#fc5 fic

Little by little he remembers himself. Manages to be methodical, working his way across the terrain to take down those blaring speakers putting his head the wrong way. It shouldn’t really be possible, not with the way his rage is choking him, all too much, too painful, almost like the world really is ending because it might as well fucking be. The Whitetails are on fire, Eli is dead by his hands, and Jacob—

When he snuffs out the music, and the crimson tint of the world bleeds away, he crouches to shuffle his gun.

“It’s not too late,” he lies into his radio, aware of what is coming.

Jacob chuckles back. “Hell, even if that were true, I’m not sure you and I can come back from this.”

There’s a slant on ‘you and I’ that only means something to them, something he might’ve winced at on public waves before but it only makes his heart clench now. Rook’s finger puts a sharp crackle of reply over dead air, as he hesitates then snarls. Pushes the radio away because he knows Jacob’s right and he fucking hates it, curses Joseph fucking Seed.

The hill is a much harder climb. Has to be, considering Jacob chose it. There are hunters above him, their arrows and bullets raining hard. It gives him enough to steady himself, focus on them, not Jacob, even if he can see Him in the distance. These are the last of Jacob’s inner circle, the Chosen, looking down on the Sinner with righteous disgust, ignorant to the real disgrace that was this fight. That they were only ever Jacob’s pawns, and Rook was, well…

When he puts down the last of them, he focuses too hard on replacing his magazine. His hands are shaking. He ducks behind a rock to do it, hearing the crack of Jacob’s gun, the unfair tempo of this exchange of shots. His rifle is heavy when he lifts it, the scope blurring from what is definitely sweat in his eye and nothing else. His finger can’t find the trigger right away, then tenses and weakens until he catches a bead and remembers the way Eli fell, the look of surprise, of hurt, in his face.

Crack.

The silence that he garners hollows him out. Gutted, he rests his forehead on stone, waiting, listening, repaid with that endless, tortuous quiet. He knows he doesn’t have the time to dwell, however, so he forces his legs up and begins the climb.

He finds Jacob resting on a boulder. He looks much himself, his gaze measured, his mouth hooked with that strange grin. Menacing even on the brink, and Rook has to smother the yearning that promises to strangle him.

“Hey, there, honeybee,” Jacob coughs, and it’s wet under a hoarse crackle of words. The sound of it makes Rook slow, look elsewhere, wincing at the agony in his eyes. “Beautiful shot as usual. There a reason you didn’t take my head?”

Sure. He was trained for centre-mass even knowing it would hurt more, especially with the calibre he favoured. The devastating truth was, however, that Rook hadn’t even aimed for centre-mass, he’d aimed to disarm, and he fudged the shot in a panic tinged rush. That there was anything left of Jacob’s lungs at all was a miracle on its own. Nothing about it was justified, Rook trying to leave him alive, trying to buy that extra second just to climb the hill and see him up close. He looks away again and it fucking crushes his chest to stand there with Jacob breathing in his own blood and smiling back at him all gentle-like.

“Don’t you get soft on me now,” Jacob warns, his tone a hint darker, and Rook meets his pale gaze. “Not now.”

“Jake,” Rook tries, falters. His hands burn but it’s not his place anymore, not after what he’s done. Even if this is more Jacob’s fault than his, for putting those images in his head, forcing rot and meat and cull the herd into every crevice of his brain into which he once whispered softly. Lovers didn’t do shit like this, and Rook hates him for it, hates the potential he had seen in him and how it had fucking worked, and maybe if he’d just have fucking asked—

“You wouldn’t have joined us,” Jacob answers, reading his thinking, or maybe Rook said it aloud and didn’t realize, his mind still fractured and untrustworthy. The concern goes discarded, pointless under a shift in Jacob’s reply, a distinct slur to his voice. His words merge together in a slurry and Rook knows he doesn’t have long.

“...no,” he concedes. “But you could’ve done anyway.”

Jacob’s features soften and he shakes his head. “Nah. Not the way I know you, Dep. I couldn’t have, and you know it too.”

Rook sets his gun down on the ground. Wants to throw it, but he needs it for what comes next. Faith’s already fertilizing her Bliss and John he put down like the rabid dog he was, days back. That leaves Joseph, the piece of shit responsible for it all, the one who whispered into their broken shells and turned them into weapons.

Turned Jacob into something else, too, something Rook shouldn’t have wanted but did, does, and before it’s too late Rook gets on his knees and goes to him.

Jacob takes him in, arms around his shoulders, and holds him close. His jacket is damp with his blood and it sticks to Rook’s face as he burrows into him and screws his eyes shut tight. In the aftermath they cling to one another even if it looks fucking weak, because it doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?

“Do me a favour,” Jacob whispers into his hair. “Look after Joseph for me.”

Rook whimper-scoffs into his chest. “Oh, I will.”

“You will,” Jacob growls, forcing that narrative change, an insistence that riles Rook anew.

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Rook sneers. “He’s killed you.”

“Nah, Rook,” Jacob laughs again, buckling with it. “I’m pretty sure that was you.”

Us, he wants to grumble. That they shared in this together. That this only could have ended one way, knowing Jacob as he does, Jacob knowing him. Not worth saying, however, not with the way Jacob is starting to go quiet and nod off. So Rook tells him he’ll try, and that’s all Jacob seems to need.

Nothing left to do, then. Rook holds Jacob around his bleeding chest and wants to kiss him but they just lean on one another like they used to. His arms are hooked around him but not too high because he doesn’t want to feel the exit wound where his inhales become exhales.

“I’ve got you, Jacob,” he gives, and feels Jacob nod.

“Yeah, you do,” he murmurs, all slow, slower, then at last he says: “...you’re perfect.”

When he woke, he was sprawled across the dingy, pilling sofa in some prepper’s tiny bunker. The lighting was fluorescent and dim and the air stale. And the deputy was pacing anxiously, her long braided ponytail disheveled, her pale, freckled face looking even whiter than usual. A handheld radio was held tightly in her grip, the plastic visibly biting into her skin. She twisted the knob compulsively, flipping between multiple channels, each one broadcasting a similar message in a different voice.

Deputy, come in Deputy – Patience? Are you there? – Please respond, Deputy – Come in…

So this wasn’t part of the resistance’s plan, then. She had, in fact, gone AWOL to save him.

The deputy screamed in frustration and threw her radio at the concrete wall, cracking the plastic shell to reveal the metal and wire viscera inside.

John laughed. “My, my, what a predicament you’ve gotten yourself into.”

She whirled to face him, her blonde braid whipping around behind her. Her face softened, her grey eyes widening when she saw him awake. And, oh, but he couldn’t help but smile smugly. Was she truly that easy? Had it really only taken a bit of charm and flirtation interspersed among his radio threats to make her look at him like that?

She rushed to his side. “Are you hurt?”

“From where you hit me over the head, you mean?” he asked, one eyebrow arched in smug disbelief. “I’ll be fine. I doubt the same could be said about you, though.”

John stood up, ignoring the pounding headache and what was surely a goose egg on the back of his head. He supposed he was lucky the moony woman hadn’t accidentally killed him with that blow.

“What will you do now, my dear?” he taunted her, one hand coming up to caress her cheek. She actually leaned into his touch, the poor fool. And as easily as he touched her, he even more easily pulled it away. “What are you going to do now that you’ve betrayed the resistance so thoroughly, stealing me away in the night before they could get me in their grips? I doubt they’ll forgive you…”

She was breathing heavily, her heart racing in obvious panic.

“We’ll stay here a few days. Just until the search for either of us dies down a bit. And then you can go back the cul- the Project. This bunker had been abandoned for a while when I found it and I never told anyone about it; you’ll be safe here for now.”

He nodded, still smiling in disbelief at his luck.

“And will you come with me when I go? Will you finally Confess and Atone and quit your sinful crusade against our holy work? I’m sure you’d be able to find your purpose, once your sin had been exposed and absolved.”

The deputy shook her head no, adamant in her stubborn resolve. “I will never join the cult.”

“It isn’t a cult, my dear.

“But, then, why save me? You won’t come to the Project; you can’t go back to the resistance. You have nowhere to go. So, why did you do it?”

There was a tense silence, a flash of fear punctuating the tender look in her eyes. “I couldn’t let them do that to you. What they planned- you have no idea…”

“Tell me.”

She shook her head again, face reddening in an effort not to tear up. In reaction to her current circumstances? Or in reaction to the idea of some horrible fate befalling him?

“Tell me,” he demanded again.

“They wanted- well, I’m assuming you know Matthew 7:12?”

“Of course.” He arched an eyebrow in pleasant surprise that this heathen woman had at least a passing familiarity with scripture. “‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’”

“Well, that’s what they wanted.” Her gaze hardened. “They wanted to eviscerate you and fill your hollowed out torso with bliss flowers. They wanted to wrap your body in barbed wire and suspend it from the rafters of the Henbane bridge for all to see. They wanted to stake your hands together and drive antlers through your skull, a real ‘greatest hits’ the corpses you and yours have displayed.”

She was practically shaking with raw anger at that point. Whether at the resistance for planning such a fate for him, or at him for not taking her seriously, John couldn’t tell. In any case, he grinned.

“Oh?” he asked nonchalantly. “How macabre. Why didn’t you let them? I know you think I deserve it.”

“No.” Patience was firm and decisive in her answer. How adorable. How pathetic. “No, I do not think anyone deserves any of the shit you do to them, and I certainly don’t want to turn around and do it to you. I’m a cop. I didn’t sign up for torture; I didn’t sign up for executions.”

How rich. The young woman had killed so many faithful he doubted she could even keep count. No, he knew this wasn’t about her supposed fidelity to the legal system.

He reached his hand out again, noting the flash of something in her eyes, and gently gripped her chin, tilting her face up towards his. She let him.

“No, no. You’ve taken your wrath out on my brothers and sisters time and time again. Don’t try to play ‘good cop’ now. You’re not fooling me, my dear. That’s not why you saved me. Tell me the truth.”

Her eyes flashed fear. She was so obvious. Was this truly the best the resistance had to offer?

“It’s not that you wouldn’t let them do that,” he continued. “It’s that you wouldn’t let them do that to me. And I want you to tell me why.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A lie. She continued to let him hold her face, her freckled cheeks dusted with pink. Embarrassment? Lust?

“Oh, yes, you do. It’s painfully obvious. You wear your heart on your sleeve, don’t you, my dear?” When her eyes widened in outrage at the accusation, he soothed her by gently stroking his thumb over her cheek, mocking in his eyes. “It’s alright… I’m flattered. Don’t worry, I’ll keep your little crush a secret.”

Rage flashed in her eyes, and she forcefully shoved him back. “You’re talking out of your ass, Seed.”

John smiled smugly and offered up his hands as if in surrender. She certainly was easy to read.

“Alright, alright,” he humored her. “If not that, then why? Why save me from your own people? And don’t try pulling that good cop routine with me again. You don’t intend to Atone, but you certainly can’t go back to the resistance. By saving me, you painted a huge target on yourself. You’re all alone… no allies, no friends… Whatever will you do?”

“Oh, shut the hell up.”

John took a step closer to her, noting how she made no moves to step back or otherwise keep the distance between them. He kept his facial expression steady, despite the amusement that observation provided him.

“Why did you save me?”

Her brows furrowed – stress, fear, overwhelming emotion.

“I don’t know.”

He closed the distance between them once again, but kept his hands to himself for now.

“Of course you do. You saved me at great personal expense. There’s no reason to do that. Well… no reason but the one.”

He smiled down at her, almost sweetly. Her lips parted slightly and she inhaled with a nearly inaudible stuttering gasp. But John was an observant man. He pressed his advantage by placing a steadying hand on her waist, affecting a quiet, intimate tone as he spoke.

“You care for me, don’t you?”

She didn’t reply.

“More than just care,” he continued. “You’ve essentially traded your life for mine. There’s no way the resistance will let you live after what you’ve done. But you know that, don’t you? You’re no fool, Deputy. You knew what you were doing… trading your life for that of the man you love.”

His eyes flickered across her face, tight and red. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was- shame, anger, grief? He looked down at her, studying her features. The dark circles under her eyes, the unkempt flyaways escaping her braid, the heavy scent of campfire smoke that permeated her clothes and hair… He took it all in with a clinical detachment.

And he wondered what she was taking in about him. Probably the sharp scent of his cologne, the body heat rolling off of him, the weight of his hand on her waist... Though, he doubted there was any sort of detachment between Patience and her observations of him.

“Because you do love me, don’t you?”

She said nothing, face growing redder.

He smirked down at her, hand flexing, gripping her waist. “I barely had to do anything, did I? I didn’t even have to try. A little attention, a little flirting, and here you are. Falling on your sword and betraying your own people for-“

Patience lashed out and slapped him across the face.

He stepped back in stunned surprise, hand coming up to soothe his stinging cheek. And then his eyes narrowed as a hot wave of anger came over him. John couldn’t deny the little thrill he got from seeing the flash of fear in her eyes as he pinned her to the wall with a hand on her throat, careful and controlled enough not to crush her windpipe, but firm enough to hold her in place.

“You little…” he hissed down at her before wrangling his fury under control. “Did that make you feel better? Did it make you feel good, knowing you hit the man you love just to make sure he takes you seriously? Hm? You’re a pathetic little girl, Deputy. You think a little slap is going to make me feel bad about what I say?

“Well, I hope it did make you feel better, because guess what? None of it matters. You threw your life away for me. Your own people will hunt you down and slaughter you like an animal for your betrayal. And you made that choice. For me.”

Her face was beet red with the effort to hold back her tears, but he didn’t stop. Why would he? She had saved him from certain doom and crippled the resistance by knocking out herself as their figurehead, all in one fell swoop. The sadistic and pleasurable rush of power he felt right then was intoxicating, and he had no intention of ending it anytime soon.

“It’s pathetic how easy you made this all for me. And despite it all, I bet you’d still give anything for me to hold you in my arms, to kiss away your tears… is that it?” His laugh was biting. “And you don’t regret it at all do you? You’d save me again, wouldn’t you?”

She didn’t answer and didn’t meet his eyes, so he harshly gripped her chin and made her meet his eyes.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“…yes.”

“Yes,” he repeated smugly. “You would.”

His long fingers traced over her plush lips, and she nearly melted under his attentions. Pathetic.

“Oh, Deputy, I’d have enjoyed you very much. Such a beautiful, young woman, so desperate to please me.” He smirked. “I can only imagine how much I would have loved that.”

The look of desperation in her eyes, it was so simultaneously ego-boosting and pitiful to John.

He scoffed as he took his hands off her and stepped away with a cold smile.

“But lust is a sin. And unlike you, I’m no sinner.”

~

John had left without incident. Patience had stayed. But the bunker had been abandoned for a reason. How long could she hide there until she ran out of supplies? He kept his ear to the ground, waiting to hear of any incidents involving the deputy. But he still hadn’t heard of any sightings. She was laying low.

He opened up his front door, breathing in the crisp morning air. But as he took a step out, he stumbled over something, sloshing hot coffee out of his mug and onto the deputy’s face below.

As he looked down at her strewn across his doorstep, he raised a single eyebrow, partially in surprise, and partially in irritation that his useless men had allowed anyone to get so close to his house. He took a sip of the scalding coffee as his eyes scanned over her body. The note pinned to her jacket caught his attention. FOR JOHN, written in bold script. He ripped the note from her and unfolded the torn paper, reading the message inside.

Here's your whore back.

He snorted in amusement. So, the resistance had caught up with her after all. ‘His whore.’ Interesting. Had they assumed the foolish woman’s feelings were mutual? Idiots. She’d done a lot for their cause. Likely would have continued to, if they hadn’t taken her out.

John contemplatively looked her over as he sipped at his morning cup of joe, admiring the theatrics of their work. On her forehead was the Project’s cross, clearly carved into the thin skin when she was still alive, based on the sloppy work. The hot coffee he’d accidentally splashed onto her face pooled in the divots of the wound and in the corners of her unseeing eyes. Lower down, on her chest, also obviously work she’d endured while conscious, was the word TRAITOR, carved in all capital letters.

Clearly an homage to the tattoos he gifted to Confessed sinners.

In their attempt to get back at him, the resistance had given him a gift. Truly, the Lord works in mysterious ways.

"Good.", a mumble sounded from the front, followed by a wave from their pilot aimed at the instructor. "-clearance.", he strained his ears, trying to catch whatever the two were hunkered down and whispering about. "Okay. Showtime, Mr. King.", it took him a lot of willpower to not instinctively correct the fake name he had given upon meeting the man and signing a stack of documents before his dive. His father would always talk about how much pride he had to have in the Gallagher-Kerring name, the legacy it carried, same one that gave people a pause and made it super easy for him to be tracked down. "I thought we weren't due for a couple of more minutes?", checking his watch was close to impossible, with all the gear he had on, but eventually he managed to confirm his suspicion. The scenery wasn't of much help location wise with the fields and various small structures scattered between winding roads signaling, he could have been anywhere over Montana. The body of water they passed reminded him he wasn't exactly listening to that part of the lecture. Just aim for anything that's not water. Easy. "Time flies.", was all the instructor offered before bracing his hands on his hips, "Usually we would need the equipment back by Friday, or else you lose the deposit, but seeing how you have your own and didn't request retrieval…" "That won't be an issue?" The plan was to skydive, land near Missoula, maybe hitchhike there if he felt extra adventurous. Everything he wore was practically brand new, purchased after he had stormed the closest specialized store he could find the moment he had left the most recent gathering Frank Gallagher-Kerring had bestowed upon him. The bright yellow and black piece covering his lean body wasn't exactly his first choice, but he was assured it was the best and most expensive one they had.

"Yeah. Any further questions, Mr. King?" "No. Thank you.", he paired the words with another grin while wishing for the man to already stop talking. With a final clearance and another quick whisper session with the pilot, Sébastien found himself threading air, all his instincts screaming at him he would die. Instead of listening to the pesky voice, he focused on his surroundings and how the small dots that were in reality trees and other buildings became large, closer as he spread his limbs face-to-earth to avoid spinning out and actually making true on that fear. "I'm alive!", he screamed on top of his lungs, absorbing as much of the giddy sensation as he could. There always came a time during whatever dangerous endeavor he partook where his mind would seem so much clearer, though usually he had others with him, drowning out the tranquility. "3000 feet.", the altimeter attached to his helmet announced, kicking him back into action as he recalled his instructor's word about the moment he needed to open his parachute. His right hand grasped the rip-cord while his left came to rest across his waist. A sudden jolt followed as the canopy unfolded, making his breath hitch. He pushed through the shock as a satisfied smile spead over his features. "Piece of cake.", he muttered while his eyes zeroed on a white shape speeding down one of the roads he could see from his position. He had no idea how much time passed where he descended towards the clearing he believed was good enough for a landing with the alternative of ending up in one of the trees nearby, slightly worrying him.

Then he felt it, trying to convince himself the adrenaline was playing tricks on him - something flying past him as smaller forms that looked almost like ants came into view. Whatever calm had taken over his body left him at once when the whoosh happened again, followed by another. A stinging sensation registered in his arm as he gripped his parachute risers tighter. His gaze widened in horror at the tear in his suit as another bullet flew past and missed him. The multiple holes marrying the previously intact material of the bright yellow and black canopy only fueled it. "No fucking waaaaay.", he let out a string of curses as panic swooped in together with the realization he was being shot at. That the shapes that previously looked like ants were people with guns and coming in closer as he descended down. In his attempts to avoid getting killed by something that had nothing to do with his questionable choices, he focused on the road next to the clearing, hoping the maniacs would let out if he landed outside of what he assumed was their private property they were so dead set on defending from an innocent skydiver. Their angry yells mixed until they were indistinguishable as he began plummeting down faster thanks to his parachute being turned into swiss cheese. The wind worked in his favor somewhat, granting him a lead on his pursuers. More bullets flew, all missing him by mere chance, making him glad whoever those men were they certainly had worse aim than him at his very first shooting lesson his father had dragged him to when he was but 10.

"Come on. Come on, baby.", he chanted as his luck ran out and his hopeful descent turned nightmarish, faster, out of control. It was becoming clear making it to the safety of the road wasn't in the cards for him when his trajectory shifted dramatically despite him trying his hardest to keep steady. "FUCCK.", ripped out of his throat as he calculated his chances of making it over the tree line separating the fields from the road. No way. It was going to take a miracle. All he could do was close his eyes while his elbows locked together to instinctively protect his face from the incoming collusion. A part of him wondered if he should pray, if anything would even consider saving him with his track record of mayhem. "I wanna live. I'd donate all my money if I have to.", spilled out as a promise, thought he meant just the first part, letting go of his usual lifestyle felt impossible, out of the question. It's all he had and considered deserving off after surviving being raised by a Gallagher-Kerring. Sébastien had no idea how his landing actually unfolded as he kept his eyes shut, chanting reassurances under his breath, all he knew was that one second he was facing certain death, the next he felt his parachute hook onto something. "What the-", he could still hear faint shouts behind him, as his harness pulled at his body, feet dangling uselessly midair instead of touching the ground below, "I'm alive? Fuck. Gotta move." His hands shook as he grasped at the buckles, willing for his fingers to cooperate and undo them before whatever advantage he had on his attackers would vanish entirely.

"It's not that high. Nope.", he lied to himself, feeling idiotic for fearing such small drop after having literally dove out from a plane and risked his life for thrills. He held his breath as the final straps keeping him suspended gave way and gravity brought him down, his not so graceful but loosened stance softening his fall to a degree. With racing heart he relaxed into the grass beneath him, his victory becoming shortlived as he looked up and met a pair of angry eyes, then his gaze lowered, stopping at the rifle cluthed in the bloody grip of the unkept man looming above him. "Friendly, kind sir.", he whispered and shimmied back until his helmet made contact with something solid. It's just a big stone. Yeah. Not a leg connected to a person. It's what went through his mind despite suspecting reality was different and granted, when his head twisted to glance at what he had run into in his attempt to retreat, another just as equally furious seeming man greeted him by sneering his way. He would have bet a good chunk of money they were brothers, with the one behind him looking like he had been eating his vegetables and then some. "Fried-", a hand pulled him to his feet like he weighted nothing and made the word die before it formed fully, especially with how the longhaired Berserker wanna-be was holding onto his helmet, making him wonder if his grip would squish his head if nothing stood in its path. The fact he was taller than Sébastien didn't help, either. "We should call this in. Otis, get me Brother John on the line.", the shorter brother barked an order, attention shifting past the two. And then there were three?

His captor let out a low grunt, "We should, Bo… but he said he is to not be bothered today. Under any circumstance." "With the exception of anything related to the Deputy.", a third voice presumably belonging to Otis added, or at least it's what he hoped - that he wasn't about to be surrounded by a whole gang of trigger happy locals that took trespassing way too seriously. I wasn't even touching the ground. His hand inched up to his face, aiming for the clasp under his chin while Bo rubbed his dark beard, contemplating their options. "This Sinner fell from the sky.", he pointed his rifle at Sébastien, making him hold his breath in anticipation of the worst, "What if this is part of the Father's prophecy? A sign?" Sinner? Father? WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING? Did I travel back in time? Sébastien forced a laugh, "It's called skydiving, have you people not heard of it? You know, plane, jumping, freefalling, then parachuting the rest of the-" The Berserker shook him in warning, its threatening tone not halting his concealed efforts at freeing himself, "SHUT UP." "Sorry. Just-" "I said shut your mouth, Sinner before you become an Angel.", the sentence was uttered through gritted teeth, before the man addressed his shorter look-alike, "Or the Sinners are sending in reinforcements, airdropping them, hoping we'd be caught off guard." Like I have a chance at taking you all out. I've been hitting the gym, but not that HARD. "Call this in, Otis. Brother John would like to know.", Bo concluded with a nod.

The second the command was spoken out loud, the clasp securing the helmet to Sébastien's head came undone. Before any of the three men could blink, he was making a run for it, discarding the piece of equipment as years of running track in highschool came back to him, but instead of running to impress his father, he was running for his life. "GRAB HIM.", the scream Bo released pushed him to speed up, his calves and whole body really aching from the fall while his eyes remained glued ahead, knowing glancing back would do him no good. Only add to his raising panic, feeding a different level of adrenaline. With the rustling behind him signaling the nearing recapture, he vaulted the fence that stood between him and freedom, leaping onto the road and almost getting ran over by a white truck in the process. His hands rose up as to shield him as Sébastien saw his life flash before him for a second time that day before whoever was behind the wheel hit the breaks hard, forcing the vehicle to an abrupt stop inches away from him. "I'M CROSSING HERE, YOU FUCKING IDIOT.", he yelled and hit the truck's hood for good measure, and he would have been embarrassed by how high pitched the words were, if he wasn't absolutely furious. I'm a Gallagher-Kerring. His brain didn't even fully register the strange cross painted on the vehicle or how it matched the one on his pursuers' sweaters. "Get down.", a deep voice responded before a shot rang out and he ducked without a second thought, scrambling towards the side of the truck as bullets began flying. A rumbling noise sounded from the treeline, followed by a red light exploding in the sky. A flare.

Sébastien watched in horror, suspecting more trouble was headed his way when the gunfire died down as fast as it had started. "Hey.", a door slammed shut, making him move further away from the passenger's side of the truck while the same voice from before added, "You alive, jaywalker?" Boots crunched against the gravel as he rounded the front of the vehicle, his determined approach and the fact he was armed activating Sébastien's fight or flight instincts. "Stay back.", he hollered as a blond man, who couldn't have been older than him, came into view. "Easy now.", a laughter escaped him when he shoved his gun in the waistband of his jeans, his palm circled his own face then pointed at him, "Did you fall into a bush?" "No." "Got caught in the cattle fence as little ducky was crossing the road? Where's your mama?", Sébastien eyed his outstretched arm with suspicious before reluctantly grabbing it so he can help him up. He shook of the man's hold, putting safe distance between them as he braced for another attack. "Skydiving into a tree.", he muttered under his breath and a realization dawned on him, "YOU- YOU- DUCKY?" The stranger shrugged as he regarded him from head to toe before swiveling on his heel, "Yellow. Duck. Wasn't me who picked that outfit, chief. Would you rather me call you baby chick? That was option B. Felt too on the nose."

His anger rose back to the surface as the man climbed back into his truck and he spun to stare at him through the rolled down window, "You have no idea who you're talking to!" All he got initially was a slow, unimpressed blink, "Do tell, your Majesty?", he tapped his watch, an old looking thing, "But make it quick." "I-", his mouth snapped shut. A smirk came over the man across him, "Well? You shy? I'd start first, name's Calahan. Calahan Hartley. Your turn." "Sébastien Theodore Phoenix Sawyer Thatcher Landon Nicholas Gallagher-Kerring.", his full name spilled out, making him feel like he was at the front of his class, confusing everyone and then himself by the reaction it always got out of people. Blond eyebrows twisted in confusion before Calahan released a chuckle, the usual of recognition upon speaking the Gallagher-Kerring name nowhere in sight, "Wait. Are you actually for real?" "It's my name." "Jesus. Your parents hate you or something, bud?", he leaned back into his seat, giving him a first look at the bodies laying on the road a few feet away from them, the pools of blood making him woozy. In turn, Hartley seemed completely at ease, like he hadn't just taken out three men and potentially saved his life. Sébastien frowned, "No." Silence took over before Calahan cleared his throat and nodded at the passenger's side, "You need a ride?" "I will pass." "Be my guest, your Majesty, just a friendly word of advice… that red flare? Means more of those fuckers are coming as reinforcements and I ain't sticking around to play your bodyguard, I'm on a tight schedule. When they roll up, just say you're ready for your Cleansing and praise the Father."

"You're not one of them?" "Hell no." A sigh left Sébastien before his fingers lowered to the door handle, "They shot at me." "Their usual modus operandi with all of us locals. Where?" He pulled at his sleeve until the place where one of the bullets had grazed his upper arm peeked through, crimson marrying the yellow material. "Have seen worse, far worse." "Are you serious?" Mischief shone in his eyes, "You're gonna live, bud, I promise, giving ya the word of a Hope County Deputy. Last chance, are you hitching a ride with me or going for a Peggie pick-up? John is going to have a field day with ya." As he said that, he stepped on the gas enough for the vehicle to inch forward, clearly enjoying the precicament Sébastien had found himself in and how riled up he got at his words. "Who's John?", he asked as he settled into the passenger seat. "It's a long story, short one is: someone you don't want to mess with. How about you start tellin' me how you ended up here and why these three were chasing you?" "It's a long story.", Sébastien parrotted back, finding himself unable to shake off the bitereness at the man's previous comments. "Cheer up, your Majesty. I should be sulking at you for almost denting my truck, after the hassle it was to steal." "I have a name. And you stole a truck?" Calahan rolled his eyes, "Among other things. So, what should I call you for short because I ain't reciting that long-ass name back to you…"

His hands crossed over his chest as Calahan put the truck into drive, "Nothing." "Rubber ducky it is, then." "Maurizio's fine.", he grumbled, causing the Deputy to laugh again. So happy to be providing entertainment for you. "That wasn't even among the names you listed, chief. I think." "It's what friends call me." "Uh-oh, did I get upgraded to a friend?" "Absolutely not." "Ouch.", Calahan rubbed his chest, "Hurts almost as a bullet. You part of a dynasty?" "Something like that. Why were they shooting at me?" "Cult took over after we tried to arrest their leader, has the whole county on lockdown and communications cut off, hence why I was askin' how you got here." "What, I don't look like a local?" He snorted, "Do I start with your outfit, posh accent, or long name that won't fit on a name tag?" "I'm regretting my choice to hitchhike already." "Hey, no offense. You asked. Plus, you need to flag me down first, not jump out in the middle of the road like you're trying to trap me into paying you damages." Sébastien ignored the apology, "How do I get to Missoula?" "You listening to anything I just said? Or did you hit your head as you fell down? Lockdown." Denial seeped into his system at the fact he was stranded in the wrong place, "I need a ride to Missoula." "Can't do."

"I will pay you.", he patted the inside pocket of his suit, the wad of cash he carried around for emergencies giving him a sense of comfort. "As tempting as that sounds, we're in a middle of a holy war, so I can't be your personal driver." "I need to make a call then. You got a cell?" He had left his own behind, knowing his father would immediately track him down otherwise, now he kind of wished he would have left a trail to follow. Certainly, would have solved his 'stuck in the middle of a hostile conflict' problem promptly. Calahan groaned, "You truly ain't listening." The truck drove past a sign announcing they're entering 'Fall's End.', and his attention drifted off again, forcing his reluctant driver to call out his nickname. "What?" "I asked if you're fine making a quick stop on the way to the doctor's. I know you have to get that fatal wound treated ASAP." "Stop where?" Various structures lined the road on both sides, some burned down, others appearing like they had housed a face-off or two. "Here.", the vehicle rolled to a stop in front of a relatively spared building, the neon sign of a woman in just her bikini and a set of wings drawing his gaze. "A bar? It's barely past noon." He had no idea why he had even muttered that, considering he himself had participated in far worse activities in his lifetime, ones that often created a media storm Frank Gallagher-Kerring paid a fortune to bury. "You can stay in the car, posh boy. I won't be long."

Calahan didn't wait for his reply, quickly exiting the car without sparing him a look as he strutted inside the bar. "Fuck this.", Sébastien slammed the door with way too much force, contemplating if he should try to track down a working phone line, no matter how much he dreaded crawling back to his father that soon. This is hardly a proper rebellion. At the end, he dragged himself towards the bar, the bell's jiggle cutting off whatever conversation Calahan was having with a woman and by the knowing look she gave him, he was most likely the subject of it. "Mary May, this is…", Hartley paused, expecting he would just introduce himself, then turned around to shoot him a glance, "Humor me. I saved your life." "Sébastien Gallagher-Kerring." "Hilarious. You forgot like 20 names." "Whatcha drinking?", the blonde nodded his way. "Organic tea?" Before he knew it, she was placing a quick kiss against Calahan's cheek before backing away with an annoyed expression, "I hate you, you know that, Rookie?" "The feeling of being right.", he sighed and locked his hands at the nape of his neck, leaning back in the chair he was occupying. "Sorry, I'm lost.", Sébastien uttered out as he slid into the seat next to his. "You're in a bar in Montana.", Mary May began and placed an empty glass in front of him, "Closest you'd get to me making you tea, even at lunch is serving you lukewarm water with some of my spit in it. Organic." Calahan leaned in, whispering loudly, "Also known as blatant disrespect. Which I would advise against." "Damn right. You order liquor.", she chimed in as she poured him a drink, "With how pale you are, it might even do you some good."

The first time Morgan met Joseph Seed, she felt like there was something wrong with him.

She couldn’t say what, exactly – it was just a sense, looking into his eyes, like the wave of vertigo she got when she looked down the edge of a sheer cliff, or the feeling of looking into a dark cave and being able to tell from the air pressure on her face that it was deep, but not actually being able to see how deep, or what was in it.

But then he put out his hand, and she – she had no actual reason to feel like anything was wrong, and she’d had weird feelings before that meant nothing at all, and she was a police officer – she couldn’t just go around treating people badly according to her whims.  So she took it.

It was warm and solid, like any other hand.  Looking into his eyes, it was suddenly easier to see the blue irises, muscles contracting, rather than just the hole in the middle.