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faulknxr · 6 months

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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?”

#event; ch0 #post; thread #thread; hemingway #thread; peregrine #( thanks ade for waiting on me ! )#( it took some time but i cut this down to about 2k words... )#( big shout out to clow for dickinson's dialogue! thank you!💕 )#( also huge shout out for my college french class teacher she really made sure i didn't forget my conjugation y'all )

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