pridecroweth

I'm the lead on the juvenile crimes unit.

[ Everybody wanted to work narcotics or homicide. Those were the 'flashy' jobs. But Sam stopped giving a shit about flashy after Iraq. It was Billie who made him realize what he actually wanted was to build a village. Make a difference where it mattered. Most days, it's the only reason he gets out of bed. ]

I could take or leave the coworkers. [ A few are okay. But for every guy like Donnie, there's six others who expect him to answer to Chief. ] But I like the work.

[ It's hard. Heartbreaking. He's had kids spit venom at him and wield abuse and trauma like a knife. He's had little girls try to flirt with him to get out of trouble, because that's what they know. What they've learned — or more accurately, what they've been taught. He's had boys cower from his size, and just as many who started doing the mental math on whether or not they could take him with a knife.

But there's also kids who've never seen someone that looks like them on the other side of that desk. Who've begun to come around to the idea that maybe there's more they can be meant for than just treading the same patterns that residential schools, genocide and trauma cut out for them. ]

Sounds like rough shit.

[ The Reapers were full of fucked up kids who turned into fucked up adults. Sometimes in Afghanistan they called each other the orphan club, a joke that wasn't really one because who wants to admit they've got nowhere to go, no one to come and take the flag if they died? And then of course there was Matthew, but he doesn't want to think about Matthew in this place. Cannot think of Matthew here, among all the bones and rot and broken glass. ]

What'd you like about it?

[ He crouches to open an office mini-fridge. He's pretty sure he's been through it before, but — just in case. ]

I teach Hapkido down at an old rec centre in the south side. You buy a kid a pizza on a birthday their parents forgot, that stays with them. The rest is... hosting movie nights, video game tournaments. I've brought my older sister in to teach kids how to make drums, or medicine bags, or how to do winter counts on hide.

[ That's not the job. It's obvious he's talking about after-hours, but it ripples outward. People see him in the community, without a badge, without a gun. They see that he plays basketball with a knee brace, they see that he'll sit still to have a superhero mask painted on his face, they realize he's human too — like they are. But the truth is — he volunteers to keep his hands busy. Anything he can do. It's not selflessness, it's not some innate goodness he has. It's because if he stops, if he spends more time alone in his own company than he can stand, he's not going to come back from that. ]

Most kids just need hope. They do the rest for themselves. But when they trust you — when they have faith that they can fall and know you'll catch them, dust them off, get them back on their feet, that matters. You get to watch as some kid who was into shoplifting, or petty arson, or whose deadbeat parents got them into meth when they were ten years old — watching those kids as they realize that there's something else out there they can do, or be. That's the job.

[ There's a slight upwards tick of one shoulder, as the fridge proves fruitless and he stands — ]

I had a kid quit meth cold turkey when I told her I'd never even tried pot. She didn't realize it was possible to be an adult and not be on drugs, it was such a normalized thing for her. Moments like that make it all worth it.

[ There are plenty of bad moments, too. He's had kids get shot, or overdose. He's seen all the bad endings the world has to offer. But the good things, that's what he has to focus on. ]

[ It occurs to Carver that he wouldn't know what to do with kids like that in the old world, before everything went to shit and the rules change to reflect the brutality. He doesn't know what he'd say to a kid that young who'd already been on meth, though of course he knew it happened. There were always addicts back home, his mom and grandma among them. Carver grew up watching them, cleaning up the mess after. Getting his mom more beer on the rare occasions she showed up. He could've mirrored that but it wouldn't have done much good. How'd you do better when you don't know what better looks like?

Maybe you just try, in a world where you've got room to try. And he thinks of the younger Reapers he tried, like Bossie. The ones who were primed to flinch if you raised your voice too much. A lot of them died, but some made it through.

He tries not to think about Bossie, stepping around a broken desk and a mess of shadowed photographs. The glass in the frames all cracked. ]

You were good at it, then.

Tried to be.

[ For no real reason, he rights a chair, tucks it back beneath the desk. ]

Sometimes you make out all right. Sometimes a kid stabs you in the knee with a pen. Never know what you're gonna get.

[ Carver snorts at that. Kids are tough like that. Matthew had been. ]

Ouch. You shake it?

Don't walk with a limp, do I?

[ He's hilarious. ]

[ Carver snorts at that, stepping over a broken chair and someone’s abandoned bottle of soda, the label unreadable. ]

Had a kid smash my nose once when we were sparring. Blood everywhere. The sergeant set it like that.

[ He snaps his fingers. ]

And I’m still pretty.

You're no Halle Berry circa Die Another Day, but I bet there's somebody out there who wouldn't kick you out of bed for eating crackers.

[ The heteronormativity is real tho?? ]

[ Carver snickers at that, though he’s never seen Die Another Day. ]

Who the fuck eats crackers in bed? Goddamn.

Crazy people, that's who.

[ There's a door up ahead that will lead him past the fountain he'd mentioned — he gestures to it, nudging aside a broken monitor with his foot. Gently, just in case. IEDs never sleep. ]

C'mon, it's this way. Just, ah — there's some gnarly skeletons on the other side of the door.

[ Bodies that were once hung from the artistic exposed rafters above the fountain. It's not the work of monsters — humans, or whatever the local species called themselves, did that. ]

Uh huh.

[ Gnarly, huh? Carver wonders why counts for Sam. What sort of corpses rank, worthy of mention instead of just a passing glance, never to be thought of again. He follows, checking again for trip wires, for other nasty bullshit, and then he sees them.

Carver tilts his head, expression unchanging. The bodies sway. ]

There anything on them worth taking?

Haven't looked.

[ He's never been that desperate. But Carver has been, he thinks. Some of the skeletons are still hanging, some have since fallen down. It looked like a massacre, and some of the bodies were — small. He's largely left them alone on his last couple trips through this building. ]

If you're feeling adventurous, we can pat 'em down for pocket change.

[ No judgment to the station. He understands, even if he doesn't practice, that sort of careful combing-over. Death and bodies don't make him antsy in the least, but he prefers to be respectful. No telling what cultural observances would've been appropriate here, in the memory of people long dead. ]

They got good shoes.

[ The laces especially are useful, even if the shoes won’t fit. Carver shrugs, crouching down to examine one of the fallen. Digging through the pockets. ]

I’ll swing around on the way back.

[ How many people would recognize that I as someone trying to take on the dirty work themselves to keep someone else's hands clean? Sam shrugs, heads over to the wall where the ropes are anchored around a fancy lighting sconce, and cuts them down. ]

We can take a break. I've got a few bags, we can fill one up with useful shit and leave it here out of sight. If we end up getting forced to take another way back, we at least know it's here. No one has to lone wolf it.

[ he slings his pack down from his shoulder, lays the rifle down. A quick rummage through the bag brings up one of the extra bags he'd brought, heavy canvas but not overly large, and he tosses that over to Carver to catch. ]

You take that side.

[ A nod to the spot back along the wall, far from the windows overlooking the damaged street. He doesn't think about it strategically, at least not with any conscious thought — but Sam always prefers the action that puts him closer to danger, lets him stand between it and others. Even when those others are soldiers themselves. ]

Edited 2025-08-30 17:13 (UTC)

[ Carver tilts his head, watching Sam and trying to parse those words apart. Whether Sam's just being practical and trying to get the new guy engaged, or if he wants to make sure that Carver doesn't start building up his own stash of gear somewhere the others can't touch. It'd be easy enough to hide around here. Carver's already noted a couple good spots.

But there are bodies to check, work to be done, so he focuses on the work. He catches the bag and shakes it out, and then he does the practical thing and starts stealing from the dead.

Boots and laces. That shit matters. Belts, too. A pocket knife. He focuses on that for a bit, ignoring the dead. He doesn't honor them, barely acknowledges them. Why would he?

But then there's a noise, something scraping above him, and Carver draws his pistol without thinking about it. ]

Movement.

[ He doesn't question it, just flips his knife around so the blade is aligned back along his arm. He isn't far from his rifle, and this area's open enough that it's worth using, so he trusts Carver to cover a moment with his handgun as he goes for it. The scrape turns into a shuffle on the floor above them, but the atrium is open, several higher floors open to it below. If they're spotted, they'll be at a disadvantage — less so if it's the mindless monsters who seem content to throw themselves at people without cease, more if it's anything sentient and in possession of distance weapons.

Sam catches Carver's attention, and he flicks one hand through a series of military gestures meant to convey that he'll stay where they are as bait, pointing out a safe staircase on the east wall to gain ground to equalize the playing field. Better Carver go up than Sam, because if he needs to bird out he can do it in a hurry and get to a higher floor in a blink.

Once Carver's listened and moved on, Sam gives him fifteen seconds and then moves to the glass doors ringing the street-facing side of the building and, with the butt of his rifle, breaks out a panel. The shatter is loud in the air, and he hears the sounds on the second floor go quiet. Bad news — it means sentience. Monsters would've already been swarming.

The silence is almost deafening, and then there's a crunch of glass beneath a boot, and a man is briefly visible over the second floor railing. Sam lifts his rifle up halfly, butt against his shoulder, ready to fire if he needs to but more out of an abundance of caution than an immediate desire to shoot first. ]

Hey. I don't want any trouble.

[ People seem to be able to understand each other without too much issue — the ones at the basecamp, anyway. He has no idea if it'll extend to other sentient creatures on this world or not, so he tries to convey the sentiment strongly via tone just as well. The man doesn't reply verbally, but after a moment something is thrown over the railing and he is taking zero chances on it being anything but an explosive, sprinting for the relative safety of the massive concrete fountain.

He hates it when his intuition is right — the explosive isn't powerful, but it's loud, and he finds himself grimacing as he presses one ear down against his shoulder, trying to make sure he'll still have at least one side that isn't ringing when the smoke and the dust clear out. ]

[ Back in the early days, when Carver was still new to all of this, it used to surprise him how easily a body can shift back into combat mode. The instructors had all sorts of different names for it, even went into the psychology sometimes. How the mind seeks out patterns and certain stimuli. How soldiers can be trained to react one way and not another, because instinct isn't always right.

He knows what to do. He learned a long time ago. Carver's already going up the stairs when the glass shatters, a distraction to flush the enemy out. A moment later, someone obliges. And a moment after that, boom.

It's on.

Carver bolts up the stairs. Don't waste your ammo, the commander whispers, control the enemy. There's a stranger peering over the railing, man-shaped, reaching for another grenade or whatever the fuck he's got, and Carver just tackles the fucker. Grabbing him by the throat and bashing him across the face with the butt of his pistol.

Control your enemy, son. Do it now. ]

[ Shit, is muttered beneath his breath as he hears the scuffle above. His ears are still ringing as he runs for the opposite staircase, hoping for a flank. Once he's behind relative cover, it's an easy thing to fling the gun up the steps his knee would protest just enough to slow him down, shift to the crow, and back to human so seamlessly smooth he's still got time to grab the rifle from the air before it hits the ground. It saves him seconds, and then he's on the same level as Carver and the fight.

There's a woman with a pistol that must have been trying to provide cross-coverage over the atrium, but who's put her back to him as she tries to head towards the scuffle — Sam grabs her by the arm, hand covering the rack of the slide so she can't fire easily, disarms her without much fuss. She's emaciated, and not well trained — and as much as he doesn't like taking hostages, he tucks her in close and puts the muzzle of the pistol beneath her arm, angled towards where the kidneys would be on a human. Never give anyone a clear shot to your hand or arm when you have to control a target. She doesn't even try to fight, just immediately goes quiet and still. It makes it easy to drag her to where Carver's shitkicking someone's lights out, and reaches out with his free hand, rifle slung, to catch the man's wrist on another downward blow. ]

Leave it, he's neutralized. We need to know how many there are.

[ It would've been easy to put a bullet in this fucker's skull, but it'd be noisy and waste ammunition. Better to do it like this, with his hands, where the enemy's contained. Not even flailing anymore, just spitting blood and making that wet groaning noise that men do when they've been smacked hard enough for long enough. Kill him, the commander suggests, end it now. He can't tell if it's Pope's voice or Shaw's but it doesn't really matter. It's what has to happen. He's about to adjust the angle, hit the fucker and drive bone shards into his brain, when someone grabs his wrist.

Ah.

Sam.

Carver hisses at him, breathing hard, eyes bright. Sam's got a fucking hostage. ]

Why's she still fucking alive?

Because we haven't come across any living people from this world before. They might be able to tell us something.

[ The woman whimpers a little in his grip, and he eases up just a touch. He's never hit a woman in his life, and he doesn't want to start now. The idea she might be physically dangerous isn't even on his radar. ]

Put him in recovery position and get up. We can use her to flush out the rest.

[ They can tie them. Maybe go get the others. There's bound to be someone who can figure out how to communicate with them. ]

Then fucking restrain her!

[ Everyone you meet us a threat. That was one of those early lessons—a hard one. You can’t trust a stranger and when everyone but your family is a stranger, that means you can’t turn your back on the world even for a second. If you do, awful things will happen and it’ll all be your fault. Like with Dixon, Carver knows; it was his sin not killing that man right out. Everything that followed is his fault.

The enemy on the ground makes a wheezing sound, straining for something on the ground. Carver hits him reflexively and the noises stop. ]

We don’t need both.

[ He's still got the handgun on her, which he briefly gestures towards with his right hand. ]

She's not going anywhere.

[ He says that neutrally, without raising his voice or matching Carver's tone in kind. It's clear that Carver's dealt with situations where mercy has meant eating losses on your own side, and that final hit to the man's face puts him right back into the moment that Anderson choked to death on his teeth. He has to grit his, just a little. They're dealing with two different sides of trauma, and above all else he has to keep his cool. Whatever tentative rapport he was building with Carver out here, it's not enough to override old instincts. But he was genuinely starting to like the guy, and he doesn't want to jeopardize that, either. He has to play it careful.

The noises stop, and he gestures for Carver to take the woman so he can kneel down next to the guy and roll him on his side, sweeping viscera from his mouth to try and clear his airway. ]

Just let me do the boyscout thing. Please. [ He hates that word. He hates it so much. He hates the way it makes him taste salt and salt and blood in his mouth. He's twenty-six and screaming himself hoarse, mud in his lungs, begging for the lives of his men, his friends. ] We can argue battlefield philosophies later, and you can always shoot me if it makes you feel better.

[ He's aiming for a bit of levity. Something, anything to cut the tension as he works. ]

Take the rifle. [ A shift of his shoulder to let the strap shrug down. ] Use the strap to tie her up.

What the fuck are you doing, [ Carver hisses, though it’s not really a question. Mercy is a sin. Mercy is a bad fucking idea in a place like this, an inevitability that’s going to blow up in their faces surely as that grenade the fucker tossed. They made noise; these two probably have friends nearby. It’s going to get messy.

He jerks away and grabs the woman, hand iron-tight on her arm. Sam’s going to get them both killed. It’s like Dixon all over again, Shaw saying, wait. Not that one.

Only Sam’s not a Reaper, and has no standing to make that call.

Carver grabs the rifle, or starts to, but the woman makes a desperate bid for something in her pocket and there’s no time. Knife, gun, it doesn’t matter. Carver grabs her by the hair and slams her as hard he can face first into the wall.

Knife, he thinks, as the weapon clatters to the ground and the woman drops. He lets her. And he grabs the knife. ]

[ It's all going sideways. And Sam? Sam has to pick his battles. He takes his knife, makes an incision in the man's throat that cracks the rough cartilage of the trachea. He always keeps pieces of tubing clipped to his vest — old habit as an o-neg donor on a team without a standing medic — and he blows one chunk clear of any debris, jams it into the man's throat as an emergency air supply.

Times like this, he wishes he'd inherited his shifting from his grandfather. There's rarely a situation in combat that couldn't be managed as a grizzly bear. The crow is useful for stealth and recon and general unobtrusiveness, but it's shit in a fight. Wordless, he ties the woman up. She's concussed, broken nose and maybe a cheekbone, looking at him with glassy eyes, one sunken, skin spilling over in a swell. But it's because he's studying them intently that he notices the way her gaze shifts over her shoulder. Looking at something.

He turns, pivoting on one heel to stay crouched and it's — a fucking kid. Twelve years, maybe a really skinny fourteen. Pale, malnourished, and holding a gun. The woman starts to panic, trying to speak around the damage to her face. It's incoherent, garbled, in a language he can't parse, but the desperation is unmistakable. You don't need a translator for a mother's fear.

He gets up, back to Carver, one arm out like he is trying to corral the guy or maybe take up as much of his field of vision as possible, the other outstretched, palm down. He hopes it's a universal enough gesture for defusing conflict that he doesn't just immediately get shot. ]

Don't kill him.

[ He knows that by saying kill he's leaving the gate open to get the kid shot. Maybe just non-lethally. He can handle hurt, he can't handle dead. For a moment, everything feels frozen. Sam turns just enough to look at the mother, who's hauled herself up onto her feet and is trying to move between them. That outstretched hand grabs her by the elbow, and he shakes her like a ragdoll kitten until she looks at him. Sam points to his eyes, then to hers — pay attention. Then, he mimes putting down a gun, gesturing for her to tell the kid to back off. ]

psl;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)