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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
Daisy snorts, brushing herself off and pulling herself up to her feet. "You weren't in any danger. Not unless you got in my way."
She's sizing Carolina up, too, head cocked and inhuman eyes taking in the militaristic woman in front of her. Scent of the Lightless Flame comes through strongest, but there's other things hiding underneath the taste of smoke and gunpowder, like a gun's just gone off in her face. Harder to pick out without focusing.
She rests a hand on her hip, gestures at the boar. "Be my guest. Don't actually eat much of the kills at all. Usually just sell 'em. But I'm well off enough. So. Sure. Take what you want."
no subject
Carolina nods slowly, clearly. "Noted."
What animal eyes find in their search are thick muscles, bone and hot blood coursing through branch veins. A brawny bull strolling along in its pasture. Dangerous and delicious. Carolina shrugs her gun onto her back and reaches for her hunting knife. The rabbits at her belt dance like marionettes with the effort.
If she eats like an animal, then Carolina will approach her like a wild animal. With immense caution and distrust. Ushering away any fear she might feel to keep herself safe. She slides past the woman and kneels before her kill, stroking its greased fur once or twice.
"Small appetite?" She eyes all 158 or so centimeters for emphasis, then pierces the boar at its abdomen. Slides her hand into the wet, hot mess to fish out its organs. They're slippery between her fingers. "And they never ask why you're selling game with their throats ripped out?"
no subject
"Barely any. Food doesn't do much for me."
The Hunt's the important part, but explaining that to strangers usually gets her odd looks or worse, makes them scared. Jumpy. Last thing she really needs with the taste of blood on her tongue is a taste of the fear of being Hunted on the air. Too tempting.
And as for her methods, well... she shrugs. "There's another hunter who hunts in animal shape. Townspeople are used to it by now. Meat's still edible. Can't be fussy on an island with no imports."
And with the way death works (or doesn't, as the case may be) everyone's eating the same damn meat over and over anyway. Handy, given said lack of imports, but odd. Makes some Hunts even staler than others.
cw: minor animal gore
"I'd be miserable, if I were you." Carolina says dryly, a joke if you squint hard enough. "I'm assuming you have to settle for this?" She gestures with her knife-point to the slim, unsatisfying beast at her knees. Its dark glass eyes stare at nothing. "Maybe it's time to go veggie."
Distracted (though certainly not by the monster-woman breathing over her shoulder), she pulls hard and ruptures the boar's intestine. It spills liquid bile on her hands, gathers in a small pool where the rest of its been hollowed. She curses under her breath. Gross.
"Yeah, it's a diverse community alright. You got a name, wolf girl?"
no subject
"Daisy. Tonner. And that's wolf woman, thank you. Pretty sure I'm almost twice your age."
Not that she quite looks it, her physical ageing stalled out around her late twenties. When the Hunt claimed her completely. Partial immortality. She's still not sure how long she'll live. Tries not to think about it too much.
She snorts. Jokes just as dryly, "You think these teeth are any good on veg?"
no subject
"You mean you're sixty?" She looks up from her boar like the victim of some lousy prank. What, are they pumping these animals with magic or something? A glance down at the beast's jugular. Its trachea shines, exposed, in its meaty seat. The blood has stopped rushing from its throat. What a mess.
Staring at the woman's handiwork, she says, "Daisy. Pleasant name. Can't say it's fitting."
Grunting, Carolina wrangles the boar by its hind-legs and tips it so that the blood runs clean from its belly cavern. She slings it across her shoulders.
"I hear cabbage is a little less... tough. Could be a real game changer for you. You coming?"
no subject
"Going on fifty." Mid-forties, most accurately speaking, but even Daisy's not immune to wiggling details with wording to make a misjudgement slightly less embarrassing. Makes this one thirty, then. Noted. "Stopped ageing normally years ago."
There's a huff of laughter at the reaction to her name, like she's just heard a joke she's not sharing. No elaboration, she just walks a few steps ahead assuming the other woman will take that as an answer and follow.
"You got a name, Raggedy Ann?"
no subject
"Sure there's a lot of people who'd kill for that." She isn't sure if she's a part of this category. It would, theoretically, be nice if she could achieve peak performance for more than fifteen years. Twenty and a soldier's knees start going rickety. Thirty and they retire to UNSC paperwork. That's all if the soldier survives for more than twenty minutes in active duty.
Truth be told, she never thought she'd live to be older than her mother. If Allison, a soldier in her prime could die, what were her odds? Less than? Equal to? Surely not greater.
The beast on her shoulders isn't much heavier than her young soldier counterparts. The one's she'd carry back from Covenant battle, whose injuries were not great enough justify being left behind. Others cried to be saved and were left in the chaos.
Carolina follows.
"Raggedy Ann?"
Okay, that one earns a chaste laugh.
"It's Carolina."
no subject
"There are. Met people who have." Killed for that, she means. It's a not entirely uncommon motivation for giving yourself to a Fear, really—wanting to defy age or death for as long as possible. Power as represented through immortality, in one form or another.
Daisy's not one of those people. Her motivations were a lot smaller-scale. It'd definitely be a pain to suddenly feel all those extra years when she's still such a physical person, mind you.
"Raggedy Ann," Daisy repeats as if that's clarifying, but she does go on: "Your hair's red enough. But sure, Carolina. Guess that's fitting. Very American."
no subject
"I have a feeling the cons outweigh the pros." Isn't that how it always is? Have an amour enhancement, says the UNSC, conveniently failing to disclose how she'd be eating twice her weight in food or else pass out after every use. Not the worst caveat, she supposes, but an inconvenient one.
She gets a sense Daisy's 'enhancement' is a little more... permanent.
"It's a shame I lost the Dixie accent. Super American. You missed out," Carolina drawls, trudging her way downhill and sounding less amused the second go-around. The boar's head bobs on her shoulder.
"Whatever you've got going on— it's common where you come from?"
no subject
"Not exactly. But sort of." Not a particularly clear answer, she knows, but it's complicated. Avatars are a miniscule percentage of the already limited population of people who've had supernatural experiences, but you wouldn't know it from the circles she runs in. Once you're in, you're really in. "Few of us here in town. Not that we look alike. We've all got our own deal."
Even those who share an Entity only have so much in common. Everyone gets something a little different.
She spits a little leftover blood and fur that was caught in her teeth out onto the ground. Wipes her mouth.
no subject
"Your own deal as in... You don't all go around crawling on all fours."
It's more of a statement than a question, but no less curious. Not every day she allows herself to be deliberately annoying by asking question after question (a particular ex-freelancer comes to mind), nor is it every day she stumbles across someone like Daisy. Teetering into normality, sure; magic or otherwise supernatural beings are more common here than she's comfortable with. Still, weird.
No other choice than to learn and avoid.
In a flash she thinks of Gerry, covered from neck to ankle in eyes. Able to see things she cannot. Fears incarnated. Hm.
no subject
"Exactly. You get all sorts. Friend of mine's just a walking encyclopedia."
It's a very glib way to describe the Archivist's deal, but she doesn't like to get too into the details of the others without their say so, and it's not wrong. He just Knows things. All the time. Whether he likes to or not.
"Knew of some people who can burn you with just a touch. Fill your lungs with dirt. Infect you with bugs. All sorts of nasty stuff. Hunters are pretty tame. All things considered."
no subject
"I bet that doesn't get obnoxious at all."
She always pitied York a little for having been tethered to Delta, whose humor never stretched past monotonous, computerized sarcasm. Ready to offer intelligence in abundance, regardless of if it was wanted, and especially if it was scathed. In other ways, it suited him perfectly. Probably one of few things that kept him alive through all of his poor decisions in the field.
Grimacing loosely, "Yeah, no. If it's between bugs, suffocation and getting my throat shredded, I think I have a good idea which one I'm picking." A somewhat coy pause. She shrugs the boar's head out of her face. "Don't get any ideas."
no subject
"Little bit. Not much fun for him either."
Not great getting random facts about people and things in your head at random. Especially the former. People don't like you getting random facts about them.
She snorts. "Don't worry. I'm on my best behaviour. People stop tolerating monsters real fast when they start hunting 'em down."
A wolf among sheep must be careful what she does, if she hopes to remain among the sheep as if she were one of them. Daisy accepted her inhumanity a long time ago, now, but just because she's not human—just because she's a monster—that doesn't mean she doesn't want to live her life. She has no interest in provoking pitchforks and torches outside her door.
Just because the blood pounds in her skull, just because she needs the taste of Fear to survive, doesn't mean she wants to cause harm. Not these days, anyway.
no subject
Eventually, after a long silence, curiosity gets the better of her.
"You don't— see things, sometimes— do you?"
Maybe Daisy will have no idea what she's talking about. It's a stretch to think there might be any connection between being able to see fears and— whatever she's got going on. Could be werewolf-adjacent, and Gerry Keay sure as hell isn't a werewolf. If he is, he hasn't mentioned it. Which feels strange for someone who talks so openly.
The question is vague, she realizes.
"Feelings you can see, but other people can't?"
no subject
"Ah. You've met Jon or Gerry." Not a hard dot to connect, you don't pull that example out of nowhere. She snorts. "No, I don't. Not like they do. I've got a weird sense of smell that's similar. But not sight. Don't think it's as exact either."
She only needs to know enough to use it against her prey in a chase. Eye types need to know more, to find the thread they need to pull to unravel a person. The knowledge and the fear of that knowledge is the point, rather than just a tool.
"You mostly smell like fire."
no subject
Carolina doesn't confirm or deny.
She does wonder, in a I'd prefer not to find out kind of way, who Jon is. If he's just as strange as the rest of the lot, and if he has the same tattooed affinity for eyes that Gerry does. Would what he sees in her be different? Does she want anyone else knowing anything about her besides Gerry? (And even then, his knowing of the most rudimentary facts keeps her awake most nights).
These people unnerve her.
Perhaps the Fear scent finally begins to show. Musky, uncertain, afraid to be known— truly known, without opening the door herself.
"Right. What horrible thing does that mean?"
She hates to ask the question— to prompt the door— but hates, above all else, the idea of knowing nothing while these people know everything. If she learns enough, she can control it. They'll see, smell, hear nothing.
no subject
"The Desolation. Pain. Loss. Destroyed potential," Daisy answers bluntly with a shrug. No point pussyfooting around it. "It can mean a lot of things. I don't get the footnotes."
Just the surface level scent. Fire overtop the other Fears beneath, a tang of violence and the uncanny.
"And I don't try to figure 'em out either. Not my job. Not my thing."
In other words, don't worry about me prying, I really don't care to.
no subject
'Desolation' sounds too intense when said allowed. Ill-suited for her, she thinks; like she's a lost cause. A corpse at the bottom of a mountain, unmoving and vapid. Destroyed potential; she doesn't like that either. Destroyed things are, in her experience, easily brought back. Fitted out with a dozen artificial armaments; armor-units and bio-engineered organs and fake syrup blood. Drugs and drugs and more drugs.
Potential isn't flesh. Isn't metal. Isn't a pill or cot or advancement. It may very well be gone.
Daisy doesn't pry. Good.
The boar's head rolls against her neck again. Leftover blood and viscera run hotly down her back. She asks, for no other reason than to say something, "You been here long?"
no subject
Daisy's head cocks, thinking. "Year and a couple months. So, a while. Guess you could call me settled."
Feels longer and shorter than that all at once. It became clear months ago that she'll have no intention of leaving this place even after the barrier goes down—there's nothing at home to go back to and she wasn't at home before she arrived here, anyway.