She became, all at once, aware of the tears on her cheeks. Pulling a slightly ripped hoodie sleeve up to wipe her eyes, Rachel exhaled and felt so much pain and anger follow in the breath's path. When Tracey had found this place, this group, and pulled her along for the ride, Rachel never could've expected this. To be so seen and heard and understood. To have anyone hear her sorrows and fears and heartaches and validate them.
There was an empathy to the man in front of her, to John, that had caught her off guard. He'd clearly experienced his own share of life's difficulties. Probably even more than she had.
And when he spoke, she believed him.
That she'd be safe here. That fear was a thing of the past because she was loved and accepted and home.
"We're safe here. Safe and loved. Nothing will be the same."
@devought asked ; " we're two sides of the same coin. "
prompt ; ( open )
Montana in the summer was perfect. Or it would have been if there wasn’t a civil war going on in the tricounty area. If his friends were still alive. Alex sighs softly to himself. He tries to forget about that last thought and cling to the hope that they were alive. Just because he couldn’t get any information about their safety and well-being didn’t mean they were dea –– gone. They maybe had their own hideouts, just as he did. The cabin he’d holed up in was at the base of the mountains that Jacob Seed had laid claim to. Nestled between tall peaks and low valleys, it was a decent enough place to quickly get from one region to the next. Alex didn’t want to brave the Henbane quite yet, but he knew the longer he left Sara there, the less likely he’d find her.
That’s the thought that spurs him into action. Alex packs a backpack and grabs the rifle and handgun he’d kept on him ever since he’d escaped John’s bunker. It’s early enough in the morning to give him an advantage if he leaves now. Less people to spot him and less patrols from both sides. He tosses the bag into his truck and sets off, taking a back-road to avoid any other people. He glances from the road towards the winding river, his heart dropping when he sees what looks like a baptism taking place. Alex tells himself not to stop, to stay focused, but he can’t. He pulls off into some brush and parks the truck, grabbing a jar out of his backpack before he heads off in the direction of the riverside.
There’s at least four of John’s people, five if the one holding the book of Joseph and ‘preaching’ counts. Those who had already gone through the bliss-tainted water remain on their knees at the waters edge, zoned out. The ones waiting their turn are probably in the back of the nearby van. Alex sneaks around, picking up a rock and throwing it in the opposite direction. The sound catches their attention, the ceremony coming to a pause. It gives Alex the opening he needs to get in close. He swings around the stock of his rifle, slamming it into one man’s head. He goes down, knocked out cold. Alex follows it up by throwing the jar directly at the center of the three that had moved towards the sound. The cloud of noxious fumes throws them into a coughing fit. The only one left was the man preaching, who tackles Alex the moment he turns towards him.
They thrash and wrestle for dominance in the shallow water, rocks biting into every bit of skin as he rolls over and gets the preacher’s nose and mouth under the current. Alex holds him there, until the flailing stops. The other three were still trying to recover from the stink bomb of sorts, which left Alex very little time. He cuts the bindings on the blissed out people’s wrists, running over to the van to unlock the back and usher the rest of them out.
“Get the others.” He hisses the order. Fingers tremble as he remembers the feel of the man’s pulse going from rapid to slow then still beneath them in the river. They hurry to do as they’re told, but Alex hadn’t counted on Jacob’s hunters being near enough to step in. One man falls with a gurgled scream, an arrow lodged in his throat, another woman cries out as an arrow pierces her thigh.
Alex ducks behind the van, narrowly avoiding an arrow as well.
One of John’s men had passed out, leaving two still conscious as they coughed. He’d counted three hunters before he’d been forced to hide. Alex sighs as he slings the rifle around to his front. He hated this, but when push came to shove, he’d do what he had to in order to survive. Alex breathes in, then out his fingers tingle as he settles into what’s to come. He crouch walks to the other side of the van, quickly peering to get a look at where they were at. Then he swings the rifle to his shoulder, aims and fires. The process repeats with him switching up positions as best he can given his limited mobility. He’s shot at least three, killed two –– three if John’s people were included.
Reinforcements had arrived, and he knew it wasn’t looking good, but he couldn’t give up. Alex turned an impassive eye on the hunters across the river. Later he’d feel remorse about this, panic and throw up until nothing remained in his stomach. For now, he was calm, collected, watching with the kind of detachment one needed to survive a firefight.
Or, he was until an arrow embedded into his shoulder from behind.
He’s too shocked to scream. Alex merely turns his head and looks at the shaft sticking out from his back right shoulder blade. The rifle clatters to the dirt, his fingers spasming around it, unable to hold on. He reaches for his handgun. With that he could use his left hand and still put up a fight. Alex unholsters it, turning around and shooting a Hunter in the chest before someone leaps at him. They slam him against the side of the van and this time he does scream. The arrow gets forced deeper into his back, at an uncomfortable angle. They slam the back of his hand against the metal door until he drops the pistol. It’s around then that his vision starts to blur and he realizes that the arrow had been coated in bliss.
“Fuck.” He groans. Cold eyes shift towards the woman that had pinned him to the van. She’s managed to get his hands ziptied in front of him, his body swaying slightly from the drug flooding his system.
Then he sees him. Alex isn’t in the right headspace to be as afraid as he should be. John the Baptist strolls down the embankment like it’s a Sunday outing, and he is dressed in his Sunday best. Detached gaze tracks John’s movement as he takes in the scene before him. The first casualties he pauses at are the men Alex had shot, then he circles towards the riverside and gives the drowned man a long, lingering look. The civilians caught in the crossfire don’t get so much as a passing glance.
Before Alex can react to it, John is in front of him. The bliss makes his eyes too blue in the early sunlight, and the mist rolling off the river gives the entire scene a disturbing surrealist vibe.
“We’re two sides of the same coin.” John’s voice strikes something within him. Cold green eyes soften somewhat, pupils nervously darting to the side to take in the carnage. John watches him with rapt attention. Alex’s pulse starts to race. The anxiety of what he’d done made worse by the inherent wrongness that came with the bliss. He feels pressure at his face, a hand wiping at a tear he hadn’t even felt slipping down his cheek. Alex jerks, slamming back against the van and further driving the tip of the arrow into flesh and sinew.
❛ Like patience, passion comes from the same Latin root: pati. It does not mean to flow with exuberance. It means to suffer. ❜
@devought , from here .
The ligatures are too tight. She’s starting to lose the feeling in her hands, and her ass is numb from sitting in this chair for so long. She’s thought about asking for a cushion. There’s no position she can find to sit in that is comfortable except maybe to stretch her legs out as far forward as they will go, half in the hopes that John will forget that they are there and trip over them as he paces around the room.
Every now and then her stomach interrupts with some of the loudest, most obnoxious growls she’s ever heard it do. They make her smile a little as she stares calmly at John, mind drifting aimlessly to cheeseburgers. The ones in the soft, seedless buns. She hates the ones with the seeds because they always get stuck between her teeth. These are the things she thinks about whilst here with him, eyes on his mouth.
His lips are moving, but...
At some point, she cranes her head back far enough to stare at a stain on the ceiling. Her hair slips from her shoulders and dangles down the back of the hard, steel chair. It looks a little like a face with a tiny moustache, and the longer she stares at it, the more the face in the stain changes. The face had been smiling. Now it scowls down at her with a sort of ire. Her eyes feel wet all of a sudden.
All she can do is close them before the tears fall.
I am so tired...
Her voice whispers in silence, lips pressing firmly together. Her throat constricts and she swallows. Hard. There is a heavy kind of sorrow growing heavier in her chest. John may as well be standing on her, crushing her. The weight would be the same.
“I am suffering, sitting here... listening to you...” She lifts her head and lets it fall forward. She doesn’t have the energy to keep it up right, her eyes still shut. “Somethin’ tells me you only look at yourself when you’re having sex,” she says spontaneously, dragging her eyes open and looking anywhere but at him. “Faith will be looking for me.” Although she’s not sure she really believes that anymore.
For one thing, she was holding her champagne flute the wrong way. Not that she ever understood how you hold something wrong, aside from dropping it. But her knuckles were white against the stem of the glass, and somewhere in the back of her mind she noted that she was doing something wrong.
Funny, that. Her parents laid dead in their casket not twenty feet away, but their displeasure still managed to reach her. Reminding her of every little fuck up that could and would occur at this sort of event, with all the ones she’d made in the past as a fun little example. People murmured their condolences and respects to one another. Her plus one stood impatient by her side, but their voice was miles away. Everything had muddled together, except the image of her own hand clenching a glass ‘til the liquid inside shook and her own brain scolding her to let go.
She doesn’t notice John’s broken away from the crowd until there’s a tug on her jacket. The feeling managed to drag her out of her thoughts, enough to notice that he was readjusting her jacket. The lapels were now even, her collar no longer sticking up.
His eyes were tinged with red, and she could imagine they looked mournful to the audience gathered in the hall. She finally loosened her grip, setting down the glass to grab his arm.
“Oh John, keep us safe! He’s gonna march us right to Eden’s Gate~” The Herald bounces from foot to foot, spinning on the spot with that familiar tune on her lips. She misses their gatherings - with the project at such a large scale it’s rare that she gets such quality time with her sibling. Faith giggles, skipping over to him with a small sigh. Faith is thankful that she’s given the time today to talk to people actually capable of responding to her. The Angels do not make for great company some days, and despite the itch on her arm that surges every time she looks at John, she smiles and dances towards him as though she hasn’t a care in the world.
“Hello, brother.”
This is the first time he’s even BEEN to the Seed Ranch. The house is LAVISH and massive, peggies standing and chatting idly by as Alder whistles for Dakota to follow. The canine jumps out from the back, squaring her shoulders and putting on a mask of professionalism. As both a K9 Unit AND Service Dog...well. If John didn’t want her here, he might just LEAVE.
They met in town, Alder having been called to BREAK APART a dispute in the middle of the road. A few people were SHOUTING at those from Eden’s Gate and Alder rushed forward to put a stop to it. John had this weird LOOK on his face when he saw him.
He INVITED Alder for coffee when he got off work.
As he approaches the door, he raises his hand to knock. The Peggies are STARING at him now. Maybe they couldn’t believe he brought his DOG? Or that he’s here so LATE? Blame his work hours.
