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 this heart grows tired, charlie/jax
Faulkner Koch
 Posted: Jan 9 2018, 12:04 PM
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engineer/mechanic
player: theo
10 posts

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old heat of a raging fire
come & light my eyes
It was late. Far too late to be monopolizing the training rooms but he found it easier for him to work out without the concern of someone walking in on him hanging over his head. He didn't particularly like the vulnerability of it. Especially given his continued recovery. He’d been in physical therapy regularly to regain his balance, which had shifted since fashioning himself a new prosthetic. He had to relearn how to walk with his temporary one and now he had to reteach himself the rest with the one he'd built. He'd been active prior to the accident and he refused to let himself start to slip because of it. As far as he was concerned, it was just a matter of stubbornness. And he certainly had that in spades.

By all rights he should have been resting. His shift had ended a couple hours ago. Shifts weren't something he always abided by. He had a tendency to work straight through one shift into the next but the people he worked with had been keeping on top of him since his return, insisting he needed the rest and breaks. It was probably wise given his tendency to work himself to the bone but he hated being mothered so. So, he'd left his work station and gone home.

Sleep had seemed impossible at the time. The middle of the night and he’d been wide awake, exhaustion throbbing at the back of his eyes but every part of his body tense, unnecessary adrenaline running rampant just under his skin, itching to be used. So, he’d changed and taken to letting it out on one of the bags in the training room. That was, until he’d tired his arms out. He’d spent some running, working on his footing, and run some drills he'd learned as a foundling. Not for the first time, Faulk was a bit miffed that he couldn't learn anything past the basics. The knowledge he was given access to as a scribe was something he would never have given up but a part of him mourned the loss of the opportunity that ranger training could have provided.

There was too much on his mind. Work and recovery and his family and the Acolyte. The man's death had caused a noticeable shift in people. Mistrust was running rampant, tensions were high. Faulk did his best to keep himself from getting too paranoid but it was difficult when a man was dead and nobody knew how he'd died. He refused to believe it was exposure. He couldn't let himself believe it was exposure. Because that meant that they couldn't leave, they couldn't go outside. That meant that they'd never be able to go outside and that wasn't a possibility he was willing to entertain. What they needed right now was definitive proof the outside was survivable and for a new Acolyte to be elected to help restore stability.

And there was another thought: who would the new Acolyte be? The thought had certainly crossed his mind that he could be among those considered. It was something his parents had prepared him for, certainly, and he had no doubt the next time he saw his mother she would bring the subject up. She was relentless, even after all these years. But it wasn't the job that he wanted, per se, but the ability the position could give him to do more than his current station did. But that was neither here nor there and there wasn't much use in lingering on 'what ifs'.

He was back at the bag when he heard someone behind him. Barely. They came in on his left side and with his heart pounding in his ears he didn't register them until they spoke. He finished his rep and turned, brow furrowing slightly at the sight of the younger man. Their new Rex. Well, moderately new still. He moved over to the bench he'd left his shirt on and pulled it back over his head. “It's late. Why aren't you asleep?” It was a hypocritical question given what he was currently doing but a valid one nonetheless.

+ tag Charlie Van Rensselaer
+ notesfaulk is perpetually grumpy
BY MITZI
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Charlie Van Rensselaer
 Posted: Jan 13 2018, 01:21 AM
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Rex of NAV-Com
player: Jax
16 posts

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Charlie was not one to set a bad example. Generally speaking, he tried to follow the same guidelines, rules, and suggestions that he set forth. Technically, there was no curfew in place, and the training rooms were open to just about anyone as long as lessons were not going on at the time. He did, however, constantly recommend a good night's sleep, and that people did not overwork themselves. Stress, he was told by a Scribe who taught him during his Foundling years, could be just as dangerous as a killer as poison or disease. And yet, Charlie could not seem to avoid it. He held himself up to a higher standard than the other people around him, and that meant a different kind of lifestyle.

At least this is what he told himself as he packed up his training gear. Whiskey had given him a look, but it had been just as she was coming in herself. His look was only mildly guilty, but most it was asking for forgiveness. There was an unspoken language between the twins that could be communicated through their glances and body language. They had never made up some kind of communication that was specific to them. He heard twins did that sometimes, but they were not like that. Their brains didn't think like that. They just already knew what the other was thinking and doing, sometimes before the other knew it in themselves. He had no doubt that the look on her face was already prepared when she heard him pack his bag.

He kissed her lightly on the top of her head before he opened the door to head out. He asked her not to wait up, but she would. If he thought that he would be keeping her from sleep, though, he would not have left. “I'll only be gone an hour,” he told her. He didn't want her to worry or wonder, and time stamp on his return would help. He slipped out the door, closing it quietly behind him in case their neighbors were trying to get some sleep themselves. It left a quiet environment for him to really let his mind wander. It was the time at night that he gave himself to let it go where it needed to go.

But tonight he was coming up blank. All he could focus on were the sounds of his boots on the hard floor, and the chill in the air from the late night cycle regulation. Light and temperature under here as all artificial, but he trusted the Scribes to make it mimic the cycles of the surface. Lately, he had been spending so much time sweeping his mind away from the conflicts in their bunker that he was having a hard time getting back to them. The day to day issues were starting to run over the big picture, and he did not like that. The Rex needed to think about the whole picture, and he had been allowing himself to get distracted. The problem was, he was having a hard time finding the big picture. Since he came to power, he had been focused on the “numbers.” How could they be more efficient? How could they be more prepared? But all of that was easy. The hard part was the future. Where did they go from here?

Even as he approached the training rooms, he could hear the impact of fists on a punching bag. His ears perked up at the noise, realizing that he was not the only one seeking late night training. But he was not cautious as he entered the room. Yes, he was unobtrusive, since he felt that manners were an important aspect of setting an example to his people, but he knew the moment that he entered that he was not dealing with a Ranger. A proper fighter would never train, even just against a bag, alone with his back to the door. The form was also basic. It wasn't bad by any stretch of the imagination, but it certainly as not focused. He was part of the way into the room, placing down his own tape, when his eyes adjusted to the low light and he saw who it was. And then he felt like an asshole.

Faulkner was a Scribe who had helped train Charlie when he was a Foundling, so he had literally known his entire life about the restrictions to his hearing. The polite thing would be to not make himself known. “Burning the midnight oil?” he asked, nonchalantly. He made his motions casual, but intentional. Setting himself down on the bench, he started to get to work wrapped his hands. He recalled a time back when he first learned how to throw a punch, and his trainer had allowed him to punch the bag, full force, for a whole training session. After one round, his knuckles were cracked and bleeding. But that was Charlie... he learned his lessons well.

The Scribe was hardly impressed to be in the room with the Rex, but he did not expect anything else from Faulkner. He had been a man who had seen to Charlie's own education, and while he did not go down the path of a scholar, Faulkner was a man who he truly respected. Maybe that was why Faulkner did not balk at him. He just spoke to him. After all, no one was on duty here, technically. Finished wrapping one hand, he started on the other. “I could ask you the same question,” he said with a slight smile on his face. Was it dodging the question? Yes. Of course it was. But he could not tell the Herald what kept him up at night. It would be irresponsible.

“Do you need a spot?” he asked, wanting to suggest that he did not need Faulkner to leave. Granted, the two of them were rarely alone in a room with each other, and certainly not after hours, but he did not mind the company. The Scribe had been the first one at the bag, and even as he put on his shirt, it might be out of manners, so he offered to help him train. Strictly speaking, there was no rule against staying fit. Whiskey even encouraged it in the population actively, and he agreed whole-hearted. So long as there was no focus in the training. He finished wrapping his hand, and moved over to the bag. If Faulkner returned to it, then they could continue together, but for all he knew, the man wanted to leave. It was hard to get a read on the Herald from time to time. He wondered how much of that exterior was a shield. After all, he had a family and children. How much could he have kept concealed from them?

this heart grows tired
 
tag: Faulkner Koch / word count: 1140 / This post took longer than it should have to get out! I am still figuring out his voice, so forgiveness if things don't flow.
 

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Faulkner Koch
 Posted: Jan 16 2018, 01:44 AM
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engineer/mechanic
player: theo
10 posts

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Awards: None



old heat of a raging fire
come & light my eyes
There was a certain amount of respect that was meant to be afforded to their leaders. The Acolyte and Rex. Faulk didn't give respect for the sake of it, he believed it had to be earned. But he also wasn't going to disregard rank either. Thing was, Charlie had been one of his students. He'd taught him when he was a foundling, watched the boy grow up over the years. The younger man had his respect but he looked at him and sometimes still saw the kid. It hadn't been long but from what Faulk had seen, he was a good Rex. Better than the last, certainly.

Faulk hadn't much gotten along with the other man and thankfully, he hadn't had much reason to interact with him regularly. But if he didn't agree with someone, whether or not they outranked him, he had no problem speaking his mind and telling them they were wrong. He'd follow orders when it came down to it but he wouldn't just fall in line and adjust his opinions for the sake of others. It was something that had gotten him in trouble a few times over the years but he truly believed that sometimes an opposing view was very necessary. If you didn't examine all sides of a problem, didn't exhaust all your options, then you couldn't possibly hope to find the best solution. He didn't believe in easy options.

His breaths were still coming a little heavy from the exercise, heartbeats loud in his ears, but he watched the young man's mouth carefully to read his lips in case he didn't catch some of it. It was a skill he'd gotten rather good at over the years out of necessity. He'd taught himself sign language as well but there were very few in their community who actually knew it. He'd always had an affinity for languages. They'd intrigued him even when he was younger. Dead languages and the cultures that had used them. Perhaps it wasn't strictly useful knowledge but he didn't believe any knowledge was unnecessary. He called it a hobby. And he'd taught his partner enough sign language that he could at least use it with the other man when he needed to.

"Can't sleep." His insomnia had become a bit of a monster in the past year, one he couldn't control. But Charlie hardly needed to know the details. He'd let the man make his own assumptions. It was best to keep his answer vague. His job was an important one and he couldn't have people questioning his ability to do it. He might not've been in the best health anymore but he was still fully capable and he was sick and tired of people mothering him after his injury.

The offer to train together was somewhat unexpected and Faulk quirked an eyebrow at the younger man in a silent question. It was a bit unusual. But he supposed that not too many scribes ventured into the training rooms regularly either. "...Sure." Faulk gave a slight nod to Charlie and moved back over to the bag with him. He waited for the other man to get a grip on the bag before he squared up and started on it again. Standard movements. Ones he'd learned when he was a foundling. Simple. And a couple maneuvers he'd seen watching archival fights. It might've been pointless to watch sports games long past but he enjoyed it. There were still some he hadn't watched and if he let himself forget, it was almost like watching it live. He slowed after a while, glancing to Charlie. "You want a go?"

+ tag Charlie Van Rensselaer
+ notes wow. what a chatterbox. meet the worst conversationalist in the entire bunker.
BY MITZI
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Charlie Van Rensselaer
 Posted: Feb 8 2018, 01:03 AM
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Rex of NAV-Com
player: Jax
16 posts

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Awards: 1



 
   
“I... know the feeling,” he offered by way of explanation. Then again, Charlie had not had a decent night's sleep since the day before his Graduation. It was not the dreams that kept him awake; it was the lack of them. He had been told by many people wiser than him that the fact that he could not remember a single dream that he had since he was a young teenager was a sign that he was not sleeping properly. He always reassured them that it was not that he could not remember his dreams, but rather that he was sure that he did not have any. He handled things in the moment, and if he was dealing with a conflict when it was time to sleep for the night, then he simple did not sleep.

Not that there was any immediate conflict that kept him up tonight. It was merely the habit of little things always compounding.

Charlie was a man who was content to work in silence. That often meant with other people. If the silence was off putting, then he knew many ways of filling it to make a person feel at ease. Whatever they needed. When given a choice, though, he said little. If he had to guess, it came from his years of Whiskey. The closest person in his life was someone he never needed to say a word to. The perfect harmony that they existed in was one that they had since they were in the womb, and was only nurtured by the people of the bunker since then. Silence meant comfort to him. So, Faulkner taking to the rest of their session in silence was hardly disturbing.

He saw the odd quirk of the eyebrow from the Scribe in his direction, and made a point to form more of a relationship with the man. He did not like letting these kind of things slip. The Scribes right now were going through their own inner issue. They were well outside the mourning period since the death of the last Acolyte, yet no one had made steps to decide on a new one. It made Charlie a little uneasy, but not for the reasons someone might expect. Whoever took that role was someone who would work with Charlie closely. Of course, he was interested in who he would be working with for what was surely going to be a long time, if everything went properly... This time... His time working with the previously Acolyte had been woefully short...

He watched Faulkner's form. He was strong, for a Scribe, and inclined towards the physical as much as his position would allow him to be. He wondered how that sat with the other Scribes, knowing that one of their more respected members enjoyed spending time training his body as much as his mind. He held the bag firm, and passed by the curiosity of what it would be like the spar against him. That was something that the rules would not allow. Keeping the body fit was encouraged for anyone, but only the Rangers were allowed to be battle ready. Ever as Rex, he could not forget the place that everyone had in their carefully kept infrastructure.

When the offer to take to the bag was given, he took it. He nodded to Faulkner, and checked the wraps on his hands before they switched positions and it was Charlie's turn. He breathed in, and punched on the exhale. Hand to hand combat was more of Whiskey's specialty. Rifles were where Charlie excelled. That did not mean he forgot his form, though. He practiced at 80% power and speed, he still followed through, and refused to pull. He could not afford to train his body to fall short of the mark. Ever. So he moved his feet and fists, and kept to his form.

He did not stop until he had worked up a decent sweat. Maybe this was how he would get to sleep tonight. He stopped after some time, looking over to Faulkner, and cocking his head. “At risk of sounding cliché,” he said with a touch of humor in his tone, and a hint of a smile. “Checking in. How is your family?” They were, after all, also residents of the bunker that he was Rex of. Their interests were his as well.

this heart grows tired
 
tag: Faulkner Koch / word count: 728 / there he goes, trying to make all the chat XD
 

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