What man does not want to have a legacy, some remnant of himself that continues on long past their death? Some people try to build dynasties, others, a thriving business. With a lack of a steady economy, it seemed that these days the only legacy one could have was one having to do with genetics. You didn’t have to be a brilliant scientist with an advanced lab to do so. In reality the most humble solution was the best, yet with the struggle for food, becoming a parent seemed the dumbest of ideas. Kids ended up on the streets before the events of doom day, and it didn’t surprise him that such a situation happened now. Although Sledge had been with a few women, he had not settled down and had children of his own. Maybe it was that he didn’t find the right girl, or maybe it was that he didn’t want to stop his wild days. He was still young, he had his life ahead of him. There wasn’t any reason to suspect that things would go pear shaped when they did.

So maybe it was because he had no child of his own that Sledge took on a protective role around the kid. You’d be hard pressed to call it a father figure. No father, or at least, no good father didn’t care if their son got hurt or was starving. Even his own Da, addicted to his work and poor as sin, still tried to give Sledge as much food as possible. Sledge simply tried to prevent the kid from getting into fights. If Chase got hurt in just their daily travels in the city Sledge didn’t care. Hell he didn’t care if when the kid was in a fight if he got hurt. You toughen up with each cut and bruise, and Sledge knew that in a world like this, you needed to be tough.

That didn’t mean that he had to like the kid getting into fights however. No child should have to fight for the most basic of human needs. Seeing Chase do so was like having to look at his own past in England. It probably would be better if the kid wasn’t a part of this pack. They could only move as fast as their slowest member, and for all the youth that Chase had, his legs still weren’t long enough to keep pace. At the same time Sledge simply could not just leave the kid to die. Because he couldn’t drive Chase out of the group, nor could he tolerate him still being in it, Sledge had to do something. About the only thing that he could do was to try to keep the supplies flowing. He would, and had, lied, cheated, and stolen whatever things he thought were necessary and today he had yet another task to do. Keeping busy was the only way to shut his mind up.

Homeless shelters had food still. Not much, and what little there was usually was expired or stale. Getting into a shelter was neigh impossible, and if you did manage it, you were lucky to get a bed as well. Staying in a shelter was out of the question, but Sledge knew he could get his hands on the supplies. One way or another.

There were certain circumstances in which children were forced to grow up before their time—the apocalypse, being a prime example of such. Though Chase was a child, and often reminded of such within his pack, he still had grown-up duties. He had to carry his own to the best of his ability, and had to face hardships that, pre-apocalypse, most American children would never fathom facing. Sure, his early years had been fraught with difficulty, but the three years preceding the destruction of the city had been filled with nothing but happiness—a family, a real family, that cared for him and loved him. Gemma had been the child’s savior, the best mother that a kid could ask for—and Jorge, the best father. Chase had lost them both to the blast.

Sure, some of his packmates had stepped in as parental figures—in their own, dysfunctional and bestial way, their group did form some vague semblance of a family—but it was still not Chase’s family. It was just the group that the child had happened to fall into, and where Chase cleaved to for support. Chase didn’t have a mom to worry about him, or a dad to teach him the ways of the world. Some of the other ferals stepped-in—Amber was the only girl, really, so her motherly figure was a given—the other males of the group collectively fathered the shapeshifter. But, they were still just one step above animals. Generally, Chase was left to his own devices while the other packmates went about their daily tasks—oftentimes, he was left to the care of an individual, and frequently ditched if he couldn’t keep up.

Tonight was Sledge’s night to watch the pack’s weakest link, and the Brit had opted for the “tell the kid to stay put and hope he listens” method of childcare.

Being an adolescent, Chase listened just about as well as he could ride a unicycle.

The boy had never before touched a unicycle in his life, and was therefore tailing the only other “human-looking” member of the pack. He just… didn’t get it. Chase was every bit of a pack member as Sledge was. He could turn into more able-bodied members, like Aurion, yet the British man insisted on ditching the child. Chase kept far enough back to stay unnoticed, but close enough to keep a good gauge on where Sledge was. If Sledge noticed the shapeshifter too soon, he’d get sent home—but if Chase stayed hidden long enough, Sledge’s only option would to be to keep the “slowest member” along for the ride.

Late nights did not bother the Yorkshire man. He had a tendency to get caught up in whatever work he was doing, not realizing that he had spent an entire night hunched over a map. Sledge didn’t mind missing a night or two of sleep, he could always catch up at a later point. Yes, Sledge was most definitely a night owl. Back when he had his flat, it lacked alarm clocks. For one, there was no need for him to have them. It wasn’t as though he had to wake up by a certain hour to go to work. Secondly he didn’t usually pick up on the sounds that most alarm clocks made. If, by some miracle, the sound did register in his mind, there was the small mater of his sledgehammer. Money hadn’t been a concern, and even if it was, nobody expects you to lift an alarm clock, but having to replace a bit of machinery every day was bound to be tedious. Not only would the alarm clock have ended up being a sacrifice to the gods of sleeping in, but the nightstand upon which it rested would need more than some wood glue to bring it back.

The task off keeping an eye on the kid that day had fallen upon Sledge. While the sun was up it wasn’t that bad really. Try to keep Chase a reasonable proximity to the group, don’t let him die, and see that he got his share of what food was found. Night was an entirely different matter. As was, Sledge found what little sleep he managed to get difficult, what with the stomach pains and tightening of his throat. Add to that keeping an eye out for everyone else while they slept. His nighttime issues were bad enough, he didn’t need to handle Chase’s on top of that. Or, more accurately, he didn’t know how to help. How do you chase away a child’s night terrors when you can’t even control your own? Tonight he hoped that for once Chase would be able to sleep without interruption.

As was always the case when Sledge was hard at work, his mind was focused entirely on the job. Go to some of those shelters that churches and other people wanting to seem charitable ran, take food, blankets, anything that Sledge thought would make his life easier. Persuasion and a sexy British accent didn’t work as well as it use to. These days brute force was the only way to get anything. Time had made Sledge’s punches more reliable, his arms did not get exhausted as easily as they had in the past. More punches, sturdier arms, his fists hard as steel as he hit his target. Sledge had confidence in his capabilities, perhaps too much. Still, as damaging as his arms could be, without feeling any harm on himself, he had a habit now established. If a fight snuck up on him, he cracked his knuckles before the first punch was tossed. The activity he was now doing, as he approached his first stop of the evening, was when he got to plan ahead. Taking a dwindling roll of medical tape, he began to wrap his knuckles and wrists. When he pulled this off, he could be like Santa to Chase, giving the kid something that a normal child should have. Santa who had blood on his hands.

The child lingered in the shadows, borrowing Aurions’ eyes to watch as Sledge readied himself for his “task”. He cracked his knuckles, a habit that Chase had come to know well in living with the British man. After that had been done, he moved onto the next part of the preparation—taping his knuckles up. There was going to be a fight. The borrowed, feline-gold eyes glimmered inquiringly, and a smirk tilted at the twelve-year-olds’ lips. There was going to be a fight. The shapeshifter looked around, then back at his babysitter for the day—should he keep hidden, or make himself known? Sledge would probably be pissed when he found out that the kid had tailed him. It’d be better to stay hidden.

Chase began to step back into the shadows, but his heel met an old oil pan with a resounding scrape and clatter. The child sucked air in through his teeth. Whatever “cover” he’d once had, had been blown now. Chase peered around the edge of the pillar behind which he’d hid, looking to see if his cohort had noticed—if he had, Sledge would notice a timid twelve-year-old head with a very familiar face peek out, and just as quickly duck back behind the pillar in a bashful way.

Chase was going to be in so much trouble.

Taping his knuckles was a rather pointless endeavor. As long as his arms were capable of delivering those sledgehammer blows, they were in no risk of being broken. A cement block wall was more likely to give than the Brit’s bones, and he didn’t always drink up his milk as a young’in. That wasn’t to say that his hands or arms were invincible. For almost a third of his life Sledge had bared a scar on the back of his wrist that showed his arms were flesh and blood, same as anyone else’s. He could be cut, burnt, impaled, any number of things, just not broken. A bit of tape, no matter how many times wrapped around, was going to keep fingers attached should a flying blade hit him. But taking the time to do such a meaningless task allowed him some time to clear his mind, and granted some sense of consistency. In the small habits and day to day to action Sledge could temporarily trick himself into thinking that things weren’t as bad as they really were. Sledge didn’t need the protection offered by the medical tape, but he craved the security.

Security would be easier to establish if Sledge weren’t so focused in on one thing at a time. Briggs, for all the times he did a bodge job, still was better than nothing, and should things go the way of fisticuffs, Sledge would rather have Briggs on his side than as the opposition. The sound of metal moving, something that stood in sharp contrast to normal nocturnal noises, caused the Brit to turn on his heel. His hands instantly were clenched into fists that rested in a ready stance beside his jaw. From behind a pillar peeked a familiar little face. The fists were dropped. “Bloody hell no,” Sledge declared, clenching his jaw so tightly his bone structure could be seen even with the scruffy beard. He pointed at Chase with one finger, knit his eyebrows, than pointed to a spot in front of him. When Sledge was a young kid his Da would do the same thing, demanding an explanation for whatever trouble he had gotten into.

Chase cringed as Sledge took notice of him. He turned, lightning-fast, fists raised and ready. Crap. But the Brit then realized who had spied him, and his hands dropped. Sledge uttered a phrase in disbelief, his jaw tightening angrily. Craaaaaaap. Chase peeked back out—having been spotted, there wasn’t much a point in hiding any longer. Sledge looked pissed—particularly with the furrowed brow. He pointed sternly at the floor in front of him, summoning the child over.

For a few heartbeats, Chase remained rooted behind his pillar-shield, his borrowed catlike eyes meandering towards the door. He could just leave, deal with Sledge later. But then Sledge would only be more mad at him. Chase slinked out from behind the pillar, gaze meandering around the surrounding area cautiously. Seeing no one besides Sledge, Chase scurried the rest of the way over, ducking his head as he drew closer.

It was a force of habit—his biological father from what seemed eons ago would often box him up the side of his head, usually quite roughly. Sledge wouldn’t do that—not with his mutation. It was more of the idea behind the matter—at the moment, Sledge reminded the adolescent of his father, with the authoritative stance that the Brit had taken. Which, in turn, made Chase react to him in the way that he used to react to his father—like an animal that had been hit one too many times.

Chase dared to glance up and meet Sledge’s gaze, and was answered by a burning brown-eyed gaze. Chase ducked his head, finding interest in his worn shoes.

“You left me,” the child observed, his words tight. He rolled his lips, as if second-guessing what he was saying, “You… aren’t supposed to.”

Which was true. It was Sledge’s job to keep tabs on him during that time, and he ditched him. Sledge was right to believe that the child should be able to care for himself. He was twelve—by then, parents usually began to leave kids alone at home—but the Apocalypse had left Chase with a serious complex over being abandoned—or rather, his loved ones dying when they weren’t near him, thus he didn’t ever like to be on his own.

His eyes were adopting the anxious black hue, losing their borrowed catlike appearance, “S-so I followed you. What of it?”

Chase wasn’t the one in the wrong here. Sledge was the one who ditched him. He was just mad that Chase had found him.

Sledge’s Da had been the one who enforced things in the shabby house in Bradford. The man had been almost militant. Leaving his boots laying about got him a shift in Charlie’s shop, a torture worse than being grounded to the man. The mixture of rubber tires, petrol, and brake fluid always gave him a headache, and it only rubbed Sledge’s nose in the extreme poverty that he lived in. His brother could repair the autos that the rest of England drove about, yet nobody in his family ever owned one. What purpose did it serve him to learn how to repair something he had no hopes of obtaining. Little things, such as clothes and records, his parents never noticed, but Sledge didn’t think they would turn a blind eye to a posh car sitting outside the house, no matter how good he was. He also didn’t think that he’d turn into his father other than a shared addiction to work. All in all, he wasn’t enjoying this. Was it karma for him disobeying his Da all those years?

“Doesn’t matter what I’m suppose to be doing now does it?” Sledge asked, staring down the kid. He was the adult in this situation, and Chase was going to have to obey him. “You would ‘ave been fine back at camp. There’s enough of us that someone can play babysitter to yeh.” Why couldn’t Chase just have stayed still with the others? Chase was going to have to grow up, life was hard, and things were only getting tougher everyday. When Sledge was unable to sleep at night he simply stayed still and acted as though he was still unconscious. This constant needing to be around someone only made the kid look weaker.

Chase tried to stand up for himself, as though his following Sledge was perfectly acceptable. Sledge pinched the bridge of his nose. Taking the kid back to the others was going to occupy a large portion of his night, and his plan was to get this over with before the pack moved on the next day. Sledge made a disgruntled noise. “You should have stayed with them. I’ve got plans for the night and I don’t need to spend all me time making sure that your head stays where it is.”

“It does,” the child retorted. That’s something that grown-ups liked to do—it doesn’t matter what I’m doing, it matters what you’re doing, so we’ll focus on you instead. Chase, all the while, focused on Sledge, his lips forming a small frown.

“Tonight was your night to play babysitter,” the child answered back, his tone flattening. Most of the others were off doing their own things, except for Shane, who quite honestly gave Chase the creeps when the other members of the pack weren’t around. Had Chase been psychic, he could have made the argument that staying back would actually have been counter-intuitive in regards to “growing up”. Wouldn’t it be more disillusioning to accompany the Brit on his ventures about the city, rather than stay back at camp? Did Chase even have the know-for-where to ask such questions?

“What are the plans?” Chase inquired, quickly changing the subject. He rolled his shoulders, then stretched, shaking his legs as if to shake them awake. He started to grow taller, his physique expanding and his skin going green. He’d be more useful as Aurion. It was harder to argue with a lank reptilian man. Gold eyes drifted towards Sledge again as the transformation completed itself.

“Don’t worry ‘bout me,” the reptilian doppelganger grunted, “Just tell me what to do.”

"Is not," Sledge reaffirmed, taking care to not let his response sound like a little kid sticking his tongue out. One of the hardest lessons to learn in life was that sometimes, when a grown up says something, they really do know what they are talking about. Doubt is easy and for the common, faith is hard and for the wise. Is it any wonder that the time when child thinks that their parents are idiots is when they are most wrongly convinced that they know everything? "Iffin someone else was to be watching you tonight you'd be still back there right?"

There was, admittedly, a soft spot in Sledge's heart for Chase. Sledge hadn't been very big when he was a kid either. Both of them had to throw what weight they carried around to get people to listen to them. For Sledge it meant that he had to fight with blokes who could wipe the floor with him until they got the picture that he was always going to get back up. Chase was probably trying to do the same thing by insisting that he play a part in Sledge's plans. "The plan is for me to go in there, grab us some supplies, and you to make your way back to camp and tuck yourself in."

The boy did not move away. Instead he simply started to change shape into the green one. Size wise it was a smart move. Aurion was more intimidating than the kid, even if Chase now only shared the shape of the reptile man. In this battle of wills the doppelganger was firm in his position, but his opponent wasn't likely to cave in either. Reassurances were given that Chase could keep himself from getting hurt, and asked for his marching orders. "You're to turn about, go to the camp, and go to bed."

“If someone else was to be watching me,” Aurion’s doppelganger agreed. Keyword was if, “Only Shade's there, right now. He scares me.”

So, Chase followed Sledge, and there wasn’t much that the Brit could do about it—particularly now that the child had at least of foot of height over Sledge. The reptilian doppelganger lingered before the smaller man, shifting its weight as Sledge discussed the plans.

“I don’t want to go back to camp!” Chase whined. It was almost humorous, to see a big, reptilian monster fuss in a falsetto that was more befitting of the twelve-year-old that hid within the enormous form, “Come on, Sledge. I could be helpful. Real helpful.”

The expression that flitted across the reptile’s face was droll as Sledge once again stated that Chase was to go home and go to bed. And, seeing as the child had already voiced his complaint, he was now going to expand upon it.

“Why?” the doppelganger complained, “And don’t say, ‘Because I said so.’ I could be useful in this form. And I ain’t going back, because you’re supposed to keep an eye on me anyways.”

The was a point in Chase being able to do something to help. Sledge wasn't going to send the boy in though the shelter's doors. It was probably filled to capacity, and in the madness he didn't want to risk Chase being trampled. For now he was a giant lizard man thing, but for all his attempts at maturity, and the trials that came with the end of the world, Chase was still a kid. A kid that Sledge did not trust to stay focused. Should Chase revert back to his normal, more compact self, he'd be crushed.

When the combination of repeating orders and stern glares failed to work, probably due to having to look upwards instead of down, Sledge realized that some sort of compromise was going to have to be reached. Chase was not going to go back to the camp, and Sledge was loosing time trying to get him to go there. Surely there had to be some way in which Chase could help. "Alrigh', you want to help, then you'll do exactly as I say," the Brit decreed. When he had it, Sledge wore his fedora the way a king might his crown. Slipping into a position of authority was hardly a struggle for him. It wasn't just a mind for tactics that made one a leader, though it was a quality that Sledge possessed. For fun he had read historic battles, comparing the descriptions of the troops movements with the maps in his head. "Stay out here, do as I say, and get killed on your own time."

It was an ultimatum that Chase feared—if he wanted to help, he had to do Sledge’s bidding, without question. That… could be either good or bad. The doppelganger of the anthropomorphic lizard awaited, tilting its chin towards the man who was now far shorter than it, as it sunk onto its haunches so that Sledge was at eye-level. Aurion’s duplicate was listening and awaiting this “unquestionable instruction”.

The instructions weren’t what Chase wanted to hear. His instructions were to stay outside, to listen, and to get killed on his own time. That wasn’t going to fly with the kid. The argument circled closer towards somewhere near where it had begun.

“I could help you!” Aurion’s twin protested, its tone a loud, exasperated whisper, “Why do you insist on sending me back? I’m not a kid. Look, okay, normally I’m twelve, but now, I’m like, way old. Almost as old as you. I could help.”

Chase was fighting a losing battle, but eventually, Sledge would lose his resolve, one way or another. He’d either give the child what he wanted, or blow up at him.

Though not made out of solid metal the way that his namesake, Sledgehammer's face was as hard set. Right now the kid might be able to tower over him, but that didn't mean that Chase had any better perspective of the situation. Sledge had experience with this kind of life, more than just the three years since the disaster struck. Hunger wasn't new to him and he could handle it. The days of needing extra nutrition for growing bones was done. From this point on Sledge's body was just going to be slowing down or declining. Never having much food when he was young meant that he didn't need much now. Chase was still growing, and worse still, was getting into puberty. Under normal conditions this would mean frequent raids of the refrigerator. Out on the streets it meant that normal starvation was indistinguishable from what his body would have been asking for with a proper home. It was because in his teen years that Sledge began to pinch whatever he could, including often times food, that he did not look significantly malnourished. All things considered, including the severe food allergies, illegal residence, and the language gap that existed (how could two countries that speak the same language be so far apart in a conversation?), Sledge was better equipped to handle this life that they had found themselves in. Nothing had been done to impress that fact onto the teen.

“You really shount be calling me old iffin you want to help,” he said, staring right back at the yellow eyes. This wasn't just Sledge being an adult, this was him being a leader and not allowing there to be any room for debate. What he said was law, and if you had a problem with it, then you could just go off on your own and Heaven have mercy upon you. “You might 'ave gotten into a few scraps with the rest of the pack, but this is an entirely different kettle of fish. In there it's going to be crowded, and there will[/i] be a riot in there. Do you know what a riot is like?” Chase/Aurion's face registered something akin to confusion. “A riot is a living thing. It's not the people that you knew anymore, it's not even human. It's a monster that will not stop until there has been enough blood spilled. That tail you have is going to slow you down just enough that you’ll end up being trampled. Don't expect that I can keep you safe in their either.”

Time to pull out the ace up his sleeve. “Wouldn't your parents want you to keep out of danger?” he asked, his voice almost accusing. Sledge had not softened up his tone at all while arguing with Chase. Doing so would mean that he was weakening, or at least that's how Sledge perceived it. As a child he thought that if he could get an adult to show a little concern or empathy for him, he could get what he wanted. That was why he didn't hesitate to use the waterworks as a kid when he was in trouble, and why he wasn't too worried that his youthful face would make people take him less seriously. “I'll level with you, this is the way I've always lived. On the streets, fighting whoever for whatever I want. You are in over your head 'ere. Now, you will stay outside here, keep from getting killed, and don't move unless someone is daft enough to attack you. Or if you hear me call out for help.”

Not that Sledge was going to do that. He was going to raise a little hell inside that shelter and use the confusion to take everything. Food and blankets was an obvious one. Hunger was worsened by the cold, and vice versa. The colder you are, the more important food becomes, and the less food energy that you have, the more you notice the ill weather. Maybe there was some clothes that he could swipe there. Even if something didn't fit any of the pack members, it was still useable in one way or another. If shoes wore out, then extra cloth could be used to wrap feet. Clean fabric could be used as bandages. With a little bit of fuel spare clothes could be used for torches or to keep a fire going when no wood is around. Cots were tempting. Sleeping on the ground was far from comfortable, but to have to cart the about was impractical.

Chase’s expression meandered somewhere between exasperation and amusement. He hadn’t meant old as a bad thing, he just meant that, in this body, he expected a little better treatment, and a little less condescension from his pack-mate. Was that too much to ask for? He said nothing in protest, however, as Sledge spoke. A lecture was coming, and it would be difficult or near-impossible to stop.

“I can make the tail go away,” Chase mumbled crossly, as Sledge finished with his first lecture. Sledge seemed to forget that he was addressing a shapeshifter. Nothing about his appearance was permanent. Chase could be whatever or whoever he wanted to be.

The next inquiry stung slightly, and the doppelganger’s lip curled, exposing razor-sharp teeth. A pre-teen attitude was a horrible thing to have when one had the power of a giant—a monster—at their disposal.

“My parents are dead,” the doppelganger pointed-out, his voice quiet snarl, “And just because you started-out on the streets doesn’t mean anything-“ Last he had checked, they’d both been caught in the same Apocalypse, running with the same pack. Chase was stuck in the horrible tilt of wanting to be taken care of, but wanting to prove he was strong enough to care for himself.

The child was instructed to stay put unless someone came after him or if Sledge needed his help. Chase huffed and gave a sulky, “Whatever.”

You would have to be either blind or a total idiot to not know that Chase was pissed. Sledge was neither, simply oblivious. Even that wasn’t the right term. He simply did not care if he had hurt Chase’s feelings. Those mended with time, while physical injuries could spell doom when you are in a survival situation. Unless he shifted to another member of the pack, Chase was the slowest one, which meant that he set the pace. Broken limbs hardly meant speed. Sledge wanted Chase to stay put, and pissing the kid off did exactly that.

Bringing his arm back, Sledge was giving himself as much power in this first punch. The force of it more than opened the door, it knocked it straight off the hinges. When all you have is a hammer, the entire world looks like a nail, and you don’t just knock politely. The force and momentum pulled the con man into a stagger into the shelter. If this were a normal world, he would recover with a tip of his hat the same way that a cat brushes off a failed leap by acting as though they had intended to do so in the first place. The purpose of such an entrance was to throw those inside off balance even more than his punch had unsettled him. No witty remarks were made, no jokes about letting himself in. As he expected it caused quite a commotion when he simply elbowed the first person that he saw. Barging his way into the shelter already upset those who had to stand outside for hours and wait to be let in upset enough people. They knew how little there was, and they had earned what was being given to them. This man had done nothing to deserve even being underneath the same roof as them.

Hands were laid on him, and Sledge went into fighting mode. His arms were his greatest weapon, and he did not hesitate to use them. He used the back of his arm to throw people off of him, fists clenched to make his forearms like bonds of steel. With a bit of free space he grabbed the first blanket that he could lay his hands on he started the riot that he had warned Chase about. The blanket was long and awkward, giving it plenty of handholds for others to grab onto it as well. Some, seeing that an intruder was taking things from them, decided to take what they could, convinced that Sledge would be going after their filthy blankets next. Sledge’s confidence was what made him think up this insane plan in the first place, and why he had decided to go through with it. However confident as he may be, there was a matter of wisdom that he seemed to be lacking. Easily he was outnumbered, and as he brought his arm back to strike another person it was pulled from him. Not only did he feel pulled, dropping the blanket, but his arm was being twisted up and back, nails digging into his wrists, forcing him to unclench his fist. No fist mean no hardness to his arm and he was aware of the screaming pain that arm was in. Whoever it was that stood behind him was trying to dislodge his shoulder and the Brit couldn’t do a thing about it. Except for let out a shout of pain, lacking actual words, and consisting mostly of vowels