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ph_logs2025-05-08 08:53 am
cyansoldier) wrote in ph_logs2025-05-08 08:53 am
This is a Foul-Tasting Medicine | OTA
Who: Agent Carolina (cyansoldier) & You.
What: Carolina adjusts poorly to Caboose's sudden absence. Among other things.
When: Early May.
Where: Around town.
Warning(s): Brief mention of dead deer, gun usage.
I won't turn around or the penny drops.
She hasn't seen Caboose in days. Not since she'd squatted in his ramshackle porch on Crane's Ridge summit, shoulder to shoulder. When morning peeled through the trees, they walked together. Her, in silence. Him, remarking on whatever interesting thing he saw. Bugs, mostly.
She doesn't think twice about his absence—at first. Caboose, like a large and excitable dog, tracks what most interests him. Animals, people, machines if there are any. She'll find him. It's fine. Don't worry about it.
She searches for him at the Ranch. Said he'd wanted cows.
She searches for him in the woods. Plenty to distract him there.
She searches for him in town. Maybe someone's seen him. Big and tall, curly hair. Probably said something stupid.
As a last resort, Carolina stalks to Town Hall. She's on edge. She pushes through the door like it's just attacked her. Michael J. Caboose. I need to find him. Can you tell me his address? An odd look from the desk. I know him. It's important. Please.
He's gone. People come and go, ma'am.
She leaves angry and humiliated. Feels sick. It doesn't make any sense. Why would he leave? To-ge-ther, he said in his broken tones. What an idiot. She's an idiot for believing she could trust him— trust anyone to hold tender a shred of her feelings. Comfort like newly shattered glass stuck in her hands and face and chest.
She doesn't need him.
She should be training.
Won't stop now / Won't slack off. [OTA]
She moves like a shark. No moment of peace. No chance to rest.
Carolina picks through produce like a soldier in the midst of a deadly stealth mission, peering over her shoulder every fifth step for signs of danger and looks so suspicious that she's confronted about stealing.
She jogs at the outskirts of the residential areas (avoiding Connecticut while also keeping the possibility of seeing her squarely at the front of her brain). Slides in the dark nooks between buildings to catch her breath and spit. Sometimes she lingers with her arm and forehead butted up against the wall. Numb. Staring at nothing. Feeling her lungs swell and deflate with the effort she puts into moving, moving, moving.
Most days she can be found marching to the Oak & Iron with a deer slung around her shoulders, its horned head bobbing limply. She tries to feel good about it. She'll get a few pieces of Brass and the people will have venison to enjoy. She tries, and feels empty.
From her farmhouse are the usual sounds of gunshots and split wood. Maybe you find her cleaning her Colt Revolving Shotgun, perhaps the only thing she's really grown to care about in this place. Tread carefully. She's trained to shoot on sight.
This dance / Is like a weapon. [Wildcard]
( Have something else in mind? Shoot! )
cyansoldier) & You.What: Carolina adjusts poorly to Caboose's sudden absence. Among other things.
When: Early May.
Where: Around town.
Warning(s): Brief mention of dead deer, gun usage.
( Strike up the tinderbox / Why should I be good if you're not? )
I won't turn around or the penny drops.
She hasn't seen Caboose in days. Not since she'd squatted in his ramshackle porch on Crane's Ridge summit, shoulder to shoulder. When morning peeled through the trees, they walked together. Her, in silence. Him, remarking on whatever interesting thing he saw. Bugs, mostly.
She doesn't think twice about his absence—at first. Caboose, like a large and excitable dog, tracks what most interests him. Animals, people, machines if there are any. She'll find him. It's fine. Don't worry about it.
She searches for him at the Ranch. Said he'd wanted cows.
She searches for him in the woods. Plenty to distract him there.
She searches for him in town. Maybe someone's seen him. Big and tall, curly hair. Probably said something stupid.
As a last resort, Carolina stalks to Town Hall. She's on edge. She pushes through the door like it's just attacked her. Michael J. Caboose. I need to find him. Can you tell me his address? An odd look from the desk. I know him. It's important. Please.
He's gone. People come and go, ma'am.
She leaves angry and humiliated. Feels sick. It doesn't make any sense. Why would he leave? To-ge-ther, he said in his broken tones. What an idiot. She's an idiot for believing she could trust him— trust anyone to hold tender a shred of her feelings. Comfort like newly shattered glass stuck in her hands and face and chest.
She doesn't need him.
She should be training.
Won't stop now / Won't slack off. [OTA]
She moves like a shark. No moment of peace. No chance to rest.
Carolina picks through produce like a soldier in the midst of a deadly stealth mission, peering over her shoulder every fifth step for signs of danger and looks so suspicious that she's confronted about stealing.
She jogs at the outskirts of the residential areas (avoiding Connecticut while also keeping the possibility of seeing her squarely at the front of her brain). Slides in the dark nooks between buildings to catch her breath and spit. Sometimes she lingers with her arm and forehead butted up against the wall. Numb. Staring at nothing. Feeling her lungs swell and deflate with the effort she puts into moving, moving, moving.
Most days she can be found marching to the Oak & Iron with a deer slung around her shoulders, its horned head bobbing limply. She tries to feel good about it. She'll get a few pieces of Brass and the people will have venison to enjoy. She tries, and feels empty.
From her farmhouse are the usual sounds of gunshots and split wood. Maybe you find her cleaning her Colt Revolving Shotgun, perhaps the only thing she's really grown to care about in this place. Tread carefully. She's trained to shoot on sight.
This dance / Is like a weapon. [Wildcard]
( Have something else in mind? Shoot! )
no subject
She bends down to snatch the letter from their hand, a giant human-shaped knot of suspicion.
Paper tears.
Handwriting she doesn't recognize. A tidy, pleasant script.
She begins to read, her expression indiscernibly angry.
Quiet.
"I hate being here. I'm stagnant. I can't do anything. He gets to go off and pretend to be useful, and here I am, stuck with all this— anger that I can't put anywhere because I can't go anywhere!"
There's a gun with her name on it, somewhere. A father whose skull lacks in approximately 10mm of lead and copper. Every day he gets a little further away from her. Every day she forgets a facet of his facial features. Green eyes, square jaw, hooked nose. Wisps of grey combed neatly to one side. A stranger.
A letter— and flowers.
Carolina's ire is short lived. It fizzles out like wet gunpowder, leaving her deflated. With letter in hand, she crosses the barrier between doorway and porch to sit on the step.
The flowers in her palm are beautiful. Blue chichories, if she remembers correctly. No one's given her flowers since—
Her head sinks between broad shoulders.
"Most days I'd rather die than ask for help. I feel so ashamed of myself. I don't know when it got so hard. It's like, if I can't do this, then what else can't I do? If people know— if they see how hard it is, they won't think I'm strong anymore. I was a leader. It's what I'd been prepared for my entire life. Now that's gone. Maybe I can't do anything, and for so long I've convinced myself otherwise."
She runs her thumb along dry stems.
"I used to pick flowers just like these."
no subject
Boots thump on the porch, and Carolina plops down on the seat. Pokey sits beside her, still listening. They're good at that. They understand. Empathize. Truly, they do. Maybe they don't need words to tell her that much, instead opting to just
sigh.
They lean on her lightly. Subtle contact. Maybe it helps.
no subject
She couldn't say it better herself;
Sigh.
The weight (however small) that pitches against her side does help. It grounds her in the present, like touching her palm to a still-sore injury or driving her knee into the ground after being shot. Proof she's still made of solid matter, and not something less.
"I'm sorry your friend left without saying anything to you," Said firmly, like she doesn't know how else to pitch her voice. "You might think it's your fault, too, but it's not. Like what you said here," Carolina wags the letter. "You've got friends."
She tries not to feel so heavy. It's hard.
"We're pretty bad at taking our own advice."
no subject
Megapon doesn't have the right words, and their own fail them, as usual. But that's okay. Maybe words aren't what's necessary right now. Maybe it's just... peace. The solace of a friend. The solidarity of two people who were both left behind by someone they cared about. Maybe it wasn't intentional, maybe there was a perfectly good reason, but it hurts, and being allowed to hurt, being given space and permission to hurt by another, has value.
They can be heavy together for a while.
After a long time of just letting the quiet settle between them, Godpoke produced Megapon and points to it, looking up at Carolina, a silent ask if she wants to see something fun.
no subject
Carolina sits, comforted, in silence. It's not often she affords herself something so uncomplicated. Feels no impulse to move move move; to push herself in one direction until her knees give out and her mind splinters.
The desperate, shark-like part of her mind protests;
This is a bad thing. A bad, bad thing, can't you see? You're starting to get complacent. Lazy. And soon you won't want to leave your bed and this will all have been for nothing. You might think sitting here is harmless, but just you watch—
Movement at her side. Godpoke holds Megapon and tips imploring eyes up at her before she can dive head-first into the thought. She almost thanks them.
"What?"
no subject
"Yeeee-haw!"
Pokey looks pleased with themself.
no subject
At first Carolina does nothing but stare blankly out at the undulating bubble. Then, like a giant soap-sud it bursts, and a whole-hearted, genuine country-hick yeeeee-hawww! spills out onto the overgrown yard.
...
Silence.
She chuckles.
And chuckles again.
And the chuckles double-down into laughter, muted at first, then louder and louder until she's doubling over her own lap.
no subject
no subject
Carolina bops the rim of Godpoke's hat playfully.
"You've got real Southern charm, you know that? And not just 'cause you're in the get-up. Let me guess..."
Hmm.
"...Texas?"
no subject
no subject
"Me too," Carolina's smile broadens imperceptibly. "I moved when I was little, but I like to think I've got the spirit. You've got it too."
no subject
no subject
A small 'woah' in response to the bat ears that suddenly unfurl from beneath their hat. "How'd'you fit those things in there?" Spoken on the tail-end of subdued amusement.
Carolina tips her new accessory perfectly into place. It suits her.
"You're a bat, huh? Now it all makes sense."
no subject
no subject
"Texas has the largest bat population in the middle-URNA. Or, it used to. Animals are kind of few and far between now. If you stayed out past curfew, they'd dive down at your heads." She makes a broad, swooping motion with her hand.
At least that's what dad told her.
no subject
Godpoke thoughtfully looks at Carolina's head, then holds up their arms. Alas. No wings. They hold Megapon aloft and fire another bit of sound into the air--- this time, the voice is Capochin's. "Well, A for effort, right?”
no subject
Carolina scoffs her amusement at the rough, accented voice that comes from Megapon's mouth. It seems unfitting. Then again, she can't decide what, if anything, would be. A high-pitched squeak? A smooth, radio-man's drawl? Unintelligible garble?
"Ah, that's alright. Flying's overrated, anyway."
She tips off their cowboy hat and plunks it back onto their fluffy head.
"Hey. Next time you go picking flowers, come find me."