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+--- Thread: Taking out the Trash (/thread-524.html)
- Hood - 06-08-2014
The first block or two away from the burning apartment building, Hood was a little heavy on the gas. But once they were out of sight of the flames, he began to slow down and drive more casually; he had little worry of them being chased. None of the slavers had survived, and any witnesses to what had happened were scattered into the night. The folks that lived in those sorts of buildings weren't the types to talk to police unless under duress. Sure they had lost everything, but they'd probably loose any more if they caught the police's attention.
So they wanted to go for a drink did they? Well, he knew a place. His night was already ruined; the police would surely be doing a sweep of the district, but he doubted that sweep would be so expansive or indepth as to reach the safehouse. He just had to hope he didn't have any Atharim come a-runnin' in need of help while the cops were around. That would draw unwanted attention for sure.
The biker's constant insistence on peace and good will was getting annoying; the man was painfully idealistic. The world was no where near as pleasant as he seemed to hope, and some problems really only had one answer in life. Violence. And those were the problems he was most familiar with.
He glanced at Connor in the rear-view mirror, but didn't even seem to care as Jensen suddenly threw open the sliding door and jumped out. He slowed the van enough that the man didn't break anything on his tumble, and didn't show any intentions of stopping to wait for him to catch up. The two men had each other's numbers; he'd just call if he needed directions.
But sure enough, Jensen caught up and rode alongside the van, and Hood led the way towards a nearby bar. It was a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, in a part of town where folks just didn't ask questions anymore. Zamoskvorechye district wasn't the home to the curious. He gave Jensen the directions through Connor.
He ditched the van a few blocks off, made sure it was clear of his prints then tossed the keys on the hood, making sure some near-by teenagers saw the gesture. It'd be gone in no time, off to some chop-shop. That done, his duffle was tossed over his shoulder non-nonchalantly, not caring that it was now stuffed with a small arsenal, and walked to the pub in question where they would meet with Jensen again.
That late, the pub was mostly empty; a handful of middle-aged men, likely all of some unpleasant background. Druggies, dealers, even a few prostitutes whom seemed to know better then to bother Hood as he walked in and took a seat at a corner booth. He waited for Connor and Jensen to place their orders (his was a beer for the moment), and for the drinks to be delivered before deigning to speak to either of them.
"You two ever think of pulling a shit-brained stunt like this again, let me know. I'll dig the pauper's graves myself."
If their bodies were ever even found and sent to the coroner, they'd be too disfigured to even ID. More likely they'd be assumed homeless vagrants and criminals and dumped in an unnamed grave somewhere.
- Connor Kent - 06-09-2014
The man- Connor still didn't know his name- drove with a lead foot. But Connor couldn't blame him. With everything that had gone down tonight- Did all of this happen in just one night?- getting out of there was a priority. Then Jensen yelled to stop and yanked open the door. Connor thought maybe he'd seen one of the kids. But no, Jensen had said they were on their way to a charity group. The man barely slowed and Jensen jumped out. Connor's sense of relief and high was briefly cut into with his concern. But Jensen seemed to be ok and soon he was following them behind, voice asking directions from Connor's wallet. It seemed that the man- Connor was going to have to ask him his name- had a destination in mind. If he's really going for a drink then awesome!.
Eventually they came to what looked like a bar, though it was definitely a place that catered to people just looking to have a drink and maybe engage in illegal activity. Given their night's activity, it fit perfectly. The man didn't speak as he opened his door. Connor did as well. He didn't think about the breeze he felt against his chest through the holes in his front and back of his jacket and shirt. He was riding high at this moment. They had been going to die, almost from the moment that Connor had went up those stairs. There didn't seem to be any way out of it. And now, maybe an hour or two later they were walking into a bar to have a drink. The kids were safe. The bad guys dead. And Connor had been healed of a deadly gunshot. If ever there was a reason to drink and not give two shits about how you looked, it was now.
The man ordered a beer. Connor wanted to feel something right away. "Shot of rum. And also a double, on the rocks, splash of water."
He felt good and was going to enjoy this. And maybe later, when he got home, he'd see if Ayden were up for some fun. It's not often a man comes back from the dead. And he was very much alive. Tired. But alive. The rum burned down the back of his throat, but his head lightened.
Finally, drinks in hand, the man spoke. "You two ever think of pulling a shit-brained stunt like this again, let me know. I'll dig the pauper's graves myself."
Connor laughed, far more than the statement deserved. "You know what man? I'll help you dig 'em."
He looked at Jensen and thought about everything. "In retrospect, we were pretty stupid about it all. But Jensen's my friend and I owe him. He needed help and that's that. It was a good cause."
He thought about the guy he beat to death. There was still that nagging guilt at having done so in front of the girl. But already the feeling had lessened. That girl had been saved from a life of repeated rape and torture. And probably death. While what she'd seen was bad, it would have been far worse for her to continue in that life. And it had felt so good. Letting lose on the evil of this world, expunging it from existence. "So what about you. What were you doing there? You also looking for a cause?"
- Jensen James - 06-11-2014
The ride calmed Jensen. It was like he was six years old again spinning down the track focused on nothing else besides the single most important rules of motocross: don't fall off and don't run into someone else.
He focused on the van's tail lights and keeping close. He could always follow Connor's carrots if he lost his way, but there was something far more assuring of watching the van itself take every turn. The bike represented freedom; with it he could hurl in and out of problems at full speed. Air snaking under his collar tickled the temptation to go faster, to take that corner sharper next time. Keeping control, he couldn't be chased by the demons haunting him; rather, he could out-run them. When the Gift poured through his body, any less composure and it would shred him to pieces as surely as the asphalt flying beneath the tires.
Jensen watched from the side of the road while the van was cleared of personal items and the keys laid on the hood. Outwardly, he was an unreactive pillar of white, yellow and black gear that shielded his body and face from the elements. That helmet swiveled every so slightly when the driver and Connor started walking as Jensen followed their path.
When the destination became clear, he sped off to park much closer. Figures darting toward the van darkened the corner of his eye, but Jensen did not look back.
He parked, anti-theft device activated, and made to join the other two men in the bar. He stood at the door for some moments, but eventually Connor's presence lured him across the threshold.
A few slurred gazes turned to him when he entered. The place was not unfamiliar; he hadn't been here before, yet at the same time, he'd seen the interior of a thousand similar places. Mexico, South Africa, Russia .. they filled with the same bodies, they served the same escapism.
He pulled the helmet from his head and swiped the mussed-up strands of hair from his face. A final look side-to-side and he joined the other two men in time to hear Connor admit their stupidity. The look that followed stabbed deep. He turned toward the bar without response.
His order to the bartender was met with a stern frown. The man begrudgingly slammed a palm-sized bottle of water in front of Jensen, only to charge him twelve-dollars. Jensen paid without word; tip included.
He caught up with his companions at a table. His bottle of water sat plain next to glasses filled with more aromatic, darker liquids. The longing for them, for something to wipe away the embarrassment and guilt was strong. He feared what would happen if he started drinking again. He hadn't had a drop since meeting Doulou. He did envy how the other men swallowed without coughing, though. Liquor burned all the way down; such was the point, he supposed.
Before sitting, he unzipped his jacket, he wore only a plain white undershirt beneath that was still darkened around the neck with sweat. He pulled his bike gloves to unscrew the tiny cap and tucked them away safely in an inner pocket. With all the sleight, small movements, he hadn't anticipated chugging the entire bottle of water in one gulp, yet he did, and yearned for a second when it emptied prematurely.
He was seated across from the driver. Although the man's appearance was far cleaner than Connor's shirt, it could be said he had liters of blood on his hands, but Jensen's mind made the case for his own, far more severe guilt. Despite this man's methods, he saved them. Jensen and Jatinder, the poor boy likely still lay alone in the dirt, would have been dead if not for this man. Connor also, perhaps.
Jensen finally added to the conversation. His mood was as quiet and reserved as Connor's was elated and vibrant. For that, Jensen was glad, the Gift was an amazing conduit of grace.
He looked the stranger in the eye, "Thank-you. You saved me, and others, by arriving when you did. My name is Jensen and this is Connor."
He reached across the table to shake the man's hand.
Of course, as he did, his eyes were lifted to a figure seated at a booth behind Hood. She was pretty in a glamorous sense. Her long red hair lay in enormous curls down her back. Her eyes were heavily blackened with make-up. Her cheeks were razor sharp and plump lips were brushed with bright red colors. She sipped on a highball, and when she realized Jensen finally noticed her, the eye contact followed with a wink on her part. Jensen forced his eyes to return to Hood when she uncrossed and recrossed all-too-muscular legs.
Please don't come over. He begged the universe. The table couldn't possibly get any more awkward than it already was.
Edited by Jensen James, Jun 11 2014, 12:05 PM.
- Connor Kent - 06-11-2014
The man didn't seem to be in a hurry to answer Connor's question. Jensen had time to get a water and come to the table, sitting next to Connor. Both of them were across from Hood but could also see the bar.
Connor observed the other patrons while Jensen introduced them. He seemed calmed and reserved and for a moment, Connor felt for him. Jensen was a good man and he took what happened this night personally. He felt responsible for it. But there really didn't seem to have been a way to have gotten those kids saved without the violence. Guys with guns always set the mood. And the mood was already horrible.
Connor shook his head to clear it. It was done. He hoped Jensen felt better. Looking at the man again, he saw that he was staring at a red head at the booth behind them. Connor smiled tightly to himself. Maybe that's what Jensen needed. Blow off some steam. You go for it man, he thought. The woman turned her head and seemed to catch Jensen's eye and wink.
Connor choked on the drink he'd just sipped, sputtering. He leaned in to whisper to Jensen. "I think that's a dude."
He looked at Jensen who appeared to be whispering something inaudible under his breath. The action gave Connor pause. Suddenly he remembered how unimpressed Jensen seemed to be when Aria had come out of the bathroom that night in just a shirt and panties. Both Connor and Giovanni had noticed her with appreciation. Well, it didn't matter, really. It was just something he'd not expected.
Edited by Connor Kent, Jun 11 2014, 01:31 PM.
- Hood - 06-11-2014
Hood took a long pull of his beer as Connor and Jensen gave their excuses. So both men seemed to realize that what they had done had been incredibly ill-advised, yet neither seemed likely to refrain from doing it again. Maybe a bit better prepared, but he somehow doubted they had learned their lesson. And he wasn't likely to be around the next time.
"Wasn't there to save any lives, preacher."
The fellow had that air about him. Maybe that was what Hood didn't like about the man? He had faith in something other then himself. Hood had been like that once; loyal to flag and country, but that had grown unimportant to him over the years. Either that, or Jensen was some new-age hippy shit. If that were the case, at least he was proactive about changing the world. "I was planning to scare those shit-bags off. You just gave me an excuse to stretch my legs."
He didn't bother glancing over his shoulder at who the two men had spotted behind him. Hood grinned a mean smile, and leaned back in the booth, head half-turned to cast his voice back but still watching Connor and Jensen, "Cut these two some slack, Charlene. I already popped one of their cherries tonight."
Charlene threw her head back and laughed, one hand raised to cover her mouth and cast Jensen a smokey look. She had a rather feminine, sultry voice, "Well, if he wants a different kind of cherry, I'll be right over here."
She also had a subtle hint of an Adams apple, if seen at just the right angle, casting some doubt as to what she was packing beneath that dress.
Hood chuckled and grinned at Jensen, giving the man a quick head jerk Charlene's way and a wink, then took another swig of his beer, "Now what the fuck's gone wrong in your lives that you're roaming Zamoskvorechye district and picking fights with the mafia? You want to rack up a whole lot of ass-hurt, I hear Charlene there's a far softer hand outside the boxing ring. "
- Jensen James - 06-12-2014
Right, a somber thought responded to Hood, you were there to take lives. The man had called him 'Preacher'. Another American, did that mean he was recognized? His neck bowed under his own shame.
It was a topic of many a discussion in Seminary. When, if ever, is the taking of another human life justified? There were factions that did not condone murder even in the face of defending one's self or family. That violence was the vanguard of humanity, and a man can only control his own actions. Pacifists always, without exception. While yet other groups suggested the bloodiest wars could be in God's name, citing the Old Testament. In the safe bubble of his church, Jensen himself stood against harming anyone, ever, even to fight back. Jessika had called him 'gentle' and 'good' for it. He upheld the notion of turning the other cheek as humility of the highest sort. Then again, he was Texan, such unending neutrality went against his upbringing.
He wanted to crawl away from the table, away from Hood and Connor's harsh judgements. Three times now Jensen called on the Gift to do such work and twice he left men for dead.
Thumbing the bottle cap, he looked up only when Connor leaned to whisper: "I think that's a dude,
" and Jensen nearly choked.
The lowness of his gaze lifted, hesitant and unsure. Hood twisted in his seat and exchanged words with the woman behind him.
She winked, and Jensen visibly paled, if it were possible to drain any more embarrassment from his face. Charlene barked vociferous laughs, "Well, if he wants a different kind of cherry, I'll be right over here."
He shifted uncomfortably and offered an uneasy smile for the scantily clad woman. I don't even know what that means. He doubted he wanted to find out.
Whatever the innuendo was, it twinkled merriment across Hood's otherwise steely expression. The contrast was unsettling. "Now what the fuck's gone wrong in your lives that you're roaming Zamoskvorechye district and picking fights with the mafia? You want to rack up a whole lot of ass-hurt, I hear Charlene there's a far softer hand outside the boxing ring."
Jensen swallowed and hoped Connor would respond first. Why traipse around the worst parts of Moscow looking for hopeless causes? Because they're not hopeless, he wanted to say. The stranger, with his whip-like disapproval of their acts, was unlikely to see the blessing of such a cause. Did Jensen even know himself?
"Redemption, I guess."
No, he shook his head, frowning, that wasn't quite it.
His mind went back to the laying of hands on the children, and eventually his gaze drifted to the singed hole in Connor's shirt. "I've never felt more alive, more connected to the whole of existence, than when it comes."
Did Connor remember the healing? Did he remember slipping in and out of consciousness? Jensen's urges that he hold on?
He shot his gaze back to Hood and did his best to not let it wander over the man's shoulder. It was hard not to, though.
"I wasn't there to save them in the sense you're thinking."
He recalled Aria's warnings, but the need to explain himself was too sweet to ignore. "Let me see your hand?"
He laid his own hand across the table, palm up, nodding that Hood place his own upon it. "Please?"
- Connor Kent - 06-13-2014
Connor started laughing when Hood addressed the handsome woman behind him. He was still laughing when he caught sight of Jensen and saw how embarrassed he was, all looking down and then meeting that woman's gaze. He felt bad. Poor guy. He decided to lay off and be quiet. None of his business. Well, if Jensen was in good humor, maybe he'd tease as well. It's what you did to your friends. But the night's activities were still with him, the guilt.
The man- once again, no name- was a hard one though. For him, killing those men was no different than killing a fly. Which Connor could understand. As the night wore on, any twinge he felt over that man got weaker and weaker. If he did think about it, it was always in the context of that little girl with the red hair. He couldn't think about the one without the other. Truth is, it felt right. He had no sympathy or wish to rehabilitate or understand the man. His being alive was itself an affront, an injustice.
Connor took a long sip of his rum, the smokey sweet flavor cut through with ice cold water. He breathed deeply, very content. He was starting to come down, feeling tired. He'd probably only stay to finish his drink. Suddenly, he was feeling like getting home. Home to Ayden.
The man asked, "Now what the fuck's gone wrong in your lives that you're roaming Zamoskvorechye district and picking fights with the mafia? You want to rack up a whole lot of ass-hurt, I hear Charlene there's a far softer hand outside the boxing ring."
It was a good question, something Connor had been wondering about for the last few months.
He'd never been one to shy away from a fight or to help someone out. But it seemed like as of late, he found himself jumping into situation after situation. Whenever he looked back on it, it always seemed crazy to him. But when it was happening it felt like there was no other option. Tonight was a perfect example.
He didn't have to be a rocket scientist to know this had to do with Hayden's death. If he had to guess, he was trying to save as many people as possible because he'd failed to save his own son. Not that he wasn't interested in helping people before. But it was like something had broken and now he acted without thinking.
Jensen and the man were talking while Connor just sat there, in his thoughts. Funny thing about alcohol. It accentuated your mood. But it also allowed for a lot of emotional "over-correction." A brief turn into a more melancholy thought often became a full blown detour. Connor found himself thinking about his life and where it was going. Ayden kept coming to mind. He could have lost her tonight. Or rather, he could have died. Yes, they were kids. And even now, he'd be hard pressed to say the decision to try to help had been wrong. Why they hadn't just called the police, he didn't know. At the time, there seemed to be a reason. Yeah, they would've gotten deported. But that was far better than sex-slavery and probably death at the hands of some sicko.
He was torn. For the first time in months, he felt like he had a future. He didn't know where things would go with Ayden. But he wanted to find out. He was willing to find out. He had someone to live for. And though it felt like a betrayal in a way, he knew that he had to exercise more caution, more common sense. He couldn't save everyone. Then why did he feel so damned ashamed for thinking that? Why did he feel that by just saying that, he was giving up, or letting the evil in the world win? But he couldn't do both.
Connor had no answers. He just sat there, any of the conversation that went on between the two other men completely lost to him. The euphoria was wearing off. He wanted to be home. He wanted Ayden. He looked down at himself. There was blood on his hands, in his fingernails. And of course a blood soaked shirt and jacket with a hole in it. He should have been dead. He wasn't. He was alive. And now he just wanted to go home to her, find her still sleeping on the couch, to kiss her gently on the cheek, watch her stir and sleepily smile up at him with the look in her eyes that said that she was happy to see him back. He wanted to pick her up and take her into his room and then just sleep and to feel her beside him, the smell of her hair in his face, her skin against his, just drifting off with his arms around her.
He sighed, took another sip of his rum. It wasn't as sweet. The water had diluted it too much, he thought. "I think I'm gonna jet after this one."
Edited by Connor Kent, Jun 13 2014, 04:59 PM.
- Hood - 06-15-2014
Redemption and the thrill. The two seemed like conflicting motivations at first, but Hood could understand to some degree. He could really enjoy himself most when the cause was 'good.' Or at the least, less of a grey area. Not that it really mattered to him one way or the other, especially if it were a good fight.
He had been told before that doing something good brought with it a sense of absolution, even if it were only temporary. Of course, he didn't realize what Jensen may have meant by that sense of being alive. Connor was visibly falling into the trap that came with having a few drinks after a near death experience.
Another long sip of beer as Jensen and Connor made their statements, their justifications, whether verbally or through Connor's reserved body language.
Hood's gaze settled on Jensen when the man requested to see his hand. He frowned, studying the man for a long moment and pondered just what the fellow was up to. "Fancy yourself a palm reader?"
But he set his beer aside and put his hand out for Jensen to examine. His hands were rough and calloused, the result of many long years of hard work and, likely, violence. The ages of identifying a gunman by the gunpowder burns on his hands, or the carbon stains on his fingers were long gone.
There were no tattoos, no intentional scarification. His gaze moved to Connor, flashing him a knowing grin. "Suggest you get your rocks off before going to ground, buddy. You go to ground thinking the way you're thinking, this night'll never leave ya. So what'd ya see there? Long life line? Money in my future? Sure as shit ain't going to be kids and a white picket fucking fence."
The last was aimed at Jensen as the man took a gander at Hood's hand and forearm.
Once Jensen was satisfied, he pulled his arm back and grabbed his beer again, "And you two think of doing shit like this again, and you want to think that peace and love will win the day, then you'd better learn how the fuck to put a man down alive. Charlene there. Seven years MMA. Knows a good club. Expensive, but you get what you pay for."
- Jensen James - 06-16-2014
The man - Jensen still did not know his name - stuck by his point. He had a message he wanted to deliver and he used all the tricks in the book to get it across. Jensen hid a hint of a smile. "Fancy yourself a palm reader?"
Jensen nodded and accepted Hood's palm. As to the condition of his skin, itself, Jensen vaguely noticed its rough-edges or the strong lines of inner tendons. In fact, he barely noticed anything about the hand, other than the warmth of another person that came with it.
The warmth was what he needed to connect what was represented by the laying on of hands to himself. The Gift grew in his mind, it blazed bright like the sun moments before an eclipse, and it filled him with joy he wished he'd accepted four years ago.
Either way, he accepted it now. That joy etched itself into the edges of his expression, a subtle, but sweet moment that quickly filtered into focus. He didn't know how he did it only to repeat what he'd done before - the night Jessika found him on the street.
Jensen felt the playful mocking in the man's voice. He couldn't help but smile slightly: he'd never been accused of being a palm-reader before. As far as white picket fences went, there were none at this table likely to live anywhere like that in the near future. Although it sounded nice.
There was little strain to do what came naturally as breathing. He was merely focused on the web of colors streaking the air around Hood and knitting themselves closer and closer to the flesh.
Jensen laid his other hand across their's so that Hood's was sandwiched in between. Charlene was watching, he noticed from the corner of his eye, but her distraction couldn't dissuade Jensen from the blessing of the Gift. His heart beat rapidly in his chest, excited and thrilled to make the connection. There was nothing greater, no joy more exultant than the moment the Gift settled.
He held onto Hood's eyes, watching closely for the recognition of such a moment. Now.
Only after the Gift was laid did he let go. He'd never laid it across someone who wasn't gravely injured. So nothing knit itself together. No physical wound was sealed up clean as freshly fallen snow. Energy flowed, however, pure and jubilant. Would Hood feel it? If so, would he understand what Jensen was trying to accomplish? That that's what he meant by trying to save people? How he'd done so for Connor? And Jatinder? and Pao? and the rest of the kids?
"All due respect, sir, but I don't want to hurt someone to save another. I don't think I can."
He replied, adamant.
The Gift gave him courage to continue. Jensen steadied himself with a breath, but such steadiness was only to keep footing atop the slick rocks of a steep waterfall. A single momentary lapse in focus and he'd be swept under and shattered on the rocks below. "But if you came with me?"
We could do it. He finished his thought.
- Connor Kent - 06-16-2014
Connor realized that Jensen was holding the man's hand. He wondered what he had missed when he realized that Jensen was doing something with his magic. It was funny. 45 years of his life magic was just a something you saw in movies. And now, now it was a part of his life. Hayden. Ayden. Jensen saving his life.
He looked down at his bloody shirt again. Life had gotten very....strange. It gave with one hand and took away with the other. The universe seemed to make no sense to him. He'd lost any kind of faith that people were watched over. He'd never believed that things happened for a reason. Too much bad stuff happened to people for him to accept that. He couldn't believe a mother watching her child die of starvation in Africa was part of some plan or happened for a reason. If it was, or did, it was not the plan or reason of a god he wanted anything to do with.
What was real was the connection between people, between him and his parents, or his son, or even, as new as it was, Ayden. It was the only thing he really believed in anymore. Connecting with people. Strengthening bonds.
What they had done tonight, it was good. He believed that completely. If humans didn't fight the darkness then it would win. But he was going to have to change.
The man looked him the eye with a smirk. [color=##5a70b3]"Suggest you get your rocks off before going to ground, buddy. You go to ground thinking the way you're thinking, this night'll never leave ya."[/color] Honestly, the man sounded right. Right now he was all over the place, feeling one thing one moment, another the next. He needed to 'go to ground,' as the man said. He needed to find his center again. He needed to connect. He took another sip of rum. The desire to drink with these men had been an initial attempt, a sense of shared danger and camaraderie. But he wanted something deeper and more real. He wanted to go home.
Connor stood. "Well, I'm going to head out. I want to get home."
He looked at the man. "I don't know your name and you probably don't wanna give it. So i'll just say thank you and shake your hand."
After that, he turned to Jensen. "We did a good thing tonight Jensen. We saved those kids. Maybe we weren't completely smart about it."
He laughed. What an understatement. "But I feel good about what we did."
He thought of those kids escaping. He did feel good. Of course, the coming down was already coming on. It was part of the reason he wanted to go home. "Anyway, I'm glad you trusted that i would help you."
Then he touched his chest. "And thank you for saving me. I still owe you."
He nodded seriously and then smiled at the man. Just a crazy world. He walked away from the table, nodded to Charlene and smiling said, "Ma'am."
Before heading out the door.
continued in A Fine Line
Edited by Connor Kent, Jun 20 2014, 08:33 AM.