ripples in all directions.

What is a ghost? Something dead that seems to be alive. Something dead that doesn't know it's dead.

[hauntedghcsts-blog]

ofhcstility‌:

Jude had taken Lucky on a ride or two in their lifetimes. He’d seen the man at the bottom of the barrel, he’d seen him at the height of his energy and power, he’d seen him in charge and in the gutter. But he’d never seen this. The man that always was so cautious about not letting a threat into their camp was now hauling around a fun-sized atomic goddamned bomb. She was irradicating everything in her path. Heavy feet and flashes of red and if Lucky didn’t know any better, fucking claws. Eviscerating what she could reach and Jude.. for what it looked like. Seemed to be protecting HER. It hit him like a ton of bricks. The ugly, undeniable similarity of Jude treating that feral destructive powder keg like something delicate. Like she was the victim, not the blast radius. He fell horribly silent as he watched Jude manuever her away from anyone she could hurt and walk the hell away from him. Fists slowly clenching as the throbbin, dull ache of the girl’s boot in his chest hadn’t even seemed to fade. Lucky was goddamn furious. Everyone else around him was either horrified or furious at the riot she was making. Amused or pissed at her actions. Lucky, however. Lucky was, for a moment, ripped back to a past that had happened and ended a long time ago. Wild ratty hair, a nasty habit of crushing everything like a sledgehammer. Far as he was concerned, she was the spittin’ fucking image of Nev and nothing scared him more than seeing Pope’s figure disappear into the trailer with her.

This was dangerous. This was more dangerous than any camp or rotter group they’d faced. It was way more dangerous than the 2 raiders they’d crossed paths with only days before. Because all of that, it didn’t matter. It was paraphenalia and minor impacts. Abrasions and wounds that would jar the group but never shake it. This girl was somehow already in the camp, already in Jude’s fucking head. Again. He couldn’t believe he was looking at Jude’s back again as that man walked away from him with some fuckin’ girl over his shoulder. Nostrils flared and his lips flattened into a thin line as he stared in silence ahead of him, as if contemplating. Trying to put the plethora of shit he’d just seen into some semblance of order, before he heard a low cough behind him. Lucky turned, looking around at all of the men who had turned their attention to him, and snapped. A loud, hostile bark demanding they get back to work. Guard the perimeter, make sure no one heard, before he turned once more to the trailer. Crossing his arms, he waited in a stony, pensive silence. Though he seemed quiet and put together standing there, his true temper showed. The small puddles at his feet around the gravel where it most recently rained seemed to simmer and steam as if their chemical component alone had been changed. Small, crackling flashes of light occasionally flared around Lucky, growing larger and louder the longer it took Pope to come out of that trailer.

The moment Pope left the trailer, it started to weave and rock as if he’d locked up a couple of feral pitbulls. Though as far as Lucky could tell.. feral was on the nose. Anyone near the trailer recoiled in surprise at the change, but that wasn’t exactly what was on Lucky’s mind. Before Pope even began to make his way toward him, Lucky pushed off of the ground and started toward Pope at a determined, furious pace. The words were barely out of Jude’s mouth before the hard impact of Lucky’s open palms pushed hard into Jude’s shoulders. It didn’t seem to matter that the man was taller than him, Lucky gave him another hard shove. “What is this?! What the fuck is this Jude? I thought the idea was to get in and get out. No injuries! Peter had everything planned to the last detail. What the hell went wrong? Why is Colton bleedin’ from his fuckin head?!” The crackles seemed to get more volatile as Lucky swung his arm back toward the group of men that looked almost like they’d half lost the raid instead of spectacularly succeeded. “She the cure for zombies, Jude? She the fuckin’ queen of raiders? She lay godDAMN GOLDEN EGGS? Because those are the only batshit reasons I’d believe you’d lose your fucking mind and bring someone in screaming and hollering. Handcuffed?!”

Lucky’s tirade slowed in a sharp, wheezing exhale as t he toll of his temper and power flares took him in a little. Feeling like he’d just run a mile. His eyes lifted, dark and confronting and met Popes. Lucky was making it god damned clear without a word that if Pope didn’t give him some answers, there would be some fucking problems.

External image

—-

“Mother FUCKER!” Cassidy practically howled as the asshole left her chained up again. Immediately, she started to buck and kick and physically fling herself as far as she could into the opposite side of the trailer. Her voice breaking out in a sharp snarl at the low ‘pop’ she heard and felt. Shit, she’d dislocated her shoulder. Her struggles stopped for barely a second as she tried to relocate on her own, before a nearly silent rustle outside the trailer caught her attention. Her head snapped toward the door as she lowered herself to the ground.. barely making a sound. Until someone spoke. A sweet, young males voice. “Miss..? Are you ok?” It was quiet and half stammering, young and inexperienced and uncertain. For a moment, Cassidy remained silent. Pupils nearly slitted and heart thudding her chest. Then, she tilted her head and arched forward. “Help! H.. I’m bleeding.. I think I dislocated my shoulder. Please help!” She wanted to cry out, to use the full potential of the power a weeping woman had on a boy itching to be a savior. But she didn’t know how close the leader was.. she knew he would stop this in a second. “Can you please.. please help me? I’m afraid.” ’

Pope had no idea what to say to Lucky. This man had seen him through his worst and that took a herculean effort to stick through, but right now? Lucky looked as angry as he ever had. All through his relapses, through Nev, through every asshole and dumbass move he ever did. He could see the veins popping in his forehead, and very air crackling around him, but Pope didn’t give any reaction when Lucky started screaming and pushing, just absorbing the pushes and maintaining their normal distance.

He wasn’t going to let himself get emotional over this, he wasn’t going into this half cocked. He was ready for all the shit that would fall out of the clear baggage this woman brought with her. His interest was raised and he wasn’t about to let this go, no matter how much Lucky yelled. All he could do was explain the events that happened and his thought process in reacting to them. He raised his hands, finally noticing the blood and cuts on them, the gouges from the feral woman’s claws and canines, dropping them slowly. 

“Lucky, I-” He cleared his throat, looking over Lucky’s shoulder, at the men gathered around. He wished he could do this alone. “I can explain. We had the raid going fine, but then she stumbled into the camp right before we went in. They beat her to hell and back.” He set his hands on Lucky’s shuddering shoulders, wrapping one hand around the back of his sweat drenched neck. Lucky’s anger always had appeared in his body, shook him apart like he was a fucking chemical reaction himself. Drenched the man in sweat until he was wild with it, until it burnt out of him in a spectacular fashion. He ducked his head slightly, looking Lucky in the eye despite how much the other man was rolling his eyes away. “We couldn’t leave her tied to a tree and we couldn’t let her run to whatever group she could have.”

He could feel the men’s stares on them and he stepped back, gesturing Lucky behind the trailer that was currently shaking like it was experiencing a localized earthquake. As they rounded the front of the trailer, the shaking stopped, and when they came to the backside, he saw Topher. The young man was perched on a milk crate, faced pressed next to the shuttered window, talking with the woman inside. Fuck, why was everyone’s brains leaving them quicker than they were running out of fuel. Pope stalked over, grabbing the back of Topher’s jacket and hauling him off the crate with a quick yelp. 

“Get the hell out here, Toph. She don’t need your help right now, she’d rather rip out your throat with her teeth.” He grabbed the boy’s skinny shoulder, ignoring his wide eyed stare. He had to make sure the boy understood, that he wouldn’t get hurt like Colton. “She’s half a mind to do it too, right now. Now get.” Lucky stood behind them, arms crossed, a complicated look on his face, reaching out to catch the fleeing Topher to whisper something to the boy, who nodded and raced off. Pope returned his attention to Lucky as the yelling and screeching and unholy racket started up again. 

This time he leaned in close, supporting his now exhausted frame on Lucky’s shoulder, and lowered his voice to prevent her from overhearing. “She crashed the van Colton was driving, bashed the kid good in his head. Distracted him enough to get a drop in on him. She’s smart as hell.” He sighed. “She ran and I brought her down by the handcuffs on her, she was a good half mile away, Lucky.” He hoped that explained the shake in his shoulders enough for Lucky, he knew he hadn’t pulled anything from that far away before. 

“Besides, I don’t think she has any group to back her. She was too desperate, wasn’t running in any particular direction. She just wanted to get away, and not back towards something.” He was so tired right now, he hoped Lucky could see the logic he was laying out. He could still feel the tension in Lucky’s frame, so he plowed on, ignoring the sway in his legs, dropping his voice quieter to the point he was practically whispering into Lucky’s neck. “And, if she gets to be too much trouble, we cut her loose. Kill her if we have to, if she poses that much danger. We have plenty enough hands to weather anything she could throw at us.” 

He leaned back, separating himself from Lucky, even though he craved nothing more than to sleep next to the man. Lucky’s body always ran hot, and that warmth felt so good right now, shaking as he was from the pain. Pope just wished Lucky wasn’t so fucking angry right now, but he could only deal with one thing at a time. And right now, he had to make sure this girl wouldn’t pop her arm out of it socket. “Let me talk with her a bit, talk her down if I can, we’ll see from there.” He backed away, giving a lingering pat to Lucky’s cheek. “We’ll talk more tonight, I just have to make sure she doesn’t kill herself or anyone today.” 

And then, as much as it pained him, he walked away from his friend. He could hear Lucky storm off in the opposite direction, suppressing his flinch at the crashing grasses. It felt like he was ripping a fishhook out of his thumb, but they would heal, he was certain of it. Lucky always let him come back, even when he shouldn’t. Bless the boy for that, and damn him for taking advantage of that right now. He sighed, running a tired hand across his face, letting his body shudder for a few moments as he sat on the rear bumper of the truck that hauled Jesse and Ali’s trailer usually. 

It felt like nothing was slowing down at all, that nothing was getting fixed. The pain dominated his body for a few moments, shaking deep breaths heaving out of his lungs before he calmed himself enough to stand again, supporting himself on the tailgate. The adrenaline was leaving his body, and his hands were shaking. He clenched them, thankful everyone had moved off to do their job and not see this. Fearless leader and all. He straightened, and when to the door of the trailer. Time to face the music. He opened the door and went inside.  

Topher wasn’t sure what the commotion was. He had been sitting across a grill from Kiko and Mihai, playing with Sori, while Janni puttered around the couple’s tent. He liked the small family, they reminded him of little snatches of moments he could remember of his own. At least whatever he hadn’t blocked out. Dr. Shenouda (Youssef, Topher. We don’t need to stand on laurels that don’t matter anymore, don’t you think?) had said the memories of his family would come back at some point, maybe. If he ever felt safe enough to confront how he lost them. 

Topher didn’t understand really, he felt safe. Pope and Lucky and Peter, and all the other fighters, and even Kiko and Mihai, everyone in the camp he liked made him feel the most safe he had ever felt since this all started. He thought about this as Sori giggled in his lap, playing with a stuffed animal and Kiko and Mihai talked. They made an odd friendship, he thought, looking at them. The priest and a man who could pass as an angel, but they could often be found near each other. The end of the world brought together the strangest of people. 

His reverie was interrupted by the shrill whistle that exploded over the camp, Mihai standing up with flared wings that knocked over a few empty cans at the sound. It was the ready call from Lucky, and they all broke apart in movement. Kiko stood up, grabbing his shotgun, Fletcher and Isaias sprinting to cover the backside of the camp past them. Janni stopped him, her club slung over her shoulder, taking Sori from him to strap the little girl to her back. 

Sori was well trained, she grew quite and clutched her stuffed animal tightly, burying her face in her mother’s back. Topher gave the girl a quick kiss to her forehead, strapping her into the sling. Mihai grabbed him, pulling him along, Kiko would hang back and patrol the inside of the camp, Sori would find Rose and the rest of the woman. They had their places and routines, and Topher had his. He grabbed his baseball bat, running with Mihai to the front of the camp, the direction of the whistle.

When they arrived, Pope was facing off against Lucky, a woman without a shirt slung over his shoulder. Something felt seriously wrong about this, and Topher edged closer to Paris who he found standing nearby. A final rotter was being put down by Justin with his crowbar, the sickening crunch hard to hear over the women’s wailing. Topher felt uncomfortable, looking at her, at the animal fury she writhed with, how Pope’s hands clutched at her. At the scars that littered her skin, pink and fresh, old and silver. He felt like someone should cover her, protect those raw memories of pain from all their sights. 

He had a few of those himself, fading thick scars on his shoulders, that he could only assume were from the day his family died. His shoulders always curled in on themselves when he took off his shirt, he could only imagine how she felt. He glanced over to Paris, whose hands twisted around the hatchet in his hands, eyes downcast, feet shuffling. He was glad he wasn’t the only one to feel this way. Pope broke away, locking the woman in Jesse and Ali’s trailer. A lot of the men dispersed with the lock clicking shut, the rotter threat was gone, they had things to get back to. 

Paris was among those who left, and when he looked around Mihai too, the recognizable wings absent. Topher remained, rubbing his itchy arm with hesitation as he slotted his baseball bat into the hammer loop on his pants. Damn nettles, he would make sure he had long sleeves the next time he collected them for Isaias again. He should be getting back to Janni, make sure she and Sori were alright, but the the furious bangs inside the trailer made him flinch. He cast a glance at Lucky, saw the steaming mud around the man. Sometimes he forgot Lucky had a power relating to chemical reactions, and the very water around him would turn into steam when he was angry. 

It was frightening sometimes, how powerful they all were. Pope with his metal control, Lucky and chemical reactions. Justin, who was walking past him, swinging his crowbar in a lazy arc while whistling was immune to physical harm. He nodded to the older boy, and looked at Lucky for a moment longer before the door slammed on the trailer again, Pope walking back. The noise made his mind up, he set off in a purposeful stride around the backside of the trailer. 

Topher skirted around the shaking trailer, coming up to the far side. A milkcrate sat on the grass, the collection bucket for any medical supplies any of them found. It was empty, part of the reason Jesse didn’t have any anti-itch ointment for his nettle stings, which brought up another problem. He had to wonder how they would heal the wounds on the woman they brought in. Ali? Make more scars on their kind healer? He knew Jesse would oppose it. Topher shook his head, tipping the crate over to stand on it, trying to make as little noise as possible.

Even being careful, his hand hit the side of the trailer a little too hard, and the noise inside stopped. He spoke carefully into the shuttered window. “Miss... Are you ok?” Her frantic cries made him ready to jump off the crate in an instant, only to be tugged off the crate in a sickening lurch. He couldn’t help the yelp that came out of him from the surprise, and if Paris or Justin had ever heard that noise come up out of him, he would deny it to the day he died. 

The hand that pulled him down belonged to Pope, of course. The leader of their camp. Topher couldn’t help the little shiver of fear he felt at the anger he could see in Pope’s face, through it smoothed out when he looked at Lucky behind him into an intense concern. He could only nod frantically at Pope’s words, wanting to get away from the crackling emotions that even he could feel. Lucky grabbed his arm, told him to be more careful and make sure Colton found Ali and Jesse. His words were more gentle, but felt somehow even more forceful. There was a clear mission there, and Topher was all too glad to have it.

Pope walked into the trailer to a hailstorm of curses and insults. She never seemed to tire of that, did she. He sat down on the bed next to her, noting the way she recoiled from his weight through his exhaustion. He needed to fix that and fast. Did she think.... If it was possible, more color drained from his face. He remembered Lucky’s hissed ‘handcuffs?’ and now, alone with her, he could see this from her point of view. She was topless, bruised and battered in a camp full of strange men, handcuffed to a fucking bed, her captor sitting fully clothed next to her in a locked trailer. 

He could nearly punch himself for how idiotic he was being. He glanced around the room, finding a shirt from Jesse crumpled on the floor. It looked clean enough, no stains or blood on it. He picked it up, unsheathing the knife hung in his coat. It was a wicked looking little thing, and only inspired more struggle from her. He held up his hand with the knife in it, using his other hand to hold out the shirt. “Here, probably should have given you something earlier.” When she snatched it from him, he backed off, standing in the entry to the bedroom. She glared at him, nearly spitting in her rage.

He bit his lower lips, staring at her for a few moments. If he was wrong in this.... he would die in this trailer. This was a horrible idea, but he had no idea how to reassure her that she had an upper hand in this situation now that they were in his camp. He separated the handcuffs, letting them drop entirely, and waited for her to hurry through putting on her new shirt. He was ready for her to rush him. Her charge was brought up short by him holding out the knife. Not at her, but handle forward. The blade was sharp in his palm, hard and warmed from resting next to his chest. He swallowed.

“Take it. Go ahead.” She grabbed it, quick and cautious, frozen by curiosity. He walked backwards, collapsing into the seat behind him. The pain of the entire day weighed down on him again. He felt vulnerable in more ways than one right now. She looked at him, calculation in her eyes. He stared back with what he hoped was openness, and not bone deep weariness. He felt like he was failing. His hand twitched in a lazy gesture, indicating the door. 

“You have the knife, the door is able to be unlocked from the inside.” He closed his eyes, tipping his head back, exposing his neck to the feral woman. He hoped this wouldn’t backfire, or else Lucky was going to find him in the afterlife and kill him again. “You can slit my throat and go. Nothing is stopping you, the camp might pursue you, but I feel like you would be able to get away from them. You clever and strong enough, broken enough too.” He opened his eyes into slits. “You know what power is, how it can be used and abused. You have it here. Kill me, don’t. Your choice.” He breathed slow, trying to suppress the tremble in his hands, waiting. It was in her hands now.

[hauntedghcsts-blog]

He wasn’t sure where or who he was anymore. Anything that moored him in life was gone, anything that kept him from fading away. Alexi wasn’t sure the last time he had a proper meal. He couldn’t keep food down, or been able to eat anything to sustain him. Whether from pain, grief or sickness he wasn’t sure. Everything hurt, from his skin down to his bones. A cough racked his frame, unsettling Nikolai Gogol in his backpack. Even the grey cat wasn’t energetic, the disturbance only bringing a small meow. Alexi shivered, his tattered clothes not keeping out the chill, and stumbled a bit to lean against a tree as he closed his eyes.

There was a heavy cloud of scents drifting through the air, clinging to the shedding trees- oil and exhaust, woodsmoke and cooked food, burnt flesh and excrement. It was another raider camp, he was sure of it, right over the ridge that seemingly towered over him. Alexi was exhausted, ready to lie down and be relieved from this relentless slog. He struggled up the hill, supporting himself on the trees. He would walk into the camp, hands raised and give himself over to be killed or used to their desire. He was ready to die.

From the viewpoint of the ridge, he could see the camp below him. It was a scattering of trailers, repurposed army tents, camp tents, and bonfires littered about. People milled in its limits: coming out of tents or trailers, sitting or squatting around the fires cooking food, paired off into drills or patrols. There was visible at least 20 people he could see, but the most interesting was perhaps the loose circle of people gathered around two figures who were clearly brawling. But... one of them... that couldn’t be her, could it? But there was the shock of wildfire red hair, and when Alexi closed his eyes and focused on the scents, it was her. Cassie.

However, the situation set him on edge, made a low rumble grow in his chest. Cassie was alone, fighting, surrounded. He took a moment to judge the situation, ears picking up the yells around her. The result was instantaneous. Alexi’s body straightened, shedding his backpack and shoulder holster. Behind him fallen leaves crunched, a sentry raised an alarm with a shout. But it was too late. One moment, a starved and slight man and then the next, with a tearing of clothes and flesh, there was a wolf the size of a yearling horse bounding down the hill.

Alexi streaked through the camp, hurdling campfires and tents, ignoring the people scrambling to get out of his way. The rumble started on the ridge ratcheted through a growl and into a howl. He quickly reached the circle, which was only starting to react to the panicked yells from the rest of the camp. He bowled into two men, knocking them over before tackling the man who had been fighting Cassie. 

His teeth closed around the man’s neck, and was ready to tear it out but the yells and sudden sparking up of elemental powers appearing made him pause and growl as he crouched over the struggling man beneath him. With a scuffling of dead leaves, the man crawled out from under him and stumbled into the arms of his peers. Alexi let him go, because he was certain he would kill the man later. He turned a quick circle around Cassie, side sliding against her legs and growling at any who made moves to push into the circle. Even if he was starving and weaker than normal, he was ready to slaughter them all to protect her. He was ready to do anything to protect Cassie. 

[hauntedghcsts-blog]

ofhcstility:

She’d put it together pretty fucking quickly. This man’s power was what had stopped her. And it was what was causing the pain he seemed to be in. Spiteful, resourceful, and hostile as shit. Cassidy Poe was immediately ready and rarin’ to exploit that weakness. Her head flung back, the wind blowing her hair back over one shoulder as she howled out the words. Looking every bit as wild as she acted. And upon closer inspection, she already seemed wild enough. Pope had only seen Cassidy’s back, but now as she sat there caterwauling, the scars along her torso, arms and stomach were prevalent as well. Another ugly raised one playing along her clavicle, the rest were raised but faded. As if she’d been wounded long ago. When the man seemed to figure out what she was up to, and locked her feet against the truck, Cassidy snarled and hissed. Only serving to put on a burst of high-powered, spiteful energy. With every rare time she could lift her feet, fought him. Slammed her heel back down as she only sang louder. Slamming her elbow against the side of the truck. Bruising her own flesh for no other reason  than to win. Than to spite the man who so clearly looked pained.

As he began to sing, Cassidy’s high, sharp wailing slowed and paused as she lowered her chin to look at him. Her gaze almost pensive and considering, nearly mesmerized. Lips still pulled into a snarl, she looked furious and baffled, as if she’d bite him if he got too close. Trying to figure out what he was singing, what language.. why he was doing it. But the moment she realized he was using it to drown her out, she flung her head back once more and put on a loud burst of song. Not even bothering to stop when they pulled forward into what seemed to be a camp. A part of her panicked at someone shouting about Rotters.. but the other more wild part thought fucking good. Eat them all the fuck alive. Her off-key singing only stopped once the man leaned forward and seemed to release her chain. In the split second, she managed to get half a foot away before he’d locked the chain together again and so fucking easily hauled Cassie over his shoulder like she weighed fucking nothing. That was when she started kicknig and screaming once more. Catching the man that drove them there in the shoulder. She didn’t even pause at the loud bark of a question that turned nearly everyone elses head.

-

Lucky was half bent over the small table he’d managed to drag into his tent, looking over the hastily scrawled inventory of their supplies. They were running kind of low on gas, and though Ali helped considerably, their medical supplies were being drained faster than their fuckin’ food. Which is what Lucky was hoping Pope and the boys would bring back. A tic flared in his jaw as the pencil tapped in repetition against the wood of the table. Pope. He ought to be back by now, the raid had been planned out almost to fuckin’ perfection. Peter had planned this out, Peter had gone with him. Lucky knew that meant that absolutely everything had been thought out, barring some rare wildcard that the boy couldn’t predict, they should be fuckin’ fine.

His concern was incredibly apparent as his gaze kept tearing away from the small collection of paperwork to the open gap in the tent. Gaze lifting every few minutes toward the small worn dirt path that lead to their back of the woods camp. This lateness.. it couldn’t possibly bode well. But Lucky knew he had to keep himself busy, and that’s what he did for the most part. At least. Until he heard it. How the fuck could he not hear it?! It sounded like an approaching engine.. and the caterwauling of a dying goddamned cat. Pushing himself roughly to stand, Lucky stumbled out through the half lifted flap of the tent and gave a sheer whistle. A signal for those on the outskirts of camp to come in closer and those unarmed to gear up. He didn’t know what the fuck it was, half sounded like a caught animal, but it couldn’t possibly be fuckin’ good. And as Lucky’s jaw dropped as the massive vehicle pulled into the camp with several rotters in tow.. he was proven too fucking right. She looked like a goddamned wild thing. She looked like fuckin’ Nell. Her small frame a thrashing, writhing and kicking mass of rage and a set of pipes on her he wouldn’t have expected. No accounting for any level of talent. Lucky was ready, just ready to yell at someone. Probably at Diesel, for the sight before him, before his jaw dropped at what he witnessed. Pope. Jude fuckin’ Pope. Was the one that had her bound. That had suddenly hauled her up over his shoulder. Something that only seemed to make the feral thing more pissed as her heavy boot knocked into Rafe’s head. Even with Pope holding her steady over his shoulder.. he could see her fighting every second.

As he began to storm over, Lucky picked up the pace, pushing past a handfull of the men in front of him. “So what the fuck is this, jawn?” Lucky barked out, causing heads to turn and immediately catching Popes attention. Whatever he was about to say was silenced as Ali and Jesse rushed forward. Frustrated, the man stepped aside. Which immediately was proven as a mistake as the redheads heavy boot slammed into his chest with a shocking amount of force for the size of her. Sending him stumbling back and knocking the breath out of him as he gave a wheezing exhale. His hand lifting to clutch his chest as he silently stared at the commotion before him, trying to catch his breath.

–

Cassidy hadn’t stopped fighting, not for a second as the mother fucker was dumb enough to get close to her. She’d already come to terms with the fact that kicking this mother fuckers ass alone wasn’t going to do. So she settled for as much fuckin’ collateral damage as she could possibly do. Which actually.. turned out to be a lot. Her nails bit into the man’s back through his shirt, elongating to claws that grooved into the flesh as she snarled and shouted absent, explicit threats. When the two rushed toward them, Cassidy continued her fighting, before she heard Pope say something. So focus on her, something. Then his hands grabbed her wrists and yanked them in front of one of the men, and Cassidy seemed to lose it again. “Y'ain’t gon’ fuckin TOUCH ME!” she howled. An accent so rough and forceful that whoever hadn’t been watching sure as shit was now. Trying to yank her wrists back closer to her while at the same time, lunging forward. Her teeth snapped in the air so close to Ali’s face that the man’s eyes widened in surprise at the speed and Jesse gave a halting exclamation, pushing himself in front of the other man and giving the one holding her against him an incredulous look. She could hear the other man she’d caught in the chest struggle with wheezing. before shouting a slightly strangled ‘The fuck’s goin’ on here, Jude? What is this?!“

Pope wanted everyone to calm the fuck down for a moment, but that clearly wasn’t possible. The girl was screaming like a banshee on his shoulder, Ali nearly had his nose ripped off, Lucky looked fit to pass out from the rage in his eyes, and the rest of the men looked like a herd of wild hyenas ready to pull her apart bit by bit. Clearly nothing was going to get done in this state. He hauled her back up, settling her a bit more firmly on his shoulder, heedless of the gouges she was putting in his skin. That was the least of his worries right now, and he quickly settled on a course of action. 

Ali and Jesse’s trailer was the closest, and was currently empty, so he made a beeline to it, trying to avoid her flailing legs and windmilling bound hands hitting anyone else. While it still felt like his ears were bleeding from her, let’s say, stunning, solo he just needed to get her secure to talk down Lucky. Once his best friend was calmed down a bit, the rest of the men would relax. They followed Lucky’s lead perhaps even more than his. 

The door was already open, and as Pope entered he looked about for anything she could harm herself with or destroy. He settled on Ali and Jesse’s room as the safest, as all she could do was tear up their blankets and sheets. He dumped her as gently as he could, holding her hands to the post bolted into the floor that made up the bed frame, melding the metal around it. The strain took his breath away, but he propped himself up against the door and took a look at her.

Her hair hung ragged about her face, her back and sides heaving as she let loose another string of words that would make even his Defan PawPaw bow his head in shame of hearing. Her legs thrashed wildly, trying to reach him as he took steps back out of her range before shutting the door and locking the front door as he stepped out of the trailer. He mouthed a quick sorry to Jesse and Ali, the former of which flipped him off, the later who waved it off. Pope looked back at the trailer, now rocking on it’s cinder block supports. He hoped she wouldn’t tear her arm off in her struggle. But now it was time to face the music with Lucky and the rest of the men.

“I can explain, mi cher.”

But how could he?

[hauntedghcsts-blog]

He hated coming to the kitchen. Nothing made him feel more like the poor as dirt, living with chickens in his room, welfare snot-stain that all the kids called him behind his back when he was 9. Normally it wouldn’t cross his mind, free food is free food, something he learned when he was on the streets as a teen but he was coming down. Pope could feel the itching roaring under his skin, the desperate urge to get straight. In a couple of hours the feeling would be unbearable and he’d want to smash Bodhi’s face into the rathole motel room’s mirror if the dealer didn’t give him a hit.  

But right now? Pope wasn’t sure when he last ate, and hell if canned soup and fucking Texas Toast didn’t sound like a feast of manna from heaven with how loudly his stomach growled. What, had to be... two days since he had some solid food? Not counting that nasty as shit health food bar some middle class soccer mom threw at him when he bumped into her walking around a corner, as if to ward off the demon she no doubt thought him to be with her small sacrifice. He had swallowed about two mouthfuls of it before he felt sickened by the cardboard flavor. Fucking tasteless Northern Yankees, thinking that was healthy and could be eaten by a normal human being.

Yet, anything remotely healthy that tasted good to him was a rarity these days. Maybe he’s get lucky and be able to snag one of the withered apples before Lizzie took them all and stuffed them in her bra. He didn’t really mind the bag ladies, most of them deliriously mistaken him for a family member and they were honestly harmless, but Lizzie would literally throw her mangy and actually a demon cat on you if she felt your eyes on her. He just hoped she wouldn’t be in the line already as he opened the door.

If he listened close enough, the roar of the overhead exhaust fans in the back room made him twitch, like there was a rpg firing off again and again but he plastered on a smile when the winos sitting closest to the door slurred through his name in greeting. He had always had a knack for names and used them, clapped the less jumpy of them on the back as he inquired after their health. Eventually his greetings wore out their welcome and he moved on, casting a quick glance across the room, inspecting it.

Back door was still operable, easy exit, at least nobody had fixed the disabled fire alarm- so he could escape if everything got too much. Lizzie wasn’t here, in fact most of the bag ladies weren’t. Then again, a woman’s shelter had opened up north, so he suspected the female population in this area would drop. Which meant more police willing to be heavy handed because suddenly the population on the streets wasn’t mixed but instead mostly male. They would be stressed for the next few days, so he would need to lie low unless he wanted a black eye or a night in the drunk tank. 

He was so distracted by population movements, how that would affect him, that his eyes almost glazed over the volunteers behind the table. Kathy, Dennis, Richard, Laurie, wait- who was that? There was a new red apron behind the tables, hovering behind the apple bin. He was younger than the rest, by maybe a good fifty years, perhaps in his late twenties. White, dark hair, lopsided smile as he handed an apple to King in line. He looked like he should be in some lecture hall, not under the dim and flickering lights of this soup kitchen. 

Pope felt slightly set on edge. When did this man show up? The cheap name tag on the newcomer’s apron read ‘Lucas’ in big block letters, and Pope wouldn’t be surprised if it was a fake name. Maybe ‘Lucas’ was here to scout for people he could take without anyone noticing, Pope had seen that on a late night re-run of some show he half paid attention to. He stood there, considering, maybe he could just turn around and walk out, nobody would stop him. Then Kathy called out to him, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Hi, hon! Haven’t seen you in a while!”

Stupid, he wasn’t scared of shit like that anymore. He knew he shouldn’t be. However, there was no stopping now, and he could feel the eyes of the food line on him. His shoulders wanted to crawl up into the ceiling. It was one thing to control attention, it was an another thing entirely to have attention called to you.

“Hi Kathy, how’s the granddaughter?”

“Fine, fine, walking now and as cute as a button.”

“That’s good.” 

The exchange was sullen and withdrawn, he knew, a stark contrast to the animation and genial banter he had upheld with the men at the front table. Usually he was much better, charming his way through the line and making everyone smile. Kathy at this point would be asking him why he wasn’t a father yet, and he would be brushing off the thinly disguised plea for him to get back on track to the American Dream with the picket fence and 2.5 kids and a fucking dog with a laugh and a joke that if she knew any nice ladies, she should set him up. But today just felt strange, a spot the difference with no list of what to look for.

 A tray was in his hand before he knew it, and he was being shuffled through the line. With each halting step, he was being brought closer to the stranger. Pope knew he shouldn’t be so wary, he wasn’t going to get hurt surely, but he felt uncomfortable and off, like seeing a dog that knew how to run backwards.  But maybe it was just the need for a fix and the dull roar of those fans making his jaw clench so tight it was hard to mumble out a greeting to Dennis. Maybe it was his inner child screaming about danger around every corner, or his military instincts saying he had no iron hide to protect him anymore (as if it could ever protect him after that dusty road in Iraq), but whatever it was it set off the fire of panic in his chest until it hurt to breathe.

Then sudden as a hit roaring through his veins, he was confronted with the stranger. Sound bled in, the fans louder than all hell coming after him and the younger man holding out an apple.

“-sir? You alright?”

His eyes widened, looking at the clueless concern of ‘Lucas,’ the unsure but endearing smile. He looked like a fucking Eagle Scout getting a badge, fuck, like there would never be anything wrong in his world. He probably had his high school graduation photo on his family’s fireplace, Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners that looked straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. 

He was the first boy he ever kissed and the first boy who panicked and hit him for touching him through his jeans. He looked like private first class Dennings that got burned up in ‘Kingslayer’ as he sat in the driver’s seat and the young combatant he killed with whizzing shards of tank armor who had fired the rpg from the berm. 

He looked like everything Pope was afraid of and everything that was good. 

He could distantly feel the tray drop to the table with a clatter, small earthquakes telegraphed through his shaking hands that didn’t feel his own. Pope leaned against the table, resting his weight on arms that felt unsteady. The metal food trays shivered, bringing up the ambient noise to a dull rumble. The younger man reached out with his other hand and tried to rest a hand on his forearm. 

Dust felt like it was clogging his throat, sudden as shamals that use to pound against the side of the buttoned up tanks. He coughed, gasping at the sense memory of not being able to breathe. 

Buried in a metal casket, Leon had been chanting that night before as a shamal rolled in. Buried in a metal casket, buried in a metal casket, buried in a metal casket. Leon had died too in the attack. Dennings and Leon in that attack but before that, Lang with his fingers blown off and Jameson shot in the neck and Franklin bleeding out through his leg and Amrosa with his foot lost to infection and so many others he didn’t protect and so many others and-. 

He ripped his arm back from the outstretched hand like he had been burned by a shell casing with a hasty stumble.

“Don’t fucking touch me! I failed, okay? I can’t-. Don’t-”

Everything roared in his head, blood and guns and tanks and bombs and metal and bloodandgunsandtanksandbombsandmetal. Screams echoed in his mind and he wanted to run but felt like his feet where stuck in the sucking muck of a bayou, like he was waiting for a alligator to come and swallow him whole. 

“Hey, hon it’s alright! It’s alright. Lucas won’t touch you hon, nothing bad will happen here. Just sit down at a table, collect yourself. Don’t worry, it’s alright. We all get scared sometimes. Jude, hon. Just sit down.”

He looked up and the rumble had stopped, he half expected to be bedded down on the tank in a night coil, watching the stars. Instead he was on his knees, arms curled up over his head. Same damn position that did him so little good as a kid in that group home. How fucking pathetic he was sometimes, he couldn’t believe. 

Kathy was crouched in front of him and he hastily wiped away the tears he felt on his cheeks with the back of his hands. He noticed the spilled tray, the soup and milk on the ground in a sad splatter all over the tiles. She smiled sadly at him, encouraging him to get up.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t-”

His voice felt rough and raw, like he had been screaming. Hell, for all he knew he had. Nobody was in the room now, save the red aprons.

“I didn’t mean to scare everyone away.”

It sounded weak even to his own ears. God, how he wished he had a hit right now, or a was riding in a tank down the road in Kuwait. Anywhere but here.

“Do we need to look at your head?”

He stared at her blankly, sidetracked.

“Wha?”

“Your hands, hon. You were grabbing pretty hard.” 

He looked down, and brought them level with his shoulders, fingers shaking. Half moons of blood and dirt were mashed into his fingernails, maybe some skin. Red was smeared on his fingertips. He rubbed them absently on his jeans, noting the feeling of blood in his hair.

“Nah, nah, ma cherie. Ce n'est pas nécessaire.”

The words drifted out of him slowly, felt like honey over his tongue. It’d been so long since he had spoken his home language, since anyone cared for him like this. He could practically feel the Southern sun beating down on his back as his mother poured antiseptic over cuts inflicted from beatings by cruel kids at school. Kathy smiled faintly, then reached out gently.

“Can I help you up?”

Pope almost laughed at that but nodded yes. Kathy was a tiny woman, no more than 4′5″, barely came up to his armpits when he was standing and had white shot silver hair in a neat bun. She looked like she belonged in her daughter’s living room, napping with her granddaughter on her chest, not helping up a wreck like him from the floor of a soup kitchen. 

He finally separated from her, walking in a stiff legged fashion to a table in the front corner of the room. He sat with his back and one side to the walls, staring at the ceiling as he willed away the tears and calmed his breathing. Luke was in the corner of his eye, talking with Laurie, and once Pope deemed him not enough of a threat to worry about he ignored the rest of the room.

He needed to get his head straight on his shoulders, needed to go and find his next fix. He stared up, willing stars to appear in the dark corner of the roof. The stars were so comforting, ever since he was a kid. They didn’t appear. They never showed up in Philly. He had so many things he needed to do. But, he could just sit here a little while longer, right? Just for a little while. 

Next thing he knew, Kathy was sitting down in front of him and faint clatters could be hear throughout the room.

“Hey, Jude, hon. The kitchen is closed for the evening. Do you want to stay?”

Behind her, he could see the shelter staff setting up the cot beds for the night shelter. His voice still felt rough when he spoke and now his collar was gummy with blood.

“Nah, I don’t trust them.” Them being the night shelter staff, the fellow shelter users. He rubbed his arm, the need for some heroin overpowering. “ ‘sides... I’m not clean.”

Kathy’s mouth straightened into a faint line of disapproval before softening again. 

“Do you have somewhere to stay?”

Nev or Bodhi would let him crash with them tonight, he was sure of it. Might be some unsavory things happening, but he was use to it, and better the devil you know. Anyways the high that came around them was needed. Especially after this.

“Yeah, I’m covered.”

“Alright, take care Jude. Please, feel free to come back when you need us.”

Pope considered that, then nodded. But somehow, he was nodding to empty space, and the guy folding up the chairs across from him shot him an odd look. Kathy had disappeared, so he stood up. 

“Hey man, don’t forget that.”

Pope was a little startled, but he picked up the object indicated by the shelter staff as the man moved away.

It was a paper bag, and from the weight of it, containing the meal he spilled- plus maybe a little extra. However, what caught his attention was the writing on the outside of the bag in thick sharpie, same penmanship as the nametag. 

‘I’M SORRY - LUCAS KEYE’

[hauntedghcsts-blog]

There was smoke on the horizon, like clouds under the clouds. There were times he had seen smoke like this from Cheyenne: the burning of the Atlas, and massive raider attacks that drove them from the city. Every horrible thing flashed through his head but perhaps the worst of all was the thanks that Cassie was not there. But even if she hadn’t been there, there were other things there that were important. Things, people, animals, ideas that kept him human. 

He hadn’t been human for a while before Cheyenne, had been a fire burning under a skin, no, under a pelt splattered with mud and spittle, under a frozen sky. A still sky that had trapped his howls in its skirts, a sky that sat above him, and waited with devotion for him.

The smoke under that same still sky stopped him, made his breath cloud out like a fire itself. Then he stripped, shivered against the nip of the wind against his back, and shoved his clothes into his bag. Ignored the mud from his boots that came off on his hands, rubbed them distracted against his side as his breath lodged itself inside his throat. It felt like his breath choked him, thick ash inside his lungs as a prelude to the pain. 

His backpack got wedged into the fork of a tree, two sticks crossed on the road as he ignored the pinch of broken glass into his toes. He glanced towards the sky, towards the black clouds beneath the white. Held memories of the sting of smoke back behind his eyes. More pain, in prelude. Everything was a prelude to pain or was pain itself.

Then the pain that every other pain or anything else waited for erupted. At least he chose that time. The crack of bone and split skin, human flesh that disappeared like it was nothing, like it never existed. All fours, his sides heaved and tongue lolled out, everything sharper, teeth and teeth and claws and claws and smells and smells and smells. The smoke was clearer now. He tracked it, as if it was a blood trail or a curtain of fabric that drifted out towards him. It guided him back to where his humanity was.

It was gradual. Buildings nestled among empty fields gone to fallow, dead things on dead things. Dead things came closer and closer, ignored the living beat of his paws against a street paved by people long dead. And then the streets had dead people on them. Dead things on dead things. Rot became a heavier scent on his tongue, a slick oil, fat molded on bone and flies rising as if each heap of rags and bones was a bonfire. 

They were cut down as they ran, blood pools stretched out further than hands could. There hadn’t been the scent of anything but death and smoke, no pack (nopacknofamilynohumanitynokeepinghimhuman) on the road. He hadn’t slowed, kept the same steady pace he had kept for miles. Then the actual city, more bodies, hollow buildings and cars, burnt out skeletons. 

A pack of the dead that hunted the living on the street. The living that hadn’t remained in the graveyard to be eaten or slaughtered like the bodies on the ground. Cheyenne was a graveyard, a destroyed wall that had kept the wolves from the door. He turned and looped back through a destroyed city, a destroyed wall that kept him, that kept the wolf from the door. Fires burned, and he was a fire under a pelt again, until he came to the biggest graveyard yet.

The hospital leaned in on itself, a few lone walls propped each other up as a hungry fire chewed on the rubble. Somehow the stairwell still stood, the hallway. Everything had creaked around him, then fell silent. He checked each room that remained, the scattered debris, the blood splatters. By the end, his whine echoed so loud it became the only other living thing in the graveyard that once was his home. 

Eventually it was too much and he stopped, frozen and aching, hollow as the sky that waited to drink his sorrow. He changed, the fire too much to be contained beneath fur. It had to be let out. Bare knees and scratched swollen feet, scraped fingers and bloodied palms propped him up. Naked and alone, he crouched in the dust, crumbled plaster, and cracked plastic that bit as vicious as any set of teeth. Cried fat and heavy tears, as much salt as an ocean pouring down his face while he coughed from pain and fear and loss. 

Everyone had disappeared, pack and enemies and faces seen everyday without a name, everything had gone away and nothing was left for him. There hadn’t been a scrap of clothing to track, a scent that drifted in the breeze. Nothing but the acrid taste of smoke and death. He remained there, curled up like he could have kept the cries bottled inside him. Time passed, maybe an hour, maybe a day, maybe a year, until a ghost walked into his arms.

The noise was too small for him to have heard until its maker was upon him. Nikolai Gogol, fur matted with the same mud and blood and oil that covered him. The cat curled up in his lap and he had burst into sobs again, pressed his face into a dirty coat that use to feel like silk beneath his palms. Nikolai Gogol had gave a satisfied purr, a small engine in his arms. 

Eventually he stood up, had slid up the wall he had collapsed against, used it as a crutch until his shaky legs supported his trembling body. He looked in his old room. Things were tipped over, scattered and tossed about the room. He picked out a set of clothes, fabric that carried the fainest hint of borax detergent under the smoke. Someone had found the soap a month ago, and he still had the sense memory of how it had stung his hands. How they had all laughed and marveled at clothing that was clean for the first time in a year. 

That memory painted a smile over his tear stained face for a moment, as he slide the clothes on. He pulled a duffle bag from among the wreckage and tried to scavenge his life from the destruction. It had taken him a moment to find Nikolai Gogol again, the cat had crawled under the desk tipped on its face. He deposited the cat on his shoulder, Nikolai Gogol restarted his engine and clung with sharp little pinprick needle claws into his shoulder. 

Then he found the most important things he had collected. The icons that use to be on the shelf next to the door, each of them in a corner of the room. Nothing much else, all the weapons were gone, none of the clothes worth keeping. A single blanket went in, and then Nikolai Gogol against loud protest. He had then slung the bag over his shoulder and walked out of the only home he had known in the past two years.

Eventually, he had made it back to the sticks crossed in the road, to his bag stuck in the tree, to where he first saw the death signal of Cheyenne. He transferred the other clothes into the duffle, strapped back on his weapons. He sat there, on the dry crackle of grass on a lonely embankment, and used a bit of rope he had found on the side of the road. Stripped the two branches of any stray twigs, tied the two sticks together and carved the name of his home into the cross piece. The bag beside him moved as Nikolai Gogol settled. Jammed the cross into the soft dirt there, and then picked up the bag again.

Something turned his head east, maybe a bird called or a stick snapped but the breeze changed in just the right direction that he caught a whiff of something he thought he would never smell again. Her, the fox, Cassie. He huffed, sniffed air and began to follow the trail. He would find his pack again.

[hauntedghcsts-blog]

ofhcstility:

As the man was carrying her, as he flung her body over his shoulder as if she weight next to nothing.. Cassidy seemed to forget. She seemed to entirely forget the strange, gentle tone he’d had when he spoke to her. She forgot the words, the slightly protective stance he took, what little confusion his nearly gentle demeanor had wrought in her. Once more, she was furious. A wild fucking mongrel kicking and fighting and desperate. If not to get away, then to do as much damage as humanly possible. And honestly, she was fucking succeeding, she could feel the ‘thwap’ of her feet against whatever poor idiot had gotten in her crossfires. And if she was lucky, a solid smack of her bony, sharp knee against the man’s skull. Though no matter how many blows Cassidy seemed to deal, the man didn’t pause or even falter in his gait. Even as her teeth sank into the firm muscle of the man’s ass. And Cassidy Poe wasn’t the type to nip, every bite she dealt would leave a goddamned scar.

She could hear the young men talking, off to the side, somewhat close to her. Pope. Lucky, Colton. Were these names? Pope.. that had to be the mother fucker carrying her. Fucking typical. Some arrogant raider piece of shit giving himself some religious ass name. Is that what this was? Some kind of cult?! Her little hands pushed against his lower back enough to lift herself in an attempt to look around her. Hazed eyes taking in a group of men treading a safe enough distance away from her and falling even further behind. They seemed dressed normally, the young man she’d struck in the car looking down toward the ground. His brow was cut, bust open from hitting the window.. but before she could put anything else together the two fell off to the side and she was suddenly set down hard into the bed of a truck. So hard the impact resounded up her tailbone as she gave a low snarl of pain. Her immediate reaction was to lift herself to her heels and try to run again, but before she could even gather momentum, she was pinned again with a slew twangy curses, lashing out with her foot again.

The truck lurched hard into movement so fast that she lunged forward as well, stopped by the cuff as the man gave a dry chuckle and once more snapped her hands together. This time with more room, this time directly in front of her. She watched, almost in surprise as the man seemed to focus everything in front of him and to her surprise.. and honestly slow.. begrudging realization and interest. The chain looped around the bar in a way this man controlled entirely. Leaving her pinned once more.

As he leaned back away from her, her neck craned and she turned to look at him. Just in time to catch the drag of his palms over his temples. He was speaking.. but she couldn’t quite register what he was saying, oh no. The wheels in her mind were turning. Realizing. What he was, what he was capable of was a fucking shit ton of power. But it was obvious that the set back was a bitch. Her expression seemed.. almost pensive. Nothing like the feral creature he’d been dealing with for the better part of the last hour as she stared at him. It seemed to change her features entirely, sharp gaze making her look still ruthless, and quick. More present.. and far more intelligent than a  wild animal as she took in his features. His posture, his mannerisms. Had he been in the van with her and Colton he’d have seen that look already. Right before the poor young man had been.. for lack of a better term. Fuckin’ duped.

She watched him in uncharacteristic silence for a moment as she took in his pain, the mans drained appearance. Then she took a slow, deep breath. Her voice broke out in song, rough and low as if she were unused to doing anything but either silence or screaming. Her voice seemed a velvetine kind of scratchy. Feminine despite the low husk there with the deeper sounding lyrics. “Oh I went down Soooouth for to see my Saaaaal…” Her gaze had drank him in with each sharp consonant. Watching the flinch in his features.. getting exactly what she was looking for. Another little bout of silence. Then, then her voice exploded. Loud and sharp and tragically tone-deaf as her head flung back as if she were howling. Wild red hair caught in the wind and bared that dirty, scared face. Those sharp teeth. “PLAYIN’ POLLYWOLLYDOODLYALLTHEDAAAY!” The truck swerved slightly as the suddenness and volume startled Rafe and he jerked back to look, before pulling his attention once more to the road. Not foolish enough to get distracted from his job. Not that it stopped her. Not like that was her endgame, here. Her voice caught in a sharp inhale, and this time, every lyric was punctuated with a clanging, heavy kick of her steel-toed boot against the hull of the truck with a force that vibrated through both of them. “FAIR THEE WELL! FAIR THEE WELL! FAIR! THEE! WELL! MY FAIRY! FAE!” This mother fucker was about to learn that being ‘pointless’ wasn’ta dealbreaker in Cassie doing a goddamn thing. And spite was a hell of a driving factor.

If she subsided a bit after he bound her to the bar behind the cab of this kitted out truck, it was all a ploy. Pope could understand that. Hell, if he was in her place, he would be using that moment to study everything he could too. And she was. It was quick but he saw it, even with the pain exploding behind his temples. Her eyes lost some of the feral glint to them, it still simmered beneath the surface, but he could see the wheels turning. She was goddamn clever as hell, just judging from the way she studied him. Her eyes drank him in, like Peter’s did, when he was taking in reports to formulate an attack. And then she attacked.

It started out slow, quiet, a rough whisky whisper that wouldn’t be out of place in a bar in Nashville. It sounded like Nev on her kinder days, when that demon from his past sung her half remembered Irish ballads in the haze of the room spinning around him in Pittsburgh. He couldn’t help the flinch, knew she could see it and quelled it. He steeled his features, if she was like Neveah, Pope would be ready for it. 13 years clean does wonders for one’s strength. Then she unleashed her entire voice. It grated on his nerves, she must have been aiming for that with how she belted out her tune deaf attempt at singing. Even staying clean for that long couldn’t have prepared him for this.

Rafe swerved a moment, he caught the younger man’s eye in the rearview before Rafe nodded at him and straightened out the wheel again. The clang of her boots against the truck told him she had steel toe, so he stopped them on their next kick with an extended left hand while his right rubbed the bridge of his nose. Pope sighed, leaning his head back against the side of the truck. He closed his eyelids, squinting his eyes against the weak sunlight filtering through the bare branches. The whistling of the wind as the truck picked up speed drowned out some of her atrocious singing and he hummed a song his pawpaw taught him before he died. 

“Allons à Lafayette, c'est pour changer ton nom. On va t’appeler Madame, Madame Canaille Comeaux.” It was quiet, he wasn’t sure if she would have been able to hear it over her own screeching but he could concentrate on the words and ignore her. “Petite, t’es trop mignonne pour faire ta criminelle. Comment tu crois que moi, je peux faire comme ça tout seul. Mais toi, mon joli Coeur, regarde donc ce que t’as fait...”

Eventually, he heard Rafe speak up. “We’re back, Boss.” He opened his eyes, almost half surprised he had nearly fallen asleep on the short ride back. The other guys were getting out when he looked around, and he heard Fletcher’s and Gabriel’s deep voices call out over it all. 

“Heads up!” 

“Rotters incoming!”

Pope took a look back and saw ten or so rotters stumbling down the road they had come in on. Her damn caterwauling must have drawn them. A couple of his boys stepped out of the trees, no doubt on a perimeter check, ready to engage. He got up, releasing and reattaching her chain, hauling her up over his shoulder again. Jumping down, Raf steadied him when he stumbled, and the man got a kick in the shoulder for his trouble. Raf shook it off and Pope mouthed a quick ‘sorry’ at him. Then he heard the dreaded voice he had hoped to avoid for at least a few more minutes.

“So what the fuck is this, jawn?” Lucky’s voice was, as always, forceful and he was scowling. “We now taking prisoners, Jude? Thought that wasn’t our style.”

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Levi’s fire spears skewering the intruders skulls, cooking the rotters brainstems inside out, along with Tony’s fists flying and Justin’s crowbar smashing. He sighed and turned to fully face Lucky, as he saw Ali and Jesse approaching for their checks.

“Lucky, no. She-” Ali saw him first and immediately rushed over, Jesse not far behind. “We’ll talk in a minute, okay?”

[hauntedghcsts-blog]

A timeline of major events in Jude Pope’s life.

July 30, 1967: Born in Gheens, LA

September 6, 1977: Parents die

September 6, 1977: Claimed by aunt in Gheens, LA

September 8, 1977: Dropped off to live with uncle in Lafayette, LA

September 13, 1977: School year starts

September 19, 1977: Taken into state care after relatives deemed unfit to care for him.

September 19, 1977: Moves to New Orleans, LA into group home

September 20, 1977: Attends school in New Orleans, LA

July 30, 1978: Celebrates 11th birthday in group home

September 6, 1978: Runs away from group home in New Orleans, LA

September 8, 1978: Arrives in New York City, NY after riding Greyhound bus

September 9, 1978: Adopts name of Jude Pope

July 13, 1979: Leaves New York City, NY for Miami, FL

July 30, 1979: Celebrates 12th birthday in Miami, FL

September 28, 1979: Leaves Miami, FL for California

October 5, 1979: Arrives in Los Angeles, CA

April 2, 1980: Leaves Los Angeles, CA for Portland, OR

May 13, 1980: Arrives in Portland, OR

July 30, 1980: Celebrates 13th birthday in Portland, OR

August 13, 1980: Gains employment at wrecking yard

December 12, 1980: Fired from job and leaves for Los Angeles, CA

December 15, 1980: Arrives in Los Angeles, CA

December 16, 1980: Gains employment as kitchen assistant

March 20, 1981: Fired from job and leaves for Seattle, WA

April 3, 1981: Arrives in Seattle, WA

April 12, 1981: Gains employment in auto shop

July 30, 1981: Celebrates 14th birthday in Seattle, WA

August 1, 1981: Taken into Child Services by boss

August 6, 1981: Begins legal process of identification

August 18, 1981: Begins to receive governmental assistance

August 24, 1981: Declared resident of WA and ward of the state

September 13, 1981: Attends school in Seattle, WA as a remedial student

July 30, 1982: Celebrates 15th birthday in Seattle, WA

July 30, 1983: Celebrates 16th birthday in Seattle, WA

July 30, 1984: Celebrates 17th birthday in Seattle, WA

July 30, 1985: Celebrates 18th birthday in Seattle, WA and achieves majority

August 1, 1985: Moves into apartment in Seattle, WA

December 3, 1985: Receives GED

December 7, 1985: Joins US Marine Corps under Delayed Enlistment

January 3, 1986: Enters Boot Camp in San Diego, CA

April 4, 1986: Graduates Boot Camp

April 14, 1986: Enters Infantry Training School

June 12, 1986: Finishes Infantry Training School

June  16, 1986: Enters Military Occupational School

July 21, 1986: Finishes MOS with MOS 1800

July 22, 1986: Assigned to 4th Marine Division, 4th Tank Battalion, Bravo Company headquartered in Yakima, WA as a Private

July 30, 1986: Celebrates 19th birthday in Seattle, WA

July 30, 1987: Celebrates 20th birthday in Seattle, WA

July 30, 1988: Celebrates 21st birthday in Seattle, WA

July 30, 1989: Celebrates 22nd birthday in Seattle, WA

July 30, 1990: Celebrates 23rd birthday in Seattle, WA

December 15, 1990: Bravo Company activated

December 16, 1990: Assigned to tank crew as loader

December 17, 1990: Arrives in 29 Palms for training

December 26, 1990: NETT M1A1 training session begins

January 3, 1991: Field exercises begins

January 13, 1991: NETT graduation

January 17, 1991: Arrives in Saudi Arabia

January 21, 1991: Assigned tank, which is deemed ‘Stepchild’ 

January 22-23, 1991: Moved to Thunderbolt range and boresighted weapons

January 26, 1991: Arrives at Battalion Assembly Area ‘Crush’

January 27-29, 1991: Battalion-wide exercises

January 30, 1991: Attached to 6th Marines

February 2, 1991: Returns to 2nd Tank Battalion in Division reserve

February 15, 1991: Reaches final assembly area

February 23, 1991: Enters Kuwait

February 24, 1991: Battle of the Candy Canes

February 25, 1991: Morning Reveille Battle

February 26, 1991: Battle of the L, stationed on outskirts of Kuwait City

February 27, 1991: Liberation of Kuwait City

March 1, 1991: Moved into ‘Pet Cemetary’

March 10, 1991: Returns to 2nd Tank Battalion

March 12, 1991: Turns in ammo at Al Misharb

March 16, 1991: Encamps at Camp 15

March 18, 1991: Returns to Seattle, WA

July 30, 1991: Celebrates 24th birthday in Seattle, WA

July 30, 1992: Celebrates 25th birthday in Seattle, WA

July 30, 1993: Celebrates 26th birthday in Seattle, WA

April 1, 1994: Re-enlists in U.S. Marines

July 30, 1994: Celebrates 27th birthday in Seattle, WA

July 30, 1995: Celebrates 28th birthday in Seattle, WA

July 30, 1996: Celebrates 29th birthday in Seattle, WA

July 30, 1997: Celebrates 30th birthday in Seattle, WA

July 30, 1998: Celebrates 31th birthday in Seattle, WA

July 30, 1999: Celebrates 32th birthday in Seattle, WA

July 30, 2000: Celebrates 33th birthday in Seattle, WA

July 30, 2001: Celebrates 34th birthday in Seattle, WA

April 1, 2002: Re-enlists in U.S. Marines

July 30, 2002: Celebrates 35th birthday in Seattle, WA

February 18, 2003: Assembles in Kuwait

March 1, 2003: Enters Iraq

March 23, 2003: Battle of Nasiriyah, Pope injured

March 24, 2003: Transferred to military hospital

March 30, 2003: Returns stateside

April 2, 2003: Receives Purple Heart and Silver Star

April 4, 2003: Honorably discharged from U.S. Marines as a Gunnery Sergeant  

April 10, 2003: Leaves Seattle, WA for Los Angeles, CA

April 23, 2003: First uses heroin

July 30, 2003: Celebrates 36th birthday in Orlando, FL

June 1, 2004: Arrives in Philadelphia, PA

June 4, 2004: Meets Neveah Higgins and Bodhi Matthews

July 27, 2004: Meets Lucas ‘Lucky’ Keye

July 30, 2004: Celebrates 37th birthday in Philadelphia, PA

August 23, 2004: Enters detox facilities

September 1, 2004: Joins Narcotics Anonymous

November 13, 2004: Returns to Gheens, LA and meets remaining family members

January 17, 2005: Leaves Gheens, LA for Chicago, IL

July 30, 2005: Celebrates 38th birthday in Seattle, WA

August 12, 2005: Returns to Gheens, LA

August 29-30, 2005: Hurricane Katrina occurs

September 24, 2005: Hurricane Rita occurs

February 10, 2006: Leaves Gheens, LA

April 29, 2006: Participates in anti-war protests in New York City, NY

July 30, 2006: Celebrates 38th birthday in Norfolk, VA

July 30, 2007: Celebrates 39th birthday in Reno, NV

July 30, 2008: Celebrates 40th birthday in Denver, CO

July 30, 2009: Celebrates 41th birthday in New York City, NY

July 30, 2010: Celebrates 42th birthday in Glendale, AZ

July 30, 2011: Celebrates 43th birthday in Cincinnati, OH

September 17, 2011: Joins Occupy Wall Street protests

December 2, 2011: Employed as part of road crew for Honest Ella, meets Ibrahim 'Abe' Aoun

March 2, 2012: Ends employment for Honest Ella

July 30, 2012: Celebrates 44th birthday in Seattle, WA

February 25, 2013: Outbreak

July 30, 2013: Celebrates 45th birthday in New Orleans, LA

July 30, 2014: Celebrates 46th birthday in Birmingham, AL

July 30, 2015: Celebrates 47th birthday in Dallas, TX

July 30, 2016: Celebrates 48th birthday in Fort Wayne, IN

July 30, 2017: Celebrates 49th birthday in Chesapeake, VA

October 14, 2017: 1st Council (Establishment of rules)

February 25, 2018: Valley Chapel Raiders attack, meets Cassidy Poe

March 3, 2018: Mass Exodus, 20th Council (Restructuring, women are officially able to join crew) 

March 10, 2018: 21st Council (Emergency Council, Theodore Ancel expelled) 22nd Council (Drug policy established, official Emergency Council and judicial rules established) Cassidy Poe begins detox 

March 15, 2018: Valentin Ancel becomes visible

March 16, 2018: Cassidy Poe ends detox 

March 17, 2018: 22nd Council (Planning for Weston Raiders attack)

March 18, 2018: Attack on Weston Raiders

March 19, 2018: First kisses Cassidy Poe

March 20, 2018: Meets Aleksey Nikolayevich Alexandrov, ‘Alexi’

July 30, 2018: Celebrates 50th birthday 

[life-or-something-like-lt]

x 

[crucifiix]

[hauntedghcsts-blog]

ofhcstility:

Cassidy Poe was ready for a fight, you could fucking see it. Like downed power-line, live and lashing and crackling with danger and avarice. She watched him, eyes sharp and nearly fucking venomous as he moved forward. This mother fucker’s arrogance showed through even in his gait, a slow, deliberate pace toward her as she tried ferally to get free. The closer the man got, the more wild and desperate her actions became. Even at the distance he was at, it was clear, her bloodied wrist from how violently she tried to pull free. Then, then her teeth closed around her wrist in small shredding attempts to get enough wiggle room to pull free and there was enough blood to cover everything. The frosted white and straw colored grass splattered with a deep crimson, the same deep crimson that marred along her chin and lips and nose as she ripped at her wrist with little, feral snarls of pain. She wasn’t thinking this through, what the little redhead was doing wasn’t a matter of consideration or strategy. She was all instinct, running on adrenaline and the desperate animal need to be free and it showed in the way her teeth snapped loudly up at him as she heard his footsteps move closely to her head.

Her body twisted sharply, in a flexible and almost horrifying rendition of some cgi’d demonic posession movie as wild eyes turned sharply up toward the silhouette the man made in the white-bright sunlight. If she had the presence of mind, Cassidy would be ashamed. She’d be humiliated and furious with herself that this man, this complete stranger, could lay his fucking eyes on the plethora of scars littering her skin. The raised, ugly marks marring her flesh, pointing out, so clearly, her vulnerability. Her weakness. But right now, her only thought seemed to be to lash out, to hurt before this man laid hands on her.

When he bent down, she recoiled sharply, her feet kicking out in little, surprisingly strong thuds against the man’s legs, until what he was doing sank in. The low baritone of his soft command. “Stop.”

Her brow furrowed, confused and bemused as she stared up at him, trying to figure out just what he was doing. What he was up to. Her red brows stitched, furrowing at the middle as her still swimming vision watched him. Watched him ripping his shirt and gently covering her wrists. For a split second, an overwhelming familiarity filled her. Of Alexi tending to her wounds, of his gentle but steel grip. Of the soft, gentle care the Russian always took in tending to her wounds. Never hurting her, his low voice calmly scolding her in a language she didn’t understand. Scolding her for being so reckless, so destructive. Maybe it was that memory that sent an aching blade deep into her heart, maybe it was the realization that this man tending to her was chasing her.. holding her captive. Maybe it was just.. a matter of opportunity, but her eyes snapped once more to a sharp appearance and she lunged forward and sank her sharp little deeth hard into his shoulder. Feeling her teeth sink in, the rush of blood in her mouth. Then, her world spun upside-down.

The man moved rapidly, fast and harsh as she found her chin jammed up and away from him and her shoulders slammed hard onto the solid ground. She was pinned, surprised and helpless as she stared up at him, trying to find her breath. She was still in shock, when she heard the pounding of footsteps from the other men and immediately seemed to tense, seemed to start to fight again at the approach of others before he suddenly leaned in. The position seeming to hide her from them, and them from her. The proximity seeming to calm her, at least for a moment as her heart thudded against her chest. Pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat like the wings of a trapped bird, wild turquoise eyes jerking from him to any possible threat getting near her. Then he spoke, his voice low and calming and seeming to ground her as her struggle slowed. Asking her where she wanted to go. Get drunk, get hurt, get more scars.

For a moment, something real and human and entirely broken flashed over her features at the realization of what hed seen. Something conscious as her chin jerked in an attempt to look away from him. Feeling his finger tap her shoulder, hearing his last words. Then what the FUCK did this man want? To hurt her? Capture her? Fucking.. take her??! He’d done that. What did he want? HIS boys to do whatever was going to happen instead of someone else? What kind of fucked up person was this? What did he WANT?!?

Her confusion was only on her features for a few more seconds as he seemed to lean back, looking at everyone. By the time he looked back at her, her features were twisted once more into hostile defiance, chin up and lips pursed, before he pushed to stand and picked her up. Lifted her. And literally fucking threw her over his goddamned shoulders. She landed hard against his back with a ‘thud’ and an 'oof’ Claws grasping at his shirt and pants as her long muddy hair impeded her vision and just like that, her howling returned tenfold. Kicking and spitting and pounding her bloodied fists against his back.

She didn’t hear much, didn’t register much. Didn’t hear how the men trailing behind him and getting to their respective cars were talking about how they didn’t know what he was doing. How some 'Lucky’ wasn’t going to be happy. Didn’t hear Coltons fervent excuses and apologies as he trailed alongside the man carrying her. All she knew was she was helpless. Again. Being taken, fucking again. And she fought like the only thing she knew how to do.

Teeth sank hard into the only part she could reach, right above the low waistline of his pants directly into his ass as she snarled, taking satisfaction in the fact that she broke skin again before she was dropped HARD into what looked like another fucking car. Vivid eyes glaring once more up at his now considerably less understanding looking features. “Suck. My. Dick.”

Every single kick and fist into his back hurt, but it was swallowed up by another myriad assortment of pain. Pope’s blood was like fire in his veins, pounded like drumbeats in his temples, coated the inside of his mouth in a flood of copper. Having never controlled metal at that distance, the after affects were like nothing he had ever felt. Then there was the sting of various cuts and bruises, the fucking bite in his shoulder, and his still throbbing nose. 

Ali, he already knew, was going to demand to heal all of them at once but Jesse was going to hold the doctor back. Any other time he would be ambivalent about Jesse’s caution, but right now he was grateful. He’s unsure if he could hold Ali back from taking away all this pain, no matter how dangerous it was to their powered healer. He just wanted to lay down on the ground and sleep for a few days, but the kicking, screaming, clawing woman slung over his shoulders insured he wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon.

Yet— he was looking forward to it. Getting to know her. Earning her trust, hell, maybe even asking her to join their ranks. But Pope was getting ahead of himself. He would first have to get her back to camp without her taking another chunk out of him or one of the boys, or hurting herself, or hurting someone else, or worst case, killing someone. Pope had no doubt she was capable of it. He had known which of his boys had killed or was willing to kill the first few moments he had met them, and that same sense told him that she would.

All these thoughts raced around his mind in an uproar, a clatter, not unlike a tank or a train, something large and heavy and dangerous. He could only register Raf and Colton as he started out by the former fussing over the later about his ear. Then Colton rushed up beside him, swerving to avoid the fox woman’s kicking heels. Then Colton’s rapid fire apology raced alongside them.

“Pope, sorry, I don’t know what happened, she started- she started stripping! I mean, I first took off one of the handcuffs, her hand was turning purple, and she started taking off her shirt and stuff, I’m sorry,  I got distracted-”

“Stop it, Colton.” He cut off the rambling young man. “What happened happened. Don’t worry, we’ll adapt. Simple as that. Watch it!”

Colton let out an oof, stumbling backwards from a well placed heel. Yet placing a blow on Colton didn’t stop the struggling, and he took a step away from Colton, and the young man dropped back next to Raf. He could hear them talking, trying to concentrate on that noise instead of the buzzing in his temples.

“You fucked up, Colton.” “Hey, if she starts stripping in the passenger seat, you try and stop her!” “Psh, did you catch Pope’s bent? He’s pissed regardless. Watch your step man.”

“Lay off me, okay? I’m already gonna catch more hell from Pope. What about Lucky? What will he think of this?”

They fell further behind and the conversation drifted away from his awareness. Pope could almost groan at the misinterpretation of his tone. If he sounded short with Colton, it wasn’t from anger. Maybe disappointment that the boy let it go that far, but not anger. It was the pain and exhaustion coloring his voice. He would have to address it back at camp. And Lucky. Shit. He didn’t even want to think about that right now.

Pope sighed in relief at finally making it to the truck. Then a sharp blossoming pain exploded at his back. She bit him again! What the fuck was her obsession with biting him? Did he taste good or some shit? He swallowed his expletive at the added hurt, instead opting for settling her a bit more roughly than warranted in the bed of the truck. He kept control of the handcuff on her wrist, pinning her to the truck bed until he climbed up onto the bed with her. Raf’s door slammed and the truck lurched out of park. Pope wanted to yell at her again, but he settled for a scowl and a heartless chuckle at her invitation to suck on parts of her anatomy that didn’t exist. Unless that was another surprise this woman would throw at him. She was already a fucking pallet of Cracker Jack surprises’ worth, what was one more? As the truck started rolling forward slowly, he released the binding of the handcuff to the truck bed, snapping the empty one on her free wrist again and guided her joined hands to the rollbar in front of her.

Pope focused, using a few of his ball barings he carried to extend the chain. This kind of small delicate work was near subconscious for him now, as he had started out with this as a child when his power first manifested. His father gave him a roll of copper sheeting and told him to play around with it. He eventually got so good at it, he was able to make small models and move them about. It took control and he, even now, thought he was better at fine work. With the chain extended, he reformed it around the bar.

Sitting back, he flexed his shaking hands, and then rubbed his temples. Everything hurt, even those small action took a further toll on him. He gritted his teeth and spoke lowly at his still struggling companion.

“You have a fetish for biting things? I mean, you’ve bitten me twice. It’s pointless you know. Got some fool notion in your head, huh.” 

[hauntedghcsts-blog]

ofhcstility:

Pain was nearly goddamned blinding Cassidy as at first, the hard surface of the cracked pavement resounded up through her now aching left ankle with every hard step. Though the moment she hit the soft ground of the field, it wasn’t much better. Cold weather had hardened the soil, and the slew of dead grass only made her struggle to even remotely keep her balance as she took off at top speed. Not that she let those little fucking bumps in the road stop her. Swallowing the pain that rose, the blood that continued to flow in her mouth and the bile that was starting to sting the back of her throat from what she could only assume was the ramifications of being remotely sober for the first time in days, Cassidy put on a last, desperate burst of speed. That mother fucker couldn’t catch her, none of them could. And fuck if she didn’t half want him to come try. She wanted to sink her teeth into him, she wanted to beat him until he was an irrecognizeable bloody fucking pulp. But more than that, she needed to fucking survive.

She heard the ugly screech of a large van ramming to a halt, and shit if she didn’t hear that loud, blaring horn. Fuck, the kid’s recovery time was faster than she’d expected it to be, she shouldn’t have gone so light on him. [Though she was pretty sure she’d busted an eardrum at the very least, lamenting her methods weren’t gonna do her much good now. Instead, she spun her head back to look. Confusion whirled in her mind for a moment as that momentary glimpse showed her that the large man, the ringleader, was just standing outside his truck. That didn’t track.. why wasn’t he chasing her? Well shit, she wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, instead she ignored the cold bite of the wind on naked skin and sprinted in what seemed to be a now zig-zagging pattern toward the forest. In case these mother fuckers decided to shoot at her. Though her pace had slowed only a modicum, her slight limp had become vividly apparent.

She was so close.. so fucking close. She couldn’t hear anyone running after her.. for some reason. Couldn’t smell them, their sweat or the booze or the scent of gunpowder, and for a split second she felt a flare of excitement once more. Triumph. Then.. something very fucking weird happened. The handcuff around her wrist seemed to tingle. Seemed to shift slightly, heat up, but she didn’t really notice it. At least. Not until it, and her hand, and her entire fucking body went down, hard, with a sharp, strangled yelp.

Going at full speed, her entire body tumbled into the ground so hard that her body flipped and rolled for a second in the direction she’d still been running, held only in place by her wrist that was now inexplicably pinned to the ground. “What the f- What the fuck what the fUCK?”! Her voice howled, confused and rough as she recovered and dug her heels into the ground, trying to pull her entire weight. And succeeding.. minimally. It would only be an inch every ten seconds.. but that didn’t seem to deter her. She still pushed and yanked and struggled.. and when the man began to walk toward her. She got truly desperate. Flinging herself forward onto her stomach, Cassidy bent down and wrapped her teeth around the cuff, around the wrist. Biting unceremoniously. Shredding at metal and flesh as she snarled. The position leaving her on her stomach and baring her back. A back which, in the cold light of day, showed every scar. The ones she hid from everyone. The faded scars of beatings long past as a teenager, as a kid. Whippings from sticks and bare fists. The several raised scars from the torment she’d suffered years before at the hands of the raiders. What looked like scarred roadrash on her right shoulder. And most prominent, two ugly, large raised scars. One perpendicular to her spine and long. A blade having cut deep, as well as a sharp.. similar scar on the curve of her waist. Her long red hair was darkened by mud and dirt and wild around her face and naked shoulders as furious, seagreen eyes lifted to the man. Lips tinged slightly with her own blood as she bared her teeth up at him. Looking truly feral.

“I was tryn'a do you a favor, mother fucker.” She snarled, lashing out a hard kick at the man that was just out of reach. “Because now, last look you get of me is gonna be from the FUCKIN GROUND. Y'hear me?!?!” What wasn’t exactly blatant before was her accent. But now it was clear. A fast, husky twang that wasn’t southern.. but undeniably appalachian. “I’m gon'fuckin kick your nar'a ASS!” A threat that couldn’t seem to be taken seriously from a tiny, half naked woman pinned to the goddamn ground.

She was twisting, writhing on the hard packed soil, biting at her own goddamn wrist to try and escape. Pope had the image of a bloody scene he had come on when he had gone back home to Gheens. He had been out hunting with his relatives, lugging shotguns and bows through the Salvador while they checked traps. They where on the fourth trap when he felt more iron than a trap alone. There it was, sunk among the maiden cane and cattails, a limb removed from its owner. A fox’s leg, gnawed off, belonging to a corpse they found 20 yards on. And he had no doubt this fox would do the same.

Clearly she had survived worse. Scars littered her back, some shallow and faint, some angry and pink, recent. They stood out prominently among the dirt and mud and dust, along with the fire like shock of her tangled hair covering her neck and shoulders, hanging in limp curtains around her furious eyes. Pope felt a sudden rush of unbearable affection tinged with pride of this unnamed woman. Still fighting. Both him and whatever ghosts gave her these scars. He didn’t want to be another one, a bad memory etched into her skin with pain.

Against his better judgement, he bent down, ignoring her venom laced threats. Cute, coming from a pinned woman without a shirt in the middle of winter, but hardly understandable under that northern mountain-man twang. Though he had to give her credit for it. Pulling a ripped shirt that had been stuffed into the torn lining of his jacket as insulation, he shred it into two strips as he avoided her flailing and gritted his teeth to keep his concentration focused on holding her down.

“Stop.”

He ignored her nails digging into his arm, certain it was breaking skin but not caring. Pope carefully threaded the worn shirt through the cuff, protecting her wrist from the metal, and then took the second strip, wrapping it about her wrist to stop her bleeding. She stopped struggling for a moment, then reared up and fucking bit him.

Her sharpened canines sunk into his shoulder, and on instinct he jammed his hand under her chin, pulling her up and away, before grabbing her shoulder and flipping her on her back, pinning her carefully, now softening his hand just enough to hold her still. His heavy breath brushed across her neck, he could feel the blood already trickling down his arm.

“Damn, cher! Stop snapping, I’m trying to help you.” Raf and Colton’s steps thudded to a stop next to him and he curled closer towards her. He lowered his voice into a near whisper, leaning against her and holding her down with one arm while the other kept the cuff pinned to the ground. “Where the hell do you wanna go? There's nothing about for miles, and I guess you could wander drunk into another raider camp and get beaten?” He hesitated, noticing the scars on her stomach now. “Get more scars?” 

He leaned back slightly, finger tapping slightly on her shoulder dropping his voice even lower.

“But I don’t want that for you.”

He paused, watching her, before glancing up at his boys, then back at the stopped line of cars on the road, distant others leaning against cars and out of windows. He stood up again, hauling her light frame up over his uninjured shoulder, ignoring her beating fists and kicking legs.

“Okay, brin tracas. You’re riding back with me.” 

Colton and Raf descended in a chatter of doubt and disbelief that he would take her back again. After this. But as Pope saw it, he had no choice now. She was alone, scared and running. She wasn’t running towards something but simply running away. She had no one to go to. And once again, against his better judgement, he was helping her. Hopefully he wouldn’t get fucking bitten again.

[crucifiix]

[setmeatopthepyre]

season one, episode two; bobo’s hands.

[hauntedghcsts-blog]

ofhcstility:

There was one thing Cassidy knew for certain. As true as the goddamned sky was blue. She was going to kill that lanky, cocksure mother fucker before he killed her. All the other men could take her down.. probably would. She couldn’t really see a way out of this one. They were too organized, too collected. The man was too vigilante of a fuckin’ leader for a goddamn group of no-good raiders. But she was going to take sweet satisfaction in digging her claws into that pompous fuckin’ face. The redhead was so thoroughly intent on this line of thought that for a moment, she wasn’t even aware that the young man was regarding her again. Until her gaze snapped back into focus and she glanced at him, once more adopting a soft.. beaten look. She could do that. Shit.. even though it wouldn’t be that hard with how underfed she was, how beat to hell and filthy. It was one of the more difficult things she’d ever done. Pride was a bitch.

As the young man regarded her, her gaze lowered to his hands as her shoulders tucked forward and her head dropped. An expression of.. actually real.. pain crossing her features as she gave into the discomfort of everything. How tight the cuffs really were, the pain of her sharp teeth cutting open her cheek, her split lip and black eye and what was likely a bruised rib at the very least. She seemed almost wilted, cowed as her seagreen gaze flickered hesitantly up to his. “Come on.. please?”

When he agreed, that sweet.. reluctant voice. Cassidy almost felt bad for what was to come. Almost. Honestly, this kid made the choice to shack up with fuckin’ apocalypse pirates so she absolved herself of that guilt by telling herself he was lucky he was only getting what was coming. As he freed her, only uncuffing one hand as if that made a different.. the cuffs didn’t fucking matter.. she was now mobile. Little rube. “Yeah.. sure. You’re the boss.” She stated. But something in her stature seemed to shift. Though she didn’t act up, move fast or even make a threatening motion, her demeanor shifted. Shoulders squaring, spine straightening again like a cat arching it’s back Her gaze went from downcast to once more scanning, sharp and piercing. Watching him, watching her surroundings, until she caught sight of the turn a mile or so ahead. Her eyes immediately narrowed on the cars that turned around the massive cluster of rocks. Counting the time in between each car that turned. A minute and thirty seconds. Each time. That wasn’t a lot of time to do something.. but it was enough.

The moment they were two cars away from the turn, Cassidy straightened. The cuffs jangled as she shifted slowly to her knees and curled her fingers around her jacket, shedding it behind her. Then unbuttoning the plaid overshirt, shedding that as well until she was in an oversized longsleeved tee. Her gaze remained locked on the cars ahead, knowing the young man was now looking at her, more confused than angry. As they were only one car away now, she made a slow, deliberate show of pulling off the long sleeved shirt. Baring the curve of her scarred stomach, the deep red of the bra she was wearing, the way the straps were oversized so that one strap fell over her shoulder. She could hear a small, confused strangled sound coming from the young man, and as they approached the curve, her lips parted in.. for a moment, a bright and stunning smile.

“This flustered choirboy look is actually kinda cute.” She stated in a low, husky purr. Then the shadow of the rocks fell over them and they took the curve, swerving slightly. The moment they were out of sight of the asshole’s car behind them, she struck, hard.

Her closed fist, slightly cushioned by the wadded long sleeved shirt, slammed hard into the side of the kids head. Boxing his ear and sending the other side colliding somewhat hard into the window at his left. Enough to knock him stupid for a minute. The car kept driving at the same speed, though began to coast off the road. Before the kid could react, before his head even bounced off the window, the passengers side door flung open and the redhead leapt out of the car moving at full speed.

She hit the road with a low grunt and hiss of pain, but she didn’t have time to stop. Rolling once, twice, before kicking off of the pavement. Ignoring what was probably now a sprained ankle, and taking off at full speed across the field, knowing it was only a matter of seconds before the others realized what was going on. Not caring that she was fucking shirtless in the goddamned winter, that the bulk of her guns were back at the raiders camp, she’d worry about that later. The forests lining was less than a mile away and she could practically taste freedom. They couldn’t catch her… not with this headstart.

He could practically hear Pope’s voice in his head, the disappointed hiss of it: ‘you couillion.’ This passenger didn’t calm down, if anything, she became more tense and alert. Then an already bizarre afternoon only got more bizarre. She started stripping. Colton couldn’t really stop her, not with running afoul of those wicked sharp claws, but he gave a half hearted effort.

“What are you doing? Stop...”

He trailed off when his eyes settled on her, taking in the scarred but firm stomach, the curve of her ribs and the red bra. Without the scars, she wouldn’t be out of place at a strip joint or waving her shirt off the balcony of one of the sororities. Her smile was like the first sip of a bottle, just as intoxicating.

He near blindly took the curve, too busy paying attention to her voice, then came a blow that was completely unexpected. Colton’s head felt like it got rattled, like his ears were filled with feedback and his left temple throbbed. He struggled to keep the car straight and on the road. Then the car door opened in a rush of wind. She rolled out, and Colton stomped on the brakes, grunting in effort. Shit, she just rolled out of a car going at least 20 miles per hour, how the fuck had she not broken something? 

He twisted in his seat, looking for her body beside the car but instead saw her, shirtless and with a slight limp, in a headlong tilt, sprinting for the woods across the field to his right. He gasped, shaking his head to clear some of the ringing, before laying on the horn. The sudden noise startled the birds out of the trees that she was running for. Through his rear view mirror he could see Raf and Pope’s confusion and pointed frantically at the her retreating form.

No sooner had he said that, Colton’s car in front of them started driving erratically and then slowed, Raf stopping their car in confusion. They sat dumbstruck as they watched her roll out of the van and take off running across the field beside them.

“This where you thought it was gonna go?” Raf voice was deadpan, and when Pope looked over at him the boy had a faint smile dancing around his mouth.

Pope let his breath out in an angry burst, exploding into his native tongue mixed with his learned one.

“Beb, he’s couillion half tha time, I swear, me. That fonchock! Merde de'pouille! Pour l’amour de Dieu!”

Halfway through his rant, Pope tumbled out of the car, watching her run. She was a wild creature, that was for sure. Beside him, Raf was babbling again and he tuned him out, instead reaching out his hand towards the escaping woman. He had never tried this before, but he didn’t want her to get away. Raf faded out, he either stopped talking or Pope just was too focused. 

He extended his sense, feeling the barely there vibration of the metal in the earth, the hot burn of the knife at the small of his back and pushed out. It hurt and he gasped, breath coming fast. He could faintly feel Raf’s hand on his shoulder, the younger man shouting in his ear. Pope shrugged him off, and suddenly he could feel her, the liquid under her skin, the little button at her waist, the metal clasps on the back of her bra, the small pieces in their neat line up her shoes, the cold hard circle around her wrist. 

He focused on that first, the metal and how it brought a rush of blood to it, bruises forming in blossoms of iron under the delicate skin of her wrist. He could practically feel it, hooked right over his fingers, the metal heating. Then he gathered up the smaller pieces, pulling them into his palm. With a sharp exhale, he opened his eyes, brought his hand into a fist and then down. He gave a satisfied growl at the sight of her landing in a tumble. 

Beside him Raf and now Colton gave triumphant hoots, while he stalked in a steady prowl across the field, baring his teeth in a grimace as he pressed and pulled at the metal on her to keep her from wriggling too far. He finally stopped in front of her, avoiding her snapping teeth and wild snarls.

“Where were you thinking of goin’, fille?”

[icefighter-deactivated20231001]

Cillian’s eyes apprecation post [3/?]

[omarmix]

3x06

[sikanapanele-deactivated2018121]