Savior

// I’m back from PAX, but I think I’m going to be putting Jack on a little hiatus! I’ve been a pretty drained from school and everything, and I think it’s been impacting how I play Jack. I want to give him a short break so that I can regather his voice and figure out a better way to tackle the threads I have on him!

I’m going to tentatively say that this hiatus will extend until September 29th {the day after my graduation!}, so that will give me a little less than a month to regroup on here.

I’ll be on Berenice, though she’s also pretty slow since I am very busy with school.

Hopefully this won’t off put anyone!

   “…what did you say?” He seems honestly put off – and he is. Why wouldn’t he be? The last time he and the boy spent any amount of time together BONDING was when he put him to bed.

Admittedly that was the night before, but sometimes it has night terrors or something. The screaming can only be silenced as a swig of VODKA and a quick smothering underneath the plush pillows. Something that Ryan is all TOO HAPPY to be bothered with.

“HUNTING? Hah! If I were to go hunting, I would take BILL. He serves as good bait when I cut his palms open and let him bleed. He attracts the more WILD of the…well, the WILD.

Though I suppose you could make for a good DOG or something? Would you like that? Dressed up like the old pup – what was his name?”

Jack. The dog’s name had been Jack – the light of Ryan’s life. When he was forced to take accept his son (and rid himself of the mother), it was an easy way to relieve himself of his grief. What shame the boy brings to the Jack he once loved. 

“…no. No. It’s a wretched idea. I want nothing to do with it.” He exhales, rolling his eyes. Ryan eyes his glass, brilliant flowing of red that he presses to his lips, sucking in a large breath through his nose.

“I could be the dog.      That could be my thing.           Our thing.”

Jack didn’t quite pick up on the sarcasm of the suggestion, clear in his strong and determined demeanor.

He needed a ‘thing’ about him other than the stupid weird kid of Andrew Ryan’s. Hunting Dog Man would be a much better thing than that. {Aside from that, he desperately needed to do better by the late Jack’s name.}

“It does, doesn’t it?” He drew a long, bony finger across his chin. “Perhaps I should look into that. It might also be a good idea to hire an assistant. Someone who can do the more, ah… practical work.” The first person he thought of was Jack. He did great work, but no doubt he was terribly busy. He had to be, working in a place like this.

“You wouldn’t happen to know someone, would you? Someone who could do with a job.”

His face was blank as the man spoke, staring at him, then the mostly repaired siding. Jack wasn’t expressive, nor was he an active listener, but at least he heard what was said.

     “I don’t know that many people.

Send me “rough touch” for a randomly generated situation.

    status: accepting

     7. Your muse grips my muse’s hips.

Elizabeth was observant where Jack was not. He was the kind to just keeping going, eyes on the prize and nothing else. She noticed the small things, what small shimmering objects stuck out in the dark and what masks watched them from behind potted plants and broken benches. They were an even team in that regard, having some balance between them for the quieter times in their journey. It was an equality Jack liked in a partner - even if he would have preferred someone a bit more physically capable.

But that was neither here nor there, the two already having become accustom to their dynamic. They were a confused parallel of the Big Daddies and Little Sisters - though only by a thread. Though Elizabeth could find threads were they sat, doing her best to be the detective or metaphor in her later years.

It was her attune senses that drew her vision to the tightly strung wire, tied purposefully to a can of oil and a lighter’s end. Jack wasn’t one to note traps or tricks, all too oblivious to things that didn’t jump and shoot in his face.

There was no hesitation in her lunge, hands grasping his hips tightly, red-painted nails digging into sweater fabric and flesh as she yanked him back {or as much as she could}. His step faltered, one reversing before he turned to look down at her.

     “There. It’s a trap,” one hand released his side, pointing dramatically towards the grey cord.

     “Oh.” His other foot moved back to meet his right, standing a few feet from the now obvious wire-trap.

God, couldn’t he even say thank you?

Send me “rough touch” for a randomly generated situation.

    status: accepting

     13. Your muse pushes my muse to their knees.

For what little time the two had known one another, it wasn’t a surprise that Jack would be on guard around the other man.

While the setting and it’s people may have had an impact on it, the weapons and smooth speech had it’s own implications. Their pairing had been one made in reluctance - Jack taking what Ronny had to offer with a grain of salt. He didn’t need someone to assist him - anything that Ronny could provide Jack could have...eventually figured out {probably}. Jack, in his mind, was a self-sustaining country boy, with a steel will to get anything done. Though, as his decision had shown, even someone as strong as him often needed some companionship {as much as he didn’t actively notice the need}.

It was his need for a friend {or something close to it} that brought him to let him guard down. He allowed the man to walk behind him, keeping the front clear of any crazies that may have been lurking, with little regard to the ‘caboose’ of their chain.

Only when hands found his back and pushed did Jack regret his ignorance, falling forward and to his knees with a less-than-subtle ‘thump.’ He grunted, moving to jump back to take some kind of revenge, wrench already finding his hand. It was only moments before his swing that he noticed the gesture: a finger, placed firmly before the man’s mouth, knees bent and eyes narrowed -gaze pointed up. In a frozen moment Jack’s gaze followed Ronny’s, spotting the point of interest.

     “Darling? Are you hungry?”

The womanly voice shook from the ceiling, hooks clanging against rusted metal piping. She stopped, body going slack from the ceiling, head turning to and fro in a half-hearted search, before she returned herself to the rafters. In a second her form had turned, skittering down the damp and darkened hall.

After some seconds Jack breathed again, looking at Ronny from the ground, posed on one knee with his wrench still in hand. The proud look on Ronny’s face was lost on Jack, returning himself to his feet, wrench finding itself back in his pocket. He turned, moving to continue his strides down, giving the other man one last glance before continuing.