#( me: hey do you want to hear about random etymologic trivia )

[faulknxr]

Five hundred hours. The dawn rises. Agent Faulkner awakens.

The alarm dies before it can even sing its song, the mock mockingbird silenced by a precise tap of an index finger. Faulkner stretches his arms above his head, wrists chained by a bar of light shining through the blinds. A crick pops in his shoulder, and it’s off the bed. He levels and smooths the mattress, leaving no remaining traces of the body that warmed the sheets.

Five hundred zero-two hours. Light breakfast. End-of-season pomegranate arils, almonds, and a green smoothie. Warm up that shoulder. Remove any tenseness or bumps. Five hundred thirty hours. Run.

The track around the agents’ compound glistens with dew. The March sun sluggishly shakes off February’s chill. With every three odd steps, Faulkner’s breath puffs from his mouth in even intervals, blowing out a cottony mimicry of dandelion pappus.

The name dandelion is derived — corrupted — from the French word dent de lion. Lion’s tooth, by the resemblance of the flower’s jagged leaves. Other common names — nicknames, more like — are Blowballs, Witch’s Gowan, and Doom-head-clock.

(¿Diente de léon? Agent Dickinson would argue that naming a flower after its leaves is silly. He'd propose melena de león. Lion's Mane.)

{Gael, the name, has its roots dug into Breton soil, originating from the term gywn, meaning blessed, and hael, meaning generous. Gael, the agent, once declassified his name's Spanish meaning to his primary partner — gracious. Carried overseas, the epithet evolved, a natural synthesis of its attributes.}

((Faulkner, the agent, has not disclosed to his primary partner that an invocation to God resides within the other agent's name, a theophoric appellation like a secret, inlaid jewel. But it's always there, that faint sheen. A golden halo glowing from his crown. The Asteraceae, star-like as they are, would still pull their own petals out in envy of his shining Grace.))

Pick up the pace. The dirt flies off his soles. The world is a tap, tap, tap closer.

Some of the flower’s monikers are pejorative, a warning of the plant’s diuretic properties. Piss-a-bed, from the English; pissenlit, its French equivalent; and in the northern locales of Italy, pisacan. The can, shortened for cane, cagna. Dog. Flowers at the side of pavements, roadkill weeds in America.

Would it be unbelievable to say that a time ago, these flowers were valuable beyond belief?

(Huh, his partner would hum. That’s interesting. Tell me more?)

Of the genus Taraxacum, there lies a descendent named Taraxacum kok-saghyz. TKS. It found its popularity in the Soviet Union during the Second World War, bred in large quantities between 1931 and 1950. As access to Southeast Asian rubber plants was increasingly restricted, TKS was an emergency ration of latex in a world that could end. However, it wasn't only the Soviets who cultivated a colossal mass. The United Kingdom, Germany, Sweden, and the United States bloomed seas over massive hectares, drowning their green fields in white-blooded yellow flowers.

(And now what?)

As the war ended, the programs ceased. The flowers culled. It wasn’t productive to keep going when the costs of upkeep and the yield weren’t as effective as Hevea brasiliensis. The import rate from Thailand and the Dutch East Indies, now known as Indonesia, was matchless for its time. The United States’ rubber industries boomed.

(Me enfada que son tan chuchos los gringos con su pisto... pero buen, los más ricos son los más codiciosos.)

((Faulkner would almost be tempted to agree.))

Many are unaware dandelions are wholly edible from the top of their petals down to their roots. Vitamins A, C, and K dominate its properties; calcium, potassium, iron, and zinc are in superior quantities for the flora to be considered medicinal. In Korean cuisine, 민들레 makes for a zesty salad when fresh or, when blanched, a savory yet refreshing side dish to rice. Agent Faulkner likes the peppery taste, earthy and punchy and fragrantly bitter.

Speaking of breakfast, Agent Faulkner slows down around the trail's bend to check his watch. Five hundred fifty-seven hours. Like a reflex, he unclips his pager from his wristband and sends a short-form message to his primary partner.

146-6837. 98-6. 10-4? 221? 321-630-4125. 53. 960. :)

He purses his lips when there’s no response by six hundred hours, his sneakers crunching through the cold dirt at the final marker of his circuit. Could Agent Dickinson have left his pager by the living room table instead of his bedside? Is he still lost in slumber?

It is six hundred and twelve hours when Agent Faulkner pulls out the leftover bowl of caldo de pollo from his fridge and warms it up on the burner. It’s true what Agent Dickinson has said: the taste is better later; it’s been resting at least eight hours since last night. In turn, Faulkner’s suit jacket also rests, drying on the laundry rack. He’ll get it professionally cleaned tomorrow. The laundromat is unavailable on Sundays.

Standing over the stovetop, Faulkner’s private smile touches the spoonful of hearty tomato broth. The slight curl of his lips is spurred by the memory of Agent Dickinson against his back, at the soft spring of his curls tickling Faulkner’s ear. Last night, he piggybacked the other agent home from the pub. There were apologies for drinking too much, even though Faulkner had advised not to; admittances of gratitude, of Faulkner staying behind even if it interrupted his plotted Saturday night schedule; and a slurred confession, breathed out quiet but unhesitant: just between us, you’ll always be my favorite.

((This Agent’s preference was un-confessed, but Agent Dickinson is his favorite, also.))

There needs no more significant reasoning for how Faulkner feels beyond philanthropy, or as the Greeks call it, ἀγάπη, something universal that bonds the cell of the self in the body of society. It’s the charitable act towards all of humankind that strengthens Faulkner’s arms to carry Agent Dickinson to the man’s quarters. To carefully comb Dickinson’s hair back when the agent sicked in the porcelain repository of his toilet, ferry glasses of water to rinse his mouth.

Selfless admiration washes Dickinson’s face, each stroke an outline to the cordial shape. Frees him from his work clothes. Slip on a light-hued, comfy sweater over lightly scarred, teetering shoulders. The pastel threads bring out the color of rosewood irises ingrained with sleep.

Crouching, Faulkner smooths the sheets, tucking them around Dickinson’s warm, dozing form. He watches for a moment. Magdalene has Faulkner’s sympathies.

((He’d lay his head by Dickinson’s feet, too.))

Comradery tails Agent Faulkner when, at zero hundred hours, he quietly uses his spare key to return to Agent Dickinson’s flat with the finished caldo de pollo and sneaks it into the other agent’s refrigerator, middle shelf. He checks with a single glance into the bedroom to catch Dickinson’s peaceful rest, but the agent’s deeply frowned brows and white-knuckled grip on his sheets say otherwise. Fellowship spectates Faulkner by the man’s bed. He places a cup of water on the bedside table, drapes a note to cover it from dust, and lays two tablets.

Hospitality watches Faulkner’s hand hover over the man, the handkerchief swiping across Dickinson’s creased forehead, gradually erasing every discomfort from whatever plagues his mind. Following several brushes over his skin, the other agent finally sighs, breaking the tautness and loosening his features to rest.

Faulkner silently mirrors the gentle descent of Dickinson’s evened breathing. It seems the nightmare has passed. Faulkner smiles, and Fondness sees him reach to sweep off the matted curls on Gael’s forehead —

“...In-su?”

— Agent Faulkner snaps his hand back, fingers crushing into a fist so quick his joints pop.

Outside of the reverie, the spoon in Agent Faulkner’s mouth rattles against his teeth. The tiniest dribble of caldo spills from the corner of lips like blood, like he’s accidentally bitten his lip or tongue. Before it gets on his pristine white dress shirt, Faulkner mops it up with a napkin.

His watch ticks six hundred thirty hours. The morning brightens. Agent Faulkner exits.

On the way, greetings are shorn short, like buzzcuts. Hello. Has Agent Dickinson arrived? Good morning. Have you seen Agent Dickinson? The launch is at seven hundred hours. Is he there? Please don’t be late? I understand. I’ll get him. Thank you.

The briefing files, snug in a manila folder and cradled against his arm, jostle when Agent Faulkner stops in front of Agent Dickinson’s quarters. Six hundred forty hours. Time has elapsed backtracking to the housing compound. On the way. They’ll look at the files on the way.

“Agent,” Faulkner calls out, punctuating with a single knock at Dickinson's door.

No response is given.

“Agent,” Faulkner repeats with two knocks. “Agent?”

Accordingly, there remains no answer.

Clearing his throat in an undertone, Faulkner pulls out his lanyard hidden in his shirt pocket, drawing the suite’s spare key behind his keycard. Although he doesn’t like to trespass, the situation finds him choiceless. He goes through with it, twisting the key and the knob. The door closes with a subtle click.

“Agent Dickinson?” he inquires.

Hollow thumps creak through the apartment until Faulkner’s footsteps skirt the bedroom’s threshold. The figure within the room stirs, and Faulkner gives him privacy until he hears a hack. He enters the room, already down to a crouch by Dickinson’s side, and pats the other agent’s back through a cough.

When Dickinson quietens, Faulkner speaks. “Hello, Agent. Good to see you. How are you today? I extend my apologies for barging in. Here.” Faulkner moves automatically, dredging his handkerchief from his suit pocket to sop up the water on the other agent’s face.

Once finished with his task, Faulkner stands tall and relays the proper information. Unfortunately, today’s launch has been relocated to Terminal D, the farthest among the launch areas. They will also need to pick up their USFFs on the way. The clock on Dickinson’s table draws ever nearer to six hundred and forty-six hours. Faulkner clicks his tongue.

He’s composed as he explains, “Agent, I regret to inform you we have less than fifteen minutes to launch. Are you able to get dressed soon? We can brief on the way; I have the files.”

who  :  agent faulkner, @faulknxr

where  :  agent dickinson's living quarters

when  :  march 13, 1994, 6:35 AM

The golden light from the spring sun gently spilled into Agent Dickinson’s quarters through a pair of partially closed curtains. In the still darkened expanse of the bedroom, a kaleidoscope of colors danced across the walls, the light shifting between the warm rays of natural light and the prismatic hues not normally seen by the naked eye. The ribbons of colors shimmered and twirled as if dancing, distorted through a crystal glass wind chime that hung across from the apartment’s central cooling vent. The gentle whooshing of the climate-controlled air and the soft tinkling of the translucent glass beads that swayed in the breeze were both drowned out by the incessant treble of a shrieking radio alarm clock that sat atop a cluttered bedside table.

In the queen-sized mattress next to the nightstand, Agent Dickinson let out a strained curse before he pressed his face deeper into the mattress; the pillow that had been his head rest the night before was folded in half to cover both ears in a vain attempt to muffle the sound. While turning off the alarm would be easier than pretending it didn’t exist, the pounding in his head made the very act of reaching out to shut it off seem utterly impossible.

But he knew he needed to get up; he was running late, and Faulkner was waiting.

Dickinson’s heart clenched behind its cage of flesh and bone, erratically thumping out of rhythm, haunted by some peculiar, misplaced pseudesthesia. The fuzzy remnants of a dream—a nightmare, really—clung to the edges of his subconscious. Stubborn and sticky like the seedpods of the burdock plants that grew in the walking trails he and—In-su—Faulkner frequented in the summertime; those barbed spurs that left a penetrating, stinging itch hours after the intrusion had been removed. The burning sensation of the nearly invisible puncture was the only evidence of a wound. A laughable phantom injury that still hurt regardless.

Chuckling cheerlessly, Dickinson squinted at the time displayed on the green digital screen of the alarm clock. 6:38. He was over thirty minutes late. His chest seized up in a bewildering sob that petered off into an equally mystifying series of sniffles. He couldn’t even remember what it had been that had upset him so much, the fragments of the dream vanishing like wisps of smoke, like fog, when he tried to bring them into focus; leaving behind only the heartache and drying tear tracks as proof that anything had terrorized his sleeping mind.

The only thing he could recall with any certainly were the sound of someone crying, bright white lights, and a cacophony of noises in the distance. But that in itself offered very little insight when it came to narrowing down the memory. All things considered.

“¡Ya! cállate,” Dickinson hissed, eyes closed, as he extended his arm to slam the ‘off’ button of the clock but only managed to bump his fingers into cool glass. He bit back another curse, opened his eyes, and lifted himself on his elbows to reach around the obstruction that had been left on his bedside table. Once the shrill wailing had been silenced, once and for all, Dickinson rolled onto his back and stared up at his bedroom ceiling.

The last vestiges of the nightmare had been blown away by the torrential winds of his waking mind, so it would be pointless for him to continue to dwell on it now. But there was something gnawing at the deepest alcoves in his psyche. An animallike dread made his skin break out into gooseflesh and the hair at the back of his neck stand on end. A ghostly chill, a creeping horror that had dug its claws into the core of his being. Dickinson wondered idly who had emerged to haunt his subconscious last night. Which one of the many ghosts that trailed behind him had come seeking their toll for the years he had stolen from them?

The thought sent another pang of melancholy through him. Dickinson pressed his hands to his face in response, trying to clear his mind. If this was the penitence he had to pay for letting Agent Fitzgerald goad him into another drinking contest, then maybe this would finally teach him to stop letting things get this far. Everyone knew Dickinson was a terrible drunk; a lightweight who’d get overly emotional—and then embarrassingly clingy. So if he had to bet, Dickinson would suppose the Fitz got a kick out of seeing him turn into a weepy mess, teary face pressed into the side of one of his usual victims (Faulkner, Whitman, or Hemingway) whose side he’d cling to for the rest of the night.

‘It was Faulkner last night,’ Dickinson thought sluggishly. It was usually Faulkner as of late. And since Dickinson had woken up in his own place instead of being deposited onto someone’s couch, it was the only logical conclusion; his long-term mission partner was the only one Dickinson trusted enough with a key to his apartment, after all. Whitman would probably try to pull a prank (or two) and Hemingway’s susceptibility to peer pressure made him a liability even if Whitman didn’t have a key.

Grumbling with no real heat behind the sound, Dickinson recalled the glass of water that had been left for him on the nightstand, another hint that pointed towards his partner. Sitting up he squinted at the sunlight pouring into the bedroom before he shifted his gaze to the glass and noticed that there was a square of paper placed over it, and two white circular tablets of medicine atop of that. Dickinson snorted as he carefully pinched the aspirin pills between his thumb, index, and middle finger so he could snatch up the handwritten letter between his final two. Popping the medication into his mouth, he brought the note to eye level and blindly pawed for the cup. Sipping on the water, he scanned the note, which read:

Good morning, Agent Dickinson: I hope you slept alright. Please take these pills with food and water. There is a bowl of caldo de pollo in the fridge. Two minutes in the Radarange should suffice. Our meeting time at Briefing Room A is 700 hours. I shall get you by 645 hours if I do not receive a page back by 630 hours. Cordially, Agent Faulkner. P.S. Please do not worry about my suit jacket from last night. I properly rinsed the discharge.㋡

Dickinson choked on his drink, dribbling water onto his chin and chest. Coughing and pounding at his sternum, he placed the glass back onto the bedside table and looked at the time.

6:43.

Faulkner was probably already unlocking the door.