pridecroweth

Kinda requires you're demonstrating some kinda wit in the first place, pal.

[ Trashtalk is basically military standard at this point, and he's no stranger to it. It isn't said with any real bite to it — banter's no place for real animosity anyway. ]

You gonna do this verbal diarrhea thing the entire time?

Oh, be still my delicate heart.

[ It's said in a drawl, noise for the sake of noise. The sort of needling that was standard in the Army way back when there was still an Army, still a world that could pretend at civilized. They're beyond that shit now but Carver remembers the patterns and he means to understand how these people tick. Sam's more of a threat than some of the others, but still an unknown. And if you annoy people enough, eventually they respond and reveal the interesting little bits of their selves.

Eventually. It's a work in progress.

Carver just grins at Sam. He has time. Probably something will try to kill them shortly and that'll be fun, but until then, he can bite at Sam until something interesting happens. ]

You might hurt my feelings.

I'll be sure and be a gentleman about it, then.

[ It's desert-dry, tossed over one shoulder as he ducks and twists to get beneath a toppled display case. Glass crunches beneath his boot as he does it — long since busted out of the steel and wire frame. The old mannequin, showcasing some local regalia, is tattered and dulled by time. Its battery of old war medals is gone, taken and melted down for whatever copper or bronze they could get out of them.

Sometimes, this museum feels like a prison. And they've only been here a few weeks — who knows what the next six months might bring. ]

So, you caught me out. [ A tap to his left bicep, where the oldest of his tattoos resides. Not many people familiar enough with the Rangers here to recognize its provenance. ] Don't tell me you were Chair Force, I'd have to kick your ass on principle.

[ Carver shifts instinctively to cover Sam's back as they advance, watching the corners. THey're not allies - not really - but there's no practical reason to get the man killed just yet. There is, unfortunately, safety in numbers. Especially in uncertain conditions. All of these people will be enemies before the end, but they haven't gotten that far just yet. The commander will decide when it's time.

Even if he's not sure who the commander is now, if his memory of Pope's body so still and empty on the roof is real. If he remembers his failure as accurately as it happened when Shaw became the commander.

His fingers twitch. He tucks that thought down deep where it belongs. ]

Ew. I look like Chair Force?

[ He shudders theatrically. ]

Army. You know, the ones doing the real work.

[ Sam would know. It's one of the few things to like about the man. They speak the same dialect even if God doesn't love Sam. ]

[ Easy to tell when the man slips around behind him. The crow in him hates it. Hates having an unknown at his back when he's used to the enormously loyal continuity of wolves. He'd never wish a place like this on Billie — but he can't deny she'd be a comfort. Something solid, something known. He's never stopped loving her, even if the love's changed from puppy love to something intractable.

Thankfully, though — he's used to overriding those animal instincts. The crow might hate it, but the man abides. ]

Nah. Just figured I'd get a rise out of you.

[ The intensity, and the immediacy with which Carver tends to obey orders — he'd actually assumed SF.

They reach the doors that will lead them outside. One is hacked apart, rent by the claws of one of the monsters, reinforced with a steel locker. He has to shoulder the locker up so they can scramble out, gesturing for Carver to overtake him. ]

I did two tours in Afghanistan, three in Iraq. Got out in '08.

[ It's calculated. He doesn't talk about his service almost at all — the people who know, know. But Sam knows how to lay things on the line to build a rapport. It's one of the reasons he works so well with the kids — they want their adults relatable. They want to know someone sees them. So he's no stranger to finding commonalities, whether it's doing some dumbass Fortnite dance or idly discussing a favourite band. Luckily, most adults are former kids ('most') themselves, so the tactics work even when you need to adjust for experience. ]

Mhmm.

[ He hums, accepting that. There's a tendency, Carver's found, of soldiers to list out tours and ranks and unit markers like grave stones; this is what I survived, this is what falls in my wake, and in this you will understand my worth. And he gets it, to some extent, because saying he's a Reaper does the same to the ones who matter. The only problem being that once he starts laying out his gravestones, people start assuming his loyalty, start thinking they've got any right to the story behind them.

Still. The shape of a man can be useful to know. ]

Afghanistan. Four tours.

[ His smile is thinner this time. A ghost in his teeth. ]

We ran in the Valley of Death.

[ Maybe Sam knows the moniker. It'd sounded like grandiose bullshit to Carver at the time, all of nineteen when his boots first hit the ground there. A prank the NCOs were playing on them all. Like all the Reapers who survived, he learned fast. ]

Edited 2025-08-28 15:07 (UTC)

[ he makes a soft, speculative 'hm'. korangal. there was some bloody fighting there, and it gives him a certain measure of the guy. no wonder he's jumpy.

the staircase leading to the museum is long, broad concrete, the steps themselves almost comedically large, the guard-rails perfect for skateboarding. he hikes his pack higher on one shoulder, alert up now that they're out in the open. scanning distant sightlines for the glint of a scope, or any movement. there's no guarantee that they're the only people here, after all. ]

You would've been south of me, then.

[ they toured the hindu kush. those godforsaken mountains he'd admired the wild beauty of once. ]

Rough place for you boys.

[ Stairs are a bad business. Easy to get pushed down and he dislikes how sound echoes in this room, all the open corners. Carver feels his fingers twitch and stills them, taking a careful watch as they move. If you let something sneak up in the dark, you deserve what's done to you.

The world is simple like that. Praise God.

Carver hums again. He doesn't really want to think of Korengal right now, those cold nights and the way blood sank black into the dirt. The ambushes and the time he got blown up, shrapnel biting through his armor and nearly shredding his hip. He carries the scars now but he survived, which was his privilege. God loves you, son, the commander whispers.

Or God did love him. Hard to be sure about the here and now. ]

Everything was simple there.

[ He supposes he misses that, though the lesson was echoed out afterward. Is still being echoed. ]

Kinda like now. You fight or you die.

[ It's a bleak outlook. But equally as much, it's one he recognizes. One he felt, those years he spent wandering Europe more bird than man.

They hit the street, which looks war-torn enough to be familiar. Twisted scrap metal that used to be vehicles, cracks in concrete from mortar rounds or whatever the equivalent is on this world. They don't walk abreast of one-another, Carver lingering behind him. But their steps are nearly soundless, walking quietly in sync.

The rifle rests comfortably in the crook of his arm, ready to sling up at a moment's notice. ]

Simple, huh?

[ That's one way of looking at it. Simple's relative. He's not sure yet if he misses the desk job or not — but there's sure something primal about living a kill-or-be-killed lifestyle. It crowds out room for everything else. It strips you down to nothing. It's uncomfortably familiar, heavy like the wedding ring hung around his neck.

Simple. It implies that what followed wasn't. ]

What'd you do after?

[ Carver strikes him as being like Anderson — very till death do us part. But he could be speaking literally — that Afghanistan itself was simple, and any deployments that followed were less so. He'd started feeling conflicted about Iraq long before the ambush. ]

[ This place got shredded once. Carver and Sam walk through the damage, familiar - he imagines - to both of them. But the ground hasn't been stained black by napalm, and in that there rests a line. These people weren't burned, not like back home.

Not yet, anyway.

Carver just shrugs at that, watching the corners, watching Sam. He's thinking about Sam's rifle and whether he wants to take it. The cost benefit analysis of drawing his pistol and shooting Sam in the back of the skull. There's no honor in the scrum, not really, not like he thought when he was green. And a good, working rifle is worth more than a man's life these days.

It'd be trouble, though. More than he wants just yet. Maybe later. He supposes Sam's making a similar equation about the body armor, about the resources that Carver's taken from the group. Food, clean water, ammunition. It all adds up. ]

Contractor, [ he replies blandly. ] And then the world ended.

[ So it goes. ]

[ There's no obvious disapproval. Nothing overt. Not even a twitch. But something curdles in his gut, sour and mistrustful at the admission. It's reflexive — he can't help it. Not a big fan of mercenaries, Sam. ]

'Ended' how?

[ It's lightly curious, no judgment. could be an exaggeration, could be something like Armageddon (less Bruce Willis). Could even be a dramatic way of saying he died — Sam's learned not to make assumptions out here, not when every other person talks about gods and monsters, not when being a shifter is pretty well small-fry. ]

People got sick. The dead came back hungry.

[ It's said without much emotion at all. Carver's given that speech a couple times now and not a single person has recognized what he's talking about. Or if they have, they reference movies he's never seen, books he's never read, with an air of indulgent pity that makes his jaw tense up and his chest ache. No one understands, or cares to try.

It shouldn't bother him. He hates that it does. That on some level, everyone he meets is wondering if he's lost his marbles. Because you have to wonder, don't you, when somebody starts listing off impossible shit.

Everything comes with a context, after all.

He keeps walking. Steps through broken glass, watching for trip wires. For IEDs. For hungry, grasping hands. ]

It's nice having food, [ he adds, in that same bland tone. He knows it won't last, but it's nice, even with the rationing. ]

[ His first thought, admittedly and perhaps uncharitably, is that maybe he underestimated how crazy this guy actually is. He toes his way around a skeleton carefully, respectfully — considering a reply as he does. What's that Lasso dude say, be curious, not judgmental? Yeah, well.

But by that same stroke, if he were to tell someone he's a Shifter, that he's been hunted for it, that there's a witch who can call the dead who's been after his family for generations, they'd think he was crazy too. So, maybe he can manage curious. ]

Huh. [ That's it, the sum of his response to the hungry dead. ] Be a lot nicer if we had a couple rib-eye now and then.

[ Actually not untrue — expired MREs leave a lot to be desired in the flavour department. ]

Whole time I was in Iraq, all I could think about was carne asada.

[ Carver, meanwhile, steps over the skeleton only because the sound of vine crunching under his boot would be loud and they can’t afford the echo. Stupidity is a sin, grave as all the rest. If you get your brothers killed—

But his brothers aren’t here, Carver reminds himself. His brothers are dead on the ground in Meridian. Rotting like all the other forgotten bones.

His fingers twitch. It takes him a moment to refocus, to remember that Sam’s here, sniping and forth with him. Sam, who doesn’t say a damn thing about the rotters or the world ending but once missed carne asada, which Carver’s grandmother used to make sometimes. ]

Enchiladas for me, [ he says after a moment, more honest than he cares for. ] The real ones. Not the bullshit they served.

[ He laughs. It's low, pitched so as not to carry. ]

Good ol' number 15. Only edible with tabasco sauce.

[ And even then, 'edible' is... debatable. ]

Had one guy on my crew that loved 'em. Crazy fucker.

[ Carver snorts at that. He’ll eat old MREs if they’re in front of him like he’ll eat dogs and rats and things worse than that if the alternative is starving. But he remembers a time when he swore off MREs with great sincerity and feeling. Never again, he told himself. I’m better than that now. ]

Kids went hog for the chili mac, [ he replies, a little wistfully. ] Never saw the appeal.

[ Kids, he calls them, though most of those soldiers were only a year or two younger than Carver himself at the time. All of them were seasoned, brutal fighters. But they were his responsibility in a lot of ways and so his kids they remained. Most of them died there. ]

I was more a beef stew guy, myself.

[ You could eat it hot or cold, and it tasted about the same. Plus, it came with m&ms — always good for a trade. ]

Didn't hate the maple sausage. Close second.

[ Hell, he can still taste 'em. Lot of long nights beneath the stars in the cold of the Hindu Kush, relying on the heating packs built into some of the MREs to get a lukewarm cup of coffee, shoveling down calories in spare moments. He misses the men, not the misery. ]

What was your holy grail?

Whatever came with m&ms.

[ That little burst of chocolate and the crunch between his teeth—yeah. He felt human then.

Carver steps over another skeleton, watching their corners. ]

I made fry bread once over a hot plate, though. That was a hit. Don’t ask where I got the oil.

[ There's a firebombed tank hidden in the shadow of a building as they round the next corner. It's been picked clean — nothing left except maybe the heavy armour plating, holes punched through it with some sort of piercing round, that could be smelted into something else, not something that's worth their time on a trip like this. But it brings him back, and he finds himself tapping his knuckles against one of the damaged treads as they pass by. A little ritual, ages old. ]

Brother, I don't want to know.

[ Sometimes you're better off not asking. Needs drive, and all that. It's not lost on him that a white guy wouldn't get the significance behind it — but he's never met anyone with a lick of native blood that didn't have their grandma's frybread recipe memorized by heart. ]

You're in for it now, though. We find the ingredients for it, I'm gonna hold your feet to the fire until you whip up a batch. Hell, I'll make wajapi if we can track down something like a chokecherry.

Edited 2025-08-29 04:42 (UTC)

[ That gets a huff and a surprised grin; he hadn't been expecting the recognition, really. Most people he meets don't know what the fuck fry bread is except some kind of food, the inevitable answer given the name, and they'll eat it because everyone eats these days if they've got the option. You choke down rot and garbage, whatever gives you a few calories, and you're thankful for it. ]

Fuck, I haven't had wajapi in years. My grandma's friends made that shit when they visited.

[ It's more honest than he intended when they set out, crossing over bones and broken ground. Maybe too honest. But: ]

We're Purépecha, [ he adds, watching Sam. ] But granny was friends with everybody. She knew folks from all over.

It's the way of the grandmothers.

[ His was just the same. Community is held together by the will of women. There's a brief, speculative silence as they pass by the burnt-out tank, slowing to check corners and sightlines, and then: ]

Oglála Lakȟóta Oyáte.

[ That's deliberate. He'd have stopped at Lakota with most other people, but acknowledging the sub-tribe — and its prominence as a member of the seven council fires — it's more personal. There was a time he would have been too ashamed to say it, back when he kept his hair short and knew only a handful of words. Now, nearly fluent, these things have a way of building a home inside you. ]

[ Carver tilts his head, watching Sam. Curious, now. There's history in that statement. The weight of knowing. Of belonging. He wonders if Sam speaks the language. Carver never learned. His grandma never taught him and if his mom ever knew, she wasn't around long enough to show it. There's so much he didn't know then and has no way of learning now. All of his blood family is dead and their history with them. The Reapers gave him new traditions, but it wasn't the same. Couldn't be the same.

Those are melancholy thoughts. He puts them away. ]

I grew up around the Ute Mountain Utes. Wasn't one of them, though.

[ There'd always been that little bit of distance. It didn't matter until his grandma died and then it did. ]

[ It's not quite defensiveness, but Sam recognizes the statement for what it is — similar but separate. Belonging is a tricky thing, and for a moment Sam feels — guilty, almost, for having that belonging and rejecting it for so long, when other people didn't even get that much.

He may not like the mercenary bit, but that's a whole other fight. Unless the guy drops the bombshell that he was one of the Blackstone bastards that set up the ambush, he'll try to set aside the grudge.

He drops back, just enough that they can walk briefly abreast, and he nudges his shoulder in against Carver's. Companionable, but not overbearing about it. ]

My grandmother was of the opinion that if you were invited by a people to live with them, share food, work and a roof — you were kin enough. Can't speak to Ute custom, but that's how it would've been for us. It's about belonging, not blood.

[ It’s a small gesture, on balance. Given by another Reaper, Carver would’ve taken it as a comfort, maybe even returned it. How many times did he throw his arm around Bossie and Turner, muss up their hair while they flailed and laughed but never really tried to get away?

Never again, Carver thinks, because Turner got beaten to death and Bossie died screaming and hurt and they never said a word about it. Not a single thing. He’s thinking about his brothers, though, and that’s why he only stiffens when Sam closes the distance and doesn’t do anything about it.

It’s meant kindly. Carver’s not so far gone he can’t see that, given the subject, the shit they are and aren’t saying that Carver never could talk about with the Reapers because he was the only one among them who could say anything about it. And why bother, really? They were all orphans by the time it kicked off, or good as. They had nothing and so they built something, simple as that.

He shifts a little further away from Sam as they walk, so they won’t touch again. Not even by accident. ]

They let us in, [ Carver says after a moment, when the silence feels like it might stretch into something he can’t control. ] Nobody made ‘em do that. Guess that’s something.

[ He doesn’t give people much grace these days. Doesn’t care to. But the aunties and uncles who ringed his childhood took care of him, brought him in. He wasn’t one of them, not really, but that didn’t matter. Or at least it didn’t until his grandma died and he’d already gotten fucked up in Korengal, and it turned out all those little lines folks had stepped over for him as a child suddenly mattered a whole lot. ]

[ He recognizes distance when he sees it, and doesn't try to bridge the gap. Just steps back into place in the line with an acknowledging nod. ]

When I was in Iraq, [ he begins almost lightly. Because for all the stoicism his old man beat into him, he's never been able to let someone bleed unacknowledged — ] There was this old guy. Khalil. Lived in the desert. Lost his family back in the 90's.

[ Desert Storm, he doesn't say — but their worlds seem to align enough he's sure it won't be missed. ]

Could've hated us pretty easy. Instead, he shared his fire, his food.

[ The rest is too personal. He lets that us do the heavy lifting, though the others were dead by then, and Sam so nearly that his memories are vague and amorphous. An old man singing Gorani Kurdi Kon by firelight. Sometimes it was his grandfather, singing an appeal to the Bear. Sometimes it was Billie, humming an old lullaby she'd once thought she would pass down to their kids. And then it would be Khalil again, urging him to drink what tasted like black tar tea in broken English that seemed, at the time, to transcend fluency.

That old man dug six bullets out of him, and he'll never forget the screaming panic that had him by the throat when his lung collapsed. Panic into peace, when he felt that he might just get to fucking rest.

But even then, there'd been real anger around the edges. Hoi was a Buddhist. He should have been cremated, and instead he was left to rot. ]

Nobody made him do that, either. But it sure doesn't mean there aren't dickheads the world over, huh?

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