sixthiterationlogs | 001 ★ gimme back my bullets

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001 ★ gimme back my bullets

WHO: Tim Gutterson
WHERE: The fountain, briefly, House 52, and eventually the Inn.
WHEN: January 30th and 31st.
OPEN TO: OTA!
WARNINGS: Brief description of war zone and depictions of a very mild PTSD episode.
STATUS: Open!

Thirtieth

Tim does not remember going to sleep underwater, but that's where he wakes up.

At first, he thinks it's one of his many nightmares, but he's never had one like this before. Normally, the nightmares that so often plague him are hot and dry — gritty sand on his tongue and between his teeth, sun beating down on the back of his neck, fatigues sweaty and uncomfortable. Usually in these dreams, he's on some high, rocky cliff side when the ghosts of the men he's killed come back to haunt him. Sometimes, the dreams involve the fellow soldiers he's watched die. Never are they wet, and never do they leave him scrambling for breath.

Maybe his dreams are evolving. That would be unfortunate.

Only, it's not a dream, and he becomes very aware of that when he accidentally inhales a bunch of water. He's awake, and he's drowning. Thankfully, he's close enough to the surface that a bit of scrambling has him breaking through, immediately coughing violently as he reaches for something to hold onto. Fingers grip roughly at the stone edge of the fountain, clinging desperately until he can gather his wits and examine his surroundings. All he knows for sure is that he's definitely not in Lexington anymore, and the shocking change is more than enough to put him right on edge.

Panic tries to burrow itself in his chest, but he shuts it out quickly, instead pulling out the only version of himself he's truly comfortable as: the soldier he became in Afghanistan.

It doesn't take long to take stock of himself. The clothes he wears are not his, there's no gun at his hip, and there's a backpack secured over his shoulders. It's also freezing, and while there doesn't appear to be anybody around, he seems to be in a small town, a little reminiscent to the one he grew up in.

He hauls himself from the fountain, but he doesn't go towards the nearest building. He finds a large rock near the base of the fountain, easy enough to carry but big enough to do some damage, and moves quickly but quietly through the village. The house he settles on going into isn't the furthest away, but it's remote enough, and the one directly next door seems to be in shambles. Inside, he takes stock of what's in his backpack before changing into something dry, then ventures back outside for all the time it takes to gather a little bit of wood from the nearby destroyed house to build a fire with. That night, he doesn't sleep. He flinches at every single noise, sits with his back to the fire, and keeps the rock firmly in his hand.

Thirty-first

The next morning, he still hasn't relaxed any. His back is sore from sitting so ram-rod straight, and he feels so bare without a firearm on him. But the sun begins to come through the window and Tim knows he can't stay here forever. The fire's out and he hasn't eaten and he needs to explore his surroundings one way or another.

In the kitchen, he finds a couple of knives, slipping them into the waistband of his longjohns and pulling his now-dry scrubs on over them. He grabs the iron poker from beside the fireplace and with that, he's slipping out of the house and into the light of day. He skirts around the outside of the village, doing his best to avoid being seen by anyone, taking in the size of it and the various homes, some standing and some damaged. It's only when he makes a full circle around the village does he take to the road, choosing to go into the building that's likely to have the most people in it: the Inn.

[ ooc: This intro definitely got away from me in the end, but! Feel free to interrupt him doing any of these things on either day! ]

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"Insightful," Tim deadpans, unable and unwilling to help the faint sarcasm that bleeds into his tone. He suddenly wishes he'd paid more attention in his high school geography class. At least he can safely say he's not in Kentucky (it's too cold, to wet and damp to be Kentucky) or Afghanistan (there's not enough sand). Unfortunately, he could be in any other part of the English speaking world.

Tim's gaze flicks down to the poker in his hand, but just for a second. He's still unable to take his gaze off the other man for very long. "Didn't have my gun. Figured it was better than a rock."

"Fists are even better," he says, "but rock could be thrown." Assessing weapons and the best use of them is one of his favourite past-times, something he uses to help him drift off at night, so wondering what the best thing to bring around here is something he could spend a lot of time on. Jake could probably even put together some kind of chart.

"I'm Cougar," he introduces himself to the man, his hat tipped up enough so that his eyes are visible. "You're new," he says, smirking at him like it's something he's just going to live with, that label.

"A rock could be thrown and then I'd be out a weapon." It seems like Tim is more than up for the debate of pros and cons of various weaponry. While he has great aim, and could probably do some serious damage with throwing a rock, he'd rather have something he would wield. Besides, in the case of throwing, he has kitchen knives tucked into the waistband of his pants. It's probably not that different from throwing darts.

"Tim." He's past the point of thinking he's going to be attacked, and so he loosens his grip on the iron poker a bit and wanders a little closer. "And actually, I'm pretty old. Too old for whatever this shit is, at least."

Funny, he thinks, and raises his eyebrow underneath the brim of his hat to show his appreciation for the joke, tipping his head to the other side as he studies Tim, reaching into his pocket for one of the chocolates he's got secreted away, chewing on it thoughtfully as he studies the man and the way he's so quick to a weapon, the way he looks at his gun. "Police?" he guesses.

"Army?" is his second attempt before the first is even past his lips. It's something, no one looks that ready without good reason.

It's the hat, Tim knows, that reminds him of Raylan. The hat, and only the hat, because otherwise, he couldn't really be more different, at first glance. Raylan is made of bad jokes, infuriating smiles, and the inability to shut up long enough for Tim to concentrate on most things, usually. Raylan has nicer legs too, but the man in front of him has much nicer arms, Tim notes idly. These are all things he notices with just one look over, obviously cataloging the important things.

"Rangers," Tim answers. "Then U.S. Marshals. So both, sorta."

Cougar gestures to himself as he shifts the gun so the strap is over his chest, swinging himself into a wide-legged sit as he faces the man. "I was Special Ops, then a Loser," is what he says with much more pride than such a name should really carry, but he takes pride in it. Never mind that he had nowhere else to go because his psych eval hadn't been so rosy for some divisions.

He arches a brow, curiously, because he'd never considered the Marshals. "What does a Marshal do?"

A Loser, the man says, like it's an official title of some sort as opposed to a third-grade level insult. Tim hasn't been out of the military for that long, he doesn't think, but he's never heard of a group referred to by such a name, so maybe it's just a very new thing. Or, possibly, a very secret thing. But then he doubts Cougar would be referring to it so openly.

Then again, this might be the sort of place where all bets are off.

"Hoorah," Tim drawls, and the faintest of smiles flickers across his face. "Marshals chase the assholes that decide to run from the cops. They're kinda like cowboys."

There's more too it than that, of course, but he finds that that's the easiest way to sum it up. There's also the prisoner transports, the asset seizures, protecting and guarding witnesses and judges and the like. But the best part of the job is easily the chase, the hunt. The part that all of them live for.

That sounds like the kind of thing that he'd like, but Cougar doubts that you get to pull the trigger as often as he does on his missions with the Losers. The government probably wants people alive, which takes away the funnest part of his job. Well, not fun. The most interesting part and the part that makes him feel alive.

He gives a considerate noise and shrugs, thinking that he wouldn't be so good at that. "Cowboys who get to shoot, those I like," he says, though he thinks that he could see someone like Clay transition into that kind of job, if that's what he wants. "You like it?"

"You'd be surprised," Tim says, almost in a murmur. He hasn't come any closer, which makes having an entire conversation a little weird, given the space between them. But he doesn't exactly plan on sticking around, either. He still needs to get a feel for this place, continue exploring every inch of it he can. "Gotta coworker who does an awful lot of shootin' for as much as he gets in trouble for it."

He leans against the poker, the tip of it digging into the dirt. "Sure. Keeps me busy. Keeps me doin' what I like."

Tim likes pulling the trigger, too.

Cougar stands once he has the gun assembled, shifting it so that it's strapped over his back. Now that he knows he's not about to defend himself from a tire iron, he feels a little better about not having to be on guard and gestures towards the path. "I think I would have been in trouble too," he says, cheerfully, like he's admitting that he'd happily shoot a great number of people just to make sure he got to do what feels right to him.

"Come," he encourages, "I'll show you around."

There are probably a great number of people who join the Marshals service simply for the loose set of rules, the frequency at which they end up firing their firearms compared to other branches of law enforcement. The thing about fugitives is that once you catch up to them, they're going to get away, or die trying. They're just that desperate. Tim loves the chase, and though he won't say it out loud, he loves the shootouts, too.

He purses his lips thoughtfully. A tour might be nice. More informative, at least. But following someone makes him feel like he's letting his guard down, and it's way too early to start doing that. Eventually, though, he brings the iron poker up to rest it over his shoulder, not unlike someone would a baseball bat, and gestures with his free hand.

"Lead the way."

Cougar tries to assess what he'll want to see the most. For him, he'd always liked to be up on the roofs to get a better view of everything. With that in mind, he starts to lead Tim towards higher ground. "I'll show you the town hall. Prison," he offers. "The animals are inside." He's also got the breeding hutches started, which he needs to check on at some point.

"What do you want to see?" he asks, even as he's already moving at a quick clip, his legs shorter as he expects Tim to be able to keep up, no problem.

"Doesn't seem like good use for a prison," Tim comments idly, still keeping an eye out for any potential threats as he follows Cougar. It's hard for him to wrap his mind around the idea of a community that doesn't need any sort of laws or law enforcement, or any prison cells to keep the bad guys in. Actually, in his experience, it's the smaller places that have the most conflict and the most need for that sort of thing.

The tiny town of Harlan's rife with criminal activity, after all.

"Wherever you got that gun would be a nice start," Tim says, nodding towards the firearm strapped across Cougar's back. He has to assume that because it's not loaded, there's likely to much ammo around. But just having a gun to hold would help sooth his nerves a little, he thinks.

"Would you rather it be you?" Cougar replies. No one here has given him a good enough reason to need to take action, but if that day comes to pass, he already knows it won't be prison bars that he'll need to help him keep them in check. It will be the cover of darkness, Jake, and himself, making sure that whatever wrongs are avenged.

"I got it from God," is his answer, which is true and not true. He whistles and gestures upwards. "Sky," he says. "They came, from nowhere one night."

"Can't say I'm familiar with bein' on that side of the law," he says dryly. He could've been, maybe, if it weren't for the military. The Army helped ground him in a way nothing else could have. That, he thinks, and his father's death. If the man hadn't died while he was in bootcamp, Tim putting a bullet through his head would've been inevitable. It was all timing and circumstances that have shaped Tim's future.

"Uh-huh." He sounds skeptical, thinking it's entirely possible that Cougar is legitimately crazy. "You know that sounds made up as shit, right?"

Cougar watches patiently, knowing that it's impossible to believe until it happens, but then it will and he'll be proven right. "I know," he says, "but I have many things that came with a box and my name on it, could not have come from people here. So where?" he challenges. "Either someone not here, who is better than me at hiding," he offers, which also seems impossible to him given his skills, "or something beyond understanding," he manages, accent heavy in the words.

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001 ★ gimme back my bullets

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