Chapter 4

Rook could safely say that there was a lot she could thank her asshole father for, as much as she'd rather die than admit it. One thing was survival—that definitely came in handy during a war. Another thing was a high tolerance for sufferings like pain and hunger—again, useful, especially when pseudo-Darwinian fucks like Jacob Seed were vying for her. But another thing was how to keep her mouth shut.

Daddy never made it a secret how much he'd wanted a boy. Fuck, her earliest memory was of her dad's unshaven, grumpy face looming over four-year-old Rook in the backyard, handing her an axe and slurring out, "Just 'cause you're a girl don't mean you get to slack off."

"It's too heavy," she whined, struggling to lift it over her head.

"Shut your goddamn mouth," he snapped, gesturing to the wood pile. "Don't speak unless I tell you to. Now chop that wood."

She shut her goddamn mouth and learned to chop wood.

Her childhood was mostly filled with excursions into the woods out back, being taught how to shoot down birds with a slingshot and then to shoot rabbits when she got old enough to hold a gun (or old enough in his mind—seven seemed too young to Rook in hindsight). He'd point and bark at whatever he wanted struck down, the word 'girl' spat in her direction like it was the gravest sin. He never did use her actual name—she was named for Mama's grandmother, a name so painfully feminine it probably would have struck him dead just to utter it, a name few had the privilege of even knowing to this day. Mama always watched them go with a frown from the kitchen window, her already thin lips pressed together until they all but disappeared, and Rook had no idea why at the time. She thought it was because Mama didn't like them going into the woods—she did always warn her about coyotes and other dangerous critters if she wandered in too far. But she was with Daddy, so she'd be safe.

It wasn't until Rook was a bit older that she realized Daddy was the problem, when the fucker led her deep into the woods and left her there. She watched him trudge away through tear-blurred eyes, barking her that it was her job to find her way back and that if she didn't before Mama rang the bell for supper, she wouldn't eat that night.

Her sense of direction was never her strong suit, so it was damn near sunrise by the time Rook managed to find the main road and follow it back to the house. Mama risked screaming at him that night, her eyes red like she'd been crying and waiting up for her the whole while, and then ushered her into the bathroom to dab stinging ointment onto her cuts and bug bites while her father snored from his drunken slump on the couch, the first aid kid already out for the swollen lump on Mama's forehead.

At fourteen, he forced her into junior cadets the second he learned what they were.

"Army's gonna straighten you out, girlie," he told her with a smirk when he signed her up at the school fair's booth, ignoring the scowl that was becoming a permanent fixture on her face.

But she kept her goddamn mouth shut, even though she didn't want to do cadets. All her friends were playing volleyball or taking piano lessons or dance… although she wouldn't be caught dead asking to join that last one, unless she wanted her ass whooped again—she was still recovering from mouthing off the night before. But she wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect of yet another inebriated lecture about how she was a mistake of nature and an undisciplined child who needed to be whipped back into shape, so she bid a reluctant goodbye to her weekends and cried quietly into her pillow later. She spent most of their troop meetings goofing off and generally being a nuisance until the leader threatened to call her parents. That shut her up real quick.

After graduation, the next logical step was the military. Her father tried signing her up himself just like cadets, but being eighteen the recruitment officer told him bluntly that she was the one who had to sign the paperwork, and to 'let the lady speak for herself, sir, lower your voice before we have you escorted out'. Rook almost smirked at the purpling in his face, but bit it back in case it pissed him off more.

She wasn't sure what her logic was at the time when she eagerly reached for the paperwork. It was just doing what he wanted, just like she'd always done, even though it'd change nothing in his eyes. But there was something about watching that officer shut down her father like she'd never been able to do herself—and God help her if she didn't want to join the kind of people that had the power to do that. So she shut her goddamn mouth and gladly signed the paperwork.

But while her stint in the military and all those backwoods excursions had helped her survive—more than survive, thrive—in this fucked up holy war on US soil that was somehow going unnoticed by the government, one thing she was really benefiting from was her ability to keep her goddamn mouth shut. Because as far as Rook was concerned, it was now a matter of life or death.

"Wake up, sinner," barreled through her dreams of home and childhood.

On command, Rook forced her eyes open as far as they could go—which wasn't much, considering her eyelids felt like they had iron weights tied to them. She blinked lazily, trying and failing to piece together what she was seeing. Blurry, pale green panels dripping with dirt and humidity provided an eerie background against the two figures looming over her.

"Be easier to just put a bullet in 'em," muttered a second voice.

There was a hasty, "Shh!" that seared through Rook's head like a laser, and she cringed at the dull throb that started up in her left temple. "Do not let Brother John hear you. He wants this one for himself."

Oh fuck, she thought dumbly, before allowing herself to slip back into darkness so she wouldn't have to deal with that little implication.

Unfortunately all good things must come to an end, because Rook woke again to the sounds of muffled shrieks, annoying rattles and some asshole whistling. She opened her mouth to tell off whoever was making the noise, but found her lips glued together; a curious wiggle of her mouth deduced that it was duct-taped shut. Alarm bells started ringing, and she shook off the haze of sleep and Bliss and tried to stand, but found her limbs bound to something… A chair. Wonderful.

The muffled screaming got her attention again, and Rook lifted her hazy head to find Joey Hudson tied by her ankles and wrists to a roller chair, an eerie red light raining down on her like she was the star of this fucked up show and the stage was in hell. A chandelier made of what looked like severed antlers was the source of the light, and Rook wondered what sick fuck thought that was a good idea—probably Jacob, it seemed like his style. She locked eyes with Joey, hers stained with tears and dirt and weeks-old mascara trails, and adrenaline surged like a jolt of electricity to go to her, save her, break her free.

Footsteps caused Joey to stiffen, and Rook did the same as the whistling grew closer. The clang of metal on metal made her jump, and she tore her eyes off of Hudson to stare down at the rusty bowl that had been plopped onto a metal table next to a radio and a chipped desk lamp.

Her blood froze in her veins when she caught a brief glimpse of the tattooed hand that had left the bowl, the polished loafers and the jaunty gait.

Fuck.

Fuck.

She took a moment to close her eyes as a wave of pure terror washed over her like she'd never felt before—not facing off heavy gunners with LMGs that could rip her to shreds, not running into a crowd of real life fucking zombies so high on Bliss they couldn't feel her bullets, not feeling herself waste away in the cages at St. Francis as days passed with no food or water. When her courage had gathered enough to open her eyes, she found John placing a metal toolbox on a wooden table, several panels broken off the backing… and what looked like a slip of human skin nailed to it like an innocuous pamphlet on a bulletin board.

God fucking save her.

John kept whistling merrily, long enough for Rook to realize it was 'We'll Meet Again'. How appropriate, considering his last promise. He flicked the toolbox open with deft fingers and swept the table of dust, back still to her, while Joey slumped with defeat and grief in her chair like she knew what sorrows were coming. Rook's heart pounded so loud it almost drowned out his song, until his palm came down on the wood with a sense of finality and his whistling stopped.

He turned to her, smiling that weird, mocking smile that was halfway between boyish glee and evil, and she tried to hold his gaze with the same deadpan stare she afforded his brothers, pretending there wasn't an actual scream bubbling in the back of her throat. Leaning against the table with one hand, ankles casually crossed like he was just waiting for the goddamn bus, he regarded her like one might look at a puzzle they couldn't quite solve.

"You know," he spoke finally, the smoothness of his voice bouncing through the echoey room, "Joseph said an odd thing the other day." He paused a moment, looking her over as if expecting her to tilt her head in a silent 'oh? Do go on,' but she just kept glaring. "He said that… God had shown him my Path, and that I would find my salvation… in you, Deputy. Not just in your atonement."

Her glaring mask fell for a split second. Did Joseph know? How the fuck could he know? She schooled it back into place when John looked absolutely delighted at her reaction, like a kid in a candy shop.

"I waited for you to come to me," John said quietly, still smiling, glancing down for a moment like the thought made him bashful.

She was ashamed to feel her own heart skip a little—he waited for her? But then the smirk was back, one that teetered dangerously on the line between pleased and angry.

"But you," he added with a strange little chuckle, pointing at her with his tattooed fingers. "You, Deputy, have been avoiding me."

He brought his hand back down to slam on the table, causing both Rook and Joey to jump, their chairs creaking from the movement. Joey hunched herself further into her seat, looking away for a moment, but Rook rapidly blinked away half-formed tears to meet his gaze once again, steely-eyed and unrelenting.

"It's a bit rude of you," tutted John, chastising her like a child that just misbehaved. "Stealing my outposts, blowing up my sign, and then running away where I wasn't allowed to touch you. Terribly thoughtless." She resisted the urge to roll her eyes, in case it upset him, but then the fucker took a few steps towards her and leaned into her space, his smirk growing so wide it crinkled his eyes. "Do I frighten you, Deputy? Do I scare you, where my siblings have failed to? Is that why you fled my territory to run with the wolves and dance through the flowers?"

He chuckled at his own joke, looking especially pleased when Rook's glare deepened. With a satisfied hum, he turned back towards the table and began pulling things out of the toolbox—a staple gun, and… was that another fucking strip of skin? Her stomach absolutely roiled, and like Joey she curled in on herself with horror.

"My parents," he said casually, as he made a show of searching for a good place to staple it, "were the first ones to teach me about the power of 'yes'. One night, they took me into the kitchen, and they threw me on the ground… and I experience pain after pain after pain…"

He turned back towards her, punctuating his words with jabs of the staple gun in her direction. His expression had tipped into that dangerous territory, the one that loomed behind his false smiles, but something in Rook's expression made it flicker. To her utter shame, she had let the stab of empathy she felt at his story bleed through. Was this why her soulmate was such a monster?

Whatever had shown on her face had apparently composed him somewhat, however, because he leaned back against the table, the fake smile gone in lieu of an earnest expression, like he was confiding in a friend.

"And when I didn't think I could take anymore," he murmured, looking at her contemplatively, "I did."

John seemed to remember himself and turned back towards the table, snatching up a pen before shuffling over to turn on the desk lamp.

"Something broke free inside," he continued, tilting it so that it shined into her eyes. She flinched away from it. "I wasn't scared. I was… clear. I looked up, and I started to laugh," he said, as he plugged the pen into some kind of implement. "All I could say was… yes."

It was only when he flicked the thing on that Rook realized it was a fucking tattoo gun, and oh God, he was gonna use it on her. Joey screamed at the sound and Rook's throat closed before she could do the same, flinching away in panic from the prospect of John leaving his mark on her more than he already had, touching her skin, learning her secret…

That stupid smirk returned at the sight of her fear, and he switched it back off and plopped it onto the desk.

"I spent my entire life looking for more things to say 'yes' to."

Rook couldn't help the little scream that squeaked out of her throat when he reached over and grabbed fistfuls of her shirt, yanking them apart with the same bizarre strength he'd used on her at the river. She heard the material rip, cold air hitting her sweaty chest and stopping only where her ratty, too-small bra still covered a sliver of her dignity. She squeezed her eyes shut and craned to lean away from him, away from the searching blue eyes darkened to silver in the red lighting, away from the spicy smell of his cologne and the peek of his chest where he or someone else had angrily carved and crossed out 'SLOTH' in the same spot he was apparently fixing to carve into on her. And he'd have to touch her to do it. She waited for the touch of her soulmate to knock her out with the godly pleasure of it, leave her writhing in the chair for more, just like in the movies.

Instead, his hot breath rolled over her exposed chest in a way that almost had her shivering, if she weren't already tense with fear. Cracking her eyes open, she found John staring unabashedly at the swell of her breasts, heaving with her panic and shining with sweat, and Rook was on a roll tonight with things she'd be ashamed of for the rest of her life, because the sight of him captivated by something as innocuous as her tits shot a little bolt of heat between her legs. Up close, she could see all the little details about his face she hadn't been able to in the church or at the river—the careful symmetry of his beard, the little gemmed stud in his ear with the Eden's Gate initials, the thick plushness of his lower lip and the twitch of his eyelids as they lowered the longer he stared. His grip on the fabric of her ruined top slowly weakened, a shadow passing over his face with each second that ticked by. His hands jerked enough to rip a little further, like he was fighting the urge to pull it down and expose her to his hungry gaze. It'd take just a twitch of his fingers, the smallest tug to the edge of Mary May's borrowed bra, and her nipples would be presented to him like an offering at an altar.

"I opened up every hole in my body," he breathed, so suddenly Rook jumped under his grip, "and when those were filled, I created more."

Why the fuck was he talking about holes and filling things while he was gawking at her chest?

"But it was Joseph who showed me just how selfish I was being," John muttered, the mention of his creepy brother apparently kicking him back into reality, because he turned away like nothing happened and grabbed the bowl from earlier.

She tensed up again when he pulled out a damp sponge, the sharp smell of disinfectant hitting her nose. Yet by some fucking miracle, John's deft fingers pinched the end of the sponge and carefully trailed over the slopes of her breasts, wetting her skin without touching it. She imagined fondling the enemy's tits was one of the cult's no-noes. Gawking good, touching bad, apparently.

"Always receiving. Always taking. The best gift isn't the one you get; it's the one you give, and giving takes courage." There was an urgency in his tone as he kept wiping at her chest, already sufficiently cleaned, the corner of the sponge slipping briefly under her bra cup too many times to be accidental. "The courage to own your sin," he said, as he abruptly pulled up and tossed the bowl onto the table, "to etch it onto your flesh and carry its burden, and when you have endured—when you have truly begun to atone, to cut it out like a cancer and display it for all to see…" He stepped back, bringing a hand up to his chest and circling over the jagged 'SLOTH' with a sigh. "My God, that's courage."

John paused again, once more waiting for her reaction (or taking another moment to stare at her dripping chest, she wasn't really sure which). She granted him no reaction, and he looked disappointed for a split second before turning back to the work table.

"I'm going to teach you courage," John declared, and Rook felt decidedly uncourageous when the next thing he pulled out of his toolbox was a fucking screwdriver, and he began pacing like a madman in the midst of an evil monologue. "Teach you how to say 'yes', so you can confront your weaknesses. Confront your sin. You will swim across an ocean of pain and emerge… free."

No thanks, her shock-addled mind supplied.

As if in response, John's attention snapped back to Rook, lifting the screwdriver up to point at her like an accusation.

"For only then can you truly begin to atone," he said darkly, stepping forward with the screwdriver outstretched towards her.

She swallowed as John ran the tip of it over the swell of her chest and up her throat like a lover's caress—don't go there Rook, stop it, bad girl—before hooking under the edge of her duct tape gag and expertly flicking it off. She gasped out a shocked noise from her mouth before clamping it shut again before her stupid brain could blurt anything out and tie her to this psycho for eternity. He smirked as though he could read her thoughts, leaning back against the work table and brandishing the screwdriver like a trophy.

"So," he grinned. "Who wants to go first, hm?"

The question immediately reminded her of Joey's presence, and Rook glanced over at the bound woman to find her staring in wide-eyed horror. A cold wave washed over her—she'd have to speak. The self-sacrificing idiot inside her had a 'yes' already bubbling in her throat, wanting to spare Hudson any more of the pain she'd probably been experiencing for months, but how the fuck was she supposed to speak when any word she said had a serious chance of solidifying the half-baked soul bond with the over-dramatic herald who switched moods like he breathed air?

What if 'yes' was his soul mark? What kind of a fucking beautiful irony would that be?

"Which one? Hm?" exclaimed John with an edge of impatience. "This is lesson number one."

His eyes stared her down harder than Joey's did, almost begging her to fulfill his wish. Her gaze bounced between him and Hudson like a game of ping pong, her chest hurting at the look of horrified betrayal welling up in the other woman's eyes.

"Someone's got to choose," he said with warning, still holding up the stupid screwdriver.

She stared, her teeth unconsciously sinking into her lower lip the longer he stared back. He looked captivated again, eyes wandering down to her lip, so she immediately released it with a swallow—Jesus, was there any way for her not to get this man's attention?

"For fuck's sake!" he roared suddenly, whirling around and upturning the worktable in a fit of rage, his tools flying. "We'll start with you."

He stormed over to her, but when she panicked and flinched away from his approach the expression softened. They stared at each other, John with his grey-blue eyes like disks of captured moonlight, which softened as he drank in the details of her face, Rook with hers blown wide and fearful.

"You won't regret this," he murmured. "I promise."

Liar.

And there was that fucking smile again, the one that promised amusement for him and pain for others. He stood up abruptly, finally turning to address the other woman in the room, who immediately began to struggle with another round of muffled screaming.

"Now, I think it's only proper that Deputy Hudson goes back to her room," John drawled, practically skipping over to Joey and grabbing ahold of her chair's armrests. "Confessions are supposed to be private, after all!"

With a mighty shove, John wheeled the screaming woman towards Rook. Their eyes locked, and Rook's lower lip trembled, wishing she could apologize for not accepting John's stupid confession to spare her without hesitation. It wouldn't have done either of them any good, but she still felt like shit for it.

John shushed the shrieking deputy with a similar mocking hush he'd given Rook at the river, except this one was tinged with impatience and annoyance.

"I am not here to take your life. I'm here to give it to you."

He shot Rook one more smirk before leaning back over Rook like he couldn't help it, shoving the desk lamp out of his way.

"I'm going to open you… and I'm going to pour your worst fears inside, and as you choke, your sins will reveal themselves," he hissed in a wrathful promise, and this time Rook had to break his gaze and look away before the tears could come. "Only then will you truly understand the power of 'yes'."

"Nooo…" whined out from under Joey's gag, a hoarse, grief-stricken sound that gutted Rook.

He stepped back again, looking pleased as punch at the tremble that involuntarily shook her in the chair, before cheerily adding, "I'll be right back!"

Joey's screams sounded like she was gargling glass as John shoved her out of sight. Rook craned her neck to watch, trying to catch sight of an exit she could escape through, but her neck twinged with pain and she sank back down into her chair. She had to get the fuck out of here before he came back, before he had the chance to lay a hand on her. She feared the touch that would come with the pain more than she feared the pain itself, because pain she could handle—Lord knows she had enough of it growing up—but the prospect of John finding out she was his soulmate… that was too horrifying to think about. The psychotic bastard would lock her up forever in his bunker and scream at her until he forced words from her throat, forced her to lock herself to his side forever, forced her to take in a piece of his soul until he was embedded in her like a parasite. She'd never see her friends again, and the war would rage on without her there to help, and countless people would die because of her failure to keep her goddamn mouth shut.

Immediately Rook began struggling against her bindings. The fucker had tied her up good, her wrists pressed so close together there wasn't even room to sweat. She kicked her legs, jolting when the chair rocked forward on its wheels. A tiny ember of hope sparked in her gut as each subsequent kick pushed her a little bit further across the room. She once more tried turning around to see where John came from, but was only able to crane around an inch before another sear of pain bolted up her neck from where they'd shot her. She cut her losses and kicked her way across the room until she could see a staircase just out of reach, lit a bloody red by the emergency light. Her pace quickened, kicking desperately. If she could reach the stairs, there was a chance she could toss herself down and break the chair enough to—

"I don't think so!" crowed John with a cackle, his hand seizing the back of her chair and dragging it backwards.

She let out a startled shriek that was quickly clamped down, sheer grief welling inside her as the staircase got further and further out of her reach. She could hear him panting behind her as he shoved her back to her spot by the table, and when he circled back around to look at her, wisps of hair had escaped the immaculate style he'd gelled it into. Did he pawn Joey off on someone else and then run all the way here?

"I've been looking forward to this for weeks," he muttered gleefully—that was a strong yes. "Ever since you've been so rudely ignoring me in favor of my siblings. Though, such envy would be a sin," he added with a pensive look.

With a pat to her clothed arms, John spun around on one heel and dragged a film camera suspended on a tripod towards the spotlighted place that Joey had occupied. The camera beeped when he pressed the button, the red recording light drowned out by the stronger reds that lit the room, and Rook resisted the urge to glance at the lens in case it recorded fear in her eyes. With a satisfied sigh, John practically skipped over to the toppled table and righted it, sitting on the edge again with a smile that bordered on a beam.

"Now then," John said, resting his clasped hands in his lap like some kind of fucked up therapist. "Go ahead. Confess your sins."

She had no idea if he really expected her to suddenly become a chatterbox, now that her tortured colleague was out of the room, but he once more looked genuinely angry at her silence. Rook jumped again and shut her eyes when he slammed his hand on the table, dust flying.

"I said," he hissed, "confess… your… sins."

Keep your goddamn mouth shut, her father's voice echoed in her head, and like always, she obeyed him above anyone else. Her trembling lips pressed together with the effort of keeping silent, and the motion only seemed to rile John up further.

"You will never be saved if you do not confess!" he shouted, standing up from the work table and stalking over to her. "You need to say it, Deputy!"

Both hands gripped the armrests of her chair, the warm sides of his hands pressing against the sleeves of her flannel top, but the warmth could hardly be comforting when he glared down at her like she was filth.

"You can confess willingly," he snarled, "or I can pull it out of you. The choice is yours."

She ducked her head, trying to hide her tears. Was this when he was going to touch her? Was this where her life was going to end, metaphorically or otherwise?

"What a disgusting creature you are," he spat. "How could you be my salvation, you fucking worthless thing?"

If John knew one thing, it was pain, and God help Rook if that jab didn't sting like an angry wasp. Her head snapped back up to stare at him, feeling her eyebrows arch up in hurt and her lower lip tremble against her will as the tears finally spilled over and a little broken sob escaped. She knew it—her soulmate hated her. He thought her worthless; he thought her disgusting. God, that hurt. Why did that hurt so much?

John caught it, though—how could he not, his face just about shoved into her space—and for some reason… he softened. His eyes lowered to stare with hooded lids at her trembling chin, tracing the path her tears cut over her cheeks in curiosity.

"Huh," he murmured softly, any trace of rage in him disappearing like a puff of smoke in the wind (God fucking damn this guy and his wild mood swings). "I would never have thought such a deadly little thing could have such a sensitive heart."

Shame lit her cheeks on fire, and she ducked her head again, wishing she weren't so weak in the face of him. Why couldn't she treat him just like Jacob, spitting invectives and granting him nothing but glares whenever he came to taunt her through the bars of the cage? She barely feared the man who could hunt her down at a moment's notice and send her into a homicidal rage at the simple twist of a key, but all it took was John's mere presence to freeze her like a deer in headlights.

"Why won't you talk to me?" he whispered, sounding so lost and upset about it that Rook once again looked to him.

His tone was honeyed and his expression was forlorn—wistful, almost, like she was a dream that kept slipping through his fingers whenever he reached for it. A sad little smile quirked up the edge of his mouth just so, as the two of them stared each other down.

"If it weren't for my siblings' reports, I would think you were unable to speak at all," he quipped lightly, his tone so quiet it would be inaudible if he weren't so close.

And then his inked hand raised to… caress her face? It didn't matter what his intentions were—Rook's brain switched to DEFCON 1 on pure instinct, and with a startled cry she flung herself backwards, her neck colliding with the sharp backrest of the chair. The movement was so strong and abrupt that the chair's wheels spun, tipping her backwards.

Before she could crash to the floor, John's hands seized hold of the armrests again. He didn't right it, though. Instead he leaned over her tilted form, so closely that they could feel each other's breath puffing over their faces. And again, he shocked her with the expression he made.

He was hurt. She hurt him.

The look stabbed at her heart, so close to the lost and frightened thing she saw at the river when Joseph threatened to cast him out of the Gates or whatever the fuck they called it, and this time it was her fault. This time she was the one who hurt his feelings, not him, and were it anybody else Rook would feel a kind of pleased pride at returning the favor, but the victory here was just hollow.

"I don't understand," he exclaimed, and the way his voice cracked pierced through her. "You won't speak to me. You fear my touch. Why? You-you let Faith hold you in her arms, you don't flinch from Jacob starving and beating you into submission. You let others hurt you, abuse you, but all I want is to help you. Why won't you let me help you?" he added on a frustrated hiss, shaking the chair a little.

She whimpered when the movement brought her face so close to his that their noses almost touched, and at last John tilted the chair back in place, settling it down with surprising gentleness. He lowered himself to his knees, still grasping the armrests so tightly the leather creaked, still staring with his sad, sad eyes.

"I just want…" he began, the simple, incomplete phrase tinged with a frustration that indeed belied his want.

He sighed, the gust wisping stray hairs across her face. Rook's neck was beginning to ache from how far she was leaning away from him, but it was becoming harder to remember why she was bothering when he was looking at her like that, like he knew she was denying him part of his own soul.

"What is it about me, Deputy?" he asked, eyes wide and pleading. "Tell me and I'll fix it, if only to save you. Please."

Oh God, he was begging. If that didn't simultaneously break her heart and get her core pulsing with the desire to show him what he could beg for, she didn't know what did. John's hand reached up again, tentatively this time, like he was reaching out to touch a wild animal that had already threatened to bite him. His fingers were curled like he planned to caress them over the apple of her cheek, and the skin there tingled in anticipation, and while she held her breath he gazed at her like she was a precious relic that was inches from his grasp—

"Brother John?"

John froze for a split second, fingers hovering barely an inch from her cheek… and then the rage was back, shuttering his eyes and reminding her of why this was a very, very bad idea.

"What?" he snapped out without turning to address the Peggie that had interrupted, his hand dropping back down to clench around the armrest.

"Pardon me for interrupting," said the other man, and cleared his throat. Rook glanced away from John's venomous look to find him shuffling in place, his dirty dreads hanging as he dropped his head down in deference. "The Father wishes for you to join him at the compound, as soon as you are able."

"We are busy here," John said shortly, but a frown was starting on his face when Rook finally got her shit together enough to resume glaring, craning herself away from him. Sighing in what sounded like genuine disappointment, John stood up and turned away from her to address the Peggie. "I need to prepare. Take the Deputy to a cell to await her confession."

The wistful glance John sent her way before disappearing out of sight behind her absolutely did not make her heart skip a little, no sir, not at all. She let go of the breath she was holding, the sound so shaky it made the Peggie smirk at her as he approached her chair. It wasn't at all difficult to compose herself enough to send this fucker a truly poisonous glare, reminding him that she could (and would) slit his throat with no remorse at the nearest chance. A second Peggie ambled into view, the musky smell of Bliss making Rook's nose wrinkle—it was almost like being back in Faith's region.

"Try anything and we paint the walls with your brains, sinner," her Blissy friend said shortly, looking less smug than his colleague.

She blew out a huffed laugh, all traces of fear having been taken away with John's departure. They wouldn't dare, not without an order from John… and judging from earlier, it was an order he'd likely never give. They wheeled her around, one Peggie pushing behind her while the other held the stained white door open, cradling his gun with warning. A knife glinted in his pocket, the hilt tinged scarlet from the room's lighting, and Rook had to bite back an all-out smirk—this might be easier than she thought.

She went quietly at first, straining her ears for signs of other Peggies nearby, but all she could hear was the steady dripping of humidity down the bunker walls and the faint cries of what sounded like prisoners begging to be free. Fucking Peggie cunts. With an imperceptible shift, Rook arched her booted foot down to catch the edge of the wheel, making the shitty office chair start to slow as cheap plastic fought sturdy rubber outsoles. She waited until she heard Dreadlocks bend down to fight against the resistance, his grunt of effort right in her ear, and then threw back her head straight into his nose. She heard a satisfying crunch as her skull met bone, and the yell that followed alerted his Blissed-out companion into turning around, gun already pointed at her head.

"What'd we tell you about trying anything?" he barked, before stomping over and ramming the butt of the gun into her temple.

She grunted out as pain blossomed in her head, doubling over, but as the Peggie circled around her chair to check on his moaning colleague she strained her hand against the bite of the rope and pinched the hilt of the knife between her middle and pointer fingers. The knife trembled dangerously in the weak grip, threatening to drop to the floor and alert her Peggie friends, but with an arch of her thumb Rook hitched it into her palm. Pretending to still be caught off guard with what was a weaker blow than she was used to (did John order them to hold back?) Rook shuffled the knife under the armrest and slipped the blade between the ropes, hiding the hilt in her gloved palm and the slow sawing motion with a clenched grip on both armrests.

"You're sure lucky Brother John wants you in one piece, sinner," snarled a nasally voice behind her, fingers digging punishingly into her shoulders, "or I'd make you pay for that."

She hissed out in more genuine pain this time as the fucker's thumb found its way into the bruise the Bliss bullet had left, and then let out a disgusted noise when blood dripped down her collar from the Peggie's nose, sliding uncomfortably down her back.

"You want me to take over?" his friend asked.

Wiry dreadlocks slipped over her shoulder as the Peggie shook his head, sniffing. "I'll be fine, s'long as she can fuckin' behave."

The snap of the ropes on her right wrist were drowned out by the clatter of the chair as they set off on their merry way again. Rook kept a death grip on the knife, using the flat of the blade to hold down the ropes in case they fell off the armrest, and took another quick second to check for anybody nearby that might hear them. The second Blissy shifted his head just far enough to break his line of sight with her, Rook deftly flipped the knife into her palm and, using his shitty dreads for reference, jammed it backwards as hard as she could into where his throat would be.

The familiar shocked gurgle told her the knife had met its mark, and when the noise alerted their Blissy friend the man didn't have time to do more than whirl around on his heel and tense his grip on his gun before Rook pulled the knife out of the other man and flicked it into his throat too. The shock in his eyes was almost comical, if he hadn't immediately dropped his gun to pull out the knife, the clang of metal on metal alarmingly loud. Before the Peggie could pull it out of his neck, and hopefully before anyone could come looking, Rook hurled herself forward with a kick of her legs again and knocked him over with the chair. The knife slipped out of him and fell with a quieter clatter near her feet, the Peggie choking on his own blood on the ground.

When Rook glanced behind her, Dreadlocks was already dead, blood absolutely pouring out of him and seeping into the wooden crates beside them, staining the wood. Blowing out a breath, Rook leaned over and snatched up the knife again, hoping all the noise wasn't attracting attention and unwilling to wait and see if it was. She quickly cut through the ropes on her left wrist and then bent down to take care of her ankles, ignoring the urge to scratch at the aching indents the tight ropes had left in her skin.

Without pause, Rook snatched up Blissy's gun and crouched down into a careful sneak, not bothering to hide the bodies—even if she tried, there was no way to clean up the fucking ocean of blood Dreadlocks had left. Her ruined shirt gaped open from John's handlings, and she scowled as she tried to ignore the dank breeze over her tits, feeling sticky from sweat, tears, Peggie blood and the dried disinfectant from before.

A few lone Peggies were wandering the halls, some not even wielding guns, and it was easy to lure them into the shadows with a carefully timed throw of a stone before breaking their necks. As she crept around the seemingly endless hallway, Rook tried to scan her surroundings for any signs that might indicate a good direction—if not the exit, then to Joey. Rook wasn't about to waste this opportunity.

Or at least, that was her intention, up until she heard Peggies shouting nearby, "What the fuck?" and, "The sinner is gone!"

Damn it, she was hoping for a few more minutes of secrecy. She sped up her crawl into a hunched power walk, scouting ahead with the rifle pointed in front of her. The hiss of air escaping and clanging footsteps made her duck behind some Bliss containers, peeking through the cracks between two crates to see a horde of Peggies sprinting towards the bodies. She quickly hopped back out of her hiding place and through the door they'd left ajar, pleased to spot a set of stairs at the back of an open room down the hallway. That sure looked like an exit to her. If she could just find Joey's cell, she could lead her right back here and they'd be able to—

"How could you have lost her so quickly?" roared her soulmate's voice from so close by it almost made her jump out of her skin.

She scrambled for cover again, silently snarling at the tremble that started up in her hands. Jesus, John sounded angrier than the devil with an empty hell.

"I want her found, now," John barked, his stomping footsteps louder than the shuffle of what had to be a chastised flock of Peggie helpers. "Check on Deputy Hudson—odds are that would be her first stop, the little altruist." It didn't sound like a compliment the way he spat it. "And you—figure out how the fuck she got out of her chair and make sure it can never happen again. Is that clear?"

His voice faded as he and his posse stormed back the way she came, but Rook barely got any relief as a crushing wave of guilt swept over her. She was going to have to leave Joey down here after all.

Fuck.

With a whispered promise to return, Rook gripped her rifle and beelined for the stairs to freedom.

John: Why do you fear me? ཀ ʖ̯ ཀ

Also John: screams and decorates the room with hanging bodies wrapped in garbage bags.

Recognizable dialogue belongs to Ubisoft. Special thanks to RamenNoodles248.