ravenrock | (no subject)

■CHARACTERS: Hank Anderson | Nathan Lone | Whoever
■TIME & LOCATION: Fallout: Detroit Become Human AU
a.) back in Detroit
b.) in the wasteland
■DESCRIPTION: a.) hank is turning in a criminal for re-education or experimentation
b.) looking for Connor and talking for Nathan, follows the Bellamy thread
■WARNINGS: maybe discussion of torture or general fallout stuff

a.) detroit

Hank's a good officer, a good soldier, a fantastic detective. He's been great at figuring out whose been muddling up the populous by spreading chems, or who imported in supermutant dogs for reprehensible secret fights, and he's become a hero in the eyes of Detroit's highest eschelons. AKA someone who they can put on a poster and say, "This, this is the American Dream we want again."

At least that's how it's been until his six-year old son died.

In the three years since that day he's been surrounded by a sense of coldness, a lack of empathy or sympathy or anything remotely resembling compassion he could damn well use. His wife has taken it as the cue to make her other relationship official (what good is being married to a man she doesn't love if she can't brandish it like a perfect family, an aura to her own glistening image). Hank's still good at his job, but he's no longer eager to stand beside of the public figures on their podiums during election time, or appearing to promote his department's newest success.

No. He just wants to work and not waste his time with pleasantries. And when he's off? Fuck it. He's got no one to impress. Just murderers to catch, dealers to pin, smugglers to stop.

Today Hank is dragging in a father in, convicted of murder. His eye turned too earnestly towards his secretary, and a lover just wouldn't cut it. So his wife encountered an 'accident', one that had a poor cover-up. An investigator at half of his capacity could have seen through this asshole's crap.

Hank's looking shaggier than he used to, more tired, haggard with emotion that's been wearing at him. But he's still effective, and he has a snide, sniveling gift to give to the Detroit Enclave scientists. Whatever they decide to do with him. Hank shoves the gangly, short man through a set of heavy doors, allowing the guards to open each layer ahead of him.

"I don't think he's competent enough to get past even one of these guys," he mutters. But damn, this is the furthest he's gone in. Usually he just, you know, drops these guys off, lets the handlers take 'em.

b.) wasteland

After talking to Bellamy, Hank's back at square one apparently. Just waiting. He knows he can only stick around for so much longer. Or else they'll catch up with him. Connor's trail is still cold, and he doesn't want to admit defeat. But he also owes it to him not to just... give up, you know?

Then he gets the communication. A message, encoded in a way he's familiar with. He stakes it out first, making sure it's not a trap.

Now, the raiders up the road? Those were a trap. This? It doesn't seem to be a trap. And the man he sees waiting on him, doesn't seem like your typical wastelander. Hank looks more the part, though someone with especially eagle eyes would note that he has an old-world military vest and boots that are in pretty good shape. He's also big. 6'4'', broad, steely blue eyes to go with that face and its fierce angles. He's the sort of light-gray headed that comes with someone that was blond. And his voice is deep and rumbling and gruff.

"I'm here to see a man about a car," he offers blandly as way of greeting, "you been expectin' me?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Oh don't get me wrong. I kill at least three fuckin' raiders or slavers a week now protecting caravans. I feel a hell of a lot more like I'm helping America out than finding out someone politician fucked his doctor and now they needed to be 're-educated'. Those were the types of people locked up. That's what we found out about. That all the hard work I'd been doing to seek out threats wasn't fucking up the raiders my grandma hated. It was putting good strong people with families into fucked up testing."

He shakes his head, wincing against the idea. He'd been good at his job. But it wasn't a job worth doing when he found abuse and rape victims cowering int lonely rooms with nowhere else to go and worried they'd be found, and then having to treat them like the criminals.

"Might have been a few raiders in there, out of a couple of hundred- trust me, the scientists got thirsty for anyone to run tests on. But honestly, I got sick of throwing the baby out with the bathwater. Pretty sure a couple of Patrick McAsshole scumbags who could barely hold a gun and think running at someone gibbering in tongues swinging a wrench is a legitimate fighting tactic won't mean much."

He chuckles, finally. "But I'm not as good with words as the Prodigal Son. He was better at making people understand. Showin' 'em it was worth it."

"Why? They must have had plenty of real criminals, why go after such minor infractions?"

It's a question of desperation more than confusion. He remembers the labs in Raven Rock and can easily imagine how they could have perpetuated, how someone like Dr. Holland or his brother could consolidate their control. Restoring America and building the population up was supposed to change things. It was supposed to result in happy families in quiet and peaceful neighborhoods, Old World democracy and justice, people able to live private lives. That was what he'd always fought for. Vicious tactics are justified to reach that victory, but once the fight was won...things were supposed to change.

"We were real damn good at our job. I was real damn good at my job. There weren't a whole lot of actually harmful criminals in the city limits. I had good officers and good immediate superiors.

"But you know how people fuckin' are." He chuckles hard at that, bitter, before his expression deflates. "Took me a while to figure this out, but our government didn't want people to feel safe. They wanted them scared. All the time. If they couldn't be scared of strangers anymore then they had to be scared of their neighbors and if they couldn't be scared of their neighbors anymore then they needed to be scared of their families. It didn't matter how good I was. People were never gonna feel safe. Things weren't gonna get better. Losing the fear meant people might start being autonomous and god forbid they act like independent Americans and not like fuckin' old world communists."

The disappointment absolutely seeps from him. He wanted to represent something good. He didn't want to think that the best years of his life had been for nothing. He did his job to get rid of threats, to serve and protect. Pervasive, invasive threats like dealers or smugglers, or he made people answer for crimes with all the resources and talents a victim lacked to find peace.

(Depending on the victim. Some 'victims' ended up having their reputations mutilated for trying to use his people to strongarm anyone.)

"That's part of why I need to find my partner. If he's not safe, and he's still alive, I gotta do something about that."