#i figured everyone would be entertained by an unhinged tracker being let loose on a bunch of unsuspecting normies

[fiddles-ifs]

GREENWARDEN UPDATE: 3-1-23

Since I'll take any excuse to work less, play more, I always try and take February off my usual update schedule. This makes March something of a hefty update month, which is good! However, I didn't want to leave people hanging, so instead I'll leave you all with a snippet for a certain, highly specific path for the next update.

Under the cut for length! Content warnings for blood and violence. The usual.

The night is slow — the regulars file in like tired dogs, covered in grease-stained overalls and jumpsuits, shedding camo jackets and hats, throwing them over stools. They settle in with the same wheezy whine. Most work in the coal mines and natural gas wells. Long journeyed people from Texas or South Carolina, gone in a year or two; they form their cliques away from the mechanics, carpenters, contractors, and Warden natives. Both groups, you notice, give a wide berth to the lumber yard workers.

You can see their haunted eyed, glassy stares from miles away. They’re like headlights. Even the bartender seems reluctant to serve them. They sit, exiled, at a table that seems specially purposed for them and say nothing. When they want another round — and there are a lot of them — they send an emissary up to the bar. You make a note of the time. They could be useful. People who spend a lot of time in woods like these tend to have stories, and you know that look.

Hopefully you can keep PIRA away from them for now.

It’s the bar rush — or something adjacent to it. It’s not full, but now that peoples’ wives and girlfriends have slipped in, there’s more talking and happier songs filtered through the jukebox. The bell over the door hasn’t jingled in almost an hour, and you figure it won’t until people start filing out. You check your watch. Almost seven — and the sun has sunk behind the mountains. At least, you think so.

You’ve been getting progressively drunker, a little louder and more sullen. Still in control. Still good. But the world is fuzzy around the edges and your cheeks are warm. The fish bowl is quiet, for once, even if the bar patrons are starting to inch away from you.

It isn’t long before you feel a shadow fall over your shoulder, a warning blink before you’re immediately accosted with a very loud hey. It’s loud enough it catches the bartender’s attention and hurts your ear. You rub the side of your head with your palm. Soothing the ache. Already halfway murderous, you turn your head to look at whoever is trying oh-so-politely to get your attention.

He’s a broadly built man, about six foot, and not much older than you; his high-and-tight is still a deep, dark, coal black and there’s only a few wrinkles around his eyes — but you can see the telltale puffiness of prolonged alcoholism in his cheeks and nose. A little bit of flab settling into the hard lines of his body. He’s wobbling, more than a little drunk, and flanked by similarly large and sturdily built men.

He just screams cop.

“You been snooping around like a fuckin’ rat,” he says, “asking questions, makin’ people uncomfortable, right where you don’t fuckin’ belong. Who do you think you are?”

“Jim-“ The bartender goes to step in. Tries to. He gets in your space, knocking her half-hearted hands out of the way to crowd you against your stool.

“Naw, Cal, I’m over this little prick.”

>YOU CAN'T HELP THE SMILE. THEY HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THEY'RE DEALING WITH.

A vile, razor smile creeps up your face like a disease. Your legs follow, unfolding bit by bit. Almost a full head taller than Jim and his townies. “Little, huh?”

Your feet slide into place easily; it’s a familiar dance. You love the steps, the choreography, the aftermath.

You’ve never felt more alive than in the middle of a fight.

“Jim,” Cal’s voice is hard from behind the stick, a shield making her a little braver, “you know the rules.”

Both of you stare like snarling dogs at the ends of their chains; you watch Jim debate with himself, addled and stumbling. Whatever rules exist at McNeil’s, Jim decides they’re worth breaking. For the thrill, if nothing else.

You watch his punch come in from miles away. He’s a heavy hitter — slow and clumsy.

You let it breathe just a little too close to your face, stepping into its wild arc. You fist finds the soft meat between ribs. Once. Twice. Something threatens to snap. His ribs, the tension, something else.

Chaos reigns.

Jim backs up and gags, wretching for air just as someone tries to jump in. You redirect their arm, throwing them across the bar into the delicate fridge full of pop and water bottles. Glass shatters. Someone is screaming. Someone is laughing.

You pick up a stool and smash it into a face; you don’t even know if they were coming or running away. This is what you were made for, molded into. The blood makes a primal, predator part of your brain start slobbering. The sound of breaking glass and cracking bones become a restless cacophony. Different bars, different prey. You lose yourself in the memories, becoming a whirlwind, getting sloppy, a hungry animal set lose on a pack of house-trained dogs.

A hand grabs your shoulder and spins you around. You almost stab whoever it is (no knife in your hand, what were you thinking?) before they punch you in the face. You recognize the knuckle taste even as you hit the floor. Bautista.

He hits you again just for good measure when you start sitting up. Pain explodes up your mouth and rattles behind your eyes; you taste new pennies. Your head lolls limply when he grabs you by the shirt and jacket and drags your sorry ass out of McNeil’s. People throw things. Someone wolf whistles at Bautista’s retreating back.

YOU'RE STILL LAUGHING, EARS RINGING, SWALLOWING BLOOD.