PART OF YOUR MACHINE — open, fight

[BRENDAN]

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sailboats wish that they were stars.

(( it be open now :^0 [member=1366]aj.[/member] ))

Brendan and the badlands have had...a rocky past, to say the extreme least. While he understands that some may not have had such horrid experiences with them, Brendan just doesn't get how people can't see how obviously awful they are; like, their appearance alone says it all! They're evil, they're cruel, they don't care about anyone but themselves—who would even think to trust them?

Not Brendan, that's for sure. Ever since the recent meeting, with Hayley announcing the murder and telling everyone to be on the lookout, Brendan's been...tense. The fact that some murder happened after the whole Badlands visit is just beyond fishy on so many levels, Brendan can't even comprehend the idea of anyone else being responsible. Clearly, it's the badlands' fault. And clearly, they need to pay.

is he going to hunt them down? ...no, of course not; he'd much rather stay inside flintlock's borders, making sure his chickens are safe. Plus, he hardly remembers the way to the badlands. Yes, Charlie did drag him all the way down there, but that doesn't mean he remembers all of the route to that wretched place. Not only that, but Brendan isn't that fricken stupid; he knows he'll get killed down there, or worse. So, instead, he resorts to simply patrolling the flintlock borders, a knife stashed in his pocket just because Hayley ordered everyone to do so. (Don't worry—he still has his staff in hand.)

It's cold out today, and while flintlock is used to the nippy chills, this particular day is especially freezing. While there's no snow falling from the early noon sky, Brendan can't help but growl as he trudges through at least five inches of it. Jeez Louise, he can't wait until spring; it'll be so much warmer then, and he won't have to deal with this much fricken snow. And, with all this hecking cold weather, it's a bit of a surprise for Brendan to see someone hollering at the border.

In fact, it's even more shocking when Brendan hears that this man is; dear god, a badlander. Okay, what the actual hell? The badlanders and flintlock have that (admittedly a little scary) meeting, the badlanders leave, they most likely—no, definitely—murder some poor flintlocker, and now they’re offering fricken...moonshine? First off, Brendan doesn't know what that is. Second, how fricken dumb can they actually be?

With a growl, Brendan storms towards the stranger, readying his staff as he does so. Coming to a halt in front of him, Brendan prods the staff forward, attempting to harshly poke the man in the stomach. While it really wouldn't do any real damage, it has the potential to hurt at first.

"you're not welcome here," Brendan quickly hisses, glowering icy cold daggers up at the man; "get out."

[MICHAEL.]

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[div style="borderwidth; width: 400px; padding: 1px; text-align: justify; color: #4B3E2D; line-height: 14px; font-size: 11pt; font-family:timesnewroman"]"speech" 'thought' text
tw: mentions alcohol, blood, profanity, themes of violence

Wrapped in many layers, including a warm undershirt, a sweater, a jacket, and then a heavy coat on top of that, Michael was toasty warm. He had a heated brick in each pocket (still residually warm from his morning fire and cup of coffee), he wore thick woolen mittens, had warm socks and tightly laced up boots on. He wore a pair of jeans, and underneath a pair of insulated pants. To top it off, he wore a delightfully festive red snow cap, and a red scarf.

His cheeks were a rosy red from the cold of the day, fuck it was freezing here, to think, this was what his afterlife would be like... that was a sobering thought, well, actually not sobering, made him want to drink even more than he usually did. There was no snow falling right now, though fresh snow had accumulated overnight, (Mike had been traveling for a few days now, wasn't like he could make the trip in one,) beside him was a plump and happy looking pony, who had a cart secured behind it, on the cart was a large barrel, this was moonshine, of Mike's own making.

Sure it wasn't the best stuff he'd ever pumped out, but he was trying, trying to extend good will to Flintlock, after all, Cat was adamant about not bashing in the lodgers skulls anymore, which meant Mike had to find somewhere else to apply his aggression and anger, it wouldn't be hard, there were nare-do-wells everywhere. And, as far as "bad guys" went, Flintlock was actually sickeningly decent.

Regardless, he was trying to do a good thing, after the whole "beating up some teenagers because they'd fucked with Gabe" thing wasn't exactly an incident in his favor. It wasn't that he needed to be in Cat's good graces, he didn't mind being called out, but he'd prefer not to undergo the fair (though painful) punishment that Cat had inflicted on him again. And he knew that it'd be ten times worse the next time, especially with the whole, Cat making him an enforcer for some reason.

It wasn't such a far fetched idea, Mike was loyal, obeyed commands, was very good at hurting people, even people he cared about, (especially people he cared about). He was about to respond with a witty remark, maybe a sly comment to Brendan's fast paced approach, but the stabbing of the staff did not lighten his mood, he winced as the wooden end of the object dug into his stomach, grazing against one of his still healing ribs and eliciting a grimace from his mouth. "You have no idea the hornet's nest you just stirred up kid." He snarled, grabbing for the stick with one hand, attempting to pull Brendan towards him and off blance. And, simultaneously throwing a punch directly beneath Brendan's eye.

It wasn't to inflict maximum damage, mostly to warn the kid off, perhaps scare him a little. Mike didn't take too kindly to anyone poking him, especially in the rather tender area of his stomach that had two broken ribs. He silently, and begrudgingly "thanked" Cat for the impracticality of his punishment, though, a broken wrist and, or, ankle would have been worse, so he'd gotten of lightly... well lighter.

[MICHAEL.]

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[div style="borderwidth; width: 400px; padding: 1px; text-align: justify; color: #4B3E2D; line-height: 14px; font-size: 11pt; font-family:timesnewroman"]"speech" 'thought' text
tw: mentions alcohol, blood, profanity, themes of violence

Mike wasn't an easy going man by nature, he'd never been entirely affable, and had usually let his temper get the better of him in most situations involving violence. This was no different, he could have as easily used words or brushed off the silly stick poke from Brendan, but his mind went full on red at the attack and push into his personal space. No, Mike did not, would not tolerate it, especially because of the broken ribs (but mostly because it had really pissed him off.)

And so, like most other ill advised fights he entered (not because he'd lose,) he'd let his anger take the wheel and had started a fight. He wasn't one to just let someone assault him. And the staff being inserted into a pained rib had been very annoying to say the least. But, after the boy had reeled back, and Mike hoped that the fight was over, (spoiler alert, it wasn't) he was stunned to find the boy's foot connecting painfully with his jaw.

If he hadn't meant the punch to be an end to the fight maybe he'd have been ready for something, but he hadn't expected this, perhaps he should have. But he had been trying, oh so trying to be restrained, not actually severely injure the boy like he had... certain other teenagers who were little shitheads too. "You little bastard!" Mike spat at the kid spitting out saliva mixed with blood, he was pretty sure that his jaw would be bruised, though, that would pale in comparison to what he was about to inflict on Brendan.


Cracking his jaw, and then his neck, the man stepped forward his expression icy. With a swift motion, he grabbed for Brendan's shoulder, aiming to secure it in his right hand, while angling his left fist into the soft, solar plexus of Brendan's stomach. It was a good way to incapacitate an opponent, though Mike would hardly call him such. He stepped back from Brendan, and eyed him warily. "Fuck," Muttered under his slightly heavy breath.

"Shit's really hit the fan," Cat would not be happy, the Lodgers would not be happy, chances were he was in for a lovely afternoon and evening. And when he got back to the Casino... if he got back, Cat'd be pissed to, and probably punish him. Ah a delightful day, delightful. "I-" He broke himself off, unsure of what to say to Brendan, who he'd just assaulted without any real reason... except for being poked. "I-..." Another oath, "Fuck," he cut off the rest of his rant, face impassive once more, if he was furious with himself or anyone else it would be hard to tell.

His hands hovered halfway in the air, tiny beadlets of blood forming on the hand that had punched Brendan's face. He supposed he could just turn tail and run, but he'd probably not get far, and once Cat found out his hide would be worth about as much as a two week old newspaper advertisement. He grimaced at the thought, yep he was fucked, to put it politely.

He flexed his hands, balling them into fists, and then opening them again, was he supposed to carry Brendan back to Flintlock? Call for help? Wait for someone to come across this odd scene? He was at a loss, usually so good at thinking on his feet, he was unable to think of the best course of action. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat, and looked at Brendan, was he sorry? No, he didn't feel sorry, the little shit had it coming.

Would he have done it again? No, if he could go back and change it, he would not have punched Brendan... either time. It would have been much more useful to let it go, brush it off, be a damned adult about it instead of losing his cool like he had.

[HAYLEY]

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hayley had seen it all.

she'd very vaguely heard the badlanders call, she'd seen brendan poke him, she'd seen the swing and the kick and another swing. and sure, brendan might have provoked him, but a poke with a stick didn't equate to deserve a punch. it meant you... you yanked the stick away. she'd never been on the receiving end of the stick, hayley was pretty sure it at first had something to do with her being pregnant, and afterwards it had something to do with the sort of friendship she and brendan had developed. but brendan was more than that to her. they didn't hug and have friendly chit-chats, but brendan was a part of her family in her eyes, whether her liked it or not, as much as hope and jackson were. well, not quite as much as hope, but certainly more so than jackson. he took care of her daughter, and that alone meant he mattered to her. he was like an older cousin or an uncle to the newborn, and that made him a part of her family in her eyes. and, for a woman who'd never had any semblance of family, that meant something.

she'd been picking her way through the woods, jackson at her side, when she saw the first punch. and in that moment, she went from zero to a hundred real quick. by the time the second punch was thrown, and brendan was relatively incapacitated, she was a few yards away, shotgun in her hands, and the sound of her cocking it seemed to echo among the emptiness.

❝get on your fucking knees right now!❞ she shouted, a sort of fury in her voice, and a look in her eyes that said she'd pull the trigger as she aimed the gun at the badlander. in fact, everything about her in that moment dared him not to. it dared him to give her a reason to pull the trigger. she wasn't a violent woman, but in that moment she was oh-so tempted to find any reason to send a body and a note back to the badlands. jackson caught up to her, resting a hand on her shoulder, panting from the effort of running through the snow, clearly trying to calm her, but it wasn't happening. ❝check brendan.❞ she said, and he hesitated. ❝give me a reason jackson, i swear to god,❞ she snapped, and he took the hint, immediately moving to the boy.

❝you okay?❞ he asked, eyes clearly wide and adrenaline pumping through his body. ❝do you think you can walk?❞ his immediate concern, a kid like brendan being punched by a grown man, was if his cheekbone had been broken, and if he had internal bleeding. however, he was entirely unqualified to check for either, so he settled for hoping he'd be alright.

hayley, on the other hand, was seeing red in that moment as she moved towards michael, stopped a few feet away, the head of the gun less than a foot from his face. ❝you're going to tell me your name, your position in the badlands, and what the fuck you're doing here, or we can all see what happens when buckshot meets brain.❞ she hissed, a visible fury in her hazel gaze, face flushed with anger.

[MICHAEL.]

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[div style="borderwidth; width: 400px; padding: 1px; text-align: justify; color: #4B3E2D; line-height: 14px; font-size: 11pt; font-family:timesnewroman"]"speech" 'thought' text
tw: mentions alcohol, blood, profanity, themes of violence

Mike was flustered, but he did not show it as the sound of people approaching neared, getting closer, closer. The sound of Hayley's threatening voice, the arming of a shotgun. He'd been in situations similar to these often enough, whether training, or reality to know the extent of his options. And while death always sounded like a sweet retreat for him, the actuality of his afterlife was not a good one, all the more reason to stay alive, he supposed.

He breathed shakily, slowly turning his body so that he could see Hayley while he lifted his arms in surrender. The movement hurt like hell, especially after the exertion of the quick squabble with Brendan. In truth, Mike knew he'd acted poorly, used bad judgment (if that could even be called judgement). Admittedly he wouldn't really say this unless directly asked, but he felt some form of remorse in his chest, an emotion he rarely felt accompanied with his actions.

The short haired man swallowed down the lump in his throat, and looked at Hayley, his gaze not wavering, though not challenging either. He shifted his weight awkwardly, bending one knee, and then the other, wincing as the cold bit into his legs from the action. Fingers interlocked behind his head, and his battered face looked up at the woman silently, what the fuck was he supposed to say to this woman? Sorry didn't seem like it'd cut it, and Mike was fresh out of vocabulary.

True, he could probably kill the boy and the man before she shot him (that was being generous to himself though), and if he tried hard enough he might even be able to disarm her and use the weapon himself, but that wasn't what he had to do. While he was fucked up enough in the head, he had an honor system in place in his mind, and it was definitely not remotely honorable to to that in this situation he had so badly handled.

Her questions were numerous, but it was essentially the same that had been drilled into him in his early life. "Name, rank, and serial number." And so, as if by muscle memory, he responded, "Michael Ford, Lieutenant in the U.S. Marines. Double 6, 896 421." The man stopped abruptly, furrowing his brows, it was habit that lead him to give this watered down rendition of his self identity, a name, a rank, a number. It was all anyone in the military was.

He coughed into his shoulder, trying not cough directly on the woman questioning him, it seemed... rude somehow. More rude than pointing a shotgun at his head and threatening him with imminent death? Not quite, but close. "Sorry, Miss." He murmured ducking his head slightly as he apologized, "Mike Ford's the name, I'm an officer," and enforcer Mike, don't forget that! His eager shit of a brain piped in. "Shut it." He snapped at the empty air.

"Sorry," He apologized again, this time for his appearance speaking to himself. "Brought a gift of moonshine, and-" He resisted the urge to crane his neck to look towards Brendan, or even jerk anything towards him, didn't want to give this lovely lady a reason to spray his brains (what little was left of them) all over the snow.

"He asked me what I was doing here, poked me in the ribs with that stick-thing." Should he mention the broken ribs and whatnot? "I lost it, punched him. He kicked me, and I punched him again." Well, that seemed like a fairly accurate representation of the situation, though perhaps Brendan had an entirely different side of the story that would be heard.

After all, it wasn't like Mike was the most "credible" witness, being the offender in this case. "Cat'll skin you alive for this," He muttered under his breath, letting his head fall down slightly to rest on his rising and falling chest. "Jus' like last time." Ah the memories, didn't matter if Hayley heard, she probably made up her mind about him the second she saw him, wasn't like talking to himself could really damage her view of him anymore than not.

He was still uncomfortably on his knees, his lower legs growing more numb by the minute, fingers still interlocked behind his head, "I... I submit to any punishment Flintlock," And Cat, yes, and Cat... though that would more than likely be separate, "See's fit." It wasn't like he had a choice in the matter, but at least he was going willingly, he knew he deserved to at least be admonished strongly, if not shot.

He gritted his teeth now, and swallowed back the fear that was threatening to be unleashed. Was he scared? Of this woman? Of what would end up happening to him here, and with Cat. Perhaps a bit, or a lot, though, it was his just deserts, he didn't suppose he could fight it even if he was willing to.

[tomorrow]

JUST STANDING WAITING FOR THE PUNCHES

tw: guns, mentions of violence

Tomorrow hadn't seen anything, but he had heard shouting. On one hand, he didn't want to sprint towards what could potentially be a shootout, on the other hand he heard Hayley shouting which meant he morally had to check it out.

Trudging through the snow - at least a few inches, which were quickly soaking into his pant cuffs, he headed towards the shouting. Jeremiah trotted beside him, not going into an all out sprint yet; Tomorrow had trained him to stay close when he heard confrontation, instead of running away or towards the noises.

He pulled the rifle off the sling on his back, holding it with shaking hands as he headed forward. He saw Brendan in the snow, injured and apparently being tended by Jackson. Hayley had her shotgun, aimed straight towards a stranger; a Badlander, evidently.

Tomorrow had fortunately avoided all the previous encounters with the Badlands, but it was only a matter of time really. Tomorrow leveled the gun at Mike, not shooting or even taking it off safety mode; an empty threat, in all aspects. He really only kept the gun because Hayley wanted everyone to be armed, and it was surprisingly good for hunting.

He glanced towards Hayley, questioning. But he saw the raw fury in her eyes, and decided to act. "Get on the ground, hands behind your back." Tomorrow said, suddenly aware of the pinpricks of pain the cold air was driving into his lungs. He was trying to focus on anything else other than the situation at hand. He fumbled on his person for anything to use to bind the man's hands if Mike complied, and with slight panic realized he didn't have anything.

He'd have to hope Hayley or Jackson had something, and if not then he'd... He'd figure something out; maybe that cart had something useful on it? Other than a load of moonshine and a pony.

[truce.]

[align=center][div style="width: 400px; text-align: justify; font-family: verdana; font-size: 7pt; line-height: 1.5;"]･ﾟ✧ — Ellie wasn't a fighter. In fact, she couldn't fight even if she wanted to. Instead, she was very much a pacifist; the concept of violence was entirely unjustifiable, it was merely just a vicious cycle of wordlessly demanding power and respect when in reality, all it'd cause was conflict. See, situations could easily be resolved verbally. Calmly. Mama Rose once taught Ellie as a youngster that the best way to dissolve an argument was not to one up the other, nor simply ignore their quarreling, but to instead respond calmly and logically. A level head could solve any situation, right?

And so, when Ellie was to stumble across a squabble in the snow, followed by several other Lodgers rushing over to diffuse the situation, she flinched at the tension that hung in the air statically. She was frozen on the spot, gawking over at situation unfolding a short distance away, dropping the bag of animal food on the ground before striding over hurriedly, worriedly. As she grew closer, it became more apparent to her that one of the Badlanders had gotten into a row with Brendan, and she was told that those Badlanders were not... Exactly on the best terms with the Lodge. But, Ellie would give the man the benefit of the doubt; after all, he was madly outnumbered and nothing could go unsolved by following her mother's wise words.

"Stop!" She exclaimed, though her voice was meek and hesitant, her quiet voice more like a squeak than an assertive command. But next, she went silent, worried eyes flitting over at each and every person involved before her gaze finally landed on the Badlander, eyebrows knitting together. "I'm so sorry... Hayley, I really am - but just... Don't shoot." She'd hoped for Flintlock to be a new start for her. No more death, no more gunshots aimed at people, no more suffering... Ellie had seen too many people die in her lifetime, she wasn't sure she could bear witnessing yet another one.

"Besides... I saw what happened. Brendan looks okay, he doesn't look too injured. Brendan, you're okay, right?!" Her voice wobbled with uncertainty, anxious that her attempt to diffuse the situation peacefully would only crumble apart. But, she was trying to hold her ground, despite being terrified, and she swallowed hard before grimacing, "Please... The man's sorry. Look at him."

[MICHAEL.]

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[div style="borderwidth; width: 400px; padding: 1px; text-align: justify; color: #4B3E2D; line-height: 14px; font-size: 11pt; font-family:timesnewroman"]"speech" 'thought' text
tw: mentions alcohol, blood, profanity, themes of violence

Michael knelt motionlessly, the only sign of his being live was the faint rise and fall of his chest, and the eyes of a wounded soul staring up at Hayley, waiting for the worst. His heart was rapidly beating in his chest, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, part of him wanted to get up, fight to the last drop of blood he had. And the other part knew that it was stupid, idiotic, and something that Cat would probably kill him for (at least if he lived through it, which wasn't likely).

He was not the machine he once was, was not the hardened man, seasoned fighter, robotic obedience to orders given. Much had changed, he'd seen horrible things, done even worse things, been a person he was ashamed to be. Perhaps there had been glimpses of hope for him in the past. But those were dashed to smithereens by his own actions. When he killed William, his best friend, a man who was still like a brother to him.

When he slaughtered anyone in his way without care or feeling. When he hunted down two young teenage boys and brutally attacked them without a real cause. And now, when he punched this kid for a little poke. Mike was teeter-tottering between two sentiments. One was his instincts, his training, everything that he had done in his life. And the other, the shred of humanity he was now clinging to for dear life.

He heard another figure approaching, though he wasn't about to turn around quickly in order to see, said figure. He knew that a sudden movement was all any of them were waiting for, the leader seemed pretty shaken up about his assault on Brendan after all. He swallowed the lump in his throat, his hands still twined at the back of his head. Now he was being told to get on the ground (he was already on the ground,) and to put his hands behind his back. It seemed an ill advised course of action though, and while he was concerned that Hayley would decide to shoot him right there for not complying, he also didn't want her to shoot him for complying.

It was a bit of a impediment to say the least. "Kid," His voice was gruff, possibly because he had no real reason to be soft spoken right now, after all he was being treated like the enemy (well he was sort of the enemy) why modulate his voice for them? "I-this is not a threat," He added, realizing that it might be construed as one. "I've got a gun in my waistband and another strapped to my back," He swallowed as he spoke his words slowly, clearly, carefully.

"Might be best for me to keep my hands on my head." He strained his eyes as he tried to utilize his peripheral vision in order to see Tomorrow, he didn't see much of him, though a figure striding quickly towards the scene did register. However, there was a situation much more pressing much closer. His brows furrowed and he dared a glance towards the infuriated Brendan. Was there something he was supposed to say to the rage filled boy?

Before he could think of it however, Elinor arrived, erupting in a glory of defense. He didn't need it, didn't want it, didn't deserve it. Her command to "stop" was still ringing in his head (which was admittedly a bit achy already from Brendan's kick.) As she continued, Mike's frown deepened. Why was she defending him? She didn't even know him, didn't see how terrible of a person he was? Perhaps the Lodge hated him, but there was no greater critic of himself than Michael T. Ford. It was easy to see every last fault and none of the virtues.

Mike felt a pained twang in his heart at her unneeded defense, and finally, she finished, and he could talk, though what he was supposed to say was... hazy at best. "M-Miss." His voice caught as he said the word, "I... I appreciate your willingness to give me the benefit of the doubt, but your altruism is misplaced." It wasn't the best way to say it, but hell, how was he supposed to tell this naive girl that she was an idiot for trying to see the best in him.

He took a deep shuddering breath, realizing that he might be buying his one way ticket to hell right this second. "I know what I did, they saw what I did." He shrugged, "They think they know why I did it," He inhaled shakily, his body shivering from the prolonged cold and his knees numb from their time in the ice. "Let the Lodge's justice run it's course," He swallowed again, not wanting to spit in the presence of the one person who had just showed him compassion.

It was something he'd never really had in his life, and it left a weird sensation in the back of his head, he couldn't stop thinking about it in a corner of his mind. Why? Why would she want to save his life? It was worthless, even he thought so. A slightly arrogant smirk slipped over his face, perhaps he was sealing his own fate, maybe he wanted to die, make the pain of living go away. After all, could hell be much worse than this? "Besides. The arrogant shit got what was coming to him." Well that wasn't entirely true, he'd gotten more than he deserved, but Mike wouldn't nitpick.

"But, if it makes you feel better, little lady. I'm sorry." He couldn't figure out why he'd said this last part, he wasn't, he was well aware that he was in deep shit, but he really didn't feel that much remorse for punching Brendan... twice, any feelings of that had slipped away. "I'm already surrendered, if you want to kill an unarmed (well, helpless) man, be my guest. Have at it. Be the monster you see me as." He was a monster, and he believed that almost everyone else out there in the world was a monster as well.

With these last words, he shut his mouth, clenching his teeth so hard that his veins bulged from his neck, his eyes snapped to a spot straight forward, no longer looking at anyone, addressing anyone, he'd said what he'd needed to say, and if Flintlock didn't kill him, Cat probably would.