#* little lamb to the slaughter. / inbox memes.

[0xa00001]

five times caught

MEME.  MEME TAG.  INBOX.  ALWAYS ACCEPTING! @sanctemony

one.  it’s day three when they make their way to the unassuming church outside falls end. while the white siding and flowers lining the path seem idyllic, there’s nothing quaint about the ARs wielded by unshaved, blown-pupil enforcers or the hollow looks of the people corralled by them into the pews. james and wrench— reginald— are directed near the back, settling partially in the shadow of a support beam.

james linger on each of the seeds in turn, stripping away layers of defense mechanisms and self-portraits in facades like paint remover on inherited living room walls. beige to white to blue to beige to gray.

their eyes lock. john’s brow peaks like the crescendo of those cheesy propaganda songs over the radio and james knows in an instant that there’s nothing but pure lunacy behind that gaze. john looks at the newcomer tucked in the shadow of a back pew not as a human being, but as a toy, pupils pinpricks in a sea of mad ice. he doesn’t budge. can’t. the icy blue carves right down into his stomach and suddenly he feels like a bug in a web— it sees through him exactly as james sees through everyone else, and pulls a creeping unease up his spine like james hasn’t felt in years.

that’s the moment james realizes their two month estimate was naively optimistic. because the people staring at them from the church altar aren’t people, but tools, machined down and rebuilt for a very specific purpose: control.

joseph gestures in the way a dog owner might signal for his pet’s attention. in an instant john’s attention snaps back over, jovial, obedient, and bright; and wherever john’s gaze falls across the room, he brings that brightness with him. but the eyes that meet james’ are cold. always cold, like the true nature of the sadist is hidden in lenticular print and only perceptible from the correct angle.

wrench is livid when they leave. james tells him that they’ll give the seeds what’s coming to them, they’ve survived militaries and mafias, a backwater cult is small time work. but for all his reassurance, his mind remains stubbornly stuck on that distorted period of time when he was trapped under john’s gaze, caught in the swirling, mad blue.

two.  they’re in falls end when it happens.

the thing about being shot is, unless you’re looking at the gun, it’s hard to understand you’ve been shot. it’s all white-hot tightness like a body cramp isolated to the tip of a pin inside his shoulder, and a force that makes him stumble backwards until his back hits the brick wall of the spread eagle.

his first thought is, shit.

his second thought is, help.

but somewhere between the gut-punch of panic and fast-acting bliss and the pain blooming across his shoulder the noise is mangled to little more than a tight gasp, not audible to dedsec sitting less than a foot away from him through bricks and wood and the low thrum of bar music.

james hits the concrete and the last thing he remembers is how the bliss makes the headlights that roll up to him dance like fireworks.

he thinks, that’s nice.

three.  once, after far too many bottles of sake, he had drunkenly made a bet with wo fat about dying in a concrete hole just like the one he’s in now. and it’s that bet, not his desire to live, or even the images of revenge james plays in his mind on repeat to stave off the pain that drives him to escape. he can get shot as soon as he hits daylight inside the compound and keel over dead and that would be fine. but his ego won't— can't— permit him to lose a bet.

a thought enters his mind about when his ego started permitting him to talk like his death was an inevitability, but john takes those pliers to his hand again and yanks off nail six of ten, and the pain obliterates everything that isn’t the reverberation of his shout against the walls.

the next time he’s awake, john is gone. there’s a hole in his memory and a pounding in his skull that feels like dehydration and blood loss and a migraine all at once, and he wonders for a moment if this is what a segfault feels like. cracking both eyes open leads to the realization that he can only crack one eye open, the other sealed shut by the accumulation of dried blood from the cut on his scalp. he must have gotten that on the way in, when he hit the concrete outside the spread eagle. john hasn’t touched his face beyond the condescending, sugar-sweet crowing like a fawning relative, and one snap of his teeth in the flesh of john’s hand had assured he’s careful about that in the future.

james pretends the taste of blood in his mouth is from the crescent moons he bit into john’s fingers. it’s easier to stomach that way.

his escape is convoluted, painful, and takes far too long for james’ liking. his body is align with the buzz of fear under his skin, jumping at every noise and shift of the light like a feral cat backed into a corner. his hands and arms prickle with painful tv static as he regains their use, making quick work of the door and slipping quietly, not bursting, not throwing the door open, out into the sunlight. he takes a moment to gawk at the sun, like he’s forgotten what it looks and feels like.

james makes it ten steps out of the compound before the butt of a rifle makes fireworks explode behind his eyes.

caught.

four.  “I’m disappointed in you, james.”

james imagines twenty-seven inches of wooden bat crack across john’s skull.  

“I’m just trying to get you to atone,” he implores, hands clutched close to his chest like he’s trying to keep all that overwhelming love and affection inside, and not the insane ramblings of a madman too addled by drugs and his brother’s goddamn ego to keep all that bullshit locked up in his head. it holds exactly zero weight considering one of those hands clutches a knife dyed deep red with james’ blood. “you come into our home— our home! outsiders! and you bring your weapons, and your fancy toys, and you mock!”

the next words are punctuated with the knife slicing deep, crooked lines into james’ ribs. he can already see two Ps, and john draws a line down to turn the second to an R.

“our! mission! you slaughter our lambs, our family, and you brag about it. but I will tell you something, james. not even you are beyond redemption. even you, you sinful, obstinate monster of a man can be—”

“eat shit.”

not his most original, but he’s running on indignation and rage and the fact that he can summon his voice at all is nothing short of miraculous.

john sighs. james is mentally preparing himself for the rest of his banal speech when john takes the knife and buries it deep in his arm. the wound forms the I of PRIDE.

he wonders how much longer he can scream until his voice fizzles out for good.

“is this what you want?”  john’s shouting now, holy hellfire, twisting the knife deep until it brushes bone and james jerks helpless against the restraints. his traitorous brain screams at him along every nerve along his arm, demanding to pull away until his wrists are raw and bloodied against the ropes that bind him. and john digs and twists, sneering threats like a dog foaming at the mouth, until some part of james caves and pleads,

“wait!”

he hears a voice inside him sneer, weak.

john stops with a grin. finally. progress.

“ready to say yes, brother?”

james visualizes plucking all thirty-two teeth of john’s sharklike smile out of his jaw, but doesn’t speak a word. doesn’t trust what might come out of his mouth if he tried.

john tuts.

“then the atonement shall continue!”

five.  they don’t catch john. deacon does, chases him in nick’s plane and forces him to the ground and throws him in a cell. there to wait out the war in hope county, james supposes, rotting in a concrete box until he can get before a real judge. given who john seed is, james severely doubts the justice system will be particularly harsh with his punishment.

and what does dedsec do, if not mete out punishment to those that the system will not?

nobody’s sure who kills john. nobody buys the line about suicide, that’s for sure; but not even james is in any position to do it, body broken in so many places he can’t even stand without assistance. it hardly matters— deacon looks at him like he’s caught james with the rope used to strangle john himself, disappointment and defeat and an acute helplessness all rolled up into one.

maybe it’s better that way.

[sheshamed]

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