#davidthreads

Unmarked vans speed down the highway at a quarter to midnight towards one of the city's older commercial districts. Readings from needled displays and expensive machinery spike for an ongoing sixty minutes, making this the biggest supernatural event of the year. While nothing had quite topped a portal to Hell opening back in the 00's, this unknown spike in supernatural energy already out-paces the readings from then. Nothing can be set in stone until agents survey the scene, however, and headquarters buzzes with activity, murmuring in the agents' ears every step of the way.

Tires crunch to a stop on a ratty bit of gravel that once served as a parking lot to an old mom and pop shop. Doors fly open on all sides with ten people filing out, gear in tow. David slides out from the back; his eyes are glued to the small monitor on the device in his hand. The screen, which had been a flashing a bright green light, starts to fade as the readings slowly die down (but never fading out completely).

Both teams run a sweep of the area, ensuring civilians aren't getting caught up in something they might regret. Street lamps whose bulbs are on their last legs flicker every so often, their labored drone a swarm. Aside from the humming, beeping of machinery, and the highway, David can't hear anything out of the ordinary. However, as he peers over towards an empty plaza, there stands a person with a very peculiar creature.

"I have something." David gestures towards the plaza.

Thankfully the stores are empty and from what he can tell, this is a dead area. Most of the shopping is on the inside of the city, now. Makes their job a tad easier here. Less civilians to corral around or protect (often both).

Three others follow David across the street towards the man and his...whatever it is. But that's why he's here: The resident health official for peculiar, otherworldly species. As they approach the stranger, the light on his handheld begins to pulse in a slow rhythm. David looks down, then back up, then stops a good few feet away. No question about it, these two are the source.

"Good evening," he starts, "We received reports of a drastic increase in supernatural activity. Are you in any need of assistance?" Unless beings attack him, the rifle slung around his neck is merely decoration, only to be used in dire situations. The bulky medical pack on his back is his primary focus. He glances from the stranger towards the rather bizarre creature by their side. It seems to be in distress, and the more he looks, the more he notices the wounds over the creature's body.

Crickets chirp as the sun sets, the sky a beautiful golden color. The heat of the day still clings to rocks and drought-packed dirt but a cool breeze helps to settle the temperature little by little. If nothing else, it feels good against sweat-drenched clothes.

David hops off the back of a caravan and waves a goodbye to the coach. Were it not for him, David would still be walking twenty miles in the desert heat to reach this place. That’s twenty miles of strict rations, sun exposure, and potential robberies. It’s been months, almost a year surviving on his own, he’ll take the help where he can to avoid succumbing to something terrible. The caravan rolls off down the main road, leaving behind David with his two small bags at his sides.

The town is larger than the last town with a large ranch off on the outskirts. David can smell the ranch as its caught in the breeze and he instantly knows where he can try first for work. David picks up his bags in both hands and begins his walk. The day lingers for a while more and owning a ranch is long, hard work, the owners are bound to still be awake.

As he passes the saloon he can hear lively music and the laughter of tipsy men. Before passing by entirely, David peeks into the establishment through its swinging doors, dodging horse manure simultaneously. There’s a man up on the bar dancing wildly as the bartender shouts for him to step down. A tired smile stretches David’s lips, feet trudging forward. He knows it’s unlikely, but he hopes the owners will let him sleep in the stables so he can save some money. Accruing any sum of money worth a damn is difficult and if he can save a few cents by sleeping in a barn instead of at a hotel, he’s a happy man.

People pass him by, giving him wary looks (as one does in a small town where everyone knows everyone). David does well to ignore them. By now, this is just how things are for him.

Finally he reaches the ranch and walks up a winding trail up to the front door of the main building. The sun only offers up a sliver of its light, making way for the moon and stars. David sets his bags down at his feet and knocks on the door. Anxiously he waits. He always hated this part. David is naturally a very shy man. Quite. Mild-mannered. Being perceived as a nuisance makes these things difficult, but without a job there’s no cash, and no cash?

A wrinkled man answers the door. His skin looks like leather, a testament to long hours spent taking care of a vast section of land and animals. A cigarette hangs from his mouth. Eyes flick up and down David’s body and he squints.

“I don’t want whatever it is yer sellin’.” The man’s voice is gruff and David resists flinching away.

David pulls off his hat and clutches it in his hands. “A fine evening, sir. I came here looking for a job and thought such a large ranch surely could use a ranch hand. I hope I’m not imposing.” He offers the man a genuine smile but behind his teeth he can feel his anxiety.

The man eyes David, notices his sweat and the bags under his eyes, then his eyes trail down to the bags at his sides. Bright orange engulfs the tip of his half-smoked cigarette and a plume of smoke follows thereafter. Clearly he is mulling around the idea of David as a ranch hand.

“Can you lift up to 80 pounds?”

David nods.

“You know how to shoe a horse?”

David nods again, slower this time. He has some training as a ferrier.

The man looks David up and down again and then gestures for him to stick his arms out, “Lemme look at ye.” David does as he is told and sticks his arms out to the side. The man nods to himself, seemingly pleased with David’s physique. “Yeah, you’ll do. Pay starts at a buck. If ya show good work ethic, then I might consider a raise.”

David smiles and there’s a wash of relief inside him, “Thank you kindly, sir. I do have but one last question. Would it be alright if I stay in your barn? I promise to keep quiet and to look after things while you and the missus are in bed.” He’s learned by now that desperation does not make for a good trait, nor does begging make for a decent bargaining chip. Being earnest and short, sweet, and to the point? Now those are things people can get behind. Confidence. Ask for things, don’t whine about them. People want to see independence even when your life is in shambles.

After a brief pause, the man talks around his cigarette “Work starts at sun up.” A calloused finger points towards the barn. “You can sleep in there. Breakfast is at eight.”

“I am grateful, sir.” David smiles and dons his hat. He leans down to grab up his bags, the door to the home already shutting behind the man. Behind the door he can hear the muffled sounds of a woman’s voice just before he walks off the porch and towards the barn.

The big, wooden doors are heavy but David opens one of them wide enough for him to slip inside. It’s pitch dark with only part of the moon’s light to guide him through. Alone again, David creates himself a bed with a thin layer of hay, after which he begins to strip to his underwear. Clothes hang to dry over the door to one of the cow’s stalls. As soon as his body reclines to rest, David’s eyes close, sleep finding him soon after.

~~

“Take them bales on over to the barn.” The older man instructs, a tobacco-stained finger pointing. The sun has only been up an hour and the heat already feels as though its reached its peak for the day. David wipes sweat from his brow as he begins to sling heavy bales into an old wooden cart. The chimney to the house billows smoke, the wife presumably preparing breakfast for the three of them. Eight can’t come fast enough. David feels his insides fighting for a decent bite of food. All he’s had for the past week is salted pork and stale bread.

Shadows flickered and jerked along the wall as a fallen lamp had rocked gently to and fro. The shade had been split but somehow the bulb remained in tact. There were other things to worry about, though, than the sturdiness of lamp bulbs.

David swallowed hard as Chris cornered him against a wall. His head was turned to avoid the man's gaze, which seemed far less friendly two seconds ago before he chased David throughout the house. One of them, it was hard to say who, bumped into the end table and knocked the lamp to the ground.

He had always known Chris to be a little...weird. Sometimes in an unsettling way. He could hardly fault the man, as he was a little weird himself. This, however? Even as a hand sifted careful fingers through his hair, this was the first time David ever found himself afraid of Chris.

Three times David told him he had to leave, that he had class in the morning. Each time Chris seemed more and more put out by the notion. David did finally hazard a glance, wanting to see if he could diffuse the situation.

Going global with the agency had pros and cons. There were a lot of countries that had an issue with an American militarized agency nestling into places they likely didn’t belong. It wasn’t like they knew what sort of work was being done, all they saw were boots on the ground and guns in hand. Of course it made everyone nervous. SPRA tried to minimize public appearance as much as they could, but there were always hang ups somewhere. It was impossible to be completely ghost 100% of the time. And with their line of work being a sensitive subject anyway? Well, people were bound to find out a little bit about them.

That’s why when David’s team heard they were landing in a tiny village somewhere in Europe, there was a general sigh of relief. Dropping down into a city zone tended to get complicated especially on foreign land. There were so many eyes to have to avoid. But in a small village, they almost didn’t have to worry about disrupting too much, and they were confident they wouldn’t leave a scratch on the area before they left.

It was another story when his team finally did land.

They had no idea who ended up sending out the alert, because when they arrived on site, the village was in a bad way. There were high hopes that they could swoop in, protect who needed protecting, and leave without a trace, but it seemed like something had leveled the town’s population.

Blood and gore littered the snowy streets of this once populated village and for a while they couldn’t figure out who (or what) would decide to maim the villagers. The village was eerily quiet as their boots pressed into muddied snow and there was barely a word spoken between them. Everyone was on a high alert, heads on a swivel, as they continued to move through abandoned pathways. It wasn’t clear who they had come in to protect and they were afraid they missed their chance entirely.

They all split up into teams of two to cover more ground. David himself wasn’t sure if the quiet was a good sign or a bad -- it was definitely a bad sign either way, but was there something more lurking in those abandoned houses? Or did they already miss what hit this place?

There was snarling, a scream, and then gunfire that broke the silence of the village. Everyone stopped in their tracks and started to rush back to the source until there was a sudden cacophony of shouts and furious, metallic tapping of weapons fire. It seemed to be happening all around them -- whatever this was, it was picking off David’s team like they were nothing, like they weren’t a highly skilled paramilitary force.

David didn’t get a chance to see anything until he turned past one of the houses. On the ground were several of his teammates, covered in blood, and being gnawed on by what looked like werewolves.

Shit.

Nobody had a clue that it wasn’t the supernatural that needed protecting, it was the village itself. Instead of raining bullets onto the five beings in front of him, David turned and bolted in the other direction. The snow and mud made it difficult to keep a sure foot on the ground, but he managed. Behind him were the sounds of snarling beasts but it wasn’t long before there were silhouettes atop old building. They watched David run through town, many of them hopping down almost curiously before giving chase.

An echo of gunfire sounded, catching the attention of the several beasts that had given chase to David. Three broke off to hone in on the loud noise and it gave the redhead a better chance at survival -- barely. Two continued to barrel down after David through tight streets. The sounds of his teammates died down until he couldn’t hear much of anything. Was this an ambush -- who sent them here? David could barely think with those hounds closing in. David reached out to palm the corner of a building, gripping as he swung himself parallel down another pathway...and instantly regretting his choice when he saw that it resulted in a dead end. A quick mind and sharp eyes saw a stack of crates reaching upward toward a sloped roof. He sprinted as quick as his feet would take him until he was able to hurl himself up and over said crates and finally, onto the roof. Everything creaked and groaned under his weight, wooden braces beneath the shingles cracked as he stepped across the top. For a moment the roof almost gave way under his foot and it caused David to slide forward off the roof, hands gripping at the edge just to keep himself from face-planting onto the ground. His body jerked and he fell to his feet where he wasted no time sprinting down another pathway. Already he could hear those things losing track of him.

David spent what felt like forever bobbing and weaving between houses and tractors and other things just to put distance between him and any danger. It didn’t seem like those things lurked where he passed through which was fine by him. He had to hop a gate or two that was locked and it was all too easy to do so even with all of his gear. Boots thudded down into the mud-packed earth. Silence cloaked everything around him and he couldn’t help but to feel on edge. His teammates were dead -- all of them -- and he didn’t yet have a chance to mourn them. He never even had time to help. When the only noise around where the thudding of his boots, he finally started to just walk.

The sun started to dip down in the sky and a chill ran itself down David’s spine. By now his friends had long been devoured. By now those things stood by and waited for their next meal. David didn’t dare page anyone, didn’t dare make any noise for fear that he’d be next. His breath started to rise up the colder it got but he didn’t stop moving...

...until a large mass of water and drowned houses stood between him and any further movement.

For a while, he could only stare out at the ever-darkening reservoir before him. Where...would he go? Ever silent still, the only sound emitting into the space around him were his own footsteps as he slowly made his way to one of the few buildings that still stood out on the man-made lake.

Dwight spends his evening sitting beside David, just the two of them at the campfire. It's likely intentional; no one wants to be around to watch their awkward attempts at flirting, no matter how much they both deny that that's what they're doing.

Eye contact lingers just a moment too long for Dwight's comfort. He looks away, blush beginning to rise on his cheeks. In fact, he doubles down and removes his glasses altogether. He wasn't staring. How could he be staring? His glasses were dirty and that's what he was focused so intently on. Not on how soft David's hair looks, not on how soft his lips look.

He takes a cloth from his pocket, greasy aside from a small corner, and begins to polish fingerprints and dirt from the lenses. He's clumsy in his frantic cleaning; it's only seconds before the rag slips from his fingers. He blindly grabs for it beside him. He finds David's hand instead.

Touch lingers as his breath catches in his throat, panic rising to a point where he's too frozen to pull away. David's hand is soft, not yet scarred and calloused from knife wounds and generator repairs. He knows his face is a brighter red than it's ever been in his life. He finally catches up to his racing thoughts and yanks his hand away, glasses flying out of his other hand in the process and landing several feet away in the dirt.

Dwight stumbles to his feet and away from the other man, nearly steps on his glasses in his frantic attempts at escape. "Shit..! S-Sorry..!"

It’s difficult to piece together why the others stop sitting with him, but he appreciates that Dwight never fails to take a seat by his side. Their friendship grows every trial they survive together, and even stronger still as they make sure to check up on one another after they’re back at the campfire. As a medic, David makes it his business to check everyone. For the most part they all brush him away with ‘it’s fine, just a scar now’ or anything similar, but Dwight? Dwight doesn’t seem to mind. Together they discover new scars and it brings David peace of mind. Well, as much as he’s allowed to in this place.

They stopped talking a bit ago about their past experience and neither of them get the memo to look away -- David will sit and blame the fact his mind wandered away from him, causing him to stare not at Dwight, but through him. Doesn’t explain why he realizes Dwight’s eyes are brown, and it doesn’t explain how his gaze trails from Dwight’s eyes and over cheeks where for some reason he imagines cupping them in his own hands.

His heart skips a little and Dwight startles him out of his thoughts; he’s almost too embarrassed by them, as if somehow Dwight is able to see them too. He doesn’t look away -- Dwight does that for them, thankfully. He’s allowed to save face and watch the man as he cleans his glasses. That cloth he uses drops between them and David for only a moment looks down to retrieve it for Dwight.

A hand touches his and he freezes instantly. Why does it stoke a gentle flame in his gut when Dwight touches him? And why does David feel like he should turn his hand so their palms could touch?

Dwight’s already gone, his glasses thrown to the side and he’s off to fetch them. David’s mind can only register that gentle touch of skin on his own and how warm it was against his perpetually cold hands.

“A few bullets won’t keep them safe from me killing them, David.” It’s one thing to come after Zsasz, that’s fine, no big deal. But to come after him when he’s with his boyfriend is stupidity.

Victor has already decided where each mark will go for each one of those gun toting morons. Zsasz wasn’t even conscious of how his favorite blade ended up in his hand as he went for the door...

“Wait here, if they get past me,” Zsasz paused long enough to kiss David’s cheek, “shoot them.”

It’s no secret that David hated this. It was written all over his face. He knew there were certain drawbacks to dating someone like Victor, but that didn’t mean he had to like when those things happened. David was worried for Victor’s safety as well as his own. His boyfriend looked pissed enough that David almost felt bad for the assailants. Pretty stupid move on their part. Heaven forbid they made it through Victor because David was a pretty good shot when push came to shove.

All he could do was sigh. Eyes closed briefly as Victor kissed him then fluttered open when the pressure vanished. 

“Please...come back in one piece.” He muttered, his brow furrowing just before Victor disappeared out the door. 

@troublebringer

Several unmarked vans sped down busy streets on a Tuesday morning, narrowly avoiding collisions and somehow making it through without hitting a single red light. Inside them sat teams of people decked out in what looked like SWAT gear, a few of which handling high-tech gadgets. One person in particular dictated traffic patterns from their doppler screen to another person fiddling with the buttons to a datapad, their fingers flicking over the screen rapidly as information came at them in real-time. Red lights turned green when they needed, traffic detours were called out and alternate paths were routed in an instant; the driver expertly performed on-the-spot turns as they too processed the quick information. They were the lead van, while the other vans (also operated by esteemed drivers) followed. 

This was the Supernatural Protection and Relocation Agency team, or SPRA. A paramilitary force tasked with the preservation of supernatural and fantastical beings. Whether it be an untrained magic user coming into their power, or a recently-turned werewolf running amok in the middle of the night, SPRA was there to aid them. Their focus was never about take down, and it was seen as failure if matters escalated to such a degree. Sometimes it was unavoidable.

Mitigating the damage caused by these beings was tasked to their PR team whose job it was to keep the peace within a certain radius, and to fry any content captured by bystanders. Some media leaks through anyway, but the PR team for the most part had a handle on the dispersal of information. They were known to SPRA as the plainclothes operatives (PCOs)

While half the work was with the supernatural beings themselves, the other half was with hunters. A network of people engaged in the eradication of said beings. If one’s question to SPRA was ‘why do you need all that gear’, the answer would be ‘hunters’. And they make up a large percentage of the calls SPRA receives.

There weren’t any alerts about hunters on this particular case they were headed. Not yet. That could always change. It usually did. 

Vans halted to a stop in front of a massive construction site that appeared to be cordoned off, and either they got bad intel, or hunters beat them to the scene. Once the engines were turned off, silence was what greeted them. The coordinates were right, as their magical energy detection scans pointed to this location in particular. There was a moment where they started to think maybe they were too late, that maybe the hunters already finished what they came to do.

“There.” An operative with radar equipment pointed to a bright cluster on the screen. 

Double doors opened and out from the backs of four vans emerged SPRA teams A and B. Wordless they moved from the vehicles to inside the construction site; a hand signaled to spread out and locate the target. Each team was outfitted with differently skilled operatives to cover as many of the needs of the situation as possible. Of these roles was the medic. Tactically trained as well as medically, their role was integral to the mission.

David, a bleeding heart medic with particularly heavy boots for hunters that piss him off, broke off with team B. From head to toe he was covered in protective gear. On his back was a rather large medical bag that looked tightly packed, almost brimming with first aid equipment. Team B fanned in the opposite direction of A to cover more ground, but also perform a sweep to eradicate potential problems.

The building was only partially erected. Large portions of wall were still missing, tall iron scaffolding led up to various levels where bits of the floor didn’t exist. Somewhere in this swiss cheese building was their target. From the other side of the complex there came shouts and then gun fire. Hunters were always a shoot first, ask questions later type of group when it came to dealing with SPRA. And while the hunters weren’t ever outfitted to the nines in gear like the agency was, they still held their own well enough that SPRA had seen casualties within their ranks.

In two minutes team B met with hunters of their own, team B ducking behind cover as soon as rounds started to fly. If things were already gritty down here, who knows what the scene upstairs looked like. 

David tucked himself against a wall as gunshots were fired down what will be a hallway once the building is finished. He slinked alongside of the wall to a hallway right across from him, and up the stairs to the next level. The goal was to secure the supernatural being at all costs. 

The next floor wasn’t as built up as the others, but there were a few cubicles of space that would one day serve as conference rooms for people in suits and leather shoes. Gun fire still echoed down below but this level seemed devoid of hunters. David rounded a corner wall and spotted a woman standing there with a creature cowered behind her. There were two entities up here. He put up his hand, conveying that she should remain calm, a finger was brought to his lips.

All the gear David wore was for his protection, but he was sympathetic to anyone who was scared and seeing him for the first time. No one could see his face with his kevlar helmet and his goggle-baklava combo. This was to avoid being recognized on the street by hunters, of course. 

"I fell asleep?" Shit, he must have been at his limits last night when he crashed at David's. "You didn't like draw a penis on my face or anything, did you?" The redhead wouldn't do that to him... would he?

Whenever the assassin needed sleep, David made sure not to disturb him. Besides, it always made David smile to walk by and see the man rest so peacefully. Time spent with him, even if one or both of them were asleep, was a good time. Lord, he was just happy to see Victor.

David smiled and chuckled through his nose, “Nope, no dick art -- but if you want some I guess I could find a marker...” He pretended to look around for one before he knelt down to kiss Victor’s temple.