2019-09-18 - The wolf and the river

It's one of those oddly hot and rainy days that doesn't happen in much of the rest of the state. Sometimes August thinks it's the Veil that does it; Olympic was never like this. He misses Hoh Rain Forest on these kinds of days.

The afternoon is drawing to a close, so shooting's over for the day; accordingly, August's shotgun is shouldered. His bag's light today, so he likely didn't get anything. He has his hunting vest on, but other than that he's dressed in average hiking gear--long-sleeved flannel shirt, denim jeans, sturdy hiking boots. He picks his way along a game trail, pausing every now and then to listen, or look. And sometimes, Look, in other ways.

The game trail hooks up with the main trailhead a fair way back into the treeline. A good ear, situated at the crest of the highest point of that trail, might be able to pick up on the sound of footsteps approaching. And someone as paranoid as de la Vega might just take the opportunity to hoist his rifle up and adjust his scope with a flick, flick of the reticle until he hones in on that flash of movement. Focus, crosshairs, lost then found again. Then follows it, steady. Steady.

August pauses next to a spruce, sets his hand on it. He stands like that for a while, staring out over the forest at nothing in particular. Or, it seems he is, but eventually his eyes slide to one side, and he smiles, sly and knowing. He glances around, not really ever in any useful direction. Then a grouse explodes out of a bush--now another, and in response a Stellar's jay starts shrieking in hoarse annoyance at them, which angers a squirrel that starts chirping back.

August doesn't move while all of this happens, just stays still. Waiting.

Ruiz squints slightly at the sudden flush of movement that pings the periphery of his vision, and is distracted for a fraction of a heartbeat. His rifle's nudged a hair to the right as the first grouse is flushed from a bush, finger stroking the trigger. Then back again. Steady, despite the cacophony of sound that erupts from the copse of trees.

Waiting? Two of them can play at that game.

August sighs, eyes half-lidding. He feels around for a good candidate. Ah yes...that one. A manzanita bush, dark red, smooth, woody branches against silvery green leaves, about five feet tall and six feet wide...starts to shiver. It ripples and bends, twists, and turns, and shifts to block the view of August from the trail, like something very large has shoved it aside.

If August were standing right next to the man perched upon the brow of the hill, he'd hear him sigh. A low, agitated, long-suffering sigh like, why must we do this the hard way. Does he respond with a surge of glimmer? No, he does not. Stingy as always with such things, he keeps his rifle aloft for several seconds more before flipping the safety and swinging it low. A glance skyward, a sniff as if to scent for rain, and then he trudges for the trail, marking a path toward the spot he'd glimpsed the other man.

August stays put for a spell, until he starts to hear someone on the approach. He leaves the bush where it is; let people wonder why it's growing in an odd shape. He moves, though, into the lee of a snowbush, letting the bright green folliage provide a little extra time before he's noticed. That's the point of the vest, after all, so that he doesn't get shot by being mistaken for something other than another hunter.

He leans against a spruce, crosses one foot over the other. He didn't get anything today, he's in no hurry.

Ruiz doesn't bother trying to disguise his approach. He's not trying to sneak up on his quarry today; if anything, he's trying not to startle it with any sudden movements. He's hard to miss, too, built like he is. Tall, but not nearly so much so as August himself. Sturdy, though, and decorated in all that ink. His rifle is held loosely in its sling, and there's a soft sound that's nearly lost to the steady report of his boots in the dirt; the sound of something being drawn out of a holster. His sidearm, something bulldog-like and mean, safety off and round dropped into the chamber with a quick and practiced motion.

His dark eyes hunt the shadow and the light, looking for something that doesn't belong, even though it very much wants him to believe that it does. There, leaned against that tree. There. He prowls into view, slow, pistol one-handed as the muzzle tracks the other man's head. "Roen," is all he says, low.

August waits, patiently, eyes narrowing when he hears that other sound. He's not clear on what it is until Ruiz shows himself. He arches an eyebrow at the sidearm. "You run into a lot of things that's useful against out here?" He's unnervingly calm in the face of it being pointed at him like that. It does get a, "Also, kinda rude, I've got my vest on and everything."

"No. Not generally." As in, this might be the exception to the rule. He draws a step closer, left hand joining the right on the grip of his gun. Then a flickered grin, and a heartbeat later, it's lowered and the safety thumbed on. "You should be more careful out here." A glance goes to the man's bag, which looks empty, then back to his face. "Not a good day?"

"I should be?" August laughs, shakes his head. "I guess you haven't looked me up yet." He tilts his head. "Kinda surprised, you struck me as a guy who does that first thing." He watches the gun lower, pushes off the tree. "Nah. It's not a big deal, I'm two shy of possession limit anyways. Gonna need to eat some or give 'em away." He shrugs that away. It's a good problem to have. "You out here target practicing?" He eyes the rifle, trying to decide what Ruiz could be after with it this time of year. Of course, Ruiz is a cop, so the answer could easily be 'numerous things'.

The gun is holstered, and the rifle unslung from his shoulder, and propped up against a nearby tree. He squints briefly at the canopy as if he'd heard a sound. Still, almost preternaturally so. Then a breath released in a growly-sounding sigh, and he finishes patting his pants pockets down for his pack of smokes. He's dressed casual, of course; a tee shirt and dark cargo pants with a variety of bits and bobs tucked into various and sundry pockets. Hiking boots, ballcap to keep the sun off his face. "That's what I said," he murmurs, cigarette making its way between his lips. "And what makes you think I haven't?" Looked him up. That seems to amuse him greatly.

August is still while Ruiz is, listening. And, maybe Listening too. It's an old habit he's forever reminding himself of, to turn off those abilities when he doesn't need them. Then Ruiz makes the sound, and August considers him again. "Mmmm, the part where you think I need to be told to be more careful, mostly. Of course," he gestures at Ruiz, "you could just be fucking with me." He chases that with a saccharine smile. "I grew up in two different briar patches, as they say. This kind," he looks south and a little west, right towards where he knows, in his bones, the Shanghai Tunnels are, "and another one." Does he also look due East, for half a second? Maybe. But there's a difference between being raised, and going through a refining fire.

"Find anything fun and interesting? When you didn't look me up."

"I could just be fucking with you," agrees the Mexican, sending August a wink before he lights up. Shake of his lighter and flip of the cap, and it's shoved back into the pocket from whence it came. He doesn't bother to offer the other man one; maybe he doesn't take him for a smoker. He prowls in closer then, dark eyes fixed on August's; every inch of him the predator. "Mmhm, you've got an ego on you." Fading sunlight speckles off the brim of his hat as he approaches slowly, but doesn't quite reach the shadows drenching his face and throat.

"Botany," is his answer to anything fun and interesting. "You write." About botany. "I wouldn't call it a dirty little secret, but I didn't dig that far."

August sighs dramatically, even looks heavenward like he's asking for strength, if not from the gods then at least the forest canpoy. His attention snaps back to Ruiz as he comes closer. He flicks the slightest glance at the cigarette, less in interest or desire and more in 'can I keep downwind of that thing'. So that would be a no, he doesn't smoke.

"I guess I do," he says, thoughtfully. He seems to be thinking it over in earnest. He continues, "I come by it fair and square," holding up a hand in self defense. "At least I like to think so. I also like to think I don't let it blind me, and that life is sure to give me a proper kick in the teeth when it's needed." He's neither predator nor prey, instead occupying a stoic, simple position of existence. An aspen grove, a basalt column, or just a river, changing paths through the forest and time and rain require. "But we all like to think that, right?" He looks out over the forest. East. "I'm allowed a little self-confidence for having made it this far. Considering."

A pause, then he adds, "Not much dirty to find anymore. Section 8 wouldn't mean anything now, so..." He shrugs. "Sorry, I'm incredibly boring like that."

The dramatic sigh, the glance heavenward, gain no reaction from the other man. He drags off his smoke, exhales away. Barely. Like he's half inclined to see how close he can get to annoying August. Understand where his boundaries lie. Circle him like an old, long-toothed wolf trying to figure out what to make of this stoic, unmoving creature. He's not stupid, but he does have the soul of a hunter, and is compelled beyond reason to sniff out weaknesses and capitalise upon them.

"I think I'll be the judge of that." Whether he comes by it fair and square. His dark eyes flick in the direction August's went. East, again. Then back. "What are you looking for?"

Like such things as himself, there's a sense that August's weaknesses--aside from the usual sorts (most of which come down to 'time', like for anyone else)--are centered in what he relies on and needs. And that, above all else, is other people.

"Everyone's the judge of that," August says, tone dry, not intending it as a correction so much as an elaboration. He looks at Ruiz again. "Not for. I know where it is. Just at. That's a thing some of us can do. Know where something is. And I feel like, in a way, when we've been somewhere, and the Gift was alive, and we go somewhere else and it's alive there too," a glance South and West, East, back to Ruiz, "we can always find it again. We know where it is." He licks his lips. "It becomes a magnetic north. After a fashion."

He raises an eyebrow. "Unless you meant hunting, in which case, grouse. Some good spots around here for the forest grouse. Also scouting, for deer--that'll be open in a few weeks here."

There's nothing in the cop's mien or posture to suggest he'll take aggressive action. The greeting-by-muzzle-of-gun was likely him being overly cautious. And possibly more than a little bit dickish. Bark could be worse than his bite. Or maybe his bite just comes out of nowhere, with little warning or provocation.

"Where's your magnetic north then, Roen?" It's not mocking; the question seems genuine. He flicks some ash from his cigarette, slate grey eyes trained on the taller man from under the brim of his cap. No, he didn't mean hunting.

August starts to answer, stops. His expression, which has been relatively open and easy going, seems to close up. He sighs, gives Ruiz a tired look. "Not far from here," he says. "But I'm about to cut it down, so...guess I'll have to sort out a new one." A bitter smile.

"What about you?" He looks around them, gestures with a hand. "You don't strike me as a guy who moved out here because you like the woods and the quiet. Was it just the Gift? Or is there some other magnetic pole out here for you?"

He could try to touch the other man's mind, and glean what he wants to know by brute force. But like any old predator, he's learned that some situations require a little more finessing. He's quiet during that pause, holds August's gaze if permitted. Smoke brought to his lips, dragged from, ash flicked off the end in a little looping ritual. "You need a hand with that?" That, too, sounds sincere. Tentative, even. A breath at the question posed to him, and he prowls away a few steps, giving the stalwart man his back for a moment. "Work. I moved out here for work. Wasn't planning on taking the promotion. Changed my mind."

August tilts his head, genuinely curious at the offer. He holds Ruiz's gaze, weighing not so much the sincerity as wondering at the reason. But this is an old back and forth, and August has been on this particular sort of merry-go-round a time or two. His lips twitch in a small smile. "No, I'm good. But thanks. I mostly just need help setting it down, and I've got people coming to help with that."

He folds his arms, nods. "Mmmmm. You think it was," he nods his head, unknowingly in the direction of the old Saw Mill, though not on accident, "the Gift?" Before Ruiz can answer, he adds, "I ask people like you--people who've been here a little while--because, some of us, we wind up out here under weird circumstances. And I'm starting to wonder if those weird circumstances aren't just 'weird'."

It's neither here nor there, the refusal. Doesn't seem to ruffle the cop's feathers, though the hesitation garners a slight narrowing of his eyes. Curiosity for curiosity. The mutual wariness makes him smile slightly. Then August indicates the saw mill, or what Ruiz assumes is the saw mill based on the direction of his gesture. And the amusement fades, and something passes through his eyes for a moment. A flicker of recollection, there and gone again, like a half-remembered thing.

"Could have been. Probably was." Drag, exhale, flick. "This town is.." His dark eyes slide away, hunting the canopy at another sound. A murder of crows, flushed from some high-up bough, headed eastward. "..el mal."

August seems pleasantly surprised to see the curiosity is shared. Well, at least he can congratulate himself on not getting dull in his old age.

He looks when Ruiz does, tracking the crows with his eyes, listening to Ruiz and the forest around them with other senses. He grunts in agreement, eyes still skyward, when Ruiz says that.

"It's more than that though," he says, his attention shifting to the Manzanita he pressed into service. "I've seen the other side--not just where They take us when They want their share, but," he waves a hand like he's parting a curtain, "just over the edge, and it's...more than just the awful shit. There's amazing stuff too." He looks at Ruiz directly. "It's not much different than when I was out in the back country. Maybe a little--They're over there, after all--but what's a wilderness without predators? We're just not the apex, is all."

There's a sound in Ruiz's throat, when August looks at him like that. When he tells him I've seen the other side. The beginnings of a snarl, as if in warning, though it seems to fritter away a moment later. Something about it's gotten his hackles up, though damned if it's clear what. "I've got to get going." He's careful to put out his smoke and tuck it back in the pack, and stamp out the area he'd flicked hot ash. No starting forest fires, thank you very much.

"I'll see you around, si?" He reaches for the rifle he'd leaned against a tree, and tugs the strap over his shoulder, hitches it once. Dark eyes on August's again.

August takes in that reaction with intense interest, like he's just observed something he honestly hadn't expected. It lasts a handful of seconds, then he shifts, turns his attention back to the bush. "Yeah. If nothing else," a sidelong glance at Ruiz, "at the funeral." A bob of his eyebrows for that nasty piece of business, then he nods at the bush. "Back where you belong, big guy," he says, voice low. He reaches out to run a hand through one of the branches, and the bush shudders to life, hefting itself up and back into position once more.

August's gaze is returned in equal measure for those seconds of silence. Then the Mexican backs away a pace, and another. Tonguetip run slow across his lower lip. Dark amusement when the funeral's mentioned. "If I make it that far. Yes." Meaning he may well not survive the exorcism. He seems more at peace with this than anyone in their right mind ought. Though nobody's ever precisely accused him of being in his right mind, so there is that.

The trick with the bush is observed for a moment, and then he flashes a quick, dimpled grin, ticks two fingers to his forehead in a lazy salute, and turns to prowl off into the trees.