Artifacts [Read Only] - Printable Version

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Artifacts [Read Only] - saronym - 08-26-2015

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Artifacts [Read Only] - saronym - 08-26-2015

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Artifacts [Read Only] - saronym - 08-30-2015


Over companywide communications, Owen was affectionately called “Blondie.” He personally hated the nickname. He preferred his last nickname "deadeye." They had called him that (short for deadeye dick) for two reasons. For one, he was a bit of a virtuoso shot in his days as the designated marksman. Secondly, he always “got the booty,” which was referring to Owen’s inordinate success in getting women to sleep with him. Way better than Blondie.

Everybody had a nickname. The communications encryption couldn’t always be trusted, so it was for security reasons. Though, if it was entirely about security they would have rotating names or randomly assigned names. But that wasn’t so. Once you got your nickname, you were stuck with it until you ranked. If you ranked. Owen, as it were, had recently been promoted to Staff Sergeant and had graduated to “Blondie." With his rank, Owen cross trained into the ‘infantry reconnaissance corps’ which was Covenant bullshit for basically ‘those assassin guys’ or the ‘sketchy mission guys.’ Everyone called them Spec-R for ‘special recon.’

“Blondie this is L2 check your 1. We’ve got an unidentified shadow on imaging. Verify.” L2 was the Second Lieutenant who got his plain nickname from his hardass style of leadership. He was the one who would comment on whether your uniform was within regs. Not that he cared for rules. He just liked to stick it to his subordinates. L2 was calling Owen’s recon assignment from a remote location. He watched the operation from a very early generation drone with a pretty weak ass camera. Owen was pissed at the Second Lieutenant for this assignment. He had been paired with a new recruit who hadn’t even fired a gun in combat before. The new recruit was his only support other than L2’s eyes and young man was stationed 50 yards away to Owen’s rear left. He didn’t know that the point of this assignment was to a) to test his nerve, and b) to punish him for his continued insolence towards commanding officers. Yes, the Covenant leadership could be that petty.

Owen popped a green apple Jolly Rancher into his mouth and discarded the clear wrapper on the ground. Everyone had their superstitious things. The sweet green candies were a sort of good luck charm, for him. He had been in position for more than an hour already and was bored as hell. He lowered the night vision monocular. “This is Blondie roger that...” Came Owen’s response crackling over the radio. He was on foot in the ‘kill zone.’ The ‘kill zone’ was a small abandoned hamlet in coastal Turkey that had housed not more than 150 people in a wereleopard clan. It was a ‘kill zone’ because Owen had open directives to execute all remaining adults, no matter their allegiance. It was a clean-up job. He peaked out from behind a ruined brick wall and raised the M4 to peer through the sights. “Enemy vehicle at my 1 in sights. It’s a private security issued armored humvee. Pimped out with a Resistance turret!” He paused to raise his gun again, “Can’t get a positive id something’s weird about it. Over.”

“L2 to Blondie. Any combatants?”

“Fuck if I know, L2! I wasn’t issued the thermals I requested. Although the turret is--" He was cut off by the young recruit.

"This is LittleBrother engaging support fire!” Owen fell to the ground flattening himself prone on his belly to avoid being struck by any negligent rounds from the idiot firing. The new recruit was wielding the .50 cal and hammering the vehicle he had just been identifying. “Yea! Eat shit!”

“Fuck me! Fuck! Hold your fire! You fuckin' moron!” Owen yelled over the comm choking on his Jolly Rancher. The firing stopped. He spit the green candy into the dirt. “I was saying I think the vehicle is disabled! The turret is facing north and already destroyed that’s why I can’t get a positive id. Just watch your fuckin’ sector on the left Littlebrother and don’t fuckin’ shoot towards me. Shit!" He righted himself and dusted off. "Approaching the vehicle now." He trotted quickly with his rifle raised and ready to fire should he meet any combatants.

“L2 to Blondie. Stay frosty! Littlebrother do not engage unless requested by your superior!”

“Roger L2. My bad.” Said the recruit good naturedly. He was happy to have discharged his weapon finally. Owen didn’t answer.

“Whatcha got Blondie?”

“Not a goddamn thing but wasted rounds in a disabled vehicle. L2 interrogative: Can I get close air support? My cover is blown to hell here.” Owen kneeled behind the humvee and swept his field with the weapon.

"Negative Blondie."

"Requesting additional armored ground escort, then. I’m sitting here with my balls hanging out, Lieutenant!" He remained in his vigilant posture waiting to be attacked. His heart was pounding.

"Negative. Littlebrother’s got your 6. No additional support. The Brass said you were some kinda extra special edition elite professional Blondie. I hope you don’t have to engage with these real hard motherfuckers out here who don’t get their panties knotted over fancy scopes and extra support. Cut your bitching and push through.”

The grainy film produced by the early model drone showed Owen slapping his hand against the ruined vehicle door in frustration, pulling the radio away from his mouth, and lifting the monocular to scrub a gloved hand over his face.

“I've lost comm with Blondie. Visual intact." The technician informed the L2. Not moments later Owen re-engaged the radio.

“Blondie remain engaged with comm at all times. Proceed with recon we’re on a tight string here. It’s time to get your shit together!"

Owen rolled his eyes. "Roger that L2." He proceeded carefully opening the doors to inspect various dwellings. “Clearing D1.” He whispered into the radio, not that his presence was a secret anymore with the previous racket and his own yelling. Each dwelling was identified by a letter and a number signifying a grid on their objective map. The technician would green the cleared homes on his screen for the 2nd LT’s benefit. Neither of the men in the field had a fancy map; they had bulky paper maps that neither had time to fumble with. Really the operatives were expected to memorize the field. Those with poor memories or lazy study habits often met an early grave.

A clan of Persian wereleopards called the ‘Sadanians’ were moving through Covenant occupied territory in Turkey. They had been led over the Black Sea from Ukraine by a man who called himself ‘The GodFather.’ He apparently had an affinity for American gangster films and fancied himself a Corleone figure. Owen rather liked the guy from what he knew of him. Thought he was a real badass. His intention was to return his people to Iran from where they had fled a decade or so ago. They intended to link up with their larger root tribe there. Owen’s objective was to clear the village one of his so-called ‘gangs’ had recently ‘occupied’ and execute any stragglers. He was on orders to execute any adult remaining in the village. Even locals due to their potential as informants against the Covenant’s operations.

Although the Covenant occupied Turkey, the country was not a part of the pact. They were sovereign, on rocky terms with the Covenant leadership, and would not appreciate military operations involving anyone connected to their Iranian trading partners. Including those of the controversial Sadanian clan. Besides, anybody who knew anything knew that the ‘controversy’ was media bullshit. Owen knew the truth as to why the village was abandoned. That was the product of the psyops team that came in before him. Of course, the media headlines tomorrow would say the Sadanian clan ransacked the town.

The Sadanian clan that had been evading the Covenant’s authority for near a century, nevermind the struggle of the past decade. Owen didn’t think anything was changing with the Covenant’s authority over them anytime soon. They were determined to be free of the organization’s influence. And Owen didn’t see the tactical significance for the Covenant’s pursuit of them. They didn’t pose a real threat except to the Covenant’s so-called ‘impeccable’ authority. Not that Owen’s opinion on the matter was worth anything to anybody.

Over the course of two hours, Owen had executed three stragglers. Two of which were together and already wounded. He now exchanged fire with a fourth man who popped in and out of a building’s window. He loved a good firefight. Got his heart racing and afterwards when he found out that he hadn’t died every breath felt sweeter than before. Finally with one carefully placed three round burst Owen took the other man down. It couldn’t have come sooner as he was starting to feel muscle fatigue from constantly holding his weapon to his face. He was sweating profusely and well beyond ready to wrap the mission. “Target down in B12. No further movement detected. Approaching.” Littlebrother hadn’t done anything but ‘watch his 6.’

He entered the home and was moving aside a bed that had been pushed to block a doorway, when he felt something sharp and crushing clasp onto his leg. He cried out in pain as he was pulled to the floor. He landed on his stomach on top of his rifle which bruised his ribs with the force of his body falling. He gasped for air and writhed around to find a relatively small leopard with its mouth firmly around his calf. “Enemy contact!” He shouted into his radio. “I’m down L2!” He groaned painfully and grasped his rifle in shaking hands. He used the butt of the weapon to clock the cat right between the eyes. It released his leg and backed up hissing. “Engaged.” His voice was more calm despite the brutalizing pain coming from his leg. “Sustained injuries.” Just as he was raising the rifle the cat transformed before his eyes into a scrawny little girl. She couldn’t have been older than 11, with tangled black hair. She rubbed at her bruising forehead with filthy hands as tears rolled down her face. The salty liquid cleared a runway of dirt from her tawny cheeks. She stared at him with burning eyes. Owen realized with no small amount of horror that he’d probably killed her father before her very eyes not moments ago.

“L2 to Blondie confirm execution.”

“Blondie to L2. Correction. Contact made with civilian, female child. Maybe 10 or so.” He paused staring at the sobbing girl. “She’s surrendering. Interrogative: Can I get a medical evac?” It was a lie, she was not at all indicating surrender in the least. She was just crying pathetically, but Owen didn’t know what else to do with her. He certainly wouldn’t shoot her.

"Denied Blondie. Remove the threat. Proceed with recon."

"Negative L2. There is no threat. The child is surrendering. The ROE articles state I cannot execute anyone who surrenders to me in occupied territory. I'm taking her into my custody." He referenced the articles knowing full well how self-righteous he sounded. One thing his father had impressed upon him was ‘Know your rights, know your duties, know the purview of the law. You will be asked to cross lines, Owen. There will be times when you may have to cross lines. But the choice falls on you. The biggest favor you can do for yourself now, is be educated in preparation for those times.’

"NEGATIVE?” Roared L2 over the comm so loud that Owen reached up to pull the radio from his ear. He was left with a ringing sound. The vocal distortion was apparently audible to the girl, who jumped at the yelling and cowered. “Remove the threat. Proceed with recon. Now!"

"I cannot do that, sir." Was all Owen replied before disconnecting communication again. He slipped the strap to his rifle over his shoulder letting the weapon hang from his back. He spread his hands out showing her his palms. The universal non-threatening posture. Though posture aside Owen remained a large heavily armed man who had just likely killed the girl’s guardian. «Let me help you.» He tried speaking in Turkish first, betting she was likely from the local clan.

«Are you going to hurt me now, father?» She gazed at him with watery golden eyes.

As he suspected she was Turkish. ‘Father’ was as close to the word as a translation could come. It was really a slang term from the local dialect that children called all adult males who commanded a certain authority. They would often call their own father, a male teacher, a priest, and even a soldier the same word. That she would use the term to describe him wounded Owen a bit. That was because he misunderstood the word for an affectionate term. It wasn’t. He reached into his pockets and offered her some Jolly Ranchers smiling sadly, «I’m sorry what I’ve done, but I won’t hurt you. It isn’t safe for you here.»

The Covenant tried to sow the seeds of suspicion for all non-human creatures in their soldiers. The organization was primarily interested in promoting human interests in the world. Maintaining human power, politically, economically,and territory-wise was their primary objective. Though on the outside they played friendly with the ‘paras’ as they called non-humans. Short for ‘paranormals.’ Many knew the truth that unless the ‘paras’ played by Covenant rules, they would be targeted. Such brainwashing efforts were mostly lost on Owen, whose own mother had practiced shamanism. He had also been partly raised by a Lynx after his parents were murdered. Shit, even his secretary with whom he was currently engaged in an impassioned and intriguing affair was a Lynx herself. Perhaps his closeness to the extra-human species stayed his hand in killing the girl. Many other Covenant operatives likely wouldn’t have hesitated.

Minutes later Owen emerged from the building, grimacing and limping, carrying the girl who clung to his neck. He reestablished communication once he knew he was in sight of the drone overhead. “Surrenderee has been extracted from tactical location B12. Requesting medical evac.” He stated calmly into the radio staring right up into the night sky where he knew the drone was hovering although he couldn’t see it.

"We got Blondie back L2.” Came the technician’s voice.

“Blondie while you’re playing Red Cross rescue bullshit cutting comm we’ve got static from the north. Three pickups coming in hot. The operation is lost. Abort. I repeat abort. There will be no medical rescue. You’re on your own.” Of course Owen would be blamed for losing the mission despite having successfully cleared 90% of the hamlet.

Owen wheeled to the north with the girl in his arms. He could see the rising dust from the trucks approaching through his night vision monocular. He turned around and ran-limped with the girl towards his support who was already in the humvee drivers’ seat meaning Owen could expect little counterfire.

“Get your ass out of the kill zone Blondie!” Came Littlebrother’s voice, “They’re abandoning us!”

“Welcome to the Spec-R, kid.” He huffed, wincing in pain, as he entered the humvee stashing the girl in the back seat. Once a safe distance away, Owen squeezed Littlebrother’s shoulder, “You got your cherry popped tonight.” He laughed.

Later in the medical barracks, the Second Lieutenant was spotted laying into the insubordinate Staff Sergeant.

“Let me understand this, my 1st class Spec-R Staff Sergeant--who is supposed to quickly and effectively survey and neutralize danger for the RIF and coordinate with other elements of the infantry--disobeyed orders, sloppily executed his assignment to the failure of the objective, and has just been put out of commission by a baby werepanther bitch. Do I have that correct?”

“Wereleopard, sir. And the wounds are rather superficial. But essentially, that’s a fair summation, sir."

"Look around you blondie. You see any other Spec-Rs here?"

"No, sir. I do not."

"That's because you're supposed to be an elite motherfucker. These standard issue infantry pussies are supposed to look up to you and tremble. And here you are getting a fucking bed bath like you're at the spa?"

"Yessir."

“Don’t ‘yessir’ me with your regs quoting bullshit saving little girls act. I’m on to you.” While Lieutenant was laying into Owen, the blonde couldn’t stifle his laughter. He was snorting and grinning like an idiot. “What the fuck you laughing at?” The Lieutenant demanded

“Sir, I think you just called me a gentleman and a scholar. And I’m honored, sir!”

A medic laughed nearby.

"The General is watching you and me now, Blondie! And he is not fucking happy. There will be no more fuck ups from you!” The Lieutenant shouted into Owen’s face while the medics and other patients snickered nearby.

That was partly true. The General and other Covenant higher-ups were watching Owen after that, but they weren’t unhappy with the young officer. They were interested in grooming him for much higher ranks, if his penchant for rebelliousness could be refined into ‘take-no-shit-leadership.’ He was well liked by the others. And displayed excellent judgment when pressed to do otherwise. He displayed a mind for the bigger picture. The mission was secretly considered a success. Littlebrother publically recommended Owen for a Medal of Honor for good judgment in sparing the civilian life. The recommendation was suppressed and Owen was punished for his insubordination with extra grueling PT exercises and the most ludicrous assignments for months. The worst part of his punishment was watching the little girl be executed after a military tribunal that determined her an ‘informant.’

When the Major met with the General to discuss a potential assignment for Owen and scaling back his punishment the General scoffed, “Not yet. Can’t you see we’re grooming our prized fighting dog? Abuse him. Keep him hungry. Keep him angry. And he’ll be ready when we send him out next time.”

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Artifacts [Read Only] - saronym - 09-03-2015


Just as with the people Emergency Department, animal emergency medicine involves the sorting of true emergencies from the less pressing cases. The following are accountings of Cain’s experiences dealing with owners whose pets are less acute and thus find themselves able to be distracted by his physical appearance. Either that or they’re just bad pet parents and have short attention spans. The poor boy, erm man, has always been tormented by his cat features (Lynx ears and a long feline tail inherited from his mother). And it seems adulthood will offer him no respite from the intense embarrassment he experiences being a hybrid subjected to awkward questioning, stares, and presumptuous touching of his not-so-human features.





With pale eyes fixed on the brief medical history attached to the clipboard, Cain entered the examination room. He eyeballed momentarily the petite elderly woman seated on the stool and then glanced at the terrier on the examination table.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Hart. I see that --, uh, Burrito has been having some difficulty passing stool lately? Do you know when his last bowel movement was?” Cain was always one to get right down to business. No need for unnecessary prolonging of introductions. He set the clipboard on the counter to stretch the latex gloves over his fingers.

“Oh no! You won’t do! I can’t have you in here!” The lady exclaimed.

Cain’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. His sensitive feline ears rotated like satellites to the source of the grating voice. “Ma’am?”

“I can’t have you in here!” The petulant old woman replied curtly without explanation.

Cain’s ears flattened against his head, an involuntary response to aggression. “I’m...uhm…I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m allergic to cats.” She explained, her hand flew to her moth covering the orifice as if to block her airway from being assaulted by any dander coming from the doctor with cat ears and a cat tail.

“I’m a person.” His ears remained pinned to his scalp, and his tail was beginning to flick impatiently.

“But you’re also a cat.” She said gesturing to his active tail.

“No, I’m a person.” He said this less confidently. If truth be told Cain knew next to nothing about his Lynx heritage. He had shut down his mother anytime she tried to discuss it with him. He preferred to think of himself as 100% homosapien even though that was becoming increasingly difficult with certain changes occurring with his body. His vision seemed to be getting better. He would forget to turn on his headlights to drive at night because, frankly, he didn't need them. He could hear Akiko talking to people on the phone in the other room with the door closed, even though he tried not to listen. He felt stronger too. He had almost easily defeated his father, a veteran bar brawler and professional assassin, in a friendly sparring match. And there were the strange new bone formations on his latest dental x-rays. It seemed Cain was growing fangs. The dentist had stared in wonder at the scans and laughed suggesting Cain would be "teething" soon as they would certainly be pushing out his dull humanoid canines.
He couldn't begin to fathom why at 26 years old such changes were now occurring. And he hadn't bothered informing anyone close to him.

“I feel my throat closing up. I’m having difficulty breathing!” She exclaimed dramatically. She produced a blue little inhaler from her purse and puffed on it, as if that proved her claims of respiratory distress.

“Ooohkay then. I’ll see if another doctor is available.” He didn’t even bother pulling off his gloves before he retreated from the examination room into the staff hall that led to other exam rooms, radiology, and the kennels. In a fit, Cain threw the clipboard against the wall “FUCK!” He yelled loudly.

“What is it this time, Dr. Hart?” It was Indigo, the sassy little vet tech who followed him everywhere like a schoolgirl with a crush. Truth be told she did have a crush, but she wasn't any younger than Cain. And Cain didn’t mind her following him around, she was the most competent tech. Also the other techs deferred to Indigo for assisting Cain since they mostly wanted nothing to do with the grumpy, anxious new veterinarian, regardless of his good looks.

“Ask Dr. Deveaux if she’ll switch me for room 3. The owner said she’s allergic to me.”

Indigo did not bother stifling her giggle. When Cain shot her a glare, she straightened up a bit and snorted down the laughter. “Oh that bitch! Right away Dr. Hart.” She retrieved the clipboard and scurried away. "We should get your tail fur tested and see if you're hypoallergenic!" She suggested just as she was turning the corner.





Cain hesitated before entering exam room 5. The notes stated that the owner gave a poor history due to being distracted by a very active toddler who was digging in the trash can and opening the lower cabinets. The owner was also distracted by the active puppy dog that would not stay on the exam table. He sighed and opened the door. He did not become a vet because he liked people.
His assistant was already in the room waiting for him.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Hart, I’ll be examining Oscar.” He said as the toddler ran from underneath the exam table laughing hysterically at some game he was playing with his mother. He was holding a wad of gauze pillaged from one of the cabinets. “....I understand the dog got into some chemicals in the home. Can you be more specific?” Cain stretched latex gloves over his fingers and began his examination. He attempted to get a feel for the dog’s heart and lung sounds amidst the scream-laughter and opened the dog’s mouth to peer at its throat for any evidence of an abrasive chemical. Indigo stood nearby taking down notes as Cain dictated them. She didn’t need to hold the puppy still as it seemed quite sleepy now, which wasn’t the best sign.

Meanwhile, with questions unanswered, the little toddler looked up in Cain with an expression akin to divine wonderment, “WHOA MOMMY! That’s the hugest kitty cat EVER!” He screamed in delight pointing at Cain with a sticky finger.

Cain sighed heavily, he felt the dog’s stomach with probing fingers and placed his stethoscope to its soft underskin. “ Could he have ingested any acids…. anything corrosive or any caustic agents? ….Petroleum distillates? Anything of that nature?”

The mommy laughed, giving Cain a look that only mothers can give. The isn’t my moronic, sticky, ugly child the cutest most cleverest and precious angel you’ve ever seen kind of look. “No honey that’s the doctor.” The mommy corrected the boy before answering the inquisitive doctor. “Oh heavens no! With a child around?” She was almost scolding him for asking.

“Right.” Cain removed his gloves. "I think it would be safe to induce emesis." He said to Indigo. His eyes flashed over to the boy and mother, asking advice with a look. Indigo nodded agreement at his indication of the plan and marked the chart for him. As for his request for assistance handling the clients, she shrugged giving him an amused grin.

“But he’s got kitty ears like Fluffy! And a tail!” And the conversation about the freak cat doctor was continuing. Apparently they also had a cat named Fluffy.

“Yes, he does. But look he’s got two legs and a face and thumbs like people do.”

“But is he a nice kitty?”

“I’m sure he’s very nice.”

Cain was trying to ignore them and was now shining a light into the dog’s eyes. He looked concerned.

“Can I pet him then?!”

The mommy looked at Cain expectantly in a way that only mother’s can do. The way that says, you better let my precious baby angel do whatever uncomfortable and completely ludicrous thing my precious baby angel wants to do. “I’m sure he will let you if you ask him nicely.” She said as if Cain had already agreed. Who wouldn’t agree to humor a precious baby angel, after all? Surely only a monster.

“Hey Dr. Kitty man can I pet you? PUHLEASE.”

“Uhm. Well...” Cain hesitated looking quite uncomfortable his ears pinned back and tail limp. He didn’t answer the child, but switched topics awkwardly back to the canine patient, informing the mother of his findings. “By my exam, Oscar doesn’t seem in any acute distress at this time. No signs that are concerning for anything abrasive or corrosive going down, good heart sounds, but respirations are a little shallow, and he seems a bit sluggish. I don’t feel comfortable discharging him. It would be best to admit him. We can see if anything comes up on blood panels, monitor him for a 12 hour period and see how he does. I would like to induce emesis right away given his change.”

The ignored child immediately started crying with his voice alone. Nary a tear leaked from his manipulative eyes. The mommy picked the child up and gave Cain a look as if she had just seen the Devil himself in the doctor, “He’s just a child! I’m sure it wouldn’t trouble you that much to let him pet you!”

“Uhm...okay?” He was hoping satisfying the child would allow him to get permission to treat the deteriorating dog. The mother approached lifting the small boy so he could reach Cain’s head. A sticky and none too soft hand petted, or rather beat at his hair and ears frantically. “Nice Dr. Kitty man!”
Cain's ears twitched and flattened against the assault.

“I think we should go ahead and have you admit Oscar then.” The lady said as if that were a reward for Cain letting her son pet him.

With thumb and index finger the doctor removed the boy’s hand from his hair giving the mother a forced smile which was little more than an uncomfortable grimace. “Indigo. Can you get Oscar set up and get the apomorphine for me?”

“Right away Dr. Hart!” She hummed cheerfully and lifted the puppy from the table to take him into the back.

“A tech will be right back with you for the paperwork.” Cain muttered before following his assistant. Upon entering the hallway, he yelled, “FUCK ME!” and threw the clipboard with the chart.

“You should have been a radiologist or something Dr. Hart. You have really terrible people skills. You are so awkward. And that kid was really cute, too!” She chimed over her shoulder as she walked away with the puppy.




Indigo stepped in front of an irate Dr. Hart to stop him from entering this particular owner’s room. “Cain take a moment and breathe for a second. The guy’s an idiot, we know, but you can’t go in there all grumpy cat like.” She used his first name since she was talking to him less as a professional, and more as a concerned friend. Cain sighed heavily and scrubbed a hand over his face. He neutralized the anger on his face (but not from stormy eyes) and rolled his shoulders to relax the tension. His tail, which had been twitching violently, thankfully also relaxed. Once composed, he pushed Indigo aside and entered the room. She followed.

“Alright Mr. Stuart--”

“Call me Preston, bro.”

Cain hated being interrupted, especially by an annoying frat boy whose pitt bull was in the back pitifully struggling for air because of his neglectful ass.

“Right. Preston. Anyways, I’m Dr. Hart, I’ve just come on shift. I’m taking over for Dr. Deveaux. It seems that ah--” He glanced at the chart, “Duke...has a pretty severe case of heartworms. The good news is that it’s treatable. The bad news is that many owners find the treatments...well, cost prohibitive. My assistant has printed an estimate for you. I understand there may be financing available, under...certain conditions... I can send someone in to speak with you about that.” Cain offered the paper, sincerely hoping the guy wasn’t a complete fucking douche bag.

The bro waved away the paper, “It’s no problem man. My dad agreed to pay for it. He loves that dog.”

“Okay...We’ll go ahead and treat him then.” Cain started to turn away.

“Hey dude?”

The doctor paused hand on the door, rolling his eyes before turning back to Preston, “Yes?”
Indigo nearly bumped into him, having been following so close behind.

“Dude the chicks dig the cat ears don’t they?” He was grinning like the fucking idiot he was.
He arched an eyebrow and glanced at Indigo, insinuating she might know what he was talking about.

Cain’s mouth gaped a little. He was completely thrown off. “Excuse me?”

“Like I bet you have the kinkiest sex. I mean what can that tail do to a girl? Ever do like double penetration? Use it like a French Tickler? What's the girth of that thing anyway?” The other man was sort of craning his head to get a better look at Cain’s tail which he had curled around his own leg in an attempt to hide the appendage in question.

“I’m sorry…” Cain couldn’t say why he was the one apologizing. “Is there something you wanted to talk about pertaining to your pet’s health, or..?”

“Oh uh nah man, it’s good. But seriously though, I bet you get some spankin’ tail. Get it? Tail?” He was laughing hysterically at himself now.

Cain turned on his heel and left the room without acknowledging the commentary. He threw the clipboard down at his feet with a clatter and yelled some fuck words. Indigo meanwhile was wondering the answers to those questions and peaking at the doctor’s tail for the rest of the night shift.



Cain wasn’t happy about having to treat a cat patient. Thankfully he had pretty much already concluded that the case was non-emergent based on the history as it said only, cat is itchy. That bit of useless information was provided by one of the interns; his favorite tech was off on this particular day.

Cain introduced himself in the regular fashion and started asking the pertinent historical questions himself, since he didn’t have a competent assistant. The owner merely looked him up and down and exclaimed: “Uh oh! You might want to watch yourself with her!” Referring to the feline patient, of course.

“I’ve been scratched, bit, kicked, puked on, bleed on, and all manner of unpleasantness by a variety of animals.” That was Cain’s best attempt at a good-natured joke for an uncooperative owner.

“No she’s in heat. She might try to back that little ass up to you. Since you know, you’re a male...well...a male...you know.”

Cain sucked at his left cheek to occupy his mouth so as to not make a rude retort. “No. I don’t know what you mean."
He spat.

"You're a male cat, right? She can probably sense your pheromones."

“I’m sure my pheromones are no more attractive to this cat than the average human male. So is she primarily an inside cat or outside?” The examination continued although Cain was markedly uncomfortable with touching the feline obviously in heat. It purred and whined at him the entire time. Not that that was out of the norm for a cat in heat, but Cain couldn’t help but wonder if the cat did desire him.
He shuddered.

When he was finally able to exit the exam room, having determined that the cat was having an allergic reaction to the new canine in the home, he threw his clipboard down the length of the hallway and muttered, “Fuck it all.” His assistant that day, an intern, was very disconcerted to be assigned to the grumpy Dr. Hart.




“OW! I told you to watch his head!” Cain growled as he freed his arm from an aggressive mastif’s mouth.

“Sorry! He got away from me.” Indigo huffed, she hated when Cain critiqued her. She knew he preferred to work with her and didn’t appreciate him acting like her inability to wrangle the huge dog alone was entirely her fault.

Once the dog was removed to the back for radiology, Cain returned to the room to find a very chilly owner waiting for him.

“I’d prefer it if I got a new vet to treat Hammy.”

“I’m sorry have I done something wrong, Ms. Iglesias?”

“I have a child in here!” She was indicating her barely sentient newborn sleeping peaceably in a detachable car seat. “And that tongue piercing, I saw you have, is inappropriate! Not to mention the eyebrow and nose. They are just unsightly! I can’t believe the low standard of grooming this facility allows their doctors have! Are those tattoos?”
She was indicating the colorful markings on his wrists that peaked out from under his lab coat.

“Yes ma’am.” Cain was surprisingly serene. “I apologize. I will see if there is another doctor available to at least relay the pertinent information to you.” When he and Indigo exited the examination room, she confiscated the clipboard to stop him from throwing it. To her surprise he lifted his hands palms up in a satirical worship-like posture and mouthed ‘thank you’ to nobody with his eyes closed.

“Uhm Dr. Hart? You alright?”

“For once, no cat bullshit. She didn't even notice my ears or anything! The bitch didn’t like my piercings? Guess how many fucks I give!” He sauntered away, happy. The techs marked the days on the calendar with happy cat faces in remembrance that Dr. Hart was in a good mood for an entire week after that episode.

---

Artifacts [Read Only] - saronym - 09-30-2015

From eight in the morning until six in the evening, every weekday, for somewhere close to 20 years, my father’s mind contemplated the destruction of bodies. At times it was his fingers and hands that sliced, cut, shot, chopped, bludgeoned, and tore at the bodies of living people until they were dead. Father was a special reconnaissance assassin for a military force representing a pact among 10 nations--his job was to slice the throats, shoot the heads, and maybe disembowel the bellies (among other things) of hundreds, and likely more, of people who the Covenant deemed worthy of death.


Father got up every morning around 6:30. He always ran for exercise. Took his shower, then drank his coffee when he read the newspaper, then went to work in his office or in the field. When he went on assignment or official business he put on his Covenant uniform. He always shaved on these days, coating his cheeks in foam, before putting on the carefully ironed uniform with brass buttons. He would clean his weapons also coating them in various oils, checking the mechanisms, honing a blade. He would read maps, building specs, field operative reports, and directives over and over and over. Taking notes. And scratching them out. Pacing. Plotting. Planning. As a child observing him, I remember marveling at his preparation and wondering why he got so crisp, so clean, so immaculate just to go out there and come back so disheveled and dirty and worn.


“I have a process.” He was ever his vague response when I asked him what he was doing and why.


I think, when he went into the field or the office, he knew it was a theatre of politics, destruction, cruelty, bureaucracy, and horror. Yet still, he did not want to be just alive at the end of it. He didn’t want to just survive another day. Father wanted to be the best, the most intimidating, the most brutal, the most efficient soldier and strategist in the history of the Covenant. He seemed to operate under the sense that there was an audience for his work that didn’t include just the Commander, the Generals, or his immediate colleagues. Although he wasn’t a particularly superstitious or religious man, he seemed to be performing also for the men who preceded him, his own father and fallen comrades. And he was certainly performing for the men coming next, who would try to replace him.


When he came home at night, after an assignment, sometimes creeping into the house with his weapon in bloodied hands, and blood and grime on his body, I’d run downstairs to hug him.


“Hey son,” he’d say, moving away from me, “let me wash this off before you touch me.” He never called it what it was to me. Blood. Gore. But I think it wasn’t just the blood itself that he didn’t want touching me. It was also the unseen seed and source, the root and residue of brutality and violence, of greatness, and terror that had to be washed away.


The blood was merely where life and death came and went.

---

RE: Artifacts [Read Only] - saronym - 10-18-2015



I. 1st Tardy

The children were dropped off after school by their Aunt. Owen was solo parenting while his wife was away on royal business. Normally self-assured and unaffected, Owen’s confidence was shattered by the prospect of managing his own offspring’s needs. Alone. By himself.

“What am I supposed to do with the kids?” He demanded, as his wife was packing. He threw up his hands trying to look as put-out as possible. As if his incompetence was a trump card to keep her from tending to her duties. As if picking a fight would keep her there.

She said something like, "you’re their father, you’ll figure it out," in a way that was maddeningly warm, sympathetic, reassuring. He made some weak counter argument. He hadn’t been mad, not really. He couldn’t have been mad anyways, not when she said things in that voice that could melt him. Not when she could laugh at him silently with just her eyes. Not when she could touch his chest and say, "you'll be just fine," and it would be true because of the way she said it. She had learned how to take him down over the years. The right look. The right touch. And he was out for the count. Not that he wouldn’t give her hell anyways, if only because that was just what he did.

What was he supposed to do with a saucy pre-teen and a 5 year old girl? Anita had her head down as she ran at a full sprint towards the door. Her little bookbag swaying back and forth behind her. He opened the door and Anita ran full force into him she clung to his legs hiding her face against him. She was sobbing? He braced himself on the door frame at the impact, looking confused. His son meanwhile was trying to pass by to go hide in his room.

“Hey now, Anita?” Owen scooped the girl up and moved out of the way. He brushed at hairs that stuck to her wet and puffy cheeks. She didn’t say anything but gazed at him with watery blue eyes that made his heart ache. “Hold it, Cain.” He turned and looked askance at his son. The boy stopped in his tracks, his own ears pinned back, but for different reason. Cain didn’t like confrontation. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged looking down at his feet.

“Did someone hurt you, baby?” He had been waiting for the day that she would come home to report the same bullying that Cain endured for his lynx features at school. Indeed Anita was his ‘baby,’ his youngest whose obvious, unfaltering affection for her father had won over the heart of the distant man.

Anita wiped her hand over her eyes. She shook her head no, which provided some measure of relief for her father. “I-I- got detention.” She hiccuped. “I couldn’t pla-play at recess.” She erupted into desperate gasping bawling.

He carried her to the couch. When she calmed down he perched her on his knee, and forced her to look him in the eye rather than hide her face. “Why? What did you do?” Whoops, that came out confrontational.

“I didn’t do anything!” She protested, which sent her back into a fit of sobs.

He was never good at handling tears. He felt maybe his intense gaze was upsetting the child further so Owen pulled the girl against his chest and smoothed her hair. “You can tell me. I won’t get mad.”

She pulled away, glaring at him through damp, clumped eye lashes. “I got a tardy this morning and I didn’t have a note.” Owen indeed dropped the kids off late at school. From struggling to style her hair--she wanted a braid but ended up with a sloppy ponytail--, to picking out an outfit--she wanted her princess dress from last Halloween which didn’t fit anymore and had to settle for a purple jumper--, to getting her things together for school--she had a permission slip that was difficult to locate among the crumpled papers in her bag--Owen just wasn’t able to get her ready in time. Cain, who was independent in those activities and had smirked all the while playing some hand held video game. Owen noticed a paper safety pinned to Anita’s dress. He pulled it off and unfolded a note from the dean explaining her punishment and a form for him to return acknowledging his receipt.

II. 2nd Tardy

Owen purposefully brought Anita to school late the next morning. She protested fearing more punishment and made him carry her into the building. He sent her to class with comforting words and a kiss to her forehead and went to the administrator’s office. The clerk accepted his note written in scrawling script on impressive letterhead. The sheet commanded attention with a creamy thickness accented by the gold and blood red embossed seals of the Covenant and his department on either side of the header.

Dean Sadler:

Please excuse Anita Hart’s tardy today. I apologize for any inconvenience. I spent an inordinate amount of time this morning comforting my traumatized and demoralized daughter whose first experience of injustice occurred at school. This process involved a lot of sobbing on her part, faltering explanations on my part, and a trip to the ice cream shop on 5th street. It is terribly complicated to explain to a 5 year old that the world is an unjust and cruel place to children who despite having very little personal autonomy are nevertheless punished for their parent’s scheduling issues.

It came to my attention yesterday afternoon, when Anita came home from school in a state of emotional distress that she was barred from participating in recess and forced to endure detention due to an unexcused tardy. You can imagine my bewilderment upon learning that a child would be so cruelly punished, as if she were independent in getting herself to school on time.

Enclosed you will find the documentation I was sent informing me of the sanctions taken against Anita for my tardiness. This note serves to acknowledge my receipt of such. However I refuse to endorse any documents which would effectively indicate my approval of this institution’s culture of injustice.

Cordially,

Owen R. Hart

His signature was the type with large first letters followed by an elegant scribble and a heavy dot for the middle initial. Owen was ushered into Mrs. Sadler’s office with no small amount of flattery and fanfare after the dean received the incendiary note from the displeased Major General. He was offered an array of beverages and pastries which he graciously refused.

“Mr. Hart, I apologize that our disciplinary actions upset Anita. We have policies put in place by the parental advisory board.” Dean Sadler was a greying woman. She adjusted frameless glasses over deep set mocha eyes, her withering hands folded neatly on her desk. Her professional decorum could rival the impression left by his letterhead. She wasn’t a woman who could be intimidated. Mrs. Sadler had been the dean of 1st through 5th year students with last names A through H for 20 years and had battled with strong willed, high ranking officers plenty in her day.

“I see. I hope to understand what the benefit is for punishing a 5 year old for being late, when it stands to reason that any tardiness would be out of their realm of control.”

“We have no way of verifying that a child dropped off by a parent or guardian wasn’t dropped off on time and simply willfully arrived to their class late. That’s why we require a note.”

It was all too reasonable for Owen. “Didn’t anyone ask Anita why she was late?”

“I did. She said her mother was out of town and that you dropped her off late.”

“And instead of taking measures to corroborate her story--calling me for example--you decide to punish her. This is the kind of thing that shows children that being truthful is useless and will train them to lie, mistrust authority, and be suspicious of those who are supposed to protect her.”

“Interesting theory.” The dean replied with a syrupy patronizing voice. She leaned forward gazing at him from above her glasses. It was a sympathetic, confidential look. “I understand your desire to protect your daughter. Perhaps this is about something else? Perhaps her excessive reaction to a simple detention has to do with something that’s going on at home. Your wife being ‘out of town’ may be stressful for her. Children can be quite perceptive to marital discord.”

“I refuse to indulge your inappropriate insinuations.” He spat this back at the woman, leaning forward to mirror her posture, his hands gripping the arms of his chair.

She smiled knowing she struck a nerve with the irascible man. Returning to her professional posture, shoulders squarely against her chair, hands folded, she began patiently, “We have policies--”

“No tolerance policies that are enforced mindlessly to no true benefit!” His vocal intensity increased.

“There is no need to raise your voice!” Her hand cut at the air as if to slice away his anger.

“I raise my voice when the situation calls for it!”

“I apologize that I cannot satisfy you. You must understand I cannot give special treatment to Anita because of your rank and ire, Major General.” That was the first time she addressed him so.

After this the conversation turned to Owen shouting about being accused of abusing his rank. The dean threatened to have him escorted from the premises by security. He settled down not wanting to embarrass himself by being thrown off school grounds, of all places. Plus, he feared that Julianna would not be happy if she found out he raised hell at Anita’s school and was forcibly removed from the dean’s office. He left the campus confused as to how the dean managed to trick him into agreeing to join the parental advisory board. He ran the conversation back through his mind:

“It would be quite an honor to have the Major General and his wife as members of the parental advisory board. A man of your political stature will have influence with the members in making new policy for the school.” How she managed flattery in a way that sounded so insulting was a rare gift, indeed.

“Okay…” How was he going to explain this to his wife? Better yet, how could he frame it to make himself not look like an idiot? I volunteered us for some PTO thing at Anita’s school. See? I take an interest. Like she’d believe that.

The dean clapped her hands. “Great! We have a fundraiser event this Friday evening. A little haunted walk. Proceeds are going to fund an electron microscope for the science lab.” She was shoving an orange flier at him. “You can bring the kids and meet the parent and faculty members of the board.”

III. Drowning

Owen's knock was unanswered so he entered his son's room. Cain was sprawled on his bed video game in his hands. Blue eyes flashed at the intruder and back to the game. Owen sat on the edge of Cain’s bed. “Anita was upset because she got detention.” Owen pulled the game from Cain’s fingers. He played nice and pressed the pause button for his son. Nobody was in trouble after all.

The boy didn’t protest, knowing he wouldn’t win a battle of wills with his father. “So?” He folded his arms over his chest and gave his father a haughty stare. That defiance had become much more evident of late. Cain was growing up. He was beginning to want his independence, his privacy, and less to do with his parents. Owen tried to understand. He had been raised along with his sister by an agent of the Covenant who took them in when they were orphaned. Their upbringing had been far from normal, and Owen hadn’t experienced the typical course into adolescence.

“So, why didn’t you get detention for being late?” Owen wondered why Cain hadn’t brought home similar paperwork telling of his detention.

“I did.” His ears flattened guiltily against his head. His tail wrapped around his leg, a thing he did to comfort himself. He assumed he would now be getting in trouble.

Owen was silent, searching the boy’s eyes for clues as to what he was feeling. “Why didn’t you tell me about it?” His voice was unnaturally soft. Did Cain still trust him? Had he taken too long warming up to parenting his first child? Had he made his son fear him?

The answers were yes, most likely, and sometimes.Cain shrugged and looked away when he admitted: “I don’t know. I like detention.”

Owen caught his son’s gaze again. “Why?”

Slate blue eyes mirrored one another, but Cain’s gaze turned misty. “I don’t have to talk to anybody in detention.” When he confessed this, Owen’s brows knit together. He closed his eyes momentarily, letting out a heavy breath. He wished his wife were here to help him. That’s when Cain snatched at his game and flopped on his belly so he wouldn’t have to watch the effect of his confession play out on his father's face. “Can you just ground me already? I forged your signature on the papers, too.”

It was clear to Owen that the attitude Cain copped was a defense mechanism. Cain was hurting, had opened up to admit it, but didn’t want to wrestle with his emotions any further. That was at least something Owen could understand. He wouldn’t force the matter. “You’re not grounded, son.” Was all he said.

Later Owen dialed Julianna’s cell but it went to voicemail. He waited listening to the greeting she left in a cheerful, chiming voice as he sunk to their bed. He left her the desperate message: “I’m drowning. I miss you.”

IV. Butcher

Luckily (or unluckily) for Owen, he wouldn’t have to explain their membership at the parental advisory board. Not after he ended up punching a faculty advisor at the haunted walk and was prohibited from attending any more events or meetings. The event took place in the woods behind the school. Owen arrived with an excited Cain and a wary Anita. He enjoyed Cain’s rare enthusiasm. As the boy got older, Owen was remiss as many parents are to watch the light of childhood fade away into the angsty teen years. For Cain it was especially hard, when he increasingly feared that the boy was depressed being that he was socially isolated, bullied, with a history of self-mutilation. But that crisp fall evening Cain with childish delight ran ahead to the entrance, windbreaker flapping behind him, and waved for his father and sister to hurry up.

Anita tugged at Owen’s hand and stared fearfully at the entrance, which was made of fake spider webbing and creepy looking ragged cloth. A sign read: “Enter if you dare” in red that was made to look like blood. A man dressed as a scarecrow accepted tickets at the entrance. Owen thought the whole thing was cheesy. Normally, Anita would have loved the event, she was an adventure seeking kind of child. But Owen had made the mistake of allowing the kids to watch a horror movie the evening prior which scared the shit out of Anita. She initially refused to go to bed, crying about ghosts.

Owen woke in the night with a vague feeling that someone needed him. He couldn't say why he felt that way. "Daddddddyyyyy!" Anita was definitely calling out for him. He threw the covers off and dashed into her room.

"What is it Anita? Are you alright?" He asked worried, scanning the room dimly lit by her butterfly nightlight.

"I'm thirsty. Can I have a glass of water?" She sat up and rubbed her eyes.

Owen's muscles slackened. He was almost angry, certainly annoyed. "Of course. Why didn't you go get it yourself?" Nevermind that the house was pitch black, nevermind he had allowed her to watch a horror movie that took placed in a darkened home with one of the victims being a young girl who was terrorized while her parents slept, and nevermind that the cups were well beyond the reach of a barely three and a half foot tall five year old.

"It’s dark and scary. Mommy always gets me water before bed." She whined.

"Right. Mom always gets the water." He echoed seeming to be storing the information for future reference. Owen turned to go fetch what the girl requested.

“Wait! Don’t leave me!” She reached her hands out to him. “I’m scared.” Now awake in the dim lighting, watching her father’s shadow move across the floor, Anita was terrified again.

Owen held out his hand. "Come on then." In the hall, she pressed her face to the back of his legs which impeded his walking. "What are you so scared of? This is your house. You come down this hallway all the time." He flipped the light switch to the stairs. "It’s just the same." Of course he would use practicality and reasoning to comfort the fears of a child traumatized by Hollywood horror.

The stairs emptied out into the hallway that led to his office and the other rooms downstairs. She followed cautiously looking around her with fearful eyes. She startled with a yelp and clasped his hand tighter. "What's that? I'm scared pick me up!" Owen obliged lifting the girl. She clung to his neck and struggled to make out the shadow moving in the dark of the family room.

"That's just Jingles." He clicked on a table side lamp. The golden retriever blinked at the sudden light and wagged it’s tail.

Despite showing Anita that all the shadows and shapes in the dark were familiar household items, she refused to go back to her bed. She begged him to let her sleep with him. He felt guilty for exposing her to a movie that was obviously too mature for her and let her to sleep with him. Anita turned out to be a fitful sleeper who kicked him several times in the night.

Once inside the haunted walk, it was clear that Anita was overwhelmed with fear. Owen was left trying to negotiate Cain’s obvious excitement for the experience and Anita’s strong desire and whining to go home. They rounded a corner near a giant oak tree. A man dressed as a creepy butcher with a mask, bloodied apron, and fake cleaver jumped out and surprised them. Cain shouted, eyes wide, tail fluffed out, but was quickly laughing. Anita shrieked and clung to her brother who tried to shoo her away. Owen himself was surprised and unthinkingly decked the man square in the face.

The man staggered and cussed. “What the hell is your problem Owen?!” He ripped off the mask. It was Owen’s friend and the combat and P.E. teacher: Kent, with a bloody nose. Kent laughed it off, but the episode was witnessed by a few other parents. Owen was given a stern talking to by the dean and informed that he would be unable to attend any campus events until he completed an anger management course.

V. Tattle Tale

When Julianna came home, Anita prattled happily to her mother about her misadventures with her father. “Daddy made me get detention and he let me have ice cream for breakfast and watch a rated R movie and punched a teacher and we ate macaroni from the pot and drawed a picture with me. I rode in Aunt Victoria’s car! I asked if I could have her lipstick and she said only if your parents say yes. I asked daddy if I could have Aunt Victoria’s lipstick and he said only if you say yes. So can I have her lipstick?”

Owen was horrified that all the good and bad came out, unfiltered, in a rambling list like that. He rubbed the back of his neck and forced a smile, trying to look innocent, but he looked guilty as ever.

When Cain was questioned about his experience, he glanced at his father, the hint of a smile on his face as if they shared a secret. “Dad puts cheese on broccoli.” Was all he offered.

---

RE: Artifacts [Read Only] - saronym - 11-12-2015


Owen would have never described himself as a lucky individual. He didn’t lead a particularly charmed life. In fact misfortune had struck him at such a young age and so often that he felt the universe had a negative balance in dealing out the prosperity cards when it came to him.

With feet propped on his desk, the young Staff Sergeant was ruminating on bad luck and the possible existence of a vengeful god who delighted in his torment, while chewing on a pen cap. The file open in his lap was the detailed rules of engagement for an upcoming assignment he was feeling anxious about. No fuck-ups were allowed, apparently.

He didn’t even flinch when his office door flew open with a loud bang. It was almost as if Owen had already resigned himself to whatever unbalanced hand the universe would deal him on this day. He glanced up from his file and was surprised to find a vaguely familiar, and very obviously frenzied looking, woman the uniform worn by administrative specialists. When the woman stalked across the office in heavy heeled thuds and threw a fire engine red G-string onto his lap, Owen knew Fate had finally given him an ace.

He fingered the fabric trying to keep any signs of intrigue from his face as he moved his much less interesting assignment paperwork to his desk. “What’s this about?” He lifted the panties up to peer at the womanly specimen before him through the sheer fabric. A second ace. She was devastating curves complimented by a dangerous mood that promised pain. He found her sexy in a way that felt obvious and was entirely forgettable, like the women featured in some issue of GQ. In sum, he wasn’t at all displeased, but curious whether he should know her.

The redheaded woman huffed and lifted a form to recite to him the following: “Overall disappointment! I require to know the color, texture, and style of her panties.” As her hand dropped haughtily to her side, her recitation was punctuated by the sharp lick of the paper against her skirt.

Owen frowned, the undergarment remained suspended from his index. It now swung pendulously before his face with only a suggestion of movement from his hand. “You’re going to have to help me out here, darling. Who are you and what have I done to deserve these?”

“I’m Ginger!” Her voice took on a shrill quality when she realized that he truly did not recognize her.“The new librarian!.” His eyes narrowed and sort of glassed over as he searched his mind. “I helped you locate books on Game Theory, remember?” She noticed the titles she had found for him were scattered amongst his things on a messy desk. She picked up one to show him.

“Right--Ginger. The librarian.” He echoed flatly, clearly not recalling their very recent encounter. At all. Not in the slightest. To be fair, he’d met her briefly, while in distracted and in a hurry, the day before last. His remarks on the form emanated from the very overactive libidinous place in his mind that had been triggered after he came dangerously close to seeing what she had on under her skirt when she bent over to pick up a stray piece of paper from the floor. “So what’s with these again?” He queried returning the attention to the panties.

She shoved the paper she had read from earlier at him. “This is your review, yes?” Owen eyed the form and indeed noticed his scrawling script of disapproval, demand for panty information, and signature. He shrugged and nodded silently. “Well there are the undergarments you requested! Happy now? Can you correct the low marks?” She planted her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrows expectantly.

Owen laughed genuinely amused with his own immaturity and what he found to be her wildly hilarious solution to the problem. “So this is how you punish me? You actually brought me your panties? Seriously? I mean who does that?”

Ginger flushed with embarrassment. This wasn’t going according to plan. Ginger wasn’t good at plans, or negotiating, or improvising. She was really only good at filing and locating books organized on a predictable and unchanging alpha-numerical systems. “Give them back!” She insisted and held her hand out as if the sincerity of her embarrassment would have any effect on him.

Owen smiled deviously and brought the fabric to his face and breathed in with his eyes closed, looking rather aroused. “No, honey, I think I’ll keep ‘em.”

Ginger gawked and swiped at him, leaning deep over his desk to try to snatch the underwear back. The action knocked a couple of books, some papers, and a stapler from the desk. In response, Owen coolly pushed his chair back, just enough to be beyond her grasp. She groaned in frustration and straightened up, pulling her tight pencil skirt back down and tossing locks of auburn hair behind her shoulders. New tactic. Act as if it didn’t bother her that her plan had backfired. Pretend like she hadn’t rewarded this problematic officer with her panties. “I brought you a new form to fill out. I can’t turn that other one in to my supervisor.” This time a blank form was shoved at him.

The underwear were stashed in a drawer in his desk. Apparently, she was giving up on retrieving them, and anyway Owen had no intention of giving them back. He would show it to the guys when they had their bi-weekly Friday binge drinking episode his friends jokingly referred to as “cocktales.” They were on a story telling rotation of their conquests in sex, and it was Owen’s turn. He would impress the guys by turning his week into show and tell.

“I’m too busy to fill out surveys about librarians. Just throw the bad review out, simple as that. There’s really no need to go around throwing your underwear at me. It really is pathetic. All you need to do is ask to sit on my cock and I’ll let you.” Owen must have looked like a king greeting his adoring subjects the way he smoothly spread his hands in invitation for her to sit on the throne of his lap.

Ginger shifted her feet, determined to look anywhere but where he indicated. “For every set of books I check out I’m expected to turn in a corresponding satisfaction survey during my probationary period! I can’t just throw it out!” As if he cared about her bureaucratic troubles.

“Here’s what I’m going to do for you.” Owen stood suddenly and rounded his desk with his usual cocksure swagger. He had this predatory look in his eyes. With a disarmingly familiar touch that suggested entitlement, Owen ran his fingers over her wrist and coaxed her hand out from under the other. Ginger stared at him wide-eyed. Something about his commanding presence, the touch, the hint of danger behind his pale eyes, it all made the hair on her arms stand. But he merely pressed the blank form in her open hand and released her. “I’ll allow you to forge my signature on this. Just write whatever you’d like. How does that sound?” Indeed he used the most patronizing tone he could muster. The corner of his lip was turned up, clearly he was amused at the effect he had.

His condescension drew Ginger out of whatever momentary spell she had fallen under. With a grunting vocalization of frustration, the librarian slapped the blank form back at Owen, pressing the paper flat against his chest. “You fill it out!” She demanded releasing the paper. Owen made no move to catch it and it fluttered forgotten to the floor.

“I’m beginning to wonder what panties you have on today.” Owen mused, off-topic.

“You’re a pig!” Ginger snapped lamely and turned with a huff to exit the office. She was apprehended by a crushing grasp on her upper arm.

Owen swung her back around pulling her close so that their faces were inches apart. “You’re new so I’ll give you a pass this time. I don’t take orders from librarians, or copy clerks, or secretaries, or receptionists. I give them. So don’t ever storm into my office with your frivolous problems and demands and expect me to respond the way you want.”

Ginger shoved at him, the whole situation had escalated beyond the drama necessary. “You’re a sexist pig!” She wasn’t the best at thinking up insults, but bless her she tried.

As Ginger turned away, Owen said to her back just for the sake of having the last word. “When you’re ready to hop on you let me know, sweetheart, I always have time for that.”

She went just as she had come in: with a satisfying slam of his office door. A conquest indeed.

---

RE: Artifacts [Read Only] - saronym - 11-21-2015


Despite being a fully staffed 24 hour institution,Pike All Animal Hospital had an occasional issue with pet abandonment. It was likely because the hospital ran a small adoption center, which seemed to give the ill-informed public an excuse to dump unwanted animals or abandon those whose bills were too high to pay. The victims abandoned outside the facility were typically either an “aggressive” breed adult canine tied up to the sign or a litter of something. When Indigo pulled into the drive leading to the parking lot she spotted a box left on the curb which usually signified the latter.

She sighed as she pulled into the empty space next to where Cain usually parked his Mustang. Indigo typically beat him to work. He almost always blew in like a storm a few minutes before his start time, franticly caffeinating and hunting around for his stethoscope or badge. As she peered into the box in the half-light of the morning, she could barely stifle a squeal upon laying eyes on the precious beings inside. A box of helpless little baby kitties sleeping all huddled together in a pile of orange and white fur. Her delight was quickly replaced by pity as she realized how small they were and without the mother. They would need to be nursed by hand.

“Poor babies.” She cooed as she picked up the box. The kittens stirred, yawning and attempting to stand. They spilled over each other on wobbly legs unable to maintain balance with the movement of the box being carried.

At 6:56 A.M. Cain came rushing down the hall and into the break-room scrubbing his hands through his obviously uncombed hair. So consumed with nearly being late again, he failed to notice the small group of kennel maintenance and vet techs gathered around Indigo and aweing over the kittens. He figured they were appreciating a photo of one of their children or pets and was generally disinterested in partaking in such social rituals.

“Who am I relieving today?” Cain slung his stethoscope over his shoulders and slammed his locker shut.

“Dr. Wetherbee.” Came Indigo’s reply. Some other’s wished their good mornings to the doctor.

“Cool. Hey everybody.” He muttered as he started to rush again from the room, but stopped dead in his tracks with a squeak of his tennis shoes and backed up a few paces. “You coming? What’s with that cat!” He demanded pointing an accusatory finger his assistant.

Indigo snuggled the little orange kitten against her cheek. “We got a box of abandoned kittens today. Aren’t they precious?! They’re too young for adoption.” She held up the creature with delight for his inspection.

“Sure--okay.” Cain acknowledged it’s existence with no emotion in his voice and maintained his distance from the creature thrust at him. “You don’t have time to play with those cats Indigo. Come on. I’m late.”

“I already checked with Dr. Wetherbee. She discharged most all of her patients. One is waiting to be picked up later this morning. I have the chart here for your review. We don’t have anything to do just yet, Dr. Hart, except nurse these kittens.” There were tiny bottles of formula on the table waiting for consumption by the beloved beings in the box.

The annoyed sigh that came from Cain’s throat was grossly out of place amongst the cuddling and loving murmurs of the others. As the clock turned to 7, everyone clocked in and the group slowly trickled out leaving Cain and Indigo alone with the box of kittens.

The doctor stood awkwardly near the doorway, trying to find a reason to leave the room. His ears gave away his annoyance and discomfort by their semi-rotated and pointing to the sides position. The tip of his tail flicked impatiently against his leg.

“Sit your ass down, Cain.” Indigo pulled a chair up next to her and pointed at it as she demanded his compliance with a threat in her voice. “Help me. You’re going straight to hell if you’re so callous that you can’t take pity on these orphaned kittens.” Her manner of professional deference for the doctor in front of the other staff reverted to their friendly bantering rapport when they were alone.

“Already there.” He whispered to himself as he plopped in the seat next to her. He just sat there stiffly, and made no other moves to help.

“You - Ohmigod Cain!” Indigo laughed and retrieved a kitten from the box and thrust it at him. “Go on. Take it! How old do you think they are? Three, four weeks?” She knew asking a medical question was the best way to warm Cain up to handling the critter.

Glaring at Indigo all the while, Cain allowed the kitten to be deposited into his hands. “Uh--well--” He inspected the creature, peering at its eyes and under it’s belly. He used his finger to lift one of its paws, and then coaxed it’s mouth open. The kitten sucked at his finger expecting nourishment. “Probably more like 10 to 12 days at best.”

Indigo cocked her head, smiling tenderly at the pair. She committed the image of the catboy doctor and the baby kitten to memory. “Oh? How can you tell.”

Cain placed the kitten on the table. “Look at how unsteadily it ambulates. It’s barely got any motor skills.” Indeed the animal tried to stand and stumbled over it’s weak trembling legs. Cain was likely the only person who unemotionally observed how charmingly useless the kittens were. “It can’t retract its claws. And no teeth have come in yet.” He retrieved the wobbling animal as it inched closer to the edge, saving it from plummeting to the floor.

Indigo chuckled at Cain’s medical assessment, shaking her head. “You’re so weird.” She said not unaffectionately. She held up the kitten she had been feeding, showing Cain its rounded belly. “Look how cute! It’s so full and sleepy!” She squealed and nuzzled the blinking kitten against her cheek.

“Yea...cute...” Cain agreed awkwardly.

Indigo was very obviously amused with his discomfort, as she usually was. “Here. That one hasn’t been fed yet.” She deposited the fed kitten into the box, handed the doctor a bottle of formula, and retrieved another kitten for herself.

Cain cradled the cat against his chest, trying to figure out how he could touch it as little as possible and still ensure it didn't tumble to the ground. The kitten’s paws rested on his shirt and its eyes closed as it drank the formula. Indigo hummed happily in her throat as she observed unwilling cuddling. He fixed her with a withering stare, “What? Stop looking at me like that. It needs…nourishment. I’m just feeding it.”

“I’m not looking at you in any type of way!” She settled into nursing the kitten she chose, and petted her finger along its head and spine as it fed. “I so want a cat of my own.” The tech gazed at Cain mischievously through mascara darkened eyelashes.

“There’s one right there.” Cain gestured at the cat in her hands, without any indication that he noticed her coquettish look.

“I don’t want this one.” She offered, never taking her eyes from his face.

That earned her an arched eyebrow. “Well there’s a whole box of the --uh, things--I’m sure you can find one you like.”

“I’m not allowed to have pets at my apartment.”

“Welp, too bad? I can’t help you with that.” Cain muttered, figuring the conversation was over. He didn’t know why she brought up wanting a cat when it was out of the question.

“I think you could, Cain.” Indigo countered with a suggestive ring to her voice, drawing his name out.

He frowned in response, looking as if he were considering her proposition. “I could...” Cain began as Indigo brightened. “...give you the number of my realtor? The place where Akiko and I live is really nice. He could help you.” It was a good-natured offer, but not what Indigo was expecting.

“Oh nevermind.” She sighed, wondering how he ever secured a girlfriend when his flirt radar was so whack.

---

RE: Artifacts [Read Only] - saronym - 01-24-2016


The notorious squad–consisting of Holland, the forensic scientist; Owen, the assassin; Renton, the tech / AV guy; and Kent, the combat instructor–had weekly tradition of binge drinking episodes. The men came together to share their latest “cocktale,” get blackout drunk, and challenge each other in darts or billiards or poker.

While Owen was occupied with stepping up to the darts line and taking careful aim, behind him Kent was dumping an extra shot in the unsuspecting man’s drink. This procedure had been going on all evening and Owen's blood alcohol level was rising to a critical level. The critical level between innocuous hypomanic stumbling drunk and complete incomprehensible sloppiness with a potential for violence.

The squad schemed against Owen that night. They suspected something something strange was going on in his private life. Though normally eager to brag about his cock's latest adventures, Owen had been tight lipped for weeks now. Holed up in his house. Missed a binge drinking episode. Was oddly distracted and preoccupied with something. Or someone. Owen claimed he was simply being a ‘good boy’ with his girlfriend at the time. But that was bullshit because the girlfriend in question went away for work for weeks and months at a time. She simply wasn’t around.

They were determined to get the truth.
Even if that sort of meant getting their friend absolutely fucked without his consent.

“So would you rather have poison ivy dick for one month or have to have sex once with a cat? Any big cat, like a tiger.” Posed Holland. Since nobody had any cocktales, they tossed around stupid ‘would you rather’ questions during lulls in the conversation.

“Poison ivy.” Answered Kent without delay.

As ‘dittos’ made the rounds among the others, Owen blurted: “Definitely fuck the cat.” His dart flew strong and true...right into the bottom of the board. He staggered back laughing, “well that’s embarrassing,” as if he hadn’t said anything strange at all.

The others shared looks of surprise behind Owen’s back. Not surprise about his drunken shoddy dart aiming but about the cat fucking.

“You’d fuck like... a panther or tiger or some shit?” Queried Renton.

Owen sipped at his drink. His face was somewhat flushed from the alcohol and grey eyes radiant. He was solidly in the Owen-exhilarated-intoxicated stage. He was excited. Maybe even a little giddy. It was admittedly a good look for the normally icy man. Like the warmth of the sun on a snowy day.

“Cats can be hot! You know what I mean?” Owen very enthusiastically supported his earlier conclusions. He didn’t register the hesitation of the others to agree with him.

Renton choked back his own drink in surprise. Kent and Holland shared a look. “He’s fucked up,” someone muttered.

Renton stared incredulously at Owen, “No. I don’t understand what you mean. I'm officially convinced that you would literally stick your dick in anything.”

The other men nodded their agreement. It was true.

Owen folded his arms loosely over his chest. He actually might have been offended. “You don’t even know who I’ve been fucking, so fuck--” he hiccuped, “--you.” He then slammed back the rest of his drink and let the glass fall with a clink to the table.

“Or what you fuck apparently.” Kent muttered as he took aim at the darts board.

Owen looked genuinely hurt in that drunk sort of way where the muscles of the face were already kind of slack. Like a clownish sort of dejection. “I mean what’s wrong with a sexy cat? ‘Scuse me for having an open mind.”

“Okay okay. So, what kind of cat are we talking about at this point?” Holland, the scientist, would pursue the facts.

“The one at my house.” Owen said.

“And when did you get this housecat?” Holland asked.

“I didn’t get a housecat.” Owen was now reaching for another drink on the table. Anyone’s drink. More drink.

“Then what the fuck are you talking about?” Kent was getting impatient.

“This. Girl. Cat. I. Am. Fucking.” Although Owen intended to enunciate each word they sort of still dribbled together.

“Scarlett?” Renton posed, trying to clear up the confusion. Girl cat? “What does she roleplay a sexy cat for you, or something?”

“No.” Owen moaned childishly in frustration. “She’s a cat. A fucking cat that I am fucking and I like it, okay? This is why I don’t tell you all shit.” He was muttering something like ‘real nice judgmental friends I got’ into the glass he’d found.

“So a pet cat?” Always the scientist with the fact finding.

“Sure I guess yeah. Something like that.” Owen was kind of whining at that point. Frustrated with the line of questioning. Not understanding the mutual breakdown of communication. “She stays at my house all the time. Eats my food and sleeps in my clothes.” Owen offered these tidbits, thinking them helpful. It was all becoming more bizarre for the others.

“Like a stray?”

“Not really--" Owen started but was distracted by the flight of his thoughts, "You know my father would never let me feed the stray cats? We always had a dog. But, you know, I’ve been thinking about myself a lot--”

“Oh you know he’s fucked!” Renton interrupted with his outburst and drummed happily on the table with his fist. They shared a laugh at Owen’s expense while he hung there, slack jawed waiting to continue.

The group could almost predict by the ounces of liquor Owen consumed when his (air quotes) brilliant rambling monologues of self-reflections would arrive. And it was about that time.

“--And I think I’m a cat person. I mean I’m a fucking cat person. I’m a person fucking a cat person. You know? I must like cats. Maybe I love them. I think I love them. Well her. I haven't met that many like her. So mostly just her. Like sometimes she’s just sitting on my desk trying to distract me from working. Once she plopped right on my lap and demanded I pet her. Sometimes she’ll sit on the counter and eat my food. It’s cute. Oh and she purrs and it’s maddeningly sexy. I can make any woman scream, moan, whatever. But purr? Now that’s novel! And if she’s laying against me when she’s purring I can feel it vibrating in my chest. Or if she’s right up against my ear and purring right in my ear it feels fuckin’--I don’t know--I can’t describe it. You know that sensation when something tickles or makes your skin crawl but you don’t laugh because it's not exactly tickling and it makes your dick hard? Like when a woman --or man, sorry Renton-- runs fingers really lightly over your belly or blows into your ear? I like when a woman kisses my ear. But fuck that I’ll have an order of purring with a side of tail any day! Get it? Tail. ‘Cause she has a tail. But also tail like getting some ass. And I've been getting some ridiculously good ass. Anyway. Sometimes she walks past me and her tail drags along my legs you know when cats do that? They say maybe they’re marking their territory. I wouldn’t mind if that’s what she’s doing. Its hot. I kind of hope that’s what she’s doing. Marking me. Saying to everybody ‘back the fuck off this dick. It’s my dick.’ Sometimes I wonder if I’m her plaything or her companion or if I’m just the boss. I’m not sure. I like cats that way. They’re mysterious. Keeps me interested. Dogs are too eager. Too easy to please. But cats. This one. I don’t know. I’m intrigued, I guess.”

The hypomanic drunken rambling state needed redirection. Cue the scientist: “So what’s the cat’s name?”

“Oh she’s goes by lotsa names...but she lets me call her Juley-aahhna.” He emphasized her name with something like admiration in his voice. It was all very ridiculous to those who were picturing romantic or sexual or some kind of inappropriate affection with a housecat.

“Does Scarlett know about this cat?”

“Oh fuck no! And you better not tell her either. She’s gonna … I don’t know cut my dick off or something when she finds out.”

“Well yeah!” Holland agreed with the hypothesis about dick cutting. Seemed like a fitting punishment for a lover who carried on an affair with a ... pet. Pet wasn’t exactly a bad way to describe Julianna’s relationship to Owen at that juncture. But Holland was picturing a housecat so it was nonetheless very wrong imagery.

“So how does it--fit--in there? Your cock, I mean?...logistically speaking, how does this work?” Renton, the AV guy, always trying to figure out how things go together.

“What do you mean how does it work? I just put it in. I mean she’s small and everything. Smaller than me, sure. But it fits. Fits just fine.”

Kent blanched at whatever image entered his head.

A creepy silence sort of fell over the group. The men didn’t know what to make of their friend. Too much alcohol had been had by all.

“I need ‘nother drink.” Owen announced. “I’m a good person, okay? I can’t help who I love--”

Kent moved to stop Owen from heading to the bar. “No. No you aren’t. You can love cats Owen, but not like that, man. It’s fucked up. Even for you. It’s time for a sobriety test.”

“Come on I’m fine!” Owen insisted but Kent easily pulled the stumbling drunk towards the dart board.

“Put your hand up there, asshole.”

Owen complied planting his hand flat in the middle of the board. Kent's dart flew perfect to stick right in the webbing of skin between the bones of Owen’s index and middle fingers. After a delay, Owen seemed to realize the event had occurred and stared with a glazed-over look at his hand with the dart in it. 'That that would’ve been a bullseye!” Owen happily plucked the dart from his hand and sucked at the blood. The room spun and he stumbled back into the wall bracing himself with both hands.

No registration of apprehension or pain meant the sobriety test was failed.

Kent shook his head in disbelief. Or recognition. They’d all been there before. “He’s gone.”

Suddenly Owen threw the dart back at Kent who was turned away. It missed and bounced off the back of Holland’s chair. “I hate you guys.” Owen was muttering as he was trying to find his center of gravity to leave the wall. The violent stage had begun and it was well past the young assassin's bedtime.

It would be awhile before the mystery of Owen’s housecat was solved.

---

RE: Artifacts [Read Only] - saronym - 09-11-2016


Owen couldn’t fall asleep. It wasn’t that the fact that she was half sprawled half draped over his body that was bothering him. Except that she had fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder and now his left arm was losing circulation. The appendage was trapped between them, her arm draped over his middle and her head was pressing into his shoulder.

No the arm wasn’t bothering him so much as the ridiculous circumstances that brought this particular woman to lay uncomfortably on his arm. The circumstances didn’t even bother him so much as the increasingly obnoxious feeling that he didn’t even mind her sleeping on him that way. The fact that he would let her sleep that way until his arm became painful tingling dead weight before he moved her, that’s what was bothering him.

He sighed and watched her sleep in the faint moonlight seeping through half curtained windows. A feline ear flickered when he expelled his breath. The pale light illuminated the angle of her jaw and cheek. How rude of her to fall asleep on him in that endearing way.

Owen had been fucking Julianna for the past few weeks. It was just a little diversion, a usual game of conquest, until he got bored. Or that was the mindset he’d been trying to maintain. Their fucking, as it were, was more than that, much, much more. Owen didn’t know it yet. Or wouldn’t admit it. Being honest with himself wasn’t his strong suit. Neither were matters of the heart, which made Owen feel like his name--Hart--was a kind of misnomer.

A man named Hart whose mother’s heart was ripped out by the woman to whom he was trying very hard to not give his own heart. Surely some deity had scripted this ridiculous tragi-comedy.

When did he plan on tiring of her? How many times had he had her already? Wasn’t it enough? Surely if she something secret hidden between her legs that no other woman he’d ever been with had, then he would have already found it, right?

If she were just another notch in his belt, he would have gone bragging to his friends about fucking her already. But he hadn’t told anyone about this one. He couldn’t exactly expect anyone to sing his praises and give him the typical ‘atta boy for fucking someone he’d been assigned to assassinate. For fucking the woman who orphaned him by killing his mother. For carrying on with her while he yet claimed to be in a relationship with another woman, who was conveniently never around.

He couldn’t even begin to explain his very unprofessional conduct with his target. He also couldn’t explain why she’d even come to work for him except perhaps for novelty-sake for a jaded Queen. A little game for the bored kitty cat to play with one of her once victims. If she was the cat that made him the mouse right? Maybe he was another Hart for her to play with. Or just another heart to play with. Which was it, or was it both? Maybe she liked the poetry of tinkering with a Hart’s heart.

Or did she pity him? Pity what a mess she’d made of one impressionable human’s life?

He told himself she’d been a test for him, to see how much he could shut off his humanity. To see how far into depravity he’d sunk. He had wanted to make her his. He wanted her to satisfy his sexual whims until he was tired of her and then he’d finish her off. Yes, he had let her sleep next to him--wanted her to-- to make her trust him. Until the day he’d spill her blood all over his sheets. That betrayal would be much better suited to the murderous queen. That would show her to mess with Harts. Or hearts? It was all very confusing for the young man.

So, what stayed his hand when she slept next to him? There was a perfectly good round in the chamber of his gun stashed in the bed side table.

He told himself a bullet to her brain while she slept would be a mercy killing. She wouldn’t even know he had done it. She wouldn’t even suffer that much. That wouldn’t do.

Cutting her throat would likely be the bloodiest way to kill her quickly. She would likely wake when he cut her and he could watch the realization of his betrayal play out on her face for some brief moments before she lost consciousness. All that sticky thick blood running over her neck and chest ruining his sheets and soaking deep into his mattress. He brushed locks of her hair away from her neck, tucking them behind her ear. Index and middle fingers started feeling for the veins that carried the most blood but paused to feel and mark her pulse instead. It was a slow and very relaxed rhythm. He told himself that any enjoyment he got from slitting her throat would be too short lived though.

Strangling would perhaps be best. It would be slower than cutting her throat. She would wake in horror and fight against him for her life. Yes, strangling her to death would be the most intimate way to kill her. He could really stare into her emerald eyes while she died--to study the effect of terror in them, of course. If he looked close enough he might see his own reflection staring back in her eyes. His fingers brushed over her collarbone tracing it to the soft skin at the hollow of her neck. He told himself this way wouldn’t work, it left too much to chance. There were ways to get out of a choke hold. And he was aware that Julianna was stronger, more powerful than she let on. And there was that pesky demon that had perhaps a stronger will to live than even Julianna did. No. It wouldn’t work either. Or so he convinced himself.

Owen shrugged his shoulder gently against the weight of her head. When she stirred he slipped his tingling arm around her to draw her more comfortably against him and guide her head to lay against his chest. She settled without waking fitting snug against his body in the crux of his arm as it regained circulation.

Owen couldn’t kill a...friend. Yes, of course, that’s what she was, his friend. There wasn’t anything truly serious in protecting or caring for a... friend.

No he couldn’t kill her. Especially not when her breath came so slow while she slept, not with her warm leg slung carelessly and familiarly over his, not with the scent of her shampoo on his pillow and his aftershave on her neck.

If only he were as diabolical as he’d imagined himself. But he wasn’t. Some assassin. Gently cuddling the woman he was supposed to be expelling from the game of life. No, he was bumbling around and acting like an idiot hoping he wouldn’t get his heart ripped out...by a friend with a history of ripping Hart’s hearts out.

---

RE: Artifacts [Read Only] - saronym - 09-16-2016


Something woke Owen. He was lying on his stomach a sprawling tangled mess in his sheets. His pillow was shoved up against the headboard and his arm served as the thing supporting his head. He must’ve been tossing around. Owen rolled over and stretched his arm out to feel for his guest.

Well. Apparently, he was alone. But he hadn’t gone to bed alone.

Glancing over his shoulder, he frowned at the alarm clock. 3:49 a.m. He swatted at the device. It fell face down so he wouldn’t have to look at the time. Barely three hours since they’d gone to bed.

When had she left? Sneaking away in the night, as it were.

He never minded before if a sexual encounter ended without obligatory post-coital cuddling or inappropriately tender sleepovers. In fact, he was usually relieved.

But the memory of his latest orgasm rushed over him. That release and the accompanying euphoria, the intimacy, the violence of the act sort of paralyzed him for a moment. Had it been real? The memory was as vivid as a wet dream made his stomach turn a nervous flip.

When had he started caring whether she came or went? If he was honest with himself he had cared from the very start. But he wasn’t honest.

Feet kicking away the sheets, Owen sat up in the bed. Since when did he start feeling sudden attachments to women who made him cum? To be fair, it was short-sighted of him to attribute his feelings to that one stand-out moment with her. His feelings of growing attachment were more a culmination of many shared moments with her - cum moments and otherwise. A gradual building like a slow crescendo, or the lead-up to an orgasm. In a sense he was forgetting the significance of the foreplay in the afterglow of release. He was forgetting the little touches, moments, and looks that together would form his attachment to her.

Owen snatched up his glasses and stalked downstairs for water. He didn’t want to think about her anymore. Thirst. It was a bodily need he could easily relieve. Owen was good at responding to his body’s desires.

On shuffling feet, he entered his kitchen and opened the fridge for one of the bottles of water chilling there. With the door propped open against his hip, Owen stared blankly into the fridge caught up with his previous thoughts. Finally he reached for a water bottle and twisted off the cap with a satisfying crack and gulped.

“A penny for your thoughts Agent Hart?” A sudden cheerful query from the darkness.

Owen startled. He hadn’t noticed her sitting there in the dark casually lounged on his countertop by the stove. Her tail and bare legs swaying as they dangled over counter. He blinked in surprise for several heartbeats halfway leaning into the fridge. There she was licking at strawberry ice cream heaped on a spoon with the carton hugged to her chest. Owen didn’t answer but felt his eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. After all that mental self-flagellation and unnecessary disappointment. There she was just sitting on his counter asking him questions in the dark.

“You’re letting all the cold out.” Julianna observed with a melodic sweetness in her voice before continuing to lick at the ridiculous mound of ice cream she’d put on the spoon. She seemed to be whittling it down to a size reasonable for her mouth. She wasn’t just getting it down to size but was also sculpting it with her tongue. Making it into a perfectly round mound.

Owen let the fridge door swing closed. Julianna clicked on the stove light for him, knowing he couldn’t see in the dark as well as she. The spoon disappeared into her mouth to finish off her sculpture.

“I have enough pennies, thanks.” Owen replied curtly to her initial inquiry about the subject of his thoughts. He was embarrassed that he’d been caught off guard. And embarrassed by this feeling of relief at finding her there.

She had just been snacking all along, not sneaking.

She pouted a little bit, her pink lower lip pushed out just slightly. After arranging sleeves too long for her arms she then worked to gather another scoop. “What about some ice cream for your thoughts?” She waved the spoon in front of her in a way she must have figured was enticing.

And it was.

Owen stared at her impassively until her shoulders dropped a little. It was her way of signaling resignation that he wouldn’t play along with her games, as he so rarely did. Sighing at her dejection, Owen crossed the kitchen. “Fine.” He said.

She brightened too much, too eager to play her game. Owen captured her wrist forcing her hand towards his mouth as if to claim the serving of ice cream while she protested. “I take my payments up front.” He said but only licked the ice cream once, just to show her he could have as much as he wanted when he wanted. A fitting metaphor for their whole relationship.

That’s the way it went. A game of cat and mouse. She seemingly wanted more of him, chasing after him like a cat. He’d give in and give her what she wanted for a while, let her think she was closing in. And then he’d turn a corner and lose her. It was game of trying to control her expectations. Without pushing her too far away. Trying to control his feelings. While still giving into his desire. Fuck it he was playing pretend. Pretending as if he could control any of it. Pretending he wasn’t already completely captured and at her mercy. Pretending as if he weren’t already in love with her.

Ultimately he released her wrist, gazing at her with a self-satisfied smile on his face. He’d just noticed that she was wearing his Covenant uniform top. The same one she’d unbuttoned from him and pushed off his shoulders. The garment engulfed her frame in a way he found very pleasing. Something about the way it reinforced their relative size difference.

“So what had you letting the cold out of your refrigerator?” She prompted him as it seemed he wouldn’t give up any thoughts without provocation.

“You.”

“Oh?” She cocked her head the spoon remained poised between them. The one ear caught the light from the stove. With the light behind her ear he could see delicate veins through her skin like serpentine rivers on a map. He wanted to touch her ear. He knew it felt like velvet.

Owen took one more step towards her, until his pelvis pressed against her knees, so he could tower over her while explaining his thought process. “Imagine my surprise to find a very entitled cat -” he said, giving into the desire to touch her, he fingered the tip of her ear between his index and thumb. She leaned towards his hand but he took it away just as quickly. Playing cat and mouse. “This cat slinked away in the night to perch herself on my counter and finish off my ice cream, without even inviting me. And my houseguest, it seems, also helped herself to my dress uniform shirt, as if it exists purely for her comfort and not for my employment.”

Owen sensed a flush of embarrassment on her cheeks. It was hard to tell in the dim lighting.

She averted her eyes, staring down into the carton. “Does it bother you?”

The swift way her playfulness turned to uncertainty pained him a little. But hadn’t he wanted it that way? To keep her feeling just uncomfortable enough. For what? What was the point? He couldn’t answer that.

“No.” The word itself wasn’t reassuring but he moved a hand beneath one of her knees, coaxing the limb with a firm touch to curl around his hip. He pulled her toward him until his hips pressed into hers. She complied both legs wrapping around his back. “Luckily for you I find all this rather arousing.”

She seemed somewhat encouraged by this.

He brought his hand from beneath her knee to wipe at a bit of ice cream at the corner of her mouth with his finger. He licked his fingertip, tasting the sugar more than the strawberry flavor. “It’s very...domestic.” Poor word choice. He cringed. He’d fucked up the moment for sure.

She even wrinkled her nose at him not liking being called domestic. “What does that mean?”

Owen shrugged he wasn’t sure himself. It wasn’t exactly the right word, but it wasn’t entirely wrong either. It had the right connotation: familiar, endearing, but mostly intimate.

“You look like you belong here, I guess. Or belong to me.” He fingered the lapel of his shirt she wore between thumb and index almost as he had her ear. He didn’t know where this was coming from. It just sort of came out not only as the right thing to say to her just then to please her but also true to what he felt.

She silently held up the spoon of ice cream for him in reward for sharing his thoughts. He opened his mouth allowing her to feed it to him, making no move to take the spoon from her as he had before. Their eyes met as she slid the cleaned silver from his mouth. There was something in her look. An indescribable special gleam that he suddenly felt a desperate need to keep seeing. Was it really for him? He wondered if he looked at her that way, whether their eyes were like mirrors set face to face.

“If I look like I belong here, then why were you surprised to see me?” She tested. Cat pawed at the prey. Was it still alive for more games?

“I thought you left.”

She scraped at the ice cream again. “Did you want me to leave?”

They hadn’t really established whether sleeping over was okay, much less what they were even doing with each other. He never expressed anything to the contrary regarding her staying the night. And she’d never acted as if she wanted to leave.

“I don’t mind you staying.” He said knowing it was as wishy washy an answer as he could really give.

“You don’t mind.” She echoed pausing her scraping to stare back at him with an expression that mingled together an expectation for disappointment with longing. Like want mixed with the certainty of pain. It was a look he’d unintentionally cultivated with his games.“So you don’t care one way or another?”

How could he rescue this? “That’s not what I meant… I kind of get panicked when you aren’t where I expect you to be.”

“So you don’t care whether I come or go just so long as I am where you expect me to be?” She echoed him again, her tail flicked, brushing against his leg. The cat was not pleased.

He was trying to say, I want you, I need you, stay with me. Without saying any of those words.

“That’s not what I said.” He repeated. Annoyed at not knowing how to give her whatever she seemed to need from him. Annoyed that she seemed to need anything at all. Annoyed that she made him feel responsible for her need at that moment.

“That’s not an answer.” Her voice was quiet and strained.

Owen sighed and started to pull away from her, but her legs tightened slightly, holding their hips together. “I don’t know what you want to hear.” He sighed in frustration. When had their game become serious?

“I don’t want to just hear what you think I want to hear.” She pressed. On the surface they seemed to be speaking of short term sleeping arrangements. But it felt to Owen that bigger things were being established.

In growing tension, they studied one another for a long painful silence. At last Owen moved, he took the spoon from her and fed himself a bite of ice cream. Call it a deposit on his forthcoming confession. “I want you to sleep here.”

Her look was almost skeptical like she was trying to ensure he wasn’t just saying what he thought she wanted to hear.

Owen drew her into him. The carton, and her hands holding it, pressed between their chests.

“I like when you sleep here. With me.” He added ‘with me’ in case it wasn’t abundantly clear. “Okay, Julianna?”

She rested her head on him so that her cheek pressed against his collarbone and nodded her okay.

Owen couldn’t bear this growing feeling. This newfound nagging longing, that was other than lust, that she had rooted somewhere inside him. He suddenly pulled away from her and away from that feeling. Cat and mouse again.

“Besides I can’t let you leave when you have yet to pay for what you’ve stolen from your employer. The ice cream. The clothing.” He said changing the tone, back to joking. He was better at that.

“Of course not.” She agreed flatly and slid from the counter. She sidled past him to put the ice cream back in the freezer.

“How about I put it on your tab, then?” He offered sensing she didn’t want to play cat and mouse anymore.

“I thought you liked payment upfront.” The freezer snapped close. A billow of frosty air. And she turned back towards him.

Owen had followed her across the room and was standing behind her while she put the ice cream back. When she turned towards him again, he shoved her up against the fridge. The length of his torso along hers. Bottles of beer clinked somewhere inside. “I’m amenable to a payment plan.” He breathed against her ear. Hands on her curves. “That’s an exception I’m willing to make just for you, Julianna.”

---

RE: Artifacts [Read Only] - saronym - 09-17-2016


Renly dreaded the military hospital. The air in there was febrile with the blood and cries of the wounded and dying. His friends and his enemies reduced to bloodied piles of limbs. His friend Fox, the medic, had described to him logistical nightmares. Mountains of amputated limbs piled high on gurneys waiting to be transported to the mass grave. Wounded men, amputees, and the sick and suffering all limping and wandering through the corridors like disoriented ghosts. A man who’d died with peculiar smile memorialized on his face just as half his skull had been blown away. The sight and smell of bile mingling with feces in devastating abdominal wounds. A rocket shell melted into a man’s side. The strange and terrible ways that life could end. Death’s humor was unbearable.

Renly passed a paper with a name to an orderly rushing by. “Can you help me -?”

The man, who had a strange brown stain on his uniform, feces or blood Renly couldn’t tell, pointed in the direction needed. “Down the hall. Third room on the left. Better hurry, she’ll be done there soon.” And he rushed away again.

Renly followed the instructions, limping towards the room indicated. He pushed open the door to the expected scene. A Covenant soldier moaning on the bed, blood leaking from a gaping wound where his leg used to be. A hint of white bone in seeping red. The severed limb on a shining metal table nearby. Medics bumbling around with medications.

What was unexpected was the floral scarf on a tiny woman with red hair shoving past him. So much red in the room.

The patient started seizing, limbs flailing, spraying blood every where. The medics yelled for Ativan.

“Don’t worry about the seizure, you fools! It’ll stop soon enough!” The little woman had lungs. “Hold him down. I do not want to be bucked off.”

The woman turned to Renly. “Hey shell shock.” Her fingers snapping in his face. “Why don’t you grab his other leg there so he doesn’t kick me in the face!” Was she yelling at him now? He was disoriented registering only impatient, demanding, green eyes.

His ears were ringing, he numbly took position, holding the patient’s shaking leg while the medics held the patient’s arms and torso. The woman with the floral scarf, hiked long billowing skirts up her legs and mounted the patient. Sitting right down on his hips facing his lower half. Her chosen outfit added to the otherworldlyness of the scene. Why was she dressed in a cream-colored chiffon shirt only for it to be stained with blood? Ishara was vain. No other way to put it.

Was someone screaming? Or was the sound coming from inside his own head? No it was the patient wailing while the woman worked. Renly couldn’t comprehend what was happening, what she was doing to him. It was the sound that bothered him more than anything.

Suddenly it was over. The patient wasn’t screaming anymore. His head lolled back and forth and he was moaning again. The woman dismounted arranging skirts now stained with blood around her legs. She didn't seem to care about the blood. At all. Save for her movements the rest of the room went still. The woman wiped her hands clean and then petted the patient's hair matted with sweat. She murmured an apology to him and kissed his forehead. Her only moment of softness.

Then it was back to business. “Another meat shield for you boys.” She said addressing the Covenant medics. “He’ll be ready in, oh, in a week or two. Best to let his psyche settle.” She tapped her own temple as she said it before turning to Renly. “You can let go now, shell shock.” She spat the chosen epithet at him and turned to leave the room.

The woman walked fast for having such short legs. Bloodied skirt billowing around her legs, hair bouncing around her shoulders. Was she an angel? Or a demon? He couldn't decide. Renly tried to jog to catch up to her, half limping, half dragging a painful leg.

“Excuse me. Miss?”

She stopped suddenly, wheeling around. Auburn hair flying, held out of her face by the floral scarf. “Are you speaking to me? What do you want?”

“Are you Ishara?”

“Yes. What do you want, shell shock? Spit it out.” She wasn’t normally so demanding but she’d lost patience with managing the needs of men who found it fit to make a living shooting at other people. She had what a seasoned soldier might call 'battle fatigue.' She'd seen too much. The stress was too much. She'd broken down and built herself back up into something harder. You couldn't be soft during a war.

“My name is Renly. I - I was told you can help me. My leg. I - I have an infection.” He gestured to his right leg. It was aching miserably from his recent effort.

“Oh! You’re Leg Infection. Of course. Come this way.” She didn’t wait before hustling off again leaving him to limp after her as she lead him to a small room that looked more like an office than an exam room. “Sit there, take off your boot, roll up your pants. I’ll dress the wound for you.”

Renly followed her orders. He felt like he was constantly a second or two behind her. Like she operated in double-time and he in slow motion. She was overwhelming. “The medic dressed it this morning. He said you had salve for it.” He offered, trying to save her some effort.

Ishara scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You trust the medic? Better let me have a look at it.” She was bending over rifling through cabinets and drawers creating a growing pile of bandages, jars, and implements on the desk. “Come on then. The boot. Your pants.” She was snapping her fingers again.

He complied removing the boot and rolling up his pants. She pulled up a rolling stool in front of him and patted her knee. “Up here then.” She wasn’t gentle at all unwrapping the bandages and probing the wound with her bare hands. He winced and gasped when she hit a particularly painful spot. She tsked. “You’ll lose your leg at this rate.”

He gaped at her. Would he be her next victim for the procedure he'd just witnessed?

Ishara smiled darkly. “Don’t worry, I’ll just put it right back on for you.” She poked at an ulcer on his heel. “Here’s the origin. You need better boots. When did the infection start?”

Renly was panting at this point and gripping the side of the chair. The woman had no mercy. “We got it in the campaign in the swamps.” His voice was strained.

“Well that’s what you get for invading a sovereign territory and having battles in swamps. Did you say ‘we’? Who all is ‘we’?”

“I don’t know hundreds? Maybe thousands? Sixty percent of my company have it.”

Ishara stopped her work on the wound and raised her eyebrows. “Sixty percent with infections like this? That could change the tides of the war.”

She was so matter-of-fact. Renly didn’t know how to respond to her. “They said the healers would treat us. Won’t you?”

“If I had a choice? No.”

Renly was indignant. Where did she get off acting like this? He hadn't done anything to her. He felt the sudden urge to spank her. A strange impulse. “What kind of ethic is that?”

“You shoot men to death for a living. What kind of ethic is that?” She snapped back.

He didn’t answer. He hadn’t volunteered for service. He’d been drafted from a pool of felons serving life sentences. The Covenant needed 'meat shields' and they were good at getting them. But he didn’t need any more judgments from the sassy healer, and he knew he wouldn't get her pity. “Why are you forced to treat us? Hippocratic oath?”

“Hippo - what?”

“It’s an oath our doctors take. Do no harm. Something like that.”

Ishara laughed cruelly. “They should call themselves primitives. Some good your doctors do for you. Look at this mess. They could learn a thing or two from me. Slicing and dicing the body. It’s disgusting. And most of the time completely ineffective!” Just as soon as she had started the tirade against doctors she abandoned it and returned to the topic. “No, its a clause in a treaty we have with the international community. We can stay ‘a sovereign territory’ so long as we put blown up men back together whenever anyone asks us to.”

“Didn’t the war negate the treaty?”

“Of course not. The Covenant expects us to keep our side even while they break the law. It’s always been this way and it always will be. Don’t mind us as we try not to get completely annihilated by you.”

Ishara finished wrapping the wound and handed him the salve container. Renly felt somewhat emotionally battered. This woman was exhausting.

“Here. Dress the wound just as I have. Once in the morning and once at night. Don’t bother with the medic. Just get the bandages from him. And take a crutch there from the corner. One of the tall ones for those long legs of yours.”

Renly was slow to push himself up. He limped over to the crutches, but she was quicker already picking one for him and pushing it into his hands.

“Oh Renly? Don’t use that cream as a lubricant when you masturbate. It will irritate your penis. Especially the foreskin.”

Renly felt his cheeks flush with heat. He stammered but no words came out, fumbling with the crutch and salve bottle.

“I know how men are. You’ll reach for any lube-like thing in your excitement for yourself. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I don’t want you coming to me crying about your foreskin sloughing off. I will be forced to help you but I will laugh at you first.”

She was so blunt. “What do you know about my foreskin?”

Ishara planted her hands on her hips and looked him up and down. “You’re a Nordic barbarian aren’t you?”

Renly half nodded,eyes rolling to the ceiling as he considered it. “I suppose I am, yes.”

“Well I’ve never seen a viking without foreskin. And if you want to keep yours, keep the salve away from your cock, dear.” She patted his arm sympathetically, and pushed past him, disappearing in the hall. "Tell all the other Leg Infections to come see us."

---

RE: Artifacts [Read Only] - saronym - 09-21-2016

A letter from a Mr. Dal Emanuelson to Mr. Hain Hartwydt, 1741

I am deeply distressed, dear friend, to learn of the tragedy that befell your family. I know how distraught you must be to lose your wife - whose distinguished merits engaged everyone’s attentions - and children.

Though it would be difficult, I long for the particulars of that fateful night from yourself and whether you have discovered the aggressor.
I inquire about your health and wish to express concern for your rashness which has caused you to become the subject of much public talk.

Have care, Mr. Hartwydt - your public violence puts you out of your honor. You act in passionate outrage for the loss of your wife and children but I fear your nature imperious nature and fierce temper will not allow your pain to abate. I fear you will not be satisfied until further blood gushes plentifully. Even so, I do not pity you as I am Faithful that your present trial is apportioned to you by God in accordance with your resilient spirit.

For your sake, I will pass by everything if you will return with us to the country for the summer. My cousin, Octavia, has inquired after you. I do not wish to oppress you friend, but I pray you may come wait upon her, Mr. Hartwydt. If you declared your intentions of marriage (the dowry is considerable), I would charm her father in your favor.

Therefore, be sparing of your violence and oblige me of your presence at the Krum estate. Write to me the whole of the story of the ‘curse’ from the time it was introduced into your family, and particularly an account of that evening now two years past.

Your ever affectionate friend and servant,
Dal Emanuelson

---

RE: Artifacts [Read Only] - saronym - 09-26-2016



Owen found himself wandering the empty streets of Macrilan. His tattered uniform jacket hung open and flapped as he hurry-limped down a west bound road of the familiar city streets. Something was off about his uniform jacket. The medals, decorations, and embroidery--the brass--celebrating this man’s stellar military achievements had been cut away. It looked like any other ruined hole-ridden black jacket. The silence in the abandoned city streets feel upon him with an uncanniness that made the hair on the back of his neck raise. Other than his unease and physical, Owen didn’t feel anything but tired...dead tired. Like a man who’d fall immediately asleep if allowed to lay down for just a moment. He nonetheless hurried forward, without knowing his destination walking on bare feet that were blistering from the rough pavement.

What had he done with his shoes? Nevermind, His knee was aching and grinding miserably with every step. Where had his weapon gone? He couldn’t decide whether he missed his shoes, gun, or sounds more.

If there were ever a time that he could justify holding his own misery and concern for himself above everyone else’s in the world, it was that time. Besides there didn’t seem to be anyone else in the world to worry about.

Where was everybody? Anybody?

He sighed and stopped to massage at his knee and blink at the sun, a copper orb appearing to rest atop a building on a small hill. Feet propelled forward only by the momentum of his curiosity carried him towards the the building.

Or was he fleeing? Fleeing that sense of doom at the back of his mind. Something dark like a smudge in his thoughts. Fleeing something like Death that pursued him and threatened to claim all that he was. It wasn’t unappropriate. Soldiering - killing and death - had always been his strongest game. It was as if Death’s march ever drummed its rhythm in his skull and it echoed in his bones setting the tempo for everything he did and everything he was in life.

Such was the flight of his thoughts as he mounted the hill. He muttered at himself to pull it together. Don’t indulge paranoid superstitious. He was egotistical, sure. Prone to excessive indulgences, naturally. But imagining himself as subject to an anthropomorphized idea of death was ridiculous thinking. Owen had always been motivated solely by the belief that his life more important than others. Wasn’t it logical to view one’s own life as the utmost importance and extinguish those who threatened that? Of course, very logical. Yes. He was logical.

He paused, how far was he going? How far was the sun? It seemed no closer. But the building looked inviting. A restaurant. Perfect stop for the weary traveler. But there was so much more hill yet to climb. He groaned aloud. It was a perfect metaphor for his ascent through the military ranks. With each promotion the reminder of how great the distance to the tippy top. But his chase for power was more like mountain climbing. Clawing desperately up a mountain of bodies that he kept adding to. A mountain of bodies that threatened to bury him on the way.

His groans died down when he finally pushed the door open to a crowded and noisy restaurant. He buttoned his jacket. But there were no tables. Owen slumped against the wall feeling dejected. All that climbing--

“Come sit with us, sir.” Called a man. It was the first sound he’d heard. It sounded to him like mildly distorted audio coming over a radio.

Owen nodded his head appreciatively and sat at a table with several men in women who appeared to be locals. There was a woman in a satin red dress that clung to her curves like a second skin. She wiggled her fingers at him and winked in a way that didn’t bother with subtlety. The stately man who had invited Owen to the table had silver grey hair, rimless glasses, and a tweed jacket. There was a plump older woman in a dress more akin to a potato sack than a dress. The man sitting at the head of the table was nondescript dark hair, dark eyes, dark clothes. You’d forget his face even while you were looking at him.

The woman in the satin dress stood and grabbed Owen’s arm, making a show of squeezing his bicep. “Oh he’s ripe!” She proclaimed to a chorus of chuckles. “Look how he’s conjured himself up.” She tsked, passing her eye’s over Owen’s tattered clothing. “Miserable thing. Even in Death’s dreams, that bitch Guilt, makes her mark.”

This time the old woman cackled loudly, slapping her hands on the table.

“Wha- what?” Grey eyes eyes darted around the table nervously. The woman’s uncanny commentary sat uncomfortably in his mind. What did she mean Death’s dreams?

The woman led Owen to the chair opposite to the quiet man in dark clothing seating Owen at the other head of the table. “Take a load off, darling.” She said and squeezed his shoulders for a few heart beats before moving back to her seat.

“You know, Owen.” The man with glasses said as if Owen should have already figured it out. “Like the image you’ve made of yourself, we’re only projections in your own mind. Desire, Guilt, Reason, Death.” The man made the introductions going round the table starting with the woman in the dress, the older woman, himself, and finally the man dressed in dark.

“This isn’t real.” Owen seemed in shock. Certainly in denial.

“Does it feel real?” Reason pressed.

“Oh leave him alone. He makes a rather exquisite corpse I say.” Desire pipped up, running her eyes over him again. Sizing him up like a hog for slaughter.

“I don’t understand…” With a squeak of the chair’s legs against the floor, Owen pushed his chair back. “I think I’ll wait for another table.” Whatever they meant about conjurations,projections of self, and corpses, Owen wasn’t interested in pursuing the conversation.

The old woman grabbed his arm and held fast. She was remarkably strong. He couldn’t move. “Come now.” She rapped her knuckles against his temple. “That mind is too worthy a vessel for such self-deceit to rule.”

“He nurtured self-deception while introspection starved.” Tsked Reason.

“See he will not hear it. How could we expect any more from him?” Observed Death who had yet to speak before then.

Owen sighed and scooted his chair back into the table. It wasn’t as if he had much of a choice. His arm was released and Owen poured himself a glass of beer from the pitcher on the table. He gulped at the liquid and wiped the back of his hand over his lips.

He was hearing an incessant rhythmic noise in his head. A tinnitus like ringing sound? Was that the“it” that death was referring to.

“You’re just mad. Here we have a man to challenge death at it’s own game.” Guilt addressed Death. “Won’t you let him play again? Isn’t he a worthy opponent?” Her long, crooked fingers stroked up Owen’s arm and shoulder until they were in his hair. “Wouldn’t you like play some more games?” She was asking him. The fingers stroking at Owen’s scalp made him feel sleepy. They caressed neatly in time with that internal rhythmic sound he kept hearing. “All you have to do is fall for the magic trick. That should be easy for a man whose knack for strategy and violence is bested only by his art of self-deception. Drunk on his own arrogance. Blindly convinced of his own infallibility.” She giggled. “Is it a wonder then, why Death wanted you so early? But we can still have some fun with you yet. Oh can’t we hurry it along--?”

Owen knew they were talking to him. Or talking about him at him. Or mocking him. He felt so tired. That rhythm. His mind was full of fog. Owen tried to reach for his beer. He felt weak.

“Good riddance of that wretched thing.” Someone said.

“Such a shame to see a disposition fit for a God wasted on that mortal.” Owen couldn’t tell who was speaking anymore.

“A divine temper he has, surely.” The pun prompted a chorus of cruel laughter.

Such were the last things Owen heard before slumping on the table and succumbing to something like sleep.

II. The Patient

There was sound. A whirring of air blowing. And electronic rhythmic bleeping. And a piercing warning tone.

Blackness like the complete rejection of light faded into dim light which revealed disorienting shades and hues and textures previously forgotten. “I don’t understand.” The patient uttered a hoarse whisper, eyes blinking in protest against a radiance that burned retinas.

How far was the sun?

Some bit of understanding crept in as the patient’s previously cold occipital neural connections flickered on. These bright rectangles in his field of vision were emanating a cold nearly bluish kind of light. It wasn’t the sun but fluorescent lights.

“I don’t understand,” was repeated slightly louder, but the voice was no less hoarse. Muscles were reacting, tensing and trying to contract, but something was restraining the wrists. Upon further experimentation, the ankles were similarly restrained.

A panic unfamiliar yet somehow already known –like déjà vu—and swept over the patient. Head swung to the sides, eyes flicking wildly over the scene. On the right side: a door, some cabinetry, some machines, a TV mounted on the wall. On the left: a window, an arm chair, some more cabinetry, a computer station on a wheeled cart, and a clock on the wall its pointer meaninglessly moving over numbers. The environment reminded him of a place he didn’t want to remember and he knew he didn’t want to be there.

“Hey!” The patient called out voice straining as arms and legs tested their restraints. "Hey!” The second call was desperate with dread.

The door swung open. A woman in gloomy khaki scrubs from neck to feet entered. Another woman with a near-glowing white lab coat entered behind her. The warning tone was stopped by fingers pressing buttons on a monitor. A hand held his head still. Fingers coaxed eyes open while a searing, blinding light shined in. Pupils contracted satisfactorily to the stimulation. “It’s alright. My name is Brandi. This is Doctor Nazario.” An effeminate voice said. “Do you know where you are?”

“I—I…” Eyes blinked against tears provoked by the light assault, “I don’t understand.”

A hand was now on his arm. A constricting contraption was squeezing it. The patient observed a gauge as it bounced. It seemed to go on forever.

“You’re in the hospital. Try to relax. Can you tell me your name?” One of the women said. They were peering down at him like a specimen.

This revelation sent the patient into a dramatic fit. He struggled viciously against his restraints. He yelled about being shot. Shot in the chest. He yelled for his daughter. Where was his girl? Where was his wife? He had been shot. He had been shot. His chest hurt. He couldn’t breathe.

The doctor and nurse exchanged worried glances. They didn’t inform the patient that he had no physical injuries of any kind. He was in a perfect state of physical health. His mind, however, seemed to be the problem.

“Let’s give him some Ativan.” The doctor instructed the nurse who administered the sedating dose.The doctor gave instructions for tapering and titrating medications the patient had never heard of as he faded back into unconsciousness.

The patient’s eyes shut to a familiar, overwhelming, all consuming darkness. He wanted to succumb to it; retreat back into the unconscious; lose sense of everything again. Again? What was occurring? What was re-occurring? He didn’t know. He did know he was Owen Hart and he was beginning to realize he didn’t belong restrained to a hospital bed. He also vaguely sensed he didn’t actually belong in any particular place at all.

His mind was pulled away from the present moment, delving into what felt like ancient history.

“Please you don’t have to-”

A loud crack rings out. Two more. A shot to the right clavicle. A shot to the abdomen. A shot to the left thorax. The Lieutenant General has fallen to the ground. He was breathing. Trying to breathe. His face was contorted in pain. A tremulous hand tentatively felt at wounds on his abdomen and shoulder. His fingers covered in syrupy thick red blood. His torso quickly became drenched in blood mingling with dirt matted to his shirt. His mouth was open sucking at air. Breaths coming rapid and shallow. Panting like he couldn’t catch his breath. He felt like he was drowning. Hot liquid in his chest. A burning fire. His eyes wide staring at the night sky something like enraged shock. Or perhaps wonder. The thing he didn’t think would happen (but also somehow still knew would happen) to him was happening to him. But he was in denial, perhaps it was the pain, or the labored breathing that left him uncomprehending. There were many ways to die, this man was well aware, but perhaps this wasn’t what he had in mind for himself. Perhaps he’d secretly longed for something easier. Quieter. But Death came sloppy and undignified. And he was alone.

The memories cycled again.

“Please you don’t have to-”

“Please you don’t have to-”

“Please you don’t have to-”

III. Mental Status Examination

The consulting psychiatrist’s evaluation for Patient Hart was not promising on hospitalization day 7:

Patient is ambulatory and alert and oriented times 3. The patient made poor eye contact. Psychomotor activity was agitated, although the patient did move all four extremities spontaneously. Attitude and behavior were guarded. Mood and affect were anxious in presentation. The client’s communication patterns were hyperverbal, dramatic, disorganized, confused, tangential, and preoccupied. He appears to be internally distracted or hallucinating. He appears to be generally overwhelmed by his hospitalization and unknown social stressors. The patient exhibits poor coping skills and marked impairment of insight into his condition. The patient presents with a constant tremor of leg, slight rocking in the chair...akathisia like symptoms which have not improved with lowering of Haldol.

Upon review of the records, I note, a neuropsych consult was ordered to rule out an organic cause of the confusion and psychosis on admission. The MRI of the brain that was obtained upon admission found an abnormal pattern of white matter changes suggestive of a severe demyelinating process. Yet, a repeat MRI was obtained on hospital day 3 and the study was at that time was unremarkable. I recommend a CT of the brain and repeat neuro consult for this very complex patient.

IV. A Rose

"Isn't it a lovely day Mr. Hart?" Brandi the nurse was asking him as she pushed him in a wheelchair into a park on the hospital's grounds on hospital day 11.

He felt blinded by the sun. His first time outside since -- since -- he'd died.

"Sure." He replied flatly. He felt dizzy. He barely ate. Refused to get up. The medications hollowed him out left him feeling vaguely acquiescent to whatever was suggested to him but not much else. At least he wasn't having violent fits anymore, the staff thought. At least he didn't seem to be actively hallucinating, they thought. At least his paranoia was more in check, they thought. Surely going outside and seeing the park would help with his mood, they thought.

Brandi pulled a rose from a bush and removed the thorns. "Isn't this lovely?" She said it with a gratingly pleasant tone of voice. Almost if she were expecting him to be as pleased by a stupid flower as he would if it were his cock in her hands.

The memories were cycling again.

“Please you don’t have to-”

When Brandi handed him the rose he doubled over the side of the chair and vomited bile, the flower slipping from his fingertips to land in his mess.

A couple of children nearby said "ew" loudly and pointed at him as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

When she wheeled him back into the hospital he wished he hadn't dropped the rose. "That was nice." He said vaguely, perhaps about the rose, perhaps about the day, perhaps about the garden. But he was saying it in response to the memory. He was saying it to a woman in his head. Referring to the sweetness of a kiss he was sharing in his mind with a woman who would become his widow.

III. Discharge

The report indicated that the patient remained disorganized and confused throughout the hospitalization with minimal improvement by discharge. however the patient was contracting for safety and was not felt to be a danger to self or others. At the time of discharge, the patient denied hearing voices or feeling paranoid, depressed, suicidal or homicidal.Condition at Discharge: the patient was still somewhat withdrawn, preoccupied, confused, and disorganized. Discharged to home with supply of Vistaril, Haldol, and Cogentin for hallucinations and paranoia. Lexapro for depression. Dalmane for insomnia.

Brandi the nurse was on shift when Owen was to be discharged. She had become somewhat attached to the very strange patient in 302, by way of empathy for a troubled man. There was something terribly tragic about this man. As if death or despair hung about him, weighing him down, darkening his shadow.

"You sure you're ready to go, Mr. Hart?" She asked peaking into his room. A social worker had come and given him pamphlets about treatment, therapy, and programs. He had thrown all these in the trash bin. He had visibly improved and was contracting for safety and there was no legal basis for the hospital to continue his involuntary stay.

"Yes, Brandi. I'm sure." Owen responded with a sad smile. He was staring at himself in the mirror. His messy blonde hair was shaggy around the ears and he'd grown a beard in this 25 days at the hospital.

The odd black rimmed glasses he'd been wearing upon admission were on the counter. They were odd because he seemed not to need them, and couldn't explain why he had prescription glasses when his vision was perfect. "I guess I thought I needed them at some point." Was his response when she'd asked about the glasses.

"Would you like me to cut your hair a little for you? Maybe get a shave before you go?" Brandi asked moving into the room.

"Yes."

Fine gold locks piled around his feet. It was tidy around the neck in the back and ears, but long enough to fall in wisps and tufts over his forehead. After his face was shaven clean, Owen was left alone again while Brandi got together the discharge papers.

He leaned into the looking glass staring into his own reflection mirrored twice in grey eyes. He looked new on the outside. But he felt rotted out, decomposed, deteriorated on the inside. What happened to me?

"You got recycled." He told himself. This was the only way he could admit to himself what had happened. Tortured. Executed. And resurrected. He hadn't noticed that the door opened again admitting Brandi.

"Who're you talking to?" She asked suspiciously.

"Myself. I was only talking to myself." He reassured her.

---

RE: Artifacts [Read Only] - saronym - 09-28-2016



There was a body in the shed.

Ishara knew there was a body in the shed because she’d dragged it in there herself the evening just before. Ishara massaged sore back muscles. Manipulating and moving the dead weight of a body could be quite a task. Bodies are damn heavy.

Ishara had always known limp bodies were unwieldy. She wasn’t unfamiliar with rolling bodies over, lifting up or pinning down arms and legs, or supporting the trunk, for example. Such things were a matter of usual course when she went about her duties working as a healer. In more recent years, she worked for the military her husband served in. She was thus used to lifting, rolling, and prodding at (mostly) well muscled, stocky soldiers with shockingly little tolerance for discomfort and who actively resisted her efforts.

The stashing bodies in sheds outside of the house where her children slept was quite out of character for the healer.

It was also quite out of character for the woman to have used a spell normally for paralyzing and anesthetizing patients as a weapon. But she’d done that to the body in the shed, as well.

Have I lost my mind?

She wondered about her own sanity even as she made preparations for the body in the shed. Rummaging through an old chest she found a grimoire she’s started an abandoned many years ago. A grimoire that had gotten her into a lot of trouble. Ostracized her from others in her discipline. Even caused familial strife after a certain trip to New Orleans once upon a time.

Things are different now. She reassured herself. And shit. I have to do something with that body.

Ishara brushed the dust off the cover and flipped through until she found the page in question. She had everything she needed in her shop and around the house. The last piece of the puzzle would arrive shortly.


While balancing an engraved wooden trinket box on her hip, Ishara shoved open the door to the shed with her shoulder. She turned on the the battery powered lantern and set on the workshop bench. The room flooded with a warm glow and the body stirred.

“Good, you’re awake.” Ishara greeted as she placed the wooden box with her supplies on the floor at the feet of the prostrate body.

The other woman wriggled to roll over onto her back, struggling against bound hands and feet, all the while trying to mumble over a rag shoved into her mouth. With brusque motions Ishara pulled the woman to a seated position and pushed her back against the far wall to balance her.

“I’ll take this out, but if you so as even utter a funny word that sounds like magic it’s going right back in.” Ishara warned finger wagging in the other woman’s face. The woman nodded her understanding.

The rag was removed and the woman was left spitting fabric fibers from her mouth. “What are you going to do to me? Kill me?” She asked hoarsely with some apprehension, craning to see the items Ishara was pulling out of the box.

“No dear. I don’t kill people. I help them.”

The captive laughed bitterly, “This is your idea of helping me? Holding me against my will?”

Ishara rounded on the woman, straddled her bound legs, and slapped her violently across the face. “Are you fucking kidding me? You bring up kidnapping to me? How do you think my daughter felt! Being snatched up. Kidnapped while playing in the woods. She won’t ever be able to play out there again. She won’t ever trust a stranger again.” Ishara knew she sounded a bit dramatic, but she was a distraught mother left to explain to her recently traumatized daughter why evil existed in the world.

The other woman spat blood. “Your dark side is so disappointing Ishara.”

“You won’t think so when I’m done with you.” Ishara said almost meekly as she pushed herself back up to return to her previous task.

The captive woman continued, “Your daughter would have made a wonderful apprentice. It’s a shame all that innate talent of the Hart line will be wasted on the healing arts.” She feigned a sigh.

Ishara ignored the commentary. She took a seat on the workshop bench and read through her notes. Her finger dragged along the page line by line as her eyes scanned the instructions.

“So how will you be helping -?”

The captive’s question was interrupted by a knocking at the shed door. Ishara popped up from her seat and hurried to open it. A man tall enough to be forced to duck through the entrace bowed inside carrying a kennel that bore a mewling panther cub.

“Do you know what I went through to get this?” The man asked as he pushed his way into the shed. He would have missed the woman bound up on the floor if she hadn’t cried out.

“Please, sir. Please, help me. This witch has captured me!” She begged in feigned hysterics.

Ishara uttered a spell under her breath and flicked her wrist at the other woman who was silenced. Mouth open and moving with no sounds coming out. “Quiet.”

The man was similarly gaping. “Uhm- Ishara?” He turned suddenly, unconsciously swinging the kennel as he did so and throwing the crying cub against the crate’s wall. “What’s all this! What’s going on here?”

Ishara shushed him. “Keep your voice down, Darcy, or I’ll do it for you. I’m with a patient.” She lied. “And be careful with the poor thing. You’re terrifying it.” She crowded around her longtime friend and pulled the kennel from his hands.

Darcy complied with her instructions but turned back to the woman he’d known as his best friend’s wife for near two decades. “Since when did you start treating patients -bound up, at night- in the shed? Does Renly know about this? Where is he?”


Ishara planted her hands on her hips, holding her ground against the questioning she really deserved. The man was nearly a foot taller than her but one wouldn’t tell the way she faced him down.

“I don’t need permission from my husband to treat my patients when I see fit, where I see fit, and how I see fit. He will know all about this just as soon as he comes back from assignment. And he will also know you enabled me, sneaking around, stealing panther cubs, and bringing them to me in the middle of the night. That is if that’s how this story will be told to him.”

Darcy frowned and didn’t press the husband matter further. He knew he wouldn’t win with Ishara on that front. He couldn’t help but ask, “So who is this woman?”

Ishara pointed to the door. “You’re excused, Darcy. Thank you for your help, darling.” Ishara cooed as she ushered the man shuffling man out of the shed, patting him on the behind as she did so. He twisted around and batted at her wandering hands as she escorted him out of the squat building

“Come for dinner sometime. The children miss seeing you. I miss you too. Renly is beside himself with that damned home distillery project, he needs your help setting it up. It’s a mess.” Ishara’s pleasentries were grossly out of place in a dimly lit shed containing a clearly kidnaped woman, a panther cub, and the potential for some dark magic.

When Darcy was outside, Ishara placed her hands on his chest and rose on her toes to press a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for your help.” She chimed and tapped his nose with her index. “You’re such a sweetie. Now off you go before the neighbors see you so close to Renly’s wife at this late hour.”

Darcy batted her hand away, “You’re nothing but trouble.” He muttered and Ishara beamed as if he’d complimented her. “Just don’t do anything crazy, Ishara.”

The shed door was closed on the world and Ishara returned to her task. The other woman continued to try to produce any vocal sounds to no avail.

“No no. You’ll be quiet from now on. Well actually -” She turned to the crate on the floor to unlatch the door. The panther cub cowered in the corner refused to be comforted by the healer’s outstretched hand. “You’ll have a voice. But the speech apparatus will be different for you.”

Ishara pulled the kitten from the crate, it meowed pathetically in her arms.

“Isn’t it precious?” She asked holding the cat up. The woman stared dumbfounded.

“I think it’ll make a wonderful pet for my daughter, Victoria. Don’t you? It’ll grow big and strong and always protect her.” Ishara made a show of splaying the kitten’s foot out forcing the claws to display.

“She has been begging father for a cat, but he’s never allowed it.”

With a free hand, Ishara opened the box she had brought with her and pulled out a small piece of raw meat. She tossed it to the floor where she’d drawn some runes with black chalk and set the hungry cat down. The cat pawing and chewing on the meat while Ishara turned to fetch the book.

“I thought since you liked Victoria so much that you kidnapped her that you might be amenable to being her lifelong companion. Plus you need a little time out to work out your behavioral issues. ” She explained in her best ‘mommy’ voice. “So I’m going to put your essence - your soul - into this kitten here.”

The woman gaped in horror and tried to protest struggling against her bonds.

“I know what you’re thinking. Once you’re free to control the cat you’ll just attack us. Well, here’s the thing, I also know some great little curses to keep you on your best behavior. As a little incentive I’ll even preserved your body for you. I’ll leave it in the ground somewhere for you. So maybe someday Victoria - your new handler - will release you, or your obligation will be fulfilled, and you can return to your body. That is, if, you can find it. Now, let’s get started.”

Ishara turned out the lantern. If she were going to do dark magic, she’d do it in the dark.


Even if introducing Victoria to her new pet went well and even if Renly didn’t have a fit about a wild cat as the new family pet, there was still the matter of disposing of the preserved human body emptied of it’s soul. This was Ishara’s task the next morning. Her head was swimming and she felt unsteady on her feet from the effort of the prior evening. The procedure had been successful but left her crawling back to the house and collapsing into bed. If her fatigue wasn’t bad enough she had a tyrant of a child old to deal with while she disposed of the body. The other children had been sent off to school.

“Mama, I’m bored. Why can’t we go?” Owen was whining and squirming around on the ground of the cemetery in one of his usual fits.

“Get up from there.” Ishara snapped, holding her hand out for her youngest to take. Just barely 4 years old he wasn’t yet in school and had to be brought on her last errand. Burying the body at St. Demetrious Cemetery.

The staff at the facility were familiar with Ishara who often turned over bodies of deceased patients. Bringing the body herself was new. With a pounding heart, Ishara told a convincing story about the Jane Doe who sought her services in her last hour. No family, no friends, no money. Ishara was unable to save the poor woman, but would put her to a proper rest.

Owen grudgingly obeyed his mother’s command to stand sensing that she was on her last nerve but he refused to take her hand. He crossed his arms over his chest and turned away. “I want - I want my dad to come home.” Owen huffed, off topic.

“Hush, Owen. Be quiet please.” She demanded politely, her hand still outstretched for the child. The body was being lowered into the ground.

“No.” He stomped his foot. “You.” He faltered with the new vein of his tantrum and then recommitted. “You are being mean. And I want to go back home and see dad.”

“No, you are being mean.” Ishara sighed. She knew better than to engage with him when he behaved this way, but the child had learned well how to push all of her buttons. “Your father isn’t at home. And you will be punished if you keep this up.”

“No, I won’t!” Owen was yelling now. “I am being good!” He took a few stomping steps towards his mother and snatched her hand as proof of good behavior.

Ishara signaled her apologies to the cemetery worker for her son’s behavior. He’d been a nightmare the entire day. She knelt down next to her child as the simple coffin met earth. She hugged Owen, squeezing him into her side. “I know you are.” She brushed at his hair, rearranging the messy golden locks. “We’ll get something to eat on the way home, yes? Before your piano lesson?” He nodded without letting the frown leave his face. “And then you are having a nap.”

Owen pouted at the mention of the nap. He looked away from his mother to stare at the gravestone. “What does it say?” He asked.

“Jane Doe.”

“Dad kills people sometimes.” He said seemingly out of nowhere. A suggestion from a precocious child that his father was responsible for the burial of Jane Doe.

“I don’t want to hear you talking that way.” Ishara didn’t know what else to say. Owen wasn’t far from the mark. It had been his mother, not his father, who was the responsible party in Jane Doe’s premature burial.

“Who is the lady?”

“Nobody. She’s nothing but a rumor now.”

Ishara stood then bringing Owen with her. She turned her back on the grave and left carrying the grumpy child in her arms. He stared over his mother’s shoulder at the grave as it receded from his eye sight until finally it disappeared when they turned a corner.

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