[ Lalo's voice is harsh and ragged. He's quiet for some time. He tries to calm himself, take deep breaths. Remember his cover.
Why is he even bothering with that again? He'd thought initially that Fring might have something to do with this — the Chicken Man has friends in high places — but it's become readily apparent to him that's not the case for a while now. Why cling to a stupid fake identity?
There are a lot of reasons, but in his rage and frustration he considers ripping off the mask right then and there. But he doesn't.
He wants to call Tio. He wants to tell Tio what happened. He wants to say he's sorry he almost died before he could get proof — he'll be more careful, he'll help the other people on the island so they can help him get off the island too, he'll do what he has to do — but he can't call Tio. His cell phone is back but he can't call Tio. Or anyone. He can't call any of the cousins either. Ignacio is a traitor.
Cohle, he realizes, is the only person he actually trust here. Cohle did make the post for him, after all. Cohle listened to him die.
Deep breath. He realizes he's clenching the walkie so hard it almost breaks. He releases his grip.
The levelness of Cohle's voice helps. He's not angry but he's not giving in and getting intimidated either. ]
Okay, okay. [ Breathe. Swallow. His breathing is still ragged, but he's trying to calm himself. ] Fine. Okay. Si entiendo. [ That's the other thing!!! He wants to speak Spanish! He misses Spanish! But De Guzman is an American; of Mexican descent, yes, but still an American. ]
He shot me with my own gun. My own gun! He called me — [ Lalo's voice trails off. They both know what he was called. Lalo doesn't want to repeat it. ]
[ He makes a noise of acknowledgement, slight, in the back of his throat. Thinks back to the blowup with Kokichi, de Guzman—his character amorphous, insistently slippery—taking shape a little. A man mired in shame. Unable to bear public scrutiny.
Why the fuck had he been out there? For a reason, or just to hurt someone, feel like a man? ] Alright, I want you to close your eyes. Find your pulse at your neck. Focus on that, nothing else, and wait till it's steady.
[ Shame is a vanishingly rare experience for Lalo. He's never one to shy away from the limelight or not court everyone's attention, and he's never felt guilty or bad about a single atrocity he's ever committed. Shameless would be a pretty apt way to describe him, in fact.
But it means that when he does feel shame, it burns inside of him with a ferocious intensity. He's unprepared for it, unused to it, and he's experienced more public humiliation in the past couple of days than he has in years. These urges to twist in on himself until he disappears - to scream at everyone to DON'T - STOP - STOP LOOKING AT ME - when usually he loves attention and drinks up everyone's gaze, real and metaphorical - he feels like he's going to burst open from being too filled with shame. ]
Don't tell me what to - [ He starts to snap at the detective. Remind him that Lalo isn't a child. But something inside him makes him stop. Take the detective's advice. Do what he's told. ] Fine.
[ Irritably, a little skeptically, he takes a breath and rolls his eyes. But then he does what Rust says. Finds his pulse. It's racing from anger and heightened emotions. Deep breaths. Feel the pulse. Feel it. He concentrates on the sensation of each dull throb under his two fingers, pressed together. Deep breath. One deep breath, then another.
There's nothing else right now except the feeling of his pulse, his warm skin, under his fingers. It's genuinely pleasant and calming in a way he didn't expect, didn't actually think would work. It sounded like bullshit to him, but as the cabin and the growling monster inside of it and the judgments of people on the network start to slowly melt away, he feels his breathing and his pulse start to get more even. Something warm and light floods his chest, then spreads out through the rest of his body.
The walkie is switched off for a moment; he can't do this properly if he's focused on anything else. His chest rises and falls. Slowly. Steadily. There's the crash of the angry waves, his chest moving up and down, and his pulse, slowly evening out. And nothing else.
Soon the walkie clicks back on. ]
...Almost steady. [ His voice softer, calmer. There's something unspoken in the softness of his voice, too. Gracias. ]
Good, good. [ Rust's voice is low and rhythmic—in time with de Guzman's breathing, what he can hear of it. He gives it another minute or two, his patience unfeigned. ] You with me? Ready to do this?
[ By the time his pulse evens out and he takes his fingers away, Lalo is ready to follow Rust straight down into Hell. Unused to strong emotions, not sure how to process them on his own without help, being guided through this makes him feel like a toddler clutching a parent's hand on a trip through a crowded grocery store. On some level, he knows he should be offended, but he's too grateful. He can't bring himself to be.
He takes one more deep breath, and smiles into the walkie. ] Ready!
[ He wants to start with the trap—take things sequentially, and he's curious besides. But it's the wrong call, immediately dragging this man back to the site of his humiliation. So instead: ] You get a look at him?
No, no. He came up from behind me. Out of the forest. I didn't even hear anybody. [ Which is still very, very unusual, he thinks. ] Not until he was right, right there. Him or it. Whatever it is. Whispering in my ear.
[ It helps when Cohle speaks in time with his breathing. Relaxes him. ]
What hand...? Ahhhh, don't know. Couldn't see him, remember? As for the gun, it's a Heckler & Koch P7. It didn't seem to give him any trouble, but it's not a hard gun to use. The thing's basically idiot-proof. Shit, man, I know that's why I like it! [ The faintest hint of some amusement in his voice at his own joke; a hopeful pause that Rust will think he's funny, too. ]
[ The noise he lets out is as much sigh as laugh, a snort breaking it up somewhere in the middle. And that's him trying.
Is it impossible that a police department could be out there issuing H&Ks? No, but it's unusual. Is it impossible that a rookie two weeks on the job might have enough experience with his sidearm to be cracking jokes? No again, but—
He files it away. Task at hand. ] What about smell, you know, was there a scent on him? His breath?
[ The gentleness in his voice helps; its like a soothing balm to Lalo's fractured psyche. Lalo wishes it didn't. It makes him disgusted with himself. But it does. And his mind latches onto it like a drowning person thrashing around for a life preserver.
On some level he knows it's just something cops say to lure suckers into confessing to shit. But he has, for once, nothing to confess to. He just wants a distraction.
The gentle probing questioning provides that, and with his confidence battered the way it is, any little bit of praise is enough to get what Rust wants out of him. ]
Okay. The lead up... [ Dios mio, this is embarrassing. Maybe Rust should be grateful for the budding infatuation — can it be called that? It's more like a fixation, with gratitude and fury and besotted puppy love and deep fascination all intermingling confusingly for him — he's just induced in Lalo. Without it, Lalo might not be willing to be honest about this next part. Maybe he wouldn't even be honest with it. Or discuss it at all. He's usually the one driving interrogations, mostly, and he likes it that way.
But Lalo is too willing, right now, to follow whatever thread Rust lays out for him. He needs to. Chasing that string helps him feel like he can put mind to a task, even if it's just the task of answering questions. ]
Okay. So. Right. [ Stalling... ] I was crawling in the brush, up to the cabin, and I noticed the ground under me was covered. Completely. I got this bad feeling — what do you call it? A premonition? — and my ankle got caught in this snare trap. Thing. [ Clears his throat. ]
I dropped my gun when I got caught. I hung there for maybe ten minutes, fifteen max, watching the cabin.
Nobody went in. Nobody went out. Then I heard someone right behind me.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2023-06-14 09:13 pm (UTC)Why is he even bothering with that again? He'd thought initially that Fring might have something to do with this — the Chicken Man has friends in high places — but it's become readily apparent to him that's not the case for a while now. Why cling to a stupid fake identity?
There are a lot of reasons, but in his rage and frustration he considers ripping off the mask right then and there. But he doesn't.
He wants to call Tio. He wants to tell Tio what happened. He wants to say he's sorry he almost died before he could get proof — he'll be more careful, he'll help the other people on the island so they can help him get off the island too, he'll do what he has to do — but he can't call Tio. His cell phone is back but he can't call Tio. Or anyone. He can't call any of the cousins either. Ignacio is a traitor.
Cohle, he realizes, is the only person he actually trust here. Cohle did make the post for him, after all. Cohle listened to him die.
Deep breath. He realizes he's clenching the walkie so hard it almost breaks. He releases his grip.
The levelness of Cohle's voice helps. He's not angry but he's not giving in and getting intimidated either. ]
Okay, okay. [ Breathe. Swallow. His breathing is still ragged, but he's trying to calm himself. ] Fine. Okay. Si entiendo. [ That's the other thing!!! He wants to speak Spanish! He misses Spanish! But De Guzman is an American; of Mexican descent, yes, but still an American. ]
He shot me with my own gun. My own gun! He called me — [ Lalo's voice trails off. They both know what he was called. Lalo doesn't want to repeat it. ]
no subject
Date: 2023-06-16 01:37 am (UTC)Why the fuck had he been out there? For a reason, or just to hurt someone, feel like a man? ] Alright, I want you to close your eyes. Find your pulse at your neck. Focus on that, nothing else, and wait till it's steady.
no subject
Date: 2023-06-17 12:43 am (UTC)But it means that when he does feel shame, it burns inside of him with a ferocious intensity. He's unprepared for it, unused to it, and he's experienced more public humiliation in the past couple of days than he has in years. These urges to twist in on himself until he disappears - to scream at everyone to DON'T - STOP - STOP LOOKING AT ME - when usually he loves attention and drinks up everyone's gaze, real and metaphorical - he feels like he's going to burst open from being too filled with shame. ]
Don't tell me what to - [ He starts to snap at the detective. Remind him that Lalo isn't a child. But something inside him makes him stop. Take the detective's advice. Do what he's told. ] Fine.
[ Irritably, a little skeptically, he takes a breath and rolls his eyes. But then he does what Rust says. Finds his pulse. It's racing from anger and heightened emotions. Deep breaths. Feel the pulse. Feel it. He concentrates on the sensation of each dull throb under his two fingers, pressed together. Deep breath. One deep breath, then another.
There's nothing else right now except the feeling of his pulse, his warm skin, under his fingers. It's genuinely pleasant and calming in a way he didn't expect, didn't actually think would work. It sounded like bullshit to him, but as the cabin and the growling monster inside of it and the judgments of people on the network start to slowly melt away, he feels his breathing and his pulse start to get more even. Something warm and light floods his chest, then spreads out through the rest of his body.
The walkie is switched off for a moment; he can't do this properly if he's focused on anything else. His chest rises and falls. Slowly. Steadily. There's the crash of the angry waves, his chest moving up and down, and his pulse, slowly evening out. And nothing else.
Soon the walkie clicks back on. ]
...Almost steady. [ His voice softer, calmer. There's something unspoken in the softness of his voice, too. Gracias. ]
no subject
Date: 2023-06-20 06:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-06-20 07:39 pm (UTC)He takes one more deep breath, and smiles into the walkie. ] Ready!
no subject
Date: 2023-06-20 09:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-06-20 10:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-06-20 10:39 pm (UTC)Quickly but delicately: ] He touch you?
no subject
Date: 2023-06-20 10:45 pm (UTC)No. Only with the barrel of my gun. When he put it against the back of my head.
no subject
Date: 2023-06-20 10:54 pm (UTC)How was he with the gun? When he picked it up, what hand did he use? He check the chamber? [ A beat, then as an afterthought: ] What kinda gun is it?
no subject
Date: 2023-06-20 11:05 pm (UTC)What hand...? Ahhhh, don't know. Couldn't see him, remember? As for the gun, it's a Heckler & Koch P7. It didn't seem to give him any trouble, but it's not a hard gun to use. The thing's basically idiot-proof. Shit, man, I know that's why I like it! [ The faintest hint of some amusement in his voice at his own joke; a hopeful pause that Rust will think he's funny, too. ]
no subject
Date: 2023-06-22 07:48 pm (UTC)Is it impossible that a police department could be out there issuing H&Ks? No, but it's unusual. Is it impossible that a rookie two weeks on the job might have enough experience with his sidearm to be cracking jokes? No again, but—
He files it away. Task at hand. ] What about smell, you know, was there a scent on him? His breath?
no subject
Date: 2023-06-23 07:35 pm (UTC)Then there's a pause. A brief one, but it's noticeable. ]
I don't know, man. Couldn't really get anything like that off 'im. Just grass and trees and shit.
no subject
Date: 2023-06-29 05:37 pm (UTC)Talk to me about the lead-up. What happened when we got cut off?
no subject
Date: 2023-06-29 06:49 pm (UTC)On some level he knows it's just something cops say to lure suckers into confessing to shit. But he has, for once, nothing to confess to. He just wants a distraction.
The gentle probing questioning provides that, and with his confidence battered the way it is, any little bit of praise is enough to get what Rust wants out of him. ]
Okay. The lead up... [ Dios mio, this is embarrassing. Maybe Rust should be grateful for the budding infatuation — can it be called that? It's more like a fixation, with gratitude and fury and besotted puppy love and deep fascination all intermingling confusingly for him — he's just induced in Lalo. Without it, Lalo might not be willing to be honest about this next part. Maybe he wouldn't even be honest with it. Or discuss it at all. He's usually the one driving interrogations, mostly, and he likes it that way.
But Lalo is too willing, right now, to follow whatever thread Rust lays out for him. He needs to. Chasing that string helps him feel like he can put mind to a task, even if it's just the task of answering questions. ]
Okay. So. Right. [ Stalling... ] I was crawling in the brush, up to the cabin, and I noticed the ground under me was covered. Completely. I got this bad feeling — what do you call it? A premonition? — and my ankle got caught in this snare trap. Thing. [ Clears his throat. ]
I dropped my gun when I got caught. I hung there for maybe ten minutes, fifteen max, watching the cabin.
Nobody went in. Nobody went out. Then I heard someone right behind me.