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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
"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.