#reinhqpresent

[asoldierfights]

the theory of static

[ Open Starter / Aster Auto / Present / Any time of day that suits! ]

He looks at his hand, beneath the smudges of oil and grease, calloused fingertips that could curl so easily in on themselves to become a fist.  A weapon.  A tool of retribution.  But that’s not where his gaze lingers.   

Sitting right there in the centre of his palm.  Somehow mocking him with every glimpse - a lifeline.  

What is life if not a simple bundle of electrical energy?  The same thing that imbued lightening bugs with their incandescent glow.  That caused the flowers ( fewer and further between though they were ) to swivel in the dirt and turn to face the sun.  

What’s the difference?  Between those and the flickering filament of a filthy light bulb.  Of the static that hissed from a faulted broadcast, speakers crackling at the hiss of words.  

And just as a spark can -- j u m p -- can crack down from the heavens from sky to earth with violent ferocity in those flashes from a storm, or a crackle against skin, a build of charge from the rustle and rub of some cheap manmade fabric -- isn’t it possible that life can do the same?

That it can -- j u m p?

He wonders if maybe they all had a dose of some governmental experimental drug as children to be experiencing these bizarre night tales ( a theory rapidly quashed, given the relative global spread of the people in Bend ).  Maybe aliens then.  It could happen.  But given his penchant for the practical, the tangible and the ‘real’, he’s not about to suggest that Arthur is a product of E.T and some kind of freakish anal probing.  He can’t imagine that aliens would be either that detailed, or that imaginative.

So now he’s stuck.  With this dumbass -- theory of static.   Of some kind of energy that leaps across time.  Or rips holes in it.  

Damn, now that has a flavour of the crazies about it.  Maybe E.T. was the more convincing explanation. Or maybe he was just a moron.  

Giving those dreams more meaning than they deserved.  It was hard not to.  When he was - there.  When he was Arthur, tasting his life, breathing it in, feeling the weight of a sword in his hand, the fatigue of battle in his bones... It sure as hell felt real.

Not really thoughts he should be dwelling on.  Distracted by.  

Right now, he’s the reflection of a succulent sinner, kneeling at an altar of his own making.  Head bowed as if in worship to some god of metal.  A sacrifice, perhaps… similar in those motions.  Though he’s not taking a life to pay tribute to a long dead deity, he’s restoring it.  Wires that twist and turn through innards now gleaming.  A nervous system without sentience.  Oil that pumped through a central system, gold and gleaming, a slick life giver - heart and veins.  All encased in sturdy steel, boned axle and gleaming chrome.

The job is finished and it’s good.  Spectacular, even if he says so himself.  ( Maybe his dad would be... proud... )  Standing to wipe his hands on a ragged cloth that probably just added to the stains already ingrained into those calloused fingers.  Only then, getting the impression that he’s no longer alone in the front of the workshop, door ( as usual ) open wide to any customer who wanted to wander in.  He has no clue if they’ve been there for ten seconds or ten minutes.

“Hey.”

Swivelling on one heel with a nod of acknowledgement.

“You need help with something?”

[rosegloriana-blog]

@agent1388

Rose’s mission took her past Drake Park, a bit out of the way from where she normally stayed but she didn’t mind. What had begun as an easy stroll turned into something mildly unpleasant; summer in Oregon was sticky and relentless. It reminded her a lot of Virginia that way. Sweat made her hair cling to the back of her neck and she sighed. She should have braided it and pulled it back. Oh well. 

Last summer she’d been quietly terrified, unpacking her few belongings into her new apartment and wondering if she’d made a mistake. The doctor had been insistent that she make the move to Bend, and the knowledge that it was the right thing to do did not make it any less intimidating. The days were long then, and full of uncertainty. Night after night she lay staring at blank walls, wishing for a restful sleep. 

Now she had found her stride, carved a place for herself in the community, made a home where once there was none. And what better way to celebrate her new life than to surround herself with beauty? She’d already been to antique shops, visited pottery studios and spoken to a very kind woodcarver. But there was still something missing. 

The house was one level, neat, though Rose noticed the bushes needed pruning. Well, it seemed to her there was nothing to do but just knock on the door. When she reached down to straighten her blouse she noticed the tips of her fingers were stained red, and she smelled faintly of strawberries. 

Rose knocked on the door firmly and took a step back. Faintly, she could hear dogs barking. She grinned. 

[agent1388-blog]

look ma, we made it | roman & luki

Location: Bend, OR

Late Afternoon

@tractatvs

One hour never seemed so long. It wasn’t often Roman was making appointments with his therapist. The group meetings with other veterans were usually enough, but opening up was much harder when you had six pairs of eyes on you so every few weeks he’d give the doctor a call, sit in the overstuffed chair and vent until he couldn’t breathe. And damn did it feel good, especially after his last episode. It was only a week ago, if that, and he only felt like coming clean to one person.

Roman’s mother raised him in a way where he didn’t feel embarrassed to seek out help. That didn’t mean it was easy, but Roman liked to believe he knew himself well enough by now that he knew he would do more damage to himself by keeping it bottled up. Like most things in his life, Roman learned this the hard way. Not only did he experience it himself, but he watched men and women he fought next to for years refuse to get help and it never ended well. Even if he didn’t want therapy, he didn’t think he could do that to some of his best friends. They’ve all been to enough funerals for a lifetime.

The session ended; Roman paid in cash and shook the man’s hand in a silent thank you. The office was on the second floor of a building full of different medical practices and though Roman hardly ever took the elevator for some reason he did today.

With a ping, the elevator door opened, revealing the only person who occupied it. Roman, being the polite guy he was, stepped aside to let them exit, but after a few beats of awkward silence the elevator doors started to close and Roman stepped forward to stop them as he finally spoke up, “Hey, man, you, uhh, gettin’ out or what?”

[asoldierfights]

@allegradeluca

He feels like a bit of a plonker        ( NOUN: British - informal ‘A foolish or inept person’ )                      sitting in the waiting area of Bend’s emergency room.  Having managed to navigate a fair few perilous situations all of his own accord without any major trauma, this one was marginally... embarrassing.

He distracts himself with the tiles on the floor.  Arranged in an irregular pattern.  Something that could be random, but there’s something about one of them, the grain going the wrong way to all of the others, that just prickles.  There’s the low buzz of a fluorescent light to add to that distraction, but it’s mostly just annoyingly intermittent.  There are names on boards which assign patients to cubicles, rubbed out when they’re either discharged, treated or moved onto a ward.  A smudge of blue building up on the white in streaks where partial letters remained and were overwritten.  Finally, finding a pamphlet to while away those waiting moments.  Which is remarkably uninteresting.  And ends up with thumbprint smudges from his own hands where blood was marring his fingers.  So now, he’s stuck.  With the pamphlet ( not daring to put the soiled leaflet back onto the pile ), the buzzing, the streaks and the wayward tile.

In one hand he’s also clutching a rag ( slightly oily, not... tragically dirty ) to his head.  And honestly, he wouldn’t have bothered coming here... But the duct tape he’d tried to nip the cut together with refused to stick and it just kept bleeding.  It probably looks a lot worse than it is.  No - he’s sure it looks a lot worse than it is, leaking claret like a sprung hydrant.  There’s a small child staring at him from the other side of the waiting room, mouth slightly agape, as though he’s something from a freakishly macabre carnival ( but, hey -  kudos to the kid for not looking away ).

And it’s not as though this was an accident at work.  No heavy machinery.  No failing equipment.

Nope.  This was injury by... Over enthusiastic spatula. Hence.  Feeling like the aforementioned plonker.

There’s another drip of blood threatening to roll into his eye, so he’s squinting when his name is called.  A quick swipe of that ( mostly ) clean ( ish ) rag and he’s blinking... A vague recognition curling into view at the face which appears behind a fine sheen of red.  And he smiles - it’s a default - before his brain engages.  The smile sticks slightly as an expression of ‘hello’, shifts slightly to ‘oh no’.

We’re now on the track from ‘marginally embarassing’, to ‘generally mortifying’.

“Hi... Hello... Uh... Miss De Luca, I’m... I mean, the car.  I fixed your car.  We’ve met...?  You probably don’t remember.”

Well, that was - superslick. Idiot.

A moments pause because he’s here now and apparently this is his attending physician.  And no amount of hoping the ground will swallow him up will actually make it happen.  So this one, he’s just going to have to go with.  Graciously.  Or... Awkwardly.  Probably the latter.

“Sorry, I probably sound like I’ve got concussion or something and -- I haven’t, really.  I’ve had that before and this is probably giving you an even worse impression or - and probably more likely, I’m just making myself sound like a moron.”

“I’m just gonna shut up now.”

[rosegloriana-blog]

The bells of First Presbyterian Church were not ringing; Friday evenings were no occasion for such fanfare. It was merely a meeting with the leaders of the church about finance. That was the nice way of saying a bunch of stubborn old men fussing at one another about bills and renovations and missionary work. Rose of course had inserted herself in the inner workings of the church to the point where the cranky old men had to listen to her––if not for her influence, then the impressive way she could raise her voice. 

She stepped out onto the sidewalk, head and spirits high. There were a handful of pastors who were not excited about what happened, but let them grumble. That’s a phrase she’d always loved. 

Her mind quickly jumped to other topics––some lighter, but some much more grave––and when she saw someone across the street she hurried over to them and gently grabbed their arm. 

“I have a question.” 

[kephale]

era: present day

location: bend, oregon

subjects: nathaniel adley, oliver molina

Nathaniel did, though he might not admit it, enjoy aspects of Bend. Being somewhat removed from the bustle he had grown accustomed to in the other half of his life. Tucked away in the mountains, the young business man had found himself a modern palace. It didn’t compare to the grandeur of Pella, but it had modern comforts and charm. 

However, despite this comfort, Nathaniel couldn’t sleep. Instead, the former King found himself wandering around the empty house. He appeared so different than his usual persona, usually so put together but now slightly disheveled and adorned in a tee shirt and loose fitting sweatpants. He moves slowly, without real purpose, through the rooms, almost as if he’s looking for something missing. Nathaniel’s mind was clearly elsewhere, though he wasn’t sure it was anywhere in particular. His head buzzed some nights, like the din of battle was haunting him, a general and ever present sound that surrounded him. He would have gone on like this, wandering aimlessly through the same rooms and pretending to have slept well in the morning, if it hadn’t been for another noise catching his attention. The turn of a key in a lock, the sound of that missing thing being found.

Nathaniel moved towards the door with a lazy smile upon his lips, hands buried in his pockets. The smile grew slightly at the sight of Oliver, happy to see him and thankful for his presence. They were a constant for each other, in this life and the previous, in reality and in their dreams. Gentle and fluid movements brought him close enough to the other to embrace him. “It’s good to see you,” he says, honestly, holding Oliver for a moment before letting him go. “I’m glad you’re here.”

[agent1388-blog]

Bend, OR | A Local Art Gallery

Early Morning

@sagexdubois

When Roman first became a Rouse Agent he hated the idea of moving to Oregon. Oregon where it rained all the fucking time. Sure the mountains were gorgeous and snow was quickly finding a crack to sneak into his heart, but nothing could beat home. That was nearly two years ago. Roman hated to admit the city was wearing on him, but it was. It had to be the air. It was cooler than home, softer compared to the salt in the air from the ocean just a few miles away from his old house. Sometimes it even put a smile on his face, like when he stepped out onto his porch first thing in the morning, a cup of coffee in hand and his two dogs stretching their legs, wondering why they all weren’t in bed still.

This particular morning, Roman hopped onto his motorcycle and took the scenic route towards downtown. There was a small local gallery where he paid for a wall to display some of his art, along with a handful of other artists in the community. It was the only place you could buy his art besides his home where most people came by anyways. Roman didn’t advertise much. Not even at the gallery- just his name and a number to call was all that he left next to his paintings. As a Rouse Agent he needed to blend in which was surprisingly easy, but he sort of hated it. He wanted to be left alone, keep a low profile just like he does when he’s on a job. Rouse insisted though and Roman did have to listen; every time he sold a piece there was a tiny voice in the back of his mind that told him if it wasn’t for Rouse he wouldn’t even be hanging his art in some gallery.

As he finally reached downtown, Roman swerved in between a few cars to get a prime parking spot in front of the gallery. A few cars honked at him; they received his middle finger in response as he got off, setting his helmet down on the seat as well. Just because he was starting to like it here didn’t mean he had to start playing nice with everyone. The backpack he had on held some of his smaller prints he was sick of looking at and hoped to sell over the weekend.

Inside there were a few people he recognized he gave a short nod to in greeting, breezing past them towards the wall he paid for every month. But as he got closer, someone was already standing there, looking at his artwork. They were by themselves and Roman was pretty sure he’s never seen them around here before. He suddenly got a wicked idea as he got closer and a smirk found its way onto his face.

“Damn, this guy kind of sucks, don’t ya think? I bet he didn’t even go to art school.”

[agent1388-blog]

now or never | cara & roman

Agostini Art - Art Gallery

Early Afternoon

@caraagostini​

It wasn’t often that Roman felt insecure about his art. He knew he wasn’t half-bad or people wouldn’t be buying his stuff, but when compared to other artists he felt like he was hardly good enough at all. He was self-taught for the most part, didn’t have a big following and to top it off he sold his paintings out of the makeshift studio he built in his backyard that was smaller than his garage. Roman didn’t need more or something bigger, but he did wonder what it would be like to own his own art gallery, like the one he stood in front of now- Agostini Art.

Roman stared through the windows a few minutes longer. The gallery looked mostly empty; part of him didn’t want his rejection to have an audience. Well, it’s now or never, he thought, as he reached through his truck window to pull out a canvas bag that held smaller prints of his paintings. He told himself he was doing this for the sake of appearance. Home was Bend now and he needed it to look like he was actually trying to live a life here, as if he wasn’t some undercover agent of some secret organization. It’s all he’s ever been, but at least he got to do something he enjoyed on the side a little. The Army never allowed him that- too many tours, too many sleepless nights.

As he walked in, Roman felt eyes shift towards him and then away. He knew it was just his mind playing tricks  on him, but he looked over his shoulder anyways. Trick or not, Roman didn’t see anyone who looked like the owner so he while he waited for her to appear he acted as if he was admiring all the different artwork when in reality he checked all the dark corners and remembered where each exit was. Just to be safe.