#thehearsc

Havoc, they called her.

It was as close as anyone got, aside from the slurry of intelligence leaks and assassinations that came in her wake. He’d been the eminent expert on her not-inconsiderable rap sheet, filing away incidents and near-sightings that matched her profiteering MO. But she was good, a real pro that put every galavanting semi-pro back in their training wheels in fear. He just looked on with intrigue, and no small amount of respect. But he left that to himself. The poindexter pundits that processed his reports could make of her what they would. His was not to evaluate threat, only to report raw data. To his eye, her raw data added up to one hell of a talent.

But havoc she remained, cursed under the breath of every typist that shoveled his field reports onto their increasingly frustrated superiors. And maybe sometimes he spared them the actual sightings he had gathered from sources in the field. They weren’t interested in finding her, and he wasn’t especially devoted to leading them to her.

She did the work they should have been doing, most days. And even if Arthur wouldn’t admit it, he could see it from every orbital satellite he had a back door into.

Until one day, he got an assignment to go speed dating. 

The fact that he was invited back to London at all was a whiplash, but he took it in stride just as a good boy should. He was back to being Todd I. Greene again - a bachelor businessman, busy in a global economy offering luxury wares to overseas businessmen who deserved them just as much as the Brits. Or so it was assumed. But he’d grown tired of kicking his heels up through foreign streets, and wanted a reason to come home a little more often. The gender of the reason didn’t matter on his dating profile, but the target of his mission was specific enough to have him cautious of his presentation.

Warm and gregarious, painful to not fall in love with in some way. Tasteful, but not pompous or old-world. Soft, in the designer raglan underneath his dinner jacket, but coordinated enough to make his socks and pocket square match hue. The dinner jacket was left over the back of his chair, his wrists bared and open, his laughter accessible but not over-used.

Conversation, for the most part, was a dreadful bore. Rolls Royce reps, chartered accountants, old money brats pretending to have earned their access to Ascot themselves. It took every ounce of modest-year but luxury brand whisky he ordered to get through it without threatening that he knew about their overseas stock in drug trade, human trafficking, or IKEA knock-offs. The last belonged to the chartered accountant, who was so painfully inept that such a threat would have been akin to punching a dog that didn’t like you quick enough. Unfair, and cruelly unnecessary.

He was beginning to lose hope - and respect in his quarry, should she really be among this horrible Fortune 500 hoarde.

But rapture came. When she plopped into the corner booth he’d sequestered as his station, which every other party had been content to meet him at rather than assuming it was on him to vie for their attention, she sprawled into the other half of the L corner like she owed its tactical advantageousness more than he did, regardless of the fact he’d been suffering in it for the last three hours. Her conspiratorial whisky glass - a darker hue than his but likewise with a single rock - tapped the rim of his own demurely before she knocked it back like a coed juggernaut. He met that toast, and kicked back the last of his in companionship. By the time the waiter came by to refill them, they’d been kibitzing with no liquid lubrication for more than an hour, and every other single watched, saddened, as the only alchemical match in the room finally hit home, leaving them all behind.

It was just a touch, a brief brush of his knuckles against the point of her arm as he laughed - really laughed - about an anecdote she’d flippantly laid out, and he knew. Their chemistry was havoc. Their chemistry was her, his target. But he looked over at her out of the corner of his eye, smiling like Kingsman were trained not to, lest they encourage too much emotional rapport, and saw nothing but... 

Nothing but his own proclivity for havoc, looking back at him wearing slightly more lipstick than he had in a while. “I think,” he said, playing up the superciliousness so much as to turn up his nose and peer around the slouching, despondent others, settling in for a cheap shag or none at all in spite of their money, “that we’ve rather ruined the atmosphere singlehandedly.”

He offered her a hand to shake, grinning wickedly. “Or, rather, double-handedly.”

Ahhhhhhh Jakey-boi. My walking contradiction.

Dude simultaneously cannot give a single solitary fuck… and is shockingly vain. Like let’s take a look at this little shit:

Credit to @hollandvalleythotpatrol for the photos. What would I do without Banni? Maybe she’ll write him for me next.

Handsome motherfucker. There’s a lot going on there. Like dude is scarred as fuck, obviously. Chemical burns, rashes [Gulf war syndrome, anyone?], dirty as all get out. Actually, that’s pretty fuckin’ clean for Jacob. I still insist his jeans would stand up on their own. But… lots of evidence Jacob doesn’t care about his appearance. Buuutttttt also a good bit of time invested into it as well. His beard’s trimmed, kept fairly neat. No ZZ-Top knock offs here. I’m 80% sure that’s dirt on his neck, not stubble. The same transfers over to Jacob’s hair. Shaved close, no peachfuzz stubble rising on the sides. Plainly, Jacob kept the military habits up {once he decided to live rather than wait to die}. Speaking of haircuts: Jacob’s pushing those army regulations.  

“The hair on the top of the head must be neatly groomed and may not be trendy, spiky, or disheveled in appearance. The hair must be tapered and conform to the shape of the head, and the neckline must be tapered. Hair must not be allowed to fall over the ears or touch the collar (except that the taper at the neckline may extend past the collar).”

My Lieutenant Colonel at Fort Hood brother says he wouldn’t consider Jacob’s hair Army Regulation without a good trim [my brother’s also a hard ass and annoyed by me, so take that with a grain of salt and me hearing what I want to hear]. So Jacob’s gone a little rogue here. Neatly trimmed sides, maintaining the shape, but “too long on top”. Who can blame him? At 47 (presumably) he’s still got a nice, thick head of hair. Not a grey in sight. Buttt… if we look at his beard here:

It’s a bit patchier on this side, thinner where the scarring encroaches on the jaw. So it’s safe to assume that his scarred skin has been damaged to such a point that it doesn’t reliably grow hair. And let’s keep looking at that scarring. It extends up the temple and into the hairline.

This side:

–shows the same thing: scarring into the temple, a patch above the ear that looks to be a graze or more of that chemical burning. If the scars aren’t growing hair consistently, Jacob with a full head of hair is going to be patchy. And not receding hairline patchy, but inconsistent male pattern baldness patchy. Das es no bueno [ignore my bullshit German/Spanish hybrid. I’m tired and have to ramble to get this shit out onto the page].  Jacob’s vain–again once he decides to give a shit and participate in life. {and can you blame the handsome bastard. Even all scarred up he’s a looker] So he’s gonna cover this… or shave it off. But nooo not completely, Remember that full head of thick red hair? So does Jacob. He likes his red hair. He likes that he carries only a passing resemblance to their father. A father that was too uneducated and stubborn to realize that red is just a recessive gene and yes, Jacob is, in fact, Old Mad Seed’s child. But, Jacob enjoyed the fantasy that maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he wasn’t that sadistic old bastard’s git. So he likes the red hair the old man hates and keeps shaved close most of Jacob’s young life. He likes that he doesn’t quite fit in with the family. So he’s keeping the hair, even all these years later. Best of both worlds it is. Long on top where there’s minimal scarring, shaved away on the sides that would be patchy. Work what you got, boy. 

Moving on!

Jacob’s god-awful clothes. Jesus. You bet your ass there’s more than one hole ripped in the crotch of those poor jeans. The man’s like a walking stress-tester for denim. I swear to god--I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again-- those jeans are so grime-coated and interwoven with sweat and dirt that Jacob could step out of them and they’d remain upright as if he hadn’t. 

They’re ripped to fuck and then neatly patched. And it’ll just keep going. An endless cycle of clothing abuse until that article is so beat to hell and cobbled together that it’s but a ghost of the original. That’s pretty much his habit. Undoubtedly John purchased an abundance of clothes after they brought Jacob home like a puppy. And Jacob still has most of them: neatly folded, tags intact, tucked into a drawer somewhere in Saint Francis for when he needs them. He does this thing where he doesn’t keep more than two or three of each article of clothing. He also just doesn’t wear underwear because it’s a pain in the ass. Just enough clothing for a change, something to wear on the rare occasions he’s actually washing the other set or needs to be cleaned up quickly. As soon as something wears out beyond redemption, he grabs one single solitary replacement to throw into the rotation. 

Part of it’s practicality-- using something as long as he possibly can, keeping things ready for a future need somewhere down the road. The man loathes excess and waste. Another part is that apathy that overcame him for years when he’d lost what he saw as his only purpose and the army declared him unfit for service. Meh, Jacob wants only to be clothed and doesn’t much care what in as long as it’s practical. The exception being his BDU jacket. He’s got an attachment to that, to the purpose he held while wearing it and how his service shaped his identity. Everything else? Fuck it. Jacob Seed will wear pink with purple polkadots... as long as it’s functional and blends in with the environment.  

Another thing I’ve noticed is that Jacob’s got pretty shit posture, which I find surprising for a military man. The only exception is in two circumstances-

1. He’s on display. Think of him peacocking his way over to stand behind Joseph during the initial arrest. Dude is ramrod straight--also sexually, but we’re not going there today-- shoulders back, chin up, chest pushed out. Why? He’s got purpose. He’s there to protect, to intimidate, to lead his troops. So he’s going to present something worthy of that function, of the leadership.

The instant he’s out of sight? When he’s unwatched? Instant slope shoulders, watching the ground as he walks. Because there’s very little pride in himself, pride in Jacob Seed rather than The Soldier. 

Look at him here, in front of the Deputy and Pratt:

Neither one much matters to Jake. Pratt’s a human squeaky toy to the man. The deputy’s a tool. No need to parade. No need to intimidate. Why bother? He doesn’t have to prove he’s above these two. He knows he is. To him, pea-cocking in front of those two would be like showing off for a leaf-blower. So he’s relaxed, shoulders not quite rounded, but certainly no military bearing.

Compared to here:

See the difference? Guess what: he’s working again, giving his ‘Cull the weak’ speech. Fuck, sorry, how far I’m scrolled down on the page is giving me an eyeful of thigh-holster... wow. Thank you, UbiSoft

Alright back on topic.

But Jacob’s working. He’s serving a purpose. His purpose. So he gives enough of a fuck to scrape together his pride and stand upright, project the image that Joseph and the Project need from him. He sure as shit won’t do it for himself. 

Exception number 2. While holding a rifle. Which is really just more of the above. Blahblahblah purpose. Buuuttttt... there’s also a good bit of pride in that. Jacob grew up poor in the suburbs. Maybe there was an old family shotgun. Maybe. But, I very much doubt he ever had opportunity to use it [other than plans for Old Mad Seed the next time the bastard hit John]. Same goes for at the slave-labor foster family. If there’d been ready access to and familiarity with a weapon, you bet your ass Jacob would have shot the man rather than hit him with an axe handle. Sure as shit not getting hands on a weapon while in Juvie soooo the first time Jacob handles a firearm is in Basic.

And the kid’s shit with the fine arts. He’s absolutely dyslexic {More detail coming on that in the next HC post} and not inclined toward flowery things. But... he’s got math down. Understands geometry and physics quite easily. So understanding a sight picture is gonna come naturally. He’ll understand how to adjust that picture to compensate for drop, changes in elevation, weather, etc. So he’s already got the bones of a good shot. Pair that with shooting well is likely the first time this kid has heard any kind of praise? He’s gonna throw himself into it. 

Every chance he has, Jacob is out there throwing hot lead down the range. For hours at a time, days on end. Surely he has a few favored weapons, but, for the most part, he’s got a handle on anything you throw his way. Natural talent plus dedicated practice and Jacob’s a terrifyingly good shot. An amry Expert Marksman badge good shot. Which means hitting 36-40 stationary and pop-up targets of 40 during qualification testing in supported prone, unsupported prone, and foxhole positions. Jacob got 39. Under pressure. I haven’t played the game (motion sickness can’t handle FPS), but I’m told that he outstrips Grace Armstrong, who was an Olympic medalist, as a GFH in terms of accuracy. Which very well may just come down to years of experience and the ability to practice daily. So the point of that long ramble isssss: he’s proud of himself with a rifle. It’s the only time he’s standing upright even without observation and not directly related to his purpose within the Project. 

Everyone’s favorite Sasquatch for demonstration:

So the final thought I have, I’ve already touched on: Jacob’s gangling appearance. I’m just gonna link that here and then just run through the basics

Basically, Jacob is not meant to be a lean man. Look at the size of his hands compared to his forearms. Look that he’s basically a column from shoulder to hip. I mean, he was never going to be a Chris Evans Inverted Dorito, but dude should have a bit of tapering from shoulder to waist. He’s a man who had a good bit of bulk to him in his twenties and early thirties, a man who filled out the frame the genetic lottery threw his way (because John and Joseph don’t have the same shape as Jacob. They’re both built on lithe, tapering lines. It’s redhead, recessive gene, trial run Seed who only shares the blue eyes and a single freckle on the left nostril with John). Jacob is meant to be a big fucking boy. He’s made to carry broad shoulders and a powerful chest, strong arms. But look at him! He’s lanky, his bones are larger than the muscling on them. By the time we see him in Hope County, Jacob’s been out of the military since the mid- to late-nineties. In that time he’s experienced extreme muscle deterioration from damn near starving to death in the desert. Then he’s severely traumatized, obsessed with hoarding away food so he’s not eating what he should to gain back all that muscle lost. And he never will. That obsession with taking just enough, with keeping himself moving, but never indulging in excess. And bulking up requires excess. Maintaining that bulk requires excess. Jacob’s not the ‘I’ll pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today’ type. He’s budgeting for the looming nuclear winter, for increases in population with decreasing resources. So Jacob stays skinny. Fed. Functional. Certainly no wilting flower... but, comparatively, skinny.

Soooo yeah. I’m petering out on the manic HC fest. 

All photo credit to one Banni of @hollandvalleythotpatrol You’re a gem and I love you. The gif... I lost the original source. Someone not rushing to go to work can point me toward a source if they’re so inclined or it can wait until I get home and have time.

@elisethetraveller​, @jaegerdersterne​ and @thehearsc​ asked: ★ - Do they prefer daytime or nighttime and why? [X]

While he relishes any time of day for his own reasons, there is something just that little bit extra-special about the twilight hours, especially whenever he finds himself somewhere quiet and secluded.

During the day, people are out and about, living their hectic lives and adhering to their strict schedules - but at night, they have an opportunity to engage in respite. For Five, too, the evening is when he is most likely to find peace, and he can occasionally be found in the middle of the countryside or on the coast, seated outside his TARDIS and gazing up at the stars, enjoying the tranquil silence and doing his best to try and identify stars and the like he recognises.

nsfw trait meme | (accepting)

"Please don’t keep saying that every time we have a friendly shag.” he muttered from beneath the flannel duvet of their obnoxiously chic mountainside mansion in... where was it again? Big Sky, Montana? It was like the Fortune 500 cesspool of snow-bunnies, or people who wanted to look like them and drink luxury hot chocolate in the ski lodge while watching all the local ski bum undergraduates waste months of their grocery budgets on ski passes. The decor was grudgingly on-brand - giant elk antler chandelier overseeing everything in the two-story open air living room, pine paneled interior, heated soapstone floors.

An escape that was definitely not the place to be saying “oops” about sleeping with an already slept-with friend. Especially not when there was local bourbon cream liqueur already in the coffee cup she put on his nightstand. He cracked his eyes open, and the blinding and stretching blue of the sky beyond the heavily insulated bay windows was effervescent enough to forget about all the false money that went into this place. The storm last night when they’d driven in had been gruesome, but now it was as serene as a frigid oasis.

Pulling into the destination, the Spider silenced the purr of the ‘66 Shelby by turning off the ignition. Reaching for the handle, he pushed open the door and stepped out—the metallic acapulco blue reflecting the sun’s intensity back unto the raging ocean. Once the driver’s door had been closed behind him and flush with the body of the vehicle, he leaned against it and dipped a hand behind the lapel of his black Armani suit to extract a slim pack of cigarettes. Drawing one from the box, he tucked it away again and pushed the filter of the cigarette between his lips before lighting it. After inhaling a drag of tobacco, the exhale came from his nostrils alone as the lapping of waves crashed against the retaining wall of the highway. It was beneath the sun he waited, but the Spider was never known for his patience.

And yet, he seemed unbothered.

@thehearsc​ said: ♗ :O / from 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳 𝙼𝙴 𝙰 ♗ 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙸’𝙻𝙻 𝚄𝚂𝙴 𝙼𝚈 𝙸𝙲𝙾𝙽 𝚂𝚃𝚈𝙻𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴 𝙰𝙽 𝙸𝙲𝙾𝙽 𝙾𝙵 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙼𝚄𝚂𝙴 (accepting.)