"I FUCKING HATE YOU, BARRY!" Petrov screamed for the umpteenth time in a row.
"What's to be mad about?" Barry teased from the front seat. "This is the most excitement I've had in my LIFE!"
Petrov squeezed the trigger of his machine gun, letting loose another barrage of bullets from the back of the pickup truck before replying.
"You fucking serious?!" he shouted.
"Yeah!" Barry said, turning back and grinning maniacally at Petrov. "What's biting you? Sunburn?"
Petrov flipped the bird at Barry in response, while smashing another magazine into his rifle with his other hand. An amazing feat, if one were to be honest, but neither Petrov nor Barry felt like giving a crap about it at the time.
"I've had pink fuckin' skin since I was born," Petrov spat. "You think that's what's gotten on my fuckin' –"
Before Petrov could continue on his swear fest further, he suddenly threw himself to the pickup truck's floor. A few seconds later, a cluster of bullets passed through the space that the Russian's head had occupied earlier, resulting in the remnants of Petrov's halitosis-ridden breath being scattered along the air instead of his skull.
Barry cackled from the front of the pickup, and bashed the horn with his hand. The pickup croaked in response, adding more noise to the clusterfuck of noise surrounding them. A box, one of dozens crammed into the backside of the pickup, slipped free from its bindings and smashed against the wet grass. Packets of ADVENT-brand burger meat flew in all directions, spattering the side of the Hummer with unknown, scarlet juice.
"BLIN!" Petrov screamed again. "That was 10,000 motherfuckin' crowns!"
Barry thought up a witty (at least in his head) reply, but the sound of bullets ricocheting off the rusted sides of the pickup shut him up. Curious, the Ukrainian leaned his head back to see if their pursuers had caught up to them.
Uh huh. They definitely had.
Behind the dusty trails and exhaust of the pickup truck, three pursuit vehicles were clawing after them. Two were regular vehicles, packed to the brim with angry, gun-toting folks. The last was a monster of a jeep – an angular, jet-black road juggernaught, equipped with a machine gun turret and heavy armor plating.
Gunfire flashed from car windows and from the turret, pumping lead into the pickup and the immediate countryside. Petrov responded in kind, emptying his clip into the nearest car, a faded, yellow Volvo Buggy covered in barbed wire and mud. A headlight exploded from the barrage, but the men and women inside the car were undeterred.
As Petrov changed the magazine in his weapon once more, he heard a loud shouting. Leaning over the supply chest he was using as cover, he saw a man in a motorcycle helmet leaning out of the Buggy.
The guy was either drunk or really, really pissed off. Either way, it didn't matter. Petrov raised his machine gun and shot in the man's general direction.
The man suddenly went limp as several of the bullets found their mark, his rifle sliding from his gloved fingers and hitting the dirt. A few seconds later, his corpse was rolling out of sight.
That was one down. But it would only make the other twenty or so left even more determinted to take them down.
And as much as Petrov liked a good gunfight, he knew that he'd have to break out the big guns. The Barry guns, to be exact.
Petrov leaned over and tapped his Ukrainian friend's shoulder. When that didn't get a response, he smacked the man's pony-tailed head.
"Too many!" he shouted over the din. "It's your turn!"
Barry gave a wide grin in reply, his manic fury exposing his grimy molars and cavity-riddled incisors. He let go of the wheel, popped open the side door, and leaped into the back of the pickup. Petrov scooted around him, and took over the driver's seat.
Barry crouched in the back, and began to dig through the boxes.
"Where is it? Where is it?" he muttered, tossing packages aside with abandon in his search. After shoving a large, battered cardboard box off the pickup's rickety back, he cackled aloud. In his hands was a thick, black case with the words "DANGER: MILITARY HARDWARE" stamped on the front in Cyrilic.
Barry opened the clasps on the side of the case, and with the joy of a child on Christmas day, grasped the grenade launcher that sat snug inside. Inside the case sat three high yield fragmentation grenades, clutched in tiny compartments like Easter eggs.
Barry's face cracked into a euphoric gasp as he grabbed one of the grenades, and popped it into the grenade launcher. Without a wasted second, he then swiveled around and fired, falling flat on his back from the recoil.
A massive explosion sounded, and Barry rose just in time to see the fiery wreck of the black jeep, tumbling and rolling, bits and pieces of its carapace flaking off like dead skin.
The other vehicle turned back, doing an instant, whiplash U-turn with "fuck that" levels of intensity. The yellow Buggy stayed the course, firing with even greater intensity at the pickup. Barry grinned again. More fun.
Another pop and twist, and another grenade was flying, bouncing on the hood of the Buggy before it plopped through its broken windshield. Barry could see the driver juggling the grenade in her lap before it went off.
A massive plume of flame and smoke rose, and the now-roasted Buggy began to swerve and slow, its passengers having been finely cooked and dismembered.
Barry whooped, banging his foot against the floor of the pickup and raising his grenade launcher into the air.
"You're not fucking Rambo!" Petrov screamed. "Get the hell down here!"
Barry pouted, but he complied, putting his precious grenade launcher back into its case. He didn't worry about the single grenade he had left – it'd be easy to convince Petrov to buy more of them later.
Barry crawled back into the pickup, his body jittery with adrenaline. His fingers shook even more than usual, and he almost lost his grip. But at the last second, he managed to pull himself back together, and eventually he clambered into the passenger seat next to Petrov.
"How lovely," Barry simply said.
Petrov slammed a hand against the dashboard. "LOVELY?!" he screeched. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!"
Barry crossed his arms, put his feet up on the dash, and looked out the window into the sky. The large, unbroken expanse of pastel blue, dotted with wisps of cotton candy consistency and shape, was soothing compared to the enraged mass of muscle quivering next to him.
"That was the biggest town in Eurasia," Petrov groaned. "They weren't supposed to see us! But you – you blew up their fucking fuel depot!"
"The owner was a mouthy guy," Barry said, nonchalant. "I had to."
"Who gives a shit?" Petrov said. "Settlements all over Eurasia are gonna be looking for our goddamn faces – they'll fucking lynch us!"
Barry finally turned away from the window and stared at his partner for the first time.
"Fine. We move, then," Barry suggested.
"Where, you fucking zadrota?" Petrov shouted, before slamming his head against the steering wheel.
"God, my fucking dyedooshka could've pulled this off," he moaned. "He was seventy, but at least he knew how to follow goddamn orders!"
Barry placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, but he batted it away.
"No worries, Petrov," Barry said. "We'll talk to Mutt when we hit the safehouse. He's got it."
"He's got more brain in his pinkie than you have in that skull of yours," Petrov replied. "But I don't think he can get us out of this shitstain."
Still, Barry noticed the Russian's skin soften and smooth out, a sign that he was calming from the suggestion.
Petrov placed a meaty hand against his scalp and scratched it, causing a flurry of dead skin to crumple onto his seat.
"Need some sunscreen?" Barry said.
Petrov scowled, and socked Barry in the shoulder. "Cigarette, you cheeky bastard. Any in the back?"
Barry took a quick glance at the back. "Yeah."
"Well, where the fuck is it?"
"Somewhere between us and the town we just came from."
Petrov slammed his head against the steering wheel again, and started to scream.
When the pickup trundled towards the entrance of the overgrown bunker that Petrov and Barry called home, Barry noticed something odd.
First, there was some strange, helicopter thing planted right next to the bunker. Second, Petrov and Barry's boss, Mutt, was talking to some lady in a thick leather coat. Mutt never held conversation with anyone outside of their little group, unless he was dealing with something like a territory negotiation with another group.
But, to any watcher, the situation appeared normal. Mutt was looking pretty suave, wearing his jeans and a green button up shirt, with a pair of black shades nestled in the fringes of his dirt-speckled blond hair. Barry could even see Mutt's gold earrings, reflecting the rays of the late afternoon sun. Those were his babies, things he would never wear outside of the bunker.
Still, Barry didn't trust the stranger. She didn't seem like a local gangster, not with that hunk of high-tech junk sitting in the damn backyard. In fact, from Barry's eyes the craft looked mighty familiar. Its blocky exterior, dark color scheme, and strange mode of propulsion – all seemed like hallmarks of a drop cruiser.
An ADVENT drop cruiser, perhaps?
Making up his mind, Barry grabbed Petrov's rifle from the trunk and kicked open the pickup's door.
"Hands up, zhenshchina!" Barry shouted, aiming his rifle in the woman's general direction. The woman looked up in surprise, but she froze, making no attempt to move or raiser her hands.
Barry thought her a smart woman, maximizing her chances of survival. However, Barry realized why she wasn't making any attempt to escape when he felt something cold pressed against his head.
"Drop it," said a digitally-filtered voice. Barry obeyed instantly, his arms going limp and dropping the rifle. He could feel a bit of nervous, adrenaline-fueled sweat bunching up on his brow.
"Want me to take him out?" the voice called out from behind him, apparently to the woman he had just been holding up. "We don't need all of them, do we?"
Barry's teeth began to chatter as he heard the slide of a pistol being racked.
But, before the inevitable could happen, Barry heard a familiar, throaty cry rise from behind him.
"BARRY!" Petrov yelled, storming onto the scene. "DON'T YOU FUCKING PAY ATTENTION TO ANYTHING?"
"Wha-?" Barry replied, still facing forward thanks to the pistol pressing against the back of his head.
"You didn't know?!" Petrov said. "You didn't – didn't fucking know this was happening? I fucking had a conversation, on radio, with Mutt right in front of your goddamn nose, and you didn't fucking notice?!"
Mutt walked over, grinning. "Woah, boys," he said in his smooth Cockney accent. "S'alright. No harm's been done. Firebrand, you can let 'im go."
The stranger behind Barry, likely Firebrand, put the gun away. Barry let out a sigh of relief, and fell to his knees.
Mutt walked over to him, flashed him a grin that was both pitying and caring, and lifted him off the ground.
"That the 'family greeting'?" the woman asked in the meanwhile, seemingly unfazed at having been held at gunpoint.
"Eh. Most of the time," Mutt confessed, patting Barry on the shoulder before letting him stand up. "Apologies for my boys, by the way. We don't get many visitors out here."
"No need," the woman said. "Firebrand would've made sure I stayed alive regardless."
"Yep," said that chilling, digitally altered voice. "Only difference would be that we'd have one less man standing around."
Barry turned towards the speaker and saw Firebrand, another woman, staring back at him. She made a creepy sight, clad in black combat webbing and an equally dark helmet with a silver visor. Instinctively, Barry found his eyes going to Firebrand's eye, where a large, nasty looking revolver lay in its holster, like a sleeping bear.
Responding to the other woman's words, Firebrand brandished this gun in front of Barry, spinning it around a few times before letting it rest in its holster once more.
"Alright, we fuckin' get it," Petrov said, crossing his thick arms. "You don't mess with us, we don't mess with you. Message re-fucking-ceived. But, lemme ask, what the fuck is going on?"
Mutt clapped his hands together. "Boys, I must introduce you to an old friend of mine. The fabulous Miss Claymore!"
With flourish, Mutt posed himself to frame the woman with his lithe body, making her out like some kind of superstar. Claymore responded by twitching her upper lip into an amused grin.
Spinning, Mutt then gestured towards the helmeted woman with an open palm. "And, her illustrious chauffeur, Firebrand."
"'Yello," she said. As if to accentuate this frightening veneer of normality, she then waved at Barry. Barry, justifiably spooked, took a few steps away from Firebrand.
Petrov cocked his head towards Mutt. "So… They're buyers?"
Mutt folded his hands together and looked upward, thinking. "Something of that sort," he said. "They came looking for some manpower."
"This some kind of merc job?" Barry asked.
Mutt shook his head, his earings jangling against his tanned skin.
"Nah. We've been hired permanently."
Barry frowned. "What kinda job is this? I thought we were always better off by ourselves."
Hearing that, Petrov began to growl.
"Usually," Barry quickly added.
Mutt smiled again. "Nah, nah, boys. This is a good deal. Not only did we get paid a hefty sum in supplies, but we're also getting free room and board on a goddamn space-ship!"
Petrov sighed and stared at Mutt. "Boss, you gone crazy again?"
"He's not wrong," Claymore said. "The man I'm working for did manage to jack an alien cargo ship – somehow."
Petrov snorted. "Why the hell would he go and do that?"
"A revolution," Mutt said. He raised his hands in rapturous euphoria and echoed the word with sincere reverence. "This guy's itchin' to fight the good fight, an' he needs people to do it!"
With impossible speed, Mutt dived between Petrov and Barry and wrapped his arms around them. "People like you an' me, boys!"
Barry grinned at Petrov. "Looks like Mutt came through after all, huh?" he whispered, more than a little amused to see the bulky Russian proven wrong.
"Shut the fuck up," Petrov muttered back. He looked down at Mutt. "This revolution," he said. "Who's he fighting?"
"ADVENT," Mutt said. "Who else?"
In an instant, Petrov had unhooked himself from Mutt's grasp, edging towards the supply-laden pickup truck.
"What's wrong?" said Claymore, her eyes fixed on Petrov's receding figure. "Not feeling up to it?"
"It sounds like a real nice way to die, zhenshchina, " he said. "I'll take my chances elsewhere."
"Now hold on," Mutt called, striding towards Petrov. "This is a pretty cushy deal I got us!"
"No offense, Mutt," Petrov said. "But you're fuckin' crazy, like Barry, 'kay? We all know, you go against ADVENT, you get your zhopa nailed to a wall."
"Petrov, we got nowhere else to go!" Barry protested. "You said it yourself!"
"Shut it, Barry," Petrov warned. "I'd take my chances with the settlements instead of ADVENT."
"Settlements, ADVENT, what the hell's the difference?" Barry said. "Think killing ADVENT soldiers'll be harder than blowing the fuck out of the three cars chasing us today? Hell, it might be fun!"
"Wait, just what the bloody hell were you two doing out there?" Mutt interjected.
"That's 'cause you're a motherfucking psycho, Barry!" Petrov shouted. "I'm not interested in fighting!" He placed a hand on the pickup's door, his fingers brushing the handle.
"Petrov, come on, you know me," Barry said. "It ain't just the killing I like – there's other opportunities too! We could fix this fucked up world! Y'know?"
"What?!" Petrov replied, incredulous. "You – You think a bunch of cykas – you and me, are going to do what the entire fucking military couldn't do?" He glanced at the others and shook his head. "You hear this fucking lunatic?"
"You'd rather run, Petrov?" Barry said. "You wanna keep running, and fighting for scraps and whatever shit ADVENT throws at you? This is our chance to live like real human beings. What the hell is the use of freedom when you can't fucking enjoy it?"
"What do you know about freedom?" Petrov shot back. "The only thing you give a shit about is getting your explosives fetish!"
"I know what the fuck I'm talking about," Barry said, stepping right up to the Russian's enormous six-foot frame. "I lived in Ukraine during the Annexation. I know what the fucking difference is between freedom and wasting your goddamn life!
"You run now, you might as well hammer a bullet in your skull while you're at it," he said, pressing two fingers against his temple.
Petrov wrapped his fingers around Barry's raised hand. Barry clenched his teeth, feeling what little muscle he had rubbing against his bones.
"I know you didn't have it easy either," Barry continued. "I know what it was like for the Russians living on the border during the Annexation. What do you think your family wanted that winter, huh?"
"You don't," Petrov breathed, his chest tightening in anger. "You don't have the fucking right –"
"Your dyedooshka, Petrov!" Barry shouted back. "You think he wanted to live in the goddamn snow, kissing up to soldiers for a few pieces of coal? You don't think he wanted an opportunity to live normally, even for one fuckin' day?"
Petrov let go of Barry's hand, surging forward and punching his friend in the chest. The skinny Ukrainian stumbled backward, but didn't falter.
"Your mama, your little brothers!" Barry was practically spitting in Petrov's face at this point. "Living in what your leaders told you was 'true freedom', right? Sure, freedom to starve – freedom to rot in the goddamn gutters!"
"Stop – "
Barry stuck a finger in Petrov's face. "That what you want? Take the pickup and keep driving 'till someone finds your bones on some shitty little highway in the asscrack of the Earth. Fine. But I'm making something else of my life. Something that'll make me say 'Holy shit, that was great' when I'm on my fuckin' deathbed. 'Kay?"
Barry then leaped backward, electric currents tingling in his bloodstream, his body bracing for the blows that he knew would come.
Nothing came. Petrov's face didn't harden into a scowl, nor did it explode into a roaring tornado of curses.
Instead, the Russian's face broke, cracking in half to reveal the briefest glimpse of an emotion foreign to Petrov's granite features: grief. The jagged lines on his face sagged, dribbling down his cheeks and smoothing out the frame of his face.
Mutt jogged over, his face neutral in spite of it all. He walked past Barry and over to the Russian, before taking a few tentative steps and grasping his hand.
"Petrov, boy, are you –"
Instead of answering, Petrov took Mutt's hand and shoved it away, before climbing back to his feet. As he stood, Barry saw no tears, no soft, sensitive expression. He saw instead a new kind of resolve, pumping beneath the man's flaking, pink skin. Something that made Barry both excited and afraid at the same time.
"Fine," Petrov said at last, the word moving effortlessly from his mouth along with the breath he expelled.
"Let's pack our things, Da?"
Several minutes later, Petrov, Mutt, and Barry managed to pack what meager possessions they had, as well as the cache of stolen supplies in the pickup, into the Skyranger. Of course, given that the Skyranger wasn't the most spacious vehicle around, one can imagine how cramped the inside became as the group stuffed more and more boxes into it.
"Firebrand, we're ready to lift off," Claymore said, resting her legs on a makeshift futon she'd made out of a red cooler and a large plastic case filled with shotgun shells. "Crystal?"
"Clear," came Firebrand over the Skyranger's intercom. "Lifting off about… Now!"
Barry felt a shift in pressure, albeit an extremely small one, as the Skyranger lifted off into the air. After clearing the initial ascent, the craft began to move forward.
"Glad you fellas packed light," Claymore commented.
Barry gave her a thumbs up from behind a stack of small boxes he had in his lap.
"Barry," Petrov said, strapped into his own seat. "Why the fuck do you need this many boxes?"
Barry smacked the side of his burden with one hand, causing the stack to shiver like a wet cat.
"Maps," Barry said. "My whole collection's in here."
"You took… everything," Petrov said, eyebrows raised in disbelief.
"Barry's a resourceful one," commented Mutt. "I ain't surprised at all."
"I'm can't believe we didn't have to ditch anything," Claymore said. "This is a metric ton of crap."
"Well, we did," Barry said. He shrugged, causing his box pile to jitterbug once more.
"Like what?" Mutt asked. Next to him, Petrov, expecting the worst, groaned and cupped his head in his hands.
"No worries. Was only a small crate. Filled with all these tubes, stuffed with this white shit. Didn't look like medicine or food to me."
"Don't tell me –" Petrov moaned.
"So I threw it out!" Barry said. "Nothing to worry about!"
The room was silent for a second.
"Barry, you fucking asswipe," Petrov moaned. Then, he snapped, stomping down and crushing a small cardboard box with his boot heel.
"I'LL FUCKING END YOU, YOU LITTLE SHIT!" Petrov screamed, straining against his seat belts.
Barry simply cackled in reply, causing his stack of boxes to shake with the intensity of a belly dancer.