#A note i wrote john smashed underneath

[mezmer]

Love my friends so much

[direwombat]

tagged by so many people over the past few weeks, but most recently @simplegenius042 on this fine wip wednesday (thank youuuu~). been a while, but here are some sneak peeks at katc ch 7 that's fairly hot off the presses (ie, i wrote them today, they're super rough, and will see the red ink of an editing pen at some point in the near future). syb finally made it to the ranger station in the whitetails, only to find that there's no sign of her brother to be found. just a chatty jacob calling in via radio, and some consequences of the van crash that saved her from john in ch 5. Also tw for passing references to childhood abuse

“Trying to call someone, Deputy?” 

She scowls, glancing around for the source of his voice, if only to disable it. 

“Gotta say, watching you clear out an outpost on your own was impressive. Waltzed into a den of wolves like it was nothing.”

Her blood runs cold. He was watching her the whole damn time? Her eyes dart up to the ceiling, scanning for security cameras. There are none inside, but as she carefully moves to the door, she spots one on the porch outside. According to Augustine, the rangers had security and trail cams set up all over the Whitetails. The cult must have co-opted those for themselves. She grits her teeth. Moving outside, her hand curls around the handle of a baseball bat left leaning against the exterior wall and smashes the camera. 

The pinch in her gut sharpens, white hot and piercing through her like she’s been stabbed. The skin of her abdomen pulls taut and tight as she lifts her arms to swing. 

When she returns inside, low, sinister laughter fills the room. “Clever little jackrabbit, ain’t ya?” 

A growl slips from between gritted teeth and with one hand pressed to her side, she lurches behind the reception desk. Resting on one of the shelves underneath the tabletop, is a HAM radio. She makes note of the frequency it's attuned to, jotting it down in the margins of her map before picking up the transceiver. “The fuck you want?” 

“Got someone who wants to say hi to you.” For a brief, fleeting moment, hope kindles in her ribcage -- Augustine -- only to be snuffed out when Jacob continues, “Ain’t that right, Peaches.” 

Her brow pinches together in confusion, mouth open, ready to ask what the fuck he’s talking about when Staci’s voice comes through. 

“Syb?” His voice is rough. Raw. As if he’d spent the past God knows how long either screaming or crying. He sounds scared. 

All of a sudden her aches and pains and fears are pushed aside in favor of trying to soothe his. “Yeah, I’m here, Stace. You alright?”

She hears his breath hitch and grow shallow, as if he’s hyperventilating. “Don’t listen to him. Whatever he tells you, whatever he says, it’s a --” He’s cut off by the sharp sound of a hand striking skin and he cries out in pain. She gasps, flinching as if she had also been struck. The phantom burn of her Daddy’s hand on her cheek makes the fine hairs on her neck stand on end.  

When Jacob speaks next, his voice is low and threatening. “Alright, that’s enough.” 

“I’m gonna kill you,” Sybille growls.  

“I’m sure you will, sweetheart,” he says condescendingly. “But until then, here’s what’s gonna happen: you’re going to surrender. You’re going to do exactly what I say. And if you behave, maybe I let you see your friend here.” 

“Kiss my ass.” 

“I’m being gracious here, Deputy. The rangers at the station didn’t get as generous an offer.” 

Her lips curl back, exposing all her teeth in a predatory snarl. “You sunnovabitch, I’m gonna --”

But, before she can finish her threat, he’s talking over her. “You’re not feeling well, are you, Deputy? I see the way you’re moving. Slow. Clutching your stomach. Abdominal pain?” He clicks his tongue and she can practically hear him shaking his head. “Nasty things can happen if you let that go unchecked. Do your little buddies in the Valley know? Can’t imagine they do if they let you come up here all on your own.”

Her silence must speak volumes, because after a moment’s pause, he begins to laugh. 

“They don’t know you’re here, do they?”

Her molars grind together so hard her jaw creaks. The pain in her abdomen is getting worse. A pressure builds  Her heart is racing so fast she can barely hear him over it rushing in her ears. Through heavy, labored breaths, she grits out, “You listen to me --”

“No. You listen to me. My Chosen will come get you. You’ll play nice. And maybe -- if i’m in a good mood -- maybe, I’ll humor you with a negotiation. How does that sound?”

“Sounds like you can take my boot and shove it -- ah!” Another sharp stab of pain lances through her stomach, and her shaking knees buckle, sending her to the ground. Her vision tunnels, darkness rapidly closing in from the corners of her eyes. Her body lands on the hardwood floor with a solid thud. Boomer is rushing to her side just as she hears the motor of an ATV approaching from a distance. He whimpers, nosing at her and trying to nudge her back to her feet, but her weak and trembling limbs won’t let her. “Go,” she hisses at the same time Jacob’s voice calls to her from transceiver now dangling by its cord. “Go!” 

Boomer whines again, but follows her command, and slips through the door she’d left slightly ajar. 

She groans, clutching her stomach and curling her knees close to her chest. The roar of the ATV grows louder and louder as it approaches. She rests her sweaty forehead against the cool floor and waits. Waits for Jacob’s Chosen. Waits for the dark embrace of unconsciousness to finally deliver her from her pain. Waits for God to show her the Pearly Gates where Mamma and Augustine are waiting for her before the Devil grabs her ankle and drags her down the Hell.

And for funsies, here's the snippet from a sequence featuring syb's recurring guilt dream

Gravel crunches under heavy boots. Each shuffling step kicks up dust behind her. Sweat clings to her skin, beading at her brow and slipping down her neck to soak into the collar of her shirt. The humidity is suffocating, heavy and oppressive as the Louisiana heat beats down on her. She lurches forward with slow, shambling steps, her head light and nodding back and forth as her exhausted and aching body soldiers on.  

One foot. 

Then the other. 

Again, and again, and again, and again. 

A chorus of cicadas screech -- or maybe that’s just the ringing in her ears -- as she’s pulled like a dog on a leash towards the grave she helped dig. 

A lazy breeze cuts through the stagnant air, but it does little to wick the sweat from her brow. Blades of tall grass in the fields around her bend and sway, whispering softly and echoing the words that pour out of her mouth. 

“O Lord, I beg Thy forgiveness for havin’ offended Thee, and I detest all my sins…”

The moon hangs low, fat and full, on the horizon, illuminating her way with silver beams of light. Every breath she takes is a struggle, every step she takes causes an ache so deep she feels it in the marrow of her creaking bones. Her hair clings to her forehead and the back of her neck. Blisters have formed and popped several times over, the soles of her feet squishing out blood that pools in the dusty footprints she leaves behind. 

She’s walked this lonely dirt road more times than she cares to count, nothing more than a shambling corpse, making a pilgrimage to the same Unholy spot every time she goes to sleep. 

Wiping the sweat from her brow, she adjusts her grip on the shovel slung over her shoulder. Its wooden handle warped and stained with the blood and sweat of her calloused palms. She swears that each time she returns to this road, that stain gets a little bit bigger. 

As she passes a pond, a creeping bit of the bayou that threatens to overtake the road with each passing summer, the back of her neck prickles as a pair of unseen eyes lock onto her. Clouds drift overhead, blotting out the moonlight and she’s cast into darkness. A shadowy figure swoops past her with a heavy beat of its wings and fluttering of feathers. She gasps and her gaze snaps skyward, some wild prey instinct sends her heart racing, urging her to run. 

An owl glides through the air, following the path of the road towards the weeping willow that towers on the horizon. It’s the only tree for miles, standing sentinel at the crossroads where she helped bury a man. 

Underneath its swaying boughs stands a single grave marker, one that her Daddy hadn’t bothered to make. She comes to a stop in front of it. It’s an old thing, nothing more than two planks of wood bound together by rope. Its white paint is chipped and weathered. It bears no name, no dates -- nothing to indicate who has been laid to rest here. 

With a heavy sigh, she turns her shovel around to sink the blade into the soft, sandy soil and begins to dig. Time slows, the only sign of it marching ever onward is the pile of dirt that grows larger with every shovelful. The owl watches her work, offering a scornful hoot whenever she stops to catch her breath. 

It’s only when the tip of the spade makes contact with something solid -- a hollow thunk reverberating through the air -- that she tosses the shovel to the side. She falls to her knees and begins to rip into the earth by hand. Her nails chip. Her fingers bleed. She catches sight of curved pieces of keratin caught in the churning soil. Her hands are caked in dirt and blood. 

But still, she digs. 

Off in the distance, a coyote chitters -- a sound that morphs into the rough and rasping cackle of a heavy smoker as another breeze rolls through, hot and humid like breath on her neck. The smell of tobacco is carried on it. “Gotta move faster than that, Billie,” her Daddy barks. 

And still, she digs. 

But she isn’t digging fast enough. 

The angry wind whips and curls around her. The exposed skin of her arms alight in burning pricks of pain. The faded circular scars pockmarking the underside of her forearms burn, throbbing in pain as the familiar sting of ashes rains down her neck. “Y’ain’t got all night, girl,” Daddy snarls. “C’mon, move it!” 

Panic sets in. 

Nonetheless, she digs. 

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[coureirsix]

Chicago

[ wrote a little bitty about two baby boys. || read on ao3 ]

Dutch takes John out on a heist one day and Arthur’s going to die mad about it. 

Chicago.

Let’s go to Chicago, he’d said. It’ll be fun, he’d said. There’s no fun quite like seeing the feeble attempts at rising a city that will never last, he’d said. You like doing things quietly, Arthur, he’d said. Dutch said a lot of things. And he wasn’t necessarily wrong. But, there was a difference this time.

This time, they brought Marston around. Good-shot little Johnny Marston. John Marston who cleared a cabin before Arthur could get his gun up. There were only two people in that cabin. It wasn’t that impressive. Arthur had done things much more impressive in his time as an outlaw. And he hadn’t been riding with Dutch and Hosea for very long, either.

But, Dutch had said they were to bring Marston along for this ride, and that was that. Arthur sits in the back of a wagon Dutch had secured for getting around town, the frown on his face permanent since they got off the train station in Chicago. The city was barren, for the most part, but there were skeletons of buildings, roads being planned as well as the odd structures already completed. They stand out like blood in water as they ride through the city.

Arthur peers over the top of the wagon’s sides, taking note of the routes they could potentially use as escape routes should there be any issue. He was careful like that. He was useful like that. Marston’s atop of the wagon. With Dutch. Marston’s talking about some hunt. Something useless. But, Dutch is laughing along. Inciting the boy, asking questions. What Dutch should be doing is watching for the lawmen that may be around. Placing them on the map in his mind, should things go wrong.

But, Arthur’s already doing that. Arthur has the tiny plot of land mapped out and he’s ready to go at Dutch’s command. He looks down at his gun, clean as can be, thanks to Hosea teaching him how to clean the metal. Marston’s isn’t as clean.

When they’d been back at the little camp they’d set up for themselves, Dutch brought up robbing the first national bank of Chicago. They’d have to bring funds into the upcoming town, Dutch had said. He’d heard word of a decent enough amount being brought in and there were too few of them for a decent train robbery, so the bank itself would have to do.

Arthur had been excited, as excited as he always was whenever something that had come up. He was usually entrusted with hunting, petty thievery or holding up men on horses. Little things. But, as of recently, Dutch had taken him for a few proper robberies. Arthur had held up a gunsmith, a couple of small time banks, and several stagecoaches. Marston was left to do some of the little things. Hosea did the hunting whenever Arthur couldn’t and Dutch remained a master of stealing right from underneath people’s noses. Marston only barely earned his keep.

In a way, Arthur could rationalize it to himself that this was how Marston was to earn his keep. But, Marston was inexperienced. He hadn’t held up more than a woman on the streets before. Marston couldn’t handle what was coming. He wouldn’t be able to. Arthur looks up at the back of their heads and he gets an idea.

“Hey, Dutch?” Arthur finally says from his spot in the wagon’s cart.

“Yes, Arthur?” Dutch calls back.

“You sure we should be bringing Marston? You’re not afraid he might run right into the line of fire?” Arthur asks. He knows there’s no going back on this decision, but it might just be enough for him to get a rise out of Marston.

“I’m not stupid, ‘course I won’t do that,” Marston snaps back before Dutch can respond.

“You sure, Marston? Coulda sworn I saw a lady disarm you back down south,” Arthur says, without missing a beat.

“You saw wrong, Morgan,” Marston responds.

Arthur opens his mouth to respond, another jab at Marston’s incompetence ready when Dutch tugs at the reins of the horse a little, causing them to come to a stop.

“Now, boys,” Dutch says, turning to look down at Arthur, “ain’t nothing going to go wrong with this. We’re doing it quietly. You remember the safe Hosea had you pick?”

“Yeah.”

“Same thing this time around. We’ll be just fine,” Dutch says as he climbs off the wagon. He goes around, past Arthur, and helps Marston come down from his side. Arthur slides his way off the back of the wagon as well, following Dutch and Marston on the side of the road where buildings are being constructed. They’re a step or two ahead of him, but he catches up quickly, walking to Marston’s right while Dutch is on the left.

“So, what’s the plan, boss?” Marston asks.

“Not so loud, boy. You want everyone to know what the hell it is we’re doing here?” Arthur snaps.

“Now, Arthur. It’s alright,” Dutch reaches over Marston’s head and puts a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Dutch speaks in a lower voice when he answers Marston, “we’re gonna go in there. And you’re gonna stay calm, alright? No matter what happens. I tell you to shoot, you shoot. I tell you to wait, you wait. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Marston says as he reaches for his gun. Arthur reaches down to slap Marston’s hand away in a flash and hisses, “you listening at all, boy? You wait for Dutch’s call.”

Marston jerks his hand away from Arthur’s reach and glares up at him. Those tiny dirty eyes bother Arthur. They’re shit coloured. Any pile of horse shit could be Marston’s beady eyes looking up at him. Arthur glares right back.

“We’re here boys,” Dutch says as they arrive at the completed bank building that rests on a empty street corner. Dutch looks down at Marston and says, “John. You wait out here and keep lookout. Lawmen come, knock on the door three times loudly. Anything else happens you run and start screaming that you lost your momma. As loud as you can, son and get somewhere safe. We’ll meet up at the bridge we saw about two miles out.”

Arthur breaks into a smile at the sight of Marston’s face dropping.

“Yes, sir,” Marston says, the disappointment clear on his face.

Arthur drops his smile as Dutch turns to look at him now, “you ready, Arthur?” he asks.

Arthur nods. He’s as ready as can be. Dutch opens the door and slips his bandana over his nose. Arthur follows along and does the same.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen. This is a robbery!” Dutch yells and the few people by the counters scream and cower.

A woman tries to run pas them and Arthur pulls his gun from his holster and jams the barrel into her stomach, “now, miss. I don’t think that’s a wise idea,” he growls from beneath the mask. The woman whimpers and backs away.

“Now, everyone, stay calm and no one shall get hurt. We want what’s in the safe, not your lives. We can end this amicably,” Dutch says, guns still pointed out at both sides of the building. He continues, “this is how things are going to go. The kind teller, what’s your name, miss?”

“M-Madeline…” the woman behind the counter says, backing away.

“Great, well, Miss Madeline, this is my friend Mister M,” Dutch gestures to Arthur and continues, “and you’re gonna be a kind host and show him to your vault, right? Would be such a shame if any harm were to come to these other kind folk because you chose to be rude.”

The panicked woman nods and Arthur follows her into the safe, gun raised. When she steps into the vault, three safes line the wall. Arthur shoves her forward toward one of them and says, “Open it.”

She kneels and begins to open. It occurs to Arthur that he could open another and save them some time. Do this faster than Marston ever could. He drops down beside her and presses his ear to the safe, turning the dial. He hears a soft click and turns the dial another way. He hears another soft click and Dutch steps through the doorway.

“What’s taking so long?” he asks.

Arthur looks up at him and says, “it’s going!”

The woman unlocks her safe and Dutch steps forward, moving her aside to grab the stacks of bills inside the safe. He tosses her aside and she lands on the ground with a thud as Arthur hears the final click of his own safe and opens it. He steps over to the other safe as Dutch bags the rest of the cash.

Arthur leans down and picks up the woman, leading her to the final safe. She starts on the dial and has the safe open within a few more moments. Arthur shoves her aside and has taken most of the bills when three loud bangs come from outside the vault doors.

“Shit,” Dutch says with a grunt. Arthur finishes bagging the cash when a lawman’s voice comes through.

“We’ve got this place surrounded! Come out with your hands up and we won’t kill you!”

“As mighty fine as that sounds, officer, I don’t think we’ll be doing that!” Dutch yells back, motioning for Arthur to get low and follow him behind the teller’s cage. Both Dutch and Arthur peer up behind the desk and get a look at the lawmen outside pointing guns at the cage.

“You got five seconds before we storm in there! This is your last chance!” the lawman yells.

“Five seconds to run, Arthur,” Dutch says in a lower voice as he dashes out from the door at the side of the teller’s cage and uses his entire body weight to smash through a window. Arthur follows, only just missing the gunfire behind him. Dutch breaks into a sprint and Arthur manages to keep up long enough for them to find horses to get away on.

It didn’t go as smoothly as it could have, but it went well enough, Arthur thinks. They got all of the money and the lawmen were lost a ways back. He’s proud of himself. They hitch the horses around the bridge Dutch had mentioned. They had to wait for Marston.

Arthur sits down and rests his back against a pillar holding the bridge up. He looks up at Dutch with a look of disdain and asks, “we can’t just come back for him later?”

“No, Arthur. Would you have preferred I left you those years back when you tried to jump what you thought was a well dressed construction worker?” Dutch asks, giving Arthur a knowing look.

“No..” Arthur mutters softly, but Dutch continues over him.

“And turned out to be a lawman? And I got away, but you were going to be arrested?”

“No, sir,” Arthur says, a little louder now, looking down at the heels of his boots.

“Then we wait,” Dutch says, leaning on the same pillar besides Arthur. He looks in the direction of Chicago, expecting Marston to come around at any moment.

They’re there for about an hour when they see a horse coming in the distance.

“Only took him the longest god damn time!” Arthur yells as he stands up and heads for the horse he’d stolen.

“That’s John, alright. But, he’s not driving,” Dutch says, still standing by the pillar. Arthur takes a look again and sure enough. John Marston, little fourteen year old John Marston, is hog tied and riding on the back of a man’s horse. Marston screams as the horse approaches them and doesn’t stop. They ride past Dutch and Arthur at an alarming speed.

“Shit,” Dutch and Arthur say simultaneously. Arthur’s on his horse in a second, with Dutch following just a bit behind. Arthur tugs at the reins of his horse, seeing the distance between him and John shorten. When he’s good and able to, he jumps from his horse directly at the rider of the horse John is hog tied to. The man lands on the ground with a loud thud and Arthur’s bodyweight atop of him. They struggle around as John screams in the background.

The man reaches for Arthur’s hair and tugs at it, making Arthur grunt and throw blind punches. Some connect, some don’t. The man scrambles to get up, tossing Arthur to the side. The man comes to a halt at the sight of Dutch, giving Arthur the opportunity to come up and tackle the man from behind.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Arthur yells as they hit the floor again. They flip around, so Arthur is sitting on the man’s chest, connecting punch after punch.

“That’s just a boy!” Arthur yells, “what in the hell were you thinking?! Just robbing a boy like that? What the hell were you going to do with him?!”

“That’s enough, Arthur,” Dutch says, the authority in his voice prominent. Arthur drops the man’s bloody head and steps away.

“We’re not killers,” Dutch says, coming off his horse. He steps over to the man on the ground and holds out his revolver, pointing the barrel directly at the man’s head. The man cries out.

“P-p-please, sir. Didn’t mean the boy no harm- just know a friend who relocates lost boys…” the man says through a bloody mouth.

“All those boys end up servants!” Arthur yells, moving to kneel down to punch the man again. Dutch holds an arm out, stopping Arthur from moving any further. Dutch instead kneels down and touches the barrel to the man’s forehead.

“We’re not killers,” he repeats, “but we could be. Remember that next time you want to try and pick up a boy off the streets. Many boys out there got fathers like me. I can’t promise they won’t shoot.” Dutch stands upright.

The man makes a sound, but is cut off by Dutch giving his head a swift kick, knocking him unconscious. Dutch leans down to grab the body, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Arthur, get John from down there. He rides with you,” Dutch says, walking off to the side to leave the body off the road. Arthur does as he’s told. He picks John up, puts him down, and unties him.

John pulls the gag out of his mouth and takes a deep breath, saying, “I thought I was a goner!”

Dutch laughs as he approaches them, responding, “no, boy. We never leave a man behind. Never. If we don’t got each other, what do we have?”

“Nothing,” Arthur answers.

“That’s right, Arthur,” Dutch says, hoisting himself up onto his horse. He continues, “now, come on, boys. I’m sure Hosea will be real happy to hear about how this went.”

“Yes, sir,” Arthur and John say in unison. Arthur motions for John to follow him as he jogs the bit of distance that his horse was left in. He climbs up with ease and holds out a hand for John to climb up behind him.

“You’re alright, Morgan,” John says, while holding onto Arthur’s side with a hint of teasing in his voice.

“You’re not, Marston,” Arthur responds, not missing a beat as he kicks at the horse, following behind Dutch.