pridecroweth

psl;

jamjar au;

monster attacks, low resources, no revival mechanics ingame but no power nerfing either.

weapons are available but hard to find. monsters are 'corrupted' but their bites don't transfer it. they are however v slow to heal.

set in a super fancy old museum with active historical displays. however, there's been lots of damage to the building/displays, few are 100 percent intact. the pcs have set up in the basement where the valuable archives were kept bc there's an actual vault.

power has been jury-rigged by pcs (idk, maybe tony stark is wandering around). water and food need to be scavenged for and rationed. maybe 30-40 pcs at present?

sam checks in with them regularly but has a 'hide-out' that's actually an old security/control room that overlooks one of the larger display rooms.

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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. ]

[ This is getting messy, too many factors in play. Clean up, the commander suggests, and Carver shoulders the rifle he nearly dropped. Drawing his pistol again. It'll be loud but he can spare two shots to end this nonsense before it spirals even further out of control. End it now, son.

You can't think about these things. If you dwell, that's when the bad shit happens. You lose focus. His hand is on his pistol, considering which one he wants to shoot first and how bad Sam's going to freak once the gunpowder stink hits the air. And then there's movement, and -

Carver draws. Shifting instinctively into a better stance but then Sam's up and in front of him. Hand outstretched like that's gonna do a damn thing except knot them all tighter together. Get them both killed. There's someone behind Sam, the flash of a weapon. ]

Just fucking move -

[ All he needs is an instant and he'll end it. Make it clean even if Sam won't, or can't. He's already a murderer. It means nothing.

And then the angle shifts and there's a little boy staring back at him, holding a pistol, and Carver's breath catches. Dusky-haired, skinny, eyes so very wide. He almost looks like Matthew, if Matthew had lived a few years more. Shoot him, the commander's voice hisses, and Carver stiffens. He lowers the pistol a bare centimeter, right before the kid says something in a language Carver doesn't know and shoots him right in the goddamn chest.

It catches against the armor. It hurts like Hell. ]

[ He yanks the woman to the side, not immediately sure if the shot came from Carver or the kid, one ear still ringing too badly from the earlier explosion to have any meaningful grasp of where sound's originating from. When he does track it, and that Carver's hit, he pivots towards the kid and throws the knife. The kid flinches at the movement, pulling his arms up towards his face, and the knife takes him through the wrist, resulting in a a curdling scream and the pistol being dropped. Sam's on him in an instant, shoving the kid onto the ground, kicking the gun so it slides beneath the safety railing to the atrium below. The woman is collapsed, sobbing — but not near any other weapons. ]

You hit?

[ He's wearing armour. There's a chance it held. ]

[ There's a moment where he can't take a breath. No pause between pain and impact. It happens in an instant. Carver's chest goes tight and then very hot, the hurt radiating out. He claps a hand to his chest, feeling for the armor, the bullet stuck there. ]

I'm fine, [ he wheezes, bringing the pistol up to bear. The woman's crying now, but isn't scrabbling for a weapon. The man hasn't moved from where Sam was treating him. And the kid -

Pain twists in Carver's chest. There's a knife through the kid's wrist and the boy's crying, everyone's fucking crying. He looks like Matthew.

Carver grits his teeth and lowers the gun. He'll live. Probably with a cracked rib or two, but he'll live. It was stupid to lower his guard. ]

[ He's not in the mood for casual chatter now, so that only gets an acknowledging nod. Hurts like hell to get slugged in the chest, body armour or no — but Carver can just sit there and regain his breath and keep the gun trained on whoever he likes. Instead, Sam starts treating the kid too. Pulls the knife out, tears strips off his shirt to wind around it. He doesn't have much in the way of medical supplies, but it'll slow the bleeding. The kid's gone mostly silent, save for shallow, shivering breaths, their face pressed down against the floor. ]

One of us needs to go back to basecamp and get that guy Hicks and the woman Ebbisaryn. She can transport them, he can treat them. There's a chance we'll get useful information out of them if we can decipher what they're saying.

Are you fucking kidding?

[ It’s easier to focus on the task at hand. It distracts from the hurt, that throbbing sharpness that says he probably does have a cracked rib or two, the kind of damage that lingers to remind you of your sins. Better to focus on the job, on staying alive. And so he keeps his focus on the adults, on making sure the kid doesn’t try for a hidden weapon.

There’s blood on the ground now. That familiar gunpowder stink. He stares at Sam, incredulous. ]

They’re going to try and kill us the first chance we get.

We're literally alien invaders here. And you want to blame the people who get spooked by that? Hell, I'd shoot you too.

[ He just sounds — tired. He needs something to tie the kid up, but for now he just stays where he is, pinning him down with one knee against the kid's good wrist, hand steadied at his back. Said kid is all of eighty pounds, it's not like he's going anywhere now. ]

I'm not going to execute prisoners for the sin of being desperate and scared.

[ He pats the kid down. He has one extra magazine for the handgun, and a knife. Those get tossed in Carver's direction. ]

I need you with me on this one.

I don't want to get fucking shot again.

[ Carver can feel his voice rising, anger twisting in his throat because this really is like with Dixon all over again. The rules are there for a reason. It doesn't matter why these people did what they did. Sure, Carver probably would've done the same in their position, but they fucking lost. It's just what happens. You have to protect your own people first. And if you lose, you just die.

It's God's will. An inevitability.

He picks up the knife and the handgun, though. Tucks them away. Practicality. ]

Yeah, that's the thing: I'm not. They're going to try and kill you the second they get an opening. Your brain get scrambled from that grenade or something?

[ See, the thing is — if Carver wanted to shoot them, he'd have drawn his gun and done it by now. He's got all the guns, Sam's far enough away he couldn't stop him. So he's angry, frustrated — scared, too, if he had to guess — but he's not so far gone yet he's just acting on those feelings. He still might, but. There's a chance.

He might've asked Carver to head downstairs and get the rope from his pack, but giving him something that sounds like an order might tip the scales. Instead, he just pulls his belt through the loops of his pants and uses that to start tying up the kid. ]

You know, [ he begins, calmly conversant. He ties both wrists, despite a squawk of pain, because pain's something people can fight through when they're determined enough. ] I've got four good reasons to hate mercenaries.

[ Four names. Jefferson died screaming until the flames ate the oxygen out of his lungs.

Carver pegged him as a ranger from the motto on his arm, but did he notice the faded coordinates beneath it, recognize that they're for a place in the al-hajarah desert? ]

But I was willing to give you a shot, despite my past experiences. I know they might retaliate. I know that they might be part of a bigger group that's going to realize they're missing and hunt us down. But I also recognize that information and allies are both valuable, and that this is the first chance we've had in this world to make an attempt at both. If they try to kill me, then I was wrong, and that's the consequence for it. You've got my permission to gloat over my corpse.

[ God, he hates when people take that tone. Like they're humoring his bullshit, being reasonable while he's squawking over nothing. The rules exist for a reason. Hasn't time given them a graveyard full of examples? A soldier ought to know, a soldier ought to understand that sometimes you have to make a choice: them or me. It really is that simple. Nobody wants to hear that shit, nobody ever wants to admit it, but you learn. He learned in Korengal and the fires after only confirmed the truth.

Four good reasons, Sam says, like that's going to change anything. Like it even matters. ]

Fuck this. You think you can control three prisoners on your own, godspeed: I'm out.

[ He made a mistake staying with the group in the first place. It's better to go out alone. ]

Fine.

[ He shakes his head as he stands. He's not going to argue further — that part of him already feels scraped open and raw. ]

Leave the rifle and my bag. You ever need a hand with anything, you know where to find me.

[ The guy with the rattling breath isn't a threat. He's unconscious, condensation and blood bubbling along the trach line. So Sam hefts the kid and the woman up to their feet. He'll take the chance marching them to basecamp himself. ]

Rifle's mine now.

[ It comes out flat, angry. The rifle, the body armor, that's his unless Sam wants to fucking fight him for it. He'll leave the bag because he doesn't want to get weighed down, not yet, he needs to find a good place to hole up. Somewhere out of the way where he can consider his options.

Staying with the group was his mistake. He can't do that again. It made him weak. Made him fucking sentimental, talking about fry bread and all this shit that doesn't matter like the two of them could be friends.

No. Pope taught him better. It's Carver's own goddamn fault for forgetting the lesson.

He drops the damn bag. And then he turns on his heel. He'll never see these people again. He knows he ought to shoot them all right here and now, be done with it, and it's a sin that he doesn't. ]

[ Hurt people hurt people. Sam makes a frustrated suck of his teeth, and then: ]

Carver.

[ he pulls another mag out of his back pocket, this one for the rifle. ]

If you're gonna be a dick about it.

[ Might as well take the last mag. Sam's done more with a hell of a lot less than what he's got on him now. ]

Fuck you.

[ This, with venom. Carver doesn’t turn back, doesn’t stop. Fuck these people, fuck this man in particular—it’s sentimental that’s going to get him killed, Carver thinks, furious at himself for falling into the trap in the first place. Considerable effort went into training him better. And this is he how he thanks the commander?

It’s an awful sin, surely. He deserves whatever happens to him because of it.

He doesn’t look back, doesn’t try and catch any last look of Sam’s handsome face. If they see each other again, Carver supposes they’ll kill each other. It’s how these things go. ]

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