Writing: Sarris (military!au)

    Well, it's not Valentine's Day, which is probably a good thing, after rereading this blurb.

    It's not quite in the festive spirit, let's put it that way. ::cough::

    Inspiration source: a rewatch of Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit and the beginning sequence of him joining the military and subsequently being badly injured in a helicopter crash, landing him in Walter Reed Hospital for rehab. 

    I'm not sure what it was about it, but the combo made me want to write Sarris in a similar situation, although my focus is on the emotional journey for her as she struggles through rehab, and not on the "life after" portion. Not yet, anyways.

    Mild content warning for the scrawl in general. There's not a lot of details, but Sarris was injured in a tangle with a bomber while deployed overseas, and is not handling the end of her career as a soldier very well. It's overall darker than I tend to write and there is some talk of PTSD. Just as a head's up.

    Also, I was terribly lazy in the research department and just threw in details that may or may not be accurate to how the process actually works. 

    (Kudos to those who can guess who the "her" is that Sarris thinks about.)


    It happens nine months into her seventh deployment.
    Afterwards, they tell her about her own bravery, about the lives she saved in one blind moment of reaction. It’s on the news, on the lips of her nurses, her doctor, the members of her squadron who are allowed to make the flight to see her—everywhere she looks.
    All Sarris remembers is the split instant where she’d recognized the telltale signs of a bomber on that man and her body had moved itself on instinct. The instincts that had kept her alive and uninjured through every tour she’d asked for until that point.
    When she wakes up in the NATO hospital in Kandahar a week later, after days of passing in and out of agonized consciousness, red hazes of pain, they tell her about the people she’d saved before they tell her the price of those actions.
     She’s never going to be able to walk the same way again. Her hearing is shot on her right side, and the shrapnel she’d taken all down her back limits mobility in her right arm and means when she first regains consciousness, she can’t feel anything past her hips.
    They say she’ll be getting a medal—medals, in fact—and she couldn’t have cared less. She’s not going back to the front lines, where she has lived for the past eight years of her life. Where she belongs. The only place where the innocent blood on her hands weighs a little less.
    Only her CO seems to get it, somewhere in the subtext, when he comes three weeks later, right before she’s scheduled to head to Maryland and Walter Reed to undergo multiple surgeries, heal, and then start rehabilitation.
    “You’re getting an honorable discharge. The doc said there’s no way you’ll be back in the field, even if you do well in rehab. You’re done, Nadir.”
    “I know.”
    “You did well. You had a good run and we’re going to miss you out there. I know you’ve never been much of a people person, but you should know we trusted you to watch our backs, Master-Sergeant.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “You’ll be alright. Get through rehab. Everything else will fall in place.”
     She’d had no answer for that.
    Ten years of her life she’d devoted to the United States Army, with no intentions beyond giving everything she had left of herself for others. Because of those two lives she had taken, had never been convicted of. That gang—the Shedek—would always be with her, inked as deeply in her skin as they were in her soul, but that doesn't mean she will ever stop trying to erase the damage they, and by extension, her, had wrought.
    And now even that had been ripped from her.

    //

   The flight stateside was one of the longest she’s ever endured. Even longer than three years ago, when her squad had returned home less two members.
    She starts refusing the pain meds the day before she’s scheduled to ship out back to the U.S., and not even the jarring motion of takeoff and the subsequent hours of turbulence bring her to submission. It doesn't mean her three attending nurses don't offer at least half a dozen times to hit her with a shot of morphine.
    The doctor that meets her two days later in another white, sterile room doesn't have much more to say than the one in Afghanistan. They’ll operate, repair as much of the damage as they can, then she's going to rehab for at least a year.
    Days passes in a blur of time, beginning and ending with a blinding veil of pain. It wakes her up in the middle of the night without fail, which she never admits, even when the doctor who comes in at oh-eight-hundred on the dime every morning asks her several pointed questions about it.
     It’s late summer in Maryland, which means oppressive humidity outside if there’s not another sporadic bout of heavy rain. After her surgeries are done, all three of them, Sarris goes outdoors as often as her caretakers will both take her and let her. Which isn’t often, but she needs the change of scenery if she’s not going to lose her mind.
    Television has never interested her—she knows all she needs to about the state of the world (she prefers newspapers anyways) and there’s no point to watching the countless television shows that are prolific on cable—and it’s hard to find a delivery address for Amazon if she wants to order books.
    The nurses are too friendly—always asking about her family, if she’s sure there’s no one she wants to call, and what a unique set of tattoos she has, what’s the story? The doctors are too repetitive—always the same information, over and over.
    Sarris considers trying to get in touch with her, but knows better than to even contemplate it. Their parting hadn’t been on good terms. Even though Sarris has recognized that missing piece in her life, she knows there is a very slim chance that she’s been forgiven of the things said that day. 
    (“He will be the death of you.”)
    And there’s nothing that she can do anyways. It’s over and all that’s left is to pick up the pieces. 
    A month after her final surgery and some preliminary rehabilitation, the hospital staff moves her from her too-white room to an alternate ward in a different building altogether. She isn't mobile enough to take care of herself off-site and with no family being produced, the military becomes her primary guardian. Unless she improves in leaps and bounds, enough to navigate Baltimore unaided, the hospital will remain her prison until they deem her fit for release. 
    As she has with everything else life has bombarded her with, Sarris bears through the torment that every waking moment is with silent neutrality. 
    It is not the worst storm she's ever weathered. 
    It may be the second most devastating, but at least it is only her that bleeds this time. No one else. Just her.
    (Murderer. Killer. You deserve this. This is punishment for your crimes.)
    Sarris shuts her eyes to blank out the smiling nurse and the bag of fluids she carries and wishes the disembodied voices in her head could be blocked out just as easily. 

    //

    “Hey, Nadir!”
    Silence.
    “Nadir?”
    Nothing.
    “Oh, come on, at least it isn’t your first name.”
    Continued quiet.
    “Alright, fine, Master-Sergeant Nadir, would you please stop and lend me a moment of your apparently precious time?”
    "What do you want, Doctor Schaefe?" She doesn't lose focus on the task at hand—one foot in front of the other, one step at a time—hating the burn in her body over something so simple as walking. The two parallel bars are warming beneath her lingering grip.
    Over-friendly, incessantly inquisitive. Warm brown eyes and genuine compassion for his patients. (She fights not to see it as weakness.) He plants himself in her path, too close for comfort and there’s nowhere to go besides backwards, which sounds two times as complex as moving forward at this point. "First, you've been going for twenty minutes and need to sit down."
    She looks up, meets that knowing expression, that easy-going but not to be ignored persona that's been hounding her since day one in this personal Hell, and is aware that he's correct. Her body is shaking from the effort that every step takes, perspiration beading her forehead.
    That doesn’t mean she’s going to let him know it, though. Tightening her fingers around the bars keeping her upright, Sarris stares him down, unflinching. 
    Schaefe narrows his eyes at her, pensive, but continues speaking after a short delay. “Second, the nurse said you left even the Ibuprofen untouched this morning. Want to tell me what that's all about?”
    It surprises her that this hasn't come up sooner. They all want to talk about her chronic refusal of any pharmaceuticals before long. 
   “No.” Sarris glances over her shoulder, where she knows her watch dog nurse is on standby, waiting for the slightest hint that her assistance is needed. 
    The woman comes to guide her to a nearby seat, the doctor backs off without further prying, and the soldier—the soldier wishes that was what she still were. 

    //

    Nights are the hardest. The longest. 
    When the doctors are gone and the nurses settle in for the night shift. There is only beeping in the halls from computers and monitors—they sound like an IED and Sarris has to tell herself to breathe. 
    Darkness blankets everything, because the rest of the patients are sleeping, and the lights have been flicked off for the night. 
    Sarris sits upright in her bed, fingers flexing, wanting of some sort of safeguard against possible attack. 
    PTSD, the psychologist says when three weeks pass and her nurses grow tired of her ceaseless vigils, calling in reinforcements to deal with what they see as a problem. 
    Sarris doesn't disagree with him. 
    He's right. She spent almost eight years over there—she knows the signs, from others and in herself. 
    But it’s also saved her life and for Sarris, it isn’t a problem; she knows how to run on four hours of restless sleep for weeks, even months, if that’s how long it takes to disconnect her mind from the belief that she’s still on the frontlines. 
    And she knows how to stop herself dead in less than a heartbeat to keep from killing someone when they approach without warning.
    By this time, there is no solution to it for her. There is no recovery, no treatment, there is no coming back. There is just Sarris Nadir, once gangbanger turned soldier. 
    You don’t want to see me on drugs; is her only explanation, skipping his prognosis of ”you have severe post-traumatic stress and need to start getting help” altogether,  and knows the psychologist’s mind is racing behind his neutral expression as she gets up to leave.
    
    //

    The weather starts to turn. 
    Sarris watches the leave start to bronze from her glass box on the sixth floor up. 
    The air is too moist still, too heavy with water for her comfort. She is used to scorched earth and deserts. Lips peeling, skin cracking, nose bleeding. Air so dry it sucks the life out of everything it comes in contact with. 
    Humidity sets her on edge, her senses telling her something is wrong, even when she slips into brief unconsciousness. 
    Fall begins to bear down on them and Sarris gets quiet. Says less. Withdraws further. 
    She hates the crutches, hates the wheelchair, and does not pass a day without wishing that that d--n bomber had done his job as well as she’d done hers. 
    Bleeding out in the sand would’ve been a less cruel fate than this. 
    The voices in her head have no sympathy. They pleasure in the black swallowing her, the helplessness killing her. 
    Sarris wakes up and aches to move. She wishes for death if only to escape the weakness of the body she has relied on for so many years to be strong. There is no strength in her legs, her arm will not respond when she needs it to, and the loss of hearing in her right ear has given way to an incessant ringing in her left. 
   Each morning is a reminder that she is never going to run again, is never going to be able to tackle an obstacle course, fire a rifle, swing a punch, or carry a comrade like she once did. 
    She is a soldier to her very marrow. 
    And living through every day in rehabilitation is a steady stab to her soul that tells her she can no longer be.


//


    Cliffhanger!Siani strikes again and I am so sorry. Inspiration cuts in and out on a regular basis for me.

    But, personally, I like this scrawl. I tried to get snips of a different writing style in there, focusing more on the abstract and letting reality drift in now and then, which... sort of worked. Maybe. You can decide.

    It is kind of depressing, which I apologize for. But Sarris is a person of motion, of action, and, as we catch glimpses of in this au, repaying for a crime she committed years ago. And her method of payment has been ripped away from her in one fell swoop, depriving her of drive and purpose for life. It'll take a while for her to find a new way to keep pushing forward.

    Her story actually parallels quite nicely with the original storyline, although, between the different galaxy version and the here on Earth version of Sarris' story, here on Earth has quite a few less extremes. 

    And yes, Novarr is a rehab doctor. Don't ask me. He's one of those stupidly talented people who can do whatever they want, more or less, if they put their mind to it. I think the doctor gig was a mid-life crisis escapade. Unusual, considering most guys might buy a car, but he's an unusual sort of chap.

    Is love in the air?

    Hard to say. He's the bane of Sarris' existence at the moment, but he's started that way in all the other 'verses too. We'll have to see.

    As always, I welcome comments, critiques, or whatever ambly, rambly thought passes through your head. Let me know, yeah?

    Thank you for reading. ^_^

    Ad astra per aspera.
    To the stars, through difficulty. 

Writing: Abnormality, Not Prodigy

    I feel rather pleased with myself at the moment. I added a whole new tag to my tagging system on my blog.

    Sad, right?

    Here I am, though, with the obligatory once-a-month post. I was hoping this was the second one this month and was going to make vague allusions to the possible end of the world because there were two blog posts in one month, and then realized this was the first. So. Never mind with that.

    As for the title, the kinks are still getting worked out. That was the first thing that popped into my head when I sat down and scrawled down five pages one evening for Jaz.

    Yes, we're going back to Jaz. But this time, back to the beginning. 

    Truth be told, I am really pleased with all the background development that occurred during the course of writing these segments earlier this month. It's a bit more summary than I usually write, because I was aiming for quantity and not detail. 

    Before we begin, I would like to note a content warning for somewhat mature themes. Nothing too major, but it's better safe than sorry, ne? Also, this is just a portion of what I wrote, because I didn't want to leave it as a total cliffhanger. Not that it was the worst one I've pulled, but still. I'll see how this goes over then post more.

    Let's go, then, and you can leave your confused questions in the comments afterwards, as my brain is rather scattered today.


    She wasn’t yet thirteen when the yearly trials rolled around. She didn’t know if she had a snowball’s chance of making it past even the preliminary round, lacking not only the gender, but the pedigree and public face that usually came with those who made it into the final fifty candidates. 
    Jasmine had to push her hung-over and malnourished father out of bed and from there to the bathroom. She hadn’t explained it to him. She wasn’t planning on it. All that was needed was his presence and his name, and if she got him sobered up enough, then he would be able to provide both. 
    This was her only chance. If she couldn’t get through this and make something of herself, then she may as well just give up and follow in either of her parents’ footsteps right now, because there would be no other options. She had more street smarts than book schooling and that lack meant that she would never receive a penny of financial aid to continue her schooling. She could work for the money, but the positions available to her would mean working for years—maybe even a decade—just to scrape up enough for the first few years of higher education.
    Plus, the entity that was the elite force of highly trained soldiers that protected their city-state of Busan had been her hero since she’d been small. Well, smaller. She wasn’t much more to look at at almost-thirteen than she’d been at seven. 
    The trials were a big thing for Busan—probably were no matter what city-state one was in. The streets that she’d grown up running through were alive with activity, festooned with banners and flags. Anyone who had a uniform was wearing it, and everyone else was dressed up to the nines for the occasion.
    Jaz got her uncooperative auburn hair up in a high pony-tail, made sure there was no dirt on her face or hands, and tugged on a too-large shirt and cropped off pants that she’d been saving for this day alone. They weren’t new, but they were clean, and that was what mattered right now. 
    Her stomach, empty since early yesterday evening, churned despite that fact. She’d only been able to manage water, her nerves were so bad. This wasn’t done. What she was attempting didn’t happen. It wasn’t a case of “no one in history” but it was still going to be difficult for her to even get a foot in the door. Busan’s societal rings were far more lax than other city-states, but there were tendencies and prejudices not easily overcome, and considering how many candidates would come from families with innate abilities going back centuries… Jasmine O’Haire, daughter of a drunk and a prostitute, had her work cut out for her. 

//

    Jaz hurried along at her father’s side, having to pull him along by the arm while trying to keep his attention long enough to tutor him in what she needed him to do. Get them in the front door, present the official documents held tightly in her free hand, put his name and hers down on the dotted line, and then let her do the rest. The cold flask in her back pocket, hidden beneath the long hem of her black shirt, was his incentive. 
    Nobody paid them much attention as they wound their way through the gathering crowds early that morning, following the path that Jaz had stalked out four or five times over the past three days. Only a third of the masses of people would end up in the actual audience for the physical portion of the evaluation later in the day. Most were just taking the opportunity to escape work for a day and celebrate with their friends. 
    When they neared the testing building outside the city walls along with a small trickle of other people, Jaz steered them right. Candidates had an alternate entrance than those who were coming to watch. Now they got some looks. Her father’s halting stagger combined with her significantly less decorously attired appearance made them stand out.
     Jaz just held her chin a bit higher and made sure to straighten her back. She had a right to be here, just as much as any of these other candidates. She had not only the capability, but the desire to perform and perform well today.
    Maybe not as well as everybody else was going to, but they had a leg-up in that their families would’ve been grooming them for it since a young age. Jaz had had only herself and the offhand comment of a black-ops captain to push her to try and manifest an ability she could feel in the pit of her stomach, the tips of her fingers.
    There was a strength inside of her, one that Jaz had never dreamed she’d have, and she was determined to unlock it, even if she had to go head-to-head with every privileged and gifted kid her age. 

    The academics were the difficult part. 
    After making it through the initial identity check and verification, whereupon she had found a side door to let her father out after slapping the alcohol into his hand, it was onto the educational examination. But because her nerves had gotten her out the door so early, Jaz found herself ushered into an empty classroom, instructed to sit at any desk she wanted, and was left alone. 
    Over the following hour and a half and a twenty minute nap at the beginning, other candidates trickled in. Jasmine had taken a seat next to the far wall, two rows from the end. The rest of the examinees—mostly boys who eyed her with either curiosity, disdain, or disinterest—filled in the rest of the space. 
    Jaz knew that the volume of these trials meant there were likely to be three or four other classrooms just like this one that would be filled to capacity. 
    Almost two hours after her initial arrival, one man and one woman entered the room, he carrying a stack of folders and she with a clipboard under her arm. The conversations that had been carrying on ceased in seconds as everyone became aware of the two proctors.
    It took work for Jaz to keep from shrinking in her seat. She knew she stood out like a sore thumb. She wore her poverty as those around her wore their fortune. No doubt, all their mothers had spent hours fussing that morning, combing hair, fixing pants, cleaning off that last vestige of breakfast.
    Jaz had no mother to do that for her and felt the loss badly as the expressionless adults surveyed the classroom. The girl could’ve sworn that the graying woman’s gaze rested on her for a beat longer than it did the boy ahead of her or behind her. 
    The instructions were simple. They would all get a folder, and they had exactly fifty minutes to answer, solve, and fill out the contents. Those caught cheating would be escorted out immediately. There was to be no conversing, no movement, until the time was called. Then pens were to be dropped and their papers returned to the folders to be retrieved by the proctors.
    Jaz wondered what happened if you threw up on the floor while the uniform-clad male started to walk through the rows and place a single gray folder on each desk followed by an equally non-descript pen.
    The proctors then each took a seat at the head of the class and the woman just said, “Begin.”
    Then the mad scramble to survey the contents of the files began and the race was on.
    Every day of missed schooling weighed more heavily on Jasmine’s shoulders in those fifty minutes than she’d ever known them to. There was so much she didn’t know, so much she could only guess at an answer for. The study help that the little old man on the corner had given her when she’d whispered in his ears that she was going to enter the trial was the only thing that kept her from drowning. Those long afternoons crouched in his alley, writing in the dirt, on the walls, came back to her and Jaz tried to recreate those moments as she wrote. Removing herself from the tension in the room was the only way to manage a clear thought.
    All too soon, the woman called, “Finish.”
    Jaz dropped her pen on the edge of her desk and watched it clatter to the floor. Relieved to have it so far out of reach and thus temptation, she shuffled her papers into her folder, closed it, and then held it in her once more sweaty palms to be picked up by the male proctor. 
    After their written tests were received and transported from the room, another, younger woman came into the room and proceeded with an oral exam. Jaz hadn’t been expecting that and had to endure snorts and titters when she stumbled over her words. 
    Her face burned when she was allowed to sit down again and she had to remind herself why she was there. 
    If she wanted to make something, someone of herself, this was it. This was her chance. If she didn’t succeed here and now, she might not be past the age-range next year, but her spirit would be broken. She wouldn’t be able to make herself endure this a second time. 
    An image of her mother’s heavy make-up and her father’s drunken haze flashed before her eyes. Jasmine sat up straighter. Forced herself to look straight ahead. She was not them. She would not be them. 
    She couldn’t be them. 
    That weakness wasn’t in her and Jaz refused to let herself fall prey to the idea that it was.
    It went better, after she built up her own courage again. 
    The following lunch hour proved a curious experience. She got the sense that it was another test, and remained wary of what was going on around her, while many of the other candidates got caught up exchanging remarks with each other about the trials thus far. 
    Jaz did have the slight advantage of her stomach still being too knotted to eat much anyways, ending up munching on the end of a loaf of bread and taking in a glass of water. This left her time to watch the comings and goings of the proctors. She watched the two that had led her class’ written examination, keeping an eye on their whereabouts. No one she’d talked to had had quite an idea of what happened in here and so she wanted to be prepared for anything. 
    If it was a test, they were never let in on it. They continued to physical examinations after that, filing through a small office for a ten minute session with an experienced doctor in groups of twenty. Jaz found that, while she was quickly learning the faces of the proctors that were in constant attendance, the appearances of her fellow examinees was lost almost as soon as she caught sight of them. There were too many, too similar, in her opinion.
    The majority was mentally filed away in the same folder anyways. Rich, proud, talented.
    Which Jaz didn’t really hold it against them, it did set them apart. 
    No one tried to address her directly, but there were whispers about who she might be, where she was from, that she ignored. Jaz did try to keep track of how many other girls there were, and was disheartened to only count five others among the countless candidates. They took only a cursory interest in her in return. 
    The physical capability was the next portion and at least this Jasmine felt good about. She’d spent her entire childhood running, hiding, ducking, and climbing, for fun, to escape trouble, or just to flee. The reason didn’t matter. It just meant that maybe she’d get a slight advantage over her blue-blood compatriots because she had real-life application of skills they had—hopefully—only groomed in controlled training sessions.
    There was no rule against preparing for the trials if you were planning on entering. Strength was gained over time and foresight was a valuable tool. Those who were weak of mind and body would wash-out eventually, one way or another.
    Jaz kept to the back of the groups she found herself in, remained watchful of everything that happened around her. There was a distant awareness of growing sound that echoed through the cavernous rooms she found herself in. 
    They were all gathered at what must’ve been the halfway point, just before the physical trials began. The names called were to stand and move towards a nearby door, where they would be escorted out to their waiting parents and guardians. If you were called, you hadn’t made the cut. 
    Jasmine sat with her fingers clenched together, knowing the starting letter of her surname would mean she was going to have to wait to know whether or not she continued into the half of the trials.
    The air was tense, strained, as one name after another was called. It felt like they were going to dismiss everyone, so many stood up, though in reality, it probably wasn’t very many. The real cuts would occur after the next portion of testing, where they decided whether or not you had enough raw talent to be worth the time.
    Jaz had almost gnawed through her lower lip when the final name was called and she’d made it through to the next phase. The urge to shout in relief was easy to curb, because she knew that it just got harder from here.
    Taking in a shaky breath, she kept focused on the proctor standing on the platform at the head of the room, waiting for their next directive. 


    Little Jaz is just... adorably earnest. So different from the confident woman we see she grows into.

    It was impossible to miss, but I did incorporate a new aspect into the story world as a whole. The "flicker" technique that Jaz is more than a little excited to realize she possesses is similar to a watered-down form of teleportation. Less spontaneous disappearing and reappearing and more instantaneous opening of a passageway through space that they "step" through and come out on the other side in a different spot than before. It creates the illusion of teleportation, but flickering requires more bodily movement.

    As you could tell, it is also not an easy technique to master. Jaz, being our spunky heroine, possesses some innate talent for flickering, but others were barely able to flicker a few feet, and some not at all. It takes a chunk of stamina to flicker and it requires consistent, aggressive training to keep the ability in "good working order", for lack of better terminology.

    To give a brief explanation of the title, if you haven't guessed it already, Jaz is going to learn quite quickly that, despite her before-stated innate ability to flicker, she is not a prodigy. She is not going to get special treatment--not in the good way, at any rate. She is an abnormality, coming from the gutters and making it through the trials. A variable in the statistics, a blip on the radar. Thus, an abnormality, not a prodigy. Anomaly, not a genius.

    So yes. I haven't come back to this cycle through Jaz's childhood quite yet, but I look forward to doing so because she meets some pretty awesome people on her path through life. Mostly her mentor dude, who is... fantastic, but you get the idea.

    Her love life is still something of a gray area, though. Which bums me out. Haydn's okay, but I'm not sure I see her ever working something out with him. We'll have to see.

    Anyways. You know where the confused questions go. 

    Thank you for reading and, as always, your patience means the world to me!

    Ad astra per aspera.
    To the stars, through difficulty.

Greet + Writing: Prompt Challenge // Trinity (pt. 1)

    Hey, hey, look who's keeping with a monthly goal of at least one blog post. I'm really proud of myself right now, to be honest. Sort of. The "part one" is the reason for the sort of.

    You know, when you cram in a lot of television, a horde of people visiting, and a transcontinental move into a couple of months, brain power really starts taking a nose-dive on you. 

    But. Two new followers to my blog in the last couple of weeks. I have no idea where you two came from, but welcome aboard and be prepared for an erratic schedule. ^_^

    To catch people up, last month (at least, I think it was last month...) I posted a prompt challenge here on my blog for my followers to get a little bit of dream world alternate 'verse reward and as a challenge to myself and lovely follower Trinity sent me the following prompt.

    "Okay, so Jandy and Dech play bodyguard to Sean and Lindsey, because Jaydn and Jasen are trying to kill them. Then use, "Where did it go?" she mumbled over and over again, sitting on the floor, back against the door, half empty bottle of wine in one hand and a handgun in the other." And I want to know who snores."

    I have been slowly (slowly) working on this prompt since then and am just now hitting four pages/2,912 words. Since I anticipate a continued slow productivity rate, I'm going to post what I've got every three pages. So today is the first three pages, then the next post will be pages four through six, and so on and so forth.

     Hopefully that makes sense, and if anyone has questions, leave a comment on any of my posts. I don't bite, will get an email heads-up, and get back to you as soon a I can. Which could either be hours or days, depending on when you catch me. Cough.

    Also, all characters within the following writing excerpt have been featured in previous posts. You can check the tags somewhere off to the right of your browser for the name of the character in question and read up on them. The world(s) this prompt is situated in has not been before featured. Brand new 'verse for alternate 'verse characters. But, just for a quick run down, J&J are Jasen and Jaydn. They're complicated. D&J are Dechlan and Jandy. They're mentally linked. S&L are Sean and Lindsey. Her parents are recently dead and he's a childhood friend. Check previous posts for further explanations. 

    With that said, forward ho!


// J&J //

    A face. A news report. A government file. A single word.
    Eliminate.
    Too young. Too relatable. Too close.
    She switched off the tablet and picked up her comm. to send a message with a meeting point. They had work to do. And the sooner it was done, the better.
    
// D&J //

    The rap was added into her odd mixture of a dream, featuring a mind-numbing club track playing through her old apartment but there was a wheat field growing in the middle of it that wasn’t in any portion of her own memories. There was another sharp knock and this one roused Jandy a bit, but she elected to ignore it in favor of a few extra seconds of sleep. 
    They’d been in high demand as of late and thus their work schedule was hectic, equating to less sleep than she preferred getting. And judging by the clarity and insistence coming across her link to Dechlan, they were in even more demand than they had been ten minutes ago. Perfect time to bury her head under her pillow.
    “Hey, no, we got a call,” her partner’s voice came from somewhere overhead. Another soundless approach. Gold star to him.
    There was amusement with her train of thought that she poked at and then ignored.
    “G’way, Dech. Sleeping.” She managed, bleary and disoriented as she tried to roll over and away from awareness.
    The bed dipped behind her and the air felt very close all of a sudden. Wrapping her arms tighter around her pillow and burying her face in it, Jandy squeezed her eyes shut tighter. “No. No charm. No cajoling. I’m tired.”
    “And we have work to do.” There was a firm, albeit gentle, tug on her pillow.
    Relinquishing it without much fight, Jandy flopped onto her back again, reaching up to push her hair out of her eyes and blink at Dechlan.
    He was dressed and ready to walk out the door, no doubt having shaved and maybe even cut his hair while she slept, on top of eating and the rest of his morning routine. His brows raised under her scrutiny and a hint of a smile formed on his features. “Morning.”
    “I look like crap, don’t I?” she croaked, blinking sleep from her gaze before going after it with one trimmed nail.
    “No comment,” Dechlan shrugged, retaining his place on the edge of her mattress, leaning back on one hand. 
    Jandy felt him searching their link and reached back out of habit, trying to ascertain what he was after, staring at a spot on the wall as her attention drifted inwards. A memory of long hours lying awake, not hers, watching dreams of her life with her sister back in Kaido was open to her perusal. A rueful smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
    Sorry, she offered, turning her head to look at her partner again, realizing his initial investigation had been an attempt to find out if he’d overlooked anything that would’ve caused the vivid imaginings of her subconscious. It happens when I’m tired. Like I sleep too deeply to keep up some barrier against them.
    It’s fine. I don’t mind. Tells me where your head’s at. One of Dechlan’s shoulders lifted in a half shrug. 
    She didn’t have to voice her mild amusement and acceptance with this, letting Dechlan feel them for himself over their link. Scoot over so I can sit up and tell me about this job.
    Her partner obliged, shifting further down the mattress without protest, mind already turning to the phone call he’d gotten earlier. Jandy followed his thoughts with her own, picking up details as they went, while she pushed herself upright. Pushing her fingers through her hair again, except in an attempt to tame it this time, Jandy pulled her knees up to her chest to get past Dechlan, resisting the urge to poke him, then let her legs drop over the edge to the rug on the floor.
    The cool air that inhabited the foot of space above the ground of her room caused gooseflesh to rise up along her arms and legs. Blowing out a long breath and trying to rub it away, she glanced over to find Dechlan already watching her.
    You’ve got that look again.
    Sorry.
    Jandy smiled, shaking her head a little. There was that grey area again, with that line they danced around, and that usual uncertainty about it. But she let it roll off her shoulders, straightening a bit and moving on. “Come on, you moved too fast through the call. What did Canton have for us?”
    “A couple in witness protection.” His focus was slower to follow hers, which was growing less unusual. She woke up sometimes with his residual thoughts from the prior night echoing through both their minds. It’d taken some getting used to but now, for the moment, she’d learned to just push past it. They couldn’t go there. Not yet. Even if it was on both of their minds and they both knew it. 
    “Doesn’t that make them the government’s responsibility?” She needed to move and so did, getting up to go rifle through her set of drawers, making sure the hem of her shirt was falling where it was supposed to. It was a curious case, though, and that made it easy to focus on.
    “Technically.” There was a muffled whoof and Jandy didn’t have to turn around to know that Dechlan had fallen backwards across her bed while they talked. “But they’ve already had two near misses and they want some extra hands on deck, so they reached out to Canton and he saw we had two free weeks.”
    “Two free weeks that were supposed to be just that—free.” Clothes, clothes. She needed clothes so they could go. Easier said than done. Being busy meant little time to do laundry. Or to get laundry done, more often. A lot of her stuff had to be dry-cleaned.  Company dress code policies be darned.
     Despite her train of thought, which tended to coax some amusement from her counterpart, Dechlan felt tired, though not with her. Pausing, she investigated. It was… their job, their schedule, their life.
     You know we’re almost done. Our contract is almost up and then we should be set financially to get out of here. Jandy dropped the button-up shirt and pinstripe pants—both of which she often entertained thoughts of burning--in her hands in a heap on the ground, going to crawl up the bed beside her partner again.
     He watched her progress, arms crossed behind his head, then leaned into her when she stretched out at his side, folding out one arm. Jandy settled into the dip between his forearm and bicep, cheek pressed against his skin as she sought eye contact. Those hazel green eyes that helped make up the person who embodied home for her now.
    What they shared allowed her to feel the gratitude in response to her thoughts, the reciprocation of the sentiment, the heavy weight of weariness they both carried, both their thoughts and emotions tangling and swirling together in an intangible and unexplainable mix. It was harder than ever to distinguish where her mind ended and his began with this proximity. Their connection worked over a distance, but the closer they were, the better the clarity. And here, inches from each other’s sides, with a large portion of their thoughts already in alignment, that clarity was crystal. Almost painful in its clearness, except not. 
    Jandy could feel his heartbeat echoing her own, beating near in sync with her own, and she drew in a quiet breath, unconsciously doing so in the same moment as Dechlan.
    Almost five years, they’d had this bridge between their minds. Five years, learning the inner workings of each other’s hearts and minds to the point of not being able to imagine anything else. Not being able to imagine anyone else. 
    She searched Dechlan’s face and he studied her in return, the arm that she’d rested her head on coming up so his fingertips could brush her hair. They were both so far past the human difficulty to hold eye contact by this point; those early days were fading memories now. No, it wasn’t perfect. They weren’t perfect. Sometimes their connection made her – both of them – feel as if their souls had been laid bare to each other. Which they had, but sometimes it hurt more than others.
    Her dark eyes stung with tears as she studied the thin, white scar leading down from his hairline to be just visible on his forehead. A mark that meant he could’ve been lost to her long before they’d ever crossed paths in Warren’s program. Jandy’s breath caught in her chest.
    The piercing ring of Dechlan’s communicator from the other room caused the pair to jerk, his head lifting in an instant to ascertain the situation and hers burying into his shoulder with a muffled grumble. 
    “That’s probably Canton telling us to get over there.” Dechlan commented, sounding far more at ease than he was actually feeling at that moment.
    Jandy stifled the urge to groan again, resigning herself to a sigh, and tilting her chin up so she could see his profile again, contemplating an attempt to plead for a day off. One brow rose as he glanced back in his peripherals.
    “No. We have to go.” He voiced his reply aloud instead of keeping it enclosed in their link, hoping to clear the weight in the air around them and get her moving.
    She didn’t want for it to work, but it was. Plus his comm. was still going off in the other room, which was doing nothing to keep the moment from slipping away, so Jandy resigned herself to another day of professional babysitting and sat up. Dechlan aided her effort with a hand on the small of her back as he got moving as well. 
    Following his silent request to clear off of the mattress, Jandy went to grab her dumped clothes—no doubt sporting a few wrinkles now that she could’ve cared less about—letting her partner shake out her comforter and leave it looking a bit more orderly before going to tend to his device.
    Jandy glanced a warning to Dechlan before going about getting ready for the day ahead, finding herself to be in the same place he’d been in just ten minutes earlier. Tired of this life and tired of having to put off shedding some light on their grey area. Very tired of it.
    As she sat down on her bed to zip into her short boots, they were both in silent agreement on that point.

// S&L //

    “We’ve been talking with Miss Angelo and we’re going to set up an apartment a couple of districts over for the two of you under an alias we’re building. ” Maximoff Canton explained to Sean, who sat with his hands clasped together as he took in the security firm’s director’s words. “Before then, we have you two  booked at a hotel downtown.”
    As he always was nowadays, Sean remained aware of where Lindsey was at as best he could. She stood by the window a handful of paces away, watching the outside through the cracks in the shades. It’d been a better morning for her. And he hated to have to think in those terms, but Lindsey tended to ricochet from catatonic to temperamental to just plain broken depending on the day. Today she’d just been quiet. Responsive, but only when asked pointed questions.
    “Wasn’t Miss Angelo supposed to be here?” Sean asked, resisting the urge to scratch the back of his head, tamping down his mild frustration. No need to give an even greater dead giveaway that he had no idea what he was doing in this situation. Television and a year of university life didn’t do much in the way of preparing one for witness protection. And wasn’t the lawyer supposed to be in touch with him about all this?
    “She said she had something to attend and would be running late,” Canton wasn’t put out, though he did glance at the clock on his desk. “My people are behind schedule as well, so it should be fine.”
    “You said they weren’t your standard fare team. How did you mean?” If they had to sit here until everyone decided to show up, he might as well get as much information he could.
    “First, most of my teams of two or three are all male, for effectiveness and professionalism’s sake. If I need a female and the few on my payroll are otherwise engaged, I usually contract with another firm. Scott and Sparks are one of my more successful teams, despite her lack of professional military training.”
    Sean was pretty sure he heard an unspoken “which I still don’t understand” hanging off the man’s sentence, but didn’t say anything about it. He leveled his stare at the older man instead and said, “We appreciate whatever help you can lend, sir. She—“ Sean glanced at Lindsey, who had turned to listen to the conversation and was staring off into space. “She’s been through a lot and I’m really hoping to get through the hearing without any more incidents. Having a team on board whose purpose is to stick close will be welcome.”
    Canton took in his statements and then nodded once. “We don’t hire people who don’t know how to do this job, Mr. Becket. You both will be in good hands.”
    A sharp knock interrupted the conversation and Sean rose when the sudden noise startled Lindsey out of her reverie with a quiet gasp. 
    “Come,” the CEO called, standing and allowing the young pair a moment while the door opened .
    Lindsey was quick to nod that she was okay when Sean reached her, managing an unsteady smile. He caught her elbow to keep her close, seeing the glassy shine of tears in her eyes, and shifted to see who had come. 
    “Nice of you two show up,” Canton remarked with a disapproving downturn to his mouth that was noticed by all present.
    They had to be Scott and Sparks, as Canton had called them, Sean surmised after a few moments. Which was which, he didn’t know, but the man had a definite military aura to him and stood almost a full head taller than the woman at his side. Her dark eyes and darker complexion suggested different origins than her partner, and although she bore none of the trained professionalism of her counterpart, they both had an ease at each other’s side that bespoke a strong bond. 
    “Sorry, sir, we got back in late from our last engagement. It was a bit slow going this morning.” The male said by way of greeting, casting a glance towards Sean and Lindsey’s direction but then refocusing on his boss.
    “Just be on time next time.” Canton took his seat again. “Scott, Sparks, I’d like you two to meet Sean Becket and Lindsey Donovan, your next clients. Mr. Becket, Miss Donovan, this is Dechlan Scott and Jandelyn Sparks.”
    Sean towed Lindsey over and shook the hands of the bodyguards. “It’s nice to meet you both.”
    “Call me Jandy.” The woman said with a slight smile and a calculating gaze that rested on both him and Lindsey for a few beats before she exchanged a quick look with her partner. 
    “Shall we get down to business?” Canton addressed the four of them and Sean let his attention turn to the man behind the desk once more.


    Alright. So. I think that's all I have at the moment. I need to go help my mom find her brain, attempt to remember how to do a Spock-style mind meld, and act as a translator in general. Woot woot.

    As always, thank you for the patience, and all comments, thoughts, and critiques are welcome in the comments below.

    Ad astra per aspera.
    To the stars, through difficulties.

Writing: Train Travel and Thrift Shop + Retake on the Locker Scene

    Ha. Look at me. Posting more scribbles before a full month had passed. 

    Nothing terribly long, but it is Jandy. The first portion is continuing off my last drabble challenge, with Jandy and Gage Continuing Escapee Adventures, and then I found that I had originally written that locker room scene with Jandy and Dechlan in a notepad. So I typed that up and am throwing it in here as a bonus.


    The train hummed and thrummed around Jandy in a way that was not as soothing as having Dechlan’s activities running in the back of her head, but it was getting there. Anything besides the dead silence that had been making it difficult to concentrate during her waking hours. 
    Again, almost without meaning to or even thinking about it, she searched for him, seeking relief from the echoing quiet that made a near-physical ache rise in her chest. 
    It wasn’t as bad as when she’d lost Jane—she doubted anything would ever be as bad as that. Dechlan was still alive; their connection was unharmed, intact, just weakened by distance.
    Lost in her thoughts, Jandy wasn’t prepared when a bump on the tracks below them made the car jolt and that motion caused her to slide on her make-shift cot enough for the pain to flare across her upper abdomen. 
     A quiet gasp escaped her before she could help it. Gritting her teeth as an afterthought, Jandy tried to breathe slow and even, lying still, her mobile hand fisted, in an attempt to keep from irritating any other portion of her injured anatomy. Not an easy thing to do, to say the least.
    Jandy was just quelling the urge to give in and voice a handful of choice words—a habit Dechlan had made a point of breaking her of and the only reason she underwent the effort to not—when Gage spoke.
    “You okay?” He sounded both weary and wary, neither of which were too surprising.
    She took a moment to get herself together before speaking, reminded of how little she actually knew about either of the Daxtons in those moments.  “Yeah. I would just give a lot for a bottle of some hard alcohol right about now. Or, you know, morphine or something.”
    There was a snort of humor off to her right, out of sight. Granted, most everything was out of sight as her position on her back only put the four sides of the train car and the roof within eyesight.
    Needing a distraction, Jandy gripped the crate under her with her useable hand and used that hold to elevate herself. Gage, sitting with his back to a near identical crate on the ground, watched her progress with a cautious gaze, but didn’t offer to aid her. Yet. Jandy was grateful. She would have to learn to deal with this new, unfamiliar pain and the sooner, the better for both of them.
    Once she was upright, nails digging into the wood beneath her, she forced out “What’s the plan then, chief?”, desperate for something else to think about besides the way her injuries seemed to be set on fire, her head pounded, and everything else ached like she’d been thrown from a bull.
    The man glanced at the expensive silver watch on his wrist, the long sleeves of his dress shirt from their op the prior night rolled up past his elbows. “We’re going to get off at the next stop, which should be a fair-sized hub. We need to figure out how far we’ve come, get a new set of clothes, and see if there’s anything we can do to make movement easier for you. We’ve got a long ways to go yet.”
    The promptness of his reply told her that he’d already been working out the different steps they needed to take in order to continue further for some time.
    His reminder of their clothing state caused Jandy to hazard a glance down at her own evening wear. Former evening wear. Now she wanted to be out of the torn, blood-stained, and uncomfortable dress as soon as possible. If she hadn’t been so familiar with Gage, the state of her disattire in his presence would have made her edgy. But she was at least comfortable having him around and she wouldn’t have put it past Dechlan to read the male Daxton his right when it came to her. Or, his lack thereof.
    Four months linked mentally to Dechlan had allowed her the chance to realize just how much protecting those he cared for was a part of who he was.
    Burying the ache that rose from the loss of her counterpart’s presence, Jandelyn moved to sit on the floor, favoring her side, diagonal from Gage, and let her head lean back on the crate. They would have a few more hours of travel in this unorthodox transport and then she would get to relearn how to walk with cracked—or broken, it was hard to tell—ribs. 

//

    Jandy sat on the floor of the small thrift shop in Stoney Run, a decent-sized city with a larger train depot then anything much else, Gage had informed her, trying to recoup her energy. The not-so-stealthy walk from the far end of the train tracks had been a long, grueling excursion, even with Gage’s help. 
    Now he rifled through the racks of clothes with a focus reminiscent of Dechlan while she worked to not curl into a ball of pain. The proprieter was already eyeing them with the look of someone comfortable calling the cops on suspicious patrons. And boy, did they fit that ticket, between the visible bruises, the tangible injuries, and their attention-drawing clothing. Gage’s jacket was around her shoulders, shielding her immobilized shoulder and arm but doing nothing for the raw scrapes and deep purple marks on her legs.
    Pushing her loose hair, with only the remnants of its curl, out of her eyes, Jandy considered weighing in on what Gage was taking off the rack, but knew that whatever he got would be functional. Not pretty, but Jandy was done with dressy for a very long time. Not to mention, the fewer eyes they drew, the better for everyone. 
    Gage snapped his fingers, drawing her out of her thoughts with a jerk. “Hey. You should look at the jeans. I want to be out of here in ten minutes. Need a hand?”
    Arching a brow at him, Jandy got herself up using her good hand planted on the ground and making sure not to stretch out her damaged side. Coming to her feet brought her into the stream of burning daylight that was coming through the filthy front windows and illuminated the water-stained walls. Squinting against the light, the female turned to find the women’s pants.
    “Check for small sweatpants over there,” Jandy commented to her companion as she started rifling, looking for anything close to her size that wouldn’t be a pain to wear.
    She heard Gage pause in his own search, then resume a few beats later. “Copy. Look at the shoes, too.”
    Just what she needed—a reminder of her scraped and dirty feet, the cost of losing those admittedly-stupid heels sometime before they’d gotten on the train, while she’d been unconscious. Letting a silent sigh escape her and with her bad arm braced along her battered ribcage, Jandy settled into her seaerch, trying to keep from imagining that Decklan was nearby. 

//

    The sky had clouded over by the time they had found clothes, gotten changed, and straggled back to the rail depot. Gage left her out beside the building’s wall, the hood of her ratty sweatshirt pulled up to cast the bruises on her face in shadow. He wore a ball cap that would perform the same function along with a dark gray jacket that complimented her blue sweatshirt and faded denim jacket that was a couple sizes too large in order to accommodate both her bound arm and the sweatshirt that kept it from sight.
     Rain started to spit from the dark clouds overhead, staining the sidewalk and splattering on her pants. Jandy let her head fall back, protected under the roof’s awning. Everything was happening more quickly than she was almost able to keep up with.

    It’d been twenty-four hours since she’d stood in the bathroom back at base, feeling like she’d be ill to her stomach with nerves. Since then, she’d been a prize on Gage’s arm, had the snot beaten out of her, escaped from the organization that had killed her sister, and was now on the run with a man she knew hardly anything about. Without the man that she wanted most at her side right now.


    The only thing about Blogger is that I have to take my documents from Microsoft Word, transfer them to a Notepad, so that the format isn't totally screwy on here. Thus, it doesn't transfer over my italics, and I have to go back through and put them in and it's just a pain in general. Just to be random.

    Onto the retake! Just as a mild warning, this one could be seen as a bit more mature than the last one.


    Jandy was fairly sure that the ill-tempered European woman who’d put a day’s worth of time into her appearance would have an aneurysm—or at least a fit—if she threw up right now.
    Trembling hands gripped the edge of the locker room sink. Slow breath in, even longer out. Get it under control.
     Dechlan was detectable on the fringes of her thoughts, but he felt distracted and Jandy was fine with that because she couldn’t have handled his reaction at that moment. Anymore emotion than was already roiling in her and she really would be ill.
    The brown of her eyes had been covered with a pair of contact lenses that were an eye-drawing azure and it was that gaze that stared back at her in the mirror.
    The hard part was that Jandy knew what this was. She hadn’t been given any information on this job, but her appearance was telling.
    When she and Jane had been living in Akita, she’d juggled two full time jobs and a part time when she had the energy to spare. One of those jobs had been as a serving girl in a high-class night club—a position she’d procured by not being one of the women her age addicted to drugs—that would get crazy around two in the morning on a regular basis. 
    Right now, her attire and make-up could have rivaled that of any of the women who had walked into that club on the arm of a man who man a point of showing how deep his pockets were.
    The dark outlining to her eyes, the high pair of platform heels, the short hem and plunging back of the dress that matched her eyes. All of it had a purpose. Draw attention, intimidate lesser men, intoxicate those who thought they had a chance.
    Jandy shifted to stand up straight, ignoring her churning stomach and stepping into her shoes, all too aware of how their height had been chosen to further augment the image she’d been created to fill.
    Previously dark eyes flickered to the door, closed for the moment, then back to the mirror. Jandy wished she could say she had no idea how to be the type of woman who could fulfill this role, this… appearance. But she couldn’t, because this was who her mother had been, who her friends had been. This was the type of person she’d worked around for three years, day in and day out, and who she had learned to be when the moment called for it as a result.
    Jandy knew how to walk like those women, talk like them, smile like them. Seduce like them. That’d been the world she’d struggled to keep both herself and her sister afloat in, when everyone else had been content to drown. 
    In the back of her mind, she felt Dechlan’s focus shift to her, but knew she wasn’t ready to face his thoughts—not yet. Her ability to keep him out was far, far less impressive than his, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know how to drown him out for the precious few minutes that she needed.
    Finding a memory of a pounding beat, deafening lyrics, and the thump of her own heart, Jandy ran her hand through her loose hair. It, too, had undergone hours of treatment and the tousled look her short, brown locks now bore could easily have been hours of work or a happy accident, depending on the eye of the observer.
    She practiced smiling, the blood red lipstick on her lips stretching to accommodate the expression. It looked real because she’d had to learn to hide the exhaustion, the stress, the hopelessness that had weighed heavily on her shoulders as she worked to support her family of two. All for naught, as it turned out. 
    Her smile took on a sardonic edge just as there was a light rap at the door that echoed through the locker room. Then Jandy realized that Dechlan was very there in her head, despite her thoughts drowning him out, and that he was waiting for her to let him in—literally and figuratively. 


    And there we go. Scribbles! And now I need to go work on science and my parents and I are watching The Island with Ewan McGregor and Scarlett Johansson. She's been kicking butt for a lot of years. 

    Thoughts, comments, and critiques are welcome, as always. Thanks for reading!

    Ad astra per aspera.
    To the stars, through difficulties.

Writing: Steampunk -- Ruusan

   My schedule is really erratic these days, isn't it? Life has been hectic and that's really all there is to it. My family will be moving into our new house this coming Wednesday and then we'll be getting settled into our routine.

   The scribbles for today, though, are back in the steampunk setting, but with Ruusan. I didn't think I'd ever get back around to the steampunk, but another facet of Ruusan's character called to me, so I did a small amount of writing.

   They're both pretty self-explanatory. Sarris died a long time ago, having never met Novarr. Novarr has also passed on by this time, possibly from illness or an infected wound; I'm not sure. Ruusan is a nurse and has Vivian, but Cameron is gone by this time as well. 

    On that depressing note, shall we?


   Ruusan settled back in the intricate cast iron chair outside the small café, one hand resting on the matching table set alongside her tea cup. Blue eyes took in the busy street with a certain level of reserve. It's been too long since I've been able to just sit.
   Across the tabletop, her longtime friend and mentor sat with a similar pose, but instead of her brown gaze being on the people and variety of transportations, Ruu could feel Lauren watching her profile, waiting for the reply to her inquiry.
   It took her a few more moments to formulate the rest of her answer, then Ruusan looked back to her fellow nurse, a quiet sigh leaving her. The expelling of breath loosened the corset of her dress for a few seconds, enough that she was allowed a brief respite from its tightness.
   "I can't, Lauren," she said at last. "I just... can't. I work twelve hour days to pay the rent on a home that I hardly see. My daughter spends more time with Mrs. Vhander then she does with me. Both my father and my husband are dead. I can't ask someone to have to-- to-- I don't know, deal with that? Come to terms with the fact that this heart of mine would probably never be truly and completely his, not unless he was someone very special? No man deserves to have to live up to another man's shadow and I would never ask him to. Please tell your cousin that I will have to decline his invitation, Lauren, and to find another woman who can accept and return his affections. Because I cannot."
   There'd been hints of a smile on the older woman's face while Ruusan had been speaking, but now it's truly there as Lauren nodded her understanding. "Don't fret, Ruusan. You didn't need to get up in arms on me. Fred just talks of you a good deal and finally asked if I'd be willing to relay the invitation to you. And I did and you declined."
   Relief filtered through her thoughts and Ruu's answering smile is a bit subdued, but heartfelt all the same. "I'm sorry. I just get tired of offers from parties who don't realize what they're getting into."
   Lauren stood while listening, taking a few coins from the purse looped around her wrist and setting them beside her empty cup and saucer. "And that's perfectly understandable. I'm meeting my mother-in-law for lunch, so I need to hurry home to freshen up now, but I'll see you in a few days, yes?"
   A quiet nod. "Yes. The matron gave me a week off so that I could recover completely. I'll be back on Monday."
   "That's good. The hospital isn't quite the same without you there. Just make good use of your free days, Ruusan. They'll be gone all too soon. Take Vivian out to the gardens in Ironstate, or just go out for the day. Spend time with your daughter." Lauren checked that her hat was still on straight, brows raised to make her point.
   Even though she kept her seat, Ruusan smiled again, chin leaned into her palm. "I'll be sure to do that. Thank you for meeting me today. I'm not used to being out of touch."
   "My pleasure." Warmth colored the raven-haired woman's voice and then she was gone, whisked away by the flow of people until not even a trace of her long brown dress could be seen.
    Alone again, Ruu lifted her tea cup to finish the last of its contents, nose wrinkling when the lukewarm liquid washed across her tongue.

*****

   Ruusan smiled at the woman who came to receive the package of bread, water, and two blankets the medical team was handing out, feeling her chest contract in pain at the other female's wary expression. 
   Her skin was darkened with dirt and her extended hands shook visibly. Settling the wrapped bundle into her awaiting palms, Ruu wished there was more she could do.   
    There was no murmuring of thanks before the ragtag woman disappeared into the gathering crowd. The nurse soon turned her attention to the next person to approach, determined to fulfill her purpose here so she might return home. 
   Return to Vivian. 
   Blue eyes took in all but revealed little as the afternoon wore on towards evening. 
   It was two small faces, peering at the goings-on, that broke through the carefully maintained barrier Ruusan had to erect around her heart. Grabbing the nearest unclaimed package, the curly-haired woman slipped from the safety of her fellow nurses and their police guard.
    Her hard-soled boots skidded on the broken cobblestones as she made her way to where the children had been moments prior. Their hunger-pinched faces had disappeared, but Ruusan was fairly certain they wouldn't he far. The draw of food would be too strong to allow them to stray any great distance. 
   Rounding the corner of the decrepit building they'd set up their operation near, Ruu searched the shadows for the two young ones. 
   "Come out. I'm not going to hurt you," she called, her voice quiet but beckoning. "I have food and water."
    Ruu couldn't see where they might've gone, and when they didn't reappear after a few moments, continued down the passageway, glancing back the way she'd come. 
   She'd give the food to these children, and then they'd go home, back to the hospital and their respective homes.
   Turning her attention back to her path, Ruusan realized somewhat belatedly that a man had appeared now, staggering along towards her with an expression that caused fear to curl through her on his features.
   God in heaven, protect me.

   And that's all I've got for the time being. My siblings and I are currently bunking with our cousins, so with fourteen-some kids in the house, it's kind of crazy.

   But for other news, Penny and I are looking at doing a couple of "blog challenges" over the next couple of months. Keep an eye out for a massive amount of posts from the two of us as we attempt to keep up with these journaling prompts.

   For those who are curious as to what ones we're looking at using, drop me a note and I can get you the Pinterest links.

   Thank you much for reading and feedback is always welcome!

    Ad astra per aspera.

    To the stars, through difficulties.