Look

Baird had always had a look. A surly, disgusted grimace that said he didn't care about anyone else's shit. For him, it was supposed to push people away, let him coast through life without attachment. To other people, he wore a sign that must have read "Come chew my ear off."

Somehow, anywhere he went, people always had something to say to him. Questions, abuse, cries for help. Things he normally replied with, "Fuck off, man."

He told the two bastards cornering him in the locker room the same thing. But for once he didn't get flipped off. Instead, a fist came at his face. The response was so immediate and surprising, he couldn't dodge in time. His neck snapped to the side and his nose was throbbing, but he'd taken the punch like a man, damn it.

"That all you got, jackass?" He grinned, crooked and bloody. "Hope your girlfriend here hits harder than that."

Shit, he wished he kept his mouth closed. But he wasn't going to be intimidated. He wouldn't let them know this was his first brawl and he was actually kind of scared.

The next hit was straight to his temple and he stumbled backwards into a stall, tripping over a toilet. Dazed, a shadow loomed over him. Suddenly he was breathing in water that tasted like a septic tank and fury clawed it's way into his chest. He'd been angry, he'd been outraged, but he had never in his life felt like this. His head hadn't spent more than five seconds in the toilet when he kicked out, his COG regulation boots connecting with something pliable. The pressure on his head let up and he scrambled to his feet. Blinking his vision clear, he charged out of the stall and headbutted the closest man. The impact knocked his teeth together, but he ignored it, choosing instead to focus on the surprise that swept through him.

As he leaned against a set of lockers to catch his breath, pride swelled in his chest for a moment. Holy shit, he defended himself. A rich boy that nearly failed physical education in school and the army's entry physical could actually fight.

Then the other man came back with a kick. The first one made contact with Baird's hip, knocking him back into the present fight; the second was blocked by Baird grabbing his ankle. He saw it happen in slow motion—one hand grabbed an ankle, tipping the man off balance, and the other was curled into a fist and headed straight for the groin. The man sucked in a quick breath and fell.

For a second, time stopped there. But Baird forgot about the second goon.

A boot connected with the back of his knee and he went down, hard. Baird waited for the next blow but it never came. Instead, there was the sound of a door opening and a voice booming, "Sounds like a party happenin' in here!"

"Just walk away, man," the goon said.

The new man came further into the room and Baird could see now just how big he was. A hulking mass of muscle, he was either a fully trained soldier or had a hell of a hobby before basic.

He glanced between Baird and the other two men. "Nah, see, I can't do that. You're obviously having a very important business transaction, but it looks a little one-sided. How about we even the playing field, huh?"

With the other man distracted, Baird lunged to his feet and punched him in the mouth. Whether the new man wanted to help or not, Baird wasn't done here. He wasn't going to end his first brawl just because some stranger said so.

But the stranger had said so. He came into the room, grabbed one man by the collar of his fatigues, and nearly threw him out the door. The other followed in shock, but not without choice parting words. Baird spit in his direction.

When it was just him and the stranger, Baird limped over to the sinks to spit out the rest of the blood that had welled in his mouth. Everything would taste like copper for days. Checking himself in the mirror, he was a fucking mess. His face was already bruising, one eye swelling, and his nose was at an awkward angle. And they mussed his hair, the bastards.

"You alright?" the stranger asked.

Baird grunted, picking bathroom tissue out of his soggy hair.

"Looks like those two dickheads picked the wrong guy to mess with. You're a scrawny guy but I saw the damage on the one. Hell of a hit."

"Do you mind?" Baird snapped. This guy was too jovial for his own good. And the volume—damn it, his head was already pounding. With adrenaline, with pain; he didn't really know. It just hurt.

"Sorry, man. Just wanted to make sure you're okay."

Baird caught his eye for the first time and realized he knew this man. Augustus Cole, played for the Cougars. Shit, what was a guy like that doing in the army?

Famous or not, Baird gave him a very pointed look. To him, it said the usual: "Fuck off, man."

To Cole, it was a cry for help. And he'd never left Baird's side since.