ᴄʟᴇᴀɴᴇʀ (garcian) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2017-08-03 10:11:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, dan smith, garcian smith |
Who: Dan Smith & Garcian Smith
What: Shooting the shit (like actual shooting), talking about dreams
When: Thursday
Where: A random, makeshift range in the middle of nowhere
Rating/Warnings: Discussions of violence and other 'effed things
Status: Complete
Dan needed to shoot something. He needed to feel the butt of his gun in his hands. Squeeze the trigger. Smell the gunpowder. Hear the report and see the hole left behind by a very large bullet. He knew of a makeshift range way out in the middle of nowhere. It was in the middle of a field about two miles up a narrow dirt road. There were no houses anywhere close by, so there was no one to complain about the noise. The field itself may have been part of a farm at one point. There was the remains of a fence on one side of a soft rolling hill. Dan had gathered up a few empty bottles from the Double Tap’s trash and a few cans from his own trash to set up as targets on the top rail of that fence. He’d come out here a few times before, just for practise. Regular ranges had their place. Their rules were necessary, but there were times Dan just didn’t want to be subject to a warden’s calls. Out here it was quiet and Dan was in charge. This afternoon he had the company of one Garcian Smith. Garcian hadn’t been in Orange County long, but Dan had already given him the details of the place. He was surprised Garcian was still hanging around, much less agreeing to join him out on the wildcat range. Dan had intended to tell Garcian more about what the Dreams held in store for him, but so far all he had really done was grumble angrily under his breath as he reloaded his gun. Oh yeah, Garcian had some idea of what was in store for him. Felt like he'd been hit over the head with a sledgehammer, then had the top of his skull unscrewed only for a ton of memories he didn't even know were missing (that's what they felt like, memories, filling into spaces he didn't realize were empty and overcrowding his already convoluted head) dumped inside. Puzzle pieces being shoved in there, as much as he didn't like it - but they fit. Those puzzle pieces, they really fucking fit. Not to mention he'd woken up with his weapon of choice, a SIG Sauer P230, on his bedside table. It was a decent handgun, good for concealed carry - but Garcian wasn't the collateral shot guy, he was the cleaner. So he didn't really care for guns as much as Dan but, hell, today? He would care if it meant taking out some aggression and working through his muddled confusion. It was good practice too, firing at the bottles and cans. His aim was pretty decent and at least the ringing in his ears from the shots going off meant it was good enough white noise, sort of, to prevent him from thinking too hard. "You know, it's fucked up - " He reloaded and aimed again, going for the already-dented can he just enjoyed inflicting punishment on for some reason. "I can't remember a damn thing before the syndicate. Nothing. No dreams about that, just me and you." And the other guys (and gal). The other Smiths. “Fucked ups a word fer it,” Dan agreed. He paused loading his gun. He didn’t have any memories of before the Dreams had started either. It had always been him, Garcian and the others. The others: Coyote, Mask, Kevin, Kaede and Con...Dan had met them all before. More like crossed paths, actually. He hadn’t even remembered most of them until he’d seen them in the Dreams, and then it was like he’d known them for ages, like they’d always been there. He looked back at Garcian. His gun was loaded and aimed towards the ground. It was a large gun, but it felt so natural in his hands and he easily carried it as he did in the Dreams, loading it with a flick of his wrist and a twist of the revolving chamber. His eyes then traveled towards the cans that lined the fence. He’d noted how Garcian had only knicked the can he’d been aiming at, knowing full well if he wanted to, Garcian could have blown it off the fence without issue. “It’s like it’s always been ‘at way, isn’ it?” Dan asked as Garcian took aim. “The seven o’ us all hangin’ out in the ol’ man’s head.” He frowned darkly. “I don’ even like the ol’ fart an’ I ‘ave no idea why. I ‘ave no idea why we’re with‘im. I ‘ave no idea why yer our front guy.” He took aim himself. “Yer the only one o’ us ‘o gets t’ walk aroun’ on ‘is own separate from the ol’ man.” He glanced at Garcian. “Or maybe we’re all ‘angin’ out in yer ‘ead. I dunno.” He drew a bead on the bottle in front of him. "Having all of you in my head - I'd be certifiable by that point," Garcian snorted dryly, but something about the whole mess didn’t feel right. Because why the hell couldn't he remember anything before the syndicate? Before bullets and white suits and assassins? Everything was so dark and noir. Stained with blood and hopeless. He wasn't sure if he wanted the answer either. Taking a moment to formulate words, he aimed and fired at the targets, just basically letting loose on them - finally. Garcian always kept it bottled up, kept a tight lid on things. Teetering into territory other than neutral bothered him, but he had a feeling these dreams were going to shove him places he didn't want to go. "After that shitstorm at the restaurant and everything else, I remember talkin' to Mills. We were on the Seattle overpass, just casually discussing Japan maybe being nuked, like it was just another Tuesday. Even I got disturbed how desensitized humanity can be by that shit. You know?" Bangbangbang. There, that helped him feel a little better too. Still waters run deep. Dan never knew what he should be more weary of: Garcian maintaining his composure, or Garcian allowing himself to let loose, as it were. Both were pretty fucking intimidating to say the least. Christ on a cracker. Never know when the guy is just going to snap. Dan was convinced when (not if) that were to happen, it wouldn’t matter what side of the line of friend he fell on. No one was going to be safe. Dan felt as though he’d been handling the colt .357 his entire life, it was so comfortable in his hands. He even knew the recoil when he emptied the rounds into his target. It was loud, deafening, echoing satisfyingly in Dan’s ears. The can at the other end of the range didn’t stand a chance. It was blown clear off the fence and disappeared into the tall grass by the tree. “The overpass, yeah,” he grunted. He may not have had any memories of himself before, but he had some knowledge he felt he should pass along. “See ‘ere’s the thing. World peace ‘as been declared. But y’know, politicians will be politicians, even in a peace lovin’ utopia.” The sarcasm was heavy on that last part. “An’ ‘at’s where we come in. Killin’ t’ keep the peace.” Huh. When it put it that way it was almost as though he and Carolina had something more than a mistaken marriage in common. “We’re assassins, Garcie,” Dan went on. His gun was loaded again and he was aiming at a bottle on the fence this time. “We let our emotions git in the way an’ the jobs more likely to go tits up.” "You ain't wrong," Garcian agreed, though he wasn't sure he even had emotions that would get in the way of anything. Been awhile since he felt strongly about something, or someone - in the dreams, it wasn't much different. It was strange - like he was connected to everything, but yet disconnected in a way. Like it wasn't even him; he viewed everything with a haze in front of his eyes. His calm, cool demeanor was seemingly his most valuable asset - because it was true, you get too hotheaded? Too involved? May as well just end it. Seek a career as a postman or some shit. Must be why he was so damn good at his job here too. How he was able to look at dead bodies and mutilation and unfathomable things humans could do to other humans for so long. "Killin' to keep the peace is a necessary evil, I guess," he went on, going to collect the debris he'd shot at. "But speaking of emotions - how's the wife? She know what you have dreams about?” He still couldn't believe Dan was actually married. The guy said it was for convenience's sake, but soon they'd be celebrating their golden anniversary. And Garcian, if he still had any marbles rolling around upstairs, would come to that party and chuckle. Of course I’m right. Dan had been trained in the art of assassinations even before the old man had gotten his gnarled hands around Dan’s soul and resurrected his sorry ass. Curtis Blackburn, the psychotic sonofabitch, had been a thorough teacher. A dangerous teacher. Ruthless in his position as head of the Seattle Self Defense Department. So much so that all it had taken for Pedro Montoya to take Dan down was giving Blackburn a whiff of betrayal and Dan found himself lying in a pool of his own blood on the asphalt of a basketball court. The fuck?! Dan jerked. A shiver ran down his spine and his arms had a funny heavy feeling to them. Why was he remembering all of this now? Why hadn’t any of that come through the Dreams? You know. The Dreams that had revealed that Dan was actually dead? Dan didn’t know how they worked and he wondered if Garcian’s presence, just standing there and talking about these fucking things, had triggered something that otherwise would have remained dormant. Or was this just the way things were going to be? Remembering things he didn’t even know he fucking knew. Garcian’s words intruded on his thoughts. “Huh?” He blinked. “Oh, wife. Yeah. She’s fine.” It was an automatic response and one said with obvious lack of thought. Then he growled and shook his head. “Actually, she’s not fine. Somethings gotten under ‘er skin and riled ‘er up somethin’ fierce. It doesn’ take much. Woman’s got a ridiculously short fuse. I’m jus’ glad it wasn’ something I’ve done fer a change.” “What? What happened?” Garcian asked, lowering his gun (wasn’t great to have firearms around twitchy folk) because he wasn’t so unobservant that he wouldn’t notice the way Dan suddenly turned ghost-pale and seemed to short circuit. Talking about the wife couldn’t be that terrible. In a way (and he would never admit this, or even acknowledge that it was there - buried deep, so deep that you’d need a pressure suit to be able to broach these particular thoughts and feelings), he was kind of envious. It must be nice, to have something like that - even if it was the very definition of weird as hell. But whatever, you know? Seemed to work for the two oddballs in question, Garcian wasn’t judging nothing. “You just seemed kinda riled up too.” “Do I now?” Dan raised a brow. He felt kinda riled up. More than kinda. Extremely. “Aye, that I am. Nothin’ t’ do with Carolina or her bein’ angry alla the time, though. That I kin handle. Part o’ her charm.” And despite what one might think it actually was. Carolina had a way of challenging Dan that no one else had been able to do before. Did that mean he loved her? No, it didn’t. He may have cared about her, and he certainly didn’t want anything untoward to happen to her -- that had been the reasoning behind giving her the Flame Ring – but he did not love her. Was not in love with her. If he ever did fall for her, well, that’d only complicate things. “She’s gotta bit o’ family drama goin’ on,” Dan went on with a minor shrug. “Somethin’ t’do wit her brother.” That was all Dan knew about it and that was all Dan wanted to know about it. One thing he and Carolina seemed able to do well together was keep their private lives private. If Carolina required him to know more, she would tell him so. So far (and thankfully), that hadn’t been the case. Dan hesitated before explaining what had suddenly bothered him. Maybe Garcian needed to hear it, maybe he didn’t, Dan wasn’t sure. He wasn’t normally the type to overshare (unless it ruffled the right type of feathers, and Garcian’s were definitely not the right type). However, the Dreams had a way of taking everything Dan thought he was sure of and turning it upside down. “I remembered somethin’,” he ventured cautiously. “Somethin’ about the Dreams. Somethin’ that happened in them, that I didnnea Dream about, but somehow know anyway.” Garcian understood the appeal of a fiery woman - there was a difference between a strong personality and a personality that he wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole though, but Dan’s wife seemed to respect him and, at least, care about him. In her own way. He also understood keeping some things private - whatever groove you got into, if it worked, then it worked. “Should blow over soon, most family drama does,” he said, leaning against the fence. “But what’s this that you remember? How can you remember if you didn’t dream of it?” Maybe Dan didn’t know the answer to that. Maybe there were just some things that weren’t meant to be known. However, Garcian wanted to know as much as he could about this whole...other life. Might not be pleasant to hear, but that never bothered him anyway. Not much was pleasant for him to begin with. Dan didn’t know the answer. He didn’t know the answer as to why he’d just suddenly remembered now either. Fuck. He wanted to shoot that last remaining can, but couldn’t with Garcian standing right there against the fence. Dan was a fantastic shot, but Garcian probably wouldn’t have liked it if Dan shot in his general direction. “I remembered how I died,” He said, lifting his gun over his shoulder, the way he held it in his Dreams. Surprising how natural it felt there. “After world peace was declared, I worked for this guy. Curtis Blackburn. ‘E was the one ‘oo taught me how t’ be an assassin. Fucker was ruthless, though. I got set up and ‘e personally executed me on a basketball court. I don’t know how Harmen found me or why he was even lookin’. Somehow, ‘e brought me back an’ I started workin’ fer him as part of the syndicate. Ye know the rest. Or you will soon enough.” Curtis Blackburn didn’t sound familiar yet, but Garcian would get there. Fuck, ruthless was definitely a term to describe someone who killed someone on a goddamn basketball court. “That whole world is...the definition of a mindfuck, its own rules and shit. The dyin’ and resurrection thing - “ He shook his head, fingertips of his free hand rising to rub at a pounding spot on his forehead. “It’s fucked.” He was the one doing the resurrecting too, he remembered that. Whenever one of the Smith’s died, he would go in and fix it. Clean that mess up. Just like he did here. Though he sure as shit wasn’t bringing people back from the dead currently. Trying that out? Hell if he knew how he’d go about that. “The answer’s gotta come sooner or later. You ain’t gonna die on a basketball court here, that’s all I know.” Garcian could promise that. And then he moved away from the fence, so Dan could shoot that target free and clear. “Ye sound pretty sure o’ ‘at,” Dan said. He laughed despite himself. He didn’t kid himself. The retirement plan for people like him was violent and involved someone younger and better and quicker with a gun or a knife. Dan knew his end was going to be sooner than most and was going to be violent. Good thing Ezio promised to burn down his bar for him. Saved him from having to write up a will. Dan took aim at the remaining target on the fence. People like Garcian didn’t say ‘you ain’t gonna die’ just because it sounded good or was something they thought they should say. People like Garcian said what they meant and meant what they said. “I’m touched, Garcie.” BANG! And there went the last can. Dan lifted his gun over his shoulder again. “As fer us gettin’ any explinations about what the devils goin’ on in these fucked up acid trips, I not be holdin’ me breath fer that. It dosn’ seem t’ me that a lotta people git the answers from their dreams they really want.” Garcian snorted. "Just 'cause I'd bring your ass back from the dead - " Did he even know how to do that? Was it like a superpower or some shit? He'd rather have telekinesis, "...don't mean you should be touched." But alright, there was some fondness to his tone. Dan was (and he was seeing this, lately) in a weird way kind of a part of him. Like that's what he remembered, the Smith's just being his whole existence. He didn't know or recall anything else. So like hell he was gonna let the dude go out in some violent, macabre splatter of gore. No, he'd ensure that all the Smith's - wherever they were, who knew - died peacefully, if he could help it. By using those weird-ass powers (did he even know how to do that?) It was the least he could do for them, offering a certain amount of protection. Doing something decent for a change, instead of cleaning up other people's dirty messes and not batting an eyelash about it. "Maybe we get some answers, but they're not the ones we like or want. Closure comes in funny ways. But I guess we'll see what happens, especially since neither of us are goin' anywhere." His crappy apartment was home for the time being. They’d finished shooting their first round of targets, but Dan had anticipated going through them pretty quickly. There were two other boxes full of empty bottles and cans sitting on the ground behind the two men along with Dan’s weapons bag, ensuring the two men plenty of targets to shoot for as long as they wanted to stay out there. The bag itself contained a couple of other of Dan’s weapons, though it was seeming less and less likely that he would be using any of them. He hadn’t had the colt for long, but he already found that he favored it. Pity the dreams hadn’t given him any of the special ammo his gun could use. “It isn’ like we got much of a choice, Garcie,” Dan said. He holstered the colt under his arm and started towards one of those boxes. “As long as we stay in this place, we’re gonna be getting’ these Dreams. Like it or not. Which begs the question,” he looked at Garcian, “why didja sign on t’ the network? After everythin’ I told ye that first night? I was tryin’ t’ warn ye, y’know.” Despite the words, the question was earnest and curious, maybe even a little concerned. Dan hadn’t known what he was getting into when he’d found the slip of paper with the network’s web address tacked to the cork board just inside the door to his bar. But he’d been sure to let Garcian know what was going on in case he should find anything similar. It was more than simple professional courtesy. Like Garcian, Dan felt as though the other man was somehow a part of him….no, it was the other way around, wasn’t it? “Don’t really know,” Garcian rumbled, the words deep and honest - smooth as marble, somehow, despite the uncertainty. He should look into a career as a phone-sex operator. Was that still a thing? He went to the same boxes with the rest of their targets, taking the cans and bottles and beginning to set them up for another round. There was still some shit to work through, and shooting was a fine way to do it. Hell of a lot cheaper than therapy. As he placed another can on the fence, he provided more reasoning than the standard neutral answer. “Ain’t ever been a part of anything before. I figured, fuck. What’s the worst that could happen? What do I got to lose?” Not much. He was alone, traveled a lot (too much), and barely had any friends he could call his own. The pull of something, even if it was straight out of nightmares, was a dangerous siren song for a lonely man. Dan had a veritable laundry list of the worst things that could happen. He himself hadn’t experienced any of the physical things that others had experienced (yet. He figured it was only a matter of time), but he’d heard enough about them, witnessed them for himself. And don’t even get him started on the days the County as a whole decided to take a merry trip to Psycho Town, the Craziest Place on Earth. He opened his mouth to recite this list, but stopped himself. What do I got to lose? That was the thing, wasn’t it? What did a guy like Garcian have to lose? Dan hadn’t known Garcian well, hell, he still didn’t, not really, but it wasn’t as if he had a second life outside of work that Dan knew of. No family, no real home -- at least none that he’d ever spoken about or even hinted at. There was a strange sense of community associated with the Network. A kind of fucked up society. No secret handshakes or monthly dues, but they all were kind of in this thing together. Dan wondered if that was why he stayed too. Before the network he’d had no friends, no family. No place to belong. Fuck him, that was it, wasn’t it? Even with death staring him straight in the goddamn face, he couldn’t leave because he fucking belonged here. They both did. “Christ, man,” Dan muttered. “Maybe next time ye join a knittin’ circle or sommat, eh?” Half-joke. All things considered, there was something kind of...nice...having Garcian here. It fit, somehow. At least it wasn’t fucking Coyote. Garcian actually laughed at that - not like a guffaw, but it was the vibration of a chuckle in his throat (he wasn’t really the guffawing type anyway). “Only if you join one with me,” and he may have cracked a smile too - half smirk, perhaps - and it flickered on his face for the briefest of moments. Could a knitting circle compare with this? Probably not, but maybe they were all gluttons for punishment too. |