Topic: The masks we wear.

Steve Armstrong

Date: 2013-02-19 20:44 EST
In retrospect, he could hear it all.

Every drop of his own blood, hitting the sand, as he squeezed those broken glass shards. It was a vivid memory, the heat of moment contrasted sharply by the icy chill that had gripped his rapidly beating heart. Cognitive thought became memory, the by-blow of the moment rocketing him back years and stealing him away from the here and the now...

Fionna's warning echoed within the ears of a head empty of reason, it's meaning lost on an already fragile psyche that for years already had been on the cusp of shattering, until he was only dimly aware of the damning answer he gave. She was all but gone by the time he looked up, his descent back to reality coming with all the gravity of a cement block dropped from a plane.

To follow would have been as smart as it was foolish. In the end, all Steve could do was wallow.

===============================================




You knew, the familiar voice said from over his shoulder, an amused accusation delivered in the flavor of self-satisfaction. From the first moment you laid eyes on her, you knew she was going to challenge every convention you'd adhered to since landing in this melting pot of crazy.

"Yeah, I knew."

It was a concession, one grudgingly and more easily given in the solace offered by the roof of The Eye. Wallowing had ultimately consisted of a copious amount of liquor and, in the absence of Fionna's steadying presnece, his own personal war in the workshop that saw any number of important pieces of equipment trashed beyond simple repair. When mindless violence just simply wasn't enough, the edge of the building had become his perch, booted feet dangling over the lip idly as he sought to duct tape the fragmenting pieces of himself in the chaos.

You knew, but you let her in anyway? There was acid accusation that cut through the amusement, a rippling wave of jealousy fired at the machinist's broad back that sent an uncomfortable chill up the spine of a man not easily daunted. You could play dumb back then. I'm sure it was easier when it was all fun, games, and the warm press of naked flesh. But now? What now? You know what she is? What her kind took from us? If you were a better man, you'd have cut her heart out of her chest those moment she confessed. You should have avenged me. Us.

"Things've changed...," he started.

Ooooh, things have chaaaanged. The voice mocked him, a melodramatic mimicry of his own strong voice, punctuated by an irreverent snort. That's a cop out. Who're you trying to sell that {Expletive} to anyway? The hunter's still in you, no matter what mask you try and wear with the rest of these sheep, Steve. Oh, yes, you're a real cut up in public, I see. All jokes and surly indifference. And even those armored blue pajamas you've taken too so recently. You're a joke. A joke and an insult to everything that came before that pretty cello-playing trollop and politician. If I was still alive...

"But you aren't," he cut the other's voice off. "You're dead. I buried you, remember? I don't even know how the Hell you're here. Maybe it's the booze..."



Or maybe you're more broken than anyone thinks, hm? The voice was equal parts taunt and speculation, but fading... ever fading... The shield will only break when the man does, remember? And it's already full of cracks... So full of cracks. Maybe, Steve my love, I'm just another mask you're wearing. At the end, my end, we questioned everything. Remember?

Remember...

There was so much that was hard to forget, even through the bite of the liquor, somethings couldn't be forgotten or let go so easily.

Not even the way his lips moved... during both parts of that conversation.

Steve Armstrong

Date: 2013-02-21 20:25 EST
Border line,
Dead inside.
I don't mind,
Falling to pieces.
Count me in, violent
Let's begin, feeding the sickness.
How do I simplify,
Dislocate - the enemy's on the way.


Lucidity.

It came to him like the eulogy of a dream; sad, somber. The painful unburdening of something lost.

Steve rode the tide of memory and regret through the night, the sweet lull of too much drink stealing away any good sense in the intervening hours before the hazy light of morning stole the first shadows from his rooftop roost. A thousand or more apologies made war on one another for the favor of the phantom of a woman who'd yet to set foot beneath the watchful gaze of The Eye, each plied soundlessly to the empty air above and each received with little more than silence or the random howl of the wind. Somewhere in the chilling bite of the night air, he slept for a time, conscious regret of the present segueing into the subconscious montage of a hundred losses.

Battles. People. Ideals.

And with the sun and lucidity came the throbbing pain of the hangover, the steady rumble of drums banging in his head; the karmic pound of gut-churning bass.

By the time the machinist had roused himself to move, the distant sound of Fionna's bike was fading in the distance, the announcement of an unnoticed arrival home and an exodus just a quick. Shambling steps marked his descent back into enveloping warmth and the empty apartment. The gummed up gears of post-drunk thought were still turning as he wound his way through, still locked on the night before, but making him dimly aware of Raza and Mariyah's absence. She must have had the forethought to do something about that, he pondered. This is why she's a parent and you're not, buddy. Clothes were shed in the bathroom to the small crunching sounds of fabric sweated in and then made hard by the night's chill, but it crumpled on the floor all the same.

The steaming cascade of hot water was only half a comfort, good enough to warm the skin even if the gripping chill within lingered. Even through the hammer in his head, persistent as it was, he knew he'd brought it on himself. That his own deep seeded penchant for self-destruction, however curbed by the roots she'd grown in his life, had brought it down on her and pushed her away when he traded in pains, intangible for tangible. To bare the crux of what she was to him on that important December night should have been the alleviation of a burden for her, and to some degree he so genuinely hoped it had been, but at the same time was the sharing of it. Knowing her secret, and accepting it, had given him the responsibility for protecting it's sovereignty; had given him his own responsibility for sparing her the burden of moments like these.

Sparing her from every deepening fracture in that castle of glass.

The tickle of the previous night's visitation still tugged at his heartstrings, producing fresh discord in the clash of old ghosts and new beginnings. The voice was gone, but the memory remained, a little pinprick of fresh guilt pushed away and traded for more concentrated rumination on his most recent folly.

Not that you've got a lot of experience, Steve-O, he chided himself. But love ain't easy. Nothin' worth havin' is easy. You have to fight for every inch for what you want to hold onto. Love is like war. It consumes you, inspires you, and makes you more than the sum of what you do. It reminds you why you're here. You 'd up. It might be the first time with her, but it probably won't be the last. Now pull up your bootstraps and press forward.

It could have been the soldier talking, with the sentiment echoed (oddly) by the hunter, mirror images of the same man with different motivations. But by the time he finally stepped out of the bathroom and poured himself into fresh clothes, it was the small sliver of hope that had flecks of blue-white light dancing in the darker hues of his eyes.

The phone rang about the time his second boot was laced up and the call, from an unfamiliar number, was thumbed to life to the tune of:

"You're an easy man to find, Mister Armstrong," it was the calm voice of easy indifference that greeted him on the other end. "But a hard one to get in touch with. Funny that."

"...." The silence from the machinist was palpable, hanging between them both as one man tried to process the moment and the other silently gloated. "Been a while, Randolph."

"Too long, boy. You too good for old friends these days?" In rhetoric, he didn't wait for a response. "Look, I'm not gonna make this anymore awkward than it's gotta be, so I'll just go ahead and cut to the proverbial chase. We need to talk. So, how's about you motor on down that little {Expletive}-hole greasy spoon you always liked so much and we play catch up, huh?"

"Society business?" Whatever warmth he'd regained inside had cooled again. No, froze, until it settled into a painful knot in his stomach.

"We'll talk when you get here. Say an hour?"

"I'll... be there." The called was ended without any more preamble.

Randolph Gregg. Randolph Mother-{Expletive} Gregg.

How many times could one man be haunted in a 24 hour period?

==============================================

She was an ethereal thing. Intangible. Incorporeal.

Hollow eyes watched him as he left exited the warded sanctity of The Eye, distracted and shrugging into his jacket as he set a brisk stride out of the alley and towards his truck. No one would notice, of course. Who paid attention to the shaded reflection of useless alley windows? But she was there, painted into the reflection like some watercolor portrait, delicate and lush and almost as lovely as the day she was lost.

The pleasure in her smile, somehow wan and wanton both, was matched only by her eyes. What was empty was filled momentarily with the heated flare of madness.

She'd waited so long for this moment. A promise was going to be fulfilled.

Steve Armstrong

Date: 2013-03-10 23:17 EST
February 21st

Trepidation.

It was a feeling that limned every inch of the machinist as he stepped into one of the seediest bar's of the far flung fringe of West End, making his skin crawl until even a heart as brave as his gave consideration to the idea of retreating. Fleeing back to the more reassuring comforts of home, despite the domestic tension. In the clarity of unforgettable recollection of past events, it was all he could do to not sweep more obvious looks from side to side for any of the surprises that made for his old acquaintance's bread-and-butter during what passed for the old days in his time in the realm.

Instead, Steve affected a calm and mildly annoyed mien that belied the slow creep of worry that was already adding to the cold knot in his stomach since the incident with Fionna the night before. As if lacked better judgement, or concern, he'd donned a simple pair of faded blue jeans and his old consignment leather bomber, weaving his way around patrons and tables until a level look settled on the expectant form of Randolph Gregg.

"Just like always," the man smiled his greasy smile. "Same old Armstrong. You show up where you're wanted just as the person who wants you most is about to give up hope and seek it elsewhere. Hello, Steve. It's been, what, almost two years now?" The greeting came with the offer of a long-fingered hand.

The gesture went unaccepted.

"Not long enough by my reckoning, Randy." Steve's stare was hard; his smile tight.

"Cruel words," came the throaty rumble of a reply, tailed by a chuckle. "From a man who left me for dead. And after everything I did for you. Have you forgotten that already?"

And there it was: The bait and hook.

Gregg's timing was either coincidentally perfect or he knew more of what was going on in life of the man standing across from him than the latter could have ever expected him capable of. But it had the effect he must have wanted, as the machinist's expression changed to one of intense frustration and both of his palms came slamming down onto the heavy hardwood table's top hard enough to produce tiny crack's in it's surface.

"Left you? Left YOU?" The incredulity rattled through his snarl like a bullet shot through a lead drainpipe, his skin flushed dark in a sudden rise of rage. "How many times did you and the Society leave me for dead? How many times did I have to scratch, scramble, and dig my way out of the rubble when you, in your infinite wisdom, decided it was easier to reduce a building to rubble with your own men still inside? For what? One or two vampires? A skinwalker? How many innocent peopled died so that we could remove one monster from the world? How. Did. We. Make. Things. Better? Leavin' you in that inferno was the least of what you deserved..."

There was a pause between them, allowing for the aggressive rise and fall of Steve's chest to slow. When Randolph finally responded, his tone was conversational.

"Of course, you'd overlook the fact that I took you in, after finding you battered, broken, and near death all those years ago. You were a lost soul and I gave you purpose. I gave you the Society." The man even scoffed. "In conflict against evil, the innocent must always pay a price. Sometimes people must die for us to scourge the unholy. You don't get to wear the mask of wrath and the mask of temperance both, Armstrong. You don't get to be the Hunter and the Shepherd. With me you chose the path of the Hunter and I made use of you as the Society saw fit. As I saw fit. And my reward? Disloyalty."

When the machinist didn't immediately respond, his would-be accuser continued.

"Will you tell me that you're above that now? That you're better than that life? Tell me, Armstrong. Tell me that honest work and love and getting all domestic has made you a better man. Does she know how much blood is on your hands? And whose? Will you tell me now that you didn't Hunt the streets after abandoning the Society? Please. What would your precious lover's constituents say if they knew, in vivid detail, what skeletons in your closet even if she already does."

"Leave her out of this," his reply came through gritted teeth. "Leave them all out of this." In just the measure of the tone, there was the implication that the smug man was treading on dangerous ground, whatever leverage he thought he had.

"Tsk, tsk," was the chiding reply, delivered with a smile so malicious that it promised sweet death knell to staunch resistance. "Temper, temper. I'm not here to rehash old times, Armstrong. Not truly. What I'm here for is to ask for you to do something for me. Let us call it a favor or, better yet, the exchange of favors."

"Ain't happening." Steve was firm.

"No? I'll help you reconsider. It isn't as difficult as you think." It was hard for Randolph to suppress his laughter at the way the blonde man tensed when he reached into the pocket of his tailored coat. A thick envelope was pushed across the table moments later. "Expect to do me a favor in the future and those pictures will stay that. Just pictures. Nothing more... I'll let you think on for a while."

With that, the man rose and meandered casually towards a side door. Then out it. It left the machinist alone, staring down at the envelope for some time before he finally sought out it's contents.

Pictures. Lots of them.

The AMT boys. Their significant others. Rekah. Lirssa in her school uniform. Any number of friends he'd begun to make amongst the dueling crowd.

Raza

Fionna

He was still trembling when the buzzing of his phone announced a text and when he finally spared a look at the screen, his blood turned to ice in his veins.

Text: {You should have remembered, boy. The Society has eyes everywhere. We ARE everywhere.}

Steve Armstrong

Date: 2013-03-11 22:44 EST
15 minutes before the duel with Kheldar...



It was a surprise how little sound made it into the deepest recesses of the Annex's locker room, somehow diminishing the din of the raucous crowd without until the only sound was his own breathing and the single, monotonous drip of a leaky faucet.

Or was it just him?

Memory blurred and blanked and bounced until Steve found himself clinging to the sides of that same sink with both hands, until his knuckles were white and his own preternatural strength threatened to damage the porcelain. The slow tick of blue eyes followed each drop of water to it's messy end for some time before the hollow trill of a familiar laugh drew his attention upwards to the mirror.

It was a maddeningly doting smile that awaited him.

She was everything her remembered, aged not a day and frighteningly real despite the translucency that served to dispel the idea of a physical presence behind him, with a lush mouth wide in a smile and hollow eyes staring so steadily. The breath so suddenly caught in his throat went cold, showing itself briefly in a visible, arctic puff and serving to make the moment all the more confusing.

Close your mouth, liebe, she crooned to him in a sanguine echo, the words felt more in the tickle of his mind that against his ears. The flies in this dung heap will get in.

"Erica..." The name escaped in a sigh, anguished in the rush of breath and the way he lifted his hands to scrub callused fingers over his face before finally looking up again. "You're just a memory. An old, painful memory. Stress. That's what you are. Stress. Right? Between Fionna, Old Temple, and Randolph... you're just post-traumatic stress rearin' it's ugly head." It had to be that. Had to.

Maybe I am. Maybe, liebe, I am just a reminder of your loss. Your inadequacy. Your failure. You are alive, nein? Alive where I am dead. We're all dead. Does that make you sad? Or does it make you ashamed, for playing house with some malnourished harlot and abandoning us to burn. Abandoning me to burn?

Guilt crept upon him easily, so worn thin and beaten down from recent weeks, fraying the at the seams of his resolve until the unseen pressure tugged and squeezed at a heart grown heavy. The machinist never felt those ethereal fingers digging deep, drawing on ever raw emotion and intensifying them tenfold. He was dimly aware of wiping away the thin rivulet of a tear and dashing it's remnant against the sleeveless jersey covering his broad frame. It made the supernatural play against him sink in all the deeper.

"I..." What was he supposed to say. "You're in my head. Just in my head. You know what happened. What's happening. I..."

Outside the locker room, the dull roar of a cheer announced the end of another match and reminded him why he was there.

"...gotta go."

The short time it took to dampen his face from the faucet and dab it dry did little to rid him of the uncomfortable prickle of gooseflesh that persisted. The apparition had disappeared from the mirror and was almost enough to reassure him that this was all in his head, but as Steve fled for the more populated Annex proper the fading voice followed.

Does it make you angry? Knowing what you did? Does it make you angry knowng that you'll let your new friends down? That they and the little French monster will let you down? They'll leave you behind, like the others do. But I'll be waiting. Always waiting... The combination of a purr and a laugh was never so disturbing.

And as he heard it all, the stoic blonde man wasn't even aware of the more savage hunch of shoulders; the slow burn of mounting fury bubbling up through his veins. He still wasn't when he emerged from the locker room and painted on a fresh smile.

But the anger remained and in the dim, irrational recesses of his mind, Steve knew: Someone needed to pay.

You are mine, Steve mein liebe. Perhaps she needs to be reminded.



That hollow laughter announced the spirit's presence to one Fionna Helston Al-Mat soon after.

Steve Armstrong

Date: 2013-03-12 19:08 EST
Steve hadn't slept the night before.

Instead, as then evening deepened and pushed ever closer to the witching hour, he sat in casual comfort with his back to the headboard. In supportive silence he sat there, with Fionna's head nestled comfortably in his lap as she recounted the events of her day and the occasional interjection was offered with each stroke of callused fingertips through her hair; over the delicate shell of her ear. She fell asleep like that, lulled to her rest eventually after a murmured request of: Recite poetry for me? Something like the night we first met?

And so he did, his voice hushed as the words of Carl Sandburg drifted down to an ear he though to tired to be attentive:


Give me hunger,
O you gods that sit and give
The world its orders.
Give me hunger, pain and want,
Shut me out with shame and failure
From your doors of gold and fame,
Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger!

But leave me a little love,
A voice to speak to me in the day end,
A hand to touch me in the dark room
Breaking the long loneliness.
In the dusk of day-shapes
Blurring the sunset,
One little wandering, western star
Thrust out from the changing shores of shadow.
Let me go to the window,
Watch there the day-shapes of dusk
And wait and know the coming
Of a little love.


He stayed like that, the solid rock for her leaning and laying, both physical and not, deep into the night. The odd stirring of the freckled beauty was worth the tentative stroke meant to resettle her in peace, but the sunrise was near upon them when he finally adjusted himself against her into a spooning embrace and feigned sleep until the annoying reveille of the alarm clock.

It was then that he rousted himself from the bed, along with her, and made a show up getting himself ready for the responsibilities of the day. I'm goin' in late today, was the reassurance offered her when he wasn't out the door before her, with the excuse of some things he wanted to get done at home. But I'll come by and grab you for lunch. It was, if in a roundabout way, the truth.

Things to get done.

The machinist paced the house for the better of an hour, restless and pensive, before finally retrieving the sketchbook from his Man Cave (Fi loved to call it his study and the difference of opinion had made for more than one smile-inducing bout of bickering) and slumping down onto the sofa with a heavy sigh. The thoughtful furrow of his brows persisted for hours more, as the pressure of the pencil to paper scratched out audibly over the room's distinct absence of ambient sound. More than once the work produced the subtle creep of a smile, wan but meaningful, before he'd finished the piece and noticed that she'd be expecting him soon. He could, however, leave yet.



Ten minutes later...

If asked, Steve wouldn't have been able to find the words to explain why he ended up in the room that had been dedicated to Bast. It was a place he only entered rarely, usually hiding his distinct lack of comfort (or in some cases, respect) for all things deific long enough to help Fionna with something. Or, more recently, make sure Jesse didn't wreck (or steal) anything.

Once inside the door, troubled blue eyes drank it all in soberly; somberly, before he untucked the the folded sheet of sketch paper from beneath the pin of an upper arm and dropped a considering look. His voice was thick with reluctance when he finally spoke.

"...I know that I'm a pretty irreverent {Expletive traditionally associated with coitus}..." he began, "but after everything I went through: My family. My friends. My home, hell, my world, can you really blame me for not puttin' a lot of stock or faith in the Powers That Be?"

Steve crouched before the altar slowly, a small but genuine act of contrition that never quite sat his knees touching the floor.

"I won't kneel before any man, god, or beast. Ever. But... and kick me for a fool if I'm just pissin' into the wind here... I need somethin'."

"I need help."

Shifting uncomfortably, he set the folded up paper atop the altar.

"Don't know where to begin as far as my past {Expletive associated with fecal matter}, so I'll spare the the gritty details by just saying that I've got a whole Hell of a lot to atone for. But this isn't about me."

"It's about them."

"Give Fionna strength. No, remind her that she's got it, the strength to overcome her fears and old wounds, and worries. To reconcile the conflict inside her and continue to be the person she wants to be. Give me the strength to get through what's been going on with me, what's comin', so so that I can continue to be a rock for her to lean on. When she needs me. If she needs me..."

"I'm afraid I'm comin' apart at the seams. Afraid of giving in to old demons. Old ghosts. I just need a little more strength. To fight it, to hide it... so I can be there for her, because it's been hard on her lately. Help her find strength in herself and in me. She needs to bring her little boy home. She needs him."

He rose to his feet then, huffing a faint sigh and pinching the bridge of his nose.

He was tired.

"Just... please. Please. Give me a little help. For her. A little blessing for her. For our friends. Please.."

Turning, the machinist was just shy of the door before casting a lingering look over one broad shoulder.

"And if you can't? I get it. But if you won't? {Expletive associated with coitus} you, I'll find a way to pull up my bootstraps and do it my gods-be-damned self..."

It was time for that lunch date...

Were anyone to open that folded sheet of paper from his sketchbook, it would have revealed the painstakingly pristine mural of many faces: Fionna and Raza. Rekah, Jasper, and the twins. The AMT boys. Any number of people he'd so recently come to consider his friends. They were all there, blended together in various formats until it was almost a family portrait or class pictures. And beneath them?

Words.

I'm still far from finding rest,
But I've come far and suffered for less,
I'll endure more before I break,
If not for mine then for their sake.

I'm not broken yet. I'll still be their shield.