iv.
She finds out more about Gripps and Martin later, from Gripps himself.
They've just parked for the night, she's not sure where—somewhere in the pacific northwest, that's all she really knows anymore—but there are trees, and it's chilly, the overcast sky making the day prematurely dark.
With practiced, familiar fluidity, the guys move to set up the campsite, and Amanda is about to pitch in before someone touches her arm—it's Gripps, and when she turns to give him a questioning stare, he responds by tossing something at her, which she catches instinctively: it's a heavy Maglite, scratched to shit, doubtless from being used occasionally as a weapon.
"Gotta repair the Beast," he says, holding up a roll of duct tape. "Will you hold the light?"
"Of course," she answers, rewarded by his sweet smile, and she follows him around to the front of the van while the rest of the guys drag sleeping bags down from the roof and set a fire.
The van, she has learned by now (and always suspected), is as much of a member of the Rowdy 3 as the men themselves—it's in the way it growls and talks, in the wild colors of the spray paint arcing across its surface and, significantly, in the way it never fucking breaks down, no matter how hard they push it or how many cars and buildings they ram it into. When Gripps says repairs, he means cosmetic, because the bumpers inevitably detach every couple of days at least, and the guys always carefully tape them back on before hurtling into the next day's chaos.
In front of the van, she holds the light steady while Gripps stoops and peels the old tape from the dragging bumper, then starts peeling long, fresh strips to secure it in place for another day. "Where did you guys get this thing, anyway?"
"What, the Beast?" Gripps carefully applies a strip of tape from hood to undercarriage, then pats the van affectionately. "Took it from Blackwing the day of the breakout. It wanted to get out as much as we did." He glances sideways at her, and no one can look sly like Gripps can—she laughs, charmed.
The next second, though, something catches her eye, and she accidentally lets the light drift towards it, a glint on the forest floor a foot away from where he's crouching.
"Mandy?" Gripps prods her gently.
"Sorry," she apologizes, returning the beam to him, then in the next instant she turns it again towards that little shine. "It's just—what is that?"
Gripps follows the light, then says, "Oh, wow," reaching down and picking the object up. Now that it's free of the leaves that had partially been obscuring it, she can see that it's a single earring, glinting silver and green beneath the flashlight. Almost to himself, he says, "This looks like what Mom used to make."
"Mom?" Amanda asks before she can remind herself that the topic is probably a painful one—but once she does, she can't quite make herself give him an out.
Gripps silently reaches out, and she lets him place the earring in her free palm, closing her fingers tight over it. He turns back to the van, and she thinks that must be the end of it, but then, conversationally, he says, "My mother used to make jewelry." He pauses, then says, "Maybe still does. I don't know."
The mention of a living parent, one that he was with long enough to remember, startles her, because she'd sort of assumed that all four were orphans—but no, she realizes, thinking back to the very first day she'd spent with them, when she'd played bait willingly while the Rowdy Three snuck up on the agents lying in wait for them. Your family misses you, the older one had said, to practically no reaction from Gripps.
The implications of that are troubling. From what she knows of him, of his sweetness and powerful loyalty, if he's turning his back on his blood family in favor of the new one he's found, it's because they betrayed him, not the other way around. Betrayed him like turning him into a government program that caged and tested him, she thinks.
"I don't blame them," he says, as if he can hear what she's thinking—or maybe he's just picking up on the sudden current of sadness, radiating from her chest. "I can't. Back then, I…" he pauses, applies another strip of tape, then admits, "I didn't know how to control it. I was f-feeding off my family… all the time. They were scared."
So they put you in a cage. Amanda doesn't say it out loud, and she's glad he isn't looking at her, because she can feel the frown creasing the skin of her forehead. Maybe it's not her place to be judgmental, especially with her own fucked-up family situation these days, but she loves Gripps, and she can't help but feel bitter, angry towards the frightened family that traded him for their safety.
"How old were you?" she asks softly instead of voicing that opinion.
"Thirteen," he says, glancing over his shoulder at her. The expression on her face seems to trouble him, because his expression softens, and he winks at her, trying to pull her back out of that dark place. "Aw, Amanda. I was all right. I had Martin. He was the one who really had it rough; he was the first they found, spent a whole year alone before I came along."
Ah. Well, that confirms her suspicion that Martin's de facto position of ringleader is due to seniority as well as age. "His parents—?" she starts, but Gripps shakes his head before turning back to the Beast.
"Long dead. Never knew his mom, anyway, and I hear his dad was a real sunovabitch—ODed when Marty was just, hell, eight? He decided to take to the streets rather'n risk foster care."
Amanda frowns again. "But you said Blackwing had only had him a year when you came along."
Gripps chuckles. "That's right."
"That means he spent…" Amanda pauses, trying to fix a loose timeline in her head, their respective ages when they were picked up, but not knowing hard numbers makes it a challenge, and Gripps helps her out.
"Six years on the street," he said, sounding proud. "There's a reason we live like this. After leaving Blackwing, it was the only way Martin knew how—and the rest of us, hell, not like we knew anything more useful. We eventually all took to it cause we were good at it, and it was fun, but those first days, Martin was the one keeping us free and safe." He rips another strip of tape clear and chuckles. "They picked him up in New York City, c'n you imagine that? Made his way all the way up there from whatever… hole in the south he was born in."
Amanda nods, playing it cool, though she's blazing with curiosity. Martin doesn't talk as much as the others, but when he does, she often picks up on a low drawl in the midst of the gravel, ts and gs left off the end of words, but she's from Seattle, born and raised, so it's not like she's the expert—it's good to have confirmation that he's from the region she thought he was. She wonders where he was born, how he made it all the way up to New York that young—and wonders if that's why he's more sparing with words than the others, if it's a holdover from having to make sure he didn't stick out or draw attention.
"There we go, all done," Gripps announces, securing the last bit of tape and rising to his feet. He's starting to look sly again, so she snaps to attention right before he says, "Last one to the fire is a rotten egg" and takes off—she's choking on her own laughter as she follows right on his heels, because she hasn't heard that one since she was just a kid, and before he can make it too far, she jumps on his back.
He oofs and groans, but his hands come up to secure her legs so she doesn't fall and he slows his stride so she can nestle safely into him and get her arms around his neck. Then, he's running again, light-footed, carrying her into the circle formed by the others, into the light and warmth beyond.
A/N - ahhhh shit sorry guys, turns out trying to get a mortgage for the first time fucks w/ your spare time and creative energy! it's a nightmare. Don't do it!
Anyway I love Gripps a lot and I'm 99% sure Martin's accent is something roughly southern bc... it sure as hell ain't Canadian, hence lil bit of backstory.
I'm posting 2 chapters to sort of round out the story and marking it finished so read on!