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Tweet Topic Started: Mar 16 2009, 04:25 AM (638 Views)
Dan Anderson Mar 16 2009, 04:25 AM Post #1
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You can't hear what ain't there...
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REDrecruit
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Dan sighed as he entered his assigned room, after a few minutes of wandering around the base, lost and confused. He'd just arrived there today, after his submission was approved by RED's chief himself. In one hand, he held a bag that contained everything he needed during his permanent stay here : change of clothes, a cooler of energy drinks (He'd receive these often through parcel post), a rag and a bottle of polish for his bat, and the bat itself, wrapped in newspaper and stuffed hastily into the bag. New additions to the bag included a standard Scout issue scattergun and pistol, with ammunition boxes for both, and some bottles of spray-paint, paper and a penknife. In his other hand was a pencil he'd gotten from someone he'd met during his stumbling around the base.

He set his bag down on the bed and took out his scattergun, placing it gently on the desk RED had provided. He took a sheet of paper and covered the side of the one of the scattergun's barrels with it, then began to draw a design on the paper with the pencil. When he finished, he cut out the design as a hole in the paper with the penknife, then sprayed the design onto the barrel with gloss yellow paint, then a black outline around the design of a simple lightning bolt, a testament to his speed. He set the scattergun aside to dry, and took out the handgun. He drew a smaller design of a simple skull-n-crossbones on the grip, then sprayed the designs on with a white base and black outlines. He left that to dry as he began to unpack his bag and get accustomed to life in the RED base, lining his closet with his changes of clothes, all similar in style to his current outfit, and arranging the things on the desk, stacking boxes of scattergun shells and pistol ammunition, as well as empty clips for his pistol and the bottle of polish for his bat. He unwrapped the bat and slapped its business end lightly into his palm, then leaned it against the wall near his bed. He then slumped down on the bed, sighing and looking up boredly at the ceiling. He'd get himself acquainted with the rest of the base later. Right now, he was bored and tired. As he closed his eyes, he began to drift off to sleep.
Edited by Dan Anderson, Mar 16 2009, 10:36 AM.
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+Hugh MacKeane+ Mar 16 2009, 01:59 PM Post #2
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Ye call that dancin'? I saw people on fire move better than that!
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Walking down the corridor, lighting matches – blowing them out and placing the burned ends back into the matchbox… he arrived at the doors of their new Scout. Anderson was the surname. Anderson – sounded promising. He knocked, leaned on the wall by the doors and carried on lighting his matches.

Burning them soothed him somehow – or better, took his mind off other things he could be thinking about extensively and developing into complex inner dialogues which turned out more time consuming than enriching. Blows out the match when it starts burning his fingers and places the remains back into the box. Fishing out yet unburnt matches amongst the charcoal of the old ones, the tips of his fingers coal black. Occasionally he wipes his hands into his denim trousers – leaving behind black smudges without concern or shame. This is who he was and who had a problem with that was good old beaten into the ground and below – unless that someone was a woman and especially a desirable one… Not that that would be Hugh’s weakness, but he would not shun away from what he liked – so better not hurt it in advance.

*

He usually welcomed new recruits on arrival and then just met them in the corridors or other places where you would expect to meet others, but he had not yet met Anderson out in the open and damn was he eaten up by curiosity.

See, Anderson was a Scottish surname and the prospect that somebody else here could understand the whole deal (or at least little bits of) he went by every day as a proud Scot, trilled him to no ends. Unfortunately there was also the dark side of the moon and since the youth was of New York... How strongly was he aware of his roots?

Time to find out. He puts the matches away and wipes his hands on his denims.
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Dan Anderson Mar 16 2009, 09:02 PM Post #3
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You can't hear what ain't there...
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Dan was startled awake by a knocking on his room door. Who'd visit him right now? He got up, yawning quite audibly and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He stood up and opened his door, revealing a man, fingers black, perhaps stained with soot, being wiped on a pair of denim trousers. He seemed old, judging by the beard.

Dan stifled a yawn, straightening out his white shirt, crumpled when he was sleeping, and tried to look as best as he could, no matter how sleepy he was. He failed, though. He was tired from the trip from New York to wherever this was, and all he wanted was some rest before he began familiarising himself with the base, perhaps the next day. He didn't expect someone to come visit him though, and he had no idea who that visitor was. Maybe a fellow recruit? Or maybe the visitor was his superior? He seemed to lean towards the latter.

At that thought, Dan snapped to attention, saluting this visitor and trying his best to imitate a military-style bark.

'Sir!'
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+Hugh MacKeane+ Mar 17 2009, 06:21 AM Post #4
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Ye call that dancin'? I saw people on fire move better than that!
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Oh good, he was inspiring authority upon first sight. Hugh grinned enthusiastically. The lad looked sleep deprived – ah well, he’ll have the whole night to sleep…maybe.

Indicating with his hand for the other to relax: “Sairy fer havin’ waken ye. A tochted ye were awready rested. Too late the noo.” He pushed himself away from the wall to talk with the other face to face.

“Hugh MacKeane, laddie – the leader o’us REDbunch, but there’s currently nae emergency fer overtly formal titles.” He extended his now relatively clean hand to the other for a handshake. “An’ye’re Dan. Dan Anderson – aye?” His grin widened.

“Dan, whir ye hail frum?” Using a more Scots than English dialect with the other – partially testing the younger man. He raised his thick red eyebrows in anticipation of an answer that would please him – however he was also prepared for the other to know nothing of his roots… He could not comprehend how Scottish patriotism could get lost throughout generations not living in their homeland. It already started to piss him – better not think about it now. He can go and ramble to the Medic later.

Keeps up the air of friendliness.
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Dan Anderson Mar 17 2009, 10:41 AM Post #5
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You can't hear what ain't there...
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Dan tensed as the man indicated with his hand something he couldn't understand on its own, but relaxed when the man, in a heavy Scottish(?) accent, told him to relax and that there wasn't any reason for military titles and such, and that his name was McKeane. Hugh McKeane. He nodded as Hugh confirmed his name, shaking his hand firmly and then clasping both hands behind him quickly, looking down and letting his face move to its normal, impassive and slightly depressed state.

The fact that both his parents were gone still stuck in him, making him very depressed and affecting his emotions and current state of mind. He'd experienced this practically for the whole of his life since they died in a tragic car accident, and now his semi-depressed, semi-stone cold heart and attitude were now his norm. It was hard to shift to anything happier, although he could fall into something sadder very quickly.

When Hugh asked him where he was from, he just calmly, albeit a bit sadly, replied that he was from The Bronx, New York City. He didn't want to think about anything related to the accident, especially the borough in the city where it happened. He sighed and sat down on the edge of his bed, letting Hugh's heavy accent roll around in his mind. He thought of Scotland, rolling hills, green meadows, that famous Loch Ness Monster and the lake (loch, as the Scots called it?) that was its home (if it did exist, of course).

Somewhat nonchalantly, Dan got back up onto his feet and walked to his desk, picking up his scattergun in a hand and running a finger over the spray-paint lightning bolt he'd sprayed on the side of the barrel. Noting that it was dry, he turned it to the other barrel and sprayed the same design on it, leaving that to dry as well. He placed it gently down on his desk and picked up his pistol, checking and noting that the paint was dry. He set it down and picked up his bat and the bottle of polish, spraying some polish onto a rag and rubbing it slowly and firmly over the shiny aluminium bat. As he did this, he asked Hugh one question :

'Have you ever experienced the loss of a loved one?'
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+Hugh MacKeane+ Mar 17 2009, 05:40 PM Post #6
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Ye call that dancin'? I saw people on fire move better than that!
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Ach, the lad seemed down – a wee bit upset type, hmm. Let him sleep it out first and if it worsens send him to Berthie – the medic.

Still New York… he did not push the matter – ask him about his roots later. He did not invade the other’s room – stood patiently watching the other’s work. Creative one – quiet and perhaps indicated by this, diligent as well. That will prove with time – everybody had their skills and their good and bad days. The team should be here for each other in good and in bad – or he at least hoped it will turn out that way. Hugh was such an optimist sometimes.

The lad was down to tending to his bat when he spoke again and the question had Hugh taken back for a moment – he had expected a lighter theme to start off with, but finey. He won’t shun away from it, but did not exactly know how he wanted to answer now.

“Experienced. T’comes an’ fades wi’time an’comes again. Depends i’whit ye believe’s after death.”

He side-stepped to lean on the doorframe this time.

“Thir’s nae word fer ‘goodbye fer ever’, an’even if there wus – after ilka goodbye comes a new greetin’. Mebbe sooner, mebbe later, but A ken t’comes.” He smiles: “Aw’s git it’s counterpart juist like a coin haes twa sides. So fer every loss there comes a gain sumplace else an’since ilka hello haes a goodbye an’ilka goodbye haes a hello, we wull a ‘aw meet again sum othir place. Be it Hieven, Hell, Underworld or sum othir form o’Afterlife.”

He paused briefly: “Cha d’dhůin doras nach d’fhosgail doras.” [[No door ever closed, but another opened –Gaelic proverb]]

Trying to lighten the atmosphere a bit – it would be a bit dimwitted to ask the lad the question back, since he asked it in the first place. It had to be one that ailed him the most. Nods his head towards the marked weaponry: “Thir’s sum fine workin’ ye got thir, lad. Mak ye ony on request?”
Edited by Hugh MacKeane, Mar 17 2009, 05:44 PM.
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Dan Anderson Mar 18 2009, 09:48 AM Post #7
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You can't hear what ain't there...
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Dan nodded slowly, continuing to shine his baseball bat until it shone and reflected his face like a mirror, however warped it may be. He put the rag away and capped the bottle of polish. He looked the bat over, checking that every single surface, save the grip (wrapped in friction tape to give him a good grip on the thing), and slapped the business end of the bat a few times into the palm of his hand, before wrapping it back up in newspaper and placing it gently on his bag. He wiped his hands on a cloth and went to inspect his scattergun, noting that Hugh had asked him a question about his weaponry and the designs he'd spray-painted on them. He ran a finger gently over the fresher lightning bolt and noted that it was dry. Satisfied, he pulled a chair over and sat in front of the desk, slowly and methodically dismantling the scattergun while providing the answer to Hugh's question :

'Ask me, I'll do one for your weapons on the spot.' He ended the statement with a nod in Hugh's direction and a smile, ever so faint. His face then resumed its gloomy demeanor as he opened the ammunition barrel of the scattergun, noting on the side how many shells it was supposed to contain (32, although it used six at a time. Strange number for a strange weapon, he supposed). He then opened a box of shells, specially made for the scattergun, 20 gauge buckshot shells, and carefully loaded 32 shells into the barrel. He then closed the weapon up and, gripping the weapon in his hands, cracked the lever action six times to load the weapon fully. He took out the ammo drum and replaced the six shells that were loaded in the weapon, replaced the drum and placed the weapon gently back on his desk, the business end of the gun pointed away from him and Hugh. He took a pistol clip and opened a box of ammunition, 9mm bullets. Common ammo for a pistol. He clicked 12 of the bullets into the magazine (Its max capacity) and slid the magazine into the pistol, clacking it into placed and drawing the slide back and letting it loose to chamber the first round. He filled a few of these magazines and placed them in a small messenger bag. Convenience. He placed the pistol back on the desk, its safety still on, and used a rag to wipe the desk, before folding it and placing it near his bottle of polish. He then moved back to the bed and sat on its edge.

'My parents died. In a car accident, when I was still a boy. I saw it happen from our apartment window. For days on end I would sit in my room and cry and cry. Nothing, no one, could console me. I lived through all my life until now carrying that heavy weight on my heart, never knew how to let it go, never will.'
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+Hugh MacKeane+ Mar 18 2009, 05:13 PM Post #8
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Ye call that dancin'? I saw people on fire move better than that!
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“A tak up yer offer, lad – wull a bedeen bring ye meh bonnies.” He was slipping into more and more Scots by the minute, must mind the other or he might as well speak pyro to him with the same result.

Watching as the other falls silent yet again - working precisely in silence. If this was the young man’s attitude even in battle, it was a practical trait. Made him wonder why the other was not a spy – a silent assassin instead. But the young man surely had his reasons. They all had.

And then the story was out – Hugh had suspected a loss along those lines when the lad first asked his question, but it was never the sole loss. It was how the loss happened – how it came back to haunt you, to crush your spirits during day and rouse you in horror at night. It reduced you to a shadow of existence which you wished would just end. And still you wanted to go on and you crawled along. Time took care of it eventually, new happenings anchored your lost mind and hopefully you met the right people along the way to pull you up on your two own legs again – sometimes there were even those who lifted you up onto their shoulders and made you feel strong again.

That reminded him of old, melancholic songs he himself would listen to alone when moments of reminiscence came upon him. In the end you remembered just the good and could smile back at the past with the occasional nightmare being soothed away from your brows in the morning by friends. And who Dan needed now were friends.

Being new in an unknown place proved least encouraging when you were the closed type of person and with such, Hugh did not wish to invade the other’s privacy without being invited in – although he wished to console the laddie as best as he could. Ah, was it some fatherly impulse? Berthie will mock him about it to no ends if she found out, but Hugh just hated to ‘not even try’. He took one step inside, lingering on the border of the other’s personal space – not threateningly so, just an attempt of human reassurance.

“Ye ken, A believe i’spirits. A believe that thay’re awgates wi’ye. Ye dinnae hae tae hold on spasmodically, acause thay’re thare. An’ neer thay wish fer ye tae be dowie – never to be down.” He hoped he did not sound superior in his argument, for it worked well for him, but was not a guaranteed success with others. It was not time for long philosophical/spiritual talks about life and death. He can lavish his Celtic wisdoms on the other later.

“I am sorry for yer loss, lad and respect yer decision upon the matter. Yet still – allow me to welcome ye in the team. May ye find good fer yerself here amongst us.” He smiles encouragingly, but keeps his distance. Towering around the other must've been opressive enough on its own.
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Dan Anderson Mar 19 2009, 02:44 AM Post #9
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You can't hear what ain't there...
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Dan turned to face Hugh and gave him a small smile. He knew what the man was trying to do : be close enough to him so that he could be some sort of friend, yet stay away enough so that he would not intrude on his personal space. He stood up, intending to go with Hugh to his room to work on his weapons, whatever they were. He grabs his bag and stuffed his paint cans, colours ranging from red to white, plus more sheets of paper, a pencil and an eraser. He turns around to face Hugh again and extends a hand for the other to shake.

'I get what you're sayin'. Don't worry 'bout it. I'm sure I'll be accepted into this team one way or another. Now, 'bout those weapons of yours...'

Dan motions to the door, intending to let Hugh exit first and lead him to his room.
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+Hugh MacKeane+ Mar 20 2009, 06:32 AM Post #10
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Ye call that dancin'? I saw people on fire move better than that!
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“Aye, nae doubt there.” He grins from ear to ear and shakes the other’s hand heartily.

He leads out of the room and through the corridors down to the basement level where his room is. When he opens the doors, it is quite dark inside, but the air is fresh – due to an opened basement window near the ceiling. The windows have their blinds pulled down. He wonders briefly if he should allow the other inside, since he still values his privacy…

Leaves Dan standing on the threshold of his room and disappears inside into the gloom. What little is clearly revealed by the light from the corridor is the bit of metal covered floor of the Pyro’s room. Now, that was no fashion statement, it was purely practical for the safety of the base – the floor was littered with burn-out match ends, here and there. Everywhere in sight. Not having a wooden floor or any other flammable material prevented the base from catching on fire – the Pyro was very careful, but he just woke up in the middle of the night, in the middle of the darkness and lit matches for comfort and fascination.

Not much more is visible of the room, except for silhouettes of the few pieces of furniture and the messy sheets on the bed. The room is not too big, but is more spacious to standard recruit rooms.

Hugh appears a moment later with his axe and caresses the polished blade fondly. “’Ere’s Bonnie – she’s a sharp Lady, so watch oot wi’er. A wull a bring Clyde later.” He laughs, indicating they will be heading elsewhere – towards an old and battered table in the nook between the Engineer’s room and workshop. He pushes away a few metal parts. “Can ye draw a thistle? Simple ane, really.”
Edited by Hugh MacKeane, Mar 20 2009, 06:36 AM.
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