10-11-2013, 07:30 AM
When the alarm beeped, Jensen groggily forgot where he'd crashed those short hours beforehand. He rolled like usual to slap the sound to silence, but rather than slapping the bedside table, his arm, shortly followed by the rest of him, swatted through empty air.
The impact of landing on the floor shocked a pained grunt out of him. Sometime in the blur of the next few moments, Jensen remembered crashing on the couch rather than pulling out the bed. He also remembered why in the form of a throbbing headache, cricked neck and foul mood. Then again, falling off the couch might have had something to do with that latter observation.
Rubbing the temptation from his eyes to go back to sleep right there on the rug, he finally managed to shove to his feet. Only to stumble about until the alarm was silenced, coffee was microwaved, and the shower was started. The electricity was still on the fritz, so he silently willed both water heater and microwave to function for a few short minutes then they could both go cold again. The more important of those two devices being the microwave; his hyperdrive gas tank was running on fumes.
Before heading out, Jensen decided it was worth a change of clothes to meet John Smith. The man was a theological legend. Not only for his knowledge of the Bible, but as a resource cited by everyone to pass through seminary or divinity school in the last ten years. Which included Jensen before being recruited to the senior pastor position he'd held until recently.
Not that recently, he thought upon glancing at his image in the mirror. His hair was longer than he ever kept it before, but rather than curling around his eyes, he'd slicked it back, straight and flat. Wisps of a beard curled from his jaw and chin when he'd always been smooth-shaven before. Then, of course, there was the anorexic gaze of a formerly passionate man that barely recognized himself. Why in the world was he doing this? If John recognized who he was, it would be like pouring salt on the shallow wounds given him that morning when the young American lady pieced him together.
With a sigh, Jensen unclenched his jaw, buttoned his jacket, and took off. He was going because he was human, and there were some temptations that were too much to resist.
It was late-afternoon when he arrived at Smith's building across town. It was an upscale building in a beautiful neighborhood. In fact, there was a peaceful park within walking distance that Jensen could imagine himself enjoying on a daily basis. Surprisingly, Moscow was dotted with many such havens of serenity. There were suppose to be more parks in this city than any other in the world. Something has to even out the eye sores, the satirical thought arose. The Ascendancy had good taste. Moscow was almost unrecognizable today compared to its turn of the century version in areas such as this. The CCD was extremely proud of its capital, and they should be. Anyone with an appreciation of history found the city fascinating, including Jensen. Maybe that was part of why he came here in the first place. That, and, the city was as infamous for those wanting to hide as those seeking celebrity.
Jensen was expected, and the doorman escorted him on the elevator to the building's top floor where Smith's loft was located. Jensen thanked the man with a CCD bill without so much as thinking about whether or not it was expected to tip, steadied his nerves, and carried himself to Smith's door. Where he knocked soundly.
The impact of landing on the floor shocked a pained grunt out of him. Sometime in the blur of the next few moments, Jensen remembered crashing on the couch rather than pulling out the bed. He also remembered why in the form of a throbbing headache, cricked neck and foul mood. Then again, falling off the couch might have had something to do with that latter observation.
Rubbing the temptation from his eyes to go back to sleep right there on the rug, he finally managed to shove to his feet. Only to stumble about until the alarm was silenced, coffee was microwaved, and the shower was started. The electricity was still on the fritz, so he silently willed both water heater and microwave to function for a few short minutes then they could both go cold again. The more important of those two devices being the microwave; his hyperdrive gas tank was running on fumes.
Before heading out, Jensen decided it was worth a change of clothes to meet John Smith. The man was a theological legend. Not only for his knowledge of the Bible, but as a resource cited by everyone to pass through seminary or divinity school in the last ten years. Which included Jensen before being recruited to the senior pastor position he'd held until recently.
Not that recently, he thought upon glancing at his image in the mirror. His hair was longer than he ever kept it before, but rather than curling around his eyes, he'd slicked it back, straight and flat. Wisps of a beard curled from his jaw and chin when he'd always been smooth-shaven before. Then, of course, there was the anorexic gaze of a formerly passionate man that barely recognized himself. Why in the world was he doing this? If John recognized who he was, it would be like pouring salt on the shallow wounds given him that morning when the young American lady pieced him together.
With a sigh, Jensen unclenched his jaw, buttoned his jacket, and took off. He was going because he was human, and there were some temptations that were too much to resist.
It was late-afternoon when he arrived at Smith's building across town. It was an upscale building in a beautiful neighborhood. In fact, there was a peaceful park within walking distance that Jensen could imagine himself enjoying on a daily basis. Surprisingly, Moscow was dotted with many such havens of serenity. There were suppose to be more parks in this city than any other in the world. Something has to even out the eye sores, the satirical thought arose. The Ascendancy had good taste. Moscow was almost unrecognizable today compared to its turn of the century version in areas such as this. The CCD was extremely proud of its capital, and they should be. Anyone with an appreciation of history found the city fascinating, including Jensen. Maybe that was part of why he came here in the first place. That, and, the city was as infamous for those wanting to hide as those seeking celebrity.
Jensen was expected, and the doorman escorted him on the elevator to the building's top floor where Smith's loft was located. Jensen thanked the man with a CCD bill without so much as thinking about whether or not it was expected to tip, steadied his nerves, and carried himself to Smith's door. Where he knocked soundly.