<div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/3/33/Wreck_Portrait.jpg)</div><hr/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: arial;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;"><strong>  Name:</strong>       Marcus Magnusson<br/>  <strong>Title:</strong>          Wreck<br/>  <strong>Affiliation:</strong>  Resistance<br/>  <strong>Location:</strong>   Los Angeles County Art Museum at the corner of Wilshire Blvd and Fairfax Ave<br/>  <strong>Tags:</strong>          Teletrix<br/></span></span><hr/><br/>Marcus could feel the city dying all around him.  The quakes were not as bad now.  Only someone like Marcus could feel the remaining seismic shudders of the west coasts last breaths.  Sure it would take a long time to truly die, but each quaking breath grew shallower and shallower, the tremors slighter and slighter as time went on.  He did not have to open his eyes to see the acrid black smoke or the orange glow of flame kissed towers to know the truth.  He felt it course through his body one toppling building at a time.  If Marcus was a poet he could describe how it felt to feel a city gasp futilely for its last bit of life, but he wasn’t. He was a high school football player, a good son and a young man knowing true pain for the first time in his life.<br/><br/>He could feel the group of people huddled in the security room at the back of what used to be the lobby of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.  They shifted about uneasily.  Some were still crying out of frustration or anger or pain and others just sat glassy eyed and quiet.  More than one of the former prisoners were hurt and one girl was still unconscious.  She was in really bad shape.  Hell if he was being honest with himself (and for Marcus there was no other option) he didn’t know how bad off she really was.  He had heard one of the others mentioning broken bones of some kind, but he had been too busy at the time trying to keep them moving and safe to know for sure.  It was unlikely they would have said anything anyway.  Hours ago he had been one of their captors.  They had no reason to trust him other than fear of doing otherwise.<br/><br/>Marcus opened his eyes to the desolation of Wilshire Boulevard and Fairfax Avenue.  Most of the buildings were charred ruins, many little more than piles of rubble.  Tar from the Le Brea pits had oozed up in the upheaval and flooded much of the north end of the street.  Twisted metal and broken asphalt made travel slow and dangerous.  It was a tiny relief that the Art museum was still stable.  It wasn’t exactly standing and the upper levels had been sheared off the east side of the building, but using his senses he knew that the lower levels were not going to collapse any time soon.  It was a haven for the moment.<br/><br/>Marcus knew the two were approaching him quietly.  Their footfalls gave them away long before the whispering reached his ears.  At the moment he just wanted to be alone.  There was too much to process: The kidnapping, the injections, the war.  Oh, God.  His parents and Haley and Harmony, it was simply overwhelming.<br/><br/>“I…I think she is going to be alright for now.”  He heard the woman speak first, her voice trembling for only a moment. She was trying to hold herself together, they all were.<br/>Marcus turned his head slightly so that they could tell he was listening, but not far enough that they could see the soot stained tears on his face.<br/>“Thank you.” He said quietly.  For such a strong and athletic young man, Marcus had a low and deep voice that could carry across a room with ease.  He had been so aware of it, in fact  that he tended to talk quietly so he didn’t sound like he was shouting.  To these frightened people he probably sounded menacing indeed.  The woman who spoke was mid-aged and had been wearing a business suit that probably had cost her more than Marcus’s dad made in a month.  It was dirty, torn and stained now.<br/><br/>“Miss…?” He didn’t know her name.<br/><br/>“It’s Margie.  Just call me Margie.” She said.<br/><br/>Marcus nodded. “Margie.  Thank you.”<br/><br/>“We should be thanking you.” She said with a shake of her head.<br/><br/>“What? Why are you thanking him?” The younger man with Margie finally spoke up.  He was in his late twenties.  Hipster by what was left of the look.  “You do remember that he was the one who took us in the first place.  We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for this freak.”  The fear and anger in his voice stung Marcus.  More from the fact that it was the truth that from the insult.<br/><br/>“You are right. WE wouldn’t be HERE.” Margie retorted.<br/><br/>“Well I for one think we would be better off out there on our own.”<br/><br/>“Then go.”  Marcus’s quiet yet firm voice cut through the budding argument.  “Listen, I’m sorry for what I did to you and you and all of them.  You can go.  You can take your chances out there if you want or you can stay with me,”  he said.<br/><br/>“And what? You’re going to protect us?  You saw those things out there.  What can you do against them?” He replied in disbelief.<br/><br/>“Whatever I have too.”<br/><br/>The man stormed off.  Whether to leave or to stew Marcus didn’t know.<br/><br/>“You don’t have to do this.” Margie said as Marcus turned back to look at the destruction of Los Angeles.<br/><br/>“Yeah…I do.”<br/><br/><em>‘I’m sorry Haley, Harmony.  I promise I’ll find you and Mom soon.  I promise.’</em>