silent, not daring to interrupt.

"One day, hell overflowed," she said, her voice now rougher, as if the words were scraping her throat as they came out. "He was furious because my mother had sold an old radio to buy food. He hit her so hard that she collapsed, unconscious. I thought he'd stop, but he didn't."

Stroud clenched her jaw, her gaze dropping to her hands. "He killed her. He killed her with his own hands while I watched from the corner, too scared to do anything. When he was done, he just walked out of the house like nothing happened. I was left alone with my mother's body on the floor."

Elliot felt a lump forming in his throat, but Stroud looked up before he could say anything. Her eyes were hard, but they burned with an intensity Elliot hadn't seen before.

"I ran away that night. FEDRA found me wandering the streets and took me to an orphanage. At first, I hated them, but over time, I found purpose. They trained me, gave me a life, and helped me leave all of that behind."

She paused, letting the weight of her words fill the room. Then, she turned to Elliot with a bitter smile. "Do you think that man meant anything to me? The only reason he lived as long as he did was because I never found him before. Hatred, Torres, is more than justified."

Elliot didn't know how to respond. Stroud's words hit him like a hammer, leaving him breathless. He had suspected there was more behind her cold demeanor, but never something so brutal, so harrowing.

"I'm sorry," he finally murmured, knowing it wasn't enough but unable to find anything else to say.

Stroud let out a short, dry laugh. "Don't be. I'm not a victim. If I learned anything from all of that, it's that this world has no place for the weak. My father wasn't a man; he was a coward hiding behind excuses. And I finally ended that story."

She stood from the cot, smoothing her uniform. "Now, get some rest, Torres. I don't want to see you bleeding again over some stupid fight. If you do, I promise my methods will be much more painful than the nurse's."

Elliot managed a weak smile, trying to lighten the mood. "I'll do my best, Lieutenant."

She nodded and left the room with her usual firm stride, leaving Elliot alone with his thoughts. As much as he wanted to forget, Stroud's words echoed in his head.

Elliot spent the rest of the day in the infirmary, staring at the ceiling as his mind swirled with dark thoughts. When the doctors finally cleared him to return to his room, he found Lawrence still in his wheelchair.

The atmosphere in their small quarters was calm, but Elliot's mind was far from any sense of peace. While Lawrence distracted himself with an old PSP, cursing every time he failed in the game, Elliot simply lay on his bunk, unable to disconnect his thoughts.

Stroud's father's face, his screams, the blood... it all came back to him like a constant echo. He had killed before, and he would likely kill again, but something about the rawness of that moment struck him differently.

As he stared at the cracks in the ceiling, another thought began to consume him: he didn't like where he was. He didn't like what he was.

FEDRA. A fascist army controlling people with an iron fist under the guise of "order." As much as he appreciated the safety the quarantine zone walls provided, the cost of that protection was too high. Civilians lived under the boot of a regime that executed the oppressed to maintain control.

But the Fireflies weren't any better. Idealistic fanatics preaching freedom while sowing chaos with bombs and assassinations. Did they truly offer freedom, or just another form of destruction?

"I don't belong to either of them," Elliot thought, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

Desertion had crossed his mind since arriving in this world. He had considered it many times during training, while watching his comrades break under pressure, while civilians were executed for minor infractions, while Stroud taught them to kill with almost mechanical efficiency.

Killing. It wasn't something Elliot enjoyed, but neither could he afford to avoid it. In this world, the only way to survive was to destroy others before being destroyed. He felt no remorse, but he didn't want it to define him.

The factions were a vicious cycle. FEDRA or the Fireflies. Fascism or fanaticism. Two sides of the same poisoned coin. What was left for someone who wanted neither path?

"Survive alone," he thought, though even that sounded like a childish fantasy. In this world, there were only three options: join a faction, live behind walls built with blood, or die like a dog in the outskirts.

Elliot closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he tried to calm the storm in his mind. For now, he had no answers. He only knew he didn't want to stay in FEDRA's ranks much longer, and he had no intention of joining the Fireflies.

He would let time pass. He would wait for his moment.

For now, he was tired.

End of Chapter 11.