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.”