The Valkyries Call, Part II


sarisa_icon.gif tris_icon.gif

Scene Title The Valkyries Call, Part II
Synopsis Across the country, the summoning continues.
Date June 19, 2009

Huntington State Beach — Orange County — California

It moves with him like it was always attached, the surfboard against his feet like some extension of his body. Supernatural dips and curves that make his ride over idyllic blue waves all the more daring, exciting, organic. He can almost feel the sea skim beneath his board as easily as he feels the spray of it on his face, directs it as easily as he directs himself, concious of every movement. He wouldn't trade it for anything.

That's only a slight exaggeration.

There shouldn't be anyone else on the beach. It's early. That's kind of the point. It's why you wake up, get dressed, get out there and submerge yourself in ocean still recovering from a cold summer night and ride until your heart's content. The guys complained about it, except for Tris. He's more than used to ridiculous morning hours.

And so is, apparently, the woman standing on the sand, nearby their things, just close enough to indicate that she's waiting for them. Perhaps waiting for him.

Blue boardshorts of Hawaiian print drip with icy salt water as he emerges from the waves around the time others aren't even emerging from their beds, his board clasped beneath one arm and his eyes squinting towards the solitary figure of a woman standing nearby the cooler they'd set out. A hand comes up to free water from mingled blonde hair; shakes his head once to let droplets fly, dog-like, and tries to remember if this should be normal.

"Uh." Tris tosses the board down onto the sand, offers her a smile, and reaches for his towel which is thrown around him carelessly. "Morning." And then over his head, hands scrubbing to rid himself of still clinging water.

"Tristan Bentley?"

"Yep." He's not about to offer his hand and she doesn't look like she'd take it. Khaki, three-quarter length pants aren't inappropriate for the beach, and neither is her light, summery blouse, but Tris recognises money when he sees it. Her hair is blonde and her expression is serious in its tolerance of him, and then— surprises of all surprises, her hand comes forward. He hesitates, and does her the courtesy of drying his hand somewhat minimally, before pressing his palm to hers in a brisk shake. He completely misses the way her head angles up once contact is made. "Want a beer?"

She raises an eyebrow, just a fraction, withdrawing her hand. "It's a quarter to seven in the morning."

"Breakfast of champions. Was that a 'no'?" He's reaching for the cooler, flipping back the lid to extract a brown glass beer bottle, twisting it open and offering it out to her with his own raised eyebrow look, and she gives a blink to indicate: affirmative, that was a no. "Take it you're not surfing this morning either. Your loss."

Her gaze shifts from him and out towards the expansive ocean, and Tris finds himself following suit, as much as he's stared at the very same view for as long as he can remember. The familiar stretch of sand, and the white foaming breaks of waves, out towards a sea that looks impossibly flat, approximately three miles until the world ends in horizon. His three friends, as interchangeable with each other as he is with them, are dark spots on the slowly warming water, and laughter drifts back towards their ears.

"You served in the United States Army for eight years. You served two tours in Iraq under the 3rd Infantry Division."

"Would've been three," Tris states, his voice neutral, before taking a long pull of beer, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth before he asks, "And who are you, exactly?"

"Special Agent Kershner, with the CIA."

Oh, holy shit.

It occurs to him then that he's still dripping wet, holding a beer, and has flowers on his boardshorts. Sand cakes up his ankles, he has a beach towel draped across his shoulder like a toga, and he didn't offer his hand in introduction. It's very possible that she notices the slight look of alarm cross his face, but for, perhaps quite fairly, the wrong reasons. "You're not in trouble. I'm here unofficially, to pass along a message."

"You're shitting me."

Because it also occurs to Tris that maybe, just maybe, this is a hoax, and her look of borderline, bemused patience is saying otherwise. As does the badge she flashes, before calmly continuing with, "You received an honorable discharge from the Army in late 2007, and since then, how's life been treating you?"

The CIA don't typically send severe looking blondes to chat with you, this much Tris is aware, his spine rigid as a steel rod and hand stiff around his Bud Light. Still, his voice comes out easy, casual, and he tries to contort his face a smile that goes with his shrug. "Never better. Been all over California since I got back, non-stop, just taking my time in figuring out what to do next, you know? No rush. Me and some friends, we're gonna drive up to Ghost Trees in the winter and try and get in on some big wave surfing action this Christmas, it's gonna be totally awesome."

As if to punctuate his point, he tips back a few swallows of beer, the liquid whirlpooling within the brown bottle as he watches her out the corner of his eye.

Special Agent Kershner nods once, and offers him the faintest hints of a smile. "General Sebastian Autumn would like to offer you an alternative. How would you feel about coming with me to New York City and being a part of Unit One of FRONTLINE?"

There's a long pause, as the waves crash behind them, and the gulls cry out, and beer fizzes down his digestive system. Of course he's heard of FRONTLINE, America's been crying about it for weeks, or so he can tell from the fleeting news titles, the flicker of announcements of the radio as he twists the tuner for music instead. He'd been looking forward to Ghost Trees, too, not to mention the rest of summer stretches ahead of him like some never ending paradise of promise. Come midday, this whole stretch of beach will be choked with half-nude women, and that evening, they were gonna go to Dave's to smoke pot in his backyard and crank the music loud well into the night, and everyone knows about how Dave's sister is totally into him and…


Eventually, Tris says in a voice he imagines isn't too desperately hopeful, "Where do I sign up?"

Her smile widens. Just a little. "You already have."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License