hcpeisms

[hcpeisms]

trigger warnings: suicide, war, violence, death, strong feelings about war in general, ptsd (if you squint), horrible things. long post!

This uniform.

That is the only thought running through his head. This uniform.

He wore this uniform for five years. The insignia on the sleeve is worn from the countless battles it had seen. The fabric is torn in places, faded with time, faded from the sun and the sand whipping around it when he dove for cover, when he crawled to help his friends, when he was trying to survive.

There are patches that he had stitched together, his fingers absentmindedly caressing the spot near his wrist, the left one, close to the old scar now covered by a tattoo. ‘Give ‘em Hell’ peeks from under the sleeve and Dane pulls it further to cover up the words. This uniform.

It still holds the heat from the battlefields, somehow pulling his conscious back to his time overseas. The sand itches, paranoia gives him an image of a scorpion crawling up his leg. He brushes the thoughts off, reminding himself where he is. The light yellow of the walls , the chatter that comes from the hall behind the curtains. The curtains; sleek and pristine, polar opposite of himself and his assemble. He doesn’t feel the heaviness of his rifle in his hands, but that weight had shifted onto his shoulders a long time ago. The tattoo threatens to peek from under his clothing again and he resolves to pull it more violently. Loose threads from the stitches catch his attention and his fidgets. This uniform. It’s falling apart. Serves it right, just like it served its wearer a long time ago.

Eight years ago he had worn the fatigues with pride. In some sense, he still did. When his eyes met the camouflage in the mirror, he swore his posture straightened and the confidence that had shone from his face withered away. This uniform. It was nothing but  bad memory now, the stitches, the tears, the faded texture, the stubborn bloodstains still clinging to it, the stains he tried so hard to wash away over and over and over again when he had been sent home. A bad memory. A reminder.

A loud voice snaps him back from his memories and a portly man approaches him from the small gap in the curtains. His fingers twitch to salute his superior, but he is no soldier anymore. A balled fist is what the man sees, and the disapproving glare that is sent his way could not be more obvious. “Second Lieutenant Moreno --” He begins and Dane wants to snap at him, hiss that he doesn’t use that title any longer. But his jaw is clenched shut and his lungs are burning for air as the General stares him down. Small, beady eyes. Looks like a rat, that’s what Dane knows for sure. The man with a condescending sneer, coals burning in his eyes as he tries not to talk down to the young LT.

“If your father---” The man begins and Dane growl. His brows crease and a wave of heat runs through his body, seizing up his muscles and throwing his stomach into a whirl. Bile rises to his mouth as he returns a warning glare at the superior officer, and he quiets down before making the biggest mistake of his life. A glare is held for a few moment more and Dane feels his jaw aching against the grit it is under. The General scoffs and pushes past Dane who in turn does nothing. Eyes set on the curtain. Inanimate. Pristine. His father would be disappointed in him, were he alive. The thoughts are overwhelming when they are brought up. His father. Dane shakes his head and tries to coax his muscles to relax -- pain is starting to set in and stars dance across his vision. And that fucking tattoo. Another yank at the sleeve covers it well enough.

His name is called.

 “Next up, give a big welcome to Second Lieutenant Daniel Patrick Moreno, a man known for --” the woman has a shrill voice and Dane steps through the curtain before she has time to continue. He doesn’t need his platoon called out, he doesn’t need her to tell them where he has been, for how long, or why. The microphone is quickly snatched from her hands and she reels, but joins the polite applause that fill the room, the noise that bounces off the walls. The noise slowly fades off into silence and Dane puts the mic back in its slot on the podium. The lights are bright enough for him to avoid seeing the eyes boring into him, the reporters impatiently clicking on their notepads, or his old friends that might’ve showed up.

The silence lasts, lasts, longer than he realizes. Anxiety isn’t something Dane experienced before, or had trouble with in the past. Not on the battlefield, not for months after he returned home. Bouts of nightmares weren’t unusual. Neither were the panicked gasps he sometimes noticed himself take when the war was on the news.

“You heard my name. I’m not going to repeat it.”

Strong start. Murmurs erupt in the hall, irritating his ears.

“You should ll know, I have not used my rank in eight years. I am not in charge of any platoons. I am not a soldier anymore.”

More murmurs, someone asks a confused ‘what’ somewhere to his left. Confusion. Perfect.

He waits for them to quiet down. He hears his own breathing in his ears. The rush of blood.

“I was invited here because my father was ranking high in our army, and I’m the closest they could get to him. So I'm taking this opportunity to clear this mess out of my head, to clear this blood out of my lungs.” For how long had he kept quiet about those days, about the hell that he went through, what all of them went through? When it was all on his shoulders. Lieutenant... What a fucking joke.

“I need to dig holes to bury the dead.” A chuckle. Pained, silent, but it echoes in the large hall.

He thinks about Jefferson, Espinoza, Miller... Toby. He thinks of his dad. He thinks of the hundreds of faces he knows but doesn’t have a name for. He thinks of the men and women he has seen on the news. He thinks of those who returned home, and those who did not. He thinks of himself. Which one is he?

“Look at all of you here.” He straightens up. The memories are bad, simmering just beneath the surface of a man whose ego is barely intact. A man who shields, deflects with arrogance. “You haven’t seen battle.” Someone to his right murmurs about reporting from a crime scene once. He wants to scoff. Grab the murmurer by the throat and smash their head against the wall until there is nothing but a bloody mess left. No, enough blood. Enough.

“I'm so fuckin' sick of everyone's lack of honor,” The mic still catches his voice. The mumbling has stopped. No one is writing. His head swirls with everything he wants to yell at these people. The ones who put words to a paper, claiming to bring justice to the horrors their soldiers face abroad.

“I'm so sick of everyone's willingness to settle,” He knows his words are coming out choppy. Hurt. Anger mingling with fear and disbelief. They brought him here to praise the press. But they aren’t pulling him back.

“Tell me, why is no one prepared to die, for anything?”  His voice rises and he hears his own words round back to him, reaching every nook and crevice in the room, the frustration dripping into his every word. Jefferson. Damn idiot, fearless and dangerous, the king of the weaponry. He could talk for hours about the guns at their disposal, spend more hours cleaning them. He died trying to shield his teammates from the bomb intended to kill all of them. He saved his squad. He was buried a hero.

“Look at yourself in the mirror and tell me what a man is without pride,” His voice trembles and he can feel his hands shaking as he places them on the edge of the podium. Espinoza. She came from a family of soldiers, the only girl in the litter of eight brothers. Told she would never become anything akin to her siblings. Bashful grin on her face as she straightened her fatigues, pointing at the name tag. ‘They said I wouldn’t make it here’. She was twenty-three when she was gunned down, the first victim in an ambush no one saw coming. It was quick, painless, but the stains her blood left on Dane’s uniform never washed away.

“Do you know what fear does? Fear eats you alive,” Dane swallows. He can’t deny he was afraid, terrified when he landed in his destination, the desert air ripping through his lungs, the heat bearing down on him. He ground beneath him felt shaky then, the sand uneven. He was greeted by his superiors. He was eager. Afraid, but eager. Miller was always scared. He wasn’t cut out to be a soldier, but he came through as a medic. Miller, meek, silent Miller. ‘Mouse’ as they called him back then, with his big eyes and nest of hair. Dane squeezes the edge of the podium, the wood digging into the scars of his palms painfully. Remind him he’s not there anymore, that he made it back. The pain grounds some, and he always thought it to be bullshit. Now, it anchors him to the hall, keeps him from seeing every bad scene he went through. Miller. God, Miller wasn’t cut out to be in the field, but neither was he to be in the war zone, patching up soldiers. Missing limbs from bombs, gunshot founds severe enough to kill, death and misery all around him. Miller shot himself five months after arriving, leaving nothing but  sealed note to his mother behind.

“You forget those who give their whole lives to serve you, so you wouldn’t have to be afraid.” Toby. He doesn’t want to think about Toby, not really. Not about how he wasn’t shaken by the death, how he kept everyone in line when Dane forgot how to, when he sat on his bunk staring at the wall of the tent flapping in the winds that broke against it from the outside. A model soldier. The first time they met, they fought, two massive ego’s lashing on the field while others either egged them on or tried to pry them away from each other’s throats. A week later they found common ground. Toby had been the one. Every soldier has the one, someone they would go through fire for, someone whose life held a higher place than your own. Toby had been the one. And then he was injured, caught by a bomb rigged to blow at the lightest nudge of the door. ‘Back to America.’ That’s what they told him after a while. ‘They say he’s not gonna make it.’ was the last he heard about him.’I’m sorry kid’ they added.

“I lost everything in the war.” Friends. Trust. Innocence. He knew he didn’t come home with the affliction many acquired after seeing the bloodshed. Trauma was a part of a soldier, and that was it. Composed, even when every mistake you ever made plays like a movie behind your eyelids when you think about it too much.

“A war we waged. A war we send innocent men and women to fight while you and the big deciders here sit on your asses making decisions that affect everyone else but yourselves. When we put our life and limb on the line so you can write shit about us in the papers. We sacrifice to keep your country safe, but when we return home you cast us aside on the slightest notion that we might be unstable. You close the doors for us and wonder why no one wants to fight for you anymore. you throw us into the fire and ask us why we’re screaming when you burn away every part of us that held humanity.” He takes a breath of air. The hall is silent.

“And you smile when a soldier returns home sane, when his eyes are bright and he hugs his family. The next day the bodies are returned home, and you don’t even count them. You focus on the man who came home. You write your story about him and how his family is doing while there are hundreds of men waiting to be buried, while their mothers and fathers lay by their caskets and wail over their lost children. You glance at wives and husbands mourning their lovers, the mothers and fathers of their children. You skim over the children who are still wondering where their mommy or daddy is. And you focus on the man that sits on his porch and recites to you a story, The story, that you want to hear.”

He feels the silence surround him. No pens scraping. No mumbles, no hushed tones. Utter silence.

No one moves.

No one speaks.

And Dane smiles briefly, triumphantly, before he walks off the stage, thumb gracing over the tattoo on his wrist.

Toby grins as he revs the makeshift tattoo machine in the middle of their desert encampment. Toothy grin, scraped hands, no plan. It stings. Desert air trapped beneath his skin with the ink that settles there. Toby chuckles and claps him on the shoulder when it’s over. He pulls Dane into a choke hold, making fun, joking. Dane holds up the tattoo to see it properly. There, messy handwriting, yet somehow pleasing, all black ink.

Give ‘em Hell       -T.

[hcpeisms]

keegan-anderson :

Keegan chuckled at the man’s words. “Nobody said that I was the best at making decisions. Plus to be fair, I’m not exactly sober.” He shrugged lightly. Keegan was thankful when the bartender handed him in his drink. One that wasn’t tampered with. He averted his attention to where the man who had drugged his drink. “To be honest, I have a horrible taste in men, in general. It’s been kind of a pattern lately. So it’s not surprising I chose to talk to someone like that.” At least he was being honest. He couldn’t really come up with another excuse. He took a sip of his drink. “Either way, thanks again for saving me from becoming one of those dead bodies. Can I buy your next drink or something?” 

“Obviously not.” It was an answer to both the confessions -- the guy obviously wasn’t sober and bad at making decisions. At least he was owning up to his stupidity and that was something that kept Dane’s signature eye roll at bay. “If you come here in sincere look for men, your taste in bars is horrible. Half of these people are married, as much as they do grope around on the dance floor. The rest are are either truckers trying to get away for a while, or alcoholics preying for their next free drink. And if you seriously consider staying here and talking with me, I can guarantee your taste in men is way worse than you realize.” Maybe he should set himself in one of those other groups, but there were other reasons he sought himself to the run down parts of the city, finding himself in the worst bars he knew how to find. “There won’t be people saving you every time, could just as well end up a body in a few months or so.” It sounded bade but Dane didn’t even attempt to correct himself. And at the offer, he raised an eyebrow and lift his hand from the counter to brush it off. “I don’t take drinks from strangers so keep your money. Stick around if the cops want to ask you something, statements and the shit they need to know, then you can go hunting for the next sleazy guy that happens to catch your very questionable eye.”

[hcpeisms]

queensnoah :

“I’m actually a bartender but I don’t get to be on the other side of the table a lot.” This actually made Noah feel like shit like he hadn’t been paying attention his whole entire life or at least since he had taken the job. He wondered how many crimes had been committed right there under his nose with him being oblivious and it made him feel sick to the core. Noah thought he was going to puke but he tried to keep it together. “And it’s.. And it’s my first time being here.” He looked a bit. “I feel like I’m going to be sick.” From anxiety or at least he hoped. He hadn’t taken a sip of that drink but he had ordered another glass prior so who knows. He clutched his stomach. He needed to get some air.

The sneer that appeared on Danes face wasn’t directed at the guy, not solely. He hadn’t had the best experiences with bartenders in the past, something about him being bad for business and wouldn’t get anything, then they had the audacity to show him the door. Not his fault most scumbags decided to lounge at bars and get arrested there. “Well here’s a good dose of reality for you, bet some of the drinks you’ve sold have been used for this.” Dane’s eyes fell on the stumbling man a few feet away, now getting more and more wobbly as the drug started to affect him. Just when the drugged man fumbled and pushed a glass on the floor, the saved man spoke. Dane squared his shoulders and gave him a sideways glance before turning his head. “The bathroom is back there, the front door is to your three o’clock. Barf on the floor for all I care, just don’t get any of that gunk on me.” Offering to help was something he was expected to do, that much was clear, but he wasn’t going to do that without proper reason. “Oh, and I’ll need you to stay here until the cops come. They’ll want to talk to you since you’re the victim, or witness -- one or the other. Picked a bad night to crawl on this side of the counter. Boo.”

[hcpeisms]

fire-and-bronze :

She sat next to him carefully, not wanting him to think she was using the situation as some kind of excuse. Her fingernails drummed softly on the table as she settled in. “Thanks. What will the cops be here for? That guy?” He was probably a pattern offender, she guessed, but that was just a guess. “We both work night shift, but so happens he’s working and I have the night off.” It just occurred to her how much he trusted her, and she smiled a little to herself.

He still scooted further when she sat down to avoid even the slightest touch that could have happened. It was a reaction, as was him pulling the leather jacket tighter around himself, straightening the sleeves by bringing both his arms straight in front of himself before they fell back tot he table with a thud. “No, for the sub-par Tom Collins they offer as a drink here -- Of course for that guy. Been keeping an eye on him for a week now, about time he gets a taste of his own shit in court, in prison for all I care.” Dane sighed softly and ran a hand over the side of his face, shoving back the mop of hair that sat on his head, just for it to flop back in his face. “Uh-huh. That’s great, congrats.” He knew people usually expected him to ask what they were working with, but she wasn’t a cop and that was all that Dane actually cared about. “Maybe a night shift would’ve been better for you, doubt you’d get drugged back there.”

[hcpeisms]

Thoughts on the people you've met so far?

“Most of them were about to be drugged when I met them and then sat down to see the aftermath of the guy drugging himself. Forced interaction and shit like that, not my cup of tea. That short chick who wanted duct tape was alright, showed some initiative. I can respect that. The others haven’t given me enough to be go on so they’ll be classified under ‘ehhh’ but that opinion usually changes over time. People just ain’t that interesting to me.”

[hcpeisms]

Favorite food?

“Easy: Medium rare Black Angus steak with red wine sauce and pan fried Brussels sprout with bacon on the side. Bacon pomme duchesse isn’t too bad either but the green’s where it’s at. Never said no to Hunter’s stew either, as long as it’s cooked correctly.”

[hcpeisms]

What did you want to be when you were a child?

“How much of a child are we talking? When I was five I wanted to be a superhero. When I was seven I wanted to be a Pokemon trainer. When I was eleven I wanted to be a professional violinist. When I was twelve I decided to become a soldier.”

[hcpeisms]

Have any regrets?

“With all due respect, which is none, back off. That’s none of your fucking business.”

[hcpeisms]

Are you happy with the person you have become?

“No. Let’s just leave it at that.”

[hcpeisms]

Do you believe in heaven and hell?

“Backtrack to my answer about believing in miracles and apply that here. About sums it up for everything vaguely mumbo-jumbo some idiots believe in.” 

[hcpeisms]

What's your everyday routine?

“Can’t tell you about what exactly happens at work but have at it, stalkers.”

 0530 - alarm goes off, get right up, slam on the coffee maker, stare at self in mirror 0545 - skim over the newspaper while the actual news play on the TV, drink coffee 0600 - go on a jog with Boomer* 0700 - return home, feed Boomer, hop in the shower 0715 - throw on some clothes, occasionally play with Boomer for a few more minutes 0720 - leave for work 0725 - stop by Richie’s Place to grab another cup of coffee 0800 - arrive at work, investigate ongoing cases, ingest more coffee than deemed healthy 1930 - be forced to go home, argue about having a case to solve, leave begrudgingly 2000 - stop by AEMUSCLE, beat up one unassuming punching bag, cardio? legs? yes (alternatively: 2000 - go visit mom, talk with her caretaker, get mad, get sad, leave) 2100 - head home, go for another jog with Boomer 2200 - come home, feed Boomer, feed yourself, consider going out, shoot down the idea 2215 - take a long shower, remember old self, cringe, examine old scars, feel emotions 2245 - crawl into bed, pop some sleeping pills, pet Boomer until sleep comes

*Boomer is the very best doggo according to Dane. Rescued from the pound, apparently a a Husky/Akita mix.

[hcpeisms]

in the back of the club arms folded cause i don’t agree with the music selection

[hcpeisms]

   Name:   Daniel Patrick Moreno    Age:   Thirty-one    Date of Birth:   Ninth of September    Zodiac:   Virgo    Gender:   Male    Eye color:   Hazel    Hair color:   Brown - dark    Height:   Six foot five inches    Scars:   Notable: two inch long, one inch wide slash by his hairline, just left from the center of his forehead from a bar fight gone wrong. Reddened knuckles from similar said situations and countless hours by the punching bag without protection. Remnant scar from a split lip. Slight texture difference over the bridge of his nose from an altercation with a suspect. Right hand palm, multiple dents from grabbing a broken bottle swung at him. Similar scars on left hand, self inflicted    Burns:   Cigarette burns on forearms from playing chicken in the military    Over weight:   No    Under weight:   No

Favourite…

   Color:   Black    Hair color:   Natural colors    Eye color:   Amber    Song:   Sham Pain - Five Finger Death Punch // Feel Good Inc - Gorillaz / Stricken - Disturbed    Movie:   The Boondock Saints    T.V Show:   Doesn’t watch TV unless Shark Week is on    Food:   Black Angus beef, medium rare, with red wine sauce and pan fried Brussels sprouts with bacon    Drink:   Coffee - black    Video Game:   GTA: San Andreas    Place:   Fairfield, Montana    Ice cream flavor:   Coffee / Salted caramel

Have you…

   Had sex:   Yes    Had sex in public:   No    Gotten pregnant:   No    Kissed a boy:   Yes    Kissed a girl:   Yes    Gotten tattoos:   Yes    Gotten piercings:   No    Smoke or drank:   Yes on the latter    Had a broken heart:   Yes    Been in love:   Yes    Needed surgery:   Yes    Stayed up for more than 24 hours:   Yes

Are you…

   A virgin:   No    A cuddler:   No (yes)    A kisser:   No     Scared easily:   No    Jealous easily:   No    Trustworthy:   Yes    Dominate:   No     Submissive:   No     Considered mean:   Yes

Random questions.

   Have you harmed yourself:   Yes    Thought of suicide:   Yes    Attempted suicide:   No (yes)    Killed someone:   Yes    Wanted to kill someone:   Yes    Last text:   no.    Drove a car:   Yes    Have/had a job:   Yes    Favourite soda/pop:   Coffee    Do drugs:   No

[hcpeisms]

there is a thin line between being sassy and being an asshole and i cross it every day

[hcpeisms]

DON’T GET IN YOUR FEELINGS GET IN YOUR EMAILS AND START MAKING POWER MOVES TO THAT MF BAG

[hcpeisms]

“ Make yourself useful and bring me my fucking coffee.” //

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