Hope County almost seems peaceful, nestled here in the early morning haze, waiting patiently for the sun to rise high enough into the sky to burn off the night's thin layer of fog. She's only been in town a couple of weeks and even she knows better than to believe that anything is actually as it appears. It's all so perfectly...quaint; the urge to pack her shit and leave the whole mess far behind her flares up strong enough she can taste it, but that's not an option. She knows it's not an option. There's something here and she can't leave until she finds it. Whatever it is.
She'd picked the diner mostly arbitrarily, more for the view that overlooks the valley below than for the quality of the food or proximity to the little apartment she's been renting. It's surprisingly quiet, given the early hour, and she'd taken her sandwich and coffee out to one of the handful of picnic tables set into the empty overlook. It's not an ambush. It's not anything at all besides an excuse to get out of the house. She watches the vehicles that pass as she eats and steals surreptitious photos of the plates of anything that piques her interest and doesn't think twice about one of the vehicles that turns itself into the parking lot until its specific plate number fully clicks with the important ones she's tucked away in the back of her mind.
She watches with unabashed interest as he climbs out of the car. Maybe a version of her that had gotten more sleep might have been wise enough to bury her nose in her phone and ignore him, but the caffeine is finding its way through her veins and she's feeling especially ballsy. It's stupid. She knows it's stupid. And she does it anyway, calling across the empty parking lot before he can even reach the door.
The game plan here had been business as usual. Debt collection is what he would have called it back in the firm, penance is something which is a bit more along the lines of the Father's language. And when it comes down to it? That's exactly what it is. Hiding under the guise of a quaint little roadside diner didn't make its owner's shit stink any less. Scraping off the top of the tip jar to pay for his booze-habit is the most venial of this man's sins. Only the tip of the iceberg of an entire cesspool of misguided life choices.
Which is what brings John here. Good ol' Mr. Williams already agreed to payinga sort-of-Eden's Gate "rent" on this establishment. Even promised to kick his drinking habit (flavored with John's persuasion methods) on the basis that they'd leave him and his fifteen-year-old dog alone. Alone to fester and pray over the plethora of what had become his deplorable life.
Unfortunately, he's late. A month late at that. And while his beloved brother may be more forgiving and lenient when it comes to punctuality, John is absolutely not. Which is the exact reason for him paying his little visit today, looking sharp as ever, topped off with that deceitfully reassuring smile plastered across his face.
And then, he hears his name. Which isn't entirely unexpected. There are a lot of folks around here who know who he is. But the timing could have been better. Nevertheless, he turns away from the door to face the stranger in question, maintaining that smile, still as sure as ever. There's a pause before he speaks, his eyes very pointedly giving the woman a once over. She's not somebody from around here. A newcomer.
But, in public, outside of the safety of the compound, John is on his best behavior. His game face is unflinching and the sincerity of his smile only broadens. "I can't tell if that's a question or an accusation." A warm chuckle follows as he approaches her. Despite the act, despite the kindness he seems to radiate, there's an incredibly unwavering confidence in the way that he almost instantly closes the distance between them. "But guilty as charged, Miss...?" Yeah, who the fuck is she exactly?
She'd half-expected him to ignore her. Maybe it's the late-night-turned-early-morning making it harder to think clearly, maybe she's just selling herself short—walking away from someone addressing him so clearly wouldn't be a good look, now would it? Even if that someone is a random stranger sitting cross-legged on the top of a picnic table looking full-well like she picked her outfit off the floor when she rolled out of bed ten minutes ago. Which is half true, she hadn't dressed with the intention of running into anyone remotely interesting—
Though interesting might be putting it mildly when it comes to what she knows about John Seed.
What she's not prepared for is the way his attention swings towards her and sharpens to a fine focal point. She can feel the weight of it as he comes closer, the razor's edge of his warm smile like a weapon all its own that he clearly knows how to wield expertly. She'd hoped for a wave at best, mild acknowledgement that he is indeed who she'd called him out as; she actually allows some of the surprise to surface when she realizes she's suddenly dug herself a little deeper.
"Ong," she offers, clearly flustered, fumbling to put her phone away, fingers sliding across the screen. "Or Riley. Most people call me Riley, Miss Ong is kind of formal for me." She doesn't bother pausing for breath, just launches herself into the deep end, cheeks pinking in the early morning light as her words rush all together. "I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt your day or nothing, I was just so surprised to see you here of all places. I mean, I've seen you up on the signs and billboards and everything and I just, it's kind of— you're kind of a celebrity here, aren't you? Never thought I'd run into anyone famous just because I went out early to get breakfast." She's breathless with delight, speaking low like they're sharing a secret, watching him with wide, reverent eyes. "Not often someone like me meets someone famous."
If there's anything that his ever-abundant array of colorful father figures had taught him, it's to respond to respond when called. Granted, they're no longer a threat to him. And, as far as he's concerned, nobody else is either. Not now, not ever. If there's anything John has made sure of in the years since he left his foster family, it's that he will never, ever find himself under anyone else's boot again. That said, hearing his name now has a different meaning. John Duncan had been one man but now? With Joseph? The Father had allowed him to reclaim a name that had more meaning. He was back to his roots, only this time, breaking through the nightmare of a cesspool that was his upbringing. Instead, finding compassion in pride in his brothers, in the family that mattered.
So, when Riley fumbles around with her answer, sprinkled with apologies and unnecessary explanations, John actually finds himself quirking an eyebrow. Because while folks around here usually do tend to beat around the bush when encountering him, they usually do it in a much more panicked, much more guarded fashion. With Riley, it almost seems... normal? Normal being that she isn't shitting herself sideways at his presence. Apparently, to her, he's just a celebrity-face.
The humored smile which crosses his features almost seems to soften against the formerly stale grin from earlier. Because, really, granted he'd just been gunning to literally tear another man's soul apart in the most deplorable way imaginable, having some random chick gush about his celebrity status is bordering on cute. An unexpected glean of innocence amidst an ocean of corruption.
"Riley." He repeats softly, still maintaining an intense level of eye contact. That said, it's not menacing or necessarily challenging. He's not scanning her over or trying to read her. At least, not as far as he's letting on. Instead, he's simply allowing his focus to rest on her and... only her. Which, in its own right is its own level of unsettling but, hey. "And please, everyone knows The Stubborn Mule," he's inwardly puking at the name of this sinful little establishment, "has the best blueberry waffles in the area. The Williams family has been holding that recipe over Hope County's head for years."
He moves in closer, taking this particular moment to casually put his hand on the hood of the car, next to her. It's a subtle movement, not necessarily aggressive in nature but--anyone who knows anything that's worth knowing about John Seed and his relationship with Eden's Gate, might deduct that he's posturing himself here. Intentionally. "What? Famous people can't get breakfast too?"
And just as soon as he's tested his boundaries, he's reeling it back a bit, arms folded. "So, tell me, Riley. What brings you to our humble little abode?"
There's something halfway-intoxicating about the game of it all, some curious joy she finds deep down inside herself at watching the way people sway towards the stories she feeds them and take them as genuine. There's a security in that power that's hard to find much anywhere else and that same sense thrills across her skin as he picks at the bait she's laid out and leans into it like a cat basking in the certainty of a sure kill.
She knows about him. She's not foolish enough to think she knows or even remotely understands the whats and whys of who he is, but she knows more about him than most people do — and probably more than he'd like.
Playing scared isn't hard. It's not too far from the truth, and the way she tenses at his closeness as he lays that card on the table has a basis in something real. She laughs nervously, shrinking away from the intensity of his attention, clearly fumbling to find enough of a voice to even give her words to answer with. The lack of sleep actually helps feed into it, working for her instead of against her for a change
"Oh, you know." Curious that he guesses her new to the area, that's something to follow up on. How close does he keep track of locals? How well does he remember faces? It's not something Riley would pick up on. "I just needed a, uh. A change of scenery? I guess? You know how it gets sometimes Just gotta...change everything up."
Idle fingers find the end of a loose strand of hair and she tucks it back behind her ear, drops her eyes to her own lap like it's just too much to meet his gaze for that long. "Plus I read about like, you all out here. The Project." She bites her tongue, almost like she regrets admitting that she'd come out to Montana because of them. How embarrassing for her, what a sad, lonely soul. It takes a second before she dares to look up at him, shy again. She should really shut the fuck up.
"Figured I'd come out here and see, y'know? See what you're all about."
The trees are supposed to be safe. Doesn't matter where, doesn't matter what, there's anonymity to be found in the shadows and spaces to disappear that leave no trail. Granted, the Whitetail Mountains aren't anything like the redwoods she'd grown used to out west, and fitting herself into the whispers of the pines requires a whole new understanding she doesn't have yet, but it still doesn't feel right. She doesn't know the topography of the land or the secrets the hills hold; she can study a map all she likes but it's not the same as experience. It's not the same as knowing.
It doesn't help that the forest itself isn't safe. The county as an entire entity has become newly foreign, a space she thought she understood feral before her very eyes. She can't trust the trees. She can't trust that the woods won't betray her at the wrong moment. She can't find peace in the one place she thought she could.
No rest for the wicked, indeed.
She hears the wolves first. Paranoia keeps her keen, ever on-edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop even while the first is still falling. She's glad for her own instinct for recon because she's already been up the tree an hour now, far enough from the outpost that she won't raise any suspicion but close enough that with binoculars she can get a loose idea of the layout, of the comings-and-goings, of what exactly they're doing there.
She hears him second and the realization sinks an ice-hot blade into her chest. She freezes in place, going still as the night around her, hardly daring to even breathe lest that be enough to draw their attention. It lasts all of three seconds before the need to see overpowers her own self-preservation. It always does. Always will.
Gear maintenance fails her. Gear maintenance, out of fucking everything, becomes her undoing, killed by her own carelessness. She doesn't remember pulling the strap of the binoculars off so she could stow them. Had the wolves interrupted her? Something must have, because the moment she shifts on the branch to try and place the sounds below the binoculars spill out of her lap. They're good binoculars, too. Big. Bulky. Virtually indestructible, supposedly. They crash through the foliage like a fucking bomb going off and she can hear the glass crack when they hit the ground from where she's perched fifty feet above.
Sometimes it gets to be too goddamn much that he needs to escape. Never for long, because he has a job to do and it won't move very far forward without him. It's easy enough to wander the slopes of the Whitetail Mountains, wind through the seemingly endless trees without getting lost. He knows these woods like the back of his hand, and it never fails to make the tension bleed from his shoulders. Armed with his rifle and three of his favorite Judges, he meanders through the trees toward the lake where he can decompress and see how quickly he can empty his canteen.
Jacob puffs on his cigarette as the Judges trot about, snuffling at the trees and worn away animal tracks in the mud hoping for some sort of scent. They keep the pace like a good set of guard dogs, never running more than a quarter mile before milling back to his side to receive idle rubs at their dirty fur. He's never truly felt at peace about anything, but he imagines that this is as damn close as he can get without being burned.
Everything is peaceful, and he's even enjoying the damn birds chirping. Fuck, he even starts whistling when something heavy clatters from the treeline and onto the ground. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, pounds in his ears as he whistles out a two-toned command for the Judges as he shoulders his rifle. His finger doesn't touch the trigger, but now he's itching to put a bullet through something. Someone by the sounds of it. He knows it's not simply an animal falling down dead, it had too much heft as it bounced against the bark. He sweeps through the trees as the wolves quicken their pace and circle the tree, one nosing at the binoculars which he nudges with the toe of his boot.
He cranes his head upward as he whistles yet again, three tones in a familiar tune until his eyes land on the Deputy perched like a bird amidst the branches.
"Why don't you come on down, little bird? Nice 'n slow."
Misconception is a powerful tool. She knows better than most how far a person can get if they let the world make its own assumptions and draw conclusions based on what's presented to them. Eden's Gate knows it. Based on surface details alone they're a group of borderline confused people looking for a place to call home. Their goals are simple and ultimately lean towards the greater good. Their followers are seen as too devout, maybe foolish at worst. Any deeper examination reveals the cracks in that facade, but it worked long enough to allow them time to find their toehold in the community and people began to realize Eden's Gate isn't nearly as innocent as they portray.
The Seed brothers aren't fools. There's nothing simple about them.
Jacob is maybe the worst to come face to face with in this situation. He's trained—she'd recognized the tells immediately, the habits, the stance— and even without the records she'd dug out of back offices she shouldn't have been allowed in she'd know he's a real threat from body language alone. She might have been able to blend back into the shadows if it had been anyone else at the foot of that tree, but now, heart pounding in her throat, she'd have been surprised if he hadn't heard that, too.
"Could stay up here, too," she calls down conversationally, nonchalant in a way she doesn't actually feel. Her mind is working, desperately dragging options in from every angle, potential outs from the situation that don't involve her dying. She's not sure he'd shoot her out of the tree, but she's not sure how much she feels like testing that theory, either. She just needs to stall him a little, give herself some time to work the problem. "View's nice. Don't think wolves can climb trees. 'Less you figured out how to teach 'em that, too."
He smirks around his cigarette, taking one hand off his rifle to take a puff and watch her now that he's got his eye on the prize. Jacob lets out a bark of laughter, low and gone too quick, but amused nonetheless.
"Could, but I'm willin' to take a bet that you won't last as long as you think. My Judges didn't smell you, you covered your tracks well enough. Guessin' you've been in that tree a while, now. Give 'em time, they're tenacious."
Once he's finished, he flicks the butt of his cigarette onto the ground, grinding it into the dirt with his boot. The rifle gets shouldered again, finger resting against the trigger guard. He finds the branch she's settled on and when he has the branch adjacent to her in his sights, fires. This isn't how he wanted to spend his afternoon, but now that his rhythm's been interrupted, he has to adapt. Jacob can't say that he's not equipped to handle her, it's just unexpected. Last he'd heard, she'd fucked off across the Henbane.
"You're pretty damn lucky they had a big breakfast."
For a heart-stopping second she's sure she's been shot. She wouldn't blame him, honestly. It's a valid tactic. She'd likely employ it herself at some point if the situation warranted it; not every shot has to be a kill shot, after all. It takes a few long seconds for reality to fall back into place around her and she allows herself a few more to let the rabbiting of her heart slow enough that she can breathe around it again. Far as she can tell, he hasn't put any new holes in her. Doesn't mean he still won't, though, and she leans into the new tremor in her fingers as she dares peer down at him again, clearly shaken.
It's not all real, of course. But it's not all faked, either.
"They didn't teach you to aim, huh?" She calls down with some bullshit bravado, potentially stoking some old ember of hurt. She wants to make it clear he's scared her and she's trying to save face, that's her best bet. Him picking up on her habits is a bad sign—last thing she needs is him thinking she's any real threat. "So what's in it for me if I come down? Probably better off dying up here, anyway."
He doesn't shoot her, not yet. Fear is a damn good motivator, and people are honest when they're scared for their lives. It's the ones who overcome their fear and do something with it that are essential. The weak have their purpose, he just needs to figure out what hers is. She's got guts, doing a stake-out so close to one of his outposts, he has to give her that. But at the end of the day, she's just a Deputy for a hick town in the mountains.
She's scared, he can hear it in her voice, though she puts up bluster. Like an animal caught by a hunter with no means for escape, a last-ditch effort to seem intimidating before the end. Jacob lowers the rifle away from his face, considers what she says and takes it with a grain of salt.
"What makes you think I'm gonna kill you when you come down?" She's made it this far, maybe she's still got some moxie in her. Hell, Peaches has surprised him, so he feels that he's placed a decent bet on her. Anyone who can get under John's skin the way she has deserves a bit of attention.
"Whatever you decide, know that I can wait you out."
Her laughter surprises her, rising up out of her chest unbidden. Most of the sound is swallowed by the pines around her, but some of it likely trickles all the way down to where he stands below. She's not sure what he'd make of that, or if she really cares. She's not even sure what it means on her end. Is it sad? Defeated? Amused? Some unhealthy combination of the three as she realizes how woefully few options she has open to her.
Stay in the tree? She doesn't doubt he'd win that stand off, though she's sure he'd start to question her background when she doesn't give in a few hours in. The wolves are the real problem here. His judges. She takes a second to gauge the distance between her tree and the closest one to it on the off chance there's a point of egress she'd missed, but she knows the wolves would be on the ground waiting for her no matter where she comes down and she's not sure she's physically capable of taking down three at once at the moment. That or he'd just pick her out of the canopy anyway.
"You're a problem solver," she calls down as she slowly, carefully draws one foot at a time up under her on the branch. There's nowhere to go besides the next branch up, but she doesn't like the idea of sitting still when he knows exactly where she is. She doesn't bother trying to hide her movement, letting him guess at what she might do next gives her that much more wiggle room. "Offing me out here would solve a minor problem, wouldn't it? Can't see any good reason you'd keep me alive."
He watches her shift, can see the movement from the branch tips quivering and for one second he thinks she might come down. Only she continues to shimmy up the tree. That's fine with him. The Judges have attention on the tree now, so if she climbs down, they'll be on her like stink on shit. Frankly, he doesn't care that she's expending her energy by scaling further away from him. She only has one way to go. He draws an eyebrow upward, not expecting the laugh that comes. A frantic but honest noise. Doesn't believe what he says. Also fine.
Jacob moves to a rock a few feet away and sits down, tapping out another cigarette and giving it a light once it's between his lips. They'll be here a while, he may as well try to decompress a bit even though the tension clings to him like underbrush at a treeline.
"A minor problem, maybe. If you can't see the reason Joseph wants to keep you alive, then I suppose you really don't get it. Offing you out here wouldn't serve a real purpose, only squander potential." He takes a few puffs, exhaling heavily. His fingers wrap around the canteen and he unscrews the lid reverently. Lets it breathe for a few seconds before indulging in a swallow. The whiskey is rich and woody against his tongue. He silently laments not being able to drink the entire thing, but he can still make use of the time he's being allowed.
It takes another minute for her to settle herself in the crook of two branches, half tucked behind the tree's thick trunk. It's not any real cover but it helps to ground her in her perch and whether or not he realizes it his new seat grants her an almost unobstructed view of him from the knees down. Facial expressions might have been more useful but she'll take what she can get.
"What potential?" The question sounds young, borders on naive. It's the sort of tone she'd used the first couple weeks at work, leaning into self-consciousness as means of distraction. She knows Whitehorse maybe questioned his hiring choices more than once, but all she had to do was prove semi-competent at some other task no one else wanted to do and they wouldn't think twice about it. "Look, I know you've all got some wild plans going on here, your brother thinks he's gonna save all the folks who drink the Kool-aid or something, that's totally fine. I've got no skin in this game." Lies, lies, all bitter lies. She's glad he doesn't have a good view of her face at that moment, she's doing a shit job holding it together. "I'm not from here, I don't care about this place. I just wanna go home to my family."
She doesn't think he'll bite, but it's a decent card to put on the table. She's new here, has no attachments, doesn't really seem to care if Pratt makes it out alive or not. She's just young and dumb and selfish, puts her own needs above everyone else's because that's what the world tells her to do — there's no potential here. Doesn't explain why she's in a tree scoping out an outpost, but she can bullshit her way through that if it comes down to it.
"Well," he begins, blowing out a mouthful of smoke, "if you can't figure it out, it may not be my place to tell you. Just know that you play a bigger part in all this than you can comprehend." One of his Judges pads over and sticks his head on Jacob's lap, which he immediately starts giving a hearty scratch behind the ears. Wyoming always seems to hover around him when he's stopped. More than the other two, at least. They're always on alert, pacing the area or snuffling at the grass and fallen leaves.
He'd be inclined to believe that she doesn't give a flying fuck about what happens to Hope County or the people in it. Fuck, he gets it- he doesn't give two shits about saving anyone but his brothers. Could take or leave Faith. She serves her purpose and her presence helps Joseph fulfill some empty feeling or something he can't really provide for his flock. It's not his place to figure it out so long as he can do his own job and train the Chosen. There are a few new ones who have potential, but the trials will cull the weak. What he can't really believe is that a cop wasn't fully into the protect and serve mentality about their own co-workers. Jacob chuckles, shaking his head.
"Damn, that's cold. Too bad it's all bullshit, huh?" If she didn't give a fuck, she wouldn't be up this tree at a close enough distance to spy on his outpost without being seen. Certainly not with the heavy equipment she was doing it with.
She stills where she sits. The bark of the tree bites into the already rough skin of her knuckles and the little flash of pain helps as she drags her breath back under control. From anyone else those words wouldn't mean a whole hell of a lot, but from him they're the last thing she wants to hear when she's trying her best to avoid confrontation.
"How's that?" Her voice won't give her away. Soft inflection, trip upwards at the end, find a home somewhere halfway between uncertainty and fear for the reasons he probably thinks he's instilling. Young and dumb and treed like a fucking cat, that's all she is. Just a dumb kid making even dumber decisions. He's right, of course — odds are he's even heard trickles of stories of the shit she's pulled further south. But she'll hold onto her bullshit for as long as she can, especially when it's all she's got left.
Each movement is slow and deliberate as she braces her thighs around the branch she's settled on and sits back away from the trunk. Silently, she pulls the strap of her rifle over her head and brings it forward, careful not to let it get hung up on any of the branches. There's no round chambered when she draws it level, scoping in on the ground between his feet. It wouldn't take a whole lot of guesswork to pick out the lines of his body through the foliage — one quick shot to where his head should be and that would solve a good chunk of her problems. She wets her lips and finds the wolf in the scope instead. If she wanted to give up any chance at him believing her bullshit that would be a way to go. Nothing saying he wouldn't just shoot her back, but she could probably pick the judges off if it came down to it.
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@preach
She'd picked the diner mostly arbitrarily, more for the view that overlooks the valley below than for the quality of the food or proximity to the little apartment she's been renting. It's surprisingly quiet, given the early hour, and she'd taken her sandwich and coffee out to one of the handful of picnic tables set into the empty overlook. It's not an ambush. It's not anything at all besides an excuse to get out of the house. She watches the vehicles that pass as she eats and steals surreptitious photos of the plates of anything that piques her interest and doesn't think twice about one of the vehicles that turns itself into the parking lot until its specific plate number fully clicks with the important ones she's tucked away in the back of her mind.
She watches with unabashed interest as he climbs out of the car. Maybe a version of her that had gotten more sleep might have been wise enough to bury her nose in her phone and ignore him, but the caffeine is finding its way through her veins and she's feeling especially ballsy. It's stupid. She knows it's stupid. And she does it anyway, calling across the empty parking lot before he can even reach the door.
"You're him, aren't you? John Seed?"
HERE WE GO
Which is what brings John here. Good ol' Mr. Williams already agreed to payinga sort-of-Eden's Gate "rent" on this establishment. Even promised to kick his drinking habit (flavored with John's persuasion methods) on the basis that they'd leave him and his fifteen-year-old dog alone. Alone to fester and pray over the plethora of what had become his deplorable life.
Unfortunately, he's late. A month late at that. And while his beloved brother may be more forgiving and lenient when it comes to punctuality, John is absolutely not. Which is the exact reason for him paying his little visit today, looking sharp as ever, topped off with that deceitfully reassuring smile plastered across his face.
And then, he hears his name. Which isn't entirely unexpected. There are a lot of folks around here who know who he is. But the timing could have been better. Nevertheless, he turns away from the door to face the stranger in question, maintaining that smile, still as sure as ever. There's a pause before he speaks, his eyes very pointedly giving the woman a once over. She's not somebody from around here. A newcomer.
But, in public, outside of the safety of the compound, John is on his best behavior. His game face is unflinching and the sincerity of his smile only broadens. "I can't tell if that's a question or an accusation." A warm chuckle follows as he approaches her. Despite the act, despite the kindness he seems to radiate, there's an incredibly unwavering confidence in the way that he almost instantly closes the distance between them. "But guilty as charged, Miss...?" Yeah, who the fuck is she exactly?
no subject
Though interesting might be putting it mildly when it comes to what she knows about John Seed.
What she's not prepared for is the way his attention swings towards her and sharpens to a fine focal point. She can feel the weight of it as he comes closer, the razor's edge of his warm smile like a weapon all its own that he clearly knows how to wield expertly. She'd hoped for a wave at best, mild acknowledgement that he is indeed who she'd called him out as; she actually allows some of the surprise to surface when she realizes she's suddenly dug herself a little deeper.
"Ong," she offers, clearly flustered, fumbling to put her phone away, fingers sliding across the screen. "Or Riley. Most people call me Riley, Miss Ong is kind of formal for me." She doesn't bother pausing for breath, just launches herself into the deep end, cheeks pinking in the early morning light as her words rush all together. "I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt your day or nothing, I was just so surprised to see you here of all places. I mean, I've seen you up on the signs and billboards and everything and I just, it's kind of— you're kind of a celebrity here, aren't you? Never thought I'd run into anyone famous just because I went out early to get breakfast." She's breathless with delight, speaking low like they're sharing a secret, watching him with wide, reverent eyes. "Not often someone like me meets someone famous."
no subject
So, when Riley fumbles around with her answer, sprinkled with apologies and unnecessary explanations, John actually finds himself quirking an eyebrow. Because while folks around here usually do tend to beat around the bush when encountering him, they usually do it in a much more panicked, much more guarded fashion. With Riley, it almost seems... normal? Normal being that she isn't shitting herself sideways at his presence. Apparently, to her, he's just a celebrity-face.
The humored smile which crosses his features almost seems to soften against the formerly stale grin from earlier. Because, really, granted he'd just been gunning to literally tear another man's soul apart in the most deplorable way imaginable, having some random chick gush about his celebrity status is bordering on cute. An unexpected glean of innocence amidst an ocean of corruption.
"Riley." He repeats softly, still maintaining an intense level of eye contact. That said, it's not menacing or necessarily challenging. He's not scanning her over or trying to read her. At least, not as far as he's letting on. Instead, he's simply allowing his focus to rest on her and... only her. Which, in its own right is its own level of unsettling but, hey. "And please, everyone knows The Stubborn Mule," he's inwardly puking at the name of this sinful little establishment, "has the best blueberry waffles in the area. The Williams family has been holding that recipe over Hope County's head for years."
He moves in closer, taking this particular moment to casually put his hand on the hood of the car, next to her. It's a subtle movement, not necessarily aggressive in nature but--anyone who knows anything that's worth knowing about John Seed and his relationship with Eden's Gate, might deduct that he's posturing himself here. Intentionally. "What? Famous people can't get breakfast too?"
And just as soon as he's tested his boundaries, he's reeling it back a bit, arms folded. "So, tell me, Riley. What brings you to our humble little abode?"
no subject
She knows about him. She's not foolish enough to think she knows or even remotely understands the whats and whys of who he is, but she knows more about him than most people do — and probably more than he'd like.
Playing scared isn't hard. It's not too far from the truth, and the way she tenses at his closeness as he lays that card on the table has a basis in something real. She laughs nervously, shrinking away from the intensity of his attention, clearly fumbling to find enough of a voice to even give her words to answer with. The lack of sleep actually helps feed into it, working for her instead of against her for a change
"Oh, you know." Curious that he guesses her new to the area, that's something to follow up on. How close does he keep track of locals? How well does he remember faces? It's not something Riley would pick up on. "I just needed a, uh. A change of scenery? I guess? You know how it gets sometimes Just gotta...change everything up."
Idle fingers find the end of a loose strand of hair and she tucks it back behind her ear, drops her eyes to her own lap like it's just too much to meet his gaze for that long. "Plus I read about like, you all out here. The Project." She bites her tongue, almost like she regrets admitting that she'd come out to Montana because of them. How embarrassing for her, what a sad, lonely soul. It takes a second before she dares to look up at him, shy again. She should really shut the fuck up.
"Figured I'd come out here and see, y'know? See what you're all about."
@youaremeat
It doesn't help that the forest itself isn't safe. The county as an entire entity has become newly foreign, a space she thought she understood feral before her very eyes. She can't trust the trees. She can't trust that the woods won't betray her at the wrong moment. She can't find peace in the one place she thought she could.
No rest for the wicked, indeed.
She hears the wolves first. Paranoia keeps her keen, ever on-edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop even while the first is still falling. She's glad for her own instinct for recon because she's already been up the tree an hour now, far enough from the outpost that she won't raise any suspicion but close enough that with binoculars she can get a loose idea of the layout, of the comings-and-goings, of what exactly they're doing there.
She hears him second and the realization sinks an ice-hot blade into her chest. She freezes in place, going still as the night around her, hardly daring to even breathe lest that be enough to draw their attention. It lasts all of three seconds before the need to see overpowers her own self-preservation. It always does. Always will.
Gear maintenance fails her. Gear maintenance, out of fucking everything, becomes her undoing, killed by her own carelessness. She doesn't remember pulling the strap of the binoculars off so she could stow them. Had the wolves interrupted her? Something must have, because the moment she shifts on the branch to try and place the sounds below the binoculars spill out of her lap. They're good binoculars, too. Big. Bulky. Virtually indestructible, supposedly. They crash through the foliage like a fucking bomb going off and she can hear the glass crack when they hit the ground from where she's perched fifty feet above.
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Jacob puffs on his cigarette as the Judges trot about, snuffling at the trees and worn away animal tracks in the mud hoping for some sort of scent. They keep the pace like a good set of guard dogs, never running more than a quarter mile before milling back to his side to receive idle rubs at their dirty fur. He's never truly felt at peace about anything, but he imagines that this is as damn close as he can get without being burned.
Everything is peaceful, and he's even enjoying the damn birds chirping. Fuck, he even starts whistling when something heavy clatters from the treeline and onto the ground. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, pounds in his ears as he whistles out a two-toned command for the Judges as he shoulders his rifle. His finger doesn't touch the trigger, but now he's itching to put a bullet through something. Someone by the sounds of it. He knows it's not simply an animal falling down dead, it had too much heft as it bounced against the bark. He sweeps through the trees as the wolves quicken their pace and circle the tree, one nosing at the binoculars which he nudges with the toe of his boot.
He cranes his head upward as he whistles yet again, three tones in a familiar tune until his eyes land on the Deputy perched like a bird amidst the branches.
"Why don't you come on down, little bird? Nice 'n slow."
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The Seed brothers aren't fools. There's nothing simple about them.
Jacob is maybe the worst to come face to face with in this situation. He's trained—she'd recognized the tells immediately, the habits, the stance— and even without the records she'd dug out of back offices she shouldn't have been allowed in she'd know he's a real threat from body language alone. She might have been able to blend back into the shadows if it had been anyone else at the foot of that tree, but now, heart pounding in her throat, she'd have been surprised if he hadn't heard that, too.
"Could stay up here, too," she calls down conversationally, nonchalant in a way she doesn't actually feel. Her mind is working, desperately dragging options in from every angle, potential outs from the situation that don't involve her dying. She's not sure he'd shoot her out of the tree, but she's not sure how much she feels like testing that theory, either. She just needs to stall him a little, give herself some time to work the problem. "View's nice. Don't think wolves can climb trees. 'Less you figured out how to teach 'em that, too."
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"Could, but I'm willin' to take a bet that you won't last as long as you think. My Judges didn't smell you, you covered your tracks well enough. Guessin' you've been in that tree a while, now. Give 'em time, they're tenacious."
Once he's finished, he flicks the butt of his cigarette onto the ground, grinding it into the dirt with his boot. The rifle gets shouldered again, finger resting against the trigger guard. He finds the branch she's settled on and when he has the branch adjacent to her in his sights, fires. This isn't how he wanted to spend his afternoon, but now that his rhythm's been interrupted, he has to adapt. Jacob can't say that he's not equipped to handle her, it's just unexpected. Last he'd heard, she'd fucked off across the Henbane.
"You're pretty damn lucky they had a big breakfast."
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For a heart-stopping second she's sure she's been shot. She wouldn't blame him, honestly. It's a valid tactic. She'd likely employ it herself at some point if the situation warranted it; not every shot has to be a kill shot, after all. It takes a few long seconds for reality to fall back into place around her and she allows herself a few more to let the rabbiting of her heart slow enough that she can breathe around it again. Far as she can tell, he hasn't put any new holes in her. Doesn't mean he still won't, though, and she leans into the new tremor in her fingers as she dares peer down at him again, clearly shaken.
It's not all real, of course. But it's not all faked, either.
"They didn't teach you to aim, huh?" She calls down with some bullshit bravado, potentially stoking some old ember of hurt. She wants to make it clear he's scared her and she's trying to save face, that's her best bet. Him picking up on her habits is a bad sign—last thing she needs is him thinking she's any real threat. "So what's in it for me if I come down? Probably better off dying up here, anyway."
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She's scared, he can hear it in her voice, though she puts up bluster. Like an animal caught by a hunter with no means for escape, a last-ditch effort to seem intimidating before the end. Jacob lowers the rifle away from his face, considers what she says and takes it with a grain of salt.
"What makes you think I'm gonna kill you when you come down?" She's made it this far, maybe she's still got some moxie in her. Hell, Peaches has surprised him, so he feels that he's placed a decent bet on her. Anyone who can get under John's skin the way she has deserves a bit of attention.
"Whatever you decide, know that I can wait you out."
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Stay in the tree? She doesn't doubt he'd win that stand off, though she's sure he'd start to question her background when she doesn't give in a few hours in. The wolves are the real problem here. His judges. She takes a second to gauge the distance between her tree and the closest one to it on the off chance there's a point of egress she'd missed, but she knows the wolves would be on the ground waiting for her no matter where she comes down and she's not sure she's physically capable of taking down three at once at the moment. That or he'd just pick her out of the canopy anyway.
"You're a problem solver," she calls down as she slowly, carefully draws one foot at a time up under her on the branch. There's nowhere to go besides the next branch up, but she doesn't like the idea of sitting still when he knows exactly where she is. She doesn't bother trying to hide her movement, letting him guess at what she might do next gives her that much more wiggle room. "Offing me out here would solve a minor problem, wouldn't it? Can't see any good reason you'd keep me alive."
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Jacob moves to a rock a few feet away and sits down, tapping out another cigarette and giving it a light once it's between his lips. They'll be here a while, he may as well try to decompress a bit even though the tension clings to him like underbrush at a treeline.
"A minor problem, maybe. If you can't see the reason Joseph wants to keep you alive, then I suppose you really don't get it. Offing you out here wouldn't serve a real purpose, only squander potential." He takes a few puffs, exhaling heavily. His fingers wrap around the canteen and he unscrews the lid reverently. Lets it breathe for a few seconds before indulging in a swallow. The whiskey is rich and woody against his tongue. He silently laments not being able to drink the entire thing, but he can still make use of the time he's being allowed.
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"What potential?" The question sounds young, borders on naive. It's the sort of tone she'd used the first couple weeks at work, leaning into self-consciousness as means of distraction. She knows Whitehorse maybe questioned his hiring choices more than once, but all she had to do was prove semi-competent at some other task no one else wanted to do and they wouldn't think twice about it. "Look, I know you've all got some wild plans going on here, your brother thinks he's gonna save all the folks who drink the Kool-aid or something, that's totally fine. I've got no skin in this game." Lies, lies, all bitter lies. She's glad he doesn't have a good view of her face at that moment, she's doing a shit job holding it together. "I'm not from here, I don't care about this place. I just wanna go home to my family."
She doesn't think he'll bite, but it's a decent card to put on the table. She's new here, has no attachments, doesn't really seem to care if Pratt makes it out alive or not. She's just young and dumb and selfish, puts her own needs above everyone else's because that's what the world tells her to do — there's no potential here. Doesn't explain why she's in a tree scoping out an outpost, but she can bullshit her way through that if it comes down to it.
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He'd be inclined to believe that she doesn't give a flying fuck about what happens to Hope County or the people in it. Fuck, he gets it- he doesn't give two shits about saving anyone but his brothers. Could take or leave Faith. She serves her purpose and her presence helps Joseph fulfill some empty feeling or something he can't really provide for his flock. It's not his place to figure it out so long as he can do his own job and train the Chosen. There are a few new ones who have potential, but the trials will cull the weak. What he can't really believe is that a cop wasn't fully into the protect and serve mentality about their own co-workers. Jacob chuckles, shaking his head.
"Damn, that's cold. Too bad it's all bullshit, huh?" If she didn't give a fuck, she wouldn't be up this tree at a close enough distance to spy on his outpost without being seen. Certainly not with the heavy equipment she was doing it with.
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"How's that?" Her voice won't give her away. Soft inflection, trip upwards at the end, find a home somewhere halfway between uncertainty and fear for the reasons he probably thinks he's instilling. Young and dumb and treed like a fucking cat, that's all she is. Just a dumb kid making even dumber decisions. He's right, of course — odds are he's even heard trickles of stories of the shit she's pulled further south. But she'll hold onto her bullshit for as long as she can, especially when it's all she's got left.
Each movement is slow and deliberate as she braces her thighs around the branch she's settled on and sits back away from the trunk. Silently, she pulls the strap of her rifle over her head and brings it forward, careful not to let it get hung up on any of the branches. There's no round chambered when she draws it level, scoping in on the ground between his feet. It wouldn't take a whole lot of guesswork to pick out the lines of his body through the foliage — one quick shot to where his head should be and that would solve a good chunk of her problems. She wets her lips and finds the wolf in the scope instead. If she wanted to give up any chance at him believing her bullshit that would be a way to go. Nothing saying he wouldn't just shoot her back, but she could probably pick the judges off if it came down to it.