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Extreme emotion requires extreme action
Apr. 13th, 2025 05:56 pmJames looked at Noko's fiancee, Jaya, out of the corner of his eye. She fidgeted restlessly in her bonds, chewing lightly on her lower lip. His pale eyes flitted back to their captors and he blinked once. Slowly.
The five men standing near them were discussing Noko, of course. He was the hero, and they were the bait. Noko's lover and Noko's best friend; how better to get the highly emotional man to burst in? The leader of the five kept his voice low, detailing the plan. They were to be killed the moment that Noko approached, and they were to make it obvious that it was Noko's arrival that caused it. They aren't trying to merely hurt him - they are trying to destroy him. If James were someone else, his lips would have tightened. As it was he blinked once, slowly.
He could get them out, easily, but if he did Jaya would have to report him. She worked for the government registration agency - and finding out the identity of Agent Orange was her primary task. She'd been quite honest with Noko about it from the very beginning, before they'd even had their first date. James had quietly and dispassionately abstained from interfering: Noko didn't know who he was and if Jaya did figure it out James didn't want Noko to think that James had involved him unwittingly in the deception.
Jaya made a soft sound of distress. She was holding up well, she was an agent of a government agency, but she was not a field agent. She was a desk agent; if she were undercover she'd be a spy, but she wasn't emotionally suited for that. James flicked his eyes again, taking in the pallor in Jaya's deeply tanned skin. She slumped slightly, curled around her stomach, and there was a faint green tinge to her face. Another glance, this time towards the window and the early morning light. Back to Jaya, and how the light hit her face. There was a light spread of acne on her cheeks and he blinked again slowly.
One of the men approached them, raising his fist to Jaya with a grin, "Gotta make this good." he said with a grin that started as a sneer. James spoke, then, the first words he'd said since they were grabbed; "Beating a woman," came his near monotone, "who is bound. How strong." The man flinched, it would have been easier to ignore if James sounded disdainful. He was used to disdain, to people desperately trying to stop him. This was just...cold.
The man turned away from Jaya to see cold, empty eyes watching him. James knew how his eyes disturbed people. They say that eyes are the windows to the soul, and more than one person had said to his face that he didn't have one. He didn't blink. The man flinched, and then he moved towards James with a face that ran the gamut of white-to-red; fear to anger.
James didn't react when his head snapped back at the first punch. Or the second, third...the beating started with just the one man, and then his fellows joined in. Their leader watched, and James allowed himself to breathe hard; to show some signs of pain. It went against the grain on many levels, but he needed them to go after him, and only him.
Jaya watched with wide, terrified eyes. He knew she didn't care for him much, she just put up with him for Noko's sake. He actually didn't mind her; she suited his friend down to the bone and that was all that mattered to James. His deeply analytical mind caught the slight changes in her expression as she realized that he had taken this on...on purpose. He was taking the beating so that she didn't.
"James..." she whispered, "I'm..." one of the men looked over at her; "You're next." he said with glee, waving a blood covered finger in her face tauntingly. Her voice faltered, and she said, "sorry..." getting rough laughter in return.
"She's sorry, she's sooooorrryyyy!" one of them said in a sing-song, "You will be, bitch."
Through a bruised eye, bleeding from his eyebrow, James saw her shrink over her belly more. It was confirmation of what he'd thought.
That changed everything.
"Jaya," he said, his voice just as dispassionate as ever, "I apologise."
"Wh...?" his attackers paused out of confusion at the calmness of his words.
"James?" was Jaya's baffled contribution to the madness. James tilted his head slightly, "For letting this go on so long," and with that he dislocated his own thumbs and slipped out of the handcuffs around his wrists. He exploded out of the seat, smashing it as he did, and began to fight.
Five on one, with a pregnant hostage. Agent Orange wasn't a big one for theatrics at the best of times, and this wasn't the best of times. He went hard, not holding back. He always held back, because a hero who killed wasn't a hero - and being able to be a hero was the only thing that kept the government from hunting him for his head. This was worth it, though. If she survived, if the baby survived, he would put heart's blood on his hands.
Skin tore, knuckles cracked, bones broke, some of them were his but most of them weren't. Blood spilled, the same. Soon enough, men were down. James knelt by Jaya's chair and unlocked her cuffs with the key pulled from the pocket of the leader. Her wide, brown eyes looked at him with confused terror, "What am I supposed to do?" she whispered. I knew she was smart.
Agent Orange had no emotions at all. Everyone knew that. James, however, was just flattened affect. His lips did quirk, slightly, and he said gently, "Your job, Jaya." and kissed her forehead.
Noko arrived roughly half an hour later. James was seated on the ground, his breathing shaky from the pain he was allowing himself to feel. With him came the agency, hard on his heels. Jaya slammed into her lover, putting her head on his chest, and sobbed. James knew that, soon enough, they'd be debriefed. If he were someone else, he'd sigh.
"Agent Orange," he heard Jaya say breathlessly, Oh. Not waiting, I suppose. Makes sense., "He came to save us! James was hurt...but then the Agent came and saved us." James glanced up at her, and saw that she was looking at him from the corner of her eye. He gave another small smile, then allowed the medics to attend his wounds.
Perhaps she liked him better than he thought.
The five men standing near them were discussing Noko, of course. He was the hero, and they were the bait. Noko's lover and Noko's best friend; how better to get the highly emotional man to burst in? The leader of the five kept his voice low, detailing the plan. They were to be killed the moment that Noko approached, and they were to make it obvious that it was Noko's arrival that caused it. They aren't trying to merely hurt him - they are trying to destroy him. If James were someone else, his lips would have tightened. As it was he blinked once, slowly.
He could get them out, easily, but if he did Jaya would have to report him. She worked for the government registration agency - and finding out the identity of Agent Orange was her primary task. She'd been quite honest with Noko about it from the very beginning, before they'd even had their first date. James had quietly and dispassionately abstained from interfering: Noko didn't know who he was and if Jaya did figure it out James didn't want Noko to think that James had involved him unwittingly in the deception.
Jaya made a soft sound of distress. She was holding up well, she was an agent of a government agency, but she was not a field agent. She was a desk agent; if she were undercover she'd be a spy, but she wasn't emotionally suited for that. James flicked his eyes again, taking in the pallor in Jaya's deeply tanned skin. She slumped slightly, curled around her stomach, and there was a faint green tinge to her face. Another glance, this time towards the window and the early morning light. Back to Jaya, and how the light hit her face. There was a light spread of acne on her cheeks and he blinked again slowly.
One of the men approached them, raising his fist to Jaya with a grin, "Gotta make this good." he said with a grin that started as a sneer. James spoke, then, the first words he'd said since they were grabbed; "Beating a woman," came his near monotone, "who is bound. How strong." The man flinched, it would have been easier to ignore if James sounded disdainful. He was used to disdain, to people desperately trying to stop him. This was just...cold.
The man turned away from Jaya to see cold, empty eyes watching him. James knew how his eyes disturbed people. They say that eyes are the windows to the soul, and more than one person had said to his face that he didn't have one. He didn't blink. The man flinched, and then he moved towards James with a face that ran the gamut of white-to-red; fear to anger.
James didn't react when his head snapped back at the first punch. Or the second, third...the beating started with just the one man, and then his fellows joined in. Their leader watched, and James allowed himself to breathe hard; to show some signs of pain. It went against the grain on many levels, but he needed them to go after him, and only him.
Jaya watched with wide, terrified eyes. He knew she didn't care for him much, she just put up with him for Noko's sake. He actually didn't mind her; she suited his friend down to the bone and that was all that mattered to James. His deeply analytical mind caught the slight changes in her expression as she realized that he had taken this on...on purpose. He was taking the beating so that she didn't.
"James..." she whispered, "I'm..." one of the men looked over at her; "You're next." he said with glee, waving a blood covered finger in her face tauntingly. Her voice faltered, and she said, "sorry..." getting rough laughter in return.
"She's sorry, she's sooooorrryyyy!" one of them said in a sing-song, "You will be, bitch."
Through a bruised eye, bleeding from his eyebrow, James saw her shrink over her belly more. It was confirmation of what he'd thought.
That changed everything.
"Jaya," he said, his voice just as dispassionate as ever, "I apologise."
"Wh...?" his attackers paused out of confusion at the calmness of his words.
"James?" was Jaya's baffled contribution to the madness. James tilted his head slightly, "For letting this go on so long," and with that he dislocated his own thumbs and slipped out of the handcuffs around his wrists. He exploded out of the seat, smashing it as he did, and began to fight.
Five on one, with a pregnant hostage. Agent Orange wasn't a big one for theatrics at the best of times, and this wasn't the best of times. He went hard, not holding back. He always held back, because a hero who killed wasn't a hero - and being able to be a hero was the only thing that kept the government from hunting him for his head. This was worth it, though. If she survived, if the baby survived, he would put heart's blood on his hands.
Skin tore, knuckles cracked, bones broke, some of them were his but most of them weren't. Blood spilled, the same. Soon enough, men were down. James knelt by Jaya's chair and unlocked her cuffs with the key pulled from the pocket of the leader. Her wide, brown eyes looked at him with confused terror, "What am I supposed to do?" she whispered. I knew she was smart.
Agent Orange had no emotions at all. Everyone knew that. James, however, was just flattened affect. His lips did quirk, slightly, and he said gently, "Your job, Jaya." and kissed her forehead.
Noko arrived roughly half an hour later. James was seated on the ground, his breathing shaky from the pain he was allowing himself to feel. With him came the agency, hard on his heels. Jaya slammed into her lover, putting her head on his chest, and sobbed. James knew that, soon enough, they'd be debriefed. If he were someone else, he'd sigh.
"Agent Orange," he heard Jaya say breathlessly, Oh. Not waiting, I suppose. Makes sense., "He came to save us! James was hurt...but then the Agent came and saved us." James glanced up at her, and saw that she was looking at him from the corner of her eye. He gave another small smile, then allowed the medics to attend his wounds.
Perhaps she liked him better than he thought.
Noko - Initial meetings
Nov. 16th, 2021 06:17 pmFirst graders can be cruel. Truly, deeply cruel to those that they do not understand, those who are different from them. For the young boy whose grandmother called him noko it was a lesson learned starkly and harshly.
Anton Leonard Robinson, noko to his family, was very different from the rest of the children in the class. Not because he was a boy. Not because he was black. He was both of those things, but there were several children in class who fit one or both of those categories. No, the reason Anton rattled from the cruelty of the children in class was because of the long porcupine-like quills that went from his neck to his waist, and down the back of both arms. He was suprahuman, super human in the vernacular, but at six years old he was just weird.
Things weren't too bad until free play time. There was a lot of staring, and whispers, but nobody actually said anything cruel loud enough for the teacher to hear them. Free play started horribly. He tried to talk to some of the children, and they called him names. Ran away. Teased him.
After only a few minutes, however, when Anton found himself backing into a corner where his quills wouldn't be so visible another student approached him with a bucket of trucks. Anton looked at him warily, eyes flicking to the trucks that he'd wanted to play with and then back to the boy's placed, calm face.
"Ignore them." the pale boy with pale hair and pale eyes said, "Mom says that fear is only a good response if you're in danger. You're not in danger, so play trucks with me."
"They're going to make fun of you." Anton whispered in return, "If you stay near me."
"I don't care," it was calm, placid, and the even look in those pale eyes didn't so much as flicker, "if you play trucks with me now I'll have your back forever."
*******************
"You know, Anton." the girl said, her head on his thigh as she looked up at the sky, "People think you're super weird for hanging out with that guy all the time."
"James? He's my best friend, Lily."
"He's creepy. Those eyes...and he never has any emotions, like a robot."
"Babe, James has emotions. He's just not very demonstrative. At all." Anton stroked her hair back, "Totally loyal, though. I never would have gotten this far without James beside me."
"Does he...like you?"
The question made Anton laugh, long and loud, "No, Lily. James likes girls, he's just busy with other things and he knows people find him creepy so he doesn't act on it. I mean, what would you say if I asked you to find someone to go on a double date with him?"
"...Okay, yeah. Yeah, that's fair."
*******************
"Are you sure about this?" If it was anyone else, Anton would have read the tone as 'disapproving, but trying to hide it'. Since it was James, the question was exactly as it sounded: neutral.
"Yeah, man, I'm sure. I've got a spot lined up with the Seattle Branch. Junior member until I prove myself, but between the quills, the strength, the..."
"...ego." Both men laughed, because the interjection was how James joked. It had taken Anton a long time to get used to it, but at this point he caught the joke just about as often as James made it. Nobody expected Anton to have a subtle sense of humour, but damn near a lifetime of hanging out with Mr. Emotions-Are-Just-A-Passing-Fad had given the big man a very finely refined one. "Seriously, Anton, if this is what you want I've got your back. I just want you to be sure."
"I promise. I'm sure."
"Good. I already accepted a job in Northgate."
Anton Leonard Robinson, noko to his family, was very different from the rest of the children in the class. Not because he was a boy. Not because he was black. He was both of those things, but there were several children in class who fit one or both of those categories. No, the reason Anton rattled from the cruelty of the children in class was because of the long porcupine-like quills that went from his neck to his waist, and down the back of both arms. He was suprahuman, super human in the vernacular, but at six years old he was just weird.
Things weren't too bad until free play time. There was a lot of staring, and whispers, but nobody actually said anything cruel loud enough for the teacher to hear them. Free play started horribly. He tried to talk to some of the children, and they called him names. Ran away. Teased him.
After only a few minutes, however, when Anton found himself backing into a corner where his quills wouldn't be so visible another student approached him with a bucket of trucks. Anton looked at him warily, eyes flicking to the trucks that he'd wanted to play with and then back to the boy's placed, calm face.
"Ignore them." the pale boy with pale hair and pale eyes said, "Mom says that fear is only a good response if you're in danger. You're not in danger, so play trucks with me."
"They're going to make fun of you." Anton whispered in return, "If you stay near me."
"I don't care," it was calm, placid, and the even look in those pale eyes didn't so much as flicker, "if you play trucks with me now I'll have your back forever."
*******************
"You know, Anton." the girl said, her head on his thigh as she looked up at the sky, "People think you're super weird for hanging out with that guy all the time."
"James? He's my best friend, Lily."
"He's creepy. Those eyes...and he never has any emotions, like a robot."
"Babe, James has emotions. He's just not very demonstrative. At all." Anton stroked her hair back, "Totally loyal, though. I never would have gotten this far without James beside me."
"Does he...like you?"
The question made Anton laugh, long and loud, "No, Lily. James likes girls, he's just busy with other things and he knows people find him creepy so he doesn't act on it. I mean, what would you say if I asked you to find someone to go on a double date with him?"
"...Okay, yeah. Yeah, that's fair."
*******************
"Are you sure about this?" If it was anyone else, Anton would have read the tone as 'disapproving, but trying to hide it'. Since it was James, the question was exactly as it sounded: neutral.
"Yeah, man, I'm sure. I've got a spot lined up with the Seattle Branch. Junior member until I prove myself, but between the quills, the strength, the..."
"...ego." Both men laughed, because the interjection was how James joked. It had taken Anton a long time to get used to it, but at this point he caught the joke just about as often as James made it. Nobody expected Anton to have a subtle sense of humour, but damn near a lifetime of hanging out with Mr. Emotions-Are-Just-A-Passing-Fad had given the big man a very finely refined one. "Seriously, Anton, if this is what you want I've got your back. I just want you to be sure."
"I promise. I'm sure."
"Good. I already accepted a job in Northgate."
Equilibrium
Mar. 6th, 2014 02:51 am"How do you do it?"
AO looked up at the question, asked by a too intent woman seated in the underground's current gathering place who was sliding a silk scarf from hand to hand, eyes fastened on the brilliant green of it. "Pardon?" he responded in turn, continuing to feed bits of alfalfa to his sleepy bunny.
"How do you keep such a perfect façade? It's like you're taking your dose, every day. You never make a mistake."
"Ah." He fell silent again, for a long moment. "It is simply how I am. I have never been dosed. I am not from here." It was difficult to open up about himself, even in this world where no one would ever know the real him. Or perhaps in this world it was James who was real? He wasn't sure. It would bother him, if it were important.
"What do you mean, 'not from here'?" she sounded impatient, and he came very near to smiling at it. Rachel would know he was smiling, at least, if she were there. It was good that his rag tag little collection of sense offenders was starting to get over their awe of him. They needed that.
"Not from this world." he let that simple sentence spread through the room like a rock into a still pond, although in this case the ripples were silence and murmured conversations quelled and a room full of faces turned towards him.
It was, apparently, story time. "I am from a world where there are no sense offenders." murmurs started again, disbelieving. There would always be offences, after all, "No sense offenders, because emotion is not an offence. If you walk down the streets of my home, you will see green and blue, orange and red, yellow and purple, and colours that your do not have words for any more. Trees, grass, animals of all kinds kept as pets. You will hear laughter, and tears, joy and sorrow...and yes, anger and hatred. There exist things to decorate the body, from jewellery to face paints to hair dyes.
"I live in a house with a yard, both front and back. The front yard is filled with grass, and has a hedge fence. The back yard has a wooden one, and also a small vegetable garden filled with food for myself, Tweedle Dee, and his brother Tweedle Dumb." The names of the bunnies made people chuckle softly, as they always did. "There is art on my walls, and my bed is draped in comfortable sheets and blankets." a slight exaggeration, there, but he was trying to paint a picture of hope.
"I am not a demonstrative man. I have never been so, and as I have grown older I have also grown more reserved. For me, it is a comfortable way to live. Indeed, it has been a boon to someone for whom I care deeply. However I also know that the degree to which I under-emote is quite unhealthy for humanity, and Rachel has been attempting to bring me closer to optimum.
"This is why I am here." blank faces that did not understand watched him, waiting for him to explain, "Rachel is called where she is needed; across worlds and universes. Your world needed her fire, so she came." he fell silent, then, to let them process. It didn't take long before questions started clamouring for his attention, and he smiled another of those smiles that only Rachel would have known.
AO looked up at the question, asked by a too intent woman seated in the underground's current gathering place who was sliding a silk scarf from hand to hand, eyes fastened on the brilliant green of it. "Pardon?" he responded in turn, continuing to feed bits of alfalfa to his sleepy bunny.
"How do you keep such a perfect façade? It's like you're taking your dose, every day. You never make a mistake."
"Ah." He fell silent again, for a long moment. "It is simply how I am. I have never been dosed. I am not from here." It was difficult to open up about himself, even in this world where no one would ever know the real him. Or perhaps in this world it was James who was real? He wasn't sure. It would bother him, if it were important.
"What do you mean, 'not from here'?" she sounded impatient, and he came very near to smiling at it. Rachel would know he was smiling, at least, if she were there. It was good that his rag tag little collection of sense offenders was starting to get over their awe of him. They needed that.
"Not from this world." he let that simple sentence spread through the room like a rock into a still pond, although in this case the ripples were silence and murmured conversations quelled and a room full of faces turned towards him.
It was, apparently, story time. "I am from a world where there are no sense offenders." murmurs started again, disbelieving. There would always be offences, after all, "No sense offenders, because emotion is not an offence. If you walk down the streets of my home, you will see green and blue, orange and red, yellow and purple, and colours that your do not have words for any more. Trees, grass, animals of all kinds kept as pets. You will hear laughter, and tears, joy and sorrow...and yes, anger and hatred. There exist things to decorate the body, from jewellery to face paints to hair dyes.
"I live in a house with a yard, both front and back. The front yard is filled with grass, and has a hedge fence. The back yard has a wooden one, and also a small vegetable garden filled with food for myself, Tweedle Dee, and his brother Tweedle Dumb." The names of the bunnies made people chuckle softly, as they always did. "There is art on my walls, and my bed is draped in comfortable sheets and blankets." a slight exaggeration, there, but he was trying to paint a picture of hope.
"I am not a demonstrative man. I have never been so, and as I have grown older I have also grown more reserved. For me, it is a comfortable way to live. Indeed, it has been a boon to someone for whom I care deeply. However I also know that the degree to which I under-emote is quite unhealthy for humanity, and Rachel has been attempting to bring me closer to optimum.
"This is why I am here." blank faces that did not understand watched him, waiting for him to explain, "Rachel is called where she is needed; across worlds and universes. Your world needed her fire, so she came." he fell silent, then, to let them process. It didn't take long before questions started clamouring for his attention, and he smiled another of those smiles that only Rachel would have known.
...sometimes we fly.
Jan. 11th, 2014 09:57 pmHe heard Rachel's soft admonishment in his mind, and dismissed it easily. A moment of thought would give her the answer she sought, after all. He came because she was called. Don't apologize, he informed her, after she foolishly did so. Even he could tell that this world was in great need, and he would do things that she would not.
Not could not. Would not.
He slipped his rabbit into his coat, behind some of the heavy duty shielding that Hank had given him, to protect the silly little thing from everything possible while he looked over the world that he'd stepped into. Grey and empty. For the first time in his life, he was the being with the most colour around. He stayed in the shadows for a long moment as he watched others go past him; all dressed the same.
Black, blue, and grey. Ironic, he thought, that his olive coat and hat were overly coloured. The coat was most likely a loss, however his hat could be rolled up and put in a pocket without difficulty. Under the grey-green coat he wore a second coat, close enough to what the rest wore until he fit in more. Mask tucked into his boot, and rabbit tucked into the second coat, he slipped out into the crowd of people; one more colourless person in a crowd of colourless people.
Listening was always one of his talents. Listen hard, listen well, put pieces together from a million different conversations. Sense offence, Nether and the one that he arrowed in on most tightly, Underground. Without so much as a ripple in the tide of humanity he changed his course to follow the woman who had barely breathed the word.
He would think that someone with such an interesting word in her lexicon would also be paranoid, but it appeared that either he was more invisible than he thought or else the art of paranoia had been lost with every other thing that made humans...human. For another person, the silence and stillness of the world might be a wake-up call. For Agent Orange it was merely mildly disturbing. He'd never, after all, wanted the rest of the world to be like him. This was wrong, and it started a slow-curling anger in the base of his stomach. An anger that showed on the psychic plane as little as it did on his face, but it was still there.
He followed her into a building, and down stairs, behind doors and false walls, until the soft murmur of voices caused her to stop and knock gently on one last door. It was only the painfully soft gasps that caused his unwitting guide to spin and look at him before backing into the room and her companions.
It was a lovely room. He took the details in rapidly, habitually, from the red walls to the lush chairs, to the people huddled with expressions from terror to utter resignation. He reached down to pull his hat out of a pocket and snapped it back into shape, placing it where it belonged with the brilliant band proclaiming his allegiance in a manner that no one could deny.
"I am Agent Orange." his soft near-monotone informed them, "I have come to assist, along with a friend. She is in the upper part of the city. I am more comfortable in places such as these." As his potential teachers and students gaped at him he allowed himself to indulge in a small bit of theatre; "I will, however, need a safe place to keep my rabbit."
Not could not. Would not.
He slipped his rabbit into his coat, behind some of the heavy duty shielding that Hank had given him, to protect the silly little thing from everything possible while he looked over the world that he'd stepped into. Grey and empty. For the first time in his life, he was the being with the most colour around. He stayed in the shadows for a long moment as he watched others go past him; all dressed the same.
Black, blue, and grey. Ironic, he thought, that his olive coat and hat were overly coloured. The coat was most likely a loss, however his hat could be rolled up and put in a pocket without difficulty. Under the grey-green coat he wore a second coat, close enough to what the rest wore until he fit in more. Mask tucked into his boot, and rabbit tucked into the second coat, he slipped out into the crowd of people; one more colourless person in a crowd of colourless people.
Listening was always one of his talents. Listen hard, listen well, put pieces together from a million different conversations. Sense offence, Nether and the one that he arrowed in on most tightly, Underground. Without so much as a ripple in the tide of humanity he changed his course to follow the woman who had barely breathed the word.
He would think that someone with such an interesting word in her lexicon would also be paranoid, but it appeared that either he was more invisible than he thought or else the art of paranoia had been lost with every other thing that made humans...human. For another person, the silence and stillness of the world might be a wake-up call. For Agent Orange it was merely mildly disturbing. He'd never, after all, wanted the rest of the world to be like him. This was wrong, and it started a slow-curling anger in the base of his stomach. An anger that showed on the psychic plane as little as it did on his face, but it was still there.
He followed her into a building, and down stairs, behind doors and false walls, until the soft murmur of voices caused her to stop and knock gently on one last door. It was only the painfully soft gasps that caused his unwitting guide to spin and look at him before backing into the room and her companions.
It was a lovely room. He took the details in rapidly, habitually, from the red walls to the lush chairs, to the people huddled with expressions from terror to utter resignation. He reached down to pull his hat out of a pocket and snapped it back into shape, placing it where it belonged with the brilliant band proclaiming his allegiance in a manner that no one could deny.
"I am Agent Orange." his soft near-monotone informed them, "I have come to assist, along with a friend. She is in the upper part of the city. I am more comfortable in places such as these." As his potential teachers and students gaped at him he allowed himself to indulge in a small bit of theatre; "I will, however, need a safe place to keep my rabbit."
Pre-barbeque
Apr. 30th, 2012 06:02 pmEven aggressively under-socialised heroes with virtually no external hobbies or entertainments have certain chores which they must do, regardless of inclination, time, or other pressing matters. Chores such as the utterly mundane need to go shopping. For food. Plain, ordinary, food.
So, of course, Agent Orange is not dressed as himself, but rather as his secret identity, which is rather more secret than most. He is wallpaper; about as ordinary as it is possible for a man to get with virtually no feature standing out sufficiently to be a starting point for a description should he be witness to or suspect in something.
He was standing in the vegetable section of the store, a Whole Foods because he found the price an equitable trade for the quality of foods, doing meal planning for the week as he judged the benefits of asparagus versus those of bok choy.
So, of course, Agent Orange is not dressed as himself, but rather as his secret identity, which is rather more secret than most. He is wallpaper; about as ordinary as it is possible for a man to get with virtually no feature standing out sufficiently to be a starting point for a description should he be witness to or suspect in something.
He was standing in the vegetable section of the store, a Whole Foods because he found the price an equitable trade for the quality of foods, doing meal planning for the week as he judged the benefits of asparagus versus those of bok choy.
Briefing #1
Mar. 3rd, 2012 10:48 pmIt was soothing to work on his equipment, it always had been. Something about the comforting certainty that he was doing all of the minor pieces of work that would truly keep him alive in the lifestyle that he'd embraced with open arms and whole heart allowed him to find a form of serenity that was sadly lacking in the majority of his daily life. Spang, of course, would state that he was always serene, but Spang was a vivacious man with a personality that could stun an ox at fifty feet.
It would be a lie to say that AO was allowing his mind to drift from what he was doing; his attention was on the movement of his hands as he examined and tested every inch of every piece of equipment that he used. Once a month on every piece of equipment, nightly on whatever he'd used, to be certain that he was going to be safe. As safe as possible, at any rate.
He replaced this strap, and polished this buckle, oiled thatbit of leather and trimmed that loose thread before treating it with a small dab of clear nail polish, focused on his task with a devotion most normally seen in fanatics, lovers, and obsessive compulsives, and he found it good.
It wasn't until later, when the last nightstick, the last holster, and the last piece of Kevlar was put away, until the mask was safe in it's compartment next to the gloves and socks, above the boots, under the coat and hat, that he began to turn the strange meeting over in his mind.
As he cooked (plain, simple fare, healthy but bland), as he ate, as he sat in the chair that was the big indulgence in a small house otherwise furnished at a Spartan level of décor, he allowed his thoughts to slip backwards to the hours spent out of space and time.
She was beautiful. He was a healthy, heterosexual male in the prime of his life, he wouldn't attempt to pretend that he hadn't noticed that about her. It was a flashy kind of beauty, the type that would cause women to sigh and men to drool and he was as affected by the piercing green eyes and red hair as any other man with a healthy libido. She wasn't his type, so to speak, but as his type was as out of his potential grasp as the average super-model it didn't really matter. He knew his reach, and even if he were willing to risk a bond of the heart he would never be in Rachel's league.
She was powerful. That was as attractive as her beauty. His blood rushed away from his face at the memory, the powerful memory, of seeing through her eyes for those endless moments. It wasn't her "super" powers that made him inclined to respect her, it was the fact that she could survive the deluge of information that poured into her at every moment. She had passed it off as normal for herself, but assuming that she was human in any measurable way it was a miracle that she'd survived long enough to learn to cope with it.
She was funny. Not in the way of cracking jokes and trying to tease, but in the way that her lips twisted or her eyebrows danced as they traded information. It reached into long-denied parts of his psyche and made him want to know more. What made her smile, what made her laugh, why did those eyes of hers light up like that when she'd said that? And what put the sad twist in her expressions? How could he help her wipe that sadness away, even for a moment?
She was traumatized. It wasn't obvious, he didn't think, not to the average observer. Agent Orange, however, was not the average observer. He'd seen the tracks left by suffering in a million faces and a million ways. She bore up under it, she didn't throw her trauma around, but it lingered in the way that she apologised for being, and that made him want to protect. She could most probably erase him from existence entirely, but he wanted to protect her from that suffering.
She was accepting. He knew, he knew, that he put people off when in the mask. He wasn't much better out of it, and that was fine by him. He was at best a wallpaper person, at worst the kind of bogeyman who leaves no trace of his passing. Yet she spoke with him as though his voice wasn't out of the ordinary, as though she spent every day with people who wore masks, as though he was normal. Some of it was probably her world, he acknowledged that, yet it was surprisingly comforting to know that somewhere in the universes someone existed who wasn't put off by his persona. He had to wonder if she would like his civilian self as well, or if he would be wallpaper to her too.
As the night turned to the witching hour and he slipped into his bed for a few hours of sleep before work in the morning he concluded that it had been a fascinating encounter and he devoutly hoped that he would see her again.
It would be a lie to say that AO was allowing his mind to drift from what he was doing; his attention was on the movement of his hands as he examined and tested every inch of every piece of equipment that he used. Once a month on every piece of equipment, nightly on whatever he'd used, to be certain that he was going to be safe. As safe as possible, at any rate.
He replaced this strap, and polished this buckle, oiled thatbit of leather and trimmed that loose thread before treating it with a small dab of clear nail polish, focused on his task with a devotion most normally seen in fanatics, lovers, and obsessive compulsives, and he found it good.
It wasn't until later, when the last nightstick, the last holster, and the last piece of Kevlar was put away, until the mask was safe in it's compartment next to the gloves and socks, above the boots, under the coat and hat, that he began to turn the strange meeting over in his mind.
As he cooked (plain, simple fare, healthy but bland), as he ate, as he sat in the chair that was the big indulgence in a small house otherwise furnished at a Spartan level of décor, he allowed his thoughts to slip backwards to the hours spent out of space and time.
She was beautiful. He was a healthy, heterosexual male in the prime of his life, he wouldn't attempt to pretend that he hadn't noticed that about her. It was a flashy kind of beauty, the type that would cause women to sigh and men to drool and he was as affected by the piercing green eyes and red hair as any other man with a healthy libido. She wasn't his type, so to speak, but as his type was as out of his potential grasp as the average super-model it didn't really matter. He knew his reach, and even if he were willing to risk a bond of the heart he would never be in Rachel's league.
She was powerful. That was as attractive as her beauty. His blood rushed away from his face at the memory, the powerful memory, of seeing through her eyes for those endless moments. It wasn't her "super" powers that made him inclined to respect her, it was the fact that she could survive the deluge of information that poured into her at every moment. She had passed it off as normal for herself, but assuming that she was human in any measurable way it was a miracle that she'd survived long enough to learn to cope with it.
She was funny. Not in the way of cracking jokes and trying to tease, but in the way that her lips twisted or her eyebrows danced as they traded information. It reached into long-denied parts of his psyche and made him want to know more. What made her smile, what made her laugh, why did those eyes of hers light up like that when she'd said that? And what put the sad twist in her expressions? How could he help her wipe that sadness away, even for a moment?
She was traumatized. It wasn't obvious, he didn't think, not to the average observer. Agent Orange, however, was not the average observer. He'd seen the tracks left by suffering in a million faces and a million ways. She bore up under it, she didn't throw her trauma around, but it lingered in the way that she apologised for being, and that made him want to protect. She could most probably erase him from existence entirely, but he wanted to protect her from that suffering.
She was accepting. He knew, he knew, that he put people off when in the mask. He wasn't much better out of it, and that was fine by him. He was at best a wallpaper person, at worst the kind of bogeyman who leaves no trace of his passing. Yet she spoke with him as though his voice wasn't out of the ordinary, as though she spent every day with people who wore masks, as though he was normal. Some of it was probably her world, he acknowledged that, yet it was surprisingly comforting to know that somewhere in the universes someone existed who wasn't put off by his persona. He had to wonder if she would like his civilian self as well, or if he would be wallpaper to her too.
As the night turned to the witching hour and he slipped into his bed for a few hours of sleep before work in the morning he concluded that it had been a fascinating encounter and he devoutly hoped that he would see her again.
