Pvt. Abner (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
remnantrecruit) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ravenrock2020-05-22 07:37 pm
remnantrecruit) wrote in ravenrock2020-05-22 07:37 pm
(no subject)
Time & Place: A.) Washington D.C., 2274 | B.) Enclave-controlled Detroit, 228X
Description: A.) Bellamy and Abner’s first mission together | B.) The Gang Solves A Murder
Content: It’s Fallout, you know the drill
A.) Introductions
This is a retrieval mission. One of our own, a traitor to the cause. You'll be accompanying Agent Rook. He has the details, along with a photograph of the target. Your duty is to assist with the retrieval and protect your superior from any harm in the process. You'll be meeting him outside the main gate at 0600 tomorrow. Do you understand? Good boy.
It was a quarter to six when Abner took his position by the gate, folding his arms tightly over his chest. February was fucking cold, and his civilian disguise didn't offer much in the way of insulation. At least they'd given him a scarf—as much to hide the shock collar as anything else, but it kept his face warm. He pulled it up to cover his nose as he scanned the area.
There. Someone else was emerging from the bunker. Smaller than him, almost child-sized. Was that supposed to be his superior? He stood at attention as the figure approached, just in case.
- - -
B.) Whodunnit
Abner remembered in flashes. Blood. Bruised knuckles. The sight of someone’s face being pummeled into a wall, over and over until it looked more like a crushed melon than a human head. And before that—a whisper in his ear, a voice he didn’t recognize, saying words they weren’t supposed to know.
Do you remember your training?
So yeah, he’d definitely killed someone. That wasn’t the important part. The important part was that he hadn’t done it alone. Someone, somewhere, had the controls to his brain. And that was blatant misuse of Enclave property.
He’d turned himself in immediately, of course. Fully cooperative. Now all that was left was to sit patiently in the interrogation room, hands folded on the cold metal table in front of him, waiting for the detective to ask his questions.
Description: A.) Bellamy and Abner’s first mission together | B.) The Gang Solves A Murder
Content: It’s Fallout, you know the drill
A.) Introductions
This is a retrieval mission. One of our own, a traitor to the cause. You'll be accompanying Agent Rook. He has the details, along with a photograph of the target. Your duty is to assist with the retrieval and protect your superior from any harm in the process. You'll be meeting him outside the main gate at 0600 tomorrow. Do you understand? Good boy.
It was a quarter to six when Abner took his position by the gate, folding his arms tightly over his chest. February was fucking cold, and his civilian disguise didn't offer much in the way of insulation. At least they'd given him a scarf—as much to hide the shock collar as anything else, but it kept his face warm. He pulled it up to cover his nose as he scanned the area.
There. Someone else was emerging from the bunker. Smaller than him, almost child-sized. Was that supposed to be his superior? He stood at attention as the figure approached, just in case.
- - -
B.) Whodunnit
Abner remembered in flashes. Blood. Bruised knuckles. The sight of someone’s face being pummeled into a wall, over and over until it looked more like a crushed melon than a human head. And before that—a whisper in his ear, a voice he didn’t recognize, saying words they weren’t supposed to know.
Do you remember your training?
So yeah, he’d definitely killed someone. That wasn’t the important part. The important part was that he hadn’t done it alone. Someone, somewhere, had the controls to his brain. And that was blatant misuse of Enclave property.
He’d turned himself in immediately, of course. Fully cooperative. Now all that was left was to sit patiently in the interrogation room, hands folded on the cold metal table in front of him, waiting for the detective to ask his questions.
no subject
He shrugs about Adam.
"I don't know. My grandparents came from the local vault, so technically I'm only Enclave because Enclave decided to move in and promised to protect us 'Americans'. Maybe it's not that they don't know his background, but that we don't know because they decided it isn't our business to. Or someone decided he was good enough to team up with. I don't think there are too many commies left. They're probably all stuck in Russia and dealing with their own problems if there are."
Brotherhood is a very real problem, though. And as much fault as he finds with Enclave, especially recently, it definitely doubles back on them and their greed for Detroit's industry. With all the Enclave's dangerous failures against the Brotherhood, it's a very real fear.
Maybe they just want to test out new ideas on people like Abner.
He is a little curious about the guy. He wanted to ask Miller more himself. But in a strange way? He also doesn't fucking care. Funny how that evens out.
"So you were from the Wasteland, huh?" With everything else he doesn't expect that Abner would remember much about that either. He makes his way towards the sub-levels.
no subject
Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised, though. Anderson didn’t seem to know nearly as much about America as someone of his rank should.
“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, sir, but you should be more careful. Communists are everywhere. They can look like anyone. You won’t know until they take a sickle to your throat. I’ve seen it happen, sir.” In holotapes, but he knew they used real commies for those.
They were approaching the basement stairs when Anderson spoke up again. Abner glanced at him, confused.
“Wait. Nobody told—?”
No, of course they hadn’t told him. Probably hadn’t told him anything about Abner except that he wasn’t responsible for whatever horrific crimes he committed. He’d just been assuming Anderson knew. That he could tell.
“Yeah, I was from the wasteland. The Enclave recruited me I think...ten years ago? I was...a person then. Different name. A mercenary, like Miller. Can you believe I thought I was human?” He folded his arms tightly over his chest, falling silent. Yet another thing he shouldn’t be talking about.
“That’s why you’ve been so nice to me, isn’t it,” he said after a long moment. “You thought I was human, too.”
no subject
"So you say, but my pissed off face has made plenty of people back off when I needed them to or get them to leave me alone when I'm in a bad mood, so I'll just stick with it. Seems to be doing me some favors."
But it's more and more evident what they'd want from Abner. Absolute obedience. Utterly expendable, but with all the time and effort not expendable at all. "I still think you are. Anyway you're human enough that they decided your life is more important than DePleur's. They didn't kill you for what you did. They just roughed you up some- for what sounds like their mistakes."
If he thinks too hard on the system as it is, some extra bullets might make it into his six-shooter for his nightly round of Russian Roulette.
"That might be why they don't care. This new guy offered them a chance to bring in his own brand of... whatever the fuck they did with you. So they could afford to lose him, if it means it might not go wrong." He's glad when they reach the offices where the files are kept. The woman there looks less like she's trying to put on airs. She's here to keep records. She's wearing relatively nice clothes, sure, but they are a little dirty because she doesn't have hired help to work out the stains and she's got on practical boots.
She struggles with a box with a grunt, and Hank's quick with a, "Let me help you with that." Before he's over there, helping catch it before it falls out of her arms. Compared to his massive frame, she seems very small.
no subject
“So if Van Cleef really can make more things like me, he shouldn’t be working for security, he should be in the lab. There’s a lot that goes into the training. It won’t be the same if an outsider does it. Whatever the mayor is doing, sir, he’s going to get more people killed.”
He abruptly stopped talking when he noticed the archivist. Connelly? He didn’t recognize her. There would’ve been no legitimate reason for the mayor to bring him to the basement, so it checked out.
“Oh, thank you. Just put it on that table over there, if you would.” The woman smiled up at Anderson, then glanced over to Abner. No sign of recognition, and her voice wasn’t at all familiar. He caught the lieutenant’s eye and shook his head.
“So what brings you gentlemen down here today?” Connelly continued. “Is it about Agent DePleur? Nasty business. I feel terrible for his wife.”
no subject
Four fuckin' years ago, just four, he could have been convinced still that there was a chance to use Detroit to rebuild America. To make it peaceful, and the land his grandparents would have wanted. But there isn't an ounce of that hope left, he doesn't think.
Still there's nice little things, small relief, like in the gentle gratitude of the archivist as he offers his big lug of a body for something small and helpful. He catches the look and nods, before stuffing his hands in his pockets.
"Yeah, it's about him. I'm authorized to access to his records."
He has a specific thought in mind. If it's a revenge killing, it's probably someone he interrogated. While they don't always have names, they do keep track of what was on people when they died, no matter who they were, because that information could be valuable later if they're missing a code or a key or a holotape. Something along those lines.
Often possessions are resold, but they are recorded.
Connelly gives Hank a short, "of course", being as helpful as possible, and leads him over to the rows and rows of files that DePleur kept.
First thing's first. The noticably odd thing he notices is that the first files are under the name Paul Harmon. His predecessor, maybe? Or another name he went by at one time. An interrogator could be prompted to change an identity, and if so, who would he want to avoid?
He doesn't say much of this out loud. He just settles in to read. Then, as if he's talking about a kid, he askes the archivist- "Hey can you get him some water and a chair or something? Or he'll just stand there the whole time and that just gets weird and distracting."
no subject
“Yes, ma’am,” he said mechanically. He would’ve done it either way, but the promise of food was a great motivator. The boxes weighed next to nothing, and it beat sitting there being useless. He was meant to do things. Well, usually more violent things, but hauling books for a middle-aged archivist was better than nothing.
no subject
Most sickening is when he comes across things like, 'Jane Doe: Age 12.' or 'John Doe: Age 4-5'. What the hell even happened to them?
Hank's immensely glad that DePleur's wife is on her own now. It'll probably be better for both her and the daughter, even if it'll be a difficult adjustment for the girl.
He comes across more records. Definitely DePleur's previous name was Harmon. Maybe a way to maintain privacy. He wonders if the name change happened after the disposal of one of the administrations; very possible, and very likely. It's a dodge he never thought of. The backers that were never at the forefront withdrawing, changing their name, returning to their positions while the faces of the machine were notably disposed of. A fresh paint job on rotting wood to pretend it was a brand new deal.
He sits there for at least an hour, working out a number of small details, before piling his notes unevenly into a folder and putting it in his pack. He has no idea how long it's been. He's sure the sun will have steeply changed position. "Hey, Abner. You ready to go?"
did this instead of working on my resume lmao
“Yes, sir,” he replied, stiffly getting to his feet. The cold of the concrete floor had settled into his bones, a painful reminder that his body still aged, even if his brain had stalled a decade ago.
Ms. Connelly beamed at the pair, a bright spot in the otherwise dim basement. “Good night, boys. I hope you found what you were looking for,” she said. “And thanks again for all the help, Abner. I might have to borrow you again sometime.”
He’d...like that, he thought, surprising himself. Connelly was nice. Made him feel useful. Unlikely his superiors would lend him out for something so comparatively insignificant, though. Not unless there was a bribe involved.
Once again, he stayed silent until they were out of earshot of the woman. “Any leads?” he asked quietly. “I think you can rule Ms. Connelly out as a suspect, anyway. Wrong voice. And I can’t imagine her using me for something besides lifting boxes.”
no subject
He frowns to himself.
"Lots of people with unique possessions got interrogated, but were listed as nameless. That means he was involved in someone's cover-up." The best way to bury a cover-up is have someone killed. But also it means he killed a lot of people, and who knows if he was provoking a cover-up himself.
Who the fuck knows. "I gotta keep looking, I need more to work with," is Hank's simple assessment as he leaves, grunting as he moves his pack to the other shoulder. "I'll need more than just the voice, too. You always have to figure out the full story, so don't react out loud when you recognize it. Tell me off to the side. We won't even know if the person was tricked into doing whatever they did to you."
He seems to be expecting Abner to follow him.
"Are they gonna fuckin' hit you again if you go back to the lab? 'Cause that's going to do us fuck all for favors. If they are just sleep on one of the station cots." In the jail cells, probably, but Abner doesn't seem like the type to call issue with that.
no subject
“Don’t worry, sir. I’ll keep it quiet,” he assured Anderson. “I just hope they do too. Bringing me along is like handing them a loaded gun. I don’t want it to catch you off-guard if I start trying to bite your throat out or something.”
After a moment of consideration, he added, “...If they ask me a question about my...training, that’s the cue to take me out. It’s my trigger. You’ll know it when you hear it, sir.”
Would they hit him again? It was a good question. “I learned my lesson last night, sir, so I doubt they’ll hurt me if I go home. But...” He hesitated, nails clawing into the ragged skin around his wrists. “I think I’d still like to stay at the station, if that’s okay. It’s easier than having to come all the way back when you need me again. And less chance of me killing anyone else on the way.”
And, even if he refused to admit it to himself, a night or two away from the lab would be...nice.
no subject
He already has plans for that, though, just in case. He hopes he doesn't have to use them. He'll just have to see Ben tonight, he supposes. "I'll remember that." That way the moment 'training' comes out of someone's mouth, he can nail Abner with the syringe and then take care of the culprit.
When they get back to the station, Hank talks to the receptionist quickly, just long enough to get a set of keys to one of the holding cells and gestures for Abner to follow him.
"I assume you're fine with a cot? Doesn't sound like they keep you in the most luxurious of conditions back there." He picks one that he knows probably won't have anyone in it, and when they reach it slides the gate open with a hefty grunt. For the most part they've had to handle these manually.
no subject
Unsurprisingly, he ignored the cot, opting to sit in the corner instead. The extra space made him feel uneasy. Vulnerable. With his back against one wall and his side against another, he at least had the illusion of security. Important if the Private Abner mask began to slip. The thought of Anderson meeting his real self wasn’t ideal, but if it had to happen, he wanted Subject 51 to be as calm as possible. A tall order without Dr. Holland around, but he could try.
“Um. Lieutenant,” he said hesitantly, once he was settled. “Are you busy? I wanted to ask you some stuff, if that’s okay. About earlier.”
no subject
He wonders how much is true, the stories he's heard about places in the wasteland that wouldn't feed their prisoners. Probably true in some cases, but he's come to realize that some prisoners would rather be starving than what they go through here. He'd always thought the Enclave was pretty humane.
Shock of shocks. It's not. Fuck the rhetoric that his old man told him.
But it still means he has more food to pass on to Abner readily on hand, and he's ready to answer. It might give him something else to think about.
no subject
“Was just wondering,” he continued after a moment of thought. “Something you said earlier, when I told you how I go away. You mentioned...” He’d been repeating the words in his head to remember them for later, but now he was drawing a blank. “A...feud state? Something like that, sir.” It didn’t sound quite right, but hopefully Anderson would get the point. “I’ve never heard of that before. They don’t have a name for what I do. Not that they told me, anyway.”
no subject
"Settle in, I'll be back with something to eat in a bit." Which isn't an answer to the question, but it buys valuable time for him to grab one of the legal books in the office, printouts of older records scrawling its pages, well preserved over time and one of the few old world legalities still respected.
He comes in holding it, setting a tray on a plain table beside of Abner, looking at the page and starting to read aloud.
"'While memory disturbances are often associated with organic brain disease, crime-related amnesia raises the question of dissociation, a term that refers to the disruption of normally integrated functions of consciousness, memory, identity, or perception of the environment. A dissociative state is an altered state of consciousness concurrent with a traumatic experience. Dissociative amnesia, formerly termed psychogenic or functional amnesia, is a disorder characterized by the inability to remember important personal experiences and events after a traumatic experience of psychological origin.' That's what a fugue state is. We can prosecute a thing that the perp wasn't mentally there for. Even with a motive, they're an unwilling participant in actions conducted by a person that's them, but not them. Like as fuckin' close to possession as you can get."
He steps back and leans against the open barred door, crossing his arms.
"Usually when it happens we just send 'em to a psych, try to figure out what happened. Most people wouldn't fake that shit, no one wants to get arrested. So if it happens, shit is real. I've had a few cases where I had to work out what motivated that kind of violence. Usually uh... usually it's something pretty heinous. Pretty traumatic."
What he suspects happened to Abner, just from looking at him.
no subject
He'd been trained not to ask questions. This one, in particular, felt like something he shouldn't even want to ask. But it would help with the investigation, right? He could tell himself that. Focus on that, not on the itching curiosity about his programmed condition and the idea that someone might actually understand it.
When Anderson reappeared he sat up straighter, shifting to a less guarded position. For once the food went ignored as the man started to read aloud. Abner focused on his voice with an almost frightening intensity, none of his usual fidgeting or twitching. The words had sparked something in his brain–hollow, dreamlike fragments of speech, half-remembered through a drugged haze.
Subject observed entering dissociative state during–
–recommend proceeding to phase–
"Dissociation," he said, as soon as Anderson finished his speech. "They called it that once, I remember that. But it wasn't...it wasn't trauma, sir." It wasn't, right? He felt the mask slipping as he curled back into himself, wrapping his arms around his legs. More blood on his wrists and nails where he couldn't remember scratching. "They did it on purpose, back when I was someone else. He wouldn't do what they said otherwise. So I guess it's not really the same as what you're talking about." He sounded almost disappointed. "Is there another word for when they do it on purpose, sir?"
no subject
Not that he explained fuckin' anything. He read that shit out loud from a textbook.
"Trauma doesn't have to be an accident, Private. Trauma can damn well be on purpose." He shrugs tiredly then, shaking his head with a heavy resignation. "More often than not it is."
no subject
With that—and with no acknowledgement of the misplaced plural—he folded his legs and pulled the tray of food into his lap. The novelty of getting people food on a regular basis hadn’t worn off yet, but he tried to pace himself this time, trusting Anderson not to take it away from him. Still hot. He’d miss it when he went back to IVs and raw meat, but he knew that was all he deserved.
He slid the empty tray back across the floor when he was done, wiping his hands on his pants. “Thank you, sir. And...I mean for everything.“ Food, shelter, kindness—it was almost overwhelming. Almost made him feel like a person.
And, most concerning, a tiny part of him didn’t want it to end.
no subject
"My father was the child of vault dwellers, right out of the Detroit Vault. My mother's mom was from the vault, my grandpa Enclave. Dad always taught me a good American is kind. Mom taught me a good American is strong in their own way.
"Glad I pulled off being a good American to them," and not some fucking stranger who beats up people to, what? Prove she can? A dim glimmer of an idea strikes him then. He'll just have to keep it to himself. Maybe he can talk to the guy in city hall to make it work.