CWCollateral: A Tale of the Resistance
by Manajerkop
Chapter 4: Induction
March 17, 2004, CWCville slums, Soup Hotel #4
"No salvaging tonight," Kevin explained to the four hobos seated around him in the bustling cafeteria. "Frank and I are going to find this place by ourselves. I'm sorry, but I can't risk all of you."
"Whaddaya mean, 'risk?'" Carl shot him an indignant glare. "Yer takin' that old bag 'o sawdust an' yer leavin' us here to sit 'round an' die 'o boredom listenin' to Chester's 'movie reviews' all night? Damn loony ain't been to a film in twenny years…"
"Bag 'o sawdust?" Frank drew himself up to his full height, which, when seated, was still a good two inches shorter than Carl. "Why I oughtta…"
"Quiet, and let the boy talk," growled George from behind a copy of the CWCville Times. "He's the only one who I want to hear right now."
Frank and Carl wisely shut up, though they continued to throw incensed stares at one another for a good thirty seconds.
"I've picked Frank, and that's final," continued Kevin, silently thanking George in his mind. "Once the PVCC contact gives me their address today, I'm going to find out what's really been going on. I've had enough of all these lies and false leads."
"And how do you know this isn't another one?" Missy June leaned forward and brushed a few strands of her long, unkempt hair out of her face. "How do you know they're not just some back-alley thugs like the ones we beat up the other night?"
"Why would anyone rob hobos like us?" Kevin replied. "And anyway, who on earth would go to this much trouble and spend so much time planning just to screw with one guy? I'm telling you, these people are organized. And they know me."
"Yah, I'll believe yer witch story when she comes down from the skies an' gives me a big sloppy kiss," grunted Carl. "Right on the nose. Yer chasin' a…"
George silenced him again with a single glance.
"So when do you meet this contact?" asked Missy June. Her voice still dripped with skepticism. "In some shady bar down on Boleyn Street? Has he got a trench coat and a fedora? Maybe…maybe he's a she, you know, a slinky, sexy woman in a black dress? You guys going to down a few martinis together? Come on, kid, you're not Humphrey goddamn Bogart. Let it go."
"He'll end up like Jake goddamn Gittes if he isn't careful." George's eyes narrowed as he glanced at his wife. "Listen, Kevin, take it from me. You walk into some abandoned place without any protection and you're just asking to be royally buttfucked…or you would be if that purple sphincter Magi-chan weren't watching. You keep this hidden away, and you only use it when you need it."
Something cold and steely dropped into Kevin's lap. Looking down, he saw that George had given him a large, slightly rusted hunting knife. It would just barely fit out of sight.
"I…thanks." Pretending to ties his shoes, Kevin leaned down and tucked the blade into his right boot. "I'll get this back to you when I…"
"No, you won't." George cracked the faintest hint of a smile. "You're going to find these people and start living. We've had good lives, all of us, and now it's your turn. Chandler took six years of your life away, and he'll have the rest too if you don't get out and do something. If anyone deserves to fight back…it's you, kid. You fight, you win, and you gut that fat sumbitch like the squealing hog he is."
Carl didn't say a word. Even he seemed to know this wasn't the time for sarcasm.
"Let's go, Missy. I could use another bowl." The couple rose and left the table. Missy June shook her head at Kevin, but there was a hint of acceptance in the look. She didn't approve, that was clear, but she knew she was in no position to stop him.
Frank and Carl hesitated, then followed suit. They hadn't gone six feet before their argument started up again.
Kevin spooned the last few drops of clam chowder into his mouth, savoring the creamy taste like Frank kept insisting he do. After finishing, he'd head outside to the alley and wait for the contact to find him. Tonight could very well be his last night, but he seriously doubted anything life-threatening could come from a little game of hide-and-"
"Nicely done." A young woman's voice sounded next to him, and he felt someone sit down on the bench beside him. "Don't look at me. Cameras. Pretend I'm just some random hobo who's too afraid to sit by himself."
"For all I know, you are," Kevin muttered through gritted teeth. The guy he'd met five days ago had said the contact would appear when he least suspected it, but this was too much. "I was going to the alley. You didn't have to come in."
"Yeah…I did. EHPF's occupied chasing a few of my friends right now, but they left a few Sparkers to watch the slums tonight. It was hard enough getting here, so you'd better listen if you want in."
Kevin listened.
"You've been looking for us a few months now, haven't you?" asked the stranger. "Can't say I blame you – Walsh never was that good at explaining things. I'm actually impressed she singled you out. We normally just pick new recruits up off the street if they're interested. You look like a good enough choice, so I'm extending a formal invitation. Here's my card."
She reached under the table and forced something cold and slimy into his hand. Kevin looked down, startled, and realized the woman had given him an entire pickle. Words had been cut into its surface – a single phrase:
THE MOST OBVIOUS PLACE
"Go to the corner of Lucas and Mimms. You'll know it when you see it." The PVCC contact tapped the pickle. "Eat that. Now."
Kevin slowly devoured the sour fruit. What a bizarre rite of passage - eating something the mayor wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole. When he was finished, the woman was gone. He looked around, but couldn't see anyone fleeing into the crowd.
Right, he thought with a new sense of determination. My turn.
CWCville slums, 1:00 a.m., the corner of Lucas St. and Mimms St.
"Ya shure this's the place?" Frank leaned against a streetlight to rest, groaning as he massaged his aching back. "If we 'ave to go 'un more block, I'm callin' it quits."
"Positive," Kevin replied. "You stay here and I'll check it out. If this isn't it, we'll go home. I promise."
"A'right, ya be careful in there, kid, y'understand?"
"Don't worry about me. But just in case something goes wrong…" Kevin glanced down at his boots momentarily, then turned his gaze back to the old man. "Thanks for being such a good friend, Frank. Tell everyone back at Four that I said goodbye."
"Goodbye…Kevin." Frank grasped his hand and shook it. "Go kill all 'em Sparkies for yer ol' pal Frank."
Kevin smiled, turned, and headed across the street to the dilapidated bar. March still hadn't flushed all of the cold out of its system this year, and it was a chilly night. He stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep warm. The shivering, though…he wasn't sure whether that was from the weather or his own nervous feelings.
The unlit neon sign above the door read "THE MOST OBVIOUS PLACE." Kevin had to admit it; the contact's clue had been pretty damn clever. He would have thought to look in an abandoned warehouse or some empty parking lot.
The bar's windows were boarded shut. Graffiti covered nearly every flat surface he could see. There were no lights inside, no footsteps, nothing. Was there anyone inside at all, or was it just some elaborate prank? Were these people trolling him? Was this the kind of thing the mayor kept ranting about in his periodic citywide video broadcasts?
Kevin climbed up the short stairway and knocked three times on the rotting wooden door.
No answer.
He knocked again. Still no answer.
All right then, if I must. Kevin tugged on the handle. As he suspected, the door swung open, creaking on rusty hinges. The inside of The Most Obvious Place looked like a slightly cleaner version of Mayor Chandler's office. Cobwebs shrouded the ceiling, while a fine layer of dust coated the tables, the barstools, the counter, the broken jukebox…each and every flat surface imaginable. The air was no warmer inside, due to the fact that every single window had been completely smashed. Several broken bottles lingered in the cabinets, though their contents had long ago been emptied by wandering hobos like him.
Kevin glanced around the bar in apprehension. Was this really where the PVCC had meant to meet him? It truly and honestly didn't seem like anyone was here.
There was another door in the wall opposite him – one that most likely led to the kitchen. Was that where they were? Kevin could feel tremors of apprehension tingling up and down his spine. It definitely wasn't just the cold now. The hunting knife in his boot knocked against his foot as he cautiously approached the door. He reached a trembling hand out, grabbed the handle, and opened it.
There was nothing before him but darkness and silence.
Well, that's it, he thought disappointedly. Out of curiosity, he took a tentative step inside the room and glanced around, hoping to see a light or some other sign the PVCC were indeed there.
Whump!
The sign came in the form of a black cloth bag out of nowhere that instantly enveloped his head, blocking out all sight and muffling all sound. Several pairs of rough hands clutched his flailing arms and pulled them down and back, preventing Kevin from fighting back or struggling. He felt something sharp touch his neck – the edge of a knife or a straight razor. Oh God Carl was right Carl was right they're going to kill me…
"It's okay, it's okay," a calm male voice - almost a whisper - sounded next his ear. "You're not being kidnapped…these are all safety precautions. We're going to take you somewhere safe so we know you weren't followed. Just do as we tell you and you're gonna be fine."
Kevin tried his best to nod without accidentally cutting himself on the sharp blade. A pair of handcuffs clicked shut around his wrists, pinning them behind his back.
"Good. Now just walk forward and don't stop until I tell you to. I'll steer. Don't worry, it's okay. We're just going for a little ride."
"Slumberland, Tomgirl Lead," a woman muttered into a radio a few feet away. "Target apprehended. Proceeding home. ETA in ten to twelve, provided we don't wake the Sparkers."
"Copy, Tomgirl Lead. Bring him in."
Kevin walked forward. There really wasn't much else he could do but obey these people. They definitely sounded like they were from the PVCC. The question was – did they think he could possibly be a loyalist? After he'd gone about twenty feet, he felt a door open and a chilly breeze on his face. They were outside now.
"Open the door," his captor ordered, pushing him further along. "All right, we're going to put you in a van now. Just step up right…there, there you go, that's good. Here, help him in, guys." Several more pairs of hands from inside the van grabbed him and helped him into a seat. Kevin could feel worn leather and bits of rough cloth beneath his hands. This vehicle was in need of some serious repair.
"All right, let's get out of here." The woman from before was seated right next to him. "Wait until we're a few blocks out, then take that hood off of him. He doesn't know where we're going."
Kevin waited in silence for a couple of minutes while the van backed up and accelerated into the quiet CWCville streets. He tried to remember their path, but a few sharp turns later, he no longer had any idea where they were. So much for that movie tactic working in real life.
"Okay, we're good." A hand grabbed the edge of the bag and worked it up over his head. Someone else unlocked the handcuffs and removed them as well. "Kevin Shaw, meet the Tomgirls."
Of the five armed operatives clustered into the back of the van, four of them were men. The fifth – the woman seated beside him – was a stunning redhead with playful hazel eyes. Her nose and mouth were obscured by a black-painted dust mask, an article of clothing shared by the four men in the back. All of them wore Kevlar vests, brown leather belts with pistol holsters and knife sheaths, an assortment of grey, green, and brown cargo pants, grey jackets, leather boots, and black shirts with a half-maple-leaf logo and the letters PVCC stenciled in red.
This is it, he thought with a shiver, glancing at the window. It was painted black on the outside, and a dividing wall was set between the front and rear seats, effectively concealing all surrounding sights from the passengers. This is real. I found them.
"Look, we know how this must seem to you so far," the woman continued. "It used to be a lot worse. Think 'strip search' worse. Believe me…I know. They guys in charge are still going to ask you a few questions to make sure you're not a loyalist. Just a precaution. Chandler might be a retarded pile of shit, but those human mercs of his sure as hell ain't. They've been paying off spies left and right, trying to root us out. It would be just like them to go for a hob…homeless person like yourself."
"Unless they offered me my job and six years of my life back, I wouldn't even consider it," replied Kevin.
The Tomgirl leader nodded. "Yeah, we all know a little bit about you and your accident. Fuckin' Chandler. I think in a way, without you, none of us would even be here."
"Oh come on." Kevin rolled his eyes. "Don't make me sound like some…some all-important hero guy that everyone likes and can't do anything wrong."
"I don't like you," interjected one of the men. "I respect you as a person, but dude, you smell awful. And your hair looks like someone shaved a musk ox and glued the scraps all over your…"
"Okay, that's enough." The woman shot a reprimanding glare at the operative and turned back to Kevin. "I agree, you smell like a used diaper full of Indian food, so be glad we have shower facilities in Slumberland. The poor bastards over in ChinaTown have to use buckets on strings."
"Chinatown? CWCville has a Chinatown? I thought…"
"No, not Chinatown. ChinaTown. The old red-light district? After Chandler had it all bulldozed because of too many gay bars, we took over an abandoned strip club there and expanded it into an operations center. We've got nicknames for all our HQs. Slumberland's in the slums, Hogwash used to be a sewer treatment plant, Wilderness is right near the mountain/jungle border, and ChinaTown…"
"Right, I get it." Kevin laughed. He felt more comfortable now, like he was a part of the group rather than a prisoner as he'd first believed. "So what do you guys even do?"
"Spying and sneak attacks, mostly. We're pretty much outgunned on all fronts if we went up against Chandler's goons…"
"Anderson's goons," another soldier corrected her.
"He's still Chandler until we show the world his lies." She cleared her throat and continued. "Where was I? Oh yeah, without support, we've got no chance of even putting a dent in his private army. That's where people like you come in. We get a bad rep as terrorists and such…and it's pretty easy to see why…but compared with the kind of terror the mayor and his chu government keeps throwing at CWCville, we're almost the good guys, aren't we?"
"Yeah, I guess," mused Kevin. Finally, he was talking with someone who actually made sense.
"We are. Believe me, we are." The woman looked at her watch as the van began slowing down. "We also just arrived. Just do what they say and you'll have yourself a nice squad in no time. Don't get your hopes up for joining my Tomgirls or the Picklemen, though. Those guys are the best of the best…even we know that. With luck, you'll make the White Medallions, the Cashiers or the ALBinos…maybe the Spines of Blue. Again, don't get your hopes up – these squads just named themselves after a few of the guys in charge. You'll see what I mean in a few minutes."
The van ground to a halt. Kevin heard the front doors open, and a metallic rumble sounded from behind the vehicle, as if a giant garage door was closing.
"Good luck, Shaw." The woman patted him on the shoulder. "Nice talking with you. I'm Jackie, by the way."
"Nice to meet you," mumbled Kevin, as the side door slid open. A spotlight flashed on, instantly blinding him. Somewhere far away, he heard the electronic shriek of a megaphone.
"Kevin Shaw, please step out of the van and place your hands behind your head," a voice echoed around the cavernous room. "Tomgirls, report to the conference room for debriefing and your next assignment."
Kevin did as he was told. Someone stepped up behind him and quickly patted him down. He felt the hunting knife being removed from his boot. That discovery earned him another, more thorough search.
"Okay, he's clean," reported the man who'd checked him. "All clear for interrogation."
"Thank you." The spotlight clicked off, but Kevin's eyes still danced with colored lights. Somewhere, a door creaked open. Footsteps approached…many footsteps, too many for him to count. Blinking rapidly, he tried his best to make the bright dots vanish.
The cluster of footsteps slowed and stopped. Through the glowing haze in his eyes, Kevin could barely make out the shapes of about a dozen men and women standing in a semicircle before him. Only the central figure looked familiar. It might have been the horns.
"Hello again, Kevin," Mary Lee Walsh said warmly, smoothing her purple dress with her hands. She looked quite different without the battle helm, the trident and staff, or her jetboard. Up close, the former dean was a lot more attractive than she'd been while battling the mayor's Electric Hedgehog Pokémon form and his two allies. Her short blond hair shimmered as she moved, almost as if it were made of gold. A single red tassel encircled her waist, leading down the back to a cloth arrowhead, like a stereotypical devil's tail. "I'm glad you were able to find us at last."
"H-hello, Ms. Walsh," Kevin replied nervously.
Walsh chuckled. "Please. I'm not a dean anymore. Just call me Mary Lee Walsh – I prefer my full name. Our dear mayor won't fear a mere 'Ms. Walsh.'"
"I thought you said you weren't…"
"That I didn't go by that anymore? Oh, that's just for Graduon – the staff. He gave me a new name when I found him and gained my power. When he's around, I'm Slaweel Ryam. Otherwise, it's just Mary Lee Walsh."
"Okay." Kevin waited for Walsh to continue.
"Enough formalities, Mary," said a tall, blue-robed man with brown hair and a single black patch over his right eye. "Kevin Shaw, you're here because we need people like you. People who want the disastrous reign of Christian Weston Chandler to come to an end. People who are willing to fight…to lay down their lives, even…to make sure that this madman is removed from power and brought to justice."
"Our kind of justice, Jason," a young woman with short black hair and glasses spoke up, then turned to address Kevin. "And we're the ones who will see this revolution all the way to the end, and document every step so future generations can learn from our mistakes. We let this cancer spread, and now our city's dying." She nudged Jason. "This is Jason Kendrick Howell, head tactical commander of the PVCC and founder of our strongest allied organization, the 4-cent_garbage Initiative. Mary Lee Walsh is our founder and supreme commander. I'm Vivian Gee, field intelligence officer and head archivist. You already know Kacey Devoria…"
"Hey Kevin!" a familiar voice shouted from inside the group.
To say that Kevin was astounded would have been an understatement. The soup hotel volunteer he'd known and talked to for half a year…had been a PVCC officer all this time? No wonder the organization knew so much about him. They'd been watching him for months.
"It was you!" he exclaimed. "You gave me the pickle earlier!"
Kacey shook her head. "No, that was Emily. She's the leader of the Picklemen, our finest elite Jerkop squad. You got escorted here by Jackie Romy, leader of…"
"…the Tomgirls," finished Kevin. "What's a 'Jerkop?' The mayor used to call us that in the Shopping Center when he was angry."
"Jerkop," explained the handsome, brown-haired, bespectacled man holding Kacey's hand, "is a term used by the imposter Ian Brandon Anderson to describe any authority figure he dislikes - usually mall cops like yourself." He tugged at the collar of his brown striped shirt. "We gave the name to our field operatives in protest of the way Anderson treated you and your colleagues."
"Okay, who the hell is Ian Brandon Anderson?"
"I'd love to field that question, Chris!" a familiar, loud, and excited voice blared. A bearded man in a blue OxiClean-labeled shirt stepped forward and raised his hands together in a dual thumbs-up. "Hi, BILLY MAYS here for the HONEST TRUTH about Mayor Chandler, and I want to tell YOU all about why the so-called 'mayor' is really just a deluded, power-hungry maniac! It's as easy as 1, 2, 3! After he inherited the office from his father, Robert Chandler, all he did was invent a phony religious script called the Anchuent Prophecy to make himself even more powerful! The unique design gives him supreme executive authority as ruler of all CWCville, PLUS, its cleverly-engineered loophole system grants him the right to control all of his citizens, their lifestyles, religious beliefs, sexual orientation, finances, entertainment, EVEN what they eat and drink! But here's the best part! The power ploy ONLY works as long as the people of CWCville believe that a man named Christian Weston Chandler is the one mentioned by the prophecy! Can you believe it? It's fantastic! Join now and receive a position in one of our many fine PVCC Jerkop squads! BUT WAIT! If you accept our offer in the next ten minutes, we'll…"
"We can't double the offer, BILLY, he's only one person," Vivian reminded the former infomercial celebrity. "But this whole Ian Brandon Anderson thing…it's a sort of smear campaign we thought up. We've been trying to convince people that the mayor isn't really this made-up Chosen One messiah, and that Chris here is the true and honest Christian Weston Chandler. Megan, any thoughts?"
"I think the important thing is that Kevin's already on our side," another young woman with long wavy brown hair spoke up. "He seems trustworthy enough, he's got more than enough reasons to hate Chan…derson, and with a bit of training, he could be a great operative. What more do we need?"
"Those bloody mercs hate Anderson as well," said an older gentleman with glasses and grey hair. "It seems to me that we cannot trust anyone, including this chap. No offense, old boy."
"James, look at him." Mary Lee Walsh glanced beseechingly at the British man. "He's been through hell these past six years. He's lost all his friends, his job, his life…I met him before any of you even knew he even exi-"
"No. I did," a higher, younger voice cut in. The group of PVCC officers began muttering amongst themselves, but parted nonetheless to reveal the shorter speaker.
Kevin did a double take. "MAX?"
"Hey Kevin." Max didn't sound a day older than when he and his sister Julie had first introduced themselves on that fateful bus ride to Pallet Town. "I had a feeling you were gonna show up here one day."
"But you…how did…and where's…"
"There is no Julie." Max's expression didn't change one bit. "She never existed, Kevin." His voice dropped to a chilling whisper. "She died five years ago."
"Max…I'm sorry, I didn't know."
"Oh no, it's all right. In a way, she's still here…" Max's eyes narrowed. A wicked grin spread across his smug little face. For an instant, Kevin could have sworn the boy's eyes had shifted to a different color. "She's always been here…"
"Bloody hell. You're downright disconcerting, my lad," scoffed James.
"Fuck you, Jimmy."
"Enough!" Mary Lee Walsh's command brought instantaneous silence to her associates. "Kevin, you already know Max. This gentleman is Mr. James Hill, better known as Jimmy Hill, the original creator of Sonichu and Rosechu. The young woman here is Megan Schroeder, Anderson's first "sweetheart."
Megan shuddered in revulsion. Whatever memories she had of Mayor Chandler, they weren't pleasant ones.
"And the last of our colleagues is here," Walsh said, gesturing to a fat orange-skinned man wearing a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, sandals, and a goatee. The orange must have been painted on, because there was no way any normal human being outside of New Jersey looked like that. "Meet Tito Makani, better known among the PVCC as Surfshack Tito."
"Hey there, little cuz." The fat man greeted Kevin warmly. "I know I probably look a whole lot out of place here, but don't worry. Like the ancient Hawaiians used to say: The volcano furthest from home burns the most brightly."
"I'm pretty sure you just made that up, Tito," commented Chris.
"Well, that's everyone here in Slumberland," continued Walsh. "We have many other operatives stationed in CWCville – Alec Benson Leary, that's one…let's see…Evan, Mao, Sean, Bryan Bash – he's our communications director, Jackie, Emily, Blanca Weiss – leader of the White Medallions, Robert Simmons…"
"And my own two executive officers, Clyde Cash and Jack Thaddeus," added Jason Kendrick Howell. "Together we form the Private Villa of Corrupted Citizens, or as you now know it, the PVCC. An organization dedicated to restoring truth and honesty to this city…a city so rife with corruption and stupidity that its citizens suffer and die every day from the whim of a man-child."
"We will be watching you," Vivian warned, "especially Bryan and I. If you stab us in the back, leak any information to Anderson, or commit any other slanderous activities…then run. Hide. Do everything you can to escape us. You'd better pull a goddamn Carmen Sandiego. It'll make it so much more satisfying when we finally catch you and put a bullet in your skull."
Kevin swallowed and shook his head. "No need for any of that. I am IN."
Vivian smiled. "Then welcome to the PVCC!"
The crowd of administrators applauded politely.
"Do you do this for all your new recruits?" Kevin asked, looking at Walsh in puzzlement.
"Most of them. We're a small operation with slow-growing numbers. Sometimes they come in groups." She nodded at Howell. "Remember the Russians last year?"
"All too well," growled the robed man. "Thank the gods Chris learned the language so fast."
"Hey, don't say I ever slacked off in the linguistics department." Chris laughed. "The only one I can't learn is the butchered Spanish that Anderson keeps using when he's playing 'Ricardo.'"
"We're losing track of time," said Vivian irritably. "The Spikes of Blue are going out tomorrow night and we need to get Kevin into a squad ASAP."
Behind her, Max pumped his fist in a Yes! gesture. Kevin guessed he had some relation to the Spikes of Blue.
"I'll take care of him," replied Howell. "Mary, you want in on this?"
"I've done my part," yawned Walsh. "Anyway, I'm taking a few squads out tomorrow morning for some recon and surveillance around the old PVCC campus. If we're going to make it into a new HQ, we need to know it's safe. Chances of running into any loyalists are pretty slim, so we should be fine. I'll leave Graduon with the operatives at Wilderness."
"Good." Howell turned to Kevin. "Shaw, get yourself cleaned up. You'll be assigned a squad first thing tomorrow morning. Kacey, you show him the facility."
"See you in a bit, honey!" Kacey gave Chris a quick kiss and hurried over to Kevin. "Come on, I'll give you the grand tour!"
Half an hour later
Kevin had never been so grateful for running water…hot running water…in his life. The shower room was hardly YMCA-level, and it was apparently communal, but he did not care in the slightest. He could almost feel the heat and the soap blasting away a full year of homelessness, along with several layers of dirt, sweat, hair grease, and body odor. He couldn't remember exactly how long he remained standing under the warm jets, but when he finally snapped out of his hypnotized state and turned the nozzles off, he'd never felt cleaner.
Shaking his head to get the water out of his hair, he stepped over to a towel rack and wrapped a big fluffy white one around his waist. Kevin caught a glimpse of himself in a nearby mirror. It was amazing how much weight he'd lost in a year, even with the three meals a day that Soup Hotel #4 had provided. He almost looked like a starvation victim. Hopefully the PVCC could provide some better food options, but then again…
The water was teal.
Kevin stared down at his feet and blinked, hard.
The water remained teal.
Only then did Kevin recognize the sound of running water. Somebody else was taking a shower. Indeed, he could hear humming now, coming from a nearby aisle.
What the fuck are they using, permanent marker?
Gripping the towel with one hand, he took a few careful steps forward, ignoring the repeated ABORT! command and the red alert siren that his brain was now sending at him. Peeking around the corner, he finally realized where the teal water had been coming from. On the other hand, its origin was probably one of the stranger things he'd seen in the past few years. And seeing as how he'd survived an apartment-sized golem falling on him just two months prior…that was saying a lot.
What appeared at first to be a human-sized Smurf in the midst of turning from blue to pink was actually a woman halfway covered from head to toe – except for her long dark brown hair - in what could only be teal-colored body paint. She looked a bit like that character…Mystique, in those two X-Men movies, except definitely not as intimidating. Oblivious to the newcomer, she was currently engaged in the long and arduous process of washing all of the stuff off.
Kevin had rarely been more in need of an immediate explanation in his life.
"Oh, hey!" The woman noticed him out of the corner of her eye. "I waved when I walked in, but I don't think you were paying attention. How's it going?"
"Paint," stuttered Kevin.
"Um…long story." She grabbed a bar of soap and a washcloth and began scrubbing at her face. "Too long for now. 'Scuse me, Mom."
Kevin retreated instantly, counting his blessings that this woman seemed to be a relatively calm…if a bit strange…person. He'd been dreading at least a scream. Hopefully he wouldn't run into her again in the near future.
"Why'd she call me 'Mom?'" he wondered aloud.
He dried off quickly and found a new set of clothes in the next room, inside an open locker labeled KEVIN SHAQ. Kevin made a mental note to see about getting that label replaced. This place still didn't feel like home away from home…but then again, where was his home now?
The PVCC casual outfit consisted of a mishmash of secondhand clothes: a white T-shirt with the familiar red logo, a grey jacket, two pairs of boxers, frayed jeans, two pairs of socks, a pair of boots, and a leather belt. When he'd assembled his new look, Kevin checked himself in the cracked locker mirror. He liked it. Comfortable, practical, and it identified him without the need of a badge. He assumed everyone's outfit was a little different, given their lack of a steady clothing supply from the Shopping Center.
Kacey had told him that he'd be sleeping in the recruit quarters on a temporary cot by himself tonight, but Kevin honestly didn't mind a bit…not even after her half-joke/half-reality comment about there being a shortage of pillows in Slumberland. He simply retrieved a dry towel and rolled it up to use as a makeshift head rest. He no longer cared about bedroom accommodations. All he needed was a good few hours of sleep and then his new life at the PVCC could finally begin.
Within seconds of finding his cot, he had crashed into slumber.
-part split-
March 18, 2004, CWCville slums, PVCC "Slumberland" headquarters
Kevin awoke to a horribly familiar voice blaring in his ears.
"HI-YO! Up and at 'em, dudes and dudettes! Time to rise, shine, and jam with all your favorite hits from our very own Mayor Chandler's Top 10! It's lookin' like an absolutely gorgeo-riffic spring day in good ol' CWCville, and we're gonna make sure you don't go anywhere without da power of ROCK! For KCWC, I'm your rockin' host, D to the J to the Jamsta Sonichu!"
"And I'm Lolisa Rosechu!" a female chu's voice squealed.
"So sit back, and enjoy our numero uno pick of el dio, mis hombres mejores!" Jamsta's voice took on a horrendous Mexican accent as he vomited forth a stream of broken Chandler-Spanish. "From the band that brought you the oh-so-popul…"
Click!
Oh, thank fucking God, thought Kevin with relief. He'd almost believed he was back in the soup hotel. Closing his eyes, he tried to drift back off to sleep.
"That's not going to work on me," a muffled male voice chided him. "No one sleeps through Jamsta."
Kevin rolled over until he was facing the doorway, and was immediately greeted by yet another odd image. A man with a steel welder's mask over his face stood beside the now-silent radio, staring at him through the thin visor slit. The intruder wore a similar array of casual clothes – tan overcoat, black PVCC shirt, and grey cargo pants – but apart from his imposing headgear, he seemed like a fairly pleasant person.
"What time is it?" Kevin yawned.
"About 11:30. We let you sleep in this time. Don't get used to it, though. We're going to put your biological clock through some pretty strange stuff in these next few weeks, so get used to sleeping when we tell you to."
"All right, I can do that."
"We'll see. You're lucky most of us are here today. We've got a team of four out running surveillance on an EHPF patrol, but they'll be back later. You can introduce yourself then. For now, get I want you to meet the rest of your squad."
Kevin blinked. "Rest of the squad? I've already been assigned?"
"Exactly." The masked revolutionary stepped up to the cot and offered his hand. "Kevin Shaw, welcome to the Honey Badgers – the fiercest Jerkop squad in the entire PVCC."
The two shook hands. Kevin still wasn't exactly sure what to think. He'd anticipated some sort of formal meeting with the administrators, or something else along those lines.
"My name's Albert Ledger," the man introduced himself, "but I'd prefer it if you called me Al. Just Al. I founded the Honey Badgers back in 2000, but don't think of me as your squad leader. That would be Steve. I'm just the guy who tells him what to do and how to do it."
Kevin nodded and stood up. He was already dressed, having worn his PVCC outfit to bed. As for Al…well, he was certainly modest, but Kevin highly doubted that a man who donned a welder's mask as casualwear was the kind of person to sit around at a desk all day giving orders.
"That's about it for my job." Al reached down and grabbed the towel off of the cot. "Come on. Steve'll show you our barracks and help you get settled. I've got some paperwork to do, anyway."
Kevin followed Al through the door. The bleak corridor outside was deserted save for a tall young man leaning against the opposite wall. He looked to be about 21 or 22 years old, with slicked-back blond hair and a short, roughly-trimmed mustache and beard. Two iPod headphones snaked down from his ears to the pocket of his white sweatshirt, and in the silence, Kevin could hear the faint familiar tune of Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song."
"Steve." Al snapped his fingers. The blond man did not move. Al bunched up Kevin's towel-pillow and hurled it at him. Only when the fuzzy white cloth struck him in the chest did Steve realize his boss had returned.
"Hey, Al." Steve unplugged the headphones and bundled them up in one hand. Only when he looked up again did he finally seem to notice Kevin. "Well, well…"
"Play nice, Steve," the veteran Jerkop cautioned him in a firm voice. "The kid's been living in a soup hotel for the last year."
"Play nice?" Steve laughed coldly. "Last I checked, Honey Badgers didn't give a shit about playing nice. That's why we're still alive, isn't it?" He fixed Kevin with a pair of icy blue eyes. "Shaw, is it? Yeah, you'll make a nice addition to the chopping block. As far as I'm concerned, you're still a fuckin' loyalist until you get out there and kill me some chus."
Kevin held back the sharp retort that was brewing inside him, knowing full well that this Jerkop wasn't going to be one of the nicer ones he met.
"Each of my Honey Badgers," continued Steve, "owes me no fewer than one hundred and fifty Sparky headspikes." He smiled. "And I want my spikes. You want my respect; you'll get me two hundred and fifty. Until that point, you're nothin' more than a goddamn chu larva to me. You want to quit? You're out. You cry? You're out. You ever tell me you can't do something I tell you to do? I'll shoot you. Kid, look at yourself. You're not cut out to be a Honey Badger. Hell, you're not even cut out to…"
"It's not working, Steve," Al chuckled. "Sorry. Maybe next time."
Steve's icy glare melted in an instant, reforming itself into a disappointed frown. "Oh, son of a BITCH. It was the voice, right? Right? I swear, I can never get the pitch down just the way I…"
"Wait, wait." Kevin drew back, confused. "Did you…were you just hazing me?"
"Tried and failed, but judging by the look on your face, I was almost there," explained the Jerkop. "Okay, be honest – am I an intimidating person?"
Kevin frowned. "Is this some kind of initiation ritual thing?"
"No," said Al. "Steve's just a little overzealous, that's all. Humor him."
"Okay…yeah, you were actually pretty convincing." Kevin looked back to Steve. "Until that hundred and fifty headspikes thing. Were you actually serious about that?"
"Feel free to go ahead and try." Steve shrugged. "Honestly, all I care about is whether you can shoot well enough to hit the broad side of a chu." He smiled warmly and held out a hand. "Steve Morrison."
"Kevin Shaw."
"I know. Al showed us your file earlier this morning."
"Well, the welcoming committee's in your hands now." Al nodded to Steve. "Be ready to debrief Zoey and the others when they get back. I'll be in the map room. As for you, Mr. Shaw…welcome to the team." He turned and strode away down the hall, finally disappearing around a corner.
Steve tugged at his mustache as he surveyed Kevin. "We're going to have to get you some combat training pretty soon, Shaw. You've never fired a gun before, have you?"
Kevin shook his head. "I've used a Taser, but that's about it."
"Yeah, I figured. Tasers don't do jack shit against Sparkies – might as well go after Al with a full bottle of Jack Daniels. Speaking of which, it's almost lunchtime, and my operatives have been waiting to meet you for a while now. I don't want to keep them waiting." Steve grinned at him. "Here, this way."
The two Jerkops set off down the corridor, toward a T-junction at the end.
"Each squad gets a single room for a barracks, plus two connecting dormitories," explained Steve as they turned left into a new hallway. "This place used to be an old factory…we don't know exactly what for…but all we had to do was move right in and clear out the hobos. Don't worry, we didn't hurt them. Walsh even managed to convince a few to join our cause."
Kevin wondered how Frank was doing back at the hotel. "I know a few homeless people…"
The Jerkop shot down his idea before he could even finish saying it. "That's not going to work. We learned that the hard way. Walsh thought the hobos in here would be good infiltrators, but some of them just stuffed their pockets with food and ran, and the rest all either got captured or killed by loyalists in less than three months. Old Mike was the last one…he was with Blanca's squad when we first started out. He was a good man, but he was also a fuckin' moron. Ran right up to a Sonichu and tried to strangle it with a bike chain."
Steve paused. "I'm sorry - I'm just rambling now. That's what happens when you spend four years cooped up with the same group of people every single day. We don't get very many R&R days, and I've got a bounty on my head, so going out in public is out of the question for me."
"Bounty? What for?"
"Being a slanderous troll, according to Chandler."
"You mean, Anderson?"
"Chandler, Anderson, same shitty person." Steve frowned. "Anyway, I used to write for the Forum, the PVCC school newspaper. August 1998 rolls around, Walsh disappears, and suddenly there's no school to write about anymore. So I go to the CWCville Times, the editor fuckin' loves my portfolio, and it looks like I'm going to get the job. But then along comes the mayor and that piss-stained electric pig of his with an 'official rejection notice.' Bam. No more Times for old Steve." He sighed and shoved his hands back into his sweatshirt. "After that, I was a bit desperate. I started writing all these articles for underground political journals, criticizing Chandler's policies and stuff. Then Magi-Chan and the goddamn Inquisition got ahold of a few issues and suddenly I'm on the black list. No mail, house arrest, you name it, they threw it at me. Finally Jason Kendrick Howell bailed me out of there…with a Humvee and a battering ram."
Steve glanced ahead and stopped. "Oh look, we're here."
Kevin had been listening so intently that he nearly walked right into the wall. Looking up, he could see a single wooden door with a large hand-drawn sign hanging above it. Written in large black and white block letters was the phrase:
HONEY BADGERS
Founder: Albert "The Legend" Ledger
Squad Leader: Steven Morrison
DO NOT TOUCH SUGAR IF YOU VALUE YOUR LIFE
Kevin was about to ask why on earth Steve was so restrictive concerning the squad's sugar supply, but the Jerkop had already stepped forward and opened the door.
The Honey Badgers' barracks had once been a large office, or perhaps a meeting room of some sort. The white plaster walls were heavily decorated with movie posters and propaganda leaflets, as well as a large notice board full of tacks and random paper scraps. On one wall hung a half-erased whiteboard with a variety of colored markers. The only light in the room came from a line of high privacy windows on the side opposite the doorway, as well as a pair of halogen lamps hanging from the ceiling.
The Jerkop squad was also very well supplied in terms of furniture. In what Kevin could only assume was the living room stood several frayed chairs and a big sofa, all clustered around a makeshift brick fireplace. A chimney made of bent aluminum sheets ran from the top of the fireplace to the ceiling, allowing the smoke to vent outside. To the right of these were a large card table and some wooden chairs.
And scattered throughout the room were five Jerkops, three women and two men. Apart from one middle-aged man, most of the operatives looked to be around the same age – late teens through their late 20s. They all wore the same logo on their T-shirts, but none wore the exact same outfit as each other. Good. That'll make it easier to learn their names quickly.
"Okay then, let's get started." Steve led his newest operative forward to the notice board, where a young black woman in a grey trench coat stood staring intently at a large piece of paper tacked in the middle. "Amanda Taylor, Kevin Shaw."
"Hi, Kevin. Good to have you on our team." Amanda gave him a quick handshake, then turned to Steve. Her curly black hair bounced as she moved. "Hey Steve, I thought you said you were switchin' me out for Serge yesterday."
"I did. Let me see that…" Steve gently pushed her out of the way, examined the paper, then grabbed a marker. "Good spotting." He crossed out a name on the roster. "That's better."
"Thanks."
"What is problem with Serge?" a deep, brutish voice with a heavy Russian accent sounded behind them. Kevin turned to see a huge, heavily-muscled man with short black hair and a face full of rough stubble towering over him. One of his ears had been shredded, but it was impossible to tell how exactly that had happened.
"No problem - just a typo. Serge, this is Kevin Shaw. Kevin, Serge Khitrovo."
"Is pleasure," growled Serge, and nearly pulled Kevin's arm clean off as they shook hands. "Always good to see new face for killing tiny shock-pigs."
"Chus, Serge," Amanda corrected the massive Russian.
"Tiny chus." Serge's eyes narrowed as he examined Kevin. "No good for Serge to fight. Better for tiny Kevin." He walked away, chuckling.
"Yeah…he's like that with anyone smaller than him," explained Amanda. "Don't try talkin' with him outside of missions – all he does is eat and sleep in the bus." She looked over her shoulder. "Yo, Jexis! Come meet the new guy!"
A teenage girl with a sleek silver-blond ponytail and wearing what appeared to be a white doctor's coat, extracted herself from the pages of a thick medical textbook and leapt up from the sofa. A tiny decorated key with a heart insignia dangled from a thin chain around her neck, and Kevin noticed she was one of the only Jerkops who wore glasses.
"Hi!" she said cheerfully.
"Hey." He shook her hand. "I'm Kevin. You probably already knew that, right?"
"Yeah, I spent the morning putting together some reference sheets about you. Blood type, hospitalization history, old injuries…oh yeah, and I got these for your hands." The girl reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a small roll of white cloth strips. "Just wrap 'em up before you go out. No more glass problems, plus it'll keep 'em safe from rough surfaces."
"Thanks!" Kevin accepted the hand wrappings gratefully.
"No problem! I'm Jexis, the squad medic. They all call me Jexis the Cadet, though."
"Yeah, 'cause you're goddamn seventeen." Amanda rolled her eyes and looked at Kevin with a pitiful expression. "Damn girl should be in school, not runnin' 'round with Jerkops. Steve keeps her for the healin' work, though."
"What can I say?" Steve muttered in a suggestive tone. "I like 'em young."
"Oh, shut up," retorted Jexis, and gave her squad leader a light punch on the arm.
"And this lovely lady here," continued Steve, ignoring the blow and guiding Kevin over to the fireplace, "is our very own true-blue gourmet chef. Pardon the pun, Kuri."
"Nuhrr wuhhrrurs, Stuhvh."
A young woman with long, dark brown hair and blue eyes sat cross-legged in front of the fireplace, alternately cranking a rotisserie spit and taking huge bites out of something that looked like a well-cooked slice of pork roast. She wore a pair of blue jeans with faint reddish stains on the knees, a comfy-looking black hooded sweatshirt with the red PVCC logo in front and a rainbow band on her right sleeve, and probably strangest of all: a black hairband with two large shiny stone horns curving down the back of her head.
Kevin couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever seen her before. She looked kind of familiar…
"Allow me to introduce Kuri Tatsuno: squad cook, interrogator, and all-around sneak." Steve grinned as the delicious smell of roast meat reached his nose. "Kuri, I think you already…"
"We've met," Kuri said nonchalantly, and began tearing another greasy morsel off with her teeth.
Kevin's stomach felt like it had dropped out of him and was now well on its way toward the center of the earth. Now it all made sense. That girl he'd walked in on last night…the one covered in teal paint…
"That was you?" he somehow managed to ask.
Kuri nodded and kept chewing.
"I sense awkwardness," commented Steve. "Kuri, what is that?"
"Fhrrrll. Hughrr brurght urt urn-" Kuri swallowed a huge mouthful of food, burped politely, and wiped her mouth on a napkin. "Excuse me. Feral. Sugar brought it in last night. I tried slow-cooking this one, but the meat's still a bit gamey. She's in stage five, maybe six at most. A bit tough, but not too bad with some barbecue sauce."
"You enjoy that, then. Save me a few bites." Steve crossed the room to the card table, where the middle-aged Hispanic man sat writing a letter. "Nick? This is our new operative, Kevin Shaw. Kevin, meet Nick Martinez."
Nick looked up. "So you're the guy who got his hands all cut up, eh? You're lucky to be alive, amigo."
"Nick's our sniper," explained Steve. "He's one of the only guys here who knows how to put down adult chus without them even knowing it. Cut his teeth fighting Mexican drug cartels before he moved here."
"This isn't much different, actually," muttered Nick. "Now leave me alone, I gotta finish this letter to Joshua."
Kevin and Steve moved to the back of the room and approached a table with a large covered rectangular cage.
"We've got four other operatives out right now, so I might as well introduce you to the last one here while we wait." Steve reached out, grabbed the white cloth cover, and yanked it up off the cage.
"GrrrrAAARRRRRHHHH!"
Something resembling a furry black-and-white tornado lunged at the bars, slashing and leaping and growling with such ferocity that Kevin almost thought the creature might tear right through the cage and start biting his face off.
"Kuri!" shouted Steve. A chunk of meat spun through the air and was neatly intercepted by the squad leader. Steve dropped the greasy treat in through the ceiling bars, chuckling as the furious blur snapped it up before it even touched the ground. After what seemed like five minutes of running back and forth, the animal stopped and began gnawing at the meat. It was about two feet long, with a single white stripe running down its back and a wicked set of teeth that looked like they belonged in the mouth of something much less cute.
"Meet the squad mascot," Steve said with a grin. "Our very own honey badger, Sugarplum Fury."
Kevin had never even seen a picture of a honey badger before, but Sugarplum Fury was easily the most terrifying small fuzzy mammal he'd ever encountered in his life. She'd torn the meat to ribbons, and was now attacking the shredded remains with a berserk ferocity unmatched by any animal her size. Furthermore, she looked like the mutated offspring of a skunk and a wolverine…except ten times as angry.
"She'll warm up to you in a few weeks," Amanda shouted from across the room. "Just don't try to pet her. Serge did his first day."
Well, that explains the ear.
Sugar looked up and growled at him again, then resumed her meal. Steve placed the cover back onto her cage.
"So now what?" asked Kevin.
Steve's amiable smile vanished. "Practice."
One hour later, Slumberland training field
Kevin silently vowed to never assume anything about anyone ever again. For all his kind words, his warm gestures, and his seemingly friendly attitude inside the barracks…Steve had become a very different person once he'd taken Kevin outside.
For the last fifty minutes or so, the veteran Jerkop had set his new recruit on a grueling series of rapid-fire exercises through the graveyard of rusty gym equipment that now served as Slumberland's training field. Push-ups, curls, running back and forth, and various climbing activities - all of these tasks soon had Kevin panting and sweating harder than Christian Weston Chandler himself. Steve rarely allowed any breaks or rest periods, though he did provide a bottle of ice water to ward off the hot midday sun. A dull ache had spread across the right side of Kevin's abdomen, and his head throbbed violently as he fought to keep his arms from turning to water and collapsing beneath him.
"Ten more push-ups, then stop," ordered Steve. There was not a shred of sympathy or compassion in his voice.
Kevin clenched his teeth and began. The ground fell away again and again. With every push, the black fog in the edges of his eyes crept further and further inward. He was rapidly losing focus…drifting into some kind of catatonic state. Thank God Steve hadn't told him to keep count.
"Nine…ten. Stop."
The fatigued Jerkop collapsed, heaving and gasping for breath. He was no longer in control of his own limbs. His arms felt as if they had turned into some kind of useless fleshy stubs that hung off of his shoulders like limp meaty noodles.
"Good," growled Steve. "Now get up."
Wincing with pain, Kevin tried to lift his aching torso off the grass, but to no avail. Steve did not insult or berate him, but merely watched as his helpless student flopped around like a dying sea creature.
"I got a fish," the veteran Jerkop sang softly, yet mockingly. "Would you like to make a wish? I got a fish, would you like to make a wish? I got a fiiiiiish."
Mustering what little strength he had left and supporting it with a healthy dose of anger, Kevin reared backward and found himself kneeling on the grass before Steve as if they were characters in an old samurai movie. Steve glanced down at him and nodded.
"In the time it took you to get back up, your squadmates have all been captured, put on trial, convicted of treason, and executed by the Chaotic Combo," he informed Kevin. "And now you get to tell me, Al, and the entire administration what exactly you were doing while your friends were dying all around you. Tell me, what were you doing?"
Kevin groaned and pressed the cool water bottle to his side. "I was…I was…crashing into slumber."
"Because of the stress, right?" The Jerkop's voice held no anger, but was still dangerously soft. "'Stress hinders the emotions and physical abilities as swiftly as a bullet.' Do you know who said that?"
"P…Patton? Eisenhower?"
"Christian Weston Chandler." The corner of Steve's mouth twitched into a cold smile. "Our enemy. Your enemy. Would you live and fight by the philosophy of your enemy, Shaw?"
"No," growled Kevin.
"Then prove it," Steve hissed in his ear. "Ten more. No more crashing, or we do this again and again until you get it right."
Again and again, the pain returned. Again and again, Kevin tried his best to swallow it, but when the next "ten" came, he still couldn't pull himself upright fast enough to satisfy his squad leader. Steve ordered him to complete a further ten push-ups. Then another. By the time he finally collapsed and nearly blacked out, he had gone a full forty push-ups over his limit.
Steve knelt beside his prone comrade, staring into Kevin's eyes with that strange icy glare. "What do you feel now?" he asked.
The exhausted recruit coughed up a string of saliva. "Tired."
"Stress."
Kevin nearly screamed in anger, but all that came out of his throat was a choked little squeak.
"Now what do you feel?"
"Ang…an…angry!"
"Stress," repeated Steve.
"God…damn…you…" spat Kevin. "Let…me…stop…"
Steve paused, then handed over a full water bottle. "Good. You can rest now."
Kevin was too tired to ask questions. He grabbed the bottle in limp fingers and squeezed all of its contents into his mouth and over his sweat-drenched face. Above him, Steve quietly flipped through the pages of the book he'd been reading, Wednesday's Child.
After what seemed like an hour, Kevin finally pulled himself back up into a sitting position. Steve folded a page corner down and returned his attention to the recruit.
"That feeling…that last stretch of darkness and pain before the slumber," he said solemnly. "That isn't stress. We all feel that…when we've reached our final, absolute limit. Beyond that lies the black, and beyond that, the void." Steve extended a hand. "And now that you've seen the edge, now that you know what stress truly is, you can finally begin to overcome it."
Kevin grasped his squad leader's hand and felt himself hauled to his feet. Through bleary eyes, he saw Steve retrieve something from inside the gym bag on his shoulder.
"That's endurance over with for today." The Jerkop passed him a bundle of leather. "Now we'll see just how well you use a knife. Guns are for another day."
Unfolding the bundle, Kevin realized what he was holding. George's hunting knife now rested in a fine military-grade sheath, attached to a belt with grenade loops, an empty pistol holster, and a small PVCC logo engraved on the brass buckle.
Steve led him over to a row of wooden scarecrows, all cut into the shapes of Sonichus and Rosechus. Each was perforated with a myriad of tiny holes. "Kill one."
The command seemed simple enough. Kevin drew his knife slowly and examined the steel blade. It had been cleaned and sharpened until only the slightest traces of rust remained, but it was clearly still the same weapon George had given him.
Focusing his attention on the nearest Rosechu target, he spun the knife around in his hand and lunged. The blade slashed toward the grotesque wooden face with enough force to cleave it in half…
SSSSST!
Kevin yelled in surprise as a jet of ice-cold water struck him full in the face. His frenzied swing missed entirely. Looking back at Steve in confusion and annoyance, he noticed that the Jerkop was smiling.
"You've got to be faster than that if you want to kill a chu," said Steve. "Even the females are still lightning-quick."
Raising the knife, Kevin tried a sudden, unexpected lunge. The spray caught him in the face again. Frustrated, he ducked away and thrust at the Rosechu target's heart. Once more he missed, and once more he ended up with a splash of cold water running down his forehead.
"Try another one," suggested Steve.
Kevin walked down the line and made as if to target another Rosechu, then whirled and aimed a deadly slash at the adjacent Sonichu. This time, two jets of water struck him in the face and side.
The veteran Jerkop laughed. "One at a time, Shaw. Don't get greedy – no one goes up against two chus with just a knife and walks away in one piece."
Kevin's mind raced furiously. There was obviously some kind of mechanized pressure system inside the target, perhaps controlled by an observing technician…or Steve himself. He glanced back. No, Steve was reading his book.
Suddenly, he had an idea. Strolling casually up to the Sonichu target, he turned around inconspicuously, then spun around and swung the knife.
SSSSST!
"OH, COME ON!" shouted Kevin as the icy spray drenched his arm and shoulder.
"You're not thinking outside of the box," hinted Steve, flipping a page without glancing up.
"What's left? I tried everything! They're just too fucking fast!"
"They were engineered from the DNA of the fastest thing alive. Maybe you need to find some way of increasing your speed."
Kevin laughed humorlessly. "What am I supposed to do, find myself a medallion and turn into…into Kevi-shaw Sonichu or some shit like that? I just can't hit the damn things!"
Steve sighed and closed his book. "No, you can hit them. They just hit you first." He stood up, placed Wednesday's Child into his gym bag, and withdrew a flat curved black object. "So what do you do when you yourself can't strike first?" He unbuckled a leather strap from the object, grasped the protruding handle, and drew a 16-inch kukri from its sheath. The Nepalese knife was bizarrely beautiful, a sleek black cross between a machete and a scimitar, with what looked like the chopping power of an axe.
Before Kevin could ask the Jerkop what he'd meant, Steve hurled the massive knife straight forward in a powerful piston throw. As the jet of water sprayed forward, he leapt to the side, just as the tip of the kukri buried itself in the Sonichu's wooden throat.
Thunk!
Steve walked over to the target and pulled the knife free. Wiping the droplets of water off on his pants, he slid it back into its sheath and buckled the whole thing shut.
"You strike from where they can't hit you as easily," he finished, and dropped the kukri into his gym bag. "We're done for today. Hit the showers and get back to the barracks by 1:30 for the evening plan." He swung the bag over his shoulder and walked away.
Kevin's second visit to the shower room was somewhat less surprising than the first, mostly because Kuri wasn't there washing off a load of paint. He finished quickly and discovered another set of clean clothes in his locker. He had no idea what they'd done with his hobo outfit, but he assumed it was either somewhere at the bottom of a trash can or floating on the breeze as a cloud of ashes. Both were just as satisfying to him.
He really needed to get that nameplate fixed. Someone had cut out and taped a picture of Shaquille O'Neal to the front of his locker.
When he finally found his way back to the Honey Badgers' barracks, the room sounded slightly more active than it had when he'd left it. Opening the door, he was greeted by the sight of a good eight Jerkops standing and sitting around the living room area, all talking excitedly to one another. Steve and Al were absent. Guess the other four got back alive. He stepped inside.
The door slammed shut with a loud bang. Instantly, all chatter ceased, and the Jerkops turned their attention to him.
"Hey," said Kevin calmly, not wanting to make a scene.
"Well, son of a bitch," laughed one of the new arrivals – a young man with short red hair. "Look who just stepped out of hell."
Kevin drew in a short, surprised breath. Out of all the people in CWCville, he'd landed in the exact same Jerkop squad as Jake Linneman.
"We've all been to hell and back, Jake," another familiar voice spoke up. "All that matters right now is the fact that he made it through in one piece."
Kevin turned, scarcely able to believe what he was seeing and hearing. Matt too? Indeed, Matthew Clark - the man who'd once been his absolute best friend in CWCville – now stood smiling in the midst of his new teammates.
"And that's not all," continued Jake. "Look behind you and see who we picked up off the street a few months ago."
Before Kevin could turn around, he was nearly knocked to the floor as someone enveloped him in a fierce bear hug. A flash of brown hair whipped across his face. For a brief moment, he thought it might have been Kel…but no. It was even better.
"ALLIE!" he shouted, and instantly returned the hug. Impossibly, unbelievably, unimaginably, the girl from the Burger King had found her way to the PVCC. After what seemed like five minutes, he finally let go and stepped back to look at his long-lost friend.
Allie had undergone quite a few changes in the six (or three) years since the attack on the Shopping Center. Her eyes no longer held their innocent spark, and she seemed to have lost what little uncertainty he'd seen her display back when he was bleeding out on the floor with glass embedded in his hands. Most obvious of all, however, was the raw shiny patch of burned skin that ran down the left side of her face, across her eye and down to the bottom of her cheek.
"What…what happened?" asked Kevin, still stunned by this sudden turn of events.
"It doesn't matter now!" Allie's smile could have lit up a room. "Kevin, I had no idea where you were! Six years…they said you moved into a soup hotel! We've got so much to tell you!"
"Okay, Parker, save the stories for later," a new voice ordered from next to the whiteboard. Kevin turned to see a tall, dark-haired woman addressing the Jerkops. A single long braid was draped over her shoulder. "Shaw, I'm Zoey Francesca, Steve's secondary team leader. I know you're just getting acquainted with us, but listen up – this is important."
Kevin and Allie obediently stepped over to the sofa and sat down. Kuri edged over to let them in.
"Right," said Zoey. "Now that we're all here, I've got an announcement to read. It was issued earlier today, from high command to all Jerkop squads in the inner city." She cleared her throat and began to read.
To the brave men and women of the Private Villa of Corrupted Citizens resistance initiative,
At precisely 931 hours today, the PVCC supreme commander Mary Lee Walsh and her chosen two Jerkop squads based in Wilderness - the Deathbreakers and the Naïvigators – were in the process of surveying and performing reconnaissance on the ruins of PVCC (college) when the group was suddenly and unavoidably engaged by Christian Weston Chandler in the form of Chris-Chan Sonichu. Though Walsh lacked the additional strength generated by Count Graduon, she managed to draw Chandler away from her squads and allowed an emergency extraction to commence. No casualties have been reported. Walsh located and took advantage of a weak spot in Chandler's medallion – forcing him back to human form.
Before Walsh had the chance to end the conflict for good, loyalist backup arrived in the form of the original Sonichu, who engaged her long enough for Chandler to recover and hit her with a Curse-ye-ha-me-ha, enhanced by Sonichu's thunder attack. Walsh suffered many severe injuries and has been confined to the medical facility at Wilderness. In the meantime, I am assuming temporary command of all PVCC activities until Walsh makes a safe and full recovery. As usual, DISREGARD the upcoming propaganda known as Sub-Episode 3 of the "Sonichu" comic book, Chandler's dramatization of today's events. It portrays Walsh as a stereotypical witch with a cauldron, makes no mention of the Jerkop squads, and worst of all, is also terribly drawn.
In the wake of an emergency administrative meeting, we have passed a unanimous vote to move forward from surveillance to provocation. A campaign codenamed Operation Rift will commence at precisely 2400 hours on March 22, 2004. Our goal is to force the adult Navitaricii into a state of panic and confusion by dealing decisive blows to their offspring. Until then, all active Jerkop squad leaders should immediately begin training their operatives in the methods of widespread larval extermination. Further instructions will follow as the operation progresses.
Good hunting,
-Jason Kendrick Howell
Acting Supreme Commander, Private Villa of Corrupted Citizens
Kuri let out a squeal of delight at the words "larval extermination." Allie, Matt, and Serge glanced at her confusedly. Kevin didn't even know what Howell's letter was referring to.
"Al and Steve are putting together a training schedule as we speak," Zoey continued. "Until they finish, we're to continue as usual. I'll take the night patrol out at 6:30, but for now, I'm hitting the sack. I suggest the rest of you prepare yourselves for Operation Rift. Nick, Kuri, you're in charge of training Sugar."
The two "volunteers" shot a quick look at each other. Kevin could almost hear the silent Oh, crap that passed between them.
"And Kevin, Steve says you'll be starting active duty on the 22nd," finished the Jerkop. "Before then, I'll be in charge of briefing you on firearms use and getting some combat gear fitted for you at the armory. Everyone else…sweet dreams." Without another word, Zoey spun around and headed for her bunk.
When she'd gone, Kevin glanced around the room at Matt, Jake, and Allie.
"Okay, then." A smile grew at the edge of his mouth. "Who wants to go first and tell me how they survived the last six years?"