sgt cal davidson. (resourcefully) wrote in remains_rpg, @ 2015-09-23 20:50:00 |
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Entry tags: | # past / backstory, calvin davidson, tr lansing |
a functioning cog in some great machinery serving something beyond me.
Who: T.R. Lansing & Cal Davidson
Where: The Capitol Building, Lansing’s office
What: The origin of a working relationship, or: how to make friends and influence people.
When: Backstory. About two years ago, a few weeks after the gas dropped.
Say this for entrepreneurial raiders attacking one of the newly-christened supply trucks: it made for a thrilling arrival to the city he called home. (And, unbeknownst to Cal, a snapshot of what the next couple years of his life were going to be like.) One of his ears was still ringing from gunshots, one of his legs expertly bandaged up after a knife wound, but he followed the Department of Resources agent down the hall, trying his hardest to not let his injury communicate into a limp. After getting drunk the night before in celebration and welcome, they’d scheduled this meeting to see how the man might put his skills to use. Seeing Harlan overrun had been worse, but Austin had been his home for five years, so its wounds were still like seeing an old friend maimed. On the drive back, he’d found himself staring at the craters and pockmarked buildings, the marks of where the blister gas had fallen, as if the city itself had survived an artillery barrage. From what he’d heard, the gas was still a problem, too, floating loose and creeping its way insidiously through the city . The world had fucking ended. Just being a mechanic wouldn’t cut it anymore. As far as Sergeant Davidson was concerned, he’d just clocked himself back into active duty; his posture straightened around the agent, unconsciously echoing their military stance. The old muscle memory came back quickly, flickering and flashing of synapses as he remembered combat zones, and found that he was ready for this. That firing a weapon again was, in fact, like riding a bike. That helping to protect that supply truck from raiders made him realise something: He was good at it. “Tell him I recommended you,” the agent said into his ear with a companionable clap on the back, and then nudged him off towards the council president’s door, a mouthed Good luck behind him. Cal knocked on the door, a staccato tattoo announcing his presence. “Enter.” The voice was terse, but unremarkable; an accurate representation of the man sitting behind his desk on the other side of the door. Carving out a space for himself to efficiently do his job had been a priority for Lansing since arriving at the Capitol. His wife was still attempting miracles with their converted apartment, but the office was complete, for the most part. Spartan in some ways, lacking any sentimental trappings or softening touches of personality to be sure, but it did its job as offices went. Some also found it intimidating. A dark, heavy desk flanked by locking file cabinets, opposite a large shelving unit that was beginning to house reference materials as he compiled them, all kept entirely free of dust and clutter. It looked like some kind of academic purgatory, bringing to mind sunless hours making reports and filling out paperwork. The man behind the desk did little to dissuade the image. Outwardly unremarkable. A bespectacled, thin man with cool grey eyes that had lifted his gaze from the city map spread out before him in order to greet the man entering. No fake smile was forthcoming. Lansing wasn’t a man of warmth and sunshine. The world no longer lent itself to warmth. But it wasn’t the icy expression of an uncaring man, either. He didn’t have his defenses up against the sergeant. He just didn’t think small talk or pretense was necessary. “Sergeant Calvin Davidson… Have a seat. I’m TR Lansing.” Despite his injuries, the sergeant was all brisk, obedient efficiency as he entered the office and pulled up the chair opposite the desk. As if he were hardwired for it, he recited, “Thanks. It’s a pleasure, Mr. Lansing.” The austere state of the office was about par for the course for what he’d seen so far in the outbreak: everything turned into a makeshift solution, a barebones setup that reminded him of field tents and their improvised, cobbled-together atmosphere. The Capitol itself was in a state of relative disarray: furniture from the nearby hotel was still being transported over, and people looked harried, fresh signs of grief and strain still etched around their eyes. Reality hadn’t sunk in properly for some of them yet, and Austin had all the marks of a city that needed help. Davidson launched right into it. “I’m from Austin, sir, was visiting relatives when this happened. I came back yesterday and was present at the supply truck raid, which we managed to repel. The agent I helped told me about the mayor’s brand-new initiative—this Department of Resources thing that’s gotten established? I’d like to help any way possible. I was Transportation Corps in the military in Iraq, did six years, so I can be of use to your government.” Pain still throbbed in his leg; the former soldier’s hand instinctively drifted down towards it, fingers splayed over the bandage. But he rattled off his qualifications without missing a beat, meeting the other man’s eye steadily. It wasn’t technically a job interview, but it was a little like a job interview. For a fleeting moment, Davidson felt like he was sitting in a recruiting office all over again, yearning to help his country—Uncle Olinger wants you, he thought, wryly. "I've no doubt that you'd be an asset, though I'd prefer meeting under better circumstances," Robert began, after listening carefully to the other man's words. His mouth straightened into a tight line as he filled in blanks between what was actually said. The man had been visiting relatives, but there'd been nothing about relatives accompanying him, which could mean losses. Not a new scenario, certainly, everyone these days had lost someone, but it was still worthy of note. He respected any man who could put aside pain for duty -- both the physical and emotional sort. The bandage did not go unnoticed, either, though that fact had been in the report. "I was sorry to hear that you were wounded on arrival, and you've no doubt been informed that this raid is hardly a new occurrence. That's part of why the mayor is establishing the resources department." He tapped a finger on the map in front of him, amidst the sectioned off areas within the city grid, future routes plotted, planned shelters to house more survivors. It was going to take time to build the foundation for anything remotely stable. Even without outlaws to worry about, there were more than enough challenges to the effort of keeping people alive, but the raiders seemed intent on catching up with the undead in the business of taking human lives lately. "We have reason to believe that there's more than one group of raiders organizing, capitalizing on recent tragedy. We need to become organized before they do. I won't lie to you, Sergeant. We're in desperate need of good men, and would be grateful for your help... but this is going to be dangerous work." Lansing’s description of the situation was about what Cal might have expected, his face hardening into thoughtful lines as he absorbed the information. The sergeant found himself automatically leaning forward to take a closer look at the map, the red and blue pinpricks scattered across Austin, the scribbled X’s sprouting like weeds to block off lost territory and impassable routes. “I heard that the Seton Medical Center was overrun last week,” Cal said, looking down at where the hospital had been scratched right off the map. They were vital locations for a city roiling in disaster, and yet closing down one by one as they drew bite patients as well. Catch 22. His heart was heavy hearing how badly his home had been rocked on its foundations, but he never shrank from a challenge. The man’s jaw set. “I’m used to dangerous work, sir. And besides, it’s been a few years since I did the right thing and did my duty—I figure it was about time I went on another tour.” It was a small attempt at levity, ringing off-kilter in this dark, sombre room, but Davidson’s voice didn’t waver. “By which I mean, I’m ready and I understand the risks.” It’s a brief appraisal, as appraisals go, but Lansing was quick to pick out details. He didn’t need much time to form assessments of people. The other man’s concern with the map was a relief, in a way. Here was someone who didn’t shy from a challenge… who saw a problem, and not only wanted it solved, but felt responsible to act towards solving it. The kind of person Lansing himself was, in many ways. The kind of person they needed. A corner of his mouth ticked upwards in approval. “That’s relieving to hear. We have enough people who don’t have a full understanding of those risks. After the recommendation you got, I’m inclined to put you in charge of them, Sergeant.” There was no reason to argue about whether or not the other man was fit for duty. Injury or no, Robert trusted others to make that call for themselves. Davidson seemed of sound enough mind and body, so Lansing was willing to take him at his word. The praise he was bestowing was secondhand (Lansing had never seen Davidson in action, after all), but even faint praise was rarely given voice within the walls of this office. He wasn’t a man who saw much use for flattery, and he’d never been easily impressed, so that was about all he could offer. So instead of going further into Davidson’s credentials, the glowing report, or just how much the other man actually was needed, Lansing simply moved on to the task at hand: outlining the nature of the job at hand, so that Davidson could actually start doing it. “Our resources are limited, but I believe that the infrastructure we’re establishing will be sound, given time. We’ll need to establish variable supply routes, to keep ahead of the raiders...” “I can’t believe people are still turnin’ against each other, even in the wake of all this.” Cal said, and he couldn’t hide the bitterness that crept into his voice. (Then again, he could believe it, couldn’t he? Human nature never failed to astound. Fierce competition would bring out the ugliness, opportunists and scavengers and predators come crawling out of the woodwork.) The two men craned their heads over the maps, talking. The Department of Resources was still brand-new, freshly-minted, Olinger’s paperwork still drying (though it had sprung into action very quickly—so quickly that it could leave one dizzied and thrown). They debated and considered for a time, something like a plan starting to emerge from the bones of what they discussed. This was what Davidson had trained for. The logistics. How to get from point A to Z, without dying in between. Getting the supplies where they needed to be. Protecting what needed protecting, greasing the wheels and keeping the machine moving. When Cal exhaled a while later, a familiar energy had suffused his limbs, animating his voice and hands as he gesticulated over the charts. It wasn’t everything, but it was at least a start. He looked at the other man: this pale, thin creature with the thin-rimmed glasses. Couldn’t picture him outside the office, in the dust and trenches. Cal wouldn’t judge him for it, though: even a post-apocalyptic government needed pencil-pushers, and Lansing had a cold, steely composure to him that the sergeant found himself liking. “Are you from this city, sir?” he ended up asking. “East Coast transplant, actually,” Robert answered, not really looking up as he stacked the papers and put the maps away into a more a sensible, easily managed arrangement. The question wasn’t offensive. Most people could tell that he wasn’t Texan, and some were curious as to how he’d wound up in Austin. “My wife and I were in Boston when the outbreak hit. There were attempts at establishing an infrastructure not dissimilar to the one we’re building here… but I left when it became clear that there’d be too much bickering over what that structure should ultimately look like to lay foundations in time.” He’d be shocked if Boston didn’t ultimately fall, with all the time being wasted with bureaucracy. That was a pity. The city had been his home, and he hadn’t been eager to abandon it… but he wasn’t going to risk his life fighting for a city that didn’t want to take the necessary steps to save itself. There’d still been a handful of lobbyists arguing that shooting the undead was inhumane when he’d been arranging his transport south, and the resistance to quarantine measures had been strong, despite the losses. “That’s often the trouble with people, Sergeant,” he said, looking up to meet the other man’s gaze again, something very serious and a little sad behind his own eyes as he spoke. “They tend to act according to their nature, whatever logic might dictate, and human nature is a variable thing. Some men will feel duty bound to help others in times of crisis, others will only see an opportunity to indulge base urges -- greed, lust, rage. Our diversity can be a downfall almost as often as it is a strength, but I have faith in civilization. We need each other to survive. Those who don’t respect that or realize it will not last.” Davidson was nodding in agreement, his expression attentive and thoughtful. He was more than familiar with the type of administration the man was describing in Boston—the higher-up brass, the people who’d become too far removed from the trenches, who had forgotten what it was like down there. The ones who couldn’t make a decision without hemming and hawing over it and arguing amongst each other, even while the house burned down around them. “You gotta shit or get off the pot act quickly in situations like this,” Cal agreed. “Especially when there’s no real crisis plan or precedent in place, sometimes you just gotta utter some hail Marys and give it your best shot. Act quickly but calmly. Like the mayor did.” Although there was something the sergeant didn’t immediately like about Olinger (the man was a bit too much like a smiling shark, his smile just a bit too smooth and brilliant for comfort). This calm, careful man sitting across from him, though? This was someone he could listen to. And Lansing’s words sank under his skin, and took deep root. “And well. Even if the shit’s hit the fan—pardon my French—then I gotta say, I’m glad we have someone like you pulling for us. Not getting stuck in the bureaucratic mess.” Cal shot the other man a grateful smile. Crunching the logistics with Lansing had gone a long way; enough to see that he thought in practicalities, and that he was realistic. They were going to need a lot of that, going forward. “Looking forward to working with you, Mr. Lansing. Even if we’ve gotten ourselves into a load of trouble.” It was gratifying, to have one’s efforts recognized. Davidson’s phrasing might have been crude, but Lansing was willing to forgive semantics when the sentiment was optimistic. His role -- self-chosen, naturally -- at times felt like a glorified calculator. The man who took in the analytics and computed the odds inherent within each potential strategy. His was a mind wrought with cynicism. Clarity of thought in times of extreme turmoil had a way of stripping away pleasantries. Optimism was something Lansing was drawn to. Olinger suffered from too much of it (not to mention a healthy dose of hubris), but while a wealth of optimism could lead to danger, there was something to be said for a modest amount. Tempered by common sense and a logical approach, it could very well be what saved them. “Likewise, Sergeant,” he acknowledged, his mouth ticking upwards into something that actually resembled a smile of his own. It wasn’t an invitation to establish a first name basis sort of relationship. Nor was it akin to a warm handshake or clap on the back. The kinds of things the mayor was prone to doling out when forming alliances with others. But a foundation of mutual respect and tempered optimism was certainly better than nothing. Lansing’s tone was almost friendly when he added, “We’ll simply have to handle it ourselves.” Trouble wasn’t something he’d ever balked at, at least. As far as Lansing was concerned, turmoil was a universal constant. Chaos had birthed the world into existence. As products of chaos, people were forever finding new ways to change, be that change improvement or self destruction. For all that he felt moved to create systems, establish order, and force things into patterns that made sense, Lansing couldn’t deny that it was the prerogative of the universe to tip things back into disarray. That didn’t discourage him. Far from it. Luckily for the human race, there were people like him who found their purpose within that struggle. Deep down, these people knew that without trouble, their lives would have very little meaning. Sometimes it was hubris that motivated them to face turmoil head on. Righteousness. But in others it was a more simple call to duty; knowing one’s place within the greater machine, and being able to play the part well. Thomas Robert Lansing was very certain of what his role was, and in that, he felt a kindred spirit residing within Cal Davidson. |