#PATRICIDE [ — VERSE \ FAR CRY 5; ]

[0xa00001]

secreted away in the forests of holland valley, beneath a long-abandoned farm, dedsec pushes through the long hours of the night to build a propaganda machine to combat the seed’s own. and above that, on a hunting platform with scoped rifle close at hand, its leader sits alongside deputy saint with a sky full of stars brighter than all the lights of new york above their heads. hope county is clear of the smog and brilliance that bleed off the buildings of the city he calls home, with views that stretch to vanishing and a sky so large the structures beneath seem like ants.

it terrifies him.

james keeps his eyes close to the horizon, clinging to the ground like it’s the only solid thing that can ground him. and inevitably his eyes come to rest on the largest eyesore in all of holland valley: john seed’s colossal YES.

well, hate has always proved a virulent and effective distraction. things are peaceful for a moment. he’ll let enmity dissuade paranoia for now.

               “that’s one ugly sign.”

DEPUTYSAINT BECAUSE THE SALT TRAIN DON'T STOP

[0xa00001]

five times caught

MEME.  MEME TAG.  INBOX.  ALWAYS ACCEPTING! @sanctemony

one.  it’s day three when they make their way to the unassuming church outside falls end. while the white siding and flowers lining the path seem idyllic, there’s nothing quaint about the ARs wielded by unshaved, blown-pupil enforcers or the hollow looks of the people corralled by them into the pews. james and wrench— reginald— are directed near the back, settling partially in the shadow of a support beam.

james linger on each of the seeds in turn, stripping away layers of defense mechanisms and self-portraits in facades like paint remover on inherited living room walls. beige to white to blue to beige to gray.

their eyes lock. john’s brow peaks like the crescendo of those cheesy propaganda songs over the radio and james knows in an instant that there’s nothing but pure lunacy behind that gaze. john looks at the newcomer tucked in the shadow of a back pew not as a human being, but as a toy, pupils pinpricks in a sea of mad ice. he doesn’t budge. can’t. the icy blue carves right down into his stomach and suddenly he feels like a bug in a web— it sees through him exactly as james sees through everyone else, and pulls a creeping unease up his spine like james hasn’t felt in years.

that’s the moment james realizes their two month estimate was naively optimistic. because the people staring at them from the church altar aren’t people, but tools, machined down and rebuilt for a very specific purpose: control.

joseph gestures in the way a dog owner might signal for his pet’s attention. in an instant john’s attention snaps back over, jovial, obedient, and bright; and wherever john’s gaze falls across the room, he brings that brightness with him. but the eyes that meet james’ are cold. always cold, like the true nature of the sadist is hidden in lenticular print and only perceptible from the correct angle.

wrench is livid when they leave. james tells him that they’ll give the seeds what’s coming to them, they’ve survived militaries and mafias, a backwater cult is small time work. but for all his reassurance, his mind remains stubbornly stuck on that distorted period of time when he was trapped under john’s gaze, caught in the swirling, mad blue.

two.  they’re in falls end when it happens.

the thing about being shot is, unless you’re looking at the gun, it’s hard to understand you’ve been shot. it’s all white-hot tightness like a body cramp isolated to the tip of a pin inside his shoulder, and a force that makes him stumble backwards until his back hits the brick wall of the spread eagle.

his first thought is, shit.

his second thought is, help.

but somewhere between the gut-punch of panic and fast-acting bliss and the pain blooming across his shoulder the noise is mangled to little more than a tight gasp, not audible to dedsec sitting less than a foot away from him through bricks and wood and the low thrum of bar music.

james hits the concrete and the last thing he remembers is how the bliss makes the headlights that roll up to him dance like fireworks.

he thinks, that’s nice.

three.  once, after far too many bottles of sake, he had drunkenly made a bet with wo fat about dying in a concrete hole just like the one he’s in now. and it’s that bet, not his desire to live, or even the images of revenge james plays in his mind on repeat to stave off the pain that drives him to escape. he can get shot as soon as he hits daylight inside the compound and keel over dead and that would be fine. but his ego won't— can't— permit him to lose a bet.

a thought enters his mind about when his ego started permitting him to talk like his death was an inevitability, but john takes those pliers to his hand again and yanks off nail six of ten, and the pain obliterates everything that isn’t the reverberation of his shout against the walls.

the next time he’s awake, john is gone. there’s a hole in his memory and a pounding in his skull that feels like dehydration and blood loss and a migraine all at once, and he wonders for a moment if this is what a segfault feels like. cracking both eyes open leads to the realization that he can only crack one eye open, the other sealed shut by the accumulation of dried blood from the cut on his scalp. he must have gotten that on the way in, when he hit the concrete outside the spread eagle. john hasn’t touched his face beyond the condescending, sugar-sweet crowing like a fawning relative, and one snap of his teeth in the flesh of john’s hand had assured he’s careful about that in the future.

james pretends the taste of blood in his mouth is from the crescent moons he bit into john’s fingers. it’s easier to stomach that way.

his escape is convoluted, painful, and takes far too long for james’ liking. his body is align with the buzz of fear under his skin, jumping at every noise and shift of the light like a feral cat backed into a corner. his hands and arms prickle with painful tv static as he regains their use, making quick work of the door and slipping quietly, not bursting, not throwing the door open, out into the sunlight. he takes a moment to gawk at the sun, like he’s forgotten what it looks and feels like.

james makes it ten steps out of the compound before the butt of a rifle makes fireworks explode behind his eyes.

caught.

four.  “I’m disappointed in you, james.”

james imagines twenty-seven inches of wooden bat crack across john’s skull.  

“I’m just trying to get you to atone,” he implores, hands clutched close to his chest like he’s trying to keep all that overwhelming love and affection inside, and not the insane ramblings of a madman too addled by drugs and his brother’s goddamn ego to keep all that bullshit locked up in his head. it holds exactly zero weight considering one of those hands clutches a knife dyed deep red with james’ blood. “you come into our home— our home! outsiders! and you bring your weapons, and your fancy toys, and you mock!”

the next words are punctuated with the knife slicing deep, crooked lines into james’ ribs. he can already see two Ps, and john draws a line down to turn the second to an R.

“our! mission! you slaughter our lambs, our family, and you brag about it. but I will tell you something, james. not even you are beyond redemption. even you, you sinful, obstinate monster of a man can be—”

“eat shit.”

not his most original, but he’s running on indignation and rage and the fact that he can summon his voice at all is nothing short of miraculous.

john sighs. james is mentally preparing himself for the rest of his banal speech when john takes the knife and buries it deep in his arm. the wound forms the I of PRIDE.

he wonders how much longer he can scream until his voice fizzles out for good.

“is this what you want?”  john’s shouting now, holy hellfire, twisting the knife deep until it brushes bone and james jerks helpless against the restraints. his traitorous brain screams at him along every nerve along his arm, demanding to pull away until his wrists are raw and bloodied against the ropes that bind him. and john digs and twists, sneering threats like a dog foaming at the mouth, until some part of james caves and pleads,

“wait!”

he hears a voice inside him sneer, weak.

john stops with a grin. finally. progress.

“ready to say yes, brother?”

james visualizes plucking all thirty-two teeth of john’s sharklike smile out of his jaw, but doesn’t speak a word. doesn’t trust what might come out of his mouth if he tried.

john tuts.

“then the atonement shall continue!”

five.  they don’t catch john. deacon does, chases him in nick’s plane and forces him to the ground and throws him in a cell. there to wait out the war in hope county, james supposes, rotting in a concrete box until he can get before a real judge. given who john seed is, james severely doubts the justice system will be particularly harsh with his punishment.

and what does dedsec do, if not mete out punishment to those that the system will not?

nobody’s sure who kills john. nobody buys the line about suicide, that’s for sure; but not even james is in any position to do it, body broken in so many places he can’t even stand without assistance. it hardly matters— deacon looks at him like he’s caught james with the rope used to strangle john himself, disappointment and defeat and an acute helplessness all rolled up into one.

maybe it’s better that way.

[0xa00001]

pins down. / hoodedhuntrcss

MEME.  MEME TAG.  INBOX.  ALWAYS ACCEPTING! @hoodedhuntrcss

                   "watch out—!“

the series of events that happen next are jagged, disconnected frames like his gpu’s struggling to render everything at once— one second, jess’ look shifts from bored irritation to panic, the next she’s reaching out for him, the next static explodes at the corners of his vision as his head hits the ground. and he almost, almost asks her what the fuck, but his head lolls disoriented to one side and his eyes come to rest on the bent shaft of an arrow, having apparently lost the battle of will against a brick wall. he knows in that gut-deep, knee-jerk way his instinct always knows that it sailed clean through the space his body occupied a fractional second before.

all of james’ previous brushes with death at someone else’s hands have been noisy things— guns explode with superheated air and bullets pop and whizz with supersonic speeds and when someone gets their hands around his neck, all there is is the roar of blood in his ears. he always figured death was supposed to be delivered at the end of a cacophonous roar of raw human struggle, or some poet bullshit like that. there are no silent knives in the night. even quietly slit throats gurgle with blood. people who die in their sleep, james imagines their dreams are burning. but death comes for james at the end of a bliss-tipped arrow and it doesn’t even have the courtesy to say hello. 

james realizes he’s been staring at that arrow while seconds ticking by without him noticing, like his brain’s still trying to boot up after a catastrophic failure. kernel panic — not syncing: attempted to kill init!

jess’ eyes dart around all the essential, easy-to-break bits of his body to make sure he hasn’t been shattered by the impact, like she’s worried that even this tiny fall could damage some part of his small frame. (she’s right to.) her sigh is more annoyance than relief.

                    “are you a fuckin’ idiot or something, park?”

he sits up, adjusting his glasses where they’ve been knocked askew by this act of (well-intentioned) violence. mouth process isn’t running yet; still booting up. still loading all the extra shit into the task bar.

at this moment? he certainly feels like one.

[0xa00001]

" i've learned to bare my teeth and bite back. "

A MEME MAYBE. @housesmadeofglass

they carve truces haphazardly out of the maelstrom of ever-shifting allegiances and territories, like initials of lovebirds cut into trees. he spies an A+L and a K+N a few inches from the gnarled roots of the tree he’s been invited to rest at, and his idly mind churns over the idea of their futures— if the A+Ls and K+Ns of the world are happily married on a little farm somewhere in hope county, or if their relationship’s dissolved and this wounded wood is the only part of their romance that survived the fallout.

he sees two deep gashes cut through J+M, and tries not to think too hard about that one.

        “haven’t seen you in a while,” woodsmoke curls in lazy coils up into the sky, sweet and pleasant and totally unlike the acrid stench of gunpowder. ruth— rachel— turns a pair of rabbits on a spit, her little girl’s eyes wide eyes flickering between it and their unexpected guest. james realizes he doesn’t know her name.  "we were starting to get worried.“

rachel’s pull of lips is more formality than smile, a kind of practice stretch of skin that doesn’t reach her eyes. he half-expects a canned I’m fine, the kind of empty-eyed fine they hear from the battered women rescued from another dismantled club operation in new york.

but he should know better to assume that, because in all the time he’s known rachel (which, admittedly, is a slice of minutes in the months they’ve been here) she’s proven nothing if not a survivor. he recognizes that burning indignation stoked in silence with dignity, wronged but not beaten. never beaten.

“I’ve learned to bare my teeth and bite back,” she tells him. as if to emphasize her point, she tears a piece of the roasted rabbit off and hands it to him.

james thinks, when we bomb ourselves back to the stone age, we’ll barter with hare and bullets.

         "clearly,“ he waves it off. they have plenty of food at the bunker, and james doesn’t even think he could eat if he tried— every bodily function that can’t be used to detect and assess danger has been shut off.

they sit like that for a time, crackling fire, a silence that’s neither empty nor full— james’ mind spins with words unspoken and questions unasked behind a gaze that never shifts from his narrow band of stony to smug. he looks down to his own arms, thin enough to remind him of those first few years of his adult life when he was downing 200mg of powder-pressed focus, and remembers people like him and rachel and deacon and the rest of dedsec, every single person in hope county who tried to stay out of the twisting grasp of the cult used to live normal lives, watch bad movies and eat greasy takeout with the people they loved.

his grip on the roots below him tightens.

          “we can get you out, you know,” his voice is soft, cradling words as carefully as he’d cradle a grenade. “south river. once every couple weeks. it’s not completely safe— nothing here is. but your odds out there are better than here.”

he feels like he already knows what she’ll say. rachel was here long before them, and she’ll likely be here long after. the fact that she can stay off jacob’s radar means she’s choosing to stay, because slipping outside the cult’s control is as easy as disappearing into the trees— but the offer stands just the same.

[0xa00001]

A LITTLE DRABBLE, FEAT. @housesmadeofglass 

“james?” 

the twisting layout of the bunker makes it hard to be more than sixty feet in a straight line from anyone at any time. even in this, but james has managed to eek out a privacy sanctuary tucked against the corner of what used to be a supply room, hidden in an alcove of servers and filing cabinets. his name is accompanied by a brief rap on the metal of the drawers, ev’s iron ring hitting with an unpleasant clang.

“mmm?” james’ eyes rise to trace ev’s anxious expression, putting his work aside for the time being. he’s lost some weight since coming here. they all have. it’s most notable on amr, who’s careful with these things, but he sees it now on ev, too— how his jaw’s lost a bit of its roundness, how james can see the worn hole on ev’s belt he used to use the most, as he’s moved one down to account for his shrinking waistline. 

he tells himself he frowns because ev’s positioned himself right behind the light. it has nothing to do with the thought that hope county has run them down in body just as much as it has in mind.

ev continues, “about our mystery woman.”

“ruth?”

“yeah. so...” ev stretches the o out long, pulling the words out like a fish on a hook. james wonders who won the game of rock-paper-scissors that left ev the one to break the bad news. “I may have flipped through some of whitehorse’s records the last time I was up at the prison working with dr. lindsey, and... remember the woman jacob’s tearing apart the county for?”

“we knew that.”

“yeah, well, it gets better.”

james turns to him fully now, abandoning his half-crouched position on the desk to lean against the back of his chair. his brow rises. that’s about as much of a go on as ev is going to get, and he knows it.

“so ruth is actually rachel seed, right? but here’s the thing: rachel seed's been dead for like, four years. there was a shooting at a cabin near jacob’s territory, it was a whole thing. supposedly, her remains were collected by her parents and taken back to el salvador.”

“well that’s interesting, isn’t it?” james muses dryly, rising. “have you talked to the others?”

“wrench was with me when we figured it out. he’s— well, he’s pretty pissed. but everyone else? no.”

a little hum. “let’s go tell them, then.”

“what the shit, park?” are the first words out of grace’s mouth when they’re all together. “we let her stay here!”

“I know,” james is perched on top of a desk, legs crossed, some of ev’s tools pushed to the side. “we knew we were taking a risk with her. even without her being jacob’s ex-wife—”

“I didn’t find divorce papers,” ev cuts in. “technically, she’s still his wife.”

james sighs. “technically, she’s dead. technically, ex-wife. and anyway, the wife of jacob seed does not sleep in abandoned cabins with one kid in her arms and another on the way, if she can help it.”

"how do we know she’s not pulling that bullshit, helpless pregnant woman act with us?” wrench fires back, incredulous. there’s no modulator to add a tinny edge to his voice— just the edge of the anger leaking from every harsh syllable he speaks. he’s a lot scarier without the mask to hide his snarl. “for fuck’s sake, amr and grace had their backs to her up there. she could have killed them!”

“she could have told the peggies where we were hiding out,” amr says. “or about the safehouse we took her to.”

"so she’s waiting for us to fuck up in some other way!”

“I don’t think so,” james looks over at him, threatening silence with a glare. “remember what john said over the radio when they found her in fall’s end?”

grace frowns. there’s a rhythmic clack through the small room that’s her heel tapping against the floor, agitated. “how the big bad hunter couldn’t find one pregnant woman?”

“john never passes up an opportunity to brag. if john’s bragging about finding her, she didn’t want to be found. if she didn’t want to be found, she’s not with them.”

“so you think we can trust her?”

james snorts. “no. but I don’t think she’s working for them.”

there’s a second of contemplation that ripples through the bunker, mingled with wrench and grace’s dissipating tempers. ev’s the one to break it.

“so... now what? what if she comes back?”

“that’s up to you,” james says. “the why doesn’t change the fact that she’s better at navigating hope county than most of its other residents, or how hard they’re going to try to get her back. but ever since fall’s end, we’ve known the target on her back was bigger than the targets on ours. but we all agreed to not turn people away who come to us looking for help. does that still extend to rachel, ex-seed or not?”

a chorus of approval rings out of the bunker. james smiles at it.

“good. then nothing changes.”

[0xa00001]

a moment of weakness

MEME.  MEME TAG.  INBOX.  ALWAYS ACCEPTING! @housesmadeofglass

by the end of it all, three people are dead and james isn’t one of them.

the rifle snaps to her impossibly fast, before james is even aware of it— a half-pivot with the acrid stench of gunpowder and blood already heavy in his nose. 

                        fury rips across his normally-tranquil face— fury at disobeying his own orders of going out alone, fury at his recklessness, fury at being caught. but even in anger, james never burns hot. there’s no wildfire behind the bespectacled gaze that locks with rachel’s, no adrenaline-wracked waver to how he holds the rifle. his aim is absolute. his eyes are as cold and final as the grave. three bodies lie at his feet, and james looks in that moment every bit like a killing thing. 

a second ticks by. 

two.

he lowers the gun.

            “we really have to stop meeting like this.”

MY MUSE IS SURROUNDED BY THUGS UP TO NO GOOD AND YOURS HAPPENS UPON THIS.

[0xa00001]

IT SEEMS EVERYONE HAS SOMEONE IN HOPE COUNTY

DEDSEC has been in this game too long to stand by when someone they love goes missing. so when someone they care about goes missing in hope county, they do the only thing they think is logical: they go. 

but hope county presents several challenges DEDSEC has never faced in the concrete jungle of new york: the relative lack of technology, the vast expanses of territory to cover, an enemy that is far more likely to murder or indoctrinate them than arrest them, and no easy way out when things go south.

remember: DEDSEC has never done something because it’s easy.

last updated: july 19, 2018

TL;DR

they’re firmly aligned with the resistance

they have family in hope county who have been affected by the seeds, and they aim to level the playing field a bit

they’re careful about who knows them

they operate under false identities and don’t identify themselves as DEDSEC, the hacktivist group from new york

they have a farmhouse in fall’s end where they conduct their day to day operations and a well-hidden bunker that holds their toys and allows them to work on their more risky ops in privacy and secrecy

they’re not fighters

the most successful operation is the one nobody knows you did

unless the goal is to be loud, in which case: be VERY loud

DEDSEC is far more skilled in intelligence and counterintelligence, mostly intercepting communications to get people information they need when they need it, and trying to control the information leaking out of the resistance

they’re also continually building a large database of every shred of damnable evidence against the seeds, every murder, every instance of extortion, every illegal firearm, ever parking violation

they’re strongly opposed to murder

(individual feelings may vary)

they want to see the seeds and everyone related to them tried and punished

LEAVING THEIR MARK

DEDSEC arrives a couple weeks before the deputy in an unmarked van. while their entrance was done in shadow and silence, they never intended to stay that way. so while how many of them there are, where they operate, and their exact means are well-kept secrets (except perhaps to those trusted members of the resistance), when they want to be heard, they're heard. there's no doubt that DEDSEC is somewhere in hope county. their graffiti, the sabotaged networks, the pirate radio, and the precision dissection of outposts and supply lines indicate as much. but where they operate out of, and how they get the job done? that’s a mystery to most.

needless to say, they've attracted a lot of attention. not only for the things they do in broad daylight, blasting trap over hijacked outpost speakers— but quietly as well, sabotaging systems, hacking networks, and quiet, skillful extraction. what's most concerning isn't what they want you to see, but what they don't.

MODUS OPERANDI

DEDSEC has never been on the front line, and that they work their best quietly and behind the scenes. a good operation, DEDSEC argues, is one your enemy doesn’t know you’ve completed until it's too late.

they won't refuse the deputy or other resistance members if they ask for help in a fight, but their role is far more geared towards support, backup, and information— until they're given a reason to be otherwise. 

it’s important to note that DEDSEC is not out for blood. they don’t believe that anyone has the right to murder anyone else, regardless of the wrongs they’ve committed. they want the seeds arrested and the cult dismantled, and they want as little casualties along the way as possible.

HOME AWAY FROM HOME

the bunker. where they do most of their heavy tech work, and keep all the fun (read: dangerous) tools. everything that’s mission critical to DEDSEC is stored here, mostly for safety. only the six of them, eli, and jerome are aware of its location. 

the house. the place where DEDSEC conducts their day-to-day operations. it’s an unassuming house in fall’s end that, while an idyllic white house on the outside, is full of every bit of city comfort tech they could scavenge or bring with them, decorated with anti-seed art and grace’s own personal style. they each have a room on the upper floor, and it’s constantly monitored by their canaries. this is where they spend most of their time, and this is where anyone rescued or affiliated with DEDSEC can usually find them.

OPERATIONS

intelligence and counterintelligence. stealing information. hacking systems. setting up surveillance. making them difficult targets while stealing their enemy's data out from right under their noses. information is power.

pirate radio. one of the first orders of business was hijacking the gospel channels and replacing them with the most blasphemous EDM they can muster. otsi considers these stations her children, and takes requests from “concerned residents of hope county.”

anti-cult propaganda. often direct parodies of the propaganda spread by the cult, with a heavy "FUCK THE SEEDS" / "RESIST" theme. always incredibly obnoxious and colourful, with a firm cotton candy colour scheme.

community cleanup. rebuilding. removing the ugly cult graffiti. burying any bodies they see regardless of their side in the war

PROTECTING THEMSELVES

the names DEDSEC use in hope county are not their real names. they've fabricated identities— not complex ones, but the papers check out— to separate this from their lives in new york.

only DEDSEC and the deputy know where their home base is located. they're mobile, prone to relocating, and will set up temporary bases closer to current targets as necessary.

their communications are heavily encrypted and carried across an onion network. this doesn't include one-time, downright nasty dan brown esque schemes they'll use for ultra sensitive information.

and while they don’t have ctOS to rely on for their eyes, they have their own solution: they call them canaries. small drones disguised as birds that they set up in trees to be their eyes and ears. they’ve only been shot down by innocent hunters five or eight times.

NECESSITY IS THE MOTHER OF INVENTION

the ad hoc nature of the resistance has led to most member of DEDSEC picking up new, or slightly modified roles.

james continues to lead operations, acting as tactical coordinator and supervisor. he's constantly in contact with the other cells of resistance fighters, but is especially close to the whitetail militia due to their similar mindset and style.

amr, grace, otsi, and lola place a far heavier emphasis on running field ops, because what the resistance needs most is boots on the ground.

grace modifies her usual style and produces vast amounts of anti-cult propaganda, as well as working with the resistance to clean up that hideous sinner graffiti, and touch-up old, well-loved art around the county.

otsi is now the voice of DEDSEC's advisories and herald of sick tunes. has a great radio voice, too.

ev finally gets to use his chemical engineering degree for more than discount explosives, and works with developing tools to help deal with and understand the bliss.

[0xa00001]

SOME MORE GRATUITOUS POST-CAPTURE DRABBLES FEAT. BLISS, AND EV GETS TO ACTUALLY FLEX A BIT OF HIS KNOWLEDGE AND SKILL

There's nothing to distinguish the truck they arrive in from any of the other trucks in Fall's End. The sleepy 3 A.M. silence is broken not by a cacophony of gunfire but by the slow stop of tires on gravel, and the sound of three doors opening— three people slipping out from the car under the cover of darkness, carrying a fourth in tow, into the back door of the chapel.

Dedsec conducts this missions quietly. Six hours ago James had gone missing from a resistance bunker right under their noses, and it had taken them three hours to track him down again. Wrench and Grace had slipped into the ranch to recover him, while Amr kept the truck running and a gun at the ready.

There was panic when the lights had gone out, but the outpost couldn't hope for rescue with the comms cut. There was no thrumming bass this time, no giddy resistance members in painted gas masks. Just darkness and silence. Quick and efficient. This was an extraction, not a show.

Ev is expecting a struggle. All their previous interactions with the Bliss had left its victims skittish, paranoid, and ready to fight. He remembers needing both him and Wrench to keep Amr down while he fought spectres, still feels a bit sore where Amr had elbowed him square in the jaw. He joked to a sober, apologetic Amr that they were even now, from when they first met. Eye for an eye. Bruise for a bruise. Amr didn’t find it as funny as he did.

But a blissed-up James doesn't fight them. There's no doubt about his condition: one glance at James tells him that this is all wrong. His gait wobbles, and he's guided by the rushed but gentle (all things considered) hand of Amr into the church.

"Here, bring him here," he says, leading them to a pew that has been dressed with blankets, a more comfortable seat than the hard pine beneath.

Amr guides him down and murmurs a low assurance, but Ev can see that he's wound tighter than the coils of an electromagnet: tense shoulders, clenched jaw, a tension in his tone he's trying to smother to comfort someone who's not entirely there to hear it. James' hands reach to dig into Amr's arms as he pulls away, whispering frantically, "Wait, wait, wait—"

"James," Ev puts a hand on his shoulder, voice firm. It draws James' gaze, but when he looks at Ev he can tell James isn't looking, not really. His eyes might travel in the approximate direction of Everett Harter but his mind is blow a thousand miles away in space and time. It doesn't even click that this is James, who is usually so focused, so intentional, and he thinks that they've accidentally rescued some hapless addict who merely resembles the man Ev has come to respect so deeply. There must be some mistake. "James, you're here. You're in Fall's End. You're safe. Amr is here. Otsi's here. We're all here."

James reluctantly unwinds his knuckle-white fingers from Amr’s arm and obeys, mouth moving in a voiceless plea Ev can't even hope to parse into words. But he can parse his pale skin, his cold sweat, the tremor that rattles every part of him perfectly well. Ev raises a hand in a broad, sweeping motion, slowly so the fractured mess that is James' mind can understand he's going to touch him, and carefully pulls at his forearm.

"I need you to give me your arm, okay?" Ev speaks gently. "I have something that'll help. The thing Charles worked on, remember? I need your arm so I can give it to you."

James stares at him for a long moment, but eventually relinquishes his arm, unknotting it slowly with far too much effort and concentration. Only once James has it extended does Ev carefully wrap an elastic around it and pick up the needle he had set aside earlier.

"What, what's that?" Amr asks sharply, stopping dead in his aimless, anxious pacing. "What are you giving him?" "Physostigmine salicylate."

"Isn't that a lot?" "I measured the dose already. It's right." "Is it going to hurt him?" Ev's eyes snap shut. "Amr, you need to shut up right now. Go— talk to Jerome or something. Get up a watchtower."

Amr lets out a muted noise of shock, but doesn't respond. Ev can hear his footfall fade and his voice pick up with Grace and Jerome in the next room.

Finally, his gaze goes back to James. "James, this is going to sting a bit. But you have to trust me, okay? It's going to help." James' tongue flicks out over cracked and chewed lips, a small hiccup in the soft murmur. Without Amr's pacing, in the silence of the church, he begins to discern words.

"Phil, Phil," he breathes. "I'm scared."

The gears in Ev's head grind to a halt. And like a car being forced into reverse, immediately begin to work the other way— where had he heard that name before? Had he heard that name before? The questions mount behind his eyes until he forces them out, squeezing his eyes shut.

Focus.

"I know," he says. "But I need you to trust me. Close your eyes, okay?" His mouth shuts. After a moment, his eyes do too. Ev speaks through the act of sticking the needle in, shushes him softly as he flinches at the pain.

"This is physostigmine salicylate. It's derived from a tree nut. It's actually really cool, and I'll tell you all about it when you're better. It's a cholinesterase inhibitor, which is usually very bad, but right now your acetylcholine transmitters are all fucked up and this is going to help them. It's not going to make it better right away, but it'll make it happen faster, and you won't have as many side effects." James nods along numbly, and Ev isn't sure if he's actually getting through to him, or if he just likes the noise. He tries not to think of the word pliant as he carefully withdraws the needle and presses his thumb over the hole.

"Done," he smiles. "Now we just wait it out."

Two days pass before Ev is alone with James again. Mary May's been kind enough to provide them with a home-cooked meal, which Ev brings to the bunker where James has been in a type of self-imposed solitary confinement. The Bliss wore off a day and a half ago, but James is still skittish, and Dedsec still overprotective— still scared of losing someone they just got back. And while they struggle to chase away the demons of what ifs and could bes, Ev's mind is stuck on a name:

Phil.

Amr and Grace had been entirely unhelpful. Wrench had threatened, but in the way Wrench always threatens, in that Ev is never really sure if he's kidding— but he knows Wrench well enough by now to know that it's never really kidding. And he had wondered if this isn't some weird late hazing, because Lola doesn't know about him either; but he's a hacker, and they had all taught him to push things and question what he doesn't know. And right now, Phil is what he doesn't know.

So he knocks twice and tries to will his heart to a more reasonable pace, because this is James— though James is a scary motherfucker lately— and James has always answered the questions Ev asks him. Sometimes begrudgingly, but he always answers.

James is pouring over a map of the Henbane when he enters, strategic locations marked with colourful pins. The south-western quarter is obscured by a heavy plate of wholesome farm food.

"From Mary May," he says. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," James' tone is clipped, and Ev can honestly say it's a welcome relief compared to the shell-shocked leader from two nights prior. "Dizzy, sometimes. It comes and goes." "That's the withdrawal. Hopefully shouldn't last more than a week."

He watches as James prods a potato around the plate and puts the fork back down.

"I pinpointed the critical research camps," he says. "Based on Nick's observations and some of the information coming out of the region. A few flyovers with the drones should give us a good idea of how they're laid out—"

"Who's Phil?"

It's like all the heat has been sucked out of the room. James' mouth snaps shut, and what little light sits on his face vanishes the moment the name is out of Ev's mouth. A prickling, dreadful ice climbs its way up his stomach, and all he can think about is what Wrench said. No one will ever find the body.

"Where did you hear that name?"

"You said it. Twice, actually. Back in the chapel. When you were... You know."

Ev hates that frigid stare, how permanent it's been on James' face since they came here. He's always been good at reading people, even people like James. But the gaze James levels at him now is like staring at concrete. Unnatural. Ev isn't about to be deterred by a glare, though, even if he's pretty sure a more severe one might actually kill him.

"You were close to him," he says. "You must have been. You were scared. And... I thought maybe you would have asked for Amr, or Wrench. But their names didn't come out of your mouth. His did."

James is quiet for a long moment, which itself isn't unusual— there's usually a pause while James formulates his next thought. No ums or ahs have fallen from James' mouth for as long as Ev has known him.

And to his surprise, James doesn't kill him.

"He was my fiance," he says. "Before this. All this, really. Before Dedsec."

Was.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was a long time ago. I keep telling myself it should stop hurting, that six years is enough time to grieve, but..."  "Hey," Ev's voice is soft. "I still miss my dad." James' lips cock half a smile, but it's all muscle memory. There's no joy to it. "Thanks for dinner."

And that's all he's going to get out of that, apparently.

[0xa00001]

Let's try this again? Moment of weakness!

MEME.  MEME TAG.  INBOX.  ALWAYS ACCEPTING !14. MY MUSE IS BEEN BEATEN BADLY AND IS IN BAD SHAPE, YOURS FINDS MINE IN THIS STATE.

seventy-two hours of james’ life don’t exist. he knows, intellectually, that that time was very real— the way every part of his body, from skin to muscle to nerve to bone, protests loudly whenever he dares to so much as attempt to move tells him as much— but his mind blocks the memories from coming to the surface. everything is vague, hazy clouds of pain and the edge of a knife, and trying to delve any deeper into those hours of heat and blood in the bunker makes his traitorous mind snap shut like a bear trap. 403 forbidden: the server understood the request, but is refusing to fulfill it. 

ev whispers fervent apologies every time james tenses under his touch. whole patches of flesh are missing, weeping infection and require his near-constant attention; some of them are bad enough to warrant the hand of someone with more skill and experience than their newly-minted combat medic.

                                                                dedsec never ventures more than a hundred feet from james when they get him back, hanging like anxious specters. and they had reacted in all the ways james had expected: amr shook with that distinct cocktail of rage and powerlessness that he took out on a heavy bag. ev found solace in treating him, in seeing him heal. grace moved her workstation to his room and brought her painting supplies with her talking to him about normal things. otsi flings crueler insults at the seeds than even he thought possible. wrench? wrench broke things.

and of course, james wouldn’t be james if he hadn’t gotten right back to work as soon as he had adjusted to his medication. he issues orders while ev and charles work on patching him up. it’s routine now. bandages. pills. repeat. and usually their house would be closed to outsiders, but— well, james never pinned jess as giving much of a shit about that sort of thing.

she stands in the back of the bedroom, half cast in late afternoon shadows. their conversation is pragmatic, but he can see the way she eyes the injuries, not with pity but understanding.

                                                                she can see it in his eyes, he’s sure of it. can see that the world has spent thirty-two years finding new parts of james park to kill, and he stood up every time, shaking, and said, “is that all?”

            “gonna be a hell of a scar,” he says. it doesn’t occur to him that there are so many that she can’t possibly know which one he’s talking about. “was thinking of having grace design a cover-up, but… I think I like them.”

he smiles at her, too exhausted and too addled by medication to manage anything more than rueful. john had held him within an inch of his life for three days. john had taken knife to his perfect skin and marred it in ways that no one can ever heal. john had him screaming, begging, mind fried from the pain. but james is very much alive, and very much safe. and james isn’t broken.

james is pissed.

[0xa00001]

Your muse is tied up. :)

MEME.  MEME TAG.  INBOX.  ALWAYS ACCEPTING !6. MY MUSE IS TIED UP

when james wakes up, the first person he’s cursing is jacob. jacob fucking seed and his would you kindly? bullshit are behind this. because john knew they would never get one of their children within a mile of james, knew they’d need to slip someone in cleverly, someone that they wouldn’t realize is there to harm him until it was too late.

the very first thing he’s aware of is the smell. it’s a dampness he’s come to associate with the manhattan underground; musty and warm, like the place hasn’t seen fresh air for years. underneath it, a metallic tang that sets his teeth on edge— james has seen enough blood in his life that he recognizes the scent of it immediately, and suddenly he’s a whole lot less eager to open his eyes than he was a moment ago.

the second thing he’s aware of is the dense pounding behind his eyes. it’s a dull throb that resolves itself into hot, white agony as the seconds tick by, and with them comes a memory— consciousness being driven from him by a strike to the back of the head. james park crumbled like a pile of bricks.

                                                                                    “finally awake, are we?”

oh, no. oh, fuck no. 

his mind is sent reeling, train of thought inelegantly derailed by a familiar high-strung insanity that seeps into his very bones. 

a rough hand pats his cheek. it’s too soft to be called a slap but it stings all the same. james jerks instinctively away from the touch, biting back a groan as the movement comes with newfound pain: his shoulders ache, wrists tingling from being held in place at his sides, the bite of ropes in his skin, the unnatural slump of his back in a wooden chair. his eyes crack open to reveal only the unfocused floor, stained deep with something that can only be blood.

one look at john is all he needs to know he’s loving every second of this. all james can do is stare, dumbfounded, and for a moment he’s angry that john fucking seed doesn’t know enough about james park to appreciate what a feat it is to completely dumbfound him. 

all he can do is glower, and instead turn his attention to the room. spartan, metallic walls, macabre displays of people and parts wrapped in flowers, marked with their sins. his glasses sit alongside john’s mise en place, and for a moment he nearly thinks about quipping that john had at least been kind enough to remove them before he, presumably, does whatever terrible, unspeakable, nightmare-inducing things he intends to do. repeatedly.

back to john. he’s draped against his torture table with that casual air, legs crossed, twirling his knife like he’s got all the time in the world. knife, james notes morbidly. not tattoo gun. considering how rarely john ever shuts the fuck up, his silence now is deeply irritating.

                   it’s james who speaks first. “how.”

he’s proud of how strong his voice is. demanding and angry and every bit as commanding as his connections and reputation proclaim him to be. just because he’s the one tied to the chair staring down the sharp end of john’s blade doesn’t mean he’s going to make this easy. he’ll rip his throat out with his teeth if he has to.

james’ screams echo through the bunker for three days before dedsec finds him.

[0xa00001]

She's just gonna climb in the spare chair and nap. Don't mind her. Continue working. She's just tired of the goddamn Deputy calling her in whenever she tries to sleep, so she hides here.

LOCAL HUNGER GAMES ENTHUSIAST NEEDS A LONG NAP 

there’s the reflexive spike in his heart rate when one of the camera lights blink on, alerting him of movement from the back woods. his fingers move from the keyboard to the rifle at the side of his desk without him telling them to, scanning the tiny monitor for a form he recognizes— amr? the deputy?

jess. 

he breathes his relief out in a slow sigh, making a mental note to remind her that structures like front doors exist, and she should use them.

it takes one look at her expression ( how she drags her feet a bit, how she falls into rather than opens the door ) at the intersection of exhaustion and piss off and die to let that reminder subside, for now. 

            “can use my bed, if you want,” he says, nodding slightly to the room above his head. “I’m not gonna need it anytime soon.”

[0xa00001]

A moment of weakness / safefromsin ( five billion years late!!! )

MEME.  MEME TAG.  INBOX.  ALWAYS ACCEPTING! @safefromsin18. MY MUSE IS TEMPORARILY BLIND

it’s storming tonight.

the windows and doors of dedsec’s hope county home (the deadhau5, as they’ve come to affectionately call it) have been barred and shuttered to stop both prying eyes and wandering hands. those shutters rattle loudly against their restraints like the next bolt of lightning to hit them will bring them to life, thunder rumbling through the foundation like the grumble of an animal pulled from a deep sleep.

james gives pause as the lights flicker. most of his time not spent in the bunker (and james spends most of his time in the bunker) is spent talking. teaching. jerome has military training on par with those embedded in the whitetails but he’s only one man. and james spends just as much time taking points from him as he does passing off his own knowledge; jerome might know grand war, but james and dedsec have been fighting a dirty, hidden rebellion for their entire lives. secrecy, paranoia, guerrilla warfare— these are james’ bread and butter.  

           “it’s more a matter of knowing your options,” he continues. sara’s smart. smart like the rest of dedsec is smart. not as tech-savvy, not a hacker, but james isn’t looking for that— their focus on technology has been, if anything, a detriment in hope county; having to re-learn things that they had allowed ctOS to do for them before. “every situation you put yourself in has the ability to go wrong. you always want to go in knowing what your recovery plan is—”

it goes dark.

while those barred windows might protect them, they also ensure, by definition, that no light can pierce them. so when power goes out in the deadhau5, no moonlight can leak in from the streets, and so the interior is perfectly, completely black. above their heads, the UPS that keeps their servers and security running gives a loud beep as it clicks to life.

james waits for the generators to follow. they do not.

                                                there’s a clattering from one of the bedrooms upstairs, and the voice of one very exasperated grace. “oh, come on!”

          “—something wrong with the generators,” he murmurs. paranoia drags icy claws up his spine as he reaches to pull the rifle from his back. didn’t wrench check the generators yesterday?the cameras hadn’t picked up movement. nighttime doesn’t usually interfere with their recognition. did the storm? “stay here.”

in the darkness, james can’t see the haphazard pile of new parts that ev and wrench had dragged in the other day, and the makeshift shelving is too fresh in the home to be part of his mental map. so when james thinks he can cross clear floor to the back door, he instead jams his shoulder into plastic shelves— and hears a cacophony of fragile components crash against the floor.

he wonders if sara can feel the annoyance that sinks deep into his bones.

            “fuck.”

[0xa00001]

“So? Aren’t you going to say something?”

MEME.  MEME TAG.  INBOX.  ALWAYS ACCEPTING !

pain has this novel way of annihilation conceptions of time. everything outside the searing nerve ends of now is blown to oblivion, so that each cut lasts both for an instant and forever. the cruelty with which john had branded him with his sins was a dull itch in comparison, even with ragged red edges, blood— a needle too old and too deep into skin. he hadn’t screamed then.

he’s screaming now.

pain also has a way of grinding his focus down to a laser point. pain makes him angry, the recognition of his own voice, stretched thin and raw bouncing off the walls burns into him a deep desire to just fucking murder john seed. because while it was pride that he had so carefully etched into his skin, what he really should have been carving was wrath.

                        he’s going to kill him. james is going to burn him to cinders, going to break his fingers and garrote him with his own fucking tattoo gun, twist and twist and twist until his eyes pop like balloons and the wire winds so tight around his twig-thin neck he can’t beg, can’t even breathe—

rage is a powerful anesthetic. and currently, it’s also vital to his survival. because john looks at him expectantly, like he should curse him, or beg, or something— but james knows this game. 

                       and james is better at it.

he sets his jaw and makes a point of not saying a word. doesn’t move. doesn’t blink. doesn’t even breathe, just glares at him with all the adrenaline and raw spite he can manage.

                       you want me to talk, asshole? work for it.

[0xa00001]

          “where have you been?”  

it’s annoyed above all else, though deac can probably read the concern between the agitation. james talks to him like he has any shred of authority over a man who, for his sweet heart, would no doubt arrest james ( arrest all of them, really ) on the spot if he knew what he’d done in new york.

          “it’s been weeks, deacon. we thought you were dead.”

DEPUTYSAINT GETS TO DEAL WITH A PISSY HACKER

[0xa00001]

"It's not going to be easy. You don't know this county well enough to -- No offense, sir."

SIR?

the only movement on james’ otherwise stony face is the cock of a single brow. not at deacon telling him he doesn’t know something, but of that tacked-on honorific. to james, the word is a platitude. something the deputy calls him out of habit, a word well-worn on his tongue. step out of the vehicle, sir. have you been drinking tonight, sir?

but he drops it. there’s a time for snark, and it’s not now.

         "I know,“ he says. “but we’re quick learners— if someone’s willing to teach us.”