Interlude One...

Interlude One: An Excerpt from How Much You Can Take: The Story of Deathmatch and the Legacy of Black Iron University.

Ian O’Brian.

I parked behind Nyle’s car.  At that point, I had lost the mohawk.  My hair wasn’t very long, but it covered the few scars I had gotten and…well…I looked better.  Let’s just leave it at that.  I mean, I looked in the rearview, made sure that they were covered, and… See, here’s the thing.  Some shit you don’t mind being reminded of.  You know?  And some shit you want to forget.  And some shit you just deal with – and the scars, how we got them, what they meant, they weren’t for others.  You know?  We weren’t on the news for a week, no be fund raiser, no big worry.  Ok, those miners, right, a few years back, they were stuck for a lot longer, but they were safe.  We weren’t.  We were dealing with fucking carnage, and…

And I didn’t know what to expect.  Really.  No clue.  I mean, I had had people with me for the day I have been stuck.  Nyle had been on his own for four.  And I wasn’t sure if people had visited him.  I knew where he lived, we had used it as a way-station when we went to concerts, but I didn’t think anyone had visited.

I saw Nyle come out of the garage where his parents’ kept their cars, carrying a sledge hammer in both hands.  He looked like the weight of the thing would snap him in half, I mean – toothpick arms sticking out of a black t-shirt, and it looked like he hadn’t gotten a haircut in months, so he looked like a younger version of the Iron Maiden mascot.  He didn’t even glance at my car, just walked to the big stone bar-b-queue they had in the backyard.  The thing was ancient, looked like it had to be the oldest thing in the fucking town.

So he got to it, and let the hammer head fall a little.  He put on this half mask and goggles like he was going to go snowboarding, and took up the hammer again.  And he just lays into the fucking thing – just slamming into it.  There’d be a grunt, then this sound of thunder, just crack you know?

Did he know you were stopping by?

Nah.  I tried, but nothing got returned – e-mail, text, call, nothing.  I had called his folks and told them I wanted to stop by and…they seemed relieved.  I dunno.  It’s like, there was always a wall between Nyle and the rest of the world anyway, but you didn’t know if it was the quiet condescension or the guy who just liked everything.  I mean…I thought he was bipolar, but…he wasn’t.  Whatever he was, he had changed.  I mean, duh, right – no one got away clean from that shit, and, like, we talked about posttraumatic stress disorder and other stuff that you only hear about in major tragedy.

But we all knew Nyle – he had started out as a theatre major, and was an attention seeker.  And some of the cats, man, they thought he was just pissed that he hadn’t been the center of attention.  That’s only partially true – he was pissed that nobody seemed to care.  Part of it might be the fact that we’ve seen it before, but you’d think…it was a cross between Columbine and 9/11, and what was worse, it had no reason behind it, you know?  It was just this freak thing that happened and everyone seemed ok with it.

I mean, you spend a few nights under wreckage, bleeding to death, and trying not to freeze solid, and when you see that no one seems to give a shit about close to fifty dead students – and that was just in the collapse, that doesn’t count the kids who froze to death waiting to get dug out, or who… [Ian says nothing for a few moments] I watched him begin the process of dismantling the stone bar-b-queue and I didn’t want to get any closer.  I wanted to get in my car and just drive off.  Fuck him, and fuck whatever he was going through, you know – we’d all been through shit at that point, and…I couldn’t take the noise.  That sound of metal and stone.  You know?  When I was down there with the others, that’s what we heard.  That sound of girders giving, and the stones sliding against one another.  And each clash was just another reminder of what had happened.  I mean – I wanted that shit behind me.  And I knew…I know…he wasn’t done with it yet.  With whatever had happened.

So I went forward and kept a few yards away when I called out to him.  He stopped in mid swing, and rested the hammer on his shoulder – the right one.  It was weird – seeing the hammer like that.  I couldn’t think why, but it seemed wrong.  And he looked at me.  I mean, I saw Nyle looking at me, but it was like he was looking at me behind his eyes…does that make sense?  Like, I could see who he was, but there was something in front of it, and it was him.  I’m not making sense, am I?

That that was what I was looking at.  That’s what I saw.  I said, “Hey,” again, and Nyle said ‘hey’ back, but didn’t put the hammer down, like I thought he would.  “How’ve you been,” I asked.  You know.  The fuck else you gonna say to someone you haven’t seen in a little under a year.

“Well, thank you,” he said, “and you?”

“I’m doing ok,” I said.  I knew that he knew that I had just driven hours to get here.  But for a long moment he just looked at me, as though he was sizing me up, wondering where to land a blow with the sledge.  After what felt like a long time he asked if I needed the bathroom or wanted a drink.  I said yes to both, and he finally put the hammer down and led me inside.  The house was like I remembered it – the grey carpets, the stone fireplace and the narrow hallway the held the bed and bath room(s).  I could hear his parents in the kitchen, and I pissed hearing the muffled voices.  I went out and to the kitchen, catching the water bottle that Nyle tossed to me.  I smiled and talked to his parents.

The Turlas are...they’ve been through a lot.  His brother’s troubles, his father and mother’s health issues, and then Black Iron, all of it was on their faces – the smiles are tired and weary, but their cheerfulness wasn’t forced.  Just…strained.  Like threads plucked a few times too many.  Not ready to snap, but getting there.  And…I watched Nyle try to be cheerful, too.  He just couldn’t seem to let himself be cheerful, like he thought he was expected to be grim and angry.  I think that was when I realized how much I missed him – the smirk and disdain and good natured black humor.  I don’t think he could let himself through his own walls, and he knew it.

I asked to talk to him in private, and we went out, back towards the cars, and lit cigarettes and talked.  And that’s when I mentioned DeathMatch.

Did you mention who ran it?

Ivan?

Yes.

Are you fucking serious?  Look, I’m all for being honest with my friends, but telling him that the guy who had actively wanted him dead was running it?

But wasn’t he the one to find Nyle?

Yeah.  He told me that.  Ivan, I mean, when I met him my first time at DM.  Have you talked to him yet?

Have you talked to him yet?

Yes.  He was one of the first interviews.

Then you’ve got that story.

Yes.

Well.  [Ian pauses for a moment]  I told him that it had helped me.  That…if you’re not careful, you go around looking for purpose, and you end up finding it in bad places because it’s easier.  I mean, bad thoughts, bad habits, bad actions.  All of it.  But here was a game – not a distraction, not one of those ‘we all get trophies for taking part’ type deals, oh no – this was a work hard, do your best, and with a little luck here and there, boom.  You could take the prize.

Nyle chain smoked, and finally just said, “I’ll think about it.”  I nodded, cause…yeah.  I mean, the fuck else could you say to that.  ‘Please do,’ I guess.  Then Nyle said, “You want to grab dinner,” and I said yeah.  So we got in his car and drove to one of the last diners to have a smoking section and sat down.  He asked me more about game.  I told him what I could…probably getting a bit too excited.  He knew about the…well, the mass market term is ‘adreninal suit,’ but we call them battle armor since we have to make our augmentations.  But for whatever reason, it was the melee bit that really caught his attention.

Looking back…

No.  No, I couldn’t see what would happen at that point.  I mean…I knew that Nyle was in there.  But…that was the first time he told me to call him Garrett.  I asked why and he said he needed a change.  And I was telling myself to be ok with this because, like, he wasn’t shooting up or drinking himself blind or anything like that.  So he wanted to be known by his middle name – fine.  He was still Nyle, you know, Nyle, the Nyle, was still in there and just…needed to heal.  I mean…later, I saw that in Emily Merrin, later.  And that…have you talked to her?

Not yet.

She was important.  When he was rebuilding, in those final stages.  And in a way, he was important to her – although I don’t think he understood it then.  Or now, frankly.  Maybe she does.  She always seems quick on the uptake.

Did you explain the teams to him at the time?

Well, teams existed in Atrocity only.  We called them Armies, or squads, but that led to some confusion.  But, yeah, I told him.  Mentioned that Kylie was now head of the Angels, and about the Dragons and the Core.

Did you mention who was starting the Revenants?

No.

Was there any reason for that?

What – to tell him, or my not telling him?

Your not telling him.

Yeah – it really didn’t seem like it mattered.  His Darkness reveled in being unknown – he preferred people not knowing who he was when the helmet came off.  And those suits – I mean, unless you were an extreme body type, everyone looked the same.  Like – exactly the same, just color coded.  And His Darkness – and there was only ever one ‘His Darkness’ – reveled in it.  You couldn’t target a higher up unless you knew what kind of weapon they used.  And His Darkness’ sword – this really sweet dark blade based on Elric’s sword from Moorcock – stood out.

Anyway – His Darkness hadn’t gone through Black Iron.  He just knew about it.  And this was his idea of helping out – guess he knew that some of the cats wouldn’t really like it that he wasn’t one of us.  I mean…we had changed, like I said.  And the fucked up thing was, there was, like, a thick black bar between, like, you and me, right?  But there were lines between kids who had been in the wreckage and kids who had been in the buildings that had stood.  I mean…it didn’t even matter how long you were under – if you had been under at all, you were different from those who hadn’t been.

So to have this outsider say, yeah, hey, I want to help you?  I don’t know – to this day – if His Darkness had any training in psychology or anything like that.  What I do know is his heart was in the right place.

So, that’s why I kept mum.  It was respect returned.

And people like Calv-

The Bastard.  [There is a long pause here]  Trust me – do not say that name around Nyle.

What was the rift there?

That’s not my story.  [A pause] Ask those two.

Oooh..kaay.  Was it that bad?

Some wounds don’t heal.  And everything the Bastard did after what happened made it worse.  You say the interviews, right?  The ones on the YouTube channel?  Especially after “Black Iron” was announced – it’s all him, all the Bastard, because that’s the face you know for Black Iron.  They don’t talk about Kylie keeping us all sane, or how she spent a fucking day with us, all of us almost crushed to death, doing four things, sometimes all at once – praying, crying, keeping our spirits up, and digging.  They don’t talk about it, and neither does she – because it’s too fucking big, and if you weren’t there, you can’t understand it beyond the theory.  Ok!  I talked to some guys in the Core, and they got it – but they knew my shit was as alien to them, as theirs’ is to me!  You can reason with an enemy solider, right?  But gravity, pressure, rock, metal, fire, snow, the shit we were dealing with – you can’t fucking talk it down!  The…[a pause] the closest I’ve come to guys who got it were some of the fire fighters who were there once they got the roads passable.

You’re going up against nature.  The world is literally against you.

[a pause] That’s why I was cool with His Darkness doing this.  I mean…ok.  Beyond intent, there’s no difference between what he did and what all of the bad guys do.  It’s give you a purpose.  ‘No job? No future? Here – blame these guys!’  ‘Can’t sleep at night?  Angry for no reason?  Go beat the fuck outta some other people who can’t sleep and are angry for no reason!  In the woods!’  Fuck, man – it was a Fight Club ploy, but it worked.  And no one bombed Delaware as a result.  So, there’s that.

Any neo-fascistic overtones?  Or homoerotic overtones?

Combine Fight Club and video games.  Yes to both.

Entry Four: Atrocity II

Entry Four: Atrocity II

He was stripped to the waist, sitting on the edge of the ambulance.

“One of the knights had two ribs broken last year,” the paramedic said, gripping Garrett’s wrist and pulling it this way and that.  “Don’t be such a baby,” the medic said when Garrett grunted.  “It could have been a lot worse – back in the early days, even after the crappy suits you guys used to wear, Christ, these things do a lot of damage.”  Garrett met the medic’s eyes.  “What?  Back when they let these cats use warhammers and maces, there’d be breaks all over the place.  Either the axes are crap or the fiber bundling is miles better.

Garrett looked at the man’s name.  “Ok, Eric,” he said, “but it’s a bit hard to tell me that right now.”

“Wimp,” Eric the medic said, and then yanked down on the arm.

“Motherfucker!” Garrett screamed.

“Wimp,” Eric said again.  “Try your shoulder.”

Garrett did.  “Thanks,” he said.

“Don’t mention it,” Eric said, and then went through a litany of dos and don’ts.  Garrett only half listened – he was watching the Judge approach.  The figure was gawky, even in the humming armor, and he seemed made of joints, as though he had never learned how to move in his body.  The grills by base of his helmet were open, keeping the temperature somewhat normal for him.  Eric noted the figure and shut up, nodding to Garrett once before heading around the farside of the ambulance.

“Nyle Garrett Turla,” the Judge said.

“Thought you guys weren’t supposed to talk,” Garrett said, fixing his suit.

“Official business,” the Judge said.  “Under the terms and conditions you signed,” he began to recite.

“Anyone enduring an injury that has to be overseen by the medical staff cannot participate in further matches that day – in the case of serious injuries, they must gain their doctor’s permission before returning to the field at all,” Garrett said.

“You actually read them,” the Judge asked.

“I couldn’t click through, could I?”

The Judge chuckled.  “You haven’t changed at all,” he said.  “Even being dissolved could keep a Revenant down, eh?”  Garrett shrugged, zipping up the suit.  The Judge reached up, removing his helmet.

“Isaac,” Garrett said.  “Well, today just keeps getting odder and odder.  How the hell did you ever become a Judge?”

“Because Kerellen will never retire,” Isaac Sellirer said, sitting next to Garrett.  “How’s the shoulder,” he asked.

“It works,” Garrett said.

“Yeah,” Isaac said.  “Isn’t that the one?”

“Aye,” Garrett said, and smiled bitterly.  “It’s the one.”

Isaac snorted.  “I can always tell when you want a subject dropped.  You’re suddenly Scottish.”  Garrett shrugged.  Isaac dropped the subject, scratching at his thin brown goatee.  “Heard the Furies are hoping you’ll go to the Wolves,” he said.  “Problem is, they need shields, not swords.  I don’t think they’ll be able to pick you up in the first two rounds of signings – you’re really their third choice, Lucy’s friend or not.  Now, Commander Uriah, of the Knights said he saw your match with Kerellen.  Seemed impressed.”

“Knights are an ok squad,” Garrett said.  “Rather be a Wolf, though.”

“I’d rather you be, too,” Isaac said, “better part of the divide.”  Garrett gave him a quizzical look and Isaac nodded.  “They need someone who can go berserk when they need them to go berserk, and can calm the hell down when it’s time to be calm.  With the Dragons and…whatever the Bastard is working on taking most of the Revenants, there aren’t going to be too many left the second wave of teams.”  He sighed.  “This coming from the youngest Judge.  21 and retired.”

“It might be for the best,” Garrett said.  “The second wave didn’t produce the best lots – look at the Lightnings – no one even mentions them, and the Crusaders are getting folded into the Angels, or so Kylie said.  The Revenants…I don’t know.  As much fun as it was, it started to leave a bad taste in my mouth.  If Cal had hung around, maybe I could have taken the silver, but, as it stands, I have to start with the next team, work my way up, and hope to get a Judge’s uniform.  If that’s what I want.”

“Do you want to stay in,” Isaac asked.

“No clue,” Garrett said.  “It takes up a lot of time, and with payments due right after the holidays…it takes up a lot.  At least you guys get paid – kinda.  Sorta.”  He shrugged.  “It’s helped, though, with…” he shrugged his left shoulder.

“I heard that,” Isaac said.  “Well,” he pushed off from the back of the ambulance, “you can watch the filming if you want.  Trailer three along the main path.  I recommend you go in street clothing – the suits heat gets up there with all the computers.”

“I might,” Garrett said.  The gripped forearms and Garrett watched Isaac put his helmet back on and return to a crowd of silver.  When he had met him, Isaac had been a gunner for the Needles before signing on with the Dragons, and then getting the bump up to the Judges.  Isaac reminded him of a slightly more lucid Shaggy Doo.  Garrett collected his gear and walked back to the locker rooms, wondering how in the hell the Judges knew so much about what the teams were looking for.  Maybe the ranked had to submit reports before the end of the season.  Or maybe they just observed so much that they couldn’t help but notice.  He didn’t suppose it mattered much.

In the locker room, he stripped to his underwear, and ran a towel over everything to remove whatever might smell like death.  He looked at himself.  His left shoulder looked like an angry fist, his right arm and leg had picked up every shitty blow between the Fury and the Demon, and his right wrist was red from the friction of the cuff against his suit.  He dressed back in his normal clothing, check his pockets for the car keys, wallet and cigarettes.  He looked at the Overcompensator, and felt his head fall a little.  He tried to dismantle it, and banged it against the lockers a few times.  The segments finally gave, and he broke down the sword, putting the components back in his bag and sealing it up.

He put his kit in the trunks, and walked down the path, finding the technomad station, and knocking on the door.  A few others were inside, along with the technician, all standing around his work station, avoiding the thick ropes of zip tied wires and cables.  “What did I miss,” he asked no one in particular.

“Wolves are at the shield wall,” said someone.

Garrett watched the five monitors.  Two showed the battle in the valley, defenders on one screen, attackers on the other, although one the two armies met it was hard to tell who was performing what function.  Only the Dragons with their sprayers offered any real distinction in the near four hundred swords, axes and shields.  On the ridge above, projected on the remaining three monitors, the Furies and Core clashed, the core entrenched and the Furies advancing, using the trees for cover.  Whoever controlled the trenches could rain fire down into the valley, or send melee reinforcements – but the trenches had to be decided.

“How’d you get the angles,” Garrett asked.

“Trees,” the technician said.  “High enough so stray fire is unlikely – these are just the best – we’re recording close to thirty feeds, and can splice them together for the channel.”

“Huh,” Garrett said.  He watched the arterial red of the sprayers slashing across the shield walls, trying to blind the middle of the press of attackers that was it – their entire goal – blind them, break their wall, break their lines, and then hope that the Core could keep the trenches and wait for the mop up.

It wasn’t really much of a battle once you got past the first two lines – the Dragons had done this too many times – he had heard that Kerellen made them drill with the sprayers and with melee weapons more than the actual fire arms.  He tried to see if he could find Quint’s helmet in the scrum, but it was all a blur of motion.  “So, this is what they’ll be seeing,” Garrett asked.

“By and large,” the technician said.  We’re still trying to figure out the helmet cams, but yeah.

“Helmet cams?”

“Well, the visors, really – four different feeds, one for each corner,” the tech made the “rock on” horns with his fingers and then jabbed them towards his head – once across the hairline, then at his jaw.  “Turn it into a first person shooter for the viewers.”

“Reality TV video game,” one of the watchers scoffed.

“You don’t want to be famous,” asked another.

“Not if I’m only known for Kerellen breaking my visor.  Or my fucking skull – how’d that be for a fail compilation?  Dude falls off a skate board, my brain matter, guy getting humped by a dog.  That’s sure to rack up the viewers.”

Garrett smiled a little, and stepped outside for a cigarette.  It was too strange – too see the battle without taking part in it.  He felt his shoulder ache, the old scars and the fresh knocking out-and-in-again of the socket.  Twenty-five feel too early to hang up his helmet – there were some men and women out there now a full decade ahead of him.  But his shoulder hurt worse than he would let on – that it would heal was almost assured, but for now, he was actually quietly happy that Isaac had delivered his exemption.  He looked back towards the parking lot, and his car.  He wished Quint had his own ride home.  He wanted to go home and sleep.

The door to the computer room opened, and he saw a girl exit, her hands bandaged.  “Can I bum one,” she asked, pointing to the cigarette.  She accepted the pack and lighter, and handed them back, puffing, fussing with the lighter.  Garrett held out his hand, but she shook her head before finally lighting it herself.  She was small, with dark hair and eyes.  “Emma,” she said.

“Garrett,” he said, nodding.

“I know,” she said.  Her voice was something of a cross between a “come, join in” spring, and the thud of door closing.  She smiled, and she looked like she should have had a knife between her teeth.  “You were one of the Revenants,” she said, “we fought you last week.”

“You’re a Fury,” Garrett asked, and Emma nodded.  “Who the fuck is the girl I fought with today?”

Emma tilted her head.  “Kerellen’s a dude,” she said.

“No – the one I was tied to.”

Emma shrugged.  “I didn’t watch the fight,” she said.  She held up her hands.  Garrett took a drag on his cigarette, nodding.  “Did you get hurt,” she asked.

“Dislocated my shoulder,” he said.

“Oh,” she said.

“It’s not the worst to happen to it.  Not the worst to happen here, even.”  He shrugged, and rolled his shoulders.  “I’m going to need to get my sword checked – it took the worst of it.”

“You use the big one, right?  The claymore?”

“Yeah – well, it’s not really a claymore.  It’s…yeah, the claymore.”

“You might want to try a smaller weapon,” she said.

“First time I had a girl tell me that,” he said.

“Giggity,” Emma said.

Garrett smirked.  “So, what do you think of all this,” he said, motioning to the wires.

Emma shrugged.  “It was bound to happen – but I don’t think it’s going to be as big as they want it to be.  I mean, it’s not shocking enough, you know?  I mean, all of the shit that actually gets noticed, all of the 4chan and Pain Olympics and shit, they’re all just…” she made a noise that was phlegmy and skittering.  “But I heard that they are buying more land and creating new maps, so…who knows.  But they’re making it more fucking complicated, you know?  Like – it used to be just, you have to groups, they fight, last guy standing wins.  Now it’s…I don’t get the point system, I don’t really think having capture the flag or shit like that adds to anything beyond making it look better on the fucking camera.”  She smoked in silence for a bit.

“But you’re staying on,” Garrett asked.

“Yeah.  Yeah, I mean, it’s still ours, you know?  It’s not…it’s not like they have suits here, you know, ‘well the advertisers are going to be upset with the cursing’.  It’s still us doing it.”  She flicked the cigarette down, and stepped on it.  “But I’ll stick around for a bit.  I mean, the new maps might be awesome.”  She made her way back to the humming walls.  “Coming back in,” she asked.

“Nah,” Garrett said, “gonna try to get some sleep.”

“Ok,” she said, “sweet dreams.”

Garrett watched the door close behind her, and then made his way back to the car.  He didn’t really plan on sleeping.  He didn’t dream about Black Iron University often, but when he did, it was never about the classes or the dorms.  It was always the darkness and the snow and the pain.  But not often.  Not often.  But enough to always give him pause when he was tired.  He got to his car, and applied some sunscreen, before sitting on the trunk of his car, and waiting for his hands to dry so he could read or use his phone.  He could hear Atrocity – or thought he could.  Just the nearness of the familiar maps and staging areas was enough to make him doubt the noise he heard.  They were far enough away for the distance to steal the sound, the trees dense enough to block out the dust and dirt kicked up by the armies.

Entry Three: Atrocity I

Entry Three: Atrocity I

He walked out of the house, a midnight blue duffle bag clattering at his side.  Inside, the battlesuit and deconstructed Overcompensator waited.  And Garrett waited, too.  He had no idea why he was doing it – but that was fine.  He was used to having no idea why he was doing something.  But he did remind himself that this time, he actually had a perfectly understandable reason – it wasn’t everyday a girl snuck into his room and asked him to do something.

Quint stood by his car.  “I’m cold,” he said.  Garrett raised an eyebrow, but nodded and unlocked the car.  “You need to get a remote unlock.  And starter,” Quint said, not reaching for the door.  “Pop the trunk.”  Garrett went around and complied.  Quint hefted a crate, settling it down in the deep boot of the car.  “This really is a sensible car – sporty but a grocery getter.”

“Yeah,” Garrett said, putting his own duffle bag in alongside the crate “I like it.”  Quint put his duffle in as well, followed by the siege shield.  “How’d they get in touch with you?”

“An e-mail.  Evan Kerellen himself.”

“The Dragonborn,” Garrett asked.  The title was another pop-culture nod, stolen from the Elder Scrolls series, and slightly incongruous for the leader of the Dragons, but once it started getting used, it was pointless to complain.

“Yeah, their smith is moving to South Carolina.”  He shrugged, sliding into shotgun, “It’ll be a change of pace.  Finally get to use the throwers, find out how they make them.”

“They’re useless,” Garrett said, “beyond blinding the enemy.”

“That can be enough.  Pity it looks like diseased bukaki,” he laughed.

Garrett chuckled.  “At least you won’t be getting much on you,” he said.

“In theory,” Quint said.  They drove through suburbia to the highway.  “Gonna be weird without Ian,” he said.  “I mean, even being on different teams, he’s whole vibe is gonna be gone.  I’m the last of the redoubts.  Trevor, Tessa, now Ian…” he shook his head.  The redoubts, a Deathmatch wide nickname for the shield bearing defenders that had forced everyone to carry a melee weapon for the sake of having a prayer of gaining an opponent’s base.  They were useful for maybe half of the matches, and seemed utterly lost without their shields the rest of the time.  The shotguns they used had range, but not much, and they tended to become reliant on cover.  It was something to consider, since the melee would be the worst at Atrocity, where the shield walls, such as they were, would clash.  The Dragons’ throwers would be the second line, trying to kill the visibility of those on the opposite side – provided their vats held out.

The drove on through the last tangles of night, heading north and slightly west along the turnpike.  And when they arrived, Garrett popped the trunk, got out their duffels, and they made their way to the free standing bathroom building.  The squat brick longhouse stood on the clear-cut hill, currently the only really out of place thing in a semi-empty parking lot surround by the woods.  Garrett took a minute to look at the view.  It wasn’t a forest.  There were too many cut and cleaned for the structures hidden by the oak, elm, birch, fir and pine.  Even with autumn having stripped away most of the leaves, the trees were still dense enough to cover the small towns, trenches, half-buried ply wood tanks and planes, and the castle-keep that had been put up.

There were the distant sounds of motors.  Cars and van and a few throaty diesel chugs that were most likely generators.  “A big day,” Quint said, “they’re already setting up the cameras.”

“Eh,” Garrett asked.  He followed Quint’s gesture with his eyes.  “Another fucking web show?”

“They want it to be bigger than the finals,” Quint said.  “Didn’t you read the e-mail?”

“I didn’t get one,” Garrett said.

“How’d you know to come,” Quint asked.  Garrett told him.  “Huh…how come I didn’t get a hot guy coming through my window in the middle of the night?”

“I didn’t say she was hot,” Garrett said.  Quint smiled, saying nothing, and began walking to the bathroom.  “What?”  Quint continued saying nothing, “You know,” Garrett said, “who she is.  You knew they were going to pull that shit!”  Quint went on saying nothing, and slowly opened the door.

The room reeked, the smell caked in by an unthinkable number of summers, and the walk to the locker room portion was an endurance test.  The locker room smelled of the nothingness of odor neutralizers, with the gloom of fluorescent light and poor air circulation that kept the stink of the rest room out, but also kept the fresh air out.  Quint finally said something.  “You’re locker 12,” he said.

Garrett looked at him.

“What,” Quint asked, almost laughing.

“How much of this is planned,” he asked.

Quint shrugged.  “To be fair – this part was in the e-mail you apparently didn’t get, so everyone knows you’re locker 12, and I’m 15.”  He went to his own locker, and opened the door.  He pulled out the red battlesuit of the Dragons.  “I haven’t declared for them yet,” he said, “but it’s tempting.  They like the Overcompensator.”

Garrett forced a laugh.  “Everyone does,” he said, and faced the unpainted grey locker.  He opened it, and removed the Wolves uniform.  It was white with blue sleeves and shoulders.  He sighed, and opened his duffle, taking out the suit-lining and impact recorders.  The original battlesuits had been an attempt at cyberpunk that had failed in such a remarkable fashion that, five years on, no one wore them under any actual Deathmatch related circumstances.  They had looked like gimp suits with internal padding, with the fiber-bundling only at the joints to signal a loss, and only the original paintball mask for head protection.  After a single season, the suits had undergone a redesign.

The battlesuits were now all fiber bundling, with some additions taken from the body armor worn in motocross.  The suits were bulkier, with the fiber bundle muscles able to take the force off of the melee blows, and causing the lockdowns to be less jarring and painful if the combatant was in motion when it occurred.  The helmets were added to keep the skulls intact, and the addition of the lighting to warn of incoming lockdown and short-range communications channels had also allowed for the matches to become less a videogame death match and more…nuanced wasn’t the right word, but it seemed to make the most sense.

Garrett slipped the impact sensors into the fiber bundle musculature, and sealed them with the lining before stripping to his underwear and getting into the body glove.  The Revenant body gloves extended from the toes to just under the eyes, with a skeletal pattern on the half-mask.  Then he slipped into the battlesuit.  He had to wash the lining twice to feel comfortable in it, and was a little uneasy about using someone else’s battle suit, but he kept his shuddering down.  He had the sensors fully charged – they had a 72 hour life span, in theory, and once connected to the helmet, the whole suit would hum slightly, sounding like the fans in a computer.  He kept the helmet off though.  More people were entering – he nodded to them, and greeted those he knew.  The walls began to echo with conversation, a few playful taunts and boasts, and few unkind words – it was too early for the bile that would be unleashed in time.  Garrett too the pieces of the Overcompensator and locked the locker, then made his way through the stench of the bathroom, and back into the real world.

“A good day for it,” said a female voice.  Garrett turned.  Kylie Innsman was tall and thin, with long brown and purple hair, and sculpted features topped by eyes the color of sea ice.  “Think the chill will burn off in time for the main event?”

They hugged, which Garrett smiling.  “Possibly – couldn’t really say.  Weather’s been a bit odd, of late.”

“True,” Kylie said.  Her Angels’ uniform was designed in the same manner of the Wolves’, save for the color swap of Angel red for the Wolves’ blue, and the addition of a red cross on the chest and on the side of the thighs.  “Not that you care,” she smiled at him.

“The war will happen, regardless of the weather,” Garrett said.  He cocked an eyebrow at her.  “So…why are you sending strange women through my window in the middle of the night?”

“What?”

“One of the Furies paid me a visit this week.”

“Oh, man,” she said.

“Yeah, full armor, just came in the window.  I mean, she was very nice, considering, but,”

“Nyle, I’m sorry, they’re overseeing the merger between us and the Crusaders.”  She shook her head.  “I thought they’d just send out an e-mail.”

“Well…wait, you and the Crusaders?  But they’re a Delaware chapter.”

“Yeah, there won’t be enough of them after this season.”

“Oh,” Garrett said – “I thought you guys were disbanding?”

Kylie sighed.  “We’ve been on the fence about it, but there’s enough of us who want to stay to form up with the Crusaders, the ones close to Philly, anyway.”

“Huh,” Garrett said.  He had decided to ignore her use of his first name – she had gone through Black Iron with him, and anyone who was there for that held a lot of space in his heart.  “Well, I guess that might be for the best – still, aren’t they a bit…grrr for you guys?”

Kylie nodded.  “They’ll fit in with the Angels that are staying on.  This is a lot less…we’ve changed.  As have the goals.”

“More focus on the matches,” Garrett asked.

“And less on team building.  Andy’s not happy about it, but he left us after one season, so he can’t complain too much now.”  She chuckled.  “Well, he can.  And he does.”

“He never struck me as easy-going,” Garrett said.

“He isn’t,” Kylie said.  She eased her rifle from the back maglocks.  “But I’m glad you’re here.  The Wolves might stick together, and if they do, I know Lucy has her eye on you.”  Garrett smirked.  “Not like that,” Kylie added.

“Oh, I know – I work with her boy.  They’re a good match.”

“And what about you?”

“Me?”

Kyle smiled, “How long before you find a nice girl and start living?”

Garrett smiled.  “Some were born to wander alone, Queen of Angels,” he said, hoping it sounded as cool out loud as it did in his head.  And he realized it didn’t.  It just sounded cheesy.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “I’ve other things on my mind, as always.”

Kylie nodded, her smile fading a little.  “Are your parents ok?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Garrett said.  “Mom’s back is going, and dad only keeps moving out of spite for the doctor who said he’d be in a wheelchair by the time I was ten.”  He looked out at the trees.  “They’re still drinking too much and then fighting, and then once they shut up I come out of my room and carry them to theirs – unless I’m working, in which case I go home and carry them to their room, provided they aren’t still up and fighting.  That last one’s a bit rarer, thankfully.”

Kylie bowed her head a little, just once.  “I’ve kept you in my prayers,” she said, “but I’m guessing that’s not much of a comfort to you.”

“It is, actually.”  He smiled at her.

“But I’m guessing you still aren’t going back to the Church anytime soon.  Yours or mine.”

Garrett shook his head.  “But my thanks to you are honest.  Please know that.”

“I do,” Kylie said.  And Garrett wondered if she remembered the respect he had tried to show her and the other faithful at Black Iron.  And how he had said nothing at their numbers swelling in the wake of all that followed, even as some of their louder member had peeled away, and others had…taken other means to cope.

Garrett nodded.  “How do you feel about the cameras?”

“I’m for it,” she said.  “Might have to deal with an influx, though.”

“I’m a bit worried about that,” he said.

“Oh?  Worried about the fifteen year olds?”

“Heh – they’ll be taller than me!”  He shook his head.  “No, just wondering what’ll become from the influx.”

“Everything changes, Nyle.”

“Yeah,” Garrett said, kneeling to assemble the Overcompensator.  It locked into place, and then onto the maglocks it went.  “But never overmuch.”  They hugged again, then gripped forearms.  “Stay safe,” he said.

“And you,” she said, and tapped her helmet against his chest armor.

Garrett smiled as he watched her walk to the group of Angels.  Quint joined him.  “I have to get the crate,” he said.

“Is there some drug deal I should know I’m party to?”

“It’s a commission,” Quint said.  “And it’s…I’m really impressed by my own work on this one.”

“For the Dragons,” Garrett asked.

Quint shook his head.  “My benefactor has requested anonymity until we hit Atrocity.”  Both of the former Revenants had kept their half-masks down, and the cold November air kept them awake as the sky went from orange to blue.  Quint smiled.  “A clear day.”

“Yer lookin’ east,” Garrett said, lighting his cigarette.  He put the pack back into the zipper pocket on his chest, and removed the extra car key from the other.

Quint turned his head.  “Oh…damn.”

“They aren’t storm clouds,” Garrett said.

“It’s cold enough already – it’s not supposed to get colder as the day goes on.”

“That winter for you,” Garrett said.

“It’s autumn,” Quint pointed out.

Garrett shrugged.  “These days?”  He opened the trunk, and Quint reached in, taking the crate in both hands and hoisting it.  “You get paid in advance?”

“Half,” Quint said.  “Saw you talking to the Queen of Angels.”

“Yup,” Garrett said.  He noticed that Quint wasn’t walking away with, what Garrett presumed was a heavy crate.  “What,” he asked.

“Nothing,” Quint said.

“For fucks sake – can I have one non-Freudian day, please?  Sex and violence are all well and good – but it feels like all we’re talking about.”

“No,” Quint said, “I wasn’t alluding to that.  It’s just that she asked about your family.  I didn’t know you two were close.”

Garrett felt his cheeks get warm.   “Oh,” he said.

“Do yourself a favor,” Quint said.  “Get laid.  Soon.  You’re going mad.”  Finally, after one last meaningful look, he began walking down the hill towards the Dragons, Furies, and Demons.  Garrett removed the last few bits of his equipment from the, and paused, looking back to Quint.  He thought of a few curse words, and closed the trunk, and made his way to the Wolves.

“We started out with the Furies, as the Valkryies.  Some of them still think it was the dyke jokes that did us in, made us form our own team, but it wasn’t – we just got too big to field an army and have people actually having fun rather than half of us going in and the other half sitting on the sidelines, getting drunk and waiting for someone to get sick or hurt,” Lucy said.  Like most commanders, she had a nickname – the Queen Bitch.  And like most commanders, she wore it with pride.  She ran a gloved hand through her black and blond hair.  Her other hand held a thin cigarette.  She seemed to pose in every movement, and had a near freakishly perfect body.  She possessed an hour glass form, and most of the men in Deathmatch had only really begun talking to her normally around the last Atrocity, when her 18^th birthday loomed nearer.  Now, as she crept closer 19, she hadn’t become jaded – and it was a bit of a mild joy to watch her take down the guys who came up to her.  “I mean, most of the lesbians came with us.  Really.  I mean, we’re co-ed, and we’ve got the girls who like girls, so it didn’t really help the dyke jokes for us.  Or the Furies.”

She sighed.  “They’re trying to keep us alive, though.  That proves that there’s no enmity on their part, which is kind of liberating.”  She tapped the hilt of her spatha with her cigarette hand, causing her arm to underline her breasts.  Garrett wondered if she was trying to invoke male gaze, or if she was what she seemed to be – completely unaware of how her actions worked on the men and some of the women around her.  And he knew that, while she wore it as a badge of honor, ‘Queen Bitch’ wasn’t always muttered out of respect.  “And they sent you the e-mail because we have a pre-existing relationship, even if it is through Mal.”

“She didn’t send me an e-mail,” said Garrett, and he set in again on the story of the midnight unlawful entry.

Lucy was grinning a bit manically by the end.  “She’s a strange one,” she said.

“You know who it was,” Garrett asked.

Lucy shook her head, and giggled a little.  “Oh…” she sighed.  “Well, you’ve got a great stalker,” she said.  She began walking towards the gladiatorial pit, with a single, swift motion of the index finger smoothing her hair.  Garrett followed, shaking his head.  The pit was a circle, with a radius of five meters and earth walls seven feet high.  The Judge made its way down the steel ladder, heavy boots rattling down rungs.  Garrett finished his cigarette, pulled up his skull half-mask, and slipped on the helmet that still bore the Revenants’ midnight blue paint job and red visor.  He kept a hand on the Overcompensator as he made his way down.  The dirt was soft under his boots.  Garrett looked across, taking in the Demon.

“Turla,” Garrett said to the Demon.  The Demon said nothing, and avoided looking at Garrett and the Judge.  “Fuck you, too, then,” Garrett said.  He looked the Judge and nodded.  The Judge returned the nod, and Garrett thought there was more to that nod.  Your attempt has been noted, he thought the nod said, or Even if good sportsmanship means fuck all, I am pleased by your attempt.  Garrett took the Overcompensator from the maglocks on his back.  He heard cheers from the players around the barrier above the ring, and the ladder rattling, and looked back.

The man looked like the Red Hulk, the fiber-bundle muscles of his suit straining against the actual muscles of his bulky frame, and the green visor of his helmet seemed the grow darker with every breath.  Evan Kerellen – the Dragonborn – the commander of the Dragons, and the champion of the gladiatorial pits.  He had his massive axe locked across his back.  That bit of work was nicknamed Bone-Shatterer, on account that it had racked up a full half of the hospital visits in Deathmatch history.  It would have taken three Garretts to cross his shoulders, and he was a full foot taller than the Judge, who had to be around six feet tall.

Kerellen had been a shot-put hurler (there really was no other word to do him justice), who had almost made it to the Olympics before the money ran out.  Then he had discovered Deathmatch, and seemed to want to make it live up to its name.  Bone-Shatterer was as tall as the Demon, and when Kerellen leaned on it, the Demon looked over, the black glass of his visor reflecting the axe, and then looking to the boken in his own hand, Garrett clearly heard “Well…fuck” come from the Demon’s helmet.

The Judge approached the Demon, taking him by the bicep and bringing him next to Kerellen.  And Garrett heard the sigh in relief in the Demon’s helmet.

The ladder rattled, and Garrett looked back.  He tried not to stare at the Fury’s ass, but, well, it was there.  She touched down, taking the broadsword from her maglocks and pointed at the Demon.

“Lady,” the Demon said, “You’ll come for me way more after this.”  Then he said “oof” as Kerellen’s Holiday Ham sized fist slammed into his abdomen.

“Thanks,’ The Fury said, “but I’ll take it from here.”  And Garrett sighed as he recognized the voice.  “Oh, don’t act shocked,” the Fury said, “I’m helping the Wolves.”

“Whatever,” Garrett said, watching as the Judge attached the soft plastic covered handcuffs to the right hand of the Demon, and the left of Kerellen.  The Judge slapped a similar set to the Fury’s left hand, and Garrett’s right.  He tried to smile and frown at the same time, and was vaguely happy no one could see the result.  His good arm was free, but the Overcompensator needed both.  He looked over at Kerellen, who hefted Bone-Shatterer like someone holding a rolled up newspaper, ready to dispatch a fly.  Garrett adjusted his grip on the Overcompensator, working the hilt back and forth until he was almost holding the cross guard.  And he had guessed the rules.  Last team standing won.  And he looked at the axe, and remembered that Kerellen hadn’t been beaten in any of his pit encounters.

“Fuck,” he said.  He watched the Judge climb the ladder, locking the entryway.  He looked back to the others.  “Fuck,” he said again.

“Yeah…” the Fury said.

Garrett tried not to think.  He tried to shut the cheers of the crowd, and the feeling that he had made another massive mistake.  He tried to focus only on the weight in his left hand.

And then the buzzer sounded, and Garrett’s thoughts died.

The massive axe swung down, Kerellen and the Demon charging in its wake.  Garrett marked the axe’s movement and flicking his wrist as he said, “Go!”  The axe was arching out and away, the massive shoulder rolling, already preparing for the next swing.

The Fury leapt forward, the broadsword flashing in her right hand, clashing against the Demon’s boken.  The Overcompensator met Bone-Shatterer, Garrett trying to turn the blade and deflect the axe to the side.   He planted his feet with the blow, and felt himself get hammered back.  He moved with the strikes, retreating as the Fury advanced on the Demon, their swords slicing in to meet one another, forcing both teams into a circular motion as they danced to the violence.  Garrett reversed his grip, the green bulb in the lower right of his visor flashing off and on as the sensors in his fingers registered the change, and he began a controlled, frantic defense.  He couldn’t use momentum tied to the Fury, couldn’t turn the jarring smacks of the axe into an attack.

The Fury, for her part, seemed completely unencumbered, turning her wrist, using the whole broadsword as a weapon while the while the Demon attacked with the edge of his sword.  She kept finding openings, and the Demon’s slashes were becoming less focused.  In an almost embarrassing amount of time, the Demon’s suit locked, and he tilted, falling to the ground, and throwing Kerellen’s balance off.  Bone-Shatterer thudded into Garrett’s hand, and his fingers screamed in a sudden flash of pain.

Kerellen leapt back, dragging the demon with him like a cursing mannequin.  The Fury paused, broadsword held in a guard, while Garrett forced his fingers to grip the hilt of the Overcompensator, feeling bones grind.  “Not broken,” he whispered, “not fucking broken.”  He brought the Overcompensator up, and brought it down, aiming for Kerellen’s left shoulder, just as Kerellen flung back his arms and swung them violently in a horizontal arch.  Bone-Shatterer cut the air, while the Demon roared “FUCK!” in his suit.  The Fury dived forward, broadsword leading, as Bone-Shatterer landed with a meaty “thump” in Garrett’s armpit, and the Demon crashed into the Fury.

Garrett screamed, feeling his arm-dislocate and his body rise up on the blade of Bon-Shatterer. The Fury and the Demon collided, the orange armor taking him in the knees and the black armor smashing into his ribs.  The lights in his helmet flashed on, the color of a nova migraine, and the fiber bundle muscles locked, holding everything as it was.  He landed hard, his head bounding off the dirt floor, his body thudding on top of the others, as the buzzer sounded, ending the match.  Kerellen crashed onto him, pulled down by the cord that bound him to the demon, and it felt like an eternity until the Judge re-entered the pit to unlock the suits.

Entry Two: Invitations. (Three nights after the end of the Revenants)

Entry Two: Invitations. (Three nights after the end of the Revenants)

“Slower on the release,” Quint said, “you want to be intimidating?  Have to get big.”

“I’m fine without the muscle mass,” Garret said, pausing in his repetition of holding out the free weights horizontal.  He raised them again, feeling gravity fight him all the while.  It had begun to hurt.  He followed Quint’s instructions, trying to keep the descent slow.  His muscles began to grumble.  He preferred yoga, preferred hitting the treadmill or the elliptical machine.  But Quint, who even out of his armor looked like a happy-go-lucky tank, had convinced Garrett that muscle mass was the way to go.  And after a year of having his limbs scream at him, Garrett had gone from a scarecrow to a scarecrow with strategically placed straw.

Quint speared a glance at a gym rat in bike shorts, before shaking his head slightly and returning to Garrett.  Garrett smirked.  “Go talk to him,” Garrett said.

“No,” Quint said.

“Ok,” Garrett said, his own eyes seeking out a brunette in yoga pants.

“Focus, Garrett,” Quint said.  “Neither one of us is going to find a partner here.”

“You might,” Garrett said.

“Wrong crowd for me,” Quint said, “these guys want to be seen.  There’s no subtly to them.  The ‘no grunting’ places are better, I’ve found.”  He gave a sniff-as-laugh.  “These guys are a bit…” he shrugged.  “Two more.  And one.  And rest.”  He took the weights from Garrett.  “It has been a while though.  I mean, can’t really go out the night before or after a game.  Well, maybe after.”

“They might like the wounds,” Garrett said, and tried to keep his mind from conjuring up images – and took one more glimpse of the brunette in yoga pants before taking the weights from Quint again.

“She might, too,” Quint said.

Garrett said nothing.

Quint watched him.  “How long has it been?”

“I asked Nikki Oberson out,” Garrett said on the descent.

“And,” Quint asked.

“She wants time to think about it,” Garrett said on the descent.

“That means ‘no’,” Quint said, and smiled when Garrett nodded.  “Keep your head still,” he said.  “So why not go after her? Afraid she’s not as nice as she looks?”

“I heard girls don’t like it when you approach them in a gym,” Garrett said.

“Look at enough web pages and you’ll see they don’t like getting approached anywhere – that stuff’s all crap,” Quint said.

“Unless she’s here to actually work out,” Garrett said, “in which case my asking her to dinner to would an annoyance.”

“You’re not that bad an annoyance,” Quint said.

Garrett gave a pained half-smile.  “Thanks.”

“Now if you could just keep your posture during this,” Quint said.  He smiled.  “As for me, I’ve had too many bad experiences asking guys out here.  Well, not here.  Gyms.”  He sighed.  “You know, I’m kinda glad the Revenants are over.  They were getting a bit…” he made a face.  “Even some of the Nulls.  I mean, that’s people for you, I know, but you’d think after being teammates for so long,” he sighed, “and you’d think I’d be used to people not being used to it.”

Garrett handed back the weights.  He wanted to say something – he was used to saying something – but couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t sound hackneyed and cliché, or even just add anything to the conversation.  So he clapped Quint on the arm, and nodded.  “Who are you submitting for?”

Quint shrugged, putting the weights back in the rack and leading him to the squat machine.  “The Angels wouldn’t have me, but they’ve announced that they’re disbanding after the championship.  As are the Wolves, although they were in last place, so…” he shrugged.  “I think the Angels might have been worse.  The Wolves might have been cool with it.  The Furies…” he smiled.

“I don’t think they’d appreciate you in drag.  In the uniform, anyway.”  Garrett got into position.  “Well, we don’t have to worry for another week.  And you don’t have a record with the Judges.”

“You do,” Quint said.

“I…what?”

Quint sighed.  “Fighting after the end of the match,” he said.  “You tackling – the Bastard.”  He looked at Garrett, who was trying to keep his left eye from twitching.  “You can’t even stand to hear his name,” Quint said.  He waited for a response, then said, “Well, it’s always a shame when a friendship ends, but wanting to kill one another might be taking it too far.”

“You know what the Bastard did,” Garrett said, “he’s just heaped shit on since then.”

“It’s done,” Quint said.

“No,” Garrett said, “not done, just changed.  I don’t have to work with him anymore.  I’d work with the fucking Needles before working with him again.”  They finished the workout cycle in relative silence, Quint counting the reps out loud now.  They changed, and walked to their cars.  “Why did the Wolves disband?”

“Same as us,” Quint said, “too big a divide.  Heard that only a tenth of them weren’t complete assholes.  And even those…” he shrugged.  “Have to keep on the message boards for awhile, find out what’s up.  We could always make the Nulls an army.”

Garrett shook his head.  “Too small and getting smaller.  Ian’s out.”

“Oh yeah,” Quint said, “New York, right?”

“His girl had to take the promotion, and he’s scouting jobs while she’s scouting apartments.  Six hours in a car every week to get the snot kicked out of you, and pay for the privilege?  Hell, even I’d balk at that.”

“I thought you liked that sort of thing,” Quint said.

Garrett chuckled.  “Well, maybe I’d show up for the matches against the Furies.”  He shook his head, smirk still firmly in place.  “We’ll figure something out.  Always do.  I’m hungry – wanna grab a pizza or something?”

“Not smelling like that,” Quint said, pointing to Garrett.

“I reek of manliness,” Garrett said.

“And cigarettes and regret,” Quint said, smiling, finishing the old joke.  “Speaking of which, when are you going to quit that?”

“Eventually,” Garrett said.  “At least I don’t smoke in my helmet anymore.”

“I’m still not sure how you did it to begin with,” Quint said.

“You know me – every now and then I have to do the impossible, otherwise I get bored.  Sure you want to pass up dinner?”

For a moment, it seemed like Quint was going to say something, then decided better of it, and Garrett kept his face placid.  He had known Quint since before either of them had been in kindergarten, and had been one of the first people Quint had come out to.  True, they had drifted when they had gotten older, but they had joined again as battle brothers for two years now, reuniting as though no time had passed at all.  That hesitation struck something in Garrett, not painful, but…disquieting.  “Nah – I’m going to hit the hay,” Quint finally said, a fraction of a second too slow to be natural.  “Long day of dealing with the comps.”

Garrett nodded and grinned.  “G’night, Quint.”  Quint waved, and Garrett sunk into his car, fishing a cigarette out of the pack in the cup holder.  He lit it and sat for a moment, listening to the sound the engine made as it started up.  He cracked his knuckles, and drove home.  Whatever was troubling Quint was his own affair, of course, but…Garrett sighed, pulling the car into the back yard, and finished his cigarette on the walk to the door.

The house was warm, smelling of dinner and the vague, cheerful tang of dogs.  The dinner scent was old, and the dogs were asleep in his parents’ room.  The house was quiet.

He stripped and got into the shower – the bruises were now old enough that he didn’t have to be careful with them, although some were tender enough to make him think about it.  He dried, and sat in meditation for a few minutes, feeling the blood go through his veins, pulse in his ears and at his temples.  When he stood, it was close to midnight, and he rolled his shoulders.  In quick, jerking motions he cracked his neck, knuckles, and back, and got into bed, reaching out to the remote control and flipping on a Mystery Science Theatre 3000 DVD.  It was one of the older episodes, where the humor was a bit more gentle, save for moments of blinding incompetence.  He lay in reverse on his bed – head at the foot, and he watched the TV through the bars of his head board.

He felt the day melt farther away.  The meditation had smoothed the rough patches that the gym hadn’t, the mental noises from the mall, and the kids who seemed to be getting more volatile and…illicit wasn’t the right word, but he found it strangely fitting.  He made it a point to avoid the social networking sites, and seeing the pictures and updates from the people he knew from high school and college, who had…had what?  Found their way?  Their place?  It was a laughable thought, but a persistent one.  And he wondered what if it was ok that he had to remind himself that it was a laughable thought.

The night had done its job.  After the events of the weekend, and then the two early mornings at the mall and Tuesday full of classes, he had needed a night to tire himself out.  It was rare for him to be in bed before two, even when he had to wake up with his office job parents, and he counted settling in while it was still ‘tonight’ as proof that, even with the discordant note at the end, the trip had been worthwhile.  He closed his eyes in the dark of his room, lit only by the gloom of the TV’s colors and the house lights outside.

And when he heard the window open, he wasn’t sure why.  He refused to open his eyes, but the noises were recognizable.  The rasp of the storm window rising, followed by the slick grind of the window proper.  The sound of a foot landing on the carpet, and a quieter one joining it.  The window didn’t close, as though whoever it was didn’t trust themselves.  Garrett kept his eyes closed, and struggled to keep his breathing calm and deep and undisturbed.

The feet moved closer, and there was a rustle of fabric, a slight creak to it, like leather or a substitute.  The rustle mounted the headboard, looming over him.  “Turla,” a voice said.  It was bouncy, feminine, a voice that was born to say, “C’mon,” and “Join in”.  Garrett opened his eyes and stared into the barrel of a shotgun.  “We have come for you.”

“We,” Garrett asked.

The figure paused.  “Uh…I.  I have come for you.”  Once the shock of the shotgun passed, Garrett was able to focus.  A woman in a bright color, the impact pads traced in dark blue.

“You know, the Furies stole that from Warhammer 40k, right?”

“And we stole the suits from HALO,” the Fury said.  “But I’m not here to quibble about origins.”

“Quibble,” Garrett asked.

She didn’t pump the shotgun, so she knew what she was doing.  “You haven’t signed up for Atrocity,” she said.  “Why?”

“My season’s done,” Garrett said.

“So are the Wolves,” she said, “but all of them will be there.”

“They have to be there,” Garrett said.  “They’re dead last, they have to lead the invaders.”

“Yes,” the Fury said, her tone making it clear that she was tempted to pull the trigger, and send the hardshell paint against him.  But she paused.  “Wait…as you in bed upside down?”

“I can see the TV this way,” Garrett said.

The Fury looked back, the barrel of the shotgun lowering slightly so that, if jostled, it would aim at either his face or his crotch.  She looked back, and the barrel returned to Garrett’s face.  “Valid point,” she said.  “But you could put it there,” she motioned behind him.

“The book case,’ he asked.

“Yes – and don’t say ‘it’s for books’ – you’ve got a clock in there.”

“No, I’d thought about it – but the Playstation tends to overheat, so”

“So it’s a fire hazard,” she said, “fair enough.  Well, I’m here to make sure you come to Atrocity.  The Wolves will need you.”

“Why?  And can you please not point the gun at me.”

“Why – scared you’re parents will walk in?”

“They might,” Garrett muttered.

“What?  I can’t hear it when you mutter.”

“I said, they might.”

The Fury paused again, and hopped from the headboard, causing the bed to shake a bit.  There was a click as the Fury locked the door.  She passed in front of the TV – how the hell she had snuck around in a full battlesuit was beyond Garrett, but it made him hate the town even more.  Even if it was close to midnight – after midnight now – how the hell did someone traipse with a shotgun wearing bright orange and blue in the fucking suburbs?  She was slight, small, the shotgun’s length would have covered a good portion of her height.  The Furies word combat sensible gear, which had been somewhat disappointing to some of the guys on various teams that had been expecting something closer to…well, whatever their fevered minds expected warrior women to wear.  So it was the soft thud of steeltoed boots on the carpet, and not high heels, and the TV glowed off a full helmet and dark blue visor.

“Can I sit,” she asked, motioning towards Garrett’s desk.

“Can I sit up?”

“Yes,” she said, her shotgun not completely at ease.

“Then yes,” he said, sitting up.

She pulled the folding chair away and sitting on it, crossing her legs once and leveling the shotgun at him along her thigh.  “A few of the teams have their eyes on the Revenants.  They want to see how quickly you’ll adapt to a new squad.  There’s others who’ve been approached.”

“The Furies aren’t looking at me,” he said.

“No,” she agreed, “they aren’t.  We asked to present it to you since you…”

“Stopped the Bastard from pissing on one of you?”

“Some people enjoy that,” the Fury said.

“Whatever people do after the match is their own affair,” Garrett said.

“We’ve heard some stories,” the Fury said.

“As have I,” Garrett said.

The Fury’s head tilted to one side.  “Do you think you’re better?  None of the stories are about you?”  There wasn’t accusation in the voice, but there was…something.

“If I could stand the unattached girls on the team, there would be,” Garrett said.  The Fury scoffed at this.  “No, really.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

Garrett shrugged.

“The teams that are looking at you…some of them are thinking about throwing in the towel, or throwing in together.  Kylie herself asked for you by name.”

“Innsman,” Garrett asked, “the Queen of Angels?”

“Her,” the Fury said.

“She’s known me for years, since college.  She could have asked.”

The Fury chuckled.  “Do you picture her sneaking into your room in the middle of the night?”

Garrett nodded.  The Angels were mostly born agains, and Kylie Innsman had always struck him as one of the few who walked as she talked.  If she snuck into his room, she’d blush so hard she’d spontaneously combust.  “Valid point,” he said.  “But Kylie knows I’d be a poor fit for the Angels.  And I heard they were one of the ones dissolving.”

The Fury nodded.  “Lots of things are changing,” she said.  “Come to the match on Saturday.”

Garrett looked at the blank visor.  “The girl the Bastard pissed on – she ok?”

The Fury nodded.  “Everyone has their kinks,” she said.  “All I can say is, it wasn’t the first time.”

Garrett sighed.

“By which I mean, she’s fine.  What world do you live in where a dick is something that shocks people?”

“I don’t think it shocks people.  It’s just…disrespectful.”

The Fury nodded.  “It was.  It’s done.  The world is full of assholes, Turla.  You can’t let them keep you from having some fun in life.”  She stood up.  “I’ll let her know about your concern.  I can see why Kylie would like you on her team.  You…have a good heart, to inquire about her.”

Garrett lay back down.  “I’ll have to get off.”

“WHAT?”

“For Saturday,” Garrett said.  “I’m scheduled for work.”

“Oh,” the Fury said, and quickly made her way for the window.  “Well, get off, then.”  She slipped through, and there was the same sliding grind as the window closed behind her.

Garrett lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember when he had had a girl in his room last.  There was a tap on the window.  He looked over – the Fury was tapping on the window with one hand, and pointing up with the other.  Garrett got out of bed, wincing at the remaining dregs of lactic acid in his muscles.  He slid open the window.  “What?”

“I can’t get the grate down,” the Fury said.

“What?”

“The…storm window thing.”  She pointed again.  “I can’t reach it.”

Garrett reached out and up.  “Watch your fingers,” he said, and slid the window down.  “Good night,” he said, and cut off her ‘good night’ with the window.  He lowered the blinds, and then got back into bed.  He stared at the ceiling.  “The blinds had been up?”  He swung his legs out of bed, and sat looking at the window.  “I never leave the blinds up.”

He did not sleep much that night.  And when his parents found him in the morning, he was sitting on his bed, looking at the window.

In the afternoon, he went to the store.  Counter culture was a boutique that, when he had been in middle- and high school, had served the clique of kids who most others deemed broken.  It was the store most parents avoided except for when birthdays and holiday lists demanded that they enter.  It wasn’t a head shop, nor a clothing store, and while the music selection wasn’t vast, it was large enough to be another focal point.  The body jewelry was under lock and key, the lingerie at eye level.  The façade on the walls was brickwork, going for the look of a downtown basement, the kind where ten dollars would get you to see six local bands, most of them young.

Garrett was beginning to hate it.  He hadn’t liked it when he had stopped as a teenager.  He hadn’t like it when he had asked for an application, and he hadn’t liked it when he had become the “Chosen One,” the title awarded to the poor bastard who wasn’t management, didn’t get management pay, but got all but the most specific responsibilities and duties.

No, he had asked for the job because he needed a job, and had stayed because he honestly liked the people he was working with.  They were half-mad from God knew what, but then, he spent his weekends either watching soccer or out in the field hitting people with a fake sword, so he didn’t voice his strained disbelief too loudly.

This Thursday he was seconded to Mal Ericson.  Mal was slightly younger than Garrett’s twenty-five years, and looked like a survivor of the industrial rock movement of the 90’s.  A chinstrap beard and long, black brown hair that reached to his shoulders, framed a handsome if effeminate quality.  His voice was the low, slow drawl of Tennessee, edged by the second half of his life spent on the outskirts of Philadelphia.  “So…did you get her number?”

“Why would I,” Garrett asked.

“Well, she seemed interested – I mean, she broke into your parents’ house.”

“That was to deliver a message,” Garrett said, “not for anything…romantic?  Infatuated?  Infatuation?”  Garrett shrugged, and scratched his chin.  Stubble rasped under his fingers.  He’d shave before Atrocity, but he liked to hold off on putting a sharp object to his throat.  He missed his goatee, which he hadn’t had for almost two years.  It had made him look older, if a bit of a douche bag.  It had highlighted the planes of his face – and during college, as he had finally lost the slight roundness of his features to a diet that revolved around grains, burgers, apples, and cigarettes, had given him a look just this side of demonic.  When he had shaved it off, it was the end of a personal era that had started his junior year of high school.

“Still, I thought that was your thing, eh?  Wake up one night to find a cyberpunk chick hovering over you, pointing a weapon at you and making demands?”

Garrett laughed.  “As it turns out, I was way too focused on the whole ‘pointing a shotgun at me’ part of the event.”

“Yeah,” Mal said, “that’s the problem with getting what you want.”  He chuckled.  “Now I know why you haven’t gotten a tattoo.”  He grinned.  If Garrett, glowering and barely controlled anger as he had been in his teen years, had been demonic, then Mal’s grin was one of lascivious glee.  “Yet.”

Garrett sighed.  This was an old conversation, and he always wondered why it happened.

“I still expect you to have, like, metallic batwings or one of those, like, Terminator-style torn flesh tattoo, but all steampunk, you know?  Not, like, a robot, but clockwork.”  Mal’s grin remained.  “Or a Yakuza sleeve.”

“They kill you for that,” Garrett said.

“What?  The Yakuza?”

“Yeah.  If you aren’t a member, you shouldn’t be doing it, and doubly so for Gaijin.”

“Oh,” Mal said.

Garrett let the silence go for a beat.  “Means foreigner,” he said.

“Oh,” Mal said.

“Do we have anything to, like, put away anything or…anything?”

“Nope,” Mal said.  “They finished it this morning.”

“Well…this is a day of many miracles,” Garrett muttered.  And then he saw TJ, and he felt his good spirits die.  TJ wasn’t an imposing figure.  He was twenty-one and showing it, a kind of swagger to his walk, while the girl following in his wake sulked behind him, the flaccid remains of a mohawk swishing across a tired face.  She was tiny, and for a moment Garrett wondered if this was another unhappy surprise – that TJ had not only appeared, but had brought the breaking and entering Fury with him.  But her walk was wrong.  TJ always swaggered, Garrett always stalked.  The battlesuits didn’t alter their mentality – it might enhance them, highlight certain aspects – but it did not change them.  The girl wasn’t the Fury.  But when TJ smiled, his teeth too white, Garrett felt a mental fist tightening on the chain holding back his temper, and it let him smile.  It took a great deal of calm to always be angry, a great deal of control to be savage.  And he knew that TJ wasn’t the real target of his rage – TJ was just in the wake of that object.

“Heard the good news,” TJ asked.  They had made a line straight to the counter.

“Yes,” Garrett said.

TJ’s smile faltered, but didn’t vanish.  “You have?”

“No,” Garrett said, and let a slight smirk flash like a blade on his lips at the confusion in TJ’s eyes.  The girl’s too dark eyes flickered between TJ and Garrett, alternating concern and sudden anger, before completely withdrawing from the conversation.

“So, you haven’t…”

Garrett continued to give his one sided smile.  “No,” he said, letting his voice go a bit soft, “I haven’t heard anything you’d call ‘good’.”

“Huh,” TJ said.

“Have you put in for your next assignment?”

“Uh, yeah,” he said.

“Sticking with the Bastard,” Garrett asked.

“Why wouldn’t I,” TJ asked.  Garrett shrugged in response.  “Most of us are starting a new team,” TJ said.

“Ah.  Goody.  The Bastard’s Brigade?”

“We don’t have a name yet,” TJ said.

“Well, let me know.  I’ll be sure to steer clear.”  Garrett watched TJ.  “Are you feeling ok?”

“Huh,” TJ asked.  Garrett continued to watch him, noting the trembles across the shoulders, just a slight ripple across his shirts.  And there was s sheen to TJ’s hair, the dull hay color darker than normal at the roots.  

Garrett sighed.  He walked over to the cabinet, and took out a bottle of water.  “Here,” he said.

TJ looked at the bottle.  So did the dark eyed girl.

“It’s unopened,” Garrett said.

TJ took it.  “That’s why I like you, Nyle,” TJ said, “always civil outside of the battles.”

Garrett watched him take a few sips.  He looked to the girl.  She was watching him.  The contempt was gone – a little, anyway.  He looked back at TJ.  “Enjoy the off season,” he said to TJ.

TJ nodded.  “C’mon, Emily,” he muttered.

Garrett watched them go.

Mal’s voice broke in.  “Drugs,” he said.  Garrett looked at him.  Mal shrugged.  “Well, I’d know,” he said.  Garrett snorted a laugh.  “I’ll have to tell Lucy about him.”

“I forgot she was in it,” Garrett lied.  He had forgotten that Mal knew her.  She was one of the Wolves, or would be until they parted ways after the coming weekend.  And it was hard to forget an image like Lucy.  “TJ’s with the Bastard – and she’ll avoid both.”

“She’s really unhappy about this season,” Mal said.

“She has every right to be,” Garrett said.

“Don’t they have a team for junkies,” Mal asked.

“Yeah,” Garrett said, “the ones in recovery.  But with everything…” Garrett didn’t want to say ‘that’s changing, too’.  So he didn’t.  He just shrugged.  “So, can you take the shift?”

“Call one of the jockeys,” Mal said, “I’ll sign off on it.”