abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] eyes black, big paws

[ The underground is an area Geralt rarely enters unless beckoned; his natural preference is the open sky, and the weather in Dean's space is usually pleasant. Now, the winds are howling, the clouds a dark gloom. Debris tumbles past him as he rides downward.

He cuts the engine. ] Seemed easier to manage than a skittish mare.

[ Horses, thunderous lightning, and muddy bogs do not mix. Likely, they don't mix well with the bike, either, but Geralt knows very little about how these machines behave under various conditions and as a result, they simply...work. Without interference.

For instance, categories of tires. A nugget of wisdom Dean has not imparted on him.

The lights flicker again. Geralt approaches. A chest sits nearby—a cooler—and he helps himself to a bottle. ]

You've time to spare today. [ An observation and a question rolled in one. ] Resting before you find more trouble?

( There's a thoughtful little moment of consideration and then concession — yeah, okay, fair enough. Motorcycle's definitely a step up from horse considering the weather.

Then again, literally all of it's irrelevant because it's imaginary and they could just straight-up teleport or whatever, but he's team Horizon Reality Decisions, so they'll just not acknowledge that.

Instead, he ambles his way over toward one of the supply closet doors that's totally always been there this entire time, and bounces down a hefty pair of mud tires to roll toward Geralt's bike. If they've got nothing better to do, might as well swap 'em. )

Cas is keeping watch. We're grounded. Dust storms started kicking in bad after we were already about a week out into the Badlands. We haven't been able to move in practically a whole damn day.

( Because trying to navigate in that visibility out there? Impossible. )

[ One eyebrow lifts. Geralt plants his hand on one of the tires as it rolls towards him. ]

What brought you out?

[ He can't recall Dean leaving so early in the month for a contract except for a lengthier trip. Unfortunate, being trapped out there. Normally a sandstorm will pass within a few hours, but this one appears to stir intermittently, never quite fully relenting.

He slides the stand under the front of the bike. Like everything in the Horizon, there's no true purpose for changing tires, but it gives them something to do while they talk. The storm means Geralt hasn't much he can do, either. He's running out of shelves to fix. ]

( A hesitation hits Dean's posture. The second tire slows its roll, and his eyes flicker from Geralt to the wheel and back again.

Debating.

He wasn't gonna spill the details, he didn't have any plans to bring it up. He's also not interested in being withholding, he's not hiding anything — not from Geralt, anyway. Not since the Mark, as a matter of principal.

And so, after a beat, with very little inflection in his tone, he answers: )

The military.

( Geralt's known him long enough now to peg that it's a weird answer. He's always been wary of their whole deal, reluctant to work too closely with them, definitely not for them.

Should he elaborate?
Absolutely.
But also, it's kind of fun being the one to give an ominous, vague answer and let Geralt pull teeth about it for a change. )

[ Geralt, too, pauses. That isn't a question he expected Dean to hesitate over. He'd anticipated something simple. Restlessness. The angel's insistence. Poor fucking timing.

It is an odd answer. Since when did Dean bother with contracts for the army? More importantly, since when did the army bother to make contracts with their Summoned hunters?

He sighs, glancing up from behind the machine. He doesn't like when Dean won't say without prompting. Usually, it means something complicated has happened, and he is not certain he wants to know what more complicated could be where the government is involved. ]

Would you like to tell me more?

( Mark this down as the first time in history anybody's ever not liked when Dean stopped talking. If only he could read minds, he'd have plenty of commentary on the matter — enough to make Geralt rapidly change his opinion, probably.

With just a little pointed sass, he answers: )

Why yes I would, thank you for asking.

( You see how annoying it is on that side of it, Geralt?? It sure is helpful when people just use their words!!

But no, more seriously: )

They cornered me after we got back from our trip. You know how we found the, uh- ( Shit, what French name did Jaskier come up with again?? His tongue stumbles over the syllables. ) Prìosanach na feòla.

( His eyes settle on his hands, on the tool in them, on the methodical process of taking off the motorcycle's back tire. )

Apparently there are more running around out here. They gave me a whole... ominous double-talk speech that pretty much boiled down to... if I go take care of them discreetly, they'll make the good faith assumption that I wasn't out on an unsanctioned research mission with anybody else that may or may not have been in some shit recently.

[ Geralt rolls his eyes before returning to the wheel. He releases the air, then starts to pry it off. He's helped Dean with his car, and he much prefers the ease of working on a bike.

It isn't long before he pauses again. Unsanctioned research mission. Fuck. Naturally. The one time they weren't out there looking for trouble, that's when they're accused of such. In retrospect, he should have found it unusual that the military didn't approach him about what was found. Certainly, it was more than the usual monster. And he's learnt by now they're watched more often than not.

After a moment, he finishes removing the tire. He hadn't meant Dean to be caught in his shit. He knows Dean knows that, too. ] Thank you.

[ He holds out his hand for the tool when Dean finishes. ] How many have they got you trapped for?

[ More could be anything from two to ten. ]

( In a manner that displays the true magical nature of their heartfelt bond, Geralt's thank you is met with a dismissive grunt and the vague wave of his hand. Shut up, it's nothing. He wasn't gonna mention it.

He passes the tool over, and takes his moment of free-handedness to pluck up his imaginary beer. He's only just brought it to his lips when the lights above them flicker again, and he pauses until the pitch darkness recedes.

As he drinks and swallows, he holds up three fingers to answer the question — then properly voices it after his mouth is clear. )

Three. So they say. Why in the hell would they make four of those things? Wasn't one enough?

[ Geralt grunts back in return, and that's about all they have to say on the matter. ]

Experiments. [ He frowns. ] I found a similar fragment long ago. Returning to the site nearly got Sam killed. When the dreams trapped us.

[ Dean might recall. He'd died in that dream, returned with Sam nearly dead, and after that, he simply saw no reason to test their luck a third time. What he'd found looked dormant. And he's learnt not to disturb what ought to be left untouched. Still, the decision never sat entirely easy with him—precisely for this reason.

Though now he has confirmation that the Free Cities is behind it. Not that there was a lot of doubt.

He refits the wheel onto the bike and sits on his haunches while Dean finishes the rear. ]

( He does remember. It feels like a damn lifetime ago, but he remembers Sam being holed up for a while. Remembers Geralt being off his game for a few days. Definitely remembers the dying, he'll never be able to shake that out of his brain — they're closer now than they'd been then, but they'd still been plenty close enough for it to leave a lasting impact on Dean. Vivid enough for his mind to superimpose it on top of his memories as a demon, combining the two in his nightmares a couple of times a month even now, nearly a year later.

A frown etches itself on his face — partly due to that train of thought he heads off at the pass, partly out of concentration. That all-too-familiar sensation of trying to make connections with not nearly enough evidence, not enough pieces on his mental corkboard to string together with red thread. Geralt's specimen, the French-named monsters, the military, the badlands... things that are bad, things that are connected, but a big ol' gaping, glaring hole smack in the middle labelled motive.

An unpleasant thought occurs to him.

He falters at the rear tire, his wrench stilling. )

You don't think-

( As soon as his mind supplies the idea, it refutes it again. Too morbid, too unlikely, too many reasons why it shouldn't be.

But it could be. Maybe. )

We've heard talk, right, about... other factions experimenting on the summoned, back in the day...

( These tortured monsters, these poor bastards, they're not the Free Cities' version of that, right? Those aren't old Summoned? )

[ Geralt reaches for his beer, waiting for Dean to gather his thoughts. He turns the cap idly in his hand. ]

More than heard. I was there. [ Aside from Himeka, he may be the only one left who spoke to Relena. He shakes his head. ] Before our arrival, Thorne was the only one capable of the summonings. The Free Cities might've hidden a secret of their own, but knowing how closely the High Mage watches the Singularity...

[ He imagines they must have their ways of knowing what the Free Cities are capable of. They certainly knew where he went. Enough to snatch him and cart him back to Thorne. Which means spies. The usual.

His expression turns contemplative. ] The woman they took, she was deemed unwanted and locked away with us. Expendable mistakes in Thorne's eyes. [ And thus, viable for tossing into some frosty mines or experiments. ] The Free Cities seems to take a different approach.

[ Keen on numbers, perhaps. Or are they outright discarding the ones who aren't wanted? It isn't out of the question. The real conclusion is that they don't know enough about the ritual in the first place—and they should. So many of them are focused on the Singularity, himself included. Hard not to when Ciri is so closely connected to the monolith. But the more he thinks about it, the more he understands that the main problem will always be the people harnessing power. Not the source of it. ]

Edited 2024-03-28 23:19 (UTC)

( He remembers Geralt's less than awesome personal experience with Summoned experimentation, but his mind had been thinking earlier than their group — it didn't occur to him to be tactful about the question until too late. It's Geralt, at least, who he knows isn't particularly sensitive about his traumas, but Dean still flashes him an apologetic grimace anyway, on principal.

It's an only slightly reassuring answer. If just Thorne did the whole Summoning shtick before, it's highly unlikely those dehydrated clockwork zombies are somebody like them, probably, right? Don't get him wrong, it's still absolutely freaking horrible, but there's a very personal difference. If it were a possibility, he'd have to be much more on his guard on behalf of the people he considers his own.

He's quiet for a few minutes as he finishes tightening things into place, quiet as he rounds the bike, quiet as he shuts the Impala's hood and perches atop it. )

Part of me thinks... if I found out they did something like- that- ( What they did to those monsters, those poor bastards. ) To... Jo, to Cas, to you — or, God forbid, Sam, I would burn this entire city to the ground.

( His voice is low, and dark, and intently serious. If he's exaggerating his wrath, it's only barely. The principal is entirely honest; he would raze in wrath, and he's fully capable of it. He doesn't need to be a demon to hurt people. )

And then I think... if I'd do that for somebody I know, why wouldn't I do it for a stranger? What kind of selfish dick keeps something like this to themselves, what kind of person-- knows something like that's going on, and doesn't do anything about it? I mean, should we- shouldn't we do something about it? They're torturing people. You saw that thing. The way it- the way it was welded to iron, and-

( He has to stop, to lick his lips. To cut himself off, to keep his voice from raising or getting too hoarse. )

Geralt, it looked like Hell. It looked like something that stumbled straight out of Hell. I don't know if I can just sit on this.

( But what's the alternative? Challenging the entire god damn military? )

[ As Dean stands, so does Geralt. He joins him on the hood of the car, the metal cool to the touch.

He had the same thoughts. When he first found the limb, he went to see Sam at once. What if it was a sign of active experimentation? (What if they had taken children?) When they realized the facility was abandoned, Geralt let it be. At the time, he was especially unwillingly to put Ciri at risk or awaken something best left untouched.

That was before they found a full specimen wandering the desert.

He sighs at the dusty ground and folds his arms across his chest. It strikes close to home. Experiments and mutations. ]

Back on the Continent, I stumbled across something. Young girls chosen for their resemblance to Ciri, disfigured into grotesque horrors. Their minds toyed with. I had the choice to leave it alone. Stay in hiding with Ciri. I couldn't. So I went to stop it.

[ Deep into the belly of the beast. ]

I lost Ciri that night. Nearly lost myself. But I don't regret saving more of those girls from the same fate.

[ There's a lot he'd have done differently, but not that. No matter how often he reflects on what happened, he can't imagine a scenario where he'd have turned his back on what he saw at Vuilpanne.

He glances over. A year ago, his advice may have been otherwise. Things have changed. So has he. ] You already know your answer. Just be careful.

( He's respected Geralt for a long time. Even despite his initial wariness, knowing the guy was a hunter initiated him with a certain level that's only grown with time. His regard now is extremely high, but even despite it, part of him expected Geralt to warn him off of this path. He expected caution, or to be guided to abstain — the dude's got a habit of keeping his head down, keeping his business close to the vest, and for a minute he really thought that's the same brand of advisement he'd get from this.

But it isn't... and that respect only grows higher as a result. It feels like the right answer, on a base and foundational level.

He meets Geralt's eye as the other man looks over and, after a lengthy beat, he nods. Just the once.

Okay, then.

Okay.

Good.

To be careful he says nothing; they both know he'll be as careful as he can be, but with this kind of thing... caution can only guarantee you so much safety. There's a very real risk that he pokes into something he shouldn't, that it brings heat down from on high, and the only true way to mitigate that would be to not poke around at all.

He'll handle the monsters he's been tasked to end. He'll get the military off their backs, and let their attention wander.

And then he's gonna start poking.

In the meantime, the two of them sit in contemplative silence, and drink. )

[ CLOSED ] eyes black, big paws

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