#bruiscdpeach

Oh.

Oh…

So this was how this little Deputy wanted this to go.

Jacob didn’t move, he hadn’t even flinched, even though there were now splatters of blood and spit on his shirt, his neck, even his face. His blue eyes boring into the young man right in front of him. The Chosen had managed to grab his arms again, keeping him in place.

Wild little thing.

Jacob had never much cared for Pratt – or any of these Deputies that patrolled in Hope County. He had eyed them, of course, observed them. This one was obnoxious. Arrogant. Cocky. He thought himself capable of everything. Young and brash, a man like many, who thought he could become anything and be a little hero.

But Jacob would show him that the only thing left over to become for him was whatever Jacob wished it to be.

His hand came up suddenly and mercilessly, grabbing the younger man by his throat and jaw, choking him.

“You will be my personal favourite, I can already tell ya that...”

The redhead’s head tilted slightly to his left, mustering the Deputy intently.

@bruiscdpeach​ liked for a starter

The gates opened, but not unguarded. The cages are a thick mass to their side, crammed full of desperate souls whose fates have yet to be decided - but by the constant drone of sobs and desperation there's the pressing sense that they would not leave here alive. The mountains behind them will have no pity and it wouldn't even take his eye to pick him off on the long road towards the safety of the forest. The illusion of freedom that makes the twisted part of his soul revel, his own sin of plain and simple evil spread all the way to the fingertips. 

The same ones that loosely held the cuffs that one contained thin limbs. Early morning light glinted off them, making Jacob squint as he stared Pratt down. 

“ The Judge’s already know your scent. “

( @bruiscdpeach asked:  “Looking for something?” / meme i’m too lazy to search for )

      John’s eyes scour his brother’s desk. The Chosen had been little help in locating Jacob quickly enough for the younger Seed’s patience. He spends little time in the Whitetails  — even less with the Reaping in full swing, he barely has time to pry away from the valley. Coming all this way serves multiple purposes, but for now, he lingers in the office, fingers tracing the mess of papers, searching for the prisoner roster he’d come this way look at to begin with ( hardly trusting Jacob to offer him an electronic copy ). It’s easier to ask, in person.

      Pre-Reaping, things had been a little strained, to say the least.

Don’t touch me?

Who did this little Deputy think he was?

Jacob merely laughed at this weak attempt to stop what was happening. It was a dim, dark laugh, rumbling from deep within his chest as his dirty nails only dug deeper in Pratt’s dark hair. Like a dog Jacob dragged him by his head and threw him into one of the cages. It was a bigger one. There were dogs barking, going wild at the other end. Held back by chains. Yet.

Jacob himself followed, his boots heavy in the mud just beside Pratt’s head.

“Aight then… Deputy. I won’t touch you. But I don’t think the dogs are gonna listen to ya if you say it with that little confidence.”

( @bruiscdpeach​ said: ‘ i don’t think i’ll be able to get their screams out of my ears . ’ / inbox cleaning )

          He isn’t sure all that he’s seen. All that he’s done. From the night the helicopter went down, everything that’s happened -- John can’t fathom it as inexcusable. The second the sheriff’s department, led by the U.S. marshal stepped onto their grounds, dared try to take his brother from them, they were damned. Mostly. He should believe that what they’ve done will save them, that Pratt, Hudson, and even the rookie that had his teeth grit in permanent frustration, would reach salvation despite their fatal mistake.

      He trusts the horrors he’s probably witnessed in the Whitetails.

      John leans forward, voice low, as if it were a secret wisdom to bestow on Pratt. Could his own walls talk, the screams would be deafening, sequence after sequence, layered cries and confessions. His mind is clear in the wake of all he’s done. All of their suffering -- justified.

     ( if his scars could light up, wrath might glow )

      John had no energy left not to roll his eyes when he heard his voice. An exasperated, restrained, what the hell do you want now, exhaled, regardless of the public space they stood in. The convoy fueling up at the gas station is nothing short of overkill and despite the likelihood of this being a chance meeting, he regards Pratt’s presence with annoyance. The number of times that his people had been kicked off the Ryes’ property drew a bitterness out of John. He offers politeness to the woman behind the counter, sliding cash forward ( it’d be easier if they just took the station -- thoughts for another day ).

       ‘ wow , that chip on your shoulder makes you look even shorter . ’

      ❝ Hmm,  ❞ John hums, nodding in consideration of the deputy’s tone. He has to stop himself as he sucks against his teeth, the irritation chipping through the mask. Of everything he could appreciate in Hope County, the sheriff’s department wasn’t one of them. He takes a breath, lips curving in a smile, eyes mellow and cold as he turns to face him. That stick up your ass makes you look taller. He bites his tongue hard enough he swears he can taste iron.

@bruiscdpeach​ sent “ “What are you doing?” “

“ ‘s none of your concern. “

Jacob doesn’t lift his head from the pages before him, spread out across a table that had been long repurposed from the dining room. Every inch was covered in something - reports, maps, files, photographs. A radio and vial of mint-green liquid nestled amongst it all. Pens of all colours always within arms reach. It added to the mess scrawled across those pages, all in misshapen and deeply scratched letters, some smudged in the haste and never straight. 

The poor bastard who had to decipher Jacob’s hopefully would be shown mercy from his siblings. 

His voice broke through the crackling of moving papers and the clicking of his pen against the plastic. It’s low, without a lot of the bolster the Herald holds himself with. Hardly open, but closer to the man compared to the figure. Still, despite it, he rolls his shoulder to ease some of the tension there.