Burn The Rest


geneva_icon.gif joe_icon.gif lance_icon.gif weasel_icon.gif

Scene Title Burn The Rest
Synopsis For Weasel's "wake up" day, a few of the Lighthouse Kids go on an adventure.
Date December 8, 2018

Staten Island Greenbelt

The Greenbelt was once twenty-eight hundred acres of mixed urban parkland and natural preserves that have since gone wild, equal parts dying and thriving in the neglect that the borough of Staten Island has suffered. The more natural areas are primarily a succession of ridges and boulder-littered moraines beneath the canopy of a hardwood forest - beech, hickory, maples, and oaks in the main, with a variety of less common trees mixed in. At the lower points of the parkland, this forest gives way to wetland, overgrown with ferns, skunk cabbage, lady slipper, and trout lilies.

An overgrown golf course is home to unkempt grassland and a site for the island's residents to discard junk. The cemetery is similarly writhed with impossible weeds, and contains the smell of an open grave or several. Stray dogs have taken to existing out in its thicker parts, gone wild and dangerous, and there are other dangers too - desperate cut throat muggers have been known to roam the pathways, and an urban legend of a monster lurks in its shadows.

It's not impossible to get through the Greenbelt without harm, and many make such journeys every day - but its no surprise that very few desire to linger longer than necessary in the midst of dead trees, tangled weeds, and the occasional unpleasant surprise in the dark.

For birthdays, most normal people would prefer to have a nice evening out, perhaps at a restaurant or a bar, or something to that effect. Have some food, get dessert, be embarassed by the employees of their chosen establishment singing a birthday song way too loud, receive gifts…the usual.

But Clara Winters is anything but normal.

Instead of enjoying a traditional birthday gathering, the Musteloid telepath has insisted on an adventure, of the rescuing kind. She heard about a small fur farm on Staten Island through the grapevine (probably from some animals), and has decided that the best birthday gathering possible would be to free the creatures from their captivity.

And so, she’s dragged her siblings along with her to do so. The boat ride over was rather fun — several river otters joined them, swimming alongside the boat with cheerful chirps directed at the occupants. Weasel explained that they were excited — the trappers had been picking off some of them.

Upon reaching the shore, a small troupe of five or so raccoons greeted the group, before skittering off into the forest, leading the way through the thick brush toward the fur farm in question. The sound of the place can be heard before they actually see it, and the smell comes shortly after. Panicked, terrified animals, crying out from within their tiny cages, the smell of urine, feces, and fear polluting the air around the small farm.

Weasel stops short, crouching in the tall grasses and bushes that surround the small farm, letting her siblings catch up. She has a gun at her hip, though she has no real desire to use it — she’d much rather use the shiny, super sharp large knife that Geneva gave her.

You know? This is exactly the kind of thing Joe could see Weasel doing on her birthday. Like exactly the kind of thing. So it comes as no surprise to him. Instead he's shown up geared for a potential fight. He's not heavily armed. A side arm and a good sized knife are all he's brought to the party. But it's all he thinks he'll need. You can do a lot of damage with small weapons when you have the invincibility cheat turned on.

Joe is experienced with the whole combat tactics thing though, so he doesn't follow right up beside Weasel, he shifts off to the right, flanking her position and getting his eyes on a different part of the farm. Mostly he's just waiting to see what she wants to do. He finds a spot of bushes to crouch down behind and is peering over the foliage, not in the direction of the cages no, he's looking for people. For threats. His eyes track, but his hands are at ease against his thighs, not tense and reaching for weapons. His hands move in Lighthouse Cant, short quick motions. Let me know when you want to move. And then he hunkers down, and he waits for the signal.

An animal liberation adventure wouldn’t have been most people’s first pick for a birthday bash, but it is Clara, so Geneva hadn’t been the least bit surprised. In fact, more than being merely supportive, the teen had been quite gung-ho about the idea: she had always been the type to grow restless if kept cooped up or not allowed to give her piled-up emotions a physical outlet. A run like this is ripe with the potential promise of violence. (Plus, it was always fun just to get out of the city.)

Alert for sounds, she breaks to the left slightly when Joe flanks right; spaced out like this, those three together should have a satisfactory visual angle on whatever landscape lies before them. Like the others, she carries a small gun at her side, but it is currently being ignored in favor of her bare, readied hands— always Geneva’s preferred weapon, given her ability. Looks clear from over here, she signs to the others in Lighthouse Cant with smoother movements than her usual. It looks like she had been practicing.

As much as Lance might complain about it, his sister’s ability over the years had given him some empathy for the plight of animals— even if dogs are still on a case-by-case basis after the tragedy of one particular winter. Even so he wasn’t entirely in on the idea of this (although he came, of course!) until the sounds and smells of the fur farm hit him.

Humanely harvesting fur would be one thing, even if his sister and Clara would probably disapprove, but this? This is just cruelty.

A slingshot’s pulled out of a pocket of his all-grey outfit, one hand coming up to adjust the balaclava he’s wearing before stretching the thick rubber into place. He doesn’t want to kill anyone if he can help it, but a shot in the right place can do some serious damage. And it’s quiet too.

The others spread out a bit, and he stops beside Weasel in the middle, spreading his silence field out to ensure nobody in the camp can hear the group coming.

They’re scared. Weasel frowns in the direction of the farm, edging close enough to see what they’re up against — it’s as abysmal as it sounds and smells. Rows of tiny cages, about twenty or so, most holding multiple animals. The most visible example of the cruelty is a small cage holding three foxes, one missing an ear, another missing a tail. Each cage tells the same sad tale, too many animals in too small of a space, and none of them are being cared for properly.

Thankfully for the four teens, there are only two men manning the farm; thankfully, their attention is on a group of furs that they’re currently curing and preparing for sale, stretching them out so they don’t curl in on themselves while they dry out.

Clara narrows her eyes. They’re distracted. Joe, can you sneak around and create a diversion? She always was fond of using Joe’s ability to not get murdered by bullets and knives and the like; he makes a good decoy. Then, we can sneak up on them and knock them the fuck out.

Weasel would rather kill them, but that might not go over so well.

Joe turns his head, eyes taking in Geneva's position, as well as Lance's, watching everyone get settled in and watching. Joe doesn't have the same visceral reaction to what's going on in the farm. It's not that he doesn't care, but he knows they're there to do something about it. When Weasel asks him if he can make a distraction though? Well yes. Yes that he can do. He shoots an OK sign at her, and then at the rest of the group, and then utterly silent thanks to Lance's bubble, at least till he gets beyond it, he slips further around the perimeter of the camp.

Then he straightens up from behind a tree and just… strolls towards the camp. He's even whistling. Loudly. The tune to the Andy Griffith show. Though how on earth 18, well now 19 year old Joe knows the tune to the Andy Griffith show is anyone's guess. But he does! And he's whistling it loudly as he just strolls right into the far side of the skinner/tanner's camp. "Hi fellas. Nice day out yeah? You guys think it's going to rain? I think it's going to rain. In fact I'd put money on it. Joints are aching and all that yah know? Do your joints ache when the weather changes? Mine sure do. I think I'm too young for that kind of thing. I've been told I am. Am I? Do you guys know? Maybe I should see a doctor about that. Probably a few things I should see a doctor about."

And as he's yammering he keeps on walking, hoping to hold their attention for a time. "Then again who can afford medical care in New York these days? You guys know any street doctors? Back alley doctors? Bet a nice upstanding group of citizens like yourselves wouldn't know anyone like that would yah? Nah. Probably have better luck out on the docks yeah. You guys know which way it is to the docks?" He asks, turning and spinning in place to point out easterly. "That way?" Yes. Joe can be a distraction. “Would one of you guys mind showing me the way?”

Christ. Gene is no animal telepath or empath, but one does not need to be one to be dismayed by the brutal conditions here— it is difficult to prepare for actually seeing it in person. Her heavily lined eyes narrow, carrying an aghast look in them, and one hand crooks into a readied, upturned claw of heat by her hip near where her gun rests.

Can we just kill them? It’s mostly a rhetorical question, as Gene already knows the answer, and knows that the others know she knows. No, they aren’t allowed to just kill other people. As despicable as they may be. But still, she seems practically disappointed by the wisdom of damage control.

Edging forward within her cover, despite her grim mood, she has to suppress a snigger when she sees Joe go all in. Ah, good old Joe, doing what he does best — being an insufferable goof. His ability, protection against retaliation, was truly a perfect evolutionary adaptation.

There’s always been a reason that Lance and Joe have worked so well together. As the immovable object makes noise, he continues to circle around the encampment to position himself correctly— finding a tree that’s about the right height. He leaps up to grab a branch with one hand, foot lifting to brace against the trunk and pull himself up onto a thicker branch, moving up a few tiers in smooth, one-handed movements before stretching out onto one. No sound, not a creak or a rasp of bark-on-cloth escaping his silence field.

A position to spot from acquired, he slips a smooth round ball into the slingshot and waits, watching for an exposed hunter.

Watching Joe do his thing is always nothing short of amazing. Her brother has never had any shortage of words, and it’s only thanks to his ability that someone hasn’t actually murdered him for his lack of ability to shut up. Weasel’s decked him a few times, usually forgetting that doing so is like decking a brick wall.

The two men stop dead as Joe cruises in, doing his thing, staring at him with wild eyes. It takes a moment for the apparent leader, the taller of the two men, to recover from his initial shock; wiping his hands on the black apron that protects his clothing from being stained. “Th’fuck are you doin’ out here, boy?” The other one, who is a bit on the stocky side, shakes blood off of his hands and reaches for his rifle, holding it but not aiming it — yet.

“You don’t belong out here. Y’weren’t supposed t’see this,” The man stands tall, cutting an intimidating shape as he looms over Joe’s head. “Jimbo, get off your ass and shoot this little shit,” he adds, and the stocky man raises his gun, aiming it at Joe’s chest with a frown etched into his face.

Weasel, unconcerned for Joe’s safety, starts to creep forward. We need to get rid of their gun. Lance, can you knock Jimbo out? She jerks her head toward the gun-weilding fur farmer, even as she inches closer to the cages, knife in hand.

Joe tips his head to the side a little bit when the leader asks him what he's doing out here. "I"m pretty sure I said what I'm doing out here didn't I? I thought I did. Maybe I didn't. If I didn't I'm so sorry that's so rude of me. Wander up and ask for directions and everything. I'm just out taking a stroll around Staten Island. I grew up out here. You know before the war and all. So just walking around seeing all the old sights and everything yah know?" Joe jerks his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of well… generally the rest of Staten Island.

When they start talking about shooting him Joe blinks a couple times as if honestly surprised at their sudden aggression. "Whoa guys. I don't think that's necessary do you? I mean clearly Jimbo doesn't or he'd have shot me already. Though to be fair that won't do you any good. You see…" He leans in towards them, eyes ducking left and right before he stage whispers at them. "I'm kind of Superman. The bullets will bounce off of me, hit one of you guys. It'll be a whole thing you know what I mean? So lets forgo the shootings and not ruin my shirt okay? I like this shirt and I really don't want to have any holes put in it."

As he talks he walks completely unafraid right towards Jimbo. "Come on now Jimbo. You and I both know you're a better person than shooting at an unarmed kid right? I mean it's not like you guys are the Arrowoods or something, running around kidnapping children and shooting at them. Oh! Do you know where they're at? Like where they base out of. I'd super appreciate the information before I kick the ever living crap out of both of you."

Joe flashes a wide grin at them both. If Jimbo hasn't shot at him yet he'll stop just in front of Jimbo's gun. "Soooo buddy. This is awkward but are you going to shoot me? Like I said, holes in shirt bad. Holes in shirt probably ends with you having a broken hand. Or… get this. Or you could hand me the gun, and be a good bad guy and surrender. What do you say? Otherwise I have to go ninja on you. And you don’t want that.”

As Joe is in the midst of doing his thing, Gene still can’t help but keep the amused look on her face as she listens to his speech. That threat to “go ninja.” Lovely. The girl does not sit idle, however, as this is going on. Reasonably sure that the two men are being distracted by the antics of her sibling, she is busy creeping around to the side of the clearing where the bulk of the cages are, following the same path that Weasel is taking. Quiiiiiietly now.

Some of that smile grudgingly slips off of her face as Gene intrudes further and further into the area where the smells are emanating from. It is starting to become truly rank — and the pathetic noises made by the trapped animals, growing ever louder now, are almost too much to bear. “Shhhhh shh shh,” she mutters very quietly underneath her breath at the animals, as though they’d somehow be able to understand her. Unlike Clara, she is no telepath, after all.

As discreetly as she is able, she gets to work on the lock adorning the nearest cage, cupping her hand over the device in a subtle swathe of glowing heat so that she will eventually be able to burn it open.

The signal’s noticed from Lance’s perch, his gaze sweeping over the encampment to settle on the man with the gun; shifting to raise up slightly, legs wrapping around the branch to anchor himself steady. Rubber pulls back silently, unshaking hands aiming for the back of the gunbearer’s head— just off-center to reduce the chances of killing him.

Then he releases, that quarter-sized metal sphere rocketing through the air at dangerous velocities even as the silent teenager drops down from the tree and out of view.

Jimbo seems less than pleased at Joe’s display. “I don’t like shootin’ kids,” is his response, a scowl turned toward his friend. “You really wanna kill this fucker? I bet Eugene would pay an arm and a leg to get ‘is hands on this little shit.” He cocks the gun anyhow. He’s about to lift it, when suddenly, the sphere slams into the back of his head, the man crumpling forward.

The other man suddenly screams, lifting the oversized skinning knife and rushing at Joe. He’s caught unawares, however, by Weasel, who has snuck up behind him while they were busy dealing with Joe. She’s much less nice about it, too — her knife glints briefly in the light as she promptly cuts one of his achilles’ tendons, sending him crashing to the ground with a shout of pain.

Then, wiping her blade against the grass, she reholsters it, turning to the cages. With a motion to the others, she starts off by opening one cage, and three minks that should have had one cage to themselves scramble out to their freedom. “Quick, just in case anyone hears this dipshit,” she gestures loosely toward the man who is sobbing on the ground, clutching his knee to his chest. “We should probably shut him up.”

Oh, the asshole said the magic words. Eugene. Eugene Arrowood. Joe tips his head slowly to the side, there's a colder look that flits across his features at the mention of Eugene. "Oh I'd like very much for you to provide an introduction to Eugene Arrowood Jimbo. Very much indeed. You think you could do th-" Joe cuts off as the ball hits Jimbo. "Really? Really? Broninja you couldn't have waited like five seconds?" Joe shouts, as a melee erupts around him. Well a very short lived melee. When he sees Weasel cut the man's tendon he frowns at that, his arms crossing over his chest.

"That wasn't necessary." He grumbles at her. "We could have simply hauled him back to the Safe Zone and turned him in for poaching. We have SESA friends who would happily throw his scummy behind in prison. I don't know if they can do that, but if they can't the cops would do it." He grumbles more as Weasel heads for the cages. Joe goes over to the downed Jimbo, shaking him to see if he wakes up from being knocked out. Or deaded. He might deaded. Joe's fingers press to the man's throat, feeling for a pulse. He ignores the screaming man nearby, for a few moments at least while he sits Jimbo up, feeling for that pulse. He does however take the fallen gun and checks it over a bit. "Mine now." He'll use it, or trade it. Probably trade.

Click. That is the sound of a lock, torched clean through, falling neatly open. A bit of a triumphant smirk on her face, Geneva lets it drop to the ground and opens the large door to the cage— the animal denizens within are all free to go now as they will. Quickly, she moves onto the next nearest cage to start the same process with that one.

“Ooh. Nice one,” she scomments with an appreciative wince as the man goes tumbling to the ground after Weasel’s cut, blood pooling at his ankle. The smirk grows just a wee bit wider and more knowing when she hears Joe grumbling at Weasel for the injury she had inflicted— she says nothing, but the look on her face clearly says, ‘meh, what’s all the fuss about.’

The cries of pain from the felled man are abruptly ceased into unnatural silence as Lance walks up with a smirk, hands spreading a little to either side with the slingshot still in one. “Can question him when he wakes up, I don’t think I killed him,” he notes, “Aimed not to, anyway…”

He looks around, “We sure there were only two of these jerks?”

Weasel rolls her eyes at Joe’s objection to her. “Oh boo-hoo. Asshole who tortures and kills animals has to walk with a fucking cane for the rest of his life. The horror.” She scowls at Joe, and points at one of the mangled corpses the two were working on. “They skin them alive. All of these animals have had to fucking watch as their kin gets taken away and tortured to death, so you’ll pardon if I’m not hesitant to hurt them back.”

Weasel feels very passionately about such things, that’s never been up for question.

“If you want to drag his smelly ass out to SESA, you’re more than welcome to, but I’m not sharing a boat with him.” She dips down, pulling keys off of the man who is now silently screaming his head off, and sets to work removing the locks and letting the animals free; the ones who are freed hesitate for a moment, before scrambling out of their cages and back into the wilderness, where they belong.

“Pretty sure there were only two of them. That’s all they’ve seen,” she gestures to the cages. Then, she stops on one cage, frowning. The lock is removed, and two minks flee; the birthday girl reaches in, pulling out a large mink one who looks a bit sick. She lifts the creature up, examining it. “You’re a little fighter, aren’t you? I’m taking you home with me,” she murmurs to the beast, before promptly letting the poor dirty thing drape over the back of her neck while she releases the others.

"It was still unnecessary. Also they could have had information on the Arrowoods and the slaver operation. That one…" Joe gestures at the guy who's still awake and screaming. "Is definitely not going to talk to us now. And the out cold one probably won't either now." Joe walks over to the screaming unconscious man and bends down. A hand rears back forming a fist, and he strikes the man in the head, aiming carefully so as not to cause any further damage, but he clocks the man, knocking him clean out, and then drags his now limp body over next to his buddy.

"Revenge is not justice Clara. Revenge makes you no better than the transgressors. Justice is what sets you above them." Joe shakes his head slowly as he frisks the guys, taking ammunition, money, identification. Really anything even remotely useful in their pockets is taken. The ID's if they had them will be turned over to SESA. Joe takes out his phone and snaps some pics of the site and then pics of the two unconscious poachers to make sure their faces are clear as people that were here at the site. He fully intends to report this to SESA.
“Ahhhh, stuff it with the morality talk, Joe.” Geneva stops her incineration-work on her current lock as soon as she sees that Weasel has acquired the actual keys, standing up and heading over the other girl to see if she can help in any way. On her way over, she gives the prone body of the man Weasel had felled a casual, but delightfully sharp kick. “Too many don’t get their just desserts as it is. Revenge, justice, why does it matter what word you use? What matters is they get theirs at all. Still, you have a point— he probably coulda given us some info. Bit late for that now though.”

There is a casual shrug, before she eyes the creature that Weasel had picked up.“Cute guy. Ugh, but that smell. You’re gonna hafta give him one hell of a bath.”

“Nah, he’s right,” Lance defends Joe with a shake of his head, “We aren’t at war anymore, Gene— don’t need to sink to their level. Still, they ain’t dead at least, so we can leave them like this and report them— no real way we can drag them over, and technically they’re outside anyone’s jurisdiction until the police come back next year.”

He looks over to Weasel, then, wincing, “Okay, yeah, we definitely have to get a bigger place. Maybe we can get a loan and like— buy up a building or something, I’ve been thinking. Anyway.”

He looks around the camp, “They’ve been selling so they’ve gotta have some loot here.” Money for the moving project!

Clara can’t help but roll her eyes a bit. “I don’t see why I should extend them a courtesy that they’d never even think of extending to me. Jimbo over there was about to shoot Joe in the face before you got him.” She shakes her head, releasing a few more of them. There seems to be a small group of the minks and otters are gathering just outside of the clearing that the farm is in — likely waiting for Weasel herself.

“Petty revenge would be skinning them alive. Letting their nerves scream as they touch the air that was never meant to touch them, as they die in pain and fear and a pool of their own shit and blood.” She shudders. “Sorry, these guys have some pretty awful mental images they’re showing me.” She opens a few more cages as she speaks. Joe and Lance’s fit of morality clearly isn’t going to have much of an impact on the Musteloid telepath.

“Grab the pelts, too. I want to give them a proper burial.” She frowns at the building they have been using to store their stuff in as she unlocks the cages and frees more and more animals. “Get everything we can carry. Then we should burn the rest.” Weasel is not fucking around here.

Joe steps in the way of Geneva's kick when she aims it at the downed guy that he had just knocked out so he'd stop screaming. So her foot will hit his rather unyielding self if she doesn't pull it back. Yeah he's not going to let her abuse the guys they've taken down. He holds up some money he's pulled from the two guys. "Little bit here. Probably more in the house. Guys like this probably have their stash hidden though. Maybe even buried so we could look for that."

He's eyeing Geneva, waiting until she's clear of the two guys before he'll step away from them. There's a nod of his head to Lance, more a nod of thanks for his show of solidarity. "Jimbo was talking about taking me alive and giving me to the Arrowoods. Which… actually probably would have worked out pretty well for us. Would have let me get some intel on them. Find where they're taking people. And then bust out the commando moves and kick some butt." And while Joe often jokes about going ninja or commando… truth is he and Lance can. Brian trained them to fight the next war. And not just a little how to handle a gun training.

"You know for a fact Lance and I would never let you do that Clara. So even just talking about it is false bravado. You invited us to come help. And you know who we are. Both of you." He glances at Geneva too. "You both know us. So why you…" He waves at hand at Geneva. "Would think I'd do anything else but what I have is beyond me. And why you think I'd stuff the morality talk is beyond me too." He looks to Clara after that. "And why you think I'd be okay with you cutting a man down is beyond me. If this is how you're going to handle things? Don't expect my help in the future." His voice is quiet, soft, and very very serious. He’s not angry. He’s just disappointed. He is still standing guard near the two guys, making sure neither of the girls do anything more to them. "Wanna check the house for stuff Lance?" He asks over his shoulder to his best friend.

By the way Geneva rolls her eyes in a very exaggerated expression and returns to what she is doing, it is clear that she has lost interest in the argument. If there is one thing the drifter loathes, it is being lectured by the morality police, particularly when those are fellow children who are barely her age. And here I’d been wondering don’t hang around the Lighthouse bunch much, says the lethally deadpan look on her face. With several notable exceptions, of course.

At Weasel’s suggestion, the blonde begins fetching what she can see of the pelts on the scene, rolling up the sleeves of her black leather jacket and screwing up her nose as she gathers up the rank objects to her. She visibly perks up slightly at the words, ‘burn the rest.’ “…Just say you’re ready for things to get hot, capn’ Clara.” No ‘weirdo’ nickname for telepath today: just as Lance and Joe seem to be sticking close to their guns with each other, Gene is feeling a rather annoyed and stubborn sort of camaraderie for Weasel at this juncture.

“Guys, c’mon, we’re all on the same side here. Let’s get these animals free, bury those pelts— c’mon, Joe, let’s loot their place for anything we could use,” Lance suggests, trying to pry the two disagreeing factions apart so they don’t get into an actual fight, punching Joe in the shoulder before turning to carry on with his plan. Where there’s an illegal business, there’s money, after all!

Clara’s nostrils flare, and she suddenly wheels around, shaking the keys at Joe. “Oh my god, you are being so obtuse right now!” She scowls at him. “Obviously I’m not saying we actually do that, I’m saying that if I really wanted to stoop to his level, that’s what I’d do. It’s a hypothetical situation, you jerk.” She shakes her head, going back to opening the cages with a frown on her face.

Clearly I’m not going to do anything else, and I was even going to suggest you make sure these douchebags are dragged off to a safer place before we burn their shit down. Stop being so fucking literal, Joe.” The girl shakes her head — though Lance’s words seem to unwind the tension in her shoulders a bit.

She pets a few of the minks as they flee their cages — while the foxes flee like wild animals, a small group of about eight minks, as well as a river otter, are lingering near the clearing, watching as the teenagers make short work of their former prison. Inside of the small shack that’s being used to store things, Joe and Lance will find a small stash of a couple of hundred bucks, some guns and knives, and a freezer filled with frozen meat — rabbits, chickens, pork, even a few steaks.

Joe is Joe, and unapologetic about being so. His morals might be skewed due to their youth and their upbringing, but he sticks to those morals rather closely. He's like a Paladin in that way. Lawful good. Even if that lawful isn't the same version of everyone else's lawful. He's always seen it as his job to protect other people, even if they don't want or deserve to be protected. He leans down and grabs one of the guys under the shoulders and starts dragging him off to a clear space where he won't be burned alive as everything is burned down. Then he grabs the other guy and does the same before he heads off to the house. Joe is silent. Joe is never silent. Well almost never. It's a rarity. He heads inside with Lance to look around for loot. Weapons, ammo, money and most of all information. See who they were supplying furs to, and see if they have anything on the human slaving operations.

Thankfully Lance’s fears are unfounded, at least for Geneva— though she is normally the last to shy away from a scrap, this is what she at least tries to do as a for her Lighthouse siblings as a favor, nevermind how ornery they might insist on being. Though the girl rubs briefly at her forehead in a gesture of well-tried patience, she continues with what she is doing, as stoic in expression as Joe. Both of her arms are piled high with pelts at this point, and this is not really helping her temper — the pelts reek to high heaven.

At least the freed animals are pretty damn cute.

“Yell when you guys finish up in there, mkay.”

Looting! It’s one thing that Lance and Joe have a lot of experience in, at least, and before long he’s stepping out. “We got some stuff, and— there’s a freezer of meat, we could toss it in bags and hope it doesn’t go bad before we get it back in a freezer,” he suggests, “Probably will be fine. Means we’ll be eating well for a bit, anyway.”

His brows lift a little, “You all good out here? All the fuzzies scamper off into the woods?”

“Bag that shit up,” Weasel calls, grinning. “If we don’t eat it, our new friends will.” She points to the small group of minks and otters that have gathered at the clearing, before opening one last cage and stepping back as a pair of foxes flee the scene. She watches them go, before turning toward the tree line.

“Joe, stop being mad,” she calls to her brother after they’ve both had a little time to stew. “I’ll try to cut people less,” she adds, with the mental note to herself that she’ll stick to that when Joe is around — maybe not so much when he isn’t, though. With the sick little mink around her neck, Clara stops at the clearing, crouching down to gently pet the gathered creatures, having a silent conversation with the little animals as she is wont to do.

“All of the animals are out.” Weasel shrugs off her empty backpack and holds it out toward Geneva — she can keep at least some of the pelts in there. “Whenever they’re done, let’s burn that shit. Make sure you get the cages.” She pauses, casting a glare toward the two men. “Hopefully they’ll learn their fucking lesson and we won’t have to do this again.”

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