[ it doesn't much matter why dylan's in town - whether he heard about the bonfire and downright massacre at the high school prom and flocked in to see what's left, or maybe he's just on his way from place to place.
what does matter is the commotion a block or so further down the street. the house shaking like cardboard with no sign of an earthquake, before it comes down altogether in a definitive cloud of dust and dirt. by the time he reaches the yard, it's settled into itself, a pile of rubble barely recognizable as something that once was a house.
but if he waits just ten, maybe fifteen more seconds, he'll spot movement. it's a girl, covered in dust and dirt herself, but hauling herself of the rubble through a gap in the wreckage she's lucky she even really fit through. there's blood on her hands, dried and coated in dirt by now, and her face is a reddened mess in a way that only comes from shedding more than a few tears.
once she's out, she drops heavily to her hands and knees in the grass. her forehead lowers to the lawn, and a half-choked sound escapes her throat, caught somewhere between frustration and dismay. ]
[ Pulling his bike over to the side of the street is an easy call-- a house shaking in the middle of the night while everything else remains unaffected is weird. Normal people find that weird; they're also not inclined to immediately believe what they are seeing. Whatever logic he applies to it, a tremor or even a sinkhole, it doesn't seem to stick, nor does it spare the house from shriveling and collapsing in on itself. That's when logic takes him in another direction.
Shit. There could have been people in there.
Once his motorcycle is stopped and propped up, Dylan takes a tentative step forward. If there are any survivors, it's unlikely they're in very good shape. Calling someone feels like a big responsibility, but his hand wanders to his pocket anyway, searching for his phone.
Then he sees the movement.
By the time the girl crawls onto the lawn, Dylan is running hard to get to her. He skids to an awkward halt a few feet away, reminding himself that space in these situations is probably best. Leaning forward, he tries to make out the girl and her condition. ]
[ the approaching footsteps didn't seem to register with the girl, but the voice absolutely does. she startles, eyes lifting to the stranger with a hunted sort of fear, and she scrambles around onto her ass so she can scoot back against the wreckage defensively. ]
I-, it wasn't my fault, [ she says, the first defense to mind - because as far as she's concerned, why would he be here if he didn't know what she's done? everyone has to know what she's done by now. ]
[ He's seen that look before, though it's difficult to place right in the moment. It's all parts wrecked, the kind of look you get when you're completely out of your element. It's the look that follows something that you can't change-- a look people miss in the favor of finding fault in someone. ]
I can call someone--
[ While urgent, the tone of his voice holds no obligations. He won't call any authorities without them being named as a request-- it doesn't seem like they'd do much to ease this girl's night anyway. ]
--or get you out of here, if you want.
[ He doesn't need to look back at the ruins of the house to know that nobody else will be crawling out of the rubble. The girl's face and only spoken words are enough confirmation that she's aware she's completely alone here. ]
[ it's a familiar look to this boy, and honestly, it's a somewhat familiar look for her to be wearing too. not quite so desperate, but then again, in desperate moments you don't think to proportion your desperation just in case the worst should happen. you just feel it, exude it with every part of you, with your tears and your begging. and it helps, usually. with mama, it always seemed to convince her of how bad carrie didn't want to be sin in the eyes of their lord (and even more than that, in the eyes of her own mother), and all of a sudden the harsh and hopeless scolding wouldn't seem quite so futile. like she was trapped underground and all of a sudden there was a ray of daylight, at least telling her she wasn't so far from the surface even if she didn't know how to reach it.
that light comes again now in the second half of his offer. and in turn, there's a change in carrie. a long look, like she's trying to figure out his angle. what he could possibly want from her, to offer her help like that. but then comes the siren, and by the sharp hunted look she shoots in that direction, you'd think it were coming down the street rather than some unseen distant location.
and then her eyes are back on this boy, on his offered help, and with a shuddering exhale she nods decisively. it's to the second offer, if that much isn't obvious by now as she hauls herself quickly to her feet, ready to follow him back to his bike. ]
[ He's sure of her answer as soon as he sees the life jolt to her face following the siren. It's the unmistakable urge to flee for survival, rising above all pride and reason. His own experiences don't call him to question what might be the trouble and if this girl is indeed the cause-- he's sprinting forward as soon as she rises, taking her arm as guidance as they cross the road. ]
Here, make sure to tuck your hair in under it. You won't be as easy to spot.
[ A black half-helmet is shoved into her hands: he assumes she will be able to take care of this part herself. Meanwhile, he hops on the bike, securing his own helmet as he makes sure it's steady, ready for a passenger to board. Feet still on the ground, Dylan turns his torso to offer the girl a hand up onto the bike.]
[ she wastes no time at all in taking the helmet, hesitating only a second to think before she holds it between her knees long enough to tilt her head upside-down and pile her hair on top of her head. then with her free hand, carrie quick pulls the helmet on over the messy damp heap, and a quick feel around her neck reveals only a few stray tufts of hair that escaped their dubious attempt at a disguise. adjusting the helmet with both hands, she turns to the boy and his bike now... right as he offers a hand.
carrie freezes, hands still on her helmet, eyes on the offered hand. all at once, her mind's reeling to the last boy who offered his hand - a very different sort of boy, cleaner and less of the rebel type, but he tried to help her too. and now he's dead. she can see it, see him lying there on the stage, his eyes were still open and everything -
but then the ever-persistent sirens break through, drag her back to the present. back to the reality of how badly she needs to not be here when someone shows up.
so she takes the offered hand, her own hand shaking more than a little, and hikes a leg up over the bike behind him despite that it hikes her night-dress up to her thighs. she can't help but think of how upset mama would be, but then carrie shoves that thought away too and wraps her arms around the boy's middle before she can change her mind. ]
One of a few names he'd gotten to check out. Ressler had already hit up the others and from his intel it seemed Dylan had relations to the folks running the local hotel. Luckily where he was staying at until he was done in White Pine Bay. So he'll keep an eye out for the guy, figuring he'll show up around here eventually.
Which he does. He'd rather not go to his place of residence, it would kick up suspicion too quickly if he did, so this is perfect. Though of course the other guys he'd talked to may have warned Dylan, which would dampen things some. Either way, he's heading out of his hotel room and over to Dylan, in civilian clothes, but he's got his badge out, ready to flash it when he calls to him.
"Dylan Massett?" Better to verify first before he does any sort of flashing.
It's a pain in the ass when Norma calls him asking for help, but he's not about to refuse her when it comes to something simple like grocery shopping. At work he's been doing well and he has the cash to spare-- a fact he isn't shy of reminding Norma over the phone. He might not have gotten everything on her list, but he's made his own thoughtful additions, some healthier than others. Even a headcase and a mama's boy have to eat.
Toting the bags up the drive towards the house, he comes to a halt when he hears an unfamiliar voice. Looking over his shoulder, he spots Ressler. He doesn't know this guy and definitely doesn't feel comfortable about him using his full name. He's walking with intent, something else that doesn't sit right with him.
'That's me."
Dylan remains in place, standing between the long drive that divides the hotel and the house, making Ressler come to him.
The bag of groceries has Ressler wondering if his intel was off, as far as they knew he didn't live at this address. His mother and step brother did, perhaps he was running some errands. Either way, he was here and it was time to get to business. Up comes the badge and he flips it open, holding it up to show Dylan.
"Agent Ressler, I'm with the FBI and I need to ask you some questions." Hello, nice to meet you.
The gesture earns a short stare, not of shock or apprehension, but of irritation. Local law enforcement has been on Norma's property since she bought the place-- suspicions of missing people, public disturbances, and other matters that are of no one's business without substantial proof. This guy, as far as he's concerned, is another dog following a scent and will just have to be tolerated through the proper motions.
"Yeah. Shoot. Or should I put this stuff away first?"
Because he's not about to let some food go bad for the sake of some random questioning.
Nice credentials. No thanks, we don't want any. Please take me off your list.
While he doesn't like the idea of going into the house on his own, not knowing if there are more than just his mother and brother there, Ressler nods, motioning for Dylan to lead the way. He'll just have to stay on his toes, make sure no funny business happens. If Dylan is a part of this drug business going on here, who knows what he could do. FBI is serious shit after all.
"Sure your mother would appreciate the food not spoiling on my account." After all, she'd seemed nice enough when he'd checked in. Appearances and all. Badge going back inside his jacket, he follows Dylan, deciding to just get right to the point.
"We've gotten some leads about a big time drug ring going on around these parts. Lotta names came up when we questioned people, yours was one of them." He doesn't let his tone get accusatory yet, just laying out the facts right now, giving Dylan just enough to let him know this could be serious.
This guy doesn't know anything, contrary to whatever his sales technique might be.
Some leads doesn't sound like any kind of promise, so Dylan walks on without looking back as Agent Ressler proceeds to explain his intent. Stopping or looking back just gives him more fuel, he figures, he proceeds as normal, switching one bag to another hand for the sake of balancing weight as the steepness of the driveway increases.
"I'm from out of town. A lot of people are born and raised here-- don't like outsiders. They get bored and make up stories to make their boring lives seem more colorful."
Setting the bags down near the steps of the porch, Dylan stops, indicating that the agent isn't welcome another step further. There's enough drama in the house already and he's not about to bring his own through the threshold, especially from the likes of the FBI.
"Look, man-- sir," he corrects himself lazily, "I'd love to help you out, but I don't know anything about what you're talking about. Whoever you talked to gave you a bad tip."
Dylan wasn't wrong, they didn't know much. Mostly had a laundry list of names that COULD be associated with the hankie pankie drug business going ons. They knew something was going on in this area, just no real solid leads. It was pretty aggravating.
When the guy blocks him from getting up onto the porch, from coming inside, a brow goes up some what. Is he really going to be difficult about this? Mouth setting into a line his hands rest on his hips as he looks up at Dylan.
"Talked to a lot of people. You're saying that the multiple people who pointed fingers at you just dislike you for being an outsider?" He doesn't believe it. There is something here, may not be much, but he's sure he can get something out of him.
"What about Gil Turner? People can place you both together, say he's got some solid connections to the drug business here." Of course just being acquaintances or friends with a possible drug dealer doesn't make Dylan involved, but it does raise questions.
While he might not always be wholly welcome in the household, Dylan considers his mother and his brother as a responsibility. Contrary to both of their insistences that they do well enough on their own, Dylan has found that keeping an eye on the two of them, even from the outside, has never harmed anything. He doesn't need reciprocation for this principle. This is his mess and he can clean it up himself.
"He owns a lot of business in town, that's about all I know," he shrugs his shoulders, observing Ressler's posture for any changes in confidence or intent, " I couldn't tell you anything about specifics."
Not even the giant pot fields on the outskirts of town, the ones he's paid hourly to watch, nor does he count driving down to northern California to pick up crews to process the plants once they're harvested. If he's being honest, most of that is a blur anyway in the scheme of things. It's routine, and definitely not the darkest aspect of the town.
"Must be a lot of work, doing an investigating like this by yourself. Talking to a lot of people and all."
The only thing Ressler will give Dylan is the tight expression on his face, frustrated. This guy really isn't going to give him anything at all. The barest of information that validates what Ressler has heard, but in a way that makes Dylan look innocent and ignorant of things going on. Of course.
It's the last bit that gets to him though. Like Dylan is mocking him. Or maybe he's just taking it way too personally. He's been working this for a while now, getting a whole lot of nothing. No one wanted to really talk beyond finger pointing, which got him no where without any solid leads. He couldn't just kick in doors without SOME evidence.
"Mind giving me the names of all the businesses he runs?" Just going to brush over things he doesn't want to answer. He can play that game too.
It was boring work, but it was easy work. It paid well, enough for his partner to get a new truck and Jesse to get a new lowrider. The purchase didn't exactly fit in with the White Pine Bay aesthetic, but any mention of that to Jesse would just result in the raising of a single finger on each hand.
He didn't mind not taking a leadership position. In fact, he preferred it. Let other more ambitious people do the work while he sat back and tried out his newly acquired headphones. It was a shame that he couldn't imbibe with being surrounded by so much grass. Jesse lifts a speaker from his ear to rest against the side of his head and swats at Dylan's arm to grab his attention.
Whatever the popular consensus is about the lowrider, Dylan thinks it's pretty damn slick. He's also gotta admire that Jesse drives it anyway, not really giving a damn about what anybody in town thinks. Sometimes White Pine Bay isn't so lame, but other times Dylan feels like he's on the outside, looking at a bunch of superficial people who think that they're independent of trends or conformity-- in that sense, it's good to have someone around who cares just as little as he does about fitting in to make people happy.
The informal swatting? Not so much. Dylan looks down at his arm, then at Jesse. He reclines back farther in his chair, shifting his legs for the sake of circulation and comfort.
"Upper management would have a shitfit. I'm not getting my ass chewed out for that, or having anybody think that they can't trust me to do something so easy. I told you, you can bring cigarettes."
It's ironic, Beauty supposes, that the recovery lorry most people out here in the countryside would call for help with a broken-down vehicle is the one she's currently lying halfway underneath. Staring up at a cracked bell housing and thinking the most uncharitable thoughts. If she even considers trying to drive it in this condition, Ger will have her head. Or, well, he'll look exceedingly disappointed, tell her that everyone makes mistakes, and never let her drive again. Which would actually be worse.
She sighs heavily and just lies there for a few minutes, picturing the long, lonely walk ahead of her.
It works "Beautifully". ...Iiiiii'm going away now.
He's always loved going new places-- meeting new people and just escaping the bullshit of life before it can become his day-to-day. This adventure is larger, and more costly, than most, but it's been worth it. He saves as much cash as he can crashing in hostels or on a couch whenever he finds anybody charitable enough. This truck ride is no exception to his plans, and he savors the open air as he rides in the bed, taking in the landscape as it quickly passes him by.
Seeing the girl lying on the side of the road rattles him at first. He assumes the worst and hates it, knocking on the window of the truck and gesturing for the driver to pull over. When he sees a deep sigh of mental burden, he's at least relieved to know there hasn't been any kind of accident. As the truck pulls alongside the road near Beauty, he leans out of the bed of the truck with a friendly smile.
"You don't look too confident about whatever you're doing there."
The sound of the vehicle slowing and pulling over drags Beauty away from her momentary wallow, and the voice urges her to shimmy out from under the truck and sit up. Her hair is half out of its braid and her clothes are covered in dirt, but she returns the smile with one that's equally friendly.
"I wish confidence was the only thing keeping me from fixing the problem. I'm afraid she's going to have to stay where she is until we can get someone to come out from Sible Hedingham to tow her."
The American accent has caught her curiosity, and she stands, brushing off her jeans and moving closer to the side of the truck. "You're a bit out in the middle of nowhere."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
what does matter is the commotion a block or so further down the street. the house shaking like cardboard with no sign of an earthquake, before it comes down altogether in a definitive cloud of dust and dirt. by the time he reaches the yard, it's settled into itself, a pile of rubble barely recognizable as something that once was a house.
but if he waits just ten, maybe fifteen more seconds, he'll spot movement. it's a girl, covered in dust and dirt herself, but hauling herself of the rubble through a gap in the wreckage she's lucky she even really fit through. there's blood on her hands, dried and coated in dirt by now, and her face is a reddened mess in a way that only comes from shedding more than a few tears.
once she's out, she drops heavily to her hands and knees in the grass. her forehead lowers to the lawn, and a half-choked sound escapes her throat, caught somewhere between frustration and dismay. ]
no subject
Shit. There could have been people in there.
Once his motorcycle is stopped and propped up, Dylan takes a tentative step forward. If there are any survivors, it's unlikely they're in very good shape. Calling someone feels like a big responsibility, but his hand wanders to his pocket anyway, searching for his phone.
Then he sees the movement.
By the time the girl crawls onto the lawn, Dylan is running hard to get to her. He skids to an awkward halt a few feet away, reminding himself that space in these situations is probably best. Leaning forward, he tries to make out the girl and her condition. ]
Hey. Holy shit-- you alright?
no subject
I-, it wasn't my fault, [ she says, the first defense to mind - because as far as she's concerned, why would he be here if he didn't know what she's done? everyone has to know what she's done by now. ]
no subject
I can call someone--
[ While urgent, the tone of his voice holds no obligations. He won't call any authorities without them being named as a request-- it doesn't seem like they'd do much to ease this girl's night anyway. ]
--or get you out of here, if you want.
[ He doesn't need to look back at the ruins of the house to know that nobody else will be crawling out of the rubble. The girl's face and only spoken words are enough confirmation that she's aware she's completely alone here. ]
no subject
that light comes again now in the second half of his offer. and in turn, there's a change in carrie. a long look, like she's trying to figure out his angle. what he could possibly want from her, to offer her help like that. but then comes the siren, and by the sharp hunted look she shoots in that direction, you'd think it were coming down the street rather than some unseen distant location.
and then her eyes are back on this boy, on his offered help, and with a shuddering exhale she nods decisively. it's to the second offer, if that much isn't obvious by now as she hauls herself quickly to her feet, ready to follow him back to his bike. ]
no subject
Here, make sure to tuck your hair in under it. You won't be as easy to spot.
[ A black half-helmet is shoved into her hands: he assumes she will be able to take care of this part herself. Meanwhile, he hops on the bike, securing his own helmet as he makes sure it's steady, ready for a passenger to board. Feet still on the ground, Dylan turns his torso to offer the girl a hand up onto the bike.]
Come on, I'll help you.
hope you don't mind coming back to this
carrie freezes, hands still on her helmet, eyes on the offered hand. all at once, her mind's reeling to the last boy who offered his hand - a very different sort of boy, cleaner and less of the rebel type, but he tried to help her too. and now he's dead. she can see it, see him lying there on the stage, his eyes were still open and everything -
but then the ever-persistent sirens break through, drag her back to the present. back to the reality of how badly she needs to not be here when someone shows up.
so she takes the offered hand, her own hand shaking more than a little, and hikes a leg up over the bike behind him despite that it hikes her night-dress up to her thighs. she can't help but think of how upset mama would be, but then carrie shoves that thought away too and wraps her arms around the boy's middle before she can change her mind. ]
no subject
One of a few names he'd gotten to check out. Ressler had already hit up the others and from his intel it seemed Dylan had relations to the folks running the local hotel. Luckily where he was staying at until he was done in White Pine Bay. So he'll keep an eye out for the guy, figuring he'll show up around here eventually.
Which he does. He'd rather not go to his place of residence, it would kick up suspicion too quickly if he did, so this is perfect. Though of course the other guys he'd talked to may have warned Dylan, which would dampen things some. Either way, he's heading out of his hotel room and over to Dylan, in civilian clothes, but he's got his badge out, ready to flash it when he calls to him.
"Dylan Massett?" Better to verify first before he does any sort of flashing.
no subject
Toting the bags up the drive towards the house, he comes to a halt when he hears an unfamiliar voice. Looking over his shoulder, he spots Ressler. He doesn't know this guy and definitely doesn't feel comfortable about him using his full name. He's walking with intent, something else that doesn't sit right with him.
'That's me."
Dylan remains in place, standing between the long drive that divides the hotel and the house, making Ressler come to him.
no subject
"Agent Ressler, I'm with the FBI and I need to ask you some questions." Hello, nice to meet you.
no subject
"Yeah. Shoot. Or should I put this stuff away first?"
Because he's not about to let some food go bad for the sake of some random questioning.
Nice credentials. No thanks, we don't want any. Please take me off your list.
no subject
"Sure your mother would appreciate the food not spoiling on my account." After all, she'd seemed nice enough when he'd checked in. Appearances and all. Badge going back inside his jacket, he follows Dylan, deciding to just get right to the point.
"We've gotten some leads about a big time drug ring going on around these parts. Lotta names came up when we questioned people, yours was one of them." He doesn't let his tone get accusatory yet, just laying out the facts right now, giving Dylan just enough to let him know this could be serious.
"Wanna tell me why that'd be?"
no subject
This guy doesn't know anything, contrary to whatever his sales technique might be.
Some leads doesn't sound like any kind of promise, so Dylan walks on without looking back as Agent Ressler proceeds to explain his intent. Stopping or looking back just gives him more fuel, he figures, he proceeds as normal, switching one bag to another hand for the sake of balancing weight as the steepness of the driveway increases.
"I'm from out of town. A lot of people are born and raised here-- don't like outsiders. They get bored and make up stories to make their boring lives seem more colorful."
Setting the bags down near the steps of the porch, Dylan stops, indicating that the agent isn't welcome another step further. There's enough drama in the house already and he's not about to bring his own through the threshold, especially from the likes of the FBI.
"Look, man-- sir," he corrects himself lazily, "I'd love to help you out, but I don't know anything about what you're talking about. Whoever you talked to gave you a bad tip."
no subject
When the guy blocks him from getting up onto the porch, from coming inside, a brow goes up some what. Is he really going to be difficult about this? Mouth setting into a line his hands rest on his hips as he looks up at Dylan.
"Talked to a lot of people. You're saying that the multiple people who pointed fingers at you just dislike you for being an outsider?" He doesn't believe it. There is something here, may not be much, but he's sure he can get something out of him.
"What about Gil Turner? People can place you both together, say he's got some solid connections to the drug business here." Of course just being acquaintances or friends with a possible drug dealer doesn't make Dylan involved, but it does raise questions.
a+ use of "hankie pankie"
While he might not always be wholly welcome in the household, Dylan considers his mother and his brother as a responsibility. Contrary to both of their insistences that they do well enough on their own, Dylan has found that keeping an eye on the two of them, even from the outside, has never harmed anything. He doesn't need reciprocation for this principle. This is his mess and he can clean it up himself.
"He owns a lot of business in town, that's about all I know," he shrugs his shoulders, observing Ressler's posture for any changes in confidence or intent, " I couldn't tell you anything about specifics."
Not even the giant pot fields on the outskirts of town, the ones he's paid hourly to watch, nor does he count driving down to northern California to pick up crews to process the plants once they're harvested. If he's being honest, most of that is a blur anyway in the scheme of things. It's routine, and definitely not the darkest aspect of the town.
"Must be a lot of work, doing an investigating like this by yourself. Talking to a lot of people and all."
/bows
It's the last bit that gets to him though. Like Dylan is mocking him. Or maybe he's just taking it way too personally. He's been working this for a while now, getting a whole lot of nothing. No one wanted to really talk beyond finger pointing, which got him no where without any solid leads. He couldn't just kick in doors without SOME evidence.
"Mind giving me the names of all the businesses he runs?" Just going to brush over things he doesn't want to answer. He can play that game too.
no subject
He didn't mind not taking a leadership position. In fact, he preferred it. Let other more ambitious people do the work while he sat back and tried out his newly acquired headphones. It was a shame that he couldn't imbibe with being surrounded by so much grass. Jesse lifts a speaker from his ear to rest against the side of his head and swats at Dylan's arm to grab his attention.
"Hey yo, so why can't we light up again?"
no subject
The informal swatting? Not so much. Dylan looks down at his arm, then at Jesse. He reclines back farther in his chair, shifting his legs for the sake of circulation and comfort.
"Upper management would have a shitfit. I'm not getting my ass chewed out for that, or having anybody think that they can't trust me to do something so easy. I told you, you can bring cigarettes."
i hope this works for you
She sighs heavily and just lies there for a few minutes, picturing the long, lonely walk ahead of her.
It works "Beautifully". ...Iiiiii'm going away now.
Seeing the girl lying on the side of the road rattles him at first. He assumes the worst and hates it, knocking on the window of the truck and gesturing for the driver to pull over. When he sees a deep sigh of mental burden, he's at least relieved to know there hasn't been any kind of accident. As the truck pulls alongside the road near Beauty, he leans out of the bed of the truck with a friendly smile.
"You don't look too confident about whatever you're doing there."
GET BACK HERE
"I wish confidence was the only thing keeping me from fixing the problem. I'm afraid she's going to have to stay where she is until we can get someone to come out from Sible Hedingham to tow her."
The American accent has caught her curiosity, and she stands, brushing off her jeans and moving closer to the side of the truck. "You're a bit out in the middle of nowhere."