it lives in my faint blood --

She watches his smug smirk, eyebrows creased in what might be mockery or annoyance. “The only reason I’ve not picked up much about you is ‘cause I don’t think of you at all,” she says, rolling her eyes at the rest of her comments and casting her eyes away from his annoying facial expression. It’s hardly her family’s way, to be easily aggravated — but when hasn’t Daiyu been an exception to the Volkov-rule? “Besides, if you have to point out that you’re creepy, it kind of loses its effect.” And that much is true. She might be aggravated, but she’s far from actually creeped out. There is something clawing around in her, but it’s not fear, it’s rather worry, the unrelenting feeling of knowing there’s more going on than you can grasp.

Sometimes she wishes more like Nik or Inna, capable of simply ceasing to response, pressing lips together in a fine line and refusing to play along. But Daiyu has always been all bark and bite, loudness one of the most trusty forms of rebellion. Refusing to grit her teeth and sit by quietly, opening her mouth when no one else would when with Alexei, leaning into crudeness and vulgarity just to make sure she offends. She cannot sit idly by. 

So maybe Anso has a point, picking her for this. Maybe she is more fun, for her incapability to not engage. And besides, this blatant willingness to admit that he’s toying with her reminds her too much of her father’s modus operandi. As does her willingness to bite down on anything he throws her way, a snapping dog on a chain that’s too tight. It’s infuriating, how easily her head whips up at those words.

He can’t know, can’t he? Of whatever grassroots shit Gilbert mentioned? Daiyu knows little of it and perhaps that’s best, because then there’s little chance that she lets something slip, now. She focuses on keeping a straight face. This, in and of itself, is counterproductive: Daiyu’s face is never straight. “And what, you’re that? Good authority?” She lets out a scoff, bravado  making her loud. “Shit, you’re totally fuckin’ oblivious. Mike, a big dog? He was an enforcer, sure, and a lazy piece of at that. Wasn’t long for this world, anyway, with that fucked eye of this.” 

That’s the only hand she’d had in it, but she doesn’t know if there’s any point in trying to convince this bullheadish creature. Nor is there any use in pointing out that she has little interest in being an enforcer. Him becoming one, though? She’d prefer not to witness it. “Wow, you have it all figured out, don’t ya?” Daiyu leans back against the railing, scans him up and down. “Like, damn. What, you’ve been here a few weeks? Maybe two months? And you’ve figured it all just right the fuck out and assume that you’re good enough to be considered. As if you’re considered at all — as if my pops would consider a new arrival. As if you’re gonna get it, wasting your time like this.” She shakes her head. “And I don’t need shit from you, for the fucking record.” 

“sure i am,” anso says, and he’s grinning full and wide now. like he’s amused at how this has gone. like she, has played right into the useless, pawing and batting he’d taken up. like it may even make her bleed, and wouldn’t that just be all too amusing? “good at being authority, princess.” he continues, tongue curling around the word to make it abundantly clear that he means it as a mockery. “--there’s a difference. an important one.”

“yet he was one of the ones your dad liked, wasn’t he?” anso counters, leaning in now. he’s fully engaged in this now, picking at the threads of her responses and unspooling them for the flimsy moral basis they stand on. something about the end of the world made fools out of most if not all an average joe, these poor fucks. they just didn’t get it -- she just didn’t get it. “that’s what you’re not getting, volkov.” he says, dropping the mocking title for once. “--you need good dogs to run a place like this. good for nothing, shit dogs who’re good at taking orders. that’s what mike was to your dad.” there’s a glint to his eye, something just off in his gaze. but then he’s leaning back, pursing his lips. “he couldn’t have been good enough if he got himself killed, but that’s just it, ain’t it? this zone’s problem. no fucking good dogs.” take it from him, anso could say; he was as good as they came. 

spitfire batting at him, hardly enough to make him bleed but enough to give him something to swat at. he watches her, lazily predatory, thumb stroking at the tip of the rifle he was still leaning on. “oh he’ll consider” anso says, more confidently than he should. he should at least play at being nice, let himself slumber until he had enough ground to claw into. “--there’s plenty of opportunities for me to prove my worth now, ain’t there?” he adds, back off to keep batting at the relative space in which he wants the volkov heir to consider him. to hover just beyond her reach -- enough to keep her paranoid of him, but not enough to give her reason to turn him in. “just gotta get some idiots to confess, pull out the weak links and let daddy dearest decide what to do with them. how hard can it be?” and he nods at her, tilts his head as if he’s acquiescing. “s’pose it’d get me some big points bringing you in, but he’s gotta know you hate his guts, right? if i can tell, shit -- he’s gotta know. must be why he keeps you locked up like that.” he emits a low whistle, leans back. “real messy of y’all, airing out the family business like that. makes a weak front. how’s he gonna have any time to train good dogs when he’s too busy wrangling your leash?” 

when — 22 may. where — mall, stairwell. who — @sommersanso​

The place crawls with faces familiar and unfamiliar alike, the food hall a place of congregation that Simon finds agitating on most days. The loudness, the chewing and crudeness with which some take to their portions, eating like animals when this situation does not call for animalistic behaviour. No, best to save such instincts for trespassers and infected, Simon thinks. Still, he sits there day in and out, ears sharp and table shared with fellow soldiers. Today, he doesn’t contribute to their conversation – something about the gear they managed to strap off a couple of travelers – but in stead stares at one of the less-familiar faces.

Defected from the notorious militia. Pissed Orquídeas off enough to get a shiner for it. Built like something that could snap half of this base in half. Called Anso. Simon finds intrigue, maybe. Concern, too. The idea that all it takes to vet someone is interrogation ( with the likes of Nikolai ) does not sit well with him. Does not sit well with Alexei either, he’s sure. Another mouth to feed has to be worth it, doesn’t it?

He abandons his ration, shoving them to his neighbour when he sees the other get up. His stainless steel bottle comes with, though, as he slinks after him. He is intrigued, let’s call it that — intrigued, by the way the other carries himself, by the aggression he supposedly showed when faced with Orquídeas. He’s concerned, though not on his own behalf. He moves, ignores greetings, and follows the other out of the court, into the stairwell. 

It’s of little concern to him, whether the door is quiet as it falls close. Feet thunder down the stairs, onto the landing below, and this is where he meets the other. “You’ve been kicking up a storm, newbie.” Simon’s hand reaches out, finger flicking against the other’s jaw where the skin is red from impact. He wears it well. Simon knows it well, the lasting impact of knuckles on facial bone. “Whatever is your deal?”

anso spends most of his meal hour in relative quiet paying attention to his food, and not much else. he’s stalked, prowled, and hunted to his heart’s desire; there’s no more fun in the zone for him outside of the one he makes for himself. he’d clanked his tray down at a relatively empty table, let his rations scatter and splash a bit of a mess right next to a brunette -- the only other body at the table. she’d looked at him, deer in headlights, and he’d given her an ugly grin, mouth open as he chewed. she’d scuttled away with not so much as a word of send off, left her glass of water behind which anso had taken to gulping from without much ado. he’d wanted to sit in peace and she’d occupied the least filled table in the room. sure, he could do the big man act, bare his teeth and threaten to bite. but why go through all that trouble on his hours off when his pretty face could do the job alone?

he had finished his food without further preamble, and was making his way to the stairwell. there were no shoulders to shove past, the corridor empty -- until it wasn’t. brows furrowed in the way they always sat, a deep set line in between his brows, he neither flinched nor moved back as the stranger stepped in. head jerking at the touch, anso’s hand was fast, fingers wrapping around the offensive wrist tight enough to hurt in the blink of an eye. 

eyes narrowing, his gaze was a thin slit, mouth sitting in a grimace just close to ugly as he assessed the man. anso tilted his head, the movement serpentine, purposeful. now, now -- who are you? the beat of the pause pulsed, his gaze flickering down the man’s face as a blunt, subtle grin took to scarring his mouth. the hand gripping the man’s wrist loosened, shoving his hand away with enough force to shake the man’s shoulder, enough to toss him back just a step if he wasn’t standing square. 

there’s a rumbling in the ground, as if the maw of it is promising to growl itself open. it’s the thundering of stomping feet in the stands, the chaos of it clustered and cacophonous.  the grizzlies were always hungry and hungry dogs were rewarded. today, that had meant four against one. four prisoners, one runner. the odds were stacked just enough for it to be a good show -- to feed the salivating spectators. the fight itself was relatively quick; but it had been messy, blood soaked and brutal. the splattering evidence of it was sowing blood into the grounds of the pit, still fresh. the screams from the stands never quieted, the stomping thunderous. the crowd ate it up. the roars of approval or screams of disgust all sound the same from the ground.

a beat, the split in a hair’s breadth of a moment. someone threw what looked like a stone -- the first throw untraceable as the crowd pulsed, swallowed the action whole. the screaming continued, mangled yells and declarations rising and rising until they hit a fever pitch. they had been screaming at the survivors, until they weren’t -- until they were screaming with them. anso could feel the uneasiness as it waved through the fence line where yen’s dogs sat. anso was still among them, bolted to the ground as his gaze assessed the stands, fists balled at his sides. the moment pulsated and sweltered. they were cheering for them.

eyes cutting to where yen was sat, neither said a word as their gazes met. the command came in the form of something of a nod, but anso was well-trained to know what yen meant by that. hands gripping his shirt, he peeled it off, tossing it to the ground with no further thought as two balled fists came to thump at his own chest. he huffed out a gruff breath, turning to stalk towards the fenced gates of the pit, to the racks by it where they stacked the weapons for the rare few fights that they allowed the prisoners the advantage of weapons. he grabbed two of axes, tossing and turning them in his grip with lips pursed. a sharp inhale through his nose, anso turned and spat on the ground, heading towards the gates of the pit behind him.

he walked in with the roar of the crowd to his back. the screaming and stomping seemed to peak again at the site of it. it wasn’t common site anymore, anso ankle deep in the mud of the pits. he had been something of a legend in here -- undefeated, unbent. it was what had earned him his spot in yen’s ranks, what had given his terror the reign it sought. would you believe it? the war dog’s return to the pits.

an ugly grin scars his face as he prowls in, head tilting as he surveys the survivors in their varying state of bruised, bloodied, broken. one’s limping -- even if she makes it out, she’ll be picked off before sunrise. pity, that. anso supposed the death that was to befall them now would be mercy.

“now, now -- y’all got done a little too quick don’t you think?” he calls, voice booming. it carries over the crowd, even as the screaming quietens if only a modicum, if only to hear what the war dog has to say. “we promised the grizzlies a whole show. it’s been a good fucking week, and they deserve a good show.” his gaze slips from one prisoner’s to the next, oil-slick, that something feral behind the blue of his eyes is hard to miss. “don’t we?” he asks again, turning the crowd as he throws his hands up. the glint of the steel catches the sun, and the sharp blades of his weapons gleam under the beating sun. “don’t we now?”

The radio silence is grating. Both literal and metaphorical — the lack of sound coming from the carry-on radio with them frustrates and the lack of sound coming from her father burrows under her skin, leaving her wired and paranoid. There’s a dead body with an eye permanently damaged by Daiyu’s hands and a manhunt going on for his killer and her father says nothing. But this guy, now, this fucking guy, is put on patrol with her and starts asking intrusive questions.

Daiyu has half a mind to snatch the rifle from him and hitting him in the face with the butt. As he speaks and for heaven’s sake, does he speak a lot. Endless monotone droning, psycholanalysing her as if he’s stood by as she grew into the shape she holds now. As if he knows her at all. Her hands tighten, white knuckles showing. Her father would tap them, demand release unless she were to make her anger a promise she could and would keep. Daiyu moves to stare at him. And she wonders – she has to wonder – if somehow her father has put him up to this. Because Alexei sure hasn’t asked her if she was the one who finished Mike off, where plenty of others had. “You think an awful lot about me, Sommers. What’s that? A crush? An infatuation, or, shit, just a stalkerish obsession? Kind of creepy, regardless, and borderline pathetic.”

It’s hard to be sardonic and sarcastic when she’s pissed, it’s clear enough. “What d’you care, anyway? You don’t seem particularly moved by whatever goes on here, what lives were lost and who Mike was. What’s this? You gunning for that enforcer position?” Now her anger twists, turns into a bark of a laugh. “Switch strategies, ‘cause I didn’t fucking do it.” And even if she had, would someone be promoted for offering her guilt to her father? Would she end on the gallows? It’s her oldest nightmare, her father fastening a noose around her neck, but she’s realised by now that he’d never go for public execution. A well-planned accident to claim her life, that would look better. “So, if your curiosity’s satiated, do me the favour of shutting up.” 

“creepy ‘s my m.o., princess. you ain’t that sharp if that’s all you’ve picked up about me by now.” anso replies, the smug smirk still etched deep on his face. if they hadn’t murdered that canyon village lunatic, he might’ve thanked him for the show. this was the first truly interesting thing to happen to this shit base since he’d gotten here. that was fact, not just his own ego blooming. “besides, you’re more fun to play with than half of the sad fucks around here.” he says, and means it. anso tried his fair hand at batting around, trying to find something or someone to keep him occupied as he made slow work on his true mission here. but most everyone around these parts backed down the moment he bared his teeth. what was he supposed to do with that? 

she spits that title at him -- enforcer. alexei must not be all that good at breeding these enforcers if this is how the zone was functioning under their hand. too many loose ends, too many messes allowed to muddy the power. if he had actually deserted home to kiss some volkov’s ass, maybe anso would have more earnestly offered his services. the only way to keep people in check was with fear. there was no room for weeds, he might have told him. you let the strong clear out the weak and burn the bodies. it’d free up some bunk space while they were at it. 

earnest or not, anso was in fact gunning for that enforcer position if that’s what it took for him to get alexei’s ear. he knew he’d caught the dictator’s attention. he wasn’t a sweet talker, but he could talk the language of violence people like alexei knew all too well. he’d have his favor before long, and then -- it was only a matter of time till this base bled.

“maybe i am. we sure are lacking some good authority around here. too many people getting a bit too rowdy. sounds like you and the lot have been working on taking out his big dogs.” anso adds that you in there, tosses it in all easy like it’s not meant as an accusation of its own. his grin is wider, now -- uglier for it. “--all the ones with the sharp teeth, anyway. maybe he needs some fresh blood in the ranks.”

"you know, i've been trying to figure out." he says, posturing. he takes to lean against a rock, setting the butt of his rifle on his knee so he can sling an arm around it, hang onto it. "i thought -- maybe it's a tantrum." free hand gesturing, palm up in gesture as he throws it around with a recklessness. "daddy's not paying enough attention me...let me do something drastic about it." he pauses, purses his lips as if he's really considering it. "would seem like your style."

"--but then, then i remembered that bleeding heart of yours." the words are flatter as he drones on, tone making it plenty clear of what anso thinks of men trying to be heroes. the downturn of his lips isn't quite strong enough to portray his disgust, but it says something about how pathetic he finds it. "which, i've gotta say princess -- real fucking cliche." he makes sure to add, in case it wasn't clear that he was unimpressed with even the implication of hypothesizing on it. "i thought -- nah. she couldn't do it, couldn't sacrifice a good chunk of the qz, even if it was a shit chunk. y'know, just by the stats of it all. 'cause that would make you too much like him." and here, as he often does, anso talks to talks. grating nails on chalkboard, he talks to scratch at, to pierce and pinch, to cull for blood. just a touch of it, just a enough for it to pluck and bead at the surface. "heavy is the head, i guess."

It never bothered her, when people at like this. Big bites, gulping, speaking as they chewed — Daiyu used to eat like that, vulgarity just another form of rebellion in front of her father, who always kept his table manners. Even at the end of the world. Even as infected tore into the skin of others, outside their sanctuary, coating themselves in blood and cuts. These days, though, as her appetite dwindles, she finds it distasteful. Annoying. A reminder that she no longer relishes in these moments.

“What can I say? I’m a busy, busy woman. Much peering to do from my tower window. Many lowborn peasants to hear out. You’ve been on my list, but you know.” A random gesture that doesn’t mean too much, but neither do her words. Daiyu takes distant note of the way he doesn’t seem to have been particularly shaken by his interrogation, which could be interesting to someone else. It’s either bravado or a clear sign that this new arrival is a tough piece of shit. Either way, she’d prefer to find out herself. “Congrats for making it through. Did they let you keep all your teeth?” She shows her own as she grins, leaning forward. “What about your toes?”

Her grin grows only when he uses the word dictator, tossing it around like a supposed insult or compliment — something, to be sure. “Told you, didn’t I? Most people call me Daiyu. As for omy dad — you should really just ask him yourself. He’s not a fan of other people speaking for him.” Least of all her, of course, but it doesn’t need to be said out loud.

Daiyu leans back in her seat, less and less interested in her food as Anso chews on his own. “Really, though, it’s fuck around and find out here, Sommers. Am not gonna tell you what you can and can’t say when it will be all the more interesting to see you figure it out all on your lonesome.” Not that calling Alexei a dictator to his face would bite him in the ass, she imagines, but really, what does it matter?

puffed chest, his grin is an ugly thing when he speaks. “of course. it was all very civil. he was real good to me, treated me real nice.” the words are a drawl, his laugh a bark. and that’s what this base is -- real civil compared to the war they make out of it in the militia. too gentle, if anything. a bit too nice.

his eyes keep on her as she speaks of him, her father. he listens carefully, looks for something unsaid hidden behind what she does say. if there’s anything weighted sitting unbidden on her tongue, it’s not striking enough for anso to catch it. anso knows something about monsters for fathers. filth teaches filth, after all; either she’d taken to the blood like alexei had, or it would take her. there was only two ways this pendulum struck.

here and now, though, she refuses to entertain his question -- bats it into an answer that’s something diplomatic. he snorts, mouth chewing the last bit of his food. eyes roll as he speaks, the word stretching on a disappointed exhale. “ahh not you too, princess -- you’re no fun. you and the rest of the lot.” he says, using the fork to gesture a quick circle. he leans in again, brows furrowed. “has he really got you all that scared? running around with your tails between your legs an’ everything? i mean, i’ve been dyin’ to get some face time with the guy. see what’s got everyone shitting their pants like this.”

—  🏹  —

There doesn’t seem to be any means of swaying Anso’s opinions and, frankly, Henrik doesn’t much care to. Perhaps some of what was deposited here was useless, hoarded nonsense. Or maybe it was the very answer they needed to make it out of this mess. Either way, trying to secure it while they still could seemed like common sense to Henrik. “Maybe,” is the only response he voices.

He considers Anso’s perspective on their situation as they carry the load. Windows they could block off or stay clear of. There was no reason to raise concern over something that very well may not prove to be a problem. It was the water that was rapidly rising, seeping in through unseen crevasses and overtaking the lower floor of the museum, that they should be most concerned with at this point. There is no good choice. But there is certainly a better of the two they were faced with.

Avoiding long term exposure to the water that would leech heat from their bodies, that was the logical answer here. But he also couldn’t care much less what decision the other soldier made. If he wanted to risk illness and death to play in the rising waters then so be it. He wasn’t about to play babysitter to all the other’s foolish decision making.

Henrik is only operating on logical decision making - at least, that’s what he believes. Logically, saving the supplies that have been stored here for some reason makes sense. They’d already lost the generator due to the storms rage, they couldn’t afford to lose any other key supply if it could be avoided. Logically, keeping dry and warm was key in surviving a storm like this, particularly when they had no idea how much longer they’d be stuck here for. Sure, waiting it out in a few inches, and rising, of water was no big deal if it was only for the night. But as time ticked forward and the water level continued to rise, it was only a greater threat.

Logically, Grant hadn’t encountered an infected without any of the rest of them knowing about it, not in the middle of all this chaos. Not when the injury in question was little more than a scratch. But Anso seemed keen to harp on the decision that had been made; either because he’d been overruled or because he still believed he was in the right. “Don’t worry about him,” Henrik spoke simply. “He’s not going to be a problem.”

“oh yeah? you gon’ be the one to put a bullet in his head if he starts squawking all funny?” anso says, amusement clear on his tongue -- written in the way his face twists up and makes it clear its at the expense of the other, never with. he wonders if quiet, sturdy henrik will be the one to finally provide the amusement anso’s been itching for. he’s a ticking time bomb, migrating from one implosion to another. and well, its been a few too many days since he caused his last mess, hasn’t it? 

“or maybe you’d use that bow and arrow you got over there--” anso says, tilting his chin up as he points to the set tucked away in the corner. he’d made note of it when he’d first stumbled his way into the building to find shelter -- the museum being the closest thing to where his patrol had been trekking when the storm broke. it hadn’t taken too long to figure out who it belonged to with the way henrik gravitated to check on it, and then set it aside to prioritize saving some idiot’s ass and then moving some garbage up and down the stairs, in that order. “give him the dignity of a swift death, put him out of his misery.”

“it’s a cool bit.” he continues, eyeing the set, lips pursed. there’s an insincerity to his words that can’t be shaken -- something about anso that makes every edge of his disposition a blunt threat, a looming challenge. “pretty macgyver of you.” he drawls, shoulder finding wall once again. “it was heartwarming, really. the brady bunch banding together to give the fucker a new lease on life.” 

there’s a smile on nik’s lips, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. a hum follows, undecipherable in tone. nikolai looks at the man tied down in front of him and sees pain and misery and bloody teeth. i know your type well, he thinks, and suddenly this stranger doesn’t feel like much of a stranger anymore.

anso. nik burns the name into the inside of his skull with all the other names of people he can’t trust. it’s a quick judgement, but one he feels is deserved. after all, the way anso’s smile shines with something rotten is all too close to home. “anso,” he repeats, the way a holy man speaks the name of a demon to lessen its power.

he remembers the outline of the militia trucks as if the attack was only yesterday. if nik was a less disciplined man, he’d grab anso by his neck and see how many slams it takes to break the man’s skull into the brick wall of the basement. but impulsive is not part of his being, so he does as he’s always done, by giving nothing in return. “wyoming militia?” he asks evenly, for clarification. this way, he can be sure of this soul in particular’s involvement in his niece’s untimely end. “what did you do?” he asks, his words laced with a hint of something vague. boredom, perhaps.

in this dark room with no windows, with nowhere to hide, with only one way out, nik could perhaps fabricate a good enough reason to leave with anso no longer breathing. he thinks of eva, who he can’t imagine being able to stomach the likes of the man sitting in front of him. what will anso’s presence do for her? surely nothing good. so he keeps her name out of his mouth. “you’ll have to ask around. if there’s grizzlies in these walls, they probably thought better than to announce it.”

nik wonders just how decipherable anso is trying to be. there’s a show being given here, and it’s nik’s job to find where the line is that crosses into reality. “sure,” he states, not delving any further into anso sending a question back at him, “so what, you were running the place?” if there’s a hint of anything stitched into his brows, it’s disbelief.

anso dangles bait, and he doesn’t bite. come on an’ come out now -- come out and play. anso hums a confirmation when nikolai asks for clarification. “the one and only.” he says, tilts his head in a shake, affirming. oh but he’s all business, follows it up with more questions. and it’s all so dignified -- only the formality of his limbs being tied up, not even a lick of blood dripping from him to baptize his arrival. anso might just begin to get bored at this rate. he makes a show of it too, inhales well and easy as he purses his lips. “oh y’know. this and that.” he could play hard to get too.

the man takes him by surprise again, protecting the defectors even though anso can’t imagine he has any reason to offer them any loyalty. wasn’t it grizzly bullets that had massacred idaho masses not but a few years ago? was it not the volkov heir they’d murdered? and yet, nikolai protected the grizzlies that had defected within these walls. the needle on the compass of assessment anso passes over nikolai’s actions spins a few more three sixties and lands on a sharp north. a man of moral standing, then. pity, that. “hm. s’pose if you’re scared enough to run -- you’d be too scared to ‘fess up too.” he says, mouthends ticking up a touch too small to even call it a grin. “i’ll sniff ‘em out. nothing like a good reunion.”

if there’s anything that breaks the easy drawling anso had taken to, it’s the last question that follows. it brings yen’s fresh memory up to recall. there’s a flare in his gut, loyal dog getting ready to raise its hackles at the thought of the man not paying yen’s name the respect it deserves. but the flame licks and flickers, anger as short a fuse as his patience. “no. that position was taken.” he says -- a twitch to his lip. he decides to play along then, hook a slim to the line, sinker. “i was muscle. real good at doing the things others don’t got the stomach for.” it’s not even the blink of an eye, and there’s that glint to his gaze again. lips drawing up easy, cheshire -- he speaks. “you got a need for that around here? you good with sharing nikky? don’t mean to step on any toes or anythin’.”

he’s not done with that, no. hungry dog looking for scraps, anso’s found what he thinks could be another scab to pick at and draw blood. “i mean, that’s what you are, right? muscle? must be pretty high up on the payroll if the big boss lets you do all this solo interrogating and all. no monitoring...no nothing. he must trust you.” careful eyes watch, beady. anso looks dumber than he is; there’s a sharpness to his gaze, something preternatural in it. the fear he culls is the instinctual kind; it’s the evolutionary like that’s developed to keep prey safe from predator. but the food chain always rights itself, and anso falls very clearly on the top of it. when he nods, it’s slow. there’s something nasty in his grin, just by a touch. the insinuation of his following words is clear. “--must’ve proven yourself good.” what blood stains your hand? is the unsaid. a moral man like this one -- he’s got to be the kind that takes the bloodshed to heart, doesn’t he? is that his achilles heel? a few punches to the dripping ledger to get it overflowing? puncture the careful set of his face, the perfectly maintained decorum nikolai keeps staid in his form here?

an alternation in the food court. that’s what was radio’d in, but she’d kept her mind from imagining the scenarios. it was never of any use to stretch out the imagination muscle too much, as it had a tendency to cramp up the moment reality was any different than the expected. the mall infirmary was in a very quiet state, leaving her and the others on shift to tidy up around, socialize, have lunch. marseline busied herself by the chemicals closet, one headphone over her ear, the other waiting for the arrival of the two injured from some drunk squabble, perhaps over a stolen ration instead, or – she rolls her eyes at herself, the huff just as audible to her as the music from the cd player and the falling apart headphone. somebody told me, the killers, not an original cd but a burned one with a wild unpredictable mixed that she’s memorized over the years. but reality knocks in, in the form of an enforcer and only one victim.

she doesn’t make small talk with the enforcer, despite her little attempts, and the nod they give as they leave – she’s seen them having a drink with her mother before, after some patrol. but her eyes move to the one she hasn’t seen much. in fact, she’s noted the presence of the new soldier, but it’s only been a glimpse or two, with no time to follow up. or to follow at all. the stranger remains a stranger, and she does not care for that feeling. if marseline well is anything, she is the silent watcher of town, able to place where lincoln from water maintenance likes to sit on his day off (by the bridge behind the hotel, where shade is plenty), how katya cage likes her tea (it smells the same so often, it must be a preference), or when philippa and rox from the gardens likely broke up (on the second week of april, rox would sit on the food court for hours after her shift, intensively alone, whilst philippa was talking about the uncertainty of her future with the ginger bearded soldier whose name she’s yet to confirm). she doesn’t live off of imagination, but she compiles truths into the rich narrative around her. and you are not from here. but the patient doesn’t say a word and she accepts it gleefully, sterile hands getting to work.

it’s a gift, really. a patient who doesn’t want to talk about his spouse, or ‘you should see the other guy’, or ‘is that going to hurt?’. yet for once, marseline would like to see what words he hides behind his thin mouth. she takes stalk, regardless, of his behavior, of his wounds, of the scars from before he was real in her world. certainly a soldier. an unlucky one, by the looks of it. she smiles a little at her own conclusions. maybe he’s quiet because he lost the fight. no one victorious is this silent. and no big-shot winner is this scarred. bad at your job, new soldier? you’re too stiff, cracking too much, is this an intimidation tactic? no one cares to intimidate medics, i think. are you stressed, new soldier? her needle pokes quickly, sharp pain, in and out. is that why you fought? because you are on edge? i don’t think you’re scared, just worried, or- the soldier interrupts her thoughts and her work, both unforgivable offenses. he’s one point down in her consideration. “that would go against my professional advice.” feels a bit silly to say it, but it is what she is. a professional. “could infect. will heal uglier too.” want to prove your manliness or some shit? look tough? or do you like the sting as a long lasting reminder? “we have the resources here. somewhat. so, can i continue doing my job?” bedside manners, she’s been told. eh.

she doesn’t try to talk, doesn’t try to fill the silence anso settles into. the restlessness that had been burrowing under his skin has found its release -- sharp blade of a cut, letting the pressure bleed out before it compounded into anything more explosive. this assignment has been an exercise of patience in ways anso isn’t used to. he’s a war dog; it’s his job to keep his jaw strong and bite deadly -- not to sit around, play pretend. the anger of it licks at his, feels all too much the same to the yearning of missing yen.

this is who he is, after all -- all intensity compacted. all his emotions chart the unsteady path through his bloodstream only to end up feeling like anger. anso’s anger is comfortable to him. and in the aftermath of the violence it had culled, he feels more at home in his skin than he has since stepping foot in this shit hole.

“does it look like i give a shit if this heals ugly?” anso asks, words twisted in a way that makes it plenty clear the idiocy he assigns to that statement. he twists to look at the girl, the mockery written all over his features as he assess her. “shove that professional advice where the sun don’t shine and lay the fuck off.” as far as his bite goes, this is but a nip. there’s hardly any true fire behind his words, though the threat is less than empty. it never is with him.

🙈 SEE-NO-EVIL - whats a side of your oc that they don't want to show other people?

under all that tough hide, i think the part of anso that was broken and bent at the hands of arthur, cordelia, and even elias for that matter, never healed right. i think he does ugly things because of the ugly things once done to him. that side of him still exists. someone would have to dig a lot, and anso would have to allow them to dig that far, before that side of him ever saw the light of day again, especially here in idaho given his arc here. anso himself never acknowledges it, so i don't even practically know what exposing that tender underbelly would like for him. i think he's spent too long remaking himself with too much blood, if he was to ever look within for that side of himself, it'd be too mangled to be recognizable. i think it would come at the cost of a full mental break and a lot of violence in the aftermath to get back to any semblance of steady state for him.

🙊 SPEAK-NO-EVIL - what is something your oc will refuse to stay quiet about?

quite literally anything. anso isn't one to mince words or think before he speaks. if he's thinking it, he'll speak on it. i see a lot of his mannerism as inelegant, abrupt. it's in every way in which he occupies space -- how he moves, how he speaks, how he acts, how he makes decisions. a lot of his upbringing was this large effort from arthur to break anso in, in a way; it was an effort to make him obedient, to punish him for things that arthur carried on his own conscience. on the flip side of it, when anso then gets 'rid', if you will, of that part of his past, this newborn anso that enters the world wants to break it. he looks for fight, looks for places to dispel that ugly anger, the cruelty he saw -- to remake it with his own hands. this is all in this same vein, really. i think his inability to shut up goes hand in hand with all the rest of him.

🙉 HEAR-NO-EVIL - what is the worse thing your oc could hear from someone?

💥 what emotions do they have trouble dealing with?

he is ten. his room is different, now -- turned inside out and around. there's a crib on the left hand side and his own bed pushed now to the right. he stands next to his mother, able to see just above the wooden slats on the side. it's a boy. he sees that. it's a boy swaddled in something that looks soft to the touch. anso doesn't move to touch it. the rest of the house still echoes empty. father isn't home, still. he never beats the dark anymore. his mother says something; it's soft and quiet, under her breath enough that anso doesn't catch it. he tugs at her shirt just as far up as his fists can reach. next to him, his mother coos again. anso watches his mother, and his mother watches the boy in the crib. "good night, my sweet boy -- say sweet dreams to elias, anso."

✶

he is fifteen. the sun beats down on his back. there is a bead of sweat on his temple, it slides down his cheek and falls onto the ground right by where his gaze sits, trained ahead him and staring at a pair of black, dusty boots. his hands are tight fists by his side. he holds them tight enough to hide the shake, tucks his bottom lip just in as it threatens to quiver. "go." the dismissal he's awaited from the beginning of this evening's training session finally comes, and he hesitates -- only a second, only a breath. "get out of my sight" -- is added. it's the final kick.

his feet carry him back to the house, his gaze never leaves the ground that spans ahead of him. the cool of the house is a relief. elias and his mother are at the dining table. there are four plates of food, all untouched. elias doesn't look at him, but his mother does. she looks at him, and he thinks he sees her open her mouth as if to say something. "--don't talk to him." the storm door falls shut as his father steps back into the kitchen behind him. anso doesn't dare to look at him. "he didn't do the drills, so he doesn't get dinner." gaze tracing the molding off the floor, anso sees those same boots pass him by and head towards the table. "didn't i tell you to get out of my sight?" it's the last thing he waits to hear before turning for the staircase and bounding up it as fast as his shaky feet will carry him.

the door of his and elias' room falls shut behind him, and the silence it brings with it is comfort. the bed brings comfort, too; anso doesn't bother showering off the sweat and the dirt. he wraps the sheets around him and wills himself to sleep. when he wakes, he comes to to a quieter house. he blinks the sleep from his eyes but doesn't make any motions to move. drool crusts the side of his mouth, and sleep lingers in his limbs. he blinks again, hears elias' light snoring and knows he's returned to their room for the night. the moon shines a bright beam down the window in the middle of the room, lighting up the floorboards ahead of him. that's when he sees it: the dinner plate, one of four, with scraps of food scattered and tossed -- as if, assembled in a hurry. elias snores, and anso listens to his own stomach come to a growl, as if reminded. he waits a few breaths, blinks and blinks again. then he moves, pulls himself out of the sheets, and reaches for the plate. around them, the house stays still.

✶

he is thirty-two. there is a war around him, and he is on neither side. there is gunfire and smoke, and anso doesn't choke on any of it. not anymore. he came back to seattle to look for his family. that's what he told himself. it wasn't a reunion he was looking for, it had been retribution. anso hadn't been sure retribution would be looking down the barrel of a gun until now, though. not until he saw elias next to his father, in a uniform too ill-fitted for him and with his hands too shaky as they press into the gaping wound in his leg.

"bet you couldn't wait to replace me, dad." he says. spits it out, more so. his words shatter as soon as they leave him and hit the air -- years of anguish laden somewhere in the folds of the mania of this moment. "anso --" his father starts, and anso growls with it. the gun that had been loose on his side gets cocked, aimed right at arthur's forehead where he sits kneeling. he's disarmed, abandoned. elias sits crumpled into the corner of the wall next to them, quiet whimpers leaving him as the sounds of the gunfire echo further and further away from them as the wolves and the ophite take their gunfire further into base. "put the gun down, son--" his father starts, voice as shaky as anso's ever heard it. "you don't get to call me that! you don't get to fucking call me that!" he could cut him with the sharpness of his tongue, he could shoot him right where he sits even with his hands shaking the way they do. maybe it's fear he sees in arthur's eyes, then -- maybe it's desperation. anso spent too many years with his head bowed to be able to tell much of anything from his father's gaze.

"we looked for you, anso. for you and for you mother -- there were, there were search parties and, a-and rescue missions and--" but anso does't hear him, anso isn't listening. "i was the soldier. me. it was me -- not him!" the hand pointing the gun pivots, points a treacherous path to where his brother lays bleeding, a few feet from them. when he swivels back to look down the barrel of his gun at arthur, there's something wild in his gaze. he thinks, then, yes -- perhaps his father is afraid. he watches the myth of arthur sommers crumble, and he wonders what fear feels like to him.

"look at me, lo--look at me, anso. anso--"

in the distance, there is gunfire. another bullet echoes.

✶

he is thirty-nine. there is commotion in one of the tents. he's dead set to ignore it as he walks by, dirty rag wiping grime of his palm, until he hears the passing commentary from the people spilling out of the space. another fuckin' dead body, a shit mess to clean, who's gonna tell the boss? we don't need to fuckin' tell the boss -- the whispers spill over into clipped greetings, campers parting and making way for him as he shoulders past them and in. there's a crowd gathered in the back corner, and he shoves and yanks bodies out of the way until he can get a clear look at whatever seems to have snapped everyone out of attention.

"back the fuck off -- and get the fuck back to work. the fuck are you gawkin' at? get out of my way, moron. get --" the thicket of the crowd breaks as he dawns on the scene in front of him. there's a man bleeding out on the floor, someone kneeling by him and pressing on the wound in his neck. the woman's all but babbling nonsense, grabbing at the body even though the fucker's clearly dead, bloodied hands making a bigger, bloodier mess. "alright, get off." anso says. it's gruff, impatient. a hand pulls at her shoulder and yanks her off as he moves to kneel down, haul the body up -- and freezes.

a ghost stares back at him. his skin is pallid, already losing color even though the blood seeping through the fabric of his pants where he's kneeling, is warm. the eyes are lifeless, but he'd know them anywhere. anso stares in the eyes of the dead man and sees a mirror. elias, elias, elias, elias; echoes and hoards of memories come flooding, unbidden. there's smoke. there's a dead body at his feet. elias hasn't moved from where he's bleeding out by the wall. are you going to kill me now? he asks. it's frank, matter of fact. there have been decades of pain hammered deep between them, and now they stand as brothers only in name. no. anso says, simple. part of him is surprised that he means it. but i will if i ever see you again. he has no use for the gun anymore -- he's used his last shot. the rifle on his shoulder will see him out of seattle, back to the wild. anso turns then and walks away from elias. it's not a goodbye, but it's the only one they get.

the blood rushes him back to his body now; ice cold flushes through his veins and right over him as he stares down at the dead man and sees elias' face. there are too many loose ends, too many loopholes that short circuit his brain as it tries to reconcile what he sees in front of him to what anso has engrained into his memory, has made his truth. there's a split, a fracture -- the sound of something keening, sharp in his ear. he breaks, rears. the woman -- he turns to her where she's folded on the floor. "what the fuck did you?" it's an accusation, it's a threat. "what the fuck did you do?" he launches for her, and no one stops him. they watch as the general unravels at the seams, madness unfurling amidst the chaos. his hands close around her throat and push, shaking her as he repeats his question and gets not an answer back, only fingers digging at his hands where they do not give. "who the fuck are you? what did you do?"

she says something, a name -- eva -- shakes her head, tries to. but anso doesn't see her, doesn't hear her. elias, elias, elias.

Who:closed ! @sommersanso​​ When: June 13th Where:Grand Teton Mall; Roof top

Gabe had been in Idaho Falls now for a few weeks, yet he hadn’t let himself venture very far to see much of the QZ. He followed the heels of Gilbert’s shoes like a lost puppy whenever he was around, to a point where he felt like he was probably being annoyingly clingy. There was comfort in that familiarity, comfort in having the man around. After all, Gilbert was among the reasons Gabriel had chosen to come to Idaho Falls. Gilbert was the only one here that he knew he could trust without question.

But when Gilbert was out fulfilling his own duties, or doing whatever else it was he did around Idaho Falls, Gabe had taken shelter in the infirmary. At least there he knew what he was doing, knew how to care for the people who came in needing help. He’d fallen into something of a routine, keeping himself busy. But he could feel it, now and again - Ophelia or Mara’s eyes on his back, questions on their tongues that they wouldn’t verbalize. At least not yet.

It was why he’d ended up on the rooftop, overlooking the QZ. He’d simply been wandering, attempting to familiarize himself with the ins and outs of the mall without the lingering gaze of those that cared. Because as much as he needed to surround himself with those that cared, it was hard being around it all again. 

He felt like he was playing a part that he didn’t quite fit into. Faking smiles, pretending he was okay. Wishing it were all actually true.

When the door opened behind him, Gabe had anticipated it might be one of them. Ophelia, following in his footsteps just to make sure he was okay. Or Gilbert, having been told he’d left the infirmary, fear loosely veiled -

But the familiar face that appeared was one he’d thought he’d seen looming around corners, one that he knew, inevitably, he’d run into sooner or later. Idaho Falls was big, but Gabe wasn’t exactly hiding.

“Anso.” He swallows, fear rising in his throat that he tried to fight down, to keep from leaking into his voice. “You shouldn’t be here.”

the smokes he holds came at a hefty price. or so they’d said on the pack, anyway. anso hadn’t paid it much mind, busy hands tearing the packet open as he’d walked out from behind the hotel and left some poor fellow broken and bloody as he tried to get back on his feet only to stumble again. anso had never agreed to pay a fair price. 

it wasn’t as easy to muck around during the day. too many curious, beady eyes looking for business that wasn’t theirs. that was the thing about communes like this, too many heads with too much time to start concocting, asking, chittering. besides, there were “chores” to get to -- always an agenda to follow, a line to queue in, menial labor to complete. it was fucking mind numbing. it was only in the nights that anso found any freedom to walk off his itching impatience. it started as reconnaissance, but now, it was more for keeping peace with his own mind as it slowly unraveled out of the sheer boredom in stillness. 

he’d admit -- he hadn’t planned to run into who he did. he hadn’t even known reyes had escaped the militia. anso liked to think the timing of it made for a present just for him, tied up and blessed upon him by some unseeing god. gabriel recognizes him before anso does. the cigarette sits between two fingers, his cheeks hollow as he blows out smoke and takes the man in. he’s a shell -- one blow of the wind and he’d topple just over, wouldn’t he? still, he looks healthier than he ever did at wyoming. idaho had been too kind to him, made him bold enough to speak to anso. perhaps he needed some reminding. 

“oh shouldn’t i, reyes?” he says, the big grin on his lips a little too wide, showing a little too many teeth. he flicks the ashes off, moves slow and easy into the grounds of the roof, leisurely. “now, that’s no way to greet an old friend.” his steps take him right to where reyes is standing, and anso keeps his gaze on him -- light, sharp -- even as he takes another drag. he doesn’t say anything as he lets the smoke blow out and into gabriel’s face, makes a point of assessing him. “what’ve they been feedin’ you out here? idaho seems to suit you a lot better than wyoming did.” 

no amount of violence can shut up general sommers. at first, the sound doesn’t register, only the movement of a mouth being temporarily halted by his fist. but he keeps going and, slowly, sound returns to the room, rather than just the pumping of blood and the distant unreality. it’s breathing happening just under his knuckles. his own, a mix of exhales and groans, exhaustion not making a good match for unexpected violence. and it is an all too familiar blend of noises: whispers, screams, people walking forward and back, and he can swear it’s cheers too. ‘i miss you too, pal.’ gilbert looks around for a moment, opening the stage for anso to usurp the little upper hand he’s gained himself. i miss you. it plays over the chants, but those are real, and the words are imagination. there’s a full crowd of people around them, but no face is recognizable, none is from home. and they scream, and clap, and a group is in the back, jumping almost over each other in excitement. an old man turns his face away, but stays in his place regardless. gil looks down, and the floor is stone solid, the marbled white of the mall, but it feels powdery under his soles, like dirt. it’s an undistinguishable blend, the present and the memories of a man who died in wyoming months ago. i never left. there is no time to blink and rub away from his eyes the sights that seem out of place, nor to understand the feeling of destruction, but gilbert feels something shatter there and then. multiple things even, like a bomb in a greenhouse, no pot, window or glass door left standing. in the aftermath, surrounded by shards, stands neither gilbert nor santiago, the shiny and bloodied fragments of his mind right by his feet – it’s far too much for it to take, when all he wants is to lay done and close his eyes. it’s shards of his heart too, broken by the promise of victorious safety or hope, all taken away, i tried so hard and came so far and i’m back here again.

anso pushes and he stumbles at first, feet distracted by the collapse, and the general having caught him far from his best moment. gilbert then offers resistance, but it doesn’t last for long, the impasse ending in the soldier stumbling back once again. the movement brings him a bit closer to reality, though. anso sommers is here. i’m almost sure. i’m in idaho falls, it’s may of 2044, anso sommers is in idaho falls. he repeats it as he’s pushed, as his eyes find the other’s cold ones, as he recognizes the depravity in them, and yet the flood of memories coming with aches as physical as the present, is dissonant from the background he knows so well. gil tries to hold onto that truth, as people move out of the way, as he stumbles his way back rather than forward. and then no truth remains, when a hard fist connects with his skin, the thinnest area of it splitting open like a rotten tree. blood comes from outside and within, where soft tissue met his teeth, and as his mouth opens, it’s not just an exhale that comes out, but a loud pained groan, and a pool of thick blood. gilbert was never quiet in his pain.

in the disorientation, he almost falls, but he’d never give anso the glory of watching him limp on the floor. gilbert has no other goal, really. it is not vengeance, that is far too intricate for the abilities of his brain at present. it is not spectacle, the crowd keeps shifting in character and existence or disappearance in his mind. it is purely muscle memory, the feeling of fear and defiance that those pale eyes call for. it is survival. there was no other way this reunion could go. gilbert would not run away, not when he’s always known the general would catch up to him – and he has, yes he has. and now he stares at him, and gilbert, with his mouthful of dripping blood and wide eyes, stares right back, even if the prey in him is the most visible aspect, he knows the general will see this as resistance. it takes maiming to receive crumbs of victory, but gilbert hoards them all, hopeful to one day have enough to show. he tries to spit some of the red liquid at anso, like he’s done many times before, but the general strikes quicker, grabbing him by the back of the neck. the skin over his cheekbone rips apart too, once the knee hits him, and black engulfs the sides of his vision, breath stolen away for a moment. he would stumble and unfold down, had the grip in order to strike still not hold him. he doesn’t reply to any of the comments made, nauseatingly dizzy, but he does look up, and the first thing besides sounds of hurt leaves his mouth. “are you-“ he needs to inhale again and spit some more blood down onto the floor. “are you here to kill me?”

gilbert is a resourceful fighter. he’s also a desperate fighter. that was always how he battled, but it cemented as a trait in wyoming. the pits asked for innovative ideas, especially when they fully stopped giving him specifically weapons. and he would never step foot in them all dignified and quiet. every single person watching should hear his screams. and so he launches forward, taking advantage of his crouched lowered position, a growl moving along with his head, which hits harshly the one above his, and gil can hear something crack. it’s not mine, it’s not mine. his hand grips the others shirt and on his hair, he can immediately feel something wet, and blood falls onto the floor. not mine. his left fist slams into the ribs again, in the very same spot, and the impact makes each joint hiss, but he cannot care less. if he breaks himself to break the other, it is a worthwhile loss, even if all consuming. haven’t all his losses been worthwhile? the hand that grips the shirt is half of what it used to be. was it worthwhile? it has been days since anyone has seen him at all, just as long since he’s been able to sleep. was it worthwhile? what victory is he reaping, if all he’s sowed has poisoned the field too? he keeps on punching, repeated damage surely making an impact, and the other hand keeps pulling anso close, far too close for safety, but this is not something he can win from afar, bomb set, watch the blast go.

the general wasn’t born -- he was made. his skin is thick like hide, but anso can still trace the places where the hammer of the violence he’d known all his life broke and bent in his bones, shredded through his muscle. his body has been broken down and broke in more times than anso can count. and yet, he doesn’t shed the memory of muscle, of pain. there is no snakeskin to shed, even if he is serpentine. 

it’s why his hand is heavy when it falls, why there is an inelegance to the way he culls blood. anso is brutal, unforgiving -- he does not forget. he doesn’t forget the shape of his father’s knuckles on his jaw, he doesn’t forget the glass shard cutting into his neck at yen’s push, he doesn’t forget the feel of the blade as it made santiago’s skin give. anso doesn’t forget. this is a dance, too; he doesn’t forget. 

“--kill you?” he repeats, puts his palms face down on the meat of his thighs and cocks his head as he leans down. if he grins, the edges of it hanging loose on his face, it’s at the sounds of duress coming from the man. “why would i do that when we have so much fun together, santi?” because it’s ritual. the hunt, the culling, the blood spilled. he’d made an offering enough of it to bring even the biggest gods to kneeling in the militia grounds, but they could start anew here. anso reaches for him then, the grin dropping as his mouth sets. he pulls santiago up by the scruff, walks back with him until there’s a wall to slam him into. he watches the recoil of santiago’s skull as it makes impact, presses the back of his forearm into the give of his throat. he pauses, settles -- pushes -- until he hears the breath stutter, give. “thought we had it good, santiago. thought you liked your extra food. thought you like being the crowd’s favorite.” his words are low, breath trading too close to santiago’s face. the worlds sit on his tongue like a snarl, the silence coils the way his jaw does as he clenches it. in this moment sits a split -- anso sees it clear as day in his head. the knife in his side pocket, the way he could reach his free hand and dig it clean into santiago’s jugular. he doesn’t have it on good authority if your life flashes before your eyes when you die -- he’d have to die to know, and anso’s cheated death too many times to fear it anymore -- but he knows the way the light gives out from them at the twist of a blade, all the same. he sees it, savors the taste of knowing how close the reality in which he does that is to this one. he struggles with pulling back in moments like these, not used to having to. but yen’s words echo in his mind, slice the corners and make him bleed with a yearning and a need to be good for them. so he doesn’t reach for the knife, doesn’t let up his hold. anso tilts his head, lip curling up as he says instead, “why go running if you didn’t want a chase?”  

there’s a crowd gathering now, anso’s aware of the eyes as they sit on his back and all over his skin. he pulls back and takes santiago with him, hand clenched in shirt as he pushes at his shoulders to make him turn -- keeps the arm up as he pulls him back in and locks his neck in a chokehold. his own fist in hand, anso tightens his grip and pulls. any laxness in his muscles is carefully crafted. anso is a formidable opponent, and santiago should’ve known that even without his hands tied.