#far cry 5 fic

[josephseedismyfather]

Afflicted: Harley & Jacob

Chapter 2: Ruins

Chapter 2 is finally ready.

Many, MANY thanks to my friend @redreart for once again creating the most beautiful chapter art a girl could dream of! Your support and your talent are literal life savers. I love you!

And to @hotmessteaparty, thank you SO MUCH for beta reading, you always manage to blow me away with the amount of work you do. Thank you for the endless hours spent on helping me hash out the things in my brain. I love you 💖💖💖 and am incredibly grateful.

I hope you guys enjoy the chapter! I have plenty more to go, these fics will be loooong, and chapter 3 is already fleshed out.

#afflicted: harley & jacob #afflicted chapter 2 #far cry 5 fic #oc: harley jane #jacob seed #harley x jacob #jacob seed x oc #far cry 5 fan art #chapter art! #far cry 5 fan fiction #redreart #my writing 🖤

[adelaidedrubman]

back by unpopular demand, requested by no one. it’s hank’s big day. 

summary: hank has a big day, and makes a new friend. wordcount: 2k  warnings: passing references to canon typical violence, unsanitary conditions, drugging/brainwashing, and animal abuse/experimentation. all seen through the eyes of an opossum.

Hank thinks from the first moment he sees the Red One that everything about her is good and nice. 

Even though Hank knows that here in the Big Mountains, red is a Scary Color. Because there is also Other Red and all of his passel who wear his color, who live in Bad Places that smell like all kinds of good garbage and things opossums would want but that Hank knows are full of Scary People who do mean things to little critters like Hank. 

But Hank can tell this Red is different. She’s good. 

Good Red has lots of stinks on her that make Hank feel happy and safe. Red smells like trash and outside and animal, not the weird scents other humans like to cover themselves in. 

And Red doesn’t call out in scary low and booming sounds like other humans. Red has a voice that’s high and sharp, but nice and scratchy and grizzled like an opossum’s fur. Red talks in screeches, and she hisses and clicks and chitters in soothing tones that remind Hank of his Mama. 

Red doesn’t have a tail, but Hank thinks he loves her even though there are things that are a little weird about her like that. Because Red does have round little ears that stick out and buggy eyes and a pink little nose and short little grabby fingers. Red even has a pouch on her belly that Hank can smell is full of food scraps and looks like it’s the perfect size for Hank to curl up in and be cozy and warm. 

That’s why Hank isn’t scared even as he watches Red sneak in the bushes and lunge to cut open one of the Scary People’s throats and then rip off his Scary Color fur to put it on herself and fool the rest of the Scary People. Hank thinks that it is good that Red is strong and smart like this. Maybe she can protect him from all the other Scary People, and make sure he doesn’t end up like the Sick Critters he sees around. 

So Hank scampers after her and makes choo noises to try to get her attention, but Red moves too fast. 

Hank is sad, but he hurries his little feet as fast as they can move to chase after her. Hank follows behind her as she kills many more of the Scary People. 

Sometimes the bodies Red leaves behind have good snacks on them, and Hank stops to eat. He chitters and smacks his gums and grins and thinks about how it’s been a long time since his belly has been as full as it is now that Red is here and fighting all the Scary People and leaving their food behind for Hank. 

That’s why Hank keeps following Red even when he sees the Scary People grab her and take her to one of the Bad Places. 

Hank won’t lie and say he isn’t scared, but he follows in the shadows anyways so that he can watch and make sure Red will be okay. He knows she will, because she is smart and strong and Hank loves her. But he still needs to see. 

Hank hides in the rafters and watches as the Scary People give Red bad smelling medicine. Hank worries it will turn Red into a Sick Critter, and he will be sad. 

But right now she just sleeps and sleeps until they wake her and all the other humans up with the bad loud sounds Other Red likes to make from the box he has. 

Red looks around with big, scared eyes. She’s shaking, and it makes Hank’s hair stand on end. Hank starts to worry, because Red isn’t moving or making any noise even as the other Scary People look at her with mean, angry eyes. And Red is always moving and making big noises, so this isn’t right to Hank. 

All of the humans start running around and attacking each other like they all want to eat out of the same garbage can, which makes no sense to Hank because there aren’t even any garbage cans around, so there’s no reason to fight and be mean. 

Lots of the humans running around have those awful toys Hank hates that make loud noises and kill critters with Fast Rocks, and some of them start to use them and make Hank’s little ears hurt. Then some of the humans come towards Red looking like they are going to fight her for the Garbage Can That Isn’t Actually There, and Red still doesn’t move or make any noise. 

Hank wants to hiss and growl at the humans coming near. But he knows he isn’t big and strong like Red, and will only get them both hurt worse. All he can do is hope hope hope Red can survive these humans like she does all the others.

But Hank is very, very scared now as Red still doesn’t move. He can see her jaw shaking, and that’s not something he’s seen before. 

And then as someone points one of the Loud Toys, Red’s limbs lock up and go stiff and rigid. The fur she wears gets all wet and smells bad, and Hank realizes she’s marking it. 

Red falls down and hits the ground hard just as one of the human’s Bad Toys goes bang, and the Fast Rock it spits out flies over her and hits the human behind her instead. The other human falls down on the ground beside Red, a big puddle of blood fanning along the floor to pool beneath them both.

The human whose toy threw the Fast Rock charges past both bodies on the ground to attack the next human running towards him, knocking her to the ground too. He runs out of the room hurling more of the Loud, Fast Rocks, and Hank can hear the sounds of more fighting outside over the pops. 

More humans scramble through the room, all stepping and clawing over the bodies on the ground. 

Not one of the humans stops to hurt Red’s body. 

They treat Red like all of the other dead and dying bodies piling up around her as they run like they have somewhere to get to fast. (Hank wonders if maybe there is a garbage can at the end of all these halls everyone wants to get to?)

Hank opens his mouth to grin, because he can see that Red’s body is still warm and alive, even though the humans don’t notice. 

Hank had known Red was good, and smart. Red knows when to play dead. 

Red’s body stays warm even as more dead humans pile up around her. Hank is so happy that when the noise starts to die down and the room empties, he can’t resist looking around the corner a few times then dashing towards Red with a clickety click click of his nails against the floor. 

Hank climbs over all the dead humans to reach his dear Red at the center. He burrows past the arm slung over her chest to finally snuggle up into her pouch, tucking himself in tightly. 

It’s just as warm and cozy as Hank always knew it would be, and feeling the thumpity-thump of Red’s still beating heart through her strange fur puts Hank so at ease he thinks he could fall sound asleep there. 

Hank closes his eyes, he isn’t sure for how long. 

“Well, can’t say I’m surprised. Brothers, gather ’round and come look at this!” 

Hank’s dreams of big garbage cans filled with huckleberries and persimmons are torn away from him when he hears a voice he recognizes. It’s the same voice that always comes out of the crackly boxes the humans like to carry around so they can make noises at each other even when they’re far apart. It’s a voice Hank has only been unlucky enough to hear come right from the human who has it instead of through the crackly boxes a few times, but he still knows it right away. 

“Didn’t I tell ya that Deputy wouldn’t be nothing but a coward without the mask?” Hank hears Other Red’s voice echo through the room, and it causes panic to jolt through him. “See, this is what happens when the weak try to play soldier and think they can outsmart the strong.” 

The fear the voice instills makes Hank’s body go rigid on reflex. His jaw swings open — not in a grin this time, but so that his tongue can flop out past his teeth. 

Other Red’s footsteps get louder, and Hank’s eyes roll back in his head. His fingers tense and curl like fists. He messes himself with the bad smells that make humans and other big scary creatures leave him alone. He hopes that Other Red’s ears don’t work as well as their size would suggest, and he can’t hear Hank and Red’s gentle breathing and soft heartbeats. 

“Ha,” Other Red barks, stopping what sounds like just short of where Hank and Red lay motionless. “Smells like the Deputy got culled with the rest of the wash-outs a while ago. They’re long dead.” 

Good, Hank thinks. Leave us alone. 

But Other Red doesn’t leave them alone just yet. Instead Hank hears a crack and pop of bones and heavy breathing that gets louder. Hank’s eyes turn up to peek through the pouch he’s hidden in, and he sees Other Red crouched down and looking at them. 

“Gotta admit, for a second there I almost thought my brother mighta been right about ya,” Other Red says to Red as he looks at her. “But lookin’ atcha now, I’m back to trying to figure out what the hell it was he ever saw in ya.” 

“Brother Jacob?” One of the other humans asks softly, “Are you saying... Do you think… What the Father saw about the Deputy — was it wrong?” 

Other Red grunts, “The Father?” He sounds as if he’d forgotten there were other humans in the room with him, grumbling as he rises back to  his feet. “Nah. This coward dying has nothing to do with The Father. Was thinkin’ of something different.” 

A gurgle noise comes from Other Red’s throat. 

“What do you want us to do with her body?” another human asks. 

“Throw it out with the rest of ’em,” Other Red answers, his voice getting smaller as he walks away. “She doesn’t deserve to be dignified with some kinda special burial. Getting tossed out like trash is all she’s worth.” 

Hank thinks that Other Red must have a very bad brain indeed to not realize how special trash is. He feels the strange fur of Red’s pouch rustle around him. Hands are grabbing at Red to move her following Other Red’s order. And Hank thinks this is good, because it means the Scary People still think Red is dead. 

Hank tries his hardest not to scream as his lungs are crushed under Red’s weight, because Other Red’s Scary People threw her down pouch first. Hank thinks this is especially mean of them. 

Still, Red is smart and strong and continues to play dead long past when Hank has to give up and scramble out from the pile of humans. 

Hank thinks she deserves something for this, so he looks around to make sure there are no Scary People around them and then runs off to the bushes nearby. He plucks a fat berry from the leaves and puts it into his open maw. 

After feeding one to himself and tasting it was good, Hank plucks another berry from the bush and clasps it in his hand as he scurries back to Red. 

He drops it into her mouth when he gets there, and it’s small enough it slides right down even though Red doesn’t smack her jaw and chew like she usually does when she has snacks. 

Hank knows that he’s helping, and he keeps running back and forth between the Berry Bush and Red, dropping more snacks into her mouth. He eats one for himself, then runs one to Red. Over and over again. 

He sometimes takes naps in Red’s pouch over the suns that he does this, and he loses count of how many that is. 

Still, Hank is happy when at one sun Red stops playing dead, and pushes all the other bodies away from her and scampers off as fast as she can. 

Hank tries to hurry after her, but his little feet can’t move quite as fast as hers can. 

But he still moves them, grinning at the thought of their next adventure as he does. 

Hank will follow her anywhere.

#this is set in wildfire chapter 16 jestiny speed running through half the whitetails in post nut insanity btw. #also cursory research left me unclear on if the virginia opossum can see color or not but i chose to leave it for ease of identification #oc: deputy jestiny ellen #oc: hank the opossum #writies and wordies #the hank chronicles #far cry 5 fic

[wrathfulrook]

Not Such a Good Boy

A short little Boomer fic about the saddest times of the goodest boy

Summary: Boomer was a good boy. He’d been told so his whole life, and he’d rarely ever doubted it. Only three times had Boomer felt like a bad dog, like a dog who had failed. Like a dog who wasn’t a protector, a hero, a champion. Like on the day the bad man came.

Word count: 875

Read on ao3 here!

Boomer was a good boy. He’d been told so his whole life, and he’d rarely ever doubted it. Only three times had Boomer felt like a bad dog, like a dog who had failed. Like a dog who wasn’t a protector, a hero, a champion.

Once, when Ryan was a puppy, just learning how to walk on two legs, he fell down the stairs. He was napping in his bed and woke without them hearing. While Boomer, Russell, and Rae-Rae sat in the living room, watching TV, Ryan attempted to toddle down to join them, but lost his footing in the end, taking the last few stairs all at once. Russell and Rae-Rae rushed him to the doctor, and Boomer stayed behind, pacing nervously, consumed with worry.

Human puppies were so fragile. What if he was really hurt? Boomer should have known. His hearing was so much stronger than Russell and Rae-Rae’s. He should have heard Ryan moving around up there. He should have been there to help him down the stairs.

In the end, it was fine. Ryan wasn’t hurt, just scared. He learned how to walk like a human eventually, and he continued to grow up just fine. But that had been one of the worst days of Boomer’s life.

Until the day the bad man came.

That morning, the trucks pulled up quickly and loudly. Too many of them all at once.

Rae-Rae knew what was happening before he did. She forcefully pulled Ryan away from his cereal and pushed him towards the back door, urging him, “Run! Now! Remember the plan, baby! Just like we talked about, okay? Mommy loves you!”

Ryan was barely out the back when men came barging through the front door. Rae-Rae shrieked at the thunderous sound of the door banging off of the wall and Boomer threw himself between her and the intruders. He barked and growled and held them back for a bit.

He bit the arm of the man that first advanced on him, but it wasn’t enough. There were too many men. And just going for the arm was never going to be enough to stop him. But Boomer didn’t know that. He’d never attacked anyone before. He was a good boy.

He and Rae-Rae were outnumbered and easily overpowered. Dragged outside, Boomer saw that Ryan hadn’t gotten far at all, held in the arms of one of the trespassing men. Rae-Rae began screaming and cursing anew upon seeing her puppy held hostage by these men.

While Boomer was forced into a large crate, Rae-Rae was manhandled to her knees and held there. Only then did the bad man make his appearance. He exited one of the trucks, smoothing his hair out of his face and pushing his sunglasses back on his head. His long coat swirl around his legs as he walked purposefully towards them. The men all gave him their full attention, moving out of his way while he walked. He was obviously the one in charge.

He first approached Ryan, crouching down to speak to him on his level. He smiled and nodded and acted correctly, but Boomer didn’t like him. He couldn’t hear what the man said, due to Rae-Rae’s shouting, now directed at him. Boomer snarled.

The man stood and nodded to the one holding Ryan back, who led him over to a truck, loaded him into the cab, and drove away. Boomer barked and growled and jumped at the mesh of the crate, all to no avail. He couldn’t know it at the time, but it was the last time he’d ever see Ryan.

Rae-Rae continued to scream and rail against the men holding her down, tears now pouring down her red face. The man approached her next, said something Boomer couldn’t hear over his own barking. He stepped back, raised a handgun, and shot her. She fell to the ground, so much, too much, blood pouring out of her unmoving body.

He then approached Boomer, pinning a note to the crate, seemingly uncaring of his claws and teeth only inches away, desperately trying to tear through the wires separating them. He gave more orders to his men, still unheard by Boomer, before re-entering his truck and driving away. As if what had just happened was no big deal, as if he hadn’t just changed, ruined, Boomer’s life.

The third time he felt he wasn’t a good boy was today. When the deputy had brought to a big house, with dozens of the bad Peggie humans. He had helped the deputy in situations like this before. Scenting out the men, taking out those who attacked them. It was more of the same.

Until the wind shifted.

And Boomer caught the scent of the house. The scent of the human who lived inside.

The bad man.

And so Boomer was running. Away from the deputy who needed his help and away from that house. But mostly away from the bad man.

A good boy would stay and help. A good boy would go into the house. A good boy would get him. A good boy would protect everybody from the bad man.

But Boomer was too sad, too scared, to be a good boy. Not today, at least.

#my stuff #far cry 5 #fc5 #boomer #rae-rae #john seed #fc5 fic #far cry 5 fic

[babygirl-coded]

ROT AND SIN

a little john seed x reader drabble because i had to get this out of my head!

[ warnings : third pov , non-gendered reader , use of ‘you’ , no y/n , mature content – violence and swearing ]

wc : 1.5k

synopsis : the collapse arrived. joseph was right. despite it all , the seed family survived. like a sympathetic family would to an abandoned dog , they took you in. they want to love you but first you must learn to love them.

“Let me go, you sick bastards !”

You clawed , heaved and struggled against the binds that held you down. The rope began to burn deep, red marks on your skin but you weren’t phased. You were forced to familiarise yourself with those kind of scars. You shuddered. Jacob’s trials. Jacob’s tests. It was his way of twisting and controlling you like a puppet , keeping you as a prisoner , locked inside your own mind.

Sick bastards.

The others were worse. Whereas Jacob laid you on a straight , blunt path toward whatever he wanted , the others were different. Faith and John fucked with you the most with their mind-games. Hallucinations of hazy fields and a barefoot woman — no — siren — and a lawyer with an insatiable appetite for the macabre.

Jesus, John.

With a smile and all , he was the one who tied you up to one of the bed frames. John decided to place you on the cold cement floor at the foot of the bed , out of reach within just about anything. The room was empty spare for the bed and a chair. There were no weapons , no blunt objects , nothing to defend yourself with. Nowhere to escape to.

“The idea isn’t to be comfortable. It’s to suffer. It’s what you deserve,” John had muttered when you first cried out as the rope tightened around your limbs. He had stretched the rope around and around and around your bound wrists and ankles almost frantically , maniacally , ignoring your pitiful cries until Joseph laid a strong hand on his shoulder, whispering a quiet , “no”.

Sick fucking bastards.

The door to the room wasn’t shut. It never was. You thanked god for that ; you don’t think you could have handled the isolation and the chance for loneliness to come creeping in. Even if you were chained up like a dirty starved dog , you were grateful you hadn’t died.

Yet you weren’t sure who exactly you felt grateful for. Joseph? For saving you? Or God?

Yourself?

“Don’t be shy. Make yourself at home.”

You hadn’t heard him step past the threshold at all. That smug grin of his was the first to enter your field of vision. His mindless followers would have said it was warm and inviting. Charming , even. Yet all he brought was a chill down your aching spine , and an air of terrible , horrible dread into the already morbid room. He grabbed a rickety , old chair that sat in the corner , brought it closer to you and down settled onto it.

“You could have at least put me on the bed , John,” you protested calmly.

He wagged a finger and tutted, like an owner reprimanding their bad dog. His fingernails were caked with dirt and blood , grime coated his flesh like a second skin and a nasty gash could be seen despite it being poorly bandaged up. All you could think about for the next few seconds was taking a big chunk off it, fingernails and all.

“The bed is reserved for when you show me that you have manners.” He casually leaned back into the chair and obnoxiously spread his legs. It groaned under the weight of him. “Be good , won’t you?”

You gave him a tight-lipped smile. “For you or for Joseph?” You pondered , “Or maybe Jacob?”

John snarled and lurched forward. He took your braid into his hand, wrapped it around his fingers and pulled it back. Hard. Your head snapped backwards and your back arched. You cried out as sharp pains burned away at your scalp. Fire licked along your bent spine. Your teeth dug into your bottom lip hard enough for a small trickle of blood to trail over your cracked lips. Tears pricked at your lower lids, threatening to spill over … and they did.

He hummed , still prodding and scratching and pulling at your hair almost as if it soothed something inside of him. It probably did. John leaned forward until his lips rested on the shell of your ear. He spoke in hushed whispers , “Being a sarcastic, tough-as-nails hero isn’t going to serve you any purpose here , Rook,” he spat out. “This isn’t Hope County. There isn’t one anymore. Down here is the future. Our future.” He trembled. You heard it, felt it. He struggled to hold himself together.

You thrashed around in his grip , tried to claw at his battered jeans. “It’s been … what? Only a few days and you’re already losing it , John?” You seethed. “Pathetic bastard.”

John grew still and silent. The tugging and pulling stopped. After a beat, the hold on your hair slowly loosened. A throbbing ache settled on your poor scalp. John leaned back , taking you with him and pulled you in even closer to his body. You groaned as your back left its contorted position but you were now forced to kneel — your hands bound behind your back and head resting on his lap. The scent of earth , wet moss and soft fragrance made your head spin. He started to pet your tangled hair in slow , languid strokes.

He laughed softly. “Days? It’s been months!”

It was your turn to be quiet , now. Months? Has it really been that long? How many months? Was John telling the truth or was he lying straight through his teeth? He’s certainly capable of that. Or was this Jacob’s doing? Is he the one who’s trying to mentally break you again? Fuck. You didn’t know. You didn’t know anything. You don’t even know when you last ate , had a sip of water , saw the light of day.

John broke through your silence. “Don’t tell me you lost the plot already?” He sighed. “I’d be so disappointed.”

“Liar,” you whispered. His embrace was beginning to feel constrictive even though he held you so gently. The room spun around you. Black and blue swirled into a blur. Smells of dust and iron and a sickly sweet scent that you couldn’t put your finger on had bile rising up your throat. “You’re lying!”

He shushed you like a parent would silence their insolent child. “And what do I have to gain from that , mh? I’ve never lied to you —“

“Bullshit!”

“— I’ve only ever told you the truth. What you needed to hear , what you wanted to hear. And it worked , didn’t it?”

John tilted your head upright so that it was no longer resting on his lap. You met his gaze. Blue met brown and you hated what you felt ; there was that twang of desire and attraction you harboured towards him that you tried so hard to hide. It clawed to the surface as he brushed back a few stray curls that framed your face. You despised him yet craved his gentle touch. This shameful connection you so desperately longed for had you curling into yourself.

As always , John noticed. He reveled in your feelings of conflict. He didn’t want you to cower away from him and you hated this position he forced you in. You felt small and insignificant compared to him. It infuriated you that he had this much power. He was allowed to hold his head high while you could only grovel for the scraps he fed you.

He smiled softly. “I carve. I cut. I speak. But I don’t tell any lies. Lies are dirty,” he pressed the tips of his fingers roughly into your bloodied lips and his smile fell , “lies are sin.”

Your eyes darted back and forth between his lips and eyes. You spoke softly but tried your best to speak with conviction , “I don’t believe in God. Sin means nothing to me.”

Sin.

That three letter word. Your’s was wrath , according to John. Then it became pride. Sin got you into this country's backyard , sack-of-shit mess. It had you running ‘round like a lunatic. Killing cultists , drugged up angels, bears , cougars. It had you trying (and failing) to kill a certain bastard lawyer.

“You don’t have to believe in God. You just have to believe in him,” John replied.

“Like hell,” you cursed through gritted teeth. “You put me through a shit storm of religious fuckery and nuclear apocalypses , and you really think after all that I’d follow you?”

He shrugged. “That’s what I hoped for.” The attraction you held for him earlier quickly dwindled into resentment. Bastard. That ugly , insane , manipulative asshole. John rested his hands on your shoulder and squeezed. “Jacob had you. Joseph almost got you. I want you. All you need to say is yes. Say it.”

The tears fell freely now , you couldn’t see through it. Your lashes were wet and the man in front of you distorted into a blur. Anger flared in your veins. It was always going to come back to this and you refused to accept it or him.

You shook your head , “I won’t.”

John nodded solemnly then suddenly rose up from the chair. You roughly fell back onto your hunches and cringed when you felt a bone pop out place and quickly pop back in. John chuckled dryly , turned his back on you , dusted his jeans off and sauntered to the door. His hand hovered over the door handle and for the first time since you’ve been held captive in this bunker , you were certain. You knew.

The door would be closed and you’d be shut out once more , being forced to suffer in darkness.

“You don’t want to learn. You don’t want to have faith. Your sin stops you from reaching atonement. You will never be free,” John said over his shoulder. “For that , you must sit and rot in your sin. Let it fester and bubble until it burns you , until you’re aching. Call for me when you’re ready. Only then can you atone. Only then can you love.”

You said nothing and John left , shutting the door behind him. It had been closed on you and so were the Gates of Eden.

#far cry 5 #fc5 #john seed #john seed fan fic #far cry 5 fic #john seed x reader #do i hate this? yes #writing #y/n #did i get john’s characterization wrong? YES #over use or commas sorry #‎♡‧₊˚ 📝 — doll #rushed

[stillnotyourmusebitch]

Okay, maaaaaany a year ago I started a Jacob X Shifter reader fic and I'm reading the stuff I did write down and I feel like I want to continue it.

I'll drop a snippet below from my WIP. But let me know if I should actually try writing the fic properly.

(( Jacob came up close to the drilled holes of the box to inspect the beast as it was trying to pace but unable due to the sheer size of the creature and the box being just big enough to fit it. This didn’t mean they couldn’t try and lunge for Jacob snarling its bloody canines. With its glowing yellow eyes staring into the blue of his, he smiled like the devil. The Seed brother didn’t break eye contact as that would be the first sign of weakness and his aim was to control the power the box held. ))

#jamie talks fic #far cry 5 #jacob seed #shifter reader #jacob seed imagine #jacob seed x reader #gn reader #reader insert #afab reader #far cry 5 fic #wip

[skoll-sun-eater]

New shtuff

Chapter 11 is up for 'Revelations' on AO3

Jenavieve has set the deputy free from her uncle John. But is she free from John?

I dunno how many from here are reading it but the new thing up.

#far cry 5 fic #john seed #jacob seed #oc deputy #oc jenavieve seed #oc phedra dawson #super dark themes #Like think dark and then go darker

[noodlecupcakes]

WIP not on a Wednesday anymore!

I was tagged by @cassietrn, obviously I'm a bit late as its no longer Wednesday but I got there in the end. Here's a little snippet from my FC5 fic Salvation.

Joseph helped me into the tub, holding me steady until I was fully lowered into the warm comforting water. I let out a soft sound of relief as I got myself comfortable, the warm water already working wonders for my aching muscles. Joseph sat down by the tub, grabbing a clean washcloth, and dipping it into the warm soapy water.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you, angel,” he murmured as he started to wash my body.

“You could never hurt me, my love,” I reassured him.

He washed me as gently as he could whilst making sure he was thorough, not leaving an inch of my skin untouched.

My body relaxed further into his touch, the act of him bathing me clean was tender and sweet. My eyes drifted closed as he continued. Joseph took extra care when he reached any bruises and my injured leg. His blue eyes narrowed as he examined the wound. It was likely going to leave a scar, a reminder of my encounter with Tracey Lader. Once Joseph had washed every inch of my flesh he moved on to my hair. Carefully he untangled the blonde strands, being sure not to tug too hard to cause me any discomfort. Normally I would protest at this level of fuss, but I knew it would fall on deaf ears.

Joseph added shampoo to my hair, gently massaging my scalp with the tips of his fingers as he worked the suds through my hair. I tipped my head back for him, my eyes remaining closed. His lips pressed a soft kiss to my forehead before continuing.

“How are you feeling, angel?” Joseph asked.

Physically, I felt wonderful. All the love and care from Joseph had made the pain in my lower leg seem distant for the time being. Emotionally, that was proving a lot harder to pin down one emotion. On the one hand, I felt relief knowing that I was finally home, safe and sound with the man I loved. On the other hand, I was angry and upset with Tracey and the rest of the resistance for what they had done to me.

“I’m...I’m okay,” I whispered.

Joseph hummed in thought as he washed the shampoo from my hair.

“Jacob was right, you are stronger than I give you credit for, angel,” he murmured.

Jacob said that? Perhaps he only said it to make Joseph feel better. I didn’t feel strong a lot of time but then again Joseph usually shielding me from any emotional distressing situations. The man was determined to keep me innocent and pure. His version of perfection, his angel.

I tag: @josephseedismyfather, @g0dspeeed, @la-grosse-patate and @3llisarts

#tabithaxjoseph #tabitha murphy #far cry 5 fic

[direwombat]

“Get back down here, we’re not done yet.” + jacob/sybille 👀

Sybille doesn’t know how or why this keeps happening. It always starts with her shaking Jacob’s hunters, forcing him to come after her himself. And it always ends like this: with the two of them covered in dirt and blood, wrestling on the forest floor like a couple of beasts, their firearms long since tossed aside. 

Freedom goes to whoever wins. 

She snarls as she narrowly dodges an elbow to her face, and she tries not to think about how good it feels to have him manhandle her. The heat of his body pressed up against hers as he tries to grapple her; the pleasant ache of the bruises blooming at her hips when he roughly grabs her and pulls her to the ground. He triggers something primal in her, makes her feel like there’s something caged beneath her skin, clawing to escape. Part of her thinks that he might actively be trying to set whatever it is free. 

She can’t let him. She refuses to let him. Whatever she has locked away, she made damn sure that the key would never be found. It’s a door she isn’t even remotely ready to open.

He growls beneath her, but she keeps her weight pressed against him. He’s damn strong -- she can feel it in the way he struggles against her -- but she is too, and she’s got gravity helping her out. Her shins pin his knees to the ground and her hands are wrapped tight around his wrists. She’s splayed out awkwardly, just a few inches too short to comfortably keep him pinned down like this, but tall enough to succeed in doing so. They’re both breathing heavily, exhausted from the fight. A bead of sweat rolls down the slope of her nose and drips onto his face. 

“You yield?” she pants.

Jacob bares his teeth, the blood in his mouth staining his teeth pink, but he goes pliant beneath her. He concedes. She won. 

Tentatively, she releases him, but as she moves to stand, he grabs her jacket, yanking her off balance. “Get back down here,” he growls. She lands back on the ground, the wind knocked from her lungs, leaving her stunned just long enough for him to roll on top of her. He cages her in and pins her wrists above her head. “We’re not done yet.”

“What are you --” she snaps, but trails off into a sharp gasp when he presses one of his legs between her thighs. The heat and pressure of him sends a jolt of desire coursing through her, and her heart races. 

He leans in close, his lips ghosting over her jaw and nipping at her earlobe. “How many times are we gonna do this, huh?” he asks. 

She tries to buck him off, snapping her teeth, but he just chuckles as she struggles against him. “Get off me, Jacob,” she warns. 

He pulls back, lips curling into a smile that’s more teeth than she’d like, and he presses his leg harder between her thighs. “Or what?” he asks. “How many times are we gonna do this and walk away before getting to the good part?” Those piercing blue eyes track her lip as she pulls it between her teeth, tugging at the chapped skin. He licks his lips as he watches blood bead on hers. “Tell me no,” he rasps. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

She should. She knows she should. But try as she might, she can’t get her mouth to form around the words. Something itches underneath her skin, that strange creature inside her throwing itself against the walls of its cage, rattling the bars and threatening to break free. 

Jacob grins, something dark and predatory. 

He lets go of her wrists, and she fully intends on scratching that smug look off his face. But as her hands fly up, her fingers twine into his high-and-tight and she pulls him in. It can barely be called a kiss. It’s desperate, hungry, consuming in a way that lights a fire in her belly. Their teeth clack together, and every move of their tongues is messy and probing, like they’re trying to crawl inside each other.  His teeth sink into her lip, and all she can taste is her own blood and stale cigarettes and Jacob Jacob Jacob. 

His calloused hand is warm and heavy at her hip, his fingers sneaking under the hem of her tank-top. She arches into his searing touch, and her hands claw at his jacket, frantically trying to pull it from his shoulders. 

When they finally part, they both look utterly debauched. Flushed cheeks, pupils blown wide, a trail of spit still connecting them. Jacob’s field jacket is caught at his elbows and his dick strains against his jeans. Her tank-top rides over her chest, exposing her sports bra underneath. 

“You better make this worth my fuckin’ while,” Sybille breathes.

Rather than answering, Jacob just presses in for another devouring kiss, his hands undoing the clasp of her bra and exposing her breasts to the cold mountain air. 

#oc: deputy sybille la roux #r: fragile creatures #jacob seed x female deputy #jacob seed x deputy #far cry 5 fic #fc5 fic #was today a productive nano day? no not really #but i got groceries. did some art. and filled this prompt so i still did some creative stuff today #my fic

[farcryfuckmeup]

*cracks knuckles* i dusted off the ol’ game and am now in the mood to write. i’ve got a shit ton of stuff in my inbox that’s old, but better late than never LMAO

#far cry 5 fic #ask farcryfuckmeup #far cry 5 #fc5

[strafethesesinners]

Mini Fic time!

Prompt sent in by @cobb-vanthss thank you! (Tumblr deleted the ask)

Prompt “feeling a pulse” for Cooper & John

this is actually a snippet from my yet to be rewritten longfic. Cooper and John are on their way to “exchange” John for some Whitetail prisoners.

Just as Cooper put the truck into reverse, something came flying through the open driver’s side window and embedded in Cooper’s neck.

“Ow!” Cooper cried and grabbed at the object, yanking it out a large dart with a spray of pink fluff on the end.

“What the?”

“Let’s just go,” John said worriedly as Cooper stared at the dart in his hand and then out into the dark woods.

“Yeah….” Cooper said, but he was already starting to sound bleary. Then a second dart hit him in the arm.

“Hey!” Cooper shouted, stumbling out of the truck, and snatching his gun from its holster. He pointed it at the trees, squinting to try to make anything out.

“Come out here and fight me you fucking….fuck….fuuu….” The gun dropped from his hands as he fell to his knees first, then flat out on his face.

“Cooper!” John rushed over to him, kneeling and feeling at his neck. A rapid pulse still beat there.

“Well, well, well,” a voice said from the woods.

Jacob Seed emerged from the dark trees, holding a long thin silver gun in place of his signature red sniper rifle.

“Jacob!” John gasped, scrambling to his feet, relief washing through him at the sight of his older brother.

“John,” Jacob acknowledged him with a nod. He looked down at Cooper.

“Big fucker ain’t he?” He turned Cooper over with a shove from his boot, “was wondering how he managed to go through my Chosen like a bear through Boy Scouts but now…I guess I see.”

Cooper’s eyelids were still fluttering.

“John….” He whispered faintly.

Jacob shot John a scrutinizing look. John blushed.

“What did you hit him with?” He asked to cover the awkward moment.

“Bull tranquilizer,” Jacob answered, “Bliss arrows don’t work on him.”

“Yeah, I know, they just piss him off.”

“Mmm.”

“Will…will he be…alright?”

“Yeah,” Jacob said with a shrug, “should be fine, maybe a little headache…you!” Jacob barked over his shoulder at the Chosen now filtering out from the trees behind them, “get this Sinner to the Vet Center now! I want him secured before he wakes up. And you,” Jacob rounded on John, “you’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

#far cry 5 #fc5 fic #far cry 5 fic #John Seed #Jacob Seed #John Seed/deputy #oc: Cooper McCoy

[sweeetestcurse]

TO SURVIVE - CHAPTER 11

Seperation anxiety rears its ugly head. Jodie doesn’t know how to handle herself.

#fanfiction #fan fic #far cry 5 fanfiction #far cry 5 fic #far cry 5 #jacob seed/female deputy #to survive #mine

[josephseedismyfather]

Afflicted: Harley & Jacob

Chapter 1: Through Glass

So many things to say here guys. Forgive the gushing. FIRST OF ALL, thank you a million times to my friend @redreart for creating the beautiful chapter art for this! I cannot thank you enough, and I will be shouting about your art until the end of time! I look forward to working with you on the rest of Afflicted (and the rest of my fics! 😉).

And to @hotmessteaparty, for literally being the light of my life and the best beta and friend I could ask for to go through all of this with. I love you so much, I am so grateful for you! Thank you for all of your hard work and for listening to me gush about these babes for hours on end!

Here it is, guys. Chapter 1.

Chapter 2 is close to being completed. Not too long of a wait hopefully.

#afflicted: harley & jacob #afflicted chapter 1 #harley x jacob #oc: harley jane #jacob seed #far cry 5 #far cry 5 fic #my writing 🖤 #jacob seed x oc #writing #redreart #far cry 5 fan art #chapter art! #far cry 5 fan fiction

[adelaidedrubman]

lucky chapter 13 babey! 

well, she’s here! sorry as always for the wait on this one but we finally did it. major shout out to @henbased for inspiring a part of the chapter and then pressure gaslighting me into doing it. and a serious thanks to everyone who has supported me as i slogged my way through this chapter, said nice things about the wip excerpts, etc, it means the world to me! 

more in context, spoilery version of today’s chapter meme beneath cut (you have to prommy not to look until after you’ve read the chapter) 

#also sorry to jack for the timing lol :3 #oc: deputy jestiny ellen #otp: stop bothering these nice folks #fic: wildfire #far cry 5 fic #john seed x female oc #john seed #wildfire chapter 13 #my writing #wildfire meme tag

[wrathfulrook]

Holy Mary, Mother of God

Summary: As Staci suffers under Jacob and the cult, he turns back to his religion. Every day he prays to the Holy Mother, both to beg her help and to remind himself that he is not a Peggie.

Rating: M

Word Count: ~1.2k

Read it on ao3.

Staci hadn’t been to Mass in years, since he had moved out of his parents’ house. He hadn’t been to confession in even longer, not since he was confirmed. He didn’t remember the last time he prayed. Not that he didn’t believe. He did. He had Faith. He just wasn’t very observant.

Maybe this was his punishment.

While going through his trials, mindlessly killing and fighting for his life, he considered that he had died in the helicopter crash and had gone to hell. It made sense. Spending his time alert starved and thirsty in a cage under the hot sun, his time in the trials a thoughtless red haze of blood and death.

He’d prayed for the first time in a long time. Initially to God, but then to St. Sebastian. In middle school, Staci had chosen Sebastian as his confirmation saint for no other reason than that he was the patron saint of athletes and that he had survived the first attempt on his life. Staci just thought he was cool. Though, once he heard the name “Staci Sebastian” spoken aloud for the first time in front of the entire parish, he felt it was significantly less cool. And he never gave too much thought to his confirmation saint afterwards.

But throughout his trials he prayed to the saint for strength. If St. Sebastian could survive being tied to a tree and used for target practice, he could survive this ordeal. He could be strong. And so he was.

After the trials, the physical torture stopped, but Staci didn’t feel any relief. Any one slip-up, a single display of weakness, and he would be reclassified as meat. And he was under far more scrutiny than the average resident of the vet center. Jacob kept him close, made him his personal assistant. He was always there, always watching. Staci was supposed to be strong but submissive, a fine line to walk.

He didn’t pray to St. Sebastian too much after his trials. He didn’t pray to God much either. The Peggies prayed to the same God, and something about that didn’t sit right with Staci. Instead, he prayed to Mary. The Peggies didn’t care about St. Mary. Protestants never did. So Staci directed his prayers to the holy mother of God.

He started every morning with a silent Hail Mary and a request that she protect him, that she look after him. His thoughts turned to the sinless, virgin mother every time Jacob knocked him around, every time he suffered. And he suffered a lot as Jacob’s assistant. And he witnessed even more suffering. Every time he passed the cages, every time he witnessed bodies carried out of their trials, tied to posts for target practice, or fed to the wolves, he asked Mary to watch out for them, to ensure their suffering was taken into account, weighed against their time to be spent in Purgatory.

And every night, to help himself fall asleep despite the sounds of screams and howls of wolves he never got used to, he prayed the Rosary, keeping count on his fingers since he didn’t have the beads. And it always worked; he fell soundly asleep long before he reached final Mystery. But more than that, it brought him comfort. He didn’t remember every Mystery. He couldn’t recite the Apostle’s Creed. But he did as much as he could, and he tried. And it was something the Peggies never did. Not even Joseph, their beloved “Father,” prayed the Rosary, despite wearing the beads as some sort of blasphemous accessory.

No. Staci wasn’t like them and they weren’t like him. He was Catholic. His Faith had clear rules and doctrine and hierarchy. Something so horrible as the Project at Eden’s Gate could never happen in the Catholic Church. A priest goes as bonkers as Joseph? The bishop steps in. And the parish would never let their priest turn out like Joseph, because deviations from the Catechism wouldn’t be tolerated. It was all so clear. Every question had a clear, prescribed answer. And if you followed the hierarchy to the top, the Pope spoke directly with the Holy Spirit. He wasn’t a mad man claiming divine knowledge. He was official, appointed, and bound within the limits of the role.

You simply couldn’t make a crazy Catholic cult. Every cult he’d ever heard of was made up of Protestants. Staci never like Protestantism for that very reason. It was all so fluid and subjective. It never seemed like any two churches, even of the same denomination, were on the same page. That’s how people like Joseph happened. That’s how Staci ended up in this position.

They could do a whole lot to him. But they could never make him a Peggie. Not really, not in his heart.

He wished he was stronger. Maybe Jacob was right. Maybe he was weak. He wanted to be strong enough, brave enough, to pray the Rosary out loud. He wanted to tell Jacob no when he dragged him along to services. He wanted to stand up for his own beliefs and stay strong and unwavering as he was literally thrown to the wolves. He wished he had the balls to stand up and die a martyr.

But that’s where he and his confirmation saint differed. Staci could never stay strong when staring down the barrel of a gun. He couldn’t resist the conditioning Jacob subjected him to. And he couldn’t make himself assert his true beliefs, not when he’s seen what happens to the people who don’t even do anything to make the Herald angry. He was weak.

So, he prayed for forgiveness. He prayed for strength. He asked Mary to intervene on his behalf, to ask her Son to show him mercy, to help him in some way, any way.

No help ever came.

And maybe he was dead after all? Not in Hell, like he’d initially thought. Maybe this was Purgatory. He suffered so much that it had to be for a reason. Maybe this was the suffering he must endure to cleanse his soul, to finally be worthy of Heaven. If this was Purgatory, it was working. He was becoming a better person. He was less of an asshole, just quiet and empathetic. He prayed multiple times a day. Wasn’t Purgatory supposed to bring you closer to God? Staci had never been more religious than now. Maybe because he was dead.

He hoped so. He hoped this was Purgatory so that when it was finally over, when he’d finally atoned for all his sins in life, he could go to Heaven. Never to suffer again. He hoped this was Purgatory so that it wasn’t really happening to others. So that there were no people in cages back in Hope County, that no one was being fed alive to wolves. He hoped that this was all being done for his benefit, to make his soul pure again, to ready him for eternal life in Heaven.

But he couldn’t be sure. So, just in case, he prayed.

#my stuff #staci pratt #far cry 5 #far cry 5 fic #fc5 #fc5 fic

[paganminiskirt]

Summary: There’s a half eaten bag of bison jerky in one of the fridges, and Nora scarfs them down while Grace goes outside to signal for help. With the shooting finished, you can hear the susurration of the slumbering forest, smell the dry wood and river moss, the ever present smoke of burning crops. She folds the empty plastic package in half, watching the electric blue streak of a flare shoot up into the night sky through an empty window frame. Memories float through her mind - picking at scabbed over mosquito bites past midnight on Laurent’s expansive porch, dumping cool ash into a trash can atop rib bones and cigarette butts in her aunt’s Florida backyard - but the flare disrupts the flow of them. Nora never saw anything like it in her old life, before all this; fireworks don’t burn on their way up, rattlesnakes don’t hiss as fast as the gun.

Grace strides back in, though, in her vest and fatigues, and as much as Nora wants to think she can do this herself, it is always comforting to have someone to assure her of the not-strangeness of war.

Rating: Mature, Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Pairing: Female Deputy/Grace Armstrong

Words: 9545

Read on AO3 here!

The radio’s still all deceptively gentle hymns and bouncy religious country, so Grace puts her iPod on the dashboard. The black casing is scratched all over, one long, jagged crack cutting through the screen. Nora raises her brows, her eyes half open.

“How old were you when you discovered that sumerian relic?” She mutters. She lifts a hand to lean the seat back, dropping it onto her thigh when she remembers where they are; a verdant backroad a mile or so outside of Fall’s End, newly secured, the sort of place where they might need to spring up fast. 

“You drive a 2012 Kimberlite.” Grace says. “Glass houses and all that shit.” 

“This isn’t my car!”

“And this isn’t my iPod.” She presses the button in the center, a little rectangle of white light cutting through the evening darkness. All the other snipers they know have garand thumb, Nora included; having just taken up arms in the past few months, they're still prone to letting the bolt catch their fingers. Only Grace’s is its natural pink-white. “My Uncle Ralph - well, a friend of the family, we called him my uncle - he used to bring it with him when we went fishing. Must’ve heard my pops say he wouldn’t buy me one a million times. One day, I caught a largemouth bass, and he just said “here” and gave it to me.”

Nora smiles. “What’d you do with the bass?”

“The two of them ate it.” Grace drawls. The nostalgia in her voice is a song of its own. ”I was so excited about having this, I didn’t even care.”

Music fades in, slow and airy with a female vocalist breathing out a string of la, la, la’s . Grace turns the volume down to a low hum, quiet enough to be able to hear everything outside the car - the long, low sigh of the breeze and the distant, rhythmic beeping of C4. 

“I think I listened to Signed, Sealed, Delivered fifty times that night alone.” Grace says, falling back into her seat. She doesn’t return the grin, but you could forget that by listening to her talk. “Never loved any other hand-me-down like that.”

“Oh I bet.” Nora rubs at the crick in her neck, pressing down on the bruise where the butt of her rifle rests; everytime it starts to heal, it comes back before long. Is it too much, right about now, to be trying to get her to laugh? “Here I was thinking you just went hard for old man music.”

She huffs, and Nora knows it’s the closest she’s going to get. “I don’t not like old man music.” Grace says. “My pops would never buy me new songs for it, anyways. I was ten years old, listening to Ray Charles and Glen Campbell on the bus home from school.” 

“And Outkast?”

“Eventually.” She tugs her scarf loose, wedges it between her neck and shoulder and lets her head rest there. Grace always sleeps in this position, when Nora has seen her sleep, upright and using whatever article of clothing is most convenient as a pillow; she read somewhere that military service gives you that skill. Maybe she’ll be able to do it herself when all this is over. 

“I bought this album myself, just before I enlisted.“ Grace says, blinking a few times in quick succession and picking at a piece of loose skin on that conspicuously pink thumb of hers. 

Nora nods. “That was what, 2002?”

“2001.” She says. “I was one of the 9/11 enlistments.”

Grace doesn’t sound proud of it, though Nora does pick up on a note of mournful sentimentality in her voice, the sort you’d expect to hear in someone reminiscing about a time when the mass killing of Americans was contained behind the grainy screen of a box television. Nora doesn’t press the subject, and for a minute, she thinks the silence they slipped into is comfortable. Grace looks out the window, adjusting her feet; Nora thinks nothing of it.

There are three short taps on her thigh.

“You hear that?” She says, the words as small and sharp as tacks. “That beeping?”

“I heard it earlier.” Nora says, more to humor her then anything else - because it’s no cause for concern, is it? “It’s coming from one of ours, right? The guys, Russo and White, they said they put charges on-”

“Yeah, I know.” Is Grace’s hasty reply. Nora turns in her seat and studies the scene behind the car, the limping trees and empty foliage; in the periphery of her vision, she can see Grace doing the same. “The sound is… off, though.” A low hanging branch on one of the trees shudders. It’s been shuddering for a while. “A little too fast. Not the rhythm I’m used to.”

“And it wouldn’t beep at all, if it were just broken.” Nora surmises. She bites her inner lip, heart squeezing in her chest. Grace may not be ready to get out just yet, but she flips her own door’s lock to the red side all the same. “Do the Peggies even use proximity c4? I’ve only ever dealt with grenades.”

“In the fields, usually, not the forest. Too easy to forget where they’re laid.”

There’s a field just down the road from here - six hours ago, Nora was eating lunch there. “We’re right outside Grainger field, aren’t we?”

Grace reaches into the backseat as a response, grabbing her rifle by the barrel and pulls it up to her chest. “I’m going out. Stay behind me.” 

Nora takes in one long, shaky breath. The car door clicks open and her boot crunches the ground, muttering as she swings it shut again. 

“Leave the music on.”

Hand to god, Nora wishes she had met Grace two decades earlier.

The shotgun she brought out with her tonight is a jet black twelve gauge, well kept for an older model, with a cylindrical silver suppressor to keep their nighttime excursion nice and lowkey. It’s as heavy as a fallen log in Nora’s arms, the picture of near-obsolete aughts machinery. She takes a box of shells from off the floor, shoving it in her pullover pocket; Grace is already a distance away, and she’s loath to leave her in the lurch, otherworldly competence or none.

Farther down the road, the foliage is so dense it encroaches on the dirt path, a great clutch of brambles and vines sloping up from a dried out river. Nora holds her gun tight as she slinks up behind Grace, stopping where the noise reaches a fever pitch, sharp and incessant.

“Look.” 

Nora has to squat to see what she’s seeing in the dusk. Underneath a scattering of torn up weeds are three sage green cubes of plastic strung together by black wires, a metal panel on one flashing a muted blue light. The design is alien to her; not one of theirs, not what she’d expect from a cultist. “Do you recognize it?”

“Recognize enough not to touch it.” Grace says darkly. Somewhere off to the east, a branch snaps; they both turn to see a crow streak up, across the evening sky. 

She scoffs. Nora shuts her eyes.

“Some of the guys…” She begins, resting the butt of her shotgun in the dirt. “...Casey, too, I think, they make their own explosives.” She stands up, trying to read the lines on her stony face. “I’d assume there’d be a cross stenciled on it, if it were one of theirs. They put it on everything else with a flat surface.”

Grace is silent for a long while, her stare blank as she tries to refine her intentions in a pool of swirling thoughts.

“I don’t trust it.” She mutters. “They knew someone would come down here eventually. They would’ve told us. Besides.” She meets Nora’s eyes. “This doesn’t look like it was put here to protect something, does it.”

It’s enough of a reason for her. “No it does not.”

Someone would’ve picked up on a full overtake of Grainger field, and it’s not as if either of them are prepared to mow down a huge group of cultists at the moment. But if Nora looks north for long enough, she can see the stone corner of a building, jutting out from the trees some half a mile ahead of them. 

“So, we just… do a sweep. Make sure there are no others.” 

“And blow this up when we get back.” Grace adds. There’s a high click as she chambers another bullet, the ease with which she does it still bewildering after all these weeks. “Let Mary May know what’s up, can’t have anyone walking this way without watching their step.” 

Nora nods. “If we find something big, should we fall back, alert the others?”

Grace gives their surroundings a cursory glance, the hard line of her mouth turning more mirthful for a second. 

“I see plenty of climbable trees, don’t you?” 

Of course, now she wants to play. “My legs are killing me.”

“Adrenaline is good for that!”

She tosses her a radio as she says it, faux brightness dispelling the anxiety creeping across Nora’s chest for a while. It settles back in once they’re on the move, a tight, pulsating chill in her center of gravity that lingers even as they get off the dirt path and onto the road, away from the bomb. 

There hasn’t been consistent enemy activity in these forests for over a month, and the wheat in Grainger field is high enough to keep them covered from the western approach. Nora crouches for the first ten minutes or so, then says fuck it and stands up - any unsavory individuals lurking in the grain could easily pick her head out through a scope when she’s standing this way, the Falls End logo on her front the exact size and shape of a target, but the sun has almost disappeared entirely, and Nora would rather be dead than scurry along bent over with a heavy piece of metal for one more minute. 

Grace has no such issue, of course, her spine a seamless curve all the way down the road. Even with a straight back, Nora can hardly keep up with her, but she resolves to match Grace’s speed with such adamance that she actually reaches the office building first - what used to be an office building, rather. It’s something else now.

Even in the dark, the scars of its destruction make themselves known; the blackened square spaces where the windows used to be, wind flowing freely through a collapsed roof. There’s a dead man on the stairs, his overalls stained with blood around his chest and neck, bullet casings littering the ground around him like autumn leaves.

For a moment, Nora only listens and looks, inspecting the man’s hands, his pockets. Was he even armed? She doesn’t see a weapon anywhere, and maintenance jobs don’t require the carrying of one. Grace’s voice reminds her what they came there for, hustling up behind her after giving the sides of the building a quick check.

“We’re too late.” 

She gives a slight nod of acknowledgement; she should give more input, show Grace she’s not out of it on the battlefield, but there’s a cherry red light off to the northeast that’s keeping her transfixed. 

“Nobody has been here.” Nora says softly. “For at least half a day.”

She takes a few steps forward, three casings knocked aside by the tip of her boot. The blood around the man’s chest is honey-like, congealed, starting to dry in places the pool is the thinnest.

“What’d they want with this building, anyways?” Grace asks behind her. “We’re not in Eden’s Gate territory. Why come behind enemy lines for this?”

Nora shakes her head. “This was a small party, I think. Three, maybe five. Look.” She nudges the barrel of her gun in the direction of the man’s feet, which are covered only by dirty gray socks. “Took everything but the shells.”

Grace swears. “A whole lot of mess for office supplies and some poor fuck’s boots.”

“And whatever else they could find, yeah.” Nora says. She shoots Grace an inquisitive look over her shoulder before kneeling on the asphalt. “Jerome’s been hitting their supply lines pretty hard. John may not have noticed, but the cult’s lower classmen are probably feeling it.”A lighter is peeking out of the man’s pocket, with something pale curled around it. 

“I doubt they’d waste an organized attack on a place like this.” She can feel Grace’s eyes on her back, infallibly attentive as they are. “But you don't need direct orders to go out and hunt heathens in your downtime, do you?”

“You think they were scavengers, then?” Grace says. ”Passed through where we just were on their way in, and left that bomb behind as insurance?” 

“Something like that.”

With her index finger and thumb, Nora plucks a paper slip from the man’s pocket, one edge plastered to the denim by crusty brown viscera. Her phone is nearly dead, hasn’t had reception in weeks, but the screen lights up just fine - she pulls it out and shines it on the writing. 

Nora grinds her teeth. “Here.”

Grace grabs the paper and phone both from Nora’s hand as she gets to her feet; twenty three dollars and forty five cents for eggs benedict, coffee and cranberry juice, from a place called Monroe’s Diner Hall. 

“I know this place.” 

“Yeah, me too.” She looks off to the light in the distance, switching her radio off, listening close to the forest’s scattered lulls of silence for whatever they may be concealing. 

Grace seems to understand what she means. “Be on guard.” 

“Always.”

Nora can’t say if she means it as a joke, a lie, or a promise. Not like either of them care, at the moment; the red light in the distance shifts and flickers as they approach through the trees, as if it were a warning signal. There’s no way to move as silently as they’d like to as they edge through the thicket of trees separating the office building from their destination, even for Grace; the land is uneven, the ground dense and uncut. Still, it’s safer than taking the roads. If they find what she expects to find, they’ll be under watch.

The white, jagged end of a snapped-off branch catches Nora’s calf as she passes. It’s so dark she can hardly see two feet in front of her, so she presses on, swallowing hard the pained moan that rises in her throat as it slices straight through denim and into flesh. It’ll be too dark to navigate the forests again by the time they’re done, no matter how quick they are; the roads are the only sane option for a way back. Come hell or highwater, they’ll need safe roads.

Nora imagines the next time the sun will rise on this part of the world. She pictures its dusty splendor spread out over the skyline, crowding the mountains’ silhouettes in shades of pink, blue and gold. She pictures herself slouching out of bed, safe in the cool clutch of the Church’s basement, trudging up the stairs and squinting in the sunlight. She pictures Jerome talking to people he barely knows like he’s an old friend; she pictures beds on the floor and reheating stale coffee. 

And silently, achingly, she lets it go. Takes her ingrained expectation of the arrival of the future and gives it up, puts it away somewhere out of sight where she can pretend it doesn’t exist, like she hasn’t been carrying it with her every second of her entire life. In its absence, all that remains is the dark, and the pain in her calf. A bolt of sharp, frigid panic that comes and goes as a shape darts through the trees some fifteen feet to their left - an animal, or a person who doesn’t want to kill them, hasn’t been told to go out and steal the dawn from those the Father has deemed undeserving of it’s glory. She sets her jaw, resting her gun on her back as the trees begin to thin. 

She is prepared. She is completely alone.

Above them, the light flickers again. It’s been flickering steadily, this whole time - the office building was too far away for them to see anything but the more dramatic lapses in power. MONROE’S , spelled out in huge, electric red letters, the M , R and second O dimming every few seconds before springing back to life like crushed fireflies. The S is flat out dead, the bottom half of its metal stencil blown off entirely. Leaned against the bottom of the signpole is the most likely cause of it’s destruction, a bulky machine gun she can safely guess is empty - it would have to be, assuming its owner didn’t lug an entire hardware store here with them, since long, sharp brass bullets are scattered over every inch of the parking lot, shards of broken glass strewn between them, all of it cast in the harsh white glow of an LED lamp on the steps leading up to the front entrance. 

Seated next to the lamp is a female peggie, sucking down a canned coke as a jittery pitbull struts around at her feet. Inside, Oh John plays on a radio while others go about their business, the song bright and peppy as it nears its final chorus; one standing by the bar fiddling with his pistol, two sat together in a booth. Nora can’t get a good look from here, but there’s at least one more moving around in the kitchen. 

Just on the edge of the woods, a single truck is parked. The two of them creep up in its shadow, settling behind the tires. 

Grace looks at her, and her eyes go wide.

“Oh shit ,” She whispers, rearing back from Nora as if she’s discovered a snake. It takes her a second to see what she sees, but when she does, she almost swallows her tongue; not a snake, but another peggie, laid down in the bed of the truck underneath a mounted gun, the back of his head no more than two feet away from Nora’s face. He’s too close for a clear shot with the shotgun, and his friends would notice that anyways, so wordlessly, she takes the knife from her boot and cranes her arms over the side of the truck. The hair atop his head crunches in her grip, thick and dry, a short exclamation of surprise cut off by hideous choking as she drives the blade through his beard and into his throat.

She twists. Blood pours out over her hand as if from a faucet, hot and wet and endless. “Sorry.”  Nora grits out before she can stop herself, shuddering with disgust. His legs kick, his hands flailing out behind him; by no means is this the worst way a person can be killed around here, but still, it sounds like a gurgling sink. Eventually, the heel of his boot falls to the floor of the truck with a much-too-loud thunk ,  and she holds her breath, watching the peggie on the stairs. 

They take the can from their lips, and look off into the distance. Down the road. Not in their direction.

The sigh Nora lets out almost masks the wet squelch of her knife withdrawing from flesh. She wipes either side on her thigh, then shoves it back in her boot, rubbing her palm on her knee until it feels more or less dry. 

“Guess that’s why you don’t sleep on the job.” Grace breathes. She looks impressed, if a touch ashamed. “Good catch.”

When did Nora’s mouth get so dry? “Thanks.” 

Grace slinks down into the grass just below the bumper, low on her knees with the muzzle of her rifle inched up over the road. Nora crouches beside her, leaning over to peek past the grille; it’s far from an ideal position, but Grace doesn’t seem like she’s gearing up to do this quietly anyways. She swings the shotgun off her back, hand finding the forend. 

“Hold up.” Grace whispers tonelessly, the way she always speaks when she’s shooting. “Let me get rid of this one first.”

Nora watches her incline the muzzle towards the woman on the steps, the glinting iris of her right eye aligned with the scope.

“Might be safer to go in through the back.” She suggests before it’s too late. That must’ve been how they got in - the windows were broken from the inside, judging by the glass on the ground.

“And get there how? We’re in position. I’m taking the shot.” 

“Well.” Nora quirks her head to one side. “Go get ‘em, champ.”

Grace snorts, as soft as can be; even when her shoulders shake, her hands don’t slip, knuckles in stark relief under the skin. “Yeah. Just watch.”

The muzzle tilts up, barely a centimeter. “I’ll show you a fucking champ .” 

Her forefinger curls. The air splits, shattered by a self contained explosion; Nora hopes she gets used to that soon. The woman on the steps slams headfirst into the wall to her left, a cloud of pink mist lingering in the air where her skull had been. The dog loses its mind, tossing its little body to and fro around it’s owner as she slumps to the pavement, and inside, commotion erupts, Grace firing again before anyone can get their bearings.

The bullet misses the dog by a foot- so fucking cocky , a shot at a flailing animal is never a sure thing - but hits the peggie by the bar in the thigh. He drops, but doesn’t scream, likely the most seasoned among them.

Nora racks her gun, tromping up into the road ahead of Grace. Him first, then.

The dog notices her before the humans can look twice, and bounds over in her direction, barking like its fur is on fire. Okay, maybe him second. She pulls up her elbows and lets one off, striking it clean in the top of its head. Three bullets flash by her torso, their sender looking down on her from behind the empty window of a booth, gun in hand. Fear fills the moment before Grace shoots straight at the barrel, and there’s that scream, erupting into the air between the gunshots and barked orders. Whoever it was, they’re hit in the hand, flesh broken apart but still very much alive; the man next to them comes out of his cover to help, and Nora shoots him in the chest. 

She chambers two more slugs, shards of glass crunching under her gloves as she grabs hold of the windowsill, hoisting herself up high enough to swing a leg over. She lands on her knees atop a table, the man she shot lying dead in the seat beside her. There’s a woman with shaggy black hair on the floor, trying to get herself on her feet and get her gun with just her left hand. Nora aims the barrel of hers down, and there are two shouted waits before a red sinkhole opens up in her chest. 

The last thing she hears before her hearing stops entirely is a grunt, a bullet speeding past her head so close that the air it displaces brushes her lips. “Fuck!” She feels her mouth form the word, hard and sharp. On the floor by the entrance, a man is on his chest, bleeding like a stuck pig but still conscious enough to hold his revolver. 

See, that’s why he was supposed to be first. She only has one slug left - three shots from someone outside miss both her and the peggie on the floor, one shattering the face of a clock on the wall. “Deputy!” She hears faintly as she hops off the tabletop, her ears coming back online. “Deputy! Kingston!”

Her last slug hits the floor under his head. His thumb circles the revolver chamber, arm raised. 

So Nora darts over to him, and swings.

A bullet strikes the ceiling just as the stock of her shotgun comes careening down onto his shoulder. His revolver clatters to the floor, and she kicks it under a table, bringing up the stock again to slam it across his cheek, a thin spurt of blood escaping his lips. 

The man sways and shudders, his forearm rising a few inches off the floor before falling right back down again. Nora doesn’t stay to watch, two casings falling out and bouncing off his leg as she reloads. A “closed” sign flies around on its tack as she kicks the door open in front of her, shotgun up as she scans the parking lot. 

The coke drinker lies still at the foot of the stairs, her dead pet sprawled out in the street. Past that, on the edge of the road, the green of Grace’s fatigues catches her eye; she’s on the ground, entangled with a man in a tank top, a baseball bat rolling around nearby. 

She’s got one hand on his throat, another on the gun clutched in his fist; Nora could probably just watch if she wanted, but she’d rather not drag this out. She shoots him in the side of the chest, closer to Grace than she’s comfortable with; he falls limp next to her, corpse jolting as she shoves it further away. 

There’s silence all of a sudden, offset by the crickets chirping in the treeline, the rapid beating of her heart, and Grace, coughing as she tugs down her vest.

“You okay?“ Grace barks, flat on her back with her knees bent like it’s any other summer night and she’s stargazing in an empty lot. “I heard you scream.”

“I’m fine.” Nora huffs, a smile cracking through the fixed grimace on her face. “White uniforms sure do suck, huh?” 

Grace scoffs. “They do make things easier for us.” 

Nora extends a hand to let her pull herself up off the ground by it. There are little chunks of broken glass stuck to her pants and sleeves, and a big one stuck in the fabric over her upper breast. Grace swipes it off, and it falls to the ground with a little chink , one corner still slick with blood. 

“Don’t relax just yet.” She says, leaning down to pick up her gun. “That one came around from the back. There could be others.” 

Objectively, there’s nothing too frightening about what she says, so it’s odd that her heart sinks the way it does. She takes a deep breath around the fear, sliding in another slug. They’ve done this a million times.

(Four times, actually. But that’s much better than nothing.)

She follows Grace to the entrance, gun level with her shoulders. At the foot of the stairs, the coke can is still draining fizzy brown liquid; she hadn’t noticed it before. 

Inside, the corpse of the man with the revolver is taking up space in the middle of the tiled floor. Grace kicks him out of the way, a long smear of blood left in his wake that she passes through without hesitation.

“Watch your step.” She says. Nora walks in the imprints her boots leave, like she’s following tracks in the snow. The blood is thick and bubbly, easy enough to slip in, but she can’t give her footing her full attention while staring off into the dimly lit kitchen, scrutinizing all the metal angles of old machinery, their endless buzz blurring the line between silence and danger. 

Grace gives the space behind the bar a once over, then turns to check the last row of booths. Nora inches ahead of her, trying to breathe deeply and silently at the same time. She leans into the expo area, the white shards of broken plates, varying greatly in size, scattered on every surface she can see. She takes a few cautious steps, nudging open the door to a tall fridge against the wall with her boot; it’s all plastic bins and aluminum foil, so she shuts it again. As she makes for the kitchen itself, Grace appears behind her. 

“I’ll go right, you go left.”   

Nora nods. The bruise on her shoulder is killing her as the butt of her gun presses up against it; she gnaws her lip as a distraction, before realizing that if something surprises her she could bite off a chunk of flesh. 

Maybe it’s because there was a time when she would run around El Gran Acantilado ’s expansive kitchen after hours, crawling under utility carts and searching for loose sweets. Two decades down the line and the memories seem perfect, the searing heat of Nevada sun and the stale smell of old carpet and lemon cascade - even still, the hotel her mother managed couldn’t have been as big as she recalls, considering she’s about thrice as tall now as she was then. It tugs at her nerves, knowing just how many places there are to hide in a well equipped kitchen, all the empty spaces and hard objects and huge knives. 

One of the overhead lights in the kitchen is blown, but a freezer with glass doors keeps it lit well enough, lined up milk cartons and plastic pails inside. A sink is still full of dirty dishes, spatulas and tongs sticking out from the surface of the pink tinted water along with what looks like the end of a billy club. A jacket stenciled with the Eden’s Gate symbol hangs from a peg on the back wall, a faint metallic hum cutting above the din from somewhere around it; a generator, maybe a speaker.

Seamlessly, Nora stops breathing as she turns a corner, coming upon a short nook. There’s an icebox, a mop and bucket, a rubber mat, and a backdoor. One hand leaves the trigger to grab the doorknob, but when she turns, it doesn’t budge; she doesn’t feel a lock, either. She rears back one foot and knocks it open, the shockwave reverberating up her leg, irritating the scratch on her calf.

Behind the restaurant is cold air, the reek of stale cigarette smoke, and another corpse. 

They lay face down on the asphalt a couple meters off from the door, the left side of their skull hollowed out and gory. On the ground near their left hand is a silenced pistol; just beside the other, a small silver key.

From the top of a short set of stairs, Nora looks about, peeking beyond the dumpster to see if anyone’s crouched down there. When she’s satisfied, she tromps down onto the pavement, swipes the pistol up, resets the safety and shoves it through a hoop of her belt. She goes back inside as quickly as possible, struck by the image of herself as viewed from far away through the scope of some sniper hidden in the surrounding trees. 

“What’d you do that for?” Grace shouts from the other end of the kitchen. 

“They locked the back door from the outside.” Nora barks. It’s hanging on its hinges, wooden splinters sticking out around the handle; she drags it shut anyways, ignoring how it continues to sway after she lets go. As the tension of the night starts to drain away, that electric hum catches her ear again - it’s a low, even buzz, clearer from where she’s standing. 

The broad white lid of the icebox is tilted up, less than an inch. Nora blinks, and presses down, a soft puff of air escaping as the plastic seal along the rim closes along with something else - a short, shuddery breath, separate from the sounds of the machine, like it came from a living creature. 

Nora’s hand stutters away, and instantly, the lid pops back up. She shoulders her gun, leaning sideways to glance past the corner, where Grace is down on one knee, rifling through something on the floor underneath a countertop. 

“Grace?” 

“Yeah?” She calls back cooly. Nothing in her voice indicates that she’d been trying to get her attention.

In one swift motion, Nora takes the handle and swings it open. 

Part of her expects to see a small child, maybe another dog with an injured leg or a newborn litter. For a second, she does think she’s found a child, until she notices the hairy calves and broad shoulders and realizes what she’s actually found is a woman. Curled up in a tight, tense ball atop bags of ice and frozen vegetables, her hair is shaved down to a dark stubble, her eyes coppery brown and blown wide as she peers up at her. She wears the same burlap shirtdress that most of the peggies wear, clutching her knees to her chest. Shavings of ice dust her shoulder and thigh, that Eden’s Gate smell of limewash paint and body grime clinging to her even in the cold. 

She doesn’t move, blink, or scream. The silent, steady rise and fall of her chest is the only indication that she’s alive.

After the shock dissipates, Nora spends one long moment just watching her, waiting to see if she says something or tries to get up or what have you. Her spare hand rests on the gun in her belt, the thought crossing her mind to remove the safety before she realizes that the sound might spook her.

She looks about hastily to see if Grace or anyone else is about to come up and escalate things, a near inaudible “god” escaping her mouth. The woman only shudders, peering up at her like a paralyzed squirrel, gaze alert but empty, as if she can’t process anything but her own fear. 

She thrums her fingers over the top of the lid, straightening her arm to keep it from falling. There’s a low, swallowed whimper from inside - Nora really should say I’m not going to kill you at some point, or just get it over with. 

“That looks uncomfortable.” Is what comes out.

No answer. It’s okay. I’m uncomfortable too.

“Come on, get out.” Nora says. Her arm is getting tired. The woman’s mouth convulses, her lips drained of color; Nora wouldn’t be surprised if she laid an egg. 

“Get out. I’m not gonna kill you.” Definitely not in there, at least. Those look like good vegetables. 

Grace drops whatever she’d been fiddling with, emerging from the other end of the kitchen.

“I hope you found something worth taking, cus-“ She stops short as Nora raises her free hand, mouthing a ‘what.’ 

Nora nods in the direction of the icebox, prompting Grace to edge cautiously around the corner.

“Jesus Fucking Christ .” Is her immediate response. The woman in the box sucks in air, like she’s trying not to drown. Grace scoffs. “They’re like termites.”

She raises her rifle, hand on the trigger like she means to kill her right there; Nora shakes her head.

“Hold up!”

“Why?” Grace asks. 

She doesn’t actually know how to answer, so she just says it again. “Gimme a second. I wanna see what’s up.”

“What’s up ?” Grace repeats incredulously. She looks vaguely amused. 

As if in answer, the woman in the icebox has begun to pray, her eyes shining with tears.

“….whenever the ark set out Moses said “Arise O Lord and let your enemies be scattered…”

Grace snorts, giving Nora a look like she just told a bad joke. She tosses her head and sucks her teeth in response, reaching in to grab the woman by the upper arm. She tenses up so tight Nora almost thinks she’s going to attack her, her prayers increasing in volume with the shock and fright.

“…let those who hate you…flee before you..”

No attack comes, even as she hauls her up and throws her to the floor. 

“I said get out!” Nora barks, Law & Order voice in full effect. She lands on her backside, gathering herself like she means to stand up, until her eyes find Grace’s face, her expression as hard as an Olmec head, and she stills, cowering on the floor.

“Hop in the wrong truck tonight, friend?” Grace drawls, cocking her rifle. “Where did you and your platoon come from?”

Nora doesn’t comment, examining the girl anew in the improved light - and she is a girl , twenty one at the absolute most, she realizes now. Her skin is the color of sand, her lips wide with a strong, quivering cupid’s bow; Nora can’t quite tell what she is, but she doubts she’s entirely white. Clusters of acne crowd each other on her cheeks and chin, thick dark rings discoloring the base of her neck; she looks as unwashed and untended as all the other female peggies, except for her eyebrows, which are plucked to sparse curves of hair. 

Wonder how she got away with that . Eden’s Gate is always raging against vanity. The girl gasps sharply as Grace nudges the barrel of her rifle against her shoulder, scrambling back a foot or so on her hands and the balls of her feet.

“Speak up!” Grace barks. Nora takes a step forward, falling into a squat between them; she really needs to get out of this habit, of starting a situation then immediately losing control of it. 

“What’s your name.” She asks flatly. The girl meets her gaze, but only for a moment; the silver suppressor of her shotgun keeps drawing her attention where it hangs on her back.

“We can’t talk if I don’t know what to call you.” And there’s only one thing we can do besides talk.

No dice, but her throat does spasm slightly. 

“Always so good at following orders.” Grace growls behind them. “We’re wasting time, Kingston, shoot this bitch before I do.” 

She shrinks back from Grace’s looming frame, a malformed no bubbling up to her lips; Nora shoots her a cool it look over her shoulder, and continues as if she hadn’t said anything.

“Where’re you from?” 

She doesn’t seem to hear her. Her eyes are still on Grace. 

“Huh?”

“Silverton.” The girl forces out, her voice a low croak, fisting the fabric of her shirt with one hand. “Colorado.” 

Nora nods. A long way from home. 

Outside in the backlot, tree branches are swaying, and the corpse on the ground is draining blood. Where she’s sitting on the floor, the girl is visible through the doorway, Nora realizes; anyone hiding in the forest with a gun would be able to shoot her, and only her.

Would they do that to one of their own? Maybe, if they thought she was about to get captured. Nora has no intention of taking her back to Fall’s End with them, but only she knows that. 

“Who told you to come here?” She asks. No leading questions.

“Nobody.” The answer comes so fast Nora barely understands her. “Nobody, we answer to-” She scrubs one hand over her quivering chin, keeping the words in.

Oh, it’s too late for that. “What was that last part?” Nora asks. “Who do you answer to?”

“Nobody!” 

“Nobody? Them again?” She says, so clearly she knows her teeth are showing. “It’s starting to sound like you’re making this up.” 

“I can’t tell you!” The girl shouts finally, legs kicking out until she’s pushed herself a full foot back from her. “I can’t tell you anything, not my name or- what do you want me to do? ” Her feet came much too close to Nora’s shins for her liking, but she can’t bring herself to make a fuss about it - she was cruel, with that last question. She should know better than that.

“How many of you came down here tonight?” They might as well have met at a concert, the way Nora phrases it. She must be about concertgoing age, right? About twenty? That was how old Nora was when she started going to concerts; it’s how old she was when she shaved her head for the first time, too, cropped it down to that thin, dark stubble this one is sporting so awkwardly.

“Sev…” She looks off to the floor for a second. “Eight. But Laura left, I think. Maybe she came back, I didn’t see, but she left before you guys showed up, so it’s not like she was going to get-”

" Alright .” Nora says decisively. “Which way did, uh, Laura go? Where was she headed?” Which way will she be coming back? The girl might not answer, if Nora makes her reasoning too clear. It’s a fine line to walk, between simple and confusing . 

“I didn’t hear her say. But she was fighting with Tommy.” There’s another hard convulsion in her throat again, and for a moment her terrified eyes on Nora’s face change, like she’s seeing her as someone else. “They always fight. I think she just went back to the Truck Stop, since she knows how to find a bike and everything.” By the time she finishes speaking, her voice is a whole octave lower. 

Nora decides not to begrudge her the distaste. One of us just shot Tommy, after all. She gnaws her inner lip; none of the crooks in her clothes suggest hidden weapons or transmitters, and she doesn’t know how many gunfights she’s got left in her. 

“Go home.” She says finally. On the edge of her vision, she sees Grace bristle; the girl’s face blooms from fear into disbelief. “ Don’t try to take the truck, that’s ours now.” To be stripped and used for parts; she probably doesn’t have the keys, anyways. “Just… walk the way you came. You might not run into trouble, if you get out before sunrise.”

The girl drags her feet under her body and springs up, a tadpole with fresh grown legs. When she’s out the door, she comes to a stuttering halt with one boot on the last step, head turning this way and that until it finds its way back to Nora.

“Thank you.” She forces out. She sounds like she’s been drowning, like her head just broke water for the first time in too long. “Thank you both.’

“Don’t act like I was a part of this.” Grace commands. It’s a dig, yeah, but she means it; she has a reputation to uphold. 

The girl says nothing more. The girl runs. 

When the two of them are alone again, Grace slings her rifle, lips pressed to a tight, hard line. 

“That was stupid.” 

Nora huffs, drawing herself back up to full height.

“Why?” 

“Because she could bring back reinforcements.” Grace says. “Because she could tell them we let her go, and they could start faking surrenders. Perfidy’s what we call that.” She looks her square in the face, half a challenge and half a reproach; she doesn’t even look angry. “Or, she could just get blown to pieces as soon as she tries to get back over the bridge in that loud ass uniform, just like you said. I understand not wanting to kill her, Nora, but you can’t make that everyone’s problem.”

Nora’s face falls. That would be bad. “Eden’s Gate doesn’t appreciate cowardice. I doubt she’ll go around bragging about it.” She says, resisting the urge to just shrug and apologize. “I figured if she can get back to peggie territory in one piece, she’s earned her freedom.” 

“That’s one way to look at it.” Grace says, but she doesn’t sound convinced. “I wouldn’t get into the habit of focusing on the question of earned , though. A lot of people here don’t deserve to die.”

“….and we’ll have to kill most of them anyways. I remember.” Nora finishes for her. The closing line of Jerome’s latest ad hoc morale sermon; it raised a few eyebrows in the crowd, but she thought she understood it well enough. 

Grace certainly did. That iron will of hers has never once faltered, never in front of Nora at least, ignoring the thick streak of blood oozing down the breast of her jacket even now.

“We should probably clean  that.” She says. The hot liquid has cooled to a sludge, by the looks of it - is she really ignoring it, or did she just forget it was there? 

Grace looks down at her own chest. “Yeah, probably.” She says, scrunching her nose. “What even was this one?”

“Broken glass in the parking lot.”

She hums. “It didn’t feel that big.”

When her head turns up again, she studies the facade of Nora’s face, her expression as blank as she can make it when she’s searching for… uncertainty, Nora supposes, that would be the best guest. Uncertainty in the decision, in her own ability to make it. Whatever Grace sees, it must satisfy her, because she turns on her heels, marching back to the front of house. 

“There’s a first aid kit under the bar.” She says over her shoulder; Nora swallows a mouthful of saliva. A cloud of cold air brushes her shoulder, colder than the breeze from outside. The lid of the icebox is still open, thrown back on its hinges when she pulled the girl out.

She could almost laugh. 

When she goes to close it and spies a tiny, black Smith & Wesson 36 tucked between two bags of frozen meat, right where the girl’s body had been lying, she does. 

“What happened?” Grace asks as Nora struts out of the kitchen. She’s settled on a short stack of milk crates in the expo area, the first aid kit retrieved and left on a counter next to her, all the pieces of broken plate swept onto the floor. It’s a good place to rest; not as exposed as the dining room with all its broken windows, but with a view of the outside through the expo window. Her vest is on the ground in front of her, her rifle laid out within reach on a cutting board like an expensive slab of steak. 

“Hmm?” Nora asks. She sounds too innocent even to her own ears. There’s a utility sink by the doorway; her left palm is mostly clean, but the back of it is crusted with dry gore. She takes two pumps of viscous pink soap and washes her hands under warm water, drawing back as soon as it gets too hot. 

“I heard you laugh.” 

“Oh.” She says, far more mellowly, and huffs, smiling. “Nothing, I.. spotted two flies going at it on the wall.” 

Grace hums. “At least someone had fun tonight.” 

Nora decides not to comment, drying her hands on her front and undoing the latches on the first aid kit.

“You wanna take off your shirt?” She asks as she picks through it; better to ask now, while she’s got a reason not to look at her when she says it. She finds the needle first, and a bottle of bactine, setting them both aside; Grace complies without question, rolling her shoulders as she discards her jacket and scarf and sets to work on the buttons. 

A silver spool of black thread is sequestered away under a roll of bandages, a little pair of forceps beside it. She pushes it through the needle, turning with the tools in hand.

“Okay!” She says. Grace has to drag her head up to look at her, shoulders slumped like she’s just let down a heavy load; you can’t tell how narrow they really are until she takes off all the padding, can you. The ribbed fabric of her bra is the kind of grainy gray-brown which implies it was white when she bought it. Her elbows are white, now, they’re so ashy.

Nora wets her lips. “Okay.”

“I can sew it up myself, if you need.” She says. Under the rim of her cap, the black lines on her cheeks are beginning to sweat.

“No, it's fine. I’ve done this before.” Once on herself, and once on a training dummy. Nora rests the tools on the counter right next to Grace, retrieving a plastic cup from a drying tray to fill a third of the way up with water. She rips off three napkins from a roll and goes to one knee in front of her, and Grace leans back on her palms without prompting.

An inch from the left strap of her bra is the gash; short but fat, and still shiny with blood. Delicately, Nora nudges it off her shoulder, raising the cup a short bit above her to pour a flash of liquid on the wound.

The film of dried blood beneath the wound begins to stream. Nora presses her free hand against the body of her breast to catch it with the folded napkins, making the gash stretch a little against the surrounding flesh. 

Grace doesn’t react. Nora says “sorry” anyways.

The light is good in the expo area; the task would be significantly harder if it weren’t. Gently, she punctures the red line where the cut entered the skin, pulling just enough thread through before making a loop on the other end of the length with the forceps.

She tugs a knot, blood welling up in the wound at the irritation, and Grace’s hands curl into fists. Her chest is as still as a cornerstone.

This is a good time to talk, right? As long as she doesn’t get distracted, and have to pull loose a piece of thread from Grace’s flesh? As if she doesn’t probably have her doubts about Nora already? 

Sure it is. “When I saw that receipt, I thought we’d come here and find three drunk peggies making pancakes.” 

Grace hums, chin pressed to her chest so she can watch the proceedings. Tunnel vision is second nature for her, Nora has picked up on that by now, but her eyes are glassy, the silver flash of the needle reflected in the irises. 

“Shit happens.” She intones. “ Always happens. Usually in the last place you’d expect it to.”

“Well, sure, but that’s no reason not to try.” A minuscule sliver of glass is clinging to the edge of Grace’s cut; she purses her lips and blows it away, then gets back to work. 

“You killed five people today. You want to tell me that was you not trying?” 

Nora perks up. “I mean that’s no reason not to try to do better.” She realizes she’s not being clear enough as soon as she says it - “ Plan better. I know I’ll need to make a judgment call sometimes, but shouldn’t we be trying to avoid getting into fights we can’t control?” 

“Keep going.” 

It’s only then that Nora realizes she stopped sewing. She focuses in on the red cut, fingers spread out around it like a spider; she can’t tell if Grace thinks it’s naive or not, and as long as she’s not looking at her face, she doesn’t have to wonder.

“Here.” Grace says, raising one hand to nudge Nora's hand away so she can position the wound herself. With her index finger and thumb, she pulls the flesh taut, just enough to set a straight line to sew through, but not to pop the stitches. 

She pushes the needle back in, falling silent. 

“You’re on the right track.” Grace says plainly, her voice straining a touch as Nora pulls another stitch; the next to last. “My supervisor used to think like that, trying to plan out every step of an operation before it started.” She considers her words as Nora makes another loop of black thread.

Whatever she was going to carry on with is cut off by a swipe of the needle. The final knot is closed, three inches of excess thread drooping down onto her breast, brushing her areola. Nora takes it between her pointer finger and thumb, going for her knife only to feel the thick film of dried blood on the handle, and lets it go. There’s a magnetized bar on the wall for hanging knives, but the peggies took those, because of course they did.

“Ahh…” She spies a steak knife on the floor under the sink, coated in dust; she’d rather not bust out the scrub brush right now, but she doesn’t see anything sharp that’s also clean. 

Just before she can stand up, Grace notices the dilemma. “What, there weren’t any scissors?” 

“Someone must’ve taken them out.” There’s a lot of uses for a little pair of scissors, she thinks, recalling the girl in the icebox, her face filthy, but well-groomed. 

Grace gives the smallest of sighs. “Fuck it, use your nails. Or your teeth, if they’re too short.”'

Nora hasn’t let her nails get long since all this started. As gently as she can, she tugs the string upwards, marking a point in her mind just above the bulb of the knot and leaning forward into Grace’s torso. 

Lips pulled back from her teeth, her eyes slide shut on impulse; she wasn’t sure if she should open or close them. When she feels the string between her front teeth, she presses until it snaps, ignoring the urge to shudder as her nose brushes the soft, loose skin of Grace’s breast. 

She can’t ignore the hairs that stand up on the back of her neck, though. Or the smell of kevlar, copper and sweet, damp sweat stuck on Grace’s skin. She plucks the excess thread from her mouth and tosses it to the floor, rising to her feet without a word, eyes on the floor - and god, Nora wishes there was a casual way to say “look, I’m not a coward, I swear, I'm only like this around you,” but she can’t think of one. Then again, Grace’s poker face is legendary, so who knows. Maybe she felt that too. 

“That should do it.” 

Grace pokes at the line of stitches with one hand, pulling her shirt back on with the other. “These are good. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Nora says, closing the first aid kit’s lid with a solid click . She doesn’t smile, not with all these dead bodies around to watch, but when she breathes in, her ribs feel a bit less tight. 

There’s a half eaten bag of bison jerky in one of the fridges, and Nora scarfs them down while Grace goes outside to signal for help. With the shooting finished, you can hear the susurration of the slumbering forest, smell the dry wood and river moss, the ever present smoke of burning crops. She folds the empty plastic package in half, watching the electric blue streak of a flare shoot up into the night sky through an empty window frame. Memories float through her mind - picking at scabbed over mosquito bites past midnight on Laurent’s expansive porch, dumping cool ash into a trash can atop rib bones and cigarette butts in her aunt’s Florida backyard - but the flare disrupts the flow of them. Nora’s never seen anything like it in her old life, before all this; fireworks don’t burn on their way up, rattlesnakes don’t hiss as fast as the gun. 

Grace strides back in, though, in her vest and fatigues, and as much as Nora wants to think she can do this herself, it is always comforting to have someone to assure her of the not-strangeness of war. 

“When we get back to Fall’s End, I’m gonna go get the car from where we left it.” She says. It’s a reliable vehicle, outdated or not. “You can come with me, if you’re up for it. It’s not a long walk.”

“Can’t.” Grace has wiped the bleeding paint from her cheeks; the residue gives her an ashen look, like she’s just walked from a burning house. “The Rail Yard got swarmed tonight. Merle Briggs is going down to help, he’s gonna swing by the bar, pick me up.” She says, shoving the flare gun into her back pocket. The motion requires her to stretch the line of stitches; her arm quavers a bit when it straightens, but somehow, her hand stays still. “Ask Jerome to go with you. The roads are hot tonight.”

We killed seven people tonight.  “They radioed for help?” Nora asks; how would she have missed that? 

“The call went out when we were in the woods. They’re just cleaning up loose ends by now.” Grace waves a hand, those eyes that are so precious to her shutting to accentuate the gesture. “Go get the car, get some sleep.” She strides past Nora, back into the kitchen, rifle coming off her back in a motion as fluid as a machine. “Call me paranoid, but I’m gonna check inside the dumpsters before we go. I had a peggie leave a time bomb in there under a trashbag, once.” She snorts. “Maybe our friend from Colorado is curled up there.” 

The sentiment would be easier to accept if she intended to take Grace’s advice, but she knows she won’t go right to bed; she’ll help Jerome with the building or join Casey’s Molotov assembly line. She won’t be able to sleep at all, if she doesn’t. 

“You coming?” Grace calls out. In the distance, she can hear the loose door hinges creak as she goes outside. Her gun sits leaned against the back of the bar, the metal cylinder of the silencer like the handle of a divining rod. 

“Yeah.” Nora says. “Gimme a second. I’ll come.”

#grace armstrong #far cry 5 #far cry 5 fic #deputy nora kingston #Grace Armstrong x female deputy

[skoll-sun-eater]

Ayo

Hi to those reading 'revelations' on AO3, I may slow down just a tad. I've started a new term at college. But there should be a couple of new chapters released at the end of this week and the next ^.^

Just a heads up.

#far cry 5 fic #jacob seed #oc jenavieve seed #oc deputy #oc phedra dawson