kingbrockman-blog

[kingbrockman-blog]

james-reagan-bryne

And all those times J.R. reached out, to graze Kent’s bicep or shoulder, chest even in his mind he told himself they were just close.

Close bros.

And not in… Love? Love?

James’ hands still started to shake when he  thought about love. And that was now. 15 years later.

That look on his face was ‘oh god your wonderful oh god I’m going to pass out.’

And in an effort not to ruin things, as James tended to do when it came to relationships, he proposed that they didn’t sleep together again.

And Kent did not take that well. Because he didn’t get it.

This was not all James’ fault. They could have still been friends.

And now James was angry because Kent was laughing. Laughing.

“What?”

But there was no time to connect the dots in his head. Because his back was getting a taste of shopping cart.

He refused to let Kent see him wince. Was that all he got? J.R. spent his formative years getting shoved into lockers, a little metal wouldn’t make him cry.

It was the way Kent looked at him that actually infuriated James. He did not come this far to have Kent Brockman look down on him.

The expression on his face changed from shock to rage in what was a matter of seconds. And while Kent’s little challenge was cute James had already made sure to take the man down to the linoleum floor. They’d been in this position before hadn’t they? It was just the context had changed. A different sort of passion.

If there was one thing of value that James learned from his brother (his brother who spent a good amount of his youth starting bar fights in pubs,) it was how to throw a good right arm.

If his face was red he didn’t notice.

Kent was a romantic once. Briefly, for a period of all but three years of his life.

He would contend that it was not his fault in the least bit because not only did he make it clear how he felt (only for it to be flippantly shrugged off as a miscommunication), but he’d also proceeded to show it. Passionately. Backbreakingly, fuck, he showed it and James compiled all the data and chose to outright reject him.

And not even in a considerate way, in an awkward I-can’t-look-you-in-the-eye way. In his actions and lack thereof. J.R. had gone from casual bicep grazes to visible recoils at the sight of Kent, and that, somehow, was supposed to be an acceptable reaction to him implying they took what they had and made it better. Different.

No, friendship wasn’t possible at the time. It might have been if James put forth the effort. But if that was the best he had, then Kent couldn’t cope with it. Wouldn’t, because it was the first time in his life someone had become so important only to shut the door in his face.

For as bright as Kent was, J.R. always had a way with making him feel like a fuckin’ idiot.

So if Kent Brockman, fifteen years down the line, could see even the slightest hint of J.R.’s existence and feel genuine, visceral contempt, he’d won.

Even if that meant he got a mean right hook right smack dab on his face, back meeting the linoleum.

The pain was bad, but the way his stomach churned at the idea of filth littering his body was that much worse. J.R. knew he was a fucking germaphobe. He knew, yet he took it to the floor.

All kinship was abandoned.

So Kent didn’t feel any remorse when he hocked spit right into James’ face, taking the man’s brief moment of surprise to wrestle himself from under his grip, pinning him down to try for his own right hook.

It landed.

There were a few resounding gasps that came from passerby’s, the pasta aisle receiving quite a bit of traffic for a Tuesday afternoon. Kent figured the security guard would be called up soon, but he couldn’t think to care. There was a distinct ringing in his ear that he couldn’t shake, a burning pain that resonated in the entirety of his skull.

He pulled J.R. up from the cloth of his collar, stretching the material with reckless abandon. It was probably Faded Glory anyway.

“You are my fucking problem.” He sneered. “Have you ever considered that?”

[kingbrockman-blog]

james-reagan-bryne

That was the problem, wasn’t it? They liked each other a little too much.

James liked Kent too much.

Because let’s not forget that Kent was practically a king on campus, with beautiful brown skin and pretty eyes that everyone adored. And he was smart too? Enough to keep up with J.R. and even surpass him in areas and that sexy. James was just as attracted to Kent’s mind as he was to his body.

And he hadn’t even realized it until he woke up next to him.

So what does 21 year old J.R. do? He panics.

And clings desperately onto ‘best friend’ straws before they could unravel into something more intimate and terrifying because what they had was good. Why risk it? Being friends was safer didn’t Kent understand?

It… just didn’t make sense that Kent would look at J.R. and want something more.

James gave a whole lot of fucks about what happened in college. That’s why he locked those feelings away.

He stood his ground when Kent approached. But it was the look that was the first blow, almost catching him off guard. When did it get like this?

But the push brought him back to reality.

There was a brief beat, before he was slamming Kent against the shelving, disturbing the elbow noodles and bowties.

While the circumstances weren’t the best. This was the closest they’ve been in years. This wasn’t pass each other at a press conference, this was them getting into each other’s faces.

And no, James didn’t smell like hotdog water.

“What the fuck is your problem, Kent? What?”  his brows furrowed freely now, sharp blue eyes shooting daggers, “Is this how you get off? Making me angry? Huh? Is this what you want?”

Sure, Kent wasn’t called King Brockman for nothing, but even a king could be brought down to his knees. Especially when he was downgraded to a fucking leper every time he so much as glanced at James after Fuckgate. Twenty-one year old Kent wasn’t a damn fool. He was just foolishly in love. Waking up at the ass crack of dawn to not only go on a run but also cook them both breakfast, knowing damn well a protein shake was, well, practical?

That wasn’t a fucking bro-gesture. That wasn’t, ‘hey man, you’re pretty cool’. It was ‘hey, I’d like if you noticed me’. ‘Hey, why waste your time on that guy from sociology when I’m right here’?

But James, the fucking coward, pushed him away—goddamn literally as soon as they woke up that morning, twin sized bed impossibly intimate as their limbs were intertwined like spaghetti noodles that’d gotten stuck together. One good look at James told Kent all he needed to know: he thought it was a mistake.

And that blow to the ego would follow him, indelibly, into his adulthood.

So in that brief moment between machismo posturing and puffed chests, the two stood, suspended in time, sharp expressions practically cutting each other’s throats as the assortment of dried pastas went flying. One thing led to another, and Kent burst out into a laugh. A loud one.

“You already know what gets me off, J.R.”

His back slammed against the cheap shelves, his fingers immediately curling into the fabric of his counterparts’ clothes. He pressed a foot back into the shelves, pushing onto rows of pasta as he launched his body against J.R.’s, slamming the other man into their adjacent carts, a resounding clatter breaking out into a deafening squeal in the grocery store.

He made it a point to cast his gaze downward at him, broad shoulders swaying tauntingly as he initiated a violent tango.

What a cute little man.

“Maybe I just wanna get a rise out of you. God knows this isn’t the first time I’ve accomplished it.”

He smiled menacingly.

“Show me what you got. Tell me what the fuck my problem is. I'll even let you take the first swing.” He gestured toward his cheek, giving it a gentle tap with his forefinger. "No hurry."  

[kingbrockman-blog]

james-reagan-bryne

Funny. Kent wasn’t complaining about J.R.’s ‘hot dog’ body when he was fucking him into his twin sized bed in college.

But J.R. had since buried that memory under years of enduring annoying, petty, insults and little shoves at press conferences. Years of Kent poking the bear.

And J.R. had convinced himself that it had nothing to do with one drunk fuck in college. Because Kent ‘better than you’ Brockman couldn’t have ever possibly been interested in J.R., who was so below his standards.

He almost snarled at Kent’s comment. But kept his expression emotionless. There was the twitch of his brow, and that was it. That was all he was going to let Kent have.

J.R. and Kent were two very different people. Who approached anger in two very different ways. Kent seized up. Spoke fast. With that pretty smile of his, spouting out carefully crafted insults..

J.R. seethed. Quietly. Until he burst.

This casual conversation had derailed in the pasta aisle of the supermarket and as Kent kept talking J.R. could feel his fingers ball into a a tight fist then release.

And then Kent was squaring his shoulders, and closing the distance between them and it took all of J.R.’s will power not to take Kent roughly by the collar.

The reality of their current situation was that James didn’t need to spell out his long list of achievements, and connections, awards and experience. They’ve been comparing successes since college. GPA scores and final grades, honors societies and scholarship. Kent followed his career as closely as J.R. followed Kent’s.

Kent knew that J.R. was just a brilliant as he was.

So he wasn’t going to dignify this abuse with a proper response.

“Take a step back, Kent.”

J.R. could tell himself up and down it wasn’t about the drunken college fuck.

But in that hollowed blackhole of a chest, he fucking knew it was.

J.R. was brilliant in every goddamn way. From the way he articulated his thoughts down to the way his hands held onto his felt tipped pens, gorgeous strokes of black ink decorating each page in celebratory wonder. Words were never quite so sharp, so crisp and striking as they were when J.R. weaved them onto blank canvases. The cadence of his voice that delivered his speeches were fucking breathtaking.

So much so, in fact, that Kent found himself inspired by them. He wanted to better himself, to watch the pair of them grow into men they could both be proud of—

But now they were squaring up in the fucking pasta aisle of a Mart-O after having not spoken in years. Forgotten were ridiculous arguments over which way a toilet paper roll goes on the handle. James didn’t give a single fuck about what happened in college. Acted like it didn’t occur, filed it away in a cabinet full of shit that he didn’t consider worth thinking about.

So Kent had to be great. Better. On his damn own. Not giving half a shit about what anybody or anyone thought about him because the only person whose opinion ever mattered to him made it abundantly clear that life wasn’t a two-way street. It was a straight shot road, and there were no laws in place.

Steamroll the pedestrians, crash into everyone who gets in the way. Get to wherever the fuck you need to be, no matter what you have to do.

It pissed him off even more that J.R. never gave him the pleasure of conversation. Avoidant motherfucker that he was, always had been.

“Or what, James?” He hissed, taking a long stride toward his former roommate.

He scoffed, expression contorting that into one of pure fucking disgust. Contempt.

Kent promptly pushed J.R. by the shoulders, feeling elation in watching the man’s body fall under his hands’ will.

“What the fuck are you gonna do about it?”

[kingbrockman-blog]

Of course J.R. would think Kent was childlike. The man always had a way of belittling other people, stone cold eyes constantly cast downward as he would preside over the earthly realm on his celestial high horse. And the stallion would have to be purebred, of course, because James Reagan Bryne never settled for anything short of his impossible standards. His former best friend was as blasé as they came. Fucking infuriating considering how Kent knew he ate generic brand cereal swimming in Great Value milk. For a man who thought so highly of himself, he made no attempts at salvaging that hotdog wiener he called a body.

Never mind that Kent had his actual hot dog wiener in his mouth at some point. Because fuck that, it’s not like it meant anything to the austere journalist. It’s not like Kent was a fucking person.

What a novel fucking concept. Excuse the fuck outta him if he liked to purr J.R.’s name just so he could watch his skin crawl.

Kent’s journalism was a force of goddamn nature. A single string of sentences, pieced together a certain way, could cause a revolution. Inflections placed just so could land innocent men in jail, liberate society’s menaces and corrupt the youth.

Journalism was powerful, and if utilizing it meant Brockman was a ‘questionable’ reporter, then he didn’t know what the hell that made J.R.

A putz, that’s what.

“Should’ve quit sooner, J.R. It’s such a shame what you’ve done to yourself.” He let out a wistful sigh, leaning onto the iron bar of his grocery cart. “Those smokes really aged you. If folks didn’t know any better, they’d think I’m talking to my Splenda daddy.”

Vain.

Kent would take vain. It was simply another way of saying he gave two shits about the way he looked. It took him further, helped the cause. Appearances were half the battle, whether J.R. knew or not. Presidential candidates have been booted in lieu of younger, more charismatic counterparts. If James paid as much attention as he claimed in AP U.S. History, he would’ve known that. The advent of television was amazing. Hell, even radio was a game changer.

The public would much rather listen to Kent’s poised intonations than J.R.’s deafening deadpan. Kent’s glistening, warm skin as compared to J.R.’s partially animated rendition of a moldy slice of bread. The choice was obvious.

“We have to give your little office a fighting chance every so often, after all.” Kent hummed, fingers tapping idly. “Journalism isn’t about running a monopoly—but it’s not like I know anything about that.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “I mean, I don’t know anything. All these accolades I’ve earned are bullshit. It’s doubly impressive, actually, considering how I’ve never done a lick of proper analysis in my life, right?”

Kent stepped closer to J.R., chest out, shoulders squared. “According to you.”

He cocked his head. “What is journalism, J.R.? What impact have you made?”

Maybe J.R. would pick up on the implication. Maybe he wouldn’t. He was sharp as a tack but slow as fucking molasses all the same. Always had been.

What friends do you have, J.R.? What connections, what lovers, what family—what do you really have besides the newsroom you’ve made home?

Oh. The hotdog water thing. Kent’s run with that one for years hasn’t he? It first surfaced when they had their falling out in college. J.R. remembers because it was the first time he understood fully that his former roommate and (cough) ex best friend had the maturity level of a 12 year old.

Anyway, J.R. couldn’t stand Kent Brockman either so they were even as far as their distaste for each other went. And J.R. would call a copy The Owl inspired before awarding that label to Kent Brockman’s watered down p.r. ‘reporting.’ Besides, it wasn’t like he could make comments about Kent’s appearance like Kent did with him. Universally, the guy was attractive. His reporting, however, could be debated.

James made a face, and maybe even audibly scoffed in disgust at the ‘Mm.’ Every time Kent Brockman’s name fell from his lips he felt like he needed to go on a detox.

His brow furrowed, and maybe if he weren’t so skilled at rolling his eyes he might have lifted a hand over his mouth. And J.R. knew how Kent Brockman operated. Though he couldn’t make his voice go all sugary like Kent could. Often J.R. would see Kent on the news and need to flip channels because it was infuriating how everyone else seemed to eat that artificial, sickly sweet shit up. 

If anything was rotting his teeth it was the sound of the man’s voice, rich like sticky maple syrup. 

But what J.R. was good at was being blasé. “Actually, Kent,” A skill he executed seamlessly here, “I’ve quit cigarettes. And I feel better than ever.” 

He hated how Kent examined him. It always made him feel… well… shorter than he was. And like he needed to defend his vertically challenged genetics. A ‘I have long lashes too!’ kind of thing. Ugh. This was ridiculous. Luckily he was distracted by something Kent said that he found comical. Offering a light laugh, he ran a hand over his chin in thought, “I wouldn’t call you vapid, you do know how to entertain. Vain, maybe.”

Yet another mental ‘UGH’ at that melodramatic sigh. Kent might as well have threw the back of his palm over his forehead and strewn himself over the shopping cart. J.R. swore this man lived in a fairytale world of his own, “Oh yes, it’s amazing my little office’s readership continues to keep up with yours. Surpasses even, depending on the week. That must be so irritating.” His newsroom had been collecting cans throughout the month actually for the little girl scouts’ donation drive. They’d get a spread in the paper and everything but damn straight J.R. wasn’t about to explain anything to Kent right now. The man could read about it. He glanced at his watch, “Anyway there’s no point in reminding you how little you about my newsroom. Lack of proper analysis has never stopped you from running your mouth before, has it?”

[kingbrockman-blog]

Organic was the way to go. GMO-free was more than likely a bullshit ‘health’ campaign propagated by the people who owned Trader Joe’s, but Kent Brockman had so much money he couldn’t be arsed to care. Organic had a nice ring to it, particularly when it was organic and local. He was a sucker for the farm-to-table rhetoric, but he’d be the last person to admit that aloud. J.R. Bryne would have a field day if he knew the extent of his beliefs. Kent Brockman: health nut and pretentious free-range enthusiast.  

He took long, urgent strides toward the butternut squash, eyes scanning the produce dutifully. He stopped, mid-stride, when something caught his attention: strawberries? Weren’t they considered out of season?

And like a feather had grazed his back, he experienced a tickle. A belligerent, entitled, 5’3” sized tickle.

Kent scoffed, turning his body to face the tiny terror.

“Oh! I’m sorry, little guy.” He apologized, voice syrupy sweet. “Women and children first. My mistake.”

–xx–

           tae-hyun walked cautiously, along the little trail; umbrella open and hovering over his head. acting as a shield towards the sun that was currently shining far too brightly. the young male simply wanted more tea leaves, and had heard constant yapping; of how the little organic farm was ‘so amazingly, wonderful’. too focused on looking where is shoes (over one hundred dollars, mind you) were stepping; the boy failed to notice the figure in front of him. until colliding with them. “you want to watch where you’re stopping? this isn’t exactly a wide walking path, and you taking up the entire lane; is literally one of the stupidest things, you could do. why not move off to the side at least, and let the important people through.” he chided with disdain written all over his features, moving to attempt and shove past the other person.

–xx–

[kingbrockman-blog]

Kent Brockman didn’t go out of his way for any fucking body. Not for his publisher, not for his coworkers, and especially not for his ‘friends’ down at the pub. Every action he took possessed purpose, a willingness to succeed in anything and everything he set out to do. Each moment he spent in leisure meant he’d worked damn hard for it. So if he Brockman wanted to take himself out to the local diner, a humble establishment sans diamond encrusted menus, he would. And he’d order an egg white omelet with a side of roasted bell peppers and zucchini—his usual. Light salt, substitute butter for olive oil. No pancake batter.

It was a Friday night, so naturally, that meant he’d be hard pressed to find parking. Kent instead opted to swing around back, pulling into the lines crisply as he noticed a man sitting beneath a dingy lamp light, ass connected firmly to what looked to be a bucket.

He quirked a brow, eyes squinting as he analyzed the figure. He was fairly certain it was the guy who always waited on him. Andres? Andy? Andrew?

Kent locked his car into park, stepping out into the open air as he fished for his keys. He stepped closer to the man, offering a half smile his way.

It wasn’t going out of his way if Anthony was the only person in the whole damn diner that could get his order right.

“Rough night?”

Aindrea was one who always tried his best to hide his bad feelings from others. He wanted to be the one to give positive energy to others, the one who always smiled no matter what was going on. Usually he’d go and hide at home so others wouldn’t see his bad moment, but right now there was just too much going on in the city and in the world in general, and with the people and their trouble around him, he had to take an extra break from work at the diner.

He want out to the back, sitting by the dumpsters using an upside down turned bucket as a stool. He had a water bottle in his hands as he tried his best to calm himself down. He also hadn’t been sleeping lot lately because he had been working almost a triple shift for the last few days because few of his coworkers had gotten sick and weren’t able to work and the diner was really lacking of workers, so obviously Aindrea said he’d help as much as he could. But now it clearly was acting against him because if this kind of downfall was about to come it definitely wasn’t good. Aindrea just hoped if he’d stay in the outside air for a bit his nerves would calm down and he could head back to work again. But if he would see himself from a mirror even he would realise just some air wouldn’t fix this. Anyone could tell that.

[kingbrockman-blog]

doctoroleary

Keaton would make a funny comment back, but his usual wit had left him since Javier left him. Heknowmostly would agree with anything that mean Keaton was wrong or not the best thing��such as Kent being the one to get everything he wanted, that seemed very accurate.

“Hm…” Well the night wasn’t going to end with Kent banging him, or telling him that JR still loved him, or anything that would lift his spirits up. So if all he could have was the mental picture of hot Kent and JR fucking, then he would happily accept that consolation prize.

“power struggle, how?” he rested his head on his hand and turned to look at Kent while swirling his straw inside his drink, “you think you’d top or are you versatile?”

No, Kent Brockman would not hook up with Keaton tonight. He only did charity work at the beginning and end of each month. As far as he knew, they were stuck in the middle. It was too bad for the doctor, he was definitely missing out.

Kent let out a snort despite himself. “A power struggle as in J.R. would try to fight me for dominance. You know how he is.” He took a swig of his Southern Comfort, eyes watching his counterpart over the rim of his glass. There was a single, brief pause between when the glass returned to the bar top and when Kent unwittingly divulged a vital piece of information: one he vowed to never bring up in conversation, much less casual banter with his former college roommate’s ex.

“I topped.”

[kingbrockman-blog]

[kingbrockman-blog]

doctoroleary

“oh shut up, Kent. Quit the journalist talk, I’m not projecting anything, everyone knows you’re a piranha.” he ordere another drink and took a sip as he listened to Kent go on about Javier, “No, I don’t want to talk about about Javier anymore, let’s talk about you.”

Keaton sighed as he turned to face Kent, leaning his head on his hand, “Do you still hate JR? Are you guys having some sort of weird rivalry turned hate-sex? Because I would hate you for it, but that would also be a great image to take with me and I would appreciate that.”

Kent wanted to inform Keaton that it wasn’t journalist talk, it was basic psychology, but he opted to bite his tongue. Besides, the next part of his sentence was funnier than the first. He rewarded the doctor with a laugh.

“Funny, because I don’t recall ever having to hunt anyone, Keaton. I can’t be a piranha with looks like these. Everyone comes flocking.”

He ordered himself a second drink—a Southern Comfort, neat—and turned his body toward the other man, shoulders facing him. “Okay, I’ll bite. Let’s talk about me.”

This time, it was Kent’s turn to snort. He had the right mind to shudder in disgust, but frankly, it was too hilarious to feign discontent. As it turns out, J.R.’s ex had a hell of a sense of humor.

“Can’t stand him, and probably couldn’t stand having sex with him. He’s an elitist dick and I’m a control freak—the sex would be a hell of a power struggle, Keaton.” He shook his head. “Which is hot if you’re into that sort of thing, I guess.”  

[kingbrockman-blog]

simonclaymd

“Well if I’d known you were this miserable right of the bat I would contemplate forgiving you more.” Not that he would forgive Kent, it wasn’t Kent after all that suffered the biggest embarrassment. Simon hadn’t even told Keaton about his misguided almost hook-up. Somehow he didn’t think ‘I was unable to maintain an erection cause I kept hearing J.R. plow you’ would go over very well.

Despite all these embarrassing callbacks Simon was reminded why he didn’t hold grudges toward Kent very long, and why he respected him so much as a colleague. That handshake, one Simon didn’t take seriously at first but by the end of four years couldn’t help but grow fond of it. It was like riding a bicycle, the way the back of their hands slid over each other. Kent’s approach, as always, more crisp and practiced than his own but they both ended up clapping each other on the back at the same time.

“Yeah, I remember how much you like your head. Trust me.” Simon snorted, unable to stop from tugging at the cuffs of his coat when he say Kent give him the once over. The lab coat mostly obscured how well he got his suits to fit now– all bespoke and nothing off the rack anymore. “Of course you’re a celebrity, nurses at the hospital I worked at who only read their horoscopes in the local paper still knew who you were.” Then he cleared his throat, motioning back to the desk so they could get seated. As much as it was tempting to catch up this was about business after all.

“It might be more related then I like to think. I had a spat with a guy I was interested in…” He sighed, biting the side of his mouth. “Didn’t work out in the end, clearly. He came to warn me away from working with the New Order. So I suspect that our public image took a hit following whatever that leaked image was. Could make what I want to do a target, maybe even scare away most participants.”

Kent Brockman was always an entertainer at heart. He put on a hell of a show: the college athlete, sociable frat boy, straight-A student. He could take any role thrown at him and run with it. He prided himself on that skill set. If Aisling needed Brockman to be the charming journalist that put the city at ease, it was his duty to do so. He let the expectations roll right off his shoulders, slipped himself into a comfortable new skin and wore it like satin.

But today, he was going to be Kent Brockman, New Order proponent, Bellamy MacNamara’s eyes. Although he hadn’t anticipated Simon being the scientist in question, he knew one thing for sure: Bellamy was suspicious about his loyalties, and it was up to Kent to discern whether or not his colleague was a threat to the organization. BADASS handshakes aside (following a firm pat on the back and all), they were here to do business.

—After they wrapped up their playful banter, because despite everything Kent was only a man and he would always spare a chuckle at dirty jokes.

Especially if it was Simon who was making them. Despite the lab coat not conforming perfectly to his body (unlike Kent’s, impeccably tailored as his outfit was), the man still looked pretty damn good. He wore the coat as well as he wore his shiny new title.

Doctor Clay.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Kent tutted, tossing his head back in a stifled laugh. “You don’t come out the gate talking about head. You ease into it, Simon. Conversational foreplay. You know the rules.”

Kent helped himself to a seat at the desk, setting his notebook down as he listened carefully to Simon’s words. He paid every syllable his full attention, analyzing each consonant for rhythmic lies and suspicions in between the soft flutters of his college ruled paper.

He looked back up at the man, a polite formality overtaking his features once more.

“It’s been a debacle.” Kent acknowledged with a mere nod of his head. “Sounds closely related to me. Let’s start with the basics.” The journalist uncapped his pen, angling the felt tip carefully onto the page as he glanced back up at his counterpart.

“Firstly, who was the man who warned you, and is he affiliated with any political parties? Secondly, what did the warning entail and thirdly, what is it that you want to do, Simon?”

Brockman cleared his throat. “We have a lot of ground to cover, and Bellamy gave me a very basic outline. I’m here to make your brainchild a reality.”

[kingbrockman-blog]

spittingvencm

Bellamy sat back in his chair and kept a careful, observational eye on Kent.

“One of my doctors is interested in starting a clinic for the superiors, more specifically the urchins, I believe,” he said. “He needs help setting up some of the specifics. And I’m not sure of your exact qualifications, but I’d like for you to help him. Get together, bounce a few ideas off of each other. Help him. And… make sure he’s really with us, while you’re at it.”

Kent hummed thoughtfully, lithe fingers tapping his chin as he considered Bellamy’s words.

“Rest assured, I am plenty qualified. The clinic needs exposure, a public front as well as someone heading the operation behind the scenes—“ He maintained a steady expression, earnest eyes meeting the older man’s observational ones. “I can be that.”

Brockman sat back in his seat. This was getting more interesting by the second.

“Are there ample reasons to doubt his loyalty? A questionable history?”

[kingbrockman-blog]

“My shit stinks much better than yours. Mine stinks right down to the floor, with a feeling so pure it’s got you coming back for more.”

➵ Human ➵ South Side

History

[kingbrockman-blog]

doctoroleary

Keaton sighed as he sat atop one of the stools, “what did I ever do to deserve such chivalry? I was hoping you’d take me home and tuck me in, but that definitely beats that fantasy.” But Keaton would never actually expect Kent or any other man to be a good kind-hearted man. Those didn’t exist, and Keaton had spent a good deal of the afternoon researching ‘celibacy’ vows and lifestyles.

“I’ll just have one and let you go find some pretty young thing to prey on. I’m sure I’m the last thing you want to spend your time on.” He didn’t know too much about Kent, but he knew enough. Narcisstic, self-absorbed, nothing that anybody could place any stock on. “you wrote the article. Is it true?”

Kent snorted. “Yeah, that’s a fantasy alright.” Keaton O’Leary was a grown ass man. He was a grown ass man with a grown ass job, and Brockman was never the type to babysit. If a neurosurgeon, of all people, couldn’t figure out how to hail himself an Uber, then the journalist felt it necessary to contact the board of certification himself to voice a formal complaint.

He couldn’t benefit from the doctor’s drama. At this point, their interaction was just a matter of leisure and formality.

Brockman quirked a brow. “Are you projecting, Keaton?” He asked, bemused. “Your word choice is interesting. Prey on.” Clearly, this was about Javier Diaz. Kent’s thoughts were confirmed when the other man brought him up all on his own.

“I did write the article.” He mused. “And it is true. Can’t fake a video tape, either.” He gave the other man a look. “Any other questions I can answer for you, Keaton? About Diaz.”

[kingbrockman-blog]

noah-harvey

Being a magnet of the most unusual things, Noah often finds himself in the most compromising situations, often times, he realizes, they’re not all that good. Sure, he once stumbled upon some gold by the riverbank near where he used to live and had a bald eagle majestically land on his shoulder on one occasion (it was a glorious albeit very painful experience: ‘Dad, its talons are digging into me! Get it off!) but things aren’t always going to be sunshine and daisies.

The notion of a pot of gold however has yet to elude his wishful thinking.

Noah’s part time job on that fateful day was to be the ever notorious delivery boy who speeds through roads and pathways highly reminiscent of a particular Mr. Toad from the iconic Wind in the Willows. All reckless driving and road rage. It was beneficial to the job and his workplace of course, because he never had to give away free pizza for being late and instead gotten additional tips for being fast. Too fast, his boss might comment sometimes. Noah clues him in on his knowledge of shortcuts and not on his unbecoming driving habits.

Traversing the more secluded but quickest paths to his next delivery, Noah hears the bloodcurdling noises of someone, something screeching in murderous rage and that of another, a normal sounding man. Loud crackling of wood and dirt being scraped up and rustled by bodies were getting more audible by the second. And as with any usual case, Noah’s primary instinct is to sate his curiosity and he creeps closer to the sources of the sounds.

He witnesses the gutsy exchange between the man and what appeared to be an urchin. It didn’t take long before he realizes the former was in danger despite how bold he was in front of the other and if he didn’t do anything to defuse the situation, it’d be a quick and easy meal of Instant Murder, no cooking needed.

“Hey, hey, hey!” he shouts impulsively and just traipses on by as if it were a sitcom and he’s the gag man, getting ready to deliver his punchline. “Now, let’s be calm reasonable people and not try to maul anyone in the face.” He situates himself between the attacker and the man: a familiar face if he’s ever seen one. The beast of a man growls and Noah cocks his head, all too familiar with the ferocity of wild animals to be fazed. “You, my good man, need some pizza. You both do.”

He opens the box, grins in offering and presents it in all its cheesy glory. The urchin flings away the box of pizza, sending it flying and falling into a perfect splat on the leaf strewn ground and Noah’s jaw falls open in indignation.

“That was $9.99, you fucktrumpet!”

But before he could stand in protest at the loss of a perfectly good pizza and a deduction of $9.99 on his paycheck, the urchin bounds forward with incredible strength and he dodges, missing Noah by a hair’s breadth, leaving him knocking his head against a tree. He runs towards the other man, who he assumed to be roughed up quite significantly within the few moments of encounter with the urchin, intending to help him while the urchin was mildly disoriented.

Noah grabs him by the wrists and tugs him up roughly then glances towards the direction of the urchin, whistling a couple of arrows and shooting them precisely enough to pin the urchin’s clothes against the tree, biding more time. Thank god he wore his glasses today.

“I’m Noah.” he turns his attention to the other and pats his shoulders with both hands, smiling in order to assure the other even by just a bit. “That won’t hold the big guy for very long. So I’m gonna need your help.”

“You up for a dance?”

Kent Brockman didn’t eat pizza. He especially didn’t eat Instant Murder, but sometimes, that wasn’t entirely up to him. The very moment he spat in the Urchin’s face, he’d come to the realization that sure, he could beat the deformed entity senseless if he were given the opportunity—the problem was that there were some unfair disadvantages at stake. Pinning a six-foot-tall, typical Aisling citizen onto the floor was no issue. Pinning a seven-foot-tall, blade-bearing monstrosity down? Brockman would have to get a little creative, and his fists weren’t exactly meant for painting classes.

Kent was about to assume position when he’d heard what sounded like the curious footsteps of one tall, lanky twink. The boy looked like a sixteen-year-old—a hard sixteen-year-old, not a tentative seventeen or fifteen. The journalist wasn’t the type to talk people off ledges. If the boy told him, out of the blue, he wanted to jump off a building, his first instinct would be to shrug. The only difference now was the fact that if the high schooler got himself killed, Kent Brockman’s name would be all over the scene.

And J.R. motherfucking Bryne would probably be the one to cover the story. He could see the headlines now:

Local reporter Kent Brockman unable to defend high school student! Young boy slain!

He could already see that asshole’s smirk, deadpan voice delivering facts, nothing but the facts, so help him Jesus Christ. God forbid if the asshole ever showed any expression, any sympathy towards the people of Aisli—

And now the aforementioned kid was practically skipping toward the pair, Urchin long since forgotten as Kent chased after his rage-fueled daydream. The journalist quirked a brow, visibly puzzled as he opened his mouth.

Every word that stumbled from his lips was like something from a Lifetime movie. Or an ABC family comedy gone rogue, at this point it didn’t even matter because he suddenly whipped out some pizza (discount pizza? Because seriously, for $9.99 Kent was certain he’d get heart disease) and displayed it for all the world to see.

“I’m good, thank you.”

And to no one’s surprise but the kid’s, the Urchin decided to show his disdain towards pepperoni pizza by smacking the shit out of it. Kent assumed that was the one thing Edward Scissorhands and himself agreed on.

What the hell was a fucktrumpet?

As the beast barreled toward the kid, Kent sped behind it, doing his damndest to at least move the dumbass out the way because seriously, his name could not afford to be in that headline.

And one thing led to another, and the fucking infant produced arrows out of nothing within a moment’s notice. At that point, Kent’s legs screeched to a halt, head tilted as he just took in one big breath.

The air smelled like sweat, pizza, and nature. Kent pinched the bridge of his nose.

This was too fucking much.

There was a sheen of perspiration on his brow, his knuckles all but bruised and small but ever noticeable scratches decorating his white button-up. Kent Brockman was, for all intents and purposes, doing pretty fucking well for himself considering he only had his fists to fight with.

He turned his attention to the kid (who had a few years added onto him as he got closer—maybe high school senior) and let out an exasperated sigh.

It bordered on a chuckle, if he was being honest with himself. “Kent Brockman, Aisling Tribune.” It was a force of habit, alright? Sue him.

Kent glanced back at the Urchin, then at Noah, and then back at the Urchin again.

It wasn’t like he had anything else to do that day.

“Fuck it. Let’s tango, kid. Show me what you got.”

Symbiotes: Perfect Combo

[kingbrockman-blog]

[kingbrockman-blog]

Symbiotes: Perfect Combo

@noah-harvey

“You wanna go?”

Brockman stood, shoulders pushed back and chest puffed as he analyzed the sight before him:

A superior. Nostrils flared, veins protruding, and blades in place of fingertips. The figure, he estimated, was a humanoid Urchin gone rogue. Approximately seven feet tall, wide-set build. His suppression collar was nowhere in sight, eyes devoid of cognizance as he stared, wantonly, at the journalist that stood not five feet away.

Kent Brockman had a target on his back—but Kent Brockman also couldn’t give any less of a fuck. New Order security details be damned, he refused to put his life in the hands of others. If he was going out, he was going out like a man: holding his own.

He was walking along his usual jogging trail when he heard the first rustle, opting to forgo vigilance in lieu of conspiracy. His father was former marines, taught him how to fight and how to properly scalp a man if need be. What Brockman senior didn’t anticipate, however, was how to prepare for an escaped convict that also doubled as a bootleg version of Edward Scissorhands.

The entire persona was all too familiar. A stir-crazy Urchin that couldn’t stay away from the New Order’s regime. Of course, the relations specialist had to get rid of him. Public executions were his shtick, after all. A few damning reports and a saddened public later, Scissorhands was stowed away in prison for good.

Or he was supposed to be. Somehow, he’d ended up in the middle of Timbuktu threatening to slash Kent’s throat. He simply laughed in response, threw off his suit jacket and assumed position.

There was not a soul in sight, and Kent wouldn’t have it any other way.

Within a moment’s notice, the Urchin lunged at him, blades nearing Kent’s perfect visage. He side stepped, footwork rivaling that of a goddamn ballroom dancer, and proceeded to spit directly in its face. Insult to injury.

There was an excruciating bellow that followed.

“I̫̩̪͍̭͜ ̱̭wil͏͔̺̻̘͍̗l̰͍̳̱̲̫ ̗̳̖̺h̰͉a̸͎̬̝̫̘̰̰v̭̩̣̰͈̭̯̀e̦̫̥̟͓̮̣ ͢y̷oṵ͝ṛ̩̘̺͎͟ ̞̹̱̝̭͕͎fu̙̜͓̙̪̘̠c͎̝k̝̕i̗̼̠n̨g̴ ̰̰̳͕̰͉̳͜h̟̳̦̘͞ẹ̤͍̲́a̗͔̱d̛͕͍̤̟̬̥,͍̪̼͉̭ ̮́K̳̱͈̣͟e͇̥̻n̪̗͔t͓̖̠̺̖̮̱ ͎̬̳̘Br̘͎͞o̳̩̞͜ck̷̘̘̰̭ͅm̗͎͚͇a̳͈n̳͉͠”

[kingbrockman-blog]

doctoroleary

“Yeah but this town isn’t really for me, I don’t think it’s all that suited for humans.” he shrugged, maybe Kent thought he was going crazy since he looked crazy, “I look like shit, huh?” he sighed, “maybe just one drink.”

“Aisling’s an acquired taste.” He led the pair to the bar top, easing himself onto the stool as he slid a drink menu Keaton’s way. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to—just a rule of thumb.” Kent shot a playful wink at his counterpart, his comment all but in jest. “Puts me in a spot.”

He grabbed hold of the whiskey he’d sipped on earlier, bringing it to his lips once more before continuing. “You can order as much as you want. I don’t have any plans today. Just know that I’m not an Uber, so don’t get blackout drunk.”