What a mess he'd gotten himself into this time. He'd left southern California to be free of what may as well be a cult in its own right to stumble into this new, special brand of fucked up crazy. He'd minded his own business, he'd kept his head down, he was just passing through, but some whacked-out wannabe Christians had gotten the jump on him (shame on him, really) and started talking about sin, atonement, the like. He'd always rolled his eyes at his Catholic counterparts, always ribbed them before he'd decided to burn every bridge he knew, but this was different. This wasn't what a Sunday morning congregation here to find a path through life, no, this was something else.
He did give them hell, though. He'd certainly done a number on the handful that had stumbled upon him as sheltered somewhere quiet and small. A single man couldn't take down a militia, though, and eventually he felt a crack at the side of his head and he was out before he'd even felt the pain blossom where the impact was.
Vincent woke up in this cage, head pounding. Was he afraid? Yes, definitely. He saw no way out of this and try as he might he couldn't squeeze through the bars, even if he were to dislocate or break something. He eventually sat and waited, filled with shaking rage. The next time someone opened this cage he would rip their eyes out of their skull and feed it to them, then run. Maybe he'd be gunned down, but he'd take that to whatever the fuck that Johnny Appleseed motherfucker was selling.
So when shit started to hit the fan, Vincent could feel all of that fear come to a head, along with all of his rage-induced adrenaline, but as the first explosion gave way to more, and the sound of gunfire and yelling, that sense of rage turned into pure, feral survival. By the time the young cop appears before this cage and breaks the lock Vincent is ready.
Rather than believing the words the unfortunate man said and taking his hand, Vincent sprung from the cage and took a wild swing at Rook. He was aiming for the head - the thought was to break his nose, or clock him hard enough he saw stars, buy some time to run - but the punch was sloppy and desperate, from the arm of a man who learned to fight to survive rather than was actually trained. He was a scared dog, really, biting at the first hand offered regardless of friend or foe, and the wild look in his eyes told as much of a story.
The deputy startles, ducksâ but not fast enough. The man's fist connects with a cheekbone, hard enough that his jaw seems to rattle. He reaches, instinct, to grab the other's wrist, but sorts himself out enough to not. Instead, he holds up both hands in a 'peace' or 'surrender' gesture. That's the only consolation he can offer right now, or they'll both be dead.
"Fuck, ow. Listen, dude, you can hit me all you want once we're clear but we gotta get the fuck outta here or we're dead, you understand me?"
He points to a cultist sprawled on the ground, blood matted in his hair. "Grab his gun if you know how to use it. Follow me."
The feeling of his fist connecting with something, anything, is so fucking satisfied after being caged like some animal for who knows how long at this point. He was about to go for round two, but the man threw his hands up in peace, which was enough to at least let the poor man speak. The fact that this stranger didn't immediately start laying into him about his sins or what the fuck ever was already a positive.
He was right, though. They had to get moving if they wanted to get out. If they didn't, they'd be buried down here. Vincent didn't bother to hide the scowl as he realized that no matter his feelings, this stranger was right, and they'd have to put up with each other at least for as long as it took to get out of this hole in the ground. There was a moment of hesitation, watching this stranger as he absently rubbed the cross of the rosary he wore wrapped around his right wrist, a scowl forming on his face as he realized that he didn't really have a choice. (And that if this man was a cultist, he'd have been attacked by now.)
He got moving and grabbed the gun, reflexively checking the clip to see how much there was left. The two-toned hair and chipped black nail polish certainly ruled out military for him, and between the chucks that looked like they really needed a layer of duct tape applied and the loose-fitting streetwear... He likely knew the gun for reasons far less noble than Rook's. He finally stood and looked up to Rook.
"Lead the way," he said, nudging forward with his gun. Vincent wasn't going to turn his back to this stranger, even if he did just let him out of that cage.
Rook doesn't care why Vincent knows how to hold a gun, how to check the clip and presumably how to use it. All he cares about is that he can, and adjusts mentally to the idea he won't have to protect his flank, but he will have to watch his back if this man gets any ideas.
Just get out, then worry about it.
He leads the way, wending through barrels and crates and crawling through metal piping wide enough to accommodate them. Dutch is in his ear, then Jerome, impressing the urgency with which he needs to escape. I know, he wants to snap. I fucking know.
But he crouches, motioning to the freed prisoner to get behind several crates, and ducks to the other side of the crowded hallway. Around the bend behind them, the direction they had come, two cultists shout to one another, and they're coming closer. The deputy pulls a knife from his jeans, and waits. He trips the first, and uses the moment to launch himself at the second, thrusting the knife blade up through his jaw.
"Almost there," he tells Vincent. "The stairs are just over there. There'll be more up there trying to escape too, so you need to either hide or get ready for a hell of a fight."
Vincent certainly has thoughts and ideas, but he stays his hand: clearly this one knew the way out (obviously, if he stormed in), and the sheer number of these cultist fucks would be a nightmare to manage on his own. It was better to stick together, at least down here. It didn't take long to fall into rhythm with the stranger. He seemed to prefer a stealthier approach, which was much how Vincent faced things when he had a choice.
They moved through this underground hell. They cut through quickly and quietly: Rook taking point and leading the way, Vincent behind catching anyone trying to sneak up on them and providing support when needed. When Rook motioned for Vincent to go behind several crates, he listens and waits. Vincent doesn't hesitate to drive a knife through the throat of the tripped cultist to make sure he never gets back up. He pulled the knife and took a moment to wipe some of the blood off on the cultist's clothes, listening to what the Deputy had to say.
âAdmit Iâd rather just wait this out real niceân quiet if possible, but donât think itâll work out that way. May as well get ready to fight.â The adrenaline was going to have to carry him a bit longer; the coming down from it was going to be very rough. âIâll follow your lead,â he landed on. He didnât know what to expect above, but if it was going to be as busy as the man before him thought it would be, hoping for a quiet wait was going to be a rather futile effort.
Edited (this post edit brought to you buy spicy nacho doditos and covfefe boy dinner) Date: 2023-11-24 04:43 am (UTC)
Rook stops halfway up the staircase to, hopefully, a last mad dash to freedom. He crouches down again, motions to Vincent to come close so he can hear. Above them, men shout to one another, and the crackle of flames is audible. Something on the floor above them pops.
"There's gonna be a chopper to pick us up here, there's a hatch that'll open but we gotta make sure these fucks don't shoot it down. Take out whoever you can, but if you feel safer hiding, do that 'n' just be prepared to defend yourself. I think there are places to hide but with the fire I dunno. Be careful, and be ready to go the second that rope drops."
Rook waits only long enough to know that Vincent understands what he says before he creeps up the rest of the stairs. A few Peggies go down without knowing what the hell happened before they hit the ground, but then a grenade is thrown from somewhere and all hell breaks loose. More explosions - mostly from equipment - and the flames grow higher. The heat is almost unbearable, and the smoke, equally oppressive. Rook manages to pull the lever for the hatch overhead. When he finds Vincent again, there's a fresh wound on his forehead, blood all over one arm, but he's (relatively) in one piece. "Let's go!" he shouts above the fire and whirring helicopter blades, and holds out his hand to help.
Vincent isn't excited when he hears the commotion above: it sounded as if there were more men than Vincent had anticipated, and the sound of fire and the popping noise did not bode well. Whatever hope that Vincent had to keep low and ride this out certainly died in that moment. He knew that even if he did tuck himself away, the fire would flush him out if the men did not. His thoughts were interrupted at the mention of a helicopter and Vincent's brows arched as he looked to Rook with an expression that begged to ask how the fuck he had access to a helicopter, but he finally noticed the fact that Rook seemed to be wearing the digs a cop would. Vincent's expression soured and he looked away from Rook to try to at least lessen his disgust.
"Don't gotta ask me twice to put down these hijos de puta. Should be easy." The last three words were sarcastic. It was one thing to kill these men unawares, stealing up closer and closer to the surface in the chaos of this bunker threatening to fall apart and bury them within. It was another to hit the trapped room above and thin the herd out, and manage to cling to it in whatever conditions were above. Vincent hadn't died yet, and he certainly didn't plan on dying here now.
Once the fight really began, Vincent found himself really hating everything about this situation. He didn't particularly care for firefights to begin with but the enclosed area was really smaller than he wanted, cluttered with whatever random shit the cult put here. The fire cut off more area, and the smoke made him choke and his eyes sting. It was absolute chaos. Somewhere along the way he ran out of bullets and he turned into a feral cat, a knife being his claws as he struggled with whatever cultists tried to get smart with him. He was going to feel every single one of the blows he took later, he knew.
Rook did find him and almost took another punch for it, but Vincent saw who it was before acting too rashly. He had a lot of blood on his clothes - hard to discern if it was his or that of the cultists - and what looked like a few places that bullets managed to clip him. Vincent didn't quite catch the exact words Rook said - between the gunfire, the grenades, and the helicopter his hearing was shot - but the gesture was clear. He didn't hesitate to take the offered hand, holding with a tight, desperate grip that betrayed the fear he felt under the angry, brave mask he'd been wearing.
Whenever next he has the chance to sit, he did. With back pressed to the wall he let himself slide down until he was seated. Now that he wasn't actively fighting his way out of a war zone, he felt the pain creeping into his head, the aches starting to settle back into the rest of him, and the stinging under his collarbone from a tattoo he didn't ask for. He pressed a hand to his forehead to try to combat the pain from what was almost certainly a concussion, eyes screwed shut and jaw clenched tight. He didn't answer anyone who spoke to him at this time, and if anyone touched him he'd flinch and slap their hand away.
"What the fuck is happening here?" He finally asks the question he'd been wanting to know the answer to. Vincent's hand dropped from his forehead and he looked up at whoever was around, ignoring any questions that might have been asked of him. For now, at least.
Mostly, Rook is glad the man isn't dead by the time the Cold War-era hatch finally decides to open and the chopper can drop a line to them. He hauls Vincent up with a rough command to hang on as tight as he can. Explosions rock the bunker beneath them as they take off, a plume of fire and smoke ejecting into the Montana night. Rook swears he can feel the heat on his leg, but the helicopter doesn't waver in its flight.
The drop-off point is nearby, a clear patch on a grassy ridge. It's close enough that it makes Rook nervous, but he reminds himself no peggie could have survived that last blast. He nods somewhat numbly to the civilians that have fashioned themselves by necessity into a resistance force, but mostly he wants to sit the hell down. (He wants to sleep, really, but sleep won't come for a while.) He wanders away, sooner than later, towards a homestead down the hill, taking an emergency medkit with him to nurse his wounds. Fewer people are milling about, down here. He finds a familiar figure sunk against a shed wall, and realizes Vincent had the same idea. He knows better than to touch, his eye is still tender where the other man had socked him, but he's ready to talk when Vincent is.
"Not from around here, huh?" Rook extends his hand again, this time to help him up. "Come inside, I'll explain, 'n' see to some of those injuries. Can prob'ly find a drink, too, most folks around here have a stash." He's certainly going to have one - or three.
It was absolutely the case that the moment Vincent was set down and left to his own devices he snuck away from Rook and all of the people pestering him. The homestead was easy to find and it was quieter there. He was glad for less people but he wasn't sure he was glad that for the quiet that came with it. Vincent didn't expect to be homesick but he was. He missed the noise of the city and the movement of people doing their day to day thing. Hell, he even missed the bullshit that made him leave at this point. Gangs were a cult of their own but Vincent at least knew how to avoid being locked up in a cage in the bottom of a Cold War-era missile silo converted into a bunker back at home.
"First time visitor, actually," he admitted. "Was just gonna be passin' through." There were edges to his words but he was clearly trying to temper it for the man that pulled him out of a rather dire situation. The fact that the first and only time he'd ever leave California landed him in this mess really made him wonder why he bothered in the first place: he was a fool to think he could get somewhere and build a new life.
"Name's Vincent, by the way. Thanks for, uh, that back there." He didn't need to mention just how fucked he would have been without Rook finding him. They both knew, and Vincent already resented the other man a little for it. It wasn't easy to pay off a life debt. "Definitely need a drink after everything."
Vincent followed after Rook. He took his time now that there wasn't such an immediate rush, feeling stiff after sitting curled up against the shed and letting his adrenaline run out. Vincent was looking forward to getting enough alcohol in him to stop feeling everything (both physically and mentally), though he wished he felt comfortable enough to drink until he blacked out.
"I doubt you're the only one, though I think most of the converts - willing or not - from that place were just gathered along the way."
Rook holds the door open for Vincent, and points to a dining room table visible from the front door. "David Rook." His voice rises to accommodate as he checks the kitchen, then the small bedroom down a short hallway. He returns with a bottle of whiskey - nothing top shelf, but not exactly well, either. At this point, Rook is just grateful for something to take the edge off faster than a Whistling Beaver lager.
"The people that kidnapped you are a Christian doomsday cult called the Project at Eden's Gate. People around here call them peggies for short." He fishes two glasses out of a cabinet and sets them down, then pours two glasses. The deputy downs his promptly. "Couple'a weeks ago, the sheriff's department tried to arrest their leader. One of the freaks threw themselves into our helicopter's blades and took the whole bird down. Joseph Seed - aforementioned leader - decided that meant the apocalypse is apparently upon us and that meant it was time to tear down the whole goddamn county to prepare for it."
He takes a pause, breathes in, out, in, then exhales in a long sigh. He sits, and pours himself another glass. "Sorry you ended up in this shitshow." If he didn't know better, he'd think he's starting to feel guilty about the whole thing, like its somehow his fault these people are psychos.
"Por el amore de Dios," he exhaled as Rook explained what happened when they tried to arrest Seed. It really was just bad luck that Vincent had ended up here when he had - had he been even a couple months earlier perhaps he could have avoided all of this (in theory) - but his life was just a long series of unfortunate events written by some morose or perverted god. Seems like he might have met someone with the same affliction as he.
Vincent threw back the whiskey as Rook finished explaining that Seed had decided to tear the county apart. He had hoped to find a car he could steal here and make his way through the state quietly, but nothing had gone right since crossing over from Idaho. If he'd known that he'd be walking into a war zone he would have gone elsewhere.
"Nothin's your fault," he started, helping himself to more of the whiskey. "I got bad enough luck 'm startin' to think I got a curse." He said it like a joke, but times like this he really started to wonder. "Unless you're Seed's mami or papĂĄ, not like you're responsible for whatever screwed up bullshit he thinks'n tricked others into buyin'." Vincent hesitated as if he had more to say, but just downed the whiskey instead. Almost all men wanted to be famous, and what better way to achieve that than be a savior or a martyr? No matter how this story ended, Seed would be one or the other.
"So what's your role in this fuckin' mess, then? Imagine you're one'f the arrestin' party, but why haven't you called for backup or the feds?" Or left, though he didn't vocalize that part of his question. Last time he insulted a cop and called them a coward he was rewarded with a broken nose.
Rook has read the Book of Joseph, the mix of autobiography, holy book and manifesto. He knows about the Seed brothers' mami and papĂĄ, about the abuse and the foster parents and the way the system split them after Jacob lit a barn on fire trying in his own way to help them. At least, if the book is to be believed. He knows about John's addiction to drugs and sex and pain, both first-hand and from Joseph. He knows a little bit about Jacob, too, about the failure of the system over and over again, all through his life. He doesn't know much about Faith, though, but there are whispers that the one drugging people now isn't the first Faith.
"I can see how you'd think this is a curse," he answers bitterly, like he's thought the exact same thing. Rook hoists a third cup of whiskey like it's some ironic toast. "I'm the fuckin' cavalry, apparently." He downs the drink, and pushes the empty glass away, dull eyes watching it slide across the worn tabletop. They can celebrate tonight, the others. Hudson is free from John's clutches, John Seed is dead. His bunker is destroyed. The Holland Valley has been liberated. But Rook knows there are hundreds of peggies out there with one singular person on their mind: him. He can't get wasted, as much as he feels like it.
Rook shrugs a shoulder, knees wide and shoulders slumped like he's preparing for defeat, rather than having just won a major victory for the county. "The woman at dispatch turned on us, she's a peggie. We tried to make a break for it, to go find help, after shit went south - me and the federal marshal that came down here from Missoula. They blew up the bridge as we were trying to get out. With a fuckin' plane. These fucks are crazy, but they're organized, and armed to the teeth. They've disrupted phone and internet lines, even jammed the radio towers. Roadblocks are set up on the few roads out of this place. They've got anti-air weapons - nothing super high-tech but it'll knock anything you can find in this county out of the sky - provided one of the Chosen don't shoot you down first."
In short, Hope County is currently mired in full-blown warfare, even if it is on a relatively small scale. "I could try and hike out, but by the time I got somewhere to call out, even if they believed me, the rest of the civilians in this county would be dead or their brains melted by Bliss." He sniffs, more derisive than sorrow, thumbs his nose as he looks out the window to the silhouette of one of the resistance shambling past. " 'Sides, they've still got my friend Pratt, 'n' the sheriff." The marshal, too, but Rook didn't miss the way Burke had sprinted from the helicopter when it was upside down and in flames, the way he couldn't be bothered to so much as pause to undo Rook's harness for him. Rook also didn't miss the way the marshal escaped the sinking truck and left Rook to drown. 'Put your own oxygen mask on first' and all that, but Rook would be lying if he said he wasn't a little bitter about it. He's bitter, too, about the way the marshal was so cavalier, telling Whitehorse he was about to get his name in the paper.
So much for that.
Rook fingers the label on the whiskey bottle, but gets up instead. "You smoke?" he asks.
Edited (forgot a detail!) Date: 2023-12-06 09:48 pm (UTC)
The way that David spoke and all that his body language told Vincent wasnât quite what he expected, if he were to be honest. There was a weariness in the deputy that Vincent related to a little more than he liked, the way he grew heavy as he explained how everything blew up in his face a little too close to home than Vincent would ever admit to a cop. It grew more horrifying as Rook continued, explaining that this was quite literally a war zone rather than something more figurative like heâd thought. By the time Rook was explaining they even had anti-air weapons, Vincentâs lips had parted as his mouth opened in surprise, and perhaps a little horror.
He closed his mouth and poured more whiskey into his glass, shotgunning it immediately as if it was going to somehow make him more receptive to the news that he had unwittingly entered an active combat zone. Vincent could heavily relate to how desperately Rook likely had to fight to survive this place, and having lost people he cared about. It was why Vincent kept control of his face and seemed neutral despite the tell in the way his eyes lowered between them, luckily hidden from Rook as the other looked out the window. Rook didnât need to hear from Vincent that his friend and the sheriff were likely dead already, though he knew that just as much could have been said about himself when Rook found him. People had a way of surviving even in the most extreme circumstances, Vincent knew that all too well. It was why his walls were built so tall.
âDo now,â he said as he mirrored Rookâs standing up. Heâd always hated smoking, really - tobacco always was so unpleasant in his nose. He could almost be sold on some of the cigars the older men heâd grown up around liked but it just never caught his attention. The absence of weed or other drugs that Vincent liked an awful lot more put him in a bind, though, and the stress was eating away at him. Heâd take anything at this point.
Before he followed Rook out, however, he poured himself one more glass of whiskey. He decided to skip over fingers and just go for a full glass, Rookâs judgement be damned. He drained the whole thing without a second thought, and then followed Rook out. It took all of his self control to leave the bottle.
âSo you got a well-organized militia of a certain type of crazy out here with real competent leadership.â Clearly. He had been trying so desperately to downplay just how serious things were here but while heâd been part of a gang out of a lack of choice and a need for survival, the people out here had joined the cult of their own free will and gave it their loyalty. (At first, at least.) People like that would die for a cause. They didnât run like Vincent had.
âWhatâs the plan, then? You say youâre the cavalry, so, what, you gonna tryân take down this cult on your own?â It was clear Vincent was fishing to see what Rook had worked out already, if anything at all. He didn't offer much comfort in terms of what Rook had already gone through: there was nothing that he did to apologize for, but he certainly could help shoulder this burden (as stupid as that decision may ultimately be).
Rook snorts at Vincent's answer, but he nods understandingly, too. He swipes a pack of cigarettes from a side table, and steps into the night air â only to promptly sink back down on the porch steps. He offers Vincent a cigarette first, along with a lighter from his pocket (old, from at least the 80s, with an insignia of a five-pointed star within a circle engraved on one side. On the bottom are a couple of letters and numbers scratched into it by hand). He's glad at the moment that everyone that left this godforsaken county seemed to have at least one vice, usually two. He's not a smoker either, not really, but until he finds someone's stash of Xanax they left behind, this and alcohol is all he has to soothe his fried nerves. Cigarettes have the benefit of not leaving his senses too addled.
He lights his own cigarette and tucks the lighter away back into a breast pocket.
"Nah," he admits. He's just one man, and he wouldn't have gotten as far as he has without the help of a hell of a lot of people. Rook leans his elbows on his knees, clasping one hand over the other, cigarette held delicately between fore and middle fingers. "People seem to look to me though, maybe 'cause I'm the only cop left that hasn't 'atoned' and joined up with the peggies." He rubs subconsciously at his chest. The homestead's sole security light catches on the ragged letters of 'WRATH,' just as much scar as they are tattoo, peering out over an open button. "I'm six months out of academy. I'm not even from here." Rook falters, despite his frustration, glances to Vincent as though to confirm for himself that the other man has no interest in his personal life. A muscle in his jaw tenses visibly for a moment, and he continues staring out into the yard.
Rook takes a drag, holds the smoke in his lungs, and expels it in a sigh. "The Seeds divided the county into three regions - the Holland Valley, where we are now, the Whitetail Mountains to the north, and the Henbane River to the east. John Seed is dead, now, which means the cult no longer has a place to process new recruits. John handled most of that. Not that they aren't still kidnapping people to the north and east, but it should put a decent dent in their plans anyway." Another slow drag. "I've been up north some - that's Jacob's territory. He's a vet with a lot of combat experience and a lot more PTSD, by the sounds of it; he's in charge of training the cultists... and doing some fucked up experiments on the local wolves, like they're fighting dogs. I'm thinking I work my way up there, next. There's a state park entrance just north of John's territory that they've turned into a checkpoint. If the resistance can take that over, we'll have a good foothold to extend further into the mountains. It'll be a pain in the ass with the terrain, but a lot of the peggies don't have the familiarity the locals do."
Vincent murmured a soft thanks as he took the cigarette from Rook, lighting it without much ceremony other than a single cough with that first inhale as he recalled specifically why heâd never taken up smoking before. He was about to hand the lighter back but stopped as this thumb ran over the engraving and he took a moment to look at it. He didnât recognize it, at least not in this moment, and he handed the lighter back to Rook. One long drag later and he leaned back against the steps, resting back so that he could look up at the stars with a gentle wonder that he didnât bother to conceal. In LA the sky wasnât so dappled, after all, and on his trip up here he had been too preoccupied with other concerns to stop and look up at the sky.
His expression did shift - brows lifting in faint surprise - when Rook admitted he was only six months out of the academy. It didnât really take much thought to realize that Rook was likely much younger than Vincent had thought, assuming heâd gone to the academy not long after finishing high school. When Rook admitted he wasnât even from here, Vincent admittedly cast his glance at Rook and met the other manâs glance on accident. There was empathetic understanding in the look that Vincent gave him before shifting his glance away and finding anything else to look at.
It wasnât that Vincent didnât care; the more that Rook shared, the more Vincent would be expected to share in return and that was what he wasnât interested in. He was even less inclined to talk about himself with a cop, of all people. If he were honest, though, there was a part of Vincent that ached for connection. Unfortunately, connection had only ever left him wanting and hurting: people left and people died. Nobody stuck around, and those that did stabbed Vincent in the back eventually.
Vincent took a slow drag after Rook finished, clearly thinking over what the other man had just outlined. Every time Rook spoke to the state of the county the worse the picture grew.
âIf Jacobâs the one traininâ âem then sounds like a good next step.â Training was a severe understatement. You donât train people to jump into fucking helicopter blades. Vincent also couldnât imagine being so loyal to someone to the point of doing that. Take a knife or bullet? Sure. Thereâs a reasonable possibility of living through each of those. He couldnât imagine what fucking level of desperate loyalty someone would have over one overblown self-fashioned savior of mankind to have to sacrifice themself that way.
âPut a mad dog down âfore it gets its teeth in anyone else,â he said softly, almost pensive. Itâll be a hell of a fight just to get to Jacob, and then theyâd have to deal with him. Vincent knew a few old vets turned preppers and those paranoid motherfuckers would sooner strap C4 to their chests and take everyone down with them than give up. Vincent didnât want to try to think about that eventuality right now, especially as he was starting to feel the edges of his mind starting to grow fuzzy.
âOkay, so next stepâs to retake that checkpoint, then figure out what we gotta do to take the bite out of their operation. Simple.â Not simple, but on paper itâs a direction. âSounds like a tomorrow problem, though, âcause I gotta be real with ya David: my headâs killinâ meân that whiskeyâs startinâ to do itâs job.â Really, he was overwhelmed. He hadnât had the time to come to terms with all this like Rook had, and Rook had just told him so much shit in such a short period of time that he needed time to process at least some of it.
âAm real sorry you been made the leaderâf the movement here, though. Shitâs not fair.â He paused for a moment to take another drag, exhaling quickly as he continued while his gaze lifted back up at the sky. âCouldnâtâve happened in a prettier place, at least. Never seen so many stars at once.â
A direction, yes. That was the only thing that kept Rook going. Another direction to take, another step along the way. One foot in front of the other. If he looked at the whole picture at once, he'd probably lose his shit.
His brows raise a little when Vincent calls him 'David,' the surprise evident in the quick glance. Most people called him Rook (or Dep, or Deputy, or Rookie these days...) but he doesn't mind being called by his first name.
"Ah shit. This is why I became a cop and not a doctor - 'sides the fact I couldn't afford college." He chuckles dryly, and casually glosses over Vincent's apology that Rook is somehow de facto in charge. He'd be lying if he said he didn't mind it. He's 19, had never killed a man - had never even drawn his weapon in the field - and people act like he's some war hero or general or... or something other than what he is. "I should take a look atcha though before you hit the pillow." Rook takes another quick drag from his cigarette as though his final one, though pauses and looks up. Some tension seems to unwind out of his shoulders, and he actually smiles, the expression faint, but there. "Yeah. Montana may be bumfuck-nowhere, but it's beautiful." One final inhale of his cigarette, then Rook leans to stub it out on the mulch next to the steps. "There's a first-aid kit I left on the table in there, lets get you seen to."
Itâs Vincentâs turn to snort at Rookâs response, the comment of affording college. Vincent was almost a decade older than the young man next to him - kid, really - and had spent so many restless nights wondering where he could have ended up if he had an actual chance at a life. Vincent had been truant his entire school career, and the moment he turned 18 he quit going all together. It was something he regretted, but he wouldnât have been able to get a GED if he tried. And even if he did, what was the point? Itâs not like it would have changed anything while he was in LA.
Vincent glanced back at Rook just in time to catch the smile on his face. Seeing the way the tension left the younger manâs shoulders and the smile brought Vincent a flash of warmth. This kid had been pushed into a situation he never should have to go through and it was little moments like this, fleeting as they were, that kept people moving forward.
He grew visibly stressed as it became clear that Rook had been serious about checking him over. It was a good idea - he wouldnât get far out here without letting the other take a look at him - but he was in a backwater, rural red state, and as well-meaning as Rook had been thus far, that could change very quickly. He decided to go along with it only because he felt he could get a knife in the man quickly enough if things took a turn. It wasnât a comforting thought regardless as he sighed and put his cigarette out. âFine, but I donât got insurance so I hope youâll forgive me if I donât pay, Doc,â he teased as he stood. He spoke again as they headed back inside.
âHonestly, pillow and I never been real good friends,â he admitted. Heâd always been a troubled sleeper even on his best nights, usually opting for benzos or something else to knock him out. He could feel it in his bones that once he got to sleep heâd sleep well - he was too fucking exhausted to have his usual nightmares - but it was the matter of actually getting to sleep that would be the struggle tonight.
âGonna be a while before I pass out,â and when he did it would likely be in a corner with his back against the walls where nothing could sneak up on him. He was going to be up a while, and the way that the woods settled into such a still silence unsettled him greatly. Heâd love the company to distract him from it, not that heâd ever say as much out loud.
Once they were back inside heâd sit wherever David instructed him to, but no amount of the self control he contained could ease the tension out of his shoulders or cover the way he nervously rubbed the crucifix of the rosary around his right wrist.
"I'll just put it on your tab," the deputy answers, something easy-going and a little playful in his tone. One corner of his lip quirks wider than the other as they head inside.
Rook motions back to the same dining room table - it'd be easier to get Vincent to lean forward in one of those chairs, rather than the overstuffed living room set, if he needed to. Rook opens the medkit, then crouches down in front of the other man. "Yeah I feel it. The whiskey takes the edge off, but sleep can be hard to find anyway. Lately, anyway."
"You kinda look like you took a bath in some ketchup, so lets get that top off you. Anywhere in particular hurt, other than your head?"
He pauses in setting out various bits and bobs from the medkit, head tilted as his eyes catch on the rosary - or specifically, the way Vincent fidgets with it. He follows the fidget to the obvious tension in Vincent's shoulders. "It's alright," he offers, voice low and warm and gentle. "If I hurt you, you can take another swing at me. Sound fair?"
Vincentâs discomfort grew more obvious when Rook asked him to take his shirt off, his jaw setting. Part of why he left was because he knew heâd never be able to be himself where he came from, and now he was facing that very distinct possibility again. It was only at Rookâs reassurance that he started to move again, careful and slow. He watched Rook like a hawk, all of his movements stiff.
âNot scared youâll hurt me; been dealinâ with pain since I was real little,â he said as he finally started to peel the blood-soaked shirt off. He avoided Rookâs gaze specifically, otherwise watching the body language and movements of the younger man. Vincent had a wiry frame: clearly able to fight, but thinner than he should have been, giving him an hourglass figure that on bad days made him uncomfortable.
He had many tattoos linked to his gang affiliation that ranged from stick and pokes done in some grody bathroom to professionally done, though they couldnât be fully realized with the ace bandages clearly wrapped too tightly around his chest. Just under his left collarbone was Johnyâs handiwork: first wrath, then in what was clearly done purely out of an angry malice: heresy. Heresy looked as if heâd tried to carve down to some nonexistent bone, really trying to punish Vincent with it.
There were a few places where bullets had just caught Vincent, grazing him. Heâd been very lucky in that regard, but it sure didnât give much in the way of comfort when it came to the fact that his stomach, sides, and clearly his ribs, had been turned into a canvas for yellow, blue, and purple watercolor.
It was clear that Vincent was wired tighter than a spring, but even as Rook clearly had no issue with him, he went back to fiddling with the rosary nervously.
The deputy's mouth curves into a grim smile, the rest of his expression, humorless. He was lucky in that regard; his childhood had been one of destitution, but not abuse. He nods a little in understanding, but says nothing else on the matter.
His only reaction to what's beneath Vincent's shirt is a thoughtful hum, and a quiet, "Should get you cleaned up first." A washcloth from the nearby bathroom, wet with warm water, and Rook wipes away the blood that had soaked through, and Vincent's own.
"This is gonna sting like a bitch, so just warn me if you're reconsidering my offer," he jokes, tone mild. He holds up an antiseptic wipe by way of explanation, then sets to cleaning the wounds themselves. His eyes light on 'wrath,' and linger there for a few moments. He glances back up to Vincent's countenance. "And here we thought matching tattoos were only for doomed relationships," he remarks wryly, and spreads his collar for the other to see his own assigned sin.
Given that John Seed's body is laying out on the driveway to his bunker, that Rook had made sure the Herald was very dead before leaving his corpse to cool, maybe the man hadn't been wrong.
"Nothing feels broken right? A couple of these bruises are pretty ugly."
Edited (Yes autocorrect, I did want a swear word there.) Date: 2023-12-08 09:39 am (UTC)
It was hard to let go of the tension and stress even as it grew apparent that Rook wasnât going to try anything. As the blood was washed away it was easier to see some of his old healed scars: old stab wounds that were once deep, places heâd been unlucky and caught a bullet, among others. It was clear that Vincent was starting to relax a little as his gaze shifted away from Rook. Itâs awkward being taken care of, and Vincent wasnât sure how he felt about it. It made him think of his mom and reminded him that there wasnât a day that went by he didnât miss her.
âThink I already paid it forward,â he teased back, perhaps a touch apologetic (if you really wanted to reach for it). The most of a reaction that Rook gets is a sharp inhale and hissing through teeth while one hand curled into a tight fist. He held himself well, the majority of the tension in his body finally melting with a surprised chuckle at the joke about their tattoos, looking over to verify they did match with a smile before focusing his gaze on Rookâs face again. âMatching tattoosâre fine,â he started lightly, âitâs if we get each otherâs names weâre doomed.â
His smile lingered for a few seconds, but started to wane as he remembered the words of the old priest that tried to guide him after his mother was killed, recalling the warnings against wrath and how anger could be symptom of a larger issue: pride, or grief, or fear. For Vincent, his incessant anger as a kid, teenager, and young adult came from his grief, and here it came from his fear. He never had much use for religion, and heâd never listened as a kid, but maybe he was finally starting to see some of the wisdom in the old manâs teachings.
The thought slipped out of his mind as Rook asked about the bruises.
âNothinâ I can tell, but thatâs not real important. Not like weâre gonna sit idleân wait to heal.â That was definitive: he wasnât going to accept being benched. It also seemed that somewhere between escaping the bunker and now Vincent had made up his mind to join Rook on whatever new hell this adventure was going to turn out to be. âNormally Iâd say you should see the other fuckers, but, uh, doubt thereâs much left to see of âem.â
A pause, then: âwhat of you? You need a once over? My handsâr still steady enough.â The last sentence was a half joke, but the offer was real: he would gladly return the favor before getting up to try to find some clean clothes to wear before settling in for a long, likely near-sleepless night.
Edited (don't look at me i'm hideous) Date: 2023-12-08 05:00 pm (UTC)
His cheekbone is still tender, and there's some bruising already discoloring beneath his eyes, but Rook can't blame Vincent for the punch. Who wouldn't be scared out of their minds, especially not knowing what bullshit the cult had been up to for months?
"Ah, right, that's it. Well, we should live happily ever after, then." It's nice, the light and easy banter, rather than sitting alone with his thoughts weighing on him. With Vincent's nastier wounds bandaged, Rook returns to his seat, stiffness evident in his movements. It takes a moment for the other's words to sink in, and he gives Vincent a quizzical look. It sounded like Vincent was planning on fighting. Rook couldn't argue wanting revenge but... it made more sense that the other man would just want to hightail it out of this hellhole.
"Oh, uh- I got clipped in the back by something, I think, I don't know if I can reach it. If'n it's not too much trouble, I'd appreciate it." He shrugs off his shirt, wincing at the stretch, and turns sideways in his chair. Rook has filled out some in the last few months; perk of being able to afford eating what he wants. He's muscular, but built slim despite his height, a product of poor nutrition all his life until recently. Along his lower back is a wound that's not particularly deep, but ragged. Other wounds are evident, old bandages, some uncovered, all recent. Rook's body, if he survives this, will show a roadmap of the hell Eden's Gate is putting him through.
âI donât offer something âless I mean it,â he said gently as Rook bared his back to him. The mapping of his journey was so incredibly grim as Vincent realized that these were all recent wounds, unlike his own healed and faded scars. His touch was very gentle, seemingly in contrast with the way he held himself and acted, carefully cleaning the area around the wound after folding the towel to a still clean portion. He didnât comment on how slight Rook may have been - it was something Vincent understood all too well,
âFear our honeymoon phase is âbout to end; real glad youâre the forgiving type,â he said has he reached for the antiseptic wipes. He didnât give another warning before actually cleaning the wound and applying the antiseptic. He was as gentle as he could be, but firm, and it wasnât long before he was done and applying a bandage. âGood news is if we donât work out youâll have lotsâf scars to show all the boysân girls when this is all done. Have the pickâf whoever you want.â
He straightened up in his chair. âYouâre set.â An awkward little pause, then he stood and gathered up what trash was on the table, as if someone still lived here. âIf you donât mind, uh, Iâm gonna see if someone left a shirt lying around,â and a blanket, too. Vincent knew he would get cold over night. Unless David had a very strong negative response, Vincent was already headed off into the house in search for his prizes. After a couple of minutes he came back in an oversized flannel button down (that he was absolutely drowning in) and with a blanket in his arms. He stopped where he was, clearly debating what he wanted to do next.
"Short butâ" Rook inhales sharply through his noise, "âmostly sweet," he finishes, exhaling through clenched teeth. He wondered if he'd ever get used to the burn of antiseptic. He sits still otherwise, leaned forward just enough that Vincent could easily get to the wound.
"Thanks man." He raises a hand dismissively. " 'Course. Most folk around here left at least something." Rook however puts his uniform shirt back on. He considers another cigarette, though his gaze lingers on the whiskey. He opts for neither, packing things back into the first aid kit and leaving it on the table. Someone else would doubtlessly come through here and need the supplies. It was too much for him to carry, useful as it was.
His attention is pulled by the sound of Vincent returning, and he lifts his gaze, watching the man stand there seemingly without direction. It's late, now, and there's no point in moving on. The moon is thin, and with John's bunker destroyed, Rook is concerned about peggies. Might as well hang out with Vincent and get what rest he can.
"There's one bed, I think, you can take it. I've been getting used to sleeping wherever." Rook locks the front door, deadbolts it, then repeats the same for the back. The few resistance members loitering before appear to have moved on, unless a couple have bedded down in the shed or the prepper bunker. He goes to the windows, one-by-one, and closes them, before making his way to the sole bedroom. One hand on his hip, he weighs dragging the bed against the inside wall against looking like a nutjob to Vincent. In the end, he decides a label of crazy is better than being a cause of death. He moves a nightstand, pushing that against the window, then pushes the bed against the wall.
" 's a little better," he decides, then explains almost apologetically. "Y'know, in case anyone tries to break their way in."
It was true that Vincent was considering seeing how far he could get through the bottle of whiskey but he decided to stay his hand. He had a feeling that Rook was gonna be waking him up early to get moving and he very much wasn't a morning person, he didn't need to make Rook's life harder with a hangover. His thought was interrupted as Rook surrendered the bed to him and Vincent considered arguing and ceding the bed to Rook, but he started moving and Vincent kept quiet instead.
He went to the kitchen and shuffled through the drawers until he found a kitchen knife. He was still armed, yes, but there was a difference between the knives you kept on you and the knife you slipped into the mattress for emergencies. He followed in Rook's footsteps making sure everything was latched. It wasn't because he didn't believe Rook, but to assuage his own paranoia. The last thing he wanted was to end up where he started in this, or somewhere worse. He made it back to the room about the time that that Rook started rearranging the furniture, watching him, nodding at the explanation.
"No, makes sense. Smart." He wouldn't have thought of it - he was used to a bedroom too small that the arrangement of the furniture didn't matter. If the level of crazy they were dealing with was climb into helicopter blades, bomb a bridge from a plane, cage people in the bottom of a missile silo crazy, then no amount of assumption of the worst was too crazy. He moved into the room, not quite turning his back to Rook fully, sliding the bade of the knife under the mattress so the handle was sticking out. It would be easy to find if they were startled awake and he was too groggy to pull a knife off his person while tangled up in a blanket.
He got up on the bed and took a moment to fiddle with the knife - it wouldn't be hard to realize that this was a habit he had where he came from and he was positioning it where he was used to - before he sat back with his back once again against the wall. Despite their friendly rapport earlier, Vincent was slipping back into unease as he thought about having to sleep in the same room as a stranger. He tried not to be so blatant as he started settle in.
"Should probably warn ya: I'm not a real morning person." He wasn't sure he was going to even get to sleep tonight, but it was worth warning Rook. He admittedly wasn't sure what was going to happen in the morning if Rook did try to wake him: it could be as simple as grumbling and rolling over, or he might startle into a fight again. Vincent hoped it was the former but he'd been conditioned into being aggressive first and asking questions later.
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no subject
Date: 2023-11-22 02:11 pm (UTC)He did give them hell, though. He'd certainly done a number on the handful that had stumbled upon him as sheltered somewhere quiet and small. A single man couldn't take down a militia, though, and eventually he felt a crack at the side of his head and he was out before he'd even felt the pain blossom where the impact was.
Vincent woke up in this cage, head pounding. Was he afraid? Yes, definitely. He saw no way out of this and try as he might he couldn't squeeze through the bars, even if he were to dislocate or break something. He eventually sat and waited, filled with shaking rage. The next time someone opened this cage he would rip their eyes out of their skull and feed it to them, then run. Maybe he'd be gunned down, but he'd take that to whatever the fuck that Johnny Appleseed motherfucker was selling.
So when shit started to hit the fan, Vincent could feel all of that fear come to a head, along with all of his rage-induced adrenaline, but as the first explosion gave way to more, and the sound of gunfire and yelling, that sense of rage turned into pure, feral survival. By the time the young cop appears before this cage and breaks the lock Vincent is ready.
Rather than believing the words the unfortunate man said and taking his hand, Vincent sprung from the cage and took a wild swing at Rook. He was aiming for the head - the thought was to break his nose, or clock him hard enough he saw stars, buy some time to run - but the punch was sloppy and desperate, from the arm of a man who learned to fight to survive rather than was actually trained. He was a scared dog, really, biting at the first hand offered regardless of friend or foe, and the wild look in his eyes told as much of a story.
no subject
Date: 2023-11-23 03:07 am (UTC)"Fuck, ow. Listen, dude, you can hit me all you want once we're clear but we gotta get the fuck outta here or we're dead, you understand me?"
He points to a cultist sprawled on the ground, blood matted in his hair. "Grab his gun if you know how to use it. Follow me."
no subject
Date: 2023-11-23 04:51 am (UTC)He was right, though. They had to get moving if they wanted to get out. If they didn't, they'd be buried down here. Vincent didn't bother to hide the scowl as he realized that no matter his feelings, this stranger was right, and they'd have to put up with each other at least for as long as it took to get out of this hole in the ground. There was a moment of hesitation, watching this stranger as he absently rubbed the cross of the rosary he wore wrapped around his right wrist, a scowl forming on his face as he realized that he didn't really have a choice. (And that if this man was a cultist, he'd have been attacked by now.)
He got moving and grabbed the gun, reflexively checking the clip to see how much there was left. The two-toned hair and chipped black nail polish certainly ruled out military for him, and between the chucks that looked like they really needed a layer of duct tape applied and the loose-fitting streetwear... He likely knew the gun for reasons far less noble than Rook's. He finally stood and looked up to Rook.
"Lead the way," he said, nudging forward with his gun. Vincent wasn't going to turn his back to this stranger, even if he did just let him out of that cage.
no subject
Date: 2023-11-23 09:59 pm (UTC)Just get out, then worry about it.
He leads the way, wending through barrels and crates and crawling through metal piping wide enough to accommodate them. Dutch is in his ear, then Jerome, impressing the urgency with which he needs to escape. I know, he wants to snap. I fucking know.
But he crouches, motioning to the freed prisoner to get behind several crates, and ducks to the other side of the crowded hallway. Around the bend behind them, the direction they had come, two cultists shout to one another, and they're coming closer. The deputy pulls a knife from his jeans, and waits. He trips the first, and uses the moment to launch himself at the second, thrusting the knife blade up through his jaw.
"Almost there," he tells Vincent. "The stairs are just over there. There'll be more up there trying to escape too, so you need to either hide or get ready for a hell of a fight."
no subject
Date: 2023-11-24 01:25 am (UTC)They moved through this underground hell. They cut through quickly and quietly: Rook taking point and leading the way, Vincent behind catching anyone trying to sneak up on them and providing support when needed. When Rook motioned for Vincent to go behind several crates, he listens and waits. Vincent doesn't hesitate to drive a knife through the throat of the tripped cultist to make sure he never gets back up. He pulled the knife and took a moment to wipe some of the blood off on the cultist's clothes, listening to what the Deputy had to say.
âAdmit Iâd rather just wait this out real niceân quiet if possible, but donât think itâll work out that way. May as well get ready to fight.â The adrenaline was going to have to carry him a bit longer; the coming down from it was going to be very rough. âIâll follow your lead,â he landed on. He didnât know what to expect above, but if it was going to be as busy as the man before him thought it would be, hoping for a quiet wait was going to be a rather futile effort.
no subject
Date: 2023-11-25 07:34 am (UTC)"There's gonna be a chopper to pick us up here, there's a hatch that'll open but we gotta make sure these fucks don't shoot it down. Take out whoever you can, but if you feel safer hiding, do that 'n' just be prepared to defend yourself. I think there are places to hide but with the fire I dunno. Be careful, and be ready to go the second that rope drops."
Rook waits only long enough to know that Vincent understands what he says before he creeps up the rest of the stairs. A few Peggies go down without knowing what the hell happened before they hit the ground, but then a grenade is thrown from somewhere and all hell breaks loose. More explosions - mostly from equipment - and the flames grow higher. The heat is almost unbearable, and the smoke, equally oppressive. Rook manages to pull the lever for the hatch overhead. When he finds Vincent again, there's a fresh wound on his forehead, blood all over one arm, but he's (relatively) in one piece. "Let's go!" he shouts above the fire and whirring helicopter blades, and holds out his hand to help.
it was so hard not to say cop drip
Date: 2023-11-25 09:32 pm (UTC)"Don't gotta ask me twice to put down these hijos de puta. Should be easy." The last three words were sarcastic. It was one thing to kill these men unawares, stealing up closer and closer to the surface in the chaos of this bunker threatening to fall apart and bury them within. It was another to hit the trapped room above and thin the herd out, and manage to cling to it in whatever conditions were above. Vincent hadn't died yet, and he certainly didn't plan on dying here now.
Once the fight really began, Vincent found himself really hating everything about this situation. He didn't particularly care for firefights to begin with but the enclosed area was really smaller than he wanted, cluttered with whatever random shit the cult put here. The fire cut off more area, and the smoke made him choke and his eyes sting. It was absolute chaos. Somewhere along the way he ran out of bullets and he turned into a feral cat, a knife being his claws as he struggled with whatever cultists tried to get smart with him. He was going to feel every single one of the blows he took later, he knew.
Rook did find him and almost took another punch for it, but Vincent saw who it was before acting too rashly. He had a lot of blood on his clothes - hard to discern if it was his or that of the cultists - and what looked like a few places that bullets managed to clip him. Vincent didn't quite catch the exact words Rook said - between the gunfire, the grenades, and the helicopter his hearing was shot - but the gesture was clear. He didn't hesitate to take the offered hand, holding with a tight, desperate grip that betrayed the fear he felt under the angry, brave mask he'd been wearing.
Whenever next he has the chance to sit, he did. With back pressed to the wall he let himself slide down until he was seated. Now that he wasn't actively fighting his way out of a war zone, he felt the pain creeping into his head, the aches starting to settle back into the rest of him, and the stinging under his collarbone from a tattoo he didn't ask for. He pressed a hand to his forehead to try to combat the pain from what was almost certainly a concussion, eyes screwed shut and jaw clenched tight. He didn't answer anyone who spoke to him at this time, and if anyone touched him he'd flinch and slap their hand away.
"What the fuck is happening here?" He finally asks the question he'd been wanting to know the answer to. Vincent's hand dropped from his forehead and he looked up at whoever was around, ignoring any questions that might have been asked of him. For now, at least.
Re: it was so hard not to say cop drip
Date: 2023-12-05 03:47 am (UTC)The drop-off point is nearby, a clear patch on a grassy ridge. It's close enough that it makes Rook nervous, but he reminds himself no peggie could have survived that last blast. He nods somewhat numbly to the civilians that have fashioned themselves by necessity into a resistance force, but mostly he wants to sit the hell down. (He wants to sleep, really, but sleep won't come for a while.) He wanders away, sooner than later, towards a homestead down the hill, taking an emergency medkit with him to nurse his wounds. Fewer people are milling about, down here. He finds a familiar figure sunk against a shed wall, and realizes Vincent had the same idea. He knows better than to touch, his eye is still tender where the other man had socked him, but he's ready to talk when Vincent is.
"Not from around here, huh?" Rook extends his hand again, this time to help him up. "Come inside, I'll explain, 'n' see to some of those injuries. Can prob'ly find a drink, too, most folks around here have a stash." He's certainly going to have one - or three.
no subject
Date: 2023-12-06 02:56 am (UTC)"First time visitor, actually," he admitted. "Was just gonna be passin' through." There were edges to his words but he was clearly trying to temper it for the man that pulled him out of a rather dire situation. The fact that the first and only time he'd ever leave California landed him in this mess really made him wonder why he bothered in the first place: he was a fool to think he could get somewhere and build a new life.
"Name's Vincent, by the way. Thanks for, uh, that back there." He didn't need to mention just how fucked he would have been without Rook finding him. They both knew, and Vincent already resented the other man a little for it. It wasn't easy to pay off a life debt. "Definitely need a drink after everything."
Vincent followed after Rook. He took his time now that there wasn't such an immediate rush, feeling stiff after sitting curled up against the shed and letting his adrenaline run out. Vincent was looking forward to getting enough alcohol in him to stop feeling everything (both physically and mentally), though he wished he felt comfortable enough to drink until he blacked out.
no subject
Date: 2023-12-06 03:27 am (UTC)Rook holds the door open for Vincent, and points to a dining room table visible from the front door. "David Rook." His voice rises to accommodate as he checks the kitchen, then the small bedroom down a short hallway. He returns with a bottle of whiskey - nothing top shelf, but not exactly well, either. At this point, Rook is just grateful for something to take the edge off faster than a Whistling Beaver lager.
"The people that kidnapped you are a Christian doomsday cult called the Project at Eden's Gate. People around here call them peggies for short." He fishes two glasses out of a cabinet and sets them down, then pours two glasses. The deputy downs his promptly. "Couple'a weeks ago, the sheriff's department tried to arrest their leader. One of the freaks threw themselves into our helicopter's blades and took the whole bird down. Joseph Seed - aforementioned leader - decided that meant the apocalypse is apparently upon us and that meant it was time to tear down the whole goddamn county to prepare for it."
He takes a pause, breathes in, out, in, then exhales in a long sigh. He sits, and pours himself another glass. "Sorry you ended up in this shitshow." If he didn't know better, he'd think he's starting to feel guilty about the whole thing, like its somehow his fault these people are psychos.
no subject
Date: 2023-12-06 02:15 pm (UTC)Vincent threw back the whiskey as Rook finished explaining that Seed had decided to tear the county apart. He had hoped to find a car he could steal here and make his way through the state quietly, but nothing had gone right since crossing over from Idaho. If he'd known that he'd be walking into a war zone he would have gone elsewhere.
"Nothin's your fault," he started, helping himself to more of the whiskey. "I got bad enough luck 'm startin' to think I got a curse." He said it like a joke, but times like this he really started to wonder. "Unless you're Seed's mami or papĂĄ, not like you're responsible for whatever screwed up bullshit he thinks'n tricked others into buyin'." Vincent hesitated as if he had more to say, but just downed the whiskey instead. Almost all men wanted to be famous, and what better way to achieve that than be a savior or a martyr? No matter how this story ended, Seed would be one or the other.
"So what's your role in this fuckin' mess, then? Imagine you're one'f the arrestin' party, but why haven't you called for backup or the feds?" Or left, though he didn't vocalize that part of his question. Last time he insulted a cop and called them a coward he was rewarded with a broken nose.
no subject
Date: 2023-12-06 09:41 pm (UTC)"I can see how you'd think this is a curse," he answers bitterly, like he's thought the exact same thing. Rook hoists a third cup of whiskey like it's some ironic toast. "I'm the fuckin' cavalry, apparently." He downs the drink, and pushes the empty glass away, dull eyes watching it slide across the worn tabletop. They can celebrate tonight, the others. Hudson is free from John's clutches, John Seed is dead. His bunker is destroyed. The Holland Valley has been liberated. But Rook knows there are hundreds of peggies out there with one singular person on their mind: him. He can't get wasted, as much as he feels like it.
Rook shrugs a shoulder, knees wide and shoulders slumped like he's preparing for defeat, rather than having just won a major victory for the county. "The woman at dispatch turned on us, she's a peggie. We tried to make a break for it, to go find help, after shit went south - me and the federal marshal that came down here from Missoula. They blew up the bridge as we were trying to get out. With a fuckin' plane. These fucks are crazy, but they're organized, and armed to the teeth. They've disrupted phone and internet lines, even jammed the radio towers. Roadblocks are set up on the few roads out of this place. They've got anti-air weapons - nothing super high-tech but it'll knock anything you can find in this county out of the sky - provided one of the Chosen don't shoot you down first."
In short, Hope County is currently mired in full-blown warfare, even if it is on a relatively small scale. "I could try and hike out, but by the time I got somewhere to call out, even if they believed me, the rest of the civilians in this county would be dead or their brains melted by Bliss." He sniffs, more derisive than sorrow, thumbs his nose as he looks out the window to the silhouette of one of the resistance shambling past. " 'Sides, they've still got my friend Pratt, 'n' the sheriff." The marshal, too, but Rook didn't miss the way Burke had sprinted from the helicopter when it was upside down and in flames, the way he couldn't be bothered to so much as pause to undo Rook's harness for him. Rook also didn't miss the way the marshal escaped the sinking truck and left Rook to drown. 'Put your own oxygen mask on first' and all that, but Rook would be lying if he said he wasn't a little bitter about it. He's bitter, too, about the way the marshal was so cavalier, telling Whitehorse he was about to get his name in the paper.
So much for that.
Rook fingers the label on the whiskey bottle, but gets up instead. "You smoke?" he asks.
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Date: 2023-12-07 03:08 am (UTC)He closed his mouth and poured more whiskey into his glass, shotgunning it immediately as if it was going to somehow make him more receptive to the news that he had unwittingly entered an active combat zone. Vincent could heavily relate to how desperately Rook likely had to fight to survive this place, and having lost people he cared about. It was why Vincent kept control of his face and seemed neutral despite the tell in the way his eyes lowered between them, luckily hidden from Rook as the other looked out the window. Rook didnât need to hear from Vincent that his friend and the sheriff were likely dead already, though he knew that just as much could have been said about himself when Rook found him. People had a way of surviving even in the most extreme circumstances, Vincent knew that all too well. It was why his walls were built so tall.
âDo now,â he said as he mirrored Rookâs standing up. Heâd always hated smoking, really - tobacco always was so unpleasant in his nose. He could almost be sold on some of the cigars the older men heâd grown up around liked but it just never caught his attention. The absence of weed or other drugs that Vincent liked an awful lot more put him in a bind, though, and the stress was eating away at him. Heâd take anything at this point.
Before he followed Rook out, however, he poured himself one more glass of whiskey. He decided to skip over fingers and just go for a full glass, Rookâs judgement be damned. He drained the whole thing without a second thought, and then followed Rook out. It took all of his self control to leave the bottle.
âSo you got a well-organized militia of a certain type of crazy out here with real competent leadership.â Clearly. He had been trying so desperately to downplay just how serious things were here but while heâd been part of a gang out of a lack of choice and a need for survival, the people out here had joined the cult of their own free will and gave it their loyalty. (At first, at least.) People like that would die for a cause. They didnât run like Vincent had.
âWhatâs the plan, then? You say youâre the cavalry, so, what, you gonna tryân take down this cult on your own?â It was clear Vincent was fishing to see what Rook had worked out already, if anything at all. He didn't offer much comfort in terms of what Rook had already gone through: there was nothing that he did to apologize for, but he certainly could help shoulder this burden (as stupid as that decision may ultimately be).
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Date: 2023-12-07 05:55 am (UTC)He lights his own cigarette and tucks the lighter away back into a breast pocket.
"Nah," he admits. He's just one man, and he wouldn't have gotten as far as he has without the help of a hell of a lot of people. Rook leans his elbows on his knees, clasping one hand over the other, cigarette held delicately between fore and middle fingers. "People seem to look to me though, maybe 'cause I'm the only cop left that hasn't 'atoned' and joined up with the peggies." He rubs subconsciously at his chest. The homestead's sole security light catches on the ragged letters of 'WRATH,' just as much scar as they are tattoo, peering out over an open button. "I'm six months out of academy. I'm not even from here." Rook falters, despite his frustration, glances to Vincent as though to confirm for himself that the other man has no interest in his personal life. A muscle in his jaw tenses visibly for a moment, and he continues staring out into the yard.
Rook takes a drag, holds the smoke in his lungs, and expels it in a sigh. "The Seeds divided the county into three regions - the Holland Valley, where we are now, the Whitetail Mountains to the north, and the Henbane River to the east. John Seed is dead, now, which means the cult no longer has a place to process new recruits. John handled most of that. Not that they aren't still kidnapping people to the north and east, but it should put a decent dent in their plans anyway." Another slow drag. "I've been up north some - that's Jacob's territory. He's a vet with a lot of combat experience and a lot more PTSD, by the sounds of it; he's in charge of training the cultists... and doing some fucked up experiments on the local wolves, like they're fighting dogs. I'm thinking I work my way up there, next. There's a state park entrance just north of John's territory that they've turned into a checkpoint. If the resistance can take that over, we'll have a good foothold to extend further into the mountains. It'll be a pain in the ass with the terrain, but a lot of the peggies don't have the familiarity the locals do."
this post just tipped over to two (2) pages in 12 pt times new roman font
Date: 2023-12-07 05:44 pm (UTC)His expression did shift - brows lifting in faint surprise - when Rook admitted he was only six months out of the academy. It didnât really take much thought to realize that Rook was likely much younger than Vincent had thought, assuming heâd gone to the academy not long after finishing high school. When Rook admitted he wasnât even from here, Vincent admittedly cast his glance at Rook and met the other manâs glance on accident. There was empathetic understanding in the look that Vincent gave him before shifting his glance away and finding anything else to look at.
It wasnât that Vincent didnât care; the more that Rook shared, the more Vincent would be expected to share in return and that was what he wasnât interested in. He was even less inclined to talk about himself with a cop, of all people. If he were honest, though, there was a part of Vincent that ached for connection. Unfortunately, connection had only ever left him wanting and hurting: people left and people died. Nobody stuck around, and those that did stabbed Vincent in the back eventually.
Vincent took a slow drag after Rook finished, clearly thinking over what the other man had just outlined. Every time Rook spoke to the state of the county the worse the picture grew.
âIf Jacobâs the one traininâ âem then sounds like a good next step.â Training was a severe understatement. You donât train people to jump into fucking helicopter blades. Vincent also couldnât imagine being so loyal to someone to the point of doing that. Take a knife or bullet? Sure. Thereâs a reasonable possibility of living through each of those. He couldnât imagine what fucking level of desperate loyalty someone would have over one overblown self-fashioned savior of mankind to have to sacrifice themself that way.
âPut a mad dog down âfore it gets its teeth in anyone else,â he said softly, almost pensive. Itâll be a hell of a fight just to get to Jacob, and then theyâd have to deal with him. Vincent knew a few old vets turned preppers and those paranoid motherfuckers would sooner strap C4 to their chests and take everyone down with them than give up. Vincent didnât want to try to think about that eventuality right now, especially as he was starting to feel the edges of his mind starting to grow fuzzy.
âOkay, so next stepâs to retake that checkpoint, then figure out what we gotta do to take the bite out of their operation. Simple.â Not simple, but on paper itâs a direction. âSounds like a tomorrow problem, though, âcause I gotta be real with ya David: my headâs killinâ meân that whiskeyâs startinâ to do itâs job.â Really, he was overwhelmed. He hadnât had the time to come to terms with all this like Rook had, and Rook had just told him so much shit in such a short period of time that he needed time to process at least some of it.
âAm real sorry you been made the leaderâf the movement here, though. Shitâs not fair.â He paused for a moment to take another drag, exhaling quickly as he continued while his gaze lifted back up at the sky. âCouldnâtâve happened in a prettier place, at least. Never seen so many stars at once.â
Lmao love when that happens đ gimme the juicy meta deets
Date: 2023-12-07 11:59 pm (UTC)His brows raise a little when Vincent calls him 'David,' the surprise evident in the quick glance. Most people called him Rook (or Dep, or Deputy, or Rookie these days...) but he doesn't mind being called by his first name.
"Ah shit. This is why I became a cop and not a doctor - 'sides the fact I couldn't afford college." He chuckles dryly, and casually glosses over Vincent's apology that Rook is somehow de facto in charge. He'd be lying if he said he didn't mind it. He's 19, had never killed a man - had never even drawn his weapon in the field - and people act like he's some war hero or general or... or something other than what he is. "I should take a look atcha though before you hit the pillow." Rook takes another quick drag from his cigarette as though his final one, though pauses and looks up. Some tension seems to unwind out of his shoulders, and he actually smiles, the expression faint, but there. "Yeah. Montana may be bumfuck-nowhere, but it's beautiful." One final inhale of his cigarette, then Rook leans to stub it out on the mulch next to the steps. "There's a first-aid kit I left on the table in there, lets get you seen to."
i don't really focus on this bc it doesn't matter but vincent's left handed fun fact
Date: 2023-12-08 02:58 am (UTC)Vincent glanced back at Rook just in time to catch the smile on his face. Seeing the way the tension left the younger manâs shoulders and the smile brought Vincent a flash of warmth. This kid had been pushed into a situation he never should have to go through and it was little moments like this, fleeting as they were, that kept people moving forward.
He grew visibly stressed as it became clear that Rook had been serious about checking him over. It was a good idea - he wouldnât get far out here without letting the other take a look at him - but he was in a backwater, rural red state, and as well-meaning as Rook had been thus far, that could change very quickly. He decided to go along with it only because he felt he could get a knife in the man quickly enough if things took a turn. It wasnât a comforting thought regardless as he sighed and put his cigarette out. âFine, but I donât got insurance so I hope youâll forgive me if I donât pay, Doc,â he teased as he stood. He spoke again as they headed back inside.
âHonestly, pillow and I never been real good friends,â he admitted. Heâd always been a troubled sleeper even on his best nights, usually opting for benzos or something else to knock him out. He could feel it in his bones that once he got to sleep heâd sleep well - he was too fucking exhausted to have his usual nightmares - but it was the matter of actually getting to sleep that would be the struggle tonight.
âGonna be a while before I pass out,â and when he did it would likely be in a corner with his back against the walls where nothing could sneak up on him. He was going to be up a while, and the way that the woods settled into such a still silence unsettled him greatly. Heâd love the company to distract him from it, not that heâd ever say as much out loud.
Once they were back inside heâd sit wherever David instructed him to, but no amount of the self control he contained could ease the tension out of his shoulders or cover the way he nervously rubbed the crucifix of the rosary around his right wrist.
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Date: 2023-12-08 04:19 am (UTC)Rook motions back to the same dining room table - it'd be easier to get Vincent to lean forward in one of those chairs, rather than the overstuffed living room set, if he needed to. Rook opens the medkit, then crouches down in front of the other man. "Yeah I feel it. The whiskey takes the edge off, but sleep can be hard to find anyway. Lately, anyway."
"You kinda look like you took a bath in some ketchup, so lets get that top off you. Anywhere in particular hurt, other than your head?"
He pauses in setting out various bits and bobs from the medkit, head tilted as his eyes catch on the rosary - or specifically, the way Vincent fidgets with it. He follows the fidget to the obvious tension in Vincent's shoulders. "It's alright," he offers, voice low and warm and gentle. "If I hurt you, you can take another swing at me. Sound fair?"
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Date: 2023-12-08 05:19 am (UTC)âNot scared youâll hurt me; been dealinâ with pain since I was real little,â he said as he finally started to peel the blood-soaked shirt off. He avoided Rookâs gaze specifically, otherwise watching the body language and movements of the younger man. Vincent had a wiry frame: clearly able to fight, but thinner than he should have been, giving him an hourglass figure that on bad days made him uncomfortable.
He had many tattoos linked to his gang affiliation that ranged from stick and pokes done in some grody bathroom to professionally done, though they couldnât be fully realized with the ace bandages clearly wrapped too tightly around his chest. Just under his left collarbone was Johnyâs handiwork: first wrath, then in what was clearly done purely out of an angry malice: heresy. Heresy looked as if heâd tried to carve down to some nonexistent bone, really trying to punish Vincent with it.
There were a few places where bullets had just caught Vincent, grazing him. Heâd been very lucky in that regard, but it sure didnât give much in the way of comfort when it came to the fact that his stomach, sides, and clearly his ribs, had been turned into a canvas for yellow, blue, and purple watercolor.
It was clear that Vincent was wired tighter than a spring, but even as Rook clearly had no issue with him, he went back to fiddling with the rosary nervously.
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Date: 2023-12-08 09:38 am (UTC)His only reaction to what's beneath Vincent's shirt is a thoughtful hum, and a quiet, "Should get you cleaned up first." A washcloth from the nearby bathroom, wet with warm water, and Rook wipes away the blood that had soaked through, and Vincent's own.
"This is gonna sting like a bitch, so just warn me if you're reconsidering my offer," he jokes, tone mild. He holds up an antiseptic wipe by way of explanation, then sets to cleaning the wounds themselves. His eyes light on 'wrath,' and linger there for a few moments. He glances back up to Vincent's countenance. "And here we thought matching tattoos were only for doomed relationships," he remarks wryly, and spreads his collar for the other to see his own assigned sin.
Given that John Seed's body is laying out on the driveway to his bunker, that Rook had made sure the Herald was very dead before leaving his corpse to cool, maybe the man hadn't been wrong.
"Nothing feels broken right? A couple of these bruises are pretty ugly."
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Date: 2023-12-08 02:47 pm (UTC)âThink I already paid it forward,â he teased back, perhaps a touch apologetic (if you really wanted to reach for it). The most of a reaction that Rook gets is a sharp inhale and hissing through teeth while one hand curled into a tight fist. He held himself well, the majority of the tension in his body finally melting with a surprised chuckle at the joke about their tattoos, looking over to verify they did match with a smile before focusing his gaze on Rookâs face again. âMatching tattoosâre fine,â he started lightly, âitâs if we get each otherâs names weâre doomed.â
His smile lingered for a few seconds, but started to wane as he remembered the words of the old priest that tried to guide him after his mother was killed, recalling the warnings against wrath and how anger could be symptom of a larger issue: pride, or grief, or fear. For Vincent, his incessant anger as a kid, teenager, and young adult came from his grief, and here it came from his fear. He never had much use for religion, and heâd never listened as a kid, but maybe he was finally starting to see some of the wisdom in the old manâs teachings.
The thought slipped out of his mind as Rook asked about the bruises.
âNothinâ I can tell, but thatâs not real important. Not like weâre gonna sit idleân wait to heal.â That was definitive: he wasnât going to accept being benched. It also seemed that somewhere between escaping the bunker and now Vincent had made up his mind to join Rook on whatever new hell this adventure was going to turn out to be. âNormally Iâd say you should see the other fuckers, but, uh, doubt thereâs much left to see of âem.â
A pause, then: âwhat of you? You need a once over? My handsâr still steady enough.â The last sentence was a half joke, but the offer was real: he would gladly return the favor before getting up to try to find some clean clothes to wear before settling in for a long, likely near-sleepless night.
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Date: 2023-12-08 09:10 pm (UTC)"Ah, right, that's it. Well, we should live happily ever after, then." It's nice, the light and easy banter, rather than sitting alone with his thoughts weighing on him. With Vincent's nastier wounds bandaged, Rook returns to his seat, stiffness evident in his movements. It takes a moment for the other's words to sink in, and he gives Vincent a quizzical look. It sounded like Vincent was planning on fighting. Rook couldn't argue wanting revenge but... it made more sense that the other man would just want to hightail it out of this hellhole.
"Oh, uh- I got clipped in the back by something, I think, I don't know if I can reach it. If'n it's not too much trouble, I'd appreciate it." He shrugs off his shirt, wincing at the stretch, and turns sideways in his chair. Rook has filled out some in the last few months; perk of being able to afford eating what he wants. He's muscular, but built slim despite his height, a product of poor nutrition all his life until recently. Along his lower back is a wound that's not particularly deep, but ragged. Other wounds are evident, old bandages, some uncovered, all recent. Rook's body, if he survives this, will show a roadmap of the hell Eden's Gate is putting him through.
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Date: 2023-12-09 12:17 am (UTC)âFear our honeymoon phase is âbout to end; real glad youâre the forgiving type,â he said has he reached for the antiseptic wipes. He didnât give another warning before actually cleaning the wound and applying the antiseptic. He was as gentle as he could be, but firm, and it wasnât long before he was done and applying a bandage. âGood news is if we donât work out youâll have lotsâf scars to show all the boysân girls when this is all done. Have the pickâf whoever you want.â
He straightened up in his chair. âYouâre set.â An awkward little pause, then he stood and gathered up what trash was on the table, as if someone still lived here. âIf you donât mind, uh, Iâm gonna see if someone left a shirt lying around,â and a blanket, too. Vincent knew he would get cold over night. Unless David had a very strong negative response, Vincent was already headed off into the house in search for his prizes. After a couple of minutes he came back in an oversized flannel button down (that he was absolutely drowning in) and with a blanket in his arms. He stopped where he was, clearly debating what he wanted to do next.
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Date: 2023-12-09 08:53 am (UTC)"Thanks man." He raises a hand dismissively. " 'Course. Most folk around here left at least something." Rook however puts his uniform shirt back on. He considers another cigarette, though his gaze lingers on the whiskey. He opts for neither, packing things back into the first aid kit and leaving it on the table. Someone else would doubtlessly come through here and need the supplies. It was too much for him to carry, useful as it was.
His attention is pulled by the sound of Vincent returning, and he lifts his gaze, watching the man stand there seemingly without direction. It's late, now, and there's no point in moving on. The moon is thin, and with John's bunker destroyed, Rook is concerned about peggies. Might as well hang out with Vincent and get what rest he can.
"There's one bed, I think, you can take it. I've been getting used to sleeping wherever." Rook locks the front door, deadbolts it, then repeats the same for the back. The few resistance members loitering before appear to have moved on, unless a couple have bedded down in the shed or the prepper bunker. He goes to the windows, one-by-one, and closes them, before making his way to the sole bedroom. One hand on his hip, he weighs dragging the bed against the inside wall against looking like a nutjob to Vincent. In the end, he decides a label of crazy is better than being a cause of death. He moves a nightstand, pushing that against the window, then pushes the bed against the wall.
" 's a little better," he decides, then explains almost apologetically. "Y'know, in case anyone tries to break their way in."
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Date: 2023-12-09 03:29 pm (UTC)He went to the kitchen and shuffled through the drawers until he found a kitchen knife. He was still armed, yes, but there was a difference between the knives you kept on you and the knife you slipped into the mattress for emergencies. He followed in Rook's footsteps making sure everything was latched. It wasn't because he didn't believe Rook, but to assuage his own paranoia. The last thing he wanted was to end up where he started in this, or somewhere worse. He made it back to the room about the time that that Rook started rearranging the furniture, watching him, nodding at the explanation.
"No, makes sense. Smart." He wouldn't have thought of it - he was used to a bedroom too small that the arrangement of the furniture didn't matter. If the level of crazy they were dealing with was climb into helicopter blades, bomb a bridge from a plane, cage people in the bottom of a missile silo crazy, then no amount of assumption of the worst was too crazy. He moved into the room, not quite turning his back to Rook fully, sliding the bade of the knife under the mattress so the handle was sticking out. It would be easy to find if they were startled awake and he was too groggy to pull a knife off his person while tangled up in a blanket.
He got up on the bed and took a moment to fiddle with the knife - it wouldn't be hard to realize that this was a habit he had where he came from and he was positioning it where he was used to - before he sat back with his back once again against the wall. Despite their friendly rapport earlier, Vincent was slipping back into unease as he thought about having to sleep in the same room as a stranger. He tried not to be so blatant as he started settle in.
"Should probably warn ya: I'm not a real morning person." He wasn't sure he was going to even get to sleep tonight, but it was worth warning Rook. He admittedly wasn't sure what was going to happen in the morning if Rook did try to wake him: it could be as simple as grumbling and rolling over, or he might startle into a fight again. Vincent hoped it was the former but he'd been conditioned into being aggressive first and asking questions later.
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