A location is selected. Carver considers, again, beating this man until he fits a more familiar shape. Breaking an arm, at least, maybe taking some fingers. Not for trophies, precisely, but as some concrete proof to Pope and the others that Carver has done his duty. That he didn’t flinch from it. The location on the map is a start but it’s not the end. Not by a long shot.
But then a whistle calls him away, and those steps remain undone. The commander’s been listening, it turns out. The commander wants them to go immediately, forgoing the initial scouting. Carver wants to argue, but Pope’s expression is cold; he bows his head and says he’ll get it done.
He gathers up Finch and four brothers. They consider transportation. They give Finch some rations and water. Not much.
Then they go. Carver orders the others not to speak to Finch unless necessary and he takes charge of the prisoner. If the others are worried about what they might find at the end, they’re good soldiers and they keep it to themselves.
“I suggest you keep pace,” Carver suggests coolly. “Or we carry you and you won’t enjoy that.”
Harold will press and push when he sees a chance, relentless in his resolve to treat Carver and the rest like human beings and not just an enemy, and he can tell himself all he likes that he's made up his mind on who he is and what he's willing to do, that pain isn't an effective motivator for him--
But he's still not going to be reckless. His willingness to die has always been passive rather than active. Something in him keeps trying to go on, even now, when the years keep proceeding and he remains alone, alone, alone.
If this is the end of him then so be it, but he's not looking for it to be. So he keeps his mouth shut and remains compliant as best he can on the journey. Harold isn't completely out of shape -- despite his hermitage he tries to keep himself active enough that he wouldn't be a sitting duck to the animated dead -- but his spine has only gotten worse as the years went by, and he'd just been smacked around a bit, making his limp even more pronounced than usual. He is, however, desperately eager not to be carried, not just because Carver said he won't enjoy it but because he feels practically allergic to physical contact at this point.
(Maybe if he ever saw Shaw again there would be that one single exception, an old member of his short-lived team; maybe his nerves would read her as safe the way nothing else does... but he has no idea where she is.)
This isn't the sort of trip he'd ever make by himself and there's at least a few times he'd have been killed without them handling it. Harold is mute through the violence, obedient and good at getting out of the way. He remembers this role. Hour by hour, Harold doggedly goes on with a grim-faced silent resolve, stumbling a few times, and he sleeps terribly at night on the cold earth because the pain lancing up his leg and back and neck is so sharp and strong it presses tears from his eyes. He keeps a hand over his mouth to keep his possible gasping quiet.
Small mercies that he has plenty to think about to break up the tense monotony, multiple plans circling around in his mind. He goes over them again and again, making up his mind.
Finally they turn down a wrecked and broken street and the complex looms ahead of them.
"We'll have to find a way in," Harold admits, speaking quietly, subdued. He's practically shaking from fatigue but doesn't waste any breath complaining. "I haven't been here in years so I don't know what might be intact or not until we get to the cache."
Time passes. They march. They kill a few rotters and leave their corpses to lie where they fall, more bones to one day crunch underfoot. Their ghosts forgotten. Harold keeps up, more or less. Doesn't even complain, which Carver's mildly impressed by.
Then again, it wouldn't have gotten him anything worth keeping. Harold Finch was a smart man back in the day. He hasn't gotten any sloppier after facing the new world order. There's a reason that Pope didn't order him killed and hung with the others around the perimeter. And the commander's word is second only to God's. This is the work now.
Carver rolls his shoulders, considering the problem ahead of them. It's not a small complex. Then he motions to his brothers, commanding them with hand gestures and whistles. They don't need to speak to be effective in the field. Sometimes, it's better to operate entirely in silence.
He claps his hand around the back of Harold's neck, in the meantime. It's not gentle. "You see that big oak there? Yeah, that one. Any of my people get killed," he explains, almost conversationally. "That's the tree I'm going to hang your corpse from."
The casual manhandling smacks of cruelty, and it's wholly unnecessary. That and the threat together make all of Harold's exhaustion bubble over into frustration, and he has to wrestle with it for a long moment before he can keep his composure as he replies.
"If they get killed it will be through no fault of mine. So please," he says flatly, "can we just get on with it?"
Harold starts ahead tiredly into the complex, hobbling worse than usual. He's wary, cautious, but he keeps going. He's never quite managed to give up, no matter how many reasons he has for it.
"Mr. Carver, I have been trying to save lives since long before the world degenerated into what it is now," he says. "Many times at the potential cost of my own life. Your threats change nothing about my behavior."
Well, maybe they change something in terms of execution, but they won't manage to alter his intent.
Eventually, you hit a point where words don't matter so much. Action does. Carver shoves Harold hard, just to prove he can. This was something they were drilled on in Afghanistan. The inconsistent, petty nature of cruelty. It's about the violence, sure, because violence is the best tool for a broken world manned by broken, evil people. You have to prove that you're the one in control as much as possible, in as many ways as possible. And to do it inconsistently, to break up the comfort a prisoner might take in recognizing patterns.
It's petty bullshit but there's always a purpose. There's always the mission.
"That's nice," he drawls, just to be a shit about it. Teeth bared, eyes bright and alert. "You're not gonna make it easy on us, I know."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Sure!
But then a whistle calls him away, and those steps remain undone. The commander’s been listening, it turns out. The commander wants them to go immediately, forgoing the initial scouting. Carver wants to argue, but Pope’s expression is cold; he bows his head and says he’ll get it done.
He gathers up Finch and four brothers. They consider transportation. They give Finch some rations and water. Not much.
Then they go. Carver orders the others not to speak to Finch unless necessary and he takes charge of the prisoner. If the others are worried about what they might find at the end, they’re good soldiers and they keep it to themselves.
“I suggest you keep pace,” Carver suggests coolly. “Or we carry you and you won’t enjoy that.”
And then they march.
no subject
But he's still not going to be reckless. His willingness to die has always been passive rather than active. Something in him keeps trying to go on, even now, when the years keep proceeding and he remains alone, alone, alone.
If this is the end of him then so be it, but he's not looking for it to be. So he keeps his mouth shut and remains compliant as best he can on the journey. Harold isn't completely out of shape -- despite his hermitage he tries to keep himself active enough that he wouldn't be a sitting duck to the animated dead -- but his spine has only gotten worse as the years went by, and he'd just been smacked around a bit, making his limp even more pronounced than usual. He is, however, desperately eager not to be carried, not just because Carver said he won't enjoy it but because he feels practically allergic to physical contact at this point.
(Maybe if he ever saw Shaw again there would be that one single exception, an old member of his short-lived team; maybe his nerves would read her as safe the way nothing else does... but he has no idea where she is.)
This isn't the sort of trip he'd ever make by himself and there's at least a few times he'd have been killed without them handling it. Harold is mute through the violence, obedient and good at getting out of the way. He remembers this role. Hour by hour, Harold doggedly goes on with a grim-faced silent resolve, stumbling a few times, and he sleeps terribly at night on the cold earth because the pain lancing up his leg and back and neck is so sharp and strong it presses tears from his eyes. He keeps a hand over his mouth to keep his possible gasping quiet.
Small mercies that he has plenty to think about to break up the tense monotony, multiple plans circling around in his mind. He goes over them again and again, making up his mind.
Finally they turn down a wrecked and broken street and the complex looms ahead of them.
"We'll have to find a way in," Harold admits, speaking quietly, subdued. He's practically shaking from fatigue but doesn't waste any breath complaining. "I haven't been here in years so I don't know what might be intact or not until we get to the cache."
no subject
Then again, it wouldn't have gotten him anything worth keeping. Harold Finch was a smart man back in the day. He hasn't gotten any sloppier after facing the new world order. There's a reason that Pope didn't order him killed and hung with the others around the perimeter. And the commander's word is second only to God's. This is the work now.
Carver rolls his shoulders, considering the problem ahead of them. It's not a small complex. Then he motions to his brothers, commanding them with hand gestures and whistles. They don't need to speak to be effective in the field. Sometimes, it's better to operate entirely in silence.
He claps his hand around the back of Harold's neck, in the meantime. It's not gentle. "You see that big oak there? Yeah, that one. Any of my people get killed," he explains, almost conversationally. "That's the tree I'm going to hang your corpse from."
no subject
"If they get killed it will be through no fault of mine. So please," he says flatly, "can we just get on with it?"
no subject
"If they get killed," he repeats, almost serenely, "you die. That's not fair or unfair, that's just what's gonna happen."
The world is simple like that.
"Move."
no subject
"Mr. Carver, I have been trying to save lives since long before the world degenerated into what it is now," he says. "Many times at the potential cost of my own life. Your threats change nothing about my behavior."
Well, maybe they change something in terms of execution, but they won't manage to alter his intent.
no subject
It's petty bullshit but there's always a purpose. There's always the mission.
"That's nice," he drawls, just to be a shit about it. Teeth bared, eyes bright and alert. "You're not gonna make it easy on us, I know."