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for christiano

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i can see ur birds nest hair wandering around the ag gardens from the roof of the workshop
come here
if ur not gonna brush it i will
its harshing my view

Early post-invasion, with the first survivor's group (CW: violence, torture with electricity)

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Where’s the rest of it, Cole?

[ Cole joined the Berkeley-Origin survivor’s group a couple weeks back, when they were passing around the outskirts of Red Bluff, following the Sacramento River north. At the time, he had weapons and ammo to offer. Told Luke he worked as an EMT, that he knew first aid and could help the medics. Turns out, that was a lie - Cole’s an addict, caught pocketing a portion of their recently dwindling supply of hydrocodone. With a little sister depending on it to soothe a broken rib, Luke didn’t take this news well.

In fact, he took this news by knocking Cole out with the butt of an assault rifle, dragging him out to a half collapsed shed, and strapping him to a chair before putting a cigarette out on his arm to wake him up. The lack of answer for the first question (Cole’s a little bewildered, understandably) doesn’t help the situation, or Luke’s rapidly escalating anger towards an addict (pot meets kettle much, bud?) taking advantage of his family’s goodwill. ]

Where are the rest of the fucking meds, Cole?

[ accompanied with a backhand, and Cole shakes his head violently, stuttering and mumbling incoherence, a few poorly constructed excuses. the guy likely has a concussion, but none of that seems to matter to Fearless Leader Luke Saenz, determined to keep his loved ones safe and provided for, no matter the apparent blood on his hands or deplorable ethics. Inhaling deeply, he watches the petrified man in the chair, ignoring the sound of Ian Fowler shuffling somewhere behind him, witness to all this, and goes for a new tactic. ]

Y’know, there’s this therapy folks used back in the day to treat problems like yours. It gets a bad rep, but with no counselors, or anyone with patience and a single shit to give about your well-being, we work with what we got. [ crouching down in front of the bloody, wrecked man in the chair, luke’s wearing an almost pleasant smile, his hands falling on Cole’s wrists as if in some form of comfort. ] Ever hear of electroconvulsive therapy?

[ Luke doesn’t ask a third time. Fingers on Cole’s wrists tighten hard enough to bruise, and blue-white light sparks through the air. Screams echo off the shoddy warehouse walls as the man's violently electrocuted, surely carrying through to the camp of survivors outside, not that Luke seems to mind at the moment. The man jerks, thrashes and howls, but Luke’s eyes remain cold, detached, yet determined. ]