#muse; jason

[returnedtoashes]

@only-we​

It had been a long day already and there was little reprieve with the afternoon sun bearing down on them. It reflected off the sand, Jason likened the feeling to walking around in an oven where the door had been left open. It could have been worse but it wasn’t fuckin’ great either. To add to growing tensions the hot, dry desert winds had started to kick up and they were walking directly against it. Painful little stings could be felt from the grains of sand spraying against their faces. Sure, they didn’t complain about it, but they didn’t have to. The frustration was well-known.

“Off course?! The fuck are you talkin’ about, Seed.” His teammate spoke up with a concern. He had meant to be helpful, but it rubbed him as wrong as the grit did. “You think you know the desert ‘cause you’ve been out here before, huh? What a load of good that did. You’re right back here doin’ the same damn shit in the same damn rank!” Jason should have known better. He did know better. He could read the situation and some part of him even acknowledged that was enough... but he had to run his mouth one last time. “Fall the fuck back in line Corporal!”

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severe injury (for cowboy?)

MEME → Tagged appropriately.

The months following Jason's 'descent into hell' as he affectionally called it hadn't been easy, though they proved rewarding. Rose hadn't forgotten him and true to her nature she visited upon him in the dead of night, unannounced, and led him to look around his own home as though he were chasing a thief skulking in the dark.

That night had marked the beginning of his mercenary work. It was an offer he couldn't refuse, nor would he, the world didn't have room for the war torn men and women who returned from deployment, much less one with an unbelievable story. He'd rather put his skill to some use than end up a veteran in debt, or even homeless.

To cede the role of leadership had been the biggest adjustment. Jason wasn't new to having a chain of command but he was certainly back on the bottom rung. It had been the cause of some few, or many, 'disagreements'.

So, when he was alerted to the clamber of another body in his new home he wouldn't have stopped himself from cursing even if he tried. "Fuckin' Rose, cut it out with this bullshit," he stormed, knowing all to well exactly who had invited themselves into his private space.

Tense, like a tightly wound coil, Jason seemed ready to unload some months worth of pent-up frustrations... until he laid eyes on the situation. Like a switch, he went from anger to militant. Already pacing to retrieve a med kit to sort out this bloody horror that had landed on his new carpeting.

"Don't even start," he warned, "y' can't guarantee y'll always come back. Tell me everything. What happened, n' will there be any shrapnel?"

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Plotted Starter | @wiintereyes​

There was a bitterness in being home. The house contained no true purpose for him. It was a lonely space, consisting of walls, a roof over his head and a damn busted pipe that had leaked over his deployment and left his basement in rot and ruin. There now existed a certain spongey area in the floor between the basement stairs and the living area where he had thrown a red towel, a marker of ‘do not tread here’.

Jason’s compensation would only stretch so far. He and the other survivors had signed NDA documents until their wrists hurt, and the pay check wasn’t half-bad... though it wouldn’t last forever. And he, just like the rest of his team, had been essentially benched. None of them were getting active assignments and their salary amounted to pennies once bills were paid and necessities met. Without the added benefits of active duty? They were left scraping by.

So, shitty basement and potential floor hazard were forced to the backburner. It should have taken precedent, should have been the most important thing in his life to sort out, but in this fucked up situation? He couldn’t do a damn thing about it even if he wanted to. He could have used the busy work too.

Anything to keep him out of his own damn head.

What happened down in that ancient temple and cave system had left its mark on him. He jumped at shadows and lived in fluorescent light. He couldn’t even sleep in the dark. Like a damn kid, he had to keep the lights on, had to have it all planned out.

That night, as he ran through his checklist and made it into bed, his precautions suddenly came to the test. Perhaps he was sensitive to sound but he definitely heard the creak of his dangerous floorboards shift under someone else’s weight. His reaction was muscle memory, knew where to reach for the gun, armed and ready for a confrontation he checked outside his door and made a quick sweep. “Hands where I can see ‘em!” he shouted, weapon pointed at a dark-clad figure.

[returnedtoashes]

"look, I don’t have time for this shit." //jason

"Ain't nobody got time for your shit!" Jason spat back. "You wanna go out there n' make yourself zombie shit? Be my fuckin' guest, man, but I'll be damned if I let you walk in here and get my squad killed."

Tempers flaring was one thing. Some jumped-up little shit trying to pull rank in this shit show was another. Life didn't come nice or easy to a trained marine, anything resembling a civilian was stripped from them through training. They were steeled against the challenges to come and taught the deep-rooted loyalty of what it meant to serve in uniform.

"Either we're doin' this my way or you're on your own." his voice dropped in warning. The man wore a uniform himself, but no one could be trusted on sight. That had to be earned. As far as he was concerned Kennedy was a walking, talking disaster waiting to happen and he wasn't about to put the fate of his men in this stranger's hands.