P E N D R A G O N

Tired. Sleep was sitting on Allegra’s eyelids, threatening to close them shut. She pulled her hair out of its bun, trying to find anything small to distract her from an impending snooze. Ten hours had passed in a snail’s pace, the minute hand of her watch almost mocking her as it swung around. Time was cruel, when you needed it  to move it took a back seat and watched your agony with a smile on its face. The opposite was much of the same. When the world should’ve slowed down, it kept its whirlwind pace blowing past, tendrils reaching out as if to say “try and catch me”. Allegra let out a small sigh. She needed something to pick up her energy levels. There was the coffee machine in the break room that could provide some sort of relief. As it was, a majority of the ER rooms were unoccupied. Bend was having a brief break from accidents it seemed. Allegra stood up and stretched her arms out. Hopefully, nothing catastrophic would happen in her brief absence. And if it did… well, perhaps a sprint would wake her up as well.

Allegra’s worst experience in the Emergency Room hadn’t been with one her patients. No, it was a personal time that had all but broke her heart. She could remember running through sterile halls, past lab coats and gurneys to get to room ten. It hadn’t been more than an hour when her mother had received the call. In the dead of night- 1:32am- exactly, a ring had woken up the De Luca household. There had been an accident involving her older brother, Apollo. He hadn’t been responsive at the scene. And now, he was Thorek Hospital where staff was attending to a serious brain injury. Panic fueled every fiber of her being, and the family’s old sedan flew past stop signs like a chariot out of hell. By the time they arrived, Apollo was deep asleep in a coma, supported by every machine Allegra could think of. It had been years since that fateful day, and nothing had changed. In Chicago, even the best doctors were baffled by the De Luca case.

A mug of steaming hot coffee was carefully carried across the floor, when she heard her name paged over the system. Finally, she had something to do besides wait. She set the glass down and rolled up the sleeves of her white coat. Looking down on her clipboard, she could’ve sworn that she recognized the name. Finley Hayes. Curiosity would have its answer as soon as she made her way through the ER’s double doors.

As she called out his name, her previous inkling was right. The mechanic who’d saved her junker of a car from dying. The weather in Bend had been bitterly cold, rain falling on and off when she’d pulled to the side of the road. She hadn’t been in Oregon for more than a day when the car fell apart- all her things meticulously packed in the back of a toyota camry were threatening to burst at the seams. Allegra sat on the hood of the car trying to wave down any car that came down the road. It had been nearly thirty minutes, with Allegra drenched, when someone stopped to help. She couldn’t thank her lucky stars enough that it had been a local mechanic who then got her to the shop he worked at. 

“No, no- I remember, you saved me from walking miles in the rain… ” She nodded, a small smile hitching at her lips. Her eyes drifted to the injury, eyebrows raised. It seemed she finally got to repay the favor. “Here let’s get you to a room…” As they navigated to an open space, she couldn’t stop a grin from pulling at her lips. The rambling was endearing, she’d give him that. “I’ll tell you what, let’s start over with what happened and we’ll go from there, okay?” Allegra nodded, pulling aside one of the room curtains. “Feel free to take a seat on the bed.” She said before placing her clipboard on the table. “Usually I’d say its nice to see a friendly face but that sounds a little odd in the Emergency Room… so, how did you hit your head?” 

There is a smile and a slight nod at the recognition.  Most people in town with a vehicle of some sort crossed paths with the mechanic.  A repair, a service or... On occasion... A rescue.   However, some of those people seem to forget that there’s an actual person there, doing the work and making sure they don’t end up in a ditch with faulty break lines.  He becomes part of the scenery.  Just another face that’s - there - for their convenience when needed.  So yes... recognition is nice.  Being an actual human being rather than just the vague shape at the other end of a jack.

‘ you saved me ’

Such a curious turn of phrase.  

“Y’know, I never minded the rain.  Where I come from it’s almost a permanent feature.  Plus, anyone who leaves a lady stranded on the road is kind of an arsehole.”

He dutifully follows her to the treatment room, standing out like some kind of dark smudge, a stain among all of the clinical white and shining medical grade steel.  Finn has never really been a person to live that aseptic life.  Cleanliness was a habit that he stuck to dutifully, but there seemed a rare few minutes between washing his hands and having them dirtied with the next job.  Even the bed on which she offers him a seat is pristine where he - is not.  So there’s something of a slightly tentative ‘perch’ on the edge.

‘ so, how did you hit your head ‘

Isn’t that the tale to tell though?  And if he felt like a plonker before, it’s going to be significantly worse now.   Of course, he could lie.  Could make up something that sounded heroic.  Perhaps even mildly tragic.  Or a combination of the two.  As it is, the history of this particular injury was rather more... Embarrassingly comical than any of the above.

So yes... He could lie.  But in the end... He doesn’t.  If nothing else, perhaps the lovely physician may just find the whole thing amusing.  And if his - minor misfortune - can bring a smile to someones face, then it might make up for the mild throbbing in his forehead.

“I was making an omelette.” 

Because - yes, Finn that’s super helpful... Head injuries are obviously associated with the dangerous pass time of... cooking omelettes.  Perhaps more of an explanation is needed.

“I mean, i was cooking and managed to run face first into a kitchen cabinet door that I ... forgot I’d left open.”

That is... Possibly not a great deal clearer.  Aside from the clear and present danger of cooking his tomato and spinach egg supper, there were also kitchen athletics to take into account.  And... it’s still not the entire truth.  Not that the specific detail matters to the treatment of his bloody cut.  But there’s a breath and he braces himself for any kind of backlash while managing to look. 

“I was... Sword-fighting.  With the spatula.”

Thrust, parry, slice, block, lunge... The spatula was, however, significantly smaller and lighter than the weighty armaments he seemed to hold in his dreams.  Which is probably why Finleys attempt at a kitchen recreation had gone... Slightly wrong.  A flash of a move, a spin and turn and --- ‘crack’.  Not quite the heroic moves of his dream persona.  Then again, Arthur probably never had to deal with a galley kitchen in a teeny apartment.  Storming hordes of sword and axe wielding death... Yes.  Omelettes and open cupboard doors... No.

But that’s is.  That’s the tale and... Here he is, adding ‘sheepish’ to ‘plonker’ as far as emotional range went.

                、. * @asoldierfights / Aster Auto / year: 2018 ❜

HER EYEBROW RAISES IN AMUSEMENT  –– she knew nothing about cars and had no hesitation admitting it. Leaning against another car in seemingly needed repair hazel hues peek up from her book before it falls against her lower stomach. She didn’t know how to read the mechanic at times and while they found themselves with different mother tongues she admired Finley at far. 

it was her new car ( used the the gutter ) it was something she could afford. it was a 1965 Mustang Fastback in viper red and had lost it’s glory days as it soon turned into a fifteen minuet drive to her job on a daily business. Her lips stretch into a line when the rust allows a squeak to ring in her ears.

“yikes. that will sure make my neighbors happy at six in the morning.” she sighs as russian tongue fades further into the accents in the majority in bend. She wasn’t a person to say much, but she found comfort in the auto shop with the lack of a crowd. “Do you ever … by chance leave this place?” 

She leans in further to look at the updates on her car before turning her torso to place her heavy book on the stool. She moves closer while also remaining at a respectable distance. “What I mean is that you should get out more. Maybe socialize with some more dreamers? Ooo I even heard William Shakespear has graced our town.” A warm smile forms on her face in the moment before falling. “I don’t know. I guess I just find this town a trap.” 

His shoulders are pitched on a creeper under the car - balanced by rote of practice so he can easily slide to the underbelly and see what’s going on - the car itself jacked and up on a fixed stand to give him space to work.  And the sound that reverberates around the shop as he yanks on the wishbone strut is certainly something that would set teeth on edge.

“It’s the suspension.  You gotta give it to the old girl, she hasn’t done too badly for being over 50...”

There’s a small rattle as the creeper slides out, and Finn along with it, dusting some rust flakes from his hands and getting back to his feet.

“There’s nothing - wrong - with her, everything’s still working fine.  I’ll clean up and regrease what I can for now which should stop her complaining so loudly - and stop your neighbours bitching at you - but you might want to think about a parts upgrade.  Suspension and brakes.”

Classic cars going cheap were usually cheap for a reason - even with all of their inherent aesthetic nostalgia inducing appeal, age can certainly leave something to be desired in terms of handling, braking, steering and dynamics. And with modernity came a few extra bonuses too - like y’know -- safety. 

A mild arch of brow at her line of questioning, and there’s a lilt of amusement curling at the corner of his mouth.

“Now why would I want to leave when I have such fabulous company in here?”

One hand pats the Mustang’s side, almost as though it were a living thing, a steed or beast nestled at his side, dozing peacefully.  That hint of amusement turning into something of a teasing grin as he intimates the ‘company’ he so prefers is the car.  In truth, he doesn’t mind Anya hanging around the shop, quite likes it in fact.  She’s quiet... But sometimes it’s -- nice, just to have company and not feel obliged to fill that space with pointless words.  It also means that when she does speak, he has a tendency to listen.

It’s followed by a small purse of lips and a pause ( because he only caught about half of that sentence first time through, and has to re run it through his own version of mental translation before he’s more sure about the words that were tangled up in that accent ).

“Why?  So they can ask me if dragons and magic were real?  If I ever found the holy grail?  If I know where the super sword of uber mojo is?”

The words are a little wry, followed by a breath of a laugh and a shake of his head.  There’s a -- problem -- when you’re the dreamer of an actual person and all anyone seems to know about them comes from fable or legend or -- even worse  -- Hollywood.  It also meant he might find his attention and his hands - unoccupied.  And that’s when things started to get... dangerous.  No he doesn’t pick fights, doesn’t even go looking for them, but the world seemed to be full of shitty people treating other people in shitty ways... And that was pretty much the proverbial red rag to Finns bull.

“Shakespeare, huh?  Well... look at you - all excited.”

“Tell you what - why don’t you go socialise... And I’ll fix the car.  And... you can fill me in on all the juicy details later.”

However, he stacks the smartarse comments when her tone changes.  A trap?  It doesn’t feel that way... Not to Finn.  Metal doors and barred windows were a trap.  Small cages for large beasts... That was a trap.  Since moving here, it’s perhaps the most... Free he’s ever really felt.  No incarceration hanging around his neck like a sordid rumour.  A fresh start.  A place that might just have... Answers.  Perhaps it’s a weird slice of skeptical optimism.

Being independent in her business, being the boss of herself, had its benefits: you could close whenever needed, could make your own appointments and completely take control over your own life and schedule. For Alexandra the most important part of her day remained spying for Rouse, to be an important member of such a prestigious business, just as she has been within the Mafia. Working her way to the top, resilient, determined and brave, skilled in what she’d been taught all her life: turn others on their heads and let them melt underneath your touch, bending them forever. Bending others to her will had remained one of Alexandra’s best talents, which is why she didn’t even try to avoid the man in front of her. In fact, getting to know different people was both a great way to catch Dreamers but also to test her abilities. She could fail, naturally, but every new challenge served as a training.

Her gaze wandered from his eyes to the piece of paper in his hands. “Pretty expensive for such a small town,” she raised an eyebrow. Her thick Russian accent audibly accompanied her every word, but she didn’t mind – she still embraced her heritage, had to, considering they were people around town who possessed two lives, had lived through much more than she could imagine – every treasured memory from her past, every bit of history she had, remained a part of her, past and present.

“Actually,” she started, pointing in one direction “there’s a pretty decent apartment down the street. Backyard and garage. Mechanic?” Alexandra then stared towards his hands “or just generally a handsome mess?”

Wait... What???

Okay, so --  he’s completely thrown off guard.   Because -- shrinks are all pokey and proddy and nosey and generally -- not particularly helpful.  And this one was apparently, not only not being disparaging at his pretty dumb question, but is actually offering practical and useful information -                     ( pretty much unheard of from that particular profession, usually just questions on top of questions followed by ‘hmms’ that always sounded horribly ominous, as though they’d come to some kind of decidedly and decisively unpleasant conclusion ).  

“Well deduced, Sherlock.  What gave it away?”

The oil ingrained into the skin of his hands.  The smudges of grease that seemed to be present on almost every item of clothing he owned.  The lingering scent of fuel that never really seemed to go away.  It wasn’t a leap - but it also wasn’t something that most people ever really picked up on offhand.  Not something they paid attention to.  He’s usually ‘the mechanic’ by rote of proximity to the auto shop.  The guy you call for a tow when you break down in the middle of arsecrack nowhere.  Anywhere else... Just a guy.

Ah... Now this is something he’s a little more comfortable with.  The line and the smile.  He has to admit, she’s easy on the eye.  A good looking woman with a hint of mystery in that clip of accent.  And that is the part that’s supposed to melt his hot-blooded male brain to a bowl of hormonal soup.  ( And it does... Lets be real... ).  But--                     Let’s remember that a lot of the smiles he’s been graced with in his life have been a mask for something far more sinister.  A lot of words spoken have been a lie hidden within a sweetly sounding promise.

So yes... Soup. But perhaps luke-warm soup. However -- he’s not opposed to a taste.  So lets see what kind of game there is to be played.

“Generally handsome or generally a mess?  Because I can pick one if it might help me get a better apartment.  Bigger than a shoebox, garage would be a bonus.”

The card with the hieroglyphics is returned to it’s place on the window.

“Anyway - my turn for a deduction.  You’re not an estate agent or a realtor...  So that must mean -- you’re the new psychologist.”

He feels like a bit of a plonker        ( NOUN: British - informal ‘A foolish or inept person’ )                      sitting in the waiting area of Bend’s emergency room.  Having managed to navigate a fair few perilous situations all of his own accord without any major trauma, this one was marginally... embarrassing.

He distracts himself with the tiles on the floor.  Arranged in an irregular pattern.  Something that could be random, but there’s something about one of them, the grain going the wrong way to all of the others, that just prickles.  There’s the low buzz of a fluorescent light to add to that distraction, but it’s mostly just annoyingly intermittent.  There are names on boards which assign patients to cubicles, rubbed out when they’re either discharged, treated or moved onto a ward.  A smudge of blue building up on the white in streaks where partial letters remained and were overwritten.  Finally, finding a pamphlet to while away those waiting moments.  Which is remarkably uninteresting.  And ends up with thumbprint smudges from his own hands where blood was marring his fingers.  So now, he’s stuck.  With the pamphlet ( not daring to put the soiled leaflet back onto the pile ), the buzzing, the streaks and the wayward tile.

In one hand he’s also clutching a rag ( slightly oily, not... tragically dirty ) to his head.  And honestly, he wouldn’t have bothered coming here... But the duct tape he’d tried to nip the cut together with refused to stick and it just kept bleeding.  It probably looks a lot worse than it is.  No - he’s sure it looks a lot worse than it is, leaking claret like a sprung hydrant.  There’s a small child staring at him from the other side of the waiting room, mouth slightly agape, as though he’s something from a freakishly macabre carnival ( but, hey -  kudos to the kid for not looking away ).

And it’s not as though this was an accident at work.  No heavy machinery.  No failing equipment.

Nope.  This was injury by... Over enthusiastic spatula. Hence.  Feeling like the aforementioned plonker.

There’s another drip of blood threatening to roll into his eye, so he’s squinting when his name is called.  A quick swipe of that ( mostly ) clean ( ish ) rag and he’s blinking... A vague recognition curling into view at the face which appears behind a fine sheen of red.  And he smiles - it’s a default - before his brain engages.  The smile sticks slightly as an expression of ‘hello’, shifts slightly to ‘oh no’.

We’re now on the track from ‘marginally embarassing’, to ‘generally mortifying’.

“Hi... Hello... Uh... Miss De Luca, I’m... I mean, the car.  I fixed your car.  We’ve met...?  You probably don’t remember.”

Well, that was - superslick. Idiot.

A moments pause because he’s here now and apparently this is his attending physician.  And no amount of hoping the ground will swallow him up will actually make it happen.  So this one, he’s just going to have to go with.  Graciously.  Or... Awkwardly.  Probably the latter.

“Sorry, I probably sound like I’ve got concussion or something and -- I haven’t, really.  I’ve had that before and this is probably giving you an even worse impression or - and probably more likely, I’m just making myself sound like a moron.”

“I’m just gonna shut up now.”

Rose scribbled in her notepad in words that would be barely legible to anyone except her. She had her own version of shorthand she’d developed in school, an unsurprising necessity for mischief. Not that Rose broke the rules by habit….except for the times she gambled in her dorm. Or snuck out in the middle of the night to drink with the girls down the hall. And maybe there were visits from the boys at the neighboring school, once or twice. It’s not like Rose ever got caught, preferring scraps of paper that could be torn to pieces than texts that remained floating around forever. 

There was nothing so secretive about what Rose wrote now. Just comments on Finn’s movements, his explanations. She even sketched a voltmeter, just for good measure. Rose’s daring streak was outmatched by her desire to learn everything about everything. It’s why she knew Spanish, French, and Italian, though she had no one to converse with. It’s why she piled courses into her schedule, learning about art history and politics, religion and business. It was fun for her. Knowledge for knowledge’s sake. 

Finn seemed a bit thrown off at her notes, and gave her a warning. Rose grinned. 

“I’m making note of what you’re doing. It might become useful one day, it might not. But now I know: 13.8 or 13.4 on the voltmeter. I think it’s interesting: knowledge for knowledge’s sake. And don’t worry, I’ll leave Maggie to the professionals.” 

Rose tilted her head when he asked his next question. A quip about not having quite enough upper body strength was just about to pass her lips when Finn rephrased his request, so she elected not to be a smart ass. 

Notebook slipped securely in her back pocket, she climbed up into the driver’s seat. She pressed the clutch on her left, engaged the break on her right. Turned the key and…The resulting sound was downright pitiful. 

“See! It’s that awful purring,” she said, then imitated it, scrunching her nose (as if Finn hadn’t heard it the first time). Finn would fix it though, she decided. There was no reason to doubt him. 

And if she was lucky he’d be able to fix it soon. And then she could move onto other tasks. An idea popped into her head and she leaned out the driver’s side to get a good look at Finn. 

“And what about you, Finn? How do you feel about knowledge for knowledge’s sake? Or…Fun’s sake?” 

Knowledge for knowledges sake.  well... okay.  It was never a good thing to ignore a new snippet when it presented itself.  sure he’s had customers before who liked to poke around and make suggestions as to what they might think the problem was - sometimes they were right, sometimes they were talking about jelly beans.  ( In one bizarre instance, they were both right and it WAS jelly beans.  In the gas tank.  He didn’t ask - how... ).  But he doesn’t think he’s ever seen any kind of attentiveness where a notepad was involved.  He doesn’t mind in the slightest.  It actually makes a ice change for someone to be... well, maybe ‘enthused’ wasn’t the word... But - interested - rather than just muttering a string of curses about a broken down vehicle.

His attention draws to the meter in his hand as the engine attempts to splutter to life.  Though at the impersonation of a failing solenoid he can’t help but grin, a quick flash of teeth appearing through smudges of dirt..

“You should take that show on the road.  Can you do any other impressions?”

Though if it hadn’t been for her description in the first place, he wouldn’t have known where to start looking.  So, score one in her favour.  And - for the sake of the notebook, he moved slightly to one side, holding up the little meter so she can see the last recorded number.

“4 volts... See? -- The reaction on the plates still produces voltage because not all of the plate is damaged and the load of the meter is so small - that gives our 13 starter reading... When you try to start - you get a drop in current - not enough voltage and current to hold in the solenoid, which gives the ‘purring’.  You probably have a short or a destroyed plate in your battery.”

Annnnnd - that was probably more words than he’d shared with anyone in quite a while.  It also might have been more information than she needed.  Or wanted.  Or was it classed in the ‘knowledge for knowledges sake’ category.  He’s... Not entirely sure.  So that grin gets - stuck... for just a moment.  A fragment of slight unsureity followed by a swipe of one hand through too-long hair in a motion of fidget.  

“Uh... Point being.  New battery should put you right.  I mean --  Her, right.   Maggie...”

She does, however - hand him a neat little ‘get out of jail free’ card.  The next question again a curious one, but... Perhaps the slight ramble wasn’t altogether over the top.  And maybe, with that little notebook - with those small questions - he’s becoming more than a little curious himself... She’s certainly sparking a note of intrigue.

“I... I guess I’m on team ‘a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing’.  At least, in my line of work... But generally...  It’s nice to know what you don’t know - if that makes sense.  Or it’s good to be... Inspired to find out more.”

He’s no researcher.  No academic.  No scientist.  But he has made a fair amount of his own ‘enquiries’.  And Bend had been... Inspiring.

“So - Maybe for both?  I’ve -- learned -- quite a lot lately.”

 、. * @asoldierfights ❜  ––  location: town meeting / dreamer meeting. 

the chatter in the room fades out as Jennings finds his eyes drawn to the bright screen on his phone. he wasn’t the type ( by obvious in age ) to pay attention to the technology in his hand, but the distraction was all worth the while. He couldn’t stand being in the room with people he felt he had genuinely let down. the constant fear and paranoia left him tired, on edge and often bitter. feeling the presence beside him allows hazel hues to peek to the figure beside him.

without moving his head he allows his lips to perk up while frail fingers lift so slide off thin lenses. patting his chest to find the small pocket it’s only a few more seconds before lips part. “  –– not quite the round table, lad.” a soft chuckle follows. “I suppose things are better this way.”  a soul more ancient then his own left him feeling intimidated. looking to thr crowd of people he can only feel one thing: pride. those who were dreamers found themselves in a small town with a very large cause.

“sometimes i wish  –– “ he begins while a frown falls on his face as the hesitation becomes obvious. he knew he was often stepping into dangerous waters when the idea that one might enjoy their life as a dreamer rather than a present soul. his body tightens up while his eyes wander to the ceiling. “ it’s all rather silly. to live in two different worlds.” 

There’s a coffee cup in one hand.  And the setup is all too familiar.  Perhaps a wandering person might think it’s some kind of A.A. meeting.  To Finn, it’s reminiscent of ‘group’ in juvenile detention.  In both, he tended to be the one who hung around at the back, not really the active participant, more the active observer.

A sip of the lukewarm liquid and it’s hardly satisfying, but there’s still a crinkle of amusement curling at the corner of his lips.  Some Dreamers seemed to have their other lives detailed to the n’th degree in those tomes of history.  Dates, places, people, names.  His was rather the ephemeral reflection.  Something more fable and fantasy than anything linked to the ‘facts’.  And more often than not, those - overly romanticised with wild stories of magic and kings - had it all very wildly... wrong.

“I’m pretty sure that’s one of the myth parts.”

At least, he hasn’t seen anything vaguely resembling a round table - yet.

Those quiet observations have noted the rather weary appearance of the other.  And while there might be present versions of philosophers and scientists, the greatest thinkers of all time loitering somewhere in this room who could, perhaps, offer some sagely sound theoretical advice...  Finn was not one of them.  And neither was Arthur.

However, one of the two was particularly skilled at providing inspiration.  At rallying men, beaten, blooded and worn from battle into one last push.  Into giving the very last fragments of their strength for a cause that was true, rousing hearts, helping them to believe.  Being the ‘leader’ that people not only wanted, but sometimes needed.

It’s unfortunate then, that that wasn’t the one standing in the room right now.

“I’m not sure ‘silly’ is the word I’d use to describe it.”

There are a few choice descriptors he’d thrown in first before ‘silly’.  Confusing, bewildering, thrilling, bloodthirsty ( at least in his case ), inspiring,...  ‘Silly’, makes it sound like it’s something frivolous... Almost as though it’s a choice.  He doesn’t think it’s a choice.  There doesn’t seem to be an ‘off switch’.

“Look, man... At least here, people know they don’t have a screw loose.  Or, if we do... It’s a collective screw.  That’s a good enough start for most.”

He set right to work and it looked as though Rose’s silly comment was enough to get him thinking. Good thing too, because Rose could not be much more helpful than ‘it’s not working’. As he rifled through his toolbox she wondered, briefly, whether she had offended him. 

Sometimes people thought she was calling them old when she used “Mr.” or “Ms.” but her upbringing was designed specifically to avoid these kinds of social missteps. Boarding school had taught her to be unflinchingly polite, to cover every social interaction in a film of formality––while making it look natural of course. It seemed normal in the old money circles of Virginia, but here in Oregon there was little need for a practical application of her skills. It’d been a year and not once had she needed to choose between a salt spoon and a demitasse spoon, for example. 

She brushed her plaited braid over her shoulder, contemplating her choices. He didn’t seem to be terribly upset, and was already focusing on the task at hand. Probably he had already forgotten about it, and an apology would risk irritating him. She’d just leave it alone and let him keep working. As an afterthought she glanced at the snack she’d set out for him just a few yards away on a conveniently placed tree trunk. Could there be some mild affront there? Ah well, there was no way she could hide it now without drawing attention to herself. And really, what was so uppity about lemonade and biscuits?

Mr. Hayes––Finn––asked her a question, a welcome break from her worrying. 

“She’s only five years old,” she gave one of the tires an affectionate pat. “I call her Maggie. The owners got her at an auction, and we’ve never had a problem with her before. Nothing we couldn’t fix with onsite maintenance that is. You’ll be able to fix her here, right?” Rose bit her lip, eyeing the tow. 

She slipped a notepad from her back pocket and flipped to a clean page. She carried it everywhere when she was working, notes so she wouldn’t forget the daily needs of the farm. Her nose scrunched and her eyes narrowed as she tried to look over Finn’s shoulder. 

“What’s that, right there?” she asked as he worked. “What are you doing?” 

He’s not offended.  Not in the slightest.  He’s pretty hard to offend directly, more likely to be offended on someone else's behalf.  The rest is a little like oil and water, things he just shrugs off and moves on from.  The correction was just a round about way of making a request to ‘skip’ those formalities.  Things he doesn’t really feel belong to him, or that perhaps he doesn’t deserve ( when you’re just called ‘convict’ for a few years, when you don’t even have a name, but rather a number, it tends to get as ground in as the oil on his fingertips ).

“Age doesn’t always matter.  I’ve seen cars roll right off the assembly line and pretty much straight into a garage... a workshop... an autoshop... ”

This time correcting himself.  ‘Garage’, wasn’t used in quite the same way here as it had been at home.  And he finds himself having to flip and substitute words even now.  Bonnet - Hood.  Boot - Trunk.  And that was just the cars... Pavement - Sidewalk.  Crisps - Chips.  Chips - Fries.  And that one time he got ‘gravy’ and it turned out to be some freakishly pasty white gloopy substance... Not the brown pool of meaty flavoured liquid he’d been expecting.  However... Breakfast menus here always seemed to include bacon with syrup on pancakes and that is something he can definitely get behind.

He’s still lacking an answer for his question, how long she’d been standing...  Regardless, there’s still only one way he’s going to find out if his theory is correct.

“Voltmeter.  Measures the charge on the battery.”

He shifts a little closer, fingers slipping beneath the cool metal surface and clicking free the latch to unlock access to the meat of the engine.  As much a behemoth as the machine itself.  Massive intakes, cylinders, everything supersized.

“It should show 13.8 or 13.4 when the battery has been sitting.  Which... In theory, is good.”

He’s about to attach the clips when he notices the appearance of the notepad.  Which is... Curious.  He doesn’t think he’s ever been on a call before where someone’s thought to take... Notes.   So there’s something of an echo of her own question in return--

“What are you doing?  And... You know you really shouldn’t mess around with batteries this size unless you know what you’re doing.  A finger in the wrong place and you’ll get a shock big enough to explode your teeth.”

That’s... Not an exaggeration.  It could stop a heart... sure, but he’s actually witnessed the exploding tooth.  Amalgam filling, old fashioned style with plenty of nice conductive elements and a giant splash of mercury.  Boom.  

“Can you do me a quick favour?  Try to turn her over?”

Pause... Another slight glitch in terminology.

“Uh... Try to start her up...  Please?”

Tongue runs across his teeth, as though somehow the action might help to provide some illumination to the hieroglyphics he’s currently attempting to decipher.  Well, they aren’t actually, but they might as well be for the sense he’s managing to make of them.  Scrawling's on flash cards stuck to the window of the general store.  While Finn is sure that ‘penmanship’ isn’t something he had high up on his ‘to improve’ list, he’d like to think his writing is at least ‘legible’.

The card he plucks from the sun warmed glass, draws closer for inspection.  Now it’s not his teeth, but visual proximity that’s supposedly going to imbue him with enlightenment.

It really doesn’t.

As much as he can make out is:

                                                 FOR RENT:  ?? Bed, 2 bath                                                  ?600 Sq ft.  Non-Furnished.                                        $??5 per month.  ? Month Lease M??imum.                                             Enquire: George Bates.  555-90??

There’s nothing wrong with his eyesight.  Nothing at all.  But the squiggles and scrawls still don’t blossom into anything resembling any known characters he can recognise.

“Jesus.”

A half muttered curse, angling the card slightly into the light.  As though it’s some kind of mobile device and might just pick up extra signal and reveal it’s currently encoded mysteries.  One thing about the letting notice card though, if he’s finding it this difficult to read, maybe everyone else had too, and if the property was half decent, there might not have been any other enquiries.  

There is, however, an eclipse.  The light that he’s trying to catch, fading into a shade that makes the card in his hand a total enigma.  A shadow cast by someone close by, just behind him.  And he’s only half thinking - speaking before he’s turned -- 

“Hey, can you read this?”

Only shifting now to hold up the card with a slightly perplexed look, brow furrowed as he tries to figure out those gaps where the writing turns into mumbo jumbo.

Wow. 

                                                                      Fuck.

Okay - 1. that was NOT who he was expecting to see ( not that he was ‘expecting’ anyone in particular but, christ - not her ).  2. he’s allergic to ‘her kind’ (  yes, he knows ‘what’ she is... aka, goddamn shrinks.  poking and probing and fucking about where they didn’t belong and had no right to be and who were far too concerned with ego, id, super-id... ( whatever the hell they were )  and he’s kinda had enough of them okay?  He’s pretty sure any profession with the word ‘psych’ as a prefix brings him out in hives ).  3.  now it sounds like he can’t actually read and he’s just made a complete jackass of himself.

The confusion suddenly deadpans.  A glimpse at the card between his fingers then back up at her.  Slightly stuck for any kind of even fragmentally decent or dignified exit from this one.  

So, yes.  

                                                                        Fuck.

[ Open Starter / Aster Auto / Present / Any time of day that suits! ]

He looks at his hand, beneath the smudges of oil and grease, calloused fingertips that could curl so easily in on themselves to become a fist.  A weapon.  A tool of retribution.  But that’s not where his gaze lingers.   

Sitting right there in the centre of his palm.  Somehow mocking him with every glimpse - a lifeline.  

What is life if not a simple bundle of electrical energy?  The same thing that imbued lightening bugs with their incandescent glow.  That caused the flowers ( fewer and further between though they were ) to swivel in the dirt and turn to face the sun.  

What’s the difference?  Between those and the flickering filament of a filthy light bulb.  Of the static that hissed from a faulted broadcast, speakers crackling at the hiss of words.  

And just as a spark can -- j u m p -- can crack down from the heavens from sky to earth with violent ferocity in those flashes from a storm, or a crackle against skin, a build of charge from the rustle and rub of some cheap manmade fabric -- isn’t it possible that life can do the same?

That it can -- j u m p?

He wonders if maybe they all had a dose of some governmental experimental drug as children to be experiencing these bizarre night tales ( a theory rapidly quashed, given the relative global spread of the people in Bend ).  Maybe aliens then.  It could happen.  But given his penchant for the practical, the tangible and the ‘real’, he’s not about to suggest that Arthur is a product of E.T and some kind of freakish anal probing.  He can’t imagine that aliens would be either that detailed, or that imaginative.

So now he’s stuck.  With this dumbass -- theory of static.   Of some kind of energy that leaps across time.  Or rips holes in it.  

Damn, now that has a flavour of the crazies about it.  Maybe E.T. was the more convincing explanation. Or maybe he was just a moron.  

Giving those dreams more meaning than they deserved.  It was hard not to.  When he was - there.  When he was Arthur, tasting his life, breathing it in, feeling the weight of a sword in his hand, the fatigue of battle in his bones... It sure as hell felt real.

Not really thoughts he should be dwelling on.  Distracted by.  

Right now, he’s the reflection of a succulent sinner, kneeling at an altar of his own making.  Head bowed as if in worship to some god of metal.  A sacrifice, perhaps… similar in those motions.  Though he’s not taking a life to pay tribute to a long dead deity, he’s restoring it.  Wires that twist and turn through innards now gleaming.  A nervous system without sentience.  Oil that pumped through a central system, gold and gleaming, a slick life giver - heart and veins.  All encased in sturdy steel, boned axle and gleaming chrome.

The job is finished and it’s good.  Spectacular, even if he says so himself.  ( Maybe his dad would be... proud... )  Standing to wipe his hands on a ragged cloth that probably just added to the stains already ingrained into those calloused fingers.  Only then, getting the impression that he’s no longer alone in the front of the workshop, door ( as usual ) open wide to any customer who wanted to wander in.  He has no clue if they’ve been there for ten seconds or ten minutes.

“Hey.”

Swivelling on one heel with a nod of acknowledgement.

“You need help with something?”

3. what was the worst thing in your character’s life?

Seeing the disappointment on his fathers face.  Knowing he’d broken a promise.  Knowing that no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t change that singular thing about himself which brought so much trouble to the mind of a man just wanting to raise a ‘good son’.  He never wanted to let him down.  Never wanted to be the troublesome burden, to bring his fathers name into disrepute.  To have the people who knew them turn eyes of pity on his dad for begetting such a problematic offspring.

He’d only ever wanted to make him proud.And in that, he thinks, he’s failed.  Quite spectacularly.

12. what are your character’s major flaws?

Aside from the tendency toward violence in those situations where rage flickers brightly and he’s becomes retribution for injustice ( something he still doesn’t specifically see as a flaw in himself, though it was enough to be the cause of his twice incarceration ) - there’s an inner conflict between the want to trust people, and that inherent caution and neon warning sign flashing in the back of his brain warning him to keep his distance.  This means that sometimes, he’s not always willing to look too much deeper into the motives of others, that he might not believe those things he hears as ‘hearsay’, in the same way he might wish that if anyone found out about his less than gleaming recent past, that they wouldn’t judge him outright.  Giving people too many chances to prove him wrong…

14. how does the image your character tries to project differ from the image they actually project?

As a part time employee of Green Valley Farm, Rose was accustomed to managing a variety of small tasks. She hand fed baby animals, mended fences, and constantly cleaned. She loved the stables best, spending hours grooming and riding the horses. In her most peaceful dreams she rode so hard the wind stung her eyes, and her courtiers begged her to slow down so that she wouldn’t endanger herself. And sometimes she woke up laughing, filled with an impossible brightness. 

But there was a part of Rose that always wanted to take charge, and was good at it too. Over the past several months she has taken the initiative to oversee parts of the business side of the farm, managing appointments and purchases, and creating a website to attract more customers. And so when equipment began to break down, she took it upon herself to find just the person to fix it. 

“Thank you, Mr. Hayes,” she said, leading the mechanic to the shed. Finley Hayes had a reputation as a good, honest worker, who would give a fair price for his repairs. There was also the matter of him being a bit closed off, but Rose had little doubt that she’d be able to convince him to pay a visit. “There are very few things you can do on a farm without a working tractor, and every day she’s out of commission is money lost. I would have gone to the auto shop, but I couldn’t trust her to not give out on the trip and I don’t actually know what Bend’s laws are about driving tractors on the roads.

“Here she is. She just makes this odd purring sound when I try to start her up. There’s no cat trapped in the engine though,” she chuckled. “I already checked.” 

He’s in the shop tow.  It’s a beast of a truck, jack and crane lift on the rear... Though even the tow might find it hard to yank a 20 ton agricultural behemoth out of the dirt, so whatever’s wrong with it, better damn well be fixable or there might be a sticky situation forthcoming.  And callouts in Bend weren’t so irregular.  One Toyota that’s particularly stubborn to start ( even with new ignition switch and full service, it’s just a demon-shit of a cranky old car ), so he’s a regular at least at that house.  The farm though, a little less frequent - but... An engine’s an engine.  Enlarged as this one was.  

There’s a ‘clank’ as a heavy toolbox is shunted from one hand to another, Finn following as he’s led to the troublesome tractor.  Only the slightest wrinkle of his nose as ‘Mr Hayes’ reaches his ears ( firmly of the opinion that ‘Mr Hayes’ is his dad ).  Plus, blue collar tended not to come with much in the way of formality.  Or in Finns case, a grey coverall currently over his bottom half, knotted around his waist and a grubby t-shirt with fresh streaks of oil.

“Finn.”

He corrects by default, an automatic reaction.  Never ‘Mr Hayes’.  Generally only ‘Finley’ when he was a kid and had managed to get into trouble... Again.

“I reckon we can leave the ‘Mr’ protocol for the people in the expensive suits.  And s’really no problem coming out.  Hopefully it’s just something rattled loose or needing a tune and you’ll be back out doing...”

He has no clue what happens on farms.  Crop stuff.  Animal Stuff.  Agriculture stuff.

“...Uh... Stuff.”

Well, that’s a bit tragic, well done brain.  Moving swiftly on then.

At least it’s not the Toyota.  And the farm is a different experience.  There’s no lifting odour of old grease, fuel and a tinny radio in the background struggling to make itself heard over the sound of engines and hydraulics.  It’s quieter.  Gentler.  An ‘out of doorsyness’ that he didn’t experience that much.  It’s... Nice actually.

“Purring?”

Asked with a quick arch of brow, a flicker of a grin skirting the corner of his mouth when she mentions she’s already checked for a cat.  It would probably have been his first smart-arse comment had she not already beaten him to the punchline.

Purring - solenoid, maybe not a problem with the starter then.  Finn already attempting to diagnose without a glance.  A small challenge to himself, something to test a skill, to see if he can get to the crux of the issue with minimal intervention.  Of course, the fix afterwards was another story.

The toolbox hits the dirt with a ‘fwumph’, kicking up a little dust and he’s digging inside for a voltmeter.  Down to work and taking the task to hand.

“How long has she been standing?”

She.  Defaulting to the same nomenclature used.  Because it’s - easier - to pour all of this attention and focus into something that can’t return the favour.  And for all he might imbue a car or a bike, a truck or a van with a personality, with a – soul… Of sorts… It doesn’t hurt when they roll out of the workshop.  He’s not afraid of… Losing them.  Of harming them… By either accident or intent.  

Metal was stronger than flesh and blood.

5. does your character work so they can support their hobbies or use their hobbies as a way of filling up the time they aren’t working?

He knits.  Ex-con, hard time, grizzled mechanic generally smudged in oil and grease and – he knits.  It was something he picked up in juvenile detention.  One of the therapy classes and it is therapeutic.  He’s also gotten rather good at it.  Escalating from scarves and blanket patches to sweaters.  Probably not a hobby associated with someone like Finn - at least not from first impressions.  But don’t be incredibly surprised if he happens to saunter into Bends knitting circle for a cuppa and a few rows of ‘knit-one-pearl-one’.  So…. No, not really.  That’s pretty much his only ‘hobby’, ( not one widely advertised ), not super pricey.  He works to live, and the work is - like the knitting - a form of catharsis.  So all round either up to his elbows in the metal guts of an engine, or… Stocking up on woolens.

6. what is your character reluctant to tell people?

Finn doesn’t like revealing much about his own past.  There are too many labels that go along with it, and generally people don’t take the time to hear beyond the whole ‘ex-con’ part before they’re dismissing him in totality.  It certainly helps that Bend is so very far away from his home and that past doesn’t necessarily come to the fore too frequently ( at least his more recent past ).

7. how does your character feel about sex?

Yes please.  ( o__o … *sigh* )

…In general, Finn is pretty easy going.  He’s fine with a no stings fling, or the occasional booty call.  He doesn’t see sex as any kind of commitment.  

8. how many friends does your character have?

With his history, only a few people who ‘really’ knew him were ever that close.  A lot of people going on the aforementioned ‘reputation’ and giving him a wide berth.  The friends he did have back home were trusted and genuine.  In bend, even with a few years under his belt, he’s still attempting to keep something of a low profile, but he will have made a few connections.  He’s a generally affible, likeable guy though, so if there are no preconceptions to cloud judgement, he does tend to make friends with people pretty easily.

9. how many friends does your character want?

All of them

This is - mostly - Arthur’s fault.