faulknxr; a study on the satisfied cog on the wheel.
a dependent blog for timelessfm. tied in every timeline to clow's dickinson.
choi in-su; compartmentalizing history's deep-set stains, its traumas and phobias, neuroses and natures. unwavering. for fidelity of a brighter, kinder future.
( the ripples on a pool of water after the pebble sinks. moving on, spreading, but never escaping the spring of its source, despite time's ardent erosion. )
the latest recruit, still bright-eyed and idealistic. they hoped for their introduction into the job to be a lot slower and not as demanding but perhaps landing right in the middle of operation london is the best way to get acquainted with the bureau. they’re still working on their first impression — their trial mission went smoothly but it was nothing compared to what’s going on right now and they’re desperate to prove themselves.
fight, fight, fight! living is a blood sport, the weapon as old as time, the score is ten to zero and your life is dripping to the floor as you push and pull yourself, a magnet made of every pole possible in this reality and the assorted others that you have inadvertently annihilated you god you idiot, back to the bureau of godly idiots also known as your family so tomorrow, yesterday, today you can look at yourself in the feculent mirror of your favourite diner and smooth down your hair and scrub your hands raw. out damned spot, you whisper, as though being polite will be of any help. you were made to help, molded by the cutting edges of sharp prisms and vulgar post-humous communication with your namesake/grandmother/murderer into the perfect little gladiator. what help are you, anyways? what help is a voice of reason whose only reason for existence is stopping people from dying when those people will cause more people to live in conditions nobody should die in? yet, you see it louder than you can hear the spot, your unreasonable voice of reason: continue, continue, continue!
your name is not agent whitman, however much you forget that. you have a laundry list, actually, of aliases you feel are more your name than the ethnically confusing mouthful that countless classmates have caustically criticized under the duress of alcohol you refused to drink. the laundry list is longer than your list of clothing to be laundered, actually, because you have the disposable income to purchase suits by the rack and. the names do not feel fake; the identities do. walter wuitrago. michelangelo de la muerte. leonardo lezama lima. you have an odd sense of humour and an odd relationship with anthropology. you like to write stories where walter meets a waiter who shows him the meaning of life, where michalangelo becomes a sculptor of great leaders, where leonardo inspires a ragtag team of softball players to win the world championship. the stories never come true.
you love your family, but you are not sure who they are. your grandmother is a mentor from beyond the grave, her treachery to her cause, her people, a cautionary parable, now more relevant than ever thanks to a twist of horrid fate. your parents are people. terrible lovers. great friends. each other’s doom. the expired products of their upbringings. never meant to be. sometimes, as you flick to whatever station on the shortwave does not make you feel like a pungent wedge of uncultured cheese full of muck and mold, an artifact from simpler times unable to keep up with the rest of the fray, you wonder if, in one timeline or another, they would have truly enjoyed one another’s company. you would have been dust unto dust, rust and stardust, but they would have been happy, and the bureau would have gotten a better whitman for it. alas, your story is far too complicated for that.
you’re sure you consider a good chunk of the bureau family. the sort of family that murders and gets murdered on a periodical basis, yes, but family nonetheless. your now-tenuous connections with them engender in you a medley of emotions you cannot describe. they might think of you as a traitorous mentor, a hamstrung competitor, a breathing pamphlet detailing the symptoms of a middle-age crisis. you think mostly of your last mission. the one with the senators, the sensation of you staying stationary under the shadowy hefts of shipments sailing across the sea, the sensational feeling of your last straw being pulled. ha, ha. you should’ve become a comedian.
you sigh. pinch a point of pressure to make the pain worse, make sure that the pain is still there, then. you’re not supposed to be here. then again, you weren’t supposed to be there, then, and now you’re stuck on a mad chase for a madder renegade that some of your teammates see as a business opportunity and others view as the harbinging of anarchic armageddon. the least you can do, you suppose, is continue, continue, continue…
