2017-05-20: You Can Trust Fire
- Log: You Can Trust Fire
- Cast: Kent Hauch, Kahm Yugh
- Where: Adlehyde Fairgrounds, Gentleman's Alley
- Date: May 20th, 2017
- Summary: After ignoring it for long enough, Kahm decides to pay Kent a visit and discuss what happened in the Otherworldly Hollow.
<Pose Tracker> Kent Hauch has posed.
The Gentleman's Aisle! Fun! Games! Mild debauchery! Yeah no nobody even tries to get Kahm's attention for the games. Everyone can be pretty sure what Kahm's here for. He is also one of the few people that knows exactly which of the doors leading into the building bordering one side of the Aisle leads into the entrance to the Black Tie hideout as opposed to one of the traps that dumps a bunch of gasoline and tinder onto you.
Ribaldy is on outer door duty today, which means Ribaldy is at the Beastman arm wrestling station. The double-duty works out because when Ribaldy is at the table people just don't... go for it all that much. Might be the way his arms still have clear definition despite being covered in dark fur. When he sees Kahm, his ears fold forward and his head ducks. His chair scrapes as he shifts away from the door partially obscured by the curtains around the flaming arrow Gentleman's Shoot game.
<Pose Tracker> Kahm Yugh has posed.
It was the first time Kahm had deigned to visit the minor fiefdom the Black Ties had set up within the Adlehyde Fairgrounds. The look on the Captain's face said he would have been happy to have kept things that way, stepping past the no-doubt lucratively rigged fair games with the same lack of acknowledgment the attendants wisely gave him. Kahm's black hat, vest, and pants might give him the look of a lawman out to clean up the lion's den to a random passerby, all the pieces of his usual ensemble having been replaced with freshly pressed doubles after his most recent visit to a dig site.
Ribaldy scatters instinctively when the gebler officer grows near, perhaps to his credit. Kahm was already halfway to regarding the beastman, a noted change in behavior (hell, it was rare enough for Kahm to act like any of the other Black Ties existed). He'd half a mind to ask the beastman to fetch his boss, but Kahm had no patience to play that ridiculous game today. With a shake of his head, the man reached for the door, pulled it open, and shut it behind him with the urgency of man pressed for business.
<Pose Tracker> Kent Hauch has posed.
Kahm Yugh goes into the door without so much as a knock, and is presented with a familiar rifle barrel in his peripheral vision. A composed-looking Jacket, a remarkably brawny-looking woman with extremely short brown hair, is standing behind a waist-high bulwark of hammered-together scrap metal in the Badlands style. The other half of it is raised on a pulley.
Kahm may be impressed at the woman's trigger discipline with the salvaged Gebler rifle, her index finger held out of the guard. Like anyone currently over the rank of Vest, she came here from the Badlands. Kahm doesn't seem to be particularly spooking her, given she also takes a bite from her bread roll. "Boss," she says, "company."
Kent Hauch is asleep on a salvaged couch, a black hat tipped over his eyes, legs propped up on the far arm rest because there's no way he's fitting his whole body on a couch. The people around him, playing some arcane card game with small stacks of Gella, seem nervous about this entire situation.
Kent doesn't stir. "Boss," the woman says, louder. She glances at Kahm and shrugs. "Guess we're waitin' here, dark'n'clean. What's your name?"
<Pose Tracker> Kahm Yugh has posed.
The greeting was no less than what Kahm might have expected, such as it was. His poise was no different with a gun trained on him, the Captain's eye gradually turning down the length of the barrel to its wielder. There was, indeed, an unspoken to appreciation to the woman's sense of propriety and-dare he think it-training in how she kept the sight of the weapon squarely on him, neither dropping her guard or raising it excessively unless Kahm gave her a reason to (he did not). The rifle wasn't quite sized for her, but she'd conceived an effective way to hold nonetheless...almost military.
An island of sanity in the jungles of madness, Kahm squarely thought. Perhaps there was some hope for these fools after all.
"Yugh." Kahm said, after a moment of silence just long enough that the woman may have wondered if he was going to respond at all, "But out here, call me Rider."
The Captain's gaze turned toward the slumber of their mutual wait, exhaling some guttural sense of approach and curling his right hand into a fist. "Hauch." He said, quite nearly shouted as his voice grew with emphasis, "Wake the hell up."
<Pose Tracker> Kent Hauch has posed.
"Rider?" the woman asks, one eyebrow climbing eloquently. "Sure." Her tone indicates that she is most definitely sure of something.
Before Kahm can finish yelling, Kent responds, "Hauch." Barely perceptible difference. He hits the 'ch' more softly than Kahm had. "S'funny, innit. You grow so used to nappin' with a hat over your eyes iss tough to go back when you stop wearin' one." He pulls the hat off his face, clamping it onto the head of one of the gameplayers next to him and swings his legs off with the sort of energy of someone who woke up the moment Kahm walked into the room.
The gang leader looks at the door guard and fires her a wink. She sniffs at Kent, not appreciating being used as some kind of test, and lifts the gun's barrel from the notch in the bulwark, setting it next to her. She pointedly kicks something at her feet, dropping the top half down and mostly obscuring her from site as she turns back to a novel with a poorly-sketched shirtless Vin Barrett on the cover.
Kent doesn't get up, or offer any water, alchol, or motion him toward any of the furniture scattered around. Neither does he make any motion to clear the Ties playing cards next to him. He knits his hands behind his head and re-props his feet on Red River's tank, which is never far from him even in the hideout. There's plenty of seating available - the Black Ties sell the best furniture from their heists, usually just leave the worst out and around for vagrants to take, and keep the merely moderately luxurious.
The end result is that the hideout is richly appointed for -Lamb- standards, but with a riotous clashing of styles. Rugs are all over the place on the floor, occasionally nailed to a wall amidst art if someone likes the design enough to muscle out a place. Ironically, it's a huge fire hazard, which is probably why there are buckets of water lying around. They know what they are.
<Pose Tracker> Kahm Yugh has posed.
Figures. Kahm crossed his arms and waited with what he regarded as saintly patience, his previous rebuke snuffed in his throat as Kent roused himself and went through motions one could only describe as...well, Kent-like. "I wouldn't know." He said in a measured response, reaching up and adjusting the wide-brimmed hat to sit at an angle on his head before deciding to just take the damn thing off-the light was poor enough in here as it was.
The Solarian steps forward once the woman with the gun on him as yielded her position, taking in the decor with a face that suggested he might be perpetually holding his breath-then again, he always seems to kind of look this way. That Kent doesn't excuse his men, or offer up much in the way of amenities, seems to have no impact on Kahm's purposes here. The Captain will take a seat on a tastefully upholstered lounge chair that was rendered gaudy by the garish pastel colors of the rug that had been slid under it. It wasn't hard to note that the Captain had entered the gambler's den armed-the silvery steel of his sidearm glistened as he parted his jacket, and his sword was laid openly and flat across his lap.
Kahm inhaled for roughly three seconds, resting his hat on the chair's armrests. He leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees, fixing Kent with a level and targeted stare, his mouth a flat line in the otherwise sculpted angles of his jaw. How this place had not already burned down was something of a minor miracle, he reflected.
"New hat?" He finally said, eyes glancing to the side at the minion now wearing the hat that had just moment ago decorated Kent's pate. Kahm immediately leaned back in his chair, chest falling slightly with his exhalation, "You know why i'm here."
<Pose Tracker> Kent Hauch has posed.
Figures. Kahm crossed his arms and waited with what he regarded as saintly patience, his previous rebuke snuffed in his throat as Kent roused himself and went through motions one could only describe as...well, Kent-like. "I wouldn't know." He said in a measured response, reaching up and adjusting the wide-brimmed hat to sit at an angle on his head before deciding to just take the damn thing off-the light was poor enough in here as it was.
The Solarian steps forward once the woman with the gun on him as yielded her position, taking in the decor with a face that suggested he might be perpetually holding his breath-then again, he always seems to kind of look this way. That Kent doesn't excuse his men, or offer up much in the way of amenities, seems to have no impact on Kahm's purposes here. The Captain will take a seat on a tastefully upholstered lounge chair that was rendered gaudy by the garish pastel colors of the rug that had been slid under it. It wasn't hard to note that the Captain had entered the gambler's den armed-the silvery steel of his sidearm glistened as he parted his jacket, and his sword was laid openly and flat across his lap.
Kahm inhaled for roughly three seconds, resting his hat on the chair's armrests. He leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees, fixing Kent with a level and targeted stare, his mouth a flat line in the otherwise sculpted angles of his jaw. How this place had not already burned down was something of a minor miracle, he reflected.
"New hat?" He finally said, eyes lifting up at the one now decorating the taller man's pate. Kahm immediately leaned back in his chair, chest falling slightly with his exhalation, "You know why i'm here."
<Pose Tracker> Kent Hauch has posed.
Fortunately, the Black Ties aren't COMPLETELY dumb, nor do they function as a hive mind. Kent might think it's funny to have them stick around, but once Kahm comes up and takes a seat, they act very poorly as though their game had come to a natural end, gathering up their gella and cards and flamethrowers and heading out to go do anything else.
Kent rolls a shoulder. "Could be a coupla reasons, right? You didn't send word or nuffing so official-like business is out. Maybe you're curious how we eat. I think Samuelh's grilling tonight though so maybe not a good time for it." He meets Kahm's eyes, loose and relaxed, and shows his teeth. "Could be you want to sign up. Might could be we come to an arrangement. Maybe you could bring some fashion sense to your ranks or summat."
The differences between Kent here and Kent abroad are interesting. He wears his anger like armor to a point while dealing with the Gebler unit - while he clearly has ambition and seeks their favor, he tries to make it very clear he has no intention of being a lickspittle toady. Kent is an employee and an asset, but he tries to make it hard to simply think of him as a tool.
He is in his power here. Kahm Yugh might make members of the Black Ties nervous, but The Black Ties, as an aggregate, that's a different story. People are slowly flowing around in their arcane gang ways, but more and more, the people immediately surrounding the space given to the meeting are in finer garb. Higher-ranking members preparing for whatever might happen.
Fargo Foobach melts out of nowhere, quietly placing a small side-table near Kahm along with a small, chipped glass and a squat pitcher full of water. He lays one hand on the pitcher and draws a breath in through his nose, the skin on his hand reddening as condensation forms outside the glass as the man draws the heat from the water, leaving it chilled. The best kind of hospitality - simultaneously a welcome refreshment and a show of power.
Kent watches Kahm. Power games. They're absolutely necessary at his level of so-called society.
<Pose Tracker> Kahm Yugh has posed.
Kahm Yugh was not a likable man where interactions with lambs were concerned, but neither was he a fool. His restrained disdain came not from some inborn sense of misplaced arrogance, but from a full understanding of what those like Kent and his people were capable of, particularly when underestimated. One didn't walk into a den of jackals without an ample supply of one of two things: Food, or Power.
The Captain's gaze remained silently fixed on Kent as the other man made theories and guesses, all the while taking careful note of who was filing out of the room and who was filing in. Here now were the peers of the woman who'd held him up at the door: Well-dressed, sharp-eyed, and prepared. The one who hid in plain view like Foobach or dispensed with other tasks while Kent paraded the less disciplined members of the gang before Gebler, as if to say this is all they were.
Lieutenant Commander Hawwa must have seen this from the beginning. The Captain thought, nodding his thanks to Foobach when the the other offered a drink and a message in a tone even Kahm could not object to. Water poured carefully into the chipped glass, and he lifted to wet his lips with a few careful sips. The observant eyes might catch a spark of light or two that tingled around the edge of the glass's water, just enough to show that the man was willing to play their game if he must.
"Is this how your predecessor did things?" He asked suddenly, pointedly, and genuinely. The glass was half-tilted in his hand, but Kahm's eyes remained centered on Kent's face. "The man...Jack, wasn't it?" He clarified, "That was what you called me back in the Hollow when the spores were affecting us." He had another sip, "But before you tried to throw me into the fire."
<Pose Tracker> Kent Hauch has posed.
Kent isn't a calm person. He has the kind of instinctive cunning that makes for an able leader and the ability to see one's own weaknesses that's allowed him to select excellent lieutenants but in any situation where he needs to keep cool he is at a distinct disadvantage.
Kahm can easily see that this is the gap in Kent's armor. When he says 'predecessor', that vein appears on his right temple. When he goes further to say 'Jack', the vein throbs, patterning the side of his head. His eyes go dark and his smile briefly gets a knife's edge.
He shifts again, distracting himself with the motion, throwing his legs back up on the couch, forcing himself into a more casual position. A thought floats around his head that it's harder to get angry while sitting. Where'd that come from? Seems logical. Kent's eyes close as he stretches his neck out, groping for the meager sparks of his rationality. "If I was tryin' to throw you in the fire," he says, "you'd still be laid up an' I'd be a cooling corpse somewhere." He opens his eyes - there are dull embers of irritation lurking in there. "But thass neither here nor there.
"Jack Vantabrack," he says. It has the feel of someone opening a rusty lock. "He had his head on tighter'n me in every respect aside from havin' no ambition an' no trust. He didn't want anything but to have an' be safe, but you can't be safe if you just stay in the same space, innit."
<Pose Tracker> Kahm Yugh has posed.
Kahm showed no visible change at Kent's struggle to contain his anger. The Captain's own constant state of low to mid-grade annoyance was in its own way a kind of compelling poker face that kept all those other more subtle emotional gestures from manifesting. He continued to drink from his glass while the taller man figured out what do with himself. "It's good to be realistic. Keeps one alive down here." He observed, allowing himself a brief sideglance to see what, if any reaction the mention of the old leader invoked in Kent's remaining crew.
Kent explained himself, and while Kahm was no priest for the man to justify himself too, he found himself nodding with the firebrand had to say. "A man who doesn't move will find himself swallowed by the earth, sooner or later. Yesterday's safety is tomorrow's liability." Whatever their differences-and make no mistake, there were many-these fundamental precepts were at least something that could be understood. With enough time and polish, you might even call them downright Solarian.
Kahm decides to stand as well. His glass is left on the table. "Is that why he's dead now?" He asked, brow furrowed not in judgment, but inquisition, as if Kahm was actually trying to know something about these people. His poise and stance suggested he was prepared if this line of questioning took Kent down a more violent path, but his voice spoke another game, "After all of that, I think you owe me what it was about."
<Pose Tracker> Kent Hauch has posed.
"Like hell," growls Kent. "That man pulled me outta the bloody dust. I'd grouse'n complain until the fire guttered out but I was willin' to die in obscurity for 'im."
The Black Ties don't talk about Jack Vantabrack. If they need to sate curiosity, or reminisce for the older ones, they go to Samuelh, and they wait until Kent's on the other side of the town. This is more than he's said about Jack since the year it happened.
Because Kent knows Kahm's right. There are events that bring men closer together. Many people think that turn of phrase is referring to friendship, but not necessarily. Hatred can bring people just as close. The two of them are on the razor's edge between.
When a man is made to wear another man's ghost, they're owed something. That's how you have to act to be a strong man people will follow.
Kent stays where he is, but his hand moves to the ash grey tie at his collar, fiddling idly with it as he swings his legs back down from the couch to track the officer's movement. "You know the boring story. Rowdy orphan what society don't have the time for, 'n all that. World's dryin' up like a prune, people like that all over. Most of 'em die in the street one day but I was too fookin' mean. One day I'm plyin' my road trade on wanderers who ain't smart enough to travel in packs an' Jack kicks the shit out of me an' suddenly I got somethin' like a father, innit."
He waves a hand through the air. "Not a sob story. Not what I'm doin' here. Don't need any bloody sympathy, not that I'm expectin' it." Kent Hauch leans forward and rummages under his couch until he digs out one of the molotov cocktails that seem to be everywhere, pulling the rag out and taking a pull. He thuds the bottle down on the card table.
<Pose Tracker> Kahm Yugh has posed.
It was unspoken, but both men knew that they were going to either find a way to work together or murder one another. Kahm still wasn't sure which scenario he welcomed more. Still, what were the consequences of the Black Ties without a figure like Kent to bind them. Foobach? He might have their fear, but he wouldn't their...well, Kahm hesitated to call it 'love', but what it was that made them follow Kent. Strength, charisma, leadership.
Kent tells his story, and Kahm listens without comment, without judgment, without disdain. A common enough story to be sure, but a man's story all the same. He holds his hands up at the gang leader's protestations-no problem here, his gesture says-and watched with residual wariness the look of that bottle as Kent dropped on the table. The Captain had seen the black ties drinking from those bottles as often as he saw them lighting them, and seen it often enough to realize there was no particular way of telling the difference.
After a moment's considers, Kahm sit downs at the table opposite Kent.
"I grew up...with less." He doesn't know if Kent is quite finished with his story, but takes advantage of the pause to offer something in kind, "Common story. There was a gang of boys who didn't take well to me. No one ever stopped them until they came across me the one day they should've left well enough alone." He sighed, arms uncomfortable crossed, as if he were pulling out a splinter.
"I stopped them, for good. I got angry." He made the shape of a gun with his finger, a small electric arc dancing on the tip like a writing serpent. "I don't remember it particularly well. Joined the army pretty quick after."
<Pose Tracker> Kent Hauch has posed.
Yeah no it's the same exact shit. Samuelh the Molotov is a dark genius.
Kent snorts. "Didn't have nothin' fancy like that 'cept that I was big, mad, an' been fightin' since I was two-like." He inclines his head. "Thass the right way to deal with somethin' like that though. There's weak people, there's strong people. Used to be I wasn't too good about the difference. Parbody, y'know her? Back in my early days I nearly killt her in a dumb heist, didn't much care. Then she damn near got me back, so I hired her. Since then? Don't kill the weak without a good reason. Life's hard enough."
Kent slaps around at his pockets, but isn't wearing his coat. He digs around in a couch cushion and pulls up a somewhat beaten edition of his handrolled cigars. After probing the split for a minute, he pulls an arc lighter out of his pocket, lighting the cigar on the crackle of electricity. "The fine lady Hawwa," he mutters, waving it briefly in the air before shoving it back into his pants.
"So. Years passed. Joined the Black Ties when I was... sixteen, summat, doesn't matter, don't know how old I really am. Made Suit roundabouts my early twenties. Tried t'push Jack to expand past our little squattin' zone outside El Pazzo. Figured we could manage it."
He kicks Red River's tank. Always in reach of one limb or another. "Probably seen the reports on yer end if you did any lookin' up. Accordin' to the old folks who stuck with me, Jack thought I was fixin' to turn on 'im, like I was dissatisfied. Lotta Ties under me liked the way I wanted to see things go. So he gets me, Fargo, Ribaldy, an' a few other... expendables an' sends us after a train he knew was one a' yours. Figurin' I'd die. He knew the kinda firepower you lot have."
Kent grins, smoke framing his face. His expression is complex. "When I come back he tries to kill me an' it all goes to shit. Grabs his flamethrower. I'm too close. Pilot light goes into my chest." Kent faintly winces with the memory and pulls on his tie, pushing into his shirt to rub the skin over his heart. "...an' I shoot him in the face. Don't remember too much more 'bout that night."
Kent's face suddenly turns hard. "Thass why things went so tits up in that cave. Those bloody Malevolence spores. That Trial Knight K.K. doin'... who knows what and who knows how, gettin' in my head, diggin' out the only thing in my past that don't sit well with me. The worst bit? In stories an' all, people who have breaks like that don't remember 'em, innit?"
Kent Hauch pulls on his liquor and thuds it back onto the table. "I remember every fucking second I see that bloody ghost floating around you. Think it must've been the hair." Kent gestures vaguely around his head. "Jack had black hair."
<Pose Tracker> Kahm Yugh has posed.
Kahm nodded, quietly surprised how naturally Kent had the right of it. Thinking back, it was never the fact that they died that bothered him-it was the senselessness of it. He hadn't chosen to kill them, he'd merely lost control. Somehow, Kent had naturally come the conclusion that had taken him years of pain and focus to arrive at: Life was too precious on this dying world to waste without cause.
Maybe even -lamb- lives. He thought as Kent honored the Lieutenant Commander with a cigar, nodding his agreement.
He thought back to Lahan.
Now the story took a turn more familiar to Captain. He had, in fact, looked at the record of the operation where the Black Ties became a "resource", as they liked to put it, but not in this deep a detail. "It was a contest of strength, and you proved greater." He stated simply, though not without knowledge sitting behind the cool regard in his gaze, "We all contend with that reality in one way or another, as long as we make the choice to live."
Talk of the Trial Knight sits with Kahm like a case of indigestion. "I had a similar experience. I saw the bodies of the boys I killed while you saw Jack in me." He saw a woman too, but this fact he keeps to himself, "K.K....when I met him, he asserted that was only one authority in this world or any other, but declined to name what it was." Cold blue eyes fell on the liquor bottle, "I'm not sure whether he meant God, or something else."
The Captain absently reached up at his hair when Kent suggested the similarity, "So I remind you of a shade. Ha." His laugh was humorless, but he seized the liquor bottle from the table and drunk just the same. Hot, fiery, and it doesn't go down perfectly, but down it went.
Kahm still felt it burning when he returned the bottle to table, his gaze and mien as level as they'd been when he walked in. "When the Lieutenant Commander insisted I work with you, it was the closest i'd ever come to countermanding her." He admitted, "But regardless of my reservations, people like this trial knight, this malevolence, these cultists running around..." The Captain found himself shaking his head, "I'll take the company of you and your Ties, for what its worth."
<Pose Tracker> Kent Hauch has posed.
Well, it's about pragmatism. Kent naturally came to the conclusion when he was in a position where he had to talk his way out of getting his face melted off. He has learned it is a good idea to get into the business of not being a Drifter origin story.
"Nothin' to do with strength," he says. "Dumb luck. I pressed too close, as usual. He put 'is pilot light out on my chest - an' once your flame goes out, thass it, innit." The molotov tastes terrible, like most Lamb liquor, but not as bad as you'd expect - which is to say you can drink it and believe that it is survivable.
Still. Some older, fancier cultures put a lot of stock in the idea of two people sharing the same drink. The Badlands are a chaotic mess of ancient tradition from a dead world, anachronistic technology, and sheer stubborn cussedness, but they have a strong sort of unspoken culture. Even if none of them would call it a tradition or even think about it, Kahm's drink meant something.
The atmosphere shifts. The fires stop feeling quite so much like the rivers of Hell and more like a rowdy camp. As the tension hisses away, a Shirt in the back corner tries to pull the black vest off someone whose back was turned, starting up a general row. Kent doesn't even look.
Instead, he lifts the bottle, winking toward Kahm with a gesture. "You can trust fire. It always does what its meant to. You an' yours 'ave done right by me, and only old bandits know the meaning of trust, if you follow."
<Pose Tracker> Kahm Yugh has posed.
Kahm knew enough about this sort of thing that it had been his intention to send a gesture, an offering. Fortunate enough that it seemed to be received that way too. He wasn't too sure what he felt about Kent's supposed luck, but could respect enough that it was the man's answer for his choice.
"Can't argue with that." He responded, tipping his head the gang leader with as much good faith as he might have ever shown, "Though don't expect this means i'm going to any less of a hardass. The Lieutenant Commander is the one who's paid to be nice."
But he appreciates what the other man says. Fire had its use, its place, and it wasn't looking to have any less use for them as events continued to transpire around Adlehyde.
The room seemed to be getting back to it's usual candor in the meantime, and presented as good an opportunity as any for the Captain to move along. "I ought to be going, then." He announced, getting to his feet and re-donning his hat. There's no extended hands or clasps on the back-he's still too much the consummate military man for that-but a knowing was enough to satisfy Kahm's sense of propriety.
"Your doorman will find that rifle a bit easier to wield if she modifies it some. Trims the stock and barrel. Less recoil. Loses some effectiveness at the long range, but you're more likely to be engaging in the mid on down anyways."
<Pose Tracker> Kent Hauch has posed.
Ribaldy shouts from outside, "I TOLD YOU"