A/N: do you ever set about writing a nice, neat 60k conclusion to your slightly fucked-up romcom series based on a 2018 video game only to have it get completely away from you, and now you're finally posting it 5 years later (and a pandemic that truly wrecked any sense of normalcy let alone normal productivity hit somewhere in there) and it's twice as long as you intended and way less steamy and more plot-driven and focused on various character beats? all this to say please don't say I didn't warn you (all 3 of you still out there anyway lmao)

oh, and the title of this section is from The Mountain Goats' song Ezekiel 7 and the Permanent Efficacy of Grace. okay, that's it, have fun!

The Permanent Efficacy of Grace

1.

Since Rook is in the Whitetail Mountains anyway, she decides it's time to drop in on Eli and the militia. She hasn't heard from them in a couple of weeks—which isn't that unusual, given that she's been sticking to the valley in the south, out of easy radio range, but it's still got her a little worried. Normally they'd be hitting her up as soon as they heard she was nearby, checking in and relaying the work to be done, but not this time. Realistically, she knows they're fine, perfectly capable of handling themselves, but the worry is still there, persistent.

Of course, it's the middle of the night before she manages to sneak out of the Center (and she's not an idiot, she knows she was only allowed in and out by the grace of Jacob—she's never been able to get within a hundred yards of the fence before tonight—but it still didn't seem wise to get careless while on the grounds), and the Wolf's Den is miles away. She could jack a car and make the drive, but she's pretty worn out, and thinks it'll be better to approach during the daytime, anyway. Eli treats her like family and always has, and Wheaty's cool with her, especially after the two crates full of vinyl she brought him, but Tammy is still suspicious (Rook doesn't blame her) and she doesn't want to sneak up on them.

She hikes a few miles west away from St. Francis's until she comes across a cabin—abandoned, like most of the buildings in the county. Fortunately, there are no bloodstains, and it looks like someone packed the place up and left in a hurry—there's some old furniture left, cables and wires along the wall where appliances were removed, but it's pretty barren, hardly any personal effects, no food left. She does find a little toy plane made of metal in what she presumes was a child's room, and given that she doubts this family is coming back, she tucks it away in her pack, a little gift for Baby Rye's nursery.

She camps out on the couch, sleeping fully clothed beneath her jacket for lack of a spare blanket. As has been happening with increasing frequency lately, she dreams of Jacob.

He's at the end of a dark hallway, beneath a single exposed light bulb, sitting hunched over in a rusting folding chair, knees wide apart, sharpening that tremendous knife he carries. She can hear the rasping grind of it, even though she's far away in the dark, so far that she can't even clearly make out his face.

She tries calling out to him, but her throat closes up. She tries going to him, but her feet keep slipping in the dark and she can't get traction. With every passing second she can't reach him, can't get him to look at her or acknowledge that she's there, dread grows larger and more suffocating in her chest. She can't explain it, doesn't know why, but she knows that if she doesn't get to him, something terrible is going to happen.

There's a crack, a heavy thud, and everything shifts. She's looking at him from the other side now, and he's on his feet. Blood is streaked across his face; everything is red. The game has changed. He looks at her and she needs to get away from him.

She turns. He's on her too fast. Her arm burns where he grabs her.

She wakes up with a start, eyes open in the dark, and after sucking in a few gulps of cold air, she slumps back against the couch, boneless, muttering "Fuck off, subconscious."

It doesn't take her long to get back to sleep, once her heart rate calms down. It's been a long set of days. All she has to do is avoid focusing on the dream, think about anything else. Easy.

She's up again pretty early—getting back to sleep was easy enough, but staying asleep was more of a trick; she slept restlessly for the rest of the night. The sun hasn't been up for long before she's all packed up and ready to go.

Hungry, she thinks as she heads west, avoiding patrols whenever possible—fortunately she doesn't spot any kidnapped civilians, so she doesn't have to kill anyone. Need to start packing jerky or something. She hasn't eaten since midday yesterday, dropping in to say hi to Hurk on her way to the Center. He'd been grilling some indefinable meat—claimed it was deer, but she had her doubts—and offered her some, and she'd accepted, because while Hurk might try to feed her rat or possum, she's a hundred percent sure that he'll never serve up human.

Whatever the meat was, it's long-gone now. The Whitetails usually have some form of mess available; she resolves to eat when she gets to them.

She reaches the Wolf's Den an hour or two before noon, the uphill hike slowing her down a little. She finds the familiar hatch, and, relieved, goes to open it.

It doesn't budge.

She frowns, yanks at it again, but no dice.

That's odd, she thinks, grabbing her radio. They lock the hatches when there's cult nearby, she knows, but they're clear for miles; she can't so much as hear gunfire. She tunes in to the Whitetails' channel, says, "Yo, Eli, it's Rook. Everything okay? Let me in."

There's a long pause. Her worry spikes. She tries again. "Eli—Wheaty, come in. Are y'all all right? Startin' to bug out a little bit here."

Eli's voice crackling through the radio has her weak with relief. "All good here, Rook."

"Jeez, mountain man, scare me to death. Open the top hatch, will you?"

"No can do."

She waits for a minute, waits for a punchline that'll make his answer make sense, but after a while it becomes evident that none is coming. Forehead knit in confusion, she asks, "Okay, what's wrong, Eli? You're freaking me out."

The voice that comes through her radio next is Tammy's. "Dead end, Deputy," she says, matter-of-fact. "Doors are shut to you now."

The creeping feeling that something is wrong gives way to an ice water sensation of shock. "Tammy," Rook says as soon as she's able to speak, "What the hell?"

"Oh, you have no idea what this is about, huh?"

Rook is silent, because she's starting to get a horrible feeling that she does know what this is about. Sure enough, Tammy says, "Okay, then. Why don't you ask Jacob Seed? I figure he can clue you in."

Oh. They know.

Rook's not sure how long she stands there, thinking of nothing, trying and failing to process this information, but finally, finally it breaks through—and with it, the implications. Someone talked. Someone who wasn't me, and I'm pretty damn sure it wasn't Jacob, either.

"John," she growls through clenched teeth.

That motherfucker. She turns away from the hatch, heading towards the nearest road, lifting the radio to her mouth again. "Fair enough. Hey, Eli?" She hesitates for a second, thinking, no, foolish, keep your mouth shut, but she might not get another chance to say it, especially now. She presses the button and says, "Thanks for everything. I kinda love you, dude."

If he has anything to say to that, she doesn't hear it. She switches channels immediately and says "Dutch? You read me?"

If the Whitetails know, then she thinks it's safe to assume that everyone else will too, sooner or later. She needs to figure out how far it's spread so far, see where she stands. Dutch has his finger on the pulse of the whole county—if anyone else knows anything about this, it's him.

"Hey, kid." She's not sure if she's imagining the resignation in his tone.

"Hey. The Whitetails have blackballed me. You know what that's about?"

"I know what it's about." No, that's resignation all right, she can hear it loud and clear.

"Okay, cool, I'm disappointing people I look up to left and right today," she says, flippantly, like she doesn't mean every word she's saying. "You got any idea where that intel came from? Or are you planning to just quit talking to me now?"

"I heard it from Eli. I'm not sure how he found out. And I'm not just gonna cut you out, Rook, although…" There's a brief, staticky pause, then he says, "Well, what the hell were you thinking, kid?"

"I really don't think you want to know what I was thinking. Just know… well, you have no reason to believe me now, I know that, but I'm not going to hurt you. Or anyone else in the Resistance. I might have some weird shit going on right now, but it's not going to make me do that. Okay? I just… I won't."

"I hope not. Don't know if that's a promise you can make given the company you're keeping lately. You know what he does to people's heads." Dutch's voice is gruff, but matter-of-fact, not spiteful. He has a point, and Rook doesn't really have a valid response, so she stays quiet. After another moment, he speaks up again. "Hey, Dep—you may want to try and avoid Jess for a little while. She hears about this, she might just start shooting on sight. You know how she feels about him, and… well, she's always let her temper guide her. She'll be in a temper after this."

"That's good advice," she says. "Thanks. Maybe I'll talk to you later. We'll see how things go."

"Kid…" She waits, hears him sigh, and he says, "Goddamn it. Just be careful."

She smiles wide so he can hear it in her voice. "Aw, Dutch. I'm always careful," she says, and then turns off the radio.

Now. Time to deal with John.

She's aware that blitzing down into Holland Valley to confront the youngest Seed brother isn't the best idea. In fact, the smartest thing to do is probably to get in touch with Jacob—preferably at a distance—and let him know that their cover's blown, let him handle his little brother, but that promises to be incredibly unsatisfying for Rook. No, she's going to deal with this herself. She and Jacob had done what John had asked, he was supposed to keep his mouth shut, and he hadn't.

There's gonna be hell to pay.

She hits a road and hasn't gone far before a Peggy truck passes her, screeches to a stop a few yards ahead, the driver and his passenger shouting as they climb out. She's got her pistol in her hand before their feet touch the ground, and it kicks like a mule as she puts a bullet in the driver's head.

The passenger lifts his gun. She tucks and rolls behind a rock as the bullets spatter in the dirt just behind her. She waits for his mag to run dry then pops back up and shoots him four times, putting a fifth in him for good measure even as he falls to the ground.

Normally she'd take the time to see if they were carrying anything of use to her, but the adrenaline's pumping and she's angry, angrier than she'd realized, so the instant the second body hits the ground she's up and hustling around to the driver's side of the truck. She throws her shit in and drags the door shut, checking the fuel gauge as she starts the car. Full tank. Good.

She reaches John's place late afternoon, parks the truck half a mile away, in the woods, and creeps up on the ranch same as she did last time. It takes a while for her to establish that John is home, and even longer for her to figure out a safe approach—disabling the alarms, taking out a guard here and there and hiding the bodies in the brush—long enough that it's after sunset before she's able to safely enter the house.

She finds John in the kitchen, a room on the lower floor deeply closed off from the rest of the house. He's working over a cutting board, sleeves rolled up, chopping up a colorful variety of vegetables. She sneaks into a corner with a good view of the doorway before whistling to draw his attention.

He looks up. He doesn't seem the least bit fazed to see her in his home.

"Deputy," he says, casual, almost welcoming. "Such a pleasant surprise. I thought you were in the mountains."

She's got her gun trained on him. If there was any honor in her, she'd pump him full of bullets this second, but she can't make herself pull the trigger, can't—despite everything—shake the thought of how much Jacob would hate her if she ends up being the death of his little brother.

She says, "I was, but there's a problem. Drop the knife."

"No," he says. She narrows her eyes incredulously, lifts the gun a little higher to make sure it draws his eye. He says, "You obviously came here to talk, not to shoot me. Talk all you like, but I won't let you inconvenience me while you do it."

"Well, shit, John, inconveniencing you is one of my favorite things to do," she says, and he gives her a narrow little look, like he really wants to cut her right now. It doesn't make her feel any better about letting him keep the knife—but hell, if he moves to throw it, she'll see, and she's got a more pressing issue to deal with at the moment. "We got beef," she announces.

"You don't say," he says dryly, and, like a taunt, sets the knife down so he can wipe his hands on a hanging cloth. "Where are my manners. Please, sit," he says, gesturing towards the bar stools lining the island opposite his workspace. "Are you hungry? You look hungry."

She's pretty sure that's meant to be a dig. "No," she says, and her stomach takes that moment to let loose an unholy rumble.

John has a very particular way of looking at her, specifically when she's lived up to his expectations and he's pleased with himself for his ability to foresee her behavior—eyes borderline soft, mouth turned up in a smile, lips slightly parted, like he'd like to speak, to rub it in, but can't quite bring himself to ruin the moment. He's looking at her like that right now. It makes her want to pelt something at his head.

"We got beef," she repeats insistently.

"Yes, I heard you the first time. It's not exactly a secret, is it?" he asks, slinging the dishcloth over his shoulder and picking up the kitchen knife again.

"Secret. Funny you should use that word."

"You sure you're not hungry? I'm making stuffed peppers."

Don't get distracted, Rook orders herself. She narrows her eyes. "You can't cook." Aw, hell.

The near-affection in John's eyes vanishes. Now he just looks annoyed, which is an improvement. "Says who?" he asks, slowly, deliberately.

Just your brother. "People."

"What people?"

"Just people."

"Jacob?"

Rook tries not to smile, to give herself (and Jacob) away, but fails. John points the knife at her, eyes narrowed, and says, "I knew it. You know, he's one to talk."

"Oh, really." Rook knows she's getting away from her objective. She can't force herself to bring it back. Getting some fraternal dirt on Jacob is just too irresistible a rabbit hole, and anyway, she's felt so horrible all day long—it's nice to get sucked into some light bickering with John, to pretend that being annoyed by him is the biggest problem she's got right now.

"Mm," John says affirmatively, chopping his way aggressively down the board. "Oh, he can manage to cook meat, I'll grant him that. Can even make it taste good, most of the time. Everything else? Disastrous."

Rook laughs, a low, warm laugh that to her horror sounds more affectionate than anything else. "You're kidding."

"Never."

"Jacob had some pretty compelling logic as to why the three of you are useless in the kitchen."

John half-shrugs. "Joseph and Faith, maybe. I know what I'm doing. Try this and see for yourself."

"I haven't spent all this time practically dodging bullets to go out by poisoning," she says pointedly, and he scoffs at her, tapping his knife on the counter.

"As if I'd poison my own food in hopes of getting to you. At any rate, you'll be of no use to anyone if you waste away."

What a drama queen, she thinks, working hard to stop herself from rolling her eyes. "I'm not wasting away. We are way off-topic."

"Oh? I thought the conversation was flowing," comments John, drawing on a theatrical little frown. She's going to kill him before this is over, just walk over there and brain him on the counter's edge.

"The conversation's great," she says. "Easily the best one I've ever had with you. Who the fuck did you tell?"

He blinks. "I'm sorry?"

"You heard me."

"Who the fuck did I tell what?"

"There's literally only one secret you know about me."

"Oh, is that what you think?"

Rook is done being distracted. "Cut the shit, John," she says sharply. "The Whitetails know about me and Jacob. Who did you tell, and—important side note—why?"

John, miraculously, is silent for a moment. He looks down at the cutting board, arranging something on top of it, then he says, "I didn't out you, Deputy, but I think I know who did."

"Oh, really. Who?"

She sees the shine in his eyes when he lifts them again, and just has time to reflect that she's really fucked up, letting him have as much leash as she has, and then he lifts a deliberate hand and points at her.

"Excuse you," she says, instantly offended. "I am the picture of discretion."

John takes his time, picking a slice of pepper off the cutting board and popping it into his mouth. While chewing, he says, "You say the Whitetails know."

"Yeah?"

"And who's the leader of the Whitetails?"

Rook, sensing a trap, narrows her eyes suspiciously and doesn't answer. John doesn't need her help. He places one hand on either side of him on the countertop, leans into them slightly, and asks, "And who has the Whitetail Mountains so thoroughly rigged with cameras that it's been a months-long thorn in my big brother's side?"

Oh. Oh, fuck.

"I'm willing to bet that if you two were indiscreet enough to get caught on my property, you've been even worse in Jacob's territory, yes?"

"You've been even worse in Jacob's territory," Rook mouths back at him, because the alternative is admitting that he's right, which no person has ever wanted to do.

"That's what I thought," John says, his voice velvet-soft in his self-satisfaction.

Rook scowls and folds her non-gun-arm protectively over her stomach and tries not to think about her first time kissing Jacob, in full view of several mountain faces. She hasn't spoken to Eli and them since before that encounter, not until today. It's entirely possible that they've known the whole time, have just been waiting around for her to come back to the mountains so they could confront her.

"You know," John says, leaning back and picking up the knife again, "as an attorney, I should say that you eventually learn that with most people… all you have to do is give them enough rope to hang themselves, and they will do it. It's almost a compulsion. Human nature, one might say."

"Stop gloating," Rook says sourly, not in the mood for his shit.

"I'm not," claims John, transparently gloating.

"Jacob's gonna be so pissed off."

"He's always pissed off," John says dismissively, and Rook chokes on a surprised laugh. "That reminds me, I was hoping to get a chance to ask you. Just what is it you see in him, anyway?"

Rook's eyes widen. "Savage."

"No, no, no, don't get me wrong," John says. "He's my brother. I love him. There's a lot to admire there, even more to respect. But he's also a nearly fifty-year-old man who sleeps on a cot in his office." The disgust she can hear in his voice almost gets Rook laughing again; she hastily looks away so John won't see, then looks back because she's got a gun trained on him and needs to pay attention. "I'm just curious. What was it that drew you in? Especially given the risk of such a liaison. I assume you thought it through."

Just for that, the precisely placed little note of doubt in his voice, Rook's tempted to flip him off and tell him to get bent. She feels wiggly and uncomfortable talking about this and always has, especially to John, but at the same time she feels strangely compelled, like saying her reasons out loud might legitimize the ill-advised connection, particularly now that people are starting to find out.

So she shrugs, and though she doesn't quite look away from him, she certainly avoids eye contact as she says, "I don't know, I mean… to be honest with you, his whole existence kind of reads like a dare."

"A dare," John repeats, his tone flat.

"Yeah. Like when I first saw all of you, at the church? He looked at me like 'fuck you. Try something.' And, uh, I'm not sure if you've noticed, but it's in my nature to… respond. To dares."

"How could I possibly have noticed that?"

"And through a series of events that I've already discussed with him and am not keen to go over again with you, no offense, that something I decided to try ended up being… this. This… whatever it is."

"Eloquent," John remarks dryly.

She narrows her eyes, annoyed by the sarcasm, then shifts into retaliation mode, gives him a quick little shit-eating grin, and says, "Also, he's extremely hot."

"Yes, I think I get the picture, thank you."

"Extremely hot. Like, I know you're his brother and you're used to being 'the sexy one' or whatever so you probably don't really get it, but oh my god, Jacob's hot. Let me ask you, you ever see someone and you're like 'oh they are going to blow my back out and probably also give me a UTI but it'll be worth it?'"

"Jesus," John says, half-laughing despite himself.

"I'll take that as a yes," she says, crinkling her eyes at him in amusement. Then, because this is getting too friendly and she doesn't want to get caught fraternizing with more of the Seeds, she hefts her gun and says, "Why don't you give me the bunker key?"

"Why don't you go fuck yourself."

That makes her laugh, albeit incredulously, because John usually at least pretends to take the high road. She guesses that means he's feeling more comfortable around her, which isn't exactly a good thing. She indicates the gun and says, "I'll shoot you."

"No, you won't. Jacob would kill you."

"I didn't say I'd shoot you dead, just that I'd shoot you. You know he'd probably think it'd be good for you."

"Shoot me and give away your position? That'd be foolhardy, even for you. I don't see a suppressor on that thing."

He's right. They're deep enough in the house that she'd have distinct trouble getting out again if more Peggies came running. She can't shoot him, and he can't yell for help (or she will shoot him, they both know it), so they're at an impasse.

She rolls her eyes—doesn't lower the gun, but relaxes a little bit anyway. "Fine. I'll just ambush you tomorrow then, or something."

"If you think that's what you need to do."

She narrows her eyes at him again, then reaches into her pack with her free hand, still keeping the gun on him. He holds still, watching her, brow wrinkled slightly in confusion as she rustles around through her stock of things until finally her hand closes over a distinctive little shape, and she approaches the counter opposite him carefully—it's a huge counter, he won't be able to reach her to stab her without climbing on it first—and sets down the little toy plane she'd found at the cabin the night before.

She knows her bar for John Seed is set extremely low, but still, she thinks he deserves a little reward for actually keeping their secret. The thing is little enough that it's probably a choking hazard, anyway.

John looks at the toy, the furrow in his brow deepening, then he looks up at her. "What, is that for me?"

She nods once.

"I don't want that."

She uses a single knuckle to nudge the plane closer to him, then closer still, a smile creeping over her face.

"I don't want it," he repeats insistently, but she just smiles wider at him and backs away towards the kitchen entry, keeping her gun up. John watches her, eyes narrowing.

"You know I can't let you just leave," he says, warning her.

"It's super cute that you think you have a say in what I do," she says, then bolts.

She hears him calling for backup behind her immediately, but she's got a head start and knows exactly where she's going. She body-slams a Peggy on the way out of the main den, busts through an exterior door, and runs for the woods.

The sun's down, but the moon is still close to full. She has no cover for a good three hundred yards. She hears gunfire in no time, after a few shots she feels sharp, blinding pain as a bullet grazes her side, then the bullets quit peppering the ground around her and she hears John's voice, loud and angry: "Bliss bullets, you cretin, we want her alive!"

Thank you, John, she thinks—he must have pushed the Peggy's gun up and away from her, which is a blessing, because the next one probably would have hit her in the spine—and then she breaks through the tree line and hauls ass towards her truck.

She can hear them shouting distantly behind her, but with the cover of woods on her side and John insisting on Bliss bullets, she's already won. She reaches the truck before they catch up to her, throws herself into it, ignores the throbbing in her bleeding side, and burns rubber.

A/N - I know it's mean to do a first chapter with no sight of Jacob but sometimes you just gotta set things up! after this he will only very rarely be absent, I prommy.

if anyone is still here from the last time I was posting for this series, or if you're new to the series but still farting around the Far Cry 5 section in 2023, I would absolutely love to hear from you. comments are lifeblood etc. I will post again soon!