ph_logs | This is a Foul-Tasting Medicine

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.

( 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! )}

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There was a little mail carrier dressed as a cowpoke on their way to drop off the mail for Town Hall when Carolina made her wellness check. Left fuming with embarrassment and thinly veiled heartbreak. She didn't even notice them as she practically hurled herself out the door, as if she would vomit if she had to stand there another minute.

Kelaiah understands. They've been feeling Alexei's absence, too. The only Bizzyboy aside from Patty to stay, and then he... didn't. The worst part was finding out that he'd been here at all--- and that they'd missed him entirely.

He never once had time to speak to me? Not since February? And now he's just gone? Yup. Ain't that just the way. Way to be forgettable, Kel.

About an hour later, they find her. They know her address. They're the mail carrier, after all. They knock on her door, letter in hand.

Carolina puts three new holes in her bedroom wall by the time Godpoke arrives.

To find her they'll have treaded the lonely path to 475 Strawberry Fields Straight, through mud and past trees too miserable from Winter to have sprouted leaves. They reach branch-tendrils high into the air for purposeless sun.

True to its name, an overgrown strawberry patch flanks the left side of Carolina's property. The perimeter is fenced in by meager wooden poles. The fruit, like little organs where they glisten in their flower beds, beg to be eaten. Not quite in season, but thriving where the trees have failed. She hasn't touched them once.

The last thing she expects is a knock at her door.

The last thing she wants is a knock at her door.

Grabbing her Colt from the night stand and shaking drywall from her fist, Carolina stomps all the way downstairs and to the front door. Peering through the door viewer she sees— no one.

Rage burns her sinews. She flings the door open and takes aim.

Then, blinking, promptly lowers her gun.

"Oh. It's you. What do you want?"

In the weeks after the opera, CT is careful not to let herself run into Carolina by accident. No, better not to put Carolina immediately on the defensive by ambushing her, and better to give herself time to get... adequately prepared.

Neil comes through, of course he does. Another charm added to her bracelet, inconspicuous and easy to activate just by rolling the bracelet into her hand the way she so often does. Truth guaranteed. Questions to ask.

CT calls Carolina on her sending stone. "We need to talk."

CT catches her adversary in the middle of a sporadic nap. She's sprawled out on the floor as per usual, her pillow wrangled into a choke-hold, her sheets unused. Teetering on the edge of consciousness. A half-dream. Sleep doesn't come easily these days. Nor has it for the last two or so decades.

And so when CT begins speaking through her sending stone, Carolina's eyelids zip open. She's up in an instant, pawing for her revolver and sending her own stone clattering under the bed.

Connie.

The voice again, muffled by a sort of magic static.

Oh. That thing.

Grunting, she tosses her gun onto her mattress. The stone is jagged in her hand where she snatches it from the ground. When she speaks, it's hoarse and residually irritated.

"When and where?"

Carolina is not the only hunter out in the woods. Not today, nor most other days—it's just that this particular Hunter makes an effort to stay out of the way of other, lowercase hunters to avoid... incident. Better not to risk it, even if her self-control has held remarkably well in recent months.

But it's not foolproof. Other hunters are free agents, they go wherever they like and sometimes that means they stray deeper into the forest and across Daisy's path.

Most of the time she can pick up their scent before she sees them, giving her the chance to head another direction. But sometimes she's too tunnel-visioned, too caught up in the Hunt and the Prey she's chasing to snap out of it until she lunges and takes down the game—a boar, today—with her teeth in its throat.

"My yard, whenever you can get over here?"

Home territory and a friend nearby is still an advantage she can't pass up. Neutral ground isn't worth half as much as that and she has the leverage to insist, she thinks, even if Carolina would prefer otherwise.

A boar's guttural squeal interrupted only by its own retching. Blood turns clear forest air acerbic and gamey. There's a weak beat of hooves and then snarling.

Carolina thinks maybe she's found herself a wolf. Furs pay well. She'll finally have an excuse to buy that holster she's been eyeing at the market.

Crouching in thick underbrush with two limp rabbits tied to her waist and a rifle in her hands, Agent Carolina makes herself as small as possible. Invisible, ideally, through sheets of leaves and thorns and stinging nettle. The deer musk she perfumes herself with should cover her scent. Enough for her to creep in close... closer...

The shape gesticulates. Shoulders rolling, head falling forward and snapping sideways to tear sinews from their muscle anchors and enjoying every second. The shape is furless. Its short curtain of hair falls in front of its face. Not a wolf, but a human girl.

Jesus christ—

It's the closest Carolina comes to vomiting in her entire lifetime. She swallows down spit and bile in one big gulp.

No. No, absolutely not. She won't be taking any chances, and she sure as hell won't be put in the same position as that boar.

Carolina raises her gun, aims for the girl's knee and fires without hesitating. The boom cracks the clear blue sky into ceramic pieces.

"I'm leaving my gun. Don't make me regret it." Not in the mood today. A pause. CT hears a sigh on the other end of the line— and shuffling. The sound of rubber soles clattering against old wood in her effort to put her boots on. "I'll be there in twenty."

She dresses herself, slides on her coat and hesitates at the door. Her hunter's knife catches her eye where she's stuck it into the doorframe. She told Connecticut she was leaving her gun, but said nothing of knives. And after her ass-beating at the hands of Fever, well...

You never know when you'll need it.

Carolina grabs it, slides it into her boot and rushes through the door.

Metal tears through fabric, skin, muscle and bone and shocks an animal sound of pain out of Daisy, not half as agonised as it should be but startled enough to make up the difference. She hisses through bloody teeth and drops the boar dead to the ground with a hefty thud, its blood pooling in the dirt, falling back onto her ass with a curse.

"Fuck's sake—"

Her hand flies to her leg, not to apply pressure but to yank the trouser up to get a look at the damage as it disappears. Heals. Skin and muscle and sinew knitting back together in real time. Not pleasant to look at or to feel, though she's gotten used to it over the years. Pain doesn't mean much to her, anymore.

Before it's even done, she's looking up at the stranger with her odd yellow eyes, pupils slitted like an animal, mouth still drenched in blood, and saying, "Really? Was that necessary?"

Carolina expects her bullet to crack kneecap and surrounding bone into a hundred unsalvageable pieces, scattered like glass across the forest floor. The impact will have severed the woman's popliteal artery and she'll bleed out in a matter of minutes. Not the cleanest kill nor the most merciful, but it'll have to do.

Except there's no glorious arching spray of blood. No, the only blood present here is the thick, syrupy coating smeared across the woman's face.

Knees... aren't... supposed to...

"You'll get a disease," Carolina says, slow and scowling, trying to make sense of the scene before her and ultimately unable to do so. So she isn't a wolf. She isn't human, either. Not with eyes like her's. Teeth and claws and a sharpness about her features she's never seen before. Not even in herself. "...Eating raw meat like that."

She's learned an important thing about predators. Human, alien, animal alike.

To not be afraid.

Carolina comes out of hiding with gun still raised.

Daisy snorts. "Wasn't planning on eating the whole boar. Wouldn't get ill even if I did, mind you."

No, she's not going to elaborate on that. Daisy rarely elaborates unless given reason. But if parasites and germs from uncooked meat could still do her harm, she'd never stop being sickly. But her system has long since lost the humanity needed for her to be susceptible to such things. She's more animal than woman in that way. In many ways, really.

She rubs her knee like she's massaging a knot in the muscle and tuts at the torn trouser leg. That's annoying. Can't be running around with loose fabric like that, it'll get snagged. Have to patch it or sacrifice another pair to hunting attire.

"You go around shooting at strangers a lot?"

Edited 2025-05-09 15:59 (UTC)

CT doesn't even dignify that with a response, much as the words no need for the dramatics, Carolina hang on her tongue for a moment. She just stuffs her stone back in her pocket and sits on the same rickety old bench that's been there since she got here.

On one wrist, pearls and charms. On the other, the silver cuff that lets her mimic her holograms. In her boots, her usual array of knives.

Adequately prepared.

Twenty minutes tick by and she rests her eyes on the gate.

Her walk from the Farmlands to the city's residential area is arduous, however necessary. She has her space between fields and cow pastures; a place she can be alone. CT has their's at the heart of town, around people she trusts. It's unlikely their paths will cross— not unless they orchestrate it. If that's what she wants, so be it.

(And like a predator after prey, she chases Crichton's jovial voice out of her head).

Carolina knocks once on the large wooden gate flanking CT's home. Frankly, she looks like shit. Gut still aching where she's been struck repeatedly by a quarterstaff. Synapses fried from magical lightning. Never has she looked quite so on edge.

"It's open. Just come in."

She studies her, as the gate eases open to reveal the worn down woman on approach. Jesus, what the hell has she been up to? It's like watching her come back from a drop that went wrong but had just long enough a flight back that she could pretend to put herself together on the way.

Not important right now. Not compared to the rest.

"Calm down. I'm not looking for a fight now anymore than I was before."

"Neither am I," She puffs, exacerbated. Standing in front of CT under any circumstances means inflicting yourself to a slow peeling. An exposure more dread-inducing than a Covenant Dropship breaking through storm clouds.

Few people are able to make her feel truly ridiculous. York, maybe. Texas. The Director, certainly.

Standing in front of CT now, she feels ridiculous. A quarter of the Officer she used to be. Let's make this quick.

"You have questions, ask them."

Silently, they hand over an envelope addressed to a "Miss Carolina" with her address on it.

Inside, there is a letter, should she choose to open it then and there. Along with some pressed wildflowers.

Howdy,

Sorry to bother you when it seems like you're dealing with stuff. It just seemed like you might need a friend, since one of yours left. I recently found out one of my friends left before I even knew he was here, so I understand a little bit, I think.

I've heard some stuff, about why people leave. And how they leave. It kind of provided me with some perspective that might help you, too. My understanding is that sometimes people just get called back to the ferry, usually late at night, and most times they don't get a chance to say much. Apparently the reasons vary, but a lot of times it means that they got to just go on home and live, so they didn't need this place. Or it's because this life wasn't right for them somehow, or they were called to some other purpose.

I dunno what your friend was like, or why he might've needed to go. But I think that if this place was doing more harm than good or he just wasn't cut out for being here, or that he just gets to live, it might be worth forgiving him for leaving you. I know that probably doesn't feel fair. You're a tough lady, but that doesn't mean you don't need your people. And you seem like the type of person who really wants to get home, so maybe you're thinking why does he get to go back but not you. I don't know. I can't read your mind. I just kinda know what people are like. Maybe I'm totally off, and I hope you'll forgive me if I am.

In any case, I know that it sucks, and that you're not in the mood to talk about it. Some people don't like talking about stuff 'cause they think it makes them seem weak. Is it like that for you? I hate asking for help. I always feel worthless. Anyway, tangent aside--- I thought it might be nice to just know there's someone in your corner. And if you don't want anyone knowing you're sad, then your secret's safe with me 'cause I don't talk! Convenient, ain't it?

You'll see your friend again someday. And I hope the fact that he's alive somewhere gives you some peace. 'Till then, you got friends here. I hope I'm one of 'em. Been pressing these flowers for a couple weeks, and I thought you might like the blue ones, so they're yours. Careful, they're fragile.

- Pokey

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."

"Careful, you might hit something you don't wish to."

Valdis leans against a tree, watching Carolina fire at targets out behind the farmhouse. It has taken time for her to be able to do as CT asked and check in on the woman's former ally, but she's here now and she plans on making sure Carolina isn't a threat before promoting CT.

A pow and trail of smoke into the dim afternoon sky.

Wood squeals and splinters a few yards away, red target-center turned holy and unrecognizable with daily use. She should really take the time to make another one...

When the black cloud spits out from Carolina's gun-muzzle and is taken away by the wind, the shape of a woman becomes clear. She tenses imperceptibly.

"It's common safety to stay out of the way when someone's firing a gun, you know. It's also common curtesy to ask before you waltz up onto someone's property."

A pause. She lowers her gun. "Let me guess. CT?"

"I wasn't the one making quips about guns."

She sighs, sits forward in her seat and rolls the bracelet up into her hand. What to ask first... so many questions, such limited time in the grand scheme of things. How many can Carolina even answer? What could she even see, from wherever she hid? Maybe that's the place to start.

CT touches the charm, a motion that means nothing to anyone who doesn't know it's magical. When she speaks again, she's carefully neutral. "Where did you go, after you were presumed dead?"

Valdis gives a little smirk.

"As interim leader of the Enforcers, I don't need permission to investigate gunshots. You might have been in danger and firing at those monsters that hang around, it's only prudent to check."

She doesn't react when the woman mentions CT though, nor does she move until Carolina lowers the gun, just in case the woman decides to try to make a point.

"CT doesn't know I'm here."

"It wasn't a quip. It was a concession."

Carolina, like her companion, sighs. Self-decompression, or the closest thing to it. You're fine. It's just Connecticut. Still, she makes no move to sit down and instead stands like a stone statue with arms knotted across her chest.

"After the crash, I thought maybe they'd come looking for me, so I kept my head low. Hid out in the forest. Turns out they didn't care, so I moved on. Found a base, forged papers. Enlisted with the UNSC. I couldn't do nothing, not with the war still going on."

Her mouth forms a silent 'ah'.

"So you're the big boss around here. How nice of you to check in." Carolina slings her rifle across her back and raises her hands in the universal sign of surrender. "I'm not breaking any rules, am I?"

She doesn't like her smirk... There's something about this woman that feels remarkably like a trap.

"What are you here for, then?"

"Not unless they give me a reason to."

Careful steps through mud and sticks, across beds of wet May leaves to approach the stranger. Not close by any means, but just close enough to make out her smaller details. 5'2, give or take an inch. Sharp teeth and gums packed with blood and boar viscera. She wonders if she could outrun the woman if it came down to it. Probably not. She's bigger, though. She could use weight to her advantage...

Maybe. Maybe. This place gets more unpredictable every day. She doesn't know what to expect anymore. Carolina traces her lip with her tongue. Thinks for a moment.

"Let me skin what you don't eat and I'll give you a cut of the Brass. How's... sixty forty?"

"I lead the enforcers, but I still must defer to the mayor on some things."

Like releasing Elias, though she probably would have done that anyway once she found a good enough excuse to satisfy the community.

"And no, you aren't breaking any rules, I just have this aggravating need to check up on the military types, especially those who seem to be struggling with fitting in."

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This is a Foul-Tasting Medicine | OTA

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