faulknxr

[faulknxr]

man with excellent self restraint dismayed to realize that not wanting anything is more likely a depression symptom than a carefully honed skill that atones for other aspects of his character

[faulknxr]

Squid Game (2021) dir. Hwang Dong Hyuk

[faulknxr]

Ominous positivity

[faulknxr]

Faulkner presses the tips of his fingers together in a succession of small bounces while considering Agent Hemingway’s prediction. “You are apt with your observation, Agent,” Faulkner recognizes and drops his hands to his sides, ever the fitting sentinel, continuing in his mellowed cadence, “Your suggestion would be the best method of sensible action.”

This Agent will excuse himself and pick up a box of bottled water in the building’s communal kitchen storage after this conversation. Nodding along to Hemingway as his plan unfolds, Faulkner adds, “For the record, I do not expect obeisance from my reminder. After all, our nation did not do so well with Temperance, did it?” He lowly chuckles a rumbly three beats, which fade in and fade out. One could mistake it for a bass drop from the song playing in the background.

Standing to attention, hands behind his back, Faulkner’s fingers gently knead the back of his blazer while Hemingway looks into the gift bag. Fine wrinkles imprint onto the polyester-blend fabric. Faulkner answers quickly, “Yes, I’m aware, Agent. I chose to. Your date of birth is worth celebration, and I noticed the last time I had visited that your cupboard was sparse of this type of glassware…”

Faulkner’s explanation trails when he catches Agent Hemingway’s eyes watering. Had Faulkner misspoke and offended Hemingway by pointing out the lack of stout glasses? He hadn’t criticized too harshly, did he? Should he reach for his handkerchief? A hand hovers up and slinks into the inner pocket of his jacket and pauses —

Agent Hemingway is smiling. Faulkner’s chest warms up. His hand drops down and burrows into his pants pocket.

Usually, water would be Faulkner’s go-to, or seltzer with a slice of citrus in a simulated attempt of letting one’s hair down — figuratively, as Faulkner would never be without orderly style in the workplace — but as Hemingway rinses the glasses, Faulkner decides to take a chance. “Sī fuerīs Rōmae, Rōmānō vīvitō mōre; sī fuerīs alibī, vīvitō sīcut ibī.”

Agent Hemingway knows his Latin, and Faulkner smiles, hoping the agent will approve his response. When in Rome. “I wouldn’t mind what you were making, Agent Hemingway.” He leans slightly, almost on the side of a counter, but doesn’t commit. An inch of air separates his hip from what appears to be a granite-like stone cut. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and so, too, are Agent Faulkner’s casual informalities.

“Your hypothesis is humorous, Agent. The price of fame would be quite a toll, though, wouldn’t you say,” Faulkner inquires, already picturing Hemingway and Fitzgerald as a two-man jazz band reminiscent of the Bebop 40s. “Yes, I can see that you two would be some hepcats… Heh, then we, speaking unofficially for the group, will take you up on your offer. The stage is yours, Agent.”

Faulkner spreads his arm and gestures to a small set-up with a TV and a plugged-in karaoke machine. This Agent is sure that Agent Hemingway has gone through the correct channels and alerted his neighbors of noise before the commencement of this event. Stepping forward and waiting for his drink, Faulkner adds, “Then we can coordinate who goes next and corral the group for the True Colors ensemble piece later. I shall organize it for you, so please enjoy yourself… Birthday Man.”

this is exactly the kind of answer he was expecting to hear and, to be fair, this is the energy hemingway probably should be sharing. supposedly, he's one of the responsible ones so instead of playing bartender, he should be telling everyone to watch it, maybe keep tabs on who's just got their first drink down and who's about to get cut off. and any other day, he probably would but it's his birthday and so hemingway's allowed a little leeway. a night off from all the babysitting that nobody even asked for.

"you could try but i'm not sure how enthusiastic everyone's gonna be about the reminders. maybe we're better off being sneaky about it. just put water bottles everywhere," he says, only half-joking. "or we can just leave them to their own devices. it's a party after all."

when faulkner acknowledges the elephant in the room, namely the giftbag hemingway noticed the second the other agent walked into the kitchen, his smile grows even brighter. he did say that gifts aren't necessary when he invited everyone but who doesn't love a birthday present, come on. "ah, shit, you really didn't have to," he still says as he takes the glasses out of the bag. "these are beautiful, thank you." and just like that, he's starting to feel like he might shed a tear or two—they'd be happy tears, obviously, but he feels like any sort of crying would ruin the whole thing. so he looks up, blinks the tears away. works well enough.

hemingway gives faulkner another smile, just one more way of saying thank you and then clears his throat. "what are you drinking, though?" he asks as he sets the glasses down in the sink so he can rinse them. "i can make you a non-alcoholic something or just ... well, water."

"why, thank you. in another life, i'm a world famous performer. sold-out shows, all the time," he jokes as he dries the gifted glasses. "or me and fitz start that jazz band he's always talking about." hemingway looks over faulkner's shoulder, his eyes scanning the room until they land on fitzgerald, deep in conversation with another one of their teammates; hemingway smiles and then turns his attention back to faulkner. "but either way, the audience here is worth more than any music career could get me. i'll give you guys the opening act."

"oh, you're onto something here," he laughs. hemingway's still talking to faulkner and tending to his gift at the same time—he's finally arrived at the last step, which is pouring his drink into the crystal glass in one, swift motion. there. he gives faulkner a self-satisfied smile. "glad that you didn't suggest girls just wanna have fun, that's my song. and for true colors we should do an ensemble. and i will cry."

[faulknxr]

in an interesting case of linguistic convergent evolution, the english words scale, scale, and scale are all false cognates of each other

[faulknxr]

Tomihiko Morimi, The Tatami Galaxy (translated by Emily Balistrieri)

[faulknxr]

sometimes you have to choose the neural pathway less traveled in your brain

[faulknxr]

Mahmoud Darwish, from Almond Blossoms and Beyond; "I sit at home"

[faulknxr]

analog principle.

closed starter ft. @agtbishop

setting: washington, district of columbia / temporal bureau headquarters

timeframe: november 28, 1999 / april 17, 1996

summary: “Barreling through time, the two agents from the current — the past — take aim at the future through the cold barrel of the gun.”

content warnings: descriptions and depictions of criminal activity, including but not limited to attempted assassination, gun violence, and domestic terrorism. may contain mild body harm.

Two dark-suited agents stand on the rooftop of an apartment building in the heart of K Street, Downtown Washington, D.C., overlooking the bleak November slush that has carpeted the road, which has yet to deter the growing crowd. One of the agents, a tall man, crouches. He opens a large deployment case, and a matte-gray rifle emerges in his hands.

Following is a case of bullets, a standard issue for NATO-allied countries, a 7.62 by 51mm. Barrel rifling of 5 radials, with a turn in 11.2 inches, 6-shot repeating; muzzle velocity reaching up to approximately 2,600 feet per second for a maximum effective range of 800 meters. The agent immediately gets to work, setting up the bipod stand and assembling the M24 SWS bolt-action sniper rifle.

Before starting any inspection, the agent performs a routine checkup to clear the rifle and examine for damages. After field stripping the rifle, he adjusts the rifle’s stock, attaches the optic sights, and checks for its zero. He screws on the suppressor. After completing the clean-up, the weapon is ready for service. The agent concludes by engaging the safety in the rifle’s S position.

(This agent cannot see the irony of his beloved typewriter and his bloody sniper rifle originating from the same manufacturer, E. Remington and Sons.)

A slight wind gathers, breezing in from the southeast. It’ll pick up in about thirty minutes, at fourteen hundred and twenty-two minutes, when a lone gunman will come out onto the roof of the Cartwright Building. He will assassinate the senatorial candidate Vernon F. MacMillan, a Republican, courting the lobbyists on K Street, satirically in guns and automobiles. In the wake of MacMillan’s death, someone else will run as his replacement.

In a future far from now, hours and hours away, the forthcoming Temporal Bureau in [redacted year] will send a missive back in time. The current Temporal Bureau in ‘96 will be asked to put their agents with significant military history to the task. Specifically, the quiet and undetectable to dispose of the gunman. Lethal force is allowed, but the agents are encouraged to be creative if they so wish. Just avoid a SNAFU.

Agent Faulkner returns to his full height of six feet and a half and picks up his binoculars hung around his neck. “How is the crowd, Agent Bishop?” He asks his mission partner — correction, primary mission partner as of six months. It has been a month into their cooperation, and operations have never gone through any bumps. Not that Agent Faulkner has expected anything less from a veteran of the Bureau. Agent Bishop is an operative like Stein, one who has had a hand in the science behind time manipulation. Faulkner doesn’t consider himself any bit of an intellectual, so those with genius leadership will forever have his service.

(Weapons are only useful in talented hands, aren't they?)

“According to my watch, we have T-minus twenty-seven minutes before H-hour,” Faulkner states, “would you like to set up your system? In case our proposed plan requires a backup.”

In the United States military, these specialized marksmen are crew-served with a sniper cell of two. The primary weapon operator, the shooter has a support personnel or protective force, known as a spotter or a flanker. As expressed in the U.S. Army and Marine Corps Table of Organization and Equipment, the shooter does not operate alone. A qualified backup shooter is deployed to ensure mission success.

However, what Agents Bishop and Faulkner have in mind do not follow anti-personnel tactics or policy. Instead of assassinating the lone gunman, they are attempting to indirectly apprehend him. In Faulkner’s pre-mission research, he has dug through the gunman’s biography and has given Agent Bishop his report before their launch.

Malcolm Seward, thirty-three, a member of the extremist group the Brothers of Civic Freedom, properly established in late ‘98.

(All groups of terror would never appropriately call themselves as such. The fear they cause is a part of the cause. For justice, when boiled down to it, is to enact the fear of retribution.)

Seward is a poor and uneducated man let go at an Ohio automobile factory in the spring of ‘97 and radicalized through the scapegoating of immigrant workers. He and other disgruntled, disaffected, and deeply disturbed men will take to arms. He will kill senatorial candidate Vernon F. MacMillan and then cause mass havoc while he tries to escape.

In Faulkner’s report, he also notes MacMillan’s opponents, his replacements. Although the Republican nominee does not win the upcoming election in D.C., there must be a reason as to why the Bureau has chosen to spare MacMillan’s life. Further detailed within the pages of the report are all the locations of U.S. Secret Service members dispatched during the incident. The major players are highlighted. The obstacles delineated. All for an optimized run of events.

Agent Faulkner’s standard is nothing less than perfection in execution. However, what he is suggesting means no wriggle room for error. He and Agent Bishop will wound the gunman before he takes his shot, disorient and non-lethally incapacitate him, purposefully misfire Seward’s modified Armalite AR-50 to trigger a response from Secret Service who will triangulate the location of the bullet, and dissemble and depart before detection.

By setting up Seward and implicating he was betrayed by his group, Faulkner hopes that he will cooperate with the Secret Service, give up the names involved with the Brothers of Civic Freedom, and disintegrate the group without the loss of future lives.

He and Agent Bishop will be able to pull it off.

There is a tickle in his throat again, similar to the tiniest twinge of something dragging his words when he had first declared his plan to her in the privacy of his office. He doesn’t understand why he doesn’t feel quite right. He cannot commend Agent Bishop enough; they work smoothly, having gotten to the point of wordless communication during a mission.

(This Agent does not compute his pain toward silence and will suffer in silence.)

Therefore, Agent Faulkner clears his throat and says, “Would you like the shot or the spot? My system has been adjusted to a comfortable median between our MOA, and the scope is good to go.”

Faulkner lifts the binoculars and gazes at the other building. In less than nineteen minutes, their target will bust through the door, dressed in garish camouflage garb despite the environment. He will hastily set up his gun. And, fueled with rage, he will immediately fire when MacMillan stops in front of a stock exchange building just across their section of K Street.

“We will only have a small window of ten minutes to fire and detain Seward, enact the false assassination attempt, and then a smaller window of two minutes while we both dissemble our sniper rifles and evade Secret Services. This is to say, whoever is the primary shooter will have to communicate with the flanker during dismantling. Throat mics are on as we commence operations. I understand these are high-pressure conditions, so as mentioned, I am volunteering the flank position.” Faulkner explains, binoculars down and resting over his protective vest.

Barreling through time, the two agents from the current — the past — take aim at the future through the cold barrel of the gun.

[faulknxr]

ancient greek adjectives about fate

αἴσιμος (aisimos) appointed by the will of the gods, destined

δύσμορος (dusmoros) ill-fated

ἐξαίσιος (exaisios) beyond what is ordained or fated

θεόμορος (theomoros) destined by the gods, imparted by them

κακόποτμος (kakopotmos) ill-fated, ill-starred

μοιρίδιος (moiridios) destined, doomed

μοιρόκραντος (moirokrantos) ordained by destiny, fated

μόρσιμος (morsimos) appointed by fate, destined

πρόμοιρος (promoiros) before the destined term, i.e. untimely, of death, of persons, doomed to untimely death

[faulknxr]

american graffiti (redux).

closed starter ft. @agtchopin

setting: temporal bureau headquarters / modesto, california

timeframe: august 8, 1996 / june 12, 1962

summary: where were you in '96 '62?

content warnings: none for this part. future content includes depictions of criminal activity (attempted kidnapping) and mild violence.

Two Tupperware boxes labeled with 080896 sit on the corner of Agent Faulkner's desk in his office, keeping a serving of galette and crêpe (ham, cheese, and arugula; banana, blueberry, quick oats, and cinnamon-spiked Nutella) warm. Inside each box is a smaller container with a lid. Underneath its plastic surface is a gleaming pool of maple syrup. Faulkner checks again to see if he has enough sachets of single-use cutlery at the side table near the water cooler installed in his office — the drawer glides out, and yes, it has remained unchanged since Faulkner checked five minutes ago. This time, though, he plucks two from the orderly pile along with napkins and places them on top of each Tupperware.

It is nearing seven hundred hours, the appointed meeting time he established with Agent Chopin last night.

The new pairing for this assignment has piqued Faulkner’s interest, but not enough to question when the mission handler says, “We will expect a detailed report of all events, including agent activity, Agent Faulkner.” Faulkner picks up on the coded order. This is as much a rescue mission as it is a supervisory one for a newly graduated Agent of certain notoriety among the Bureau’s internals.

It almost rings of nostalgia, but this Agent will never hear it. The identity of selfish Ulysses, who has poured wax in his ears and confined Faulkner to row, remains elusive and unknown at large. Ignorance is bliss, and isn’t Innocence and Justice always depicted as blind? Is it right to rob a man of insanity of his own choice? Or an act of noble protection?

God may know, and machines should be unaware.

Besides, that past is best left unmentioned. The Bureau’s revolving doors are clockwork. Figures and their shades enter and exit, pushing through for passage. What is of importance is the constant turn, like time, like a spiral forever running to its center. The never-ending motion, always in the present of being.

Now.

Codenamed Chopin, the newest agent, completed his training at forty-eight, customarily regarded as prime retirement age. With a sizeable height, a lively voice, long and flowy salt-and-pepper hair matched with an impressive beard, Agent Faulkner would be remiss to not keep an eye on the newest recruit. Frankly speaking, this agent has snuck a glance or two at the bullpen from his office window and often finds his sight landing on Chopin’s unique build.

(He assumes it is the curiosity of a new face on the floor.)

When Faulkner approached the other agent last night at his desk in the bullpen, their talk was nothing longer than deemed perfunctory. Exchanging pager numbers, setting up a schedule, and a concluding handshake. And what a handshake it was.

From their first meeting at Agent Chopin’s official introduction to the team, the man’s handshake has been a simile to static electricity. It’s a zap-like connection, noticeably tight and a beat too quick on the upswing. Faulkner jittered then, jolted again last night, caught in the tempo of Agent Chopin’s full-body shake.

No matter the invisible appearance of neutrality, something within them resides in opposite polarities. Also called triboelectric charging, static electricity occurs when two materials touch and separate. Electrons cling, and the object becomes electrified. Then, from an imbalance of positive and negative charges in their atoms, the buildup of tension discharges via second contact. Hence, the spark.

This simile extends.

It is discomfiting. That’s what has been the conclusion; Faulkner is aware he is making the other person uneasy— even someone like him can parse the physiology of reluctance after years of witnessing it, causing it. But he doesn’t understand what he has done. Not yet.

(When he does, Faulkner will correct his conduct. Be a complete being.)

Faulkner straightens his stance and reaches for his two-way pager clipped at his waist. Rapidly, his fingers press the keys, typing up:

Good morning, Agent Chopin. This is Agent Faulkner. This is a reminder to ignore the listed hours on my office door. It is open for you.

Although he is sure the other agent might know, it doesn’t hurt to give a gentle nudge.

Additionally, we are needed for launch at eight hundred and thirty hours at Terminal A. Therefore, please arrive by seven hundred and fifteen hours if you are running tardy. If we cannot convene for our pre-briefing, I will be sure to meet you at Terminal A for the official brief. Thank you, Agent.

After finishing his task, Faulkner reviews the extra documents he’s got on hand. These are new, not part of the briefing package he passed along last night to Agent Chopin. On his desk, two stapled copies of a ten-page report sit next to the Tupperboxes, typed in 10-point Pica Typeface on his Underwood-Remington Noiseless 77, a result of his own research into the era with the help of the Coordinate Analysts and History Researchers. A web of family trees, historical events, mini-biographies of the people involved, and anything else that had a connection or tie to the case that Faulkner felt was significant fill the pages. There is even a title page and a table of contents.

One of the copies has a brightly colored staple. It is a festive green. Old habits die hard.

That idiom is of unknown origin. However, the earliest citation of its existence is from 1758, penned by Benjamin Franklin, and has survived and endured to 1996, a span of 238 years. There aren’t other quotes that can boast their long lives because to have kept stagnant in the face of evolution negates the effects of nature itself.

Languages change. Words alter their appearance and their meaning. Significance. And some tongues even die.

Anything that has lived this long is timeless. Or is a specter haunting when it should have passed.

Agent Faulkner blinks, thinking he hears the click of his doorknob turning. He confronts the noise and politely acknowledges the source.

“Good morning, Agent. How are you today? Please, take a seat.” Agent Faulkner instructs, hand outstretched to the guest chair in front of his tidy desk. He also takes his own seat, tending to his suit’s button so that his posture doesn’t crease his suit (it never does).

“We can enjoy breakfast if you haven’t had any yet while we look over our notes for Mission #2007. 1962, Modesto, California. The kidnapping of thirteen-year-old Laurie Beckett.”

[faulknxr]

{ Words by Megan Fernandes, from "Fabric in Tribeca," in Good Boys / Silas Melvin, from "Twenty," Grit }

[faulknxr]

By the edge of the lakeside, Agent Faulkner considers his conversational partner’s take while he scatters a bit of duck feed onto the lawns. “Due to privacy measures, I cannot inquire about the subject matter and the method of how you presented those subjects during last month’s interviews, Agent Fitzgerald. However, since you did not receive a formal reprimand, I believe your assessment is factual,” he says and then pauses, closing up the snack bag and placing it in his pocket as a band of waterfowl moseys toward the food.

“But it shouldn’t be against our office’s private policy to ask what facial features Dr. Benson expressed in response to your interview?” Faulkner’s lips, usually a barely-there curve, slope gently up that one could characterize as an authorized smile.

To the casual observer working at the Temporal Bureau, they would’ve had a double take at seeing Agent Faulkner not at his office during his oft-stated “Official Office Hours” (9 am - 9 pm) but also walking and engaging with Agent Fitzgerald (of all agents!) on Bureau grounds. They make quite the odd couple; Agent Fitzgerald has charm in spades, and Agent Faulkner could make a birthday party feel like a funeral. They’re the flashy and the fatal. Oil and water.

However, Agent Faulkner would say they’ve had a cordial and honest tête-à-tête throughout the years. Though Faulkner does not entertain the more outlandish theories springing from Agent Fitzgerald’s brilliant and indecipherable mind, he has done his part to support his fellow agent, his fellow trainee, since their graduation in ‘81. Agent Fitzgerald has Faulkner’s trust that he will choose to do what’s right.

“I’m afraid I cannot reveal my confidential proceedings, Agent Fitzgerald. Unless, is this a roundabout confession that it is no longer the case?” Faulkner threads his hands behind his back and slowly steps through the cool, barren earth. He looks back with a tilted head and adds, “I am merely jesting, Agent. If anyone were to be escalated to a higher threat level, they would never know until the time comes.”

Faulkner waits for the other Agent to catch up. When Fitzgerald is close, Faulkner says in his muted undertone, “In unofficial avenues, I have said your services would shine brighter among the specialists of R&D, as we should have more minds on the case of how a disconnected and older model of the USFF can stably time travel. I hope the Science Team will request your assistance and provide stimulation, Agent.”

timestamp  — october 14th, 3 pm sharp. location  — bureau grounds. description  — most agents have improvement plans, don't they? ...don't they? ( closed starter for agt. faulkner. )

" — i mean, looking back on it, i didn't think anything i said was that scandalous. i haven't heard much since we all got questioned, but that doesn't mean i still don't think about the look on dr benton's face when i was excused from the room."

as much as the bureau had emphasized the importance of staying mentally, emotionally, and physically healthy while doing this work, fitzgerald had never been one to take them up on their amenities. the workout plans, the meals, the licensed mental health professionals — it was all so clinical.

and fitz was a bit allergic to structure, if it wasn't used to solve quadratic equations. structure in just about every other facet of his life? completely unnecessary.

instead, he had leaned on his working relationship with one of the people he worked with admired for the longest time, probably the one who would be their official leader any day now — agent faulkner.

fitz couldn't place where his chats with faulkner started, somewhere within those first three or four years for sure, but they had started to become a regular thing for him. sometimes every week, but mostly every two or three, depending on their schedules. his therapy sessions mandatory by the bureau paled in comparison to kinds of things he and faulkner discussed.

mostly because, well, faulker got it. besides being the bureau's gold star that shined almost too brightly for anyone that stood close enough for too long, at least faulkner knew what their work felt like. he could recognize when fitz was ( mentally, at least ) on a downward spiral.

"but i'm sure you've assured them i'm not a threat, right? i'm just ... y'know ... in need of more stimulating work." fitz thinks aloud, as they walk along the bureau's grounds around the lake. he'd been needing fresh air a lot more lately.

[faulknxr]

the peregrine soliton.

closed starter ft. @agenthemingway, mentions of @dxckinson.

setting: multiple locations.

timeframe: various times.

summary: the recruitment of a new agent. the beginning of a friendship. the premature end to a mission.

content warnings: none for this part. future content may include depictions of depression, period-typical homophobia, suicidal ideation, etc., triggers will be updated within the tags.

1986. 18th of September.

The clouds by Agent Dickinson’s head roll across the plane’s oval window like chronophotographs, its animated stroll across the sky, each phase of the movement, captured in the lens of Faulkner’s eyes. He hasn’t seen the wisps of cirrus clouds rush by like busy traffic since almost a decade ago when this agent last took to the air. And never has he witnessed them in something as dandy as business class. But for his snoozing partner seated by the window, it’s his first time leaving the country on a plane (and boarding a plane in general). From a technical point of view, it is more efficient and discreet to have their trip to and back from France to be as comfortable for them and their guest.

Careful not to disturb the sleeping man beside him, Faulkner slides out the files from his briefcase and reviews them again. He reminds himself to breathe out through his nose after his chest lightly pangs due to a lack of oxygen. His fingers do not tremble, but his vision does, blurring the name on the brief before focusing back into clarity. Dark, dark brown eyes linger on the photo in the file.

He is so young here to the point of unrecognition.

Agent Faulkner parts his lips no more significant than a millimeter apart and inhales. It's soundless, like how they taught in boot camp. But basic training hasn't covered the skills required for this Herculean feat. This is the only time he has experienced a physical ailment close to sickness that clams up his hands and dampens the crisp white collar of his dress shirt, spiteful of the handkerchief Agent Faulkner carries to keep his indecorousness at bay.

Then, if his background fails him, Faulkner can only fall back on the lessons from his best tutor. However, that dearly venerated man no longer extends visits. He last saw Faulkner a long time ago.

The ding of the seatbelt sign signals their plane's descent. Feeling his partner would enjoy the view, Agent Faulkner gently nudges the man at his left and whispers, "Agent, please wake up. I believe you would like to see Nice."

Their contact meets them when the two agents exit Aéroport Nice Côte d'Azur, leading them to a parking lot and passing them the keys to a partridge-gray Citroën GSA. The thin, bearded man gives them a once-over before he tuts. Crossing his arms, the contact inquires with an arched brow, « Savez-vous tous où aller? »

Having studied the maps and trekked through the French coastline in his youth, Faulkner nods. The other man cocks his head with a frown, and a small puff of air is forced from his wrinkled lips. Seeing that the man is unconvinced, Agent Faulkner says in pleasantly accented Niçard, « Òc, n’ai una foura, monsieur. Mercés a ouf. »

The Frenchman does a double-take, muttering to himself, « Porca petan. Que lenga a, a Paris va. »

Agent Faulkner opens the door for Agent Dickinson in the front passenger seat — to which he receives a grin and a softly whispered thanks — and goes to place their luggage in the trunk — to which Dickinson jolts up in his seat and says, “No, let me help.” But Faulkner declines, heading to the back of the car as the man is clearly going through his first bout of jetlag.

Giving their contact another professional smile after getting their luggage in order, Agent Faulkner climbs into the driver’s seat to the lively tune of a French pop song. It is his mission partner’s doing, already establishing musical accompaniment in their drive along the coastal mountainside. It’s only been a year of teaming together, but they have found their respective roles.

According to the brief, the drive from the airport to the Alpes-Maritimes commune Sainte-Agnès will take roughly two hours. Agent Dickinson has the map open to call out directions to the streets, his face in a slight frown while turning back and forth between the English and French sides of the road map. On a gray-blue September morning at ten hundred hours, the two Temporal Agents drive out of the parking lot.

Faulkner keeps his eyes on the road, two hands on the wheel, focusing on the drive while his mission partner looks out the window and whistles at the view of the slate-blue sea. The Mediterranean Sea, which hugs the Southern French coastline, is connected to the more immense Atlantic Ocean but is almost entirely enclosed by land. At the north are Southern Europe and Anatolia, opposite at the south are the Northern countries of Africa, and its east is bordered by the West Asian Levant.

In the Mediterranean Sea’s grand history, the Roman Empire is the only state ever to control its coasts in a nautical hegemony. The sea’s name comes from the Romans. The 3rd-century Latin grammarian and geographer Gaius Julius Solinus, better known simply as Solinus, called it Mare Mediterrāneum, which means the sea ‘in the middle of land,’ or inland; the term a compound of the Latin words ‘middle’ medius, ‘land’ terra, and ‘qualitative nature’ -āneus.

Agent Dickinson stirs in his seat, sticking his head slightly out of the open window.

“Agent, be careful,” Faulkner warns but keeps his eyes on the road. Through his periphery, he glimpses Dickinson’s deep umber curls rippling by the sea breeze like waves.

“Is this place known for its fisheries, by chance, FK? I know you can’t look, but there are nets all over the water over there. I’ve never seen anything like it. Hey, the French like clams, right? Maybe they’re clam farms... Wait. There aren't any boats.”

Ah, what his partner is describing must be a cross sea. The autumnal squalls generating the square waves have Dickinson confuse them for a wide-cast fishing net, as the skies above them show no sign of a tremendous gale. These squared seas are due to two weather systems meeting at the precipices of their systems, far from their sources. Despite their innocent and novelty appearance, this sea state is the typical perpetrator of shipwrecks, as the vessel cannot sail into one set of waves without sailing parallel to the other. In short, it is a perilous sign.

Explaining it as such to his partner and reminding his partner that his codename is Faulkner, not FK, the other agent replies, “Ay, n’ombre… Y’know, that fact is almost as comforting as the thing you said about us dying instantly if our plane crashed in the ocean last night, Faulk.”

Faulkner smiles, and his partner laughs out loud.

It takes them half an hour to drive ten kilometers inland from Menton to an outcrop of rocky cliffsides. Their hatchback ascends the ever-winding and steepening slope, as Sainte-Agnès (or Sant Anha in the local dialect) sits at the highest point in the Alpes-Maritimes department in the Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur region, 800 meters above the level of the Mediterranean Sea. Home to less than 455 people by 1982, the small town’s precarious road showcases the dazzling sights of the Provençal hilltops and the vast sea.

The rural town hasn’t changed much from the past. The jagged peak of the commune creeps into sight. Beyond that would be the Fort Maginot de Sainte-Agnès. A part of the Maginot Defense Line in 1932 to defend the area against possible Italian and German invasion, it has now been remodified into a museum. It’ll find more use as a cultural heritage site than a war front, as the invaders went around and never sieged the fort.

If they had more time, Faulkner would’ve loved to tour around with Agent Dickinson to highlight the ancient churches, castle ruins, religious pilgrimages, and legends surrounding this coastal commune. Southern France is famous for their cuisine, and many terraced restaurants in the region offer an unrivaled view of the French Riviera that only their mountain town can provide. However, Faulkner is efficient, and they have arrived at their destination at the crossroads of the three roads that lead into the city: Chapelle Saint-Sébastien.

The stout, one-storied chapel has a large wooden cross at the front of its cobblestoned entrance. A metal gate is in place, signaling to any congregation that service is unavailable until later. A tall, lone man sweeps the steps with a wooden broom. As the car slows to a stop on the gravel lot, Faulkner checks his watch. Eleven hundred hours and forty-two minutes. C’est l’heure du déjeuner. Or, in English, lunch-time.

He opens the door, and a bit of moisture meets his hand. The skies above have gathered the flock of sheep-puff clouds. They mingle; the air is fresh and cool. Mist and light drizzle dampen the coarse earth. Faulkner looks to the backseat of the car, takes his briefcase, and tells his partner, “Agent, I regret to inform you it is raining. Have you packed your raincoat? I can get it for you.”

“I don’t mind getting a little wet, but I know you'll insist. It should be on my suitcase’s left side inner pocket, but don’t open the other side ‘cause that’s where my unmentionables are.” Dickinson says.

Faulkner quirks an eyebrow and says, “But you mentioned it, so they aren’t ‘unmentionable,’ Agent.” But he nods and does just that to the pleasant sound of his partner's loud chuckles, quickly fetching their raincoats from the trunk while Agent Dickinson also exits the vehicle.

The light sprinkle wets his gelled hair, and a few strands fall out of place when he brushes them back. However, Agent Faulkner doesn’t mind the rain. It is necessary to the ecosystem and a refreshing conclusion to extended heat waves; he even finds the sound relaxing while reading a book. But he doesn’t want to ruin his suit or wet his files. Picking up an umbrella in case the mizzle explodes into a cloudburst, he closes the trunk and hands the raincoat to his partner.

Together, they climb the cobblestone steps, approaching their target: the man sweeping the church front.

Agent Faulkner calms himself with another breath. He has yet to fail a single mission — assassinations, cover-ups, codebreaking the Soviets during the brink of Cold War Armageddon, all these high-risk assignments a mainstay in his resume. But this recruitment task is so out of his depth.

The Temporal Bureau has had this individual on their radar since his early days in the United States Army. The Bureau has given Agent Faulkner the unique mission usually offered to a designated and experienced recruiter. Although he wishes to ask, why me, Faulkner knows their organization does not make mistakes. And so mustn’t he.

He is someone who knows how to rally the troops, Agent Faulkner. He is good with his words. Someone who will know his brothers-in-arms like the back of his hand. A person we must be able to rely on and trust. With your help, we’ll bring him into the Temporal Bureau.

Faulkner remembers how he reacted to the picture his superiors slid to him across the briefing room table. He shook, no different from a dead leaf on a branch.

Make certain you will not fail him or us, Agent.

There is a tug on his sleeve. Faulkner reacts, snapping his head to — Agent Dickinson, who gives Faulkner the tiniest crease of his rosy, full lips, pinched at the corners. “Hey, if it makes you feel any better, this is my first time too. When I was with the old man—uh, I mean when I was with my old partner, we didn’t take any noncombat missions, so I’m out of my element as well. But the bureau wouldn’t have sent you—us out here if they didn’t think we could do this. So let’s just, y’know, stick to the script we came up on the plane, and if it feels like he’s not biting, then… I don’t know, we can talk from the heart?”

Faulkner cannot speak. So he nods, confused by the tenseness in his chest disappearing. His face feels a little hot.

“That’s him over there, isn’t it? Damn, I thought someone fudged the numbers when I saw that six-foot-four… What are they feeding you guys in the army that we’re not getting in the other branches?” Agent Dickinson whispers.

Faulkner also wonders about present-day rations but keeps it private from his partner. There is no place for his mind to wander now. It is mission time.

« Bonjour monsieur. Parlez-vous anglais? » Faulkner calls out to the tall man, mustering as much warmth as he can into his greeting, as taught by his tutor. If it works, it’d be all thanks to that man. If it fails, it is Faulkner’s shortcoming. As the two agents advance until they are only a meter from the target, Faulkner’s features dissolve into content placidity.

This time in English, he asks, “Hello, nice to meet you. I am Agent Faulkner. My associate here is Agent Dickinson. Mr. Jamal Bernard Jackson, correct? May we have a bit of your time?”

[faulknxr]

A few heads turn to the discordant noise in the corner of the dining hall, courtesy of Thoreau’s chair. Faulkner, as well, trained to respond to any sort of movement or noise, flinches, eyes blinking tighter than natural for a second that dallies too long. Although he is an experienced soldier able to will himself from cringing his shoulders, his form has yet to achieve complete placidity in all situations. Unacceptably, he fails to temper his body’s instinctual reaction to the sharp screech of the chair clawing at the ground.

The aforementioned middle ear and its tympanic reflex, which muffles the transmission of low-frequency sound vibrations heading to the oval window, only has a response time of forty milliseconds. It is not fast enough to protect the ear from sudden loud noises, such as an explosion or a gunshot. Faulkner knows personally of this fact. For future consideration, he’ll pull out Agent Thoreau’s seat first.

Following her lead, Faulkner’s prominently veined and lightly scarred hands lift the back of the metal dining chair. The seat’s four feet dangle a quarter-inch from the floor before they all land in a muted click, displaced about ten inches from the edge of the table. Agent Faulkner slides in, his suit uttering a sound that ironically shushes, the rustling wary, soft, and discreet before he settles in.

After watching Agent Thoreau take her first bite, he permits himself to eat. Faulkner’s fork pierces through a cherry tomato cleanly before he deposits it into his mouth. It has been a long time since he has had dinner with another agent outside Agent Hemingway’s cordial visits — spruced up check-ups — and a longer time since any one-on-one dinner with Agent Thoreau.

If questioned by a superior operative, Agent Faulkner would respond that Agent Thoreau is the person he finds most personal difficulty with. Difficulty? The hypothetical interviewer would probe, you don’t like her?

No would be this Agent’s response.

It is precisely what the word intends directly from its Latin parentage. Difficultas. Dis, expressing the “inverse, opposite,” and facultas, definition being “ability and opportunity.” Notably aware of how unskilled he is in connecting with his coworkers personally, Faulkner would give Agent Thoreau the top placement on his mental ranking of personages who require the most effort to understand.

Or is his modus operandi far less sympathetic? An effort to solve this? Another mission complete in providing closure, a neat and tidy conclusion to the case? The answer lies between him and God.

If Faulkner ever requests Agent Thoreau’s profile, the Bureau would probably send him a document — truncated and censored in some parts, undoubtedly — but still an answer key. All he needs is to ask. Politely. Sometimes, even the strictest owners drop their table scraps on the floor for the dogs.

However, Faulkner wants to avoid the easy exegeses. It’d be hypocritical to start, as Faulkner himself has never relayed his past to anyone since his recruitment into the Bureau, and in professional esteem of Bureau policy, he sees Thoreau’s commitment to privacy as something that mirrors his own discretion. Furthermore, their storied history seals those classified documents and keeps Faulkner’s fountain pen away from requesting a warrant. And history is a blend of time and a sort of affection.

Agent Faulkner has known Agent Thoreau for about fifteen years, graduating with her alongside Agents Dickinson and Fitzgerald in the snippy winter of January 1982. A rare sight in the Temporal Bureau’s Field Agent Training program as a female trainee, Thoreau’s graduation feels almost like a counterpoint to the male-dominated field of the military, being one of the few to finish the rigorous program within six months. In Faulkner’s memory, their time back then was brief but diplomatic.

He chastises himself for being such an insular, unmade soul back then, for not remembering more of the younger Thoreau outside her handshake when they first met.

Picture a hound crunching through the pliant neck of a hare.

It could have been Faulkner’s own biases at play, one he hadn’t been aware of then, but her handshake took him by surprise on their first contact. Thoreau’s grip was firm, though not as aggressive as some of the other candidates (machismo posturing and a military background went crushingly hand-in-hand, after all, and Faulkner appearing out of nowhere did not garner popularity with his fellows). Still, Thoreau held enough force throughout her hand to silently and deliberately send a message that Faulkner read as strength. Resolution. Firm in the face of whatever the Bureau threw at her.

Although their paths diverged after graduation, what with Agent Fitzgerald and Thoreau forming a partnership right out of the gate while the directors entrusted a fresh-faced Faulkner to a senior supervising agent, Faulkner continued to wonder about that handshake and the many more after them — what had made Agent Thoreau want to prove herself? Did she have the same purpose as he, which steeled those fingers?

Over time, the question evolves the more Agent Faulkner observes Thoreau and the more Faulkner misses the mark. They don’t see eye to eye, but he sees her as an agent worth her mettle. He’ll never deny her contributions to the Bureau’s cause. And she doesn’t appear to take their disagreements to heart. Could he be the only one tripped up like this in their interfacing?

Thoreau is sociable and popular with the agents and the Bureau staff. On breaks, Faulkner has seen her in a tranquil trance with a cigarette delicately propped on her index and middle fingers, awoken into action by a visitor’s call. Notwithstanding her mission work, which boasts an acceptable success rate, Thoreau is an ideal agent that Faulkner wishes to match, with a natural, magnetic sociableness like Agents Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Whitman, Dickinson…

Go back to Thoreau’s laugh. Ignore the throbbing in the side of the temple. Swallow that forkful of chicken alfredo, no matter how unpleasant.

Thoreau’s laughter is hearty and pleasant, a sound Faulkner could pick up from a choir of the group that encircles her often. Yes, her laugh, it’s what is so precisely confusing, what has sparked this impulsive — no, not impulsive, Agent Faulkner would never fall prey to his impulses, God willing — it is a conscious foray. Curiosity that must be dressed like a wound. Because in all of their years, Faulkner is confident he’s never made Agent Thoreau laugh like that until about ten minutes ago.

He mulls over the answer he replied in the smoking lounge, replaying in his mind what he has said, but unable to slot the pieces, turn the conversation into place like a Rubik’s cube. To her response, Faulkner followed up: “I had thought a surgeon would have considered their hands their treasure… For one to be noble, there is an unavoidable aspect of sacrifice, isn’t there?”

After that, having played Thoreau’s shadow to the mess hall, Faulkner had not said anything else, silently pondering why she hypothetically would’ve sacrificed her expert hands. And for a rudimentary bureaucratic function at that, as well. Why?

And here is the light bulb flare, the Eureka moment, but covered and muffled. Hidden under the cloaks of the mind as the equation is shameful. The years that compounded Faulkner and Thoreau’s history feel as substantial as a sandcastle by the shore. The wave of realization is coming in. Waters rise.

His observations, one he had so relied on, were useless data, rudimentary and inattentive. The people he knows the longest are the people he knows the least. Fifteen years, yet he does not understand what makes London, Thoreau, Dickinson, — or anyone, tick.

(Is it by God’s design that he does not know how to be human, in that past and this present? Or His punishment for one who shouldn’t have had a new chance at life?)

Faulkner wipes at his mouth, the creamy pasta a little too rich for his liking. He takes the glass of water and sips slowly, just as Agent Thoreau cracks open the topic of Agent London. He nods, but his agreement is impassive by his unhurried demeanor. While the initial shock seized the coils of the Bureau's clockwork making, nothing can stop time pressing forward. It is the same for humans and men playing at them.

“Agent to Agent?” He pauses and puts down the fork. “I cannot disclose my personal matters; my apologies, Agent Thoreau. However, the consensus is that the security breach among the various sectors of the Bureau is negatively affected and impacted. Agent London’s opportunistic actions breached the trust of certain individuals, though I believe, upon reflection, I am lucky to be one of the least compromised.”

Unlike some who were left devastated from London's betrayal, his scorched earth tactic blistering the vestiges of their memories, Faulkner can draw the line between his former coworker and current target. For London had never held an interest in him and, as impolite to say, Faulkner returned the sentiment. Once hesitation exited, the Bureau rewarded Agents Stein and Faulkner the highest clearance levels, but with a caveat. Asked over a tinny intercom speaker, the Bureau requested Faulkner to keep a watch on Baldwin and...

Press on. Faulkner keeps his elbows off the table while he threads his fingers. And smiles, wishing to give peace of mind to the other Agent. “Moreover, this is a mission. We must apprehend him. Regardless of my cost, I will try to capture him, as the Bureau wishes. I promise you that my personal engagements won't affect my performance, Agent. I will be able to separate friend from foe.”

With that, Faulkner waits for Thoreau to resume eating and then returns to his salad. He eyes the elegant digits of her hands, from her clean nails to the gradual flow of her swings. There is a refinery in Thoreau's manners that a fellow with humble beginnings like his will only partially comprehend, no matter the closeness of Faulkner's imitation. It's the memories that elevate it to authenticity rather than performance. Expy and embody are two different words, are they not?

“Agent to agent,” he echoes Thoreau, “I don’t wish to interrogate you. Our interviews with Agent Wood and Doctor Benson have concluded, and it would be inefficient to repeat ourselves. But I did wonder, as I had missed the signs and would like another opinion, do you believe Agent London to have been... Sound of mind when he defected our order? Or lucid and determined?”

Faulkner believes it to be the latter. It must have been planned. London's tracks are too well hidden. Taking an older and disconnected model of the USFF meant that London knew where the storage was for these outdated machines, a room that far exceeded many of the agents' clearance levels, Faulkner included. There was also the fact that he had to test to see if it was connected to the Bureau's network, as any data entry would have pinged their coordinate specialists and engineers who handled the devices. He explains it as such to the other agent in a perfunctory manner, like reading off a brief.

It is merely a logical question stemming from these facts: how long had London been planning, were there accomplices, and how did he get everything right in one go?

He doesn't dare voice this question aloud; he expects Agent Thoreau to draw the same conclusions. It is why the red tape has been binding the agents' investigation. The superiors have a suspicion that there is a leak in the Bureau's foundation. Faulkner has some ideas, as well.

“Do you think that if we had two minutes with Agent London, could any of us convince him to return, Agent?” Faulkner asks, soft. A foolish hope of the matter at hand but an answer which is neither illogical nor inefficient. No matter the rebellious self’s makeup, the human quotidian desires commiseration, and acknowledgment. If an operative as verbally disadvantaged as Agent Faulkner brought back a rogue agent once, could someone else potentially rescue London from one mistake away from calamity?

“Would you volunteer to be the one, Agent?” He invites Thoreau to answer. His dark gaze contrasts the brightness in her hazel eyes, gold-green like the fields in Naples. Maybe she could bring her ex-friend back into the fold but get London back in full. Succeed where Faulkner had failed with his mission, perform a resurrection instead of reincarnation of someone close.

Faulkner cannot be the one. London is, was, never his sympathizer. No, for this delicate work, Faulkner is unsuitable. He does not trust himself. His hands have always been, despite his earnest wishes to be gentle, brutal at the core.

All he knows best is how to end things. But Agent Thoreau? She has always been capable of saving a life. Faulkner has not forgotten how her hands have operated on far more complicated things.

Over the years, Midge had made peace with the fact that she would never know any of the Bureau members’ inner lives. Certainly, she felt some fascination in the occasional surveillance, not unlike a disinterested god entertained by the foibles of mortals. But, Faulkner? Even after a decade and a half of acquaintanceship, she could not quite make up her mind on where she stood with him. Agent Faulkner possessed a discipline that once, a lifetime ago, she had envied. With a discipline that ran accordingly with his institutional reverence, he was the best portrait of a civil servant. But over time his inability to demarcate the lines of his diligence made her weary, and, at times, piqued her irritation. 

Faulkner’s best trait — or training? — of being so attuned to the needs of others was also his worst. She couldn’t think she could ever fault in someone who was so attuned to listening, yet, his keenness to always issue the most appropriate response in any scenario made her feel exposed. Naked, somehow. His company wore her down, through no fault of his own: she had not liked the idea that someone could predict her next moves for her. There was plenty enough of that nonsense at the Bureau. She did not need that bear of scrutiny with someone else. 

Case in point: now, Agent Faulkner yawned in a way that was so exceedingly mechanical, as if the movement of his nerves and sinews were just a few other deliverables that he needed to tick off. Always far too generous with his responses, he stretched out his arm to offer her a handkerchief. Thoreau eyed the handkerchief for a brief moment, before offering a single nod. “Thanks,” she said, “I’ll be sure to give it back to you.” She would not. 

Because, really, it was neither a pressing need nor politeness that drove her to take the handkerchief from his hand. No, she was more interested in the handkerchief, with the barest of colors and previously unknown initials. But it was the most texture she’d ever seen of him, and Thoreau was nothing if not curious. 

What was she saying about scrutiny? Ha. Perhaps she was the Bureau’s second-worst hypocrite. 

And then Faulkner gave her a litany of reminders which, on any other agent — no, perhaps just Stein — would sound as chiding. Spoken with Faulkner’s cadence, it felt clipped and customary. Already she had the makings of a reply, but his last sentence threw her so off-guard. Your wrist will hurt, agent. The sentence had the makings of a punchline, and she must also be more sleep-deprived than she realized, as in lieu of an appropriate response, she let out a loud guffaw. “Ha! Thank you, Agent, for your concern about my health. But my hands have operated on far more complicated things, I assure you. You forget I am a surgeon by practice.” Among other things. “I will make sure to rest my hand as soon as I’ve committed the forgery. Who knows? Perhaps they’ll be easier with my first infraction.” Still, Thoreau backed down eventually, certain that any more deviations from her end would surely make Faulkner’s head explode. “I don’t think I’ll do it if that’s any consolation. You cannot deny it would be a noble effort, though.” 

And, wonder of wonders, he assented to her unusual request. “Perfect,” she smiled, walking away from the balcony and through the door that the fellow agent had graciously opened for her. Midge took another few drags as she walked, the tendrils of white smoke from her still-lit cigarette slithering through the mostly empty hall with them. She made a quick detour to snuff the flame out and to throw the now-useless cigarette stick away on a stainless steel ashtray sitting atop a nearby garbage bin, before joining the fellow agent in picking out a couple of viands and stuffing them into her plate. 

Pleased at her selection, Thoreau walked alongside him, plate in hand, and decided to move towards the table to which his eyes were constantly flitting. At his question, she just shook her head. “No need for all that,” she said, waving off his courtesy, and the poor steel chair screeched in response to her rushed insistence to sit down. She slid into the chair, placed her plate on the table, and took the utensils arranged and laid out perfectly above the napkin. 

“So,” she said, taking the fork and twisting the fork to gather the pasta on her plate, “I cannot imagine this has been a great week for you, Faulkner, what with Agent London’s… hm, unexpected detour.” That comes without saying, she thought. Everyone was having a fucking shit two weeks. Still, she felt the need to situate her worries — to ground the conversation into something concrete, something profoundly, perhaps painfully, real. “Agent to agent — how are you faring with all this?”

[faulknxr]

Separated from his mission partner since their arrival together at the private quarters of the party hosts, Agent Faulkner stands by his lonesome at the food table. He pulls a homemade Red Velvet cake topped with ermine frosting, chocolate, and strawberries from an unmarked white box and places it on a stand. As he completes his task, he wanders back to the dining area, where the birthday boy is mixing up some alcoholic concoction. Faulkner listens to Hemingway’s cheery chat with the austerity of a priest, fingers steepled in a pointed tent at his chest.

“Agent, I hope not. Most of us probably have a mission tomorrow, and our mental faculties must stay sharp,” says Faulkner, wondering why the other agent would want such a troublesome thing to befall their group. He minds himself to bring an extra bottle of migraine pills for the staff. “Ah, would you like me to remind everyone periodically to consume water? I can set my watch hourly at your call.”

After offering his services, Agent Faulkner nods and smiles — one he workshopped with Hemingway years ago — until it dawns on him that he may not be upholding his end of the deal when he promised Agent Dickinson earlier that he’d loosen his parti pris toward unsupervised gatherings for tonight. So, Faulkner makes it clear for the other agent, “I believe it is the utmost pleasure for many to be in attendance. Thank you again for your invitation, Agent Hemingway. Please, this is for you. Happy birthday.”

He holds out a glossy paper gift bag toward the other man. Inside, four crystal rocks glasses clink against each other gently.

“Now you can drink more of…” Faulkner eyes the mix in Hemingway’s cup. However, no amount of Agent Training can help Faulkner, a non-drinker, here. “…what you made in these at your leisure, Agent.”

Faulkner’s placid features ripple into enlarged eyes and slightly lifted brows for a flash. Karaoke? Processing what he’s just heard, the agent holds himself back from uttering his momentary shock as the logic stands. It is Hemingway’s birthday party. By that reasoning, Hemingway is the de facto leader.

Faulkner salutes to the new party order. If commanded, he will pick something unobtrusive. Perhaps Agent Dickinson will grace him with a duet so that Faulkner won’t ruin the atmosphere with his monotone singing. “Affirmative, Agent Hemingway. As you wish. And might I add that your cadence is harmonious. You would do Gore proud. Would you like to be the prime example to start us off?”

At the mention of Agent London, Faulkner cocks his head slightly, wondering whether or not to give the agent a heads-up of his newly assigned task so that he may prepare. Faulkner looks to Hemingway for guidance. “What are your recommendations, Agent Hemingway? I Drove All Night? Time After Time? True Colors? In my professional opinion, Agent London would be a suitable candidate for All Through the Night, although it is technically not a Lauper original.”

WHEN : oct 15th, 1995 ; hemingway's birthday party <3 WHERE : thoreau & whitman's apartment STATUS : open to everyone

"man, i love a sunday party. hope all of us show up with a raging hangover tomorrow," hemingway chuckles as he finishes making his drink—a very unsophisticated mix of vodka and some disgustingly sweet soda. it's great. about ten more of these and maybe he'll start feeling them.

"thanks for being here, by the way. i really appreciate it," he grins at them, warm and genuine. he's only learned to enjoy his birthday in the last ... five ? six years ? ( does it even matter ? considering ... ) before then, it felt like an uncomfortable burden; a rock stuck in your shoe you can never get rid of. who knew you just needed the right people to make it better ?

"i'm making everyone sing karaoke. it's my party and y'all sing if i want you to," he sings the words to the tune of the lesley gore song, then bursts out laughing. "i think london should do cyndi lauper."

[faulknxr]

Five hundred hours. The dawn rises. Agent Faulkner awakens.

The alarm dies before it can even sing its song, the mock mockingbird silenced by a precise tap of an index finger. Faulkner stretches his arms above his head, wrists chained by a bar of light shining through the blinds. A crick pops in his shoulder, and it’s off the bed. He levels and smooths the mattress, leaving no remaining traces of the body that warmed the sheets.

Five hundred zero-two hours. Light breakfast. End-of-season pomegranate arils, almonds, and a green smoothie. Warm up that shoulder. Remove any tenseness or bumps. Five hundred thirty hours. Run.

The track around the agents’ compound glistens with dew. The March sun sluggishly shakes off February’s chill. With every three odd steps, Faulkner’s breath puffs from his mouth in even intervals, blowing out a cottony mimicry of dandelion pappus.

The name dandelion is derived — corrupted — from the French word dent de lion. Lion’s tooth, by the resemblance of the flower’s jagged leaves. Other common names — nicknames, more like — are Blowballs, Witch’s Gowan, and Doom-head-clock.

(¿Diente de léon? Agent Dickinson would argue that naming a flower after its leaves is silly. He'd propose melena de león. Lion's Mane.)

{Gael, the name, has its roots dug into Breton soil, originating from the term gywn, meaning blessed, and hael, meaning generous. Gael, the agent, once declassified his name's Spanish meaning to his primary partner — gracious. Carried overseas, the epithet evolved, a natural synthesis of its attributes.}

((Faulkner, the agent, has not disclosed to his primary partner that an invocation to God resides within the other agent's name, a theophoric appellation like a secret, inlaid jewel. But it's always there, that faint sheen. A golden halo glowing from his crown. The Asteraceae, star-like as they are, would still pull their own petals out in envy of his shining Grace.))

Pick up the pace. The dirt flies off his soles. The world is a tap, tap, tap closer.

Some of the flower’s monikers are pejorative, a warning of the plant’s diuretic properties. Piss-a-bed, from the English; pissenlit, its French equivalent; and in the northern locales of Italy, pisacan. The can, shortened for cane, cagna. Dog. Flowers at the side of pavements, roadkill weeds in America.

Would it be unbelievable to say that a time ago, these flowers were valuable beyond belief?

(Huh, his partner would hum. That’s interesting. Tell me more?)

Of the genus Taraxacum, there lies a descendent named Taraxacum kok-saghyz. TKS. It found its popularity in the Soviet Union during the Second World War, bred in large quantities between 1931 and 1950. As access to Southeast Asian rubber plants was increasingly restricted, TKS was an emergency ration of latex in a world that could end. However, it wasn't only the Soviets who cultivated a colossal mass. The United Kingdom, Germany, Sweden, and the United States bloomed seas over massive hectares, drowning their green fields in white-blooded yellow flowers.

(And now what?)

As the war ended, the programs ceased. The flowers culled. It wasn’t productive to keep going when the costs of upkeep and the yield weren’t as effective as Hevea brasiliensis. The import rate from Thailand and the Dutch East Indies, now known as Indonesia, was matchless for its time. The United States’ rubber industries boomed.

(Me enfada que son tan chuchos los gringos con su pisto... pero buen, los más ricos son los más codiciosos.)

((Faulkner would almost be tempted to agree.))

Many are unaware dandelions are wholly edible from the top of their petals down to their roots. Vitamins A, C, and K dominate its properties; calcium, potassium, iron, and zinc are in superior quantities for the flora to be considered medicinal. In Korean cuisine, 민들레 makes for a zesty salad when fresh or, when blanched, a savory yet refreshing side dish to rice. Agent Faulkner likes the peppery taste, earthy and punchy and fragrantly bitter.

Speaking of breakfast, Agent Faulkner slows down around the trail's bend to check his watch. Five hundred fifty-seven hours. Like a reflex, he unclips his pager from his wristband and sends a short-form message to his primary partner.

146-6837. 98-6. 10-4? 221? 321-630-4125. 53. 960. :)

He purses his lips when there’s no response by six hundred hours, his sneakers crunching through the cold dirt at the final marker of his circuit. Could Agent Dickinson have left his pager by the living room table instead of his bedside? Is he still lost in slumber?

It is six hundred and twelve hours when Agent Faulkner pulls out the leftover bowl of caldo de pollo from his fridge and warms it up on the burner. It’s true what Agent Dickinson has said: the taste is better later; it’s been resting at least eight hours since last night. In turn, Faulkner’s suit jacket also rests, drying on the laundry rack. He’ll get it professionally cleaned tomorrow. The laundromat is unavailable on Sundays.

Standing over the stovetop, Faulkner’s private smile touches the spoonful of hearty tomato broth. The slight curl of his lips is spurred by the memory of Agent Dickinson against his back, at the soft spring of his curls tickling Faulkner’s ear. Last night, he piggybacked the other agent home from the pub. There were apologies for drinking too much, even though Faulkner had advised not to; admittances of gratitude, of Faulkner staying behind even if it interrupted his plotted Saturday night schedule; and a slurred confession, breathed out quiet but unhesitant: just between us, you’ll always be my favorite.

((This Agent’s preference was un-confessed, but Agent Dickinson is his favorite, also.))

There needs no more significant reasoning for how Faulkner feels beyond philanthropy, or as the Greeks call it, ἀγάπη, something universal that bonds the cell of the self in the body of society. It’s the charitable act towards all of humankind that strengthens Faulkner’s arms to carry Agent Dickinson to the man’s quarters. To carefully comb Dickinson’s hair back when the agent sicked in the porcelain repository of his toilet, ferry glasses of water to rinse his mouth.

Selfless admiration washes Dickinson’s face, each stroke an outline to the cordial shape. Frees him from his work clothes. Slip on a light-hued, comfy sweater over lightly scarred, teetering shoulders. The pastel threads bring out the color of rosewood irises ingrained with sleep.

Crouching, Faulkner smooths the sheets, tucking them around Dickinson’s warm, dozing form. He watches for a moment. Magdalene has Faulkner’s sympathies.

((He’d lay his head by Dickinson’s feet, too.))

Comradery tails Agent Faulkner when, at zero hundred hours, he quietly uses his spare key to return to Agent Dickinson’s flat with the finished caldo de pollo and sneaks it into the other agent’s refrigerator, middle shelf. He checks with a single glance into the bedroom to catch Dickinson’s peaceful rest, but the agent’s deeply frowned brows and white-knuckled grip on his sheets say otherwise. Fellowship spectates Faulkner by the man’s bed. He places a cup of water on the bedside table, drapes a note to cover it from dust, and lays two tablets.

Hospitality watches Faulkner’s hand hover over the man, the handkerchief swiping across Dickinson’s creased forehead, gradually erasing every discomfort from whatever plagues his mind. Following several brushes over his skin, the other agent finally sighs, breaking the tautness and loosening his features to rest.

Faulkner silently mirrors the gentle descent of Dickinson’s evened breathing. It seems the nightmare has passed. Faulkner smiles, and Fondness sees him reach to sweep off the matted curls on Gael’s forehead —

“...In-su?”

— Agent Faulkner snaps his hand back, fingers crushing into a fist so quick his joints pop.

Outside of the reverie, the spoon in Agent Faulkner’s mouth rattles against his teeth. The tiniest dribble of caldo spills from the corner of lips like blood, like he’s accidentally bitten his lip or tongue. Before it gets on his pristine white dress shirt, Faulkner mops it up with a napkin.

His watch ticks six hundred thirty hours. The morning brightens. Agent Faulkner exits.

On the way, greetings are shorn short, like buzzcuts. Hello. Has Agent Dickinson arrived? Good morning. Have you seen Agent Dickinson? The launch is at seven hundred hours. Is he there? Please don’t be late? I understand. I’ll get him. Thank you.

The briefing files, snug in a manila folder and cradled against his arm, jostle when Agent Faulkner stops in front of Agent Dickinson’s quarters. Six hundred forty hours. Time has elapsed backtracking to the housing compound. On the way. They’ll look at the files on the way.

“Agent,” Faulkner calls out, punctuating with a single knock at Dickinson's door.

No response is given.

“Agent,” Faulkner repeats with two knocks. “Agent?”

Accordingly, there remains no answer.

Clearing his throat in an undertone, Faulkner pulls out his lanyard hidden in his shirt pocket, drawing the suite’s spare key behind his keycard. Although he doesn’t like to trespass, the situation finds him choiceless. He goes through with it, twisting the key and the knob. The door closes with a subtle click.

“Agent Dickinson?” he inquires.

Hollow thumps creak through the apartment until Faulkner’s footsteps skirt the bedroom’s threshold. The figure within the room stirs, and Faulkner gives him privacy until he hears a hack. He enters the room, already down to a crouch by Dickinson’s side, and pats the other agent’s back through a cough.

When Dickinson quietens, Faulkner speaks. “Hello, Agent. Good to see you. How are you today? I extend my apologies for barging in. Here.” Faulkner moves automatically, dredging his handkerchief from his suit pocket to sop up the water on the other agent’s face.

Once finished with his task, Faulkner stands tall and relays the proper information. Unfortunately, today’s launch has been relocated to Terminal D, the farthest among the launch areas. They will also need to pick up their USFFs on the way. The clock on Dickinson’s table draws ever nearer to six hundred and forty-six hours. Faulkner clicks his tongue.

He’s composed as he explains, “Agent, I regret to inform you we have less than fifteen minutes to launch. Are you able to get dressed soon? We can brief on the way; I have the files.”

who  :  agent faulkner, @faulknxr

where  :  agent dickinson's living quarters

when  :  march 13, 1994, 6:35 AM

The golden light from the spring sun gently spilled into Agent Dickinson’s quarters through a pair of partially closed curtains. In the still darkened expanse of the bedroom, a kaleidoscope of colors danced across the walls, the light shifting between the warm rays of natural light and the prismatic hues not normally seen by the naked eye. The ribbons of colors shimmered and twirled as if dancing, distorted through a crystal glass wind chime that hung across from the apartment’s central cooling vent. The gentle whooshing of the climate-controlled air and the soft tinkling of the translucent glass beads that swayed in the breeze were both drowned out by the incessant treble of a shrieking radio alarm clock that sat atop a cluttered bedside table.

In the queen-sized mattress next to the nightstand, Agent Dickinson let out a strained curse before he pressed his face deeper into the mattress; the pillow that had been his head rest the night before was folded in half to cover both ears in a vain attempt to muffle the sound. While turning off the alarm would be easier than pretending it didn’t exist, the pounding in his head made the very act of reaching out to shut it off seem utterly impossible.

But he knew he needed to get up; he was running late, and Faulkner was waiting.

Dickinson’s heart clenched behind its cage of flesh and bone, erratically thumping out of rhythm, haunted by some peculiar, misplaced pseudesthesia. The fuzzy remnants of a dream—a nightmare, really—clung to the edges of his subconscious. Stubborn and sticky like the seedpods of the burdock plants that grew in the walking trails he and—In-su—Faulkner frequented in the summertime; those barbed spurs that left a penetrating, stinging itch hours after the intrusion had been removed. The burning sensation of the nearly invisible puncture was the only evidence of a wound. A laughable phantom injury that still hurt regardless.

Chuckling cheerlessly, Dickinson squinted at the time displayed on the green digital screen of the alarm clock. 6:38. He was over thirty minutes late. His chest seized up in a bewildering sob that petered off into an equally mystifying series of sniffles. He couldn’t even remember what it had been that had upset him so much, the fragments of the dream vanishing like wisps of smoke, like fog, when he tried to bring them into focus; leaving behind only the heartache and drying tear tracks as proof that anything had terrorized his sleeping mind.

The only thing he could recall with any certainly were the sound of someone crying, bright white lights, and a cacophony of noises in the distance. But that in itself offered very little insight when it came to narrowing down the memory. All things considered.

“¡Ya! cállate,” Dickinson hissed, eyes closed, as he extended his arm to slam the ‘off’ button of the clock but only managed to bump his fingers into cool glass. He bit back another curse, opened his eyes, and lifted himself on his elbows to reach around the obstruction that had been left on his bedside table. Once the shrill wailing had been silenced, once and for all, Dickinson rolled onto his back and stared up at his bedroom ceiling.

The last vestiges of the nightmare had been blown away by the torrential winds of his waking mind, so it would be pointless for him to continue to dwell on it now. But there was something gnawing at the deepest alcoves in his psyche. An animallike dread made his skin break out into gooseflesh and the hair at the back of his neck stand on end. A ghostly chill, a creeping horror that had dug its claws into the core of his being. Dickinson wondered idly who had emerged to haunt his subconscious last night. Which one of the many ghosts that trailed behind him had come seeking their toll for the years he had stolen from them?

The thought sent another pang of melancholy through him. Dickinson pressed his hands to his face in response, trying to clear his mind. If this was the penitence he had to pay for letting Agent Fitzgerald goad him into another drinking contest, then maybe this would finally teach him to stop letting things get this far. Everyone knew Dickinson was a terrible drunk; a lightweight who’d get overly emotional—and then embarrassingly clingy. So if he had to bet, Dickinson would suppose the Fitz got a kick out of seeing him turn into a weepy mess, teary face pressed into the side of one of his usual victims (Faulkner, Whitman, or Hemingway) whose side he’d cling to for the rest of the night.

‘It was Faulkner last night,’ Dickinson thought sluggishly. It was usually Faulkner as of late. And since Dickinson had woken up in his own place instead of being deposited onto someone’s couch, it was the only logical conclusion; his long-term mission partner was the only one Dickinson trusted enough with a key to his apartment, after all. Whitman would probably try to pull a prank (or two) and Hemingway’s susceptibility to peer pressure made him a liability even if Whitman didn’t have a key.

Grumbling with no real heat behind the sound, Dickinson recalled the glass of water that had been left for him on the nightstand, another hint that pointed towards his partner. Sitting up he squinted at the sunlight pouring into the bedroom before he shifted his gaze to the glass and noticed that there was a square of paper placed over it, and two white circular tablets of medicine atop of that. Dickinson snorted as he carefully pinched the aspirin pills between his thumb, index, and middle finger so he could snatch up the handwritten letter between his final two. Popping the medication into his mouth, he brought the note to eye level and blindly pawed for the cup. Sipping on the water, he scanned the note, which read:

Good morning, Agent Dickinson: I hope you slept alright. Please take these pills with food and water. There is a bowl of caldo de pollo in the fridge. Two minutes in the Radarange should suffice. Our meeting time at Briefing Room A is 700 hours. I shall get you by 645 hours if I do not receive a page back by 630 hours. Cordially, Agent Faulkner. P.S. Please do not worry about my suit jacket from last night. I properly rinsed the discharge.㋡

Dickinson choked on his drink, dribbling water onto his chin and chest. Coughing and pounding at his sternum, he placed the glass back onto the bedside table and looked at the time.

6:43.

Faulkner was probably already unlocking the door.