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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ He looks at Carver for a long moment. Then: ]

Okay, well, that sounds like a you-problem.

[ When you spend a significant amount of time around gen-z and younger, sometimes you pick up the slang. ]

Anyway, back to my original point. Santa Claus.

[ The packets he'd originally set aside are rounded up and stuffed back in the duffel bag, and then kicked over to Carver. ]

Don't spend it all in one place.

[ Carver just tilts his head, half-watching Sam. Half not. It's getting easier to focus but the world still feels like it's drifting and him within it. Like he exists somewhere a little outside of his own body.

That's almost nice, on balance. Nothing hurts. Nothing really matters.

He doesn't ask why. They already went over that. Sam's certain of his answer, that much is clear. He'll hold to it regardless of cost. And why not? He's already bled for it. Taken a blade through the hand. That's not the sort of thing you shake too easy. It'll leave a mark. It probably hurts like Hell right now.

And he remembers Sam talking about the kids back home, the girl who got off meth. The kid who stabbed him in the knee. Carver wonders if he's become a project like them, a grown ass man whose knife went through Sam's hand. By right, Sam won their fight. He could do whatever the fuck he wanted.

Which is, apparently, this.

Carver looks away. He doesn't touch the duffle bag. ]

How'd you find me? [ he asks instead. He thought he'd been careful, but clearly he messed up somewhere. ]

Saw the tripwires in the street, knew it wasn't local work. Took a guess based on the building — looks like shit, run-down from the outside. Fairly solid core. Lots of decent egress points if you're not afraid to rappel, but not a lot of ways up. Stairwells are small and easy to block off or trap.

[ He jerks one shoulder up into a shrug, wiping his face with the bandages from his hand. ]

Not just a pretty face over here.

[ All of which he's confident he could have figured out on his own anyway — might've just taken him longer, without the benefit of flight and a crow's excellent distance vision. ]

[ Logic, deduction, and good training. He allowed himself to get complacent, Carver realizes. He assumed the enemy wasn't smart enough to think like him and God decided now was the time for humbling. This could've been the thing that killed him. He's not quite certain why Sam didn't end it now. What the man thinks this strange mercy is going to earn him or why it'd be worth having.

Carver hums at that. He accepts it. ]

You won't find me again.

[ He'll leave. Never come back to this place. Conceal himself somewhere darker and stranger, and never again forget his training. ]

[ He reaches to take a piece of finished bread. Uses a knife to spread the makeshift wajapi across its top. ]

And why's that?

[ He has no doubt Carver means it. But Sam isn't going to make it that easy for him. He left four brothers in the desert — that's a failure he takes serious as the grave. Carver might be fucked up, but there's kinship enough here that he's not going to give up on him. What's a little stabbing between friends? ]

I don't do this anymore.

[ He says it softly, watching the fire. He knows he ought to have lunged for Sam at least six times by now. Ended this. The commander would demand a reckoning for why he hasn't. You don't let an enemy live. The consequences for doing so have been proved a thousand times, to brutal ends. Dixon was only the last of many. ]

And I'm not going to kill you tonight, but that won't last.

[ It's a sin to hold back. He's sinning against the commander right now by not ending it. ]

[ He makes a speculative noise around a mouthful of bread. It's not quite right, but it's edible. ]

So, let me get this straight. You're going to crawl off into a dark hole somewhere and sit alone because you're convinced you can't have friends? Comrades?

[ my guy. ]

That's not living. That's just surviving until you die.

[ Carver just tilts his head toward Sam, expression close to blank. ]

If I find my squad here, I'll go with them.

[ But he's pretty sure they're all dead now. He thinks he might be dead, too. It's funny, he thinks. He was so certain he'd be able to rest when he died. Instead, it seems like it's more of the same. ]

And if you don't?

[ Yes he is going to keep asking these questions. Sorry, Carver. ]

I’m not bothering anybody out here.

[ He will, eventually, end up killing some people for supplies. It’s just how these things go. Carver’s gaze drifts back to the fire. He’s tired, he thinks. He can’t remember the last time he slept without bad dreams. ]

You weren't bothering anybody at the basecamp, either.

[ it's said with a bit of a shrug, one shoulder levered up. ]

[ Wasn’t he? Carver snorts, a bitter noise. Too quiet and tired to be laughter. ]

I make the civilians nervous.

[ It doesn’t bother him, really. He observed it from a distance. Accepted it. He cannot trust these people. It’d be easier to survive in a group but why bother pretending? That’s not what the commander wants, which means it’s not what God wants. ]

You should go back before your hand gets even more fucked.

Brother, we all make the civvies nervous. It's either that or they're losing their mind chirping 'thanks for your service' like any of us give a shit about their performative gratitude.

[ The second part gets a snort, and he waves his good hand. ]

Don't worry about my hand. It's not part of the conversation.

[ Carver just eyes Sam, wondering why the fuck he's so calm about the prospect of infection. Rangers don't abide fools. So why? ]

Where's my gun?

I threw it somewhere over there.

[ He jerks his head to indicate the direction. Carver said he wouldn't try to kill him tonight, but whatever delusion he's got rattling around his head cautions Sam against taking his word for it. If the man comes at him again, he's going to make good on that promise to break his arms — even if he has to surprise him with being a bird to do it. ]

[ Somewhere off in the corners. Carver feels his fingers twitch a little, worrying about ghosts. They tend to mass at the edge of vision, where his eyes aren't quite focused. He was seeing them a lot earlier and he knows that's not good. It feels like tempting fate to go hunting around in those same corners now, though he knows he'll have to. You don't lose track of your weapon. He got his ass beat for that once in training and resolved to never do that again.

He pulls his knees up to his chest, watching Sam, watching the fire, trying not to look for his ghosts. Wondering what the fuck they're supposed to do with each other. Sam doesn't make any goddamn sense. ]

You gonna fuck off or what?

No. I'm gonna sit right here until you've had something to eat, opened your presents like a good boy, and helped me redo the bandage. And maybe after that, too, out of sheer spite.

[ He gives Carver a Look. ]

If I drink enough bootleg moonshine to get a hangover, you better not shoot me while I'm heaving my guts out tomorrow. I'll haunt the shit out of you.

[ Carver stares at him. Some of the fog feels like it's lifting. He wonders, again, what the fuck Sam thinks he's going to accomplish here. They barely know each other. It's a Hell of a lot of effort to go to for someone just because they're both Native and vets.

He considers whether Sam would stop him if he just packed up his gear and walked off right now.

Maybe. ]

Not hungry, [ Carver says after a while. He doesn't feel hungry, though he knows he needs to eat. ]

Then I guess I'll be here a while.

[ He finishes up the one piece of bread, and then reaches for one of the roasted carrots. Cheers, and all that. ]

[ Motherfucker, Carver thinks, with perhaps less malice than anticipated. He watches the fire a while longer, frowning, and then he stands up abruptly. A little shakily. He goes to find his goddamn gun. ]

[ He watches, wary. He can't help himself — now that he's affirmed for himself that Carver's serious about the bodily harm bit, he'll behave with due caution. He's fully capable of being reckless, but he's not — actively, anyway — trying to get himself killed.

He spreads jam on the other piece of bread one-handed. Leaves it sitting near where Carver was. ]

You ever play Mario Kart?

[ Yeah, he's changing the topic. Drastically. ]

No.

[ He didn't play video games growing up. There was no arcade in town and his grandma's interest in technology lived and died with their old VCR. He played Call of Duty in the Army because it was what his friends did and was resoundingly terrible at it, but that wasn't the sort of thing that mattered once they were a few beers in. It's not something he wants to talk about now. It'll lead into talking about his grandma, or his friends, all of whom are probably dead now.

It's easier to focus on hunting through the debris and shadow for the gun. Figuring out where that fucker went. Carver wonders, a little absently, if Sam will shoot him in the back now. ]

Somebody had the file on their phone, hooked it up to this shitty old TV the tech nerds jerry-rigged together.

[ He can deal with monosyllabic. Hell, most of the kids he talks to on a regular basis, when he's only just meeting them, can barely look at him. ]

Whenever you feel like pulling your head out of your ass, we should play. Much better way to take your aggression out on someone than stabbing them.

Mhmm-hmm.

[ He crouches down, fishing out that shine of dark metal from under a little alcove of concrete and bristling rebar. And just like that, he has his gun back. He has his gun back and Sam's still talking. ]

Sam? Fuck off.

Nah.

[ He takes a drink of that shitty liquor. It's some potent shit that tastes like it dripped out of a diesel engine, and it's probably not helping his attitude. Drily, ]

You're putting me up for the night. Least you can do.

psl;

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