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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 chews the inside of her cheek, trying hard to block out the phantom scent of blood and hard clang of spine against metal wall. CT never stood a chance, once Agent Texas sent those tomahawks flying. And it was her fault. I should have been faster. A mantra she'll be saying until her last breath.
"I understand."
Valdis approaches and she squares her shoulders where she sits, a soldier instinctually primed for battle. And impressive in stature, too.
Distrust radiates from her like heat.
"...Help how?"
no subject
"CT doesn't want you in the DSA, but that doesn't mean you can't join the enforcers and put those bullets to better use than killing firewood."
no subject
Carolina's jaw sets. Apprehension and offense wage a terrible war in her mind. What gives this woman the right to judge how she spends her time? Keep your head down until you can get out of here, she tells herself routinely, and here she is doing it.
Protecting her people. Fighting for a cause. Putting her combat skills and talents to practical use instead of wasting them on target practice. That's what she's made for. Those are her values. And here she is, squandering them.
She casts a glare at the half dozen brutalized logs scattered in her yard.
Is this your life now? A waiting game?
Her memory lashes her. Scolds her for forgetting how she'd been manipulated, betrayed and cast aside like garbage for the cause she'd held so dear. Reminds her in excess how she's failed time and time again.
"Thanks, but no thanks. I got screwed over in my last gig and I'm really not looking to get thrown off another cliff. Your people don't need me."
And I don't need them.
no subject
Both literally and figuratively.
"Well, the offer remains open for when you change your mind."
no subject
There's a moment of quiet. Tension in her fingers, flexing and releasing, ready to reach around for her gun to start the routine again. Load, aim, fire. Load, aim, fire. Same spot ravaged by lead and copper, same bullseye. She tells herself there's always room for improvement. Perhaps so she doesn't go insane.
Maybe it's time for a run.
Carolina stands.
"You never told me your name. You never asked for mine, either."
no subject
"My name is Valdis."
She knows the name of the other woman, or at least the one CT has given her.
"Do you have a name other than Carolina?"
no subject
"Valdis."
She stamps the name into her memory. Chief of police. Friend to Connie. Not someone to be messed with, if she can help it. That's fine. She'll stay in her own lane and leave them to theirs. Police, enforcers— whatever they are.
"Had one. They're hard to keep, where I come from. Carolina is fine."
no subject
Valdis inclines her head.
"Take care."
It's time for her to get back to her actual job.
Wrap!
Saying nothing, Carolina watches the woman recede between trees and disappear into the forest. Where most people take the beaten path into town, she crosses logs and slides between old trunks like she's a creature born from these woods. Something just as animal as she is human.
If she's human.
It's hard to tell, these days.