Brannock, Back in the Saddle?

Part 2

Usually Brannock had no trouble falling asleep when he returned home from patrolling, assuming Thistle was asleep when he got there, of course.  Sometimes he came in as the sun was rising or shortly thereafter, but fatigue generally sent him quickly off to sleep.  He rarely had any problems sleeping through the morning.

Lately though, his sleep was interrupted regularly by nightmares of death and injury.  He watched countless times, helpless all the while, as his colleagues were mowed down by all sorts of creatures.  Even the 117 made another appearance, killing both he and Thistle in a particularly vivid dream.  Lack of sleep made patrolling difficult, and sometimes dangerous.  He tried to use that as a "teaching moment" with the new agents, who in spite of themselves did actually seem to be getting better.  Their technique improved with practice, as did their senses; all agents of course had some combination of enhancements to their regular senses such as sight or smell.  Their awareness continued to need work, but that would also improve with experience, Brannock figured.

Some nights were slower than others, luckily.  When things got crazy, instinct kicked in, for better or for worse, and all tutoring had to be done after the fact out of necessity.  But when things were calmer, Brannock could spend time really mentoring new agents.  It wasn't something he liked or disliked, he simply realized they needed it.  So he did it.  Tonight, it was Porter and Finch again.

"So agents get summoned all the time?" Finch asked, "regardless of age?"  Brannock nodded, turning away from the other two to survey the skyline.  "Once you enter service, the aging process changes, as does your metabolism and your senses.  Surely you were told at least that much?"  Porter nodded, but Finch shook his head, adding, "Nope.  Guys just showed up at my door one evening and asked me to come with them for some work.  That was the last time I saw home, but they didn't give me too many details.  Few days later, I was here, and a few days after that I met you guys." 

Wow, Brannock thought to himself.  They really are putting some of these guys out on the street with no guidance.  Can things be that desperate?  He shook his head as he turned back to face Porter and Finch.  "So, neither of you guys got much in the way of an orientation, like, the history of what we do, or anything?"  Both men shook their heads.

Rolling his eyes, Brannock sat on an overturned trash can.  "Well, the least I can do then is give you two the quick version of a much longer and more interesting story."  He motioned towards the curb.  "Go on, take a load off.  Not much going on tonight it seems, so, we should be fine for a bit."  As his two counterparts made themselves as comfortable as possible, Brannock felt his cell phone vibrate.  Taking it out, he scanned the new text message, from his bosses:  "Two more agents dead and one unaccounted for.  Tomorrow night execute a search sweep with the following agents. . .Finch, Edwards, Porter and Dalton".  Fuck, he thought, this is a nightmare.  But he put his phone away and spoke quietly to the other agents.

"So we have always been around, apparently.  Today, we don't really have a name.  Individually, we're called 'agents' or 'operatives'.  Our central organization has no official existence or name, unlike in the past.  If you look throughout history, sometimes we stand out, in different regions and at different times.  The Knights Templar, the Jesuits originally, the Pretorian Guard in Ancient Rome.  Heck, even the Knights of the Round Table, who did actually exist for a short period.  Those are just some of the ones you might have heard of.  They were all 'us'.  But usually, we are just behind the scenes.  Few governments realize we exist, and even most church organizations today don't accept our ongoing role.  The Catholic Church of course has a long connection with us, and they maintain several special 'units' today of operatives.  By far the best in the business.  Anyway, any questions so far?"  Brannock continued when neither Finch nor Porter spoke up.  "No one that I know of knows the whole history, or who all of the members were, but it is crazy the people who have been operatives.  The vast majority are just regular people like us, since it's hard to have any kind of high-profile existence and do what we do.  But some have.  Saint Peter.  Tutanhkamon, who was actually killed by Sand Vampires-don't ask.  Humm. . .let's see.  Presidents Lincoln and Wilson.  Martin Luther King, Jr.  And agents are always men, though women have emerged alongside men at various times to help.  Amelia Earhart, Joan of Arc, even Marie Antoinette, as weird as that might seem.  But most of the women end up persecuted at best, or killed, at worst."

Brannock stood up and then sat next to the other two agents on the curb.  "The longer you are around, the more you'll learn about us, I'd imagine.  Some of it is interesting, some of it unbelieveable and some irritating.  And while this is a calling for all of us, it is still a job.  You'll get paid, well, most of it is having your expenses covered.  But everyone lives comfortably.  There will actually be training, at various times" (I hope, he thought to himself)  "usually a special session or two when you are called in for your evaluation.  Our bosses seem to usually have a pretty good grasp on how we're doing, and sometimes even know what we need.  They do recognize the stress and pain this job brings, they can't do too much about it, especially lately".

Leaning back with his arms outstretched behind him for support, Brannock sighed and looked up at the night sky.  A nice, clear, starlit night, and even a few stars were visable over the light pollution of the city.  Thistle's kind of night, he thought.  "You'll find there are some exceptions, but, it is very hard to maintain what you might consider 'normal' relationships.  Some guys have girlfriends, but as you come home beat up with your clothes all torn up night after night, it gets harder to maintain secrecy and sanity, I think.  Most guys don't bother to try to get too serious, and most women get tired of the half-truths and weird hours, and strange behavior.  For some guys, that is the hardest part of the job, the solitude.  Agents don't even work together very often, and so you spend a lot of time by yourself, disconnected from the people around you that you are protecting.  Your friendships end up being very superficial, usually other people who work nights and that you might see a lot of.  The guy who does night deliveries, the girl at the 7-11.  But all very transient.  Some guys don't handle that well."  Brannock shuddered; he had always been one of those.

After seeing the two new agents back to their place, Brannock headed home.  That was one good move by the bosses; agents rarely lived together, but lately newbies had been paired up as roommates.  Safety in numbers, Brannock figured.  Slipping in the window, the apartment dark, Brannock squeezed gently into bed beside the slumbering Thistle.  Sleep came easily tonight, fortunately.

In the morning, a frustrated Thistle let him know that the bosses had apparently not paid the cable bill.  Tossing the remote onto the couch, she grabbed her purse.  "I just got paid, so I'll go take care of it.  Liz's new show is on tonight, and I'll kill if I miss it."  "Liz" referred to some actress that Thistle obsessed over, but she stood up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek.  "I'm off today.  Did you want to do something?"  Brannock nodded.  "Yeah, let's go to that park you like when you get back."  She giggled and patted him on the chest as she walked out.  "Sweet.  See ya."

No cable means no internet access, Brannock mused.  It was odd though that a bill hadn't been paid on time.  The bosses never paid in advance, that would have been foolish.  But stuff rarely went unpaid.  He fiddled with the remote, but sure enough, the cable was off.  "Damn.  This is downright strange."  Well, time for breakfast he thought, turning towards the kitchen.

"Oof".  Brannock let out a welp as a frisbee hit him in the sternum.  It actually kind of hurt, but he looked up and realized what had happened.  "Silly," Thistle laughed.  "Maybe you should pay attention to your girlfriend, especially when she is throwing something at you!"  The two had been in the park most of the afternoon, had eaten a nice picnic lunch, and walked around before settling into throwing a frisbee.  But his mind had wandered, focusing on his mission for the night several times rather than the flying disk aimed in his general direction.  He'd dropped a few, but this was the first one that had actually hit him.

"Of course I should.  Sorry.  It's just. . ."  Brannock began, but Thistle interrupted him.  "Nope.  No work talk, remember?  I know what's on your mind.  And soon enough you'll be out there.  Now come carry me to our blanket, I must have a bruised sternum."  She began hopping around melodramatically and clutching her chest, clearly not injured herself.  "Oh, you are asking for it now," Brannock said as he tossed Thistle over his shoulder, paddling her butt as he trotted with her back to their picnic spot.  All the while she feigned hurt from the not-so-gentle spankings.

Sitting on the blanket, with Thistle's head in his lap, Brannock had an "I am almost normal" moment.  It was both happy and sad at the same time, but no sense in fretting, he thought.  He leaned down and kissed her gently on the forehead.  She looked up lazily.  "It's getting to be time to go, isn't it?"  "Yeah," he replied, "but we have a few minutes.  Hey, you know what?  Let's do one of those carriage ride things."  Thistle jumped up.  "Really?  I would freaking LOVE that!"  And within minutes, the clop-clop of the horse's hooves on the pavement of the city street was lulling Thistle to sleep as the sun started its evening descent.