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Mel Grimson

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  1. Mel continued on his duties, nothing eventful passing for a while - and then he ran into Brent. Mel gave him a nod, then finally decided to ask about the thing that bothered him more than he wanted to admit. "D'Sombra, your boss. I ran into her. Why did you tell her about me?"
  2. "I see. Ma'am." Mel gave her a professional nod and turned around to continue patrolling again. Food for thought, he determined, but then again, it made sense Brent left that out. After all, this was a one time gig, not an extended contract - then again, Brent Connors probably didn't tell her that - Mel only worked for her until the end of the night.
  3. Mrs. D'Sombra's instructions caused the parade-ground reflex buried in Mel to respond, causing him to defer and step back before he realized: "Ma'am? How do you know my name?" Odd, but not like it was a problem was it? Mel just needed his curiosity settled (or was it paranoia satisfied) and then it was back to patrolling.
  4. The lady in the red dress seemed faintly familiar, though Mel had no idea who she was. Mind you, while she did seem out of place, the same could be said for him or Casey. That said, if Horatio Mourne insisted he send her out - well, Mourne had pointed out he was the client here. Then the black-dressed woman who screamed socialite shark swooped in for the younger woman's defense. Mel's eyes widened and then snapped shut for a moment. This was Brent's joint offer of a quick job and a therapeutic step into post-Cecilia and civilian life. This was not the Section 8 night all over again. Then he opened them as Maya went into her excited spiel. "I think she's in the right place." Mel offered to Horatio. "Art critic for an art gallery."
  5. Mel had continued his circuit when a flicker of brown hair caught his eye. He paused to confirm what he saw. Yep, Miss Barista, cleaning up nice in a white dress. Now how did she get into a fancy place like this? Then she picked up on his observation and came over. He shook her hand politely in turn. "Mel Grimson. I'm working security here for the event. How did you get your golden ticket?" "We're catering." Casey explained. "I thought the upper crust went more for tiramisu or fancy hors d'oeuvres?" Mel pondered.
  6. It was simple. Too simple arguably for Mel's tastes, but at least he could walk around. Still, the money was money. Though he wasn't sure if this really applied as 'getting out' in the therapeutic sense Brent intended. Still, he'd agreed to this, and in a sense Brent was still Major Connors in this way, the commanding officer, and Mel had his orders. Patrol, one, two, three. Examine the area. Security here, nothing to see, moving on. Two, three. Routing past the line of Impressionist or Romantic something paintings, look at the static guards. Meet their eyes, all's well, moving on. It wasn't until he rounded a sculpture probably worth in the hundred grand zone that something different cropped up. Raised voices, though he couldn't discern the words quite. It brought him to a corner where one tuxedoed man in his fifties and an impressive black mustache was finding his chest jabbed by a woman of similar age, well dressed. Probably his wife. Whatever the precise argument was (though Mel would put money on the man's focus having been on the more slinky ladies in slinky numbers) it was definitely severe, and of sufficient noise to suggest his attention. He came over and cleared his throat. "Is there a problem?" The couple quickly shifted to awkwardness at their dirty laundry overheard. "No, no. Just a disagreement. All settled, thank you." The woman primly put. It clearly wasn't, but obviously the bickering had been put on hold for a more private occasion. Mel gave them the pro forma 'just checking' smile and nod and moved on.
  7. Mel looked at the card, then at the towel on the floor. Tasks, clean up the floor and dispose of the blood and fingernail. Call Brent tomorrow and get the monkey suit handled. And investigate this art show so the situation was understood. Just because nothing never really happened at these events, did not mean Mel Grimson the ex-Ranger would forgo his reconnaissance.
  8. Mel opened his mouth to say something, anything... and then his mind flashed back to the torn fingernail hidden under a towel. Perhaps he really did need something. "An art show, though?" It sounded sharper than he meant, so Mel amended. "I mean I'll take it Brent. But what do you expect? A daring heist? A band of gunmen storming in to take the assembled upper crust hostage for ransom?"
  9. "Gimme a minute Connors!" Mel took the time to quickly fold up the throw rug and throw down a towel so that the blood and the scratches were concealed. He did not want to have to answer painful questions. Mel smiled for once in the past few days when the door swung open."Sorry, my idiot neighbor's been bothering me. Thank god it's you." He didn't recall if Conners had called after Cecelia's death. He reached out to shake Connor's hand firmly. "Long time, no see. How are you?"
  10. The haze lifted, Mel taking deep breaths. Deek hit the door another time and Mel growled out loudly: "Stop that pounding!" Another breath and back to the controlled voice he'd used when needing to communicate despite the pain of a serious wound. "Everything's under control, kid. Get back to your beholder." "Uh, ok Mr. G." Deek sounded a tad unsure, but the footsteps confirmed his desire not to pry into his scary neighbor more. Mel took more, shuddering deep breaths, before rising up to wash, clean and bandage those oozing wounds. He'd suffered far worse injuries before in the heat of battle. But what made everything feel so heavy to Mel now was that the real damage wasn't physical, it was his mental state that was really bleeding. He could and would try to find a shrink, but Veteran Affairs was more interested in its own bureaucracy than doing its job. Mel would not become some patient in a mental ward or someone wandering the streets. He couldn't.
  11. This wasn't the Section 8 crackup that he expected. This was something like some fantasy story. Then again, Mel hadn't read many of those. Cecilia certainly never wore any big Cinderella type gowns like she did now. "Danger, from who or what?" Letting go though, was something he found inexplicable. Perhaps it was some part of his mind pointing it out for health's sake, but there was no balance. That was the whole point, his life was unbalanced utterly and as that Deb had said, the world he'd known didn't make sense any more. Even if Mel got over the melancholy, the depression, his job experience amounted to killing people for his country, and that harsh intensity inside wouldn't accept pushing a mop around. It actually made the absurd possibility that this was all real, and that he was in danger more preferable... downright palatable.
  12. "No... that's fine." Mel got out, seeing that tall brunette love of his life. Well, so the big Section 8 had come at last. If he'd finally cracked up, he might as well enjoy the hallucination. He came over and pulled into his arms. "Just glad to see you Cecilia. Just glad to see you." He leaned in and kissed her hard on the lips.
  13. Mel eventually set aside the radio issue as something fucking weird and concerning but settled on the rest of the things he needed to do for the day as a distraction. It was an old trick, the variant of the basic purpose of discipline and training: to give men something to concentrate on and not the fact that people were dying in battle, potentially even them. He checked the fridge. Food was running low. He'd need to shop for more. There was a market within reasonable walking distance, so he could set out after a quick shower. What Mel went through picking in the aisles was not particularly planned, save for the basic criteria he used. Meat, some veggies and fruits. Canned foods. Some pasta for easy cooking. Calories were not a concept of concern, since he was used to burning them off quickly. The whole modern diet fad thing ignored the simple answers. Just having a good balance of foods, ignoring saturated fats, excessive salt and sugar, and exercise kept one healthy. It was what Cecilia said after all, and she wasn't wrong. She'd rarely been wrong.
  14. Mel turned around, scanning the perimeter. Open space and greenery, one or two trees, but no sign of anyone spying on him. Just the occasional other jogger or people over at the bridge. The prickling at the back of his neck insisted there HAD to be someone watching, or following him. After all, the first 'Deb' mention he'd passed off as mishearing. This was far too specific, explicit about him, his actions... Stalker-worthy, yet in Mel's experience the stalkers only waited long enough for the right opportunity to shoot or knife their targets. Either way, there was something distinctly wrong, and Mel knew it. For now, he kept walking, until he found a large rock where he could rest, in the form of leaning his back against it and thus allowing all possible approaches to be part of his field of view.
  15. Mel raised his head up, startled. Had the DJ just dropped his name? No, he must have misheard. But he pulled up to a sitting position as the song played. You can have a sound of the thousand voices calling your name You can have the light of the world blind you, bath you in grace But I don't see so easily what you hold in your hands 'Cause castles crumble, kingdoms fall and turn into sand It was a truism. Mel had grown up in a world where life - well, life wasn't exactly cheap - but it would be spent readily for the right thing of value. Be it in the tenements of Wicker Park, the sands of the Middle East, or as Cecilia had found, within the Big Apple, the red-head had always found himself haunting environments that soaked up blood with regularity. Peace seemed like a foreign concept. You can be an angel of mercy or give in to hate You can try to buy it just like it every other careless mistake How do you justify I'm mystified by the ways of your heart With a million lies the truth will rise to tear you apart Woah Except where his wife was concerned. Where his role models had been uniformly masculine, from his abusive father, the DIs, or senior non-coms and officers leading a fresh new Ranger, all steeped in conflict and violence, Cecilia had been something different altogether. A toughness that he could respect, yet mixed with a personality that could extract joy from the viewing of a successful new romantic sit-com, or cooking wonderful meals. She made peace and 'ordinary life' a reality when they were together. No one gets out alive, every day is do or die The one thing you leave behind Is how did you love, how did you love? It's not what you believe those prayers will make you bleed But while you're on your knees How did you love, how did you love, how did you love? Nothing ever feels the quite same when you are what you dreamed And you will never look at anything the same when you see what I see How we forget ourselves, lose our way from the cradle to the grave You can't replicate or duplicate, gotta find your own way Of course, she was gone now, and indeed, everything felt dull. He had always lived life in those sharper, finer senses, and truthfully, Mel had to admit, deep down, to live a quiet humdrum life, fitting within society as such had ill-suited him. The one person who might have changed that way dead. And the police's statement of 'still investigating' kept him from having the benefit of closure - or a target to direct his wrath upon. No one gets out alive, every day is do or die The one thing you leave behind Is how did you love, how did you love? It's not what you believe those prayers will make you bleed But while you're on your knees How did you love, how did you love, how did you love? This ain't no cross to bury We are the judge and jury, we are the judge and jury No one gets out alive, every day is do or die The one thing you leave behind Is how did you love, how did you love? It's not what you believe those prayers will make you bleed But while you're on your knees How did you love, how did you love? Every day had been do or die. Now, the loss of his position had taken that from which he might have been able to submerge his pain and apathy, given a little more time. Not soon enough for the high standards of the Rangers. Finally, Mel got up. Well, he couldn't spend all day on the couch. For now... he'd settle for a run. Through one of the parks. Closest thing to PT now.
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