CHAPTER X: EPILOGUE - CLUTCH

His left hand started shaking again, all by itself. He grabbed it with his other hand, trying to keep it still. Looking around the room to see if anyone noticed, Clutch spotted Cover Girl staring in his direction.

"Hey, Clutch, you ok?" she asked him.

"Yea, fine," he murmured back to her, turning his back to her and walking down the hall. He just wanted to get back to his quarters… to be left alone.

Cover Girl stepped forward and held her arm out. She wanted to tell him to stop, or at least say "Hey, wait", but… for some reason, she didn't say anything. With her mouth wide open, she lowered her arm and breathed out a sigh of disappointment. Her concern was genuine… very genuine. But she didn't quite know what to say, …not for this kind of situation, and certainly not to him.She just stood there, legs frozen in place, watching Clutch walk away.

XXXXX

It should've been me. I should've died with you. Clutch sat on his bed, look intently at a framed photograph he held in his hands. He looked at the five men in the photo… all smiling, heads held high. Graduation Day; five of the original team members to make the classified unit… back when they didn't even know what the name of the unit was going to be. But through all the grueling physical trials, intellectual tests, and performance during several mock battle scenarios, somehow… they made it. They were in.

From left to right, Snake-Eyes was the first. He stood tall and proud, wearing an old black pair of sunglasses. In this picture, Snake was untarnished from the explosion that would later scar his face beyond recognition. He originally wasn't going to be in the picture, Clutch remembered, until he happened to be in the area and the other four called him in to have his photo taken. Though Snake wasn't as close as the other four were, he sweated and bled throughout training just like they did. Maybe even more.

Snake-Eyes had a hand on Steelers shoulder, who had his arms crossed and his chest jutting out in a "Superman" pose.

Clutch stood in the middle, his arms around both Steeler and Grand Slam, shouting at the top of his lungs. Even though you couldn't hear a word while you looked at the picture, Clutch could still hear the sound of his triumphant screaming within his head.

Grand Slam… that baseball nut was posing for the camera as if he was holding a steel baseball bat and ready to knock it out of the park.

Clutch smiled, looking at that picture, oblivious to the fact that a single tear drop fell from his face and landed on the glass covering of the picture. He remembered how 'The Slam' always made that stupid pose for not just this picture, but practically any other picture he had ever taken. Grand Slams no-kidding actual military I.D. picture… well, the moment before Security Forces snapped the picture (they were head shots only at the time), Slam managed to turn his shoulders at the last second, just enough to where it appeared that he was actually staring down the pitcher and ready to hit a home run. Or, rather… a grand slam.

Flash… Flash was the last man and on the far right. With exception of Snake-Eyes himself, Flash was one of the quieter guys. Sometimes, though, he'd surprise everyone by doing something extremely random, shattering his quiet-guy image. Like on Graduation Day. Flash simply went insane. This picture captured that true spirit; both hands were giving the bird to the camera. Both middle fingers were straight in the air as he bent backwards. And Flash even held his arms way out to make sure it could be seen, as if it was in 3D. His contorted face and tongue sticking out made him look like Gene Simmons… except with more attitude.

But now… they were gone. Two of the five were gone, just like that. Flash, dead. Grand Slam, dead.

Not to mention the other team members that had been killed in combat, even if he wasn't as close to them. They were also brothers in arms; they also fought side by side with him in the darkest hour. But death and carnage had ripped through their team like a plague, leaving nothing in its wake.

I should have been with you guys. I should've died with you. I should even be with you now, brothers. Wherever you're at. The emotions were simply too much for him to process. He laughed, even with tears in his eyes. You're supposed to be a warrior, Clutch. What would they think of you now? Shame fell over him, sinking deep into his skin. He thought of all the times he came out on top and everything he had been through; thinking of all the previous battles he had been in, the psyche tests he passed to make the team, the grit and determination that he once had. Nothing ever fazed him. So why was he falling apart right now?

His hand started shaking again. The picture fell out of his grasp, but he caught it at the last minute… just before it hit the floor and shattered the covering glass. With his eyes wide opened, he held the picture tightly with his right hand. Very tightly. As if it was a precious, irreplaceable gift given to him, Clutch set it very carefully back on his stand next to his bed next to his other pictures.

He had several other pictures on his cluttered night stand. His favorite was the one of himself in his racecar suit, just after he won one of his big races. His left arm was held up high in a victory pose as he stretched himself far outside the driver's window.

Another picture was of his favorite newly-restored yellow 1974 Plymouth Barracuda that he had worked so hard to rebuild; it took three consecutive summers for him to get the money he needed to rebuild the engine and put the rest of the car together.

The last picture was of a younger Clutch, or "Lance", at the time, and Father O'Malley, both with big smiles while shaking hands. Clutch had just finished high school, and his pastor has personally wanted to congratulate him. There was always something about Father O'Malley that he liked. In fact, every time he saw the crucifix hanging on Father O'Malley in the picture, it reminded him that there truly were good people left in the world. There was just something… something pleasant about that cross.

But the other pictures didn't mean a thing to him right now. At least not compared to the picture of the five men standing tall and strong. In fact, Clutch never even noticed the other pictures.

Leaning over, he put his head in his hands. His fingers ran though his hair. The tears that drenched his hands soaked his dark black hair as he lowered his head down even lower, shaking and weeping, but all without making a sound. Here was a man that had done so much for so many others, but he sat on the edge of his bed a broken man.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but his position never changed. There were no more tears to fall from his face. Clutch reached over to the night stand and opened the drawer, trying not to look at Grand Slam and Flash in the picture. It was just too much for him to look at them right now. Reaching in the drawer, he pulled out his nine millimeter – ironically the same one Grand Slam got him after graduation. Don't thank me, he remembered Slam telling him. You'll need this to cover my back when I'm blasting apart the bad guys. They had just found out their primary job on the team would be armored cavalry; they were both so young and still so full of fire in their veins, but they were also very experienced and the best candidates for the Special Ops team they just signed on to. Youth and experience. A lethal combination.

But that memory quickly faded from his mind. Only the cold steel in his hand and the texture of the grip brought to life what he was truly thinking. Wrestling his inner demons, slightly shaking, he pointed the gun straight up in the air... taking in a deep breath, he leaned his head forward, resting it on the barrel.

The grief was overwhelming. The pain was unlike anything he had ever experienced. He'd taken shrapnel from explosions, even taken a few bullets once... but that was nothing compared to how he was feeling at this moment in time.

He raised the weapon, slowly guiding the barrel of the firearm up to his head.

Up to his temple.

With one last internal struggle, he fought, desperately seeking a reason inside him to stay alive. He searched… he tried. He couldn't find anything inside him, but kept looking. He put the gun down, resting it in his lap, and took a deep breath.

Then he raised it again… more forcefully, and up against his temple so hard that it almost made a circular impression on his skin. Gritting his teeth, he breathed harder. Much harder, much faster…

XXXXX

Knock knock knock…

Clutch lurched up. The knocking on the door had certainly startled him, and his gun almost fell out of his tight grasp. His heart was pounding even harder now; he could feel the pulse from his heartbeat in his fingertips. For a moment, he just stared at the door, not sure how to respond.

Knock knock knock…

The second set of knocks seemed to bring him to his senses. This isn't the time, he thought angrily, putting his gun back in the night stand drawer. Maybe if I don't say anything, they'll go away.

Knock Knock Knock…

The bangs against the door were much harder this time. "Clutch, I know you're in there!" Courtney? Yes, it was her voice. What is she doing here?

He opened his mouth to speak, but literally choked – his throat was too dry. It took him a moment to swallow and form a response. "Courtney, go away! Not now." Stubborn broad.

THUMP THUMP THUMP…!

Jeeze Cover Girl! "You hit it any harder and you'll break my door!"

"Then open it, Ricky Bobby!" Cover Girl wasn't holding back – she was exasperated at being shut out… and she wanted in. As if that wasn't enough, he could hear her muttering a tapestry of insults on the other side of the door such as moron, second-rate mechanic, and hillbilly.

Man, what's got her so uptight? I mean more than normal… "Alright, alright," Clutch said, getting up and unlocking the door. He sighed, wanting absolutely nothing to do with her right now, even though he knew she must have felt like he was being a jackass. The last time she went off on him like that was when he drained out her shampoo and replaced it with motor oil. Unfortunately she didn't get any in her hair... just a little on her hand and arms… so he heard – but boy, did she let him have it! Now that he deserved. Had he actually had the capability to smile, this would have been the one moment from his past that would have brought a smile to his face.

Clutch opened the door slightly, trying to step in between the door and the door jam, hoping she'd say whatever it was she had to say and then go away.

Cover Girl stood outside, arms crossed, and frowning. But she took a deep breath, relaxing her shoulders. Exasperated, but clearly trying to calm herself down, she said, "Look, I just wanted to make sure you were ok. It's been rough for all of us lately…"

Clutch looked at her a little closer. Something caught his eye… her mascara. Normally, it was picture perfect; he should know with his staring problem and all. Especially with her. But… it looked like it had smeared a little… was she crying? Well, if she was her eyes had dried by now…

"Well, it looks like you're your normal jerk-self. I guess that's a good sign, given everything that's happened lately."

Clutch noticed that as she started to speak, her face became even less angry and more… well, tender. Or so it seemed to him.

She started to say more, but changed her mind. Arms still crossed, she pivoted a little, shifting her weight to her other leg. "Well, I guess that's all I wanted to say." Cover Girl started to walk away.

Man, I've been an ass. Clutch remembered how close she was to the other guys, too. Her and the Slam were practically dating. In fact, he suspected they were dating, at least for a week or two before their last mission. "Hey, Court…"

Cover Girl turned back around. The tenderness in his voice… that wasn't Clutch. That wasn't normal. All she wanted was for things to get back to normal, and… it seemed a long ways away after all. Her lip started to quiver. Don't lose it, Courtney. Don't cry… She couldn't cry, not now. She hadn't since they made it back to The Pit.

He hadn't seen this side of her before. Suddenly, it was as if a light turned on over his head. Through all of his own pain, he had been blinded. Blinded to the fact that there were others that were hurting, too. What have I done? I'm such an idiot. I really… I almost...

It wasn't time for him to worry about that, not right now. Her simple presence had saved his life. Not only that… she unknowingly had revealed to him that he wasn't alone in this darkness… this grief, this despair. They were all in it. Together. Just as they fought together and bled together… they would also mourn together.

Stepping forward, Clutch took Cover Girl into his arms, holding her tightly. "It's ok, Courtney. It'll be ok…"

Cover Girl should have been shocked that this repugnant, chauvinistic cretin dared to touch her. But, given the circumstances, the thought didn't even cross her mind. Instead, she started to sob. A quiet sob. Burying her head in his shoulder, she could feel that his shirt had become sopping wet with her tears. She wanted to apologize, but couldn't get the words to form.

"I…" she squeaked out… "I… I miss him." It was all she could get out in a quiet, raspy voice. Her lip started to quiver, and water started to form in her eyes again.

"I do too, Court. I do too." He felt awful for her. Her and Grand Slam… they really were perfect for each other. "He was like a brother to me… him and Flash both were. All of them, really. All of 'em. But you know what? We're still here, and so are most of the others. Ya know, The Slam would have wanted you to press on. He wouldn't want to see you like this."

Cover Girl could hardly believe what he was saying; this really wasn't his style. But he seemed to mean it. She wondered if he even realized how… how normal, and emotional, he was being.

"He loved you, you know. But he'd want you to keep moving on. With or without him. He's still with you anyway, you know. So don't quit on him, tank girl. Ya hear me? If you don't, I'll sneak into your room and replace your mascara with motor oil and your blush with grease."

For the first time, through the flooding tears she poured… she smiled. She knew he couldn't see her smile, of course, but she knew he was right about her moving on. Even if he was starting to turn into his normal jerk-self.

Of course, she couldn't let him know he was right. Even if it was the first time he'd ever been right.

But she did nod… reluctantly.

Clutch made a contorted face with a sudden realization of a mistake that he made. "Oh man, I actually called him "The Slam"... I swore I was never gonna do that! That punk... I guess he still gets the last laugh after all."

Cover Girl laughed a little, wiping her tears away, still leaning on Clutch.

They held each other for a few more moments. When they pulled away, it was as if they started to re-enter real life. A life where military came first, and a life without Grand Slam. But a life that continued to exist as every second of the clock ticked away.

Awkwardness befell both of them. Cover Girl, without saying a word, turned back down the hallway. Stiff and off balance, she walked away rapidly.

Clutch stood there for a moment, stealing one last look as Courtney walked down the hallway; he wasn't sure what to think. So much had happened lately. Thoughts were swirling in his head. He turned around and started to walk back inside his room.

But he froze in his tracks, holding the door jam. Looking inside his empty, dark room, he held his breath. He looked down the hallway, watching Courtney walk away and turn the corner, disappearing from his sight. Clutch looked again inside his room. His eyes drifted towards the night stand by his bed… specifically, the drawer containing his gun.

But his eyes instead caught the many pictures upon his night stand. Pictures of happier times; of the best times of his life. Pictures with Grand Slam, and Flash, and all the others. It almost brought a smile to him.

But in particular, one thing stood out above all the rest. It was hard to see; barely noticeable to the naked eye. And as small as the pictures were, what he saw was smaller. So small, in fact, he shouldn't have even noticed it.

The cross. The cross in the picture that hung around Father O'Malley's neck. Somehow, it gave him just a little bit of peace. He wasn't quite sure how, and it wasn't a lot of peace… but it was just enough. Just barely enough.

Which was more than he had felt in a long, long time.

Life goes on, he murmured to himself, accepting the grim and stark reality. A long road lay before him, but it wouldn't always be a road of pain. It was now, of course… but it wouldn't always be that way. Storms never last forever.

Clutch closed the door and turned around. He started walking down the long hallway.