AN: Thinktink2 - you have astoundingly prescient timing. Here you go. :-D
Rear-View Mirror
He's babysitting a violent psychopath in a room packed full of great works of literature, and it still takes Aaron Pittman less than five hours to become bored. Monroe has been silent – Unconscious? Aaron doesn't really fancy getting close enough to find out for sure – since his initial outburst, leaving Aaron alone with his thoughts. (He used to like that, but that had been when his thoughts were, you know, actually useful ideas.)
He flips through Harold's Batman comic for the third time in an hour, actually missing the horrifying little brats at his village for once. He certainly could have taught better English classes with all these books.
Maybe this is just the first time he's had an extended amount of time alone on this trip, but he's suddenly waxing all sorts of nostalgic. Ben would have told him to take a walk and get out of his head.
Obviously, that's not going to happen.
He stands, stretching, and makes a circuit of the room for the fiftieth time. Thank God it's huge, big enough that he can keep watch on Monroe out of the corner of his eye as he passes the bookshelf, a carved armoire which is locked - he'd checked earlier – the ficus, a small solid oak dining table with four padded chairs, and the two Queen beds. Miles' guitar leans against the wall in the corner. Presumably, he'd assumed it would be safer sitting here than gallivanting across the country on horseback. Aaron wonders if the same is true of himself.
Next to the guitar rests the sword belt with Monroe's double blades.
Because he's always been a terrible guitar player, and because boredom is the mother of stupidity, Aaron finds himself slowing drawing one of Monroe's swords from its sheath. Even freed from the leather, it's heavy. He raises it, point-first, toward the houseplant – ficus – little tree, whatever – and practices swinging it sideways. The first swing is awkward, wobbly. He frowns. This always looked so damned easy in the games.
Briefly, he imagines rigging a Nintendo controller to a mechanism that would move the sword for him – a mechanical arm, maybe…or heck, a full-on robot. Maybe Harold could steam-power it for him. He's pretty sure he could eviscerate five or ten of Monroe's soldiers handily with that kind of a rig. He wonders if he's losing his mind.
"If you cut off your own arm, I'm going to laugh." Aaron twitches so violently he actually drops the sword with a clang that hurts his ears.
"Strike that," Monroe's voice rasps from the bed, "When you cut off your arm."
"Shut up." It's literally the only rejoinder Aaron can muster as he drags the sword off the ground and fumbles it back into its sheath.
Monroe snorts. "If you didn't want to put up with my shit, you shouldn't've let Miles ditch you here. What were you – last pick for the getaway team? Or did you just draw the short straw?"
It hits a little too close to home, but Aaron's not a fool, and he knows from watching Monroe pick at Miles and the others that this is just what the guy does: he's a master at finding the right words to press buttons and open up old wounds.
As usual, his only defense is some self-deprecating humor. "I just really suck at rock, paper, scissors."
Strangely, this appears to be the best thing he could have said, because Monroe actually laughs and then hauls himself to a half sitting position on the bed with a pained look.
"Shit, that hurts. Miles is a fucking idiot."
Aaron nods before he realizes who he's agreeing with. Monroe grins, raking a hand through his plastered curls and fixing Aaron with a look that makes him uncomfortable. "You know why he brought me along?" he asks after a minute.
Insurance? Misplaced loyalty? Stupidity? Aaron has plenty of opinions on the subject, but he keeps his mouth shut. Monroe seems a bit unhinged when it comes to Miles – God knows Miles is enough to unhinge anybody – and it seems wise not to poke at any of his psycho buttons with a stick.
After a minute of silence, Monroe switches subjects abruptly. "I can teach you how to do that, you know." It takes Aaron a second to realize he's talking about the swords in the corner. He must be wearing his "you've got to be fucking kidding me" face, because Monroe adds,
"You're fat as hell; you could use the exercise. And I'm bored as hell; I could use the entertainment. I mean, what else are we going to do for six weeks?"
"Thanks, but I think this is enough hell for me already."
Monroe eyes Aaron silently for a second. Then he says, "Miles would fall flat on his ass in surprise."
Aaron looks around the room – at the ficus, the chairs, the bookshelf, and the thrice-read Batman comic – until his gaze swings back to the swords. What else are they going to do for six weeks? (Answer: Read a lot and then probably kill each other.) Shit. Is he really so mad at Miles that he's about to volunteer to learn swordplay from Sebastian Monroe?
Apparently, yes. "Flat on his ass? That seems like a bit of an overpromise, Monroe –"
There's a barely imperceptible wince Aaron almost misses, except that it's followed by:
"I think you'd better call me Bass. Or Brett? Whatever the hell they were calling me. Wouldn't want our secret host/leader of the underground rebellion to know he's got the President of the Monroe Republic locked in his basement, would we?" He grins again – but this time, Aaron can tell it's a cover-up for his very real fear of exactly that happening.
Then Bass adds, "Especially since, you know, you lied to him about it," and suddenly, Aaron feels a lot less sorry for him.
So Monroe – Bass – Brett – oh, whatever – had clearly heard every conversation they'd had since walking into Harold's house, which means he'd been feigning unconsciousness the whole time. Lovely. Interesting that Miles had bought it, although he'd probably just been too preoccupied being worried and guilty to figure it out. And of course Monroe – Brett – Bass – had capitalized on that. This guy's a master manipulator.
Pushing that niggling concern to the back of his mind, Aaron crosses the room and picks up Bass's swords. This ought to be interesting – assuming "interesting" actually means "terrifying"…
…
There are very few ways to kill someone and make it look like an accident. You'd think there'd be a million, but Bass – and Miles, before, and he was better at it – have spent plenty of time brainstorming and experimenting with different ways over the past fifteen years, and the truth is, there just aren't that many ways that people actually believe.
Bass had been scared as fuck when he'd spun the story of Rachel's accidental death for Miles. He'd spent weeks planning and re-planning and scrapping those plans and planning it again in his head, and even then he'd had to pour every ounce of his anger at Miles into not shaking like a piss-pants recruit when he'd shown him the "body."
But Miles had bought it, and for a second, Bass had felt a thrill of triumph – elation that he was finally, finally one-up on Miles – and then it had faded almost immediately to a choking, throat-clawing fear that Miles would find out, somehow. Because he would, and he'd come for Bass with those swords and those flat, dark eyes and he'd finally finish what he'd –
Bass digs his fingers into his injured leg on purpose, using the spike of pain that shoots from his shin to his hip to short-circuit that mental shit-storm. Miles had found out – albeit eight years later, but time must have dulled his fury, because he'd shot Bass instead of killing him. One of them is a sentimental fool, but sometimes Bass can't tell which one.
His obese babysitter is staring at him strangely, and Bass blinks, thinking back ten seconds, and realizes it's because he's let out a hiss of pain. He needs to get out of his head. Another reason teaching Fat-Ass to swordfight is a good idea. At least it'll keep him distracted.
At least until his leg heals, he "accidentally" stabs Aaron while they're "practicing," and then Harold loans him a horse and provisions to "take the body back for a proper burial."
That's how you kill someone and make it look like an accident. It's a long con, Miles – look it up. After all, Bass isn't planning on hanging around to explain it to him when he gets back.
He looks at Aaron, who's fumbling around with his short sword, trying to get it out of the sheath and mumbling, "If I figure this part out, do I level up?"
Bass snorts, despite himself. This is the kind of guy he would have shoved in a locker back in high school, but it's been so long since anybody's had the balls to shoot the breeze with him about pre-Blackout life that he actually finds Aaron sort of funny. Maybe he should bring him back to Philadelphia with him as a kind of court jester. Bass glances at the cabinet in front of him where a TV would have been back in a real hotel, and hears himself say, "Damn, I miss video games. Did you ever play Halo?"
Aaron's finally managed to draw the short sword – though he's holding it like a dead fish – and he raises an eyebrow at Bass. "I was more of a World of Warcraft guy – "
"Nerd gamer," Bass retorts automatically, and then thinks those words probably haven't come out of his mouth in fifteen years.
" – but I played some Black Ops." Damn, he misses video games. He and Miles had spent an appalling amount of late-night hours crammed onto the couch in his Mom's basement, talking shit and playing through hours of campaigns and even more hours of multiplayer battles, with and against each other. Probably at least a third of the reason they'd been so successful as generals together (the other two thirds consisted of tours number one and two, respectively). Probably also why Bass hadn't had more girlfriends in high school. Well, that, and Emma, but he's been doing a damn good job not thinking about her, so he reins in that line of thought and says:
"Okay, point in your favor, but you're still a nerd."
Aaron looks down at his less than athletic physique, and then back up at Bass. "I don't think anyone's arguing that."
Bass snorts again. Maybe it's the pain making him loopy, but this guy is reminding him more and more of Miles, minus the angst. Self-deprecating plus snarky. Of course, that's where the similarities end. You could fit three of Miles in Aaron, and Bass bets Aaron is shit at tactics.
He's also shit at swordplay.
Right, the plan. Bass hauls himself even further up in the bed, dragging his crippled leg after him, and jams a pillow between his back and the headboard.
"All right," he snaps. "Stance. Feet shoulder width apart; now step your right foot forward, toe straight, and leave your left foot behind at a forty-five degree angle – "
Aaron tries to position his feet and mostly fails.
"No. If you're doing it right, your heels will be almost in line with each other – "
Aaron rearranges his feet again, and looks up. "How's this, Monroe – "
Bass hisses in irritation. "Still wrong. And if you can't remember to call me Bass, let's pick something you can remember before someone overhears you."
Aaron looks at his feet again, stumbles once as he tries to line up his heels, then finally gets it right.
"Good." Bass says like it's not really. "Now bend your knees." On a whim, he adds, "In front of you there's a dark elf with a sword – "
Aaron rolls his eyes. "Ha. Ha. I cast magic missile into the darkness. That's not helping." But apparently it is, because suddenly he looks a little more serious. And he's actually bending his knees. In fact, as long as he doesn't move, he almost looks like he knows what he's doing. Well, what the hell. He'd meant it as a way to take out his irritation on Miles leaving him with Fatty the Babysitter, but since Bass is already barreling down Nerd Lane…
"The dark elf raises the Shield of Deflecting – "
"Deflection," Aaron corrects sharply, raising the sword in an overly dramatic manner that Bass really hopes is a joke.
"That's really a thing? I was just screwing around. Tuck your elbow in. Point of the sword toward your enemy's face. You don't want that dark elf to suck out your soul or whatever they do." The ex-Google exec glares at him over his glasses, and Bass honest-to-God chuckles. When the hell did this become fun?
He reminds himself that he's planning on killing Aaron. This is a temporary – and necessary – ruse to create the infrastructure for his escape.
But he supposes he's had fun doing worse things.
Aaron has turned to face him, and is saying something Bass misses. "Huh?"
"I said: 'You're the worst Dungeon Master I've ever had.'"
"Can't say I've ever been anybody's worst before." Miles would have laughed at the innuendo, and suddenly there's an ache in Bass's chest – one that he shies away from examining too closely. Aaron just blinks, oblivious, and moves back into position.
Well, sort of into position. Bass shoves the covers aside, wishing he could just fucking stand up and show this idiot the right stance. Of course, if he could do that, he'd be hell and gone from here already. He groans. "Your feet are wrong again. The dark elf chops your head off, and you die. Game over."
Game over. Bass hopes that's not some sort of prescient commentary on his life.
Aaron lumbers to a full standing position, stretching his knees and letting the sword point drop toward the floor. "How long before I respawn?"
And suddenly, this isn't fun anymore. Bass misses Halo; he misses Mountain Dew and television and steak fries and fast cars.
He misses a world where no one knew his name.
"…Bass?" Aaron's voice, but in Bass's head, for just a second, it sounds like Miles. He scrubs his fingers through his hair. Shit, he must be losing it. He's been doing this President of the Republic thing too long without a break. At least Aaron's finally remembered not to call him Monroe.
Maybe this is what he needs. A break. Just a short one. Five and a half weeks. Five and a half weeks to be just Bass, and not President Monroe. Five and a half weeks to talk about pizza and video games and not about supply lines, uprisings, political maneuverings, or executions. Fine. He can relax and be that guy for five and a half weeks – the one whose biggest concern was whether he was getting laid that night.
Bass leans back against the headboard, face slowing creasing into a smile. "Respawn in twenty seconds. Then we learn footwork."
Five and a half weeks. Then back to reality.
But for now, he's going to enjoy the game.