|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Fri Jun 28, 2013 6:27 pm
[ PRP :: ONCE UPON A STORM ]|| The wind breathing warning of its i m m i n e n c e || WHO: Revontulet, Doucette, Harrison
WHEN: Late afternoon moving into evening hours - the sun is definitely low on the horizon
WHERE: It all begins out on a little island
WEATHER: Overcast - a big storm just blew through and made a fuss
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Jul 10, 2013 2:39 pm
 One step, two step. The ground was crumbling beneath his feet, giving way to the furnace beneath, crusted and dried orange earth broken into a thousand pieces like a dropped plate. He was panting, sweat dripping down his chin and onto his flight harness. The OD green was not expected. He hadn’t served in the military for six years now. The desert around him suddenly turned urban, hot but lacking in humidity. Great, deployed and without his helicopter. Why was he on the ground? The aviator slapped a hand down to his hip, reaching for the standard 9mm Berretta. Brass check, one round in the barrel. He dropped the clip, less than 10 rounds in the magazine. In other words, he was screwed.
That’s when he heard the cries of an indistinguishable language followed by rifle fire. He was being chased, why was he being chased? He sprinted down another alleyway, ducking into an eerily empty household. Dangerous, against protocol. Not allowed. What the ******** was he doing? He hissed and looked down at his shoulder, there was blood blossoming under his harness. But it didn’t hurt. Why didn’t it hurt? He felt the heat of someone’s breath on his face. Harrison’s eyes widened, fear spreading and he drew the M9, ready to fire into the faceless enemy breathing down his neck. His arm didn’t hurt but the heat and moisture was so real.
Troxel, you’re dreaming.
---
In a flash the pilot’s eyes were open staring down the old face of a loving German shepherd. He let out a groan, sighing in relief not to be back in that country- days sitting on the tarmac, full gear compressing his spine. Since his turn in the sandbox he’s undergone three surgeries for his back and two head doctors. None seem to help for any period of time. He rubbed the wet from his eyes and slowly sat up. That back injury pulsed with pain, caused by what he assumed was the pressure system moving through. The same system that threw his helicopter in a storm two days ago rescuing that girl. Doucette.
Trigger barked then, a deep old bark drawing Harrison from his thoughts, tail wagging with a thud thud thud against the quilt of his bed. The aviator checked his watch, biting his lip. 0545- it was that time he supposed. With a wince he pulled himself from his bed and set his feet on the cool floor. Apparently with inclement weather come temperature drops. Slowly he stood and shuffled the short distance to the kitchen, bare feet giving him the traction to avoid a particularly graceful a** first slip and fall. He’d made the mistake of traversing the newly polished floors in sock clad feet but a few days before- his tailbone was still paying for it.
Trigger remained a constant emission of warmth to his right as he moved to the countertop. This was their routine; smack the coffee maker to start, pour the dog food, place mug into the Keurig and brew before setting the bowl on the floor. Within seconds both dog and man were fed and content. Trox blowing steam off the top of his mug and Trigger snorting into the tin bowl. It was peaceful moment of understanding and companionship. One normally followed by a run. Yet, judging by the way his spine felt like it was crumbling with each step, he doubted he’d make it through a 5k. Even with the aspirin now starting its journey through his veins he wouldn’t be able to make it. Instead of moving back to the bedroom to gather his gear for a run Trox instead head to the small desk in the corner of his living room. His laptop emitted a small glow from the front panel.
With the weather as it was, his back in the pain it was in, he thought a morning spent lazing on the couch was warranted. He opened his laptop and hit the power button, balancing his mug in the other hand as he yawned through the action. Damn this weather made him sleepy. The computer screen came to life with a small burst of audio- the wake up song was accompanied with a pitiful whimper.
Trigger was whining at the door because He moved to the backdoor, opening both storm door and screen for Trigger to scamper into the weather. Dog’s gotta do what a dog’s gotta do. He grinned, watching the furry black form bound through the yard, picking up a bone and chasing something imaginary before halting and lifting a leg—that was enough. Give the old man some privacy. He couldn’t help but think back to Trigger’s previous owner. He was a damn fine pilot.
A damn fine pilot indeed.
It was a shame that Chief Warrant Officer Michael Delaney passed the way he did. He pushed it from his mind. He was there after all. In the flesh, witnessing, feeling the warm spray of Delaney on his cheek where the visor ended. He shuddered and thought of how he had to suddenly take controls. It was a one and a million shot to actually hit the pilot in command, somehow the bullet penetrated the Blackhawk and found Delaney’s neck and-
Trox stopped himself and shook his head before heading to the computer. He paced a moment, taking a few hard breaths and sipping from his mug. The nightmare would never leave, would it? He’d completed hours of therapy, has been on a few medications for the PTSD he refused to recognize he’d had. It was the late nights this past week, he decided. On call shifts were the bane of the aviator’s existence. Shitty coffee and shittier flying hours. He, like any other rational pilot, favored VFR to IFR.
He grabbed the laptop, flicking the adaptor out of the slot and moved to sit on the couch. Trox sunk in a delicious few inches before deeming himself comfortable. That’s when he finally placed his mug on the table and opened the laptop lid again- computer greeting him with his background, a photo of his DHS flight team.
He took a sip from the coffee mug again before navigating to his email.
To: TroxH@g-mail.com
From: Elle.Troxel@enterprise.net
Subject: We’d Even Settle For This!
Harrison,
I was so shocked when Melinda from down the road brought up this organization and I immediately thought of you! Your father and I were talking and we both came to the conclusion that even if your child was one of these Raevan’s we’d be content! http://www.lab305.com/about.html
How are you, love? How’s the house and the dog? Is your back troubling you? Every time we hear a helicopter we still look up and think of that time you flew over the house!
Your father is grilling this Friday and we’d love to have you over for dinner. Let me know- we’ll start at around 6. I think that’s 18 your time.
We can’t wait to hear about the new medevac job.
Love,
Mom.
No matter where you go, you will look up and know you are there.
Harrison clicked the link and reached for his mug again. The webpage greeted him with soft cool colors. Definitely professional, not fake. He'd scrolled through it once before because of curiosity but never really had given it much thought. Sure he wanted a family- but that was his best kept secret. His biological clock was ticking... fast.
He mused as he read through the pages and didn't notice the minutes slipping by. After an hour the shrill needy bark of Trigger knocked him out of his trance. He took that moment to actually look down at the webpage before him. Christ how had he found his way to the application page?
Slowly he stood up and moved to the back porch sliding door, muscles straining, still awakening from his time sprawled on the couch. On a whole his body seemed very opposed to the idea of any movement, something Troxel had not herald to as he shut the door after his panting companion and shuffled back to the kitchen. His limbs felt like lead and an ache began behind his eyes. Maybe it would be best if he went back to bed.
…So he did.
---
Luckily, no more nightmares found him that morning. He was ready for the day after a few more pills and a hot shower. He tried for the gym but thought it wasn’t worth it with his back complaining as much as it was. Best rest up, heal and try twice as hard tomorrow.
The prospect of the lab had been holding his attention as he ran his errands and even bought groceries [Trox really abhorred the grocery store but unfortunately it was a necessary evil]. He thought over the pages, contact information, resources and application. That page had been an interesting one to close.
Apparently those wee hours spent scrolling through the website had brought on an almost zombie like state. He kept on thinking back to it. Why not apply? Why not put himself out there? Why not take some time to be selfish and make something work. He was kind of an ideal candidate. He had a job with very reasonable hours, he was a government employee with means to protect his family and his home. Lord knows he’s had enough experience raising and nurturing. He’d been a Platoon Leader after all and continued all the way through Company commander.
He’s paid his dues. He’s served his country. And that’s good and great and of course he’d tell the boys back at work that ‘ew kids, not for him, single livin’ baby’.
But he never really did believe that… With the dreams, his job, his family. He could use an anchor and it hurt to come to that realization. Someone would rely on him again. Like Delaney. And that thought terrified him.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Jul 10, 2013 2:42 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Jul 10, 2013 2:46 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Jul 10, 2013 2:47 pm
Whiz Swish… Plunk. The lure dropped after dancing in the air, line elegant as it cut through the morning fog by Harrison’s design. It was cool enough for a fleece- the perfect temperature to keep mosquitoes at bay during Harrison’s morning ritual. He needed his special chunk of time. It was a sacred period of time to unwind, to be unguarded and breathe the fresh air like it was his last. It was the necessary soothing moments to break his days apart. So in the mornings, once or twice a week it was just him, on the lake with nothing but his dog, tackle and rod. It was his vice. Hell of a vice, he thought as he reached for the thermos of coffee- guarded by Trigger, at least it wasn’t alcohol.
The dog was old, rescued from a sandy war zone in some torn up country. Looking at him left a bad taste in his mouth- remembering whom Trigger belonged to and how he was no longer. Harrison reached down, fingers combing through the short wires that made up his scruff and looked back to the rising sun dancing on the lake. The fog was starting to burn off, sharp shapes on the opposite shore cut into view as evidence. He’d only really be able to get a few more lines in before fathers would interrupt his solitude with kids splashing at the shore. Kids-hm… He tapped the bottle meant for the soul to those eerie rings; he traced the intricate golden designs on the cloth of the bottle and tilted his head. Something living that was red and gold; not necessarily a spider. He grinned as he thought back to his very special lab appointment.
Zeke hadn’t been the epitome of professionalism. Trox stopped himself because he was a bit too quick to judge. Zeke was a professional; he’d done his deeds to climb to where he was. The visage and the bling though. Harrison chuckled to himself and thought back to the shock He’d felt when he first walked into the lab to see what looked like the poster child for the Teenage Rock Punk clan step forward and introduce him to the ‘family’. It’s not that he didn’t appreciate Zeke’s orientation brief. The aviator leaned back in the boat and spoke to the little angel on his shoulder who was pouting and chiding him for being overly judgmental.
Harrison Troxel was an Amy Aviator. He’s known nothing but uniformity, regulations and standards since he was 18 years old. Every day it’s a uniform, every day it’s the same schedule. Every day in and out was predictable, laid out or expected. Now he’s thrown into civilian life, stripped of his title and his rank with the simple postfix “(ret.)” and was living a world that wasn’t regulated, wasn’t to standard, wasn’t laid out and predictable. He’s had this image, visage of normal civilian life plunked into his head as he anticipated his inevitable release from the Army- despite that release happening about 8 years sooner than expected. So when the role of ‘Receptionist’ comes to mind, again barring the fact that Zeke was also a Veterinarian, a punked out Raver was not the outfit he was expecting.
It was kind of pleasant all in all. The appointment was nice, to the point, easy and quick. Zeke was indeed professional if not a bit over caffeinated despite his radical dressing standards. And the prospect of everything left him giddy and anxious. Slowly he reached into his bagged breakfast [banana and powerbar to go with his thermos of coffee] and gently pulled out the soul bottle.
Harrison had taken to keeping it with him- just in case, he’d thought. It was an interesting juxtaposition for him. This lake was his- yet soon he might be one of those fathers. Guardian type- a father he was not. A Raevan isn’t an infant- they speak and can do basic tasks without a guiding hand- Revontulet had proven that to him. Suddenly his world seemed much more crowded. And the scary thing was that he was at least partly anticipating it. Harrison felt tightening in his throat and shook his head; he could lie to himself a little while longer. Not yet, not yet. For now, in this moment 0500 to 0700, this lake was his- His and that crazy swans.
The pilot shook his head to himself and looked over the expanse of the lake, expecting to see that pearl white figure moving in the early morning fog. The swan has been a constant entity of the lake since he’d moved- out of place for sure. The pilot had hazard a guess that the bird had been someone’s exotic pet and the owner had let the swan free. It was a vicious beast after all. He paused, staring into the lake and pictured a large man, mustache and all getting bitten in the a** by his prized swan. Swans weren’t all pretty princess pink and graceful. They were psychos. The lot of them, cold blooded crazy freak shows and ridiculously territorial. Harrison rubbed his own a** as the distant memory of pain crept in.
He had been minding his own business, a man and his dog, standing waist deep off the shore in his waders. Fly fishing, minding his own business because it was his special time in God’s country. It had to have been later in the season, closer to autumn as he recalled the brisk morning required at least a scarf. The sunrise later in the morning than he was used to or some reason, all he could remember was he was peacefully minding his own business when he heard it. There was an almost serpentine hissing- he could hear rustling too. By the time Trox had spun around it was on. Four feet of fluffed neck plumage and angry Swan bore down on him like he hacked into their bank accounts and they were related to the Corleone family. He was terrified and jumped back and had lost his footing as the beast came at him, bill snapping in the air. Harrison had no idea these pretty princess animals were actually homicidal man hunters. He fell backwards into the frigid waters, waders filling up and he had lost his breath for a moment. He was submerged, flailing and now had the weight of XL waders full of water. At the time he had no other consideration than to swim- drop all his equipment, waders included- and book it to his car. And that’s what he did. He ditched the rubber garment, his pole and supplies and swam to shore, swan hot on his tail. He almost made it too. He was in nothing but his boxers at this point, gasping for air and hissing against the cold when the swan bill clamped onto his a** and refused to let go.
Needless to say as soon as he made land he booked it towards his vehicle, distinct limp showing as he crashed into the vehicle and locked his doors. It wasn’t one of his braver moments. Especially considering he waited 20 minutes as the Swan circled his car because he really didn’t want to hurt the son of a b***h. He’d lost some pretty good fishing equipment too.
“That’s why I bring you, boy,” He gave a pointed look to the dog at his feet, tail wagging and slowly pushing himself up to meet an outstretched hand. Harrison obliged the animal and tugged on the reel to draw the lure in- hoping something would pop up and snag the hook as it bounced to the boat.
An hour or so passed as Troxel fished and nibbled on his packed lunch before he felt the need to remove his flip flops, stretching his toes and gently pressing them into Trigger’s fur. The dog rolled in appreciation, asking for some belly attention which Harrison couldn’t help but oblige. He was old and it was of little effort on his side. It kept them both content.
The sun rose higher above the horizon, Harrison wagered it was at least 0630 now, and the fog had begun the process of burning off. Soon families will be pooling around the shore with the noise and disruption. The lake had offered him nothing this morning. He’d caught a few but all were too small to keep in the cooler he’d brought. He wasn’t really trying for a catch today anyway. The decision had to be made. Pack and avoid pleasantries with fellow fishermen or leave now and avoid social interaction… It was an easy choice.
Harrison began pulling everything together, the movement and noise catching the old dog’s attention. Trigger lifted his head and thumped his tail against the bottom of the boat. Something exciting was happening- you knew you were old when packing up fishing supplies was exciting for you. Poor dog. Harrison reached down and ruffled the fur on the animal’s neck. And then he heard it. A reptilian hissing.
He felt a shifting in the boat as looked in the thinning fog around him, Trigger began to growl and he knew his goose was cooked.
The creature entered the scene stage right, iridescent white standing out even in the obscured environment and s**t he wish he’d started rowing back to shore already. Instead of stranded in loaded waders, he was stranded in a boat. With a dog no less. Trigger was supposed to help in situations like this but whole lot of ********’ good that’d do when they’re both contained to a two by six area of space.
The Swan floated in its four foot glory, ruffling its feathers and hissing still. It looked like it had popped out of a nightmare, neck straight, as tall as it could be and head angled down so all Trox could see were two beady orange eyes and the black bill. Horror movies didn’t come close. How pitiful was this. Army Aviator, countless battles and frays survived and outlasted. Petrified of local swan. Maybe if he was still, like that scene in Jurassic Park. Don’t move and the – aw s**t.
He dropped the rod as the pearl white heathen screamed out at him- s**t it sounded like it had that previous year. Something between a demon infant and Satan’s vuvuzela. s**t-s**t s**t. Harrison emitted a very uncouth cry as he stumbled backwards. Trigger howled and barked at the beast but the swan gave zero ********. Honey Badger ain’t got time for your s**t, dog.
The bird rose, flapping its massive wingspan and lifted its girth into the air, bearing down both man and beast. Harrison grabbed the fishing pole, ready to smack the bird down when he saw and felt as the large overweight shepherd hurled it’d body at the swan. Troxel had never seen a furry whale flop into the water, but he could die saying he’d come close with Trigger, with all the grace of a single legged spider, not dive so much as face plant into the water.
“Trigger!” He shouted, battling feather and wings and honks and would this swan EVER shut up?! “C’mere boy!”
He wasn’t even sure if the arthritic dog could swim in his weight and state. The swan seemed to be focused on the paddling canine- Trigger struggling towards the shore in a series of splashes and pants. Harrison was again terrified the dog would die. He tossed off his hat, his fleece and dove into the water. This was his one companion and he certainly couldn’t let him drown. He’d lost so much already.
Now Harrison was comfortable with the water. He had to be. Annually he was ‘dunker certified’- in which you sit in a skeleton of a Blackhawk helicopter and have it dropped into a pool. While submerged you have to exit the bird. Mind you the most terrifying part is waiting for the helicopter to rotate upside down, emulating the heavier rotor system spinning you. You’re disorientated, it sucks, but you survive.
It was a different story when a 90 lb dog and a 30 lb bird were having at it at the surface of the water. And the waterfowl definitely held the advantage in this case. His knuckles were bleeding but eventually his knee met a rock and his elbow felt the shore. He dragged the dog onto the beach and protected his eyes from the onslaught of angry swan. He needed to catch his breath but damn the heathen would not give in. Unlike his muscles. The exertion, lack of air, Troxel fell sideways and curled up. He was vaguely aware of whimpering and growling and then the honking stopped but the wings continued to flap. Oh no.
“TRIGGER, NO,” The pilot shot up, grabbing at the dog’s collar, “Bad boy!”
Was he really though? Protecting Harrison? He dug his fingers into the shepherd’s scruff and took a deep breath. Watching the body of the swan twitch and flap, neck hanging at a very unnatural angle. Trigger growled a bit, bowing forward, tail wagging. He was playing. The swan was dying and his dog wanted to play with it. Damn he looked like an a*****e. What monetary fine would this bring?
Trox panted still, gripping at the stones on the beach before looking out to the boat. It drifted towards shore, bobbing uselessly in the water. His car keys were in there. s**t.
Now he was faced with a dilemma. Have his dog mutilate the dying swan, or have his items drift to the other side of the lake. Everything he needed was in the boat. Decisions, decisions and his back hurt like hell. ******** it, he decided, let the damn dog be. He was exhausted from the swim anyway.
“Trigger, stay,” he bellowed to the animal who promptly sat his a** in the dirt and looked longingly at the settling swan.
---
By the time Harrison returned with the boat he could see some families pulling in to the nearby parking lot. Great, now he’d be judged because there was a dead swan by his dog. He sighed, pulling the small canoe ashore and pulling the dog’s leash.
Trigger was standing proud over the swan and wagging his tail, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth as he looked for praise. Harrison gave him a dead look in response. Really? Really dog? He shook his head and focused on getting trigger in the car. He winced and struggled as he brought the shepherd to his vehicle. Both man and beast walking slowly- exhaustion clear in their gate. Harrison opened the trunk and let the dog slowly lumber into the vehicle.
“Guess I’ll have to call the game warden now,” after making sure the windows were at least partially down, Trox closed up the vehicle, snagged his blackberry and moved over to the canoe and body of the swan. He called it in with no bullshit, no small talk just straight facts. Don’t touch the bird- got it. He looked at the families moving towards the lake and cringed. Little Timmy really shouldn’t be looking at a dead bird. He collected his items from the canoe and angled the boat so anyone coming towards the lake wouldn’t catch an eye full of dead bird.
The creature twitched and flapped a little more…
Dying bird, then. Harrison’s brow furrowed and he tilted his head, taking in the scene, poor thing. There was nothing he could do. Sure it was a menace but a slow death is hardly humane. It was then that he saw it.
He would have thought it was blood if it hadn’t been for the golden streams and flecks. A substance was flowing from the chest of the bird. The breast was intact though. His eyes widened and he reached for the substance, it avoided his fingers but danced around the digits like a repelled flame.
“What the fu-?” His fingers met feathers, their dry down still warm to the touch. He might have noticed that the bird’s feathers shouldn’t be dry given the aquatic battle that had just taken place. The feathers shimmered despite the lack of direct sunlight, un-dirtied, iridescent and bone dry. The red and gold smoke flowed still, gaining in mass when he hit it.
A soul. Was this a soul? It had to be a soul. He reached into the lunch pale, fingers gripping around the small metal top to the bottle, the intricate cloth resting in his palm, he held the bottle to the shimmering substance and watched in awe as it slid into the opening and filled the bulbous bottom, swirling and dancing, almost playful. Didn’t this thing remember it just tried to kill his dog? s**t, was this the soul to his new ward? The pair to his planetless rings?
He looked to the bird, no red in sight now, the feathers seemed to glimmer and shine, glowing almost. Why would a swan be glowing? It looked like crystal. Then the crystal started to melt. The swan was melting away before his eyes, color leaving, particles of diamond like sand- pure white- slipping into water. That water flowed to the lake. He was left then, carcass-less and with a bottle filled with something’s soul. He sat there, in awe, watching the last of what had been the swan flow away then down to the soul in the ********> He drew a breath, blinking hard and grazing his fingers across the fabric, “me…”
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Jul 16, 2013 4:44 am
[ PRP :: META REACTION POST ]|| Two grim phone calls late in the n i g h t || WHO: Doucette, Harrison
WHEN: Following the call informing all of Kyou's absence
WHERE: Home Office
WEATHER: Mild summer evening
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - His phone was vibrating against his sock clad foot resting on the desk. He screwed his vision to look at the illuminated screen of the blackberry. Maybe the Lab was calling him back about this missing Doctor? Or maybe it was his work place about to give him a situation report on a mission. He flicked his eyes over to the screen of his computer. The lab’s webpage pulled up- staff and contacts peered back at him in nice calm colors and lighthearted fonts. He sniffed and reached for his phone, answering from his reclined position. “ Harrison Troxel,” With the phone tucked between one shoulder and ear, the redhead’s fingers were left free to tangle in the curling cord of the old fashioned machine. Although it had only rung a few times, already Doucette’s breathing was becoming just that side of shallow, upset. Alex’s call had shaken her slightly and she wasn’t really sure why. No, that wasn’t right. She knew why. They were asking Revontulet to help look for this doctor she’d never met. Everyone at the Lab knew about Kyou, and deep down Doe knew she owed a huge debt of gratitude to the man for the joy he’d brought into her life, but did that mean she had to send what amounted to a child on the search for him? Harrison’s voice came on the line and she was silent for a moment too long, always awful with conveying herself across phone lines. “ Hey Harrison, it’s...it’s Doucette. Sorry to call you! Do you have a minute to talk?” " Doe?" His feet slipped from the desk slowly as he reigned in his limbs and mind. He flicked his screen to the screen saver with a few keystrokes and focused on the voice in his left ear. " Yeah, I was actually gonna call you- Do you know about a doctor at the lab? I just received a call and-" He stopped short realizing he was barreling through when Doe was in fact the caller, she had priority over the air. " Aynway, what's up. You sound shaken…" Despite herself the woman let out a soft laugh, reaching up to shift the phone to her other ear as she did so. Although they had only met a few more times after the hospital incident, she’d gotten familiar with his ability to take over a situation. “ Actually that’s what I was calling you about.” The laugh had lightened her tone somewhat, but her voice had dropped in volume somewhat. He could imagine she was peering around some wall somewhere to make sure Ren couldn’t overhear the conversation. “ About the doctor, Kyou, he’s the reason I have Ren. I don’t...I don’t actually know him, but Alex is hoping I will join and help the search party.” Doucette’s voice trailed off somewhat, obvious that there was more to be said but hoping despite herself that she didn’t need to say it. Troxel's face scrunched at that, a palm rubbing from forehead to chin in disdain as he rolled his eyes. Not at Doucette, never at Doe. But the fact that these jokers were creating a task force out of professional relationships. Granted the whole communal setting of the Lab was not invisible. He bit his lip and tried to focus on the objective and keep theory and thoughts to himself. Doe didn't need his negative Nancy persona. He thought of the swirling soul in the bottle he kept on his desk. Blanketed in a tiny nest. He eyed it before taking in a small breath. " Yeah…" He started, he sounded tired, " I can imagine how you're feelin' right now. I-- It's weird. You'd think they'd bring this to the authorities, my people hear missing persons reports all the time and three birds in the air, some thermals or NVGs and. They're always found." He kept out the portion where they aren't. That wasn't a failing of equipment or the eyes of the search party. That was more often than not attributed to the lack of a heat signature from the missing persons. " I got the same call, I-- It's in the middle of some jungle out there. I wouldn't go, Doe…" Doucette heaved a slight sigh, leaning against the kitchen table and rubbing absently at her cast covered with the scrawling doodles of her kindergarten class. It was supposed to come off soon. Days, even, depending on how her next consultation went. Should she be going out into some jungle looking for someone she didn’t even know? But she did know Alex, even if it wasn’t very well, and the woman’s ability to experience guilt pre-rejection washed over her at just the thought of turning the woman down. After everything the Lab had done for her? “ Perhaps they did take it to the authorities?” she said in a tiny voice, knowing that Harrison would have already looked into it anyway and that it was a fairly futile hope she was voicing. “ But I can’t...I can’t just not go.” Doucette’s face was twisted with unhappiness and she stared at her shoes as she spoke. “ They want Revontulet to go too.” The confession came after a long drag of silence on her end, a sort of defeatist tone to her otherwise cheery voice. Harrison balked at that, rearing up at the prospect of asking what he viewed as children to go into the jungle and look for a man who lost himself. There are no such things as accidents- he chided mentally. Just stupidity. You didn't pack a compass, you didn't pack a phone, no lights, gear. That will mess you up. He rolled his eyes again trying to stay within the simple realm of reality. These people aren't trained rangers. They're not back packing masterminds. They're normal men and women going to work, making babies and living the dream. He scratched his cheek and thumbed his nose. " It hasn't been reported. I don't know. It doesn't make sense on my end. And what kind of ********'-- sorry. Sorry Doe. What backwards operation will turn around and tell the very kids they're making to go and find someone. I get it, it's a community. But these … Raevan's or whatever are new, they're learning. It's dangerous out there. None of you are trained, none of us are schooled--" He was ranting and he knew it. " Sorry… I'm tired. Just," a chuckle, " sorry for venting I lose touch every once and a while when the crazy meter is particularly high." He scrubbed his eyebrow and bit his lip. " So you feel guilty. I wouldn't want Ren out there if I were you. She's not even my ward and I don't want her out there either. I don't want YOU to go alone- hell you're still recovering from a broken arm and strained neck or whatever the ocean did to you." Perhaps it was just that her nerves were wound too tight or that she could imagine the look on the man’s face all too well as he grumbled over the situation but another laugh escaped her, muffled behind her hand. Doucette shook her head a bit at his apology, even though he couldn’t see it. Speaking on the phone was difficult for someone as animated as the redhead whose curls now bounced against her cheeks. “ No apology needed. I don’t agree with them asking Ren. I haven’t told her that they want her to go. I know she’ll want to go, want to fit in. But she’s just...she’s so young! Not even half a year old! And so inquisitive!” Biting her own lip Doucette paused, searching for words that she wasn’t even sure she was going to be able to find at this point. Everything just seemed so wrong, so strange. “ Guilty feelings or not, I think I’ll have to go. Perhaps I can keep it a secret from Revon though, make sure she stays home where it’s safe. And there will be a group of people from what Alex said.” Doe scuffed her foot on the floor. “ I owe him, Harrison.” Harrison cringed at the use of his name- it was like an arrow straight to his gut if people used it in the meaningful voice Doucette used. She had to go. That was that. He'd been waffling over the situation himself. The aviator was trained in this field and in this calling. He'd been a Platoon Leader, Company Commander and training officer on staff. He had this disaster type thing pegged down to a science. Especially now that his job focused on search and rescue. He had the inherent need to help people. Chances are that even without the nudge from Doucette's quiet voice with a dash of guilt and anxiety. " Group or not, you're not going alone." He sighed and bit his bottom lip hard. It bled. " I'll pick you up in the morning, okay? We'll go together. That way you can keep me in check when someone in command does something stupid." Thank god he didn’t voice any of those thoughts! Doucette would have been horrified if he felt like he had to attend this jumble of a search party just because the tone of her voice had been a bit weepy. It just happened to be her usual setting, which was unfortunate enough in standard situations! “ Oh, no, you don’t have to...” but she knew there wasn’t any point in arguing with him so she mumbled a reply of thanks all the same, her cheeks a brilliant red at this point. “ I am sure it will not be nearly as organized as you’re used to,” Doe replied to his comment of being kept in check. Unfortunately she wasn’t sure how helpful she’d be in such a situation, or how many instances of unprofessional searching would result in him losing his cool with whoever did end up in charge. " Probably not," He smirked, eyes casting down at the opened notebook, picking up the nearby pen and doodling a few helicopter rotor heads on the page by his notes. Half studying the airframe as he has a check ride coming up and the other half errant notes from the most recent phone conversation from the lab. He chuckled and raised a brow, deciding to let a little of his pent up sass out. " I mean, when you piss excellence the vinegar smells and tastes far too sour." He cringed, right. Doucette- the quiet natured thing. " Sorry. I've got my sailor mouth in today." On the other end of the line, Doe fidgeted as well, her fingers going back to the cord and winding their way up the spiral like a teenager sneaking a chat with her best friend or the guy she fancied in school while mom was out shopping none-the-wiser. A smile rested pleasantly on her features and despite the general distaste for the situation in general, she felt safer knowing Harrison was going to be there. With her. The words brought another laugh, though more towards his apology than towards the joke itself. She hardly understood what he’d said, but it was always funny when people apologized to her for being uncouth. As if she lived in a bubble with flowers and rainbows and sparkles all the time. " I told you, it’s nothing to fuss about! My brother is much more foul tongued than you could ever be.” She was teasing, pretending her brother was in some way, shape or form normal. " Awesome. Brother standards." He laughed and curled his toes, watching them as he did so. They were long like fingers and calloused from his skates. He chuckled again out of fondness and took a deep breath through his nose. " Okay, so, tomorrow I'll come get you. Factoring in the ferry I'll guess somewhere around zero'five thirty?"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Jul 17, 2013 7:29 pm
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Jul 26, 2013 6:58 am
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Aug 01, 2013 12:00 pm
The hours spent in the long car ride were the worst part. Doucette had long since been evac’d out, the radio was static or somber country and the lack of anything or anyone to keep his mind from the jungle was killing him. The silence was deafening but his mind was rattling on like an engine tearing through tar. It was loud and it was aggravating. Dwelling on the events, the shoddily prepared search party, and the minds of young raevans gallivanting into danger. At least the pilot wouldn’t fall asleep at the wheel, not with his mind running a marathon through his mind.
Would his ward be as bound to the Doctor and the Lab? He shook his head. It couldn’t be, he wouldn’t raise it to be. It would be raised on strong morals, intellect and tactics, it would know danger… Or would it. He sighed, thumping his head against the window of his vehicle and drove on. The lines in the road were hypnotic, lulling him into a droned out state. He saw space, galaxies before him, twinkling dots in the lack of light pollution, burning his eyes with their fire as they pierced through space and time. Like headlights before him though he shared the road with no other soul.
Harrison pulled off at the nearest gas station, the gage on his dash pointing toward the iridescent E. Well? s**t.
The first gas station was warily lit, speaking to the late hour. The convenient store portion had 30 minutes until closing. It was a blessing really. God forbid Harrison carry on without a slimjim and shitty gas station coffee. He mumbled his thanks as he exited back to his vehicle, sipping the coffee as he shoved wallet and pepperoni stick into his pockets. He must have looked a state. Scruff growing over his cheeks and chin, bags under his eyes, bruising on his neck. No wonder conversation was sparse. That and it was 0100 hrs. The pilot sighed, setting the pump into place and leaning against the trunk of his car while the unleaded gasoline poured into his tank. He had to look up, find those galaxies again, dimmed by the lights of the station.
He thought of the box back home, his own supplies from Lab 305, the ingredients to a new family. Those rings, planetless, impossible and breath taking. Saturn was up there somewhere and he strained to remember just where. He breathed deep and tried to think of home. Tried to think of a future past his bed. He had gotten the soul, right? He chortled and had a moment of real panic upon wondering if souls had an expiration date before they went ‘bad’. He coughed, thinking of the Swan he had killed. Well, Trigger had killed.
It was odd wasn’t it? It was like a melting ice sculpture mixed with a wedding cake. s**t was spooky. The bird had been pure white, sparkling, glinting in the sunlight. But the soul was as red as blood. He shuddered and bit his lip. Hopefully it wouldn’t create a demon like the eyeball hovering over the Doctor on the cliff face. He then wondered about the sex. Both male and female Raevans were present [interesting as he’d only met females in person, minus Cruz]. They were a cacophony of colors, wings and feeding types. Cruz had been the first male he’d met. Definitely male, despite the hair…. A lot of men in this community had longer hair. Some very hippy induced and others just outright feminine. It confused Harrison. He was used to the short cut. He ran his fingers through his own strawberry blond hair, baseball cap long since discarded as it was running a pretty foul smell in the confined doors of the car.
Would the Raevan have long hair? Would it be male or female? What would he or she look like? Names, oh lord, names. Suddenly it became as overwhelming as it was in the beginning. Luckily for the pilot, the pump clicked indicating a full tank. Thank God, something to drag him out of his own head. He dealt with the gas pump, replacing the nozzle and paying the machine before packing back into his car. He’d have to research the soul once he got home. For now he should at least email the Vet, who looked way worse for wear. Regardless, the inbox would be there when the man was fit for action.
Before shifting the car into gear, Harrison pulled out his blackberry from the cup holder, cord leading to the lighter port-charger. Finally some service. His long fingers nimbly tapped out the most sleep-deprived message yet.
To: EFarris@Lab305.org
From: Harrison.Troxel@dhs.gov
Subject: Soul Bottle
Zeke,
The bulb bottle thing is filled, has been filled, with a red swirly substance since before this mess. Let me know when you’re back on your feet so you can work your magic. Rest up in the mean time.
V/R
Harrison Troxel
Air Interdiction Agent
Customs and Border Protection
Gambino Air Branch
Work: (189) 556-669 ext: 133
Cell: (189) 349-2121
The pilot pressed send and started the car, pulling out of the gas station and headed home. Almost home.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Aug 01, 2013 12:01 pm
The first destination on Harrison's mind was bed. He was covered in grit and grime from the jungle, his back ached, his head was pounding and he was exhausted from a lack of sleep. He knew he was getting older but in this moment he felt like a decrepit man, barely crawling back to life after the universe single handedly took him out back for a beating. He huffed a sigh, slowly climbing the steps of his ranch home, kicking the mud caked boots off before sliding into the screen door and unlocking his home. He was expecting to hear the welcome grunts and muffled barks from Trigger but the house was silent. s**t, his dog was still at his parents.
"Well, that ********' sucks," Harrison groaned, lifting an arm and wondering if it would be bright to show up as is. He was ripe. The answer was no. He was in desperate need of a shower, advil and coffee. Maybe not in that order. Honestly he'd be more content with a liquor snack than anything else. Whiskey did seem like a good idea, "Get your act together, you're a ********' officer of the law."
He muttered to himself, leaving a trail of soiled clothing as he stripped towards the bathroom. His hand was cut, his arms were singed and bitten. ********. Jungle. Harrison groaned, pulling out the first aid kit- a visual reminder to tend to his wounds. The list of 'to do's' just kept growing. Clean your body, fix yourself up, dose yourself, go see parents, explain your wounds, politely decline breakfast, take dog, go home, feed dog, walk dog, crash and never wake up. He ran over the list as he discarded his baseball cap, moving into the hot water and groaning loudly in relief as his muscles all seemed to unclench. He pursed his lips, cataloguing the pain in his body and hoped Doucette was relatively unscathed. And Revon. He'd hate himself if he willingly delivered Doe to the wolves of the jungle and he'd hate Lab 305 even more if Revontulet sustained any injuries. Both seemed quite delicate.
He sighed, finally picking up his loofa and got to work on scrubbing his body clean. It took work- the shower was long and he probably dozed off once or twice under the spray. It was almost comparable to his first deployment. Maybe the second... definitely NOT the third though- that was the worst. Either way- he spent 30 long minutes in the shower, half debating whether he should shave, the other have sitting in a full lather. Eventually he called it quits, turning the shower off and immediately regretting his decision. The world was so cold and unprotected- he'd rather just sit and sleep in the shower. He barely had the energy to redress into a respectable outfit, opting instead for loose fitting basketball shorts and a Flyer's T-shirt. He neglected a cap and slipped into his crocs before finally re-emerging to the kitchen.
It took him twenty minutes to cross four tasks off of his list- prep Trigger's food bowl, find advil, make coffee, medicate and caffeinated and finally find the will to leave his house. He whined like a kid on his first day of school before silently shuffling out the door. Not a glance was given towards grandpa car as he slipped in. He didn't not want a stop at the carwash to join his ever growing list. Too late though, he thought as he once again engaged the wipers. He cringed as a layer of grime dripped down the sides of his windshield. <******** my life.
- - -
It took him twenty three minutes to get to his parent's ranch. Their horses were in the pasture closest to the field and he grinned at the sight of them. It was nice that his mother and father had someone else to expend their energy into. Although he wasn't going to begin to contemplate why they replaced their only son with a pair of horses. He screeched a very fake whinny out the window, the morgan mare, Marmalade, barely twitched an ear in his direction. However, Applesauce the appaloosa gelding swung his head towards his car, lips moving in what he assumed was a greeting... Or a bug on his nose. The pilot laughed and waved at the benign creatures before finally turning into the Troxel abode driveway.
He was quick to exit, hearing the barks of Trigger and his father's red tick coon hound, Pilot. No need to knock, he merely ducked into the screen door and called out, "Moooom?"
Elizabeth Mae Troxel (nee Myles) poked her head out through the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel before a big grin parted her face and lit her up. She was small in stature, barely coming up to his collarbone. He smiled, draping his arms over his mother and gripping her tight.
"Harrison Reed. I'm glad that you're back safe and sound. Did you all find what you set out to find?", Her accent had been dulled from her time in the states and now in Barton, however the welsh lilt was still there.
"Yeah mama," Harrison said, releasing her and stepping back, "Back safe and sound. Where's trigger? Heard him and Pilot barkin',"
Harrison looked around, taking in his parents home with a comforted grin. There were pictures of them on vacations, him in his uniform much younger, and much much younger after his first flying lesson as a teen. He lofted his brows and regarded Elle once more.
"Oh your father took them out back when they started barking. Said he wanted them calmer for you that you'd be tired- and you do look tired sweetie, do you need a nap?"
His mom was a godsend. Harrison smiled and shook his head no despite so wanting to curl up on the couch and pass out for a few hours. He glanced out the window, seeing Trigger acting like a puppy once more and beamed.
"No thank you mamma, I do gotta take Trig home. I'll sleep then."
"But we're still on for Friday right?" Elle inquired, holding a finger up, hand towel gripped in her aging hand.
"The barbeque? Yeah. I'll be here. Thanks for the invite."
"Good, let me get your father. You look like the dead standing there." Elle hustled out through the screened in back porch, standing on the edge of the steps- calling for her husband.
"Michael! Miiike? Harrison's here! Get those dogs back in here."
Already the pups were heading towards the porch at full speed, screaming into the foray where Troxel stood. Trigger sat in front of his owner immediately, paw lifting with a tiny whine.
"Aw yes baby boy. Your pops is home now." He said, bending over to scratch the shepherds ears. That was when his back protested, he winced and held his lumbar as he moved to stand once more. Elle looked on concerned.
"Harrison, sit your a** down and have a coffee at least. Your mother made pancakes this morning with eggs from the chickens," Michael called as he stepped inside the house. Harrison was a dead ringer for his father, he grinned and waved at the older man, moving over and submitting to a hug. His philly born accent was not lost on Harrison's ears. And yeah, he was a full grown man hugging his father. He felt no shame.
Suddenly he felt the gentle sniffing on the back of his leg. He looked down, expecting Pilot to be garnering for attention but instead he saw a small Vizsla gently sniffing his knee.
"Who's this?" Harrison asked his father, slowly moving to kneel next to the gentle animal.
"Don't know, he was in the barn a few days ago. Hiding from the rain, we have ads up but no one collected him. We were planning on bringing him to the humane society this weekend..."
But he knew that look in his son's face and slowly groaned. Harrison had always been taking strays in. Since his youth. At first it was sweet, leaving a pot of cream of a feral cat or beetles in a jar. However the first problem involved a garter snake in the bathtub. Elle had not been pleased and chased the young boy of of the house with a towel around her and a back scrubber in one hand. The second time Harrison had caused chaos with his soft natured being was when a possum, assumed dead, had been placed in a shoe box in the garage. Apparently he was going to bury it in a ceremony in the back yard. The ******** however, was not dead, and scratched up two cars in progress of being restored, dumped cans of paint in a scurry to flee and knocked every tool from the shelf before it was chased from the garage.
There were countless other accounts but they were vast and tended to blend together.
"Harrison," Michael started, a warning tone entering his voice.
"What's his name?"
Mike sighed, leaning against the doorframe and rolling his eyes, "I didn't stop and ask, it doesn't have a collar."
"What have you been calling him then?" Harrison inquired, looking up as he scratched the dog behind the ears. He was really well behaved and would hardly need any more training.
"Namely 'Dog' and 'Good Boy'...." Mike said, a deadpanned tone now.
"I like Apache," Harrison said with a smile. If the man had a tail it would be mirroring the Vizsla's now- wagging in short succession.
"You never even qual'd on one of those," Mike started but knew it was a lost cause, "What the hell, you're an adult have at."
Harrison beamed up at his father and nodded, "I will, I'll follow up on your report and then get right to the whole training thing. I like Apache still."
Michael merely responded with an 'Mmmmhm' before crossing his arms and moving to the kitchen, "Harry's takin' the stray off our hands, Elle!"
Harrison cringed at the nick name only his parents may use in the safety of their home. He hissed as he stood and followed his father and the scent of coffee to the kitchen. His mother was totally unsurprised by the development, she looked over with a raised brow and slowly shook her head.
"What am I going to do with you, Son," Elizabeth asked as she poured a mug of coffee and handed it to said son.
"Love me unconditionally as you have for the past 40 years- that'd be a good start," Harrison said speaking into his mug. Coffee really was the nectar of gods. He sighed happily and Elle simply patted his giant back before pulling out the fixings for a late breakfast.
"You know we do, Harry," Michael said, joining Harrison at the counter, gratefully accepting a mug from his wife, "You look beat, how many hours you've been awake now?"
Harrison swallowed a pull of coffee and set the mug down, pulling out his phone to see when exactly he shot off the email to Zeke. That was halfway home from the search and rescue site. He rolled his shoulders back and thought on the matter.
"Well in the past 72 hours I got maybe 6 total hours of sleep. None last night though," He grumbled grabbing the mug again, "I'm probably gonna dine and dash but we're still good for Friday's grill session."
"Good, bring yourself and the dogs if you want, Flyers pre-season game should be playing then." Michael said, digging into a plate of eggs as it drifted in front of him, he offered a quiet 'thank you, honey' before tasting the meal. Harrison followed in suite, nodding his appreciation of both game status and meal.
"Good, against?" He inquired around a mouthful of bacon.
Elle sat down across from her boys and chuckled when she watched her husband reach for his phone- assuming he'd try and look up the game.
"The Habs," Elle offered, earning a large grin from Michael and another 'thank you'.
"Ah! Should be good then." Harrison said pessimistically and sighed. He had faith but they weren't playing well this pre-season. He glanced over at his mother who was watching him closely.
"You know you can bring over whatever lady is in your life-- You're not getting younger."
He was not about to bring Doucette into his family's eye. They weren't even seeing each other. There were no women in his life. Were there? He flushed and looked over his shoulder at the dogs and hissed a sit while he thought of a diversion.
"Don't need one, getting a kid kinda on my own," He started, both parents were in the loop with his Lab 305 quest. His mother sighed.
"That's not what we mean- I sent that to you as a joke-"
Harrison cut her off, not tolerating her need to be a grandmother and it needs to be human viewpoint.
"Whatever it will be it will be sweet and loving. All the components are ready- they'll start... growing it soon enough. AND it will be your grandchild regardless of whether or not he or she has legs."
"I know that Harrison, and we're very happy, excited and proud," Elle started again, clenching her mug tighter in her hand.
"Oh come off it Elle, you already started a quilt for the thing-" Michael turned to Harrison a large smile on his face, "She knows you said Saturns rings motif and a bird apparently. So she has a little space theme going right now. Colors are neutral apparently until you know the sex."
Harrison flopped sideways, sipping from his mug while slumped over. Both relieved whatever Raevan will be entering his life will be welcomed but not at all charmed by his mother's will to see him married and making babies. He was too old for that s**t now.
"In other news!" Michael announced, trying to sweep the topic from the table, "An old platoon member of yours rang us up yesterday, said he tried us in the phone book- trying to track you down?"
The piqued Harrison's interest. He'd blown off a fair few reunions, only keeping in touch with a few people after he left his active duty service. Not to mention he was a Company commander by the time he left so maybe there was some miscommunication between whoever was reaching out and his father.
"Yeah, you got a name and rank?" Harrison asked as he licked his teeth getting any excess bacon goodness out of the pockets of his cheeks.
"Yeah a Staff Sergeant Camille Moore. Recognize the name?"
Harrison froze in his seat, the smell of fire and Jet A came to the forefront of his memory. Burning, screaming, moaning and small arms fire. Man, that was not a name he was expecting.
"Well ******** class="postcontent-align-center" style="text-align: center">
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Nov 20, 2013 8:08 am
Strays for Days Kiowa - female - aprox. 4 year old - english shepherd/mix- Harrison has always had a knack of picking up strays, ask his mother. The humane society is his weakness and he can never say no to a sweet face. While driving home from a day of fishing he nearly hit this sweet girl laying injured in the road. He sat with her for a moment before wrapping the whimpering pup in a towel and driving her to the nearest emergency veterinary service. She had no identifiers and was not chipped- so after a wrap job, stitching, fluids, a cone and a hefty vet bill, Troxel took her home. He kept the healing pup in the paper for two months before adopting her into the family. Her name, Kiowa, was chosen by the pilot after his favorite helicopter. -Belle - female - 2 yo. - mutt/probably some husky- Troxel saw Belle at the local pet mart while the human society had an adoption event. He made eye contact and tried his hardest to not fall for her little face- focus on the mission of Kiowa and Trigger's pet spa appointments. He came back a few hours later to adopt the girl, renaming her Belle after having a large dislike for her previous name 'Spot'. Belle is the feminine take off of Bell Helicopters. Yes he has a problem.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Nov 20, 2013 8:31 am
tw: prisoner of war, injuries, mentioning of torture and drug useHarrison had begrudgingly collected the number for one Staff Sergeant Camille Moore from his parents the day after he returned. He'd spent most of that first day sleeping, training the new addition, Apache, and reminiscing over the last time he'd seen Camille Moore alive. He'd been hooked to tubes, his right leg removed from him and he was heart broken. Some cheap love didn't bother to send the poor ******** a dear john letter. Or maybe he did but it was lost in the turmoil of an RPG, a helicopter crash, insurgent camps as a prisoner of war and eventual release. They were told they they'd have to swallow a bullet if they ever landed in enemy territory. That you'd be raped, beheaded and probably not in that order. But war stories are always told to scare you, to make you look like the big guy and to get you home without a scratch. Maybe it was a miracle that Harrison, Camille and David had made it out alive. David didn't live longer than movement to Kuwait. Camille was expected to die earlier given that his right leg resembled pulled pork more than anything else. The fiery cajun was a fighter. Harrison remembered carrying him from the wreckage, pleading for water for him, trying to keep what was left of his crew alive.
They received basic first aid for the first few days. Then they neglected David because he didn't look good. And then a few days before they were turned over, they stopped Cam's treatment. Troxel could do nothing for Dave, all his injuries were internal based on the spreading bruises and bloating stomach. Cam survived only because Harrison had managed a tourniquet above his knee before they were captured. It saved his life but cost him his leg.
Then they were stateside. Harrison receiving commendations for his bravery, a memorial service for the fallen crew members and he was expected to speak at the funerals. He was expected to speak to media. And he did but he was half of the man he remembered being. When he could he'd visit Camille's room in the hospital. However after the first month of reintegration, therapy and night terrors he needed out. He needed a fresh start. So he picked up entirely and left everyone and everything behind as soon as he could.
Why were his ghosts following him back now?
The pilot took a deep breath before dialing the number. He held his breath as it rang once, twice, three times and then--
"Dis is Camille Moore, how kin h'help y'sir or ma'am?"
His voice aged, it was raspier. ******** he remembered when this kid was 17, enlisting into his platoon. How old was he now? 23? 25?
"Hey, Doc..." Harrison started, voice catching and he slumped into his armchair.
"Dis Harrison Troxel?" the disembodied voice returned softly. There was guilt, why was there guilt.
"Yeah, that's me," Harrison took a deep breath, closing his eyes and pressing his forefinger and thumb into the bridge of his nose, "You're still alive- even after that bender."
There was a lifeless chuckle on the other end of the phone line and Camille paused, another breath before speaking steadily, "That was pretty stupid of me, h'admit."
"You gave us all a bad name, Moore." Harrison bit out. A war hero, rescued from the enemy gets dumped by his boyfriend [hey, not Harrison's thing, ew- but it was a new army], gets so depressed he takes every drug offered to him from painkillers to heroine and ends up in Mexico. Dipping out on therapy, mandated rehab and loses his prosthetic bought from the unit's Family Readiness Group fundraisers, "That prosthetic was ******** expensive."
"Gee, ********' thanks, Trox. After all dis time y'lecture me on wha' a ******** up h'was. Well ******** y'too-" The cajun on the other end was getting lit up, voice raising.
"Why did you try and find me, Moore," Harrison interrupted and then paused, keeping his voice cool and level, "What the flying ******** would you possibly want with me."
There were some steadying breaths on the other end of the line. Troxel relaxed a bit more himself. Now was not the time to hash out demons.
"Lissen, I need help an' h'needed t'ge' out of there jus'... needed ********' leave it all behind."
"Where did you end up?" Harrison asked patiently, he bit his bottom lip.
"H'm in a place called Gambino?"
Great, Harrison thought, he'd already made it over to Gaia. The pilot cleared his throat and scrunched his brows together.
"So you need a place to stay," Trox inquired.
"Yeah.."
"Are you clean?"
"Wh-what? Trox,"
"Are. You. Clean?"
There was a beat, another huff and then finally a small noise.
"Yes."
"You better not be ******** lying to me, Moore. You using all that disability to buy blow or dope? ********' shooting up on me?"
"No- Trox I ain't--"
"Because I've got a good life here, Moore,"
"Lissen- Trox please?"
"I've got an adoptive kid coming, a pretty girl with a girl of her own hanging around-"
"I'm cle- Trox?"
"I've got a job, a life, a house"
"Tro-"
"I've got a ********' life here and I won't let you ******** poison it."
There was silent, all that was audible were the hushed chokes of the man on the other side of the phone. Trox was breathing heavy himself, slowing his breathing down to the soundtrack of Cam's panicked breathing and wet swallows. He was tempted to hang up. But he couldn't. Not on one of his crew members, no matter how ******** up he was.
"You're gonna go to the bus station by the bus stop, you're not going to look at anyone, you're not going to speak to anyone. You're going to sit with your luggage-"
"H'don' got none of that--"
"Don't interrupt me again." Harrison bit out. He took another breath before cautiously starting again, "Sit at that bus station. I'll be right over."
There was a choked sob. Just one, followed by a heavy sniff and quick paced breaths, "Thank you- thank you. Trox I'm clean an' thank you."
"Don't thank me yet."
And with that the pilot hung up. Harrison stood, moving over towards the liquor cabinet, slowly taking every bottle of booze he could find and moving it upstairs to his gun safe. To Camille, they were just as lethal as bullets until Harrison could take the correct assessment as to the man's state of mind.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Nov 20, 2013 8:36 am
When Harrison first arrived in Gambino, a wave of clouds had long since obscured the sky. The late September weather had dropped in temperature giving way to an onslaught of cold drizzle and wind. The scene was that of a film noir film, and Harrison was the dashing lead that only spoke out of the corner of his mouth. He was here to rescue the quirky sidekick that had fallen down on her luck. Only this time, said sidekick was less of a her and lacked a pair of perky tits. The pilot sighed, leaning on his fist as he slouched against his car door. He could see the sight of Camille Moore hunched over in the frosted bus stand, Harrison almost felt bad. Almost.
There was a vast difference between being down on your luck and royally ******** up your life. Cam was once a good kid, always on time for PT (sober or not), never missed a formation, always had his gear. He was well like by his platoon members. Not uncommon for the attached medic to become the class favorite. He had it all- charm, smiles, a gentle touch, a soft bedside manner but a crude soldier attitude that made him loveable. It didn’t hurt that he was willing to stick you with an IV, give you a couple aspirin and send you on your way back to work feeling like a new human after a bender- silently. No one knew, but everyone knew. Harrison himself had arrived early at the young medic’s door a few times with a nasty hangover and a staff brief to attend. It was different with officers but Camille kept his jokes to a minimum and dutifully hooked Harrison up- kicking the young officer out the door with little more than a ‘drink mo’ watuh, suh’.
That memory was enough to cut the rage brewing in Harrison’s chest in two. Sympathy rolled back in. They’d both lost so much with that crash. Harrison lost the best co-pilot he’d had in years, best crew chief in the battalion and almost his best flight medic. Harrison was able to come home to a loving family, a lukewarm girlfriend he eventually left on good terms- especially once the night terrors set in. He got surgery for his back quickly, recovered fast and hit the ground running. Cam? He’d lost so much more.
Starting with his leg, the flight medic lost the colleagues he trained in basic with, had given aid to, had raced in company runs. He’d lost his right leg. And while the wounds were still seeping, his boyfriend [whatever, new army], callously ended four years of apparent bliss because a cripple wouldn’t fit into his new life and doctoral dissertation. So sure, life sucked and he was down on his luck.
The problem Harrison had with the entire thing was Camille’s willingness to drop it all. It wasn’t one bender that ended everything- in one night you don’t try every hard drug East Coast America has to offer and get caught. There was a spiral, a slow build, a crescendo and a shattering end. The pilot found that completely unacceptable, but he was soft. He felt his willpower start to crack when he shut the car off and climbed out of his aged vehicle. It all began to crumble when he approached the small huddled figure who was curled around a the glowing ember of a cigarette. Finally it all fell away when he took it all in.
Doc, once the helping hand, positive influence and charged with energy was sitting in the bus station, without a prosthetic, crutches resting against the flimsy structure, dead eyed and ricepaper skinned. The medic’s cheeks flamed, eyes shining slightly in embarrassment as he dropped the remainder of his cancer stick to the ground and hurriedly stamped it from life. Harrison took a long moment, bearing into the impossibly small figure, brows drawn and forehead creased before he slowly extended his arms.
“C’mere, Doc,” Harrison said quietly, pulling the former flight medic onto his single leg. Standing tall at five foot two inches. Cam obliged, not questioning the offer, trusting Harrison with all his being to keep him balanced. His face was limp and he wouldn’t meet Harrison’s eyes but he was standing almost on his own. Troxel took a sharp breath before hugging Cam to his chest, sighing as he rubbed the small back and gently held Cam at arms length.
“It’s going to be okay now. Thanks for reaching out to me,” Harrison started, not even beginning to to think he should apologize to him for the harsh words on the phone. And Cam was no where near expecting he deserved an apology. Facts were facts and sometimes you needed a kick in the a**. The cajun cleared his throat and licked his dry and cracked lips.
“H’don’ have no one else, suh,” Cam said, finally glancing up to meet Harrison’s gaze. He looked properly cowed.
“Uh- no. I’m retired now, Doc. Harrison, Trox or Troxel. No more ‘sirs’,” Harrison started, leaning over and pulling one of the crutches off the wall and handing it to the medic, “You smell like a** by the way. When did you start back up?”
“In th’month h’was standin’ trial f’m’actions,” Cam replied, grabbing at the offered crutch.
“You do time?” Harrison asked.
“Naw,” he replied, “ ‘side from th’72 hours in County. Non-disciplinary, stric’ly holdin’.”
Harrison smirked at this, situating the other crutch underneath Camille’s free arm. He lead them to the vehicle, aiding Cam into the car, tossing his backpack in the trunk and coughed. Cam really didn’t smell like roses. There were multiple scents on the man- cigarette smoke and body odor were the strongest of them all. Harrison none to discretely opened Cam’s window as they pulled out of the parking lot. He watched the younger man flush red again with embarrassment, looking over at his former commander.
“Sorry,” Cam muttered, moving to hang more out of the car than in. Harrison laughed and shook his head.
“Don’t worry about it, Doc,” Harrison laughed and shook his head as he spoke, “We smelled worse in Afghanistan, didn’t we?”
Cam made a slightly disgusted face but didn’t add more to the conversation. He looked wiped. Obviously his journey from Louisiana to Gaia hadn’t been a pleasant one. Curious he asked, “So how exactly did you get here?”
“Plane ride, really long plane ride, short plane ride, ferry, plane ride again, train, bus--” Cam rambled out in quick succession before he took in the current vehicle he was riding in, “An’ now wha’ looks like an 80 year old’s vehicle. Y’okay Trox?”
Troxel barked out a laugh, forced as it was and decided to ignore the comment on his car selection. He rolled his wrist, flipping Camille off easily before returning to proper ‘ten and two’. At least Cam could still joke and banter. That will make this reintegration thing so much more easier. He glanced over, noting the right pant leg of Cam’s having been tied an a knot. The older man made a face and looked forward again.
“Where’s your prosthetic?” Harrison asked, voice having a sobering quality in the car. This time the cajun did take a long calculated pause before slowly bringing his hand up to his mouth, chewing on his thumb.
“Don’t got a new one yet.” He muttered, turning to look out the window, wanting to disengage.
“Yeah, but you’ll get one payed for by the VA right?” Harrison pressed, not liking the ‘pull my teeth’ attitude Cam was tossing his way. It was obvious this was a sore subject. Either the medic had lost his, broken his, never replaced his or - most likely- had skipped out on physical training and rehabilitation and never filled out the new script.
“Yeah,” Cam offered, single word, single syllable.
“When should I take you to the VA clinic here? There’s one in Durem. Hour and 45 minutes drive from here,” Harrison offered, definitely pressing. There was a simple rule that had gone unspoken thus far. If Cam was going to use his home as a crash pad, he was at least going to take steps to better himself.
“I dunno,” Cam was beginning to breathe heavier, he looked nervous.
“Where’s your luggage?” Harrison asked, changing topics, “Or did you just arrive with that backpack and those walkin’ sticks?”
Cam slapped his palm on the car door, shaking his head, “Christ Trox! What’s with twenty questions?”
“Hey! You’re moving into my home. I’m only trying to look out for you. If you don’t like it I can drop you off here and now.” Harrison said as he flicked on a blinker and moved to the shoulder of the road. He gestured out Cam’s window and gave him a hard look. Cam reached to the handle and Harrison knew the ******** was stubborn enough to take it until eventually the pilot felt pity. What shocked him is that Cam instead dropped his hand and hung his head heaving a sigh.
“It’s somewhere in ********’ California. Didn’t make the transfers. I gotta contact the company once I’ve gotta address and they’ll ship it ovuh,” Cam breathed out, leaning his head against the door frame. There was silence while Harrison silently regarded him and Cam pretended not to notice his former commanders gaze. He stayed quiet until Troxel once again merged with traffic and continued home.
“H’m sorry,” Cam started, closing his eyes, nestled in the corner of car door and seat, “H’ haven’t had a break. Dis drizzle? All comin’ form some mad tropical storms off the coast. H’ was diverted twice, overbooked once and cancelled four times before h’managed to get this far. H’los’ m’luggage, h’m outta money because m’bank’s froze until h’set up new residence an’ all h’got are the clothes on m’back an’ wha’ever h’packed in dis carryon.”
Harrison nodded solemnly, frowning a bit and shaking his head, glancing over once or twice. He’s experienced similar hell in his many commutes. However, he did it with two functioning legs and a lack of alcoholism. He bit his lip before blurting out, “Well that ******** sucks.”
Cam smiled and muttered a small thank you before drifting off to the lull of a cracked window and the sound of windshield wipers.
--
When they arrived, the ill weather Cam had mentioned was showing itself in full form. The rain was pounding the windows adding to the soundtrack that lulled Camille into a dead sleep. He looked impossibly small against the door frame and Troxel almost had the heart to let the weary traveller stay passed out in the car. However, Cam could still benefit from a shower and a shave. Also a couch with actual blankets would be mounds better than sitting with your cheek smushed into the windowpane. Harrison reached across the center console, gripping Cam’s shoulder and gently shaking it until the man fell from his fist, head bobbing and bounding awake. He was wide eyed and confused for about three seconds while he took in his surroundings. With a sheepish grin the cajun reached a forefinger up and wiped the small streak of drool on his chin. Eugh, embarrassing.
“Sssorry,” Cam said, pursing his lips as he wiped his finger off on his jacket, brows drawn and biting his bottom lip, “This y’casa?”
“Si senor,” Harrison said as he pulled himself from the vehicle, moving towards the front porch, nearly drenched from just a few seconds in the weather.
He had almost reached the steps to two very excited dogs before he remembered Cam was without a leg and still struggling in the car, “Ah ******** your crutches. Hold on Cam.”
He groaned as he moved back to the vehicle, pulling out the crutches from the backseat and handing them to Cam one by one. With minimal guidance, he was able to herd his wayward platoon member onto the porch, unlocking the door and leading the dogs to the back mudroom. The three younger pups were quite interested in the arrival of the new comer- Kiowa’s feathered tail wagging profusely as he whined to get closer. However, obedience was the first thing Troxel ever taught.
It took some goading using homemade treats and a lot of happily belted ‘let’s go to bed’s. Eventually Kiowa, Lakota and Belle were happily situated in their kennels with treats and busy toys. Trigger was on a different level, he stood patiently, lifting his large black snout to sniff at Cam’s rather pungent scents but no more movement than necessary.
“Wow uh, y’go’ qui’e the menagerie here,” Cam stated, leaning heavily on his crutches. Tired eyes outlined with heavy bags took in the site of Troxel’s extended and furry family, “Any of ‘em intentionally got?”
Harrison snorted. He scratched the crown of Triggers head and shrugged.
“Nah but they’re family all the same. Trigger belonged to Captain Levy. Remember him?” Harrison asked, raising a brow. Cam’s furrowed in response. He gave a small head nod to the pilot and licked his lips.
“He wassa good man,” Cam stated, eyes not straying from the large brown eyes of the shepherd, “couldn’t make it t’his funeral.”
“Jail?” Harrison bit out, giving a quiet sigh, “Sorry. I chewed you out already.”
Cam glared at the floor, not looking up at Harrison as he worked his jaw.
“Actually h’was buryin’ m’mamma,” the medic said after a beat.
That his Harrison like a ton of bricks- he wasn’t even able to pull his foot out of his mouth to apologize. Luckily Cam didn’t seem to need one immediately as the smaller man all but held a thumb up with an inquisitive face and asked ‘bathroom?’.
“Uh, you can use the one--” Harrison paused. His guest bedroom was upstairs and Cam wasn’t that mobile, “I mean, right here. Let me get you a- uh. It’s a bathtub so you can..”
Cam watched the pilot stumble over himself and slowly pulled a grin. He chuckled and shook his head, “I take it I smell?”
“You’re pretty ripe.”
“Oh,” Cam flushed and moved over to the nearest wall, leaning against it in order to drop his backpack to the ground.
“You bring any clean clothes or do you need a loan?” Harrison asked, watching nervously. It was like a photograph where you don’t know how to hold your hands.
“H’think anythin’ y’lend me woul’ be swimmin’ like a fish,” Cam said as he maneuvered out of his one worn shoe- how the ******** was he able to walk with crutches in flip flops? “Bu’ h’ll take a sweatuh if y’got one small-ish. Think h’gotta pair of shorts an’ a T-shir’. Mind if h’toss m’laundry in with yours? No homo.”
Harrison snorted at that and shook his head, “Taking a break from men?”
Cam looked uncomfortable at that- he shuffled in place and bit his lip, “H’mean, aftuh Jim. Yeah… Takin’a break in general.”
“Yeah that ranks - ********- even worse than a Dear John letter,” Harrison mused and shook his head, “Here, let me get you situated, you’re stuck to baths until we find you a seat thing. Don’t drown, ok?”
Cam laughed as he crutched into the bathroom but said nothing more on the matter. He busied himself with figuring out the tub while Harrison pulled out a bath towel. The pilot was tall, giant in some respects, and enjoyed a warm towel. When he handed it to Cam the smaller man’s eyes bugged.
“Dis is huge,” Cam commented before placing it within arm’s reach of the tub.
“I’ve heard that before but not in my own bathroom from another man… Get your a** clean, you’re smelling up my home. I’ll be down with that sweater and if you need anything, holler. I mean it.”
“Gotcha boss.”
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Nov 20, 2013 8:37 am
[ PRP - DROP OFF :: DUCK TALES ]|| See you, see you in the next l i f e || WHO: Camille, Harrison, and Zeke
WHEN: November 19th, 2013; early evening
WHERE: Harrison's Farmhouse
WEATHER: Onset of dusk; chilly but suitable for November
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Dec 01, 2013 4:32 am
bbq Troxel's reaction to the drop off and anticipation
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
