Four monitors, four windows into the desert. Red stone and sun, and it was easy now to find it beautiful from behind the safety of the camera lens.
The coyotes lay panting in the heat, rolling over to expose their bloated bellies to the vultures circling above. The pups played games of chase and stalk, stubby tentacles wriggling in rhythm with the wagging of their tails.
"Cute." Snob's lip curled, a coyote snarl without the fangs. "You wanna test the turrets?"
Critic slapped his friend's hand away from the targeting array. "Don't waste the bullets. What's next?"
They squinted at the display together as they had squinted at their maps, but the nested files offered no starting point to help them chart their course. "VeLo09," Snob said, as if it meant something to either of them, "I think it's part of the master control for the lock down system, but I can't open it."
Baugh had become a hero to his family, a villain to the wanderers he turned from his door. But to Molossia he remained what he had always been, a night watchman trusted with her protection but not her secrets.
His security clearance had given them control over the turrets and video feeds, and in the early days that had been enough. But those sealed files tantalized, sparking curiosity with their nonsense names and bolded font.
At least Snob had some sense of how the system worked, which was more than Critic could claim. He was content to jot down the mysterious VeLo09 along with its suspected function, adding it to a list already four pages long. "Next?"
"SlfDstt 01 through 264. BoNe03232," Snob rattled off, "And fuck if I know what they do. But speaking of- about you and Chick-"
He was focused on the computer screen as he spoke, leaning in too close, making a show of it. Critic shook his head, first in confusion, then in denial when he realized what Snob was asking. He rounded on the smaller man, fists clenching only because taking flight would have been an admission of guilt.
"Whoa." Snob held up his hands and pushed back his chair, but there was no fear in his eyes. If anything he looked intrigued by the reaction, head tipping to the side. "I'm not judging."
"How did you..." Critic asked, because Snob wasn't guessing. He knew, and Critic had no idea where to go from here.
"Let's just say the walls here are thinner than they were in the bucker." Snob tried to laugh, a forced little chuckle that made Critic squirm with shared embarrassment. "I just want to make sure it's, you know, safe, sane, and consensual."
"She doesn't do anything that I don't want her to."
Snob had a well-developed sense of drama. Critic couldn't help but admire the way one brow rose ever so slowly, the artful way he stroked his chin. "Dude, I wasn't worried about you."
Critic shrugged, knowing he was caught and feeling more exposed than when he lay open beneath his twin. He wasn't aware he was floating until Snob pulled him down, hand lingered on Critic's arm.
"Is it?" he asked, "Safe and all?"
Safe? Not always, but that was part of the fun. Consensual? Close enough. Sane? Critic had no such illusions.
He couldn't remember when they'd gone from siblings to lovers, when her touch became the one he craved. Sometimes the only thing that got him through the day was the knowledge that at the end of it Chick would be waiting, pipe or strap in hand depending on what she felt he needed. She was right often enough that he could tolerate when she was wrong without compliment.
"We're okay," he told Snob, "I promise."
He smiled to prove it, and if Snob didn't looked convinced that was only to be expected. How could Critic explain how the loss of their parents had brought them closer together, so close the edges blurred? He had loved That Other Guy, his brother, but what he felt for Chick was something deeper, darker, a hooked and fierce passion that transcended lust.
Snob nodded at last, and Critic let himself settle fully back to earth. "Lunch?" he asked, gesturing to the clock. It was an unspoken rule that no one ate until all were gathered, and stragglers were greeted with jeers and the occasional biscuit to the head.
They were nearing the mess when Snob snorted and shook his head. "I got to say, I didn't think Chick had it in her. She just seems so- vanilla, I guess."
But of course he saw only what Chick wanted him to see, knew her only as a giggling girl with a flirty smile. His sister had learned young that there was power in hiding her strength. It was amazing what men would do to win the favor of a pretty young thing with perky breasts and empty eyes.
"You have no idea," Critic said, and left it at that.
Later, when they lay curled close and sated, Critic told his twin of Snob's surprise.
It was a joke to share, but also an admission of guilt. It didn't bother Critic that Snob should know what they were to each other, but Chick treasured her secrets. Snob would look at her differently now, would search for other things he'd missed.
She forgave him with a pinch, a tiny blossoming of pain that made him arch. "He'll tell the others," she said, not a question, and Critic nodded. As gossip went it didn't get much better.
"Good." She wore that smile again, the one that narrowed her eyes and made him shudder. "That means we don't have to use the gag anymore. I like it better when you scream anyway."
So did he, loved every whimper and whine she drew from him, loved that he could give her that. "I'm just not sure..."
Would they follow him, if they knew he knelt before Chick in the night? Did they need to, now that he had given them the haven he'd promised?
"It's a game," Chick said, though they both knew it was anything but. "That's all. It doesn't change anything."
She kissed him, and this was another thing she hid from Snob and the rest, how gentle she could be once she'd had her fun. Let him draw her in, tucked in tight against him as if he were the strong one.
It wouldn't change anything because Critic couldn't afford to let it. He'd become their leader by necessity, and that necessity had yet to pass. Molossia, their haven, was also a target, a promised land that they themselves had killed to secure.
Even now, somewhere in the barren lands there were stories being told. Plans were being made while Chick slept in his arms, a warm weight that kept him tethered when gravity could not.
They were coming, and Critic meant to be ready for them.
"Forty five of the meat lasagna. Two hundred of the chicken loaf."
Linkara nodded in absent response before the words registered. He wrinkled his nose when they did and looked up from his clipboard. "Wait...what?"
"You heard me," Benzaie said.
The plain boxes looked innocent enough, but Linkara shuddered when he pictured the horrors that lay within. There was a day not long ago when he would have been grateful for food in any form, even loaf. It felt good, to take something for granted again.
"Sounds fowl," he said, and only just managed to dodge when Benzaie swatted at him with a curled paw.
It wasn't his best work, but the shameful pun was worth it for the way Spoony shook his head in disgust. "Cheep," he muttered in his ravaged voice, and Linkara laughed a little too hard at that, a little too long, startled into it by the shy little smile on Spoony's lips.
He wanted so badly to reach for his friend, to tousle his hair until he grumbled. He'd been allowed that once, the sacred privilege of ruffling Spoony up and smoothing him back down.
But he saw the way Spoony held himself taunt, drawn up stiff and still in a way someone else might have mistaken for calm.
Linkara knew better. Black Lantern was close, exposed in the curl of Spoony's fingers and the lift of his chin. His career as a comic book reviewer had prepared him well for this, training his eye to look for the small details that others missed. There were jokes to be found in the backgrounds of panels, a warning in the furrowed lines of Spoony's brow.
"Quite loafing around," Benzaie said, and Linkara could have kissed him for the way it made Spoony snort and throw up his hands.
"Twenty-nine French toast," he said, taking pity. There was food enough before them to last for decades, all of it the same tasteless mush. Linkara couldn't remember if they'd eaten pancakes or oatmeal for breakfast, and when he asked Beanzai the bear only shrugged.
"Does it matter?" he said, and Linkara rather thought it should.
He counted his way through the boxes of bean burrito and beef brisket while Benzaie tackled the pork rib and lemon pepper tuna, both of them calling off the numbers to Spoony. They could guess at how popular a meal had been by how many boxes were left, and it felt strange, to have that little glimpse into the lives of the soldiers who had once called Molossia home.
Linkara had just started on the chili and beans when the alarm began to wail. The siren pierced his skull and scattered the flow of numbers, bending him low under the weight of its keening scream.
"Twice in one day?" he shouted across the row to Benzaie, "Really?"
The bear growled at the intercom panel, rearing up as if he meant to tear it from the wall. He landed heavily and shuffled to where Spoony rocked in place, hands clamped tight over his ears.
Benzaie sniffed delicately at the man's cheeks until Spoony huffed a silent laugh and uncurled enough to push his muzzle away. He twined his hands in the shaggy fur, steadied himself against Benzaie's strong shoulder, and something hot and dangerous twisted in Linkara's chest at the sight, a feral jealousy that made him clench his fists.
He wanted to pull Spoony away, wanted him off balance so he would have no choice but to lean on Linkara. Because that was the way things were meant to be, the only way they made sense.
It helped a little that Benzaie looked to him when Spoony straightened, tilting his head in question, trusting in Linkara to judge where things stood.
And this was something that he could still lay claim to, the ability to look into Spoony's eyes and see the transformation before it began. It was in their color, always blue but variable in hue. The Bum's irises were a pale cerulean that shaded to purple in the right light. Indigo meant Black Lantern, and SWS was an ultramarine so vivid it looked painted on. Insano's eyes were azure, shining bright behind the spiral lenses of his goggles.
At the moment he saw only cobalt, only Spoony, and he nodded to Benzaie, making no secret of either his scrutiny or his relief.
The siren chased them through the halls, and by the time they reached the systems room they were panting, the burn in their throats a match for the stitch in their sides. The stockroom was at the far side of the complex and they were the last to arrive, the others already packed in tight.
But still they made way, not for Benzaie but for Spoony, because no one wanted to be the one who stood too close. Linkara pressed past them all, forced his way to the front to where Critic stood.
He slammed his hand down on the cut down switch. The silence that followed wasn't silent at all, the ringing in his ears enough to make him grit his teeth.
"Seven minutes," Critic said, "In an invasion-"
"We'd be dead," Linkara finished for him, "Critic, we know. For Funk and Wangall's sake, man, give it a rest. "
"Cut it down to three minutes and I will." Critic looked over Linkara's head to the others, a slow survey that made them blush with the remembered embarrassment of students before a teacher. "I'm not doing these drills to be an ass. It's important. I'm trying to keep us safe."
"We are safe," Phelous said, and Linkara groaned, because he knew what was coming.
Critic slammed his hand down on the console and somewhere in the crowd Film Brain squeaked, an echo of the claxon in a minor key.
"Fuck you. We're not. Don't say that, don't think it! That's what got him killed."
And now not even Linkara couldn't look him in the eye, not with the ghost that hovered silent in the air between them.
Ma-ti.
Toward the end he'd begged for relief from the pain, pleaded in his blood thick voice until Critic left the knife where he could reach it.
But by then he'd been too weak to make the cut, and Critic too weak to do it for him. And Ma-ti had died cursing, died screaming, and still, still had forgiven Critic, had touched his cheek with cold fingers by way of goodbye.
"I'm sorry," he told the others, because it was a low blow to use Ma-Ti against them.
A low blow, but an effective one, for how does one argue with the dead? "I'll lay off the alarm," Critic said, "But I think it's time we started working with the guns."
He spoke softly, gently, too aware of what he was asking of them. But time had dulled the memories of Baugh's skull blown wide, and only Linkara shook his head in vehement refusal.
He let it go at that, sent them on their way without trying to ease the grief he'd inflicted. It was something they needed to remember, how quickly a quiet day could turn bloody.
"Linkara, could you stay?" he asked, and it wasn't a surprise when Spoony and Benzaie also lingered.
"Just Linkara," he clarified, and saw the wordless negotiation that passed between the three of them, Spoony looking to Benzaie, Benzaie to Linkara, Linkara considering them both before granting them leave with a nod.
"I'm not using a gun," Linkara said when they were gone, "I know-"
"It's not that. I get it." As far as Critic was concerned, Linkara had earned his pacifism. He'd given them Molossia, the least they could do was honor what it had cost him. "It's Spoony."
He sighed at the way Linkara stiffened, opening his hands wide to show he meant no harm. "This can't go on. He damn near bite Lord Kat yesterday, and I'm not going to talk about what happened with Film Brain and SWS."
"Just talk to me," he said, because Linkara was still looking at him like he was the enemy. "Something has changed, and I need to know what."
"I hit him." It was a whisper, a confession, as if Critic hadn't been there, hadn't been the one to pick The Bum up off the ground.
"He knows you didn't mean it," he offered, but they both knew that wasn't quite true. Spoony knew, understood too well how pain could break a man. The Bum understood only that he had been hurt by the one he trusted most. He couldn't see that Linkara had been hurting too, too locked in his pain to respond to another's. "So you screwed up. How do we fix it?"
"I don't know," Linkara admitted, "Benzaie-"
"Isn't you," Critic said, "Whether Spoony likes it or not, you're the one he needs."
He hadn't missed the way Spoony looked back when he left the room, the longing on his face that made him look younger than his years.
"You promised me you'd look after him." Because Spoony had been his to keep and care for once, back before Linkara joined the team at Channel Awesome. He'd given him away as a father does a daughter because he knew the longing went ways, and there were days he wanted to slap them both for settling for mere friendship. "I can't have him terrorizing the others. Get him under control, Linkara."
"I'll try," he said, but Critic couldn't settle for that.
"Don't make me do it for you," he said, and let Linkara decide for himself if he meant it as a plea or a threat.